RPF Fic: "Red" (Gillian/David) NC-17
Title: Red
Author: Truemyth
Pairing / Character: David Duchovny/Gillian Anderson
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 894ish
Summary: Dealing with divorce.
Spoilers / Warnings: RPF, hard-core smut. If that’s not your thing, consider yourself warned.
Author’s Note: Written for the second round of xf_pornbattle and originally posted here. The prompts used were “divorce” and “trailers.” Beta’ed by icedteainthebag and memories_child. Thank you so much, both of you!
Her lips were fire-engine red as they closed around his cock. Scully would never wear that color, never press the shape of her mouth on a post-it with the word ‘trailer’ and leave it on the windshield of a car, never fall to her knees wearing that black silk dressing gown and a smile.
She’s been playing the rebel since the divorce, like the wild child she was in high school: wearing a sheath the color of flesh at the Globes to tease the world, massaging his inner-thigh under the table at read-throughs. She’d dye her hair purple if she could, so she teases him blue instead. He shouldn’t take advantage.
Her cheeks turn concave, and his knees nearly buckle. His knuckles whiten as he grips the molding at the top of her cabinets. His eyes dart, looking anywhere but into her feral gaze. Then she does that thing with her tongue, the thing he’s tried to teach others but never can. He’s deep between her ruby lips and her tongue swells, pressing him into the roof of her mouth while it simultaneously tickles the base of his cock. And then she twists, tightens, sucks while pulling back.
“Fuck, Gillian,” he nearly pleads. He meets her eyes as the heat of her mouth returns. Her fingers are climbing his thighs, weaving paths through sensitive hair, as he notices a sheen to her baby-blues. He can feel his mouth softening, and he’s about to say something really stupid when she saves them both, sliding two fingers between his legs, past his balls, to press at his ass.
“Fuck no.” His mouth is hard again, like the rest of him. She won’t. Wouldn’t.
Her lips twist in a smile around his length. Presses her fingers in, just a quarter of an inch.
He’s not sure if he grabs her by the shoulders or the waist - maybe she’ll show him the bruises tomorrow - but suddenly he has her pinned to the table, his body spread across hers like an unyielding blanket. His hands part the robe, palm her breasts, grab her ass. Her hands are everywhere, trying to rip his shirt. He hears his trouser button pop and eats the laughter from her painted mouth. As his lips slide down her white throat, he leaves a pink trail. He returns for more, sucking her lower lip into his mouth, eating the color off with scrapes of his teeth, until her manicured Scully-nails sink into his bared ass and he growls.
He whips the robe’s sash out from under her and grabs her wild hands, presses her to the table with his half-naked body to run the three-foot length under one wooden leg behind her head and begins to lash her down. She twists the scrap of silk in her hands and only uses it as leverage to push against him with her unbound lower body. She nips at his collar, his nipple and grinds against him. He finishes the last knot at her wrist by pure feel as he copes with her bucking body beneath him. She hisses into his ear.
“Fuck me. Do it now.”
He stands and surveys her alabaster skin against the pool of dark silk, realizing the control is still hers as she wraps her legs around his waist and stretches her back to reach the edge of the table with her ass. He enters her in a single, powerful thrust, and she bites her lower lip to keep in a moan. He smiles a promise that she’ll be screaming soon.
He takes it slow. She always said he was her best fuck because he had staying power. He always responded she was his best because she made him lose it. Now, as always, it is a game to see who’ll win this round. He spans her hips with his hands as he moves in and out, bending his knees slightly to get that angle that always makes her squirm. She starts now, a faint mewling in the back of her throat, spilling out from behind her now-pink lips. Her hips have found his rhythm, and she knows enough not to break it as his hands slide upward, molding her breasts, loving her nipples. One hand slides up to cup her cheek and she turns into it, seeking warmth as the first moan finally slides out.
“Fuck,” she breathes, knowing he’s winning.
So she takes the offensive and begins to dance against his thrusts, turning his perfectly right angle into an acute joy.
“God.” His hands return to her hips to echo his prayer, trying to regain control, but really he just rides it out, rides her, enjoys the twist and fall of her torso.
She’s giving in too: silent no more. Words that would make a sailor blush fill the air like bees, stinging him with delicious intent.
There is no rhythm now, no skill. There is only the slap of skin on skin and her name and his in the form of deep moans and shrill gasps. Her spine arches away from the plywood top, her hands fly free of the twisted black scrap and pull him down in his final thrust as he joins her.
“He’s a fucking fool,” he whispers to her damp hair, twists his head enough to see the corner of her now naked lips tick upward.
“We all are.”
X-posted here to homeby_five.
