Pervocracy

by Gammarus

Summary:

Simon and Baz go to a sex club and get inspired by something they see there.

Notes:

Chapter One of For Real is set at a sex club. In this fic, Baz and Simon are at the club that night and see some of those events from an outsider's perspective — which then inspires them to some kinky shenanigans of their own.

As a result, you could consider this to have a minor spoiler for the beginning of For Real. If you want, you can read the chapter as part of the free preview on Amazon before you read this.

(Is this part of my scheme to get everyone in the Carry On fandom who likes kinky smut to read For Real? Mmmmaybe...)

Enjoy!

Baz

I can't believe I'm getting dressed to go to something called Pervocracy. That requires fancy dress. I'm wearing my tuxedo because that's the only thing I believe that Pervocracy (shudder) would recognise as suitable that I'm willing to wear in public.

Simon's just going to go shirtless and let his wings show. We assume that the Normals will all think that they're simply extraordinarily good prosthetics, like they did at that ridiculous Renaissance Faire. I certainly can understand his wanting to be in public with them not cramped up for once.

Pervocracy is a sex club , if you can believe it. We're going as Dev and Niall's guests—they're members. Dev's enthusiasm did nothing to reassure me about the experience—on the contrary, it only made me more reluctant. Niall did a better job of alleviating my doubts. "You don't need to do anything, and if you stay out of the dungeon rooms you won't see anything too extreme, either. The main event is a cabaret—erotic performance poetry, that sort of thing." Dungeon rooms. And perhaps just as bad, erotic performance poetry .

But Simon really wants to go, and I find it hard to deny him. It's been truly nice to have him become more relaxed about sex—about sex with me, anyway. I’m not wild about the public nature of a sex club, but if it makes him happy, well, so be it.

Simon

I can't believe I get to go to a sex club! With Baz! And Dev and Niall, too, but I'm not excited about that part—they're just our chance to get in.

We're meeting them at their flat. Dev opens the door to us dressed only in a black leather thong and a pair of combat boots and is holding a vast sheaf of red roses. Baz turns pink—the vampire-blush equivalent of a deep crimson on anyone else—when he sees how Dev is dressed. "I will not be seen with someone who looks like that," he says.

"Oh yes you will, if you want to get in at all," Dev replies, handing Baz the flowers.

"What in heaven's name are these for, Devereaux? I know you're glad that I agreed to go, but really, a simple 'thank you' would suffice." 

"You’re supposed to have something to make it easier for people to get to know you. Just give one to anyone who asks."

"But I don't want it to be easy for people to get to know me at a sex club. The less known I am the happier I'll be."

"I'll carry them!" I say.

That's all it takes—Baz may not want people getting to know him at a sex club, but he really, really doesn't want them getting to know me. I'm sure that's half the reason he’s reluctant to go—jealousy and insecurity. (The other half is sheer embarrassment, which Dev's getup isn't helping with.) He grabs the flowers before I can get my hands on them. "They'll look good with my tux,” he says quickly, “and with you shirtless I don't want you getting scratched by the thorns.” 

I wish he wasn't so worried. There's nobody for me but him, and he should know that by now. I can't say that in front of Dev, especially not with the way he's dressed. But I want to reassure Baz, so I give him a kiss on his cheek and a squeeze of his arm. 

Niall emerges from the bedroom wearing short trousers and a dress shirt with a rainbow bow tie and rainbow braces, Dev throws on a coat, and we're on our way.

Baz

The club is in a nondescript building in East London, unmarked on the outside except for the address. We go in and a young woman with green nail varnish and a ring through her nose looks at Dev and Niall's membership card (carried by Niall, since Dev has no pockets—or clothing) and finds us on the list. She tells Simon he needs a costume, so he grins, takes off his shirt, and unobtrusively rings the little bell he's got in his pocket. She gasps in surprise as his wings fling themselves outwards, then waves us in, handing us a sheet with rules on one side and a map of the club on the other.

We deposit our things at the coat check and then Simon takes my hand and, wide-eyed, starts to lead me through the rooms. He’s as bold and eager here as he is anywhere else. People are dressed in all sorts of fantastical get-ups. I see fairy wings and corsets, diaphanous wraps and studded black leather. One woman has a man on a leash, following her on all fours like a dog. I look away, embarrassed.

