Faithful (1/1)
Title: Faithful
Part: 1 of 1.
Author: ninamazing, or Nina
Fandom: The X-Files
Word Count: 2316.
Rating: Hard R.
Spoilers: Through 7x17 "all things." OH THAT'S RIGHT: THIS IS POST-"ALL THINGS" PORN, BOYS AND GIRLS. 'CAUSE THE WORLD DOESN'T HAVE ENOUGH OF THAT OR ANYTHING.
Characters: Mulder/Scully.
Excerpt: He touches the edge of her mouth, where the dark pink smoke of her lips curls into her cheek. When she looks up it's so easy.
Author's Note: To fireworkfiasco, trolliepop, and pie-is-good, for lots and lots of commentporn. It took me forever to eke this one out without you guys. Does it show?
The truly faithless one is the one who makes love to only a fraction of you. And denies the rest.
Anaïs Nin
Diaries - February, 1932
She wakes with a blanket draped over her and her eyes trained on Mulder's fish tank. The one light is still on, and she can hear him typing in the other room (probably about English crop circles). For a moment she just absorbs it all, curling her pantyhosed feet underneath the cover and tucking her knees in her arms. Daniel back and gone again in two days. Colleen and Carol and tea, and the way the sunlight warmed the smooth oak paneling of their house. Mulder listening to her, quiet and understanding. He must have tucked her in after she fell asleep, pulled the blanket up to her shoulders, watched her.
The typing's stopped.
She looks at the door; her partner grins at her.
"Watching Al Shepard?" he asks. Off her raised eyebrow, he throws a hand toward the tank, where a goldfish with one short fin is floating, flailing against the glass.
"No, I'm -" She rubs her eyes. It seems okay to do that, now, a late night at Mulder's apartment when neither of them are in immediate life-threatening danger. It feels almost comfortable.
It's still dark out. Maybe he's waiting for her to leave so he can sleep.
"Sorry, Mulder," she finishes. He was still hovering in the doorframe like a fountain pen trying to stand on its nib. "I should get out of your hair, huh?"
"I didn't say that," he tells her mildly. "It's pretty late. I have a bed, you know, and I've slept on the couch enough times."
"I know you have a bed," she responds, laughing a little, and then her mind catches up: "How late is it?"
"Two," he answers, and he's sitting next to her, exactly where he was before. The way he leans over her is calming, familiar; a relief after so many visceral reminders of the way Daniel's hands used to slide over her skin, of the times young Dana Scully lurked in parking lots and gazed at Mrs. Waterston conducting her daily business.
Doomed to love a married cardiologist, she thought then.
She lets her head drop to Mulder's shoulder a second time, allows her eyelids to slip closed.
"You going to be okay, Scully?" he says, and she nods into the fabric of his shirt. She's smiling; it's hilarious that he still asks that question, after seven years of "I'm fine" snapping back in his face.
He touches the edge of her mouth, where the dark pink smoke of her lips curls into her cheek. When she looks up it's so easy. They've done this before, mouth to mouth alone in a room, but last time they were standing, and she couldn't slide forward into his lap. She couldn't afford to heed the way her knees turned weak, last time; but now she has to, when his hand slides along her jaw and around her neck. She's still soft and warm from sleep; it makes her reach for him in ways she never would otherwise, and she knows she shouldn't be surprised when he meets her eagerly.
Only the steady bubbling of the fish tank convinces her that this is real. With her eyes closed and the blanket pooling into the couch and her body closing into her partner's, all she can sense is the potpourri of dirt and mist and spice that is his alone.
And the curious, heady serenity that settles over her freshly every time he moves his tongue against hers.
There's no denying the strength - the youth - in those arms as they fold around her body, and Scully's momentarily grateful for her time with other men, if only because it taught her to breathe through her nose.
She laughs, once: He's settled her back, his hands at her waist, and kissed her firmly before pulling away. She's confused until he leans over, tilting his hips into hers, and yanks the STONEHENGE ROCKS cap from between the couch cushions. Just looking at it makes her snort.
He laughs, too, when he picks her up and turns off the light; she feels it rumble into her skin, an extra burst of warmth.
"What?" she says. He grins at her.
"I was thinking about this before," he answers. "That I'd have to carry you to bed. But I was picturing you being asleep and me feeling awkward."
"This is different, then," she tells him, speaking low into his neck before she digs into his skin with her tongue.
"Yes" - he groans - "yes, it is."