Thanks for reading.
My other fiction is found here.
Author: Truemyth
Pairing / Character: David Duchovny/Gillian Anderson
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 894ish
Summary: Dealing with divorce.
Spoilers / Warnings: RPF, hard-core smut. If that’s not your thing, consider yourself warned.
Author’s Note: Written for the second round of xf_pornbattle and originally posted here. The prompts used were “divorce” and “trailers.” Beta’ed by icedteainthebag and memories_child. Thank you so much, both of you!
Her lips were fire-engine red as they closed around his cock. Scully would never wear that color, never press the shape of her mouth on a post-it with the word ‘trailer’ and leave it on the windshield of a car, never fall to her knees wearing that black silk dressing gown and a smile.
She’s been playing the rebel since the divorce, like the wild child she was in high school: wearing a sheath the color of flesh at the Globes to tease the world, massaging his inner-thigh under the table at read-throughs. She’d dye her hair purple if she could, so she teases him blue instead. He shouldn’t take advantage.
Her cheeks turn concave, and his knees nearly buckle. His knuckles whiten as he grips the molding at the top of her cabinets. His eyes dart, looking anywhere but into her feral gaze. Then she does that thing with her tongue, the thing he’s tried to teach others but never can. He’s deep between her ruby lips and her tongue swells, pressing him into the roof of her mouth while it simultaneously tickles the base of his cock. And then she twists, tightens, sucks while pulling back.
“Fuck, Gillian,” he nearly pleads. He meets her eyes as the heat of her mouth returns. Her fingers are climbing his thighs, weaving paths through sensitive hair, as he notices a sheen to her baby-blues. He can feel his mouth softening, and he’s about to say something really stupid when she saves them both, sliding two fingers between his legs, past his balls, to press at his ass.
“Fuck no.” His mouth is hard again, like the rest of him. She won’t. Wouldn’t.
Her lips twist in a smile around his length. Presses her fingers in, just a quarter of an inch.
He’s not sure if he grabs her by the shoulders or the waist - maybe she’ll show him the bruises tomorrow - but suddenly he has her pinned to the table, his body spread across hers like an unyielding blanket. His hands part the robe, palm her breasts, grab her ass. Her hands are everywhere, trying to rip his shirt. He hears his trouser button pop and eats the laughter from her painted mouth. As his lips slide down her white throat, he leaves a pink trail. He returns for more, sucking her lower lip into his mouth, eating the color off with scrapes of his teeth, until her manicured Scully-nails sink into his bared ass and he growls.
He whips the robe’s sash out from under her and grabs her wild hands, presses her to the table with his half-naked body to run the three-foot length under one wooden leg behind her head and begins to lash her down. She twists the scrap of silk in her hands and only uses it as leverage to push against him with her unbound lower body. She nips at his collar, his nipple and grinds against him. He finishes the last knot at her wrist by pure feel as he copes with her bucking body beneath him. She hisses into his ear.
“Fuck me. Do it now.”
He stands and surveys her alabaster skin against the pool of dark silk, realizing the control is still hers as she wraps her legs around his waist and stretches her back to reach the edge of the table with her ass. He enters her in a single, powerful thrust, and she bites her lower lip to keep in a moan. He smiles a promise that she’ll be screaming soon.
He takes it slow. She always said he was her best fuck because he had staying power. He always responded she was his best because she made him lose it. Now, as always, it is a game to see who’ll win this round. He spans her hips with his hands as he moves in and out, bending his knees slightly to get that angle that always makes her squirm. She starts now, a faint mewling in the back of her throat, spilling out from behind her now-pink lips. Her hips have found his rhythm, and she knows enough not to break it as his hands slide upward, molding her breasts, loving her nipples. One hand slides up to cup her cheek and she turns into it, seeking warmth as the first moan finally slides out.
“Fuck,” she breathes, knowing he’s winning.
So she takes the offensive and begins to dance against his thrusts, turning his perfectly right angle into an acute joy.
“God.” His hands return to her hips to echo his prayer, trying to regain control, but really he just rides it out, rides her, enjoys the twist and fall of her torso.
She’s giving in too: silent no more. Words that would make a sailor blush fill the air like bees, stinging him with delicious intent.
There is no rhythm now, no skill. There is only the slap of skin on skin and her name and his in the form of deep moans and shrill gasps. Her spine arches away from the plywood top, her hands fly free of the twisted black scrap and pull him down in his final thrust as he joins her.
“He’s a fucking fool,” he whispers to her damp hair, twists his head enough to see the corner of her now naked lips tick upward.
“We all are.”
X-posted here to homeby_five.
Thanks for reading.
My other fiction is found here.