I need more of your Mulder dirty talking to Scully pleasse
she has never enjoyed her lovers talking during sex. she has always hated their stock grunts of yeah, you like that? and oh baby, i’m gonna make you scream, like every man she’s ever slept with attended the same seminar on dirty talk and only made notes on the most boring points. she hates the way grown men say pussy, because they say it like they’re thirteen and just learned the word, are giddy on the high of saying something foreign and illicit. she doesn’t enjoy feeling illicit, at least not like that, and she doesn’t enjoy being reminded of adolescence when she’s naked on her back.
she’s gotten creative over the years, learned how to stifle men before they can ruin a great—okay, good—okay, passable—thing. a well-placed hand, a well-timed kiss, a tug on the hair to bring a mouth to her neck, her breast. more than once, she’s murmured, can we not talk? in their ear, and it should be sad, how often that works, how eager men are to not have to communicate.
“you’re going to get me fired.”
she is perched on his desk—her desk—the desk—and he is between her parted thighs, the stiff fabric of his slacks deliciously rough on her bare skin. her panty hose lay in a crumbled ball beside the filing cabinet, and the first three buttons of her white blouse are undone. he fiddles with number four as he speaks against her mouth.
“i couldn’t pay attention at all in that meeting,” he says, his breath warm on her tongue. “i couldn’t stop thinking about you, like this.”
the fourth button slides free, and the pads of his fingertips graze the valley between her breasts.
“it’s criminal,” he says, “distracting a federal agent from his duty.”
she hums, too entranced by the low murmur of his voice to think of any words of her own.
his nose glides along hers as he kisses her cupid’s bow ever so softly.
his hands drop to her thighs, smoothing up, up over her fevered skin. they dip beneath the hem of her skirt and her stomach contracts at the first brush of his fingers over her cotton panties. he hisses, and she feels the flutter of his eyelashes on her cheek as his eyes fight to stay open.
“so wet,” he whispers, like it’s a marvel that she should be so eager. “you’re soaked for me. aren’t you?”
he traces circles over her damp gusset, fingers gliding easily but without any real pressure, without giving her any relief. her head falls back, lolling on her neck, and she shifts her hips, angling for more friction.
his mouth finds her neck, and she gasps at the force of his bite, right on the tender point of her pulse.
“aren’t. you.” it isn’t a question, and the gravel in his voice makes her whimper.
his fingers slip under the thin cotton and two push into her so swiftly her eyes fly open. he grins at her, and it is wolffish, hungry. the kiss he brushes across her lips is achingly sweet in contrast, gentle and controlled.
his hand begins to pump, hindered only slightly by the fabric still wrapped between her legs.
“here’s what’s going to happen,” he says as his free hand undoes the rest of her buttons and lifts a breast from the cup of her bra.
he ducks, licks up the underside before drawing her aching nipple into his mouth and sucking hard. her back arches. she pumps against the hand moving inside her.
he keeps himself busy at her breast for so long that she thinks he’s lost his train of thought, and she tugs at his hair, because as good as he is with his mouth doing that, there’s something she likes even better.
his smile is wicked when he meets her eyes.
he knows what, smug bastard, but the fingers massaging her (not foreign, not illicit) pussy are too good for her to play around.
she rolls her hips against his hand and tightens the hand in his hair. she would never tell him how much she likes it when he makes her work for it. she’s pretty sure he already knows.
“tell me,” she gasps, “what’s going to happen.”
his thumb finds her clit and he braces her as she collapses back, holds her tight against his chest so he can speak directly into her ear.
“what’s going to happen,” he says, “is you’re going to fuck yourself on my hand like this until you come. and then i’m going to get down on my knees and clean up this mess you’re making all over my desk.”
he curls his fingers and her hips twitch harder. she clutches at his dress shirt, digs for purchase as her belly clenches so hard it nearly hurts.
“and then i’m going to take you home,” he kisses her earlobe, “and spread you out on the bed,” her jaw, “and bury my cock so deep in this sweet little pussy that you’ll still be feeling me tomorrow.”
he caresses each syllable as skillfully as he’s caressing her, his voice rich and honeyed and so self-possessed, her eyes cross.
he traces her cheekbone with his nose, tickling her sweaty skin with his breath.
“good,” she gasps, bucking against him, clutching at him, her body trying to heave away and climb closer all at once. “it sounds—ah—so—good.”
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