#because Baz can never say what he means

[c-e-d-dreamer]

When We Howl, the Moon Will Cower: Chapter 6

A/N: Happy Day 2 of @nessianweek! Sometimes, yearning is looking at another male who clearly loves his wife and going huh, why do I suddenly feel jealous? 😂 But please enjoy this update! And enjoy Nesta and Cassian being idiots. Because there's nothing quite like clearly having feelings for your husband/wife, but refusing to acknowledge it

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Cassian

Cassian never thought he’d see the day where he visits the estate of the Vanserra coven not once but twice, and especially not within the span of the same day. And after today, he can confidently say he never wants to be between these four walls again. The library looks exactly the same as it did the previous evening, but the tension in the room is even thicker than it was when the Archeron sisters were scrying for the Cauldron. It sits like a weight on everyone’s shoulders. Writhes in the shadows and curls around Cassian’s chest, threatening to crush the air right out of his lungs.

Lucien paces back and forth across the room, practically leaving a simmering trail of ash beneath his feet the way he stalks across the rug. It’s almost strange seeing the male so out of sorts. Every time that Cassian has ever seen the witch, he’s looked impeccable, not a single piece of clothing or hair out of place.

The same can’t be said for the moment.

Lucien’s red hair is a mess where it hangs around his face, tangled and knotted from the way he’s been repeatedly running his fingers through the long strands. His skin is unusually ragged and pale, dark circles clinging beneath his bloodshot eyes. He’s long discarded his jacket into a crumpled heap in one of the large armchairs, his shirt creased and wrinkled where it hangs only half tucked into his pants.

“We’re wasting time,” Lucien growls out for the second time tonight, turning his attention toward his brother.

“I told you, we have to be smart about this,” Eris reminds him, his voice low with warning.

“Every moment we sit around here talking in circles, the Mother only knows what Hybern is doing to Elain.”

Sitting as close to her as he is, Cassian doesn’t miss Nesta’s almost imperceptible flinch at Lucien’s words. She’s been quiet and the picture perfect of calm ever since Baz informed them of the news about Elain, but Cassian has gotten to know his wife too well since their marriage. He knows that the press of her lips conceals the sharp words sitting on her tongue that she’s holding back. Knows that her narrowed blue eyes hide the fire burning just behind them.

He knows that deep down, she’s afraid.

Knows that her straightened spine and held back shoulders are the armor she wears to cover her concern. Knows that the way her fingers flex, her arm jumping back to brush against his own, means her own mind is conjuring images the same if not worse than whatever Lucien might be imagining.

It’s practically instinct, the way Cassian reaches a hand out toward her. His fingertips just barely brush along the back of Nesta’s hand before he thinks better of himself. Before he catches himself. He pulls his hand away again, fingers curling tight until his nails cut into the palm, the pain a reminder of himself, and resettles his hands back in his lap again.

“You’re assuming the worst,” Rhys pipes up from where he and Feyre sit. “They’re probably just keeping her to use as a bargaining chip.”

“Probably?” Lucien snaps, whirling on the vampire. “You expect me to be alright with probably?”

Eris sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “And what would you have us do? Storm through Hybern’s gates?”

“Yes. They have my wife.”

He says the words with no hesitation, with a sheer surety and determination that has Cassian tilting his head curiously. He’d noticed the way Lucien and Elain seemed unusually close, strangely comfortable in each other’s gravity the other night. The way the two seemed less like two people who had married for an alliance and more like two people who actually chose one another.

But this, watching Lucien now, watching his reaction, is somehow different than the other night, something more than just amicability. It’s almost like…

Cassian refuses to finish the thought, refuses to give the notion any sort of weight. But it’s still there, niggling in the back of his mind. It still has an ache threatening to build and sink its roots into Cassian’s chest. Threatening to twist and shift into begrudging anger.

“We don’t even know for sure that’s where Elain was taken,” Nesta finally speaks up, her voice surprisingly cool and calm. “Our best bet is having Feyre and I scry again for her before we make any rash decisions.”

Lucien scoffs, but Eris nods his agreement at her words, pulling back out a map and spreading it across the table. Nesta stands up, taking a moment to fix the skirts of her dress before she strides forward. She holds her hand out, waiting until Eris hands over the bowl of bones and stones, to turn expectantly toward her younger sister. Feyre hesitates for only a moment before she stands as well, stepping over to Nesta and the table.

“What if it sees us too?” Feyre asks quietly, Cassian’s wolf hearing still picking up the question.

“We’re not looking for it,” Nesta tells her, taking Feyre’s hand in her free one. “We’re looking for our sister.”

Feyre swallows hard, but she nods her head, squaring her shoulders and focusing on the map before them both. Both sisters close their eyes, murmuring whatever scrying incantation they need, the words still so unfamiliar to Cassian. Just like the previous night, the temperature in the room seems to drop, the air stilling and prickling with static electricity. Cassian scoots forward in his seat, keeping his eyes pinned on Nesta.

He swears he can see a slight tremble to her hand where she has her closed fist extended over the map, can see where the blood’s been cut off, her skin pale from the tight grip she has over the bones and stones in her palm. Her whole body stiffens, and Cassian almost rises from his seat before he catches himself again, closing his own hands into fists to keep himself together.

There’s nothing comforting about the silence that settles over the room. It’s more like a yawning void with the promise of teeth and claws. It reminds Cassian of when he was young, of those dark nights in the woods where he swore something watched him back from between the tall, shadowed bark of the trees. Something wrong and twisted.

A minute passes.

And then another.

Something changes in the air, a crackling spark that steals the breath even from Cassian’s lungs. Nesta’s breath starts to come fast and hard, her lip curling back as she pants between her gritted teeth, and Cassian can’t take it anymore, pushing to his feet and striding toward the table. There’s a small noise, one that Cassian can only describe as pure terror, but it doesn’t come from Nesta.

It comes from Feyre.

The youngest Archeron gasps, pressing her free hand to her heaving chest as she all but curls over the table. “I… I can’t…” She turns her attention toward Nesta, blue eyes wide with fear. “Open your fist. Now.”

“No,” Lucien growls, stalking closer to the table again. “We can’t stop. Find Elain.”

“You have no idea what we saw,” Feyre snaps.

The two continue to bicker and snarl at one another, but Cassian tunes it all out. He settles one hand along Nesta’s lower back, able to feel the tension in her body beneath his touch, the small trembles and shakes that rattle her limbs. With his other hand, he reaches up toward her face, gently sliding the backs of his fingers down her cheek.

“Nesta.”

Nesta’s eyes snap open, zeroing in on him, and Cassian once again gets a glimpse of the magic that rages like a wildfire beneath her skin, of the silver flames that flicker around her irises. He doesn’t remove his touch though, doesn’t step away.

“Open your fist, Nes.”

Nesta’s fingers splay, bones and stones clattering against the table as they’re released from her hold, slightly pink from where her grip was tight enough to break skin. Cassian slides his hand around to Nesta’s waist, catching her and holding her steady when she sways. He tilts his head down enough that he can press his lips to the crown of her head, tuck his nose to the golden brown strands of her hair.

“Don’t worry. I’ve got you,” he speaks quietly, only loud enough for Nesta to hear.

“Look.”

Eris’s words are enough to have Nesta pulling away from Cassian, and he refuses to acknowledge the coldness that burrows beneath his skin at the loss. Refuses to name or give in to what feels suspiciously like disappointment creeping up and between his ribs. Instead, he swallows hard and rolls his shoulders, joining everyone else in the room leaning over the table to see.

To see the bones and stones standing on end upon the map, to see them forming a perfect, unnatural circle.

“Good. Now we know where she is, for sure,” Lucien says, pushing off the table’s edge and offering his brother a pointed, sardonic, look before striding toward the library doors.

“Lucien–”

“Try and stop me. I dare you.” Lucien whirls around, and Cassian catches a glimpse of the burning flames infamous to the Vanserras flickering in his russet eyes. “If I have to march into Hybern by myself, then so be it, but I am getting back my wife.”

Cassian half wonders if Eris would, if he’d stop his own brother in order to save Lucien from himself. He half wonders how Lucien might claw his way out of whatever restraints Eris put him in, how he might cleave through any chains or spells to get to Elain. Cassian has to give the male credit for his dedication.

For his devotion to his wife.

That dark, twisting feeling climbs back up Cassian’s chest, twining like brambled vines around his ribs. Around his heart. It feels an awful lot like bitterness, but he’s quick to shove it back down. It doesn’t stop that dark part of him that revels in seeing the mess of emotions wreaking havoc on the youngest Vanserra, to see some semblance of his own emotions and experience finally reflected back at him, especially after how happy Lucien and Elain had looked together the previous night.

It doesn’t stop the voice that whispers in the back of Cassian’s mind, wondering what it would take to draw such a visceral reaction from himself.

“I can offer a squadron of wolves. Just one, though. I won’t risk any more than that.”

Despite the words being for Lucien, it’s Nesta that Cassian doesn’t take his eyes off of. He knows how important her sisters are to her, how much she cares about them. He can still remember their wedding day, when Nesta told him plain and simple that she only agreed because of them. That she chose him over the other factions in the name of protecting them.

The declaration has a new emotion sparking amongst the icy blues of Nesta’s eyes, one that Cassian doesn’t quite recognize. It’s a look he hasn’t yet cataloged, hasn’t yet named, that takes over her expression. Cassian’s heart squeezes in response, and he has to swallow hard against the way his breath threatens to catch in his throat.

“Thank you,” Nesta tells him, her voice quiet and sincere. Just for him.

Cassian nods his head once, determined to keep his own emotions tampered, his own face neutral. “Guess we’re going to Hybern.”

