Heat Considered As A Mode of Motion

 by Lyrica

 In the dim light, she stares at the door.

She can't stand it. Not one minute longer. She can't stand it, and it's the craziest thing Dana Scully's ever felt. It's crazy, but she
can't stand it. Knowing that he's just beyond the door.

It’s never bothered her before, not on any of her other assignments. Never bothered her, being days and day in the field, living
next door to Mulder. In fact, it’s a comfort to both of them, knowing the other is just a tap on the wall away.

She’s wondered sometimes, with Mulder so close she can hear his breathing, just beyond the wall. In that lilting, drowsy
what-if, moonlight kind of way that oozes into her mind in the middle of the night. What if she went through the door? But
everybody wonders. What if? It’s like a well-worn quilt on a cold night, warm and comfortable.

But this isn’t a what if. This is a never-washed wool blanket on a summer day. It’s making her itch. It’s making her skin feel
scraped and flushed. It’s making her hot and crazy.

Knowing her boss is on the other side of the wall is like being in a steam room. Like returning to the heavy humidity through
which they’ve traipsed all day. In deep shadow with insects droning in the background and rich gray Spanish moss reaching out
to snag her hair. But instead of the sweet scent of blooming flowers, there’s the thick musk of male sweat.

He’s just next door, with only the thin wall of the motel separating them. Only the hollow, badly painted door with its cheap,
unpolished brass knob.

She looks at the door, framed by yellowed wallpaper and peeling paint. Little button lock poking out in the center of a tarnished doorknob. Like an erect nipple, a tiny, hard penis.

It's not locked on her side. Is it on his? If it is, he locked it after she went into the bathroom. After she turned on the shower and the whine of air in rusty pipes drowned out the sound.

Did he lock the door then? Before he peeled off the sweat streaked shirt? White shirt normally so stiff and spotless, limp after a
day spent slogging through fields, through forest, through a haze of heat and humidity so thick she can still taste it. Limp after a
day of clinging to his chest. Pliant with the sweat of his body.

What would he do, if she opened the door now? Growl at her? Glower? Thrust out that expressive jaw and signal disapproval?
What if…

She paces, trailing her fingers across the cheap motel room furniture, and the circuitous path takes her to the door. As she knew it would. The knob turns easily under her fingers. Cold and smooth except for the place where the seam of the rounded knob
scrapes at the pads of her fingers. Soft little click almost drowned out by the drumbeat of her heart. The door opens smoothly.

He's sitting at the little table in front of the window, in a pool of yellow light. He's making notes on a pad. Yellow legal pad made even more golden by the light from the lamp. Tanned skin even more bronzed. Fat, black pen, thick and rounded like a penis,
clutched in his fingers. Lovely, square hands. Lovely, strong fingers.

He looks up at her, question in his dark eyes. Frown lines creasing his forehead. "Agent Scully? Don’t you believe in knocking?"

Oh, the growl…! It trails like rough fingers down her spine. It tightens her nipples.

She pretends to hesitate. "Sorry, Sir. I didn’t think. Mulder and I…if the door’s unlocked, that means it’s okay to come in."

His gaze slides casually over her, down the length of her silk robe. It’s a weak excuse, but he eases back, mollified. Maybe it’s
her bare feet, peeking out beneath the hem, or maybe it’s the smile she tries to make chagrined, but he says, "I’ll try to
remember that."

There’s just a hint of wry humor in his voice. Enough to make her shiver. To give her a hint of what he would be like, relaxed
and laughing. As much a stranger as he is now, without his glasses, the spotless shirt, the perfectly knotted tie. Without the
frown and the thinly drawn mouth. Bare feet crossed beneath the table. His normally fierce expression shed, presumably, with
the outer skin, the armor, of starch and tie and shoes.

A familiar stranger, strangely vulnerable with his naked eyes and his broad, strong shoulders encased in a plain t-shirt. Spotless
white, stretched so tight she can see the demarcation where his tricep rounds into his shoulder. So thin she can see the small,
dark circles of his nipples.

As she stands there staring at him, the doorknob warming under her fingers, he looks at her quizzically. Beginning to sense that
something's different. Something's crazy. "What can I do for you?"

