From: ephemeral@ephemeralfic.org
Date: Sat,  4 Oct 2008 22:01:08 -0500 (CDT)
Subject: Socially Inept by Adrienne
Source: direct

Reply To: davephile@yahoo.com


Title: Socially Inept
Author: Adrienne < davephile@yahoo.com > 
Date: Oct. 4, 2008
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: Hollywood A.D.
Classification: V
Keywords: MSR, post-ep HAD
Archive: Anywhere, in its entirety
Summary: Their beverage of choice was vodka, and a lot of it.
Disclaimer: Not mine. They wish they were.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: I believe the prompt dropped to me was "What did 
Mulder and Scully do with that FBI credit card? Got hammered and 
fornicated." Thanks, mariemaru. And also many thanks to Marigold, 
who has to suffer through massive amounts of porn just for being 
my beta. I'm so sorry, honey.
________________________________________

"Mulder, I've come to the conclusion that we're socially inept."

The only thing between her and a hundred bottles of assorted 
high-end liquor is a long, shiny mahogany bar, its comfortable 
chrome-and-black stools empty except for the two of them.

"What do you mean?" Mulder's watching people walked by, people 
dressed up just like them, laughing and heading out the door to 
enjoy the Los Angeles nightlife. He finishes up his third vodka 
tonic and spins the glass on the countertop.

"Well," she says, taking a long sip of her pomegranate martini. 
It has an addictive sweet burn that slides over her tongue, but 
it burns a little less than the first did, and definitely less 
than the second. "We were given a Bureau credit card for our free 
and potentially irresponsible use this evening, and the best 
thing we could come up with was to head back to the hotel bar."

"It's a nice bar," he muses. She rolls her eyes. He notices. "Is 
it not a nice bar?"

"Yes, Mulder. It's a wonderful bar. But it's a bar."

"Well, what would you rather have done, Scully? I'm all ears."

She finishes off the martini and catches the eye of the 
bartender--it isn't hard. He's been watching her all night with a 
look in his eyes that's less than chaste. It's admittedly made 
her a little happier to be there after all. He quickly supplies 
her with another apple martini.

"It's on me," he says with a wink. Mulder's face is priceless. 
The bartender walks away and she feels a flush spread across her 
cheeks. It's not just the alcohol.

"Dana Scully. I think you're enjoying this a little more than you 
let on." Mulder says it just loud enough for the bartender to 
hear, she's sure of it. She gives him a glare and he smirks, 
tapping his empty glass on the wood until the bartender slides 
him another drink.

"Is this one on you, too?" Mulder says under his breath.

She gulps down the martini, feeling lightheaded from her first 
three drinks. Four. She's now had four. She tries to ignore the 
fact that she's fifteen minutes away from stumbling drunk. She 
lifts an eyebrow at him, her voice like honey. "Aw, what's the 
matter, Mulder?"

"Nothin'," he says, drinking his own vodka equally as quickly. He 
smiles at her. "Just a trained eye making an observation."

"Guys hit on me sometimes, Mulder," she says with a shrug of one 
shoulder. She can't help the tiny smile that emerges. "What can I 
say? It's a great way to get free drinks."

"I'm sure he's extremely concerned about your hydration," he 
says.

"Of course." She licks a drip of vodka sliding down from the rim 
of her glass, knowing it'll knock Mr. Trained Eye down a notch. 
It does. His tongue runs over his upper lip as he stares at her a 
second too long before averting his eyes to the revolving door at 
the hotel entrance.

"Mulder?" Her voice is low and steady and she nearly makes 
herself shiver. The delicious effects of the alcohol are now 
steadily radiating through her body, from head to torso to toe 
and everywhere in between.

"Yeah?" He casts a sideways glance at her.

"You asked me what I'd rather have done. Than sit here at the 
bar." Her lips and cheeks feel a little numb now as she tries to 
sound coherent and as sober as possible.

"Whatever you want to do now, it's going to have to be within 
walking distance."

Her eyes flicker over him as he lounges on the barstool, still in 
his tuxedo from the movie premiere. When she saw him dressed in 
that before they'd left the hotel, her breath had literally 
caught in her throat. She'd tried not to seem too flustered. He'd 
smelled like Armani, his tan neck meeting the crisp white of his 
dress shirt, his hair perfect, his smile genuine as he'd taken a 
fair look at her, too, and told her she looked "Nice."