~ * * * ~

Nesta

Nesta twists enough that she can secure the final buckle, pulling at the strap until it tightens. She slides her hands down along her waist and hips, stepping over to the small mirror in the bedroom. It’s almost uncanny, the reflection staring back at her. She had been unsure when Emerie had handed her a pair of leathers to wear, and it’s as strange seeing them on as the fabric feels against her skin.

Still, the Mother only knows what could be waiting for them at Hybern, and Nesta will take any extra protection and armor she can get.

It had been one of the easiest decisions she had ever made, agreeing to help Lucien and rescue Elain. One she’d made as soon as those bones and stones had landed across the map, before she could even voice it. She’d do anything for her sisters, even if it meant storming into what was most likely a trap. Even if it was the last thing she ever did. And she didn’t care what anyone said, including her dear wolf of a husband.

Although, she hadn’t needed to worry about that last one in the end.

She still can’t quite wrap her mind around Cassian not fighting her about going to Hybern, how the only “order” he gave was for Emerie to locate some leathers for her to wear. She still can’t wrap her mind around him offering up his own wolves to help with the rescue. Elain means nothing to him, he has no reason to volunteer his help, and yet…

And that look on his face… Nesta still can’t get it out of her head. The way the hazel of his eyes seemed to burn in a way she’d never seen before. The way that gaze had been pinned to her as he spoke the words. It had been indescribable. It had something warm threatening to unfurl in her chest.

It was dangerous.

Sighing softly and shaking her head of those thoughts, Nesta steps out of the bedroom. She finds Cassian standing in the front room of the cabin, the alpha already wearing his own leathers. It’s certainly a sight, the way the fabric clings to his frame and emphasizes the large muscles of his chest, his arms, his thighs, the way the red hued scales along the shoulders seem to flicker in the low light of the room. With the stubble along his jaw, his hair scraped back away from his face, and the twin blades strapped along his back, he certainly paints the image of a warrior prince.

His eyes sweep over Nesta before he offers a single nod of approval. “This is for you.”

Nesta looks down at the blade Cassian slides across the table over to her, blinking in surprise. Slowly, she reaches her hand out, picking it up. She examines the leather criss crossed tightly along the hilt, pulling the blade free from the scabbard to reveal the Illyrian steel.

“I had Elis make it,” Cassian continues. “Had him make sure it was the perfect weight and balance for you. I know you have your magic, but considering what Hybern may have, better safe than sorry.”

Nesta curls her fingers tighter around the sword, taking a moment to swallow hard and secure it to her belt. “Thanks.”

The silence that settles around them feels charged somehow, prickling along Nesta’s skin. She dares to meet Cassian’s gaze again, but he has that same burning, piercing look painted across his face, and she has to look away. When there’s a short rap to the cabin door, she’s never been more grateful.

It’s time.

It takes a large amount of magic to travel to Hybern, to keep everyone cloaked, and Nesta’s hands are clammy and shaking by the time they’re landing beneath the stretching bark and branches, the dark canopy of trees. There’s the threat of a migraine building in her head, a pressure just behind her eyes, but Nesta breathes through it all, taking in gulps of the cool night air around her.

She can feel Cassian’s presence beside her, feel the warmth that radiates off him from where he’s standing close. She can feel his attention solely on her, the barest brush of his fingertips along her arm.

“You made it.”

Nesta snaps her attention toward the sound of the voice, watching as Lucien stalks out from between the trees, members of the Vanserra coven that she doesn’t recognize following behind him. They’re all dressed in leathers of their own, reds and greens and golds befitting of the coven’s autumnal ties. Lucien has his curtain of red hair tied off away from his face, and beneath the moonlight, the scar across his face stands out especially stark and the flames in his eyes burn especially bright, flickering with anxious determination.

Nesta almost feels bad for whatever Hybernian soldier tries to come between him and Elain.

Almost.

“We’re just waiting for Feyre then,” Nesta offers, glancing around the wood in search of her youngest sister.

“She’s not coming.”

Nesta frowns at Lucien. “What do you mean?”

“I mean she’s not coming. From what I overheard with Eris, it sounds like Rhysand wasn’t as forgiving about his wife in Hybern,” Lucien explains; although, his eyes flick to Nesta’s right as he says the words. “Sounds like there may have been some locked doors involved.”

Nesta has to swallow down a wince. She remembers the quiet, but harsh words spoken between Feyre and Rhysand at the Vanserra manor, remembers the way her sister loudly proclaimed her husband to be a prick. There had been glares and snarls, and Feyre had stormed off in the end, but Nesta thought her sister’s stubborn recklessness would win out in the end.

“If that’s the next rescue mission, you can count me out,” Baz speaks up from Nesta’s left, his whole body shuddering. “I am not going in that place.”

Nesta snorts softly. “Really? Hybern is fine, but you won’t go to the vampire den?”

“I’ll do most things for the Pack, but I have to draw the line somewhere.”

It’s an odd thing to say. Nesta half expected him to make a joke about how Cassian could never order him into the den the way he was ordered here tonight. After all, there’s nothing here for the Pack tonight. Elain has nothing to do with them.

“How about you do something useful and sweep the perimeter.”

Baz makes a big show of rolling his eyes at Cassian’s words, but he gestures with his head, and the other wolves follow him as they vanish amongst the shadows of the wood around them. Lucien leads the smaller group that remains away, daring to press right up to where the treeline ends and crouching down amongst the brush there.

Looking out across the field of tall grass, Nesta gets her first look at the fortress the king of Hybern calls home. Dark stone stretches high and wide, a wall hiding away the towers and keep just beyond. It’s like something out of a fairytale. Or a nightmare. The almost black hue of the stone, the ivy and bramble that creeps along it, the spikes, it all reminds Nesta of a dark thunderstorm.

“There’s a servants’ entrance through that gatehouse there,” Lucien says, his voice quiet. “According to the intel Rhysand’s spymaster offered, many of the servants don’t live within the walls, they come and go each day.”

“A good entrance for us to use then as well,” Cassian comments with a nod of his head.

“My thoughts exactly. If we’re lucky, we can get in and get out without starting a war.”

“Bit late for that, don’t you think?”

“Even so, we clearly don’t have the numbers for a big fight. I doubt you want to lose any wolves tonight.”

Cassian doesn’t say anything, but Nesta doesn’t miss the way a muscle in his jaw ticks, Lucien’s words clearly having hit their mark. He crosses his arms and focuses his attention back on the fortress, eyes flickering as he takes in every detail, as he devises his own plan with all the prowess Nesta expects from an alpha general.

“Well, then,” Cassian finally says. “Let’s not waste any more time.”

They make it inside the fortress with surprisingly little fanfare. There’s only a trio of guards at the gatehouse, Cassian trapping one in a headlock until he loses consciousness while Lucien and one of his other witches take out the other two. They encounter even fewer as they cross to the servants’ entrance, stepping inside an empty and dark kitchen, stoves and flames long gone cold and the staff long retiring for the night.

“We’ll cover more ground if we split up,” Cassian suggests.

At Lucien’s agreement, he sends the other Vanserra witches to the western wing, offering to take the main house himself. It leaves Nesta and Cassian to search the eastern wing in hopes of locating Elain.

As they creep up one of the servants’ stairwells, Nesta reaches within for her magic. Just as she always does, she imagines stroking her fingers through soft fur, but this time, she gets a growl in response, leaving the hairs on the back of her neck standing on edge, a shiver skittering across her skin. It’s a warning.

It means something’s wrong.

Swallowing hard around that feeling, Nesta tightens her grip around her magic, pulling it forward forcibly until silver flames curl between her fingers, wreathing her wrists and providing light through the winding dark corridors. The distinct sound of blades unsheathing has Nesta’s entire body tensing on instinct, but when she whips around she finds it’s merely Cassian, both his blades raised and ready.

“You feel it too, then.”

Cassian’s lips press into a thin line. “Coming here may have been a mistake.”

“Don’t let Lucien hear you say… that…”

Nesta’s voice trails off as they reach the end of the corridor, her steps stuttering to a stop. The caress up her arm, along the back of her neck is undeniable, and it’s wrong. It curls around her ear until the ringing taking up home there morphs into a whisper, a temptation. A siren song. A sudden pressure starts to build in her chest, wrapping like cold, spindly fingers between her ribs and around her lungs until the air is squeezed out of them. And that grip on her tugs, calling her down and down and down.

Nesta’s entire world tilts as her body is yanked back, the hand pressed to her mouth muffling her yelp of surprise. She tries to struggle against the tight hold before she realizes she recognizes the warmth, the body, pressed along her spine. With a huff, she shoves Cassian’s hand away from her face, turning to glare at him. But Cassian has a single finger pressed to his own lips, signaling quiet.

Carefully, Nesta leans forward enough that she can peer out of the alcove Cassian has pulled them into. She frowns at the dark corridor, as empty as it was before. What has his wolf hearing picked up that she can’t see?

Cassian yanks Nesta back again, out of view just as a pair of Hybernian soldiers come stalking around the corner and down the corridor. Nesta holds her breath as they come to a stop right where she and Cassian are hiding. Her heart skips and starts to pound in her chest. Why haven’t they continued on with their patrol?

“What have we here?” One of the soldiers turns with a sneer, somehow looking directly at Nesta through the shadows. “A little mouse just for me?”

“More like a wolf,” Cassian growls, stepping out of the alcove.

Nesta barely has time to blink before Cassian is leaping forward, both his swords swinging. He takes down the soldier who spoke with ease, a feral grin on his face despite the blood now staining his leathers. Nesta focuses her own attention on the remaining soldier, reaching once again for her magic. She sends silver flames cascading toward the male, but not before he gets off a spell of his own, alarm bells blaring around them.

“Well, there goes our element of surprise,” Cassian comments.