Simon

This place is so cool. People are dressed all different ways, like it’s someplace that you can be anything you can imagine. And I can be me, the guy with wings, and it’s fantastic, and people like it. They don’t know I’m always the guy with wings, of course. A woman in a spangled bikini with a beehive hairdo and cat’s-eye glasses asks me if she can touch them, and I’m about to say yes, but I feel Baz stiffen up. They’re pretty sensitive and I kind of moan when he strokes them, so I guess I can see why he wouldn’t want me letting someone else do that. I offer her a rose instead and she takes it with a smile, working it into her tower of hair.

That gets me started giving out flowers. I put my arm around Baz to help him feel safe—I want to have a good time, but not at his expense—and as we go into the different rooms I look for friendly-looking people who don’t seem too engrossed in what they’re doing, say hi, and offer them a rose. We wander into a room where a woman is tied up and being hit pretty ruthlessly and we get out of there quickly. 

In the hallway, I give a rose to a woman in a rainbow corset and seriously lacy knickers. She’s arm-in-arm with a man in a kind of fantastical pirate costume who says “Hey, what about me?” in this sexy Australian drawl, so I give him one, too. They’re accompanied by a handsome man in ordinary street clothes, but he looks fiercely uninterested in having a flower and I don’t even try.

Next we end up in what the map says is a makeout room. It’s pretty sexy—people grinding and moaning and caressing each other—without being hardcore like that dungeon was. I pull Baz in closer to me to see how he’s doing. There’s a faint flush on his cheeks. I’m not sure whether he’s embarrassed or turned on. A bit of both, probably. I nuzzle in under his ear and nibble gently on his neck. He swallows a tiny moan and then says “Simon, really. Let’s not. Can we go somewhere less… blatant?” 

Dammit. I pushed him over to the embarrassed side. I check the map and locate a “chill space” which sounds more like his speed. It’s set up like the makeout room, with lots of comfy furniture, but the most extreme thing anyone is doing is cuddling. We settle down and hold hands, talking quietly, until it’s time for the cabaret.

Baz

The poetry is pretty much as bad as I expected it to be. My experience is complicated by the fact that my cock is fluctuating up and down—it gets briefly excited from some of the subject matter, then flags sadly at the forced rhythms and overblown metaphors. Afterwards, I get us each a drink and we stand at a hightop to sip them and watch the passing crowd. I stand behind Simon and take advantage of his state of semi-undress to pet the ridges of his wings. He makes a little purring sound and stretches his neck.

I notice a guy standing across the room from us, a bit awkwardly, on the outer circle of a group of people chatting. He’s dressed in ordinary clothes—very tight jeans and a t-shirt. His hair is curly and floppy with an undercut—a lot like Simon’s, but darker. He’s bony and awkward and a bit shorter than average. Not much to look at, you’d think, but he’s intense.

A taller man, also in street clothes (how do they manage it?) comes up behind him, puts a hand on his shoulder, turns him around. This fellow is a good deal older than the skinny bloke, who could still be in his late teens. He’s broader and more muscled, too, darkly handsome, but with an unwelcoming face. Whatever he has to say, the teenager doesn’t like it. He bristles and sparks fly, but the older man is conciliatory—within limits.

Simon

There’s something going on across the room from us. Two blokes having words. One is the fellow who looked too grumpy for a flower; the other is younger, smaller, and really irritated at something the grumpy one has said. But they settle down a bit and get into a conversation. The younger one is really getting into what he’s saying, gesturing excitedly, frustrated and inspired. Passionate, that’s the word for him. I can’t hear what he’s saying, but I think it’s probably a lot more interesting than that poetry stuff we watched earlier.

I lean my head back so I can whisper in Baz’s ear. “What do you suppose that’s about? Do you think they know each other?”

He turns his head to reply, “I don’t think so. That didn’t look like recognition. But whatever they’re talking about, it’s important to both of them.” He takes the opportunity to nuzzle a bit and nip at my earlobe. I squeak quietly. I think maybe the sexy atmosphere is getting to him a bit, when he’s interested enough to forget to be judgy and self-conscious.

