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ashirisu · 1 year

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The Worst Part of It All

“Baz,” she whispered when she saw him. “Darling, run. Please." Baz didn’t move. He counted five Drow in the room with them, each with a long and menacing dagger at their belt and a crossbow slung across their back. He himself was at perhaps the least threatening he’d ever been in his life—barefoot, shirtless, confused, and still somewhat sleep-disoriented—and he was desperately searching for a way to turn the odds in his favor. “Baz,” his mother said again, stronger this time. “This isn’t a fight you’ll win. Run to the town, get everyone to safety. Leave me here.” genre: fantasy | word count: 2852 cw: violence, blood, death, painful magic

It was two hours past midnight, and the gentle midwinter frost that had formed across the estate grounds found itself abruptly shattered in the wake of Baz’s footsteps as he jogged through the grass. The chill air stung the cracks in his knuckles and the split on his lip, which burst anew with a coppery pain every time he worried it with his tongue.

He kept to the shadows as he approached the manor, ducking off the main road to avoid the lit windows of the main hall and slip in through the servants’ entrance. He was, of course, perfectly entitled to walk through the front doors, but he didn’t particularly fancy trying to explain his bloody, disheveled appearance to Miss Kelly at this time of night. She’d only fret more than she needed to, which would get him into more trouble than he perhaps needed to be in.

The back entrance was blessedly deserted, and he was able to follow the steep staircase all the way to the third floor without hassle. He emerged from an unobtrusive door in the hall, shutting it behind him with a soft click. None of the staff would be up at this time of night, meaning he could easily sneak into his room and enjoy a much-needed wash before bed. Nobody would ever have to be the wiser.

“Shouldn’t you be asleep?”

Baz froze mid-step. He turned sheepishly to see his mother in her study, having not even looked up from her work to chide him. She was poring over a small stack of paperwork, writing notes as a little mechanical device dutifully recorded an exact transcription next to her. The dim candlelight reflected off her spectacles and highlighted the graying strands of hair near her temples.

Baz leaned against the doorframe as casually as he could. “I could say the same to you. You’ve told me a thousand times that working in low light is bad for your eyes.”

“The difference between you and me is that I’m your parent and can do as I please,” Ignea snorted, and turned to face him. Her eyes slid down to his bruised knuckles. “Have you been in a fight?”

“Only with a sandbag,” Baz lied quickly, folding his arms to hide the wounds. “Thought I’d work out a bit of excess energy before bed.”

Ignea raised an eyebrow, having clearly taken in the state of the rest of his face. “Amazing how far magitech has come, that we’ve seemingly developed sandbags that punch back.”

Baz balked. “Well, um, you see—”

“You know I don’t approve of these matches, Baz,” Ignea said, leaning back in her chair. “It hardly matters that they’re not real fights. It’s unbecoming of a young lord to take part in underground boxing, let alone to bet on himself.”

“It’s only unbecoming if I lose,” Baz grinned, but sobered up quickly at her expression. “Understood, ma’am. Not that it particularly matters, but I really wasn’t betting this time. This was just…to stay in practice.”

Ignea sighed fondly and beckoned him over, tugging off her writing glove so she could begin healing his cuts and scrapes. “One might argue that’s why I invest in fencing lessons for you.”

“One might argue back that fencing is boring and doesn’t mimic the flow of actual battle,” Baz said peevishly, even as her magic began to stitch the skin of his knuckles back together. “Nobody stops to neatly take a stance, and they certainly don’t back off after a successful hit.”

“They do in gentleman’s duels,” Ignea countered, moving her hands to his face, “which should be the only kind of duels you’re getting into.”

Baz sighed. “I know I have responsibilities, and I promise I’m taking them seriously. I am,” he pressed, seeing the teasing skepticism in her eyes. “This is the first match I’ve been to in months. I just had to get away from Recorded Judicial Responses to Bankruptcy Claims in Kingdom Elorspire before I threw myself out a window.”

“I suppose I can’t fault you for that. Olivara knows I’ve wanted to defenestrate myself more than once over these damnable tax laws.” She got up momentarily to fetch a small hand mirror from her bedside table and handed it to him. “There. How does that feel?”

Baz inspected his face. His mother’s magic had sealed the cuts on his eyebrows, reduced the swelling in his nose, and completely faded the blossoming black eye he’d been sporting. All that remained was the cut on his lip, and he looked up at her curiously.

“That has to heal on its own,” Ignea said with gentle sternness. “Consider it the consequences of sneaking off in the middle of the night.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She kissed his hair. “Go to bed, dear. We’ll review the proportional tax system of County Sellius after breakfast tomorrow. That should get you sufficiently angry for your next fight when you inevitably do this again.”

———

Baz woke with a start some time later, with no concept of what had woken him or how long he’d been asleep. The air felt charged somehow, heavy with something he couldn’t quite name until a second explosion—he was sure it was a second one, now—shook the silence and the foundations of the house.

Bewildered and alarmed, he tugged on a pair of trousers and ran into the hall. There were no south-facing windows in this part of the manor, nothing that would give him a substantial view of the town below, and he had to rush to the second-floor landing just for a glimpse.

The darkness meant that he could hardly see beyond the estate grounds, but the fiery glow stretching out in the distance was enough to send a paralytic jolt through his spine. The stars, normally brightly visible above the barony, were blacked out with an acrid-smelling smoke that Baz immediately registered as a problem with the smeltery. His first thought was a malfunction with the machinery, but the system had been so carefully designed and maintained over the years—surely they would have seen signs of a problem before now?

A commotion of breaking glass and splintering wood sounded from downstairs, but before Baz could move to investigate it, he was interrupted by a shriek on the third floor.

His mother’s shriek. His mother’s shriek.

Baz turned on his heel, stumbling in his haste to get back up the stairs. The servants’ door he’d snuck through just a few hours ago stood ajar, broken at the edge from being kicked down from the inside. His heart leapt into his throat and he raced down the hall into his mother’s study, skidding to a stop just inside the door.

This wasn’t right—it couldn’t be. The conflict in Elorspire was still ongoing, of course, but Ignea had declared the Basalt barony neutral ground years ago. She’d been a vocal proponent of peace. This was the last place the Drow should be attacking. She was the last person they should be attacking. Yet here they were, standing in a small group around her, turning in surprise at Baz’s disruption. For a brief and unending moment, nobody moved or said anything.

Baz’s eyes darted to his mother, who was curled on the ground as though she’d been thrown down with unnecessary force. The collar on her nightdress was ripped and her hair had come partly undone from its braid, which somehow struck him as the most dooming and terrifying detail of the whole picture. He’d seen Ignea Basalt exhausted, bloodied, and covered in dirt from her frequent trips to the mines—he’d never seen her discomposed.

“Baz,” she whispered when she saw him. “Darling, run. Please.”

Baz didn’t move. He counted five Drow in the room with them, each with a long and menacing dagger at their belt and a crossbow slung across their back. He himself was at perhaps the least threatening he’d ever been in his life—barefoot, shirtless, confused, and still somewhat sleep-disoriented—and he was desperately searching for a way to turn the odds in his favor.

“Baz,” his mother said again, stronger this time. “This isn’t a fight you’ll win. Run to the town, get everyone to safety. Leave me here.”

“No,” he said, and stepped back as one of the Drow moved toward him, dagger at the ready. He looked around in vain for anything he could use as a weapon, any kind of blunt object he could defend himself with. “I won’t leave you, I’m not going to—”

The Drow closest to him lunged, and Baz’s instincts kicked in. He ducked under their arm—more deftly than they seemed to expect—avoiding their attack and bringing himself further into the room. He was closer to Ignea, but now had the disadvantage of being angled between two attackers, with three more on standby.

Not ideal. He could handle being outnumbered, but his boxing matches were usually limited to two or three unarmed opponents at a time. Not five, and certainly not ones with daggers. His charging into the room had thankfully shaken them enough that they seemed to have briefly forgotten their weapons, but it was only a matter of time before things fell even more out of hand.

Line them up, his training supplied, and he obeyed. He clinched his first attacker around the neck and used his weight advantage to spin them around and line them up with a second Drow. A third approached from the side—he kicked them before kneeing his grappled victim in the solar plexus and shoving them backward into the other Drow and knocking them both to the floor.

The third Drow had recovered and ran at him again, having finally remembered the dagger sheathed at their side. Baz turned just in time to neatly avoid a slash and counter with a jab-cross, but the victory was short-lived. A slight creak and the sound of gears releasing was his only warning before a crossbow bolt tore through the skin just below his ribs. Baz yelped in pain, stumbling slightly as he reached for the wound.

The distraction was damning. He took a heavy hit to the jaw and another to the stomach, knocking him back toward the door. He blinked through tears of pain, and noticed with a twinge of helplessness that they’d all drawn their weapons. Four of the Drow moved toward him, while the fifth stood protectively over Ignea.

This couldn’t be how she fell. It just couldn’t.

Baz screamed—in what he hoped sounded like an intimidating battle cry and not the last gasp of a dying man—and rushed forward, and then three things happened in very quick succession.

One of the Drow raised their dagger, Baz dived to the side in a move he realized a moment too late would get him killed, and Ignea’s arm shot out with a blast of concussive force that knocked the Drow aside and sent Baz rocketing backward down the hallway. He hardly had time to register that he’d even moved before he was midair and already losing momentum.

He skidded across the floor, friction searing his shoulder as he slid and somersaulted and failed to regain his balance. He was back on his feet the instant he stopped moving, tripping over himself as he started to sprint back down the hallway.

“No—no, mum, no!”

It wasn’t enough. He’d only taken a few steps toward her door when the air exploded around him, and everything went dark.

———

The details he managed to collect in the following weeks painted a clear and utterly life-destroying picture. When Miss Kelly had found him concussed and covered in the ruined debris of the third floor east wing, she’d wrapped him in a crushing hug, took him downstairs to get him fed and cleaned up, and relayed the information he’d already been dreading without quite knowing it.

The first thing he learned was that the barony had undergone a rather violent bombing by the Drow. The mine had been caved in and the smeltery destroyed, leaving the center of town decimated and in flames. They’d gotten the fire under control, but the attack itself had not gone without its share of casualties. Most of the town’s residents had survived (if considerably worse for wear), but their livelihoods hadn’t.

The second thing was that the barony was now without any source of revenue. The smeltery alone was a heavy blow, but without access to the mine itself, they couldn’t even sell raw ore for profit. They were left facing the cost of hefty repair bills, medical expenses, necessary supplies, and the usual monthly tax obligations without a sustainable way of paying for it.

The third thing was that all of this was now Baz’s responsibility to deal with. Miss Kelly’s voice had broken with quiet sobs when she told him that Ignea had died in the explosion at the manor, passing the baronial title onto him and leaving him thoroughly overwhelmed, underprepared, and alone.

It had been difficult to know the worst part of it all.

But. The barony had been in shambles and desperate need of guidance, so he’d stood up with as lordly a countenance as he could muster and asked Miss Kelly what needed his most immediate attention. He’d spent the next three weeks throwing himself into hands-on repairs, which is how he found himself repairing a stretch of retaining wall that had sprung a leak and started causing additional damage to the roads.

He’d mostly ignored the advice to avoid heavy lifting through his cracked ribs—no healers or medical magitech meant he had to do his recovering the hard way, which in turn meant he now sported a rather fantastic scab on his shoulder, a slight scar from his unhealed split lip, and a handful of other shallow but still troublesome wounds sustained during the explosion—and hauling the drainage stones into place was slow-going and painful work.

Though they had yet to hear back from County Sellius regarding their request for aid, the neighboring baronies and Viscounty DuVernay had sent what material and personnel they could. His own people now gathered in small clusters around stations of food, clean water, and basic medical supplies, taking less than what he was sure they needed in between their hours of hard work. As Baz watched them from his place at the wall, a mother called over her young son to give him a drink of water, and the child sprinted over into her arms.

Baz had not been little enough to run into his mother’s arms like that for nineteen years, but the sudden realization that it would never happen again ripped his already fragile heart and lungs directly out of his chest. He fell back against the retaining wall, eyes hot with tears that wouldn’t come, and abruptly made his fourth devastating discovery in as many weeks.

He’d hardly had time to cry since the incident, and the knot of anger and sorrow in his gut burned with a frightening and unfamiliar physicality. It was as if someone had dropped a hot stone into his stomach and left it to churn through his innards, boiling his bile and thickening his blood until he could practically feel it coursing through his veins. His brain seemed to be cooking inside his skull, and as he curled tighter into himself, he could feel a feverish heat on his skin that burned even through his clothes.

The warmth welled up suffocatingly in his throat, threatening to consume him, and when the first wracking sob escaped him, all the heat burst out of him in a wave that seemed to radiate in every direction. The physical pain relief was so much that it shocked his head out of his hands, and he peered out through blurry tears at his surroundings.

The earth around him was scorched in a good twenty feet in every direction. The grass below him was the most thoroughly blackened, though little flickering flames alighted and burned out on what little plant life had been spared. Every person on the street had turned to him, some of them still shielding their faces against the rush of heat that had escaped out of him.

The shock in their eyes was what made him realize it. Magic. What he’d just done was magic, for the first time in his life—purely accidentally and without a focus to channel it through, like every other practitioner in his family had needed. Just his own body filling up with fire as his emotions built, and exploding out of him when they finally became too much to handle.

By the Holy Four, his mother would have had a field day with this. Twenty-six years without a single apparent drop of magical blood in his veins, only to have it suddenly manifest in the most inopportune possible time in the most inopportune possible way.

A dead mother, a ruined barony, a looming debt, and now uncontrollable and violent magic.

It was difficult to know the worst part of it all.

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#writeblr #writing #my writing #original writing #ley writes #flash fiction #short story #fiction #prose #writing community #writers on tumblr #writeblrcafe

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moodandmist · 2 years

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🏃🏼☀️🐕WIP WEDNESDAY🐕☀️🏃🏼

Hiiii! It's been a long day and I'm exhausted! But I wanted to share something ridiculous with you before I head to bed. I haven't even had a chance to read anyone's shares yet today (or Sunday!! I'm so sorry), but that will be my reward in the morning!

Thank you so much for the tags today and Sunday! Love to you all! Hope you're all feeling good and loved. @fatalfangirl @bookish-bogwitch @whatevertheweather @you-remind-me-of-the-babe @facewithoutheart @captain-aralias @cutestkilla @artsyunderstudy @martsonmars @ivelovedhimthroughworse @aroace-genderfluid-sheep @confused-bi-queer @palimpsessed @technetiumai @johnwgrey @dragoneggo @aristocratic-otter @creepyspice @kherub @takitalks

Well, I started a new WIP, as one does. Because I HAD TO. Because something needed to be processed and worked out. 😆

This is *very rough* but it's a quick start. Baz sees Simon running through his neighborhood and forms a healthy lust for this golden, broad-shouldered man, and Simon of course, finds himself lusting after the tall posh bloke out walking his dog that he always passes on his run.

There we go...stick around after the share for a fun little dissection as to why this needed to be written NOW.

Under the cut for some suggestive stuff and length.

*****

BAZ

The first time was in the autumn.

Lupa was just a puppy and hadn't quite worked out all the ways in which to terrorize me just yet. I watched her loping up and down the embankment to the pond, the cool evening air momentarily warmed by the sun’s last push before its descent.

And then, there he was.

Coming toward me, golden curls catching the light. He ran past with a smile and a breathy “Hi”. And, just as quickly, he rounded the curve in the road and was gone.

I was sure he was an anomaly. Like when some beautiful bit of magic flits in and out of your field of view and you question whether you ever really saw it. Too beautiful. Too alive. A flash of lightning in an otherwise clear sky. A sunspot moving through the leaves. Here, and gone just as quickly.

But several weeks later I saw him again. And then again. Apparently he was made of flesh and blood after all. And what beautiful flesh it was. It's been nearly a year of this torment. Autumns golds and reds lighting him on fire. The cold winter days, making his breath visible to me. Spring petals falling around his shoulders.

And this, all this, would have been bad enough. It was bad enough.

But Summer, that cruel mistress and taunter of the truly thirsty, brought on the heat. I was not prepared to see him running in the height of Summer. Shirtless. Absolutely gleaming with sweat. Broad shoulders. The paintbrush splatter of freckles.

I wanted to chase him down. Pin him against a tree and---once and for all---lick the sweat from his neck. From his chest, his taut stomach. Get on my knees and run my tongue through the light line of hair leading to the band of his shorts.

Pain blooms in my bottom lip and I realize I've had it in a death grip between my teeth as I watch him go by.

Christ, this is getting bad.

******

Now friends, just for fun, let’s do a little IRL-to-fic pipeline exercise.

Let’s imagine you are a certain person in possession of a *large* dog of a youngish age. And this dog has recently been showing the troubling behavior of barking aggressively at cyclists and runners.

Now imagine, if you will, the perfect Simon-y man, that has been running by your house for the past year. A man with whom you shared a smile and hello the very first time he passed you. Now please imagine his broad shoulders and floppy golden hair (a la simon) and perfect pecs and tight stomach which you now know he is in possession of since he has taken up the summer routine of running shirtless, sweaty and absolutely *gleaming* and perfect.

Now, let’s just throw some chaos into this imagined scenario and say that you recently saw this gorgeous Simon runner coming up the road, this gorgeous, gleaming man, and thought to yourself, “well, standing by the road holding your dog still is a very good excuse to make eye contact and say hello”. And so, in a moment of total idiocy and evil plotting, you invite your dog outside with you.

And friends, this very large, very terrible dog decides to go against script and instead of helping you to peacefully and flirtatiously engage this runner, *immediately* eludes your grasp, in favor of barking and aggressively *chasing* this man as he passes your house, which sets *you* running after the dog, running after this perfect, sweaty, gleaming, shirtless man (who looks understandably terrified) while repeating “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, oh my god, I’m so sorry” as he runs away saying “it’s ok, it’s ok.”

And you watch him go in absolute horror, your idiot dog finally at your side.

What would you do??

Friends, you’d put it in a fic and fix that shit.

#I'm a constant disappointment to myself #snowbaz #my fic #my wip #Running Through My Mind working title because why not #idiot title for an idiot writer

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anonniemousefics · 3 years

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Sleepless

So, Carry On Countdown 2020 is happening on Tumblr right now, and I’m not participating, but the other day @milo-fanarts posted that absolutely heart-wrenching fanart of Snowbaz based on the “Sleepless” prompt of the day, and I was seized with the need to write a ficlet based on it. Here’s the art - go give them a follow. :)

Fandom: Carry On/Wayward Son | Simon + Baz

Words: 1,567

Rating: Teen and Up

CW: Angst (and fluff! :) )

BAZ

Sleeping with Simon Snow is weird. I don’t mean sleeping with sleeping with – we’re not ready yet. (Or, let’s be honest, he’s not ready yet. If I came home one day and he was ready, I’d be naked before the front door even finished closing behind me.)(It’s fine – he doesn’t need to know.) I just mean this. Simon Snow taking up half my bed, warm and snuggly, with his tousled bronze curls all in his freckled, sleeping face. His giant red wings casting enormous black shadows in the moonlight.

My entire family doesn’t have enough fingers and toes among them to keep count how many times I used to lie awake at night at Watford, aching to be this close to him. How many nights I’d think if I could just have this, I’d never ask for anything else for the rest of my life.

