#forward as fuck simon and basil

[sucrosette]

★— ⋆｡˚ [04. A Life as a Writer (and a Barista)]

For Day 21 of Carry on Countdown 23, Begin Again. @carryon-countdown

Basil is a writer in dire need of a starting line. But where the bloody hell is he going to find it?

Rated T for Basil being a Smut Author and Simon being a Smut Enthusiast.

This is a series of snapshots of different Simon Snows and Baz Pitches in the greater multiverse. You can find the other "lives" here: [Day 3: Alternate Universe][Day 19: Sci-Fi][Day 20: Flowers]

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The hardest part of starting a love story, or any story really, is the bloody first line. No matter the environment, the characters, the whole setting, that first bloody line’s always the hardest. Basil’s been sitting on this one for three and a half weeks now. He’s been in bars, dive bars and class acts both, libraries, cafes, parks, even secluded little psychic shops. Nothing seemed to do the trick though. Basil’s remained just as wordless as ever, no matter where he goes.

Lately, though, he’s been haunting this one cafe in particular, with a little disaster of a barista and, he thinks, baker. He hasn’t actually been here early enough to see whether Simon does more than put the pastries out, but he’s always got a bit of a flour smear on his cheeks and his apron’s always a bit of a mess and it just sort of adds up to him being a baker, at least as far as Basil can tell.

He wouldn’t actually know, he’s never been a baker.

Right now, he’s not looking to be much of a writer either. He’s got to at least start this thing. Basil’s got a deal and everything, publishers and editors and such waiting on him. He pitched a damn good plot too and had a decent cast of characters. Now he just had… to bloody do something with it.

Resorting to staring down his empty document just seemed the obvious ‘something’ to do. The cursor blinked threateningly back at him. The cursor was unfortunately, undeniably winning.

Another cup of coffee slides itself in front of Basil, the prior empty one skillfully whisked away to Simon’s tray of dirty dishes. “Still no luck on your start?”

“Don’t tell me you’ve noticed,” Baz groans at the barista, glancing over to him out of the corner of his eyes and sipping his coffee even despite the apparent call-out.

“You’ve been in here every day for the last week,” Simon shrugs, “That doc remains as blank as when you came in the first day.”

“And the coffee?”

“Two hour mark.”

“Well, thank you then,” Baz says with another long spit of coffee, “I just don’t know where to start.”

Simon looks around the cafe, seeing it all but empty except for Basil, and plops himself down across from the struggling writer. “Well, what is it you’re actually trying to start?”

“It’s…” Basil pauses for a moment, assessing Simon with a little more scrutiny before shrugging. He worked in a cafe, there was only so much straight in anyone who works in a cafe, “It’s a romance. I’ve a contract. It’s a supernatural, enemies-to-lovers, witches and werewolves story with all the bells and whistles and underlying fairy tale elements except it’s a bit more future based than middle ages based. Oh, and they’re gay, but you probably could’ve guessed that.”

Simon blinks. “I still have no idea what that’s about.”

“Ah,” Baz lets out an awkward little laugh, “I can give you the proper pitch? I’ve got it all outlined, mostly, it’s just starting it.”

“You got a contract without a manuscript?”

“It’s a sequel, sort of. Like. Same verse, different characters. So yeah, I’ve a contract,” Baz confirms, “I just need to get it rolling.”

“Well, what’s the first one?” Simon asks, precious and innocent.

Basil sighs, supposing if he’s this far in he may as well unmask himself, hopefully Simon just didn’t know what the book was. “Prince of the Drowned.”

“Oh my god,” Simon leans over onto the table and closer to Basil, “That was so smutty… you look so respectable though.”

“Thank you? I think,” Baz snorts out a small laugh. “I guess there goes any hope of you not knowing who I am.”

“I’m not sorry. In fact I might be a little too proud. I don’t read a lot, but that book was hot. So is your next protagonist as much a rake as the last?” Simon, apparently, knows all the romance tropes.

“Well, not as much,” Baz wavers his hand a little bit, “This one’s more a like. Life-long obsession come to fruition sort of vibe. Unhealthy attachment, codependency in all the wrong ways, probably some sick and twisted fantasy fulfillment. You know, not exactly ‘clean’ stuff.”

“Ohh~” Simon bites his lip as the door opens to a new customer, “Okay I’m getting this, but I say start it with a fight. If they’re going to be messy like that, start it with a nasty fight.”

Basil takes a moment as Simon walks away, thinking it over. It works with his rough outline and it fits the vibe. Thank you, random cafe boy, you have truly helped a drowning man out. He puts the first words to page.

And ends up writing three thousand words in a single sitting. It’s a start, he might change it later. He might scrap it entirely later, or put it somewhere else in the novel, or in a different novel altogether, but it’s a start, and that’s better off than he’s been in over a week.

He doesn’t leave without Simon checking in again. “Hey, you’ve got words,” Simon half-sings from over Baz’s shoulder, and Baz immediately tabs away from his work.

“I do,” Baz twists in his seat to look at Simon properly, “And no spoilers for you.”

“That filthy already?” Simon teases and Basil only shrugs.

“Suppose you’ll have to read and find out, won’t you?” Baz smirks a little bit at Simon’s obvious curiosity, “Since you’re obviously a fan and all.”

Simon sighs, “If I bring my book in tomorrow, will you sign it for me?”

Baz can’t quite tell if that’s a tease or not, but he may as well take it for a genuine request. “I feel like that’s the least I can do for someone who helped me at least get a start going.”

“So generous,” Simon sighs, leaning just a little on the back of Baz’s chair, “Your boyfriend must be lucky though, I bet he gets previews of your smut.”

“Ah, well,” Baz shrugs, “If I had one, maybe he would.”

Simon’s lips form a precious little oh, terribly unsubtle for half a moment before leaning off Baz’s chair just as Baz closes his laptop entirely. “So what do you look for in a boyfriend… if you’re up to sharing?”

“That’s incredibly unsubtle, Simon,” Basil fixes his face in an unimpressed sort of look, but Simon’s clearly not buying it.

“So was asking you back tomorrow– and you already agreed.”

Baz let’s Simon have half a smirk and shrugs, “Suppose that I did, didn’t I?”

“That you did,” Simon grins back wide at Baz, knowing somehow he’s already won, “So is Basilton you’re real name or…?”

“It is,” Baz answers as he packs everything up, shoulder bag neatly in place, “If I do decide to show up tomorrow, though, you can call me Baz.”

It’s no surprise at all when Basil shows up just as invited the next day. It’s even less of a surprise when he signs his name in that book with his phone number alongside. ‘For the Unsubtle One with a spicy little mind,’ it says in neatly curled silver script. What’s least surprising of all is how quickly Simon calls that number, Baz’s phone ringing before he even manages to leave the cafe.

[bi-writes]

mail order bride meeting 141 for the first time 🙏

mail-order bride

he likes the way this moment sounds. it will end soon, when you both walk out the door, but for now, he sits, and he doesn't want it to end.

it's not just the sound of the television. his favorite football team has finally fucking put one into the corner of the net. the announcers cheer, but this isn't all that he hears.

the cat is in the kitchen. he can't see it, but he hears it (the little fucker). she's pawing at the cat grass that sits above the sink now. when he leans forward, he notices her little nose pushing it around before she takes a bite out of it.

she leaves the basil alone.

and then there's the sound of you. your feet in the bedroom. when you pass by the doorway, he can see you in different states of getting ready. when you pass by this time, he can see your eyeliner is on both eyes now, not just one, and your hair doesn't have clips or pieces to hold it in its style anymore. it lays perfectly now; he did a double-take when he saw it this way for the first time. you're rifling through the closet now. your clothes used to be in their own drawers. separated. socks not touching one another. your half of the closet, and his half. perfectly divided.

he doesn't remember when it happened. he found your bra under his t-shirt today. he was going through the jackets because your dresses were now between them. in the bathroom, he almost stuck your toothbrush in his mouth because they rest side-by-side in the holder.

when he looks around the room, he can't see where you begin, and he cannot see where he ends. he doesn't see where he started.

but he can see where you will go.

you bounce into the living room, holding up two hangers. there's dresses on each of them, one a dark color, the other light, and you hold them in front of simon who's still sitting on the couch, his head in his hand as he concentrates on the game (where he pretends like he hasn't been thinking about you too hard to really focus).

"simon?" you call, and he grunts, looking over at you. "which one do you like?"

he looks over the two dresses before looking at you. he hums, leaning back against the couch. he shrugs before looking back at the telly. you would look like perfection in either of them, but that isn't what you asked, and that isn't the answer you want.

"the darker one. like ya in tha' color."

you smile a little before going back into the bedroom, hanging the other dress back up and laying the other one out on the bed. you rummage through the dresser for proper undergarments, picking a soft lace pair of panties with a matching bra. you slip them on before stepping into the dress.

you reach around for the waist, and when your attempts to grab it are futile, you look over your shoulder towards the door.

"simon?" you call out gently. "could you come here, please?"

there's a shuffle of sound before simon steps into the bedroom. you point to your back, smiling at him shyly.

"c-could you help me? i can't reach the zipper."

he makes his way over to where you stand in front of the mirror. you watch as his eyes roam over your back, as he takes in the sight in front of him. you swallow as he drags a few knuckles down the length of your spine, his eyes flicking up to meet yours in the mirror before he takes the zipper in his hand and pulls it up. when he finishes, he steps a little closer, dipping his head to look at you from over your shoulder. you turn your head to look up at him, smiling.

"everything okay?" you ask softly, and he clicks his tongue, sliding his hand from its place on your back to wrap around your middle. he spreads a big palm over your tummy before dragging you backwards, your backside pressing against his front.

"mmm..." he scrunches his nose a little, running a pink tongue over his teeth. "look fuckin' beautiful."

you giggle, looking away, spreading your palms along your cheeks to try and make it less hot, less warm--fuck, it's so hot, isn't it?

you pull away to go for your shoes, picking them up from the closet. you take a seat on the bed, trying to ignore simon's stare (impossible), and you put the shoes down to slip your feet into them. just as you bend to buckle them, simon tsks, and you sit up as he kneels down in front of you.

"simon, you--"

"shut it," he mutters, reaching down and picking your foot up by the ankle gently. he wraps the strap around it, fastening the buckle, and you open your mouth to say something, but then he bends, giving your knee a soft kiss before reaching for your other foot.

your eyes meet again as he wraps it around your ankle. he smirks, just enough, and your lip wobbles a little as he fastens the next shoe before setting it back down on the floor. he puts his hands on his knee to get up, standing to his full height, and your neck strains as you try and look up at him.

at times, you feel at odds. he anticipates your needs before you even know what they are yourself. he pushes your meals in front of you just as you realize you're hungry. he helps you to the top shelf whenever you need it, picking you up from your waist without even a grunt. he feeds the cat when she cries, he wipes the tears from your face just as they fall.

you want to be more. you want to be his wife. your life is leisure and warmth, you are cared for like a fine porcelain doll, but what are you to him? what do you do for him? what is it that you bring, why are you here, why did he ever even want you if he provides and all you do is take, take, take?

the pub is alive. the lights flicker and glow a warm orange, and there's many crowds around tables, cheering and laughing and clinking pints together. you swallow as you look around; a crowded place with lots of unfamiliar faces. you freeze at the door, blinking, trying to take it all in. just as you stiffen, there's a presence right at your back.

an arm circles around your middle protectively. simon's warm hand rests at the curve of your waist, and you look up at him. he stares down at you knowingly. he's wearing his mask, obscuring his entire face except for his eyes, but you've learned to read him all the same. his hood darkens the shadows over him, but you see what he's telling you easily.

'm right 'ere.

simon moves you in front of him, walking just behind you, and he leans over to murmur in your ear as he guides you forward.

"in the corner, luv."

you barely have time to register that your husband just called you love when you see an enthusiastic wave meant for you out of the corner of your eye.

simon showed you their pictures, but the grainy selfies from his phone don't do them any justice. kyle has a pearly smile and round cheeks (troublemaker, he could get away with anything with those eyes). johnny has an infectious grin and wild curls that fall in a line down his head (a wild card, he's got eyes that you can't read and a leg bouncing from his terrible inability to sit still). and then there's john, hidden under a beanie and a rough smile (all business, all thought, because even out here, he can't stop his mind from wandering back to the papers on his desk and the cries for help he can't ignore).

johnny's smile drops a little when you come near. he eyes the hand that simon has on you, the proximity of your bodies. he raises a brow when you hold out your hand to shake, gawking when he eyes your other hand, the ring that sparkles there.

"ach, LT..." johnny swallows hard. "is this...is she--?"

simon clears his throat. "this is my wife."

"steamin' jesus," johnny breathes, leaning back in the booth. he picks up his drink and knocks back the entire thing, choking a little as he looks between the two of you. "what the fawk?!"

you blink, stepping back, and simon takes a seat beside john, shaking his head.

"fuckin' hell, johnny. behave," simon mutters. "'s not--"

"ye said y'were showin' us yer new lass," johnny quips. "not yer wife!"

you look at simon, laughing a little.

"simon, you didn't tell them you were married?"

"tha' was need t'know," simon mutters, rolling his eyes. you giggle, looking around for somewhere to sit. simon doesn't give you much time to choose--you let out a shaky breath as he picks you up from your hips, sliding you up and onto his thigh. he spreads his legs a little to accommodate you, but he's such a big man.

simon holds one hand at your back, and the other lays flat against the table. it's easy, falling into conversation with them. they don't talk about work. they're infatuated with their lieutenant and his surprise wife. they ask if he owns pajamas. they ask if he takes the mask off to sleep. they ask if simon whittles, if he listens to music, if there's a snack that puts him in a good mood (jaffa cakes, you tell johnny, who cackles with delight).

when simon gets up to have a smoke, you're surprised. simon never leaves you alone in a public place, ever. he's always at your back, even at the grocery store. he likes to take you aisle by aisle, and he doesn't care if it makes the trip longer, because he doesn't like to have you out of his sight for very long.

he gives you that look, one that you can read. you're safe with these men.

you agree. they bring simon home, every single time.

