From: "izzy pywacket" Subject: [all-xf] NEW - Risque by Pywacket ( 1 of 1) Date: Saturday, October 13, 2001 6:01 PM Title: Risque Author: Pywacket Email: Pywacket1975@hotmail.com Classification: S Spoilers: late 7th season, after Chimera. Archive: Knock yourself out. Rating: NC-17 Disclaimer: They aren’t mine, but I bet they'd jump ship if they knew how much more fun they could have. Feedback: Makes me purr. Risque by Pywacket (1 of 1) Killing a DCPD lieutenant would put an end to his career and certainly piss Scully off. Nevertheless, Mulder was sorely tempted as he watched the big oaf fawn all over Scully. "Great job, Agent Scully," Lieutenant Simonetti said. "We couldn't have closed this case without you." Simonetti was obviously having a difficult time keeping his eyes trained on Scully's face. His gaze kept drifting to Scully's nearly bare breasts. Mulder was amazed that Scully hadn't shot the lech with his own weapon. She actually smiled and thanked the jerk, saying she was just glad they'd been successful. And successful they were, catching a serial rapist who preyed on working girls in Washington's red light district. Mulder had practically pulled muscles restraining himself from voicing an objection when Scully was approached about working undercover. But, hell, he valued his life enough to know better than to interfere with her work. He just couldn't help worrying about her. His stomach had been in knots the whole time she was on the street with the real hookers and the agents in streetwalker disguise. Fortunately, he'd managed to get assigned to the same detail posing as a vagrant. The stakeout operation had gone on for days, waiting for "Mr. Aramis" to make his next move. The rapist had been dubbed that because his victims reported that he smelled heavily of the popular men's cologne. For what seemed like weeks, Mulder had slumped against a wall, grasping a bottle in a crumpled paper bag, trying to find a position that didn't send his back into spasm. He would have been more comfortable in one of the surveillance vans, but that would have kept him too far away from Scully. The rapist had been very loyal to one particular area, and his timing had been quite regular, the rapes occurring between ten days and two weeks apart. As the ten day mark approached, the operation had gone into action. Mulder had alternated between discomfort and nervous vigilance as he watched Scully through slitted eyes, listening to the chatter from the other undercover agents through the earpiece hidden beneath his shaggy wig. For days, he'd watched a half naked Scully shiver with the cold. The skin exposed by her outfit, a tiny black lace crop top, short plaid schoolgirl skirt and thigh high stiletto heeled boots, had been pebbly with goosebumps in the cool October nights. He had felt nothing but worry during that time, afraid that she wouldn't be able to run in five inch stiletto heels, concern at her exposure as a target. When the time came, though, she'd very efficiently chased the rapist down as he made his move against another agent posing as a prostitute. Mr. Aramis was on his belly, hands cuffed behind him and Scully's knee at the small of his back, before Mulder could haul himself off the pavement and tear across the street. It felt like hours before they wrapped up the crime scene and returned to the police station. Mulder had changed out of his undercover clothes when they'd returned, leaving Scully to receive the accolades she deserved. He had needed a little decompression time, a breather from the strong need to protect her. If he allowed himself to do what he really wanted, he'd tackle her and wrap her in cotton wool. That is, if she didn't shoot him first. No matter how hard it was for him, he had to give them both the room to do their jobs. Now, with the danger passed, he couldn't take his eyes off the creamy white skin of her breasts, limned by the black lace of her top. To Mulder's untrained eye, the crop top looked a lot like a black bra. One sneeze and he was sure a nipple would pop out. He almost hoped she'd come down with a cold standing on that drafty streetcorner. She yawned, pushing wild hair from her face. The first few nights, she'd worn a blonde wig, but it gave her a headache. Tonight, she'd teased her own hair into a tousled, curly style. With heavy black eyeliner and red, red lips, she looked dangerous. He watched as she grimaced and pressed her fist into the small of her bare back above the tiny plaid skirt. Her back must have been sore from hours spent standing in such high heels. He moved closer, still towering over her despite the additional five inches under her heels. Normally, he tried to be less obvious with his proprietary attitude, but he couldn't take much more of Simonetti's leering glances. "You look like you've had enough action for one night. Why don't we get out of here?" he asked. "Yeah," she