He's happy to be crowded and unbothered by the possibility that she's just a breath away from touching him. Already, his arms are looping around her shoulders, closing some of that last distance between them. No effort to pull her closer, just to touch her while she's near.
"Depends on how you define 'ruined,'" he answers, with all the same thought he'd put into an X-file. "Personally, I think they should come up more often. Apps that malfunction and force payment in kind, ransomware attacks that can only be ended with orgasms. There's still room for innovation."
There was a time when, as soon as they were somewhere safe, somewhere private, they couldn't keep their hands off each other; and though they've certainly gained some self-control, she has to admit the spark never totally went away. Even when things were at their worst-- it wasn't that she didn't want him, it was a stubborn turning away from desire, a deep-seated conviction that wanting wasn't enough.
So it's easy to slip into the familiar warmth of it, looking up at him, savoring the weight of his arms and the look in his eyes, the anticipation. She grins at his answer, wide and guileless, her eyes crinkled with laugh-lines too often unused.
"Clearly you've got a great career directing ahead of you, if the FBI thing doesn't work out."
She still has to stand on her tiptoes to kiss him.
He bends his head a little, taking pity on her. Even with the inevitable slump in his shoulders, it's still a stretch, after all. A first kiss in the house - he doesn't want to think about this, but it comes to mind anyway. Step by step, he's planting his flag in this place.
When he breaks it, it's to suggest, "We could move to Van Nuys. Make some movies."
There's a waggle in his brow. Imagine the world where you still have to move to California if you want to make pornography - or the possibility of convincing Scully of joining him on any such jaunt. It's impossible, ridiculous.
If he's going to be a fixture, maybe she needs to invest in some stepstools. She leans in against him, hands sliding along the counters edge until they drift to his his hips.
"What am I doing in this Van Nuys adventure, exactly?"
"HR," he says, letting his arms settle more heavily around her. "Secretarial jobs. You could take a star turn if you wanted, but I wouldn't want to share you."
"Good call, there'd be a very small audience for my material."
A Mulder-sized audience, but at least he'd be a devoted fan. She leans against him with a warm, coy smile as they break the kiss. (It's oddly fitting that they've picked, probably, the least comfortable spot in this whole place to canoodle.)
"Don't sell yourself short. You're a MILF, Scully." Anyone would be lucky to get a look at her tits, and if she doesn't know it, Mulder's happy to tell her. (The acronym seems safe, he thinks, because he's not spelling it out. He doesn't actually want to think about it, to try and marshal his commentary against any oblique reference to their son, but it's always in the back of his mind: Take care. With this, take care.) "There are some cougar fans who'd kill to see you strip."
But they can always stay here. No complaints about that, one of his hands moving down along her spine.
It's not how she'd self-describe-- though cougar is one she's gotten more than once, and if she's honest she kind of likes it-- but hearing him say it makes her grin anyway. Even if it's a given that he'd like to fuck her, she doesn't mind the reminder.
"Is that right?"
She arches her back under his hand, so there's enough space to undo the top button of her shirt. Her eyes never leave his.
You give a man like Mulder an opportunity and he'll take it, slipping the button one-handed from its buttonhole, eyes on Scully's the whole time. The backs of his fingers move over the newly exposed skin, sliding lightly over her cleavage.
"You're the hottest woman I've ever seen." She's overtaken even Miss August 1979, and that's no mean compliment - especially when she's smiling the way she is now. Any time he has the chance to remind her, he'll take it.
"I'm just saying that because I think you'll buy me some pad see ew." Not that he's making any effort to escape her embrace. He turns his hand, his fingertips moving slowly over her skin. Up from her décolletage, skimming along her collarbone purely for the pleasure of touching her. There are times when he thinks he'd be contented just to be near her, and now is one of them.
But, you know. Give it an hour or two and the presence of an immaculately made bed. He gives her another lazy kiss. "But I'm also thinking if I play my cards right, maybe I'll get lucky."
"They do say the way to a man's heart is through his stomach."
Or it's through relentlessly critiquing his wild theories and seeing a hundred impossible things and fighting conspiracies and traveling across the country, back and forth, fingers brushing on redeye flights, dozing off in Ford Tauruses on endless stakeouts. Either way. They can split spring rolls, too.
She deepens the kiss, delighted, more or less hanging off his shoulders. As much as she's looking forward to spending tonight redefining her bed as, provisionally, their bed, this part-- the part where they're just basking in each other-- God, this is what she'd missed.
She's still so small that she could put literally all her weight on him, and he thinks he'd hardly notice. As it is, she's no trouble to keep up, kissing her soundly as he touches her. Into her blouse and over her her bra strap, as much of her shoulder as he can reach without straining the buttons yet to be unbuttoned, and back along the line of...she'd know the name of the muscle, the one that looks strange on body builders and perfect on Scully. Trapezius? He thinks maybe trapezius.
More importantly, though, along that clean line leading from shoulder to neck, and around behind to the nape of her neck and the top of her spine, kissing her all the while. He has a vague, sudden fantasy of kissing down along her spine while he reaches around to finger her, his mouth at her shoulder blades and his hand on her clit. It's a pity that the twinge he feels is somewhere in his lumbar region and not his cock.
With no small regret, he breaks the kiss, palming her cheek as he looks at her. "I could stay here forever - but I think it'd screw up my back if I tried."
"We can't have that." Her tone is solemn, her smile irrepressible. "Who'll move my couch when it gets here?"
She sinks back down to flat feet, letting go her grasp but not taking her hands off him. Her hand drags down his chest idly, her eyes following its path. She isn't really trying to start anything-- certainly not in the kitchen-- but it's hard to want to pull away.
