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."
She can't blame him for being a little cautious. Recklessness has always come more easily to Mulder; she knows what it means that he's making the effort not to scare her off, here and now. But she's not so easy to spook. She's always been the one to scare herself off.
Maybe in a perfect world, he'll never have to remember this. Maybe it won't be relegated to a fond past, a lost treasure. Perhaps they can take better care of themselves, this time, and of each other.
"Five minutes more," she breathes, reluctant to think of ever moving but liking the small commitment. Five minutes from now, she'll be here, and an hour for now she'll be with him; and maybe a day, a week, three months. "Then... pizza and a movie?"
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
"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.
no subject
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 -"
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
no subject
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."
no subject
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."
no subject
Maybe in a perfect world, he'll never have to remember this. Maybe it won't be relegated to a fond past, a lost treasure. Perhaps they can take better care of themselves, this time, and of each other.
"Five minutes more," she breathes, reluctant to think of ever moving but liking the small commitment. Five minutes from now, she'll be here, and an hour for now she'll be with him; and maybe a day, a week, three months. "Then... pizza and a movie?"