unpretty:

unpretty:

have you ever woken up with an idea fully-formed in your mind that you can’t do anything with

Trecia King was on the cover of eight different magazines in the month of January, wearing thousands of dollars of haute couture. She was also in Bruce Wayne’s bed, wearing thousands of dollars of bedding.

“I have kind of a weird request,” she said.

“Okay?” Bruce said.

“I brought something with me,” she said, rolling over to reach into her purse.

“I think I can guess.”

She rolled back over, and she was holding a body art marker.

“I guessed wrong.”

“Write on my back?” she suggested, halfway to shy.

He looked at the pen. He looked at her face. “Be more specific?”

“It doesn’t really have to be words,” she said. “It can just be little squiggles if you want. And I don’t want you to write anything mean. It just feels nice?”

Bruce looked at the offered pen again. “Yeah, sure,” he said finally, accepting it from her. She rolled onto her stomach, pulling a silk-wrapped pillow beneath her as she made herself comfortable. Slowly, he pressed the felt tip to her shoulder, and started to drag it along gentle loops in her skin. She hummed with delight at the sensation of the point tracing unseen shapes, her toes curling. He was slow and careful, bracing a hand against her waist as he worked his way down her back.

“You’re so good at this.”

“Am I?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

“Don’t be mad if I fall asleep.”

“I won’t.”

Eventually, he made it to the small of her back, curls along her spine that made their way toward her hips. She felt him hesitate.

“Run out of room?” she asked.

“I think so,” he said.

She yawned. “How’s it look?”

“Not great.”

“I wanna see.”

“Please don’t.”

“Now I really want to see.” She rolled out of his bed to make her way toward the nearest full-length mirror, spinning around to look over her shoulder at her back’s reflection.

She stared at it in silence.

“I know,” Bruce said, from where he was laying back on the bed, rubbing his hand ruefully over his face.

“Bruce.”

“I know.”

“Bruce.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Did you write the first Federalist paper on my back?”

“I panicked.”

“When you panic you write out the Federalist papers?”

“It was the first lengthy piece of writing I could think of.”

“Is this calligraphy?”

“Technically it’s copperplate.”

“I’m getting this permanently tattooed on me.”

“Oh, god, please don’t.”

“It’s so cool looking!” she said, leaving the mirror.

“Please don’t end your career because I’m bad at this.”

She jumped back into the bed, where he was still covering his eyes in chagrin. “We should have sex again,” she said, taking her marker back.

“Are you just saying that because you want to see if I can maintain an erection while reading the Federalist papers.”

“Maybe.”