said, exhaustion plain in her voice. "I'm too tired to change. Let's just go." Taking her duffle out of her hand, he hefted it onto his shoulder and said goodnight to Simonetti. Over the top of Scully's head, he shot the lieutenant a territorial grin. He and Scully stood on the pavement in front of the police station, breathing the cold air for a moment. She shivered, and Mulder shrugged out of his jacket and draped it over her shoulders. "So, what would it cost to have you come home with me?" he asked. "I don't know if you can afford me." The wicked gleam in her eyes sent a tiny jolt of electricity through him. Could she be turned on by this? Scully had seemed repulsed by the "seamy underbelly" atmosphere of the strip club they had staked out just a month ago. She'd complained mightily, much to his amusement, but now she seemed to be aroused by the same tawdry scene. A white Lexus waited at the traffic light, an older couple peering at them open-mouthed with shock and curiosity. Mulder's jaw dropped when Scully struck a hands-on-hips pose and leveled a brazen look at the couple. He could do nothing but follow her, a shit-eating grin on his face as she stalked toward the car, swaying on her impossibly high heels. He listened to the clack of her heels as she walked, skirt flipping with every swivel of her hips. He didn't think there was any other way to walk in those boots. He wished the car was farther away so he could watch that walk a little longer. With every twitch of the pleated skirt, her panties were in danger of peeking out. They reached the car, in a rather dark corner of the parking lot. He fished the keys out of his pocket and leaned over her to unlock the car door, his free hand brushing her bare thigh. The urge to take her against the hood of the car was so powerful, he missed the lock entirely, key scratching noisily against metal. Was it the outfit? Certainly, the blatant sexuality of it aroused him, but then again, he got hard at the sight of Scully in surgical scrubs or threadbare pajamas. No, it was something more than bare skin and sexy clothes. He pictured her lying against the cold steel of the hood, panties torn, skirt around her waist, exposed to him and the moonlight. He would fold her legs back to her shoulders and drive into her like an animal. He tried to clear the images from his mind with a small shake of his head. Finally, the key found the lock, and he pulled the door open. Scully brushed against him, slowly and deliberately, as she climbed into the car. Settling back against the seat, he took a deep breath. Scully was exhausted, and he'd better get his libido in check. But Scully was gazing at him, and the look in her eyes said nothing of fatigue. No, the look in Scully's eyes was rather predatory and the small hand on his thigh, forceful. She leaned in, her face inches from his, her hand kneading his flesh. "Are you going to put it in?" Her voice was throaty, deep and seductive. "What?" he asked, his voice cracking a little. "The key. Are you going to put it into the ignition?" "I knew that," he mumbled under the roar of the car's engine as it came to life. What the hell had gotten into Scully? He felt her breath on his neck and her hands roaming over his body. The hand that had been on his thigh was now under his sweater, moving over his stomach. Sharp white teeth bit down lightly on his earlobe, and that warm hand slipped just under the waistband of his jeans. Scully was not a shy lover. She made her desires known clearly and confidently, both by word and touch. But she was different tonight. As her hand slid further down his pants, he reflected that she'd passed clear and confident a while ago and hurtled all the way to wild and rapacious. Her mouth had left his ear, nipping and sucking along his jaw until it reached his lips. Her kisses were insistent, hungry, and her hand closed over his hard cock. God, he was so hard it hurt. He felt her shift a little in the seat, her body pressing against him. Voices in the distance reminded him that they were not alone. He could pick out the joking tone, recognized the sounds of cops unwinding after work. The voices were getting closer and he needed to get Scully somewhere, anywhere that wasn't the parking lot of a police station at change of shift. He threw the car into reverse, turning his head to check behind him. Scully released his lips with a low purr of dissatisfaction, but her hand stayed firmly over his straining erection. He was completely prepared to break city speeding ordinances. Hell, he was prepared to violate the laws of physics to get Scully to a place where he could peel the skimpy clothes off her. On second thought, perhaps he'd rather she kept some of them on. Like, maybe the boots. Definitely the boots. It would be a miracle, he thought, if they didn't get pulled over by a traffic cop. He drove too fast and took the corners erratically, his coordination shot to hell by the hot little hand so busy in his pants. He could just imagine the scene. *No Officer, I don't know how fast I was going. The young lady? Oh, the young lady isn't a hooker, Officer. No, she'd undercover. Yes, Sir, I guess you could say that her hand is undercover at the moment.