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Don't Leave Without Me

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Baz and I head to our room in Mummers House once we’ve gotten our sandwiches from Cook Pritchard.

Well, I got sandwiches. Baz said that he wasn’t hungry, that he had dinner before the ceremony. And also that he fed before the ball, which would explain why I could see him blush—just a bit—when I asked if we could come up here.

Thing is, there were too many people at that ball. I came here for Baz, not everyone else. And I wanted to be alone with him, just the two of us. (I think I’ve started understanding what Penelope means when she says it exhausts her to be around too many people. These last months, I’ve really only wanted to be around her and Baz.)

Anyway, we walk to Mummers House in silence. (I’ve found it’s easy to be comfortably silent with Baz these last months, too.) I take his hand because I want to, lacing our fingers together gently. Holding hands with Baz is one of my favourite things. It feels like home.

It’s true what I said, earlier. That I don’t care about doing gay stuff in public. I want to. And I don’t want Baz feeling like he has to hide anything. 

I have to let go of his hand when we get to the stairs inside Mummers House. I let Baz go first, partly so I don’t accidentally trip him with my tail, and partly because I get to watch him this way. The way the fabric of his suit shifts across his body as he moves. His body in general. 

I don’t have to give our room any blood to get in. Baz is here, so the door opens for him, and he holds it open for me. I hesitate, just for a second, and then I step over the threshold. 

The room’s the same, somehow, but different, too. Or maybe it’s not the room that’s different; maybe it’s just Baz and me. Or just me.

I’ve not been here since the day that...well. The day all the shit hit the fucking fan. We came up here, afterwards, and…

I can’t remember much of it, honestly. My therapist says maybe I’ve blocked it out, that it’s too painful. I know there was tea, a lot of it, and that we slept, Penelope, Baz, and me. I know I felt like the world was going to drop out from under me if I let go of Baz. So I didn’t. I just held onto him, because I had to know that something was real. I had to know that everything that happened between us was real, because everything else seemed like a dream. 

And, well. I don’t know. Maybe I thought that I wouldn’t be able to hold onto him for much longer, not without my magic. Not as a Normal.

Anyway, the place looks almost exactly the same. Even my bed’s still unmade, just the way I left it.

I’m not sure how I feel about that. I’m not sure how I’m supposed to feel. 

It doesn’t hurt as much as I thought it might, being here. I suppose that’s good. My therapist would probably say I’m processing my trauma. Or something. 

I’m not sure where to set the paper bag with my sandwiches.

You’d think I would; I mean, I did live here for nearly eight years. But Baz and I never ate together in here. Not that Baz is going to eat now, but. 

I wonder if he really isn’t hungry, or if he’s just saying so because he doesn’t want me seeing his fangs.


“Hm?” When I look up, Baz is stood in the space between our beds. 

He raises an eyebrow at me. “You were so keen on those sandwiches. It’s a miracle they’ve lasted this long.” 

“Oh.” I shrug. My paper bag crinkles. “Dunno where to sit I guess.”

Baz sits on the floor, right between our beds.

I huff a laugh. “Right,” I say, and I sit with him, just like I did in his bedroom at Christmas. The bedroom he can never go home to. I try not to think about that.

I open my bag. “Y’sure you don’t want one? S’been a long day. You’ve got to be hungry.”

Baz lets out a long sigh. “Fine, then. Give us a sandwich.”

I smile at him and his eyes go soft. Baz really is soft, when he isn’t holding his walls up against the world. I like him this way. It’s so much better than fighting. 

I take a bite of my sandwich. It’s ham and cheese, one of my favourites. (It’s hard to pick a favourite sandwich, anyway.) (I wonder what Baz’s favourite is.)

He takes a bite, too, covering his mouth as he does. He’s not looking at me.

“Hey,” I say around my mouthful of food. (A bit of chewed-up bread goes flying, and I hope he doesn’t notice.)

Baz looks up but doesn’t drop his hand.

I reach out and take his hand. Move it away from his face. Much better. 

“Y’don’t have to do that.”

“Old habits,” Baz says, eyes narrowed. “Close your mouth.”

I roll my eyes.

Then I close my mouth.



It’s true what I said, about old habits.

Because what I told my mother earlier was true, too. I’m alright. And I’m going to carry on as I am. 

Which doesn’t mean I’m completely used to eating in front of people. Not even Simon.  

He’s decimated two whole sandwiches before I’ve even finished my first. There’s a third in the bag, and he’s fidgeting with the paper, crinkling it. 

I swallow my last bite. “You can have it,” I say. 

His face lights up. He’s like a child on Christmas morning. (Well. Any Christmas morning besides the last.) 

He pulls the sandwich out, goes to take a bite, then drops his hand. His brow furrows like he’s thinking about something—which looks like it hurts, honestly—and then he tears the sandwich and offers me half, crumbs falling to the carpet in between us. 

I take it, finger imprints and all. 

He grins at me. “How’d your speech go?” he asks, shoving his sandwich into his gaping maw. Crowley, he’s like a bottomless pit. 

“Well enough,” I say, my words slurring around my fangs. “Nothing exciting. You don’t want to hear about it.” I bite into my sandwich, as if that’ll make him drop the subject. Of course it doesn’t. 

“Sure I do,” Simon says. It’s muffled by all the bread and cheese and ham he’s stuffed into his mouth. I’m disgusted with myself for not finding him more disgusting. He’s giving me a look—a disgustingly endearing one—like he’s not going to let me get away with not talking about it.

I swallow before I answer him. I’m not a barbarian. “It was my mother’s,” I say. “Some of it, anyway. I read from her speech, the one she gave at her leaving ceremony.” I need to tread lightly here, so I gloss over how much she talked about magic. The gift. The responsibility. Even though Simon Snow is the epitome of both of those things. He saved our world. He gave us our future. It’s still so bloody difficult to knock that into his thick head—to make him believe it—most of the time. That moment on the dance floor was a bit of a breakthrough, honestly. I don’t need to send him backpedaling now.

He laughs when I tell him about how my mother said she’d miss the sour cherry scones, then he pulls one out of his paper bag and shoves it in his mouth for emphasis, mumbling something about butter around his crumbs. 

“I went to see her, afterward,” I say. “To read her the speech.” I sigh. “I know she couldn’t actually hear, but—”

“‘Course she could,” Simon says, wiping his mouth roughly with the back of his hand. His naiveté is endearing, annoyingly so, and I wish he were right. Of course I do. But .


“She could, Baz. I know she could.” He shifts to his knees and sits back on his heels. “She’s proud of you.” 

I hate how hopeful that makes me feel. 

“Don’t argue,” Simon says. “Just. C’mere.” 


“Here.” Then he’s shuffling towards me on his knees, pressing all his scattered crumbs into the carpet and Dr Wellbelove’s trousers. 

I almost think he’s about to start snogging me. I wouldn’t argue with that , even if I haven’t finished my sandwich yet. 

He takes my face in his hands, gently, before smoothing his palms along my shoulders. Then he bends and presses a lingering kiss into my temple. He smells like hair product and ham and cheese. 

“That’s from your mum,” he whispers when he pulls back. “She asked me to give it to you.” 



I think Baz nearly cried after I told him about his mum, but then he ended up snogging me on the floor instead. (I wouldn’t have minded if he’d cried, but I didn’t mind the snogging, either.)

It’s been good, being alone with him tonight, just the two of us. So good. 

Baz visited me at the Bunces’ at the weekend when he could during the term, but we never really had time to ourselves. We haven’t been alone— truly alone—since Christmas. And now that we are, I’m a little nervous.

