Chapter Text
SIMON
I think about Baz when I fuck other people. It doesn’t matter who it is. Girls. Guys. Neither. Both. As soon as I close my eyes, it’s Baz. It’s his black hair against the white pillow. It’s his eyebrows pulled together. His mouth open. His chest heaving, thighs squeezing, blunt nails digging.
I know it’s wrong, but it feels good when I cum.
I called out his name on accident once. I had been fucking this guy who slipped me his number at the cafe. Lenny. I think. Maybe. I mean, at this point what does it matter?
We’ll just say it was Lenny.
It had been a particularly hectic day. I worked back-to-back shifts—front desk at the gym in the morning, closing shift at the cafe in the evening—and had nearly been flattened on the pavement by some fuckhead on a motorbike as I hustled between the two. On top of all that, my phone died without me noticing, which meant I missed four texts from Baz that went something along the lines of I have an extra ticket for the show I mentioned yesterday, and it’s yours if you’re free tonight, and I guess you aren’t before finally, I’ll find someone else.
I was still staring at the string of messages, my phone hidden beneath the till, when the guy—Lenny—propositioned me.
“The shop’s closing soon, right?”
I looked up at him. Dark hair, pale skin, pale eyes behind dark frames. He was in a brown cable knit jumper that looked scratchy to the touch and was holding the coffee he ordered earlier to his chest with both hands. He was handsome in a bookish kind of way.
I glanced back at my phone to read the time, eyes dragging over the messages once again.
“Ten minutes,” I said. Then, in my customer service voice, “What can I get for you?”
That’s when he pushed a napkin across the counter. His number was on the back, written in blue pen. “I, uh,” he started, then stopped and looked down at his coffee. His fingers tapped on the cardboard sleeve. He took a breath before lifting his eyes to catch mine above the rim of his glasses. The irises were a shade bluer than Baz’s. But his eyelashes were just as long. “I’m not far. If you’re interested in a drink.”
I cast a final glance towards my phone. The screen had locked and gone dark. I slipped it into my back pocket and told myself I’d message Baz later. I didn’t want to bother him if he already made backup plans.
I also didn’t want to go home to an empty flat.
“Yeah,” I said with a smile that didn’t reach my eyes. “I’d like that.”
Not an hour later I had Lenny ass up on his sofa, naked save for his scratchy brown jumper pushed up towards his shoulder. I had gotten good at imagining anyone as Baz, but Lenny made it especially easy. He was the right proportions. Had the right amount of body hair. Muffled his moans into the cushions just like I imagined Baz would—too stubborn to let himself go.
He liked it on the rough side too, which played into my favorite fantasies. I kept him pinned down with one arm twisted behind his back, thrusting into him hard, and the way he kept saying my name in these low, gasped breaths was making me hot. I could picture Baz’s lips parting around each broken syllable. It was fucking perfect.
So, yeah. I got into it. And the next thing I knew, Baz’s name was slipping out as I came. Sandwiched right between a “Yeah, yeah, take it,” and a gritted-out, “Fuuuck!”
Lenny was cool about it, but he never stopped by the cafe again.
That was months ago and I have since learned my lesson. If I’m going to keep fantasizing about fucking my roommate, I have to zip it when I cum.
Which I’ve successfully done. There have been no additional embarrassing name slips since my time with Lenny…
Or was it Larry? I keep wanting to say Lamb, but I know that can’t be right. No one is called Lamb. That is not a real name.
Anyway, the person I’m fucking right now (Hazel—I’m getting better at remembering them) is anything but quiet. Which is fine. The no-talking-during-sex rule doesn’t apply to my partners and this one has had no trouble remembering my name considering how loudly she’s moaning it. Then again, she could make any hook-up faux pas right now and I’d give her a pass for letting me bend her in half like this.
Baz does yoga in the living room every morning and on the rare days I’m home to witness it, I make coffee in our tiny attached kitchen so I have an excuse to be nearby. He is flexible and I’ve always wanted to fuck him like this—ankles up above his head.
Fuck, Baz would be so hot like this. Completely pinned under me. Hands gripping at the sheets, pushing back on the headboard, reaching for me. The demanding prick would be the type to order me around, even in this position. Harder, faster, there, yes, yes, yes.
