Visitation Rights (3/3)
I'd like to thank Marvin Gaye for the song "Let's Get It On," without which a lot fewer people probably would have had sex ... and written porn.
Title: Visitation Rights
Part: 3 of 3.
Author: ninamazing, or Nina
Fandom: The X-Files
Word Count: 1987. Which, incidentally, is also the year I was born. I wonder what that means.
Rating: Hard R.
Spoilers: Through 7x07 "Orison." This is a post-ep for "Orison."
Characters: Mulder/Scully.
Excerpt: "How are you doing up there, Mulder?" Scully asks, and she is going for casual, but something dark and beautiful ghosts in and swirls her voice until she sounds sultry, erotic, wanting.
Author's Note: PART THREE AAAAH. I haven't porned this much in ages, and it felt good. Please, if the mood takes you, help me out with kind and helpful criticism. (I think the tone ran away from me somewhere in here, but I FINISHED IT FINALLY, and that is what's important. Right?)
The FBI-assigned therapist, who now looked at Scully pointedly whenever they passed each other or shared an elevator, had once advised her to stop thinking so much. You're like a whirligig, Dana, she'd commented. You run headlong into every assignment and you never stop working. It's too much. You've got to stop, smell the roses, do something relaxing.
Smell the roses. She'd meant to take the doctor seriously, maybe, but there was never time. And in this universe of uncertainty, the incessant tenacity of her thoughts was all she had.
So she's shocked that when Mulder's arms are finally around her all she feels is calm: guiltless, delicious calm. She can barely believe she's found it with this smart-assed, punning alien hunter who sends her headfirst into confusion day after day, but then if she's honest she didn't doubt it very often. Now that it's happening it's making sense. It's like finding out she might not die of cancer after all.
He's holding her at the edge of her bed, keeping her upright even as the backs of her knees knock against the wood of the frame. He kisses the edge of her lips and then he's in her mouth again, and all she can feel as she straightens against him is the warm promise of his tongue. It's becoming familiar now, this rush of fondness for him that sweeps through her, and it catches her all over again when she realizes he plans to hold her close, just here, kissing her and kissing her as though they have infinite lives. The way he touches her makes her tremble; he caresses her cheeks, rubs her neck, curls his fingers in her hair like he wants to know every strand before he's done. He's patient - surprisingly, dizzyingly patient - and even though she wants to give in, to go frantic, she doesn't. She wants to believe there's time for that too.
He stops to press slow, insistent, thoughtful lips into every pocket of her face, and when he reaches her forehead, she shivers. She remembers how instantly she trusted him.
"How 'bout it, Scully?" he asks, and when she laughs and tugs him to the bed he presses in easily beside her. She kisses him, smiles, nuzzles the line of his jaw; he pulls her against his body like a reflex as his hands go down and slip underneath her shirt.
"What is this?" he says with interest as his two fingers trace the circle on her lower back. Scully blushes.
"It feels lovely," he continues, in his storytelling tone. She thinks she might be addicted to the gentleness of his voice; to the roughness of the bare growl at its edge.
"It's a tattoo," she tells him finally, and smiles into his eyes in the dark. "You can have a look if you like," and she's turning around, nestling her back against him as one arm snuggles under her and the other arm holds up her shirt and, together, they are both so aware of the sweetness of him pressing hard into her body.
"It's a nice tattoo," he says against her neck.
"Thanks," she replies as he kisses the soft skin underneath her ear, as his hands warm her stomach.
She hates herself for shaking in his arms when the panic hits, but she can't wish the fear out of her muscles. A minor psychogenic non-epileptic convulsion, she thinks. She imagined she was made of stronger stuff, getting through med school, Swiss-cheesing targets at the Academy. She wants to scream.
"Scully, you're safe," he whispers, and turns her so she can see him.
None of her training compared to meeting her first real criminal. What on Earth had possessed Mulder to analyze violent psychotics for nearly five years?
Maybe there's a paranormal element to my failure, she tells herself as she closes her eyes, tries to steady her breathing against the warm graze of Mulder's hands on her spine. With him this near it seems possible for her to make it all go away. She's always been able to depend on him to let her break this wall, to talk her through her tears and still look her straight in the eye the next day.
