Work Text:
Fox Mulder likes men.
It’s never been a secret to himself, not something he’s dwelt on. He’s just always known, always there. He’s been aware since he was a kid, wondering why any girl in school was supposed to interest him.
But the truth is: he likes women, too. He’s just not sure how the word like applies in his specific case. Mulder feels something deep for them, probably because most of the people starring in his little side hobby as a porn addict are women. But romantically loving them? That’s another story. Being inside one? He hasn’t been inside anything other than his own fist for thirty years.
(Which is definitely concerning, considering he was engaged once for three months. Before he woke up one morning and never heard from his fiancée again. Oh, he still wonders what he did.)
He loved Diana Fowley, in his own way. Loved how his father loved her, how nice his mother was when Diana was around. Diana was patient until she wasn’t. And Mulder can’t really blame her for getting sucked into a twisted marriage arrangement just because her daddy is friends with his daddy.
Okay, well, he loved Phoebe back at Oxford. It felt like relief when they started having a good time because it’s supposed to feel good to figure something new out about yourself. But if he’s honest, he loved more the way her stoner older brother tied him to the bed in his one-room apartment and shoved his cock down his throat.
Mulder thinks he loves all the women he watches getting fucked on the daily. It might be completely unsettling to feel a connection to them, knowing the pornography he consumes is a bunch of performative bullshit. But he pretends, anyway.
He likes Dana Scully, though. Loves her so much he can barely breathe.
Probably because she knows him, more than he likes to admit. Probably because she loves him back, even though her literal job as his PR manager is making sure his name doesn’t land in headlines as the disgrace of the Mulder empire.
(Successor CEO Fox Mulder, probably gay, too emotionally constipated, and a little bitch to think of sex as anything normal.)
Scully would never let that happen. Ever. He knows that.
But she’s also just… Scully. His mother’s friend. A goddamn professional. Private but sharp, funny Dana Scully who keeps him in line and calls him kiddo when she’s trying not to strangle him. Dana Scully with her beautiful, expensive red hair, silky voice, plump lips, porcelain skin, and veiny hands—
His cock twitches in his boxers.
He yanks his focus back to his laptop: on the left of his screen, the article he’s supposed to be writing; on the right, “Stepfather, Why Did You Come Inside Me?” Not even his type, not really. But maybe horny enough to keep him from thinking about Scully while he tries to come.
Mulder frees himself from his pants, slouches back in his chair, and strokes himself slowly, like he wasn’t just doing this three hours ago. (But he wasn’t thinking about redheads then.) He doesn’t feel good enough to fuck his own hand with conviction, so he settles on pressing his thumb to the tip, hissing as electricity shoots through his whole body.
Don’t think of Scully. Don’t think of Scully. Scully. Fucking Scully, who he can practically hear—
Her heels click down the hall like she owns the place. And maybe she does. Who the fuck knows?
Mulder barely has time to yank the blanket off his bed and cover his lap, pretending to be oh, so immersed in his work.
“Fox.” She announces herself from the doorway, hand on her hip.
Devastating timing.
“Dana,” he deadpans, pinching his brows together to mimic her tone, throwing her a lazy side-eye.
“I’ve been texting you. I need a word.”
“I’m such a busy young man, Scully, you know this,” he shrugs. Hears the barely audible scoff from her mouth. “You needed a word? You don’t anymore?”
“You have to attend the benefit gala with Teena on Friday.” No sugarcoating. “I don’t care if you have plans. You don’t have a choice.”
“Scully…” Mulder whines, turning his head toward her but keeping his lap strategically out of view. It's not like he wants her to know how close to making a mess of himself thinking of her he was seconds ago.
She rolls her eyes. “I’m not going there with you again, Mulder. You know the media is obsessed with you, and still, you ended up at some shady bar last week like your last name isn’t Mulder. Time to make amends.”
(His Grindr hookup with a terrible location. Worth it for the guy who liked gagging him, though)
“Is Sam going?”
