Suzanne. We Need To Talk About Where We Get Our Names From.

Truly underappreciated library resource: Kanopy!

It's a movie-and-tv streaming service that many libraries offer. If your library supports it, you can get a free account with your library card!

It works similarly to Hoopla, with monthly checkout limits, but the amount of movies and tv they have is astounding. They focus on indie movies and documentaries, but they have an impressive variety. A few days ago, some friends and I watched an experimental Afrofuturist queer surreal-cyberpunk musical movie just to try it, and it was a strange and fascinating experience that I wouldn't have gotten anywhere else. (Neptune Frost, by the way. It's interesting!)

Kanopy has animated movies like the French/North African The Rabbi's Cat (Le chat du rabbin), popular indies like The Secret of Kells, up to well-known ones like ParaNorman. It has popular quirky successes like Everything Everywhere All at Once, But I'm a Cheerleader, and Lady Bird, award-winning dramas like Moonlight, classic movies like The Graduate, Dial M for Murder, Roman Holiday, Rashomon, and Seven Samurai. It's got Charlie Chaplin. It's got some classic musicals, like Oklahoma! and Guys and Dolls. It's got classic horror like Suspiria, Nosferatu, and Night of the Living Dead, and a plethora of modern horror as well. It has cheesy old-timey sci-fi from the 50s and 60s, genuinely good classic sci-fi like The Boys from Brazil, cult classics like Donnie Darko, modern feel-good quirky sci-fi like Jules, and just, a WHOLE lot of super interesting creative modern indie sci-fi to browse. It has documentaries. It has quite a lot of PBS and BBC series. It has anime. It has all of Farscape for some reason. It has a really impressive collection of LGBTQ+ film from around the world.

See if your library offers Kanopy, and browse the genres you like - you are sure to find something fascinating that you had never heard of before!

Hey remember that a boycott if actually MORE effective under capitalism if you profess you would actually end the boycott under certain conditions.

“Nothing this company does can make up for their bad actions, I will never buy from them again!” Okay so they’ve lost you as a customer and have no reason to try and get you back. You can HOPE to drive them into bankruptcy but Chic-Fil-A is evidence of how well that works.

“This company did something bad. I would not consider buying their product again, UNLESS, they publicly apologized and made up for it by … [donating money to a cause, promoting different content, offering better care to their employees, etc.]” This is actually MORE likely to be effective because if enough people say this, the company m sees them as potential customers of a certain demographic, and is willing to make changes to get those customers back and, long term, make money from them.

I'm so happy Ryan Coogler hired Yvonne Chireau as his Hoodoo consultant for "Sinners'. That man really respects our roots. Yvonne don't play about Black American culture and our connections to spirit and Africa. Her books and lectures are always on point

the suffering never ends

nature witch tip🪵🌱

Wood barks/chippings promotes protection (esp from an oak tree!)

i used the skin of a fallen branch for this, i used the wood for other witchy projects, and saved the skin for my jars and mesh bags!

i used it for car protection; in a mesh bag i placed:

wood bark and chippings

rosemary

chamomile flowers (i used dried flowers)

a bay leaf with my chosen rune of protection

cloves

hanged it up my rearview mirror, then cleansed my car (before and after) and visualized white energy flowing around inside and outside the car

Lately there was a level 4 Hurricane here in Florida, tried my best to physically protect my home (and it’s energy too).

Just did a grocery run yesterday, i was nervous to see my car with water damage, but it was safe 🥹 no flooding, no water that got in my engine 🥹 and the mesh bag hanging still on my rearview mirror.

i hope this tip can help my fellow witches, (and for our baby witches too🥹)

Words for Skin Tone | How to Describe Skin Color

We discussed the issues describing People of Color by means of food in Part I of this guide, which brought rise to even more questions, mostly along the lines of “So, if food’s not an option, what can I use?” Well, I was just getting to that!

This final portion focuses on describing skin tone, with photo and passage examples provided throughout. I hope to cover everything from the use of straight-forward description to the more creatively-inclined, keeping in mind the questions we’ve received on this topic.

Standard Description

Basic Colors

Pictured above: Black, Brown, Beige, White, Pink.

“She had brown skin.”

This is a perfectly fine description that, while not providing the most detail, works well and will never become cliché.

Describing characters’ skin as simply brown or beige works on its own, though it’s not particularly telling just from the range in brown alone.

Complex Colors

These are more rarely used words that actually “mean” their color. Some of these have multiple meanings, so you’ll want to look into those to determine what other associations a word might have.

Pictured above: Umber, Sepia, Ochre, Russet, Terra-cotta, Gold, Tawny, Taupe, Khaki, Fawn.

Complex colors work well alone, though often pair well with a basic color in regards to narrowing down shade/tone.

For example: Golden brown, russet brown, tawny beige…

As some of these are on the “rare” side, sliding in a definition of the word within the sentence itself may help readers who are unfamiliar with the term visualize the color without seeking a dictionary.

“He was tall and slim, his skin a russet, reddish-brown.”

Comparisons to familiar colors or visuals are also helpful:

“His skin was an ochre color, much like the mellow-brown light that bathed the forest.”

Modifiers

Modifiers, often adjectives, make partial changes to a word.The following words are descriptors in reference to skin tone.

Dark - Deep - Rich - Cool

Warm - Medium - Tan

Fair - Light - Pale

Rich Black, Dark brown, Warm beige, Pale pink…

If you’re looking to get more specific than “brown,” modifiers narrow down shade further.

Keep in mind that these modifiers are not exactly colors.

As an already brown-skinned person, I get tan from a lot of sun and resultingly become a darker, deeper brown. I turn a pale, more yellow-brown in the winter.

While best used in combination with a color, I suppose words like “tan” “fair” and “light” do work alone; just note that tan is less likely to be taken for “naturally tan” and much more likely a tanned White person.

Calling someone “dark” as description on its own is offensive to some and also ambiguous. (See: Describing Skin as Dark)

Undertones

Undertones are the colors beneath the skin, seeing as skin isn’t just one even color but has more subdued tones within the dominating palette.

pictured above: warm / earth undertones: yellow, golden, copper, olive, bronze, orange, orange-red, coral | cool / jewel undertones: pink, red, blue, blue-red, rose, magenta, sapphire, silver. 

Mentioning the undertones within a character’s skin is an even more precise way to denote skin tone.

As shown, there’s a difference between say, brown skin with warm orange-red undertones (Kelly Rowland) and brown skin with cool, jewel undertones (Rutina Wesley).

“A dazzling smile revealed the bronze glow at her cheeks.”

