Title: Sea-foam and Serene
Author: Nikayla
For: @damn-mulder , the Summer Fic Exchange on Twitter
Pairing: Mulder/Scully, MSR
Set During: Season 6, post-The Unnatural
Word Count: 2300+
Rating: M/NC-17
“This is a good look for you, Mulder,” she declares, as she unbuttons one, then two of his jersey’s closures. His eyes flicker brightly, eyebrows punctuating his genuine surprise. “You think so?” His words come out encased in a grin — one she returns, eyes alight with just a hint of mischief.
A/N: I can’t apologize enough for how late I am in posting this, but I really hope you like it! This idea came to me and just wouldn’t let go. Not exactly summer-y per se, but hopefully the initial imagery will suffice hot enough ;)
FF.NET | AO3
“This is a good look for you, Mulder,” she declares, as she unbuttons one, then two of his jersey’s closures. His eyes flicker brightly, eyebrows punctuating his genuine surprise. “You think so?” His words come out encased in a grin — one she returns, eyes alight with just a hint of mischief.
“Mmm, I do,” she practically purrs as she maneuvers the shirt down and off his shoulders. But instead of discarding it to the floor like he did her clothes, she acts on instinct; slipping one arm and then the next into it. The fabric nearly swallows her petite frame, but if his gaze is any indication he more than appreciates the impulse.
His hands bracket her hips through the material, his eyes have dilated and when he tugs her across the few remaining inches left between them she hears the change in his breathing. It’s grown haggard, notably aroused which arouses her in return. Seated on the bed he’s the barest fraction shorter than her; the change in perspective allowing her the rare chance of looming over him as he so often does her. She hitches a leg up over one side of his lap, knee pressed in to the bed linens, the other joining just after — leaving her astride his lap and still taking advantage of the added height. He doesn’t seem to mind.
The kiss drifts in limbo between them — her lips parted and ready, but staying just out of orbit of his own — suspended desire biding time until they crash into one another; prolonging the inevitable to what feels like near torturous lengths.
“You realize you’re a living, breathing fantasy right now, Scully,” his laugh can’t cover the deep, wanton quality of his voice; dripping in desire like honey drizzled on warm flesh. Her teeth flash in a smirk, the beryl blue of her eyes constricting as her pupils widen in satisfaction. Heavy lids cover his view of them as her gaze whittles down to a laser edge, focused solely on the fullness of his lips. “Oh...I know.” Her words are but a whisper that gets lost in favor of finally closing the distance.
He gathers her closer not a second later, til she’s flush against him and his arms have encircled her; hands exploring the expanse of his shirt as it engulfs her, fingertips licking up the curve of her spine as his tongue finally probes beyond her lips. She accepts his touch, his overeager tongue, and he’s solid as a rock beneath her. She doesn’t seem to mind that, either. She is nothing if not his absolute equal.
Adding further evidence to that fact, she’s grown impatient. She allowed him his indulgence in undressing her when they’d barely made it past the front door, gotten her down to her skivvies in near record time — not that she had any complaint. But now she does have one; that she’s the only naked flesh within proximity. Impatient fingers tug at his pullover, making it necessary that their lips reluctantly part for her to remove it completely. There's a moment of hesitance where his lack of nudity hangs in the balance; where the kiss is still just a little more vital, persisting for another beat and then two, until finally she tears herself away enough to drag the garment up over his head, her fingers relinquishing the fabric to its fate, as each digit pulses and radiates an unfathomable need to touch him — then, and there — here, and now. When she meets his eyes again he’s smirking; a veritable shit-eating grin at her eagerness. Her eyes narrow in what is only a caricature of displeasure at him. “It’s nothing I haven’t seen before.”
“Me either,” he palms her breasts beneath his shirt for emphasis — “and yet I still can’t believe I get to see you like this.”
She warms beneath his loving gaze, can’t keep up the act of indifference when he talks to her like that. “Mulder-"
“I’m serious Scully, I know how lucky I am.” Sometimes his earnestness is enough to break her heart.
“Well,” her nails rake ever so softly down the muscles of his chest, “then that makes two of us.”
Before he has the chance to turn into an all-out sap, he turns her world upside down instead — her back landing against the sheets and his lips landing against her. He traces a leisurely path away from her mouth, to her neck; paying special attention to the point above her pulse, the one that makes some of the most delicious sounds he’s ever heard tumble from her lips. He kisses a slow, soft trail down between her breasts, mind wandering and yet focused entirely on her. Unspoken litanies he can’t help but consider.
About how she shimmers; bathed in starlight. Reflecting back all of that ancient wonder straight from her skin. Does she know? Does she have the slightest clue at all? Or are his eyes the only ones perfectly attuned to experience her true presence, to see what she’s really made of? She is celestial. If he just stares hard enough will he unlock the secrets of the unknown universe? Find a map to extraterrestrial certainties in the patterns along her skin; the smatterings of stars with the good fortune of adorning her face?
"I can hear you thinking..." Her voice breaks through his rampant soliloquizing, and his laugh comes out in a hot breath against her navel. "I didn't know you were telepathic, Scully."
They do this. Bandy words no matter if they're in the office, or in bed. Their relationship has always been so cerebral, it's difficult at times to separate out from the newly blossoming physical aspects they've begun to dabble in. He likes it though, and thinks she does too — even when he's so very close to where she wants him and he chooses now to spar with her. Fingers thread into his hair and he feels the tell-tale push against his scalp. A modest attempt at getting him back on track.
"Imagine how well this will come in handy during our next interrogation..." He's pushing it, he knows; and the just-perceptible urging her body is trying to communicate to him is almost enough to make him quit while he's still ahead. Almost.
"Use your words, Scully."
Tell him a mere few months ago that there's a little (maybe more than a little) part of Dana Scully that likes being told what to do in bed and he'd have no idea how to process that information. It's still new, still decidedly fascinating, and there's a little part of him that thinks maybe it does make more sense than he initially would have thought.
She huffs in mounting frustration, her grip on his hair clenching tighter in silent warning, but it's still not quite enough. His lips graze the flesh above her ilium, deliberate; skirting the line of obstinance. "Mulderrr..." The whine in her voice finally does it; her concession begetting his own. But before she truly has time to grasp his sudden change in intention, he's stripped her panties right down her legs, and settled himself between them with no further contest.
At the first point of sensuous contact she goes soft — ripens like the first pristine fruit of a proliferate harvest. He warms her over until she's boneless, syrupy; caresses her with lips and tongue so assiduously she forgets he was only just pushing her buttons. He's good at that; more than she'd care to admit. Has a way of kissing her, diverting her exasperation with him, whether it's earned or not, and muddling her thoughts into their pure, baser form — touch, be touched, need.
His hands grope and glide along every inch of her within reach. It's near sensory overload, he must be aware, because just before it's all too much they finally settle; clutching where her hips convene with her waist, holding her steady against the amaranthine onslaught of his ardor for her. With lips, tongue, and the lightest grazes of teeth he makes a perfect medium out of her. Works until she's malleable, pliant; nearly serene. But then his fingers plunge inside and she becomes molten; fleshy and responsive in body and soul. From her lips comes a breathy refrain — mellifluous, enchanting; the kind of sounds a man dreams of creating in a woman, that echo softly around the breadth of the room.
