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palimpsessed · 2 years ago

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The third annual! Questions by @captain-aralias .

Complete Fics for 2022:

I Can't Believe He's Not Butter

4,941 words

by any other name…

3,035 words

Simon Snow and Dracula's Curse, A Scooby Doo AU

46,064 words

In Progress Fics for 2022:

Slings and Eros

70,055 words added in 2022

Total:

4 complete fics, 1 fic in progress

Word count:

124,095

Thoughts:

I thought my output this year had really waned, but I only completed one more fic in 2020 and 2021. My word count has been pretty consistent, with this year's actually being higher than 2021 (107k) and 2020 (113k). So maybe I need to be kinder to myself. It's truly just having the specter of a massively long wip looming for a second year running.

Since I included SAE in last year's review, I'm going to stick with the three fics I haven't talked about yet. All I ever talk about is SAE anyway. However, I think this works better for writers with more fics to talk about because there would be less repetition in the answers.

best/worst title?

best:

I Can't Believe He's Not Butter

What else is there to say? This fic is about an emo syrup container watching an attractive tub of margarine being spread seductively over pancakes.

worst:

by any other name...

I like this but perhaps it doesn't pin down the point of the fic well enough. But I really couldn't lead with "dicknames" or "cocktail" so. Shakespeare it is.

best/worst summary?

best:

SSADC

"The gang is invited to spend Halloween weekend in famed seaside town Whitby, North Yorkshire. It's supposed to be a holiday filled with music, history, and more vampire fangs than Simon Snow has ever dreamed of. But when a flying fiend claiming to be Count Dracula himself shows up, warning tourists and locals alike to stay away from the famous ruins of Whitby Abbey, Simon and the rest of the Enigma Ltd. gang know they've got another mystery on their hands. Matters are only further complicated when Simon's longtime professional rival, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Grimm-Pitch of Pitch Paranormal Investigations, swoops in with perfect hair to steal Enigma Ltd.'s case.

"Will the gang manage to solve the mystery in time to save Whitby from the Count and his Curse? And more importantly, will Simon solve the mystery of his very confusing feelings for Baz?"

I could see this one printed on the back of a Scooby Doo DVD clamshell. (I absolutely do check out Scooby Doo DVDs from my library every Halloween.)

worst:

BAON

"Baz has been making a new list and he’s decided it’s time to share it with his unsuspecting boyfriend."

Again, I was being coy. This probably should have been something like: "Baz decides to give Simon's cock a worthy nickname. Unapologetic puns ensue." You know, after I did this last year, I actually revised my worst summary to make the changes that I felt would improve it. Maybe I'll do that with this one, too. Maybe.

best/worst first line?

best:

ICBHNB

"The existence (if one can be so bold as to call it that) of a blue plate diner denizen holds all the shine one can find on a cloudy-water-spotted soup spoon. There are occasional flashes of warm, bright pink neon ("open 24 hours") to give you the sense of a rose-tinted view, but by and large, the days offer little more variety and adventure than stuck-on food and creeping rust stains.

"In this place, soup spoons are to solitary condiments like myself what reflecting pools are to Narcissus."

Okay, maybe this is a bit too long to consider a line, but oh well. I hate writing descriptions of physical places. I would much prefer my characters just float around in a void and have endless amounts of banter-laden dialogue. But the diner was integral to this story and I think I did a pretty good job with it, introducing it along with our narrator, pancake syrup!Baz, and using it to set the mood.

worst:

SSADC

"It was a dark and stormy night."

This was obviously intentionally done, so I'm okay with it. Except for the fact that somewhere along the way, the period disappeared without me noticing so it just sat there with no punctuation for weeks. The very first sentence. Off to a strong start.

best/worst last line?

best:

SSADC

"Hey, Baz," she said. "How come you're not in costume?"

You need the context for this one to make sense, but trust me. I love how punchy it turned out, and also that it wasn't planned. I just knew in the moment.

Also, ICBHNB is somewhat open-ended, but I do really like how the last sentence revisits the opening of the fic and shows how much Baz has changed his mind about his "life" now that Simon is in it.

worst

BAON

"We never do get back to Baz’s list."

It's okay, but it's a bit lacking in impact after the repartee immediately before it. This was just my way of fading to black so I didn't have to actually write the sex.

looking back, did you write more fics than you thought you would this year, fewer than you thought, or about what you predicted?

Fewer. I thought I'd finally wrap on SAE and be able to tackle more of my other ideas. I had been determined not to write anything else until it was complete, but at some point I decided it was healthier for me to indulge a side fic now and again for the sake of my creative sanity. I didn't want to start resenting SAE because I couldn't work on other things. More to look forward to next year…

what pairing/genre/fandom did you write that you would never have predicted last year?

I didn't think I'd ever have cause to write pancake syrup/margarine. But here we are.

what's your favorite story this year? not the most popular, but the one that makes you the happiest?

It's so hard to choose. I'm really happy with all of them and they're all very different things. I suppose SSADC because I've been working on that concept off and on since I got into fandom and it was nowhere near as clever or funny in my early drafts and planning. I was frustrated with it for a long time, but then it ended up being so much better for the delay. And it's done!!!!! I'm incredibly proud of it.

okay, now your most popular story?

I never know what the best metric is to judge this by? I suppose kudos?

BAON leads in kudos for the year, so I'll say that. Which makes sense. It's the closest I came to smut.

story most underappreciated by the universe?

SSADC and ICBHNB are my least kudoesed(?) over all years so I think they just didn’t find their audience.

story that could have been better?

I know I said I wasn't going to talk about SAE, but damn it could be SHORTER. I find myself most critical of it because I've sat with it for so long. But I still wouldn't change any of it. I always kind of avoid this question.

sexiest story?

Hmm. It probably should be BAON since it is about cocks, but I kind of want to say ICBHNB because that margarine!Simon does spread on awfully smooth… How many fics can boast a completely appropriate use of the word 'nubbin' anyway?

saddest story?

None of my finished fics were sad, but SAE definitely goes there with the deep emotions, so that one gets the honor.

most fun?

SSADC

I wrote a theme song! Lucy the dog dashes into action against "Dracula" wearing a Dracula dog costume. Simon chucks bricks at creepy hooded cultists because Penny didn't let him bring his sword. Baz and Simon absolutely do not speedwalk race down the street to the Whitby library. Penny’s skirt has pockets! No one ever gives Baz a leaflet. BJ and the CUNTS! Penis window. I need to reread this fic.

story with the single sweetest moment?

SSADC

Simon feeds Baz pieces of mint Aero while they're sharing a bed. That was pretty sweet. (Get it, sweet?)

Honorable mention to ICBHNB for being sweetest fic overall, in that the narrator is literally pancake syrup.

hardest story to write?

SSADC

Which I've been trying to write unsuccessfully since very early 2020 (does anyone remember very early 2020?). This version of the fic did give me some hiccups along the way, but finally sorting out the POV and tone of the fic was key, as was the timely Dracula tie-in. It finally felt right this time and I look forward to continuing the adventures of Enigma Ltd. and Pitch Paranormal Investigations.

easiest/most fun story to write?

I'm being difficult and answering with all three fics!

Easiest is a tie between the one shots: ICBHNB and BAON. Short and also mostly crack. I'd had both ideas tossing around in my head for a while and once the mood hit for each of them, they came about pretty quickly.

Most fun: SSADC (for the reasons stated under the other kind of "most fun" above)

did any stories shift your perceptions of the characters?

I'm boring with this one and usually say 'no', but I will say that SSADC was my first time really writing the classic SnowBaz "enemies" to lovers dynamic. I think I was surprised by how much I enjoyed it, because I tend to shy away from that. Not sure if that will inform fic writing decisions going forward, but considering that nearly all of my ideas at the moment are But-What-If-SnowBaz AUs, the dynamics are mostly determined by how I'm adapting the worlds of the various AUs.

most overdue story?

hahaha

I can finally say SSADC and know that it's DONE!!!!!

did you take any writing risks this year? what did you learn from them?

Everything felt like a risk while I had a 100k+ wip. Staying in more lighthearted and cracky territory wasn't necessarily a risk, but certainly something that took me out of my comfort zone as a fic writer. Really, I think I just needed to give myself permission for it.

this year's theme and the story that demonstrates it?

Perseverance.

SSADC and SAE

I finished one and am determined to finish the other.

what are your fic writing goals for next year?

See above.

Seriously, though, my main goal is to wrap SAE and make sure it's satisfying for all the build up—for me and its readers. Aside from that, I have a whole list of prompts for myself and I think I'm really just waiting to get inspired about which one to work on first. I have my Bond AU pretty much entirely plotted out, so you'd think it would be that one. But I also want to do a second part for my Scooby AU. And maybe finally write that The Holiday AU. Or Galaxy Quest. Or Troop Beverly Hills. Or Bell Book and Candle. Or or or…

Here's a good goal: I would like to not write any more dactylic hexameter.

If you read all this way, thanks for taking this journey with me. See you for more words and more fics in 2023!

#fanfic year in review 2022 #icbhnb #by any other name #simon snow and dracula’s curse #slings and eros

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headless-angel-writes · 2 years ago

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A Rose Is A Rose

Summary: Baz has been stealing roses from a stranger's garden. Who is he taking those flowers to?

Prompt: Devotion

Characters are by Rainbow Rowell

Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/43508748

@carryon-countdown

Baz

A boy is standing in front of me. He is wearing boots, an overall, a white shirt, gloves and a huge straw hat covering his golden curls. He has a face full of freckles and his eyes are as blue as the sky.

He is beautiful. The most beautiful boy I'd ever seen in my life. He gives me an annoyed look as if he wants to murder me. All that separates us is a fence, so I'm not protected.

He caught me stealing his roses. And Obviously, he cares a lot about this garden. I can't blame him for feeling that way.

"So you are the one who comes to hurt my rose bushes."

His voice is calm even though his eyes reflect rage.

"I'm sorry. I could pay for them if you want.

I honestly don't know what else to tell him.

"Are they for a girl?" He ignores my question.

"I guess you could say so."

This isn't so easy to explain to a person I've just met. Although I'm quite interested in getting to know him. He shrugs, tosses his hat and gloves into a rocking chair behind him, and hops over the fence that separates us.

Now that we're closer, I can see he has even more freckles and moles than I thought. I don't know why he bothers to try to protect himself from the sun. He smells nice, a mixture of flowers and cinnamon. (He shouldn't smell like that considering he was gardening.)

"What are you doing?"

"I'm coming with you."

I raised an eyebrow. What is that guy thinking?

"My roses are priceless. I want to know if your girl is worth stealing them" He explains simply.

Bloody hell. He can't come with me. Especially not today.

"It's strange that you think so. We don't even know each other."

I start walking, doubting he's serious about following me. I realize how wrong I am when I hear footsteps behind me.

"It's weird to steal from a stranger's garden," he says. " You have been doing this for months. I need to know who gets my roses."

I ignore him and try to pick up my pace. Maybe I can manage to lose the pretty boy.

If I don't... How do I explain to him that I'm going to the cemetery to visit my mother for her death anniversary?

........................................................................................................................

Pretty Boy is much more stubborn than I thought. At first, I tried to confuse him, changing routes and going into the stores to get him away from me. It didn't work. I took pity on him and allowed him to walk beside me.

And he reached out to take my arm.

"So you won't run away again," he said.

I am very strong, I could have got rid of him easily; I am also weak and as soon as I felt the warmth emanating from him I gave up.

We received a couple of curious glances. I guess my black suit contrasts too much with his clothes. And the roses in my hand don't help. From the outside, it might look like we're on a date.

I wish we were.

"What's your name," he suddenly blurts out.

His voice makes me jump in surprise. He hasn't said anything to me previously, and it's strange to hear him now.

"Basilton Grimm Pitch," I reply.

He laughs. It's not the first time it's happened when someone hears my name. All I do is let out a sigh.

"I'm sorry. It's a bit of a strange name. But I like it. May I call you Baz?

"If you want to... " I feel my face heat up a bit. "what's your name?"

"Simon Salisbury."

I don't know why he laughs at my name when he seems to have been named by Stan Lee. I decide not to say anything else and just keep walking. At times I feel him stroking my arm. It's so gentle that I don't think he realizes what he's doing.

Finally, the entrance to the cemetery is in front of us. I stand for a moment not sure what to do now. I didn't think we'd make it this far. I turn to face him, he looks pale.

"What are we doing here?"

"I came to visit someone."

He clings tighter to me. That gesture helps me to have the courage to go on. I know the way very well, I've been coming here every month since I was fifteen. I stop in front of a black marble tombstone.

On the tombstone, my mother's name is written: Natasha Pitch. And today's date: the twelfth of August. I let go of my partner and proceed with what I came to do. I take the dried flowers out of the vase and exchange them for the fresh ones in my hand.

