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2024.05.11
One Life is Never Long Enough [T, 7k] by @sucrosette / sucrosette Fic complete!
In every universe, Simon Snow will find Baz Pitch, or Baz Pitch will find Simon Snow, and they will fall disastrously in love. This collection contains just a few accounts of their varied lives, how they meet, how they live, how they love.
★— ⋆｡ Carry On Countdown 23 Masterpost
◦ Any links for the various series spawned from this insane month should be in the order of preferred reading, or you can just go to Ao3 once they're all up and in order. I will reblog & make sure all links are up to date as they go up on Ao3! ◦ All tumblr links are raw and (mostly) unedited. Ao3 links will be completed, beta’d and are potentially subject to reformatting, changes to prose (including pov and tense), and added scenes/chapters written at some point after the countdown. ◦ NSFW entries will be noted with 🔞 - please do not interact with it if you're not mature enough to do so. As always, please mind the tags on Ao3, whether NSFW or not. ◦ A very special thanks to @carryon-countdown mods. Your tags on every reblog really kept me motivated through the month to not miss a day! 30/30 my first try. 🥹
That said, the whole list is under the cut, at your convenience. Enjoy!
Day 1: Creature Our Messy, Mismatched Ways - [Ao3]
Day 2: Confession "Like Yearning" - [Ao3]
Days 3 & 19-22: AU/Alternate Universe, Sci-Fi, Flowers, Begin Again, & Music One Life is Never Long Enough - [Ao3][tumblr || 3 ◦ 19 ◦ 20 ◦ 21 ◦ 22]
Days 4 & 11: Stars & Side Ships/Alternative Ships What If We Rewrite the Stars? [Ao3][tumblr || 11 ◦ 4]
Days 5 & 10: Fight, Wrath Bring Him Comfort - [Ao3][tumblr || 5 ◦ 10]
Days 6, 7, & 13: WLW, Midnight, Wings & Shudder 🔞 des vœux posés sur mes lèvres - [Ao3][tumblr || 6 ◦ 7 ◦ 13 ◦ 12]
Days 8, 14, 17 & 29: Sick, Blade, Fluff, Angst & Cherry (maybe) we could sleep in - [Ao3][tumblr || 14 ◦ 8 ◦ 17 ◦ 26 ◦ 29] (I apologize sincerely for the emotional whiplash)
Days 9, 15, 18 & 24: Pride, Familiar, Hunger, Cross & Crack Ashes, Cloves, and the Things You Called - [Ao3][tumblr || 9 ◦ 15 ◦ 18 ◦ 24 ◦ 30]
Days 16 & 27: Smoke & Gift 🔞 Like Poison, Like Smoke - [Ao3][tumblr || 16 ◦ 27]
Days 23 & 28: Bite & Gently 🔞 Losing Myself in Simon Snow - [Ao3][tumblr || 23 ◦ 28]
Day 25: Carnival/Faire He Loves My Butter Lips - [Ao3][tumblr || 25]
★— ⋆｡˚ [Blood]
For Day 30 of Carry on Countdown 23, Crack. @carryon-countdown
In which Simon is an actual half-dragon and he's found himself in a bit of a situation with a certain human mage. His mage is... worrying.
This is rated T, mostly just for the language.
Prior Parts: 9, 15, 18, & 24
⋆｡˚
Baz’s head hit the ground with a sickening crack.
It had happened so fast that Simon couldn’t react in time, couldn’t move his little body quickly enough to catch Baz’s head. He’d tried to shift back to his human shape but in the moment, he lost the capacity for it, apparently, too distracted by the whole… falling human in his vicinity suddenly bleeding from his face to focus on that orb of energy he’d been grasping just moments before.
Simon couldn’t stop himself from circling Baz’s head in his smaller shape, headbutting him lightly in an effort to bring the mage around… and then he headbutted again, not so lightly. He did manage to stop himself from biting Baz back awake. He sort of figured that even if Baz should be awake he probably wouldn’t appreciate that method, and if he wasn’t going to appreciate fangs, he probably wasn’t going to appreciate fire either.
Simon leaned back on his haunches, huffing out his annoyance. He checked Basil’s breath (again) and, well, at least he was breathing, and there didn’t appear to be a growing pool of blood under Baz’s head, but he couldn’t exactly check like they were. Fuck, he hated needing hands and not having them when he needed them most.
He made a sort of shrill shout in the back of his throat, swatting Baz in the face with his tail, but that didn’t do it either, and then apparently the stress had caught up with him enough that he was human again.
“Shit.”
Well, at least he had hands again.
⋆｡˚
It took Simon almost two whole hours to carry Baz’s unconscious body back to his tiny house in the middle of nowhere. It might’ve been faster if he could’ve been a bigger dragon, but no, he was tiny, human, or somewhere between the two, and between the two didn’t particularly add much inhuman strength or weirdness to him that might help carrying someone a good few inches taller than he was home.
If he’d had a cell phone, he’d’ve called emergency, but he didn’t. Simon was flat fucking broke. Basil might’ve had one, but if he did, it wasn’t on his person when he’d passed out (stupid, Simon thinks, he’s a sodding numpty and he’s going to bring it up as soon as Baz wakes his concussed arse back up). Or, if not emergency, whoever Baz’s go to contact was for situations like this.
Did Baz have a go to contact for this kind of thing? If he doesn’t, he’s that much more a numpty. At least Simon was even able to get Baz back in his house, safe on his couch, and check out his head properly. Did Simon know anything about how to deal with head injuries? No. Did he have much choice about how to go about it. He still can’t find a phone to contact anyone, landline or cell either, and the nearest neighbors aren’t exactly near.
Fortunately for Basil, he was still bloody breathing and his nose stopped bleeding and the knot on the back of his head seemed… well, mostly mild. Simon kept checking his eyes. He wasn’t really sure why he kept doing it or what he was looking for when he did, but he’d seen nurses do it in medical dramas and so he was doing it too.
All he could really do was hope. Well, hope and wait.
⋆｡˚
At some point, apparently Simon had fallen asleep while waiting for Baz to wake up. He’d curled himself up at the end of the couch he’d laid Baz out on and his head was resting on the armrest and then just passed out like that.
So Simon woke up to Baz poking him in the cheek.
“Bwuh,” Simon announced, mostly still fully asleep.
“Eloquent,” Baz answered, as if he had any room to judge.
Simon shot him a scowl that rivaled the size of Australia, and also any Baz had ever delivered. Impressive, should the man say so himself. “You literally almost died, you have no room to judge me waking up.”
“I did not,” Baz protested, “And if I had, I’d say nearly dying gives me extra leeway in the judgment department.”
“Okay, well, you started spewing blood and hit your head on the way out,” Simon said with a small flick to Baz’s nose, “I’d say that full well counts towards near death experiences.”
“Or,” Baz hummed, “It was just another day in the life of an experimental, exponentially gifted mage.”
“Excuse you?!” Simon nearly shouted, loud enough that Baz sat himself up properly and winced, “Just a day in the life? This is your normal?”
“Quiet,” Baz muttered, his hands going to his temples immediately, “That bump did a number on my head.”
“Deserved.” Simon crossed his arms and scowled harder at the mage he’d unwittingly contracted with.
“Okay, well, bloody rude. But no, I admit, today wasn’t my normal experience. I thought I was banishing a specific demon causing a problem for another mage I know, but when I drew from you, this one showed up instead. It was more… well, just more than I was expecting, so yes, I did end up overworking myself. The smaller would’ve been fine though.”
“How…” Simon looked entirely unconvinced, “Just bloody how do you know that?”
“Because I’ve done it before, for this person, but they seem to have a bit of a thing with accidentally bringing it back. Anyway, it’s neither here nor there. We can do it again, now that I know what working with you feels like,” Basil answered, already thinking about the possibilities.
“Did you… just bloody say we’d do it a-bloody-gain?”
“Well, of course,” Baz said it as if it were obvious, “We can’t just let demons go about unchecked.”
“I mean we bloody well could,” Simon scoffed, “Most people aren’t even aware of demons. I bloody wasn’t.”
“Simon Snow, you are literally a dragon.”
“Half of one,” he corrected, “And that doesn’t matter, dragons don’t just cavort with demons. I think.”
“Just bloody how do you know that?” Baz echoed his phrasing, making Simon scowl harder.
“Well, because I don’t.”
Basil outright laughed at him. “You know you’re not all dragons, right?”
“Of course I know that!” Simon snarled, just a little, his nose curling, “Anyway we’re off course, we’re not doing that again. You nearly died.”
“We’re doing it again,” Baz reaffirmed, “I have to. I can’t reneg on an agreement I already made. And I didn’t nearly die.”
“You passed out for hours. You were bleeding, you’re probably still concussed. How–” Simon nearly shouted it again, making Baz wince slightly, and Simon immediately lowered his voice to a hush at the realization, “–is that not nearly dying, you prick?”
“Oh, well, you were fine, weren’t you?” Baz asked, again, as if it were obvious.
Simon gestured down his unscathed body, waving Baz off in the same gesture. “Well, yes, clearly.”
“Are you sure you read the contract?” It was asked like half a tease, that annoying little smirk back yet again.
“Of bloody course I read the contract,” Simon huffed out, his hands falling to the side and picking instinctively at the stray bits of the couch, “I said that already.”
“Well,” Baz said with that all too superior air about him, “Then you should know that if I had nearly died you’d have been aware immediately. And besides, you being fine kept me alive. It’s like… a blood bond, you could say. You being fine keeps me fine. Now, you won’t die if I do or vice versa, that’d be… a bit much, I think, though some people do make those kinds of contracts, but you would just know if I was about to die or in the process of dying to dead.”
“Does that somehow exclude brain damage, because you’re sounding incredibly brain damaged right now.”
“I don’t think I sound particularly outside of my norm…” Baz’s hand ran over his chin, gaze wandering off and away to some unknown corner of the room, or more likely some memory Simon wouldn’t be able to follow him to.
Simon’s hands twisted up in the couch, the poor furniture taking the brunt of his inability to stay still and also his inability not to be utterly incessed by Baz. “Oh, so you’re always insane then?”
Baz shrugged, hands coming away from his temples at last, “I suppose I might be. They say I’m rather like my mother. They say she was revolutionary. The revolutionary are often misken for mentally unsound.”
“You are infuriating,” Simon declared simply, standing with a huff. He wasn’t exactly sure where he was going or why he’d stood, but he was standing now, so that was what he was doing.
“You can leave the contract if you like,” Baz offered, “It was an accident for you to end up here in the first place.”
If Baz wasn’t so sincere about it, Simon might have been more offended. “Why would you jump to that conclusion?”
“I’m notoriously hard to work with, and I seem to have worried you,” Baz smirked, but it wasn’t a confident sort of smirk, rather a sort of self-depricative one, a sort of knowing the parts of you that others were uncomfortable with all too well. That feeling? That was one Simon could relate to all too well.
“I’m not going to bloody leave because you worried me. That is the opposite of what you should do if you’re worried about someone,” Simon turned to point accusatorily at Basil, “You’re stuck with me now. I’m getting you water. Also I’m glad you’re not dead. You seem… alright.”
Baz huffed a small laugh, not quite his normal, but still a laugh. That much was relieving as Simon left to fetch that glass of water. When he came back, it seemed Baz was already thinking thoughts that Simon couldn’t comprehend. A notebook had appeared on the coffee table from… well, only Crowley knew where, and Baz was scribbling rapidly inside of it, formulae and languages well beyond Simon’s grasp.
Simon plopped the glass of water down loudly just next to Baz’s notebook. “Drink.”
Baz did with no protest, nearly finishing it and returning to his insane scribbling. Simon shrugged and went to get his own glass of water. When he returned again, Basil had shifted yet again, leaning back into the couch.
“You said you didn’t know your father?” Baz asked with a sort of look about him that Simon could just tell meant trouble. Trouble capitalized, even.
“Yes…” Simon answered hesitantly.
“And he was a dragon, yes?”
“Yes,” came the same reluctant answer.
Basil asked just one more question, “What would you say if I said that I think I could find him?”
“Oh,” Simon answered simply. That would… open a lot of opportunities, he supposed, maybe even answer some questions he’d never been able to ask… or even conceptualize properly. He didn’t say that though. He just stared. He blinked. He hadn’t really considered it ever. He nodded. He then shook his head. His head wobbled a little as he thought about it. He quirked his lips and reinforced his initial answer. “Oh,” he said again. “‘Oh’ is what I would say, apparently.”
“Apparently,” Baz repeated.
“Yes,” Simon chewed over his own lip, “Apparently.”
“So,” Baz tried again, leaning forward onto his elbows, “Should we?”
“I don’t know,” Simon answered, all too honestly. “I really don’t know.”
★— ⋆｡˚ [Simple Things]
For Day 29 of Carry on Countdown 23, Cherry @carryon-countdown
Basil and Simon share a picnic in the park
Rated T for language & vague reference to shit childhoods.
This is the final of the Nurse/Lawyer AU. Enjoy~ 🖤 [Part 1][Part 2][Part 3][Part 4]
⋆｡˚
“Why cherry scones?” Basil asks, his head on my lap, my spare hand running through his long, dark hair while the other reaches into our picnic basket and cracks off another bit of scone to feed him, and then myself.
I hum and press a kiss to the point of his widow’s peak. “It’s not that complicated, they’re just good.”
He reaches up to stroke a hand soft over the side of my neck and I lean into the touch instinctively. “No nostalgia?”
He doesn’t say it, but I suppose it shouldn’t surprise me that he’s noticed a bit how I’ll get just a tad bit weepy when I’m making them. I suppose it shouldn’t surprise me that he’s noticed how much it means to me that he always gets ingredients for more of them whenever he does the grocery shopping. “I suppose,” I admit, tugging at a stray strand of his hair, “There’s a little nostalgia.”
Baz’s hands are so soft against my neck, so gentle and soothing, he looks so soft like this. We don’t do this sort of thing often. I work too much, he works too much. Days spent in local parks having picnics and lingering just aren’t exactly in the cards for us, but we’ve been making more time for them. He’s taken me on a beach day recently too, but this one was my idea.
“Tell me about it?” Baz asks as I tug on that stray strand of hair again, soothing over it immediately after. “If you want to.”
