Simon Snow is plotting.
He's never been very subtle about it. Back in fifth year, his heavy footsteps would echo like thunderclaps throughout the Catacombs. (It made me wonder how in Merlin's name he ever managed to invade the goblin fortress and actually make it all the way to the throne room. Dumb luck, maybe.) But, nowadays, his schemes mainly involve bringing me surprise lattes to the library when I'm stressed over finals or leaving sweet notes in my bookbag for me to find later in the day.
But he's got something bigger in mind right now. Something more dangerous.
"C'mon, Baz," he whines, pouting his bottom lip in that delicious way that makes me want to bite it. "I wanna see. I'm sure it's wicked."
"It's not wicked." I frown. "It's creepy."
"I know that's not true. I was in Las Vegas with you, you know."
I raise an eyebrow at him. "How could I forget the trip where you got Bunce to spell you invisible just so you could spy on me, and then came dropping down from the ceiling like a demon from hell?"
Simon is shameless in the face of my half-hearted chastising. "Shut up, you know what I meant. With the Normals on the Strip," he clarifies. "Just— please?"
Crowley. He knows begging is my weakness.
(Well. Really, Simon is my weakness.)
I sigh heavily.
"Fine , Snow." I turn to the wooded area, lifting my wand. "Doe, a deer!"
Simon's been accompanying me on my hunting trips. He says that he 'loves every part of me, especially my fangs.' It's sentimental rubbish, yet I still keep letting him tag along when he insists on it.
But I've never quite shown him this part of me before.
A great buck with wide antlers comes creeping into the clearing. The animal has a reluctant tension to its posture, like it's being dragged to me by a lead.
Then I look into its eyes, and its entire body sags in relief.
I started testing out my thrall after our disastrous trip to America. I didn't quite understand how it worked at first; I didn't know what parts of myself I had to reach into to bring it out. But with practice and concentration, I was able to figure it out. It's like the opposite of retracting my fangs; instead of containing my power, I push it outwards.
I seem to have control over creatures' emotions and actions when they're under my thrall. I can make them calm and docile; I can make them stand still and not struggle when I feed. I can make the entire experience painless for them.
I walk over to the deer, but my gaze is locked on Simon, who looks positively mesmerized. He genuinely enjoys watching me feed. (I sometimes wonder whether he may be just as disturbed as I am. If we match even in this regard.)
I sink my teeth into the animal, and Simon's lips part in awe. I drink deeply, draining the deer of every last drop, feeling the blood rush into my cheeks and through my body. I'd be ashamed that the blood's even traveled down between my legs, if Simon wasn't rubbing his palm against the zipper of his trousers.
I push the buck away from me when I'm finished, wiping my lips with the back of my hand. "Like what you see, Snow?"
That's when Simon Snow attacks.
Simon kisses me like he's trying to devour me, like he revels in the debauchery of tasting blood on my tongue. His fingers tangle up in my hair as he tries to eliminate every inch of space between us. Sometimes, like now, it still almost feels like the first time, the way that everything arounds me burns when Simon Snow is touching me.
Except it's better than the first time now. Because I know that he's not just mine for this moment—he's mine forever.
And it's better because when he pulls back, it's not to suggest I put out fires. It's to growl into my ear, "Wanna suck you off."
Fireworks go off in my groin at the blatant lust in voice. "Get on your knees, then."
It's almost embarrassing how quickly he follows my command. How eager he is to suck my cock. Or, it would be, if I didn't know for a fact that I'd drop down on the woodsy ground just as quickly if he gave me the same order.
He's clumsy with my buttons, still shaking with the adrenaline of watching me feed. He's rough with my tight jeans, yanking them down with a predatory growl that makes my cock twitch. He doesn't bother with the pretense of teasing me; he swallows me down in one smooth, wet motion.
I let out a moan like it's been punched out of me, and Simon's eyes light up with self-satisfied pleasure. It's obvious how much he loves to hear my sex noises; he relishes how all my carefully-constructed walls crumble when we're intimate, the way it's too difficult to keep up my cool exterior when I'm desperate for it. And I'm always at least a little desperate for Simon—but with his lips around me, I'm downright shameless.
"Fuck, yes, love," I groan. His wings flutter in response—a sure sign he's excited by my encouragement. "Just like that. Choke on it."