“He always looked as if he’d ran a mile, a constant tinge of pink under his tawny skin.”

Standard Description Passage

“Farah’s skin, always fawn, had burned and freckled under the summer’s sun. Even at the cusp of autumn, an uneven tan clung to her skin like burrs. So unlike the smooth, red-brown ochre of her mother, which the sun had richened to a blessing.”

-From my story “Where Summer Ends” featured in Strange Little Girls

Here the state of skin also gives insight on character.

Note my use of “fawn” in regards to multiple meaning and association. While fawn is a color, it’s also a small, timid deer, which describes this very traumatized character of mine perfectly.

Though I use standard descriptions of skin tone more in my writing, at the same time I’m no stranger to creative descriptions, and do enjoy the occasional artsy detail of a character.

Creative Description

Whether compared to night-cast rivers or day’s first light…I actually enjoy seeing Characters of Colors dressed in artful detail.

I’ve read loads of descriptions in my day of white characters and their “smooth rose-tinged ivory skin”, while the PoC, if there, are reduced to something from a candy bowl or a Starbucks drink, so to actually read of PoC described in lavish detail can be somewhat of a treat.

Still, be mindful when you get creative with your character descriptions. Too many frills can become purple-prose-like, so do what feels right for your writing when and where. Not every character or scene warrants a creative description, either. Especially if they’re not even a secondary character.

Using a combination of color descriptions from standard to creative is probably a better method than straight creative. But again, do what’s good for your tale.

Natural Settings - Sky

Pictured above: Harvest Moon -Twilight, Fall/Autumn Leaves, Clay, Desert/Sahara, Sunlight - Sunrise - Sunset - Afterglow - Dawn- Day- Daybreak, Field - Prairie - Wheat, Mountain/Cliff, Beach/Sand/Straw/Hay.

Now before you run off to compare your heroine’s skin to the harvest moon or a cliff side, think about the associations to your words.

When I think cliff, I think of jagged, perilous, rough. I hear sand and picture grainy, yet smooth. Calm. mellow.

So consider your character and what you see fit to compare them to.

Also consider whose perspective you’re describing them from. Someone describing a person they revere or admire may have a more pleasant, loftier description than someone who can’t stand the person.

“Her face was like the fire-gold glow of dawn, lifting my gaze, drawing me in.”

“She had a sandy complexion, smooth and tawny.”

Even creative descriptions tend to draw help from your standard words.

Flowers

Pictured above: Calla lilies, Western Coneflower, Hazel Fay, Hibiscus, Freesia, Rose

It was a bit difficult to find flowers to my liking that didn’t have a 20 character name or wasn’t called something like “chocolate silk” so these are the finalists. 

You’ll definitely want to avoid purple-prose here.

Also be aware of flowers that most might’ve never heard of. Roses are easy, as most know the look and coloring(s) of this plant. But Western coneflowers? Calla lilies? Maybe not so much.

“He entered the cottage in a huff, cheeks a blushing brown like the flowers Nana planted right under my window. Hazel Fay she called them, was it?”

Assorted Plants & Nature

Pictured above: Cattails, Seashell, Driftwood, Pinecone, Acorn, Amber

These ones are kinda odd. Perhaps because I’ve never seen these in comparison to skin tone, With the exception of amber.

At least they’re common enough that most may have an idea what you’re talking about at the mention of “pinecone.“ 

I suggest reading out your sentences aloud to get a better feel of how it’ll sounds.

“Auburn hair swept past pointed ears, set around a face like an acorn both in shape and shade.”

I pictured some tree-dwelling being or person from a fantasy world in this example, which makes the comparison more appropriate.

I don’t suggest using a comparison just “cuz you can” but actually being thoughtful about what you’re comparing your character to and how it applies to your character and/or setting.

Wood

Pictured above: Mahogany, Walnut, Chestnut, Golden Oak, Ash

Wood can be an iffy description for skin tone. Not only due to several of them having “foody” terminology within their names, but again, associations.

Some people would prefer not to compare/be compared to wood at all, so get opinions, try it aloud, and make sure it’s appropriate to the character if you do use it.

“The old warlock’s skin was a deep shade of mahogany, his stare serious and firm as it held mine.”

Metals

Pictured above: Platinum, Copper, Brass, Gold, Bronze

Copper skin, brass-colored skin, golden skin…

I’ve even heard variations of these used before by comparison to an object of the same properties/coloring, such as penny for copper.

These also work well with modifiers.

“The dress of fine white silks popped against the deep bronze of her skin.”

Gemstones - Minerals

Pictured above: Onyx, Obsidian, Sard, Topaz, Carnelian, Smoky Quartz, Rutile, Pyrite, Citrine, Gypsum

These are trickier to use. As with some complex colors, the writer will have to get us to understand what most of these look like.

If you use these, or any more rare description, consider if it actually “fits” the book or scene.

Even if you’re able to get us to picture what “rutile” looks like, why are you using this description as opposed to something else? Have that answer for yourself.

“His skin reminded her of the topaz ring her father wore at his finger, a gleaming stone of brown, mellow facades.” 

Physical Description

Physical character description can be more than skin tone.

Show us hair, eyes, noses, mouth, hands…body posture, body shape, skin texture… though not necessarily all of those nor at once.

Describing features also helps indicate race, especially if your character has some traits common within the race they are, such as afro hair to a Black character.

How comprehensive you decide to get is up to you. I wouldn’t overdo it and get specific to every mole and birthmark. Noting defining characteristics is good, though, like slightly spaced front teeth, curls that stay flopping in their face, hands freckled with sunspots…

General Tips

Indicate Race Early: I suggest indicators of race be made at the earliest convenience within the writing, with more hints threaded throughout here and there.

Get Creative On Your Own: Obviously, I couldn’t cover every proper color or comparison in which has been “approved” to use for your characters’ skin color, so it’s up to you to use discretion when seeking other ways and shades to describe skin tone.

Skin Color May Not Be Enough: Describing skin tone isn’t always enough to indicate someone’s ethnicity. As timeless cases with readers equating brown to “dark white” or something, more indicators of race may be needed.

Describe White characters and PoC Alike: You should describe the race and/or skin tone of your white characters just as you do your Characters of Color. If you don’t, you risk implying that White is the default human being and PoC are the “Other”).

PSA: Don’t use “Colored.” Based on some asks we’ve received using this word, I’d like to say that unless you or your character is a racist grandmama from the 1960s, do not call People of Color “colored” please. 