He sheathes one of his swords and grabs hold of Nesta’s hand, pulling her down the large, main staircase. They burst through the large, wooden doors that lead in and out of the eastern wing, coming face to face with even more soldiers rushing toward them. Cassian drops her hand to free his second blade again, resetting his stance so his back is to her. Nesta takes it as the cue that it is. She takes a moment, closing her eyes and breathing deeply. She can feel the swell of her magic, feel the familiar burn through her veins, across her skin, in her eyes.

A smirk pulls up her lips as her eyes snap open again, zeroing in on the soldiers standing before her. Zeroing in on her prey. It’s the only warning she gives them before she unleashes the beast writhing and skulking within, towering flames arcing away from her and swallowing every soldier in their path.

She turns on the spot, toward the next round of soldiers who dare to step up against her. She’s surprised to find a soldier closer than she expects, dark eyes narrowed and lips curled back in a leer. He raises his hand, so Nesta summons what remains in that well of her magic, wills it to thread between her fingers again. But before she can strike, the soldier unfurls his fingers, revealing some sort of blue powder that he blows directly into Nesta’s face.

Nesta coughs, turning her head away, but whatever the substance was, it’s too late. Her vision starts to blur around the edges, and she tries to blink around it, tries to shake it. All the sounds around her seem to fade, the shouts and cries of soldiers falling, replaced by an almost buzzing that presses into her ears. Her limbs feel strangely heavy, and when Nesta reaches inside herself she finds… nothing. There’s just emptiness.

A roar breaks through the haze to Nesta’s right, warm liquid splattering across her cheek, her neck. Greens and golds flood her vision, and it takes her a moment too long to realize it’s Cassian in front of her, his eyes dark with fury, with worry.

“Nesta, run,” Cassian tells her, clearly repeating himself. “Make for the woods, but run.”

Nesta doesn’t need to be told again. She somehow gets her legs under herself again, breathing through her pounding heart, through the hollowness clawing in her chest, as she pushes toward the tree line.

As she gets closer, she spots two wolves charging right for her, one dark gray with a silver underside and the other an almost shaggy brown in color. The gray one rushes ahead, leaping right at Nesta, and she drops to her knees on instinct, a terrified gasp clogging up her throat. She waits for the pain, for teeth to sink into her flesh, but all there is is a pained cry from behind her. She whips around, only to find the wolf tearing a Hybernian soldier to shreds with its teeth.

“Nesta.” Nesta turns around, meeting Baz’s face, the Pack’s third now back in human form. “Are you alright?”

Nesta nods, taking Baz’s proffered hand and allowing him to pull her back to her feet. Whatever magic she was hit with, she still feels out of sorts, still feels unsteady, and she stumbles back a few steps, right into a firm, hard body. Hands on her shoulders catch her, but then they’re sliding down to lift her fully off her feet, cradling her against a chest and enveloping her in the familiar scent of pine and low burning embers. She wants to protest, but she’s tired, so tired, and she slumps fully against Cassian.

“Lucien has Elain. Now, let’s get the fuck out of here.”

—

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[sailorblossoms-snowbaz]

Baz and Simon grow as people when they’re together. Being together helps them be more themselves… it’s a mutual thing, but I want to highlight something that stands out to me because of the roles they were assigned: hero and villain. Simon is the hero, but out of the two, Simon is the one who genuinely unsettles. He’s the one who, (in his role of hero/soldier) would genuinely hurt or kill without a second thought (the existence of Baz implies that, while he was surviving, he has not only killed “mindless monsters”…). Baz is a “villain” but, as mean and “ruthless” as he can be, he’s by far the softest out of the main four.

Mostly, what stands out to me is that when Simon is with Baz, he genuinely becomes a better person. Softer, kinder, more caring. Some of those instincts were already inside of him – I’m not saying Simon was “bad” or something like that – but he wasn’t always acting on those instincts (he lacked the tools for that... until he starts taking his cues for Baz, but that's another post). He knew on some level when he was neglectful and feels guilty (but doesn’t do anything about it because he didn’t really want that relationship), which is already a big sign of him having the instincts “to be good,” given that he has been neglected and unloved to the point he could’ve not been able to pick up when he himself is being neglectful. What Simon felt and what Simon actually did was completely disconnected. It’s only when he’s with Baz that he starts contemplating that he shouldn’t kill the monster ambushing him, because what if they have someone they care about waiting for them? (Because Baz too is a “monster” and Simon loves him, and he wouldn’t want anyone to hurt Baz… he’s putting himself in the shoes of the monster – I think it was a goblin – he’s showing empathy, which he never did before in these situations) (which Baz was already doing, when he was confined to “the villain”). It’s only when he’s with Baz that Simon becomes someone who can take care of another person, who can think about someone’s wants and needs in a way that doesn’t erase his own. He becomes someone who can make the effort to try to process and understand (and be understanding) because he feels like he has someone worth making the effort for (because he hasn’t been able to make that effort for himself).

Simon becomes better because he feels Baz deserves the world. At first, he tries to “let Baz go” because he thinks he’s not good enough. But a future without Baz is intolerable, so he decides to “become better,” to “keep trying” so he can give Baz everything

[facewithoutheart]

Not Mine

drabble, 601 words, established SnowBaz

I thought one day I’d look in the mirror and see the Mage staring back.

But this is one of those Things I Don’t Think About. AKA Things I’ve Thought About Once and Then Swiftly Pushed Down Into a Pit Deeper Than The Well Agatha Once Got Trapped In.

Thoughts that are Not My Problem.

Baz thinks about it. I see him sometimes, frowning at his jawline in the mirror like his father’s jowls are going to show up without permission or warning. Then he’ll dart a look in my direction and the fear will hover in the air between us. He waits for it to land, forgetting I’ve had quick reflexes since that time the Humdrum sent a hoard of buttercries my first week at Watford. I swat this thought away just as easily, even without being able to call the Sword of Mages. Hyah! Take that.

(I’m pretty sure if I were still in therapy my doctor wouldn’t consider mentally karate-chopping intrusive thoughts a sign of progress but her last notes called me “markedly improved” and she let me go without setting a follow-up appointment, so. Thbbft.)

Although, if I’m being honest, maybe it’s less a factor of repression that I don’t spend a lot of time thinking about whether or not I will one day look like the Mage. Because, honestly, I’m too busy seeing how I look like Gran. Or Grandpa. Uncle Jamie.

My mum.

Gran made me copies of her old photo albums and I lose myself in them sometimes, seeing all the ways I connect to this person I never got to meet. Her eyes. Her shoulders. Her hair.

Her freckles.

She smiles in her photos; the Mage never smiled. Not really. Sometimes he’d try, like he thought I needed his face to show that expression, but it was never his.

I smile. I have smile lines. Baz likes to trace them. Mostly when he thinks I’m sleeping but sometimes when I’m awake. He’s got them, too. No jowls, though. I don't even think not yet after that statement because I don’t think that’s the way he’ll end up looking like his father.

(My bet’s on the silver hair.)

(Mmm.)

Not every son looks like his father. And I realize that’s not something I get to choose. Maybe one day I will wake up with a terrible moustache and Baz will hold me down before I’m even completely alert just to shave it off so I can’t see.

Which is silly.

But that’s love.

Love is the way Baz fears I might one day look in the mirror and see the man who nearly killed me. The man who manipulated me, abandoned me. The man who was meant to be my father but never ever deserved that title.

Love is the way Baz worries over the things I can’t. He holds that fear outside me. He’s ready for the day when it lands.

But I don’t think it ever will.

Maybe this is less a Thing I Don’t Think About and more a Thing That’s Not Mine.

This face is mine. These wrinkles are mine. These freckles, moles, shoulders, eyes … mine.

So is Gran. Uncle Jamie.

Baz.

I don’t look in the mirror and fear. I see. That means—

“Mmm,” Baz hums, coming up behind me, his arms wrapping around my middle as he hooks his chin over my shoulder. He catches my eye in the mirror. “What’s that brain of yours thinking?”

I smile, spinning around so I can kiss away the furrow digging between his brows. “Nothing,” I say. “Nothing at all.”

[ebbpettier]

what do you mean with your hc that simon was always a dragon?

okay so this is one of my deepest most self indulgent headcanons because i'm gay and i think he deserves more and sharper teeth but it's extrapolated from a bunch of different details in the series: 1. we don't know what kind of blood davy used in the ritual. lucy couldn't identify it, but it almost definitely wasn't human. killing a dragon is one of the worst things you can do in the WoM and i really think davy isn't above that, at this point. (in terms of what i think the ritual entailed, i don't think he would have killed an adult dragon, either. a son for a son.) 2. simon's false feather wings dissolved in a bloody mess, but his dragon wings did not. iirc, he also had to wish for them, and penelope pointed out that this is fundamentally Not How Magic Works 3. penny also theorized that simon was actually turning INTO a dragon at the moment he got his wings, unless i'm misremembering again? its been a while since my last reread of the series and i have a memory disorder bear with me 4. "you don't kill a dragon unless you're trying to open a portal to hell" davy what did you do. DAVY, WHAT DID YOU DO. 5. once magic stops working on simon at all/after he loses his magic, the wings don't disappear, which makes me think they weren't powered by magic in the first place; they were just a part of his body. 6. margaret almost immediately (probably falsely but still) identifies him as a Kitten. she straight up thinks he's a baby dragon. maybe he smells like one, or feels like one, but i feel like she would be the most qualified to like ... tell? simon insists he isn't, but she seems confused and even a little put off when he tries to say he isn't just a lost dragon-kit. 7. when he's going off his magic is described as very blistery and prickly and black and red, and he glows and smokes and smells like a forest fire. dragon coded as fuuuuck 8. i think it would fucking rule I've never quite decided if i want it to be dragon ancestry, or if he's some kind of changeling via the ritual*, or something else, but the reason i draw the sword of mages with a fancy hilt shaped like a dragon is because i also headcanon that it looks different for everyone who wields it. (in my Baz Is The Heir AU: he summons it as a spada da lato, light as a feather with a handguard that curls like fire in a windstorm, inset with little sapphires) and simon's just ALWAYS been that dragony. i want him to grow more teeth, and they keep growing so he either has to accept them or have them pulled. i want his nails to be hard and sturdy as iron and he just never notices because he's always used them as tools, and he thought everyone's were like that. he bites them off because they break clippers. i want the red scales around the second set of deltoids (the ones on his wings) to start slowly creeping down his back and over his shoulders over time. because i think it would fucking rule. *i subscribe to this one the most, tho. makes sense. also i feel like the mage WouldTM.

