#uglywettiewrites

[mellicose]

I recently got into broadchurch again and I can't wait to go work my way through all your alec hardy fics again, it's going to be such a delight! I saw that the links on tumblr don't work anymore since you switched to this url, is everything still posted on ao3? That one will burton fic with the rubber ducky lives rent free in my head, ever since I read it like 7 years ago lmao

(Also.... that one scene in season 3 episode 8 where alec traces his fingers over the map...... 👀)

Hello, and thanks for the ask.

There are a bunch of fics still on my Ao3, and the ones I posted here still exist, but even I have to be tenacious searching for them. I know people are finding them anyway with the #uglywettiewrites or #alec hardy tags, because I can see the likes (which are deeply appreciated!).

Alec Hardy is still top tier Bae. I love him so, so much ❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥

[basmathgirl]

Rules: Write the latest line from a WIP and tag as many people as there are words in the line. Make a new post, don’t reblog.

Thank you @kira-7 for tagging me! You’re a star 😁

The last sentence I wrote for my WIP is:

A couple of the locals were sitting in the shade it offered, making the most of the respite it gave, although the flies hovering around them hadn’t got the same memo.

Oh dear. That’s far too many words, so I tag: @some-thrilling-heroics, @smackalicious, @raywritesthings, @uglywettiewrites, @jaskierswolf, @quillingmesoftly, @summerartist, @pia-writes-things, @imnotacommittee, @waywren and anybody else who might like to try this (and sorry to those who don’t want to do this meme).

[too-funky]

Do you want to visualise David Tennant in a variety of saucy situations? OF COURSE YOU DO.

I have been wanting to do a fic rec for a while and I'm starting with @uglywettiewrites who composes the most beautiful stories based on characters played by DT.

You could lose yourself for a month or more devouring her gorgeous (and super hot) tales... here's my top five:

5. Lily Bloom

(Walt Jodell, Camping)

Enjoyable plot, great character building, and a romantic and evocative midnight tryst in the woods.

4. 31 Days of Porn, Uglywettie Style - Day #26

(Alec Hardy, Broadchurch)

There's something very appealing about Alec Hardy being driven to distraction and having desperate but fulfilling sex at a party. This is well paced, funny, hot, and emotionally satisfying too.

3. Beauty Before the Flames

(Jean-François Mercier, Spies of Warsaw)

Beautiful scene-setting, a confident woman, and drawn-out lovemaking with Jean-François Mercier? Yes please.

2. A Brighter Color

(Jean-François Mercier, Spies of Warsaw)

I guess I have a thing for Jean-François and confident, sexy women because this one is epic and I absolutely love it.

1. Seven Minutes in Heaven

(Walt Jodell, Camping)

I have lived for days in this fic, reading it over and over. Cleverly told, and so hot it's practically on fire.

[indvoran]

Fanfic Author's Appreciation Day

Fic recs:

If you like fanfiction, DT characters, good writing, juicy sex scenes, a perfect mixture of on-spot in-character depiction and author's freedom (e.g. OCs), a sliver of darkness, you WILL love @uglywettiewrites 's fics. Really! They all are fantastic!

Some of my favourites:

Alec Hardy / Broadchurch:

It's a love story, a crime novel, a thriller in one! Oh, and you will be devastated at the end. Like, why should I suffer alone, right?..

Aiden Hoynes / The Politician's Husband:

He is SO in-character here! And he's found his match!

Mercier / Spies of Warsaw:

Sex, guns, spies - what's not to like?..

Brendan Block / Secret Smile:

Where he is figuratively and literally is NOT on top...

Oh, and the last, but not the least...:

Lucian x Peter Vincent /Underworld x Fright Night

Yes, you've read correctly: it's David Tennant and Michael Sheen's films crossover. And with a brilliant plot twist!

Thank you, @uglywettiewrites !

[not-falling-but-sauntering-down]

For the asks: 6, 11, 15, 24.

thank youuu sweetie!

6. most hated song in your native language?

mmm plenty but dios mio anything by Garibaldi. What were we smoking when we let them record music? 

11. favourite native writer/poet?

very cookie cutter answer but yeah maybe Octavio Paz for poetry and Carlos Fuentes

15. a saying, joke, or hermetic meme that only people from your country will get?

this is haaaaard, I don’t know, everything and everyone will be turned into a joke in Mexico. Also we have tons of sayings that mean absolutely nothing when you translate them. 

Some sayings: The clown has taken us, Just in case of the flies, The ball knows... 

24. what other nation is joked about most often in your country?

Lol americans! they are the butt of many a joke. Its a complex relationship (obvs!) There is a saying in Mexico that goes: “Mexico: so far away from God, and so close to the US” 

[dwsecretsanta]

Songs Of Yesterday

Rating: T+

Word Count: 2,022

Summery: The Doctor is alone in the TARDIS, after losing Donna and Rose. An introspective piece.

Written for @uglywettiewrites for Doctor Who Secret Santa! I really hope you enjoy reading it, because I’ve enjoyed writing it! Merry Christmas. 

Songs Of Yesterday

Keep running. Keep moving. Don’t stop, don’t look back, don’t think.

“Right, where to, next?”

It was all in the tiny things. The voice that didn’t answer, the people that didn’t come running.

There was always several levels of noise in the TARDIS.

The first level was made from the humming of the engines, the swish of the life support systems creating air that all occupants could breathe, the fast flick of the computer systems making innumerable tiny corrections and calculations while in flight, the pulse of the Time Rotor rising and falling, like a great beating heart.

The second level was a more organic one. The constant sense of presence. The shapes of people was something that made a noise of its own in the path of time. A noise above beating hearts and footsteps on metal, and breath drawn beside him, as he poured over the control console.

Silence, true silence in the TARDIS was a very rare thing, and while this may not have been quite that, it was close enough to it, that the Doctor felt uncomfortable.

He sighed, tugged his pinstriped jacket straight as though resetting it for an invisible audience, leaned forward to press his head to the cool surface over the time rotor, as though there were answers written there.

“What do you want to do, today?”

Another question without an answer.

“It was for the best.”

The silence pressed in around him as though it were a living entity, stealing meaning and definition from the words. Where was the noise, when he needed it? Rose’s voice swum, unbidded in his mind.

