#have i Conveyed that pollux is like Zoom Eyes on Leggy sdkjfhskdj

[impossible-rat-babies]

wip wednesday!

@kirnet tagged me! tysm mina <3 

im gonna tag @coldshrugs, @starrypawz, @possumsunshine, @merry-harlowe, @attraeus, @antigonick, @forestcreatures, @rosykims, @amlovelies, @queerbrujas, @syrcus, @magebastard and whomever else! 

this is part of a wip i’ve been trying to work on all week 

He’d tried his best to not knock over any of the photographs, but still he corrects the one that had fallen over and he tries not to look too hard at the seven year old faces staring back at him with wide toothy careless grins.

He rolls his shoulders, unconsciously rubbing the scar that there. There’s a creak as the bed shifts and Pollux yanks his sweater on over his head.

Ortega’s legs move, fine woven white sheets sliding with him and his bare leg—ankle to calf to knee to the line of his thigh and oh is that a little hickey on the top of his thigh?—slips out from under the blanket.

He wipes his wrinkling face, scratching his beard, his chest heaving with a deep breath and an even heavier sigh. Ortega’s hand drops, and his brown eyes blink open, quickly find his. He turns his head, a sleepy smile turning his lips.

Pollux’s breath catches and stalls in his chest and oh Ortega knows what all those little motions do to him. How the sheets are dipping down his stomach, past his hips and—

It’s downright nasty what the sight is doing to Pollux’s stomach. It’s worse as he stretches, back arching and Pollux swallows hard.

“Morning...” Ortega’s voice is low, thick with gravely warmth.

“Hey lover boy.” Pollux replies smoothly, his voice surprisingly even as he adjusts his sweater.

“You’re leaving?” Ortega mumbles.

“I can’t be languid in bed all day like you can.”

Pollux replies, sitting down on the bed beside him. Ortega reaches out like an anchor, a weighty hand settling on his hip, thumb testing the hem of his shirt. Can never keep his hands to himself, huh?

“It’s only for a few more hours. It’s not even nine am yet—you know, when reasonable people are awake.”

Pollux rolls his eyes, leaning over top of him, trapping him in with a hand pressing into the bed beside his hip.

Ortega is fishing, his hand creeping further up under Pollux’s shirt. Does he know the difference between skin, scar and tattoo just by the touch of his fingertips? His middle finger finds a gap between scars, trailing along sensitive skin. He’s kissed him there, that spot where hip meets thigh—left behind a welt and an aching reminder that not all kisses taste kindly.

But, it’s not as if Pollux is opposed to laying in bed for a few more hours (plans can be canceled after all it takes nothing but a text), but there’s still the nagging little corner of his mind that tells him no.