A promise to try is enough. For now, the idea of maybe and we could and at least for a while seems like it could stretch into always - and even if it doesn't work out, it's working out now. Scully wants him around again, morning and night. Scully can handle having him around again, more like. Mulder's built himself a life that's more than self-swallowing obsessions, and they can share it.
The world is different, and they're different, and given everything they've learned in the last year, they're going to need each other. If they catch up to William, Mulder wants them to come home together after. All three of them, if they can.
Nothing else matters right now but we could try it out. Nothing else matters but the feeling of Scully's body already pulling at his, trying to get him closer as his cock jabs at her hip.
"Let's try it." He kisses the corner of her mouth to seal the deal, then sets about getting her shirt over her head. His attention drifts south, along the line of her jugular, down over her collarbone, down to her breast. They've lost the friction of legs and genitals, but she at least has gained his tongue flicking out over her nipple, a little tease with the full heat of his mouth following as it closes around her flesh.
She won't promise always or forever; but she can give now freely, and tomorrow, and the day after is honestly looking pretty good for him, too.
In a way, it could be like the old days-- when they had their own apartments and stole moments to visit, snuck between adjoining rooms on the road. (Except that today she'd dare anyone to try and enforce the Bureau's anti-fraternization policies.) Space when they need it, company when they want it. And the truth is she does want it-- more often than not-- after all this time, God, she still wants him.
Sighing approval, she strokes his hair, nails dragging over his scalp as she arches into his mouth. It doesn't feel just like the old days, actually. This feels new, and strong; it's real, and right. If they need to, they can make it apart; and that makes everything feel possible together, in a way it hasn't for so, so long.
And maybe he can't see it, the way she smiles at him with so much tenderness it feels like it could break her. But maybe he'll hear it when she murmurs his name--
Sometime years ago, they hit a point where his name didn't sound wrong in her mouth. Sometime around when he was introducing himself to people as Anthony Blake and working under-the-table jobs, coming home to the only person left to call him Fox, whispered in his ear at unexpected moments. They'd screw and compare notes on the day and he'd wonder without asking whether Mrs. Blake lying next to him minded that marriage had never been anything but a cover story for them.
From this vantage point, with her body rising to meet his mouth, Mulder'd like to believe he knows the answer.
"You like that?" he mumbles against her breast, letting his teeth graze the wet flesh lightly. She must have a portrait hidden away in storage in her condo somewhere, because she only gets more beautiful as the years go by. The angles of her face, the softer curves of her body - hell, she's still got a rack he figures most women would kill for. "Tell me what you want, Dana."
Nine times out of ten or more, she looks at him and thinks Mulder. There's an intimacy to it that's hard to explain, a language of two names and an infinite number of inflections to indicate meaning; supplemented with gestures and sighs and significant looks. It doesn't mean more or less, to be called Dana or Scully; it's in a thousand other things.
She sighs, curling her fingers into a fist in his hair, still smirking unseen.
"I want you," she says. Maybe she hasn't said it enough, over the years; not in words at least.
"You could ask for anything," he says, pressing a kiss to her ribcage. Another one further down her body, and another, between every sentence that comes out of his mouth. "A million bucks. A puppy. One of those movies where everyone dies at the end after talking about their feelings for three hours. And all you want is me? I question your creativity."
Hell, she could have her choice of sex acts, from anilingus to...well, something that starts with Z. They both can probably guess where this is actually going, to the tried and true method of Fox Mulder disappears between Dana Scully's thighs and almost forgets to come up for air. But there's something to be said for the classics, right?
Classics become classics for a reason; his instinct is perhaps the obvious one, but it's the right one.
"I could ask for anything," she agrees. And yes-- all she wants is him.
Mulder knows her better than anyone-- she's never let anyone else know her so well. That's at least half the reason he's so good at this. The rest, probably, can be chalked up to oral fixations and a tendency towards obsessive perfectionism. There's no need, really, to get specific; it's enough to say, with well-tested certainty, that no one eats pussy like Fox Mulder. (So; why should she want anything else, at least in this moment-- fond and drowsy and back in their shared bed, after a night of inexplicable dangers. It's a lot like the old days. Horny nostalgia, the secret silver lining to growing old, together or apart.)
The hand not tangled in his hair pushes at the waistband of her panties-- not that she's eager or anything. Her grip tightens a little; not quite pulling (yet), but none too gentle.
The smile he gives her is, by nature of the circumstances, a little goofy. Scully's picked the right answer, no matter how tempting a puppy might be; being wanted is as good as being touched, and right now, with her hand snarled near his scalp, he's both.