Turns out, I don’t seem to do much sleeping now that I have it, either. Maybe it’s just because we don’t do it very often. The logistics of sharing a bed with your partial-dragon boyfriend are complicated at best, and Simon’s a bit of a violent sleeper these days. I’ve taken a wingtip to the eye more than once. (And once is already one too many times.)

It’s also a little distracting how handsy my brain wants me to be. (I just – Crowley, I am the greediest bastard. I want to run my hands up and down the curves of his shoulder muscles. I want to trace all the freckles around his lips. I want to watch him fall asleep while I run my fingers through his hair.) I don’t think Simon’s ready for all my handsiness, either.

So, I’m staring. I’m still fucking staring. Like it’s sixth year all over again, and I’m back to fantasizing that if I stare long enough, I’ll somehow incept his dreams and convince him to break up with Agatha and give making out with boys a try. (Huh. Maybe it worked after all?)

And that’s what I’m doing when he starts twitching in his sleep. (This isn’t new. Sometimes he talks, too.)(The last time we tried this, he full on tried to punch me in the face in his sleep.)(I was a little wary when he’d expressed an interest in staying tonight.) I start to preemptively roll away, in case he starts fluttering his wings, because I’d rather have him jab me in the back than the eye (again).

But that’s when he whimpers, a high, plaintive sound that threatens to break a few heartstrings. I look over my shoulder at him.

He’s still deep asleep, but his arms are crossed in front of his bare chest (lucky me, he sleeps shirtless) and his tawny brows are drawn together tight. I’m gutted by the way he huddles in on himself. I just want to hold him. I start to roll back to him, but stop short at the sound of his wings shuddering. (It brings to mind the method cowboys in old Westerns use to soothe wild horses – whoa, there. Easy, big fella. Like that would work.)

I’m ready to ignore them altogether, though, when Simon lets out something that sounds like a distant cry. It’s haunting. It’s horrible. It can’t go on.

“Simon,” I whisper into the dark. I try to reach out a hand to nudge him, to gently wake him out of it, and when I do, he draws in a shuddering breath. And starts to moan out something that sounds like Help.

“Hey, wake up.” I’m more insistent now – rising up on an elbow, giving his sleep-warmed shoulder a little shake. “Snow, wake up.”

He draws in a rasping gasp then, his eyes flaring open. His wings rustle and flap; I hold out a defensive hand.

“You were dreaming,” I tell him. He’s panting hard and shaking. “It was just a dream.”

He folds his wings in, then, spreading out onto his back with one hand pressed to his chest. It’s rising and falling fast with his shallow breaths – it sounds cacophonous in the dead of the night.

“You’re okay.” I keep reassuring him. I just want to hold him. Before I can move, he grabs my arm, like he’s steadying himself. His hand is clammy. “It was just a dream.”

“Fuck.” He scrubs a hand over his face, pressing the heel of his palm into one eye. And lets out a shaking breath.

“What happened?” I ask. I wonder if my clear voice is betraying how little sleeping I’ve actually been doing.

For a moment, I think that Simon isn’t going to answer. Or he’s going to say, “It’s fine” or “I don’t remember” when neither is true. He’s going to try to tack up another wall between us, because that is what we do lately. He’s just pinching the bridge of his nose, squishing his eyes shut tight, and I feel like I’m drifting further out to sea.

But, this time, he lets out a breath.

“I killed him,” he says, in a strained whisper. He means the Mage. In the moonlight, I catch a glimpse of the first tear that leaks from the corner of his eye.

I brush it away with the pad of my thumb.

“You saved us all, love,” I remind him, softly. “He was going to kill Agatha. And probably you and me and Penny, and who knows where he would have stopped.”

“He’d always been so good to me,” Simon whispers, like he hates to admit it. I would, too, if I were him.

It’s a complicated thing, this grief he carries (or mostly avoids). I don’t mourn the Mage – there’s no one else I know who does. But it’s something else entirely for Simon. The Mage had appeared in Simon’s life with hope and promises and a whole new life when Simon desperately needed one. And while he knows the Mage had gone on to deal in some extremely shady shit, that’s not something a person just easily puts aside in light of new information.

“You did the brave thing,” I remind him. “You did the right thing.”

There’s a steady stream of tears now. I wipe them with the backs of my fingers – they’re scalding hot, like he’s been boiling them in a dragon’s belly.

“I’m sorry,” he croaks. He’s still gripping my arm with one hand, the other hand pressed to his eye. I don’t know what good this is doing, and I just…

“Don’t be daft,” I say. “Will you just come here?”

And I open up one arm – an invitation. He can turn me down if he wants – I’ve survived worse. (I just want to hold him.)

And maybe it’s the magic of the moonlight or dream inception is truly a thing or Simon’s for once willing to let me in. It doesn’t matter. He rolls over into my arms, his lean body on top of mine, his head pressed to my chest.

This. This. This is all I’ve ever wanted. Just this.

(Tears aside, of course.)

I pull him tighter against me when I feel the heat of his tears begin to wet my shirt. (I don’t actually sleep shirtless – I’m too cold all the time.) I push my fingers into his curls, press my head to the top of his. He’s trying so hard to keep from openly weeping, but little good it’s doing him – I can feel how his muscles contract with each sob.

I hold him through it.

“I’m sorry,” he croaks again.

“Would you stop apologizing?” He’s so warm beneath my cold hands. “You’ve seen me cry, too.”

“Yeah, once,” Simon complains, petulantly. “And it was so beautiful, I made out with your snotty face.”

That makes me chuckle, and the fact that my laughter makes Simon’s head bob up and down on my chest makes him start to give a sniffling laugh.

“I’ll make out with your snotty face,” I offer, and he laughs again. (And I will. I have no shame.)

“That’s okay,” he says, and raises his head a moment. Looks down at the bloom of damp tears on my white t-shirt. “Sorry I got your shirt all wet.”

I just shrug.

“I like it – it’s Simon Snow art,” I tease, and double over my chin so I can inspect it. “Look – it looks like you’ve made a flower.”

“Oh, yeah?” He rests his head back on it, snug beneath my neck. Crowley, this is perfection. “You like wearing flowers now?”

“Maybe I do. Don’t you judge me, Snow.”

His chuckle rumbles through him and through me, too. I run my fingertips up the valleys of his back muscles. Slowly. Gently. Easy now. And his body starts to relax against me. I’m warmer than I’ve ever been in the night.

“Is this okay?” he whispers to me. I’m relaxing, too, growing heavy in the mattress. Comfortable. Soothed.

“It’s perfect,” I tell him, and press a kiss to his hair. He wraps his arms around me. He’s not going anywhere.

“Sorry in advance for drooling on you in my sleep,” he says as I’m starting to doze.

“Mmm. Sexy.” I grunt.

Snow laughs, and so do I – and again when his head bobs up and down with my laugh.

It’s the last thing I remember before finally falling off to sleep.

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

Tagging: @loveyatopluto, @raging-bisexual-alert, @ireallyshouldsleeprn, @annejulianneh111, @whosanxiety, @raeisgaeandahalf, @bookish-mind, @juliazato

#snowbaz #simon snow #baz pitch #ficlet #fanfic #carry on #wayward son #one shot

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jamespotterthefirst · 4 years

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Beautiful Thing (Ethan x F!MC)

Pairing: Dr. Ethan Ramsey x F!MC (Dr. Lilac Allende) Word count: 1,300 Warning: Like one curse word? Premise: They workout together. They kiss. Author’s Note: Sorry, I couldn’t think of a summary

________________

“Light on your feet, Allende,” he commands, not even straining against the force of her punch. That would've been disappointing any other day since Lilac is using all the force she can muster, but she is too busy looking for a gap in his defenses.

“Quit going easy on me,” she pants, still managing an edge of sarcasm in her futile endeavor.

Ethan gives no response, holding the punching mitt steadily in front of her. Shirtless, muscles straining with each movement, and handsome face set in concentration, he is infuriatingly distracting.

Blinking rapidly to refocus her scattered thoughts, she throws another jab, the smack of glove against mitt thundering across the deserted hospital gym.

He easily blocks another of her hits, expression completely serious. Aside from the slight pink hue on his face and neck, there is no indication Lilac is a worthy opponent, certainly not one to make him break a sweat. This brings about a slight flare of frustration, followed by determination.

“Lean your body weight forward every time you punch,” he instructs, easily catching another blow with the mitt. “You never want to lean back or your opponent will get you.”

“Let them get me,” she breathes, exhausted and swaying on her feet.

“Keep going.”

“It's no use,” she protests, every word sounding more embarrassingly labored than the last. “You know I'd probably talk my way out of a real fight.”

“It'd probably be your talking that lands you in a fight in the first place,” he returns at once, speech even and controlled. How was he not completely out of breath?

“I'd still be so charming and irresistible, they'd let me go,” Lilac replies weakly.

“Doubtful,” Ethan replies without breaking his focus.

She feigns a shocked, indignant face. “You don’t think I’m charming enough?” To prove her point, Lilac bites her lower lip briefly, pairing the gesture with a wink, a joke aimed at earning her a trademark ghost of a smile from him.

The effect is quite the opposite.

There is a brief almost imperceptible pause in Ethan's movements and she can swear his piercing eyes fall to her mouth. Ignoring how her body feels suddenly scalding hot, she aims a well-placed upper cut that Ethan is unsuccessful at blocking. It smacks against his shoulder.

The hit is rather unspectacular, but validating nonetheless.

“Ha!” she exclaims triumphantly.

Unimpressed, Ethan examines the spot she hit on his shoulder. “You need to do better than that if you want to reach your goal.”

Lilac doesn't know what makes her say it, but the words are out of her mouth before she can stop them. “My goal of looking good naked?”

Ethan falters again, just like the first time she had said the words.

This time, she lands a decent hit on his solid stomach. He barely flinches at the impact, however, staring at Lilac with surprise instead. When he recovers, his face is pinker than ever before and he splutters an unintelligible response.

Unable to help it, she laughs, the sound echoing throughout the vast room.

“Focus,” is all he says in a gruff, low voice.

“You're getting slow, anciano,” Lilac teases, letting her tongue roll out the last word with all the cadence her native language demands. “Que lástima.”

He arches a brow at the words and she notes there is no hint of confusion. Instead, his blue eyes roam over her face, scrutinizing her with such intensity that something stirs at her core. The last time he looked at her that way, he had carried her to his bed immediately afterward.

Lilac feels her smile vanish as she becomes too aware of how close they are standing, bodies hot with exertion. Palpable, white-hot tension crackles between them, making her body ache for him.

“What's a pity, Rookie, is you not realizing I speak enough Spanish to understand that,” he says in a gritty voice, the familiar baritone sending throbbing heat throughout her body.

Brain hazy with the spell of blue eyes, she is slow to respond. Her mind whirls between the way he is looking at her, eyes intense with longing, and his previous revelation. “You know–?”

She doesn’t finish the sentence because he moves impossibly closer, eyes still locked on hers, bodies so close now that her chest grazes against his upper abdomen with every ragged breath.

In a voice so dangerously low, her body is abuzz at hearing it, he says, “Can an old man pin you to the ground?”

There is no time to process the odd question because at that moment, Ethan gently sweeps his leg against hers, knocking it off balance and sending her tumbling down. She lands with a soft thud on the cushioned mat.

Ethan grins down at her. “Rookie mistake. Don’t get too cocky or your opponent will have an easy target.”

Lilac stares at him, awestruck. The back-lighting of the ceiling lights above him throw his face into contrast, making his already defined, angled jaw the most torturous sight she’s ever seen.

As if he doesn’t look devastating enough already, he laughs. When she makes no effort to move, he offers her his hand to help her up.

Lilac takes it, and before he has a chance to react, she mutters, “You old fool.”

She pulls with all her might, his surprise granting her enough leverage to send him tumbling down onto the mat beside her. He lands far less gracefully than she had.

Positively elated, Lilac rolls over on top of him, careful to keep their bodies from touching, her knees at either side of his hips. Ethan incredulously glances up at her, then lets his head fall back against the cushion, visibly defeated.

“Who’s the rookie now?” she asks, unable to contain a bout of giddy laughter. “Float like a butterfly, sting like a–”

He kisses her.

Caught entirely off guard, she freezes against his lips. It doesn’t take long for her to recover, however, his demanding lips moving against hers inspiration enough. Her body relaxes against his, sinking down to fully, unabashedly straddle him, all consideration of decency forgotten.

Lips locked on one another, they urgently rid themselves of the boxing gear protecting their hands. Hers find their place at his shoulders, the movement second nature. It is as if her body remembers how to touch him despite all of the time of not having done so.

Ethan's hands, in turn, grip her hips. His fingers dig slightly into the spandex of her leggings as his tongue and teeth lavish her bottom lip with attention. It is then she realizes he is leaning back slightly and holding himself up with sheer abdominal strength.

“It's no wonder your body is ridiculous,” she mumbles hotly against his lips. To drive her point across, her hand descends down to his abs, nails delicately scraping down the hard surface.

Ethan hisses.

Recovering, he pulls back to smirk at her. “Not bad for an old man?”

“Hmm,” she says, panting. “Jury's still out.”

A challenge sparks in his mesmerizing eyes. Another smirk before he swiftly leans back, hoisting his hips off the mat along with Lilac. Her body weight presses entirely against his impressive length.

A strangled little moan leaves her.

At the sound, his smile disappears entirely, eyes darkening even more.

“Fuck.”

He brings his hips back down to the floor, which is probably a good thing for Lilac. She is uncertain how much longer she could have gone without being reduced to a quivering mess.

Ethan sits up to kiss her again, his confident tongue leaving devastation in its wake. His lips find their way to the ridge of her jaw, up to her ear. “How do you always do this to me, Rookie?”

He is not expecting an answer because he moves down to her neck, his beard pickling her skin in a way that is entirely too erotic.

Before Lilac can explicitly instruct what he must do to her body, the blaring of a phone alarm interrupts their movements.

They both curse, Ethan pairing his expletive with a groan. He falls back against the mat, hands rubbing his face.

“Our meeting with June and Baz will start in fifteen minutes,” he tells her through the persistence of the alarm.

“That's enough time,” she tries, mostly joking.

Ethan cuts her a look. “Don't insult me.”

She laughs, rolling off him, her body missing the warmth of his almost instantly.

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PART 2 (NSFW)

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Prompts: sent by anonymous 22. A kiss that is leading to more, but is interrupted by a third party. 33. An unexpected kiss that shocks the one receiving it.

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Author’s note: Ethan speaks Spanish and other languages in my mind. The Duolingo owl is shaking.

Thank you for reading!

Masterlist

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Tags:

(let’s hope the tags work this time)

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#open heart #ethan ramsey #ethan x mc #OHSY #prompt request #My writing #ethan ramsey fanfiction #Ethan ramsey x mc #dr. ethan ramsey #open heart fanfiction #choices fanfiction

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ayellowcurtain · 4 years

Text

after this Clip (Samedi 0.16) I want to see a protective Eliott for Lucas. Not for this situation but in general a scared Lucas and a protective Eliott.

As soon as he hears Lola saying Lucas’ name, the conversation suddenly changes. Eliott sits up straight on his stool, watching Lola digs as deep as she can, trying to find the spot where she’ll break him to the point of no return like she wants to.

“Stop.”

She stops talking, but she’s ready to attack again in an instant and Eliott doesn’t let her.

“You’re not going to do this. You don’t know Lucas. What I told you about me and him was a single piece of an entire year together. You don’t know the whole story and I won’t let you use my words against me. I came here because I knew you needed help and I would like to have someone back then when I was going through what you’re going through right now. But it doesn’t mean you can say whatever you want without consequences. You can’t blame anyone else for the things you’re saying right now. You know what you’re doing, I know what you’re doing and I won’t let it. Lucas is not just my boyfriend, the person I love the most, but he’s also my best friend. He’s not perfect and I don’t want him to be. We’re good for each other. Trust me, I gave him a bunch of ways out and he never took any of them.”

“That’s not what I’m saying, Eliott-” She says annoyingly, like he’s some kind of dumb, innocent child.

“Yes, it is. That we’re equal, that we’re too damaged to be fixed and others can only expect that from us: to fuck up. Us, them, everything in between. Life doesn’t work like that, Lola. Everyone, on every side, has to make an effort. You say like they act like we’re just one thing inside this box, but you’re the one putting us in one right now. ”

She rolls her eyes and finishes another beer. Eliott’s is already warm and gross, but he finishes it anyway, not knowing when he’ll drink again. He doesn’t miss it, he noticed tonight, but it’s just a phisical response that society imposed on young people that they have to drink on every weekend and so he takes advantage of it since he’s already here.

He checks his phone as Lola asks for another drink. He ignores it how she asks for two. He’s not going to drink.

to Eliott: Okay...

I’m still studying, gonna make myself some delicious pasta...yay...

I love you

to Lucas: I love you

I love you!

Lola is not doing well. I have to call someone...

“Here.” She offers him the shot, leaving it right in front of him, but Eliott looks at her. “As an apology for about what I said about your precious boyfriend.”

She doesn’t mean it and the ironic way she talks it’s starting to get on his nerves. He types a couple more messages and puts his phone back inside his pocket, holding his shot, but not drinking it, just keeping it away from Lola.

“I go to therapy, you know...And I take some medication. That can really fuck me up if I drink.” Lola raises her eyebrows and smiles and Eliott sighs. He wishes she could understand how damaging to herself is the choices she’s constantly making. “You’re not fucked up enough to be this mean, trust me. I’ve been there and I know how it feels and how it looks. You’re not there yet. Daphné cares about you. Baz cares about you and all the others are really trying to be by your side. The Lamifex. Max, Sekou, Jo, Maya.”

Lola puts her glass against the table so hard it makes a loud noise even with the obnoxious music. “You don’t know shit. You think they care, but they don’t. Your friends are just trying because they want to be nice to Daphné.”

“And that’s a start, isn’t it? You don’t make relationships out of thin air. It needs work, Lola. And patience, and understanding. I put my work to be with Lucas, he deserves it. And he does his part too.”

“He’s gonna leave you! We’re too much for them.” She smiles proudly and Eliott really looks at her, not sure if he really knows who she is.

“Lola, I don’t give a shit about what you think about Lucas. You don’t know him and I won’t sit here and listen for you to talk shit about what you don’t know. Especially not about him.”

Eliott starts tapping his feet, feeling his heart beat too fast, looking around, hating how crowded this place is tonight, hoping to find Lucas’ in the crowd, but there’s nothing.

“Come on, just this shot and I’ll leave you alone.”

She stands up and Eliott looks at her, he can’t let her go somewhere else while the others don’t get here.

“Okay, okay. Sit down and we’ll drink.”

Lola sits back down, grabbing her shot - another one that she asked while they were arguing - and lifting it up for a toast. She’s still making that face of someone that’s winning a good game and Eliott is counting down the minutes to leave.

“To us.”

He doesn’t say anything, because there’s no us, but he lifts his shot up and drinks it all at once, feeling it burn down his throat, closing his eyes with how bitter it tastes. Lola is still watching him when he opens his eyes again, putting his glass down.

It’s hard to stop when you’re already there, a beer and a shot down. Eliott doesn’t want to get drunk or party or anything. He justs wants to be able to drink like any other guy his age. He wants an easier life, but he can’t have it. He’s too fucked up and he needs to live constantly taking medication that doesn’t go well with alcohol.