"awwww, no' gonna give yer lass a smooch, LT?" johnny winks. "'s alright, we don't care. won't think ye a big softie cuz o' it."

simon rolls his eyes, pocketing his cigarettes as he stands by the table. he dips his fingers into johnny's pint and flicks him with it before leaning over and kissing you lightly through the mask, a chaste kiss that already leaves you reeling.

you blink, caught off guard, and you blink up at simon so slowly, a syrupy smile falling over your face.

"LT, that wasnae a real one," johnny rolls his eyes. "wut, are ye scared of us?"

"shut your fuckin' mouth, sergeant, i'll make y'do laps tomorrow."

"big baby."

you watch simon take the back door, letting it swing shut behind him. you excuse yourself, following after him, pushing the door open and blinking to adjust to the dark light of the alleyway.

there's stars out. they sparkle, and you pause to stare up at them for just a moment before making your way to where simon leans against a brick wall.

it all reminds you that you're just small. not small, but smaller than simon, and compared to what stares at you across a violet sky, you are nothing but specks in time. you're drifters, composites of organic matter that somehow, for some reason, exist at the same time.

simon's eyes find your own in the dark. it's hard to see; the only light nearby flickers, and it's hard to focus, but you can see his eyes clearly, magnetized even when the rest of him seems so obscure, hiding from your view.

your smile is clear, too. the watery lines of your eyes, they glow, and when you come near, you and simon are in your own bubble, a pocket of the universe that cannot be explained. he has found you, and you have found him, and even when the night sky tries so hard to hide the things you know are there, it isn't strong enough to take away what exists in the in-between.

you slide your fingers under the hem of his mask. this kind of thing is practiced. the same thing you do when he comes home every day. the only acts of service he ever allows, the only things he ever lets you do.

you ask yourself always what it is that you provide. what it is that he sees in you that you can't seem to see in yourself.

maybe it's this. maybe it's the grounding. the gravity he never used to feel, the orbit he could never quite get himself to maintain, the taut line of connection that's been severed ever since the only people he's ever loved were ripped right out from underneath his ribs.

he puts his hands over yours when the mask is over his nose. his palms over the backs of your hands, warm skin over soft, something broken over something seeking.

"you don't want this," simon whispers, and you frown a little, shaking your head.

"how...how can you say that?"

"i'm not..." he flinches a little. "not made for this. 's not wha' y'think."

you're eyes water. you aren't sad. you're upset.

"y-you have no idea," you whisper. "i know what i want. you can always tell when i'm lying, am i lying now?"

"'s not--"

"simon," you stop him. "look at me," you sniffle, and he closes his eyes, squeezes them shut, before finding your gaze again. it's frightening, what he sees. he sees nothing that he expects. no deception. no fear. the honesty, it terrifies him. the reality of accepting what he can't understand hurts inside. it trickles deep, down to his toes, along his spine, a curdling in his stomach that he can't believe because there's no way that someone can love me when i can't fucking love myself. "am i lying now?"

"no," he breathes, and your smile is sickly sweet. he doesn't understand. he doesn't get it. nothing in his life has ever been this easy. nothing in his life has ever been just for him, all for him, just his, and no one else's. there has never been a piece of life that has ever pitied him enough to let him have it exactly as it is, and yet here she is, my perfect girl, arriving on my doorstep.

like you dropped straight from heaven. angels with soft hands and a timid face and a shadow with soft fur and big eyes and terrible little temper.

simon's hand is an anchor on the back of your head. tilting you to the side, drawing you near, until you are on your toes, and your face is canted up.

you kiss in the dark. your mouth slots over his, hands gripping the front of his jacket as you try and get even closer to him. he's a little shy at first, letting you lead while he follows, but it only takes a few seconds for you to feel his hand stiffen against your head as he kisses you feverishly.

you smile between kisses. he smiles, too. you giggle, and he huffs, and he chases you with more kisses as you cradle his face between your hands and whisper between soft presses, i'm sorry and i know and it's all i've ever wanted.

when you pull away, he doesn't let you go. he presses your forehead to his, connecting you somehow, breathing in the warmth that you radiate to try and calm the pulsing of his blood that rushes in his ears.

when your eyes open again, and you look at each other, everything is suddenly clearer. whatever he saw before, everything must have been in black and white.

he sees in color. the stars align. they fall, one by one, sparkling as they form a pattern, one undiscovered by anyone before him, one he will keep all to himself in the time that follows. when he kisses you again, he memorizes that pattern.

he knows it will always lead right back to you.

[valeffelees]

@youarenevertooold OMG HEY, YEAH, you may absoLUTELY see the potato frittata scene. 😄🖤 ok so, this comes from a zero draft of mine called The Malaise of Jealous Men and it is one of my absolute favourites, the writing is kind of rough 'cause again: zero draft, and the actual plot of this fic is a lot to explain, but the need-to-know leading up to this scene is just that at the beginning of eighth year Simon and Niall get assigned a project together and end up inadvertently becoming friends.

"Who was that?" "My sister." "You have a sister?" The corners of Niall's eyes crease—brown today, natural. Large and dark on his face, honeyed at the edges by the lights in the dining hall. "I have a twin, Simon." "You what?" "We're not close," he says, flapping his hand. Dismissive. Like Niall not being close to his sister explains how Simon could've missed the fact that this boy he's known for almost seven years has a twin he didn't know about. Simon asks, "Does she avoid you or something?” Then realises how shit that sounds and adds, “I mean, just. You know.” He shrugs. “I never see her in class with us." Niall pulls his wand from his sleeve and spells away the mess on the table. An ice-cold breeze bites through the room with it, the smell of salt and cold water, river weeds, ocean air. "We pick our schedules accordingly,” he says. “Signe was in all our first year classes with us but you were prob'ly too busy trying to tie Basil's shoelaces together to notice." Simon folds his arms. "We aren’t that bad." Niall quirks both of his eyebrows up. "I mean,” Simon says, “not first year." "You sure as shit were," he snorts, and his smile is back. Long and narrow, sharp enough to cut glass. "First year was the worst—no, wait. I take that back. Fifth was fucking awful. You’re a loon, by the way." "Oh fuck off, mate, Baz is the one who—" Dev slams his tray down on the table. An apple bounces off the corner. It rolls forward, slowly. Bumps up against the side of Simon’s teacup, then sits and wobbles there for what feels like an impossibly (and, frankly, unnecessarily) long time before Niall reaches over and sets his hand on it. His fingers curl a ghostly shade of pink around all that bright green skin. Simon lifts his gaze, moving joint by joint from Niall’s wrist to his elbow, from his elbow to his shoulder, from his shoulder to his face. He’s grinning at Dev like a cobra, that razor-blade mouth of his turned downright feral. “Oi,” he chirps. “Fuckin’ cat drag you in or what?” Dev doesn’t look like Baz much. They’re cousins—or, Simon’s pretty sure they’re cousins. Cousin-adjacent, maybe. Probably something stupid like fourth cousins twice removed with two sugar and chips on the side or however the fuck families work when you’re rich and posh. But where Baz is all sharp and tall and cold, Dev is... just, not. He looks like Baz with a tablespoon of honey and splash of milk stirred in. Short and bird-like, warm. His hair is a dark shock of feathery brown and his skin is the deep, blushless golden tone of a dry grassland. He’s glaring across the table at Simon from beneath heavy, black eyebrows like he wants to shove him down a flight of stairs. (That might be the one thing he and Baz do have in common.) "Hi," Simon says, awkwardly. Dev sneers. (Make that two things.) "Look," he hisses, pulling out his chair. He sits with his elbows spread to the sides of his tray, leaning forward on them, "this is weird and I hate it, but I'm not sitting across the dining hall alone while you two cunts cuddle up over fucking tea and biscuits or whatever the fuck this is, so let's just skip the part where we make a big deal out of it." Simon looks down at his plate with a confused frown. “This is potato frittata.” Dev’s face does something funny. Twists a bit, like he's in pain. Or smells something rotten. Or like he's in pain while smelling something rotten. He says, “Niall.” “Well,” Niall replies, and takes a loud, crisp bite of Dev’s apple, “he’s not wrong.” “Niall.” “Are there biscuits?” Simon asks, glancing over at the serving station. He stands up. “I didn’t see any biscuits.” Niall nudges his shin under the table. “Sit,” he says. “There ‘re no biscuits.” Simon does. “Niall!” “He does this sometimes,” Niall tells him. “Just give 'im a sec, he'll get over it.”

[internetcowboi]

Hey y’all, ty for the tags today @johnwgrey @cutestkilla @facewithoutheart and on Sunday @bazzybelle @themandilorian @you-remind-me-of-the-babe @excalisbury! I’ve had a bit of a rough week mentally so I skipped SSS, so consider this a tag back for today and/or next Sunday :) I have 2 fic wip snippets to share, one Simon Snow and one AFTG! 

Vampire!Natasha during the attack on Watford from my COBB wip:

I can’t be. I won’t be. I-

I snarl at the vampire and flick my wrist. His eyes widen in horror at the flame conjured in my palm. I hurl it at him and he bursts alight. I conjure another one and take a breath. I have to do this, for Basilton. I won’t have his mother be a monster. I’ll say goodbye, and I’ll go. I’ll rid the world of these monsters, and he’ll be safe, and I’ll go. 

I search the room frantically, searching for his familiar mop of black waves, and find Basilton backing into the wall on the other side of the room. 

There’s another vampire looming over him. 

“No! Basil-” 

The vampire sinks his teeth into my son’s neck. His mouth is so big, and Basil’s neck is so small. My boy doesn’t cry out, doesn’t even move. He just stares back at me, eyes pleading. 

I’ve got you. 

I think about being closer to them, and then I am. It’s impossibly fast. I wrap my arm around the vampire’s neck and tug. He chokes, releasing his grip and falling back against me. I turn to face us away from Basilton and finish him off with my teeth. 

Aaand here’s a snip from a lil 3+1 Andreil fic I’m working on, featuring grumpy Kevin, shitty Twinyards, and excessive ice cream consumption: 

Andrew and Neil are sat side-by-side on the floor, legs sprawled underneath a coffee table littered with half-eaten ice cream pints and a solitary electrolyte drink (Kevin’s futile show of defiance in the face of their excessive sugar consumption). Despite his best efforts, Neil is losing another round of Super Smash Bros. He turns to see Andrew’s face, calm as ever, as his Kirby finally dies at the hands of Andrew’s Bowser. Neil’s grinning, he knows he is, and that’s exactly why Andrew does not return his gaze and instead takes hold of an ice cream pint and stabs at it mercilessly. 

“Is it my turn yet?” Nicky whines. Neil tosses the controller over. “Prepare to die, Minyard.”

Andrew beats him one-handed, heaping spoonfuls of peanut butter cookie dough ice cream into his mouth at the same time. 

“Fine,” Nicky huffs, sitting up right. Aaron immediately shifts further into the couch, claiming the space while Nicky’s distracted. “Other Minyard. Let’s fucking go.” 

Aaron stares at Andrew, who keeps a tight grip on the controller. Eventually Neil sighs and holds out his hand, into which Andrew deposits the controller. He passes it to Aaron, receives a glare for his assistance and rolls his eyes in response. 

Aaron beats Nicky two rounds in a row, but Nicky takes him out in the third. 

“I fucking told you!” Nicky shouts. Kevin shoots him an annoyed look from his desk. “Oh whatever, Day, some of us know how to have fun.” 

“Maybe if you put half the effort in on court as you do with this stupid game, you’d be a better Backliner.” 

“Ooh, straight to the heart, Kev. You cut me deep. Seriously though, get over here. You’ll get a kick out of it.” 

“You’ll get a kick out of me in a minute,” Kevin grumbles. 

Kevin ends up on the couch between Nicky and Aaron, hunched forward with focus as he button mashes and grunts at the tv. By the time Nicky wins their first round he’s elbowed Aaron twice, purely on accident (he claims). 

“Fuck this,” Kevin growls. “Load up another round.” 

Aaron snorts and receives a third elbow to the ribs. 

More tags for today! @mostlymaudlin @otherworldsivelivedin @rainbow-0bsidian @marvel-lous-things @tea-brigade @aristocratic-otter @stillmadaboutpetra @palimpsessed @moodandmist @prettylightsbigcity @skeedelvee @bookish-bogwitch​ @confused-bi-queer​ @ileadacharmedlife​ @urban-sith​ 

[mildkatfics]

mint to be  rating: t word count: 610 pair: snowbaz 

in celebration of my darling basil’s birthday, here is a small drabble x (this may or may not be the start of my follow-up to my fic small talk, but this won’t become a full fic anytime soon and thought i’d post it here for the occasion! i love u baz)

-

“I don’t understand why my eyes have to be closed for this,” I mutter. I try and sound grumpy, but we both know this kind of thing turns me into a puddle of pathetic mush. But I think both of us love this charade.

“Because I don’t focus on making it look pretty, I focus on getting the taste right. Hands, please.” 

I lean forward, elbows supporting me on the table, and give him my two hands. He takes my right and gently wrings my fingers. I brace for a hot mug, but I laugh when my fingers enclose around a thick knitted material. “Did you use a tea cosy?” 

“It’s all about the drinking experience, babe. That’s the Snow guarantee.” He lets go of my hands. “Okay, go. Don’t forget to be careful.” 

I pull the mug closer to my face and inhale. “It smells accurate.” 

“Uh-huh. Go on.” 

I pull it towards my lips. The peppermint and chocolate smell wafts deeper into my nose. The drink itself is at a perfect temperature for a warm beverage. Warm, but not scalding. I smile when it hits my tongue, flowing smoothly to the back of my throat. “It’s great, Simon.” I take another sip, a bigger one. 

“Yes, yes, but how close is it to the real thing?” 

“How close is this peppermint mocha that my boyfriend made to the solid Mint Aero candy bar that anyone can buy at an M&S? Pretty close, but I couldn’t give less of a shit about the candy bar. Now, can I open my eyes, please?” 