“Jesus, Mulder —“ she’s breathless, even trembling afterwards; an image that were he to lose every other memory he has, would somehow find a way to stay with him.
“Come up here.” Her chest is still heaving but she’s no less strong-willed. It will take more than one fantastic orgasm for her to lose a single ounce of her mettle. And that’s just fine by him.
He finds his way back up to her waiting lips, kisses her all but senseless; lets the taste of herself suffuse on her tongue. Her hand weaves gently into his hair now, holding him close, nails lightly dragging along, sending little electric shivers racing down his spine, lulling him into a rapt state. An ideal position for turning the tables right back on him, as with the right leverage she’s above him once again.
Wriggling her way down the length of his torso, mapping the hills and valleys of his musculature — she can finally see to the rest of his clothing. His belt requires minimal effort. A strong yank and it’s gone slack; tossed to the floor and no longer of note. The zip and fly of his jeans go next, his briefs equally yielding, all dropped to the floor and quickly forgotten.
Her absence is momentary but all too palpable. Only when she returns does he feel complete. She’s like silk draped across the hard planes of him. Enshrouding him in her softness; a feather’s brush of lips leaving tender impressions along his skin. She is the light that accompanies a supernova. Blinding white and hot; burning out his sins with the simplest touch. Her hands only leave him to reach for his shirt she still wears, but he catches them in his own before she has the chance to shed it.
“Leave it on.”
Her smile is soft then, benevolent; and she nods faintly. His sincerity makes it a painless compromise.
He sits up to face her once again, and engages her in the sweetest kiss they’ve shared all night. Her heart swells up a little too big for her chest — his presses against the cage of his ribs — as if hearts themselves could yearn for one another; pine for a kind of closeness they can never quite achieve. Skin and bone shaping an impassable restriction.
To quelch the hearts’ hammering need she reaches down between them; strokes the full measure of him, turns him even more leaden than before, settles him between her legs and immerses him in the cradle of her warmth.
Air draws swiftly into her lungs at the connection. They’re both still getting used to this; the feeling of him buried to the hilt and pulsating. She starts to move in slow motion, shifting above him in an upsurge then sinking back down and clinging to him in all the right places. He watches the slow animation of her breasts sway in tandem with her body’s rise and fall, mesmerized — transfixed, and reactive — so much that he can’t help but latch onto her middle, meeting her thrust for thrust until she’s quivering all over again.
She ripples like water; eyes like sea-foam rolling back in her head like a wave cresting as it hits its peak, then shudders and recedes until the swell comes in again. Crystalline — glimmering, glistening, devastating and beautiful as can be. His thrusts become slow and immeasurably deep, tantalizing enough for her eyes to roll back yet again and her teeth to sink in to her lip; his name rumbling out a fraction later, followed closely by the sighing affirmations of her satisfaction and then he’s grinning — nearly beaming at her until he’s lost once again to the call of her lips.
She feels spent in his arms, buoyant and filmy; her strength waning to little more than an unsteady motion atop him. He works to keep her moving. Lifts and pulls at her with ease. She can hardly contain her sounds; whimpers and moans coming out as reflex, not a cognizant choice left.
“Oh my god—“ she implores to the ceiling, clutching at him and chasing her third release of the night. Maybe he’s the one who can read minds — heard her quip about one not being enough and in classic Mulder fashion, took it as a hard-out challenge. She can feel him starting to tense and strain beneath her, and then she’s on her back again and he’s pounding into her for all he’s worth. For all they’re both worth and maybe even then some.
“Don’tstopdon’tstop-“ A fervent plea whether or not it’s intended.
“I won’t, baby...” It’s whispered against the shell of her ear; the first of its kind. An amorous epithet she wasn’t aware they’d progressed towards. Her eyes spring open and her heart misplaces a beat. But instead of unnerving her, as it has in the past — something about hearing it in his voice; impulsive and honest, makes her feel just a little bit giddy — girlish, even blushing.
“Say it again.” She responds without thinking. Her eyes find his and she feels him searching through the depths of them; just to make certain he’s heard her correctly.
“Baby,” The grin is back, but it doesn’t cheapen the sentiment in the least. “Baby, baby, baby...“
Her smile matches his, and this time when she rolls her eyes it’s actually voluntary.
“You ever call me that when we aren’t in bed, and you’ll be sorry.”
Title: Sweet Like Candy to My Soul
Author: Nikayla
For: @gaycrouton, the Valentine’s Fic Exchange on Twitter
Pairing: Mulder/Scully, MSR
Set During: Season 4 cancer arc, though there’s very little acknowledgment of it
Word Count: 4,900
Rating: M/NC-17
She swallows thickly and he can hear the faint smack of her lips when they part to take another breath. Suddenly he’s fascinated by those lips. Wholly immersed in their plumpness; the flush of their coloring, the shine left behind when she nervously licks along her top lip. Even more suddenly he’s consumed by a need to touch those lips, his hand reaching her face before he’s entirely realized the whim — fingers skimming along her jawline as his thumb whispers underneath the protrusion of her full bottom lip. Her mouth closes on an ‘M’ that doesn’t end up forming anything more.
A/N: I’m horrible at following prompts but I hope this will fulfill your v-day wishes regardless. The concept came to me in that place between awake and sleep and developed itself pretty much against my will and I hope that you and everyone else will like it. Happy Valentine’s Day! ATTHS!
FF.NET | AO3
What a way to spend Valentine’s Day. Not that it really amounted to anything that different from how he normally spent it, with no girlfriend to speak of. But being caught in a blizzard at the tail end of a lackluster case, forced to stay holed up in a motel room when stepping foot outside ran the risk of coming back with icicles for eyelashes was still fairly low on his list of fantasy holidays. Were it not for the redhead whose room his adjoined to, he might have actually gone completely stir-crazy here, in a town he’d never have chosen to visit otherwise. But about said redhead.
On Hour 5 of their forced confinement there was a small rap at the door separating their rooms, the ravishing creature responsible inviting him in to hers to go over the field report she’d been typing away at. It was a welcome reprieve from flipping through the three different channels he’d managed to pull in, each one not much more than a snowy reflection of the blustering weather just outside.
Entering her room he was greeted by a handful of new sensations. The room was warm; probably no more than his but it had a sort of inviting air to it that his stale quarters lacked. Though that may have had more to do with the room’s inhabitant than whatever temperature she’d set her thermostat to. Second, the room smelled infinitely better. Again, something easily attributed more to his partner herself, as there were no candles, incense or the like around to have accounted for it otherwise. And then — there she was.
Casual Scully wasn’t something he got to experience very often. Even in a presumably casual setting she was still often found in a tailored jacket at the very least, if not a full-blown FBI regulation suit. Doing a very unregulated job of hugging her in ways he shouldn’t let himself take note of, but was guilty of nonetheless. But here in Nowhere, North Dakota, stuck in a crappy motel, Casual Scully had made her way out since he’d last spoken to her.
