Chapter Text
SIMON
How do I want to have sex with Baz?
How does Baz want to have sex with me?
At some point since Easter, the most important questions stopped being about humans and vampires. The most important questions are about us.
I press my face against the curve of Baz’s chin, nosing the warm, soft spot behind his ear. I breathe him in, letting myself enjoy the musk of his sweat mixed with the lingering honey, chamomile, and chocolate notes of his lotion. I can taste the faint tang of the blood he was drinking, too, from when we were kissing as he unspelled my wings.
I extend my wings again, to work out the cramps in my shoulder muscles and also because I know Baz loves them. He especially likes it when I open them like this, leaning over him, turning the light around us muted and gold. The effect is stronger in daylight, but the harsh fluorescent bulbs in the ceiling still filter through in warm, shivering shadows, and the movement of my wings makes the stuffy air in the tower eddy around us.
Baz shudders beneath me, one of his full-body sighs, and I feel the moment when he decides to let me have this, have him , the last breath of distance between us dissolving as he he plays his fingers over the angles and planes of my shoulders, the furred joints, the translucent slightly ticklish webbing. He skims his fingers down over my shoulders and the front of my chest, as I lift myself up to resume kissing him mouth to mouth, one of my favorite places to kiss him. Maybe because his mouth is one of his vulnerable places, a part of himself he doesn’t like most people to pay attention to, a mouth that holds secrets only I have really been allowed to see and touch, and be touched by, and a mouth that’s kept me safe from the other end of a mobile connection through nights of endless, terrifying dreams.
I press a kiss against the corner of that mouth as he scrapes his nails down through the fine hair on my chest, use my tongue to tease open his lips as he fumbles with my belt, suck on his lower lip as he mumbles something indistinct against the smile I’m not even trying to suppress.
I pull back so I can see his face: “Yeah?” It comes out a bit more breathless than I expected.
“Is this --” he licks his own lips, where I know he can taste me, and I see his pupils expand. The flecks of obsidian light that appear when he vamps out surface, momentarily, before sinking again. Something about my expression makes him falter, glance away, and then back like he has to remind himself it’s okay that I can see him gazing up at me.
I wonder, not for the first time, if he understands how beautifully fierce he looks when his vampire side emerges.
I used to think Baz spent an appreciable amount of time admiring himself in the mirror. Over the past few months I’ve started to wonder if his lengthy morning bathroom routines have been less about self-admiration than they have been about finding elaborate ways to hide. I mean, it’s worked, hasn’t it? The entire school, including me, spent years assaulted by Baz’s arrogant swagger and taste for the dramatic -- suave colors, top marks, perfect vowels, flawless spells, his better-than-everyone attitude -- and we missed how it kept everyone looking away from how solitary and scared he stood at the center of all that flash.
He’s looking a bit scared now. “Is this okay?” he asks, hands still at my waist, fingers fiddling with my belt buckle, slipping down below the waistband of my dress trousers like he can’t stop himself from trying to get closer, and, Crowley, do I want him closer.
“Baz,” I say. “What about this situation do you think could possibly not be okay with me?” Him. Getting me naked. Me. Getting him naked. The two of us finally, finally getting to just -- be together. Without anymore hiding.
“I would have done this with you in April if you’d --” I almost say If you had let me but that sounds mean so I stutter and change it to “--if you’d been ready.”
“I know,” he says, quiet. “I’m sorry, I --”
“Hey,” I say. “I want you.” I settle my weight back into my hips, folding my wings against my back in order to balance, dragging my tail up the inside of Baz’s still-trousered thigh. “Why do you think I’m here tonight?”
That finally wins me a smile and the familiar Basilton arch of an eyebrow. “Are you sure it wasn’t just Cook Pritchard’s sandwiches?”
I pretend to consider as I slide my hands down his chest, in a gesture that mirrors the path he just took down my own.
“Mmm,” I say, “Yeah, you’re right. On second thought maybe I won’t get naked with my dead-sexy boyfriend. I’ll go finish that egg and cress instead.” I can feel him trembling underneath my hands, lightly, all over, like he’s shivering from cold but his skin isn’t any cooler to the touch than usual.
“I always did say --” Baz’s hands jerk and clench at my hips as I work open his belt buckle (it’s weird undoing someone else’s belt, it’s all backwards) and unbutton the top button of his trousers. I can’t get any lower without moving my own arse, so I reverse direction, working the buttons of his dress shirt open one at a time as I move up his chest.
When I reach the top button he lets me slide a hand behind his neck and pull him up into a kiss, lifting him up off the bed so we can work the shirt free of his arms, push his vest up over his head and cast it aside.
This is familiar terrain: the downy hair on his chest, sparser than mine, the dusky color and oval shape of his nipples soft to the touch (but I know, by now, how they respond to my fingers and tongue and teeth), the curve of his ribs too close under his skin, the tension of muscles in his abdomen, the shuddering breath he takes beneath my hands, eyes on my face as I push him gently back down onto the bed.
It’s a heady feeling, to have Baz pinned beneath me like this, to feel like I’ve finally won the battle in a way neither of us expected.
