Chapter Text
BAZ
I drop my head onto my pillow with a pleasured sigh as I press the slick tip of my dildo to my entrance. I never let myself get too noisy in moments like this, but ours is the only room on our floor, so I allow my sounds to escape.
It feels better, to let go that little bit and moan openly. I typically wank in the shower, but even after spelling it soundproof, I feel too unnerved getting noisy with Snow right on the other side of the door. (It’s a boon and a bane, really. I rather like knowing he’s just outside. Despite needing to be quiet about it.)
But Snow isn’t here—he left nearly hour ago on some stupid mission with the Mage. I can be as loud as I like (within reason), and I can take as long as I like. No need to keep it simple and to a time-limit. I have all afternoon.
I took my time cleaning and pampering and preparing myself. Now, I get to indulge.
I close my eyes and groan as I breach myself with the toy slowly, so slowly. It’s been months since I’ve had enough free-time for this. I’ve made do with my fingers now and then, but the shower is a tricky place for that sort of thing. I’ve been craving more.
I roll my hips onto the thick dildo, gasping at the sensation of it spreading me. I shouldn’t, but I let myself imagine that it’s Snow who’s filling me, that I’m overwhelmed by the size of him, that he’s groaning and marvelling at my tightness, swallowing him up.
“Fuck,” I whimper.
I bet Snow is noisy. I bet he has no control over the sounds that come out of him. I bet he’s awkward and gabby and fucking wild once you get him going. Graceless and feral.
A long, keening sound rumbles out of me. I push the toy in all the way and give myself a few moments to simply squirm and squeeze on it. Finally, I begin to move it, leisurely at first—slowly dragging it out, then forcing it back in—then gradually picking up speed. I imagine Snow over me, arms braced on either side of my head, body trembling with pleasure and exertion as he pistons his hips into me with increasing fervour.
It’s overwhelming and extremely good. I’m panting, straining on the bed, legs spread wide. I’ve left my shirt on so I wouldn’t get cold, but as my pleasure sparks through me, I’m warmed all over. Crowley, I can’t even imagine how warm Snow must get. He’s an open flame without any provocation—this type of heated endeavour would surely turn him into an inferno. Could I even survive being fucked by him?
The old bed creaks noisily under me, only adding further texture to my fantasy. Between Snow’s barbaric nature and my excessive strength, I’m sure we could break the fucking bed. It’s a thrilling thought.
I give in to my yearnings and reach my other hand down to grasp at my painful erection. I only squeeze at the base, not looking to finish too quickly. I want to keep imagining Simon Snow fucking me senseless for as long as I can take it.
I whine and shift, spreading wider. Hungry. Always so fucking hungry.
There’s more creaking and gasping. It feels so real, I swear to Merlin, I can smell him. Cinnamon, bacon. Something I’d gladly eat.
Then, there’s another sound. My brain is muddled with passion—it takes me far too long to realize how out-of-place the sound is.
The doorknob.
My eyes fly open. I look down in horror at the door—the door with a comically perfect view of my intimate goings-on—and watch helplessly as the knob finishes turning and clicks open.
There’s no time to reach for my wand. There’s no time to do anything at all.
I simply freeze, directly echoed in the way Simon Snow freezes as the door swings open and he catches sight of me.
The silence is absolute agony.
I’m pretty sure neither one of us is breathing, and I think my heart is pounding harder than it ever has (it sounds like Snow’s is pounding rather frantically, too).
I’m not sure what I expected him to do if he ever caught me. I’ve entertained the thought in my fantasies several times—so many variations of him freaking out, then slugging me or joining me (or both—the two are far from mutually exclusive). I did not, however, expect him to merely stand there in the doorway, hand still on the bloody knob, mouth opening and closing uselessly as he stares, wide-eyed, at a dildo buried in my arse.
My own bodily control is rather lacking as well. I clear my throat, on the second try.
“Snow.” I sound positively strangled.
He clearly doesn’t hear me.
“Snow. In or out,” I snarl darkly. “Pick one.”
Snow stumbles forward as if my words yanked him by the throat (oh, how I would love to), and the door slams shut behind him. The sound of it and my subsequent incredulous eyebrow lift make his eyes widen further.
“Oh. I— Wait— Um—” His eyes dart around but keep coming back to me. To my arse, specifically. “That’s not—”
I swallow against the rising panic. The reality of Simon Snow standing before me in this predicament is setting in. It’s unfathomably shameful, yet I still can’t bring myself to move.
