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The Kink Files

Chapter Text

To kiss Scully is to remember all those places your lips have marked.

Her neck.

Her wrist.

Her belly.

Her thighs.

To kiss Scully is to remember the sounds she makes.

Her sighs.

Her gasps.

Her “Oh Mulder, yes…”.

To kiss Scully is to love her.

To comfort her.

To adore her.

To kiss Scully is to kiss all the beauty in your life.

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Her handwriting is as it’s always been: neat, concise, yet elegant. But these words are far from her academically-inclined field notes or her brief scratchings to inform him she’s gone to buy milk.

He doesn’t know which is more unbelievable, that they are intimate enough to be crossing this line, or that she is willing to tell him what she wants to try with him.

He reads her words, breathing heavily.

Sensation play. Bondage. Biting. Toys. Outdoors.

The list goes on.

His heart pounds as he reads, unaware she even knew of some of these ventures, and excited beyond belief at the possibilities. His mind flutters, dips, and races with visions of sweat, crumpled bed sheets and walls dented with sounds of pleasure. He could pass out.

He calms, bringing himself back into focus in order to read the things she cannot handle, the lines he will promise her to never, ever cross.

His palms sweat, and he finds himself more nervous about the actual response he sees than anything else he could have envisioned her writing:

Nothing. I trust you completely, Mulder.

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He has no idea what this couch does to her.

Of course she loves her own place, her bed, her sofa. But his place? God. Maybe it’s the smooth, creaky texture or the fond memory of a conversation on fate on this very couch, but whatever it is, sometimes their movie nights get to her.

She needs him. Now.

With barely a word she crawls into his lap, greeting him with a warm, wet kiss. Her pajama pants are off before he even begins kissing her back. He chuckles, surprised but obliging as he sets his beer down and lifts his hips when she pulls down his sweat pants. She whines with lust when she realizes he’s commando, giving him two brief strokes before sinking down fully onto him. He’s hot and huge and she groans at the sensation.

“Woah Scully, slow down,” he chides affectionately, his hands already clasping her hips to help guide her shaky posts. She barely acknowledges it; she’s too overwhelmed with the need to be close to him. She touches his soft skin, kisses the roughness of his chin, presses her knees deeper into the leather.

He has no idea what this couch does to her.

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The fact that she’s told you she doesn’t have to do this anymore appeals to your mercurially fragile sense of self. She’s surprised when you ask her. And yes, perhaps it strokes your male ego. But regardless of whatever the reason for wanting to watch her do this, the biggest pleasure is watching hers bloom, knowing that she once was as lonely as you. Now, no more.

She looks so silky. You know first hand the exact feel of those velvet pink folds, but there is something so heartrendingly erotic about watching her own fingers move slick and smooth against herself. Probing, exploring, rubbing. She looks to you for reassurance—the only time she has ever openly done so—and you smile and nod encouragingly, trying to muster up enough coordination in your sex-fogged brain to reach out and touch her arm. The tendons of her wrist ripple beneath your hand and she moans. Your eyes dance helplessly between her pleasure-soft face and her needy fingers.

“Mulder, I don’t want—” she whispers, and you watch her lips, waiting for her words, “I don’t want…to come…alone…”

She continues stroking herself, and you know she’ll continue if you let her, but that’s not what she wants. You smile at her and you swear that you see her shudder from it. Your palm skims down the curve of her belly until your fingers meet hers. There’s a slight pause, a few fumbles, but in a few breaths, you’re both stroking her perfectly. She groans again, the sound high-pitched and whiny in the back of her throat, then softly—beautifully—comes undone.

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She drags her tongue to catch the droplet of sweat that drifts down the length of his sandpaper cheek. She murmurs at him, her body limp and sated from an orgasm experienced not two minutes ago. He’s still simmering with heat and engorged with blood inside her. His face is shiny with the effort of control.

“It’s your turn, Mulder,” she sighs drowsily. He shakes his head briefly, weak with arousal.

“Don’t want it to end,” he pants, his thumb strumming her nipple once. It’s still wet with his saliva.

“When it ends it just means we get to start again,” she grins, “Come on.” She maneuvers her legs so that her knees meet his shoulders, slipping him messy and slick out of her body. She wriggles her hips and arches her back, invitingly pushing her stomach forward.