Baz

I snuggle in between Simon’s wings and wrap my arms around his torso, enjoying the feel of him under my hands, the smell of him in my nostrils, as I look over his shoulder at this mismatched couple. Then something happens that I don't expect. The older man sinks gracefully to his knees, sitting back on his heels and clasping his hands behind his back. He keeps his eyes riveted on the young fellow, tipping his head back to meet his gaze. He’s plainly offering something— himself? His service? His posture is one of submission, but there’s nothing meek about him—he’s full of fire. The youth clearly didn’t expect this. His breath catches and he flushes with excitement. Simon gasps, and I feel him straighten up, his whole body coming awake.

Both men are breathing heavily. The young man swallows hard—it's not as showy as Simon's, but it's a nice swallow nonetheless—and asks a question. The answer must be positive, because he steps forward, standing between the other's knees. He runs one finger along the throat that’s stretching up towards him and then fits his hand around it. He’s not squeezing or strangling him, but he’s taking possession, staking a claim—and holding the older man’s undivided attention. I imagine Simon’s hand on me like that and I’m suddenly hard. I become aware of our pulses—mine, slow and subdued and his, more rapid, seductive, thrumming with life. 

Simon whispers in my ear. “Can you imagine? Just meeting someone and feeling a connection that intense?”

“I can. In fact, beyond imagining it, I remember it.” I grip his waist tightly and bite, very carefully, no fangs, at the place where his neck meets his shoulder. Simon swallows a groan and grinds his arse back against my crotch. 

The two men, one standing, one kneeling, are like a micro-universe—for each of them, the other is the only thing that matters. The youth is plainly aroused—his face is flushed, his mouth is half open, his chest is heaving, and there's a bulge in his jeans. The man is looking only at the face above him, nowhere else. I’m sure every eye in the room is on them. 

I wish I could hear what they were saying, but on the other hand I almost don’t need to; it’s like I can feel the essence of their connection. The teen pushes the toe of one shoe in between the other’s legs, right up to his bulging crotch, gently but surely. It’s not violent, but it’s a statement. At the same moment, I feel Simon tremble in my grip. Then the kneeling man rises just as elegantly as he sank down in the first place. He leaves the room together with the teen.

Simon turns to face me. His eyes are dark with excitement; he was as thoroughly caught up in their energy as I was. I reach out silently to his face and suddenly we're crashing our mouths together, a messy mix of teeth and tongues and spit, all passion and no technique, crotches grinding against each other. After uncountable minutes we push our foreheads together and pull our mouths far enough apart to catch some heaving breaths.

"Are you ready to go home?" he asks.

"Crowley, yes,” I sigh. 

And we do.

Simon

We get a taxi home from the club. We're both pretty quiet, holding hands in the back seat. We were kissing wildly before we decided to leave but now we're just... here. I'm not sure what's happening next. I was really turned on by what I saw—the kid taking the older man by the throat, like he owned him, and this big, strong guy just letting it happen. No, more than letting it. It started when he knelt down. He chose it.

What does it mean that I'm turned on by that? And am I going to do anything about it? Would I dare to? It got to Baz too, I can tell. He's holding my hand very tightly, the only sign that he's not completely at ease.

I feel shy of him, all of a sudden. I want to say something about what we saw. I think it turned him on, and it definitely turned me on. But how do I tell him I want that? What if he's scared or angry or offended? What if he thinks I'm sick? Maybe we should just mess around like usual, and I can think sexy thoughts about this stuff without having to talk about it.

Baz

We're in the cab headed home. Neither of us is speaking. I want to know what Simon is thinking, but I don't dare to ask. I keep my breathing even—I have long practice keeping up a calm facade around Simon Snow. It was often buttressed with sneers and barbs, though, and I don't want to do that any more. Or not right now, anyway.

I keep my eyes forward as I grip his hand. 

Simon

We get home and go back into our flat. I look at Baz, standing there in his tuxedo. There were guys at the club wearing all kinds of leather and tight clothes and some almost naked (including Dev, ugh!). But honestly, I don't think there's anything that looks better on a man than a tux. And there's no man anywhere who looks better to me than Baz, so Baz in a tux... smoking hot. 

Dammit, I'm going to say something.

"So, um, Baz?"

He has to clear his throat before he can answer me. "Yes, love?"

