âSharing a room with the person you want most is like sharing a room with an open fire.
He's constantly drawing you in. And you're constantly stepping too close. And you know it's not good--that there is no good--that there's absolutely nothing that can ever come of it.
But you do it anyway.
And then...
Well. Then you burn.â
- Baz Pitch, Carry On
welcome to my blog! itâs still currently under construction but feel free to come talk to me <3 i like to think iâm friendly
how powerful would i be if i finally finished trc....you know i started the series when it first came out...and i havent finished even though it's one of my favourites....does someone wanna convince/pressure me...
Hey!!! Just wanted to say that I LOOOVED UR FANFICS!!! Gosh all that fluff and cutenessss combined with your gorgeous writing......PERFECT!!! I specifically liked the Snowbaz one......TOOOOO CUTE!â€ïžâ€ïž
hello omg!! this is so, so sweet of you, I really, really appreciate it!! the snowbaz one is definitely something i'm still proud of <3 i actually wrote that one after struggling to sleep for a few days (chronic insomnia gang!) so im so glad people seem to enjoy it
thank you so much <3 im also always always open to suggestions for what to write :) <3
i think it is very depressing that like every aesthetic people try to emulate are of people doing things but they themselves are incapable of being somebody that does things⊠the mall goth 2005 aesthetic revived in 2022 but nobody goes to the mall to be annoying and weird and nobody lets themselves be cringe⊠the cottagecore aesthetic but nobody knows how to raise gardens or live self sufficiently ⊠the dark academia aesthetic but nobody actually reads booksâŠ. The obsession of looking like you are a type of person who does something without actually doing anything ⊠the Instagram effect
summary: Baz can't sleep, and escapes to the kitchen. Simon finds him. (All fluff)
a/n: am i consistent? no. am i late? yes. in my defense: i don't have internet currently. but in honour of bazzle dazzle's birthday yesterday, here's something i wrote back in october. and the launch of my kitchen series, which is a collection of oneshots in all fandoms that all involve kitchens. requests open of course! as always, i thrive off of sexy feedback <3
ao3 found here
:)
Baz pushed his hair back out of his face with a soft sigh, letting his head fall forward until his forehead rested against the upper cabinet. He was awake, in the middle of the night, again. This was the third time that week, and Baz was starting to get to the end of his rope. He was pretty good at taking things in stride and surviving on nothing but the bare minimum, but it didnât make it any less frustrating. Burning the candle at both ends was bound to burn him down to nothing eventually, nothing but a small puddle of metaphorical wax and a burnt piece of wick.
He wasnât even sure what brought him to the kitchen, exactly. The flat was empty and still and silent without Simonâs presence to fill it up. He was still asleep in the bedroom - their bedroom - curled up half on his stomach with his wings fully stretched out, toned arm curled around Bazâs pillow the moment Baz had managed to slip from beneath him. The same way he always slept - though usually it was Baz curled up with him, rather than his pillow as a poor replacement. Though with how cold he was, he wasnât sure how great of a bedmate he made. Still, he wouldnât have wanted to wake Simon up even when heâd slipped out of his hold to escape to the quiet solitude of the kitchen, strange without the loud, rhythmic sound of Simonâs heavy breathing. (He was a mouth-breather, after all, and it usually meant he snored). Baz was a disaster at the moment, but that didnât mean he had to drag Simon down with him.
He supposed the kitchen felt the most full of life, even in the darkness. The most comforting, even alone and in silence. The living room felt oppressively lonely in the still, dark silence, nothing but his worst thoughts to keep him company in there. He could feel the weight of where Simon should be when he sits on the couch, another nearly tangible reminder that he should not be awake. There was nowhere else, really, for him to go.
He wasn't entirely sure when the flat started being his as well as Simonâs, anyway. Sometime in the middle of one of the many nights heâd spent there, sometime between when Simon got him his own mug for the cupboard, when his drawer in the dresser became two and he had more clothes here than at Fionaâs. And then, finally, when heâd referred to the bedroom as Simonâs and Simon had given him this look, mouth half full of takeout, his jaw already set and steely, determined glint in his eye (Circe, Baz loved him), and corrected him saying nothing but âour bedroomâ. And that had been that. Heâd moved everything else he had over the next day (and theyâd promptly properly consecrated the flat as both of theirs. Not that it was a new thing, but it was technically the first time since theyâd both officially lived there).