He looks bewildered for a moment, confused as to why she’s pushing him away, until he sees the devilish gleam in her eyes. He moves forward again, pressing the underside of his shaft against her slit. She’s smooth with her own come and heated with their sweat. She moans encouragingly as he begins to writhe against her, his voice strangled around the consonants and vowels of her surname.

After a few thrusts she calls him “baby” and that’s all it takes; he spurts warm and silky across her belly and she lets out a yelp when he nips her neck on the way down. They chuckle, bodies pressed together in the damp sheets. Her fingers alternately mess and smooth his rumpled hair.

“Shower first,” she mumbles against his ear, “Then we start again.”

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It’s not about control. Well…perhaps it is, a little. There’s something undeniably empowering about giving a man enough pleasure to make him completely lose his college education and his ability to form coherent sentences. It’s even better when that man is your partner, best friend, and—more recently you’ve discovered—the best lover you’ve ever had.

He smells good and tastes even better. Warm and desperate, his husky scent is heightened even more with the rush of the blood simmering in his veins and arteries. You love hearing his soft gasp when you press a kiss to the underside of his velvet shaft, his little dry sob when you gently tease his slit with the tip of your tongue. The ease with which you engulf him in your mouth is too right to be wrong.

His fingers are in your hair and you relish the additional small point of contact. His nails lightly scrape at your scalp and the sensation settles in your nipples and clit, where your free hand gently presses and squeezes. He moans at the realization that you’re deriving pleasure from his own and you smile before dragging your tongue up his length. He whimpers again.

It’s not about control. Really, it’s not…it’s all about him.

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She jumps a little the first time you try it, a nervous little giggle at the back of her throat. Your eyes meet and she smiles, granting permission. You kiss her, doing it again, and you’re greeted with a soft sigh and an “I like that” vibrates against your lips.

The mood moves from playful to focused real quick, because now you’ve got a goal. Her eyes change from sparkling to a heated glimmer, then her eyelids slide closed and she moans.

“Oh God, Mulder yeah…” she whimpers, her forehead bunched and her neck straining. You growl, increasing the pressure and she begins to writhe, her arms gripping around you. The ten lines scraping down your back bunches your muscles and you groan into her neck, tasting her sweat. The familiarity of your past collides with this new chapter that brought you here and you become frantic, desperate with the need to make her scream.

She does. You do too, but for an entirely different, wonderful reason.

“I’ve missed you,” she husks afterwards, and you can’t speak because you’re just too damn grateful she’s back.

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Everything has been perfect. Dinner, wine, conversation wreathed with gentle smiles and fleeting touches. He even encouraged her to bring some tiramisu home for later. He’s been the perfect gentleman and lover tonight, generous, warm, and insatiable. She comes three times in just over an hour.

She’s still panting and giggling in tangled sheets when the mood turns serious, and when she turns to him, an unmistakable box is pinched between his fingers. He looks hopeful and slightly nauseous with nerves.

Suddenly, realization comes flooding through her brain, and she feels sympathy and deep love warm in her blood. She won’t call him out on it, but she realizes what tonight has been about, why it’s felt so unusual—heaven forbid he just offer himself to her; he feels as though he has to convince her he’s worth it.

She slips the ring on her finger and grabs his head in her hands, kissing him hard. She can taste the bliss of her body on his tongue and the warmth of his mouth sends stupid butterflies deep in her belly.

“Mulder,” she murmurs honestly, “Tonight was…you could have put the ring in a damn fortune cookie in a Chinese takeout box, and I still would have said yes.”

He snorts once, and she can feel the tension releasing from his body like a tidal wave. He nuzzles her ear, kisses her neck softly.

“I’ll remember that for the next time I meet you,” he promises. She smiles.

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This is not their first time.

Their bodies are different now; a little softer, a little stiffer…but oh, all the things he’s ever loved about her haven’t changed with age.

Her soft, sweet nipples, now tight and deep rose with arousal. The flatness of her belly, the dusky pink of her labia, the heated silk of her thighs.

He doesn’t want to cry, he promised himself that if he ever got better, if they ever came together like this, he would not cry.

