Fic: Couch (X-Files, MSR, NC-17)
Title: Couch
Author: Amal Nahurriyeh,
amalnahurriyeh/amalnahurriyeh, amalnahurriyeh at gmail dot com
Summary: What happens when you get out of the taxi. (Sequel to Taxi Ride.)
Pairing: MSR.
Rating: NC-17 for drunken, awkward, yet ultimately successful sex
Warnings: None.
Timeline/Spoilers: Er. I have written myself into a box here, but there's a bed and it's not absurd, so technically post-Monday, but I set the prequel in the first half of s6, so, um, don't ask me, OK?
Written for xf_santa, as a gift for mimic117. Perhaps not as plotty as you were hoping for, but I really do hope you enjoy. Many thanks to maybe_amanda for the beta.
This is a sequel to Taxi Ride, which I wrote for a long-ago pornbattle. It will probably not make sense if you have not read the previous story, but the gist of it is: there was a great deal of alcohol, and a very pleasant cab ride. And Scully's underwear are in her pocket now, though she's going to forget that shortly.
Neither of them are talking as they walk up the steps to his building. The rain has plastered Scully's hair to her head, and she briefly ponders whether this suit will need dry cleaning after getting so soaked. She is fully aware that this train of thought is a means of self-distraction; she is very purposefully not-thinking about how she and Mulder are going to his apartment to, if she is not mistaken, engage in some extremely drunken and most likely awkward sex. This is also why they aren't talking. What in the world would there be to say at this moment? She has no idea.
He glances over at her as they stand at the door, patting through his pockets to find where he has put his keys. They're in his left pants pocket, nine times out of ten, which she knows because she watches him do this dance every time he has to unlock his door. He's taking longer about it than usual, though. She clasps her hands in front of her and tries not to watch him too pointedly. No good getting him worried, even if she's got a hunch that he rather likes being scared of her.
Finally he finds the keys, figures out that the one with the holes is for the front door, just like it has been for however-many-years he's lived here, and swings the front door open. As he's holding it to let her in, someone calls out, "Hey, Mulder! Can you hold it?"
His head snaps up, and she's totally unsurprised to see his face in full panic-mode. Running up the steps is his downstairs neighbor, Angela, folding up her umbrella and shaking it out. "Ugh, thanks. What a nasty night, right?"
"Yeah," Mulder says, and glances over nervously at Scully. She walks over to the elevator and pushes the button. No neighborly distractions are going to divert her, not now.
"How've you been?" Angela asks pleasantly as she followed. "I haven't seen you around much lately."
Mulder slips between the two women, his eyes coming back to watch Scully in little darts, like minnows circling. "Yeah. We've been on the road a lot."
"Well, that's gotta be nice," Angela says, and steps into the elevator. Mulder hesitates for a moment, as if waiting for Scully, but then steps in as well. When Scully steps in, she stands right next to him. He edges a little closer to her, hands in his pockets so his elbow brushes up against her bicep.
Angela hits the buttons for three and four, and the doors close. "Oh, you remember that jazz act I was telling you about? Turns out they're playing down in Adams Morgan tomorrow night. I don't suppose you'd want to come with me? I really think you'd like them."
Mulder glances over at Angela, and then flicks his eyes back to Scully. She folds her arms, and keeps her eyes locked on the elevator doors. He should be able to figure out the answer to this one himself. And she knows how to call a cab if he doesn't.
"Um," he says. "Thanks. But I don't think I'm available."
She tries to prevent it, but the corner of Scully's mouth twitches. The tension in his shoulders relaxes fractionally.
"Too bad," she says. "Anyway, see you around," Angela says, as the elevator doors opened.
"See you," Mulder says. He lets out a long breath as the doors close and the elevator pulls up to his floor. "Did someone switch my cologne or something?"
"Sometimes, things just happen," Scully says, and slides out of the elevator in front of him. He follows. She suppresses the desire to change her gait to take advantage of the fact.
The same little routine with the keys at the apartment door, and she is half-tempted just to grab the keys herself; her patience is rapidly diminishing. Finally the door pops open, and, again, she slides under his arm and into the darkness of his apartment.
