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TITLE: Perpetual
Bliss
AUTHOR: Finn
E-MAIL: finn1013@hotmail.com
URL: http://finn.htmlplanet.com
CATEGORY: MSR, minor Angst
RATING: NC-17
SPOILERS: Monday, small references to earlier episodes
ARCHIVE: Gossamer okay, anywhere else just let me know
FEEDBACK: PLEASE!!!
SUMMARY: Post-ep for Monday, kinda ... but it degenerates into, um
... smut :)
DISCLAIMER: Not mine, no money, belongs to Chris Carter, 1013, Fox,
GA and DD. Please don't sue. No infringement intended.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: At end
*********
I've been having the strangest dream about Mulder for almost two weeks now.
Each night, it's the same one, perpetually repeated but with a few minor variations thrown in now and then as some sort of doubtful bonus.
I see him asleep in bed, which in itself is strange, because, until yesterday, as far as I knew, Mulder didn't actually *have* a bed. He's dressed only in a pair of yellow pyjama bottoms and his chest is bare. He's lying on his back, his arms bent up and resting beside his head. His mouth is slightly parted as he breathes, and his legs are tangled up in the bed sheets.
And then I see him wake up. He sits up in bed and says, "You have beautiful breasts, Scully," and that's the end, my dream finishes. Damn.
Two nights ago, in my dream, he was sleeping on his stomach, and when he woke up and rolled over he said, "Let's make love, Scully,", and the night before that it was, "I want to taste your-" Sheeeesh. My mind blanks out on me whenever I replay *that* one. But he's always wearing those same yellow pyjama bottoms.
And the other really bizarre thing about it is that his pyjamas look *wet*. At first I thought it was because of ... well, you know ... men his age can still have those sorts of dreams. If I ever thought about such things, I would say Mulder has them too. But then I realised his pyjamas weren't just damp in patches, they were soaked all over, like he'd been swimming in them or something. Weird.
It's very disturbing at work the next day, being alone together in the basement office, when I can hear him saying those kinds of things to me. I try not to worry about it though. Doubtless, it's my subconscious responding to all the innuendoes Mulder is forever throwing my way. It's a perfectly normal reaction to have in the situation, I'm sure.
So, as I said, I've been having that dream for about two weeks now, but yesterday it was different, because *yesterday* I found out that Mulder actually has a bed. A waterbed. And yesterday it sprung a leak.
I wonder what else in my dream could be true.
"Scully?"
I look up from my desk and belatedly realise that this isn't the first time Mulder has voiced my name. He looks slightly amused and I hope to God I'm not blushing, but I think I am.
"Yeah?" I give him the eyebrow, daring him to make something of it.
He eyes me speculatively for a moment and I can see the wheels turning over in his head. He goes with passive resistance. "I asked you if you wanted to come over tonight. It's almost six now, and I want to go through some of these files with you." He gestures towards the stack to his left. "You feel like Thai take-out?" His voice lowers persuasively. "I'll buy."
We're still going through the process of conducting our own examination of every single x-file that Diana and Spender 'investigated'. It's time-consuming, and we need to put in extra hours to get through the load. Last night we worked on my dining room table.
I shrug. "Okay," I say. I can't seem to take my eyes off him, which is, after all, a completely natural response after our near miss yesterday with Bernard. Mulder was almost shot. That's something else I can't stop thinking about. I can picture what could have happened, what should have happened. That bullet was meant for Mulder.
Last night, I dreamt about that too. It was a new dream, although it started off the same as the other. I dreamt Mulder was asleep in bed. I wait for him to waken, to speak to me. I wait for his words; I expect them, and maybe I even want to hear them. But I wait too long. He doesn't wake up. In this dream, I am in Mulder's bedroom. I pull the sheet away from his chest; he's been shot, and there's blood, Mulder's blood, so much blood, too much blood ...
"You ready to go now, Scully?"
Mulder drops his pen on the desk and pushes aside the paperwork he's been scribbling on. He stands up, and I nod. Don't think, I tell myself.
I save the file I have open and shut down my computer. He's waiting for me by the door by the time I've tidied my desk and am ready to leave. His shirt-sleeves are still rolled up and he's slung his jacket over his shoulder, and is holding on to it with two fingers.
I join him by the door. "I'll meet you there in 40 minutes, Mulder. I'm going home to change first." As much as I can't take my eyes off him, I need to get away from him for a while. I need time alone to think, to put these dreams into perspective, to shove them to the back of my mind where they belong. Right now, they're up front and centre, and I feel vulnerable and exposed.