Worse, I find myself all the more aroused.
“Going to pull up a chair?” I snap.
That breaks Snow from his stupor. He scrambles to his desk, sure to keep his hunched up back to me.
“Jesus Christ, Baz!” he sputters. I’d be far more chuffed to be in this pose, making Snow curse like a filthy Normal, if he were actually doing it with lusty delight. “What are you doing?!”
“You got a perfectly good eyeful, didn’t you?”
“Y—fuck—lock the fucking door!” Snow’s in a right fit, tugging at his hair aggressively.
“I usually do,” I retort. I see his spine straighten up—let him think of that how he’d like. “You shouldn’t have been back so soon.”
“Oh, yeah, sure, my bad, sorry about that!” Snow barks. I’m certain it’s supposed to sound sarcastic, but he comes across hysterical instead.
I sigh. Well. I can’t actually stay like this, and he’s clearly not about to leave. As tempting as it is to finish the task, I would immolate from embarrassment—I can already feel lava spewing up through my insides, burning me with equal parts pleasure and shame. I wouldn’t survive it.
Still, I have to wrangle this back into my control somehow. And if I can’t press my shoe to his throat, then what better way to apply some pressure to Snow than to make him even more thoroughly uncomfortable? It’s not like it escaped my notice that his eyes kept snapping back to me. Even if it was only from morbid curiosity, there’s still something in him that wants to know.
“Would you like one last gander before I tidy up?” I drawl, my voice teasing, sultry—and let him think of that how he’d like, too.
“Why—why the hell would I—fucking shit, Baz—”
I laugh, cruel and a little breathless. “Yeats and Keats, Snow, who knew you were such a prude.”
I drink in the sight of his broad back, grip the dildo, and drag it out of myself with wet finality—and a moan. Snow shudders at the noises. My toes curl.
“I’m not—” He tosses his head side to side dramatically. “There’s a difference!”
“Between what and what?” I press, enunciating sharply. Snow’s expression always pinches up all funny when I do that. I can’t see it right now, but I take pleasure in knowing I caused it just the same.
“B-between prudishness and—and this!” he squawks, flapping a hand in my direction.
My laugh this time is crueller. Merlin, what I wouldn’t give to shove him to his knees and test the limits of his blubbering, virginal mouth—
I hastily pluck up my pants and tug them back onto my body. Before I do something I’ll regret.
“Crowley, it’s just a wank.”
“H-hardly!”
“I pity Wellbelove, if your idea of self-intimacy is so vanilla.” Not that he’s even with her any longer. (And yes, I do get a sadistic pleasure from reminding him of that fact.)
I manage to get myself to my feet, wobbly-kneed and all, and collect my trousers from where I draped them over my desk chair. Snow flinches, likely fearing that I’m coming for him. Thankfully, I’ve managed to resist that urge—just.
“Don’t talk about girls,” Snow groans, “while you’re buggering yourself!”
That fucking pisses me off.
It’s grounding, really, to feel so compelled to shove Snow against the wall from both acrimony and arousal.
“You really are clueless,” I sneer, not having to force the derision in my voice. I take my time pulling my trousers on and dealing with the closures, mostly to spite him (also because it’s a more complicated affair, given how hard I still am). “All men can experience pleasure from anal stimulation, Snow, even the ones who are pathologically heterosexual.”
“Wh-what the—” Snow jerks his head over his shoulder to glare at me. His eyes still seem to be magnetized to my groin, however, and he immediately flusters anew and whips his head away again. “What the fuck does that even mean?”
“It means,” I growl, “that despite all your uptight, uneducated, pathetic overcompensating, even you could find pleasure in a little arse play.”
I shouldn’t be pushing this. I should have been unabashed and laughed right in his face, ‘yes, Snow, you’re right, I’m queer, and you’ve found me pounding my ass and thinking of blokes; now, what are you going to do about it?’ Instead, I’m skirting around the issue like a fucking coward and deflecting. I simply can’t resist driving him up the wall with discomfort, but it has to be on terms that might not make him horrifically awkward around me forever.
(It’s not that I think Snow is homophobic. There have been enough little things here and there to make me assume he’s at least not a bigot. Still, being fine with queerness in general is one thing—being fine with your roommate’s queerness is another. I don’t think I could stomach him feeling preyed upon. Even if it is the truth.)