The click of the door, the snap of the deadbolt sliding, and they are standing in the near-dark. He's going to say something in a moment, she can tell, and that would be a terrible idea, because then they would have to talk; she is too drunk to say anything serious, and driven forward by an inertia that she's terrified of breaking. So she drops the shoes she's been holding this whole time, turns to face him, and grabs him by the neck to pull him into a kiss. He kisses her back eagerly but awkwardly, and she's struck by the problem of kissing him shoeless, his back bent to accommodate the distance. She takes advantage of how off-balance he is and starts pulling him by the clothes over towards the couch, hoping that he hasn't left any running shoes around as little obstacles, because her eyes are most assuredly not looking at the floor right now.
He gets enough equilibrium back to unbutton her jacket and drop it off her shoulders as they move, and she pushes against his coat with one hand while twisting the other around his tie. He sheds the coat by the time they're at the couch, and she pushes him down onto it, stumbling into his lap. He makes a gorgeous desperate noise as her hip makes contact with his cock, and she breaks the connection between their mouths to hear it again as she reaches down and grips him through his pants. This time it's better, because he's latched onto her neck, groaning and rocking against her palm, and this is ridiculous, she has to get him out of these pants immediately. She manages to get the zipper down, realizes she's missed his belt but, oh, fuck it, she's got her hand on him now, skin to skin, and she gets why he was so desperate in the taxi, because her brain is whirling, trying simultaneously to think about the pressure of his mouth on her neck and his hand inside her half-unbuttoned shirt and the steady thrum of the pulse of his cock in her hand. Calm down, Dana, she thinks, but it's pointless, because this is everything, all at once. They should have done this sober, she needs the mental capacity (but they never would have done it sober, never would have gotten over themselves, so long she's wanted this and now it's here, it's all here, oh God).
Finally she gets her head about her just long enough to maneuver him out through the fly of his pants, and then to slip off his lap and onto the floor. His hands hover for a moment, as if unclear on where she'd gone, but then she leans over and licks the head of his cock, and a shocked groan bursts out of him. She keeps her hand wrapped around the base, because she doesn't need a moving target right now, and lets her head sink down a little further this time. He groans again, and mutters, "Oh, Scully, Scully, stop, oh," and bucked his hips.
She pulls her mouth off him for a moment and looks up, regarding him as levelly as she could under these conditions. "Actually-stop, guilt-stop, or politeness-stop?" she asks, and really hopes that made sense, because she has never actually had the courage to ask what the fuck a man meant when he muttered that at precisely this point.
He pauses for a moment, eyes still squinted shut, as if processing. "Um," he says, and he blinks down at her. "Uh. A mix of B & C?"
She smirks, hand curled around him, and feels the little tremor running through his body. "Mulder. Get over yourself." And she leans over and licks him, slow and steady.
"OK," he says tremulously, and she can't help smiling as she takes him back into her mouth.
His hands keep hovering, as if he were at a loss for where to put them, or maybe just trying to hold off on grabbing her head. She appreciates the restraint; while some part of her likes the connection, it's generally bad form until you actually know your partner's sexual rhythm, and while she doubts Mulder is enough of a jackass to hold her down, she'd rather not risk a miscommunication their first time out. On instinct, she switches which hand she is holding his cock with and reaches up to take one of his hands in hers, and then it hits her again, God, this was actually Mulder, and she'd never held someone's hand while sucking his cock before, but she feels better, clearer, feeling his slightly sweaty palm pressed to hers, their fingers interlaced. He runs his other hand up her arm where it lay braced on his thigh, down her side and under her arm to slide into her shirt where it had been before, and she moans as his hand covers her breast and squeezed. God, yes, that, she thinks as he rolls her nipple, and closes her eyes to feel him all around her, his hand gripping hers desperately and the wet slide of his cock against her tongue.