“Yeah, yeah. Fucking M&S--you have to try and be less cartoonishly posh.” 

I smile when I pop my eyes back open. Simon is leaning on the kitchen wall with a dish towel slung over his shoulder, a bit of chocolate streaked across his cheek. The sun is streaming through the window, bathing him in a golden light. I spot a half-eaten Mint Aero on the counter, and I pop a square in my mouth. I close my eyes and make a show of swallowing it. “There’s just something about the way it melts in your mouth that I love so much.” 

Snow looks up in thought, brows furrowing in concentration. “Hm. That’s a great point. I wonder if I...” he continues muttering as he scribbles into his worn leather notebook that Bunce got him last Christmas.

I get up from the kitchen counter and walk towards him. “You know,” I murmur, sliding my arms around his waist. “This is supposed to be a fun project where I assert my dominance over you and make you bring me sweets. You’re not meant to actually be working on your day off.” I hook my chin on his shoulder and kiss the base of his neck. 

“You should know by now that I don’t do anything half-arsed. So let me just get this down, and I’ll be right with you.” He keeps scribbling, and I sputter out a laugh. 

“Talk to me like a customer again,” I whisper. I bite his ear, and I feel gooseflesh erupt across his nape. 

That gets his attention. I feel his back tense up, and he finally turns around. “You’re serious?” 

That makes me pause. “No, but that’s an interesting reaction.” I move my hands up to his shoulders. “Do you want me to be serious?” 

His face turns red and he turns back around. I laugh and press my cheek against his shoulder. I’m about to say something else when he mutters, “I think you can, like, literally ask me to do anything and I’ll be up for it.”

[prettylightsbigcity]

Day 11 - Family

Dec 5, 2021 Simon, Baz, Shep, Penny, Niamh, & Agatha head home after a night out dancing. Post-AWTWB. Rated T for mild references to drinking. Read below or over on ao3.

***

Simon

We stumble to the tube platform, draping our arms over each other’s shoulders, giggling about nothing and shushing each other more loudly than we were laughing in the first place. At some point, Agatha announces that she’s “absolutely fucking finished” with her high heels, and plops down on the kerb to unbuckle them and take them off. Penny tries to convince her that she can’t walk eight more blocks barefoot, but Agatha is determined. The two of them going head to head is frankly terrifying, but thankfully Niamh steps in and diffuses the whole situation by offering Agatha a piggyback ride. Agatha hops up gamely, her tiny skirt riding up a little further than I think she’d prefer. Baz steps in smoothly, taking off his blazer and draping it over Agatha’s shoulders like a cape. He winks at me and leans in close as he whispers in my ear.

“Can’t have your eyes wandering to anyone except me tonight, Snow.”

“As if,” I snort, rolling my eyes and snaking my arm around his waist.

We walk a few more blocks before Shepard declares that we need a break, and almost everyone agrees immediately. Shep leads us all into a McDonald’s like the Pied Piper, and we order a truly staggering number of burgers, milkshakes, and chips. We crowd around one long table. There aren’t quite enough seats, so Shep pulls Penny down on his lap, and Baz stands behind my chair, leaning down and twining his arms around my neck as he rests his head against mine. I can smell the rum on his breath. When our order is called, Niamh and I head up to the counter to collect the trays and bring them back to everyone else. We fall on the food like hungry wolves; even Agatha is stuffing her face, a blob of ketchup dripping onto her chin. It cracks me up.

“Aggie,” I chuckle, “you’ve got a little something, right there,” I say, indicating my chin. 

“What?” she asks, snatching a napkin and wiping at completely the wrong spot. 

“C’mere, gorgeous,” Niamh tells her, grabbing her jaw between her thumb and forefinger. 

We all groan as Niamh leans over and licks Agatha’s chin. Penny chucks a straw wrapper at them, and we all join in, balling up napkins and flinging little packets of condiments at the two of them. Niamh looks ready to give in, but then Agatha grabs her around the neck and snogs her senseless, raising her other hand to give us all the middle finger. Her nails are red and sparkly. 

 Baz

The staff at the McDonald’s ask us to leave. They’re polite about it, but there’s no doubt that they’re fed up with us. I can’t blame them; we’re all three sheets to the wind, and at one point, Shepard started singing at the top of his lungs and tried to stand on a table. We pulled him down, but still… it wasn’t his finest moment. 

It’s two more blocks to the train, and Niamh is getting quite red in the face carrying Agatha. I squeeze Simon’s hand and then release it, sidling over to them. 

“I’m tapping in,” I whisper to Niamh.

She looks like she might argue for a moment, but then she nods and stops stumbling along the sidewalk. 

“Let go, Ags,” she says, and Agatha, who seems to be nearly asleep, releases her grip from around Niamh’s neck.

I’m ready for her, and I catch her in my arms as she slides off of Niamh’s back like a wet noodle. Unfortunately, she still had my blazer draped around her shoulders, and it slips off and tumbles to the ground. Niamh reaches down to grab it, and I nod my thanks. I hoist Agatha up, getting a better grip under her knees and shifting her so her head falls against my shoulder. Niamh drapes the blazer over her sleepy girlfriend.

“Thanks, Basil,” she says quietly.

“Don’t mention it,” I reply, “now, let’s catch up to the rest of these ruffians.”

I stride forward quickly; Agatha’s weight is hardly a hindrance for me. Niamh falls into step beside me. 

 Simon

We decided to go back to Shep and Penny’s flat, partially because it’s the least number of tube stops, but also because they have the most space. When we get there, Shep can’t get the key in the door, and we’re all piled up in the hallway, trying not to fall into another laughing fit. “Open sesame!” Penny declares dramatically, and the door flies away from Shep’s blundering fingers and smacks against the wall inside. 

“Oops,” she giggles, and Shep rolls his eyes.

“Baby, I thought we said no drunken spellwork,” he says, stepping into the flat and inspecting the wall for damage.

“Pssssshhh,” Penny says eloquently, following him inside and waving her hand for the rest of us to follow. 

We all tumble into the familiar living room. I shrug out of my jacket, plonk myself onto the sofa, and tug Baz down too, half on top of me. I sneak my hands under his shirt as he tries to wiggle away, pinning him close to me. He sighs and relents, slumping down and nuzzling his cold nose against my ear. 

“Babe, can you let my wings out?” I whine.

“Get Bunce to do it,” Baz murmurs against my neck, distracting me with tiny kisses.

“Penny!” I yell.

“What?” she screams from the kitchen.

“Crowley, I hope you lot put up silencing spells on this flat,” Niamh says, dropping down on the other end of the sofa.

“Agatha asleep?” Baz asks.

“Yeah,” Niamh nods, “she’s in the spare room. Sorry, that means you two are stuck with the couch.”

I shrug; Baz groans. Penny storms into the living room with a tray of tea in her hands.

“Simon!” she squawks, “why were you calling me?”

I pause.

Why was I calling Penny?

“Wings,” Baz whispers helpfully. 

“Oh yeah! Can you let my wings out?” I ask.

Penny finishes setting down the tray on the coffee table. She marches over to a bookcase, frowns, and turns round to walk in the other direction.

“Looking for something?” Shep asks, appearing in the doorway with Penny’s little black handbag dangling off of one finger.

“Brilliant!” Penny cries, snatching the bag.

“Woah there, not so fast,” Shep retorts, grabbing her around the waist as she tries to make her way back to the sofa, “what did we say about casting while intoxicated?”

“S’barely casting,” I protest, and Shep relents, letting Penny pull him over to the overstuffed armchair in the corner. 

He sits, and Penny promptly deposits herself on his lap, opening her handbag and digging through it like a woman possessed. A compact goes flying in one direction, her glasses case in another.

“Snow’s right,” Baz pipes up, lifting his face from where it had been resting against my collarbone, “she already did all the difficult magick; now she just has to ring the bell to undo it.”

“Aha!” Penny exclaims triumphantly. 

She pulls a little silver bell from her bag and holds it out in front of her.

“Wait—” Shep starts, but it’s too late.

Pen rings the bell, and my wings explode into existence, tearing through my t-shirt and knocking everything off the end table next to the sofa.

“Oops,” Penny and I say in unison. 

Niamh starts laughing so hard that she snorts, and once Baz joins in, I’m a goner. A moment later, all five of us are all howling, holding onto our aching sides as tears run down our faces.

“What in Merlin’s name…?” 

Agatha is standing in the doorway, wearing Niamh’s flannel and rubbing her eyes as she glares at us all. Penny takes one look at her and cracks up all over again, and the rest of us can’t help but follow suit. Even Aggie joins in. 

“You’re all completely mental,” she grouses, but she’s chuckling as she comes over and sits on the rug at Niamh’s feet, laying her head in her lap. 

These are the best kind of nights, I think as my face starts to hurt from all the smiling, this is my family.

[caitybug]

“turning around to check on you constantly when they are walking in the front” but instead they’re checking to see how close the other person is so they can suddenly stop and make them run into their back/trip them up

Hello lovely <3

I know this is older, but better late than never, right? haha

Anyway this is a cute idea and I hope you like what I’ve done (:

You can read it on ao3 here

“What do you think is going through his head?” Bunce asks as we walk down the deserted road.

I turn around, seeing Simon and Shepard talking.

“Wait, you mean the Loch Ness Monster is real?” Simon exclaims.

“Of course!” Shepard shouts back. “You’re telling me that you can literally sprout wings but you don’t think a lake monster exists?”

Simon shrugs.

I turn back to Bunce.

“Which one?”

She rolls her eyes and scoffs.

“Idiots, the two of them,” she mutters. 

I smirk and turn back around.

Simon isn’t looking down at his feet. Isn’t even looking ahead to make sure he doesn’t run into a pole. His entire focus is on Shepard, listening to him discuss creatures he’s interacted with.

It gives me an idea.

I pause in place, allowing Bunce to pass me. She turns around, confused as to why I’d stop.

“Basil what-” She starts, but it’s too late.

Simon crashes into my back. 

“Oh fuck, I’m so sorry, Baz,” he says.

“You should be,” I say, feigning offense. “Watch where you are going, you oaf.” 

He apologizes again and I start walking, reaching Bunce. 

“What was that about?” She whispers.

I wink.

“All in good fun,” I whisper. 

I turn around again, checking to see where Simon’s eyes are. 

They’re ahead for the moment, catching with my own and smiling. 

“Wait, Simon, have I ever told you about the Mothman?” Shepard says.

Simon blinks at me and then turns to Shepard.

“The who now?”

I wait for a few moments, letting him fall into a relaxing step with Shepard. Bunce continues on about whatever study her father is coordinating, but I only take half of it in.

I pause again, leaving Bunce looking at me with exasperation.

“Seriously, Basil, what are you doing?”

Without realizing what’s happening, Simon steps on the back of my shoe, making me stumble forward.

“Serves you right,” Bunce mutters, walking forward.

I think I hear her say something about boys, but I’m too busy focusing on Simon.

“Snow, these shoes are worth more than your entire outfit,” I say, trying my hardest not to laugh. “Do be more careful.”

“Baz I swear I’m paying attention! I didn’t think you were stopping!” 

His cheeks are going pink as he starts apologizing. Shepard gives me a weird look but shrugs it away.

We move back into stride again, getting closer to the cinema.

Once more.

I turn behind me to see Simon playing with his fingers, deep in thought. Shepard is talking to him about some goatman on a bridge, but he isn’t paying attention.

I wait until he looks up to pause.

I see it dawn on his face immediately.

“I knew it!” He shouts, face breaking out into a smile. “You’re doing it on purpose! You prat!”

“I have no clue what you’re talking about, Simon.” I start walking forward again, unable to stop the grin spreading on my face. 

Bunce is already at the ticket counter outside the theater, fed up with my antics and unwilling to wait any longer for me to catch up. We’re a block away, Simon stammering behind me.

He goes silent after a few moments, and I think I should pause one more time, so I do, seeing if I can get him once more.

What I don’t expect, however, is to feel arms around my neck and the full weight of him jumping on me.

I’m fast, luckily, catching his legs and helping them wrap around my torso. He kisses my neck.

“If you wanted to carry me, you could have just said so,” he laughs in my ear.

“You would find a way to not walk the last block,” I say, smirking up at him.

He kisses me as we walk the last few feet.

“Are you both done now?” Bunce asks, tickets in the hand resting on her hip. 

I look up at Simon, readjusting his weight.

(He squeals as I do.)

“All good, Bunce, do continue,” I say, nodding my head towards the door.

She rolls her eyes and walks in. Shepard catches up to her, grabbing her free hand.

“I love you,” Simon whispers in my ear, kissing my neck one more time. 

“I love you too, Simon,” I whisper back.

“Enough to get extra butter on the popcorn?”

I roll my eyes.

“Fine.”

He kisses my cheek as we step in line, refusing to get down until we take our seats. 

[nonbaznary]

Carry On Countdown - Day 28: Party

AO3 // Read it on Tumblr below the cut! Words: 812

Of queer weddings and family parties: “ Baz and Simon are loudly queer in family events, especially now that they're engaged.“

As in: I’m queer, I’m MLM, I’m pissed at my relatives, so of course I’m writing about SnowBaz in both gay as in happy and queer as in fuck you vibes. Enjoy! 

Of queer weddings and family parties

It’s appealing to see Simon trying to bite back his cheeky grin.

We’re standing side by side now, next to the appetizers table, looking at the party in front of us. His tail is flicking around, eventually wrapping itself around my waist or my arm, then letting go again. I don’t think I’ve stopped holding his hand for even a second since we arrived. 

It started as a joke, saying that an event like that, gathering all kinds of homophobic, transphobic, and overall ignorant and annoying relatives, was the kind that  demanded  excessive PDA. In our relationship, Simon and I never really displayed acts of physical intimacy in front of others, because of a number of insecurities. That is, until some weeks ago, when we got engaged. Suddenly, being appropriate and discreet or preserving what little dignity I had left was not important  at all .

