xf_is_love | Fic/Caps: Maybe It's The Wine (NC-17, Scully/Eddie as Mulder)

Title: Maybe It's The Wine
Author:

icedteainthebag
Pairing: Scully/Eddie as Mulder
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Mulder, as a lover, is downright sloppy.

In case you didn't see the rating, there is some serious debauchery under the cut. Don't click if your mommy's going to come after me with her rolling pin. I am not admittedly responsible for the corruption of young minds.

The set up...

Title: Maybe It’s The Wine
Author: icedteainthebag
Classification: Scully/Eddie as Mulder, VR, a little MSR
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Mulder, as a lover, is downright sloppy.
Spoilers/Warnings: Small Potatoes
Author's Note: I wrote this for xf_is_love. Thanks to colebaltblue for prompting me to get it done, and to tlynnfic for general, awesome drunken support. This is my alternate ending to Small Potatoes. When happens when Mulder doesn't bust through the door? Oh come on, what do you think happens? ;)

X x x x

Maybe it’s the wine.

She doesn’t want to admit it, because it’s contradictory to every other thought she’s ever had of Mulder as a lover, but Mulder... Mulder, as a lover, is downright sloppy.

She finds it surprising when he leans over to kiss her on her couch, but surprise melts into fleeting hope as his lips graze over hers. She closes her eyes and parts her lips, but soon his mouth is wide open against hers, and his tongue is sliding, well, perhaps the more accurate description is thrusting, into her mouth, acquainting itself with her superior molars.

He presses her down onto the side of the couch and she slides her hands through the back of his hair, moaning against his mouth, which comes out as more of a gagging sound due to his tongue thrusting. He doesn’t seem to notice.

She chalks it up to his hypersexual drive and the fact that they’ve been holding out for so many years. He’s overeager, that’s all. And they’re toasted. His cologne is intoxicating, and that, added to the fact that she’s been waiting so long to actually play out this scenario with him, is his saving grace at this point.

And as they’re making out on his couch, his hands slide over her breasts, then under her sweater, over her bra, and that’s nice, that’s really nice, but it feels kind of high school, like her mother is going to walk in the door any minute and drop her sack of groceries to the floor.

He’s managed to work his body between her legs and is grinding, fully clothed, against her pussy, which she actually finds slightly amusing and hot, until he kisses down her neck and she can feel the wet trail he leaves behind with his lagging tongue. It’s a little too wet. And he’s ...well, he’s dry humping her, is the only way to describe it.

Maybe it’s the wine.

She takes her sweater off for him and the look in his eyes is nothing short of ravenous. He pulls her up by the arms, quite roughly, and struggles with her bra clasp. And this is curious, because of all things she assumes Mulder would be good at, unsnapping bras has to be in the top five.

She moves that down to tenth place on her mental list, under “sunflower seed shucking” and “general housekeeping.”

She unsnaps her bra for him and throws it across the room. He looks at her breasts, a passing glance, and shoves his hand down the front of her pants. She can’t help but furrow her brow. Sure, they aren’t the largest breasts in the world, but nobody has ever complained before, and everyone usually stops to visit It’s a Small World before going for the E-Ticket ride.

She knows she's drunk when she starts comparing her body to Disneyland.

So his hand is between her legs. This he is fairly good at. Thank God, she thinks as he slides his fingers through her wetness, rubbing... consistently. She arches her back toward him and gasps when he slides his fingers over her clit. That’s it, she thinks. That’s it, Mulder. It’s about fucking time.

He seems to like her reaction, the twisting of her hips against his hand as she moans (to encourage him, of course). She moves against his long fingers slowly exploring her. It sends tingles up her spine, and he’s hovering above her as she writhes with each stroke against her clit. She looks into his eyes, and actually, the intensity and concentration disturbs her, so she closes them and bucks against his hand, begging for more.