Wearing leggings and an old chopped up t-shirt, with her hair half clipped out of her face; a few wayward pieces breaking free to dance at her cheekbones, though he could hardly fault them for that. It was an indiscretion he himself had been guilty of; breaking away from propriety at times, indulging himself in sweeping the backs of his fingers along her cheek, hidden beneath a guise of either comfort or kindness — brushing a strand of hair from her face before she’s even noticed it had fallen out of line. Casual Scully made it more difficult than usual to resist staring, his gaze lingering in all kinds of ways inappropriate for interoffice partnerships. It was this fact that led him to notice her ten little red painted toes — the only sign he could see of her acknowledging the occasion.
As he surveyed the rest of the room he noted the mat set out just beyond the foot of the bed. She’d taken up yoga a number of weeks before — she’d told him as much, but this was his first actual glimpse into her new ritual. “I was just about to do some stretches,” she mentions offhandedly, before doing a much less off-handed job of whipping her t-shirt over her head, revealing a sports bra to match her workout bottoms. “Be my guest,” his voice does a terrible job at parroting her tone, sounding deeper and fuller than intended; though thankfully, she doesn’t seem to notice.
Retiring to the relative safety of the table in the corner of the room, her report left open on her laptop’s screen for him, he once again took the opportunity to spend more time watching her than paying attention to the work in front of him. He looked on with a kind of silent fascination — watching her small but strong form leading itself from one stretch into the next; muscle molding beneath skin. The vision she presented proved far more enticing than words on a screen, and he indulged himself deeper into this welcome distraction.
“Mulder?” Her voice rings out, and he’s certain he’s caught; that the old pretending to read a file gag has failed him. As fate would have it, he’s safe, with her gaze still angled away from him while his has lingered both inconspicuous and yet carelessly — he’s read maybe 12 words of this file and none have been subsequent. “Can you tell me if my back is straight?” She sounds forthright yet idyllic; an odd combination given the situation, but he’s not one to question it.
“Pretty close.” He answers quick, too quick — too obvious that he hadn’t just looked up when she spoke but had been following closely along as she moved from stretch to stretch. He has no idea their names but he can recall in perfect clarity exactly how she looked in each of them.
“Can you adjust me?”
A lump threatens to overtake his throat at her request, strangling his voice before he can cover it with a cough. “Shr—uhum—Sure Scully.” Moving to join her, kneeling just beside her prone form, he’s all at once taken aback by just how small she is. Tough as nails, his Scully, and yet no bigger than a sixth grader. Her size betrays her strength, he knows. He’s witnessed it. He could even say he’s witnessing it now, as she holds herself in a plank position, muscles taut and straining but strong; powerful. He knows she could knock him out if she ever wanted to. Hell, sometimes he wishes she actually would.
“Am I close?” Once again she pulls him back from whatever internal fantasy he can’t seem to let go of; her voice holding a focused innocence his can scarcely claim.
“You tell me.” Having overcome the lump, he sounds more wanton than anticipated. “Sorry...bad joke.” Deciding it would be best to move things along quickly before she can have a reaction, he finally takes in her position from a — fleetingly — objective mind. The next stretch requires a straight back, he tells himself clinically; easy enough. A warm hand lands against her and he marvels momentarily at this new perspective. He’s touched her here almost every day and yet seeing it — seeing the way his hand almost spans her right the way across, how fair and soft she is beneath her suits, the faint smattering of freckles that decorate the area... He doesn’t realize just how long he’s fallen silent; staring, cataloging, until her voice shakes him back to reality once more. “Mulder?”
“Sorry,” he mutters absentmindedly, and moves on to the task at hand.
He’s gentle with her — not that he needs to be; but the compulsion is there all the same. He’s delicate as he maneuvers each area, setting her shoulders just so, pressing softly against her mid-back to correct the slightly convex curvature there. Reaching her lower back again he is struck just as he’d been the first time, summarily distracted from his task of righting her spine’s position; lost within the creamy expanse of Scully skin. He feels more than hears her intake of breath when his fingertips gently wander down her vertebrae, re-misaligning her upper back, requiring he correct it once again.
“Sorry.” She mimics him from before, and her voice holds a quality he somehow can’t quite pinpoint; a borderline somewhere between distraction and...something else. Continuing where he left off, he passes over her lower back, memorizing the curve without the hindrance of fabric to interrupt his mapping of her. Her spine is slightly bowed here, dipped inward from the posture she’s trying to achieve; and he realizes the only way to actually right this is to reach beneath her, palming her stomach to ease her into alignment. He leaves one hand behind to provide a counterbalance, the other bracing itself just over her navel, feeling the rigidity in her abdominal muscles as he finishes repositioning her.
“Looks good to me.” There’s no way to disguise the way his voice has lowered since he last spoke; an all too obvious indication of what touching her could do to a man. He can’t help noting how she looks to be fairing no better, with a slight tremor visible in her stance as she attempts to control her breath. “Thank you.” Her voice shakes just as perceptibly as she is; slight, but it’s there. She holds the stretch for a thirty count, and he’s made no move to leave her side even when she’s finished. She drops a knee to the mat and lets out a languished breath, then turns to sit facing him. Neither has said a word for the last minute or more, and electric molecules buzz in the air like the flurries just outside her window.
She swallows thickly and he can hear the faint smack of her lips when they part to take another breath. Suddenly he’s fascinated by those lips. Wholly immersed in their plumpness; the flush of their coloring, the shine left behind when she nervously licks along her top lip. Even more suddenly he’s consumed by a need to touch those lips, his hand reaching her face before he’s entirely realized the whim — fingers skimming along her jawline as his thumb whispers underneath the protrusion of her full bottom lip. Her mouth closes on an ‘M’ that doesn’t end up forming anything more.
Her eyes are deadly focused on his, though his own have taken up a residence alongside his thumb for the time being. He watches diligently at the way her lip gives under the insistent pressing of his thumb; her breath a hot little cloud moistening the digit along with her lips. Growing braver or perhaps just more foolish, he moves up, to fully experience the satiny impact of her lip head on — feeling her breath shake all the while she allows him this great indulgence. And indulge he does.
“What made you take up yoga?” He asks as though he isn’t currently tracing his partner’s uniquely perfect pout. But a very unpartner-like behavior only breeds more unpartner-like conduct. She swallows again, the action parting her lips once more; though his thumb has still yet to leave their pillowy expanse, simply moving back to outlining the brim of her lower lip once more. His fingers have taken up a more serious attachment to her jawline, and he makes no indication of removing them to make this any easier on her. He can see the mix of shock dancing in her eyes — shock at what he’s doing, perhaps even shock at herself for so freely allowing what he’s doing, and shock that he’s chosen this moment to ask about her exercise habits.
She swallows again and he can feel the sensation just below his fingertips where they graze against her throat. Her lips look as though she’s going to question him. ‘Mulder what are you doing?’, ‘Mulder why are you touching me like this?’, ‘Mulder why haven’t I stopped you?’. He silently prepares himself for — he wouldn’t call it rejection, but it will certainly end up feeling that way. He’s in this just as she is; shock mixing around his mind, at his own audacity, brazenness, at her lack of rebuff until now. But she surprises him yet again — her voice coming out with what looks like a great effort to remain unaffected, but ending up sounding altogether very, very affected.
