#i purposefully tried to make baz and simon hard to get | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

grimmpitchsnow-blog · 6 years ago

Text

Harsh Breathlessness and Stuttered Questions

Pairing: Simon Snow x Baz Pitch

Words: 8516

Warnings: explicit sexual content, explicit language

Summary: “Simon,” he began, pouring as much intention as he could muster into those two syllables, “have you ever thought about sex between us?” “Yeah, I’ve thought about it,” Simon breathed. His eyes were on any part of Baz that wasn’t his face. “And?” “Well, I’d like to,” Simon admitted. “But only if you want to.” Or, the one where Simon and Baz have sex for the first time.

A/N: I’m super excited to write for Snowbaz for the first time! If this peaks your interest and you also like HP, you can check out my HP fics at @madformoony

BAZ

Simon Snow was relentless. Relentless like a summer rainstorm two hours in, where the precipitation has been long-established and is now rumbling and rattling amongst everything dry air used to touch, claiming those surfaces. Owning them.

He owned Baz’s mouth like that. Kissing it as if it was a thing he was born to claim; devouring. Jutting his chin in the style which was distinctly his and pushing Baz further into his mattress, flexed palm on Baz’s still-clothed chest. But did it count as still-clothed if the top half of Baz’s shirt’s buttons had been undone, and those ungodly fingertips were sprawling out against his pale skin, teasing him?

Baz hadn’t ever realized that someone other than himself could set his body on fire.

With a twist of his stomach, Baz realized Snow was pulling away. His lips began pouting against Snow’s in sadness, in desperation, but were quickly flushed of those melancholy feelings when he felt Snow sigh down into his mouth before detaching it from his own. Baz’s throat pulsed with the sweet aftertaste of Snow’s exhale.

When his eyes opened—when the fuck did I close my eyes?—they were met with Snows’, bright, blazing, flirtatious. The shit-eating grin displayed close beneath it was a probable cause for such qualities.

Internally, Baz corrected his last thought: Why the fuck did I close my eyes?

Externally, he asked, “What, Snow?” It was supposed to be as dry and almost bored as all his usual jostles with Snow were, but came out breathy instead. He wanted to kick himself for it.

“‘S nothing,” Snow replied, smirk still etched across his lips (which were more of a purpley-blue than pale pink now, but just as distracting as ever). In defiance, Baz tried to sit up, escape from Snow’s grasp, but failed before he could even adjust his body a few inches to either side. Though Baz growled through his clenched jaw, Snow’s expression remained.

“Come on,” Baz groaned. “Just tell me.”

Snow leaned down again, naturally causing Baz to tilt his head up in anticipation for the kiss he was sure to receive (though annoyed, nothing was strong enough to combat his desire to kiss Snow). But then he stopped, midway to Baz’s lips, smirk on his ceaseless.

“You have to call me Simon,” he demanded.

When Snow closed the gap, his lips merely pressed against Baz’s forehead before the rest of his body pulled them up again.

It was unfair, truly, how such an innocent motion could leave Baz shaken beneath him.

“Fine,” Baz spat, the intentional venom of it lost in its breathlessness. “What, Simon?”

Simon was sitting on his heels, straddling Baz’s lap, running his fingers through Baz’s shirt lapels. It seemed as though he was taking his time with the motion, carefully considering the texture of the fabric both by sliding it against his skin and watching it slip through his fingertips. It was casual and out of place and obviously a vessel to test Baz’s patience.

Baz’s patience extended greatly in situations like this. He knew—and so did Simon—from experience.

When Simon finally began speaking, he chewed around the edges of each word released with similar meticulousness, taking so much time Baz almost found himself criticizing Simon’s ability to speak out of spite. “I was wondering if,” Simon began, gaze still locked on Baz’s collar. Though it annoyed Baz endlessly, this ambiguity, this waiting, the way Simon’s thought never was completed made him wonder if Simon had to look at his shirt. If looking at Baz directly was too much.

Simon’s next words clarified that idea’s certainty: “You know what? Nevermind.”

His gaze felt once more, a precursor as to what was to come. So, before Simon’s fingers could fully detach from the shirt, as Baz knew they would, Baz’s hand flew down, pushing Simon’s touch back into his chest in a firm and unexpected motion.

The tenderness in Baz’s words surprised them both. “You can tell me anything, Simon.” And he meant it, so said it as such, pressed his hand deeper down on Simon’s to prove it further.

Part of Baz expected the difficulty to be rooted in a place of sadness, that Simon was holding back saying something in fear that a stream of tears would follow (though, Baz couldn’t quite come up with why a thought so upsetting would come to mind with Simon’s tongue deep down his throat). The other part was out of ideas, clueless as to what made Simon’s typical arched brow and devilish grin mould into concerned softness.

So Baz was fully confused, taken aback, when his tawny skin, aglow from moonlight and nothing else, began transitioning into a shade of light pink.

Simon cleared his throat while staring down at Baz’s. “I was, uh, I was just wondering if you’d ever thought about… considered, at all, sex?”

Baz wondered if, with that hand still on his chest, Simon could feel how heavily his heart was pounding. Air seemed especially difficult to come by now—Simon was kissing him earlier, so panting was an obvious side effect, but this new kind breathlessness was overwhelming and excessive—yet Baz found a way to suck that shallowness down into itself.

This resulted in a firm and stable reply of, “Of course I’ve thought about sex, Simon. All people learn about human reproduction.”

Baz was proud of himself for acting unphased. But, despite whatever difficulty it required to seem complacent, it was easy if it meant turning Simon’s complexion from pink to a blazing red.

