Work Text:
21 JUNE 2022
A. As I push open the door to the restaurant, I marvel at the fact that I’ve made it this far. Not to the restaurant, I mean, though that was a near thing, what with the amount of time it took me to get my hair just right and then the trains running late. But here. To adulthood—more or less. To twenty-five. Twenty-five. When I spent most of my life not really believing I’d make it past nineteen. They haven’t been what I expected, these last five years. They’ve been less, in some ways. But in others? So much more.
I scan the restaurant for Baz. He told me to find my own way here, that he had to come directly from work. He looked like he felt bad, leaving me on my own to take the Tube to my birthday dinner, but it’s not a problem. I can get by just fine and he knows it. I don’t mind. Though I am a little uncomfortable being here, it’s well posh, and I told him that what I really wanted was a good night in, with him. But Baz insisted that he wanted to “treat me right” for my birthday.
“You’re a quarter of a century old this week. That’s auspicious. We’re not staying in for a curry and a fifth time through Our Flag Means Death, Simon,” he said. And instead of arguing, I agreed. One of the things I’ve learned over the past few years is that sometimes the best gift I can give myself is to do what Baz wants. I love it when he’s happy and relaxed, and besides, there is some appeal to having a very gay date in an extremely public, extremely posh place. I’ve come around to that idea too. That whether I’m gay or not—Baz hasn’t pushed the label issue in years—I can do gay things, publicly, with Baz, and enjoy just being myself.
I check in with the maître d’ and he seats me at a table for two right in the front window. Baz hasn’t insisted on being tucked into the corner in years, not since he learned to fully control his fangs. His fangs. My mind drifts back to what I really had in mind when I asked for a night in for my birthday, but this is okay too. This is better. Another thing I’ve been learning is how to treat Baz gently when he asks, and it took me longer than I like to admit to realise that it’s not just physical, the gentleness. We’re both better off when I treat him gently with my words too. Not that I don’t still call him a tosser and a wanker when he deserves it, and sometimes when he doesn’t. I do. But I’ve learned not to push him with my words, and he’s working on finding the line with me. Sometimes (as Penny will tell you) I do need to be pushed.
Baz still isn’t here so I order a drink—ask the waiter to bring me something alcoholic but not too strong; don’t want to get too far ahead of Baz—he’s only just come around to the idea of drinking with me. But by the time I’m halfway through and Baz still hasn’t shown, I’m trying to decide whether to be irritated with him or worried.
I’ve just downed the last of my drink and decided on worried when my phone dings.
It’s a text from Baz. I read it and change my mind to irritated. I was actually looking forward to this, getting full of good food and a little tipsy with Baz, letting myself enjoy being publicly spoiled for once, as a treat. And then walking home, arm in arm, stopping to kiss every block. I’m frustrated that Baz somehow succeeded in getting me excited for a dinner date and then had the balls to back out at the last minute. Well, whatever he’s plotting now, I’m not leaving the restaurant without cake. I flag a waiter down and order a slice of the chocolate orange—I saw it on the dessert cart when I came in. When it arrives I wrap the cake in one of the restaurant’s posh, burgundy cloth napkins, stash it in my pocket, and leave a few notes on the table.
I look back down at my phone. The text is only a dozen words long. It reads Snow, dinner is off. Meet me (B.) at Fiona’s. Baby might be coming.
Holy shit! But wait.
wut do u mean might be 🤔? I text back. (Baz is literally the only person I know who texts in complete, properly punctuated sentences. Including Penny. And my Gran.)
I take off out the front door of the restaurant and start pounding the pavement towards the Tube station. I don’t know whether to be worried or excited. Fiona’s not due for another three weeks, but I think it would be fine for the baby to come now. I mean, I don’t really know much about how these things work. Childbirth in general makes me squeamish, because of what happened to my mum. Baz and I figure she must have died giving birth to me, or not long after, since Gran and Jamie say there’s no way in hell she would’ve given me up. I’ve been trying not to think too much about all that, ever since Fiona told us that Nico somehow managed to knock her up. (It came as quite a surprise. Apparently, this is a thing vampires and humans can do, but it’s tied to some complicated shit with the moon approaching Venus—or was it Mars?—that I don’t understand and even Nico didn’t know about until it happened. Baz could probably tell you all about it, he’s been researching the vampire rhythm method like a maniac since we got the news.)
But it’s sort of hard not to think about my mum on my birthday. Might be nice to have this new baby share the day with me. Not only to make the day about something else, something completely joyous, but also to take a bit of the heat off me, since Baz is always so extra about birthdays.
Just as I reach the Tube station, my phone buzzes. It’s Baz.
I don’t know what’s happening yet, Snow! Fiona said she needs me. On my way there to find out. I’m so sorry this is ruining your birthday.
its ok babe
this is more important
He must be freaking out. He’s meant to be Fiona’s support person at the hospital. He’s been in constant contact with her magickal midwife, and he's got literally pages of notes and a checklist prepared that I bet he doesn’t even have on him.
Christ, it’s been so adorable, how excited he is to be an uncle. (I guess technically he’s a cousin, in this scenario. An uncle-cousin? Is that a thing?) He’s so great with kids, and something about the idea of seeing him with a newborn baby just makes me feel… I don’t know, it’s too much. I can’t even put it into words. But I know I like the idea. I also like the part where it’s someone else’s newborn baby. For now, at least.
I half-run my way into the station and down the escalator, remembering to shoot Baz a quick text saying ‘omw’. I basically run all the way down, internally cursing the people who refuse to adhere to ‘walk left, stand right’. (I used to be one of those people, but six-and-a-half years with Baz have taught me well.) To be fair, I’m probably being pretty annoying too, bounding down two steps at a time, but it’s my birthday, so too bad.
I make it my mission to catch the train I can hear pulling into the station below, and my trainers hit the platform just in time to hear ‘Please mind the doors’. I put on a burst of speed, squeaking through the doors just in the nick of time. It’s a good thing I keep my tail tucked down my pant leg, because I’m pretty sure half of it would still be outside this train, otherwise. I revel in the adrenaline rush. I mean, it doesn’t compare to the feeling of taking on a goblin horde or anything, but these days I have to take my kicks where I can get them. Especially if my prospects of cardio later tonight have been ruined thanks to my boyfriend possibly having to spend the rest of the evening in hospital delivering some kind of speech about relaxing rainbows. Or something. I don’t remember the details, but if it’s meant to relax Fiona Pitch, I count whatever it is as a lost cause.
The train is packed, with it being rush hour on a Tuesday, so I’m stuck in front of the door with no pole to hold on to. The train jerks forward before I’ve properly got my footing. (It also may have something to do with the drink I just downed in one gulp back at the restaurant.) It causes me to fall roughly against a lady with frizzy ginger hair and a bad case of resting bitch face. (Penny would be mad at me for thinking it, but it’s true, and it isn’t like I said it out loud.) She shoots me a dirty look and then looks down to see a streak of pastel orange across the front of her pink boilersuit.
“Shit,” I say, tearing at my hair. “I’m so sorry! It’s frosting.”
“What the hell!” she replies. She swipes her finger sceptically through the fluffy orange mess and takes a tiny taste.
“Cake pockets,” I reply apologetically, and then offer, by way of explanation, “It’s my birthday.”
“That still doesn’t explain cake pockets, mate.”
I end up telling her the whole story, about dinner and Baz and Fiona, and how I really wanted to just stay home. (And obviously the cake. We both agree the frosting is delicious.) It ends up being an uncharacteristically friendly encounter for the Underground, and when I hop off the train at Sloane Square, I’m thinking that maybe Shepard is onto something with his claims that “social contact with strangers enhances wellbeing.”
“Happy birthday, Simon!” the lady whose name I didn’t bother to learn calls to me, as the doors close and the train pulls out of the station.
I’ve got a spring in my step as I make my way out to the street. I can feel the mashed-up cake sloshing around against my thigh, but I find the feel of it oozing through the lining isn’t entirely unpleasant because it means maybe I can get Baz to lick it off me later. As long as he isn’t busy being a doula.
My mobile buzzes again (thankfully in my other pocket).
I’m here. I'm going up now.
b there in 5
I make the short walk from the station, let myself in the front entrance, and start hoofing it up the stairs. Fiona and Nico gave me my own key to their flat, since I’ve been helping them kit out the nursery with custom built-ins and furniture. I do that now, making things—instead of killing things—with my hands. I started working as a set builder for film and television a few years ago. Can’t do real magic, so might as well make some movie magic, right? At the moment, I’m working on Ted Lasso series 3, a show I enjoy—Ted has major Shepard from Omaha vibes—but Baz is not a fan of, because he finds it too “cloyingly saccharine”. I told him I thought that was rich coming from someone who just finished binge watching (and weeping over the series finale of) Parks and Recreation. (For the record I love that one too—Leslie Knope has major Baz Pitch energy.)
When I get up to the flat, I can hear shouting from the corridor. Once I turn my key in the lock and open the door I can hear that it’s Baz’s yelling filtering out from Fiona and Nico’s bedroom.
“Fiona, are you telling me you called me all the way over here to smell your pee?”
“Yes, Basil,” replies Fiona, affronted at the implication that this was somehow an inappropriate thing to do. “I told you. I couldn’t tell whether my water broke or I just wet the bed and I needed you to use your vampire nose to figure it out.”
I chuckle under my breath as I make my way to the bedroom, pausing in the hallway to listen to the exchange.
“What about your husband and child’s father’s vampire nose?” I can tell Baz is really angry now, because he’s doing his super calm and menacing talking through gritted teeth thing. I hate it when he does that. (To me, I mean. I don’t mind it at all when he does it to other people. In fact, I find it quite sexy.)
“He’s got some high rollers coming down the club tonight for an important card game and—”
“What the fuck, Fiona! You do realise that today is Simon’s birthday and I had to cancel his birthday dinner for this, don’t you?” Back to full-on screaming, now.
“Well, why didn’t you say something?” she asks, coyly.
“Why didn’t you tell me this was about smelling your pee?!”
He’s about to blow, so I decide this is a good time to pop my head in through the bedroom doorway. “So, was it pee in the end?”
They both turn to look at me. Fiona, smiling slyly like the cat who got the cream, and Baz, making one of his patented fretful faces. I walk over and give him a short kiss on the mouth. He sighs.
“Yes, it was pee,” he says. Then he turns back towards Fiona sharply. “I can’t believe you made me smell your urine.”
“But amniotic fluid would have been fine? Honestly Basil, you’ll be smelling a whole lot more than that when you’re in the delivery room with me!”
I wince.
Fiona cackles at my reaction. She’s as fierce as ever, still storming around town in her combat boots and leather jacket at nine months pregnant. Right now she’s got an oversized Cramps t-shirt stretched over her belly with leggings and a pair of black faux fur fuzzy slippers (that are somehow also studded).
Baz looks at her disdainfully. “I was just telling dear Fiona here how she ruined your birthday,” he tells me.
“It’s not ruined,” I smile at him. “Not as long as I’m with you.”
Fiona starts pretending to sick up. “Ugh, you two are disgusting.”
“Shut up, Fiona. Crowley, you’re so selfish.”
“It’s fine, babe,” I tell him, “As long as everything’s okay with the baby, that’s all I care about.”
“See, Simon gets it,” Fiona says, coming over to take me by the arm. “Happy birthday, by the way. I guess I have to start calling you Dragon Man instead of Dragon Boy, now that you’re twenty-five.”
“Thanks,” I laugh. “Actually, speaking of that—” I take off my suit jacket and let my wings free, sighing in relief. “I’ve been feeling a bit cramped.”
I see the moment Baz notices the stain on my trousers without the jacket to hide it.
“Nicks and Slick, Snow, what is that all over your beautiful suit that I had custom-made and imported from Italy and literally gave you this morning?”
“It’s just some of the cake I had in my pocket got squished—”
He put his hand up to stop me. “On second thought, I don’t want to know. It’s time to go.” And with that he storms right out of the bedroom.
“Are you sure you don’t want to try some?” I call after him. “It’s quite good, at least that’s what the lady on the Tube said.”
“Only you, Dragon Man,” Fiona cackles. She walks over to me and puts her hand out. “I’ll try some of your pocket cake. A pregnant person never says no to pocket cake.” I pull the napkin out of my pocket and scoop up a glob to slop it into her hand, taking the rest for myself. “Cheers,” I say, knocking the side of my cupped hand against hers. Then we each slurp down our pulverised cake in one shot, before following Baz out into the other room.
He’s standing by the front door, looking like a tall drink of water and tapping his foot impatiently. He’s so hot when he’s in a strop.
“Leaving so soon, Basil?” Fiona says. She walks over to the kitchen and wets two squares of paper towel, one of which she passes to me. I use it to clean my cake scooping hand and to wipe what I can of the frosting off my trousers.
“Because,” she goes on, “I was hoping, now I know you aren’t doing anything else, that Simon could stay and finish up the paint on the built-ins. You know, since you’re already here.” Baz turns his face away, haughtily, so he doesn’t catch when Fiona winks at me. Teasing Baz is our single largest shared interest (followed closely by doing anything we can to annoy Malcolm). It’s the foundation upon which our friendship is built.
But I can see Baz is genuinely upset that his plans for me were ruined, so I go over and put my arms around him. “Don’t get frosting on me, Snow!” he complains, but he melts into me anyway.
“In all seriousness, though,” Fiona says, “Nico and I have a gift for you, Simon. I was planning to save it for Daphne’s garden party next weekend, but since you’re here, you may as well have it now.”
She disappears down the hallway and returns with a gift bag. When she gets close enough, I see that the entire thing is covered with a giant photo of Edward Cullen’s face. I laugh. She hands it to me. “Go on, birthday boy,” she says. “Open it.”
I carry it over to the sofa and take a seat. Baz reluctantly comes over to sit beside me, seemingly at least somewhat appeased by Fiona’s show of good faith. First I pull out the birthday card, which reads ‘25: By your age Michael Phelps had won 14 Olympic gold medals; Orson Welles wrote, directed, & starred in Citizen Kane; and Charles Lindbergh flew solo across the Atlantic. Still, you’ve done stuff too!’
“Yeah, like saving the entire World of Mages!” Baz says defensively. Fiona rolls her eyes and when I open the card, I see that’s pretty much the same message she’s written on the inside, along with ‘Happy Birthday. Love, Fi and Nico’.
“Thanks,” I say, smiling, and start removing the tissue paper from the bag. I pull out the box I find at the bottom to reveal giant lettering that says Vamp Sparkle Dildo. When I open it up, it’s exactly as described. I start laughing hysterically, and also silently thanking Merlin that she didn’t give this to me at Daphne’s party.
“Get it?” she says, cackling, “Edward’s face on the bag, Edward’s dick in the box!”
Baz isn’t amused. “Why do you still think this is still a funny joke? Maybe it was funny the first time, when you gave him the fleshlight with fangs—”
“You mean the Succu Dry,” she cuts in.
“I’ll even grant you the second time, when you got him that Sookie Stackhouse costume.” I don’t know why he’s acting like he didn’t enjoy that one. “But when will this bit end, Fiona? Why is this still funny to you? For fuck’s sake, you’re married to a vampire and are in fact at this very moment carrying his baby!”
“This isn’t a joke, Basil,” Fiona says, levelling him with her most serious expression. “This is vampire fucker solidarity.”
I crack up at that, and she starts laughing again. “Seriously,” she says, “I’m having matching t-shirts made for us and everything.” Then she whips out another envelope from down the front of her shirt. “This,” she says, handing it to me with a flourish, “is your real gift. It’s for the spa I was telling you about, the one that caters to magickal creatures. So you can get a proper massage. They even do wings.” I’m not sure how I feel about anyone but Baz touching my wings, but it’s an interesting idea.
She looks over at Baz, who’s still pouting over the gag gift while he scrolls through his phone. “There’s enough there for a couple’s massage if you want to take this head case along, but if it were up to me, I’d go alone and get massaged twice as long. There’s no chance of unwinding this one anyway.”
Well, I have a few ideas for unwinding him, now that we’re free for the rest of the evening. Some of the best sex we have is after visiting with Fiona for a tag-team teasing session. I nudge him with my shoulder and nose at his ear.
“Come on, cheer up, Baz. You know I’ll never like Edward Cullen’s dick better than yours.”
He bumps me back with his shoulder and tries to pull away, but I put my arm around him and firmly hold him against me. When he finally gives up playing hard to get and leans in, I nuzzle my face into his neck.
“Aaaand, that’s enough of that,” says Fiona. “You two need to get the fuck out of here with your sparkle dildo and your PDA. I need to change my sheets and go to bed.”
Baz just shakes his head at her. “You really are a top-tier arsehole, aren’t you?”
She smirks. “Takes one to know one, nephew. I love you too.” And with that, she leans down and kisses each of us on the cheek and starts waddling back towards her bedroom. “You can see yourselves out.”
My stomach growls, and I stand up from the sofa, taking Baz by the hands and pulling him up to stand with me.
“Babe,” I say, “Do you think we can go find somewhere to eat?”
C. I fold my wings back up and put my jacket back on before holding the door open for Baz.
“Hmm?” he hums, looking down at his mobile again. That’s odd. Baz is particularly fickle about being fully present for special occasions, so it’s very unlike him to be suddenly absorbed by whatever he’s doing.
“Why are you glued to your phone all of a sudden?” I ask.
He sighs, locking his screen. “I had more than just dinner planned for tonight.”
“Oh?” I ask as we head down the stairs.
“I had planned a scavenger hunt for you to go on,” he explains, “but now it’s totally ruined because you were supposed to get the first clue at dinner, so now I’ve got to cancel everything and—”
Baz is a few steps below me and I almost fall as I reach forward to grab his arm.
“You did what?!” The last word comes out as more of a squeak when I stumble, but thankfully Baz turns and catches me, keeping me upright.
“It was quite an elaborate one at that, but I don’t think it’s possible now, so—”
I cut him off again. “No! Absolutely not! There is no way you're cancelling something you put so much work into.” If he says it’s elaborate, then that means this is going to be epic. Baz never does things in halves. I honestly should have seen this coming. (Operation Ann is one of our favourite Parks and Recreation episodes.)
“It’s fine, Snow. I was just texting everyone to let them know it’s cancelled.” Everyone? Merlin, this must really be something.
“Well, text them again and tell them it’s back on!”
Baz searches my expression, his eyes travelling across my face. “Are you sure? You didn’t even get to eat. And I know you really wanted a quiet night in.”
I take a step down so we’re on the same level and wrap my arms around his waist. “You were right, we can have a night in to ourselves any time. But tonight, you planned something special, and it sounds brilliant.” I kiss him sweetly, then not so sweetly, as I pull his bottom lip into my mouth and press my groin into his. I can’t help it. The whole idea of Baz planning something like this for me is a real turn on.
His breath hitches, and he pulls his hips back just a bit. “You’re probably getting cake on my trousers now,” he grumbles.
I lower my hands to his arse and pull him back to me. “So? You can always spell them clean later.”
He grins, leaning down and licking a stripe up my neck. It sends a shiver down my spine. He whispers in my ear. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather we spend the night on our own?” His voice is low and sultry. The prick. I can feel myself hardening against him.
But I’m not letting him off so easily.
With what can only be described as superhuman restraint, I let go of Baz and step past him, continuing my way down the stairs.
“Nope,” I call back. “Operation Simon is a go!”
“You’re using that reference wrong!” Baz calls as he follows me down and out onto the street. “Operation Ann was a separate storyline than the scavenger hunt.”
“Yeah, well, I think it’s a cool name, so we’re sticking with it.”
Once we’re outside, Baz pulls out his phone and starts sending texts rapidfire. I’m told not to look, which is fine. I’m starting to get a little excited about this surprise.
“So, what’s the plan?” I ask, bouncing a little on the balls of my feet. I guess I’m more than a little excited.
“Well, like I said, you were supposed to get your first clue at the restaurant. It involved a bit of magic with these sparkler candles that I was going to have them put on your cake.”
That sounds pretty cool and I’m instantly intrigued. I used to hate when Baz or anyone else would use their magic around me after I’d lost mine. It used to feel like this awful reminder of what I’d lost, and I felt so insecure that I wasn’t good enough for Baz. But I’ve worked through a lot of those issues. I’m at peace with not having magic now. And what’s more, I can appreciate magic when Baz, or anyone else, wields it. Magic is still really important to me, even if I don’t have my own.
“I suppose I could just tell you the clue instead,” Baz muses.
“It sounds awesome. I want to see the spell,” I say, leaning in and pressing a kiss to his cheek. “If you’re able to do it.”
“It is pretty impressive,” Baz says, trying to suppress a smile. I can tell he’s well pleased with himself. Now I have to see it.
Baz reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a long, slim package. He opens it, and extracts a single sparkler. Suddenly, I don’t like the idea of him holding that at all.
“I’ll be taking that,” I say, plucking it out of his fingers. “You can cast while I hold it, yes?”
He rolls his eyes but doesn’t argue. He knows I don’t like him around anything flammable. “Yes, that should be fine.”
He casts a quick There’s nothing to see here. I hold the sparkler out for him while he casts a spell to light it. Sparks crackle and gleam from the tip and I take a few steps away from him to be extra cautious. That makes him huff in annoyance.
“Don’t get testy, there are literally sparks flying every which way,” I say.
“Yes, all right. Just hold it out for me,” he says, so I do. Then he casts Smoke signal, and the flames start to emit a thick stream of smoke. Baz lifts his wand and starts twirling it furiously. It almost looks like he’s writing in mid-air. Then I realise that he is, because the stream of smoke starts to shift and turn until it transforms into Baz’s neat handwriting.
“Wicked,” I say. I’ve never seen this spell before. I read the message out loud as the message unfolds:
“Tonight to mark your twenty-fifth turn,
A treat waits for you (one you must earn).
But first let us pull you into this game
(For a memorable night is truly our aim).
So from your first clue a locale you must find,
Listen close to think through what comes to mind:
I will tell you about an old friend of mine,
Who serves drinks even though he’s covered with vines,
To his establishment we must go posthaste,
If we plan to have drinks, then there’s no time to waste.”
The sparkler burns out and the smoke dissipates into the night air.
D. “What’s this, uh, treat you speak of?”
(I speak of, actually.) My mind immediately latched onto that part and only vaguely absorbed the rest of the information, even as it came out of my mouth.
“I’m not just going to tell you. That would defeat the purpose of the game entirely.” Baz scoffs and rolls his eyes, but it’s in a playful manner. “It’s always instant gratification with you, Simon Snow.”
“But it’s my birthday, I want to know what I’m gonna be doing all this for!” I huff, puffing up my chest. Baz says I look like I’m about to breathe fire when I do that. I wish. That would be cracking. I mean… if my boyfriend weren’t flammable.