Not Sure Where to Start? You really can’t go wrong using basic colors for your skin descriptions. It’s actually what many people prefer and works best for most writing. Personally, I tend to describe my characters using a combo of basic colors + modifiers, with mentions of undertones at times. I do like to veer into more creative descriptions on occasion.

Want some alternatives to “skin” or “skin color”? Try: Appearance, blend, blush, cast, coloring, complexion, flush, glow, hue, overtone, palette, pigmentation, rinse, shade, sheen, spectrum, tinge, tint, tone, undertone, value, wash.

Skin Tone Resources

List of Color Names

The Color Thesaurus

Skin Undertone & Color Matching

Tips and Words on Describing Skin

Photos: Undertones Described (Modifiers included)

Online Thesaurus (try colors, such as “red” & “brown”)

Don’t Call me Pastries: Creative Skin Tones w/ pics I 

Writing & Description Guides

WWC Featured Description Posts

WWC Guide: Words to Describe Hair

Writing with Color: Description & Skin Color Tags

7 Offensive Mistakes Well-intentioned Writers Make

I tried to be as comprehensive as possible with this guide, but if you have a question regarding describing skin color that hasn’t been answered within part I or II of this guide, or have more questions after reading this post, feel free to ask!

~ Mod Colette

Herbs & Correspondences A-F

This is going to be a looonnnnnggg post, I have gotten all the herbs I can find/remember the correspondences of herbs in alphabetical order, so I might actually break it down into sections and link them on each post at the top.

Acorn - Good luck, personal power, protection and wisdom. Dried acorns are a natural amulet for youthfulness. Associated with Litha. Element water. 

Agrimony - Shielding and hex-breaking, aids sleep, brings luck towards you and is powerful in spell reversal.  Element Air. 

Alder - Helps you to face up to things you are avoiding, divination, teaching especially anything arty and weather magic. Element Fire. 

Alfalfa - Money, prosperity and a happy home, also anti-hunger. Generosity and luck.  Element Earth. 

Allspice - Draws money and business success.  Aids compassion, luck and healing. Element Fire.   

Angelica - Also called Archangel. It is a very powerful protection herb, healing, creates harmony and courage and helps in exorcisms.  Aids vision. Element Air. 

Apple - Garden magic, love, healing and wisdom, also vanity, marriage and beauty. Associated Mabon & Samhain. Element water. 

Ash - Spells relating to the sea, protection, and luck. Make your Yule log from ash and burn to bring prosperity. Yggdrasil was an Ash tree.  Element water. 

Basil - Also called witch's herb. Use in spells for Love, exorcism, wealth, sympathy, and protection. Associated with Imbolc. Aids astral projection. Element Fire. 

Bay Leaf - Protection, success, purification, strength, wisdom and healing, also increases psychic powers. Element Fire. 

Beech - Happiness, inspiration and divination. Represents the Green Man.  Element Air. 

Belladonna - Also Called: Deadly Nightshade. Toxic. Use for forgetting past loves. Protection, beauty and original flying ointments. Adds energy to rituals.   Element Water. 

Benzoin - Purification, prosperity, and helps to soothe tension by dispelling anger and lessening irritability, de stressing, helps depression, concentration and astral projection. Element Air.  

Bergamot - Money, prosperity and sleep.  Protects from both evil and illness. Good luck and wealth. Increases magical power.  Element Fire.  

Birch - Protection, exorcism and purification. Dispels lightning, infertility, and the evil eye. Associated with Yule. Element Water.  

Black Pepper - Banishing negativity, exorcism, and offers protection and help with inner strength.  Element Fire  

Blackthorn - Exorcisms, warding off negative spirits and general protection.  Associated with Samhain. Element Earth.  

Bladderwrack - Protection, sea and wind spells, attracts money, psychic powers, and customers to your business. Element Water. 

Blessed Thistle - or Holy Thistle. Purification, protection against negativity and evil, hex breaking and aids vitality.  Carry on you for strength and protection. Element Earth. 

Blueberry - Protection of children, keeps evil out, and strengthens the aura.  Associated with the Great Spirit. Element Water. 

Borage Flower - Self Courage, peace, calm, self-love and strength. Element Air. 

Burdock - Also called Beggar’s buttons. Used for cleansing magic and warding off negativity. Protection, healing and persistence spells.  Element Water.  

Calendula - Also called Marigold. It attracts success and justice in legal matters. Increases psychic/spiritual powers and aid prophetic dreams. Dispels negativity.  Element Fire.   

Cardamom - Lust, love, and fidelity. Sweetens the personality   Use in handfasting's. Element Water.  

Carnation - Protection, strength, healing, enhancing magical powers, and achieving balance.   Element Fire.  

Catnip - Also called Nepeta. Use when working with animals.  Draws love, luck and happiness, also used in beauty magic.  Associated with Bast. Element Water. 

Cedarwood - Luck, strength and power.  It helps increase money and protection. Also healing.    Associated with Mabon. Element Earth. 

Cedar Berries - Also Called: Juniper Berries.  Protective, cleansing and repels negativity very well. Used in healing rites.  Element Fire.  

Celandine - Cures depression, treats piles, improves circulation. Brings about Joy and happiness. Solar Magic.  Element Fire. 

Chamomile - Love, sleep, protection and purification, also reduce stress.  Use for meditation work and to attract money. Solar Magic. Element Water. 

Chervil - Helps healing, flatulence and superstition.  It is considered the herb for bringing in new life.  Element Water.  

Chickweed - Also called Witches Grass. Use in moon spells. Also good for animal magic, relationships, love and fertility. Element Water.  

Chili - Fidelity, love and passion.  Also hex breaking. Element Fire.  

Cinnamon - Also called Sweet Wood. Use for Solar magic.  Meditation and astral projection. Increases spirituality, success, healing, protection, power, luck, strength, and prosperity. Element Fire.  

Clover, Red - Also called Trefoil. used in any spells relating to marriage, love, lust and fidelity. Success is linked to money.  Element Air.  

Clove - Use to protect, banish negative forces, and divination.  It also helps with any teeth spells. Aids money and draws love.  Element Fire.  

Coltsfoot - Aids wealth.  Works with peace, tranquility, prosperity, and love. Associated with Brighid. Element Water. 

Comfrey - Also called Slippery Root.  Supports magic healing and safe travel. Use for money, endurance and stability spells. Element Water. 

Coriander - Love, lust and health.  Used as an aphrodisiac and to heal migraines. Brings peace & protection to the home. Element Fire.   