"So. Um." Merlin, I'm turning red — I can feel it. If we were back at Watford he'd be insulting me and telling me to spit it out. I'm glad he's less prickly now —this is hard enough. "So, like, what those two guys were doing. Would you ever... would you ever want to try something like that?"

He stares at me, wide-eyed. I backpedal as fast as I can. "No, it's stupid. Never mind. Forget I said anything."

He turns a bit away from me and bites his lip. "Let's not be hasty, Simon. We can talk about it."

"I wouldn't want you to do anything you didn't want to do."

"That's just it. I might want to." And that's when I see it—a faint flush along his cheekbones. 

He wants this, too.

Crowley. 

Baz

Crowley. I actually said that. I'm embarrassed at the very idea of kneeling down in front of Simon, ashamed at the idea of him knowing I want to do that.

And the embarrassment and shame make it even hotter.

I belong to Simon. I've always belonged to him, since I was eleven years old. And I've put up every kind of wall, lashed out with every insult and power play, to make sure no one ever knew it. But I know that he loves me and would never hurt me. So what if I just let all those walls down?

I swallow, hard. "Look, let's go sit on the sofa. We can just talk for now." I take my dinner jacket off and set it carefully on the back of a chair so it won't wrinkle.

"I'm going to make some tea," Simon says hurriedly. I don't mind the break to settle my thoughts, honestly. I fling myself down on the sofa and untie my bow tie, letting the ends dangle. I unbutton the first few buttons of my shirt and throw my head back, closing my eyes and resting my head on the upholstery. 

I think again about the youth in the club putting his hand around the kneeling man's throat, toeing confidently at his crotch. My own cock is swollen hard and straining; it's been half-hard since the club and it leapt to attention the minute Simon brought the subject up. It's pressing uncomfortably against the seam of my trousers, so I reach down and adjust things. My hand feels so good and I'm so aroused that it takes an effort not to just start stroking myself right now. I don't want Simon to come back in and find me wanking. 

That thought turns me on, too.

I hear Simon coming back into the room and open my eyes. I guess we're having this conversation.

Simon

I had to get out of there. I had to breathe. I had to think. And I'm British, so I said I'd make tea. So now I'm in the kitchen, faffing about with the cups and the kettle and the packet of tea and thinking about what I'm going to say when I go back out there. 

I mean, I guess I have to go back out there. Eventually. It would be easier to stay in here forever, but Baz would come looking for me sooner or later.

So, when the tea is made, I return to the sitting room. I hand Baz his cup and join him on the sofa. Usually I sit near him, maybe touching, but now I'm at the far end. I didn't even think about it; I'm just that scared. 

"So, I don't know if you could tell, but like, I liked that. Seeing that hot guy kneeling for that skinny little bloke. It... I got really turned on." I'm looking down at my tea, tilting my cup gently back and forth, watching the surface stay level as the cup moves, because I can't stand the idea of seeing him looking angry or disgusted.

"I did, too." Baz's voice sounds kind of small and I look at him, concerned. He's looking away from me and fidgeting with his cup. "I... I thought about you holding me by the throat like that, looking down at me like that... I really wanted it." He's silent for a moment. Then, almost a whisper, "I want that." 

I hate seeing him so small. He should be big and bold and proud. I mean, I want him on his knees, apparently. But I guess I want him proudly on his knees? I set my cup on the coffee table, slide over close to him, and put my hand on his thigh. "Hey, Baz, it's me. You can tell me stuff."

He looks down his nose at me. "Simon, you must know by now that I hate 'telling people stuff.' That I want these things to go poetically unsaid."

I smile at him. "I do. But I know you've learned by now that sometimes it's the best way. Like, I'm not a mind reader. We're both a lot more likely to get what we want if we tell each other."

"All right, then. What do you want?"

"I don't completely know.  I just, that was pretty sexy, what those blokes were doing."  I swallow. "Just to be clear, I, um, I would want to be the guy standing up."

"Excellent. I would prefer to be the other gentleman." I can't help myself. Just hearing him say that—I stretch my whole body, hard, and bite my lip. 

"Christ, Baz. That's so hot. Just thinking of you, like that. On your knees for me."

Baz

Crowley. I want it. He wants it. But I have no bloody idea what I'm doing or how we get started. "So should we try that?"

