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Simon

I’m drinking wine with Baz. At a restaurant. With tablecloths. And a bloke playing the piano in a corner. Baz’s hair is slicked back into this right sexy bun, and he’s got cufflinks on his wrists and thin brush of eyeliner on. (I watched him apply it in the mirror. He told me, “You’re making me nervous.” And I told him, “You’re making me want to snog you against the sink.” He rolled his eyes.) (We snogged against the sink.)

I’ve ordered some kind of pork dish wrapped in a puff pastry, and Baz has got his steak rare and bloody—the juice is bleeding into the potatoes. He hums while he chews here, but he never hums when he eats at home. Is that a posh thing? To hum when you eat expensive food in public?

I’m so nervous I can hardly eat. I’m poking at the papery pieces of the pastry with my fork. Flaky flaky flaky, I think. Because if Baz can turn into some white lady humming on a butter ad when he’s at a nice place for dinner, then I can have the mind of a four-year-old. Picking at my food. Thinking nothing-thoughts.

I fidget in my seat. We’ve been silent since the food came out a minute ago, and I don’t like it. I don’t really like any of this. The prices on the menu made me want to choke. The waiter bit back a laugh when I asked what a bearnaise sauce was. And Baz keeps dabbing at his mouth like he’s always got something on it. (He never has something on it.)

But this was his idea, something he wanted. Something I thought I’d want too, once I got here, once I got thrown into this.

‘Cause see—the thing is—Baz and I, we’ve never really gone on a date. We sleep in the same bed. We basically share the same flat. We eat our meals in our room or standing up at the kitchen counter. He fucks me; I fuck him. I tell him I love him. He tells me the same. The other day I told him he’d be a good father, and he blushed and I started thinking, and then I had to stop thinking cause it’s too soon and we’re too young, and…

And all of that. But we’ve never done this. We’ve never gone on a proper date.

“How’s your pork?” he asks me, sucking on a fang. I smile at him. That’s more like it.

“Good,” I manage. “You still wanna hunt after this, with all that blood?”

He dabs his mouth. My smile is gone. “Yeah,” he nods. “Probably still should. But this is nice. It’s nice to eat dinner with—with the edge off.”

I nod and sigh into my plate. The place is so fancy they don’t even have free dinner rolls. What kind of place doesn’t give you bread? I’m bored as hell. I want the pianist to stop playing these high, tinny runs. I want my waiter to bring me the rolls I asked for. I want to take Baz home with a bag of Nando’s and a pack of ciders.

“You could always just take some from me when we get home, yeah?” I suggest. Because I’m bored. And I want to see Baz get so nervous, so embarrassed, so angry that he stops dabbing himself with that stupid fucking linen napkin, and…

“Simon, are you serious? Right here? You want to bring this up here? Fight this fight here?”

“All I want to do here is leave.”

He stops eating, leans himself back against the chair, and folds his hands out in front of him at the edge of the table. “It was your idea to go on a date.”

“And it was your idea to bring us here, to a place we can’t even afford with shit music and food I don’t know the name of. Why—why couldn’t we have just gone for a pint and some chips. A movie? Ice cream? I don’t know, Baz. What even is this place?”

“Are you seriously still mad about the bread, Simon? I promise, I’ll get you some—”

“It’s not about the bread, Baz.”

“Isn’t it always with you?”

I decide to change the subject: “Baz, I can’t breathe in this jumper you put me in. Why do I have to wear a shirt underneath my jumper? It’s not even that cold, and—”

He puts his hand up to stop me, but he’s not looking at me. He’s looking at his steak; the blood has spread all over his plate. You can see the oil drops inside the red. I look at it with him. We’re silent again. Baz just picks up his fork after a moment and starts chewing. I go back to poking at the pastry.

Flaky, flaky, flaky. My plate looks like it’s full of dead skin.

And with that thought, I officially can’t eat anymore.

I push myself away from the table. Too loudly. The couple beside us gives me their third or fourth sneering look of the night. I smile at them. Eat your fucking breadless meal, and stop looking at me, Christ.