The sounds he is making are getting increasingly desperate, and she can feel his hips begin to rock in time with the dips of her head and miscoordinated passes of her hand. (For awkward drunken sex, she muses, they are doing pretty well.) This means she was fairly close to a decision point, and, between the momentousness of the event and her state of inebriation, she is having trouble making up her mind. Should she let him come in her mouth or not? For first sexual encounters, her rule was generally no; do it too early, and you leave no room to refuse to do so later, or at least set yourself up for a great deal of whining. But, the thing is, despite the formal structure of this event, it isn't a standard one-night-stand, or even a first date. So, sure, this is the first time she and Mulder have ever engaged in this or any other sexual act, but, on some fundamental level, she doesn't want to make this conditional, doesn't want to hold anything back, not now, not with him. The endless record loop inside her head keeps repeating his name, and every nerve cell in her body seems to know: those hands, that scent, this body under hers, and since when is there space for giving less than a hundred percent with him, in anything?
While she is still dithering, his hand tightens on hers, and she realizes that she's missed her opportunity to make up her mind, not if she doesn't want to risk getting semen in her eye, and she is never doing that again if she can help it. So she squeezes his hand back, and leans in to feel him shudder to life over her tongue. The hand on her breast trails up her torso to cradle her face, and she has to close her eyes against the wave of emotion that crashed over her. Oh, Mulder, yes, this was exactly what she wanted to be doing tonight.
Limply, he slides to the floor, kneeling, and pulls her to him. Her jaw is sore, but she kisses him anyway, and then tilts her head back to let him kiss her neck more, straddling his lap with her skirt hitching up nearly to her waist, his arms bearing most of her weight. She realizes, belatedly, that there is no way that he hasn't marked her neck at some point in the past hour and a half. Good thing this is Friday, she supposes, draping her arms over his shoulders and letting her body go slack. She has reached that stage of drunkenness where her muscles have no volition, and where passing out wherever you are starts feeling like a good idea.
Mulder tilts her up so she is looking at him, and she smiles and leans forward to nuzzle his face with her nose. He leans in to it, and she can feel the muscles of his cheek move to smile where they press against her. "Hi," he murmurs into her ear.
"Hello," she says, and suppresses the desire to laugh. She has no idea why this exchange is necessary in the middle of a sexual encounter, but it always seems to be, and she finds herself overwhelmed by the sweetness of it.
"I want to fuck you," he says, running one of his hands up her thigh and wrapping it around her bare ass. Where are her panties again? She's going to have to figure that out in the morning.
"Okay," she says, leaning into his body. She can probably remain conscious that long, especially if she can be prone.
"It'll, uh. Be a while." He is kissing her neck softly now, less biting, more just an attempt to keep his lips busy.
Oh. That's right. Possibly she should have thought about that fifteen minutes ago. Not talking had seemed smart at the time, but it leads to unintended consequences. She evaluates her state of mind and Mulder's level of intoxication (not as high as hers, but high enough), and glances at the time on her watch. No, there's no way she can wait out his refractory period. "Can we fuck in the morning?" she asks, curling her hands around his neck and scratching up into the ends of his hair.
He leans away to look at her, as if considering. "Yeah, okay," he says, and she gets the sense that he isn't sure she'll be there when he wakes up.
She leans over and kisses him softly. "Mulder, do we have to sleep on your couch?"
He laughs. "I got a new mattress."
"That's right. The mystery bed." Dizzily, she pushes off his shoulders and stands up. For just a moment, he seems to be contemplating whether to do something about the fact that her crotch is now in extreme proximity to his face, but she pulls down her skirt and gives him the eyebrow. "Come on, Mulder. I don't think I can stay awake much longer."
He holds her hand as they walk into the bedroom, kisses her shoulders as he finishes unbuttoning her shirt and pulls it off. His belt is nearly impossible to work, she finds, but his tie comes right off. They tumble naked and still kissing into the bed, but she feels her adrenaline start to fade as soon as her head is on the pillow.
He spoons up behind her, covering them with the blankets. She reaches a hand around to hold his head closer to hers. He kisses her ear. "Good night, Scully."
"Good night, Mulder," she says, and lets herself fall asleep.
There is, theoretically, a third part to this story. Hopefully it will take me fewer than 15 months to produce it.
This entry was originally posted at http://amalnahurriyeh.dreamwidth.org/18285.html. You can comment in either location. There are currently
comments at Dreamwidth.