Lola is gone. He didn’t want to take care of her after everything he heard Lola saying and his drunk mind couldn’t give a shit what she could be doing, but a guy stumbles against one of his shoulders, making him spill all his beer and Eliott follows the guy with his eyes, finding Lola shirtless, being dragged down the counter by the same guy.

“Hey...hey!” Eliott tries to grabs the guy’s hand, take it away from Lola’s breakable arm. “Stop it! She’s leaving already!”

But there’s not much talking. A second later, Eliott is fighting the guy to take his hands off of Lola and she’s screaming around them, constantly trying to intervene.

The voices around them get louder, more hands in between them and Eliott recognizes the voices once they’re finally apart.

“Eliott, Eliott, are you okay?” Lucas’ hand comes to his face and Eliott looks up, meeting his boyfriend’s worried face staring at him, searching for any big injuries.

Fuck, Lucas is here.

“Why are you here? I missed you, I was looking for you.” Lucas nods his head, looking to the side and Eliott follows. Daphné is there too, trying to cover Lola with her jacket, arguing with her.

“We need to leave.” Eliott bumps his forehead against Lucas’ top of the head and soon he’s being guided out of the loud club, feeling his boyfriend’s arm around his waist.

The street is a lot quieter, but not completely, some people still getting inside. Eliott starts shaking and he realizes his hoodie and jacket are not with him.

“Here, put this on.” Lucas gives Eliott his own hoodie and Eliott gladly takes it, putting it on, still warm from Lucas’ body. He finds his jacket and hoodie on Lucas’ hand. He’s talking to Daphné, calling someone, but always keeping his hand on Eliott and he doesn’t care to check on how Lola is.

If they were starting to be friends, now Eliott won’t ever be able to forget the things she said to him about Lucas and how badly he was at handling her words.

He doesn’t want to live his life constantly anxious, checking if he’s saying the right things so she won’t use it against him later. He shouldn’t have lied to Lucas about them, about the urbex.

“You know when I leave without telling where I’m going? Urbex! I go spray paint abandoned buildings. I met Lola there.”

His tongue feels heavy and bitter as he talks. Lucas nods his head, frowning a little and a car finally stops in front of them. Eliott is offereded to seat in the front, holding his own jacket and hoodie and the other three go in the back.

“Yann!!!” He screams when he recognizes the driver, hugging him so tightly. Eliott didn’t know he had a fancy car. “I missed you, mec!”

“Missed you too, bro.” Yann hugs him back, but he’s focus on the other three still getting in. “Do you know what she took?”

He asks and Eliott shrugs.

“Coke. But Idon’tknow. She was bad when I got here already.”

“COKE?” Daphné screams in the back and Eliott has to look at her, seeing Lucas’ and Yann’s mouth talking to her, but not understanding what they’re saying.

Eliott puts his head down, covering his face with his hands, feeling so stupid and inresponsible. Even if he was mad, he shouldn’t have drunk. Lola got to him like she wanted to and he even let her talk shit about the most important person in his life.

“Fuck, I’m so stupid! I love him so much, Yann!”

There’s a hand on his back, trying to sooth him, but it’s not Lucas, Eliott is sure. Lucas could never care about him after Eliott let himself listen to Lola’s bullshit.

“Hey, hey, stop it, man. It’s okay. None of this will matter tomorrow. The important is that you two are safe.”

The car starts moving after a minute and everyone is suddenly quiet. Eliott puts his hand behind his seat, waiting for Lucas to reach for him too and he does, holding Eliott’s hand quietly.

#elu fic #skam france #Lucas Lallemant #eliott demaury #lucas x eliott #elu #daphné lecomte #lola lecomte #Yann Cazas #at this point I don't care about timezones anymore

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vampire-named-gampire · 3 years

Text

Carry On Countdown - Day 12

Another ficlet for @carryon-countdown! I wrote it in an hour so rip me and my time management skills and forgive me for any grammar mistakes.

Prompt: Wings Word count: 1289 Rating: General Summary:

The wings come with their disadvantages aka the trials and tribulations of trying to give your boyfriend a massage.

BAZ

Simon is huffing and turning on the sofa. It’s a whole scene. He fluffs the pillow, lays back down on it for a few seconds before frowning and going back to tossing and turning. His tail is slashing around like it always does when he’s upset or frustrated.

“Are you alright there?” I ask as he fluffs his pillow for the third time. He just huffs and crosses his arms. “Simon, what’s wrong?” I ask again.

“It’s just… these damned wings! My back hurts!” he complains. “I can’t get myself comfortable.” With that, he throws himself down on the pillow face first and growls in frustration. “Penny said lying down would help.”

“Have you seen Dr Wellbelove about it?” I ask.

“He’s just going to talk about removing them,” Simon mumbles into his pillow. I still don’t know why Simon gets so upset at the idea of getting his wings removed – frankly, I don’t think he knows either – but he absolutely refuses to hear it, even though he often complains about his wings. Personally, I don’t mind them. And I sort of love his tail, even though I constantly poke fun at it. (It has a mind if its own, which is rather endearing.)

“Okay, how about this; I call Dr Wellbelove and tell him I have back pain and then we try whatever he tells me to do. How does that sound?” I ask.

“Okay,” he grumbles into the pillow. I pull out my phone.

“Is the pain in your upper back or lower back?” I ask while searching for Welby’s phone number in my contacts.

“Upper.”

“Dull or sharp?”

“Dull. Why are you asking me this?” he huffs.

“So that I can describe it to Dr Wellbelove, you numpty,” I say, rolling my eyes. I finally find his contact and press call.

“Dr Wellbelove, how can I help you?” a familiar voice picks up the phone. I’ve never been to Dr Wellbelove’s (it’s not like I can get sick), but I’ve seen him at the Club.

“Hello, this is Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch speaking,” I say coolly. (I’m not letting my phone-call anxiety get in the way of this.) “I have some back pain and I was wondering what I could do to make it better.”

“Well, a Get well soon always seems to help with these things. Or if that doesn’t work, you could try Early to bed, early to rise,” he says. Fuck. Simon doesn’t like people casting spells on him. My brain scrambles to find a solution to this problem.

“I have already tried that, but this is a fairly frequent issue and it seems like a waste of magic to be casting those spells every day. I was more solution oriented,” I say. Simon shoots me a weird look from the sofa.

“Aha, I see. And where does it hurt?”

I explain the pain the way Simon described it, hearing Dr Wellbelove’s aha-s on the other side of the line. “Well, Basilton, I suggest you come see me sometime. From what you’ve described, it seems like you have scoliosis, but I can’t be sure until I see it for myself. For now, though, if it’s really a bother, I suggest some light exercise and stretching and get someone to give you a massage if you can. And avoid carrying heavy burdens. Now about that appointment—”

“Okay, I’ll try that, thank you!” I quickly say and hang up.

“And?” Simon asks.

“Scoliosis! He thinks I have scoliosis!” I erupt. “My posture is perfect!”

“Baz, about the back pain,” Simon says, laughing.

“Oh. He says you should try some light exercise and stretching, a massage and to avoid carrying heavy burdens.”

“Well, I can’t exactly follow up with that last one,” he says, flaring up his wings. “And I don’t have the money for a massage…”

I just stare at him. “Snow, I’m your boyfriend.”

“I’m not letting you pay for my massage!” he says. I sigh. How thick can he be?

“I can give you a massage.”

“Oh. You’d do that for me?” Simon asks, sounding a bit bewildered. It’s a work not to roll my eyes. Yes, Simon Snow, of course I’ll give you a fucking massage, you idiot, I’ll take any excuse to be close to you.

“Of course. How hard can it be?”

As it turns out, it can be very fucking hard. We end up moving to his bed and he’s laying underneath me, shirtless, which is already a distraction enough in itself. It’s a work not to trace my hands along his moles.

It’s a work for him to keep his wings in check. I can’t even get my massage properly started, because he keeps knocking me with them.

“Crowley, Snow, keep your wings out of the way,” I sigh as he clips me again.

“Sorry,” he mumbles into the pillow. His wings do come down a bit, but I have to be mindful not to hit a spot directly in between his wing joints, because if I do that, they’ll just come up again. I think it’s some sort of a reflex spot for him.

His tail keeps poking me in the back and nudging at me. It’s probably offended, because I’m straddling Simon’s hips and sitting right on his tail joint, but there’s really no better way to go around this.

I bring my hands to Simon’s back again and he yelps.

“Your hands are still cold,” he complains.

“Yes, I haven’t stopped being a vampire in the past five minutes, thank you for noticing,” I say, rolling my eyes.

“This is a disaster,” he says, and I can’t tell if he wants to cry or laugh.

“Do you want me to stop?” I ask. He reaches behind his back, wrapping his finger around my wrist.

“Put your hands underneath my stomach,” he mumbles. “They’ll warm up.”

I swallow my nerves and do as he says. He’s right; the space between the blanket and his chest is (unsurprisingly) warm and I feel my hands warming up to more humanly temperatures immediately. His heart beats strong and steady underneath my fingertips.

I lean forward until I’m lying with my stomach pressed to his back and my head on his shoulder and I feel his heartbeat quicken a little. His tail comes up around my waist – maybe it wanted me to do this this whole time.

“Baz?” Simon asks, his voice softer.

“We’re waiting for my hands to warm up.”

“Okay.”

I like this. I like feeling his chest rise and fall with every breath, his heartbeat underneath my hands and his tail tight around my waist. He’s so warm and he’s so alive and he’s mine against all odds. I press a kiss on his shoulder and let my body relax against his.

A loud pop sounds from underneath me and Simon groans. I quickly sit back up.

“Fuck, are you okay?”

Simon groans again and I realize it’s a groan of relief, not pain or discomfort.

“This is just what I needed,” he says.

“You needed your spine to make a very concerning sound?” I ask with my eyebrows raised. He groans again.

“This might be the best thing I ever experienced.”

I’m only slightly offended at that.

“So your back’s all better now?” I ask. I also come to the conclusion that human bodies are weird and slightly concerning. How can this possibly make him feel better? It sounded like I broke his spine, for Crowley’s sake!

“I think so,” he says.

“Do you still want me to give you a massage?”

He turns his head to me, a small smile playing on his lips. “It wouldn’t hurt.”

He doesn’t have to tell me twice.

#baz come join the scoliosis gang #come to the dark side we have chronic back pain #ldsbhjfbh sorry #i just... i'm not saying baz has scoliosis but i wouldn't be mad if he did yk #like he's a tall gentleman and canonically he grew for 5 inches one summer #i grew for 8 inches in a year i think and now my spine is crooked #so i'm just saying it's possible #but also he has vampire muscles they probably kept his vertebrae firmly in place #'the only thing straight about me is my spine'#-baz pitch at some point probably #wait i went off on a tangent #um i feel like this is kinda shitty because i wrote it so fast so forgive me #like all my coc entries basically #oh well #general tags now #carry on countdown 2020 #coc 2020 #carry on #wayward son #any way the wind blows #simon snow #tyrannus basilton grimm pitch #baz pitch #snowbaz #snowbaz fic #snowbaz fanfiction #my writing

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cherrybaz · 4 years

Text

(i carry it in my heart)

baz and simon’s relationship comes to a halt after defeating the humdrum. after learning that simon lost his magic, and killed the mage, and grew wings and a tail. silence fills their apartment, and most nights, baz climbs into bed alone.

on good days, simon tries to talk to him. tries to explain how he feels, how everything he’s done haunts him at night, how looking at baz sometimes hurts because he’s reminded of everything he’s not anymore. simon tries. and yet, no words come out. he opens his mouth only to close it again, ashamed, and looks away.

and baz tries. he really tries. he invites penny over every thursday, and buys simon the best cherry scones he can find, in a bakery that’s twenty minutes away. and he talks to him, he tells simon he loves him, and that it’s okay that he can’t say it back. he reassures simon that they’ll get through it together, no matter what. ‘spent seven years with you, snow, thinking we wouldn’t live through it. we can do it again.’

he really tries. and he feels confident that they’ll make it, that he’ll be able to be the person simon really needs. that they’ll be able to heal and move on, and start living their own lives, dictated by no one but themselves. that after everything they’ve been through, they will get their happy ending. or whatever comes close to one.

but it’s not enough.

so he tries in a different way.

it starts one morning, as a very shirtless simon pads into their kitchen, while baz is making coffee.

his wings are spread in all their glory, and simon’s absentmindedly rubbing at his neck, muttering something about barely getting any sleep. he comes up to where baz is standing and kisses his cheek, running his fingers through baz’s disheveled hair. good day, then baz thinks but doesn’t say. simon grabs his cup of coffee and is on his way to the couch when his left wing catches on a plant pot that’s hanging from the ceiling. he yelps and curses, though he manages to save his coffee from spilling across the carpet.

baz watches simon’s wings, as he always does. he can’t ignore them, they’re just there. he knows simon doesn’t like talking about them, or anything, really, but his mind wanders. what are they made of? are they skin and bone, are they something else? baz never touches them, even though simon’s told him he doesn’t mind, ‘s not much i can do about them anyway, but baz feels it’s overstepping a very prominent boundary.

so he watches. the way they spread and stretch, after hours of being spelled invisible; how they flap lightly whenever simon’s thinking too hard; how they flinch whenever someone gets too close. it’s all simon, he thinks, an extension of himself that manages to communicate more than simon is able to. that’s when it dawns on him: how very human simon’s wings are, a contradiction in itself. how delicate, and receptive they are. simon’s wings are a metaphorical door to his soul, baz thinks.

so he sets to work.

after a month of intense research, of reading every book he could get his hands on —yes, even the forbidden books his family keeps in their library—, and watching a ridiculous amount of dragon movies, baz comes to a conclusion. a satisfactory one, even.

simon’s wings are made of muscle, he decides. strong muscle thinly veiled by red skin, and that’s why they’re so sensitive. that’s why they must bother simon so much. because simon’s wings are spelled invisible and shut for hours every day, and it must hurt so much. it’s all simon, and if life’s taught baz anything at all, hiding such a big part of himself is a heavy burden to carry. even if it’s something he never even wanted in the first place.

with this new perspective, baz tries, again.

he tells simon he wants to try something with his wings -no, not that, snow, get your mind out of the gutter- and simon agrees, a bit skeptical at first.

simon lies on his stomach in their bed, his wings spread wide. baz sits on the bed next to him, and takes the cap off a small bottle. balm, simon realizes. baz looks at him and there’s a look on his face, a can i? will you let me? written on his eyes.

simon nods.

baz starts running his fingertips along the small of simon’s back, gently rubbing some balm on the skin. his hands are cold against simon’s skin, always. he moves upwards along simon’s spine, massaging out the knots he encounters along the way, always checking for simon’s reaction. when he reaches his wings, baz’s hands stop moving.

“is this okay?”, he asks, half expecting simon to tell him to stop.

simon rolls over slightly, facing him; and baz’s seen his face a hundred, if not a million times. but this time’s different. simon looks at him and his expression is so unbearably soft that baz has to bite down the urge to kiss him senseless.

“i trust you”, he says.

baz rubs between his shoulder blades lightly, slowly coming up to where his skin turns red and scaly. his fingers dust along simon’s right wing, tracing small circles, and he feels the tension leave simon’s body. he starts massaging the wing, and simon gasps. it’s a different kind of intimacy, too vulnerable; and baz wants simon to feel good, even if he thinks himself undeserving of such delicate touches. baz presses his fingers to the side of his left wing, the most sensitive one, and closes his eyes.

“there’s nothing”, simon whispers, and it startles him. “nothing i wouldn’t let you have. i wish there was more i could give you. i wish you could have more.”

and the truth is,

it is enough. it always has been. even when all simon could give baz were bruises; even when all they’d share were snarky comments and ill-intentioned spells. it’s always been enough. even when all they could both feel was hatred, and long for someone to love them. even after baz lost his mother, and was given a roommate in turn. even when simon lost his magic, and there was nothing else left to give.

baz opens his eyes, and pulls his hands back. simon lets out a tiny whine at the lack of contact, and reluctantly rolls over. he looks up at baz, and feels a cold hand on his cheek.

“you’ve given me everything i wanted”, baz says, his voice soft. “you always have.”

there’s a hand on his knee, and simon’s sitting up, wrapping his wings around them. time stops, and baz can only feel the warmth radiating from simon’s body. a thin, red tail curls around baz’s thigh, and simon pushes their foreheads together.

and baz means it. he has everything he always thought he’d never have; everything he’d always been too afraid to want. it’s all simon. and baz wants to give back, wants to tell simon i feel safe with you and you kept me sane all those years and let me make it up to you. but he doesn’t, because he knows words will never be enough.

so he tries his best. he lights a match inside his heart, and blows on the tinder. baz’s hands are warm as he takes simon’s, intertwining their fingers. he pushes everything he feels into them, looking up at simon, hoping he’ll feel it, too.

and he does.

#im finally done!!! it started as a small hc and this is what i ended up with #im quite happy and i hope yall like it!! it's my first time posting fic i've wrote in english lol so sorry for any possible mistakes #no beta we die like the mage #snowbaz fanfic #snowbaz fic #simon x baz #hurt/comfort of sorts #my writing #mine #snowbaz fluff #lol ‘ive WROTE’ u idiot it’s WRITTEN

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fight-surrender · 5 years

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Whumptober Day 18, 19, 20: “Muffled Scream, Asphyxiation, Trembling.”

Simon:

I love this song. It always makes me think of Baz, particularly the violin parts. And the lyrics. It’s a lovely song, really. Romantic. I put my feet up on the ottoman and close my eyes to listen. I’m glad Baz talked me into this posh stereo system. I can practically feel the music.

“Shame that poor bloke died of autoerotic asphyxiation.” Baz strides in, looking dead handsome, shirtless, in a pair of my trackie bottoms. Baz could be dressed in a pink bunny onesie and still look dead handsome though. “Awful way to be remembered: a short lifetime of incredible music, yet your legacy is a terrible sex accident.”

“They’re still not sure what really happened,” I say, “and anyway, how do you even know about that? Michael Hutchence died before you were born.”

“I could ask you the same question, Snow.” He sits beside me and helps himself to my mug. He takes a sip and winces. “How have you not learned to sweeten your tea?”

“I like my tea like I like my men: dark and bitter.” I take back my mug. “How would you like to die, Baz?”

“In your arms, of course. Kissing. Preferably in flames. Maybe in our forest in Hampshire, that would be particularly poetic. Full circle,” Baz muses. He’s looking at me without a hint of his usual snark.

“I’m a little concerned about how quickly you came up with that answer, Tyrranus.” I’m the only person allowed to call him by his real first name.

“I came up with it when you finally worked up the nerve to kiss me in the wood that night.” Baz says.

“What are you on about?” I say, “I never even thought about kissing you until that moment. Then I kissed you before I even realized what I was doing. It was totally spontaneous. There was no ‘nerve’ to work up.”

“Keep telling yourself that, Snow. You’ve wanted me since fifth year.”

“Maybe. Probably. Good thing I figured it out and saved your life.” I say, turning sideways, and sliding my feet under his legs.

“Yes. Good thing. What about you? What’s your ideal death?”

“I can’t say that I think about it much. I lack your flair for the morbid.” I reply, “I suppose I’d like to go down in a blaze of glory, like in that old Bon Jovi song.”