I can picture it perfectly and Christ, he’s beautiful. A vision. Golden skin slick with sweat. Hair dark as the night. I want to fill him. Every hole. I want to make him cum so hard he chokes on it.
I fuck him like he tells me to, everything winding up tighter and tighter, my breath growing harder, building up, up until I snap. I bite my lip so hard when I cum, I almost cut right through it.
“Wow,” Hazel says, laughing through a long, broken exhale. “You’re good at this, aren’t you?”
Her voice drags me from the lingering visions in my head, successfully pulling me back to reality. I crack open one eye and then the other. My breath is slowing to something near normal as I move to sit upright, one hand at the base of my cock to keep the condom in place.
I wince as I pull out. “You’re not so bad yourself,” I offer with a sex-high smile, and I mean it. She isn’t bad. She’s quite pretty. With bright eyes and gorgeous breasts. Her complexion is similar to Baz’s and her hair is just as dark. But where he’s all sharp, straight edges, Hazel is full, curved lines.
I ditch the spent condom and as I come back to the bed, Hazel is reaching into her nightstand to dig out another. She holds it up, gold foil catching in the glow of a nearby lamp—the only source of light in her basement studio flat. The place is cramped but clean and, more importantly, the concrete walls keep the heat of the summer at bay. It feels like she has air conditioning running, too. Lucky duck. The two bedroom I share with Baz is poorly equipped to handle the heatwave we’re experiencing.
Maybe Hazel will let me stay the night. The heat’s been preventing me from getting proper sleep. It’s not like Baz would care. If his date goes well, he might not come home himself.
“Up for another go?” Hazel glances down at my spent cock and then lifts her gaze with a suggestive smile. The condom rolls between her fingers playfully.
I think about it, standing at the end of her bed with my hands on my hips, looking her up and down. “Yeah,” I say, starting to stroke myself back to life, “I’m game if you are.”
Her smile widens as I crawl onto the bed and give the side of her thigh a light smack.
“Roll over,” I tell her. She does, lifting her pretty plump ass for me as she gets on all fours. I fold over her back and take the condom from where she still has it between her fingers. “How are you with hairpulling?” I ask as I pull back to glove up. Her hair’s a little longer than Baz, but that won’t matter when I close my eyes.
“Oh ho, you are my type.”
“I’ll take that as a green light?”
“Very green.”
I shift behind her, stroking lube over my dick and using the excess to make sure her cunt is nice and slick. Her voice is already picking up when I tease her clit. Then I’m gripping her hip with one hand and running the other up her spine, her neck, and sinking my fingers into her hair.
Fuck, it’s as soft as Baz’s too. He lets me braid it sometimes. (I’m good at it. I’m good with my hands.) Usually, I’ll do it while he’s working. He’ll be at our dining table and I’ll stand over him, humming as I run strands of his hair through my fingers. He doesn’t stop me, but he doesn’t encourage it either. Just continues to type, type, type on whatever he’s writing, pausing now and then to delete aggressively. When I finish, he’ll keep it done up the rest of the day, like he can’t be bothered to change it.
I wonder what he’d say if he knew how many times I’ve thought about pulling on his hair. I’d gather it up just like this. Twisting. Tugging. Just enough to make his neck arch. Just enough to use it as a solid hold while I fuck him.
I wonder if he’d—
Bzzz Bzzz Bzzz
My train of thought comes to an abrupt halt as my phone goes into a fit of seizures against the floorboard, vibrating loudly enough to cause even Hazel to pause.
“Is that your phone?” The question comes with an unsaid you didn’t fucking silence it? But I read the silent accusation loud and clear in the look she’s giving me from over her shoulder.
“Sorry,” I offer and glance over the edge of the bed to read the caller ID. Lighting up the screen is Basilton Grimm Bitch 🖤.
“Sorry,” I say again, letting go of Hazel’s hair and stretching to reach my phone. The movement causes me to pull out with a wet, unattractive squelch.
Hazel is staring at me, still on her hands and knees as I scoop up my phone and answer in one go. “Hey, what’s up?”