Author: Amal Nahurriyeh,
amalnahurriyeh/amalnahurriyeh, amalnahurriyeh at gmail dot com
Summary: What happens when you get out of the taxi. (Sequel to Taxi Ride.)
Pairing: MSR.
Rating: NC-17 for drunken, awkward, yet ultimately successful sex
Warnings: None.
Timeline/Spoilers: Er. I have written myself into a box here, but there's a bed and it's not absurd, so technically post-Monday, but I set the prequel in the first half of s6, so, um, don't ask me, OK?
Written for xf_santa, as a gift for mimic117. Perhaps not as plotty as you were hoping for, but I really do hope you enjoy. Many thanks to maybe_amanda for the beta.
This is a sequel to Taxi Ride, which I wrote for a long-ago pornbattle. It will probably not make sense if you have not read the previous story, but the gist of it is: there was a great deal of alcohol, and a very pleasant cab ride. And Scully's underwear are in her pocket now, though she's going to forget that shortly.
Neither of them are talking as they walk up the steps to his building. The rain has plastered Scully's hair to her head, and she briefly ponders whether this suit will need dry cleaning after getting so soaked. She is fully aware that this train of thought is a means of self-distraction; she is very purposefully not-thinking about how she and Mulder are going to his apartment to, if she is not mistaken, engage in some extremely drunken and most likely awkward sex. This is also why they aren't talking. What in the world would there be to say at this moment? She has no idea.
He glances over at her as they stand at the door, patting through his pockets to find where he has put his keys. They're in his left pants pocket, nine times out of ten, which she knows because she watches him do this dance every time he has to unlock his door. He's taking longer about it than usual, though. She clasps her hands in front of her and tries not to watch him too pointedly. No good getting him worried, even if she's got a hunch that he rather likes being scared of her.
Finally he finds the keys, figures out that the one with the holes is for the front door, just like it has been for however-many-years he's lived here, and swings the front door open. As he's holding it to let her in, someone calls out, "Hey, Mulder! Can you hold it?"
His head snaps up, and she's totally unsurprised to see his face in full panic-mode. Running up the steps is his downstairs neighbor, Angela, folding up her umbrella and shaking it out. "Ugh, thanks. What a nasty night, right?"
"Yeah," Mulder says, and glances over nervously at Scully. She walks over to the elevator and pushes the button. No neighborly distractions are going to divert her, not now.
"How've you been?" Angela asks pleasantly as she followed. "I haven't seen you around much lately."
Mulder slips between the two women, his eyes coming back to watch Scully in little darts, like minnows circling. "Yeah. We've been on the road a lot."
"Well, that's gotta be nice," Angela says, and steps into the elevator. Mulder hesitates for a moment, as if waiting for Scully, but then steps in as well. When Scully steps in, she stands right next to him. He edges a little closer to her, hands in his pockets so his elbow brushes up against her bicep.
Angela hits the buttons for three and four, and the doors close. "Oh, you remember that jazz act I was telling you about? Turns out they're playing down in Adams Morgan tomorrow night. I don't suppose you'd want to come with me? I really think you'd like them."
Mulder glances over at Angela, and then flicks his eyes back to Scully. She folds her arms, and keeps her eyes locked on the elevator doors. He should be able to figure out the answer to this one himself. And she knows how to call a cab if he doesn't.
"Um," he says. "Thanks. But I don't think I'm available."
She tries to prevent it, but the corner of Scully's mouth twitches. The tension in his shoulders relaxes fractionally.
"Too bad," she says. "Anyway, see you around," Angela says, as the elevator doors opened.
"See you," Mulder says. He lets out a long breath as the doors close and the elevator pulls up to his floor. "Did someone switch my cologne or something?"
"Sometimes, things just happen," Scully says, and slides out of the elevator in front of him. He follows. She suppresses the desire to change her gait to take advantage of the fact.
The same little routine with the keys at the apartment door, and she is half-tempted just to grab the keys herself; her patience is rapidly diminishing. Finally the door pops open, and, again, she slides under his arm and into the darkness of his apartment.