“Gonna go piss,” I tell Baz. I reach behind myself and rearrange my tail inside my trousers. Probably looks like I’m picking at my bum. I don’t care.

Baz rolls his eyes as he sips at his wineglass. But he doesn’t look at me. He’s over it. You can be so fucking insolent, sometimes, he told me last week.

I walk with purpose towards the toilets.

 

Baz

To be completely honest, I should have seen this coming.

This date idea was a heat-of-the-moment thing. We were sitting on his—our—floor eating pizza with Bunce and the American five days ago. Bunce’s legs were absently thrown over Shephard’s, and he was rubbing circles into one of her feet and checking his phone with his free hand. I had put my head in Simon’s lap, and he was curling one lock of my hair over and over and over again. I was happy. I felt like I was in a scene from a Bridget Jones’ movie. (The ones with her friends, not the ones with Colin Firth.)

“Don’t forget we have that reservation tomorrow, Pen,” the Normal told her. She looked up from her pizza and smirked and nodded.

“Where ya going tomorrow?” Simon asked. He tugged at my ear absentmindedly. Once. I buried my cheek into his inner thigh, into the seam of his jeans.

“Oh, just a date. We try to make plans once every other week or so,” Bunce said, and then, with a frown, “Don’t want a repeat of Micah. I want to know from now on that my boyfriend is actually still dating me…”

The Normal switched which foot he was rubbing. “I’d probably find my old fiancée to curse you if you ever stopped dating me.”

Bunce forced back a laugh, “I’m not summoning another demon this year.”

We’d gone back to Simon’s—our—room. (I’ve moved in basically. I’ve started paying part of the rent. I don’t have any clothes leftover at Fiona’s anymore. I make grocery runs for our fridge.) (It’s the definition of domestic.) (I am the happiest I’ve ever been.)

Simon turned on me the minute the door closed. “We should go on a date.”

I blinked. “Okay, let’s go on a date.”

He’d nodded. Affirmatively. Shortly. Resolutely. And then: “Where do you go when you go on a date? A restaurant? Penny and Shep go to restaurants, and—”

He looked nervous. He looked sweaty. Merlin, after all the hurdles we’d overcome in the last few months, a night out with me was going to get him this way?

I put my hands on his shoulders. “We can go wherever you want, Snow. Anywhere.”

He’d looked up at me with these big, boring blue eyes. He looked fucking helpless. He looked fucking cute. “You pick,” he said.

So, I picked. I picked a place with white linen and a valet (even though we just took the tube) and escargot as an appetizer. I don’t know why I did it. I guess I fucking panicked. Where do you go for a date? I’ve never been on one, not really. Merlin, Simon tries to turn going hunting for rats into a date. So, I’d picked the place furthest away from my usual alley-fare. And now we’re here.

This steak is delicious though, and I’m not going to let Snow’s anger over the lack of dinner rolls keep me from finishing it off. It cost thirty fucking pounds.

I smell Simon before I see him. He’s sweaty, and it’s like I can feel his heat rolling off of him the closer he gets to me. He looks like he’s seen a fucking ghost is what he looks like. His eyes are buggy, and I don’t think he’s blinked for the duration of his saunter across the dining room. He’s got this stiffness to his legs, and that infernal couple beside us are making disapproving comments under their breath. (Are they homophobic? Snooty? Both?) (It’s probably both.) (Fucking always both.)

Simon sits down in the chair gingerly. I’ve never seen him do anything gingerly in my whole life.

“Cast a spell. Drop your fork. We’re going home,” he says, matter-of-factly. He has hardly touched his plate.

“I’m not Bunce, Snow. I pay for my food, and besides, I don’t want to go. I—”

“I want to go home, Baz.”

“Simon—”

“I need to go home, Baz.”

“This is just—”

And, then, he whisper-screams: “I’ve got a plug up my arse.

My hands go numb. “What the fuck did you just say, Snow?”

He crosses his legs under the table, and then uncrosses them. He makes this face like he’s stubbed his toe or shit his pants. “Baz, I have put a plug in my arse. It vibrates.”

