Chapter Text
Simon
Baz Pitch is going to kill me.
Even when we were teenagers and I accused him of plotting my demise constantly, I didn’t actually think he would, but now… Now I think he might.
I’ve opened every door on he first floor of this goddamn house to try and find him, just to know where he was and whether he was still sleeping or busying himself with something else, and I found him…
Like this.
In the middle of a large bed -seriously, you could fit three people in this bed-, hair fanned out on a white pillow that makes it look even darker - pitch black- looking peaceful in a way he can only be when he’s asleep with his lips partly open and the sun from the window on his right casting a warm light on his face.
But that’s not what’s killing me, no, as breath-taking as that sight is, it’s something I’m used too. I’ve seen Baz sleeping a million times.
No, the detail that is melting my heart faster than he ice cream I bought the girls on the way back, is the fact that Baz isn’t sleeping alone. Here, curled up on his chest, secured by Baz’s arms wrapped around him, is Swithin, not any more awake than his brother. He’s small, but he still takes up all the room on Baz’s chest, his legs falling on either side of Baz’s waist, and his head resting on Baz’s sternum. He must have been lulled and rocked to sleep by Baz’s breathing, all while calming Baz down with his sweet baby smell.
It’s the cutest fucking thing. Much too cute to handle.
(I really need to get my hands on a baby. Baz needs a baby. Just look at him, holding Swithin so carefully, protectively. I’m sure he’d love to have one of his own.) (I’ve never been this annoyed that we’re gay. It would have been so easy if one of us was a girl. Hell, Aggie and I didn’t even have sex that much, and we still had a pregnancy scare -let me tell you that wasn’t a fun time.) (I’m sure it wouldn’t be too difficult to knock Baz up if it was biologically possible. ) (I mean, we’d have to fuck, but that’s a whole different issue.)
I take a few more seconds to look at the lovely scene in front of me, and then I summon the courage to walk in the room. Silently. I don’t want to wake them up, Baz more than deserves his rest, and the baby is much less difficult to look after when he’s taking a nap than when he is doing very reckless thing because he is a toddler with no conception of danger, apparently.
I stop before my shins hit the wooden frame of the bed, and I begin leaning forward slowly, very slowly, until I can press a kiss to Baz’s forehead. Wrinkles appear on it as he frowns, but thankfully, he doesn’t open his eyes.
His skin was so cold underneath my lips. It always is, but somehow, it still surprises me every time. His smile, his presence are so warm. It’s easy to forget that his body is so cold.
I want to make him sunbathe. To watch his whole face glow in the summer afternoon light, to feel his skin warm up from the sun rays caressing it. He stays away from the sun because he burns easily, but I could coat him in sunscreen, until he’s even paler than normal, and force him to go outside.
And if he did get sunburnt… Well, I suppose I’d get cream and apply it to his burns gently to apologize.
I brush his hair away from his face, and eventually move back. I should leave him alone, he’s not a very heavy sleeper. I thought he was, for a time, at Watford, because he was always ‘sleeping’ in the mornings while I got ready for school as loudly as I did anything else, but I later realized that he was just very good at pretending to be asleep while I was, in fact, too loud not to wake him up.
I lay one last tender gaze over him and his brother, and then I’m heading out.
The girls are waiting for me to play hide and seek.
…
An hour goes by before I hear a door open upstairs. My eyes fly up to the clock hanging on the wall, checking how long Baz slept. Over three hours. It’s long, for a nap, but at least, he should feel recharged, now.
The problem is, the baby will probably also feel recharged… I’m not sure I’m looking forward to seeing how energetic he can get right after he rested, but that’s part of the deal, isn’t it? And I’d rather he ran around and screamed and had fun than he just sat in a corner helplessly as the hours pass by, an experience that I know Baz and I both share.
I hear footsteps on the stairs.
“How do I look?” I ask Sophie, who is standing in front of me, a kids lipstick in her hand.
Baz told each of the kids to pick two toys, not too big, to bring with them. Sophie took a makeup kit meant for children, and a Barbie doll. I thought the makeup might be for the Barbie, I have no idea how little kids play with these things.
It wasn’t for the Barbie.
“Pretty!” she answers, a big bright smile on her face, which spreads on mine too.
The same lipstick she’s holding is sticking on my skin at the right corner of my lips and under my top lip because she applied it messily. My eyelids are heavy from the thick layer of glitter she splattered on it. The tiny pigtail she made from a small portion of my hair is too tight, pulling at my scalp.
But she’s smiling. So I’m smiling.
(It’s really not that bad, babysitting kids…)
“Do you think Baz will think I’m pretty too?” I ask her, lowering my voice, to make it sound like a secret.
Sophie giggles excitedly. I don’t know if the children understand the whole boyfriend thing. Mordelia definitely does, but Sophie and Petra…? Aren’t they too young to know about boyfriends? And if they aren’t, I assume they would expect their big brother to have a girlfriend not a boyfriend.