The click of the door, the snap of the deadbolt sliding, and they are standing in the near-dark. He's going to say something in a moment, she can tell, and that would be a terrible idea, because then they would have to talk; she is too drunk to say anything serious, and driven forward by an inertia that she's terrified of breaking. So she drops the shoes she's been holding this whole time, turns to face him, and grabs him by the neck to pull him into a kiss. He kisses her back eagerly but awkwardly, and she's struck by the problem of kissing him shoeless, his back bent to accommodate the distance. She takes advantage of how off-balance he is and starts pulling him by the clothes over towards the couch, hoping that he hasn't left any running shoes around as little obstacles, because her eyes are most assuredly not looking at the floor right now.
He gets enough equilibrium back to unbutton her jacket and drop it off her shoulders as they move, and she pushes against his coat with one hand while twisting the other around his tie. He sheds the coat by the time they're at the couch, and she pushes him down onto it, stumbling into his lap. He makes a gorgeous desperate noise as her hip makes contact with his cock, and she breaks the connection between their mouths to hear it again as she reaches down and grips him through his pants. This time it's better, because he's latched onto her neck, groaning and rocking against her palm, and this is ridiculous, she has to get him out of these pants immediately. She manages to get the zipper down, realizes she's missed his belt but, oh, fuck it, she's got her hand on him now, skin to skin, and she gets why he was so desperate in the taxi, because her brain is whirling, trying simultaneously to think about the pressure of his mouth on her neck and his hand inside her half-unbuttoned shirt and the steady thrum of the pulse of his cock in her hand. Calm down, Dana, she thinks, but it's pointless, because this is everything, all at once. They should have done this sober, she needs the mental capacity (but they never would have done it sober, never would have gotten over themselves, so long she's wanted this and now it's here, it's all here, oh God).
Finally she gets her head about her just long enough to maneuver him out through the fly of his pants, and then to slip off his lap and onto the floor. His hands hover for a moment, as if unclear on where she'd gone, but then she leans over and licks the head of his cock, and a shocked groan bursts out of him. She keeps her hand wrapped around the base, because she doesn't need a moving target right now, and lets her head sink down a little further this time. He groans again, and mutters, "Oh, Scully, Scully, stop, oh," and bucked his hips.
She pulls her mouth off him for a moment and looks up, regarding him as levelly as she could under these conditions. "Actually-stop, guilt-stop, or politeness-stop?" she asks, and really hopes that made sense, because she has never actually had the courage to ask what the fuck a man meant when he muttered that at precisely this point.
He pauses for a moment, eyes still squinted shut, as if processing. "Um," he says, and he blinks down at her. "Uh. A mix of B & C?"
She smirks, hand curled around him, and feels the little tremor running through his body. "Mulder. Get over yourself." And she leans over and licks him, slow and steady.
"OK," he says tremulously, and she can't help smiling as she takes him back into her mouth.
His hands keep hovering, as if he were at a loss for where to put them, or maybe just trying to hold off on grabbing her head. She appreciates the restraint; while some part of her likes the connection, it's generally bad form until you actually know your partner's sexual rhythm, and while she doubts Mulder is enough of a jackass to hold her down, she'd rather not risk a miscommunication their first time out. On instinct, she switches which hand she is holding his cock with and reaches up to take one of his hands in hers, and then it hits her again, God, this was actually Mulder, and she'd never held someone's hand while sucking his cock before, but she feels better, clearer, feeling his slightly sweaty palm pressed to hers, their fingers interlaced. He runs his other hand up her arm where it lay braced on his thigh, down her side and under her arm to slide into her shirt where it had been before, and she moans as his hand covers her breast and squeezed. God, yes, that, she thinks as he rolls her nipple, and closes her eyes to feel him all around her, his hand gripping hers desperately and the wet slide of his cock against her tongue.
