HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif)
almost_october and dont_know5!!!
The naughty bits are below... two fics that I remembered to post to![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/community.gif)
xf_pornbattle and one that I wrote and then couldn't post so... new fic!
PETA, stop being so ridiculous.
And here's a link to a video we took singing Sweet Caroline. It's worth watching just for Lori's facial expressions.
Dana Scully v.2, Scully/OC, porn actress fantasy
A/N: Okay, so, this is a VERY loose take on the prompt, but it's what... you know... came to me when I thought about the prompt so... deal with it. Thanks tovelocityofsound for her beta and insight.
------
There are things she thinks about that wouldn't be considered appropriate subject matter for someone so... demurely regarded.
Dana Scully. Sexy but sexless.
It's a fine persona to have, specifically for the daylight hours.
Who she is after hours, away from the office, from her occupation is a different persona all together, and she keeps it all to herself.
She's an entirely different person when she's not on the clock, in her thoughts at least. The theater of her mind is fertile territory to play out the scenarios she schemes; she is adulteress, seductress, man, woman, dominant, submissive. The cries, screams, vulgarities, pleas, they're known only to her, and she only hears them in a tone and pitch that she imagines.
There are thoughts of riding crops, handcuffs, blindfolds and hot wax. But these are simply the banalities of her fantasies, the props, the essential toolkit of the woman she dreams she is. The situations come together elaborately, over many days, locations and partners and acts pasted together as she lays in bed, showers, makes her morning coffee.
But there's one scenario, one bright jewel amongst the others that she replays 0over and over and over.
It's such a mindfuck.
This is precisely how it all plays out, in this direct order:
They are friends now (something more than friends, but they only acknowledge this through glances and barely-three touches) and this is why she doesn't feel uncomfortable about inviting him over for Thai food, movies, that bottle of wine she’d been saving for a “rainy” day.
Even as she uncorks the bottle she knows what old vine zinfandels do to her; they fluster her, they cause her to unravel, bit by bit. They turn her on too, traitors: the taste, the sensuality of the liquid sliding over her tongue serves to provoke a dull ache to take up residence between her legs.
So there is glass one, shared while dissecting Apocalypse Now and why it is and is not the greatest war film of all time. She is pro, he is con and as she takes the last sip, her cheeks turn a blush pink and she shivers.
"What?" he asks, face a mask of confusion.
She shakes her head, tries to shake it off, but she can't help thinking about herself tying him down, sitting on his face, riding him until he can't breathe. "No, no, it's nothing."
This doesn't phase him; she didn't really think it would anyway. "No, what's... what?"
Scully helps herself to another glass, tops his off, instructs him in no uncertain terms to watch the movie. But she keeps glancing over at him, glass to her mouth, licking along the edge, crystal glancing off of her teeth. "What?" he finally asks, turning to face her fully.
She is three glasses of wine, deep and it just slips out; really, it does. "I was just wondering what you would feel like inside off me." If the wine hasn't already taken over her blushing capabilities, she is sure that her cheeks would be inflamed from speaking those words.
"Oh yeah?" Mulder asks, swinging one leg up to rest at a ninety-degree angle on the couch.
"And?"
"And what?"
His smile is almost delicate, treading between naughty and shy. "How would I... feel?"
Scully considers for only a moment before saying, "The way I dream it, that is, when I think about it, I'm not me and you're not you, so you wouldn't feel like I think you feel."
This confuses him greatly. "Huh?"
At this point, in the fantasy, she struggles with her own wording; it’s different (but the same) every time.
"In my head, you're a woman," she's going on, and she has no idea if what she's saying is coming out properly. "We're, we're on a movie set, and, one of those types of movies and you're... you're riding me from behind with a strap on." Eye s glazing over, she retreats into the realm of fantasy.
She doesn't realize she's touching herself; he doesn't. One hand over her breastbone, the other burrowing into her panties, she tells him, "And I feel like, even with everyone watching, and you-a person I've never met before, a woman I've never met before... it's, god, it's fucking perfect and I think I fall in love with you."
What she doesn't say is when she comes on screen in the movie in her head, she shouts his name; that would be too much. Too bizarre for him to handle. Instead, she allows her eyes to slip closed, her back to press into the couch and her body to succumb to her hands.
In this fantasy she touches herself just as she might any other day of the week, but it’s because of him that she allows herself to unhinge so completely.
Just the right pressure on her clit, two fingers pushing hastily inside and she can feel him watching her as she rides out the orgasm her hand has produced.
When she finally looks at him, brain fuzzy with wine and endorphins, his mouth it a perfect 'o', the hardness between his legs evident.
