Room 213, bugs in place.
Twelve agents stuffed into various hidden corners of the Luxurious Stay! HBO! Sparkling Rooms since 1973! one star establishment. Hint: it is neither luxurious nor sparkling, presence of HBO to be determined.
Scully and you planted firmly in the room adjoining (Room 214—there’s even a lovely layer of dirt should you wish to root yourselves further), feet and firearms at the ready.
You hold back a grin at Scully’s properly scrunched nose as she gingerly places her derriere on a bedspread probably not laundered since 1973. She’s adorably inconvenienced by filth and you love it. Scully needs a little filth in her life.
“Ready for some good old-fashioned stakeout fun?” you tease, plopping beside her on the mattress with highly unnecessary aplomb.
You wonder whether her pretty blue eyes have ever gotten stuck, right there below her eyelids, rolling themselves into infinity. She really deserves a medal. Scully could win the eye-rolling Olympics.
You imagine her up on the podium, hands on her perfectly cocked hips, irises wavering around 2:00 as a voice booms across the stadium, “Agent Dana Scully, Sass-Master Extraordinaire!” You slide the ribbon over her head (the perfect excuse to touch her hair—you’re always thinking, you are), then kiss that annoyed look right off her face.
“I’m ready for a decontamination shower quite honestly,” she says. Party pooper.
“C’mon, it’ll be fun! Waiting for the signal, bursting through the door, catching the bad guys!” You’re not sure why this assignment is so damn appealing to you. Maybe because chilling in a hotel room with Scully is among your favorite things to do, party pooper attitude or not, eye-rolling in full effect, layer of filth optional.
“Suspects entering room 213,” your earpiece crackles.
“It’s showtime!” you announce giddily.
Scully groans. She looks exceptionally delicious tonight, even despite her put-upon pout—tight V-neck and pencil skirt, blazer askew on the dresser. She’s got a whole collection of them, tight V-necks, one each color of the rainbow practically. Tonight’s is purple, and it makes your mouth water. Pretty much everything about Scully makes your mouth water, but when you can see the outline of her bra, right there across her breasts, yes, well. Niagara Falls over here.
“What are we supposed to do over here? This deal could take hours,” she whines. She’s so feisty tonight. You sort of want to irritate her even more, want to mess with her until her brows are all crumpled on her forehead like caterpillars, until the skin above her tight purple shirt is pink and blotchy and begging for your tongue.
Okay, down boy. Now’s not the time for a ‘your tongue/Scully’s skin’ fantasy session. You had one of those this morning anyway. In the shower for easy cleanup (hey, you’re not an animal).
“Twenty questions?” you ask, maniacal grin on your face, just for fun, for emphasis. Games of twenty questions with Scully always end the same way, in an argument, Scully sporting those caterpillar brows and pinky-blotched chest. You’re not without a plan here.
Again with the eyes. “Scully, didn’t your mom ever tell you your face will stick that way?”
“It frankly would be easier having a stuck face than the effort it takes to make it all the time,” she answers, but you see it, that mischievous little grin she’s trying her hardest to hide. Scully’s in the mood to play. You knew it.
“Keep it quiet, you two!” a voice barks in your earpiece, “Suspects are getting antsy over here. The walls must be thin—they’re complaining about hearing voices!”
“Okay, I got one,” you whisper, “You guess. Just keep quiet though.”
She squirms around, trying to get comfortable, finally relenting to the filth and lying down, propping herself up onto an arm. When she lies like that, the shadow of her cleavage deepens. Very nice. Your dick appreciates it immensely. You imagine dipping your finger into that shadow someday, losing your entire hand in there really, but then she’s talking, and you’d better pay attention.
“No funny business this time though, Mulder. No shapeshifters or things like that.” She forgets to be quiet, and her rebelliousness about the whole situation does things to you. She’s certainly not going to like what you’ve chosen for this round (a ghost is not technically a shapeshifter), but you get unnecessarily excited just thinking about how she’ll pout about it.
“Bigger than a breadbox?” That’s always her first question. She’s so predictable. One of these days you’re going to choose a breadbox, and she’ll lose her extremely precise little mind at you.
“Hmmm, sometimes,” you say mysteriously. You forget to be quiet, too, or maybe you’re just having fun and really don’t care.
“I swear, if it’s a goddamn shapeshifter again….” It’s not often she’ll have fun with you, not often she’ll shed the blazer and lie on an almost 30 year old bedspread and pretend to be irritated but at the same time flaunt her cleavage like that for you (you saw her rearrange the shirt when she thought you weren’t looking).