[rainbow-femme]

So I was thinking about this the other day but I feel like the Carry On series by Rainbow Rowell is the only piece of magic media I’ve read or watched where I felt we were given a genuine sense of what different magical strength levels look like

So often if I read or watch something with people that do magic there are always conversations about how powerful someone is but when it’s people shooting fireballs at each other or just making something happen, I can’t tell if that’s a big deal or not because all of the characters just do that

People mention it a lot with the Vampire Diaries show where they constantly had The Strongest Witch Ever and then No Wait Actually This Is The Strongest Witch Ever No Wait Actually It’s This One but they all just seemed to yell and fling magic power at stuff and it all comes off as being the same as anything else, I have no gauge for what is normal when everyone is like that

I read part of the ACOTAR series and that was something that bugged me. I know for the books themselves they’re meant to be sexy wish fulfillment but from a world building perspective you can’t introduce everyone as the strongest magical person ever, except for this person who is even stronger, except for this person who is even stronger, without ever actually saying what normal magic does. Like cool most people have one power gem thing and these guys have 10, I don’t know what that means because I don’t know what the other people do. Awesome that this guy can do all those crazy magic things but he’s just standing there and effortlessly making it happen, I have no idea how cool that’s supposed to be because I don’t know what a regular person does

Harry Potter at the beginning did it a bit but it was more in a “the more you say the spell right the better your thing floats” in the first book but from there again it was just sort of stuff was as strong as the plot needed it to be. Hell the entire last book had a macguffin that was the strongest wand ever and I never really could tell what it did better than a normal wand. Like we find out in the third book that a guy blew up an entire neighborhood with magic and he was just a guy, what exactly does the super special ultra wand do that’s so much better?

But with Carry On I felt like it went out of its way to consistently show what different power levels did and looked like. Simon uses a spell to make a crashed car disappear and accidentally makes the whole road disappear, we see what the effect of Baz using his magic on the dragon is and then how it changes when Simon powers him up, we get specific descriptive differences. And again certain characters being stronger than others is important like the other stories but we see people of different levels doing the same thing so when you are told Simon is crazy powerful you understand what they mean because you see what a normal powerful person can do, a normal person, and a less powerful person so you can actually compare and get a sense of what being powerful actually means

[whatevertheweather]

Thank you @thewholelemon @moodandmist @run-for-chamo-miles and @youarenevertooold for the tags! I'm in love with everything y'all posted, what the hell.

In other news, it seems like my recipe for success is to have a Bad Saturday, unexpectedly write an unprecedented amount on Sunday, manage nothing throughout the week, then rinse and repeat. However, yesterday was a kind of okay Saturday, and I've still written a lot today, so maybe the point is really just Sunday.

In any case, what I've written today is from the same unexpected fic I mentioned in my last WIP post. But also like that post, that's not what I'm going to share, because it's not on my hit list for this year. Instead, I'm joining in with the CORB cheer by posting about, y'know, the one I started last year, good old Bait and Switch, because that's what I was getting all my words out for last weekend. Like, the next chapter is about 2 scenes away from done, when there had only been about 3 scenes in it when I started. So that's good?

Under the cut because this is already getting kinda long and I'm not stopping at six sentences.

I don’t know the answer to that. “Because I’m better than you. Now c’mon, get your head in the game. We have a plan.” “Do we?” “Here’s the plan. You give me a good zinger to make Simon go off—” “No.” “What?” “You think I can set him off with a zinger?” he audibly sneers. “This isn’t a one-liner trick. We build up to it.” “Fine,” I roll my eyes. “You long-con him, he goes off, I get my energy back. Easy-peasy.”  Baz is silent. Maybe being a dick and maybe asleep. I can never tell. Finally, he says, “And then you’ll let me out.” “Yeah,” I say. “Totally.”

The slightly difficult thing is that there's also rather a bit of angst being threaded through a fic that is at its core quite lighthearted, but I've received some comments in my time that suggest I may be good at writing things that make you laugh and then also hurt you in rapid succession, so hopefully I can pull it off without it feeling like we're switching genres.

Here's another that's a very little bit of both.

“I would not fucking say that!” Baz yelps. “Calm down,” I swat at him, but the tips of my fingers just slide through the edge of the coffin. I scowl at them. “I saw it in a film. It’s fine. It’s a totally normal thing to say.” “It’s not! It’s really, really not!” By the time he’s run out of steam screeching at me about it, I’m thinking there’s no way this ends up worth it. I don’t feel bad for doing it, but seriously, no one has ever yelled at me for this long. His voice is wearing down. Getting scratchier, which just makes him sound more violent, but then quieter. He ends by mumbling, “I hate you.” It hits weird. I mean, I don’t know. It just sounded sad. And it’s not true.  He doesn’t hate me. We’re helping each other.

Now, tags!

@you-remind-me-of-the-babe @fatalfangirl @cutestkilla @artsyunderstudy @whogaveyoupermission

@mooncello @monbons @aristocratic-otter @bookish-bogwitch @facewithoutheart

@alexalexinii @rimeswithpurple @ivelovedhimthroughworse @martsonmars @ileadacharmedlife

@confused-bi-queer @iamamythologicalcreature @noblecorgi @forabeatofadrum @emeryhall

@hushed-chorus @onepintobean @raenestee

[letraspal]

Simon Snow journey to queerness

A compilation of quotes of Simon Snow thinking/talking about his queerness through books.

Book 1: Carry On

He’s not a villain. He’s just a boy. I’m kissing a boy. I’m kissing Baz.

And then I think about whether this, what’s happening right now, means that I’m gay. But Baz and I are hidden in the trees, and no one can see us, and I decide I don’t have to answer that last question right now.

I wonder how long he’s wanted this. I wonder how long I’ve wanted it.

I’m not sure why I’m so happy. Nothing’s changed. Has anything changed? The kissing. That’s new. The waiting to kiss.

I want to kiss a bloke. That is a change, but no one I’m prepared to think about right now. …Again. I want to kiss him again.

“Why, then” he asks. / “Why did I kiss you?”/ “Yeah.” / “I guess I wanted to,” I say, shrugging. / “Since when?” / I shrug again, and it pisses him off.

“I didn’t think you were gay,” I say. Quietly. He shrugs. Half of Snow’s sentences are shrugs.“What does that mean?” / “I don’t know,” he says, closing his eyes. “I guess I’ve never thought much about what I am. I’ve got a lot on my plate.” That makes me laugh.

“Are you gay?” he asks, looking over at me, still laughing. / “Yeah,” I say, “completely.” / “So you do this all the time?” / I roll my eyes. “No.” / “Then how do you know you’re gay?” / “I just do. How do you not know?” / “Dunno,” he says.

But apparently, I can also solve things with my mouth—because, so far, every time I lean into Baz, he shuts up and closes his eyes. If Penelope were here, she’d make me explain myself. Thank magic she isn’t here yet.

What would Agatha say if she knew about the kissing? “You’re not even gay, Simon.” […] “you’re not even gay,” she’d say, “and he’s not even alive.”

“You’re not even gay, and he’s not even alive, and that isn’t even the worst part of this idea—what will the Mage say?”

“And I don’t think I’m gay,” I say. “I mean, maybe I am, at least partly, the part that seems to be demanding the most attention right now…”

He leans in like he’s going to bite me, then he kisses me instead. It’s so good. It’s been very good every time.

“We don’t have to do this” […] “No one has to know.” / “Know what?” Snow asked softly. “That I’m obsessed with you? That horse left the barn a long time ago”

“They’ll know,” I (Baz) say. “They’ll talk about it.” / “What?” He’s a million miles away. He’s always a million miles away lately. / “They’ll know that we’re gay.” / “There go my job prospects,” Simon says flatly. “What will my family say?” I’m not sure where the joke is.

“Baz, you’re actually, literally the only thing I have to lose. So as long as doing gay stuff in public doesn’t make you hate me, I don’t really care.” / “We’re just dancing,” I say. “That’s hardly gay stuff.” / “Dancing’s well gay,” he says. “Even when it isn’t two blokes.”

He will call me Simon now, occasionally, but only when we’re being soft with each other. (All that’s still happening, too. I suppose I am gay; my therapist says it’s not even the top five things I have to sort out right now.)

And sometimes I feel like someone else died, like someone else sacrificed everything, so that I can have a normal life. With wings. And a tail. And vampires. And magicians. And a boy in my arms, instead of a girl. And a happy ending—even if isn’t the ending I ever would have dreamt for myself, or hoped for. A chance.

[philaet0s]

Celebrity/Social Media AU - Part 23

Previous Part: Part 22

Simon

The bell at the door rings as I’m counting the cash drawer. Dammit. This is going to make me lose count. Can’t people read a ‘closed’ sign anymore?

“Sorry, we’re closed,” I say as I look up.

And I freeze.