I feel his throat relax around me. He takes my hands and leads them to the back of his curls, humming in encouragement. I grip his hair, getting a rush of pleasure when I catch a whiff of cedar and bergamot—he must have borrowed my shampoo this morning.
I know exactly what he wants.
I jerk my hips forward, pulling his curls to me. He makes a choking noise, and a perverse thrill runs through my veins. I see him shove his right hand down the front of his tented trousers and pull out his cock, and I lose control of myself completely.
I fuck his face roughly, unabashedly. He knows to tap my hip thrice if he wants me to stop, but he doesn't give me the signal. Instead, he looks me dead in the eyes, tears dripping down his cheeks as he lets me derive pleasure from his mouth.
"You're so good to me, baby. So fucking good." His tail wraps around my ankle—an affectionate instinct. "Crowley, you're gorgeous."
He moans and his throat vibrates against my crown. It brings me right to the brink, my hips stuttering with the force of my impending orgasm.
"Simon, Simon, I'm going to come, Simon—"
Simon doesn't stop; he only starts going faster, grabbing my arse firmly to take control of the pace, racing to push me over the edge. I come down his throat, babbling his name over and over.
As I catch my breath, he smiles up at me with a devilish glint in his eyes.
"That was well hot," he says. I huff out a laugh—what an understatement.
"You want me to get you off now, love?" I ask, more than ready to return the favour.
"Already came," he says as he stands up and zips me back into my trousers. I'm overcome with pride and another rush of arousal. It's not the first time Simon's come sucking my cock, but it still makes me giddy with pleasure every time. "Spell me clean, yeah?"
I do, and then Simon pulls me in for a kiss. There's no heat to it—it's actually surprisingly chaste for what we just did. My heart soars with overwhelming love for this incredible man I get to call mine.
As I walk back to the car, hand in hand with my beautiful boyfriend, I don't have any misgivings about showing him my thrall.
I come to regret my former sentiment in no time.
"You should thrall me in bed," Simon says casually when we're driving home.
I nearly run us off the road.
"Baz!" he screams in protest, and I quickly steer my Mustang back into the correct lane.
"That's not funny, Snow," I snarl through gritted teeth.
"Well, that's probably because I wasn't joking," he responds, his tone matter of fact.
I let out a borderline hysterical laugh. I refuse to look at him. "You have finally lost the plot."
He growls, and I'm too angry to find it sexy.
Before I can stop my imagination, I think what Simon would be like if I thralled him. As docile as that deer, molded to my every desire and whim. Unable to resist me, as mindless as those Normals back in Las Vegas. Powerless and begging for it.
Desire and disgust war in my stomach.
I'm gripping the steering wheel so tightly I fear I'm going to ruin the leather. "I am not going to take away your ability to consent."
I see him throw his hands up out of the corner of my eye. "I am consenting! This is me consenting!"
"Simon." My voice is low and serious, and I'm struggling to keep it from quavering. "Drop it."
"But—" he starts to protest.
I turn the radio all the way up, so loud the bass shakes the car, to drown out his voice.
Simon Snow does not drop it.
Instead, he starts making jokes about it.
I remind him that it's his turn to do the dishes, and he responds, "Thrall me to."
I ask him to pick me up from campus, and he texts back "make me ;)", and then immediately after, "with ur vampire thrall i mean".
I finally snap when he starts blaring "Touch-A-Touch-A-Touch-A-Touch Me" on my record player on repeat.
"I'll put up no resistance," he sings, waggling his eyebrows and dancing suggestively. "I want to go the distance."
"I've got an itch to scratch, I need assistance—"
"If you don't stop this instant —"
"TOUCH-A-TOUCH-A-TOUCH-A-TOUCH ME! I WANNA BE DIIIIIRTY!”
"I swear to Morgana I will rip your tongue out and grind it to paste in the food processor!"
"THRILL ME, CHILL ME, FULFILL ME, CREATURE OF THE NIGHT!"
I lean over to the nightstand to rip the record off the player while it's still spinning, scratching the Rocky Horror Picture Show vinyl with a loud screech.
"Oi!" he protests, shocked outrage taking over his features. "That was expensive!"
"I know, I bought it."
"Don't be such a wanker!"
"Then don't make jokes about what a monster I am!"
Our bedroom goes radio silent. A cocktail of shame and humiliation turns my stomach, and I pick at a loose thread in the comforter to avoid his prying gaze.
