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Simon
I know what it’s like to be hungry. I know what it’s like to feel bottomless with the need for something that you can’t have. When I was a kid (when I was in care), I used to get so hungry between meals. They didn’t starve me; they just never had enough. I guess that had something to do with the fact that I was metabolizing magic faster than my body could keep up with, but I didn’t know it at the time. Back then, all I knew was the hollow, gnawing feeling in my stomach that came after breakfast and didn’t stop until I fell asleep at night. Baz and Penny both told me that they would worry about me not getting enough food back then. (I knew that Baz had been in love with me for a long time, but it still made me smile to hear that he worried about me. Merlin knows I worried about him enough.)
I used to drink water between meals, calorie-replacement shakes, and orange Lucozade. I was never that thirsty, I just wanted my stomach to stop growling. It made it hard to fall asleep on some nights, but it was better than the cramps that came with hunger.
Baz is intimately familiar with thirst. He says that being thirsty- Thirsty with a capital T- is nothing like being hungry. He says that when he’s thirsty, it’s all he can think about, and it feels like being surrounded by temptation from all angles. He gets grumpy when he’s thirsty. He acts like he wants nothing to do with me; he won’t even let me come close enough to kiss him. I’ve told him that I get the same way when I’m hungry, and he says it doesn’t feel the same at all.
Baz used to say that undeath wouldn’t suit my complexion, but what he really meant was that I’d never have enough self-control not to drain the first person to cross my path if I’d gone too long without a rat or two. I don’t disagree with him.
We’re watching Interview With the Vampire when I think of it. “Baz, you kill the rats before you drink from them, don’t you?” He looks at me like I’ve just said something sacrilegious.
“I try to. It makes me feel more civilized.”
I’m not entirely sure why we’re watching this. He was the one who suggested it. I think that the movie might have had some kind of profound psychological impact on him when he was a closeted teenager. (The movie was well gay enough on its own; if the TV show had been around in fifth year, I think I might have figured out how I felt about him a lot sooner.)
“And then I watched you pull over and drain a dog and run down the alleyway for two more rats. That is not a life!” Yeah, it definitely had done something to him as a teenager. I don’t think Lestat is being very fair to Louis, but maybe I might be too close to the situation to be impartial. Lestat also reminds me of a certain vampire king of Las Vegas, it’s probably the bob, but I don’t bring it up.
“So you won’t die if you eat something already dead?” I ask.
“I haven’t so far.” He’s barely paying attention to me.
“Then why don’t we just go to the butcher. You can warm it up on the stove and have it with dinner.” I’m not meaning to turn this into a huge thing, which is why I brought it up now, during Lestat and Louis’ fight instead of later. That gets his attention. He pauses the television.
“What?” He asks me.
“You know, I bet we could buy some blood. Butchers probably won’t ask too many questions.”
“Are you hearing yourself?” He asks me, incredulous.
“Yes, are you hearing me?” We’ve just established that he can drink blood from things that have just died, and I’ve presented a logical solution to a problem that he’s had for a good six years of his life. I don’t see the problem.
“Are you sick of watching me run down an alleyway to drain rats?” His eyebrows are drawn together, and his mouth is pinched up, like I’ve upset him. Is he upset? Maybe I should have waited until after we had finished the episode to bring this up.
“No! No, Baz. Babe. I’m not sick of anything about you.” I grab his hand so that he believes me. It’s warm from being tucked under the blanket.
“But…” He glances back at the television.
“I would never be sick of watching you out there. It’s dead sexy, I’ve told you a million times. Are you really going to listen to a fictional French vampire over your boyfriend?” The word boyfriend always makes him crack a smile. I can tell he almost believes me. “I just want you to be happy. I want things to be easy for you.”
“What if they figure it out?” He whispers.
“Normals don’t believe in vampires.” I’m confident of it. I hope. “And anyway, I’ll go in and buy it for you. No one would ever suspect I’m a vampire, I’m too friendly.” Baz laughs and hits me on the arm lightly.
“We could try, I suppose.” He still sounds skeptical. I smile, and I see the corner of his lips twitch upward, just a little. I kiss him on the cheek, and the smell of his aftershave burns my nose.
