Don't Stop.

See Me.

I've never done this before. Not with Agatha, not with another boy (obviously). I'm not sure if Baz knows this. Baz, with his cool confidence and his nimble violinist's hands.

The first problem is, I've never been shirtless in front of him; I mean... not if I could help it. And now that I want to be— now that I so desperately, achingly want to be— I'm scared out of my mind. Not because of Baz. Never because of Baz, not anymore. Because... well, because I'm me. And he's this beautiful, grey-eyed vampire whose magic could knock the socks off of any Mage at 200 yards. I'm scared because I don't know what to do, don't know how this works, and I'm scared because I don't know if he'll like me. The parts of me he hasn't seen. Baz, with his football-player body and soft, slightly wavy hair, and his smile that puts the stars to shame. He's just so fucking pretty, in ways that I will never be.

The second problem is I just don't know what the hell I'm doing. Because I've never done this before, and because I am completely clueless. Because there are so many weird logistical problems that come along with having a pair of wings and a fucking cartoon dragon's tail. Because I want him more desperately than I have ever wanted anything else in the world, and I just don't know how on earth to tell him that.

Being in love is hard.

It was never this annoying with Agatha; I always just sort of did what she wanted, kissed her when it was expected, danced with her when there was a song to be danced to. I know now that I was probably never actually in love with Agatha. Because it never felt like this. Like a white-hot kernel of my lost magic burning deep inside my chest, aching to be set free or satiated or something. Like his lips are life, and I am a dying man. Being with Agatha never felt like this.

Baz is kissing me senseless, those long fingers dipping beneath the hem of my shirt in a way that makes me growl. His mouth is voracious, open and moving against mine. Somewhere in the room there is a bed, and I can feel it tugging at us like an electromagnet, drawing us closer and closer and closer.

"Snow," he whispers, not pulling away. His eyelashes are long and dark against his bloodless cheeks. "Simon... come to bed with me."

"Yes," I murmur in reply. Yes and yes and yes, forever.

And then his lips, warm from ages of snogging, are on my neck, right on that mole he loves so much. And his hands are on my hips, pushing me backwards, backwards, until my legs bump clumsily into the edge of the mattress, my wings flaring out to either side to balance myself. Those lips trail towards my collarbone, those fingers pushing at the hem of my shirt.

"Baz... wait," I say breathlessly, arms draped around his shoulders. He stops, pearl-grey eyes looking down into mine. His hand comes up to cup my face, thumb brushing over the moles under my eye, and I turn my head to kiss his palm.

"I've never done this before," I say. He shakes his head once, smiling ever so slightly.

"Neither have I." A shiver crawls along my back at the deep, graceful purr of his voice.

"What if... what if you don't... like me?"

Shock widens those eyes, drops his jaw open ever so slightly. Then his arms wrap around me, pulling me close against his chest, and his lips press against my forehead.

"I will," he promises, sounding more sure of this than of anything he's ever told me before, "You've nothing to be afraid of, Simon Snow. But we can stop... if you like."

Pulling away, I tangle my fingers in his hair, pulling his lips to mine and kissing him hungrily.

"Don't. Don't stop," I whisper. "Aleister Crowley, don't stop."

Smiling against my mouth, his hands grip the hem of my shirt once more, this time tugging it up, over my chest. He stops kissing me to tug the shirt off, then again when I take off his.

Pretty grey eyes stare down at my bare chest and stomach, a happy sort of gleam behind them. Heat rushes to my face.

"You're lovely, Simon Snow," he says, stooping to press his lips to a spot just below my collarbone. Those lips travel all along my chest, down to my stomach, the bones of my hips. The combined feeling of his lips on my skin and his fingers playing at a soft spot on one of my wings-- a sensitive place where the webbing meets the very first joint-- makes me whine and grip his hair.

"Don't stop," I say again, as his lips still on a place on my abdomen. "Never stop."

He doesn't.