#and no fucking wonder!! a woman in a bikini is basically naked and there's nothing that comes under scrutiny like a woman's body

[blujayonthewing]

you know. it is genuinely insane that we've somehow ended up in a culture that treats the human body as inextricably tied to sex and therefore filled with sin, and also, if it's not very beautiful, unspeakably gross and a crime to inflict the sight of upon others, and then this same culture turns around and says 'okay if you wanna go swimming you gotta get pretty much naked :)'

[aphrodites-law]

"Clarke is matched with Lexa, whose speciality is domestic, girlfriend scenarios". I zeroed in on this like a T-1000. Does it involve soft, yet confident, Lexa and baggy, cable-knit sweaters?

Haha I was encouraged to resurrect this from the ashes by @dreamsaremywords, but it’s basically that, yeah. Each chapter would be a “scenario” and as time goes on, feels get deeper. It’s all very rough stages. Here’s an excerpt:

Clarke can’t help it: she clicks on every profile, spending the evening reading, scrolling, and daydreaming about meeting this or that person in a normal setting.

It’s the seventeenth profile that has Clarke really pause. The woman is her age, dressed in a leather jacket in her profile photo but a simple fall sweater and black jeans in her full body one. It’s the first profile where the full body shot isn’t a predictable pose in a bikini, underwear, or some tight fitted outfit with a vista in the background. The woman’s eyes are intense in her profile but softer in her other photos. Her specialty is body worship and Clarke feels a bit hot and bothered just reading the words.

Her name is Lexa.

Lexa has light skin, full lips and thick brown hair that falls below her shoulders. She has a regal air about her, like she missed her century and belongs on a throne in a castle. Clarke can easily picture a crown on her head, admittedly a strange thought. It’s the way she sits and stares at the camera, so self-assured and in control. She only smiles in one photo, where she’s looking at someone off camera. It’s such a sweet smile that Clarke wonders how it feels to be on the receiving end of it, knowing it's as genuine as can be.

Her heart pounds and her fingers itch to send a formal request to partner up. The other people are just as dauntingly stunning, but there’s something else about Lexa. Once Clarke thinks about Lexa holding her waist, or kissing her until she’s dizzy, she can’t stop.

For just this time, Clarke wants someone to look at her like she means something more than a quick fuck. Like she isn’t disposable. If she could just know what it feels like for once, to be loved, even if it’s a perfect illusion, she could move forward with her life. If Lexa could show her what she’s missing out on; could show her it’s worth the fight...

Clarke takes a breath and clicks on Lexa’s contact button. A page opens to enter availability and Clarke immediately checks the Saturday and Sunday boxes. Anything else is much too soon. Beneath it Lexa has a list of tailored scenarios for her, not all sexual - though one is downright filthy - with the broad outlines enough to paint a picture and the overall tone the domestic preference that Clarke expressed:

- I’m taking you to the Mount Weather adventure park. We’ll stay at a cabin, kayak on the river, go on a zip-line tour of the canopy, and stargaze until we fall asleep.

- We're on our fifth date and I’m coming over with takeout. We both know tonight is different; special. I want to keep you up until sunrise.

- We’ve been together a year. Today is our anniversary and nothing will stop me from treating you like my queen.

- We broke up a few weeks ago after three years together. We’re both angry at each other. I need to pick up a box of my things. When you open the door I can’t help myself - I need to have you again. You pull me inside.

 Clarke feels a blush creep on her cheeks. She’s never slept with anyone without at least some previous interaction and can’t imagine picking the last scenario. She figures it’s for people used to getting into character immediately. Her... she needs to wet her feet before she dives in. At least have a conversation before she’s spreading her legs. Chewing on her bottom lip, she reads over the other three options.  

The adventure sounds exciting, but it’s an unfamiliar environment with a stranger and Clarke’s not too comfortable with that yet. She settles on the second one. It aligns itself better with their situation and Clarke is grateful for the option to be at her apartment. It’ll help keep her nerves at bay and it gives her more control. Lexa must’ve anticipated this when she wrote both indoor and outdoor scenarios. The second scenario leaves more wiggle room. It might end up with Clarke naked and spent, but she’s still the client. If she’s not feeling it, she can end it with her safe word. It’s just a fantasy, she reminds herself. 

[patrick-donovan]

PUT A SPELL ON YOU | THATTIEMELT

WHEN: June 5th, 2020.

WHERE: Thea Hudson’s house.

WHO: Thea Hudson & Patrick Donovan

EVENT: Thea orders Patrick to come over and bow-chicka-bow-wow

THEA: Thea had been teasing and toying with Patrick Donovan for going on 5 years now. She was not sure what exactly in her mind made this all change now. Maybe it had to do with the amount of people Patrick had been with was decreasing significantly, or maybe it was about the place they were now residing in, or maybe it was just that she got tired of playing games. But now in the matter of days, she had kissed him, shortly dominated him, and even lightly sexted with him. If they were both back in New York still, she wondered if any of this would have happened. 

Their conversation last night had been frank. Thea had never felt like she loved anyone. Well, she loved her family and her friends, but that all felt platonic. When she had watched romantic movies, it felt like too much. She didn't need the perfect person, she was perfect all on her own. Of course, part of her thought maybe it had to do with her issues with her father, abandonment, vulnerability, but that just wasn't something Thea wanted to think about.

What she did want to think about was what she would wear. She wanted this memory imprinted in Patrick's brain, even though she was sure it would be no matter what she wore. But she decided on an ensemble she had gotten from The Bikini Bottom. A tiny black robe with a matching slip and tights. Underneath was the lingerie set she had shown in the picture the night prior. It was fucking go time. 

PATRICK: There had been so many times when Patrick's friends had told him to just stop trying to get with Thea. 'She doesn't want anything to do with you', 'she just wants to be your friend', 'what do you care, anyway, you're sleeping with half of New York' - it didn't matter. He'd set his sights on Thea, and he was stubborn about it. Not that he was trying to force the girl to do something that she didn't want to do, but the chemistry between the two of them was undeniable. He'd never been told no, as far as he was aware, which was why he hadn't stopped trying to charm her over. But now, it had happened. Whatever it was that tipped it over the edge, he was grateful, because it had felt like he'd been floating around on a giant, pink sky, ever since she'd kissed him. Perhaps there really was something in the water on this island.

The two of them had gotten close over the years, she knew what a big softie he was, when people got to know him. He would put up a facade, a wall, to strangers, not wanting to let just anyone in - but that didn't mean that he wasn't capable of loving. He loved Thea, with all of his heart; she was his friend, and one that he respected and wanted nothing but happiness for. Did he have feelings for her? Absolutely, he wasn't going to deny that. But her rejection hadn't hurt him, because he hadn't expected anything specific from her; especially not after 5 years of chasing after her. And it wasn't going to change anything between them, he would make sure of that. No, instead, he praised himself lucky that he got this chance to be with her, and instantly ran to his bedroom to get ready, almost stumbling over himself.

He had tried so hard not to masturbate, after Thea had joked about being more pent up when they finally got to do things. He was going to have to try even harder to not cum the moment he saw her, but he was determined to succeed. He wanted to surprise her. After a quick shower, Patrick put Thea's black panties on, trying to tuck everything away and failing. It was clear that he was too big in the thong, underneath his black jeans but he reminded himself that this was for the Domme, and that it was worth it. The white t-shirt enhanced his muscles, and he made sure to spray a bit of cologne on his body, wanting to present himself in a nice way. He quickly threw a bunch of things into a bag, and off he went, walking as fast as he could, so he could have more time with the Hudson girl. Eagerly knocking the door, Patrick tried to adjust himself in the panties, uncomfortably moving around on the spot as he felt himself slip out of it. He heard the door open, and quickly managed to pull his hand out of his pants, and when he turned to look at the girl in front of him, he was so surprised. “I-” He breathed out, not knowing what to really say - his brain wasn’t working. Only one part of his body was. “I’m so hard, right now.”

THEA: Thea had told him to bring whatever he would like and she had ensured he was wearing her panties she had given him as a gift the last time he was over. She had also made her third pair of booty shorts that read "Thea's bitch" on the back of them. When she heard the knock on the door, she casually walked down the stairs. She was denying any type of excitement, although she felt herself already wet with anticipation. As she opened the door, she saw the end of him taking his hands out of his pants. A sly smirk already on her face as he reacted to her outfit. His words made her chuckle a bit before she looked him over. "As a courtesy, you should wait on your knees when you are waiting for a Dominant to open the door for you. When they let you in is only when you should stand," she informs him before saying. "You may come in and take of your clothes, then kneel at the foot of the stairs." She turned around giving him a view of her back as she walked back inside and stepped on to the first step.

PATRICK: He had to snap out of it. He was just staring at her, and those long, lean legs of hers continuing for the longest time, and how it seemed like the fabric of her outfit just melted onto her skin. God, she looked delectable and it almost made him drool. But she was speaking, and Patrick wanted to be a good Submissive, so he snapped out of it - as much as he could. He'd already failed the first, and probably simplest task. He'd been on his knees outside of Matthias' house, but the guards that had brought him had basically forced him down there. It made sense now. Feeling his cheeks burn, Patrick nodded, wiping the surprised look off of his face, and instead turning serious. "I apologize for my mistake, my muse. It won't happen again," He told her, and walked in as he was ordered to. He couldn't help but look up at Thea as he following after her, his t-shirt slipping up and over his head in the process, revealing the muscles that he'd worked hard to get. He unbuckled his belt and unzipped his pants, sliding them down his legs, and kicked his shoes and socks off. There, he stood in front of the Domme, his dick clearly twitching and peeking out of the small garment, and he let her take a look at him for a moment, before he knelt down in front of her. "What can I do for you, my muse?"

THEA: She enjoyed the title she had picked out for him to call her. It was appropriate, considering their history together, plus it was unique to just him. "Good bitch," she said to him making sure the door was locked as she watches from a stair above as he takes off his clothes for her. Watching as the final item of clothing went down his body and the only thing he had on was her thong. It covered practically nothing, especially as he began to harden in front of her. He looked like he had been chiseled from a Greek artist, "You're like my little Adonis," she said with a mischievous grin before he goes to his knees. "First you will recite your safe word, your hard limits, and your soft limits for me. Then I shall bring you up to my room."

PATRICK: A little smirk grew on his lips, the edge of his lip curling upwards, at the compliment. He knew that he looked good, but for Thea to acknowledge it was something different. He cleared his throat, getting ready to list everything he needed to for the woman in front of him. "My safe word is 'Voodoo'. My hard limits are gore, scat, vomit, vore, breath play, watersports. My soft limit is pegging." Patrick told her, looking up at her through hooded eyes. He couldn't help but look, there was no one quite like Thea. The way that she kept up with his wit and silly little comments sometimes, and how she wasn't afraid to put him in his place - her outfit was just a bonus. An amazing bonus, at that. The way it fell over her body, revealing every curve got him moaning quietly to himself. She wasn't even doing anything, she was just standing there, and he was already going crazy for her.

THEA: "Good, stand, pick up all your things, and then follow," she said with a small grin. Although she would have wanted to try breath play with him, she understood that it was off limits for him and she wasn't going to question that. Her eyes looked over his body once more before she turned around and climbed up the stairs towards her room, as she went, she slipped off her robe and once getting in the room, tossed it on the small bench at the foot of her bed. Once inside the room, she looked down at Patrick in her thong once more. This would be the first time he was fully naked in front of her so she took a moment before saying, "You may remove the thong, my little Adonis."

PATRICK: Patrick's eyes followed Thea the first couple of steps upstairs, before he finally realized what he was supposed to do. He quickly got up and gathered his things in his arms and rushed upstairs, trailing behind her. Entering into the bedroom, Patrick smiled to himself as he closed the door behind him. She'd kissed him in there. Their first kiss, and she'd kissed him. It had surprised him, because after all of those years, there hadn't been much else, but a few stolen glances here and there, but nonetheless, the kiss had been very welcomed. Patrick placed his clothes and his bag down on a chair, and looked up at Thea when he heard her. Finally. As hot as it was to wear her used underwear, Patrick could feel the fabric creep up in all the wrong places, and it wasn't very comfortable. Her nickname for him caused a little tingle to run down his spine, and he hooked his thumb into the underwear to pull it down and kick it away. His eyes never left hers, wanting to watch every expression she had for seeing him in the nude for the first time. "What do you think, my muse?"

THEA: Thea watched as he entered her room and shut the door. She felt a bit more tension start to build as she knew what was about to happen. She kept looking his eyes waiting until the thong was fully off to take a glance downwards. Instead of answering his question, she took off her slip to reveal the lingerie set. She stepped closer to him, her hand moving to tightly hold his jaw, "I think that I didn't ask you to speak, bitch." She said before letting go of his jaw, her lips giving his a brief yet passionate kiss as her fingers went down to simply run up his cock before pulling away altogether. "Lay on the bed, my Adonis."

PATRICK: His heart was beating violently in his chest as Patrick stood there, waiting for the next thing to happen, constantly. He didn't know what she might do, but he was anticipating it, and the whole feeling was a lot to deal with. She walked forward and he grunted as she grabbed his jaw, being told not to speak. He was about to go against that order, by confirming that he'd heard her, but bit the inside of his cheek, so he remained quiet and just looked at her. He was so hard already, his dick bouncing up and down and hitting his stomach every now and again. And then she kissed him and he finally got a bit of release, and he fell right into it, kissing her back just as passionately, with a long moan coming out as he felt her fingers on his member. He wanted her to keep going, but he also had to follow orders. If he did this fast enough, he would have Thea close to him again, soon. He nodded, following her orders from before of not speaking, and going to lay on the bed. His head hit the pillow, as he watched Thea, waiting for her next move, as his dick stood tall and proud.

THEA: Thea enjoyed just how enthralled he was with her, as he remained quiet now that she commanded him to stay silent. She could feel his anticipation as she tasted his lips. and felt his cock. When he finally lay on the bed she made her way over to her drawers filled with sex toys. She looked over at him for a moment, "I think tonight I won't be tying you up, unless you can't keep your hands to yourself during this next part," she grinned before asking, "Feather or small paddle, Adonis?"

PATRICK: Laying there, Patrick felt an odd feeling of calmness rushing over him. Thea and Patrick knew each other; they had known each other for so long. She was being slow with him - probably mostly because to go that long, after wanting to be with her, and then suddenly doing it would blow his freaking mind. But also, Patrick felt, it was because there was history between them. So, in between her being slow, taking her time to properly introduce everything to him, and them knowing each other so well, Patrick was relaxed, in the middle of the anticipating feeling. Looking over, he noticed her sex toys and he smirked at her. He liked the idea of being tied up, but he was also intrigued in what she would do, if he did follow orders. Seeing her grin, Patrick smiled. He loved seeing her in such a position of power. "Small paddle please, my muse." He finally answered.

THEA: She looked over at him with a grin as he told her the paddle. "Good choice," she said before picking it up and shutting the drawer and standing at the edge of the bed next to him. Gently, Thea ran the paddle over his cheeks, his jaw, his mouth, his chin. She let the paddle travel down Patrick's neck, and his chest, circling both his pecks before tracing his abdomen methodically. Finally her eyes went down to his cock as the leather caressed his sacs, traveling up his length, up to his tip before give a small flick and whipping his cock.

PATRICK: When Thea started to run the paddle over Patrick's body, he held in his breath. He wasn't aware that he was doing it, but the feeling of her running to smooth leather over his body had taken it away, and he watched as it went further and further down. His hands managed to grip onto the headboard before he felt the slap on his most delicate area, and he closed his eyes, instantly jumping slightly from the pain. A groan filled the room and he finally released the breath of air that he had held in. "Fuck..." He grunted out, opening his eyes. The pain was amazing, and he could feel the heat rise up throughout his body, leaving his chest red, as he wanted more. "Please, my muse..."

THEA: Her eyes moved to look at his expression as she hit his cock, he looked like he was in utter joy and she couldn't help but smirk once more as she runs the paddle over his tip, circling it for a moment before letting it run over his inner thighs, giving each thigh a small yet loud smack before going back to his under carriage and giving it another smack. "Please what?" She said as she raised a brow before smacking his cock once more this time a little harder.

PATRICK: Patrick's eyes quickly closed again at the feeling of his thighs being smacked, and his hands moved down to grab onto the sheet underneath his body. He needed to hold onto something desperately. It was stinging, but he didn't have time to think about that, because there was another slap, a question and then his member was punished again, leaving it incredibly sensitive. Groaning and breathing through his teeth, Patrick's chest was rising and falling hard and he could barely make out a word, let alone think. "Please..." He repeated, slowly opening his eyes again to look up at Thea. "Please give me more."

THEA: She could see that this was leaving quite an impression on him. And it was rather invigorating to watch as she smirked happily at how he squirmed. She saw just how he begged and started smacking even harder, her eyes glued on him as she wanted to see him unravel fro her.

PATRICK: Patrick's face scrunched up as he got what he asked for. The pain was a lot, leaving marks on his body and making him groan and yelp out loud and when she hit the spots that she'd already gone over, he was even louder. "Fuck!" He groaned when she smacked him hard, and his hand reached out to grab onto her leg, needing to support himself. "Fuck, fuck!" He yelled through gritted teeth, squirming around on the bed.

THEA: Thea enjoyed the noises as he seemed to enjoy the whipping. He seemed to be having a hard time staying still though as he grabbed onto her as he began to scream and groan. She wondered if Skylar could hear him, as she smacked his throbbing cock. "You must stay still," Thea warned, not wanting to hurt him. Her whip went down to the head of his cock, whipping it before stopping a moment to let him cool of before smacking the head of his penis harder than all the rest.

PATRICK: He was finding it hard to comply to Thea's command, with the pain searing through his body. It went through his legs so much so that he was tensing up, every muscle revealed. She whipped him one last time, and he groaned, but then she seemed to stop, and Patrick relaxed, his breathing hard as he tried to come down from the pain. He was so sore already, and he knew that he was going to be for a couple of days. Just about to open his eyes to look up at Thea, he felt a slap harder than before, and it caused him to scream out loud. He wanted to move his hand down to cover up his sore member, but he controlled himself and instead grabbed at the pillow beneath him, so hard, that he yanked it away and across the room. He writhed on the bed, the pain going into his toes. "Please," He managed to get out in a loud groan as he came down from the pain that seared through his entire body. His chest was heaving and he loosened the grip that he had on her leg, as he looked up at her, his eyes finding hers immediately. He was red in the face and the corner of his eyes were wet, from the tears. "My muse." He sighed, his voice coming out scratchy.

THEA: Seeing the way he was reacting, she was starting to wonder if this was now just pure pain for him and was rather concerned as he moved away, she waits a few moments as he sees his face and wipes at his tears as she placed the paddle down as she ran her hand down his body. "Please what, my little Adonis?" She asks him in a gentler voice, unsure if she had pushed him too far.

PATRICK: Patrick was pretty good at dealing with pain. He'd gotten into various bar fights, and was usually the one who got the shit kicked out of him, because he couldn't hold his liquor and focus, which meant that, over the years, he'd been injured multiple times. But this was different. This wasn't an injury. This was pain mixed with pleasure, and he'd never experienced anything like it before. Still breathing quite hard, Patrick blinked a few times. It was amazing how Thea could go from rough to soft, so quickly. He was truly impressed with how well she played the Domme role. "Just...just give me a moment, please," He begged, enjoying the way that she was touching him. She was so attentive.

THEA: She gave a small nod at his words as she gave a small smile before caressing his face a moment. "Why don't I get an ice cube and cool it off for you? How does that sound?" She asks him, wondering if he would be interested in the temperature play as she looked down at him. "Before I make you cum with just the touch of my fingers," she teases him a bit as she rubs circles into his cheek.

PATRICK: Patrick bit down on his lip as he watched her take care of him. This was a new experience; she'd shown him that she could definitely tease him, and make him beg, but she was showing just how sweet and caring she was right now. It was lovely. He nodded, leaning into her hand. "I'd like that, thank you, my muse," He told her softly, ignoring the pain that he felt in his throat after having screamed and yelled so much. Her next sentence caused a moan to slip out of him, and he wanted to, at the very least, touch himself right then and there. His dick twitched at the thought. "That sounds amazing, my muse. You're being so good to me."

THEA: Thea gave a nod and quickly grinned at his raspy moan, she wasn't even naked yet and he was still so close. "Don't you worry, my little Adonis," went towards a corner of her room where she had placed a mini fridge and grabbed an ice cube before bringing it back over, running it against his lips, his chest, his stomach before bringing it to his thighs, the heat of his body starting melt it down as she ran it over his cock, paying attention to the redder places.

