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The trill of the phone rudely wakes Mulder from his second night of decent sleep he’s had in his adult life. He reaches blindly for the nightstand, coming up short, then groans when he eventually reaches his cellphone and the screen is off. Much against his will, he abandons the warmth of the heavy duvet and the comfort of the many pillows that had found their way against different parts of his body throughout the night to face the cold and cruel world outside of the bed.
The long pajama bottoms brush funnily against his calves, the slippery satin fabric a strange sensation on smooth, bare legs. His footsteps are quick and silent, strangely light. Hair tickles at his cheeks and the nape of his neck as he looks around the dark room, looking for the screaming device. It takes so many steps to finally reach it.
“Mul—um, this is Scully.” His usual greeting dies on his tongue as he remembers whose phone he’s answering.
“Mulder, hey,” his own voice greets him through the phone and he breathes out in relief. Nothing had been more stressful during the last couple of days than pretending to be his partner without making her sound incompetent in the field of medicine or anything less than the composed professional that she was.
“Scully? What time is it?”
“That’s usually my line,” she chuckles. “It’s late, I know. Sorry for waking you up.”
“No, it’s okay. I’ll consider it payback for all the times I’ve—” He can’t help the yawn that cuts him off midway through the sentence, but they both know what he means. Her heavenly bed calls to him, and thankful for her cordless phone, he makes his sleepy way back with it in his hand. Next thing he knows, he’s once again surrounded by the scent of her fabric softener, lying on his side with a pillow under his head, another behind his back and two more between his arms and legs. “What is it, Scully?”
“I can’t sleep.” She sighs. “I tried turning the TV on for some background noise, but that was awful. I don’t know how you do it.” A couple of seconds go by. “All day, I’ve been feeling like my body was too slow for my brain, like it was so heavy and difficult to move, and now I feel… weirdly energized. I swear, it’s like all the coffee I drank this morning hit me just now.”
“Hmm…” Mulder nods, sympathetically. It’s a blessing and a curse. He may get the focus and energy to go down research rabbit holes to help him uncover the truths of the universe, but only at the worst possible times. “You gotta spend all that energy. Try going for a run.”
“A run, Mulder?” She snorts. “In the middle of the night? Alone?” He gives her a few seconds to think about it. “Right, I’m in your body. Well, it’s raining anyways so it’s a moot point.”
“Well…” He yawns again. “I can tell you what I usually do, but you’re not going to like it.”
“I think I can handle it.”
“So, you want to start with your left hand. You’re trying to tire yourself out.” He keeps his voice just light and casual enough that it can still be read as a joke. “There’s a couple magazines in the nightstand bottom drawer—if you need a visual aid for your sleeping aid.”
“I doubt they are my style. I prefer my women more… natural.”
Mulder bites his lip and refrains from making a joke about Scully’s shaved legs, though the implication she might have any taste for women at all stays with him. It’s not the first time that she has alluded to it, and he is still not sure if she is trying to make a statement against the porn industry or if she is trying to tell him that they are cut from the same cloth—he has not been too discrete about his tastes in any direction. “There’s also a 1990 firefighter calendar somewhere in there, if that’s more your drift.”
“From 1990?” Yes, he has bought every issue since 1987 and kept his favorite. Sue him.
“Best year so far.” There is a rustle from the other side of the line, but no reply from her. He fears he might’ve crossed a line, so he tries to shift the subject. “Do you think those are real firemen?”
“I don’t know, they might be. I did a real nurses and doctors one in my intern year. Well, kind of… it was more of a joke, really.”
Upon hearing that information, Mulder shoots up on the bed, holding himself up on his elbow. He needs to know more, but mis mouth can’t formulate any other sentence. “You what?”
His mind is too busy, already working overtime trying to generate images of his partner in her doctor’s coat and nothing else—fantasies more accurate now than they have ever been, thanks to the knowledge gained by the need to shower in her body. At the time, he tried his best not to stare, but some things were just too hard to ignore, namely her breasts, ever-present in his field of vision. His body heats up under the blankets, and he takes a deep breath to settle himself.