I nod, still thinking about the sentiment of the park a little bit. It’s a park I used to frequent with Penny, back when she’d been living in the UK too. Baz knows that part, I’d told him that much when I’d planned our little date. When we’d first gotten here, we’d even snapped a couple of selfies that I could send over her way. Or well, really I’d done the snapping of selfies. Baz just sort of quirked his lips for them. He looked nice though. Baz always looked nice in our photos.
Baz also doesn’t send texts like “our old haunting grounds!! I miss you!!” to anyone, really.
He texts a bit like an old man. No emoji, proper punctuation, very little by way of abbreviations or shorthand. I think he mostly uses voice-to-text, which makes sense. His hands are always busy. I kind of think it’s cute.
“Simon?”
Right, we were talking.
“You know how Pen and I used to come here?” I start, and he nods, not really needing the reminder from just this morning. “We used to come here with stolen scones from the boarding school kitchens. I just used to shovel armfulls into my back and ditch and end up all over with them. It was sort of all I ate back then, but honestly… it was the first food I really liked in my childhood.”
Baz knows about my childhood, about how I bounced from foster to foster, from group home to group home. My non-existent concept of family, my struggle with deep relationships and trustworthy adults. Somehow I kept running into the problematic sort in my childhood. But Baz knows all that already. I don’t need to get into it.
He pokes at my chin gently before leaning up slightly to get his own bit of scone, feeding me another bite back. “Who taught you to make them?”
“Ahh…” I think I can feel myself flushing, “I sort of… shilled together the recipe a little bit at a time. I made a lot of mistakes. I may have destroyed at least three baking sheets in the process.”
“Simon,” Baz sounds utterly disbelieving. He looks it too. I have to laugh about it. He should know by know what a danger I can be to common household objects. “Simon Snow, you did not bullshit together a recipe when google exists.”
“I did,” I nod down at him, as disappointed as he is about it. “I did and I had access to google in the school library and I ignored it in favour of ruining Cook Pritchard’s life.”
“You’re terrible,” Baz snorts out. He also leans up to kiss me again, cupping my cheek soft. He’s so full of affection for me. He doesn’t have to say it when he kisses me like that. He says it anyway. “I love you, menace to society that you are.”
I love how he can say something like that, call me something like that, and sound so impossibly fond. “I know you do,” I answer, grinning back at him and leaning back on my elbows. He chases me down for another soft kiss and I lean back again, avoiding him, making him chase me more, making him chase me all the way down until I’m lying fully on the grass and he’s leaning above me and holding my hands and kissing me silly.
I’m laughing through all of it, twisting our hands together and squeezing my fingers over his. I lean up and chase him down for more kisses before he can pull back, before he can get us water or more sour cherry scones or anything else. I love catching him in fits of kissing like this, dragging him back for more and more until we both forget anything else.
I could live off his smile, I think, when he’s kissing me silly like this. He still makes me so bloody giddy and it’s been well over a year and I spend all my free time with him. Everyone says that’ll change, that I’ll get tired of him around all the time. Coworkers, old classmates, old foster siblings and people I knew from therapy and group homes, basically everyone but Pen, but I think they’re sodding insane. They probably think I’m insane for thinking it’s not going to change, but I know myself. I know all I need is that silly bloody smile, that gorgeous bloody laugh, those sweet, bloody tender kisses…
“Tell me more of your favourite foods,” Baz asks between my laughter and his kisses.
I’m a little caught off guard. I’d forgotten we were talking still again, but I just grin up at him. “Anything you make me is my favourite food.”
“That’s cheating, love,” Baz snorts out another laugh, “You have to give a real answer, or else I’m just going to cook for me forever.”
“I like whatever you cook for you,” I shrug under him, chasing down another soft, silly little kiss, a little giddy-drunk-stupid on his affections, “That’s plenty real enough, I think.”
He hums back at me, nipping soft over my lips. “You’ll have to give a real answer sooner or later, Simon, or else we’ll be serving basilla and fattah at our wedding.”
“Okay but I actually do love your fattah.” And I do. I love all his home cooking, but the casual wedding talk is new. Distracing. I can’t help but drift back to it. “You want to marry me?”
He laughs. Of course he bloody laughs. As if it were obvious.
“More than anything.”
He says it so bloody confidently, and I know one day he’s going to ask, and one day I’m going to say yes. I’m not even going to have time to figure out my own plan. He’s already got it all figured out, but I don’t mind. I like that he’s got our lives planned out like this, I like that I can trust him with me like this.
No, more than like it, I love it. “We’re going to have to have cherries in the cake then. That’s my only demand.”
“As if I wasn’t already planning on it.” Baz’s so bloody smug about it, smirking down at me.
I shove a scone in his mouth and shove him over just to wipe that look off his face. “You’re such a bloody prick.”
Unfortunately, he’s still just as smug. “You love this bloody prick.”
“Unfortunately,” I groan back. I can’t commit though. I’m already kissing him bloody stupid all over again. “Unfortunately, I’m going to marry this bloody prick.”
★— ⋆｡˚ [Finding Myself In Baz Pitch]
For Day 28 of Carry on Countdown 23, Gently. @carryon-countdown
On Simon Snow and Baz Pitch and their respective sets of teeth finding their way into each other's bodies (cont). Part 1 here!
Rated E for... this being what it is (the smut).
⋆｡˚
Baz looks so bloody unhinged as he’s pulling off my wrist.
I bloody love it. He looks like he’s already fucked us both stupid and spent and he’s desperate for more. He’s got blood dripping down his chin and his lips are slick with spit and his pupils are blown so wide I think I should be scared, but I’m not. I’m so bloody not. All this, just from biting me… I think I’m just about undone myself.
I pull him down by the neck and sink my teeth hard against his jaw. “No.”
My wings wrap around him instinctively and my tail finds his thigh and I draw him in as close as I can before I’m kissing him harder again, tasting my blood on his lips. I drag my tongue hot over that trickle of blood and force it back in his mouth and he moans around my tongue.
I don’t think I’ve ever heard him moan like that before.
“No?” He asks as we split apart from that all consuming kiss.
My lips are tingling with it, overheated and sore. I keep risking the touch of his fangs against my lips, against my tongue. I’m like some kind of fiend for them and it’s only been a few minutes since I’ve first felt them sink into me properly. “No,” I say it again, firmer, squeezing my tail tight against the meat of his thigh, “I want you bloody in me when you bite me.”
I know I’m being demanding, but it only makes Baz laugh out low and deep. He slips out of his shirt without a word and my hands immediately slide down his perfect bloody chest. Does he always have to look so bloody gorgeous? I bite his shoulder hard for it, and then again over his chest.
“And what’s that for, love?” He’s still bloody laughing. Does it have to be so bloody attractive when he’s laughing like that? I bite him again, harder over his arm. “And that?”
“You. Just bloody you.” I bite him again just to drive the point home.
He grabs me my the jaw and shoves me back down against the mattress and kisses me hard. I try to bite his lips in protest, but he keeps me pressed hard to the couch to stop my teeth from bruising him more.
I scowl up at him. He smirks down at me. Does that have to be so bloody attractive too?
“So,” Basil hums, “You want me inside?”
“Bloody fucking obviously–” I’m so bloody impatient for it. He’s in too many clothes, I’m in too many clothes. I’m bloody fucking soaked already, obviously I want him in me. “Why am I still bloody dressed?”
“That,” Baz answers as he tugs my tail, “Is a bloody good question.”
He slips off the couch before I can stop him, out of reach before I can land another vengeful bite for that tug. And then I find myself slung over his shoulder and I can’t help the little ‘oh’ that escapes me when I land. Sometimes I forget just how insanely strong being a vampire makes him. His beautiful bare skin is so sodding smooth against my stomach and I want to bite him again for catching me off guard, for feeling so bloody perfect, but the angle’s shite for it.
He marches us into the bedroom and my trousers fall aside along the way, moments before Baz– somehow bloody elegantly– walks right out of his. He tosses me down onto the bed, so un-fucking-ceremoniously, and pulls me out of my shirt, and his hands find my chest without a moment’s delay. His fingers tug and twist at me until I’m squirming under him, grinding against the knee he’s so graciously providing for my aching cunt.
“You want me right bloody now?” His grin grows just a tick more, flashing fang down at me, and my fingers dig into his forearms, tuggin him down hard over me. He keeps himself out of the reach of my teeth. “You want me bad enough to beg for it? Or should I make you?”
I bite into my own lip as he asks, tearing that sore back open and scrunching my nose up at him. I hate that he’s right. I love that he’s right. I’m so bloody fucking conflicted. He sucks the blood from the sore all over again and I can’t stop myself from moaning for him. My fingers digging in hard where they hold him. I hate that he’s right, but not enough to stop myself from nodding.
“You’ll beg, Simon Snow?” He says it like a bloody contract. I hate that it gets me that much wetter.
“I’ll beg… I’ll beg if you want me to.” My lips brush hot over his as I say it and his tongue is already running over that split in my lip again, making me moan all over again, hips rutting harder against his knee.
“Tell me what you want, love…” His voice is so bloody beautiful, so bloody dark… I’m so fucking insane for him. Crowley help me, I am not immune to that voice. It sets me on fire, it’s so beautiful.
It takes me long moments to work up to it. His lips start wandering over my neck. He’s teasing his fangs over the vein there, and I want to feel them sink in. I’m such a fucking slut about it too, rutting and whining and moaning. My hands keep wandering, and so do his, and his every touch is making me shudder and want that much more.
“I want you…” I start and I can tell just by his look that Baz isn’t impressed with it. I grab his face so I can focus better, not distract myself with his muscles and perfect skin, not let him distract me with those teeth any further. “I want you in me, Baz, right now. The moment you bit me, really. I want to feel you so deep I can’t bloody breathe. I want you to bite me everywhere when you take me. I want you to feel you everywhere, Basil, I bloody fucking need you–”
“You need me?” Baz kisses over my palms as he repeats it and I’m already nodding up at him. “How badly?”
“Fuck–” I moan as I feel his cock press against where I’ve soaked through my pants, the thin fabric hardly enough to stop me from losing my fucking mind all over again, “–please, I need you so bloody bad, please—”
He doesn’t even bother to take them off, just tears them down the center, like they’re nothing, and it makes me moan all over again. He’s so bloody filthy. I might cum just from him slipping in.
And then he’s in me.
And I absolutely do.
He’s kissing me through it and I can’t think properly. I can so rarely bloody think with him like this. He pulls my legs around his waist and my wings flit up to wrap around him and pull him in closer, hands wrapping around him and fingers digging in. I’m so bloody rough with him, I know I’m leaving him bruised, but he’s kissing me so bloody tender and I’m losing my mind. I want him to move, I want to feel him lose his mind as much as I’m losing mine.
I can’t say it though.
Every time I try to speak he’s kissing me again, stealing my words, and in the same moment he’s slipped a hand between us and his hand is rubbing over my clit and I’m melting all over again, clenching around him like a vice, nearly cumming all over again for him.
“Baz,” I finally manage, “Baz, please, bloody move…” It’s practically a sob. I’m pretty sure I’m dying with him refusing to move like this.
He kisses me soft just one more time and then he moves.
My vision turns white.
My hands can’t find a proper place to dig in. His back, his waist, his shoulders, his hair… They’re everywhere, it’s not enough. He stops my hands with his, pinning them above my head while his teeth start to wander all over again, and then they’re all I can think about. “Bite me, bloody fucking bite me, Basil, fuck–”
He has the nerve to laugh again, “Needy bloody thing…” he murmurs against my neck, but then his fangs sink in over that vein, impossibly gentle despite the sting of it, and his pace falters for half a moment.
He moans right along with me while he’s drinking me and his hips slow down, hitting everywhere just right and my hips move back on instinct. I can feel him everywhere in me. Not just fucking me, but in my bloody veins, in my fucking lungs, in the beat of my pulse. I think my heart’s in my bloody throat and it feels so fucking good.
I’m breathless when he pulls off again. He looks as debauched as I feel, licking his lips clean and eyes wild, his bangs haphazard in his eyes.
“You’re so bloody beautiful,” He says, making me whine again.
How can he bloody say that when he looks like that? “Basilton Grimm-Pitch, you will bite me again and move—”
He cuts me off with another bite, lower, and again he moans out with me. My hands are clenching at nothing, twisting in his grip, and he gets the message without my needing to say anything. Not that I could anyway, but he gets it. He lets my hands go to find their home in his hair and he presses in deeper, closer, and I feel him impossibly more.
I feel so bloody perfect wrapped around him like this, like I bloody belong here. It’s near a religious experience. I might be losing my mind, or maybe I’m finding it. I don’t know. I can’t tell anymore.
All I know is I want more, and Baz is all too willing to give it. He bites into me again and again and again and our bodies are moving together in perfect rhythm and I think I might’ve found myself in him, I’m not sure what I’m thinking anymore, except everything is perfect.
His hips pick up when mine falter all over again, spilling unexpectedly after another bite, and then again after another. I think my tits are going to be sore for days with how much he’s bitten them, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. He keeps going until I’m begging him to finish, “Please, with me, please please, fuck’s sake, Basil, please—”
And he does, he gasps against my neck, arched obscene for him to drag his fangs over, tempting him to bite again, and he does, again, so bloody gently, even as he topples over for my begging, collapsing on top of me. He stopped himself from drinking so many bites ago, I know, but he still laps his tongue over every wound, treats them tenderly, carefully, each bite a mark of his love, his obsession with me.
He’s so bloody obsessed with me, and even as he says it, I still can’t understand it. It’s alright though. I’m just as obsessed with him.
“Good?” He manages, and his voice is a low, breathless thing. It feels so bloody good to have taken him to that point.
I’m even further gone on him, only managing a nod in answer, tail brushing over his legs as we relax into each other.
“Good,” he says again, petting through my hair gently, a contrast to the way I’ve been tugging desperately at his. He’s so bloody perfect. I love him so much. I’m a sweat-streaked, bitten bloody mess, and he’s perfect. But he’s mine. He’s all mine. And I’m all his. I’m all his.
Fuck, I love him. I manage to say it, I think. If I don’t, he understands it all the same. He’s kissing me stupid all over again. I think I’m going to make him bite me every time after this, if I have any say in it.
And I do. I know I do.