“I’m at Natura. What do you want?”
“You’re getting takeaway? I thought you had plans tonight.”
Hazel’s flipped around to face me now. I give her an apologetic smile. She’s not having it. “What the fuck are you doing?” she demands.
I hold my hand up to indicate I’m sorry and mouth Just a second.
“It ended early,” I hear Baz say on the other end of the line. His words carry on a sigh, “I don’t want to get into it. Anyway, what do you want? Carbonara?”
“Ah,” I respond. “Okay. Uh. Hang on.” The whole reason I went out after work tonight was because Baz had a date, but if those plans got canceled, then…
I cup my hand over the mic to try and keep Baz from overhearing as I excuse myself from the bed. “Sorry,” I say to Hazel in a rushed whisper. “I just— I got to take this, so— Sorry.”
Then, to Baz, “Get me a pizza. The one with the spicy salami.”
He’s quiet for a moment before stating, “You’re busy.”
Hazel is glaring daggers. “Seriously, what the fuck? Are you seeing someone?”
“What? No. No, I’m not—” I don’t even know which of the two of them I’m responding to, but I’m cut short either way as a decorative pillow makes contact with my face.
“How dare you, Snow,” Baz says flatly, but loudly enough for Hazel to catch. “I thought we had something special.”
“You are not helping,” I hiss, but the damage has been done.
“Dump him!” She’s yelling in the direction of my phone now. “He’s a fucking cheat!” Then to me, “I hope your dick falls off. Get the fuck out of my flat.”
I spend the next minute scrambling to get my trousers on, juggling my phone and dodging yet more decorative throws along with a jabbing foot or two. I make it out of the flat with my trainers half on and my shirt, pants, and socks held to my bare chest with one hand. The heavy metal door slams shut behind me, effectively silencing Hazel’s shrill tirade of infidelity accusations.
“So, pizza?” Baz asks, sounding bored.
I pull my shirt over my head and make a poor attempt at wiggling on my shoes the rest of the way. “If you’d please.”
“Fine. I’ll be home in 30.”
All business, this one. “Alright,” I say, walking out of the building and towards the nearest station. The summer night air is thick when I breathe it in. Hot and uncomfortable. I’m already sweating from my earlier activities, but now I have humidity to contend with too. I’m going to be drenched by the time I’m home. “I should be close to that.”
“Okay.”
I wad up my pants and socks and try and tuck them into my pockets. It doesn’t really work. Fuck it, I think, and throw them in the next bin I pass. “Okay,” I say back just to fill the silence.
“Right.” Baz’s voice is as dry as ever, but I can tell he’s feeling awkward by how he’s slow to hang up. “Open a bottle of red if you’re home before me.”
I laugh quietly. My head dips. “I will.” I pull my bottom lip into my mouth, biting down. It’s sore. I release it with a defeated sigh. “And sorry.”
“For what?”
I run my hand through my hair, trying to figure out what to say without saying it. I settle for, “I thought you were going to be busy.”
“Yes, well… I’m sorry for interrupting.”
I snort. “You are not.”
“You’re right, I’m not.”
I laugh louder this time and I swear I can hear him smiling. “I’ll see you soon, Baz.”
“See you soon, Simon.”
He hangs up first and I pause in the middle of the pavement to stare blankly at my lock screen. It’s a photo from our fire escape. The city sprawled out in the distance, a blurred landscape of lights cutting through the night, forming the familiar shapes that make up our little slice of London. At the edge of the picture is Baz’s profile. Cigarette between his lips, chin propped in his hand, eyes focused just above the camera. Looking at me as I took this picture.
It’s over two years old—from spring 2020. Just a few months after we moved in together and a few weeks after the start of the pandemic. Everyone was surprised when we moved in together in the first place, and once Covid hit there were bets on how long it would take for us to kill one another (and who’d die first). I don’t blame them considering our shared history.
But that’s not what happened.
That’s not what happened at all.
With a press of a button, my lock screen goes black, and I try to breathe out the tension that’s crawling through my limbs. It doesn’t work.
Which is fine.
I’m fine.
Baz isn't out with someone else. He's coming home to me.
So I’m fine.