A whole lot of porn
The xf_pornbattle is over for another however long until it starts up again, so I'm free to (re)post the fic I wrote for it. I actually had a lot of fun. Ok, some of it wasn't my best - the Scully/Quagmire prompt really didn't work - but some of it wasn't that bad. And I had a lot of really nice comments from a lot of really nice people, which is always - well - nice.
So, without any sort of order because I can't remember when I wrote them, here they are:
From Hell
She’s a good Catholic girl, she tells herself as she wraps her lips around his cock and teases its head with her tongue. She goes to church every day, twice on Sundays; sends the money she earns back to her family in Ireland, repents her sins in the small confessional after mass each week, before giving the priest head in the crypt. She’s a good Catholic girl, and what her family don’t know won’t hurt them.
“ - just can’t work it out.”
She tunes back in to the monologue her Friday night regular has been indulging in while she’s rubbed her knees raw on the cold floor.
“There’s no sense to it. Oh Jesus, that feels good.”
She tongues the head of his cock as she cups his balls, massaging the soft skin with a practiced hand. She draws his cock into her mouth until it fills her throat, and only familiarity prevents her from gagging.
“Don’t stop,” he groans as she pulls him in deeper. He rocks his hips, thrusting into her as her teeth graze his cock, as her right hand traces her tongue up the length of his shaft.
Of all her clients (she uses the word loosely) he is the one she is most fond of. Every Friday, regular as clockwork, he meets her in The Ten Bells, housed on a corner in Whitechapel. He buys her jellied eels and a half of stout, and treats her like a woman instead of a receptacle for semen and saliva. It’s almost a pleasure, taking him in her mouth and bringing him to orgasm, though not so much that she won’t charge for it.
He quickens the pace, rocking into her mouth, and she feels herself becoming wet. It’s his voice, she thinks, that husky monotone, that indescribable intensity. She imagines his lips on her neck, his fingers teasing her nipples as his cock slides in and out of her tight cunt.
The fingers of the hand that has been massaging his balls find their way to her thigh. She feels how wet and hot she is through the underwear that chafes against her clit as she rocks with him, knees on the hard floor. She is sure he is aware of what she is doing, of what she does every Friday when his breath hitches in the back of his throat and she tastes the salt of him.
She is not smooth, pushing two fingers deep into herself and rubbing frantic circles on her clit. She pushes her fingers deep inside herself as her hips thrust to the frenetic rhythm, as her tongue laps greedily at his cock, as his hand joins her and matches her pace.
His voice is a moan into the cool London air as he comes.
“So this Jack business is getting you worried?”
“I don’t know why you girls call him Jack,” he replies as he buttons up his trousers. “There’s no precedence for it. No reason. You’re using a signature on a postcard to make this creature human. In God’s name why?”
“Even a monster needs a name.”
He frowns.
“That’s as may be, but Jack?”
“You’d have rathered something like Fox?”
“I’d have rathered something resembling an identity that’ll lead me to the killer.”
He pecks her cheek; a chaste goodnight, before swinging his cloak around his shoulders. Dana watches DI Mulder as he walks away into the Victorian smog.
Alien in Quahog
Agent Scully has always reminded Quagmire of Lois, with her flame red hair and come to bed eyes. And unlike Lois he thinks he might actually have a chance with her. He watches her from his bedroom on the first storey, salivating at the way her ass moves as she walks down the street with her gangly partner.
His tip off about illegal aliens seems to have worked, though the only illegal alien she'll find is in his pants. Giggity, giggity.
She ditches her partner as she crosses the street to his house. Before the buzzer has rung he's opening the door.
"Is that a gun in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?"
It turns out it is a gun.
She perches on the couch as he eyes her up and down. She has small feet that taper up to thighs like peaches. He can only imagine what's under that skirt, but the thought makes him quiver.
"Aliens, Mr. Quagmire?" She asks as he undresses her in his mind. What it would be like to slip off her shoes, peel off her thigh highs and take each toe in his mouth. Thinking of it gives him a hard on.
A little known fact about Quagmire, one that he'd like to turn into a greater known fact, is that he loves feet. Big, small, fat, thin - he loves them all. And Agent Scully's, he thinks, he might just love the most.