I don’t think it matters whether they understand or not. I’m here. With Baz. They like me. It’s enough. They’ll have plenty of time to wrap their head around their brother being in a relationship with me. (Hopefully. If Baz doesn’t break up with me soon.)
(No. Bad thought. I have to avoid bad thoughts. Bad thoughts ruin good moments.)
“I think he will,” Sophie tells me, nodding enthusiastically, her eyes sparkling.
The footsteps have gotten closer. I can hear them in the room.
I turn my head towards them. Him.
Baz. Standing on the other side of the room. Bed head and all. The shirt he was sleeping in wrinkled, and a pair of trackies he packed covering his legs.
The baby at his hip, still sleepy.
He looks cosy. He looks gorgeous. I want him to let go of that child so that I can pin him to the wall and snog him senseless.
He does let go of the child, but I don’t jump him, because I have more self control than that.
(Because he’d be mad at me if I made out with him in front of the kids, and Baz being mad means less kisses, which is completely counter productive.)
Swithin immediately walks towards the card castle that Mordelia is building under Petra’s supervision -which means that Mordelia is doing all the work while her sister sits in awe, gasping whenever the fragile structure trembles. Little troublemaker. I hope he’s not going to do what I think he might do and ruin Mordelia’s castle. The poor girl has had to start over about ten times already.
Petra catches Swithin before he can get too close to the cards, and pull him in her lap as he tries to kick his way out of her hold. “No!” she says, in a voice that she must mean to sound bossy, but that only sounds adorable to me. “Don’t make Mordelia’s card castle fall. She has worked very hard to build it, it would be very mean. It’s not okay to be mean.”
Forget what I said about getting my hands on a baby. I need half a dozen of those. Children. They’re the fucking cutest. The boys I was in care with weren’t this adorable, or maybe they were and I didn’t notice because they either ignored me or punched my face -it’s a miracle I never got my nose messed up like Baz’s, honestly.
I wonder if Penny and Baz could figure out a spell. For people like me and Baz to have babies. No one has before, but maybe no one has cared enough to try, at least not anyone powerful enough. Penny and Baz are powerful. And like, super smart. I’m sure they could it.
(Christ, why am I thinking about this? We’re not going to have children anytime soon, no matter how we have them. But in the future… Yes, I have to think about it, for the future. Baz said he’d like to be a dad, if that was possible.) (We’d just have to make it possible.) (Maybe if I still had my magic… No.)
An arm brushes mine.
I blink my vision back into focus, and smile at Baz. I’m glad he came to sit next to me. I’m glad he isn’t as hesitant about being close to me as he was a few days ago.
I’m particularly fucking glad that I only feel glad that he’s here, not scared or the irrepressible need to put more distance between our bodies.
(I know I have nothing to be afraid of. It’s just Baz. But try telling that to my brain.)
“You look…” he starts, laughter in his voice. He reaches up to flick the tiny pigtail Sophie made me. “Lovely.”
“It’s all thanks to my brilliant makeup artist,” I answer, as seriously as possible, pointing at Sophie.
She sticks her chest out proudly, a wide grin on her lips.
Baz pretends to be impressed. He holds my chin gently, moving my head to look at what Sophie did on my face at different angles, as grave as if he were analysing a fine piece of art.
“This is excellent work, young lady.”
Sophie giggles in excitement.
…
“Sorry I didn’t wake up earlier, I didn’t mean for you to have to look after the little ones for so long,” Baz says, as he leans back against the couch.
We’re still on the floor. We could stand up to sit on the couch instead of against it, but none of us is making a move to do this, and the thick carpet is comfortable anyway.
I look away from the children, who are now playing Uno together -except Swithin, who is making a lot of noise with his firefighter truck- to lay my eyes on Baz.
The fucker has an amazing side profile.
I want to trace the bump on his nose with my finger. I do, because who the fuck is stopping me?
It makes him blush, and he looks even more beautiful.
“Don’t be sorry, you idiot,” I tell him, poking his cheek. “They’re good kids, I don’t mind watching them. Especially if it means you get to rest. I already told you that.”
“They’re good kids, for sure, but they can also be a lot. They didn’t cause any trouble, right?”
“None at all. Not even when we walked to McDonald’s. They didn’t walk too close to the road and they stayed with me the whole time. They didn’t make a scene when I told them it was time to leave. They were perfect little angels.”
And it made me feel so good to take care of them alone. To have those tiny people under my responsibility. To have them relying on me. It’s probably what Baz likes to call my ‘saviour complex’, but I don’t care. It felt good. I don’t question things that make me feel good.
Baz nods. “I’m happy to hear that.” He glances at the clock. “It’s not too late, I was thinking one of us could go buy groceries while the other stays here with the kids? I’d rather the children didn’t have fast food twice in the same day, so I need to make them something for dinner.”
