And sometimes when he casts metaphors, they go viciously literal. Like when he cast Hair of the dog on Agatha during sixth year to help her get over a hangover, and instead covered her with dog hair.
Don’t get your panties in a bunch.
It’s like I’m trying to distract him with something shiny.” Cath circled her spoon hand in front of her face, accidentally flicking cottage cheese on her sweater. “He already knows about all this. This is what I look like.” She tried to scrape the cottage cheese off without rubbing it in.
I like my job,” he said. “I see the same people every day. I remember their drinks, they like that I remember their drinks, I make them happy, and then they leave. It’s like being a bartender, but you don’t have to deal with drunks.
Because every second feels so important. And because I’m so out of control, I can’t help myself. I’m not even mine anymore, I’m yours... How could you want me like I want you?
Magic words are tricky. Sometimes to reveal something hidden, you have to use the language of the time it was stashed away. And sometimes an old phrase stops working when the rest of the world is sick of saying it.
It was mine, in that moment, everything that was his.
Mi camino al infierno no se pavimenta sobre buenas intenciones.
There are vampire hotels?” Simon asks. “There are vampire everything in Vegas,” Shepard says. “There.
He once told him everything was a story, and that Simon was the hero. They’d been dancing at the time. Touching. Baz was looking at Simon like anything was possible for them now, like love was inevitable.
Baz is the love of my life of all my lives.
Thanks, but I’ve just got out of a cult. I’m not looking for a rebound cult.
Kiss me in the Catacombs, Snow. Unhallow the ground.” “I’ll unhallow your ground”.
Cannibalism isn’t sexy.
As if I wouldn’t make the world spin backwards if I thought he liked it better that way.
I’d drain you fuckin’ dry, Baz, and it still wouldn’t be enough.
I know he’s damaged and insecure, but he keeps questioning the one thing I know for certain. It’s insulting. “I’ll always come back,” I say.
Maybe this is enough. Simon. Finally. Beside me.
I’ve been reliving all of it, our whole story. Every night I stayed awake to watch him fall asleep, every time I threw a punch just to touch his face. I always knew Snow would ruin me.
I hear it from the kitchen when the shower stops. It takes me back to Watford. To lying in my bed, knowing Snow had just finished his shower. Bracing for him to come out, all damp and surly. Telling myself I wasn’t going to look at him. Telling myself I wasn’t going to care. And always doing both.
He’s starting to feel more real than anything else. He’s starting to feel like the one thing that’s supposed to be here.