“Yes. Your sister’s flying in from Boston only to go with you. Seriously, Mulder…”
“Alright, Jesus Christ, woman. What’s gotten into you?” He throws his hands up in faux defeat.
He doesn’t ask if Jeffrey’s going since his brother lives for those events. Right now, he just wants her to leave.
Scully shakes her head like she can’t believe this is her life. Phone already in hand. “I’ll confirm your presence. You’re sticking to your mom’s side and smiling.”
“My favorite thing in the world, Scully. How did you guess that?”
She ignores him. “It’s called acting, Mulder. You should know better by now. You fuck up, I fuck you up.”
The words go straight to his cock, twitching again under the blanket. Unusual thing to get turned on by, but whatever.
“Happens that I’m very good at acting.”
“Are you really?” she says without looking up. “Because you’ve had an erection since I walked in and you’ve done nothing to cover it up. I’d say that counts as not acting.”
His jaw tightens. Suddenly, he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. Or his eyes. Or his life. His mouth opens like he’s about to say something clever, maybe fluster her for once, but nothing comes out.
Scully finally lifts her gaze. Usually cool blue eyes now dark and sharp as they rake over him like she’s about to catalog every filthy thought in his head.
“Or are you just that much of a disgusting degenerate, Mulder?”
He feels like crying.
Unfortunately, he also feels himself fully harden. The outline of his cock obvious under the blanket.
“Jesus Christ, Scully,” he groans, his hips involuntarily jerking forward, thrusting into nothing.
“Being called disgusting does it for you?” she chuckles, dry and biting.
Mulder’s body answers for him. His cock strains visibly under the blanket now, the fabric tented like a silent confession. His face burns and all he wants to do is hide, crawl out of his own skin, but he can’t move, can’t speak. Not when Scully is still staring, almost burning his skin with her gaze.
She exhales through her nose, slow and unimpressed, like she’s seen this exact pathetic scenario play out too many times before in her life. Making him a little predictable.
“You can’t even deny it… Unbelievable,” she says. Her voice is quiet now, but still cutting. “You just sit there. Pathetic and hard. Are you waiting for me to say something worse?”
He can’t bring himself to answer. He hates how right she is. Hates it so much it makes him ache.
“Why are you doing this,” he mutters, more accusation than question. But it comes out cracked, like a whimper.
“Because I need you at that gala,” she says simply, like it’s business, just another bullet point on her checklist. “Because you’re thirty,” she says, stepping into the room with a cool grace that feels like judgment. “A thirty-year-old rich boy who jerks off to incest porn and gets hard when his PR rep scolds him.”
“Scully…” he tries again, but it comes out thin. Weak and totally embarrassed. And still rock fucking hard.
“I’m over fifty, Mulder.” Her heel clicks on the hardwood as she takes another step, then another. “And for some reason, you are drooling and dripping for me to humiliate you.”
Her voice tightens, not from discomfort but control and maybe tension, something measured. Scully wants to stop talking. She wants to turn around and pretend this never happened, but the sight in front of her is just too fucking good, almost divine.
Mulder is slouched in his office chair like a teenage pervert, a blanket over his lap, shoulders tight, mouth parted, eyes wide and full of everything she shouldn’t acknowledge. Everything she shouldn’t feed.
She almost turns away.
“You want me to beg?” he tries, forcing a grin he doesn’t feel, running his mouth the way he usually does, like he stands a fucking chance, “Want me on my knees? Would that satisfy your sort of maniac, fucking power complex?”
Scully allows herself to smirk, and for a second he thinks he’s scored a point, until she walks closer, slow and deliberate, her heels landing like punctuation marks.
“I don’t need you to beg, Mulder,” she says, stopping right in front of him. “I need you to behave.”
He stares up at her. His mouth is dry but dick is harder than it has ever been, and she hasn’t even touched him.
“You’re not going to touch me,” he says, more to himself than to her. A warning or a prayer.
Scully tilts her head. “Do you want me to?”
“No.” He says it too fast. “Yes. I—I don’t know.”