What he wouldn't give to sit like a dog at her feet, massaging all the tension out of them while she squirms on the couch, gasping with pleasure. What he wouldn't give to slide his cock between her stockinged feet as she fingers herself, rubbing frantic circles on her clit, and comes on the leather.
His thoughts are interrupted by Agent Scully's small sigh.
"Thank you for your time sir."
Questions answered, she rises and heads for the door as he follows her like a puppy. She gives him a backward glance as she leaves.
Al-riiight.
A Gift From The Sea
When the last of the police have left he walks through the empty house. His hands trail across the furniture, run over the chair, the desk and patterning the wood like rain.
Time has turned his memory to sepia. Scattered fragments like half remembered photographs skip through his mind; the least glimpse of a room, a book, a picture hurling him unbound into time’s stream.
He first kissed her here. Her back ram rod straight against the antique desk that Bill paid his bills on. He traced the line of her collarbone here, watching the children play through the leaded window. She curved into him like a bow. He undressed her, first, here, as Bill worked another late night and the children played baseball in the yard. She was taut and strung out as he knelt before her and rolled her pantyhose over the brow of her knee, past the curve of her ankle. He hitched her skirt above her waist, his fingers lingering on her skin like a musician. She wouldn’t look at him, at first, wouldn’t look at him as he kissed a path up her legs.
He could smell her sex as his tongue flickered higher and higher over the expanse of her thigh. She was an ocean, sea-salted and shark-infested, and he knew she could dash him to pieces on the rocks of her heart with her siren song.
She curled her fingers in his hair when his tongue first flickered into the dark cave of her. He breathed her in, running his tongue along the length of her before lapping at her clit. She keened as he sucked at her, a soft sound in the back of her throat, and spread her legs wider, her hips thrusting with the rhythm of him. Her fingers curled in his hair and he felt the blood pounding through her, pulling at him like the moon and the sea.
He grasped at her like a drowning man, drawing her to the floor to cover her mouth with his. Her cheeks were salt water, her eyes a beacon calling him home. She was wet and hot as he slid into her, thrusting into her on a wooden floor in a house that had lost everything.
She called Bill’s name when she came.
When the children rushed in her eyes were dry, her skirt smoothed in place, her lips a taut smile. Time catches up with him as he stands at the window, watching the reflection of the years-ago her as she kneels over grazed knees, kisses away bruises with a mouth that fastened on his like a lifebelt.
When The Wolves are Silent
The hospital room is a disinfectant white, sterile and cold. Scully sleeps, small in the suddenly large bed, and around her the beep of machines map her dreams.
It's not the first time he's had to face death (his dog died when he was 8 and he cried for days. His grandmother's ashen gace still stares out at him from the the dark pine coffin); his sister's disappearance and the daily nightmares it brings should have made him immune to any other fear. But this is Scully, he can't lose her, can't be without her.
He rests his hands on the cool sheets, fingers only inches away from hers. There is so much he wants to say to her. So much to put into words, to try to express. He isn't sure where to start.
"Scully," the word gutters and dies in the room.
"Scully," and suddenly he knows what he needs to say.
"Imagine you and me under the moon. The air is flat above us, the stars pinpricks of light like diamonds spread out across the sky. There's no one else there Scully, just me and you. We could be alone in the world; the last two people left. Stars are flying across the heavens, the perseids illuminating the sky just for us. You ask me what I wish for and I tell you nothing. I have everything I could ever want with you sitting beside me.
"You smile at me, and you're so beautiful, Scully. I wonder why I've never told you that before. My fingers find yours, and your hand curls around me as I lean towards you, and the stars fly overhead. Your lips are soft, you taste like strawberries and starlight, and the universe is spinning as I kiss you under the moon.
"My heart is racing in my chest as I lift my hands to your blouse. You help me undo the buttons because my fingers are a stammering, stuttering mess. I've thought of this moment a hundred times, and I can't believe it's finally happening, can't believe that when I finally I get to undress Special Agent Dana Scully my fingers refuse to work. You slip the blouse off and you neck, the hollow of your throat, your breasts are outlined by the moonlight. Nothing exists except you and me, and the stars like fireworks in the sky.