“Okay, is it alive?” Same second question as always. Really, Scully, live a little.
“Well, that’s debatable, too…” This is about where she loses it each time, two questions in, horribly perturbed and pissed off. You look over and watch as a splotch of pink blooms like a carnation from the lowest peak of her V.
You’re considering reaching out to touch it, until her shrill voice stops you with, “Dammit, Mulder!” It’s wrong, you know it, but you find her intense irritability utterly irresistible.
That time she really forgets to be quiet, but before you can respond, the voice in your ear is snarling. “Fuck, you two, you’re ruining this! They’re about to bail!” Uh oh, Skinner’s gonna kill you if you this bust doesn’t come to fruition.
You put your hand over her mouth to shush her, over those plush rosebud lips that feature nightly in your dreams. Out come the caterpillar eyebrows and the sassy beginnings of an argument, but you stop her before she can start, “Shhh!”
Think fast, think fast… “Quick, Scully, moan in ecstasy!”
“What?” She’s cute when she’s dumbfounded, but you very unfortunately have no time to appreciate it. You’ll have to remember to dumbfound her again when you have more time.
“Oh yeah, baby, yeah,” you groan loudly and obnoxiously, motioning with your head to the adjoining wall. Then, whispering, you add, “They’re about to bail. We’ve gotta make them think we’re just a horny couple over here, doin’ the horizontal mambo. Oh, feels soooo good.” The last bit you do loud again, smiling as she drops her face into her hands.
“Mmmmm, oh yeah,” you moan, then nudge her real exaggerated-like and add, “C’mon, Scully, my reputation as a man is on the line here. I can’t be the only one having fun.”
She gives you that look, the one you’ve seen make a grown man cry (maybe it was you, now that you think about it), but then she sits up, those breasts falling regretfully back into place, and she says, “C’mere, ya big stud,” in a voice you’ve never heard before in your life.
Oh shit. Oh shit shit shit. She’s not supposed to sound like that, not like she’s really talking to you, not like you’re the big stud and she’s actually waiting for you, all lonesome on her side of the bed. “Oh yeahhhh,” she drawls, and if you weren’t in big trouble before, you’re certainly in big trouble now, terrible trouble, absolute fucking terrible trouble.
“Ummm,” you fumble, your dick doing a happy dance in your pants as you begin to sweat, “Maybe that’s enough for now.”
Nope, of course it’s not enough, the loudmouth in your ear informs you. “Keep going! Whatever you guys are doing over there, I think they’re buying it!” Of course they are. Of course they’re buying it, when you’re over here suddenly worried you’re going to pass out.
“Yeah,” you moan, “Yeah, so hot. Mmmmm….” You try not to look at her while you say it—her hotness, her heat—but her eyes are taking up the entire room. You can’t avoid them. They’re blue and swirling; they’re a goddamn whirlpool pulling you in. She climbs up on her knees to face you, and you feel dizzy.
“Take off your clothes so I can see you, baby,” she says, and fuck if your dick doesn’t grow harder. How does she sound like that? How the hell does she sound like that when this isn’t even real?
“Mmmyeahhh,” she moans. You bite your lip to keep it from yanking you a foot across the bed and planting itself on her body. Her lips, her tits, or how about going for the gusto and landing it right there on her pussy?
“You first,” you say desperately, “I wanna see you, too. Wanna see how beautiful you are.” You throw in a couple moans and she licks her lips, that carnation now blossoming completely across her chest and heading up her neck.
“Yeah, like this? Like this, baby?” Holy fuck, her voice. You’re not making your way out of this one alive. The word ‘baby’ coming from Scully’s lips in that voice has just guaranteed it.
“So hot, you’re so fucking hot,” you growl, and you don’t even pretend it’s not real, because she is, she is so fucking hot. She gasps because she can tell.
“Yeah?” she asks, her back arching a bit, her pretty breasts in their V-neck shirt perking up to say hello.
“Yeah, Scully,” you say softly, not trying to make a show of it, just telling her straight.
“Maybe you should pretend, pretend that I kiss you now, you know, for them…” she whispers, gesturing towards the wall.
You moan, because that’s what you’d do if she kissed you, but also because she’s so damn sweet, looking up at you like that, her lips parted like they’re hoping to take you in. “And then, then pretend I take off your shirt, trail my fingers down your chest, scratch my nails through the hair there…,” she breathes, her hands fluttering in the air before she drops them again.
