BAZ

Snow grabs my neck, his mouth on mine, and all my words go up in smoke. I want to give myself over to this, to him, completely.

Of course I can't. I can't even hope. There's the minor detail that we're mortal enemies. (Still.) (Talk is cheap.) Not to mention that Snow isn't gay. (Is he?)

Whatever Snow is - or isn't - he doesn't seem to be wasting any time thinking about it. (Typical.) He just - acts. With this irresistible conviction. Pulling me in closer, angling his head to kiss me more deeply. Grazing my lips, possessing my mouth.

My thoughts dissolve, my body responds without conscious volition. I grab his shoulders and only by sheer force of will stop my fingers from tearing into the neck of his jumper, finding the heat of his skin. But I can't stop myself from kissing him back relentlessly. A flicker of fear stings me - I'm trying and failing, miserably, to reign in years' worth of hunger - it must be too much. I flinch, anticipating his return to sanity, his inevitable revulsion.

Shockingly he's not turned off by my reaction - the opposite, it seems - he wraps his other arm around me and presses against me, harder. His tongue deeper in my mouth. As though he's trying to close all the gaps between us. I gasp a breath and it's the smoky smell of him - he's everywhere, invading my senses - Simon Snow.

More - now he's pushing me with intention, I could fall - let the elemental forces of Snow and gravity take whatever this is to the rug - when "OW! Aleister fucking Crowley!" His wretched cross scalds the exposed skin of my neck before I can flinch away.

"Oh! Sorry! I'm sorry! Here - sorry - you okay?" Snow rips the cross off, throwing it across the room and leaning back into my neck in one fluid motion, gently kissing the spot. "Here, yeah? Did it burn?"

"Not much - it was quick - " I vaguely register a metallic clink. I can't think past his mouth - my voice doesn't come out right, I'm breathless.

Snow hears the tremor in my voice and his eyes flash, rapidly shifting from apology back to urgency. Kissing my neck, my ear. His hand in my hair. His fingers stroking my back. Chills tingle down my spine and I make a mental note to revisit these other kisses (who knew?) sometime in the future (what future?) but this might be all I ever get - so I need his mouth on mine. Now. I barely stop myself from moaning when I pull his lips back to me. His eyes glint and he pushes harder, his tongue insistent. My body responds, demanding more - aching for more.

But I hold back. I follow his lead. I need him to lead. However far he's willing to go, I'm already there. I've spent night after night there. I want his mouth. His hands. My hands, on his golden skin. For years I lay awake in our room, breathing him in, imagining the thousands of ways we could come together. And now that this is happening, I'm simultaneously staggered by desire and tormented with fear.

How much saliva would it take to Turn him? What if I can't hide the rapidly growing evidence of how much I want him? What will ruin this first - monster that I am, will I accidentally hurt him? Or simply make him recoil in disgust?

At what point will he come to his senses and realize that he's not gay. (Is he?) And he doesn't want this. (Does he?) And he doesn't want me. (How could he?)

My remaining thoughts are extinguished by a surge of heat as I kiss him harder, desperately fighting to keep the rest of my body still - because I'm walking a line - no, balancing on a precipice. Using my last shred of self-control to keep from falling into him completely, while leaning precariously over the edge to meet him. (Wherever he is.) (For as long as he'll stay.)

Crowley. I thought this couldn't possibly go on. Snow can be a right muppet but even he has to realize that this is insane. My saliva alone could be disaster - shit - panic wells up in my chest.

But. Snow clearly wants more. His breathing is ragged now and he's pushing me harder, his hands exploring, stroking down my shirt with increasing urgency. He's so beautiful, gleaming metal in my arms. I can't think...his mouth and his hands overwhelm me. I barely stop myself from moaning his name, but I do concede a little - enough to let him push me down into the rug. I'm on my back and his chest is pressing into mine. His hands brush my face, lighting a trail of fire up my jaw before tangling in my hair. I make an incoherent noise - it's embarrassing. Snow pauses, his mouth twitching into a smirk. "The terrifying Baz Pitch - who would've thought?"