Cornflower - Used primarily as an Ink for your Book of Shadows. It is the patron herb of herbalists. Use in rituals to give honor to the mother of all nature, also connected to Rainbow and Crystal children.  Element Earth. 

Cumin - Fidelity, protection, and exorcism.  Also used in love spells and food which can also promote fidelity.  Element Earth   

Cypress - Associated with death and mourning; stimulates healing and helps overcome the pain of loss.  Other properties include self-esteem, protection, love and banishing nightmares. Element Earth. 

Damiana - Lust, sex magic and attracting love. It is thought to be an aphrodisiac. Use for astral projection and spirit quests.  Element Fire. 

Dandelion Leaf - Used to summon spirits, make wishes on, healing, purification and defeating negativity.  Element Air.  

Dandelion Root - Magical uses include divination, wishes and calling spirits. It also enhances dreams and works well in astral projection. Element Air. 

Dock Root- (Yellow). Used to release baggage no longer needed. Also, fertility, healing and money magic. Clears blockages and cuts bindings.  Solar Magic. Element Air. 

Echinacea - Adds a boost to clairvoyant and psychic abilities. Adds powerful strength to spells used in money drawing magic, fertility and abundance and provides the user with protective power. Element Earth. 

Elder Tree - Sleep, releasing enchantments, protection against negativity, banishing. 

Elderflower & Berry - Peace, protection, and healing, plus aids in exorcisms.  Element Water.  

Elm - Energizes the mind and balances the heart. Aids love spells and offer protection from lightning. Element Water. 

Evening Primrose - Ideal for moon magic. Also use in love charms and to attract fae.  Element Water.  

Eyebright - Increases mental power, psychic ability and inner vision.  Element Air.  

Fennel Seed - Helps with meditation.  Healing, purifying and protection.  Also linked with new motherhood and offers inner strength. Element Air.  

Feverfew - Aids poor health.  Protection against accidents when travelling and protection when working with spirit.  Carry on you for inner strength. Element Water. 

Flax Seed - Also called Linseed. Used for money spells and healing rituals. It helps with beautiful spells and offers protection.  Element Fire. 

Fleawort - Healing, Cleansing, strength and power. The Goddess' herbs. Element Earth. 

Frankincense Resin - Use in solar magic. Associated with Beltane, Lammas, and Yule. Use in rituals and magic associated with self-control, spirituality and protection.  Also regulates emotions and helps depression. Element Earth  

Fumitory - Associated with the underworld and used at Samhain. Linked to spells for monetary gain, consecration and protection. Element Earth.  

Cute headcanon: Imagine Billy being told the truth that day at the Byers in s2 and becoming the Party Co-Parent with steve and Dustin telling Billy that he and Steve are the party's paladin and fighter and Billy's gleaned enough to be like "haha I'm the fighter I get it" only for Dustin to be like "nope you're a paladin under the oath of devotion, you fit all the tenets" and just rocking Billy's world bc he's never been told his tendency to throw himself in the middle of shit and this protectiveness that's gotten twisted is a *good* thing

Steve finds him later just staring blankly at the Players Manual that Dustin showed Billy and he just sighs and goes to yell at Dustin like "what did I SAY about not breaking Billy with the revelation that he's not a complete asshole"

Listen, listen, listen. This is pure gold.

Because picture it: Billy was in the right to be creeped the fuck out when he rolled up to the Byers house that night, right? He's running around looking for his little sister, knowing he's going to get his ass handed to him if something's happened to her, and he finds her with Steve fucking Harrington and a whole bunch of boys at a strange house in a part of town he's likely never been to, that Max snuck out to get to. If he'd gotten an actual explanation, if Steve had said, "Hey, man, I know this is weird as shit, but there's a whole lot that you don't know. There's some life or death shit happening here."

...I mean, Billy still would've tried to fight him. It's Billy. I'd love it if a demodog attacked at that same moment. Ramp up the tension and shove Billy right into this world of monsters and mayhem. Maybe it grabs him while he's pummeling Steve, so he has no choice but to react, to whirl around on it, and Steve stumbles up and helps him kill it and Billy just stares at him like what. the. fuck.

And he looks at Max because, seriously, we have been here for like a week, how have you already gotten involved with some Stephen King-level bullshit, Maxine? And she has absolutely no time to explain. She's still wrapping her head around all of this, after all. She tells Billy he's either in or out and holds her hands out, demanding his keys, and he just rolls his eyes and piles everyone into his car and they do the whole going down into the tunnels thing. He has NO CLUE what's going on, but he's not letting Max out of his sight now that he knows her life is in literal danger.

It's not until the Snow Ball that Steve gives Billy the full run-down. Max has given him bits and pieces, but it's still so new to both of them, so he has to get the whole story from Steve. They drive Dustin and Max to the dance, then spend the night sitting on the hood of the Camaro while Steve tells Billy everything. "There's a girl with superpowers? What is this, the fucking X-Men?" He's dumbfounded, but he's got no choice to believe it. And he won't quite admit it to anyone else, but it did feel good, down in those tunnels, to fight with someone instead of against them — to feel like Steve and the kids all had his back.

And maybe when the Mind Flayer comes back around, it doesn't go after Billy, because Billy's not alone, he's not isolated. He's got Steve now, because you don't fight inter-dimensional monsters with someone and not get close to them. They hang out. They become friends. Maybe more than friends. And it's a package deal, yeah? You get Steve, you get the kids. Plus, he and Max have a better relationship after, y'know, nearly getting eaten by demogorgons together. He might be a little grumpy, a little rough around the edges, but he still has friends. He's not an island anymore. The Mind Flayer has to pick someone else while Billy is with the kids, all of them worried about where Steve and Dustin might be this whole time, and when they finally link up together at the mall, Dustin tells him his role. He looks at Steve and Billy and says, "Fighter. Paladin." and Billy rolls his eyes because yeah, okay, of course he's the fighter, all fists and rage, and Dustin looks at him all confused and is like nope, no sir, you're the paladin — the leader — the protector.

And Billy is blown away.

No one challenges Dustin, either. They all agree, and this confuses Billy even more. Max is the one that explains that he protects them. That they all see it, that they all know that he looks out for them, this little group of misfits, these targets for the bully that Billy thought he was. They see him. They know that he's more than some angry kid, more than the asshole his father has molded him to be, and MY GOD would he take that so, so seriously.

And yes, when all is said and done and they can have their little MCU-esque post credits scene eating pizza and playing D&D in Mike's basement, Billy sits in the corner and thumbs through the player's guide to learn more about this title that Dustin has bestowed upon him, and Steve shakes his head and looks at Dustin all, "Nice going. You broke him." but he can't say it without smiling because look at Billy. Being part of the group. Embracing the weirdos. Counting himself among them.

