Baz
"I don't know, Baz . . . it doesn't look right," Simon says as he eyes the scone in front of him suspiciously. "What are you plotting now?"
I roll my eyes and shake my head at him, annoyed. "Crowley, Snow! Can't I get my boyfriend -who I love very much- a scone without being accused of plotting something?!" (He's right though. I got him a raspberry mint scone instead of his beloved sour cherry scones. He refuses to try any other scone, even if I tell him he would really like it. I want to see his face when he figures it out. Just because he's my wonderful, terrible boyfriend, I can still have some fun, right? . . . Fuck, I'm gonna be in so much trouble.
"I still don't know . . . it's just from a different bakery, right?" he picks up the scone and sniffs it, obviously still unconvinced.
I sigh, exasperated, and start to leave the kitchen. "Fine, Snow. Don't eat it. Let my nice gesture go to waste."
"No Baz, wait! I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'll eat it okay? See?" I can hear him stuffing the scone into his mouth. I slowly turn around, the corners of my mouth creeping up into a mischievous smile, as I watch his reaction. At first, he's really confused and he starts to chew in slow-motion, concentrating on what he actually put into his mouth. But when clarity flashes across his face and he looks absolutely horrified, Simon sprints over to the trash and spits out his mouthful of soggy, already-been-chewed scone. He whips around, his eyes a fiery blue and a low growl in his throat, as I put on the most innocent look I can manage.
He stalks forward, flushed red, as his eyes silently dare me to speak. Simon growls roughly and a small shudder escapes me. (I can't help it; his growls are really, really hot.) I stand my ground, even as he grows dangerously closer. Suddenly, he lunges forward, and clenches my shirt tightly in his fists, as he shoves me against the kitchen wall.
"What. Was. That."
I smile brilliantly and answer him. "I have no idea what you're talking about, Snow."
"Yes you do, you little wanker. You know exactly what I'm talking about, so, I'll ask you again. What. Was. That." His eyes are burning blue and I can't think properly with him this close.
I blink innocently and give him a small, secret smile that shows more than I'm saying. He growls again, and steps between my legs, pressing his thigh against me, hard. I gasp and he presses harder. "Baz. What. Did. You. Give. Me." Simon pushes closer and I just about lose it.
"Fine, fine! I gave you a raspberry mint scone instead! I just wanted to see you reaction," I say, breathless.
He lets go of me all at once, and steps back as he looks at me furiously. "How dare you? Sour cherry scones are my one true love, Baz," He spits my name like poison and I can't believe how dramatic he's being. "I love nothing else and you dareto give me some disgusting excuse for a sour cherry scone?" (He's trying so hard not to smile at this point, his eyes are shining and the corners of his mouth keep curving up, despite his best efforts. He can never stay mad at me for too long, never. It's pretty adorable.) "I can't believe you would do this to m-" I cut him off with my lips and he almost kisses me back. Almost. It takes him a second, but he playfully shoves me away and doesn't let me kiss him again. I crack.
"C'mon Simon. Please? I'm sorry, okay? I'm sorry!" He shakes his head stubbornly, and doesn't meet my pleading eyes. "C'mon baby, please?" Simon's a sucker for me calling him 'baby'. I know it, he knows it, and yet, he still shakes his head and tries to push me away. Crowley, he's so bloody stubborn!
"Oh no, Baz. You're not getting off that easy. No way."
"Awww," I tease, placing one hand on my hip and using the other to wag a finger at Simon. "What are you gonna do, tell Penny on me? Put me in timeout? Send me to my room?"
He thinks about this for a second, then his eyes light up and he runs out of the room, grinning like an idiot and bronze curls bouncing wildly. He's mental. Completely mental. Simon re-enters the kitchen, and pelts a small pillow and a couple blankets at me. Luckily, I have lightning quick vampire reflexes, and I catch them easily.
"Snow, what the hell are these for?"
He smiles wickedly. "Guess who's sleeping on the couch tonight?"
Simon
That handsome bastard tried to reason with me many, many times, but I resisted. He begged and pouted and whined so much I almost forgot this was the great Tyrannus Basilton Pitch I was dealing with, and not an annoying child.
