Work Text:
Simon
I’ve hardly been able to sit still all day. I danced around the kitchen the entire time I was making dinner tonight, and the butcher down the street seemed genuinely concerned about how cheerful I was while buying two gallons of pig’s blood. Even during dinner, eating a mix of Baz’s and my favourite foods, I still felt like it couldn’t be over fast enough. Baz even remarked on it (“Crowley, Snow, did your table manners get worse? You’re lucky I love you, I don’t think anyone else would let a wild dog sit at a table with them like this.”), but then he smiled at me, and I could tell that he was thinking the same thing I was; this is all very nice, but what comes next is better.
We left the dishes in the sink (to soak), and then I went into the bedroom to get ready while Baz stayed in the kitchen to drink some of the blood I bought. It’s not like we haven’t done this before. (We have. A lot.) But each time feels just as exciting as the first time, although a little less nerve-wracking.
I still feel like I’m going to vibrate out of my skin when Baz joins me in the bedroom. He stops in the doorway for a moment, and we both pause, just drinking in the sight of each other. He gives me a rather obvious up-and-down, then smirks, and the next thing I know, he’s used his vampire super-speed to tackle me back onto the bed and he’s kissing me like it’s the only thing he’s ever wanted to do.
Baz
Simon Snow is a marvel. Even after three years of dating, and over one year of biting him with all my teeth, I still feel like I can’t get enough of him. He smells sweet, and warm, and delicious. He’s letting out breathy little wimpers under my ministrations, and I don’t think he even realises he’s doing it. His skin blooms pink, then red, then purple as I kiss and suck at his neck, and then at his chest once I torture us both and draw back for a moment to remove his shirt.
His hands scrabble at my back, and then move to tug at my hair, urging my head up, up, up. I abandon the hickey I was creating beside his belly button and return to his mouth, kissing him while we both lose track of time. Eventually, he pulls back.
“Are you ready?” I always find myself whispering when I ask.
“Yeah,” he breathes, “yeah, do it.”
I kiss him one more time, and then I do.
Simon
I don’t like pain, and I definitely don’t get off on it or anything, but I love the sharp burning feeling of Baz sinking his fangs into me. It only lasts for a second each time before being replaced by a dull, warm buzz, but that moment is always exquisite.
Baz usually bites me about once a month. We had a big argument about it (almost as big as the argument it took for him to start biting me in the first place), and Baz argued that he shouldn’t be biting me more than once every twelve weeks. (“That’s the standard the NHS has for legal blood donation, I’m not going to deviate from it!”) After some additional research and persuasion, Baz finally agreed that I could be a loving blood donor once a month. (“You have magic, Baz, the NHS never considered that!”) This time, however, it’s been closer to ten weeks since the last time we did this, as meetings and exams and plans with Penelope and Shepard got in our way.
I think Baz must be feeling the long wait as much as I am, because even in the slightly foggy headspace I occupy once his venom hits me, I can tell that he’s a bit sloppier than he usually is. He drinks deeply, but then pulls out his fangs and starts licking my neck in an absolutely ridiculous way, and I can’t help but laugh. I think my laughter makes my blood move more freely, because after pulling back to make sure I’m alright, Baz dives in again. I can still feel the dopey smile on my face when he pulls back and his magic burns across my skin where he heals the puncture marks.
“Well, Simon?”
It’s almost sexy how infuriating his cocked eyebrow is sometimes.
“Yeah,” I pant, not really sure what I’m saying, but happy to go along with anything at this point.
Then I notice—Baz is usually so careful about drinking (and he’s usually wearing less clothes when he drinks from me), but tonight he’s gotten a spot of blood on his shirt. He sees my eyes stray to the red smudge marring his lavender button-up, and looks down at himself to see what’s amiss.
“Damn.” His brows knit together.
“‘t’s alright,'' I slur, sitting up and grabbing onto his hips to keep him in my lap. “I got it.”
I work up my saliva, then spit on his shirt.
Baz
“What the fuck, Snow?!”
What is he doing? He’s an actual nightmare, I have no possible idea why he thought this was an appropriate moment to spit on me. (A few seventh year fantasies flick through my mind, I see Snow spitting in my face and then imagine him licking it off.) I feel like my brain has stalled and can’t fully manage to reboot. Simultaneous feelings of revulsion and arousal twist together in my gut.
“What are you doing?” I hold him back by his shoulders as he prepares to spit again. “Stop it, Merlin, stop! Snow, what are you trying to do?”
Simon looks up at me, still a little fuzzy from my venom, and appearing confused that I don’t want my boyfriend to start spitting on me for no reason.
“‘m helping. Getting the stain out.” As if to prove his point, he starts trying to rub his spit into my shirt, and I flinch back as the cold, wet fabric is pressed into my chest.
“Simon, love, hold on a moment.”
I try to be gentle with him when we do this, taking extra care to ensure that he’s alright, so I lean around him to grab the water bottle I left on the bedside table earlier today. I give him a quick kiss before handing it to him, and he smiles at me, almost spilling as he starts to drink. When half the bottle is gone, I question him again.
“How do you feel?”
“Brill, I love doing that.” His eyes are clearer. “I love you.”
“I love you too.” I kiss him once more, because he’s right there and because I can. “Now,” I say, sterner, pulling back, “what on earth were you doing?”
“Getting the stain out,” he says, as though that’s obvious. As though spitting on me is the most logical way to do that.
“It wasn’t quite so pressing that you had to use your saliva, Snow.”
“But it works!” I do try to be nice when we’re together like this, but I can feel my eyebrow quirking up and I know I’m sneering a bit. “Spit gets out blood! Er, well, my spit gets out my blood.”
Again: what the fuck?
“I beg your pardon? Is this some sort of Chosen One thing? Did it come with the wings and the tail? How did you even discover that?”
He just shrugs.
“No, I dunno, I think one of the Sisters at one of the homes told me. Everyone can do it. It’s only good for small blood stains, since, y’know, it’s hard to make that much spit, but it works. It has to be your own spit for your own blood though, I don’t think it works any other way.”
Simon Snow really is a marvel. An incredible, delectable moron.
“That is fascinating, and I will certainly look into the science behind it tomorrow. For now, though,” I reach for my wand where it’s rolled behind Simon, “I will remind you that I am a mage, and we don’t have to waste time on Normal stain removal if we have better things to do.” I give Simon an almost predatory smile, cast a Clean as a whistle! on myself, and yank his belt off in one swift movement.