I’ve thought about being alone with Baz more times than I can count by now. Really and truly thought about it. It’s something I want, but also I’m terrified. Terrified of mucking it up. Terrified of being bad at it. Terrified of not being bad at it. I’ve tried not to think about how terrified I am, but it hasn’t really worked, and also my therapist says I really should think about the things I don’t want to think about, because you can’t move on otherwise. Or something.

She also said not to do anything I wasn’t ready to do.

I don’t know. I mean, I want to. And Baz says he chooses me, so. That’s a relief. I just…

I want to feel good. And I want Baz to feel good, too. The truth is…

Well, the truth is that I’m in love with him, isn’t it?

That is terrifying.

I’m not ready to tell him yet. I mean, I want him to know. He needs to know that he’s loved. That I love him. But I’m still not ready. Not yet. 

I'm not sure if that means we shouldn't have sex yet, but I'm trying not to think about that too much either.

I just want to be close to him, I think. I think it's always been that.

We’re done snogging now. We were both out of breath when we stopped, and Baz practically jumped up to get a drink of water from our bathroom. I ended up finishing the rest of his sandwich while he was gone. Then I got a drink, too, and splashed some water on my face. My cheeks were flushed when I looked at myself in the mirror. 

Baz is stood at the window when I come out of the bathroom, looking out at something. I don’t know what. Maybe he doesn’t, either. 

He’s lovely, in any case, with the moonlight shining on his skin the way it is. Merlin, I never felt like I wanted Agatha like this. I feel like I’m being pulled towards him, almost like that very first day. The day the Crucible cast us together. The Crucible gave me you, he said, earlier. Sounded like a load of tosh at the time, but now I’m thinking maybe that’s sort of romantic. Or something. 

"Baz?" I say.

He turns his head and the light from the window catches in his hair. "Yeah?"

I swallow. "Would it. I mean. D'you."

Baz raises an eyebrow at me, the wanker.

I run a hand through my hair. (It feels weird , slicked back the way it is.) I can tell my tail's thrashing, but it's still invisible so I don't think Baz knows. He's stood too far away to get hit with it.

"Would it be alright if I stayed? The night, I mean. Just."

Baz walks over to me, and my tail knocks into him. (Not too hard.) He takes it and lets me coil it around his forearm, then he leans in and kisses me at the corner of my mouth. 

I'll take that as a yes, then.



Simon disappears into our bathroom to change after I hand him a pair of my pyjamas.

We’ve still never dressed—or undressed—in front of each other.

Is he going to sleep in his bed? Am I?

We’ve never slept in a bed together, either.

I suppose we could have, when he stayed at mine over Christmas, but I think we both silently agreed that it was too intimate. Too tentative. Not yet.

So Snow slept on my couch that first night. And I slept on it with him the second. And the third…Crowley, the third . Neither of us slept much at all that night, did we? 

I didn't expect him to want to stay tonight. I didn't expect him to show up at all, much less ask to see our room. It's painful for him here, it has to be.

Which is why I didn't know what to say when he asked if he could stay. (Not that he had to ask at all.)

I think we were headed towards something as we were kissing just a while ago. Something new. Something terrifying and delightful, all at once. The something that was the reason we didn’t sleep together in my bed over Christmas. Perhaps it’s just wishful thinking on my part, but I don’t think so. Not with the noises he was making as he kissed me, or the way he loosened my tie. Not with the way he tugged at my hair, or the way he trailed wet, open-mouthed kisses along my throat. He has to know what that was doing to me. All of it. I’m the fire magician, and yet Simon Snow never ceases to set my nerves alight with his hands. His lips. His tongue. With every sound that comes out of his mouth. 

Simon Snow sets me alight, full stop. 

I’ve not told him that I love him, not yet. I wonder if he knows. I don’t know that he does. (Is it possible for him to be that thick? Probably.) And I don’t know if Bunce told him about how I cast On love’s light wings to get to him that night in the Chapel. I’ve been too afraid to ask. Because I’m weak.  

It’s hard for us to talk, like I said. Tonight’s the most we’ve talked—really talked—in months. Telling him I love him, actually saying those words…

I don’t want to scare him away. And I don’t want to add to the heaping pile of problems he has to sort out. I’ve tried showing him, instead, pouring everything I have into being here for him. Pouring everything I have into my kisses, too. 

There's a noise from the bathroom, like all my products have just been knocked from the counter and onto the floor. And also a muttered shit. I smile, just a bit. Snow was already clumsy enough without that blasted tail; it's a wonder he can function with it at all.

I snap the clasp of my watch undone and set it on my bedside table. (It takes a few tries; my hands are shaking.) "Alright in there Snow?" I call. I'm sure he can hear the hint of amusement in my voice. Probably the hint of nerves, too. 

There's a growl from the other side of the door, a playful one.

I smile as I slip my jacket off and hang it in my wardrobe—along with my already-loosened tie—then I figure I might as well help Simon with the mess he's made.

He opens our bathroom door before I have the chance to knock. 

He's folded all the pieces of his suit over his forearm like he's not sure what to do with them. (I suppose he probably isn't.) He's staring at me, and he swallows that showy fucking swallow that always makes me want to bite his Adam's apple.



I guess Baz started undressing while I was in the bathroom, because he's stood there without his jacket and I guess I didn't realize how good a bloke could look in just his waistcoat and shirtsleeves. How good Baz could look.

I shouldn't be surprised anymore, really, about the things just looking at Baz does to me. But.

"Hey," I say, which is stupid.

He raises an eyebrow at me. "Hey yourself, Snow."


“Did you let Bunce know you’re staying?” Thank magic Baz knows what to say right now, because I sure as fuck don’t. 

“Yeah. Texted her.” I got myself a mobile earlier this year, mostly so I could talk to Baz while he was at school. (Professor Bunce lifted the mobile ban at Watford as soon as she was appointed headmistress. I thanked her for that myself, actually, but she just said it was a stupid rule anyway.)

He steps towards me. “Here, Snow; let’s hang this up.” 

Baz helps me properly hang Dr Wellbelove’s suit in my old wardrobe. (I know Dr Wellbelove could just magick the wrinkles out, but I still want to give it back looking like I took care of it. Nice of him, to lend me a suit to wear to Baz’s leavers ball. A bit awkward, too.)

Then Baz gets another pair of his fancy pyjamas from his wardrobe and locks himself in the bathroom to change.

I'm wearing some of his pyjamas, too. They're soft and they smell like him, like cedar and bergamot. Like our room. Home. I just hope my wings don't come undone and rip them. (They're still folded neatly against my back, just the way Penny spelled them for me earlier.) (I tucked the waistband beneath my tail, and it probably looks naff, if I'm honest, but it's better than shoving the damn thing down my trouser leg.)

I pace around our room while Baz gets ready for bed.

I'm not really sure what to do now.

Probably waiting for him in his bed would be too forward. Also I shouldn't make assumptions. Maybe he expects me to be in my bed when he comes out of the bathroom, and then we'll say goodnight and turn off the lamp and that'll be that.

I don't want that to happen.

Also I don't want to sleep in my old bed.

What if the sheets smell like it, like my magic? I can't smell magic, not since I lost mine, but I don't really want to take the chance. At least if we sleep in Baz's bed it'll smell like something familiar, something comforting. Like cedar and bergamot.

I jump when the bathroom door opens.

Baz crosses the room in a few easy strides—his legs are so bloody long —and starts hanging his suit in his wardrobe. 

I'm not sure how to ask him if I can sleep in his bed.