She knows he has experience with bad dreams - and thinking about him, she feels the panic ebbing away, for now.
"It's over, Scully," he murmurs.
"How long until the next one?" she wants to know, her words fuzzing in the fabric of his shirt.
"Next one'll be easier," he says, with that Mulder-confidence that comes from nowhere and comforts her anyway. "And I'll be with you, on the next one. I'll be with you."
She thinks she knows what he means, now that he's wrapped around her in the fully clothed pretzel.
"Tell me what you want," he says. She's always so impressed when he's gentle. And God damn it, she realizes, the last thing she's up for right now is wasting time. She tugs the steady clump of his fingers to her waistline.
"Don't go easy on me, Mulder," she orders when his thumb touches her skin. He groans in her ear.
"Are you sure?" he whispers, his hand opening against her and flooding her with warmth. "Will this make you happy?"
"Of course," she tells him, because she doesn't have to think about it, not after seven years.
"Okay, but you go easy on me, Scully," he answers, and she giggles and tugs at his shirt so that in a minute he's leaning over her with a bare chest and his hand pressing warmly into the anxious fabric between her legs. He strokes her, rubs her, cries out and digs in hard when she sucks at his neck and twists her nose in the hair at his nipple. He tastes like coffee, like rain, like mansweat, but it doesn't make her afraid. He hasn't even undone her pajama buttons yet. He's taking all the time in the world again, like if they wanted they could stay here until it was time for work on Monday and maybe even after.
She kisses her way up to his lips, sinks back into the pillow when his mouth starts on hers. He's going easy, really, until he remembers his promise, and then his tongue gets harder and he's massaging her lip between his teeth. She thought she'd be angry, hurt, bored, bewildered, but here with Mulder she is only drifting up, up, up and her mind isn't rattling anymore.
And his fingers are dipping below elastic and feeling their way through her hair. She whimpers into his mouth as he reaches the sharp, strung piston of her neediest patch of skin, and his kiss grows stronger, deeper, sweeter. She arches, pulls at her shirt, until he helps her and then she helps him and they're both naked.
Her head is tripping up, a little, from so much happening at once, and she kisses the burgeoning stubble on his skin to anchor herself. Smelling his sweat, husky and sweet, gives her back all the right memories: Mulder cracking a sunflower seed between his teeth, Mulder murmuring over her shoulder right when she's just been thinking about him, Mulder gesturing emphatically to some local cop who's giving him the snide eyebrow. Scully laps up his taste with her tongue and sees him in the car in the morning, handing over coffee the way she likes it.
Her hands are slipping out of his hair, and she feels his kisses on her skin like a breeze, like a dozen rays of sunlight. He nuzzles each breast, circles her nipples with his tongue, and listens to her soft gasp when he opens his teeth in a light touch against her body.
"Do you like that?" he whispers. She has found her way to his head again, and his fingers are massaging his scalp, running possessively through his hair.
"Yes," she answers, "please don't stop," and so he doesn't.
He nuzzles her again, and goes lower, kissing her belly, his lips shaping hot compliments against the smooth freckles of her skin. She's panting, but he stops just above her thighs.
"Do you mind?" he questions, half-serious. Scully rubs the back of his head, sure if she looked down she'd see that twinkle in his eyes that somehow meant overconfidence and insecurity at once.
"Not if you don't," she says quietly into the night, unable to keep herself from grinning. He kisses the insides of her thighs, and buries his face against her cunt.
She can feel all the moisture in her body dragging itself to that point, or running headlong, the reality of Mulder summoning her like the pull of the moon on the tides. His tongue is tender, and his stubble is rough; he drives her forward and pulls her back with the gentle work of his mouth, and every step takes her that much closer to the brink. She's lost, in a dizzying, pleasing way; she surrenders to his gentleness, to his hands holding her hips, to his lips tasting her wetness and shooting stars behind her eyes. She gasps. She feels him smile against her, and gasps again to make him happy.