“Course it was. You’re the Doctor, aren’t you? You make everything right.”

Why did he keep moving? A question that so many had asked him over the centuries, always to a flippant reply.

It’s boring, sitting still. There’s still an entire universe of things out there to discover, just waiting to be turned up. Novas burning, and planets turning, and hundreds upon thousands of species living out their lives under the stars, and somewhere, there’s always someone who needs a Doctor.

They were good answers. Answers that contained a little bit of him, just enough to sound like they were all there was to it.

“Why, though, really? Gotta be more to it than that.” This time it was Donna’s voice that his psyche adopted.

The truth was…. The truth was…

Well, see, the faster I run, the less time the silence has, to catch up with me.

Silence was the enemy. It was the final word in a story, the end of the last page in the book. Silence was too many things to think about, too much left not done, and the voices of so many lost companions speaking to him from the depths of his conscience.

Even though Rose and Donna weren’t amongst the lost, they may as well have been. They were lost to him, now, so their voices joined the rest.

Straightening, he broke contact with the cool surface, and circled the console, to the main computer banks. A few taps bought up the schematics of the ship, constantly shifting as they were. There was a routine for when people left him, now, it had happened so often. A little bit of ritual, to push away the moment when he had to start thinking, and feeling, again.

Every lose hurt, and in a different way.

“She’s safe. She’ll be happy.”

A few more keytaps, to label the rooms, and make a backup copy of the layouts, preserving everything that was in them, the way that they were. This was what he always did, because this way it felt less like a goodbye, and more like a simple pause. At any moment, he could call up the files, restore the rooms to their previous design, items and all, and step back, just like stepping back into the past.

“They’ll both be safe. Safer, at any rate. Rose has a world to help put back together.”

Turning, he headed down the hallway for Rose’s room. This was something that he’d put off doing after he first lost her, being the creature of hope that he was. As long as her room was there, then this life was ready for her to step back into, and it was a hope that had been answered. Now, though, he’d had his moment, the chance that he hadn’t had before, to do something that he refused to do so many times before. He’d had his chance for closure.

“And of course, she has him.”

His words echoed down the hallway, bouncing off the metal walls and floor as though there were a dozen of him speaking the words at the same time. Somehow, that just made the silence around him into something that was even more pressing than it had been before.

Opening the door, he stood on the threshold looking in. There was a book, left open and with the pages down on a desk, a denim jacket tossed over a chair, and the bed was unmade as though she’d only just rolled out of it, like she was going to walk around the corner at any moment, blinking like an owl and with her hair mused from sleep.

“Up already? Don’t you ever sleep?” The Rose in the corner of his mind asked.

Sleep is for tortoises. A hint of a smile curved up the corners of his mouth, and then was gone just as quickly. The truth was, he was running too fast to sleep. The silence got too much of a chance to catch up, and his dreams on the rare occasion that he did need to stop weren’t dreams, so much as nightmares. Time and again, he lost those that he cared for to the dark.

Stepping inside, he crossed over to pick up a bookmark, and slip it between the pages before closing the book.

“That’s my Rose. Never read the last pages of a book.”

Endings could be changed, rewritten. That was what time was for.

Even now, he could still see her, sitting on the desk, legs kicking like a restless child, or darting around one side of the bed as he went around the other, something of his in her hand as she caught his attention in a game that made him remember the outside world once again, when he closed himself off too far. Friends made all the difference in the universe.

Oh, but his hearts ached for what had been and gone. Picking up a stray hair tie, something that wouldn’t matter to anyone else, he slipped it around his wrist.

For a moment, he considered straightening the blankets on the bed up. But no, it was better this way. More natural.

He knew she wouldn’t be stepping back into it, but still… If he did too much, then it wouldn’t be the same. Without disturbing anything else, he slipped out again, and closed the door, flicking the latch as did so, to seal the image of the room.

Next time the door was opened, there would just be an empty room, a blank canvas waiting for someone else to decorate. The impression was stored in the TARDIS data banks, tucked away safely, where time couldn’t get to it.

“One down…”

As the Doctor turned to move down to where Donna’s room had been, his steps seemed so much slower than his usual fanatic pace, and he was a lot quieter, more subdued overall. Right now, there was nothing to run from, and nothing to run towards.

As much as he wanted to ignore it, right now he felt old, could feel the weight of all his years, and all the lives that had passed through his hands, sitting on his shoulders.

I’ll need to do something about that.

This wasn’t him. He wasn’t one of those old, slow sentinels of time, like so many of his species ended up.

“Not time yet to put me out to pasture, no sir, not at all.”

“Not even a day, and you’re already talking to yourself. First sign of madness you’ve got, right there,” Donna’s voice supplied helpfully, from the same place that Rose’s had spoken from.

“Talking to figments of imagination must be the second, then.”

“Oi, watch who you’re calling a figment, stick insect!”

They never left him, not really. Like the TARDIS, he had a thousand plus rooms of memory inside the halls of his head.

Down the hallway, up the stairs, and around the corner. Donna had set herself up only a couple of blocks away from the library, a respectable distance from the madness of the control room.

With an open hand, fingers spread wide, he pushed his hair back, and pushed Donna’s door which was sitting ajar, open the rest of the way. The contrast between the two rooms was what his gaze was drawn to. The colours in here were fiery reds, and soft, warm browns, with a hint of green around the edges. The effect was almost as though he were stepping into somewhere alive, warm and welcoming.

Where Rose welcomed mess, Donna’s room was neat. Everything was away where it ought to be, and a series of photos that she’d snapped stood in a row, straight and to order like soldiers called to attention. Tiny slices of alien landscapes and lives, preserved forever on flat paper.

Snapshots, that she would never be able to see again, for the cost of her mind, or her life.

Really, he didn’t need to preserve this room. But he would. Because that’s what he did.

His gaze swept along the photos, studying each of them in turn, from the ice fields of the Oodshpere, to the beautiful sweeping planes of a wild world that had no settlements, and finally, at the back he spotted what he’d been looking for. He hadn’t thought there would be one.

“Well, why would I want to take photos of myself? That’s just daft, Space Man.”

Picking it up, he slipped it out of the frame, and into the pocket of his jacket.