Scully lets the heel of her boot scrape against the floor as she lifts one leg slowly and precisely like she’s using a gun, and places it on the chair between his thighs. The toe of her shoe nudges against the blanket. Then presses.
Mulder gasps too loudly and way too desperately. His hips jolt, useless and automatic.
“Look at you,” she murmurs. “You can’t even answer a simple question.”
“I can answer questions just fine,” he snaps, defensive and burning. “You just keep asking the wrong ones.”
Scully laughs, low and mean. “Fine. Here’s the right one: What would your father say if he walked in and saw you like this? The future of all of his companies leaking and begging like a cheap whore.”
Mulder’s entire body locks and his breath is caught. His cock doesn’t go soft, no, it twitches again, like it’s been trained to respond to guilt. His face scrunches in something between rage and shame.
“That’s cruel,” he says.
“Cruel?” She shrugs. “I call it motivational.”
“Motivational,” he echoes, hoarse. “What the hell, Scully—You really think this is motivation?”
Her heel moves just slightly. Not even applying pressure. Just a shift, a small hint. She watches his thighs tremble like he’s seconds from begging.
“This is pathetic. You are so pathetic, Mulder,” she says, but her voice is quieter now. Not less cruel. She nudges his cock again through the blanket and watches the way he jolts like a dog on a leash.
“You do this a lot? Stroke yourself while thinking about your boss?”
“You’re not—” he breathes out, strained, “not my boss.”
“I own your schedule, Mulder.” Her leg lifts, then comes down again, firmly this time, heel pressing into the blanket, right onto the thick shape beneath it. He groans, chokes on it. She hums. “And you’re hard under my shoes. So what does that make me?”
“Fuck, Scully,” he mewls.
“No. Don’t fuck me. Don’t even talk to me like you could.” She leans in now, her hands braced on the chair’s arms, bending forward so her mouth is close to his ear. “You’re a grown fucking man who can’t manage his own dick without turning it into an HR crisis.”
Mulder whimpers like a lost puppy and the sound breaks something loose in her. Maybe it’s maternal, maybe it’s professional pride. Maybe it’s just mean. She presses harder with her heel, grinding slowly, enough to hurt. He gasps again, head dropping back, Adam’s apple bobbing as he breathes through it.
“You want to come like this?” she whispers. “Humping my fucking shoe like the disgusting perverted that you are?”
He nods before she even finishes the sentence.
“Of course you do,” she says.
She pulls the blanket away in one quick motion and exposes him. His cock is flushed, angry and twitching, standing up like it knows it’s about to be punished, leaking like he’s been edged for hours. She doesn’t look away, just stares like it’s nothing. Like she’s above it, because she is. Her heel presses again, this time directly against him bare and exposed.
He bucks and cries out.
“No,” she snaps. “Stay still.”
Mulder tries, he tries so hard. Every muscle in his body tenses, shaking like a live wire. And it’s not exactly because he wants to impress her or because he wants to be good, but because it makes him feel like nothing. And that’s exactly what he wants.
She lifts her heel just an inch and taps the underside of his cock with the toe.
“You love this, don’t you?” she asks, her voice flat and clinical, like she’s dissecting a body. “You love being reduced to this. Cock out, begging for attention like some desperate freak.”
Mulder closes his eyes, his cheeks burning from how embarrassed he is, “Yes.”
“Louder.”
“Yes.”
“Say it properly.”
He breathes in, then chokes it out: “I love being a desperate freak for you, Scully.”
She hums in approval. “Better.”
“You think I don’t notice?” Scully adds with a murmur. “The way you stare at my legs and my chest during meetings. The way your voice breaks when I call you out. You’ve wanted this.”
Mulder nods, panting like he is running a marathon. His face feels wet but he can’t be sure if he is crying or not. But he is still leaking more precum onto his skin. Knuckles white from holding onto the edge of the chair too much.
“You get hard from just being talked down to,” she says. “From me calling you a degenerate. From me telling you how disappointed your father would be.”