"Mulder, come back," she pleads when she can barely remember where she is anymore, and recognizing her taste on his tongue is the most triumphant thing she remembers in a long time.
She wraps one hand around him, guiding, and he goes, bless him, he goes. He's ready. In her head she's flashing through all the things she'll do for him in the future, everything he might do for her, and then what they'd do together, but then Mulder is inside her and that takes over.
"I love you," he says, almost stupidly, and thrusts. She cradles his head, kisses him furiously. They fit together as automatically as ever.
"How are you doing up there, Mulder?" Scully asks, and she is going for casual, but something dark and beautiful ghosts in and swirls her voice until she sounds sultry, erotic, wanting.
He smiles, as if laughing would be too much effort. "I'm marvelous, Scully," he answers. "You're marvelous. I want to live here."
At that she does laugh, and he moans, feeling it. He pushes forward again and again; he's reaching a pattern, his mouth wet against the sweat of her forehead, and she spills over the edge. When she comes back to reality she feels the back of her head against her pillow, the proximity of his hands, the gorgeous weight of his body.
The sheets hiss underneath them, and Scully sculpts his cheeks with her hands. A car drives by outside, and pink lights slide over their bodies in the quiet room. Mulder kisses her cheek.
"I'm close," he whispers. She squeezes her muscles around him, and it feels like she's pulling him further inside, like they're even closer.
"Jesus," he says in a jerk against her neck, and gives her a fond little bite that starts her breathing hard again. She pulls him in tight, again, and he is done. She holds him close and finger-combs his hair, kisses the top of his head, and then she can't resist tracing the muscles along his back with her humming, contented fingers.
It has taken them forever to give their bodies what they wanted, so they stay together, trading words and kisses, until they are sore.
"I'm so glad you came over," she tells him. "And I want you to stay."
"Lucky me," he answers, and rubs her nose with his. "I want me to stay, too."
Neither of them wants to brave the long walk to the kitchen for a glass of water, so in the end they both go. Mulder comes up behind her as she's reaching for the cups, and when she turns in his arms and rolls her eyes, it seems the world has started spinning again at last.
Title: Visitation Rights
Part: 3 of 3.
Author: ninamazing, or Nina
Fandom: The X-Files
Word Count: 1987. Which, incidentally, is also the year I was born. I wonder what that means.
Rating: Hard R.
Spoilers: Through 7x07 "Orison." This is a post-ep for "Orison."
Characters: Mulder/Scully.
Excerpt: "How are you doing up there, Mulder?" Scully asks, and she is going for casual, but something dark and beautiful ghosts in and swirls her voice until she sounds sultry, erotic, wanting.
Author's Note: PART THREE AAAAH. I haven't porned this much in ages, and it felt good. Please, if the mood takes you, help me out with kind and helpful criticism. (I think the tone ran away from me somewhere in here, but I FINISHED IT FINALLY, and that is what's important. Right?)
The FBI-assigned therapist, who now looked at Scully pointedly whenever they passed each other or shared an elevator, had once advised her to stop thinking so much. You're like a whirligig, Dana, she'd commented. You run headlong into every assignment and you never stop working. It's too much. You've got to stop, smell the roses, do something relaxing.
Smell the roses. She'd meant to take the doctor seriously, maybe, but there was never time. And in this universe of uncertainty, the incessant tenacity of her thoughts was all she had.
So she's shocked that when Mulder's arms are finally around her all she feels is calm: guiltless, delicious calm. She can barely believe she's found it with this smart-assed, punning alien hunter who sends her headfirst into confusion day after day, but then if she's honest she didn't doubt it very often. Now that it's happening it's making sense. It's like finding out she might not die of cancer after all.
He's holding her at the edge of her bed, keeping her upright even as the backs of her knees knock against the wood of the frame. He kisses the edge of her lips and then he's in her mouth again, and all she can feel as she straightens against him is the warm promise of his tongue. It's becoming familiar now, this rush of fondness for him that sweeps through her, and it catches her all over again when she realizes he plans to hold her close, just here, kissing her and kissing her as though they have infinite lives. The way he touches her makes her tremble; he caresses her cheeks, rubs her neck, curls his fingers in her hair like he wants to know every strand before he's done. He's patient - surprisingly, dizzyingly patient - and even though she wants to give in, to go frantic, she doesn't. She wants to believe there's time for that too.
