#loitering around home in nude nothing to see here

[grumpy-limsan-customs-cat]

Scenery Censor - Otte Dreamwalker

I...randomised it and got Otte anyway. This was a challenge to do, but still fun! In hindsight I should’ve used the grimoire as well...

1. You can use anything for the censor. Be it scenery, weapons, minions mounts etc.

2. You cannot edit the image in any way bar resizing or cropping the image. However you can use whatever effects you want in /gpose

Tagged by: @secondhand-sev

Tagging: @eggplant-xaela @chxsingthemoon @sunseekermercenary @hithren @oyuudatass AND YOU

[stradanie]

tagged by @autofluorescent , thanks my dude, time to answer hygiene questions (I love hygiene lawrd)

Skin Care

What facial cleanser do you use?: cera ve... I guess that’s what it’s called. I use the wash thing and the moisturizer because my skin can be freakishly dry.

What toner do you use?: NOTHING! Well, sometimes I use a rose one, I dunno the brand...

What moisturizer do you use?: the cera ve one

How many times a day do you wash your face?: twice if I am motivated enough

Do you use eye makeup remover?: BABY OIL

If so, what kind?: BABY OIL

Is your skin oily, dry, or combination?: combination unfortunately

What is the best part about your skin?: it glows on occasion

What are your skin problems?: flushing, getting red SO EASILY, getting sunburned SO EASILY, peeling all the time, super oily... it’s a madhouse up in here

Makeup

What foundation do you use?: some neutrogena thing in the shade light ivory. I used to use the revlon in porcelain, but that made my skin too dry

What powder do you use?: i coat myself in baby powder... is that bad?

What eyebrow pencil do you use?: the elf eyebrow kit and an angled brush... it’s phenomenol. 

What eyeliner do you use?: kat von d tattoo liner sample thing. it’s so good, when i get $20 i can finally get one for myself.

What is your favorite eyeshadow?: I tried a tarte thing from a friend and wow, is this what good makeup feels like? I use shitty kid’s makeup for eyeshadow... so I dunno I need some :(

What mascara do you use?: the spider one cuz im EDGY

What are five of your favorite lip balms/glosses/sticks?: nude liquid lipsticks look stunning, but black and other bright colors are always a good choice.

Hair:

Do you color your hair?: I guess

At home or the salon?: salon (I’m too scared to put my life in my own hands)

What salon do you go to?: I dunno the name...

What is your natural hair color?: sad dirty blonde

What is your hair color now?: red

Do you have straight or curly hair?: super curly

Do you use a curling iron?: nope haha

A straightener?: uh-uh

What kinds?: what are you even talking about?

Do you use a blowdryer?: I don’t have that kind of money

Do you use a gel and if so, what kind?: No... they always look awful on me

Do you use mousse and if so, what kind?: Nooooo

Do you use serum and if so, what kind?: Ehhhh

What shampoo do you use?: baby shampoo lmao

What conditioner do you use?: a revlon color stay? I dunno

Scents: I use a perfume my mom forces on me since the age of 5, so I HOPE i smell like a sweet little flower most of the time. My favorite smells are rum, leather, whisky, and vanilla.

What deodorant do you use?: men’s super deodorant... it’s in blue and it industrial AF

What body wash do you use?: a dove smooth skin cocoa butter one haha

Do you use a loofah or washcloth?: neither???

What perfumes do you use or like?: I ALREADY SAID THIS

What is your jewelry essential?: an old gold family ring, a tiger’s eye ring, my 80s tiny hoop earrings, and a victorian necklace for special events.

Miscellaneous:

Favorite magazine?: I don’t really read magazines... when I looked at vanity fair the other day I saw that it featured the probably fucked up daughter of michael jackson pretending to loiter around Paris (cause her name is paris??? or is this the... nvm) with men dressed like WWII soldiers, with bombers flying everywhere?? what the hell guys, why are you doing this?!?!?

Favorite nail polish brand?: anything black???

Favorite book?: At the moment, it’s the novella ‘Reflections in a Golden Eye’. It’s a book published in the late 40s early 50s about homosexuality in the south (amongst other things); it’s riveting.

Favorite band?: As of now, Japan? The Smiths? David Bowie??? This is a cruel question

How would you describe your personal style?: sad goth gave up on wearing all black and instead turns into a bejeweled tacky punk prince/sad heterosexuality

What is your favorite shirt?: a button up shirt with cool geometric patterns. I’m an 80s man.

What are your favorite pair of jeans?: black baggy jeans. and no, they are NOT BLUE!!!

I dunno who to tag, considering I’ve most likely harrassed dozens upon dozens of innocent victims, so if you see this and are interested, just say that I tagged ya! xx

[davidastbury]

2920 c

Shorts ... #27

He hadn’t been kind to his mother; he hadn’t treated he as he should have done. He never allowed her to get close - rejected her kindnesses - discarded her gifts - didn’t thank her - never showed any gratitude. When they talked he never said the things he should have said, but often said a lot of things he should not have said.

All this was long ago and one way or another he has found ways to be at peace with it. Of course he never asked for her to be his slave - he never wanted her eagerness to do everything for him. And so, here he is today, feeling that same wordless irritation as his second wife over sweetens his tea.

A lost skill .... written by Janet Bailey

There has been a lot of posts about the mills in Bury. When I was hairdressing in the early '60's we used to have lots of women from the cotton mills come for their hair done. You wouldn't dare say anything about them when they were under the hair dryer because they could lip read anything you said. They used to talk to each other while they were under the hairdyers by what they called 'me mawing' just moving there lips. 😃

(Mee-mawing was a form of speech with exaggerated movements to allow lip reading employed by workers in weaving sheds in Lancashire in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. The noise in a weaving shed rendered hearing impossible so workers communicated by mee-mawing which was a cross between mime and lip reading. To have a private conversation when there were other weavers present, the speaker would cup their hand over their mouth to obscure vision. This was very necessary as a mee-mawer would be able to communicate over distances of tens of yards. It was said that each mill had its own dialect.

"Stop mee-mawing at me!" means "Stop pulling faces at me or talking behind my back”).

On the Train

She has a disfigurement but I am not going to say anything about it. She’s about twelve or so and life must be difficult. Let’s hope that the doctors will do something - perhaps they have to wait until she reaches a certain age - perhaps they will do something soon.

I can see how she wears her hair in a thick curtain and how she raises one of her shoulders.

Oh God, I hope things are okay at school. I hope she has a loving home - I hope someone is telling her, repeatedly, that she is beautiful.

