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Scully would like to drown in this. The fog of their combined arousal and the sweat of their sex. Her right cheek pressed to the window in front of her. The chill of the almost fall bathes her torso. The heat of his masculine body to her back.

She licks her upper lip, tastes herself on her tongue.

“See how good you taste,” he had insisted as he placed two fingers in her mouth to suck. Then kissed her sloppily, his own mouth a mix of her and that essence she has come to know as Mulder.

She pants. Her belly expands. Breath trapped against the glass. Each exhale more even, but no less ragged. She tingles as his body radiates from below her.

She’s content to stay here, juxtaposed. Crushed between the outside and this man. For this moment, her body defies gravity. Safe and fixed to the earth by his solid stature. But the rest of her weightless and unbound. Hurtling towards the inevitable. Here, it’s as if he says, presenting her to herself, let yourself feel all of it.

She gains awareness of him slowly, soft and blinking, the haze of her orgasm still flittering at the edges. She can feel his breath tickle the hairs on her lower back. Lingering in exploration as if his eyes have not studied her there before. Sometimes she thinks Mulder could teach a class on anatomy and physiology, link every square inch of the human body back to a place he’s memorized on hers.

His index finger traces the splotch of a birth mark that sits low on the left side of her back, where her ribcage and kidney meet. He noticed it there for the first time when he dressed her wounds after Pfaster.

In a whispered hush on her couch, Scully had revealed that her and Missy shared the same birthmark. Only in their teenage years, in the midst of Missy’s insistence that she borrow Dana’s cropped, black sweater, did they realize they had the same one.

She’d told him then, that it’s the only thing she has left of her.

“I like to think that I carry Missy with me.” She’d paused. By then, he knew that to love Scully is to make space for her.

“It’s silly and irrational, I know. But then again, I like the idea that much more, cause Missy would find it so unlike me.”

He’d ran his thumb against her gently, urging her to go on.

“You know?” she had continued, almost as an afterthought. Cocked her head as if she was going to look over her shoulder, but hesitated. “Maybe that’s why I immediately felt comfortable with you. You reminded me of Missy.”

He’d felt her smile as he shifted behind her to replace the last piece of tape to the gauze on her right shoulder. She’d turned her head towards him then, bit her lip at the corner. Scully’s version of a wink.

“I was afraid to introduce you two. Thought you’d hit it off and leave me in the dust. I guess you could say I was territorial.”

He’d chuckled, placed his lips at her temple and grumbled, “That’s my girl.”

The notches of her spine unfurl in front of him now like the open road. A reminder of the salty tang of sunflower seeds between his teeth. The spaces between her vertebrate like the magnetic balancing act of their partnership in those cramped rental cars. The vibrations of her integrity defy the physics of her compact body, clouding every one of his senses, like the hum of an engine.

“Mulder,” she mumbles, needy with the want of him.

“Mmm,” he responds as his tongue skims her back.

He loves her with precision. His eidetic memory not a file cabinet, but a library. Not case files but rather her hand on his arm as he looked into Tooms’ cell, the weight of her shoulder as he mourned his mother, the warmth of her fingers as she combed his hair for injury, the indent of her lower back in his outstretched head, the spark of her teeth sucking his lower lip, swiping her tongue across the roof his mouth. A rolodex of Scully he wants to attend to for a lifetime.

He leaves a kiss at the nape of her neck. The exclamation point to every one of his sentences.

Runs his fingers through her hair, beckons her with scratches against her scalp. His own, are you ready?

“Please,” she whispers, wriggling her body in anticipation, trapped in his hold.

He tugs again. She turns towards him this time. Her eyes widen, blackened in the moonlight, as she rakes in the sight of him.

The ridges between each rectus abdominis muscle that ripple as he strokes himself with his fist. His cock long and thick. Fingers shiny from her arousal. He swipes his thumb across the head of his cock, leaking with precum to coat himself. Draws out a groan.

“Look at what you do to me,” he marvels, moving his eyes upward to watch her.

Staring at him now, she often forgets that she has spent more of her life without him than with. His essence, a constant motion, firm evidence for the Newtonian tenants that shaped her.

He places himself at her center. Rubs the length of him against her clit. Rocking with purpose, drawing out her pleasure. The friction of him against her is maddening. She aches for it. The nearness of him overwhelming.