He holds my coat out to me. "You can always borrow one of my shirts, Scully, if you're after something 'more comfortable' to wear." He winks, then says suggestively, "And I'll even let you take a shower at my place ..."
I take my coat from him and shrug it on. "Mulder, the wildlife in your bathroom scares me. No thanks."
He smiles slightly. "Hey, I cleaned my bathroom last week."
I look at him and he holds my gaze steadily, and if I didn't know him better, I would say there was more to his simple statement than his words suggest.
"Let's go," I finally say. His eyes flicker, and for a moment I think I glimpse disappointment in them, but I turn away and reach up to switch off the office light. Mulder pulls the door shut behind us.
*********
Scully has been behaving strangely all day. She was behaving strangely yesterday too, and all last week. She keeps watching me. I don't know why. I watch her too, but I'm better at it than she is; I'm sure she doesn't realise that I'm observing her as she is watching me.
I don't want to let her out of my sight. Yesterday, when she walked into that bank and Bernard pointed his gun at her, a cold chill snaked up and down my spine. I cursed myself for giving Bernard my gun, the gun he was pointing at Scully. That wasn't part of my plan. And then he turned the gun away from her, and trained it on me. But I was relieved in a way, simply because it was off Scully.
I'm pleased she consented to come home with me tonight on the pretext of going through old files of Spender's and Diana's. Although perhaps we should have gone to her home instead; she's been quiet all day and she looked tired in the office earlier, like she hasn't been getting enough sleep lately.
I finish my shower, and briskly towel myself dry. I pull on a pair of faded blue jeans and as I exit my bathroom, I hear Scully's knock. She was quicker than I thought she'd be.
"Hey," I say to her as I open the door. "That was fast."
I don't miss the fleeting glance she gives my bare chest. Thanks for noticing, Scully. But I hide my smile from her and reign in the comment that wants to escape - sometimes it's best just to shut up. And anyway, if I acted on all the innuendos that sprung to mind we'd never have a serious conversation.
"Yeah, well ... I was hungry," she explains, and I bite down on my tongue, hard.
I realise we're still standing in my doorway, and I step back to allow her to move past me. She's dressed casually but neatly, in a pair of tailored white pants and a fitted navy top, which is, I think, cut a little lower than the ones she normally wears to work. It's odd to see her without a jacket too; somehow she looks smaller and younger without it.
She walks over to my coffee table and picks up one of the files, and I follow her, sitting down on the couch beside her. The worn, grey t-shirt I slept in last night is stuffed under one of the cushions on the other side of Scully. She's perched on the edge of the couch, so I reach behind her to grab my shirt; my chest brushes up across her back and she jumps, startled.
"Sorry," I tell her, but I don't really mean it, and I know she knows it too. "Think I was making a move on you, Scully?" I say, and of course she doesn't react, ignoring the innuendo as she usually does.
But for some reason, tonight I want a response, an acknowledgment, at the very least. "Well?" I push, as I drag my t-shirt over my head and pull it down my chest.
She turns to look at me. "Well, what, Mulder?"
"No comment, Scully?"
"I didn't think that required an answer, Mulder," she dismisses me, and turns back to the file.
I sigh and lean back against the couch, closing my eyes. This part of the dance almost always has the same steps and I know them off by heart. La de freaking dah.
Things between us have been ... unusual lately. Changed, but unaltered. Different, yet similar. Different how, I don't know. I don't even know if the difference is a positive or negative thing. Our relationship, such as it is, seems to be moving more and more towards a resolution of sorts, a make or break. And I'm wary and cautious, because I almost broke it several months ago in a standoff at the Gunmens'.
I know without a doubt that I care for Scully deeply, as she does for me. To put it simply, we are best friends.
Yet we're not, because it's not that simple.
I know that I want to be with her more frequently, but without the justification of work for us to be together, I panic, or I invent an excuse, like a Christmas Eve ghost haunting. I find it difficult be open to myself or to her about my need for her.
More and more often over the past year or so, I've been thinking of her in ways that I shouldn't. Oh, it's not always sexual, though much of it is. Out in the field, in the middle of a case, I'll suddenly find myself fascinated by the lustre of the sun shining through her hair. Or I'll make a joke about something or nothing, and watch her try not to smile, and something inside me ... beats and constricts.
Other times, she can be in a discussion with Skinner, with a witness, with anyone, and I'll catch myself gazing at her, listening to her talk without hearing anything she's saying.
She's caught me doing this a few times I know, but she doesn't say anything. It's not her style, and it's not mine. But I wonder ... if she wonders ... what I'm thinking during those times.