A low chuckle caresses his ear through the phone and it sends a thrill down his spine. “One of the guys from my resident class made a… joke about the nurses making a sexy calendar if they wanted better pay. So they made one with the residents who weren’t misogynistic jerks.” Her voice in his ear is deep, but it has the same intonation it always does—the ups and downs of the sentences are the same and it reminds him of the time she got a bad cold and sounded like she’d been smoking two packs a day for a decade. It stirs something deep in his belly. “In other words: I was the only doctor. I showed up, put on my coat and glasses and had a good laugh. We made copies just for us, very limited edition. The only men who ever saw it were Nurse Tyler and his boyfriend, the photographer.”
“Scully…” Mulder’s voice is breathy, his mouth dry. He lets himself fall back down on the bed. He feels blood rushing to his face, and figures this is what it must feel like whenever her face blushes against her will—such a beautiful sight to witness, such an embarrassing thing to experience. “Scully, you can’t just say that.”
Images of Scully, now in her doctor’s coat and glasses, next to scantily-clad nurses, scroll unbidden through his mind’s eye. What else is he supposed to do with this information? Trash her apartment trying to find it? Absolutely not.
Arousal feels incredibly different in this body, he decides. Instead of the focused tension—a throbbing need—in between his legs, a liquid heat spreads from beneath his ribs and flows down like molten steel, slow and heavy. Instead of radiating out of him, seeking for relief, it settles deep in his pelvis, making him lock his legs around the pillow even harder. He briefly wonders if Scully has also noticed the difference—if she also likes it—and concludes that she must have, going by the recurrence of a badly-hidden chub throughout the past few days. (It’s thrilling, the thought that she might also be prone to spontaneous arousal throughout the workday and during arguments, probably more so than himself, and worse at hiding it.)
The silence from the phone is too much for him to take, and he finds himself doing something stupid.
“Scully, as a scientist, haven’t you wondered what it feels like?”
“Be more specific.”
“Sex. But, y’know. The other way around. Like we are now.”
“Not really. Well…” She doesn’t finish her thought, only follows it up with a noncommittal hum that could be a yes or a no or a whatever. His curiosity is so strong that it hurts.
“I have,” he confesses. Partly because he needs to, partly in hopes that it will make her explain further. “Multiple orgasms. I’ve always been curious. If they’re as good as they sound like. How many I would be able to have.”
“Yeah?” Scully’s tone is breathy and teasing and it takes all in him not to grab his free hand and slide it down his body—her body, he reminds himself. His hips tense and relax, and it makes the muscles inside of him do some weird somersault that feels undeniably good. The hard pillow between his legs presses against him in an almost frustrating way.
“Of course, I’ve wondered.” He chuckles shyly, realizing that it might not be the universal experience he thought it was. “It seems like it would all feel so good.” She chuckles. “Is that funny?”
“Sounds like…” Scully’s words are slower each time, fewer and further away from the phone. He wonders if he’s finally lulling her to sleep, while he grows more and more awake. “Like bragging…”
“I’m not—really.” He’s telling the truth. “I just... I really like women. And making them feel good.” He could spend hours between their legs—he has—if he is given the chance. Hours exploring them with his lips and his tongue and his fingers until he discovers every little spot that makes them gasp and cry out in pleasure. “When I use my fingers, I—it feels all so soft and wet and warm. And I can find so many ways to…” His face burns, but it feels hotter between his thighs. His stomach flutters and he tightens his abdomen in an attempt to stop it. It makes those muscles inside of him clench once again. He sort of hopes that she’s asleep at the other end of the line and can’t hear him struggling. “If I do it right, I can feel how tight it gets. I wondered… I guess I want to know what that feels like.” He does know how that feels now, he supposes. Those wonderfully evil clenching muscles. “I mean—with something inside of… me.”
“And?” Scully’s only whispered word surprises him.
“And what?”
“How does it feel?”