“Jesussss,” you groan, your head falling back. Christ, what is she trying to do to you?
You’ve got to turn the tables here, gotta see her as desperate as you feel right now. And you’re pretty desperate. “You now,” you murmur, “Pretend I’m sucking that spot on your neck, right there…” You reach out and brush your thumb below her ear. You somehow know it’s a spot that makes her crazy, you’re not sure how, but she shudders, confirming your suspicions.
“Ohhhh,” she moans and closes her eyes, so you brush it again until she gasps.
“Now,” you whisper, “Now pretend I’m taking off your blouse, cupping your breasts…” Are you taking this too far? But her breasts—they’re just there, right there, sitting so perkily, practically begging for you. “…teasing your nipples through your bra ‘til they’re hard.” Your dick, it isn’t even trying anymore, it’s tenting your pants and proud of it.
“Oh my god,” she groans, and her hands slide subconsciously up her shirt to flirt with her breasts before she realizes it, but not before her nipples tighten up before your very eyes, poking right through that purple shirt like two little pebbles. Not too far, not too far, she wouldn’t have done that with her hands if you were going too far.
You’re tempted, so damn tempted, your brain fighting with your fingers to keep them from touching her. Don’t RUIN this. This isn’t real, this isn’t real. She’s breathing heavy now, her chest rising and falling and those nipples calling to you like beacons. You’re fucking sweating.
“I wanna touch you…,” you groan. You don’t know whether you’re saying it to the real her or to the pretend her, but the want is still the same. “Please let me touch you, Sc—baby….” It’s so hard not to say Scully, but you can’t use her name, you can’t. First, because it would blow your cover; but mostly second, because if you use her name, if you feel those six sweet letters on your tongue, you’ll lose it—you’ll be plowing into her so damn furiously, her eyes will roll. Mmmm, now that’s an eye-rolling you’d give her a dozen medals for. Two dozen.
“God, yes, touch me, please touch me,” she whines. “Please, baby.” And there’s no way you can stop yourself, you grind the heel of your palm against your throbbing dick, right there in front of her.
She sucks in her breath and moans, her eyes fluttering shut. “God, Mulder,” she breathes.
“Step it up!” Mr. Bossypants squawks in your ear, “They’ve got someone listening at the wall now, so keep doing whatever it is you’re doing!” You shake your head to clear it. This isn’t REAL.
You stroke her cheek. It’s hot and smooth, like that time you and Samantha warmed stones in a fire. Her eyes slide open, and you look at each other. Her skin is flushed and her forehead damp, short gasps seeping from her lips. She’s breathtaking. So breathtaking.
“It’s time for the main event,” you whisper, then pause. “Are you good?” You’re ready to call this whole thing off, to blow this popsicle stand, Skinner be damned, if she’s not good. Please be good, Scully.
She licks her lips oh good lord pleeease be good and she nods. “Yeah…., yeah I’m good.” She ducks her head then, a shy little smile tucking itself away from your view, and your heart just about melts (let’s be real, your dick just about melts, too).
What she does next though kills you, it literally kills you. She raises up on her knees until those grape-y colored breasts are right at eye level, and then she crawls her way up the bed, her lush little derriere swaying right there in front of you like a pendulum. It’s like she’s doing it on purpose. It’s like she knows what it’s doing to you and she likes it. She kneels on the pillows, then holy shit grabs hold of the headboard and turns back to look at you. “Let’s get it on then…,” she murmurs, “…baby.”
An embarrassing kind of grunt escapes your throat. You can’t even pretend to be suave here.
“C’mon,” she croons, “I can’t be the only having fun.” She parrots back your words to you and starts bouncing. She starts fucking BOUNCING, just slow, just a little, just enough to barely rock the bed, but well, yeah. It does a hell of a lot more than just rock the bed.
You groan. Loudly. Just the sight of her, bouncing like that, and the various parts of her body, bouncing like that, and the way she’s looking back at you with her lip between her teeth, bouncing like that…
Let’s just say the suspects are going to have quite the surprise awaiting them should you actually be required to make a bust tonight.
“C’mere,” she says, “I want you sooo bad.” Oh baby, the feeling’s mutual. So you climb your way across the bed, tented pants and all, and kneel beside her.