Night Out

A group of friends - glad to see each other - glad to get drunk together. The men ruddy and randy; the women collapsing with laughter - their voices strident and confident; expressive and exhilaratingly filthy.

So much to be afraid of! So many uncertainties - but none tonight - simply the joy of being a forty-year-old child.

Winter Nights 1965

Cheap rented room in Whalley Range. She’d tried to fix up curtains - tried to make it nice. No TV and burglars had stolen her radio. It was a large room; a leftover from a different world; you could see it in the high ceilings, the double dado rails, the missing interior shutters; the grandeur of the chalk coloured fireplace with its florid carved scrolls, now reduced to housing a sad little electric fire.

These were nights of twilight and shadows; when it seemed as cold inside as out. When the yellow streetlights leaked through the draughty windows and the twigs of the giant chestnut tree scraped across the glass.

And they huddled together. They couldn’t have been happier. Nights of cider and cigarettes - of sour metallic kisses - nights when he couldn’t get enough of her - nights when he was insatiable for her quick mind, her breath, her hair, her voice, her face, warmth, smell.

And the world could not offer anything better to him - he never forgot those nights in the cheap rented room in Whalley Range.

Madame

During our last stay in this hotel we got to know one of the long-term residents. It was at the time of her eightieth birthday and the staff made a big fuss for her. I was fascinated by her raucous smoker’s voice and how she called everyone ‘dhaaa-ling’ - and the way she somehow combined being warm and friendly with downright aggressiveness.

I wrote a little piece about her which I posted on here at the time - just a simple incident - hopefully giving a truthful picture...

In the restaurant: Madame looks up sharply.

Madame: ‘Who has taken away my water?’

Waiter: ‘I took it, I thought you had finished.’

Madame: ‘Well, I haven’t!’

Waiter: ‘I will get you some more.’

Madame: ‘That’s no use. I had dissolved my pills in that glass!’

Waiter: ‘I am sorry.’

Madame: ‘It will be your fault if I get pregnant.’

So we were delighted to see her again - and to learn that she hasn’t slowed down.

We sat at the next table and Pat was able to overhear this little gem.

Madame: ‘Waiter!’

Waiter: ‘Yes Madame?’

Madame: (poking dish with a fork) ‘Is this really butter?’

Waiter: ‘Yes it is, Madame.’

Madame: ‘I do not believe you. I don’t think this is butter at all - it’s more like candle-wax: if I dig into it I will probably find a wick!’

The school bag.

The hotel allocates a space where departing guests can leave items for which they have no further use. Four or five shelves brimming with things like deluxe swimming goggles, piles of books and magazines, inflatable alligators, straw hats, sun creams, flip flops etc. Anyone can take what they want.

I saw a girls school bag; lots of pockets, pink shoulder straps - a bit knocked about - ‘well used’ is the phrase. The interior was scuffed and marked by felt-tip pens, which the owner had not capped - and traces of stickers, unsuccessfully scratched away by her thumbnail. I held it upside down to shake out the sand and the flap swung open revealing a drawing on the underside - a childish image of a kitten in a bow tie, surrounded by bunches of marijuana leaves. I had to smile.

And then, under the picture of the unfeasibly cute kitten, she had neatly stencilled her name ... Lucie Wider.

I put it back on the shelf.

‘O Master of the Universe,

Bless the life of Lucie Wider!’

R.

We knew each other for a few short weeks - right up to the time she left out little town forever. London was the magnet and I understood her reasons for going - I didn’t question any of it - I let the day come round and carried her bags and cases to the station - and I watched the bus take her away.

That was a long time ago. I heard nothing from her in the first few weeks and months - and then the months became years - in fact, nearly sixty years. And now others will have filled her life and they will see her as she is - but for me it is entirely different - I hold a gleaming fragment - fixed forever at that moment; how she had panicked over a last-minute confusion with her ticket - how she was cheerful and tried not to look at me - how she was heartbreakingly soulful - how she tried to smile and how hard she tried not to cry.

Ian and Lorna...1966

‘Come round anytime’ - said Ian - so I did. It was a midweek afternoon and I cannot remember why I was free, but I was. The door wasn’t fastened and I pushed it back and went in. Silence. No sign of Ian - no sign of anyone. And then I saw the shoes - his and hers; Ian’s and Lorna’s.

I stood staring at them and thinking that in a medieval painting it would have meant that the two saints had gone to heaven. I then realised that they were upstairs in the bedroom, so in a way, they had gone to heaven.

A window was open and the curtains were flapping. There was a school nearby, and it must have been playtime; voices shrieking and screaming with happiness.

I left - pulling the door shut behind me.

The Room ... 1964

She kept the rent-book on a table near the door, so that the landlord didn’t have a need to come into the room. It was a large room with three south-facing windows and the green carpet had three bands of faded colour, bleached by the summer sunshine. The furniture obviously hadn’t been planned; a few items bought with economy in mind - a sofa with cat scratches, a cheap drop-leaf table, a wardrobe with a door that kept swinging open, a strong, ugly bed. The only expensive item was her Spanish guitar, propped in the corner furthest from the door, next to a pile of sheet music.

She was very tidy; he wasn’t - but she didn’t mind. When alone she put all his ‘stuff’ away and did what she could to make the room attractive; but it was always unpleasant - except for the nights when they were together - the nights when, in the gloom, she glowed like a silver goddess and their damp foreheads touched and he saw both her eyes melt together and become a single eye, like a beautiful cyclops and she and the room slid into a perfection where everything was sour, salty, brackish.

Roman Baths

My dislike of the ancient Romans - and pretty much everything about them - has caused my aversion to ‘health spas’. I am sure that the Roman enthusiasm for personal hygiene and public bathing played a significant part in their decadence - and as such I avoid the modern equivalent of these facilities.

I have no wish to linger in agitated tepid water nor to loiter, like Nero, in steam rooms, with a towel over one shoulder. Nor to be oiled and mauled by persons of either sex. I am repulsed by the fussing and pampering and the weird relaxed regression into childishness. And despite great admiration for Jim Bacchus, I would not enjoy sprawling bare bellied, with a bunch of grapes on my head, a goblet of wine in my hand, surrounded by the nude frolickings of nymphs and Cupids.

Natasha and her brother Nikolai in their droshky, returning home, late at night.

‘You know,’ she suddenly said, ‘I know I’ll never again be as happy and peaceful as I am now.’

