Date: Wed, 21 Jun 2000 22:57:19 +0100 Subject: xfc: "Ginger and Lime" by Lin (1 of 1) NC-17 Source: xfc Title: Ginger and Lime Author: Lin (BlueRoses@sweetdreams.freeserve.co.uk) Rating: NC-17 Category: S, V (kinda), MSR/UST implied Keywords: Mulder/other, Mulder/Scully UST implied. Spoilers: None, this is a spoiler free zone. Archiving: If anybody wants it... just ask me, I'll be surprised but I'll say yes. Disclaimer: I'm not sure I need this since there aren't any names mentioned in it. Just in case though... Chris Carter, 1013, Fox - thanks for the inspiration Summary: When Mulder couldn't have the one he wanted, he turned to someone else... Author's Note: I've never written NC-17 before. Correction - I've written the first two paragraphs of a smutfic before. Then I deleted it. In fact, I told a friend of mine the other day that I had recently come to the realisation that I suck at smut and that I was going to stick to good solid PG-13. However, this came into my mind after a conversation with said friend, combined with re-reading DashaK's 'Jitterbug Perfume' series. Oh, and the name of the hotel is taken from Tennessee Williams' "A Streetcar Named Desire". Thanks for reminding me, Kat. **************** It's almost too pitiable. Look at all the other men in this place. Shooting glances over at me while they shoot pool - I could have any one of them. But what am I doing? Sitting here crossing and uncrossing my legs, pathetically craving the friction of nylon hose on lace underwear, while I wait for him to arrive. The men by the bar think they know why I'm here - and any other night of the week they would be right, but tonight is his night. Because at this point I still believe he will come. Even though he's now late enough that if this was a scheduled date I would have left a long time ago; but because he doesn't know I'm waiting, I sit patiently. Using the time to consume more tequila than a person of my body weight really should. But I'm no lightweight. I think he was surprised at my staying power - I could drink him under the table. And when he gets here I'll probably match him drink for drink, on top of what I've already had. When he gets here. I'm still sitting here, absurdly assuming that there's no chance of him being anywhere else tonight. He won't have gone to another seedy bar - one is much like another - he won't have met someone else. He won't be out having a nice civilised dinner with someone, or has he done better for himself this time? Maybe he doesn't need to come to me anymore. Now that it's occurred to me that he really might not show up, I begin to ponder what he might be doing instead. 'Pinky, are you pondering what I'm pondering?' When that thought comes to my mind I know it's time to shelf the tequila. Laughing a coarse chuckle, deepened by the smoke of the surly man on the next bar stool's cigar, I absently twirl a strand of my deep red hair around my vivid, lilac lacquered fingernail. He loves my hair. I know that he doesn't love me. I know that he isn't even really interested in me. I'm a time filler, someone to come to because he can't go to the enigmatic 'her'. He doesn't talk about her, but I'm not stupid. I know there's someone else he'd rather be with. Our meetings are never scheduled, I just know that he comes to this bar every Wednesday night around nine. He knows that I know, and I think he even knows that I wait for him. I don't love him either. But I wait for him regardless. **************** I don't charge him anymore. I did the first time. I sidled up to him at the bar as he clutched his shot glass in his hand, staring unremittingly into it as if the answer to the meaning of life was hidden in the tequila, if only he could break the code. As I reached his side he tossed back his head and downed the drink, scrunching up his face and gasping at the smoky tang of the liquid. I took a step closer then, draping my arm across his shoulder and snaking my hand round to stop in front of his mouth. I don't know how many drinks he had already had, but I certainly wasn't expecting him to suck the lime straight from my fingers. His lips were warm and firm against my skin, his tongue darted out and tasted the juice running down my fingers as his teeth nipped gently at the fleshy lime wedge. It was less than fifteen minutes before we were out of there and checking into a room at the Pink Flamingo hotel. I don't think it could have been seedier if it had tried - it was right out of a bad B-movie, with its dull lighting and mismatched linen. I knew the place well though, and the people knew me. I was a regular. The door had barely closed behind me when our lips met in a crushing kiss; our tongues plunging deep to explore each others mouths, his hands in my hair, my hands on his shirt buttons. When I unfastened his shirt and made to remove it he looked at me for a moments, with an expression on his face that could almost have been confusion - as if he hadn't realised until that