“Yeahhhh….yeah…feels so good,” you moan, picking up on her rhythm and bouncing alongside her. This is ridiculous really, isn’t it? Bouncing, bouncing.
“What, Mulder?” she breathes. “What feels good?” Her lips are swollen and wet, and she looks you right in the eye. Screw it, you don’t care how ridiculous this is.
“You,” you groan, “You feel so good…your body… you’re so damn hot.” You can’t contain it. Your hips are sort of thrusting now. You look at hers, and hers are, too, just barely, circling minutely with each absolutely fucking ridiculous bounce.
“What about you?” you whisper. “What feels good?”
“Oh god, your cock,” she moans, “It’s so bigggg.” Only here’s the thing. She doesn’t just moan it, no, that would be too easy, that would be too sensible. That would make too much sense in this absurd alternate reality the two of you are somehow inhabiting right now. No, she moans it and then looks down at your dick. She looks down at your dick and SHE LICKS HER LIPS.
“Yeah?” You start bouncing faster. “Yeah, you want it? D’you want my big cock?” Did you honestly just say that? You’re veering into some very strange, potentially awkward territory right now, but you really don’t care. You know why? Because you actually think she wants it.
“I want it,” she whines. “Oh god, I want it so bad.” Hell yeah, she wants it. She’s bouncing faster now, too, her hips rocking like she’s riding a fucking horse, and you honestly don’t think you’ve ever been so turned on in your entire pathetic life.
It’s squeaking now—the mattress. There’s nothing like that sound, that rhythmic whine, that aural embodiment of passion. She moans really loud, which adds even more dramatically to the effect. She could win an Academy award here. Maybe she’d display it next to her eye-rolling medal.
You look at each other. You stare at each other, the whole time bouncing like you’re on a stupid trampoline. You think you may be grunting a little bit now, and she, she’s just over there being the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen. You’re in awe of her, of how someone like her could actually exist, not only in the general scheme of life, but in your life, willingly, bouncing beside you on a bed in this luxurious one-star hotel room.
She sucks the corner of her bottom lip between her teeth then, looks at you all shy and sweet-like, and then? Then? Then she absolutely blows your mind. “Pretend…,” she says in this breathy little voice, “Maybe pretend you take me from behind now.” And she scooches back enough to raise her ass in the air. HOLY SHIT. Holyshitholyshitholyshit.
“Holy shit,” you gasp out loud, but it’s also still repeating ad nauseum in your brain. You’re pretty sure your eyes have rolled back into your head. Only they haven’t, you know they haven’t, because you can still see her in front of you, hands on the headboard, ass in the air, come-over-here-and-fuck-me look in her eyes. Oh Scully. Oh baby.
This is so unnecessary. This whole thing is so ridiculously unnecessary. You could’ve done what needed to be done with a few moans and a bit of mattress-squeaking. You know that. Scully knows that. How it’s gotten to this point is beyond your realm of comprehension.
But when has that ever stopped you? Ridiculous beyond the realm of comprehension is your specialty. It’s your fucking forte.
So you know what? You’re going with it.
“Fuck yeah,” you say, and you crawl over and position yourself behind her, licking your own damn lips just to watch her squirm.
She starts back up with the bouncing again, only this time it’s a bit more of a rocking, slow at first, forward and back, forward and back, and you kneel behind her like an idiot, until on her next backstroke, her ass brushes barely against your cock. Your groan is absurdly loud. The way she glances back at you, with an obviously fake-surprised look on her face, pretty much guarantees she did it on purpose. The little tease. And then she does it again. And again. Each time a bit more deliberately, each time with slightly more of a twist to her hips. “Mmmmm,” she hums, looking over her shoulder.
You surprise her the next time though. When you see her prim black pencil skirt (perfect for a day in the office, even more perfect for a fake-fucking in a hotel room) make its way back into the vicinity of your gray dress slacks, you grab her hips and yank them back hard, right against your ready-to-burst-free cock. Oh sweet jesus. She yelps, and it’s adorably hot. “So that’s how you wanna play,” you growl.
“God, Mulder,” she gasps. “Oh my god. This is just pretend. It’s just pretend.” But then she grinds her ass right back against you, and that’s not pretend at all. Nosiree.
You moan, remembering that in the end, you’re supposed to be putting on a show here. You start rocking against her, holding her hips and pressing your dick against her sweet, sweet ass until the springs start up again, until it’s a regular symphony of bedsprings squeaking, complete with the percussion of a headboard banging against the wall.