"She is the one who has been receiving your roses. I took them because I thought they were worthy of her. I'm sorry, Salisbury"

He's standing a little far from me. And he's been stunned. I feel itchy-eyed and I want to cry. But I'm not doing it in front of him.

"Simon," he clarifies. -And I'm... I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have followed you here.

"It doesn't matter."

"Baz..."

"It's been over ten years, I should be over it."

Suddenly, sadness comes over me and tears start to flow. I don't want Simon to see me in this state, so I turn away. It is only then that I allow myself to cry.

I hear footsteps, I'm sure he's already leaving. He's probably uncomfortable. I shouldn't have dragged him here.

Then, I feel a warm presence on my back. A pair of arms wrap around my waist from behind. Simon Salisbury, whom I've just met, is trying to comfort me.

"It's okay. Whatever you're feeling right now is okay."

It's reassuring to hear someone say that. Since her death, my father became a much more reserved man than he already was. I never saw him cry, at least not in front of anyone else. I have become a bit like him. I don't like to show any weakness.

Here and now, I don't feel obliged to do it. I gently turn and reciprocate Simon's embrace. He's shorter than me, so I lean my face into his hair. It's so soft and smells of roses.

His hands trace circles on my back, trying to soothe me.

When I am calmer and the tears have stopped, I pull away a little. It's strange, but I'm not embarrassed by my scene. I rub my eyes, hoping I don't look too puffy.

"Are you feeling better?" he says, trying to smile.

"Yes. Thanks for the hug."

He shrugs as if consoling someone you don't know is a normal thing to do.

"Do you want to come back to my place?

"What?"

I thought we'd each go our own way now. But he wants to keep spending time with me.

"I have cake in my house, my grandmother made it."

"Okay, I'll come with you."

Simon approaches me and takes my hand.

"And you can still take roses, but this time you have to ask for them."

.............................................................................................................................

We have not let go of each other's hands. And I would never want to. As we are walking to his home, a doubt arises in my mind.

"Why did you say your roses are priceless?"

His hand squeezes mine a little more tightly.

"My mum started that garden. She loved plants, but roses were her favorite.

Now I understand why it was so important to him to know what I was doing with them.

................................................................................................................................. Hello!

I'm a day late. Yesterday's prompt was devotion. And I thought putting both boys feeling that way about their mums was a good idea. I used a Tumblr post, but I don't have the link.

The title comes from a song by Mecano

Thank you very much for reading

Ciao!

#carry on countdown #carry on countdown 2022 #coc 2022 #simon snow #baz pitch #snowbaz #snowbaz fanfiction #carry on rainbow rowell #simon snow fanfiction

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lordofwaffless · 1 year ago

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15. Fiona

“C’mon, Stu, hurry your tiny little goat legs up!” Fiona called. They were walking down

the sidewalk downtown, passing small clothing boutiques and bookstores. The town of Basilton

was known for being full of folks with a literary bent; the library where Ezra worked was even

larger than the main library in Everin City, where Stu was from. (Ezra worked in the magic

history section; Marlowe had often commented that she thought she only worked there because

she was such an important part of magical history. Ezra had always shrugged her older sister off

and declined to respond.)

“Fiona, I’m walking as quickly as I can!” Stu actually was walking extremely quickly

(certainly faster than Wesley), but Fiona had all the advantages of being an air witch: all she had

to do to go quickly was step lightly and let the wind carry her along.

“Goddess fuck, can both of you slow down, please?”

Fiona chuckled. “There is no Goddess Fuck in our religion, Wesley, Our Lady’s name is

Endalyn!”

“My aunt’s name is Endalyn,” Stu chimed in. Fiona had slowed down somewhat at

Wesley’s request, and Stu had finally caught up to her. “They’re named after the Goddess, but I

don’t know why.”

Fiona stopped walking altogether. “Why do you refer to your nonbinary guardian as your

aunt? Do they prefer that, or-?”

“Mmm-hmm. I don’t know why that is, either,” Stu replied. “Just is.”

Wesley finally caught up to him. He doubled over, completely out of breath. “I- ha-

hate-,” he panted, before taking a deeper, shuddering breath. “I hate you both.”

Fiona kicked him lightly in the shin. “Noted. You’re such a little bitch, you know that?”

He lifted a hand off of his knee, gesturing, as he declared, “I am not a little bitch, you’re

just mean. And you use the wind to walk, which is bloody cheating, anyway, so-”

“Biiiiiiiitch. Bitch. Whiny little bitch baby.”

Stu tried to intervene. “Fiona-”

“Shut up, Stu. Wesley, you are a whiny little bitch baby.”

He straightened, having finally caught his breath. “If you weren’t so pretty I’d punch you

in the nose,” he said.

Stu decided he really ought to interrupt. “If you two are done abusing each other, can we

go?” He glanced between the two of them, bemused and concerned; both feelings which grew

when the two of them burst out laughing.

“It’s fine, Stu, neither of us means it,” Wesley explained. “If either of us were actually in

the mood to punch the other, we definitely wouldn’t be saying so; and she definitely would not

be calling me a bitch.”

Fiona was laughing too, a softer sound than the cackle Stu had grown to expect. “Mum

always gets so freaked out when we have an argument, she’s like, ‘You guys get so scarily polite

and I’m like what the hell happened? I haven’t had to tell them not to curse indoors in over an

hour!’ and it really freaks out Da, he refuses to leave the greenhouse when we’re in the middle of

an argument, he says he can’t get over the ‘please pass the butter knife, Wesley,’ and the ‘I hope

you have a lovely day, Fiona,’ he says it’s too ominous to bear,” she chuckled. She seemed

lighter, and softer, almost, outside of St. Baz’s; more like an ordinary mortal and less like a

terrifying whirlwind of destructive power.

“You live with both of your parents?” Stu asked, his eyes widening. “And they like each

other?”

“Yep. Well, generally. Mum and Da both live at home, though Da got a job offer back in

Verity and refused to go, which caused quite the row. Said the money wasn’t worth leaving us,

though Mother knows we could’ve used it.”

Wesley shook his head. “Honestly, Fi, Mother’s worse than Goddess fuck. You’d get

beaten in the temple for that one.”

“I think you should both stop cursing,” Stu whispered. Neither of the pair noticed.

“Who cares? Maybe I wasn’t cursing. Maybe I was simply pointing out that the Mother

Goddess is well aware my parents have more kids than means to provide.”

Wesley scoffed. “The fact that you used the Goddess as your excuse instead of trying to

claim you were talking about your mum says enough.”

“Oh, come off it, Wesley. You have no right to be on a high fucking horse and you know

it,” she responded. She started walking again. “C’mon, guys! Don’t be whiny little bitch babies,”

she called, already ten feet ahead. The two boys groaned, but more or less managed to keep up.

After another twenty minutes of walking, they were out on a path just entering the woods

by the fields that surrounded Basilton. Stu had never been around the farms in this direction; the

Veritable Forest was situated at the halfway point between Basilton and Verity, and it lay in the

opposite direction of the farms.

“So, your family lives on a farm?” Stu asked Fiona. He was skipping along in the chilly

country air. Although it was bright and sunny, it was still quite cold, and he found that skipping

warmed him up better than regular walking.

“Not really. It’s more of a fairytale cottage kind of place. There’s a garden, a babbling

Brooke-”

“Oh, you’ll love Brooke, Stewart. She’s the least ill-tempered water nymph I’ve ever

met,” Wesley chuckled.

“-And of course, the house itself. It’s kind of large by normal standards, four big

bedrooms with walk-in closets and actually nearly six bathrooms, but since there are ten of us-”

“There are ten of you?!”

“Including my parents, yes.”

“Are the twins still sleeping in your closet?” Wesley asked. The last time he’d visited the

cottage, the Witch twins, Fair and Starlight (they’d chosen their own names at the age of seven)

had been sleeping in loft beds in Fiona’s closet.

“Yep. Mum made me move my clothes into a wardrobe so they’d have space for all of

their shit.”

“Lovely. Just lovely. I’m sure that sucks balls, Fi.”

“I’m sure you suck balls, Wesley. I’m sure you suck an entire bag of-”

“Fiona Witch! That language is not appropriate, well, ever, but certainly not in front of,”

here Fiona’s mother, a seer who’d come round the bend at that moment, paused and gestured to

Stu, before leaning in and stage-whispering, “children!”

“Ma! It’s his balls Wesley’s sucking, I don’t see the point of-”

“Fiona!”

Wesley, trying not to burst out laughing, glared at her and chimed in with, “Yes, Fiona!”

“Oh shut up, Wesley-”

“-Hello, Wesley, dear, how have you been, I-”

“-Mum, he’s been a twat, is how he’s been-”

“I’ve been fine, actually-”

“No you haven’t, you liar-”

“Fiona, the kid-”

“He’s just a goat, not a child, he-”

“-he isn’t a kid, he’s-”

“Yes, alright, ok. Wesley, you and your friend must be freezing, let’s-”

“Why are you even-”

“Do you know what she-”

“Wesley, don’t you dare-”

“Fiona, be polite-”

“She said-”

“No, I-”

“Can everybody please just SHUT UP?!”

The three who’d been arguing in the woods turned to look at each other, shocked, before

turning their attention to the satyr sitting on the ground. Stu was rocking back and forth, his

hands firmly clamped around his ears, tears streaming down his face as he glared at his

boyfriend, his friend, and her mother.

Something, unfortunately, clicked in Fiona’s tactless and easily confused head. “Oh, wait, Stu, are you neurodivergent?” she asked, with all her usual lack of tact. Wesley elbowed her. “Ow, Wes, why-”

He glared. “That’s not the sort of question you ask when someone’s losing it,” he stage-whispered, “and besides that, it’s not like that actually matters right now.”

“How does that not- ow,” she held her side and grimaced.

Wesley sat across from Stu. “What’s wrong, love?”

Stu shook his head.

Wesley tried again. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

Stu shook his head again. He was sobbing much harder than he’d been that morning.

Wesley had seen Stu cry plenty (more than plenty), but never quite this much. Goddess, I think

we triggered something, he thought, his invocation less a curse than an observation to an unseen

force.

“Wesley, we’re going to go,” Fiona whispered to him after a while. “Don’t get eaten.”

(There were no monsters in that part of the woods.) She and her mother walked the short distance

away to their home, which was just around the bend from where they’d paused.

The two boys sat across from each other for about half an hour in the cold. Stu had cried

himself out fairly quickly once the argument had ended, but he didn’t move from where he sat

curled up on the ground for quite some time.

“Wesley?” He asked, peeking over his knees at his boyfriend, who’d been watching two

robins fight over a bug.

Wesley turned to him. “Hmm?’

“Sit closer.”

Wesley was more than happy to oblige. He scooted over across the cold dirt, settling next

to Stu. Stu leaned into him, glad for the extra warmth. “My parents used to fight like that,” Stu

whispered. “Layers and layers of words, with the housekeeper butting in every few minutes to

remind them that I was there, but they wouldn’t listen and would keep shouting as if I were

invisible.”

Wesley rubbed Stu’s back with the hand that wasn’t wrapped around his own knees. He

pressed a kiss to his forehead. “That’s awful. I’m sorry you had to go through that.”

“Mmm-hmm. It was not fun.”

“I can imagine.”

They sat in silence for a while. Though it was still fairly early in the evening, the sun was

beginning to go down, and dusk was starting to fall around them.

“Wes?”

“Hmm?”

“Are your parents like that?”

Wesley sighed. “My parents don’t argue much; really, my parents don’t say much of

anything to each other at all. Or to me, for that matter.” He stared off into the distance,

exhaustion seeping from every bit of him. “At least, my dad doesn’t. My mother’s around a bit

more, but she’s not very focused.” He chuckled bitterly. “People always assume she’s the faery,

since she’s so graceful and detached and flighty. No one assumes it’s the balding middle school

teacher with glasses and a vintage bike obsession.”

They both turned at the sound of leaves crunching behind them, and found themselves

looking up at a shivering Fiona. She was wrapped in a cosy-looking pea coat, in a soft pink that

bordered on twee and clashed alarmingly with both her hair and the bright red scarf wrapped

around her neck. She looks like a valentine, Stu noted.

“You two ought to come inside. Mum’s promised to play nice, and Da’s in the

greenhouse, though he might come in in a bit,” she murmured. Her ears were turning red in the

chilly evening breeze. “The kids are working on their homework in the family room, so we’ll

have the big kitchen to ourselves.”

Wesley looked at Stu. “Do you want to go in, love?”

Stu nodded. He stood up, wobbling for a second, before steadying himself against a

suddenly upright Wesley. “Fiona has snacks, right?”