“I know. I thought I might still come in. Or should I wait for you outside? It’s raining, I’d rather not,” he says. His voice sounds tired. He always sounds tired when he comes home. He shouldn’t come home if it exhausts him more than his tour…

I’m so glad he came home.

I put the stack of banknotes in my hand down and jump up. He’s standing still –he’s an idiot, he should know he can come to me. It doesn’t matter I come to him instead. I want to hug him but the front of the shop is all windows. So instead I take his hand. No, not his hand. I loop my pinky around his. It feels more intimate, somehow.

He smiles at me. God, my kingdom for that smile.

“Hi, love.”

“Hi. Why’d you come back?” I ask, a knot already forming in my throat.

Because I know why.

I wasn’t alright. Missing him was becoming painful, and he knew it. I told him.

So he came home.

But he doesn’t say that. He never would. He’s gentle on my heart, he knows I wouldn’t like him admitting he traveled all the way home because I was feeling down. (I do need to talk about my struggle with being vulnerable to my therapist, the bastard’s right about that)

“I missed Mordelia’s birthday, I thought I’d make up for it somehow. Would you be okay heading for Oxford tonight? I can’t stay in the UK for very long…”

I try to ignore those last few words and the weight that fell on my stomach upon hearing them. He only just arrived. I have no reason to think about when he’ll leave again yet.

“Yeah, that’s fine. I just need to head home and get a few things. How long do you want to stay there?”

“Pack enough for three nights, okay?”

I nod.

“Good. Now, do you want help closing?”

…

I settle comfortably in the passenger seat, smiling as Baz sits behind the wheel. I love it when he drives, though I always do it if he’s not feeling up to it. He almost crashed his car once because his leg decided to act up while he was driving. He’s been very careful ever since. Everyone around him –me included, if I’m honest– advised him to rely on a driver more often, but none of us argued for very long. He loves driving too much. I didn’t know him then, but he had to give up on a lot of things after he injured his leg. It feels cruel asking him to give up on one more.

Though he could be a little more careful…

“Where’s your cane?”

He tenses.

I almost take back my question, but I don’t. It’s something that’s been bugging me for a while. Since Las Vegas. He used his cane the whole time he was home before the beginning of his US tour, but when I saw him in the US, and then again in France, he wasn’t using it.

I kept quiet about it until now, but seeing him drive is pushing that concern at the front of my mind.

“I try not to use it when I’m on tour.”

“That doesn’t make any sense. That’s when you need it the most. You’re doing more physical effort than usual.”

He sighs. He takes a turn and drives a few seconds in silence, so I think he’s decided to sulk, but then he says; “Are you wearing your contacts today?”

“Uh, yeah? What does that have to do with anything?”

“Say you hadn’t put them on this morning, and had just gone about your day without them. Would you have the impression of seeing better than if you took them off right now and finished your day without them after having them on for hours?”

…I see where this is going.

“Yes, but that’s completely different! I don’t even need my contacts all that much. My eyes are decent.”

“My leg isn’t so bad. I can walk fine without the cane. I can drive, I can exercise.”

“But it causes you pain. Don’t try and tell me it doesn’t because I know it does.”

“You get headaches if you read too much without your contacts,” he argues.

“Baz, that’s not the same thing. It really isn’t. And I… I didn’t mean to upset when I brought up your cane, it’s just, well, I want you to feel good. As best as you can. I’m not sure than going about your day every day without your cane when you do several shows a week is something that makes you feel good.”

“Well, I’ve been alright so far, haven’t I? I suppose I’m not as crippled as you think.”

“Baz, I never said that, and you shouldn’t say that either. You’re not… You’re disabled.”

I shouldn’t have talked about the damn cane. We’ve had this argument so many times. How many more times will we have it? It feels useless…

“I’m also the one who’s living in my body. So I know how I’m feeling. And how I’m feeling is fine. I’m not fucking stupid, alright? Besides, I have a doctor checking in on me. You know, someone with actual proficiency in the medical field. If she says I can go on as I am, then I can go on as I am,” he answers in a cold, biting voice.

I throw my hands up in the air. “Well, sorry for worrying about you! Really, how dare I care about your health!”

“You’re my boyfriend not my mum. I don’t need you… fussing over me like I’m a stupid kid who needs an adult to take care of him.”

“Fuck off, Baz. Seriously. You’re being a dick for no reason.”

“I’m just so fucking sick of you treating me like a fragile little thing because of that damn leg! I’m not incapable!”

“I don’t… Oh, you know what, I don’t even want to argue anymore. It’s useless,” I say, shaking my head.

Then, in a very mature gesture, I turn to the side to have my back on him, my eyes staring out the window stubbornly.

He turns on the radio. That means no more talking.

…oops

[winniethewife]

Believe in one thing, I won't go away

(Basil Stitt x Reader)

Chapter 2: I couldn't love you any better

Warning: angst, Nude shower scene, making out, Oral sex (f!reciving)

Minors DNI

Chapter 1

Words: 1080

Over the next week they seemed to just cohabitate, barely talking, barely able to figure out what to say to the other. Until finally one day Basil had enough. He sat next to her on the couch, tears already coming to his eyes.

“If you never left that day… it wouldn’t have happened. If you didn’t agree to move out here…” “Basil…you can’t change the past, this happened and there’s nothing we can do to change that okay?” she says softly not looking at him. He moves closer to her and gently takes her chin in his hand.

“Do you want out of this? I still want to love you, every day, like we promised, I still want…Us, but if you… if you don’t.” He was staring to sob as he looked into her eyes, he was trying everything to keep himself together but was failing miserably.

“Of course not…Basil you’ve been my best friend since the second grade. I’m not going anywhere. I just don’t know, how to deal with this. I’ve never cared about my looks, I’ll get over the scars. But…” She deeply and relaxes into him seeking the comfort of his shoulder. “I don’t know how to deal with…what happened to me. I don’t know…How to live with myself as someone who…was assaulted.” She feels the tears come to her eyes.

“Oh…My love…I’m gutted…you mean everything to me. What happened to you…it’s not your fault.” Basil said with a whimper in his voice, his own tears still flowing. Running his fingers through her hair and pulled her in closer. wrapping his arm around her “I don’t think any less of you because of what happened, and I’ll be here for you every step of the way, just like you are for me. We have each other…that’s all that matters.”

“Thanks Baz…I love you…you know that right?” She says quietly as she plays gently with his hand, He smiles softly and buried his face in her soft hair.

“I do now…I love you too....You know that?”

“I do now.”

~

She stares in the mirror. Over the last month she has gotten more used to the change in her appearance, it doesn’t quite haunt her like it did at first. Basil slides into the bathroom behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist and leans in to kiss her neck softly. A small smile graces her face. This was pretty routine for them at this point, waking up in the morning side by side, she’ll get up first to get ready for her work from home position, He’ll follow her into the bathroom and they’ll take shower together.

“Morning Baz, Sleep okay?” She asks her voice groggy with sleep, her hands running along his arms on her hips. He lets out an affirmative sound as he nuzzles into the crook of her neck her scent filling his senses. They stand for a minute just enjoying each other’s company, before they strip out of their Pajamas and step into the shower.

Basil was always slightly in awe whenever they got in the shower like this, getting to see her like this, every day? He might as well be the luckiest man alive. His hands running along her soft skin, caressing her breast gently, just being close to her as the hot water beats down on their bodies, washing away their worries. Her lips meet his and they share a gentle kiss, he licks into her mouth wanting to feel every inch of her love for him, their tongues tangle in an embrace that had become familiar over time. Basil wrapping his arms around her naked form. A soft moan escapes her lips as he pulls her in closer, deepening the kiss. Basil lifts his hand and holds the back of her head, weaving his fingers in her hair as he does so, letting out a sigh as he finds satisfaction in this moment. After a moment he pulls away and looks into her eyes, and all he can think is how grateful he is that he called her that day, after everything had happened. He softly touches his forehead to hers smiling, holding her for just another moment before they get clean.

~

That evening she was making dinner when Basil surprised her from behind with a soft growl and his arms around her waist.

“Fuck… I love you. You feel amazing, you are amazing…” Basil starts to nip at her neck, a smile on her face.

“Baz do you want dinner or do you want to get in my pants?”

“Can I get both?” He asks with a chuckle. “Come on…My love. I need this. I need you.” He mumbles against her skin, his hands drifting from her waist into the waistband of her jeans, tugging at her underwear.

“Basil, Baby please. I’m trying to make food. You can wait long enough…”

“No I can’t I need you now…” He gets on the floor and surprised her further by pulling down her pants and shoving his head between her thighs. Licking a stripe up her pussy, drawing a shocked gasp from her lips.

“Basil!” She holds onto the counter beside her trying desperately to stay upright as he eats her like a man starved, he was moaning softly, whimpering into her folds. She reaches to turn off the stove, the food was done anyway but Basil apparently really couldn’t wait. Basil’s tongue was moving in and out of her, his fingers rubbing her clit in quick circles as he continues to make the most pathetic and lewd sounds into her, her own breathing gets heavy and she moans.

“Baby…Fuck… I’m close…” She pants as he nips at her rubbing her clit harder, wanting to feel her release on his face. Her knuckles go white as she holds tight to the counter as the waves of pleasure crash over her. Her mouth open in a silent scream as Basil licks up every bit of her release, still whimpering into her folds. As he stands up he pulls up her pants and turns her to face him. She laughs.

“You’re a mess Baz.” She says grabbing a kitchen towel and gently wiping his face as he gives her a cheeky grin.

“I’ll be a mess for you any time.” He leans in and kisses her. The taste of her still on him. It didn’t matter anymore what they looked like, they loved each other Just as they are.