PATRICK: Smiling, he watched as Thea walked to get the ice cube - she looked so good, wearing that slip, and he noticed that it moved perfectly with her body, as she walked across the room. He was calming down now, but that didn't mean that there wasn't any pain. It was stinging and he could even feel certain places around his thighs start to swell up. He probably needed to wear shorts for the next couple of days, so he could let the areas get some air. The way that Thea ran the ice cube down his body, seemingly following that path that the paddle had previously taken, was so sensual and nice. The feeling of it on his body was incredibly and Patrick responded to it with a low moan. It wasn't until she got to his thighs and his cock that he started to feel the pain again, and he winced at first, before realizing that it was actually helping. Then, he hummed. "That's so good," He whispered, mostly to himself, as he rolled his head back and closed his eyes. "That feels so nice, my muse." Patrick told her, licking his lips. It might have been more to do with her fingers on him, than the ice cube, but it was still calming him down, so he was grateful.

THEA: She gave a small wink to him as she brought the ice cube back. The way he reacted to the cold ice pleased her as she watched him relax. The ice was still melting but she kept going. "Good, my little Adonis," she almost purred out as she brought the ice up to the head of his erection, circling it around his tip, teasing him as Thea was testing whether or not she could make him cum right now.

PATRICK: Slowly, but surely, Patrick's breathing was getting hard again, and it was all thanks to Thea's fingers. He felt the cold drops of water run down his shaft, but the feeling that he focused on was her fingers around the head of his cock. "Oh my god," Patrick sighed, his eyes rolling to the back of his head. With how sensitive he was now, she could probably just blow on it, and it would still feel good. His thigh muscles tensed up again, and he was starting to feel that slow burn in his stomach that meant that he was well on his way to an orgasm. "You're gonna-" He interrupted himself with a moan and his head rolling back once more, the tension around the tip of his dick becoming too much. He needed more. "You- you're gonna make me cum already, my muse," He warned her, wanting the release that he'd saved up for, for a couple of hours, but also wanting to experience more. He didn't want this to be the end of it, before he was ready to go again. He grabbed at the sheet underneath him, his knuckles turning red at how hard he was holding onto it, and he moaned out, "Fuck, Thea."

THEA: Seeing the way he started to tense up again, it was clear she was right about it, and as she continued she looked in his eyes as he throbbed and tensed and squirmed again. "I'm gonna?" Thea tilted her head speaking in mock innocence as she teases him. "Not until I allow it," she said in return as there was only a thin layer left of the ice. Her fingers starting to grow numb until it officially melted. "That's not my title," she said before moving her lips to his ears and said, "Cum for me, bitch."

PATRICK: Patrick's hips started thrusting upwards. He needed more. He needed to be touched by her. He needed more, and he needed it now. He clenched his jaw, taking in the feeling of her small fingers on him. He wanted to cum so badly, but he had to hold it in. He was told to, and Patrick wanted to show Thea that he could be Submissive, follow her orders and do exactly what she wanted, in order to please her. "My muse," He breathed out. "My mu-MY MUSE..." He moaned loudly, feeling her lips ghost against his ear, and he immediately started to moan continuously at her words, feeling the white ropes of semen spill out of him, his body twitching underneath and his feet propelling around. "Fuck, fuck!" He moaned, a few extra drops coming out and he grunted quietly, his chest heaving up and down.

THEA: She quickly pulled her face away to watch him, her hand slipping away as he shoots cum on himself and she watches with a glint of pride in her eyes as her cold moved to his sacs one more time before she completely pulls away, "What a good little Adonis," she leans forward, to swipe her tongue against his tip as he cools down, pulling away she grabs a towel to give to him to wipe himself off. Taking the paddle off the bedside counter she brings it back to her drawer before turning back around, staring at him, she unhooks her bra and slips it off her body, waiting for his reaction as she stood there in only her panties attached to her stockings.

PATRICK: Patrick couldn't believe how soon he reached his climax - he wasn't normally this quick, but with all of the teasing that had been going on during the days leading up to this, five years of waiting and generally just being pent up, he couldn't help it. It was a testament to Thea's skills really. His hands moved over his head as he breathed heavily, trying to come down from the high. He groaned when he felt her tongue on his dick for a split second; he was so damn sensitive. But then she was off again, and all Patrick could do was lay there and take in what had happened. He didn't even listen to the sounds of the paddle being put away or her bra hitting the floor - he was in his own little world. Until he removed his hands, finally having gained enough energy to focus back on Thea, and he sat up on his elbows and moved his gaze onto her. "Fuck me," He whispered as he finally saw her. She wasn't fully nude, but what was before him still made his jaw drop. It was like she had been carved out of marble, she looked like a Greek Goddess. Everything was perfect about this girl. He was speechless, no thoughts going through his head, except for how gorgeous she was. "I'm gonna cum again, my muse." He whispered, not even sure if she heard him. He could feel himself getting hard again, and it was a lot to deal with, especially with how sensitive his cock was at the moment.

THEA: Thea watched him trying recover his breath and found it entertaining to see just how breathless he was. But once he made contact with her body again, she smirked at his first words. This was the first time he was seeing her like this and it was clear that as she suspected, he was having a hard time handling himself. Watching as his cock started to twitch, she laughed a bit at his comment. "Is that all it takes for you?" She teased before saying, "Then I better not do this." She slid her underwear down her legs as let them go with her stockings until she was naked. Letting him soak in the image of her.

PATRICK: He wanted so badly to reach out and put his hands on her, feel his fingertips on her skin, explore every inch of her body. He wanted to kiss every part of her and have her feel just as good, as she made him feel. He was itching to touch her, and for a moment he sat up with the intention of doing just so. But he also wanted to control himself, for her. He wanted to be good. Nodding, Patrick's eyes raked over her body. "You have that effect on me, my muse," he told her, quietly as he took it all in. And then she finally took off the last piece of clothing, and he watched her intently, holding his breath. "Oh my god..." He whispered, in awe of what she looked like. "Can I-" he cleared his throat. "Can I touch you, my muse?"

THEA: Thea smiled as she felt like his eyes were shooting lasers to her skin. Or maybe he was just trying to memorize the moment so that he could put it on paper later. He looked like he was holding his breath when she took off the rest of her clothes and she definitely heard his comments which made her smile. People had definitely enjoyed her body before, but never with this level of awe. She smirked at his question. She moved for a moment before giving a small nod as she moves onto the bed before moving on top of him. "You may."

PATRICK: Patrick's heart pounded in his chest as soon as he saw the Domme move to straddle him - something that, only a couple of days ago, he'd found so hot that he needed to jerk off over it; maybe it was the dominant role that she had taken then, or maybe it was because she'd slightly been rubbing against his crotch when she did. Maybe a mix of both. After he was given permission, he gently placed his hands on her waist, finally feeling the silky smooth skin underneath his fingertips. He kept his eyes on her, wanting to take her all in, as one hand started to travel up her stomach and to her breast, his thumb grazing her nipple softly, before it continued up to her neck, and then her cheek. He cupped it softly, while his other hand moved around to her backside, almost instantly finding her ass. Her body fit against his perfectly, and he decided to just feel what it was like to finally have it against his own. "You have no idea what you're doing to me right now, my muse," He whispered, leaning in, desperate to kiss her, but not doing it unless she gave him permission to.

THEA: She allowed him to touch her skin, she would be lying to her self if she were to say that it didn't feel nice and feeling his hands brush up her waist, her stomach, her nipple hardening before his hand found itself on her cheek. His other hand evidently finding itself on another cheek on her backside. Thea let her eyes move to look at him as she let out a small laugh at his words. "I presume making your dreams come true, my little Adonis" she said in return before leaning forward to meet him halfway her lips greeting his passionately as she rubs her cunt teasingly on Patrick's cock.

PATRICK: Humming, Patrick smiled at her. She was making his dreams come true. He had been waiting for so many years for this exact moment, he'd been dreaming about, wondering what it would be like, spent countless of hours jerking off to the thought of her doing whatever she wanted with him. And now, it was actually happening, and Patrick couldn't be more excited about it. He moaned into the kiss, feeling her wet pussy rub against his already erect cock. The sensation of their sex meeting, combined with his lips on hers and their tongues crashing together was something that Patrick wanted to remember for the rest of his life. His hand that had rested on her cheek ran down her back and met the other, on her ass, squeezing softly as he pulled her closer to him, despite it seeming impossible since they were rubbing up against one another. Patrick bit down on her lip softly before pulling away from the kiss again, but his lips still ghosting against hers. "Please, let me make you cum. I want to make you feel good, my muse."

THEA: She felt his moan against her lips as she tried not to make a noise to let him know just how nice it felt. Thea grinned against his lips as she felt his hand squeeze at her. Smiling as his teeth sunk into her lip. Thea felt his lips and the way he pleaded to pleasure her and she smirked as her eyes open to look at him. “Patience, my little Adonis.” She says as she rubs her self up against him once more before moving a hand towards his cock using it to tease her clit.

PATRICK: The room was getting incredibly hot, but Patrick didn't care, because he had Thea right where he'd dreamt of. He could feel her folds against him, opening slightly when she rubbed herself against the tip of dick. He wanted to be inside of her already, he was craving that warmth and tightness that he knew would come with it. He was starting to get frustrated. Knitting his eyebrows together, Patrick heard what she said but couldn't say anything to it, because soon enough, he felt what she was doing. He whimpered, wanting more and let his head fall onto her shoulder to rest as he felt her on his dick. "Thea..." He moaned out in a whisper, not even thinking about titles right now. One hand moved from her cheek and further down, finally finding her clit with two fingers. He needed to make her feel good in some kind of way.

THEA: Thea felt herself sharply inhale from teasing herself as her hips rolled slowly against his tip. Feeling his forehead press against her shoulder, she holds the back of his head there as she guides him to sitting. Hearing him say her name, she gave his cock a firm tug before reminding him, "Titles, this is still a scene, bitch," she spoke before smacking his fingers away from her. "Bad bitch," she said as she warns, "Don't make me get the paddle out again." Thea finally guided his cock to tease her hole before finally sliding down on top of his cock, a soft moan leaving her own lips now.

PATRICK: "Fuck!" Patrick gasped, as he felt her small hand giving him a hard tug and his hands being pushed off. He almost wanted to pout, disappointed that he didn't get to touch her or do anything that worked in her favor, but he stopped himself. "I'm sorry, my muse," He croaked out, not wanting this opportunity to get lost because he couldn't control himself. He'd enjoyed the paddle, up until the point when it had become too much, but he wanted to be inside of her already. "I'll be good," The Donovan boy promised, and brought his head back up, his lips pressing against her jaw and cheek. He finally felt her slide down on him, and, just like Thea, he moaned too. "Oh, Thea-" He stopped himself. "My muse...please, fuck me, my muse." Patrick breathed, correcting himself. He had a tight grip on her, his hands squeezing her hips softly, just waiting for her to settle down on him and get comfortable.

THEA: She felt his lips against her face with a smirk as she slid down on top of him, her walls tightening around him as she groaned. Her body could handle him, but she couldn't handle suppressing the noises that just wanted to leave her lips. When he called her Thea again she glared a bit before he quickly corrected himself. She gave him a small slap to his cheek to remind him before slowly beginning to slide herself off and on his cock, riding him as she felt her breathing started to grow shakier and heavier as she thrust faster.

PATRICK: Patrick gasped, finally feeling her taking all of him in. She was warm and wet, and felt so inviting. Her walls embraced him and he could feel every single part of her. He was at a loss for words about how it felt, but the slap made him wake up, and he couldn't help but grin against her cheek for a moment, appreciating her staying in the Dominant role. She was so good at it. And she was so good at riding him. Shallow breaths came out of his mouth as he moved his head, wanting to look at her. "Keep going please, my muse," He breathed out, his hand tangling into her hair as he moved in to kiss her passionately. "Don't-don't stop."

THEA: Thea looked at him with lust filled in her eyes as she kept going, her body bouncing as she felt herself so wet yet wanting to last as long as possible before she allowed herself to cum. Her eyes met his for a moment as she inhaled sharply, her body slamming into his as he pleaded for her to keep going. Her hands moved to his shoulders as she began to slam herself down on his cock, her lips pressing firmly into his as she lets herself moan again, pulling her lips away from his a moment, before pushing him down on his back so he had a full view of her as she thrust her head back a moment. Her hand pressing against his stomach to use him for balance. "You going to cum for me again, my little Adonis?"

PATRICK: There was no way in hell that Patrick would forget about this experience. He remembered a lot of sexual encounters, but it was mainly based on how weird they were. This was something different; this was a feeling that he'd never had before. He was impressed with himself and the fact that he'd already cum and straight after gotten hard again - that was all thanks to Thea, of course. She was the reason that this time was so memorable. Moaning, Patrick's eyes remained on the Domme, wanting to watch her. She looked like she was in pleasure, it sounded like she was in pleasure and the way her body moved was a clear indication that she was definitely getting the satisfaction that she wanted. Laying down like she wanted, Patrick got to properly enjoy the view. His hands first rested on her hips and thighs, but soon enough made their way up to her gorgeous breasts and he licked his lips, watching how they fit perfectly in his large hands. "Fuck, baby-my muse," He quickly moaned out. The way she rode him made him close his eyes tightly. He nodded to her question. "Yeah," It came out in a breath. "Yeah, I am. I'm gonna cum." Patrick warned her, managing to open his eyes as he looked up at her, his moans getting louder and louder as he got closer to his climax.

THEA: She placed her hand on top of Patrick's for a moment as she enjoyed the way he held onto her smaller breasts. Thea could feel the tension climbing up her body as she felt herself growing closer, her walls tightening with each thrust as she fucked him faster. Her body starting to give into the needs, but she slapped his face lightly again, "Cum for me little bitch," she said as she listened to his moans, wanting to feel him cum inside her as she orgasms.

PATRICK: Patrick could feel it build up inside of him again, his thighs tightening and his hips thrusting up to meet Thea. The same burning feeling came through in his abdomen. His moans and grunts were loud as he watched her. The way she moved on top of him, was so incredibly sexy. "*I'm-" He grunted, knowing that it would only take a few more thrusts. He was wrong. It took her slapping his face. "Cumming!" Patrick yelled out, his head falling back, his eyes closing and his body twitching as he reached his second orgasm of the day. He grunted as he felt the semen shoot out of him and into her body, his hand having moved down to grab at the sheet underneath him. His chest was red from the heat, his breathing was heavy, and his moans were calming down. "Fuck, fuck, fuck," He groaned through his teeth, his hand letting go of the sheet and instead moving up to grab at Thea's thigh, squeezing it. With one last thrust to finish him off, Patrick calmed down. "Fucking hell..."

THEA: Her body was in pure pleasure as she felt him finally thrust up inside her and she couldn't help herself as she groaned, feeling him inside her as he filled her, her head rolling back as her back arches, allowing herself to orgasm as she felt her thighs shaking and dug her nails into his wrist as she stayed there for a moment, feeling him push upwards inside of her once more as she felt the high wearing down as her chest rose and fell as she ran a hand through her hair and looked down at him with a grin as she took a few moments before sliding herself off of Patrick feeling his cum drip down her inner leg as she tried to figure out what to say now. But hearing both of them just breathe also was peaceful.

PATRICK: Knowing that Thea had also reached her orgasm made Patrick feel proud. He knew how to make a girl cum, it wasn't a problem. But he felt like he had something to prove to the girl. He'd spent five years, pining after her; he wanted to show her that she had been missing out and that whatever she'd heard about him had been true. Patrick opened his eyes after a moment, looking up to see what Thea was doing. He almost whimpered at the cold feeling when she slid off of him again, sad that he wasn't inside of her anymore. His hand found hers and he gently pulled at it, wanting her to join him on the bed. Thea knew he was a giant softie, and he liked the idea of being intimate with her, in a way that wasn't sexual. But he also wasn't going to force it. "That was amazing, my muse," Patrick said, still trying to catch his breath. His eyes found hers and a warm grin grew on his lips. "You're absolutely amazing."

THEA: Thea heard the noise and couldn't help but laugh a bit as he gave her hand a tug, she moved to lay next to him as she needed a moment to relax, and she figured that Patrick would definitely need more than a few moments. At this point the scene was over and now it would be focusing on aftercare as she smiled at his words. "All you ever hoped and dreamed for?" She teases him a bit as she looked at, moving onto her stomach so that she could tilt his chin up and she let her lips greet his slowly, her tongue sliding into the kiss almost immediately as her other hand moved to his chest.

PATRICK: He hummed lightly, watching her lay down. "And so much more," He answered her and responded immediately to her kiss and her tongue, his own swiping against hers. Moaning lightly into it, Patrick had missed kissing her. There had been some, during all of this, but not enough. He understood why - it wasn't part of the scene that Thea created. But he was going to make up for that now. He pulled away from the kiss, and wrapped his arms around her, a hand moving up to place a strand of hair behind her ear and caress her cheek. He smiled softly as he took in the way that she looked. Maybe he was going to draw her while she slept. She was gorgeous like this, nude and satisfied. For a while, he didn't say anything, he just laid there and admired her, nothing really going through his brain. "You're beautiful."

THEA: She let herself relax as she kissed him, not having to worry about anything as she did. Thea could go for another round, but also figured she had tired the poor guy out. As he pulled his lips away from hers, she felt his hand wrap around her. She didn't usually like this type of hold, the only person she had really ever cuddled with was Skylar. Feeling his hand against he face as she smiled back at him. Her own hand mindlessly rubbing a small spot on his chest as she tried to figure out what he was thinking at the moment. Obviously this is not what friends do. And she started to wonder if this is what he did with their other friends. If what was happening wasn't abnormal for his style of sex. But she let out a small laugh when he called her beautiful and kiss him softly, "I know."

PATRICK: Patrick loved being so close to the young Hudson girl. He could feel how relaxed he was getting, right there next to her. He moved to grab the blanket covering both of them, beginning to feel the cold air on his body. Patrick knew that Thea wasn't the romantic type, she'd told him the night before. He didn't have to do pull out all the soppy things, like kissing her hand and telling her how much he cherished having her in his life. But he didn't really care, he did it anyway. It wasn't to prove anything to her, or anyone else for that matter. It was just how he felt about her. He couldn't help the chuckle when he heard her answer, and he kissed her back. "So...are you tired?" Patrick muttered into the kiss, his hand traveling underneath the blanket and down to her ass. He was willing to do whatever she wanted to do.

THEA: She laughed gently as he covered them both with her blankets. She let her hip bone press up against his, and that was her version of letting him know that she didn't mind these gestures after the scene was over. She was supposed to be administrating aftercare, but this felt like what Patrick wanted to do, so she let it happen. Her lips lingered against his a moment, her eyes still shut as he asked if she was tired. She felt his hand on her ass which made her smirk a little against his lips before saying, "Not really, are you?"

PATRICK: "Nuh-uh," Patrick shook his head softly, and kissed her lips again, this time more delicately. Then, he placed a kiss in the corner of her lips. Then her cheek. Next, it was a few kisses on her jaw. And thereafter, he moved slowly down to her neck, kissing the naked skin. "I'm" kiss "as" kiss "awake" another kiss, "as I can be," he whispered against her, his hand squeezing her ass softly. His started moving further down, his lips on her collarbone, then on her breast, and his tongue darting out to lick her nipple. He hummed again, looking up to check if this was okay for him to do, not wanting to do anything that wasn't alright for the Domme.

THEA: Thea grinned at his movements, laughing a bit as he kissed down her neck between words, moving to give more room to let his lips travel her body. "Good to know," she grinned as she took the blanket off her body, her hand at the side of his face as she felt his kisses start to spread. Watching him slide to let his tongue press up against her nipple, she looked down at him as she felt her heart starting pound once more. "You like doing that, Pattie? You wanna suck my nipples, Pattie Melt, don't you?" She says, saying his name considering this was post scene now, teasing him a little.

PATRICK: Smirking to himself, Patrick wrapped his lips around her nipple, making his tongue do a combination of flicking over it and smoothing down on it to lick it. He nodded and let go. "They're delicious," he almost growled and placed another kiss on them, before he started moving further down, his lips still on her body as he kissed and licked down the, past the dips and valleys of her chest to her stomach, to her hips. He wasn't sure how well this next move was going to go, so he let his hand go between her legs, feeling his cum from before and also how wet she was. Groaning quietly to himself, he started to rub her clit, his lips still on her hipbone, kissing around one specific place. And then he bit down on that perfect spot, and started sucking, wanting to leave a love bite.

THEA: She watched him for a few moments, "Mmm, yeah? They are." Thea bit her lower lip as she watched him slide under her body as his lips and tongue found each crevice of her body. She looked down towards Patrick as he kisses at her hips. His fingers moving to feel her, a hum left her lips at the touch, her waist moving forward, hand moving to the top of his head, she felt his teeth and tongue and she finally lost her patience bucking her cunt towards his face. "Clean up the mess you made."