"We make love out there, on the plain. So soft and gentle, and for the first time in my life I feel like I'm a whole person. I have everything I want, everything I need, and the grass is smooth under you as you wrap your fingers in my hair and pull me to you. You kiss me like it's the last night on earth, like it's the beginning of the world, and you wrap you legs around, pulling me in.
"You are tight around my cock as I slide into you. I forget everything but the way you feel, running your fingers down my back, as we gain momentum, thrusting and reaching and always, always touching, and your face when you come is more beautiful than God's.
"When you call my name I feel like I've come home.
"Afterwards, we lie in each other's arms, breathing in time to the universe. The night sky is above us, the stars a kaleidoscope, pinwheeling overhead.
"Imagine us under the moon, Scully. If you can hear me, imagine us under the moon."
The room comes fading back when he finishes, the August sky replaced by ceiling tiles. He looks down at Scully, pale on the bed, and her fingers flutter, inching closer to his. She grasps them like a lifebelt.
"I'm holding you to that when I get out of here, Mulder," she whispers, and suddenly there is hope.
This is the way it happens
Hands touch, briefly. Part and touch again; moths to a flame. There are glances; when he is not looking, when she is not looking. There are nights spent alone, each thinking of the other, and shuddering breaths in shuttered rooms.
This is the way it happens.
He walks across the room. The lights are off; she sits at the desk staring into space. She doesn’t start when he touches her shoulder, when he crouches in front of her, when he takes her hands in hers. She is cold to the touch and he realises she is shivering. He wraps her in his arms and she folds into him.
This is the way it happens.
He drives her home, tyres swishing over wet tarmac. She fumbles with the key. He takes it from her stuttering hands and lets her into the cool apartment. They sit on the couch, staring into space. She says nothing.
This is the way it happens.
His hands are soft as they touch her. He slides off her jacket, her blouse; her skin blooms pale in the silver air. He grazes her collarbone and she shudders, long and lingering. Her tongue flickers over her lips. Her eyes dart across his face. She leans into him. Her hair smells of summer.
This is the way it happens.
His fingers dance down her back. Her lips are on his neck and he moans as she nips the tender skin. He flutters kisses over her cheeks, her eyes, her lips. Her hands cup her neck, her fingers tangle his hair and she pulls him into her. His tongue chasing hers, wine and nectar.
This is the way it happens.
She is silk beneath him. Moonlight dances over the rise of her ribs, dappling her grey and silver. He laps at the dark skin of her nipples as she arches her back and he slides into her. She is warm and wet and he gasps as her legs pull him closer. They move together, tongues and fingers entwining; shuddering breaths in shuttered rooms.
This is the way it happens.
Alone
The thought of Scully's desk - or rather her non existent desk - has been haunting him all day. Now, alone in a dark room with only the ticking of a clock for company, he can't get it out of his head.
He lies on the couch for what feels like hours, thinking. The phone had rung, ten, fifteen times before her machine picked up. He replaced the receiver only to pick it up and try again five minutes later. Same damn machine. That went on for a half hour or so, the tawdry dance of redial and replace, and he wondered where she was before he remembered she's in Philadelphia on a case he sent her to.
He'd been hoping to make up for whatever it was that had upset her (he's sure it wasn't just the desk - the lack of a desk). Truth is, he admits to himself, he'd been hoping to get her alone - properly alone, not just out of sight of the prying eyes at the FBI building. For months he hasn't been able to stop thinking of her. Driving to work, reading case files, trying to sleep; she's on his mind everywhere he goes. And he finds it disconcerting.
Before Scully he'd been able to get by on his own. Ok, there were women (Diane and Phoebe immediately come to mind) but there'd never been anyone he really cared about. And then Scully turned up with her brilliant mind and diminutive figure and hit him like an arrow straight through the heart. If he's honest, it scares him.
He paces the apartment, basketball in hands. There's no answer on Scully's cell and he assumes she's switched it off in a fit of pique. It doesn't stop him trying though, hitting redial again and again in the hopes that she'll pick up. In the end, still wondering where she is - who, if anyone, she's with - he leaves a message.
