Work Text:
December 2020
BAZ
The rain’s coming down in earnest by the time we make it back to our flat.
I’ve been replaying our walk in my head, how Simon’s cheeks turned the color of roses, how he huddled in close, how he squeezed my hand. The way he kissed me.
I babbled some nonsense about wanting to buy a house – which I do – but I wonder if he understood what I really meant. What I really wanted to say. That I want him. That we could stay in this too-small flat without a bathtub forever if it means I get to sleep in Simon Snow’s arms every night for the rest of my life (such as it is).
I think, Do you know I want to marry you?
Surely he must.
I wonder if he realizes that my dissertation isn’t the only thing I’ve been working on.
Do you know how I’ve been scouring over books for months and months, practicing advanced magic when you aren’t around, how very tired I am?
I’m tired to my bones.
I want to give you the stars.
Simon has to let go of my hand to unlock our front door, and I miss the weight of it immediately. I've missed him.
He holds the door open for me and I cross the threshold into the entryway. I hear him slide the umbrella shut behind me, and then he's inside, too, and I have to shoot a quick Clean as a whistle at his boots before he tracks rainwater and city grime all over the carpet.
He grins at me as he kicks off his boots. “Here, darling,” he says, and he trades me the umbrella he's holding for the package of blood in my arms and hauls it to the kitchen. I wish he weren’t so bundled up in all those layers. I wish I could see the muscle shift beneath his tawny skin.
I magick our umbrella dry and return it to the coat cupboard, then do the same with my trench coat and boots. Simon returns from the kitchen and I do his coat, too, and then he’s backing me into the wall before I can protest. (I wouldn’t protest, my dissertation and the stars be damned.) We divest ourselves of our gloves and toss them to the floor as our mouths come together.
Simon has one hand in my hair and one at my hip, and when he traces my lips with his tongue, I let him in. His mouth is hot and tastes of cardamom and clove and I wonder what he was cooking while I slept the day away.
He's already hard against me, and so am I.
I breathe deep against his cheek and let the stress melt from my body. I’ve not realized how much I’ve missed him. I can’t remember the last time we did anything more than kiss chastely hello and goodbye, good morning and good night.
I can’t help but think of his blood as his tongue slides against mine. The thought of it flowing hot and sweet through his veins makes my cock ache in my trousers.
Simon knows, he must , because the hand on my hip shifts until he’s palming me through my jeans, and I can’t help but push my pelvis forward into his touch. He licks into my mouth one more time, and then he’s pulling away, trailing his lips along my neck, along my pulsepoint. Ah, yes, he knows.
He gives my neck a lick before I feel his lips brush against my ear. “Been awhile,” he says, and he traces the bulge of my cock with his fingers.
“Mmph,” I say, and I reach around him to knead the muscles of his back, his arse, anything. It’s been too long, and his clothes are in the way, and I just need to feel his skin on mine, taste him in my mouth.
He reaches back with his free hand, takes one of my wrists, and presses my palm against himself. “Near a month, now,” he says.
A month?
Fuck, has it really been that long?
“Simon,” I whisper, but he cuts me off.
“S’alright, love,” he says, pulling my earlobe into his mouth and flicking it with his tongue. When he lets it go, his breath is hot against my ear. He pushes into me with his hand and his body, and all that’s left is for me to melt into the wall. “Have you gotten yourself off?” he asks as his fingers pop the button on my jeans. His cheek is warm against mine, and rough. He needs a shave.
I’d blush if I had enough blood in me, even after all these years. “No,” I say. Am I remembering correctly? I don't know. All I can think of is his hot mouth at my neck. “Maybe once?”
"Well," he says, and he presses against me even more, if that's possible. "I've thought about getting you off so many times. With my mouth. With my fingers. With my cock." He lowers his voice to a whisper. "I got myself off while I thought about it."
My nerves alight as I picture Simon in our bed, his hand between his legs, his skin flushed with pleasure. I turn my head and my lips brush against the shell of his ear. It's chilled from our time outside. "What do you want?" I whisper.
"Just you," he says, and he nips gently at the skin of my neck and rolls it between his teeth.
I think I could come right here in the entryway if we keep this up for much longer.
Simon's hot breath puffs against my skin. "You thirsty?" His voice is low and aroused, and everything about it goes straight to my groin. He must feel my cock jump under his palm. "Yeah," he breathes, then he steps away from me and pulls his jumper up and over his head. Some of his curls stand on end. It's one of the most heart-warming things I've ever seen.