Baz rolls his eyes, “we’ve got to get you something besides Fiona’s playlists to listen to, Snow.” He gets up, “I’m getting dressed, are we still meeting Penny and Shep at 7:30?”

“Yes dear.”

Baz leans down, grabs me by the collar and assertively kisses me. “Don’t ‘yes dear’ me.”

“Yes dear,” I murmur, our lips brushing. Baz kisses me again like he’s proving a point, then wanders in the direction of the bedroom.

Moments later I hear a muffled scream from that side of the house followed by a thump.

“Baz?” I leap to my feet and run to the bedroom. It’s been awhile since we’ve been attacked by anything. I keep a sword under the bed. I grab it and run to the bathroom. “Baz are you—” I slide into the bathroom in my socks and find him looking mildly sheepish with a shoe in his hand. “What the fuck?”

“Er. Spider,” Baz responds, dropping the shoe. (My shoe!)

“Baz, are you afraid of spiders?” I will not smile, I will not laugh.

“No, I am not afraid of spiders. I spent half my childhood in catacombs, I have a certain familiarity with them.” He smoothes his hair and looks down at the floor. “This spider was very large and it may have – jumped.”

“It—” I’m the worst boyfriend, absolute garbage. I’m laughing, I can’t help it. I’m trying so hard. “It—jumped? A jumping spider?”

“Fuck you, Snow, yes. It was a jumping fucking spider and it startled me.”

I put my sword on the counter and move closer, wiping away a few tears. “My vampire boyfriend is afraid of spiders.”

“It. Jumped.” Baz insists.

I put my arms around his waist. He tries to swat me away, but I persist. “Baz.”

“What?” He snaps.

I tighten my grip. “You know I love it when you’re vulnerable.” I place a lazy kiss to his neck, right under his jaw.

“It was a big fucking spider,” Baz sighs, I feel the tension leave his back. I lick down his neck and into the space between his collar bones, placing a kiss there. A brief tremble* in response. I murmur into his ear, “I’d like to take advantage of your weakened emotional state in the bedroom, if that’s allright with you?”

“You are insufferable,” Baz says, but he kisses me anyway. “We’re going to be late.”

“I’m comfortable with that. Shall I check the bed for spiders then?” I take his hand.

“I’m never going to live this down, am I?”

“No, my love. You are not.”

In case you were wondering, Simon was listening to “Never Tear Us Apart” by INXS. Which I think is a total Snowbaz song.

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spiltscribbles · 4 years

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10 Different Characters, From 10 DifferentFandoms, And Tagging 10 Different People

I was tagged by the ever lovely soul HMS-Chill and this is so hard but like I think I got a good list? So in no particular order….

Eliza Schuyler Hamilton (Hamilton) » Like idk if we’re suppose to explain, so I’ll keep it short. She is the brightest fucking star of them all, and she is so brilliant and so beautiful and so wonderful!! And I cry every time I think about her because she went through so much hurt and heartbreak but she is an angel and she always got what she set her mind on and truly if you just looked at my tag for her you will understand fjoiaejfoiaer 2. Annabeth Chase (PJO Saga) » Honestly part of my pan awakening, i’ve been in love with her since I was an 11 year old kid LMFAO. She was so tough and her back story with her dad was so heartbreaking and she tries so hard and she loves so much even if she doesn’t show it and she loves other girls and JFC the fact she was the only one of the seven without ~magical~ powers just makes me love her all the more!!!! 3. Adam Parrish (TRC) » It would not be an over exaggeration to say that I would die a thousand painful deaths merely to know that he is happy…. I love him with my entire heart and soul and he deserves every ounce of goodness that this damn crappy world can offer! His story arc in TRC was so heart wrenchingly beautiful and him in the Dreamer trilogy is just, I can’t breathe I love him so much!!! 4. Katara (ATLA) » It’s frankly embarrassing to think about the massive crush I had on her without realizing how gay I was for her fjioajrfioajer She was beautiful and she manipulated my favorite element and she was a fucking loud feminist and she is in touch with her heritage in the tribe and she is my sunflower baby!! 5 Baz Pitch (Carry On Trilogy) » Okay just straight up, I would’ve loved him despite it all, but when Rainbow dropped in the fact he was half Arab, and I got— Representation???? Me????? Holy fuck!!! And she even brought up how his Ma was too dark for other British Wizards to trust her and just, wow I felt seen! Okay but back to my tragic baby! He is snarky and he is brilliant and he has impeccable taste— even if the love of his life is a God damn mess mjfoiaejfoierkdl And God the storyline brought up in Wayward Son, connecting with his vampire identity! I just know that’s finna fuck me up in the last book so just he is my child that I must protect and hide at all costs!!! 6. Amy March (Little Women) » Listen, she is the love of all my days and she is so fucking remarkable! I know I’ve said this about everyone— surprise surprise I’ve got a type— but she is so beautiful and so brilliant and so fucking amazing!! I’m so thankful for 2019 for giving us Florance Pugh who really just breathed her to life in such vivid and remarkable ways and that speech she gives Teddy in the art studio just forever will give me chills! I’ve always said this, I definitely embody Joe, but I am so smitten with Amy, with her shrewdness and her wit and her sense of duty. She was this lovely frivolous girl, which is good and perfect already, but then she grows up into a lady who still loves all the indulgences of life, and is well aware to her status, she wants to marry well because she wants to help her family but she’s always known she would. And she gets what she wants by working within the system, and I think that’s so fucking bad ass! But then she also gets to end up with her first love! Just JFC I’m far to emo about her fjoiarjfoa 7. Chidi Anagonye (The Good Place) » It was so fucking hard choosing between him and Eleanor, because I identified so hard with the latter— especially with some things with her parents— but Chidi is my pure angel child who I must protect at all costs! He was always the sane and truly good one and he was so neurotic and so kind and so smart and JFC him shirtless jfoiaejfuoehrugi Just love this little bean! 8. Prince Henry (RWRB) » He’s this precious and angelic academic, like how could I not be in love??? Seriously, henry just breaks my heart into a thousand little pieces and he’s so endearing and good and he has so much love to give but he also has this sadness that’s just so tragic and so interesting to look into and he deserves so much warmth and love and he got that! Him and Alex you guys JFC talk about making me weak! Okay look I just love him and I will always protect him!! 9. Amy Santiago (Brooklyn Nine Nine) » She’s my top tear sergeant princess!! She’s so funny and neurotic and strong and fearless and compassionate and good! And she can be feminine while being a bad ass and so fierce! And she’s so beautiful!! And I just adore her to bits!! 10. Alec Lightwood (Shadowhunter Chronicles) » Okay you guys know how there are some characters you just latch onto? Like he’s not always great *Cough cough original trilogy** but like he is my child okay! Every time I read about him, or he’s alluded to, or just thinking about him I just smile. That little soliloquy he gives Izzy, I think in City of fFallen Angels? Like when he’s describing the paper cuts, God I still get chills, i related so fucking hard. And he was so afraid in the first couple books but he’s learned to love himself and be open and be proud, and seeing where he is today, with his job title and his family and just all of that— JFC I’m getting chills thinking about it. I just love him so much!!!! 11. Natasha Rostova (The Great Comet) » Okay okay Linda I know! I’m cheating! It’s suppose to be ten!!! But you haven’t taken account, I DON”T CARE!!! I had to include my baby my girl my star child! She was just here to hav a good time okay!! She knows that she’s beautiful and she was horny and it’s such a simple story, but it’s so sad and tragic, like her last song with Pierre makes me cry every fucking time, when he describes her limp arms at her side and you think about he described her as the life of the party when she was younger and society didn’t get it’s clutches on her yet! That just broke me. I think so many girls can relate to this story of being “a ruined woman” and it’s disgusting that our society still has these acts, and just I love this girl so much, and I want to protect her from all of it! And god of course Denee’s heavenly voice and gorgeous face just endeared me to her even more fjoierjfoiaerjf!

Remus J Lupin » Plane and simple, he is the greatest love of my life and that’s just simply on facts and the Marauders era is the reason why I even love Harry Potter as much as I do. JFC he is so fucking wonderful.

Okay wow I went on for SOOOOO LONG!! JFC I need to learn how to shut up jfoairejfdjsoijw

But okay ready to tag some wonderful peeps!!!

•Adverbialstarlight •Tinyarmedtrex •Pastelle-Pvn •Maraudereasmut •Kirito-potter •Celiabowne •omgcmere •TedddyLupin •Saywhatjessie •Oldkingyounggod

#annabeth chase #Adam Parrish #Amy March #Baz Pitch #Henry Fox Mountchristen Windsor #Alec Lightwood #Katara Atla #Chidi Anagonye #Natasha Rostova #Amy Santiago #Len Prattles on #about me #tag game #literally my life

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thesmalltowngal · 5 years

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Snowbaz 3- Goodnight Kiss

Otp Prompt #3: Goodnight kiss

Just a *tad* bit more suggestive. Just a bit. Enjoy! (Or not. But I hope you do)

I love him so much it hurts. I came down to the catacombs tonight to get away from the bloody idiot. He sleeps with his shirt off. With his shirt off. I knew that. I’ve shared a room with the git for seven and a half years. But tonight was different. He took off his shirt, readying himself for bed as per usual. And then he decided it would be a great fucking idea to practice his sword fighting form on my side of the room.

He just does it to annoy me- I know that. I know that. But jesus, it was like he was actively trying to turn me on. (It worked by the way. Part of the reason I had to leave was because I was having a little problem). (Big problem is more accurate). He would jab forward and spin around, the sweat collecting on his back and shoulders. I was just trying to read my book and not notice how much I wanted to tackle and bite him. And then lick off the blood. And then kiss him.

“Snow, could you please try not to be irritating for just five minutes?” I forced my voice to come out hard as stone. I was trying not to swoon.

In answer, he simply did another move and nearly cut himself in the process.

“Come spar with me, Baz. I could use the practice and I don’t have any other person to train with,” I was surprised that he was asking me to help him. I lifted an eyebrow in response. “I have an extra sword. Don’t be a git, just spar with me for ten minutes, and then I’ll leave you alone.” I groaned and reluctantly got out of bed. He tossed me his extra sword and it was heavy in my hands. I lunged forward and he blocked it easily. I was always better with a wand, and him a sword. I tried distracting him. Lord did that backfire.

“Go on, Snow. Work a little harder, you bloody git. I can’t be better at sword fighting, too.” I sneered and lunged forward. He stepped aside.

“Too?” He inquired as he tried maneuvering around me.

“Yes. I’m better at magic. Better at girlfriend stealing. Better at kissing, I’m sure. Why else would Agatha prefer me?” He let his guard down for a fraction of a second so I leaned forward and knocked the sword out of his hands.

“You didn’t kiss her, you bastard.” He rolled to pick up his sword.

“Perhaps not. But if I had, I’m sure she would’ve found it much more satisfactory,” We circled around each other and I could feel magic rolling off of Snow in waves. But he was surprisingly controlled.

“You really think you’re a better kisser than me?” I made an mhmm sound. He shoved me, catching me off guard. We were sparring intentionally, so the anathema didn’t kick in. He knocked the sword out of my hand and shoved me up against the wall. He put the blade of the sword under my chin and looked me right in the eyes. My ‘problem’ was getting worse. I was praying he hadn’t noticed. “Then why don’t you prove it?”

Soon thereafter, I practically ran down to the catacombs, saying I needed to meet someone. He didn’t question me, although he did look rather confused. I wonder if he could see both the fear and arousal in my eyes when he asked me to prove it. What did he mean by that? Like he wanted me to kiss him? Surely not. He’s Simon bloody Snow. Straight as a fucking line… right?

I’ve emptied nearly all of the male rats down in the catacombs, and it’s becoming clear I need to go back to the room sometime soon. That doesn’t mean I can’t take my time, though. I drag my feet the entire way there. I know I need to do something to feel better about this. If I don’t do something about this Snow thing, I will die. It will kill me. I have to do something other than trying to wank it off. (Tried and momentarily relieved, by the way. But I need something that lasts longer. One thought of his blue eyes and I’m immediately putty).

When I finally get to the Mummers house, my stomach is so tied up and my head is foggy. Walking into our room, I see that Simon- still shirtless by the way- is laying on his bead and softly snoring. How can I be so madly in love with this bloody train wreck? I move silently to the side of his bed, near his head. Looking down at him, my heart warms. His perfect bronze curls and his moles. Oh his moles. I want to kiss each and every one individually and tell them each why I love them.

I’m certain he’s really fast asleep so I lean down to kiss him on the cheek. Just a ghost of a kiss. A whisper. I’m so close to his cheek that I can feel the heat radiating off of him. But just as my lips touch his skin, he turns his head, and I get his lips instead. He startles awake and I jump back, flushing furiously. Those damn rats. I’m just glad the lights are off so he can’t see.

He stares at me silently, sitting up on the edge of his bed. I watch him as he stands up. And my feet are planted even as he makes his way toward me. We stay there, just standing in the middle of our room. He looks at me with his eyes bluer than the skies (cliche, I know) and I feel something coming. He’s either going to punch me or kill me. Either way, the anathema will kick him out. Maybe I’ll kiss him before he sends me flying. Maybe I’ll die kissing Simon Snow.

Then he kisses me. He grabs me by the back of the neck and pulls me in, tenderly pressing his lips to mine. And it’s even better than I had ever imagined. I do the things I’ve been wanting to do for seven and a half years. I kiss his cheek like I had planned on initially. Who would’ve thought it would have led to something so much better? I kiss his nose, his forehead, his eyelids. His moles. I love him. And I’m pretty sure he loves me too.

My heart is finally at peace.

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bibliothesoph · 4 years

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Neverland, Shadow in the Night (part 2)

Baz is having a dreamless sleep.

All of his sleeps are dreamless, these days.

They used to be filled with adventure. More often than not, they were dreams of Simon Snow coming in through the window and taking Baz away to Neverland to just...have fun. Also more often than not, those dreams ended with Simon sweeping Baz into this amazing kiss after they defeated the bad guy. And Baz really liked those dreams because he thought they could be true.

But he didn't have them anymore.

So, Baz is having another dreamless sleep when he hears something fumbling around in his room. He hears something getting knocked over and then a subtle, "shit." His eyes snap open, half-expecting to find his aunt Fiona looking for his hidden whiskey or something, but all he can make out is a shape.

And it's certainly not Fiona.

He turns on the lamp by his bed, squinting as he tries to see who it is before the room is flooded with the light from the lamp.

It's a boy.

Not just a boy––a boy dressed in a strange, leafy tunic with green tights and brown shoes. A boy with a mess of golden curls that sit like a wild nest on his head. For a moment, Baz thinks that it's actually Simon Snow and that he's here to take Baz off to Neverland––to help him escape from his cruel reality. But he knows, somewhere in the back of his mind, that Simon Snow isn't real and that he isn't actually in Baz's bedroom at some ungodly hour dressed in a strange outfit. Plus, if Simon Snow was actually real, there is certainly no way that, of all of the windows to stumble into, he'd stumble into Baz's.

"Fucking hell," the boy mutters, holding something in his hands. He's trying, Baz realizes, to shove whatever it is into his pockets.

"What are you doing?" Baz asks against his better judgement.

The boy turns to face him and Baz nearly passes out.

He's so beautiful. His eyes are blue and his face is littered with little moles and freckles. He looks shocked that Baz noticed him in the first place, which makes Baz want to snap at him for being so loud. Instead, they just stare at each other. The boy's mouth hangs open in awe and there's some glint in his eyes that Baz can't really place.

"Basilton?"

Baz raises an eyebrow. "How do you know my name?"

The boy grins at him but makes no move to get any closer. He's still struggling with putting whatever he's holding into his pocket.

"I heard your dad call you that once. It's a weird name."

"You're quite rude."

The boy furrows his brow and bites his lip. "Oh, sorry. I'll just be...I'll leave."

Baz thinks, for a second, that leaving is exactly what this random person should do, but he can't bring himself to find the words. "Stay," he says instead. "I mean, at least tell me what the fuck you're doing in my room in the middle of the bloody night."

The boy blushes. "I, well, I was looking for my shadow."

"Your shadow?"

The boy nods and approaches Baz, holding out his hand to show him what he's been wrestling with. It looks like stockings at first, like black tights, but Baz sees it move so he figures that it can't be stockings. He also sees that it's in the shape of the boy in front of him so, weirdly, it must be his shadow. He can't believe this.

"How does one manage lose their shadow?"

The boy shrugs. "Dunno. Happens all the time to me. Little bugger."

"Right. So, uh, do you need help with it? How do you get it back on?"

The boy looks around the room. "Do you have a needle and thread or something? That should do it. Just sew it back on, yeah?"

Baz stares at him for a moment, still totally confused, and then gets out of bed to go and find the sewing kit he uses for buttons. He realizes, once he's returning with the sewing needle and thread, that he's shirtless and in nothing but his boxers. And the boy is staring at him. Not only is he staring, he starts to run his fingers up and down Baz's bare chest. Baz slaps his hands off.

"Do you have any manners?

The boy frowns. "Oh, sorry. I just...wow, you're so pretty. I never really get to see people, you know, so I just...wow."

Baz tries to fight the blush creeping up his cheeks and instead gestures for the boy to sit on the bed so he can sew his shadow back on.

"Why don't you see people? Are you an escapee from some kind of mental institution?"

"Don't even know what that is. And no, I'm not. Why'd you stop telling stories?"

Baz freezes and looks up at him. "What?"

"You used to tell them all the time, you know. And you were so good at it! And then you stopped. Why? Do you not like stories anymore?"

"How could you possibly know that I used to tell stories?"

The boy laughs and rolls his eyes. Baz starts working on his other foot.

"Because I used to listen to you all the time. I liked the Simon Snow ones a lot."

Baz rolls his eyes. "I don't tell stories anymore because there's no point. Because, no matter how much I wish for it, Simon Snow isn't going to come save me any time soon."

"D'you wanna be saved?"

Baz raises an eyebrow at him. "Doesn't everyone? What kind of question is that? Are you some kind of idiot?"

"Now who's being rude?"

Baz can't decide if he wants to punch or kiss him. And he doesn't even know his name.

"What's your name, then?"

The boy runs his fingers through his hair. "Don't think you'd believe me if I told you."

"Try me."

The boy grins. "Simon."

Baz finishes the second shoe and ties a good knot to keep it in place. "That's a common name. And you're good to go."

Simon grins and leaps off the bed, bounding over to the wall to admire his shadow. Baz follows him, still keeping a safe distance, and watches him with amusement. He really is the most interesting person Baz has ever met.

"Thanks, Basilton!"

"Please, call me Baz. And you still haven't told me why you thought your name would be so unbelievable."

Simon turns to face him, still grinning like an idiot. "Simon Snow. That's my name."

Baz stumbles backwards, shaking his head. "No," he says. "That's impossible. He's not...you're not..."

Simon follows him until Baz is pressed up against the door, the knob digging into his back.

"Not what, Baz?"

Their faces are so close now. Baz could kiss him, if he wanted to. He could just lean a little bit and kiss him. He thinks he might since this is obviously a dream. A very realistic dream, but a dream nonetheless.

"Real," Baz whispers. And he hates himself for saying it. For admitting it, out loud, for the first time.

Simon looks offended. He takes a step back and runs his hand through his curls. "I am, Baz. I swear it."

Baz folds his arms across his chest. "Right then. So why don't you prove it?"

Simon sticks his chin out. "Did my shadow nonsense not prove it enough?"