He nudges her free hand away from her panties, sliding further down the bed so his mouth can land a kiss just below her navel. "Let me."
It's an old trick, and a stupid one, and he never gets tired of it. Catching the elastic of her panties between his teeth, he starts pulling them down. At some point, his hands will take over, but for now, the effort of dragging them down over her pussy is its own reward.
It's a little silly, sure, but honest. And it settles something in her heart, the fact that they can still be a little silly. She doesn't feel guarded, she doesn't feel like she needs to treat him delicately, right now. The heat of his kiss is still burning on her skin, and she props herself up on an elbow to watch.
"Such a gentleman," she teases, but she can't even pretend she's not grinning at him. She'd joked about getting bored with dates and hookups, but it's the honest truth that she's never felt so at ease with anyone else. Some of it was good, but none of it was like this.
He beams up at her, once he's gotten down to her thighs and let his hands take over for the rest of the way. Scully, splayed out in bed with the sunlight pouring over her, is one of the greatest sights mankind has ever produced. That smile alone could start wars. She's beautiful, and right now, Mulder's just here to appreciate his good fortune. "I aim to please."
Including right now, as he settles between her thighs and turns his head to kiss one. And then he sucks at the flesh, just hard enough to leave a mark - no matter what happens next, he wants her to see her inner thigh later and remember he was there. Ancient peoples would carve stone for less than Dana Scully; a brief foray into legacy creation seems entirely reasonable.
Any lingering exhaustion from last night has dissipated in the heat of his gaze. Fox Mulder has learned, finally, to make his own luck; in this moment she could be convinced of nearly anything.
She sighs, tension melting visibly out of her shoulders, dragging her nails loosely over his scalp. The moment feels timeless-- like an endless lazy morning in the gold glow of the sun, unhurried and hazy. There are a lot like this to look back on; the good times, really, were very good.
And maybe there are more ahead. A soft sound, a hummed moan, escapes as he leaves his mark. It's an understatement to say he can get away with it. She nudges him with her other knee; half tempted to drag him back up to keep kissing him, but God, she's feeling too selfish for that.
They're just words until he actually does it, but hell if the sentiment doesn't spur him on. As lazy a day as this threatens to be (as lazy a day as they deserve, frankly, after last night), he's inclined to drag this all out.
More kisses to her inner thigh, nibbling at her skin. Moving to her outer lips, taking his time about delving between them - and when he finally does, it's to run his tongue along her inner lips, stopping just before he reaches her clit with a precision born from years of familiarity. He'll get there, but not before she's frustrated enough to ask for it. And if that takes some time, so be it: the opportunity to refamiliarize himself with her body is one he still can't quite believe he has.
Mulder has always been willing to indulge her selfish side, and she's long since stopped trying to pretend she doesn't have one. She leans back, luxuriating in his touch, eyes shut against the sunlight. Pretending, for a moment, that nothing matters but his teeth and lips and tongue.
He knows what he's doing, even after all the time they spent apart. Her sighs melt into breathy, gasps; and then louder, needy sounds; she props herself up on an elbow again, her hips jerking as he edges closer to where she wants him. Needs him.
"You tease," she laughs. God; she forgot, after a while, how joyful it could be to be with him.
"Hmm?" The hum of it, his lips around her labia (labius? it's just the one, she'd know whether there's a singular form and he's in no mood to distract her by asking) can't possibly help. He tilts his head just enough to meet her gaze, his eyes moving over the gorgeous landscape of her belly and tits on the way up to her face. "Something wrong, Scully?"
Mulder's too clever to really have the knack of looking innocent in moments like these. Her smile is wide and brilliant.
"Nothing's wrong." Everything, actually, is quite right indeed, apart from him teasing her and drawing this out. (But the truth is, she likes that; he wouldn't do it if they didn't. That's how it goes.)
"God, you're still so good at this." She eases herself back to the bed. "Mulder-- please."
She sighs it, maybe a bit exaggerated for his benefit; he likes when she's expressive, she remembers, and she likes to reward good behavior.
"You like this?" He presses a light kiss to her mound, close but no cigar. Of course she likes it - take away every sense he has but touch, and he'd be able to tell. Mulder knows her body and all its reactions, and he's grinning too brightly to play the fool.
But that doesn't mean he's not going to try.
"Remind me how this goes." He's breaking her gaze, returning his attention to the juncture between her legs. His mouth's dangerously close to where she wants it. "Tell me what you want."
She can't help an impatient wriggle, not that it really helps. Mulder makes her crazy-- in so many ways, he always does; he drives her wild, he gets feelings out of her (good and bad, at various points over the years), that no one else quite manages.
