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Baz has a wet, soapy rag in his hand, staring at me. Waiting.

I’m naked; Baz still has the dignity of his pants.

The bathroom tile is cold on my feet, and my cock is about as small as its ever gonna get. I’m not feeling so beautiful or brave right now.

But I’m certainly feeling like a right bastard….

I almost demanded to be here, and now here I am, wondering if I’ve somehow turned sex with Baz into one of our old competitions from Watford. Baz, for his part, has certainly gone back to cocking his eyebrow up stupidly high on his forehead, looking at me expectantly. Like when I struggle with my words. Like when I am completely stunned by just looking at him, looking for him.

A week ago, I straddled him and told him to finger me. A week ago, I told him I wanted more. A week ago, I didn’t know what the fuck I was talking about.

Because now Baz is here, teaching me in the ways of “anal sex preparation and hygiene” (his words not mine), and because I told I wanted him to “show me all that rot” (my words not his), Baz is fully prepped to wipe my ass clean until I’m ready for his cock.

“You’ve gone recently, right?” he asks.

“Gone?” I ask.

“Circe, Snow, you know what I’m talking about. Did you shit recently?”
“Merlin, Baz, what the fuck?” I tug on my curls. His eyebrow is still so high on his head. He’s not going to let me not answer this one. “Yeah, Baz,” I relent. “I told you.”

He nods. Almost formally. Sometimes I forget all his years of breeding and mansions and four-course dinners, but not when he looks at me like this. Lately, that glare is all that it takes to get me going, but right now, I feel right cowed.

“You can do this yourself, Snow. I’m happy to do it for you, but I don’t have to.” His eyes have softened. He probably can smell the fear in my blood. “Snow,” he pauses, puts the washcloth back on the edge of the sink. “We don’t even have to do this at all. I told you, I always thought…”—he looks to the floor, sucking on his bottom lip—“I always thought, if we ever got here, it would be the other way around anyway.”

“Well, that’s not a reason not to do something.” Baz getting uncertain in bed just gets me mad nowadays. Every time he’s brave, things just work. I feel the challenge begin to singe the air between us.

“Yeah, but you looking at me like this is a reason to not.

Fuck this. I reach out and take the washcloth from the edge of the sink. I begin to wipe behind myself. Don’t think; just don’t think.

Baz looks at me with these massively round eyes. “Okay?”

“You sure I don’t need to do that anemone thing?”


“Yeah, you know what I’m talking about.”

“No, it’s not really good to get in the habit of doing, if you…if you do this often.” He coughs, and then smirks at me. “Can’t believe you got enema confused with an even more difficult word.”

Good, he’s ribbing me. The air is staticky now, kind of like it has been between us every time right before it gets good, right before I get to the place where I can just give myself over to him. Like I want to.

“Better not be a berk. I’ll miss a spot just to spite you.”

Baz huffs a laugh. “Fair enough,” he says, and then, like he’s not thinking about it at all, he takes down his pants. They collect around his ankles, and he picks them up, folds them to be placed on top the toilet. The contrast is ridiculous, and I suddenly feel so unbearably fond of him.

 I’ve got little streams of soapy water trickling down my thighs. Surely there was a better way to do this. 

Oh yeah, there was—me, alone in the shower, but I wanted Baz to supervise like the insecure twat I am.

He grabs a dry towel from the rack, kneels down on the tile and wipes the water from the backs of my thighs. He’s got his head bent all the way back so he can look at me.

“Okay, Snow?”
“I think I get to be Simon today, under these circumstances.”

He’s smiling again. I love it. “Okay, Simon.”






Snow—Simon—is laid out on the bed like a sacrificial virgin. All we need is some well-placed torches, dimmer lighting, and a vampire…. Well, we’ve got one of those things.

The lighting, though, could be sexier—maybe not sacrificial-sexy, but something better than this—a single (recently purchased) Ikea lamp in the corner blasting out the brightest, whitest light Snow could find in all of the store. It’s the least energy-efficient, least mood-inducing light he could have found. I’m almost worried I’ll burn.