Husky voice, like fingers on parchment. So different when it’s not busy being professional, barking orders. In the wild, which
animal would he be? Gruff, growling lion? Glossy, muscled black bear? Pacing, fierce-eyed wolf? None seems right. All seem
right.

"Agent Scully?" He pushes back from the table, curve of thigh bunching beneath thin, gray cotton pants.

Before he can stand, she's across the room, leaning in. One hand on the back of his chair and the other on the table. Leaning in.

She can smell the warmth of her own skin, the soft powder she smoothed between her breasts. The squeaky clean, motel soap
scent of him. It’s pleasant, but artificial, and she wishes she could press her face to his skin. To find the smell of *him* beneath
the soap. The scent she’s drowned in all day, trailing in his wake. "You're working on a map of the site."

He nods. Quickly draws his gaze from the front in her robe down to the rectangle of yellow paper. Deep, deep breath. "It's not
right, though. The proportions are a little off...here." He taps the area where he’s inked the wavy line of the river road. He
struggles to resist, but his gaze is drawn back to the curving line of her breasts, visible through the gap in her robe. As if the
secret to his map is hidden there.

"Um-m-m... Yes, you're right." She takes the thick pen from his fingers, brushing his knuckles as her hand slips away. Holds the pen to her mouth, tapping her teeth lightly.

She knows he’s watching her mouth now, mesmerized. Gap in the robe forgotten as she touches the pen with her tongue, tastes
it. Salty from being in his fingers, from resting all day in his pocket, against the steamy heat of his skin.

His pupils dilate, his fingers clench as he tears his gaze from the sight of her tongue, circling the tip of his pen. Deep breath again, this one shaky and rough. Striving for control.

But she doesn’t want him to be in control. She taps the tip of the pen, wet with saliva, against her sternum. Dipping it quickly
beneath the edge of her robe and back out.

She doesn’t know what kind of animal she wants him to be, but she knows what she is--a fox. Mulder isn’t a fox; he’s a
panther. A lean, slinky panther with green eyes. She’s a fox. A sleek red fox with bright, sly eyes and a streamlined face that
hides what she is inside. Quick and daring and on fire.

He looks at her, realizes she’s watching him. Teasing him. Realizes she’s watching his reaction. Waiting with tense, dangerous
daring.

His chest expands with a deep, ragged breath. Enticing ripple of muscle. His pupils dilate even further, until his iris is only a
coffee colored line edging black depths.

He wants her. He wants to respond to the deliberate flirtation in her eyes. She can feel it steaming off him, like the body heat in
which she’s basked all day. Walking behind him, watching his high, tight ass move under the dress trousers, watching the stiff
cotton shirt grow transparent and cling to his back. Picturing him naked and sweating. Delicious image. Her sly fox smile
widens.

His gaze meets hers, surprised and direct. Asking *what are you doing to me?* at the same time it dares her to continue.

And she knows it’s now. While he’s teetering on the line between propriety and passion. She touches him, his face and the
warm, satiny skin of his temple. Cups the smoothness of his head in her fingers and steps in on him. So close he has to tip his
head back or bury his face in her breasts. Whichever he chooses, she wins.

He tips his head back, following the gentle persuasion of her fingers. His eyes are widen even further, surprised and pleased. His lips part. His tongue snakes out to touch the thin upper lip.

An invitation too sweet to pass up. She kisses him, teasing his mouth as deliberately as she teased his gaze. Touching the
corners of his mouth, teasing his tongue into coming to her. He tastes of sweetened iced tea and toothpaste and something so
indefinably him. He tastes of something she must have.

He breathes against her mouth, tattered exhale.

She backs away from him, and he stands. Animal grace. Animal power. Mesmerized by her smile, her desire. She draws him
with her by only the pressure of her fingers on his palms. Turning him until he backs into the bed. Sits down.

And then he lures her. Reeling her in by the trailing ties of her robe. Pulling her between his knees. Slipping his fingers inside the
tie where the strands of silk are looped over each other against her belly. The tie comes loose, sliding, slipping through his
fingers.

The robe whispers off her shoulders, pools at her feet, and she’s naked under his hands. Under his dark gaze. His hands span
the width of her body, moving slowly, like fluttering wings barely brushing her skin. Up to her waist, her ribs, her chest. Thumbs
brushing the hollow at the base of her throat. Touching her lips.

