Work Text:
Title: Sea-foam and Serene
Author: Nikayla
Pairing: Mulder/Scully, MSR
Set During: Season 6, post-The Unnatural
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“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.”