“I—I don’t know?”
“Don’t go shy on me now, Mulder.” The bite in her tone takes him by surprise. He struggles for a couple of seconds, trying to come up with a response, but she cuts him off before he can make a solid start. “Mulder, just tell me anything. What are you doing?”
“I’m… in bed. Talking to you on the phone.”
“Don’t tease.” She’s closer to the phone again, and he can hear her agitated breathing.
“Scully, I’m not—” The realization hits him like a train. “Scully, are you touching yourself?”
“Yes, aren’t you?” Whichever minute part of him that still believed she was just falling asleep died with her words.
“Fuck.” He swears he can feel something gushing out of him, and the steady beat of his heart pulses against that godforsaken pillow.
“Mulder?”
“H—how long have you been…”
“Mulder, you told me to.”
Oh, god. That long? “Fuck.” She’s been touching herself all along while he’s been dying. That does little to help with the clenching going on beneath his stomach. His self-restraint has its limits, and it seems like this is where he lets himself press harder—grind, really—against the pillow. It offers just the right amount of resistance to make it deeply pleasurable, and he sighs in relief.
“But you—weren’t you—you were talking dirty to me.” Her tone is somewhere between accusing and confused, he would be able to tell if she had her regular voice.
“I—I thought I was boring you to sleep…”
“How could I possibly fall asleep to that?” His heels know instinctively how to dig into the pillow to make it press into him deliciously. He briefly wonders if there is a reason why that specific pillow found its way so naturally to where it is now. His toes curl and he forgets all about it. “Mulder.” Her voice comes out in a whine that doesn’t convince him she’s not still touching herself. Fuck, is she? He needs to know.
“Are you still…” The question hangs in the air for a few seconds. He struggles to listen to the shifting going on near the receiver, as if it could tell him the answer. The phone must be placed between Scully’s shoulder and ear, because he can hear every shaky breath and a sound that might be a moan or an assenting hum. Either way, he knows the answer. “I’ve been trying not to touch myself for so long. But there’s… I have a—a pillow between my legs. It feels… really good.” It feels good to admit it to her, now that he knows she’s enjoying it too. He wishes he could see how much she enjoys it, but hearing it is all he can get. “What are you doing?”
“Stroking…” Her voice goes high and he swears he can hear the frantic movement of her arm. Maybe it’s wishful thinking. “I do wonder… now.”
Mulder recalls his earlier question, and waits with bated breath to hear the rest of the sentence, but it doesn’t come. “What do you wonder?”
“I—fuck… It feels good. Touching myself like this.” He knows that, at the other end of the line, it’s his own body, but the image of Scully stroking herself comes to the forefront of his mind, a swirling mix of features that settles on blue eyes, red hair, short stature, and a thick cock leaking from the tip. “But it’s, uh—drier than usual…”
“Lotion.”
“Huh?”
“Use the lotion on the nightstand. Same drawer as the magazines.” There is some rustling from the other end, which he figures is her following his advice.
“That’s really nice…” She hums pleasantly into the phone, but Mulder grows impatient.
“Scully… Now, you’re the one teasing.”
“Huh?” She sounds far away, and he wonders how close she is getting. “Oh, about the—yeah.” She cuts off for a second, and this time he can definitely hear the wet slapping sound. He imagines her writhing in bed—his bed—and his heels dig further into the pillow in search for some relief. “Fellatio. I’d like to try it. It would feel really good, I think.”
“Yeah?” Mulder is unable to come up with a more coherent answer, but she doesn’t seem to mind.
“I imagine it would feel… really warm. And wet. And—and if it was deep… I think… if I—fuck…” Her voice cracks. “It’d be tight… and warm… and—”
“You’re close, aren’t you?”
“Yeah.”
“Use your right hand, you can go faster with that one.”
“Not… yet…” She whines into the receiver.
“Okay, okay… grab the base hard,” he instructs her, and he hears her assent. “Make it really tight. You want to cut off the blood flow a bit.” He’s sure that she understands the science behind it, but she might not be in the headspace to make such connections.