GOD I LOVE IT.

Compass

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

Crossposted on AO3

Previous << || >> Next

Word count: 5.2k

Summary: where Simon finally gets it.

18+

CW: angst, hurt/comfort, canon typical violence, fluff

Masterlist 🦊 | In The Walls Masterlist 🦊

Staring straight at the screen won’t make that form fill in, yet it’s all you’ve been doing. 

The office is cold. Freezing. Your fingers are stiff when you punch the keys, rough skin tight at each knuckle. 

Price has asked you to do it. He’s tired and needs to lean on you for a moment. You know how hard it must’ve been for such a proud man to ask for help, so you don’t have the heart to refuse him. Even if you’re just as exhausted, just as worried, because the op went tits up so quickly and suddenly that you’re still recovering from it.

Faulty intel. Ambush. Tactically placed C4 blew the place up into smithereens. Mayhem ensued—you all lost sight of each other and then met again. 

The ringing in your ear still sounds fresh. A new cut on your brow your new shiny scar, the crescent of speckled mauves under your eye yet another reason for the brass to come and shower you with meaningless praise so you’d keep up with this unforgiving job without rest.

Chest candy as a prize. As if you care.

Your eyes burn. They squint at the unforgivingly bright screen; bloodshot sclera and a healing bruise, cheekbone swollen and tender.

Casualties And Damage Assessment. 

The cursor on the document blinks right next to it. 

Write above the dotted line. Do it. It’s there. It’s not hard, it’s just a name—a name among thousands. You could be typing John Doe, and it should feel the same.

So do it, love.

Type it in.

Type “Simon Riley”.

You feel your eyes sting wet. 

Johnny is still out there, searching for his whereabouts. Kyle’s with him, probably trying to be the voice of reason—the only one with a head still on his shoulders. The one who grabbed you and handed you to Price so he could slam you in the helo for takeoff. It left without Gaz and Soap in it.

Without Simon.

Crystal clear is the memory of Price’s finger pointed at your face as you huddled your knees to your chest—glossy, bloodshot eyes seemingly lost as they looked back at him, trying to find a compass to guide you through this dreadful darkness, through ice cold fear.

Instead, you found a scowl that struggled to mask a quiet threat beneath it, something you knew he’d been almost impatient to tell you.

Something you knew he knew.

You should’ve known better than to bring feelings into the job. I trusted you and your judgment and you failed me. You failed us.

But now all that feels so unimportant. Price’s disappointment is only another notch to your belt of failures, and you know it’s gonna get even thicker and tangled if you don’t type that name into that form.

If you don't prove to him and everyone else, yourself included, that you’re still somewhat sane. That you didn't lose your marbles on that day, only a chunk of your heart.

Nails tap nervously on your desk. The clock ticks out of beat. Your eye twitches restlessly, but you punch the keys. 

Simon Riley — MIA

A weary breath escapes you. 

Good girl. 

And the leftovers of your heart crack something vicious, a perpetual hairline fracture that will not go away. Your molars grind until your head hurts. Your eyes water, because it’s all happened so rapidly, that you don’t think you’ve had the time to metabolize it.

S’alright. S’alright. You did right.

You sniffle. Wet your lips. Your face screws up to keep it all inside because you can’t have him see you like this—he’s not here, and yet he might as well be, with how clear his voice is echoing in your head. 

Why shouldn’t it be? Your last talk was barely a week ago. Your last kiss not even ten days prior. 

Softer than the ones he’d given you before. Wet lips stealing your breath, big hands holding you tight by the waist.

The slow, purposeful drag of his cock inside of you as he flattened his chest to yours. The wordless whispers tumbling out of his mouth—uncontrolled, reverent of you. 

His lips on your skin, both selfish and selfless: descending to your throat, where the taste of you intoxicated him—and where you shivered, moaned, sunk your fingernails into his back, painting it red.

Your brows pull tight, but you can’t stand it a moment more, as that name typed black on white looks at you expectantly, like you could pull it out of there and bring it in your arms.

Don’t, sergeant. Need you sharp.

You cry, because logic is knocked back into you, and there is no Simon Riley if not the memories rushing in your head.

If not the weariness with which he’d invited to his flat for the first time. Burnt the eggs he cooked for you the next morning, as you slept soundly in his bed. Asked you to stay, even if you were as cautious as can be—a gazelle in the lion’s den. 

“Not fuckin’ it up, this time,” he’d told you. 

And even in your caution, you could recognize that silent pleading—that almost a year without you has taught him the pains he would endure to not go through it again.

It didn’t soothe your worries, but it did smooth down the line carved between your brows. 

You slump back on the chair and think of the times he’s told you there were no strings attached between you two, and how those strings inevitably formed.

How he’s annealed them, as time passed, going against everything he’s ever vouched for.

How he watched you snoop around his bedroom, allowing you to study his home and his habits—voluntarily and without an ounce of reluctance in him.

Sobs wreck you as you recall that night: you hadn’t even bothered wearing something, just tiptoed around naked the way you left the bed. 

You tinkered with the few framed photos he had on the shelves, recognizing the people in them: the team, your face squinting at the sun while wearing khakis, and the family he told you about as the muscles of his jaw jumped with tension.

How you scoured through his books, giddy when you double-tapped those you’d read too. 

Or how you smiled when you found the wrinkly receipt of that drive-through, dated on that day, being used as a bookmark in the novel you’d recommended him ages ago. 

You glanced his way every once in a while, just to make sure he was still asleep. Instead, you found a man bathed in moonlight and lazily wrapped in wrinkled sheets—a knowing smirk on his lips, one that made warmth bloom on your chest, all the way to your cheeks. 

He’d patted the spot next to him on the bed, inviting you back beside him. 

That was the first night you held each other for no other reason than the pleasure of being close.

In the days that came after, there were countless nights just like it.

And now, drowning in your own tears and snot, you don’t know if there will be more.

If you’d feel his thumb run along your jaw again, his fingers brushing down your spine—or pinching your cheeks to make you take a breath when you rambled on. 

If you’d feel his lips on yours, tasting you and your voice, with the veiled excuse to make you quiet. 

Wondering if he’ll ever smear greasepaint on your brow, if he’ll ever fix the straps of your vest.

Each tear that falls now is chock full of memories, old and lost. The ones you could’ve had but you’re not sure they’ll ever be. You cry, as you hold yourself together—arms around your chest, nails digging into your biceps, painful enough to anchor you back to earth.