PATRICK: Patrick sucked and bit and licked at Thea's soft skin, knowing that there was definitely going to be a mark left there. It wasn't to "claim" her or anything like that, he knew about the rules when it came to that and that wasn't up Patrick's lane. Besides, the two of them were just friends. No, he left a mark so she could remember how good he made her feel, wanting her to come back for more. Letting go of her skin with his lips, Patrick looked up and nodded, following her orders as he moved between her legs. "Yes, my muse," he whispered against her sex, before kissing her inner thigh. She'd left red marks all over his, he was going to leave kisses. His finger was circling around her clit and he enjoyed how her body was responding to it. His kisses moved closer and closer to where his fingers were, until he finally reached it and his tongue darted out to taste her. He hummed delightfully, and wrapped his mouth around, beginning to lick and suck up his own cum and her juices mixed together. "I wish to make you feel good, my muse." He told her, having come up for a breath of air, and his fingers moving over her opening gently. Moving back down again, he continued to push his tongue into her, grunting every now and again at how good she tasted.

[bloodiedskirtts]

Little Love Affair | Part Three: Tread Lightly On My Ground

Summary: After getting to the island she runs into a brooding mystery man. Could he be the one?

Pairing: Bucky x Reader

Word Count: 2.4k

Warnings: Fluff and smut

A/N: TAG LIST IS OPEN!

Feedback is always appreciated! Thanks for reading. I hope you guys like it! Gif not mine, credit to owner.

Little Love Affair Masterlist

The island was beautiful, more beautiful than she could have ever dreamed of. The only thing was, it didn’t really have many tourists therefore it didn’t have anywhere to stay. Thankfully, she managed to convince an older woman to let her stay in her restaurant if she helped her as a waitress. If the ferry was coming over a lot of people visited for the day, so one day a week the restaurant was filled to the rafters with visitors. And one day a week Y/N took orders, served food and smiled as brightly as she could.

The other six days she spent exploring the island, it was small but she immediately felt at home there. She loved working in the restaurant, even if it wasn’t very busy. Sophia the owner was so kind to her, and she imagined that life would have been like this if her mother actually cared for her. She found a family in that small Greek island and despite being there for only two weeks, she knew that she wanted to stay here forever. She even started helping Sophia’s only son clear out the abandoned farmhouse. She knew what she wanted from that gorgeous building, she could see it as a gorgeous villa, bringing travelers from around the globe to their own slice of paradise.

Two weeks was all it took for Y/N to call this Greek island a home. 

It was Thursday, and by right no new person should have been on the island. The ferry went every Wednesday hourly to and from the island. But here he was, a handsome stranger sitting at the restaurant bar. She had just come in from fetching eggs from Sophia’s hens and was going to make lunch for herself and the woman.

‘Yassas?’ she called, ‘Hello?’

He turned his head to look at her, and her heart thumped wildly in her chest. His eyes were piercing blue, landing on her face but he looked like he could see right through to her soul. She blushed under his gaze, his brunette locks were long and hung around his face. And his strong jawline was covered in light stubble.

‘Do you speak English?’ she asked, biting her lip, just glad her voice did break as she felt like jelly under his gaze.

‘I do,’ he replied with a smile. Oh, his voice. His voice was worse, it was a low rumble that made her weak at the knees. ‘I was wondering if I could get some lunch?’

She smiled, ‘Of course. I was just going to whip up some Kagianas - it’s just scrambled eggs and tomato, kind of...I’m sorry, I know we’re a restaurant but the island doesn’t usually have visitors the day the ferry doesn’t go.’

‘Oh I came over on the ferry yesterday,’ he said. ‘I’m staying up in the old hut at the top of the island. My mother’s brother-in-law’s cousin owned it. I don’t really know but I just know I can stay in it.’

‘Will you be staying long?’ she asked, with a smile as she slipped behind the counter.

‘Until the end of the month, I’m trying to do some soul searching I guess,’ he chuckled almost to himself.

‘This island has a way of drawing people like us in, then,’ she replied. ‘I was travelling for a while but I knew this is where I wanted to go. And when I arrived...’

‘It just felt right?’ he finished.

She nodded. She could almost the electricity between them in the quiet restaurant. She didn’t know why she was so drawn to him, it wasn’t like anything she had felt before. He was looking at her with those blue eyes and she felt like she was under some sort of spell. She never was one to be a hopeless romantic, but a part of her was telling her that this man in front of her was why she was on the island. That this was destiny.

 She shivered slightly even though the sun was shining.

‘Let me cook you something,’ she said.

‘And then maybe you could give me a tour of the island?’ he asked hopefully.

‘I would love that!’ she replied, ‘I’m Y/N, by the way.’

‘Bucky!’

It didn’t take long for her to cook up their lunch, Sophia was nowhere to be seen but she didn’t mind. She sat with Bucky and they spoke about their travels. 

‘I think I could stay here forever,’ she admitted dreamily.

‘I wish I could,’ he responded with a sigh. ‘I have a job lined up for me when I go back to New York.’

‘Oh?’ she asked as she brought their plates to the sink in the back, she motioned for him to follow her.

He helped her wash and dry the dishes, as he spoke. ‘My mum died when I was a kid. My dad has been pretty strict on me and my sister, Rebecca. I worked my ass off since I was a tiny tot to make him proud. And now I have this amazing job to go back to in the city and I can’t. I just can’t do it. I feel like my life is mapped out for me, but it’s not my life. Do you ever feel like that?’

‘Trapped,’ they both said at the same time.

Their eyes met and she felt her breath catch in her throat. She knew she only met this man literal minutes beforehand but she felt a connection like she never had before. Not even with Natasha, who she had known basically her entire life. She felt like she could bare her soul to him and he wouldn’t judge her. And she wasn’t scared. She had always been scared before, scared to open up around people. Scared they wouldn’t accept her, scared they would see her for who she truly was. Scared they wouldn’t want her. But here on this magically island in the middle of the sea with this mystery man, she felt safe. She felt like she finally belonged. 

From that moment on Bucky and Y/N were inseparable, she had always been joyful and the life of the party. But with Bucky she was something else entirely, she was always so happy and open. And she knew that she didn’t want to leave the island, and neither did Bucky. They had it all planned out as they lay in his tiny bed in that ramshackle hunt he was staying in. They were going to renovate the farmhouse and create a gorgeous villa. People would stay on the island, they would be happy and content here for the rest of their lives. Both of them free from the worlds they hated back at home. 

In two weeks, both of them felt more at home, more free and more themselves than they had ever felt. And it wasn’t long before they were both making gushing admissions of love for one another.

She had never been a prude or one to feel that sex was something that should only happen between two people who loved one another. But she wanted everything to be special with Bucky. She wouldn’t have minded jumping his bones at every chance she got. But something about him made her want to wait. Their connection was far deeper than just the physical side of things. 

They had spent the day on the beach and were heading back to the hut for the night when the skies opened. They both were giggling when they finally reached the front door. She was soaked through her white sundress clinging to her skin, showing the blue bikini that she had been wearing earlier. And as Bucky stood towering over her just outside the door, she knew she wasn’t going to wait any longer. And neither was he. Their lips crashed together, her hands gripping his face and his wrapping around her waist. He pulled her into the darkened building, pulling away from her to turn on the tiny lamp by his bed to illuminate the room they were in. 

They looked at each other, and it felt like time stood still as Bucky crossed the room to her. He pulled her dress over her head, brushing her wet hair out of her face, just to kiss her again. And again and again. Across her cheek, down her jawline, over her neck. He unclipped her bikini top, letting it fall to the ground as he continued his trail of kisses. His lips felt like fire over the sensitive skin of her breasts, his tongue danced over her hardened nipples, jumping from one to the next. She was shaking, moaning softly, her eyes closed and her head thrown back as he had complete control over her body.

He pulled his own soaked grey shirt over his head and let it fall to the ground, before guiding her to the bed. She had shared a bed with him many times, but they usually tumbled into it too exhausted from the day they had to do much more than cuddle. If he was planning on going back to New York he would have to leave tomorrow evening and she was so happy that he wasn’t. That she could have a life she always dreamed of with the man of her dreams, right here. 

He was on top of her, kissing her passionately, slowly, deeply as his hands pulled her bikini bottoms off. He gripped her thighs softly, his calloused rough hands against her soft, sensitive skin making her shiver. His thumb brushed over her clit slowly as he continued to kiss her, causing her to moan into his mouth. He let his thumb slowly circle around the bundle of nerves as she whimpered and squirmed beneath him. And when he finally broke their kiss she was gasping for breath. He quickly dived between her legs, his tongue working her clit and wet folds like nothing she had felt before. Within seconds she feel her orgasm build, her legs were twitching from just his tongue and she groaned out his name as she came all over his face. 

He slowly kissed and licked her clean, before pulling away to look at her face which had a dopey smile on it. 

‘We don’t have to go any further,’ he whispered, looking over her naked body which was illuminated by the weak light of the bedside light.

‘Bucky, I want to,’ she whispered.

There were no more questions, no more worry, no more doubt as he pushed his shorts off and slowly pushed into her. This felt so right, she had sex many, many times before. But this? This was something else entirely. Their connection made the sex even more intense and they weren’t just fucking, she knew that he was making love to her. She had thought that she had made love before, but no, not like this. As he pushed in and out of her, their soft whimpers filling the tiny cabin Bucky called home, she knew that he had her hurt completely and utterly. She had given herself to him and in that moment she knew no one else would ever compare.

She could feel her second orgasm coming on as his dick brushed against that sensitive spot inside her, his forehead pressed against his.

‘It’s okay, doll, let go,’ he whispered to her, as she let her second orgasm crash over her. She shivered, her nails digging into his back as she rode out her orgasm.

‘I-I’m going to cum. Okay?’ he groaned out.

She just nodded, raising her hips to meet his as he came inside her, his cock pulsating until he was finished. They held onto one another for dear life, not wanting the moment to end, but eventually Bucky pulled away from her.

‘That was incredible,’ he whispered. ‘I know...I always knew that you were different. That you were the one. But that...That has sealed it. I’m staying here, I’m staying with you on this island. Hell, you could drag me anywhere, I’d follow you to the end of the earths and back again. I adore you, Y/N.’

She blushed at him, ‘Bucky, I’ve never been with anyone who makes me feel this way. I can be one hundred per cent myself around you. I feel like home in your arms. I love you. James Barnes.’

‘Let me get you cleaned up,’ he whispered as he went to get a wash cloth and some warm water. She let him clean her up completely and finally climb back into bed with her. Laying with her head on his broad chest she let out a content sigh.

‘James Barnes, I never believed in fate or destiny or any of that until I met you. But it was fate we met on this island,’ she whispered. ‘What are the chances we would both be here this summer?’

He shook his head, ‘Honestly, my darling, I have no idea. And I won’t question it. I don’t deserve you. I really, honestly don’t.’

She smiled at his words, the light was off but she felt him move his mouth, as if he was about to say something but thought better of it.

‘Buck, you can tell me anything. What’s wrong?’ she asked, turning her head to look at his face in the darkness.

‘No, I just, I just love you so much. I really don’t deserve you,’ he repeated himself.

‘I love you too,’ she responded with a smile. ‘Now get some sleep it’s going to be a busy day in the restaurant tomorrow.’

She fell asleep almost instantly, but Bucky was awake for hours, his brain on overdrive. Should he tell her? How could he hide such a massive secret from her. He had already decided while she was at work in the morning he would ring back to New York. Tell them that he wasn’t coming home, to cancel everything. He was happy here. And he was. He loved the woman sleeping in his arms, and he would do anything to protect her. Even if he was lying to her.

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[the-desolated-quill]

Justice League - Quill’s Quickies (No Spoilers)

Oh Warner Bros. You’ve really fucked up this time, haven’t you?

I’m sure we’ve all heard about the situation at the box office by now. Apparently Justice League only made $281 million worldwide during its opening weekend, which for any other movie would be great, but not for Justice League. You see the geniuses over at Warner Bros and DC decided to spend $300 million on the movie (that’s including the extensive reshoots directed by Joss Whedon). And if that’s not bad enough, according to some sources, the film’s extensive marketing brings the overall budget to somewhere in the realms of $450 million. The film is going to need to make at least $750 million in order to make any sort of profit. That is beyond stupid and judging by current figures, it looks as though the film is set to bomb big time. Whether the film is good or not is frankly immaterial at this stage. It’s going to flop. That’s practically a guarantee thanks to WB and DC getting too big for their fucking boots and spending a moronic amount of money on a film that was never guaranteed to be a hit. You’d think they’d have learnt their lesson after Batman V Superman. The fact that movies like Deadpool, Logan and even their own Wonder Woman became gigantic hits on relatively lower budgets should have given them just a little clue that maybe pouring the equivalent of Scrooge McDuck’s money bin into Justice League wasn’t a good idea. And now it looks as though the entire DCEU is in jeopardy as a result.

Let’s face it. Even if Justice League was a good movie, it would have struggled to make a profit on such a ridiculously massive budget like that. It was always destined for the cinematic graveyard no matter what Zack Snyder or Joss Whedon did. The fact that it’s crap just means the movie can now die faster.

Oh yeah. Justice League is crap. And when I say crap, I mean crap. (And please bear in mind this is coming from someone who actually enjoyed and defended Batman V Superman). Granted it’s not the worst movie I’ve seen. It’s not even the worst DC movie I’ve seen. That honour still goes to that misogynistic, wafer thin and utterly tone deaf piece of shit known as Suicide Squad, and while Justice League does share a few of the same problems with that movie, at least I didn’t feel unclean after I watched it. So hey. At least it has that going for it, right? But to say I left the cinema feeling disappointed would be an understatement.

So some random alien called Steppenwolf shows up to take over the Earth using these Mother Boxes. Who is Steppenwolf? I don’t know. What are the Mother Boxes? I don’t know. Why does he want to take over the Earth? I don’t know. This is literally all you’re getting I’m afraid. There’s not even any philosophical discussions or symbolic meaning to it like Man Of Steel and Batman V Superman had. When I say this is literally the entire movie, I mean LITERALLY. Some random alien we’ve never heard of shows up to grab some boxes that have never been mentioned before in previous movies and tries to take over the Earth because... he’s evil I guess. It’s so uninspired and so thin on the ground, you could have told me that Zack Snyder scribbled the entire script on the inside of a chocolate wrapper whilst he was on the toilet having a shit, and I would honestly believe you.

I’m sure some of you are objecting to me blaming Zack Snyder for all this, and I’m sure Joss Whedon deserves a lot of blame too, but honestly i’m past caring at this stage. Is Joss Whedon to blame for mucking about with Snyder’s vision, or is Snyder to blame for not better co-ordinating Whedon? I don’t know and I don’t care to know. We could debate for days whether it’s the organgrinder or the monkey who’s at fault, but at the end of the day the result is the same. The movie is crap and I’d rather neither of them were let near this franchise ever again.

This movie doesn’t even have any decent characters to fall back on. I suppose Ezra Miller’s interpretation of the Flash was okay. He provided a few genuine laughs and his Speed Force sequences do look pretty cool, even though they don’t in any way cover new ground because, you know, Quicksilver exists in the X-Men movies and his running scenes looked so much more impressive than this. i also quite liked Ray Fisher’s portrayal of Cyborg, and there are some genuinely touching moments at the beginning of the movie with his character. Beyond that, there’s basically nothing. Aquaman is by far the dullest character in the movie with no personality and is basically just the spare wheel. The film never takes advantage of his unique powers or the underwater setting, and he never gets any real moments where he stands out or comes into his own. You could literally replace him with Robin or Green Lantern or the Martian Manhunter, and it wouldn’t have made the slightest bit of difference. And as for Wonder Woman... Oh how the mighty have fallen. Remember when her solo movie broke new ground, doing away with a lot of the sexist tropes we normally see in these types of movies and became something truly unique and revolutionary? Well hope you enjoyed that while it lasted because here the sexist tropes are back with a vengeance. Wonder Woman is pretty much interchangeable with Lois Lane and Martha Kent because they all play the same role. The empathetic woman who props up the male heroes. The only thing that sets Wonder Woman apart is that she can fight, but not too well because God forbid she should steal the spotlight from Batman or Superman. 

And then of course there’s other sexist elements that I’m sure you’re all aware of by now. The Flash tripping over and comedically landing on Wonder Woman’s tits (LOL, a feminist icon has been reduced to a sexist punchline! How hilarious!) and of course the fact that most of the Amazonians seem to have scrapped their practical armour in favour of leather and/or metal bikinis (and to those people defending this saying that it’s historically accurate, fuck off. Seriously, just fuck off. This is a movie that claims that Amazonian warriors, merpeople, aliens and Gods had a massive war at some point in Earth’s prehistory. I’m pretty sure that’s not historically accurate, but suddenly the studio and filmmakers care about historical accuracy when it comes to how much bare naked flesh the sexy women warriors are showing in fight scenes? Fuck off. Your argument has the same whiff of bullshit as those idiots defending Suicide Squad’s romanticising of the Joker and Harley Quinn’s relationship by saying that it’s intentional because it’s from Harley’s point of view and that, if you turn your head to the side and squint hard enough, a few seconds of one particular scene could be interpreted as abusive. Look, we all like an underdog and i’m sure it must be hard to hear people constantly criticising your favourite franchise, but can we at least have the fucking spine to admit when they screw up? You just sound pathetic!).

But the absolute worst characters are Batman and Superman. Yeah we all knew he was coming back, so it’s not really a spoiler. And do you know what? I really wish Superman stayed dead. Because not only is the way they bring him back from the dead so contrived and so stupid, it also results in Batman’s character arc being regressed in order to justify this massive leap in logic. Remember in BVS when Batman became so paranoid and so controlling that his actions nearly resulted in catastrophe? Well the exact same thing happens here. In fact there are a few moments where he’s almost indistinguishable from Lex Luthor at points with his rhetoric, but the movie just wants you to conveniently ignore that. It’s okay. He’s a good guy, so it’s alright for him to be a hypocritical arsehole. So not only has Batman become a wisecracking fascist with a massive God complex, Superman has also become an insufferable dickhead. The reason why I liked Man Of Steel so much was because it got me to appreciate the character in a way I never had before. Justice League seeks to undo all of that by reminding me of all the reasons why I hated the character in the first place before I watched Man of Steel. He’s a ridiculously overpowered Mary Sue (or is it Gary Stu?) who can do no wrong, can beat up baddies effortlessly to the point where all threat and tension is chucked out of the window, and keeps stealing all the good scenes from other characters. Is the Flash about to prove his worth as a hero by saving a family? No it’s okay. Superman can do that. Is Wonder Woman going to avenge her fellow Amazonians by defeating Steppenwolf once and for all? No it’s okay. Superman can do that. Is Cyborg going to reclaim his humanity by saving the world? No it’s okay. Step aside Cyborg. Superman’s got this. Superman can do anything because he’s powerful and special and the bestest guy eveeeer.

So to all those people who were complaining about how much you hated Man of Steel because it ‘wasn’t your Superman. Boo hoo,’ I hope you’re pleased with yourselves. Sure they may have brought the entire franchise crashing down into a pile of rubble, but at least they ‘fixed’ Superman.

You can tell this movie is trying so hard to be like the Avengers, right down to the bullshit alien invasion story, but they forget what made Avengers Assemble so good. All the characters were well developed and likeable, each of them were given their own arc and they all evolved and bonded over the course of the movie. Justice League just pales in comparison. It gives the illusion that they’ve all bonded and evolved by the end, but they haven’t really. There were never any moments where they felt like real people or where they truly interacted and grew closer to each other over time. We never learn anything significant about them and I certainly don’t feel an overwhelming desire to see them all again in future films like I did after the first Avengers. I’m not necessarily saying each member of the League needed their own movie before a crossover, but there must be a better way of doing it than this.

So there you have it. Justice League. 10 years of production and approximately $450 million spent... and this is the result. A lifeless, shallow excuse for a movie with one dimensional characters, incompetent direction, and the realisation that all this buildup meant precisely jack shit in the end. Can the DCEU continue after this? Not in its current state, no. And if I’m being honest, I’d rather it didn’t.

[tsvitok]

2017-09-10.

Only one today, it’s a longer one. Took me all day, it’s up to you to decide if it was worth it.

A Queen receives a gift from an ambassador, better than she expected.

ko-fi. | patreon.

Alia had never once imagined as a child that she could become Queen. It was acid in her mouth, made all the worse by how she had gotten here. Sitting in the Great Hall, a hollow empty room of glass and stone, with the family’s livery draped from every opportunity and row upon row of expertly hewn stone table and finely made wooden chair, topped with silk and cushion. Food and drink flowed, all the colours of the rainbow and the setting suns. Enough to match the disparate skins of the people gathered at the table drinking and eating and discussing amongst themselves.