They find themselves tangled together on Mulder's unmade bed, with Scully half-straddling his sitting body so that her heels dig into the balled-up coverlet. She's spent so much time imagining the way she'd fit into the shape of his body when he held her, cobbling together details from the only memories she had: Daniel's stuffy wool sweaters used to bite into her skin. Ed gripped her hard enough to bruise, and never noticed. Jack was always rock-hard, panting like a puppy, the instant she was there, and it spoiled the mood when she found herself embarrassed for him.
Her details are shit. That becomes clear pretty immediately.
Mulder feels like he's always felt: solid, magnetic, somehow surrounding her. She's gone through seven years of phases with him - spending weeks at a time convinced she wants to kill him, followed by another four months of laughing at his jokes and fighting the urge to call him at midnight - and she doesn't know what to call this one. He says she keeps him guessing (it's one of his favorite little digs), but he is, as ever, impossible to figure out. After everything they've done and seen together he still feels like home - or maybe he's the only one who can anymore, she thinks, visions of fate and destiny charging through her head.
His hand on her cheek, over her neck as he pulls away is what brings her back to life.
"Scully, I don't want you to regret anything," he whispers, and the gravel at the bottom of his voice makes her shiver into the shelter of his arms.
Where he so often jokes and quips he's solemn now, earnest. It occurs to her, as she grins into Mulder's eyes and dips her forehead against his, that she's never smiled like this during the throes of passion with a boy.
"I won't," she says, like she used to when she faced off with elementary school classmates - like he's stupid - like he should have known. He smiles back, but he catches the bossy tone in her voice and in a minute he growls and drags her so she's lying down with him. He's slanted, halfway on top of her, and shifting already so she can handle his weight. Scully curls into his shadow easily; digs her palms into the hair on the back of his head; opens her mouth in a kiss across his neck. His knee is suddenly hot between her thighs and she can't help whimpering into his skin. When he hears her he presses a fierce kiss to the top of her head and cups his hand around the space her hitched-up skirt has exposed.
"Mulder," she groans, rubbing her cheek against his, and feels him smile. He lets her help him peel off hose, skirt, jacket - and then his hands pause at the top of her collar, thumbs meeting her neck, and he pulls her closer.
"You won't regret anything, right?" she asks suddenly, as it strikes her that she should have gotten this out of the way for sure some time ago - that it wouldn't do for her to repeat the performance of her past life, only this time as Daniel. She doesn't want to be lost to his forgotten library of wrong women.
He laughs again. "No. Never."
She closes her eyes for a second, soaking that up, and when she opens them again he's taking his shirt off in the dark. She blinks, letting moonlight and streetlight filter through the blinds and flicker into her vision, casting Mulder in the role of a glorious silhouette. He keeps those steady, shining eyes pressed into her as he undoes his watch and his belt; her partner is stripping for her, and she leans forward to slip her fingers into the waistband of his jeans, to nuzzle down his zipper with her teeth.
"Jesus, Scully," he gasps, and she has him naked in another half-minute. He smiles, and that sends a surge through her just before his arm goes up her spine and he tugs off her shirt with one hand. Another pair of fingers is twisting, twisting, into the clasp at the back of her chest, and she drops into his mouth just as he's getting it open.
He pushes her into the mattress with one tender hand around her head, and she bucks into him, searching. The way he huffs against her skin is the trippiest natural high she's ever known, and it makes her brave. A drugged kind of courage, she thinks, and she makes him wait, hanging above her, as she shimmies to slip off the last of her clothes and rolls onto her side. He draws in a breath when she snuggles into the crook of his arm on the bed, and the warm round softness of her back beats against his body.
"Here," she whispers, drawing his other arm across the top of her hip, threading his fingers through her curls. Her leg is draped across both of his, throwing her open, and when he slides his fingers through her wetness and digs into the needy cluster of her nerves, he nips her earlobe possessively. She shoves her teeth into her bottom lip; he starts slow, maddening circles with two of his fingers, bites her ear again, and she gives up and cries out.
"Mulder, don't make me wait much longer," she pleads. He drags his tongue across her neck, and flips her gently on her back again, underneath him.
Her breasts feel safe in his hands when he holds them; watching his dark face watch her is too much, so she shutters her eyes and reaches for him with her body. He kisses her, holds her head, and then slides down again to tongue her nipples until she's panting, to press soft bites into her skin that no one else will see.
"Idiots," he murmurs into her shoulder, and she's so far gone it takes her a moment to open her eyes and tilt his head up to look at her.
"What?" she asks, and he nips the tip of her nose before he answers.