“Tell me again,” I say, lifting and settling myself more firmly across his hips. I love the feeling of him between my thighs, love the soft-hard press of him trapped against my groin. I let my weight sink down against him, watch the shards of darkness reappear in his pupils before he eyelids flutter closed and he lets himself push his hips upward to meet me.
I want him to remember. I want to hear him say it again.
“I choose you,” he whispers, with words that carry the weight of magic with them, though it’s no spell I’ve ever heard of. “I’ve -- Goddess. I think I’ve always been choosing you, Simon,” he says, fumbling with my belt buckle and fly, “even before I knew -- even before I could ever imagine having --”
I probably shouldn’t be thinking about Agatha right now. And I’m not, not really. What I’m thinking about is how I imagined for so long that the first time I did this it would be in her bedroom at the Wellbeloves’ house, some night when her parents were out at a charity event or West End show. Back when I was with Agatha, I’d spent a lot of time worrying about getting it right. The older boys at the group homes I stayed at during the summers talked, sometimes, about how bloody hard it was to tell if a girl was enjoying herself. And I’d already felt like I was getting it wrong, somehow, with Agatha, so I’d assumed I would probably get it wrong with her having sex as well. Sometimes, in my head, I’d practice apologizing to her so that I’d have something all prepared for when I inevitably got it wrong.
What I’m thinking, now, is how Agatha never reached for me like Baz is reaching for me now, like regardless of how shit I am at this it’s me he wants, it’s me he can’t believe he gets to have.
What I’m thinking, now, is what a rush it is to be wanted.
There’s a confusing wrestle of limbs, next, and we’re laughing and kissing, and kissing and laughing some more at the awkwardness of getting our trousers and socks off, and then pants, too, because there’s no real graceful way to do any of that, especially not with a four foot long tail and two enthusiastic boners.
I used to worry about that, as well, about Agatha laughing at me for looking ridiculous naked -- because I do look ridiculous naked. But when Baz and I are finally naked together I forget to worry because there’s too many other wonderful things going on. I’m busy pressing myself along the length of Baz’s shivering flank, wondering if it’s possible to get any closer. I’m occupied sliding my fingers down across his belly and through the thatch of curls between his thighs, distracted thinking about how holding him here is both similar and utterly different from holding myself.
I don’t have any time, tonight, to feel self-conscious about how ridiculous I look naked because Baz arches up into my touch with a groan, pressing his face into my neck in the way he’s been so careful to avoid since that night … and I am brilliant bloody brilliant for finally pushing Basilton fucking Grimm-Pitch through his bloody self-control.
For figuring out a way for him to have what he wants.
“Fuck, Simon --” Baz says, “-- not, it’s too -- you’ll --” and he’s pushing my hand away from him, pushing me onto my back, pinning my wrists up against the pillows. The bed is really too narrow for us both, but the last thing I feel like doing right now is suggesting we stop and push the beds together. It’s bigger than Fiona’s sofa, anyway, and softer than the floor so all and all I’m in no position to complain.
I’m not complaining about my position at all, in fact. I suddenly understand what it is about me leaning over Baz that makes him go boneless, because fuck does it feel good, his weight on my wrists and his knees and calves bracketing my hips. I feel safe and just a little not-safe, his eyes shadowed beneath his mussed hair, his lips red with kisses and full from blood.
“Not so fast, Snow,” he says against my ear, and I shiver against him, my skin hot and clammy all at once. It’s my turn to shudder because it feels like my skin can’t contain all of the things that I want, that I know, that I need, all at once, prickling almost like magic just underneath the surface of skin.
I’m thrusting up against him, I realize hazily, and he’s letting me, flexing his thighs and lifting himself up just high enough that I can work myself against him -- like we’ve done before, only this time we don’t have four layers of cloth between us and it feels shockingly immediate and messy.
More, I want more, I want --
“Tell me again?” It’s Baz this time, breathless above me, his eyes laughing and dark, and I realize I’ve been babbling, twisting under his hands, thrusting up against him, sweat and slick smearing his belly, Baz damp against my own belly every time I press with increasing urgency upwards.
"I want you," I tell him. "I want you. So much, I want --"
He lifts himself up, away from me, and I grab with my tail before I even realize what I’m doing, wrapping around his forearm and tugging, trying to pull him back down. He laughs aloud this time, open and happy, letting me pull his hand back toward my face. He caresses my chin and lips with his outstretched fingers, then pulls back and nudges my knees open, crawling backwards down the bed until he can kneel between my legs, his hands firm on my hips.
It feels so good it’s almost painful, the way he pushes his hand slowly and deliberately up the underside of my dick, fingers and palm stroking upward with a teasing pressure, fingers closing around me, thumbing moisture across the head, tugging back down. His face is a study of concentration as he watches and listens (and Crowley knows probably smells ) for the effect he’s having on me. He stretches out between my thighs and I can feel his own erection dragging against my leg, hear his sharp intake of breath at the ephemeral friction.
I try to roll my knee inward to give him something to rut against, but I’m distracted by his hands and the warmth of his mouth as he presses scattered kisses against my thigh, across the curve of my him.