“Mulder, talk to me… I want to know what you’re doing.”
“Nothing, I’m still… with the pillow.”
“Oh, you poor thing…” Her mocking tone embarrasses him slightly, but it’s more arousing than anything else. “How wet are you?”
“Very.” He doesn’t hesitate before answering. “I think I soaked through your clothes, sorry.”
“Take it off. Take everything off.”
“Scully, I—”
“You can look, Mulder. And touch. It’s okay.”
“Tell me what to do.”
“Lie down on your back. Legs spread,” she instructs and he does as he’s told. “Look down.”
It’s such a foreign feeling, looking at himself and seeing his partner’s body—a body that he’s longed to see for some time now. He curses the low lighting of the room, dim specks of moonlight squeezing between the badly-drawn curtains. Soft, full breasts lie on top of his chest, their weight pulling them down slightly to each side. He wishes he could see the rosiness he caught a glimpse of earlier in the shower, the color of the patch of trimmed curls showing the direction his hands want to follow. With these new eyes, he has been able to appreciate further the different colors of Scully—not lingering on certain areas did not keep him from spending a good few minutes just staring back at the face in the mirror, analyzing every eyelash and freckle—and being unable to witness the most intimate ones feels like he’s being cheated out of a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. If only her bedside table had a light.
“Where do you want to touch first?”
“Tell me where, Scully…”
“Start between your legs. Use your hand, but just a couple of fingers. Get them wet.”
The first touch is tentative, barely a brush of his fingertips against abundant wetness. The feel is not completely foreign, similar enough to other times he has done this to someone else, though the stimulation on the other end of the point of contact is brand new. He finds the entrance with enough ease and he applies a slight pressure that makes his stomach jump, but Scully gets ahead of him.
“Don’t go straight for the vagina, feel your way around.”
It’s pleasant enough, if not a bit frustrating. Everything feels slick as he swipes both fingers up and down, separating the folds and shuddering slightly at the cold sensation of being exposed to the air of the room. He misses the easy stimulation from before.
“The labia minora are quite sensitive. It feels good if you trace the outer edges. The labia majora requires more pressure for better stimulation. A soft massage goes a long way.” As expected, she is right. He presses his fingers into the swollen flesh and his body reacts on its own, letting out a sigh at the pleasurable sensation.
The medical vocabulary doesn’t escape his notice. Though it has never been his first choice for dirty talk, it surprisingly doesn’t turn him off at all. Far from it—it’s the sexiest anatomy lesson he’s ever had. Instead of creating an environment of clinical detachment, it reminds him of who is at the other end of the line—his ever-anatomically correct partner. The choice of words and the familiar melody in which they come out almost cancel out the fact that it’s the wrong voice saying them; if he focuses enough, it’s as if arousal and the interference of the phone line are what is making her voice deepen.
It’s on pure instinct, really, that his fingers find their way higher and higher. They simply follow the path indicated by what feels good, massaging their way up until they meet in the middle. Like a beacon, pleasure calls to him less than an inch below. He knows what he is about to find before he makes contact, which makes him all the more surprised at the painful jab that courses through his lower half and makes him whimper.
“Gently! Be gentle.” Her firm voice admonishes him. “I assume you found the clitoris.” He’s not sure which is the culprit, the pain or the scolding, but he can only respond with another gentle whine. Despite the pain, he itches to touch it again. “It really varies with the person, but it can be very sensitive. Try touching it again, but very lightly.”
This time is softer than his first touch, a barely-there brush to test the waters. It feels wonderful. Like scratching an awkward spot on your back that you couldn’t quite reach, only many times better. He repeats the move again and again, addicted to the sensation. As he does, he grows braver and tries to add more and more pressure, which feels progressively better until the jab of pain comes back. He tries the gentle approach again until the pleasure builds back up, but when he tries to rub harder, he runs into the same wall. He starts all over again.
“How does that feel?” Scully’s words interrupt his failing operation. He huffs.