She'd learned to take what she could get from this man. In fact, 
the night had her wondering just how much she could actually get 
from him after all.

"It's only a short walk," she murmurs, placing her hand on his 
arm. She uses the rare tone of voice he knows well by now. It's 
been a short few months since she'd first let him hear it and it 
still feels new and exciting. Everything does.

He turns his head to look at her with a playful smile. "I see."

Her toes start to twiddle in her brand new Kate Spade heels as 
she keeps his gaze, biting her lower lip and running her hand up 
his arm, back down again, resting it on top of his.

"All right. Let's go." He stands up and tugs on her hand. She 
sees the hint of jealousy in the bartender's eyes as she gives 
him an apologetic smile when she passes him by.
_________________________________________________

A few seconds after the elevator doors close, she's not entirely 
convinced they'll make it back to her room. His mouth is hot and 
needy on hers--he's stooping to press her up against the mirrored 
paneling, his hand in her hair. She moans into his mouth as their 
tongues slide together, her fingers fumbling with his zipper, 
pulling it down and sliding her hand inside before they hit the 
second floor. Five to go. He groans and thrusts against her when 
her hand meets the hot, smooth skin beneath his boxers.

"Scully," he whispers against her lips. "You're so bad. So bad."

She's panting and slides her hand up his smooth cock, back down, 
staring into his eyes, feeling herself tingle at his soft, 
satisfied moan. The elevator dings at the seventh floor and she 
jumps, yanking her hand away. He zips up just as quickly.

There's no one in the hallway, and it's a good thing as she 
fumbles in her clutch for the keycard. He pushes her up against 
the door, grinding his hardness into her back.

"Oh Jesus, not here," she whispers as his hand slides up her 
thigh, under her dress.

"You'd better open that door soon," he warns, a growl as he tugs 
on her panties.

Her fingers graze the keycard and she opens the door, actually, 
he nearly pushes her through it. She stumbles a little in her 
too-high-for-drinking heels and he catches her around the waist 
as the door closes behind them. His hands slide up to her 
breasts, cupping them, kneading them roughly and she whimpers.

"How about here?" He says. "Right here, in front of the door?"

She manages to laugh with the breath she has left. "Wherever."

"Oh, the possibilities," he murmurs. He pulls down the zipper at 
the back of her little black dress and pushes the sleeves off her 
shoulders. She closes her eyes as she feels it pile around her 
feet. His shirt grazes her back as his fingers flick at the front 
clasp of her bra. It falls open and his palms greet her hardened 
nipples. She moans at his cool hands against her heated skin.

She turns her head and he kisses her mouth, off-center, lips 
working harder than usual to find their place on her mouth. She 
kisses him back languidly, tastes the tang of vodka, the 
saltiness of the bar peanuts he inhaled, the ones she wouldn't 
touch.

"Mulder, you're so drunk." She giggles as his lips move down to 
her neck. It tickles, it tingles. She fails to note to him that 
she's completely wasted. It feels nice. It's been way too long.

"I'm functionally drunk. All Mulders are functional drunks." His 
tongue flicks against her bare shoulder as his fingers tease her 
nipples to even harder peaks. 

"Are you?" Her hand snakes between them and grazes against the 
hardness at her back. He hisses a little and takes her earlobe in 
his mouth.

"Completely functionally drunk." One of his hands slides down her 
flat stomach and inside of her panties. She whimpers as a shiver 
passes over her body, but resists the urge to fall back into him. 
She must be strong. Strong, strong Scully. Strong, strong vodka.

"Oh yeah," she whispers. "Why don't you show me how functional 
you really are?"

______________________________________________________

The soft piled carpet rubbing against her bare belly and breasts 
is juxtaposed with the cool, crisp starch of his tuxedo shirt on 
her back as he's pinned her down onto the floor of the hotel 
room. They'd made it an epic three feet inside the door after she 
dropped that "functional" line and it had all ended there--he'd 
growled into her ear and pulled her down with him and she'd 
landed on her stomach with an ooof in a dizzying, satisfactory 
plunge.

She moans as she feels him wiggling off his slick dress pants, 
his bare legs a little scratchy against her soft, newly-shaven 
skin. "I'll show you," he mutters as he thrusts his hips against 
her bottom, barely covered in her black lace panties. She feels 
him hot, hard, straining through his boxers and she tilts her 
head back with a pant, her fingers digging into the carpet.

