Goodmorning-bustingchicksnoses
Tig rolled over bonelessly, a lazy kind of flop that ended in an arm draped over the body he encountered, nose buried against the neck as he pressed against the form on autopilot. He didn’t immediately put together who it was because it didn’t matter, at least not right away; a woman in his bed was nothing new, nothing newsworthy. Neither were the dim, shattered glass pieces of whatever came before that threatened to stab him in the brain if he tried to fit them together too quickly. A good night, whatever it was. Followed by a good morning and then kicking her out so he could get to everything else. This was the plan.
Except he knew the perfume that filled his nose, knew the gloriously disheveled shape he already had lips on when he connected the dots, had fingertips stroking along because it could have been a really good morning so long as she wasn’t opposed to being woken up by a little morning wood but fuck.
Fingers didn’t retreat when he realized, but they certainly slowed.
"I thought we already decided this would be a terrible fucking idea," he breathed, but he didn’t move either.