Delicately, Mulder puts his wine glass down next to hers.
"Want to know what I think you'd feel like?" What… a mindfuck.
The scenario never goes further than this, as she comes away satisfied at just imagined him speaking these words to her. She doesn’t need to know how he thinks she feels because Scully knows what he feels like, and that is perfectly, totally enough.
----
END
Not So Much a Half Truth, Scully/OC, one night stand
It's not something she ever thought she would do; that's a lie, she's done it before but never thought she'd do it again. Well, well that's a lie too.
It's such a fib; just the thought of what she's about to do, what she's in the thick of is, is making her wet (truth be told, and she liked to tell the truth, always).
What's best, what she thinks is just fantastic is that in the past twenty minutes she has had to struggle to remember his last name, that she's pretty sure it's Thomas, or Thompson or something equally generic. Not that it matters, not that it would make any difference.
Martin (at least she remembers the first, she thinks, as his hands find the waistband of her panties and tug) doesn't have a job at the moment, is in between pay checks, is an artist, or something. What she does know, what Dana Scully knows for sure is that he was a sweet talker and had known just what to say as he sidled up beside her in line at the bank: "I hate Mondays."
It had made her smile, it had made her return his sentiment, make surprisingly-stimulating chatter with him as they waited for the queue to cycle through. He laughed, he smiled, he touched her elbow and she asked him if he'd like to get a drink with her.
He did.
Three glasses of Cabernet to his two jack and cokes and she was feeling fine, wonderful, without a care, remembering that she was supposed to be forgetting about the dull ache that the mere thought of Mulder spurred in her chest. And thus, when he'd taken her hand across the table, swiped a thumb across the flesh of her palm, just so, she gave in.
Martin-don't call me Marty-looks nothing like him; he is rugged, salt-and-pepper, rough around the edges. And to the point, "Sweetheart, I think it'd be very ungentlemanly of me to say this but, it'd make me a very lucky man if you came home with me." There are other words that she might have liked to hear but it doesn't matter much; she'd decided to see this thing through when he had said yes to her invitation.
Scully’s hand makes its way to his throat, presses his head to the side so that she can gain access to his neck. His hand against her sex, stroking, her thigh sliding along his denim-clad cock, there's nothing to think about except how wonderful and heady she feels and how she's sure Marty tastes nothing like he would.
They are naked next to one another and while she tries to remain rigid and in control, he smiles. "You're a gorgeous woman, you know that?" Whether she knows or she doesn't, that doesn't much matter because his hand cups her breast, his lips taste her skin.
And she wants to come.
When he presses into her, hot, heavy, slick, there's nothing that can keep her eyes from sliding closed and his face to flash into the cinema of her mind. It's always him, always, and even as Martin Thompson/Thomas croons wonderful nothings into her ear (lies she wants to hear, she does, she does, rides her rough, just like she wants to be fucked.
Their hands link against the sheet as he bites her shoulder; she bucks, keens out, comes around him, thinking about saying someone else's name. But she holds back, and for a moment regrets her entire evening with not-Mulder-Marty. He kisses her hairline, she smiles.
It's strange, as she lays beside him afterward, what he says to her. "I know, I was thinking about someone else too."
She should feel ashamed, awkward, but she stays until morning.
And is worried that she's a tad hurt to find him gone.
She won't do this again, she tells herself, this is the last time; lie, lie, liar. She feels hollow (she doesn't), she feels dirty (she doesn't), she feels used (not at all) and she still aches for her partner.
She does.
----
END
Editing, Mulder/Scully, under the duvet
She wondered, after all of the years of being screamed at by numbers in the middle of the night, why she still had a digital clock with bright, scorching red numerals. There were other options. Green of course was the common alternative, soothing, just a shade below bright. Brookstone had a lovely selection of timepieces that were soothing indigo, black, even white, that all could have formed a suitable replacement.
And yet, being awakened at 3:13am, being told by bright blood red that it was far too early, far too late to be awake, was somehow part of the routine, part of her life. Scully couldn't even count the number of times he had phoned her in the middle of the night, her eyes settling on the numerals as his voice filled her ears.
It was just another mundane, everyday banality that she now came to associate with him.
Clocks and scented pine auto inserts, basketballs and photo booths. He'd somehow managed to integrate himself so seamlessly into her life that it frightened her deeply; she no longer seemed to know herself without knowing him as part of her.
Visions of 11:21 swam before her eyes as she willed her body into submission, to sleep, perchance to dream about anything else but him and his voice and the future that keeps getting closer and closer.
There was a very real chance that she had made a mistake.