The couple on the other side of the table are staring now. They keep talking out of the sides of their mouths, and that fucking horrible pianist is playing this god-awful jazz-club remix of a Dua Lipa hit. I’m starting to agree with Simon: we need to get out of here.

But, still— “Simon, why on earth did you plug yourself? Where did you get a plug? When did you get a plug?!” I’m barely trying to be quiet at this point. I’m already well aware that I’m going to have to spell our waiter and all the surrounding patrons into forgetting we were ever here. (I’m going to have to spell myself into forgetting I was ever here.)

Simon shifts and then seizes. His back goes rigid against the chair. His jaw locks. He tells me through his teeth, “Baz. I have a plug up my arse. It vibrates. I didn’t know that it vibrates. And now I don’t know how to make it stop vibrating.” And then, as if for emphasis—except not, because it rips out of him in such a way that even he looks startled—he moans.

It’s sinful. It goes straight to my cock. And somewhere in between being angry and annoyed and embarrassed—I’ve gotten unbearably turned on.

“Right,” I say and dab my lips, pushing the plate away. I subtly cast a memory blocker on everyone within three-table radius of us and reach for my coat behind me. “Well then, should we catch the tube?”

Simon nods as he stands back up, slowly, with care and a deep, visceral shudder. “Oh my fuuuuuck,” he says, too loudly, too strongly, too sexily. I’m going to have to cast another spell on myself to forget he made that noise in public if we’re ever going to survive this journey home.

I hold out my hand for him. He looks at it; his eyes are glassy.

“Let’s get you home then,” I say. I will not adjust my trousers. I will not give him the satisfaction.

He takes it, doesn’t say a word, but bites his lips and groans.

“Fuck, Snow, you have to stop that…”

 

Simon

Look, I like shopping for sex stuff online. I don’t know why. I don’t like to explain it. Even to myself.

Sometimes, having sex with Baz isn’t an option: I’m too overwhelmed for touching; he’s not drank enough blood that day; I’m too hungry; I’m having one of my bad days. But the thing is, I almost always want to think about having sex with Baz.

Like this time especially: Shit had gotten bad. I was eating too many scones and drinking too much cider and watching too many reruns of Dr. Who last week, and Baz was walking around the apartment without a shirt—looking for a shirt—fresh out of the shower. And I thought, I would love nothing more than to feel like having sex with my boyfriend right now.

But I didn’t—I couldn’t. So, I pulled out my laptop and opened my Amazon account where my search history had fucked up everything and made my entire suggestions list into a pornographic shopping network. Whips and ties and fucking harnesses! Fucking swings!

The plug looked doable in comparison.

So, I buy sex toys now. It’s become a bit of a problem. 

It seems so mild in the moment: I click on the icon to put it in my cart, I put in my address and my debit information, I click “purchase.” It shows up at our flat within one-to-two business days. I do it when I have my bursts of bad thoughts. When I want to touch Baz more than anything, but I just can’t. I do it so I can think to myself, Okay, this bad spot you’re having? It can pass. It will pass, because look at you—you’re already buying things for the future. You’re already buying things that you and Baz can play with together. By the time this gets to your doorstep, you’re going to be ready to be with him again. Like that. Intimately. When this gets to your doorstep, Baz will still be here, sleeping in your bed, buying you butter from the market, kissing you good morning….

It’s stupid. I’ve not even told Baz why I’ve been doing it. Buying things to make myself get hopeful:  32 ounces of lube. Handcuffs for my bedposts. Vibrating butt plugs….

Baz and I are standing silently beside each other in the tube. We booked it from the restaurant to the station in silence, and the train was already pulling up when we got there—thank magick—so now we’re here. The whirring of the train whipping across the tracks is loud enough that I think—I hope—Baz can’t use his vampire hearing to catch the faint buzz I’m feeling in the backseam of my trousers.

My throat is dry. I’m unbelievably pissed at myself.

Baz leans down to murmur, just loudly enough, into my ear: “Why the fuck do you have a plug in your arse, Snow?” He sounds like he’s trying to be pissed, but I know now—Baz is turned on.

I scuff my shoes. Doesn’t make me any less embarrassed—his horniness. I mumble, “I was bored.”