"They're idiots," he remarks, "the men who didn't do their best for you." Scully wonders what he means, and she's struck with an image of her dark dashboard, of the indifferent rake of plastic in her nose as she cried about a man who wouldn't leave his wife. She comes back to Earth, to Mulder's warm body around her, and she realizes he is smiling - in rare form.
"I win," he says into her eyes, and crushes her into the pillow with his mouth. His tongue feels familiar already, her favorite thing; she's been hungry for it every day now, for longer than she'd ever admit, and it satisfies, like a dependable comfort food. She can always count on Mulder to taste so good it makes her moan.
Her light fingers take him, and he follows her guide blindly into her ready heat. He fills her easily, blissfully; she hums into his mouth and Mulder's hands close around her shoulders as he goes deeper. She realizes she's always going to want the weight of him inside her.
He lifts himself up on one arm, and presses his thumb against her bud to match his thrusts. It's beginning, and she can't shake herself out of it now, can't take back control when he's right above her and around her and she's the center of his world. Dizziness crashes over her, a juggernaut; she rides out surf after surf into his hips and croons against his body. She finds herself gulping hard fistfuls of air, breathing with all her might as her knuckles dig into the mattress. His looming, benevolent presence is still there, mumbling into the air when he rocks her.
It feels good just to have him, even if she knows she'll chafe later, breaking into this new use. He's moving harder and faster, failing to muffle his groans, escalating until he slumps against her and gathers her tightly. This is the hug that brought her back to life before her cancer remitted - the embrace that's waited for her at the end of every evil ordeal she's faced since joining the X-Files.
Scully likes the idea that if she asks him, he'll never keep his distance - that he will tuck a cover around her as she drifts to sleep and go about his business.
He reminds her of a puppy, now, nuzzling into the skin of her neck. It's a profound relief to be naked against him at last.
"You're amazing," he murmurs, "my favorite," and since she doesn't know how to thank him for that she just kisses him, sucking his flavor between her teeth. His hands stroke the hair back from her face, and she feels the care in his fingers across every sated inch of her skin. They both wince, and laugh, when he pulls out. An ambulance wails somewhere in the distance, through the safety of Mulder's apartment window, and Scully decides to ignore the hint that there's anything in the world besides her happiness right now. She rests with her back to Mulder's chest again, and pulls his arms around her. He breathes into her hair, and kisses the back of her head.
"You win," she says.
Part: 1 of 1.
Author: ninamazing, or Nina
Fandom: The X-Files
Word Count: 2316.
Rating: Hard R.
Spoilers: Through 7x17 "all things." OH THAT'S RIGHT: THIS IS POST-"ALL THINGS" PORN, BOYS AND GIRLS. 'CAUSE THE WORLD DOESN'T HAVE ENOUGH OF THAT OR ANYTHING.
Characters: Mulder/Scully.
Excerpt: He touches the edge of her mouth, where the dark pink smoke of her lips curls into her cheek. When she looks up it's so easy.
Author's Note: To fireworkfiasco, trolliepop, and pie-is-good, for lots and lots of commentporn. It took me forever to eke this one out without you guys. Does it show?
The truly faithless one is the one who makes love to only a fraction of you. And denies the rest.
Anaïs Nin
Diaries - February, 1932
She wakes with a blanket draped over her and her eyes trained on Mulder's fish tank. The one light is still on, and she can hear him typing in the other room (probably about English crop circles). For a moment she just absorbs it all, curling her pantyhosed feet underneath the cover and tucking her knees in her arms. Daniel back and gone again in two days. Colleen and Carol and tea, and the way the sunlight warmed the smooth oak paneling of their house. Mulder listening to her, quiet and understanding. He must have tucked her in after she fell asleep, pulled the blanket up to her shoulders, watched her.
The typing's stopped.
She looks at the door; her partner grins at her.
"Watching Al Shepard?" he asks. Off her raised eyebrow, he throws a hand toward the tank, where a goldfish with one short fin is floating, flailing against the glass.
"No, I'm -" She rubs her eyes. It seems okay to do that, now, a late night at Mulder's apartment when neither of them are in immediate life-threatening danger. It feels almost comfortable.
It's still dark out. Maybe he's waiting for her to leave so he can sleep.
"Sorry, Mulder," she finishes. He was still hovering in the doorframe like a fountain pen trying to stand on its nib. "I should get out of your hair, huh?"
"I didn't say that," he tells her mildly. "It's pretty late. I have a bed, you know, and I've slept on the couch enough times."
"I know you have a bed," she responds, laughing a little, and then her mind catches up: "How late is it?"