* He supposed he should tell Scully to stop. He could reach down and pull her hand away and sternly tell her she had to wait and ask what the hell had gotten into her, anyway. But he didn't. Instead, he pointed the car toward his apartment, having calculated the distance between the police station and each of their respective homes, and decided that going to his apartment would get him buried deep inside Scully twenty- three minutes sooner. Mulder turned sharply into his building's parking lot, the car screeching to a halt against the fence. Scully took this as her cue to unbutton Mulder's jeans and seemed a bit disappointed that she couldn't do that with one hand thrust inside them. He grabbed her hand, preventing her from unzipping his jeans, and pulled her from the car. Not that a blow job in the car wouldn't have been exciting, certainly consistent with the whole "hooker and john" theme, but, on second thought, a bit too sordid for his taste. He wasn't sure who this wild woman was, and what she had done with Scully. It seemed, though, to have something to do with the clothes. Her very being seemed to hum with sexual hunger, to vibrate with desire. He hoped none of his neighbors were watching as he and Scully hurried across the parking lot and into the building. He was unpopular enough after that three day quarantine a few years ago. Seeing him spirit a scantily clad working girl up to his apartment wouldn't do much to improve his reputation. Luck was with him, and no one was waiting for the elevator when they arrived at his floor. He could just imagine the shocked expressions when the doors opened to reveal Scully, legs wrapped around his waist, kissing him as if she were trying to melt his tonsils. He staggered down the hall, wearing his Scully coat and trying not to crash into the walls. Her crotch jostled his hard cock with every step he took, and her very enthusiastic kissing made it hard to see where he was going. Finally, the number 42 came into his peripheral vision, as welcome as the Holy Grail to a Crusader. He wedged Scully up against the wall next to the door, shimmying his hips down a bit, so he could reach the keys in his pocket. Scrabbling around the lock, he was relieved when the key found its home and the door swung open. They stumbled into the room, distractions gone as Mulder slammed the door behind them. His hands finally released their hold on her waist, slipping down to cup her smooth little bottom through her silky panties. Scully unlocked her legs from their grip around his waist, feet searching for the floor. "Why don't you tell me what you want?" she asked, walking, stalking to the desk. Pushing papers to the floor, she hitched herself up and crossed her legs. "Who are you, and what have you done with my partner?" he countered, sliding a hand along her thigh and up under the little plaid skirt. "Oh, I see. You're a show and not tell type." Her voice was deep and throaty. "So, show me." Her lips were swollen from four floors of kisses, ripe berry red and soft. They looked tender, so his kisses were gentle now, yet as insistent as hers had been. She slipped her hands under his sweater, cool fingers stroking his skin. He broke off the kiss long enough to pull the sweater over his head and send it flying in the direction of the chair. Her nails skimmed over his bare chest, not quite scratching, not quite tickling, finally settling in to trace around his nipples. Her skin shimmered beneath the black lace of her top, the pink of her nipples barely visible against her pale breasts. His hands played over the lace, the fabric slightly rough to the touch, her nipples hard as little pebbles under the cloth. He pushed the straps down her shoulders, allowing her breasts to rise out of the black lace like a swimmer out of the sea. She arched her back, pushing them forward into his hands. His thumbs stroked over her nipples, teasing them to even harder points as she moaned. He kissed a line down from her tender lips, through the lovely hollow at the base of her neck, over the swell of her breast. She cupped her breasts, offering them up to him and he obliged to take one hard nipple between his lips. The lace of her bra rubbed his chin as he suckled and nipped. Her hands were in his hair, holding him to her as her back arched. His back reminded him of the days spent slumped in a cold alley, and he realized that crouching over Scully at this angle was going to cripple him. If she didn't wear him out first. Bed. They needed a bed. Scully moaned when his mouth left her breast, nails