All that besides: the idea of planting enough curiosity to force a tormented Snow into exploring his arse during his next wank is simply too scrumptious to pass up.
“H-how does that—?” Snow looks over his shoulder at me again, jaw working, but only strangled sounds are coming out. I lift my eyebrow at him and wait for the inevitable stupidity. “I’m not sticking things up my bum!” he finally blurts. I roll my eyes.
“And you needn’t. Stimulating the exterior can be pleasurable enough,” I inform. Snow turns to me fully, gaping like a particularly confounded fish. I scoff. “Do you want a diagram or something?”
“What? No. Fuck. Sod off, Baz.” Then, he blusters magnificently. “I mean—no! Argh!”
I smirk. My guts feel molten, and my skin and nerves flutter like flash paper, far too close to the flame. There’s absolutely no good reason that I keep pushing this, but he’s all smoke and heat, and I’m boiling on the inside—it’s unavoidable that I’ll be burned to ash by him one day, so why not step forth boldly?
“Would a more kinaesthetic approach suffice, then?”
Snow blinks at me. I can see the gears in his head churning as he tries to suss out my meaning. Once he does, his voice is strained and pitchy: “A-are you suggesting grabbing my arse?”
“I’m suggesting,”—I press my fingers into my hair, pushing it back—Snow’s pulse quickens—“that since this seems to be a topic of great interest to you, Snow, I can charitably offer you a lesson in the basics.”
Snow unleashes an agitated groan. Merlin, I don’t know how the boy can manage to keep up such a froth for so long. (Though I’ve somehow managed to keep up an erection for this long, so I’m not one to speak on the matter of indecorous stamina.)
“You’ve never offered to tutor me in anything before!” he yammers.
“Precisely.” I curl my lip at him. “So don’t expect me to ever be so generous with my offers of elucidation ever again.”
Snow shrinks back, and I’m not quite sure how that makes me feel. I’ve always relished in making him wince, but he’s never been one to actually back down from my challenges. My insides cramp against the odd twisting of guilt—there’s no complicated tangle of arousal to go with it, this time.
It would be so very easy to right this whole thing. I could sneer and say that I’ve only been toying with him, that his blustering has gotten stale, and that I’m done with the charade. I could leave him confused and stewing and leave myself with at least a small sliver of dignity still intact.
Instead, I remind myself to stay bold as his smoke fills my lungs. If there’s one thing Simon Snow consistently does not abide by, it’s cowardice. So, I goad him. “What are you afraid of?”
That gets him, the predictable git. Snow jerks up to full-height, eyes going hard and wild. “I’m not afraid!” he baulks.
“Your excessive stuttering and sweating belie otherwise.”
“I’m just,”—Snow fleetingly drops his gaze to the persistent bulge in my trousers—“confused.”
Oh.
Oh, oh, oh.
My erection had been somewhat flagging, but Snow’s confession has got my cock twitching back to full force.
In contempt of my comment on his own perspiring, I can feel an anxious sweat prickling at my back and hairline. I’m nearly choking on the thick scent of his smoke and on my desire to ravage him until he’s very, very far from simply confused.
“Ignorance often begets confusion,” I say. I nearly recoil from the desperation evident in my voice. (Snow doesn’t seem to notice, thank the stars.)
“S-sure. I guess. —You sound like Penny.” Snow’s voice is tight, like when I have him pinned in a fight. Crowley, I’ll never be able to hear him like that the same way again—and maybe that’s just fine. Maybe, oh, just maybe, the impetus for such a strangled voice always had far less to do with my forearm crushed against his clavicles, and more to do with…well, with whatever all this is.
I wet my lips. “I thought you didn’t want to talk about girls while on the topic of buggering.”
Snow gulps showily. “That’s not—” His eyes cease their frenzied darting about, falling on something and staying locked there. I have to clutch at the back of my desk chair to keep from swooning when I realize he’s staring at the dildo on my bed, still slick with my use. “I don’t want anything up my arse.”
“—Noted.” I can’t fathom how I’m still functional. “As I mentioned, there are forms of stimulation other than…penetration.”
Snow gives a shaky nod. “Right.”
“‘Right’?” I echo, stupidly.
He drags his eyes from the toy, and it’s as his gaze finds my own that I realize he hasn’t looked me in the eye this entire time. Until now. The fiery determination in the icy blue of his eyes is like a bucket of cold water—in the best possible way. I shiver.