---
She awoke sore and stiff, her thighs burning; it had been quite awhile since she had moved like that.
The way they had come together, come together, under nothing but her duvet cover and a thin sheen of sweat, how she had clung to him, released him only to claim that perhaps "it shouldn't have happened."
They spoke, and his was the voice to raise first. He yelled, she yelled back, and he'd slammed her front door when he'd stole from her apartment, 1:34 in the a.m. And the second she woke up, 10:34 in the a.m. she began hating herself for everything she said, for knowing the feeling of him moving inside of her, for letting him leave, for making him leave like that.
Dark roast did nothing to cleanse her palette of the taste of his mouth, the shower doing nothing to relieve her of the heaviness of his skin upon her.
Making the bed did nothing to soothe over the memories of how he held her, how he pressed into her, how amazing he’d made her feel.
Though the fabric of the duvet was dark, she could make out the splotches of stains they had left in their haste to taste and touch and feel and have as much of the other as possible. Without thought, she tore the sheet from the bed and tossed it over the edge, stomped out of the room.
There was a very real chance that she had made a mistake.
---
The clock in the kitchen ticked away the seconds of her Saturday.
He arrived at her door when the time was hovering around dusk; knocking, he was let in, reluctantly. She had no idea what to say to him, wanting to apologize, to give up, give in, tell him again why exactly they couldn’t be together. But no words passed her lips. Scully was all ragged breath and unsure eyes, eyes focused on his back as he turned to face her, somewhere in between the kitchen and living room.
“I refuse to believe that you thought last night wasn’t… everything.”
Of course she couldn’t lie to him and so she remained mute as he walked to her, touched her face, her chin, her neck. “It was. It was everything.” His voice dips and falters on the last word and her heart cracks, fractures along the fissure that had been there for years.
She didn’t know how to tell him about the colors he made her see, the hope she felt for the future, the way that when he was inside her, time was no longer a universal invariant, that it stood still, held for them.
And so when he kissed her, roughly, staking claim, leaving no room for argument, she knew only to meld and acquiesce, let him make her feel just a fraction of what he wants her to feel. There were no words, except his thanking of a god he doesn’t believe in when she came.
The time on the clock read 5:32 and her sheets smelled of the two of them.
She thought he didn’t love her, but…
There was a very real chance that she was mistaken.
---
Thanks tobrandie for beta.
----
END
almost_october and dont_know5!!!The naughty bits are below... two fics that I remembered to post to
xf_pornbattle and one that I wrote and then couldn't post so... new fic!PETA, stop being so ridiculous.
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And here's a link to a video we took singing Sweet Caroline. It's worth watching just for Lori's facial expressions.
Dana Scully v.2, Scully/OC, porn actress fantasy
A/N: Okay, so, this is a VERY loose take on the prompt, but it's what... you know... came to me when I thought about the prompt so... deal with it. Thanks to
velocityofsound for her beta and insight.There are things she thinks about that wouldn't be considered appropriate subject matter for someone so... demurely regarded.
Dana Scully. Sexy but sexless.
It's a fine persona to have, specifically for the daylight hours.
Who she is after hours, away from the office, from her occupation is a different persona all together, and she keeps it all to herself.
She's an entirely different person when she's not on the clock, in her thoughts at least. The theater of her mind is fertile territory to play out the scenarios she schemes; she is adulteress, seductress, man, woman, dominant, submissive. The cries, screams, vulgarities, pleas, they're known only to her, and she only hears them in a tone and pitch that she imagines.
There are thoughts of riding crops, handcuffs, blindfolds and hot wax. But these are simply the banalities of her fantasies, the props, the essential toolkit of the woman she dreams she is. The situations come together elaborately, over many days, locations and partners and acts pasted together as she lays in bed, showers, makes her morning coffee.
But there's one scenario, one bright jewel amongst the others that she replays 0over and over and over.
It's such a mindfuck.
This is precisely how it all plays out, in this direct order:
They are friends now (something more than friends, but they only acknowledge this through glances and barely-three touches) and this is why she doesn't feel uncomfortable about inviting him over for Thai food, movies, that bottle of wine she’d been saving for a “rainy” day.
Even as she uncorks the bottle she knows what old vine zinfandels do to her; they fluster her, they cause her to unravel, bit by bit. They turn her on too, traitors: the taste, the sensuality of the liquid sliding over her tongue serves to provoke a dull ache to take up residence between her legs.
So there is glass one, shared while dissecting Apocalypse Now and why it is and is not the greatest war film of all time. She is pro, he is con and as she takes the last sip, her cheeks turn a blush pink and she shivers.
"What?" he asks, face a mask of confusion.