“You were bored.

“That place was awful.

“So you put a toy up yourself in a public restroom to—what—stave off the boredom? Spice things up?”

“That pork was kind of bland—”

“Snow—”

I grip the rail of the tube tighter. We’ve pulled into a station, and people scuffle in and out of the car behind me. I am forced to press in closer to Baz. I don’t mind. I’ve been sporting a hard-on since the restaurant bathroom. No amount of humiliation can make the strange buzz and pressure stop feeling so fucking good. I manage to angle my hips in a way that Baz can know that I’m hard but no one else can really tell that I’m half-grinding into him.

It is a crowded train after all.

“I bought it last week,” I say into his ear.

“And you didn’t want to tell me?” Baz has gone all angles and tense breaths. He must be feeling my cock in his hip. Someone bumps into me from behind, and it puts me and Baz basically chest-to-chest. I don’t make to move away. He doesn’t either.

“We’ve got one more stop,” he says. He’s looking at my knuckles on the metal of the pole.

“You were so quiet and posh and elegant,” I tell him. “I didn’t like it. You were too in your element. Had to mess you up a little bit.”

He laughs. It’s a bitter, shocked thing. “So I was too comfortable for you? So comfortable that you had to stage a scene in front of the whole restaurant. Simon, if you—”

“Hey,” I cut him off. I press in a little closer. I decide not to notice the man in the back corner of the train who seems to be picking up on what me and Baz have flagging between us. (To his credit, he looks amused, which is much better than the looks we get from some people who just see me wrap my arm around Baz.) “I just—Baz, I just wanted to get your attention.”

Another laugh: “Well, you fucking have it now, Snow.”

I can’t help but smile. I can feel it’s a wicked-looking one as it spreads across my face. “Yeah, Baz. I can tell.”

Baz throws his head back, shows off his neck, feigns exasperation. If I were him, I’d sink my fangs in the thick part right before his neck turns into his shoulders. I’d find a vein.

He says, to the roof of the tube car: “Fuck you, Simon.”

The doors open. It’s our stop. 

 

Baz

I want so badly to be mad at Snow for ruining my dinner. (I’m still hungry.) (I’m still thirsty.) But the way he climbs up the stairs of the train station—waddling and wincing and whinging—well, I just can’t be. I look down at him from the top of the stairs as he makes the summit. I tease: “You sure you put that in right, Snow? Don’t think it’s supposed to be that uncomfortable.”

He reaches me, out of breath. “How the fuck would you know?”

I’m silent. I give him a look. His eyes go wide.

“At Watford? Since we’ve been together?”

I start walking; he jogs to catch up and then thinks better of it. I decide to slow down for him. He doesn’t deserve my mercy, but I’m enjoying myself. I’m enjoying that his attempts to get control of the night have backfired so much so that we’re here, Simon aching and hard and desperate to get back to the apartment.

I kind of want to draw this out for a while.

“Snow, I’m certain that you wanked at Watford and since we’ve been together,” I say matter-of-factly.

“I mean, I wanked, I wank, but I didn’t… I didn’t think to do this.” He almost sounds disgusted.

Hypocrite.

I give him a signature sneer. “Yes, Snow. I’ve played with toys before. By myself. At Watford. At Fiona’s. At your apartment once.”

“At my apartment?!? And I didn’t know?”

I make a sharp righthand turn. “You were out. I was waiting for you—in more than one sense.”  Snow trips on a raised piece of concrete and curses. I can tell, even in the night, that he’s got a thick flush running down his neck.

He makes this garbled sound in the back of his throat. “Fuck, Baz. That’s kind of hot.”

I turn around on him. “I can’t tell if you’re appalled or turned on.”

He shrugs. (Shrugs!) “Can’t it be both?”

I don’t know what to say to that, so I whip back around and walk even faster. Simon makes a noise of complaint behind me, but I ignore him. We’re a block away from our apartment when I make a sharp left into the alley—my alley. Simon calls my name in protest, but I don’t stop.

“Need to drink, Snow.”