But he does cry, because it’s their first time all over again and he’s remembering everything that he’s been missing for all those countless lonely hours and days and weeks and fucking months…

And now her velvet, hot, wet pussy is nestled against his groin and he’s so deep and she’s making the sound that he knows means she’s happy. He cups her breasts, flattened with the arch of her back, before drawing his hands back down her ribs to grip her thighs around his hips. She fucking purrs.

This is not their first time.

And he promises her that it won’t be their last.

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You reach for him in the darkness as you gasp, the loss of your sight enhancing every other sensory sensation. He fumbles beside you and you touch his hand, feeling the solidity of him next to your trembling, recovering body.

When you remove the cloth shield from your eyes, you see he’s already pulled his own away. He looks playful and reflective. His hair is rumpled and you realize you prefer when you’re able to see the glint of his gaze and the softness in his smile.

“Fun,” he grins before you can even speak, “But I like it better when I can see you.”

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The gaze in his eyes breaks her heart, as it always does. So gentle, yet so intense. She wants to weep every time he presses himself against her, and she can feel the bliss and gratitude deep in his core. She has no way to tell him he doesn’t need to be grateful; she wants him just as much.

She’s never emotional like this. Never, except when his own emotion leaks into her every fiber as though his atoms intend to mesh and meld with hers until they are irrevocably linked. Nothing else could ever satisfy him…or her, as she’s begun to realize.

She moves to breathe his name, “Mul—”

“No words,” he murmurs softly, stroking the silk strands at her temple, “I know that’s hard for us, but I just want us to shut our brains off this time.”

She smiles. Nods. He presses his fingers to her lips, quickly followed by a kiss.

And this time, when his body silently but incredibly melds with her own, instead of words, her tears display her pleasure.

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She wriggles slightly in his grasp, and even though he’s behind her, he knows she’s gnawing on those plush lips. She’s trying to keep it in, trying not to moan or whimper. He hardens further against her back.

“You can let it out, Scully,” he teases, “Go ahead and make a sound if you need to.”

She shakes her head vigorously. A little fighter is his Scully. Making a sound would mean she forfeits this round. They’re tied 3-3 this week…and it’s only Tuesday.

He slides his hand down her belly, absently fluttering his fingers through her curls. He feels the plumpness of her arousal and he pats her softly. Her hand lands atop his and he can feel the heat thrumming off her smooth skin. He plays with her pubic hair and finally presses the underside of her clit gently with the tip of his finger. She stiffens in his arms.

“Unnnnhhhhhh…” is the breathy, husky sigh that leaks from between her lips as she gives up her silence. He lets out a chuckle that sounds more like a growl. She’s lost, but in reality, they both win.

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She is not privy to this. She’s known him three years and the most intimate things they’ve ever shared are furtive glances and cups of coffee.

She shouldn’t be looking. Her intentions had been innocent and honorable as she opened the door to his room, “Mulder, do you have my autopsy file?” on the tip of her tongue. Now she should turn around, leave him to this very private act.

But God, he’s so beautiful lying there…she never thought she’d ever think of a man as beautiful, but he is. All warm skin and sinewy muscle and silky arm hair. She can’t tear her eyes away as she watches him pump himself in that big, capable hand. His face is slack, relaxed, and it does funny things to her stomach. She presses her thighs together infinitesimally, her clit pinging slightly at the thought of her mouth and hands being responsible for causing the pants from his lips and the fluttering of his eyelids.

She wants to protest viciously when he suddenly stops and produces a small towel that she hadn’t noticed before resting beside him. His motions become more vigorous beneath the makeshift covering, a tiny, almost feminine gasp, and then he shudders.

“Scully..fuck, Scully, fuckfuckfuck…Scully…”

His whisper is harsh, frantic…had she been in the next room she wouldn’t have heard it, but she did hear it. Because she’s standing not twelve feet away from him.

She backs away into her own room again. All she can hear is the pounding of blood in her ears, and she prays to God that she manages to close the door quietly enough so that he doesn’t hear.

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He silently curses that the slight buzz hinders him from clearly hearing the sound of her small little gasps, the gentle catch in her breathing. But the way she’s nibbling on her lower lip and lightly clawing at the sheets almost makes up for it.

