X-file Fic: "Clean" (Mulder/Scully) NC-17
Title: Clean
Author: Truemyth
Pairing / Character: Mulder, Mulder/Scully
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 492
Summary: In which motel walls are thin and Mulder has an active imagination…
Spoilers / Warnings: No real spoilers. It’s fantasy fic!
Author’s Note: Written for the second round of xf_pornbattle and originally posted here. The prompt used was “shower running through thin motel walls.” Used for prompt #70 “Alone” at 100_situations. Beta’ed by the wonderfully patient and insightful icedteainthebag and memories_child.
The routine begins as soon as Mulder hears the water rattling through the pipes in the thin motel room wall. He closes his eyes and watches her little feet slide between the shiny rivulets flowing over worn tiles. Her lips part - plump and red - as she turns her face into the downpour.
He knows she swallows, eyes closed.
He can hear the water kissing her skin on the other side of the wall, feel the cheap, floral-print paper under his palm.
The palm turns to a fist then relaxes to a hand again, as he stumbles toward the bed with his eyes at half-mast, his mind still on the other side of the wall. Gravity embraces him as he falls onto the bed, heedless of lumps and musty scents. It lays him out flat, pulling his eyes closed, turning on the show behind his lids again: her lithe white form, dancing within hot steam. His hand continues down, tugging at thin, grey cotton, dipping beneath the elastic band of his sweats.
Her hands are competent in everything. Her motions are as economical on the thin bar of soap as his are automatic, gripping his length, as he imagines the glistening bubbles sliding across her flesh. She cups her breasts, circles her nipples until they shine, and then takes the soap lower.
His hand picks up speed.
And then the routine changes. He hears her moan. From his bed, across the room, he hears her moan.
In a second he is through the weak dividing door, past the open bathroom portico. He pauses with his hand on the curtain, but her moan comes again, taking the impossible form of a word, beginning with “M,” and he is through the curtain, stepping into her arms, holding her slick thighs as she pushes down the sodden stuff of his sweats and takes him into her warmth.
She’s wetter than the hot water pounding at his back as he pounds into her. The look of bliss on her face and the white flash of her eyes beneath honey-damp lashes is the only motivation he needs to remain standing in her soap-slick, steam-filled world. Her nails dig into his back, and he hopes she’ll mark him. He wants evidence. She’s made him crave evidence almost as much as he’s craved this:
Her teeth on his collarbone.
His hands full of her firm ass.
Her inner muscles rippling, pulling him in.
His throat is sore as his voice echoes against the dark walls of his lonely motel room, and he’s not sure what was said through the deafening pounding of blood in his ears. Within the walls, the pipes stop rattling as the water stops running in the room next door.
In the morning Scully says nothing as she brushes past him toward the open car door. Her radiant hair smells like fresh soap as it passes under his nose.
Clean.
And nothing like his thoughts.
X-posted here to xfilesfanfic.
Thanks for reading.
My other fiction is found here.
Author: Truemyth
Pairing / Character: Mulder, Mulder/Scully
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 492
Summary: In which motel walls are thin and Mulder has an active imagination…
Spoilers / Warnings: No real spoilers. It’s fantasy fic!
Author’s Note: Written for the second round of xf_pornbattle and originally posted here. The prompt used was “shower running through thin motel walls.” Used for prompt #70 “Alone” at 100_situations. Beta’ed by the wonderfully patient and insightful icedteainthebag and memories_child.
The routine begins as soon as Mulder hears the water rattling through the pipes in the thin motel room wall. He closes his eyes and watches her little feet slide between the shiny rivulets flowing over worn tiles. Her lips part - plump and red - as she turns her face into the downpour.
He knows she swallows, eyes closed.
He can hear the water kissing her skin on the other side of the wall, feel the cheap, floral-print paper under his palm.
The palm turns to a fist then relaxes to a hand again, as he stumbles toward the bed with his eyes at half-mast, his mind still on the other side of the wall. Gravity embraces him as he falls onto the bed, heedless of lumps and musty scents. It lays him out flat, pulling his eyes closed, turning on the show behind his lids again: her lithe white form, dancing within hot steam. His hand continues down, tugging at thin, grey cotton, dipping beneath the elastic band of his sweats.
Her hands are competent in everything. Her motions are as economical on the thin bar of soap as his are automatic, gripping his length, as he imagines the glistening bubbles sliding across her flesh. She cups her breasts, circles her nipples until they shine, and then takes the soap lower.
His hand picks up speed.
And then the routine changes. He hears her moan. From his bed, across the room, he hears her moan.
In a second he is through the weak dividing door, past the open bathroom portico. He pauses with his hand on the curtain, but her moan comes again, taking the impossible form of a word, beginning with “M,” and he is through the curtain, stepping into her arms, holding her slick thighs as she pushes down the sodden stuff of his sweats and takes him into her warmth.
She’s wetter than the hot water pounding at his back as he pounds into her. The look of bliss on her face and the white flash of her eyes beneath honey-damp lashes is the only motivation he needs to remain standing in her soap-slick, steam-filled world. Her nails dig into his back, and he hopes she’ll mark him. He wants evidence. She’s made him crave evidence almost as much as he’s craved this:
Her teeth on his collarbone.
His hands full of her firm ass.
Her inner muscles rippling, pulling him in.
His throat is sore as his voice echoes against the dark walls of his lonely motel room, and he’s not sure what was said through the deafening pounding of blood in his ears. Within the walls, the pipes stop rattling as the water stops running in the room next door.
In the morning Scully says nothing as she brushes past him toward the open car door. Her radiant hair smells like fresh soap as it passes under his nose.
Clean.
And nothing like his thoughts.
X-posted here to xfilesfanfic.
Thanks for reading.
My other fiction is found here.