"Yeah. Yeah, let's try that. I mean, I have no idea what I'm doing. I'm afraid I'll feel stupid. But let's try that." He's afraid he'll feel stupid? I suddenly wish I had a good stiff drink, not a cup of tea.

"Okay. Come on." I stand up and walk away from the sofa and coffee table. 

Simon follows me, then grabs me and kisses me. "You know I love you, right?" I nod stiffly. "Then give me a hug and let's see if we can figure this out." We hug each other tight. I feel like he's never going to let me go and I never want him to. But then I do, because I want something else, too. So I loosen my hold and he feels my signal and we let each other go. 

I step back two paces. I look him in the eyes, and I see so much there — love and excitement and doubt and longing. I get down to the floor, to my knees, and sit back on my heels. I usually feel graceful but this seems awkward as fuck, like I'm all elbows and protruding rump on my way down. My Achilles tendons hurt where the backs of my shoes are digging into them. I swear quietly and switch to sitting long enough to get my shoes off, then go back to kneeling.

I don't know what to do with myself. My hands. My eyes. I clasp my hands behind my back and look down at Simon's feet.

Simon

I'm suddenly freaking out. This is amazing. I love how this feels. I want to make Baz do things to me, I want to do things to him, but I'm afraid of what will happen if I do. The idea of being in charge is exciting but terrifying (I suddenly realize how similar those two things are). Before I know it, I'm on my knees, too. I grab Baz's shoulders. "Baz. Look at me. I want to do this. But what if I hurt you? How will I know what's okay to do?"

He lifts his eyes to mine. "I don't think you can hurt me physically. I'm a vampire, remember? You can't overpower me. I'm really hard to injure. So long as you don't light me on fire, there's nothing to fear."

"And emotionally?"

"Don't insult me. Don't make me doubt that you love me. As long as I have that, you can do anything you want." He hooks his hands over my biceps, puts his forehead to mine, and says, "I trust you, Simon. I love you and I want to try this, if it feels okay to you. Can we do this?"

"Yeah. Yeah, we can." I kiss him, letting our mouths melt together for several long moments. Then I stand back up. I'm still nervous, but I know that everything he said is true: I can't hurt his body, and I would never choose to hurt his heart. He trusts me, and we want this, and I'm going to try to make it happen for both of us. I take a deep breath, and then I give him my first command: "Undress."

Baz

Just one word: Undress . I'm on fire. I feel Simon's eyes on me as I slide the bow tie out of my collar and then unbutton my shirt. My hands want to shake, so I go slowly, trying to keep myself under control. I feel a faint flush rise on my chest as I uncover it. I pull out the tails, undo the last buttons, slide my shirt off, fold it and put it on the floor.

I feel so exposed.

"And the rest of it," says Simon.

Merlin and Morgana. He's going to see my cock, how utterly aroused I am by this. I take off my socks next, delaying the trousers a bit and avoiding that ridiculous moment of being naked except for socks. I unbutton my trousers, unfasten the hook and eye, unzip. I slide them off, fold them, put them on the pile. 

Just my boxers now. I slide my thumbs into the waistband and lift it up over and then down past my dick, slide them off, put them aside.

I return to my knees. My cock is achingly hard and wet with precome. I clasp my hands behind me again and bow my head, eyes on Simon's feet. He's still fully dressed and here I am, all my skin and all my need spread out in front of him. 

Simon

I have no idea what I'm doing, but getting Baz naked seemed like a good place to start. I was right—it is good, really good. His cock is hard and tight and dripping, so I know he likes this, and that helps me feel safe and confident to go on. 

"Come here." He starts to get up. "No, stay on your knees." He knee-walks towards me and stops when he runs into my toes. He sits back on his heels, hands clasped behind his back, head bowed. I stroke my fingers through his beautiful black hair and he mewls . "Stop me if I hurt you, okay?"

He tilts his head back and looks me right in the eyes. His irises are thin rims of grey fire around black mirrors that reflect all my love and desire. "What if I want you to hurt me?"

Right. "Okay, stop me if I hurt you more than you want to be hurt."

He nods. I sink my fingers into his locks and twist . He makes the sweetest moan. I pull him up and towards me until his face is right at my crotch. He's knelt to suck me off before because it was a convenient position, but never like this. Never like I own him. I'm throbbing at it.

I like him like this. Under my hands. I always have.