He gasps as her heel presses between his thighs again, just under his balls. Painful, deliciously sinful.
“You’re so fucking disgusting.”
Mulder lets out a pathetic sound. His hips twitch and his cock pulses like it might come untouched.
“You want to come from my shoe, Mulder?” Scully sneers. “Want me to ruin you without even touching you with my hands?”
“Yes. God, yes.”
“You don’t deserve my hands. You’re not worth it.”
In response to that, he groans, head tipping forward, neck flushed red.
“Beg,” she taunts now.
Mulder moans, eyes wide, mouth open. His whole body trembles. “Please—please, Scully. I don’t think I can—”
“Yes, you can.”
“I’ve been thinking about you all day, Scully, please. Your voice, your fucking tits, the way you boss me around—”
“Of course you have,” she interrupts, tone flat and merciless. “I wish you could see yourself, Mulder. So sad, so desperate for me. You’re crying because I’m being mean to you.” she says, grinding the heel in tiny circles around his crown.
He whines while his thighs shake. His cock is twitching like it’s seconds from exploding, tears welling in his eyes, desperation spilling out of him like breath.
“You love having someone disappointed in you. You want your own mother’s friend to call you a disgusting animal while you hump yourself under her boots.”
Mulder breaks immediately, because he has never been known for his miraculous self-restraint. He comes violently and shamefully with a sob that echoes off the walls, without touching himself and the mess spilling over his stomach and thighs, legs trembling under her. Scully watches it happen with that same unreadable expression, part disdain, part clinical detachment, part something else she definitely doesn’t want to unpack right now.
When it’s over, he slumps, boneless, spent, flushed red to his ears. She finally steps back. Wipes the toe of her heel on the edge of his chair.
“Clean yourself up,” she says, already halfway out the door. “And pick a fucking good suit. The gala is in two days.”
The door clicks shut behind her and a loud silence swells in the room like smoke. Mulder stays on the chair, slightly throbbing, thighs sticky, chest heaving. His body’s still shaking. His cock’s soft now, but still twitching with the ghost of her heel pressed against it.
He doesn’t move because he can’t move. His brain feels like it short-circuited somewhere between all of her humiliation and the echo of his own voice begging to be degraded. The orgasm burned completely through him.
He stares at the floor. At the streaks of cum across his stomach and thighs, coating the fabric of his pants. At the faint indent of her shoe on his lap.
What the fuck is wrong with him?
The shame catches up to him fast, slamming into his gut like a punch. His skin burns again and suddenly, his ears are ringing.
“Fuck,” he whispers to himself.
Nothing could ever be this casual with Dana Scully. Not when she’s this involved. She saw everything, saw the entirety of him. Pried it open like she was doing surgery and laid it bare and twisted it until it screamed.
And fuck if Mulder didn’t love it.
He feels like a monster. Which is normal, most of the days, but now it’s not in the sexy, not really controlled way. His fucked up kinks didn’t matter, the older woman consenting didn’t quite matter because it felt compulsive like he’s circling a drain.
She was right about him. He is disgusting.
Mulder stays there for a long time, sitting in the guilt, the pleasure, the confusion. He’s nauseated too, feels like he’s staring at his own crime scene. The post-orgasm clarity is sharp enough to cut, and it tells him things he’s not ready to hear.
That he wanted this for a long time, that he liked it too much. That her voice is still echoing in his head and making him hard again.
He wipes at his stomach with the edge of the discarded blanket, but it’s a pointless gesture. The mess isn’t the problem. It’s not the cum or the dull ache in his stomach or the scratch on his thighs where her heel dug in.
It’s the way he knows this will never be enough but he’ll still beg for it anyway. It’s how he never realized how much he craves her approval, even when she weaponizes it, especially then.
It’s how, for a few sick minutes, he felt seen. Truly disgustingly seen.
.