From her throne up high, Alia watched them. The ashen skinned women from the south to the south of the room, so used to the strong wines from their own lands they had consumed their weight in mead already. Across from them at the foot of her throne was her own men, women of the nobility, knights she had afforded some of her family’s land, loyal subjects of high repute.

At the western wall were the westerners, Ladies of different baronies that argued amongst themselves from across the tables despite all the best planning to keep them apart. By comparison the dark-skinned tribes of the east, sitting along the eastern wall, were demure and civil. Several of the chieftess’ were wearing the skins of animals Alia had only heard rumour existed.

Her Prime Minister looked to her, a young woman just like Alia, thrust into this position. At least however, she had been trained for this job.

“It is time your grace.”

Alia stood, “I suppose it is.”

She would rather die than be forced to talk to any of these preened, self-important cushion-pounders, but unfortunately death wasn’t an option. And it was more painful than she could have imagined. She met with the Drow first, a bitter woman called Natayna. Ambassador and eldest daughter of the Empress of Aszah.

There was an unnatural rainbow sheen to their lips and eyes, white body paint trailed down their nearly naked form like blood seeping from wounds hidden under their bra. An elegant skirt hid most of their legs and jewels of blood red and sky blue dangled from delicate gold chain. They however were obviously not much for diplomacy.

“Hello, Alia Vyrs, Queen of the Frozen North.”

Alia’s Diplomatic Minister seemed more taken aback then she was, “I rule much more than that now,” she reminded them, “My people send their regards on that matter.”

They laughed and stood, shoving one of their own out of the way to stand face to face with Alia. They were taller, but not by much.

“I am Natayna Chengeshev, share some wine with me.”

They offered Alia a glass, one of her servants brought her own from her people’s table. Natayna smirked, when Alia brushed them away and took the glass from the Drow.

“I know your people’s tricks,” she took wine from the Drow’s table, “they don’t worry me.”

She drank deep, the rainbow sheen on the Princess’ lips faded.

“Let me ask something of you, Queen of Ash, how do I scare you?”

Alia smiled warmly, “You don’t. I’ll let you enjoy the rest of your meal, then we should really talk about those lands you gave me.”

“Having trouble with them?”

“Less so the land, and more the people living there.”

Natayna bowed respectfully, and Alia left them to whatever it was that Drow did with food.

She went about, spoke to the other ambassadors and her own ministers. It had been they who suggested she do the very next thing. The night ended with everyone very drunk, except Alia. They all retired to the rooms afforded them by their gracious host, and in the dead of night, Alia paid a visit.

The Drow was first, it would be the hardest.

“Come in.”

The room was lovely, her people had done a good job of mimicking the Drow. Natayna sat in a chair, sipping wine, not at all drunk. The rainbow sheen in their eyes had died down in the dimmer light of the room. The silken sheets of the bed, and the way they draped over the room surrounding them like nets ready to be pulled down, it all made her head swim a little. Perhaps she had drunk too much. She had not intended to drink at all, but nerves had gotten the better of her.

All the better, the ashen skinned woman staring at her with mystic eyes was unnerving.

“I was wondering when I could expect a visit from you, Lady Alia.”

There was no point quibbling about titles, “I’ll have you know, you’re my first-”

Natayna grinned, “Don’t worry, it’s always scary losing your virginity.”

“What? No, the first I am seeing tonight.”

“Ah,” they bowed in their seat, “such an honour. Forgive me, I have no interest in any of this.”

“Then why did you come?”

“I assume for the same reason you agreed to perform this song and dance. Each and every time a new Queen is crowned, they are obligated to secure their titles with an heir. It has been happening so long, they’ve lost the original sight of this pathetic tradition.”

They gestured to join them for some wine, she gladly sat and drank some more.

“What am I supposed to do then? Everyone expects me to marry, to make alliances and end rivalries.”

They poured her a glass of wine, “Where is the valiant, dragon-slayer Princess that I heard so much about? My people have several songs about you, and only two are ribald. The rest about about how you end entire armies with a swing of your sword, cutting knights in half with a single blow, then take their wives and... well, that’s covered in those other two.”

“Your people are fond of exaggeration.”

They sighed, “Quite.”

“I am a knight, not a princess. I know how to fight and kill, not fuck and make people my wife.”

Natayna sipped her wine, “Oh, the first part isn’t so hard, I could teach you if you’d like.”

She blushed, and looked away. Drows were, a weakness.\

“Tell me something, why did you come? Why did your mother send you?”

“I suppose if I am here for my people, an alliance against someone strong enough to defeat us makes more sense than allying with someone you can beat. I am happy to cede some lands, if that means not losing more.”

“But you didn’t come for your people, did you?”

“No,” they placed down the glass, “I came to see this supposedly beautiful warrior queen. I didn’t believe you could be as beautiful as the songs.”

“And?”

“They do you no justice. Now it is the other parts of the songs I am interesting in investigating.”

“Oh?”

Natayna shifted her attention instead to a small box on the table, “My mother asked to give you these.”

The rose-wood box, as big as a book, it had soft satin lining inside and four, uh... ahem.

“Toys?”

“Not quite,” Natayna stood, slipping away towards the bed, “A long time ago, the Drow women had men, just as you do. It was a great pleasure to our people, there was love, happiness and equality throughout our tribes. So happy were we that upon seeing us the other people grew jealous and stole our men from us.”

“I know this story, how do these... relate.”

The smooth shafts glistened, the polished woods were finely shaped, perfect for their obvious intended purposes and inscribed with runes made of metal.

“They were cruel, and our men died long before we could save them. Without them, we were to die out. Then the Goddesses gave us this gift. With these totems, any woman can use them to pleasure themselves, but a Drow knows how to use them to bear children with another woman.”

“These are how your people do it?”

“Yes. And that is just one thing I can offer you, Lady of Ashes.”

“I have no real interest in bearing children.”

Natayna smiled warmly, “I figured as much, but I’m not talking about you. Ally with my people and I’ll teach you how we do it, then you can attend to your other visitors.”

They unfastened their bra, and sat down on the bed.

“Come, bring the box over, I’ll tell you what they do.”

That was temptation enough to bite. Natayna slipped off their skirt, the soft white fabric matched their bikini, it all crumbled to the floor. Their heeled sandals stayed on, their bikini-bottoms clinging to their fat lips. They had such soft, ashen skin, nearly black and nearly grey, it looked like it would taste of smoke or fire. And their breasts, large, beautiful heaving breasts, rising and falling, jiggling.

She picked up the box and brought it over. She sat down beside them and they opened up the box. They were all the same size, but vastly different shapes and colours. Pale rose coloured wood, made up of bulbs that pulsated with a silver pattern of spirals and rings; white wood with gold nodules in straight lines along the length of the shaft; black wood with thick gold rings and a thick bulb near to the base; a strange bluish wood with a silver pattern of waves and bubbles that followed the circular grain of the wood. Each was finely polished and the base of them was flat and then connected to a hook veined and then capped with the metal - the part that let her wear it.

“I am sure you know how to use one of these,” Natayna urged her closer, “And I know you will know the basics of alchemy.”

She had learned as a child, “All things are made of energy; of four different elements, fire, earth, air and water.”

“Yes,” Natayna gestured to the totems, “and they are fire, air, earth and water.”

They picked up the black totem - earth - “to make someone with child, you will need to sacrifice an offering to the love goddesses, and they will take a piece of me and a piece of you, and combine the energy of that offering with us to impregnate me.”

“Okay,” that was simple enough.

“But, it also matters the element of the totem, which must match the one to be with child. If my aura is of fire, then earth will be for nothing more than fun.”

“Wait,” she examined it again, really not sure why she was getting a lesson while her entire body ached, “how do I know?”

“The energies that make something give it its character, its personality. Before tonight, I’d have said, you are fire. But now, perhaps you are not. Or, you can make it much more fun and just use all four.”

They offered her the earth totem, “Enough talk.”

She examined it while Natayna fell back against the bedsheets, they spread their legs, Alia realised she was still in her ridiculous dress from the dinner. It took no time at all to nearly rip from her body. That sight made Natayna sit up, take notice.

“Oh, my.”

Alia blushed, she wasn’t much to look at, though people said she was pretty. Long blonde hair, deep hazel eyes, broad shoulders and firm muscles. Her stomach was toned, her hips were far too narrow for a woman to be proud of and her ass was flat. Not at all like the curvy Drow sprawled out before her.

“I see what the appeal was.”

Natayna grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her down. Her body pressed against theirs, hard against soft. They were so soft and warm, their eyes glistened rainbow as she stared into it. Her breasts pressed against theirs, her hips spread her legs and her fingers eased the hook of the totem inside her. It was a strange, fairly wonderful feeling, it was unnaturally hard and seemed to stick into place so she didn’t even have to hold it. It just sprung up between her legs. Natayna untied their underwear and it pulled away, the dark pussy bloomed for her, offering no resistance to the totem as it slid inside them.

They stared intently at her as she thrust, their hands finding her tits the moment she rose away to gain her footing. She hooked their legs with her arms, forcing them up, pressing her entire weight into her thrusts. Natayna purred, and wrapped their arms around her back, pulling their bodies closer together.

She could feel them through the totem, as if it was becoming part of her, melding with her body. It rubbed inside her, rubbed against her clit, fucked her just as hard as she was pushing against the Drow. Their teeth sank into her neck, just enough to hurt as their fangs bristled her skin, but the rest was just their lips and tongue teasing her.

“Ahh, you’re a natural!”

Natural? Were they making fun of her. Her body was flush, the desires inside her swell in her chest until it was hard to breath. And she came, but not as she usually did, it gushed from her, filled Natayna. The strange sensation left her breathless, it shivered through her body and left a dryness to her mouth.

“Perfect, Lady of Ashes.”

She sat back and the totem loosened, Natayna’s pussy gaped, trickled her juices that now drooled down the thick shaft of the totem.

“Next time, try to get all the way inside.”

She puffed, “Next time?”

“Why not? But maybe not tonight, you’ve got other maidens to see, remember?”

“Of-,” she panted, “of course.”

“Wine?”

She raised her hand to decline, then slid the totem from inside her. Her body ached to feel it again, but her mind was clear. “Sorry, I normally last longer.”

“It’s alright, we all get better with time and practice. If we were allies, it would not be strange if I stayed in your capital to help you practice.”

That was an enticing thought, and the gift was, incredible.

“Allies. Yes, that sounds appropriate.”

Natayna grinned and sipped wine, “And, dear ally, Queen of the Fysan, I have the perfect plan on how to deal with our potential enemies.”

[somekindofseizure]

When the Ink Dries III

Rated: Explicit with a warning for self harm references.

Notes:  If you haven’t read the previous chapters, go here.  Also on Ao3.  This is (apparently) a novel length fic so you might want to set aside a minute.  Thank you @icedteainthebag for making me earn this one, @holdthiscat for speedy and insightful feedback and @gazeatscully for your endless encouragement and eagle’s eye proofreading.

****

Chapter 7

Stella Gibson didn’t make a habit of watching people sleep.  The last time she’d done it was years ago, a prolonged jag that resulted in the purchase of three new sets of bed sheets, a zealous effort to fight memory with thread count.  She’d traded one vice for another, would spend the rest of her life quietly indulging a weakness for pima cotton and crisp corners, a penchant for Italian linen and French embroidery.  But it would be a long time before she settled in beside someone to wait for their eyes to open, the sleep-boiled scent of peaceful slumber coming off their hair, the fragile spot on their neck pulsing with life.  There were some luxuries she simply couldn’t afford.

It still brought Stella a twinge of private embarrassment to recall it so well.  Bridget sleeping on her stomach, dark hair always parted around her pear-shaped ears, clinging to the mattress like a frog in a rainstorm with her lean swimmer’s leg zig-zagged across the mattress.  Stella would stay in bed tiptoeing her fingers up the crease of a quadricep, stroking an ear to its sylphan point.  And long after the woman was gone, the lightning bolt imprint of a leg split the bed down the center, the new sheets continued to bunch in an invisible hand – fleeting images mistakenly committed to permanence by an overly ambitious pair of eyes.  It was a nuisance but not a surprise.  The only other bedroom vigil she’d ever kept had left an even more indelible impression – a child standing graveside, puffy lavender rings sprouted like violets around her eyes, watching her father be put in the ground.

So by the time Stella woke up next to Dana Scully for the second time in her life, she was so practiced in her abstinence that it took hardly any discipline at all to direct the day’s first glance upward, aim her plans at the ceiling.  Shower alone.  Allow guest to wake and begin gathering own conclusions.  Emerge dressed, provide tea and friendly conversation, make end as forgettable as beginning was not.  

She licked her lips before turning over, sealing her resolve like an envelope.

But hours passed; the shower stall remained desert dry and Stella a captive audience to Agent Scully’s feature-length performance of unconsciousness.  Spotlight-white skin behind a thick opera-house curtain of hair, eyelids fluttering like fringed balconies, bottom lip folding down like a red velvet seat on the exhales.  Stella leaned in to whisper Scully’s forbidden first name into her ear and felt something like suspense.  Maybe she didn’t know how this would end after all.  Scully stirred, her fist rippling, her nose turning, and Stella felt something in the center seat of her chest shift in discomfort.  She could easily go broke here.

“Have you been up long?” Scully asked innocently, less a question than a corrupted yawn.  She twisted at the neck, angling to read the alarm clock, a wooden box with grooves on the top that apparently made it impossible even for professional cleaners to dust properly.  She covered her face with her hands in horror.  “Oh my God, it’s so late.”

Stella lifted the little gold cross that had snuggled up into the pillow overnight.  She dragged it across the neat hem of Scully’s collarbone and dropped it in the pocket of her clavicle, wondering how long it would take for her to get tired of playing with it.  Whatever the answer, most likely, she wouldn’t be around for it.

“You won’t go to hell for it,” she said.  “But I am starving.  I’m going to call down.  What’ll you have?”

Scully chuckled.

“I don’t think they have room service at this hotel.”

“They do.  I checked.”

Stella had known a lot of these women, the ones who were more likely to eat a granola bar in traffic than breakfast in bed.  She enjoyed converting them almost as much as she enjoyed fucking them.

“I don’t know…” Scully mused, eyes drifting up like she was trying to remember what breakfast tasted like.  Stella didn’t wait.  She propped herself up on an elbow and reached over Scully’s head for the phone.  Pancakes for two.  With berries.  Ice water and juice.

“I’ve had time enough to decide for both of us,” she said as she placed the phone back in its receiver, dawdled over Scully’s face on the way back to her side of the bed.  

Stella had only grabbed a few basics to bring to Philadelphia, and her favorite robe hadn’t made the cut.  But she had found a (presumably) clean white one hanging in the closet here, the hotel’s humble insignia stitched upon its chest pocket.  There was something sad and sweet about it, imagining the proprietor who assumed this touch would elevate his institution to great heights.  The bleach-ragged arm, too long for Stella, now draped Scully’s bare shoulder.

“Could’ve woken me sooner if you were hungry.  So polite.”

“I’m a nice English girl.”

“Mm.”  Scully pawed at Stella’s waist as she gathered her energy.  “I don’t know about nice.”

Stella traced Scully’s lips with a knuckle.  This was something else she didn’t do in bed anymore.  Her cheeks burned with the obscenity of the affection, her palms grew sweaty when their feet wiggled together in the same warm spot on the mattress.  But Scully seemed undaunted.  She pushed Stella onto her back and lifted the barricade of sheets between them so that she could roll naked on top of her.  Heat melted their bodies together through Stella’s fluffy white robe until they were one rare indulgence, a layered confection of fresh-whipped terry cloth and skin.

Scully moved her hand down Stella’s chest, smoothing the cotton loops down like stalks of wheat in the wind, then ruffling them when her thumb moved in circles against the grain.  Stella felt her body come up off the mattress like a bridge and Scully smiled at the first real sign of Stella’s interest.  Morning-after sex was not far behind watching people sleep on her list of things not to do.  She tried to focus on something less charming, less sexy, less red-headed than the person making figure eights between her breasts.  

But Scully had not doled out the cash for those overwrought sheet sets, had learned no lessons about dangerous extravagances.  So now she nudged her face along the vertical hem of the robe, spreading and dotting her confidence down Stella’s body like icing.  And when Scully finally reached her first slice of thigh, Stella forgot about her plans, her pancakes, forgot everything but the tip of Scully’s nose.

“How long do I have?” Scully asked as she carefully folded the robe up to kiss Stella’s leg.  Stella bent her knee up, letting the pleat fall open in encouragement.  She liked clothes and she liked watching people try to get underneath them.

“As long as you like.  If the food comes, I’ll tell him to leave it out there.”

She rolled out her fingertips across the back of Scully’s head like a welcome mat and Scully licked her way from pussy to belly button with a lascivious, lazy bottom lip.  And there was the feeling worth a thousand bikini waxes, that first moment of tongue-on-skin contact like the first prickly suck of a freshly unpackaged creamsicle.  A drop of Scully’s saliva traveled from her clitoris down her center and up the crack of her ass.

The way Scully fucked was earnest and eager, level-headed as a judge as she balanced wet with dry, hard with soft.  Someday, Stella might have told her this, but too soon would seem simpering, and any later – well, she wasn’t going to be there any later.  So instead she said nothing and sighed through clenched jaws, tongue forming the silent shape of curses at the back of her teeth.  The food was going to be there any minute; a certain kind of woman would have felt it was too much pressure, let Scully off the hook.  Stella was not that woman.

“Touch yourself,” she demanded.

She looked down over her breast as Scully reached her left hand between her legs.  Her right hand, the good hand, worked Stella like a sewing wheel, nimble enough to earn promises of firstborn children and spin biology into gold.  Stella’s teeth began to chatter, hips and legs bucking against the confines of Scully’s straddled legs, toes grasping for bedding, and the fabric of Stella’s breath caught and dragged, then at Scully’s behest finally came loose, an exhale splitting down a newly-made seam and leaving Stella in frayed pieces.

Scully dropped her forehead against Stella’s thigh, her arms spread to the side like wings.

“I’m getting better at it, aren’t I?”

“It’s not an Olympic sport.”

Stella���s leg reached around Scully’s body and nuzzled her with the arch of a foot, pulling her closer.  This was contentment – sexual satisfaction, food she didn’t have to cook coming, a woman with a tongue as sharp as her mind proudly hugging her hip.  

But then Scully gulped against her leg.  The cold, curt feeling of a doctor’s thumb replacing a lover’s, tracing a straight line across Stella’s inner thigh, opening new wounds even as it sewed up the old.  Stella knew the little line well, could find it blind and spinning in the dark.

The finger found another line.

And then another.

Stella breathed evenly, determined not to flinch as Scully passed over each white raised rail of skin, knowing if she did so, a conversation would be more likely to follow.  She felt a strong, hot surge of anger as she pictured the near future – Scully with her brow knit and cheekbones shadowy with worry, lecturing and shaming her.

Finally, Scully relaxed her hand and, seeming to have made a decision, came to lie directly beside Stella.  Stella’s heart skidded as Scully looked her in the eye.  She had been forced to tell these stories to therapists, emergency room nurses before, but she had never had to do it looking into a pair of eyes as blue as Billie Holiday.

There was a knock at the door.

“Leave it there please,” Stella called out, her voice loud but level, a trigger inside her trembling while she waited for Scully to draw.  Scully searched Stella’s face like she’d just found her outlaw, her eyes pacing the length of Stella’s nose like she owned it.  

“Finish me,” Scully said.  

Stella undid the belt of her robe without looking and shook it off, left her panic in a pool of terry cloth as she pressed her body against Scully’s, one thigh between Scully’s legs, her old scars covered in Scully’s fresh skin.

*

They ate at the room’s tiny table, the cumbersome silver warming hats stacked on the nearby heating vent.  Stella had always felt a sense of connection to other people when she sat at a hotel room table.  Here was their shared site of awkward morning-afters, lonely resting wallets and illegally doled out wads of cash.

Scully was wrapped in a sheet and squinting aggressively.  Stella reached behind her to pull the gauzy inside drape shut.

“Thank you.”

Stella swallowed a bite of lukewarm pancake and tried to figure out how to begin to say goodbye to someone who looked like that, who hummed as she ate, scooped shrinking ice cubes from the water glass and dropped them into her juice before she sipped.  Stella thought of the scars on the soles of her feet.  Scully hadn’t found them yet, but she would if this continued any longer.  Now that she’d gotten a taste of Stella’s secrets, she’d be bloodthirsty for more, always looking.  She would ask questions – didn’t they bleed when you walked on them?  How did they ever heal?  

She surprised herself as much as she did Scully when the words left her mouth.

“I made them.”