His friends chuckled. “Fiona has so many snacks,” she laughed, taking Stu’s free hand.

The three of them walked round the bend into the clearing where Fiona’s house was located.

Stu’s jaw dropped. While Myrtle’s garage had been full of faery lights, the clearing where

the Fallonson-Witch family lived was full of actual faeries. Pixies and wood sprites hovered

about the clearing, darting from tree to tree and landing on folks’s shoulders. The aforementioned

babbling Brooke was chattering merrily in her stream to a dryad who was hanging laundry from

his branches; in the flower garden, flower fae were tending to their blooms, and in the orchard,

wood nymphs and satyrs danced as they collected fruit that had fallen to the ground.

The entire scene glittered in various shades of pink and blue and gold. It looked homey,

like some strange, family-owned farm, but it also had the dream-like (or perhaps nightmarish,

Stu couldn't help but think) quality that one associated with dissociating. It all seemed too perfect

to be real.

“Where are we?” Stu asked, nearly certain that they’d somehow been transported into the

wild Fae lands at the heart of Everin.

Fiona didn’t bother with much of a reply. She gripped his hand more firmly and dragged

him towards the house, where, if nothing else, she could make sure he didn’t accidentally sell his

soul to one of the vampires who lived in the orchard or get eaten by wood sprites.

“Doesn’t matter. C’mon, Stewart, I can’t let you die in the woods, your aunts would

literally kill me.”

“Fiona-,” Wesley butt in, although her resulting glare shut him up immediately. It was

about a three minute walk at a brisk pace across the edge of the clearing to the house, and Fiona

dragged them along with her wind at the fastest pace she could manage. When they reached the

door, she opened it without even touching the handle and yanked the boys inside, slamming the

door shut behind her with the wind.

“Alright, boys, we’re indoors now. It’s safe enough here to ask whatever questions

you’ve got, Stu, but I would suggest we get to the kitchen first,” Fiona said, chucking off her

coat and shaking her hair. She unwound her scarf from her neck and draped it around Stu, who

was shivering.

“Well damn, Fi, I thought you were going to wrap your scarf around me,” Wesley said.

She whacked him lightly atop his head with her hat. “No, you absolute fucking twat.

Goddess, Wesley, let’s go sit by the fire if you’re cold.”

She grabbed both of the boys’ hands and dragged them away in the direction of the

kitchen, stopping to hurl an insult at Starlight in the hall before finally pausing in front of the

hearth in the family’s big kitchen. Fiona’s house, like Wesley’s, had multiple kitchens; the one

they were in currently was the family kitchen. (There was also the summer kitchen in the

courtyard, and the potion and spell kitchen was in the basement; because the house was

technically set into a hill, the basement was built a lot like Wesley’s front kitchen, with large

windows and a sliding glass door.)

She thrust Stu down in front of the fire, nearly throwing him in. (Just like Ezra, he

thought. Hmph.) “Sit down and get warm, Stu, while I take your stupid boyfriend to grab more

Firewood.”

Wesley poked her in the head. “You said let’s sit in front of the fire if I’m cold! I’m cold,

Fi, go get the wood yourself.”

“Wesley,” Fiona hissed at him, gesturing discreetly in an “I need to talk to you, you

moron” sort of way. “We should gather more firewood.”

Wesley cottoned on, not being as half as thick as he acted, but he shook his head.

“I want Wesley to sit down,” Stu said, not bothering to look up at them; he was staring

into the fire, watching the logs slowly turn to ash.

“Fine! Have it your way, you two, then! I will go get more firewood-,” they really were

running low in the kitchen, “-and you two can sit nice and cosy by the fire, and then when I get

back, we can eat and I can spring my news on the both of you without any proper warning and

you can choke on your food, since apparently that’s what you want! Lovely. Just bloody lovely,

you two,” and she stormed out of the house through the back door.

“She’s going to end up selling her soul to a vampire one of these days,” Wesley muttered.

“On purpose?”

“No.” Wes considered it for a moment. “Well, maybe. If the vampire were really cute,

she’d probably consider it.”

“Why do you think she’ll end up accidentally selling her soul to a vampire?” Stu asked.

He scratched the tip of his nose; it was itchy and warm from the heat of the fire.

Wesley turned to him. He reached over and pushed one of Stu’s long-ish brown curls

behind his gently pointed ears. “She’s too impulsive. She throws herself headlong into stupid

situations without much of a thought for the consequences, simply because she’s so damn

powerful that most of the consequences barely affect her at all. One of these days, though, she’s

going to tangle herself up in something she can’t cut or curse her way out of, and then where will

I be?” He turned back to the fire, his head resting on Stu’s shoulder. “She’s my oldest friend; I’ve

known her nearly since birth. I’m pretty sure her parents love me more than mine do. We fight a

lot, joking mostly, but she’s-”

He sighed. “She’s like a sister to me. More than a sister to me, she’s like my bloody

platonic soulmate or something. I’d be devastated if anything were to happen to her.”

Stu looked down at the head on his shoulder. “Have you told her that?” he asked, running

his hand through Wesley’s hair.

“I tell her every time she does something stupid! I used to just text it to her every

morning- ‘Good morning, Fiona, I love you, so please don’t accidentally kill yourself trying to

fight your English teacher,’ or whatever mess she had going on at the moment. I think she

thought I was joking. Honestly, I think she still thinks I’m joking.”

“Well, at any rate, she clearly cares about you,” Stu said. “I do think she would have

given you her scarf if I wasn’t so much smaller and cuter.”

Wesley pulled back. “Stewart! Are you seriously saying that I am not small and cute?”

Stu giggled. “You’re like, six foot five, Wes.”

He scoffed. “Ok, so I’m maybe not small, but I’m definitely pretty cute! I might not be

tiny little bunny rabbit cute like you,” he poked him in the nose, “but I’ve at least got to be

Flemish Giant rabbit cute, right?”

“Yes, Wesley, you are every bit as cute as a ginormous rabbit that could literally kill

someone. You are murder rabbit cute.”

“Ok, that is not what I meant.”

It was too late, though: the concept had stuck. Stu had stood up and was doing what

would probably be classified as an interpretive dance to the chant of “Murder rabbit, murder

rabbit!”

“Holy fuck. What have I just walked into?” questioned Fiona, standing in the doorway

with snow sitting stark against the red of her hair, holding a bundle of firewood. “I leave for

eight minutes and I come back to- What, exactly? What in the name of all that’s good and holy

and made of cheese is going on here?”

“It is called,” said Stu, standing upside down now. He tumbled to the ground and pointed

at her with one long, slender finger. “-interpretive dance.”

“You have caster’s fingers, Stewart.”

“You know, I’ve told him that, actually,” interrupted Wesley. “I told him so in class once

and he threw a pencil at me. He says it’s from piano.”

“Do you play piano, Stu?” asked Fiona.

Stu nodded. “Mmm-hmm. I’ve been playing since I was four. And that,” he turned to Wesley, “-is why my fingers are so long.”

Wesley scooped him into his lap and nuzzled his neck. “Sure. Definitely not because of a

shocking level of magical ability that you’re keeping from us.

Stu held up a finger, giggling. “I know one spell, Wesley. Would you like to see my one

spell, Wesley?”

`Fiona cackled. “I think we’d all like to see your ‘one spell’, Stu. C’mon, let’s have it.”

Stu pointed a finger at his shoe and stared at it very intently for a few moments. After a

second or two, the bright red rubber of his wellingtons turned green, and then faded back to red.

Fiona’s jaw dropped. “Really, Stewart? Your ‘one spell’ is a colour changing spell tested

in the practical exam of eleventh-year saint candidates, performed without an incantation or a

wand?” she scoffed. “You’ve just damned yourself irrevocably, Stewart, as A, you’ve clearly got

loads of innate magical ability, and B, I will never believe a word you say since your worldview

is clearly skewed if you think that that is going to convince me that you don’t have loads of

magical ability.”

Stu peered up at her in bemusement. Though he’d sat back down after his dance and was

now sitting on Wesley, Fiona had remained standing the entire time. “What’s the big deal?”

Fiona gaped at him. Wesley simply shook his head. “Colour spells alter the way the

human eye perceives light. You’re not actually changing the colour the way you would if you

were, say, dying a coat; depending on the spell, you’re either changing the entire wavelength of

the light, which is the simpler option, or you're modifying the eye itself to be able to perceive

the new colour. You’re forcing your brain to accept a reality that is not, in fact, real.”

“-hence why it’s so bloody difficult,” Fiona said, grateful for the explanation she hadn’t

been wholly sure how to give (she’d always excelled at the practical side of magic; Wesley was

the one who competed and won awards in the theoretics categories in Sport). She flopped down

on the hearth rug next to the boys. “Wesley. Go get snacks.”

“No.”

“Do it for your husband, Wesley. Be a good little housewife and get your husband some

snacks,” she grinned, knowing that Wesley’s want to please Stu would get her some snacks, even

if the precise wording of her supplication might get her hit in the head with hard fruit. “I cannot

believe you just threw an apple at me.”

“You should feel honoured that I didn’t throw a pineapple at your head, Fi. There’s one

right here, it’s not too late,” he pointed out, smirking.

“Guys, no fruit throwing,” Stu commanded, pouting at them from the cosiest spot at the

hearth. Wesley sat back down next to him with a plate of sandwiches from the basket Fiona’s

mum always kept full and a tin of biscuits. Stu turned to him. “Wes, are you going to eat?”

Wesley nodded. “I’ll have a sandwich or two.”

Fiona waggled her finger at him. “Have two, Wesley,” she mumbled through a mouthful

of jam and homemade bread.

“Fiona, that’s disgusting.”

She swallowed. “Whatever. Have two sandwiches. And some of those biscuits- my aunt

made them, and I know you like the lemon ones.”

Stu stared at her. “The mayor made these biscuits?”

Fiona nodded. “It’s the only thing she’s actually good at. She comes over every Sunday to

bake for us; brings Rafe, of course, who’s a fucking prat, but otherwise it’s fine, and we get

biscuits out of it, so-,” she trailed off, searching through the tin for something particularly sweet.

Wesley chuckled. “It gets pretty confusing since both Rafe and Fi’s brother Eric are the

‘son of Fallon’, and Fi’s dad refuses to call Rafe anything other than Fallonson.”

“Why grandma Fallon decided to name both of her children Fallon too, I will never

understand,” Fiona said as she crunched down on a raspberry chocolate walnut biscuit decisively.

“Ok, but anyway, Stu-”

“Fiona, be polite,” Wesley warned.

“I am always polite! Stu, what happened in the woods?”

Wesley shook his head. “That’s not polite.”

Stu laughed. “It’s fine, I’d rather she just ask me then try to manoeuvre around in search

of answers.” He turned to Fiona. “I have PTSD (weeeell the doctor said it might be C-PTSD,

actually), which was triggered by the yelling. As for your earlier question, I do have ADHD, so

yes, I am neurodivergent.” He crunched down on the apple Wesley had thrown thoughtfully.

Wesley chucked a tomato slice at Fiona. “See? I told you it wasn’t relevant.”

Stu poked him. “I mean, it wasn’t really not relevant, Wes.”

“Actually, you said it didn’t matter at the moment, which was true,” she nibbled on her

third biscuit. (She’d decided to make him pay for the tomato later; at the moment, she needed

things from him.)

Wesley hummed. “Why are we here again?”

“To enjoy my delightful company? Because you always eat after long walks? To protect

whatever’s left of your little faerie boyfriend’s innocence?”

“Nothing. Literally, absolutely nothing,” Stu muttered.

“...that’s a very bitter take, Stewart.”

“Well, maybe he’s a bitter little person, Fiona, under the rosy cheeks and giggles. Why

are we really here?”

She sighed and ran a hand through her now-messy red hair. In moments like that, her

similarities to her best friend were unmistakable. “So, I was reading last night,” she began.

“As you tend to do,” Wesley said.

“-Right. I was flipping through a book my aunt gave me on blood rituals (kind of

concerning, actually), cross-referencing certain important bits with a book on historic incidents

of dumb fucks trying to intimidate casters with cadavers, cursed objects, whatever. You know,

dark magic shit that most of us would never touch.”

Stu’s eyes widened. “You think someone was trying to intimidate Aunty Ezra with the

remains of a blood ritual?”

“Pretty much. And not one of the fun ones where you try to summon a demon or

Whatever-”

“Fiona!” Wesley glared at her.

“-or one of the normal ones that even saints use, to tie specific doors to your bloodline or

whatever. One of the proper bad ones, where you cut the Magick out of someone or something

else to make yourself more powerful or ‘balance the universe’ or whatever bigoted crap you

believe in.”

Stu blinked. “Summoning demons isn’t one of the ‘bad ones?!’”