I’m spending the rest of my life with this man, and I’ll be soft with him and loud about it whenever I want, thank you very much.

— They’ll never consider coming to our handfasting with us acting like this.— he whispers to me, leaning his head so he speaks close to my ear while I wave briefly at a great-aunt that looks mortified in seeing us. I wonder what it is – Simon’s wings and tail out for everyone to see them? Our very obvious gay behavior? My big, voluminous, magnificent floral skirt matching my equally gorgeous floral suit jacket? 

Probably all of it. 

— You really think they’d come to our handfasting  at all ?— I ask. He shrugs. Crowley, I love this man.

— Well, it’s kind of important, innit? You’re the Pitch heir, your wedding is supposed to be a big deal.

I’m going to combust. He’s so lovely.

— My  queer  wedding? I don’t think so, Snow.

— I do,  Tyrannus .— he bites back. It’s his way of calling me out for saying Snow instead of Simon.— But I don’t think we should invite anyone.

I immediately smile.

— No point inviting all these people. I figured only a few would come anyway. Our friends. Ebb and Fiona. Daphne and the children, mabe my father. I think we should only invite the people we actually want there. Maybe not for the next year, the more  official  thing, but at least for this first ceremony. It’ll be like having your wedding dinner rehearsal in the form of an engagement party.

Just as Snow is about to reply, there’s someone catching my hand.

—  Basil! — that’s my aunt giving me a handshake. Not Fiona, I mean, she’s from the Grimm side of the family. Dev’s mother. Since he’s not hanging around under her wing, I’m guessing I’ll be seeing him with Niall very soon. I still don’t know where they stand on their relationship being open for the Old Families to know about, so I can’t tell if it’s a good or bad sign.— I’ve been looking for you everywhere, dear!  There are so many people here, Merlin, it’s impossible to find the people you want to meet. Oh, I almost forgot! Dev told me the news, congratulations on the engagement! 

I thank her, still distracted, thinking about Simon. I’m not surprised she didn’t find us sooner. Honestly, the way we are, it would be normally very easy to spot us. But Snow and I have been running around all evening. Mostly because we wanted to provoke as many people as possible.

Back in the beginning of our relationship, Snow was terrified of a scenery like this. Surrounded by people who openly disapproved of us, who were openly staring and commenting, and even avoiding us. Now that he had gotten over it, it seemed like a challenge. He’d push his jaw forward, smile at me, and his eyes would  scream  trouble.

I love to see it. We’re a perfect match.

We danced together, we kissed a  lot  , and I made sure to say hello to every relative I knew and ask if they had already met  “my fiancé, Simon Snow”  . Which of course they did, or at least had heard of him, obviously. What kind of mage doesn’t know Simon Snow, our  savior?  And of course they’d known about our relationship. It was quite a scandal when word got out. But I spent nearly a decade pining for him, I’ve owned  every  right to brag about being with Simon, especially to people who find it revolting. It almost makes me want to invite everyone to our handfasting out of  spite . Fiona would call me a dramatic arse and, influenced by her own queer rebel feelings, say I should do it. Which is exactly why I shouldn’t.

Simon elbows me, as soon as my aunt leaves.

— Alright, maybe she can come.— he whispers.— What do you think?

I simply smile and take a sip of my punch.

— Do you want to go dancing again?

[sourcherrymagiks]

Following on from @adamarks amazing ‘will Baz drink Simon?’ discussion earlier I dug out this old draft of a thing. So here it is.

Baz

Everything feels sore, bruised, fucked. I try to roll over but it’s too much so I indulge myself in a heartfelt groan instead. Simon is on me in a second.

“Love, Baz, I’ve got you, it’s ok, you’re ok, deep breaths ” he’s stroking my face, looking so worried. I want to give him a snarky answer so he calls me a bastard and looks less concerned but I can only manage another groan.

“We can’t heal you love, I think it’s because of the magic, I’m so sorry, I didn’t, I wouldn’t have” He looks so broken up and tearful that it’s all I can do not to drag him down into a kiss. The scar he got in the battle at Watford is hypnotising me and I want to lick it (Merlin I’m disturbed). But actually I can’t move so it would be, quite literally, all I could do.

“Not your fault Snow, mine” I croak out

He half smirks at the ‘Snow’

“Do you have to be such a twat all the time Pitch?” And the he kisses me so gently and everything is right in my world again.

Except for the aches in my everything.

Penny

“What was that Simon?” I need to corner him the second he leaves Baz for a moment and catch him off guard.

“Dunno Penny, what was what?”

I have to remind myself to be a little bit patient with him but I want to strangle it out of him. That was the most insane thing I’ve ever seen and I’ve been his best friend for years. That’s a lot of insane things to compare it to.

“Simon, please correct me if I’m wrong but did you or did you not just channel Basils magic into a weapon?”

“Oh, right, that, yes, um, we” big breath in “we have been sharing magic for a while, normally we can only do it when we are a bit” he looks at his feet as he shuffles them a bit “worked up?”

I mime gagging and he smiles at me.

“So you two just defeated the bad guy with sex magic? That you can weaponise?” I try to keep it a bit light and teasing but this is crazy.

“Not just sex Penny, get out of the gutter, also when we are,I dunno, close? Is that right? Baz could explain better”

I’m worried about Baz, no healing spells seem to be helping. He can’t stay awake long enough to explain how it hurts. I think we just have to wait for his magic to recover.

“Penny, do you know how, how I could get blood for Baz?”

“No Simon, he wouldn’t want that. He would hex me if I let you do that!”

“Not your call Penny, I can’t watch him like this, not when I could help”

I’m going to give in eventually because he’s right. It’s the best chance Baz has. But he is going to be so pissed at us. And he can be a right handful when he’s angry.

Simon

It takes me ages to get the cannula into my arm. Shep says I’m being too forceful and takes over eventually. Next time I’m just going to use my sword and let Penny heal it after. It seems to take another million years to get enough blood out of me to fill the bag. Then Penny insists I eat something (It’s weird that I’m not that bothered about eating right now) while she takes the blood through to Baz but I’m not far behind, stuffing biscuits into my mouth. I press myself up against him as he drinks, I want to warm him from the outside and the inside. His eyes are flat dull grey and he’s pale even for him. There is something a bit unexpectedly sexy about watching your vampire boyfriend drink your blood. Maybe next time we can use a more direct method to get my blood into him.

Baz

This tastes amazing. It’s sending tingles through me and I give a little shudder Snow looks flustered, he’s pressing even closer than usual, warm and soft. If I’m not mistaken he’s blushing.

Penny looks anxious and all of a sudden the realisation of what has just gone on hits me.

“You absolute moron Snow, what were you thinking. And you Bunce, we will have words, I can promise you that”

My voice is as cold as I can make it and they both shrink back a bit.

But Crowley I feel better, I feel amazing, I feel like I could cast a sonnet and hang the moon. I feel like I could pound Simon into this bed until we both scream. I should send them both out now and let them stew in fear but instead I put my hand into Simon’s and kiss him.

Bunce backs out of the room as I throw my leg over him pinning him to the bed.

The gorgeous fucking disaster has the front to thrust his hips up into mine and asks “Feeling better Pitch?”

“You are an actual fucking nightmare Snow, what did you think you were doing?”

He gasps at me but I doubt it’s because I’m using my best Grimm-Pitch chill, it’s more likely because I’m grinding into him and I’m suddenly and painfully hard.

“I’d think,Pitch, that as I’ve just healed you with my magical blood you could stretch to calling me Simon”

It’s my turn to gasp as his mouth goes to my neck and he bites down hard.

“Since when (Aleister Crowley that came out embarrassingly high pitched) do you call me Pitch?”

He’s so close to me, breathing in my ear, hands on me everywhere, driving me insane in every possible way.

“Since it makes you unhinged, Pitch”

He whispers ‘Pitch’ across my collarbone and he’s not wrong, I’m unhinged.

Simon

I should take a second to check he’s actually well enough for this but then he flips us over and I guess that means he is. And anyway I seem to have his pyjama top unbuttoned and my mouth on his chest so its definitely too late now. I stop for a moment to look into his stormy grey eyes that are alive again, dancing shadows, so many shades of grey, I could get lost in them. Except he’s hard against my hip and tugging my curls and I need to snog that smirk right off his face.

“My turn darling” I whisper in his ear and flip us over. I feel him shudder against me and he’s warm, so warm.

I slide my hands over his back and dip down under his pyjamas, grabbing his hips. I roll off him to drag them down and he laughs at my clumsy tugging.

While I’m off him I take a second to pull my own clothes off in an equally clumsy way, I throw myself over to the bedside cabinet and grab the lube. I look at him expecting more laughter or a sarcastic comment but he looks drugged and hungry.

I can’t keep my hands off him any more I lick up the inside of his thigh and he gives a satisfying groan when I reach up and start rubbing his cock. God he’s bewitching, I can hardly catch my breath. I lick up, further up. He’s writhing under me, pulling at my hair, babbling my name

Baz

This boy is going to kill me, it’s actually going to end in flames. He’s doing indescribable things to me. When I feel the chill of the lube against my skin it catches me off guard, I’m so warm after his blood, I’m never this warm.

Then he’s easing his finger inside, melting me. He’s pushing up, exploring everywhere until he hits the spot that makes me cry out. Then there’s another finger alongside it, rubbing, pushing, making my hips buck upwards. He moves his mouth to lick my cock and takes me into his mouth. I don’t stop myself from thrusting into his mouth as he hums around it. When his third finger goes in I’m so ready for it, shamelessly fucking myself on his fingers and into his mouth. It’s so hot, everything is so hot.

Simon

I need, I need this, every moan and thrust is driving me over the edge. I kiss the tip of his cock as I pull off and out igniting a stream of protests. I shove a pillow under his gorgeous arse, (seriously it’s a work of fucking art) and line myself up. I’m shaking with desire.

“You ready love?” The answering moan is more than enough encouragement, I’ve made Basilton Grimm-Pitch speechless, he can’t use his words and I love it.

I push forward and the resistance is almost too much and then it’s not, then its everything. Each tiny move forward is sending surges of want through me. Baz is gripping my hips so tightly, pulling me into him, I’m happy to let him.

“Simon,Simon please, please, fuck me”

So I do

I thrust into him over and over and over until I feel it building impossibly inside me.

“Baz, I’m gonna, can I come?” He pulls me closer and I unravel, coming hard into him, hot and hot and hot so hot everything is so hot.

I reach down to finish Baz off, he feels as hot as me then even hotter as he comes over my hand and his belly. The whole room is hot. I kiss him and there are sparks between us, fire.

“Shit Baz sorry, your flammable, I didn’t mean to set you on fire”

He laughs as he kisses me again “Too late for that love”

[thesmalltowngal]

Snowbaz 31- Our Purpose

OTP Prompt #31: The night after Simon shows Baz the stars, Baz can't help but ask for it one more time.

~ So I was having some major troubles writing the current request that I'm working on, so I decided to get the creative juices flowing by writing a paragraph of something I couldn't get out of my head. This what that paragraph turned into. I'm very unsure about this one, and I've been having a bit of a rough go of it lately, so some love in the comments would be really appreciated, if you wouldn't mind. I hope you guys enjoy! :) ~

*Simon's POV*

"Sim- er, uh, Snow. Well I was wondering. I was wondering, if, perhaps, maybe-" I dunno what I've done. I think I've broken him. Baz stumbled in our room early this morning, while I was getting ready for breakfast. He came in, and started rambling about Crowley knows what, and Baz never rambles. He's too bloody perfect for that. But now it seems like he can't stop rambling, which I don't know what to make of. I'm making an utter mess of my tie, and although he'd usually make a remark about my oafishness, he just continues to bluster.

It's my turn to be an insufferable prat, I s'pose. "Spit it out, Basil." He flushes (he must've just fed) and looks down at his feet. The tosser isn't even looking me in the eyes. (We used to never make eye contact when we fought, really. Started only just fifth year, and then I realized his eyes made him right fit, so why ignore them?) Baz moves to sit on his bed and he seems... nervous. Like he might just go off at any second, so I change tactics and move to sit next to him. (Another sure sign of him being off? He's letting me sit on his bed.)

He takes in a breath and composes himself. He still doesn't bloody look at me, but I look at him. Which is right weird, innit? Don't care. "When I was younger, my mum-" He stammers and looks somewhere near my face briefly, before continuing. "She used to tell me about how bright the stars were. Always said she'd take me to see them one day." He lets out a small, pitiful laugh, which is wrong for many reasons. Baz doesn't laugh. And Baz most certainly is not pitiful. I'd said so once, and he nearly shoved me into the floor right there, anathema and all. (I s'pose he could be telling me this to get sympathy. For his plotting. Why else would he tell me about his mum?)

"I'm sorry... about your mum, Baz." Even if he's plotting, it's the least I can say. I know he must miss her, though I've never had a mum, so I dunno what that'd feel like. Right sad, I s'pose.

He waves me off. "Anyway... obviously, she never got to stick to her word," He looks up at me then, right in the eyes, before looking away. He doesn't want to be telling me all this, I can tell. But... maybe he needs to. (He's plotting, my brain reminds me. Right. Plotting. Of course.) "But last night, Snow. Last night I got to see the stars, if only for a moment." I've got no idea where the loon is going with this. We saw the stars last night yes, but what does that have to do with my missing a spot of brekkie? (The scones are calling me.)

"Okay? But I don't-"

"Hush up a minute, Snow." He sneers, back to himself a bit. Some part of me is relieved, seeing him back to his snarky self, even if he is a complete prat. "So I was wondering, if we are on a... truce, of sorts... would you- er - could you-" He groans and runs a hand through his hair. (It's not slicked today. He should wear it like this more- it's less posh. Makes him look more fit than usual, which is hard to do. For a bloke, anyway.) He sets his jaw, and whatever's coming, I know I won't be able to say no. (Unless I think it's part of his plot.) He looks at me, and with resolution I've not heard from him before, he says, "Just this once, Snow, could you take me to see the stars again?"