***
That night, while Baz is in the shower, I look up where I can buy blood. There are websites for it, but I figure it might be easiest to buy it from a butcher first, to make sure it’s okay for Baz to drink. (Plus, the logistics of delivery for that would be rough, unless it’s like one of those meal services that Penny and Shep tried a few months ago).
I make a plan to bring it home with me after work. There’s a butcher on my way home that someone on Reddit recommended for chefs who make black pudding. I wonder if there are any other vegan vampires out there who could use the thread. I upvote the comment, just in case someone else needs it.
On Wednesdays, his classes run late, so I start dinner for him. I bought a new pot to heat the blood, the last thing I need is him worrying about me for making soup from the same pot.
He comes through the door when I’m halfway through warming it up sous vide. I tend to get impatient when I’m boiling water and just crank up the heat all the way, so I didn’t want to risk burning any of the blood or, I don’t know, leaching its nutrients.
I hear the door open soon after I drop the bag into the pot. “Hey, how was school?”
“It smells good in here.” He looks past me and squints at the stove.
“I got something for you. It’s almost ready.” I point at the pot with the spatula that I’m using to stir our pasta.
“I hope you’re not-”
“Using one of the pots that Daphne got us to heat blood? No.” I finish the sentence for him before he has the chance.
“Did the butcher ask you any questions?”
“Baz, are you asking me if someone accused me of plotting? I would never. I have a very trustworthy face, I’ve been told.” I most definitely haven’t been, but I can’t stop myself from poking fun at him.
“Well did they?” He’s really worried about this, I can tell.
“No, they didn’t say a word. I figured we could try ordering some online, if we absolutely have to, but Penny offered to draw up a map for me of all the shops in the area. We could rotate through them. It’ll be fine.” At first, I expect him to protest about me telling Penny, but I think after the bird incident in the Katherine, he knows there aren’t any secrets left among the four of us.
“Thank you.” He says. He wraps his arms around my midsection and buries his face in my neck. My wings are on their best behavior whenever he comes up behind me. I think they’re aware that they have very sharp talons, and he doesn’t have much blood in him to spare. He kisses my neck, right on the mole that I know is his favorite. I turn my head, baring my throat to him. I’ve given up on asking him to bite me, but I want him to know that I’m not afraid of him, that I trust him.
***
I’m starting to think that my best ideas come when I’m watching television. Baz is curled up next to me with a mug of blood in his hands. Shep bought it for him for his birthday- it has a vampire on the front of it who bears a shocking resemblance to Baz and text that says ‘Vamptired’. He threw it in the cupboard when we got home from his birthday dinner, and I only just convinced him it was funny last month.
We’re watching a show on Animal Planet about lions in captivity. There’s a zookeeper on screen explaining the importance of allowing the animals to exhibit their natural behaviors while they’re in captivity, and naturally, I think of Baz. He’s a predator, too. Surely drinking blood from a mug in our living room isn’t the most enriching thing he could be doing with his night. I don’t want him to have to go out and hunt in a dark, cold alleyway anymore (he takes so long to warm up after), but I want to make things better for him. More exciting.
There’s a wooden pole in the lion enclosure, and the zookeepers have hung a hunk of meat from a chain attached to the pole. They let the lions into the enclosure, and one runs to the pole and pounces on the meat. I must have an intense look of concentration on my face because Baz asks me what I’m thinking about.
“Nothing,” I say, even though it’s clearly a lie. I lean away from him and Google the five freedoms that the zookeeper is talking about. Number four on the list is an animal’s freedom to express normal behavior. Now that Baz isn’t hunting rats, does he have the freedom to express normal behavior? (Normal for a vampire, obviously.) I know he won’t bite me, and I won’t ask again, but maybe I can simulate the action, somehow. I think about it and decide that I’m only approaching the issue with about 30% selfish intentions. That’s good enough for me.
***
Baz
“I thought it could be good for you. It might help.”
“You’re offering me enrichment? Like the lions at the zoo?”
“Yes.”
“You’re insane, Snow.” I can’t help it, I’m incredulous.