Baz shakes his head.

Simon groans and starts sprinting towards the window. Baz sprints after him, watching in horror as Simon leaps up onto the windowsill. He turns around, perched on it, and grins before falling out of the window. Baz is freaking out wondering if he's going to get in trouble when the police find a dead body outside his window. Should he move it? Should he cover it up somehow? He starts pacing nervously as he thinks through how much trouble he could get into for this mess.

"Thought you wanted proof?"

Baz whips his head around and sees Simon at the window, his elbows on the sill holding his head up on his palms. Baz looks out behind him and sees Simon's feet in the air. It looks like he's lying on his stomach only there's nothing underneath him to support him. Just...air. Baz can't help but gasp.

"Fucking hell," he mumbles, gawking at the sight of it. "You're...you're fucking flying!"

Simon giggles and points a finger at him. "Told ya! Believe me now, Baz?"

Baz thinks that he's going to have a heart attack.

All those years of wanting Simon Snow to be real, of wishing for him to come take Baz off to Neverland...it was all real. Simon Snow has always been out there, listening to the stories Baz tells about him, apparently. (He realizes that he should be embarrassed about that). And now Simon is here in front of him flying and totally gorgeous. And Baz thinks he might die. And he never wants this dream to end.

"I should probably head back home," Simon says. "Well, I should find Penny, anyway. She's probably in a bookshop or something." He turns to leave but Baz grabs his hand.

"No," he demands. "You can't––don't leave me. Please."

Simon grins at him. "You wanna come with?"

Baz is about to reply when another voice comes from outside somewhere.

"Simon? Simon, I swear to god if you're lurking at Basilton's window again I will––"

It's a fairy.

A tiny, little person with wings. She's got on a little green dress and her hair, which is purple, is in a messy bun on the top of her tiny head. And she's got glasses. The kind of glasses that Baz has seen Mordelia use for her little dolls. She stops talking immediately when she sees Baz.

"Pen, this is Baz," Simon says to her, gesturing to Baz.

Baz is speechless.

"Simon, you can't just––"

"He's gonna need some pixie dust. Y'know, for the journey."

The little fairy, Penny, crosses her arms and glares at Simon. "For the last time," she huffs, "I am not a bloody pixie! Do you know insulting that is? And he is not coming with us."

Simon frowns at her. "Come on, it'll be fun! We haven't had someone else to play with in ages. It'll be nice. He wants to come, anyway. Right, Baz?"

Baz blinks, his brain still trying to process all of this. "I––where are we going?"

"To Neverland, of course."

#simon snow #baz pitch #penny bunce #neverland #peter pan #au #fanfic #carry on #rainbow rowell #snowbaz

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itsabluefloor · 5 years

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Snowbaz oneshot: prompt request.

Prompt request: Mordelia catching Snowbaz all loved up and teasing them with Malcolm. Loved writing this one, please send more<33 And tell me if you like this one.

“You know your eyelashes flutter?” Baz says, taking a good look at the boy beside him. Both of them are laying tightly wrapped in each other, covered in the warm morning light. Making Simons' skin even more golden than it already is as a canvas for his moles and freckles. They woke up over an hour ago, but none of them seem to want to wake up.

“Yeah." Simon lazily answers before even thinking. His curls splayed out on the pillow beneath them. "Or wait, what? They flutter?” He opens his eyes for and looks up at Baz.

“Yeah” Baz whispers back, holding back a yawn, "when we’re really, really close, they flutter"

“How do they flutter?" Simon asks again, sitting up in the bed, now curious. "Like ‘her eyelashes fluttered as he looked at her’ kind of flutter? Or like a bloody butterfly flutters his wings?” Baz shakes his head and holds back a laugh to answer the curiousness that is Simon Snow.

“Maybe the first one I think. What, you haven’t noticed before?” He answers sitting up straighter too.

“No, I don’t think so? No one has ever told me anyway. It's not like Aggs ever noticed stuff like that and no one has been as close to me as you two. Do it again!” Simon hurries through the sentence. His eagerness taking a slight hold of him where he sits.

“Do what?”

“I don’t know. Get close, make them flutter.” Simon says, blinking his eyes to prove the point. Which only makes Baz smile even softer than before, if that’s even possible when he's with Snow.

“Make them flutter, wow” Baz repeats to himself before he moves one of his fingers slowly towards Simons' eye, as carefully as possible. It's not like he wants to stab them again. He did that once, by accident in third year, and as funny Snow looked with an eyepatch, Baz is not that bad of a boyfriend. Not this morning anyway.

“No, wait!” Simon stops him panicking slightly before standing up on his knees to find his phone and reaching it to Baz. “Film it”

Baz laughs again “You serious?”

He earns a decisive nod back. «I’m curious,” Simon explains as he lets his back hit the mattress again.

“You’re such a tosser,” Baz says, but takes the phone either way. He presses play on the camera and then with an American accent, explains the video like he is doing a magickal science project. Mostly because he knows that Simon loves his American accent...

“First try on the experiment; how does it look when Simon Snow's eyelashes flutter.” He says with a stern voice. Making Simon laugh out loud before he finally settles down. Too afraid to move and get stabbed in the eye. Cause that was not a good experience as he remembers it.

“You ready?” Baz asks with a smile and earns yet a nod from the boy beside him. He is just about to again, carefully touch the lash, when someone barges in the door. Immediately followed by a disgusted outbreak and the door closing harshly.

"What the fuck are you lot doing? Dad said no fucking in the house and you're making a porno?"

Baz and Simon jerk quick as lightning up from the pillows. Simon with cheeks as red as tomatoes and Baz with his usual, unaffected look. Both shirtless.

"What have I said Mordelia, if you don't knock you don't go in," Baz says, his voice as stern as his fathers.

“And for your information, we weren’t making a sex tape." Simon pipes in, his voice a little smaller. He still isn't sure that Mordelia is not a vampire herself as she looks and acts exactly like Baz did when he was here age. Like right now, she's just standing there with a big smirk on her mouth like she just found the best blackmail material ever.

"We weren’t even fucking,” Baz says, standing up from the bed and closing the window, earning a mine from Simon. “Now at least.” He adds, and Simon tries to hide the blush rising from the comment.

“What the hell were you doing then? With a phone, in the bed, you on top of him?” She asks. Giving suggestively looks at both of them as she speaks.

“Snow wanted to see how it looks when his eyelash flutters,” Baz answers for the both of them and Mordelia delivers a disgusting face again. "It was cute,"

“What even” Is all Mordelia answers, before quickly giving up on finding what weird thing they do when she’s not here and instead reaches into her pocket to get her phone. She plops down on the sofa in the room and Baz practically jumps up to shove her out again the second she does.

"I'll tell mom if you don't let me hang with you!" She shouts when he tosses her over his shoulders. Making Simon laugh out loudly. "I'll tell dad!" She tries again but has no chance of getting down from her vampire brothers’ hands before she is over the threshold and the door is closed between them again.

"You know that she will tell Malcolm, right?" Simon asks as Baz joins him on the bed again.

"I know, but he won't be home for a couple of hours, Daphne won't care and it's still morning and I don't want to stress any more than I have to." He says tiredly. Simon stares at him weirdly.

"What?"

"I mean, who are you and what have you done to my overthinking, emotional mess that is my boyfriend? Did you finally cave in and tried human blood or?"

“No, I did not kill anybody today Snow.” He would never bite a person for food and they both know it. "And are you calling ME a mess? You're the definition of mess Snow." Baz teases back, leaning in to tuck a curl behind his ear.

"Wasn't me who was pining after my roommate for years without telling them." Simon laughs, shoving Baz's shoulder playfully where they lay face to face.

"Wasn't me who took three years to realize that my girlfriend never really liked me in that way." Baz shoots back and Simon gives him another shove along with an offended look.

"Truce?" Baz asks and reaches out his hand for him to take. Simon cackles at that but shakes it nevertheless along with a soft: "truce"

Hours pass before Simon is too hungry to stay in bed any longer and needs food asap. Baz grudgingly joins him down to their grandiose, marble tiled kitchen and opens the fridge filled to the brim with different kinds of food, along with a couple containers of pig’s blood. Baz takes one out and then looks back into the fridge to find something to eat.

"Dinner leftovers?" He asks.

"Nah," Simon answers from his kitchen stool behind him.

"Okay, how about a sandwich?"

"´Yeah okay"

"What do you want on?" Baz asks again, finding some bread from the drawer.

"I don't know, normal sandwich stuff?" Simon shrugs back

"Normal sandwich stuff, you tosser." He insults back but still picks out some cheese and etcetera to make one for Simon. He is just about done when Malcolm enters the room.

Two hours too early.

"Good day boys" He announces as he picks up his paper at the table Simon's sitting on. "Or should I say morning for you two?” He asks, looking them up and down.

"Father," Baz greets back as neutral as possible. Pouring himself a cup of blood to go with the food. "Didn't think you would be home so soon. Would have put on some more suitable clothes if I had known" He tries to excuse himself.

"I did text you to say that the meeting went quickly, but you were probably too busy with Simons phone to see that message." He says, and Simon chokes on the food in his mouth. Baz can't hold his redness down this time either and stops in the middle of a sip. Malcolm just smiles smugly at himself.

"Ehm, what do you mean?" Baz finds the words to ask after a couple of seconds.

"Mordelia told me about how she found you two this morning, and you know what I said about these kinds of activities in the home when you're guests."

"Father." "Sir." Both Simon and Baz say in unison, desperate to tell the truth as quickly as possible.

"Calm down boys, just be careful right?" He answers smugly again and rises from his chair along with his paper. As he walks out the door he says behind him; " And use protection!" Both Simon and Baz are left completely stunned in the kitchen. Neither of them knows just what happened.

"Forget about you," Simon says after he has collected himself a bit. "What has happened to your father?" He asks, taking a big bite of the sandwich.

Before Baz has the chance to answer he hears through the wall a weak: "Did it work dad?" "Oh, you should've seen their faces" And then a high five.

"Mordelia happened to my father." He smiles to himself and leans in to kiss the mole on Simon's neck before going back to his cup. “That little devil.”

#snowbaz #simon snow #baz pitch #carry on #fluff #snowbaz fic #firstfic #writing prompt #send prompts #why am i doing this

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hlupdate · 5 years

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Boy band heartthrob-turned-rocker Harry Styles hasn't released new music or toured in more than a year now -- but that doesn't mean he hasn't been busy.

In fact, the "Sign of the Times" crooner has stayed plenty active. Since releasing his self-titled debut in May 2017, Styles starred in his first feature film with Dunkirk, embarked on a world tour, co-chaired the Met Gala and even modeled for Gucci.

And with the news that he will grace the cover of Rolling Stone next month, it can only be expected that new music is on the way from the One Direction singer. So before the world is swept up in a new era of Styles, catch yourself up on what he's been up to below.

Since going solo, Styles has...

Released a documentary

Just a week after his debut album Harry Styles dropped, Harry Styles: Behind the Album was released via Apple Music. The documentary-style film chronicles the making of the record with behind-the-scenes footage and interviews.

Guest-starred on The Late Late Show With James Corden three times

Styles' first Late Late Show appearance after his album release was in May 2017, accompanied by a charming episode of Carpool Karaoke.

Styles returned on Dec. 13 of that year to guest-host the show while Corden's wife gave birth, manning the stage like a pro with a witty monologue.

Most recently, Styles joined Corden for a dodgeball game in London this June, teaming up with Corden, John Bradley, Benedict Cumberbatch and Reggie Watts for a must-see competition (and plenty of cute moments from Styles).

Appeared in Dunkirk

In what was an unexpected career move, Styles appeared as a soldier in Christopher Nolan's war epic Dunkirk in July 2017. Though his role was minor, Styles' performance packed enough of a punch to impress.

Performed on BBC Radio 1's Live Lounge

In September 2017, Styles stopped by BBC Radio 1's Live Lounge to perform two covers: "The Chain" by Fleetwood Mac and DJ Khaled's "Wild Thoughts." Putting his own spin on each, Styles once again proved his raw talent.

Embarked on a world tour

Beginning in San Francisco on Sept. 19, 2017, and ending in Los Angeles on July 14, 2018, Harry Styles: Live On Tour took the star throughout North America, Europe, Asia, Australia and South America for 89 total shows. The tour was sold-out and had Kacey Musgraves, Warpaint and Leon Bridges as opening acts.

Proved himself a true philanthropist

Though Styles has always been vocal about his beliefs, he's really stepped it up as a solo act. In October 2017, he performed at CBS Radio's We Can Survive concert for breast cancer awareness at the Hollywood Bowl and sold tees and hoodies throughout his tour sporting the phrase "Treat People With Kindness" in order to advocate for LGBTQ rights. In total, Styles' tour raised more than $1.2 million for various charities, helped attendees register to vote and engaged in a water conservation effort. In addition, Harry Styles: Live On Tour was named on sexual harassment prevention charity Time's Up's 2018 donor list.

Had his own special on the BBC

The hour-long special Harry Styles at the BBC aired on Nov. 2, 2017, including a live performance from Styles and interview with BBC Radio 1 DJ Nick Grimshaw.

Won two iHeartRadio Music Awards

On March 3, 2018, Styles won two iHeartRadio Music Awards: best music video for "Sign of the Times" and best cover song for his performance of "Still the One" by Shania Twain with Kacey Musgraves.

Co-wrote a song

Styles has a writing credit on Bleachers' "Alfie's Song (Not So Typical Love Song)," which appeared on the soundtrack for the 2018 film Love, Simon. However, this was not Styles' first time writing a song for someone else: He has also co-written songs for Ariana Grande and Michael Bublé.

Modeled for Gucci

The singer has become a mainstay for Gucci, appearing in three of their campaigns thus far -- two for Gucci Tailoring and most recently for Gucci's newest perfume, Mémoire d'une Odeur. The promotional videos for each are almost too much to handle.

Executive-produced a TV show

One of the least-known facts about Styles: He was actually an executive producer on the CBS sitcom Happy Together, which was loosely based on his own life. Sadly, the show was canceled in May after just one season.

Interviewed Timothée Chalamet

Ah, the interview that almost broke the internet. On Nov. 1, 2018, a match made in heaven became a reality when Harry Styles chatted with fellow dreamboat Timothée Chalamet for i-D. Touching on everything from masculinity to that peach scene in Call Me by Your Name, it's a thrilling read to say the least.

Won Gay Times' Honour for LGBTQ Advocate

As a result of his "Treat People With Kindness" campaign and The Rainbow Project that his fans carried out at his MSG show, Gay Times gave Styles their Honour for LGBTQ Advocate Award on Nov. 8, 2018. "Styles uses his platform to make sure his LGBTQ fans feel accepted and noticed, which was most superbly displayed earlier this year with The Rainbow Project," Gay Times' announcement article said.

Gone to a lot of concerts

Seriously, it's almost too many. On Nov. 30, 2018, Styles made an appearance at Bring Me the Horizon's London show, even posing for this cute selfie with lead singer Oli Sykes.

On Dec. 13, 2018, Styles was spotted supporting friend Stevie Nicks at Fleetwood Mac's concert in Los Angeles. Enjoy this blurry video of him singing along to "Go Your Own Way."

Only three days later, Styles went to Paul McCartney's show in London, even pausing to take a few pics with fans.

The next time Styles was seen out at a concert was to catch Van Morrison at The Wiltern in Los Angeles on Feb. 5. The two hung out backstage and snapped this adorable pic, which also sparks the realization that Styles has worn that gray cap to every concert thus far...

Next up on Styles' concert schedule was an LA show from King Princess, whom Styles reportedly asked to open for him at Madison Square Garden. Though she declined, it's great to see that Styles is still supportive.

Styles also saw K-pop group BlackPink on April 17 in Los Angeles, adding fuel to the fire that he was dating BlackPink member Jennie.

Styles caught a Fleetwood Mac show on June 18, but this time in London, where Nicks actually dedicated her performance of "Landslide" to him.

One Direction stans everywhere freaked out when both Styles and Niall Horan went to the Eagles concert in London on June 23. Though the photos are almost too blurry to tell, just the thought of the two enjoying a night out together had Directioners speculating at a 1D reunion.

The most recent Styles concert outing was Ariana Grande's London show on Aug. 17, where he hung out with Stranger Things star Millie Bobby Brown, getting the Internet very excited.

Partied it up in Japan

Styles has spent a good amount of time in Tokyo this year, even meeting up with some of the Queer Eye guys for karaoke. Here's him and Bobby Berk singing "Bohemian Rhapsody" for your viewing pleasure.

Become besties with Stevie Nicks and inducted her into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame

Styles and Nicks have sparked up quite a friendship since his album dropped, performing several times together including at the 2019 Gucci Cruise. The two are so close that Styles inducted Nicks into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame this March, making a sweet speech and joining her to sing "Stop Draggin' My Heart Around."

Co-chaired the Met Gala

In a look that truly broke the Internet, Styles stunned at the 2019 Met Gala on May 6 as a co-chair. Dressed in a gender-blurring Gucci getup, Styles proved himself a fashion icon.

In an interview at the event with Liza Koshy, Styles said that the theme of camp is about "enjoyment, non-judgment and having fun with clothes."

Almost had two huge movie roles

This summer, Styles was in the running to play Elvis in Baz Luhrmann's upcoming biopic and even "in talks" with Disney to be Prince Eric in the upcoming Little Mermaid live-action remake. Despite initial conflicting reports about Prince Eric, Styles will not be playing either role.

Worked on new music (and music videos)

Styles has been spotted on set for a music video (or maybe two?) in both Scotland and Mexico this August -- which can only mean that new music must be coming soon. Check out these behind-the-scenes snaps.

Graces the cover of Rolling Stone's next issue

And finally, in another telltale hint that new music is to come, Styles was revealed as the cover star for Rolling Stone's September issue on Aug. 19. The sizzling-hot shirtless cover came with reports from Us Weekly that his next album would be coming late this summer or early fall. One can only hope!

#bunch of video links at the source!#harry styles #articles #220819

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caelestisnox · 5 years

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crashing into you (snowbaz)

ao3 link

Baz remembers being thankful that he was taller than Simon Snow. He thinks back to the early days, when he would hold Simon’s things (his books, his wand, his tie, that infernal red ball he used to have) up above his head, smirking at Simon as he jumps up and down trying to reach it. That fight usually ends with Snow getting frustrated and kicking his knees to make him drop whatever it was he was holding, but the pain was worth looking down at Snow and watching his pale, freckly face flush red as his eyebrows work their way into a scowl.

He tries to remember that pain and bring it to the front of his mind when Snow, once again, collides into him. Snow’s face smashes into his chest while his nose gets buried in those bronze curls. The smell of cinnamon surrounds him and he fucking hates fifth year and the horrible dawning realization that there is indeed a fine line between love and hate and that he has fucking crossed it.

He takes a step back, struggles to keep his facial expression aloof and flicks a cool look at Penelope Bunce.

“Control your pet, Bunce. Or at least get him a leash.”

Bunce does nothing but roll her eyes at him--long past tired at their antagonism--just tugs at Snow’s arm and tries to get him to move. Not that it’s gonna work, Snow is glaring at him and thinking hard enough that he can practically see gears spinning inside his head as he tries to come up with a retort.

“You know I have a name Baz. And it’s not my fault you like skulking around hallways like an overgrown bat.”

