the things i do at work ...
Title: Four Letter Words
Author: VegaWriters
Fandom: The X Files
Pairing: Scully/Mulder
Spoilers: None, really. Pre-Eighth Seasonish.
Rating: Very, very, very Adult
A/N: This is for octoberaine, who went and got herself a job! This is her congratulatory present.
Disclaimer: Really, they don’t belong to me so I don’t make money off of them. But if Chris Carter wants to call and chat about a job, I’m all ears.
Summary: What no one would ever understand is that in rough moments like these, they rediscover their humanity.
Fuck is one of Scully’s favorite words. Fuck. Cock. And, when she gets into the darkest part of her psyche (the part that tells her Berkley-Feminista mindset to go to hell) she loves Cunt too.
There are logical reasons. She studied Latin in med school; she knows the etymology of the words. She is a medical doctor, she knows the scientific terms for the different parts of the body. She is a woman in a man’s world and to survive in this generation of still-misogynistic assholes she needs to communicate on their level.
But what it boils down to is that she likes dirty. She likes being fucked within an inch of her life. For as wonderful as Mulder’s sweet, delicate touches are, for as perfect as it is when he slides inside of her and whispers her name as reverently as a prayer, it’s times like this that release her tension, tension that has built through the day and made her angry and tight and oh so ready to be pushed face-first into the mattress and have him take complete and total control. It’s moments like this, as he’s running his fingers over the marks on her hips that she wonders if he’d like her on her knees and in nothing but a collar (but that’s a fantasy she doesn’t know if she’ll ever be ready to explore).
“Fuck …” she moans, collapsing forward, the brunt of her weight still on her arms. Her ass is still in the air, he’s still inside her, and she can swear he’s growing hard again. She’s going to be sore tomorrow. So is he for that matter.
His hand trails up her spine and tangles in her hair, pulling her head back slightly. “You like that, don’t you.”
It’s not a question. He’s done this to her countless times since they crossed that stupidly sacred line from friends-who-lusted-after-each-other to friends-with-fantastic (albeit emotionally entangling) benefits to the couple they are now. She’s lost track of the nights when he’s followed her home or into a seedy motel room and before she can even get her shoes off, she’s bent over a chair, her skirt up around her hips, her panties and nylons ripped in two. He does it because for all his gentlemanly sensibilities, he has the same basic urges as she. What no one would ever understand is that in rough moments like these, they rediscover their humanity. If they have each other at the end of the night, and they can kiss away their self-inflicted bruises with tender lips and gentle hands, then they can survive the next day together.
She says nothing but answers his statement by pushing back against his hips, feeling the zipper of his pants rough against the cheeks of her ass. Her skirt is hiked past her hips, her blouse open, her breasts perk above the cups of his favorite lace bra. Use me, she thinks. Later you can love me but right now … “Fuck me until I pass out, would you?”
They both laugh and he pushes back against her, his fingers again grabbing hard enough to leave bruises. The cheap mattress she is kneeling on creaks as he pushes her slightly forward and she regrets that there isn’t enough of a headboard to grab and make it easier on his knees.
She is so wet, still so sensitive after his last pounding, and her entire body tenses as he reaches between her legs and pinches her clit. It won’t be long until she’s coming again and he’ll use that, drive her completely over the edge while he’s pounding into her near gelatinous body. She’ll pass out and wake up wrapped safely in his arms, and it’s exactly what they both need.
“Harder, Mulder.”
It’s a rare command, especially on a night like tonight. She isn’t vocal during sex. He jokes that she’s a screamer when she comes, but until that moment of climax, she encourages him with panting gasps and incoherent whispers. In return, he talks dirty to her, begs her to suck on his cock, loves to talk about how wet her tight little pussy is, and she takes a thrill knowing that he uses her as his real life porn queen. When she begs, when she wants it harder or faster or even rougher than he’s already being, his response is always instant and barely controlled. Her vocalizing her needs is as much a turn on to him as his nasty words are to her.
She’s going to have welts from that damned zipper. It’s thrilling.
Scully comes, screaming his name and assorted four letter words and her arms can’t hold her any longer. He jerks her back up against him, one arm around her waist to hold her in place, one rough hand fondling her breast, pinching her nipple even as she continues to shudder with the force of her orgasm. He is still pounding in to her, grunting her name, and she, somehow, manages to reach up and wrap one arm around his neck. The moment is wanton, animalistic, and she hopes it never ends. She is sore and sensitive and his thrusting is almost painful, but it is what they need and later tonight they can kiss and touch and make gentle love that ends with silently powerful climactic explosions.
The sudden twisting of her nipple and the clamping of his teeth into her shoulder signals his impending climax and as he thrusts into her one last time she feels her own body respond. Trembling, she nearly fades to black as they fall together onto the mattress. The springs creak accusingly and she finds it funny.
“What is it?” Mulder is tender now as he undresses both of them. His hands are gentle as he tugs her blouse from her arms and unsnaps the front clasp of her bra. He slides under the sheets with her and holds her as they regain their strength.
“I think the mattress just said fuck.”
He laughs. It’s such a rare sound and one she cherishes. She slides one leg between his and snuggles into her favorite after-sex position. Her head is over his heart and she can hear his heartbeat. It’s so real for her, so grounding. They survived another day. They survived another series of serial killers, of angry suspects, of conspiracies and cover-ups. They have each other.