She touches her tongue to his fingertips. Rough, salty skin.

He catches his breath. Softly, sweetly. The one little sound is all the urging she needs as he gathers her to him, strong arms
across her naked back, tilting her face to his. Offering his mouth up.

She tastes him again. His lips and his teeth and his questing tongue. Desire growing until it’s a hum to match the roiling of blood
in her veins. A throbbing pulse like a bass drum. She pushes him back, shoulders gripped in her small hands. Trailing her fingers
across the tiny peaks of his nipples, visible through thin white cotton.

She grips the waistband of his pants, slowly unknots the tie. He helps her, rolling from hip to hip to allow her to slide the fleecy
cotton away. Comes to rest on his back, breathing harshly, his cock stretching hard and long up his belly.

"I’ve wanted to fuck you all day." Savoring the word she never says, tasting it as if it tastes of him, salt and toothpaste and
strength. Raw, rough word that is not a part of her everyday vocabulary, but seems right. Sounds proper in the heat, with him
erect and trembling and so strong. So willing to lie there quiescent under her hands. So incredibly arousing wearing only the
brilliant white t-shirt.

She moistens her lips, mouth suddenly dry. Not at all like the swollen, slickened flesh between her legs... "I’ve been stalking you all day. Following your scent."

He whispers, "Yes." Too controlled, too casual, as if he's agreeing to milk and sugar for his coffee. Then, "I felt you."

And she knows, suddenly, that he’s not a lion, or a bear, or a wolf--not any of those. He’s the hunter. Sitting quietly in the
shadows, hooded and camouflaged and waiting. Sinuously weaving his spell, charming her into coming to him. Into stepping into his trap. A trap baited with honey and muscle and sweat-slicked skin.

She climbs up over him, dragging the hard points of her nipples across his skin. Dragging her tongue across his skin. Tasting
him. His skin, his musk. Marking him with the wet tip of her tongue.

He shivers as she kisses the soft flesh where his thigh joins his body. As she slides her tongue just up under the edge of the
t-shirt. Back down the hard, flat plateau of his stomach. Skirting his cock. Touching it, as if by accident, then slipping away.

He holds his breath, waiting. Waiting. Straining. And then no longer able to maintain the mask of acquiescence, of waiting, he
reaches for her. The hunter traps his prey. "Suck me," he commands, threading his blunt fingers through her hair.

His hand on the back of her head, guiding her mouth to his cock, is heavy. She obeys the pressure, feathering pleased laughter
across his cock as she tastes him. The thick crown and the straining shaft and his heavy balls. She presses her face into him.
Inhaling him. The mysterious masculine scent of his balls and the thatch of soft, crisp hair. Learning his scent, so that she would
know him in the dark. In a roomful of men.

She laps at the wetness leaking from him. Learning his taste. Answering with her own aching wetness, lush hot throb. A moaned exhale fills the room, but she’s not sure if it’s his or hers.

"Don’t stop," he orders.

But this rough-voiced command she ignores, releasing him from her mouth, crawling up his body once again. Pushing his shirt
ahead of her fingers, exposing corrugated ribs, the startling flare of his chest out to wide shoulders.

He arches, shifting to help her push the shirt away. Accepts the invasion of her tongue into his mouth, feeding him the taste of
himself. Sigh of disappointment as she moves away.

The hair under his arms is darker than the crisp brown on his chest, and softer, like down. He shivers under the dance of her
fingertips, ticklish. His nipples are pinkbrown, all wrong for his golden tan, and she likes the imperfection. She strokes them he
shivers again and sighs. She draws her hands down his body, reversing her journey. The trip is slow, sweet agony, punctuated
with the hard catches of his breath. Lifting his hips in tense anticipation, waiting for her to touch his gorged cock again.

She grasps him. Silk and marble and fire. Still wet from her mouth. His thickness fills her hand. His hiss ripples through her
blood, drugging her. She tips him up, tilts her hips and takes him. All of him. The thick head of his cock pushing her aside,
drilling out a space for itself in her belly. She sighs softly, sighs out her pleasure as his growled out "yes," works its way through
her, bubbling up out of her veins and into her lungs. Escaping into the room to be breathed in again. Her muscles quiver around
him, deliciously stretched.