He smooths his hand against her ass, nudges the back of her neck with his nose. And pushes inside of her in one quick thrust. She cries out in response.

He moves his right hand to cover hers on the window, setting an even pace with his body. The other grips her hip, using the rough callouses of his fingers to tilt her further, deepening the arch of her back.

She has spent so much of her life resisting the potency of him. The golden skin that glistens even in the starlight. The force of his stare every truth she’s ever known.

“Harder,” she breathes.

He senses her need, the silent way the pulse of the tendons in her neck and the tightening of her fists beneath his palm mean more. He pulls back to slap her ass. The sting of skin colliding explodes in the quiet. He does it again, and she lets a guttural cry.

On nights like tonight, he wonders if he is still held captive in a Russian gulag. Her body in front of him a dissociation from the torture.

He is undone by this. The sheer fact of bearing witness to her. Her presence at his side. Unwavering. The glorious surprise that is watching her age under his fingertips.

He resumes his thrusts, long and deep, hitting her front wall. The width of his hands spans her waist, digging his nails into the meat of her. With each thrust of his hips, he taps his index finger against the bone that juts out at an angle, as if to say, hey Scully, I love you.

The sounds of her moans echo louder, drowning out the hum of the cicadas. He loves that about this place, the way the desolate land around them makes her come alive, more eager to indulge in her rebellious tendencies.

“I love hearing you, Scully. You’re so good for me, so tight. So wet. Let me hear it, Scully.”

He moves his right hand to reach around in front of her, stroking her clit just like she likes it. In even counterclockwise circles with his middle finger.

“Oh, God,” she wails, unhinged by the dual sensation of his cock and finger.

“That’s it, baby,” he urges, taking her ear lobe in between his teeth. The scratch of his stubble makes her shiver. He nuzzles into her neck.

Every inch of her skin is covered in his fiery heat. Her nerve endings reaching out for him like a child, desperate for protection. Here in this room, in this house, in this moment, she has everything she has ever needed. She is aching and alive and vibrant. Exposed, his heart privy to every grief she has ever mourned. And yet, encased in the cocoon of his desire, his longing, his devotion to the whole of her.

“I’ve got you, Scully,” he shudders into her ear. “I’ve got you, baby. Just let go. Let go for me.”

She feels it skirting at the edges. Tempting her with its finality. The will to let go only countered by the need to immortalize herself here. She leans into his touch as he pushes himself into her further, leans the weight of his body into hers, into the window. His hushed words whispered in her ear, dripping with desire. Praising her. She gives into it.

And then she feels it. The gush of her release. Heavy and rushing.

She’s consuming him. The coil of her tightness around his cock. And then it is everywhere. Dripping out of her, coating his balls in her wetness.

“Shit, Scully. Oh my god. Fuck, Scully. Is that what I think it is?”

He shifts his eyes to meet her hooded gaze and he thinks he has never seen them so dark. Savors the way she stares at him. Likes she’s found proof of the god she worships. Of course his Scully wants to watch.

She curls her lip upwards at him, in that hint of a smile he knows so well. The lines of her mouth parentheses around her lips.

“Baby,” he whispers. Lifts his right fingers to her face to tuck an errant strand of hair behind her ear, sticky with sweat.

And then he moves his hand back to hers on the window, picks up his pace behind her. Takes her tendons between his teeth, sucking her, marking her everywhere he can find skin.

“Fuck, Scully. That’s my girl.”

She moans with a whine. Don’t stop. Don’t stop.

“I want you, Scully. All of you. Every piece of you that you think you have to hide. I want all of it. Let me see all of it. Let me in. Let me have all of it.”

She hums deep in her throat, prolonging it. It reverberates in his chest as he fucks her. She nods with every pulse of his cock inside her. Eyes half-lidded, pupils glazed over but brimming with the remnants of a tear. He notices it, licks it, kisses her there, and returns to her neck, never missing a beat.

“Fuck, honey.” And then he comes, his body taut inside of her, dick swollen and stretching her walls to their breaking point. His cum bleeding into her body, melding and mixing with her essence.

He places a kiss to her neck to soothe the marks of his teeth. Turns his eyes to meet her blue, basking in the flecks of gray that steady him.

This woman, he thinks. This woman is his salvation.