★— ⋆｡˚ [Cleansed]
For Day 27 of Carry on Countdown 23, Gift. @carryon-countdown
Filthy Anniversary Smut continued, or: aftercare smut. As Simon Snow and Basilton Grimm-Pitch deserve.
Rated more explicitly E than the first part of this. For Baz being overly gentle and forceful at the same time.
⋆｡˚
It’s two in the afternoon and they haven’t left bed yet. Well, that isn’t entirely true. And it was less that they hadn’t left bed yet, but more like Baz was keeping Simon in their hotel bed. Simon might have tried to claim it was against his will, but that would’ve been a load of shit. Simon had stumbled into the bathroom at some point after nine in the morning, but then he’d stumbled right back into bed after. He didn’t want to leave bed as much as Baz didn’t want him to.
Baz, on the other hand, had left to get the breakfast they’d ordered in from the restaurant. French toast, slathered in berries and syrup and whipped cream, with fresh coffee and a side of bacon for each of them, absolute decadence in their morning after. He’s also left twice over the course of the morning to get Simon more water, a crime, according to Simon Snow himself. A crime in which he was the primary victim.
Simon’s whining only makes Baz laugh harder while he forces Simon to hydrate.
It’s a slow morning, a tender morning, and Baz spends his spare moments kissing over the burns and scratches and bruises over Simon’s skin. Every kiss presses into his skin like a gift, every sore spot treated with the balm of Basil’s lips, over and over again until Simon is squirming from too much attention.
“Baz–” He gasps as Baz presses another kiss into the dips of Simon’s hips, it’s been hours like this. Simon’s tail slides around Baz’s waist and drags him closer, “–think m’worked up enough, don’t you?”
Baz hums his answer, nipping over soft skin while his hands rub soft over Simon’s thighs, his kisses trailing over the soft curve of Simon’s stomach, tongue darting over sensitive dips in skin and tasting still more of his love.
He keeps going even as Simon asks again.
And again.
And still again.
He keeps trailing kisses over every inch of skin until Simon’s been near fully cleansed on Baz’s kisses, the tender touch of lips and tongue soothing every sore, both phantom and all to present. Baz pushes Simon onto his stomach and repeats the process all over again. His hands join lips in those tender attentions over still more hypersensitive skin, over wings and tail and the precious nape of Simon Snow’s neck. It’s that spot that practically unmakes Simon, collapsing in on himself.
“Basil–” Simon groans out against the mattress, his arms no longer supporting him properly, his knees nearly failing him seconds later, “You can’t– you can’t keep teasing me… I can’t take it anymore… I’m gonna bloody burst, please–”
Baz licks a long stripe up Simon’s spine and then kisses his way back down again, pausing at the small of his back, “You’re not still sore from last night?”
“Doesn’t matter,” Simon groans, legs spreading apart for Baz to slide between all the easier, “You made me like this, now do something about it.”
The demand makes Baz laugh soft over Simon’s skin, but he moves for Simon all the same. He presses a thumb against that tight hole, red and abused still from the night before, but Simon swallows up that digit all the same. His palm presses soft against where Simon wanted him most, where he was aching for Baz’s attention, leaking for it, but he keeps his touches slow and soft. Baz stretches Simon with languid, lazy circles of that thumb inside him, rocking his hand steady against that point until Simon’s practically sobbing for more.
His voice is a stuttering mess for Baz, a litany of pretty pleases, need you, want you, miss you and more, all for Baz to soak up. Baz answers each and every soft, pleading cry with his own soft comforts. A kiss over the jut of Simon’s hipbone, or a teasing nip just under his ribs, or a soft reassurance. “I’m still here, love, I’ve got you, I’ll take care of you,” Baz murmurs in a voice so dark, midnight would envy him.
His thumb slips free of that well used hole, freeing his hand more to rub over that ache, stroking slow over it, soaking Simon that much more in his own mess. Baz shifts his way back down, forcing Simon’s tail to adjust, slipping around his arm inside while Baz’s tongue finds that needy hole, dipping just inside, teasing still more, until Simon’s lost nearly all capacity to speak.
His tongue dives in deeper, finding the remnants of their mix and swallowing it down greedily, and then right back in to find still more. Baz moves in slow circles. His tongue, his fingers and palm all work in tandem, at that torturous pace that has Simon near in tears. He knows Simon’s begging for release, begging to be unmade at the will of Baz’s attentions and only Baz’s attentions. He knows Simon’s burning for it now, but he doesn’t bother hurrying the process.
Baz waits.
Baz waits until his palm’s a mess with Simon’s want, his fingers slipping all too easily over skin, all too raw from his unrelenting touches. Baz waits until Simon’s sobbing has gone quiet, his voice too raw from mindless begging to make words happen the way they’re supposed to. Baz waits until Simon can’t stop himself anymore, until he knows he could just… breathe cold air against Simon’s aching hole, against that point, dripping with want, and make him fall apart.
And that’s exactly what he does.
Baz slides his hand just so, fingers flicking over that heated, soaked point just once before he pulls back enough to breathe cold air over him, and Simon spills sloppy onto the sheets beneath him.
Baz dives back in before Simon’s anywhere near done. Simon’s knees give out while Baz’s tongue slides over every aching inch, catching that spend, swallowing down as much of the mess as he can, cleaning his love all over again as he works Simon through it, humming like it’s the only breakfast he’d really wanted this morning.
Simon’s chest is heaving, his wings are twitching and his tail is flicking mindlessly. Baz sucks a soft mark into the curve of Simon’s ass, his chin dripping with Simon’s mess and his own saliva, and he knows he could keep going, but he has grace enough to give Simon room to breathe.
“Done?” He asks quietly, but Simon’s already shaking his head. “No?” Baz asks again, letting loose a low laugh.
“Mmn-mmn,” Simon purrs for him, “Not till you are,” he manages, voice broken but perfectly content.
“You’re sure?” Baz already knows the answer though.
Simon’s tail flicks his arm for the tease. “You too…”
“You can’t even move, love…”
“Don’t care,” Simon huffs, “You too.”
“More water first,” Baz is already standing to get it and Simon groans out loud for it. Baz tugs at Simon’s tail before he can find the words to his annoyance, “No protests or I’ll make you wait longer.”
Simon pouts, but swallows the urge to protest, and it’s far from the last thing he swallows.
★— ⋆｡˚ [Things Missed]
For Day 26 of Carry on Countdown 23, Angst @carryon-countdown
Basil's finally ready to talk about the accident and Simon's there to listen, of course he is, he's not about to walk away.
Rated T for themes, language, & trauma talk.
This is part four of the Nurse/Lawyer AU. Just one more to go - I hope you enjoy. 🖤 [Part 1][Part 2][Part 3]
⋆｡˚ BAZ
Some days, I really miss the hours spent feeling my fingers stretched over the neck of my violin, plucking swiftly over the strings. I miss the feeling of the bowstrings reverberating noise under my strokes, the effortful, emotive playing that pushed me to sweat with effort. I even miss sitting my chin over the chinrest and just holding position in anticipation of playing.
I can still play, beautifully even, but I’m not the soloist I once was. I might have been playing sonatas in music halls across all of Europe at one point. I was good enough, I was more than good enough. I can’t do that now.
I usually manage ten to fifteen minutes before my bow hand starts shaking and my neck’s screaming for relief. Oh, there are workarounds, sure. I’ve tried the extended neck braces that eliminate the need for the chin rest. I’ve used the mobility bows that have the wrist straps, removing the need for my grip entirely. It’s just not the same though.
I had fifteen years of playing before the accident happened. It was a lifetime of habits I had needed to unlearn and repackage and… it’s not that I couldn’t have gotten to my old skill level with enough time, enough practice, but… I started to hate playing. I don’t want to hate playing, but every time I’d fuck up a simple chord progression or hit a note wrong or fumble due to relearning, that feeling would surge up inside of me. My body still wanted to play the way it knew best, and I still wanted to let it, and every time that urge clashed with the need to relearn it would put me back a whole day, sometimes more.
It hit a point where even just thinking about practicing would make me nauseous and angry, so I just stopped. I don’t want to hate playing. I love my violin. I focused on my physical therapy instead. I went to therapy. I got to the point where I am now and I changed course.
I switched to law school.
I cried a week over the decision and I had to speedrun undergrad but overall I’m better for it. I don’t hate my grandfather’s violin every time I look at it. I don’t feel frustrated just existing in a room with it. I don’t get jealous of other violinists who play half as well as I do for having just the slightest mobility advantage over me.
I can hold my bow again, position my violin and play my heart out for a full ten minutes without dropping anything or shaking and botching my play. I might not be able to do some of the more complicated pieces I once did, but what I can play, I play perfectly, just the way I remember, just the way I like. For ten whole minutes, it’s like I’m no different than I ever was, and I find that beauty I make in music and let my violin sing for me. She’s my oldest friend. I can’t hate her.
When Simon first hears me play, it’s a bit of an accident. I don’t really play for people anymore, since I can’t play long and sometimes I have to conclude a piece early when I start to feel my body react, so of course it’s a bit of an accident. It’s just my sisters I play for when I play for people now. Otherwise, it’s just me. I play alone and let myself have my memories of what once was and I put her down to reminisce another day. We share a peaceful relationship, an old friendship, but it’s not something I feel most people particularly need to witness. I aim to play alone.
It’s not that Simon doesn’t know I still play, he does, I’ve told him. Besides, she’s seen the violin, she’s seen me rosin the bow and tune my instrument. She got me a custom rosin case for it for my birthday, the very first we’d spent together— Simon is more than aware that I still play.
it just feels intimate in a way I haven’t quite been ready to share. Fifty-fifty odds I’ll cry at the end, or even halfway through. I like Simon seeing me strong, confident, and maybe a little cocky. I’ve been vulnerable, of course, I met him freshly stabbed and all, but this is a different thing.
So it’s a bit of an accident. Simon's been stateside for a friend’s wedding— she’d been her best mate in school— and I’m not expecting him home that day, let alone these ten minutes of the day I’ve chosen to play. I could've gone to the wedding with him, but I thought maybe meeting someone the week of their wedding might be a bit presumptive of me, especially with our relationship being fairly recent. Besides, the caseload at work’s been busy and I’d’ve had to fly separately, Simon's invested in his tickets an era ago and I don’t particularly want to fly over the Atlantic alone. I’ve offered to take Penny and her husband-to-be on a cruise together at some later date and we can get to know each other then, when they’re not so busy with pre-wedding and during-wedding and post-wedding.
Simon tumbles through the door about two minutes after I’ve started but I don’t hear him. He’s still at the door when I finish. Thirteen minutes later. I can feel my hand aching a little but my neck’s doing alright, so I’ll take that as a good day. I blink over at Simon, realizing he’s really there as I carefully settle my violin back into her stand.
“You play beautifully,” Simon says as she closes the door, “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
I blink back the way ears in my eyes. It takes me a minute to find my words, but I shake my head to tell him that he hadn’t. I find my confidence and breath and ultimately find it’s not uncomfortable for me to have Simon seeing me play. That’s a relief. Unsurprising, ultimately, but no less a relief. “You’re early?”
“Ah, yeah,” Simon answers as she kicks off her shoes. I’m already moving to help with his bags while he explains, “Pen’s already on honeymoon and originally I’d wanted to stay over to see some sights but I just missed you so I checked to see if I could catch an earlier flight and here I am.” She does a silly little wave of her hands and it makes me impossibly bloody fond.
“You missed me that much?” There’s a touch of teasing there and Simon punches my arm for it, but he doesn’t use any strength to do it, and just sort of scrunches his nose in annoyance.
“Of bloody course I did, you prick. It’s been a whole week already…”
I hum as I follow Simon to our room, helping him unpack when we get there. I pause to nudge his side and when he turns my way I catch him in a kiss. “I missed you too.”
It’s an easy admission. “Of course you did,” Simon says it like it’s obvious.
it is obvious.
We work through unpacking him in relative silence, a companionable quiet that tells me both how tired he is and how happy he is just to be home. I’ll ask him all about everything after he’s gotten some sleep in him, reset properly from the jetlag over some food. I’m just as happy to have Simon home again too. I missed existing with her the last week.
“I’ll let you hear me play again,” I say apropos of nothing, except I can still hear those words in my head. You play beautifully.
I know I do. Or I knew I did.
The declaration stops Simon midway from tossing his dirty wash in our hamper, but only for a moment. “Yeah?”
“Yeah, whenever I play next.” It’ll be tomorrow. I play almost every day, so long as it’s not a snow day.
“I’d like that,” He answers with a soft smile, “I’d like it a lot.”
I love this about Simon. He’s just so bloody understanding. I don’t understand how he doesn’t press or complicate or assume anything. We just finish getting through his unpacking and collapse into our bed and cuddle close.
I think he’s fallen asleep already when his voice catches me off guard, but maybe I’d been the one closer to sleep. “Are you gonna tell me about it?”
“Not tonight,” I know exactly what he means without asking, “But soon, probably. After you tell me all about how the wedding went.”
Simon hums and snuggles in closer and I melt around him, letting myself relax with him, letting myself feel how much I missed him. I can feel Simon melting in my arms too. I’m too tired for anything else, he’s too tired for anything else, and it’s so bloody easy for us to fall asleep like that, tangled up in one another.
⋆｡˚ SIMON
He doesn’t tell me the next morning, not after all the talking I can manage on Pen’s ceremony and dress and everything. It’s a lazy morning. He called in to work from home (“No court days?” “No court days.”) and we slept in and stayed in bed hours longer and I still had three whole more days off work. I’m not in any rush to find out, I’m just happy I’ve gotten to hear him play now.
I ramble on and on about the States and everything that I’d missed about home and weird little language differences and all the things Pen had gone on about herself during our downtime. I think Baz might know her better than he thinks with how much I talk about her, but I’m not mad he didn’t come with me. I just missed him.
I don’t ask. I don’t need to ask. He’ll tell me when he’s ready.
I’m happy to linger in lazy mornings like this forever, if he’ll be here with me for them.
⋆｡˚ BAZ
I keep thinking I’m going to tell her, and then I don’t. I keep thinking I should bring it up, but then I don’t. It’s just such a bloody happy day and I’m such a greedy, selfish sap. I want to keep it a happy day. We deserve more happy, lazy days.