"Two," he answers, and he's sitting next to her, exactly where he was before. The way he leans over her is calming, familiar; a relief after so many visceral reminders of the way Daniel's hands used to slide over her skin, of the times young Dana Scully lurked in parking lots and gazed at Mrs. Waterston conducting her daily business.
Doomed to love a married cardiologist, she thought then.
She lets her head drop to Mulder's shoulder a second time, allows her eyelids to slip closed.
"You going to be okay, Scully?" he says, and she nods into the fabric of his shirt. She's smiling; it's hilarious that he still asks that question, after seven years of "I'm fine" snapping back in his face.
He touches the edge of her mouth, where the dark pink smoke of her lips curls into her cheek. When she looks up it's so easy. They've done this before, mouth to mouth alone in a room, but last time they were standing, and she couldn't slide forward into his lap. She couldn't afford to heed the way her knees turned weak, last time; but now she has to, when his hand slides along her jaw and around her neck. She's still soft and warm from sleep; it makes her reach for him in ways she never would otherwise, and she knows she shouldn't be surprised when he meets her eagerly.
Only the steady bubbling of the fish tank convinces her that this is real. With her eyes closed and the blanket pooling into the couch and her body closing into her partner's, all she can sense is the potpourri of dirt and mist and spice that is his alone.
And the curious, heady serenity that settles over her freshly every time he moves his tongue against hers.
There's no denying the strength - the youth - in those arms as they fold around her body, and Scully's momentarily grateful for her time with other men, if only because it taught her to breathe through her nose.
She laughs, once: He's settled her back, his hands at her waist, and kissed her firmly before pulling away. She's confused until he leans over, tilting his hips into hers, and yanks the STONEHENGE ROCKS cap from between the couch cushions. Just looking at it makes her snort.
He laughs, too, when he picks her up and turns off the light; she feels it rumble into her skin, an extra burst of warmth.
"What?" she says. He grins at her.
"I was thinking about this before," he answers. "That I'd have to carry you to bed. But I was picturing you being asleep and me feeling awkward."
"This is different, then," she tells him, speaking low into his neck before she digs into his skin with her tongue.
"Yes" - he groans - "yes, it is."
They find themselves tangled together on Mulder's unmade bed, with Scully half-straddling his sitting body so that her heels dig into the balled-up coverlet. She's spent so much time imagining the way she'd fit into the shape of his body when he held her, cobbling together details from the only memories she had: Daniel's stuffy wool sweaters used to bite into her skin. Ed gripped her hard enough to bruise, and never noticed. Jack was always rock-hard, panting like a puppy, the instant she was there, and it spoiled the mood when she found herself embarrassed for him.
Her details are shit. That becomes clear pretty immediately.
Mulder feels like he's always felt: solid, magnetic, somehow surrounding her. She's gone through seven years of phases with him - spending weeks at a time convinced she wants to kill him, followed by another four months of laughing at his jokes and fighting the urge to call him at midnight - and she doesn't know what to call this one. He says she keeps him guessing (it's one of his favorite little digs), but he is, as ever, impossible to figure out. After everything they've done and seen together he still feels like home - or maybe he's the only one who can anymore, she thinks, visions of fate and destiny charging through her head.
His hand on her cheek, over her neck as he pulls away is what brings her back to life.
"Scully, I don't want you to regret anything," he whispers, and the gravel at the bottom of his voice makes her shiver into the shelter of his arms.
Where he so often jokes and quips he's solemn now, earnest. It occurs to her, as she grins into Mulder's eyes and dips her forehead against his, that she's never smiled like this during the throes of passion with a boy.
"I won't," she says, like she used to when she faced off with elementary school classmates - like he's stupid - like he should have known. He smiles back, but he catches the bossy tone in her voice and in a minute he growls and drags her so she's lying down with him. He's slanted, halfway on top of her, and shifting already so she can handle his weight. Scully curls into his shadow easily; digs her palms into the hair on the back of his head; opens her mouth in a kiss across his neck. His knee is suddenly hot between her thighs and she can't help whimpering into his skin. When he hears her he presses a fierce kiss to the top of her head and cups his hand around the space her hitched-up skirt has exposed.
"Mulder," she groans, rubbing her cheek against his, and feels him smile. He lets her help him peel off hose, skirt, jacket - and then his hands pause at the top of her collar, thumbs meeting her neck, and he pulls her closer.
"You won't regret anything, right?" she asks suddenly, as it strikes her that she should have gotten this out of the way for sure some time ago - that it wouldn't do for her to repeat the performance of her past life, only this time as Daniel. She doesn't want to be lost to his forgotten library of wrong women.
