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Five Times She Ogled

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You’re Special Agent Dana Scully, It’s a Tuesday, and you’re sitting at the desk you share with your partner of four years. Your FBI partner. Your friend, best friend, actually. And what are you doing? Ah yes, your staring at him standing across the room where he’s bent over the lab station counter. Oh, and you’re ogling his ass. That’s right, you’re ogling your best friend and partners ass just feet away from where his potential gaze could catch your own, which happens to be locked onto his fine looking specimen of an ass.

This is not the first occurance and you know no matter how many times you scold yourself about doing it, you’ll do it again at the next opportunity. No thought and no regret about it.

Your heart is pounding, and suddenly the inside of your mouth is the Sahara desert. You dig your nails into the edge of the desk and lick your lips nice and slow. Jesus, why do you do this to yourself? Torturing your body with those traitorous eyes of yours over and over. Your mouth is hanging open now and—oh shit—he dropped his pen, and as he bends further down at the waist, your jaw betrays you next by falling open and letting the breath of hot air audibly fly out.

He heard you! Of course he did. You slam your mouth shut and intend to flick your eyes elsewhere. But Holy God! His dick is now right where his ass was and you don’t flick a thing.

He sees you eyeing him, staring at the center of his zipper and you just know your eyes are as big as the flying saucer on the poster beside your head. You keep your jaw clenched almost as tightly as your thighs at the moment, because if that body part decides to betray you next, you just might come undone right there in your shared office chair.

You feel a thin layer of sweat seep through the skin on your brow and more instantly gathers at the curvature of your lower back where his hand would inevitably glide easily across your damp skin. You quickly push that thought away as soon as it smacks into your head.

You cannot pull one more trigger on your body’s orgasmic gun before you blow.

You lose track of where you are and what the fuck you're actually supposed to be doing instead of panting like a dog while trying to tear your saucer eyes away from Mulder’s dick. His big dick that is—oh fuck—currently growing right in your line of sight.

Now your in serious trouble, you realize. Your so close now. So so close it’s completely embarrassing.

You resign to the fact that your not going to win the war of looking away from the glorious show in front of you, so you win the battle and snap your eyes shut instead. You have to bite your tongue to block it’s fight behind your teeth for a haste escape. The urge to lick your chops at the fresh piece of meat in front of you is utterly unbearable. Why? Because your fucking salivating in your enclosed mouth as the threat to choke on your secretions of hunger for him escalates.

Your throat betrays you next as a soft groan vibrates along it, echoing in the silent basement air. He hears that! You know he does because you can feel his intense stare burning a hole through your flushed pink face.

Swallowing, biting your lip, and holding your breath does absolutely nothing for your current state of come-fuck-me arousal.

And then—oh my God—then you hear him.

He’s right there next to you, breathing heavily, radiating body heat. You can just picture him through your clamped shut eyelids. And oh, it makes your clit ache.

Shit, what now? You begin to panic because there is the standing don’t fuck your partner rule that you made that very first moment you laid your baby blues onto his hazel greens. And your way too damn close to shattering it right here, right now!

Afraid to move, and terrified to open your eyes to see what expression he's wearing, you struggle to get your shit together as best as you can before the last and final trigger to your waning self-control is pulled—

Oh Shit! He’s touching you! Mulder is touching your skin! His hot gentle hand is touching your wrist, sending a tidal wave of wetness right into your panties. That final orgasmic trigger is blowing. Right. Fucking. Now.

You stand. You have no earthly idea how you do it but you just fly right out of the shared seat that you’ve now marked with your essence, and somehow—by the grace of all that is Holy—you avoid his eyes and only open your heavy heavy lids to make sure your feet don’t betray you too. You dash around the desk as quickly as your feverish and intoxicated body will allow, brushing along his arm in the process.

He moans. Mulder moans long and deep in his throat and your knees buckle. Jesus, is that how yours sounded just a minute ago?

Your feet begin to falter, so you walk faster. Flee, flee now, your mind is screaming as your body starts to betray you again. Finally, you reach the doorway, finally freedom from the sexually charged basement is just a foot away.

“Scully,” he groans out, breathless.

And you can’t look at your partner, your best friend in the eye. You just cannot do it without breaking your rule. So you force your traitorous body to walk out the door; but your weakening. You throw out a pathetic, “see you tomorrow, Mulder,” in a notch barely above a whisper.

He hears you, and you flee.