“It was suggested to me...” His Scully is stronger than any man or woman he’s ever known. Her fortitude astounds him almost daily, but no more than it does in this moment. Perhaps later he’ll tell himself it was that fortitude that spurred him on — a voiceless challenge to rattle those fortifications, push past those braces before she shores herself up impenetrably. Yes that must be the reason he finds himself tugging her closer, his hand having moved to the back of her neck before he fully realizes it; but how can anyone expect anything of him when he’s just felt the first brush of contact of her lips and his? She draws in a quick gasp of breath at the connection, which he’s almost certain amounted to little more than drawing in his exhale; CO2 invading her lungs as his tongue makes its first bid at invading her mouth.
All at once she lets him, even meets him halfway; her tongue colliding with the wet intrusion of his — a first kiss to end all others. It’s slow and soft, yet achingly erotic. This suddenly sensual creature before him never fails to surprise him. Thinking back he could argue that she’s always been sensual — wholly feminine, more beautiful than he’d allow himself to acknowledge — never wanting to reduce her to a mere sensual being, when she was that and so, so so much more; most especially to him. But the kiss — the kiss cements her in his mind as an utterly beautiful, utterly sensual woman. He’ll be hard-pressed to extract her in any other state now, with the way her hands have suddenly clutched into his t-shirt, leveraging herself closer to him; he’ll be hard-pressed indeed.
“Mulder...” his name finally makes it out, but not like he expected. It isn’t ‘Mulder what are you doing?’ it’s ‘Mulder keep doing what you’re doing or I’ll shoot you again.’ Okay maybe not exactly that, but his mind has a mind of its own now and it’s decidedly run away with him. Taken whatever it was that held him back from her for this long and blown it sky high. His hands reach for her waist and pull her in a swift, clean motion; her slight weight flying across the short distance between them until she’s in his lap, knees pressed in to the carpet and lips at a much better angle for him to kiss. She draws in another quick breath at the relocation, but seems just as appreciative to be closer now than just in arm’s reach. Her hands are in his hair and she’s flush against his chest, and she’s just as intent on keeping this going as he is.
A soft, little sound escapes her lips and goes right to his groin. A moan, you idiot — his brain tells him late. You just made Dana Scully moan with a kiss. The realization suddenly brings a smile to his lips, which makes a momentary mess of their kiss. But then she’s smiling too, as though his were infectious and she’s caught it — lock, stock, and barrel. The only cure is to kiss her deeper, drawing another mewling sound from her throat, which makes the same trek downwards just as her hips shift above him. They both feel it — the palpable inevitability of what comes next if they don’t stop this now. His heart lurches at the thought of stopping anything they’re doing right now, and she must sense it; allaying his fear in a single phrase.
“Bed now.”
Her words come out fast, almost too fast for him to register initially. He hears them late, but his body seems to have a mind of its own too; already having gathered her up, mere milliseconds from depositing her on the bed before it registers that this is what she asked for — her body receiving his with a contented sigh. Her legs wrap around his waist and he’s trapped; locked in to her embrace and he’s never felt better, safer, more accepted than he does in this moment. Scully has always accepted him, accepted his faults, his penchant for running off; she hates it but she accepts it all the same. She doesn’t seem to be hating this now though, when he rolls his hips and makes contact against her, she certainly doesn’t seem to be hating this at all.
The friction throws a wrench into their otherwise picture-perfect kiss. They have a rhythm developed already; born perhaps out of dancing around one another so close for so long — it’s instinctive. They know when the other needs a breath, and when breath is the least of their priorities. A kiss; deep, and long, is of much greater importance right now, and he’s chosen then to throw her off her game. Her fingers clench tighter into his hair, as though to steady herself — he’s caused yet another misalignment from touching her this way, and it’s his responsibility alone to fix it.
Without warning he breaks the kiss completely; her eyes fling open and her breath dislodges from her chest on a sudden outward journey. But it’s just as quickly pulled back in; his lips have only relocated — dropped to her throat to do a more than satisfactory job of kissing her there. He feels her begin to melt beneath his ministrations, turning to magma beneath his lips; molten hot and percolating at his touch. She is in sharp contrast to the rage of weather still outside; all but trapping them here, and at least partly responsible for setting this in motion.
His hands finally take initiative to do the same; moving from her waist to engulf her breasts, causing another moan to plant itself in her throat, and her teeth to bury themselves in her kiss-swollen lip to prevent it from fully surfacing. This only proves to spur him on more. He wants that moan — wants to hear it full force; feel it vibrate his very being and know he was the cause. He finds her nipples through Lycra fabric, kneads at them with his thumbs as his hips drive into hers on a soft roll; and that does it. The moan breaks free and she clutches him tighter. The moan sounds like his name and when he repeats the motion again, it is. “Mulder.”
He decides then and there his name has never sounded better, and likely never will again.
She begins to writhe beneath him, growing impatient and only more aroused the longer he takes to give her anything more than petting through material. But he isn’t quite done with it yet. One hand leaves her breast, much to her dismay. She tells him of such with an impatient whimper and an almost painful grasp of his hair. It turns to speaking when his hand moves between her legs; a supplication to God himself, and he’s almost tickled that he’s caused her to bring Him in to this.
He strokes at her clothen center — the scorch of her emanating through the layers still between them, bordering on incendiary. She writhes again and her hand joins the one still at her breast, grapples at him until he grips her tighter; a vision of desperation he will never get out of his head. He decides suddenly, to put her out of her misery. His hand slinks past elastic and cotton, and finally touches the flaming ember between her thighs. Three large fingers stoke her very core, eliciting the most beautiful moan he thinks he’s ever heard; three parts pleasure one part repose — it says finally, something more substantial.
The pads of his fingers run up and down the length of her, yet to focus on one place. For the time being it seems to be enough for her; as she lets her soft, mewling sounds leave her lips freely now, and tells him in a kind of Morse code through her tightening and loosening grip on his hair when and where it feels just right.
“Get this off.” He plucks at the perimeter of her sports bra, suddenly aware that he has still yet to see her breasts and that that simply won’t do. He sits up just enough to give her the room required to remove it but not so much as to break the connection of his hand between her legs. She seems most appreciative of that fact, and rewards him with a cross of her arms and a tug of fabric; the bra is lost beyond the bed and her breasts are finally free — her panting breath causing them to rise and fall gently, somehow making them appear even more enticing. “God Scully.” It’s the only reaction that comes to mind. Give it up to the big man, if he really is up there; if he really is responsible for these perfect, cherry-tipped breasts before him.