Memories, that’s why. There always has to be something to keep the memories solid.

“You were my best friend.”

He spoke aloud, to the ghost in the corner of the room, smiled warmly at it, as it turned to him, a flash of red hair flying loose in the motion.

“It was nice, to have one again.”

“There will be others. Just gotta find them. Make sure you do, by the way.”

“Do what?”

“Find them. You’re not good on your own.”

The Doctor’s eyes refocused, and the image was gone, another memory leaving him to his own devices.

“Maybe. In a while.”

Turning, he slipped out of the room, and closed the door to seal it as he had, Rose’s.

“You’re going to be brilliant, no matter what you do, or where you go, Donna.”

The TARDIS seemed to hum a little louder, a little warmer, as he turned to make his slow way back to the control room, one eye on the future, and one eye on the past.

“It’s just you and me again, isn’t it, old girl?”

The TARDIS beeped as though replying to his words.

“You and me. Like it always is.”

The time rotor rose and fell a little faster, as he stepped back into the room, and slipping the photo out of his pocket, tucked it into a small gap in the control console.

“What do you say? Ready to run, again?”

He’d spent so long running, ever since he’d first left Gallifrey, that even this small piece of time standing still was too long for his restless nature.

“Time to put more distance between us, and the silence out there.”

The TARDIS didn’t judge him. She knew what he needed, always, and was ready to follow her rebel Time Lord and best friend to the very ends of space and time.

“There’s a universe waiting for us.”

The metal was warm under his hands.

“Let’s go and make them both proud.“

[ktrosesworld]

Thank you for all the Chris from Learners love. You're blessing my dash!

oh did Chris hit my queue today ... he is such an adorable dork isn’t he ... he deserves all the loving :D

[thedeliriumtennants]

@thetraciwho replied to your post

“Well. Fuck.”

Talk, woman. Talk!

@uglywettiewrites replied to your post

“Well. Fuck.”

I'm intrigued.

Non spoilery thoughts below the cut. Just in case.

Initial reaction:

His accent, though improved, still makes him sound like a cartoon villain. 

He is the best part of the film, easily. I’m not 100% sure why he signed on.

Backstory is important. The lack of context here was...fucking weird.

Probably the scariest/weirdest of the Tennants. I don’t know if he’s made weirder by the lack of explanation for WHY HE’S SO FUCKING CRAZY

Having a way to measure time would be helpful

He is such a ridiculously talented human being. He transformed for this one. I didn’t recognize him at all. He had one “wellll” that was so him, otherwise...it’s not David. DEAD EYES are a thing and he has mastered them.

Possibly the most attractive Tennant. 

Dom!Tennant is now the only thing I ever want to think about. Until the end of time.

If you have triggers and you’re concerned...DEFINITELY ask someone before going...it was rough.

[mellicose]

Why are all your fics on here gone? Did you delete them, or are you planning on reposting them, or not?

I haven't deleted anything ... maybe it's because I changed my name recently from uglywettiewrites to this? Just checked - everything's still there. Maybe it's yet another Tumblr tag hell thing.

What were you looking for? Maybe I can post links if there is something specific you want to revisit.

I also have a lot on Ao3 under uglywettiewrites, if you want to peruse there.

[basmathgirl]

Tag Game: Shipping Edition

I was tagged by @breval. Thank you so much, love! I’d better warn you now that these answers will probably be a bit ‘same’y

First ship you ever read fic for: first, I have to explain that I was rather late to the ‘reading fanfic’ party, in that I never knew it existed until it was mentioned on “The Friday Night Project”. My son found me some Doctor Who Doctor/Donna fic on FanFiction.Net soon after. *shrugs* I may have been late but I HAVE been consistent.

First ship you ever wrote fic for: I never wrote any fanfiction until about a year or so after I discovered it existed. In fact, I hadn’t written any fiction since I’d finished my O levels, unless you count making up exam or worksheet questions. Anyway, it was for Doctor/Donna. [For anyone not in the know, this pattern will remain strong throughout my answers]

Ship you write the most now: Tenth Doctor/Donna Noble. Failing that, it’ll have a definite Tatennant vibe.

Ship you read the most now: admittedly I’ve dabbled with reading some Harry Potter (Snape/Trelawney in particular), Star Trek (Janeway/Chakotay) and Broadchurch (Hardy/Miller) fanfiction but I tend to stick to Doctor/Donna or Tatennant fics.

Newest ship: erm. Can Twissy be counted as a new ship instead of a branch of the Doctor/Master one? If so, then that’s the latest one. 

Rare ship you want to (sorry, I changed that from “wanna” because that English qualification has to earn its keep) read more of: well, Doctor/Donna is still pretty rare, in my experience; but I do like to seek out some Tencest (i.e. Tenth/Metacrisis Doctor) every now and then.   

Your taboo ship: sorry, shipping a teenage girl with a man old enough to be her father not only makes me gag, it utterly freaks me out. And I don’t care for polygamy either.

They never met in canon ship: something like Peter Carlisle/Donna Noble, Peter Vincent/Donna Noble, or when offered, some DCI Gene Hunt/Donna Noble gladdens my heart. Also, I’ve read some very nice fics with the Master/Metacrisis Doctor, and Master/Peter Carlisle.

Your unexpected ship: I was surprised how much I adored Jack Harkness/Metacrisis Doctor, but I was won over instantly, thanks to @whovianfloozy; who incidentally put me onto Fr. Marcus/Fr. Tomas (from ”The Exorcist”) too.

The ship you always forget to give love to: I suppose the Sherlock ones. Johnlock and Molly/Sherlock,

Ship your OC with a canon character: not sure I have an OC. The nearest thing I have to an OC is my young version of the Metacrisis Doctor.

A ship you’re embarrassed to ship: I did start reading some Brendan Block/Jenny fics, but ended up feeling guilty that I enjoyed them so much.

Your most romantic ship: like beauty, romance is in the eye of the beholder/author.

Your most tragic ship: none of the ships I write ever happened, so they’re all tragic to a certain extent. However, Donna’s demise is a huge obstacle to overcome, in all sorts of ways.

A ship you want more content for: is it wrong to want even more Doctor/Donna? If everything else had to disappear, I’d be happy to be left with them.