“I’m not! I just want you to be fulfilled.”
“I am fulfilled. I have a lovely boyfriend who heats a mug of blood for me every night with dinner, who makes sure that I’m fed well and doesn’t ask me to bite him.”
“I’m not asking you to bite me.”
“You’re asking me to pretend.” Is pretending just as bad as doing it?
“Yes.” He says, and he’s dead serious. “Come here, look.” He pulls me to the kitchen and opens the fridge. The blood is already portioned into little bags for him to sous vide for me before dinner every night. He grabs a bag and holds it up to the crook of his neck. My mouth goes dry. I’ve already fed for the night, but it’s dark against his skin, red and thick.
“I’m not sure. What if I bite you accidentally? What if it's too much and I don’t stop?”
“You won’t.”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re careful. You won’t.” He still has the bag there on his neck. I want to say yes so badly, more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life. “Think about it.” He says, like he hasn’t already changed my life, given me warmth, safety, and blood from an animal that doesn’t crawl around in alleyways or belong to an unfortunate pet owner. He’s fucking beautiful. He swallows, and I trace the path of his Adam’s apple with my eyes.
***
I want to try it. I’ve decided. Not every time, but this time. (Even the lions don’t eat every meal from their wooden pole.)
Snow bought a rice cooker for the bedside table on his way home from work. He’s an absolute nightmare. I want to tell him that I’m sure microwaving the blood would be fine, but he doesn’t do anything by halves. It’s the same setup as the kitchen; there’s water in the rice cooker, and he’s put a bag of blood in for me. The rice cooker is one of the ugliest things I’ve ever laid eyes on, but I’m still almost moved to tears.
He’s laid out on the bed, fresh from the shower and completely naked. He told me earlier that he thought it would be better for me if I sank my teeth into the blood with him buried inside of me (he didn’t say that, exactly, but he blushed and blustered and I filled in the blanks). I think this is just an elaborate plot for him to get me into bed, but I don’t say so. I’m too eager a participant myself to accuse him of plotting.
His wings are spread behind him, and his tail is thrashing on the bed. I grab it roughly, like he likes, and I dig my nails into the spade. He grunts, and I drop onto the bed on top of him. I’ve always wondered what it feels like, if it feels like my hand on his cock, but I’ve never been brave enough to ask. I feel the crescent-shaped indents that I’ve made and rub a thumb over them.
His head is thrown back on the pillows, and he’s already hard. I want him in my mouth so badly, but I’m not brave enough. I’m worried I’ll bite. I’m more worried that he would be okay with it if I did.
I wrap his tail around my wrist once and kneel over him, capturing his mouth in a burning kiss. He’s panting, his breath is hot, and his tongue is even hotter. He kisses me like he wants to devour me. Months ago, he said if he were me, if he were the vampire, he would drain me dry and it wouldn’t be enough. I believe him. I believed him then, and I know it’s true now when he bites down on my lip. It’s almost hard enough to draw blood, and I let him because I want to know how badly he wants me. (I trust him, I know he won’t go too far.)
His hands are above his head on the bed, like he’s asking me to hold him down. I do. Last week, he stopped himself when he was about to climb into my lap on our pink IKEA couch. “I’m too heavy,” he had said. I scoffed and picked him up with one arm and threw him down onto our bed. He likes being reminded that I’m stronger than him, that I have no problem holding my own against him.
I try to extract my hand from his tail to give him what he wants, but it’s hanging onto me for dear life. I dig my fingers in again, and he lets out a breathy sound.
He likes the pain, he says it keeps him here, present. He says it feels good. I don’t understand it, but I would give him anything he asked for.
“How do you want to do this, Simon?” I ask him. I press a kiss to the mole under his eye, then the one hiding under his hairline, next to his ear. I lick the shell of his ear, and I can hear his heartbeat pick up. I used to hate being able to hear it (it was a reminder that he was alive and I wasn’t), but now I can feel it in my mouth and under my fingertips, and it’s beating ‘mineminemine’.
He’s bad at dirty talk, which isn’t a surprise to me, because he’s bad at regular talking, too. I never laugh at him, but sometimes I make him tell me what he wants.