She plays along, moaning and groaning and throwing an “oh baby” or a “feels so good” out every so often in perfect Best Actress style, but then, every fourth or fifth thrust, there’s something that isn’t acting at all—a desperate whimper, a whispered “oh my god”, and then, once when you thrust particularly hard, a “fuck” just barely seeping from her lips.
“Yeah?” you grind through your teeth. “Yeah, you like it hard?” You increase your efforts, squeezing your fingers into the flesh of her ass while you pump furiously against her. You haven’t dry-humped like this for probably twenty years, and it certainly wasn’t ever this good. She feels amazing, even through clothes, even though it’s technically pretend, even though there’s an FBI-worthy scandal happening right on the other side of these paper-thin walls. Pretty soon things are going to get dicey. Pretty soon you’re going to embarrass yourself quite royally.
“Oh my god,” she groans, “Yeah, yeah, harder, harder.” She presses back against you, gyrating her hips, whimpering, and despite impending embarrassment, there’s no way in hell you can deny her. “Pretend…,” she looks back and gasps, “Pretend you’re getting close to coming…”
“You have no fucking idea,” you groan, but then you do it. You moan, and you should feel stupid, but you don’t, because she asked you for this. Her hair vibrates with each and every thrust, falling into her swirling whirlpool eyes while she watches you over her shoulder. There’s sweat rolling down your temples.
“Christ, so tight, so damn beautiful,” you groan, squeezing shut your eyes as you imagine her in different circumstances. In a nice hotel room, on pretty white sheets, maybe on some Caribbean island somewhere.
“You,” you whisper, “you, too. Show me what you’re like when you’re about to come, Scully. Show me how you’d be if we were alone, just you and me. ” This isn’t pretend anymore, and you want her to know that. You need her to fucking know that.
“Mulder,” she whimpers, dropping her head down between her shoulders. “My god.” She slows for a minute, her hips winding down, and you think she’s about to stop. You’ve taken it too far, goddammit, you absolute idiot. But right as you’re about to pull away and apologize, to fall down on the floor and beg her forgiveness, she speeds up again. She doesn’t just speed up though, she alters her movements, rearranges them until they’re fluid, her body undulating back against you. It’s about a million times more sensual than the hard, straight thrusting you’d been doing. You realize she’s doing what you asked. She’s showing you how it would be if this were real, if it were just the two of you and not twelve other agents scattered throughout the hotel just outside your door.
“Scully,” you murmur. “Oh Scully…”
She whimpers. And then she starts moaning, first low, then higher, higher, her knuckles turning white braced against the headboard. She rocks her head from side to side, and you can see her eyes are closed, her tongue swiping across her lips, over and over again. She’s pretending, imagining. She’s so beautiful, so exquisite. You splay out your hands and press them to the curves of her waist, smooth them around her middle until they meet on her belly, all the while taking her lead and grinding against her frenzied little rear.
“Mmmmyeah,” she groans, “Yeahhh… oh that’s gooood…” You don’t know what’s come over you, but you need to feel her, you need to feel as much of her as possible, so you lay yourself across her back, drape yourself over her like a blanket, one arm wrapped around her waist and the other falling to the bed for support. “God,” she gasps, “God, Mulderrrr,” her body writhing beneath you.
There’s no pretending about this anymore. None. This is real. This is you and Scully, taking a step forward. While a shitty second-rate hotel room wouldn’t have been your first choice for such a step, it’s somehow charmingly perfect. The two of you seem to thrive in the least desirable of circumstances, so really, why would you have expected otherwise?
You press your lips to that spot of skin below her ear, the one you knew would make her crazy, and she arches her neck back, hissing yesss in the sexiest, breathiest voice you’ve ever heard , and it’s all more than you can take. It’s surreal, it’s amazing, it’s too much, too much, you don’t know if you can handle—
“Okay, operation’s over!” You jump at the static-y voice barking in your ear. “Suspects have bailed, they’re leaving the location, dammit. We’re gonna have to try this another night, unfortunately. Make sure you pack up the gear that’s stored in the room, Agent Mulder. We’re heading out.”
“What?” Scully asks. “What, Mulder?”
Your lips are still at her neck. Your dick is throbbing. She’s breathing so heavily, you can feel her lungs expanding beneath you. “It’s over. Suspects bailed…”
Neither of you move. The sounds of your harsh breaths and your heart pounding in your ears are deafening. Why haven’t you noticed until now how absolutely quiet it is in here? She’s warm and impossibly perfect beneath you. You’re scared absolutely shitless. Your dick is still throbbing.