“Well then, you had better focus if you want any chance of actually figuring it out before your birthday’s end. Do I need to repeat the clue? The sparkler was a one-time use, but I can still just tell you.”
I shake my head and try to remember. Something about… vines? Drinks?
“Oh! The Whistling Ogre! Is my treat there?” I’m beaming, proud of myself for figuring it out.
“What? Not the big one, no. That would be the world’s most pitiful scavenger hunt, Snow. That’s where you’ll find the next clue. And a drink or two, if you’re up for it.”
“Let’s go then, what are you waiting for?” I ask him, already walking backward in the direction of the Tube station, as if I’m the one steering this ship.
Baz grips the collar of my suit jacket in his fist and pulls me back to him. He holds my jaw and plants a firm kiss on my mouth, and nips softly at my bottom lip. Then he nudges me back with his fingertips in my chest, looking like pushing me away is the last thing he wants to be doing. I can tell it‘s for his own benefit, his own self control. But it works for me—my self control has gone out the window.
“Lead the way, birthday boy.”
“I am a man.” Not a boy. And not a dragon man. Just a man. With wings. And a tail. Ya know? The usual man stuff.
“Birthday… Man? Sounds like a scrapped comic book character.”
“Yeah. That would be loony. What would he even do? Give villains surprise parties to save the day? Jump out of a giant present and kick their arse? Would his bat signal be a slice of cake?” I look up into the evening sky, imagining a spotlight over the city.
“Hmm, curiously enough, now I’m thinking maybe it’s a good fit after all,” Baz smirks, glancing at my cake stained pocket.
I scrunch up my face at that.
“Ehh, no. How ‘bout Simon.”
“I don’t think so, Birthday Man. This one’s sticking.”
We take the Tube as close as it’ll get us, then walk the rest of the way. We could’ve taken a cab, but it’s a nice night, and I’ll never turn down an opportunity to hold Baz’s hand in public. Imagine dating someone this delicious and not wanting to show them off every second. Ridiculous.
My brain is doing cartwheels, backflips, somersaults (a whole gymnastics routine really) trying to figure out what my treat could be. I’ve already had cake. I wouldn’t object to more cake, but I don’t think Baz would have me go through this whole endeavour just for extra dessert. (Wouldn’t be mad, though. My other pocket is feeling pretty empty.)
When we make it to the pub, Baz flashes the doorman his fangs and we’re let in.
Baz claims he hates it here, but he’s lying. The pub is pretty grimy, and they don’t make the fancy posh cocktails he prefers, but I think he also likes having a place where he can be accepted as a vampire. A place where he’s perhaps the most morally un-dark of the dark creatures.
Also, I get to have my wings out when we’re here, which is nice. Baz slips my jacket off of my shoulder and folds it neatly over his arm once we’re inside, cause he’s a fucking gentleman. Or maybe because he doesn’t want me ruining the suit further.
Either way, valid.
I spot Shepard at a table at the far end of the pub, chatting up a centaur. He grins and waves us over. We make our way through the room, and have to squeeze through a cohort of ogres (seems a little on the nose) that are using individual tables as chairs. They’re just small enough to fit in the building, but the door still has to magickally stretch open wide to let them in. Giants are the cut-off point, I guess.
I’ve had to unlearn some prejudice against dark creatures, being friends with Shep. He’ll befriend anything magic—“Maybes,” as he calls them. He doesn’t care what they’ve done or how ill-intentioned they may be. Everyone gets a chance with Shepard Love-Bunce from Omaha, if they’ve got a story worth telling. Books, covers, all that.
And really, who knows if the ogres I cut down in the past even deserved it, or if the Mage was just throwing me at them as a political move? I’ve learned to stop blaming myself for the things I didn’t have control over as a kid. I’ve grown; I’m not my past.
We take a seat at the table and Shepard pushes a couple of empty pint glasses in our direction, as well as the pitcher of beer. He looks good, much better than when we saw him a couple weeks ago. He and Penelope had just returned from the magickal cruise they went on for their honeymoon. They’d been married almost two years already by then, but had to postpone the plans because of all the stuff going on in the world.
They’re married six ways from Sunday. Penny has tied their souls together through endless rituals and rites (apparently it works with Normals too), and Shep keeps finding different ordained creatures to marry them in the ways of their own magickal cultures.
After at least the first fifteen times, they stopped inviting us. Baz always made me go, clearly just looking for an excuse to dress up. To dress me up.
So they finally made it to their cruise last month, only for Shepard to have an unfortunate encounter on his birthday with some LOOW (Lionfish Out Of Water) that left him covered in both scales and hair.
And he loved it. Go figure. Penny was lit.
“Happy birthday, Simon!” Shepard declares and pulls out a very poorly wrapped lump. There’s more tape than paper, I think. He hands it to me and I grin.
“Thanks! I thought we weren’t really doing gifts until the garden party?”
“This isn’t my gift to you. Me and Pen have something super special planned for then.”
“Oh.” I turn the lump around in my hands, examining it. It feels like something soft, but with a weight to it. “Where is Penny, by the way?”
Penny says she hates this place, and she’s actually not lying about it. She doesn’t drink, and she thinks the whole vibe here is “aggro.” So it’s not that much of a surprise that she passed on this portion of the night.
Shepard is a regular here, but I still don’t know what kind of creature they think he is. He tells me something different every time I ask.
“You’ll see her later,” Baz answers cryptically, before Shepard can give anything up. I want to question it further, but I can tell that’s all I’ll get out of him.
“Can I open this?”
“Yes, obviously,” Baz tuts. “That’s why we’re here.”
I quickly shred the rainbow balloon printed paper off and squint my eyes at the purple velvet in my hands.
“What?” I say after I unravel the cloth and find a golden looking glass inside. I hold it up to my eye and look through it. Everything in the room becomes greyscale and staticky, like it’s got a thick layer of dust over it. “Wow. What is… what does this mean?” I ask, glancing back and forth between the two of them.
“Don’t ask me!” Shepard says, throwing his hands up. “No one’s actually explained any of this to me. I was just tasked with retrieving it from the oracle. Which was not an easy task, lemme tell you. Don’t ask what I had to barter with, either. Penny will not be pleased if she finds out. Oh, and apparently I have three days to return it or my eyes will turn to coal, so let’s not lose it, okay?” He doesn’t look concerned, though. He looks thrilled to be involved.
Baz pours our drinks and explains it to me. “There’s something hidden in this pub that will help unlock your next clue. Look through the glass and it will show you whatever you’re seeking.”
Okay, but I don’t actually know what I’m seeking…
Of course Baz came up with something so unnecessarily complicated. He never does anything halfway. I’m getting excited now, though, wondering what other surprises are in store for tonight.
I take a big swig of my drink and hold the looking glass up to my eye again, as Shepard asks how the day’s gone so far and Baz explains the situation with Fiona and how our dinner was interrupted.
I really don’t know what I’m looking for. It kind of makes my eyes hurt, like trying to focus on something blurry with motion, even though everything is still.
I need something to unlock the next clue…
I suddenly spot a golden glow that breaks up the ash of it all. It’s coming from a very high up ledge behind the bar, where the ceiling is vaulted. There’s a creepy doll up there, surrounded by other cursed-looking artefacts and empty liquor bottles on display—and it seems to be holding something.
“Is that it?” I ask after having another drink. I point at the doll and Baz shrugs.
“I asked the barman to hide it, so your guess is likely more educated than mine.” That’s a first.
I hop up out of my seat and eagerly make my way to the bar. The Ent who works here (he has a name, but it’s in a magickal language I can’t pronounce) gives me a salute.
“Happy birthday, Dragon Man,” he tells me. There’s no escaping it apparently.
“Thank you, Tree Man,” I respond.
It’s all good-natured. We’ve done this before.
“How did you even get that up there?” I ask, glancing up at the ledge. Is there a ladder somewhere I can use?
The barman stretches out a branch and shows me how the long vines wrapped around it can unfurl and move of their own accord. He turns on a tap with them, filling someone’s glass. It kind of reminds me of how I can control my tail when I put my mind to it.
“Will you get it down for me?” I ask and he shakes his leaves at me.
“What, are you afraid of heights? I see two wings right on your back.”
He has a point.
I look around to make sure there’s no one too close that I could knock out with my wings, then flap them and fly up to where the doll is.
I hear Shepard whooping in appreciation of the wing action, as I come face to face with the doll. It’s even creepier up close. Those are absolutely human eyes. I don’t let myself think about how they got in there.
In the doll’s stubby little fingers is a key. I pluck it out of them and the doll’s ceramic hand lunges forward to grab my finger.
“Fuck!” I holler and fly back, wishing I had my sword on me, but the doll doesn’t move again.
So creepy.
I bring myself back down to ground level and head over to our table. They’ve ordered some fish and chips. Thank Merlin, I was starving. Pocket cake was not enough.
I sit and eat, analysing the key in my hand. It looks over a hundred years old, easily. It’s all tarnished like the cross I used to wear, before I polished it shiny with my mouth. What does this go to? A chest? Is this an actual treasure hunt?
“You said this will unlock the next clue, right? Show me where to stick it.”
Baz rolls with laughter, “Do you hear yourself, Snow?”
I blush. “Oh come off it. You know what I mean. Where’s the hole that fits the key?”
He just raises his brow.
“Respectfully, shut the hell up, babe.” I pinch his hip, but I’m cackling now too.
“Try the looking glass again,” Shepard suggests.
“Oh that? I lost it already,” I joke and Shepard joins in the laughter.
This is fun. I’m having fun.
I hold it to my eye again and look around, expecting to see something illuminate, like a door or a vault. I don’t expect to see a light glowing from Baz’s suit jacket.
“Ah! In your pocket!” I declare, and Baz smiles. He reached into his jacket pocket (how many things has he fit in there? Has he spelled it bigger on the inside?) and pulls out a black square box.
For a split second my heart shits its pants, but then he opens it and there’s a metal padlock inside.
Of course, my mind immediately went to a ring, even though the box is way too big for that. Thank Circe it wasn’t—I would have been pissed.
(I think about the ring I have at home, in the back of my unmentionables drawer.) (Baz doesn’t ever look in there, not after what he found last time. He also doesn’t eat… certain things anymore.)
A while back, me and Baz were watching The Haunting of Bly Manor, and he totally teared up at that one scene. (I mean, I did too. It was pretty romantic. And heartbreaking.) He tried to pass it off as there being something silver nearby that was making his nose run, but by the end of the series we were both bawling. We were all too aware of how easily we could’ve shared a tragic fate. How lucky we are to have each other, after all these years.
I went out and bought the ring the next day.
That was… what? Geez... almost a year ago, and I still have it in my drawer. It may very well stay there another year, until I stop being a coward. Who knows? Not me. Most of my actions happen on impulse. Still, I’ll be right mad if Baz beats me to the punch, even with my dawdling.
I pull the lock out of the box. It’s also very ancient and magicky. Wicked cool looking, too.
“Do I get to keep this?” I ask Baz, and he nods his head. Sick.
I stick the key into the keyhole and twist it, and the shackle releases. The golden spiral on the front spins open too, like magic (it is magic. Duh) to reveal a secret compartment.
Inside there’s a folded up piece of parchment.
All this for a piece of paper? That’s dramatic, even for Baz. And I work on movie sets.
I pull it out and unfold it. It looks like the corner of a page that’s been torn from a book. There’s Baz’s perfectly tidy, slanted scrawl once more. So much nicer than my chicken scratch. I read it out loud.
“Seven years gone, stolen items unreturned.
Find the next clue, where information is learned.
The starting place of our first date.
(So you stubbornly insist.)
Before the fire brought us close.
Before we first kissed.
The looking glass will surely assist your game,
As you find the book whence this came.”
Our first date? The British Museum! But it’s after five—the museum is long closed already. I turn the paper to read the text on the back, but there are only half sentences, nothing that makes sense independently. Just one piece of the puzzle.
“What, are we going to break into the museum? Is that part of Operation Simon?” I ask Baz. “I’m not trying to spend another birthday in jail.”
(Technically we weren’t in jail that one time. But we were there for ages, bailing out Fiona. Again. We missed the Little Dragon concert at the Glastonbury Festival that Penny had gotten us tickets to.)
“Ye of little faith,” Baz shakes his head, then smiles at me, mischievously. He pulls his phone out again, texting someone. “See?” he says, then shows me something on the screen.
E. It’s a selfie of Niall and a British Museum security guard, both flipping off the camera and looking pretty chummy.
“Did Niall leave Dev for a security guard?!”
“No, you dolt. Niall’s new job is at the museum. That string of internships finally paid off and now he’s working directly under the head curator.”
“Wicked! And they let him hang out there after hours?”
“Yes and no. He had to work some late nights, then subsequently made friends with some of the night guards because of it. I had him ask them if they’d help with the scavenger hunt and they said they’re down as long as we don’t get caught. Which we won’t.”
“Why do I feel like there’s going to be some legally questionable magic involved in this?”
He just grins like the cat that’s got the cream and stands to pull me out of my seat.
We meet Niall by the back entrance. This already feels very illegal, and we haven’t even done anything yet. I mean, I guess we did (7 years ago), so our whole life between then and now has been mildly illegal. I try not to think about the books hidden away in Baz’s spelled pocket as I watch the door swing open.
“Cheers, queers. Baz, Dev sends his best. And Snow: his worst,” he says with a wink.
“Ha ha,” I reply mirthlessly. “That joke gets funnier and funnier each time you say it.”
“It’s all in jest, birthday boy.”
“It’s Birthday Man, actually.”
He snorts, and I can’t help cracking a laugh as well. Dev and Niall still like to pretend they don’t like me, but I know better. I’m the one who helped them get together, after all.
F. It happened after I interrupted them playing a game of table football. I think I had gone over to their flat because we were out of butter.
They jumped when I walked in, and Dev’s hair was a total mess. They both looked a little out of breath. They must have been really focusing on the game, I thought. But then I realised Niall wasn’t even on his side of the table—he was kind of at the end, with only one hand on the knobs. Definitely not the optimal position for this game.
Shep and I had spent too many nights perfecting our table football skills for me not to show them how it was done.
“Me against you two,” I said, moving to Niall’s side and waving him over to Dev’s side. “You would make a good team, anyway.”
They kind of looked at each other like they didn’t believe me, so I added, “Seriously—you complement each other in all the right ways. Plus you’ve known each other for forever, so it’s probably not a big jump to work together and play for the same team.”
They both kind of grinned at that, and I proceeded to kick both their asses. (Seriously, it was kind of pathetic. It was like they weren’t paying attention at all.)
The next day Dev texted me to tell me they were together. Thanks for the support and table football schooling, he said. I was surprised he was being sincere with me for once, but mostly I was just happy for them. (Not to mention, proud of myself. Sometimes it just takes a little nudge, doesn’t it?)
We’ve been friends ever since.
G. When we get into the lobby, I start walking in a different direction from Baz.
“Where are you going, Simon?”
I raise my eyebrows at him as I walk backwards, spreading my arms out to my sides. “Exploring.”
He gives me a slightly fond, but mostly strained look.
“Come on, Baz. How often are we going to get the entire British Museum to ourselves?”
“It’s just that—these spells don’t last forever. Niall stilled the images on the security cameras, but if we take too long—” He’s moving his hands around and tilting his head back and forth. “And then, there’s also quite a bit more planned and a fair amount of people waiting up—I’d really only planned on our going to the Reading Room—”
“A fair amount of people?”
He shrugs. “‘Fair amount’ may or may not be an exaggeration.”
I walk back to him. “So, you really just had Niall spell the entire museum and sneak us in in the dead of night just to return books?”
“It was where the actual date happened—”
“Aww, you’re actually calling it a date now.” I nudge him with my shoulder.
“What can I say? You’ve worn me down.”
Christ, he’s so cute.
“Yeah. Reading Room, then.” I walk past him.
“You sure?”
“Gotta keep to the plan!” I raise a finger into the air. “No distractions.”
The room has that overwhelming old book smell. It brings back memories.
“Speaking of no distractions,” I say, hugging Baz from behind, “you know what this reminds me of?”
“Simon, I did not bring the reading glasses, and we do not need to fool around in every library we go to.”
“Of course we don’t need to,” I say, nuzzling his hair.
“Is that an ancient charmed looking glass—with the potential to blind your best friend’s husband if lost or damaged—in your pocket? Or are you happy to see me?”
“Looking—oh, yeah!” I reach into my pocket for the magical object. “Oh, no…”
“You put it in the cake pocket, didn’t you?”
“I put it in the cake pocket.”
He turns around, pinching the bridge of his nose, then pulls a handkerchief out of Merlin-knows-where and hands it to me.
“You seem surprisingly reluctant to spell things clean tonight,” I say as I scrub.
“I’m conserving my magic. I have a big night planned.”
“Pity. I was hoping you secretly liked the idea of me jaunting about covered in frosting.”
“I don’t like the idea of my suit being covered in frosting.”
“It’s my suit.”
“Is it?“ He stares at my hands with a concerned look as I try to get the thing clean. “And now you’re getting cake all over yourself when you’re about to handle priceless relics of our country’s magickal history.”
“Shit, you’re right. This handkerchief isn’t working. I need wet wipes or something.”
“Unfortunately, I don’t carry wet wipes around with me.”
“You’d think you would. Being as uptight as you are. And being out with me all the time.” I wipe my hands on a—mostly—clean part of my trousers.
“Why don’t you carry them, then?”
“Because I’m me. Which means I’m perpetually under-prepared for anything that isn’t a sword fight. Or a meal. But just the eating part, not the cleaning part.”
“Did that restaurant not have take-away boxes?”
“Look, next time we go to a fancy restaurant your maniac aunt won’t have co-opted our romantic evening, and you will be there to support me with your clever ideas about ‘take-away boxes’, okay. But we can’t turn back time.” I hold the—mostly—clean glass up to my eye. “Unless we can. Is that part of the scavenger hunt?”
“Not yet, anyway,” he says as he pulls out the magickally hidden books.
I look through the glass at the stack in his hands and pick out the glowing one. Baz winces when my hands touch the book. Even though there’s no visible cake on them.
“You aren’t going to make me put all of those away, are you?” I nod at the other books in his arms.
“We don’t have that kind of time.” He aims his wand at them. “A place for everything and everything in its place.”
The books disappear.
“Are you having me on?”
“What do you mean?”
“That’s all it took? A first-year spell?”
“Of course—”
“We have been criminally harbouring stolen historical relics owned by the state for seven years and you’ve put them away with ‘A place for everything?’”
“Well, obviously it works better at close range.”
“Yeah… obviously…”
“You’re getting distracted.”
I try to raise an eyebrow at him. He successfully raises one of his own and nods at the book in my hands.
I read the title out loud, “British Goblins: Welsh Folk-lore, Fairy Mythology, Legends, and Traditions. Wait—is this even about vampires?”
“Perhaps not, but it didn’t hurt to check, did it?”
I give him a pointed look. “Seven years, Baz.”
“Yes, all right. I won’t steal any more priceless artefacts from the Normals. I promise. Even if they are useless to them, since they have no way of contextualising—”
“Good.” I cut him off. He was worried about my looking at obelisks and sarcophagi (sarcophagi? Yeah, sarcophagi, that’s right) taking up too much time—the last thing we need is Baz launching into a lecture about the Normals and their unwitting hoarding of objects of great import to mage culture. (No matter how cute it is.) “So,” I turn to the seemingly infinite expanse of books before us, “is this place like, Dewey Decimal or whatever?”
“If it were, would that be helpful to you?”
“That’s a good point.”
I think back to that first night. To be fair, Baz was doing most of the actual looking at books. (If I’m being honest, I mostly found myself admiring something much more interesting.) But I think I remember the general area where most of the books came from.
“Onward!” I lift my head and point in an exaggerated gesture.
When we get to the area that feels most familiar to me, I pull out the glass again. And, of course, it is too blurry to see through.
“Fucking cake!” I breathe onto the lense and wipe it with the bottom of my shirt.
“Snow!”
“Look, you told me to dress up. For a scavenger hunt. The clothes were never going to survive this. You clearly weren’t thinking ahead when it came to the clothes. It’s kind of on you.”
He tilts his head in reluctant agreement. “I was mostly thinking about obfuscation.”
“And getting to dress me up in fancy clothes.”
“That may have also been a factor, yes.”
“So let’s see…” I skim the shelves, taking some breaks from holding the glass to my eye. It can be a bit headache-inducing to look through it for too long.
After some arguably aimless wandering through the mazes of curving shelves, I finally spot it.
“Aha!” I pull the book out and replace it with the one in my hand.
I might have been able to spot this book amongst the others, even without any magickal aid. It is very clearly out of place amongst all of these dusty old tomes.
“Arcade Mode: The Rise and Fall of Coin-Op Arcade Games.” I look at Baz with raised eyebrows. He lets out an almost imperceptible chuckle and nods at the book.
I flip through the pages and find that one has a scrap torn out of it. “Basilton Grimm-Pitch? Defacing books? For me?”
“It isn’t exactly an enduring classic, is it?”
I smile. The page is about an old pub simulator game. Baz doesn’t appear to have written anything on the page, so I look through the glass again.
Certain scattered words are clear amongst the blur and highlighted in gold.
“You would crash into the floor if you begin dancing as normal.” I narrow my eyes at Baz. “Well, first of all—rude.”
He smiles with a light in his eyes. He clearly thinks it was a very clever joke.
“So… the book’s about arcades? I assume that means something?”
“Mhmm…” he hums.
“And the clue is about dancing...”
“Mhmm…”
“Does this mean what I think it means?”
“If you think it means I’m going to absolutely destroy you, then, yes.”
“Oh, you are so fucking on!” I slam the book shut and run for the exit.
H. I’m pumped. Absolutely ecstatic. Baz and I are going to go to an arcade to play Dance Dance Revolution, and he knows I’m going to beat him. Sure, it won’t be easy. Nothing is ever easy with Baz, but I’ll try.
Before we leave the museum, I have the urge to fly around the main foyer. It’s circular; I tell myself I am going around the world. I look down at Baz from the highest point I can reach; he’s rolling his eyes, tapping his foot as if he’s annoyed. I know he finds my wings sexy just like I find his fangs… and his vampire strength… and everything else about him. I swoop down, grabbing him from behind, and use all my effort to fly around with him in my grip. He’s heavy (I don’t have vampire strength and it’s not safe to spell a human weightless), but his screams are worth it.