The sounds he is making are getting increasingly desperate, and she can feel his hips begin to rock in time with the dips of her head and miscoordinated passes of her hand. (For awkward drunken sex, she muses, they are doing pretty well.) This means she was fairly close to a decision point, and, between the momentousness of the event and her state of inebriation, she is having trouble making up her mind. Should she let him come in her mouth or not? For first sexual encounters, her rule was generally no; do it too early, and you leave no room to refuse to do so later, or at least set yourself up for a great deal of whining. But, the thing is, despite the formal structure of this event, it isn't a standard one-night-stand, or even a first date. So, sure, this is the first time she and Mulder have ever engaged in this or any other sexual act, but, on some fundamental level, she doesn't want to make this conditional, doesn't want to hold anything back, not now, not with him. The endless record loop inside her head keeps repeating his name, and every nerve cell in her body seems to know: those hands, that scent, this body under hers, and since when is there space for giving less than a hundred percent with him, in anything?
While she is still dithering, his hand tightens on hers, and she realizes that she's missed her opportunity to make up her mind, not if she doesn't want to risk getting semen in her eye, and she is never doing that again if she can help it. So she squeezes his hand back, and leans in to feel him shudder to life over her tongue. The hand on her breast trails up her torso to cradle her face, and she has to close her eyes against the wave of emotion that crashed over her. Oh, Mulder, yes, this was exactly what she wanted to be doing tonight.
Limply, he slides to the floor, kneeling, and pulls her to him. Her jaw is sore, but she kisses him anyway, and then tilts her head back to let him kiss her neck more, straddling his lap with her skirt hitching up nearly to her waist, his arms bearing most of her weight. She realizes, belatedly, that there is no way that he hasn't marked her neck at some point in the past hour and a half. Good thing this is Friday, she supposes, draping her arms over his shoulders and letting her body go slack. She has reached that stage of drunkenness where her muscles have no volition, and where passing out wherever you are starts feeling like a good idea.
Mulder tilts her up so she is looking at him, and she smiles and leans forward to nuzzle his face with her nose. He leans in to it, and she can feel the muscles of his cheek move to smile where they press against her. "Hi," he murmurs into her ear.
"Hello," she says, and suppresses the desire to laugh. She has no idea why this exchange is necessary in the middle of a sexual encounter, but it always seems to be, and she finds herself overwhelmed by the sweetness of it.
"I want to fuck you," he says, running one of his hands up her thigh and wrapping it around her bare ass. Where are her panties again? She's going to have to figure that out in the morning.
"Okay," she says, leaning into his body. She can probably remain conscious that long, especially if she can be prone.
"It'll, uh. Be a while." He is kissing her neck softly now, less biting, more just an attempt to keep his lips busy.
Oh. That's right. Possibly she should have thought about that fifteen minutes ago. Not talking had seemed smart at the time, but it leads to unintended consequences. She evaluates her state of mind and Mulder's level of intoxication (not as high as hers, but high enough), and glances at the time on her watch. No, there's no way she can wait out his refractory period. "Can we fuck in the morning?" she asks, curling her hands around his neck and scratching up into the ends of his hair.
He leans away to look at her, as if considering. "Yeah, okay," he says, and she gets the sense that he isn't sure she'll be there when he wakes up.
She leans over and kisses him softly. "Mulder, do we have to sleep on your couch?"
He laughs. "I got a new mattress."
"That's right. The mystery bed." Dizzily, she pushes off his shoulders and stands up. For just a moment, he seems to be contemplating whether to do something about the fact that her crotch is now in extreme proximity to his face, but she pulls down her skirt and gives him the eyebrow. "Come on, Mulder. I don't think I can stay awake much longer."
He holds her hand as they walk into the bedroom, kisses her shoulders as he finishes unbuttoning her shirt and pulls it off. His belt is nearly impossible to work, she finds, but his tie comes right off. They tumble naked and still kissing into the bed, but she feels her adrenaline start to fade as soon as her head is on the pillow.
He spoons up behind her, covering them with the blankets. She reaches a hand around to hold his head closer to hers. He kisses her ear. "Good night, Scully."
"Good night, Mulder," she says, and lets herself fall asleep.
There is, theoretically, a third part to this story. Hopefully it will take me fewer than 15 months to produce it.
This entry was originally posted at http://amalnahurriyeh.dreamwidth.org/18285.html. You can comment in either location. There are currently
comments at Dreamwidth.