Fuck, I’m staring at the lamp while Snow is staring at me. He’s not hard. I’m not either. There’s just us, the lamp, and the single, reoccurring thought that Simon Snow has never done this with anyone ever before, followed by the even more horrifying thought—I’ve never done this before.

In my hands is a 32-ounce bottle of lube. I can’t even wrap my fingers all the way around the fucking thing. I came home the day after I fingered him once to Snow online purchasing a monstrously-large bottle of lubricant. He expedited it—same-day shipping.

“Don’t want to rely on spells, ya know?” he said.

When pressed on the choice to go for the 32 ounces (32 ounces!), he just said, “Cost efficient, since we’ll be doing this forever.” Like it was the simplest thing in the world. The most obvious.

And that’s how I became a sentimental sap over the Goliath of water-based sex aids.

I flip the cap. “Ready?” I ask.

Snow reaches down and scratches his balls. “Um… maybe kissing first?”

I close the cap, and place the lube on the nightstand, crawling awkwardly over Snow in the process. I’m suddenly so embarrassed I feel like I want to pull a Pre-America Simon and just run out of the apartment. Back to Fiona, even if it means walking in on her and Nicodemus.

Deep breath. Look him in the eye. “Yeah, Simon. Kissing first.” I’m hovering over him like he did to me the first time we made out on my childhood bedroom floor. Reach for me, I want to say. I’ll meet you halfway if you just reach.

We meet in the middle, and I sink my body onto him—all warmth and sweetness, soft stomach skin rolling between my palms, fat tongue pushing against my bottom lip, and a breathy sigh. Simon starts to get hard. I sink even more onto him. When he lets himself want it’s like a pressure valve releases—you can hear the hot air leave and what is left just melt.

I could just do this and be happy, just feel him want me, relax with me. Be with me.

“Be with me.” I don’t mean to say it out loud.

He pulls back. There’s this ridiculous string of spit connecting our bottom lips, stretching in the inches between us. It’s disgusting, but neither of us move to wipe it away.

“Couldn’t be more with you, babe,” he smiles around his words. I roll my eyes. Babe. “I wiped my bum right in front of you.”

We laugh. We’ve been doing that a lot more—laughing, particularly when we’re naked and slotted together like we are now. I kiss him teeth bared. We swallow our laughter together, and I nip at his bottom lip. Simon growls.

After a while: “Should I?”

After a beat: “Yeah, do it, Baz.”

Brave, beautiful bastard as always.

The lube bottle nearly slips out of my hand. I’m stretching everything to grab it from the nightstand and not lose hold of Simon. Even now, after everything we’ve tried and succeeded in over the last few weeks, I still feel sometimes that if I make a wrong turn, move too suddenly, take things too slowly, Simon will go back to barely letting me touch him. Back to permissions and things deserved or earned, wanted or not wanted.

I pop the cap and arrange my elbows around his head so I can carefully (very carefully) tip the bottle to dribble onto my hand. I am coated with it, and the fucking bottle looks like it’s never been opened when I set it back on the table.

I put my clean hand around his throat, push just a bit and run my thumb up and down his Adam’s apple. I slide my hand down between us, messing up and smearing lube on his hip and my thigh. We both ignore it. I fumble to find his hole, and nearly ruin the bedsheets before we’ve even gotten started.  Neither of us acknowledge it.

“Okay, Simon?” I ask.

I feel his throat bob beneath the pressure of my thumb. I answer his swallow with more pressure. Not gentle. “Don’t whisper on me,” he told me once. I touch him loudly.

He responds loudly. “Yeah, Baz. Merlin—fuck—just, put it in me.”

I’m circling his hole. I realize that I’m mouth-breathing like Simon on to Simon. I can’t help it; he’s so warm and so open, when the tip of my finger breeches him. His mouth is wide; his eyes squeezed shut; he breathes out, “Yes, God.”