“Put me down, Simon! I swear to Merlin. I will…”
This just makes me speed up, purposefully swinging him a bit to make him feel like he’s on the swings. I start humming carnival music just to set him off even more. I think Baz might start to cry, but I barely feel bad about it.
We land back on the ground. Baz shoots out of my arms immediately, making me trip over my own two feet onto the floor. I heave. Baz laughs at me like the absolute bastard that he is. I would playfully punch him if I wasn’t so impressed by this whole night. How long has he been planning this?
The early evening air is crisp as we walk outside the museum. Niall makes smoochy sounds as we exit. I follow Baz down the street, linking my arms in his. He smiles down at me with this fond smile on his face that makes me melt. Baz is lit by London street lights and the glow of restaurants full of people. There are honks of buses and the buzzing of crossings all around us, but the only thing I can focus on is his smile.
“I love you,” I say, feeling unbelievably soft in that moment.
He leans down to kiss the crown of my head, “I love you too.”
Then everything is quickly soured by the ringing of Baz’s phone. “Merlin, help me,” he sighs, answering it. “What is it, Bunce? We’re on the dance clue… No, I can’t just switch things ‘round. I don’t care about how drunk Shep is. I will see you when we get to clue—no, we’ve already been there. I’m not changing the bloody location.”
Baz hangs up, shoving his phone into his jacket pocket. He rolls his eyes and I can tell he doesn’t want to talk about it, so instead we listen to the soundtrack of a London night.
We walk into the busy arcade. My eyes wander over all the games, but Baz drags me straight to the DDR machine. The one with a big Out Of Order sign on it.
“No! Why can’t anything go my way? Good as new!” The game doesn’t turn on. “Bloody Bunce probably cursed it.”
“We can go to another arcade,” I suggest.
Baz looks at me like I’m the stupidest person in the world. “We can’t just go to another arcade. This was spelled and I’ve already loaded our cards and—“
“Does it have to do with us dancing? We could go to Shoreditch…” Neither of us are dressed to go to the club—I’m not dressed to go anywhere, especially with cake frosting all over my trousers. (Merlin, I hope nobody thinks it’s cum. My cheeks flash red at the thought.)
Baz’s face, no matter how pretty he looks under the flashing blue and purple lights, is sour. He sighs, looking around.
I go up to the machine, hit the top of it a few times, unplug it and replug it back in, and boom! It lights up like a… well, a DDR machine.
Baz looks like he could kiss me, and he does. He wraps his arms around me, using his vampire strength to twirl me. “You are the best!”
“Even though I tried to kill you at the museum?”
“Morgana, I would’ve been so upset to die at the British Museum. At least take me to the V&A and let me die in the Menswear exhibition.”
Baz releases me, grimacing at the frosting that has transferred to his trousers. He hands me a card from his pocket. We press it to the screen and the game starts. I let Baz pick the song as I dramatically stretch my hamstrings, reaching into my pocket for a lick of frosting.
The song Baz chose, I shit you not, is Never Gonna Give You Up by Rick Astley. It takes a full minute for me to get my composure together. I almost fall to the floor with laughter, barely getting the easiest of moves. By the chorus, I’m behind so badly I’m afraid that I can’t catch up. So I try my best as Baz and I sing the chorus full volume. I bet some annoyed employees are wishing we would leave right now.
Baz beats me, sadly. I challenge him to a rematch and choose Darude’s Sandstorm. Baz groans. This is the song I listen to when I need to get stuff done quickly (like some people listen to Mario Kart music). There’s no words, so I can focus completely on the dancing.
Yet everyone knows that I’m horrid at staying quiet, so I start to make conversation with Baz. “How do I get the clue?”
“You have to beat me.”
I set my jaw and really focus, starting to get marvellous and perfect on all moves. I feel like a god. But by the end, Baz still wins. I’ll have to play dirty this round.
I stick my hand into my pocket and gather a small piece of cake into my fingers. When Baz turns his head to check in on me, I bring my hand to his mouth. His face is hot from the exertion; his cheeks flushed ever so slightly. He looks shocked for a minute and then I feel his tongue running over my fingers. He brings my pointer and middle finger into his mouth, sucking on them. I groan, hoping the loudness of everything will drown it out. He grabs my wrist, dragging my fingers away, leaving a trail of spit running down his chin along with excess frosting. Maybe this wasn’t a good idea.
I watch his tongue dart over his mouth as he tries to gather all the frosting. I take my other hand and mop up the spit and the leftover frosting, smearing it on his lips, then I kiss him.
“I told you cake pockets are good for something.”
And then I look back to the screen as if nothing ever happened. As if I don’t have a stiffy in an arcade. This is going to be a long night.
Baz chooses Since U Been Gone by Kelly Clarkson (he’s a sucker for early 2000s music, but he won’t admit it), and we’re both in X-Games mode. I try incredibly hard and am relieved to see that I won. I throw my arms up in the air in victory. I’m so bloody hot in this jacket.
The screen flashes FINAL ROUND, and I’m so confused. Do I have to dance again? But out of the speakers plays a song that I know would never be included in any DDR game—my song with Baz from Watford, Into My Arms by Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds.
Baz holds out his hand to me, pulling me into his chest. I’m just short enough that he can place his head on the top of mine. I smell him: cedar and bergamot, sweat and cake frosting. My favourite combination. I don’t ask how he did this because the answer is obvious. Instead, I sway with him. It allows me to catch my breath after three vigorous songs; I’m sweaty everywhere. I haven’t heard this song in a while. Baz and I have been so busy that we don’t find time to dance in our kitchen anymore. This was our first song, and now we have dozens. It makes me tear up, like it always does.
I look at Baz, and he’s teary eyed too. We stare at each other until the song slowly ends. I glance at the screen, reading my next clue:
“Back where it began, you will find,
A friend that helps you to get by.
Find this friend for a special treat,
I promise it will be sweet.”
“Before we go, can we play on some of the machines?”
Baz sighs dramatically, but I know he wants to play too. “I guess.”
I drag him over to the Mario Kart machine. The left side of Baz’s mouth quirks up and his eyes narrow.
“Get ready to lose, Snow,” he threatens.
I roll my eyes climbing into the driver’s seat next to him. He hands me a credit card looking thing and we both tap it on the screen so we can play.
Baz is an unstoppable force in Mario Kart and I’m pretty sure that he made it so he would win, but three games later, I’m still having fun.
By the fifth, I finally win.
“We are going to have so many tickets to cash in!”
I hear Baz sigh. “Simon, this is all magic. We aren’t actually winning real tickets.”
I frown. “Oh…”
“But you can cash these in at home. I have a present waiting for you.” I watch as he raises an eyebrow. His hand finds its place on my thigh.
“A present or a present?” I say, trying to wink, but end up blinking both my eyes.
Baz shrugs, leaning closer into me. “Definitely a present.”
His fangs pop out and I feel them scrape up my cheek as Baz licks me like a lolly. I shudder. I dig into my pockets and put some frosting there. Baz moans as he licks it off my face.
I think for a second, is he going to bite me here? Merlin… He doesn’t, but I can’t help and get excited. It feels like I’ve been waiting years for him to sink his teeth into me. Maybe I should be more upfront about it; Baz has been against it so many times before. Maybe for my birthday, he would. My twenty-fifth birthday. We’re in a good place now and—
“Cake pockets really are good for something.”
I. Baz breaks away from me with a wicked smirk and I blow out a frustrated breath. I mean, obviously they’re good for something (cake pockets, I mean), but I can’t pretend that the last couple hours of activities with Baz haven’t gotten me a little hot and bothered. That and the fact that he’s keeping his cool by being so focused on the scavenger hunt is only making it worse.
I’m also hyper-aware that I’m still carting around a sparkly vampire dildo in a birthday bag, which is half funny and half weirdly erotic. Mainly because it’s reminding me that I have my very own vampire dick attached to my very own vampire right here, and I haven’t been able to do anything about it.
I pull him back into me and put my mouth against his ear. “But what if I wanted to cash in these tickets now?”
Baz hisses and his body goes taut. “That’s not in the schedule, Snow.”
“Fuck the schedule.” I bite at his neck. “You made it, you can change it. Come on.”
He groans. “You’re insufferable.”
“But is it working?” I pull back to look at him. “You look so fucking fit in that suit.”
I think I’ve won when he gets the look that means he’s blushing.
“Erm, the problem is, it’s not time to go back to the flat yet, though,” he says, looking even blushier. “So—”
“So?” I raise my eyebrows at him.
He looks at me. “Are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting?
“I mean…” I shrug.
I’m definitely in over my head a little bit. More than a little bit. Baz and I don’t really have that many hangups about sex anymore, but we’ve never done it anywhere even remotely public. Once we forgot to close the living room blinds before he gave me head on the couch. This is definitely a few steps up from that. But I have so much adrenaline in me right now I don’t think I care. If I can just get Baz on board…
He’s still looking at me. Watching the gears turn, as he says. I grab his lapels in my fists and lean up to kiss him.
“Yeah,” I say into his mouth. “If you want to, I want to.”
He doesn’t say anything immediately but I can feel him harden against my thigh. I laugh.
His grip tightens around my waist. “Fine. We have a little extra time anyway.”
Then we stand there like complete knobs, looking around for… well, a place to go have semi-public sex. Which now that I’m actually thinking about it, like, logistically, seems like it might be a lot harder to do than I realised.
It’s also making me a lot harder than I realised. That’s pretty unexpected. I wonder if I’m just feeling a little reckless from this whole crazy day or if I might actually be into this.
I look at Baz but he’s looking towards the back. When I follow his eyeline I see what it is: a narrow corridor that leads to the loos. Worth a try.
Of course the toilets are multi-stall (although I don’t think Baz would much fancy getting head in a loo anyway) but the corridor continues and branches into a T at the end. There’s not much to see in either direction—just a few doors, probably to storage closets. I make an executive decision and head left, walking until we reach the dead end.
“How do you want to do this?” Baz murmurs. He sounds nervous, but when I glance down I can see the outline of his erection against his thigh.
Merlin, he’s so bloody fit.
“I guess a lot of spells?” I say. Then I remember what he said earlier about needing his magic for later and I revise. “Or I mean, just do what you can if you want to save some for later.”
“I can manage,” he says, pulling his wand out of its holster (dead sexy).
He casts Nothing to see here and Sound off!, which should take care of anyone being able to see or hear us. People could still walk down here, but I decide not to worry about it. I’m twenty-five now. I can deal.
As soon as he gets his wand back in its holster I push him backwards. He makes a startled noise as his back bumps against the wall and another one as I bite his lip.
“Circe, Snow,” he says around my mouth. “Be careful.”
“Too late,” I say. “I’m about to blow you in an arcade corridor. The ship has sailed on careful.”
Baz groans like it’s only just occurred to him what we’re actually about to do, and then he’s kissing me back and I’m on fire. My stomach is wild with butterflies and I’ve gone from having a semi to being fully hard so fast I feel like I might pass out. My tail is desperately trying to thrash its way out of my trouser leg. Baz must be able to feel it, because he slips his hand down my waist and closes his hand around its base.
I shiver as he squeezes, rubbing his thumb up and down. (He figured out pretty fast how to touch me so it doesn’t feel weird. And it’s been years since he’s tried to pretend that my monster bits don’t turn him on.)
“Do you want to let them breathe for a bit?” he asks, meaning the monster bits. His voice is already deep and raspy, which means he’s really turned on. I love knowing all his tells.
I nod, and he reaches for my trousers flies as I wriggle out of my coat to let my wings stretch a little. We’re both breathing hard as he gets my trousers open. He’s so into it he doesn’t even snark about the cake mess. As soon as he’s wriggled my trousers down a little, my tail snakes its way out and winds itself around his wrist. Baz looks like he might pass out.
“Oh, Merlin,” he moans.
I let the tail do what it wants. It mostly just contributes positively to these situations—it’s kind of like having another arm, if that arm was connected to the most primitive part of my brain and had very specific ideas about what it wants (like, sexually). It’s a little embarrassing sometimes, but it’s fine.
Anyway, Baz has never complained about it. He’s definitely not complaining now, as my tail lets his arm go and reaches up to try to wind itself around his throat (a classic tail move).
“Can I touch you?” he gasps.
“Fuck yes, please.” His hands are already grabbing me pretty much everywhere, but I appreciate that he always asks before going for my dick. It’s hot.
He’s barely gotten his hand around me when we hear whistling coming from the main corridor.
Baz freezes. My wings snap closed against my back. The whistling gets closer, and a second later, someone wearing a maintenance boilersuit and a hi vis vest rounds the corner and heads down the corridor in the opposite direction. They disappear into one of the doors and Baz sags against me.
“Circe, that was close.”
“We’re spelled, babe. We’re fine,” I say, but my heart is racing.
I’m also still hard.
Huh.
Baz notices a second after I do and glances down to where his hand is still wrapped around me.
“That didn’t put you off at all, did it?”
I shrug. Apparently not. (Like, at all.) I’m still trying to decide if I should be embarrassed about it when Baz grabs the back of my neck and smashes his mouth against mine.
“So hot,” he growls, most of it getting lost in the kiss. “Who would have guessed?”
The kiss is messy and uncoordinated, not very Baz-like at all, but he gets like this sometimes when he’s desperate. I love it.
I love him. Always, but especially right now—with his hand down my trousers in a sort of public space, trying new things with me because it’s my birthday and I was bold enough to take a chance and he wants to take chances with me. What more could I ask for?
“I still think we might want to hurry,” Baz says, breaking off a little. “Just in case.”
“Yeah.”
I know what he means. I knock my tail out of the way and reach for his trouser button, shimmying his pants down along with his trousers for better access. When I get a hand around him he’s hard as a rock and wet at the tip, but I take my hand out to spit in it anyway because I know it drives him absolutely mental. He groans and his rhythm falters for a second.
The fangs will be out any second now.
Then Baz leans forward to kiss me again and I hear them pop.
Five years ago that would have been a dealbreaker, but we’ve learned a lot about vampirism since then, and Baz has learned a lot about himself (like, emotionally). He doesn’t have a meltdown anymore if he accidentally nicks me with a fang, although he still gets weird if I ask him what my blood tastes like, and he hasn’t come around to the idea of actually biting me (yet).
Now, he gives me one last toothy kiss before breaking off to let us both breathe a bit. Things are really heating up, and I can feel how flushed I am. Over the sound of our fists and Baz’s low moans, I can hear vague arcade noises, reminding me of where we are.
In a corridor, right behind the car racing games and the Claw.
Merlin and Morgana, what a day.
Heat is climbing in my gut and my vision is going fuzzy around the edges. My tail has a death grip on Baz’s thigh. He reaches around me with his other hand to grasp my tail at the base, digging his thumb in at just the right place, and I come so fast and so hard that I almost pass out.
“Bloody hell,” Baz groans, tightening his grip around my waist to keep me upright.
He kisses me and kisses me, murmuring “Yes, love, yes” against my neck until I stop shaking.
Finally I look down. “Holy shit.”
It’s a right mess down there, what with the drying-up cake frosting and very-much-not-dried-up come. And it’s about to get even messier.
I look up at Baz as I start stroking again. His face is soft and pained-looking, and his cheeks are puffy with fangs. I’ve learned that he makes little animal noises the closer he gets to coming. He’s making them now, whimpering softly under his breath as I twist my hand over his cock.
“Like that?” I ask. Even though I know, I like hearing it.
“Yes, please—Simon.”
I also like that—the moment he switches over to my real name. Once that happens it’s just a rush to the finish line, and this time is no different. A second later, Baz tenses and comes into my palm with a low growl.
“Fuck.” He looks down and starts laughing. “Seven snakes, Snow. You’ve ruined us.”
J. I chuckle. I can see Baz's pretending to be annoyed, trying to pout, but he can't stop laughing.
I lean forward and kiss his forehead, tucking him back into his pants and pulling his posh trousers up. "I love you," I say, soft. "You never cease to amaze me."
"Because we just had semi-public sex in an arcade?" he mutters, raising an eyebrow.
"Yeah." I shrug. "But also, because the night has been incredible. Seriously, you didn't have to plan such an elaborate thing…“
"It would be more elaborate if everything had gone according to plan," Baz says, switching into business mode. He checks his watch, adjusts his suit and then helps me tuck my wings and tail back into place. "Alas, we should get going, Snow. The night is short and I have another, much more elaborate plan to put into action."
I grin, a shiver running down my spine. "What are we waiting for, then?"
He spells away the mess (most of it, anyway—I think the cake stain in my trousers is beyond magickal cleaning) and then we're off, arms linked, trying our damn hardest to not look like we just got each other off. (It's a valiant effort, though I don't think it's working.)
"What was the last clue, anyway?" I ask, sheepishly. Baz rolls his eyes and tsks.
"Of course you weren't paying attention," he says, his voice full of feigned disappointment. "I should make you dance again."
"Oi! It's not my fault I was distracted," I say, lightly elbowing him on the side. "You were right there, all sweaty and dishevelled, looking like pocket cake waiting to be eaten—"
He hums. "It's my fault you forgot your clue, then."
"Pretty much, yeah."
I don't mention the fact that he's even more dishevelled now—which is my fault, sure, but we needed to take that edge off if we want to see the end of this hunt.
But, Merlin… I'm not sure it helped. At all. I still feel hot and bothered even though I just got off. In fact, the circumstances make it so I'm even more turned on than before, if that's possible.
And Baz… just looking at him could get me going again. His fangs are still out, flashing when he smirks at me.
"Speaking of cake," he says, as I stare at his mouth. "Back where it began, you will find, a friend that helps you to get by."
I frown. “What?"
"The clue, Snow. Aren't you listening?" He snaps his fingers in front of my face, and I get the sudden urge to bite them. "Find this friend for a special treat, I promise it will be sweet."
“Back where it began…” I rack my brain, trying to figure out what this could be—it has to be a meaningful place for us, like many of Baz's previous clues have been. Our room back at Watford, maybe? That's where we spent our whole childhood together. Though it would take us too long to get there, and it's already late.
Maybe Pitch Manor, then—that's where we spent our first night together together…
A lightbulb goes off in my mind, then. "The restaurant! Of course."
That has to be it. It's where the night started, after all—or, at least, it's where I was supposed to get my first clue.
"Oh?" Baz's smirk grows sharper. "Lead the way, then."
The restaurant is crowded when we get there, and the waiter tells us all tables are booked for the night. Baz sighs, rubbing one hand over his face. Then, I spot someone waving at us from the other side of the room.
I pull Baz by the elbow towards the tiny corner table, grinning as an enthusiastic (and likely very drunk) Shepard waves us over while Penny rolls her eyes.
She springs out of her chair to meet me halfway for a hug—and a tight one, at that.
"Happy birthday, Si," she says, her voice muffled by my shoulder while my own face ends up somewhere in her mop of curls.
"Thank you, Pen," I say, pulling back just enough that I don't get her hair in my mouth. "So good to see you. I see you were recruited for our scavenger hunt as well, huh?"
She rolls her eyes again, though now there's a smile on her lips. "Sort of. I'd really rather you two would leave me out of your bedroom antics—"
Baz kicks her in the shin, lightly, and I snort.
"—But," she goes on, glaring at him. “Basil said it was special. And my job was just to deliver something."
Penny turns with a flourish, then points at the cardboard box on top of the table. My jaw drops.
"Is this it?" I ask, peeking at it. It looks slightly beaten up, to be honest. "A sweet treat—but I already had cake today!"
"So what?" Baz asks, a smile dancing around his lips. "When has that ever deterred you from having a second cake?"
I wink at him. "You know me so well, babe."
Penelope clears her throat, looking slightly nervous.
"I should warn you," she starts, placing one hand over the box's lid before I can get to it. "That we may or may not have had a little accident."
"Bunce." Baz pinches the bridge of his nose, the smile gone from his face. "For fuck's sake, you had one job."
"Actually," Shepard chimes in, hiccuping. "I had two jobs."
"Yeah, and one of them was to not muck up my job," Penny scolds him, one hand on her hip. "And you failed. Spectacularly."
Shep throws his hands up. He turns to me, apologetic. "Sorry, mate. I had a bit too much to drink—"
"You're sloshed, Shepard," she deadpans.
"Yeah, my bad. Got into a drinking game with some ogres. Did you know they have a much higher alcohol tolerance than humans?"
"Who would have thought?" Baz says in a dangerously low voice, giving Shepard his signature I'm having violent thoughts about you look. (It's a look he usually reserves for me—I have to suppress a pang of jealousy.)
Shep hangs his head. "My bad. We did our best to fix it, anyway."
"I did what I could," Penny shrugs. "At least it's still edible."
"At least," Baz repeats, weakly.
I lean in and kiss his cheek, smoothing over the crease between his eyebrows with my fingertips. "It's alright, babe. I'm sure it's delicious."
He sighs, sitting down at the nearest available chair. Then, he gestures for me to do the same.
"Let's take a look at it, then," I say, a rush of anticipation running in my bloodstream.
I lift the lid… then burst out laughing.
“What the fuck." I can't breathe. Baz has an amused glint in his eye, though he's still pretending to sulk; Penny shakes her head, and Shepard wheezes with laughter.
The cake has a very peculiar—and disturbingly familiar—shape. It doesn't look like it fell or anything; whatever spells Penny cast, she was able to fix it almost completely.
Well, I suppose Baz does love my pectoral muscles—he never misses an opportunity to squeeze them. But this…
"This is my chest! You had someone make a cake in the shape of my fucking tits!"
"Not just anyone," Penny grins. "Lady Ruth volunteered for the job."
I gape at Baz. "I can't believe you made my grandmother decorate a cake shaped like my fucking tits."
"It was her idea, actually," Baz laughs. "Turns out, Nana Salisbury has read the classics."
I frown, still laughing a bit, then inspect the cake more closely.
I stop laughing.
There, just below one of the pecs, are two puncture marks surrounded by red frosting. It looks like—
Like—
My brain shuts down. I can just vaguely hear the others giggling while I try to process what I'm seeing. There's no way this means what I think it means—what I want it to mean. I look at Baz, and he raises an eyebrow at me, tauntingly. Almost expectant.
"Is this—" My mouth is dry, and I can't find words. "Does It mean—are you really…?"
"What, Snow?" Baz leans back in his chair with a smug smile. "Use your words."
Merlin, Morgana and Methuselah.
He really is going to bite me tonight.
I'm short-circuiting. It takes all of my remaining brain power to remind myself that we're at a crowded restaurant, sitting at a table with my two best friends, and it would be highly inappropriate to pounce on Baz right now.
"Let's go home," I say, pulling at his sleeve. "Now."
"Easy there, Snow." He laughs, darkly. "You've still got quite a few clues to find."