His hand returns to her first — molding along her flesh in a way he’d be lying if he said he never thought of doing before this moment. But as most merely imagined things are, it’s better than he ever could have predicted. She’s soft but firm under his hand; warm, welcoming flesh accepting his touch ardently. She flushes under the weight of his gaze and grasp on her — a pretty, pink tinge trailing out across her skin. But despite the blushed hue she is still his immutable partner. “Need this off you.” She grabs for his t-shirt and he’s forced to let go of her to aid in her removing of it. It’s narrowly out of sight before she’s clutching at his flesh, dragging him back down to her; to her waiting chest and lips. Her hands encircle as much of his back as she can reach, fingers press in to lines of muscle and tendon, and the nails of one hand light sparks along his scalp — actions all intended to draw him close, closer; keep him there, keep him kissing her — as if he would stop unless it were her express wish that he did.
His thumb sweeps along the side of her face, this time needing no excuse or wayward tendril to do so. She hums in contented recognition of the overt tenderness of the gesture; kisses him earnestly, matches him equal in her tenderness, as though he deserves nothing less. His heart clinches momentarily, at the thought that she could love him. That on this day of love and bad greeting cards she’d choose to receive the former from him, and return him hers in commensurate measure. He peppers kisses along her cheeks, her jaw; drawing a giggle out of her the likes of which he’s never heard. He can’t resist retracing his steps to kiss her effervescent mouth — to hold some of her laugh inside him forever, as once it entered him he would never surrender it to the harshness of the world ever again.
Her fingers trace a blazing trail down the column of his spine, ending somewhere near his mid-back as she runs out of arm length to reach any further. Diminutive, he’s reminded; and as if she senses his thoughts through some tongue convertible telepathy, she uses her strength to flip him onto his back. Her eyes sparkle — diminutive my ass, Agent Mulder. His petite, achingly pretty partner has finally knocked him on his ass; and she looks particularly proud of herself for doing so. Her hands reach for his belt and it’s game on again. No more verbose silent soliloquies written like odes unto her beauty. At least not for the moment.
With his belt gone she makes quick work of the button and zip of his jeans; extricates herself from him, much to his dismay, but it’s only in necessity to remove the garment, and drop it in a muffled denim thump onto the carpet. Her leggings are next to go; her hips wiggling side to side as she works the snug fabric down her toned, peaches and cream colored legs. He sits up swiftly before she can deal with the rest herself — he wants this privilege; wants it burned inside his very eyelids, so on every blink he gets the split-second reminder, of just what it was like to strip Dana Scully of the last of her underthings.
He sits at the edge of the bed with her fixed between his legs. He kisses the curve of her waist, drags his mouth along the path to her hip, takes her waistband into his teeth and softly snaps it against her. She laughs again, softly; and tangles a hand back into his hair. She indulges his monumental levels of patience even while she has no such monuments of her own. When he finally raises his hands to grasp and pull the fabric down her legs she lets out a sigh; something between relief and a dash of apprehension. There’s no going back now.
He kisses along her sternum but his eyes are decidedly skywards. But this time he’s not looking to the sky for intangible spacecraft hovering above — he’s looking to her. He holds her in place with the weight of his gaze alone. It says to her that this is about you, us; not just him or what lies between her legs. She dips down just enough to kiss him, with the softest kiss they’ve yet to share. The impossible pillow of her lips accepts his own in a cradle akin only to a cloud. He is truly discovering unidentified objects here; flying along with her to light the way.
Her lack of patience has finally begun to catch up with her; and she tugs at the top of his boxers, the turgid, solid length of him breaking free. His shorts have barely reached his calves before her hand has grasped the fullness of him; taking up a slow, rhythmic manipulation of flesh that leaves him burdened with a desperate sort of longing to surge up into the vise of her grip.
“Scully—” His hands take up a similar vise grip of her waist; the rest of his sentiment conveyed only through the fervor in his eyes. Now it’s her turn to put him out of his misery — when she’s in his lap again and the heat of her is engulfing him inch by solid inch. His lips find her breast as she adjusts atop him; accepts him all the more than she’s already done. Her fingers clutch at his shoulders as she works her way down, back up and down again; each time taking more until he’s buried totally inside her and never wants to come back out.
He kisses her again and swallows up her humming; the soft sounds she’s begun making as she sets out a rhythm with him. His hands hoist her gently by the hips to aid in her cadence, and pull her back down in parallel motion; sinking deeply into her waiting warmth and besetting a quiver into her pliable construction. Her rhythm starts to falter even with his helping hands, strength waning as pleasure takes a stronger hold.
“Mulder...” her bliss-racked voice beseeches him; so he rolls and moves them back up the bed, lets her take residence up below him once again, drives his hips into hers like before but this time the connection is palpable — sweaty and authentic, and he’s in rapture all the more. He looks on in fascination at his length disappearing into her — sees the flush creep back in all over now; a full body blushing and he just has to see her face. She’s grown pinker and more wanton since he’s switched their positions, enjoying her view of his form just as he is hers. They share a lust-addled smile before he’s on her again; kissing her hungrily as his hips roll and smack into hers in a delicious dizzying stroke, touching places within her that make her break the kiss to moan and wriggle before just as desperately returning to his lips for just a bit more.
His hands engulf her breasts again; thumbs thoroughly titillating her pert nipples until she’s using any leverage she has to thrust her hips downwards to meet his halfway — anything to tear more pleasure from their joining. Her sounds have been reduced to mere whimpers now; hands clutching desperately for a hold, something to keep her on the precipice, anything to feel like this just a little longer. He stops the overstimulation he’d committed to her breasts, instead focusing on a caress of her hips, her waist, the middle of her chest and even up to her throat. Whatever he can do to extend her pleasure, he’ll do it. He changes the angle of his hips slightly and she all but yelps. “Right there, Mulder—God.” His thrusts steadily hit her in just that spot and she’s quivering again — teeth chattering, nails digging in to his flesh, her voice growing higher and more desperate than he’s ever heard her. His own pleasure is fast surfacing; a wave ready to break on the rocks at any moment, barely holding back but using all his remaining strength to do so.
The inevitable is approaching; fast, and faster still. He knows she’s close but still needs something — that final push into oblivion, and he finds it with his thumb. He smooths the pad of it along her apex, unearths the diamond of nerves at her medial and rubs circles against it until she’s convulsing internally; spasming around him in the most beautiful fashion, and then he’s spilling over too — cresting white waves against the beach, her name on his lips like she were a prayer. And God, for him. She is.
Title: Cosmic Or Chemical
Part: Two
Author: Nikayla
Pairing: Mulder/Scully, MSR
Set During: 11x03 Plus One
Word Count: 3,200+
Rating: M
He's never been religious, but she is certainly worth this kind of worship. His tongue molds against her, like he's a sculptor and she his clay; the deft appendage playing at her like piano keys, searching for the proper notes. He draws lazy, languid patterns against her, searching for the one she always loved most; small asymmetrical impressions repeating until he finds it — when her hips flex just so, he knows he has — when her fingers thread deeper into his hair and name is heavy on her tongue, fractured down the middle, all consonants and few vowels because they just take too much effort.
A/N: Picks up immediately from where I left Part One, very longwinded and thick with flowery metaphor but that’s just how I do.