I dunno what I was expecting, but it wasn't that. He wants me to take him back to the stars. Part of me knows it's a bad idea. He's my enemy, and more than likely he's taking notes for his bloody plot. He'd have full access and ability to catch me off guard and kill me at any moment. And, to top it all off, I'd be missing food! All so he can... see the stars with me? (Not with me. Because of me. I'm his only resource. Not with me.)

Which is why what comes out of my mouth next seems to surprise us both. "Of course I will, Baz." And I take his hands. (It's like they move with minds of their own.) I s'pose breakfast can wait a bit.

*Baz's POV*

I don't know why I thought this was a good idea for even a moment. I should have thought it through- I always think these things through. Maybe it was the way the stars reminded me of mother, or the way Simon's hand felt in mine - or even the intoxication of his magic - but something made me ask him to do it again. And even more surprisingly; he is. He's taken my hands and started filling me with his magic. Leave it to Snow to make me feel like an empty vast of nothing, waiting to be filled. (By him.)

"Twinkle Twinkle, Little Star." I cast. I only have to cast about two lines of the rhyme before the room around us falls away and we're floating in space. All around us, thousands and thousands of stars. But the only thing I can focus on is Simon. He's got his eyes closed and he's sat cross-legged, and his tie is haphazardly slung around his neck. His shirt is unbuttoned part way (he's always trying to kill me, the tosser) and his curls, as always, are tousled and bloody chaotic. But the thing that mesmerizes me most about him is the way he glows. He always glows (to me, anyway), but surrounded by these stars, he shines even brighter.

When I finally wrench my eyes from him (what a sad thing to do) to look at the stars, I feel Simon looking at me. His gaze is burning, as always, and I can only simply ignore it. All around us are supernovas, and stars light years and light years away. (And he's still watching me. Why is that?)

I turn my head back toward him. (It's a bit awkward, holding his hands while I plan on being rude to him. Even after all he's done... I can't help it.) "Can I help you, Snow?" He flushes red (I do wish I could see how far done the blush goes) and only shakes his head.

He thinks for a moment (unusual for him) before saying, softly, "Your mum really promised you that she'd do this for you?" I nod in response. We're quiet for a long while before he tugs my hands and I nearly sprawl on top of him. (It's hard to remember there's a bed under us. If I think about it for too long, the stars fade.) (He's a bloody wreck, he is.)

After a moment of adjusting, we're laying down, side by side, hand in hand. Looking up at the stars. I hear Simon say "There was something else your mum said..." I don't know what he's on about, but if it involves him keeping something about my mum from me, we're going to have larger issues. "She said to- to um, give you something." I'm focused on making sure the stars don't fade. I don't want to leave. I feel safe, here next to my enemy. (Merlin. Funny how that works, yeah?)

"Well? What is it? Come on then, Snow." He turns his head to look at me, and I do the same. (It's all I can do to keep the stars from fading and being replaced by blue eyes and bronze curls around us.) He leans forward and presses a soft kiss to my forehead. My stomach twists (in a pleasant way or not, I'm not quite sure. In a way.) I can feel my hand shaking slightly in Simon's. Luckily, I don't sweat. I run cold, thank Merlin.

"She told me to give you that." He settles back against the bed and if it weren't for my superior hearing, I might not have heard him.

"Right, well. That's... thank you Snow." He looks over at me, but I don't look back at him, for fear of making the stars disappear. I know we can't stay here forever, but... I'd like to stay as long as I can. As long as he'll let me.

*Simon's POV*

I wonder how long he'll let me look at the stars with him. (Well. I'm more looking at him, but 's the same thing, innit?) This has been nicer than we've ever bloody been to each other, and it's... well it's not terrible, I reckon. He's not snapped at me, and he didn't make a move to kill me when I... well, when I gave him what his mother gave me. And he hasn't made a move to leave yet. Not that I like holding hands with my enemy looking at the stars, but, well. I s'pose it's better than having him plot.

When I look over, he's gazing up at the thousands - millions - of stars above us. He looks sad almost, but that can't be right. Baz is never sad. A complete arsehole, and maybe sometimes lonely, yes, but not sad. I never really thought him lonely, either. He has Dev and Niall, and in some fucked up way, he almost has me, too. I'm not saying I wouldn't kill him given the chance- but p'raps if he were in mortal danger I wouldn't just stand around. But I think that's what any decent person would do, even if the bloke was their enemy. (I think briefly about the fact that I'm missing breakfast, and my stomach's started to rumble, but I don't want to move. I'll think about why, later.)

I've been thinking a lot, lately. (Baz'd snort if I told him that. Well that's a first, Snow he'd say. Prat.) A lot meaning more than usual, and lately meaning since last night. Since we saw the stars the first time. I've been thinking about the stars, and Watford, and the Old Families, and him. Baz, I mean. About how all the stars have a reason, so we do, too. They're up there with a purpose, and I think that maybe we are too. What it is, I dunno, but... well I'm thinking maybe I don't want to kill Baz. And not because he seems to have gone a bit soft. Because I don't really want to. Why take away someone who has a purpose here? Who's a star? I'm not saying I want a bloody cuppa with him, and it doesn't mean I like him all the sudden. Just that maybe I want something new.

But I dunno. I think 's just me who wants that, anyway. Baz turns to me, and I've only just now realized I've been staring at him. (He's about to bite my bloody head off, I just know it.) "Thank you, Snow. Really... thank you." I dunno what I was expecting, but it wasn't that. I can only nod in response.

...

I miss brekkie... and teatime... and lunch, and dinner while I'm in the stars with Baz. It didn't really matter because whenever I thought of food, it appeared, anyway. My magic hasn't been exhausted yet, odd enough. The few times I conjured food for Baz, he wouldn't eat it, the stubborn prick. S'pose he'll just bloody starve. But instead of fighting him on it, I just frowned and he pretended not to notice.

We haven't talked all that much. I think it's because I don't wanna fuck anything up and have him pulling away. I like watching the stars. It's been so peaceful here with him, for the first time... ever, and for as long as he'll stay, I want him to. I know we'll have to leave this bubble of safety eventually. I just. Well, I don't want to do it now. (Crowley I wish it could last longer.)

But far too soon for my liking (I still put that into my box of things not to think about), Baz looks at me, and I feel the stars blinking out, one by one. "Snow, I think perhaps it's time we come down to Earth." Something twists in my gut, but I ignore it and pull my magic back in all the same. As fast as the stars had come, they disappear, and we're left in our very bland, but very familiar and safe room in Mummers. Nothing changed, everything untouched. (I wondered briefly if the stars were his plot to have someone come in while we were gone and steal my things. I didn't think about it for long.)

I'm faintly aware that we're still holding hands, and even though I pulled back, they still feel like magic.

*Baz's POV*

We're still holding hands, and true to supernovas, I think I may combust. This day has been wonderful, and I curse at myself for telling him to end it. But I realized that I got so much of Snow today - more than I ever could have asked for - that it wasn't fair to him. He bloody did it out of pity. He was lovely today- offering me food, letting me see the stars for my mum, kissing me, and staying with me the whole day. But I can't let myself be fooled by it; we're still enemies, and nothing more. He did this because he felt bad for the poor, motherless vampire who just wanted to see the stars for her. Well the toff can just bugger off. (I dreadfully wish he wouldn't, though.)

But he's looking at me now, and instead of telling him that he's dead from the neck up, I say, "Thank you again, Simon. For everything. For the stars," Even in the dark, I can see him flush. "I'm sorry I kept you-"

"Don't be, Baz. Wasn't any trouble. 'Course I helped." He sits up, dragging me up with him. He realizes that we're still holding hands and quickly pulls away, despite my (silent) protestations. (I suppose he's still repulsed by me. Figures.)

"It's just that..." It's all too much. Him doing this for me a second time. The whole day. It's too much and I'm still high off his magic, and he's right here saying that I shouldn't be sorry. I don't know whether to blame him, the magic, or the stars for what I say next. (Granted, they're all basically the same thing.) "Simon, you were the brightest thing in my day. And we spent it amongst the stars." He looks taken aback, and almost instantly I regret what I said. You're the brightest thing in my day? And we spent it amongst the stars?! It's a load of poetic tosh is what it is, and not even good poetic tosh. It's not even poetic! (Never mind the fact that I just confessed my largest secret to the one straight person that it's about.)

He doesn't react for a long moment, in which I spend sufferingly staring at his Adam's apple. "Listen Snow, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have... it's just that-" I'm cut off by his lips on mine and his hands in my hair. I'm most definitely combusting, now.

I suppose it was a bit poetic then... wasn't it?

*Simon's POV*

I've found it. It's this. This is my purpose. My star. 

[theshrubbery]

Chapter 5 of my fic :)

Chapter summary: 

My father is shouting something, I feel like I should be listening to him, but all I can focus on is how beautiful Simon is. He’s fucking gorgeous and it’s breaking my heart. I love him so much that I can’t breathe, my chest is constricting and it’s all I can do not to lean back into him, let him swallow me whole.

SIMON

I didn’t mean to rifle through Baz’s personal things like this. I didn’t even know they were personal until I noticed how worn the newspaper clippings were, how thin the paper of the photo had become. It was a photo of a tall, beautiful woman holding a small Baz in her arms, both of them are smiling, standing in front of a window—I notice Baz’s father, Malcolm, in the reflection. One corner of his smile is peeking out from the side of the camera, which is held high, right to his face, as he squints through the viewfinder.

I’d shared a room with Baz for long enough to know that his mum had died, though I’d never really thought much of it. I realise that makes me sound like something of a complete asshole, but this is, of course, coming from an orphan.

Honestly, though, I’d been looking for some clothes to wear. I was too scared to go back to my room to fetch my bag full of my own clothes. I’d ditched them in my escape out of that fucking freak-hole, and I sure as shit wasn’t going back for them. As much as I hate the idea of borrowing Baz’s clothes (again) I hate the idea of going back to that room even more. So, naturally, I’d started looking through his wardrobe for something that didn’t look like it was over a bajillion pounds. Something more Primark, less… whatever expensive brands these silk shirts were.

For some reason, I’d figured that Baz must have just been keeping all his fancy shit out to show off. Most people would do that, I figured, and Baz definitely seemed the type to try and keep up his pretentious image like that, so I got up on my tip-toes and started to rummage around the top shelves, pushing a neatly folded pile of jumpers out of the way until I accidentally found the shoebox. Might I add that it was a very expensive branded shoebox, too.

Inside were the articles I’m sitting holding now: the newspaper clippings of Baz’s mum’s death. The newspaper clippings of Baz’s childhood kidnapping that I’ve never heard a fucking thing about. What the fuck?

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Baz’s voice sends a cold shock straight through me. My stomach drops through the floor, a sense of dread pouring like cement into my chest cavity. I’m holding the photograph when Baz opens the door. The one of he and his mum; he strides forwards and snatches it straight from me before I can think to surrender it of my own accord. I look up at him.

Baz is seething. In all the years I’ve known Baz, never have I seen him look so genuinely terrifying. It makes me wonder whether I’ve actually ever seen him mad.

“I’m sorry,” I say. But I say it too quickly, it sucks the genuineness out and leaves it empty, bland. I can’t help but curse myself, internally, there’s no way out of this one.

“For a genius you sure are thick,” Baz spits, shoving me hard in the shoulder as he gathers the clippings back into the box and holds them tightly to his chest. He gets to his feet and glares down at me, like he isn’t sure what to do next and doesn’t want me to know.

“You were kidnapped,” I say. Baz flinches. “You were kidnapped by your mum’s killers.”

Baz’s jaw tightens, his thick eyebrows lowering even further, casting shadows over his eyes. He’s scowling so tightly his lips are starting to whiten.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I try again, and I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know why I’m still going with this. It’s clear that Baz doesn’t want to talk about it, that he’s enraged I ever looked through his stuff without permission in the first place, but I guess now that the can of worms is open…

“Baz!” Mordelia shouts up the stairs. I can hear Malcolm trying to quiet her, but she shouts again anyways, reminding us that there’s breakfast to be had, a relationship to fake.

“I can’t believe you,” Baz snarls under his breath, and somehow his disappointment is an even sharper spear to the stomach than his anger. “I can’t believe you.”

“Baz, please, I really am sorry.”

“Just shut the fuck up, Snow, I don’t want to hear it.” Baz pushes a hand through his hair, pulling at it when he gets to the back of his head, then he forces a violent sigh through his teeth and throws his hand away from his scalp, slapping it against his thigh. He gives me this look, and it scalds me, like he expected more from me. What I don’t understand is why would he? It’s not like we’ve ever really been friends.

Baz turns away from me and takes a deep breath. “Let’s just go down to breakfast.”

“Right,” I say quietly, feeling like I really don’t have the right to talk at all.

“Come on, Snow. We’ll discuss this later but for now, don’t fuck this up for me too.” I don’t need to ask him what he means, I already know he means pretending to be his boyfriend. I feel like I owe him, I feel guilty, so on the way down the stairs, after Baz has (literally) thrown me some clothes to change into, I psyche myself up, and I grab his hand.

Baz freezes, stumbles, nearly misses a step, then rights himself and tentatively pushes his fingers through the spaces in my own, interlocking our hands. It’s strange, I think, how effortless it is to do this, how easy it is to pretend we’re a couple.

Malcolm looks down his nose at us, standing at the bottom of the stairs as we descend. I can’t see Baz’s face, but I really can’t imagine it would look much better. Baz’s hand tightens in mine and he pulls me closer to his body as his father’s eyes rake over me. Then, Mordelia comes bounding around the corner again, obviously over-exited at all the happenings. She probably doesn’t see many visitors inside the house.

“Cute!” She exclaims, her eyes ogling our joined hands. Malcolm swallows, as though he’s physically withholding himself from making some sort of derogatory comment.