Mulder wants to be anywhere except in his own skin right now. His suit fits wrong; it is too tight at the collar but loose in the chest. Like it was tailored for a man who knows who he is. He obviously doesn’t. Even the gala is uncharacteristically loud, with too many voices, too many hands grabbing his shoulder, and too many teeth in the smiles. Mulder stands next to his mother and Jeffrey, a perfect little family. Suits and teeth and curated lies, pretending he isn’t the world’s biggest disappointment. As well as plastered with the expression he’d practiced in the mirror: attentive but unbothered. Eyes half-focused, lips tight, body at a perfect social distance. Smiling only when he had to. Speaking smart only to the people who matter.
He is behaving better than he ever has. He’s taking it all like a grown man. Like a CEO, or at least someone very good at pretending that could ever be his life.
And underneath it all, his subconscious is curled up, on its knees, drooling for Scully’s approval. Some part of him that he hates to name, is so desperate for Scully's attention. That sharp nod she sometimes gave when he didn’t embarrass himself. A glance, a quiet aside. Even just simple eye contact.
The ballroom is all crystal chandeliers and old money and tension that clings like smoke. Everyone here knows his name and who he should be.
And the reason the tension has been sitting heavy on his shoulder has everything to do with how it has been three days since he came under a blanket while Scully pressed her heel into his cock and called him all sorts of names who’d leave anyone spiraling for days. So Mulder feels justified to be feeling possibly every emotion in the book. Doesn’t help at all that Scully hadn’t said a single word about it. Not in a text telling him to not post anything cryptic and weird online, not in a passive-aggressive work memo, not even a sarcastic look over her reading glasses. Just radio silence.
And when she did spoke to him, it felt like when he’d pissed the fuck out of a random interviewer: brisk, curt, surgically professional. She reviewed his press talking points like he hadn’t come in his fucking hand because she told him how mentally disturbed he is. She told him to bring a navy suit to the gala and a smile that wouldn’t make Teena Mulder look like she’d failed as a mother.
And that was it, honestly. No acknowledgment. No tension. No fallout. Like it didn’t matter. And maybe Mulder truly didn’t fucking matter and he’s fine with that concept, at least.
Perhaps Mulder is putting the older woman on a pedestal, fantasizing about her this much. Maybe she would walk by, lean in, and whisper something dirty into his ear. Or worse, she wouldn’t say shit.
He imagined brushing past her, catching her scent again, that clean and clinical smell with something sinful underneath, and falling to his knees to lick her shoes. Or not. He wouldn’t do that. He wasn’t that guy, was he? He wouldn’t pull on her sleeve like some lovesick intern who thought a good orgasm meant love. It was about her heel on his dick and her voice in his head for three straight days.
The room is still hot, his collar still too stiff. His thoughts slurred and tangled. He stops himself and swallows hard. He needs a distraction. A normal fucking conversation. Or even a crime scene. He could easily pick a fight with Jeffrey, say something idiotic and mean, and ruin their mother’s mood for the rest of the night. You know, like a procedure.
But all he has is this stupid fucking suit, this drink, and the slow, torturous certainty that he is not over whatever the fuck is going on with Scully. That he wouldn’t be over it for a long time.
Mulder sees her twenty minutes later. And he knows the moment she walks in because it’s like the room changes shape.
Dana Scully in a sharp, tailored black suit that provoked an involuntary chuckle from Mulder, who just shook his head in complete disbelief. Hair flawless as usual, stopping right under her shoulders. Her neck bare and looking like a full meal, jewelry minimal, like she doesn’t need it, like you need it. A pair of thin black stilettos. He’s so fucking gone.
She doesn’t look at him, which means everything.
Mulder gets through two more rounds of bullshit talk. Something about a new biotech partnership. Something about optics, but all of it’s noise.
She passes him once by the champagne table. Doesn’t stop and certainly doesn’t peak. Just brushes past him, perfume dragging behind like a hook in his ribs. He thinks he imagines it until she slides a single look his way over the rim of her glass.
Scully stands across the room talking to someone from the press. Her posture is perfect, her laugh light and low, her mouth untouched by memory.