~

Masterlist

Next chapter

[aristocratic-otter]

Hey y’all. It’s been a rough month, so thank you to all of you who keep tagging me in spite of my silence. And for those of you waiting for new chapters to one of my WIPs, please forgive me. The good news is, I have a week off of work, and I’ll be able to put out new chapters of at least two of my WIPs, as well as the first post from one of those below that you haven’t seen. So stay tuned!

Thank you to : @thewholelemon, @youarenevertooold, @nausikaaa, @wellbelesbian, @cutestkilla, @monbons, @artsyunderstudy, @ileadacharmedlife, @hushed-chorus, @prettygoododds, @whatevertheweather, @angelsfalling16, @noblecorgi, @ic3-que3n, @bookish-bogwitch, @thewholelemon, @alexalexinii, @you-remind-me-of-the-babe,and @blackberrysummerblog for the tags over the last several weeks. 

On to the snippets!

From Saving Simon Snow: (slightly more than six sentences)

I don’t know what I expect when I look at him. Recriminations about my family? I’d deserve them. My father and aunt have been vicious and abusive towards my now-husband. I’ll never be done making that up to him. Or maybe he wants to actually talk about the events of the day? Yesterday, I mean, since the clock has clearly ticked over into a new day.

Whatever I expected, it wasn’t Simon’s blue eyes intensely boring into mine as he says, “Can I kiss you?”

From the Heart in the Well

“You–” I start, and my voice is a croak. I swallow, despite my horror at the liquid still laying on my tongue. I try again. “How could you?”

Simon looks apologetic, but his chin is jutting up nonetheless. “Baz, you needed it—” he begins. 

“You’ve made me into a monster!” I cry. 

From Snow Fox–nothing new this week. I'm researching my next chapter at the moment.

From TikTok Dancer: 

Normally, by now I’d be giving coy glances to my chosen partner of the night. I like to have made my choice at least an hour before we quit for the day, so I can make my interest known. It’s a bit of a dance in itself, this small courtship. 

Tonight, unless I find the courage to approach Baz again—why do I even remember his name? Most of the time I forget their names minutes after they say them—I’ll be going to bed without any release. Because nobody in the crowd has drawn my eyes today, despite several pretty people making eyes at me. 

I’ve only got eyes for Baz.

I don’t understand this.

From Stars, Flowers, and Children,

One of the tools we rescued from the ship before it sank was a hand axe, and it’s honestly been worth it’s weight in gold. Half the building I’ve done in the last few years would have been impossible without it. I don’t need Davy’s voice in my head growling, “you break those tools, boy, I’ll break you.” I’m constantly aware of the fragility of the life we’ve built here. If I break an axe…no more building out of wood. If the island suffers a dry year, no fruit on our plates. If one of us gets sick…no doctors

From Cupid’s Shield:

My aunt Fiona loves recounting the time he showed up at Watford’s Valentine ball when she was a fourth year. She wasn’t old enough to attend, but she’d snuck into a secret passage that passed the ballroom to spy on her friends, who were fifteen because their birthday (they were twins apparently) was just before the deadline to attend. Reading between the lines, I think Fi was sweet on one of the pair and wanted to make sure he wasn’t making time with some other girl at the ball. 

According to my Aunt, Cupid just materialized in midair beneath the great chandelier, and, with a wicked grin, began shooting incorporeal arrows at every mage in sight. Fiona took great pleasure in recounting just who was compelled into snogging their sworn enemies or the girlfriends/ boyfriends of their best friends. Apparently the event was a source of endless drama over the next several months, and my aunt lives for that shit. 

Of course, my aunts’ maybe-boyfriend escaped unscathed, or I think she wouldn’t have found the whole thing so amusing.

From my COBB project:

“Director,” I say, “It’s good to see you.”

“And it’s wonderful to see you, my boy. In fact, your return just at this time could not have been more fortuitous.”

I know all too well what that means. My heart sinks into my shoes. I just got back…I haven’t even unpacked yet…

“Sir?” I question, directing every fibre of my being towards hoping the director is not about to say what I think he’s about to say. Of course, I’m not that lucky.

“We have a situation, Simon,” he says, letting his face fall into graver lines. 

Tagging: @chen-chen-chen-again-chen, @bazzybelle, @dragoneggos, @erzbethluna, @palimpsessed, @frjsti, @fatalfangirl, @letraspal, @martsonmars, @melodysmash, @moments-au-crayon22, @moodandmist, @mostlymaudlin, @onepintobean, @raenestee, @tea-brigade, @thehoneyedhufflepuff, @upuntil6am, @whogaveyoupermission, @messofthejess, @carryonsimoncarryonbaz, @krisrix, @shemakesmeforget, @larkral, @confused-bi-queer, @rimeswithpurple, and @mooncello, @theearlgreymage, @j-nipper-95, @facewithoutheart, @best--dress, @nightimedreamersghost

[sailorblossoms-snowbaz]

Simon chooses Baz

Bears repeating the extent to which Simon didn't think or process, and thus didn't make choices. He's used to being angry or sad (anger being the one big emotion he's grown sort of "comfortable" with so he defaults to that when faced with other big emotions, such as a homosexual longing or an infuriating troublemaking roommate) but doesn't want to examine the source of those emotions. He's very observant – a lot enters his radar – but his traumatic upbringing makes it so he's used to "hiding everything away in boxes," waiting until he has the tools to figure out what that information means... but it's harder to get there if he avoids processing. This avoidance results in him essentially relinquishing control of his life – he relies on expectations and other people to dictate his life (having roles, instructions, a mission or a map). He has a generally idea of what he wants: he wants to be happy, to have a place in the world – Watford has a place for him, and so it's a place that makes him happy... but outside of that, he doesn't know what he wants. How can he know what might actually make him happy if he refuses to process even the smallest things?...

He relies on everyone else to choose so he doesn't have to.

Even Watford, a place that makes him happy... practically every part of the way he exists in that place is dictated by others. The mage gave him a role and controls Simon's relationship with the world of mages – Simon does and thinks what he's told. Even fighting, which is the one situation where Simon is relying on himself... he's fighting in the way the mage has taught him, and the fact that he even fights at all He relies on Penny to make decisions about everything else in his life – he doesn't even want to make choices about his own clothes (liking that Watford has uniforms and hoping Penny might dress him after school is over). He dates because he's expected to with the kind of person he's been conditioned to believe he would want, which is still not wanting (the genuine want comes from feelings of neglect and inadequacy, of wanting to be like her, and not actually wanting her). And when he dates? everything about the way things go down on the page indicates that he relies on Agatha to make all the choices, too. I'll keep bringing this up because the way people interpret/portray these two has been the most constant source of frustration and disappointment for me: she sets the pace. Part of challenging heteronormativity in these books is that typical expectations of boys and girls explain how Agatha and Simon find themselves dating, but don't actually fit them (I never find anyone doubting Agatha's "I don't want to be here" vibe, but the shit I have seen simply because Simon is a boy, even though he gives the same "I don't wanna be here" vibes, and gives you even more to work with because he has more pages...). Even when he feels like he wants to break up (but hasn't processed enough to identify this like this), he waits until Agatha makes the choice for both of them ("The endgame is when happiness starts" he basically says, implying he hasn't been happy with her, "I waited until Agatha gave up on me" implying he was expecting that to come, among other things... it's not an example of Simon's resilience and fighting spirit, no matter what Simon might think, but of his refusal to make choices for himself, which requires processing) (iirc I have posted about this, it really does require it own post)

Then there's Baz...

Even the way Simon is meant to perceive and engage with Baz has been decided for him, but with Baz, Simon starts to want... little by little, he breaks out of the structure, until he has no choice but to choose.

Simon tries to structure his life with lists, but Baz defies all structure: Simon tells (without telling you, he's a very "show no tell" person) that he misses Baz more than anything he mentions in his "things I like and miss about Watford" (way before he specifically says "I missed him so much every summer") because he keeps thinking about him way before he even brings the list (even in life or death situations, where you expect his mind to go to Penny, his partner in crime... there's Baz. What would Baz do, and Baz is so competent and pretty etc). Baz is there before the list, but he also interrupts it with him, which is also a sign of how his feelings for him can't be contained (way before he specifically expresses he feels like his body is not big enough to contain his feelings for Baz).

He has been told how Baz should be defined in his life (nemesis) but Simon never truly defines him himself until he's asking Baz to be boyfriends ("I want to be your terrible boyfriend"). He resists Penny referring to Baz as "his sworn enemy" ("I didn't swear anything" could sound like he's blaming Baz, but his instinct here is to downplay the perception that Baz is his enemy for real – an instinct that persists whenever Baz tries to refer to himself that way, too.

Simon can't stay away from Baz. Even when he says he is, he isn't. He just varies the intensity with which he follows Baz everywhere – it's painful to be so close (yet so far) but to be completely away from him is more painful. He explains it with the tools he has been given, but the truth is that he just wants to spend time with Baz, to be part of his life and his hobbies. He wants to watch Baz play football. He wants to listen to Baz's music. When something is important for Baz, Simon wants to be there. He wants to know what Baz is up to ("is he plotting?" ... is he thinking about Simon as much as Simon thinks about him?). In that sense, the time Simon spends following Baz everywhere is Simon doing what he wants. It's the one aspect in his life when he's choosing something – no one expects him to be following Baz everywhere all them time, and yet... one might say he's even discouraged from doing this, and yet... (I mean, he's using the time one might dedicate to pursue their own hobbies simply to watch Baz...)