“Enough, Mordelia, go back to the table,” Malcolm tells her, gently pressing his hand into her tiny shoulder and sending her away. He’s acting as though whatever me and Baz are, whatever we have, is infectious. It’s nothing short of frustrating. Really, it’s a lot more than frustrating, it’s disgusting, but this isn’t my place to say anything, not yet anyways. “Baz, you and… your friend will join us.” Malcolm’s voice curls around the word ‘friend’, wrapping it in sneeringly impolite undertones. It’s making me feel awkward and uncomfortable. Luckily, even though Baz and I aren’t really seeing eye-to-eye right now, he doesn’t just stand there and let his father pick at me.

“He has a name. And you know he is more than a friend,” Baz’s voice is flat, empty, but I can still make out the simmer in it that tells me he’s trying to keep his cool. “Just because you’re my father, it doesn’t give you the right to treat Simon this way.”

“Basilton,” Malcolm snaps. “You really need to rethink your position in this family, rethink your rank, your status, are you really going to throw that all away to gallivant around with this boy?”

Baz steps down a couple more steps, and I unwillingly follow. Not that I have a choice with how his sweaty hand has mine in a death-clamp. I’m not sure whether he even remembers he’s holding it.

“And what if I am?” Baz challenges. He’s already tall, but standing as he is, a few steps higher than his father, puts him inches above eye-level and forces Malcolm to look up at him.

“Don’t be ridiculous. The sooner you give this whole thing up, the better, it’s clear what you’re doing here, Basil.” My heart starts thudding just a little harder at the implications. Has Malcolm figured us out already? Am I really that bad at this whole dating thing? Baz gave me one job, granted I hate him, but letting people down once I’ve committed to a promise really isn’t something I like to do. It feels like a failure on my part.

“What are you talking about?” Baz demands. I can see his pulse in the hollow of his throat. I’m two steps above Baz and I slowly lower myself down one until I’m directly behind him, so close I can feel the heat from his body.

“You’re an idiot if you think I can’t tell what you’re doing here, Basilton. You honestly expect me to believe that straight after our conversation you’d reveal to be dating the one boy you’ve hated since first year? It’s clear to me you’re just trying to prove a point, and the act is up. So drop it.”

“You’re wrong, father.” Baz squeezes my hand. I look down at his whitening knuckles and then up to his clenching jaw, which I can just about see from this angle. I look to Malcolm and it irks me how fucking confident he is that he’s won this. Baz and I don’t convince him at all, even if he has only had one dinner to form his opinion of us.

“The act is up,” Malcolm repeats. “Basilton, come to your senses. Just stop this foolishness, it is, frankly, embarrassing.” I hear the hitch in Baz’s breath that he can’t quite cover in time. There’s a splotchy red flush of colour blooming in ugly flowers across his cheeks, down his neck, his chest, where I can see a bronze ‘v’ of skin between the fabric of his button-down shirt.

My ears feel kind of like they’re ringing, I feel a little like I can’t see properly, like I’m standing on the other side of a glass window looking in on my own life. It’s strange. I feel like I’m floating, weightless and unreal.

In hindsight, my body probably knew what I was going to do next before my brain caught up with it. The chemicals surging in my brain, the adrenaline trembling through my veins, it was all because of a subconscious thought that hadn’t quite reached the forefront of my mind yet.

Unsure of what I’m doing, I pull at Baz’s hand, turn him at an angle, use his momentary surprise to tilt his head towards mine with my other hand, cradling his jaw for what feels like an eternity. I’m not looking at his eyes, but his parted lips.

And then, I kiss him.

BAZ

He’s kissing me. Simon Snow is kissing me. I feel dizzy, lightheaded, I feel like melting. I haven’t ever been kissed before, I wonder if Snow knows that this is my first, wonder if he can feel the same fireworks that I can. My heart is pounding when we pull gently away. He doesn’t jerk back with the disgust I’d have expected from Snow, I’m sure it must’ve sunk in that he’s pretending to be in a relationship with a gay man by now. I never imagined that Snow would ever willingly kiss me and look as dazed as he does right now. His eyes are glazed, his lips are flushed pink, his cheeks on fire, his pulse pounding in the column of his golden throat, the freckled skin fluttering.

My father is shouting something, I’m vaguely aware of him storming away and I feel like I should be listening to him, but all I can focus on is how beautiful Simon is. He’s fucking gorgeous and it’s breaking my heart. I love him so much that I can’t breathe, my chest is constricting and it’s all I can do not to lean back into him, let him swallow me whole.

Snow is looking at me, I am looking at Snow, neither of us know what to do now. My father distantly tells us to get down to the dining room at once, he sounds disgusted, he probably thinks we’re disgusting and I just don’t care. Simon Snow just kissed me. Snow’s eyes widen, his head jars back suddenly, and I can’t help the jolt in my stomach, I knew it was too good to be true. He doesn’t say anything though, not for what feels like an eternity. He just stands and stares, his hand sweating where it’s still holding my jaw. I want to push my face into his hand and breathe him in, but I can’t. I can’t, and it’s killing me.

“I—Sorry, that was—that was too much,” Snow stutters. Nausea is swirling unpleasantly in my gut. There it is. The rejection. Though… does that really count as rejection when he’s the one who initiated it in the first place? Snow looks uncomfortable, like he doesn’t know what he should do now, and I decide to put him out of his misery.

“It’s fine, Snow, I get it,” I tell him, forcing my voice to stay level. Forcing myself not to allow the thickness in my throat to constrict my words. I can’t scare Snow off, not now. “You’re… doing well, my father will have no choice but to believe us now.”

“I just—how could he say those things to you? It was—I didn’t think—I just—” I hold up a hand to stop him. He must really be feeling quite turbulent if he’s stuttering over his words like this, it’s been a long while since he stumbled over each word like a hurdle in this way.

“We don’t need to talk about this, I understand, Snow. We can discuss things later.”

There is an awful lot we need to talk about later.

Breakfast was so tense I was half positive Snow was about to get up and run. He scoffed his food like he always does, though I think he was just nervous. Mordelia wouldn’t shut up, asking us all sorts of questions as to the status of our relationship. In the end Malcolm had snapped at her to be quiet, something he very rarely did. Daphne took her away from the table as soon as she could, taking the rest of the kids with her too with the help of two maids. When Snow and I had arrived, the house had been empty, but in the mean time Daphne had returned with Mordelia and all my other siblings. I love them, I do, but I don’t feel like I can handle all the attention at the moment. Though I don’t let anyone into this, I can’t, my mother taught me better than to lose my composure.

So I remained composed, dignified, ate my breakfast, reprimanded Snow on his eating habits just to reassure him that I wasn’t mad at him. Not for kissing me, not for finding out everything I never wanted anyone to know. My father didn’t make any more remarks, in honesty he tried not to look at us, I’m not sure what I want from him—other than acceptance of course. It hurts to have my father treat me this way. It hurts to feel like a disappointment for something that I can’t control. It’s even worse knowing that he still loves me, I know that he does, he’s always done everything he can for me its just… he cannot stand me being attracted to other men. He’s always ignored it, probably in hopes that it’s just a phase. But it isn’t, it never was, and it never will be. I have no idea if he’ll ever stop letting this be a wedge between us.

“What are—what are we doing today then, Baz?” Snow asks me after breakfast. We’re the last ones at the table, father has excused himself to work and I’m grateful I can drop my ramrod posture, if only a little. To be honest, I hadn’t really thought that far ahead when I invited Snow here. Usually I would spend the holiday studying, attending formals with my father, counting down until I could go back to school. Snow has always stayed at Watford over the holidays, I’ve always speculated over what he spent his time doing in our room alone, though those thoughts often ended up wondering down a hormonal path that I really should steer clear of at the moment.

I cross my legs and lean back in my seat.

“Anything you want to do?” I reply as nonchalantly as I can. Snow glances at me and then quickly away, I can’t work out what he’s thinking. Is it about the kiss? Is it about finding him rummaging through my mother’s articles? My kidnapping? I don’t know whether I want to distract us from these thoughts, or talk them through. It feels like too much, all mounting up on me like this, I can’t help but feel anxious.

Snow shakes his head, shrugs his shoulders. “I’m the guest here.”

“I’d use that lightly,” I huff. “You’re not exactly getting the best hospitality here, are you?” I say it flatly, Snow knows that it’s not a question but a fact. He shrugs again. He’s always shrugging. His eyebrows pinch like his trying to think about how to word something.

“Don’t you feel—”

“Let’s study,” I say, cutting him off. I don’t want to answer anything that is poised as a question and includes the word ‘feel’.

“Study?” Snow asks, like he’s hearing the word for the first time.

“Yes, study.” He’s looking at me like I’ve just told him I’m a vampire. “What? Christ, Snow, aren’t you meant to be a genius? Are you telling me you’ve never studied?”

“No, that’s not. That’s not it, I study plenty, thank you very much—I just. I’m surprised you’d suggest studying.”

“Surprised?”

“Yeah, considering everything that’s happened, I just—”

“Please,” I interrupt again. I can’t have this talk right now, any of these talks. I don’t want to deal with feelings, I just want to pretend everything is fine, just for a little longer. I don’t want to talk about my mother, I don’t want to talk about myself, I don’t want to talk about that kiss, I just don’t think I can. I don’t trust myself not to spill everything I’ve been holding back for years. I just—I need to pretend. Just for a little longer. “Let’s just—let’s not talk about anything just yet, Snow. Let’s study. I’m still not entirely convinced you even know how to read.”

“Of course I can read!” He exclaims, sounding genuinely offended. I bless the heavens above that it’s so easy to distract him, so easy to rile him up. I love him for it.

“Oh really?” I taunt, pushing away from the table. He follows without breaking eye-contact. “I guess you’re just going to have to prove how smart you are then, scholarship-student.”

“I literally got the third highest grade in English!”

“Yeah, after me and Bunce.”

“You probably have like eighty private tutors and a rich-people machine that feeds knowledge into your head!”

“Snow, can you hear yourself?” I can’t help but laugh at him. Though it’s short and controlled. I manage to make it look like a sneer. Snow is most comfortable around me when I’m like this, playing the enemy, picking a fight.

“Fuck off, Baz.” He starts walking away from the table, then stops and looks over his shoulder to see if I’m following him, which I’m not.

“What is it?” I ask, already knowing the answer.

“I don’t know where to go,” he says blankly. I huff through my nose, bite my lip to try and keep from smiling as I watch him standing there in my clothes which are a size or two too big. The sleeves hang over his hands; he has the fabric of each cuff bunched up in each freckled hand. I love him. I love him.

“Come on then, you git.”

[sucrosette]

★— ⋆｡˚ [05. A (Married) Life with a Kitten]

For Day 22 of Carry on Countdown 23, Music. @carryon-countdown

In which Simon Snow brings his husband home a kitten, who his husband (appropriately) names Ophelia.

Rated T for One (1) instance of the f-bomb (I think).

This is a series of snapshots of different Simon Snows and Baz Pitches in the greater multiverse. You can find the other "lives" here: [Day 3: Alternate Universe][Day 19: Sci-Fi][Day 20: Flowers][Day 21: Begin Again]

⋆｡˚

“Okay,” Simon’s text opens, “Promise not to be mad.”

That’s always a good start. Basil doesn’t bother to text back, only checks the time to make sure Simon would be done with the kids for the day and decides now is a good enough time to call a break for the symphony. He dismisses them with a wave, flashing five twice as he steps away from the podium, already calling his husband. “Promise not to be mad is an ominous way to start a conversation, love.”

“Okay, but you have to promise,” Simon pouts adorably on the other end of the line. Baz can just see those blue eyes glistening up at him and the indignant jut of Simon’s chin when he protests Basil’s objections, and the dramatised sniffling his Simon would do.

He sighs, already defeated, “Love, do I ever stay mad at you long?”

“Well, no…” Simon admits, and Basil can see the little duck he’s doing with his head right then without having to see him at all, “But still! Don’t get mad in the first place for this one.”

Baz paces a circle once, and then he paces it again, just one more time before giving in fully to his defeat. “Alright, I won’t be. Actually mad. But what have you gone and done in the first place?”

“Nothing! Just, well, it wasn’t me who did anything,” Simon starts, and Baz could agree he probably hadn’t actually done anything too offensive himself. “So you know how the school’s gotten a sort of campus cat in the last couple of months?”

“Mhmn,” Baz intones, forcing himself to sit in an empty seat in the concert hall so as to not work himself up excessively or worry his musicians. He visualises the twenty tiny kindergarteners Simon minds throughout the day, running through their faces and various little mops of messy kindergartener hair from the last time he’d seen them. He could just imagine how excited they must be about some sweet campus stray. Knowing Simon, he’s probably set up a cat house in some corner of the playground for it. He doesn’t need to ask about it, he already knows Simon’s done it without even popping by the school.

“So the cat, we’ve been calling her Midnight, is actually a Mama Midnight and she had her litter like seven, eight weeks ago…” Simon trails off for a moment and Baz has to urge him on with another acknowledging noise, a sort of wordless ‘go on then’ before Simon’s barrelling forward again, “So it’s about time that the kittens get homed and I kind of just took the black one before anyone could say anything all her siblings are orange and white they’re gonna get adopted so easily and I already got her a collar and it’s pink with little rhinestones on it and you can’t tell me to send her to someone else, I’ll cry.”

Baz blinks back at the empty space at the end of the hall, taking all this information in stride. He doesn’t dislike animals. He gets on with cats rather well, actually, he’s just never had one of his own. “Alright,” he concedes without argument, “I won’t tell you to send her to someone else.”

“I’m already atta–” Simon pauses with a confounded little ‘uhhh…’ that stretches on into eternity, “Wait, you said yes?”

“I said yes,” Baz confirms, standing to stretch his legs and head back to the symphony, his musicians already starting to test their instruments in the background.

“That was surprisingly easy…”

“I have a condition,” Basil announces, purely for the sake of giving Simon a justification for that uneasiness in his tone. And also purely because he likes fucking with his husband still sometimes.

“Okay…?” Simon sounds even more suspicious of him and Basil has to hide a laugh, pulling the phone away from his ear while to compose himself before continuing.