"How many?" I ask, breathless. If I thought getting off with Baz in the arcade would do anything to dampen my need for him, I was incredibly wrong.
"About nine," he says, thoughtfully. I grunt. "But only the next one is really important."
"Alright, fine." I look around, trying to focus on the task at hand, but my eyes keep going back to the twin punctures on my tit-like cake. "Where is the clue?"
"So much for requiring minimal thinking skills," Baz says, shaking his head. I grunt again. Seriously, I'm this close to pulling him by the collar of his fancy shirt and—
"Take a second look at the cake, Simon," Shep says, helpfully.
"Oh! Of course." I pull out my looking glass.
I notice, then, something I didn't see before: though there are moles and freckles scattered over the tits—just like my chest, embarrassingly—they're not all accurate. Which I guess doesn't have to mean anything, but Baz is nothing if not a perfectionist.
I raise the glass to my eye and everything becomes very clear.
There are dots connecting the moles, glowing in that yellow-ish light to form a trail across the cake. It parts near the puncture wounds, leading to twin Xs in red over each mark.
"Fuck's sake," I chuckle, shaking my head in awe. "It's a fucking map!"
"Voilà," Baz says with a flourish of his hand.
"Merlin, you're such a swot," I say, leaning in to kiss him. Shepard whistles.
"Enough," Penny says, reaching across the table to smack me in the shoulder. I laugh, covering Baz's face with kisses. "Seriously, get a room."
"I intend to," I tell her. My chair scrapes against the floor as I scoot back, urging Baz to get up.
"The cake, you numpty," he laughs.
"Oh, right." I pick up my cake—more like two cakes mashed together—and make for the exit. "Bye!"
"Goodbye, Simon!" Penny says, waving, at the same time Shep shouts, "Use protection!"
I just give him the finger.
If anyone asked me how I thought today would go, I could have guessed there'd be some delicious cake and mind-blowing sex.
However, never in a million years would I imagine Baz and I running across busy London streets carrying a bag stamped with Edward Cullen's face (inside of which there's a sparkly vampire dildo), a cake shaped like my own fucking tits, a cursed looking glass and Merlin knows what else Baz has stored in his jacket pocket.
I'm starting to realise I should have paid more attention to the map, but I remember it enough to know we're headed in the right direction. The starting point was the restaurant, circling around the neighbourhood in a route that was unnecessarily (and purposefully) complicated. I can tell Baz was trying to throw me off, but I've come to know this part of London too well to fall for it.
From here, I could just take the next few streets over to our place. I know that's not where we're supposed to go, though. And if Baz tells me this next step is important, then who am I to contradict him?
Even though I'm dying to get home already and just have my way with him. Let him have his way with me. If this whole hunt is any indication of how committed he is to making today an unforgettable experience, then I can't even begin to imagine what he's planned for the second act.
My heart is pounding. I'm basically jogging at this point. Just the thought that Baz might finally, finally bite me tonight, Merlin help me…
I'm sure I'd be going off if I had an ounce of magic.
I am, in a way. My tail is trying to break free from its confinement, almost ripping through my trousers. I can feel my wings (and my dick) twitching. And Baz won't stop smirking at me, a mischievous glint in his eye, flashing his fangs every time I think I've got my body under control.
Finally, I break. I pull him into the nearest alley and crowd him against a wall, as best as I can while holding a chest-sized cake.
"You gonna do it?" I ask, breathing heavily. "Bite me? Tonight?"
"Patience is a virtue, Snow," he drawls, without putting magic into the spell. I almost wish he would—then I might survive the walk to our apartment.
I growl, trying to get closer. Craning my neck to try and reach him, though I can barely get to his chin.
"But will you do it? Really?" I ask. I'm desperate. I feel like a drowning man clinging to the last rotten pieces of a raft.
Baz doesn't take pity on me. Instead, he just smirks—again, maddeningly—and licks his fangs.
"If you earn it," he says.
I want to throw everything up. I want to give myself to him right here. But Baz would never bite me in a dirty alley; not for the first time, not after all the effort he's put into this night.
This is what's driving me crazy, I think. The fact that he put so much thought into it. Which means he must've been thinking about it for a while—that he wants this, maybe as much as I do.
"Right," I nod, holding his gaze. "I'll work for it, then."
I check the map one more time, then we rush towards our first-last stop—I recognise the place immediately, even before we get there, because there's a small crowd gathered in the middle of the square near our building.
We cut through the crowd, careful not to let the cake suffer another fall tonight, and I already know who's gonna be at the centre.
Jamie has taken being a street magician as a hobby in his free time—much like I did, this is the way he found to be close to magic after he lost his. Now, he stages small, mostly improvised shows every other day, anywhere in London where he can get someone to watch.
(He and Shep also run a YouTube channel together, dedicated to conspiracy theories and cryptic encounters. It's sick.)
Tonight, he's dressed in a long, deep blue robe decorated with stars, plus a pointy hat and an undoubtedly ancient staff. That's what gives away the trick, for me—if he's Merlin, then that means Excalibur must be planted somewhere near.
(This is one of his most successful tricks—I lend him the sword at least once a week just for this show.) (Technically, though, it's his sword too, so we sort of have shared custody.)
I manage to get to the front, and sure enough, the sword is sunk into a large rock. Jamie is talking to the crowd, encouraging people to try and pull it out.
"Come, peasants, for one of you might be worthy of the crown of England, should you wield the legendary Excalibur!" He gestures widely, and everyone claps for those who go and make an effort.
Baz volunteers to try, and I watch as he goes up to the stone and props one foot against it for leverage. Jamie gives him a small nod, looking over his shoulder to meet my eyes, but he doesn't call me over just yet.
Christ, I need to get a better angle. Can't miss an opportunity to see Baz show off his vampire strength—the way the muscles of his arm flex and his face goes hard with concentration almost makes me swoon.
Tonight, he's putting a bit of real effort into it, too—a crack runs through the stone, and yet the sword doesn't budge.
(People are definitely filming now. I would too, if my hands were free.)
Baz shows off his empty hands, shrugging at another failed attempt. I wonder if he'll be able to pull the sword after tonight—by then he will have a bit of Salisbury blood in him…
I don't get a chance to dwell on that thought, though, because he's already coming back and now Jamie is gesturing at me to come forward.
"Make way for the birthday boy!" he says, gesturing grandly with his staff.
"It's Birthday Man," Baz and I say in unison. Then, we look at each other and burst into laughter.
Jamie just urges me to take a hold of the sword. Like Baz did, I prop one foot up against the stone, though it's just for show—I could simply give Excalibur a tug and it'd come clean off the stone like a knife cutting through butter. The people like it better this way.
"Actually," I tell Jamie, holding the sword's handle with both hands, "you can call me 'your majesty,' too."
The crowd whoops and claps when I pull Excalibur out of the stone effortlessly, and Jamie proclaims me "The one true king."
"Happy birthday, man," he says, giving me a tight hug. "Enjoy your sword!"
"Thanks, Jamie!" I say, already backing off his makeshift stage.
Everyone wants to take a look at the sword, to ask me what's the trick, and I'd usually stay for a few selfies, but tonight I have no time to spare.
Baz carries my cake while I turn the sword in my hands. "What do we need Excalibur for, anyway?" I ask Baz, just to make conversation. (And also to distract myself from the growing heat in my belly.)
He turns a perfectly arched eyebrow to me, which just stokes the fire. "Use your imagination, Snow."
"Oh, I am," I say. Namely, I'm imagining a scenario that includes the sword, my tiddy cake and Baz licking my real tits.
I start walking faster.
K. “Lucky for you,” Baz says as we hustle back to the flat, “that the next clue was a stop by the flat anyway to offload all this stuff.”
“Did you really plan that, or are you just tired of carrying around the Edward Cullen dildo bag?” I wave it in his face and he swats it away.
“You got me,” he says dryly. “I’m fucking sick of looking at that monstrosity against the backdrop of my brilliant birthday plans. Fucking Fiona.”
The sun has already set, and the last of the lingering light fades around us. Streetlights flicker to life and cast our shadows far out around us as we walk. Dinner feels ages away. Eight more clues, Baz had said—well, he’d said nine, but we just did the “important” one—as much as I am impressed with him, I’m not sure I’ll make it through them all. (Not just because I want to skip to the sex and the biting—if we keep this up, I’m simply going to collapse of exhaustion.)
“Are you sure we can’t just skip to the end?” I whine. Baz is on his phone, tapping away with one hand while he carries the cake in the other—I guess to check on the next clue’s status with whoever else he roped into this plan. “I know you worked hard on this, but I’m going crazy here.”
“What happened to you working for it?” Baz says, giving me side-eye. He bites his bottom lip a bit at the corner as he considers it, though. (His fangs have retreated, but I’m still thinking about the way he flashed them at me earlier. The way he’s going to finally fucking bite me tonight.) “I did build in a contingency plan for if it ran too long,” he finally admits. “I suppose we can always revisit the rest later.”
“Yes,” I say. “That. Let’s do that. A great date for some other time.”
“Don’t sound too disappointed,” he deadpans. Then he gets a wicked look on his face, one that does not help one bit with my impatience. “After all,” he purrs, “the last thing I want is to tire you out too much before we get to the rest of the evening.”
Jesus fucking Christ, we need to be home already. Hours ago.
Finally, finally, we arrive at the door to the flat. It takes every possible bit of self-control I have not to shove him against the door and stick my tongue down his throat right now—thankfully, our hands being full helps me not ravage him instantly. As soon as we’re inside, though, I’m already grabbing the cake out of his hands and rushing to the kitchen to set it down.
“Circe, Snow, where’s the fire?” he calls after me, but I hear the laugh in his voice. He follows a moment later, grabbing the offending gift from Fiona off the counter and giving it a clearly conflicted look.
The cake is safely laid on the counter—I peek inside the box to make sure it retained its shape (their shape, Christ) during the walk, which it has. The red icing used to make the bloody spots has sweated a bit in the summer evening, glistening in a way that reminds me again of what we’re back here for. I hold up Excalibur. “What should I do with this?”
“Leave it here, for now,” Baz muses, still studying Fiona’s gift. “We won’t need it until later.” The conflicted feelings have clearly given way to some fondness, but still he takes the bag and unceremoniously tosses it back into the living room, where it bounces off the couch and onto the floor.
“Hey! Don’t break it,” I say, sticking the sword in the counter next to the cake. (It’s only fitting.) “It was so considerate of Fiona to give it to me. Proof she doesn’t hate me as much as she says she does.”
“Snow, I am begging you,” Baz says lowly, crowding me against the kitchen counter, “to stop fucking talking about my aunt.”
He takes my face in his hands and shuts me up with his mouth on mine.
This isn’t the quick-and-dirty desperation of the arcade corridor. This is deliberate, and slow, and familiar. I used to think that this wasn’t my life to have Baz, to have the truest love of any of my lives—now, standing in our kitchen, surrounded with gifts and silly cake and photos on the fridge, with Baz pressing into me like we have all the time in the world, because we do—I wonder how I could have been so blind.
Then Baz gets his hands behind my thighs and in one move lifts me up onto the counter, and I’m not wondering much of anything. I gasp into his mouth, and he grins.
He gave me such a hard time about me getting cake on this fancy imported Italian suit he made me wear, but he’s not being especially careful himself as he undoes my shirt buttons one by one. (I’m doing an even sloppier job getting his undone, but I am nothing if not persistent.) When he gets it fully open, he leans back just enough to take me in, his stormy grey eyes roving across my chest. “I must say,” he says, sounding a little breathless, “that the resemblance is uncanny. Lady Ruth is truly an artist with icing.”
“I’m begging you,” I echo his earlier words, “to stop talking about my grandmother.”
Baz leans over and dips his finger in the cake’s icing, and swipes across my mouth with it. Leaning in close, he whispers, “Payback.” He licks the sugar from my bottom lip. Him and his fucking sweet tooth.
The taste of Baz and buttercream fills my mouth as I bite at his lip, and the kissing is getting messier and messier, touches more frantic. His hand trails down my chest, spreading the last bit of icing as he goes. I make a very embarrassing noise when he lets my lips go, only to follow the sugary trail down with his mouth, sucking bruises into my skin. (The cake won’t have such an uncanny resemblance anymore, I suppose.)
The heel of his palm presses against my very obvious erection, and I think he’s about to undo my trousers—but at the last second he detours to my pocket. I groan. “Tease,” I bite out.
I feel his laugh reverberate against my chest, and I shiver as his breath hits my bare skin. “Impatient,” he retorts. He pulls the looking glass from my pocket and holds it up, raising an eyebrow and giving me a knowing look.
“Baaaaz, come on,” I gripe. I kiss his neck, nose softly at his cheek, in an attempt to bring his attention back to where it belongs. “I thought we were skipping the rest for now.”
He presses the looking glass into my hand. “Just one more,” he says. “I promise it’ll be worth it.”
I bite his earlobe in retribution, and he half hisses, half laughs. “Come on, Snow,” Baz murmurs. “Take a look.”
“And just what am I supposed to be looking at?”
He braces his hands on the countertop on either side of my thighs, bracketing me in, and leans forward. He has to look up at me, and he’s doing so now from beneath dark lashes. I’m getting a good view of his collarbone from this angle, and Merlin, I love him, but his face is too close to my unfortunately still clothed prick to be playing this game.
But then he answers, “What’s right in front of you, perhaps?” and he’s got that tone of voice he only uses when he’s about to make me come undone. Okay, fine, I’ll bite. I lift the glass to my eye and look through.
Even without a magickal looking glass, I would be incapable of looking anywhere but at him right now. So I let myself take a good long look. For a few moments, I’m not sure what I’m supposed to be looking at. Nothing is standing out like the previous looks through the glass, no strange doll tucked over the cupboards or invisible writing on the walls. Just Baz—Baz, with his hair falling prettily around his face; Baz, with that smile made of trouble…
Baz—with the barest hint of gold peeking out beneath his shirt.
“Is that what I think it is?” I breathe. It’s a good thing I’m sitting on the counter or I’d be weak in the knees.
Baz raises his eyebrow, smug as all hell, the best possible present I’ll ever get to unwrap. “You’ll just have to find out, won’t you?”
L. Baz steps away from me, that smug smile still plastered on his face, and leaves the room.
I jump down from the counter and follow him, cursing him under my breath.
"Baz?" I call when all I see in the living room is his discarded jacket.
"In here, Snow!”
I follow his voice to our bedroom and find him standing in front of the bed.
The light from the street hits him from behind, making it look like he's surrounded by a halo. He looks like an angel. He's bloody gorgeous, but all I can think about is how I want to unhallow him. I want to get this stupid fancy suit off him and kiss him everywhere. Anywhere he'll let me.
And I want to see what's hidden under that shirt of his.
I'm on him in one stride, kissing his neck before I realise it and trying to unbutton his shirt with a single shaking hand while the other holds the back of his head.
Baz pushes my own open shirt off my shoulders effortlessly and my wings open immediately like those 3D pop-up cards.
I'm still fumbling with the buttons (slippery little fuckers) but Baz has his hands all over me now. He's stroking the spot where my tail and my back meet and I can't think anymore.
"Fuck this!" I groan, pushing him back so I can rip his shirt off.
Baz looks like he wants to protest but the look on my face must be worth it because he doesn't.
I don't know what I was expecting when I saw gold through the looking glass, but it certainly wasn't a black lace bra. I've often said I wanted to see him wearing lingerie, but I never dreamed he'd actually do it!
"Christ, Baz," I breathe. Barely breathe. I feel like I'm going to suffocate. My cock is so hard I'm surprised my trousers can still contain it.
"You like?" Baz asks, taking off the remnants of his shirt to show off the lingerie.
There's a flowery pattern on it and it's transparent enough that I can get a glimpse of his nipples. There's a black strip of material under his pecs and more lace under it. It's dead sexy on him.
I nod like an idiot, the entirety of my blood now in my cock, leaving none for my brain.
"There's more," Baz teases, closing the space between us.
"Are you actively trying to kill me?" I choke out.
He laughs. "Not before I've had my way with you."
Baz's hand travels down my chest and unbuttons my trousers before sneaking inside. He smiles smugly when it reaches my throbbing cock.
I kiss the stupid grin off his face, his lips opening instantly against mine, welcoming my tongue inside his mouth. It's wet and sloppy and the noises we both make are deeply erotic.
I can feel the lace of his bra against my erect nipples. It's driving me crazy. I want to rip it off. I want… I want…
I grunt when he pulls my trousers down in one swift movement.
I want him. I want him so bad.
And I know he wants me too.
I rub myself against him, fondling his arse, all thoughts of lingerie or bites or birthday scavenger hunt forgotten. All I can think about is how hard he is and how good it's going to feel when he finally fucks me senseless.
Baz and I usually alternate between top and bottom, but he knows how much I like to be fucked—and even if it's technically his turn, I know he won't refuse me on my birthday. (I didn't refuse him anything on his. I hadn't planned such an elaborate evening, but it was still a memorable night.)
I thought for half a second the time had finally come—my trousers are pooling around my ankles, my tail wrapped around Baz's leg, my cock leaking all over my pants, as, I'm sure, is his. The conditions are ideal, but it looks like Baz has other things in mind because he pushes me on the bed and has the audacity to not join me.
"Baz," I whine, "I'm going to explode!"
"All in good time," he says, taking off his belt slowly, his hips swaying in a maddening way. "You can touch yourself if you want."
"I don't! I want you to touch me!"
"I will, love," he promises, opening his flies. "But I think you'll want to see this."
He takes off his trousers, revealing high waisted black lace undies that match his bra, complete with a garter belt and sheer black stockings.
His cock is strained against the fine fabric. It looks really uncomfortable but fuck, it's alluring.
"Happy fucking birthday to me," I gasp. He definitely wasn't wearing that earlier at the arcade, I would have noticed. I would have remembered. Maybe that’s the magic the glass picked up…
"When did you change?" I ask. "Actually, nevermind. Don't answer that. I really couldn't care less. Just come here."
And he does, thank magic. He leans forward, forcing me to lie back on my elbows and stands on all four above me, looking at me like he hasn't had a decent meal in days. His eyes are black with desire. Ardent. His cheeks are as flushed as they can be. He's so fucking beautiful, and he's mine. I still can't believe it sometimes.
I reach up and grab his neck, bringing him down to me, catching his lips between my teeth.
"You're so fucking sexy," I pant. "Did you really wear lingerie for me?"
"Anything," Baz breathes. "I'd do anything for you, my love."
Merlin. I almost come just hearing him say that.
"I need you, Baz," I beg while his lips travel on my chest, tongue licking around my nipples first, then my stomach, going down, down, stopping just long enough to remove my boxer briefs, finally releasing my long-suffering cock from its cotton prison.
Baz licks the wet tip of my cock and takes it briefly in his mouth, the sudden feel of his tongue on my sensitive head making me gasp and thrust my hips.
He looks up at me, a smile lost in his eyes. He doesn't say anything but I can tell his fangs have popped, which reminds me of the bite he promised and I swear, if I could possibly get any harder, I would.
My suspicions are soon confirmed.
He's being careful but I can still feel his extra teeth scraping my dick when he takes me further in his mouth, licking along my shaft, his wet lips going up and down, up and down, up and down on my erection. One of his hands is at the base of my cock, moving in rhythm with his mouth.
Baz has always been very good at giving head. Even the first time he tried it was mind-blowing. I wasn't surprised; the tosser has always been good at everything. But this time—today—he's outdoing himself.
I groan loudly, trying my best not to fuck his mouth. I want him to be in control. I like him being in control.
Baz is swallowing me whole now, and it's so fucking good. I'm so fucking close. I grip his hair tighter with every grunt I let out, my body writhing in pleasure.
My tail wraps itself around his slender waist and slips between his legs, fondling his balls, coaxing surprised moans out of him.
(I don't know how it does that. Penny said that it might be because of the magic I used to create it. That, perhaps, I can make my tail do things just by thinking about them, the way I used to do with my magic. Then she begged me not to talk about my sex life with her anymore.) (Not that I really care. It's well hot to see Baz come undone by my tail.)
It doesn't take long for me to climax after that. The combination of seeing my cock disappear inside his mouth and the sounds he makes is enough to bring me over the edge.
I release my spunk in his mouth with one last desperate thrust of my hips, crying out his name.
Baz dutifully swallows it all, and I use my still-wrapped-around-him tail like a lasso to pull him back to me.
When I can reach his face, I kiss him thoroughly and thank him.
"My pleasure," Baz purrs, lying against me and kissing the mole on my neck. The one he likes.
I think Baz came, too, when he was blowing me. The lacy underpants can't possibly hold his semen, not the way his cock was filling them, and though I can't see, I'm fairly sure I can feel it against my leg. That, and the fact that he isn't hard anymore.
"Feeling better?" he asks softly after a (too short) minute of cuddling.
I nod, kissing the top of his head.
Baz sits up suddenly. "Alright then, I'm going to wash and change quickly and then we can go!"
"Go?!" I repeat, lifting myself on my elbows.
"Yes, of course. It's still early. You still have clues. Unless you don't want your present?"
"I thought the bite was my present!"
"It's part of it. Why do you think we needed Excalibur?"
I humph and let myself fall back on the mattress.
"I was hoping you'd fuck me," I pout.
"There'll be time for that later, I promise," Baz says, running a hand on my chest, caressing it softly before bending down to lick my tits.
"What was that for?" I chuckle.
"Felt like it," Baz shrugs. "You're so fucking delicious."
He catches my growing smile with his lips, swallowing it in a tender kiss as he cradles my face.
"I love you, Baz," I say when he breaks the kiss. "This is the best birthday I've ever had."
"I love you, too. I'm glad you like it, but it isn't over. Now get dressed," he orders, standing up and leaving me alone in bed. "I'll be right back."
I revel in the sight of his lace-covered arse for as long as I can and sigh dramatically when he's well out of the room.
"Stop being such a drama queen, Snow. That's my thing," Baz calls from the bathroom. "You'll see the lingerie again soon enough. Now, get up!"
M. Baz pokes his head through the doorway a few minutes later and frowns when he sees I haven’t moved. He’s all put together again, in a sweater and a pair of soft-looking, slim-cut trousers. A proper posh boy’s casual wear. My cheeks heat up when I think about the lace on his skin just below that layer.
“Are you tired?” he asks. “We can stop for real if you’re tired.”
I prop myself up on my elbows.
“I napped earlier like you told me to,” I say. “But it’s nearly midnight. I’m trying to imagine what could possibly come next.”
Baz smirks, eyebrow jumping.
“I have a solution for that. As long as you’re good to keep going.”
