She sits on the hard hospital bench reading the same sentence from the same paragraph of the magazine she doesn’t even know the title of and tries not to seethe. She’s just pretty much threatened Karin Berquist, telling her that she’s watching her, and the thought of it makes her flush in angry embarrassment. This is middle school behaviour. This whole situation is absurd. Berquist is obviously smitten and after their 2shy case, Mulder should know better.
She wants to tell herself that she’s being protective, perhaps overly so, and that her frustration is from the case, how illogical it is. But the bubbling anger that’s pitted in her stomach isn’t from dog folklore making little to no sense. She feels reduced to instinct, where she’s just peed and marked her territory in front of a woman who reads animal behaviour, who writes books about it. She left the kennel feeling exposed, discovered and…hurt somehow. Hurt that Mulder can’t see flirtation like he can’t distinguish red from green, fact from fiction. He certainly hasn’t sensed any advances coming from her in the past; and he seems not to sense it now with that goddamn dog whisperer.
Except, maybe he has. Maybe he’s deftly flirting back, and this silent kinship between two peculiar online friends is some kind of anomalistic foreplay. Maybe she just needs to admit defeat and step back. She exhales a breath she didn’t realise she’d been holding. She stares at the same damn paragraph in the magazine and fumes. Maybe she should’ve let him film that honeymoon video. God knows she wanted to and thought about it with her fingers while he slept on the couch downstairs. Maybe she should have let him touch her a little less accidentally in her bed, after the cow exploded in his own room. God knows she was wide awake when she sighed and pressed up against him. God knows she thinks about the rock-hard heat of his erection pressed up against her ass the next morning more often than not.
She recognises his footsteps and tosses the magazine aside, a little harder than she intentioned.
“Tell me why you’ve pulled me away from a suspect and chained me to this chair? Because I haven’t seen hide nor hair of Dettweiler since I’ve been here” she snaps and she can see his eyes glitter slightly, although she’s not sure if it’s at the image of her chained to a chair or at her comparing Dettweiler to an animal. She listens to him give his spiel about territoriality and transformation and tries not to scream into the abyss when he mentions that Karin Berquist has confirmed this ridiculous theory.
“Mulder the only thing Karin Berquist is interested in is you. You’re kidding yourself if you think she hasn’t manipulated this entire situation for her own purposes.”
They sit in the hospital bench in silence and she refuses to share the magazine with him, which title she still doesn’t know. He dismisses her statement about Berquist. It’s almost hilarious, how the man really has no idea. But how could he, though. He knows her better than anyone and still can’t see how she’s been struggling. How she struggled with Diana and how she fights it almost daily now. It’s a strange case to be looking into now, really. About territoriality and impulse, when she feels so subject to both.
She’s been daydreaming about marking him, she’s been fighting impulse for months. To reach for his thigh while he’s driving in long, deserted highways during their cases. To touch him as he clutches the wheel and struggles to keep his eyes on the road while groaning her name. She wonders what its like to kneel in front of that desk and take him in her mouth. If his cum tastes like sunflower seeds, and if he were to finally fuck her, would he pull her hair while he grips her waist tightly as she’s bent over, tits pressed against his notes and opened files. Would he instinctively know to do that or would she have to ask for it.
He’s asleep on the motel bed wearing only his boxers. His large, elegant fingers splayed over his chest, a book face-down next to his hip. The television is on mute, and two women on the screen take turns pleasuring each other with their tongues and well-manicured fingers. Trust Mulder to multi-task reading with pornography.
She is naked and the only light is the slightly blue tint coming from the set, washing over her in dim, shifting shadows. She sits on the bed next to him, watching the movie out of the corner her eye as she traces the lines of his body with her fingers. His glasses are still on, slightly askew, and she doesn’t move to take them off but rather smiles as she lowers herself so that the tip of her nipple grazes his slightly parted lips. She slips her hand inside his boxers and watches as the women moan in silence, hips writhing, and feels herself get deeply, desperately wet.
The nipple in Mulder’s mouth tightens painfully, seeking more pressure, seeking his tongue. She lowers her body and takes his rapidly growing erection firmly in her hand, stroking him leisurely, skilfully, while watching closely as his thick eyelashes flutter, the world of the living beckoning him away from dreams. She twists so that she’s kneeling facing away from him, bending forward to swirl her tongue over the head of his dick. She’s eaten frozen yoghurt in front of him numerous times, but lately, to her satisfaction, has caught him staring. She’s pretended not to notice, but has admittedly shown off, hoping that maybe the sight of her tongue lapping at the cold, wet cream is something he thinks about later, in the dark, when he’s not supposed to.
She slips the length of him fully into her mouth and murmurs sweet nothings, knowing he’ll enjoy the vibration on his sensitive skin. She hears him groan, fully awake now, and touch her searchingly between her legs to spread the slick hot wetness there. She takes him in deeper in her mouth, tighter, so that the tip of him can feel the back of her throat, and she smiles when she feels him take one of her legs and pull it over to the other side of him so that now she is straddling his face. His hands are stroking her hips in the same rhythm that she’s fucking him with her mouth and the way he squeezes her skin is deliciously painful. His tongue parts her in the same manner that he de-shells seeds, exquisitely, with almost impossible dexterity, and she opens her knees wider so that he can see her better, taste her better.
He’s hungry for her, lapping her ardently in that spot right there that makes her want to increase the pressure of her sucking and he growls into her opening in retribution. He thrusts a finger inside her while snaking his tongue in crop-circle patterns that are making her see stars. She’s almost there, she can taste the orgasm in the back of her throat with his pre-cum, it is approaching with each determined drive of his fingers, her desire so obvious that the sounds of her sex against his face seem animalistic and downright primitive. She’s so close, so fucking close, she laps at the tip of him with her mouth and grinds herself against his face. She’s nearly there
and she wakes up with the feeling of glossy paper sliding gently on her cheek. Mulder is pressing the magazine she wouldn’t share with him against her face, softly, to wake her.
He looks disappointed. Betrayed. She can empathise.
“He’s not coming.”
She tries to shake off the remnants of the dream, the fading impending orgasm and the sweet feeling of having Mulder’s mouth between her legs. Blinking away the image, squeezing her thighs together to relieve some of the pressure there, Scully is suddenly fearful that perhaps Mulder can smell her arousal. She can.
Dettweiler isn’t coming. And by the looks of it, neither is she