“I’m Mr. God to you,” I say. I don’t know why I say it. Sometimes I think, if I can just keep him smiling, just keep him laughing, he won’t have enough room to say something that might hurt me in these tender moments. I’m still bracing for it; I can’t stop myself, even though he hasn’t hurt me yet. He’s been so gentle, so wanting, so tender. I still feel like I can’t quite unclench, but Simon—Simon looks at me, swimming eyes, when I get my finger fully seated inside him. He’s not clenched; he’s just looking at me. Giving himself to me.

Get out of your head, I want to tell myself.




Stop thinking, just be with me, I want to say, but Baz is so deep and I want so much more.

I never even thought about it; I never even knew this was something that I could think about, could want for. All those nights with him in my room, all those years of tension—and I didn’t even think to want him—didn’t even know he would pin me down to the mattress and paralyze me with a single finger.

I broke his nose one time. You can still see the crook. I manage to stretch my hand out to run its length. Baz scrunches his face in surprise, and I laugh.

“Wish you’d—oh, fuck—” Baz has slipped another finger in. My breath is trapped in my lungs.

“Wish what, Snow?”

I must seem totally taken. His brow is no longer furrowed, and he looks pleased with himself. His cock is growing, pressing more, against the inside of my thigh. When I grind down on his fingers, I grind down on his length. We both gasp.

There—I think. There it is. There’s always this moment—with Baz—where we just lock into place. Everything, all at once, just works, and it’s like, once we’re there—bolted to each other, slotted together. And nothing bad can happen anymore. Not when we’re here.  

“Wish—” I try to speak. “Wish you could’ve marked me up back then.”


“Wish you’d busted my nose, or branded me or something, back then.”

Baz stills his fingers. I moan. “What the fuck, Snow?”


“No, you wished I had branded you?”

“Come on, Baz,” I hitch my body to press down again. Let’s get back to that good moment, Baz, come on. “You know what I mean.”

“You wish I had done more damage to you then I already did? Do you think we would have ended up here, really? If I’d done anything else?”
Baz looks really taken aback. I can’t make out what it is about what I’ve said that has hit so close to home, but Baz looks positively distraught. His fingers are somehow getting chilled inside me.

I’m so frustrated I want to scream. Why the fuck did I have to go and say something just when things were getting good? Just when I was getting out of my head?

“Baz, for the love of magic! Fucking move!”

His eyes flash. “I’ll move if you tell me what you mean.”

“Wanker, you know what I mean.”

He presses up and against me, the furthest he’s been yet and my entire body goes rigid. Fuck, there. “Oh fuck, Baz, yes—”

The bastard is straining to keep his spot. He has me pinned, he knows it. Maybe turning sex with Baz into  a competition like we had at Watford isn’t such a bad thing… My cock, somehow harder against my stomach, certainly likes this.

“I think—oh my, fuck—I think that if you had marked me—bloody hell—I would have known—fuck—before. I would have figured it out sooner.”

I don’t think I’ve ever seen Baz look like this. He’s looks predatory, but also like he’s this close to sobbing or laughing or screaming, or all three. All the other times we’ve been together, I took the reins. I controlled the pace, the activity, the levels of pressure. Never—we’ve never been here before, with Baz taking control of me. It’s making me go feral.

“Figured out what, Snow? Use your words.”

I seize up. I feel like I’m either gonna shit myself or come—could go either way. I’m so turned on I can’t even care. “Baz,” I whine.

“Use”—push—“your”—another finger, slipped in like an afterthought—“words.” I’m gonna come. I’m gonna shit.

“I would have known I was already yours!” I shout it, the words incoherent to me. But Baz seems to get it. He looks at me, dead in the eye, and wiggles three fingers. I squeal, there’s no other word for it. “Fuck me—Merlin, fuck, fuck me.” His fingers slip out; I don’t even know if I could tell you my name and date of birth at this point. We’ve never been here, him on top of me; I want to be here all the time.

Baz takes his clean hand and pets it down my stomach. I try not to flinch. I know Baz says I’m not fat, but I still feel like a right oaf next to his chiseled chest. His violin-calloused fingers catch on a roll, and I try to focus on him. Baz loves your body, I tell myself. He’s told me a hundred times. I just have to believe him; I’m still working on that.