He looks impossibly smug—it’s a face I used to daydream about caving in with my fist. Now, it just kind of makes me want to kiss him. (Most of his faces have that effect on me. Wanting to kiss Baz is basically my default state.)
“I’m good,” I say, heaving myself off the bed. “Really good. Let’s see this grand finale you’ve got planned. Do I have to put the suit back on?”
Baz lets me change into a sweatshirt and jeans, but makes me bring the looking glass and the sword. I sheath the latter in the magical scabbard Jamie gave me a while back. It’s no bigger than Baz’s Airpod case, spelled so that the blade disappears somewhere liminal instead. The ornate hilt is still exposed, but that’s easy enough to cover under my bulky hoodie when I pin it to my belt.
Baz grabs a duffel I hadn’t noticed hanging with the coats on our way out.
“Alright,” he says once we’re standing on the stoop. He brandishes his wand. “As I said, I had a feeling we’d get distracted tonight, so I prepared something. I’m honestly kind of glad we’re getting the chance to use it.”
I nod, gesturing for him to get on with it.
He holds out his free hand in invitation, so I take it. He gives my fingers a squeeze before he casts.
“Time, wondrous time, gave me the blues and then purple-pink skies.”
Baz looks up, and I follow his gaze. The sky in London is never truly dark, but the pale indigo haze begins to twist and swirl with new colour—blues and purple-pinks, to be specific—until it settles with the light of a late sunset.
I blink at the sky, then at Baz. He drops my hand to dig his phone out of his pocket, showing me the time: 9:22 PM. My jaw drops.
“How did you do that?”
Baz wiggles his wand hand, as if that adds any context.
“That was Taylor Swift,” I say, mouth still catching up with my brain, which is still catching up to reality.
“Indeed.”
“I love Taylor Swift.”
“I’m aware.”
“Did you make that spell up?”
“Bunce and I have been working on it,” Baz explains. “It’s from Invisible String, so it only works if you cast it while physically connected to your lover. She tested it on herself and Shepard last week.”
“Damn,” I say, shaking my head. “Is it legal?”
Baz shrugs.
“Probably not, so don’t tell her Mum. It takes a hell of a lot of magic to cast.”
I reach up and carefully brush my thumb under his eye, where faint purple stains have blossomed. It’s not an unusual look for Baz, if I’m honest—he’s never been good at getting enough sleep.
“Are you okay?”
“Peachy,” Baz says, leaning down to kiss my forehead. “Don’t worry about me. It’s all part of the plan.”
“All part of the plan,” I echo, still in awe. “Baz. You turned back time for me.”
“I did,” he confirms, a pleased smile pulling at his lips. “Happy Birthday, Simon.”
I wrap my arms around the back of his neck and pull him close, burying my face against his collarbone. I breathe in the clean smell of him as he winds his arms around my waist, waiting for the overwhelming emotions whirling around me to settle. It still throws my balance, being this loved and loving this much. It’s still hard to believe it’s real, but I’ll never stop trying.
Eventually, Baz starts pressing kisses against my jawline. His tongue swipes against the length of it, and I pull away laughing.
“You licked me again,” I accuse. Baz hums in agreement.
“You taste like birthday.” He darts forward to lick up the length of my nose.
“I do not,” I say. “What does birthday even taste like?”
“Sugar, frosting, the slow trudge towards death,” Baz says. He licks my cheek, then leans back, eyebrows furrowed as if he’s considering the flavour. “Magic.”
“Must be a Birthday Man thing,” I say. “It could be useful to draw in villains with a sweet tooth.”
“Worked for me,” Baz says, flattening his tongue to lick up the entire side of my face. I laugh, pushing him away.
“What villainous plots do you have planned, then?” I ask.
“Right, right,” Baz says, running a hand back through his hair. “The song is the next clue—if we hadn’t needed the spell, I was just going to put the record on in the living room.”
“The song?”
“Yes, and you have all the tools you need to solve this one.”
Tools. The sword doesn’t seem relevant right now, so I reach in my pocket and pull out the looking glass. When Baz nods, I hold it up and look around.
It’s faint—but eventually I spot it: a thin, golden thread that starts by our feet and unspools down the street.
“Ah,” I say. “An invisible string.”
Baz grins, and gestures for me to follow it. He hums as we walk—And isn't it just so pretty to think / All along there was some / Invisible string / Tying you to me?
The trail ends at a tall iron gate in front of an empty lot, and Baz tells me I can put the glass away. He pulls his phone out of his pocket, presses a few buttons, then enters a code into the gate’s lock. When it pops open, he pushes the gate open.
“You first,” Baz says. “You’ll have to invite me.”
“Invite you into a pit of weeds?” I ask.
“Trust me,” Baz says with a smile. I do. So I step inside.
As soon as I’m past the gate, the lot transforms. I blink up at the tower that now rises into the sky in front of me. The building is rather ominous—all grey stone and gargoyles. An attempt has been made to lighten the mood. The landscaping is colourful, and flower boxes and twinkle lights adorn every small, barred window.
I turn to Baz, eyebrows raised, and point to the tower.
“You did not rent this,” I say. “You’ve been bitching about this thing for months!”
The tower is a product of Mitali’s reforms. The Coven has gone anti-carceral, selling off all the tower properties used for imprisonment in exchange for more community-based rehabilitation methods. Baz has no problem with the politics, but he does take offence to the tower his aunt was locked in being renovated and listed on MageBnB like a run-of-the-mill HGTV tiny house.
“True,” Baz says. “But Fiona told me to get off my high horse. Plus, there’s something romantic about it: you, me, a luxury suite at the top of a tower…”
“You’re ridiculous,” I say, fighting a smile.
“It’s part of my charm,” Baz agrees. “Now, are you going to invite me in or not?”
N. I put on my best mischievous grin (which is nowhere as good as Baz’s), but extend a hand to him anyway. The magic has always understood intent as an invitation, and it lets me drag him through the gate, to my arms, to my lips, which is where I would keep him for all eternity if I could.
Unfortunately, the world (and Baz, I guess) have other plans for us, and he pulls away from me to look up at the tower. I turn in his arms to follow suit. It sits in a bed of flowers, and it’s clearly meant to be rather imposing, but the gargoyles really only manage to remind me of the ones that were witness to our kisses on Baz’s bed. I turn my head to kiss his neck, to remind him of that.
“Simon,” he sighs. I elect to ignore this and suck at his neck to leave an imprint. I’ve never managed it thus far, but it has weirdly done nothing to curb my enthusiasm. I run my teeth against his neck and bite down ever so gently just below his ear, which makes him squirm.
“Simon,” he says, rather more strangled. I did that. The joy of making him sound like this in new places (or anywhere) has never really vanished, but I understand his meaning and pull away to smile against his neck instead.
“Baz,” I whisper, lips pressed to his neck, intentionally unhelpfully.
He, disappointingly, is not swayed by this.
“The Tower of ASKDFHAJKSHDFKJAHSDH is…” starts Baz, which does jolt me out of my Baz-induced daze. I cut him off.
“Sorry, the Tower of fucking What?”
“The Tower of KSAHDFKHGAWIUGW,” he says as I laugh, quickly adding, “And please, do not make me keep saying its name.” He frowns, looking mildly annoyed. “I swear that was part of the punishment. It took forever to figure out where Fiona was not least of all because she kept saying its name past the point of helpfulness. You do not want to find out what the ‘keysmashes’ eventually devolve into.”
I kind of do, but decide to not push that point right now. “And you’ve brought me here for…” I angle. Baz’s eyebrow shoots up.
“For the next clue,” he says. “Lead the way, Birthday Man.”
I take his hand in mine and walk us through the garden towards the tower. The flowers make the cool evening air smell sweet. A glowing rosebush catches my eye. Gran has a couple like these in her garden too, mostly for garden parties, she says. We walk past the gargoyle fountain—maybe they’re cheaper to buy in bulk—and up the few steps to where a reasonable person would put a tower door instead of just drawing a detailed one on the wall, as they seem to have done here.
“Uh, Baz?” I look up at the elaborate drawing. “I don’t think the tower of KJHH…” I cut off. “Wait, how does the name thing even work? I just think of it having a name and that happens?”
“As far as anyone has been able to surmise, yes,” he nods, setting the duffel down on the steps.
“Well, the tower of UPAHHEHAHWUW seems to come with a distinct lack of usable doors. Unless…” I spread my wings and fly a quick turn around the tower, landing back in front of Baz who’s leaning against the wall. “Nope, no doors,” I say, eyeing the tower. “Though I guess I could fly us to an open window, or maybe there’s a roof hatch…”
“Or perhaps you could take a closer look at this place?”
“Baz,” I pout. “You’re making it sound as if you don’t want to spend a night on top of a roof with me.”
He laughs. “Instead of spending it with you in a suite? I wonder why.”
“Well you might not get a say in that,” I frown at the door. It even has a decorated keyhole and a handle, drawn in exquisite detail. I poke at the handle, but it remains a drawing. “Unless you’ve drawn us a key?”
I take out the looking glass to look at the door. Other than now having a string tied to the handle, it looks pretty much the same in greyscale. The string leads down the stairs and back towards the gate, but it does loop a few times around a rock next to the steps. I put the looking glass down and step down to pick up the rock. Hidden underneath it is an elaborate drawing of a key.
“Wait, you did draw a key?”
“You get mailed your key when you book the place,” he says, throwing the bag over his shoulder again. “Coming?”
I walk up the steps to him and press the drawing of the key to the drawing of the door.
O. Both the key and the door sort of shimmer against the dressed stone wall of the tower.
They remind me of the toons in Who Framed Roger Rabbit? The way they stand out, brighter yet flatter than their live-action surroundings.
Baz and I watched that with his siblings a few months ago, over a long weekend while his parents went to Portugal for their anniversary. I had big ideas about flying with Baz inside the warded grounds, but we vegged out instead when it poured for three days straight.
Baz spent most of the weekend sprawled across the sofa with his head in my lap and his three younger siblings curled around his legs. (He complained about being crowded, but kept assuming the position.)
As Jessica Rabbit shimmered across the screen, Swithin asked, “Badth? Ith Thimon your Rogher?”
(Swithin was down a few incisors.) (That’s why we were there instead of a Normal sitter. Sometimes the Tooth Fairy gets overeager about mage teeth.)
Mordelia snorted from the armchair. I’m well aware that I’m in a mixed-attractiveness relationship, but still felt a stab of betrayal when Baz answered, “Yes, Simon is my Roger.”
I leaned over and whispered into his widow’s peak. “Judas.” Baz just gave me his sauciest eyebrow, and I couldn’t hide what it did to me. Not with his cheek resting against my cock.
(At the end of the film, when Jessica promised Roger carrot cake and dragged him down her cleavage, I had to admit Swithin had a point.)
Now, as I press the drawings together, the key slides off the paper and into the lock, and suddenly the whole thing becomes a tangible door. I hear it unlock with a smooth click.
Baz leans into me from behind, his hands on my hips. “Ready, love?”
His hand grazes the hilt of Excalibur sticking out of my left pocket, and I’m grateful he didn’t go fishing in my right.
I don’t know why this feels so dramatic—it’s just a magickal AirBnB. But all my senses are keyed up as I raise the latch, swing the door smoothly open, and step into the tower.
The tower is pitch dark inside. I fumble for a switch. Just as Baz casts Let there be light, a second voice cries, “There he is!”
Baz twists out from behind me as I’m slammed into the stone wall.
“Baz!” I yell as I shove something off my chest.
“I’m all right, Snow.”
As my eyes adjust to the dim light of Baz’s spell I can make them out.
Goblins. Easily two dozen. All dead fit, with lurid blue or green skin and vibrant lips.
One goblin’s nothing, but I’ve never fought so many before. And I don’t have magic.
And they could hurt Baz.
Before I finish that thought, I’ve slashed Excalibur through the necks of the two nearest me. Their heads change in midair as they arc from their bodies, shrinking to the size of grapefruits and shading from ultramarine to mauve.
The bodies that hit the stone floor have shrunk too, and now I see.
These aren’t goblins. These are—
“ReImpcarnates?”
From somewhere behind me, Baz cackles.
ReImpcarnates gain power in the next life by dying gloriously in this one. I remember Shepard saying the other day that a clan of them was looking for a worthy killer. Who helped Baz cast the glamours?
When I had magic. they would goad me into going off to help them level up. I don’t have magic now, but I do have my sword.
And these fuckers want me to kill them.
“Death and glory!” shrill the imps through glamoured red lips, and they swarm.
It’s been years since I really used a sword. Not fencing, not the stage fighting I teach some weekends, but an actual fight for keeps.
Baz knows I miss this, and has tried before to find me an ethical outlet. Once he let me behead a deer he was about to drain, but it didn’t go well. (It was like that scene in Carrie.)
Now I’m spinning, slashing, plunging my blade between ribs, pushing off sternums with my foot to free it. The imps’ glamours drop when they die, smiling, and the bodies are about the size of well-fed housecats.
Some of the more enterprising imps have a go at Baz instead of fighting past their comrades to reach me. They’re only pests, but they look like full-grown goblins, and I don’t like the idea of them pawing at my boyfriend. (At least, I think I don’t.)
He probably doesn’t need my help—goblins are no stronger than humans, and no human’s as strong as Baz. But it bothers me that I can’t reach him with so many suicidal imposters in my way.
Something flares in my chest as a teal Harry Styles clone licks its lips and bends its mouth as if to tear out Baz’s throat.
Real goblins’ teeth are hexed. Is that part of the glamour?
I don’t want to find out.
“Baz!”
Baz catches my eye, smirks, and breaks the creature’s neck. Just like I taught him.
That’s my boy.
Suddenly there’s something I’d enjoy now more than murder.
Baz must have the same idea, because he’s crossing the distance between us, snapping like twigs any goblin-imps that get in his way.
I’m rushing towards him too. I grab the last imp by the crown of its glossy hair, yank its head back, and slit its throat.
Its shrinking body hasn’t hit the ground before Baz and I are on each other, sword dropped, mouths crashing together. We try to grind into one another but are hindered by the small corpse trapped between our hips.
Baz tosses it aside, slots his thigh between my legs, and pulls me against him by my arse. I’m rutting into him, licking and nipping his neck, scrabbling at his back.
Suddenly he pulls back, staring at my temple. That’s when I realise some of the blood covering me is my own. I’m fine—it’s just a scratch—but scalp wounds bleed like mad.
My blood trickles down my face, along the hinge of my jaw, to my collarbone. I resign myself to being methodically cleaned and patched up.
But Baz’s nostrils flare, and his fangs drop. He crushes me up against one of the stone walls, holding me up by my thighs, and he’s sucking and licking my blood from my throat.
Baz has never deliberately tasted my blood before. He’s never been so close to biting me. I wrap my legs around his waist and thrust against him—he’s got me pinned to the wall.
“Baaaz,” I whimper. I might come from this alone.
P. One of his hands grabs a handful of my leg, squeezing the meaty area where thigh meets pelvis. He pushes me harder against the stone, pulling the most embarrassing sounds out of me that I’ve ever uttered. The remaining hand slides from my arse to my leg—a very soft touch compared to the way he’s holding the other side of my body—and then to my hips.
My breath gets more laboured when his hand travels to my pectorals; he squeezes one of my tits and sucks on my jaw, then bites it. He’s gotten better at controlling his fangs, even if there’s a literal open wound right next to his mouth. And he knows what it does to me. His vampirism. Fuck. He knows well what he does to me, full stop. With my eyes closed, I whine when I remember he’s using his super strength to hold up my weight against the wall.
He takes my jaw in his hand and forces my face to the other side. He noses at my neck.
“It’s so fucking pathetic how much you’re whimpering, Snow,” he says.
He licks the side of my face that’s bleeding, his tongue gathering the blood leaking from my temple and pooling around my collarbones. My clothes must be a bloody (pun intended) mess right now. Not that I care at all. I would even consider taking Excalibur from the floor and make a bigger cut for Baz to drink more if he asked me. But he would never do that.
He tears himself from my body and stares at me, dropping his character for a second; it makes my heart flutter and my stomach jump. This is one of my favourite sides of Baz: watching him be sweet and caring when he needs to be. Checking up on me and my boundaries; never doing anything too cruel or perverse if I don’t explicitly tell him I want it. That’s something I came to notice tonight in those moments we couldn’t resist each other—when I couldn’t resist him: he never got in character. My guess is that he didn’t feel like making a scene. Too much bother. And considering how we roleplay when we do feel like spicing things up, the arcade and the quick blowie at the flat were definitely too quick for him to turn anything too kinky.
“Is it okay if we make a scene, love?” he asks, his tone too soft considering how he shamed my whining just now.
There’s barely any grey left in his eyes—they’re entirely filled with lust and want—his mouth full with teeth (again) and his cock throbbing on my arse. But he’s looking at me with so much fondness and with those droopy eyes he has for pouting that I can’t help feel that my chest is too small with how much love for Baz my heart contains. I can’t believe it hasn’t exploded. (Might as well be why I’m so plump there, so Baz can squeeze the part of my body that holds all my feelings for him.)
I take his face in my hands and pull him into me, his fangs retracted to kiss me properly. Mouth open, his tongue forces its way in; he bites my lower lip. It’s amazing how much control he’s lost today, giving into biting and licking me when he feels like it.
“Ah, yes, please,” I plead against his lips.
“You remember what to say?”
“Anathema.”
“Okay.”
His hands grope my arse as he moves my hips to grind down on his dick. I help him by thrusting down, and he moans.
“I can’t believe murder and fangs turn you on that much,” he says, the coldness of his hand finding my stomach as he gets under my shirt.
“I’m depraved, deranged, whatever. I consider killing rats as a date, Baz! The bar is really low for things that turn me on.”
He huffs. “What would I have done back in Watford if I knew you were such a whore for my fangs?” he whispers, scrapping said fangs on my neck and making me shiver.
They’re so sharp. He could pierce my skin so easily. That’s hot. He’s hot. He looks so sexy with his fangs out. So fucking good. Oh, God. I can’t even take it. Even the mere thought of Baz only sucking on them out of stress when he isn’t aware is hot. Everything Baz does is top-tier sexiness. He could be only sitting down in my clothes and I could get hard if I stared at him for too long. My prick gets even harder now at the brush of his breath on me.
“I should have bared my fangs to you in fifth year. What would you have done back then if I had shown you? Would your cock have leaked like it is right now?”
He lets go of my face to palm me through my clothes and squeezes my impossibly rock-hard cock. When I throw my head back to be able to breathe, it hits the wall.
The fucking smile he has is so smug, and I can feel it growing prouder when he’s back to attacking my neck. His tongue follows my throat as I swallow, and he brings his hand there—but doesn’t wrap it around my neck. When the restriction of air doesn’t come, I whine. He knows how much I enjoy it when he blocks my airways. Why isn’t he doing it right now?
I slip my hands into his hair, clenching my fists and urging him towards me. With the sting on his scalp and the grinding of my hips, I hope he understands what I want. I hope the way he has me moaning and rubbing myself on his still-clothed cock is enough of a cue for him to do something about it.
“I need you, Baz,” I whimper, throwing my head back to give him more access to a part of my body the most primitive side of him cannot resist. “Bite me.”
“No.”
“Wha—”
Before I get the words out, he lets my legs go, leaving me back on the floor, but he doesn’t even give me time to process or even complain, because he twists my arm towards my back and turns me around to shove me to the wall once again, with his chest pressed against me.
“What part of ‘be patient’ don’t you fucking understand?” he growls. “Are you really that desperate for being bitten?”
“Hasn’t that been clear for the past few years?” I pant, looking over my shoulder to see if I catch a glimpse of him.
His hand sneaks inside the front pocket of my jeans, the left one, brushing dangerously close to where I’m basically ripping the fabric with how hard I am, but he doesn’t touch me. He simply fucking digs out the bloody looking glass. Although, why—Why does he insist on continuing with the hunt?
“Here’s another clue,” he says, feeling proud of himself.
“Baz.”
He lets my arm go to push the glass into my hand.
“You really shouldn’t test my resistance, Snow. I get off on delayed gratification, and watching you come undone with nothing is really doing it for me. Go ahead. Find the object.”
“Fuck you.”
“You wish.”
I push him off me with my elbow, cursing him under my breath and walking back to turn around. The room is grey and dark, and I really don’t know what I could possibly find having just gotten inside. I don’t think I could find anything, not with how aroused and lightheaded I am, but I do.
There’s a cauldron in one of the corners, and there’s something glowing inside it. I walk towards it, avoiding stepping on the shrunk corpses on the floor, and stick my hand to take whatever shimmered. It’s a leather drawstring bag, light brown. Frowning, I open it by pulling at the strings to reveal its contents. I turn to Baz.
“A pearl necklace? Why would you give me jewellery? I—what is this?”
“Put it on.”
“Why?”
“Because I said so.”
“Look,” I sigh, “it’s my birthday, and I didn’t want to say this, didn’t feel like using that card, but you can’t deny me anything on my birthday. And you already left me like this.”
I point at my crotch in case he forgot he just denied me a bite and an orgasm. Bastard. I feel better when his eyes sparkle a bit when they land on my hard on. He looks back at me.
“I won’t spoil anything for you, so just put the damn thing on.”
I breathe out and do as he says.
I’m scowling at him as I bend to retrieve Excalibur from where I threw it earlier, and it doesn’t seem to erase his contentment. His hand sneaks to my back pocket when I’m next to him and he leaves it there. When he starts walking, I go along with him and he squeezes my arse.
“Stop it,” I warn him.
“Resentment isn’t a great look on you, Simon. And besides—” he says, pointing at the pearls around my neck. “Don’t you look pretty?”
My tail twitches with the comment, but I will not give him the satisfaction of acknowledging it.
“You’re a very attractive man,” he goes on. “A very delicious snack.”
I huff. “Whatever,” I say, rolling my eyes, which only makes him smile wider.
How dare he?
He stops us from walking and places his fingers under my chin to make me look at him.
“Oh, don’t be like that, love,” he says. “I’m sure you’ll like what I have for you at the top of the tower.”
“You said you wanted to make a scene. Where’s my scene, huh?”
I don’t expect him to answer, but to think how he got me into the mood for getting kinkier and just left it like that. From inside my back pocket, he grabs a handful of my tail and slides his touch along its length. Probably to get me to relax, but if he’s not giving me a tail-job, I’m really not interested.
“Just so you know, Baz, my tail is strongly connected to my emotions and I wouldn’t be playing with it when I’m mad. So, leave it alone or it’ll do something to you.”
He raises an eyebrow.
“Is that a threat?”
