She opens the door to the quiet study, follows the hard plane of his back beneath his white V-neck, still stained with Skinner’s blood at his right side. Hunched over in his square-rimmed black glasses, files strewn across the dark-wooded desk he crafted that first long winter they lived in this house together. She remembers watching him then, the way his large hands handled the wood with such care, sanding and aligning the pieces with a grace she did not know he possessed. He would come to bed smelling like pine and sweat, his kisses burning with the embers of his masculinity.
She glides her way towards him now, runs her hands up his back and down his front, delighting in the way his muscles bend beneath her fingertips. Nuzzles into the rough salt and pepper of his beard. Something about the way the hairs mark the planes of his face feels so domesticated, a trait she thought would have been endeared to his basement life. Now the sight of it makes her tremor, marks him as rightfully hers.
He tugs at the well-worn sleeve of her black turtleneck, “I can’t get enough of this on you,” he grumbles with a kiss to her pulse point.
She laughs, the sound echoing around them.
“When I looked at you in Mud Lick, for a split second I thought you were wearing my old black turtleneck, the one I wore when I came to see you in the hospital,” he mutters.
“Who says I’m not?” she parrots back, fluttering her eyelashes against the tender skin on the underside of his jaw.
He brings her palm to his lips, the tickle of his chin a livewire across her lifelines, then tucks it into his chest. He sets his glasses down atop the papers with a sigh and stands as he turns to face her. He smiles easily at her, fingering the loose hairs stuck to the top of her turtleneck. It’s been too long, she thinks, since the white of his teeth shown so effortlessly.
“This turtleneck really does it for you then, Mulder?” her hands at her hips and arched eyebrow defy the softness of her lower half. Fuzzy-socked toes peeking out from under her dress pants.
“Like you wouldn’t believe,” he grins, tugging at the ends of it, his hands like magnets to her waistline. “Although,” he starts, his whisper at her ear, “you might need it tomorrow after I’m finished with you.”
With one swift movement, he lifts to place her at the edge of the desk, open files to her right. Her breath catches in her throat, “M-Mulder,” she huffs out.
“You don’t mind if I devour you here, do you Dana?”
With that beard, she thinks, she wants nothing else.
She beats his hands to paw at the buttons of her slacks, lifts to shove them from her hips, claws at his chest until he tugs at his t-shirt, that way that men do, that starts at the back of their neckline.
And then he sears his lips to hers. The pricks of his beard rubbing into her chin, the hollow of her cheeks, as his tongue laps at her lips. He’s rougher when he looks like this, using the weight of his face to coax each part of her as he sucks at her tongue. Marks the roof of her mouth. He grunts as he realizes the turtleneck provides no access to her neck and pulls it off of her. The static clings to her hair, shoots out in wayward ends. He palms it down, grips the ends in his fists as he continues his assault along her neckline. The gradient of his hair against her throat a welcome replacement for the comfortable itch of the fabric there seconds before.
She aches with the anticipation of it everywhere, wants it to spark rashes like wildfire on her skin, paint a path all the way down to her toes.
He croaks into the space between her breasts, the sheer lace of her black bra creating a cocoon of cleavage to borrow into. An attempt at Scully between his lips before he pulls out the peak of her nipple above the hemline to suck. She presses him to her, hands fixed within his hair, the short strands just enough to yank with her slender fingers. He applies equal attention to her other nipple, letting the trim of his beard hair alight her skin before he takes her into his mouth.
“More, Mulder. More, more,” she whines as he charts the valley of her belly button, the dipped ridges at her hipbones, the matching sheer thong ready to greet him as he kneels before her.
“Your knees,” she manages to utter as a crack or two signals him settling in.
“This is worth it, baby,” a feline grin in response as he licks his lips in preparation. He tugs her hips to him, dangling at the edge of the desk and she places a hand behind her to steady herself.
Ever the devil he moves with the utmost precision, darkening her inner thighs in bruises, letting her Irish skin blossom beneath his teeth. Her arousal seeps into the thin fabric of her thong, and his nose is like a wolf to his prey, dragging him towards her center.
She feels the tension build in her spine, in her thighs, in her abdomen, bracing for the inevitable. When it doesn’t come, she blinks open her eyes, looks down at him. He’s just staring at her, the force of his gaze blackened, but still soft.
“I just wanted to take another look at you,” his cheeks stretched bashfully. She ruffles his hair endearingly, reaches down to press her lips to his hairline. She pulls back and they stay suspended there, their eyes locked, a string of affection drawn taut between them.
And then he growls, pushing her fabric to the side as he uses the flat of his tongue to lick her from back to front. He seizes the seams of her thong and thigh in one hand and the meat of her leg in the other.
“Ah,” she cries out above him, hands back to his head, trusting their equilibrium to not let her falter.
He drinks from her center as the chisel of his stubbled frame builds delicious friction against her labia, the rhythm of his tongue forcing his nose to bump asynchronously against her clitoris.
He reshapes his tongue to slither into her tight walls, grafting space inside of her with the arc of his ministrations. He reaches as far as his throat can handle, his tongue imitating the beckoning dance his long fingers usually initiate.
“Fuck, Mulder,” she groans.
As he curls back out of her, he nips at her opening, memorizing her anatomy with his teeth, until he meets her clitoris. He sucks in a breath, the heat of his mouth dousing her already wet lips and fits her clitoris between his teeth. He drags it with him, sips, releases, and repeats, choreographing a pattern that draws out a louder moan on every release.
“Goddamn it, Mulder,” she utters with the same cadence she must have used a million times, except the tinder of her voice has deepened with age.
“Mmmm,” the rumble of his need vibrating into her core and out the ends of her toes.
“Scully,” he lifts his head to squint his eyes at her, his stubble stained with her arousal. The way he looks makes her long to do truly filthy things to him for hours on end. “Do you know that your voice has only gotten sexier with age? It’s like you’re using your bedroom voice every second of every day and I can hardly see straight my pants are so tight. No wonder I can’t help myself,” he smirks, sweat glistening along his forehead.
She barely has time to scratch her nails along the base of his skull before he cradles her closer, nails digging into her thighs, beard scratching her sensitive skin as he sets a course to swallow her whole.
She lifts one hand to twist at her nipples, as he works at her in reverse, clitoris first, then outer labia, then back up inside of her.
“More, Mulder,” she whimpers into the ether, not caring who or what she wakes with her volume. “Take it. Take it all.”
She senses the current of her orgasm moving fast beneath her skin, the way it starts to cloud her senses, burn its way from the ends of her toes and fingers, to her calves, her biceps, the peaks of her chest, the depths of her belly. She wants to cry with the pressure of it, her body frantic to elongate the ecstasy.
She crests with a sob, Mulder’s mouth the only sensation left.
When her breaths slow, he is still cleaning her with his tongue, savoring every last bit of her. She wonders if her arousal has grafted a new taste bud onto his palate after all this time. An evolution of manhood only he possesses.
He hums into her, healing the reddened rash of his beard appearing along her body with feather-light kisses. He takes his time, loathe to remove his lips from her gentle skin. She’s content to let herself be adored like this, her eyes flirtatious and coy as she watches him. She doesn’t want to ever stop staring. Reaches her nails towards him to scratch at his jawline, emulating his own nervous gesture as he rises to his full height.
Before he can dip his head to continue she reaches up to cradle his face in her hands. Rubs her thumb across the trim of his beard line, fingering the dual sensation of scraggly and soft that is this man in front of her. She cocks her head to the side, and smiles at him slow, just the corners of her mouth upturned.
“You're mine,” she breathes and watches his eyes crinkle at her, the sight tugging at her chest.
This is what it’s like to belong.