"Hey, Scully, it's me. Just wondering where you are and, uh, I just wanted to apologise for the whole desk thing. I've put in a request for a new one, which should arrive when you get back. Anyway, uh, I guess I'll speak to you soon."
He doesn't tell her how long he's wanted to kiss her smooth lips, lips he's always imagined would taste like raspberry. Doesn't tell her how he's longed for a night like this, where he might get her alone. He carries his love for her like a secret; torn between wanting to tell her how he feels, and terrified that even when she knows he'll end up alone.
He tries her number again, hoping that she'll pick up, that he won't have to spend the night totally on his own. There's no answer.
Is That A Gun In Your Pocket?
“Joanne, we have to talk.”
“We don’t have to talk about anything Morris. I don’t know why you don’t just leave; you clearly want to be as far away from me as possible.”
“I told you Joanne, there are men out to get me. Dangerous men.”
“Dangerous men Morris? Do you really expect me to believe this bullshit? You want me to feel sorry for you so I won’t leave. You want to have your cake and eat it as well Morris, and it’s not going to happen.”
She’s in his space, close up and mad, and the only way he can think to shut her up is to kiss her. He grabs the back of her neck and pulls her towards him, tongue sliding into her mouth as her hands push against his chest.
“Is this what it’s like with that tramp?” She asks when they break apart? “Is this how you kiss her?”
“Joanne, I told you. Scully is my partner.”
“Fine. If that’s how you want to play it.” She steps back and glares at him. “Call me Scully.”
“What?”
“You heard. I want you to call me Scully while you fuck me. If that’s what it takes to get you to even look at me naked then that’s what it takes.”
She strips with the romance of a bank teller, businesslike and efficient, and he doesn’t know where to look. Naked, she walks towards him and wraps her arms around his neck.
“Fox,” she says, the word a purr on her tongue. “It gets so boring on a stakeout. No one would know if we made our own entertainment.”
“Joanne - ”
She scowls.
“I told you to call me Scully. This won’t work if you don’t call me Scully.”
“Scully -” and he wishes that it was Scully, standing before him. “Scully, we can’t. You know the FBI frowns on partners becoming involved.”
“The FBI aren’t here tonight, Fox. It’s just me and you and I’m so hot and wet.”
She slides her hand down his chest, cupping his balls through the fabric of his trousers.
“I want you to take me here Fox. I want you to fuck me like you’ve never fucked me before. I want to feel your cock inside me Fox, I want to hear you come.”
His erection strains against his trousers as she squeezes her balls. His hands move from her shoulders down her back, around the curve of her ass and she pushes herself against him.
“Oh Jesus,” he mutters. “I’m so fucking hard.”
She is wet and she gasps into his neck as his fingers find her clit, sliding into her tight pussy. She hitches a leg against his hip, and he pushes his fingers, two, then three, into her. She is warm and wet and she grinds against his touch. Her fingers fumble with his zipper of his trousers and he gasps as she runs her fingers to the head of his cock.
Her strokes are long and hard, and move to the rhythm of his fingers. She bites his neck as he plays with her clit, squeezing and rubbing the small mound of flesh. Her fingers are like satin, teasing him as he gasps, and he knows it won’t be long before he comes. He takes a step back and pushes her toward the bed where she lies with her ass raised tantalisingly in the air. She looks back at him.
“Is that a gun in your pocket Agent, or are you just happy to see me?”
He manoeuvres his cock so that the tip rests against her ass. She spreads her legs wider, inviting him in, and he pushes against her, gasping at how tight her ass feels.
He moves slowly at first, withdrawing until only the tip of his cock rests in her ass and then sliding back into her, his body shuddering at the sensation of her tight flesh. She pushes herself against him, and he reaches a finger down to her clit listening to her moan as he slides into her. She gasps his name as he circles her clit.
“Call me Scully,” she pants as he thrusts into her, his hands gripping her hips, pulling her onto his cock. He moves faster and faster, thrusting harder and harder and Joanne writhes on the bed beneath him. Her hand joins his and they slide in and out of her wet pussy. She tangles her fingers with his, increasing the pace on her clit and she trembles and quivers, her orgasm hiding the muted thud of flesh hitting flesh.