My eyes trace the lines of his hips, the trail of bronze hair dipping into his trousers, the constellation of moles scattered over his belly and chest. My fangs fill my mouth when my gaze lands on the scar at the junction of his neck and shoulder, and he grins when he sees.
He pulls his bottom lip into his mouth as he sucks on another scar, the first scar, before he starts to hitch up my jumper. His fingertips are warm and gentle against my skin, his palms calloused from years of holding a chef's knife. I lift my arms for him and his hands leave a trail of gooseflesh up my sides and my arms as he slips my jumper off. He lets it fall to the floor on top of his own.
Simon takes my face in his hands and kisses me carefully, so carefully, before he starts in on my neck again. He slips the elastic from my hair and cradles the back of my head in one of his hands, pushing gently until I bend and press my lips to his exposed neck. His moan vibrates against my skin and he reaches between us to rub me through my trousers again.
I hold him close as I trail my lips along his skin, suck a bruise over the scar from the first bite I ever gave him, bring his blood to the surface. He's stopped using his mouth on me, and that's fine; he's too busy groaning in my ear. When he presses his hips to mine, he's so hard I wonder if he could come right here in the entryway, too.
Well. Maybe he will.
Simon starts fumbling with his jeans between us, and I bloody well hope he starts fumbling with mine because they're too tight by far.
I can feel his heart thrumming, his blood pumping, the growling and sighing and moaning coming from his throat.
I trail my mouth along the full expanse of his shoulder, because even though he wants it, and even though I want it, the anticipation's half the fun.
"Fuck," Simon says, and there's a rustling as he steps out of his jeans and kicks them to the side. He reaches for my zip and his knuckles brush my erection through my jeans as he pulls it down. "C'mon," he whispers as he pushes my jeans down my hips. "Want you. Wanna feel you. C'mon."
He slips his hand down into my pants and fuck. There's a fire burning in my belly and my fangs are itching in my skull and I just want to be as close to Simon as I possibly can.
We're pressed together in our entryway in our pants and socks and fuck , I want him. I want him melted in a puddle on the floor so I can carry him to our bedroom and make him come again. I want to make him feel good.
I know how to do that. I know it well.
I pull back from his shoulder, just for a moment, just long enough for me to pull him by the hair and press our mouths together. Just long enough to feel him moan down my throat.
When I let go of his mouth, he's looking at me, pupils blown wide with desire. I know what he wants, and so I give it to him.
My fangs sink into the junction of his neck and shoulder as delicately as I can manage – slow – and Simon lets out a pretty little choked moan of pleasure. It’s always a thrill, breaking his skin, feeling the very essence of him flow hot into my mouth, feeling him writhe beneath my touch. But the best part – the very best part – is feeling one with Simon, if even just for a few moments. That’s more intoxicating than the taste of him could ever be.
I love you, I love you, I love you.
Simon’s hips jerk against mine, his hand twisting around my cock, and the taste of his blood has barely touched my tongue before I'm coming, each nerve in my body alight with the fire pulsing through me.
Simon’s close too; I can sense it even without his desperate thrusting against me.
I tighten my arms around him as I feel his knees start to buckle, flatten my palms against his back. I'm moaning against him, and he's saying something, and soon enough I can feel his come seeping hot through both our pants. I can smell it, and the scent of his pleasure mixed with the sweet tang of him in my mouth is almost enough to drive me mad.
"Baz," Simon says, and he moans and shudders as I slide my fangs back out of him, as slowly as I can. When his blood wells, I drag my tongue along the bite and he moans some more.
I pull back and nudge his nose with mine. His eyes are hooded when I look at him, and he's grinning even as his chest heaves with the aftershock of his orgasm.
"Bedroom?" he says.
"Thought you'd never ask."
“Good day for a lie-in, yeah?” Simon says once we’re fully naked and bundled in bed.
He’s holding himself up above me, the muscle of his arms taut beneath his skin. I’ve already healed the bite I gave him in the entryway, licked all the blood from his skin until all I could taste was Simon underneath it all.
He scars when I bite him, every time, and so I always try to go for the same spot. We can't have him walking around covered with magickal scars.
With my mark.
My mouth is still full with my fangs; I can still taste him.
“Mm,” I hum, reaching up to push some of his curls back from his forehead.
It is a good day for a lie-in, grey and dreary and wet, and I do believe we’ll spend the rest of it right here in our bed. I want to spend what’s left of our day catching up on what we’ve missed this last month. I want him to come undone beneath my touch, and I want to come undone beneath his.