“That’s not what I mean,” Simon grumbled. His free hand ruffled through his hair, running through it with striking similarities to Baz’s fingertips: combing it all the way down and allowing the curls to bounce back up by themselves. “I meant do you ever think about sex,”—his brows furrowed, eyes squeezing shut— “between us? Like… you and I… having sex….”

“Crowley, Simon,” Baz breathed, letting the plan of regain his breath before saying some snarky response go. Letting himself go. “Of course I have, you moron. I fell in love with you the moment we met, meaning I loved you through puberty.”

Simon’s face scrunched up before it fell into a wide, lopsided smile. He looked down at Baz once again. “That’s gross,” he said, but was still grinning, looked as though he was about to spill out laughter alongside those words, as if he didn’t believe them.

“How many times must I tell you I’m disturbed before you believe it?” Baz asked, fighting down his own smile.

“I dunno. It’s just hard to believe considering how much you love belly-rubs.”

The smile threatening to break on Baz’s face froze before receiving entirely. “I do not love belly-rubs,” he protested with narrowed eyes.

“Sure,” Simon smirked, hand beginning to twitch under Baz’s, threatening to lower down.

In a flash, Baz’s fingers coiled around Simon’s hand, cementing it into place with added strength. “We’re getting off topic, Snow.”

“Simon.”

Baz sighed, drawing out the sound purposefully, letting his eyes roll languidly. “Simon,” he began, pouring as much intention as he could muster into those two syllables, “have you ever thought about sex between us?”

SIMON

Simon knew such a question should have been expected, but how was he to respond?

This wasn’t like the urge to kiss Baz, something that snuck up on him, festering under the surface of his skin like his magic used to, making him buzz, until it exploded into a necessity that had to be followed through all at once. The urgency was so sudden it terrified Simon; yet, it made too much sense for fear to ever truly develop.

But they had kissed so much since that night in the forest, so often Baz’s mouth was as familiar to Simon’s tongue as his hands were to Simon’s fingertips. There had been lips against lips, then against necks, chests, stomachs. Hands on all of those three places as well. And sure, there was the rugged tugging off of clothes after gaining permission under harsh breathlessness (Baz) and stuttered questions (Simon). Some embarrassingly fast crescendo once naked skin hot naked skin, rubbing, thrusting, aching against it. Because Simon would be damned if he were to say feeling Baz’s ashen yet creamy skin flush on his wasn’t enough to make him feel as if he had his magic once more.

So how, in the name of all things magickal, was Simon supposed to have not thought about going further? About Baz, after having eased himself around Simon’s fingertips—Simon had done some research, and apparently, that’s what blokes had to do—and opening himself up, pressing down and about Simon’s erection, his eyes closing and lips parting and throat making that breathy sound that turned Simon’s world sideways….

“Yeah, I’ve thought about it,” Simon breathed. His eyes were on any part of Baz that wasn’t his face.

“And?”

“Well, I’d like to,” Simon admitted. “But only if you want to.” And once the truth was spoken, sound of it fading out into the air, Simon took a similar pause to let his breath settle in his chest, his throat clear. Then, he looked up at Baz, eyes full of worry and asked, “Do you want to?”

For the first time, Baz looked unsure. In the following silence, Simon’s thoughts automatically assumed the worst in that uncertain stare: Baz’s reply was no, but he was trying to find a less harsh form of the phrase. So it came as a surprise to Simon when, after closing his eyes and exhaling unevenly, Baz responded, “Crowley, yes.”

Simon grinned fully, widely, brightly. So hard it hurt. But he quickly interrupted himself; another flash of doubt shot through his mind, one that made his lips curl downwards. “Baz?” he asked.

An eye opened. “Yeah?”

“Now, right?” Simon quickly shook his head at himself, the words not coming out right, so opened his mouth again to fix them before Baz could do any questioning of his own. “Is now okay?”

Baz opened his other eye, both of them considering Simon’s face, which he knew from the feel of it was hot with a blush. (At least the closed window curtains took away some of its obviousness, even if by a mere fraction.) But Baz didn’t comment on it, or anything; other than the flickering of his eyes and the heaving of his chest, Baz’s body stayed still, rendering a silence among Simon’s bedroom, one that was unusual in its starkness. With a firmly-set jaw and pursed lips, Baz seemed almost contemplative. As if he was trying to find the least heartbreaking yet still most efficient way to tell Simon that, just because he had thought about sex with Simon, didn’t mean he truly wanted it.

“Baz,” Simon said again, but with solemness instead of inquisitiveness, his heart pounding, “It’s okay if you don’t want—”

“I do,” Baz interrupted. His eyes were suddenly locked on Simon’s, as if trying to reiterate his words through his gaze and his gaze alone. If it weren’t so intense, Simon’s heartbeat may had been able to settle, the reaffirmation of Baz’s yearning making him have nothing else to be nervous about. “I’m just not quite sure how to proceed.”

“I do—” Simon began, before cutting himself off once more. “I can help.”

Baz’s eyebrows rose, arching almost impossibly high on his forehead, and Simon knew what he was going to ask before he did, so spoke before he could. “Just research,” Simon added, hasilty.

“Good,” Baz huffed. He turned his head to the side before adding, but much more quietly this time, as if he was trying to whisper but had forgotten how to, “I don’t love the idea of you with other people.”

Even though it was Baz who had made the—in Simon’s opinion, at least—rather romantic statement, it was Simon that was blushing in the aftermath of it. “I’d never… I don’t want to do this with anyone else, either,” Simon admitted. He had hoped it would turn Baz’s head and it did; Baz’s face met Simon’s with brows furrowed.