I tag: @raywritesthings, @cptscarlett, @helloprilly15, @shivver13, @lady-macgyver, @imnotacommittee, @uglywettiewrites, @cannibalilly, @catvampcrazines and @ageless-aislynn

 And I’d better hurry up and post this before the tumblr jobsworths shut my blog down because I posted some bare shoulders. Oh the horror.... 

[arcanetrivia]

uglywettiewrites replied to your photoset “tyttetardis: David Tennant, You Me & Him Gala Premiere, Cineworld,...”

@silveth he's going in the Pacino direction. If he goes full Pacino I'll scream.

Good scream or bad scream?

[fiftysevenacademics]

@uglywettiewrites  “The lesbis”? Is this a term people are using nowadays? Sounds kind of dismissive. But yeah, the whole movie comes off as a straight woman’s point of view, and it’s not even a very knowledgeable or enlightened one. I’m not one of those people who thinks only queer people can write about queer people, only women can make movies about women, etc. It’s entirely possible for people to write about experiences and relationships they’ve never had with sensitivity, insight, and concern. This film isn’t one of those occasions, though, and does seem to highlight why people criticize straight people who try to write queer characters and situations. Mostly, it’s just a poorly conceived, badly written and horribly directed mediocre romantic comedy. There are tons of them out there, and this is one. It’s not an evil, dangerous movie. It just sucks.

As I said in my post my biggest problem with it is the way it doesn’t take misogyny seriously. Treats it as a harmless personality quirk that has no negative consequences for women. 

It’s the kind of self-indulgent film that gets made when someone with more well-connected friends than actual talent, training, or experience wants to make a movie.

[not-falling-but-sauntering-down]

Rules: tag people you want to get to know better

Tagged by: the lovely Mel thank you! @mel-loves-all

Relationship status: married

Top 3 ships: I’m not much of a shipper actually but Ten x Rose (DW), Aziraphale x Crowley (Good Omens) and YoungHo x JooEun (Oh my Venus) cause their chemistry is through the roof!

Top 3 rarepair ships: again not too much of a shipper but Hardy x Hannah makes my heart beat, not rare but crossover(Broadchurch x SDoaCG) Aiden Hoynes x anyone ! (politicians husband). A crack one: Matt x Dom (Muse)

Lipstick or chapstick: Lipstick!

Last Song: Centavito - Romeo Santos

Last Movie: The princess switch

Currently Reading: Assortment of fics and rereading Good Omens

Tagging: no pressure :) @tennantaddict , @uglywettiewrites , @meanwhileinpetesworld , @isolatedhysteria , @melissa92863

[eggs-n-ham-sam]

@uglywettiewrites

It's like staring into an alien sky with many moons. Kind of soothing.

‘Amusing you describe the painting like that, other people said similar descriptions.

[thedeliriumtennants]

@uglywettiewrites replied to your photo “aneclipsedhabitue:  WHO is Cale Erendreich? Find out this Friday in...”

@thedeliriumtennants your tags had me crying at my desk.

My work here is done.

[mellicose]

Lemonade

A Daddy tale by UglyWettieWrites

Rating: Mature

A woman walks into a party feeling a bit awkward and left out, but there’s someone there who is ready and willing to turn it around...

She entered on a gale of raucous laughter.

The spacious garden was strewn with cushioned chairs and tiny tables already top-heavy with wine and beer bottles. The sharp, sour scent of liquor made her woozy, but her mouth still watered for a drink. People’s eyes moved from her sandaled feet up her bare legs to tempting dip of her neckline, then to her uncovered arms, already tan from her daily walks. Most of them were in linen slacks and long sleeves.

She spied an untouched plate of cucumber sandwiches and resolved to eat them all. Her friend gave her a familiar look from inside the kitchen. She knew about her social awkwardness, but she made her promise not to hold her hand during the party. She was a grown woman. She had a rapier wit - at least, on the page.

No one approached her as she worked on the tiny round sandwiches. Her belly gurgled as soon as the food reached it. She hadn’t eaten in over 24 hours. She could afford food, but not the time. Either way, the draft was complete, and she was free. Freeish, since she had already started outlining something new before getting ready for the party.

She was never free, but it didn’t bother her. Her previous partners did, though. They got irritated, then perplexed, and finally resentful of her fervor toward something that didn’t involve them. No declaration of affection could convince them that they were the most important thing in her life, so eventually, she stopped declaring. Then, she stopped having to stop, since no one had come around lately. She sighed and licked wet bread from her teeth.

The sun was warm and the breezes were perfumed with new vegetation. Summer was coming … but it took its time, since the evenings still had an almost biting cool. In her daily walks, she missed a warm body waiting for her when she got back. She missed conversation, both with voice and body. She missed musk and salt and whispered supplication as she gave her mind a much needed rest and her hungry mouth a workout.

She looked down at her sticky fingers, then sucked pensively. She missed orgasms that she didn’t give herself.

Another riotous gale of laughter came from deep in the garden, ripping her from her thoughts. She was surprised she consciously heard it, since it had the tinny sound of condescension she made an effort to block out. Most everyone was dressed in varying shades of pastel cotton and linen - except the man in the middle. He wore jeans, and an evergreen sweater that made him blend in with the vegetation around him. He made a face - mock-stern, an uncanny imitation by the lines of his body - and the moths around him burst into fresh laughter.

Her mouth twitched. She wanted to laugh too. She looked down at her red dress, and decided not to approach. She would stick out like a monarch amongst an august gathering of cabbage whites, and she couldn’t stand the silent balefulness of their gaze. She stuck a sour pickled carrot in her mouth and chewed, staring over the fence at the clouds.

She shouldn’t be there. She should be back home, in her own-

“Hullo,” a soft voice said from nearby. The man in evergreen walked nimbly up the stairs to the table and stared gravely at a plate of bacon-wrapped scallops.

“Hi,” she said around a half-masticated strawberry. He seemed to forget about the food and looked down at her. “Good party.”

He shrugged. “I’d rather be half clad, half drunk, watching reruns at home, but here we are,” he said easily, and decided on a juicy wedge of cantaloupe.