He glances down as he straddles her, watching where he holds the neon pink bulb against the patch of dark auburn. She’s plump and glossy and slick and he feels the answering pulse in his groin at the sight. God, she’s so beautiful.

She wriggles, trying to get closer to the vibe as he skims it against her flesh, eliciting a whine of discouragement. He chuckles and leans down to nuzzle her cool, soft nipple.

“You clearly don’t appreciate your big girl toys if you’re just tossing them haplessly into the trash, Dana,” he chides, and she gives him a dirty look, “I think it’s only fair that you don’t get the full benefits of it until I’m convinced you’re glad to have it back.”

“Oh, my mistake, Mulder,” she huffs, brushing her mussed and newly shortened hair out of her eyes, “I guess I should have tried harder to fish it out of the trash after I realized I was going to go back to having very fulfilling and on-the-regular sex again.”

He smirks to disguise his pleasure in hearing that remark, and gives her the pressure and rhythm he knows she enjoys. She’s earned it with that comment. Her sigh is high pitched and full of delighted relief and the hair on his arms stands on end.

“Maybe you really are glad to have him back,” he muses, inhaling her scent and her sweat from the humid cavern in the curve of her neck. They both know he’s not talking about the vibe.

“Oh yeah,” she breathes, “I’m definitely glad to have him back.”

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It’s a drop of sweat drizzling down your side that jerks you from dreaming. You come awake with a start, disjointed in the dark and muddled from half-consciousness. She’s trembling in your arms and your cock is ramrod hard and nestled between her naked ass cheeks…she’s wet, you can smell her arousal in the curve of her neck, and her breathing is rushed against the pillow. Your hips are pulsing and she’s rocking lightly against you. Christ, you two were as good as fucking in your sleep.

“Don’t stop, Mulder,” she murmurs, “…please don’t stop.”

You wouldn’t dream of stopping, not with that needy tone in her throaty voice, not with how easy it is to just slip effortlessly inside her. She’s smooth and swollen with sleep and the moan she releases coaxes out one of your own. The pace is leisurely, easy, as though you both are still drowsing but have somehow managed to meet in the same dream. You can’t see her, but you can feel her, hear her, and smell her. She’s everywhere around you and that thought alone tips you over.

It’s the softest orgasm you’ve ever had but you can feel it in virtually every part of your body. She quivers in your arms with her own release and then falls quiet, a long, heavy sigh the only signal that she came. You should get up, be the considerate man she deserves and fetch some tissues or at least a towel, but she’s sound asleep again. It’s all too easy to join her.

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She rubs against his hard thigh as it rests between her legs, crushing her clit. God, it feels so good. She knows she’ll be bruised tomorrow and is happy for it. She likes when her body reminds her of when she’s been with him, even if it’s something as juvenile as a dry humping session on his couch.

She runs her hands up and down his cotton-clad stomach, feeling his muscles bunch and ripple beneath her. Her palm slips over his crotch to cup him, to feel the warmth of his flesh burning through his clothes. She can feel his cock jump and twitch beneath her hand, shrouded in cotton and jeans. He’s so hard, and she feels so soft and liquid. She can’t wait to taste him, can’t wait to feel him pierce her with the smooth steel of his flesh…yet she can’t stop thrusting long enough to get their clothes out of the way….

“God, enough,” he laughs shakily, his hair damp and plastered to his temples, “I can’t take it anymore Scully, I need you naked. Now.”

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She is nearly naked, save for an elegant scrap of dark underwear encasing her hips. Her body is smooth, all taut curves and downy skin. He admires her torso, the valleys of her ribs, and the gentle curve of her muscled belly sloping to the wettest and warmest place he has ever had the pleasure of knowing.

“Mulder, please,” she requests. He’s been working her up for the past fifteen minutes, and she’s practically thrumming. He can see a small damp patch on the crotch of her underwear.

He gives her a teasing little smile as his slips his fingers into her panties, letting his knuckles brush against the neatly trimmed nest of curls guarding her vulva. She moans and her hips rise slightly to meet him. She smells of laundry detergent and the earthy aroma of female arousal. He’s drunk with it, wants to inhale that particular scent for the rest of his life.