“Agatha?” he asked simply.

Simon didn’t need more clarification to what Baz meant, however, and thus began shaking his head rapidly. But he interrupted himself again, face scrunched in pain.

“Kind of,” Simon breathed, eyes still shut, but no longer in a pulsed squeeze. The hand still pressed against Baz’s chest could feel the heart which pounded beneath it. “It didn’t really work, though. It was pretty awkward. Really awkward. And traumatizing.”

In fear, Simon lifted one eye open, revealing an interested Baz, pushing himself up on his elbows and digging them into the mattress. “What do you mean?”

“The kissing was fine, but when we got to the parts leading up to sex, it felt forced. Not like we were forcing each other to anything, but it just…. it was like we were waiting for one another to enjoy it, but neither of us did.” Simon suddenly found himself at a lack of air, so paused, panting, before continuing, “So I’ve never really done this before.”

“With a boy,” Baz corrected, quickly. He looked like he was torn between being contemplative and being upset; his head tilted yet again, focus drifting off of Simon in small motions.

“Not with a boy. And… ”

Suddenly, Baz’s eyes were wide and back on Simon. “And?” He asked it as though he didn’t believe it, that there was more Simon had to say.

There was: “Not when I really wanted it.”

With the hand still pressed against Baz’s bare chest, Simon swore he could feel Baz's heart flutter; the plummeting, staccato exhale of his chest gave away what movements were going on underneath it. Simon allowed himself to smile in reaction, but held it back slightly, just so it didn’t seem prideful or boastful. Because, if Baz’s body was shuttering beneath him in just the discussion—fuck, just imagine what will happen when things actually get started—he was probably overwhelmed.

Simon’s fingers faltered under Baz’s hand in a similar sensation. Against the paleness of his skin, both highlighted and matched by the slivers of moonlight that could reach it. (Part of Simon hated the fact the curtains were drawn, restricting him from being aided by the moonlight further. But most of him was thankful, because he wasn’t sure if he could handle having perfect visibility of a panting, naked Baz beneath him.)

That was, if he agreed. Silence had come and come so suddenly, Simon was at shock, and lacked any affirmation he had reason to feel otherwise.

Baz’s words were quite shaky for how stern they were. “So are you gonna kiss me or what, Snow?” he challenged, eyes sparkling, burning. But it wasn’t a challenge, couldn’t be, really, when Baz was smiling up at Simon like he was the most beautiful thing Baz had ever seen.

The whole of Simon’s mouth turned upwards, matching Baz’s. “Simon. You have to call me Simon.”

He leaned his mouth into Baz’s, holding him by both sides of his face, the only confirmation that Baz complied being the feeling of his name being called down his own throat in breathless urgency.

BAZ

It had always been cemented in Baz’s mind that a kiss was a kiss was a kiss was a kiss. It was simple, the methodology (one mouth to mouth, at least): two people press their lips against one another. Tongues may or may not slip between teeth and teeth may or may not bite down on lips, lips that may or may not be swollen and plump and plum-purple from the suction. But everytime it was the same so, Baz concluded, should feel the same. Should do the same things to both parties involved.

The kiss Simon gave him proved otherwise.

The kiss Simon gave him tender yet strong, forceful not through violence but through the fact the intention of it was explicit, that it was so warm in its affection it had the ability to completely melt Baz from underneath Simon. Did completely melt him; Baz’s body was exhaling down into the mattress even further, not submitting but unfolding, while parts—hands, really, and fingertips—ran down whatever skin of Simon’s they could find with closed eyes. Even though it was deep in the way Simon’s tongue was down Baz’s throat, so was it in the way where Baz could feel Simon’s heartbeat through the suction of his lips, his love through the movement of them. Slow in deliberation but not in caution. Still relentless. But not because they were trying to be.

The kiss Simon gave him caused Baz to moan Simon’s name down his throat for the second time that night.

“Shit,” Simon sighed, pulling back from Baz in a hastiness that just barely allowed for his reaction to hit the air between them. “Fuck, Baz, I—”

Before Baz could ask him what it was, in a voice that he knew would come out low and rasped, Simon attatched his lips to Baz’s neck, causing whatever words that were forming at the base of Baz’s throat to be sucked into a hazy exhale. He let himself indulge in the sensation, head tilting back and mouth hanging open. His hands shoved through Simon’s hair. The bronze of it glistened in the moonlight.

At first, it wasn’t an action rooted in anything other than the overwhelming desire to touch Simon back, not only in reciprocation but because he was right there, kissing Baz’s chest, undoing shirt buttons—how could Baz not need to hold Simon, too? But then, Simon began kissing down that bare skin, turning everything hot with his mouth, and Baz needed something to cement himself to. So he gripped down. Tugged at the roots. In response, Simon groaned into Baz’s skin.

“Simon.” It came out all breathless and needy, ridiculously urgent and prayer-like, but Baz didn’t care. Not when he had tilted his chin, allowing his eyes to follow Simon’s mouth as it traversed down his chest, kissing down it, licking down it, biting down it, revealing that Simon could look painfully angelic while doing something erotically sinful.

But he was still Simon, through and through. He showed it through the way he emerged back up Baz’s body in an unexpected instance, just to place his lips against Baz’s so softly it barely constituted as a kiss, and begin slipping Baz’s already-unbuttoned shirt off of his torso.

“This okay?” Simon asked, fully breathless.