He stops to press slow, insistent, thoughtful lips into every pocket of her face, and when he reaches her forehead, she shivers. She remembers how instantly she trusted him.
"How 'bout it, Scully?" he asks, and when she laughs and tugs him to the bed he presses in easily beside her. She kisses him, smiles, nuzzles the line of his jaw; he pulls her against his body like a reflex as his hands go down and slip underneath her shirt.
"What is this?" he says with interest as his two fingers trace the circle on her lower back. Scully blushes.
"It feels lovely," he continues, in his storytelling tone. She thinks she might be addicted to the gentleness of his voice; to the roughness of the bare growl at its edge.
"It's a tattoo," she tells him finally, and smiles into his eyes in the dark. "You can have a look if you like," and she's turning around, nestling her back against him as one arm snuggles under her and the other arm holds up her shirt and, together, they are both so aware of the sweetness of him pressing hard into her body.
"It's a nice tattoo," he says against her neck.
"Thanks," she replies as he kisses the soft skin underneath her ear, as his hands warm her stomach.
She hates herself for shaking in his arms when the panic hits, but she can't wish the fear out of her muscles. A minor psychogenic non-epileptic convulsion, she thinks. She imagined she was made of stronger stuff, getting through med school, Swiss-cheesing targets at the Academy. She wants to scream.
"Scully, you're safe," he whispers, and turns her so she can see him.
None of her training compared to meeting her first real criminal. What on Earth had possessed Mulder to analyze violent psychotics for nearly five years?
Maybe there's a paranormal element to my failure, she tells herself as she closes her eyes, tries to steady her breathing against the warm graze of Mulder's hands on her spine. With him this near it seems possible for her to make it all go away. She's always been able to depend on him to let her break this wall, to talk her through her tears and still look her straight in the eye the next day.
She knows he has experience with bad dreams - and thinking about him, she feels the panic ebbing away, for now.
"It's over, Scully," he murmurs.
"How long until the next one?" she wants to know, her words fuzzing in the fabric of his shirt.
"Next one'll be easier," he says, with that Mulder-confidence that comes from nowhere and comforts her anyway. "And I'll be with you, on the next one. I'll be with you."
She thinks she knows what he means, now that he's wrapped around her in the fully clothed pretzel.
"Tell me what you want," he says. She's always so impressed when he's gentle. And God damn it, she realizes, the last thing she's up for right now is wasting time. She tugs the steady clump of his fingers to her waistline.
"Don't go easy on me, Mulder," she orders when his thumb touches her skin. He groans in her ear.
"Are you sure?" he whispers, his hand opening against her and flooding her with warmth. "Will this make you happy?"
"Of course," she tells him, because she doesn't have to think about it, not after seven years.
"Okay, but you go easy on me, Scully," he answers, and she giggles and tugs at his shirt so that in a minute he's leaning over her with a bare chest and his hand pressing warmly into the anxious fabric between her legs. He strokes her, rubs her, cries out and digs in hard when she sucks at his neck and twists her nose in the hair at his nipple. He tastes like coffee, like rain, like mansweat, but it doesn't make her afraid. He hasn't even undone her pajama buttons yet. He's taking all the time in the world again, like if they wanted they could stay here until it was time for work on Monday and maybe even after.
She kisses her way up to his lips, sinks back into the pillow when his mouth starts on hers. He's going easy, really, until he remembers his promise, and then his tongue gets harder and he's massaging her lip between his teeth. She thought she'd be angry, hurt, bored, bewildered, but here with Mulder she is only drifting up, up, up and her mind isn't rattling anymore.
And his fingers are dipping below elastic and feeling their way through her hair. She whimpers into his mouth as he reaches the sharp, strung piston of her neediest patch of skin, and his kiss grows stronger, deeper, sweeter. She arches, pulls at her shirt, until he helps her and then she helps him and they're both naked.