Bring on tomorrow.
Author: VegaWriters
Fandom: The X Files
Pairing: Scully/Mulder
Spoilers: None, really. Pre-Eighth Seasonish.
Rating: Very, very, very Adult
A/N: This is for octoberaine, who went and got herself a job! This is her congratulatory present.
Disclaimer: Really, they don’t belong to me so I don’t make money off of them. But if Chris Carter wants to call and chat about a job, I’m all ears.
Summary: What no one would ever understand is that in rough moments like these, they rediscover their humanity.
Fuck is one of Scully’s favorite words. Fuck. Cock. And, when she gets into the darkest part of her psyche (the part that tells her Berkley-Feminista mindset to go to hell) she loves Cunt too.
There are logical reasons. She studied Latin in med school; she knows the etymology of the words. She is a medical doctor, she knows the scientific terms for the different parts of the body. She is a woman in a man’s world and to survive in this generation of still-misogynistic assholes she needs to communicate on their level.
But what it boils down to is that she likes dirty. She likes being fucked within an inch of her life. For as wonderful as Mulder’s sweet, delicate touches are, for as perfect as it is when he slides inside of her and whispers her name as reverently as a prayer, it’s times like this that release her tension, tension that has built through the day and made her angry and tight and oh so ready to be pushed face-first into the mattress and have him take complete and total control. It’s moments like this, as he’s running his fingers over the marks on her hips that she wonders if he’d like her on her knees and in nothing but a collar (but that’s a fantasy she doesn’t know if she’ll ever be ready to explore).
“Fuck …” she moans, collapsing forward, the brunt of her weight still on her arms. Her ass is still in the air, he’s still inside her, and she can swear he’s growing hard again. She’s going to be sore tomorrow. So is he for that matter.
His hand trails up her spine and tangles in her hair, pulling her head back slightly. “You like that, don’t you.”
It’s not a question. He’s done this to her countless times since they crossed that stupidly sacred line from friends-who-lusted-after-each-other to friends-with-fantastic (albeit emotionally entangling) benefits to the couple they are now. She’s lost track of the nights when he’s followed her home or into a seedy motel room and before she can even get her shoes off, she’s bent over a chair, her skirt up around her hips, her panties and nylons ripped in two. He does it because for all his gentlemanly sensibilities, he has the same basic urges as she. What no one would ever understand is that in rough moments like these, they rediscover their humanity. If they have each other at the end of the night, and they can kiss away their self-inflicted bruises with tender lips and gentle hands, then they can survive the next day together.
She says nothing but answers his statement by pushing back against his hips, feeling the zipper of his pants rough against the cheeks of her ass. Her skirt is hiked past her hips, her blouse open, her breasts perk above the cups of his favorite lace bra. Use me, she thinks. Later you can love me but right now … “Fuck me until I pass out, would you?”
They both laugh and he pushes back against her, his fingers again grabbing hard enough to leave bruises. The cheap mattress she is kneeling on creaks as he pushes her slightly forward and she regrets that there isn’t enough of a headboard to grab and make it easier on his knees.
She is so wet, still so sensitive after his last pounding, and her entire body tenses as he reaches between her legs and pinches her clit. It won’t be long until she’s coming again and he’ll use that, drive her completely over the edge while he’s pounding into her near gelatinous body. She’ll pass out and wake up wrapped safely in his arms, and it’s exactly what they both need.
“Harder, Mulder.”
It’s a rare command, especially on a night like tonight. She isn’t vocal during sex. He jokes that she’s a screamer when she comes, but until that moment of climax, she encourages him with panting gasps and incoherent whispers. In return, he talks dirty to her, begs her to suck on his cock, loves to talk about how wet her tight little pussy is, and she takes a thrill knowing that he uses her as his real life porn queen. When she begs, when she wants it harder or faster or even rougher than he’s already being, his response is always instant and barely controlled. Her vocalizing her needs is as much a turn on to him as his nasty words are to her.
She’s going to have welts from that damned zipper. It’s thrilling.
Scully comes, screaming his name and assorted four letter words and her arms can’t hold her any longer. He jerks her back up against him, one arm around her waist to hold her in place, one rough hand fondling her breast, pinching her nipple even as she continues to shudder with the force of her orgasm. He is still pounding in to her, grunting her name, and she, somehow, manages to reach up and wrap one arm around his neck. The moment is wanton, animalistic, and she hopes it never ends. She is sore and sensitive and his thrusting is almost painful, but it is what they need and later tonight they can kiss and touch and make gentle love that ends with silently powerful climactic explosions.
The sudden twisting of her nipple and the clamping of his teeth into her shoulder signals his impending climax and as he thrusts into her one last time she feels her own body respond. Trembling, she nearly fades to black as they fall together onto the mattress. The springs creak accusingly and she finds it funny.
“What is it?” Mulder is tender now as he undresses both of them. His hands are gentle as he tugs her blouse from her arms and unsnaps the front clasp of her bra. He slides under the sheets with her and holds her as they regain their strength.
“I think the mattress just said fuck.”
He laughs. It’s such a rare sound and one she cherishes. She slides one leg between his and snuggles into her favorite after-sex position. Her head is over his heart and she can hear his heartbeat. It’s so real for her, so grounding. They survived another day. They survived another series of serial killers, of angry suspects, of conspiracies and cover-ups. They have each other.
Bring on tomorrow.