"Put your tongue on my clit and get me off," she demands. "Or else get up here so I can kiss you while you fuck me."
He laughs. Scully at her most demanding is also Scully at her most attractive, more often than not, and now's no exception.
"I'm going to fuck you," he informs her, desire heavy in the words. He's going to kiss his way back up to her mouth first, crawling up her body, leaving her own arousal glistening where his mouth brushes against her belly. "And then later, I'm going to put my tongue on your clit and get you off. Maybe tonight, but I'm not picky about when."
There's something to be said for leaving an option on the table, something they can come back to at their leisure. As long as there's an unfulfilled promise, there's a future. The possibility of a future, at least, something they'd be walking away from if either of them decided to walk away. He's at her throat when he reaches between them to position his cock, entering her as his mouth finds hers again.
His announcement gets a broad, eager grin, and she watches him inch his way up her body; as soon as he's near her breast she slides her hands over his shoulders, runs fingers through his hair. (It's nice to know, even now, that he likes it when she's direct, when she's a little crass. Maybe she's still got it. Lord knows he's still got her number.)
"Any time you like," she murmurs, and hen she can't say anything more; she just groans against his lips, hitching her knee up against him as he thrusts into her. And, God, that's just what she needed.
She's still got it. Years apart, spent alone and with others, and she still knows exactly where to drag her nails over his scalp, what to murmur in his ear, how to angle her hips with every one of his insistent strokes. Mulder suspects she could point out standard erogenous zones across humanity and the limited number of variants the missionary position offers, but it doesn't matter. She touches him like they've never been apart, and the fact of it is as heady as anything her hands and mouth are doing.
He's close, he realizes, and he doesn't want to be anywhere near the end of this moment. (He should have figured out tantric sex back when Sting made it a trend, but like the old song goes: he's not into yoga, he has half a brain.) When he breaks their kiss, his lips still a whisper at the corner of her mouth, it's to grind out, "I wanna feel you come around me, Scully. I wanna feel you -"
Though ever practical and rational, she's long since made some space for the intangible and inexplicable with Mulder. There are only so many ways two people can touch each other; but it's as fundamentally true that it's different when it's them. And it's no mystery to her. It's different because she loves him, even when she doesn't say it. Even when she'd left.
It's not as though no one else could get her off-- by now she's long since given up coyness. She knows what she needs and isn't shy about demanding it, or taking care of herself. With him, it's different because she wants him differently; because he is a sort of truth for her, fundamental and unshakeable. It isn't that she needs him; she wants him, desires him. Chooses him.
With a smile, she slides a hand between them to help herself along; she brushes her lips against his with a soft, needy sound, her other hand grasping tightly at his shoulder as she edges closer, her whole body curling toward him when she comes.
One of the best things about Scully is that there's never any need to feel put out by the idea that she's getting herself off, or to second-guess his own performance. The idea of Scully's fingers on her clit while he fucks her is hot enough that he'll probably jerk off to this moment sometime when he's alone again. (That feels inevitable, even balls-deep inside of her. When she's gone and he needs shower inspiration, this is going to be it, and it'll be good.) Everything about her is hot, her mouth on his and her fingers digging into his skin and her orgasm closing in on them both.
He comes soon after, still kissing her - possibly nipping a little too hard at her lower lip, though he doesn't realize it. He slips out of her, moving just enough over that he doesn't collapse directly atop her, and nuzzles against her jaw.
Another thing to miss about their life here: the distance from the neighbors. No one but Mulder to hear her cry out, so she does; not just for his sake, but oh, it's good to feel him tense, the familiar way his hips jerk against her, the heat of his skin, his teeth on her lip. It feels like it lasts forever; and when he shifts aside she shifts to watch his face, a flower turning toward the sun.
She wants to keep him here forever, wants to stay; settle in the soft nest of their bed, wrap herself around him. When they're together she always feels that way, certain in her desire to be near him; it's strong enough that it can scare her, sometimes.
But she's fearless now. Full of fondness, and sated and warm. She presses a kiss to his brow, hums contentedly as she strokes his cheek.
"Still good at that," she murmurs, drowsy and love-drunk.
"Surprised?" It's a joke, his smile lazy. Of course she isn't - none of this is surprising, and that's part of the appeal. He puts an arm around her, basking in the warmth of her attention. The world could fall down around them, any number of promised apocalypses finally coming true, and Scully would still be Scully. "You're still good at that, too, you know."
She reaches to twine her fingers around his, her smile a little dreamy. An hour ago she was nervous to promise she'd still be here in the morning; right now, she can't imagine leaving.