It was a simple thing to give a person – an answer, the truth.  But Scully received it like someone who rarely got it.  She put her fork down like it was an infant, as if any noise she made might make Stella change her mind and clam up.

“I would cut myself.  In my teens, my twenties.  Once about five years ago, but that was aberrant.”

“Why?”

Stella shrugged.

“Just an urge I got some bad night.”

“No.  I meant why in general.”

Stella forced herself to scrape a piece of pancake onto a raspberry, dip it in the congealing powdered sugar.  Both the plate and her stomach had grown inhospitable to food, but her hand happily suffered the journey just to have something to focus on other than Scully’s growing disappointment.

“I was lonely, angry.  The physical pain seemed soothing by comparison.”

Usually, Stella thought of it distantly, if she thought of it at all.  But as she described it for Scully, it came alive for her again, made sense again all of a sudden.  She caught the glint of the butter knife under her hand and thought of her friend Mike, a former smoker.  Most of the time, Mike told her, when he walked by smokers on the street, he felt smugly superior for having quit already.  But every so often, the thing was fresh lit, orange-tipped and reeking of nicotine and as he walked through the cloud of smoke, he’d think of every bus stop, every bedroom he’d ever been in with one.

What then? she had asked.

I walk faster.

“But it didn’t replace the other pain.  It just distracted me.  A far less magical feat.”

“So you stopped, then.”

“Of course,” she said, more pridefully than was necessary.  “There are much less dangerous and damaging things with which to distract oneself.”

Stella was still expecting some sort of outburst, a selfish display of hindsight’s concern, a nodding speech about her braveness, a wobbling exclamation of horror that masked secret mouth-watering for the sensational.  But Scully looked up and leaned forward, silent and sturdy as a stable.  She bridled Stella’s face with iron cold hands and made a horseshoe of kisses there.  Stella wanted to accept her kindness, but the touch was so light that her skin bristled and then ached.  She bucked back into the chair and gripped Scully’s wrists, the sound of reigns still snapping in her ears as she finally turned on the shower.

*

Stella held the phone between her ear and chin as she ironed her sweater.  The steam came up smelling like yesterday –  red wine and river embraces, sex on a hotel room floor – the residue of which Stella intended to leave here on the floral-covered board.

Scully came out of the bathroom in Stella’s clothes and Stella realized she’d never brought her things in from the car, she’d been so distracted with Mulder’s adventures and Stella’s mixed messages.  She fixed herself in the full-length mirror, glancing over at Stella under a thin veil of nonchalance.  

“Aisle seat is good, yes.  Thank you… no that’s all.”

When she hung up, Scully marked time, trying to get a crisp M shape out of a silk collar as she waited for Stella to explain.

“What was that about?” she finally asked.

“I’m going home sooner than expected.”

“How soon?”

“First thing tomorrow morning.”

Scully nodded, mouth pursed as she looked down, eyebrows making a single hop as she tried to hide her disappointment.  It was almost enough to make Stella pick the phone back up.

“Oh.”

“We’ve had a nice time,” Stella said with the sigh of an inconvenienced shopper.  Scully’s reflection disappeared and when Stella turned, slipping her warm sweater over her head, Scully was posed at table, one hand on her hip, the other gripping the back of the chair she’d eaten breakfast in so joyfully not an hour ago.  Stella pretended to concentrate on the button of her pants, chewed the inner tag of her cheek with her pointiest tooth, and then looked up, finally prepared to be the person who chased that other Scully from the room.

“We were never going to see each other again anyway.  It’s better this way.”

Scully kept looking at the floor, spoke like she was talking to herself.

“This morning you weren’t acting like someone I was never going to see again.”

“And how do they act?  Besides trying to kill you.”

Stella regretted it the moment it left her mouth, but she held steady, chin lifted.  Scully looked up with hard, hot eyes, ferocious and justice-seeking, ready to storm the castle with her simple kindness and decency, no matter how Stella treated her.

“What were you expecting?” Stella continued.

“I was expecting you to stay until Saturday because you said your flight was on Saturday,” Scully said evenly.  “Maybe Sunday or Monday if we were having a good time.”

“It’s one day’s difference.”

“It’s not the amount of time, it’s the fact that you’re doing it.”

“Did you think we were going to have some kind of relationship?”

Scully pressed her weight off the back of the chair and began to gather her things.  Stella picked up the tiny travel bottle of perfume she’d brought with her and then put it back down, the smell suddenly turning her stomach.

“No,” Scully said.  “I don’t think you could have a relationship with anybody.”

Stella blinked, choking a bit on her own speechlessness as Scully grabbed her coat, whirled it around her shoulders, sending the industrious scent of the dry cleaners wafting around the room.

“You’re acting like this because you scared yourself.  And you’re not even brave enough to admit it.”

“Maybe we’ll stay in touch,” Stella said.  She wasn’t one to offer friendship as a breakup concession.  But Scully’s bleeding pride and fussy hair-tossing was too much, a sort of glamorous temper tantrum, a beloved old movie star having a meltdown.  She ignored the offer and reached for the hotel door handle without even a glance back over her shoulder.

“Where are you going?” Stella asked, hoping to get a look at her face one more time.  It would do her better to remember it this way – reeling in hatred – than, for example, in profile over a glass of wine, or tipped back asking for Jesus Christ.  Scully did not grant her the favor.

“Home.  Alone,” she muttered and then stepped into the hall, door swinging open and lifting the back of her coat up.

“Shall I go back with Agent Mulder?”

“Do whatever you want, Stella.”

Stella folded her arms across her chest as the door slammed shut with one last petite gust.  Fine.  Doing whatever she wanted was Stella’s specialty.  She intended to do exactly fucking that.

*

Stella sat up suddenly, not yet feeling like herself, but unable to face the faded glory of the popcorn ceiling another moment.  The place had seemed kind of romantic last night, an appropriately vintage backdrop to Scully’s late autumn complexion, her hourglass figure, her cedary voice.  Now Stella saw only decay.  She’d been lying on the bed for an hour in her clothes, proclaiming her faith in her own performance.  But just a few inches away, just a few hours ago, Scully had melted beneath her in a self-sacrifice to Stella’s pride, offered her body when she saw that Stella had shed blood.  She needed to get the fuck out of there.  She needed the cold pagan temple of her room in DC. 

Agent Mulder was the only person left in Philadelphia she knew, and he happened to have a car.  

She pulled herself together, gave her sleeve a brisk tug as she knocked on his hotel room door.  

His tie was askew, shirt untucked, when he answered.  He reeked of something halfway between mouthwash and aftershave and his neck was dotted with bloody bits of toilet paper like a kid who’d just learned to shave.

“I’ll be right behind you guys,” he said.

Stella took a breath and made a concerted effort not to heave it back out.  She had not accounted for the energy she’d expend trying to recount it all to Mulder.

“Agent Scully left.  I was wondering if I could ride back with you.”

Mulder looked surprised.  He opened the door wider and backed away.

“Come on in, I’m dressed,” he said, though that was obvious.

The air in Mulder’s room didn’t smell of half-eaten pancakes under silver covers, wasn’t haunted by the ghost of a woman swaddled naked beneath a sheet.  It hadn’t ever held charm for Mulder, but instead had been rough and unfriendly from the start.  Stella wondered now which way was worse.

“What happened?” he asked.

“Nothing happened,” she said with instantly regrettable edge.  She did not want the conversation to continue, much less intensify.

“She get pissed off at you?”

He sounded hopeful, amused even.  Should she choose to share it, the truth would wipe that dopey half-smile right off his face.

“You could say that.”

“What’d you do?”

She said nothing.

“Fine,” he said, throwing his hands in the air.  “You don’t have to tell me…”  

He turned around to put his shoes on, bent to tie them, and his shoulder muscles stretched the fabric across his back.  Stella felt a wave of relief, a steady spot on a carsick road.  She looked down at his ass – so tight that her fingers toyed involuntarily with the coin in her pocket.  When he stood, her eyes slid down his back to the strong plateau where the sway of a woman’s would usually be.  He’d been behind her when he fucked her and she hadn’t much taken the time to appreciate him.  (Then again, Scully hadn’t found time to appreciate him in five years.)  Perhaps Stella should have.  Perhaps she should have been smart and put Mulder between her and Scully to begin with, protected herself.

There was Scully in her head again.  How’s Mulder doing?

She stared at him hard, trying to replace the image of Scully’s top lip caught between her teeth with one of Mulder’s hands on her hips.  He glanced at her nervously as he tucked his shirt into his pants, hapless and impossible to objectify.  She began to wander around the room impatiently.  

The pointy toe of her shoe sanded the tile of the bathroom floor. She felt some relief in the dark room as she transferred the coolness of the counter to her hands and then her neck.  A hotel-sized bottle of mouthwash sat empty, reeking as if it had come from the minibar.  Its cheapness was magnified by its companion – a man’s travel bag, thick, worn leather, half-zipped.  She toyed with it, comforted by the weight of it, the sandalwood smell of it, and idly sifted through it – an old-fashioned razor and a box of Gillette single-blades.

“You didn’t have time to pack clothes but you stopped home for your shaving kit?”

“It was my father’s.  I keep it at the office as a spare in case of last minute travel.  I’m not so great with it.”

That explained the toilet paper.  Stella shook a razor out of the little matchbox-type encasement, ran her thumb along the safe edge, thinking of the nimble line of Scully’s collarbone against the tip of her nose, Scully’s lips on her temple at the breakfast table, the way the sheet beneath her armpit rustled as she almost lost sight of it and dropped it.  She turned the blade absentmindedly, tapping the sharp edge against the counter and then the safe one, the sharp and then the safe.  Her thoughts ran amok, but the blade’s focus was narrow, unforgiving.

“Guess she’s still pissed at me too,” he said, pouting from the next room.  Stella envied the routineness of it for him.  Mulder knew that Scully would get over it, that their relationship would be restored to its comfortable (if deluded) state in no time.  He wasn’t going anywhere.  He didn’t have to forget her.  He didn’t have to decide if it was better to be kind or cruel.

“What are you doing?”

He appeared beside her in the mirror.  She tossed the bottle of mouthwash and zipped his bag, pushed it at him.

“Nothing.  Are you ready?”

“Yeah, we can go apologize together.  Strength in numbers.”

“I don’t think she’s angry with us for the same reasons,” Stella said.  She didn’t know why she’d done it, given it that inflection.  She had to have known intuitively that he wouldn’t miss it.  And of course, he didn’t.  He stared at her, a dazed look in his eyes, shoulders broadening for a fight.

“Was she…”

He gulped and she sighed, emotional fatigue setting in before he even finished the question.  How many people’s days could she be expected to ruin in the course of one hotel checkout?

“With you… last night?”

She slithered through the narrow passage between Mulder’s body and the doorjamb to escape and his tie caught on her coat collar.  For a second, she thought he might grab her by the elbow, force her to look him in the eyes while she answered.  The thought of tossing that back and swallowing it, chasing Scully’s anger with his, sent a thrill up the back of Stella’s spine, goosebumps down her arms.  

But Mulder was not a grabber.  He lingered at the bathroom counter, looking at his fingernails as they wiped the edge of the sink.  She pitied him his imagination.  Look what that had done to Ed Jerse, and to his victims.  She decided at this point that an ounce of honesty at this point would be better than a lifetime of wondering.

“It didn’t mean anything, Mulder.”

He looked at her as he began to shuffle back into the room.   His pupils dilated and spun, green and gold pinwheels, carnival souvenirs of betrayal and jealousy.

And something else.  Love.  He loved Scully so much it was almost like he could put her in the room by sheer will.

Why hadn’t she thought of it sooner?  This could be easy.  It could feel good.  It could feel like Mulder’s body beneath her as she rode him raw, his eyes fluttering shut so he could think of Scully.  It could smell like Mulder sweating away the loss on Stella’s behalf, sound like him moaning the name she wouldn’t let pass her lips.  

“You mean, it didn’t mean anything to you,” he said sharply and then opened the door, holding it for her with mock chivalrousness.

She paused beneath his gaze, placed a loose hand against his chest, the steadiness of his heartbeat bordering on melancholy beneath the heel of her hand.  He seemed to have no trouble posing for her, bottom lip pouting inimitably, as she quickly examined the perimeter of his face, the line of his jaw and his raw-cheap-shaven neck, felt his mournful spearmint breath tickle her ear.  If he wondered what the fuck she was doing or thinking, he didn’t let on, just stood there, his doe-eyes unreadable.

Her palm curled and her nails took a diver’s start, poised on their tips, ready to take him head first, drag him to a depth where neither oxygen nor forgiveness could reach them.  She paused as she imagined how comfortably distant, how sure-footed her escape from Washington would feel then, with Scully safely rooted in the past.  How much easier it would be to leave it all here, not have to pack it up, shove it in the overhead compartment and drag it back across the ocean.  She could just fuck him.  It was really that simple to be free of it.

But Mulder seemed to have no interest in freedom.  He waded past her into the hallway, one hand jingling the car keys in his jacket pocket, one eye on the elevator button that would take him back to Scully.

  Chapter 8

An empty soda bottle scuttled back and forth between the sedan’s center console and passenger side door the entire ride home, a constant reminder to Mulder of the frenzied state in which he had come.  There were still skeletons of sunflower seeds in the cup holder, rattling over every pothole like salty little ghosts.  Reminders so silly that his impulsive dash to visit a Philadelphia murderer twenty-four hours ago felt more like something dumb he’d done years ago at a high school graduation party.

The orange fuel light announced itself with a dramatic ding.  On the way up, he’d been a jetliner on course, a fuel tank full of testosterone, junk food, jealousy.  Now all that was gone, all of it except the jealousy, and that was losing its potency in the process of being recycled and redirected at his co-pilot.  Stella leaned in a little to see the dashboard for herself and he waited for her to say something about the gas the way Scully always did, as if she’d been the only one who’d heard or seen the stupid warning.  But Stella looked back down at the soda bottle.

“Agent Scully always let you keep the car a mess?” she asked.  

They were coming down the exit ramp now.  The din of the highway faded and the dull whooshing of speed slipped out from under them like a faulty safety net.  She had only asked him one thing up until then – if he minded her turning on the heat.  He’d said no only to have to slouch his coat off and cuff up his sleeves an hour later.  Scully would have noted his discomfort, even without him saying anything, and turned the dial back down in empathy.  She would’ve put her scarf back on rather than watch him sweat.  But no, she wouldn’t have let him keep the car this messy.

“Yes,” he lied.

“What did you do to your head?”

Mulder thought of the way Scully had stood between his knees at the hospital, buttoning him up.  He’d longed to put his hands into the warm space between the silky inside lining of her coat and the home base diamond of her waist, cling to her and feel safe at last.

“I didn’t even tell Scully.”

“She doesn’t make it easy to act like an idiot, does she?”

Mulder smiled, surprised to hear Stella cutting him some slack, even as she insulted him.  There was rarely ever anyone to break the tie between him and Scully, and when there was, they generally didn’t take his side.

“No.  She doesn’t.”

“We’re all idiots sometimes.  Even Agent Scully,” she said, and then mumbled with some uncertainty, “I’m sure.”

Here was the unexpected thing about Stella:  he liked her.  She was sharp, honest, unexpectedly caring.  She was not afraid to make an enemy, and that meant her friendship was worth something.  And, like him, she was a loner.  Scully wasn’t really like that – her alienation from the world was unintentional, an unwelcome side effect of her loyalty to him and their work.  He kept hoping at some point, she’d figure out a balance, get back the things she’d sacrificed.  If she always had to choose, eventually she might not pick him.

“You never get to say I told you so to a person like that, not even if you’re right,” Stella continued.

If she was trying to earn an answer to her question, she was doing a good job of it.

“I got in a fight.”

He glanced over as he said it and caught the precise moment her eyebrows rose and fell, a remarkably Scully-like gesture.  The comparison unsettled him and he looked back at the road to shake it off.

“Not like your fight with Scully.  A good old-fashioned fist fight.”

“Make a habit out of that?”

He was slightly insulted at the doubt implied.  He could fight.  He could fucking fight anytime he wanted to.

“I got drunk and got a tattoo from that place.”

“The one with the ergot poisoning.”

“Yeah.”

“Surely there was a better place for that kind of impulse purchase.”

“No, it’s why I got it.”

He realized she was looking at him.

“Oh,” he said.  “You were kidding.”

“You were testing the poison, I gather.”

“Yeah, I wanted to see if it would have an effect on me.  I wanted to know for sure whether Jerse was making it up.”

“And?”

“Instead, I saw you.  Together.”  She made no indication that this surprised her.  “Walking.”

She breathed softly and he saw her wet her lips with her tongue.  Mulder thought of that saying about your secrets keeping you sick.  Maybe they both had some getting well to do.

“I was jealous,” he said, feeling some relief already. “You have some kind of personal connection with her.  I’ve been working with her for years and it… it’s not the same.”

“You wouldn’t want it to be the same.  A personal connection is by definition unique.”

“Yeah… well… I tried to distract myself from it by thinking about Ed Jerse.  I went to the bar he took her to, started asking the bartender questions, trying to see if he remembered them.”

“A random couple on a date?”

“He said as a matter of fact, he did remember her.”

It was kind of thrilling to have her engaged like this, following the story with interest, her elbow up on the windowpane, her forehead fretting.  He could tell that Stella was a woman who was not easily entertained.

“He started telling me about how drunk she got.  Said he saw them having sex in the hall by the bathroom and actually, that he had a turn with her himself.”

“What?”

“And so.  Yeah.  A fight.  For no reason.”

“He was putting you on.”

“Yes,” he said, almost sorry to end on such an anticlimactic note.  “That turned out to be the case.”

The bartender hadn’t remembered Scully at all, had thought Mulder looked like a corporate asshole in his coat and tie, and felt like messing with him.  City of brotherly love.

“So what was your conclusion?”

He glanced at Stella, trying to find the thread he’d dropped, lost in thoughts of his own foolishness.

“About the ergot.  Did it cause you to be violent?  Did you hear voices?”

Mulder had been on futile quests all his life, but only this one had been memorialized on his skin.

“Just my own.”

A moment passed and then he felt her hand on his bicep, reassuring him.

“We all do things when we’re jealous,” she said, taking her hand back, “We’ve all been guilty of letting our emotions dictate our actions.”

“You put the idea in my head,” he said at a risk of starting another argument.

“I know,” Stella said.  “I shouldn’t have.”

Maybe that meant she’d never really thought it was possible that Scully had the ergot latent in her blood.  Maybe it meant she had considered it and had changed her mind.  In any case, the apology sounded genuine.  He glanced down and saw that her fingers were fiddling very subtly with the pleat of her pants.  All women were mysteries to Mulder, but this one could have had her own dedicated basement office.

“So you do too?  You get jealous?”

Jealousy implied vulnerability.  Even with her panties torn and her hips in his hands, Stella had seemed aloof, indifferent.  Well, not indifferent, exactly, because she’d been… responsive.   But whatever it was, it was not vulnerable.

“No, not really,” she admitted.  “I don’t usually give anyone the chance to make me feel that way.”

Her voice trailed off, dulled by the steamed window glass as she turned her face over her shoulder.  She started sounding almost sleepy, as if narrating a dream.

“Usually.”

He couldn’t tell if she was trying to convince him or herself.  The fidgeting spread like a rash from her fingers to her leg.  There was a sharp noise, the bottle rolling and crunching under her shoe.  Mulder startled, not so much because it was loud but because it was very disconcerting to see Stella like this, fidgeting like someone who was trying not to be sick on a plane.

“Sorry,” she whispered, her voice somewhere far away.

*

Mulder was taking up an awkward spot in the circular driveway of Stella’s DC hotel, creating havoc among the otherwise obedient line of valeting cars.  It was the second time he’d been there that day, having already dropped her off ten minutes ago, and the valet kid was staring at him.  Mulder ignored him and toyed with the scarf as he tried to make up his mind about what to do with it.  He wound it like boxer’s tape around his hands, fluffed it on the passenger seat like a pet cat, wrapped it around his neck and pretended to strangle himself (the valet kid rolled his eyes).

It was silky and smelled good, though the warmth from Stella’s body heat was rapidly fading.  He had always been fascinated by the way women’s scarves smelled – shampoo and perfume, the sweat that contained the excitement and fear of many days put together.  As a little boy, he had once asked his mother why she didn’t wash her scarf as often as her clothes and she told him never to ask a woman that again.  It seemed like figures of authority had been telling him to stop asking questions ever since.

He hadn’t asked what Stella’s plans were and he didn’t have a phone number for her.  It was possible she’d never see this (probably expensive) scarf again if he didn’t bring it up to her.  Or it was possible she’d come to the office the next morning and he could give it to her then.  Leaving it at the desk for her seemed hostile.  Giving it to Scully and asking her to deliver it was… out of the question.  He sighed at the indignity of mandatory valet service and handed the car over to the stink-eyed kid.