Mulder swallows the lump in his throat and turns back to the conversation at hand.
(He hates how his body responds to absence just as much as it responds to her presence.)
Someone is suddenly asking about market shifts, or maybe about tech and defense and multi-stream acquisition, and fuck, he can’t even hear it. The voice might as well have been underwater.
He nods anyway, says something smart that his brother thankfully adds excitedly to the conversation.
But every atom in his body is on her. Mulder wonders if he is just another problem she managed, like a scandal, or a missed email, or just what it is: a poorly timed erection.
He forces a laugh at something his mother says and resists the urge to bite the inside of his cheek until he bleeds. Because three days ago, he’d been on his knees, and now he was acting like none of it had happened. Like she hadn’t stepped on his spine with her shoe and rewired his brain.
Mulder doesn’t even know if he wants to apologize (Oh, I’m sorry, Scully. I’m so fucking attracted to you my insides feel like gushing out of me. Fucking stupid) or beg her to do it again. But he knows this, he needs her eyes on him. God, he would follow her anywhere.
“Your mom hasn’t complained to me once about you tonight. Progress is being made, I see.” Scully’s voice cuts through his process of thinking and Mulder immediately startles.
“You are so stealthy, Scully, that it should be illegal.” he plays it off with a comment.
“And you’re awfully quiet tonight,” she says but not really teasing, only assessing a fact.
“Am I?” Mulder tries to smile. “Must be slipping. I’ve been saving my energy for the post-gala orgy in the coatroom.”
Scully just blinks once, slowly, and unimpressed.
Mulder pushes on, like a man digging his own grave with a straw. “Or is it more of an expensive junkie party? I never know with these legacy events. You’d think someone would hand out pamphlets.”
“You’re sweating,” she points out calmly.
“Public speaking gets me hot.”
“You haven’t spoken in twenty minutes.”
“Well,” he says strained, “you know me. Always in performance mode. I’m like the owner of this company, Scully.”
Her gaze doesn’t flinch or flicker, she just watches him like she is waiting for the last drop of stupidity to fall out of his mouth.
Mulder straightens his back, swallowing whenever funny comments he had left in him. “Did you, uh… need something?”
That lands wrong, he catches that quick. It sounds: desperate even to Fox Mulder's standards.
“Well, I need a moment,” she says. “With you.”
Something sharp twisted in his gut. ‘With you’ hit him like a slap.
“Sure,” Mulder says, voice cracking slightly. He clears his throat. “You want to go outside? Or is this one of those classic scoldings I can receive here in front of my mother dearest?
“You’re trying very hard to act normal.”
“Am I pulling it off?”
“No.”
He laughs short and awkwardly and wrong. Scully leans in just enough for her breath to brush his cheek again.
“You’ve been walking around this gala like a kicked dog,” she says. “Smiling at people like you don’t still moan my name when you come.”
Mulder chokes on his own inhale. His hand jerked at his side. “I—uh, what the fuck?”
“You were good that day,” Scully cuts him off. “Better than I expected. Obedient, eager, even.”
“Is it that hard to believe that I can—” he starts.
“You are.” Her eyes sharpen. “You’re just pretending not to be.”
Mulder wants to say something witty. Wants to joke it off, deflect and diffuse, but his brain betrays him by going immediately blank.
He got hard, too.
Standing in a fucking gala next to his mother and his younger brother, he is hard just because Scully said obedient. Meanwhile, Scully looks down, almost like she could sense it. Then back up, stifling a smile.
“You’re going to follow me,” she says casually. “You’ll wait exactly two minutes. Then walk toward the south hallway. Don’t speak to me when you get there. Just kneel.”
Then she turns and leaves. Walks away just like that while Mulder stands there, in his fucking pants.
The bathroom is dark marble and gold trim. Fancy but eerily quiet. Mulder winces quietly when he kneels on the cold tiles, his pants feel tighter with the position, but fuck if he cares about that right now. Especially not with Scully leaning against the sink in front of him, eyeing him up and down.