“It feels really good. But it’s too gentle. Or… it hurts.”
“Not enough, huh?” He hums his negative response. “What can you do about it?”
“Scully!”
“What? I’m doing okay at figuring it out by myself.”
“Scully, please…”
“Tell me one thing I can do to make it better for me and I’ll tell you.”
“Scully…” He whines again at the phone, but all he hears from her is that wet slapping sound that shoots electricity straight through his core. “Use your other hand for… the balls. If you press your fingers in between… deep…” A gasp comes through the phone, then it sounds like she’s melting. As much as it fills him with satisfaction, his own pleasure screams for attention. “Scullyyy…”
“Don’t touch it directly. Put your fingertips on either side…” She lets out a high-pitched moan, cutting herself off. “Move back and forth. Or circles.”
Mulder does as instructed, trapping the sensitive nub between his fingers, then starts to move his hand. A moan escapes his lips as he finally feels some relief. His hips rise from the mattress in search for more and he listens to the urge. He presses harder, rubs faster, and it only feels better and better. All he can say is, “thank you, thank you, thank you.”
They stay like that for a long time—seconds, minutes, hours, who can say? They listen to the other masturbating through the phone, sinful sounds of pleasure echoing in their ears. His hand starts cramping up slightly, just once in a while, but he perseveres. It feels too good right now; that is a concern for Mulder from the future—or Scully from the future, depending on the progress of their investigation.
“Mulder, fuck yourself.” The sudden words jerk him out of his blissful state. Before he has time to take offense, she adds, “two fingers inside you. Left hand. Just the tip.”
As if he would do anything but what she says.
Two eager fingertips push and slip into himself with ease. He was already a fan of fingering, but feeling it from this end makes him a believer. The angle is different to what he’s used to, but muscle memory must take over, because his fingers curl into his palm and a whole different kind of pleasure washes over him. It tugs on the core of his being, deep in his gut, and it makes almost every muscle of his body clench. He does it again, and it feels as if his body is screaming at him to go deeper, faster, anything. “Don’t tease me.”
“The vaginal canal—lots of nerve endings. It should feel good.”
“Not enough.”
“Breasts.” It comes out more as a moan than anything else. It sounds like she’s getting close, though more successfully than him. “Sucking, biting, pinching…” she half-heartedly lists, clearly more focused on her own pleasure. Mulder tries groping at his chest with his free hand, then bringing it to his mouth to suck and bite at the nipple. The sight of it would probably undo him, but it feels more like sucking on a nipple than getting his nipple sucked—not that he dislikes the act, it just doesn’t offer the pleasure that he’s seeking.
“Scully, I want to come!” His whine rings out in the otherwise silent room, significantly louder than he meant it to be. He squirms in place, his hips grinding up in search for more. His hand, though, refuses to cooperate and frustratingly pulls back.
“Me too.” More moaning and slapping sounds. Something awfully similar to a curse escapes her, but it sounds muffled, much to his disappointment. “I’m so close.”
“Scully, tell me how.”
“You know how.”
“Tell me, please.”
A few seconds go by, and he fears he may have crossed a line, some unspoken boundary, in his sex-drunk mind. Her breaths are harsh and sharp into the receiver. Finally, she speaks in an unsteady voice.
“Two fingers. Deep. Hard. Three if it’s not enough.” The strain in her voice and deep breaths sound too familiar—she’s holding off, he realizes. She’s dancing on the edge. “Rub the clit really fast. Not too hard.”
“Yes,” he moans as he finally slides in as deep as he can. His fingers curve and, seemingly by instinct, find a delicious spot that makes his eyes roll to the back of his head. His other hand flies to the neglected clit and slides back and forth with ease. Pleasure and relief course through his body like water down a creek, finding creases and cracks to flood and elevate him to another level of existence.
On the other end of the line, Scully’s sounds get harder and harder to discern, which becomes its own kind of torture.
“Scully, let me hear you.”