“Right,” he says again, firmer. His jaw pushes forward—I dig my nails into my chair. “What do I…do?”
Merlin, Morgana, and Methuselah.
I don’t think I truly expected him to agree.
This is mad. I’m nauseous with nerves.
“Well....” I let my gaze do what Snow’s has so audaciously done several times now: I look at his crotch. Snow has a collection of ratty, chavvy track bottoms, but I must admit that I’ve more than come to see their…aesthetic appeal. These bottoms are one of my favourites of his: simple, neutral grey joggers that hang on his shapes with lascivious attention to detail. There’s one particular detail jumping out in far starker relief than normal. My throat is pathetically dry. “You’ll have to take those off, to start,” I rasp.
Snow has the decency to squirm under my gaze. “That’s, um—” My eyes jerk back up to his in a challenge. “That’s a bit gay, innit?”
I want to fucking murder him.
Instead, I take in a ludicrously slow breath through my nose, until my chest is burning with the expansion. “Snow, you idiotic wretch,” I enunciate with great care, “you’ve agreed to having me fondle your arsehole, but the idea of pulling down your pants for it is too gay?”
Snow scowls handsomely. “I thought I could just, I don’t know, turn around and pull ‘em down or something—! Showing you my prick is different!”
I exhale.
“Fine. There are only so many insecurities of yours I’m willing to tackle in a day.” I wave towards the en suite. “Go wash up—and do it well. And then,” I falter, “come out in your jockstrap.”
Snow’s flush spreads up from his neck in a fresh wave of embarrassment. He stutters out something incoherent that must be agreement, because then he’s scrambling for his jockstrap from his drawers and fleeing for the bathroom.
The opaque haze of smoke and anxiety and lust hanging in the air clears some once Snow locks himself in the loo. I gulp at the fresher air and collapse at my desk.
Morgana in a meadow, what the fuck have I gotten us into?
Rather than letting my thoughts spiral in a fit of panic, I look down at my lap and try to assess my options. I’ve been aching at half-mast, if not more, this whole time. I think I might well come in my pants at first sight of Snow’s bare arse. Or worse, I don’t and eventually pass out from blood loss. It’s not like I have much to spare.
Snow ought to be in there for a few minutes—
I tear my trousers open and clutch at myself. I bite back a whimper of relief at the contact. I usually like to take my time, tease myself into a frenzy, but I’ve been through more than excessive foreplay at this point. There’s a puddle of pre-come in my pants—I smear it along my length and gracelessly pump my hand around myself.
Crowley, I can’t believe I’m doing this while Snow’s in the loo. And he’s (hopefully) cleaning himself up. Preparing himself for me— for me to—
I throw my head back, fangs popping as I finish with a wavering groan.
I pant and shiver while coming down from the abrupt orgasm. It was too fast, rather unfulfilling even, but it will have to do. I spell my mess away and tuck myself back into my trousers before Snow catches me (again). Once I’ve calmed enough that my fangs retract, I head for my bed and spell my dildo clean. It’s as I’m setting that aside, I hear the bathroom door open. Not a moment too soon.
Oh.
Merciful fuck.
Snow is a vision.
He’s standing awkwardly in the bathroom doorway, wearing only a white singlet and jockstrap. I’ve never seen his bare legs before. His skin is a shade paler than his usual tawny glow, and his freckles and moles are more scarce as well. I’ve seen him in baggy basketball shorts once or twice, and he never made the football team, so I’ve been blessed to not be tortured by the sight of him all kitted up; his pale legs insinuate that he doesn't wear shorts often over the summer. These powerful thighs are a well-kept secret from even the sun.
“N-now what?” Snow finally asks, snapping me out of my reverie.
I clear my throat. “Lie on the bed.”
Snow flexes his jaw for a thoughtful moment, then strides over and lies back on my bed. I raise my brow at him (and ignore the hammering of my heart).
“Y-you didn’t say which bed,” Snow pre-empts my complaint.
“I thought that would have been obvious.”
If Simon Snow wants to lay bare arsed on my bed, then I am in no position to argue. I kneel upright on the foot of the bed before he dares make a move to go.
Snow watches me with unwavering focus now. “Should I be on my stomach…?”
“No,” I say, too quickly. My eyes latch onto the outline of his cock through his strap. He’s most certainly half-hard—if not more. “Bring up your knees.”