She feels herself getting closer, like he’s actually going to make her come with his hand down her pants, and this is something she’s secretly dreamed of for about two years and five months. She grabs his hair and rolls her hips with his hand as it furiously works her over. Suddenly, he shoves two fingers hard inside of her, to the knuckle, and she cries out as he starts pumping into her... a little too hard.

Her head is screaming directions--slow down, go back to my clit, oh my God, please, go back--but she doesn’t want to direct him, because he has to know what he’s doing. He’s Mulder. Fox fucking Mulder. This is the guy who bangs women on gravesites. It’s rumored he once fucked an intern rotten in the Hoover Building elevator, though she’s never been able to substantiate it. He has to know what he’s doing.

He takes his hand out of her pants and she represses the most exasperated sigh she’s felt coming on in the past four years of their partnership. Yes. That big of a sigh.

“Should we move to your bed?” he asks.

For a man never short on words, his bedside manner leaves something to be desired. She expected a long elaboration on the concept of romance between partners, on how wonderfully beautiful she was, on how she had a fairly decent rack, hell, she would have even gone for a brief history of the evolution of sex as a function of pleasure instead of a conduit for the propagation of the human race, maybe with a slide show.

But still... still... she looks at his puppy dog eyes and the hair falling over his forehead and she melts a little more inside. It could still work. It could still be... probably not earth-shattering, but a pretty good fuck. She’s seen his muscle tone, his thighs and his ass. He’s got to have some power. She wouldn’t mind...

“Sure,” she says.

X x x x

It’s unceremonial at best. She walks him to the bedroom and he tosses his shirt into the corner—now that’s Mulder—and follows her to her bedside. She turns to him and he stands in front of her. She traces her fingers down his chest, raking his fingernails over the definition of his abdominal muscles, and feels herself getting wetter by the second.

He’s breathing heavily—she tries to ignore how heavily—and she slides her hands around his waist and tilts her head up for a kiss. He cups her face in his hands and kisses her, and for a moment, it’s utter bliss. Soft, loving, tender. She melts into him, her breasts pressing against his chest, skin on skin, and it feels magnificent.

Until he pushes her down on the bed and she lands on her back with an oof. Even then, she can handle a bit of rough sex—Philadelphia, a few short months ago, gave her rugburn on her stomach and her thighs ached for days—but this wasn’t quite that.

“Hey,” she says, biting her lip, arching her eyebrow at him. She smiles her best come-hither smile. “Why do I still have my pants on?”

He looks at her. The word is dumbfounded. “You didn’t take them off yet.”

Her smile disappears. She can actually feel it sliding off her face.

She stares at him, expecting him to chuckle, to grab her legs and rip off her pants and make some snide remark about what he’s about to do to her, but he doesn’t. He just stands there with an expectant look.

“Right,” she finally says.

He pulls down his pants and his boxers in one swift movement and she has another brow-furrowing moment. The moment is expressly ended when she sees his cock, hard and ready to go, and it’s pretty fucking amazing. Yeah, she can definitely handle that.

She shimmies out of her pants and panties. Fuck it.

Then she as a thought—what about work? What about our partnership? What are we doing? What if someone finds out? How will he act in the morning?

He gets on his knees on the side of the bed and pulls her hips roughly toward his face.

Fuck it.

His lips move up her thigh, tongue flicking, and she starts to pant. She grabs her breasts and plays with her nipples—if he won’t, she will—and feels his mouth cover her. It’s electric and this, this could be something noteworthy. His tongue slides through her and she presses her palm against his head, twining her fingers in his hair. He’s rubbing in all the right places, and she’s astounded that he’s actually doing something right for a change. She works her hips against his mouth and he moans into her flesh, flicking her clit, twirling in circles.

“This is right,” she breathes, thrusting her hips against him.

“What?” he says, his voice muffled. She presses his mouth firmly against her. He doesn’t need to talk.

She squirms and moans but he really doesn’t seem to like how forcefully she’s holding him against her. He starts struggling, shifting, and then he pulls away.