“But… but Baz—It hasn’t stopped. I think I even turned it up more when I tried to sit on the tube. Can’t we just go home first? Please?”

You can go home. I need to drink, especially since you took me away from my steak.”

“Just drink me at home, Baz. I’m full of blood.”

“Fuck you, Snow. We’re not doing this when you’re plugged up and horny.”

“So you’re saying that if I wasn’t—

“You know perfectly well the answer to that question.” I squat down to pick up a rat. This one’s smaller, and I spare a moment to feel a little guilty before I bash its head into the brick wall beside me.

Simon kicks at the wall. “I’m not going home without you.” I find another rat quickly. Another bash. Another crunch. Simon doesn’t even flinch anymore.

“Just want to get one more.”

Simon nods, his head hanging low. His curls are catching moonlight.

I’m bending over to check a sewage drain when I hear him say it: “I just—sometimes, lately, ever since we started—you know—having sex, I—I kind of go crazy, if—if you’re not, I don’t know, looking at me. If I can’t do—if you aren’t—fuck, I don’t know what I’m trying to say.”

I stand up. This is important. I can feel the shift in the air; I can hear the hum of the electric wires above our heads. I place the rats I’ve caught on top of a garbage bin, and I look at him squarely. “Take your time, Snow.” I try my damnedest to make it not sound patronizing. I mean it, I want him to take his time with this one.

“I just—at the restaurant, it was like we weren’t on the same page. I couldn’t read your thoughts. I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know how to order or taste test the bottle of wine, or anything. And—and when we’re alone, here, at home or—or in bed, it’s like—it’s like I can just ask. Like we’re speaking the same language. And, I don’t know, Baz, does that make any sense?” He shifts himself in his pants and makes this annoyed whine.

“Do you want to go home? Get that thing out of your arse and talk about it?”

“No—no, go ahead and finish hunting.”

I nod. I won’t push him on it. He’s leaned his body against the brick wall on the other side of the alley. He doesn’t look like he wants to go walking—even if just for a block—right now anyway. I find a rat, add it to my fucking weird collection, and slit their throats quickly and cleanly with my pocketknife. I turn my back away from him when I do it. Sometimes, I let him see. But everything feels really fragile right now—including me—and I just want to do this quickly and alone.

I’m squeezing the last drop out of my third rat, I’m reaching for the travel-sized Listerine sitting in my jacket pocket, when I hear him say: “The only other person I’ve ever trusted with—with my body was the Mage. Before you. Before you, that was it. Even Agatha. I mean, the last time—please tell me you get what I’m saying.”

I turn, slowly. I face him. “And now that you trust me?”

A thick, loud swallow. “Now that I trust you, I hate it when I don’t know.”

“Don’t know what I’m thinking?”

“Don’t know if you want me.”

“I always want you, Simon,” I breathe, quickly. How can he not know this?

He lets a single tear fall. When it hits his lips, he rolls his eyes. He’s annoyed with himself. It’s okay to cry sometimes, Snow. “I don’t know what I’m trying to say,” he tells me. “It’s like I’ve got all these sentences in my head, but the second half of all of them are cut off. I can’t connect them.”

I nod. I unscrew the cap of my mouthwash, tip it back into my mouth and swish around. I spit to the side. Simon watches me the whole time. “Okay,” I say, when I’m done. “Okay.”

“Okay?” he echoes.

I take a step towards him, and then another, and then another.  My feet crunch against remnants of glass bottles littered throughout the alley. I reach Simon’s hips and tug against his belt loops to bring him closer, only so that I leverage his body to slam us back into the wall behind him. I lay my elbows on either side of his head.

“You want to know I want you?” I ask him, breathy and low, right into his ear.

He whines and nods. “Yeah, Baz. It’s pathetic, I’m—”

“Shh, Snow.”

I reach down and start undoing his belt. (It’s new. I bought it for him last week. For this date.) (I never thought I’d be here, the metallic taste of blood still lingering in the back of my throat, my pocketknife lying unclean on a trashcan behind me.) I open the button. I unzip the fly. Simon is swallowing and making these high-pitched sounds in the back of his throat. I push my head into the space between his shoulder and neck; I breathe. I kiss him once.