“And I’m yours,” he says simply, flatly. His hands are shaking though, especially the one smeared in lube, so I know better than to trust his cool demeanor.

Baz wants me.

“What did I just say, Baz?”

He huffs a laugh. “You’re mine, and you want me to fuck you.”

“Right,” I answer. “So hop to it.”




Hop to it. Have sexier words ever been spoken? If, in all my days of wanking to thoughts of Simon like this (or really, me like this with Simon), I’d have known that would be the words to give me enthusiastic consent….

Well, it would have felt too real, too Simon Snow, for me to ever let it enter my fantasies at that point. This Simon—the one that doesn’t live in my head and fuck me mercilessly in the heat of passion against the dorm room walls—this one, he’s kind and gentle and eager. This one loves me. This one is infinitely better than any Simon Snow I could have ever dreamed up.

I reach over him again and gather a condom and more lube. I shake the bottle. (Carefully.) (Very carefully.) “Snow, I still can’t get over this monstrosity. What the hell were you thinking?”
He’s smiling. The bastard manages to look cheeky as I prep to put my cock in him for the first time. Only Simon. Only Snow.

He says, “I thought I might like this a lot. I thought we might do this a lot, again.”

“Forever?” I sound pathetic, but Simon just sinks a little more into the mattress, eyes going smooth and tender. He knows now—knows that sometimes I need assurance too. That this is real. That he’s going to keep trying.

“Yeah, babe,” he nods. “Forever.”

I feel like I need a horse and carriage to go with those words, with the way he says those words, like they’re easy to comprehend. I can’t even comprehend it now—that he feels forever about me. But we don’t have a horse and carriage, a sunset overlooking the ocean, or a candlelit dinner. We have me, slicking myself with lube (carefully), sliding on a condom, slicking more lube on that, depositing the wrapper and big-box bottle on the bed side counter, and asking him, “Front or back?”

I should write sonnets.

I expect Simon to laugh at me, but instead, he looks serious. “Wanna see you,” he mumbles.

“So here? Like this?” I ask. “I’ve heard—I’ve heard it might be more comfortable the other way, at least for the first time.”

The bastard shrugs.

“What does that”—I shrug, mimicking him—“mean?”

“It means, I don’t care; it’d be better if I could see you.” I must look uncertain because he goes on: “I just want to be here. With you. Doing this. Does that make sense? Do you want me to turn around?”

What do I want? I don’t know if I’ve thought about it this whole time; I’ve been plenty of turned on just thinking about what Simon wants.  I almost forgot that I was doing this, for the first time, for me, too.

Simon has been intimate with someone. I haven’t—there’s been no one but him. There’ll never be anyone but him. Sometimes I forget it; sometimes I forget that he has the capacity—that he’s shown me, over and over again this month, that he has the capacity to take care of my needs too.  

So I nod. “Let’s do it this way then.”

He smiles, and nods, swiveling himself down so that he’s more adjusted on the pillows. I lean down to kiss him, mouth an “I love you”, soft and slimy with spit, right into his lips. He giggles and says, “No shit.”

“Who are you? Han Solo?” I pull back, trying and failing not to laugh with him.

“Nah, Han’s great, but he wouldn’t have the balls to take it up the ass.”

I fall into his shoulder, biting and laughing at the same time. He’s laughing with me. “Circe, Snow, this is exactly the kind of sexy banter that I’ve always dreamed of having when I lost my virginity.”

He stops his laughter abruptly, like I’ve said something horrible. “Oh, shit, Baz. I’m sorry. I’ll try to be serious, I just—”
“I think Leia would have wanted a strap-on every now and again,” I interrupt. He doesn’t need to apologize. This is better than the fantasy, better than the dream.

He pauses, and then lets himself laugh again. “Oh, fuck, you’re right. Hope Han got over himself enough to let that happen.”

“I, for one, have to have faith.”