She feels his bare cock against her ass, knows he's shoved his 
boxers down just enough to get the job done. A split second of 
invention occurs to her through her fuzzy, vodka-hazy mind--
somebody should make panties with sides that tear off and mend 
easily. Snap buttons. Velcro. Something. Anything. She needs them 
off and she needs them off now.

"Get them off," she demands on a breath, and he has to roll to 
her side to yank her panties down her legs. She's wet and slick 
as he slides his hand sideways through her folds, his teeth on 
her neck. 

"Just checkin'," he breathes, licking his fingers next to her 
cheek. She can smell the vodka mingling with the slight scent of 
her arousal. She whimpers and spreads her legs a little more, 
stealing a peripheral glance at him and licking her upper lip. He 
takes the cue and slides over her, pinning her again. She tilts 
her hips and meets his thrust, deep and quick, all the way in.

"Oh, fuck," she groans. She presses her back up against him, his 
shirt rubbing against her as he strokes in and out of her slowly, 
deliciously slow.

"That's...the idea," he breathes in between hard thrusts. Her 
head is spinning, her pussy is throbbing around him, and all she 
hears is a little voice in her head getting louder. More, more, 
more. 

"More," she repeats outloud to the little voice. Mulder lets out 
a low, throaty laugh as he catches her earlobe between his teeth. 
She squirms under him, circling her hips, beckoning him closer. 
One of his hands tangles in her hair and he starts driving into 
her faster. She can't hold herself up any longer and lets her 
body fall flat onto the carpet, succumbing to the impending 
threat of rugburn on her upper torso.

He presses herinto the carpet and she's overwhelmed by all of it-
-his ragged breath in her ear, his cock wetly sliding, his 
fingers pulling on her hair, the dull pain of her body rubbing 
against the carpet, harder, faster. She's whimpering with the 
burn and pleasure of every thrust, and he catches on that she's 
becoming one with the floor. He slides an arm around her waist, 
pulling her up onto all fours. He gets on his knees between her 
legs and is fucking her before she even grasps the concept of 
changing positions.

Mulder grabs her hips and owns her, directs her. It takes her a 
few seconds to catch up, and when she does, she gets to slide her 
fingers down between her legs and stroke her aching clit, swollen 
and demanding somebody's attention.

"Scully," he pants as he fills her up over and over again. "Jesus 
fucking Christ, Scully."

She ignores the gold cross slapping against her throat with every 
one of his powerful strokes. Her fingers work harder and faster 
and he finally notices. He puts his hand over hers and pulls hers 
away and she groans, squeezing her eyes shut. Then he takes over, 
slowing his thrusts so he can concentrate on rubbing her wetness 
over her clit in circles with the rough pads of his fingers.

"Mulder," she moans as she feels herself tingling more, from head 
to toe, centered at his fingers, spreading like a warm wave, 
edging closer and closer.

"That's right," he breathes, sliding one hand up to her shoulder, 
the other one furiously working between her legs. "That's right, 
Scully. Yeah, you're going to come so hard."

He thrusts. Hard. Her mouth drops open a little as she's 
shamelessly panting and grinding into him now, her eyes still 
closed, as she whimpers and arches her back. The first wave of 
pleasure hits hard and she tenses around his cock, pulling him 
deeper as she comes. She hears him groan and she answers him with 
another louder whimper. She's shuddering, on fire, and he grabs 
her hips with both hands and starts pounding into her faster 
while she's still twitching around him.

"Yeahyeahyeah." She urges him on, wants to hear him come, wants 
to feel his fingernails embedded deep into her hips. Wants him to 
leave marks. Wants to remember it in every imaginable way. 
"Please, Mulder, please."

"Oh, Jesus." He slides into her easily and she hears his body 
hitting her bottom, feels his balls slapping her clit and she 
tilts her hips, moaning louder through her pants. She's a little 
surprised when she feels herself coming again, hard and fast. He 
groans loudly. Apparently he's surprised too. It's a treat, she 
thinks as she shivers around him, her muscles milking his cock as 
her whole body goes rigid under him.

A few more quick, jerky thrusts is all he can manage before he 
comes into her with a groan she is completely certain the next 
door neighbors can hear, and probably the ones across the hall, 
perhaps even a few floors down. Hopefully they're among the 
masses of people with better things to do on an L.A. evening.

If only they knew what they were missing.

- end -