Bloody hell , I think, he’s going to suck me off.
I’d be lying, madly, completely, if I said I’d never imagined Baz with his lips sealed around me while wanking in the shower, or in the dark of my bed with his soft, rhythmic breathing on the other end of the mobile connection. Is it weird to get off listening to your boyfriend sleeping? I’d decided at the time that since Baz had, by his own admission, been lying in the dark in this very bed getting hard while listening to me sleep for years I’d probably earned a few in return.
But he doesn’t put his mouth on my dick. He presses his nose into the tangle of hair at the groove of my thigh and inhales. I fancy I can hear his heart racing thought it’s probably just my own pulse in my ears. And all the while, Baz hasn’t stopped the slow, steady work of his hand and dimly I realize I’m lifting my hips to meet him: rise … and fall. rise … and fall.
My tail is still wrapped around his forearm and I can’t stop it from pulling tighter and tighter as the orgasm starts to build deep in my belly, my fingers and toes curling into the tangled bedclothes underneath us. I turn my head into the pillows and smell him there, warm and familiar, everywhere around me, pushing me, pulling me, letting me let go.
And then, before I’m ready and after he’s made it last longer than I thought possible, I’m coming in Baz’s hand, arching up into the weight of him where he’s holding me, my eyes screwed shut against the too much and just right of everything that’s happening, my wings jerking awkwardly beneath me like I’m trying to fly away and also like I’m trying to drive myself even closer all in a single, confused failing motion.
It takes me a few high, shallow, and then gasping, deep breaths to come back down, the pounding of my heart still loud in my ears, the restless urgency of want slowly seeping out of my limbs, pushed out by the slow molasses of post-orgasm warmth and lassitude.
It takes a few moments for the rush of it all to fade and for me to notice a strange, completely unfamiliar tugging sensation. A tugging sensation that’s starting to ache in a not entirely pleasant way.
“Baz?” I cough, experimentally, but it comes out more like an embarrassingly breathy sigh. The tugging doesn’t stop and the ache is … not fading away.
Groggily, I blink open my eyes and roll my head just enough to peer down my messy front at the sight of Baz still curled between my legs, lips sealed high against my inner thigh.
Fuck .
“Um, Baz?” I try again, coughing to clear my throat. I consider the coordination of my limbs and lift myself forward on my elbows just enough to reach out and brush my hand across the back of his head, tugging lightly at his hair.
Fuck fuck fuck fuck --
“Baz!” I try a third time, a little sharper, and that must get through because he jerks under my palm and I hear the soft pop! of his lips as he pulls away, catch a brief glimpse of welling blood where his mouth had been before he’s scrambling back off the end of the bed and I’m struggling to follow --
“No,” he’s mouthing, almost silently, a slight lisp around his fangs, “no, no, no, no no nonono-- ” and shaking his head, shaking himself rid of my tail, pushing me away as I reach out for him, “ Crowley , Simon, just-- stay away, I need to, you need to, fuck --”
And before I can catch hold of any part of him, keep him from leaving, he’s scrambled across the room and the door of the washroom is shut with a bang! and the bolt we’ve hardly ever used is slammed into place with a panicked rattle-clang.
“Baz!” I call after him, “Baz -- it’s okay, it’s okay, just --”
“Shut up, Simon!” He shouts back, and I can hear the edge of panic in his voice. “Just -- shut. up. ”
The orgasm and blood loss catch up with me, suddenly, and the room starts to spin. So I drop back onto the end of the bed and stare up at the ceiling, waiting for my stomach to settle.
It doesn’t help that I can hear the sound of Baz puking in the toilet, on the other side of the bolted door.
I’m sticky and starting to get cold. When the room stops lurching quite so precipitously around me, I risk sitting up slowly and peering down at the wound on my thigh. I have blood smeared kind of everywhere, and I’ve bled some on the sheets (I wonder if Baz’s parents will get a bill for damages from the cleaning staff), but the actual puncture wounds seem to be healing over already, and are only a little bit tender. I press experimentally against the spot and it doesn’t feel any more painful than when Baz sucked a hickey onto my collarbone.
Like last time, I can feel the shot-of-whiskey burn spreading from the site of the bite, tangling pleasantly this time with the loose-limbed feeling of having just had a really good orgasm.
Whatever toxin Baz has in his fangs doesn’t seem to be any more intense with an actual successful bite than it was with a scratch.
I still don’t need 999, or whoever is on call in the Watford infirmary.
Although I should probably eat something. I’m still feeling a bit dizzy. I reach down and pick up one of the shortbreads Cook Pritchard tucked in with the sandwiches. I swallow it down in a couple of bites and then consider the washroom door, and the silence that’s now emanating from it.
I sigh.
This is really not how I had imagined this evening would end.
I go over to the washroom door and rest my forehead against the cool, varnished wood of its familiar exterior.
“Baz?” I try. Silence. “Love, can I come in?” More silence.
Then a rustle, and I hear the bolt sliding back. Then another rustle. More silence.
I take a deep breath, grab the door handle, and push my way in.