Q. I growl at him like I used to when we were teenagers, and Baz has the audacity to laugh at me. My tail whips through his fingers and wraps itself around his throat instead. I can feel his sharp intake of breath underneath my scaly skin. I watch him lick his lips. I lean in, holding him in place with my tail, and stop when my lips are barely a breath from his.
“Are you finished teasing me?” I whisper.
I’m so close that I can feel it when Baz grins.
“Not quite, love,” he murmurs hoarsely.
I huff, releasing my tail and letting it fall. I cross my arms and try not to pout.
“Alright then, what now?” I ask.
I’m fairly certain I sound like a petulant child, but that doesn’t make it any less irritating when Baz laughs at me.
“Notice anything different now that you’re wearing that necklace?” he asks, stepping back so I can see past him.
Oh, right.
An absolutely massive ornate spiral staircase has appeared in the middle of the room. It’s made of wrought iron, and delicate metal vines and flowers have been sculpted around the railings all the way up. It’s so impressive that I almost forget to be annoyed with Baz for being such a little cock tease. Almost.
“Coming?” Baz asks, taking a few steps towards the stairs and looking over his shoulder at me.
“Wish I was,” I grumble, and he smirks.
Nevertheless, I follow him across the room and up the twisting steps. I can’t resist reaching out to squeeze his arse as we climb. He yelps.
“Snow!”
“What?” I answer innocently, “I would’ve caught you if you fell. Plus, I dunno what you expected me to do, swinging your hips back and forth right in front of my face like that.”
“I was just climbing the stairs,” he hisses, stopping and turning to face me.
He towers over me from the higher step, so I hook my fingers in his belt loops and pull him towards me, kissing his belly button through his shirt. His fingers slide into my hair and I hide my smile against his stomach.
“Are you quite finished?” he asks fondly.
I nod, so Baz turns around and continues up the stairs. I can’t resist giving his rear one final pinch as we reach the top.
R. I can’t see it, but I know Baz rolls his eyes at me.
When I reach the top of the stairs, I’m met with a room covered in photos. All the walls, save one teal-painted door, are part of this giant collage. I step closer and realise they’re all pictures of me, and Baz, and various friends. There’s a picture of Baz kissing my cheek from last winter, when we made a snowman together. That was one of my favourite days ever.
I smile at the memory, and at the effort Baz must have put into this step of the scavenger hunt. It’s so hard resisting the urge to kiss Baz, now I’m all mushy because of his thoughtfulness, as well as still extremely horny, but I need to get through these clues fast so I can finally (finally) have Baz fuck me for real. We must stay focused.
I open my mouth to ask Baz what we’re doing here when I notice a larger piece of paper with writing hung amongst the pictures. I walk over to it, and read the clue aloud.
“A fire in the woods, a love’s birth in the ashes. That animal’s death, your evening’s pleasurable end.”
I look at Baz, confused. “Huh?”
The bastard just shrugs at me like he didn’t think up this entire thing.
I glare at him, but we both know there’s no real anger behind it.
Fire in the woods, love in the ashes, it has to be talking about our first kiss. The animal part confuses me though. I run through the events of that night until I remember.
“The deer!” I helped him summon it, and even then the idea of him being a vampire made my insides squirm in a funny way—if only eighteen-year-old Simon could see me now.
I examine the photos on the wall carefully, and it seems like they’re in chronological order so I start working my way backwards, slowly walking around the edge of the room but…
“You didn’t take any pictures that night in the woods, so…?”
“Alright, I had to take some creative liberties with this one, but you’ll know it when you see it.”
Eventually, I make it to a photo of us at our Leavers Ball. I don’t know who took it but we’re standing on the dance floor, lost in our own little world. It’s beautiful; I just have to kiss Baz.
I pull him close and press my lips to his softly. I run a hand along the sleeve of his sweater and Baz lets out a pleased sigh. Gently, so gently, I run my fingers through his hair. Baz leans into the touch for a moment before seemingly remembering what his goal is here.
He deepens the kiss, pushing against me harder until I’m panting against him.
It’s such a brief kiss before Baz pulls away again. He tsks at me.
“You were doing such a good job, Snow,” he purrs, tugging at my curls.
It makes me whine.
“What happened? You can’t resist me long enough to make it through even one level of this simple hunt?” he teases, voice low and sexy.
I’d argue, but he’s not even wrong. It’s impossible to resist Baz Pitch.
“Come on, you were so close to completing this step,” he says, cruelly stepping out of my arms and spinning me towards the wall of photos.
My eyes find the Leavers Ball picture again. I look next to it and find a photo of a deer in a forest, but there’s a poorly drawn stick-vampire biting into its neck—red ink covers half the animal and most of the vampire.
It’s so fucking funny I nearly fall over with laughter.
“Shepard insisted he could make it look realistic,” Baz informs me.
This makes me laugh harder. My sides start to ache.
“I should have known ‘working at an art supply store for a few months’ was not the qualifications he made it out to be. Unfortunately I didn’t have time to fix it.” Baz sounds so disappointed, but I can see the corners of his lips pulling up into a smile.
I’m too busy gasping for air to form a response. Each time I think I’ve calmed down I look at the picture and burst out laughing all over again.
“Alright, alright, get on with it already,” Baz says impatiently.
I pull the masterpiece off the wall and find a key taped to the back.
“I hope you know we’re keeping this,” I wave the photo in front of Baz’s face.
“We absolutely are not.” He can’t even look at the thing. “I’m burning it as soon as this scavenger hunt is over.”
“But I love it! Look at you, handsome as ever,” I point at the cartoon vampire, hardly containing my laughter.
“Just unlock the door, you monster,” Baz crosses his arms, still pretending to be annoyed.
“Fine, fine! Jeez, you’d think a man like you would know how to appreciate good art when he sees it.”
This gets a little smile out of Baz, despite how hard he’s trying to look put out.
The next room of the tower looks like something straight out of an Old Family home. The walls are covered in ornate red wallpaper, and there’s about a dozen suits of armour standing around the edges of the room. On the walls hang large paintings of noble looking men, and glass cases filled with various weaponry.
“Okay, what happens here?” I ask Baz, forcing myself not to get lost examining an especially interesting case of swords and bows. I turn to find Baz pulling a sword from the hand of one of the suits of armour. He’s got this evil glint in his eyes. I try not to think about how much that turns me on.
“Time for a rematch, Snow. En garde!” he shouts, thrusting an old, beautiful sword at me.
It’s a much nicer sword than the ones we saw at that American Renaissance fair. If I weren’t busy dodging my boyfriend’s sloppy attack I’d take a closer look at the weapon in his hand. It looks like it could be from 17th century England.
“But you insist that you won our last duel,” I counter, pulling out Excalibur and quickly blocking Baz’s next move. “So why bother with a rematch?”
“Maybe I’d like to see you lose again, Snow,” he smirks, slowly circling me.
I keep my eyes on him, flicking my sword out and nicking his trouser leg before he can stop me. It reveals a small sliver of the sheer stockings he has on underneath. I stare for a moment too long.
Baz looks at the tear, frowning, then lunges at me. He manages to slice the sleeve of my sweatshirt while I’m distracted. He lunges again, but this time I quickly deflect his blade. My wings burst from the confines of my sweatshirt on instinct. I give them a flap and watch as Baz’s pupils dilate. I think it’s only fair that I distract him a bit.
It’s more of a challenge duelling him this time (no thanks to the raging hard-on in my pants at the sight of him panting with a sword in his hands, and the reminder that he’s got lace lingerie on).
His sword skills have improved since America. He’s swifter, and as graceful as ever. There’s less thinking between each of his actions and reactions—he moves like cool water. It’s dead sexy…but he’s still losing.
I’ve got Baz cornered against a wall and a suit of armour. I move to attack but he raises his sword, guarding his face. His black hair spills forward, covering one of his lovely grey eyes.
Baz raises an eyebrow and if it weren’t for the blades between us, I’d be attacking his lips with mine.
I could let Baz win, but I don’t think that’s what he wants this time, if the smile on his face is anything to go by.
I move back, false fading—so Baz lowers his sword—then I lunge at him again, pinning him against the red wall with my blade gently pressing into the soft skin of his neck.
Baz’s breath picks up. This close I can feel the warmth of it on my cheeks.
“What, Pitch?” I tease, closing him in with my wins. “Nervous to find yourself at the end of my sword?” I grin, trying to raise one eyebrow like him, but both go up. (I’ll never master that like Baz has, but I won’t stop trying.)
“Oh my,” Baz breathes, his sword forgotten at his side. “It seems you’ve bested me, Birthday Man.” His eyes flick down to my lips.
“Seems so…” I start leaning forward, careful to manoeuvre my blade so it won’t hurt him, but keeping it near his skin, just for the thrill of it.
“Please, Snow,” he says. I feel dizzy with desire. “Just put me out of my misery.” He sighs dramatically.
“Of course,” I respond, pressing myself even closer. Baz throws a hand up behind him and grabs a wall light fixture next to his head.
Before I can reach his lips, the fixture tilts forward and the wall Baz is on opens to a dark passage.
Baz starts to fall backwards but I drop my sword and catch him. His eyes widen, then he leans up to (finally) kiss me. It’s a chaste kiss and then Baz is pulling me forward to the next level of the tower.
This staircase is wide enough that I can walk next to Baz. We hold hands, both of us a little sweaty, but we don’t mind. I rest my chin on Baz’s shoulder.
“Can’t believe you’re really gonna bite me,” I whisper against him. It feels unreal.
Baz tenses a little.
“I can’t believe you’re such a slag for fangs,” he says, still outwardly confident and teasing, but there’s an undercurrent of anxiety that he’s hoping I won’t notice.
I squeeze his hand.
“You doing okay?” I take my head off his shoulder to get a better look at him.
“I’m perfectly fine,” he says in a way that tells me he isn’t.
“Baz.” I stop walking. “Talk to me.”
“You could have made me bleed back there.”
“I wouldn’t have, I know my way around a sword,” I reassure him, but I don’t think that’s what this is really about.
“But I’m going to make you bleed, later…” he trails off. I wait for Baz to gather his thoughts. “Sorry.” He shakes his head. “It’s just, the closer we get to it—it’s still hard for me, Simon.” He casts his eyes down as if he’s ashamed.
“Baz,” I say, my voice instantly soft. His eyes stay fixed on the stones below us. “Baby.” I gently tilt his chin until he’s looking at me. “We don’t have to do this, we can just finish the scavenger hunt and go to bed if you want, okay?”
Baz looks conflicted.
“No, Simon. I planned this whole thing, and made the bite your birthday gift because I want to do this for you. I want to do it for myself. And I thought if I built it up into this big thing then I couldn’t back out, I’d have to go through with it.”
“Hey, no,” I say firmly. “Baz, you don’t have to do anything.”
“I know. I know, love. But I do want this. I’ve wanted it since I knew how to want. Still, sometimes it’s hard to convince myself that it’s okay to want it. I spent so long thinking I was evil,” he must sense I’m about to argue with that because he continues, louder, “I know that I’m not, sometimes those old emotions come back up, that’s all.”
Baz smiles at me, the edges of it are dipped in sadness. I’m so proud of him and the progress he’s made with his vampirism, and I’m proud of him for telling me how he’s feeling in this moment, something we’ve both had to work on over the years.
“Thank you, for telling me, and thank you for doing all this—for me and for yourself. You deserve to have what you want, baby. You deserve the whole world.”
“You’re such a sap,” Baz fondly complains.
“You love it,” I counter, peppering his face with kisses.
S. “I do.” Baz’s voice is soft. He pulls back. He’s got that sexy eyebrow raised in challenge. “Ready for the rest?”
He knows I am.
I take his hand and he leads me through the other rooms in the tower. The clues here are just as fun as the others, just as thoughtful. One of the floors is full of helium balloons—I have to fly up amongst the rafters to find the one with a shutterfly inside. It takes a new photo of me and Baz. Another floor is spelled with whatever enchantment turned floor two and a half of the Cloisters into “bonus content.” (I bet Penny helped with this one.) The only way to solve that clue is to intercept the earlier version of Baz as he walks past in. I have to slip my house keys into his pocket without him noticing. Once yesterday’s Baz is gone, my Baz reveals that he’s been carrying the duplicate keys around all day and they’re spelled to open the next floor. Wicked.
I can tell the mood has changed, though, since Baz and I talked.
I’m walking faster; Baz is walking slower—I’m pulling him along. We both know we’re close to the end. To the reason he set this whole thing up.
“Are you really OK with this?” I ask as we climb the sixth and final staircase. I’m practically falling over my own feet, tripping over the stairs as I try and climb and look back at Baz.
“Yes.” He’s smiling. “Watch where you’re going, Snow.”
“But are you really?”
“Really, watch where you’re going.”
We’re at the top of the stairs. I hadn’t even noticed. I almost twist my ankle on the step that isn’t there, but Baz is right behind me now. He steadies me. We’re here.
The seventh floor. The place Baz is going to bite me. (The first place Baz is going to bite me, anyway. If it’s good—and it’s going to be good—we’ll probably do it all kinds of places after this, the way we have sex all kinds of places. Our house, an amusement arcade, a tower with an unpronounceable name.) (Not yet, obviously, but we all know what this is building to.)
I almost laugh when I see the place. Baz has done this floor up like a crypt. A crypt on the seventh floor.
The walls are stone. The curtains are velvet. There are two sarcophaguses, one on either side of the room. Two coffins. A huge arched window. Flickering torches, gargoyles, and—fuck me—a set of manacles, the whole deal.
“Your vampire fantasy, I believe,” Baz murmurs behind me. He’s not wrong, although I’m surprised he’s comfortable with this. (I’m surprised he’s comfortable with any of this.)
I pull my wings in tight so he can get closer—he does. His hands are on my hips, his chin is on my shoulder.
I twist my head towards him. “Is there a clue here? Or is this the end?”
Baz’s voice is soft. Close to my ear. “What do you think?”
Honestly, right now, I’m thinking about Baz chaining me up. What it would be like to strain against the iron around my wrists while his fangs dropped. I don’t think that’s what he means, though.
The looking glass is in my pocket, but I don’t need it. Most of Baz’s clues have been about us. Our relationship, particularly our early relationship. And if that wasn’t enough of a hint, I slept in this room for almost eight years. I ought to recognise it.
“Is this what you did with the place after I left?”
Baz laughs. “In a manner of speaking.” He flicks his wand into his hand and points it into the room. “As you were.”
The glamour vanishes. The sarcophaguses turn back into beds, the coffins into wardrobes. It’s our room again, our room at Watford. I can see the sun setting through the bay window.
“This is where I thought most about biting you,” Baz murmurs.
T. Tears prick my eyes at his words. As though he’s telling me how much he loves me, not talking about wanting to suck my blood in our childhood bedroom. But I guess that’s really what it all boils down to, doesn't it? Him and me. He’s always wanted me. Not just my blood. Not to satisfy some vampire craving. But because he’s always loved me. Now in this moment, and forever.
And I want him just as much, just as badly. He’s my whole world, my love, my life—my home. And I get to keep him. Suddenly, the engagement ring in my right pocket feels like it's burning a hole in my soul, demanding that I use it for what it's intended for. But I can’t, not yet. I need to show him as much love as he has shown me tonight. He needs to know how amazing he is. How I could never get enough of him. I’m obsessed with him. I was back then, and am still now. Spending eternity with Baz still wouldn’t be enough for me. I’m dead gone for him.
I sniff and lean into the coolness of Baz’s face.
“We still haven’t had a proper kiss here,” I whisper to him before I pull away. He’s looking at me with that soft look of his. The juxtaposition of him looking so fond of me here, in our room, makes my heart swell. I lean in to kiss him. He licks the side of my face. I pull back in surprise.
“What the hell, Baz?!” I squawk, rubbing the back of my hand across the wet streak he left behind. He smirks at me, like he’s challenging me to a duel. I can’t believe I’m in love with this prick.
“You’re not quite finished yet, Snow. There’s still a few more gifts,” he says in that cocksure voice of his that he uses when he’s teasing me in bed. I grit my teeth, but feel my shock and frustration ebb. I just want him to say this damn hunt is over so we can get to the good part—his cock in my arse, my mouth on his and the whole night just for us.
Baz grins at me. It’s mischievous and wide, and it makes me want to push him down on the bed, fuck the consequences. He cocks his eyebrow, and my stomach does a little flip as I feel my cock twitch. It doesn’t matter what he wants from me; I’ll give him everything and more.
I sigh.
“Okay. Fine.” I’m running my hands through my curls. Baz grabs my hand and pulls it down. His silvery grey eyes are boring into me as his hand runs down my chest slowly. I watch him, the spade of my tail flicking back and forth within my trousers, in anticipation. He stops just above my flies, and I swallow, loudly. He chuckles, voice barely a whisper, before leaning in close.
“You might want to try this… Simon.” He whispers in my ear. Before I can respond, his hand is in my left (thank God) pocket, and he’s pressing up against me. His cock is hard and he rubs himself into me. I hear his fangs pop and I can’t help it—I let out an obscenely guttural moan. I grab his shoulder, trying to press him closer to me.
It’s no use though—he uses his vampire strength to grasp my wrists with one hand, and pulls the looking glass out of my pocket with the other. It’s so hot. He’s so hot.
Ugh. How can anyone be this fucking sexy?
How does he expect me to wait any longer?
“So needy, Snow.” He shakes his head, still grinning slyly. He walks backwards slowly, keeping his eyes level with mine and lowers himself to the bed, leaning back on his elbows and cocking his eyebrow. “Well? What are you waiting for?”
He pushes himself up onto the bed. His thumbs catch on the top of his trousers, pulling them down just an inch. I bite my lip, entranced by him, as always.
“Don’t make me start by myself now, love.”
I shake my head. I want to stare and watch and take in all of him. I can’t. I have to finish this. He worked so hard. For me.
I put the looking glass up to my eye. I look around the room, searching. Nothing pops out, nothing other than the deep nostalgia of the two of us living life around each other—me oblivious, Baz longing. Both of us, fighting. I wish I knew then what I know now.
I wish… but it doesn’t matter.
It’s my birthday. I have a birthday.
I have a Gran. And an uncle. Penny’s still here and she’s happy, healthy and in love. I’m not fighting magical creatures to the death. I don’t go off anymore. And Baz—he’s here, and he’s mine. I love him, and he loves me—and we have sex, adventurous sex even! (The arcade corridor! This tower, eventually!) It’s so much more than I ever thought I would have, growing up here. Here, at the top of the tower. Our tower.
Suddenly, something catches my attention. I spin a bit towards it, losing my balance a bit. Clumsy as always, that hasn’t changed. I zero in my focus on Baz’s wardrobe, and nearly choke on my own spit as I burst out laughing.
“Did you do this?” I’m trying to stifle my giggles. It’s not working. “This is brilliant, Baz.”
“Well, I could’ve just given you the gift, but this seemed more fitting. Look inside, you nightmare.”
I look through the looking glass again, and am greeted by the sight of a picture of a very pissed off looking polecat glowing back at me in neon yellow. I smile at the memory of teenage Simon. I was so proud of that prank, even though I had to help clean up the whole mess in the end.
I pull the handle open, bracing myself for whatever might jump out at me. Nothing happens. I know Baz is smirking at me without even having to look at him. I open the door wider. Inside the wardrobe is a black garment bag. I look up at Baz, a confused look on my face.
“But—you already got me the suit…” I say, dumbly. He just nods at me, gesturing at me to take it.
I slip the looking glass in my pocket and go to unzip it. Baz sits up straighter.
“Not here. In the bathroom—open it there. You’ll know what to do,” he says, eyes directing me to the toilet. I frown, but do as he says, taking the bag with me—which is slightly heavier than it looked hanging in the wardrobe.
“Close the door!” Baz yells at me from the bed. “I’ll tell you when you can come back.”
I rub the back of my neck. The bag smells… like leather. Like something expensive. I lean into it—Baz’s citrusy, cedar smell. I shiver thinking about his pale skin draped in black, in that lace—silky and smooth. Like him. And me—in leather. With buckles and straps… and mesh? No. Baz hates mesh—it’s definitely not posh enough. I try to picture what Baz might have me wear. Maybe the scene from earlier before was another clue. I stare at it, thinking still. I huff in frustration and pull at the zip roughly.
The first thing I see is a white envelope with my name—my first name, Simon—in Baz’s tidy cursive. It’s tucked safely in the neck of a soft black leather jacket. There might be something else as well, but my eyes are on the envelope. I pull it out and tear the top off, careful not to rip whatever is inside. A yellow piece of stationary peeks out from inside. I swallow a gasp, and my stomach clenches at the memory of my note— the note I used to almost break everything and ruin any chance at happiness for myself.
I take a deep breath and settle myself on the edge of the bathtub before taking out the paper. I ignore the envelope fluttering to the ground, too nervous about what the letter might say.
Sometimes, the panic, the anxiety, the absolute heaviness of it all, comes back. Always like a brick. But each time I handle it better. I breathe through the dark thoughts cutting through my mind, trying to pull me back to that dark place, and find the blue sky under the storm clouds. Baz sees me through it. He’s been through it all with me. Every dark moment. Every nightmare, every break down. And somehow he’s still here. He chose me and I know now more than anything else that I love him. I chose him too. I will always choose him. Forever.
I open the letter.
U. My hand trembles so that the yellow paper quivers in front of me. I distract myself by examining it closely. My heart sinks into my shoes when I realise that it’s not only similar to the stationary I used for my note, it’s the exact same stationary. I’m suddenly flooded with terror. I don’t understand why, on this night of all nights, Baz would want to give me a reminder of our darkest time as a couple.
My mind spirals through more and more terrifying possibilities. What if this night, all of this, what if this is Baz’s revenge for that infamous day, that devastating note? What if he spent this entire night cranking up all of the love and lust I feel for him to a feverish intensity, only to leave me forever in our childhood room at the top of a tower?
What if the last five years were the longest con in the history of long cons?
Even as I know, in my heart, that I’m being stupidly irrational, my fight or flight response is activated. I’m breathing hard, my heart is racing and my muscles are twitching.
When I recognise the symptoms of the oncoming panic attack, though, my years of therapy kick in. I close my eyes and count backwards from one hundred, focusing hard on the sound and shape of the numbers in my head to the exclusion of all else. Once I reach zero, my breathing has evened out and my heart has slowed.
I can think again. And when I think about what triggered me, I groan aloud. Why is my brain such a fucking dick sometimes? Baz has proven himself over and over. For some goddamn reason, he worships the ground I walk on. This is not a vengeful ‘Dear John’ letter, and I’ll confirm that as soon as I read the damn thing.
My fingers still tremble a little as I turn the paper over, but my nerves are immediately eased by seeing that the page is filled with words. No single line saying only, “I’m sorry.”
