Archive of Our Own ^beta

Cheers rise from the crowd semi-circled around a ring of sawdust in which two girls valiantly avoid being thrown off a large, mechanical bull.

“That doesn’t even look fun,” I frown from a nearby table, watching one of the riders slide half off, thighs gripping metal while her friend laughs, and laughs, and doesn’t do a damn thing to help the other woman back on.

“Not sure it’s supposed to be fun,” Agatha argues, pink tongue poking out to wet her top lip.

I follow Agatha’s line of sight and groan; one of their shirts has pulled off her shoulder, exposing cleavage glistened with sweat. “So it’s supposed to be exploitation?”

“Don’t be a buzzkill,” Agatha teases, pulling the straw out of her cocktail to blow sugary liquor at my face, yelping when Niamh elbows her side in chastisement. 

“You’re my bride-to-be,” Niamh says, even though her eyes also keep drifting back to the riders. “Act like it.”

I lick off the droplets Agatha’s sprayed. Unlike her fiancé I’m not too bothered by the tantrum. I mean: free booze. Though I wouldn’t have done it if Baz were here to judge me. (I try not to give him more excuses.)

“Boo,” Agatha pouts, resting her chin on Niamh’s shoulder, “what’s the point in sharing a hen party if we can’t ogle women together?”

“Fine.” Niamh kisses the top of Agatha’s head, her eyes fluttering closed at the gesture. “If that's what you want.”

They turn to watch the show, rapidly dissolving into softcore porn with one of the women having fallen onto the sawdust, and the other slipping off the bull to land on top of her, hips still gyrating.

“You know what else I want?” Agatha smirks. “For you to say something romantic.”

Niamh sighs a deep, beleaguered sigh, then says in caps lock sarcasm, “If you’re a bird, I’m a bird.”

Agatha squeals and hugs Niamh tighter.

Baz pretends to gag as he sits back at our table, holding a glass of wine like a complete tosser. (Who drinks wine at a country bar?) “Get a room, you two.”

“Get a hobby,” Agatha replies, eyes flashing for a moment before returning to the soft goo of smothering her lover in affection for having quoted ‘The Notebook.’

“I would,” Baz flicks his long hair over one shoulder, “except I’m stuck here with you bitches.”

The table of women titters at his terrible joke, a group of his and Agatha’s coworkers so they’ve probably been bribed to suck up. 

And why does he get to use the b-word? I sink lower into my chair. Agatha’s banned my use of it, says I’m too straight-looking to pull off solidarity.

A drum of fingers on wood interrupts my pity party. I look across the table to find Niamh’s eyes twinkling with mischief. Nothing good can come from that expression. 

Niamh turns it toward Baz. “There is a hobby you could learn here. Something you can’t do somewhere else.”

But Baz has caught onto her game. He gestures at the sign above the now empty ring: Couples’ night! Two riders only. No more, no less. He raises an eyebrow like, See?

Niamh waves off his unspoken objection. “Use Simon.”

The back of my neck begins to sweat. Phrasing.  

“Please,” Baz drawls, “like Simon would last five seconds on the bull.”

I bristle. “I may not have your eight a.m. yoga abs,” and no, I’m not bitter Agatha’s never invited me along, “but I do work out, you know. Appearances aren’t everything.”

Baz’s eyes drag down to where the table hides my stomach. Which, rude. I resist pulling my shirt down over the phantom fear of unknowingly showing a sliver of belly; not everyone can have Baz’s chiselled physique. Instead, I take a long sip of my beer, a proper dive drink, and lean back in my chair like I’m not at all bothered by Baz’s obvious disdain.

“Fine.”

I sit up straight. “What?”

“I said, fine,” Baz repeats, his jaw tight. “I’ll ride the bull with you.”

I must slide into shock for a second because by the time I’m sputtering my objection, Agatha’s begun clapping in a way that proceeds her chanting me to hell.

“Please, please, please!” She proves me right. “You have to.” She tugs on Niamh’s sleeve. “Tell them, baby.”