She shakes her head, tries to shake it off, but she can't help thinking about herself tying him down, sitting on his face, riding him until he can't breathe. "No, no, it's nothing."
This doesn't phase him; she didn't really think it would anyway. "No, what's... what?"
Scully helps herself to another glass, tops his off, instructs him in no uncertain terms to watch the movie. But she keeps glancing over at him, glass to her mouth, licking along the edge, crystal glancing off of her teeth. "What?" he finally asks, turning to face her fully.
She is three glasses of wine, deep and it just slips out; really, it does. "I was just wondering what you would feel like inside off me." If the wine hasn't already taken over her blushing capabilities, she is sure that her cheeks would be inflamed from speaking those words.
"Oh yeah?" Mulder asks, swinging one leg up to rest at a ninety-degree angle on the couch.
"And?"
"And what?"
His smile is almost delicate, treading between naughty and shy. "How would I... feel?"
Scully considers for only a moment before saying, "The way I dream it, that is, when I think about it, I'm not me and you're not you, so you wouldn't feel like I think you feel."
This confuses him greatly. "Huh?"
At this point, in the fantasy, she struggles with her own wording; it’s different (but the same) every time.
"In my head, you're a woman," she's going on, and she has no idea if what she's saying is coming out properly. "We're, we're on a movie set, and, one of those types of movies and you're... you're riding me from behind with a strap on." Eye s glazing over, she retreats into the realm of fantasy.
She doesn't realize she's touching herself; he doesn't. One hand over her breastbone, the other burrowing into her panties, she tells him, "And I feel like, even with everyone watching, and you-a person I've never met before, a woman I've never met before... it's, god, it's fucking perfect and I think I fall in love with you."
What she doesn't say is when she comes on screen in the movie in her head, she shouts his name; that would be too much. Too bizarre for him to handle. Instead, she allows her eyes to slip closed, her back to press into the couch and her body to succumb to her hands.
In this fantasy she touches herself just as she might any other day of the week, but it’s because of him that she allows herself to unhinge so completely.
Just the right pressure on her clit, two fingers pushing hastily inside and she can feel him watching her as she rides out the orgasm her hand has produced.
When she finally looks at him, brain fuzzy with wine and endorphins, his mouth it a perfect 'o', the hardness between his legs evident.
Delicately, Mulder puts his wine glass down next to hers.
"Want to know what I think you'd feel like?" What… a mindfuck.
The scenario never goes further than this, as she comes away satisfied at just imagined him speaking these words to her. She doesn’t need to know how he thinks she feels because Scully knows what he feels like, and that is perfectly, totally enough.
END
Not So Much a Half Truth, Scully/OC, one night stand
It's not something she ever thought she would do; that's a lie, she's done it before but never thought she'd do it again. Well, well that's a lie too.
It's such a fib; just the thought of what she's about to do, what she's in the thick of is, is making her wet (truth be told, and she liked to tell the truth, always).
What's best, what she thinks is just fantastic is that in the past twenty minutes she has had to struggle to remember his last name, that she's pretty sure it's Thomas, or Thompson or something equally generic. Not that it matters, not that it would make any difference.
Martin (at least she remembers the first, she thinks, as his hands find the waistband of her panties and tug) doesn't have a job at the moment, is in between pay checks, is an artist, or something. What she does know, what Dana Scully knows for sure is that he was a sweet talker and had known just what to say as he sidled up beside her in line at the bank: "I hate Mondays."
It had made her smile, it had made her return his sentiment, make surprisingly-stimulating chatter with him as they waited for the queue to cycle through. He laughed, he smiled, he touched her elbow and she asked him if he'd like to get a drink with her.
He did.
Three glasses of Cabernet to his two jack and cokes and she was feeling fine, wonderful, without a care, remembering that she was supposed to be forgetting about the dull ache that the mere thought of Mulder spurred in her chest. And thus, when he'd taken her hand across the table, swiped a thumb across the flesh of her palm, just so, she gave in.
Martin-don't call me Marty-looks nothing like him; he is rugged, salt-and-pepper, rough around the edges. And to the point, "Sweetheart, I think it'd be very ungentlemanly of me to say this but, it'd make me a very lucky man if you came home with me." There are other words that she might have liked to hear but it doesn't matter much; she'd decided to see this thing through when he had said yes to her invitation.
Scully’s hand makes its way to his throat, presses his head to the side so that she can gain access to his neck. His hand against her sex, stroking, her thigh sliding along his denim-clad cock, there's nothing to think about except how wonderful and heady she feels and how she's sure Marty tastes nothing like he would.