Baz knows what he wants, but he won't choose. He won't dare make the choice that would make him happy – his own traumas stop him. Simon chooses before he figures out what he wants – he figures it out on the go. If he can't help following Baz everywhere because he wants to be part of his life, if he misses Baz terribly when he's not actually rooming with him, what would life be without Baz at all? Before this point, there have been multiple signs indicating Simon that he wants Baz. He has had a taste of being without him, not knowing what happened at all. The certainty of losing him forever is the biggest detonator there is – going against years of conditioning, of not making decisions for himself and by himself, of conforming to roles and expectations, of not processing... Later, he says "I've lost everything but I still have Baz, so I still feel like I've got the better end of the deal." As long as Baz is here... that's Simons' choice.

[moon-blanket]

Okay hi david. i'm back, i'm on my knees and ready to listen to what you have to say :)) You have my full attention babygirl.

Omg did Asher make Angel into a Trekkie LMAO.

He's spacing out and worried and just wants to be next to Angel :(( I'm going to scream and sob.

HEAD IN LAP !!!!! NOW THIS IS WHAT I AM TALKING ABOUT !!!! I bet he looks So pretty. PLAYING WITH HIS HAIR !!!! WOOOOO !!!!!! Anything for my man. Anything.

----

A vampire from the House of Wright pulled David aside before the negotiation with Baz warning him about being associated with William. And the implications of what it could mean, even if there isn't anything Formal connecting the two (Darlin' and Sam being the only Real connection, as with the Quinn situation). What the Fuck !

Apparently William has a long history of surrounding himself with "less-than-stellar" people, and covering them at Length-- even if it causes harm to innocents. Is Porter one of these people ? The House of Bennett ?

But David's right, they've made a Name for themselves in Dahlia. To make it seem like House of Solaire has recently put the pack in his Pocket could spell out trouble to others. Especially after the Summit, with the House tearing at the seams.

But Vincent and Sam are still people the Pack cares about. Oh my god, Word's gotten around about Sam not considering himself to be a Solaire much longer. I thought he was going to mention Sam's choice of not living forever. I was a little worried. But Honestly ? I don't blame the guy for wanting to leave.

----

Sweetheart HAS been assigned the CloseKnit case ! That's something ! Potential Sweetheart/Milo convergence in The Balance is still on the table ! Uhoh !

David can't do much to Help them in an Official Capacity-- his only connections are for Information. And he's running out of Favors to use on Action for it, they swung big to make sure Quinn was taken care of properly for Darlin' and Sam And if he could do it over again, he would still burn the bridges he did to make sure they got Justice. I Will Cry.

----

So he just feels stuck about what to do, and he can't help anyone the way he wants :(

Even people with Magic lead boring, mundane lives-- he didn't think he'd see any of the craziness he has in the last few years. Even his dad was just a Normal Guy who ran a business, he didn't have to experience horrors right after the other-- even if he still worked his ass off for his pack and his family.

Yet David still wonders what his dad would do in situations like this :(((

HEY. I'm hoping that glitch on the word "Inversion" was Just an Audio Error !! And it didn't mean anything scary or suspicious !! Because he mentioned it earlier and it Wasn't like that !!! Please don't be mean Erik !!

And he asks how Angel is doing :(( Knowing that they're wrapped up in all of this, but still are between two entirely different worlds and can feel just as much as an outsider.

And he knows that they tend to put themselves on the back-burner for David when it comes to all of these Big Events they've experienced :((

They feel Tired after everything :(( me too Angel. David letting them know it's okay to feel it Together, and it's okay to have limits. He'll never ask them to put their own feelings aside. He wants them BOTH to be open and honest with everything they're feeling and experiencing--so they can carry each other's burdens and be a team :((( Weeping into a pillow forever about these two.

Asher's been trying to get David into Star Trek, so it's Angel's turn to try and get him into it :') Shaw Pack what if i just laid on a country road about it.

Give these two a Break !! Even when they go on vacations they're still in charge and constantly planning things !! Give them a REAL break !!!

[sucrosette]

★— ⋆｡˚ [Losing Myself In Simon Snow]

For Day 23 of Carry on Countdown 23, Bite. @carryon-countdown

On Simon Snow and Baz Pitch and their respective sets of teeth finding their way into each other's bodies.

Rated M for... this being what it is (the precursor to smut).

⋆｡˚

Simon bites a lot.

Between the two of us, you’d expect the vampire to be the one that bites a lot, but no. That honor goes to the dragon winged boy with the prehensile and overly sensitive tail.

When we’re kissing, he tugs my lips between his teeth, nips at them till they’re sore. He’ll trail more nips and bites overy jaw and down my neck and over my shoulders until I’m so worked up and frustrated, I pin him beneath me, just to keep his teeth from digging in more. I mean, other things follow, but it starts with stopping Simon from assaulting me with his teeth.

When he’s been worked up into a bluster— my fault, almost with one hundred percent certainty, I know— he bites. He latches onto my forearm or pec and digs in for dear life until I give in and stop teasing him for some small thing or another. Even if I think he’s cute when he’s all red in the face and annoyed with me.

I do, by the way, always think he’s cute.

When he’s embarrassed, he steals my hand to hold, inevitably using me as a sort of shield from whatever thing’s embarrassing him. I’ll talk us out of the situation and walk us away and then somehow my hand will end up in his mouth and he’ll be chewing on my palm like some sort of stimtoy. I don’t bother to stop him. It’s silly, sure, and it feels odd, but I don’t mind if it helps calm him.

When he’s angry, he doesn’t quite bite. He’ll snap his jaw at whatever or whomever has him fuming, but he never actually finds purchase to bite. I can feel it in him though, the urge to snap back with something more instinctual than sharp words and mean looks. Sometimes it’s at me, though I like to think that I give Simon less cause to be angry than I once did, but even though I always let him, he never bites me when he’s fuming at me. He doesn’t want to actually hurt me, sweet thing that he is.

Sometimes I wonder if it’s because I don’t bite him. It is mostly in teasing and play and definitely intended to get a reaction out of me, so it could be that. I mentioned the thought to Bunce once and she kindly asked me to never mention it again, or else she’d evaporate out of existence.

I’ll stick with Shakespeare and familial magicks. At least that much is safe to talk about with Penny, as much as the psychology of Simon is also a shared interest of ours. Apparently the interest doesn’t extend to all facets of Simon, and his biting habits are just a boundary she won’t cross.

It’s fair enough, I suppose.

Maybe I need more friends so I can have more perspectives on what might be normal or not. Vampire friends, maybe, though I admit that I’ve had relatively bad luck with those.

I think a part of it might be the whole “well if you won’t bite me, I’ll have to bite you” attitude he’s got going on. A sort of petty revenge, or maybe it’s some kind of way to egg me into doing it. That’s not to say I haven’t thought about biting him. I’ve thought about it too much, honestly. Every time his heart skips a beat when we kiss, every time we’re nestled together in sleep and my nose is buried against his neck, every time his pulse is thrumming with effort when he’s wrapped around me, every time I bend to kiss his wrist…

I think about it too much.

He undoes me, my Simon. Takes every decision I’ve ever made and throws it out the window, makes an exception of himself in my life at every turn.

But not on this. At least, not yet.

I’m getting weaker in my resolve against it, and I think Simon knows, because he’s tripling down on the biting lately. Coffee’s gone cold? A bite. Remote’s gone missing? A bite. I changed the wifi password? Several bites. I had a good reason for it, but no, there was no forgiveness, only teeth.

He’s in my lap and he’s kissing me hard, shoved me back against the couch like he’s desperate for it, and he is. His tongue is everywhere, my lips are already sore from his teeth, his hands are hot under my shirt and I don’t even know what I did to get him worked up like this.

I’m not about to stop him though. “You make me come undone, Simon Snow,” I breath against his lips and he moans into our kiss, “You make me feel insane.”

“Show me,” He half-demands, half-begs as his kisses start wandering. His lips feel like fire against my collarbone and I can hear the thundering of his heart. “Show me how insane I make you…”

I’ve spoiled him, I know I have. I give him everything he wants, I give into his every demand, but there’s no going back on it now. I don’t regret doing it either. I love giving Simon everything I can, he’s so hungry for it, swallows it all down like he was made for me, asks me for more.

I’m kissing him still and he tugs at my lips, asking for a deeper kiss while he grinds over me, and I give it to him. I let my tongue trace the roof of his mouth and the heat of his tongue, and when I pull back I tug on his lips in turn. I give him just the barest taste of my teeth.

He nearly collapses on top of me.

“Simon?”

He leans up on his elbow, biting into his own lip over where my teeth had just been. He bites hard enough to make himself bleed. I don’t think he’d intended that, but he did it all the same. “You used teeth.”

I don’t think he can even taste his own blood he’s so caught up in the thought.

It’s a moral thing. I want to live my life with Simon Snow. If I drink human, I become more inhuman, I live forever, blah blah blah. I’ve thought about it. I’ve thought about it too sodding much.

There is a drop of blood growing on Simon Snow’s lips.

I’m not thinking about it when my tongue darts out of it’s own accord and laps over the bite. I’m not thinking about it as that droplet runs over my tongue and back down my throat. I’m not thinking about it as I feel Simon start to run through my veins, as his taste fills my mouth.

The only thing I’m thinking about is that taste, that savory-sweet taste. It’s not like the blood I normally drink, but it is blood. It’s not like anything else I’ve ever tasted. I can’t find the words to describe it, and that would probably shock Simon more than the fact that I’d used teeth in the first place. I don’t stop to think about it.

I capture his split lip between mine and suck over it hard, tongue laving over it as I drink from him, letting myself linger in the flavour that is uniquely Simon Snow’s. I drink from that little wound until it’s given me all it can, and it’s not nearly enough, and in the same breath it’s entirely too much.

I didn’t even realize I’d flipped at some point in the process. My hands are poised on Simon’s shoulders, keeping him pinned down under me, my kisses turning tender over that small sore.