She hmmed, and swallowed. He sighed and closed his eyes as he chewed the ripe fruit. She stared so hard she didn’t notice when he opened them again.

“I love cantaloupe. Have you ever noticed that, in the best ones, underneath the almost boozy sweetness of them, there’s a hint of musk?” Her lips moved to talk. Nothing came out. He took another slice and gently brought it near her. “Go on. Have a sniff and tell me I’m lying.”

She didn’t sniff, but she smiled. “Cantaloupes are a type of muskmelon,” she said. “I’m guessing that name isn’t just for show.”

He smiled brightly at her, showing his teeth. “Of course. You’re clever,” he said, pointing a melon-sticky finger at her, then sucking it clean. “I can see it.”

“Oh?” she said. The breeze wafted the scent of his cologne, a spicy citrus musk that reminded her of the promise she made to her friend.

“Staring out at the clouds instead of boring yourself to tears down here, while brilliantly remaining by the food? Absolutely,” he said, and smiled. His eyes were bright with interest, and wine.

“I’m not … bored,” she said. “The party’s lovely.” She smiled and nodded at the person who came up to fill their tiny plate with food while tacitly avoiding introducing themselves.

He turned to her and scrunched his nose mischievously. “Having a lovely time, Arthur?” he said, picking up a petit four the man had been reaching for. It was obvious they knew each other. He popped it in his mouth and gave Arthur a crooked grin he did not return. He pointed at her with both hands. “Hey, Arthur, have you met-“ he stopped. Arthur took advantage of the pause and quietly walked away.

He turned back to her. “What is your name?”

“Tessa.”

“Tessa,” he repeated, extending his hand for a shake. She wiped her palm discreetly on the back of her skirt and put her hand in his. Instantly, he turned her hand and caressed the cup of her palm with the pad of his thumb - three slow, firm circles, then he pressed, his eyes never leaving hers. She nearly lost strength in her knees, and gasped. He let go and leaned in.

“You okay?” he said, brow creased with concern.

Again, her mouth moved silently. Her palm still tingled from his grip. It nearly hurt, but his thumb had been … what was it? He pressed almost painfully as his gaze penetrated into her. She felt exposed. No one ever touched her that way in public. She didn’t know whether to be aroused or furious. Emotion made her throat tight.

“I’m fine,” she said. “I have to be going.”

She felt his eyes on her as she walked stiffly back into the kitchen, then the hallway beyond. Her breath exploded from her lips and she bent down, heart pounding.

How could he - the audacity to do that - just touch me like that-

Her thoughts buzzed desperately, but her hand still tingled. She remembered his eyes, inquisitive and lovely, as the pad of his thumb pressed into the soft, damp cup of her palm. Goosebumps prickled up her arms, although her armpits were wet with sweat.

It was just my palm, just a simple handshake-

His thumb had moved up to the tender skin on the inside of her wrist before she nearly fell to the floor. His lips had parted, ever so slightly, to expose canine as he played with the tendons underneath her skin-

“Fuck,” she said softly, and let out another trembling breath.

There was a flash of tongue, and his lower lip glistened with saliva as her muscles went lax with submission.

“Shit!” she said louder, and rubbed at her goosepimpled arms. She gently bounced her head against the wall, eyes closed. She was well beyond her 20’s, but no one had ever pegged her at a glance. Or, dared to test her so boldly in front of everyone. Her top teeth worried her lip painfully. Should she have slapped him away, or yelled something? Was it proper-

She heard someone slam into the kitchen and perked up, thinking it Ella. It was the man in evergreen. He washed his hands at the sink, his face a mask of amusement that melted into seriousness the moment he turned away from the back window. She quietly stepped further into the penumbra of the hallway, and fingered the bathroom doorknob.

“Tessa?” he said softly, walking into the hallway, and nearly into her.

“Oof!” she said. He took a step back, and didn’t smile. He just looked down at her. She felt the need to say something. “Just needed to go,” she said, pointing at the door behind her.

He backed into a brighter part of the hallway, putting distance between them. “I was looking for you. To apologize.”

“For what?” she said softly. She was still trembling.

He gave her a knowing look. “I took a liberty I shouldn’t have. The wine or the camaraderie is no excuse. I’m sorry if I made you feel … exposed.” He clasped his hands with sincerity, then held them up.

His carefully chosen words resonated. She didn’t know how to respond casually.

“Thank you,” she said, finally. He nodded. As he turned to go, something possessed her to stop him. “I promised Ella to make lemonade.” He turned back to her. She pointed at the counter, where an earthenware bowl was filled with vibrant yellow.

“Welcome refreshment after all the booze,” he said, putting his hands in his pockets. “I’m sure it will be delicious.”

She walked close by him, and her crisp cotton skirt brushed his leg. “I do a little something special with mine. That’s why Ella asked,” she said, carrying the lemons to the counter by the sink.

“Is it some kind of herbal concoction, with violet or lavender?” he said, as she grabbed a very large, very sharp chef’s knife to slice the fruit.

“Not really. Never been a fan of flowers with my fruit,” she said.

“You’re clever, so you already know that most fruit start as flowers.” He smiled at her and came near, eyeing the sharp knife.”I’d love to help.”

She smiled down at the cutting board. “Lemonade’s not that complicated,” she said. “Just cut, ream, and sweeten. It doesn’t need much else.” She blew at a tendril of wavy hair tickling her cheek.

“As all naturally delicious things don’t,” he said, giving her crooked grin. “May I?” he asked, pointing at the hair spilling over her breasts. “So you can work.”

He lingered so close she felt the cool of his shadow. His cologne mingled with the scent of ripe lemon and before she could stop herself, she breathed deeply. When she looked up at him, his eyes were soft.

“Okay,” she said, bowing her head as he gently moved the hair off her shoulders, and made a loose braid. His fingertips brushed the nape of her neck as he worked. Her nipples swelled, and ached. His knuckles brushed behind her ear as he tucked a long tendril back.

“There. Better?” he said.

She nodded and smiled. He reached for the knife. She moved it, shaking her head no.

“You have girl hair,” he said, giving her an intimate look.

“What does that mean?” she said.

“I don’t mean it in a creepy way,” he groaned. “I speak out of turn too much.” He looked bashful.