"Baz," he says softly, his tone an apology. He sits next to me on the bed so he can take my face in his hands and force me to look at him. His thumb brushes against my cheekbone, and I lean into his touch without even thinking about it. "Hey. I—you know that's not what I meant."
"Well, what you're asking me to do is monstrous." My voice cracks a little. I clear my throat, hoping Simon's kind enough not to mention it. "It's unnatural."
"What, unnatural like a bloke with wings and a tail?" Simon grins crookedly, and his tail wraps around my waist, as if to make his point.
I scowl. "I'm a dark creature. You're just a ridiculous storybook hero."
He rolls his eyes. "Now who's making jokes."
He juts his chin out stubbornly, like he's the same thirteen year old boy who was always up to brawl with me. "Well, so was I."
"Simon, I…" I take a deep breath, bracing myself for the vulnerability. We've gotten far better at intimacy, at being soft with one another. But it's still hard for me—I'm not wired to be open and fragile. But I try. I have to try for Simon. "I don't want to hurt you, or do anything to push you away. I love you too much to risk losing you."
As my words hit him, he softens, his jaw unclenching and his lips parting. "You're not going to lose me. I just… I thought…"
He searches for a way to arrange his words, and I wait for him.
"Being touched… it's still hard for me sometimes, yeah? I love having sex with you—Merlin, you know I do—but I never feel like I can fully… let go and be completely in the moment."
I try not to show that this new knowledge hurts me, just a little. Making love to Simon is as natural as breathing to me. When I'm with him, everything melts away and it's just our souls and our bodies becoming one. It feels like stars colliding, the universe rearranging. I want it to feel like cosmic perfection for him too.
I don't do a perfect job of hiding my bruised feelings; his face drops. Guilt settles in my gut like a weight.
"It's not you; it's me." Only he could make a cliche sound so genuine. "You know… it's just… my touch aversion makes everything harder."
I do know. He brought me with him to therapy after he got his PTSD diagnosis to have his therapist explain it to me, since he was too nervous at the time to talk to me about it himself. We discuss it now—in little moments where he makes it clear he's not in the mood for hand-holding, in big moments when he wakes up from nightmares or suffers a flashback.
I open my arms, a silent invitation without any expectation. But I'm pleased when he decides to wrap himself around me, his arms circling my waist and his head settling on my chest. I pet his curls, and feel my resolve crumbling.
"Okay, love," I say. "We can try."
Simon pulls back to show off his victorious smile.
"But. We're going to have rules."
"Sure thing," he says dismissively, and I know I'm going to have to think up all the necessary boundaries. "But you'll do it? You'll thrall me?"
"Yes, you incorrigible nightmare," I sigh, trying to hide my growing excitement. (I want this too—I'm just not sure I should have it. But Simon seems sure enough for the both of us.) "You always end up getting what you want."
His grin grows impossibly wider. "Then we should do it on Friday, because Friday'll be twelve weeks to the day."
The National Health Service recommends that men only donate blood once every twelve weeks—so, that is how often I'm willing to bite Simon in bed. That was my compromise after he won our argument over it. He keeps the dates planned in his phone calendar, and schedules a recurring alarm set to go off exactly eighty-four days after every time I drink his blood.
Like I said. Incorrigible nightmare.
"You're going to be the death of me, Simon Snow," I say, but I don't mind it one bit.
I'm buzzing with anticipation as I prepare dinner, waiting for Baz to get home from uni.
I've cooked all Baz's favourites: filet mignon steak and roasted brussel sprouts and french bread rolls. I bought the good red wine from the store, purposefully ignoring the outrageous price, and I got fresh pig's blood from the market, since I know he likes to make sure he's not too thirsty when he bites me. I've set up the electric candles in the center of the table, and bought him blue hydrangeas, which he loves because he says they match my eyes.
Baz is really trying, so I want to show him I'm trying, too.
I hear his key click into the doorknob while I've still got my apron on and I'm taking the rolls out of the oven. He pops his head into the kitchen, with one eyebrow raised in a question.
He looks around the kitchen and dining room at his surprise. He's biting his lip to hide the grin that's threatening to break his face; he not-so-secretly loves it when I surprise him with soppy shite like this. "Been busy, Snow?"