“Mm?” Simon mimics, and he bends until his soft, warm lips are pressing gently against mine. He sighs and melts against me when I run my tongue over the scar in his bottom lip.
I focus on the feel of his lips on mine and his heart beating in his chest – Simon. My Simon – as I call my fangs back up into my skull. (There's something I'd like to do to him, and I can't have them in the way.) It's something I'm getting better at, letting them drop and retract at will. It's been a surprising but not unwelcome development, finding I do have some amount of control over them.
Of course there are still times when I can't help it. When I'm on the hunt. When Simon's inside me.
Both.
Simon groans when he feels they've gone. (He likes them, maybe a little too much.) He pulls back when I start to chuckle against his mouth.
“Come here, love,” I say, and when he goes for my lips I veer to the side and kiss the cluster of moles on his right cheek instead. I kiss along his jaw, down the column of his throat, Simon humming in approval all the while. I press my hands into his sides and pull him up my body until I have proper access to his chest. He has a spattering of moles here, too, and I pick one to lick before I take one of his nipples into my mouth and roll it gently between my teeth. Simon whimpers above me and wraps one of his sturdy arms around my head, pulling me closer.
I remember when we first discovered how much he likes this. It was our first time – our very first time – and I hadn’t a clue what I was doing. It was all a happy accident, really.
We really had no idea what we were doing at all, did we? But we loved each other, and that was enough.
I swipe my tongue along the hardened tip of his nipple and suck, and Simon groans in frustration when I stop.
“Baz,” he starts, then, “oh,” when I take the other one into my mouth. Patience, Snow.
The feel of him hardening against my belly sends a delicious thrill through me. I press my palms into the space between his shoulder blades where his wings used to be, into the mass of scar tissue there as I suck harder at his nipple. He keens and pushes his hips down into me, and I reach between us to wrap my hand firmly around him so he can thrust into my fist.
"Baz," he breathes, "Want you."
I hold him closer.
"Baz," he says again, and I give his nipple one last lick before I let go of it and press my open mouth into his chest. "I love you," he says. "So much."
My heart warms and fills with his words, and I give his chest one final kiss before I tilt my head back and back and back until he moves down to meet me, his hot mouth enveloping mine, his chin moving in that way I like so well, just like the first time he kissed me.
We were two broken boys then. Two lost, broken boys who came together and grew into two scarred men.
Scarred, yes, but whole.
Simon sucks gently at my bottom lip before he lets go of my mouth and presses our foreheads together. I’m stroking him still, and he moans and whimpers into the air between us as he reaches down to stroke me, too.
“Simon,” I say against his mouth.
“Hm?”
“I want you inside me.”
“Yeah,” he breathes, his thumb moving in slow, agonizing circles over my frenulum. “Yeah, me too.”
I kiss him then, pour everything I have to give into the warm wetness of his mouth, and he takes it gently, his hands moving up and over my face and into my hair. I give him one last stroke before I wrap both my arms around him and press his body as close to mine as I can.
I breathe in the smell of him, the smell of home . It doesn't matter where we go, where we move. As long as he's here with me.
I loosen my hold on him and Simon plants a quick kiss on my forehead before he lifts himself up and moves to grab our lube from his bedside table. I watch him go, watch the way his body shifts as he moves, watch how alive he is. He’s so alive, and he’s mine, and I’m his.
My thighs fall open for him. “Simon,” I say as he kneels between my legs and hitches one up and over his shoulder. He smooths a hand over my bent knee and I squeeze his muscle with my heel.
“Hm?” He grins at me as he snaps the cap on the lube and starts to coat his fingers. He’s flushed the most lovely shade of pink.
“I love you, too.”
His eyes soften and he presses a few open-mouthed kisses to my ankle. I can feel him trying to suck a bruise there, but I’ve not enough blood in me for it to work and it tickles.
“Simon,” I laugh and try to pull my leg away but he holds it steady. He’s grinning against my ankle now, his teeth hard and cool against the bone, and he actually bites me, which tickles some more. My leg jerks again. “ Snow.”
He kisses me there one more time before he lets his hand drop, stroking my thigh. “Like to hear you laugh,” he says.
I roll my eyes, but he should know by now that it’s only another way for me to say I love you.