He felt like he was standing outside his body watching himself as the elevator doors opened and shut, dungeonlike.  It was like the last act of a movie where the hero infuriatingly and willingly goes back into the fray for some noble cause (in this case, a scarf).

Stella opened the door barefoot and coatless, but otherwise still dressed.  The room was clean, sheets pulled taut, smelled of shady-spot flowers.  It was hardly a dungeon of any kind and Stella, loose-limbed and tiny without her shoes, was hardly a dragon.

“Oh.  Thank you,” she said.  “Do you want to come in for a drink?”

She seemed lighter somehow than she had in the car, breezier, as if she’d gotten a contact high just walking into this place.  He wondered how she’d even survived the other one.

“I…”

“You’re not going in to the office, are you?”

Mulder thought of their idled case files, all the things that had been interrupted and stalled by Stella’s visit and – depressingly – suffered no consequence as a result.  He was pretty sure Scully was already home drinking a glass of wine in symbolic mutiny.  And it only felt early to him – for normal people, the workday was officially over.  Three days of basically doing nothing had somehow inflicted more exhaustion than any multiple-victim, cross-country case he could remember.

“I guess one drink.”

She went over to the pair of stout tumblers hotels always put out, the kind Mulder usually used to rinse his toothpaste, and took both between her pointer finger and thumb.  With the other hand, she reached for an already-open bottle of bourbon.  He imagined Stella walking in, kicking her shoes off with a sigh, swigging right from the bottle.  Whatever blows Stella had suffered during her fight with Scully had affected her more than she’d let on in the car.  

Now she held the glasses out, offering him one, and caught him looking at the cracked seal on the bottle, the gulp-sized empty space.

“Luckily, company arrived to civilize me,” she said and he stepped closer to take his cup.  

Scully’s beauty had the majesty of an Indian elephant.  Intimidating at a distance, it softened and welcomed him as he grew nearer, put a hand on her back or whispered into her ear.  But Stella’s gained strength with proximity, a white tiger coming down from its rock, pressing its nose against the protective glass.  When she tipped the bourbon to pour him some, his hand shook and the lip of his glass clanged with the bottle.  The tumbler cracked and a palm-sized dagger promptly fell into the center like a novelty ice cube.

“Sorry,” she said, though he knew she knew it was his fault.  He put the glass down and traded it for one of the coffee mugs.  

“Gently now,” she warned as she raised her glass to toast.  “I hate drinking out of coffee cups.”

“To our wives and sweethearts,” he said as they clinked, a Royal Navy toast he’d picked up while at Oxford.  He wondered if she’d know the reference.

“May they never meet.”

He smiled.  

She swallowed and sat on the bed beside the nightstand, her back pushed up against the headboard, her elbows on her knees, drink dangling over her ankles.  

“You going to sit down while you nurse that?”

Mulder looked around.  Not a lot of seating options.  There was, of course, the chair next to the bed.  But that seemed even more suggestive than the bed considering the last time he’d sat in it, he was watching Stella and Scully have sex… That’s right.  Stella was just a person who had sex and lost scarves and sometimes drank right from the bottle.  And she didn’t want him, she wanted Scully.

Still, he kept the studious distance the length of a marble notebook between them as he sat up against the headboard.  

Stella looked at him amiably, two neighbors sitting on the stoop after dinner.  Evening had burned off the low-toned husk of her voice and turned it girlish and summery in time for small-talk.

“Been a long day?”

For a moment, he didn’t answer her, distracted by a raging internal debate as to which tone of voice was the affectation and which the reality.  But this was of course the same mistake he’d made with Scully when she came home with her tattoo.  Some people were not one thing or the other.

“Long couple of days,” he said.  “Long couple of years.”

“Mm.”

“I’m looking forward to getting back to a regular workday.  Whatever that is.”

She tipped her glass against the bridge of her nose, and looked deep into the bottom of it, a sip she intended to follow to the ends of the Earth.

“I didn’t mean I was looking forward to your leaving,” he said.  It was a lie at first, a white one, meant to spare her feelings, until he realized he believed it himself.

She half-shrugged, a move that involved more blinking than shoulder movement, but somehow a lock of her hair traveled from her clavicle to her back anyway.  Had her eyes changed color since she started drinking?  Or did it just seem like that because he’d been drinking?  Were they more like Scully’s now or less?  Would there ever be a time when Scully was not the standard by which he measured the quality of an eye roll, the intensity of a primary color?

He realized Stella was watching him watch her and he looked down at his tie, loosening it.   

“How long have you been in love with her?” she asked.

He was silent.  He’d been thinking about it so often lately that the question seemed predictable, manageable, like running into someone at the store after you happened to have imagined running into them at the store.  He calmly considered his options, mentally organizing the excuses and lies he’d been making to himself and others for years.  He’d been running around looking for truth for so long that the prospect of one single lie now exhausted him.

“Scully,” Stella clarified.  As if he even knew any other women.

“Sometimes I think it happened the moment I met her.”

Stella mm’ed quietly.

“And sometimes I think it just happened yesterday.”

“Mm,” she hummed more audibly, this time singing it like a lullaby.  She looked up at the ceiling like there was an atrium above them, a cloudless sky, the tiniest hint of a romantic under all that hydrophobic fabric.  He wanted to meet that version of Stella – the one who maybe liked flowers and surprises, who looked you in the eye when she shook your hand not because she was determining whether to fuck you or not, but because she was checking for mutual recognition.  He shared a secret with that version of Stella and he suddenly wanted the camaraderie of it.  Two schoolkids arguing about who the little redheaded girl liked better.

“How long have you been in love with her?” he asked.

But no knowing chuckle came, no coy wrestling with an admission.  Stella’s face went white with shock and she turned wet-eyed and pink-nosed, the victim of sudden bad news.  Her chin trembled a bit, threatening to shake tears loose from their scaffolds.  Sometimes he wondered if they pulled all the women aside at the academy and taught them how to cry in mixed company – reluctantly, ladies, kicking and screaming the whole way.

“I’m sorry,” he said, wishing very hard that he could unask his question.  If she kept looking so sad, he would start crying himself, and without a single kick or scream.  Why did everyone make love seem comfortable and easy when really, it was this?  Strangers drinking and crying in a soulless hotel bed together.

She looked into his eyes and he let her latch on there, two forgotten satellites rattling around in space together, both orbiting the same little planet, each photographing it through a different lens, each carefully measuring its own threat of collision.  She placed her lips on his and then they were speeding together at seventeen thousand miles an hour as his mind struggled to catch up.  He felt the pull on his upper lip as she inhaled hard, acknowledging the thing barreling toward them, the thing that would destroy them both, and maneuvering to avoid it.  A little more pressure here, a little more speed there, and they might have a chance of surviving the inevitable explosion.

And maybe her plan was a good one.  With each uptick of activity, his heart hurt less, his awareness dulled, his brain’s permanent backdrop of Scully at the desk pulling a pencil like a tightrope faded.  So he took the glass from Stella’s right hand, placed it on the side table.  She stood to take off her pants, left them on one calf as she climbed into his lap, ready to undertake the mission.   When she began to unbuckle his belt, he took her wrists and held them against his chest.

“Not yet,” he said.  She nodded once and wound her hands around his wrists instead, guiding them to her body, placing them at ten and two, giving him the steering wheel as she aimed the car at a cliff.

His fingers tightened and then went slack again, tingled with the heady anticipation of a steep fall.  But Stella’s hips made for an unexpectedly short trip down, a softer landing than he’d expected.  This was one of the places he’d traveled with Scully, one of the few trips she’d initiated, seemed wholly enthusiastic about taking.  They’d been closer there, at the hairpin juncture of Stella’s hips, than they’d been at any midwestern motel, any desert crossroad.  

So he held those hips a little tighter, reclining as they turned over and settled into the tracks of his body, aptly finding the right grooves, churning forward a little faster with each rotation.  She had taken him to Scully once before, and maybe she could do it again.

And so he didn’t stop her when her hands went to the zipper of his pants again, but he didn’t look either.  Instead he pictured the hands he watched rifle through the file cabinet each day, parting folders and picking up paper cuts as if it might finally be the day his righteous mission would make sense.  Now, finally, maybe they were onto his real cause, tending to the clear chronicles of his wildest fantasies, plucking at the tiny piece of copper responsible for containing all his desires.

“It’s okay,” Stella said, peeling his fly to the edge of the bulge but not touching it.  She rested her hands on his chest.  “Say her name if you want to.  I don’t mind.”

She was like wandering into a dream, soft and warm, thoroughly convincing of her own inconsequentiality.  He let his hands drift to her lower back, rest under the tail of her shirt, exploring her aimlessly as he promised himself he would wake soon.  Stella made no noise at all, hiding like the morning, successfully disappearing even as she spread her thighs and pressed harder, even as she moved his hand to her breast, even as she ran a hand through his hair, scraped his scalp with her nails –

Mulder suddenly sat up, jolted awake, a sick feeling in his stomach.  He placed his hands on Stella’s waist and held her still.  So long as she was doing things Scully had never done, it was easy to suspend belief.  Though he assumed that in the throes of ecstasy it would be different than when she was checking him for head trauma, still, Scully had run her fingers through his hair countless times.

“I’m sorry.  I don’t want to do this.”

She blinked, looked at him like, well, like someone who was currently sitting on a sizable erection.

“I know.  I’m human,” he said.  “But I don’t want to do it.”

His lap was empty as suddenly as it had become full.  Stella calmly dismounted the bed like she’d just had a bad ride in a rainstorm.  He closed his eyes tight with embarrassment, unsure whether he felt it more on her behalf or his own.

“It’s fine,” she called back, her only concern the mud on her boots.  “I’m going to take a bath.  Let yourself out whenever you like.”

The bathroom door remained half-open in a gesture of indifference as the water ran and guzzled.  Mulder sighed.  He was used to following his instincts, using his intuition.  But he had made one mistake after another this past few days, done nothing but chase bad money with good, bad tattoos with… other bad tattoos.  Now, against every gut feeling he had, he got up, made sure his dick was sufficiently shamed into retreat, and followed the waft of steam.  

It was more of a poke than a knock.  Stella’s clothes dotted the bathroom floor, a shirt and bra and panties dropped like pebbles on a wayward girl’s trip into the forest.  While he doubted Stella gave much of a shit about being rejected by him, he also doubted she experienced much rejection at all, ever.  Mulder knew it was not an easy feeling to get used to.

“I’m sorry,” he said, unable to think of much else.  Are you all right would have sounded too patronizing.   He stepped further inside, dramatically averting his eyes from Stella’s body.  “I’m really sorry.”

“What are you looking at?”

“Nothing.  I’m just trying not to look at you.”

“That’s fucking ridiculous.  Look at me if you’re going to talk to me.”

He turned toward her, stubbornly cutting his gaze off at her neck.  She sighed and the water rippled, caught on the sails of her breath.

“It’s not you, it’s not that I don’t find you attractive, I mean – obviously, I can see – but–”

“Stop talking.”

He nodded.

“It was a mistake,” she concluded with a curt shrug, water parting over her shoulder like a smooth rock in a pond.  But she hadn’t asked him to leave.  And he didn’t want to.  He was used to making his mistakes as a team and had come to appreciate the comfort in recovering from them as a team as well.

“Can I… come in and sit with you?  Not in the bath, just next to you?”

She blinked in disbelief.  As if a grown man had never asked her if he could sit on the floor while she took a bath.

“You’re serious.”

“I kind of was, yeah.”

“Does it mean you’ll stop standing there looking at me like a pitiful puppy?”

“Yes,” he allowed, because sometimes it was better to admit you were pitiful than to run around getting tattoos and punching people and fucking inappropriate people.  He sat down beside her, the altar of porcelain-enameled steel between them a holy reminder that some things were kept out of reach for a reason.  Her arm had been resting there since he came in the door and now he reached out to place his hand around hers, but her fingers clamped down.  He wondered if she was angrier than she was letting on.  But when he took his hand away, he saw that there were white spots on her fingertips and knuckles, evidence of excessive pressure.  She was hiding something.  

“Leave it alone,” she said.

Mulder had never left anything alone in his life.

“What – what is that – ?”

Stella was wet and bound to the tub and it took little effort to peel her flexed fingers back at the knuckles.  There, beneath them, was a jagged piece of glass, the one from the cup they’d broken earlier.  At first, he stared at it as if it might suddenly come to life, explain its own presence and defend its usefulness, and when it didn’t, he finally looked at Stella.  She kept her eyes on the bathtub faucet, sinking her chin below water level with an open mouth, letting the wet surface play with her lip in a pantomime of boredom.

“What were you going to do with this?”

“I thought you were going to leave.”

He waited for her to say more but she didn’t.

“Did you break that glass on purpose?”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake.”

“Then what –”

“Sometimes it feels good to hold it.”

It sounded like half an explanation – frustrating, even if it was probably the more reassuring end of one.  Mulder had no way of knowing whether she was lying, no way of knowing how serious a crime she’d be willing to commit against herself.  Suddenly he realized his instincts may well have led him into the bathroom, maybe even up to Stella’s hotel room.  Maybe they’d been spot on after all.

His eyes wandered, numb to the false threat of her nudity now that a real one had presented itself.  

The scars appeared to him like an image suddenly obvious in one of those psychedelic paintings.  One minute, they’d been invisible, the next, they were impossible to ignore.  He took one look at her face and he knew she’d seen him notice, maybe had even wanted him to.  

“Well.  We’re all detectives here, aren’t we,” she said, tossing the question mark over her shoulder with severe Englishness.  But he had a feeling that first person plural included Scully and wondered if for once, they’d had exactly the same take on something.  Whatever Scully had said, it couldn’t have gone that well.  It was possible whatever he said would go over even worse.

 So he said nothing.  He thought of all sorts of things to do with the piece of glass, finally settling on the wastebasket.  When it shattered at the bottom of the metal can, he noticed she did not flinch as he did.  The wall behind him suddenly felt cold and sweaty and his socked feet flexed up to the ceiling.  Stella’s head inched around ever so slightly toward him.

“It’s all right, Mulder,” she said in a voice as round and temporary as a bubble.  “Really.”

And this time, with nothing else to hide, she turned her hand up for him to hold.  

*

Mulder woke up with a poisonous film on his tongue and a ringing in his ears, an automatic alarm set off by the taste of fermented alcohol that a bad decision or five had been made.  He looked down for other signs of disaster.  His socks were sweaty, his shorts and t-shirt twisted and flipped like a rubberband around his waist.  But Stella lay curled in her robe beside him like a perfectly coiffed kitten, in exactly the position he’d last seen her.  She snored very quietly and he reached for a pillow, stealthily lifting her head and sliding it underneath for support.  He remembered now how they’d wound up there.

He’d gone back to the bedroom when she said she was done with her bath and he'd waited, using the guise of privacy as he tried to figure out what to do.  Surely, she’d tell him to leave and then he’d be up all night wondering whether she’d chase that piece of glass to the bottom of the garbage pail, or create another, or find a toenail scissor or a tweezer or a pencap…  Stella is not weak.  She does not need me.  Whatever rendezvous she had planned with the glass shard was between her and it.  He could not save everyone, as Scully always said.  But maybe, in this case, she wouldn’t have said that at all.

To his surprise, Stella had either wanted him to stay or lacked the energy to prevent it.  She’d seemed almost oblivious to him as she tied her pink robe on and shook the water out of her hair.  But when she laid down next to him, she turned toward him, scrubbed face resting on praying palms before she closed her eyes.  She was even prettier this way, he’d thought, but was afraid if he said it to her, she’d think he wanted to fuck her or kiss her or keep her.  He just wanted to stay, look at her until he felt she was okay.  Well, what do you know? he’d thought.  It had taken a risky sexual encounter, a broken heart, several drunken escapades, a tattoo and a fight, but Fox Mulder had actually made a new friend.

It was dark on his way to the bathroom.  No doubt the sun was up, but the blackout shades kept any of it from getting in.  Stella kept her sleeping quarters like a bat.  He stubbed his toe on something, inhaled sharply to avoid waking her up.  He closed the door quietly and took his shirt off at the sink, trying to keep it dry as he splashed water on his face.  He didn’t even know Stella was awake until he turned off the faucet and heard her voice.  Housekeeping, he figured.

“Ask if they have any of those little bottles of mouthwash?” he called.  “Stella?”

When he came out, Stella was looking at the floor, blocking the view into the hallway.  She reluctantly stood back and caught in the widening jaws of the door was Scully, staring at the space between them, a close-mouthed underbite, shoulders frozen to keep from heaving.  There was that stubborn, wet look in her eyes, the one Stella had had last night, except on Scully it didn’t just make him want to cry too, it made him want to die, disappear.

Everything he could think of to say sounded fake in his head.

“It’s not what you think, Dana,” Stella said.

Which was exactly the kind of fake-sounding thing he’d been trying to avoid.  

Scully scoffed at them both, but it was more like a feeble cough, devoid of its usual sand and grit.  The color began to drain from her cheeks like California daylight.  She shrunk back away from them, going down below the earth one thick, dramatic stripe of color at a time.  

“It’s really not, Scully,” he echoed, feeling backed into a corner by Stella’s approach.

Scully pushed a folded pile of what must have been Stella’s clothes at her.  

“What’s the matter?” she seethed.  “Concierge busy?”

And then she turned and walked down the hall like she’d gotten the wrong room number.  Stella shut the door softly and leaned a hand against it.

“Fuck me,” she whispered.  

“You think you’re fucked?  I’m the one who has to stay here.  I have to keep working with her.”

“It’s not a competition to see who can be the most fucked.”

“It seems like that’s exactly what you think it is.”  

“Don’t go back to being a child now.”

There was a fresh little retort right on the tip of his tongue, but he realized she was right.  Quipping and arguing wasn’t useful to any of them.  This wasn’t only her fault.  It wasn’t even only his.  It had taken all three of them to make the mess and would take all three of them to clean it up.  Stella ran her fingers through her hair like she was late to a meeting, then pulled it back in such a way that suddenly it looked as if she spent all morning on it.

“What – what do we do?” he asked.   

“I’ll go talk to her.  On my way to the airport.”

“You’ll go talk to her.”

“Yes.”  

“Now?  Run after her?”

“No.  Give her some time to calm down.”

“What do we say?  You know what to say?”

“The truth, I suppose.”

He nodded.

“I’ll be leaving out the part about the bathtub,” she said and licked her bottom lip as she leveled an intense stare.

“You mean the glass.”

He took her silence to mean yes.

“Okay.”

“It’ll be all right,” she said.  “I think.”

He felt a little cowardly as he got dressed, knowing Stella was going to fix this for him, that with all his knowledge and experience of Scully’s feelings, he was letting a perfect stranger take the hit.  But none of the things he knew about Scully had prepared him for this.  He wouldn’t even have known where to start.

“Will I see you again?” he asked as he watched her pinch and zip a skirt the color of a healthy human heart.

“Not on this trip,” she said.  “But who knows what the future holds.”

He came to stand behind her and waited in vain for her to look at him in the mirror.  Finally, he threw his arms around her shoulders, squeezing her and pressing his cheek to her hair.  Stella was stiff, spared only a pat on the arm.  But as he went to back away, her fingers tightened like ropes around the cylinder of his forearm, and when he looked in the mirror, he saw two wells of gratitude where her eyes used to be.

*

He waited at the office.  The office was home base.  Every argument they’d ever had on the full spectrum of silly to serious had ended with them shuffling in that door like a locker room, dusting themselves off, shaking hands over the desk.  If Scully forgave him, she’d come in.  

He’d hear the elevator doors squeak open and chug shut, hear her sensible shoes humble the hard basement floors.  She’d come through the door – the door.  Goddamit, why had he never put her name on the door?  Well, it didn’t matter now.  He’d been not doing things for years with regards to Scully.  A nametag was hardly going to fix it.

She would come in, if not for him, than for herself, just to make a point, just to keep things moving along.  He practiced believing in things for a living, was one of the best in his field.  Surely he could put his faith in this one earthly concept.  But that one day of waiting for Scully – of organizing and cleaning and pretending to read for so long that real words started to seem fake – seemed longer than his entire career at the FBI.

She was going to come in.

But if she wasn’t, then Stella would call.

Alas, no one came, and the only person who called was Skinner, sounding annoyed and bewildered, as if he’d just read a case file Mulder didn’t remember turning in.

Scully had called in sick.  To him.  

Scully didn’t call in sick.  Sometimes she called in other things – abducted, wounded, hospitalized, sure.  But in those cases, Skinner was the last to know.  Why the hell was Scully calling him?  Mulder began to stammer. 