But no matter where Baz was, it seemed he couldnât escape his demons. His sleeping had always been this side of erratic, swinging between mostly alright and completely disrupted, with his sleep schedule flipped to the opposite of what it should be. There was a semester at Watford where heâd survived on post-football practice afternoon naps and been awake most of the night. Simon had been annoyed about it, but really, he was a heavy sleeper, it didnât do much to him anyway. And since the coffin incident a few years back, Bazâs sleep had been doubly bad. Not always, but he didnât like small spaces so much now, and if he felt too trapped (if Simon rolled on top of him in his sleep while he was already having bad dreams), he jolted awake and resigned himself to yet another sleepless night.
Tonight, though, just seemed to be pure bad luck. He startled a little at the feeling of arms sliding around his waist, Simonâs very warm body pressing all the way along his back. ââEllo,â he mumbled against the back of Bazâs shoulder, pressing sleepy kisses up his shoulder before nuzzling his face into the side of his neck, puffing hot air against Bazâs chilly skin. He was always cold to the touch. No circulation sort of did that to a person. Simon was obsessed with warming him up, always pleased when he seemed to retain some of Simonâs shared body heat. And Baz, well Baz was never going to complain about extra affection - or at least never mean it if he did. âWhatâre you doinâ up? Canât sleep?â He asked, words slurring together with sleep, muffled with his lips pressed against Bazâs neck.
It was the same side Baz had his vampire bite mark on. Not that it was noticeable to almost anyone unless they managed to move his hair and pay close, close attention. If that was one of the reasons he liked to keep his hair long, wellâŠthen that was his little secret. The bite mark was the only scar Baz had, and the only one he would ever have. (For the best, probably - he wouldnât have fancied seeing what sort of scars the buckshot would have left from their time in America). Simon was the only person who had the privilege of seeing it, and Baz preferred to keep it that way. Simon usually made an effort to kiss over it as often as he could. Like now, when he brushed Bazâs hair away and over his other shoulder so he was free to keep his face in his neck without anything in the way.
âNo,â Baz said, voice soft, breaking the silence for the first time. He could feel the silence wrapped around him like a blanket. Comforting, in a way, but heavy with the reminder that he should be wrapped in bed in his not-metaphorical blankets, comfortably tucked beneath Simonâs arm, and perhaps a wing, and not bearing witness to their flat bathed in shadow. Though, if he were half the melodramatic man heâd been at eighteen, he would have thought about how fitting it was - a verifiable creature of the night, perpetually cursed to haunt the night, the darkness, and the shadows by his own body. He was not that man, not anymore, so he didnât let his thoughts linger on his physical state. He was coming to terms with his vampirism. Really, he was.
Simon nodded, messy curls only getting more mussed up with the action. He squeezed Baz once, twice, three times - I love you, it seemed to say - and pressed another sleepy kiss to the side of his neck before pulling back. He gently opened the cabinet next to Bazâs head and pulled out their mugs, moving to Bazâs other side to start the kettle. Baz pulled his head away from the cabinet - it ached, now, where heâd rested it, like heâd rested too much weight there - and gave Simon a slightly confused look.
Simon gave him a sleepy smile. âIâm not gonna let you stay up by yourself, love. We can have some tea and stay up until you want to try again.â
Baz looked at him for a moment. It was moments like this that caught him off guard more than anything. Yes, Simon was always one for grand gestures - like killing things for him in the name of love - but it was this that reminded Baz just how truly he was loved. Simon, willing to ignore their perfectly comfortable bed that he adored, and sit in the kitchen with Baz. Just so he wasnât left alone. He felt his throat tighten a little and shoved down the urge to argue. Heâd accept the gesture for what it was - Simon telling him he loved him just as plainly as if heâd said it out loud. This was him offering comfort the only way he knew how.
âAlright. Yes. That sounds good,â Baz said, not nearly as eloquently as he would have liked.
Simon stepped forward, hand moving to cupp Bazâs cheek. Baz tilted his head into it, meeting Simonâs gaze. It was intense, sometimes. Simon never did anything by half measures. His love was much the same. He loved with the intensity of a thousand burning suns, all engulfing and fiery. Baz liked to think of it as slipping into a hot, nearly scalding bath at the end of a long day, or burning candles in a home with long curtains. Warm and comforting and reliable - and dangerous if done improperly. Heâd gotten over that hurdle, though. Heâd once thought loving Simon Snow was like being near an open flame, being in proximity to the sun. That hadnât changed, even now. It had tempered into something no less powerful, but familiar. He wasnât scared of being burned anymore, wasnât attempting to toss himself into the open flame at any moment in a wonton act of self destruction. Heâd learned to take everything Simon gave, and give him just as much in return.