He doesn’t even need to beg—her voice turns loud and clear, whimpering into the otherwise silent night. She mouths off, more expletives flowing from her lips than he’s ever heard from her in all the years they’ve known each other combined. Her pitch rises and rises until her voice cracks, then everything goes silent.
A couple of seconds go by.
Then, a stuttered gasp. Then another.
Between flashes of his own pleasure, he manages to talk her through her orgasm, helping her ride it for longer. Seconds later, he’s chasing after her, his own orgasm building from the depths of his gut to his fingertips. All he can hear is his heartbeat in his ears and his own moans in Scully’s voice spurring him on. He’s so close he can practically taste it, a moan ready on the tip of his tongue. His hips buck like wild. All the muscles in his body tighten up, anticipating the one wave of pleasure that will finally tide him over.
And then it’s gone.
In tensing his whole body, his arms and hands lock into place and come to a sudden halt, depriving his body of the much-needed stimulation.
When his body loosens up again, he goes back to furiously plunging and rubbing. As soon as the signs of his orgasm start to show, though, his muscles lock once again and throw him straight into despair.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck…” his whimpers turn into curses as he feels a burning starting to form behind his eyes. With his eyes tightly shut, he can’t even blink the gathering tears away. He tries to start fucking himself all over again, but this time his hands don’t listen and they don’t even move, all of the muscles of his upper body as tightly wound as himself. “Scully, I can’t, I can’t, I can’t…”
“What’s wrong, Mulder?” Through exhaustion and breathlessness, her voice shows concern.
“I can’t come. I get so close, but then—” A sob interrupts him. He manages to keep the tears at bay, but his diaphragm betrays him. “My hands won’t—they keep stopping. And I can’t get there.”
“It’s okay,” her tone softens considerably. “It’s normal, Mulder. It happens.”
“But I need it, Scully.” His hips move just so and it manages to shove his fingers into the right spot. “Please. I need it so bad.”
“Okay, okay.” She takes a couple of deep breaths. “Take a minute and calm down, okay?” He whines in response. “Trust me?”
“Fine…” He whines again as his fingers leave their position, and he takes a second to appreciate how much better it sounds with this voice.
He focuses on his breathing, counting seconds to breathe in, hold, and then breathe out. He loses count quickly enough, but it feels like an entire hour passes before Scully breaks the silence again.
“Mulder, you there?” He hums affirmatively, still counting breaths. “Open the nightstand drawer. There should be lubricant. And some, uh… some toys.”
Whatever he is expecting to see when he opens the drawer, it is definitely not the sight that greets him. Not that he was imagining a miniature dungeon to jump at him, but the sleek, discreet designs are different to most sexual toys he has seen in his lifetime. The colors are varied, and the shapes not realistically mimicking specific human anatomy—he finds himself wondering how a few of them even work.
“Take the purple one.”
“The one that’s kind of like a V?”
“Yes, that one.”
“Uh…” He inspects the object. Its surface is soft to the touch, but it feels hard when he squeezes it in his hand. It gets thicker towards the ends, but the shorter one has a hole on one side and a couple of buttons on the other side. The light blue toy seemed more straightforward—it was obviously made for penetration. This one leaves him stumped. “I don’t think this is very intuitive.”
“I’ll talk you through it.” She waits for his assent. “See the longer end? Put some lube on it. That part goes inside the vagina. You can lie on your back, that way is easier.”
He gets the toy wet and lies down, but hesitates. “Does the other end go up my ass? Because I don’t know if right now—”
“No, no. That’s for the clitoris.” She chuckles.
“What? How?”
“When you slide the longer end inside of you, the shorter end should be pointing up.”
The lubed-up toy still needs a bit of a push to slide in, but the resistance only makes the sensation better. It feels as if he’s being spread open and filled to the brim, walls of muscle contracting around the toy and taking it in deeper. When he can’t push it in any further, the tip is just tickling that marvelous spot that his fingers were hitting perfectly. Still, it feels fucking good, and he tells her so.