“I do not skulk. I do, however, watch where I’m going so I don’t bash other people’s chest.”

“I didn’t ‘bash’ your chest! I bumped against it. Mildly.”

“Nothing is mild when it concerns your thick skull.”

He’s got this wrinkle between his eyebrows that means he’s working his way into a bluster when Bunce once again tugs at his arm.

“Simon, come on! Agatha’s waiting in the library.”

At the mention of his girlfriend’s name (Or is it ex-girlfriend? Gossip around Watford says they’ve broken up but Merlin knows they’re getting back together. That’s how the stories always go. The chosen one fights, saves the world and gets the girl.), the fight leaves his face. Snow shoots one last glare at him and leaves, practically tripping over himself to get to Agatha. Baz just watches him go and tries very hard not to think about Wellbelove and Snow and their fairytale love story. Whatever. It’s not like he cares.

***

Baz can feel Simon Snow staring at him. Again. Usually he’d turn around to catch him looking, ready to shoot him a mocking grin but the last time he did it, Snow gave him a small smile in return. Which is… unusual.

Also, he’s pretty sure that Simon’s been following him around. He tried to ask Niall and Dev this morning if they noticed that they’ve been running into Snow more often lately but Dev just shrugged and Niall just said, “Not gonna touch you and Simon Snow’s weird thing with a ten-foot pole.” He kinda wanted to ask Niall what he meant by ‘weird thing’ but he’s not sure he wants to know the answer.

It’s rather annoying that the same year Simon starts following him around—trying to catch him “plotting” or whatever idiotic thing it is that Snow thinks he does—is the same year that Baz begs off doing The Family’s bidding. The only complaint came from his Aunt Fiona insisting that his time is running out and they can’t afford to lose the chance his position offers. Surprisingly enough, his father came to his defense and it was kinda easy to ignore her rage-against-the-machine tendencies after that.

Baz has a feeling that maybe he should care about The Family’s fight against The Mage, but he doesn’t. He can’t. It’s his sixth year. It’s the last year he gets to live in the place his mother loved. The last year he spends in the place he lost her. And besides, between soccer, his horrifyingly real feelings for Simon Snow and the work necessary to beat out Bunce for valedictorian, he’s got enough on his plate.

He’s thinking about all these while he sits at the crypt, feeding on the rats crawling around the place (and Crowley this school’s gonna be overrun by rats when he leaves). He looks at the flowers on his mother’s grave—lilies, her favourite—and tries to imagine what his mother would say if she saw him right now.

She definitely wouldn’t be thrilled that her son has turned into a monster, but would she hate him? Would she think her son was dead and try to kill what he has become instead? Or would she be proud of him? For managing to live through this problem? For being one of the best students in Watford? What would she think of her son being in love with another boy? What would she think if that boy was Simon Snow?

He tips his head against the wall and tries to remember the feeling of her mother’s lips pressing against his forehead the way she usually did when she notices something off about his mood. He closes his eyes and tries to imagine the way she smelled, like smoke and cloves and warmth and comfort. He imagines her callused hand, the way all fire wielder hands are, brushing his hair back or holding his hand and making him feel safe.

A glance at his watch tells him it’s getting late so he stands up, reaches out and traces his mother’s name engraved in marble. He’s barely made it four steps away when he bumps into something. Or someone, as evidenced by the grunt of pain he just heard. The smell of cinnamon hits his nose again and…

“What are you doing here, Snow?”

Snow touches a hand to his forehead, rubbing at where it hit Baz and just looks at him in challenge.

“I should be asking you that question.”

“Crowley’s sake, can we not do this now? I’m not in the mood for your attempts at witticism.”

“You’re always disappearing into this place.”

“I’m right in front of you so clearly no one’s been disappearing.”

“Okay. What do you do in here anyway? Is this where you do your plotting? Do you have chimera hidden somewhere you can throw me at?”

“No! Plotting?! I don’t even know what you mean by that. And besides, I’ve told you before the chimera was an accident. It was only supposed to scare you, I didn’t think you’d start attacking it.”

“It breathed fire at me. What was I supposed to do?”

“Back away from it? Look, I’m tired, just go away.”

“Look, I was just asking. You’ve been going here five of the past seven nights, what even is in this place?”

The crypt is dark and kinda small. It’s late, he’s tired, his head’s a mess and he really doesn’t need Simon to keep reminding him of all the ways he has fucked up in the past. He misses his mother with an intensity that leaves his chest aching. The sound of Simon’s beating heart is so loud in the stillness of the room, a sharp reminder that Snow is so alive while he isn’t. The words are out before he can stop himself.

“My mother,” he says. “My mother’s grave is in here.”

Snow clearly didn’t expect that answer because the challenge in his expression falls. He starts stammering out some sort of apology, words tripping out his tongue. It looks so awkward it's kind of painful to watch. But it doesn't compare to the pity that's slowly making its way to Simon's eyes. He feels his stomach drop and his cheeks flush with anger. He knows it's irrational but it doesn't matter. He doesn't need pity from anyone, let alone Simon Snow. He pushes on through, shoves him out of the way and stalks out.

***

Living with the person you might be in love with is a dangerous minefield. Baz can remember all the nights he spent, hyperaware of the short but uncrossable distance between him and Simon. Mornings where the first thing he sees is Simon bleary eyed, hair tousled, looking so incredibly soft that he gets the urge to call out and ask him to curl up against him. Evenings where Simon comes home tired and bruised after fighting yet another one of the Humdrum’s creatures and all he wants to do is smooth his hair off his forehead and take care of him.

He’s a bit thankful that their mutual antagonism and paranoia caused them to never get dressed in front of each other. The most that they’ve seen of each other is a handful of shirtless moments where Baz allows his eyes to take in the shifting muscles on Simon’s back, lets his eyes linger and lets himself imagine kissing his way down Snow’s chest.

Thank Crowley they’ve already figured out a silent agreement that Snow showers at night, and that he showers in the morning.

Which is why he feels incredibly confused when Simon Snow crashes on his back while he’s brushing his teeth this morning. They have rules, unspoken rules but still rules, and he’s pretty sure that despite his normal obliviousness, Snow is aware of it. Besides, Snow didn’t even knock. He just opened the door, barged in and crashed into Baz. Who is only wearing a towel, a—considering the circumstances—very short towel.

Worst of all, he’s still got his toothbrush jammed into his mouth so he’s pretty sure trying to talk will make him look like a fool. Not that he can come up with anything clever to say. Not with Snow still pressed against his back, golden skin on his. Snow takes a step back, blinking in shock and then just… stares, eyes fixed disturbingly low on his back. There’s barely a couple of inches between the two of them and he can practically feel the warmth of Snow’s breathing against his skin. He briefly wonders if that heat could be enough to set him on fire.

He taps his toothbrush against the mirror to make Simon look at him and when their eyes meet, he just raises an eyebrow.

“Right. Wow, okay. Sorry,” says Simon, shaking his head as if to clear it. Then he turns around to leave, mumbling to himself and closes the door, but not before Baz could hear something that suspiciously sounds like smells like caramel.

He stares at himself in the mirror, trying to get his thoughts in order. He spits into the sink and thinks, “What the fuck just happened?”

***

It’s kind of disturbing how used they’ve all become to the various annoyances the Insidious Humdrum to Watford. During the fall dinner, some goblins sneaked through and wrecked a girl’s bathroom. A swarm of wrackspurts took over their elocution class last week which would have been amusing if not for the seven students sent to the infirmary because they were tripping high on wrackspurt bites (okay, it was pretty amusing). Tonight’s annoyance of the week however is not something he thinks he could get used to, because apparently the Humdrum just sent a manticore loose on the Wandering Wood.

Something that Baz finds out when something knocks him over as he’s passing by on the way back to the dorms. He’s flat on his back and blinking against the sky, when he recognizes what (or who) knocked him over. Simon Snow who has small, bleeding gash on his forehead is straddling him, thighs on either side of his hips. He can feel Snow’s hand cupping his cheek, thumb rubbing softly under his eyes.

“Baz, are you hurt?”

“Apart from you knocking me out? I’m great.”

Snow just makes an annoyed sound at that before heading back to the fight, waving and slashing his sword around. He can see Bunce on the other side shouting out spells to help Simon and like hell is he just going to lie there and wait for Simon to save him like some sort of damsel in distress. Pitches can fight for themselves.

He stands up quickly, dusts off his slacks, rushes next to Bunce and draws his own wand out. He and Bunce casts spell after spell but they barely affect the creature. Nothing happens until by chance, they both cast “And we all fall down!” at the same time. It doesn’t knock it out, but the combined force of the spell manages to tip the manticore over and that’s enough to give Snow a chance. He goes in strong and stabs him with the sword, killing the creature.

Simon rushes to where he and Penelope are standing. He hugs Bunce and waves away her questions with a simple I’m okay I’m okay. After Bunce has finished checking him over, Simon makes his way and stands right in front of him.

“Thanks for the help, Baz.”

Baz wants to fuss over him, too. Wants to check the still bleeding gash on his forehead and take Simon into his arms so he can feel him breathe and know that he’s okay, he’s alive. Watching him fight the manticore, while a little hot, was fucking terrifying. He wants to tell Simon that he’ll be there if needs help, just say the word. Wants to tell him, it may not be much but he’ll try and protect him. But that isn’t how it goes with them so what comes out of his mouth is, “I can’t very well let that creature kill you. That’s my job.”

He expects a retort. Something clever wrapped in annoyance. But what he gets instead is an assessing look from Simon and a firm, “Or not.”

“What?”

“Or not. I don’t like fighting you.”

“How unlucky for you, it’s my favourite thing to do.”

“Or not,” he insists, “I like you.”

Baz feels his world stutter for a second. He likes me He likes me He like me plays in his head over and over. There’s something rising in his chest that feels like it could be fear or relief or hope or all of them all at once. He hears a slight tremble in his voice when he speaks.

“What do you mean you like me?”

“I like you. Like, your face and just… you.”

“Have you forgotten that we’re mortal enemies?”

“Not really. But I don’t think that matters much.”

“It matters! How are we going to be boyfriends if you hate me?”

Simon, the brat, just scoffs at that. “I don’t hate you,” he seems to think about what Baz just said, “Wait, so you DO wanna be boyfriends?”

“No!” Simon raises his eyebrows. “Maybe,” Simon smiles, “Okay, yes. Yes! But how will this even work? It can’t be this easy. We’re supposed to—“

Baz doesn’t get to finish saying with they’re supposed to be because Simon’s mouth is on his. It’s better and worse than he ever dared to imagine. Simon’s lips are soft and hot and a little chapped but it doesn’t fucking matter because this is fantastic. Simon surges up and Baz’ hands fly at his waist, holding him steady, holding him close. A line of fire dancing where ever Simon’s skin touches his. Simon bites down on his lower lip and he hears himself moan, low and a little desperate. He kisses back harder, opens his mouth and uses his tongue, encouraged by the sounds Simon is making.

“Right. So I’ll just head back alone then. See you tomorrow, Simon. Baz.”

They pull apart, at the sound of Bunce's voice, both of them breathing hard. He watches as Penelope walks back to the castle alone--he’d forgotten she was even there. He looks over Simon, takes in his flushed face, glazed over eyes and slightly swollen lips. He feels a little flattered that Simon seemed to forget about her, too.

Simon runs his thumb against his ear, “Hey, Baz,” he kisses him again, “We’ll make it work.”

He observes Simon’s face trying to look for doubt or any sign of hesitation and all he sees is determination. He lets the pleasure and happiness thrumming through his body show on his face. “I guess we will.”

***

Baz had always been a light sleeper. His vampire senses are annoyingly sensitive and the smallest sounds, the softest touches can wake him up. So when Simon Snow, back from the library where Penelope dragged him to study, just falls into his bed, his hand hitting Baz in the chest, he wakes the fuck up.

“Crowley’s sake, Snow. I expected better wake up calls when I started dating you.”

Simon just hums at him, shifting so he can lie more comfortably on Baz.

“Are you even listening? You’re kinda heavy, you know.”

“You have super strength, you can take it.” He sighs, “I’m so tired.”

“I did tell you I could teach you instead. I'd make it fun. I’d be a better teacher than Bunce was to you.”

Snow raises his head to look at him, “You'd be distracting. Also, don’t let her hear you say that. The two of you will end up using me in some sort of teaching competition.”

“But I’d win, right?”

Simon just hums at that, “Sure.” He gives Baz a kiss and goes back to using his chest as a pillow.

“Time to sleep now. Good night, Baz.”

“Good night, Simon.”

#carry on #snowbaz #simon x baz #simon snow #baz pitch #i have a handful of fics #which are about books #and i thought i should put them up here #*mine: words #fanfic

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evak-skam · 5 years

Text

Just Friends [elu au] // ch2

summary: Lucas has a giant crush on one of his friends (again, but this time it isn’t Yann), and once again said friend has a girlfriend. The thing that’s different this time around, though, is that Lucas has a girlfriend, too, which just adds to the pile of problems in his life. || College/Uni AU

CHAPTER TWO

“What are you doing?”

Lucas spins around with one hand gripping a t-shirt from his closet, the other hand loosely holding onto the one he had been wearing before. His blue eyes land on Yann rather quickly, who looks the slightest bit confused at his best friend shirtless while looking nervous as hell. “I’m having dinner with Eliott,” Lucas says.

Yann raises an eyebrow. He’s still a bit confused. “So, like... A date?”

“No.”

“Then why are you so nervous?”

“Because it’s Eliott,” Lucas stresses to him, hoping that simple explanation would be enough for Yann.

Yann lets out a short hum. “Look, man,” he starts and then walks over to Lucas. He grabs one shirt and tosses it back in the closet and then walks off, Lucas glancing down at the shirt that he had been wearing earlier that day. “If that’s the case, don’t bother stressing over what shirt to wear. Start stressing about where to eat. You can both be pretty indecisive about that shit.”

Lucas rolls his eyes because, yeah, he can be indecisive about that but Yann doesn’t need to point it out so blatantly. Or, maybe he does. Because he has a point. He ignores that bit for now, though, and instead focuses on the first part as he slips his shirt back on. “But I don’t want to look like horse shit next to him. Have you seen Eliott?”

“Yes, actually.” Yann leans against the door frame and crosses his arms. “But hey -- listen, you have a girlfriend, Lucas, and whether you like her or not, you can’t go cheating on her. If you think anything can happen between you and Eliott, you gotta break up with Chloe first.”

Slowly, Lucas nods. He understands where Yann is coming from and why, and Lucas actually doesn’t plan on cheating on Chloe; she’s sweet and nice, the problem was just that he didn’t like her the way she wanted him to and he didn’t have the guts to break it off with her yet. He runs a hand through his hair and glances at his phone on the bed as it lights up with a new message. Lucas grabs it and sees that it’s from Manon, but he doesn’t answer or even read it. He tosses it back on the bed as Yann starts to talk again.

“Hope you have fun with him tonight though, bro,” Yann honestly says with a smile, beginning to leave Lucas’ room. “I gotta go so I’m not late. Don’t do anything Baz would do and don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!”

Lucas laughs. “That doesn’t leave me much room!”

Yann grins and laughs, flipping Lucas off as he walks away, the brunet shouting for his best friend to have fun. And then, Lucas was alone in the small apartment once the door shut loudly a few minutes later. He plops down on his bed as he thinks over everything that Yann had said moments earlier. It’s true that he has to break up with Chloe if he wants anything with Eliott, but the other problem is Eliott and Lucille; they’ve been together for four years, and Lucas really doubts that they will break up anytime soon. Groaning in frustration, Lucas falls backwards and throws an arm over his eyes, removing it a few moments later when he gets another message on his phone.

manon.demissy hey don’t forget to give mika & lisa the last bit of rent you owe them from living with them. they need it in 2 weeks. just wanted to remind you :) and can you help with a bake sale Wednesday? pretty please??

Lucas frowns. The rent. Fuck. He hasn’t lived there for at least a few months or so, but still he has yet to fully pay Mika and Lisa back from that time. And recently, between work and school and splitting rent with Yann, he’s forgotten about them a bit. He’s not about to let Manon know that, though, so he answers her as if nothing is wrong.

lucallemant dont worry i’ll get it to them depends. what do i get out of it?

manon.demissy some cupcakes daphy and I made. you love them!

lucallemant ...ok yeah i’ll help

manon.demissy YAY thanks, you’re the best! love u lulu x

lucallemant lol you’re welcome. love you too

He chuckles to himself at Manon’s excitement before tossing his phone back on the bed, the smile soon going away as the thought of paying back Mike and Lisa consumed his mind. Up until four months ago he had the help of his dad. Now? Now, he’s on his own, because his mom couldn’t help at all, and he was a legal adult so it isn’t that big of a deal. It’s just paying two friends back from staying with them throughout most of his high school career and doing his best on not falling behind on rent in the current place he lived in with his best friend.

Lucas runs his hands down his face, wondering how the hell he got stuck in his situation. Well, he doesn’t have to wonder for too long, because the terrible fights with his father come back, especially that big one that ended up with him knocking on Yann’s doorstep in tears after leaving his dad’s place, unable to go to his mom’s because he didn’t want to disturb her, or even Mika’s because he had lost the key. He groans, pressing the palms of his hands against his eyes, pushing those memories of that night away before abruptly getting up and going to the living room to watch some TV.

It’s dark outside. He’s hungry. Nothing good is currently playing on TV. And Eliott is no where to be seen. Lucas has texted Eliott a few times, trying to figure out where the older guy was and if he’s actually coming. Actually, it wasn’t even a few times. Lucas spammed Eliott, and even called him a few times. Each time, he never answered. At first, Lucas got worried. Then angry. Then worried again, because Eliott never intentionally ignores Lucas for this long. But then, suddenly, Lucas was angry again.

srodulv sorry, I had a sudden change of plans. raincheck?

Lucas rolls his eyes. He probably shouldn’t be so mad, but he was. Or, maybe it was disappointment he felt. Either way, he replied with a short ‘sure whatever’ and laid across the couch, sulking and brewing in his own jealousy and frustration at himself. Because, of course, his plans with his crush wouldn’t go as he wanted them too. Not at all.

His phone then lights up again and he doesn’t want to look at it -- he wants to be a bit petty and just ignore Eliott completely, not even wanting to let Eliott know he read the message. But he reads it anyway, curiosity getting the best of him.

srodulv hey don’t be mad. lucille surprised me with dinner reservations

Lucas just stares at the message. Of course it Lucille had been involved. He can still be petty, right? Right. So, he left Eliott on read and with another roll of his eyes, he locks his phone and puts it on the coffee table, only to reach for it a minute later. He got out of his messages with Eliott to send a message to someone else. He could tell already that he was going to regret his descion later, but at the current moment in time Lucas Lallemant doesn’t care. The slightest bit hurt and hungry, he can’t care that much right now.

lucallemant hey, chloe! wanna grab some food with me? but just to mcdonalds or something. nothing fancy

It doesn’t take too long for Chloe to answer, sending him an excited yes, and then Lucas is turning off the TV and slipping on some shoes, not bothering to change into different clothes before telling Chloe to just meet up with him there. He then grabs his wallet and the key to the apartment, and leaves.