"Might've been," I say, as I put the bread into a serving bowl. "Wanna get comfortable and I'll finish up here?"
He nods and kisses me on the cheek in response, and then goes to our bedroom to change clothes.
He comes back out after I've finished setting up the table, wearing a soft white button up sleep shirt and my dark blue joggers. He's the very picture of domestic bliss, and he's all mine—the thought sends a rush of pride though my heart.
"How was uni?" I ask, which sends him into a long rant about his dissertation and his supervisor and the modern-day relevance of gothic literature.
Gods, he's fit when he's going off about something.
Sometimes, I can still hardly believe this gorgeous, patient, clever man is mine. He chose me—he keeps choosing me. I keep showing him all the ugliest and scariest parts of myself, and he faces it the same way he always does when it comes to me: with unwavering fearlessness.
I think that's one of the reasons I keep pushing him to be more open about being a vampire with me. Why I want him to feed in front of me, feed on me. Why I want him to be as shameless about being a vampire as he is about everything else. I want to show him that I love every last thing about him, too.
Plus, it's well hot.
Baz agrees to do the dishes since I cooked, and I watch him with growing anticipation of what's coming next.
I've been wanting to ask Baz to thrall me for a while now. (I mean, he's already so bloody enchanting, I'm already halfway there.) I'd been working up the courage to ask—I knew he'd be tetchy about it. That he'd need convincing, just like he did with the biting.
I can tell he's nearly as into this idea as I am. Baz just needs me to trust him before he'll trust himself. And I do—with my life. Literally.
He wipes his hands on the kitchen towel and turns to me.
"Now, wanna watch some T.V.?"
I walk over to him, never breaking eye contact. He bites his lip, and I get the overwhelming urge to bite it for him.
"No," I say, interlocking our fingers, and giving him what I hope is a sexy look. "You know what I want."
"Okay, then," Baz says seriously, "repeat the rules to me."
I roll my eyes. "We've been over this a dozen times, Baz."
His stern expression doesn't waver. "Humour me."
I sigh. "Remember the safe words."
He raises one eyebrow. "Which are?"
"Green for more, yellow for slow down, red for stop. Same as they always are."
He nods, seemingly pleased that I'm capable of stating the obvious.
I quickly summarize everything else we discussed this past week. "I can say red at any time, and you won't give me any commands that take away that ability. I need to say something if I start to panic. And you won't bite me until I ask, and you're not going to thrall me to want that."
Baz's face softens as I talk, but I notice he's tapping his finger against his thigh anxiously, making my tail twitch in sympathy. He's nervous about this—and knowing that melts away my annoyance with his overcautiousness.
"Now," I say, as I cup a lock of his hair behind his ear, determined to put Baz at ease. "Can we go and fuck now?"
That shocks a chuckle out of him, and before he's even done laughing, I'm diving in for a kiss.
I still feel like I'm making up for lost time, all those months we weren't kissing, weren't touching. For every time I couldn't bear to let myself be touched—especially not when I was afraid that the person I wanted to touch me the most was going to realise that touching me wasn't going to be all the things he'd always hoped it would be.
We both used to be afraid I'd break. Now we both know that, even when I need to stop, it won't wreck me. Even if I get scared, even when I need to hit pause, I'll find my way back to myself.
Right now, I feel blessed with bravery. I'm nothing but greedy for him. He tastes like his magic—like fire and power and passion.
He pulls back, and I can tell by the fierce glint in his eyes that he's just as eager as I am. I'm as attuned to his arousal as I am to my own; he can't hide it from me.
"I'm going to drink," he says, his voice already raspy with desire. "Go and wait in the bedroom."
I smirk. "Why don't you make me?"
His expression grows feral. I see his fangs have popped, and my cock twitches at the idea of them inside me. He grabs me by the chin, making me look up into his eyes.
"Go and wait in the bedroom for me, love. Get completely naked. Think about what I'm going to do to you, but don't touch yourself."
His thrall washes over me, and I'm fully hard by the end of his sentence. I'm overcome with animalistic lust and all-consuming love. My body feels like it's been struck by lightning, like the entire galaxy has opened up inside my chest. I feel lighter than air, and so, so desperate for Baz.
I let out a needy moan and he smirks. "Carry on now, Simon," he says, smacking me on the arse as I'm forced to walk away from him.