“You have to,” Niamh repeats in a perfect deadpan, “it’s for the bride.”

Aaaand, here comes the spell to Satan: “For the bride!” the table of women chants in unison. “For the bride!”

I let out an undignified whine, turning from Agatha to Niamh and back again, begging with my eyes for their mercy.

Though I don’t know why I expect any; I’ve slept with Agatha. I know better than anyone at this table, save Niamh, how little mercy she has to offer. (It’s half of the reason we dated longer than a year.)

“It’s. For. The. Bride.” Agatha holds up her straw in warning, and Niamh raises hers, and then the whole table of women pulls out their straws like they think a little wet face is going to convince me to debase myself in front of Baz.

Then I look over at the man in question, even though he’s the arse who’s already agreed to this torture. 

He cocks an eyebrow and says, “Come on, Snow. Show me what you’re working with.”

Again, phrasing. But it ends up being the final straw. (Hah hah.) I’ve never backed down from a challenge.

I certainly won’t today; not when it’s thrown by Baz.

There’s a short wait for the bull which I spend testing how many times I can ‘accidentally’ elbow Baz’s side before the man turns red. Sadly, Baz’s complexion seems immune from flushing so all I get for my efforts are a few more cutting eyebrow raises that metaphorically shorten my height by half a foot, which is a feat considering Baz already bests me by three literal inches.

I let out a deep sigh when we reach the front of the line; so close to the end and yet so far.

“Get ready, boys,” the attendant says, smiling, immune to my impending doom, before ushering us into the ring. 

Baz scowls because he’s the kind of rich snob who never had to work customer service. 

So I wink at the attendant. “If I’m not yet, I will be,” I say, dipping my eyes to read his nametag before adding, “Jeremy.” 

I stick my tongue out at Baz when his scowl deepens.

In a sing-song voice, Jeremy explains the rules, then asks, “Now which of you lovely gentlemen are going to be on top?”

“He is,” Baz and I both speak in unison.

“Oh my.” Jeremy fans himself. “Well, one of you is going to have to pick. Unless you want to try and switch mid-ride,” he bites his bottom lip, “though that does increase the difficulty.”

“Done,” I say in a decisive manner. “Ring a bell and we’ll switch.”

The attendant clears his throat. “At least that answers the question of who goes on top first.” He points Baz toward the centre. “There’s a stepstool on the side if–”

“No need,” Baz brushes him off, striding on long legs to the mechanical bull and hoisting himself up with the ease of a man who performs daily sun salutations in designer athleisure.

The attendant’s hand lands on my shoulder and squeezes. “I’d say, ‘Good luck topping that,’ but…”

“Yeah,” I laugh, “thanks.”

On less long legs, I walk to the bull’s other side and use the stepstool, like a normal person, then gently drape my legs over Baz’s.

“Care to make this interesting?” he asks, one of those eyebrows crawling up his forehead while Jeremy removes the stool.

More interesting than this? I resist the urge to look down at where my thighs press against his. Instead I ask, “What’s your offer?”

“First one to fall loses.”

“Loses what?”

“Besides your dignity?” Baz smirks. “How about the rights to be Agatha’s best man.”

I drop my jaw. “Like I’d bet on that privilege!”

“Okay,” he tilts his head to one side, “you’ve passed my test.”

Like I’m the one needing to be tested when he’s the brand new bestie! I’ve known Agatha since childhood; he’s only her friend because they both work at the same fashion magazine and look equally stunning in designer suits.

“Well,” I sputter, “you’re the one betting away Agatha’s friendship so you… you lose.”

He rolls his eyes. “You can’t fail a test you’ve designed yourself, Snow.” He spits out my last name like it’s a slur, which, of course he’d think anything I am is vulgar.

I’m about to deliver what is likely a very quippy… quip when a 1980’s country song queues up over the speakers and the bull begins to move. Immediately my hips shift closer to Baz. My hands find his waist.

“For balance,” I explain, hoping my blush gets washed out under the roving spotlight.