His wrists are still held above his head like he’s imagining my hands around them.
“I want you to…” He turns the most delicious shade of red, his blush spreads all the way up to the tips of his ears. I’m straddling him, I lean back on my heels, and his breath stutters when his cock rubs against my ass.
“What do you want?” I feel his tail tightening around my wrist like a constrictor. I’ve been trying very hard lately not to think about it wrapped around my throat. (Is that objectifying? He objectifies my fangs all the time, and I don’t have a problem with that, but his dragon parts are different. They’re desperate for me, desperate to touch me, for me to touch them, but he gets cagey when I try to talk about it. I understand. I don’t want to objectify him, not if he doesn’t want me to.) Maybe I’ll bring it up if this goes well. He thinks his tail has a mind of its own, but I disagree. It’s an extension of him, and he would never want to hurt me.
“I want… you to fuck me. And I want you to drink while you do.” I almost black out. He’s still that delicious shade of red, and I think I’m a little too stunned to respond. “You don’t have to.” I shake my head. “Please say something, Baz, come on.” He finally moves his hands from their position above his head and covers his face with his hands.
“Yes!” I’m not even worried about being too enthusiastic. “Yes. I want to.” I pry his hands away from his face. “I want to.” I giggle a little bit. He’s still hard, and I try not to think about his blood in his body rushing to his cock.
“Okay. I want you to.” He’s shy, shyer than normal. We’ve never done this before, me fucking him. It’s usually the other way around. (I used to think it was because he was afraid to give me control, but now I just think he wasn’t ready.) I’ve imagined it before, in the shower, in bed when he’s already left for work. Everything about Simon is hot. I’m already intimately familiar with his mouth and how hot it feels when he takes me in, deep enough that I feel myself hitting the back of his throat. I try to imagine how it will feel, sinking into him, how tight he’ll feel.
A snarling, jealous part of me thinks about how I’ll be the first to touch him like this, to make him feel good like this.
Now that I’ve pried his hands away from his face, they settle on my thighs. He’s always had a fascination with them, he tells me, ever since we were in school. One of them is smaller than the other, still weakened by my broken leg that never healed right. I still baby it sometimes. I tried to go back to football, but I couldn’t keep up. Simon felt awful for me.
He rubs his hands back and forth on my thighs. He’s gentle, the way I like it.
“I got ready for you in the shower.” He says, like that sentence alone isn’t almost enough to finish me off. If the Baz from fifth year could hear him, I think he’d have a conniption. I lean down to kiss him again. I thread my fingers through his hair and make a fist, pulling his hair from the base. His mouth falls open, and the wet slide of his lips against mine is almost enough. I used to worry that my saliva could turn someone. I would get angry at Dev every time he tried to drink out of my cups at dinner, but Fiona told me that was bullshit. Kissing Simon is the only time that I ever think about calling Fiona to thank her. I pull away, and his mouth is still open. I know what he wants, and I give it to him. He licks my spit away from his lips; they’re red and glistening.
I scoot back, just enough to get my hand around his cock. “Fuck, Baz, be careful,” he hisses. He’s breathless, his face is still red, but it’s from the effort of not fucking into my hand.
“Are you sure?” I ask him. He’s looking at me like I might be an idiot.
“I’m sure. Christ. Just do it.” I love it when he gets like this, a little frustrated and more than a little desperate. I laugh.
“I don’t think this is something you just do.” He gives me another look.
“Obviously. I just mean, get on with it.” He bucks his hips a little and thrusts into my hand.
“Fine.” I don’t mean fine. I mean, okay, I love you, of course, I’ll give you anything. But he already knows all of those things, so I just say ‘fine’.
He roots around in our nightstand for a second and practically throws the lube at me. I’m sitting between his legs, he has his knees bent, and his cock is pointing straight toward his stomach and drooling precome. There’s a bead of it on his stomach, tracing the path of one of his stretch marks. I lick it off, even though that’s one of the activities that Simon sometimes classifies as “ticklish”. He doesn’t complain. I think it’s because my mouth is so close to his cock. (He never pushes me, he never asks me to suck him off, even though he does it for me with enthusiasm, but I want to. I want to be able to do it so badly.)