“Crowley, yes,” Baz responded, turning Simon’s look of concern into one of bright happiness. “Except—” He didn’t let himself finish the thought verbally; rather, after Simon had discarded of his button-down, throwing it into some random corner, Baz let his hands fall to the bottom of Simon’s t-shirt, sliding his hands beneath the worn fabric.

With Simon’s assistance, Baz successfully pulled the shirt off of his body and onto the bed in a misshapen heap. The scene his focus returned to wasn’t anything he hadn’t seen before: lightly defined muscles, tawny complexion, dotting of moles creating constellations. Wasn’t anything he hadn’t been secretly—but now, as Simon watched from above, not so secretly—staring at since meeting Simon. Yet it rendered him breathless every time.

Carefully, Baz took his thumb and circled around the mole on Simon’s neck (his favorite, about two inches from Simon’s jawline). Then, he sat himself up to kiss it.

The motion was supposed to be sweet and tender, was supposed to rival the one Simon gave him right after he agreed to all of this. But, the jostling of his body upwards resulted in his crotch moving against Simon’s, creating a friction so unadulteratedly good it had Baz moaning up against Simon’s throat. He even had to pull back for air.

It was a shame, though; Simon had arched his back completely in reaction to the friction, exposing his neck completely, just begging to be kissed. But Baz couldn’t. Not when air was suddenly gone, sucked into a vacuum he didn’t have access to. Not when Simon was looking like that and making sounds like those.

“Baz,” he kept moaning, elongating it, as if it was more than just one syllable. Baz never had someone say his name like that before, with care, intention. It sent shivers down his spine.

And, for a while, it was just that: Simon moaning, Baz whimpering beneath him, their hard yet clothed cocks rubbing against one another shamelessly. There was a rhythm, over time, and Baz found that his hands were just as hungry for Simon’s skin as his eyes were; they were constantly moving, rubbing against Simon’s bare back and chest, as if they couldn’t get enough (they couldn’t). A few kisses surfaced, interspersed as randomly as the moles on Simon’s skin, as both were too breathless to snog in full.

But then Simon broke the pattern. His hands, previously woven through Baz’s hair, landed on his chest, pressing them apart from one another. In the new space that separated them, Simon’s head sagged down. But the hiddenness of his mouth didn’t stop from Baz being able to hear the ragged breath it emitted.

“Sorry,” Simon panted, a whole minute later. “I panicked.”

He was shaking his head at himself, causing Baz to frown in a mixture of empathy and self-doubt. “Why?” he asked, feeling his brows draw in.

“I didn’t want to come yet.”

“Fuck,” Baz breathed, entranced by Simon’s words and the pinkness of his cheeks once he finally looked up at Baz, shyness entirely contradicting the dirtiness of the words just spoken. His hair was an absolute wreck, lopsided and unruly, his lips a deep purple-blue and his eyes more drowsy than usual, half-lidded and heavy, as if he was just on the cusp of falling asleep.

But that wasn’t what he was on the cusp of at all.

So this is what Simon Snow looks like when he’s about to orgasm. Baz found himself wanting to tattoo the image inside of his skull, the soft glow off of Simon’s skin, the way his mouth was parting just so….

“Sorry,” Simon apologized again, pulling Baz out of his thoughts.

So Baz pulled Simon back on him. He laid himself down, but not fully; the position was just enough to allow Baz to place fervent kisses all over Simon. On his chest. His mouth. The top corner of his lip. “What are you sorry for?” Baz asked. His jawline. “That was…Crowley, Simon,”—his neck—“The hottest thing I’ve ever heard,” Baz continued, because Simon’s eyes had been closed for a while, so couldn’t see the way Baz was losing himself in the words.

While shuddering atop him, Simon made some breathy noise that sounded like Baz’s name. At first, it was fluttery, almost challenging the quality of Baz’s heartbeat. But, soon, it became more urgent, like the verbal version of Simon’s hands shoving Baz away.

Baz pushed himself off of Simon this time, the edge of concern still prevalent, even though he shouldn’t have been worried, because Simon was just close last time. That was it; and a good, thing, too.

Yet his throat had to let a gulp run through it, deep and prominent, before asking, “Yeah?” in clarification of his voice being said like some sort of alarm. As if to warn for something terrible. (Baz was still sure of this, trembling, despite himself.)

“I don’t know how to do this anymore,” Simon said, with eerie calmness, the kind that didn’t allow for any of the troublesomeness nonexistent in his voice to occur in the first place. His breath was still shallow, though. “I thought… I thought since I’ve looked into it, I should, uh, be the one to—shit, there’s really no good way to say this—to do the fucking, I guess,” Simon admitted, making Baz’s jaw drop so far, it couldn’t go further without being removed from his body entirely. But his cock did all but drop. “And I thought that because I’ve done the research, so I could help, um, prepare you for it. But I’m not sure if that’s a good idea anymore.”

Another gulp was necessary, even longer than the first. But Baz’s throat was still left dry. So, it wasn’t a surprise when his voice came out so hoarse, it was almost cracking. And, though Simon’s made him forget how to breathe, the hoarseness may have had to do something with the translucent, terrifying truth of Baz’s words, as well: “But what if I want that, too, Simon?”

Simon exhaled like he had taken a punch to the gut; Baz didn’t know if he should have been terrified by the response or proud of himself for being able to get Simon to react like that. He opted for the former, tightening his lips into a straight line across his face.

It faded quickly, though, as Baz watched Simon’s grow into a smile so true, it radiated light. Simon chuckled too, and blushed, while carrying his hand to the back of his neck and rubbing the skin there nervously. As if this wasn’t his idea altogether.