"Where do you want to sleep, Snow?"


"Um. Can we…?"

He closes his wardrobe and turns around, sees me shrugging at his bed.

"Alright," he says, then he walks around to the other side. 

I’m not sure how to do this, how to just get in his bed. 

Baz turns down the covers. “Come on, Snow,” he says, and he gets into bed like it’s just another normal night. Well, not Normal, but. 

“Right,” I say, and I crawl in beside him.

It’s not a big bed. 

It seemed a lot bigger, when I was eleven, when the only beds I had to compare it to were the ones in care. My bed here at Watford stayed the same as I grew, but it was still just right for me. 

I think about Trixie and Keris pushing Trixie and Penny’s beds together, back when Penny slept up here with me. Back when Baz was missing. I can see the appeal now, even if I do love Baz and want to be close. We’re shoulder-to-shoulder, on our backs. He’s cool, which is good, honestly; if he were warm like a regular person I’d probably be burning up already. We both have our hands clasped on top of the blankets. My tail keeps sliding to the floor, so I coil it around my ankle to keep it in place. I’m looking at the ceiling, so I assume he is, too. 

We’re quiet for a few minutes, so quiet I wonder if he can hear my heart hammering in my chest.

“Baz?” I whisper.

“Yeah?” he whispers back. 

I roll on my side to face him. His head turns languidly until he’s looking at me. Fuck , he’s so lovely. 

My lips quirk up; I can’t help it. Then my eyes slip closed, and I lean in, and I kiss him.

Chapter Text


I've always loved this bed.

If someone had told me three years ago—hell, six months ago, even—that I'd be snogging Simon Snow in this bed on my last night at Watford, I'd've assured them that they were barking mad.

Fuck, I'm snogging Simon Snow. In my bed. In our room. And, well. I don't think that's all my body wants to do. All I want to do.

I don't know if Simon's ready for that, but it certainly feels like we're hurtling towards something. Hurtling languidly, if that's possible. 

I don't want to stop. Of course I don't.

We're facing each other, Simon and me. I've always loved this bed, but it's certainly not very accommodating for two grown men (especially when one of them has spare dragon parts). Unless they're pressed very closely together. Which we are.

Simon has one warm hand at the small of my back, and he's started slipping the fingers of his other between the buttons of my shirt, the way he did in the library in Hampshire. Before, well. Before everything went completely to shit.

I hum into his mouth as the hand at my back shifts to hold tight to my hip. Simon hums right back at me and shoves his face further into mine, if that's possible. It's a wonder he can't hear how fast my heart is pounding. Or maybe he can.

It's not very comfortable, honestly, snogging like this. One of my arms is trapped between my body and the bed, and I think it's started to lose feeling.

I shift to my back, and Simon follows clumsily until he's draped himself across me. Much better.

I wind the fingers of one hand in his curls and slip my other hand beneath his shirt ( my shirt) to hold onto his hip. There's a mole right at the bone, so I trace it with my thumb, stroking back and forth. I feel him shiver beneath my touch, and I'm not sure whether it's from my cold fingers or because he's as aroused as I am. Maybe it's both.

Simon reaches down with one hand, the blanket rustling, and I think he's about to hitch up my shirt when—

There's a mortifying smack as Simon stops kissing me, his hand flying back out from under the blankets. He's just…

He's just felt that I'm hard—undeniably so—and by accident, it would seem. All the blood I've got in me rushes to my cheeks (well, most of the blood, anyway).

"Sorry," he says. "Sorry—"


"I wasn't—"



"Crowley, Snow."

Fuck , this is completely mortifying.

He buries his face in my neck, then, which I suppose is better than jerking away. His skin and his breath are warm against my collarbone, and I can very nearly hear his heart hammering.

I think my heart's trying to catch up.

Simon mumbles something into my neck.

"What?" I say. 

He growls softly, and the vibration sends a shiver down my spine. "Said I'm hard, too."


"Oh," I say, which is moronic. 

"Um," Simon says. He's still talking into my neck. "I dunno that I'm ready? For like. Sex?"

"Oh," I say again. Fuck.


"No, don't. It's alright."



"I mean…"

"Use your words, Simon."

"Fuck.” He growls again. (It’s more arousing than it has a right to be.) “D'you wanna get off?"

I shift my head in his direction and nudge his face with my chin. "You've just said you aren't ready for that."

"Not ready for sex."

I swallow. I can't believe we're having this conversation. "What exactly are you classifying as sex in your mind?"

"Um. Touching each other? Blowjobs…" 

Aleister Crowley, Simon Snow has thought about blowjobs. Fuck, I don't even know if I can give a blowjob. All that blood in one place, and so close to my fangs…

"Right," I say. Damn it.

Simon sits up. It's a good thing his wings are still spelled in from earlier, otherwise he'd've probably sent everything on my bedside table flying. That'd be just like him, really.

He starts raking a hand through his curls, so I sit up too and take that hand in mine. I can see him blushing, even in the dark, his eyes shut tight. 

“Simon,” I start. “It’s alright—"

“It’s embarrassing .” 

“What’s embarrassing?” I ask the question even though I’m half-dreading the answer.

Well, Baz, your being hard’s just reminded me that you’re a bloke. Also I’ve remembered I’m not actually gay. So.

As it happens, I’m not so hard anymore. 

“I want…” Simon starts. Then sighs. Then growls. “Jesus, I want you, don’t I?” 


That certainly wasn’t what I was expecting. 

I squeeze his hand. “Me too,” I say, quietly. “I’ve…” I swallow. It’s a stalling swallow. “I’ve wanted you for a long time,” I tell him, because he needs to know. Because just a few hours ago he told me he thought I’d get bored with him. “But I can wait, Simon. Till you’re ready.” 

“That’s the thing, though.” He huffs. He’s well agitated about something, so I grab his other hand to keep him from hassling his hair. “I’m. Look, I dunno what I’m ready for, yeah? But like. I want.” He swallows his showy swallow. It makes me want to lean forward and catch his Adam’s apple between my teeth. (I don’t.)

I squeeze both of his hands with mine instead. They’re warm, and a little damp with sweat. Nerves, then.

“Simon. You can tell me.” 

He sighs again. “Just. D’you want to get off? I want something good , like. We could...I dunno. Snog and...stuff.”


He growls. Again. “Yeah. Stuff.”

“We need to be on the same page here,” I say. I try not to sound as frustrated as I am. “What do you mean by that?”

“I mean... fuck, Baz. I mean I want to get off. With you. I’ll...we.” Then it simply tumbles out of him. “We snog while we get ourselves off. That’s what I mean.” 

Oh. Oh. 

“Oh,” I say. Damn it.

Simon’s face is burnt crimson. “D’you. Y’don’t—”

I squeeze his hands again. “No, I do .”






“You’re sure?” 

“Fuck. Yes. Said so, didn’t I?” he growls at me, then looks down. Away. “Um. You?” It’s probably the meekest I’ve ever heard him. 

I bring our joined hands up between us and knock up his chin, just like I did as we danced a few hours ago. “Yeah,” I say. 

He’s looking at me with what might be... Crowley, is that love? I don’t know. It has my heart racing again, whatever it is. 

Love, I think. Love, love, love. 

Simon Snow loves me. He’s just complete shit with words. 

And I love him, too.

“I meant it,” I say. “I’m not changing my mind.” 

His brow furrows in classic Snow fashion. “About getting off?”

“What?” I huff. “No, you dolt. About you. I’m not changing my mind about you.” My fingers brush over his knuckles, over the one small mole on the back of his hand. “Nor the getting off, I suppose.” 