“I get to name her.”

“Oh,” Simon says dumbly, “But I–”

“Nope,” Baz pops his ‘p’ as he says it, “That’s my condition, take it or leave it.”

⋆｡˚

Baz names her Ophelia. He doesn’t bother to hear any suggestions from Simon, even though Simon had apparently had a long list of names, but when he hears Basil call the little black kitten Ophelia he forgets each and every one of them in an instant.

She ends up being a bit of a priss, dainty on her paws and holding her head high, prancing about like she owns the place only a week and a half into moving in with them. She’s definitely taking after Baz with how he minds the house, each little thing in its little home and not a bit of mess to be found. Not to mention she does the same sort of snubbing Baz does, nose up to the sky when she doesn’t want to hear it or doesn’t get her way. The worst of it is she’s definitely bonding with Basil more than she’s bonding with Simon!

Well, alright, that wasn’t a bad thing, not actually. Something about coming home to find Baz lounging watching the tele or browsing his computer and having the little kitten on his lap napping was entirely too precious. Something about them made him entirely too fond. If it wasn’t that, then they’d be in the kitchen while Baz was cooking, and he’d have his headphones in and the sheet music to the symphony his orchestra is playing and between stirring pasta sauce or sauteing meat and vegetables, his spatula would double as a make-shift conducting baton.

Ophelia loved when Baz would practice his conducting. Not only did she manage to get stray scraps of meat and cheese when Baz was cooking-conducting, but he also was waving around a very entertaining stick for her to try and snatch from him. Nothing was better for entertaining little Ophelia. They’ve gotten her several sticks that were intended for kittens, with bells and feathers and floof in all manner of bright colours, but nothing satisfies the same way Baz’s spatula satisfies.

Perhaps it was the food. Simon could relate.

Simon’s caught them like this no less than four times so far, and she’s not even ten weeks old. 

“You’re spoiling her,” Simon says as he drops his keys in the bowl and slips his shoes off, “I thought I was going to be the one spoiling her, but it’s definitely you.”

“Don’t talk about Princess Ophelia like that to me, Simon,” Basil looks utterly appalled – a farce Simon is well aware of by now.

“I can’t believe you crowned her since the last time I saw you two,” Simon bemoans, flopping himself over on the couch, “When will you crown me, Basilton? When will I have earned the right to be royalty in your eyes?”

Baz walks over with the kitten perched on his arm like she belonged there and Simon pouts at her. “Did you want to be Princess Simon?” Baz’s voice is dripping sarcasm, but Simon only pouts harder.

“Well, what if I did?”

“Simon–” Baz outright chokes on a laugh at the thought and Ophelia looks offended that he shook her perch so abruptly. Baz puts her gently down on the arm of the couch and slides down next to Simon, sprawling the smaller out over his lap. His fingers card soft through Simon’s curls and before he knows it, he’s got Simon curled up like he was the kitten in their household. “Simon, you’re always royalty to me.”

“You’ve never titled me,” Simon prods Baz’s belly gently and Baz hums a soft song back.

“There’s no title in the world worthy of you, love,” Baz says it so sincerely that Simon knows that it must be true, “You’re always first in my heart. Even when you’re jealous of a silly kitten, need I remind you, that you brought home.”

Simon huffs a little, nuzzling his nose against that same spot he’d just poked, laying a soft kiss just there. “I’m not really jealous,” He means it when he says it, “I just wanted some attention.”

“I will always give you the attention you need,” Basil soothes as he brushes Simon’s hair behind his ears, caressing the shell of it gently, “Did you have a rough day?”

“Mhmn,” Simon answers, curling himself up more in Baz’s lap, “Parents…”

The one word bears enough weight to exhaust them both. “Would you like a nap before dinner? Right here on the couch?”

“Will you nap with me?” Simon asks, even as Basil’s already pulling the throw blanket down from where it had been resting at the top of the couch. He’s already sinking down onto the couch with Simon, wrapping himself more thoroughly around his husband, covering them both with that old hand-knit blanket Lady Ruth had given them for their wedding.

“It seems like a good day for a nap, I think.” It’s Baz’s own way of saying ‘of course,’ his own way of making the act of taking care of Simon something for them both.

Simon curls up facing Baz’s chest and Baz takes the edge of the couch, knowing Simon would fall off if he were to switch their positions. Simon’s breathing settles out as soon as Baz starts humming the notes to his symphony, just a quiet thing for Simon to focus on instead of the dreaded parents that he had been thinking about all day long, no doubt.

Princess Ophelia finds her own place curled up at the back of Simon’s knees, purring loudly and comfortably napping with both her dads together on the couch.

[froggierboy]

When I Touch Him, My Fingertips Don't Burn

i haven't gone to sleep yet so it still counts as the 25th. that's my story and i'm sticking to it. Here's my fill for the Sun/Moon prompt, and here's the ao3 link! I'm so excited to be doing the countdown this year! ^_^

Simon used to be the sun.  He did.  I shared a bedroom with his great burning aura for my entire adolescence.

He used to be the sun, but now I'm looking directly at him and my eyes don't hurt — what does that mean?  What does it mean that when I touch him, my fingertips don't burn?

I'm touching him right now; I'm sitting on Fiona's couch and he's lying across it with his head in my lap, his wings curled around his torso like a blanket.  I can't stop twirling his hair around my fingers. It's soft, if a little oily.

"I still can't believe it," Fiona says, almost viciously.  "The Mage's kid. Basil — what were you thinking?"

I take a deep breath because I'm trying not to be sharp with family as of late — I did accidentally bring a magickal nuclear bomb of a person home for a sleepover last year and destroy my family's home, so I figure I owe them a measure of gentle treatment from here on out.

It comes out a little sharply anyway: "He's not the Mage's heir.  He's not anyone's heir."  It might be cruel to point out that Simon is an orphan, but better he came from shit-Normal-nowhere, London, than to be the sole heir of a fanatical authoritarian.

"Baz…"  Fiona sighs, and I'm glad she had the tact to wait for Simon to fall asleep before starting in.  (And that Simon has little enough tact to fall asleep the first time I bring him to my aunt's house.)  "It's not that i'm not happy you're happy, darling," she says, and I hide a snort — Fiona only calls me darling when she's about to condescend to me — "but surely there's blokes better suited to you?  Better suited to the —"

"To the Pitch name?"  I sigh. Suddenly, I envy Simon's borderline narcoleptic napping abilities — I'd love to pass out right now and avoid this whole conversation.  "I think I right dragged that straight through the mud when I became a vampire."

"Baz!"

"I am, Fiona!  We can’t ignore it forever!  I burn in sunlight and I drink blood and I try my best to be a real boy and maybe I'm a monster — but forgive me if I've fallen in love with a boy who can look me in the eye and acknowledge that I'm all of those and not think of me as a monster at all!"  I'm whisper-yelling because I don't want to wake Simon, but he suddenly lurches awake with a yelp anyway, and when I look away from my aunt’s stricken eyes, I realize that I've been gripping a handful of his curls in a tense fist.

"Baz?"  He mutters blearily, and then bolts upright.  "Jesus Christ, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to drift —"

"Sh," I interrupt, taking his hand and tugging him against my side.  We're rarely this touchy-feely at home; he's allowing me to cuddle him now because Fiona makes him nervous, and the most monstrous thing about me right now is that I'm glad she does if it means he'll let me hug him close.  "It's alright, love, Fiona's not the judgemental type."

She laughs, and Simon frowns; his wings spread — sometimes he can’t control them, when he’s nervous or confused or half-asleep, and he’s all three right now — one scraping my back as it curves around my shoulders and the other knocking over an ugly old lamp on Fiona's end table.  It's wire and plastic, and clatters to the ground but doesn't break. "Sorry," he says again, retracting them; the edge scrapes my back the other way. He looks blushy and miserable, but when I look at Fiona, her lips are pursed tightly.

I meet her eyes, and it sends both of us — we just start laughing like little kids.  Simon looks offended at first, which makes me laugh harder, but he breaks quickly enough — I think he's just relieved not to have ruined the evening, such as it is — and laughs too.

His laugh, rare as it is, emboldens me; I reach forward and trace light fingertips over his smiling lips.  The lamp on the floor still shines up, illuminating his face from beneath, and that's the moment I realize it.  Watching his shining face reflect lamplight onto me, highlighted by our mingled laughter. The cover of night, him still ten percent asleep, my crazy, crazy-protective aunt watching us from her weathered armchair.

And maybe I should have realized it the first night I felt his magic, when he took me to a starfield, but he was still so crazy-hot then, burning a path through the world.

These days, I think we've found something less destructive between us.  Something almost symbiotic. Yin and yang, as it were.

Because I might be a child of the night, but Simon Snow is the fucking moon.

[carryonsimoncarryonbaz]

Whumptober Day 9

I’m all over the place with this. I’m a day late but that’s better than nothing, right?

Day 9: Shackled

Simon

I’ve got a free afternoon today. Baz is at football practice, so I’ve got the room to myself for a change. I’m lying on my bed, window open, relishing the peace and quiet when a little bird flies in with a summons from the Mage.

He doesn’t do this that often—mainly when he’s got a mission for me. But I just got back from one a few days ago so I’d be surprised if he sends me out again so soon. I’ve already missed half a week of classes.

Penny says it’s irresponsible of the Mage and shows an unforgivable lack of respect for my education.

“But I’m getting an education in real magic when I go, Penny.”

“You can’t do the practicals without having a solid foundation in the theory, Simon!”

Penny has very definite views on magickal education. She regularly sends strongly worded missives to the faculty board regarding the educational practices at Watford. She was livid when the linguistics program was shut down fourth year and nearly went off when the music program ceased being part of the curriculum last year.

“Sung spells are so important, Simon! The technique is completely different than spoken spells—you have to perfect the elocution and the melody, not to mention the tempo.” We’d been in Magic Words class at the time and I’d been trying to levitate my notebook. It kept flinging itself off the edge of my desk instead.

Penny’s eyes had gone distant. “Sung spells are the only ones you can cast with other mages to increase their power. It’s criminal to eliminate the music program.”

“That’s one thing you and I can agree on, Bunce.” Baz had leant across the aisle, his book hovering a foot above his desk, not even wavering when he turned to nod at Penny. Wanker.

“If nothing else, I can count on you to support the value of a well-rounded education, Basil.” Penny had given him a meaningful look.

Baz’s face had lost its harsh angles momentarily, the sneer he typically sports when I’m in the vicinity fading away as his expression softened into something unfamiliar. Thoughtful and fleetingly vulnerable.

It was unexpected and it made my chest tighten. “It was important to my mother.” He’d paused, looking down for an instant before continuing. “She was a master of sung spells. My father . . . My father says he’s never heard anyone who could match her.”

I’d been agitated the rest of the class period. And most of the afternoon. It’s unnerving when Baz acts out of character. It throws me off.

Probably why he does it, the tosser.

Always plotting.

I make my way to the Mage’s office, passing through the wards set at the entrance. They’re set to let me pass freely. He’s at his desk, a large book open in front of him. He closes it and tucks it into a drawer when he catches sight of me.

“You called for me, sir?”

The Mage stands then, coming around his desk, arms clasped behind his back.

He’s taller than me.

I grew three inches this summer but I’m still a bit shorter than he is. I still have to tilt my head up to meet his eyes.

He’s grown a goatee this year and I’m dead jealous, even if Baz keeps making snide Robin Hood references about it.

Not that Baz has anything to brag about. He’s no better than me—not a hint more than peach fuzz on my face and Baz’s skin is even smoother, pale and unblemished, not a whisker in evidence.

“Simon. I called you here for some extra practice.” He sits on the front edge of his desk, one hand against the desk and the other lightly gripping his sword hilt. “I feel I’ve been remiss with some of your training.” His eyebrows come together in a furrow over his forehead. “We’ve not spent adequate time practicing spells you might need to utilise if you are bound or captured. Now that the Goblins are intent on your demise we need to add those to your arsenal.”

“I don’t intend to get captured, sir.”

“Simon.” There’s an edge to his voice when he says my name this time. “We must prepare for every eventuality. It is not an unlikely scenario, and not just as far as Goblins. Who knows what dark creatures might try to ingratiate themselves with the Goblins by apprehending you.”

I hate doing spell practice with the Mage. His mouth always narrows to a thin line and I can see the disappointment in his eyes, hear the frustration in his voice when he barks at me to enunciate clearly and use my words.

So much for my free afternoon. “Yes, sir.”

He walks behind his desk again and opens another drawer. “Come here, Simon. Hold out your hands.”

I put my hands out, fully expecting him to place something in them.

The Mage steps forward and snaps a set of metal shackles around my wrists before I can react. He nods at me as I stare at him in surprise. “Let’s have you try to get out of those.” He holds a hand up as I start spluttering. “Unlocking or releasing spells only, Simon. You have to count on stealth and speed in a situation like this, not brute force. The risk of being discovered or injuring yourself is real.”

Fucking hell. I’m terrible at this sort of thing, thinking up spells on the fly. I’m not even good when I try to do the ones I’ve memorised.

My mind is an utter blank. I can’t think of a single spell to open the shackles on my wrists.

“Come on, now, Simon. I haven’t got all night.”

“I can’t reach my wand.”

“Exactly the circumstance you would find yourself in, if this happened in the field. You can cast without your wand. We’ve worked on that.”

We have. I can do it, sometimes. Mostly when I don’t intend to. It’s unpredictable, like all my magic is.

“Uh . . . the only opening spell I know is ‘open sesame’, sir.”

He gives me a pained look. “Absolutely not in this circumstance.”

I wrack my brain as I give the shackles an experimental tug. The chain stretches to its full length—about an eight inch span—but I can’t budge it beyond that. The links are sturdy.

“Simon.” It’s not just a hint of irritation this time.

Ok. Ok. I can do this.

I cast “lucky break” but there isn’t enough magic in it. I try again but nothing happens.

I go through “free as a bird” and “get out of jail free” to no avail. The shackles glow for an instant with “go scot-free” but nothing happens.