I sit back and nudge his legs open, and his knees fall to the sides. I run my hands up the inside of his thighs. I’m leaving behind trails of red, but he likes that. He likes it when I give him enough to remind him that he’s here, that this is real.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” I say. He knows what I mean, a little hurt, the kind that he wants is okay. I don’t want to hurt him in a permanent way, in a way that will do more than ache tomorrow when he thinks about me.
“You won’t.” He’s so sure of himself when it comes to me. I’m envious. “I trust you.” There’s another thing that would put fifth-year Baz in an early grave. I love him.
“I’ll start with my fingers, and then we can see how you’re feeling.”
“I’m sure, Baz. Please.”
I pump some lube into my hand and spread it on my middle finger, and a little more onto him. I rub my finger in circles around his opening. He lets out a noise that I’ve never heard him make before. It’s halfway between a whimper and a shout. He’s tight here. There’s a freckle underneath his ass cheek that I’ve never seen before. He nods, and I press into him. The angle is different from when I do it to myself, but I figure it out. Once my finger is past the first ring of muscle, everything feels easier. He’s just as hot inside as I thought he would be. I think I could come from this, untouched, if I tried to.
“Okay?” He’s nodding again, and he has a steel grip on my wrist.
“Stop looking at me like I’m some kind of math problem you want to solve. I’m fine. I want this. I can take it, I want to take it.” I can tell he’s trying to be sexy, but he’s really horrible at dirty talk (I forgive him, of course). He just looks so determined. I press my finger into him, all the way to the first knuckle, and draw it back out. He lets out another whimper, and if I were human, if I wasn’t so strong, he might be hurting my wrist. His tail has long since slithered off my wrist and is wrapping itself around my calf. I always wonder if it hurts him, sitting on it all the time, but I don’t want to ask him to roll over. I want to watch him. “Another one.” I can smell the arousal coming off of him in waves. I can smell his blood, and I can smell the blood in the rice cooker next to us. I withdraw. He mewls, and I laugh, remembering the dragon in America who wouldn’t stop calling him a kitten.
I slather my hand with more lube and push back into him. He’s still so hot and tight. I can feel my fangs pushing out of my gums. I don’t try to hold them back, but maybe I should. Simon notices immediately, because he’s always noticing things about me. He’s exceptional about it.
“Let me see you.”
“You can already see me.” I know that isn’t what he means. He rolls his eyes at me.
“I won’t try to kiss you, I promise. Let me see.” And I nod, because I’d do anything for him.
I scissor my fingers back and forth, in and out. He’s gasping, and I know it’s good because his tail keeps tightening around my calf. When I feel him starting to relax, to loosen up, I add a third finger.
His eyes are wide, and he’s babbling some nonsense about how good I feel, so I tell him he’s beautiful, and I love him, and he’s everything I’ve ever wanted.
“I need you.”
“You have me.” I know what he means, but I can’t help it.
He groans. “You- your cock, you annoying bastard. Please.” I don’t want to make him beg, not when he’s finally figured out how to ask for what he wants.
I pull my fingers out of him, and for a second, he’s open and wanting, bright pink, beautiful. Could I put my mouth there? Would I be allowed? Maybe next time.
I slick myself up with lube, and it’s cold, but that’s okay because he’s so hot. His legs are open, and his hips are twitching toward me. I line myself up with him. His tail is still tight on my calf. Maybe I’ll have enough blood in me to bruise. I want a reminder of this.
“Ready?” I ask him.
“Yes. I need you.” He gives me a smile that’s so bright, it would be okay if I could never see the sun, as long as I have him.
The head of my cock presses into him, and it’s almost too much. He’s just as hot, just as tight as I thought he would be. The lube makes a vulgar noise, and he almost laughs.
“Snow, Simon, you’re- this is, I can’t…” I sound like him, unable to complete a sentence. My arms are shaking, maybe from the effort of holding myself up, maybe from the feeling of him around me. I feel like every nerve ending is on fire.