I do play my violin for him, just like I’d said I would. I only just make it through about eight minutes today, but Simon smiles so beautifully for such a simple piece.
I’m going to tell him, I know it, just not today. Today I want to keep his smile just like it was when he woke up, refreshed and comfortable after a week out of our bed. I want to keep her just like this forever.
⋆｡˚ SIMON
It’s about two weeks later when Basil wakes up in a cold sweat next to me. It’s not the first time I’ve witnessed his night terrors, we’ve lived together far too long by now for me not to be at least a little familiar with them, but normally he goes through the motions quickly enough that I barely have time to comfort at all. This time must’ve been particularly visceral. I sit up beside him and he still hasn’t budged an inch, except to curl in on himself. I touch carefully, brushing my fingers through his thick, dark hair, brushing his bangs aside so they don’t stick to his sweat-slick skin and hum.
I hum whatever he’d played me last. Something by Bach, I think, but I’m not good at classical music. I am learning, a little, but I still can’t tell Beethoven from the Greatest Showman and apparently the latter is a musical, not a classical composition. I’m learning. Baz smiles whenever I get something right.
He unwinds enough to roll himself over and into my arms and I wrap him up like I’m a security blanket made just for him.
“Bloody nightmares…” His voice comes out in rasp, dry and angry, but I don’t push, I just hold him like that until he stops shaking, until his breathing settles out against my chest.
I glance at the clock. Twelve more hours till work. I can nap after this all settles if I need more sleep. I have time. “Think you can sleep again?” I ask it as gently as I can manage.
Baz shakes his head against my chest, but it’s alright, I just keep humming while he sinks deeper into my arms and the tangle of blankets around us. If there was less time, I’d even call out, but there’s plenty of time.
“I think I want to talk about it.”
⋆｡˚ BAZ
I’ve surprised him, I can tell. His mouth is doing that little ‘oh’ thing that she only does when she’s caught off guard. Maybe that’s fair, I haven’t talked about for long enough that maybe she was never truly expecting me to, but I have wanted to.
⋆｡˚ SIMON
He presses a kiss to the hollow of my throat and it brings me back to my senses enough to encourage him to keep going. “If you’re ready.”
Basil hums again and nods along, “I’m ready.”
I press a kiss to his temple and wait. I have time. I can always wait where Baz is concerned, but he doesn’t make me wait long. It spills out in chunks, but I fill in the blanks well enough. Trauma’s like that, I know, sometimes memories just don’t come back clean.
⋆｡˚ BAZ
I was twenty when it happened. It was winter break and I was driving back home for the holidays. The road had been slick from the storm but it was only a four hour drive, a little longer if I went easy, and I always go easy when I need to. So I’m headed home and thinking about what to get my sisters in the meanwhile and not at all worried about the process of getting there.
Of course, it was never me I had to worry about. A truck twice the size of my little Beetle comes hurtling down the opposite side of the road at a good twice my speed. It must’ve started hydroplaning at the exact right moment to cause him to swerve right into me.
There’s no time to react, no time to brake or swerve or anything at all.
There’s only the truck’s blinding headlights on a collision course straight for me.
I can still feel the hear the sound of the metal crunching together in front of me. I can still feel the pressure of the airbag going off against my face, against my hands. The way my arm had hit the center dash and turned blue almost immediately. The whiplash from my head flinging back so suddenly, the wrongness in my neck.
Simon’s petting through my hair as he listens to me, taking everything in, kissing my forehead again, and then pulling back enough to pull my hands up to kiss them too. She’s patient through it all and it’s not until the lull in my story that I realize I’ve been crying. Just a little. Just quietly while I go through it.
I lose myself in the realization for a moment, thoughts dissipating into nothing. I’m not sure where I was in the story, or where to pick up, it’s just all sort of a blur anyway. I let myself have my tears about and Simon, my sweet Simon, kisses my tears away and holds me closer through it.
“Is that what your nightmares are about?” Simon asks when my tears start to slow and I’ve worked myself further out of that ball of stress.
“No,” I answer, and it feels a bit silly, but also not at all. “My nightmares are… they’re about the first time I picked up my grandfather’s violin, after I’d supposedly healed enough to try again, and I dropped it.”
⋆｡˚ SIMON
Baz chokes when he confesses it, loses his voice halfway through the word dropped, but his mouth still forms the word it. My skill in lipreading fills in that blank too. “You don’t have to say more if you don’t want to, you know. It’s okay to be done talking.”
He hums low and shifts our hold so he’s more holding me now, wrapping his legs around mine and practically clinging. I don’t bother to resist. I don’t mind comforting him like this either. It’s plenty comfortable in Baz’s arms too.
“I don’t think there’s much else to say,” Baz breathes out when he finds his voice again, “If there is I can’t recall right now.”
I nuzzle his chest and tangle us up that much more thoroughly. “It’s alright, love… if you want to talk more later, I’m always here for you, alright?”
“Alright.”
“I love you.”
⋆｡˚ BAZ
Simon quiets in my arms after that and I can feel my exhaustion creeping up again. I press a kiss to her temple and let my thoughts drift away from my nightmares, from my spotty memories, from the little Volvo I had once loved so much. I suppose it saved my life that day, gave it’s own for me. If cars have souls, I hope it's thriving somewhere.
I let myself drift to thoughts of Simon, of our life. Of the time we’ve had together so far, of the time we’re going to have together. I think of his soft hair and softer marshmallow scent. I thought it was a perfume or cologne at first, but no. That’s just Simon, sugary sweet.
“Hey, Simon?”
She murmurs her own soft, unintelligible acknowledgment against my chest and I can tell from the weight of him that she’s drifting back off already.
“Thank you,” I say into the mess of her hair and she makes a happy little noise. Her own of course, anytime, always, without the mess of words. She makes me so bloody soft, so bloody comfortable. “I love you too.”
Simon’s little noise repeats itself and I can feel a smile crack my lips, just a little bit even after all the emotions thinking about the accident can give me.
“Rest well, love,” my words fall soft and Simon’s already gone, and I think I can manage the same. I think, probably, without dreaming terrible things all over again.
★— ⋆｡˚ [He Loves My Butter Lips]
For Day 25 of Carry on Countdown 23, Carnival/Faire. @carryon-countdown
Simon Snow hates his boyfriend and his boyfriend's ego and all the plushies he's won for him so, so bloody bad (but not really, not really at all).
Rated T for... honestly I think Simon is cursing every other sentence in this.
⋆｡˚
The best part about the faire is the bloody food. The cheese sticks, the corndogs on sticks, pickles on sticks, the spun sugar on sticks, in certain parts of the world (this part of the world!!) the fried butter on sticks, everything fried and everything on sticks. It’s divine. I’m going to die of a heart attack at one of these godforsaken carnival-faire-decadence-things, but Merlin and Morgana both, it will have been bloody worth it. The best bloody thing is the fucking food. Don’t let anyone else tell you otherwise. If they think otherwise, they’re bloody daft.
Now some people might claim having a boyfriend who could hack all the carnival games would be the best bloody part, but their boyfriends are not Basilton fucking Grimm-Pitch, are they? No, the honour of calling that one a boyfriend is mine, and he’s too bloody smug about it.
Not to say that I don’t love and cherish each and every one of those ridiculously large plushies, and not to say that they don’t each get a name and a little home in our littler apartment, but does Baz have to bloody fucking smirk about it every time he predicts right? Does he have to be right so bloody often?
He’s such a sodding twat about it, I hate him. (I love him. He’s perfect. Never bloody tell him that though, his ego is killing me already.)
Presently, I have four fucking plushies squished in between the space between my arms and my chest and each of them is the size of my torso. “Basil!” I can see him heading to win me a fifth, “Basil, I swear, I literally cannot hold another sodding plush bear, please do not.”
I just want that fried butter, but how will I eat the fried butter without hands to hold the stick required to eat the fried butter? Baz probably wouldn’t even let me eat the fried butter anyway. He should let me eat the fried butter, it’s not like I won’t go at a stick occasionally anyway. He’s trying to train me out of it, the ninny. As if I want to learn better than eating sticks of butter.
He’s already out of bloody earshot.
I huff down at my growing collection of plushies. Mr. Bun, Mrs. Bear, Sir Froggington the Fourth, and the Little Duck that Could will surely have another companion soon. The Little Duck that Could is in fact the largest of the plushes, but he has small animal energy. I think he might also technically be a swan, but it’s too late, he’s already been named. It’s sticking.
There’s nothing to be done about it, I suppose. I faithfully trudge after Basil and pray he’s wrong about his skills in this carnival game, just this once, and then I see what it sodding is.
Bloody fucking football.
No wonder he’s practically whooping about it. Well, as much as Baz might whoop. It’s basically just an overly enthused grin, the smile showing the in the curve of his cheek, a not-quite-there, but not-quite-not-there dimple, his eyes sparkling. I can’t very well tell him not to kick footballs about, it’s Baz Pitch, king of the pitch, it’s in his sodding name.
I find a nearby bench to sit my hindquarters on and plop myself down. At least from here I can partake in a particular favourite activity of my own: staring at Baz’s ass while he kicks bloody footballs about.
It’s been three whole years since Watford and 4 years since he played on any kind of regular team, and he has not lost his form. I rest my chin atop Mrs. Bear’s head and sigh. He’s so bloody handsome it hurts to look at sometimes. I think I feel myself losing braincells I turn so braindead just from the man bloody existing.
I hate him so bloody bad. (He’s so perfect I forget how to speak. He’s so handsome I forget how to breathe. I love him so badly it aches whenever he’s not around. Sometimes I think I’m going to be sick from how insane he makes me.)
He’s beaten the game in a solid minute, he’s such a fucking wanker, I love him so fucking much it’s ridiculous. He’s already walking his way back to me with a giant fucking pink kitten plush in his arms, with ridiculous white patches over it’s eyes, and then he does something that makes me love him some impossible amount more.
A small girl, no more than six or seven, I think, had apparently had shit luck with the game, because she’s looking up at Baz with the biggest pleading eyes I have ever seen on a child. He’s kneeling down to talk to her now and the girl’s adult, I think maybe an older sister or very young aunt, is waving her head, like Basil doesn’t have to do whatever he’s thinking about doing, but Basil only shrugs and hands over the plush like it was nothing.
Oh, he’s so smug and soft and kind and perfect, how bloody dare he.
I am going to snog him so sodding hard when we get home.
When he saunters over to me, he shrugs again, as if to say ‘what more can you do?’ but I still have every intention to rib him about it.
“Did you really just give away Sofia the Third of her Name without asking me?”
Baz perks a brow at me, relieving me of Mr. Bun’s company (how dare he?? We have been bonding??) and my arms thank him for it. “I can win you another if you like.”
“No, no,” I sniff dramatically and I can tell Basil knows I’m just taking the piss, “She seemed nice and not at all like an evil child. You can make it up to me in other ways.”
“And how might I appease his royal plush collector?” Basil doesn’t hesitate to rib me right back and I make a show of thinking about it, looping my arm around his and dragging him away from the games and towards the intoxicating smells of fried food.
“Well, you can start by telling me the little miss’s sob story,” I answer and lean myself a little more against my prick of an overconfident boyfriend as we walk, “And then maybe I’ll decide.”
It’s a lie, by the way, I’ve already decided.
Baz, of course, knows this, but he tells me anyway. “Well, she lost all her tickets trying to win a goldfish, but then fell in love with your Sofia the Third–”
“Sofia the Third of her Name,” I correct.
“Right. She fell in love with your Sofia, but with no tickets she couldn’t even attempt. Besides, it’s already past her bedtime and her aunt needs to get her back home before it gets too late. It wasn’t really much of anything. Sofia cost me basically nothing.”
“Because you game the system,” I’m nodding along even as I hear Baz start to huff over it. It makes me laugh a little.
“I’m just good at the bloody games–” He protests and I’m still laughing.
“Good at breaking them, yes,” I agree, already moving on, “Anyway, you can get me a ride on the ferris wheel with all your obscenely large plushies and a stick of fried butter.”
“Simon,” Baz looks down at me, utterly appalled, “I absolutely refuse to get you a stick of fried butter. I refuse to be party to your early, untimely, cholesterol-related death.”
“But Basil,” I give him my best impression of those puppy dog eyes, “I thought you loved me.”
“We are getting you your ferris wheel ride, but there is absolutely no way I’m kissing you post fried butter. I refuse.”
I’m still pouting ferociously at him.
He’s avoiding looking at me.
We’re stopped in front of the dreaded butter stall.
He’s still not looking at me.
I keep pouting.
He caves.
I’ve got my butter stick, my ferris wheel ride, and kisses at the very top of it, despite his complaints and protests.
I love him so much I might die. I might also die of too much butter intake. I don’t care. It’s stupidly delicious. I’m stupidly happy. He could ask me to marry him right now, I’d definitely say yes. He’s too busy bitching about my butter lips to ask me to marry him though. He’s lying through his teeth.He bloody well adores my butter lips and I know it.
★— ⋆｡˚ [Crossroads]
For Day 24 of Carry on Countdown 23, Cross. @carryon-countdown
In which Simon is an actual half-dragon and he's found himself in a bit of a situation with a certain human mage. What's a familiar even supposed to do anyway?
This part is rated T, mostly just for the language.
Prior Parts: 9, 15, & 18
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They were at a crossroads. Apparently, there was a lot of magick nestled in crosswords. Baz had explained it some along the way here, but Simon hadn’t really absorbed it all so much. That was fine, this was just introductory. Basil had said Simon didn’t need to remember anything and everything he said about magick anyway.
So here they were, standing at a crossroads, a fairly quiet one it seemed. “It’s not the most powerful we could’ve gone to, but we won’t be disturbed here.” Apparently a more travelled crossroad could store more potential, reach more depths, or something of the like. Simon was trying to pay attention, really he was.
Simon still wasn’t sure what it was they were going to do by being here. Baz was already drawing out chalk circles on the ground in some kind of cryptic obsessive-compulsive pattern. It sort of looked like something that would show up on a late-night BBC documentary about “the corrupted youth.”
He looked over to Basil again.
Yeah, he could have definitely be the face of the corrupted youth. No, maybe not in the traditional way or the way you’d expect. He wore his blazer and shirt and tie all neat and nicely, but his long black as pitch hair slicked back in a short pony and an ears full of golden piercings, his nails painted black… yeah, he could be the corrupted youth. If you looked close enough.