I strip without thought, just a need to be out of my clothes immediately. I catch my expression in the mirror above our bed; this hasn't even started yet, and I already look lust drunk. I lay myself on top of our duvet with my wings outspread wide underneath me, and my mind starts racing with possibilities.
I think of Baz in every filthy position. On his knees. Underneath me with his legs spread. Spooning me from behind. Riding my cock. Up against the wall.
I almost want to cry with how badly I want it. How much I'm craving any kind of touch, any kind of release. I look down and see my cock's already flushed red and shiny with precum, and I have no idea how I'm going to survive what Baz has in store for me.
I can't wait to find out.
I'm not sure how long Baz is gone for. It sure feels like he's taking his sweet time, and my suspicion is exacerbated by the mischievous grin he's sporting when he finally struts into our bedroom.
"Don't you look pretty," he says, his lips stained red. He looks like a dark prince—dangerously gorgeous and sinfully seductive.
"Please," I beg, not even knowing what exactly I'm begging for.
"Be patient," he says, but he does it without his thrall. I groan in frustration. "Hush, baby. I need to get undressed too."
"Yes, yes, please, let me see you."
In some distant part of my brain, I know that I'm not usually this vocal in bed. There's usually a shyness holding me back, but it doesn't seem to be present today.
I don't bother dwelling on that thought, because Baz is starting to unbutton his shirt.
"Now, that I've got your full and undivided attention," he says, as he reveals his skin to me. Baz's torso is still toned from all the exercise he gets in his amateur football club; he's a breathtaking sight. "I'll persuade you of the rules again."
"Regardless of what I tell you to do, use the safe words to communicate how you're honestly feeling." He slides his shirt off his shoulders, letting it fall to the ground. "Tell me immediately if anything I'm doing or you're feeling makes you uncomfortable." He shimmies out of my joggers, and I can see the outline of his cock in his briefs. Baz is hard too, straining and damp against the fabric.
"Now, what's the last one?" he asks mockingly, keeping his thumbs around the waistband of his pants tantalizingly.
"I get to pick when you bite me," I growl. My mind's still whirling with dirty thoughts of Baz; it's pure torture not to touch him. "Now, take off your pants."
I try to pull him towards me by using my tail to grab him by the ankle, but he's too strong—his knees don't even buckle. He responds by clucking his tongue, teasing amusement in his eyes. "Where are your manners?"
"Take off your pants, please, baby."
He acquiesces. He springs out of his briefs, and I can see his desire spelled out on his body. I spread my legs unconsciously in response.
"Close your eyes."
I whine in protest, but the magic washes over me, and I follow his command.
"Colour?" he asks, clearly having noticed my resistance.
"Green," I respond. I want to see where this is going (even if I can't exactly, you know, see it).
I hear Baz's footsteps to my left, hear the nightstand slide open, hear Baz rummaging through the drawer. Anticipation buzzes in the air as I wait for Baz to do something. Anything, everything.
Finally, I feel his fingertips brush my hipbone. My hips jut forward—his hand is close, but not quite where I want it—and he pushes me down, keeping me in place.
"Shhhh," he hushes me, and the weight on the bed shifts. I can sense him above me, and I have the urge to reach for him. "Don't worry. You're going to get it, love."
His hands grip the insides of my knees, spreading me open. He murmurs Clean as a whistle twice, and the second time, I feel his fiery magic warm my groin.
I realise what he's about to do only a moment before he runs the flat of his tongue along my arsehole.
I gasp in shock and my wings flutter. I love doing this to him, but Baz doesn't eat me out very often. It's—well. It's vulnerable. It's something that's more likely to trigger my touch aversion, something that tends to make that too much feeling inside me consume me whole.
But right now, I feel nothing but simple, uncomplicated pleasure.
"Is this okay?" Baz whispers, and I feel his breath against my taint. I squirm a bit in anticipation.
"Yes, yes, yes, keep going, yes—" My pleading is broken by Baz's expert tongue taking me apart.
He eats me out the way he kisses me—hungrily, fervidly. His tongue enters me, and I spread my legs wider, grabbing him by his hair and wrapping my tail around his waist.
"Let me open my eyes, let me see you, please—"
"Watch. I want you to watch."
I open my eyes and see him looking at me like I'm something to be devoured. And that's what he's doing—devouring me.