“You used teeth,” Simon says again as I lean off of him enough to regain myself.

I’m trying to think about my breathing, bring myself back to calm, but my veins are alight with Simon running through them. I’m thrumming with him. “I used teeth,” I manage to echo back.

“Do it again,” Simon asks, his hands finding their way back under my shirt, and I almost shake my head, denying us both.

But why not?

I’m already not thinking. I can’t think of a single reason why not.

I’m already pulling one of his hands away from my abdomen, letting the other linger there while I caress his palm against my cheek, against my lips, teasing the sharp edge of fang against it, lapping over the lines of his palm, tasting his sweat.

I am not thinking.

I am breathing Simon, tasting Simon, bleeding Simon.

And I want more.

I lay the tenderest of kisses against his wrist, feeling the pulse of it against my lips, thin, sensitive skin against thin, sensitive skin. “Do it again?” My voice comes out harsher than intended, giving me away entirely.

“Do it again,” Simon confirms. His eyes are fixed to mine, watching me lose myself in the sensations of him.

I don’t mind. I trust him. He trusts me. He wants it just as much as I do.

My fangs sink in against his wrist and he gasps like he’s forgotten how to breathe while I drink from him. Maybe he has. Maybe with both have.

I’m drinking from Simon Snow. I’m losing myself in Simon Snow. I’ve never felt more alive. I’ve never felt more dangerous. I could live on this, I think. He’d let me.

I might be addicted already.

He’s writhing under me when I pull off his wrist, and I must look some kind of way, but I can’t begin to imagine how. I keep kissing his wrist, licking up stray droplets, even as his nails dig into the soft underside of my jaw, begging my attention properly.

“Again,” He whines, and it is a proper whine.

I haven’t taken much for myself. I know I could.

I smirk down at him. “Later,” my words filter back in clearer, and I think I can see the details of him that much sharper, “I have other ways I want to eat you tonight, Simon Snow.”

[prettygoododds]

Thanks @thewholelemon for the tag

I’m panicking a bit because I just realized posting for COC starts tomorrow and I have definitely not gotten enough prompts done nor have I worked on my other two wip. Ive instead stared at my laptop wishing the thoughts in my head would magically turn into pretty words without me doing anything. And that’s not happening so cue the panic

Anywho, a few words did make it to paper ( or the screen… whatever). Here’s some for Sugar, We’re Going Down Swingin

“Could one of you storm out and threaten to never play on the ice with one of us again?,” Simon jokes, giving me a wink before continuing on. “Baz had a full on meltdown on the way here and we need to justify it.”

“Shove off,” I tell him, and literally shove him into the closest lockers. He rights himself too fast and is up and pulling me to him by my waist before I can protest. I look around nervously, wondering where the line is. Is this it? A elongated hug maybe? Pecks on the cheek?

“Relax, babe,” Simon whispers in my ear. “They don’t care. And if they did.. I’d beat them up.”

I laugh even though I’m pretty sure he didn’t mean it as a joke.

And a little snippet of the COC prompt I’m working on

“You gonna tell me how you got a split lip?” He asks me, looking anywhere but at me. His long, black hair is piled up on top of his head. Looks like a birds nest, but I can’t stop staring at it.

“I didn’t start it, if that’s what you’re asking,” I say. He just hums in response, taking another bit of his sandwich. “I also didn't end it.”

That finally makes him look at me.

“Oh?”

“I told you, I don’t want to blow the sweet gig I have a picking up rubbish with some posh twat,” I tell him. He looks skeptical. I bump his knee with mine and continue. “Used my words instead.”

“And they say you can’t teach an old dog new trick.”

“He did get one hit in, wouldn’t say it was a complete success.”

And that’s all she wrote. Literally.

**EDIT** I’ve just been informed by @dohrnaira and @rimeswithpurple that posting doesn’t start until Saturday. Imma a dork

Tags: @ic3-que3n @dohrnaira @facewithoutheart @artsyunderstudy @imagineacoolusername @shemakesmeforget @ivelovedhimthroughworse @ionlydrinkhotwater @wellbelesbian @rimeswithpurple @aristocratic-otter @cutestkilla @blackberrysummerblog @nausikaaa @supercutedinosaurs @nightimedreamersworld @valeffelees @iamamythologicalcreature @shrekgogurt @ileadacharmedlife @martsonmars @you-remind-me-of-the-babe

[facewithoutheart]

More reasons why I love Wayward Son: it’s easy for people who haven’t been through trauma to assume that enduring is the hard part. Shit; that part’s easy. Humans are hard-wired to endure.

What is hard is putting back on the soiled and ugly and broken shell of ourselves. Re-inhabiting the spaces we once abandoned. To embrace, once more, our name, and consider everything we lost trying to survive.

Because we all give up something to survive.

And remembering ourselves means admitting it. It means looking in the mirror and saying: you’ll never be who you used to be. Who you could have been.

And sometimes that means feeling broken. And useless. And less.

And it reminds me what my husband once said. I wrote it down, if you can believe that. Edited it a bit for this purpose, but. Anyway. Props to Mr Face for this lesson.

“I couldn’t say it last night—I was embarrassed.”

“Embarrassed?”

“Yes—embarrassed to admit that I’m broken. That I’m afraid I’ll only ever be broken.”

He didn’t answer immediately and she let him have that space.

Finally, he said: “I can imagine being sad, or depressed, or scared because of that. But not embarrassed. What do you have to be embarrassed by? You’ve had experiences other people haven’t had. They’re bad experiences, sure, but they taught you something. They allow you to see things in a way no one else does.”

As he spoke, she thought back to her therapist’s words. The exercise she had conducted, turning the bad into good. Reclaiming her narrative.

“No,” he said. “I don’t think you’re broken at all.”

He didn’t say the word but it hung in the air. Stronger. She didn’t feel it—yet. Instead, she felt hope. Hope that one day she’d feel stronger.

“That’s the kindest thing anyone’s ever said to me,” she said.

And then she did feel something even stronger. Love.

To me, this is Wayward Son, and the reason it means so much to me. Because loving this book meant loving the parts of myself that felt broken, sure. But more importantly: it meant loving my husband for loving me, when I couldn’t. Because that’s what Baz does. Wayward Son is Baz’s enduring. For Simon.

Because he was worth it.

[chen-chen-chen-again-chen]

Things about AWTWB that I forgot about or just noticed for the first time, upon a recent re-listen:

Lady Ruth as an unreliable narrator: “I’m not one to hold grudges” but next page “I would dance on his grave and throw a fiesta and then resurrect him so I could kill him again” (My poor paraphrase) 

Baz, about vampires: “They’re less like murderers - more like sexy bedbugs” 

Baz, about Petra and Sophie: “I thought twins were supposed to be best friends, but all they do is eat jam and butter sandwiches and throw things at each other" (Me, adding to my Jelly Babies notes folder: “Yup, that tracks”)  

Simon (about Baz): “I mean, have a look at him. He’s the most fuckable person alive. Or otherwise” (#facts)

Dev is a PITCH cousin, not a GRIMM fuck me why did I think he was a Grimm sljk;dskljdskjldsaljks

The door knocker for Salisbury House is shaped like a SMILING CYCLOPS (adding to my Rosethorn girl notes folder) 

Simon, to Baz: “I’m not letting you fuck with my face. Although I’m starting to get the feeling you really want to.” Oh-okay, horny boi 

Simon notes like three times in three pages that Smith Smith-Richards is fit like hmmmmmm-kay

Every time Smith Smith-Richards mentions Simon: "I'm not jealous okay I'm a little jealous how is he so hot" they're a li'l mutual admiration club

Simon, to Baz: “I can get one of those poles” (clothes racks) but because of Yuri on Ice!!, my brain went “pole-dancing Simon Snow??” 

Shepherd holds the secret key to being magic even when you don’t speak magic: “The world is magic, and I’m a part of the world.” 

THE GRIMM KIDS HAVE A DOG: “a Tibetan mastiff that they bought when they moved to Oxford.” (In my head canon this dog is named Amblewise, or another name from this list of medieval dog names, THANK YOU GOOD NIGHT)

I continue to have Complicated Feelings about Malcolm Grimm but he is So Soft for Daphne: “He treats her with as much polite tenderness as ever. He dotes on her, in his way. Caters to her every whim without making a show of it.” 

JAMIE knew about the Goats of Watford when none of the folks who actually went to Watford did, besides Niamh, like JKASDJKLDSAJKLSADKLJADSKLADSKLJADSKJL UNCLE JAMBY FOR THE WIN

Penelope Bunce is a Fucking Queen: “Being comforting isn’t one of my core competencies. Breaking people out of towers is.” 

Pippa Stainton is a Goddamn Empress: “I don’t forgive you. I never want to see you again. Tell Simon I say thank you.” 

Simon and Jamie get fucking KFC in a stolen van after the hullabaloo with Smith-Richards and if that’s not nephew-uncle bonding at its finest, I don’t what is 

Miss Christie, the school nurse, is the only person (I think) who basically says to Simon, “I’m sorry for your loss” instead of “The Mage was a flaming sack of shit” 

I’m not crazy… Penny really is a year younger than the rest of them (thought I was mixing this up with Hermione)

LUCY also started Watford a year early fsalkjsadsjlkfsdljkdfs (now I have to go back and fix my timelines for Rosethorn girl, FUCK) 

Just like Lady Ruth, Mitali hoped that Lucy would come out of hiding after the Mage died (just stab me harder in the heart, Rainbow)

I DO really want a fic of bisexual Martin Bunce making bread; I feel like our core competencies overlap in many ways

There are magical swans in Oxford. I bet they r gay

Simon cries when Baz plays the violin 

They're all good dogs, Bront. 16/10 will listen to this audiobook again for like..... the sixth time