Scully’s name rises from his tongue as he comes.
So, without any sort of order because I can't remember when I wrote them, here they are:
From Hell
She’s a good Catholic girl, she tells herself as she wraps her lips around his cock and teases its head with her tongue. She goes to church every day, twice on Sundays; sends the money she earns back to her family in Ireland, repents her sins in the small confessional after mass each week, before giving the priest head in the crypt. She’s a good Catholic girl, and what her family don’t know won’t hurt them.
“ - just can’t work it out.”
She tunes back in to the monologue her Friday night regular has been indulging in while she’s rubbed her knees raw on the cold floor.
“There’s no sense to it. Oh Jesus, that feels good.”
She tongues the head of his cock as she cups his balls, massaging the soft skin with a practiced hand. She draws his cock into her mouth until it fills her throat, and only familiarity prevents her from gagging.
“Don’t stop,” he groans as she pulls him in deeper. He rocks his hips, thrusting into her as her teeth graze his cock, as her right hand traces her tongue up the length of his shaft.
Of all her clients (she uses the word loosely) he is the one she is most fond of. Every Friday, regular as clockwork, he meets her in The Ten Bells, housed on a corner in Whitechapel. He buys her jellied eels and a half of stout, and treats her like a woman instead of a receptacle for semen and saliva. It’s almost a pleasure, taking him in her mouth and bringing him to orgasm, though not so much that she won’t charge for it.
He quickens the pace, rocking into her mouth, and she feels herself becoming wet. It’s his voice, she thinks, that husky monotone, that indescribable intensity. She imagines his lips on her neck, his fingers teasing her nipples as his cock slides in and out of her tight cunt.
The fingers of the hand that has been massaging his balls find their way to her thigh. She feels how wet and hot she is through the underwear that chafes against her clit as she rocks with him, knees on the hard floor. She is sure he is aware of what she is doing, of what she does every Friday when his breath hitches in the back of his throat and she tastes the salt of him.
She is not smooth, pushing two fingers deep into herself and rubbing frantic circles on her clit. She pushes her fingers deep inside herself as her hips thrust to the frenetic rhythm, as her tongue laps greedily at his cock, as his hand joins her and matches her pace.
His voice is a moan into the cool London air as he comes.
“So this Jack business is getting you worried?”
“I don’t know why you girls call him Jack,” he replies as he buttons up his trousers. “There’s no precedence for it. No reason. You’re using a signature on a postcard to make this creature human. In God’s name why?”
“Even a monster needs a name.”
He frowns.
“That’s as may be, but Jack?”
“You’d have rathered something like Fox?”
“I’d have rathered something resembling an identity that’ll lead me to the killer.”
He pecks her cheek; a chaste goodnight, before swinging his cloak around his shoulders. Dana watches DI Mulder as he walks away into the Victorian smog.
Alien in Quahog
Agent Scully has always reminded Quagmire of Lois, with her flame red hair and come to bed eyes. And unlike Lois he thinks he might actually have a chance with her. He watches her from his bedroom on the first storey, salivating at the way her ass moves as she walks down the street with her gangly partner.
His tip off about illegal aliens seems to have worked, though the only illegal alien she'll find is in his pants. Giggity, giggity.
She ditches her partner as she crosses the street to his house. Before the buzzer has rung he's opening the door.
"Is that a gun in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?"
It turns out it is a gun.
She perches on the couch as he eyes her up and down. She has small feet that taper up to thighs like peaches. He can only imagine what's under that skirt, but the thought makes him quiver.
"Aliens, Mr. Quagmire?" She asks as he undresses her in his mind. What it would be like to slip off her shoes, peel off her thigh highs and take each toe in his mouth. Thinking of it gives him a hard on.
A little known fact about Quagmire, one that he'd like to turn into a greater known fact, is that he loves feet. Big, small, fat, thin - he loves them all. And Agent Scully's, he thinks, he might just love the most.