I think for a moment that he’s going to say something. I’m not sure why I do; he’s always been prone to acting first. He doesn’t speak. He sets his jaw instead, and then he’s lifting himself to his knees, lurching towards me, taking my face in his hands.

And then he kisses me. 



I almost told him just now. That I love him.

Then I didn’t. 

I mean, what if it’s all too soon for that? What was it that Baz said at the ball, about leaving things poetically unsaid? 

Is this something that can be left poetically unsaid?

It’ll have to be. At least for right now.

I bring up my list in my head, my list of things I want to do to Baz. (It’s been growing these last months. Fuck, it’s grown in the last few hours.) Then I press gently until he falls back onto his pillow. His long legs unfold, then fall open. Like they've opened for me. I slot myself between them and Baz sighs, his breath cool against my cheek. I push a hand up into his hair, and slip my tongue into his mouth, and then I can feel him getting hard again. (The fancy pyjamas leave very little to the imagination with us pressed together like this. I like it.) (I like it a lot.) (Well gay, that.)

I’m getting hard again, too.

Fuck, I don't know what I'm doing. I've never done this before. Not with another bloke. Not with anyone.

Well, it's not like I'm the only one. Baz’d never even kissed anyone before me, which I thought was absolutely mad until I took all the details into account. Like the vampirism. And him having a crush on me for years. (He told me that, a few months ago. I didn't believe him at first.)

He's good at kissing, for someone who's never done it before. Then again Baz is bloody perfect at everything.

Our tongues are sliding together, and his mouth's not so cold anymore, not since we've been kissing.

I feel like I can't get enough of him, like I just need to be closer, and closer, and closer.  

I wonder if he can feel how fast my heart's beating right now.

Baz's hands are moving down my body—so fucking slowly—his fingers bunching up bits of my shirt ( his shirt) as he goes. I've got one hand under his shirt, too, rubbing my fingers along the muscles of his stomach, dipping into his navel, stroking the light trail of hair on his belly. I've never heard his breath catch this much, not even that first night we spent snogging like mad in his bedroom.

Our shirts are lifted enough for our skin to touch, now. He's cool and warm all at the same time. He's fire, really, which just makes sense

I push my hips down into his. I don't have to think about it, it just happens as my body starts getting desperate for friction. Baz lifts his hips into mine just as his hands find my arse and press, and we both groan. Fuck, I've never felt something so fucking good before . I follow his touch, rutting against him like nothing else matters, because it doesn't, not now. It's just Baz and me in his bed, making each other feel good.

I've never realized how creaky these beds could be.

Probably I could come like this. 

I can't, not yet.

Baz sighs as I still my hips and let go of his mouth. I think he says my name, but it's so bloody soft and shaky that I can barely hear him.

I press my open mouth to his throat and drag my teeth lightly along the skin there. He lets out a muffled noise as he starts in on my neck, too. Funny—absurd, really—how I used to wear a cross there. What was I trying to protect myself from? Soft kisses?

I wish I could roll us over and have Baz pin me into his mattress—I like that sometimes, him in control, hovering over me, pressing down into me—but I can't. Lying on my back's still uncomfortable after awhile, even with my wings spelled the way they are. I don't know that I could take his weight. (He's heavier than he looks.)

I take some of his skin between my teeth instead. I've not been able to give him a hickey, at least not yet. I've not had many chances to try, but I still love the way he sounds when I do.

My chin's brushing against his collar and fuck, I think I want his shirt off. Or at least open. (I don't think I'm ready to be fully naked with him yet, but I don't know. Maybe I am.) (The shirt will be good enough for now.)

I give his neck one last lick before I prop myself on my elbows.

"S'okay if I— hmph."

He's grabbed me by the neck and shoved our mouths back together, which is fine by me.

There's a lovely little smack as he lets go again. "What was that, Snow?" he breathes. Fucking hell, I've never heard him sound like this. I love it.

I start fumbling with the hem of his shirt. "S'okay if I unbutton your shirt?"

He nods, bits of his hair tickling my face.

Then I sit back on my heels.



Snow is being rather touchy for someone who's said he wants us to get ourselves off. Not that I'm complaining.

I let him lead in any case. He's never had complete control of his body before—something I'm intimately familiar with, unfortunately—and he needs to be able to choose. He needs to get to choose what we do together tonight.

Which doesn't mean that the feel of him hard against me isn't making me want to touch him. Fuck, do I want to touch him. I want to take him in my hand, in my mouth, anything . I want to hear him moaning and gasping and crying out beneath my touch.

There will be time for all of that. 

My heart swells as I realize that that's the truth.

There will be time. 

He's taking his bloody time with unbuttoning my shirt, in any case, his fingers fumbling and shaking with arousal. Or what I hope is arousal, rather.

The last button finally comes loose, then, and he stares at my exposed skin as he pulls my shirt apart. I watch his throat catch as he swallows, and then his lips are hanging open, and all I want is to reach up for his mouth. 

I do, and he gasps, and I think I could listen to that on an endless loop for the rest of my life (such as it is).

He's taller than me like this, on his knees. There's something incredibly arousing about it. (I won't tell him so.)

One of his hands is in my hair—fucking it up, most likely, but I don't mind—and the other is between us, at his chest. He's trying to undo his buttons, too.

"Let me," I say, more desperately than I'd like. I can't help it; I've fantasized about taking Simon Snow's clothes off for years now.

"Yeah, alright," he breathes into the space between us. 

I set to work, my eyes flitting back and forth between his and his newly exposed skin every time I undo a button. His pupils are blown, a lovely thing, and his breath is coming fast, his chest and belly heaving. I wonder if I could come just from watching him. (Maybe.)

His last button comes free and I let his shirt hang open. I wonder how he'd feel if I pushed it aside and took his nipple in my mouth, but then I decide it might be too soon for that.

I press a kiss into his chest instead. He has a mole there, right next to where his cross used to rest. I know his marks, and I knew that cross all too well, too.

His heart is hammering beneath my lips. That's when I remember myself. "Is that alright?" I say against his skin.

"Yeah." His voice is low, and soft, and shaky. A rumble.

I kiss him there again, and then again, lower, and lower again, following the line of his belly and the scattering of freckles and moles along his skin. 

I stop above his navel, not because I want to, but I don't know that I should keep going. And also because I'll have to uncomfortably contort myself if I go any further south.

"Um. D'you want…?" he says from up above me.

I raise an eyebrow at him even though my cock is absolutely aching for friction right now. (Old habits.)

I think, for a moment, that he's simply going to stick his hand down his trousers and get off right here as he hovers over me. I wouldn't be opposed. At all. Fuck, I almost want him to let me watch him do it, and he could tell me not to touch myself as I watched. I'd want him to come on me, but I'm not sure where. 

Crowley, I'm disturbed. 

He huffs and flops down next to me instead. I suppose we're doing this now, then.

We settle back into the pillows, huddling close. (I really should've thought to spell the bed bigger before we started; I'm going to end up elbowing him in the side this way.)

I'm not sure exactly how to go about this, now that it's time. I've never had a wank with an audience before, especially not an inflammably handsome one.

We turn our heads towards each other at nearly the same time. 

Simon blinks at me. "Um," he says, and then he touches himself overtop his trousers, sighing shakily. I swallow as I watch his hand; I can see the shape of his cock through the fabric. (That has my breath shaking, too.)

Alright. I suppose I should…

Simon watches me as I reach down and palm myself through my trousers. "You're not left-handed," he says. The dolt.