“All the way, you can do it.” He’s lying still, his hands are on my shoulders, and his legs are wrapped around my waist. He might be shaking a little, too.
I’m engulfed by him, I’m buried in him as far as I can go, but I wait.
“Does it hurt?” I ask him.
“Not really. Not badly.” He pulls me closer with his legs. I’m flush against him, and I want to kiss him so badly, but my fangs are still dropped. “Stay here. Just…” He wiggles his hips a little bit. His cock is trapped between us, and I feel it pressing against my stomach. “Deeper. Don’t go out.” He’s adjusting to me. His pupils are blown, and his hair is sweaty on his forehead.
I haven’t tried to thrust into him yet; I’m afraid I would come on the spot if I did. I stay where I am, his arms are a vice grip around my neck, and his tail is moving up my calf to my thigh. (This is another thing I don’t let myself think about, his tail anywhere near my ass or my cock. I want to let him bring it up first.)
I withdraw the slightest amount, and he pushes back against me. We stay like that, locked together like we were made for one another. He’s making desperate movements against me, and then I think I’ve hit his prostate, because it’s like a shock has run through him. “Yes, yes, yes, there.” He’s panting in my ear, and his breath is hot and wet, just like the rest of him. “Wait, wait, the blood, oh, God. Please.” He reaches next to him into the rice cooker, and it must be hot because he winces. All of the sudden, I don’t hate the unsightly thing.
I’m having trouble stringing more than three words together, but I manage “You sure okay?”
He must know how to translate, because he slaps the bag onto his neck and says, “I’m ready”.
I’m nervous. I wonder if this is how the lions felt in the zoo, the first time they saw that wooden pole with the meat hooked onto it. I wonder if they felt nervous or just excited by the challenge, by something new. I want to try something new. If I can’t have him, then there’s nothing wrong with pretending.
Each bag holds a cup and a half of blood. Simon estimated that before this, I was drinking less than half a cup a day. He said it was no wonder I was so malnourished. He was right. I felt better- I was still cold, but not as cold as I used to, and I was looking less washed out and grey and more brown. It made me happy, it made me feel closer to my mother, to my family.
He’s holding the bag to his neck, and he looks like he wants this more than anything. Like he wants it to be real more than anything. I can’t, but I can pretend.
I bite down. I’m usually careful. I’ve never drunk anything out of a bag before, and I can feel the blood trickling down my chin in a tiny rivulet. I can smell him here, like butter and cinnamon rolls and musky arousal. It almost tastes like him. I lap at the blood; the tiny puncture marks in the bag are leaking down his shoulder and pooling on his chest. It’s warm, it’s so good. It tastes a thousand times better than sucking down a few rats in an alleyway.
He’s still rolling his hips, thrusting against me. I’m too focused on the blood to do anything but let him fuck himself on me. It feels so good. It feels like love, and sex, and not being thirsty for the first time in six years.
I let go. He’s filling me up, and I’m coming deep inside of him. Is this how he feels every time? Is this what it feels like to be full enough to give something to someone else? To have something to spare?
He’s running a hand up and down my back, his cock is still pressed into my stomach, hard and wanting.
I’m almost done with the blood. I can’t believe I ever did this any differently.
I lean back a bit without pulling out and spit into my hand. I’m working his cock the way he likes it, with a firm hand and a twist at the end. I’m licking at the blood on his shoulder and the trail down his chest when he comes with a shout. His come mixes with the blood that's trickled down from his shoulder, and I want it all. I want him, for the rest of the night, for however long he’ll let me have him.
He won’t let me go after he finishes. The rice cooker (which might be my new favorite kitchen appliance) is still plugged in, the light is still on, and I can feel my come leaking out of him. The sheets are a mess- we’re a mess. We’ll both need another shower. I let him flip us over to give his wings a chance to stretch.
“Was that good for you?” He asks me, shy again.
“Yes, Simon. You were so good. You felt so-” I lick his chest again, he’s sticky. “Don’t ever let me laugh at your ideas again.”
“Noted.” He laughs. His arms are tight around me, and I’ve never been so happy that I’m not hunting rats in an alley.