scone life

Simon Snow HeadCanons

ok there are a lot, and some i have posted about before

• Simon learns sign language to help with his issues getting his words out

• he lets his hair grow out a little more so it can be put in a little baby bun

• he gains more control over his wings and uses them to do mundane tasks

        - and if Baz gets a little extra enjoyment out of it, who can say

• Simon spends a lot more time outside and gets a lot more golden-boy esque

• Baz gets up early for class and Simon tries to hold him hostage with his wings

• Simon gets a lot more comfortable doing couple-y things in public

• Also Simon isnt neuro-typical (im in the process of psycho analyzing all the characters, so I haven’t decided which one best relates to Simon)

• Simon is able to finally stop talking to his therapist as often 

       - he obviously still needs to talk to her bc trauma stops for nobody

• he gets a job at a cafe, his favorite perk: free scones

• Simon’s life just ultimately gets better

Okay but like one time I was taking a math test and it had those weird word problems and one was about someone buying 20 scones and all I could think about was freaking snowbaz and then the other was talking about two ppl running or something and one was named “Misha” and I just about lost it

Seasons Change

Genre: angst (but don’t worry, it’s christmas. there is going to be a happy ending.)
Word Count: 1608
Summary: Simon breaks up with Baz after twelve years of marriage.

I couldn’t believe that he called me. After twelve years of marriage, that’s all he was able to give me. Or maybe it was because of twelve years of marriage. Maybe that was the reason he couldn’t even look me in the eye.

He called me. That bastard.

“I think we should take a break.”
As if that’s ever all anyone means by that. Just a short break, and everything will be back to normal. I don’t fucking think so.

“Are you joking?”
I seriously thought he’d never tell me so bluntly. And… I thought he was happy. Or, I fooled myself into thinking so. Twenty years, I thought. Surely not.

“I’m serious.”
And his voice was so cold and sharp, it cut through my veins. That’s when everything froze inside of me.

“I think we should break up.”

He said it like it was easy. For fuck’s sake. As if we hadn’t lived together for eighteen years, as if we hadn’t raised two children together. As if this had been just a fling, a passing thing.

I don’t fucking think so.

And for the first time in ages, I found myself lost for words.
I almost dropped the phone, but I didn’t.

I held it close to my ear and listened to the static. A million question raced through my mind. What about the children? The house? Why now? Why like this? Why at all?

But I remained silent. I could imagine most of the answers. Almost thirty years of knowing him at all, I thought I knew every single thought in his head, every sentiment in his heart.

Turns out, I didn’t know him the slightest.

Over the phone. When it was almost Christmas. For Christ’s sake.

Keep reading

Baz's Eighth Year Spell

Carry On Countdown Day 5: Spells

The spell Baz came up with when he went back to Watford, and the first time he uses it after he leaves.

Baz hadn’t used his eighth year spell in forever. It held too many memories, the words too charged. Not to mention, he’d never had a reason before.

That wasn’t to say that no one else had used it- it’d become one of the most popular spells for soothing crying children, much to Baz’s dismay. He was hoping that the wording, so near and dear to his heart, would be too obscure for others to pick up on it. He wasn’t counting on how many people already knew what they meant.

Natasha Pitch’s last words.

The ones she’d shouted out mere moments after setting herself ablaze, her voice wrought with pain and despair. Little Baz, his world already going grey from smoke inhalation and blood loss and shock, had just caught the tail end of the sentiment before everything went silent.

When he’d created the spell, he wasn’t planning on ever having to put it to use- he just wanted a tribute to his mother out there somewhere. One last thing to remember Natasha Pitch before he entered into this new world, this new life, with a golden-haired boy and happiness and seemingly limitless scones. This new life, with no room for despair. This new life, with the silver band on his finger gleaming in the moonlight and the warm body by his side, snoring softly.

“It’s your turn to get the baby,” Simon muttered, half-asleep, and Baz knew he was lying. He didn’t argue. The bags under Simon’s eyes and the way he’d been carrying himself the past few weeks, like he had bricks tied to his feet, were reason enough for Baz to let him sleep.

“Alright, love,” he replied, kissing Simon’s temple softly, knowing it was lost on him (he was already snoring again). He tiptoed out of the room and across the hall to the nursery. The whole room was pink and yellow, a pastel assault on the eyes. The screaming baby in the bassinet was his, he thought with wonder, not for the first time since the adoption had been finalized.

He bent down and brushed the blonde mess of hair back from Cherry’s face, wiped her nose. “Shh, shhh,” he murmured. “Are you hungry? Do you need a change?” This was one thing he was still getting used to about the baby thing. Simon tended to tell him exactly what was wrong, as soon as it was- babies couldn’t do that. Baz sighed and picked her up, rocking her slightly and making his way out to the kitchen to make a bottle.