‘That’s nonsense, silliness, rubbish,’ said Nikolai, and thought: ‘How lovely my Natasha is! I have no other friend like her and never will. Why is she getting married? We could keep driving around together!’

‘How lovely my Nikolai is!’ thought Natasha.

‘Ah! there’s still light in the drawing room,’ she said, pointing to the windows of the house, shining beautifully in the wet, velvet darkness of the night.

( Tolstoy: War And Peace ... vol.2 pt.7 )

The Couple

I had a feeling that things would not go well for them. Everything looked fine; they were young and radiated happiness and optimism - he, doing well at his firm; she, post-grad in Russian Lit and offered a permanent position - you couldn’t find a nicer couple. But I had this feeling and it coloured the way I viewed them.

Impossible to put into words, of course. It wasn’t anything that I could explain - utterly intangible - to the point that I suspected myself of projecting some inner malice - some grudging resentment - perhaps some unconscious jealousy.

Only later, when hearing from friends, did a faint perception begin to dawn. There had been too much of ‘something’ about them. I didn’t know what that something was - I still don’t know what it was ... but that ‘too much’, which had illuminated their happiness and optimism, became the ‘too much’ which broke them.

[itsjayyyy]

June 26th, 2019 11:50 am

holy hell it’s been a long time since my last update. First of all: that last update ended at a really climactic moment and I’m mad that I don’t remember what happened next, or even that it ever happened. It’s like reading a book that ends on a cliffhanger and has no sequel.

So I did end up getting everything from the last update resolved. Rose took a week but finally responded with “you’ve made a lot of valid points, I want to work harder to repair our friendship.” Regardless of whether I believe her, at least I had this exchange to hold her accountable. I got my tire changed a week after I said I would. My mechanic looked at it and was like “what the fuck is wrong with you” because the strip became a continuous 2.5-inch wide belt of smoothness. We passed the apartment inspection, but they did charge me the $250 for the pet fee. No big deal tho.

Recently mom has been wanting to move back to michigan. She’s tired of florida and the market is perfect for selling the house now. But dad says he won’t move until he can see for sure that rose gets her degree and can move out on her own terms, financially stable. Mom wants to give rose a hard deadline to move out. I agree with mom, rose is getting far too old to be living at her parent’s home rent free considering she makes almost double what I do, and I’m entirely independent. Like seriously, where is her money going? An ounce of weed a week? Buying her boyfriend a new xbox and games? Fixing her piece of shit car which broke down again a week later? (she wants to buy a stick shift this time. I’m not gonna tell her it’s a bad idea, bc she’ll prob sell it to me for cheap after she gives up learning to drive). Now iris and I are trying to apply gentle pressure on her to get her life together, and by that I mean I lashed out pretty strongly over text and now iris is gonna come by and comfort rose while also subtly agreeing with me.

I just barely passed my classes and kept my scholarship with a 3.008 gpa. tell me that ain’t god’s work. I failed calculus with a whole F again, but I’m gonna really give it a better shot next semester. I *will* at least get a C. 

My comp 2 professor nominated me for the stylus award. I don’t think I’ll win because personally I think my essay was a rushed mess, but it’s nice to know that he thought it was that good. I picked up my portfolio from him, but haven’t reread it yet. Also, I stopped browing r/braincels like I used to. Even after the semester ended, I would still read every post for a long time, but I finally stopped when I felt like my mental health was declining. I mean, I don’t need to keep reading it anyways, the project is over. Sometimes I’ll go back on it and read a few posts, but not often.

This update is just pure procrastination btw. Not only am I procrastinating studying for my two midterms tomorrow, but also because I got back on Tinder last night and got three messages. I’m really an all-or-nothing kinda guy, I don’t like the idea of dating multiple people at once. which apparently isn’t how tinder is supposed to work; some online articles say “it’s best to have 10 conversations going at once” which I hate because it makes people seem so disposable. I swear, straight people treat dating as a business transaction, they’re always trying to shop around and discard what they have for a better thing. Anyways I don’t know how to respond to the messages, especially since I really only want to talk to one person at a time.

So anyways. Last semester ended, the summer semester began. Do you remember the first semester of college, how that one guy at a club meeting was a total creep and followed me (us?) onto the city bus and couldn’t take a hint to leave? Well I’m pretty sure he’s in my comp sci class, and he sits three seats to the left of me and looks over at me like once every 5 minutes. Also, two weeks into the semester, savon figured out I’m in discrete structures and has since then come to sit in on the lectures. And last thursday he loitered around the bookshelves near my seat in the library for an hour. I mean really, is he SO interested in plant diseases that he stared at the spines of the books for a whole hour?? I hate men.

Because of that, I had to study in HPA instead. It brought back memories, from when I thought I wanted to major in social work. Still love that vending machine they have that can make a latte for $1.50, I wish they had more of them on campus. Anyways as I was sitting there, this guy walked past me, then turned around and was like “oh I think you’re in my comp sci class.” He asked what we did in class and tbh it took me a hot minute to remember because my attention span has been shot recently. Dude didn’t even know we have an exam on thursday. He seemed kind of friendly, he’s majoring in computational physics. He asked me what my discord username and I hesitated before telling him bc like 2 hours prior, I said “man, that’s the first time anyone has said they love me in years” (in regards to the professor telling us he loves us).

I’m doing pretty decent in my classes. Definitely gonna get A’s or B’s in them. I’ve become more cordial with my parents too, I visit them once a week/every two weeks-ish. Rose and I had an argument on memorial day. She was basically delegating me to permanent third wheel, because she says she “never gets to act like a couple with peter in front of other people.” Apparently I’m a second-class citizen to “other people” since I’m the one that gets excluded. And it’s even worse considering the fact that rose is pretty much the only person that I talk to these days, like I have no other friends, so the few moments we do hang she wants to ignore me. I told her about this and all of a sudden she started saying “oh well you don’t even care about me anyways” like wow that’s not gaslighting or anything. 

That was about a month ago, and I’ve been in virtually complete isolation since then. I’ve hung out with heather for about two hours total in the last month, and other than that it’s just utter loneliness. Honestly I’m pretty sure my vocal cords are gonna grow weak from disuse; I mean I’ve rarely spoken my entire life and now it’s just getting worse. Severe isolation like this really feels like it’s deteriorating my brain; my memory is getting weaker, I can’t focus, all I think about is how I’m completely ugly and unloveable and nobody wants to be my friend because I’m such a horrible person. 

