#chargstep

- @fourteenthz

[26.] lifting them onto the countertop while making out.

chargestep (nb step + ric) post-hb ~700 words | suggestive

Pollux should’ve said no. Said he had places to be, things to do—all little excuses Ortega would understand were lies and maybe he would get out with only a little bit of begging him to stay the night. Only a few too many stares from eyes too brown for their own good. Crooked disarming grins from a face he’s still struggling to piece together with the beard. Idiot.

It prickles, his chin and upper lip rubbed raw but it’s easy to forgive him (this time) and turn his head, inviting the kiss in deeper. Following what feels right—pushing aside the undercurrent of never knowing what it should feel like. Lightheaded and nearly dizzy, lungs fit to burst; a soft noise escapes his throat and oh fuck he can’t do that again. Neck craning, hands sweating—useless as they clench in and out of fists, too afraid to touch. No, it would feel too much to touch. Taking it too far.

Always easier to let others touch first.

Counter cold against the sweat of his hands, pulling him back from colder and harder thoughts; the discomfort of stone a welcome pinch of reality. Kitchen. Ortega.

Comfortable. Trust.

He pulls away. Mouth not tasting like his own, lick the spit from the corner of his lip—eyes lazily opening to stare up. He can’t go far, Ortega’s hand knotted in the curls at the back of his neck. (A ringlet spun around his pinky, pulled taut and released). Aware as his chest heaves—painfully aware of Ortega pressing against him, solid and looming. Heavy lidded, eyes searching—left right left right down to shiny lips and hot exhales.

“Sure you don’t want to stay any longer?” A grin with a dangerous edge.

“I can’t.”

So very difficult to answer, schooling back desire; regain his sense of decency lost at the downright shameful noises he made when Ortega’s tongue slipped between his lips. Hands in his hair.

“Even if I….” Forgetting how easily and quickly Ortega moves, grabbing Pollux’s waist—ignoring his quick gasp and swear—to place him on the counter. “There. Now you have the height advantage.”

“For once, asshole…”

A playful kiss to his jawline and Pollux mumbles another swear tinged with too much affection.

“Mhm?” A kiss to Pollux’s scratchy chin, to adam’s apple, to just beneath his earlobe to cheek and corner of the mouth. Trying to catch his lips once more, but Ortega skirts by to place one final kiss to his nose. A grin half hidden by that stupid mustache and oh how it’s so dangerous. Too dangerous too feel this warmed over, easy and pliable. Too easy to recall how this isn’t the first time he’s sat on this counter, legs almost wrapped around Ortega’s waist. Knees against his ribs.

t was an accident—too caught up in the moment, too much caution thrown to the wind and a hand slipping between his thighs and the sudden gasp catching them both off guard—

He must be making some face about it as Ortega’s brow raises. Realization hitting as a warm bright laugh escapes his mouth.

“You still remember that?”

“Shut it or I’ll make you shut it.”

“It is funny in hindsight, Lux.”

“It was mortifying, you idiot!” He almost grabs the front of his shirt, settling on playing with the open buttons beside his collarbone. “You made smug little stupid faces at me for a week…”

“Worth it just to see how red you would get.”

“Ass. You deserved the punch I gave you.”

Ortega just hums, cutting him off with a smooth sound kiss. Easily made deeper once more, anger ebbing away and Pollux sighs out of his nose. Smooths his hands away from picking the threads out of the buttons, finding a comfortable place under shirt—against his spine. Tracing one of the metal ports with his nail.

Easy to squabble about the past—easier than the regrets. Easier than feeling how he so hesitantly avoids the scar beneath his ear—still red and too smooth to the touch. A memory to gnarled, too raw right now. Later maybe and maybe if he says it enough, it'll stay far away; just long enough to do what he needs to do.

Lets be honest, loving Sidestep cant be easy, My sidestep with his emotional instability especially

Thank you Tay! :D

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It doesn’t make sense and Pollux knows it; he knows it all too well and he can’t think of a sadder sight as he runs his thumbnail across his knuckles, the rise and shape of them twisted by scars. Scars from punching the faces of doctors until they learned to tie him down first, scars from punching walls and mirrors, desperate to feel or desperate to not feel. Pollux doesn't remember a time where he wasn’t one or the other.

Middle finger, right hand, a bump of a scar. A weakness in his armor, a bend just right when his fist met Ortega’s and the material cracked, digging deep into his joint. A small memory compared to the others, a small thing of no real consequence; nothing compared to the rush, the adrenaline of the Gala, how it had gone off like a perfect opening night on broadway. 

So why did it feel so senseless? It wasn’t senseless to want a bit of respect, Pollux knows that. Not senseless to not want to be looked at like some broken thing, something needing to be protected; he knows he’s broken, but he doesn’t need saving. Or maybe he wants to be saved, be told all the things he is because then he could look past all that he is now, maybe try to find what everyone seems to think is there.

What Ortega thinks is there, what he’s tried to tell him over and over and over again with soft lips carrying softer words, standing close enough to reach out and touch. Pollux touched and let himself be touched, a part of life he didn’t think he’d ever get. There’s a part of revenge that tickles under his skin, part of him that gives the finger to every expectation, the part of him that has crawled, screamed and cried his way to breathe smoke into the ceiling of his apartment, delightfully all alone.

The bit that maybe thinks what Ortega says isn’t a lie, that he deserves all the stars in the sky, not just the ones of his namesake. That he deserves to live, even if he’s nothing short of a mockery at life.

His fingers dance across the scar on his hand once more and he sighs, pushing a curl out of his face. What a senseless mess he’s made of himself.

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