"I guess we'll eat at the table? We could picnic on the living room floor but I still need a new television, too." More to pick up when they're out. She wants the dumbest, least-connected one money can buy. Her smile widens a little.
"The guys bringing it?" he suggests brightly, his head tilting down to join her in watching her feel him up. They've been together morning and night for the last few weeks, and it hasn't been enough. He's not convinced anything ever will be enough, but in the moment, he's satisfied.
Well, besides a continued hankering for a bite of Scully's green papaya salad, no euphemism there.
"Table," he says, an arm going around her waist as soon as he's got the chance. "Or we can try a picnic on the bed - but I can't promise I won't get distracted."
Immediately, automatically, she leans in against him. You'd think by now they'd be leveling out, less desperate to spend every moment in each other's pockets-- that they'd more than made up for lost time. But she doesn't feel that way. (Really-- had any of it ever been enough? Before they were together, they still craved each other's company. While they were apart she thought of him-- oh, probably daily. Maybe this is just their natural state. It's an oddly pleasing thought.)
"No food on the bed, too much mess." After a moment's thought she frowns. "I guess I should change the sheets-- they're probably dusty."
The whole place feels mismatched-- untouched but different, like she never left and like she's never been here before. A small sigh escapes her.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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"Depends on how you define 'ruined,'" he answers, with all the same thought he'd put into an X-file. "Personally, I think they should come up more often. Apps that malfunction and force payment in kind, ransomware attacks that can only be ended with orgasms. There's still room for innovation."
no subject
There was a time when, as soon as they were somewhere safe, somewhere private, they couldn't keep their hands off each other; and though they've certainly gained some self-control, she has to admit the spark never totally went away. Even when things were at their worst-- it wasn't that she didn't want him, it was a stubborn turning away from desire, a deep-seated conviction that wanting wasn't enough.
So it's easy to slip into the familiar warmth of it, looking up at him, savoring the weight of his arms and the look in his eyes, the anticipation. She grins at his answer, wide and guileless, her eyes crinkled with laugh-lines too often unused.
"Clearly you've got a great career directing ahead of you, if the FBI thing doesn't work out."
She still has to stand on her tiptoes to kiss him.
no subject
When he breaks it, it's to suggest, "We could move to Van Nuys. Make some movies."
There's a waggle in his brow. Imagine the world where you still have to move to California if you want to make pornography - or the possibility of convincing Scully of joining him on any such jaunt. It's impossible, ridiculous.
no subject
"What am I doing in this Van Nuys adventure, exactly?"
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Another kiss, small and lazy.
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A Mulder-sized audience, but at least he'd be a devoted fan. She leans against him with a warm, coy smile as they break the kiss. (It's oddly fitting that they've picked, probably, the least comfortable spot in this whole place to canoodle.)
"Maybe we should just stay here."
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But they can always stay here. No complaints about that, one of his hands moving down along her spine.
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"Is that right?"
She arches her back under his hand, so there's enough space to undo the top button of her shirt. Her eyes never leave his.
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"You're the hottest woman I've ever seen." She's overtaken even Miss August 1979, and that's no mean compliment - especially when she's smiling the way she is now. Any time he has the chance to remind her, he'll take it.
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(Her teasing smile suggests she probably will. If he was wondering.)
She reaches up to loop her arms over his shoulders, leaning in against him, savoring the heat of his hand against her.
Having him here feels-- well. Anywhere he is, it feels like home. It's always been that way.
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But, you know. Give it an hour or two and the presence of an immaculately made bed. He gives her another lazy kiss. "But I'm also thinking if I play my cards right, maybe I'll get lucky."
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Or it's through relentlessly critiquing his wild theories and seeing a hundred impossible things and fighting conspiracies and traveling across the country, back and forth, fingers brushing on redeye flights, dozing off in Ford Tauruses on endless stakeouts. Either way. They can split spring rolls, too.
She deepens the kiss, delighted, more or less hanging off his shoulders. As much as she's looking forward to spending tonight redefining her bed as, provisionally, their bed, this part-- the part where they're just basking in each other-- God, this is what she'd missed.
no subject
More importantly, though, along that clean line leading from shoulder to neck, and around behind to the nape of her neck and the top of her spine, kissing her all the while. He has a vague, sudden fantasy of kissing down along her spine while he reaches around to finger her, his mouth at her shoulder blades and his hand on her clit. It's a pity that the twinge he feels is somewhere in his lumbar region and not his cock.
With no small regret, he breaks the kiss, palming her cheek as he looks at her. "I could stay here forever - but I think it'd screw up my back if I tried."
no subject
She sinks back down to flat feet, letting go her grasp but not taking her hands off him. Her hand drags down his chest idly, her eyes following its path. She isn't really trying to start anything-- certainly not in the kitchen-- but it's hard to want to pull away.
"I guess we'll eat at the table? We could picnic on the living room floor but I still need a new television, too." More to pick up when they're out. She wants the dumbest, least-connected one money can buy. Her smile widens a little.
"We're stuck roughing it 'til then."
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Well, besides a continued hankering for a bite of Scully's green papaya salad, no euphemism there.
"Table," he says, an arm going around her waist as soon as he's got the chance. "Or we can try a picnic on the bed - but I can't promise I won't get distracted."
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"No food on the bed, too much mess." After a moment's thought she frowns. "I guess I should change the sheets-- they're probably dusty."
The whole place feels mismatched-- untouched but different, like she never left and like she's never been here before. A small sigh escapes her.
"It's a little strange," she admits.