FF.NET | AO3
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Their kiss is almost messy; a forgotten pattern they haven't yet lined up just right, but somehow that makes it feel all the more real. All the more necessary. They lost a part of themselves when she left — when his actions, or inactions, made her leave. They were finding it again, case by case, flirting just at the edge of the line they shouldn't cross. And now they were crossing it, hand in hand, lips on lips. He slows the kiss into something a bit less frantic, makes her sigh again and her nails press in more firmly against his back. She wants more than he's giving and she'll get it, but not yet. He wants to take his time.
His weight presses heavier above her as he closes in, and what had not seconds earlier been a slow, not-yet-satisfying-enough kiss suddenly feels different. She matches him beat for beat, lips and tongue engaging in a dance, it makes her heart flutter. Yes, flutter; that cliche and teenage reaction, warmth and arousal pooling in her gut. He can feel when she relaxes, when he finds his way in to her pattern again, the steps he'd long had memorized. He kisses her for all the nights she's been left unkissed, as her fingers trail down and back up along his spine, ever so gently leaving her mark on him. Or perhaps more accurately; retracing marks she's already left. Her legs tangle with his once more, bare and soft, anchoring him to her, should he have any mind to stray. As if he could be that big of a fool ever again.
Her body aches to be touched, to writhe against him, but for this long and lingering moment she accepts only what he's given. His closeness, his body looming possessive above hers, and a kiss. Her hands reach down and scrape his sides, as their breath mingles; hot, humid air between their lips. He shifts and his thigh grinds against her center; senses spring back to life as the jolt runs right through her — neural pathways lighting back up, and another sigh escapes her and ends up in him. Tension comes back in to play, her chest rising higher with each breath, legs locking tighter against his, and red lines already start littering his back. He hums out into the kiss, against her impatient tongue. He got what he wanted and he knows she deserves the same in return.
The next grind against her is more purposeful; a nudging little motion, repeating once, twice. Molecules buzz between her lips, he can almost taste them, feel her starting to vibrate through the third and fourth time. His hands grip her waist, almost encircling her entirely, but then they're moving up right past her ribs, reaching her breasts; fifth, sixth. Another rumbling sigh. His hands trace her by pure memory. He could map her with eyes closed and it would be the most topographically accurate thing anyone has ever seen. He knows her hills and valleys intimately, has touched every inch of her more times than he can count; as his hands begin to mold firmly against her breasts she's reminded of how they've always fit together so seamlessly. Slipped in to one another's space, no adjustment necessary; there was always just the right amount of room. A place etched out at their side that only the other could properly fill.
Her breathing grows heavier under his firm touch. The pads of his fingers kneading too long untouched flesh, while lips knead at unkissed lips. She arches harder into his grip, beckoning for more, and with one last deep pass of his tongue over hers he's pulled back, his mouth descending to her breast to give her just that. Lips find her flushed and puckered skin automatically, a magnetic pull leading him, his inner compass always set to her true north. Her nails slide against his scalp as a sharp exhale leaves her, chest caving in slightly at the loss of air and she pulls him tighter to make up for it. Closeness, she realizes, is more than necessary now. She needs him closer, burrowing into her for it's been so long. An arm finds its way below her, snaking beneath the curve of her spine, lifting her ever so slightly closer as he lavishes her breasts with tongue and teeth. Licking, sucking, scraping incisors, sending shivering quivering sparks down her spine, her hand gripping hard into his bicep for an anchor, her singular thought on repeat; don't stop, don't stop.
He doesn't. He won't.
Fox Mulder may have been many things but a selfish lover he was not. That same focus he put in to his work was laid against her body with utmost force and precision. There were times in the beginning when she'd wondered if he was always like this with his lovers. She hated the word. Most especially when it was concerning a woman who wasn't her. Jealousy is not a good color on you Dana, she told herself, but it didn't stop that petulance from rearing its head when he showed his attention to someone else. She'd decided along the way though that there was no chance those women had experienced what she had with him. None of them had spent seven years at his side before even sharing a kiss. The electric crackle that whipped and sparked between them was theirs alone, and when they'd finally allowed themselves to ignite, to burst into a shimmering flame, there was no way those women had ever felt like she had. And she'd made damn sure that none of them had made him feel anything in comparison to it either.
Teeth sink in to her lip as he leaves a particularly spectacular kiss against her pert flesh, a hum of approval escaping in response. She could swear she feels him smile against her, something in the curve of his mouth, in the swirl of his tongue and subsequent pop as he releases her before going right back in for more. A tug in his hair urges him on; more, she says, and even more still. He hears it in her voice without her even needing to utter the word. He's heard it many times before; it carved an unmistakably deep scar in his memory long ago. An ugly thing if you were to really look at it, for all the times he held back just to hear her say it again. He'd aided in that scar's creation so much he'd grown to love it. Believing now that if he kissed her just right she might dig a nail into it one more time; for old time's sake, if nothing else.
Her breathing increases, grip tightening the moment he kisses just an inch too far to the left, takes his time moving from her left breast to her right, the valley between them getting more attention than he'd originally intended. But her reactions are too precious not to. He wants to hoard them all away; fill up his shelving until the collection he's built spills out across the floor, until he can swim in her hums and hitches of breath when he's finally bridged the gap between lips and where she wants those lips to be. Her own part wider as she sucks in a deeper breath, skin just as sensitive and desperate for contact. "Mulder," she finally utters, wantonly; how long it's been since she said his name like that. He'll have to think of a special place to keep it, to remember when why and where it happened, how he'd begun to wonder if he'd never hear it that way again. Were they really so broken, so split at the seams they could never pull tight and find each other again? Had they really fallen so far apart?
Had he really gotten so lost?
He was finding himself again, in her, in time spent at her side; in time spent wading in the ocean of her eyes. Finding shells and fractured segments of who he'd been; the man she'd followed and would have again, until he'd delved too dark and too deep, until even her eyes could not illuminate him, could not call him back in. He was a shipwreck on the rocks too far from her reach. He'd marooned himself there, away from her touch, burned in the sun without the cool blue of her gaze to soothe him. But now he was finding his way back. He'd made it through the dangerous labyrinth of rocks, passed rip currents and chasms so deep that had he fallen in he'd have never been heard from again. He could see her on the shore, distant; almost a mirage, but he knew better. Knew that even still she would be waiting. She would live her life in the sun, check back for him by light of the moon. He'd made it to the shallows and she was there, clear and beautiful, night air blowing long red tresses away from her face, drawing him near. A siren who'd stepped out of the sea's foam, calling him not to ruin but to safety. He'd stopped just at the water's edge, the line in the sand they agreed they wouldn't cross, but now the tide had risen, blurred the line into nothingness, she was in his arms in an instant, with no barrier between the water and dry land to keep them apart. He could hold her now, as she clung to him, and the words she'd just said in the dark; of him finding someone else, that he could want for anyone else — were undone with every sumptuous pass of his tongue.
He finally moves lower to lavish her sternum with kisses, her slight muscles more visible than when they were still young. She'd whittled her body down over time, no longer a soft outer shell; she was tightly toned all over now, this Scully who jumped over railings in stairwells and slid under dining tables. Who incapacitated men twice her size in dark rooms. Who waited on the shore far longer than she ever should have. How grateful he was though, that she had.