He can see her curls peeking out from between his fingers, the milky plane of her stomach clenching slightly as she tries to press further against him. He slides the back of his index finger up her slit, bringing forth a whimper and slick moisture. Her hips rise further, she’s practically fucking the air.

“Please,” she sighs, “God…please, please, please, please…”

The dry sob of relief she releases when he finally pulls her free goes straight to his dick as he leans down to lick her. She never asks for anything, he can’t refuse her now.

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All she can focus on is the warm rasp of his hands gliding up and down the length of her back as she rides him, supportive and loving. She’s in heaven…it’s a Saturday night, she has a good meal in her stomach, Mulder changed his sheets, and they have absolutely nowhere to be. Nowhere except perhaps on his couch, wrapped completely up in each other’s bodies. She can’t bear to draw her mouth from his.

His hands glide to her backside and grasp the meat of her ass—hard—and she groans into his mouth, rocking her hips in an attempt to ram him even deeper into her. She feels full and whole and wonderfully fucked…they’re so damn good at this, how did it take them so long to get to this point?

He’s nuzzling the little scooped dip between her collarbones and the gentle brush is such a delicious contrast to how stretched she feels between her legs. She murmurs his name…then freezes.

Why did her voice come out sounding like a muffled version of Frohike?

“You think he’s gone out?”

“Naw, he’s in…his car’s in the drive.”

Oh God. The Gunmen are heading down the hallway, barely twenty feet from where she and Mulder are tangled on his sweat-moistened couch.

One look at Mulder’s face and she realizes he had completely forgotten he’d made plans tonight. Icy, cold dread fills her veins as she realizes there is no way in hell they can become presentable in time for either of them to answer the door. Even now, half undressed it’s painfully obvious her partner is enjoying a good polishing…and any number of the boys might have keys.

Without a word she scrambles off his lap, grabbing her shirt and bra and tearing for the bathroom. As if choreographed Mulder jumps up, throwing her discarded jeans after her just in time before she shuts the door. Through the door she can hear the jingle of him refastening his belt just as there’s a soft knock and the boys come clambering in. She breathes a sigh of relief, figuring he can’t look too disheveled if even Byers hasn’t made a remark on his appearance. Maybe they got away with it just in the nick of time.

She moves to slip on her jeans, then freezes. The tips of her fingers go numb when she realizes she’s missing an integral piece of clothing…one that she remembers was left lacy and crumpled on Mulder’s coffee table.

She hears Langly pipe up.

“So…Scully’s here, too?”

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She bares herself to him, slipping off the soft silk of her pajama top to reveal skin that he knows is even softer. Even in the dim lighting he can see the crinkle of her nipples and the light dusting of freckles across her sternum. Her eyes are dark and fetching. She is welcoming him, and he can’t move. All he can do is stand and tremble beside her bed.

“Mulder?” She looks puzzled, as though she can sense his dread, his apprehension. He’s so scared. Even as welcoming and warm as she looks, he can’t get over the memory of her voice snarling in anger, the echo of a slammed door, the rushing of panicked blood in his ears when he realized he had stormed out of her apartment.

He could taste bile at the back of his throat as he stalked through her neighborhood over and over again, his sweaty hands jammed in his pockets. He’d never fought with Scully like that before. Sure they’ve had heated discussions and even argued quite passionately in the office, but…never like this. Never with the stinging intent to hurt each other over something so dumb and trivial.

He came back to her door two hours later, only because he was terrified of her calling him and saying it was over, that she couldn’t stand him anymore, that she wondered why she’d let him in her bed in the first place.

She’d answered the door, flushed and clearly sad. Within moments he found himself pulled into her apartment and her in his arms. She had kissed him, requested that he stay the night so they could talk. He had agreed, but with his heart pounding in his chest. They’d talked. Been adults. Resolved things civilly.

Logically he knows she’s different from every other relationship that he’s had, but…what if next time is the last straw? What if he forgets to do something and her impatience wins out? What if she finally realizes he’s not worth lovi—

“Mulder,” she whispers again, bringing him back to the present, “It’s okay. We’re okay. We’ll be okay, I’m not going anywhere. I promise. Come to bed.”