"No," I say. "Do you want me to elbow you in the side this whole time? Would that help you get off?"

He huffs a laugh before he moves closer still and kisses me.



I don't think this is going to take long.

Baz is groaning against my lips, and I guess I'm groaning against his, too. We don't even have our hands in our trousers yet. I mean, I know I don't, and I've just snuck a glance at Baz and seen that he doesn't, either.

Still, I need more than this. 

I don't know if I should push my pyjamas down yet, or if that'd be weird. Would that be weird? I mean, we're supposed to be getting off, so. Probably it's implied that we won't be keeping our trousers on. Right?

I just slip my hand down into my pants instead. 

It's a bloody relief when I finally wrap my hand around my cock. It's not like I ever work myself up this much when I'm alone. It's usually pretty fast when I'm by myself, actually. Well. Not too fast, just. It's not like I have much of a reason to go on very long, yeah?

Baz must sense me open my eyes—maybe that's a vampire thing, I don't know—because he opens his, too. Something sparks in my belly when he looks down at my hand moving inside my trousers. He's still got his hand on the outside of his.

He licks his lips. "Does that feel good?" he whispers.

That sparks something in my belly, too.

I nod at him. "Are you. I mean, are you going to…"

He moves his hand along his belly, slowly, so fucking slowly. (I don't know how he can stand it. I can barely stand it, and I'm just watching.) Then his long fingers start to dip below the waistband of his trousers, his hand moving beneath the fabric until it looks a lot like mine. 

Oh, fuck, we're actually doing this. Getting off together.

I think, well. I think I want to see him touching himself. Properly.



"Should we…" Simon says.

I barely hear him; I'm too busy watching his hand move inside his trousers. "What?" 

"Should we, like. D'you want to." His hand stops moving and he huffs. Then he lifts his hips and pushes his pyjama bottoms—my pyjama bottoms—down around his thighs.

Merlin, Morgana, and Methuselah.

I'm caught between sheer shock and the urge to just reach over and bring him off myself. Just to touch him.

He's jutting his chin towards me that way he's always done, like this is some sort of challenge. Well. Maybe it is.

I don't give myself time to think or worry about it; I just push my trousers down around my thighs, too. The catch in Simon's throat at the sight of me is reward enough.

No, him shoving his face into mine and licking into my mouth is better. Which is what he does, now, groaning and growling and rumbling as he goes. Molten heat pools in my belly as his hand starts moving on his cock again (I know because I can feel the bed shifting, just slightly). I start touching myself again, too. (It's really no trouble left-handed.)

I mean to go slow at first, but I can't. Not with Simon Snow right here, kissing me. Not with the way his hips are lifting into his hand, the way the bed's gone back to creaking. The way he's moaning into my mouth. 

It's a fucking beautiful sound, all of it. His groans and gasps and sighs melding with mine. 

The love swelling in my chest is almost painful. I give myself over to it.

We've just crossed some sort of line, Simon Snow and I, that much is obvious. And I'm not turning back.



I can't believe I've lasted this long.

Baz getting himself off is something else. The sound of it. The feel of it as his moans vibrate around my mouth. The way he looks at me every time we stop kissing, that look I always thought was him wanting to attack me. Fuck, this is so much better than fighting.

He's doing it now, looking at me. We're looking at each other, and it's uncomfortable—vulnerable—but I can't stop. I won't. I have to look at him right now.

I squeeze his right hand with my left (we've laced our fingers together at some point; I can't remember when.) "What're you thinking about?" I don't know why I say it.

"What?" I don't think he knows why I've said it, either.

"What're you thinking about? Right now?"

Baz's hand slows. "What am I. Crowley, Snow, you. It's always been you, I told you that."

I think on that, Baz touching himself to thoughts of me. That only makes the fire in my belly burn hotter, closer. 

I kiss him, I can't help it. I kiss him long, and slow, and deep, the sounds of our mouths moving together sending a thrill through me. It's so good. It's always so good, even without the wanking. ( Especially with the wanking.)


There’s pressure and pleasure and love building in my belly, and it’s not about to stop. I pull away from Baz’s mouth and he follows me with his lips.

“Baz,” I breathe.


“I think I’m—”

Baz stops touching himself. Rolls into me. Crashes our mouths back together.


My breath comes fast through my nose, and Baz smooths a hand over my chest, and his tongue’s in my mouth, and fuck. 

I growl down his throat as I spill onto my belly, and he moans back at me. My ears are practically ringing, but I can feel the sound he makes as it vibrates against my lips, my tongue. Fucking hell. 

He stops kissing me and presses his open mouth to my neck instead. I’m still moaning—or maybe that’s a whimper?—as I slow my hand.

"Fuck," I say, because I don't think I've ever come harder, and I'm out of breath, and it's not even embarrassing. Not much, anyway.

Baz reaches over and sets his hand on top of mine—the one that's still wrapped around my cock. My belly jumps in surprise, but I find I like his hand there. 

He tugs on my hand, gently, and I let go of myself. I think he just wants to hold it—my hand, I mean—and I almost stop him (I've got come on some of my fingers), but Merlin, no. He brings it to his lips and takes my fingers in his mouth instead, my breath catching as his cold tongue circles my fingertips. Fucking hell.

He's sucking on my fingers and... fuck, I think he's moaning, too.

That's when I remember he still needs to come.

“S’alright if I touch you?” I whisper. I want to, I realize. I just want him to feel good.

Baz lets go of my fingers but keeps holding my hand in his. “That doesn’t seem fair, Snow.”

“Sure it is. I mean. S’fine if you don’t want me to, but I—”

“Simon.” He nods at me. I can just make it out in the dark. “Please.”

“Yeah. Yeah, alright.” I roll on my side, and my come starts running down my belly. “Fuck—”

“Leave it,” Baz says. I do. 



I've just licked the come from Simon Snow's fingers, and I don't even have time to be embarrassed about it.

I'd say I don't know what possessed me, but that'd be a lie. It was everything, all of him. The way his breath hitched. The way his back arched, just slightly. The sound of him coming, the smell of it. The look of pure pleasure and relief on his face. Even the thrash of that fucking tail managed to be erotic. (It's still spelled invisible, but I couldn't miss the violent rustling of the sheets.)

Simon Snow is everything. He's still the centre of my universe.

And he's just asked to touch me.

Well. He might still be thinking about touching me. He seems to have forgotten how to move.


"Simon. You don't have to. I can fini—”

"No, I want to," he says. He's just staring at my cock like he's not sure what to do with it. Which is moronic. Moronically endearing. Crowley, I'm so far gone.



"Just grab it, Snow. I can assure you it works the same as yours. I'll probably come in about thirty seconds as is." Well. I've just said that. My body goes through the motions of blushing, but all the blood I have in me's otherwise occupied at the moment.

"Right." He flips back onto his back and yanks his trousers back up. "Oh, fuck, your trousers…" I suppose he forgot that his belly's covered with come.

"Simon. It's fine." I should've known this was what it'd be like to have sex with Simon Snow. (After a fashion, I mean.) All bumbling, blustering desire. 

"Yeah." He shifts to his side again, his tail whipping up and over my shins. 

I jump, partly because the damn thing's still invisible and partly because of the impact and partly because I'm imagining what could've happened if it had landed farther north. 

"Crowley, Snow!"


He huffs. Then growls. Reaches for my cock. Pulls back. 


"Sit up, will you?"


"The angle's all wrong. Just. Sit up, yeah?"

I raise an eyebrow at him, but he probably can't see me do it in the dark. Then I sit up, and he starts to shift behind me, and I understand what he's going to do.