Baz and his fight against unhealthy food. It’s extremely hypocritical of him considering he has mostly been eating takeaway since moving to London, but his excuse is that he’s dead -he’s not- so he can’t have health problems. And all the greasiness of the food he’s been eating has made him gain a few pounds, which is absolutely a good thing. He’s always been much too thin. He’s still too thin, really, but less so than before. His ribs don’t show as much.
(I don’t like seeing his ribs. It reminds me of the churning of hunger in my stomach in the summer, even though I know that Baz isn’t skinny because he can’t eat enough to satisfy his hunger, but because he doesn’t have the same needs for food as someone who isn’t a vampire.)
“We could go buy groceries.”
“I’m not going to Waitrose with four children, Snow.”
I nearly roll my eyes. Waitrose. Fucking posh prick.
“Yes you are,” I argue, before leaning in closer to him to rub my face against his shoulder. I’d rub it against his neck and kiss him, but… the children. “You’ve been sleeping half the afternoon, I want to spend time with you now.”
I genuinely do, it’s not just an excuse to convince him to let me go to the store with him. But it works as a good excuse… He can’t say no to me wanting to be with him, right?
…
He can’t.
Half an hour later, we’re all walking into Waitrose. Baz holding Swithin’s hand and a shopping list, me pushing a shopping cart, and the girls following us quietly, except for Petra who decided she wanted to sit in the shopping cart. It’s going to make putting groceries in it rather difficult, as she’s taking up most of the space, though if need be, she agreed to get out and walk.
I rarely go grocery shopping. That’s just not part of the duties Penny assigns me, because she likes to pick the products she buys while I couldn’t care what the brand of our butter is as long as I can spread it on virtually anything.
So this is a fun experience for me. It’s particularly fun because I don’t have to worry about the money being spent, since it’s Baz’s and there is no way Baz could ever run out of money, while Penny and I are on a tighter budget. (Baz has offered to pay for things since the beginning, as he partly lives in the flat with us, but Penny has always refused. She doesn’t want his charity any more than I do. However, we’re not stupid; if we were ever in dire need of money, we’d swallow our pride and ask him. We’d both rather it never came to this, though.)
Another factor that makes it fun is the children. They’re always asking for something that isn’t on the list, and most of the time, Baz says yes because he’s weak, which is precisely why they keep asking for me.
He says he’s only allowing them to grab the things they want because he doesn’t want anyone to throw a tantrum, but I have a feeling that none of the kids would actually start kicking and crying if they were told no, and that Baz just wants to spoil them. Which… fair. They’re very cute. I want to spoil them too.
(We’d be terrible parents.)
…
Baz
I’m debating whether to buy cinnamon or not -I love cinnamon flavoured… anything, but it’s the middle of the summer, maybe not the most appropriate season for that- when Snow calls my name, with giggles in his voice.
Circe, how much I love hearing that. My name falling out of his lips. And the giggles.
I put the cinnamon back -I’m not even sure the children like cinnamon cookies, anyway- and turn around, to find Snow, on the other side of the alley, my sisters grouped around him and looking as amused as him.
He’s holding up a small container of… spices? No, by the colour I’d say it’s herbs. He gestures to me to get closer. I do, frowning, because what could be so entertaining about seasoning, and…
I’m going to murder him.
He points at the name of the herbs insistently, his smile widening a bit more every second.
“ Basil leaves,” he says, clearly holding back a laugh.
The girls, however, are not holding back anything. Disrespectful little things. I shoot Snow a cool glare, and raise one eyebrow, unimpressed by his -absolutely not funny- joke.
“It’s not even pronounced the same way as my name,” I answer flatly, before snatching the basil from him.
I set it in the cart. As annoying as Snow is, I do need that. I could buy fresh basil leaves, but this is more practical, and it’s not like I’m cooking for people with very refined taste anyway. I could feed the children -and Snow- chicken nuggets and ketchup every day and they’d be happy with it. I don’t think they’d care if I didn’t use all fresh products.
“Is it not? We don’t know that. Maybe your parents meant for your name to sound exactly like basil, Basil.”
“Why would I go by Baz if it was pronounced like basil, you moron.”
He squints his eyes.
“Because you’re trying to cover up how it’s actually pronounced, perhaps,” he suggests in a suspicious voice with tugs at the corner of my lips, desperately trying to make them spread in a smile.
I won’t let that happen though. Who know how many more bad jokes he would make if I indulged him just this once?
I wouldn’t even be smiling because of what he’s saying, rather because of how adorable he is as he says it…
I wave his comment off, rolling my eyes in mock annoyance.
“Stop speaking nonsense and go find some chocolate chips. We’ll make cookies when we’re back at the house.”
All five children I’m accompanied by cheer.
…
Simon
We’re done with the groceries surprisingly quickly. I thought we’d spend at least an hour in the store, but as it seems, having a shopping list does make it easier. And faster.