His heart didnât beat, no, but in that empty void in his chest, in place of those things heâd thought heâd lost of himself, was Simon Snow. The human equivalent of everything heâd thought he wasnât supposed to have. But that was just them, wasnât it? It wasnât a star crossed love story like those of old, but one that, by all intents and purposes, should have ended in fire and destruction long ago. Instead, Baz was stood in their kitchen, feeling his boyfriend drag his thumb across his cheekbone, looking at him with so much love in his eyes, it felt like staring into an open flame. Like looking into a fireplace back at his familyâs home (that they had since abandoned) - though this time it felt loving and familiar.
Simon stepped closer, fully into Bazâs space, and carded his other hand through Bazâs hair, gently combing out the tangles from his tossing back and forth earlier in bed. His hair was longer now; heâd been growing it out properly. It was taken care of, of course, but it reached past his shoulders. Simon nearly always had a hand in it if they were at home. Simon had been keeping his hair shorn short on the sides, though he let the top grow a little longer (enough for Baz to keep playing with). He was keeping up with it, properly taking care of himself.
âHey, Baz?â Simon said, voice soft.
âYes?â Baz answered, just as soft. Whatever he was going to ask, to say, the answer would always be yes. He didnât think he had it in him to ever say no to Simon Snow - to say no to Simon. His Simon.
âI love you.â He leaned up and kissed Baz, hand still on his cheek, gentle, like he was holding the most precious thing in the world. As carefully as he held his swords, though in this moment, he lacked the tight, possessive hold he used with them. Familiar. Gentle. The way Baz had asked him to touch him. And when Baz rested his hands on Simonâs waist, he squeezed once, twice, three times - I love you - firm and clear, the way Simon had asked him to.
And Simon didnât pull back until nearly all the water had boiled away, until Baz was well and truly out of breath, until Baz was thinking less about his lack of sleep and more about the man in his arms.
It only took exactly one cup of tea before Baz allowed Simon to lead him back to bed - theyâd gotten better at this part, too, with Baz allowing Simon to take care of him, and Simon offering comfort when he needed it, the way he needed him - and allowed him to pull him back into his arms. He rested a hand over Simonâs (shirtless, he never bothered with them at home) chest, right over his heart, feeling it beneath his fingertips. Once. Twice. Three times.
âI love you,â Simon said, leaning in to slot their lips together again. Baz just tapped his fingers against his chest three times in response.
you look so perfect standing there (in my american apparel underwear)
pairing: Alex Claremont-Diaz/Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor (aka firstprince)
word count: 2,248 words
rating: M
summary: 5+1 of domestic fluff featuring Alex, Henry, and a cameo from everyone's favourite good boy, David
a/n: hope y'all enjoy! requests are absolutely open, and please feel free to come yell about this with me in my ask box or dms, I thrive on validation and comradery in book appreciation
ao3 found here
:)
Alex paused in the doorway, lingering there on his way out of the bedroom. It was rare for Henry to not be up to join him, especially now that they had (mostly) balanced their sleep. Not quite enough to make dark circles under their eyes a thing of the past, but enough to stop June from asking him if heâd gotten any sleep every time he saw her. But this morning, Henry had slept in (Alex didnât blame him, heâd had a late night and had plans again later that day, he needed all the sleep he could get) and Alex was, once again, running out the door to avoid being late.
But it meant he was blessed with the moment to just look at Henry. He found that these moments were few and far between. Not that he couldnât look at Henry whenever he wanted, he was his boyfriend after all. But really look at him, and think âfuck Iâm so lucky he didnât kick my ass to the curb all those months agoâ. Think about the curve of Henryâs nose, the curve of his jaw, his fingers. The way he laughed if you pressed your thumb into the right divot in his hip, because he insists heâs ticklish right there. The way he let Alex ramble and spill everything he was thinking and then put it into words more concise and specific to how Alex was feeling than Alex himself could ever conceive of. He justâŠgot to think about him, in any way he wanted, think about how lucky he was.
Moral of the story, Henry got him to slow down and focus on the finer things in life.
The finer things, in this instance, was Henry, curved to practically lay on his stomach, black underwear patterned with stupid balloon animals - a gift from Alex, of course, because Henry would never have bought something like that, nor would he have worn it if Alex hadnât bought it for him. He admired the dip of his spine, the fading red marks on his back from Alexâs nails (even though heâd just cut them, he might have to cut them again, he wasnât looking to maul his boyfriend like a wild animal), the way he was dappled in the very early morning sunlight streaming through the window and illuminating the blond halo of hair around his head.
That was about as much time as he could spare before he was really going to be late. If he had to cut out his second cup of coffee and his usual bagel, no one had to know.