“You really want me to?” he asked, shocked, smiling, full of shyness yet sin.

Baz rolled his eyes and groaned, hoping it would hide from the stupidly and impossibly fast rate his heart beat at. “Yes, you moron.”

Yet Simon’s brows furrowed once more. “I was already so close, though. I don’t want… you need to enjoy this, too, Baz. It’s not fair if it ends early because of me.” His voice was quieter than before, almost as if he was whispering, and his eyes dropped to the gap between them. Maybe I’m not the only nervous one here, Baz thought to himself.

So, in what almost seemed like out-of-place affection—but was affection ever really out of place when talking about sex?—Baz moved his fingers to touch Simon’s upper arm. “Love, I don’t care if you only last for a second,” he confessed. “I want you.”

And Simon looked up with those blue eyes that were nothing special yet everything important to Baz, his entire universe since he was too young to know what love was, but felt it for Simon regardless. They were sparkling like water in the dim moonlight.

Simon was laughing as he leaned in and kissed Baz; he could feel the pure joy vibrating in the back of his throat, echoing. Reverberating. Drowning him in the most beautiful way possible.

SIMON

Even when Simon kissed them numb—he did, often, because they were addicting—Baz’s lips were always sharp, like spearmint or crisp morning air. The taste of them, feel of them, sight of them, jolted Simon, woke him up, gave him life. Life Baz didn’t have to give, but he gave anyways. And without even realizing it.

So his mouth felt cold but his body felt hot to the touch, to Baz’s touch, and it was continuously overwhelming, the fact he got to dip his tongue down Baz’s throat, smear hands against his skin, kiss his neck, fuck him. The fact Baz wanted him to do all of that…

Simon was moaning before he could help himself. His hands shot down to Baz’s belt buckle, all teasingness and poise lost in the sight of arousal and time. The fact that he was so close to coming before, so, by the sliver of logic left—with Baz making those dangerously delicious whimpering noises beneath him, Simon could form even less coherent thoughts than usual—Simon shouldn’t risk more of the rolling of jean-clad hips. Even though nothing had come close to feeling that good before.

With the greatest amount of reluctance yet, Simon pulled away from Baz. But it barely counted: all that Simon did was free their mouths; their bodies still clung together, Baz’s hands in Simon’s hair, Simon’s on Baz’s stomach, their foreheads touching. When Simon asked, “Can I?” it was basically breathed down Baz’s throat.

He shook at the question, nodding his head, making Simon have to take a deep breath himself. Unfortunately, the affirmation meant he truly had to part from Baz. With hands quivering, eyes trying to focus on the silver belt buckle and not the tense tent beneath it, Simon’s mouth had to be gone from Baz’s. Maybe, if this went well—Simon knew it would for him, but was praying it would for Baz–and there were more times to come, Simon would be able to take of Baz’s belt and pants without pausing to do so.

But Simon’s fingers were doing something between a buzz and a tremble in anticipation; there was no way he could manage to take off the rest of Baz’s clothes without looking (but no way he could handle doing it while looking, at the same time). His chest was heaving and he should have been embarrassed, would have been, too, if it hadn’t taken him a full minute to get Baz’s belt buckle undone. And then another thirty seconds for the button and zipper.

He cleared his throat before digging his fingers under the black fabric, the scratch of half-denim, half-cotton harsh against his knuckles in comparison to the softness of Baz’s thighs against his palms.

Baz’s thighs. Strong, yet not defined. Long and shapely. Holy shit, I’m touching Baz’s thighs.

If Simon was to be completely honest, he knew Baz should have taken off his own pants. It would have been faster and extremely less embarrassing for Simon. But, he had decided to be selfish. Indulge in so many fantasies he was to shy about voicing, including feeling Baz’s skin against his in all the places always so hidden. So close, yet out of reach.

When the band of his briefs had dipped below the outline of his cock, revealing it, Simon forgot how to breath. “Shit, Baz,” he swore, never taking his eyes off of it, even though he was slipping Baz’s pants off all the while. But how could he: it was thick and long and wet and pink at the top and so incredibly hard.

Once Baz’s pants were off and thrown onto the floor, Simon went straight for it, but stopped. For a few moments—which, if Baz’s breathing was any indication, were far too long for his liking—Simon simply considered it, before deciding, after thoughtful deliberation, to lick it from base to tip.

Baz undulated completely underneath him.

“Simon,” he breathed, despite being breathless. From around him, Simon could both hear and feel the scraping up of his bedsheets under Baz’s fingertips.

Looking past the tip of his dick, Simon made eye contact with Baz, whose eyes were almost fully lidded and appeared to be forced open with incredible self-restraint. “I’ve never done this before,” Simon admitted, even though Baz knew.

“Well then you’re just naturally good at it, I guess,” Baz quipped back. It was surprisingly snarky for someone who was just moaning Simon’s name in earnest.

But Simon didn’t take it reassuringly, rather, finding the need to ask, “I can keep going, then?”

“Crowley, yes.”

BAZ

Though Baz was, confirmed by himself in all definitions of the word, disturbed, he knew his “sexual urgencies” could be worse. That there were dirtier things in the world, kinks that should send people straight to whatever version of Hell they believed in, pornographic images that were so downright filthy, no other word could describe them accurately.

Watching Simon Snow suck his cock definitely constituted as such.

Pink and purple and blue lips wrapped tightly, tongue licking thoughtfully, hands tugging at whatever the former two couldn’t reach. Everything was so hot and tight and wet and sinful. Except for Simon, Simon looking up, watching Baz watching him, with the most innocent look of hoping to please that made Baz’s mind conjure feelings in stark opposition.