You cry until your throat burns, until your eyes yield, and you fall asleep; the document blank on the screen, only his name as the blatant proof of your failures.

A hand rests on your shoulder. 

It’s soft at first, a thumb brushing against your collarbone. When you only shift, the grip gently tightens in a brief shake.

“Sergeant,” you hear.

Your eyes blink open, then, struggle against the crust formed between your lashes. They focus on an equally as tired pair of blues, a mouth that breathes some relief in your weary bones.

“John,” you croak, stretching your limbs behind your head until you hear a sequence of pops in your spine. 

You look around to assess where you are. The sunlight, dimming behind the windowpane, tells you that you’ve slept on your chair for half of the day.

Your neck tingles as it wakes, aching from the awkward position in which you fell asleep.

Blinking away the drowsiness, your eyes land on the document plastered on the screen. 

Your stomach turns into a boulder once again.

“What is it?” You say, returning your focus to Price standing next to your chair. You press your thumb between your brows to dispel a migraine sure to fall upon you. “Almost done with the report, gimme a few more ho—”

“He’s back, darling.” 

Your body deflates pitifully. Dread clogs your throat with ice, because Simon being back doesn’t necessarily mean he’s back alive. 

Your hands tremble as they land limp on your thighs, and you don’t care if you’re giving too much away; John already knows, after all, doesn’t he?

And he senses it: the gnawing fear, the supplication in your eyes.

“He’s in the med bay, overall lookin’ fine.”

You stand up so quickly that the chair is knocked back. 

Your vision gets spotty, and suddenly the poor nutrition of the past days rears its ugly head in the form of low blood sugar.

John senses it and places a hand on your bicep when you wobble on your feet.

“Bit dehydrated, few scraps here and there, but eh—" A tired smile stretches his lips as he squeezes your shoulder. “We both know it takes a lot more to bring down tha’ bastard.”

John can’t even finish his sentence that you’re curled on your laptop, typing something he can’t see. You stand upright, and with a rush of thank yous that barely make sense, you bolt out of the door.

The captain huffs and rubs his face in exhaustion, before his eyes swivel to the screen.

Casualties And Damage Assessment. 

Simon Riley — MIA & found

He sits there, hunched on the gurney like he’s too big to fit on it. His uniform has taken a lighter hue because of sunlight and dust from the unforgiving desert. A nurse is fumbling with a tube on his arm, a needle already inserted in the crook of his elbow for rapid hydration. There are two crumpled bottles of water on the shelf right next to the gurney, and even though Simon's still hiding under the mask, you're sure he's just finished chugging on both.

Johnny stands by his side, arms crossed and a lazy smile on his face. Sunburnt cheeks and a dusting of freckles on his nose. 

Kyle talks to a doctor, fiddling with his cap in hand—you catch words like “bruised ribs” and “sunstroke” and something about his ankle but you’re not sure. They get lost in the chatter surrounding you when Simon lifts his head and clocks you at the door.

You stare at each other for what feels like centuries, his eyes always sharp as those of a hawk—yet a little more tired, this time. A little more rough.

When the nurse moves away to tinker with the IV bag, Simon’s hand on his thigh twitches, and he subtly beckons two fingers at you. 

It’s all you need.

You beeline your way through passing doctors and nurses alike, until you come to stand in front of him, long legs dangling off the gurney. He’s subtly parted them for you, but Johnny has noticed it and he’s sporting a smarmy grin because of it.

You decide he can have it for today. 

Jaw clenched, you swallow before you speak. “Gave us a scare, yeah?” 

He doesn’t answer, because his eyes are locked to the thin white bandages taped to your brow. His focus shifts to your cheekbone, then, and the mauve shade it’s taken after the bombs went off out of the blue.

“Quite the shiner you got.” He drawls.

His voice is raspier from disuse, almost a croak. It makes your heart soar and your spine shiver, because it feels like years since he’s gone radio silent. 

You gesture vaguely at it, a slight shrug of your shoulder as you try to hide how tight your throat has gone at the realization that he’s alive and kicking, and not an unnamed corpse under some rubble.

“Yeah,” you reply, “Shrapnels—uh, something hit me when those things went off. Just a bruise.”

A sentence he’s heard more times than he cares to count, but he seems unfazed by it this time around. Maybe the relief of being safe has finally set his priorities straight.

You smile wearily, uncharacteristically quiet even as you try to make light of it. “Reckon purple’s my colour, eh?”

He nudges an admonishing foot to your knee. You lose your balance for a moment and blink back at him with a frown.

“Reckon it ain’t.” He grunts with a pointed look, as if you said something unbelievably stupid. But then his voice softens. “But it’s hard for things to look bad on ya, eh?” 

His eyes are crinkled at the corners. Simon smiles through them at you. “Still, tha’ bruise ain't it, if ya ask me.”

You huff.

“Flatterer.”

“Thought we’d established flattery worked jus’ fine with ya, mh?” 

You choke on a laugh, running the back of your fingers to your lips.

“Yeah, yeah.” You clear your throat, trying to dissipate the warmth in your cheeks. "Got it."

If you two weren’t so lost in this conversation, you wouldn’t have missed the baffled look Johnny was giving you both, talking like he wasn’t there to witness it all. 

But now Simon looks at you with such an intensity that Johnny’s behavior falls into the background.

There is no discovering Simon Riley, today; he’s taken the toll of discovering you, because while you’ve always cared and he’s always known, your eyes are telling him that there’s something he’s yet to find.

Or perhaps he’s found it already, ages back, when you called his name in his sheets, when you bit a promise on his fingers, when he coloured your skin with his own—kisses and sweat and grease.

When you left, and he inevitably drifted—a demagnetized compass that couldn’t find its north again, and you were just as adrift.

Good luck, you’d said. And fucking hell he’s needed plenty of it—found it too, it seems, since he’s back where he’s safe. Where he’s home.

“You alrigh’, yeah?” You ask, causing his mind to flounder back to earth.

His throat bobs.

Simon nods stiffly but doesn’t speak. 

Johnny sighs heavily and takes the burden from his shoulder instead. 

“Aye, he’s a big lad, hen.” He rumbles from your side, and you turn your body to him to give him your attention—wide-eyed like you’d forgotten he was there at all. 

Johnny snorts.

He starts to ramble on, and you listen intently to how they found Simon crawling blindly towards them, as he and Kyle ran in his direction.

Simon’s eyes, however, are on you. 

And so are his fingers. 

