...is that everything they say and do can be perverted and sexualized by typical males. Sarah Walker and Ellie Bartowski have long known this. But being decent women, they don't always notice the effect they have on the lesser gender.

Some of these scenarios are strange, others perverted, and some kinda sweet. I've been dabbling with these off and on for a while now. Thought I'd finally share.

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The Thing About Beautiful Women...

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Part One: In Their Clothes

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Chuck loved their cover sleepovers. Not merely for the fact that a beautiful woman would share his bed for the night either. But cover sleepovers offered him a chance to see Sarah when she, quite literally, could put her hair down.

She was just a naturally beautiful woman, he decided for the thousandth time. Already in bed, he propped his pillows against the headboard and leaned back, ready to observe the show that was Sarah Walker exiting his bathroom.

His breath actually caught. Very rarely was Chuck afforded an opportunity to see Sarah Walker, the girl, and not Sarah Walker, the agent. Right now he was seeing the former.

Sarah stepped into his bedroom wearing a baggy t-shirt. And not just any baggy t-shirt. It was one of his most treasured t-shirts, a remnant from his father. It was his Huey Lewis concert t-shirt. Faded from time, hundreds of washings and use, but Sarah gave it new life. Of course, there was the rest…

Her face was completely scrubbed clean of makeup, leaving her looking fresh and youthful. Her eyes sparkled, obviously relaxed and content with her surroundings. Her hair was pulled loose and was freshly washed and brushed, making it look incredibly soft and finger-brush-through-worthy. She brushed her teeth, a little trail of toothpaste dripping down the corner of her mouth towards her chin.

She looked absolutely adorable.

"Wbb gnna wtchya moovee tnghth or sumtheeng?"

Chuck snapped back to focus. "Huh?"

Sarah held up a finger. Wait a moment. She disappeared into the bathroom where Chuck heard her spit into the sink. Water flowed a moment, followed by another spit. When she returned, dabbing her mouth with a washcloth, she asked again, "We gonna watch a movie tonight or something?"

"Oh yeah. I just got a new video from Netflix. Wall-E."

"Wally?" Sarah asked. "Is it any good?"

"I think you'll find it...poignant."

Sarah quirked her brow curiously. "O-kay," she drawled. "Why don't I grab some treats?"

"I'll get them," Chuck declared, sliding off the bed. "Why don't you pop the movie in and get comfortable?"

Sarah brushed a few stray strands of hair behind her ear and smiled shyly. "Okay." As Chuck moved to leave, she called out, "Chuck?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you have any root beer?" she asked.

Chuck grinned. "One root beer float, coming right up." Sarah shared his smile.

God, he really loved it when she let her hair down.

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Devon was continually amazed. She really had no idea. As bright as she was, it almost seemed impossible. But alas, she was absolutely clueless the effect it had on him.

There is just something so damn sexy about the woman you love wearing your clothes.

In the winter months it was his sweatshirts. He particularly loved it when she commandeered his UCLA sweater. It had shrunk a bit over the years from so many washes, now a tight fit for him. Of course, it was just right for Ellie. A bit tight in the upper regions, clingy to her well proportioned...areas. But then the bottom flared out, ending at about mid-thigh, almost looking like a mini-dress. And when she wore it at night, he loved how she wore only panties underneath. So in the morning, when she was leaning against the sink brushing her teeth, it was so easy to come up behind her and...

In the summer months it was his t-shirts. Thin, flimsy pieces of cotton. So that when she was backlit by the morning sun creeping into their bedroom, Devon was treated to the most gorgeous silhouette.

But Devon had his personal favorite. The first time he saw it was June 14, 2006. Chuck had left early for work, so it was just Devon and his lady-love for breakfast. As he sat at the breakfast table, sipping orange juice and reading the paper, Ellie walked out of the bedroom wearing IT.

"Hope you don't mind, sweetie," she had said, "but all my tank tops are dirty, so I borrowed one of yours."

Indeed she did. As if wearing those blue shorts of hers weren't enough. The skintight pair that hugged every curve of the delectable morsel that was her butt. She had to wear one of his old, gray tank tops. And it was...awesome.

Devon was at full attention the moment he saw her. The item was so drastically out of proportion to her upper body. And as such, Devon knew, without question, there was a God. The arm openings were far too big. Opening like a great chasm, Devon was treated to a full, wondrous view of the side of her breasts. Like a dress at the Oscars, Devon tried to fathom how they just didn't fall out the sides. Did she use tape? Surely not. Not at 7 AM. Not with an old tank top.

"Need a refill?" she asked.

It took him a few moments to process the question. "Sure, babe."

Walking to the table, Ellie first filled her own glass of orange juice. And then – more confirmation there was a God – she leaned across the table to fill his glass. Being about three sizes too large, the tank spilled open at the neckline, leaving Devon an unobstructed view of the most marvelous upper torso he'd ever been privy to witness.

"Awesome," he breathed.

"What's that, sweetie?"

Devon shook his head, clearing out the fog. Ellie gasped at the wanton desire she saw in his eyes. He commanded:

"Bedroom. Now."

"Doesn't your shift start in thirty?" Ellie stammered, even as Devon leapt from his seat and circled the table.

"Deakins can cover for me."

In a fluid motion, Devon swept his girlfriend off her feet. Ellie giggled in delight as he carried her into the bedroom.

She had to know. There was no way she couldn't.

Nearly three years later, Devon wasn't above dirty tricks in his attempts to recreate that moment. He watched Ellie's brow furrow in confusion – God, how adorable was that expression? - as she sorted the laundry.

"Devon? Where are all my tank tops? I swore I put them in the hamper."

"Dunno, babe," he said between bites of his powerbar. "Why don't you wear one of mine in the meantime?"

"I think I might," she said, disappearing into the bedroom to retrieve one.

Well, if she didn't know, Devon wasn't about to tell her. Heaven forbid she suffer some sort of ego trip.

END PART