Mulder or Scully bored at a conference, texting each other. Pics involved.
The first photo catches him by surprise, and it takes him a moment to figure it out. A thin strip of black on cream, a shadow—he realizes it’s Scully’s bra strap, a peek of her collarbone.
He shifts uncomfortably in his seat, tries to draw his attention back to the speaker. Fuck that he got the short straw and had to attend this stupid conference while she’s back in the hotel room…
Another photo. Black lace.
His pants suddenly feel uncomfortably tight.
I can’t concentrate, he responds.
She sends two more pictures.
The man to his right humphs and Mulder puts his phone away, feeling the insistent buzz of it in his pocket.
He can leave early, he thinks. She’s just seven floors up, and he can leave early, this information isn’t vital…
His phone buzzes again, and he stands before he can think about it, holding a folder in front of his crotch like a middle school boy.
He fidgets the entire ride in the elevator. Drops his key card twice trying to get it in the door, and when he opens it—
She’s on the bed.
“Knew I could make you come,” she says, and it’s with a smirk. “Now it’s your turn to make me.”