"Oh my god," I moan, grinding against his face. My pleasure is ratcheting up so quickly; I feel my lower stomach squirming with a gluttony of lust. "You're going to make me come, I'm going to—"
He suddenly stops. "Don't come."
I cry out as I feel my orgasm halt, a train going full speed suddenly jolting to a stop, stuck at the precipice of release.
"Good things come to those who wait," he teases. The phrase is a spell for patience, but he doesn't waste magic trying to give me any.
"You like torturing me," I whine. "I always knew you were evil."
"That I am, love." He kisses my hip bone affectionately. "Let's find out just how much."
He takes me apart methodically—torturing me with his tongue, and then his fingers; dragging my pleasure to the edge of ecstasy, just to stop his careful ministrations in time for me to get stuck at almost, only almost there.
"How are you doing, baby?" he asks, after the fourth time he's brought me to the brink of heaven.
"Want you, want you so bad, please, I'm begging you—"
"Tell me how much you love me."
The words come out with a rush of relief, more truthful than I can usually manage to say out loud. "Baz, I—you're everything, you—you have me completely, I'm so in love with you I might break with the force of it, I'm completely obsessed—"
Baz replaces his fingers with a butt plug I hadn't realised he'd grabbed from our nightstand, and my words morph into a whine. He moves the thing around me a little, getting it firmly in places, and I see stars behind my eyelids.
"Stand up," he demands, and I'm scrambling to follow his order. My shaking legs have gone to jelly, my cock is nearly purple with desperation, and I'm looking at my beautiful boyfriend smirk up at me from on his knees.
"Tell me when you're about to come," he says. Then, he grips me at the base and runs his tongue sensually along the sensitive underside of my cock.
"More," I beg. He puts only my crown in his mouth and hums. The vibration sends fireworks up my spine. "I said more," I growl.
"This is more, Snow," he says, feigning innocence as he tongues my cock languidly.
"You wouldn't be so cocky if you let me choke you with my cock."
"Is that so?" His grin is animalistic. "Show me, then."
I grab him by the neck, just like I know he loves. He likes when I'm rough with him, when I go off. That's why he's so bloody difficult with all this teasing—he knows it will get him exactly what he deserves.
He relaxes his throat and lets me thrust into him. All of his foreplay has made his mouth ready and warm and inviting, and I slide in and out of him easily.
"Fuck, Baz. You were made for this."
He moans around me, and I sob.
"I can't wait anymore. I really can't. I need to come, please let me come."
Baz pulls off of me, replacing his mouth with his hand and stroking my cock quickly. "Come on my face."
With a howl of relief, I do. My cum splatters all over his nose, onto his eyebrows, in his open mouth. He's painted with the evidence of my frenzied euphoria, with the fruits of his careful and loving labor.
I'm absolutely dazzled by his beauty.
My shaky breaths and pounding heart are the only sound in the room for a moment. I wipe some of the cum off his face with my thumb, and then stick the finger in his mouth. He sucks hard on my thumb and I groan.
When I finally have enough oxygen to speak, I gasp out, "You're a miracle."
Baz flushes with pleasure at the praise. He pretends he's not terribly chuffed, raising one eyebrow and responding in a raspy, well-fucked voice, "I'm not done with you yet, Snow. That was just the beginning."
"Wha—" I start.
"Get hard again. I'm ready to take you for a ride."
My cock—incredibly, impossibly—responds to his will.
"Lay down on the bed. " I follow his directions, getting on my back again.
He wipes the rest of my cum off his face with a hand towel, and then grabs his wand from where he left it on the nightstand, and casts "Candle in the wind" on himself.
I raise my eyebrows. "Can't handle my cock on your own, Pitch?"
He laughs. "You're not one to talk, Snow."
He's not wrong. But he hasn't even touched himself yet, and he's already dripping with precum and so hard his cock's pointing upwards. He's clearly gagging for it, and I'm not above being smug over that, even though I'm gagging for it too.
I think my smile tells him all of this, because he rolls his eyes affectionately.
"Now, " he says, thrall magic in his tone, as he crawls over me. "Stay put."
Suddenly, I can't move a muscle. It's like he handcuffed me to the bed. (Baz loves that—being tied down, at my mercy.) Baz looks at me like I'm a buffet, like I'm the most delicious spread he's ever seen.