(Christ, I hate it when Baz is right. He’s right much too often.)
With one big bag of groceries in the trunk, we ride back to where we came from… Or at least I thought that’s what we were going, but Baz isn’t driving in the right direction. I remember the way from the house to the store well enough, and we are not following that path.
I look at Baz, confused. “Where are we going?”
I want to go home! He said he’d make chocolate chips cookies!
(Baz bakes for Penny and me, sometimes. He’s really good at it. Better than at cooking. Which doesn’t make sense. Isn’t it pretty much the same thing?)
“Sports shop,” he answers, without taking his eyes off the road. Good boy. I don’t want to get caught in a car crash, thank you very much.
That one time when I drove in America was traumatizing enough.
“Why?”
“We came here for the sea and the swimming pool, didn’t we? How do you think you’re going to go in either of those without a swimsuit? Are you planning on swimming in the nude?”
… A fair point. Which makes the kids laugh, and which I hadn’t thought about.
(Maybe I do lack some common sense. That’s something else Baz is right about…)
“Oh. Yeah, right. We do need swimsuits.”
He rolls his eyes, a tender smile on his lips.
…
I’m not enjoying this.
Baz quickly dealt with the swimsuit situation, he grabbed the first plain black ones he found, laid it flat across his lower stomach to check whether it would fit, and he was done.
I’m having a harder time finding something in my size because I’m not sure which size to take. My stomach isn’t flat like Baz’s, a fact I’m trying really hard not to be upset about, and I haven’t bought any clothes ever since I put on weight. Penny just cast spells on my old clothes, which was well humiliating, but at least we didn’t spend money on a new wardrobe for me.
I could ask Baz, he has a good eye for these things. He’s gone shopping with Penny and I once, and Penny mentioned how she struggled finding clothes her size because in some shops, the largest size fit her perfectly while in others, it was two sizes too small. So Baz used his super fashion powers and told her exactly which clothes would fit and which wouldn’t just by looking at them, and he was right every time. (It was infuriating. Penny and I were both shocked.) It did save us a lot of time, though. He could tell which shops we shouldn’t bother spending time in.
So yeah.
I could ask Baz.
But that might be even more humiliating than Penny spelling my clothes bigger. He’d probably tell me a size I never thought I’d fit in.
I had to tie the strings of my trackies to keep them on my hips for most of my lips, and now I’m convinced everything won’t go past my hips.
“Snow, we don’t have forever, just pick one,” Baz says, impatiently.
The kids are getting impatient too. Mordelia has sighed about ten times in the last minute.
“They won’t fit,” I mumble under my breath, looking at the display of swimsuits. A rather limited display. There are only six different models, two different coloured swim shorts, and four of the kind if swimsuits that look like pants -the kind Baz took. “’m too fat.”
I glance at Baz, noticing that the look on his face changes. From an irritated expression caused by the time I was taking, it morphes into something softer.
He shakes his head.
“You’re not. I’m sure a large will fit you just fine. You’re not as fat as you seem to believe you are, and even if you were, it wouldn’t be a big deal, you don’t need to look so sad. Come on Snow, just pick one.”
It’s easy to say for him. I’m sure he wouldn’t have the same opinion if he wasn’t skinny anymore. He cares way too much about his appearance.
(He has to care about mine too. I don’t understand how he still finds me attractive. I could get why he might want me when we were at Watford and my Chosen One business kept me in good shape, but now? It doesn’t make any sense. My face doesn’t look nice enough to make up for how much my body changed. If I had a face like his, it wouldn’t matter, but I don’t. I’m painfully average. Meanwhile Baz could be on the cover of magazines.)
“I don’t think a large is going to fit.”
“Trust me, it will. Just choose the model you prefer.”
…
Baz
I’ve spent enough time checking him out like the desperate, horny fool I am to know what his body looks like. A larg will fit.
Snow reaches for one of the swim shorts, a horrifying green thing that looks more like vomit than the plants -?- it’s supposed to represent.
Why am I even surprised Snow picked the ugliest swimsuit available? I know he has terrible taste in clothing. This wasn’t going to be any exception.
He grabs an extra large.
Stubborn idiot.
“That’s going to be too big on you,” I tell him in a matter-of-fact voice.
He glares at me, throwing the short over his arm to carry it. He offers Swithin his free hand, and my brother takes it immediately.
Stealing my baby. That’s really not fair. Swithin was holding my hand up until now… And if Simon was going to hold anyone’s hand, it should have been mine.
(I know it wouldn’t have been. Not anymore. Not in a public place. I lost PDA privilege some time between the first time he opened a can of cider and the first week he spent on the couch. I’m starting to win that privilege back, but he still avoids being too obvious about the fact that we’re a couple when we’re outside.) (I can’t really blame him. It’s scary.)