He laughs again. "No. Never."
She closes her eyes for a second, soaking that up, and when she opens them again he's taking his shirt off in the dark. She blinks, letting moonlight and streetlight filter through the blinds and flicker into her vision, casting Mulder in the role of a glorious silhouette. He keeps those steady, shining eyes pressed into her as he undoes his watch and his belt; her partner is stripping for her, and she leans forward to slip her fingers into the waistband of his jeans, to nuzzle down his zipper with her teeth.
"Jesus, Scully," he gasps, and she has him naked in another half-minute. He smiles, and that sends a surge through her just before his arm goes up her spine and he tugs off her shirt with one hand. Another pair of fingers is twisting, twisting, into the clasp at the back of her chest, and she drops into his mouth just as he's getting it open.
He pushes her into the mattress with one tender hand around her head, and she bucks into him, searching. The way he huffs against her skin is the trippiest natural high she's ever known, and it makes her brave. A drugged kind of courage, she thinks, and she makes him wait, hanging above her, as she shimmies to slip off the last of her clothes and rolls onto her side. He draws in a breath when she snuggles into the crook of his arm on the bed, and the warm round softness of her back beats against his body.
"Here," she whispers, drawing his other arm across the top of her hip, threading his fingers through her curls. Her leg is draped across both of his, throwing her open, and when he slides his fingers through her wetness and digs into the needy cluster of her nerves, he nips her earlobe possessively. She shoves her teeth into her bottom lip; he starts slow, maddening circles with two of his fingers, bites her ear again, and she gives up and cries out.
"Mulder, don't make me wait much longer," she pleads. He drags his tongue across her neck, and flips her gently on her back again, underneath him.
Her breasts feel safe in his hands when he holds them; watching his dark face watch her is too much, so she shutters her eyes and reaches for him with her body. He kisses her, holds her head, and then slides down again to tongue her nipples until she's panting, to press soft bites into her skin that no one else will see.
"Idiots," he murmurs into her shoulder, and she's so far gone it takes her a moment to open her eyes and tilt his head up to look at her.
"What?" she asks, and he nips the tip of her nose before he answers.
"They're idiots," he remarks, "the men who didn't do their best for you." Scully wonders what he means, and she's struck with an image of her dark dashboard, of the indifferent rake of plastic in her nose as she cried about a man who wouldn't leave his wife. She comes back to Earth, to Mulder's warm body around her, and she realizes he is smiling - in rare form.
"I win," he says into her eyes, and crushes her into the pillow with his mouth. His tongue feels familiar already, her favorite thing; she's been hungry for it every day now, for longer than she'd ever admit, and it satisfies, like a dependable comfort food. She can always count on Mulder to taste so good it makes her moan.
Her light fingers take him, and he follows her guide blindly into her ready heat. He fills her easily, blissfully; she hums into his mouth and Mulder's hands close around her shoulders as he goes deeper. She realizes she's always going to want the weight of him inside her.
He lifts himself up on one arm, and presses his thumb against her bud to match his thrusts. It's beginning, and she can't shake herself out of it now, can't take back control when he's right above her and around her and she's the center of his world. Dizziness crashes over her, a juggernaut; she rides out surf after surf into his hips and croons against his body. She finds herself gulping hard fistfuls of air, breathing with all her might as her knuckles dig into the mattress. His looming, benevolent presence is still there, mumbling into the air when he rocks her.
It feels good just to have him, even if she knows she'll chafe later, breaking into this new use. He's moving harder and faster, failing to muffle his groans, escalating until he slumps against her and gathers her tightly. This is the hug that brought her back to life before her cancer remitted - the embrace that's waited for her at the end of every evil ordeal she's faced since joining the X-Files.
Scully likes the idea that if she asks him, he'll never keep his distance - that he will tuck a cover around her as she drifts to sleep and go about his business.
He reminds her of a puppy, now, nuzzling into the skin of her neck. It's a profound relief to be naked against him at last.
"You're amazing," he murmurs, "my favorite," and since she doesn't know how to thank him for that she just kisses him, sucking his flavor between her teeth. His hands stroke the hair back from her face, and she feels the care in his fingers across every sated inch of her skin. They both wince, and laugh, when he pulls out. An ambulance wails somewhere in the distance, through the safety of Mulder's apartment window, and Scully decides to ignore the hint that there's anything in the world besides her happiness right now. She rests with her back to Mulder's chest again, and pulls his arms around her. He breathes into her hair, and kisses the back of her head.
"You win," she says.