digging into his skin. Her feet hit the floor with a clatter as he pulled her from the desk and into the bedroom. "Nice digs," she said, gazing around the chaos of his bedroom. Laundry was piled on the dresser, sneakers haphazardly tossed in the corner. Newspapers, magazines and soda cans littered most of the surfaces in the room. Blessedly, the bed was clear of clutter and the sheets were clean. It was enough to convince a person that there was a higher power. Backing him against the bed, Scully pushed gently on his chest. He hit the mattress like a mighty oak, which was appropriate considering the woody of massive proportions he was sporting under his jeans. Her hands were on his jeans again, much more successful this time, without the distraction of a speeding car. In a heartbeat, he felt the cool air against his burning skin. Scully was smiling at him, licking her swollen lips in a very distracting manner. And her mouth was on him, warm and soft and hungry. His hips seemed to have a mind of their own, rising off the bed as she worked his boxers and jeans down a bit. The hot suction never relented, and he thought his head was going to explode from sheer pleasure. Suddenly, the sucking stopped, and he fought back a whine of disappointment. She flashed him a wicked smile, before tugging his jeans down his legs, stopping only to remove his boots. His cock stood at attention, purple and throbbing. Please, he wanted to shout. Please do that thing again. But Scully just smiled. Standing between his spread legs, she cupped her breasts, kneading the flesh hard. He watched the flesh become pink with her roughness. Her hands drifted down over her ribs, then reached under the hem of the skirt. He was transfixed as her fingers slipped under the waistband of her panties, slowly drawing them down her thighs. She paused for a moment, one hand holding the skirt bunched at her waist, the other moving over the slight roundness of her stomach. The sight of Scully, panties at the top of her boots, fingers slipping between her legs was almost more than he could bear. She groaned as her hand worked at the apex of that glorious russet triangle of curls. Pausing, Scully drew the panties over the top of the boots, stepping out of the tiny scrap of fabric. Still holding her skirt up, she moved to straddle him, fingers playing over her clit. He pushed her hand away, replacing it with his own, finding the pebble-hard bud with his thumb. Her hands wandered back to her breasts, scooping them further above the restrictive lace of the bra. She moaned as she pulled on the rosy brown nipples, grinding her wet center against his cock. God, she was slick, almost hot enough to burn him. Her leather boots stuck to his skin, chafing his hips with her every movement. With one deft motion, she sunk down onto his cock, sheathing him in heat. She shifted her body, moving her thighs to get him deepest into her until her bare buttocks rested warm against his balls. The hem of her skirt tickled his thighs and belly. He bucked under her, hands at her waist. She smoothed her hands over his chest, as she rose up until just the head of his cock was still inside her, then dropped down hard. He gasped, overwhelmed with the need to move within her. He wanted to pound into her hard enough to rattle her teeth, but she quite literally had the upper hand now. He reflected that she'd had the upper hand from the moment they left the police station. Every look, every touch, every movement had been on her terms and he'd loved every single moment of it. She'd been a woman possessed and he happily would have fucked her on the White House lawn if that was what she wanted. Now, as if in answer to his silent prayers, she moved over him, slowly at first, rocking her body forward and back. Strong muscles gripped him, deep inside her, and her hips moved a little faster. And then she was riding him, almost frantically, arching her back to bring her clit over his pubic bone. Her breasts bobbed over his face, fascinating him with every jounce of her body. Scully made a noise, somewhere between a grunt and a sigh, deep in her throat, and he knew she was close to climax. He loved that sound, and he loved that he knew what it signified. He wanted to hear that sound a billion more times before he died. Two billion. More. His orgasm was so close, her gasps heaping fuel on the fire until the supernova sensation hit him full force. He roared out, loud enough to embarrass him under other circumstances. The sound hung lonely in the air until her moans reached a peak and her own wake-the-dead shriek joined it. She dropped onto him, limp with exhaustion, sighing into his ear. He loved that sound too, the sound of satisfaction, maybe even contentment. "Scully?" he murmured into the curve of her neck. "What?" she asked, her voice sleepy in his ear. "Do you get to keep these clothes?" The end (meow)