"Shut up, Snow." A feeble retort but it's all I've got. He looks at me intently, his blue eyes darken and he lunges for me again.

Thus far I've succeeded in restraining myself admirably, all things considered, but when he smirks at me and presses down into me again...I think I lose my mind a little. I feel my arms tighten around him. I feel my hands unleash, looping through his curls, stroking his back. Heat radiates through his jumper. Hot, alive.

I ache for his skin and the ache keeps expanding through my core, but somehow I stop myself from tearing into (off?) his shirt, and somehow I keep my hips angled away. Somehow I don't grab his hand and push it down onto me. (I should get a medal for this restraint.) (It's a product of fear, but it's restraint nonetheless.) Kissing boys and girls might be about the same, and maybe tumbling around is pretty close - not that I know - but I'm terrified to drive the differences home.

SIMON

Now I've really got him where I want him. We're on the floor on this ridiculous posh furry rug that seems conveniently placed for Baz to seduce people. (Though I obviously can't accuse of that in this specific situation.) The kissing in the woods was good (so good) - but when I leaned into him again just now I was a little surprised at how quickly he shut up and how intensely he kissed me back. And then one thing led to another and now I'm not exactly sure what we're doing down here or what to do next. I never honestly got much farther with Agatha so I don't even have that to go on. But I've realized this is definitely on my Baz list and so here we are.

I'm concentrating on his cool mouth and the sensation of his lean torso pressed up against mine when his hands finally come to life and start touching my back. The feeling of his long, elegant fingers...stroking me...it does something to me. I've been having trouble breathing properly this whole time and now it's worse. (Better?) He's still partly twisted away though and I have to be closer, so in one swift motion I roll us onto our sides. There. I'm acting on pure instinct, grabbing at his waist to pull him tightly into me - when he tenses and his eyes jerk open.

"Snow-"

"Yeah?"

"Snow - I -"

Baz, at a loss for words? My hand stills on his hip and it takes a surprising amount of effort to pull my head away from him slightly. "Baz, what? What's wrong?"

BAZ

Traitorous body. Craving blood, craving him. All I want is to grind into him. More. As much as he'll allow.

And he's acting like he wants more, too. Wants me. I could just - let him. Let myself. The thought of really touching him - pressing myself into his muscled thigh - feeling him -

Crowley.

But. I can't wrap my head around him being with Agatha for so long, and then in the space of an hour not only snogging me but ending up below the belt - how could that not mess with his head?

Worse. How could it not jolt him back to his senses? How could this whole thing not come to a screaming halt (likely with actual screaming)?

I need a distraction - now.

"Snow, no, nothing's wrong. We just need to - pause for a moment. We're about to destroy one of my favorite suits. It's already hopelessly wrinkled." I put a little sneer into it. To try to hide how my voice is shaking.

"A suit?" Snow says incredulously. "Shit, Baz, you want to stop for a suit?" He closes his eyes and swallows hard, visibly collecting himself. He leans into my ear, quietly, he breathes, "d'you really want to stop?" His nose brushes my neck and his hand tightens on my hip for an instant - an instant where I nearly lose all self-control - but when I don't answer and don't look at him, he abruptly jerks away and stands, roughly swiping his curls out of his eyes. He shakes his head and then seems to make a decision - he juts his chin forward stubbornly and holds out his hand to help me up.

Which I ignore. If I touch him right now - that's it, I'm done. I'd pull him right back down on me, shred all the clothing in my way, his and mine, sod that suit - and doubtless unnerve him so thoroughly he'd run screaming out of the house.

Instead I rise smoothly to my feet (without assistance) and quickly put some distance between us, tossing him pyjamas from the drawer. "Here. You'll find the bathroom down the hall," I say formally, gesturing, still resolutely looking away. Anywhere but at him.

He goes very still. My heart turns to stone as I feel him withdraw, sense the hurt and confusion radiating from him as he turns and walks out.