She said it first. If she says it first, then he's allowed to say it, too - to acknowledge the elephant in the room, sitting there on the bed with them.
Mulder squeezes her hand lightly, letting himself focus in on what it feels like when her fingers lace his. He wants to remember this forever: the slant of the light, the scent of their bed, the sense of her skin resting against his. A little smile, mostly in the eyes, as he looks at her. "I did, too."
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The world is different, and they're different, and given everything they've learned in the last year, they're going to need each other. If they catch up to William, Mulder wants them to come home together after. All three of them, if they can.
Nothing else matters right now but we could try it out. Nothing else matters but the feeling of Scully's body already pulling at his, trying to get him closer as his cock jabs at her hip.
"Let's try it." He kisses the corner of her mouth to seal the deal, then sets about getting her shirt over her head. His attention drifts south, along the line of her jugular, down over her collarbone, down to her breast. They've lost the friction of legs and genitals, but she at least has gained his tongue flicking out over her nipple, a little tease with the full heat of his mouth following as it closes around her flesh.
no subject
In a way, it could be like the old days-- when they had their own apartments and stole moments to visit, snuck between adjoining rooms on the road. (Except that today she'd dare anyone to try and enforce the Bureau's anti-fraternization policies.) Space when they need it, company when they want it. And the truth is she does want it-- more often than not-- after all this time, God, she still wants him.
Sighing approval, she strokes his hair, nails dragging over his scalp as she arches into his mouth. It doesn't feel just like the old days, actually. This feels new, and strong; it's real, and right. If they need to, they can make it apart; and that makes everything feel possible together, in a way it hasn't for so, so long.
And maybe he can't see it, the way she smiles at him with so much tenderness it feels like it could break her. But maybe he'll hear it when she murmurs his name--
"Oh... Fox..."
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From this vantage point, with her body rising to meet his mouth, Mulder'd like to believe he knows the answer.
"You like that?" he mumbles against her breast, letting his teeth graze the wet flesh lightly. She must have a portrait hidden away in storage in her condo somewhere, because she only gets more beautiful as the years go by. The angles of her face, the softer curves of her body - hell, she's still got a rack he figures most women would kill for. "Tell me what you want, Dana."
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She sighs, curling her fingers into a fist in his hair, still smirking unseen.
"I want you," she says. Maybe she hasn't said it enough, over the years; not in words at least.
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Hell, she could have her choice of sex acts, from anilingus to...well, something that starts with Z. They both can probably guess where this is actually going, to the tried and true method of Fox Mulder disappears between Dana Scully's thighs and almost forgets to come up for air. But there's something to be said for the classics, right?
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"I could ask for anything," she agrees. And yes-- all she wants is him.
Mulder knows her better than anyone-- she's never let anyone else know her so well. That's at least half the reason he's so good at this. The rest, probably, can be chalked up to oral fixations and a tendency towards obsessive perfectionism. There's no need, really, to get specific; it's enough to say, with well-tested certainty, that no one eats pussy like Fox Mulder. (So; why should she want anything else, at least in this moment-- fond and drowsy and back in their shared bed, after a night of inexplicable dangers. It's a lot like the old days. Horny nostalgia, the secret silver lining to growing old, together or apart.)
The hand not tangled in his hair pushes at the waistband of her panties-- not that she's eager or anything. Her grip tightens a little; not quite pulling (yet), but none too gentle.
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He nudges her free hand away from her panties, sliding further down the bed so his mouth can land a kiss just below her navel. "Let me."
It's an old trick, and a stupid one, and he never gets tired of it. Catching the elastic of her panties between his teeth, he starts pulling them down. At some point, his hands will take over, but for now, the effort of dragging them down over her pussy is its own reward.
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"Such a gentleman," she teases, but she can't even pretend she's not grinning at him. She'd joked about getting bored with dates and hookups, but it's the honest truth that she's never felt so at ease with anyone else. Some of it was good, but none of it was like this.
She lifts her hips to help him out.
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Including right now, as he settles between her thighs and turns his head to kiss one. And then he sucks at the flesh, just hard enough to leave a mark - no matter what happens next, he wants her to see her inner thigh later and remember he was there. Ancient peoples would carve stone for less than Dana Scully; a brief foray into legacy creation seems entirely reasonable.
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She sighs, tension melting visibly out of her shoulders, dragging her nails loosely over his scalp. The moment feels timeless-- like an endless lazy morning in the gold glow of the sun, unhurried and hazy. There are a lot like this to look back on; the good times, really, were very good.