His hands come up, grasping her hips, pulling her down, seating her. Holding her in place as he thrusts, arching up, using the
slack give of the mattress as a springboard to launch himself into her.

She hangs there, over him, sheathing him. The climb to orgasm starting the moment he moves, her flesh quivering and tightening
as he slides home. Quick uphill climb.

Pleasure becoming more persistent with each thrust, more demanding. Until she’s moaning, clenching her fingers on his ribs with
each pulse. Climbing, climbing…sure that each piercing stab will be the one that sends her careening into bliss. That the pleasure can’t climb any higher, wind any tighter. Tendrils of sensation twisting and swelling up into her belly, winding around her spine,
curling up her scalp, tightening her nipples.

"Come for me. I’m ready." His hands tighten on her. His words bite into her. A warning and an order. A promise. Rhythm
speeding, going ragged.

"Yes," she whispers fiercely. Captivated by his face. His eyes gone black with pleasure. The muscles bunching under her fingers. His back arches, straining to push deeper into her.

"Oh. Oh, god." The grip, release, grip of his fingers on her waist punctuate each sound. And then everything tightens down. His
fingers and his muscles and his newly expressive face. "Oh, god…" Everything freezes. Except his cock--it jerks, lifts up to meet her, grinds against something primitive and tender inside her.

She presses down to meet him, straining. Straining, needing just a little more pressure. Just a little more movement. There.
Almost there… "Please…"

"Now," he gasps. "Oh, god, that’s good..." His voice, his gruff, torn with pleasure voice, is the push she needed. Just enough to
send her over the edge, careening downhill.

Her orgasm washes over her. Like waves. Like rain. Like wind, rushing through treetops and exposing the silvery undersides of
the leaves. Rippling up, out. Strong and gentle. No clenching, just release. The pleasure so rich it makes her moan, tips her head back. She’s looking at the ceiling, unable to look at him another moment. Sensory overload. Too much, too beautiful.

He arches higher to meet her, urging the sensations higher. His hands have left her hips. His fingers are entwined with hers now,
holding her weight, helping her to stay upright, and she doesn’t know how they got there. Only that her hands are opening and
closing on his thick fingers in time to the pulsing of her orgasm. Only that he is holding her, gripping her as if he’s going to go on
forever. Thrusting up into her, gasping with pleasure. Making her vibrate with sensation. And peak again. And again. Sudden
sharp little jabs of sensation. Easing to ripples. Flurries of them. Then ripples again. Flowing out, lengthening. Fluttering. Slipping away to gentle pulses in counterpoint to the pounding of her heart.

He stills, bringing her down with him. Relaxing into the mattress. At last, he releases his grip on her fingers, allowing her to drop
forward. Welcoming her boneless roll into his arms.

His chest rises and falls beneath her cheek, his labored breathing stirs her hair. His chest is faintly damp and tastes of salt. Smells of *him*, the scent she has breathed in his wake all day. Gone the cloying sweetness of motel soap, the artificial smoothness of
the shower. She has given him back the intoxicating scent of himself, and she tastes him. Moving on him, lapping at him.

He sighs softly, groans as she rocks. Soft now, but still thick and lodged inside her. Shivers as her tongue traces his jaw. The
place that even on other men, she associates with him, because it is the weathervane, the yardstick, by which she measure his
moods. It clenches when he’s annoyed and ripples when he’s angry and smoothes out when he’s relaxed. It holds people away
when he’s upset, with a forbidding jut that she’s never seen anyone brave enough to withstand. And now, with his hands
stroking lazily on her bare back, pressing lightly on her buttocks to rock her down on him, it dips. Turning slightly. Inviting the
gentle touch of her tongue. The nuzzling thank you.

He turns his head still lower, searching for her mouth. Finds her blindly. Kisses her gently and whispers the word again. Sighs it
this time, as much a thank you as her kisses on his face. "Good."

He moves to draw her further up onto the bed, but she slips away. Pulls the thin sheet up over him. Kisses him again. *Thank
you and good night.* Turns out the yellow light, plunging the room into neon reflected semi-darkness.

The softness of her robe is harsh against her skin as she slips back into her room. As she pulls the connecting door closed
behind her. Tests the knob with a slow twist of wrist to make sure it doesn’t lock as it clicks shut.
 

The End