“Is this why Diana left?” The words leave her mouth like a slap across his face and he can’t stop the big frown of his eyebrows.
“What?”
“You not knowing how to fuck.”
It takes a moment for Mulder to remember how to breathe. Or speak. It’s not like he and Scully had any big secret between their personal lives, although she knows more about him than he knows about her. But Diana was way too recent for him to actually speak about it.
“That’s—Jesus, Scully.”
She doesn’t wait for him to continue, “You didn’t sleep with her, did you, Mulder?”
“No, I did not,” he says as he bites down on his own tongue.
Scully doesn’t press the issue. Doesn’t ask if he even actually wants to fuck women, she just smiles and shakes her head, “You’re a sick fuck, Mulder.”
He grins at that, because, well, he is a sick fuck. Because that’s what Mulder likes; being useful but not in a common sense, disappearing into someone like he isn’t his own person.
“I’m going to teach you how to fuck with your tongue,” she murmurs at the same time she unzips her pants, letting it pool on her heels before getting rid of it completely.
Scully presses her thigh to his cheek, her feet touching the expensive fabric of his pantsuit. She pulls her other leg on top of his shoulder, making his face fit perfectly between her legs, like he was deserving to be there.
She moves her hand towards his face, so gently that it almost hurts him. Her thumb traces his lips, forcing him to suck on her. Mulder lets her, of course. Laps around her fingers like he’s about to win a golden medal, whines pathetically when she shoves to other fingers inside his warm mouth.
She spreads herself with two fingers, exposing her clit like a challenge. Scully wants to laugh at how hard stares, completely soaked in it like it’s his first time seeing a naked woman in front of him. She drags one soaked finger with his spit around it. Slow, circling, and teasing herself.
The smell of her already unravels him, and he watches like he’s under hypnosis.
She tilts her hips. “Now put your mouth on me. No tongue yet.”
He leans in, mouth open, and rests his lips just barely over her pussy. Not kissing, like she said. Just letting her feel his breath and his presence.
“Good,” Scully says softly. Mulder’s mouth is on her, but it’s clumsy at first. Eager because he is overwhelmed. His tongue moves too fast, like he’s trying to impress her instead of actually learning her. He noses into her like he’s still watching porn, like she’s just some idea of a woman, not a real person with skin and a pulse.
Scully watches him from above, one hand braced on the counter of the sink, and the other latching onto his scalp.
“Slow down,” she says, voice low but firm. “You need to breathe, Mulder”
He makes a noise of acknowledgment and immediately tries to adjust. He slows and flattens his tongue but it’s still too messy. He’s overthinking it and doing too much.
Scully sighs and shifts her weight, “Look at me.” she pulls his face to her direction, harder than she wants, gaining another whimper for him. His mouth glistens, lips flushed, pupils blown wide.
”You’re one of the smartest people I know but you’re acting like a stupid, brainless mutt right now.”
Mulder doesn’t reply to that. She pats one of his cheeks with her palm, and like some secret code, he opens his lips and doesn’t even blink when she spits inside his mouth, some of it leaking out into his cheeks. He twitches under her, his cock suddenly feeling too much inside of his pants.
“You’re not trying to get it over with,” she continues, cool and clinical. “Don’t be so fucking greedy to get over this fast. Got it?”
He nods like a schoolboy, almost grateful to be told what to do.
“Start with your tongue flat. Long strokes, up and down. Not too fast.”
He obeys, tongue dragging slowly from the base of her slit to her clit, and she lets out a soft breath, not a moan, not yet, but at least it’s a sound.
“See. You’re not completely useless," she mutters. “Now do it again and keep the pressure even. This isn’t a fucking race.”
Mulder repeats it, again and again. And this time it’s different. It starts to feel less like he’s trying to do something to her, and more like he’s paying attention. His hands come up, trembling a little, resting just above her knees, as if anchoring himself.
She looks down at him, and the sight nearly undoes her. Mulder’s eyes are closed, lashes brushing his cheeks. He’s grinding against his pants trying to seek any type of friction, his face is crumpled in almost pain. She clenches around nothing and doesn’t say a word.
