Hard. Or sometimes soft. And wet. Oh, always wet. Sometimes even sloppy wet. Sometimes wet and dirty and so damn raunchy. She's ashamed of some of the scenarios that've run through her head. Seven years is a long time though, when you really stop to consider it. When you think about opportunities and chances and the likelihood of any given scenario actually occurring. When you think about nights alone and Mulder there there there all the live-long day, with his face and his scent and his fuckingly absurd forearms.
But no, it's Mulder. Even if it were the raunchiest of raunchy, he'd still be Mulder. He'd still look at her the way he looks at her and touch her the way he touches her and bring her to her knees with the almost violent amount of love that goes behind both those things.
On her knees though. Yes, that's another one. Fingers clenched in her hair, thighs hot and hard beneath her palms…
His voice, that's one. Sometimes he says her name in the office, and it's precisely right, exactly how she somehow knows he'd sound. She's not sure how she knows, but she does. It's not even a question, and sometimes that scares her. Mostly though, it thrills her. It's a nuisance wondering whether you've left a wet spot on your desk chair before you've been able to shift in preparation.
Or when he shuts the filing cabinet and it clangs in a certain way. The top edge is the exact height of her shoulders, the exact height of his hands should he need to reach out and steady himself. More than tall enough to take a beating. She's noticed this in passing. Or maybe she's checked.
In hotel beds, in her bed, in his recently and mysteriously acquired waterbed (oh, that's a fun one), and most especially on his black leather couch—slipping, sliding, panting, moaning, arching up and up and up to meet him because he's Mulder, and god, he's her perfectly imperfect other.
She considers the options. What'll it be tonight, Miss Scully? Stakeout? Elevator? Something new and exciting or tried and true? It's a choose-your-own adventure every goddamn night around here. Good thing the adventure always ends the same. No. No, it's not. The ending sucks quite frankly. It sucks ass, as Mulder would say. But sucking ass is all she's got.
Tried and true, she decides. Hallway, no bee, always a crowd favorite. His lips when they finally touch hers, Christ, like new year's only better, harder, wetter. He'd be liberal with his tongue, she can tell, but her own tongue doesn't even come close. She bites her lip in frustration and tries to imagine it's him. And then his hands, his big bear paws—yesss, beneath her rear, lifting. Back into his apartment, his couch. Can't keep their hands off one another, she's always known it would be like this. His chest, she just wants to touch his chest, his furry Mulder chest. She moans his name, and that's even hotter.
He knows just how to touch her nipples, how does he know that? He pinches and plucks just right, until she's writhing against her sheets, no, his couch, his couch, until she's begging him for more. And then, and then… He's down there, yes, there. Putting that long, liberal tongue to even better use. Remember wet? Oh. This is going to be a wet one, one of the sloppy wet ones. Okay, good. His name tastes like sex in her mouth.
Scully. "Scully," he'd say, "You're…" She grinds her fingers against her clit until it doesn't even matter what comes next. "You're perfect, you're amazing, you're beautiful, you're mine." They all sound wrong. Until the last one. Yes, that's what does it. You're mine, Scully, you're mine. He's hers and she's his and GOD, why the fuck does it have to be like this?
Humping her fingers to orgasm is desperate and it's embarrassing, but once again, it's all she's got. The last page is always the same. The tears in her eyes are a pain in the ass when she finally comes.
Seven years ago, would she have chosen a different adventure? Sometimes she honestly doesn't know the answer.