Leaning forward, he rests his elbows on his knees and starts tracing subtle patterns on the back of your thigh. 

A tickle that would normally make your knees jerk, but you push through and stay still—because what if he stops, then. What if he believes you don’t want him to touch you, after almost a week with no clue about his well-being.

God forbid he pulls away. 

God forbid he thinks you don’t want his hands all over once again, and from this day on.

As Johnny tries to fit some light in the dusk of your eyes, Simon discretely hooks one of his fingers in the pocket of your fatigues and doesn’t let go—holding onto you as much as you are to him. In fact, one of your hands lands on his knuckles, thumb rubbing soothing circles on the inside of his wrist.

“Doc said you can go rest in your room for tonight,” Kyle’s voice pitches in. “Just come back tomorrow for a checkup.”

Johnny beams at that. The world weighing on your shoulders suddenly lifts an inch, and you manage to take a breath. 

“No injuries, then?” You ask, turning between Simon’s parted legs. 

His forefinger stays hooked at the hem of your pocket even when you do.

“Nope.” Kyle smiles. “A concussion, maybe, since he’s not being chatty—oh, wait.”

Simon grunts. “Piss off.”

It’s only when he's done with the IV bag that you’re finally helping him carry his things to his quarters. 

Johnny and Kyle don’t bat an eye when you offer to take the lead, and you stop wondering whether they’re aware of your and Simon’s thing the moment Johnny gives you a glaringly obvious wink.

Simon tries to hide a limp as you walk through the hallway, and you’d love to keep his stupid pride intact for his sake, but yours has gone and drowned in the shitter the moment you broke down into sobs in front of Price. 

So, you don’t see why his can’t be a little bruised too, tonight.

You hook your arm around his waist, mindful of those eventual bruised ribs you heard the doctor talk about with Kyle. Simon only looks down at you but doesn’t put up a fight—instead, he leans into you and unexpectedly accepts your help.

When he hands you his key, you try to fit it in the keyhole and fail a few times, until you force your hand to stop shaking and the lock clicks. You two stumble inside, as the heavy door closes with a loud thud. 

His backpack is dropped carelessly, key on the floor next to it.

“Easy, there.” You whisper, noticing how he almost tumbles onto the mattress. 

A deep, drawn-out sigh escapes him as his whole body deflates now that he’s sitting somewhere comfortable.

You crouch in front of him. 

No words are exchanged as your fingers work with the straps of his vest on each side. Simon carefully lifts his arms to help you help him, and it’s the first time in years of camaraderie in which he’s actually cooperating. 

Vest on the floor. Gloves off. His tac belt is carelessly tossed behind you, as you unlace his boots with his eyes burning holes down at you.

“You need a shower,” you mumble as you slide one boot off his foot. “And then I’ll check those bruises myself, see if I can help somehow.”

Simon is deadly silent. 

Or maybe it’s you who can’t quite catch any sound, as the blood rushes in your ears, your heart a violent drum.

“Gonna take a look at your leg too.” You go on, relentless, as your voice cracks unbidden. “It’s probably just a sprained ankle, but it’s better to ma—”

His hand cups your jaw, then, stopping your endless ramble. 

You stain the cracked skin of his palm with tears you didn’t know were falling. Simon holds your face until you find it in yourself to look up at him. 

He peers down at you through the eyehole of the balaclava, ripped and singed in various spots as a testament to his survival.

He presses a thumb against the corner of your mouth, forcing it into a plastic smile. But those teardrops are still regrettably streaking your cheeks, your lips still trembling in a fruitless attempt to keep quiet.

His other hand comes to grab your bicep to help you up. 

You’re on shaky legs, probably worse than the stagger he had when walking down the hallways. You come to a stand right between his thighs nonetheless, pressing your palms on his shoulders for balance.

Simon doesn’t speak as he looks up at you—doesn’t have the strength to do it, nor does he know what to say when you look so vulnerably lost. 

He uses actions, instead. 

Languidly, he slides the balaclava off his head, showing the cuts on his skin that match the rips on his mask. His forehead is ruddy and chapped, flaky skin peels off the bridge of his nose right where it gets redder and inflamed. His lips look thinner and pale, like he hasn’t had a good gulp of water in a while.

Your brows pinch and you instinctively lean forward until your noses brush. 

Simon takes a generous look at you, taking note of all the things left unsaid that are so clearly etched into the fine lines of your face. 

He nods softly, like he knows you need him to give you the green light.

And so, you kiss him right then, not wasting a moment longer. You both don’t bother to pretend to build up the tension when the rubber band has obviously already snapped. He parts his mouth for you and tilts his head until you can only breathe him in.

You taste the salt of your own tears, and his acetone breath of days spent without having a bite. You reckon yours isn’t much different—fear and hunger your only companions in his absence. Similar desperation in his hands running up your spine, in the panting of his breath, clogging your lungs already filled with a cocktail of dread and relief—poisonous, yet so comforting.

His arms are sore, muscles taut, but he uses them anyway to wrap around your thighs, bringing you in. 

But it’s then that you stop: when your knees dig into the mattress on each side of his hips—your hands softly pressed to his chest to push him away. 

His eyes land on your lips, already swollen and glossy after he’s kissed them to bits. He watches them move when you speak, entranced, as tears trail into the corners of your mouth.

You think he’s a bit lost in that moment, possibly not entirely listening to what you’re saying, yet that doesn’t stop you from rambling like time is running out.

“You have to shower and rest; we can’t be doing this now.” You’re stumbling over your words. “What if you got a broken rib that might puncture your lung, I gotta be careful.”

He blinks, snapping out of his head. Brows tight in a frown, he lifts his arm and grabs the nape of your neck, pulling you in.

“No, you gotta come 'ere.”

Your lips crash onto his. 

The salt of your tears stings your tongues, dancing together just because your mouth is already open, busy mumbling something under your breath.

“Simon,” you’re saying, but not in the way he likes. “Listen—”

He stops. Sighs like the world has been dropped on his shoulders, breath heavy in your mouth.

His eyes shut close, lips to lips ready to ravage yet both stand still and anticipating. His fingers flex at the back of your neck, others dimple the fat of your thigh through your trousers. 

Anxiety has your stomach in a clutch, and you fear he knows because he can read you like a book, easy as anything, like he’s taken notes through your pages firsthand.

When Simon gazes back at you, his eyes are close enough for you to distinguish the bloodshot whites, the enlarged pupils eating at the chestnut irises. You don’t look at his lips, but you feel with yours how he tentatively opens his mouth a few times, as if he wants to say something but thinks back on it every time.