Simon inched closer to those meticulously drawn circles, careful not to disturb them as he squinted down at them. “We’re not summoning some kind of demon are we?”
Basil took a moment to look properly aghast at Simon, pausing his meticulous drawings. “Of bloody course not. That would be insane. It’s barely your first day as a familiar.”
“Oh,” Simon hesitated, “Does that mean we might eventually?”
Basil snorted a sort of half-a-laugh, “Not if we can avoid it. I’d prefer not to lose my soul being reckless like that.”
“Well that’s a bloody relief–”
“We’re banishing one,” Baz interrupted as he puts the finishing touches on his circles, glyphs really, and stands. He claps the dust from his palms and stands himself up outside of the design, circling it and checking his work over.
“I’m sorry, what?” Simon blinked over at Basil, the colour draining from his face, “What happened to it being my first day as a familiar?”
Baz waved his hand dismissively, nose pointed up, “This is easy work. I could do this on my own, in it’s entirety, and I have before. You’ll make it easier though. Just stand…” Baz stepped over to Simon and guides him to a particular point on the design, the eastern side, if Simon wasn’t getting himself mixed up. “Here. Don’t move, don’t break the lines, just hands on the ground on either side of the point and…” the explanation sort of broke up for a moment, “Actually, how do you access your magick, usually?”
Simon settled himself as Baz had described. He didn’t really know too much magick, let alone how to do it well, or even consistently, for that matter. “Accidentally?” He finally admitted.
Baz didn’t answer right away, correcting Simon’s hands only slightly before stepping around to the opposite point of the circle. “How do you go about your little… shape change? Is that not magick?”
“Kind of?” Simon didn’t really know how he did that either, “I think it’s mostly instinct.”
“Alright, well,” Baz shrugged, “Reach for that instinct then. Find whatever little thing that makes you shift and just, I suppose, touch it. Try and touch it without switching shapes.”
Simon’s gaze stayed fixed to that corner for a long while, long enough that the silence between them got a little awkward, that the air between them got a little stale, that Baz started to get a little impatient.
“Think you can manage?”
“Oh, right,” Simon scrunched up his nose and concentrated, thinking about that feeling that came right before the switch, “Yeah, I think I’ve got it.”
“Grand,” Basil planted his own hands the same way Simon’s were, just opposite of him, “Just hold on to that feeling. I’m starting now.”
Before Simon could confirm he’d heard or understood, Baz was speaking. Well, Simon thought it was speaking, but it was definitely in a tongue he’d never heard before and it didn’t feel human. It felt heavy and thick and dark and Baz’s eyes had gone black in the sclera, but Simon didn’t have time to think about that either. He had to keep his mind on that feeling, that little… okay, maybe not so little, orb of energy that caused his shifts. It was warm in his mind and if he thought about it hard enough he could roll it around in his palms, like a small sun, but it wasn’t so scorching like this.
When the demon came through in middle of the glyphs Baz had arranged, it was a whole dramatic affair, or it certainly seemed that way to Simon. It was… a bit beyond direct perception, a swirling mass of dark energy and wispy smoke. The area immediately surrounding them had definitely grown hotter and the cement under Simon’s palms was notably more uncomfortable to the touch, but he didn’t move his palms away.
He did his best to remain as Baz had put him, despite the sweat pooling in the small of his back. It had gotten harder to maintain that connection with his miniature personal ball of sunshine now that the demon had found itself here.
And then the demon spoke.
Simon fumbled the ball in his mind’s eye and his shape slipped from one to the other like water rushing down from the apex of a waterfall. His wings fluttered behind him at the swiftness of the change, tail stretching out on instinct as his body adjusted, but his claws, even as small as they were comparatively to his human shape had managed to stay solid in that same spot.
Thank Merlin and Morgana and every other mage to come before. He ignored the pure power contained in that voice and focused to pull this orb back into focus. There was no sludge running over his ears, only this sun in his palms, only the magick of it flowing through him.
It was speaking the same tongue that Basil was using, but Basil remained unphased, only focusing harder on his incantation, his brows knit together with effort and sweat starting to bead down the back of his perfect neck. Simon couldn’t help but be taken with his unflappable aura for a moment, impressed by his sheer will to remain unwavering when faced with such a thing as the demon caught between them.
Simon redoubled his efforts to hold that little ball of energy, pulsing brighter the longer Baz chanted. He prayed he hadn’t fucked anything up too hard for Baz when he’d shifted. He also didn’t want to lose his soul to some reckless act within a day of finally finding a steady source of food.
At least in this shape, there was no sweat to gather down his spine and his palms didn’t ache so much. Simon’s wings fanned gently to keep him cool and he allowed himself to concentrate on Basil’s calm repetitions over the oil-slick wet feeling that came with the demon’s words.
Almost as suddenly as the demon appeared, the ground under it fell away.
There was a large whooshing noise.
And then the demon was gone too.
The road reconstructed itself in between the two of them and then everything fell quiet.
Simon stayed poised until Baz moved. Basil stood slowly, dusting his hands off again, and fetched the bucket of water he’d left aside. He poured it over the now sizzling sigils, burned of their power (Simon had no idea how or why he knew that), and that’s when Simon allowed himself to move. He trotted over to Baz’s side and headbutted his calf.
It was as close as he could manage to a ‘good job’ without words.
“Oh,” Baz looked down at him, “You shifted.”
Simon let out a small trill of confirmation and then Baz’s nose started bleeding.
“Oh,” Baz said again, catching the blood in his open palm, and Simon could see he was moving too slowly, that his balance was starting to go, “It seems I over-exerted myself.”
★— ⋆｡˚ [Losing Myself In Simon Snow]
For Day 23 of Carry on Countdown 23, Bite. @carryon-countdown
On Simon Snow and Baz Pitch and their respective sets of teeth finding their way into each other's bodies.
Rated M for... this being what it is (the precursor to smut).
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Simon bites a lot.
Between the two of us, you’d expect the vampire to be the one that bites a lot, but no. That honor goes to the dragon winged boy with the prehensile and overly sensitive tail.
When we’re kissing, he tugs my lips between his teeth, nips at them till they’re sore. He’ll trail more nips and bites overy jaw and down my neck and over my shoulders until I’m so worked up and frustrated, I pin him beneath me, just to keep his teeth from digging in more. I mean, other things follow, but it starts with stopping Simon from assaulting me with his teeth.
When he’s been worked up into a bluster— my fault, almost with one hundred percent certainty, I know— he bites. He latches onto my forearm or pec and digs in for dear life until I give in and stop teasing him for some small thing or another. Even if I think he’s cute when he’s all red in the face and annoyed with me.
I do, by the way, always think he’s cute.
When he’s embarrassed, he steals my hand to hold, inevitably using me as a sort of shield from whatever thing’s embarrassing him. I’ll talk us out of the situation and walk us away and then somehow my hand will end up in his mouth and he’ll be chewing on my palm like some sort of stimtoy. I don’t bother to stop him. It’s silly, sure, and it feels odd, but I don’t mind if it helps calm him.
When he’s angry, he doesn’t quite bite. He’ll snap his jaw at whatever or whomever has him fuming, but he never actually finds purchase to bite. I can feel it in him though, the urge to snap back with something more instinctual than sharp words and mean looks. Sometimes it’s at me, though I like to think that I give Simon less cause to be angry than I once did, but even though I always let him, he never bites me when he’s fuming at me. He doesn’t want to actually hurt me, sweet thing that he is.
Sometimes I wonder if it’s because I don’t bite him. It is mostly in teasing and play and definitely intended to get a reaction out of me, so it could be that. I mentioned the thought to Bunce once and she kindly asked me to never mention it again, or else she’d evaporate out of existence.
I’ll stick with Shakespeare and familial magicks. At least that much is safe to talk about with Penny, as much as the psychology of Simon is also a shared interest of ours. Apparently the interest doesn’t extend to all facets of Simon, and his biting habits are just a boundary she won’t cross.
It’s fair enough, I suppose.
Maybe I need more friends so I can have more perspectives on what might be normal or not. Vampire friends, maybe, though I admit that I’ve had relatively bad luck with those.
I think a part of it might be the whole “well if you won’t bite me, I’ll have to bite you” attitude he’s got going on. A sort of petty revenge, or maybe it’s some kind of way to egg me into doing it. That’s not to say I haven’t thought about biting him. I’ve thought about it too much, honestly. Every time his heart skips a beat when we kiss, every time we’re nestled together in sleep and my nose is buried against his neck, every time his pulse is thrumming with effort when he’s wrapped around me, every time I bend to kiss his wrist…
I think about it too much.
He undoes me, my Simon. Takes every decision I’ve ever made and throws it out the window, makes an exception of himself in my life at every turn.
But not on this. At least, not yet.
I’m getting weaker in my resolve against it, and I think Simon knows, because he’s tripling down on the biting lately. Coffee’s gone cold? A bite. Remote’s gone missing? A bite. I changed the wifi password? Several bites. I had a good reason for it, but no, there was no forgiveness, only teeth.
He’s in my lap and he’s kissing me hard, shoved me back against the couch like he’s desperate for it, and he is. His tongue is everywhere, my lips are already sore from his teeth, his hands are hot under my shirt and I don’t even know what I did to get him worked up like this.
I’m not about to stop him though. “You make me come undone, Simon Snow,” I breath against his lips and he moans into our kiss, “You make me feel insane.”
“Show me,” He half-demands, half-begs as his kisses start wandering. His lips feel like fire against my collarbone and I can hear the thundering of his heart. “Show me how insane I make you…”
I’ve spoiled him, I know I have. I give him everything he wants, I give into his every demand, but there’s no going back on it now. I don’t regret doing it either. I love giving Simon everything I can, he’s so hungry for it, swallows it all down like he was made for me, asks me for more.
I’m kissing him still and he tugs at my lips, asking for a deeper kiss while he grinds over me, and I give it to him. I let my tongue trace the roof of his mouth and the heat of his tongue, and when I pull back I tug on his lips in turn. I give him just the barest taste of my teeth.
He nearly collapses on top of me.
“Simon?”
He leans up on his elbow, biting into his own lip over where my teeth had just been. He bites hard enough to make himself bleed. I don’t think he’d intended that, but he did it all the same. “You used teeth.”
I don’t think he can even taste his own blood he’s so caught up in the thought.
It’s a moral thing. I want to live my life with Simon Snow. If I drink human, I become more inhuman, I live forever, blah blah blah. I’ve thought about it. I’ve thought about it too sodding much.
There is a drop of blood growing on Simon Snow’s lips.
I’m not thinking about it when my tongue darts out of it’s own accord and laps over the bite. I’m not thinking about it as that droplet runs over my tongue and back down my throat. I’m not thinking about it as I feel Simon start to run through my veins, as his taste fills my mouth.
The only thing I’m thinking about is that taste, that savory-sweet taste. It’s not like the blood I normally drink, but it is blood. It’s not like anything else I’ve ever tasted. I can’t find the words to describe it, and that would probably shock Simon more than the fact that I’d used teeth in the first place. I don’t stop to think about it.
I capture his split lip between mine and suck over it hard, tongue laving over it as I drink from him, letting myself linger in the flavour that is uniquely Simon Snow’s. I drink from that little wound until it’s given me all it can, and it’s not nearly enough, and in the same breath it’s entirely too much.
I didn’t even realize I’d flipped at some point in the process. My hands are poised on Simon’s shoulders, keeping him pinned down under me, my kisses turning tender over that small sore.
“You used teeth,” Simon says again as I lean off of him enough to regain myself.
I’m trying to think about my breathing, bring myself back to calm, but my veins are alight with Simon running through them. I’m thrumming with him. “I used teeth,” I manage to echo back.
“Do it again,” Simon asks, his hands finding their way back under my shirt, and I almost shake my head, denying us both.
But why not?
I’m already not thinking. I can’t think of a single reason why not.
I’m already pulling one of his hands away from my abdomen, letting the other linger there while I caress his palm against my cheek, against my lips, teasing the sharp edge of fang against it, lapping over the lines of his palm, tasting his sweat.
I am not thinking.
I am breathing Simon, tasting Simon, bleeding Simon.
And I want more.
I lay the tenderest of kisses against his wrist, feeling the pulse of it against my lips, thin, sensitive skin against thin, sensitive skin. “Do it again?” My voice comes out harsher than intended, giving me away entirely.
“Do it again,” Simon confirms. His eyes are fixed to mine, watching me lose myself in the sensations of him.
I don’t mind. I trust him. He trusts me. He wants it just as much as I do.
My fangs sink in against his wrist and he gasps like he’s forgotten how to breathe while I drink from him. Maybe he has. Maybe with both have.
I’m drinking from Simon Snow. I’m losing myself in Simon Snow. I’ve never felt more alive. I’ve never felt more dangerous. I could live on this, I think. He’d let me.
I might be addicted already.
He’s writhing under me when I pull off his wrist, and I must look some kind of way, but I can’t begin to imagine how. I keep kissing his wrist, licking up stray droplets, even as his nails dig into the soft underside of my jaw, begging my attention properly.
“Again,” He whines, and it is a proper whine.
I haven’t taken much for myself. I know I could.
I smirk down at him. “Later,” my words filter back in clearer, and I think I can see the details of him that much sharper, “I have other ways I want to eat you tonight, Simon Snow.”
★— ⋆｡˚ [05. A (Married) Life with a Kitten]
For Day 22 of Carry on Countdown 23, Music. @carryon-countdown
In which Simon Snow brings his husband home a kitten, who his husband (appropriately) names Ophelia.
Rated T for One (1) instance of the f-bomb (I think).
This is a series of snapshots of different Simon Snows and Baz Pitches in the greater multiverse. You can find the other "lives" here: [Day 3: Alternate Universe][Day 19: Sci-Fi][Day 20: Flowers][Day 21: Begin Again]
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“Okay,” Simon’s text opens, “Promise not to be mad.”
That’s always a good start. Basil doesn’t bother to text back, only checks the time to make sure Simon would be done with the kids for the day and decides now is a good enough time to call a break for the symphony. He dismisses them with a wave, flashing five twice as he steps away from the podium, already calling his husband. “Promise not to be mad is an ominous way to start a conversation, love.”