“Baz, what’re you—someone could come. Someone could see.”

“I’ll spell them.”

He laughs wetly. He’s got another tear on his right cheek. I kiss it off. “By the end of the night, no one in London is going to think we ever even existed.”

“I’m okay with that.”

I can feel the buzzing of his toy faintly as I press my crotch into his. We both groan, and I walk my fingertips along the waistband of his pants. I give them a little tug and skim my middle finger down until it hits the flared base of the toy. It hums up my hand, up my wrist, up my forearm. I press it in a little more, and Simon throws his head back with a sharp intake of breath.

“Oh fuck, Baz, are we—are we really—”

“Do you really think I don’t know what it’s like to be desperate for you?” I speak into his Adam’s apple. I want him to vibrate head to toe. My voice, his toy. “Every thought, every fantasy, Snow—it was all you. Every time I got off, fucked myself, it was because I wanted you so much that there was nothing else for it, nothing else to do.”

Simon is panting hard and heavy. His eyes are half-lidded and he’s looking at the stars. I’m looking at his moles, the ones on the underside of his jaw. I press and press and press. I push the flare so that it sinks into the fat of his cheeks. I twist it once. Twice. I shimmy my other hand around to palm the front of his trousers, to feel the wet spot spreading against the fabric. He’s straining. His entire body convulses when I slide my palm up his clothed cock.

“I just want to be good for you, Baz.” Another tear.

“You are—you are so fucking good, ohfuck, Simon.” I’m starting to lose myself. I press my cock into his thigh and grind once. I’m on him, around him, nearly inside him. I’m swimming with him. I’m drowning in him….

 

Simon

Baz pulls back so abruptly my knees almost give out. He leaves the finger he’s got pressing my toy into me, but removes the one on my cock. His wand slips from the inside lining of his jacket, and he casts, quickly, breathlessly: “There’s nothing to see here.” And then, just as quickly, just as breathlessly, he tugs on my waistband, once and hard, and I’m pants-less in a London alley with a toy sticking out of my bum.

“Fucking hell, Baz, where is all this coming from?”

“Always there,” he says, sexily as he slowly drops to his knees, slowly curls all five fingers over my cock. “I always want to do this. Something like this. Pin you against a wall. Make you feel good.”

I choke on something—something that might be significant, but is still unnamed—as I take in his words. “Always?” I ask.

He nods solemnly, right before he sheaths his teeth and takes me in to his cool, wet mouth.  

My thighs shake, and I can’t keep my eyes open. I keep thinking—keep frightfully imagining—an unsuspecting passerby wandering into the alley, a window opening from one of the apartments looming above us. But Baz has cast a spell; we’re okay.

Doesn’t make it any less of a turn-on, us out here, the cool October air hitting my hip bones, Baz’s even cooler finger everywhere surrounding where the plug and my skin meet. I rock back into his fingers, into the toy. I rock forward into his mouth. I’m pinned, cornered. I’m completely overwhelmed.

And Baz—I’ve never seen him this unhinged. I can hear the wet sloppiness of his mouth as he takes me in with abandon. He hums on my cock; the toy sings in my arse.

And it’s too much, it’s so much. I’ve been so turned on for so long, I can’t fucking stand it. I tell him: “Baz, oh fuck, I’m gonna—I’m gonna—”

He takes me deep; my head hits the back of his throat. And then he pulls back just enough, to swallow me as I come. He pulls the toy out of me as my climax reaches its peak, and I scream into the night air. 

Baz sits back on his heels when he’s sucked me till I’m too sensitive. He licks his lips. He managed to keep his fangs in the whole time. I think about congratulating him later, except then he says, cockily, with a self-satisfied smirk: “Circe, Simon, I cast nothing to see here, not nothing to hear here. You’ll wake up all of Hackney Wick.”

I’m surprised I can even get the words out, my breath is so heavy: “Should have thought about that before you dropped to your knees.”

Baz stands up, less gracefully than normal. He’s got my toy between two of his fingers. He casts clean as a whistle on it and throws it into his jacket pocket, right next to his Listerine.