moment that we were going to have sex that night. He was broken from his revere by the sensation of my tongue on his chest, sliding across smooth skin like salve until it reached a nipple. Tasting, licking and blowing I teased him until he grasped at my upper arms and pulled me back to his level and kissed me roughly. He was back on the same page as me. He had come alive and, for lack of a better word, was going to fuck me. I remember that at that exact moment the words of my friend Shelley came to my mind. She had commented before I went out that night that I was wearing "those shoes that scream fuck me slowly". I hoped she was right, but it was still just a job. When it was all over he would pay me and I would leave. That was what I thought until he took off my shirt. It was deep blue satin, expensive, and I took very good care of it. Not in the habit of indulging in wild abandoned sex with my clients, I usually took it off and folded it carefully. He pulled the buttons open roughly and threw it away to the floor somewhere. His hands snaked behind me as his tongue invaded my mouth, he unhooked my bra and let it fall to the brown carpeted floor. Propelling me backwards towards the bed until I fell onto it, lying on my back with him leaning over me hungrily, he then began to lavish every millimetre of my breasts with his mouth, nipping and sucking alternately, suckling hard on my nipples. I knew, somehow in that action he had told me, that he wasn't a typical customer. This wasn't just a case of needing physical release and turning to a whore. There was a reason he had chosen me that night, and I wasn't complaining. My hands drifted to the dark leather belt of his jeans and began to work on the buckle until he sat up and unfastened it himself. The building ache in my breasts and the heat between my legs cried out at the loss of contact. I could smell the musky odour of the tequila on his breath mixed with some kind of woodsy cologne. He yanked down the zipper on his jeans and I helped him to push them down and off. God, I could see how ready he was through the thin material of his boxer briefs. I pushed them down as well until he was fully exposed to me, his shaft pulsing in anticipation. It was mere moments before he plunged deep inside me and began to rock, twining his fingers through mine on the pillow above my head. He didn't look at me as we moved together roughly on the bed inside the cheap hotel room. He didn't look at me as I screamed my release, not screaming his name because I didn't know what it was, just screaming into the dark. He still didn't look at me as his mouth covered mine again and our tongues rolled and danced together as he continued to rock himself towards his own fulfilment. He looked at me as he came though. He looked at me with sadness and tears in his eyes, and that was when I knew he had someone else. Or didn't have her, but wanted her. I was a substitute, but I didn't care. It was men like him that reminded me that I could enjoy my job. And I did enjoy it. When I was with him that night I pretended I wasn't going to ask him for money when it was over, that I would fall asleep with him and wake up with him and make lazy love in the morning while we waited for room-service to bring up toast and waffles and orange juice. I pretended that I was someone else. It saddens me to admit it, but I think he did too. **************** I'm starting to think that he isn't coming. I don't know whether to be happy for him or not. He has that look about him; he can just melt into the background and be a part of the place. Sometimes I think that if I didn't know he was there I wouldn't be able to distinguish him from the wood panelling and leather stools he sits on. He deserves to be special to someone but I know it isn't going to be me. We don't fit. From a professional standpoint he should have busted me to the cops already. I don't worry about that though, that's not going to happen. We won't ever walk in the park though, or eat a picnic on a sunny day in July. I'm not sure that I want to. He didn't know my name the first time we slept together, and I still don't know his. When we lay in bed he didn't know what to call me, so he stayed silent as he twirled a strand of my hair around his finger and gazed at it. My red's from a bottle, but that didn't change the way he looked at it. I think it was the hair that reminded him that he had done something 'wrong'. It was after a moment of gazing at my hair that he rolled away from me and abruptly got out of bed. Pulling on his pants and taking out his wallet, he dropped a handful of bills onto the nightstand before wrestling his grey T-shirt over his head and heading for the door. As he opened the door I heard him say softly "I'm sorry". I don't think he was talking to me. Finis. End Note: I hope to write another piece, from Mulder's POV, to accompany this. Possibly one from Scully's POV also, if I can decide whether she knows about it or not