Her head is tripping up, a little, from so much happening at once, and she kisses the burgeoning stubble on his skin to anchor herself. Smelling his sweat, husky and sweet, gives her back all the right memories: Mulder cracking a sunflower seed between his teeth, Mulder murmuring over her shoulder right when she's just been thinking about him, Mulder gesturing emphatically to some local cop who's giving him the snide eyebrow. Scully laps up his taste with her tongue and sees him in the car in the morning, handing over coffee the way she likes it.
Her hands are slipping out of his hair, and she feels his kisses on her skin like a breeze, like a dozen rays of sunlight. He nuzzles each breast, circles her nipples with his tongue, and listens to her soft gasp when he opens his teeth in a light touch against her body.
"Do you like that?" he whispers. She has found her way to his head again, and his fingers are massaging his scalp, running possessively through his hair.
"Yes," she answers, "please don't stop," and so he doesn't.
He nuzzles her again, and goes lower, kissing her belly, his lips shaping hot compliments against the smooth freckles of her skin. She's panting, but he stops just above her thighs.
"Do you mind?" he questions, half-serious. Scully rubs the back of his head, sure if she looked down she'd see that twinkle in his eyes that somehow meant overconfidence and insecurity at once.
"Not if you don't," she says quietly into the night, unable to keep herself from grinning. He kisses the insides of her thighs, and buries his face against her cunt.
She can feel all the moisture in her body dragging itself to that point, or running headlong, the reality of Mulder summoning her like the pull of the moon on the tides. His tongue is tender, and his stubble is rough; he drives her forward and pulls her back with the gentle work of his mouth, and every step takes her that much closer to the brink. She's lost, in a dizzying, pleasing way; she surrenders to his gentleness, to his hands holding her hips, to his lips tasting her wetness and shooting stars behind her eyes. She gasps. She feels him smile against her, and gasps again to make him happy.
"Mulder, come back," she pleads when she can barely remember where she is anymore, and recognizing her taste on his tongue is the most triumphant thing she remembers in a long time.
She wraps one hand around him, guiding, and he goes, bless him, he goes. He's ready. In her head she's flashing through all the things she'll do for him in the future, everything he might do for her, and then what they'd do together, but then Mulder is inside her and that takes over.
"I love you," he says, almost stupidly, and thrusts. She cradles his head, kisses him furiously. They fit together as automatically as ever.
"How are you doing up there, Mulder?" Scully asks, and she is going for casual, but something dark and beautiful ghosts in and swirls her voice until she sounds sultry, erotic, wanting.
He smiles, as if laughing would be too much effort. "I'm marvelous, Scully," he answers. "You're marvelous. I want to live here."
At that she does laugh, and he moans, feeling it. He pushes forward again and again; he's reaching a pattern, his mouth wet against the sweat of her forehead, and she spills over the edge. When she comes back to reality she feels the back of her head against her pillow, the proximity of his hands, the gorgeous weight of his body.
The sheets hiss underneath them, and Scully sculpts his cheeks with her hands. A car drives by outside, and pink lights slide over their bodies in the quiet room. Mulder kisses her cheek.
"I'm close," he whispers. She squeezes her muscles around him, and it feels like she's pulling him further inside, like they're even closer.
"Jesus," he says in a jerk against her neck, and gives her a fond little bite that starts her breathing hard again. She pulls him in tight, again, and he is done. She holds him close and finger-combs his hair, kisses the top of his head, and then she can't resist tracing the muscles along his back with her humming, contented fingers.
It has taken them forever to give their bodies what they wanted, so they stay together, trading words and kisses, until they are sore.
"I'm so glad you came over," she tells him. "And I want you to stay."
"Lucky me," he answers, and rubs her nose with his. "I want me to stay, too."
Neither of them wants to brave the long walk to the kitchen for a glass of water, so in the end they both go. Mulder comes up behind her as she's reaching for the cups, and when she turns in his arms and rolls her eyes, it seems the world has started spinning again at last.