She grinned her feral grin at him. “Depends on who you’re summoning.”

Wesley chucked another tomato at her. “Goddess, Wesley, fucking quit it-”

“Fiona. No. We’re not summoning demons again.”

“Again?!” Stu gaped at them. “When- why- who even- what? What?!”

“You know- It’s- oh, whatever. So, anyway, I need you guys to help me summon a

demon,” she declared, pulling tomato seeds out of her hair.

“Fiona, I literally just said-”

Stu fainted.

Wesley stared at him before turning to his friend. “Oh my Goddess, Fiona, you just killed

my boyfriend.”

She poked Wesley in the head. “Wh- Hey!”

“Good. Go ahead and draw some of his blood,” she grinned.

“No, Fiona!” He glared at her. “You’re not stealing my boyfriend’s blood. How would we

have even done this during lunch?!”

“Eh, you know, we would have- Nevermind. Your blood is too weak, elfling, I need his,”

she explained, in a tone that suggested Wesley was a complete moron.

“Why would his be any stronger?” he questioned, half-ready to throw that pineapple at

her.

“Were you not paying attention just now? Your little Faerie boyfriend has more magic in

his pinkie than you have in both of your pinkies!”

“...that’s not saying much, Fiona. And anyway, he’s not a Faerie.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Right.” She glared at him. “You know precisely what I mean,

Wesley. Yes, you’re strong, but not strong enough, I’m sorry, Wesley, it’s just how it is!”

Wesley opened his mouth, and then shut it again. His face turned as silvery as the bowl

that sat on the counter. Finally, after a few frustrated moments of opening and closing his mouth

like a carp and running his hands through his hair, he spoke. “Alright, we can’t argue like this.

Not because we shouldn’t argue about this, because we definitely should, but because Stu is right

there and he’s been staring at us nervously for the past few minutes,” he murmured, his voice

low and cold.

Fiona rolled her eyes and turned to the satyr, who’d sat up and was now biting his nails as

he watched them. “Stewart, my mother’s a seer. Your aunt isn’t going to come back on her own.

You can believe me or not, but if you intend to ever do so, I would suggest believing me now

that we have something closer to the upper hand, rather than when it’s been several months, and

you’re living with Myrtle, and Edie and Ezra have disappeared entirely.”

Stu stared into the fire, his chin tucked into his knees. After a moment, he turned to her.

“So, summoning demons. How do we do that?”

She grinned. “You know, Stewart, I’m glad you asked."

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catjuice123 · 3 months ago

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my full name is basilton so i think thats pretty unique :]

What happened to trans people with cool and fun names like please 😭

obviously no hate to trans people who have qoute "basic" names, one of my names is Oliver I can't be talking, I just wish people still used fun names like "Moss" or shit like that

Like/reblog/comment if you have a cool name

or honestly just comment your name (unique or not) I like to see what people named themselves :3

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ghcstlyhearts · 1 year ago

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(baz) sleeping, hot beverage, milky way, masks, beating heart

💤 SLEEPING - do they fall asleep easily? what helps them sleep?

Usually, no, Baz is terrible at falling asleep, so he has a habit of going for a run before he does. Not that he particularly needs sleep these days.

☕️ HOT BEVERAGE - do they prefer hot or cold drinks? what is their favourite drink?

His favourite drink is black coffee, no sugar, no milk, no enjoyment. He's not a fan of cold drinks, and honestly the man mostly runs on coffee and spite.

🌌 MILKY WAY - what was the inspiration behind your oc? what was the first thing you decided about them?

Baz has actually developed a lot since I first wrote him, the first thing decided about him was that his face would be Lewis Tan and that he'd be called Basilton, because I read a book with a character named that and decided immediately I wanted a grump named Basilton. He was also originally bisexual, but that lasted all of five minutes.

🎭 MASKS - do they act differently around certain people? what's different between the way they act around friends, family, strangers, etc.?

He does ! Around most people, he comes off as irritable, cold, and just generally a very guarded person. However, around those he's actually let in, he lightens up a little, perhaps even making the occasional joke. It's around very few people that he drops his mask completely, and people tend to see the lighter side of Baz.

💓 BEATING HEART - what gets their heart racing?

As much as he hates to admit it and probably never will, cocky, confident men that are like pretty much assholes. If they get all in his personal space and act like a confident moron, Baz is likely to make out with them.

#about; basilton huang.#answered; basilton huang.

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champgnesny · 3 years ago

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final part of this series! that’s right i got to any way the wind blows again and ofc finished so thanks to that now we have:

“things i noticed while re reading any way the wind blows!”

btw this might contain spoilers so if u haven’t read it well here’s your warning!

we start off way too sadly, not noticing now but like ouch? let me stop crying for this mfs two seconds cmon.

simon tends to seem numb when his life is mess, but in reality he’s just two more tragic events far from exploding and being done with everything and everyone.

simon believing he doesn’t deserve baz breaks my heart every single time.

baz texts simon at least twenty six times until giving up and telling him he will tell him more when he gets back home.

this lead us to the next point, wherever simon is, that’s where baz considers his home.

it’s sad to think baz can’t talk with his own family about how things are going for him, cause well his life goes around whatever his doing with simon or discovering about vampires, and it’s so relatable it hits near home.

im pretty sure baz dad got something for naming his child with uncommon names, ej basilton and sophronia (like pls?) and then gets annoyed when people gives them nicknames to shorten their names to baz or soph lol.

baz it’s an incredible brother, it softens my heart seeing him sing to the baby, or comforting his sisters i swear.

when penny told baz that simon moved out and didn’t want to be found, baz stopped himself from thinking he hated him cause he knows he he would do everything for simon.

it’s always mentioned how it’s almost impossible to hide from someone you love, and it makes sense that simon doesn’t realize it when baz appears at his door, but it would have been cute to see him connect the dots later.

simon believes he was meant to find baz, that they were meant to find each other in all of their lifes, but mentions how this one isn’t the one he stays with him, and yes, you guessed, i cried.

i think most of you don’t realize how much does simon loves baz, yes, he was breaking up with baz cause he couldn’t keep up anymore but he also mentions how he was not going to be the reason baz couldn’t find something better and letting go is one of the hardest things someone can do, more when you are madly in love.

when they are arguing baz tells simon to use his words, and simon immediately goes like “that’s my boy” i cried five minutes straight to that line.

baz being desperate to get a reaction from simon shows how he would prefer having simon screaming at him, fighting, hitting each other than having nothing from him and it hurts me.

“ive been reliving all of it, our whole story, every night i stayed awake to watch him fall asleep, every time i threw a punch just to touch his face” was there any point on me putting this after what i said? no, but i want you to be hurt as much as i am, it’s lovely isn’t it people?

i feel like everyone eventually gives up on baz and he’s so used to it, but then having the person you love giving up on you too is just- no, and simon knows it cause he has been there so i think that’s also part of why he re evaluates the situation and decided to fight for him.

i like how baz didn’t forgive simon just cause he showed up at his door and how for the first time, he forced simon to express himself and tell him what he wanted while he also told simon about his own feelings and the things that hurt him.

baz being embarrassed for having rat blood is funny, but then simon cleans his lip and licks the blood from his fingers like- them.

i like how baz comforts simon but also lets him know what he’s doing wrong or what is hurting him, an open communication king.

the whole butter thing was absolutely lovely they are so cute i can’t. 💞💞💞

fiona is always teasing baz about everything it’s so fucking funny i love her.

them joking around and being the lovely happy couple they deserve to be warms my heart.

simon cuddling baz either with his arms, wings, both makes me so happy, cause i feel like even in his sleep he’s kind of protecting him bye.

simon having a thing for the way baz smells can be seen since the first book but this time he went absolutely feral about it and i love it.

it worries me a little bit the way simon bites baz like he bites him so hard pls but also it’s so pure and i cant with this two, they’re gonna be the end of me i swear to god.

"id drain you fucking dry baz, and it still wouldnt be enough” good thing baz is in bed cause if he wasn’t i am pretty sure his legs would had gone so week he would have fell, thank you.

we got lots of them being horny asf but everything felt so intimate and real and honest even then i was crying, i love this book.

as much as the violent thoughts but i love you thoughts are from baz, simon is currently going through it in page one hundred twenty three lol.

simon telling baz how he never really tried exposing him for being a vampire and baz asking him “have you ever made an effort in me?” sent me i am so so sorry.

page one hundred twenty five and we can already see how simon has a blood kink, amazing.

simon really suggested telling penny to find a way to get baz to drink his blood without turning him or drinking too much pls.

i just know baz let simon look at him while he was drinking the rats blood cause simon accidentally slipped in his ranting that he felt like being “bigger” so he could hold his feelings for baz… istg if baz isn’t marrying him soon, i will.

“fuck you snow” “someday perhaps, ive been told there’s hope” simon please. 😭😭😭

yes simon laughs, but when he’s with baz he tends to giggle, that’s so cute goodbye.

i love how them hunting rats ended up being a date, god bless snowbaz happiness.

simon dislikes the thought of baz going to war.

simon wanting to kiss baz full of rat blood is the most romantic thing i have ever seen and call me crazy but it’s absolutely lovely thank you.

agatha and niamh are the duo, disrespect them and i will jump at your throat in not a good way.

the way agatha rants about niamh tights it’s kind of funny, like she’s really into it and when she talked about boys she was like “that’s hot right?” like if she was waiting for someone to tell her it was so she could proceed please.

couples who take care of goats together, stay together me thinks.

agatha is way more powerful than she thinks she is, she literally invented a spell for goats in less than five seconds and it worked like cmon.

penny’s second name is leigh, fits her perfectly if you ask me.

penny is incredibly alike to her mother i don’t know how doesn’t she see it like i guess she will have to wait a few years to realize but her mother it’s definitely who she is about to become.

baz cousin, dev is into agatha and likes to rant about her idk why that’s funny but it is.

also i imagine simon face when he heard baz saying “took a break from sucking cock” and i just start laughing, please someone draw it out.

baz ranting about his family story and simon being actually fully interested on it makes my heart soft cause baz thought he wouldn’t care about it, stopping himself from continuing.

simon finding out baz is italian is one of my favorite things from this book, that’s it.

okay this way too long, continuing this in part two lmaooo.

#any way the wind blows #baz pitch #simon snow #snowbaz #agatha wellbelove #niahm #penny bunce #shepard love #carry on

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nightimedreamersworld · 3 years ago

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Fic update

How I wonder what you are - Chapter 3

Chapter word count: 3,6 k

Fic summary:

The Magical Stork delivers babies to couples who fervently and genuinely wish to have a child together. One day the Stork drops off a basket on Simon’s doorstep; inside he finds a baby and a nameplate that reads “Simon Snow/Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch.” The only problem is that Simon broke up with Baz over a year ago after they came back from America.

Chapter snippet:

Simon

Falling into a routine is easy enough.

Sometimes, I can almost forget that Baz and I don’t mean anything to each other anymore. Well, I’m pretty sure I don’t mean anything to him, at least.

But to me—well; he’s still Baz, isn’t he? Still the first thing I think about in the morning.

(Alright, he’s the second thing, now. The first thing is usually “Dear Merlin, why is the baby crying?”)

Things go smoothly, most days. Penny helps me take care of Rosebud—that’s what I call her. It’s not really a name, because Baz and I haven’t chosen one yet (we’ve barely talked since the day he met her), but it’s cute, I think. And it’s better than to keep calling her “the baby.” Makes me feel less like a shit father, and it makes her smile, too.

It’s stressful. Usually, when she doesn’t keep us both awake crying, I can’t sleep anyway, unable to turn off my thoughts. There are so many things I don’t know about how to take care of a baby. Penny knows a lot—she has a lot of siblings—but I’ve never had to deal with Normal babies, let alone a magickal one.

She doesn’t do magic herself, exactly. But sometimes, when she starts crying without apparent reason, Penny casts soothing spells, or distracts her with just the feeling of magic. Apparently, it helps the babies feel calmer.

Anyway, it’s good to see Baz. Even if sometimes, the way he looks at me (or rather, the way he doesn’t) stings a bit. And he helps so much.

Baz knows a lot about babies, too. He has four younger siblings, after all. Rosebud sleeps over at his flat some days, and he always calls me or sends me a picture of her in the crib as good night.

I love to see her sleeping. She does that a lot—like, a lot. And she just looks so serene. So safe. I want her to always feel this way. I’ll do anything I can to make sure she does.

Read on AO3.

#simon snow series #carry on rainbow rowell #simon snow #carry on series #baz pitch #snowbaz fanfiction #snowbaz

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wiltcdroses · 3 months ago

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It had become a habit of his. Frequenting establishments that reeked of sex, of lust, of blood. It was easy to find release, to pick up a pretty boy and take them to the back of the club. Hold them by the throat as he fucked them into the brick wall, leaving them with a trail of bite marks at the base of their throat, and scratch marks tearing up their back.

