Anonymous asked:
leiascully answered:
Her back is pressed against a gritty brick wall and he’s kissing her, god, he’s kissing her like there’s no tomorrow. She sips at him like she’s tasting the wine they had upstairs (and she is - they’re both soaked in it. Maybe she should have spit, but she didn’t, and they haven’t eaten all day, and she’s lucky she’s just intoxicated, her head floating away, without the sour stomach drinking while adult often entails.) Mulder’s big hands are on her hips, pulling her against him and pushing her back at the same time. Her arms are twined around his neck. She digs her nails into his tender nape to make him gasp into her mouth. She swallows his Sauvignon-scented breath with a smirk and slides her tongue deeper against his. He reaches down and hitches her leg over his hip. Her other toes barely touch the ground, but it doesn’t matter: she’s wedged between his erection and the brick wall, dust in her hair, her shirt being absolutely destroy. She grinds against him. Her long skirt pulls between her legs, delicious tension across her thighs. She’s wet; he’s hard; it’s a perfect concordance. He can press her into wine with the weight of himself, he can fill her with a sweet elixir, oh god she’s so gone and it’s more him than the wine. It’s always been more him than anything else. He goes straight to her head, or some more fundamental center of her. Maybe he’ll fuck her against the wall. Maybe he’ll bend her over a wine barrel and she and the wine will both slosh with the force of his thrusts. Maybe some poor employee will have to come down here and chase them both out like teenagers caught under the bleachers during the pep rally.
“You ever read The Cask of Amontillado?” Mulder teases, his lips murmuring over her cheek and through her hair.
“Let them wall us in,” Scully says defiantly. “At least we’ll have a goddamn moment alone.” They have plenty of time to themselves these days, really, but old grudges die hard, and hers is against the world.
He chuckles, rolling his hips against hers until she groans. “That’s one solution.”
She sticks her hands down his pants and he stops talking. Good, she thinks, but misses his voice all the same. But she’s going to hear it - she’s going to make him call her name, raspy and desperate and ecstatic. And then they’re going to go upstairs flushed and rumpled and sweaty and find some goddamn food.
Fuck, she’s great at planning.