Her muscles contract beneath his lips the lower he descends, anticipating how familiar it will feel and yet how new. They've never been here before, this untamed path they're hacking their way through. The jungle that grew overnight when she left. Weeds surrounding coniferous trees and tightly packed bamboo shoots. None of it made sense together, there was no forest like it anywhere, but it had grown sky high as they left it untended. Only faint cracks of light split through the canopy, lighting up small pockets of arid turf where they met, sometimes for an hour, sometimes for only a minute; outside the aftermath of their breakup, before inevitably being swallowed back in to their respective webs of vine. But now they're armed as they confront it — the wall of plant-life that fed off their distance and discordance, fertilized and rooted deep — a hacksaw and machete between them, cleaving and slashing away bit by bit until they collapsed right here, into this very bed. He reaches down to stoke at the fire already burning within her, applies just the right amount of gasoline to finally burn their disillusion to the ground and salt the earth beneath it. No greenery shall ever grow in her absence again.
Somewhere after only ash is left he's moved himself down between her legs, kissing a line of muscle in her inner thigh, stubble sending little sparks of sensation trailing up before his lips have reached her — hot breath urging them onward, almost like a prayer. He's never been religious, but she is certainly worth this kind of worship. His tongue molds against her, like he's a sculptor and she his clay; the deft appendage playing at her like piano keys, searching for the proper notes. He draws lazy, languid patterns against her, searching for the one she always loved most; small asymmetrical impressions repeating until he finds it — when her hips flex just so, he knows he has — when her fingers thread deeper into his hair and name is heavy on her tongue, fractured down the middle, all consonants and few vowels because they just take too much effort. She melts under him, his willing artistic medium, as he manipulates the tight bundle of nerves at her center and she keens into a soft gasp that extricates itself from her lips of its own free will. She has not the strength of focus to stop it, and truthfully wouldn't want to. They're long past the point of pretenses; every slip of his tongue sends them further still.
Breaths come in deep, shuddering heaves the more he draws her in, licking and sucking at her flesh like she were a last delectable meal before he meets the chair. Her eyes flutter of their own accord, stuck somewhere between closing fully or remaining open, drifting down to watch his ministrations until he kisses her too particularly well for her to manage it, until her eyes have shot to the ceiling and she's thankful for the vice grip he's taken of her hips, keeping her in place lest her body writhe away without her consent. It's been long enough that she feels a disconnect, a lack of control between what her brain wants her body to do and how it can't help but react in the opposite. He weaves delicious words against her, two steps forward one step back, bringing her closer but not too close — drawing it out like he was always so adept at doing, keeping her clinging to him before she has much at all to cling to, with him wedged so far from her she can only clutch at his hair and graze his scalp; before he's even inside her himself. This may not have been the something she'd been referring to, but then, perhaps, it was. She's not in the presence of mind to remember now, her memory altered the longer he envelops her with his utmost attention.
Glancing up at her, he catches her eyes only in passing, before he whispers the pink of his tongue against her so eloquently that her eyes are lost to him, and he tightens his grip to make certain they are the only thing he loses contact with. He should finish her, he will, in due time; but he can't help wanting to make this last, make it so good she can't help herself, can't leave this as a one time only transgression before she's slipped back in to all her professional glory and he's left on the wrong side of a door again. In his animal mind he thinks if she comes hard enough she'll be forced to open that door herself. It won't surprise her when he's there, waiting, because she'll know he was expecting it. If he only does this right.
A deep aching vibration is building in her gut, drawn closer and closer by his lips, the line no longer slack as he reels it in, reels her in; net at the ready. She's not a deadly catch but she is an elusive one. To anyone other than him. She's on his bait more readily than she'd care to admit, but he was always so clever at discovering elusive creatures. He's caught her so many times before they're almost like old friends. If a sailor had every really been friends with a siren. But then she has guided him through so many a storm perhaps that is what they are. Friends. He was her friend once, if you can count seven long years as once, that is.
She's reeled in so close now she can almost reach him, drops her hands from his hair to press in to the back of the couch above herself, pushing insistently closer in place of actually begging him aloud. But his name comes out in a way that may as well have been a desperate begging Please... thank God and the archangels she can't see the grin he must be wearing because if anything threw her off right now she might actually scream. Instead it's a symphony of moans and gasping whimpers; indelicate sounds he hadn't expected the first time he'd heard them, from his oh so straight-laced partner; her face awash with ecstasy, so beautiful he could almost cry. He can't see it now but he can recall it in stunning clarity behind his eyes — full lips blooming like a flower, his tongue longing to pollinate her own but not yet, not until she's done.
She's reminded, fragmentedly, of exactly how long it's been as it hits her; undoes knots she hadn't even realized had formed. If he were a seismograph he'd be reading her at a 9.4; catastrophic if it were happening anywhere outside this bed, outside her. All at once she wants to kiss him, give back what he's given her, and not move for a week. The strength in her arms wane into nothing, but even when they fall limp he has her, clutched close and tight as he works her through it, his determination to leave her so fulfilled causes a tear to slip from her eye, lost into her hairline before he even has a clue. The tension in her hips goes slack, muscle and even bone thrumming from the weight of what's hit her — she doesn't even mind that he will have left ten fingerprint bruises in his wake.
"Kiss me," she says to him in a breath, into the air, into all of the unknown universe for all she knows. He crawls back over her, lips catching at her skin as he drags so close, kissing over her breast to which she hums pleasantly, before he's finally in her line of vision once again. He kisses her slowly, ardently, nestles himself close enough she can feel his hardness on her thigh, reigniting sparks of arousal from a flame that hasn't even had time to die back out. She can taste herself on his tongue, mixed with his own unique flavors, and her arms drape back around his shoulders as they share a breath, intermixing oxygen and CO2, until she drags him back in. She has half a mind to stay just like this, but then he did interrupt her so quickly earlier. She'll have to see to righting that, just as soon as she's had her fill of his weight above her. Just another moment longer.
Title: Cosmic Or Chemical
Part: One
Author: Nikayla
Pairing: Mulder/Scully, MSR
Set During: 11x03 Plus One
Word Count: 1,700+
Rating: M
Male and female agents cannot fraternize in the same hotel room. But this isn't just any male and female agent. This is Mulder, and Scully. Two halves of one whole. And they've been here before. The second kiss is proof of that, both pulling closer at once, both certain that it's not just needed but wanted, not because she's scared — Dana Scully does not get scared. But when she does this is not the security she seeks. This is something different. Something almost predestined. Like who were they kidding these last long years? That they could stay apart indefinitely, indelibly, that they wouldn't end up right here all over again.
A/N: I haven’t written a fic in a while so I’d love some feedback if I should continue :)
FF.net | AO3
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"We'll think of something."
The way she looks at him, she hasn't done that in...