Basilton Huang was never gentle. He'd always been taught otherwise, and that tiny part of him - the softer side, had been extinguished the day his baby sibling died in his arms. After Freddie had died, so did a part of Baz. It had been easier to shut everything out. To lock down any hint of feelings.

Fuck, feed, repeat. He didn't need to know their names, didn't want to. Knowing led to caring, and that was a mistake Baz would never make again.

He was thankful for the dark shirt he wore, easily hiding the blood that stained his shirt collar. Another kill. Another man who had dared to lay his hands on another. He could still taste the kill on his lips, feel the blood staining his finger tips despite no longer being visible.

They deserved it. He would tell himself. He may be a monster, but he was not his father. He would not raise a hand to anyone that did not deserve it.

Craving a release, he'd found himself leaning against the corner of the wall -- looking for tonight's warm body. For the boy that would occupy his time for the night, and that he'd never see again. No one had caught his attention, until he laid eyes on him.

The skirt he wore left little to his imagination, dark hazel eyes darting around the place with vague interest. His pale skin inviting, begging to be marked, to be kissed, to be BITTEN.

Baz would not approach him. He never had to. They always came to him, and sure enough, the boy approached, tongue darting across his lips as he spoke. Baz wanted to pull the other's tongue into his mouth with his teeth.

"Well that depends," He drawled, his lips curving into a smirk. "Beds are far too... boring. Have you got anything better to offer?"

There was something about the stranger that Baz found addictive. Was it the way he held himself? The way he spoke? The way he looked like he wanted to drown in Baz? For Baz to hold him by the throat as he fucked him raw, to taste, to taste every inch of him?

He was sure he'd drown in him, and he was more than willing to step into the water.

closed starter ;

@wiltcdroses / lucien & basilton

━━━━ DOES THE DEVIL KNOW WHO HE IS? at what point during the fall did he lose his glow? does his rage ever get stuck in his throat? is it possible for him to recognize that the anger burning through his body is a size too big — that it will wear him down until he’s on his knees? the trail of bite marks and blood — does it still hit his core the way it used to? are his hands, scraped raw, permanently stained? is it real? the blood. is it real?

a wave of blue and red washes over the room, beads of sweat dripping from temples plastered with tufts of blonde hair. years ago, lucien greenwood never would have expected to end up in a place like this. if he had known then what he knows now, what would engulf him and change his very chemistry, he would have drank in everything he was about to lose. the lights, the burn of alcohol, the wandering hands, and vibrations coursing through his veins brought him a sense of comfort. places like this became home. he’d drink and dance until an insatiable hunger gnawed at his insides. until a pretty boy caught his eye. teeth and tongue, sharp and wet, would clash. he’d fuck them raw and drain them dry. it was the only thing that brought him some sense of completion — of purpose.

massacres haunted his dreams. knives pointed and blood sweet. he thought of cities crumbling into ash. smoke filling his lungs. when was the time he was allowed anything good? the night blood poured from his father’s mouth? or years before?

pairs of eyes followed his every movement all night, threatening to scorch right through him. only, one pair burned the brightest. giving into their call, lucien’s gaze follows the feeling to a man draped in black and immediately he knows he would not feed tonight. the stranger, tall and brooding, looks only at him through the crowd — eyes heavy with a mixture of desire, curiosity, and everything in between.

it wasn’t long before lucien found himself standing before him. he envisioned red staining their lips, teeth, and tongue. he imagined flesh beneath their fingernails. together, they could bring about RUIN.

“are you content with daydreaming about the things you’d like to do to me? or may i offer you the warmth of my bed for a night?”

he tips like a cup, offers his mouth like a sacrifice. he was the king of all his forgotten sins.

if there is a god, does he look down at his fallen and laugh? does he relish in the fact that the blood on his hands trickles down onto earth like holy water? when christ was fastened to his crucifix, did he praise the brainwashed creature for so blindly giving? christ, the shepherd, led like a lamb to the SLAUGHTER. did he bathe in its irony?

#cherricdwines #thread; basilton huang.#thread; baz & luc.#blood tw #death mention tw

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justasmallbloginabigklainefandom · 3 years ago

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As mentioned in the Carry On Discord, I found a Dutch copy of Carry On at the library. I’ve never read any of Rainbow’s books in Dutch, but after talking about translations with @martsonmars, I decided to pick it up.

I haven’t read it yet, but I plan to and I think it’d be pretty funny to “liveblog” my reaction here (also I don’t want to clog up the channels in the Discord). So I made a tag called “dutch simon snow” tag where I will post everything.

I’ve already had some sneak peeks and unexpectedly, some names are translated. (I say unexpectedly, since the cover clearly states that Simon is still called Simon Snow, so I foolishly believed that everyone’s names would stay the same.) (Why no Simon Sneeuw?).

Numpties = stompties

Agatha Wellbelove = Agatha Goedelief

Penny Bunce = Penny Bons

The Humdrum = De Sleur

and the big finale

Basilton Grimm-Pitch = Basilton Grimm-Spits

Oh, here we go. I probably won’t read it in one go, but we’ll see.

#lb 2021 #dutch simon snow #lb reading

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wolfywordweaver · 3 years ago

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Absolute Boyfriend chapter 2

This story has been completely written in a fevered state and has not been really edited for readability. I hope it's not too bad. Also, the plot idea is loosely based on the plot of the shojo manga Absolute Boyfriend (thus the title).

Enjoy.

Chapter 1

*****

It was the middle of the meeting when Baz accidentally pulled the business card out onto his desk along with the notepad he was looking for. Glancing at the screen, it was obvious that no one was paying the slightest bit of attention to him, so he took a moment to examine it.

Green and purple decorated the thick cardstock on one side along with a weird goat logo. Flipping the card over, he was shocked to see a QR code instead of a name. Was that guy one of those hipster people who kept their information online only? Was that even something a hipster did?

Another glance at the screen revealed one of the younger associates actually sleeping to no negative repercussion. Making sure that his computer was muted, Baz pulled up a code scanner on his phone and it immdediately pulled up an unfamiliar app for download.

“Watford Robotics?” Baz mused to himself.

The app was still in beta and by invitation only, but it only had 5 star reviews. And apparently the app was “everything you could dream” and “perfect”. It was probably some kind of stress relieving app, Baz gathered after skimming through a few more reviews. “Never felt better” and “unbelievably real” were pretty common sentiments.

Still not entirely clear on what a robotics company would have to do with stress relief, Baz decided with a sigh to download the app. What was the worst that could happen? If he didn’t like it, he’d just delete the damn thing and move on with his life. If he did like it, then maybe being less stressed out would help him find the perfect boyfriend for this event.

Those articles he read liked to mention “Just Relax!” a lot as a tip for picking up other guys. Relaxing was not something Basilton did on principle.

He hummed in surprise as it downloaded fairly quickly. There didn’t seem to be a lot to it at all and he wondered again how it could be helpful. Clicking it open, he was once more greeted with that ridiculous logo before it switched over to a soft looking avatar.

“Hello, my name is Lucy!” she greeted, the blond curls around her head bouncing. “I’ll walk you through this. If you have any questions, please click the ‘?’ icon on the right.”

He nodded and clicked through.

She walked across the screen and took a seat at an ornate desk before she began simulating the act of taking notes.

“Let’s walk through your type.”

“My type?” Baz chuckled before he glanced back up at the meeting screen. It looked like one of the senior associates was going to be the next one to nod off. “Interesting way to relax someone.”

The Lucy avatar asked simple questions about his liked aesthetics, she pulled up different colors for him to choose his favorite shades, she even played different kinds of music, and it wasn’t long before Baz found himself enjoying the bizarre little exercise. Lucy was kind and helpful, always interested in making sure that he was able to pick exactly what he liked and didn’t. She even asked him his sexuality without the slightest hint of judgment and Basilton felt the tears welling in his eyes.

“Please select your sexuality: A) heterosexual B) gay C) lesbian D) asexual (or demisexual) E) bisexual F) pansexual G) queer H) other I) undecided.”

She applauded him happily with the selection of “gay” and rainbow confetti rained down. Baz choked back a laugh and wiped at his eyes. How ridiculous to be so touched by the acceptance from a piece of computer code.

His own parents had been mildly confused by his coming out, and then it hadn’t much been addressed since then due to his inability to catch a guy. Dev and Niall were supportive, but they too didn’t really get it. And it wasn’t like the largely homogenous group of alpha-type males in the law firm he worked at could be expected to provide for their young associate.

“Do you mind if I do a quick scan of your social media accounts?” Lucy asked politely and Baz accepted without much thought. She happily clicked away on her digital laptop before turning her attention back to him once more. “Thank you!”

With that, she stacked up a large pile of papers and walked them over to an odd little computer device. Dumping all the papers in, the little machine whirred and beeped before finally spitting out a little card for Lucy to examine. She pulled it out and clapped excitedly at Baz.

“Congratulations! We have found a perfect match!”

“Match for what?” Baz wondered as he leaned closer to his phone screen.

“Your total comes to $800,970.61!” she announced next and Baz gasped audibly, feeling like his spirit had leapt clean out of his body. “But thanks to the special code you used, your new total is $0.00! Congratulations!”

Baz’s head was spinning as he leaned back in his ergonomic rolling chair, feeling the heat flushing on his face as he tried to figure out what the hell kind of stress-relieving product cost enough to scare the crap out of any normal human being. Hell, Basilton came from old money and even that price tag nearly made him shit his pants.

He glanced back down at the screen on his phone and saw Lucy providing another screen for his information.

“Place your name and address here and we’ll deliver your package as soon as possible!”

Frowning, Baz considered just shutting the app down and forgetting the whole thing, but shrugged. What the hell.

#Wolfy writes #SnowBaz #Simon Snow #Baz Grimm-Pitch #Absolute Boyfriend AU

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tyrannuspitch · 3 years ago

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tagged by @kidrat (ty!!)

Why did you choose your url? in honour of richard campbell gansey iii, ya fantasy autistic icon of prophesied doom (i have a brand and i'm sticking to it)

Any sideblogs? If you have anyway, name them and say why you have them. technically yes but i haven't used it in at least year. it's basically a pinterest for story ideas but i've abandoned most of them

How long have you been on tumblr? since 2013, but this blog is from late 2015

Do you have a queue tag? i have never queued a post and i never will

Why did you start your blog in the first place? i migrated here from the nanowrimo young writer's programme forums... i haven't done nanowrimo since i was 12 but it was my first exposure to a queer community so uh. thanks for that i guess

Why did you choose your icon/pfp? in honour of tyrannus basilton pitch iii, ya fantasy autistic icon of prophesied doom. (what can i say.) it's by @aellae if they're still on tumblr?

Why did you choose your header? it's the same fanart zoomed out, which gives you the full context and effect. smthn about this painting particularly rlly captures the combination of nostalgia/whimsy with genuine threat/angst/melancholia that this story thrives on

What's your post with the most notes? i wrote a pretty basic mental health psa thing in like 2016 that somehow got like. 60k notes. i've deleted it now and it was a weight of my chest

How many followers do you have? like 65. rip to everyone i soft- and hardblocked to keep it that way but this is an invitation only event

How many people do you follow? about 80. a lot of them only post once or twice a day so it's manageable. (edit: i was wrong it's 44. idk why i just said this without checking)

Have you have made a shitpost? yes, and like many geniuses, i have gone unappreciated in my time :'(

How often do you use Tumblr daily? too often

Have you ever had a fight/argument with a blog? yeah but i hated it. i used to get into fights on nanowrimo (i know) all the time and then after that i was involved in ace discourseTM but i just can't do it anymore.

How do you feel about people saying “you need to reblog this post?” i have unfollowed and probably even hardblocked ppl for it in the past

Do you like tag games? yes i love to ramble aimlessly. love to be enabled

Do you like ask games? ask games feel a little more risky bc with tag games someone tags *you* and it's a fun surprise, but with ask games you're *asking* ppl to engage. but mostly yes

Which of your mutuals do you think is tumblr famous? uhhh. no one afaik

Do you have a crush on a mutual? no i don't think i've ever had a crush on someone i haven't met irl and idek what half of you guys even look like sorry

tagging @sol1loqu1st @solderlessbreadbird @aro-caduceus (no pressure ofc)

#i feel like i would normally have more to say / more interesting things to say but it's 3am and i felt like doing this so here you go #¯\_(ツ)_/¯

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wylanvnneck · 4 years ago

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Rating: T for Tyrannosaurus

Summary: Snowbaz but make it in the Shadowhunter universe. Baz is the head of the Watford vampire clan and Simon is a Nephilim with an assignment to attend to. Short one shot.