“It won’t be,” he argue, even though I’m right. It only take one glance at the waistband on that thing to know it won’t fit. “And even if it is, it has strings. I could adjust it. Let’s just pay this and leave, alright?”
No, it’s not alright. He’s very clearly upset. Christ, I didn’t know shopping for clothes could make someone feel that way, I would have come to the shop alone otherwise…
I’m not completely foolish, I can fathom why Snow might be bothered that he’s gained weight, I don’t like noticeable changes in the way I look either, but I don’t understand why he’s so bothered. He’s never been someone who paid much attention to their looks. How is this any different?
Does he worry that it might make him less beautiful? That’d be stupid.
(If anything, I find him more attractive now than before…)
I wish I could show him how beautiful he is. Let him borrow my eyes, see himself through them.
I follow him to the checkout, making sure the children are staying near me and not grabbing anything without telling me -I don’t mind buying them things, but they have to ask-, hoping the slight frown on his face will soon be wiped away.
…
Simon
So… Baz was right. The swimsuit is too big for me.
But he doesn’t need to know that. I’ll just adjust it with the elastic string in the waistband, and then I could pretend it was actually my size. Or not. That doesn’t really matter. Baz wouldn’t admit he was wrong if he truly were, anyway.
I can’t help but feel good about this, though. The swim shorts being too large. While it would not have felt good if I’d taken the large like Baz said and they were too tight. So all in all, this was a good decision.
And now I can go to the swimming pool! Baz doesn’t want the children -or me, I think, though he didn’t say that- snooping around the kitchen as he bakes the cookies he promised us, so he told me to go enjoy the swimming pool with them.
I know that having a swimming pool isn’t that uncommon for people with money, but it still blows my mind that the Pitches just… have one. In their garden. Even going to a public one sounds exciting to me, so having one on your own property?
Christ, it does sound fun being rich.
Baz grew up like that. That’s something that also blows my mind. How different our upbringings are. He had everything, and I had nothing. All the -material- things I dreamed of as a little kid were banal for him. Baz is so… indifferent to things that make me want to cheer and clap in excitement like a little kid.
It annoys me sometimes, but part of me tells me it shouldn’t. I shouldn’t be mad at him for growing up comfortable. It’s not his fault I didn’t have that chance.
(Would I be all posh and classy like Baz, if I’d been raised in the same circles as him? Would I have the same way of seeing life and things? I cannot imagine that I would, even though that’s most likely. Baz and Agatha are diametrically opposed, but also extremely similar in many aspects, and they all had the same kind of education and life situation as children.)
My greatest comfort when I think of all of this is that my children, if I ever have any, will know a life closer to Baz’s than mine. Not just because I’ll have them with a ridiculously rich man, but because I do intend to work my arse off -you know, once I find something that motivates me to get out of bed everyday. I don’t want to be dependent on Baz -or the Mage’s money…- my whole life.
But for now… For now I can enjoy the luxury that comes with being Baz’s boyfriend.
I think I’m more excited than the kids when I open the door leading to the pool.
…
I have to admit, the swimming pool isn’t as fun as I thought it would be when you have to make sure your boyfriend’s siblings don’t drown and die.
I have to hold Swithin in my arms the whole time, because except for the stairs you use to get inside the pool, it’s always too deep for him to stand up without having his head under the water, and he’s a bit scared of it anyway. Thankfully, all the girls know how to swim, so I don’t have to be so careful with them, though I never look away from them for too long.
Well, that’s until I hear the door open.
Because then Baz is coming in, and it’s him I can’t look away from -something quite common, whenever he’s in sight; he’s mesmerizing like that.
The only thing he’s wearing is a bathrobe, and, I presume, his swimsuit, and he’s carrying a tray full of chocolate chip cookies.
And I’m not even focusing on the cookies. He’s too distracting for me to focus on the cookies, with his hair up and his long legs mostly on display. (I wish the hem of the robe was a little higher. I can’t see nearly enough of his thighs. Yet .)
He’s so effortlessly beautiful.
He walks up to the sort of garden lounge near the door -they have one inside the conservatory, and one outside it, in the actual garden-, and sets the tray on the coffee table there. He then unties the knot holding his bathrobe close, and when it falls open, he lets it slide down his arms, revealing more and more skin, that grills more and more of my brain cells.
Looking at Baz is generally a good experience. He’s gorgeous, even when he’s fully dressed in multiple layers of clothing that cover him from head to toe. But he’s particularly hot when he sheds those layers.
His legs are less toned that at Watford because he doesn’t have football practice once a week anymore, but they’re still lean, like the rest of him, and it takes a tremendous effort taking my eyes from them.
(I like Baz’s thighs. I wish I was brave enough to kiss them. I wonder what sound he would make if I bit them. I wonder if he’d like to have me between them.)