This lasted for all of gemini season, and at the start of cancer season I just started crying at everything. On sunday before I went to work I started watching she ra on netflix. By the second episode I had already cried twice; once because I thought it was so great that adora had friends who cared about her, once because I felt bad for catra for feeling abandoned. Then I cried at work because this family came in, dumped off their son in a wheelchair with a laptop, and then never came back for him the rest of the night. Then I cried the next morning because I felt lonely. Then I opened r/sad, read the most upvoted story, and cried again at that. I hate cancer season.

My life (financially and academically) is going fine, but the loneliness is what’s still making me feel like shit, which is why I got back on tinder. I mentioned that already, right? yeah, I still don’t know how to respond. There’s this one girl who also looks hapa like me, and by her bio I really want to talk to her but I’m nervous. Last night I was like “lemme smoke a little to relax then I’ll message her” but then after smoking I was like “lemme have some vodka and punch” and then I decided to do a hair mask, followed by a long shower, followed by taking nudes (it was a lot of vodka, man). And by then it was 10pm and I couldn’t respond without looking sleazy. So now, here I am, at 1:17 pm the next day, and I still haven’t responded. Or studied for my midterms tomorrow. I’m gonna die.

[3one3]

The Sequel - 895

Wardrobe Approval

André Schürrle, Juan Mata, other Chelsea/BVB players, and random awesome OC’s (okay they’re less random now but they’re still pretty awesome)

original epic tale

all chapters of The Sequel

Christina’s flight from Munich, where she stopped to visit her doctor, got her to Doha at 4:45 on Tuesday afternoon. Juan’s inbound flight from London arrived about an hour later, at 5:50. She wanted to hang out in the arrivals terminal and wait for him, but Jan Tops, the show jumping legend and proprietor of the Global Champions Tour, asked her to meet with him and the editor of the Tour’s new lifestyle magazine at the hotel so that she could sign some copies of the quarterly on which she was the debut cover star. The magazine launch was happening during the competition, on Saturday afternoon, between the Global Champions League Final and the Grand Prix of Doha. Christina wasn’t expected to change out of her riding clothes and get into a dress for all the pictures, or hang around the event for the whole two hours during which it was scheduled, so they wanted her to do a little photoshoot with the editor, someone from the publishing company, the photographer who came to Dortmund to get the art for the cover and her feature story, and the woman who wrote that feature, plus some of the big advertisers who subsidized much of the issue. Rather than wait for her companion at the airport, she needed to hurry to her hotel room bathroom and make herself pretty and put-together.

Some of the advertisers had gifts delivered in advance of her arrival. She found a box of Tom Ford makeup goodies, a bunch of Kiehl’s skincare products, a cashmere glove and scarf set from Loro Piana, a small Nancy Gonzalez shoulder bag, and some clothes from Rag & Bone and Gucci. From the gifts, she selected baby pink high-waisted, tie-front, wide-leg trousers to pair with a loose white crewneck blouse from home that had precious tie-detail cuffs too. Dramatic baby pink pants were a first for her, and that was somewhat exciting. Also, she kind of forgot that it was 80* and perpetually sunny where she was going when she packed black leather pants to go with that top. The pink trousers were much more appropriate for Doha. They were also way too long, so she had to wear them with the soaring sandals she brought for after-hours activities. The details of her pre-launch outfit were important because Juan totally didn’t recognize her in the lobby when he got to the Four Seasons. Christina had to excuse herself from the group of magazine people and click-clack-speed-walk to the elevator to intercept him. His phone didn’t work there yet, but she’d given him their room number when he had wifi in the airport. He was evidently very absorbed in the phone anyway, because she scared him half to death when she stepped in front of him and tried to kiss his cheek.

“I’m sorry,” she laughed at his surprised and defensive reaction.

“Why are you dressed like a wealthy 1970’s housewife?” the footballer questioned as he air-kissed both of her cheeks. He wisely avoided messing up the extensive makeup.

“Am I?” Christina looked down at her outfit and shrugged. She was happy to see him. That negated his skepticism about the wardrobe call.

“Yes,” Juan laughed. “A beautiful one though?” he asked more than stated.

“Do you want to go put your stuff in the room and then come hang out? I don’t know how long this is going to take. I just came down myself a minute ago. We’re doing the pictures outside by the pool.”

“I don’t want to interfere while you’re working. Go have your picture taken and then we’ll have some food, sí?”

“Do I have to change my outfit before dinner?” the rider sassed. Juan looked her up and down, appraising her clothes again.

“Yes. Hakkasan?”

“Yaaaaaassssss.” Her eyes grew big, brimming with excitement and temptation. I totally forgot they have a Hakkasan! We wanted to go last time but the guys decided to do Nobu instead since it’s right here. I want Peking duck.

“Is 8 too early? I’ll call for a table.”

A relatively low-maintenance girl from a wealthy New York family, Christina was the type to love aimless wandering around Paris with no plan or bookings, and then be equally enchanted by a man confidently offering a hard-to-get, sexy reservation for dinner. The princess within her, with her love of Smith & Wollensky steaks, her first-name-recognition of the best personal shoppers at Neiman Marcus, and her lash-fluttering adoration of smooth gentlemen with exceptional manners and perfectly tailored clothes, absolutely swooned for a dinner-date somewhere exclusive, poorly lit, overpriced, and heavy on the classic formality. She went weak in the knees at just the nonchalance in a princely gent’s invitation. She always had. It was a “Daddy Issue”. Anything was attainable for her father, so nothing was a big deal. She looked for that easy attitude in other men as an admirable and desirable trait. No other little girls were celebrating their 4th birthday at Windows on The World, the fine dining restaurant on the top floor of the World Trade Center, when she did. Surely no other little girls knew that the kitchen was in the basement and there were special high-speed elevators to bring the food up to the restaurant. At the same time, that little girl had a thirst for exploration and adventure that made a stroll along an unfamiliar street in a familiar city, or any street in a new one, with a game and curious companion, an absolute delight.

