DRABBLE: Scratch
Author's note: 'nother drabble123 piece for my sex series, only I've decided I won't limit myself to one fandom. That's kind of the point of not signing up officially, ya know? Having the freedom to do what you want? Ah, this freedom, it is awesome.
It's called being ready for the next day.
SCRATCH
At his roar, she grins wickedly into his neck.
“What was that for?”
She keeps on grinning, shrugs, and tugs him back down on a giggle and a little shimmy and suddenly it doesn’t matter anymore whether she’d drawn blood or not because… oh God…
Tumble and roll and her hair suddenly tickles his face as her nails once again mark his skin - his chest, this time. His heart must be trying to pound a way out of his ribs.
“Shhhhit…”
“Shhh…” she utters as she draws her nails down lightly, but enough to leave a mild burn upon his otherwise unmarred skin. And then her tongue follows up the abraded trails, until she reaches his puckered nipples. She sucks, and then bites down lightly.
His voice is nearly non-existent when he finds what little bit of it is left in him. “Leight.” It sounds like a hoarse plea - it most certainly is, because he sure as hell doesn’t think he can withstand much more torture.
So she grins brilliantly, straddles his lap and… he can’t really be complacent anymore. Hand palms ass hard enough to leave half moons and a hand print as the other hand helps him pull up to nip and bite her neck, and through it all he drives mindlessly into her because he’s learned not to question this anymore. Whatever this is - either a character association or what have you.
“It’s going to leave marks, you know,” she breathes into his ear suddenly, with a mewling note at the end.
“Yours too,” he counters with a grunt, squeezing her ass for emphasis.
A swallowed moan, and then she whispers triumphantly, “But it’s your back they won’t need makeup for tomorrow.” She knows her ass won’t even be visible in the first place. Pity.
She also always needs to have the last word. They’re well-matched that way. He lets her have her glory this time.
#
The next morning, the makeup artists kind of all look at each other with raised but ultimately useless globs of dark red, black and purple wound makeup, as well as stark, perplexed expressions. Then their gazes cut as one to Jessica who is getting her hair done at the end of the row of mirrors.
One hell of a wildcat, he bets they think in half-horror and half-consternation.
Ed’s gaze finds the real culprit’s in the mirrors. She’s a few metres away getting her nails done, bathrobe concealing the designer lingerie underneath, and a secretive smile stretches her lips.
She is one hell of a wildcat, but let them believe what they want to believe. That’s kind of the point of a fake relationship.