Until he speaks.

“Please.” 

You want to give in. Have him show you he’s still alive in the only way he knows: with the touch of his hands, the flawless glide of his body with yours.

But you’re relentless, and you mimic him—if not even more desperately. “Please.”

He sighs, completely disarmed.

Both his hands come to cradle your jaw, then. He starts tracing a path with his lips—kisses so tender you can barely feel them, landing blindly on your cheeks.

“Just a few days out there, just—” he murmurs, voice low and breathy. “Fuckin’ sweltered all day, then soon as the sun fucked off—cold as a witch’s tit.”

He breathes a hoarse chuckle, such a weak one that instead of stealing a smile it pulls and knots at your heartstrings.

You gulp. It’s fruitless, there’s something lodged in your throat so thick you abandon any effort to identify it. Fear peaks, however. Cold as the harshest of winters.

You stay silent. You listen. No questions asked, no interjections of any kind. A dance you’ve learned over time, from past mistakes you promised to never make again.

“Been through worse, y’know?” he mutters to your skin, words interrupted only by his own kisses on your cheeks. “Much bloody worse—an' this? This was nothin’. Part an' parcel of the job, love, bound to happen sooner or later.”

He pulls back, his gaze meeting yours as though he could show you what he’s endured, like snapshots unfolding in a reel of film.

Your fingers lace through his hair, and specks of sand and grime settle under your fingernails as you scratch his scalp. Slowly, you lean in, and press a kiss to his forehead.

Simon imperceptibly softens against you, like his body wants to but his head won’t allow him. The muscles in his shoulder are taut but the ones in his neck are loose and flaccid, head bowed to your lips.

“But fuck—” he breathes. “Never been so bloody scared.”

When he takes his hands away from your face to wrap his arms around your waist, you know better than to move—as if the ghost of his fingers still lingers at your jaw. 

He holds you closer. Fists your shirt between his fingers until it’s pulled tight around your middle. 

Seconds pass, in which you do nothing but wait with bated breath for him to elaborate further.

“But not f’ me.” He sighs. “Don’t care if I live or die, yeah?”

It’s not a surprising statement. It doesn’t leave you as floored as it should’ve. 

It’s one you’ve internalized so long ago, even before you two engaged with this nonsense of a thing that only ended up hurting you both.

When you first got to know him, it fell upon you not slowly like a setting sun, but more so like a comet crossing the sky—quick and sharp. Burnt itself into your bones, in the crevices of your heart: that in front of you was a man who didn’t care for his life. A ticking time bomb bound to blow up.

And this knowledge properly slapped you when he went MIA. 

A handful of days of nausea and shaking limbs.

Days in which you bit your nails until they bled, refusing to mourn a dead body you couldn’t see.  

“You listenin’?” He asks hoarsely.

Gingerly, you nod. Your lips brush his forehead. They’re wet. Tears are falling again, salt as needles puncturing the cracks of your lips. 

“You get it, yeah?” He murmurs, and this time it’s him who guides your eyes back to his. They’re dark and heavy with sorrow and, for once, not chained shut.

Days in which you didn’t know where he was—if he was at all. 

His eyes search for yours. Palms to your cheeks like you’re made of glass and might shatter if he holds you too tight.

“You get it?” He asks again, low and breathless.

Days in which he didn’t know where you were—if you were at all, too.

“I do,” you croak.

There's a sense of grounding, then—tectonic plaques settling back after the earthquake. The needle of your compass locks back into place, finally pointing North—no longer caught in an erratic spin.

And it’s so quiet after that. 

Two words that hang in the air and cut the tension in half, until it finally dissipates when he brushes the hair off your forehead.

Simon holds your eyes for a moment more before he brings your lips to his own. 

He kisses you slowly like he doesn’t know the way you like it, like he’s doing it for the first time. 

And maybe, he is.

That night, Simon doesn’t fuck you. 

He’s naked, just out of the shower you helped him take. He sits at the edge of the bed, fists curled around the blanket haphazardly thrown over it, towel crumpled at his feet. 

His skin is damp, glistening under the low lights—gentle highlight of scars you’ve traced, and newer ones. The knotted lines and the inflamed cuts. The pale stretches of skin interrupted by speckled purples, greens, yellows—entire galaxies blooming on his shoulder, on his ribs, on his abdomen and on his thighs.

If that isn’t enough to make your knees buckle, enough to make your heart crack, it’s his request that does it.

“Stay,” he croaks.

That’s just how he says it, blunt as ever—gritted through his teeth, still coarse in the attempt at tenderness. Trying to fit in a role he’s never thought he’d get the chance to play; where he's not a killer, only a man.

That night, Simon doesn’t fuck you, no.

Simon holds you to his side, deaf to your protests when he guides you to lean your cheek to his heart—all the be careful’s stumbling out of your lips tossed out the window by the very man they were meant for.

Still, he brushes your hair, fingers gently lacing through it. His hand faintly trembles—discomfort in the unfamiliar, you think. 

However, even in their uncertainty, the gesture’s enough to make you fall asleep, lulled by the warmth of his body tucked under the duvet with you. Pine needles of his body wash, vestiges of tobacco, antiseptic you smeared on his cuts—the strange familiarity of it, the comfort you hope he's found too.

And maybe you’re dreaming. Maybe it’s the delirium — the adrenaline crash, the hunger, the sleepless nights. Or maybe it’s just the overwhelming relief of having him here, real and warm, alive with blood that still runs.

You feel it rumble in his chest first, before it properly travels to your ears.

A curse. Drawn out, rouged with tender resignation, with honeyed surrender. A beautifully dreadful feeling, conveniently compacted into a single, wretched word. 

Wet lips touch your forehead. They brush left and right but never press in a proper kiss.

“You get it, uh?”

A sigh, then. Or a hoarse chuckle, maybe—you’re not sure. Warm breath grazes your forehead, tickles your scalp until shivers tiptoe gently down your spine and you unconsciously huddle closer.

Simon only holds you more thoroughly.

“Can't fuckin' believe it,” he whispers. 

There's something feather-light in his voice that betrays a hint of careful awe—jarring, misplaced, especially after days scraping by on the very edge of life.

Something akin to hope.

A lot from a man who insists he doesn't care if he lives or dies.

Still, Simon doesn’t bother to conceal it—perhaps because he thinks you're long asleep, perhaps because he doesn't care about hiding at all, not anymore. It curls into his vowels, bleeds golden into his tongue clicking at each t.

“Yeah,” he breathes. Kisses your forehead. “Now I get it too.”