What he's going to do.

He sets his hands at my waist, over my shirt. I can feel the warmth of his palms through the fabric. My breath hitches when he gives my sides a squeeze.

"C'mere,"  he whispers in my ear. 

I move myself back until I'm pressed firmly against him, his belly rising and falling against my spine. Fuck, this is actually happening. This is actually happening.

Simon hitches up my shirt with one hand and starts rubbing my stomach that way he does. His touch is fire against my skin. He's so close to where I want him.

His other hand trails along my neck until he's brushed some of my hair to the side, and then he's replacing his fingers with his mouth, and fuck , how many times have I played this exact scenario over in my mind? Simon Snow in my bed. Touching me. Kissing me.

His hand dips lower, just slightly, and I can practically feel his showy swallow from here. 

"Hey," he says.

"Yeah?" My voice nearly breaks with nerves. With anticipation.

"C'mere," he says again, and he nudges my cheek with his nose.

I turn my head and let him press our mouths together. That's when Simon Snow finally wraps his hand around me.



Baz is moaning into my mouth, so I guess I'm not complete shit at this.

I had to do it this way, the first time. Sat behind him like this, I mean. It's just like having a wank...except it's not my cock in my hand. It's Baz's. And he's breathing fast and holding tight to my neck and making all sorts of lovely noises. 

Fucking hell, he's gorgeous like this. Of course he is.

Maybe I should've let him touch me, too. I think he wanted to. I think I want him to, now.

Later, maybe.

It's about him for now.

I'm not sure what he likes, obviously, and it was too dark to see exactly what he was doing while he touched himself, so I do the things I like instead. That seems to be working well enough.

I'm licking into his mouth, and the sounds he's making are vibrating around my tongue, and his breath hitches as I smooth my free hand beneath his shirt. Across his chest. His hips lift up into my hand as my fingers brush over one of his nipples and fuck, this is brilliant, isn't it? I'm doing this to him, drawing those sounds out of him. Those breaths. Making him writhe.

He breaks away from me, just slightly, his lips catching on mine as he says, "Close."



I keep forgetting to breathe.

The heat in my belly has grown to a full-blown inferno, and Simon's only stoking the flames as he strokes me. Touches me. Kisses me.

He's doing this lovely thing with his wrist, twisting it just so at the top of his strokes. It's driving me half-mad. It feels good—so good—but it's not quite enough.

"Can you," I pant. "Faster. Just." Fuck, I don't know where my words have gone. I don't have the time to care.

He does as I ask, his breath coming hot and fast against my collarbone as he rests his chin on my shoulder. Aleister fucking Crowley, I think he's trying to watch me come.

I drop my gaze, just for a moment, and see Simon Snow's hand working between my thighs. It's almost too much.

"C'mon, love," he says. Did he just …?

My hand tightens around the back of his neck, my fingers nearly slipping in his sweat. I can still smell his come, can still taste it bitter and sweet and Simon on my tongue. 

That's when his thumb grazes my nipple, and I think about doing this to him, all of it, over and over again, bringing Simon Snow to the brink and making him fall into oblivion.

And then my head's tipping back, my mouth falling open as I let out a strangled moan and start to come.

"Simon," I gasp, and he buries his warm face in my neck, kissing and sucking and biting me there as wave after wave of pleasure rolls through me.

I slump back against him, panting. His hand's still moving on my cock, slower, slower, his palm slick with my come.

I look down and see myself pulsing in his hand, my belly heaving. Fuck, this is real. 

I set my hand on top of his before it becomes too much. He lets go of me.

And then we sit here in silence, Simon holding his come-covered hand stupidly against the blankets and me with my pyjama bottoms scrunched around my thighs. 

I'm not sure how to, well. Proceed, now. Clean up and go to sleep, probably. Or do we clean up and kiss and go again? Do we talk about it? How do you pick up from, I know you only came up here for a sandwich but then you got off and I sucked the come from your fingers and then you gave me a handjob

"That was longer than thirty seconds," Simon says.

I guess that's how you pick up.

"Well-spotted, Snow," I say. There's no venom in it. 



"Would now be a weird time to, like. Um." He swallows behind me. I can practically hear his Adam's apple bob. "Just. I."

I turn my head just enough to make out some of his curls in my periphery. "Simon. Is everything alri—”

"I love you."

I think my heart nearly stops. Again. "What?" Fuck, that's not what I meant to say.

Simon swallows again. "Said I love you. Yeah?"

No, my heart hasn't stopped. It's about to beat its way right out of my chest. 

I need to turn around.

I try, but my legs are weak from my orgasm and I nearly trip over my own pyjama bottoms. Well. As far as one can trip while sitting down, anyway. I sigh and pull them up, then roll ungracefully until I'm sitting on my heels between Simon's thighs. He's looking at me, his pupils blown wide and shining with moonlight. 

"Um. Was it? A weird time, I mean."

"No, love," I say. It's the first time I've called him that since Christmas. I've wanted to call him that every day since. I don't know that he knows that I've called him that before. I don't know how much was even truly registering for him that night. All I know is that Simon Snow is in front of me now, laid out and vulnerable and so, so alive. 

"Baz…" he starts. "Y'alright?"

I nod and try to swallow the lump that's risen in my throat. "Damn it," I say. Fuck, my voice is breaking. There are tears pricking at my eyes. "Damn it, Simon Snow, I love you."

I shove my face into his this time.

Chapter Text


I wake up first, which is how it’s always been.

Except I’ve always woken up on the other side of the room.     

Baz is curled into me. I’ve got my face nestled in his hair—it smells like cedar and bergamot, like sex and Baz—and my tail wrapped around his ankle. His hair’s tickling my nose, so I move my face to prop my chin on top of his head instead. I try to flex my wings, but find that they’re still spelled in. (Baz did that, before we fell asleep. He argued with me, said he didn’t want me getting uncomfortable. I told him I’d rather they not spring free in the middle of the night and push us both out of bed. So. He reinforced the spell.) (Probably I should’ve tried to sleep with them out, because now I won’t be able to flex them properly until I’m back at Penny’s house.)

Baz shifts in his sleep—or maybe he’s starting to wake up—and groans softly.

He presses in closer to me, if that’s possible, and—

Oh .

Oh, fucking hell, I'm hard.

I'm not sure if I should be embarrassed. I mean, we got off together last night... 

I don't think I'd mind getting off with him again.  

My breath hitches as I remember the noises he made while he touched himself. While I touched him. How he looked when I made him come. 

And then when I told him I loved him…

Fuck, he was lovely. 

I’m glad I told him. That I love him, I mean. I thought I wasn’t ready, before, but I was wrong. And to hear him say it back…


Baz is still shifting around in his sleep, rubbing himself against me. I almost wonder if he's doing it on purpose, just to taunt me. I wouldn't put it past him.

I don't know if I should move away, or just let him keep on. 

"Snow." It's a sleepy little grumble.

I swallow. "Yeah?"

"Would you like help with that?"


His head jerks up—still gracefully, somehow, and without knocking my teeth together. His hair's all mussed, and I feel myself start to blush when I realize that's probably my doing.

"Simon, I'm not trying to presume—"

"Didn't think you were." I swallow again. Fuck, I want him to touch me. I do. "Um. Yeah. Will you—"

"Yeah." He looks like he's sucking on his teeth—I swear he does that when he's thinking about something. It makes my face heat up even more. His eyes dart down to my lips, then back up again. "Will you roll on your back for me?" he asks.