Baz hums, his lips pursed tight. He sits upright as the bull rocks beneath us, like there’s a rod drilled straight down his spine; the only part of him moving are his hips tilting with the bull’s motion. I’d almost think him a statue if not for the way I can feel his thighs tense and flex beneath mine.

Against the expensive fabric that separates his skin from mine, my fingers twitch.

Then, the movement speeds up.

It’s enough to finally test Baz’s core muscles, I can almost see them strain beneath his slightly sheer shirt. Sweat begins to bead at his hairline. Not a lot, but enough for me to catch a faint shimmer when the light hits his face just so.

On a particularly sharp incline, my hips shift closer. My hands tighten in their grip.

His hands fall to my legs, just for a second, before he pulls them back.

“You can touch me,” I swallow, “if you want.”

Like I’m an animal who might spook at sudden movement, Baz hovers his hands over my thighs before finally setting them down. He squeezes. “Appearances aren’t everything, hmm?” One corner of his mouth lifts up.

Is he… flirting?

“I never skip leg day,” I say, a stupid man who should never speak words, ever.

He squeezes again. “I can tell.”

What the fuck.

The bull starts to increase its incline, though not the speed, thankfully. With each rise and fall, Baz and I nearly lay our backs flat on the metal to compensate. Baz’s hands move up and down my thighs with the movement, rubbing, always rubbing but never letting go.

Everything changes when the bull starts to spin.

The incline lessens a bit just as the spotlight passes over Baz’s face. His eyes are pools of black that seem to smoulder in the brief illumination.

I nearly startle at this revelation.

Then, I smile.

Using the bull’s motion to disguise my intent, I hitch my hips closer. I take one of my hands gripping his waist and move it to his spine, letting it drag up and down as our hips rock together.

“Simon Snow,” he grins, “is this you showing me what you’re working with?”

“Not yet,” I wink, then let my eyes dart down to my crotch, “but I’m getting there.”

Baz

Simon strokes fire up my spine and I arch into it. The rocking alternates between steep inclines and small jolts that seem designed to push us together rather than throw us off.

I could kiss the attendant working the controls. Only I won’t. Not when it’s looking like I might finally get to kiss Simon Snow after months of pining.

With Simon’s hands on me, I decide to push my luck. “How about,” I bite back a gasp as Simon’s fingers dip ever so slightly beneath the waistband of my jeans, “a new dare?”

“But Baz,” he curls his fingernails so they scratch my back through my shirt, “we never finalised the last one.”

“Did we not.” I’m trying to mask being out of breath; I can’t have him doubting my core muscles now. 

He lets the bull’s rocking press his chest against mine. He holds us here, our hips moving in sync, his breath hot on the shell of my ear as he whispers, “What are your terms?” When he pulls back, I shiver, and not just from the sudden absence of his warmth.

“Let’s give Agatha and Niamh something to watch.”

The bull bucks up from my side so that he’s looking up at me when he says, “A show.”

I nod until he’s back on top. “A show for the bride.”

Mischief flickers in his eyes and, for a moment, I’m back in Agatha’s apartment, tipsy on wine and whining that we couldn’t get her fireplace to light.

“I’ll call my ex,” she’d said, nearly tripping over the strewn out pages of research on upcoming Spring lines in haste to find her mobile. “He can fix anything.”

And oh, could he. I sipped my wine, enjoying the view as he bent over to dig around in the fireplace. I didn’t know what he could possibly be doing down there and I couldn’t begin to care. 

Then he turned his head to look back over one shoulder and smiled, all of the world’s mischief in his eyes. “What are old flames for?” he’d asked, before setting the logs ablaze in a perfectly timed move that forever changed the rhythm of my heartbeat.

“Embarrassing,” I’d muttered, my inner monologue lost for a second, and I watched the light die in his eyes. He’d thought I meant him, and thus began his cold shoulder.

But here, under the flashing lights and, in front of god knows how many people, I’ve finally put the spark back in Simon’s eyes.