He couldn’t stop moaning Simon’s name. Did it like it was the only thing he knew how to do. (Simon sucked his cock in a similar fashion, so it was only fair he reciprocate in some way.)

But suddenly, he couldn’t moan any longer; the air required to do so had been sucked out of his body entirely as soon as he felt the pad of Simon’s finger press against the rim off his asshole. He knew, in relative terms, what sex between blokes entailed, but had never tried the parts of it he had inherently agreed to tonight.

He wasn’t regretful as much as surprised. But what only intensified the shock was Simon removing his finger from Baz’s ass and his mouth from Baz’s cock not even a minute later, without warning.

“Shit,” Simon swore, again, but this one was quieter. Baz knew it was Simon reprimanding himself as he climbed out of his position between Baz’s legs, sitting up and outstretching his body just enough to open the drawer to his bedside table. After the sounds of shuffling rang through the air (alongside Baz’s heaving breaths), Simon returned with a bottle in his hands and a blush on his skin.

“Sorry,” he said, shaking his head at himself. “I forgot. ‘M so stupid.”

Pathetically, but unable to help himself, Baz reached out into the air, fingers landing around Simon’s wrist. They caught his attention quickly.

“You’re not stupid, Simon,” Baz said.

“You literally called me ‘moron’ ten minutes ago.” Had it been ten minutes? It’s felt like less...but also more at the same time.

Baz shook his head to quiet his off-topic thoughts. “Listen,” he began, “I’m allowed to call you a moron and an idiot because I love you uncontrollably. You know I don’t really mean them, right?”

“Yes,” Simon responded, voice was as dry with annoyment as Baz’s throat had been with arousal.

Baz didn’t try to hide his small smile of victory. “Good.”

But it was quickly matched by a grin of Simon’s, somehow even cockier. “You know,” he said, smirking, “for being a bloodsucking vampire and all, you’re pretty sweet.”

“I’m not sweet,” Baz demanded. He would have crossed his arms against his chest if it weren’t for the fact Simon could start doing anything at any moment, his grinning face not even an inch away from the swollen vein of Baz’s cock.

“If you’re allowed to call me an idiot, I’m allowed to call you sweet.” Then, in a whiplash of intention, Simon’s smirk left, replaced by drawn-together eyebrows and the slightest of frowns. “This might hurt, but I’ll try to distract you. Do your best to relax, but tell me if it’s too much.”

Baz didn’t know why he was staring at the ceiling—especially when Simon was looking especially disheveled, hair sideways, face flushed—but found the back of his head nodding into Simon’s pillow. He heard a shallow exhale part from Simon’s lips and felt the fade of it against his cock, almost holding back the small moan it caused, until Simon wrapped his lips around it once more and Baz lost himself entirely.

He was learning not to be embarrassed by it; for, by the way Simon practically hummed around his cock after hearing Baz’s loud groans, Baz reasoned Simon may have been enjoying the act of making Baz fall apart. Baz was definitely savoring every minute of falling, the momentary weightlessness brought upon him when Simon would lick his cock just so or take him down surprisingly deep and Baz had no other choice than to live through the electric tremors of pleasure.

It was probably a good thing, then, when Simon pulled away, replaced the tight, wet warmth of his mouth with the soft, calloused comfort of his fingertips; Baz would have came otherwise. With a note of curiosity, Baz peered up, loosening his grip on the bedsheets, distracted by the fact Simon was using his left hand to jack him off as opposed to his right (and angry that it still felt better than when Baz touched himself, regardless of the fact it was Simon’s nondominant hand).

But then Baz felt a slicked finger, slightly cold, press against his rim, and everything fell into place.

Out of the pure oddness of it—of course he had thought about being fucked by Simon ever since he learned what sex was, but being in the actuality of it felt unreal—Baz focused on the hand around his cock, which tugged and twisted with expertise. Focused on relaxing, like Simon had said, on opening up and breathing through every tentative circling of Simon’s fingertip.

“I’m gonna,” Simon began, cutting himself off by inserting a finger inside of Baz, slowly, thoroughly, giving him time to adjust. If Baz had the capability of speaking, he may have even thanked Simon for the overly-apparent thoughtfulness in his choices. Instead, Baz just whimpered.

Baz should have known when Simon’s finger was fully inside by himself—he had held them relentlessly, had time to memorize the length and shape of them—but rather discovered the moment in the moment after, when Simon began circling his finger around. He winced out of premature pain (this has to hurt, doesn’t it?), his face scrunched up in displeasure easily turned into contortions of satisfaction when he realized how good this felt. Especially when Simon’s finger twisted just so, hitting something deep inside of Baz that made his toes curl and knuckles turn a ghastly white.

“Simon.” It was a moan, a pant, a breath, a prayer. Simon responded by repeating the motion. This time, Baz, agonizingly despite himself, lifted his hips off of the bed, almost onto Simon’s finger. Simon’s finger that was filling him, teasing him, making him want more.

So he asked: “Simon, I need… another, please. Another.”

If he had the capability of moving his body on his own accord, Baz might have looked up to, by what Simon’s voice implied, would have been cheeks and neck filled with a blush. “Really?” he asked, sounding almost as breathless as Baz.

“Please.”

Baz had poured all of the intention he could into the word, not caring he sounded positively desperate because he was. How could he not when Simon was opening him up so well, touching so many places that were new points of explosion, listening to those pleas and slipping another cool finger inside?