“Okay, but you have to promise,” Simon pouts adorably on the other end of the line. Baz can just see those blue eyes glistening up at him and the indignant jut of Simon’s chin when he protests Basil’s objections, and the dramatised sniffling his Simon would do.
He sighs, already defeated, “Love, do I ever stay mad at you long?”
“Well, no…” Simon admits, and Basil can see the little duck he’s doing with his head right then without having to see him at all, “But still! Don’t get mad in the first place for this one.”
Baz paces a circle once, and then he paces it again, just one more time before giving in fully to his defeat. “Alright, I won’t be. Actually mad. But what have you gone and done in the first place?”
“Nothing! Just, well, it wasn’t me who did anything,” Simon starts, and Baz could agree he probably hadn’t actually done anything too offensive himself. “So you know how the school’s gotten a sort of campus cat in the last couple of months?”
“Mhmn,” Baz intones, forcing himself to sit in an empty seat in the concert hall so as to not work himself up excessively or worry his musicians. He visualises the twenty tiny kindergarteners Simon minds throughout the day, running through their faces and various little mops of messy kindergartener hair from the last time he’d seen them. He could just imagine how excited they must be about some sweet campus stray. Knowing Simon, he’s probably set up a cat house in some corner of the playground for it. He doesn’t need to ask about it, he already knows Simon’s done it without even popping by the school.
“So the cat, we’ve been calling her Midnight, is actually a Mama Midnight and she had her litter like seven, eight weeks ago…” Simon trails off for a moment and Baz has to urge him on with another acknowledging noise, a sort of wordless ‘go on then’ before Simon’s barrelling forward again, “So it’s about time that the kittens get homed and I kind of just took the black one before anyone could say anything all her siblings are orange and white they’re gonna get adopted so easily and I already got her a collar and it’s pink with little rhinestones on it and you can’t tell me to send her to someone else, I’ll cry.”
Baz blinks back at the empty space at the end of the hall, taking all this information in stride. He doesn’t dislike animals. He gets on with cats rather well, actually, he’s just never had one of his own. “Alright,” he concedes without argument, “I won’t tell you to send her to someone else.”
“I’m already atta–” Simon pauses with a confounded little ‘uhhh…’ that stretches on into eternity, “Wait, you said yes?”
“I said yes,” Baz confirms, standing to stretch his legs and head back to the symphony, his musicians already starting to test their instruments in the background.
“That was surprisingly easy…”
“I have a condition,” Basil announces, purely for the sake of giving Simon a justification for that uneasiness in his tone. And also purely because he likes fucking with his husband still sometimes.
“Okay…?” Simon sounds even more suspicious of him and Basil has to hide a laugh, pulling the phone away from his ear while to compose himself before continuing.
“I get to name her.”
“Oh,” Simon says dumbly, “But I–”
“Nope,” Baz pops his ‘p’ as he says it, “That’s my condition, take it or leave it.”
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Baz names her Ophelia. He doesn’t bother to hear any suggestions from Simon, even though Simon had apparently had a long list of names, but when he hears Basil call the little black kitten Ophelia he forgets each and every one of them in an instant.
She ends up being a bit of a priss, dainty on her paws and holding her head high, prancing about like she owns the place only a week and a half into moving in with them. She’s definitely taking after Baz with how he minds the house, each little thing in its little home and not a bit of mess to be found. Not to mention she does the same sort of snubbing Baz does, nose up to the sky when she doesn’t want to hear it or doesn’t get her way. The worst of it is she’s definitely bonding with Basil more than she’s bonding with Simon!
Well, alright, that wasn’t a bad thing, not actually. Something about coming home to find Baz lounging watching the tele or browsing his computer and having the little kitten on his lap napping was entirely too precious. Something about them made him entirely too fond. If it wasn’t that, then they’d be in the kitchen while Baz was cooking, and he’d have his headphones in and the sheet music to the symphony his orchestra is playing and between stirring pasta sauce or sauteing meat and vegetables, his spatula would double as a make-shift conducting baton.
Ophelia loved when Baz would practice his conducting. Not only did she manage to get stray scraps of meat and cheese when Baz was cooking-conducting, but he also was waving around a very entertaining stick for her to try and snatch from him. Nothing was better for entertaining little Ophelia. They’ve gotten her several sticks that were intended for kittens, with bells and feathers and floof in all manner of bright colours, but nothing satisfies the same way Baz’s spatula satisfies.
Perhaps it was the food. Simon could relate.
Simon’s caught them like this no less than four times so far, and she’s not even ten weeks old.
“You’re spoiling her,” Simon says as he drops his keys in the bowl and slips his shoes off, “I thought I was going to be the one spoiling her, but it’s definitely you.”
“Don’t talk about Princess Ophelia like that to me, Simon,” Basil looks utterly appalled – a farce Simon is well aware of by now.
“I can’t believe you crowned her since the last time I saw you two,” Simon bemoans, flopping himself over on the couch, “When will you crown me, Basilton? When will I have earned the right to be royalty in your eyes?”
Baz walks over with the kitten perched on his arm like she belonged there and Simon pouts at her. “Did you want to be Princess Simon?” Baz’s voice is dripping sarcasm, but Simon only pouts harder.
“Well, what if I did?”
“Simon–” Baz outright chokes on a laugh at the thought and Ophelia looks offended that he shook her perch so abruptly. Baz puts her gently down on the arm of the couch and slides down next to Simon, sprawling the smaller out over his lap. His fingers card soft through Simon’s curls and before he knows it, he’s got Simon curled up like he was the kitten in their household. “Simon, you’re always royalty to me.”
“You’ve never titled me,” Simon prods Baz’s belly gently and Baz hums a soft song back.
“There’s no title in the world worthy of you, love,” Baz says it so sincerely that Simon knows that it must be true, “You’re always first in my heart. Even when you’re jealous of a silly kitten, need I remind you, that you brought home.”
Simon huffs a little, nuzzling his nose against that same spot he’d just poked, laying a soft kiss just there. “I’m not really jealous,” He means it when he says it, “I just wanted some attention.”
“I will always give you the attention you need,” Basil soothes as he brushes Simon’s hair behind his ears, caressing the shell of it gently, “Did you have a rough day?”
“Mhmn,” Simon answers, curling himself up more in Baz’s lap, “Parents…”
The one word bears enough weight to exhaust them both. “Would you like a nap before dinner? Right here on the couch?”
“Will you nap with me?” Simon asks, even as Basil’s already pulling the throw blanket down from where it had been resting at the top of the couch. He’s already sinking down onto the couch with Simon, wrapping himself more thoroughly around his husband, covering them both with that old hand-knit blanket Lady Ruth had given them for their wedding.
“It seems like a good day for a nap, I think.” It’s Baz’s own way of saying ‘of course,’ his own way of making the act of taking care of Simon something for them both.
Simon curls up facing Baz’s chest and Baz takes the edge of the couch, knowing Simon would fall off if he were to switch their positions. Simon’s breathing settles out as soon as Baz starts humming the notes to his symphony, just a quiet thing for Simon to focus on instead of the dreaded parents that he had been thinking about all day long, no doubt.
Princess Ophelia finds her own place curled up at the back of Simon’s knees, purring loudly and comfortably napping with both her dads together on the couch.
★— ⋆｡˚ [04. A Life as a Writer (and a Barista)]
For Day 21 of Carry on Countdown 23, Begin Again. @carryon-countdown
Basil is a writer in dire need of a starting line. But where the bloody hell is he going to find it?
Rated T for Basil being a Smut Author and Simon being a Smut Enthusiast.
This is a series of snapshots of different Simon Snows and Baz Pitches in the greater multiverse. You can find the other "lives" here: [Day 3: Alternate Universe][Day 19: Sci-Fi][Day 20: Flowers]
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The hardest part of starting a love story, or any story really, is the bloody first line. No matter the environment, the characters, the whole setting, that first bloody line’s always the hardest. Basil’s been sitting on this one for three and a half weeks now. He’s been in bars, dive bars and class acts both, libraries, cafes, parks, even secluded little psychic shops. Nothing seemed to do the trick though. Basil’s remained just as wordless as ever, no matter where he goes.
Lately, though, he’s been haunting this one cafe in particular, with a little disaster of a barista and, he thinks, baker. He hasn’t actually been here early enough to see whether Simon does more than put the pastries out, but he’s always got a bit of a flour smear on his cheeks and his apron’s always a bit of a mess and it just sort of adds up to him being a baker, at least as far as Basil can tell.
He wouldn’t actually know, he’s never been a baker.
Right now, he’s not looking to be much of a writer either. He’s got to at least start this thing. Basil’s got a deal and everything, publishers and editors and such waiting on him. He pitched a damn good plot too and had a decent cast of characters. Now he just had… to bloody do something with it.
Resorting to staring down his empty document just seemed the obvious ‘something’ to do. The cursor blinked threateningly back at him. The cursor was unfortunately, undeniably winning.
Another cup of coffee slides itself in front of Basil, the prior empty one skillfully whisked away to Simon’s tray of dirty dishes. “Still no luck on your start?”
“Don’t tell me you’ve noticed,” Baz groans at the barista, glancing over to him out of the corner of his eyes and sipping his coffee even despite the apparent call-out.
“You’ve been in here every day for the last week,” Simon shrugs, “That doc remains as blank as when you came in the first day.”
“And the coffee?”
“Two hour mark.”
“Well, thank you then,” Baz says with another long spit of coffee, “I just don’t know where to start.”
Simon looks around the cafe, seeing it all but empty except for Basil, and plops himself down across from the struggling writer. “Well, what is it you’re actually trying to start?”
“It’s…” Basil pauses for a moment, assessing Simon with a little more scrutiny before shrugging. He worked in a cafe, there was only so much straight in anyone who works in a cafe, “It’s a romance. I’ve a contract. It’s a supernatural, enemies-to-lovers, witches and werewolves story with all the bells and whistles and underlying fairy tale elements except it’s a bit more future based than middle ages based. Oh, and they’re gay, but you probably could’ve guessed that.”
Simon blinks. “I still have no idea what that’s about.”
“Ah,” Baz lets out an awkward little laugh, “I can give you the proper pitch? I’ve got it all outlined, mostly, it’s just starting it.”
“You got a contract without a manuscript?”
“It’s a sequel, sort of. Like. Same verse, different characters. So yeah, I’ve a contract,” Baz confirms, “I just need to get it rolling.”
“Well, what’s the first one?” Simon asks, precious and innocent.
Basil sighs, supposing if he’s this far in he may as well unmask himself, hopefully Simon just didn’t know what the book was. “Prince of the Drowned.”
“Oh my god,” Simon leans over onto the table and closer to Basil, “That was so smutty… you look so respectable though.”
“Thank you? I think,” Baz snorts out a small laugh. “I guess there goes any hope of you not knowing who I am.”
“I’m not sorry. In fact I might be a little too proud. I don’t read a lot, but that book was hot. So is your next protagonist as much a rake as the last?” Simon, apparently, knows all the romance tropes.
“Well, not as much,” Baz wavers his hand a little bit, “This one’s more a like. Life-long obsession come to fruition sort of vibe. Unhealthy attachment, codependency in all the wrong ways, probably some sick and twisted fantasy fulfillment. You know, not exactly ‘clean’ stuff.”
“Ohh~” Simon bites his lip as the door opens to a new customer, “Okay I’m getting this, but I say start it with a fight. If they’re going to be messy like that, start it with a nasty fight.”
Basil takes a moment as Simon walks away, thinking it over. It works with his rough outline and it fits the vibe. Thank you, random cafe boy, you have truly helped a drowning man out. He puts the first words to page.
And ends up writing three thousand words in a single sitting. It’s a start, he might change it later. He might scrap it entirely later, or put it somewhere else in the novel, or in a different novel altogether, but it’s a start, and that’s better off than he’s been in over a week.
He doesn’t leave without Simon checking in again. “Hey, you’ve got words,” Simon half-sings from over Baz’s shoulder, and Baz immediately tabs away from his work.
“I do,” Baz twists in his seat to look at Simon properly, “And no spoilers for you.”
“That filthy already?” Simon teases and Basil only shrugs.
“Suppose you’ll have to read and find out, won’t you?” Baz smirks a little bit at Simon’s obvious curiosity, “Since you’re obviously a fan and all.”
Simon sighs, “If I bring my book in tomorrow, will you sign it for me?”
Baz can’t quite tell if that’s a tease or not, but he may as well take it for a genuine request. “I feel like that’s the least I can do for someone who helped me at least get a start going.”
“So generous,” Simon sighs, leaning just a little on the back of Baz’s chair, “Your boyfriend must be lucky though, I bet he gets previews of your smut.”
“Ah, well,” Baz shrugs, “If I had one, maybe he would.”
Simon’s lips form a precious little oh, terribly unsubtle for half a moment before leaning off Baz’s chair just as Baz closes his laptop entirely. “So what do you look for in a boyfriend… if you’re up to sharing?”
“That’s incredibly unsubtle, Simon,” Basil fixes his face in an unimpressed sort of look, but Simon’s clearly not buying it.
“So was asking you back tomorrow– and you already agreed.”
Baz let’s Simon have half a smirk and shrugs, “Suppose that I did, didn’t I?”
“That you did,” Simon grins back wide at Baz, knowing somehow he’s already won, “So is Basilton you’re real name or…?”
“It is,” Baz answers as he packs everything up, shoulder bag neatly in place, “If I do decide to show up tomorrow, though, you can call me Baz.”
It’s no surprise at all when Basil shows up just as invited the next day. It’s even less of a surprise when he signs his name in that book with his phone number alongside. ‘For the Unsubtle One with a spicy little mind,’ it says in neatly curled silver script. What’s least surprising of all is how quickly Simon calls that number, Baz’s phone ringing before he even manages to leave the cafe.
★— ⋆｡˚ [03. A Life in a Flower Shop]
For Day 20 of Carry on Countdown 23, Flowers. @carryon-countdown
Simon Snow gets a bouquet. His day is going great. (if you saw the wrong summary, no you didn’t)
Rated T for cussing and Idiots-to-Lovers-isms.
