Breathless...

𝗕𝗮𝘇, 𝗱𝗿𝗶𝗽𝗽𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘄𝗲𝘁...

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Simon's POV

I don't realize what I'm doing when I touch Baz's hair. I can only think about how long I've been wanting to do that. . . and his long, obsidian locks are softer than I ever imagined. (Yes, I've always wondered just how soft they are. Bite me.) They slip right through my fingers—I bet it's his expensive conditioner.

And he's so close. Tall. He's so fucking tall, too.

And he has such pretty stormy grey eyes.

"Your hair look better down," I mutter, again: not thinking! Basil gulps, his usually intimidating, stone-cold, grey glare almost seems nervous. I've never seen Baz nervous. It makes me so uncomfortable, I look down at my feet while blustering, "Uh, Baz, could I. . . umm. . . borrow—or like— ya know," and then I look up at him, rubbing my neck. His eyes are hard again. Huh.

"Use your words, Simon," Baz's velvety voice hisses. Crowley, Why does he have to be so mean?! Wait.

"You called me Simon!" I say breathlessly, mouth hanging open. My name sounds so different rolling off of his tongue. . . a little too intense. I bet I look amazed, mesmerized even.

"No, I didn't, Snow." Even his voice is hard now. My stomach falls to the floor, and I clench my jaw. I'm not sure what I'm holding back.

"Your shirt. . . " I say.

Baz raises a perfect dark brow, "Can I umm have you shirt? I dropped some butter on mine. Then I tried taking it off! But that didn't work and Penny got mad and—" I start blabbering like an idiot, while Baz stares down at me with his pink lips slightly parted. Why am I staring at his lips?

I'm not staring at his lips.

My stomach churns, but it isn't with anger. . . it's. . . anticipation? Baz seems to find whatever he's looking for in my eyes and he—he just tugs his shirt off! Smirking, stretching his muscular arm while handing it to me!

"Close your mouth, Snow, that look is unbecoming," my roommate taunts, his voice deep and husky. I shudder.

But my mouth and apparently my eyes too have minds of their own, they ignore my commands and are held captive by Baz's rippling abs—I swear they twist and flex with every breath he takes—and the hard, firm planes of his sculpted chest. . . and when he turns around walking towards the bathroom in our en-suite smirking back at me with his black hair falling in waves around his face, my eyes rove over every inch of his porcelain back.

This can't mean. . . shit. . . and he's gay.

As Baz would say, I am royally screwed.

Some time during my staring-at-Baz moment I grabbed his shirt, and now I'm alone in our room. I think he's showering. . . I shiver at the thought of him, dripping wet, the water flowing swiftly through the ragged curves of his stomach and the dips of his v-line. . . . Baz naked.

'Nope, Simon, no way in hell, this is Baz. He's your enemy, he's evil, and he's a vampire.' I lecture myself sternly, trying to shove my thoughts far, far away; replacing them with memories of being pushed down the stairs, almost being fed to a Chimera, and being cursed countless times.

I can't think about him like that! What if this is all just a part of his plot?! Get me distracted by his. . . . perfect, porcelain body—

And then kill me!

Well, the distraction is working. . .

And I can't seem to remember his vampire evilness when I slip his shirt on and drown in the heady scent of cedar and bergamot with a hint of something purely arrogant, strong and so. . . Baz.

Crowley, no.

I try reminding myself of Agatha's sweet floral scent, and her long blonde hair and I wince inwardly.

There's just something so much stronger about Baz, something so irresistible.

Then I do what I always do best. Decide not to think about it.

I run away. From Mummers, from naked Baz in the shower, and my fantasies (about naked Baz!) remembering that I have Elocution class with Penny. I s'pose I got a shirt though?