“Simon,” it begins, “I’m sorry.” My breath catches, but I force myself to read more. There's so much more to read. “I suspect that finding this letter on this particular paper was a little ominous for you. Please know that I didn’t do this out of malice. I did choose this stationary very deliberately, however.”
I nibble on my lip. So far this isn’t so bad. I’m impatient to know why he went to such an effort, knowing it would bring up bad memories, so I read on.
“My love, tonight you’ve seen all the dramatic and lovely parts of our relationship—from our rather unique courtship to our years of happiness. I wanted to show you just how much life we’ve lived together, and how wonderful it’s been.”
I sense a but. I bite down harder on my lip and force myself to read on. “But Simon, relationships aren’t all happiness all the time. Every relationship has its dark times and its light times. This stationary is a reminder of, I think, one of the darkest times we’ve gone through. So why did I choose it?”
I roll my eyes now. Typical Baz; beating around a bushel of bushes before he can get to the point. He’s finally there now, though. “I chose it to remind you, love. To remind you that the dark times, they’re part of our history too. They make the ‘us’ that exists today, on your birthday. And I’ve loved you through all of those times, good and bad. If I could turn back time, my love, I wouldn’t change any of it.”
I’m feeling a little congested now, and if I surreptitiously sweep a few tears away, well, there’s nobody else here to witness it, is there? He did turn back time for me tonight, and if my idiot brain had remembered that, it could have never found room to doubt him.
The letter wraps up with “Simon; through every moment of our lives together, I’ve chosen you. You are my past, my present and hopefully my future.
I will always choose you.”
It’s signed simply “Baz,” in my boyfriend’s dramatic loopy script.
I sit there on the bathtub rim and read his words, over and over again. I let myself cry, for the struggles we went through to get where we are. I cry for the lovelorn bitter teen Baz was and the angry, lonely boy I was. I cry for the people I’ve lost. I cry for the Mage. He was objectively terrible, but he was my mentor. And my father. He doesn’t deserve my tears, but I deserve to shed them. I cry for Ebb, who knew the value of heartfelt tears, and for my mum who loved me so, and who I never got to meet. I cry for myself, for all my years of struggling and healing.
And I cry my gratitude for the wonderful people in my life; Penny, and Shepard, Agatha and Niamh, the Wellbeloves and Bunces and Lady Ruth and Jamie. And Baz. Always and forever, Baz.
I don’t know how long I cry. When I look back on this in some less fraught time, I’ll probably rationalise that I’m just extremely overwrought from the intensity of the night and the painful honesty of Baz’s letter. But right now I think I just need to cry. And when I run out of tears I feel lighter somehow. Serene. Ready, for whatever comes next.
That’s when I realise that Baz didn’t leave me a fucking clue about what is supposed to come next.
I scan the letter again. Nothing. No clues, just a heartfelt confession. I turn the paper over. There’s no drawing, no diagram. The only thing on the letter besides Baz’s words is a tiny smudge at the bottom. Maybe a place where Baz’s ink-stained finger brushed the paper? He favours these old fashioned fountain pens that are always leaving ink smears on his fingers.
I let my hand clutching the letter fall onto my knee and I stare off into nothing and think. Every time there’s been a gift, there’s also been a clue. Therefore, there’s a clue here. Somewhere. I look around. It’s a carbon copy of our Mummer’s house ensuite. There’s the white tile, the old fashioned claw foot tub with a showerhead on a slim pole leaning over it and a loop of metal tubing holding up the white shower curtain.
On the little wicker side table next to the tub, I even see the familiar line of black bottles that held Baz’s posh soaps back at Watford. He still uses those same products, but the company changed the design and now the bottles are a piney green. I wonder how he got these bottles in the older style? I shake my head and smile at Baz’s ridiculously endearing perfectionism. What exactly would have been changed about the night if the bottles had been the modern style?
Then my eyes narrow. Baz does nothing without a reason. I shove my hand into my left pocket and fetch out the looking glass again. I point it at the bottles, but see nothing unusual. Then I scan around the room.
I don’t see a golden glow until I run the loupe over Baz’s letter. I look closer. It’s the smudge at the bottom of the letter. It’s glowing. I puzzle over it for a moment; it’s just a smudge, right? If an extraordinarily dark one.
As I watch, though, I begin to see layers to the smudge. The longer I hold the glass over it, the more the layers seem to rise and separate. Soon it’s clear; the smudge wasn’t a smudge. It was the lines of a verse, laid out one on top of the other until the individual words were indistinguishable.
I can distinguish them now. As they separate and lift off the page, I scan them eagerly. If I’ve calculated correctly, there are two gifts left, and this should direct me on how to get to one of them.
The verse reads,
“Bacon and warm Cinnamon bun
Green Wood Burning and stench of hot Ozone
Buttered Popcorn and milk, Brown and Sweet
All are my love, all things I’d love to eat
Strip off your clothes and before you are done
Add mine to yours, preparations complete.”
I frown over the clue. The first part is transparently obvious. Those are all things Baz has told me over the years that make up my scent: the green burning scent of my magic, the ozone stench that filled the room when I used to go off. The bacon, cinnamon buns, popcorn, and milk are all what my blood smells like to him. Then the fourth line tells me that these things are me (duh) and that they’re things he’d love to eat.
He’s told me that before, that I smell like something he’d love to eat. Then he tells me to strip. Well, easy enough. And my nakedness certainly is a step towards the happy ending I’m hoping for out of this evening.
But what does he mean by, ‘before you are done, add mine to yours, preparations complete’?
I chew on my lip as I ponder it. Add mine to yours… what in here belongs to Baz? I scan the room, and my eyes light on those black bottles. Could that be it? I close my eyes and think about returning to Watford each year, stepping into our room and taking a deep breath, searching for those scents that meant Baz to me. Cedar and Bergamot.
Add mine to yours. My eyes fly open. Add Baz’s scents to my scents, that’s what the verse means! He wants me to shower and use his products! And the preparation line bit… I can feel heat rising in my cheeks and in my belly. The shower is usually where I open myself up for him on the nights he fucks me. He’s telling me to get myself ready for him.
Finally!
I don’t waste any time, immediately shucking the clothes I donned only an hour ago (with the sword cuts, they may never be worn again, actually) and step into the shower. Once I’m there, I find another surprise. Lining the back rim of the tub, where they’d previously been hidden by the shower curtain, is a bottle of our favourite lube (it’s expensive, but Baz won’t use anything else) and a graduated set of silicon dildos shaped like vampire fangs.
I chuckle. Baz is nothing if not thorough.
The fangs were Fiona’s very first birthday gift to me, back when she’d just started tolerating me. They’re white for the most part, with graphically realistic blood drops streaming from the soft rubbery tips. The flange of each is a rich pink, made to look like gums holding the teeth.
They’re graduated in size to help the user dilate their anal passage until it’s open enough to take a full sized cock. I know a lot of folk use their fingers to do the same thing, but my fingers are thick and a bit stubby. I couldn’t get the hang of it.
I never told her, but Fiona’s gift was a godsend. Baz mocked me for it, but when I got him a matching dragon fang set (yellow teeth set in bright red gums), he had to admit that they’re useful.
I turn on the shower and take the time to lather up using Baz’s posh soap. As I glide my hands over my body, I close my eyes and let the scent fill up my senses. I feel like I’m surrounded by Baz. Like he’s in every pore, every orifice. Then I lube up the smallest dildo, and set to work.
Ten minutes later, I’m clean inside and out, and completely ready to take my boyfriend’s cock. It’s only then that I realise that he said “I’ll tell you when you can come back.” I huff. I’ve been in here for almost a half hour. How the fuck long does he think I need?
I stride to the door, but it’s locked. I roll my eyes. It figures. Baz knows me too well, he must have spelled the door locked so I couldn’t come out earlier than he wants me to.
I kick at the door in frustration, but I only stub my bare toes. And that reminds me of the clothing I glimpsed in the garment bag. Maybe Baz won’t let me come back in until I put them on?
With new purpose, I pick up the bag from where it dropped when I pulled out the envelope. The black leather jacket is only the start. There’s also a pair of soft brand new jeans and a crisp white t-shirt. The jeans look like they’ll be obscenely snug, as does the shirt. James Dean, I remember Baz calling me in America. I smirk. He dressed himself up as my fantasy, so maybe he’s decided I should be dressed up as his.
There’s a note attached to the inside of the jacket. It says simply, This jacket has been spelled to be permeable to your wings. There’s also a permanent ‘these aren’t the droids you’re looking for’ spell on it. That should allow your wings to pass through it without damage and keep them unseen by Normals.
I grin widely. That wonderful prat. He knows I’ve wanted a leather jacket, but was afraid I’d ruin it when my wings pop out without warning, as they sometimes do. And giving me the ability to go amongst the Normals without my wings origami’d to my back? What an incredible gift!
I don the new outfit. I notice that he didn’t leave me any new underwear, so I deduce that I’m to go commando. My cock, already hard after my self-care in the shower, is now throbbing. I have to manoeuvre the zipper of the jeans very carefully over it.
As a final touch, I shift the black velvet ring box from my old jeans to my new ones.
Baz still hasn’t called me by the time I’m dressed, and I wonder if I should give him a shout, tell him I’m ready. I don’t want to deal with his mocking though, if I’ve missed something I should have discovered in here. After all, there’s at least one gift and one clue left. So far, each clue has led to the next, but the clue I’ve found hasn’t led me anywhere.
I search the room, both with the looking glass and without, but I don’t find anything. Until I turn the glass towards the garment bag. There’s a faint golden shimmer near the bottom of the bag. I reach in and wrap my hand around something soft and knobby. When I pull it out, I realise it’s a skein of rope. But this rope is like nothing I’ve seen before.
Rope I’ve seen before has been yellowed or colourful, scratchy or plasticky. This rope is black as jet and slips smoothly through my hands. It’s elastic, but seems strong. It doesn’t give much when I tug on it. I don’t know what it’s for, but it’s definitely related to the next clue; it’s glowing gold when I look at it through the glass.
Finding the rope must have been the last thing I needed to do in here, though, because the next thing I know, there’s a click from the direction of the door and it swings open of its own accord. I take a deep breath and step out into the room.
V. “Took you long enough,” Baz quips before I’ve even stepped out of the en suite.
“What, now you’re suddenly in a hurry?”
Exchanging light banter like this with Baz is as involuntary as breathing. Which leaves my brain free to take stock of the big change in the room: Baz has pushed the two beds together. A stupid grin overtakes my face. Baz says it was meant to be, us not figuring things out until the end of our time as roommates, but we’ve still fallen into talking about what-ifs on a few occasions; not getting the chance to push our beds together has been one of my biggest regrets.
I don’t need to regret it any more. ‘If I could turn back time, my love, I wouldn’t change any of it.’ Me either, Baz. Having this now is so much better. Now and, hopefully, forever.
Whatever comment I was going to make about the beds dies in my throat when I look at Baz. I saw peripherally that he’s been perched at the bay window, but I’m only now realising that he’s stripped down to only his lingerie. (Lingerie! I still can’t believe it!)
“Aren’t you a delicious sight,” Baz says.
I gulp. “That’s my line.”
Baz smirks, and I’m reminded that I am the delicious one here. I mean, Baz is delicious too, of course, but I’m the one about to actually be consumed. A fresh rush of desire blooms out from low in my belly.
“Babe,” I croak, “all of this has been brilliant, but I’m seriously at my limit. If we don’t get to the fucking and biting part real soon, I might literally die.”
Baz tips his chin back, giving me one of those imperious looks of his. “Am I calling the shots right now, or are you?”
I bite my lip. It’s not a rhetorical question. Baz is giving me an out. A choice. We could do this my way—throw ourselves into the action and just fucking go for it. Or… we do this his way—with plotting and games and drama.
It’s an easy choice.
I choose him.
“You,” I say, though I hardly need to. He can tell by my body language, surely.
Baz licks his bottom lip. “Come here.”
I clear the space between us eagerly. Baz begins to lift a hand to stop me before I get too close, but I’ve already pulled up one step short to await his next command. I can tell he’s pleasantly surprised by the twitch of his brow. I grin, feeling smug about it, until his gesture smoothly turns into him pointing at the floor.
“Kneel.”
I huff, caught between a flush of arousal and indignation. My eyes don’t leave his as I sink to my knees—I know he gets off on me glaring at him sometimes. Right now, in this room, with me in leather and denim, it has got to be one of those times.
Baz hums a long note of appreciation. “Look at you,” he purrs, eyes roving over me. His cock swells in his panties. Yeah, he definitely likes me in this James Dean getup. “Who would have thought you’d be so obedient? My big, strong, bad boy.”
I swear to God and Merlin, I try to hold it back, but biting my lips together isn’t enough—a hideous snort shoots out my nose. Baz startles right out of character, which only sets me off more. He gawks as I let out a full-on laugh.
“Sorry,” I manage through a giggle. “I just—you said—and my brain went—“ I snort again. “Bad man.”
Baz takes a second to process, then lets out a loud half-laugh, half-groan. “You’re an idiot.”
We let the silliness fade out. I love that we can have fun like this without it throwing us off. All it takes is me shaking my head to reset and Baz clearing his throat, and then we’re back in the scene. Back to me jutting my chin out at him, and him staring down his nose at me.
“Tell me, Snow…” Baz drags one stockinged foot over my crotch, too light for me to really register through the material. Somehow, it feels good anyway. “Do you think you’re ready for another treat?”
“Yeah,” I say quickly.
Baz applies a hint of proper pressure with his foot. “Would you like me to feed it to you?”
“Yeah—hhhnnn.” My eyes roll back as Baz rubs his foot over me like he means it. I’m so fucking hard, I’ve been gagging for him for hours. I’m pretty sure the only reason I’m not coming immediately is because the jeans are too rough on my sensitive prick. Not to say I don’t love it, because I do. It’s the kind of discomfort that shocks you out of the pleasure, like the crack of a palm against heated skin, leaving you shuddering on the brink.
“You’ll have to guess what it is first,” Baz informs me. He sounds so composed; it turns me on even more.
“Guh … ahh … give…” I glare up at him through my haze of lust, trying to remember how to fucking speak. “Give me… a clue…”
“‘To see what is in front of one’s nose needs a constant struggle.’”
All I manage to decipher is that Baz has given me another riddle or something. My brain can’t process anything further, especially not once Baz fucking grinds his arch across the length of my dick. I cry out.
“B … Baz … babe … c-can’t…” I’m gulping for air. I’m hot all over. I’m gonna die.
“You can, darling.” Baz leans back and widens his legs, giving himself better leverage to ruin me with. He rolls his hips into the movement and everything. He’s a vision of moonlight-drenched ruthlessness wrapped in lace.
“C … c-cah…”
“You can,” he assures me.
I shake my head. Whine.
“Cah … c … cock…”
The pressure eases. Slows. “Hmm? What’s that, Snow?”
“Your cock!” I shout—try to shout. It’s more a sob. The sensations fade back to slow whispers. This time when I sob, it’s mostly with relief. Struggle over. I’m just close enough to Baz that when I let myself tip forwards, I land nose-first into his inviting bulge. Another sob.
“Well done, darling,” Baz coos. His fingers sink into my hair, and I hiccup weakly. “Shhhh. You did it. You’re so good, Simon.” He angles my head back as he sweeps his touch over my face, my lips. I’m burning up, and his cold touch sets me right. My eyelids are heavy but I keep them open because I know he wants eye-contact when I’m coming down like this. “So good. Good boy.” He breathes a laugh. “Good man.”
I manage a chuckle. “That’s me.”
Baz smiles handsomely. “Do you need a minute?”
“No. But I do need out of these jeans.” The simple act of shifting my weight into a better kneeling position leaves me wincing at every drag of denim.
“Of course. Go ahead, love. Take yourself out.”
I’m glad to have his permission to take care of it myself. First of all, because my arms have been dead at my sides this whole time. (I didn’t even register I was still holding those black ropes in one hand.) Mostly, because I’m able to carefully undo my flies and tug myself free, and the simple pleasure of my own hand around my aching cock leaves me sighing in bliss. It feels so good….
When I glance back at Baz, he’s watching me with hooded eyes and dragging his fingertips in lazy patterns over his own body. My jaw goes slack at the sight. He traces the swirls of lace, the boundaries of where skin meets fabric, the soft dents of where elastic clings. He trails down his centre, along the path of his body hair, then travels back up again. The cut of the panties makes it obvious Baz has freshly groomed down there, which only highlights exactly how precarious the fit is all the more. His bollocks are nearly spilling out the sides. My mouth waters.
I don’t know how he does it. Manages to look so fucking sexy in a frilly bra and knickers. I’d look like some hetero wanker who thought he was being clever on Halloween. But Baz looks… hot. Slutty and powerful. And still so masculine. I don’t get it. Thankfully, I don’t have to get it in order to salivate for it.
“Baz…”
“Yes, Snow, I see you drooling.” Baz is rubbing circles over his nipples, absolutely relishing in putting on this little show for me. (In hindsight, both of us being so into our semi-public romp earlier keeps making more sense.) “Would you like to be fed your treat now?”
I growl, because yes, obviously!
“Yes or no, tough guy?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Open up.”
I do, letting my jaw go loose and pushing out my tongue. Baz takes his sweet time unclasping the braces to his stockings and peeling off his panties. There’s a long string of precome connecting them to his neglected cock. Distantly, I hear myself groaning. He guides them down, stepping out of one leg, then the other, and places the soiled fabric next to him on the window bench. By the time he’s done, some drool has dripped off my tongue and onto the old wooden floor.
“I love when you’re patient for me,” Baz says, not sounding nearly as composed as he did earlier. He takes hold of his cock in one hand and my jaw with the other, then starts guiding himself into my mouth. “I know you hate it, which only makes me love it even more.” We moan together as Baz begins to shallowly glide along my tongue. “I’d like to say I’m sorry for torturing you all day like this… ah… but I’m not. Give us some suction, love.” I obey, rounding my lips and curling up my tongue. With each rock of Baz’s hips, there’s a lewd pop as his crown pulls free. “Ohhh, yes, there we go. I love… mmm… I love watching you strain through a challenge. Love watching you succeed.”
Baz’s thrusts get a little deeper, a little faster. I keep my head still and moan around him, over and over again, because it’s all so fucking good. The praise, the taste, the weight on my tongue, the pressure each time he’s deep enough to kiss the back of my throat. Blowing Baz is always good, but it’s even better when he’s the one setting the pace. Sure, it’s not as good as him fucking me where I really want it, but it’s a solid second.
“You work so hard for me,” Baz croons. “And you love it, too, don’t you? Love how I take care of you. Love how I take you.”
An especially pathetic sound falls out of me. Baz’s hips stutter, and his fangs pop. As I give in to the embarrassment of constant moaning, he finds a new, rougher speed.
“Mmmm, listen to you, you really do fucking love it, you wonderful slag. Don’t worry, I’ll take you every way tonight.”
Baz bares the full length of his fangs, tonguing at the tip of one. I get woozy from how hot it is. My noises have turned into one long, pathetic, choked whine as he takes his pleasure from my throat.
He’s panting hard now, trembling. “And then… hnnn… then I’m going to make all new holes in you and take from you that way, too. Ahhnn—!” Baz wrenches out of my mouth suddenly, leaving both of us gasping for air.
He must be on the brink. I’ve been squeezing the base of my own cock throughout to stop from blowing my load all over the floor.
“Tear off your shirt,” he demands.
“My—?” I look down at myself. The T-shirt?
“Tear it,” he growls.
Well, fuck, all right. My wings shoot out, ripping through the back of the shirt and passing harmlessly through the leather jacket. The jacket’s a fucking proper magickal marvel, which I’ll thank him for later—right now, I’ve got an order to follow. I grab the front of the shirt with both hands, grit my teeth, and yank, hard. The fabric shreds with a satisfying sound. I toss it aside in a hurry.
Baz looms over me straight away, breathing roughly through his nose and looking entirely unhinged. He grasps my hair with his free hand and forces my head back. I think for a second that this is it, this is the moment where he’s going to bite me—but no, he’s staring at my throat as he furiously wanks. Barely a minute later, he curses, goes all tense, and splatters me with warm come.
“Fucking hell,” I gasp. That is well hot. Who knew.
Baz brings my mouth back in line with his dick. “Clean me,” he says, still breathy and shuddering. He doesn’t wait, just pushes his wet tip past my lips, leaving me to get to work. There’s not much still clinging to him, but I’m grateful for what I get to swallow. Next, he pushes his fingers into my mouth so I can clean what dribbled over his knuckles.
Once Baz is satisfied, I look down at his handiwork. He’s draped my collarbones in spunk, and a little has dribbled between my pecs.
“Oh!” I blurt. “Pearl necklace.”
Baz gives me a shit-eating grin. “You wear it well.”
I squeeze my arms on either side, pushing my tits out for him. “Yeah? You like what you see, baby?”
“You know I do.” Baz resumes his lounging at the bay window, looking particularly slutty in only a bra and thigh-high stockings. “You’d look even better with a spent cock.”
I grab at myself and start pumping, since that’s as good of an invitation as any. “Yours isn’t,” I say. It’s true, Baz is still mostly hard and leisurely fondling his bollocks.
“Well-spotted, Snow.”
“You should fuck me with it, then.” I’ve got no brain left for finesse.
Baz arches his brow. “Are you done being obedient for me, Snow?”
I groan. Making me choose again! I’m really fucking tempted—“Noooo, I’ll be good.”
Baz nods his approval. “Then don’t pout, sweet thing. I’m letting you come, hm?”
“Y-yeah…” I’m so wet with precome, my fist glides easily. Normally, this wouldn’t be enough friction, but I’m so wound, and I’m so sensitive from the chafe of the jeans, it’s exactly right. I stare at those damn stockinged feet of his.
“That’s it. Come for me.” Baz’s foot slides towards my crotch, and the implication is enough to get me moaning. “Once you do, I’m going to position you exactly how I want you,” he continues, his foot bypassing me to poke suggestively at the ropes. “And then I’m going to fuck you, until you’re hard again.” Baz sweeps his foot my way and makes good on the threat this time. He spreads his toes over my head, the webbing of the stockings pulled taught across my slit. “That’s how I’ll let you come again, my darling—with my cock in your arse and my fangs in your tits.”
“Fuuuuuuckkkkk!”
My orgasm hits hard, pulling all sorts of wild noises out of me as my come splurts against Baz’s foot. Some of it shoots through the sheer fabric, some of it’s pushed back down, making a mess of my hand and cock. Baz purrs a bunch of encouraging things at me, but I’m too blinkered to register the words.