He is so beautiful: His hair looks almost blue in the moonlight. His eyeliner is bleeding a little bit into the undersides of his eyes; it makes him look dramatic. Even more than usual. He’s lips are as red as I’ve ever seen him. And his long, elegant fingers tremble as he begins to reach for my pants, pooled on top of my feet.

I stop him, one hand pressed against his shoulder. “Hey, c’mere.”

He stands up slowly, facing me. I grab his belt loops. I take a page out of his book. I freeze for a moment when I notice a woman start to walk past us. But she keeps her head down on her phone and her earbuds in. Baz’s spell works. I relax a little bit, but wait for her to leave the alley all the same.

I unbutton and unzip him. Baz’s trousers and pants descend into an pretty, expensive pool onto the alley concrete. I smile and rub my fingers under his jaw. We make eye contact. “We match.”

He laughs, softly, tenderly, and he nods. “Yeah, Simon, we match.” And he leans in for a kiss. It’s soft and sweet and nothing but lips.

I say against him, so he can feel the words and hear them: “I want you inside me.”

He pulls back to look at me, forearms pressing against my back and the wall. “Simon, you don’t need to do that. You’re so sensitive, and you just came. Why don’t we—”

“Hey, Baz.” He stops. “I. Want. You. Inside. Me.”

He looks worried. His forehead creases. “Simon, can you even come right now?”

I shake my head “no”. I really can’t. I’m still reeling from the first. I don’t care. “Baz, come on. You’ve told me. You’ve always wanted to fuck me against wall.”

“I wanted to make you come against the wall, too, Simon.”

I tug him closer. Come on, Baz. Read my mind. See how much I want this. “Don’t care if I can’t come right now.”

“Well, I do—”

“Baz,” I say, stepping slowly out of my pants. I kick them to the side with the toe of my loafers. Baz makes this look of disapproval, but I don’t care. I want him more than anything right now. I want this. He can spell them clean when we get home.

I pull him in again. I hitch one leg up so that my knee hooks on top of his hipbone. It’s sharp and protruding. It’s like a pointy shelf for my leg.

I tell him, “Let’s put that vampire strength to good use, hm?” He makes to protest. I interrupt: “I’m all open, Baz. I’m ready.”

I push my fingers into his mouth. I’m surprised when he doesn’t fight me on it. I slide in easily.

I pull out when my fingers are dripping, and I nod. That’s all I need to do. Baz looks fucking transfixed. I think I probably do too.

Slippery when wet,” he casts. His throat sounds chalky and rough. I love it.

I slip a hand around his shaft. I tug once and then twice. I coat him. I love the sounds it makes.

I say, “Fuck, I love that sound.”

Baz keens when I give a twist of my wrist. “Simon, we don’t need to do this. I don’t need this at all. I—Merlin, Simon—I don’t—”

“I want you to.”

“I’m not just going to use you to get off,” he spits.

My hand freezes. I pull back to meet his gaze. My wings ache where they’re pressed into the bricks, pressed into my jumper, my button-up, my coat, but I can’t care. This is important. This time, everything seems really important.

“Wanna be used. Wanna be used when it feels good.”

Baz’s eyes are swimming. I can see myself reflected in his shimmery grey. I look at this distorted, tiny version of my face, and I recognize it—my face—for the first time in a long time.  

The words finally make sense. I’ve got a finished sentence. “I wanna be used when it feels good. For once. For you. I like it when I get to use my body for you. I love it, I—”

Baz’s fingers wrap around mine, wrap around his cock. He takes his other hand and places it right below the base of my spine, where my tail ends and my arse begins. He hitches me up, even harder against the wall, and my two legs wrap around the muscles that line the sides of his stomach. I squeeze; I groan; I smile.

He slips into me. I sputter a “fuck.” He echoes me with one of his own.

A thrust. Even through all the layers of clothes, the bricks are scratching at the spaces between my wings. It feels good; it feels like a release. After the restaurant and the tube ride and all the build-up and confessions out here in the alley, having him inside me is such a relief.