His tongue moves more confidently now, tracing delicate patterns around her, letting her twitch under his mouth. She starts to breathe harder. The fingers on his scalp dig harder.
“You’re… fuck, you’re catching on.”
He hums against her and it sends a vibration through her body that makes her jolt, and finally, she lets out something like a moan.
Mulder opens his eyes and looks up at her with something like awe. She hates how good it feels to see him that way.
“Now,” she whispers, “suck.”
He wraps his lips around her clit and sucks gently, tongue flicking in tandem. Her whole body tightens. Her hand shoots out and tangles in his hair, nails raking his scalp.
“Yes,” she gasps, almost furious about it. “Just like that.”
Scully is the only one who is allowed to get greedy, he realizes when she presses his face even more into her pussy, his hand digs into her thigh while she fucks herself on his face.
He tries, really, but involuntarily, Mulder tries to push his head back to breathe, to adjust his tongue inside her but Scully pulls him by his hair to look at him. His chest is heavy but he stays quiet.
There’s barely a sound from him when her hand lands flat on his right cheek, making his face turn away from her gaze.
“I thought you wanted to be good, Mulder. You were being such a good pussylicker just for me.”
“I—please, Scully,” he whispers hoarsely.
There’s no grace in the way she yanks him forward again, his lips finding her wet, twitching pussy once more.
Mulder smiles against her, his face still throbbing from the slap and he couldn’t believe it would feel like this. Not this warm and alive. Not this human.
There’s a part of his brain, some bizarre limbic fragment that still thinks of it like porn: visual and stylized, out there in the world for consumption. A detached image of a woman spreading her legs and a man diving in like it’s a chore or a performance.
But it’s nothing like that with Scully. Her scent is rich and complex. It’s her skin, her arousal, her body opened just enough for him to know her. It’s shamefully intimate, and so real it almost kills him on the spot.
And her taste should be simple and easy to categorize. Salty, slick, sweet maybe, if his brain was working correctly.
But it’s not just a taste. It’s a whole fucking event. It’s warm, velvety, alive. It coats his tongue, fills his mouth, and sinks into the corners of his jaw. He groans into her like he’s never eaten anything before.
Hunger, devotion, obsession, whatever the fuck it could describe it.
His mouth seals to hers, and he doesn’t know what he’s doing, not really, but he knows he doesn’t want to stop. His hands are tight on her thighs like she might disappear, like this might evaporate if he doesn’t anchor himself to the moment.
She’s soft and wet and pulsing under him. And every flick of his tongue makes her twitch, makes her gasp, and it’s not a porno, not fantasy, this is Dana Scully unraveling under his mouth. It feels like a prayer, like the cross on her neck finally makes sense for someone who can be that holy.
He feels her fingers in his hair and thinks: This is it. This is a church and grace all at once. Being allowed here, between her legs, with his mouth soaking in her, his face wet with her, her hands holding him there like he belongs is making him dizzy.
Mulder moans again, involuntarily. Scully breathes out his name and clenches around nothing, and he thinks he might cry. He presses his tongue deeper and thinks: If this is the only fucking thing in the world I ever get to do for her, it will be enough.
Scully comes into Mulder's mouth with a soft, brutal grunt, her hips grinding against his face. She holds him there until her thighs stop shaking. Then she pulls herself away, already adjusting back to normal fixing herself with the same professional efficiency she’s known for.
Mulder feels like he’s gonna leak out of his suit at any moment, and with the heel of his palm, he tries to make it less uncomfortable.
“Get up and fuck yourself now,” she commands and he does that immediately, slow and shaky, already unbuttoning his pants and freeing his untouched cock.
“You’re going to go back out there and stay glued to your mother’s side. Don’t look at me. Don’t speak to me. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
The only thing he can do is nod, heart still thudding in his chest.
And Mulder fuck his fist thinking about her and that maybe, he does like women after all.