“I didn’t take it as creepy,” she said, waving the comment away. “But I am curious. Girl hair?”

“Uh … er … my daughters-“ he rolled his eyes. “Anyway, they have beautiful, long hair. It was one of my favorite chores to comb and braid it when they were younger. It was naturally fine and silky. As they got older, it got thicker. Heavier. Although they rarely let me braid it nowadays, I can feel the difference.”

He fell quiet, and she raised her brows, waiting. “I don’t think I get it.”

“Your hair. It’s bountiful, but it’s not … heavy. It’s fine, and silky,” he shrugged, abashed. “I was thinking aloud.”

She smiled, then shrugged. “It’s okay. You’re not the first person to say it,” she said. “Anyway, If you want to help, get the demerara sugar from up there for me.” She pointed at a cabinet at the other side of the kitchen.

“Demerara? Isn’t that for baking and that?” he said, moving quickly. He put the glass jar on the counter.

“Not at all. Caster sugar isn’t the be all, end all. It’s sweet, but it has no flavor,” she said as she zested the lemons. Ella liked to use it for cooking.

“Sure,” he said, coming near again. “But isn’t sweetness a flavor?”

“Eh,” she said. “Without any other distinguishing characteristic, it’s just cloying.”

“You’re absolutely right,” he said, leaning against the counter. He eyed the knife. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like me to do the honors? That’s a wicked blade. How about I cut, you juice, and it’ll be done in no time.”

“I’ll have you know that I’ve handled dangerous objects before,” she said, picking up the blade. “In any case, I like the process. I even like hand reaming instead of using a juicer,” she said as she quickly sliced the fruit in half. “It’s cathartic, and when you’ve actually put some work into the preparation, the result is that much more delic- Fuck!” She looked at the quickly growing red on the tip of her index finger.

“Damn it!” he said, grasping her wrist and bringing the hand close for inspection. “That’s what I get for distracting you!“

“Wait, it’s dripping-“ she said, her voice heavy with revulsion.

He grabbed a lemon half and squeezed it over her wound. She muffled a scream and tried to pull her hand away.

“Shhh, it’s gonna be okay. I know it hurts, sweetie,” he said as he rubbed the ruffled meat of the fruit on her cut. It burned like fire, but his gentle tone made her stop squirming. The golden flesh absorbed the blood, turning a beautiful shade of coral. He looked at her as he firmly brushed the fruit on her finger. She bit her trembling lower lip. His eyes, again, were telling. He took in the blush on her cheek, and the slight tremble of pain in her hand, and exhaled slowly. He knew it hurt, but she didn’t try to pull away. She licked her bruised lip and swallowed hard.

“Is it still bleeding?” she said softly, actually loathe to ruin the moment. Fucked as it is, he could rub lemon on her cut finger for eternity.

He blinked slowly. “Let’s see,” he said, dropping the ruined lemon in the sink and bringing her finger kissing-close. It was pruny with moisture. He very gently pressed right underneath the wound, exposing the garish rose of her flesh. Nothing came out. “Good.” He blew on it, slowly, looking at her. He ran the cold water and rinsed her hand, tenderly rubbing at the drying blood that gathered between her fingers.

“I didn’t know lemons did that,” she said. Although her finger still throbbed in the icy water, she wouldn’t dream of moving. “I only thought the juice hurt like a bitch if it got in a hang nail.”

“All good things hurt a little,” he said as he ripped off a clean paper towel and dabbed her finger. “A long run. A new, beautiful pair of shoes. The truth,” he said, winking at her. “I’m a father. I know how to cure and or ameliorate all sorts of booboos.” He scrutinized her bloodless wound. “There’s just one thing left to do.”

“Get a bandage?” She said.

“A kiss,” he said, giving her a smile that warmed her to her toes.

“The last time I got one of those special medical kisses, I was eight,” she said.

“But didn’t they really make it better?” he said.

“It did.” She held her finger up to his lips. He blew on it, then kissed right beneath the wound. The warmth of his lips woke her. Pleasure shot like a hot bolt straight to her clit. She sighed. He cupped her cheek, then caressed her sweatslick skin.

“There,” he said. “Good thing you didn’t bleed anywhere near the lemons, or the counter,” he said, looking around solicitously. “I’m doing the rest of the cutting, young lady. You can ream to your heart’s content with your good hand.” He pointed with a new, clean knife.

She stood beside him and watched him work. The satisfying schlick as the knife cut through the fruit was hypnotizing. He picked up a lemon half and slid his thumb into the center of it. The fruit ripped open to accommodate it, dripping juice down to his wrist. Seeds clicked on the counter.

“This one’s got a hell of a lot of pips,” he said, sucked his thumb, and kept slicing. Wetness dripped slowly down her inner thigh.

“Yeah,” she said, drawing the word out slowly. He was so intent on his task his brow furrowed. The afternoon sun shone on his face, highlighting the threads of silver in his beard. She wondered how it might feel against her. Would it feel rough, where she soaked the cotton of her panties? No. It would prickle, then burn so, so good.

She made a sound between a moan and a whimper. He turned to her.

“Does it still sting? You need a bandage,” he said, walking purposefully into the house. She smiled and waited. He came back, looking bashful. “Where does Ella keep the bandages?”

“Come on,” she said, and walked into the guest bath. Ella’s rambunctious kids forced her to keep a first aid box underneath the sink. “Here,” she said, handing him the box. She didn’t realize what she did, it was so natural. He smiled slowly as he turned on the light. She sat on the counter as he rummaged in the box.

“Aha!” he said, holding up a bandage printed with cartoon sea life. He also showed her large plastic tweezers, most probably meant for removing stingers. “Care for a pluck?”

She burst out laughing. “I’ve never heard a NSFW version of a dad joke.” 

“Wait, was it though?” he said, looking genuinely perplexed. “I thought it was just riffing on the ridiculous tweezers.”

She flushed. “Oh - it’s just that … you know, pluck rhymes with fuck and-” she wrinkled her nose. Now she felt like the presumptuous one.

“You’ve got quite a mouth on you,” he said, giving her a cool look. He unwrapped the band-aid.

“That? You should hear me when I stub my toe, or when I’m around my friends, or when I’m just talking in general,” she said, holding out her finger.

