Scraps (Scomiche)

Doll

A/N: Smut, just smut. No plot at all, to be honest.

I just wanted to write some bottom!Scott, and i'm not super thrilled about the result, but I just wanted to write SOMETHING. I edited super quick so if you see any mistakes, sorry, i'm just so out of it lmao 

So..ya. It's 3k, nothing too crazy.

- Lia

****

The air already feels charged when you enter the room.

He had a photoshoot today, you knew about it, but you were not ready to come back home to this. Your bag falls on the floor with a loud thud as you freeze on the spot, the sound enough to catch Wyatt's attention and, of course, Scott's.

And when he turns to look at you, you know you're done for. The light stubble on his cheeks is usually enough to fuel all of your dreams, and the fondness in his eyes enough to make your heart swell with love. However, the light trace of orange makeup around his eyes, making them look even bluer, and the dark lashes that adorn them are like a punch in the stomach.

And as your eyes lower, the feeling only get worse.

He's wearing heels. 6" stiletto that makes him walk on wobbly legs as he tries to take a couple of steps in your direction, looking somehow graceful as he stumbles around the living room, his legs long and muscular and smooth enough that you can easily picture biting on them

Your pants instantly tightens, and you're sure your eyes darkens, if the look on his face is of any indication. His focus shifts completely, a shaky breath leaving his lips. He wasn't expecting you, just like you were not expecting this.

"Mitchy.." is the only word that leaves his mouth before you attack, every other thought leaving your brain.

The heels makes him stand taller, but not as steady. Your hands wrap easily around his neck, pulling his face down so that you can meet his mouth with yours in a kiss that is rough and deep and desperate, smudging the faint pink lipstick that tastes like vanilla. His hands immediately land on your hips, holding you like an anchor, more for himself than for you.

It doesn't take more than a minute to make him lose all of his focus, and for you to push him backwards on the couch, turning him around just before he is bent over it.

He's beautiful, and he's yours.

You usually don't doubt that he is, but there's something inside your brain that is screaming to mark him and show the entire world that he's yours. It's not jealousy, more like pride that no one else gets to have him like you do.

Your tongue pokes out of your lips to wet them, as you take in the sight in front of you: Scott bent over the armrest of the couch, his back showcased by the lack of shirt, tiny freckles sprawled around on his white skin, almost teasing you to mouth at them and taste their flavour. And you will.

Your eyes roam his body, moving down to follow the curve of his spine, taking in the delicious back dimples just above the navy short that he's wearing. Your thumbs press down on them, hard enough to leave a bruise on the porcelain skin, holding him still as he squirms in anticipation. His ass is perched high enough to lightly brush against your crotch, the material of his jeans teasing roughly against him.

You lower your head to leave a trail of kisses on his shoulders, just the tiniest touches of lips, a pink flush appearing on his skin. The faint freckles on his back look darker, and you can't help yourself when your tongue pokes out to lick at them, tracing an imaginary constellation. He tastes like cupcakes with a hint of sex, a smell that you never get tired of.