What he wouldn't give to sit like a dog at her feet, massaging all the tension out of them while she squirms on the couch, gasping with pleasure. What he wouldn't give to slide his cock between her stockinged feet as she fingers herself, rubbing frantic circles on her clit, and comes on the leather.
His thoughts are interrupted by Agent Scully's small sigh.
"Thank you for your time sir."
Questions answered, she rises and heads for the door as he follows her like a puppy. She gives him a backward glance as she leaves.
Al-riiight.
A Gift From The Sea
When the last of the police have left he walks through the empty house. His hands trail across the furniture, run over the chair, the desk and patterning the wood like rain.
Time has turned his memory to sepia. Scattered fragments like half remembered photographs skip through his mind; the least glimpse of a room, a book, a picture hurling him unbound into time’s stream.
He first kissed her here. Her back ram rod straight against the antique desk that Bill paid his bills on. He traced the line of her collarbone here, watching the children play through the leaded window. She curved into him like a bow. He undressed her, first, here, as Bill worked another late night and the children played baseball in the yard. She was taut and strung out as he knelt before her and rolled her pantyhose over the brow of her knee, past the curve of her ankle. He hitched her skirt above her waist, his fingers lingering on her skin like a musician. She wouldn’t look at him, at first, wouldn’t look at him as he kissed a path up her legs.
He could smell her sex as his tongue flickered higher and higher over the expanse of her thigh. She was an ocean, sea-salted and shark-infested, and he knew she could dash him to pieces on the rocks of her heart with her siren song.
She curled her fingers in his hair when his tongue first flickered into the dark cave of her. He breathed her in, running his tongue along the length of her before lapping at her clit. She keened as he sucked at her, a soft sound in the back of her throat, and spread her legs wider, her hips thrusting with the rhythm of him. Her fingers curled in his hair and he felt the blood pounding through her, pulling at him like the moon and the sea.
He grasped at her like a drowning man, drawing her to the floor to cover her mouth with his. Her cheeks were salt water, her eyes a beacon calling him home. She was wet and hot as he slid into her, thrusting into her on a wooden floor in a house that had lost everything.
She called Bill’s name when she came.
When the children rushed in her eyes were dry, her skirt smoothed in place, her lips a taut smile. Time catches up with him as he stands at the window, watching the reflection of the years-ago her as she kneels over grazed knees, kisses away bruises with a mouth that fastened on his like a lifebelt.
When The Wolves are Silent
The hospital room is a disinfectant white, sterile and cold. Scully sleeps, small in the suddenly large bed, and around her the beep of machines map her dreams.
It's not the first time he's had to face death (his dog died when he was 8 and he cried for days. His grandmother's ashen gace still stares out at him from the the dark pine coffin); his sister's disappearance and the daily nightmares it brings should have made him immune to any other fear. But this is Scully, he can't lose her, can't be without her.
He rests his hands on the cool sheets, fingers only inches away from hers. There is so much he wants to say to her. So much to put into words, to try to express. He isn't sure where to start.
"Scully," the word gutters and dies in the room.
"Scully," and suddenly he knows what he needs to say.
"Imagine you and me under the moon. The air is flat above us, the stars pinpricks of light like diamonds spread out across the sky. There's no one else there Scully, just me and you. We could be alone in the world; the last two people left. Stars are flying across the heavens, the perseids illuminating the sky just for us. You ask me what I wish for and I tell you nothing. I have everything I could ever want with you sitting beside me.
"You smile at me, and you're so beautiful, Scully. I wonder why I've never told you that before. My fingers find yours, and your hand curls around me as I lean towards you, and the stars fly overhead. Your lips are soft, you taste like strawberries and starlight, and the universe is spinning as I kiss you under the moon.
"My heart is racing in my chest as I lift my hands to your blouse. You help me undo the buttons because my fingers are a stammering, stuttering mess. I've thought of this moment a hundred times, and I can't believe it's finally happening, can't believe that when I finally I get to undress Special Agent Dana Scully my fingers refuse to work. You slip the blouse off and you neck, the hollow of your throat, your breasts are outlined by the moonlight. Nothing exists except you and me, and the stars like fireworks in the sky.