I do—my wings’ll be okay for a little bit like this—and he follows until he's braced overtop me, his dark hair falling like some lovely, bed-mussed curtain around his face. If I didn't know any better, I'd say he was about to attack me. (The way he's looking at me has my heart pounding in any case.)

Then he lowers himself until he's practically draped over me from the side, and fuck, he's hard, too. Which only makes me harder, if that's possible. 

"Um," I start, because suddenly I feel like it's not fair for him to touch me without being touched. I don't know. 

"Hush," Baz says, and then he's leaning in, kissing the side of my neck. (There's one spot he always goes for first. I think I have a mole there.) His mouth is cold, and wet, and fuck, it feels good. 

He starts trailing a hand down my belly, but he stops when his fingers brush the waistband of my trousers. (His trousers.)

"That alright?" he says. 


"Are you sure?"

I almost growl at him, but it’s my own fault he’s asking. I’m the one who told him I wasn’t ready for this stuff yet. (I was bloody well wrong about that, too.)

"Yeah, just." I'm trying not to lift my hips, trying not to force my cock into his hand. "Please."

He starts to palm me through my trousers, and I do lift my hips then; I can't help it. The fabric against my skin is soft, and his touch is firm, and fuck, it isn't enough.

"Can you—" I start, and he must know what I want because he stops touching me and slips his hand beneath my waistband instead. My breath shakes as he wraps his long fingers around me. He’s cold —especially now that it’s been a while since he’s had any blood—and I’m just now realizing that I’ve wanted this for a long fucking time. Baz’s hands on me. Around me. Stroking me, bringing me off. 

Lots of things make more sense now, in retrospect. 

"Like that?" Baz whispers, his breath cool against my ear. I hear him swallow, too, and I think maybe he’s not quite as confident as he sounds. (Not that he’d let on.)

I just nod, because I think anything that comes out of my mouth right now would just be stupid.

And then he starts to move his hand and sweet bloody Merlin. 

Probably this won't take very long. I don't know whether I should be embarrassed about it.

I decide not to think. Just feel.

Baz thrusts gently into my hip and sighs against my neck, and when I turn my head to look at him, his lips are parted, just a bit. 

He looks so lovely like this, turned on and a little breathless. I even think he might be blushing (not much, but). Just looking at him makes me feel like my heart’s about to burst.

So I close my eyes.

Then I nudge his nose with mine, and I kiss him.



All of my fantasies are coming true.

I have Simon Snow's cock in my hand (which is somehow better than I've imagined it. Crowley). I have him at my mercy, gasping and groaning and squirming at my touch. Erotic gropefest, indeed.

I keep working at his neck while I stroke him, kissing and sucking and licking. He tastes like something sweet, with a hint of salt. And like something I want to eat. (I don't use my teeth.) The smell of his blood beneath his skin is near enough to make me dizzy. (I'm trying to block it out, but I can't. It's almost more intoxicating than the smell of his magic.) (I’m going to have to drink long and deep after this. It’s a bloody miracle my fangs haven’t popped already.) (Sweet Morgana, just the thought of Simon’s blood in my mouth…)

"Fuck," he whimpers as I press myself against him again. "Fuck." It’s just as I always imagined—Snow practically speechless and ineloquent with my hand around him. Though I’ve not put much thought into the tail—not until now. It’s thrashing madly, and that probably shouldn't be so erotic, but it is, which…

Fuck, maybe I'm more disturbed than previously thought.

I don't bloody care.

"Hold on," he breathes. "Hold on, just…"

I still my hand. "Simon—"

"I'm fine, just. Hold still," he says, and then he's planting his feet and thrusting up into my fist and Crowley. I tighten my grip, and his eyes squeeze shut as he moves faster, chasing his own pleasure with his hips as he moans and growls and gasps. I watch him, all of him, the way his jaw tightens, the way the cords of his neck strain and flex, the way his toes curl into my bed sheets. The way the pyjama bottoms I gave him are gaping around my wrist, the way the bronze hair on his belly looks next to my skin...

Then he makes a choked sort of noise and stops moving, chest heaving, his breath coming hard and heavy as I start to stroke him again. He's so hard in my hand, and I can feel his heartbeat pulsing in my palm. I can practically feel the blood beneath his skin. (It doesn't even bother me that the thought of it makes my cock ache. Or it doesn't bother me much, at least.)

Simon's head turns and I look into his face as my hand moves between his legs. He's flushed, his freckles and moles scattered against a brushing of scarlet. His blue eyes are hooded, and his lips are hanging open (mouthbreather). I press my hips against him again, and I can’t help the noise that slips out of me, not really. This was supposed to be about him —at least at first—but I’m so bloody turned on just from touching him, just from watching him...

He pulls his bottom lip into his mouth and catches it between his teeth. Then he juts his chin that way he does and rolls roughly on top of me, displacing my hand and crushing our mouths together, moaning as he slides his tongue against mine. The hardness of his cock presses down against mine through our trousers, and I push my hips up for more. More. More.

Well. This isn't what I had planned, exactly, but I'm not complaining.

I'm especially not complaining when he reaches down and shoves his hand into my pyjama bottoms.

His lips let go of my mine with an obscene smack . "D'you want. Um." He's out of breath.

"Here," I say, and I kiss him breathless some more as I reach down and push his trousers over his arse. 

He pulls back to look at me, then glances down between us. His pyjama bottoms are pushed down around his thighs, his cock hard and flushed between his legs and shining with precome. Mine is still aching in my trousers. "Should I—?"

"Yes." It comes out more forceful than I mean it, but fuck do I need to feel him. I need something, anything, and I need it now. 

I end up fumbling my pyjamas down my legs myself, and then Simon's falling back on top of me, pressing us close, nipping at my neck as he thrusts against me. (He manages to kick himself out of his trousers without kneeing me in the bollocks, which is honestly a miracle.) He growls and sighs and shudders as his hips move against me, and I moan, and let my eyes fall closed, and wrap my arms around him as he does. Just the thought of Simon using me for his pleasure sends a spark down my spine, pooling hot and low in my belly, even if I do know that’s not what this is. He wouldn’t do that, use me.  

But I would let him.



I think my wings are going to come undone before I do. 

“Take my shirt off,” I huff in Baz’s ear. It’s wet where I’ve been sucking at it, and even a tiny bit pink.

“What?” he says, and I decide we don’t have time for this.

I sit back on my heels between his legs and pull my shirt up and over my head as best I can. Then I toss it to the side and fall back on top of him, on top of Baz. 

Fuck, I’m on top of Baz. And I’m naked. And it’s not scary, not anymore. It just feels good, and it just makes me want to feel his skin against mine. I do feel his skin against mine, at least below the waist. It’s lovely, and soft, and I love how the hair on his legs feels against my legs. (Is that weird? Maybe…) 

I decide I need his shirt off, too, so I sit back up.

“Crowley, Snow…” Baz starts, but then I’m undoing his buttons and he realizes what I’m doing and shuts right up. 

We get him out of his shirt fast enough (he’s bloody perfect naked) (fucking of course he is), but I don’t get to look very long because the next thing I know he’s pulling me down and kissing me hard and rough and wet as he reaches down and wraps his hand around the both of us. 

I didn’t know you could do that, but it’s not like I know much about sex, anyway. I never really let myself think about it, and definitely not with a boy. Not until recently, anyway.

This isn't just a boy. This is Baz, and he’s making these soft groans into my mouth that are rattling around my tongue and setting me off. I’m moaning back at him, and rubbing against him, and tangling one of my hands into his hair...

And he’s pumping his fist, stroking us together, and it feels so fucking good I think I might die. 