“Well, sir, we uh, we’re both trying to follow protocol more.  In fact, she may have even stayed home sick just to practice it.  Like a drill.”

Skinner hung up on him.   

So went the pretense of reading and began the very real practice of freaking out.  Mulder began to strip everything that had a protective surface.  He scraped the yellow off his pencils, chewed the cuticles off his thumbs, peeled the aglets off his shoelaces.  He considered calling Scully, but he was worried it would make it worse.  He considered calling Stella but he had no way of doing so.

Suddenly, it occurred to him.  They were still together.  Stella had been plotting it all along.  She hadn’t offered to go to Scully on his behalf, she went on her own.  She was going to whisk Scully away to England with inside-baseball orgasms and promises of regular hours and clean cars and never having to hunt aliens again, all because he hadn’t had the balls to explain himself.  He broke a pencil in half, then spent the rest of the afternoon wiping ink off of everything when he realized it wasn’t a pencil.

At some point the sun fell and whatever meager outdoor light had been coming in the tiny window disappeared.  He turned on a desk lamp to drown out the bleakness of the overhead fluorescents and the little dollar-store bulb Scully had once bought showed off, turning tricks, picking up shadows of dust particles three at a time and juggling them.  

He found some files but his eyes hurt when he tried to read.  When he opened the desk drawer to look for his glasses, it stuck, and when he shook it, a tube of lipstick rolled forward like a shiny penny.  He took it out and pulled off the cap, ran the perfumed wax scent under his nose, perched it at the center of his desk like a tawny monument, a postmodern statue of liberty.  Give us your tired, your poor, your aliens yearning to breathe free.

So this is what it was like before Scully, this is what it would be like after her.

He’d fallen asleep on the desk when the phone rang again, the tube of lipstick clutched in his hand and an alarming streak of color across his palm.  

This time, it was Stella.

“I’m at the airport. 

“In DC?”

“No, in London.  I got in and missed you so terribly I had to call before I even got home.”

He didn’t appreciate the sarcasm.  And he would appreciate even less in a moment.

“I thought you were long gone.”

“I decided to take the redeye instead.  I needed more time.”

Mulder gritted his teeth and steeled himself not to ask what she would need so much time for.  He wasn’t exactly the king of apologies, but even he knew they didn’t take all goddamn day.

“She’s not angry with you anymore,” she said in a tone that referenced the debt he owed.  She had told him she would calm Scully down and she had.  It was none of his goddamn business what that involved or how many hours it took.  “Or me, for that matter.”

She couldn’t help herself.

“Thanks,” he muttered.  “Thank you.”

“Have you gone home, taken a shower, changed your clothes yet?”

“Yeah,” he said.  “Although… 

He glanced down at the ink all over his shirt, the lipstick on his cuff.

 “You need to leave the office and go to her.  Go now.”

“What do you mean?  Is she okay?”

“Tell her how you feel.”

“I –-“

“Mulder, listen to me.  Stop wasting time.”

Mulder heard a voice on the airport’s PA system.  Next thing he knew, he was humming and mumbling as Stella rushed them through their second goodbye.  He got the feeling she wasn’t used to having to issue more than one per person.  There was a moment’s hesitation, and Mulder waited to make sure she had nothing left to say, no more advice to bestow, something more than just stop wasting time.  He would take any of it, all of it, even considered begging for it in the split-second that passed.  But there was nothing left to hear.  Stella was already gone, presumably forever, and she’d taken all her secrets about Scully with her.

Part IV

[srinidhi77-blog]

“A GIRL”- not an OBJECT

Men and women should be granted the same freedoms, and protection, under the law. It is not speaking who is superior and it is Feminism. It is asking for gender equality and opposing sexual objectification. Talking about being objectified for your body and being raped/assaulted/harassed/abused on the basis of your attire IS talking about equality. Isn’t the way women are “looked at” one of the basic inequalities we deal with in day-to-day life? I hope we are headed towards a future where a girl can be herself, without being judged for what she wears or how she looks — because that doesn’t define her. Her past, her attire, her hurdles and how she ties her hair, doesn’t define a girl… and you don’t get to label her, or tag her with names on the basis of how she carry herself..

Why is it that you assume, when you see a girl, in clothes too small (but one’s she’s happy to be in) you automatically assume that she’s a slut. You assume that it’s okay to touch her, and tease her. You want to teach her a lesson. You call her characterless, a slut, or a whore. Firstly, no girl, even if she does do the things you disapprove of, is a slut or a whore. It’s her body and her choice. Secondly, her clothes don’t define her.

Every girl faces one of these surely at some point of her life. Mother/father/brother/best friends/relatives or strangers keep showing gender discrimination:            “Cover your body properly, so men can concentrate/or boys will stare or tease you”. We ask, are men really that week? Do they react this way when they see a mother breastfeeding her child in public? Obviously Yes! How can we say no?               “Baby, I don’t like it when you show off your bra strap. Can you please dress more appropriately?”… “Baby, that neckline is too deep. And your shorts are too short. Who are you trying to show your legs to?!”… Except he then goes onto his Instagram feed where he’s following 8 models, 3 bikini models…staring at them.You should probably say,“ baby, that’s the fucking door – please leave.” trust me – good riddance.

If you’re with a man who can check out half-naked models all day – but your bra strap & shorts are a shame to him – please walk him out that door. Throw him out the window. We have no issues with models — we have a problem with men with those double standards. Men that want to watch those girls– but your girlfriend/wife? Oh no no …how dare you speak of MY women so disrespectfully? Wait. So you don’t respect the women you stare at? Well, that sure as hell says a lot about your views on Equality and Life. You want to see sexy women that aren’t ‘yours’, but you won’t be okay with your woman looking sexy (outside of your four walls).

Whoever thought women were twisted & difficult to understand, please stand up. Tell me how? Then, let me tell you something… she – the woman next to you, the one that’s putting up with this bullshit insecure attitude of yours, the one that even considers covering her body for your sake, the one that lets you vomit these words from your mouth – she’s beautiful. She’s very, very sexy. She’s not where she belongs if she’s putting up with your crap – but one day, she’s going to be in her element, and she’s going to find a man who loves her, compliments her, and feels pride when she walks into a room because he knows she’s hers. He won’t blame her, or change her, just because ‘Men stare’. She’s going to spend her life with someone who walks with her, not ahead of her, and respects her enough to explore love, life and sexuality with her without any disrespect – why, you ask? Because she – she’s absolutely gorgeous & sexy. Sometimes, she likes to flaunt her printed Bra through her sheer dress, she likes wearing her shorts really short, and she enjoys her crop tops – but she’s just as beautiful in a Sari – she’s beautiful in anything that SHE chooses to wear for herself, and don’t you worry.

                 “It wasn’t always like this. We were madly in love. Of course, there was the occasional fight… but we were crazy about each other. At first, it was small things. Don’t wear this. “Baby… if you love me, you’ll change that about you.” Sometimes we got into an argument – once he broke something. He was really aggressive. The next time we fought, he hit himself. I was really disturbed, so I left. He promised to never do that again. We went back to being perfect… till one night, in the middle of a fight, he just became violent…And you start blaming yourself??????? For which u haven’t done anything than living life the way you like!!!…. “I must’ve done something. It was my fault. I pushed him too hard. He’s not okay. I think he needs my help. He needs me”. It’s just a few bruises. Nothing serious. He was weak. “I made him do it….”

You Didn’t. Make. Him. Do. Anything. Where ever you are, if you are reading this – it wasn’t your fault. You didn’t make him hit you. It’s not your fucking fault. Stop blaming yourself. 90% of the time when a man raises his hands on you, you think HE is the victim, and you end up thinking he NEEDS you – he needs you to fix him. No he doesn’t. He needs you to blame. He needs you to hold him. He needs you so he can abuse you all over again. He is a coward, if he raises his hands on you. He’s a bigger coward if he makes you feel like it’s your fault. He is weak and pathetic and dare you ever blame yourself for it. Your parents didn’t raise you, educate you & love you unconditionally so you could be beaten up and scolded by some guy. Nothing – absolutely nothing you say or do is a good enough reason for him to hit you. Everyone has a choice to walk away. Leave. You don’t deserve physical abuse. Your only fault is that you stayed. You thought it wouldn’t happen again but it became a routine. A few pushes turned to a few slaps & soon you were bruised every second week – you can’t make him to love you, when you do not love yourself. You don’t deserve this. Walk away before it’s too late. Walk away while you can. Before you go insane. You do not need to apologize all the time for things you haven’t done! You are strong, and independent, and beautiful.

This one’s dedicated to all the women that stayed back far too many years than necessary, women that dedicated their time and vulnerability, women that gave more and took less, women that confused being caged for being loved, women that’ve felt the toxic, women that didn’t know how to let go, women that were emotionally invested, women that are strong but sensitive and women that I hope — got out of it alive.

Before I end this tribute to women that stayed for far too long, I need you to realize that this isn’t Men vs Women. This isn’t a War. This is about survival and equality. we will stop writing about women and their rights the day people accept that feminism is — very much-needed. You can be a Man, and still be a Feminist. Feminism isn’t about Women standing up for something. It’s about Humans, demanding equality and justice for Women, regardless of their Gender. I know there are wonderful men out there, I know there are men that are good human beings (and this isn’t about them) but unfortunately, even today, women all over the world are being burnt alive, abused sexually, physically, raped, deprived of education, caged, controlled, killed, threatened, molested — all for being girls.

Every-single-day from girls far too young to be dealing with this shit, addressing their issues — issues we are all appalled by, issues that make us want to cry and feel helpless because we can’t help them — and this one is for ALL of you — who give me 101 excuses for not leaving someone that’s hitting you`, for letting him control and monitor your life, your texts, your clothes. For letting him force you into sex just because you’re dating, for letting him tell you that you’re not good enough, or smart enough, and — for staying.

I hear the whole country telling young girls to not wear skirts to school, to not travel alone at night, not to cross their legs, but why aren’t you telling boys to not rape? Why is protection of women in the form of being guarded by a man at all times, and being locked up in a house post 8 pm, when men are the ones raping? For the safety of civilians, do you let criminals, terrorists; psychopaths roam loose and put civilians in the jail? Every time we enter a party where a man tells me, “don’t go alone it’s not safe” why is it not okay for me to tell my fellow male friends, “don’t go alone this late, you may rape a girl”. Our women are being molested, burnt alive, killed at birth, raped, murdered, and that’s not ‘some disturbance’, these things aren’t ‘going to happen’ – because they shouldn’t.

A woman’s choice of clothes is NOT a reason for her to be molested (and really there is NO reason ever). I am maybe not as educated as you are, but from one human to another, here’s what I think is the problem; you’re no longer raising men, you’re not raising humans, you’re raising beasts that are taught not to respect a girl or her freedom of choice. Beasts that believe such girls need to be “taught a lesson” and simultaneously you’re raising either women that themselves are petrified and uncomfortable .TEACH your kids to respect women instead of making them feel more entitled and important. The world will make them feel that anyway. So save your sons from turning into such beasts and spare girls the grief. And it’s a pity …..When you have “Mass Molestation” incidents in cities like Bangalore & they are followed by political statements blaming girls and their short dresses.

The quotes to take away from a “FEMINIST” Virat Kohli about this issue  Wearing short clothes is her decision, her life, her choice.  People in power trying to defend it are absolutely horrible.  I’m ashamed to be a part of that society that thinks it is completely acceptable to do these and get away.  Be respectful, and treat women with compassion.  Women shouldn’t be treated differently and there shouldn’t be any self-created separate rules for them.  Lets stand together and put a stop to these pathetic acts. This country should be safe and equal for all. Change your thinking and the world will change around you.

These are his words on Bangalore mass molestation issue. This is absolutely called being a feminist and a man! And Yes I’m a feminist and I’m proud to say that. And you ask why YOU have to be a feminist because

“A MAN IN A FULL ROOM OF WOMEN IS ECSTATIC,

A WOMAN IN A FULL ROOM OF MEN IS TERRIFYING”.

To all the girls who don’t support themselves and to all the great men….Feminism is NOT MEN Vs WOMEN. All women need you to support to get their freedom and rights….Still if you say you are not a feminist …? Just think about……All girls who have been touched, teased, slapped, abused or raped by their own trusted and educated people at every nook and corner of the world including her siblings and parents…..And every girl who is scared of being alone on the streets coz they are afraid of being objectified?. You pray girls as a goddess?????Then why is a girl so scared of being around boys? And why she isn’t safe even on the 69th year of our country’s independence.

CHANGE THE WAY YOU SEE A WOMAN…..SHE IS NOT AN OBJECT.LET US GIVE A GIRL THE FREEDOM TO BREATHE. TO LIVE. TO BE HER.

#Nidhi

[anavoliselenu]

Beautiful lies chapter 5

"Marta will take care of you today – she’ll get you what you need, okay?"

She nods, her posture unsure. I hadn’t planned on leaving her today. I have to work the rest of the week, so today I planned on enjoying her in the many rooms of my home, but if I flake out on my brothers now, I’ll never hear the end of it.

"What about later?" She looks up and blinks those gorgeous blue eyes at me. I try to read her look. Hesitation? Interest? I shrug it off. I’m sure it’s nothing more than mere curiosity at when I’m going to take her virginity. That’d be the only obvious thing on her mind. It’s her entire purpose for being here.

I bend down to whisper near her ear, careful that my brothers don’t overhear. "I quite enjoyed my cock in your mouth last night."

She swallows and lets out a tiny gasp, inaudible to anyone but me. The sound makes my dick flex in my pants. Fuck.

I raise one hand and stroke her cheek with the back of my knuckles. "You’re really good at sucking cock, you know that, right?"

I check her eyes for her reaction, but this information looks like news to her. Okay, so maybe she’s just good at sucking mine. Even better news. Her cheeks are rosy and pink and her eyes dart around me, checking to see if my brothers are listening to us. They are, but I’m sure they’re acting like they’re not.

She licks her lips, completely unaware how erotic that sight is to me. Is it possible to golf with a raging erection? Apparently I’m about to find out.

"Enjoy your day with Marta, but then be ready for me tonight." It’s not a request and a she simply nods.

I head out with my brothers, tossing my clubs into the back of Collins’ SUV and then climb into the passenger seat. I’d completely forgotten about golf today. I hated golf, but Collins had joined the Beverly Hills country club to woo some stuffy client, and he’d been on me and Pace to join him for golf so he could feel like he was getting his money’s worth at the overpriced club.

"So, are you fucking her, or what?" Collins asks before we’re even out of my driveway, not wasting a second.

"Are we really going to talk about this like we’re back in high school?" I ask, keeping my expression bored and fixed on the road.

"Fuck yeah we are." Pace leans forward between the seats, resting on the console. "She’s hot and you know it. Hot enough that Collins forgot all about his supermodel girlfriend."

That was fucking funny. Nothing rattled Collins.

"No one would blame you if you were," Collins continues. "After what that redheaded bitch did to you."

Why in the fuck was everyone bringing up Stella? I bite down, tasting blood.

"I’m not fucking her," I answer. At least not yet. "She’s my friend’s sister," I remind them.

"Right, John from Harvard." Collins smirks. He knows just as well as I do that Selena’s not from the east coast. Why in the fuck had she said she was from Boston?

"Well, she’s not my friend’s sister, and I have a guest room in my condo. I’ll take her if you don’t want her," Pace replies, completely oblivious.

He’s not taking her anywhere, but I’m not about to engage in a childish argument over my own property.

Chapter Six

Selena

With a name like Marta, I was expecting a dowdy older housekeeper type with a gray bun and sensible shoes, certainly not the twenty-something blonde who shows up in a cute sundress and strappy sandals with a Chanel bag slung over her shoulder.

"Selena?" she asks, pulling off the large sunglasses that cover her eyes.

"Yes. Marta, I assume?"

She nods and extends her hand. "You do need a wardrobe, don’t you?" Her gaze travels down my body, taking in Justin’s baggy clothes and she bites her lip. Then she pulls a pair of cut off jean shorts and a tank top from her bag and hands them to me. "Justin said you’d need something to borrow for today."

"Justin?" I ask, accepting the clothes.

Her eyebrows pinch together. "Justin Justin? The man whose home you’re staying in."

I nod. Justin Justin. Even his name is sexy. He hadn’t exactly given me a fake name after all. I smile when I remember Pace calling him Coco this morning.

"Most of his staff calls him Mr. Justin." She shrugs. "But he’s just Justin to me."

Interesting. I wonder what else she is to him. She’s tiny and gorgeous with her tanned skin and blond curls and I feel self-conscious in her presence.

When I return from the guest bath down the hall, I’m dressed in the shorts and tank top, feeling thankful for something to wear, even if they are a little on the tight side, and then I retrieve my purse and shoes from upstairs.

"Ready?" she asks.

I nod and follow her outside into the bright sunshine.

I climb into the little red sports car convertible beside her, tugging at the too short shorts.

She presses a button near the rearview mirror and the roof lowers and folds back neatly into the trunk. I guess I’ll need to get used to my new LA life.

"How did you say you knew Justin? He was kind of vague on the details," she asks, pulling out of his private drive.

I repeat the story that he and I settled on and she nods along without questioning me.

"What did Justin, I mean, Justin tell you about me?" I ask.

"He said that you’d be staying awhile and that you’d need pretty much everything."

"Oh." I get quiet as I look out at the scenic drive we’re cruising down, remembering the phone call with my mom.

"Listen, Selena, I know it’s not my place to pry, but if you’re in some kind of trouble, if you need anything…even a friend to listen…I’m happy to help."

I suppose it did sound suspicious. I’d showed up out of the blue without a stitch of clothing to spare. "No, it’s nothing like that. Just a fresh start." I smile, trying to lighten the mood.

"Well, the offer stands. And I know Justin better than anyone. It’s not like him to just move a woman in."

I swallow and wonder what she means. I realize Marta could give me information about him, probably more than anyone else. "How long have you worked for him?" I want to inquire about exactly what her role is, but I’m not sure if there’s a polite way to word it.

"Oh gosh, Justin and I have quite the history. Where do I start?" She laughs and I glance over at her. Her smile is gorgeous, and her loose blonde waves drift around her face in the subtle breeze, but all I’m able to concentrate on is her implied familiarity with my new owner.

Have they slept together? Are they currently sleeping together? I don’t know why it hasn’t occurred to me before, but Justin has no obligation to be faithful to me. A thought that makes my stomach cramp. While I’m blowing him in private and giving him the most precious part of me, he could be off wining and dining other women. Beautiful, confident women like Marta. I knew this situation wasn’t going to be ideal, but I also never imagined I’d be living with such an eligible young bachelor like Justin Justin. Already he’s affecting me in ways I didn’t anticipate.

"Mm, let’s see. I’ve been his personal assistant for…" She purses her lips. "Six years now. I began at his office as a receptionist, but our personalities just clicked and I started working for him personally a short time after that. Having someone he can trust in his home and private life is important to him."

I nod, but the truth is, I don’t know him at all. It’s weird to think that I know what he looks like naked, but I don’t actually know him know him. And I want to. Why is he so successful at such a young age and why in the world did he go to that auction in the first place? Questions burn through my mind like a raging inferno.

We spend the afternoon in various boutique shops, where I try on and purchase jeans, shorts, sundresses and tops, all on Justin Justin’s gold card that Marta whips out at every transaction. For once I actually have money, but after Marta reprimanded me for trying to pay and said that Justin had instructed her everything was to go on his card, I stopped fighting it.

We already have several full shopping bags of clothes and are at our last stop of the day – a lingerie boutique for some much needed bras and panties.

I’m digging through a bin of simple cotton panties, the kind that fill my drawers back home when I sense Marta’s presence beside me. She eyes the pretty pair of pale yellow boy shorts trimmed in lace and purses her lips. "Justin favors dark colors," she says.

My stomach twists again at her implied familiarity with the man I’m currently sharing a bed with. I want to argue, to tell her it’s not like that between me and him, but instead, I drop the forgotten undergarment into the bin and continue looking. From the corner of my eye, I can see her eyeing me suspiciously. Maybe that was a test, and I’ve just answered her question about my relationship with him without saying a single word. Oh well. I do have a sexual relationship with him – or at least I am going to soon – and there’ll be no sense hiding it.

Stocking up on basic black and navy bikinis and matching bras, I find Marta browsing in the clearance area of the store. She doesn’t seem the type to need to shop in the discount section, but I secretly like that she’s thrifty. I am too.

It’s not lost on me that she’s likely my best source of information on Justin. I mean, geez, I didn’t even know his first name before she’d told me. I wondered what else I could get her to let slip.

When she sees me approach, she smiles at me again. "Ready?"

"I think so." I hold up an armful of undergarments. "But take your time." Today’s been all about me so far – something I’m not used to. She can browse if she wants. "That’s cute." I nod to the red demi bra she’s holding.