Slowly, so damn slowly, she begins to turn her head. You think you’re going to die with how slow she is. You see her mouth before you see her eyes, tip of her tongue quivering at the edge of her lip, and then there are her eyes, oh her eyes, but they’re closed, they’re fucking closed please, Scully, please but then, but then…
They open, and the second, the millisecond they meet yours, you know, YOU KNOW, and she knows, and it’s like an explosion—an ear-ringing, jaw-dropping explosion—frenzied and frantic and flurried, and there are gasps and pants and grunts, and her skirt is up around her waist and her panties around her thighs and your throbbing, throbbing dick is finally free and holy shit sweet mary and joseph you’re inside her, after seven years and the most absurd night of your life, you’re finally inside her.
“Oh god,” she whimpers. “Oh god, Mulder, fuck,” she whimpers again. And then she’s arching her spine and shoving her ass back against you, and baby you deserve for this to be good and slow but there’s no way, there’s no fucking way, not when you’re doing that, so you grab hold of her hips—all precisely-angled bones and bunched up skirt and skin so soft you get chills—and you surge like a wave against her. Again and again and again. And she likes it, you know she likes it because she’s moaning so sweetly and whining your name.
And you’re moaning, too, how can you not? She’s wet and she’s tight and she’s Scully, she’s SCULLY, and you’ve been in love with her for as long as you can remember, even before that. “Scully, holy fuck, baby…” You can’t even form a coherent thought because of how good this is.
She’s whimpering now, whining, grinding her pretty ass back against you, and this is Scully, Scully, and just that in itself almost makes you lose your mind. Desperate, you reach for the spot where your two bodies meet holy shit it’s so hot and slick, then find her perfect little clit and start stroking. Furiously you stroke, rubbing and rubbing like her body is the bottle and she is the genie and you have one wish left in the world. Only that’s not right because she’s already given you that wish, THIS, this is your wish, she is your wish, and your bodies doing this is your wish, and you’re not making any sense anymore, but she’s moaning, “So good, so good, jesus christ, Mulder, so good,” and her sex-hoarse voice is what finally does you in…
You come in a blinding flash, moaning, “I’m sorry…sorry,” because you feel so bad, but also so fucking good, all wrapped up in in one.
But before you’re even done, she’s moaning, too, and whimpering in this wonderfully breathy, high-pitched voice, “Muld…fuck…oh godddd,” and then shuddering brilliantly beneath you. It’s perfect, absolutely perfect.
Both of you collapse, into a crumpled heap of heaving chests and weakened limbs and sweat-soaked skin and Scully, do you have any idea how much I fucking love you? You feel like you should maybe put something clean beneath her, so none of her skin has to touch this filthy, circa 1973 bedspread, but then that would mean you’d have to move away, and there’s no way in hell you’re doing that. Ever. You plan on touching her every second for the rest of your life.
She turns to face you, cheeks flushed and hair damp at her temples. You brush a lock from her cheek, and she smiles.
“You okay?” you ask softly.
She chuckles. “You were here just now, right? I think I’m more than okay.”
You tuck your head and grin. And then you start to laugh. And she starts to laugh. And before you know it, the two of you are gasping for breath, laughing at the ridiculousness and the absurdity and the wonder of what you’ve just done. It reminds you of your very first case, out in the rain, and the thought comes close to bursting your sorry ass into tears.
When you’ve finally calmed yourself enough to speak again, you say, “So Scully, do you think we were convincing enough for the guys next door? Or should we try another round, you know, just to be sure?” and as you’d expected, as you’d secretly hoped, her response is to roll those pretty blue eyes at you.
This time though, this time, instead of getting irritated, instead of teasing that her face will stick that way, instead of doing something else just to annoy her even further, this time you roll yourself on top of her and you kiss her. You kiss her still-flushed cheeks, her caterpillar brows, her sweet pink lips, until her eyes can’t even come close to rolling anymore, until they can do nothing but close in ecstasy.
You’ve decided you like this hotel. This Luxurious Stay! HBO! Sparkling Rooms since 1973! hotel. You think you like it, filthy, disgusting bedspread and all. Or maybe you just like the person you’re with. It’s all sort of blurring together. Once the two of you are done kissing, you should see if they were telling the truth about the HBO.
Or maybe you’ll be too busy for that.