My own thought makes me blush, and I force myself to move my eyes up to maybe keep my thoughts a little purer. They quickly go past his… swimsuit (a really nice swimsuit… very… tight ) because looking at it for more than a millisecond would most definitely not help keep my thoughts pure, and they stop on his chest.
Baz’s chest.
If I could, I’d write poems about Baz’s chest. I like looking at it, all the pale, smooth skin, at the top, the hollow of his collarbones and at the bottom, the barely there ‘v’ that disappears under his waistband. The line between his pecs, that I want to trace with kisses, his nipples that make him whimper when I brush them with my hands or lips. I like that he shows it, when he wears his shirts with more buttons undone than done, but that some parts of it are only for me.
But that’s not all I like. I like feeling it too, when I rest - rested - my head on it to try and hear his heartbeat -I never did. (I should try again. Will he let me sleep on his chest tonight?)
“Enjoying the view?”
Shit. I’ve been staring for too long, haven’t I?
…
Baz
I’ll never tire of Snow looking at me. Of being reminded that he thinks I’m attractive, that he wants me. I can forget it, sometimes, when I haven’t felt his insistent gaze or the rough touch of his hand on me for too long.
His cheeks turn so red I can nearly smell them, and he looks up at me, with the same admiring gleam in his eyes he has when he was reviewing my body.
He’s the one adoring me, but I’m the one who wants to get on his knees to worship him.
(Figuratively. And literally .)
“Yeah,” he admits. “It’s a really nice view.”
As I smile, I let my own eyes travel on him, or at least, the parts of him that aren’t hidden under the surface of the water, slowly, purposely.
(I’m shamelessly checking him out, that’s what I’m trying to say.) (In front of my siblings.) (Maybe my father was right, I’m depraved.)
“I think mine is better, though,” I answer, with all of my honestly.
Because I mean it. I just want that moron to believe it.
(If I wasn’t afraid it would have the opposite effect, I would tell him how gorgeous he is every day until he had no choice but to believe me.)
My view is particularly nice right now because on top of just standing there looking pretty, he’s holding Swithin in his arms. That’s another thing I cannot imagine myself tiring from. Seeing him taking care of my siblings, oh so gently. I had no idea how Snow might act around children before he came, and I’m glad he doesn’t hate them.
(A lot of people do. Dev does. If he had to carry Swithin, he would stretch his arms to keep the baby as far from him as possible. Simon is practically hugging him.)
My compliment seems to have rendered Snow speechless, but it hasn’t made him withdraw, so I’m quite satisfied by it. I do love to fluster him. It reminds me of our Watford days, when I would antagonize him until he snapped. (He looked so beautiful when he flushed in anger, but he is even more when he flushes from my flattery.)
After resting my bathrobe over one of the garden chairs, I make my way towards the swimming pool. The conservatory is heated, but the temperature of the water should be even more pleasant. I should not freeze to death, even if I’ve got nothing but a swimsuit on me.
I step into the water slowly -I don’t trust those stairs, and I will not trip and fall in front of Snow- and once I’m immersed from the waist down, I clap, and then hold my hands out for Swithin. “Come with Baz,” I tell him, as Simon expertly turns him around in his arms to let me take him.
He immediately clings to me, trying to keep as much of his little body as he can over the surface.
That poor child doesn’t look very comfortable in the water. We’ll have to work on that. We wouldn’t want him developing a fear, would we? It’d be a pity to fear water when your family has a beach house…
I rub his back soothingly. It’s okay, love. We’re going to go play in the water together, alright?”
He doesn’t answer anything. That’s not a no, but that’s not a yes either…
It’s okay. I’ll find a way. And if he really hates it… well, I suppose the two of us will play outside the pool.
I kiss the top of Swithin’s head -I want him to feel safe- before turning my gaze to Snow.
“What about you go eat some cookies with the girls while Swithin and I play?”
...
Simon
I hand Baz a fuming cup of tea, with milk and a disgusting amount of sugar, just how he likes it, before sitting next to him. The house is quiet, quieter than it’s been all day. Outside, the moon shines in a deep black sky.
He draws one of his knees up on the couch, resting his cup on it, before immediately moving it, cringing. It’s too hot. He should have known. He must have heard the kettle whistling only a minute ago…
“Be careful,” I tell him softly. “It’s hot.”
“Thanks, I noticed,” he groans, which makes me laugh.
He’s really cute when he’s grumpy. The slight frown on his face makes me want to kiss every inch of his face.
I kiss his cheek. Then I kiss it again. Then… “Baz. Put your cup down.”
“Why?”
“Because. Just do it,” I insist, shifting onto my knees and towards him, my wings spreading wide. (They were not enjoying being cramped against the back of the couch.)
He looks unsure, but he does set his cup on the coffee table. (It’s a very nice coffee table. I wonder how inappropriate it would be to ask Baz if we can take it for… For the flat I want to rent that I haven’t told him anything about yet.) (I’ll have to do that. Tell him about the flat, not about the table.) (Maybe we could share the rent… It wasn’t my first thought, but… maybe. )
“Are you going to tell me why, now?” he asks, crossing his legs at the knee.