I squeeze his shoulder with my heel again, and he seems to understand that, too, because he moves a hand gently between my legs and presses the pad of one of his fingers against me, moving it in slow circles around my rim. It feels so good just to have him touching me again, and my body fills with warmth at the idea of what he’s about to do. I let out a breath, let more of the tension from the last few weeks leave my body, and Simon watches my face as he starts to slip his finger into me.
My body feels like it’s melting into the mattress, my eyelids fluttering closed of their own accord. I like it like this, being spread out before him, under his hands. It’s the sort of vulnerable thing I’ve grown to love as long as he’s here with me.
I lift my hips to push him deeper and groan softly as his finger grazes against my prostate.
“Yeah,” Simon breathes hot against my ankle. He presses against that spot again and I thrust against his hand to chase the sensation building inside me. “That good?” he asks, and he trails the fingers of his other hand lightly up and down the length of my cock, teasing.
“Mmph. More,” I say, and my back arches as he slips his finger slowly out of me and adds another. I can still taste his blood in my mouth, and thinking of it flowing inside me while he strokes my prostate sends a shock of pleasure down my spine.
I open my eyes to find Simon still watching my face. We hold each other's gaze as he works me open. It takes some time – I've been stressed these last weeks and it's been a while since he's been inside me (Crowley, a month ) – but he's always enjoyed getting me ready for him. Even now his breath is quickening, his eyes hooded, his lip pulled into his mouth as he sucks on it.
It's an absolutely debauched and beautiful thing to behold.
"Simon." We have a rhythm, my hips and his hand, and he waits until I'm practically writhing beneath his touch before he slides his fingers out of me.
I watch as he lubricates himself, and I can't help but reach down to stroke myself as the anticipation builds. He likes that a little too well, I think; he moans and thrusts into his own hand until I raise an eyebrow at him.
He huffs a laugh. "Prat," he says.
And then he's pushing into me.
I don’t know how we managed to go so long without making love, not with the way he looks right now, not with the way it feels like we’re part of each other, two halves of a whole coming together at last. I tilt my head back and let my mouth fall open with a moan as my fangs start to drop.
He's much too far away.
“Come here,” I say, and Simon presses forward until we’re close enough to kiss, folding my leg against my chest. He holds himself up on all fours and I reach down to press my hands into the curve of his arse as he thrusts into me.
“Fuck, I’ve missed you,” he pants against my mouth.
I think, Me too.
I say, "Time got away from me."
I feel his lips quirk into a smirk.
He lowers himself until the length of his body is pressed against the back of my thigh, and then he wraps one arm around my shoulders and cradles the back of my head in his other hand, his body rolling against mine as he thrusts. It makes me feel safe. Loved. Adored.
Until my leg starts to cramp.
“Simon,” I say, and his name slurs in my mouth. “My leg–,”
“Sorry, love. Sorry…” He scrambles to get his weight off of my leg and I unhook it from his shoulder, plant my foot on the bed. “Alright?”
“Tip-top.”
“Y’sure?”
“Yes, you moron.”
Simon grins at me. “You want on top?”
I think about that, crawling into his lap and sinking down onto his cock, riding him into oblivion, watching him come undone. It’s all very tempting, but I’m still very tired. Also I like it better this way, sometimes, Simon holding me, being underneath him. “Not today,” I say.
He pulls out of me gently. “Turn over, yeah?”
I raise my eyebrows at him. “Plotting something?”
He rolls his eyes. “Only to make you come without giving you a cramp. Come on, then.”
I roll onto my belly and lift myself up for him, my forearms and knees dipping into the mattress. (It’s lovely, memory foam; I bought it for us Christmas of 2017. Simon protested at first, of course – “The damn thing costs a fortune, Baz.” – and I said, “I live here now, Snow. Remember? I’d also much rather not have a rogue spring digging into my back every time you fuck me into the mattress.” That shut him up, after he reminded me that I’m a mage . I told him it was the principle of the thing, in any case.)
I press my face into our sheets – we’re on Simon’s side of the bed and they smell like him, like flour and butter and cheap shampoo (I’ve not been able to break him of that habit), and something else, something underneath it all that’s well and distinctly his. Something like sunshine.
There’s a hint of cedar and bergamot there, too.
Simon takes hold of my waist with one warm hand and starts to slide into me again. I groan at the sheer pleasure of it, of Simon filling me. (I try not to rip the sheets with my teeth.) His cock is warm and slick and perfect and his , and it feels so good.