His hand is cold, but his touch is fire. He’s finally going to set me on fucking fire, and I’m not even going to care. 

Fucking hell, I bloody well feel like I might go off, even though I can’t, not anymore. All I can do is thrust against Baz’s body, push myself closer to him, and closer to the crest, up and up and up until I can barely bloody think anymore...

We’re rocking together, now, and panting between kisses, and trying to catch our breath, and—

I have to let go of Baz’s mouth. My breath catches, and my hips stutter, and I growl and tighten my grip in Baz’s hair as I thrust forward and start to spill onto his belly. Fucking fuck, it’s so bloody good

And then I feel Baz push up into me, and then he’s coming, too, cool and sticky between us as a strangled moan vibrates through his chest. 

It’s something, feeling my cock pulse against his in his hand. Feeling Baz pulse, too. I might not know much about sex, but I sure as fuck didn’t know it could feel this fucking good. 

I grab Baz by his jaw and kiss him with an open mouth as he slows his hand around us. My legs are shaking, and everything’s stained red through my eyelids...

Baz lets go of us and presses his palms into the swell of my arse instead. The one is slick and sticky with our come, and it makes me groan into his mouth. He’s groaning, too, and pressing his hips up against me, his breath shaking against my cheek. The space between us is hot and humid and even Baz’s skin is warm against mine now.

I did that. 

Bloody fucking hell, we did.

I slow my hips. Pull my lips away from his. Try to catch my breath. 

Baz is trying to catch his breath, too, and when I rest my face beside his I think I can almost hear his heart thumping. His hair tickles my temple, but I press closer anyway.

“Snow…” he sighs eventually. “Your fucking wings .”

Chapter Text


Simon Snow has never been this late for breakfast.

We're still in bed, the both of us, and I'm still waiting for my heart rate to come down. Still feeling a pleasant warmth between my legs. Still not quite believing that this is real.  

I close my eyes and breathe deep.

It smells like sex in here. Sex and cedar and bergamot. And Simon, his heady new scent permeating the air. 

I don't think I could have dreamt up a better last night at Watford. Or a last morning.

I almost don't want to leave.

I certainly don't want to get out of bed. Not when these are the last few hours that Simon and I will have alone for the foreseeable future.

I don’t want him to leave, but I know that he has to.

He’s here with me now, for the time being, holding my hand and playing with my fingers. Stroking the callouses from my violin. Tracing the lines on my palm. He’s lying off to my side, now, instead of on top of me, and he’s practically on his belly to allow his ridiculous wings to spread out behind him. His tail is wrapped loosely around one of my ankles, and I can’t help but smile at that, absurd and wonderful thing that it is. 

“Hey,” he says.

I open my eyes and turn my head against my pillow, and there he is. Simon—my Simon—the light from our window catching in his curls. There’s still a hint of a flush at his cheeks and along his neck from what I did to him. From what we did to each other, with each other. It’s without a doubt one of the loveliest things I’ve ever seen.

“Hey,” he says again. “Um. I meant it, y'know."

I raise an eyebrow at him. “Meant what?”

“What I said. Last night, I mean. That I love you.”

Did he think I didn’t think he meant it?

My heart nearly stops, anyway. I can practically feel it swelling at his words.

“Well,” I say, nodding. “So did I.” 

Snow’s lips quirk up. His face is pressed sideways into one of my pillows, his hair tumbling over it in a bronze wave. He reaches for me with one hand and brushes some of my own hair out of my face. “Say it, then?” His voice is still scratchy and heavy from sleep. It’s infuriatingly endearing.

I roll my eyes.

But I tell him I love him all the same. 

His cheeks go pinker even as his grin widens. “Fancy a shower?”

“You don’t shower in the mornings,” I point out. 

“Well, I didn’t shower last night. And we’re already late for breakfast, so…”

I don’t have a good argument against that. 

We get up, and I spell his wings back in so we’ll actually have room to move about in the en suite. He asks me how I like the water (“Scalding, probably? You’re a bloody sadist.”) and turns on the tap.

I’m going to shower with Simon Snow.

Aleister Crowley, I’m living a charmed life.



We kiss each other breathless inside the shower. 

Eight years and countless fantasies about doing just this and it’s better than anything my disturbed mind’s ever cooked up. Simon crowds into my space and presses me against the shower wall, and before I know it, we’re both hard and wanting and moving against each other again. My legs shake as Simon presses his body against mine, his skin on fire with lust and body heat and the hot water raining down on us. He works at my neck like he’s trying to mark me. (He can’t; I’ve not enough blood in me.) (I don’t stop him from trying.) The vibration of his growl against my skin when he comes sends me right over the edge with him, and he has to take hold of me to keep me from sinking down to the floor.

We wash once we’ve caught our breath—once I can trust myself to stand—and Snow lets me use my shampoo on his hair. 

“I’ve always liked that,” he says as I run my fingers carefully through his damp curls. (They're still a bit sticky with hair product.)

“What’s that?” I ask.

“Um.” His back’s to me, but I know he’s blushing. I can hear it in his voice, and his tail is swishing nervously about. It keeps knocking into my bare leg and thumping into the shower wall. “You. The way you smell.”

I’d blush, too, if I could. (I catch his tail in my hand mid-swish and let it wrap around my arm instead.)



We’re toweling off in the bathroom when Snow remembers he hasn’t brought any spare clothes. 

“Fucking hell,” he growls as he throws down his towel. (He’s worked his hair up to a strop with it.) “Can I borrow some of yours?”

The thought of Simon Snow in my clothes—of Simon Snow smelling like me—has a deep, feral thrill settling in my belly.

Until I actually try to find something for him to wear.

Snow whinges about nearly every item of clothing I offer him. Most of my things are too posh for his liking (“That’ll make me look like a tit!”), and he gets irritable when he doesn’t fit into my jeans. He’s too broad in the hip, and the inseam is too long, and he flinches when I try to resize them with my wand. (And then I feel awful, of course, for calling on magic so frivolously, when he can’t call it at all anymore.)

"S’alright,” he says as he tries to push them back down his thighs. “I’ll wear Dr Wellbelove’s trousers…”

And then we’re finally on the threshold of our room for the very last time, Simon Snow dressed in a hodgepodge of formalwear and one of my t-shirts.

“Last night in the tower…” he sighs into the room. He came here with barely anything, eight years ago. Just an angry little boy full of magic. Now he’s leaving with nothing but a borrowed suit and a pair of wings and a tail and no magic.

Well. That isn’t entirely true.

He’s leaving with me.

“Last night in the tower,” I repeat.

He looks at me, and his eyes are sad. There’s a grin on his face, too, and I know this isn’t the sort of sadness that’s overtaken him so many times over the last few months. “It was a good one, though.”

I don’t have enough blood in me to blush. “It was.”

We stand in silence for a few moments, just looking into the room. Thinking. Remembering.

Snow huffs a laugh. “D’you remember that time I threw that book at your face?”

“Mm,” I nod. "You’ve a strange way of showing affection—"

I do?!” He looks affronted. (Maybe he should be.) “Says the man whose idea of flirting used to be, I dunno. Sending a chimera after me.

“Yes, well. Had to keep you on your toes.”

He scoffs, playfully. “Right.” 

Simon shifts from foot to foot, and I watch him as his eyes flit around our bedroom. This was his first real home, I think, and then I think that might make me cry, so I swallow and push the thought away. 

He sighs, finally, and meets my eyes. “Y’don’t think they’ll have run out of scones yet, do you?” 

I can’t help it; I laugh.