Work Text:
“Great snakes, Baz, we’re going to Tesco’s not Antarctica.”
Baz stands at the door, waiting for me. Always waiting. He glances up from his phone. “Hm?”
“You’re dressed for a glacier trek.” He really is.
Baz creases his brows and looks down at himself. “What? It’s fucking cold.”
Of course, he looks gorgeous. He’s wearing his charcoal wool peacoat. I love everything about him in that coat. His hair flows shiny and black as a raven’s wing from beneath a knit beanie. It’s red with flecks of orange and green and a massive pom pom on top. A thick purple and yellow striped scarf obscures the lower half of his face. Dark grey fleece leggings leave nothing to the imagination. Not that I need to imagine anything. I know each line and muscle. The topography of Baz. I trace the curve of his thighs down his knees to his calves to—.
“Baz…”
Winter grey eyes rise to meet mine. Open and questioning.
“You’re—you’re wearing Uggs.”
He cuts his eyes to his feet. Sneering with his whole face. (What little I can see of it.) A hint of pink dusts his cheeks. “Yeah.” He bounces on his toes. “They’re hideous.” Eyes back on me, I want to dive in. “But they’re so fucking warm.” His velvet baritone is muffled by the scarf.
“We don’t need milk.”
“What?” Baz crinkles his jet-black brows together, confused.
“Fuck the milk.” My hands find their way to his coat. I grab him by the lapels and push him against the door. I need to kiss his stupid face. “How long is this bloody scarf, Baz?” My fingers catch on chunky yarn as I work to untangle it from around his neck. So many layers, a gift to unwrap.
A brief shock of unfamiliarity as gloved hands work their way under my shirt. “So, what you’re saying is that grotesque footwear turns you on?”
“Mmm,” I agree. I’ve exposed a section of pearlescent neck that I’ve decided to ravage with teeth and tongue.
Baz tilts his head to provide better access. “Should I get some crocs?”
“Oh yes,” I say as I pull his face down to meet his lips with mine, “Yellow ones.”
“That can be arranged,” Baz smiles against my mouth.
“Just wear the crocs, nothing else,” I laugh as I push him in the direction of the bedroom.
“Is there any other way?” He holds out his hand and walks backward, “Come on, Romeo. The milk run can wait.”
I take his hand and follow. I’ll follow this man anywhere.