Snow does so obediently—and, fuck, if that isn’t a thrill. It strikes a match in me, reigniting the torturous flames of my desire. Thank Merlin I came already, I’m impatient enough for this as is.
Snow yelps when I suddenly grab him by the hips, before I have a chance to second-guess this any longer. I yank him further down the bed and hoist his rear up into the air, bringing his arse chest-level to me.
“Baz—!”
I don’t know if it’s a sound of surprise or grievance or thrill, and I don’t care. Snow is exposed and spread mere inches from my face—I can focus on nothing else. He smells freshly of school-issued soap, but it can’t mask his usual scent, so warm and brown and delicious. It’s even thicker here.
I want to eat him.
I circle one arm across his hips, pinning him to my chest. With my other, I let my wand drop down my sleeve, and I utter a ‘clean as a whistle’ (better to be safe than sorry). Snow grunts—he hates when people cast cleaning spells on him—but he doesn’t dare complain about it. While whistles are, admittedly, not terribly clean, they are clean enough to put your mouth on.
One thing at a time, Basil.
“Snow,” I warn, “I’m going to touch you now.”
“O-okay, just—oh....”
Snow tenses as I lightly, so lightly, run the pads of my fingers down the strip of skin between the jockstrap and his entrance. The dusty pink flesh there puckers further when I circle my touch over it. I lick my lips. I’m salivating for it.
“B-Baz—”
Somehow, I drag my gaze away from his spread arse, and I must look a fright because Snow shudders visibly when we make eye contact. I’m so hungry for him, I’m worried I’ll thrall him—perhaps that’s what has him tensing, too. Though, he doesn’t seem to be cowering at all.... Snow’s gaze is wide and enduring.
“Are you, um—” He reaches up to cup his hands over his cock and balls in a display of sheepishness that’s nearly laughable. “Are you gay?”
Without breaking my eyes away from his, I search out his hole with my thumb and push against it flatly. Snow’s lashes flutter, but he doesn’t concede as far as to blink.
“Does it matter?”
Even with most of his body up in the air, pressed down into the bed by not much more than his shoulders, Snow manages to shrug. “Yes? Maybe? I don’t know.”
“If I say no, will you stop me?” I knead my thumb pad along the puffy rim of sensitive flesh.
Snow gulps. “I…n…n-no.”
“And,” I continue, keeping my eyes on his and dipping my head down so that my breath strokes the flushed skin of his taint, “if I say yes, will you stop me?”
“No,” Snow exhales, far more resolutely.
“So…it doesn’t matter.”
He nods. And then…he relaxes in my hold. He lets his eyes flutter shut.
I’ve won.
Now, to get my prize.
“Snow,” I menace into the joining where hip meets groin, “I’m going to use my mouth on you.”
There’s an agonizing pause wherein I wait for his response, breath held. I am utterly certain he withholds his consent far longer than necessary, merely to spite me. I love him for it all the more.
“Yeah,” he finally emits.
I’m on him in a flash.
I swipe a firm stripe with the flat of my tongue, from just below his entrance, all the way to where his hands are redundantly covering himself. Snow unleashes a wild groan. I don’t bother hiding my hunger, he already saw it in my expression. I close my eyes and openly devour him.
I’ve no idea what I’m doing. I’ve never even kissed anyone, yet here I am, rimming the object of all my affection. It’s preposterous and obscene. And I’m hopelessly intoxicated by all of it. His scent, his taste, the reverberations of his moans, the way my own wanton sounds reverberate through him—
It’s all just…just so much.
“Fuck,” Snow whines. Then, again, “fuck!” he growls. His noises keep vacillating like that—soft and mewling or deep and feral. I wouldn’t be able to pick which I liked best if my life depended on it. All my focus goes into eliciting more sounds from him, hoping to catalogue as many as possible.
I take my time laving at him with wet abandon. He squirms in my hold, groaning and trembling. I consider lowering him—this must be terribly uncomfortable on his neck—but what little of my good sense remains is cast aside when Snow begins pushing up towards my mouth with mounting eagerness. I rumble a dark note of pleasure through him and release my grip.
Snow doesn’t miss a beat. He’s fucking brilliant in a fight, and he approaches this just the same—not giving an inch, taking whatever he can get. The second I stop pinning his hips to my chest, he’s shoving up to meet me. His ankles hook together behind my head, and that’s when I realize what a fantastic way to go this would be, smothered between Simon Snow’s thighs.