So as romantic and fun as her quick trip to Paris was with André, Christina was excited by Juan’s easy swooping in with the get-changed-I’m-taking-you-to-a-$250-duck-dinner thing within 60 seconds of laying eyes on her in a very, very foreign country. It was the seamlessness of it all. He came with a plan, but it didn’t sound overly curated- with just enough thoughtfulness to prove his understanding of his girlfriend and her travel habits, and that he’d looked forward to their trip enough to have checked out the local dining scene. He was wearing a black t-shirt and really nice medium wash blue jeans, and that meant he was automatically undeniable. He was clearly thrilled to see her too, but not in an outward way that anyone but Christina and his other close friends and family would notice. He didn’t need to go loiter around her while she fulfilled her work commitment. He had standards. He didn’t like her outfit and he didn’t want to take her out in it, but he wasn’t going to say it that way, or be a wimp and try to hint at it. He conveyed a clear but inoffensive message of disapproval. All of it added up to a very specific, “just so” manner that she found totally devastating in the best way. She gave him her room key and went back to the magazine gaggle with a swagger in her step.

She practically ran back to the elevator when they were finished doing photos, making her sign magazines, and schmoozing about the book, the competition, and the title. It was already 7:15 and she wasn’t sure how long the taxi ride to Hakkasan might be because she had no idea where the St. Regis was. Juan was speaking to someone on the phone when she got to the room- a predominantly beige affair with some dark wood furnishings, a nice enough sand-marble bathroom, and a good size terrace with a view of the pool and the sea. He made a hurry-up gesture and she turned around to go to the closet in the square-footage-wasting entrance hallway. There was a pair of light gray skinny jeans in her open suitcase on the stand in there, and an off-white polyester sleeveless top hanging above. Christina grabbed the pants and yanked the shirt off the hanger, then headed into the bedroom to change. Her pink trousers were so wide that she could get them off without removing her strappy sandals. It didn’t occur to her until she’d swapped shirts that she’d need to take the shoes off to get the jeans on. With a groan of frustration at that realization, she dropped the pants on the bedspread again and bent over to undo the tiny buckle on the gold-chain-accented Tom Ford sandal. It would have been much easier to put her butt on the bed too and not try to balance on one white 105mm heel, but haste overshadowed reason. And then the Spaniard on the phone overshadowed Christina.

Oh hello, she said to herself when she felt two hands on her hips and something like denim push into her butt. Those pink pants were fully lined and in no way see-through, but they fit snugly in the butt, so she wore one of the nude thongs she always had on under her breeches. Evidently her behind was too tempting in said thong to go ignored. Juan let go with one hand to adjust the phone held between his ear and his shoulder, and leaned more heavily into the rider. Without his help to keep her steady, she went flying.

“Dude!” she exclaimed in a heap on the floor. He had to pull the phone away from his face to save the ears of whomever he was speaking to from his hysterical guffawing. I guess I can get these off as long as I’m down here, Christina begrudgingly decided. Her dainty sandals included a wraparound ankle strap with a small gold chain stitched on top, and featured really annoying buckles. She’d only managed to get the end out of the keeper before her friend knocked her over. It was work to yank the prong out of the hole. Her Tom Fords were very lightly used, so the hole was still very tight. She mouthed “help” at Juan and made a woe-is-me face until he squatted to use some footballer strength to free her from her designer footwear. He even offered her a helping hand to get off the carpet, but then he was back on her bum again the second she bent over to stick her right foot in her jeans.

At least he’s nicer about it, the cover-girl snorted inside while the Chelsea man kneaded the plumpest part of her butt cheeks. His greedy fingers kept at it even as she shifted to get her other foot in the gray pants, and then moved up to her waist while she shimmied them up. By the time the button was through the hole and the zipper was up, his hands had found their way to her ribcage, just under her bra, and he was telling the person on the other end of the call, in Spanish, that he needed to go.

“I missed you more than usual, this past week,” Juan told her conversationally- that is to say, without sounding flirtatious, or seductive- once he was finished. Christina was fixing her pockets so that they weren’t bunched up on her hips.

“Get your filthy paws off me so I can finish getting ready,” she shot back, feigning more aggravation than she really harbored.

“We have time. I made the booking for 8:30.”

“Oh. Well then why did you tell me to hurry up and let me run around like a Trump campaign coffee boy in Moscow?”

“Because you use up as much time as you’re given. Turn around.” The player withdrew his hands just long enough for her to move, and then replaced them on her cheeks when he leaned forward to give her a real hello-kiss. We never get to have these when we first see each other, Christina reflected after it, while Juan lingered right in her face, his nose almost touching hers. We never get to do hello-kisses properly until we get behind closed doors somewhere. It sucks. You miss somebody and you’re so happy to see him and you can’t wait to touch him and smooch him and you have to do a phony, just-friends greeting instead of the I-love-you-sooooo-much one. It’s like if every time your team scored a goal, you couldn’t clap or fist pump, or yell “yeah!” until 5 minutes later in the restroom. Juan gave her one more little, tender kiss, and then sat heavily on the foot of the bed. “How was your magazine thing?”

“It was fine,” the equestrian star shrugged, plopping down beside him to make her life easier in terms of re-installing her sandals. “I just smiled a lot and then answered some questions about how my ponies are doing and who I think is going to win on Saturday.”

“Are you going to win on Saturday?”

“I dunno. Do you mind if we stop by Al Shaqab after dinner? I want to see Rio Grande and Socks.”

“Why would I mind? Did they just get here too?”

“No. I told you they came yesterday.”

“Should we bring them fortune cookies?”

“I don’t know if Hakkasan even does fortune cookies, but yes, if they do, absolutely,” Christina smiled. I’m glad my “head” coach has finally fully grasped the nature of my relationship with my boys. He finally gets that I treat them like spoiled children. Schü got that right away. He offered to buy Dirk a banana from the crepe tent the first time we had breakfast together, in Florida. It was like four days after we met. I know Juanin has been aware of those relationships but I’m not sure he always fully understood. I think it’s hard for people who don’t have animals to get it. “Should we go? Do you have my keycard? Let me just throw some stuff in a bag.”

They got a ride to the renowned Chinese restaurant and preceded to order way too much food, as was standard with Christina. She wanted the whole applewood Peking duck and the traditional pancakes and accompaniments, but also stir fried vegetables in ginger sauce, wok-fried lobster, fried rice, and sliced pepper steak. Juan pointed out that it wasn’t like being at home, where taking the copious extra food home made perfect sense. His date conceded the lobster and beef, and there was still leftovers. All they took with them after the marathon meal was fortune cookies, which they actually had to ask for. But then the security guards wouldn’t let them into Al Shaqab to give the horses their dessert anyway. Christina hadn’t yet been to the venue, so she didn’t have her credential yet, nor the player’s. Her passport wasn’t enough to get her in, and she was afraid to try bribery because she wasn’t sure if that was a big deal in a place like Qatar. The security officer they were dealing with had already flipped out about her leaning backwards on Juan and dropping her head on his shoulder because it brought her face awfully close to his and that was evidently a no-no in the land of no PDA allowed. It wasn’t even meant to be affectionate. Her feet just hurt from her shoes and the guy was taking a long time checking with superiors or something on the phone and her friend was there to physically support her. He made fun of her on the way back to the Four Seasons, joking about what a great public story it would be if she were thrown in a Qatari prison for being a heathen in public with not her husband.