On AO3 | Masterlist | Next Chapter

Written for the Carry on Countdown 2020 hosted by @carryon-countdown, for the Day 10 (Dec. 4th) prompt; 'Crossover’

--------------------------------------------------------------

“Look, I don’t give a damn over what the Accords say, I see no reason as to why I should care about what you Nephilim think.” His eyes are pitch black and depthless as he leers, a fanged tooth peeking out from between his blood red lips. His skin is pale, like candle wax and the light of the full moon that’s just starting to shine through the window behind him seems to almost travel through his very being. A vampire, through and through.

Simon was starting to lose his patience with this creature of the night dressed in his impeccable floral print suit, scowling at him.

“And I, don’t really care about what you have to say. I understand that it’s the full moon and a time of revelry for your people, sir, but as you know, for the safety of the Mundanes of Watford I’m afraid I will have to be present at this function of yours to make sure that things...stay in check.” he finally pauses to take a breath and meets his adversary’s glare with one of his own. “Believe me when I say that I’m not particularly looking forward to it either.”

The vampire tilts his head to the side and gazes at him with a look of speculation and Simon tries hard not to flush at being studied so intently. He manages to keep his poker face on though, unrelenting and unwilling to give up.

Finally, after what seems like hours the vampire grins. It’s a slow grin, an empty one. One which spoke of hostility not mirth. It sets Simon on edge.

“Alright Shadow boy, I surrender. I suppose we’ll just have to put up with your oh-so-angelic presence at tonight’s party.”

Before Simon can inwardly heave a sigh of relief at this pronouncement despite the included insult, the dark haired man’s face suddenly appears two inches away from his own. Coal eyes framed by dark lashes are all he can see. He had moved swiftly, so swiftly that even Simon’s honed Shadowhunter skills did not pick up on the movement. The thought rankles him.

He grins that grin again. His long hair is brushing against his jaw and his scent is tangy and slightly metallic, with an overlying hint of a perfume that smells like expense.

“But don’t blame me if our revel isn’t quite what you’re used to.”

Those eyes are surprisingly captivating. He’d been wrong, they were not depthless, in fact they seemed to go on for miles and miles, a window into some unknown realm.

In the name of Raziel, was he really ruminating over a hostile vampire’s eyes when he was being not so subtly threatened by said vampire?

“Don’t worry sir. I’m pretty sure I can handle whatever you’ve got.” He injects as much thinly veiled scorn into that statement as he possibly can.

This time when the vampire’s smile widens there actually seems to be a hint of humour behind it. Before Simon can see more of it though, he pulls back, seating himself back again behind his dark mahogany desk as if he’d never left.

“I wonder if you can.”

“Yes, well, we shall see. Until midnight then.” Gathering what remained of his dignity Simon begins to make his exit from the Head vampire’s study

“Oh and, Shadow Boy?”

He’s tempted to keep walking in pretend ignorance, to show his annoyance at that moniker, but he manages to resist.

The moonlight is starting to grow stronger as it shines through the metal barred window, glowing behind the vampire in an effect that is both intriguing and terrifying. Much like this man himself.

He clears his throat, “Yes?”

“When you arrive, don’t forget to mention my name at the gate, else you might be mistaken for a mundane sacrificial lamb.”

Simon raises a copper brow. “Very well, Mr. Basilton Pitch.” It’s the first time he’s referred to him by his name, even in his errant thoughts. The idea of this person having a name made him seem so much more real and, for whatever reason, that scared Simon.

The fangs make a reappearance as his lips curve upwards. “Until tonight, then.”

* * *

The room is lit by a generous array of lit candles in their elaborate metal sconces that line the stone wall. Crystal chandeliers draped with red banners hand from the ceiling, the candle lights reflecting off of the shiny material.

The atmosphere is loud and so is the music being played on a piano by some unseen pianist and it's just like being in an upscale and elegant mundane soiree, except for the fact that the inhabitants of this room were all vampires.

Vampires eyeing him with looks of volatile hatred that make the hairs on the back of his neck stand up straight. His Shadowhunter instincts are on full alert in this room full of predators and his body is tense.

He chooses a position by the wall, next to a hanging tapestry of a...mundane group of singers? Simon wasn’t too well versed in mundane culture, having been raised as a Shadowhunter by an institute head after his parent’s tragic deaths when he was just a baby, but he was pretty sure that the tapestry was an elaborate depiction of a famous band called, King? Or was it Queen? Yes, Queen, it must have been that.

His brain is about to explode at the strangeness of this whole scenario. He’s regretting ever having said yes to taking on this assignment, especially whilst his Parabatai was off visiting her family, so he was completely alone. But no, he was Nephilim and his job was to keep the peace and that was what he would do.

He stands up straighter and is just considering moving inconspicuously towards the food table where mouth watering dishes appear to have been laid out along with glasses of animal blood, for the vampires who were old and experienced enough to enjoy mortal food, when from the corner of his eyes he clocks the sight of someone walking towards him.

Immediately he whirls around in a defensive stance, prepared to engage in battle with a violent blood sucker and instead he is met with the sight of an amused Basilton Pitch in an even more elaborate and floral suit than the last one. It seemed ridiculous that he could pull it off but he definitely did.

“Well, I see you Shadowhunters like to relax when at a party.”

“We’re Shadowhunters. The word ‘relax’ is not in our vocabulary.”

Pitch snorts. “I bet it’s more that the word ‘relax’ is not present within the sacred laws of the Clave.”

His voice is tinged with sarcasm and Simon is immediately on the offense.

“At least we’re civilised enough to have laws, rather than running free and rampant, harming innocent Mundanes.”

“You Nephilim, always thinking that you are somehow above us. Better than us. That it’s alright to generalise the Downworlders. Look around you, these people, they’re intellectuals, they've had years to gain knowledge and culture, more civilised than some of your own.”

“And yet, they could not be trusted to conduct themselves at a party.”

“Only because the Clave refuses to trust in us. There’s only so much time before you start becoming someone that others think of you as.”

Simon tries to think of a sharp and cutting response, but he finds his brain mulling over the Vampire’s intense words. Basilton’s eyes seem to almost be imploring him, asking him for understanding.

It was true, despite all the things whispered about the vampires, in all his years as a Shadowhunter he’d never actually come across a case of vampire’s slaughtering innocents mercilessly excepting perhaps a rogue vampire or two, newly turned and unused to their strange instincts.

There’s an uncertain pause before Pitch seems to reel himself back in, back into the polished facade of the vampire who didn’t give a damn about what people thought.

With a distinct change of tone and subject he says “Have a drink; what’s your poison?”

Simon gives him a sceptical look. A look meant to indicate his thoughts, no I will not have a drink...why? Because I am on duty. Also because I strongly suspect that the special on the drinks menu for tonight is Blood and I tend to only drink that on the First of November at precisely 11.24 pm, so thank you but no thank you Mr. Vampire.

Mr. Vampire lets out a low chuckle, almost as if he could hear Simon’s thoughts. “Bad choice of words, perhaps?”

“Perhaps.”

“Very well then. Enjoy the revel.” He grabs a cocktail glass filled with deep crimson blood from a passing waiter’s tray as he leaves to go and mingle with his guests, before turning back and adding. “Oh and Simon?”

Before Simon has time to wonder just how he knew his name he continues. “Call me Baz from now on. I have a feeling I’ll be seeing you around.”

------------------------------------------

Hey, so on the off chance that you’ve made it up to here and you think you might be interested in reading more about this Crossover universe with Snowbaz, let me know and I might actually make it a multi-chap. 👀

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mildkatfics · 4 years ago

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small talk rating: m word count: 6316 summary: Simon and Baz come to the family estate for Christmas, for the first time as an official couple. read on ao3

I did it with an email. Not even with my personal account. My fucking LSE address: [email protected].

Dear All,

Hope you’re well. I’m sending this message this way because it would be too crude to do it on my mobile, and I didn’t want to wait to be back at Hampshire to tell you. I hope you don’t mind.

I’m gay. Simon Snow and I have been in a romantic relationship this whole time, and we are happy.

I suspect none of you are surprised, but it was getting ridiculous to pretend like none of us knew the situation. I am, however, happy to carry on as always. I just figured it’s time for us to get through this bit.

Regards,

Basil

Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch

MA Candidate, Teaching Assistant

Department of Political Science | London School of Economics

“Merlin, don’t use your email signature.” Snow peers next to me on the sofa. “Using this account is bad enough.”

“I kind of like it,” I admit. “It reminds them to be proud of me.”

“Remove it. And shut up, they’re proud of you.” He rests his chin on my shoulder. I can smell the coffee on him, though he’s showered after work. I wonder if he’ll ever stop smelling of Starbucks. He glares up at me through his eyelashes. “Say it.”

I narrow my eyes. “No.”

“Baz. Say it.” He rolls his eyes and shoves his body against mine, slightly toppling me over. He hasn’t gotten any gentler over the years. I love it. “Say that your family is proud of you.”

I sigh, but give in. “My family is proud of me.”

“So is your boyfriend.”

I indulge in a sneer, and he throws it right back at me. I say it. “So is my boyfriend.”

He grins, and sits back up. “Right. Now remove the email signature and send it. And remove my last name. You’re talking to your family, not applying for a mortgage.”

I snort. “I’m pretty sure my father doesn’t know what a mortgage is.”

“Here,” Snow takes my laptop from me and removes the signature and his last name from the email. I watch his brow furrow and his lips move slightly as he focuses on re-reading the text. He starts to tug on his hair, and I almost laugh. I didn’t bother spending too much time on the message, but here he is, reading and re-reading every word because he cares. I press my lips against his cheek. I let myself linger, inhaling his scent. Dark Roast. Probably the Christmas Blend. “Don’t give yourself a hemorrhage,” I murmur.

He ignores me for a while before speaking again. “I’m gonna hit send, yeah?”

I don’t take my eyes off him, not even bothering to read it over. “Yeah.”

I watch his finger hesitate for a second on the trackpad, then clicks it. He blinks and takes a deep breath, and I laugh. “Are you going to be alright?” I joke.

His eyes slide over to me. “You just came out to your family. I can’t tell if I’m overreacting, or if you’re...underreacting.” He cards his fingers through my hair. “I also can’t tell if you’re hiding your feelings from me, or if you’re a complete fucking sociopath.”

I laugh again, and I consider his question seriously. “I’m happy,” I think out loud. I make sure to look in his eyes when I finish my sentence. “But that’s par for the course nowadays, isn’t it?”

Snow tries to trap his grin into a smirk. “Sap.” He leans in and brushes his lips against mine. I lean hard and deepen the kiss, and I feel him grin for real and bite my bottom lip. I give an indignant grunt, but don’t bother pretending how much that gets me on. He pushes back until he braces himself against the arm of the sofa, trapping me. I grip his shirt in my fist, only because I would never let him do that to me. And I do it to him, because I get off on that kind of thing. And so does he.

My laptop pings from the coffee table, and Snow breaks away. “What are you doing?” I hiss, and capture his mouth back in mine.

“That’s probably your family.” He crawls back and opens my laptop.

I slump back, keeping my eyes closed. “Is it my father?”

I can feel him roll his eyes at me. “Baz. You read it.” I feel the sleek metal on my chest. I sigh, and I open it.

Dear Basil,

Thank you for your email, and for your candor. We look forward to seeing you both this Christmas. We’ve actually just invited loads of your aunts and uncles for this year. Wonderful timing, isn’t it? All my love to you and Simon.

Also, please remember to bring my mixing bowl.

Sincerely,

Daphne

Snow is peering over my shoulder. “I’ve always liked Daphne.”

I have, too.

—

“I’m not asking you to memorize a family tree here, love.” I’m leaning against the condiment stand, now plastered with plastic snowflakes, a few feet from where Snow is working. The fairy lights around the place sparkle against his skin, complimenting his freckles. I watch the way his arms flex as he pulls chairs back, handles cups and saucers, and carries our conversation with a kind of effortless rhythm that I find really hot. “And you’ve done this before. You’ve spent, what, four other Christmasses with my family?”

“Oh, don’t even try pretending this is the same. This is the first Christmas since your email, not to mention all these people.” He replies without looking at me. He looks up and smiles towards the door when a patron enters, and turns his head back to an empty table. “You have, like, five uncles with loads of kids a piece, who all speak Latin—”

“They speak English too.”

“Not the French ones.”

I purse my lips. “So you have been listening. Don’t worry about them. They stick amongst themselves, anyway.”

“I’ll be right with you, mate.” Simon calls out to the guy. He throws his cloth onto his shoulder and starts walking backwards towards the bar. He redirects his attention to me. “Busy now, I need you to go away. We’ll talk about this at home.”