This is a series of snapshots of different Simon Snows and Baz Pitches in the greater multiverse. You can find the other "lives" here: [Day 3: Alternate Universe][Day 19: Sci-Fi]
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“Oh~ that’s a lovely bouquet you’ve got there, Simon,” Penny hums as she saunters into the shop, tugging her lip ring between her teeth.
“Yeah,” Simon grumbles, “I know. It’s for the shop's first anniversary, I guess.”
Penny stops short, quirking her head at Simon’s tone. “Why are you being such a priss about a romantic bouquet? It’s lovely, you’re not taken, so you’ve got an admirer, who wouldn’t be happy to know they’ve got an admirer?”
That seems to perplex Simon, his brows furrowing and eyes darting obviously to the flower shop across the road.
“Oh, of bloody course it’s from the shopkeep across the way. Basil’s been trying to figure out how to confess for the past three months now. Suppose the anniversary’s as good a reason as any to make a move,” Penny shifts topic with eace, waving her hand dismissively. “Anyway, is that the face of a rejection I see happening? You’re going to break his little heart, Simon, go gently if you do reject the poor lad.”
“He’s a sodding arse,” Simon scowls harder as he says it, sending all kinds of angry energy across the road and directly at Baz where he was probably tending plants. Singing to them sweetly, watering their roots, maybe adjusting the plants that needed more sun so they’d flourish better. Simon knew too much about how Baz tended his plants.
“Well, yes,” Penny admits, “But it’s a very nice bouquet.”
“He told me it meant ‘fuck you’ in flower,” Simon groans out.
Penny doesn’t hold back her laugh at that. “And you believed him?”
Poor Simon gives a defeated nod and Penny has to temper her laugh for that.
“Oh, you poor sod,” Penny pats Simon gently on the back, “Baz Pitch really is a prick, isn’t he?”
Simon nods again, huffing his confusion. “He’s been trying to confess?”
“So far four times, and that’s just the one’s I’ve seen. I’m sure there’s been more that I haven’t,” Penny consoled, her hand running soothing circles between Simon’s shoulder blades.
“How did I miss them then?” Simon doesn’t quite wail, but there’s still an anguished little noise at the tail end of his words that could definitely qualify as something like a wail, “Why do I think he hates me?”
“Because he’s not just a prick, but an emotionally constipated prick to boot,” Penny sighs, “You want me to go through the flowers and tell you what they really mean?”
Simon leans his head on Penny’s shoulder, “You’d do that for me?”
“If neither of us have any appointments, I’ll do it right now. If we do, I’ll do it first break we get, alright?”
“Alright…” Simon takes the bouquet in hand and sits down on the chair at the front desk, “My first appointment is in an hour. I think you’re just potential walk ins today.”
“Well, it won’t take an hour to get through it,” Penny pats Simon’s shoulder gently, “I promise he likes you.”
“How did I miss it?”
“Probably because you both attempt to kill each other on sight,” Penny tuts, “Now let’s get into these flowers.”
Apparently, the three lilies that serve as the centerpiece to this bouquet apparently represent beauty, and their pink colour means admiration, or even infatuation, a far cry from a fuck you. The lilacs, soft purple stems bursting forth, apparently are a tender representation of a first love, which Simon finds a bit surprising. Baz is way too bloody handsome to have never had a proper first love before him. Would theirs even count? It was more fight than anything else.
Penny flicks his ear to bring his focus back to the flowers when his mind starts wandering down that path. “Focus on the flowers, Simon, not wherever your mind is going trying to figure things out. Figuring’s not your specialty.”
“Right, sure, of course,” Simon grumbles out, feeling particularly scolding.
Baby’s breath, apparently a common filler in bouquets, is also a choice pick for new beginnings, which is why it’s so often in wedding bouquets. He’s put in forget-me-nots too, and those can mean devotion and true love and Simon’s starting to think he’s in over his head. Penny just laughs at him for it. Even the sprigs of thyme represent something. Apparently strength and power and Simon’s not really sure why Basil thinks as much of him, and he says as much.
“Well, you started this shop from nothing. You made your own way and you’re not exactly shy about it,” Penny answers a little too matter-of-factly, “And bully for you, it’s a pretty strong confession, I’d say.”
“Does the greenery mean something too?” Simon sets the bouquet down in front of him, staring deeply at the filler leaves that make up the space between whites and purples and pinks.
Penny laughs again, a little louder, “Well, maybe, but not that I know about. Anyway, even if it does, it’s only going to keep being romantic, I’m sure.”
“Why did he say it meant ‘fuck you’ though?” Simon groans, slouching into his seat.
“I mean, if you think about it, in a way, he is saying ‘fuck you’ in flower. Just,” Penny wobbles her head and hand in unison, “Like fuck you, positively. Fuck you, literally. I’d like to fuck you, intimately, maybe. I don’t know his preferences, though, I shouldn’t make assumptions on them.”
“Okay, Pen, please, I bloody get it,” Simon groans.
“Alright, alright,” Penny shrugs, leaning back against the front desk, “So are you gonna do something about it?”
Simon scrunches up his nose, “Oh, bloody well yes I am. That absolute arse deserves what’s coming to him.”
“After your appointment,” Penny pops her lips as she says it, gesturing to the person who was just walking through the door, “Seems they’re a touch early.”
“After my appointment,” Simon agrees, if a little reluctantly. He was definitely not letting this one slide.
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Baz, unprepared and going through the preparations to close shop up ten minutes before he would actually have to, was entirely unsuspecting to the thought that someone might have wisened Simon up to what his bouquet might actually mean. Might as well be ready, he’d always said, and it’s pretty well how he lives his life most of the time too.
Excepting, of course, in the case of Simon Snow.
Simon Snow makes him impulsive, makes him throw insults and fly off the handle, makes him stay up till midnight perfecting an impromptu arrangement he’d had to drive across town just to get two kinds of flower that he’d run out of stock for two days before this idea had struck him. Needless to say, Simon Snow made him a bit of an idiot.
The bell clangs to his door at five till the hour and Basil’s already starting his usual spiel, “We close in five, if you want to pick something premade and quick, the–” he looks up out of courtesy and instead of some customer he hadn’t been expecting, sees Simon panting his doorway, “Oh. It’s you.”
“Me,” Simon narrows his eyes at Baz, “You… ‘fuck you’ in flower right back.”
It takes Baz a moment. He’d basically completely forgotten that throwaway line over the course of the day, between filling orders and answering calls, he’d had other things to think about. Especially considering it had just been a sarcastic moment in his pre-caffeinated state. “Do you mean… like insultingly or literally?”
Simon marches right up to him, stomping the whole way, which is a rather wasteful expense of energy, Baz has mind to think, before he grabs Baz by the cheeks and tugs him down to kiss him hard.
It’s a hot mess of a kiss. Their teeth clang, Simon’s lips burn from leftover curry, –it must be what he’d had for lunch– and neither of them have any idea where to put their hands after Simon had grabbed Baz by the face. Eventually, it slows down, Baz’s hands finding at least a slightly less awkward perch at Simon’s hips, squeezing him gently. Simon’s hands slip down to hang over Baz’s shoulders and they stay like that for a long moment.
The door bell rings again.
“We’re closed. Come back tomorrow,” Basil announces without an ounce of shame and without looking up from Simon’s eyes. He hears the door close again, and maybe a muttered apology, but he can deal with it later if anything comes of it. “I’m taking that as a literal ‘fuck you,’ I hope you know.”
“You’re a sodding arse,” Simon scoles him, a fierce little pout on his lips.
“Yes, and you kissed me,” Baz laughs out loud as he says it, “You must have a thing for sodding arses.”
“Shove off,” Simon growls and forces him into another kiss, this one with slightly less teeth, taking the time to slot their lips together properly this time, “You owe me an explanation, Baz Pitch.”
“Alright, I’ll get you one over dinner,” Baz answers with a kiss to the point of Simon’s nose, “Seem fair?”
“It’s a start,” Simon huffs, “You know it’s not my fault your easy access to half-decent espresso shut down right? The building was already empty by the time I put my bid in!”
Basil snorts another laugh at that, louder, nipping the pout of Simon’s lips, wrapping his arms properly around Simon’s waist and pulling the shorter in close by the waist. “I’m glad it’s gone now, but I certainly wasn’t then.”
“You better be,” Simon purses his lips adorably, already half-caught in a bluster.
Basil shakes his head and squeezes Simon hard enough to pull his attention back to the kissing and not the fighting part of them. “Shut up, Simon Snow, and let me kiss you again.”
And Simon lets him. He does, and he does, and he does.
★— ⋆｡˚ [02. A Life in the Future]
For Day 19 of Carry on Countdown 23, Sci-Fi. @carryon-countdown
Simon needs work done and there's no place better to get it done than with Basil Grimm-Pitch. If the sodding bastard says yes, that is.
Rated T for cussing and, I think, themes.
This is going to be a series of snapshots of different Simon Snows and Baz Pitches in the greater multiverse. You can find the first "life" here, which was written for Day 3, Alternate Universe.
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“This isn’t a chop shop, you know,” the tech says as soon as Simon Snow slips through the door. He hasn’t even looked up from the prosthetic he’s been working on.
Simon scrunches up his nose in annoyance at the assumption, slipping off his coat all the same. “I didn’t want a chop shop, I need a bioware specialist.”
The tech looks up and squints over at him. He looks at him hard enough that Simon can feel the judging. He looks at him so hard the tech decides he needs to get an even closer look, his eyes shifting as he walks over and takes Simon in, circling him like a predator assessing his worth in meat. “Well, I am a bioware specialist. Sometimes. I don’t think that’s exactly what you’re looking for though.”
“How would you know?” Simon prods, as though he weren’t talking to someone who knew bioware like the back of his hand, probably better than that.
“Because these are illegal,” the tech answers with no hesitation, running a hand over the metal of his wings. Simon knows now that this is definitely the shop owner, Basil Grimm-Pitch, the eyes giving him away, not to mention the impromptu assessment.
“Not all customs are illegal,” Simon argues, “Your eyes aren’t illegal.”
“Not so far as anyone knows, no,” Baz grins as he says it, and Simon supposes it would probably be a lot easier to pass illegal eyes off as legal versus whatever he had going on. “But these wings are. So’s the tail. That’d never pass check in this city. You can’t tell me you get away with it just by covering them up with a coat.”
“Well, no,” Simon admits, “That’s why I’m here, actually.”
“You’ll have to give me a good reason to want to risk my business for your illegal augments.” Baz runs his fingers over the joints in his wings, making them twitch slightly with the touch. “What’s wrong with them?”
“Well, technically nothing,” Simon answers and then makes a great exaggerated face and clenches his fists and looks a good bit more exerted than he should for someone who’s just standing there, sweat beading on his forehead, and then he relaxes again, “Except when I try to fold them against my back like I should be able to. They just don’t anymore.”
“Sounds like a simple issue in the gears,” Basil stepped around front of Simon again, “Are you sure you’re not looking for a chop shop?”
“They’re connected at the nerves, I can’t go to just any chop shop for this. Can’t unhook em, can’t not feel em, they’re just stuck there,” Simon sighed, “Anyway shouldn’t the challenge be enough to incentivize you?”
Basil hums and runs his hand over his chin, considering, “I’ll need my hourly fee. I still need to eat around here, and potentially the cost of discreetly shipping in parts, depending on what you need. Can you afford that?”
Simon pursed his lips, “Maybe.”
“Maybe?”
“Maybe. Hard to do jobs like this. Can I loan for it? Or trade for it?” Bartering wasn’t his specialty, but trading was generally alright. Someone always needed something done, and Simon was damn good at doing something when it was most needed.
“I might have a job for you, eventually. Not right now though.” Basil took a step back and gave Simon another look from head to toe and back up again. “Sure, yeah, something could come up. You’d have to stick around till it did though, are you up for that?”
“Nowhere else to go,” Simon admits with a shrug, “You’ll do it?”
“I’ll make an attempt. Removal sounds like not an option, so I’ll make an attempt. You trust me enough to bring in a consultant?” Baz asks as he sits himself back down in his seat, placing a pair of particularly complicated-looking glasses on his nose, picking up where he left off with the prosthetic.
“You need a consultant?” Simon perks a brow as he steps to get a closer look at whatever Basil’s working on. He knows… shit all about any of this. It looks to be… a hand, so far as Simon can tell. Five fingers, a palm, some knuckles, little faux nails… yep, it’s a hand. Beyond that, Simon’s bloody clueless.
“Not really, but a second pair of eyes and/or hands can be helpful in complicated cases like yours though,” Basil answers with an off-handed wave. “Who fucked you up with those augments anyway? Why’d you ask for something so insane in the first place?”
Simon shuffles his feet awkwardly a moment, leaning back and away from Baz. “It wasn’t something I asked for, actually.”
Basil glances up at Simon through those glasses, then over them, a look of understanding passing over his face, and then he refocuses once more on the hand in front of him. “I see,” he says simply, “Well, who botched the job? Do you know?”
“Ah,” Simon relaxes a moment, shrugging slightly, “Well, only what he goes by.”
“What’s he go by then?”
Work names were generally better known anyway, Simon admits to himself, at least most of the time. He wonders a moment over whether or not he should give up the name. At one point in his life, Simon had considered him something of a mentor. Did he want to admit his former mentor had ruined him like this? He’s not entirely sure yet.
He gives the name over anyway, “He goes by the Mage in most circles.”
Basil puts down his tools and takes off his glasses again, zeroing in on Simon’s face. “Are my ears malfunctioning or did you say the bloody Mage?”
Simon furrows his brows a little at that, “Do you have augmented ears?”
“That’s neither here nor there,” Baz dismisses, leaning further forward while he looks Simon down, “Did you say the Mage?”
“Ah,” Simon blinks a little bit, “Yeah, I said the Mage.”
“Oh, I’ll do it for bloody free, I hate that sodding blighter.” Basil shook his head again, regaining his composure just that easily. “You should head in the back for now. I’ve got an expected client in the next half. You’ll not want them seeing you all wings out like that. Most of my clientele are above board, after all.”
“Alright then,” Simon agrees, a little confused. He wasn’t about to protest a free fix though. His legs were already moving him the way towards the door Baz had nodded to, “Anything I should know?”
“Yeah,” Baz answers without looking, “Don’t bloody touch anything. I’ll pop back after we’re clear.”
“I think can manage that...”