He feels calmer now but his hand still shakes as he reaches out to cup the cool softness of her breast in his palm. His breath leaks out of him just as she lets out a soft moan.

They’re okay.

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The music throbs and thrums. Ordinarily the pounding beat would give her a headache, or at the very least make her feel very out of place in this hazy, neon-drenched darkness. Fortunately she has just enough alcohol and Fox Mulder in her system to counteract any cranky old lady moods she might have harbored tonight. Tonight the music only adds to the heady sensation of the messy hair around her face, the brush of her sweater against her skin, and the moisture beading down her back.

They’re not so much dancing as pressing their bodies together, and even in the heat of the club his warmth is welcome and familiar. She has the fleeting thought that so many of the sweaty bodies surrounding them are looking for a partner for the night. They might be successful, but she wonders how many of them will wake up to soft morning kisses and coffee in bed like she will. Butterflies dance in her belly.

He steps behind her, the heated bulge in his jeans making delicious contact with her buttocks, and she shivers. She dares to tilt her hips back, his crotch nudging between her butt cheeks. She groans and his hands find their way to her hips. She can feel the heavy bass booming out of the speakers in her chest and groin.

Enough!” she shouts at him. His stricken look is almost enough to make her laugh and he instantly steps back from her. She shakes her head to reassure him, “Take me home, Mulder.”

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He thumbs at himself absently, the Rolodex of his thoughts flipping ceaselessly through the “S” section of his brain’s library of masturbatory material. The “S” section has been his favorite for years now, the owner of the name starting with that letter creating an ever-expanding index that he’s been unwilling to stray from for a while. For some reason, the memory of her in that fitted plaid skirt two weeks back flits into his mind, and the pleasant ache that hums in his shaft alerts him that this is a good one for tonight. 

He imagines smacking his palm against that round little ass. God, that sweet, soft little ass. He images watching the muscle ripple in the wake of his maltreatment, hearing her breath hitch as she gasps with pain and delight. Of course she’d be naked, they both would be. Maybe he’d tease her a little, rubbing the tip of himself against the swollen heat of her vulva, just to make her moan…then he’d smack her again, watching the shape of his hand bloom forth pink and blatant on her buttermilk skin.

He’s already getting close and he fast-forwards to being inside her, bracketing her body with his limbs as he pounds into her sweet, slick depths. She chews on her lips and sighs and smiles up at him. He stops stroking for a minute, both in the fantasy and in real life, and wonders at that face…that beautiful, intelligent face that belongs to a woman who has no cause to be with him…

Fantasy Scully interrupts him. She’s getting impatient.

“God Mulder, just fucking fuck me—” followed by a hard smack to his ass.

His head falls back, his toes curl, and his buttocks clench. The thought of her gentle, loving hands bringing forth such a delicious sting to his skin catches him by surprise, and with a choked gurgle he comes all over himself. 

He cleans himself in the sink two minutes later feeling like a depraved bastard.

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A college boyfriend used to whisper about her “wet pussy” meeting his “throbbing cock” during meager sessions of foreplay, and it still gives her an unpleasant shudder when she remembers it. Those handful of experiences turned her off dirty talk forever, not that she was altogether keen on it to begin with. Descriptive words have their place at an art gallery or an autopsy bay, not in the bedroom where all parties involved don’t need to be told precisely what is going on.

Despite this, she’s certain Mulder would talk in bed. She gently taps the curls of her mons with her fingertips. She wants to know what he’d say if she stood bare before him. Not as a rescue mission, not as a partner or even his best friend, but as his lover. As a woman.

She can feel the flush of warm blood in her labia. She sighs, cupping herself.

“You’re so…” in her imagination she can see him frantically searching for words, “…pretty.”

She doubts he’d use that word, but it’ll do for tonight. Her clit tingles for some attention and she obeys, lightly pressing her middle finger against it. Gentle. Like how he’d touch her.

“Jesus Scully, you’re so soft…”

Thinking of the quiet click of his glottis as his mouth curls around the “scuh” of her surname makes her shudder and she slips her fingers inside, surprised (but not really) at how wet she already is.