“Daniel and Christian and the guys are chilling at the bar on the pier. Do you want to go have a drink or something?” the heathen inquired as she got out of the car in front of the hotel. “I know it’s late but with the time difference I feel like it’s early still.”

“The whole two hours.”

“Yes.”

“I don’t care. Whatever you want, cariña.”

“Okay. I’ll tell them we’re coming to say hey. I want to run upstairs first and get a sweater.”

“Mhm,” Juan yawned, holding the interior door for her. It was definitely getting colder out- down in the low 70’s from the afternoon’s mid-80’s, but the blast of the air-conditioning in the lobby was still quite noticeable. Christina put her texting on hold to rub her arm. It took a minute to get an elevator, and she walked up to her friend and demanded he either hug her or take over rubbing her bare arms for her while she tapped away at the phone.

“Who else is here?”

“Daniel, Christian, the other Christian, Marco, Nicola, maybe Janne? And then from not-Germany, Edwina, obvs, Eric, Scott, Simon, my friend from Spain, Kevin, Lorenzo, Bertram, Lauren and Laura and Lillie from the US, Ben, Janika...Most of the best people, except Marcus, because he doesn’t like leaving Europe, and the Americans who stayed home to do World Cup qualifiers at indoors. Oh and all my Belgian friends, who are also in the US to do the World Cup Qualifiers at indoors. Also, I told you all of this already. Do you not remember asking me about the competition and me going through the entire entry list, horse by horse, to assess the odds?”

“Maybe? I don’t know,” he shrugged, his voice kind of flat. She didn’t know how to take that. That’s the second thing he completely forgot or just never heard the first time, she realized. Is he tired, or in a bad mood? He’s the one who suggested coming here with me in the first place. I hope he didn’t wish he could take it back. I know tagging along on a horse show week can be really boring, and he talks to Marcus more than the other guys so that sucks that he’s not here, but I’m going to have so much free time to go do fun things with him. The doors dinged open and Juan’s hands dropped away from her goosebump-covered skin. They stepped out onto the generic blue hallway carpet together, turned to the left, and let themselves into the second door on the Gulf side.

“I think I’m gonna change my shoes too,” the rider announced before taking a seat on the foot of the bed. “Or I could just take these off and not put any on. Do you not want to go to the bar?”

“I don’t mind. It’s up to you.”

“Is something wrong? You’re all...meh, all of a sudden, Juanin.”

“You changed the picture on your mobile,” the Chelsea man replied after staring blankly in her direction for what seemed like a really long time. He sat next to her and pointed at the screen in her hand. Her new wallpaper was a selfie she took with André during a piggyback ride.

“I made Schü carry me up 4 million stairs at Sacre Coeur,” she smirked. “He lost a bet.”

“I don’t feel jealous of him many times. I think I’ve said, when I see you kiss him all day long I used to have that jealousy. Now you kiss me every time you get up or sit down, so not so much anymore. I feel it when you go to Paris with him though,” Juan laughed ruefully. “Remember when you were pregnant and you invited yourself to some dinner I had to go to? We almost didn’t go because you wanted to drive to Paris.”

“And then I said I was kidding and went to Paris with Schü in the middle of the night.” Christina finished the memory for him with a look of resignation about her.

“Twice you go off to Paris for a quick last minute trip with him.”

“Twice I told him I wanted to go wander around Paris and eat in quintessentially French cafes, and twice he didn’t hesitate.”

“Neither did I.”

“I know. And it was really fucked up of me the first time. But why are you mad about it this time?”

“I’m not mad. I’m jeeealouuuuus.” Juan drawled out his answer as if he were talking to someone with trouble understanding, and he smiled. That was a good enough signal to make his friend feel significantly less under pressure in the moment. She hated when she did the wrong thing, and that overnight drive to Paris back in the day was definitely the wrong thing.

“You got upset with me last week for being jealous that you talked to some girl in a nightclub,” she shot back pointedly, but just to be funny. She also flopped backward on the mattress and drew her knees up, then let them fall over to her right, toward him.

“Different thing.”

“Oh is it?”

“Yes. I think, in my official capacity here as your psychological coach, that it would be best for you, with the competition in mind, to start getting ready for bed. No drinks on the pier.”

“And in your capacity here as not my psychological coach, is that opinion based on your need for snuggles in front of the TV, or sexy fun time? Or are you just worried you’re gonna get jealous when I laugh too hard at D’s jokes?”

“To be honest I just thought you were hoping I would say no in the first place, and that you sat down and got comfortable because you don’t really want to go down there,” Juan chuckled. “I don’t care whichever we do. Usually when you want to do something you just tell me we’re doing it. I assumed you were looking for me to say no and give you an excuse.”

“Oh I am done feeling obligated to do anything with my teammates,” Christina snorted dismissively. “I don’t need any excuses. I won them a fucking gold medal.” She did her best “honey, please” tone.

“Well let’s go then,” her scruffy-faced roommate replied, poking at her tummy where her shirt had ridden up as she stretched her legs down straight.

“I’ve kind of lost the motivation to get up though.”

“And is that based on your need for cuddles in front of the television, or sexy fun time?” the Spaniard questioned knowingly. She rolled onto her stomach, and he jiggled one side of her butt as much as was possible in her tight jeans.

“Both, I think. I need to do nothing until the food blockade breaks up, and then I need Juanin love.” Her hips lifted up off the bedspread so that she could shake her butt herself. I need Juanin to fuck me in this position exactly. Well, I would probably sit up on my elbows. Because he does amazing things to me in this position, and because I love how good it feels to stretch my lower back. Nicky needs his chiropractor every other week and I need mine. Mine’s more handsome, she thought, trying to keep the smile out of her eyes while giving him her innocent and nonchalant look. He rolled his eyes at her, pinched her behind, and got up to start changing into more comfortable clothes.