I pull back and look at him. Our faces are inches apart. I kiss him once more.

“Hey,” I say. (Stupidly.) “This is wonderful. Everything about this—Leia and Han and…and you just being you—it’s all good.”

He nods. For a second, I think he might cry, but he only sniffs, and says, “Yeah, good. Really good.”





This is not good.

Baz has only gotten the head of his cock inside me, and I think I might pass out. I grit my teeth and think, Just relax. Baz has got you. Just relax.

It’s not working. I’m not relaxed, and Baz—Baz is starting to notice. He schools his face into a look of concern, rather than the terrified-yet-so-fucking-turned-on look he was sporting just a few moments ago. He goes: “Fuck, Simon—are you okay?”

And I try to say yes, I really do. I want to say yes. I want him to push himself deeper inside me and for everything to feel good, but it just doesn’t. And I want—more than anything right now—to be honest with him. I know him—he wants me to be honest too.

I shake my head “no”. He pulls all the way out quickly.

I close my eyes and feel how my hair feels against the pillow. I will myself not to cry.

I’m not crying this time. We don’t do that anymore. We don’t cry.

Baz keeps telling me it’s alright if I do—cry sometimes, that is. But it doesn’t feel that way to me. Sometimes, I lay awake at night, Baz asleep by my side, and I think—I worry—that if I one day cry again when it gets to be too much, push too hard, lose myself in a kiss, in a touch, that all this progress will go away. That I won’t be able to have him like this again. I won’t be able to let myself be with him anymore. And being with him like this has been the best thing to happen to me in so long.

For his part, Baz puts his hands on my cheeks. I still have my eyes closed, but I can feel his breath on my nose. I crack one eye open.

“I’m sorry, Baz. I swear I really want to.”

Baz goes from looking concerned to looking authoritative. I watch his composure slot into place, piece by piece like a jigsaw. He nods shortly; I almost miss it. “Do you want to try something else, or do you want to stop altogether?”

Against all odds, my cock is still hard against my stomach; his slippery, condom-covered one still firm against the inside of my thigh. He’s still with me. I’m still with him.

“Let’s try something else.”



This “something else” is a too-fluffed Ikea pillow, folded up precariously, and placed right underneath Simon’s sacrum. He tries to bat my hand away when I fuss with the positioning, but I’ve read about this. (I tell Simon: “I’ve read about this.”) (He tells me: “Of course you still do your fucking homework.”) (I ignore him and position him squarely.)

“Comfortable?” I ask him. His hips are high, and I’ve slicked one hand to rub the length of him. He’s started taking these deep, shuddering breaths. And I think I’ve got him back where I want him. I’ve gotten myself back where I want to be just watching him slide into the feeling of my hand against him. Like he can’t believe he gets to feel good. I can’t believe I get to be the one to make him feel good.

He nods. “Yeah, this isn’t s’bad.”

“Careful with the praise, Snow. You’ll inflate my ego.”

“Shut up,” he says grabbing my wrist and pulling it away from his cock. “Open me up some more; I want you to do it.” He guides my fingers to his hole. I press in on command. He’s still so open for me, and he takes me in easier now. I start with two, scissoring them to push against his walls.

With one more finger and a slurred “Merlin, Baz, yeah, let’s try this again,” I’m lining myself up (fresh condom, fresh pull of the lube) (maybe Simon was onto something with that purchase…). I press in.

He takes me in so quickly it stuns us both. Simon gasps and fumbles his hands to grab both of mine. We’re disgusting, covered in all sorts of fluids—bodily or otherwise, but he clutches at my hands like its his lifeline.

“Alright?” I ask. I’m out of breath; my voice sounds so distant.

He nods frantically, swallowing air like he’s gulping water.

I rock in once, and he sings. I rock in twice, and he says, “Oh fuck, what the fuck—this is good.

I thrust. “Well, Circe, Snow, did you think it would be bad?”

He shakes his head “no”, violently. “No, but ohmyfuck Baz, I didn’t know it would be like this.”