She lets her mind free of all the restraints she ties down in his presence during waking hours. Imagining his throaty voice curling through gasps of disbelief and wonder as she grips his ass and rams him deeper inside her. Mulder’s dirty talk would be groans of praise, his expletives breaths of, “so sweet” and “hold onto me” and “God, so good”.

Before she can stop it, her brain slips in one final word that she scarcely dares to think of in any situation involving him. It’s too dangerous, too significant, but she wants him to say it more than just about anything.


And she tips over.

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She kneads him with her hands, his tender thin skin like velvet in her fingers. They always start slow like this, gently exploring the territory before getting down (ha ha) to business. She fondles his sac while he caresses her hips and kisses her buttocks. His soft breath brushes against the fluff between her legs, and she sighs.

“Down,” he coaxes, almost petulantly. She wiggles a little as she obeys, the wet heat of his mouth against her opening like a salve against tension. He moans as she leans eagerly into his face. He laps at her steadily, then hesitantly, almost as if he’s been distracted. He pauses for a moment, leaning back, and she worries that she might taste sour tonight. But then he moves back in, and—


Oh, this is something new.

He’s never done this to her before. No one has done this to her before.

The sensation is strange at first, a little disconcerting. His tongue prods, dips and wriggles, sliding down to her slit then back up to this previously untouched place. He seems a tad more confident now, maybe because she hasn’t rebuked him. She jerks a little as she feels a small intrusion before he backs out again. He’s making strange, happy little mumbling sounds that ordinarily she’d snigger at if what he was doing with his tongue didn’t feel so damn nice. If only those long, thick fingers would join in on the action on her very neglected, very wet—

Dammit, why did he stop??

His voice sounds tentatively behind her.

“Scully, is…is this okay?”

“Is this…Mulder, are you—yes, this is okay,” she chuffs weakly, “It won’t be if you stop.”

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She’s a little disappointed, if she’s being honest. Finally, finally, finally, finally they’ve reached this point: seeing each other at their most vulnerable, their most hungry, their most loving.

…And he almost seems afraid to touch her.

He strokes her naked hips absently while drifting admittedly delicious kisses up and down the length of her neck and collarbone. He’s hot and furious in her hand, but God…his hands are barely skimming her body. His touch drifts towards her mound and he pauses before moving back to her hip. There’s a healthy six inches of air between their bare torsos and it’s killing her.

“Mulder, you…you don’t have to ask permission,” she grins shakily and kisses him, “I’ve already granted you full access.”

She means it as a joke, but she can see genuine anxiety on his face. His brow twists and he dips his head slightly, ceasing his tentative strokes and instead wrapping her in a tight hug. She sighs at the contact, brushing the tip of her nose through the soft crinkle of chest hair between his pecs.

“I’m…I’m terrified, Scully,” he admits shakily, “I get one damn shot at this with you and I can’t…you deserve nothing less than perfect and…I’m scared I can’t give that to you…”

This adorable, silly, impossible man.

She threads her fingers through the hair on the back of his neck, pressing a light kiss to the divot of distress between his brows. She pulls back from his embrace and draws one of his hands to the heated, aching space between her legs. His breath shutters slightly in his chest and she smiles when she realizes that he’s realizing just how much she wants this. His fingers instinctively curl, pressing deliciously right where—oh—right where she wants him. His touch is warm, soothing, and inflaming all at once. He strokes her steadily and deeply and she dips her head back, letting out a soft whimper.

“Touch me,” she whispers, “All you have to do is touch me. I promise, Mulder—whatever you do…however you do it…because it’s you, it’ll be perfect.”

She notices the change in him instantly. He draws close, the silky heat of his belly pressing to hers, his muscles tightening and tendons fluttering as his hands wander and stroke and squeeze. His mouth is hot and wet against her skin and he groans when she steadily pumps his angry red shaft.

“Harder,” he requests into the curve of her throat, and she acquiesces, gripping him more firmly and guiding his hand even closer between her trembling legs. As soon as they let themselves go, this is going to feel so good, she can taste it.

Even if they’re not perfect at this the first time, it’s nothing a little practice won’t cure.

Chapter Text

She’s dressed up for sexual partners before. She’s had a handful of mild encounters with lace, leather, crotchless panties and one ill-fated experience with a mask that she shudders to think of now.