He looked down at his watch- 3:04. Oh, joy. He had to be up in 3 hours for work anyway. It was his second year teaching classes at the local high school. He was a student favorite, his classes challenging and thought provoking (and also he gave out hot chocolate- that probably swayed things in his favor). He was living the life he’d never thought he could have. Bouncing a baby on his hip, his husband sleeping in the room over. Sometimes he just had to take a deep breath and shut his eyes, to convince himself it was all real.

While the formula warmed up in the microwave, he talked absentmindedly to Cherry. “You’re getting snot all over my shirt,” he scolded her gently, patting her on the back. She sobbed and hiccupped like she could go on forever. “Hush, can’t you? Daddy wants to go back to bed.”

The microwave dinged and Baz sat down gratefully with the bottle, slumping against the back of the chair. He held the bottle up to Cherry’s mouth, but she wouldn’t take it. “Come on,” he whined, leaning his head back against the chair. He tried for a few minutes, but to no avail. She just spat it out over and over, still crying.

It felt like a momentous occasion, when Baz decided to cast the spell, but in reality all he did was set Cherry down and sing to her a little bit and then pull his wand out of the pocket of his pajama bottoms and murmur some words. He was worried at first that he hadn’t done it right, hadn’t put the enunciation on the right syllable, hadn’t had the right mindset, but she lulled right off to sleep, a happy baby smile on her face.

“It’s alright, little puff.”

“Thanks, babe,” Simon said sleepily when Baz climbed back into bed, pushing his cold feet between Simon’s warm legs. He turned around and slung one arm across Baz’s chest, snuggling into the crook of his neck. “I love you.”


cream tea by mark biddle

Robert Heinlein

Robert Heinlein goes up to the counter and looks the barista up and down. 

“How much do you weigh?” he asks.

“That’s very rude,” the barista replies.

Heinlein smiles and responds, “May I suggest investing in a sizable life insurance policy any time between now and February 3rd, 2019?” 

The barista stares at him blankly.

“Oh, and could I get three cranberry scones, please?”


i got @whelvenwings to wear a kebaya and make flower crowns in my village! she also taught me how to cook pasta and it 👏🏻 was 👏🏻 HELLA 👏🏻 DELISH 👏🏻

junk-food-for-thought  asked:

(for the i love you ask meme) 8 for Percy and Keyleth.

8. As an apology

In an wholly unexpected turn of events, Percy yields first.

He shows up outside the garden Keyleth has claimed as her own with a jar in one hand and a basket in the other, and coughs a few times. The wind turns round him like a dancer, sending his coat flapping before it blows past. Chimes ring somewhere, high tinkling notes skipping across the lawn.

“You can come in,” says Keyleth, her voice raw and hollow. “It’s your garden.”

“I brought scones,” he says. He holds them in front of him like a toll as he crosses the threshold.

Keyleth’s garden is a wild thing with its own untamed sort of order. Flowerbeds make a maze out of the once-neat lawn, and ivy grows along old stone walls, dark creeping vines speckled with tiny pale flowers.

“Keyleth?” he asks, carefully winding his way along the overgrown path.

“Up here,” she says, and he cranes his head up to see her wedged halfway up the towering maple in the middle of the garden. Percy eyes the tree, considering. He could make it. Probably.

“I brought scones,” he repeats, and Keyleth unfolds herself like a flower, red and orange among the frail green buds. “I thought you might be hungry.”

He doesn’t make mention that he is the reason she might be hungry, that their argument is why she skipped breakfast. It hangs heavy in the air between them.

She slips out of the tree with easy grace, long limbs moving among the easy bend and shift of nature with an aching familiarity, and Percy feels like he is intruding on something. He’s always been a stubborn bastard, though.

She is too, at heart. It’s why they get along so well. And why their arguments are so often… Well.

“And I brought jam,” he adds when she stand before him, brushing twigs from her shirt. “Orange.”

“Thank you,” she says, a little stiff. “Do–– Will you join me?”

“If you want.”

They spread his coat upon the dewy grass and settle among snapdragons and pansies, and the scones are warm from the oven, and the jam is sweet and sticky, and as they eat side by side the tension bleeds away.

“I love you,” says Percy, which is as close to I’m sorry as he will get.

“I love you, too,” says Keyleth, who knows what he means. She offers him the last scone. Steam rises from the inside as he breaks it in two.

The wind weaves through the garden, brisk and wild, and it sends the flowers dancing around them, and the air smells like oranges.