All That We Are Is Who We Must Be

Baz.

When Simon was nothing more than my unattainable, ultra-powerful, tantalizing-gay-crush roommate, listening to him take showers was my own personal hell. And I wouldn't even really hear anything-- just the water hitting him, his soft humming, the hiss of steam... Only ever just enough to drive my imagination wild. More often than not, I would leave the room, just to get away from it. From him.

Now that I have him all to myself, Simon's showers have turned from personal hell to personal paradise. My imagination doesn't have to run wild, filling in gaps, because there are no gaps to fill in. I've said it before, and I'll say it once more: I'm living a charmed life.

Simon and I use up all the hot water.

Afterwards, I wander around the kitchen in my robe, warming up scones and making tea for (a very, very late) breakfast, my shower-wavy hair falling into my face annoyingly whenever I lean forward. Simon's sitting at the table in nothing but his pants, watching me with a funny little smirk on those red lips.

"You're looking incredibly smug, Simon," I inform him, bringing over a plate of scones and a great slab of butter for my pig of a husband (I say that in the most loving way possible). Simon captures my wrists in his hands, leaning forward until his mouth is mere centimetres from mine.

"Just thinking about you..." He says, voice low and sultry, closing the distance between our mouths and nipping at my lower lip with impossibly white teeth. I've often wondered how the fuck he keeps them so blindingly white. Maybe it's all that magic, scaring the plaque off: Simon Grimm-Pitch, formerly The Great Simon Snow, ex-supervillain, dentistry wonder?

"What about me?" I ask, mimicking his tone. Simon, to my immense annoyance, pulls away, reaching around me for a scone and a butter knife. He's eaten scones for breakfast for so long that he can butter them without even looking; those blue eyes never leave my own, staring me down with an intensity that sends a shiver down my spine. Even when he chews and swallows (Adam's apple bobbing gloriously) a great mouthful of the pastry, Simon doesn't look away. Not when he sets down what's left of his scone, not when he wipes his hands on a napkin, not when he leans towards me. Blue eyes bore into my soul, filling me up like a warm, fiery potion.

When he pulls me in by the collar of my robe and kisses me, I practically swoon. His mouth tastes like sour cherry scones (a flavour one must become accustomed to when planning to kiss Simon on a long-term basis) and it's hot against mine and it makes me forget, for a moment, that we have to pick up our children in... oh who fucking cares how soon? They've got their whole lives ahead of them, they have all the time in the world to wait for their dads to finish snogging. And I know full well that Bunce is sitting there, glancing at her watch every five minutes and just knowing, in that way that she knows everything, what we're doing as we force our poor children to wait for us.

"I was thinking about your mouth," Simon murmurs, one hand slipping inside my robe and pressing flat against my stomach. A small whine escapes me at the touch, and even though we've only been out of the shower for a quarter of an hour, I want him as if I've never had him before.

"Oh yes?" I reply, egging him on. The bastard starts running the pad of his thumb along the bottom of my ribcage, setting every nerve on fire in the best way possible. "What about my mouth?"

Simon pulls me into his lap, his hands tugging at me hungrily as he whispers,

"Everything. Everything."