“For the bride?” This time, I ask it as a question.

“For the bride,” he repeats, one hand reaching up to cup the back of my neck, his fingers threading through my hair.

Simon

One hand on Baz’s waist, one hand in his hair, I push my hips flush to his and let the bull rock us together.

He’s gasping in my ear, nearly breathless.

“Yeah?” I ask.

“Yes,” he answers.

My pounding heartbeat drowns out our audience’s cheers. I let my eyes close, let my world narrow down to Baz. To the scent of his cologne, to the silk of his hair, to the heat of his body, pressing, pressing, against mine.

Beneath us the bull tilts and jolts; it rocks and shudders: small, subtle movements that couldn’t unseat a child.

In my arms, Baz holds on as if for his life.

I loosen my grip, dragging a hand up and down his back. I raise my hips, letting them move independent of the bull’s shaking, letting Baz feel me grow harder against him.

“Shit, shit.”

“Too much?” I shift my weight as if to sit back down but Baz tightens his grip on my waist.

“Don’t you dare.”

I press my grin into his neck, shoving at his arms until they rest over my shoulders. We rock like this for several beats.

Then, Baz lowers himself flat onto the bull’s metal.

I hover above him, my hips still thrusting. My cock aches where it strains against my jeans.

Baz raises his hands and rests them behind his head. He waggles both his eyebrows.

“Is this still a show for the bride?” I ask him.

He drags his gaze down my body until it rests on my crotch. “No,” he licks his lips, “this is just for me.”

The loud ding interrupts my resulting groan. 

“Switch! Switch!” the audience chants.

“My turn,” is all the warning Baz gives before grabbing my thighs and lifting. 

My back thumps back against the mechanical bull in response. Baz reaches overhead to a rope I hadn’t noticed, pulling up, his biceps flexing as he swings his legs over mine.

“Oh god,” I moan.

“Holy shit!” Jeremy shouts.

“Mmm,” Baz mmm’s, rocking like a wave against me, “versatile.”

My laugh turns into a whimper as he drags his hands down my chest, leaving no room for my self-consciousness with the hunger of his touch, the desire in his gaze.

“I’ve wanted to do this for so long,” he says.

“Could have fooled me.” My words come out cracked.

Baz smiles, popping open one of my shirt buttons, then two.

“I don’t really have the chest hair for that.”

“I do.” He brings his hands to his own shirt and splits it down to his navel.

Fuck me. “I’m going to die.”

He rolls his eyes. “You’ll survive.” But then he shakes out his hair like a shampoo model.

“Pretty sure I’ll die happy,” I confess.

His smirk turns shy. He looks down and to the side.

The bull gives a rather sharp jolt, forcing his hands to my shoulders for balance.

It also comes with the hidden side effect of once more bringing our hips flush.

“Well hello,” I purr, wiggling to better feel his (sweet lord ) prick. 

He drapes over me then reaches down to adjust himself, his knuckles grazing my cock with the hidden movement.

“Now why didn’t I think of that,” I groan.

“Do you need a hand, Simon?”

I think about it for a second before shaking my head no. “I don’t want our first time—” I bite my tongue before I can complete the thought.

Baz places his hand on my cheek. “Embarrassing,” he says, and I bark a laugh.

Baz

“You complete and utter arse,” but he smiles when he says it.

“I’ve been accused of worse.”

“Probably by me.”

Beneath us, the mechanical bull spins but I’ve never felt steadier. “Perhaps I deserved it.”

Simon’s gaze is soft. “Perhaps I judged you too harshly.”

I hum. We’re still rocking but the pace has slowed; our ride winding down. I make good use of what little time we have left by letting myself thread my fingers into those curls of his. “Soft,” I tell him. “I’d wondered.”

“Did you.” 

“I told you,” I frown, “I’ve wanted to do this for so long.”

“Hump me in front of all your coworkers?”

I sigh.

“Sorry,” he grins, “I know what you mean.”

My lips stay turned down as I stroke his hair.