The noise emitted from deep within Baz’s throat didn’t even have a name. It was rugged and full of gasps, sounding like it was attempting to patch the noises into Simon’s name. It made Simon swear from above Baz’s shaking body: “Fuck, Baz. You’re so… fuck.”

With all of the strength his quivering muscles could muster, Baz raised his head, tucking his chin into his pounding chest. It was worth the bodily strain; Simon was panting from above him as though he was the one being thoroughly fingered, lips sagging with his open mouth, eyes soaking in every detail of Baz. A choked moan escaped from Baz’s throat at the sight of him and he ground himself down on Simon’s finger in a newfound natural instinct.

Soon, he was fucking Simon��s fingers in earnest, and, even more spectacularly, Simon was letting him. Sometime in the process, Simon had let go of Baz’s leaking cock; Baz only realized this when he felt Simon’s hand trailing up and down his chest. Everywhere those palms touched, Baz’s skin sang. With the combination of fingers inside him and atop his skin, brushing so lightly it almost seemed accidental—but wasn’t, Baz knew—Baz could feel himself accelerating towards the edge. His entire body kept undulating under Simon and there was nothing he could do about it, about the fire through his veins yet also atop his skin, engulfing him in pleasure.

In some decision of sheer rudeness, Simon’s fingers stroked near Baz’ nipple, deciding quickly after to tug on it. Alongside an arch of his back and moan, Baz found himself reaching for that wrist that bent atop his chest, tugging it, motioning for Simon to stop.

He did; it was like a switch being flicked off. With a look equally as lustful as it was concerned, Simon opened his mouth to make sure Baz was alright, but Baz shook his head at Simon. It took Baz a few breaths to settle down, but once he did, he clarified immediately.

“I need you, Simon,” he said, simply, staring at Simon the entire time. Watching his face flush even further. If he wasn’t struggling to breathe, Baz might have felt cocky, but when Simon looked so thoroughly fucked without anything truly having being done, Baz couldn’t help but shudder.

Simon was nodding in response, crazily, his curls bouncing in every direction. “Yes. God, Baz, yes… just let me….” He reached over to the bedside table again, interuppting himself for the upteenth time, damp fingers glistening in the moonlight and not being dried of Baz’s wetness, even when he grabbed a box of condoms. Even when he began taking off his pants, making Baz realize that he hadn’t seen Simon’s cock in earnest yet. (His breath hitched when he did: Crowley, Simon is huge.) Even when he slipped the condom on, giving himself a few well-deserved strokes after.

He could have just done that, Baz thought to himself. Watching Simon masturbate is enough to get me to come.

He hovered over Baz again, the warmth of his skin returning, radiating in the air. His hands were placed next to Baz’s torso, allowing Baz a dangerously alluring view of his arm muscles being fully engaged, one that caused Baz’s cock to stiffen more, impossibly.

A hand left the mattress as quickly as it was placed there; Simon was grabbing his cock loosely, aligning it to Baz’s entrance. “You ready?” he panted. And God, how could he not be ready when Simon’s question was asked like that, full of gravelly undertones and a throatiness Baz had never heard before? When he was looking so overwhelmed yet so confident at the same time, ready cock in his hand contradicting his flustered face? When he wanted it? Wanted it as much as Baz did?

“Yeah,” Baz responded, about to internally scold himself for making it the understatement of a century, but unable to do anything except groan as Simon slipped inside of him.

SIMON

Compared to defeating the Humdrum, Simon should have gotten far more credit for what he was doing now: sliding into Baz slowly. So slowly, he had to bite his bottom lip and take cavernous, conscious breaths in order to slow himself down. Because Baz was so hot and tight around Simon’s cock, taking every forthcoming inch with more perfection than the last, sounding small gasps out of parted lips all the while, breathing through his entire body like air was a wave running through him, and it was the single most arousing thing Simon had ever experienced.

Simon’s hands were pressing against Baz’s inner-thighs, helping guide his legs apart as Simon sank deeper and deeper and, by some extraordinary feat of self-control, all the way inside of Baz with a languid pace all the while. He rested there a while, not only to give Baz’s breathing time to even, but allow his a minute to return. The world fell silent for a moment.

Then: “Simon, move,” Baz panted, followed by a whine of “please.” It was all high-pitched and desperate and made Simon’s body shudder. He had to take another deep exhale before pulling out slightly, just to go back in, feel it all again.

“Oh fuck, Baz,” Simon moaned, throwing his head back, pressing his fingertips even further into the soft flesh of Baz’s inner-thighs, but trying to put most of the tension he felt into squeezing his eyelids together as to not leave marks (even though the thought of it was painfully arousing). “Holy shit, just… fuck. Fuck.”

If Baz thought Simon was a mumbling mess before, the half-sentences he was forming while thrusting into Baz was proof he hadn’t hit his stride before this. But, Simon didn’t spend a moment worrying, too preoccupied with the feeling of Baz all around him, on his cock, fingers clawing at his chest and, after leaning down to prompt a kiss, moans down his throat.

He was trying to make it romantic, so let go of Baz’s inner thighs and draped over his chest to kiss him. Simon figured this would not only bring softness through the kiss, but the fact he wouldn’t be swearing every other breath once his mouth was otherwise preoccupied.

And in actuality, it was good. Great, even, if Simon counted the way it allowed for Baz’s fingers to tug at his hair and their bare torsos to rub against each others. But, after only a few moments, it became too much; Simon couldn’t breathe to begin with, so now, with his tongue down Baz’s throat, everything became impossible. He kept having to pull back, almost in the same way his cock had to leave Baz in order to enter him again, but for a much different reason.