Baz takes the lube bottle, and slicks up my cock slowly. I'd be bucking up into him if he hadn’t told me to stay put, because my body is wonderfully eager, like I didn't just come three minutes ago.
He then sits up on his knees, kneeling with his legs spread on either side of my upper legs. Then he takes his wet finger, and slides it inside of himself.
His groan of relief echoes in the room; I feel it in my lower stomach, ratcheting up my arousal. I squeeze the plug inside of me, trying to derive some pleasure from that, but it's not enough, not with Baz looking like a wet dream above me. He adds another finger, buggering himself over me, moaning indulgently.
"As much as I'm loving the show," I pant, "I'd like to join in now."
He ignores me. Instead, he puts three fingers in his arse and throws his head back in ecstasy.
"Baz," I growl. "You're ready. Fuck me."
"You know the magic word," he moans.
He shifts forward and sinks himself down on my cock so quickly that I barely have time to register it before I'm all the way inside of him.
"Oh, fuck," I exclaim, and it sounds like it's been punched out of me.
Baz sets a punishing pace. He grinds up and down on me, steadying himself with his hands on my shoulders. His nails are digging into my skin and his eyes are pinched shut—sure signs that he's losing himself in the sensual motion.
It's not fair that I don't get to touch him back, not when he's so wild and gorgeous and mine.
"Let me touch you," I insist.
He slows down, looking me right in the eyes. His expression is desperate and his voice is a feral rasp when he says, "Choke me."
My limbs unlock all at once, and my hands go up to his neck.
He once told me that he used to get off on memories of our fist fights at school, that he always was turned on by how ferocious of a fighter I was. That's apparent now in how much he relishes in my roughness. My stomach is wet with his precum, pooling over my ribcage, as I squeeze his carotid artery tightly.
He's making these delicious choking noises and letting me thrust up brutally into him. I'm lost in the pleasure of it, of our bodies becoming one in this act of savage lovemaking.
I think I'm about to come, when he taps my hand three times, our signal for me to stop. I loosen my grip immediately, slightly worried that he's going to say that was too much.
He doesn't. He surprises me by commanding, "Fuck me harder."
I don't think about it; I just take control.
I flip us over so I'm on top of him, my wings flaring out behind me and casting a shadow over us. I take his legs and put them over my shoulder, and begin pounding him into the mattress. I bite his neck hard and he sobs in ecstasy, his head thrown back into the pillow and his fangs on display. The sight brings me right to the finish line.
"Gunna come, gunna come in you—" I warn him in a choked voice.
"Do it, fuck yes, come, Simon, fuck!"
I orgasm again, in an explosion of supernovas tingling up my spine and through my limbs, making me feel like I've jumped off a cliff and I'm free-falling, crashing down into Baz. Hitting the ground and detonating into a thousand stars.
I fuck Baz through the aftershocks of my orgasm until I physically can't anymore, and then I sag into him.
He pets my hair and kisses my cheeks, praising me in a soft voice, a litany of sweet nothings falling from his lips. "Good boy, Simon. You're so good to me. Thank you, love, that was so good for me."
It takes me a while to come out of the haze of my orgasm fog and realize something is still poking me in the stomach.
"Hey," I say, in a raspy voice. "You haven't come yet."
"My Candle in the wind spell is top-notch. I was at the top of our class, you know."
"I'm pretty sure that spell wasn't in the curriculum."
He laughs. "You couldn't have told sixteen year old me that."
I push myself off of him, my arms aching a bit with the effort. "You down for one more round?"
He looks at me like I'm the eighth wonder of the world. He grabs my face with both of his hands and kisses me tenderly, and I can feel his love pour into me, lighting me up from within my chest.
Then he murmurs against my lips, "On your hands and knees."
We rearrange ourselves so I'm facing the headboard and he's behind me. He runs his hand along my spine, and I shiver in anticipation. He drapes himself over me, stroking my wings with his fingertips and whispering in my ear, "Get hard, love."
My cock responds to his command. He circles my arsehole with his fingertip, around the edges of the plug, before pulling it out of me slowly.
I hear the lube bottle open. Then, he takes two wet fingers and pushes them into me. I let out a low groan, fucking myself back onto him, using my tail to keep him close.
"You look so good like this, baby," he whispers. He crooks his fingers upward, pressing onto that spot inside of me that turns my bones liquid. I spread my legs wider in response.