He places a hand on my wrist. Tugs it away until his palm touches mine. “Baz.” He tangles our fingers together. “This doesn’t end here.”

“Doesn’t it?”

Which is silly; what little I know about Simon would never suggest he’d be the type to… ride me and leave. Agatha said she’d have married him, if she didn’t prefer women.

(She also said he liked being bossed around… so…)

I squeeze his hand and bring it above his head; I find his other wrist and joint two together.

He whines a low, “Baz? What are you—”

“Let me,” I pant, “let me do this.”

He blinks, stubby eyelashes fluttering, then nods. “Okay.”

I bite back a groan at how pliant he’s being, how his cock twitches where it’s trapped under my thigh.

“Please,” he begs, and who am I to deny him?

I press my lips to his.

Simon

Baz kisses me and I am a match struck to blaze. His grip tightens on my wrists and I strain against it, hard, but he won’t give in.

His hips thrust down.

Yes.

The mechanical bull bucks.

Oh no.

Then my wrists are free and so is my lap and there’s a faint, “Are you fucking…” followed by a loud thud.

“Baz?” I blink into the spotlight, my vision still black and prickling with fake stars as I find my way to sitting.

Once the dizziness settles I look off to the side and find Baz frowning, sprawled in mulch on the floor beside me.

It takes two knuckles to stifle my laughter. Suddenly, my ears register the crowd’s raucous cheers and jeers.

“Oh my—”

“Don’t you dare,” he pouts.

I take one second to catalogue my body, free of bruises, and tumble off the side of the bull.

“Get off me, you oaf!” Baz groans, though his hands come up instantly to catch my waist.

Somehow I’ve managed to land just over him, my legs straddling his hips. “Hi,” I grin.

“You’re a complete nightmare,” he’s got his fingers hooked in my belt loops, “you could have killed me.”

“But you’d have died happily?”

He looks off and to the side. Shy.

Christ; he’s so fucking cute.

“Hey boys!” Agatha shouts.

Both our heads turn in her direction. She’s standing just outside the ring, one finger tapping the part of her wrist where a watch might sit. (If only she’d ever found one that, “complements her dainty wrists,” as she always says.)

“We’re closing up and heading to the strip club. You in?”

I look down at Baz; he looks up at me.

“What do you say to a new hobby?” I wink.

He licks his lips. “Stripping?”

I nod, as solemn as I can fake. “It’s for the bride,” I tell him.

His hands rub up and down my thighs. “Well. If it’s for the bride…”

I find my feet first and pull Baz up to standing. As we shake the sawdust off our respective outfits, the crowd gathered around us whistles, shouts, and screams their applause.

“If you two ever want to come back,” Jeremy says, grabbing my free arm to hold me in place for his offer, “we can offer free drinks for you and all your friends.”

Baz

I can’t help frowning at Jeremy’s proposal. It was all fun and games (and, okay, not a small amount of exploitation) to mount Simon atop a mechanical bull.

But the thought of doing it twice? 

I squeeze Simon’s hand and tug him away from Jeremy’s grasp. I drag him over to Agatha. “One second thought—”

“You’re taking Simon home?” She drops her jaw in the mockery of shock, then twists it into a grin. “Niamh, hand Baz the bachelorette bingo card.”

“The bachelorette…” I stare down at the sheet of paper which is full of predictions:

Niamh says something sappy. Check.

Simon gets a face full of liquor. Check.

Baz challenges Simon to some vaguely homoerotic activity. Check.

But the free space? The one that was marked complete before the night even began?

Simon and Baz realise they’re embarrassingly horny for one another.

“Awkward,” Simon chuckles, running the hand not holding mine through his curls.

“Get a room, you two,” Niamh winks.

Well. If it’s a foregone conclusion…

“Come along, Snow,” I pull at his arm, “I’ve got a fire I need help building.”

Simon trots along beside me, eyes fixed on mine, a twinkle in them. “What are new flames for?” he asks.

I can’t wait to find out.