…
Baz
Instead of answering, Snow gives me a grin that can only be a bad sign. It’s too wide, and it looks too innocent to truly be innocent…
And then he grabs my face, and pulls me closer to lick my cheek. A long, wet stripe that makes my features change in disgust.
I push him away, before wiping my cheek with the sleeve of my shirt, which is arguably just as gross as the licking in itself, but I was not about to let his spit dry on my cheek. It’s appalling.
He bursts out laughing.
Oh, yes, love, laugh at my expense, that’s very kind of you.
“You are an animal,” I tell him, hoping to give him a convincing glare.
It’s hard to be angry with him when he’s having so much fun that his wicked tail is wagging. It’s hard to be angry with him, full stop. I’m so incredibly weak for that man. (I’m a disappointment to my bloodline.)
So weak, actually, that disgust isn’t the only thing I’m feeling. There’s some part of me that… liked him licking me. (Pathetic. Absolutely laughable. I’d bully myself if I were anyone else.)
“Oh come on,” he says, his voice still shaking with amusement, as he holds my face again, though more gently. He leans in to kiss my cheekbone. “Don’t be like that. A bit of spit never killed anyone.”
“Actually if you choked on your spit you could d —”
“Baz,” he interrupts me, roughly shoving his hand over my mouth. (He was only gentle for so long… My darling brute.) “Shut up. You know what I meant, don’t be annoying.”
I mumble against his hand because I refuse to let him silent me. My words come out muffled and deformed, but still recognizable enough.
“I’m not being annoying, I’m only—”
He pushes me so hard I fall sideways on the couch, registering what’s happening just in time to move onto my back. It efficiently cut my sentence off.
“ Shut up, ” he repeats, as he’s on all fours over me, glorious as ever, his wings right under the ceiling lamb.
…
Simon
My wings are casting a reddish glow on part of Baz’s face. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
…
Baz
“Stop talking,” he continues, even though I haven’t uttered a word.
(Having him on top of me tends to render me speechless…)
As suddenly as he made us tumble, he crashes his lips against mine, with the same eagerness as if my mouth was a source of water after days wandering in the driest desert.
I think I’ll let him silence me, actually.
…
Simon
Baz is soft and pliant underneath me, letting me kiss and touch him and responding with desperation and avidity and I want to shatter him. I want to watch him fall apart, just like this morning.
I want it, I want it, I want it.
But I’m not sure I want him to reciprocate, and I can’t let myself hurt him again.
No, that’s not it. I want to let him reciprocate. But I don’t think I can let him. Actually doing it is much scarier than fantasizing about doing it…
So instead, I keep my hands on his upper body, because that’s a part of me I can let him touch.
I’m only giving him what I can let him give back, because I know he won’t try to do more, and that way, I can make sure this doesn’t end with him upset.
I slide my hands down his sides slowly, drumming my fingers. My touch is light, teasing, and it must tickle because he shivers, his body jerking up.
“Circe, Snow,” he breathes out, pulling me down for yet another bruising kiss.
My hands close around his hips, where they stopped when he tugged on my neck, and I use that grip to pin him to couch. The leather feels rough against my fingers, while his skin is so smooth on the other side of them.
I lick into his mouth, the warmest part of his body, savouring the taste of him.
Baz can say whatever he wants about spit, I quite enjoy mixing ours together, having his on my tongue.
I press myself up against him a bit more, his crotch rubbing against my stomach, the silk of his pyjama trousers sliding against my waist, where my shirt has riled up under Baz’s ministrations.
I swallow the moan that rises from his throat, and I nearly moan too when his fingernails dig in my back, probably leaving behind crescent-shaped marks a few inches under my wings.
It all feels so good.
I pull back from the kiss - fuck needing to breathe- but begin covering his face in feather light kisses the second some air has made its way into my lungs. I kiss the hollow of his cheek, the harsh line of his jaw, the wet corner of his lips, the bump of his nose, the coolness of his forehead. I kiss him delicately, as if pressing my lips in his skin a bit too hard would break him.
I touch him that way too. I want to push and pull and grind and bite, but I know he prefers this. Gentle, Baz likes it gently.
I can be gentle, and I will be unless he asks me not to.
(Whatever he wants. Anything he wants. There’s no way he could want me to touch him that I wouldn’t want to. Touching him is easy.)
Still, I can’t help but roll my hips, slowly. The only friction I get is from the couch in this position, but I can feel exactly what the friction Baz is getting does to him, so it’s not so bad.
(It’s not so bad… but I wish it was his thigh instead…)
Fuck it.
I lift one of my legs and move it to the side, to trap Baz’s leg between the both of mine.
And I continue rolling my hips.
And he moans more.
