You were the Sun, and I was crashing into you - Carry On, Baz to Simon
Baz
The Sun couldn't be compared to Simon Snow.
Or the Moon.
Even the Stars.
Not even the entire Universe and Galaxy could – ever – be compared to how brilliant Simon Snow looked against the late evening sky, shadowed by the waning rays of the Sun behind him, casting his profile in a dark shadow. And he was walking towards him, in that strongly assured, determined gait of his. And all Baz could think about was how not to collapse in a shameless heap beneath his feet and go on professing his love for the bronzed-haired God with rounded-apple cheeks and eyes bluer than Sapphire fire (Wow. Who knew he would be such a sap when it concerned Simon Snow). He was less than a feet away now, and Baz could literally count the moles that adorned his fair-skinned face; he did so love them and the way they were scattered all over him. His face. His body. His back. His hands. Gods, his hands.
Baz never knew he could go crazy from just a flick of Snow's wrist. But then again, how could he ever know when all they did was constantly trying to exterminate each other's existence or being caught up right in the middle of the Humdrum chaos and The Mage's madness (Damn the damned Mage for getting between them). And that's why, when he'd discovered the magic that was Snow's hands (who cares if he didn't have Magic in him anymore? His hands were good enough), Baz had found himself spread on the bed, body quivering, soul hanging somewhere among the stars and supernovas and just simply unable to operate. He couldn't even get off the bed after that first time, so far gone he was in the sensations the former Chosen One wreaked over his body. Snow, he'd whispered then to the bronze-haired boy on top of him - eyes closed and breathing harsh - pleading, begging for something he himself didn't know what it was. But he, Snow had understood. And with no words spoken, he stroked him, all over, long and slow and deliberate, taking his own sweet time. Not rushing, never rushing.
In all their times together, Baz could never recall a time when it had been anything else but slow, tender and beautiful. Even when they were in a rush, he'd never done it roughly or harshly, taking care to linger on the spots that he knew would make Baz dizzy in the head or weak in the knees. The mere memory of it drove Baz mad; making him want to crush himself against the other boy, engrave the indentations of his body against his own, in his head, his soul.
Simon
Simon could never get over just how good Baz looked in casual clothes.
More specifically, jeans.
Aleister Crowley, the man was already good-looking enough just by being him. What need did he have for jeans? Especially the pair he had on today. Black and snug, it outlined his legs like the greatest temptation. Simon couldn't think anything else but these words as he saw Baz in clearing amidst the woods: Drop. Dead. Gorgeous.
He had his hair loose today, jet black strands a stark contrast against his alabaster white skin, weaving their own melody as the wind whipped them around. His never quite blue-or-green eyes tracked his every movement down, leaving a trail of heat that made his blood warm and sizzle beneath the thin cover of his skin. Some of it splashed onto his neck and cheeks, making him look ruddy and particularly vulnerable to Baz. He saw the customary smirk fixed in place, welcoming him. Same old Baz, same old smirk. Only difference was that now he'd learnt to see the disparity in Baz's tiny, imperceptible-to-the-naked-eye reactions.
When he was amused, his smirk became more pronounced; his inimitable eyes would twinkle and laugh inwardly. Making him feel at once proud and shy of himself for being such a goof. An adorable goof though, Baz would say, in an attempt to comfort him, making him smile and punch the other guy mildly, needing a pretence to hide his bashfulness when he did something fairly stupid.
When Baz got mad, his smirk turned to a sneer, all disdain and contempt turned on full blast for his enemy. He'd never – to date – seen a decent guy (or girl) who could withstand Tyrannus Basilton Grimm Pitch when he was in a temper.
But when he was sad, Baz's eyes would go all drawn and pinched at the edges, his distinctive eye colour losing all their shine and gloss and turn dull and dismal. Simon hated it when Baz was sad. Partly because it made him sad as hell too, and partly because it made him want to go on a rampage.
Yeah, that was the kind of effect Basilton Pitch had on him.
He loved it the most when Baz was aroused, because really it was funny looking at the smirk that somehow looked as though it was about to melt off his face and fall at Simon's feet. Adorable.
He loved all these things about Baz, loved it that in some way, this intimidating vampire of a man still couldn't quite graduate from a smirk to a smile. Treasured his smirk all the more for it because it made him all the more truthful.
Baz..
He wanted to just transport the both of them back to their small, comfortable apartment in the corner of London and spend the entire day touching Baz. Admiring Baz. Loving Baz.
Baz, Baz and just Baz.
Crowley, when did he turn into such a sap?
Baz
He automatically leant into him when he was close, savouring the potent warmth of Simon when he was close enough to touch. The slide of their fabric was a lush promise of more to come, Snow touched his forehead to his cool one, lips falling on one of his eyes, then the other, the bridge of his nose, his cheeks and then finally.. His lips.
It was hard to keep his control around Snow, he made Baz want to tear the clothes off his sun-kissed body, lay him down the ground and have his wicked way with him. Without having to give a damn about public nuisance. As it is, he had to simply make himself content with kissing Snow.
Kissing Simon Snow tasted like liberation itself, like he was finally shedding himself of everything possible thing he could ever know and taking flight in the cosmos, flitting past the myriad of asteroids and galaxies. Like he'd suddenly sprouted wings and was flying high in the sky, touching the stars. "Baz.." Snow's voice was rough with desire, Baz found himself lost in the river of those blue, blue eyes. And just like that, he gave himself over to him. To Simon Snow.
And damn if he didn't enjoy every moment of it.
Finito.
Hope you liked it~! Thank you for dropping by, have a nice day~ ^^