“Like what?” Sweat is pooling in the spaces where our skin slides together. I like how it makes us slick, how we slide in all the right spots, like our bodies are speaking to each other. We make room for each other; we give to each other. And Simon’s body is giving to me in the most amazing way—slick, blinding heat all over me. His beautiful skin, red and flushed and taking me in, reveling in the moments when I bottom out.

He’s been trying to answer my question for forever, but we keep gasping in sync whenever I hit his prostate. Snow clenches, and I, once again, fight not to make this over too quickly.

“I didn’t know it would feel like home or something. Like—oh fucking hell, Baz, yesrightthere—Like you were supposed to be here all along.”

I can’t believe he’s saying this to me; I can’t believe I’m saying to him, when he’s saying all these perfect romantic, breathtaking things: “Always inside you?”

The tendons in his neck are pulled taut: “Always making me yours. Oh fuck, touch me please.”

I do. I can’t feel my toes; the hair on my legs is chafing the skin from thrusting sloppily against the bedclothes. My hand is nearly too slick with our sweat and lube to grab a good hold of him. But the moment I do, Simon throws his head back. “More, Baz, don’t stop.”

“I won’t,” I gasp. I’m all sensation. I focus on my hand motions, but I can’t think. I can’t even keep my eyes open. It’s all too much. The light from the stupid Ikea lamp is burning against my eyelids, and it’s hot and wet and too bright and too much—and it’s the best I’ve ever felt in my entire life.

I manage to tear my eyes open one more time (just in time) to see Simon sink his teeth into his bottom lip and come. Hot spunk shoots all over my hand and his stomach; I fucking keen at the sight, thrust once more and then I’m coming with him. This horribly unsexy garble is wrenched from me, but I can’t care, because my body is giving way into his—onto his—and I collapse, aftershocks making me jerk against him.

There’s a stretch of silence and then, Simon, saying to me, softly, sweetly, like what he’s saying is the most precious thing in the world: “Han Solo could never.




The Christmas of fifth year, I came back from the Wellbeloves to Watford early. I thought Baz might come back too, plot something against me, drain a lady in distress. (I don’t fucking know what I was thinking.)

It was just a day early, really. I had made up some excuse to Agatha and her folks and got back to a nearly empty Watford. When I walked up Mummers Tower, I was convinced—convinced!—that I would find Baz doing something nefarious, something that I could finally use to tell everyone how horrible he was. It was nighttime too; the moon was high and wide in the Mummers’ windows. I crept slowly.

When I opened the door to our room, Baz was there. Just like I had felt like he might be. But he wasn’t draining a virgin or casting some sadistic spell. He was just sleeping and letting out these tiny little snores.

I didn’t know Baz could snore. And I was so stunned for a moment that I just stood there in the doorway and listened to this brand-new sound and tried to match my breaths to his. I just stood there, breathing with him. And I couldn’t figure out why, but I dropped my bags quietly, changed my clothes and crawled under the covers of my bed. Right across from his.  The whole time, I never stopped trying to match his breaths to mine.

I fell asleep quickly, and when I woke up the next morning, Baz said, “What the fuck are you doing here, Snow?”

The tears sprung to the back of my eyes, and I fought to keep them down. I mumbled something like a “fuck you”, and tried to forget.

I don’t know if I’d ever felt like that before—that night, breathing with Baz. Like I could just tune into someone else’s airwaves and just ride a breath with another person, for a little while. Baz and I had always shared the same air, but that night, instead of competing for space, we shared it. We made new air. Together.

Baz has just finished cleaning us up with a new rag. I let him this time, reach beneath me and wipe me clean. It felt funny, but it felt good. He kissed me once, chastely, when we slipped clean into the covers. Baz resting his head on my chest, my head on the crown of his. Two traded “love you”s, and he fell asleep.

He’s got those snores again. The ones I think I’ve only heard one time before. I match his breathing. We take in the air together; we breathe it back out.

I turn to kiss the top of his head. I inhale the smell of his shampoo and conditioner.

And I know, just like I did that one night in fifth year, that Baz is home.