“Naughty,” he said, gently bandaging her finger. “But such words aren’t good for every day use.”

“How are they not? Prime example - if I bang my ankle against the bed frame, what better exclamation that ‘fucking damn it to hell!” she said, yelling it loud enough that it echoed off the tile.

“That’s different,” he said, balling up the paper in his fist. “Exclamations of pain and pleasure don’t count. But using them otherwise in certain company might come off … louche.”

“Louche?” she said, smiling at his ten dollar word. “I never asked your name. Who are you?”

“I’m a James,” he said, holding out his hand for a shake. She stared down at it pensively. They were soft and unscarred. He wasn’t in the trades. Pity, as she adored men who worked with their hands. “I promise I’ll behave this time,” he said softly.

She nodded, and took it. His grip was warm and firm. She looked in his eyes, and mischief swirled in the lovely brown.

“Louche,” she repeated. “So saying fuck or bitch or cunt when you like is bad … in certain company? Her cheeks prickled. He was still holding her hand. “What is ‘certain company’?”

“Children, or religious folk. Both of whom I am very well acquainted,” he said.

“You talk like a book,” she said. She caressed the soft inside of his wrist, underneath his sleeve.

“I’m a professor of literature at the college,” he said, winking. “I suppose I’d be failing at my job if I didn’t.” The local college was an ultra exclusive liberal arts institution that rivaled Harvard with the quality of their education.

“I see. Impressive,” she said.

“Does it impress you further that I’m the head of the English department?” he said. There was mirth in his tone that erased any hint of hubris.

“Perhaps.” Her hand moved higher. She played with his silky arm hair. “It’s so weird.”

“Why?” he said. She looked at him dreamily. He leaned in. She spread her thighs to accommodate him. The cotton of her skirt whispered as it rode above her knees.

“I’m a writer,” she said.

“I heard. Ella brags about it,” he said. He drummed his fingertips against her bare knee.

“She would - she’s the best. How do you know her?” she asked, guiding his hand to her neck. It rested there, warm and heavy.

“We met at a cocktail party-”

“Of course! Her husband’s a history professor. Duh,” she said, nodding.

“Yes, he is,” he said, finally squeezing ever so lightly. She stiffened and raised her face to the ceiling - the reaction was automatic and explicit. He leaned in further. His hard belly was against hers. “She mentions you. A lot.”

She didn’t hear him. All her concentration was on his touch, and the feel of him against her. His breath warmed the shell of her ear. He wrapped his arm around her waist, and his fingertips pressed right underneath her breasts.

“Tessa,” he said softly. “Sweetheart.” He was calling her back. She looked at him. As early as it was, the term of endearment felt natural, and good. She dared to touch his cheek, and gently tugged on his beard. He was like something out of the fantasies she wrote down in one of her battered journals. She wondered whether he was kind and gentle as he was clever. After years of firing the fantasies of sadists, she was done with clever and cruel. Her chest burned with emotion.

“Breathe,” he said, and squeezed. She took a long, whooping breath, then giggled.

“Oops,” she said.

“You went away,” he said, caressing her cheeks. “I could see the thoughts clicking away in your eyes. Where were you?”

“I do that sometimes,” she said.

“You’re beautiful when you’re pensive,” he said. Again, he caressed down to her neck. Again, she went docile and quiet. “May I guess at your thoughts?”

She leaned into his touch, eyes closed. It had been far, far too long since someone touched her with such easy tenderness. It seemed to come out of him in waves, and she was gasping for it. She nodded.

“You ache to be touched,” he said, as his hand moved down to her clavicle, and traced. “I saw it the moment you walked in.” She arched into him. His fingers moved to the swell of her breasts. She opened her eyes to meet his gaze, and it made her whimper. It was deliciously intense, and needy as she felt. His fingers hovered over her skin.

“Touch me,” she said.

“How, when I haven’t even kissed you yet?” he said, his brow crinkling sweetly.

She grabbed twin handfuls of sweater and kissed him. His lips were still sweet with fruit, and he sucked her lower lip into his mouth. She groaned when his teeth grazed her, and her pussy twitched. Although she ached for tenderness, her body naturally reacted to even the precursor of pain.

“You can bite,” she said into his mouth. His lips were silky and wet with their shared saliva. She shivered with desire. She missed long, slow, slick kisses, and feeling her pussy swell until it throbbed.

“I can,” he said, and squeezed the back of her neck. He broke it off. “Pleasure can be given at any time, but pain is earned.”

The ease with which he said the words made her squirm. “How do I earn it?” She felt bold.

He shook his head. “It’s too early to speak of that, don’t you think?” he said. “We don’t even know each other’s last names.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, blushing.

“You’re needy,” he corrected. “But all good things come to those who wait. My last name is Teller.”

“Mine’s Lorca,” she said. “Like the famous writer. Sadly, no relation.”

“Tessa Lorca,” he said. “It sounds like a posh Italian beach town.”

She gigglesnorted. “I’ve heard many things about my name, but never something so evocative, or specific.” She decided she really liked James Teller, the professor.

“And I’m no relation to the silent magician,” he said, holding her face with both hands. “Your laughter’s a gift.”

“Kiss me again, James Teller,” she said.

He kissed her, more deeply. The tip of his tongue flicked against her upper lip, and she sat up, sliding her tongue deep in his mouth and moaning. He broke away, smiling and licking his lips.

“You’re impatient as well as needy,” he said, and rubbed off the slickness on her chin. “And you taste good.”

“I don’t think I’m doing this right,” she said, looking away. Usually her partners were chomping at the bit by this point. He wasn’t even hard.

“I don’t usually say this so soon, but you couldn’t be doing it more right if you tried,” he said, and kissed the side of her mouth.

“You don’t like tongue, then?” she said bashfully. He leaned until they were kissing close.

“Like? I love tongue,” he said, and traced her lower lip with his. “Not only here, but in a thousand other places.” He kissed her lightly.

“A thousand. I don’t think I have a thousand places,” she said. Her voice quivered a bit.

“Oh, you do,” he said, nuzzling her. “And maybe, I’d like to take my time exploring them all.”