The walk to McDonalds isn’t a long walk at all, so Lucas gets there rather quickly. He stays outside of the white, yellow and red building as he waits for Chloe, staying on his phone most of the time. He doesn’t know how long he stood there, but suddenly a pair of small arms were around him and lips were pressed to his cheeks. It startles him at first until his brain makes the connection that the person is Chloe and not some creepy stranger, and he puts on a smile as he puts his phone in his pocket. He hugs her back and then moves away, motioning with his head to the entrance of the fast food place.

“C’mon, lets go. I’m starving,” he says.

Chloe nods. “Oh, same here. Lunch wasn’t so good today, and I’ve only had a couple of snacks. Didn’t eat breakfast, either,” she tells him as they go in, quietly thanking Lucas as he holds open the door for her. “And you’re paying, right? I kinda assumed, I’m sorry, but-.”

“No, its fine,” Lucas says, interrupting her.

And, honestly, it wasn’t fine; he hadn’t been planning on paying for Chloe’s food as well, which is a dumb conclusion on his part of things, but that just takes more out of what he was going to pay Mika back with. The lie wasn’t noticed by Chloe, thankfully, so that tiny bit of conversation ends rather quickly, and soon Lucas is paying for them both after they order. It pains him somewhat because, fuck, that meant he has to work a bit more these upcoming couple of weeks and he really didn’t want to – but he didn’t want to face Mika’s wrath, either. So, he doesn’t complain about it or say anything to Chloe, and just pays for the food without any words coming from him. Then not too long after, the two college students are sitting across from one another at one of the smaller tables, enjoying the fast food.

“Thank you for this, Lucas,” Chloe speaks up after they’re both about halfway done.

He looks up from devouring his burger and to Chloe. Thinking of his manners first, he chews and swallows, then gave a tiny, thin lipped smile. “No problem,” he says. “I needed to eat, so did you. I didn’t want to go alone, so…” He trails off and shrugs, not including anything about Eliott.

They talk to each other for the next half an hour or so as they finish eating. It wasn’t as miserable like Lucas had believed it was going to be earlier on his walk to McDonalds, but it wasn’t the best, either. During their conversations, he genuinely laughs – they both do, actually – and doesn’t mind being in Chloe’s company, but he would much rather be with someone else which puts everything a bit more on the downside. Despite having an okay time, he doesn’t try to reach for her hand or anything like that. She clearly wants him to, but he just doesn’t budge. He stays leaned back in his seat, occasionally checking his phone incase Yann got back before him, or incase Eliott decided to try and text him again.

Their little hangout – Lucas refuses to call it a date – then comes to an end. But before either of them leave, Lucas rushes to the bathroom just to have a few short minutes by himself before Chloe tries to kiss him at some point. And then he walks out, only to want to rush back into the bathroom and hide. There stands Eliott with Lucille in line to order something, both dressed nicely from head to toe, and Lucas felt his mouth fall open at the sight of his crush – both from surprise and how good he looks. Lucas, now panicking, spins in a small circle because he has no idea what to do. Oh, how badly he wants to go and hide in the bathroom, but unfortunately he can’t leave Chloe there. Well, he could. He would just have a girl pissed at him afterward.

So, Lucas puts on a brave face and looks down at his phone, acting as if he was texting someone, as he walks by, only looking up as he got closer to Chloe. He puts on another smile, seeing she threw away the trash already and forces himself to take her hand as she stands up. She then kisses him and it throws him off for a split second until he reminds himself he has to kiss her back, and he does. And then they leave.

“Chloe?”

Almost leave, he should say. Just as they got to the door, Lucille noticed Chole, recognizing the younger girl from that led to all four of them hanging out, which then led to Lucas and Eliott being alone and thus causing the current problem Lucas has.

Chloe gasps and rushes to Lucille, the two girls hugging, and Lucas slowly walks up. “Hi! How are you, Lucille? You look amazing!”

“Thank you, so do you! What about you? Oh- hi, Lucas, sorry.”

Lucas gives her a small, obviously forced smile. “Hey.” Then, he looks up at Eliott, the smile falling. He doesn’t say anything.

Eliott is obviously surprised to see Lucas, too, but the shorter boy doesn’t say anything about it; he just stays standing there. Both of them do. All the while, their girlfriends are happily conversing beside them. “Lucas, I- I didn’t mean to blow you off like that,” Eliott eventually speaks. “I’m sorry.”

Lucas shrugs nonchalantly despite screaming on the inside. “It’s fine,” he says, tone short. It just made Eliott frown. Lucas sighs. He hates seeing Eliott upset. So, he tries again, this time sounding much nicer than before. “It’s fine, truly,” he says again. “We can talk more tomorrow at school if we see each other, okay?”

“Okay.”

Lucas gives him a tiny smile and then gets Chloe’s attention. The two say bye to Eliott and Lucille, and then leave.

And once Lucas got home, he falls face first into his bed, wanting to scream and maybe even cry.

#skam france #elu fic #elu #just friends elu fic #i tried to make this chapter longer #i hope i succeeded

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mintaero · 6 years

Text

I’LL SAVE HIM

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“It’s your turn.” Simon’s voice is heavy. A chill runs through my spine.

“My turn to do what?”

“To save me.”

first nova.

That’s it.

I’m going to have to spell this imbecile back to bed if it’s the last thing I do.

The digital clock on the nightstand reads 02:58, and I nearly groan. He’s been doing this twice as often lately; getting up at a ridiculous time and never coming back to bed. I’ll find him the next morning, sitting on the couch with a bowl full of butter in his lap and his eyes closed, head tipped back, snoring softly. Once, I even found him on the floor, on his stomach, listening to music in his earbuds so loudly that I could hear it from down the hall.

I wonder which it’s going to be tonight.

Simon hasn’t been sleeping well these past few weeks. I tried to get him to take some melatonin tablets, but he refused. He said he was “never taught how to swallow pills”. I told him we could buy the chewable kind, but he shook his head.

“It wouldn’t help, Baz.” He’d said, not meeting my eyes. That’s another thing he’s been doing often; not meeting my eyes.

“It’s better than restlessness. At least you’ll be able to relax, Snow.” I tried to say it gently, but it came out traced with accusation.

“It wouldn’t help, though.” He said again, crossing his arms. I didn’t respond, merely sighed and went to the bathroom for a shower.

It wouldn’t help, Baz.

Nothing ever seems to.

Grimacing, I swing my legs over the side of the bed and stand up, pulling back the curtains in front of the window. There’s no moon. There’s hardly ever a moon, it feels like, but I know that’s irrational. I know that’s irrational. I let the curtain fall back into place.

There’s no music blasting down the hall. Which is good, but also not. I might find him sprawled out on the on the loveseat with cereal crumbs in his hair, eyes darting around at every creak and groan the house makes. (I found him like that once. I had to step out for a few minutes and regain my composure.) (Seeing him like that was…too much.)

There’s no moon out, but there are stars. Brighter than city lights. There are three windows in the hall to our rooms, and each one of them has been opened by Snow and his constant need to have an outpouring of natural light. Tonight, I don’t mind. The windows are the only thing keeping me in the present instead of in that damned coffin.

I check everywhere. He isn’t in the living room. Or the family room. Or the dining room. I even think about going outside and looking for him, but it’s too bloody cold out for a “late-night stroll”, and I know that Simon hates being cold.

There’s rustling from the kitchen.

Fuck. How could I have forgotten about the kitchen?

I’m blaming it on being 3 in the morning.

“Snow?” I call, stopping in the doorway. It takes my eyes a moment to adjust, which is unusual since the kitchen normally has the most light coming through the windows above the stove. It’s just so abnormally dark in the flat. I’m used to waking up with Simon radiating warmth, to seeing him exude his magic without ever meaning to. To look at him smiling and feel the world around us glow.

It all got a bit more complicated when he gained his wings and lost his magic.

“Snow, are you—” Then, my eyes focus.

He’s a silhouette against the darkness. Hunched over the sink, hands clutching the rim like it’s the only thing tethering him to reality. He’s shirtless, as usual, but his skin doesn’t glow like it used to, and his wings dip further down with every breath he takes. He’s staring down at the garbage disposal.

Something’s not right.

“Simon,” It’s barely above a whisper. “What’s going on?” I step closer.

He looks at me with wide, wild eyes. His hair is parted in chunks where his fingers have raked through it, and his bottom lip looks dark. Bloodied, I realise, where he’s been biting it. He looks mental.

He blinks. Panicked. “Nothing.”

Then I see it.

Red. Around his eyes. Brimming them.

He’s been crying.

I cross the kitchen in a flash. He’s backing himself into the wall, his arms outstretched to stop me from touching him.

Stopping me from touching him.

It hits me like a bullet train. I stop walking, the energy making me sway forward slightly. “It’s—It’s me?” Fuck. I don’t mean to say it like that. To sound…hurt. Even a little.

His eyes widen as it slowly dawns on him. “What?”

“It’s me,” I say slowly. Calculated. Careful not to tip the waters. “You’re afraid of me.”

“Baz,” He’s saying all of his words fervently like they hold a thousand meanings within themselves. “No. That’s—Crowley, Baz, no. It’s not about that. It’s not even about you, it’s—it’s—”

“Answer my question: are you afraid of me?” Fucking hell. My voice cracks.

“No,” He growls. It makes the hairs on my arms stand up. “Never. It’s in my head. It’s all in my head. It’s nothing, Baz. Just—” He rakes another hand through his hair, and his next words sound like someone took a butter knife and carved into his vocal chords. “—go back to sleep.”

Ouch. Another blow to the vampire with the stilled heart.

“What’s in your head, Snow?”

“Nothing,” One word, two syllables. Vehemently. Desperate. Pleading. It’s horrible how it makes my heart go from already cracked to crumbled. Smashed. It’s too dark in the room to see him clearly, but I can see the slight twitch in his eyes, the small crease forming between his eyebrows. He looks dreadful. “I’m serious.”

There’s no heat beneath his skin, no fire or match ready to be lit. No pulsing air around him. It’s quiet, now. Simon Snow is a bloody uncertainty, no matter how well you think you know him. A bomb that you can’t tell is defused or not.

And suddenly the dark becomes all too real. Seeping into me like a sponge soaking up water.

Simon Snow, are you defused?

He stands there. He’d gradually regained his posture (although it’s horrid, it’s still better than a slump), and pressed his forehead against mine. (That means that I’m the one having to slump to meet his height.) I try to feel for any indication of a fever, but there’s none. His skin is nearly as cold as mine.

“You should go back to bed,” he breathes.

I close my eyes. Move my hands to cup his face. Wipe the wetness off his cheeks.

“Good-night, Simon.”

the morning

“Simon,”

There’s sunlight streaming through the window and blanketing itself over the sheets. Simon’s face is smushed into the pillow, his hair spread out, damp from sweating off his nightmares.

I don’t remember him coming back to bed last night. He must’ve slipped in just after I had passed out.

I brush the pad of my thumb on his jaw. His eyelids flutter but don’t open.

It’s early. Not early enough for it to still be dark outside, but earlier than when I normally wake up. Simon’s usually up two hours from now, carrying a box of cereal and bumbling around the flat like a half-starved idiot.

“Love, wake up,” I say softly, tracing circles on his cheek.

“I don’t need to,” he replies, rolling his shoulders back, “there’s nothing waiting for me.”

I don’t know how to respond. That seems to happen more often; Simon will say something completely true and I just sit there, totally caught off-guard by his insensitivity.

He’s right. There is nothing waiting for him anymore. I don’t prepare extravagant Watford-esque breakfasts or send horrific dark creatures to greet him on his way out. We aren’t waiting for the day where we’re destined to be killed or kill each other, and I’m certainly not waiting for the day that he figures out that there’s nothing waiting for him anymore.

“I’m not a 1950’s housewife waiting at your beck and call, Snow,” I shift slightly away from him, shoving my pillow between us.

I had meant to be nicer this morning. Softer, because of what happened last night. I wanted to wake up and run my hands through his hair and kiss every part of his body except his lips just to remind him that I’ll always be hopelessly in love with him, but the truth is that I’ve never been good at comfort. I’m not accustomed to it. I aggravate. I’m used to aggravating people. I push people past the point of frustration to where they blow, and comfort isn’t one of my strong suits.

Comfort takes something else. It takes humility and understanding and everything I do have, but I’ve worked so hard to make it not visible on the surface.

“It’s a weakness,” Father would say, “and weaknesses have no place in the Grimm-Pitch family.”

Simon Snow is my weakness. Father knows that, of course, and even though he tries his hardest not to use it against me, I know he resents the fact that the Mage’s Heir has such power over me. But that's the way it goes with my family and the people we love, I think: my mother was his weakness.

“I know,” Simon says, rubbing his eyes open. “I don’t mean it like there will be nothing waiting for me, ever. I just mean—You know. Why wake up when there’s nothing waiting for me?”

“Because why would anyone wake up with that thought process?” I snap. “People can’t go around thinking, ‘I’m not going to do anything because there’s nothing worth my time’. Do you know how inhumane that is? Narcissistic?”

“I—I just—I didn’t mean it like that, I just meant—I just—Just—”

“Just what, Snow?”

“Came out wrong.”

“Actually,” I sit up and swing my legs over the side of the bed. “I think it came out the exact way you intended.”

I turn and almost make it off the bed before a solid arm snakes its way across my torso, holding me back.

Keeping me there.

Holding me.

He warm breath on my skin makes the hair on my arms stand up.

“I’m sorry,” I feel his face press into my lower back. After a few seconds, after I realise that he’s got me right where he wants me, he says, “You’re the only thing worth waiting for. I’ll wait for you.”

He should. I spent nearly half my life waiting for him, so the least he can give me is a few minutes wait. A few minutes where I get to see Simon pine. For me, no less. I wonder what he’d look like? He’s not much of a sulker, but I know he thinks a lot, even if he says he doesn’t. (I wonder if he said that just because he didn’t want me to ask what he thinks about.) (I wonder if it’s me.) I should make him wait.

I should.

But I won’t. (Can’t, rather, but I’d never properly admit it to myself.)

Making—Crowley, seeing—Simon wait would be like Watford years all over again. Silently pining and then scampering off. I can’t go through Watford like that again. Like a fucking damsel stuck in a tower and looking down at the world beneath, at everything they can’t touch.

I glance back and down at him. His legs are pulled up, his back straight, and he’s lying vertically across the bed to get to me. His eyes are closed, and I can feel his hot breath against my skin where my shirt had ridden up.

Merlin and Morgana, he shouldn’t have this kind of hold over me.

“You also wait for scones in the oven to bake,” I skin my fingertips over his curls, dragging until the base of his neck. “So, I don’t take that as a compliment.”

“Mm, s’pose I do,” I’m not sure he hasn’t fallen back asleep. It is devastatingly early for both of us, and I’m nearly positive he just wants me to stop talking and lie back down with him.

It’s a bit awkward, but I do. His arm is still wrapped around my waist and his head is directly behind me, so I have to twist uncomfortably to avoid crushing him. He rotates his body so that he’s lying parallel to me. I grab at the sheets and pull them over us. My pillow is still shoved between us, so I shove it back under our heads.

He’s practically snoring by the time I get situated across him. Mouth open, eyes still, face void of his usual creases.

I let myself look at him. I let myself enjoy it for a little bit, the way that he breathes like he’s trying to not take everyone’s breath away. I consider counting the moles on his face, and then I reconsider counting his freckles if that means I get to look at him longer. It almost feels like back in Watford when I would watch him needlessly when he was asleep, when I felt the most distanced from him.

“I’m always waiting for you, y’know,” Simon mumbles, bringing his arm over his head and letting it rest there. It scares the shit out of me because I’m not expecting it.

“What do you mean by that?”

“I mean, like, waiting for you to stop feeling bad for me. Or leave. There’s nothing interesting that’s going to happen now, since I’m not the chosen one anymore. I’m just—Just a one.” His morning speech is slurred with sleep. He grazes over h’s and cuts of vowels when he’s tired.

I remember the night of our Leavers Ball when Simon had said the exact same thing.

“Hey,” I nudge his chin with my thumb. “Simon Snow, I chose you. I’m never going to stop choosing you. That isn’t how choice works. Or love, for Crowley’s sake. I’m with you, to have and hold, for richer and poorer, through thick and thin, in sickness and health, for better or worse.”

Simon cracks open an eye. “Are those wedding vows?”

I sneer halfheartedly. “Irrelevant.”

He’s grinning. It’s not the kind that you see when you’ve just won a football match, but rather the one that you do when you’re thinking about a bittersweet memory.

“It won’t be,” he mutters, lifting his arm from over his head and draping it around my waist, tugging me closer.

“For now, then,” I say.

“Hm?”

“For now. We’ll think about the now and leave the rest for later.” I press into him, feeling his hands skim over my skin. Tracing words I’ll never get to hear, patterns I’ll never get to see. It sends shivers down my spine.

He moves until we’re nose to nose, and I can feel his heart beating in my chest. “Tell me what we’ll do now.”

“Now?” I swallow, and it must be a whole scene because he glances down at my throat. “Now, we’ll kiss.”

He’s still grinning. It’s a marvellous sight. “Yeah?”

“Yes.”

And then I take him by the back of his neck.

second nova.

It’s a week later when the second nova happens. He’s sitting on the floor before the fireplace, staring at the dying embers. Looking. Searching.

I’ve just gotten back from a late-night business class Father is forcing me to undergo. It’s horribly tedious, and I know he only wants me to do it for bragging rights to the Old Families, but I do it anyways to take my mind off whatever funk Simon and I have been going through.

But, that also means that most days I’m up early and back home late. Out the door before dawn and back after nightfall. On the nights that I find Simon still awake on his phone in the middle of the loveseat, those are the nights that we sit together, not talking, and get as close together as we can. His hips on mine. My hands running down his back. His face in the crook of my neck. It’s never enough, though. No matter how close, it could always be closer. Could always be worse.

Not any worse than tonight.

“I can still smell the fire,” he says softly. Gently. Like it’s a weapon that he’s using to protect someone with. Like the wind blowing on your face. Simon never uses his words like this. Carefully.

It scares the shit out of me.

“It’s long died out.” A whisper.

I sit beside him and push the hair off of his forehead. His face is hot like he’s running a fever. There’re horrible bags under his eyes, and the shadows dancing on his face made it seem like they were bruised.

That’s the funny thing about shadows; everyone expects them to be cold, and when they aren’t, it isn’t really called a shadow, now is it?

“Your eyes look burnt,” And teary, I almost add, but I don’t. I don’t want to know why. The whole room smells like fire. “Simon. Look at me.” I don’t want him to look at me.

He looks at me.

Shell.

That’s what he is.

A shell. Nothing like the boy I knew days before, plagued with unrelenting paranoia. A desolate shell. The hollow remains of something once filled.

I can’t look him in the eye. Instead, I cup his cheeks in my palms and blink back the tears brimming my eyes and push down the tightness in my throat that’s threatening to suffocate me. Of all things, of course, it had to be my love for Simon Snow that would kill me.

“It’s your turn,” Simon says, closing his eyes and leaning his head into my palm.

“My turn to do what?”

“To save me.”

I sneer, but it’s useless. He can’t see me. This is what my walls coming down feels like.

The fire flickers and cracks, and in the silence, it sounds like far-off thunder on a calm night. Thunder that could shake the earth. His shadows grow more solemn with every second that passes when I don’t answer.

“We’re going to manage, Snow,” I never had this quite happen to me before. Where my voice sounds distant and unlike my own. Crowley, he’s really crawled beneath my skin. “Somehow. We’ve done it before and we can do it again.”