They are naked next to one another and while she tries to remain rigid and in control, he smiles. "You're a gorgeous woman, you know that?" Whether she knows or she doesn't, that doesn't much matter because his hand cups her breast, his lips taste her skin.
And she wants to come.
When he presses into her, hot, heavy, slick, there's nothing that can keep her eyes from sliding closed and his face to flash into the cinema of her mind. It's always him, always, and even as Martin Thompson/Thomas croons wonderful nothings into her ear (lies she wants to hear, she does, she does, rides her rough, just like she wants to be fucked.
Their hands link against the sheet as he bites her shoulder; she bucks, keens out, comes around him, thinking about saying someone else's name. But she holds back, and for a moment regrets her entire evening with not-Mulder-Marty. He kisses her hairline, she smiles.
It's strange, as she lays beside him afterward, what he says to her. "I know, I was thinking about someone else too."
She should feel ashamed, awkward, but she stays until morning.
And is worried that she's a tad hurt to find him gone.
She won't do this again, she tells herself, this is the last time; lie, lie, liar. She feels hollow (she doesn't), she feels dirty (she doesn't), she feels used (not at all) and she still aches for her partner.
She does.
END
Editing, Mulder/Scully, under the duvet
She wondered, after all of the years of being screamed at by numbers in the middle of the night, why she still had a digital clock with bright, scorching red numerals. There were other options. Green of course was the common alternative, soothing, just a shade below bright. Brookstone had a lovely selection of timepieces that were soothing indigo, black, even white, that all could have formed a suitable replacement.
And yet, being awakened at 3:13am, being told by bright blood red that it was far too early, far too late to be awake, was somehow part of the routine, part of her life. Scully couldn't even count the number of times he had phoned her in the middle of the night, her eyes settling on the numerals as his voice filled her ears.
It was just another mundane, everyday banality that she now came to associate with him.
Clocks and scented pine auto inserts, basketballs and photo booths. He'd somehow managed to integrate himself so seamlessly into her life that it frightened her deeply; she no longer seemed to know herself without knowing him as part of her.
Visions of 11:21 swam before her eyes as she willed her body into submission, to sleep, perchance to dream about anything else but him and his voice and the future that keeps getting closer and closer.
There was a very real chance that she had made a mistake.
---
She awoke sore and stiff, her thighs burning; it had been quite awhile since she had moved like that.
The way they had come together, come together, under nothing but her duvet cover and a thin sheen of sweat, how she had clung to him, released him only to claim that perhaps "it shouldn't have happened."
They spoke, and his was the voice to raise first. He yelled, she yelled back, and he'd slammed her front door when he'd stole from her apartment, 1:34 in the a.m. And the second she woke up, 10:34 in the a.m. she began hating herself for everything she said, for knowing the feeling of him moving inside of her, for letting him leave, for making him leave like that.
Dark roast did nothing to cleanse her palette of the taste of his mouth, the shower doing nothing to relieve her of the heaviness of his skin upon her.
Making the bed did nothing to soothe over the memories of how he held her, how he pressed into her, how amazing he’d made her feel.
Though the fabric of the duvet was dark, she could make out the splotches of stains they had left in their haste to taste and touch and feel and have as much of the other as possible. Without thought, she tore the sheet from the bed and tossed it over the edge, stomped out of the room.
There was a very real chance that she had made a mistake.
---
The clock in the kitchen ticked away the seconds of her Saturday.
He arrived at her door when the time was hovering around dusk; knocking, he was let in, reluctantly. She had no idea what to say to him, wanting to apologize, to give up, give in, tell him again why exactly they couldn’t be together. But no words passed her lips. Scully was all ragged breath and unsure eyes, eyes focused on his back as he turned to face her, somewhere in between the kitchen and living room.
“I refuse to believe that you thought last night wasn’t… everything.”
Of course she couldn’t lie to him and so she remained mute as he walked to her, touched her face, her chin, her neck. “It was. It was everything.” His voice dips and falters on the last word and her heart cracks, fractures along the fissure that had been there for years.
She didn’t know how to tell him about the colors he made her see, the hope she felt for the future, the way that when he was inside her, time was no longer a universal invariant, that it stood still, held for them.
And so when he kissed her, roughly, staking claim, leaving no room for argument, she knew only to meld and acquiesce, let him make her feel just a fraction of what he wants her to feel. There were no words, except his thanking of a god he doesn’t believe in when she came.
The time on the clock read 5:32 and her sheets smelled of the two of them.
She thought he didn’t love her, but…
There was a very real chance that she was mistaken.
Thanks to
brandie for beta. END
complacent18 Broke It Down | Build It Up