morning after.
morning comes as hazy as the memories of last night. sunlight is already filtering through the curtains but his eyes were still heavy with sleep and mouth stale from too much alcohol.
his mind is void save for the dull ache in his head but that doesn't quite bother him. he lays still for awhile, letting consciousness seep through slowly before last night hits him in waves: hot mouth pressed against hotter skin, lithe fingers smoothing down the fluid arch of a back and somehow finding home on hips to leave crescent marks in its wake and hips rolling together with an urgency synchronization wouldn't offer.
he remembers, he remembers anything but a face. but it's really not all that surprising when it comes to chase; he has gone through far too many mornings where he doesn't recognize the person sleeping next to him. it's kind of like his version of kinder surprise.
with the heat of last night replaying in his mind, he slides a hand beneath the blanket to his morning wood.
... hopefully she'd be up for a round two.
he turns on his side only to be greeted by the sight of someone that comes with a new kind of surprise -- a surprise that makes his stomach churn but at the same time bring a satisfied smirk to his lips. too familiar curls cascades along the sheets and sleeping features appear too sweet and innocent for someone like her, but he likes it. they've seen each other at school and events, and they never once walked past each other without an exchange of insults or bickers coated under thick layers of sarcasm. she's a girl of beauty and brains and wit that matches up to chase's; he'd be lying if he said he had never thought about pinning her against a wall and turning her into a wreck of mess and moans as he fucks the cockiness out of her.
and here he is, lying in the aftermath of one of his many fantasies: sleeping with the enemy. ah, he sighs inwardly in content because that thought strokes him in places more than one.
chase doesn't wake her up, wanting to revel in his triumph for a bit more without any loud screeching or crying or both. the only kind of sounds he wants to hear from her is the ones with his cock inside her -- nothing else.
pushing away the sheets, he quietly makes his way over to the kitchen counter. what better way to wake up than having an enemy in your bed covered in remnants of you, marks made by you? he tops the perfect morning off with a glass of scotch before things begin to go downhill.