The thought hasn't even been finished before what distance was between them is gone, an act that is all his — she hasn't moved an inch. He was close, closer, closest before he even realized, the decision on a delay; two seconds behind the action, but following in exact synchronicity. Her lips are soft, memorable. He hasn't forgotten the texture or taste of her at all. It's been living and breathing its own lifetime, in a corner off in his mind, where they hadn't fallen apart. Where he'd always make her happy.
The Truth had always been most important. Still was in most ways. But somewhere along the roadmap of their winding and weaving time together her happiness had become of paramount importance, and he thought himself singularly equipped to provide it. He had been, for quite some time, but slowly the Truth had seeped back in, took up too much space, borrowed from where only she had been allowed to reside, until finally she made the Adult Decision, and moved out. He could only blame himself. And that Truth he'd still yet to find.
Now even more Truths alluded them, and yet he found himself once again only concerned with one, this time, the Truth of what they'd once been. The Truth of what he'd never moved on from, and never would. A kiss the most tangible piece of evidence to his theory that he could provide.
"Mulder..."
"Scully."
He says it so matter of fact, like the decision's made. Male and female agents cannot fraternize in the same hotel room. But this isn't just any male and female agent. This is Mulder, and Scully. Two halves of one whole. And they've been here before. The second kiss is proof of that, both pulling closer at once, both certain that it's not just needed but wanted, not because she's scared — Dana Scully does not get scared. But when she does this is not the security she seeks. This is something different. Something almost predestined. Like who were they kidding these last long years? That they could stay apart indefinitely, indelibly, that they wouldn't end up right here all over again. The unspoken rule they wordlessly agreed to when they rejoined the FBI; to be partners in every sense but one, now wordlessly broken because words were not needed. Just a name, said just so, and a kiss.
It is not the kiss of young lovers, she knows, because they are no longer young. But it's not the kiss of old flames either, because that flame never really burned out. It's been simmering quietly in the background of every room, made brighter when a certain kind of look was exchanged. And there have been many looks. A flame that's waited so patiently, and now could burn down a house with them in it.
The hand he'd draped over her makes slow, practiced work of each button until none are left, and he touches her skin almost reverently, remembering how it felt from so many times before this. But then his quiet moment is interrupted, her hand moving to take his and slide it upward; some things never change. She hasn't changed. Her fear of growing old is completely misplaced from where he's sitting. She's still as soft, and beautiful as when they were (almost) still young. His hand engulfs her breast, two puzzle pieces that have never found a more perfect match. She sighs softly against his lips, girlishly in fact, in part because it's been so long; in part because he's just so damn good at this. Her silk covered leg casts out on a rogue mission, sliding between his, just at the calf but it gets his attention. She always has his attention. Even when his mind is buried deep in a conspiracy she's there; a touchstone that keeps him from falling in so far he'll never make it back out. Telling him how wrong he is, always, about everything. Well not everything, but all the things he needs to hear to stay afloat. His hand kneads at her flesh, thumb raking over the sensitive peak and she leans into it, seeking something more substantial. He's never been wrong when it comes to this.
A breath escapes from her lips, billowing out against his. It carries with it a sound; needy, demanding, it says she wants more without her even needing to speak. He understands. By something cosmic or chemical he can't say. She would know but he doesn't dare ask, not now, not when it could alter the outcome he wants to hurtle against. He feels her leg moving again, this time hooking over his thigh, lean muscle clenching, a counterweight to pull herself effortlessly above him. Knees press in to the pull out mattress and it squeaks beneath them, the sound combining with the low rumble she pulls from his lips, when her hips meet against his through too many layers of fabric. He grasps at her, with the hand that isn't still cemented to her breast; grasps at her slight, enticing curves. They've grown slighter as she's gotten older, and he wonders if he is the only one who can see she's only gotten better with age. Between the two of them, perhaps. But he's seen more than his share of fellow agents take note. Ones much younger than him, who think they have any idea how to be with a woman. This woman. The one who's begun grinding her hips against his.
Another rumble builds in the back of his throat, muffled only in part by a kiss. She smiles at it, lips blooming out at the sides, he can't see it but he can feel it, can feel her teeth pull at him before the kiss takes over once again. Her hands pull at the hem of his undershirt, his own reluctantly release their hold on her so she can pull it up and off. Nails meet his chest and every nerve stands at attention, pulsing beneath her touch, firing all along the line she drags down, fingers tracing muscle, somewhere between delicate and electrifying.
He can't remember the last time they were like this. Yes...actually, he can. If he'd known it was to be the last time he'd have made it last longer. But now, he supposes, it wasn't meant to be the last time afterall. And he hopes, perhaps foolishly so, that this isn't either.
The rhythm she's working up between them has always been her own. She likes being in control, and he likes letting her be; most times, at least, and this is one of them. He wouldn't dare change a thing. This case is confounding, even he who thinks he has it all figured out can't come to a reasonable explanation to convince her reasonable mind of it. He isn't crazy. Perhaps in the morning he can try one more time. Hope that at the end of the afterglow she might finally believe him. As if that has ever worked before. "Mulder," she whispers it, half gravel half silk. Wantonly she proffers his name, tells him everything she desires within two syllables; he can't remember the last time she said his name like that.
Yes, he can.
All at once he gathers her to him, hands gripping at her, the bed squeaks and clanks as he flips their position. He hadn't meant to but now, hearing his name and all it asks of him, it happens on pure instinct. On memory almost full, but still wanting for more pieces of them. The puzzle that could never be complete. There's always more to add to it; he wonders what color this part will be. Perhaps it will be blue. Cerulean — God no, anything but cerulean blue. This will be a deep, dark navy. The color of the silk he pulls down her legs, mingled with the cream of her complexion; a pale, soft color, that compliments the tan of his skin. Or so he's always thought.
His strong fingers press against her thighs, she shouldn't be letting this happen, not on a case, in a room bought and paid for by the Bureau, but she honestly doesn't give a damn. Not when he's looking at her like he is, not when he's touching her like he is. His hands feel rough against her skin, and it's that roughness she craves. He doesn't treat her like porcelain, he never has — he's watched on while others might think she was in over her head, because he knows she is capable; she knows her limits, and if she reaches them he will be there. He's always been her equal, her opposite, her perfect other. Not a hero she didn't ask for and didn't need. He had always been exactly what she needed. And that's much more than she can say of other men. They had tiptoed around each other for years, neither wanting to breech that line of impropriety, save for a kiss one New Year's Eve, that they'd never spoken of since. There was no need to really, not when there have been so many since then.
Her hands find his face in the dim glow of the room, pulling him to her to share yet another, a languid, desperate kiss. With every breath she's surrounded by the scent of him, til it burrows into her very bones. That musk that lingers on all his clothes, and sometimes hers, when in recent months they've been close — too close — and yet not as close as this. It will settle against her skin before they're done, intermix with her own; sweat, sex, pheromones. Memory, yet again, of when their scent was always at some stage of combination, never drifting far from one another; visions not unlike his slide machine flicker one after the next in her head.
Nails drag against his skin once again, this time at his back, clawing at him to come closer, until he feels her breasts press against him, the steady beat of her heart across from his. The cadence fills the void between his own thrumming heartbeat, their pulses in equal but opposite tandem, much like them.