"They don’t have my size." She shoves it back onto the rack and keeps looking.

I gather my courage. "Marta?"

"Hm?" she says, holding up a sequined tank top.

"Who’s Stella?"

Her eyes zip over to mine. "He told you about Stella?"

Shit. Her accusatory tone and icy stare are too much, that, or my conscious is too big. My gaze drops down to the floor. "Not exactly. His brothers stopped by this morning, and her name might have come up." And his bedroom smells like stale perfume and one half of his closet seems like it’s been hastily emptied out, I mentally add.

Marta continues perusing the rack of discounted bras, her brows pinched together like she’s recalling a bad memory. "He’s not been himself since Stella. She did a fucking number on him," she mutters under her breath.

I can’t really imagine someone hurting the ever in control Justin Justin, but then again, I have no idea of his past, just like he has no idea of mine. But I intend to find out.

Several hours later, Marta drops me off at Justin’s place. We bought so much, all of my shopping bags barely fit in her tiny backseat and trunk. Marta helps me carry them inside and up the stairs. She marches with purpose toward Justin’s bedroom, like it’s a familiar route. The little sting of curiosity is back. I also note that there’s no question about where I’m staying – she didn’t even pretend to assume it was in one of the guest rooms.

She sets the bags down inside the mammoth closet and turns to face me. I offer to change out of the clothes she’s let me borrow for the day, but she waves me off.

"Thanks for everything today."

She nods. "Of course. As a friend of Justin’s, I’m sure we’ll be seeing a lot of each other. And seriously, I meant what I said before – if you need anything – a friend to grab coffee with – or drinks, or just a female to talk to when he drives you insane…Call me."

I accept her cell phone number, wondering what she means about him driving me insane.

Once Marta leaves me alone, I feel a little awkward placing my clothes on the empty side of the closet once occupied by Stella’s stuff. But maybe that’s what Justin intends bringing me here – for me to replace whatever bad memories she left behind.

If that’s what he wants, I’ll do it. Heaven knows I’m running from my own baggage too. I’m here for the money, but as the knot that had permanently taken up residence in my stomach lessens with each passing hour, I realize that’s not the only thing this new way of life can provide me.

Being here in LA, in this mansion, brings a sense of relief from the constant worry and heartache I live with every day. I miss my family, well, mostly Becca and of course I worry about her health, but it’s not relentlessly churning in my head like before.

I should feel guilty at this realization, but honestly, it’s a relief.

Chapter Seven

Justin

Before we leave the country club, I stop in at the boutique gift shop. The frilly blue lace camisole and panty set hanging in the window catches my attention, making me recall Selena’s pale blue panties from last night. And like a ship to a beacon of light, I find myself heading straight toward them.

"Can I help you find something?" The sales girl asks from behind the counter, letting her gaze wander down my toned chest and halt at the area directly below my belt. "Something for your girlfriend, maybe?" she asks.

Her subtlety is lacking. All she sees when she looks at me is a fat cock and a fatter wallet. If I’m at this club, it means I have money, but after the red headed monster from hell, it repulses me to think about ever being with a woman like that again. Just because she throws a pretty smile my way and would drop to her knees at my command doesn’t mean she can have my heart.

Girls like her are only interested in the lifestyle I can provide them – the wealth, the status – not the man inside. Which is why I’m not interested in anything more than what I’ve arranged with Selena. Clean and separate from the rest of me. Sex and intimacy have no place together.

"I’m good, thank you." I know Marta will have everything covered today, but that doesn’t stop me from looking around while I wait for Pace and Collins to finish in the locker room. I’m hot and tired after playing thirty-six holes of golf – but I’d much rather shower at home where I can put on fresh clothes after, than here with a bunch of men. And I wasn’t joking when I told Selena to be ready for me when I got home. Last night’s prelude wasn’t enough. I haven’t stopped thinking about her luscious mouth or perky tits once.

Moving past the rows of silk panties and lacey camisoles I stop beside a display of lotions and oils. Grabbing one of the bottles, I head to the register to pay.

"Nice choice," the cashier beams up at me.

Ignoring her, I check my Rolex. I wonder if Selena and Marta are back yet. The sales girl, obviously annoyed at my lack of attention, despite her skin tight top unbuttoned to show off the top of her bra, stuffs my purchase into a gift bag and shoves it at me.

I find Pace and Collins in the grand foyer of the club, rehydrating with bottles of water. "You ready, ladies?" I ask.

Collins tosses me a bottle of water. "Come on," he says to Pace, "we’ve got to get princess home in time for his blowjob."

Yes, please.

***

The house is silent when I return and I wander the rooms downstairs, checking the den and kitchen before heading upstairs. Disappointment courses through me at the idea that she’s not back yet. At least I can get a shower in before she returns. The least I can do is wash myself before I expect her to devour my cock.

Stripping my shirt off over my head as I head toward my bedroom, I’m surprised to find Selena sitting in the center of my bed with her phone in her lap and a frown on her face.

"Everything okay?"

She startles at my voice and drops her phone on the bed. Her gaze wanders lazily down my naked chest and her frowns falls away. Good girl.

"It’s fine." She sets her phone beside her on the bedside table. I wonder if she was talking to someone from home again. "How was golf?"

"Hot. I’m going to shower."

She nods, her eyes not daring to stray from mine, though I can tell she’s drawn to my body.

I wash quickly, without waiting for the water to warm, soaping up my chest, abs, under my arms and of course the parts of me I want her mouth on. Wrapping a towel around my hips, I enter the bedroom once again, but this time Selena’s gone. The fuck? Apparently we needed to cover some ground rules. Like rule number one, be naked and waiting on my bed for me at all times.

Releasing a frustrated sigh, I drop the towel and dress before heading downstairs to find her.

Selena’s sitting in the den, the same spot we sat last night. Her legs are curled under her and she’s holding a book in her lap. All I can think of when I enter this room is her on her knees in front of me, taking my dick deep into her warm mouth. Christ, it’s been way too long since I’ve been laid.

Her eyes lift from the book and settle on mine when I sit down across from her.

"Find something good?" I nod toward the book in her hands, which I assume has come from my personal library.

"Charlotte Bronte." She holds up the cover of Wuthering Heights for me to see. It’s a dark and twisted love story. Story of my damn life.

"Have you read it before?"

"In high school. But I don’t remember much of it." Setting the book down on the cushion beside her, she folds her hands in her lap and looks at me expectantly. She’s curious about what’s going to happen next.

"Are you hungry?" I surprise her by asking.

She nods carefully. I’m starving after the long afternoon spent on the course and when I reach for her hand, she carefully places her palm against mine. I tell myself that it’s important I get her comfortable with me, but in actuality, I just like touching her.

I lead her into the kitchen. Sunday is the only day I don’t have a staff here to prepare meals, but Beth usually leaves me with enough leftovers to survive for one day without her. I find the fixings for club sandwiches left in plastic containers and labeled in Beth’s efficient script. Turkey, strips of crisp bacon, avocado spread, gruyere cheese, and thick slices of tomato marinated in vinaigrette.

We assemble the sandwiches at the island and take our plates back into the den.

"I’m curious about why you’re here…" I pause, watching her reaction. It’s obviously for the money, but I can’t figure out why a girl like Selena would be desperate enough to sell herself. She’s a clean cut, normal girl by all outward appearances – I strongly doubt she has gambling debts or a drug addiction to fund. I take a bite of my sandwich and wait for her to answer. Honestly, I have mixed feelings about finding out more about her and making this personal, but I’m too damn curious not to ask.

She seems hesitant at first and chews her food slowly, stalling for time. "My sister’s sick," she says softly, so soft I can barely hear her. "Her care is very expensive," she continues. It isn’t what I’m expecting and her honesty surprises me.

"The money…it will help?" I ask.

"Very much so," she whispers. I can tell she has mixed feelings about all this. As relieved as she seems at taking care of her sister, I sense there’s some lingering guilt about leaving home during a time of hardship.

I have no intention of baring my soul as completely as she’s done. I can’t. I doubt she’d stick around if she knew the real reason she was here. And I’m certainly not ready to let her go, especially before I’ve fulfilled the promise of her sweet, tempting body.

#�J��2

[krissysbookshelf]

Enjoy An Exclusive Sneek Peek of: Summer Indiscretions by Tamara Mataya!

Free-spirited beach-dweller looking to Switch lives with outgoing urbanite.  Sense of adventure mandatory.  Clothing optional. One email away from a total meltdown, I'm desperate to escape New York. Using Switch—a website designed to help strangers swap homes for the summer—I slip out of my stilettos and into a string bikini. But of all the beaches in all the world, Blake Wilde just had to show up on mine. He's hot. Scorching hot. And he's been strictly off-limits for as long as I can remember.  To hell with that. New life? New rules. I know something this good can't be made to last. But for three sizzling weeks, I can pretend there won't be consequences, recriminations, or regret... And that somehow our growing connection can be more than just a summer fling.

Order your copy here:

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  Chapter 1

Melanie

“Excuse me, do you know the way to the nude beach?”

“Uh, sorry?” Before I can answer the smiling stranger, my phone rings, buzzing against my leg and making me jump. I fumble to answer it, clumsy in my confusion.

It’s the office. I’m on vacation. I shouldn’t answer—but what if it’s an emergency? And—

Hold on a second. Nude beach?

My phone rings again before I can gather my scattered thoughts enough to ask. Too late—the stranger’s already walking away. I want to chase after him, but…I stare down at my phone. What if it really is an emergency? Mentally shoving my thoughts into order, I start walking as I accept the call. Resentfully.

“Melanie Walker speaking.”

“Miss Walker, I need you to set up a meeting between me and Nick in Editorial. He’s been up to something. What exactly are we paying him for?” Thaddeus Mitchell III’s voice slides up my spine and lodges behind my eyes—a migraine in the making.

“I’m not in the office, Thaddeus.”

“Really? I hadn’t noticed.” The implication being that I do nothing at work. “There’s a lightbulb burned out in the stairwell that you need to see to.”

Thaddeus Mitchell III was hired at the online women’s magazine H2T (Head 2 Toe) as a sales consultant one month ago and has been a raging pain in my ass for each of those thirty-one days. I’d say twentysomething, allowing for weekends, but he basically went Miranda Priestly and has been contacting me outside of work hours as well. Much like he’s doing now.

“Thaddeus, contact Maintenance about the light. Their number is in the company directory. I’m HR. If you want to set up a meeting with Nick”—who’s doing nothing wrong—“you’ll have to talk to Valerie directly or wait until I get back. I’m on vacation right now.”

“You have your cell phone—a marvel of technology, will wonders never cease? Send an email. Let’s get this show on the road.”

This sarcastic, condescending asshole was hired directly by my boss, and what rankles the most isn’t that he’s woefully unqualified, or that he doesn’t need the paycheck—and has bragged about it to anyone who will listen.

No. It’s the way he treats me when no one’s looking. More than that, it’s the way I let him get to me instead of brushing him off the way I can everyone else. I dig my nails into my palm, annoyed as hell that stomping out my frustration is proving impossible because I’m wearing flip-flops on sand.

“No.” I’m tired of him turning the place I love to work into a hell I dread entering. He’s the main reason I needed to get out of New York for a break.

“Excuse me?”

I think I’ve finally gotten his attention. “Talk to Valerie, or send an email and wait until I get back. Do not call me again at this number.”

“You’re going to regret this lack of professionalism.”

“Have a nice day,” I grit out through clenched teeth and end the call.

I’d like to lose a high heel in his ass, but that would be unprofessional. He’s lucky I haven’t complained to my boss—not that he’s committed a fireable offense—but I refuse to let him invade my vacation.

I glare at my phone, hitch my beach bag higher on my shoulder, and walk faster, loathing Thaddeus’s intrusion. I focus on my feet and concentrate on taking slow breaths. Even twelve hundred miles away, I’m not free from him.

You’d be free of him if you moved over to Editorial.

The thing is, I’m great at my job, and it’s what I know. Then again, maybe I know HR a little too well and the luster’s worn off. And that’s part of the problem that’s been steadily nagging at me with every new idea for an article I have—that I’ve worked my ass off to get to the wrong place in life and am fighting for a career that doesn’t fit anymore.

Plus, in another department, I wouldn’t have to deal with the petty crap people like Thaddeus dump on me every day.

I want to throw my phone when it dings in my hand, but this time, it’s a text from my best friend, Bailey, who works as a features editor at H2T.

Bailey: What’s your Switch partner like?

I text back as I walk down the beach.

Me: We won’t meet in person until after the Switch, but if the photographs tacked to the corkboard in her bedroom are anything to go by, Shelby Kellerman’s life is a cross between an imported beer commercial and an Abercrombie & Fitch ad.

Bailey: What?

Me: Effortlessly beautiful people having a great time no matter what they’re doing. Drinking at the bar, smiling at a concert, running on the beach—each picture made me want to jump inside and spend time there.

Bailey: What did she look like?

Me: Leggy, blond, taller than I thought, freckles across the bridge of her nose that give her an air of innocence despite a body that wouldn’t look out of place on the cover of Sports Illustrated or Victoria’s Secret. Light-brown eyes, and her hair has natural highlights from the sun.

Not that I had been obsessing over those pictures or anything.

Bailey: I don’t know if I should have a crush on her or hate her viciously. lol

Me: I know how you feel!

If I’d grown up here instead of New York, would I be like that? Shelby radiates happiness and serenity. Why would she want to Switch her breezy life for mine, even temporarily?

Bailey: How’s the house?

Me: Disgustingly big. What’s she going to think of my cramped apartment, stuffed with books and with stark-white walls I’ve never gotten around to painting? Every room in her place is a different color.

Bailey: It’s all part of the authentic Brooklyn experience. lol

Me: I guess. But she gets a freaking sea breeze, Bails. The nicest thing the wind blows into my apartment is a sickly spiciness from the Thai place a few doors down.

Bailey: She didn’t sign up to Switch apartments with you for three weeks to be in a place exactly like hers. It’s about experiencing something new, same reason you did it, right?

Me: That’s for sure. I had to flee the oppressive spaciousness and head to the beach.

Bailey: Awesome! Get some sun for me! You’re OK, though?

Not even my best friend knows everything about my sudden need to escape my life.

Me: I’m fine. Adjusting to all the sunshine and personal space.

Bailey: I don’t want to beach block you. Call me later! Remember—you’re there for a fun time. Seize it by the short and curlies!

Me: I will.

Bailey’s right. Fuck Thaddeus. Fuck the day from hell that sent me here. I spread my towel and settle on it, digging in my bag for the bottle of water I packed.

The breeze rolling off the ocean hits me, counteracting the heat with a deliciously salty tang, and I put my cell away, determined to be fully present in this moment. If vitamin D is the feel-good vitamin, I’m going to soak up as much as I can. I need to feel good right about now. I’m doing the most adventurous thing I’ve ever done, and no one can take that away from me.

Walking up King’s Point Drive to the beach felt like an adventure in a foreign land. People are friendlier and wear less clothing in Miami—clothing in a dazzling rainbow of colors—and a lot of women seem to wear bikini tops instead of real shirts or tank tops. Is this why they seem happier in Florida, or is it all the space? Maybe it’s just because it’s so close to the beach.

Without the tall buildings reaching high above like back home, the sky is nearly oppressively open, and I squint up at it for a moment before my eyelids pinch shut against the brightness of the sun. Shelby’s condo is on a little almost-island surrounded by water, with the Oleta River State Park on the west and the ocean a couple blocks to the east. I’m in Miami, but somehow I feel like I’m in an oasis away from it all.

I absorb the sultry thickness, blind to anything but that ocean scent, so unfamiliar and pleasant. I lie back on my elbows, relishing the pure sizzle of the sun on my skin…for about three minutes because, damn, it’s hot. How do sun worshippers do this every day without feeling the need to hire someone to baste them every half hour? Either that or hire a cabana boy to fan them and hand-feed them peeled fruits. Screw grapes—I’d like someone to peel the white crap off my oranges for me.

I grin and look around for a hypothetical candidate.

Sweat beads on my upper lip and tickles my back. Maybe I should mosey to that little stand where they’re renting oversize umbrellas to people who didn’t bring one—like me.

The stand where a woman in her late seventies waits in line, completely naked.

Blinking hard doesn’t make clothes appear on her body; her nudity isn’t a mirage. But what the hell is she doing? Is she a vagrant or someone senile who wandered away from her family? Did the ocean knock her bathing suit off? Was it eaten by a shark?

I blindly grope—grab—for my bottle of water because maybe this is a vision or hallucination brought on by the heat. Why isn’t anyone freaking out about Naked Grandma? Is it like staring at the sun? No one wants to see that, so a glance burns your eyes and you don’t try again or tell anyone you did it because it’s universally not done? Is everyone pretending they didn’t notice so they don’t have to make eye contact with her and tell her to put some clothes on?

She’s just naked and loitering like she’s waiting to check out at the grocery store.

Any minute now, someone’s going to approach her and say, “There you are, Mildred! Let’s get you tucked back into this caftan so you can parade around the beach with dignity and style.”

Swallowing a mouthful of water, I screw the cap back on the bottle and finally take a proper look at the people on the beach. There are some bathing suits, but…

Oh my God. No wonder no one’s saying anything to Mildred. My toes curl with embarrassment, even though I’m fully clothed with a long T-shirt over my tankini, because I’m somehow feeling exposed while covered up. Apparently, embarrassment through osmosis is a thing. I’ve never seen this much flesh in my entire life.

A topless thirtysomething woman applies sunscreen to her legs, her breasts jiggling with every motion.

Stop staring at her.

A naked man runs up the beach with a surfboard, flaccid penis bouncing around like one of those wacky, waving, inflatable, arm-flailing tube men.

Stop staring, Melanie!

An extremely muscular man jogs by, and my gaze zooms to his crotch with startling accuracy, like I’ve had years of checking out naked packages.

STOP.

The thing is, I’ve never really seen a flaccid penis before. In my experience, by the time I’m in close proximity, they’re…ready for business, and who really pays attention after sex? You either get dressed or you’re snuggling with the guy under the covers, not staring at his spent member. My longest relationship was seven months, but we never lived together, so I haven’t experienced a naked, unaroused man casually strolling around my personal space.

A few more men stroll by, and I can’t—look—away.

I didn’t know thighs could be so hairy.

Old guys, young guys, burly guys, and skinny guys strolling around in the bright, bright sunlight, unafraid of getting burned in vital places. I mean, they have to put sunscreen on, but how can they apply it without being inappropriate? Talk about indecent overexposure!

Sprays, maybe?

Huh. Penises are so much sadder when they’re soft, sort of shrunken in on themselves like they’re embarrassed. It’s fascinating, and I absolutely cannot look at them without gawking. But the women are in the buff as well, letting it all hang out for everyone to see. Muscles ripple, booties jiggle, and I’m freaking mesmerized at how nonchalant everyone is about this.

Wow, that man’s legs are hairy. It’s like he’s wearing fuzzy leg warmers.

Some people are wearing clothes, to be fair, but their suits might as well be invisibility cloaks. I’m blinded by flesh.

This has to be how teenage boys feel during a hormone storm.

A lady’s ice-cream cone drips onto her. Oh my gosh, that can’t be sanitary. And is everyone fine with getting sand everywhere? The lady with the cone sees me staring and slides her sunglasses down her nose, peering at me over them and giving a friendly grin.

Oh my God, I need to get out of here.

I stand and stuff my things back into my bag, hightailing it out. I stop short, nearly grabbing a woman’s boobs when I aim my hands for her shoulders. “Sorry!” Dodging around her, I keep my eyes down, but that makes my brain wonder feverishly if the toes belong to someone who’s naked—and if their feet match what I think the bodies should look like, based on flip-flops and nail polish…or toe hair.

Preoccupied with a huge pair of men’s feet and trying very hard not to look up, I collide with a fortysomething man wearing nothing but flip-flops and a gold necklace—and sprawl face-first on the sand.

“Whoops!” He squats down just as I turn my head to spit out some sand, and this is not his most flattering angle. He’s slick with oil, and when he helps me to my feet, he leaves shiny patches on my hands and forearms. “You OK?”

“I’m fine.” My voice comes out an octave too high, and I ooze out an embarrassed “Thanks” and scurry away, still smelling like his coconut suntan oil.

Was that rude? Should I have stayed and chatted with him? How the hell do you chat with a shiny, naked guy? Flustered, I rush back the way I originally came, stopping when I find what I’m looking for.

This is where the stranger asked about the nude beach before. Now that I’m here again, I see the signs pointing to Sunny Isles Beach—where I was trying to go instead of Haulover Beach. Thaddeus’s call must have distracted me.

I can’t believe it, but the sign for Haulover confirms what the boldly bared genitals have already shown me.

I found the nude beach.

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