She texted Daniel to cancel her appearance, and confirmed her morning schedule with Tom, whose accommodations were right at Al Shaqab. The royal equestrian facility was designed for hosting international competitions of all sorts, and had a place for everyone involved- equine and human. Organizers of other shows, be they regional show jumping events, breed shows, or the very popular Arabian competitions, put exhibitors and riders up in the same dormitory-like rooms on site that Tom and his colleagues were in. The Global Champions Tour was too fancy for that. The Tour always put riders up in a 4 or 5 star hotel, no matter the city. Getting riders to go to places like Doha and Shanghai was hard enough without then putting them in dorms. The schedule they went over was quite light. Wednesday involved a mid-morning horse inspection followed by a draw for the starting order for the first big event, open schooling in the arena from 4-6, and then a formal warm-up class immediately after that ran like a regular class but counted for naught. Both of Christina’s horses were to be presented for the jog after 11, so there would be plenty of time to sleep in, work out, and have a nice breakfast before heading over. Then there was time to leave the show and go shopping or wandering, or come back to the hotel to relax by the pool. All of that was explained to Juan, with extra emphasis on the free time. He didn’t react in any remarkable way. She didn’t want to see his reaction to her goodnight call to André, so she made it outside on the balcony.

“Are you exhausted from playing?” she asked him, since Borussia Dortmund played a closed-doors friendly at Brackel against Bochum to try to shed the funk of losing and give some of the players returning from injury a chance to get minutes without pressure. André participated for 90 minutes and scored two goals in the 4-2 win.

“Yes. I’m about to go to bed. I’ve got one of your cashmere blankets, and the lights are already off,” he told her. “I want to hear about your night, Prinzessin, but I need to sleep.”

“Aww don’t worry. There’s nothing to hear about. Get some rest. You deserve it. I bet you’ll sleep good. Call me in the morning.”

“Love you.”

“Gooodnight, babe.” Well no reason to have shielded Juanin from THAT, the sympathetic wife and girlfriend commented to herself. This is kind of a weird time for me between the two of them. I had that talk with Schü two nights ago, and lately it’s so easy to remember why I want to be with him. But nothing is changing with Juan. I still want to be with him too. He’s so...We’re so...It’s like a real relationship now. We don’t even pretend to be friends anymore. It’s weird to be in this situation. It’s okay, right now. I don’t know how long that lasts though, she thought, staring out into the Arabian Gulf and zoning out of everything else happening around her- behind, in the room, and down on the ground level, where people hung out by the pool and on the pier. When does it start to feel like there isn’t enough to go round? When does it feel like one takes away from the other? Like I told Schü, it was easy before to be okay with our problems because I had Juan. I put more of me into being with him than Schü in those situations. It’s not- The sound of the sliding door opening startled her out of introspection. A head stuck out.

“What are you doing?” it questioned with furrowed brows.

“Nothing.”

“Do you want anything from room service? I feel like a nice tea.”

“No thank you.”

“You okay?”

“Yeah. Schü was going to sleep so it was a quick call. I’m coming in,” Christina hastily explained. She turned the rest of the way around from the railing, and Juan pushed the door open more so a whole human could fit through rather than just a head. “Did you unpack anything earlier? I didn’t even notice when I was hurrying to change. I can give up some hangers if you need.”

“I already hung up my shirts. Is the white dress in there for the party on Saturday?” He walked by the human unzipping her pants and headed for the phone, but there was more than a conversational lilt to his tone, and that caught her ear. It made her smile to herself. She loved knowing his tells, and knowing his turn-ons. He was entirely the reason there was a white dress in the closet.

“The black Balmain mesh-sleeve mini dress fresh from Paris is for the party. The white one-shoulder, collar-neck mini dress is for your Kygo thing.” Because you looooove me in white dresses and because you’re gonna dance with me and hopefully you’ll be a little drunk. And maybe I won’t wear underwear. Hmm. The rider stared at the imaginary light bulb in the middle distance for a moment before pushing her jeans down. Everything is backwards. I did the explore-a-city-with-no-plan thing with Schü, and then had excessively romantic sex with him, and he’s been totally chill about Juan lately. Juan did the smooth-guy-dinner-reservation thing, he’s the one that’s jealous, and I just had a mini-fantasy about being naughty with him in a nightclub in the most prude country I’ve ever been in. Usually everything is the opposite. I’ve been having all the romantic sex with him, and dreaming about it, even. I told Juan about my butt thing. Everything is opposite.

“Do you want to have dinner with him tomorrow or no?” The Spaniard had his hand on the receiver already but was looking at the spacey rider.

“Yeah, if you want. I don’t care. I should be done with the horses by 8. I can have a snack or something between the schooling and the warm up so I can make it to late dinner.”

“But do you have another dress?” he teased while pushing buttons. Someone in the kitchen answered before Christina had a chance to. He ordered his tea and she changed into a t-shirt and more comfortable underwear.

[anyangelshere]

MDSOA: Too Hot Part 1

Fandom: Mystic Destinies: Serendipity of Aeons (MDSOA) Characters:  Tatsuya + Seina Rating: PG Genre: Teasing fluff 

Summary:  When the weather is way too hot to the point you get heat exhaustion. And you have a tsundere ice dragon to help you feel better and worry about you.

For @aitheon   |  Tatsuya/MDSOA Owned by @aeondreamstudios​

Seina sighed softly as she walked into the apartment. Why was it that summer had to be so hot and long? It was not her favourite season and her shirt especially was sticking to her in the most uncomfortable way. She pulled a face as she tugged at the t-shirt in an attempt to pull it away from her body. 

It was like the fabric had soaked up all of the sweat she’d been giving off for the last few hours. To be honest it was really gross. She couldn’t think of much worse than being soaked in sweat, apart from staying that way.

Blue and green eyes shifted around the familiar apartment. She was there alone though Takumi had said he’d meet her there once he finished an errand though he’d told her where they left the spare key. Honestly she wasn’t even sure how he managed to convince Tatsuya to leave the key there. 

Maybe he didn’t know...

The kitsune loitered for a few moments before finally shrugging and putting her bags down near the couch. Pressing a button she turned on the air-conditioning before continuing towards the bathroom, pulling a fresh towel from the closet as she walked by. Takumi had told her to make herself at home after all, the least he could do was lend her his shower considering the state she was in.

Preferably his washing machine as well.

Once in the bathroom Seina stripped out of the long knee-high socks, denim shorts and blue t-shirt that had some English saying across the front. She dropped them in a pile though she hesitated chewing on her bottom lip, if she showered first she wouldn’t have anything to wear when she got out.

