He’s drunk. Just a little. It turns out Mrs. Scully makes very good (very strong) mulled wine and, well, it’s Christmas. ‘Tis the season to indulge.
Which is also why he is currently pressed against shelves of canned tomatoes and boxes of cereal and rice in the Scully family pantry while a certain merry redhead climbs him like a tree—indulgence.
“Mph,” he grunts as she wriggles against him, pushing up on her toes to get closer, her soft belly brushing against the bulge behind his zipper.
He cups her ass in both hands and lifts, spinning so she’s the one knocking against the nonperishables, and thrusts his tongue between her lips. She groans and squeezes him around the waist with her thighs.
He’s dimly aware, through the fog of alcohol and lust, that there are a lot of people in the other room. A lot of people related to the woman currently latching on to his neck, working the flesh beneath his ear with her hot breath and smooth teeth. A lot of people who have been very kind in welcoming him to their family celebration and who probably wouldn’t be too happy about him accosting one of their own in her mother’s pantry.
(Though it’s really not his fault. Really, it isn’t. He was just on his way to the stove for another cup of wine, maybe a leftover dinner roll or two, when a tiny hand shot out and tugged him in here. He has always been helpless against her.)
“God,” he groans, pulsing his hips against hers. “Baby.”
“Mmm.” She kisses his earlobe, his jaw, his hungry bottom lip. One hand tangles itself in his hair while the other slides down the back of his shirt. “You feel so good. Want you.”
He nips at her, and she moans softly into his mouth. She’s warm and sweet and sensual in his arms, and if this is what it means to feel the holiday spirit, he never wants to feel anything else.
He skates a hand up her skirt and fingers the edge of the purple satin panties he watched her put on just this morning. “Here?”
She nods, heavy-lidded and open-mouthed, her breath puffing hot and cinnamon-scented against his lips. His hand slips under the smooth fabric to squeeze one firm globe of her ass.
“Please,” she whines, wriggling against him, and he’s never been able to deny her anything when she asks for it like that. He’s never been able to deny her anything, period.
He’s about to yank her underwear aside when a voice on the other side of the door freezes them both.
“Charlie?” Mrs. Scully calls. “Would you grab that other bag of oranges from the pantry while you’re in there, please?”
Mulder glances down. The oranges are in a mesh bag right beside his feet. Footsteps approach, and he blanches. Scully’s lipstick is smeared, half kissed-off. The other half, he’s sure, is on his own face. A perfect complement to his dick currently straining—and, he has no doubt, staining—the front of his pants. There’s no good excuse.
He opens his mouth to say—what? “Sorry, occupied?“—but Scully stops him with a finger to his lips.
"Locked,” she mouths, and sure enough, they watch as the doorknob jiggles a quarter inch to the left, a quarter inch to the right.
Charlie huffs on the other side of the door, and then the footsteps recede.
Mulder turns to her with wide eyes and she giggles, leaning in for another kiss.
“Naughty!” he mumbles against her lips. “Naughty, Scully.”
“Mmm,” she agrees. “Mm-hmm.”
She takes his hand and guides it under her sweater to roll a taut nipple. He groans at the heat of her and marvels at how reckless this is, how reckless sheis. His good little Catholic girl, wanting to get fucked in her mother’s house on Christmas Day.
“You’re so bad.” He tweaks her nipple, bites her neck.
“Uh-uh.” Her hand slips down between them and he bucks, groaning into her sweat-damp flesh. “Good.”
It’s quick after that. He shoves her sweater up to get his mouth on her pretty little breasts while she works him out of his pants. Her panties—drenched, and it still makes his head spin—slide easily to the side and then he’s there, and God, if she isn’t the hottest, tightest thing.
He buries his face in her bunched-up sweater to muffle his groan, and she kisses his temple. Then she reaches a hand up to grip one of the shelves for leverage and squirms impatiently around his cock.
“Please,” she says, and he feels her words aaall the way down. “Make me come, Mulder. Wanna come.”
No less than six cans end up dented on the floor, and a half-empty box of spaghetti spills everywhere. She scores his back with her festive red nails, and later tonight, he will kiss the blooming purplish bruise on her tailbone where he’s pounding her into the crackers-and-cookies shelf. He manages, only barely, to seal his mouth over hers just as she shatters, swallowing her little gasps and squeals of pleasure before gifting her with his own.
His thighs ache when he finally sets her back on her feet, and she sags against him for a moment, spent and giggly. She tips her face up and he pecks her on her swollen lips.
“Merry Christmas,” she mumbles, then giggles again, and he finds himself laughing, too. Merry Christmas, indeed.
She cleans herself up with a stack of happy birthday napkins she finds shoved behind paper plates and plastic cups while he tucks his soft, happy cock away. He kisses her once more, a deep, lingering kiss, before letting her go. She cracks the door open, takes a peak, and, in a motion he’s more used to seeing in Kevlar with his gun drawn, signals that the coast is clear.
He snags the bag of oranges on the way out.