I give him a pout. I’m six foot two, wearing a Tom Ford coat, and pouting at my boyfriend at a Starbucks. I’m shameless.

His eyes, still locked on mine, sparkle for a second before he turns all his attention on his customer. “Sorry about that. What can I get started for you?”

I let the smile stay on my face even as I exit the shop and head to class.

—

I lay my suitcase and my folded clothes on the bed. I almost ruined a white cashmere on my last trip by putting my toiletries on the same side, so I place it at the very top this time. Then I decide it’s actually better to put it at the bottom of the stack, to keep it safe. So I pull everything out to rearrange. I place my socks in between the empty spaces. “You should focus on your own packing instead of watching me do mine.” I turn to raise an eyebrow at Snow, watching me from the door.

Snow mirrors the gesture, opens his dresser, and dumps a bunch of clothes into a black backpack that he picked up from the floor. “Done.”

I wrinkle my nose. “Will you please let me pack for you next time?”

Amusement lights up his face. “I think I should pack for you.” He sits on our bed, looks at my full suitcase, and looks up at me. “It’s two days, darling. Or is this one of your anxiety-packings?”

“Aren’t you the one nervous to meet my family?”

He groans and flops down on his back. “I’m trying not to panic, but the closer we get, the more I think about it.” He lifts his head to look at me. “Please tell me I’m not the only one. There has to be another cousin’s weird boyfriend or someone who flunked out of uni or whatever your family gossips about.”

I consider it. “Elvira voted Labour in the last election and told everyone.”

“Rookie mistake.”

“I know. Don’t even utter anything remotely political in that house.”

“Great. So don’t mention your school, career, or passions, and we should be good to go.” He sighs before muttering, so low that I can barely hear it, “Bloody hell.”

A beat of silence passes, and I can hear his brain spinning into overdrive. “Snow,” I start.

“They’re gonna eat me alive.”

“They won’t.”

“They will.”

“They won’t.” I look him in the eyes when I say it. “Do you trust me?”

He snorts and rolls his eyes at my low blow. He looks at me for a moment, hesitates, then nods.

“Good,” I say. “Just stay close to me and look pretty.”

He shoves me, hard, and laughs.

—

The drive up to the country is still one of my favourites. Fiona would usually drive me each year in December for the holidays, and I loved watching London slowly disappear. The buildings and adverts fade away. The last minute Christmas Eve shoppers nowhere in sight. The snow on the roads thicker, whiter. Trees replacing lamp posts. The thrill is multiplied now that I’m behind the wheel, with Snow on the passenger seat, his fingers massaging my nape and pulling slightly on my hair. The road is deserted, and I accelerate. The engine purrs with the effort underneath us, and I can’t help but grin. I feel electric.

Snow looks at me. “Are you smiling because you’re endangering my life?”

I raise my eyebrow at him. I can make this drive with my eyes closed. I go faster, and his eyes light up. His finger travels up my nape, and starts scratching my scalp. Gooseflesh erupts across my arms. “You keep this up, and this car will spin off the path.”

“Anything to delay getting there, right?”

My eyes slide towards him. Just as I try to gauge how serious he’s being, he retracts his hand to run it down his face.

“Simon,” I start to say.

“No, s’alright. S’alright, I promise. I think I just need to get through the first bit, then I’ll get in the zone.” I can hear his heartbeat pick up. I slow the car to a halt.

He keeps his eyes closed when he mutters, “I may seem like I’m mental, but I’m fine. I’m great.”

“I’m sure.” I keep my hands on the wheel when I turn to him. “We don’t have to do this, you know.”

“‘Course we do.”

“I’ll turn the car around right now if you’d like. I’m serious.”

“And I’m serious when I say I can do this. I can. Besides,” he drops his hands and looks at me. “I want the roast beef.”

I laugh, but my face settles into a frown. “Are you sure?”

His lip quirks upward. “Start the car, Baz.” As we accelerate, he adds, “Though if Daphne decides to suddenly go vegetarian or something, I swear to Merlin and Morgana we are leaving.”

I smile, and I let my right hand drop down to loosely lock with his left. The rest of the drive is as beautiful as I remember it.

—

When we pull in and step out, there are already cars lined along the path. Snow stretches his arms above his head, his green jumper riding slightly above his waist. I pop open the boot and grab my suitcase, but Snow touches my wrist. “Let me,” he says. I stare at him as he swings his backpack over his shoulder, take my suitcase and the paper bag in his right hand, and shuts the boot with his left.

He takes my hand and starts walking. I roll my eyes. “Are you doing this to impress my father?”

“I’m trying to impress my boyfriend.”

He’s a git, and I love him. “At least let me carry the bloody mixing bowl,” I say, grabbing the bag. I think about how inappropriate it would be to snog him ten feet from my family home. We never did when we’d come for the holidays, but would we start, now that everyone knows we’re a couple? I spot a lamborghini parked near ours, and the possibility dissolves. Fat chance Snow would feel at ease enough to do anything like that.

We approach the door, and I feel the heat and energy radiating off of him. His feet shuffle in place, and he rubs the back of his head. My finger hesitates before ringing the bell. I should say something. Some final words of affirmation, to make sure he’s feeling better—

My eyes widen when Simon shoves me into the wall, and they flutter shut when he kisses me. Deeply. He looks sheepish when he breaks away, stil inches away from my face. “Sorry. Don’t know when I’ll get to do this again.”

I kiss him another time before letting him go. “Idiot.” I let my smile stretch wide across my face as I ring the doorbell.

—

The parlour is already half-full of people, but the staircase is blessedly tucked away when we enter the house. I can see a few of my relatives from where we stand. Most I recognize, and others I don’t. Cousins whose faces ring a bell but have changed since they’ve grown. New wives and husbands. Little toddlers using their magic like firecrackers, sending sparkles and clouds of smoke in the air as they chase each other up and down the stairs.

Daphne shoos them away as she leads us to my room—our room. “How was the drive, darling?”

“Lovely, thank you. The snow’s being kind to us this year, isn’t it?” I can already feel my tongue change inside my mouth. My years with Simon has morphed my vocabulary and made my words looser. More relaxed. Simon’s chuffed, of course; my slurring speech and clipped words are entirely his fault. Here at home, though, it’s like my whole body automatically straightens.

“Oh, yes.” Daphne replies. She swiftly spells the stray toys and wrinkled carpets tidy. The mixing bowl has long floated to the kitchen. “Nothing can be as ghastly as last year. Your Uncle Edgar’s tires had a tough time, remember? He’s got a new car now.”

Ah, yes. The lamborghini.

“Have you got new flowers, Daphne?” Snow asks. This catches me by surprise.

That makes her smile. “Yes, actually. I thought orchids might brighten the place up for the children. You’ll see the poinsettias in the kitchen.” She clasps her hands when we reach our room. “Right. I’ll let you two get settled. Don’t wait too long to come down, everyone’s excited to meet you.” She squeezes Simon’s hand and walks back to the party.

Simon opens the door, drops the bags, and walks back out. “Right, let’s do this.” I look at him. I was planning on showering, at the very least changing clothes. He speaks again before I can ask. “If I go in there, I’m not gonna want to come back out. Let’s get on with it, yeah?”

I hesitate, then I nod. I rub his back while we go down the stairs, as the party sounds get louder. Well, calling it ‘party sounds’ would be misleading. It’s murmurs, conversation, and the occasional clinking of dishware.

Snow grips my elbow before we step into the parlour. “Stay close to me,” he whispers.

There was a time when I wouldn’t say my reply out loud. That was a long time ago. “Always.” I say, firmly.

—

It’s fine. It’s only been two hours, but it’s been fine.

Snow and I entered the parlour, and I don’t know what dark curse is after us, but my cousin Emille approaches us first. Of the French Pitches.

“Basil! Bonsoir, comment ça va?" She had smiled warmly. We always got on well during these events.

“Bien, bien. Et tu?”

We kept up this back and forth for a few minutes, and it became clear that she had no intention of speaking to Simon. “Sorry, I don’t believe you’ve met Simon. My partner,” I say in English. I place my hand at the small of his back and smile at him.

He smiles at her and holds out his hand, right when she goes in for a kiss on the cheek.

The conversation didn't last very long.

As I was steering us away from Emille, I caught my father’s eye from across the room. His smile almost reached his eyes when he called us over. Almost.

“Basil,” He said, gripping my shoulder. “Welcome home.” I nod, and he turned to Simon. “All right, Simon?”

Simon holds out his hand. “Good evening, sir.” He smiles, but I can see his jaw pulled taut. I can feel his pulse picking up. He’s called my father that every year.

I waited for him to correct Simon, to call him literally anything else, but he shook Simon’s hand and replied, “Did the snow give you any trouble on the drive?”

“Not at all. Made it in record time,” Simon replied, while I grit my teeth in annoyance.

“Very good. Your aunts and uncles are thrilled to see you...”

Thankfully, since then, we’ve stayed off to the side as each uncle and aunt exchanged pleasantries and tried their best to casually mention their child being brilliant or athletic or powerful. Each is playing their own game, and they’re all losing. I see Simon intently listening, his eyes darting back and forth to keep up with this pathetic six-person tennis match. I want to rub his back again. To tell him not to waste so much energy for this. That he’s too good for any of them.

Instead, I sip my wine and look around the house. Fiona hasn’t arrived yet—typical. She’d probably bust in at half-nine, after dinner and when the children are about to sleep. I watch Mordelia sit in the far corner near the dining room, her nose in a book, with one of the toddlers curl up next to her. Softie. She’s gotten so tall since I last saw her...

My attention whips back when I hear my Aunt Ariadne says my name. “Are you at uni, then, Basil?”

I uncross my legs and straighten my spine. “Yes, doing my Master’s at LSE.”

I pray she’ll let me leave it at that, and she replies with, “Oh, lovely. Your cousin Rainn is thinking of pursuing one as well. She’s almost done her undergrad. Over at Cambridge.” Good old Aunt Ariadne.

I nod and smile, about to prompt her about her precious Rainn and Cambridge, when my father speaks up. “Have you decided on your dissertation, Basil?”

I try not to sigh when I say my practiced reply. “I have. I’m doing it on democratic theory and fiscal austerity in the EU.” I leave it as vague as possible, and hope the conversation simmers away.

I see Edgar sit up, and I brace for impact. “Good lad. More people your age ought to learn about personal responsibility and the free market.”

I think about my work, the research I’ve poured over, that argues just the opposite. How the time for austerity has long gone. How democratic theory must be at the forefront of economic policy. But nothing can be worse than a roundtable discussion with my dear Uncle Edgar and half the Pitch extended family, so I swerve. “Yes, the school work can be a pain, but I’m grateful for the opportunity.”

“Public discourse has thrown what really matters out the window,” he presses, and I can see his face begin to liven up. “It has corrupted our society. Having Labour in power now, of course, is a bloody nightmare. Giveaways here and there. Iced lollies, penny sweets, thousands of pounds a month? What difference does that make? Throw it all to the wind! There’s a ‘public program’ for anything nowadays.” He makes air quotes with his hand.

“Edgar,” Daphne starts.

He ignores her and starts to speak with his hands. Clearly, he’s enjoying being a world-class twat. “And what will that do with my taxes, hm? Wasting and throwing it to bums and lunatics.”

Edgar’s points are so dogmatic, so cartoonishly cookie-cutter, that I almost laugh, but I feel Simon tense beside me. I gently nudge my thigh against his. Steady, love, I want to tell him.

“Well, dinner’s just about ready. Let’s all wash up and get the children, shall we?” Daphne suggests. Bless her heart. The others heave off the sofa, chairs, and loveseats handsomely positioned all around the parlour, and disperses to different corners of the house.

I start to get up, relieved to eat, when I see Snow stay put. His jaw is set, and his eyes are fixed on a spot at the wall. The parlour has cleared, so I take my hand loosely in his. “All right?” I ask.

His fingers absently toy with mine, but it takes a minute for him to look at me. I’m an expert in reading Snow’s transparent face, but right now, I’m at a loss. He nods, stands up, and drops my hand.

—

Dinner, so far, is hardly better. At least Daphne didn’t go vegetarian.

The table is spelled longer to accommodate all the guests, and it stretches from the dining table, past the archway, and into the parlour.

Next to me, Snow is quiet. He’s aced the table manners over the years, and I smile at the lumps of food on his plate. Underneath the table, I tap his foot with mine, and he taps me back.

This is good. We can do this.

Aunt Willow—A Danish Pitch—takes a sip from her wine and turns to us. “So what do you study, Simon?”

I feel Simon straighten up. “Oh, I don’t, actually. I’m working right now.”

“Like for a gap year?”