Finally she shrugged deciding it didn’t matter. She wrapped the fluffy towel around herself and tucking the edge between her breasts before gingerly picking up her clothes. Holding the sweaty articles of clothing away from herself as she all but tiptoed towards the laundry. Wandering around someone else’s apartment in a towel seemed incredibly naughty. A soft giggle escaping her as she imagined the reactions she’d earn if she was caught, especially Tatsuya.

Once in the laundry she dumped the clothing into the washing machine before searching until she found the detergent. Reading the instructions she mumbled something under her breath as she followed them. Finally she pressed a few buttons while on tip-toe before stepping back. 

The trials of being short.

Once the water started running into the machine she nodded and retraced her steps. Walking on the balls of her feet she let her fingertips trail across the wall and she hesitated momentarily at the closed door. A hint of mischief glinting in the dual coloured eyes as she hesitated there on the threshold before gingerly turning the doorknob and pushing the door open. 

Revealing an empty bedroom that she’d only been in a handful of times.

Seina really wasn’t the type to wander around nude or in a towel. So instead she was on a mission to garner herself some replacement clothing while she waited for hers to get washed and dried. She tiptoed into the bedroom feeling very much like a thief as she made her way to the draws with barely suppressed glee. Taking her time to carefully rifle through the articles of clothing before removing a comfy, soft blue button-up shirt and a pair of black boxers.

After removing the articles she put it back the way she’d found it. Mostly.

Part of the fun was Tatsuya realising she’d borrowed his clothes after all, she thought with an impish smile as she all but skipped out of the room with her bounty and headed back into the bathroom. Nudging the door shut with her hip causing it to close with a gentle click. She placed the clothing on the vanity before reaching up to release her hair from the bun on the top of her head.

She paused, cocking her head to the side when she heard keys in the front door. Momentary surprise caused her to hum softly under her breath as the familiar scent reached her nose and footsteps reached her ears even from the distance. With her enhanced senses she could tell it wasn’t who she was expecting.

Instead of Takumi, it appeared Tatsuya was home.

Seina released the long honey-blonde strands that fell past her waist and as she released her hair a thought crossed her mind. Or rather a series of thoughts of just how helpful an ice dragon could be right now. Thoughts of icy skin pressed against hers cooling her heated body as fingers trailed across her sides. She stifled a groan as her body responded and heated up. She chuckled softly, she was supposed to be cooling off not making it worse.

She turned the cold tap of the shower. Definitely a cold shower.

Tatsuya had noticed that there was someone else unexpected was there, Seina. His senses were sharper than human as well and he could smell her lingering scent, that and the familiar bags near the couch was a give away. 

However, he was surprised at the sound of the shower turning on. What on earth was she in the shower for? He walked towards the bathroom and hovered near the door before knocking, “Seina?”

“Yeah what?” She called back, before cursing as she knocked her elbow on the glass screen.

“Why...are you in my shower?”

Kit snorted softly at the question and stepped beneath the spray of cold water, flinching only slightly at the difference in temperature. It was a welcome sensation but still it was a shock to the system. Anything would be after being stuck in the classroom without air-conditioning she thought with a scowl.

“Kit?” He called again through the door.

“Yeah, yeah I’m here,” she said poking her tongue out at the door despite the fact he couldn’t see her.  A completely playful action even if it was lost on the ice dragon beyond the door. “I am in your shower because I was stuck in a classroom without air-conditioning. It was beyond awful...I thought I was going to die.  Takumi said that I could make myself at home until he finished his errand and I need to cool off before I get sick. Or worse.”

A few minutes ticked by before finally a knock sounded on the door, “Did...did you lock the door?”

“No, I didn’t.” Seina said amused at the question as she stepped further under the cold spray, feeling the icy droplets sliding over her heated skin. Trailing paths along the curve of her spine and down her thighs as she let out a sigh of pure bliss before adding. “I can’t say I expected either you or Takumi home for a quite a while. So I thought I had time to kill.”

Silence reigned for a few minutes and Kit almost wondered if he’d walked away. Before Tatsuya spoke again, the mixture of hesitation and awkwardness was more than audible in his voice, “Can...c-can I come in?”

Laughter bubbled up in her throat before echoing through the room, “Yes Tatsuya, you can come into your own bathroom.”

“What do you mean by...get sick, or worse?” Tatsuya mumbled just loud enough for her to hear over the water. Gingerly the door inched open a few inches though he didn’t step through the threshold even as he asked his questions. “I know more about ice dragons than Kitsunes and humans, sorry...”

Seemingly unfazed by the ice dragon that was peering into the bathroom, Seina stepped backwards allowing her hair to get drenched by the lovely, ice cold water. “It’s about the same as what you experience when you get too hot I imagine,” she explained even as she closed her eyes, just basking in the feeling of the cool water on her hot scalp, soaking into her pores and falling around her much like a waterfall. “Heat exhaustion just happens at a higher temperature for Kitsune than for your kind. If we get too hot...we can get dehydrated, then we might throw up or collapse. It’s really not a fun process no matter the race..”

She heard footsteps faintly beneath the fall of water as she ran her hands over her hair slicking it back. Blue and green dual eyes shifting towards Tatsu as he made his way into the room finally to lean against the vanity counter top near where she’d left the clothes earlier. He kept his gaze averted from her quite pointedly though despite the droplets of water that trailed down the glass. 

Due to the icy temperature of the water there was no steam to fog the glass and hide each other from sight.  She was pretty sure he was blushing...but then Tatsu really was fairly easy to make blush. Adorably so.

“C-collapse?” he inquired sounding concerned but embarrassed. Awkwardly shifting his weight as he looked at the tiles, “Are you alright? You’re not going to collapse in the shower or something, right?”

“Aww Tatsu are you afraid I’m going to die in your house?” She said playfully, not at all surprised if that was the case. The dragon was nothing if not logical. She could just imagine him straight faced stating he didn’t want to explain why she died in his shower or go through the process of cleaning up the body, the thought sent her into another fit of giggles.

Confusing Tatsuya obviously since he hadn’t heard her internal monologue.

“What? No! I...was concerned,” Tatsuya countered and glanced towards the shower only to get an eye full of bare skin and curves turning him bright red all over again. He looked away and covered his eyes, almost knocking off his glasses in the process.

Glancing towards him she chuckled before turning towards the taps, tilting her head back she opened her mouth and swallowed some of the water that filtered into it. Knowing she needed to replace the water she’d lost as well.

She probably should have had a drink earlier now that she thought about it.  

[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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