In partial defeat, Simon decided to cease kissing Baz, rather laying his head in the crook of Baz’s neck and breathing into it so they could stay close. The unexpected beauty of it was the way their hips brushed together from the proximity, the way his hot exhales made Baz moan even more, the way it trapped Baz’s cock between their bodies and gave it some much needed friction, the way it allowed Simon’s cock to thrust deeper inside of Baz.

But Simon could still swear, and was, in earnest. An incessant string of “fuck” fell from his gaping mouth and landed on the skin right below Baz’s ear. From beside him—or was it below?—Baz was purely moaning but in the most sinful way. In a way that spurred on the aforementioned string of “fuck.” In a way that had Simon pounding into him faster, deeper, stronger. So much so that Simon found himself hitting something that made Baz positively melt beneath him, as if he was made of the honey he put in his tea.

“Simon,” Baz exhaled in staccato, letting it tumble out of his throat. His hands were all over Simon’s back, nails scraping across his spine but also trying to push their already joined bodies impossibly closer together. “Do that again. It’s so good.”

“Fuck, okay,” Simon responded, repeating the motion, loving the throaty moan it elicited out of Baz, so repeating it. Peering upwards, Simon noticed that Baz had thrown his head back, so craned his neck to press a kiss against his exposed Adam’s apple. A rapturous shiver tore through Baz’s body in reaction.

With lips still pressed there, Simon could feel Baz’s throat moving as he moaned out Simon’s name once more. It started becoming his version of Simon’s stream of “fuck,” ceaseless, repetitive, endless. Simon loved it; he couldn’t get enough.

But, after a few moments, the string broke as Baz continued on. “Simon… I’m close, love.” As if trying to accentuate his point, Baz arched his back, pressing his body further into Simon’s.

Simon shuddered. Every inch of him. Suddenly, his cock seemed insanely full and on the verge of bursting, as if Baz’s words were all it took.

“Me, too,” he responded. Then, more to himself, “wait,” as the few thoughts he was able to conjure made him realize he needed to be looking at Baz in full. Instantly, Simon shifted so he could see all of his face but still allow their stomachs to touch as much as possible.

It was worth it: Baz’s neck was still exposed, but now Simon could appreciate the length of it, way it arched relentlessly. Simon’s decision also let him watch how Baz’s lips, the pink of them fading, were parted just enough for his moans to escape; how his eyelids fluttered in bliss, squeezing some moments more than others; how his hair was unruly for the first time in his life.

Baz had never looked so beautiful.

Or sounded so sinful; he was moaning Simon’s name progressively louder, the intensity of it only matched by the clawing of his nails against Simon’s back. By the sound of it, Baz was teetering on the edge, so Simon decided to slither his hand between their bodies and stroke Baz’s cock.

“Fuck!” Baz screamed, entire body caving into the mattress. “Simon… Simon, I’m coming.”

The feeling of Baz’s come against his hand and stomach, the echo of Baz’s words clear in his mind, the tight squeezing of Baz’s hole around Simon, the fact Simon had done this to him, suddenly all of it became too much. Losing his rhythm and gaining all of the intensity in the world, Simon thrusted into Baz, body shaking more and more with every remaining push in and pull out until he couldn’t anymore, yell of “fuck” getting progressively louder until all words escaped him.

When Simon came, cock swiftly pulled out of Baz and nudged against his own, still-spurting dick, his entire body ruptured, as if every individual bone in his body was experiencing an earthquake. The pleasure tore through him, ripped him in every possible direction but also somehow coursed through him like a surge of water, something with softer edges. Because this was Baz. Baz, his boyfriend, his lifeline, his world.

When Simon came, he screamed Baz’s name.

So, in comparison, the part after, though compromised of much heaving breath, was almost silent. For a while, Simon lay atop Baz simply, letting their inhales and exhales and heartbeats sync. Once he felt like he could, Simon moved. He rolled onto his back so he was laying besides Baz and grabbed his hand on instinct.

Simon didn’t know what to say, yet opened his mouth nonetheless. “Baz?” he asked, eyes not tearing away from the ceiling.

But he could feel Baz’s on him. “Yeah?” Baz responded, his voice rough and sleepy.

“Was that, uh,”—Simon cleared his throat, letting himself take a longer than usual swallow—“Did it feel good?”

In the silence that followed, Simon expected Baz was coming up with some rude and witty reply. And maybe, he was, but all that surfaced was a deep breath that sounded as though it resembled defeat, followed by, “Crowley, yes, Simon.”

Simon started giggling, unable to restrain himself. With a newfound energy he shifted his body so his weight was on his elbow and his eyes were on Baz. “Really?” he asked, nose scrunching in the aftermath of laughter.

It was supposed to be impossible, what happened next, the way Baz abandoned his usual eye-roll response, instead smiling softly at Simon. In ways Simon knew he had done before, but never explicitly, never wanting Simon to see. Simon’s heart swelled.

“Yeah,” Baz responded, full of shyness. Simon guessed it was from indulging himself in such unadulterated reactions. Not holding back. Then, even more quietly, “Was it good for you?”

“Amazing, actually,” Simon beamed. “Pretty unbelievable that was a first time. Aren’t things supposed to, uh…. not work, I guess? Be all awkward?”

And, as he should have from the beginning of the conversation—but Simon was glad he didn’t—Baz rolled his eyes dramatically. “Simon,” he began, voice dry and annoyed, “Haven’t I already made it perfectly clear, how well we match?”

#snowbaz #simon snow #baz pitch #snowbaz fanfic #snowbaz smut #my writing

400 notes · View notes