“Wanna be what you want, what you need,” I tell him into his ear.

I’ve wrapped my arms over top of his shoulders, and I pull his face against mine so that we’re cheek-to-cheek. He’s pushing into me with an abandon I’ve never felt from him before. I can feel myself getting hard between us again. I know I won’t come. I know it’s too soon, but I’m feeling so good. I’m not waiting for a release. I’m not building to anything for myself. I’m with Baz; I am Baz’s. I can pay attention to all the little noises he makes without feeling insecure about my own. I can trace the places where his neck tendons strain and pop. I can press the meat of my thumb under his ear, and I think—for a moment—I catch a pulse.

I feel good, not for an endpoint. Not to get off. Not to finish. It’s just sweet slides. Sweet fullness. Sweet Baz, so cautious and gentle all the time, burying himself inside of me. Marking me from the inside out.

“Simon,” he whimpers. His breaths are short and pillowy; his teeth nip so gingerly against my jaw. His hips snap into me mercilessly. “Oh my words, Simon, I love you so much. You’re so good. So good. Fucking hell,” he groans.

The hair around my pubic bone is getting mussed and chafed. My thighs are burning from where I’m squeezing him like my life depends up on it. My lower back is getting scratched up on this one part of the brick wall behind me. My arse is sensitive. Baz is sloppy. I think I might cry.

It’s still too much. It’s still not enough. But I’m here. I’m feeling Baz. I’m feeling all the too-muchness and not-enough-ness. And it’s okay. Because I can feel him, I can feel how he’s feeling, how he wants me. I can answer his desires. He can answer mine.

He snaps into me once, twice. He opens his mouth against my ear and lets out a cry, and he’s coming—warm spurts against the cool. I collect his release inside me. He goes slack against my chest, pressing his bodyweight to pin me still against the wall.

He lets out this limp little laugh. It’s cute. Our chests are heaving in time. I gather his hair in my hands, and I bring my nose to the nape of his neck. I breathe.

 Once we’ve caught our breaths, Baz slides out of me, and we both let out these sad little whimpers. My feet land on the ground, and I gather my pants up and shake them out, pulling one leg in and then the other. Baz zips himself up, arranges his belt, pushes a stray hair away from his face.

He looks at me with his lips parted, like he was going to say something but lost the words.

We should probably talk about this, about the things I’ve said. But I don’t want to right now. Right now, my muscles ache in the best way. Right now, Baz looks mussed and lovely and warmed.

Right now, I just want to watch his eyes roll when I say, “I told you going hunting could be a date.”

He laughs and pulls me into his right side. We walk.

****

We get home. I make a bowl of cereal. I heat leftover pad thai. I sit in Baz’s lap while I eat them both at the same time, which he tells me is disgusting. We take a shower together, and he licks the side of my face. We crawl into bed, and he rubs moisturizer on the spaces between my wings; he massages the spots where my thighs are already sore. He kisses the base of my tail.

I look at him across the pillow, when we both lie down on her stomachs. Our heads are turned to the side to face each other.

“This will always be my favorite part,” I tell him. I whisper it like a secret. No one else is home.

He shifts so he can be even closer to me: “What is?”

“Falling asleep, knowing you’ll be across from me when I wake up.” I shuffle closer so our noses touch. “We get to do this tomorrow.”

“I’m not getting banned from another restaurant this week, Snow,” he mocks.

I give him a short laugh. “No, no, I just mean. Tomorrow, I’ll wake up, we’ll do this.” I press my finger into his chest; I press my finger into my own.

He nods. “Yeah, that’s my favorite part too, Simon. You’re always my favorite part.”

He falls asleep before he tells me he loves me. He hasn’t done that since he told me he loved me the first time. I count his breaths, and I don’t feel anxious about it. I don’t feel the lack of those words. He’ll wake up tomorrow. He’ll kiss my scalp, run his fingers through my curls, and he’ll tell me then. And the next day. And the next.

“Love you,” I whisper to him, and I fall into his breathing patterns. I fall asleep riding his airwaves. I fall asleep with one finger wrapped around his, bridging the space between us.