I can see the Mage is getting irritated with me. I tug at the shackles again.

I try to think of spells to enlarge the cuffs but nothing comes to mind.

The Mage has his arms crossed over his chest, brow furrowed, a frown on his face. He looks at his watch.

“Simon, why don’t you keep at it for a while longer. I need to check in with my men. I’ll be back shortly.”

And with that he leaves. Just leaves, with me still trapped in the cuffs.

I can feel my magic coursing under my skin as my agitation increases. I’m angry, I’ll not deny it.

When Miss Possibelf sets us tasks like this she prods us, gives us gentle nudges, hints, feedback on what we could do better. The Mage does that with swordplay, but with the magic he just seems to expect me to figure it out on my own. It doesn’t come as easily as the fighting does though. It’s a struggle. And that just aggravates him. I can tell.

I can’t believe he just left me.

Probably thinks it builds character or some such rot. “Let experience sharpen your blade, Simon.” He says that one far too often.

I sink into the armchair set in front of his desk and run through spells in my head. I’m not like Penny—i don’t have reams of them stored up.

Or like Baz, who’s never at a loss for words, the utter prat.

I mutter a few more spells. Nothing happens. I’m desperate enough to consider Bible verses. I know it’s taboo, but it’s not like I’ve got a lot of options, now do I?

I don’t want to still be struggling when the Mage gets back here.

I can think of a few verses that might work. Some of the care homes had a more religious bent than others. I just went along with it.

I cast a “loose the bonds of wickedness.” Nothing happens and I don’t get struck down for my audacity so I try another. “Break every yoke” makes the shackles glow again, for longer this time, but they don’t open.

I’m sweating now. I can feel my magic thrumming under my skin, heat coursing down my arms. I close my eyes as the red haze starts and I take a few deep breaths, muttering “stay cool” and “cool it now.”

It helps. The haze recedes when I open my eyes. I stare at my wrists, trying to think of something useful.

I’d be right well fucked if this was a real situation.

I’m right well fucked with it as a training exercise.

I yank my hands apart, as if I could break the links. There’s nothing weak about any of them.

Fucking hell! I cast a “weakest link” and pull my hands apart as hard as I can. The middle link snaps clean through.

The shackles are still firm on my wrists but I can at least move my hands independently now.

If I were really held captive this would be enough. I could call the Sword of Mages and use it, cuff notwithstanding.

But I have a feeling that won’t be good enough for the Mage.

I stew on it a bit, shifting around in the seat. I can’t sit still so I get up and start pacing back and forth across the Mage’s office.

Six steps to the bookshelf and six steps back.

Back and forth.

I just want to be free of these stupid shackles. I want to leave. I want to go back to my room.

I look out the window. The sun is slanted lower. Baz will be heading back from football practice soon.

I’d rather deal with him than be here for one more minute.

I just want to be free.

I just want to break free.

Merlin, that’s it!

I can hear the lyrics in my head. Baz may be a complete wanker but he’s a wanker with good taste in music. I’ve heard him play this song often enough on his contraband iPod.

I cast “I want to break free.”

The shackles glow even brighter this time and stay that way, shimmering. I can feel a tingle in my wrists and heat radiating from the cuffs. It doesn’t burn.

But they don’t snap open.

What am I doing wrong?

It comes to me then. It’s a song.

Maybe I have to sing this for it to work.

Fuck. I don’t sing.

I mean, I sing when I’m in the shower but only if Baz isn’t around. He’d take the piss if he heard me, I’m sure of it.

I have to try. I’m out of options and I’m sure the Mage will be back soon. I can’t face disappointing him again.

I hum the tune a few times to prepare myself.

“I want to break free.” It comes out wavery. What did Penny say? Melody, elocution, tempo. Ok. Ok.

And intention. That’s true with every spell though.

I intend for these fucking shackles to come off.

I take a breath and sing the lyric again.

And again, my voice getting stronger with each repetition. The shackles glow with a blue light and spring open, falling to the floor.

I rub my wrists and shake my hands out.

The Mage walks in just as I’m picking the cuffs up off the floor.

His eyebrows go up as he takes in the sight of my cuff-free wrists. “Well done, Simon. Tell me, what spell did you use?”

“‘Weakest link’ to break the chain, sir, and ‘I want to break free’ for the cuffs.”

His expression relaxes and relief floods through me.

“I wanted you to focus on releasing spells to remove or loosen the shackles but ‘weakest link’ is a good one in a pinch. It lets you use your sword, if nothing else.” He puts a hand on my shoulder. “The other one worked as a spoken spell?”

“No, sir, I had to sing it to make it work.”

He looks pleased now and I can’t help but bask in it. “Did you?” His claps my shoulder and gives me a hint of a smile. “Well done indeed.”

I smile back.

I’m so relieved.

[pipsqueakparker]

31? for the kisses prompts + snowbaz

Pulling away from a kiss, whispering words of love against each other’s lips

s/o to whoever originated the whole prof baker simon headcanon i lean into it heavy

————

Three years.

That was apparently how long it took before Baz let himself believe that Simon Snow really loved him back. Not that he ever thought Simon was lying, but he was always ready for the other shoe to drop. For Simon to realize his mistakes, to turn back into Agatha’s arms, or maybe find someone entirely new.

But now it had been three years since the night Simon kissed him in the woods. Three years since they spent a night on the floor of Baz’s childhood bedroom, snogging until their lips were sore. Three years since all hell broke loose and the Humdrum was ‘defeated’ and the Mage died and Simon’s life fell apart. And they had spent three years trying to piece it all back together.

In those three years, Simon had started a small business that he ran out of his flat, making speciality cakes and various baked goods for birthdays, weddings, anniversaries, and other such special occasions. Baz and Penny helped, Baz with the actual business parts and transport, Penny with baking assistance and moral support.

In those three years, Baz had shifted his studies to more closely fit what he would need to help Simon run that business, and he had managed to graduate early. This was his gap year, before he started looking into Masters programs, and he was using that free time to double down his efforts with Simon. Both in the business and in their relationship. There were points during uni where he felt he was neglecting their relationship too much, but how else would he manage to graduate early? Now he had the time to make up for all of it.

In those three years, Penny had nearly finished her own degree. She wasn’t graduating early like Baz, but she wasn’t upset about it. She loved uni, she loved her classes, and she had managed to fit in enough credits to dual-major (which Simon did not see the point or desire to do).

Also in those three years, Baz found himself falling deeper in love with Simon Snow. And he could finally let himself believe - no, trust that Simon felt the same way. It should have been obvious all along, that’s what Penelope told him all the time, but could one blame him for thinking his hero of a boyfriend would change his mind about dating an actual vampire? Penny also told him that was ridiculous, so it would seem one could blame him. But three years had passed, three years of dates and nights spent wrapped in each other’s arms. Three years of snogging across both of their apartments, snuggling together and watching terrible movies, and helping each other through their best and worst times. Three years of love, and three years of them to falling completely head over heels for each other.

Three years for Baz to realize he didn’t want to, couldn’t imagine having to, spend his life with anyone else.

“I‘m going to propose.”

Penny hardly glanced up from the book she was reading, sat across from Baz at their small dining room table and sipping at a mug of tea. She sat the mug down.

“Propose...? What? Something for the business?”

“No, Bunce.” Baz leaned across the table, covering the page she’d been reading with a hand so she would look up at him. She settled him with a glare, but he pressed on. “I want to propose. To Simon. Ask him to get married. To me.”

Penny’s glare was gone, replaced by wide eyes and a look of surprise. “Wha - Oh! Oh, Nicks and Slicks, Baz! That’s - well, that’s fantastic, isn’t it? How’re you going to do it?”

Her book was forgotten, pushed to the side as she placed her elbows on the table, more than ready for this conversation. Baz sighed.

“I... I haven’t really thought about that bit yet.” He dropped his eyes to the table top, scratching at a crack in the grain with his fingernail. “I was hoping you could help.”

Penny pursed her lips. “Well, Simon’s not you. He wouldn’t need anything extravagant or dramatic, would he?”

“I don’t need things extravagant or dramatic,” Baz muttered. Penny raised a brow at him, almost in perfect mimicry of his own signature move, and he suddenly understood how Simon felt when he did it. He rolled his eyes, unwilling to concede even if he knew it was true. “At least my plans weren’t to stop time.”

“And it best stay that way, I’ll not have you and Simon stealing my proposal.” Penny took another sip of her tea, furrowing her brows as she thought. Finally, she sat her tea on the table once more, gave Baz a small smile and said, “I may have an idea.”

—

The thing about Penny’s plan was that it was so simple, yet somehow so difficult. It took a full week of nagging Simon to take a night away from the kitchen to even set it into motion. Apparently there was a big event coming up he’d been hired for, and he was stressing over making sure everything he was making would be perfect. It was the biggest event he’d done yet, it was some posh fundraiser and hundreds of people were expected to attend. Really, it shouldn’t have caught Baz off guard when Simon bowed out last minute.

“I’m sorry, Baz, I have to meet with the organizers tomorrow with samples - I‘ve not even got half of them.” Simon sounded genuinely upset and apologetic over the phone, Baz couldn’t even be disappointed. He knew how important this was for him, and even though he felt like tonight could have been an equally important night, it wasn’t like Simon knew that.

“I’ll come help,” Baz offered.

“Oh, no, you don’t have to do that.”

“I know. I want to.”

“Baz, you’re a nightmare in the kitchen.”

“You’re a nightmare in general. We still let you help, don’t we?”

Simon’s laugh rang tight and tinny through the phone. “Alright, fine. Come help me.”

Baz really was a nightmare in the kitchen. He had many talents, Simon would argue that he was sheer perfection, but baking seemed to be his weakness. Simon gave him the simplest tasks, mix these pre-measured ingredients, melt the chocolate, things he would have to try to fuck up.

Simon, however, was graceful in ways Baz had never seen when he was baking. In daily life, Simon was heavy-handed and clambering around everywhere he went. Here in the kitchen, Simon floated from counter to cabinet to oven, sure-footed and confident. Baz nearly burnt the chocolate, too busy ogling Simon as he measured out dry ingredients, tongue sticking out between his teeth in concentration.

“Oi! Basil, eyes on the stove, you’re gonna ruin perfectly good chocolate,” Simon barked as soon as he caught Baz’s eyes on him. Baz jumped, hadn’t even realized how long he’d been staring, and turned back to the task at hand. Once it was melted down suitably, he removed it from the heat and Simon stepped over to check it.

“Perfect, darling.” He kissed Baz’s cheek before turning back to one of the many mixtures laid out across the counter.

The whole scene was so domestic Baz felt like his heart was going to explode. He could see it, two, three, ten years from now, in their own kitchen doing just this. Simon floating around and making sure Baz doesn’t ruin things, sharing soft kisses and touches as they worked alongside each other. Together.

That’s all he wanted, wasn’t it?

This, being with Simon, for the rest of their lives. Or however long he could get, his mortality was still a big question mark, but he wanted Simon for as long as he could have him. And it was a simple want, one that he was sure Simon shared.

He hoped.

No, he knew.

Right?

There was only one way to find out, and the words left Baz’s lips before he could think twice.

“Would you marry me?”

Simon dropped the spatula he’d been using to stir some of the batter, it hit the counter with a wet clatter.

“Sorry?”

He turned to Baz with wide eyes and an unreadable expression. Baz was suddenly less sure, had he actually read it all wrong? Maybe it was ridiculous to think that Simon wanted this the same way he did.

“I - uhm,” Baz stuttered in a panic. Simon definitely heard him clearly, there was no way he could brush this off. Maybe this was the beginning of the end.

“Baz.” Simon abandoned the bowl and spatula, stepped in closer to Baz, the surprise on his face melting down into a soft smile. Baz’s own panic was quickly turning to confusion, until Simon’s mouth was on his and it was familiar and safe and warm and welcome.

Baz grabbed Simon’s shoulders, pulling back to find that dazzling smile looking back at him. “Wait, so is that...?”

Simon leaned in for another kiss in response, his hand winding around Baz’s neck and fingers threading through his hair. He pulled away just enough to speak, his lips brushing Baz’s with each word, “Of course I would, you numpty.”

That was what Baz needed.

He surged forward, not that he needed to as Simon was right there, and maybe it was a little too hard but neither of them cared. Simon parted his lips under Baz’s and Baz brought his arms around Simon’s waist, pulling him flush against him.

“Why didn’t you say that to begin with?” Baz asked between kisses, and Simon laughed into his mouth.

“Caught me off guard, didn’t you? I wasn’t expecting you to propose all the sudden.”

Baz nipped at Simon’s lower lip. “Neither was I, but you’ve been ruining my plans to do it all week, you arsehole.”

“Hey, don’t be mean to me, my boyfriend just told me he wants to marry me. This is a good night.” Simon dropped kisses along Baz’s jaw and cheek.

“Technically, he just asked if you would want to marry him.” Simon bit down where Baz’s jaw met his neck, eliciting a small noise from the other, before returning to his lips.

“I hate you.”

“I love you,” Baz whispered against his lips, unable to fight back his smile.

“I love you, too.”

They didn’t pull apart for several long minutes, until Simon suddenly jerked back from Baz’s embrace. “Fuck, wait! We still have to finish these. Shit, the chocolate’s already hardened again...”

Baz laughed and wrapped his arms around Simon’s waist from behind, kissing his neck gently. “It’ll be fine.”

“No, no more distractions.” Simon reached up and flicked at Baz’s nose, shocking him enough that he stepped back. “We finish these, and then we’ll come back ‘round to... this.” As stern as his voice was, Baz could see the smile that stretched across his face and remained there as he set back to the task at hand.

Baz had to keep his eyes down if he didn’t want to ruin something by getting distracted by Simon, but it was difficult. His mind was spinning in the best circles.

Simon wanted to marry him.

They’d had three years, and there were so many more ahead of them.

[mildkatfics]

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:  basilton.pitch@lse.ac.uk. 

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.