And maybe there are more ahead. A soft sound, a hummed moan, escapes as he leaves his mark. It's an understatement to say he can get away with it. She nudges him with her other knee; half tempted to drag him back up to keep kissing him, but God, she's feeling too selfish for that.
"You always do."
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More kisses to her inner thigh, nibbling at her skin. Moving to her outer lips, taking his time about delving between them - and when he finally does, it's to run his tongue along her inner lips, stopping just before he reaches her clit with a precision born from years of familiarity. He'll get there, but not before she's frustrated enough to ask for it. And if that takes some time, so be it: the opportunity to refamiliarize himself with her body is one he still can't quite believe he has.
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He knows what he's doing, even after all the time they spent apart. Her sighs melt into breathy, gasps; and then louder, needy sounds; she props herself up on an elbow again, her hips jerking as he edges closer to where she wants him. Needs him.
"You tease," she laughs. God; she forgot, after a while, how joyful it could be to be with him.
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Indulging her sense of selfishness, if 'occasionally wanting to be the center of attention' can really be called selfishness, does wonders for his ego. Now, as ever: he'll give her everything she could possibly want, or at least try to, once she demands it. More, harder, give it to me, every porn cliché translating to you're the only one who can get me off here.
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"Nothing's wrong." Everything, actually, is quite right indeed, apart from him teasing her and drawing this out. (But the truth is, she likes that; he wouldn't do it if they didn't. That's how it goes.)
"God, you're still so good at this." She eases herself back to the bed. "Mulder-- please."
She sighs it, maybe a bit exaggerated for his benefit; he likes when she's expressive, she remembers, and she likes to reward good behavior.
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But that doesn't mean he's not going to try.
"Remind me how this goes." He's breaking her gaze, returning his attention to the juncture between her legs. His mouth's dangerously close to where she wants it. "Tell me what you want."
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"Put your tongue on my clit and get me off," she demands. "Or else get up here so I can kiss you while you fuck me."
Magnanimously, she'll take either option.
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"I'm going to fuck you," he informs her, desire heavy in the words. He's going to kiss his way back up to her mouth first, crawling up her body, leaving her own arousal glistening where his mouth brushes against her belly. "And then later, I'm going to put my tongue on your clit and get you off. Maybe tonight, but I'm not picky about when."
There's something to be said for leaving an option on the table, something they can come back to at their leisure. As long as there's an unfulfilled promise, there's a future. The possibility of a future, at least, something they'd be walking away from if either of them decided to walk away. He's at her throat when he reaches between them to position his cock, entering her as his mouth finds hers again.
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"Any time you like," she murmurs, and hen she can't say anything more; she just groans against his lips, hitching her knee up against him as he thrusts into her. And, God, that's just what she needed.
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He's close, he realizes, and he doesn't want to be anywhere near the end of this moment. (He should have figured out tantric sex back when Sting made it a trend, but like the old song goes: he's not into yoga, he has half a brain.) When he breaks their kiss, his lips still a whisper at the corner of her mouth, it's to grind out, "I wanna feel you come around me, Scully. I wanna feel you -"
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It's not as though no one else could get her off-- by now she's long since given up coyness. She knows what she needs and isn't shy about demanding it, or taking care of herself. With him, it's different because she wants him differently; because he is a sort of truth for her, fundamental and unshakeable. It isn't that she needs him; she wants him, desires him. Chooses him.
With a smile, she slides a hand between them to help herself along; she brushes her lips against his with a soft, needy sound, her other hand grasping tightly at his shoulder as she edges closer, her whole body curling toward him when she comes.
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He comes soon after, still kissing her - possibly nipping a little too hard at her lower lip, though he doesn't realize it. He slips out of her, moving just enough over that he doesn't collapse directly atop her, and nuzzles against her jaw.
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She wants to keep him here forever, wants to stay; settle in the soft nest of their bed, wrap herself around him. When they're together she always feels that way, certain in her desire to be near him; it's strong enough that it can scare her, sometimes.
But she's fearless now. Full of fondness, and sated and warm. She presses a kiss to his brow, hums contentedly as she strokes his cheek.
"Still good at that," she murmurs, drowsy and love-drunk.
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She reaches to twine her fingers around his, her smile a little dreamy. An hour ago she was nervous to promise she'd still be here in the morning; right now, she can't imagine leaving.
"I missed this."
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Mulder squeezes her hand lightly, letting himself focus in on what it feels like when her fingers lace his. He wants to remember this forever: the slant of the light, the scent of their bed, the sense of her skin resting against his. A little smile, mostly in the eyes, as he looks at her. "I did, too."
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