"Keep your hands behind your back." I grind my crotch into his face for a while. I'm sure the denim is rough, but he's not complaining.  On the contrary, he's making eager whimpering noises and leaning into it. I yank his head back a few inches and let go long enough to undo my flies and pull out my hard, dripping cock. Then I get my hands into his hair again and say, "Okay, get me off with your mouth."

Baz

He's being rough with me and I love it. And then he lets me loose on his cock. I'm deeply glad that I've learned to control my fangs, because his prick is the most mouth-watering thing I have ever seen or smelled. It's hot and hard, filled with Simon's blood, rich with his smell — popcorn and butter and cinnamon and, because it's his cock and he's hard, musk. 

I start by nuzzling it, running my cheeks and lips all up and down the length. I cover it in soft kisses and take in his juice, working my tongue all over the surface and lapping at his belly to get every bit of it. It tastes like he smells, only more so, and I love it. I want to stroke his thighs and arse but Simon told me to keep my hands behind my back. I clench them hard and wish he had tied them. Maybe next time.

While I'm busy with Simon's cock, his hands play in my hair and around my face. Sometimes he's gentle, just combing softly through the strands or stroking my cheek. Other times he twists and pulls. It's hard to say which I like better. All of it. I like all of it better. 

He's been making sweet pleasure noises the whole time I've been worshiping his cock. Then, when I take the head in my mouth, he says "Yes, yes, Baz. That's so good. Mmm, yes." 

That's what I need to hear. That he wants what I'm doing for him, that he appreciates me, that he cares. I want to belong to him, but not as some disregarded item. I want to be treasured. 

I go further down onto his cock and lose myself in what I'm doing. The sensations and techniques are familiar, since I've done this plenty of times. His satiny skin slick with my spit, the effort not to gag when I get really far on, hollowing my cheeks, swallowing, bobbing. All familiar. 

But it's also never felt like this. Because I'm at his feet not just for convenience, but in submission. Because his hands in my hair are ownership and pain as well as pleasure. Because I feel completely his. He's being rough with me, he's using me, and I love it. Before long, he's just ruthlessly fucking my face, and I'm in a special, hellish kind of heaven, and he comes with his cock thrust deep into my mouth and I swallow around him and I don't know if I've ever been more in love.

Simon

I come down Baz's throat in a whiteout of bliss. I just stay there, Baz's head held firmly in my hands, for a few moments while I come back to myself, as I reestablish my relationship to the floor and gravity and vision and everything that's not just his goddamn amazing mouth. 

Then I pull out and fasten my jeans and then I'm down on my knees, stroking his face and his hair and telling him, "Crowley, Baz, you are just so fucking beautiful." And he is. I mean, he sort of isn't, because his face is snotty and tear streaked and there's a little drool and jizz on his chin, but he absolutely is because this gorgeous, sleek, composed man let me make him look like that. And it's taking him a minute to come back to himself, too, but then he wipes off the streamer of drool-jizz and meets my eyes slowly, like he's afraid of what I'll think of him now that we've done this.

And what I think is that he is amazing and I love him, so I kiss him — kiss him and kiss him and kiss him. I taste myself in his mouth and lick gently at his sore lips. His mouth is warm from my pounding, not vampire-cool. And I want to give back at least some hint of the pleasure he’s given me, some reward for his service and his suffering, so I take his cock in my hand. I don’t know if it’s a vampire senses thing, or just a Baz thing, but there’s this one spot on the underside, right where the head meets the shaft, where he’s super sensitive. I gather up some of the precome that’s dripped all over him onto my thumb and then I stroke that spot gently, softly, over and over again. 

Baz

My lips are sore and my jaw is tired and my knees have been on the floor too damned long and I just don’t bloody care because Simon is being so kind and tender to me. His lips are dancing on mine so softly, his tongue licking into me, his thumb sending bolts of pleasure through my core that make me shudder intermittently. His other arm is wrapped around my back, enclosing me, spreading his warmth out around me. I think I’m whimpering. I need to be touching him back, and I feel like we’ve moved on enough since he said I should keep my hands behind me. I just need it, so I slide my hands into his hair, feeling those adorable curls.