None of that really seems like Mulder. He’s worth more than mere allurement or a costume. He represents everything that is raw and human in her. Aspects she never believed were present until the first time he placed his hand on her sweaty cheek and huskily thanked her for letting him see her come undone.

So that is why she’s drifting between her closet and dresser, passively flipping through her options. Mulder will be here in fifteen minutes, and her quest to find something to entice him into staying the night (not as though he needs enticing) is proving difficult.

She’s sifting through her closet for the third time when suddenly her fingers brush against an unfamiliar garment. She fishes it out from within the rows of neatly organized hangers, and her heart shudders with remembrance when she recognizes it. It’s an Oxford shirt of Mulder’s from a handful of years ago, one she had quietly pilfered from his own closet during her illness. On the nights when she wanted so badly to call him, ached so much for his warmth and his comfort and his assurance that she wasn’t alone…she would wrap herself in this shirt and try to sleep.

It has since been washed and ironed, exorcised from its original chilled ghosts and smudges of blood and fear. She tingles at the thought of introducing it to a new chapter, one filled with laughter and warmth and promise.

She unsnaps her bra and slips her panties down her legs, wrapping the soft cotton shell around her naked skin. The brush of the fabric against her nipples and belly as well as the promise of what is to come sends a warm glow in her abdomen. She smiles when she faintly hears the scrape of his key as it slides into the lock of her front door.

Chapter Text

“Mulder…this is so bad…” is her whimpered protest.

He glances beyond his sweaty fist squeezing his angry red shaft at the gentle pulse of her hips between his thighs and her labia bright pink and swollen, betraying her arousal.

“Seems pretty good to me,” he aims for a complete sentence and succeeds, albeit with a gravely voice. She sighs as her fingers drift soothingly between the soft lips of her vulva and he swears he gets heart palpitations. The only thing in the world right up there with sex with Scully is the sight of her in pleasure. God.

“So wrong…this is so fucking wrong…” she moans and if he weren’t so damn loony over the sight of her slick curls and the clench of her buttocks he’d laugh. She’s getting off on this. They really, really shouldn’t be doing this here and she’s getting off on it. Freud would have a field day with this partner of his, sometimes.

“So fucking right,” he counters her last statement. He can feel the heat radiating off her skin against the back of his hand. He wants to make love to her, wants to slip effortlessly and smoothly into that warmth that he’s recently become so well-acquainted with, but he knows they’re too far gone at this point. As soon as one goes, the other is going to topple right behind them.

He rips his glance away momentarily from the sight of peach-soft flushed skin and glances around to calm himself. His eyes are met with the thrumming glow of computer monitors, dented and bent folders, ancient bulletin boards, piles and piles of surveillance tapes, wires, and broken phones. It’s an absolute mess, and he and Scully are about to make a bigger one on one saggy, grizzled old couch.

“The guys are never gonna ask me to house-sit again,” he jokes weakly.

Chapter Text

She’s slick and smooth in your grasp, and the way her skin slides against yours makes the insecure part of you afraid she might slip right out of your arms and disappear. It’s only been a few weeks now. You’re not entirely convinced yet that this isn’t all a dream. Or a bump on the head. Or a hallucination.

The ache in your groin makes you grit your teeth. She’s so sweet. So sweet and sexy and sleek and she’s panting with that innocent little whimper but her round ass is rubbing and circling your dick in a manner that is far too adept to be innocent.

“Mulder—ugh—more,” she growls as you drag your fingers roughly down her chest, over her breasts and down her belly to the springy soaked curls between her thighs. Your erection is pressed between her butt cheeks and she keeps trying to arch her back to slip you inside, but that would require that you let her move away a little. You don’t wanna.

God how you wish you had known. You wish you had known the first time you touched yourself as a teenager and cried after you came because you felt so disgusting. You wish you had known the night you had your first one night stand. You wish you had known the first time Phoebe humiliated you in bed. You wish you had known when you said yes to Diana’s proposal.

You couldn’t have known. You couldn’t have known in a million years that despite all the twisted dark things inside you this beautiful, remarkable woman—for some inexplicable reason—decided you were worthy of her love.

You can’t fathom it. So instead you never let her go.