If You Must Love

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Snow watches me as I remove my boots, blue eyes like miniature quasars, reflecting the light of the lamp next to him. He at least looks better than he did before the drive here-- the colour has returned to his skin, and his pupils are back to a normal size.

I toss my boots into the entryway (we're sitting in the sitting room; me on the floor, Simon in his favourite chair)(which also happens to be my favourite chair)(dammit, Snow, stop stealing my furniture). Without bothering to stand up, I maneuver my way towards him on my knees. Resting my head on his knee, I look up at him, trying to judge his mood.

"How are you feeling?" I ask, fingers playing with a frayed portion of the hem of his jeans. His hands curl in my hair, stroking it back and away from my face. It feels impossibly good.

"Better. Less... twitchy," he replies with one of his signature shrugs. I don't quite believe him. It's like his eyes are looking at me, but... through me. Like I'm completely transparent and he's staring at something behind me. Reaching up, I catch his hands in mine, intertwining our fingers.

"How can I help?" I kiss each knuckle, my lips barely brushing the skin. His eyes focus on me, finally. A good sign.

Now he just looks thoughtful (it's impossible not to think, Simon Snow, no matter what you may claim). Which is another good sign. At least now his brain is doing something productive, rather than just running on a wild tangent about everything that could possibly go wrong tomorrow.

"Kiss me," he replies simply. It's not a command, but it's not a question, either.

I lift myself onto the arm of the chair, so I have to bend a little to reach his face. Softly, slowly, I press my lips to his eyelids. Then his chilled, rosy cheeks. His nose. Then finally his lips. Simon's hands snake around my waist, tugging me off the arm of the chair and into his lap. My knees, cold in my too-thin black skinny jeans, rest on either side of his hips, pinning him down.

For just a moment, I pull away, letting our foreheads touch. Sharing warmth. (Even vampires get cold).

"I love you, Simon Snow," I whisper, lips brushing against his with every word. His eyes close, eyelashes tickling my cheeks. His grip on my waist tightens.

"I love you too, Basilton Grimm-Pitch," He murmurs back, matching my tone. Then he tilts his face forward, connecting our lips once more. His chin moves to the rhythm of a song I can't hear, those red lips pushing against my mouth; every movement a challenge, every breath a surrender. Cold fingers dip just beneath the fabric of my sweater, pressing into my skin in a way that makes my breath catch. My hands are in his hair, twisting the curls around my fingers and pulling him closer, closer.

All I can think is his name. Like a spell, spinning languidly over and over in my mind.

Simon, Simon, Simon, Simon....

Simon's hands caress my stomach, sending shivers up my spine. In retaliation, I let my lips drift down from his lips. Down his jaw, to the soft skin of his ear, travelling slowly down his neck, meandering along his collarbone, dipping just below the collar of his sweatshirt (Simon's the type of boy who doesn't wear a shirt underneath, and I love it).

It feels like casting fire-- easy, natural, reflexive. But burning, too. Intense. Hot. It feels like the best, most powerful spell. Kissing Simon Snow.

"Have I told you..." I murmur against his collarbone, working my way to the centre, "That kissing you feels like kissing a star?" Simon's neck arches, his fingers flattening against my stomach.

"Have I told you that kissing you is like being kissed by a star?" He fires back. I can hear the smile in his voice. Lifting my head, I kiss the corners of his lips, tasting the smile.

"Flirt," I tease, grinning. Snow laughs, tugging me closer.

"Please, you set yourself up for that one." Those lips catch mine again before I can answer, hungrily taking every other thought from my head. His hands wander up and down my back; my hands tug at his collar.

"Snow," I breathe, not separating our mouths for any longer than necessary.

"Hmm?" He asks, kissing my chin. Before I reply, I attack the mole on his neck (it's my favourite).

"You..." He kisses just below my jaw, making me trail off. "... should stop being so selfish..." I tip my head back to grant him better access to my neck. "... and just lose your damn shirt already." A sound rumbles from his chest-- I'm not entirely sure if it was a growl or a laugh. I wouldn't be surprised by either.

"Okay, but only because you asked so nicely..." Snow jests. (Yes!) Pulling away, he tugs his sweatshirt up over his head, dropping it in a pile on the floor.

"Happy now?" He asks teasingly. I stare down at the golden expanse of skin, speckled with moles. The broad, leanly muscled shoulders. The smooth surface of his stomach. The thin scar just above his hip I gave him in a fight our third year. The sharp, angular hip bones (Crowley and Merlin and Morgana I love Snow's hip bones).

"Very," I reply, smirking. Simon beams at me, pulling me closer and closer until there is no more closer. Kissing me with everything he's got. I do my best to return the favour.

I'm thinking about losing my sweater, too, and I think Snow's got the same idea. His fingers draw patterns on my skin underneath the soft knitting.

"Your turn," He murmurs, darting forward to kiss my partially exposed collarbone.

"Only because you asked so nicely," I tease, copying his reply. Giggling, Snow musses up my hair.

My sweater joins his sweatshirt on the floor.

I'm beginning to think maybe clothes were meant to live amongst the floorboards.

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