“Baz,” Simon says from behind me. I tilt my head against the mattress to get a look at him. His blue eyes are closed, his mouth open, his cheeks flushed. He licks his lips and moans as he sinks further into me. “Fuck , you feel good…”
I press my hands into the bed, lifting myself up on all fours, and Simon takes no time at all in wrapping one arm around my chest and draping his body over mine. His warm mouth presses into the top of my spine, the back of my neck. He kisses my scar with an open mouth and my skin comes alive with his touch. He always makes me feels so alive.
He kisses my neck, the skin behind my ears, in between my shoulder blades – all in time with his thrusts, all sweet and slow and Simon.
"C’mere,” he whispers in my ear, and he pulls me up until we’re both knelt on our knees. His arm around my chest drops to my waist and I cover it with mine, let the warmth of his body seep into me. His palm is pressed gently to my throat, and he’s turning my head, and then he’s kissing me. That’s when the world falls away. It’s just Simon Snow with me in our bed, his mouth on mine, our bodies drawing pleasure from one another.
The arm around my waist moves to my belly, and he rubs a few circles into my skin before he wraps his hand around me and starts to stroke in time with his thrusts. My mouth opens against his, our lips catching, and we moan together into that space between us. He presses a kiss into my cheek as he rubs his thumb through my precome.
He breathes hot in my ear. "Close?"
I nod and try to find his mouth with mine. He gives me one last careful open-mouthed kiss, and then the hand at my throat is gone, pressing into my back, pressing me back down into the mattress. I lie flat on my belly, my head to the side, and Simon follows me until the length of his body is pressed to mine. He rests his face against my neck, his cheek rough and ticklish against my scar. My hands rest near my face, and Simon covers them with his, laces our fingers together and holds me tight.
He starts to thrust in earnest, and oh, the feel of him against me, inside me, all around me – it's almost too much.
"D'you want…?" and he offers his wrist to me, our fingers still intertwined, and I do want , but I won't; not somewhere so easily visible.
I shake my head – just enough for him to know – and then I press my lips to his skin and feel his blood flowing through him like a current, keeping him whole, and human, and mine.
Alive.
He's moaning and gasping in my ear as his hips roll into me, stroking that spot inside me, lighting every nerve in my body aflame, winding me tight.
And then I'm letting go.
My own hips stutter against the mattress as I spill against the sheets, and Simon tightens his arms around me as I moan his name. I'm clenching around him, and then he's growling, coming hot inside of me, pressing his lips to my scar again as his breath comes fast against my skin.
His belly expands against my back as he breathes in deep, and then his weight slumps against me. He nudges his nose into my cheek and I open my eyes to glance sideways at him.
He bends and presses a kiss into the corner of my mouth. I can feel myself smiling against his lips.
We huddle together under our blankets once we've cleaned up. Simon has an arm around me, holding me close, and I'm resting my head against his chest, listening to his heart. I'll need to get up and heat some blood for myself soon, but I don't want to. I never want to leave this spot.
"Baz," he says, and I can hear the hint of a smile in his voice.
"Yeah, love?"
"You taste like salt and vinegar crisps. And copper. Crisps and copper." I prop myself up to look at him properly. His curls are stood on end and I’m not sure how much of it’s from the weather and how much is from what we’ve just been doing. It’s more adorable than it has the right to be, in any case. "Remember how you used to eat them in our room? Then you'd push all your stupid crumbs onto the floor by my bed. I bloody well hated it."
"Well," I say, and I cock an eyebrow at him. "That's why I did it."
He rolls his eyes at me. “Of course it was, you wanker.”
Simon pulls me back down and presses a kiss to my temple. We lie here in silence for a few moments, his arms around me and my arms around him, the two of us just breathing. I think about us at Watford – hard to believe it was years ago, now – always fighting about something, throwing curses. I think about my spite crumbs. I think about where we are now. Fifteen-year-old me would probably think I’m living my life in some sort of fever dream.
Sometimes I wonder if I am.
“Baz?” Simon says.
“Hm?”
“I was saying. Well. I’ll heat you up some blood, yeah? Then maybe we can, y’know. Look online. For houses?”
I look up at him again. “What, now?”
“Well. Yeah, I mean – we don’t have to. I just thought–,”
“Simon.”
“Sorry–,”
“No, you dolt.” My heart swells; it’s almost hard to look at him. “I want to.” I shift until I’m propped on my side, facing him. I thread my fingers through his unruly mess of curls. “Besides, it’s barbaric, not having a bathtub. The sooner I have one, the better.”
He grins crookedly at me.
And then he kisses me.