She nearly exploded. He felt her tense up, and smiled. He wrapped her legs around his hips and barely grazed the warm skin of her neck with his lips. She moaned.

“Shhhh. Party’s just 50 feet away,” he said, then pressed his lips behind her ear. His hand slid from her hip to her belly. He squeezed, and his fingers traveled slowly to the waistband of her panties.

“I thought you like to take your time,” she said. His lips were at her clavicle.

“I do, with my tongue. My fingers have a mind of their own,” he said, and she felt him smile into her skin. He lifted his face. “I’ll stop if you like.”

She stared at him. His lips were a rich rose with friction, and his eyes had a hungry look that her whole body responded to.

“I don’t want you to,” she said, shaking her head.

“I can make the ache go away until next time,” he said.

“Next time?” she said. Her hands were at his hips.

“I’d love to take you out to dinner,” he said as he rubbed the slick cotton between her legs.

“Yes,” she said. He found her swollen clit over the cotton and made slow circles over it. She was so wet his finger slid easily over her, and she saw stars. Her hands moved from his hips to the front of his pants, and she cried out when she felt solid heat. He gently guided her hand to his ass, and she squeezed blindly as he finally pulled her panties aside.

“Jesus, that’s beautiful,” he said as his fingers slid up her swollen slit and parted her to find her opening. He shivered at her wet heat, and his cock twitched against her hip.

“Let me touch you,” she said.

“You will,” he said, and kissed her as his fingers made a slow infinity sign between her clit and her opening. He groaned into her mouth as her pussy twitched against his fingers.

“50 feet to the party,” she said playfully into his mouth.

“Fuck it,” he said, and ground his cock against her as he pinched her button between his index finger and middle finger. She let out a wavering moan as he jerked expertly, gripping the loose braid at the nape of her neck. “I want to hear you come.”

She caressed his hot hardness, but her hand was clumsy with pleasure.

“Don’t worry about me,” he said, and bit her lip almost painfully. The almost made her cunt twitch in warning, because if the almost was this mind-blowing…

“Don’t you need it, sweetie?” he said desperately into her mouth.

She moaned in response, opening her legs wider. His fingers moved firmly and rhythmically between her swollen folds.

“Say it,” he said, and kissed the sweet spot between her breasts passionately. “Tell me.”

“I need it,” she said. She sounded close to tears.  Pleasure made her hiccup and whimper.

“A delicious, proper orgasm,” he said, and kissed her slowly and deeply, finally letting her slide her tongue in his mouth. His hand moved faster, and she started to grind against his touch.

“A delicious-“ she said, and wrapped her arms around him. “Touch me. Inside.”

His lips moved so slowly against hers, his tongue sinuous and velvety. It was maddening.

He pulled away. “Soon,” he said, looking at her, his lids heavy with lust.

“Now,” she breathed as he drew tight circles around her throbbing clit. “Please.”

“I adore a polite girl,” he said. “But not yet.” Again, he pinched her bud and jerked. She threw her head back, panting with the intense stimulation. She was on the verge of exploding, but at the same time she didn’t want it to end. He barely brushed his fingers against her opening, and she cried out.

“I want it,” she said. “So bad.”

“Good. Want it,” he said, drawing a steady, inverted tear drop on her clit with his thumb. “Let me feel how much you do.” He pressed two fingers against her opening, barely. Her pussy fluttered against them eagerly. He grunted and kissed her. His thumb was almost better than her own fingers, and with a muffled cry, she came, hard, bucking into his hips. He moaned into her mouth, kissing her deeply, his body tense against her.

“That was beautiful,” he said. His voice was a bit rough, as if her pleasure had been his own. “You’re amazing, Tessa.”

She rested her burning face on his shoulder, and he caressed her head. Although she just came, his closeness and his kindness made her pussy pulse even harder. It was as if the orgasm was just a tease.

“I’m sorry for being so bossy,” she said into him.

“You’re a wild one, and needy,” he said again, caressing down her back. “If you’ll allow me, I can fix that.”

She looked at him. He wiped at the melted mascara underneath her eyes. “Which part?”

“The needy part. Maybe. Or I might just keep teasing you ‘till you properly ruin your mascara. Who knows?” he said with an innocent sweetness that made her sigh.

“What about the wild bit?”

He pulled her into his arms. “I’ve only had a taste, but I think I really like it.”

They heard a slamming door somewhere nearby and jumped.

“We should get out of here,” he said. He let her go and adjusted himself.

“You’re still hard, professor,” she said.

“You’re still smoking hot,” he said, and winked. “I’ll survive.”

She jumped off the counter and wet a paper towel to wipe at her smudged makeup. She wriggled uncomfortably, then decided to kick off her ruined panties and wipe herself. She held them up. They were a sodden pink curl.

“Where do I put them?” she said, giggling. She drew back to throw them in the trash, but he grabbed them quickly.

“Hey!” she said as he wadded them in a fresh paper towel and stuffed them in his pocket.

“No use throwing them out, since they’re just soaked, not ruined. In any case, they’re pretty,” he said, smiling at her.

“So you’re gonna walk around the party with my wet panties in your pocket?” she said, tidying her hair.

“Actually, I was hoping I could be walking around town on a date with you with your wet panties in my pocket?” he said, raising his brow.

She smiled. “We’d be the picture of late spring suburban bliss. You, boner tucked into your waistband, with my pussywet pants in your pocket, and me, with nary a stitch on underneath this dress,” she said.

“Nothing?” he said, his eyes widening. His voice cracked.

“I’m not wearing a bra, James,” she said, and opened the bathroom door with a giant grin.

“All the more reason for drinks and appetizers on the roof at DeCecco’s,” he said. “The breezes are absolutely delicious up there.” He followed her into the kitchen. The split lemons winked in the afternoon sun. He darted forward to wash his hands.

“Yeah, and all the tables have lovely long tablecloths,” she said, giving him a meaningful look. She got on tiptoes and pressed her lips against his ear. “I love to give as much as I love to receive.”

“It’s been a long time since I’ve received in the middle of a crowded restaurant,” he said smoothly, grabbing the reamer. Her fingered the end of it pensively. “Either way, the evening’s just begun.”

“Whatever you say, professor,” she said, watching dreamily as he juiced lemons into a glass jug.