“Good.” The single word slithers under his skin and rises goosebumps along his arms. She instructs him on how to position the toy and himself: the hole over the clit, and straddling the forgotten pillow. “Now, turn it on.”
For the first second, he fears he may be doing something wrong—as she told him earlier, he is pressing both buttons. One second later, he doubles over with an indescribable sound. Hands reach out for something, anything, until they find the headboard of the bed and tighten around it so hard that the knuckles turn white.
From the outside to his core, the toy makes its presence known. A low, deep vibration rumbles inside of him, reaching that sweet spot from earlier, as well as everywhere fucking else—or at least that’s what it feels like. Little pulses hit the clit just right; not too soft, not too hard. He does as Scully tells him and lets his weight rest upon the pillow between his legs, the toy burying itself even deeper inside.
Pleasure courses through his body, washing over him like waves licking the shore at the beach. It coils deep in his gut as he tightens around the solid hardness inside of him, which only intensifies the pleasurable vibrations. His hips move of their own accord, grinding hard into the pillow with a dizzying familiarity, and he doesn’t stop the images in his mind this time when he figures that that is definitely its purpose.
As he drives himself closer and closer to ecstasy, all he can hear is himself, breathing and moaning and gasping. It’s him making the noises, but it’s Scully’s voice in his head and his ears, enveloping him like the most beautiful music he’s ever heard.
“Say your name,” his own deep voice cuts through the haze of his incoming orgasm.
“Scully…” He manages to form the single most important word in his vocabulary.
“I said your name.”
“Wha…” His brain doesn’t even have the capacity to question the strange request. “M—Mulder?”
It hits his senses like a truck. His name, moaned out by her voice.
“Mulder…”
It burns its way through his eardrums and into his brain.
“Mulder!”
It sends goosebumps up his body and sparks of electricity down his every nerve.
“Mulder!”
Tension builds inside of him, muscles contracting again, almost painfully. His head is a mess of half-words and both of their names said by both of their voices. Hips lock into place, making him unable to move and seek the pleasure he needs and he almost screams, but the toy inside him perseveres, relentless, and finally, finally, pushes him over the edge.
The first orgasm he experiences in this body is clear-cut and undeniable. The ones that follow, not so much.
The first crashes violently into him, stealing his breath. The pleasure is inescapable and it burns hot with intensity. The release is like a glass of cold water on a hot summer’s day. They push and pull—in his gut, his chest, his pussy—and dance together until they subside and he regains his senses.
His shaking muscles fail to hold his weight, and he barely manages to throw his hands in front of him before he falls unceremoniously onto the mattress. A whole new angle of pressure offers another intense onslaught of pleasure that leaves him gasping for air. He’s not quite sure if it’s a second orgasm or just an extension of the first.
Twitching hips bring on the next wave—more like a stuttering, dripping faucet, of which he desperately tries to get a drink. It originates from the clit and alternates between pain and pleasure as he grows more and more sensitive. He attempts to drain this body of every last drop of pleasure it can give, but every try hurts more than the last.
Begrudgingly, he brings a shaky hand to the toy and turns off the pulsing, but he can’t bring himself to stop the vibration. Sprawled out in blissful exhaustion, he can feel himself twitching around the hardness and hell if it doesn’t feel good.
It takes him a few long minutes to regain his breath, and he spends them in that wonderful limbo between the heights of pleasure and repose. When he finally musters enough strength to speak, he whispers.
“Scully?” It doesn’t feel right to talk too loud, like it would break the atmosphere they are in now. Luckily, he thinks, because after a few long seconds of waiting for a response, he realizes that the crackling sounds coming from the other end are Scully’s sleeping breaths.
With an exhausted sigh, he brings his hand back between his legs and gives the vibrator’s button a quick press to turn it off. Except it doesn’t. He tries it twice more. It definitely does not turn off. A very quick experiment reveals that, while Scully told him to do a long press to turn the toy on and off, she forgot to mention that a quick one turns it up.
What the hell, trying for one more couldn’t possibly hurt.