(Jesus Christ, he’s so vocal. It drives me fucking mental . Stone cold, perfectly controlled, always composed Baz Pitch, turned into a wanting mess by me. It’s the best thing in the world.)
I let go of him to let my hand slide up his stomach, until I reach a nipple, already hard, asking to be touched. So I do.
“Simon,” Baz gasps, throwing his head back.
( Second best thing in the world. This is the best thing in the world.)
“Simon,” he repeats, a breathy encouragement.
I trail my lips lower, bringing them somewhere that I know will make the pretty sounds that fall from his lips even lovelier. More desperate.
He whines when I suck on his throat teasingly. I’m not putting nearly enough effort to leave a mark, but I’m definitely doing more than just kissing.
His chest begins rising and falling more quickly, he isn’t as still as he was so far. He’s moving his hips though, though much more erratically than I’m moving mine, and his hands are holding onto my back rather than touching it to make me feel good.
(It’s okay. This feels as good as if he was touching me with purpose. The more lost in pleasure he gets, the more my own pleasure grows.) (It gets me off to get him off.)
I lick his neck. (This time, he doesn’t complain about the licking…)
I wish I could take his shirt off and let my mouth drift lower, but that would mean stopping touching him for at least thirty seconds and that’s absolutely out of the question. I’ll trace his perfect chest with my lips some other time.
(Maybe later tonight? No, I can’t be too greedy. That’ll have to wait some other day.)
Since I only have access to so little, I focus my attention on his neck. It’s more sensitive than any spot I could reach on his face. I lick, and kiss, and suck, all while continuing to move my hips and my fingers on his nipple -I’m surprisingly good at multitasking…- and then, when his breathing is rough in my ear, when his squirms underneath me are jerky, I bite.
Not hard enough to draw blood, I don’t want to hurt him, but hard enough for him to feel it.
He whines, and I can feel him tremble. I’m sure if I put my head over his heart right now, I could finally hear it, but I keep it in the crook of his neck. My head. I keep it here, and I drag my tongue over the place I just bit.
There are the tiniest marks there. They’re barely noticeable, and I’m sure they’ll be gone in a minute, but right now they’re here and it makes the fire in my lower stomach burn incredibly hotter. I know what that warmth mean and it’s terrifying and I don’t want to think about this.
I fit my teeth over the bite marks I just gave him. I’d much rather think about that. Him. The fact that he even lets me do this. The fact that I’m the one who gets to have him panting and whining and moaning for my touch.
“Mine,” I say against his skin, the word a low rumble in my throat, infused with all my possessiveness. “You’re mine.”
He’s mine, he’s mine, he’s mine. I can’t believe that he’s mine. I’m so lucky that he’s mine.
This time, when he moans, it’s so much louder than the times before, and… and…
And we both…
…
Baz
Snow collapses on me, his body slightly shaking from his orgasm
(His orgasm! He came! He didn’t freak out or ran away!) (No, no, let’s not think about that.) (I’ll jinx it.) (I think if he left now I’d fucking cry.)
Just to give myself the impression that he won’t, I close my hands around his wings, where they spurt from his back. He could still free himself and go away easily, but I like entertaining the idea that he won’t.
(He said he wouldn’t, this morning. He apologized and said he’d stay with me afterwards when we would do this again.) (I didn’t think again would be on the same day, but I’m not complaining.)
“That was…” he begins, but never finish.
The way he sighs when he says it tells me more than he would have been able to with words, anyway.
I laugh softly. My brain is still fussy. I might be slightly delirious.
“Yeah. It was.”
I plant a kiss in his mess of curls, breathing in his scent as my nose is buried in his hair.
“I love you.”
I can feel him open his mouth. Then close it.
He keeps it close.
But he buries his face in the crook of my neck, and winds his arm around my waist, in what seems to be an awkward attempt at a hug, and it doesn’t matter so much that he didn’t say it back.
…
My phone rings.
I ignore it. At this time of day, it’s probably Bunce sending a text to update me about whatever she and the Normal did today. It can wait for later.
“Aren’t you gonna look at that?” Simon asks.
His voice is groggy, as heavy with sleep as his body, like a deadweight resting on mine. We should get up from the couch and go to bed. But that means moving and I don’t think either of us wants that.
So we stay here.
Cuddling.
Still filthy from our earlier activities.
I run a finger along the line where his wing and the skin of his back meet.
“Later.”
Later.
Right now I only want to be looking at you.
…
Daphne
Hello, Basil. I’m in London right now. I was busy with something, but an eye-opening call from your partner has made me realize this isn’t where I should be. I still need some time away, but will be home in a few days. I’ll tell you more specifically when once I’ve made a decision. Thank you for everything you’ve done, darling. I’m sorry you had to do it in the first place. I should have been here for your siblings, not you. But thanks for coming and helping your father, truly. It means a lot. See you soon.