He takes me apart slowly, gently. His fingers glide in and out of me, finding my prostate with his fingertips every time, until I'm shaking with the mindless bliss of it.
When he asks me if I'm ready, I can hardly manage to choke out a yes.
"Stand up on your knees then," he says. I do, and then I'm looking into the mirror above our bed at our well-fucked reflections.
I'm flushed red on every inch of visible skin, and my hair's a wild mess. Baz isn't faring much better—he's not quite red, but he's certainly pink, and I'd never seen his hair so unkempt back at school.
Those things don't matter much, because the look on our faces can only be described as lovestruck.
I keep my wings straight out to make room for Baz, and wrap my tail around his waist to keep us close. I see and feel Baz snake his hand around my waist, pulling our bodies tightly together. He lines us up, and he slides into me easily, leaving no space between us.
He nuzzles his cheek against my curls. "You're so beautiful," he says, and I feel it, believe deep inside my soul. Confidence washes over me like a gentle wave.
We move together lazily, his thrusts more like soft pushes than hard shoves, a gentle expression of our devotion. I can tell Baz is getting closer to the edge though—can feel it in the way he's shaking against me, in the way his gasps have become more frequent and his moans higher-pitched.
"I love you," he nearly cries. His voice is shaky with the effort, but he still manages to push his thrall into it. "I choose you. Always. I'm yours, Simon Snow."
There's nothing but Baz and me in this moment—nothing but the overwhelming way my heart aches with the rightness of us.
"Yes, yes," I agree. "And I'm yours— bite me."
I don't need to use a thrall to get Baz to follow my command. I watch in the mirror as he sinks his teeth into the crook of my neck. It stings so good—like a shot of Fireball whiskey, a wonderful burning rush of pleasure. I moan as I feel Baz come inside me, my blood more than enough to bring him to ecstasy. My pleasure is all-consuming, my heart perfectly whole and one with his.
When he finishes spilling into me, he grabs my cock and strokes me to my own orgasm, a pleasant shiver of goosebumps erupting across my skin.
Immediately after, I collapse onto the mattress, avoiding the wet spot.
Baz litters my back and shoulders with kisses. It takes me a while to respond to his silent devotion.
"That was the best sex of my life," I finally manage to say.
"Me too," he admits, sounding a bit shy about it.
"So you admit I was right about thrall sex?"
He harrumphs. "Fine. I suppose you were right this time."
I smile into my pillow. "I'm always right. You just never want to admit it."
"Fuck off," he says, which is as good as an admission to me.
I open my mouth to respond, but my face is overtaken by a yawn.
"Sleepy already?" he asks. "It's hardly eight p.m."
"I orgasmed three times," I remind him.
"Yes, I know; I was there. You're welcome, by the way."
"Thank you," I say without an ounce of sarcasm. "Now, let's sleep."
He obliges, spelling the sheets clean before we go and brush our teeth. He still takes longer than me in the loo, so I'm cuddled up in our bed before he is.
I'm nearly dozing off when I feel him crawl in with me. I turn over so I can look at him. I catch him gazing softly at me, vulnerable in the afterglow, just like he always is.
I'm struck with a question. "What were you thinking about?"
Baz cocks an eyebrow at me. "During the sex? Oh, just about whether I remembered to pay the water bill."
"No, arsehole. What were you thinking about when you were thralling me?"
Baz has explained it to me: how he has to feel an emotion to thrall it into someone. I never asked him before what he was going to thrall me with; I just assumed it'd be lust. But this was something more than that. Something more precious.
Baz brushes a stray curl off my forehead. "I just thought about how much I love you, and how much I always want you. And I thought about the stars."
"The time you showed me the stars. I tried to give you what you gave me that night, back in our bedroom at Watford. That feeling of infinity in my chest."
I feel so full of love my heart might burst.
"Baz," I say earnestly. "You've never needed the thrall to enchant me."
He pauses, and I can tell he's taking a moment to swallow the emotion clogging his throat. "Simon Snow. That is the soppiest thing you've ever said to me."
I shove his shoulder and he laughs.
"Shut up, you prat," I say.
His face lights up in a smile, the bright one he saves just for me. I almost want to start waxing poetry about how much I love him, but I'm far too tired for that tonight. Instead, I hold him close to my chest and close my eyes, drifting off into dreams about the man in my arms, happily wrapped up in the magic of us.