“Good. You have a name I can call you?”
“Simon,” he says after a moment’s pause at the door, “Simon Snow.”
“Excellent, Simon. Now you hide in there for a minute. Take a nap or something. We’ll handle those wings, and then maybe we’ll talk more about the Mage, sound alright?” Baz just barely glances back at Simon out of the corner of his eyes.
Simon… wasn’t exactly sure he wanted to talk about the Mage, but he did want that work done. “I’ll tell you what I can. If it’s not enough, I’ll still do that job then?”
“Brill,” Baz turned back again as Simon slipped through that back door and into a wide, open… well… operating room. He wasn’t sure what he should be more confused about: the operating room in what was definitely ‘not a chop shop’ or Basil Grimm-Pitch using words like ‘brill.’
★— ⋆｡˚ [Pancakes]
For Day 18 of Carry on Countdown 23, Hunger. @carryon-countdown
In which Simon is an actual half-dragon and he's found himself in a bit of a situation with a certain human mage. He supposes there's probably perks (pancakes) to this arrangement.
This part is rated T, mostly just for the language.
Days 9 & 15 can be found [here] and [here]
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Simon quirked his lips at Baz’s threatening spatula and shrugged. He was already in this, he might as well be committed to it. Simon pushed the contract over so Baz could inspect it, his own signature prominently displayed at the bottom. “I’m the ‘maybe you’re a dwarf’ dragon you caught last night.”
Baz stepped cautiously towards the signed contract, picking it up carefully and squinting down at the curly scrawl that made up Simon’s signature. “Simon Snow?” Baz asks, incredulous, “You signed this? Really? And that’s really your name?”
“Well,” Simon answered with a shrug, “Yes. And yes.”
“Not a terribly creative name for a dragon.” Baz still sounded doubtful, but at least he wasn’t pointing his spatula at Simon like it was a weapon.
“You’re one to talk,” Simon shot back, brows furrowing as he leaned back against the seat he’d taken. “What sort of name is Baz for a mage, anyway?”
“It’s an abbreviation.”
“For?”
Baz sighed and returned his attention to his pancakes– thick, fluffy pancakes– which had somehow not been miraculously burned. Simon felt his stomach rumble again as he was reminded of that sweet smell of syrup and fresh made breakfast. “It’s short for Basilton.”
Oh, Simon would really rather be talking about the pancakes, but he couldn’t help but give to the urge to prod a little further. “And what sort of name’s Basilton, anyway?”
“An overly complicated one, and technically my middle,” Baz answered while he plated the first batch of pancakes, making Simon’s stomach rumble even more obviously. “Which is why I like going by Baz and Basil more often, but my mother had a philosophy about mages needing overly complicated names and I loved her and her odd little quirks too much, so I suppose that’s why I’ve kept it.”
“Oh,” Simon stopped himself short of asking if he was getting any pancakes, “Seems a good reason to keep it. That was a bit more explanation than I was expecting, though.”
“You asked.” Basil was pouring more of the batter onto the pan, perfectly portioned out mini pancakes and Simon completely unsubtly licked his lips as he watched. “Well, what about Simon Snow?”
“Nothing special,” Simon answered with another shrug, “Just what people have always called me, as long as I can remember. Seems to have stuck.”
“Seems so, if you’re signing magickal contracts with it,” Baz hummed back, eyes careful on his pancakes, waving his hand over the cooling stack to the side of him, “Are you going to wait for these to get cold or are you going to eat?”
“Oh! I wasn’t sure if I was allowed,” Simon admitted, half-standing from the table but still wavering.
“You said you signed the contract.”
“I did.”
“Well, did you read it?” Baz questioned with a sideways glance back towards Simon.
“Obviously! It was a magickal contract, I didn’t just sign it without checking… I’m not that stupid.” Simon stood the rest of the way and but paused, not quite taking the first plate, hesitating a moment, “Umn?”
Somehow, Baz understood him. “If you recall, the contract said I’d keep you fed and housed. Also, Butter’s top shelf in the fridge door, real maple syrup in the cupboard above, pull it down to the table for me, will you?”
Simon took his plate and found everything as Baz had described, sitting down with his pancakes and breaking into them all too quickly, soothing the beast in his belly. “Bloody hell– so good.”
“You’re welcome,” Basil called back, sitting himself across from Simon with his own stack of pancakes, if slightly shorter. “So. You’re a dragon? Really?”
“Really really,” Simon answered again, more confident this time. “Or well,” He waved his hand between bites, “I’m half. Mum was normal as far as I know, never met my da though. Do know he was a dragon though, otherwise I wouldn’t be able to do this.”
Simon sat forward, shifting up to the edge of his seat, scrunching up his nose and bending forward enough that his face was nearly in his plate. A concentrated look fixed itself on his face and great, long wings popped into existence on his back and another short moment later, a tail sprouted from the base of his spine, a dark gold leather to match the wings on his back.
“Bloody hell,” Basil grimaced, “Doesn’t that hurt?”
“Like a bitch,” Simon said a little too proudly, “You get used to it though.”
“And the other shape…?” Baz asked, gesturing to the basement door Simon had emerged from.
“Oh, that,” Simon shook his head, clearing the last of his pancakes. Was he hungrier than normal? Well, it had been a while since he’d last had a real meal, he supposed. “Not at all by comparison. Maybe a little discomfort but it’s different. Don’t worry about it, it doesn’t bother me any. I’d say sometimes I’m more comfortable like that even.”
Baz furrowed his brows as he took in all of this information. “This is going to be an odd contract, I think.”
“Well,” Simon shrugged, “I’m not your average dragon, but I think we can make it work anyway. If you end up needing me in my dragon shape, we’ll do that, if not, we won’t. Simple as that.”
“I don’t think anyone’s ever had a dragon-half familiar before. I wonder if there’s any books or records on it… I wonder what resources I can find on dragon-halfs in the first place…”
Baz seemed to have forgotten a pancake and a half in his contemplation, and Simon couldn’t quite stop himself from eyeing it, wetting his lips again. His fingers tapped on the table as he wondered just how to ask if Baz was going to finish that without being impolite.
Luckily, he didn’t have to.
“Oh, you’re probably still hungry, no?” Basil asked when he noticed they way Simon was practically frothing at the mouth.
Simon nodded, fingers already reaching across the table as Basil passed over his remaining pancakes.
“I should have warned you. Familiars have a hunger. It’s the magick you’re storing now,” Basil explained as he glanced off and out the window above the kitchen sink.
“You haven’t done anything though? And I’ve always been hungry…” Simon admitted between giant bites of the remaining the pancakes.
“Yes, well, more,” Baz continued, still looking out that window, “The process started as soon as you signed, and it will enhance your metabolism further. So I suppose since you’re at least half a human, I’ll have to consider more than doubling what I buy when I shop normally… the costs of having a familiar, I suppose.”
“You were the one looking for one,” Simon countered.
Baz’s eyes turn sharply back towards the dragon half, nostrils flaring for a moment. “You’re worth it. I can tell.”
“Already?”
“Already,” Baz confirmed with a curt nod, “I’m quite certain of it.”
★— ⋆｡˚ [Precious Things]
For Day 17 of Carry on Countdown 23, Fluff (the streak remains unbroken!) @carryon-countdown
Simon's had a long day at work. Too long a day, but Basil's there when he gets home to get him safely into bed.
Rated T, for the sweet, nonsexual intimacy of cuddling your exhausted partner naked in bed.
This is yet another part the Nurse/Lawyer AU for this CoC... originally it was only three parts, but I think now we're up to five parts for it. I hope you enjoy them all. 🖤 [Part 1][Part 2]
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It’s been a long bloody day.
My head bangs gently against our front door, my eyes closed softly against the light of the hallway that leads to our apartment, too tired to fumble with the keys until I find the right one to unlock the door and let myself stumble over onto the couch and collapse into unconsciousness.
I bloody well want to, I’m already there internally, already thinking about how nice it’ll be to curl up and allow myself the sweet oblivion of sleep, of nothing. It was sixteen hours straight, and even if it’s not the worst I might have to work in an emergency scenario, even if I’ve done it many, many times before, it is exhausting. I would very much like to be asleep yesterday and not be feeling my bones so much anymore.
The keys are heavy in my palm, but I start fiddling with them all the same, despite the loud noise of them being entirely too much to handle now. I just want quiet. I want quiet and I want Basil and I want our apartment and our bed and blessed, beautiful sleep.
The door opens of it’s own accord, without my help from the key, and there he is. My Basil. He’s wrapping his arms around me and tugging me properly into our apartment.
Our apartment.
I’m still getting used to that, you know, it’s not like we’ve been together that long, but this was our apartment now. Our apartment, full of our things, pictures of our friends and family, our food in the fridge, or everything together. Our future even, maybe.
I’d resisted at first, you know. We’d only been together six months, it wasn’t exactly a sure thing then, and something in me wasn’t confident enough to think I could keep Baz then, but he’d insisted. My lease came up and I was bemoaning not being able to afford how much more they were asking for and Baz had insisted.
“Pay me what you do now if it bothers you so much, that way you don’t feel like it’s a charity affair or some such other nonsense,” He’d said, all posh and snooty like he could get when he was certain he was right. I hate when he thinks his right, by the way, because he usually is right. “Besides, we’re together. We spend over half our nights together, there’s no reason to be shy about moving in to mine.”
So Basil’s ‘mine’ had become ‘ours,’ just like that.
Our place is much nicer than my place had been, all that lawyer money probably had something to do with it, but Baz didn’t gloat about the difference between the two. Not before it had become ours, not during the inevitable move, and not now either.
Now it was just ours, and Baz was holding me in it, petting soft through my hair and smelling faintly of woodsmoke and dark red wine.
“I told you, you didn’t have to stay up waiting for me,” I’m trying to scold him, but it’s only soft and fond and so, so bloody tired.
“I know, love,” his voice is half a song and ridiculously calming. I’m already sighing against his chest, thinking about biting into him I’m so overly fond. “I missed you though, and I’d work I could do from home anyway, so I did that. Now we can sleep in together and I won’t need to be ready for my first meeting until two in the afternoon.”
I hum tiredly against his shoulder, nuzzling it softly already half asleep in his arms.
“Sounds nice, doesn’t it? A nice ten hour sleep, a lazy morning, maybe breakfast in bed, maybe cocoa if I’m feeling fancy about it,” He’s lulling me to sleep with his soft morning plans for us and I think he knows it, except he’s started this while we’re still in the living room.
“Bed,” I manage to murmur, my nose still buried in that same spot against his skin. “That sounds lovely, tell me more in bed.”
Basil laughs quietly at me and I think I love the sound. That’s a lie, I know I love the sound. By now I am well and truly, stupidly in love with Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch. He’s already told me I don’t have to take his name if we ever get married. I can’t believe he’s already thought wedding thoughts, we haven’t been together a full year yet.
I can’t blame him though. I have also been guilty of wedding thoughts already in our relationship. Not terribly deep ones, I’ll admit, but wedding thoughts none the less. Just soft little thoughts, like how handsome he’ll look in a tuxedo, what flowers he might pick out for us, how nice an outdoor wedding might be. Basil’s definitely going to be the one planning a majority of the event, he’s such a bloody perfectionist. I’m partial to the perfectionist in him though, and I don’t think most of the little details will matter half as much to me as they’ll matter to him. Maybe the flavour of the cake would matter… I’d like something related to cherries, maybe. Probably. Definitely.
I’m too tired to be entirely decisive on anything just now, but I do know that cherries would be delightful.
Before I know it, Baz has already gotten us to the bedroom. He must’ve carried me there, because I think my legs have well and truly given out on me. Maybe I’d been dreaming about our wedding, and that’s how I didn’t notice a single step of the way there. It’s entirely his fault, by the way, for being so comforting and soft to rest against right when I’m through the door– before I’ve even made it through the door technically.
“Come here.” I’m being demanding, I know, pulling at his shirt with weak arms while he’s undressing me.
He slips from my grip all too easily, perking a brow down at me, out of my reach and knowing full well I’m too sore and tired and out of it to try again. “You’re not sleeping in our bed in your work clothes,” He says it like it’s obvious.
“Our bed,” I hum back at him, repeating his words and forgetting myself all over again.
“Simon Snow, you are too bloody tired to function,” Basil scolds softly, his fingers working me out of my clothes with a touch too tender compared to all his sterness. I love him, I’m all too aware all over again.
I love him so bloody bad. “Mhmn… Come cuddle though… it’s been so long…”
“I’m getting there,” Baz’s placating me. He taught me that word. It’s not an uncommon word, apparently, but it hadn’t been in my vernacular before we were dating. Vernacular. There’s another one.
Baz finally finishes undressing himself and climbs into the bed next to me, pulling me into his arms and tucking me under his chin, tucking us both in under the sheets. “Better,” I mutter out, “I missed you.”
“I missed you too,” he murmurs back to me, running his fingers soft through my hair, “You need to rest though. We both do. It’d been a long day.”
“Such a long day,” the words leave my lips more exhausted groan than proper words. I’m too tired to care.
It’s been over twenty hours since I’ve been in our bed and I think I might already be mostly asleep. I might’ve been mostly asleep since I’d fallen through the doorway. Baz is humming a tune for me, soft and low. He’d been a music student, once upon a time, an era ago, he says, before the accident. He always calls it the accident. Someday, maybe he’ll tell me about the accident. Not tonight though.
Tonight he’s humming for me, his voice is quiet and deep, the perfect vibrato to pull me in deeper. “I love your voice. I love you. You’re so beautiful, everything about you is beautiful…”
Baz chuckles that dark chuckle again and I can’t keep my eyes open any longer. “You’re even more beautiful to me, love, now rest, alright?”
“Mhmn…” I think I’m half in a dream already, and he keeps petting me and humming for me. He’s tangled our legs together and every part of me feels heavy.
He always makes me feel so safe. I love him so much. I’m not sure if I said it out loud that time, but I feel it in every part of my body, in every part of my soul.
“I love you too, Simon Snow,” Basil’s voice is like a song, and I love that about him too, “I love you so much more than I can possibly say with words.”
His song takes me to sleep, and I’m already dreaming about his pancakes in the morning and his dark chocolate cinnamon cocoa, I can already taste it on my tongue. Nothing tastes better.