Disappointed is the understatement of the Cenozoic era.

“Sorry, I couldn’t breathe,” he says. He stands at the side of the bed with his hands at his sides.

Fuck.

“It’s okay,” she says. She slides up to the pillows—she can’t believe she's still considering going through with this, but the rational part of her mind states that if she stops, it’s going to destroy their entire relationship, but if she just fucks him and gets it over with, she can pass it off as, You know, Mulder, this just isn’t the right time for me, and though our sex last night was outstanding, I need to take a step back and reconsider my personal actions and their impact on my professional life.

And maybe, if she’s lucky, she’ll come.

“Get up here,” she says, spreading her legs, a sudden searing of delicious lasciviousness rushing through her veins. She watches him crawl up the bed and settle in between her thighs.

His body is heavy against hers, but it’s a comfortable weight, a calming pressure against her. It’s what she always imagined it to be. She looks into his eyes and all the sudden—maybe it’s the wine—she feels like pulling him close and holding him there for hours, naked limbs entangled, hidden from everyone and everything that seems so against them in the world.

"Mulder, I—"

He pushes into her and she gasps as he buries his cock to the hilt into her pussy. She’s wet, luckily, so wet for him. And he feels amazing, in fact, more than amazing, if she were to consider the significance of this act, of their bodies joined as one, and how perfect he does in fact feel inside of her, completing her, filling up her hollow void—

He thrusts hard, jerkily, and she yelps out, twisting her hips. What the fuck.

“What the fuck,” she says.

“What do you mean?” he asks, slipping out of her, and then back in, and she’s confused and turned on and so hot for him and desperate for this, but God damn it all, why the hell does he have to be so shitty at it?

She works her hips against his erratic thrusts the best she can. She digs her fingernails into his shoulders and wraps her legs around his waist, desperate to find some sort of redemption in an act that is turning out to be one of the most truly disappointing events in her life.

She tries to angle her hips so that he presses on her clit, but he’s pounding into her harder, he’s just going at it, staring over her head at the headboard like he’s... fucking the headboard.

Over his ragged breathing, she hears her phone vibrating on the bedside table and opens one eye, arching her eyebrow and casting a glance over to it. She starts to convince herself, while Mulder is thrusting into her and she’s arching her back less than emphatically to meet him, that it could be a very important call. It could be Skinner, or her mother, or... someone important. She glances up at Mulder, who now has his eyes squeezed shut in complete immersion as he grinds his hips between her thighs.

She slowly reaches her hand over and grabs the vibrating phone. She glances at the caller ID.

Her stomach twists into a knot.

She grabs the lamp on the bedside table and smashes it into Mulder’s face, sending him rolling off of her body. He makes an odd squeaking sound as he rolls off the bed, landing with a satisfactory thunk.

She flips open her phone. “Scully.”

“Hey, Scully. Are you all right?”

She listens for movement at the side of the bed and hears nothing. She must have knocked him out.

“Mulder, where are you?” She opens her bedside drawer, removing her handcuffs and her gun. She leans back on the pillow.

“Scully, I think Eddie Van Blundht is impersonating me. In fact, I know he is. And then he beat the shit out of me and threw me in a storage closet at the hospital.”

“Is that so?” she asks. “He actually kicked your ass in a fight, Mulder?”

There’s silence on the other end. “Yeah. He did.”

She hears Eddie start to shift and leans over the edge of the bed. He’s transformed back into his old self, and his ass is really, really ugly, tail scar and all. She rolls off the bed and yanks his arms upward, cuffing them behind his back. He groans and she contemplates kicking him hard in an unmentionable place.

“Apparently, you need to start working out again,” she says. “He’s over here. Could you get over here, please?”

“He’s what?” She hears the panic in his voice.

“He’s here. I’ve got him cuffed. If you’re lucky, he’ll be half-dressed before you get here.”

She hangs up the phone and smiles.

At least it wasn’t really Mulder.