Eventually, Baz withdraws his foot, leaving me kneeling there to catch my breath in my own time.
“Yes,” Baz sighs, “that’s a very good sight, indeed.”
He takes his time admiring what a complete mess he’s made of me before stripping off his soiled stockings and offering me help to stand up. My knees hurt, and they’re also made of jelly at the moment, apparently. I wobble just standing there before him—more so when he gifts me with a kiss. A really sweet, deep kiss. I hum into Baz’s mouth and move my jaw that way he loves.
There’s a brief pang of disappointment when Baz breaks the kiss. Then I remember we’ve got something much less chaste to get to.
Baz instructs me to take off the jacket, which I do while he collects the ropes. It’s only after he gets the satisfaction of watching me walk the length of the room with my soft, come-drenched cock hanging out of the jeans that he finally lets me take them off.
Then… something in Baz’s mood shifts. He loses the last piece of lingerie and several commands come in quick succession: wipe off what come I can. Sit on the bed facing him. Hold out my hands. Don’t speak, let him concentrate.
He binds my wrists together with the black rope. It’s a knot pattern I’ve never seen, which seems impossible, but here we are. It’s this intricate, woven pattern, travelling halfway up my forearms. It’s beautiful. I have to literally bite my tongue to stop myself from asking him when he learned to do this. And where. And why.
Actually, I think I know why. Or at least, I know why he’s doing it right now. His hands were shaking when he started, but they’ve been getting steadier throughout. His breathing is more even. And that clipped, tense mood he suddenly had is all melted away.
When he’s done, he looks at me. I catch the flicker of nerves in his eyes. It’s just that, though. Nerves. Not anxiety.
I half-expected Baz to get stuck in his head over all the biting stuff while I was in the bathroom earlier. Maybe he did. But it’s clear now that this scene is as much for him as it is for me. (I guess that’s always the case, but.) Not just this scene—this entire evening with the scavenger hunt, all of it. This is Baz controlling everything, proving it to himself that he can.
More importantly, proving to himself that even when the reins slip, nothing bad happens. That things don’t need to be perfect for them to feel perfect. That he doesn’t need to be perfect.
Baz clears his throat. “Wiggle your fingers for me, love.” I lift up my hands to wiggle them right in front of his face. He looks bemused. “Any discomfort?”
“Nope.”
“You’ll need to remember to wiggle them occasionally throughout. Tell me if you feel even the slightest twinge or tingle, all right?”
I smile. “Yes, sir.”
“Right. Good.” He clears his throat again. “Lie back.”
I fan out my wings and get comfortable against the pillows. Baz has me lift my hips, and he folds another pillow under me. My tail slithers up his chest to thank him. Baz gives the spade a kiss.
There’s extra rope hanging from my wrists—Baz loops it around the posts of where the two beds are pushed together and tugs. My arms are forced up. “If you pull hard, that ought to give,” Baz informs me. “If you want to be cut free, I have scissors ready.” He gestures to the side table, where I see the scissors. (And another bottle of our fancy lube.) (And a bottle of juice and a packet of biscuits, both of which I might never see as unsexy ever again.) He directs my attention to my sword half stuck into the bedside table. “If you need to cut yourself free, there ought to be enough give in the rope for you to easily slip the blade between—”
“I got it, babe,” I assure him. “Old hand at that one.”
Baz smiles wryly. “Of course.”
“Anything else?” I’m teasing him, and he knows it. He shakes his head. “Then…” I pull up my knees, letting them fall open to either side. “Where would you like my legs, sir?”
Baz’s gaze falls to my crotch. I’m well pleased to see some interest twitch in his mostly-deflated cock. He licks his bottom lip. “Just like that is good, thank you, Snow.”
He takes a deep breath, and I worry I’m going to have to thread the needle of encouraging him back into this plan without pressuring him. He saves me from worrying further by snatching up the lube bottle and squirting a generous amount into his palm. Baz’s eyes and free hand roam all over me as he slicks his cock and pumps himself up to full mast. Watching him get hard is always a treat, especially when it’s because he’s watching me. What a fucking ego boost. My own dick is valiantly trying to get back into the action, but it’s still too soon.
“Baz? I love you.”
He pauses his stroking and blinks at me. “I love you, too,” he says, sounding confused.
I’m grinning. “Just wanted to tell you.”
Baz exhales a laugh. “Thank you, Simon.” He presses a kiss to the inside of my knee and murmurs there, “I love you terribly.”
I’m grinning more. “I love you terriblier.”
Baz grimaces. “That’s not a word.”
“Gets the point across though, doesn’t it? That I love you the most terriblest.”
“Ughh, it’s like you want me to lose my erection.”
I wiggle my arse (and my fingers). “You should shut me up by doing even morer terriblier things to me.”
Baz emits a crazy noise at the back of his throat, the kind he makes before retaliating after I’ve just tickled him or pranked him somehow. And retaliate he does, leaning in to attack my belly and thighs with rapid-fire play-bites. I laugh and squirm.
“How am I supposed to fuck you stupid,” Baz growls between nips, “if you’re already there!”
“That’s obvious!” I’m gifted a pinch of inner thigh between his front teeth. “C’mon, you’re the riddle swot!”
Baz growls again, lifting his head from between my thighs and curling back his lips to reveal freshly-popped fangs. I swoon, I admit it.
“Yeah,” I croak, “that. Those. Use those.”
Baz snaps his teeth once at the air, and my cock literally jumps.
“Oh my god, Baz. That, yeah, fucking hell, babe, if you wanna fuck me to get me hard, then you better get to it, holy fuck—”
“Right,” Baz says gruffly. He moves fast, gripping his prick in one hand and the back of one of my thighs with the other. He nudges up against my hole—I gasp, tensing, until I remember how to relax, how to push against the sensation. That’s all it takes for his head to sink inside, and we both let out a long moan.
He doesn’t waste another second, knowing I’m prepped, knowing I’m ready, I’ve been ready, been gagging for it. He gets right to it the same way he fucked my face, with slow, shallow thrusts, working his head in and out, working me open more and more. Not because he needs me more open—because he likes it, likes watching my body stretch for him, beg for him. (That’s my fault, he got that from me. I love admiring him while I have my way with him, and especially after.)
“So beautiful,” Baz groans. “So good to me. So good, Simon. Perfect. My perfect hole.”
“Yours,” I moan. “All yours, Baz. Yours to use.”
“Yeah. That’s right.” Baz slides his palm up my body to rub against my collar bones and throat. “Mine.”
“Fuck, babe. Yeah. Is that it? Why you came on me? And, mmmm, made me use your, ah, your shower stuff? You marking me, baby?”
Baz grunts, shaking his head. “Not … entirely.”
Before I can tease him, he positions himself over me, folding me just right so he can sink down to the hilt. It punches a long, low noise out of me, my body shuddering around the sudden stimulation, the sudden fucking relief of finally getting what I want. My reward. For being so good for Baz. I knew it, I knew the best gift I could give myself is to do whatever Baz wants.
Baz keeps fucking me with shallow movements, but these ones stay deep, his hips nestled against my arse as he kisses my walls again and again. It makes my cock leak—my eyes too, actually.
“Ohhhh, fuckkkk, Baz.” I squirm and squeeze around him, earning me a delicious moan in response. “You’re the best. I love you. I love your cock. Oh, God, babe, yeah, fuck me, use me, use me.” I’m babbling and rutting, mostly erect now. But, damn, even if I wasn’t, I know he could make me come from a fuck like this anyway.
Baz curls over to pepper my chest in breathless kisses. “Mine,” he moans again.
“Yeah—”
“And I’m yours. All yours, Simon. Every part.”
I strain against the ropes, desperate to touch him. He’s looking at me so earnestly, and it’s overwhelming all of a sudden. Him, in this room, inside me, on our joined beds, with his fangs out. I have him. I really do, all of him, every part. I struggle again to touch him, then remember I have other ways of holding him—my tail circles his throat loosely, the spade pressed flat over Baz’s chest, and my wings curve up to drape along his back.
“Yeah, Baz, you’re mine, I’ve got you, I’ve always got you.”
Baz whines. And then he growls, giving a few extra rough thrusts before finding his rhythm again. “That’s what I wanted,” he pants. “To add mine to yours. Mix us together.”
“God, I can’t believe you, you sap, you’re the best, I love you, I love you—”
“I love you,” Baz moans. “And I’m about to do something truly terrible to you.”
My eyes go wide. “Yeah? Really? You gonna?”
He sets his teeth, nostrils flaring. “Yeah. If. If you’re ready.”
“I’m ready!” I arch as best I can, pushing my chest out in invitation. “Go ahead, babe. I want you. Let me have all of you.”
Baz grunts, shifts, finds a new angle to break my brain with, and presses a heated, wet kiss around my nipple. “Okay,” he gasps.
I am literally quivering with excitement. My chest is heaving. I feel like the heroine of some trashy romance novel. It’s fucking brilliant.
Baz’s breath ghosts over my skin. “You have to say the spell,” he says, voice hoarse with restraint.
I blink stupidly. “What?”
“The spell,” he repeats, as if that makes any more sense than it did two seconds ago when he asked the magickless bloke to spell something. “The magic spell.”
“Baz, what the fuckkkkk,” I whine, bucking my hips unhappily.
He leans up to hiss in my ear: “One. Magic. Word.”
The realisation clicks suddenly, shocking a gasp out of me. I toss my head back and shout it: “Please!”
Baz growls his delight. “Good man.”
And then he sinks his fangs into my tit.
W. Fire flows through my veins from where Baz is piercing my skin, lighting up my nerve endings. The heat goes straight to my aching cock, and my wrists strain against the rope. I need to be touched, I need to—
My tail slides down Baz’s body to wrap around his waist, and keep him close. Closer. His thrusts inside me haven’t lost their rhythm, but it’s not enough. It has to be more, deeper, it has to be—
I suck in a sharp breath when the spade of my tail finds the head of my prick and presses on it, adding friction to the painful and electifying pressure that’s building up inside me. I’ve never felt anything like this. Baz starts sucking on my tit, but I can barely register the way my whole body seems to respond to the movement of his lips before a wave of shivers takes over me. My hands are closed in tight fists, tears prickle at the corners of my eyes.
I almost miss the moment I come all over my stomach, my tail wrapping around my cock and guiding me through an orgasm that takes my mind and my senses and wipes them out.
A scream forms in the hollow of my throat, but I can’t get it out, lost between the stable pounding of Baz’s hips against my arse and the chill of his tongue rolling over my nipple, lapping up the blood, pushing a burning rush of his venom deeper inside my body.
One of his hands is rubbing my other nipple in what is probably a mindless gesture on his part but is turning my oversensitive nerves into a ripple of shudders. I feel him with every inch of my body—inside me, around me, solid and trembling and almost warm—but it’s not enough. The firm grasp of his other hand on my waist is the only thing that’s keeping me from floating away. My wings wrap tighter around us—they drape over his back like a crimson cape, like second skin. It’s suffocating. It’s not enough.
A soft moan leaves his mouth, and my tail slithers around his arm to rest next to his hand on my roaring heart. I don’t know how much time has passed—maybe minutes, maybe hours. I don’t care. He could drain me dry, and I’d let him. I’d always let him. I’d give him all that I am, and I know he’d give back even more. It’s how it has always been, with us—a never ending war, give and take, a constant tug pulling us together and pushing us apart.
I clench around him, and his pace falters for the first time. I can’t feel his teeth anymore—I suppose he doesn’t need them after he bites—but his lips are still cupping my nipple, and it stings, and maybe it’s not not enough.
Maybe it is, finally. Too much.
Maybe this is what I needed all along. Every time I felt like I couldn’t get enough of Baz. Like I couldn’t give him enough of me, like I could never be enough. Like there would always be something missing, in the depth of me, in the fusion of us.
I needed to be inside him. Under his skin. I needed to give myself to him, wholly and unconditionally. To be truly his, add mine to his, make him mine. (I’m a part of him now.) (I’ve always been.)
Maybe this is finally it. The moment we’re both full. No longer starving. Maybe we can start building from here—stop trying to mend the foundations. Go on.
But it’s too much. I know I’m fine—Baz would never go too far. He would never lose himself in me if he didn’t know he was still in perfect control. He wouldn’t let go if he didn’t know how to get back, no matter how much I’d like to see it. (To see him let go.)
But I can’t take it—can’t take him fucking me, and drinking from me, can’t take his lips not being on mine, his hands not being warm enough.
I throw my head back, whimpering. “Baz. Baz, please.”
I don’t know what I want. I want to live in this moment forever, but I need him to stop. I need to hold him. I need to—
“Baz.” He moans, and I vibrate with it. I’m on fire. I feel like going off. “Baz. Anathema.”
He pulls off immediately with a low groan, but my fucked out brain can only laugh at the irony of our safe word spoken in the copy of our Watford room. I think Baz is not completely in control of all his limbs, because he doesn’t rush to ask me what’s wrong. He just hovers above my chest, breathing heavily. Then his touch slowly gets steadier, and his lips start tracing soft patterns on my skin as he licks and kisses the twin punctures below my nipple.
When he finally looks up at me, a frown is already taking over a face that should be the picture of bliss. Of course he thinks something went wrong. Of course he doesn’t know I used our safe word only because he was giving me the perfect too much.
“I’m okay,” I say. My voice is hoarse, and I have to repeat my words. “I’m okay. I just wanted to—I need—come here.” I can’t open my arms for him, so I hope he’ll take the hint.
He does, and I whine at the loss of his cock inside me as he slips out, only to realise that he came too, when my brain wasn’t working. He crawls up my body and crashes his lips on mine. I press against him, licking my own blood off his mouth, and he must truly be lost in me if he doesn’t refuse to kiss me before he’s brushed his teeth a thousand times.
I need him to get closer.
I already miss the feeling of us being one.
(I’m already wondering when we can do this again. I know Nico told me that as long as he feeds mainly on animals, a sip of human blood won’t make him immortal, just healthier. He just has to be careful not to get addicted, but it’s apparently easier to resist when you’re drinking from your mate.) (Fiona told me this. Truly vampire-fucker solidarity, though it didn’t take her six and a half years to get bitten.)
I let his lips go just to repeat, “I’m okay.”
My head’s starting to feel clearer despite the venom-induced dizziness, but I can’t articulate more than this, not yet. I hope my eyes are saying enough. (That this is the best gift he could ever give me. That it made me feel complete. That I’ll never stop falling in love with him.)
The hint of a smile curves his lips, and even though he hasn’t said anything yet, I know it’s okay. I know that, no matter what he says, this whole thing has always been more dangerous to him—to the ideal he held himself up to, to his limits, to what he deserves and what he wants and what he lets himself take—than to me.
“Want to touch you,” I whisper. I could probably break free from the rope on my own (Baz made sure of it), but I don’t want to move more than it’s strictly necessary. (I just lost blood, after all.) Baz seems to agree, because he fumbles to his side in search of the scissors, without taking his eyes off me.
His hand doesn’t close around the scissors, though. His fingers wrap around the hilt of Excalibur, and before I can understand what’s happening, he pulls it out of the night stand and cuts my binds with a swift arc of the blade. He lets the sword fall off the bed and takes my wrists in his hands, brushing the red marks with his lips.
“Baz,” I say, suddenly feeling less dizzy and sleepy. I eye the sword on the floor. My family sword. “Baz. The sword.”
It takes him a long moment to realise what’s going on—he’s truly out of his depth—and when he does, he sits back between my legs, looking at his hands as if they belonged to an alien.
“I suppose you do have some Salisbury blood in you, now,” I smirk. Baz frowns. He looks shell-shocked.
“I didn’t think it would be this literal.”
His pout makes me smile, and it’s even funnier that these are the first words he’s spoken after biting me. Maybe this is one too many changes to have to wrap his big head around.
“Babe, are you okay?”
I bring my—finally free—hand to his cheek, and he leans into my touch, pressing his lips on my palm.
“I am,” he says, and I know there has to be more to it, but I don’t push. I trust him to tell me how he feels—I want to know what it was like, for him, but he needs time to process it. To allow himself to feel good about it.
“Are you?” He searches my eyes again, and I beam at him.
“Grand. Never been better.” I feel sore, and spent out, and I could probably sleep for three days, and yet this is the best I’ve ever felt. “I could eat a horse.”
“Oh,” he says, and I see the moment he stops freaking out and realises there's something he can do for me. He grabs the juice and the biscuits (yep, definitely sexy items from now on), and I pat the bed next to me until he sits and rests his back against my spread out wing.
He's still frowning slightly as he watches me eat, so I interlace our fingers and rest our hands on my thigh, my thumb tracing soothing patterns on his skin.
“We should have brought the cake,” I say through mouthfuls of crumbs, and he snorts.
“You're the cake.”
I think of the tiddy-shaped monstrosity that's waiting for us at home, and I laugh. He does, too.
“You should bite me in the arse, next time.”
His eyebrow shoots up, and I want to kiss it. “Don't get ahead of yourself.”
I grin.
I'm definitely planning my next fang piercing.
Later, I'm lying half on top of Baz, one of his arms under my head, my face pressed against his neck. Everything smells like Baz, like the cedar and bergamot soap we used to clean ourselves up earlier. (Baz spelled the bathtub bigger, and he let me wash his hair. It was wicked.) (Though I almost fell asleep when he massaged my shoulders and my wings.)
I'm falling asleep now, too, I think.
I'm content, and sated, and happy.
“Simon?”
Baz's voice breaks the silence after what feels like a lifetime of quiet. I knew he wasn't asleep, but I thought the day was done. No more words, no more surprises.
He starts rubbing circles onto my shoulder, and I hum against his neck.
“You know I'd say yes, right?”
At first I don't understand what he's referring to, but then I remember my discarded jeans on the floor. The box in the pocket.
Of course he noticed. Of course I couldn't get away with desperately searching for it through my drawers before we left our flat, or with keeping it in a tight pocket for hours while he was touching me. I don't know how to get out of this one without proposing right now, but when I lift my head to look at him, his eyes are closed, and there's a soft smile on his lips. No expectations, no anxiety, no overwhelming joy. Just the silent acknowledgement that I want to spend the rest of my life with him, and he does too.
“Good to know,” I whisper, and snuggle back in his embrace.
I don't know why I brought the ring here, tonight. Maybe I thought I could catch two birds with one stone, and feed on the high of Baz's complicated clues to surprise him, too.
Maybe I wanted to feel its comforting shape.
But I'm glad I didn't do it. Baz deserves to become my fiancé on the perfect day, and it wasn't today. Today was for other firsts.
And I waited a whole year, I can wait one more. I don't need a ring to remind him he's the love of my life. Of all my lives.
We stay quiet for a while, but I'm not fighting to keep my eyes open anymore. Thinking about marrying Baz awakened something in me, and I know he can feel it.
He presses a kiss to my forehead. “Are you tired?”
X. “So tired,” I sigh, “but first…” I bolt out of bed and race toward the en suite. “Gotta take a slash!“
Baz chuckles where I’ve left him. “You know you can’t get a UTI!” he shouts at my back.
“Yeah, yeah.” I wave him off, shutting the door between us. Will he ever let me live that down?
Once I’ve satisfied my basic human needs, I head back into the room Baz spelled to look like our Watford dorm, taking a second to admire the way Baz’s grey skin complements the purple striped sheets.
(Of course he’s brought those here–they’re his favourite.) (Our first bite would take place on his preferred bedding, considering it’s also the sheets on which we first fucked.)
I marvel as I often do at the fact he’s mine. And I am his. That, after all this time, we choose each other.
He ruins the mood by whining, “Simon. I’m cold.”
I smirk; that’s his way of asking, Why aren’t you cuddling me yet? Silly vampire. I crawl under the sheets but stay close to the mattress edge.
“Why are you all the way over there?” he huffs.
“Oh, I’m sorry. Did you need something?”
Again, he whines.
Finally, I take pity on him and tug him into my arms. He’s worked hard today; I can be generous with my affection. (It’s not like this isn’t exactly where I want him, always.)
He snuggles in tighter, releasing a pleased noise that makes my heart clench in my chest. “Is this what you wanted?” I kiss his nose, right where it bends. “You should have said.”
He huffs a laugh. “Arsehole.”
“Twat.”
As exhausted as I am, my body still buzzes with the day’s excitement. I close my eyes and catalogue each sensation; a meditative technique Baz taught me to help fall asleep. I feel the feet which rushed me to Fiona’s false labour. The knees which helped me beat Baz in DDR. My chest, still throbbing from Baz’s bite.
I smile.
“You look pleased.”
I open my eyes to find Baz looking at me.
“Watching me sleep?” Impossibly, my grin widens. Apparently, he liked to do this back at school, and I love that he’s reverted in this duplicated setting. “You big weirdo.”
“Your big weirdo.” He runs his fingers through my hair, then furrows his eyebrows. “What in the—Simon.” He pulls out his hand to show me the bit of frosting I didn’t manage to clean out despite two washings. “Do I need to teach you how to properly sham—”
I cut him off by grasping his wrist and pulling his frosting-covered finger in my mouth.
“You’re an animal,” he says, eyes dilating.
I nip at the tip and growl.
He groans and drops his forehead on my chest. “Don’t start; I think my cock might shrivel up if I try to give it one more go.”
“Well we wouldn’t want that.” Taking pity on him, I kiss his finger and shove his hand back into my hair, scooting down until I find that perfect nook between his chin and shoulder, manoeuvring one arm and corresponding wing beneath him so I can curl them both around his body. (They’ll be numb by morning, but I’d sacrifice anything to keep him beside me, even blood flow.) (Well. Maybe especially blood flow, after tonight.)
He plays with my curls while I close my eyes. “Simon?”
I hum. “What is it, babe?”
He drops his hand down to the nape of my neck, then reaches the other to rest on my hip, one pinky skirting below the edge of my pants while the rest of his cool fingers rub absently over my bare skin. “What was your favourite part of today?”
I smile against his neck; I know he feels it.
“The parts with you in them.”
He tuts. “That was everything.”
“Yeah. It was.” My tail wraps around his closest thigh. (Merlin. How could I have ever considered having them removed? My wings and tail; all of these different ways to hold Baz.)
“Was it everything you dreamed of? Your vampire fantasy?”
“Yes,” every part of me, wrapped around every part of him, pulls as tightly as possible, “he is.”
“Sap,” he says, sounding immensely pleased.
There was a time I didn’t think I’d live past nineteen. There was a time I thought Baz was my enemy. A time I thought I might have to kill him. A time I thought nothing worth holding onto was mine to grasp.
Twenty-five, I think. Twenty-five!
I press a kiss to Baz’s neck and let out a contented sigh.
I can’t wait to see what the next quarter-century brings.