"We make love out there, on the plain. So soft and gentle, and for the first time in my life I feel like I'm a whole person. I have everything I want, everything I need, and the grass is smooth under you as you wrap your fingers in my hair and pull me to you. You kiss me like it's the last night on earth, like it's the beginning of the world, and you wrap you legs around, pulling me in.
"You are tight around my cock as I slide into you. I forget everything but the way you feel, running your fingers down my back, as we gain momentum, thrusting and reaching and always, always touching, and your face when you come is more beautiful than God's.
"When you call my name I feel like I've come home.
"Afterwards, we lie in each other's arms, breathing in time to the universe. The night sky is above us, the stars a kaleidoscope, pinwheeling overhead.
"Imagine us under the moon, Scully. If you can hear me, imagine us under the moon."
The room comes fading back when he finishes, the August sky replaced by ceiling tiles. He looks down at Scully, pale on the bed, and her fingers flutter, inching closer to his. She grasps them like a lifebelt.
"I'm holding you to that when I get out of here, Mulder," she whispers, and suddenly there is hope.
This is the way it happens
Hands touch, briefly. Part and touch again; moths to a flame. There are glances; when he is not looking, when she is not looking. There are nights spent alone, each thinking of the other, and shuddering breaths in shuttered rooms.
This is the way it happens.
He walks across the room. The lights are off; she sits at the desk staring into space. She doesn’t start when he touches her shoulder, when he crouches in front of her, when he takes her hands in hers. She is cold to the touch and he realises she is shivering. He wraps her in his arms and she folds into him.
This is the way it happens.
He drives her home, tyres swishing over wet tarmac. She fumbles with the key. He takes it from her stuttering hands and lets her into the cool apartment. They sit on the couch, staring into space. She says nothing.
This is the way it happens.
His hands are soft as they touch her. He slides off her jacket, her blouse; her skin blooms pale in the silver air. He grazes her collarbone and she shudders, long and lingering. Her tongue flickers over her lips. Her eyes dart across his face. She leans into him. Her hair smells of summer.
This is the way it happens.
His fingers dance down her back. Her lips are on his neck and he moans as she nips the tender skin. He flutters kisses over her cheeks, her eyes, her lips. Her hands cup her neck, her fingers tangle his hair and she pulls him into her. His tongue chasing hers, wine and nectar.
This is the way it happens.
She is silk beneath him. Moonlight dances over the rise of her ribs, dappling her grey and silver. He laps at the dark skin of her nipples as she arches her back and he slides into her. She is warm and wet and he gasps as her legs pull him closer. They move together, tongues and fingers entwining; shuddering breaths in shuttered rooms.
This is the way it happens.
Alone
The thought of Scully's desk - or rather her non existent desk - has been haunting him all day. Now, alone in a dark room with only the ticking of a clock for company, he can't get it out of his head.
He lies on the couch for what feels like hours, thinking. The phone had rung, ten, fifteen times before her machine picked up. He replaced the receiver only to pick it up and try again five minutes later. Same damn machine. That went on for a half hour or so, the tawdry dance of redial and replace, and he wondered where she was before he remembered she's in Philadelphia on a case he sent her to.
He'd been hoping to make up for whatever it was that had upset her (he's sure it wasn't just the desk - the lack of a desk). Truth is, he admits to himself, he'd been hoping to get her alone - properly alone, not just out of sight of the prying eyes at the FBI building. For months he hasn't been able to stop thinking of her. Driving to work, reading case files, trying to sleep; she's on his mind everywhere he goes. And he finds it disconcerting.
Before Scully he'd been able to get by on his own. Ok, there were women (Diane and Phoebe immediately come to mind) but there'd never been anyone he really cared about. And then Scully turned up with her brilliant mind and diminutive figure and hit him like an arrow straight through the heart. If he's honest, it scares him.
He paces the apartment, basketball in hands. There's no answer on Scully's cell and he assumes she's switched it off in a fit of pique. It doesn't stop him trying though, hitting redial again and again in the hopes that she'll pick up. In the end, still wondering where she is - who, if anyone, she's with - he leaves a message.