(Even if he were trying, I don’t think he could actually smother me to death, what with my vampirism. But it’s a deliciously deranged thought that I humour for several moments too long.)
Snow keens and ruts his arse against my face as I tongue at him. I grip his buttocks with both hands, stretching him open further with my thumbs. I nudge the tip of my tongue against the slight spread of his hole, revelling in the tremors of his muscles. I’ve precisely enough mind left to recall that he specified he didn’t want anything to enter him, so I remain just this side of cautious, only prodding and teasing, not breaching.
“Oh Crowley, oh fuck, Baz, Baz—! Oh God, oh fuck—!”
Snow sounds absolutely wrecked. It’s better than I imagined. I huff and moan against his heat, and there’s undoubtedly something about it that he likes because a wild shiver runs through him. It’s a feedback loop: every time I lick or prod, he emits beautiful, animalistic sounds, which in turn make me grunt and lap at him all the more urgently. My inexperience doesn’t appear to be of any detriment to Snow’s pleasure.
Ah. And there’s something else I’d like to try.
I latch my lips to the entirety of his entrance and give an experimental suck.
“Baz—!” he wails. Fuck, I’m never going to hear my name the same way from him again.
I thought Snow’s vocalisations and frenzied humping were licentious before, but this is a whole new level—one that I’m eager to explore.
I kiss and suckle at Snow, varying my pressure and placement to great effect, it seems. He’s so uninhibited in his responsiveness. I try to hold onto every detail of it, but he’s giving me far too much material. I suppose that’s to be expected, though. Simon Snow is always too much, in all the best ways.
I give him too much right back, unrelenting in my assault. I suck at him sloppily, savouring the symphony of sounds I can draw from his skin and his throat. He’s a snarling mess. It doesn’t escape my notice that the hands against his clothed cock have been groping and tugging in an arrhythmic fashion for some time now.
I massage his arse with my hands as I work, and I wonder what I can do to make him tumble over the edge. I suck on him tightly, drawing him into my mouth, and I let my front teeth barely graze against the abused flesh. Snow bucks in surprise, sobbing out an approximation of my name that I will never unhear. One of his hands scrabbles against my hair for purchase—I fleetingly regret he hasn’t been pulling my hair this entire time—and his heels dig into my back.
I hardly have to even repeat the ministrations with my teeth before Snow is unravelling with beastly delight. I can feel each wave of his orgasm rip through him in the twitching of his hole and the pulse of his balls. I luxuriate in it, suckling him through each surge of ecstasy.
Snow’s moans—a tremulous string of nonsense sounds—become weaker. I can sense the moment his body begins to unwind; I’m sure to circle my arms around his waist again so that he no longer needs to hold himself up. He sags in my hold, and the scent of his satisfaction hangs heavily in the air. I give him one last lick before easing him down.
Well.
Fuck.
I stare at him in a daze. Having him not shoved against my nose and mouth is somehow more jarring. The reality of what we’ve done begins to fully settle in.
Snow stares back at me with a hooded, faraway gaze. His mouth is hanging open, chest heaving as he struggles to catch his breath. I’m too aroused and, frankly, shocked to do much more than ogle him.
He blinks a few times as his brain seems to come back online. Snow’s gaze drops from my own, looking between his legs—surely at the alarmingly obvious erection I’m sporting, mere inches from his own crotch. He gulps with the full effect of that fucking showy neck of his.
I watch Snow watch me. He starts working his jaw in an attempt to say something. There’s a heart-stopping moment where I think he’s going to offer assistance—
Then he’s shaking his head and scrambling to sit up. I lean back, stupefied and staying out of his way as he fumbles to his feet.
“Um—” His voice is hoarse. It’s painfully sexy, especially knowing that I caused it. “W-well! That was, uh,”—Snow stumbles towards his side of the room—“right educational.” He frantically pulls on a hoody and track bottoms, over his soiled jockstrap, and I’m still too lost in the haze of what just happened to give him hell for it.
I belatedly rub my hand over my wet mouth. Aleister Crowley— We really just— I really just—
Next thing I know, Snow’s snatching up his trainers, mumbling out some string of words that I can’t quite make out (typical), and darting out of our room.
The slam of the door falling shut helps bring me back to my body. I unleash a long, disgruntled groan into the empty room.
And I have another frenzied, confusing, unfulfilling wank.
What the fuck have I done?