Work Text:
It takes him a while to collect his thoughts after waking up. When he has finally begun to process everything that has happened, not to mention the rumpled sheets around him and the warm body pressed closely against him, he’s simply terrified.
Billions of thoughts rush into his head way too fast and it is way too early to think and oh God, last night, oh God. Fuck.
He remembers Posner’s lips. His teeth and tongue, searching, feeling, exploring.
Running his own hands all over the soft texture of Posner’s skin.
A hand on his crotch, not soft in the slightest.
Oh God.
He thinks he might be able to laugh it away, turn it into a joke. Explain it was all a stupid mistake, one that would not happen again. Shit, no one ends up sleeping with their best mate, do they? But then again, they were quite drunk, and one thing leads to another, and it doesn’t make this serious. It doesn’t mean a thing.
Except that it does.
“Coffee,” he thinks vaguely. “I need coffee.”
And when he rolls over he sees Posner, sound asleep, his pale limbs stretched over the bed that’s way too narrow for the two of them. His hair is muzzled, the pillow has left red marks on his cheek, and there’s gound on his eyelashes.
And Scripps knows exactly what made him grab Pos from his collar and pull him into a chaste kiss.
And, almost surprising himself, he also finds himself thinking: “I could get used to this.”