The next time he found himself in the same headspace, distracted by his gorgeous boyfriend, was yet again before noon. Though this time, Henry was making breakfast for him. Breakfast. For Alex. His princely boyfriend was making breakfast for him. Like a commoner. It was adorable.
Making breakfast for him dressed again only in his underwear - this time patterned in chickens, with âfinger lickinâ goodâ emblazoned across the waistband, another fantastic gift from Alex, barely tolerated (but clearly worn) by Henry. Well, not only in his boxers. He was wearing a delightful âkiss the cookâ apron that didnât clash terribly with his underwear, and Alex spared a good fifteen seconds of thought on whether heâd done that intentionally. Then he was distracted by Henryâs gorgeous morning voice, rough with sleep and disuse.
âMorning, dear. Coffeeâs already made if you want any,â Henry said over his shoulder before returning to his cooking.
âFuck,â Alex groaned, already moving to pour himself some in his usual mug. âIf youâre trying to steal my heart, youâve already got it. But if you want to keep trying, youâre on the right track. Coffee and food, and toss in a couple of heartfelt compliments and Iâm yours.â Then he had to shut up to busy himself with getting as much caffeine in himself as possible to feel marginally more human again.
âDid I tell you you look absolutely stunning this morning, dearest?â Henry added, throwing him an amused smile at the way Alex was frowning at his still-too-hot-to-drink coffee.
âCloser. Donât burn the bacon and Iâll see about getting you a marriage proposal.â
Henry just snorted - very becoming of a prince (Alex liked it, him being human) - and shook his head. âAye, aye, captain.â Before Alex could admonish him for saying something so trite, he was looking over at him again. âYouâre welcome to my cup if you want it. It should be cooler, itâs been sitting there for a moment.â
Alex couldnât stop himself from groaning again, this time in happiness. Morning-Alex was not so eloquent - that happened after his usual coffee, or whenever he managed to slap himself awake, whichever happened first. Usually the coffee. âGod, I love you. Even if you put a bunch of shit in your coffee. I still love you.â He reached for the mug - it had little corgis on it, cute - and took a much-larger-than-necessary sip.
Henry just laughed. âGood to know I havenât been replaced by David yet.â David, who was currently curled up close to Henryâs feet, hoping heâd drop some scraps his way. (If he didnât, Alex definitely would. Sue him, he was a considerate dog dad.) As Henry started tipping their breakfast onto two plates - he had not, it seemed, burned the bacon - Alex let himself look again. He was finding that no matter how much he looked, he never looked his full. His boyfriend never got any less gorgeous, nor did he become any less Alexâs. So, he looked.
âBreakfast is ready, if you are,â Henry said, turning around as he took off the apron and put it back into place.
âMm. Maybe in a minute. Your ass looks good in those.â Alex couldnât help grinning when Henry flushed pink, as flustered as he got every time Alex shot him a stupid compliment - though he usually responded in kind or with more witty banter.
âIâm pretty sure youâre just complimenting yourself since you bought me these.â
âAnd you, since you have the fantastic ass the fantastic cock-underwear goes on.â If Alex set down his mug for the explicit purpose of slapping Henryâs ass under the pretense of grabbing his plate, no one had to know. (Well, no one except for Henry, himself, and maybe David.)
The third time, Alex was a little distracted. And for good reason. He was less looking and more feeling. Henry had jumped him once heâd walked in, and Alex was never going to turn that down. So, theyâd walked themselves down the hallway into their room, barely parting except for a mumbled apology when Henry almost ran Alex into the doorframe. (They did, technically, have the entire house. But they preferred keeps things to the bedroom because one, it was easier to keep everything they needed in there and possibly more importantly two, they could close the door and keep David out.)
Alex found himself backed up against the closed door, one hand fisted in Henryâs stupid, gorgeously thick hair, and the other on his hip. He eventually decided it wasnât enough and pushed at his hip just enough to fit both hands there, undoing his button, and then his fly.
It wasnât hard from there to slide down to his knees and let the evening continue as it did.
And, in the morning, the stupid daisy patterned underwear Alex had bought Henry was left in a crumpled heap on the floor, looking nowhere near as good as it had on Henry. Though, really, there was no point to it without Henry filling it out. (Alex was just surprised Henry hadnât threatened to take away his Amazon account and actually wore all the patterned underwear he bought him.)
That morning, too, Alex was too busy tracing patterns on Henryâs back to think about much else other than the sunlight against his skin, the warmth where they were connected, and the way the sheets wrapped around Henryâs body like a marble sculpture. Michaelangeloâs marvels had nothing on this, the way Henry looked like this, curled up in his sleep, red marks on his cheek from the pillow, hair mussed from Alexâs hands in it. He looked more like an angel than the paintings on the Sistine Chapel, no work of art could ever compare in any sort of way. Alex brushed some of the unruly blond strands back from his face and tried to think about the least cheesy way to tell him that.