“Er, I’m not sure yet.” He chuckles, and he hides his discomfort well. But not to me. “Just reckon I’d spend my time saving up if I’m not sure what I’d like to study.”

“Of course, I think that’s wonderful.” I take another bite, and try my best to look nonchalant. But I already start to dread my family’s behaviour. My body feels like I’m about to enter a duel. “Where do you work, darling?”

Simon hesitates before he replies, “Central London.” I watch his fork swirl around the mash. Willow smiles and nods, and just when I can see her about to turn to someone else, he abruptly adds, “I work at a Starbucks. In Central London. Just by LSE, actually.”

“Lovely,” she says, and I can tell she’s at a loss with what to say next, but that won’t stop her from carrying a conversation. “I tried a scone from there one morning when I was running late to a conference. It was quite good.”

Simon laughs, and I can feel an edge to it. I decide to jump in. “I’ve had all their scones, Aunt Willow. Almost comparable to Watford, if you ask me.”

Daphne smiles. “Maybe someone can give Cook Pritchard a run for her money.”

“Baz, you interned at the Home Secretary’s office, didn’t you? When you finished your undergrad?” I hear my father suddenly add.

“Yes, father.” I reply without a beat, though my brow raises slightly at the question. What is he on about?

“Well, maybe you can connect Simon. He ought to have a better gap year than a cafe, eh?” He’s smiling, but when we make eye contact, I can feel a bucket of cold water splash through me. I clench my fist and I feel a loud clunk on the floor. Simon ducks down to fish his knife from beneath the table. I’m so taken aback from my father’s words that I’ve stopped keeping tabs on him.

I stare at him from across the table. It’s completely quiet now.

“Mummy, will you pass the gravy, please?” An even voice says from three seats down. I look over at Mordelia, with her plate almost empty.

Daphne clears her throat. “Sure, darling.” When Mordelia gets the boat, she sets it down and doesn’t pour it on her plate.

I clear my throat. “That won’t be necessary. I don’t think they’d even remember me.”

He nods once, and goes back to his roast beef.

—

Thankfully, the rest of dinner is quieter. Snow is quieter.

He barely finishes dessert before he excuses himself and steps away from the table. I smile, excuse myself, and follow him through the parlour.

I can tell Snow is trying not to stomp and barrel up the stairs. I can tell his jaw is clenched, so tightly that I can hear his teeth scrape together. He opens the door, and we go inside.

My walls have been permanently spelled sound-proof since I was fifteen. I can still feel the magic I left behind, permeating the wallpaper and the tapestries. A part of my brain appreciates the irony of that; I spell them on the summer I tried to wank my feelings away, and now the spell still stands, concealing the clenching jaw and heavy footsteps of Simon Snow himself. I think I would have been thrilled, had I knew.

Now, though, I feel my stomach constrict, like cold water sizzling against my heated insides. I sit down on the trunk at the foot of my bed. I want to ask him to sit with me, but I know better. I watch him five feet away from me, running a hand through his hair. “You’re angry,” I say.

“‘Yeah. I am.” He’s not saying anything else, but he’s anything but quiet. He takes a deep breath and exhales out his nose. His heart is thumping, and I can hear his blood rush across his veins. He swallows, and I watch his Adam’s apple bob. Like I have countless times before.

When he speaks, it’s barely above a whisper. “I wanted this visit to work. So badly. But those things he was saying. And you listening and taking it, and...and...” He huffs in frustration. It’s demeaning, Baz.”

“Is it Edgar? My father?” I ask. “They’re old dickheads, Simon. They humiliate themselves. Can’t even go through small talk without—”

“That’s the thing,” he interrupts me. His eyes flit to the ceiling, the floor, anywhere but me. “It’s not just </i>small talk.</i> That rubbish he spouts? You think it’s jest?”

“Why do you care what he thinks?” Seeing him so upset is sending a ripple of panic fluttering from my chest. I scramble, and I grasp, and apparently, I break.

“It’s not just Edgar, isn’t it? It’s that whole lot. What would they say when they find out their darling Basil is dating a bloody chav from a foster home? Leeching away his money ‘cause I serve coffee eight hours a day.” He laughs a bitter, joyles sound. He’s still not looking at me. “This is real life, Baz. It’s not small talk. It’s not a chat during a fucking garden promenade at your family’s club. I guess I’d know if I picked up a few shifts there, wouldn’t I?”

Irritation swells in my throat. I think about the Easters, Christmases, summers at the club where I kept my mouth shut when my family makes gay jokes about lads and queers and faeries. He has never thrown my privilege in my face. “You know I don’t mean it like that.”

“Actually, I haven’t the faintest idea what you do mean. Not when you sit there and say nothing.” He breathes again. “It’s not just everyone else.” He repeats. “It’s...it’s you.”

Fights aren’t the same from when we were twenty. Now, at twenty-three, they don’t feel like we’re one shout from breaking up. They don’t feel like Simon will slip from my fingertips unless I hold on so tightly that my knuckles are white with the effort. They don’t feel like the love I had for him was an overflowing static, buzzing through the air and hurting anyone who dares come close. Now, they’re just fights.

But they still fucking hurt.

“Simon, love—”

“Don’t.” He holds up a hand. He stares at a far wall when he talks to me. “Don’t call me that when I’m upset with you. Please.”

I stand there, at a complete loss. He turns around, unzips his backpack, and starts shoving his clothes out on the bed. I can see his hands trembling. His heart is still thumping, blood still rushing. I shut my eyes and start to feel the tears well up. Long before I learned to retract my fangs, I’ve mastered retracting my tears first. But I don’t want to hold them back. Not here. Not with him.

He keeps his back to me, and I stare at it—at the thick ridge, strained and tense. I know he can feel me looking. I want him to keep talking. I want him to yell at me, tell me what to do. Because I’ll do it. I’ll do anything.

I turn around and open the door.

“Your toothbrush is in mine,” I mutter. “You almost forgot it this morning.” I close the door shut, and I go down the stairs.

I blink, but the tears don’t come. Like I said; my body knows when I’m home.

—

When you hang a left by the garage, there’s a brick wall on the side of the house. It’s completely dark at night, and dead quiet. At half-eleven, it would be tricky for any visitor to end up there, and I easily make my way down there without being spotted. It was my favourite spot to sneak a fag. Not that I have one on me. I’d kill for one now.

I stop when I see Mordelia standing near the bins, one leg folded to prop herself up. I see her blow smoke up to the sky, with the soft ember at her fingertips the only light between us. I had no idea she smoked.

I walk up to her and join her against the wall. She looks at me, but doesn’t say anything. “Have you got a spare?” I ask her. I can’t remember the last time we spoke. Surely, not last Christmas?

She flicks open her pack and holds it out to me. I put one between my lips, light it with my wand, take a deep drag, and exhale. I close my eyes and relish the way my head starts to spin.

“Aren’t you going to tell me off?” Standing next to her, I realize that she’s almost past my shoulder.

I shrug. “I was about your age when I started.”

She narrows her eyes and bites her lip, and I think about my life at sixteen. Fifth year. I hope to Merlin and Morgana that she’s not going through even a portion of what I did. I think about saying something to her, or asking about Watford, when she says something that throws me off. “Is Simon never coming back here? After spending a night with the family?”

I laugh, almost bitterly. I never give her enough credit. “That Edgar is a real wanker, isn’t he?” I deflect. She chuckles, and I take another drag. I follow her line of sight and look at the stars. They’re so much prettier here, away from London. I continue talking. “He’ll be alright; he’s always been stronger than me. It’s me who can’t stand it.” I look back at her and give a half-smile. “Do you want him to? Come back?”

I was meaning to take the piss, but she slowly nods. “When he spent that first Christmas with us, I didn’t like it. Not cause he was the Chosen One, or whatever. Crowley, that seems like a lifetime ago.” She takes a drag and exhales. I wonder if our father would blame her smoking on me. “I didn’t like it because you were different with him. Where he goes, you go. And neither of you have any clue. It’s like someone cast ‘Shall we dance?’ on you. And it freaked me out to see you so different. It never changed with every December, you see. Didn’t waver or dampen. And Simon never stopped looking bloody terrified every year.” She pauses when I laugh, and then looks at me when she speaks again. “I can barely remember what you were like before him now. I’ve never seen you so happy.”

I look at her with wide eyes. In the moonlight, I can see how her eyelashes flutter. How her cheeks redden in the cold. I wonder how much she’s absorbed, how much she’s grown up, right under my nose. She puts out her cigarette and stomps on it. Without another word, she turns to head back inside.

“Mordelia,” I call after her. She turns back to me and raises her eyebrow. “Happy Christmas.”

She rolls her eyes, but I can see a smile start to form. “Go back inside. Don’t cock it up.”

—

I don’t know what to expect when I carefully open our door. Part of me hopes he’d be asleep; he tossed and turned all night last night.

Instead, I find him sitting on the floor cross-legged, facing the fireplace. He doesn’t say anything when I shut the door behind me.

I pad across the room and join him, leaving a few feet of space when when I sit. I watch him for a moment in my periphery. He’s hunched over his knees, resting his chin at the top of his knees. I indulge in inhaling his scent. “I’m sorry,” I say.

He’s silent for a long time. In the quiet, if I concentrate, I can still hear the party below us, louder now that they’ve brought out the brandy. I remember the drill, and I hate it.

Instead, I listen to the crackling of the flames. Simon’s even heartbeat.

“I’m not angry anymore,” Snow mutters. He keeps his gaze on the fire.

“I fucked up tonight,” I say.

Simon shakes his head, and I spot a small smile on his lips. “You don’t fuck up, darling. You’re too perfect for that. You miscalculated, maybe.”

He’s trying to lighten the mood, because he knows how. He’s bloody brilliant with that. With me. But I won’t take it. “Simon...”

“We save that phrase for actual fuck-ups, like me.”

“Simon. No.” I shift to properly face him. He keeps his eyes forward, but that’s alright. “You’re right. Those things are important, and they matter, and they were unacceptable. And I didn’t understand that. And I hurt you.”

He hesitates before replying. “Don’t you think they have a point?”

Anger rises in my chest. “No,” I almost growl. “They don’t.” My hands ball into fists, and I force them to open again. I breathe. “Please look at me, love.”

He does. I scoot forward and lean in, pushing his curls back. “You are not a fuck-up, SiImon Snow. I will make a spreadsheet, I’ll write you a speech. I’ll do a dissertation, and I’ll pass with distinction. Because I’ll prove it. Crowley, I will prove it.” Nothing would be easier to do. Would make me happier to accomplish.

He looks down and smiles. He takes my hand from his face, kisses my palm, and laces our fingers together.

“Will you forgive me?” I whisper.

He leans forward and kisses me. “There’s nothing to forgive,” he answers against my lips. He moves to my ear. “I know I’ll never be a fuck-up as long as I’m your boyfriend.”

“Because Basil Pitch doesn’t date losers,” I answer breathlessly.

“Indeed,” he whispers. He moves to my neck, kissing me there. “Merlin, I’ll live up to it. I could be buried with that title, and I’ll be the happiest ghost around.”

I close my eyes and breathe him in. His pulse is so loud, so close to me, that it rings in my ears. I pretend that it’s mine, that we’re sharing a heartbeat. If I had to stay this close to keep my heart pumping for the rest of my life, I’ll accept it. Gladly. Gratefully.

“Do you want to go home?” I murmur against his hair.

He pulls back and looks at me. “Really?”

I can see in his eyes that he wants to. I nod.

“What about your family?”

My lip quirks upward. “I think they’ll manage.”

He keeps looking at me, searching my eyes for hesitation. When he finds nothing, he smiles slowly. “Will you let me drive?”

I purse my lips. “Then we’ll be even?”

His eyes sparkle, lips twisting in wicked amusement. “Deal.”

It’s almost one o’clock in the morning when we step out of the house with our luggage, so I wasn’t expecting anyone to notice. We almost make it past the gate when I hear a voice behind us. “Leaving so soon?”

I turn around. Fiona.

I look at her, unsure of what to say. Of whether or not she’d stop us. She drops her cigarette on the ground and stomps it out with her boot. She rolls her eyes and says, “Just give me a hug before you go.”

I walk forward and wrap my arms around her. When we pull away, she nods at Simon behind me. “Drive safely, yeah?” She jerks her head towards me. “He’d cry if you wreck that Jag.”

I hear Simon chuckle. “I will.”

She nods. “Go on, then. Before anyone sees you.”

I kiss her cheek. “I’ll ring you when we get home.”

“Yeah, yeah. Go.”

—

Turns out, the drive is even better in total darkness.

—

We woke up on Christmas morning at eleven o’clock.

I can’t remember the last Christmas where I slept in so late.

#snowbaz #snowbaz fic #simon snow #Tyrannus Basilton Pitch

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