Kisses, Curls & Couch Cushions by mbeth786645
One, small, wonderful moment. Post-Carry On. Pre-Wayward Son. Snowbaz angst and fluff…
"I won't bite you, or turn you, or leave you, Simon Snow." I push off the far wall and walk towards Simon. He's slumped on his faded couch, in his faded clothes, in this faded flat. When Simon's magick faded, everything around him faded, too— his eyes, hair, jeans and jumper. (It's my faded jumper.)
"Baz…" I only hear the 'B' in my name, air past his lips. But he says my name. I look up, and he's looking back at me. I shove the coffee table out of the way without realizing I'm using magick, and it goes flying into the corner of the room, startling both of us.
"Crowley…" Simon looks back at me, blue eyes wide.
"Simon. I didn't mean to do that." I kneel next to him carefully. Looking at him hurts in a different way now, but I want us to keep talking. I'm desperate, and dedicated.
"I feel… bad. I feel broken." Simon says. He startles me, leaning over and kissing me, biting my bottom lip on the word 'feel'. He hasn't touched me like this, kissed me, never mind bloody bitten me, in the months he's been without magick. I kiss him back, slipping my tongue into his mouth. (And he lets me.)
"Baz..." His chin drops when he says my name again, pulling away a little, "I feel broken. I'm depressed. I'm depressed. I don't want to be coated in spells all the time, but I feel so empty."
"You're not broken to me. I think you're beautiful, wonderful, but you're allowed to feel broken. You're allowed to feel what you feel." I have to listen when he lets me in, when he tells me how he's feeling, no matter how hard it is to hear. (Because I love him.)
"I love you." Simon almost echoes, pulling me onto the couch. He lifts his hips so his whole body is pressed against mine— flexed muscle, glowing skin, power and heat. He tugs at the sleeves of his jumper, and then we pull his white t-shirt underneath off, over his head, shoulders, and around the bend of his wings.
"Crowley, Simon. I love you. I... want you." I unbutton and shrug out of my shirt, still in my dress slacks, shifting so we're balanced on our knees, pressed up against the couch cushions. Simon's arms fall from around my shoulders, and he reaches for the drawstrings of his joggers. He bumps his glorious knuckles and the backs of his long, beautiful fingers, against my groin. I can't catch my breath. I've waited so long, I've been so patient, and Simon Snow can't get his pants off. His wings unfurl and his head tips back when I reach into his pants myself, my hand around his length.
"Merlin, Morgana and Methuselah… Merlin, Morgana and Methuselah…" Simon whispers, in time with my hand movements. I watch him shake his hair out, when it gets caught on a section of his wing. He's moving so slowly, as if under some spell. It almost sounds like he's casting. (Is he casting!?)
"Be careful!" I pull my hand from his pants, and sit up, reaching for him, brushing the hair from his face to look in his eyes.
His eyes. His pupils are vertical slits.
The reaction is instantaneous, the small progress we've made— gone. He stands up, and I stand up after him. Simon's been on this couch for months, and I've been next to him the whole time. We can do this. We can try. We've fought off bad days, burnt scones, doubt and depression.
"Sorry! I'm sorry!" He's yelling, roaring, his wings pushing the air around the room.
"It's alright! Snow? Talk to me!"
"You called me Simon before." He doesn't fall into my arms, but I do sort of catch him. I can't get my arms around his wings until he folds them again. The moles on his shoulders move like dragon scales when I pull him to my chest, but his eyes are blue and round again. I'm weak for him, wrapped around him. I'm always wrapped around him. Tangled. Entwined.
"Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch." Simon says my full name, and I feel my fangs retract. I hadn't felt them extend in the first place. He kisses me, tracing my jawline with one warm finger and one cold talon. Breathe. Breathe. Simon's okay. He's okay.
"Are you okay?" I murmur into his hair. "Simon—" But he kisses me, interrupting. "Simon Snow Salisbury. Listen to me. We're roommates. We live surrounded by magick.
You… you are magick." He kisses me again. "Was that— were you a dragon? Your pupils were vertical!" Simon kisses me, over and over, and when I pull away to look at him, he smiles.
We like this better than fighting. We're fighting for each other instead of with each other now. In this one, small, wonderful moment. (In that other moment, though, he had definitely been a dragon.)