"Hey, Scully, it's me. Just wondering where you are and, uh, I just wanted to apologise for the whole desk thing. I've put in a request for a new one, which should arrive when you get back. Anyway, uh, I guess I'll speak to you soon."
He doesn't tell her how long he's wanted to kiss her smooth lips, lips he's always imagined would taste like raspberry. Doesn't tell her how he's longed for a night like this, where he might get her alone. He carries his love for her like a secret; torn between wanting to tell her how he feels, and terrified that even when she knows he'll end up alone.
He tries her number again, hoping that she'll pick up, that he won't have to spend the night totally on his own. There's no answer.
Is That A Gun In Your Pocket?
“Joanne, we have to talk.”
“We don’t have to talk about anything Morris. I don’t know why you don’t just leave; you clearly want to be as far away from me as possible.”
“I told you Joanne, there are men out to get me. Dangerous men.”
“Dangerous men Morris? Do you really expect me to believe this bullshit? You want me to feel sorry for you so I won’t leave. You want to have your cake and eat it as well Morris, and it’s not going to happen.”
She’s in his space, close up and mad, and the only way he can think to shut her up is to kiss her. He grabs the back of her neck and pulls her towards him, tongue sliding into her mouth as her hands push against his chest.
“Is this what it’s like with that tramp?” She asks when they break apart? “Is this how you kiss her?”
“Joanne, I told you. Scully is my partner.”
“Fine. If that’s how you want to play it.” She steps back and glares at him. “Call me Scully.”
“What?”
“You heard. I want you to call me Scully while you fuck me. If that’s what it takes to get you to even look at me naked then that’s what it takes.”
She strips with the romance of a bank teller, businesslike and efficient, and he doesn’t know where to look. Naked, she walks towards him and wraps her arms around his neck.
“Fox,” she says, the word a purr on her tongue. “It gets so boring on a stakeout. No one would know if we made our own entertainment.”
“Joanne - ”
She scowls.
“I told you to call me Scully. This won’t work if you don’t call me Scully.”
“Scully -” and he wishes that it was Scully, standing before him. “Scully, we can’t. You know the FBI frowns on partners becoming involved.”
“The FBI aren’t here tonight, Fox. It’s just me and you and I’m so hot and wet.”
She slides her hand down his chest, cupping his balls through the fabric of his trousers.
“I want you to take me here Fox. I want you to fuck me like you’ve never fucked me before. I want to feel your cock inside me Fox, I want to hear you come.”
His erection strains against his trousers as she squeezes her balls. His hands move from her shoulders down her back, around the curve of her ass and she pushes herself against him.
“Oh Jesus,” he mutters. “I’m so fucking hard.”
She is wet and she gasps into his neck as his fingers find her clit, sliding into her tight pussy. She hitches a leg against his hip, and he pushes his fingers, two, then three, into her. She is warm and wet and she grinds against his touch. Her fingers fumble with his zipper of his trousers and he gasps as she runs her fingers to the head of his cock.
Her strokes are long and hard, and move to the rhythm of his fingers. She bites his neck as he plays with her clit, squeezing and rubbing the small mound of flesh. Her fingers are like satin, teasing him as he gasps, and he knows it won’t be long before he comes. He takes a step back and pushes her toward the bed where she lies with her ass raised tantalisingly in the air. She looks back at him.
“Is that a gun in your pocket Agent, or are you just happy to see me?”
He manoeuvres his cock so that the tip rests against her ass. She spreads her legs wider, inviting him in, and he pushes against her, gasping at how tight her ass feels.
He moves slowly at first, withdrawing until only the tip of his cock rests in her ass and then sliding back into her, his body shuddering at the sensation of her tight flesh. She pushes herself against him, and he reaches a finger down to her clit listening to her moan as he slides into her. She gasps his name as he circles her clit.
“Call me Scully,” she pants as he thrusts into her, his hands gripping her hips, pulling her onto his cock. He moves faster and faster, thrusting harder and harder and Joanne writhes on the bed beneath him. Her hand joins his and they slide in and out of her wet pussy. She tangles her fingers with his, increasing the pace on her clit and she trembles and quivers, her orgasm hiding the muted thud of flesh hitting flesh.
Scully’s name rises from his tongue as he comes.