Simon nods his head slowly, and slowly his curls find their place back on his forehead. Everything finds it’s way back into its place.

“I’m not—I’m not a…--mage. There’s no reason for you to love me anymore.”

To fucking shit with that. I had heard that line so many times before, and never once did it cease to anger me. Stop loving Simon Snow? Simon fucking Snow? I couldn’t stop loving him even if I tried. To fucking shit with that.

“Simon,” I hold his jaw, just like the way he held mine when we were in the forest. There’s some jagged stubble scattered around his chin, and it rubs against my fingers like sandpaper. I don’t let go, though. “I chose you. I’m never going to stop choosing you. That isn’t how love works. And if it is—Well, if it is, then I’m going to change love.”

Simon opens his eyes. They’re full of blue and hurt and pain. If I were Simon, I’d growl. If I were Simon, I’d do something spontaneous and show him just how much I fell for him. If I were Simon…well, I’m not Simon.

“You can’t do that, Baz,” he says.

“I can.”

“You can’t.”

“I will.”

“You won’t.”

“I have.”

“How?”

I imagine telling him about the nights where I would lay in bed and watch him fall asleep and feel myself fall more in love. Or about the time when I figured out I loved him, and I knew it would end in some sort of catastrophe, but I couldn’t help it. For Crowley’s sake, I imagine telling him that my whole life is built off of me changing my love.

“Snow,” I say instead. (I never quite do what I imagine.)

“You’re going to be okay,” I say. “I’m…--" I choke out the word that’s been hardest to say, even think, with Simon around. “--sorry.”

I don’t know if I believe it.

I don’t know if he does, either.

“Don’t say sorry,” His breath is hot against my wrist, but it’s stabilising. It reminds me that he’s still alive, he’s still Simon Snow, he’s more than I’ll ever be.

He leans his face into my hand and closes his eyes, swaying slightly. His hair is on fire tonight, burning with the inescapable capabilities that the night held, but I can see that it’s slowly flickering out. Just like the embers in the fireplace, Simon Snow is running out of ways to combust.

He, too, is steadily dying.

And that fact is burning me alive.

the violin.

“Darling,”

I stop cold, my bow hovering over the strings.

Simon Snow has never called me darling.

I turn, and he’s right there behind me, a hesitant smile on his lips. I could drop my violin right now, watch it shatter on the ground as I pull him to me and kiss him senseless. Take him by the shoulders and never let go.

“Play me something.”

“What do you propose, Snow?”

He smiles, and I want to set the whole place on fire. “Something that only I’ll hear.”

My fingers are suspended in the air, waiting to start playing, but my mind’s drawing a blank. Any Sonata wouldn’t be enough. Kiddy songs? Simple lullabies, common melodies? Out of the question. I know that he’s never going to ask for this, for me like this, or to play him something that only he’ll hear. It has to be utterly perfect.

I remember a song from my childhood. It was my grandfather’s before he passed away. He would take me into the library and teach me each measure of each line, day after day, no matter how beyond my experience level it was, until it was burned into my brain. He taught me how to play. He let me fall in love with the instrument and the pain of playing it. My grandfather was a worn, exuberant person who loved ideas and concepts much more than reality itself. He told me that I was his confidant.

“Tyrannus, you’re my confidant. When you’re old enough, you’ll give this song to your own confidant. Share it with them as though you would a secret because that’s what this song is, Tyrannus; a secret.”

I played it at his funeral.

I haven’t played that song in years. I wouldn’t be surprised if most of it was from muscle memory, from all the times I had stayed up past my bedtime practising. Practising until the tips of my fingers were bleeding and my wrist felt fragile enough to snap off with one wrong move.

It’s a lovely song, one that I would have more confidence in playing if he had given me a warning beforehand. I’m not quite there with the vibrato, so I try to accentuate each note with the sudden fortissimos or pianissimos.

And all throughout, I’m looking at him. Gauging his reaction. Taking in how his eyes dip when there’s a lull and then opening suddenly when I press down harder on my strings. I relish the feeling.

When the last note sounds, I make sure to hold my bow far over the fingerboard for a dream-like sound and lift up slowly so that the note resonates in the air for a few more seconds.

I make sure to pronounce my words carefully, “I haven’t played that song in years.”

“It sounded…great.”

“Glad to know that I pass as mediocre.”

Crowley, I’ve never seen Snow transfixed before. He’s actually gawking at me. Mouth open, wandering type of look in his eyes. I could do it. I could lose all inhabitants and kiss him right here and make an utter buffoon of myself.

“No, not—not great great. Brilliant. You’re brilliant,” he breathes, saying the words as if he can’t help it. “Do you play like that all the time?”

“No, Simon,” I drop my violin from my chin. “Just when you ask me to.”

“I’m being serious.” The right and foul git. I think he means it. He shakes his head, his curls shaking along with him. “That was brilliant.”

It wasn’t, not really. I nearly went sharp a few notes, and I rushed an entire section. Simon will never know that, of course, but I’ll have to live with the fact that I didn’t play as well as I could have. “Thank you.”

I set my violin back in its case and begin to untighten the bowhairs from my bow.

He walks over to me and pushes the bow down lower and lower until I’m forced to look at him.

“Baz,” I meet his eyes. “I mean it. You’re completely wicked.”

“Plotting vampire, is it?” I cock an eyebrow. His hands are still on mine, and they’re not as warm as they were before.

“What? No. You’re just—Just simply brilliant.” And then he gives me one of his sincere, toothy grins that pushes his cheeks up all the way to the crinkles around his eyes. “I’m speechless.”

“That isn’t far from usual.”

“Sod off,” he lightly shoves my shoulder. “I’m trying to give you a compliment.”

I fall towards him, my eyes dipping.

“I know,” Softer than I intended. Sweeter than I knew I could be. “I know. It’s a bit hard to take a compliment from the only person who gives you feedback.”

“Everyone should hear that song.”

“Maybe they will.”

“They should.”

“They won’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because, my love,” I dip forwards, my lips brushing the shell of his ear, whispering, “You’re my confidant.”

third nova.

“He wasn’t in the apartment when I came home,” I switch the phone to my other ear and hold it there with my shoulder, typing furiously on the computer about what to do about a missing person.

“He’s not a child, Baz. He’s probably just gone out for a meal or a drink or something.” Bunce’s voice rings through the receiver, raspy and thick with sleep. I feel a bit guilty, then, for waking her up, but it’s an emergency. Penelope Bunce has dealt with worse matters.

“He would’ve told me. Left a note or sent a text. He wouldn’t just leave.” All the Google searches say the same thing: it isn’t considered a “missing person case” until after 48 hours, and it’s only been a few minutes. But none of the Google searches knows Simon like I do, they don’t know that this isn’t something he would do.

“Have you tried calling him? He’s not the best with answering but he’ll pick up if it’s you.”

His phone was in the bowl by the front door, piled underneath other things like car keys, keychains, gum wrappers. I saw it right when I came in. That’s when I knew something was wrong. “Do not categorise me as an imbecile.”

“Maybe he was summoned by the Humdrum,” Bunce teases, and I nearly chuck my phone at the wall.

“Bunce,” I say through gritted teeth, “not the time for insensitive jokes.”

She sighs, and I can almost see her condescending face right now. You’re being paranoid. “I wasn’t being insensitive, Baz. I’m sure he’s fine. Cast Scooby-Doo, where are you if you’re so worried.”

“I can’t. You know that that spell always leaves a trail.” I consider it, though. Following the trail of magic to him. It’s tempting but highly dangerous and almost 100 per cent certain to expose the magick world to the Normals. I can’t risk it.

“Well,” Penelope says now, her voice cutting through my thoughts. “There are other spells than that one that don’t leave trails. There’s probably something in Spanish that Micah taught me that could help. I could teach you some Spanish spells if you’d like—”

“Penelope,” All four syllables. I don’t mean to sound so desperate, so needy, but—as much as I hate to admit it—I need help. And I’m willing to stoop so low as to ask for it from Penelope Bunce. “Please.” I glance out the window across the room, silently pleading to see Snow walking outside, coming to tell me that he’s okay, he’s okay, there’s nothing wrong, he’s okay.

“Okay, Baz, fine.” I can practically hear her thinking out loud, mutter possibilities about where he might be. I catch words like “park” or “a few miles”, but she doesn’t continue onto a sentence with them. “I don’t know. I haven’t seen him often. We Skype and text, but I don’t know about him anymore. You’re his boyfriend, shouldn’t you know where he’s most likely to run off to?”

I stay silent. I don’t have enough time to explain to her about the novas, or how Simon’s been increasingly worrisome the past few weeks. Telling her about Simon’s recent insomnia and mild PTSD episodes would only make her panic, and two people panicking in this situation wouldn’t result in progress being made.

“Baz? Are you still there?”

“Unfortunately.”

“Where do you think he could be?”

“Crowley, Bunce. If I knew, I wouldn’t be calling you, now would I?”

“Think, Baz.” She says. As if I haven’t been thinking the whole time we’ve been talking.

Simon’s mentioned that we’re only a few miles from his last home, and that passing by there makes his chest feel hollow. (He’s never said that, but the look on his face tells me more than I need to know.) There’s a park next to our flat, but I would’ve seen him out the window. Down the street, there’s an Indian place that he seems to enjoy thoroughly, but I severely doubt he’s gone at 01:47 for a late-night curry. A year ago, when I was visiting Bunce and him in their flat, he had taken me around the city for a “touring date”. He told me that sometimes he just liked to walk around and look at all the places he’ll never know.

“Bunce, I’ve got it.” Before she can say anything that’ll mess with my train of thought, I hang up, discarding my phone on the couch beside me.

I push my computer off my lap, distantly aware of it crashing to the floor, and narrowly avoid hitting my shin on the corner of the coffee table as I jump up and start rushing out the door, hastily slamming it behind me, and trying to let my mind catch up with the rest of my body.

The night is cold with ghosts deep in the shadows. I should tell them to fuck off. Or ask them to help me find Simon. (I wouldn’t, though. Ghosts are dodgy in the best of times.) I don’t bother going back and grabbing my jacket.

Nothing could warm me up now.

I walk along the abandoned pavement, watching the lamplight brighten and dim every time I pass underneath. There’s no breeze, nothing besides the ambivalent snow falling on the road. Christ, is it so cold that snow is able to fall? I hadn’t noticed.

I turn a corner into a dark alleyway, pausing to listen. It’s quiet. Simon once told me to never walk down an alley with noises I couldn’t explain, or little pinpricks of light that I didn’t know where they ended.

“You don’t want to meet the end of that cigar, Baz. And you definitely don’t want to know what’s behind those noises. Just—Just listen for a second.” He’d said.

Just listen for a second.

I keep walking, sure to keep looking over my shoulder. The floor is grimy and probably mucked up with whatever discards people have thrown out their windows, and my shoes keep making squelching noises whenever I lift my feet up. The two buildings beside me seem to be hunching towards each other, sagging with the weight of time. (Or the weight of the snow. The downfall has gotten increasingly substantial.)

I round out of the alley, turning a hard left and continuing down the street. There’s a woman sitting on the curb, either intoxicated or high, rocking back and forth and muttering things too low and too diluted for me to compartmentalise.

She looks up when I pass, fazed, but I’m already looking away.

I walk until the pavement starts to narrow and the windows on the buildings are shattered and boarded up with plywood, until the snowfall overhead coats my hair and eyelashes, until my thighs feel numb from the cold.

I tell myself that I’ll stop at the next bend of the road; the next lamppost; the next alleyway. I could have stopped at all of those places, but I don’t. I keep walking. Past a telephone booth with weeds growing in the inside. Past a traffic circle.

Then I stop.

And that’s when I see him.

Sitting in an abandoned bus stop, elbows on his knees and head in his hands. He’s wearing three layers of sweatshirts, but from here I can see him shivering. His bony wings still stick out beneath all those layers, outlining them against his back, making him seem less like a human and more of a hastily put back together Frankenstein.

He’s okay, he’s okay, there’s nothing wrong, he’s okay.

He ducks his head and lets his fingers run through his hair.

He’s not okay.

“I don’t think this bus stop is in service anymore,” I say. Loud enough for him to hear, but not be startled by.

He jerks his head up, hands still in his hair. “I’m not planning on going anywhere.”

“That’s very counterproductive for the bus stop,” I hug my arms around myself; it feels like it’s just plummeted 20 degrees. “Snow.”

“Not if it’s not in service.” He drops his head back down. I take that as an invitation to join him on the bench, wiping the snow off the top of my head, and then his. His hair is deeply wet, probably with melted snow, and colder than the air around us.

The wind has picked up around us, though we can’t feel it. I can. Cutting through my clothes like a knife, pressing the blade against my throat. There’s a lamppost above the bus stop—how convenient—and it’s casting eerie yellow light through the transparent glass onto us.

“You could’ve been mugged, you know.”

He’s completely folded over on himself now, his curls nearly touching his knees. “Didn’t bring anything with me.”

“Killed, then.”

“I’m used to the risk.”

I sigh. It’s involuntary, obviously, but Simon doesn’t seem to know that. He turns his head to the side and glares at me. (Half-heartedly, but still. The intent is clear.) The yellow light makes his eyes turn a murky, underwater-type colour.

“Come home with me,” I say. I’m trying not to plead, but just a few minutes ago I thought that he was a candidate for a missing person case. “We can stop for something on the way back.”

He sits up and rests his back, neck, head on the glass behind him. I want to reach over and run my thumb over his cheekbone, to press my nail into his skin until it leaves an indent of a crescent moon. To smooth the side of his hair down and let the snowflakes melt on my fingers.

“You don’t have to talk,” I say softly, watching him closely. He scowls. Either to me or the world, and I’m not sure they’re any different to him. It’s a horrible look on him. All dark shadows and sharp angles. “I’m not going to make you. If you don’t want to talk about it, we won’t talk about it. Crowley, I’ll leave if you want me to leave.”

There’s a silence that falls over us. I’m not unaccustomed to silences with Simon; they happen more often than not. I’ve learnt to find solace in these silences, the kind that you look for within grief and mourning to comfort your pain.

I let my palm rest on his thigh.

He stares at it, unflinching. A curl escapes his fingers and falls ever so elegantly on his forehead, springing back and forth for a moment before settling.

One second passes.

Five more.

Ten.

Slowly, he turns his head to look at me, not blinking and lets his own hand fall on top of mine. If anyone were watching, they’d be so curious as to why these two boys were doing everything in slow motion, handling each other like they’re fragile China.

He still isn’t blinking, and his neck has gone rather stiff. At first, I think it’s because of the cold, but if anything, the cold would only make him blink more.

That’s when I notice it.

There are tears in his eyes. Brimming his bottom eyelashes.

I’ve never seen Simon cry before, not when it’s really mattered. Not when it wasn’t an effect of something I had done. There used to be a time when one of my main intentions was to make Simon cry. To respond to him with sharp-edged comebacks that made him either tremble with anger or sob with hurt.

It always felt like a sucker-punch to the chest.

Now, it feels like a bullet to the gut.

“Snow,” It comes out harsher than I intend, but I move my hand out from under his and cup the side of his face. The skin is colder than my hands have ever been, but there’s a deeper sort of heat within. If I were to strip the first layer of his skin off, I wouldn’t be surprised to see his blood boiling underneath.

He leans his head into my palm, letting his eyes flutter shut.

‘It’s your turn.’

‘My turn to do what?’

‘To save me.’

“Snow,” I say, slightly more vehemently.

His eyebrows knit together, a seeming look of suppression. He still doesn’t open his eyes. “Stop reminding me.”

“Reminding you of what?”

He looks pinched, like those rats I drain late at night. “Who I am. Who I’m supposed to be.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” I sneer, jerking my hand away. He flinches and opens his eyes. “You’re Simon bloody Snow. That’s your name. You’re not supposed to be anything besides Simon Snow.”

He growls. “But that’s just it!” A tear falls from his eye and trails down his cheek, stopping to hang from his chin. He doesn’t wipe it away. “I’m tied to it. Every prophecy was talking about me, Simon Snow, the saviour of the World of Mages. And I failed, Baz. I failed the only thing I was destined not to fail.” His voice breaks on the last word.

Yet again, he’s caught me off-guard.

I let my mouth hang open, breathing in the chilled air. A car drives past us on the road; I follow it with my eyes. It’s so bloody cold tonight, I’m not even sure why people would want to be driving in this kind of weather.

“You’re not a bloody prophecy, Simon,” I spit, suddenly coming to my senses. “You’re not a concept that has to be fulfilled. Merlin and Morgana, when did existing become too mundane? You stopped the Humdrum. You saved people from losing everything. You sacrificed your magic for the World of Mages. You did everything that was expected of you. What more do you have to prove?”

He looks at me, all heavy-lidded eyes and lips trembling from the cold.

He looks at me, and he doesn’t glow.

He looks at me, and I look back.

And I nearly shatter from the weight of it.

Then it’s all happening in a blur: Simon’s in my lap, straddling me, nudging his face in the crook my neck; me, wrapping my arms around his waist and holding onto his shoulder blades; the world, trying to be still. A shudder racks through his body, so strong that it shakes mine along with him.

I run my hands up and down his back, to his shoulders down to his hips. It’s useless, though. It’s not like I can warm him up. His hands are clutching my shoulders, tangling in my hair, desperately trying to ground himself. He shivers, and I pull him closer to me. Every time he breathes, his chest pushes into mine. His breath gets in my mouth.

“It’s okay,” I rub my thumbs in little circles at the joints of his wings. He hasn’t stopped shaking, and there’s a wet patch where he’s sobbed into my shirt. I can clean it later. “Love, it’s alright. Somehow. You’ll be alright.”

I can’t tell who I’m telling that to.

Simon doesn’t respond, but I know it’s more of a can’t instead of won’t. I know that if he still had his magic, he’d be going off by now. Taking the whole town by storm. Obliterating everything in a five-yard radius except me and this bus stop.

It seems to stay like that for a while. His shaking dims to an occasional tremble, but I don’t trust myself to let go quite yet. This is the closest I’ve gotten to him in weeks—possibly even months, and I’m too vain to let him go. He used to tell me that he likes this, right here, right where he knows I’m not hurting anyone and no one is hurting me. (He told me that after a few drinks, the night after going to a gay bar. These pricks were staring at us—me—the whole night, and I couldn’t stop smelling Simon’s residual “about to go off” smell in the air.)

He’s staring at me.

He’s lifted his head from my neck, and now he’s staring at me. His eyes are rimmed with redness—either from his crying or the dry air—and he still looks pinched. Something in my stomach twists. It’s a long, slow twist, like my body thinks the pain is pleasurable when it’s really, really not.

“Baz,” He breathes. Like it pains him. “This isn’t—I’m not.” Exhale. “I’m sor—"

“Shh,” I move my arm, tugging the hair at the base of his neck.

“I just—” He rasps.

“Hush.”

“I worry—”

“Don’t.”

“But—”

“Simon,” I hold his chin. “Look at me.”

“Baz?”

“Here.”

I’ll save him.

#guys im actually really proud of this fic #it took me too long to write this #but #im so satisfied with the outcome #simon snow #fanfiction #baz pitch #snowbaz #snowbaz fanfiction #carry on #wayward son #carry on fanfiction #simon snow fanfiction #baz pitch fanfiction

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