"Hey Simon." Baz leans against the doorway to our bedroom, his shoulders resting on the frame with his long legs crossed in front of him.
"What."
"I love you," he says in a low, drop-dead sexy voice.
"I love you too," I say cautiously, not knowing where this conversation was going.
"You know I'd do anything for you, right baby?" I swallow thickly. Baz has already walked up behind me and wrapped his lanky arms around my waist, pulling me closer. He places feather-like kisses all over me, on my curls, my jaw, my neck, my nose. No, no, no, be strong Simon, be strong. His hands move up to my shoulders, gently massaging them with cool, slender fingers."Anything at all," he purrs as his hands start to slide down, down, down…
"Nope!" I shout, breaking his dangerously intoxicating spell. He groans, and falls back onto the couch behind us, messy, raven hair covering his face. "You have five minutes in the bedroom to get into pyjamas before I banish you to the couch. Go." I stated, pointing at the door to our bedroom and listening to him groan again, louder this time. He drags himself from the couch and stomps into the room miserably.
"You are a bloody prat, Simon Snow."
"I know," I reply sweetly, winking at him as I saunter across the bedroom and into the bathroom. I turn on the faucet and grab my toothbrush, listening to Baz rummage through his drawers. Or mine. (He loves to steal my clothes and parade around the house like some bloody supermodel, I tell him it's weird, but I secretly find it super hot.) Merlin, what isn't super hot about Baz?
"Hey Snow! C'mere for a second!" Speak of the devil.
"This better not be another attempt on me changing my mind!" I call, my words jumbled by the toothbrush hanging out of my mouth. I step out of the bathroom, ready to ask what the hell he wants now, but no sound comes out of my mouth. My breath gets caught in my throat and I can't breathe. Correction; I've forgotten how to breathe. Or move. Or speak. But none of those things are even necessary right now. Why would you even want to breathe when you have Basilton Pitch, standing in front of you, wearing nothing but the smallest, tightest pants in all that is holy and good in this world. The toothbrush falls out of my open mouth and stains the carpet with toothpaste, but honestly? I didn't give one flying fuck.
Baz wasn't wearing a shirt or trousers. He was wearing black pants that were so tight and so small, I could see just about everything. His raven hair hung loosely around his collarbones, and his extremely toned chest glowed in the dim light coming from the lamp in the corner. His long legs were carved with strong, flexing muscles, and I ached to be between them, beneath them, wrapped around them, anything at all having to do with his legs. I hadn't even looked at his face yet. Shallow, I know. I raised my head ever so slightly… and immediately regretted it. His lips are curled into a downright dirty smile, his eyebrows are borderlining on pornographic, and his smoky grey eyes are burning with desire and lust. Merlin, Morgana, Crowley, any other god that exists please, I'm begging you, don't let me be weak. I want to be weak so bad but I can't. Please, give me the strength to walk away from the most gorgeous thing I've ever seen in my life. I can't do this, Jesus Christ.
"Fuck, Baz, why are you doing this to me?"
"I'm not doing anything, Simon. But I could be," he whispers, and I'm this close to shoving him on the bed and ripping off those fucking pants. But apparently there's some part of me that isn't completely hard, because I have the strength to take Baz by the shoulders, peck him lightly on his lips, and shove him out the door.
Baz
I scream in frustration, and kick at the door Simon just closed. How in the bloody hell does he have that much will- My thoughts are interrupted by frantic scrambling, and then the bathroom door slams shut. I smirk, knowing he's busy doing other things. That makes me feel a little better (okay a lot) but I'm still feeling pretty rejected. I slink over to the couch, prop up the pillow Simon threw at me, and spread the thin blankets over myself. I let my head fall back onto the pillow, and I realize it's his. I smush it against my face and breathe deeply. It smells like cinnamon and sunshine and boy. I fall asleep, mumbling about scones and Simon.
I don't know what time it is when I feel the heavy warmth against my chest. My eyes flutter open to see a bundle of bronze curls and tawny moles, pressed against me on this stupidly narrow couch. I pull him closer, and he tucks his head under my chin, wraps an arm around my neck and wraps the other around my waist, all the while being only half-awake. He never fails to impress me. And that's how we fall asleep, legs and hips and arms tangling together hopelessly, on that wonderful little couch.