The fourth time was a month later, when they ordered two pizzas and decided to spend the evening in. Dressed in pajamas - or, a plain black shirt and a horrific heart patterned pair of boxers from Alex - Henry had leaned back against the couch, leaning past Alex for another slice of pizza.
âBe careful,â he chided as he sat back again, pizza in hand. âDonât get grease stains on the couch.â
âDonât get grease stains on the couch,â Alex repeated, his voice higher. âI wonât, I promise. Believe it or not, I am not a horribly behaved animal.â
At Henryâs raised eyebrow, Alex pushed on. âIâm not! Tell me one time-â
âKissed me in the Red Room against the painting of Alexander Hamilton.â
âOkay, but I bet you canât-â
âThe time we went out to dinner and you absolutely wiped sauce on my pants just because you dropped your napkin and didnât want to reach for it.â
âOkay but-â
âThe time-â
âOkay, okay! I get it! I wonât wipe sauce on the couch this time, though. I swear.â He held his free hand over his heart. âScoutâs honour.â
Henry eyed him suspiciously but let it drop. âAlright.â
But if Alex absolutely did reach over to wipe pizza grease on the thigh and ass of Henryâs underwear, no one else had to know. At least it wasnât the couch.
The fifth time he really, really thinks about it, he really isnât thinking about it at all. This time, he was perched in Henryâs lap, a hand tangled in his hair, tongue between his teeth. He wasnât thinking much at all beyond take, take, take what he will give, give as much as he can take. It was the usual sort of ending to their week, full of pent up stress and not always enough time together.
What wasnât usual was what happened immediately after. Henry pulled back - for air, maybe, or to try and get Alex off the couch and into their bed - but the second Alex got air in his lungs again, the words were tumbling out of him. âWill you marry me?â
That, understandably, was enough to give Henry pause. âWhat?â
Alex just repeated himself. âWill you marry me?â
There was a flush high on Henryâs cheekbones, pink and bright against his fairer skin. New York didnât have enough sun for him to properly tan. âI- yes, of course.â He still sounded startled, like this was some sort of prank. Alex couldnât blame him - he did propose mostly naked in his lap without a ring, mid-makeout session. Still. It was a proposal.
Alex grinned. Heâd had a plan - he really had - and he shoved all thoughts of berating himself for forgetting that aside. Heâd already proposed. He might as well enjoy the moment now and consider a do-over later if he really, really needed one. He could give Henry the proposal he actually deserved.
He leaned in to kiss him again, triumphant and happy and so in love it was painful. It felt like pure bliss. It was a tangible thing, settling somewhere in his chest cavity, working its way through his rib cage, between his lungs, around his heart. Settling into him, creating space so it didnât have to leave. So he was permanently, never-endingly full of Henry and what he meant to him.
âSo, future Mr. Claremont-Diaz-Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor,â Alex said with a grin, snapping the waistband of Henryâs constellation patterned underwear (because sometimes Alex was kind and got him something that wasnât terrible. He had too much underwear now anyway), and ignoring his squawk at the name, âshall we reconvene in the bedroom?â
The sixth time wasnât much of a time at all. Alex tossed a brand new pair of underwear at Henry, who caught it without a second glance. When he looked at it, all that happened was his lips pulled into a little frown. âAgain?â Still, he opened it, looking up at Alex with a slightly confused look on his face. âTheyâre blank?â
âNo,â Alex corrected, âtheyâre white. To match your suit.â
Henry turned pink. What would their wedding day be without another stupid gimmick, courtesy of Alex? This was, likely, the last time theyâd be left alone before the ceremony. He was happy they were using it right. (Mostly. He wouldnât be opposed to another make out session like the one from his impromptu proposal.)
But he was a little startled when Henry tossed a package right back. Alex ripped it open without a secondâs hesitation. âTheyâre just black?â He asked, holding the underwear up.
âTurn them around.â
Alex grinned the second he did because there, emblazoned across the ass, was âJust Marriedâ. âI love you Henry Claremont-Diaz-Fox-â
âI think thereâs only so many last names one person can have, love. I canât hog them all - British imperialism at its finest.â
Alex just laughed and leaned over to kiss it. âThank you. I love them. I love you.â
If anyone ever makes you feel insecure about your hyperfixations, remember this: love isnât meant to be a quiet, passive thing. I never learned the art of loving things halfway, and thatâs everyone elseâs problem now.