I’m already melting and flying, and then he starts talking to me, telling me the most important possible things. That I’m his, that I’m precious, that I’m wonderful, that he wants to be with me forever. All this sweet praise peppered into the little spaces between his kisses. I float in his kisses and his praise; my chest feels big and open, kind of soft and warm. I’m drowning in cinnamon butter toffee in the best way. 

With that, and the unremitting gentle caresses on my frenulum, I start to feel hot urgency gather in my balls. Our kiss gets sloppier as my whimpers grow into moans which he gathers up with his gentle tongue. Soon I’m crying out sharply and fountaining, hot and messy, over his hand and my chest and my lap and his shirt. I bury my face in his shoulder, letting my panting gasps slow down to a more normal sort of breathing.

Simon

I rise, pulling Baz up with me. “Crowley, Baz, you’re amazing. I know I keep saying that, but it’s true. Let’s get you a shower.” I start to lead him to the washroom, but he balks. He shakes his head a bit, like it's that last little step in coming back to himself, then says "I appreciate the sentiment. But could I get a drink first?"

"Oh, yeah, sorry, of course. Do you want your tea, or should I get you some water?" I should have thought of that. If he's mine, then I need to take care of him. "Was that okay? I mean I really liked it. But was it okay for you?" I'm stumbling all over myself all of a sudden.

"Tea will be fine, thank you." We've been at this a while, so his tea is cool enough that he can drain it off quickly. He's remarkably collected for someone standing naked and covered in spunk in the presence of his fully-clothed lover and inhaling lukewarm tea through sex-swollen lips. He sets his cup down and touches my shoulder lightly. "I don't know if I can even put my experience into words. I think I’d like to take that shower before I try." A grin spreads across my face and we head off to wash.

Baz

Simon seems ready to join me in the shower. That could be delightful, but I want to reassemble my dignity and think about this evening. I suppose Penny would say I needed to process it. “Simon, I could use some time alone. Could you bring me my pyjamas and give me a little time to clean up?”

He seems a little disappointed or maybe even hurt, so I give him a peck on the lips. “Meet me in bed, okay?” He just nods and heads off. 

I take time in the shower to wash myself thoroughly and stretch out some of the places that are sore from our session, from my legs to my jaw. Afterwards, I apply a rejuvenating serum (Normal, not magickal) to my poor hard-used lips. I don’t see the pyjamas I asked Simon for and I suppress a bit of annoyance. It’s not his job to cater to me, after all, but I do feel entitled to just a bit of pampering after what I’ve been through for him (even though I was willing and eager). I wrap myself in a towel and head to the bedroom.

Where I find Simon huddled in a dejected-looking ball on the bed with his wings wrapped around himself. I used to find him like this a lot in the bad old days of our first year at uni, but it’s been ages. I drop any lingering resentment about the pyjamas and sit by him on the bed. “Simon? Are you all right?”

There’s a rustle from inside the wings that might be him shaking his head, but no other answer. I lay my hand on his back, between his wings. “Can you let me in, love?”

Another rustle. “Simon, if you’re having feelings or second thoughts about what we did tonight, I want to know about it.” He’s really not helping me out here, so I just forge on ahead. “I loved it. I felt so thoroughly yours, no doubts, no difficulties. It shut down my overthinking brain, and it was really hot, too. But if it’s not right for you…”

He drops one wing, peeks out, and cuts me off. “You liked it? Really?”

He looks so sad and small and scared. I think he’s been crying. “Yes, love, so much. But we don’t have to do it again if you don’t want to.”

“I liked it too. It was really… really sexy. I felt so powerful. But you didn’t want me to come with you into the shower. I thought you were hurt or angry. You looked kind of wrecked, after, and I was afraid I’d been too rough.” 

“Oh, darling.” I put a hand to his cheek. “I just wanted to get my composure back and tidy up. You may have noticed that a dignified appearance is somewhat important to me.” My wry understatement elicits a weak smile. “I wouldn’t want every time to be like that. But if it was okay for you, I’d love to do something similar again.”

“Really truly?”

“Really truly. Now cuddle with me, you disaster.”

Notes:

I had so much great help with this fic! penpanoply was an early reader and gets credit for some of the Feels. cmere gave a bunch of feedback and made me put in the aftercare. sconelover did a last-minute beta and OtherWorldsIveLivedIn Brit picked it for me.

Big thanks to all of you!