"Mulder?" At the sound of her voice I open my eyes. She's dropped the file back on the coffee table, and is rubbing her hands up and down her thighs. She only ever does that when she gets nervous. I hope that's not a bad sign.
"When did you ... get a bed?"
A bed? She wants to know about my bed? Didn't we have this conversation before? Maybe not.
I think about it for a moment. "A couple of months back, I guess," I answer, and she frowns slightly. I wait a moment, watching her expectantly.
She nods slowly. "Do you ... uh, use it?"
"Yeah," I reply. She's quiet, and I stand up, impulsively grabbing her hand and pulling her up beside me. "Come and have a look."
"No ... Mulder, I don't think so," she protests, but I draw her along beside me and up the hallway.
"Come on, Scully, you're curious, admit it."
She looks frustrated, she doesn't have a comeback for that, but she goes to my bedroom with me. When we reach the doorway, I drop her hand and give her a little push; she gives me a speaking glance but walks up to my bed anyway.
My bedroom is tidy, and there is a faint, though not unpleasant lingering odour from the carpet steam-cleaning my landlord insisted on.
I stand propped up against the doorway, my arms crossed, watching her survey my room. "You think it's too normal for me, huh, Scully?", I ask lightly, alluding to our conversation some time ago on a Nevada highway. For some reason her answer is important to me.
She links her fingers together as she sits down on my bed, glancing upwards briefly and giving me tiny smile. "Normal? There are ... mirrors on the canopy, Mulder."
I grin. "You noticed, huh?"
She gives me another little smile by way of reply, then shocks me when she stretches out across my bed, her feet dangling off the edge.
Scully is lying on my bed.
On my *bed*.
My bed which, by the way, now has a people-friendly 'standard' mattress on it. I don't want to wake up in a wet patch that big again.
There is a thin strip of pale skin showing on her stomach where her shirt has pulled up, skin which, of course, my eyes zoom in on immediately.
I think the doorway is propping me up now.
She's looking up at herself in the mirror; she smoothes her shirt back down properly and I try to appear like I wasn't staring at her. "Mulder?"
"Um, yeah?" I answer brightly, focusing on her face.
"That was a knock at the door. I think our dinner has arrived."
Saved by the bell,
Scully.
*********
Never let it be said that I don't notice my partner's reactions, even when he's trying to hide them. I certainly noticed the way his eyes saucered when I lay down on his bed, which I noted, was a waterbed no longer. Interesting. It was flattering, in a way, to know that he sometimes sees me as a woman, and not just his partner. It's also reassuring to know that he can be as predictable as one of Pavlov's dogs, given the right stimulus.
I'm so tired, right now. And I ate too much, I'm full too. I drop the file and lean back on the couch. It's just past nine o'clock and I'm exhausted. Maybe I'll just close my eyes for a moment. Mulder won't notice, he's totally caught up in a file on a shapeshifting, telekinetic farmer from mid-western Idaho, whose talents also apparently include the ability to mysteriously transform his 100 hectare crop of corn into sugar beets - overnight. I looked at the file half an hour ago and put it in my reject pile. Spender did have some sense. And I'm not saying anything complimentary about *that woman*.
"Scully, did you read this? Five witnesses reported seeing -"
I groan without opening my eyes and block out the rest of Mulder's inane babble. Those same witness recanted their statements a day later when they ran out of whatever it was they were smoking and realised corn crops and sugar beets did not look so similar after all. "No, Mulder. There is no case." I brace myself for the 'discussion' to come but he doesn't say anything, which makes me curious, so I open my eyes.
He's dropped the file back on the table and has shifted his body around to face me. One of his arms is stretched over the back of the couch, just beside my head. He's regarding me intently.
"No argument, Mulder?" I ask warily, and he gives me a small smile.
"You're right, Scully." My eyebrows raise at that and he reaches across the space between us to couple my hand in his. His fingers stroke my palm and he says with atypical understatement, "It's just ... it's ... good to be back on the X-Files together again."
"Yeah, it is," I say to him. He's smiling at me, and I know I'm smiling back at him. His hand is warm and comforting, and for some reason, it reminds me of those dreams I had about him, and the things he said to me. "I should go now, it's getting late." But I don't move.
"You're tired," he says, and his other hand brushes through my hair. I sigh and close my eyes for a moment again. "Are you ... you're okay, aren't you? You're not feeling sick or anything?"
"No, Mulder, I'm fine." His mouth twists deprecatingly at that, and I clarify, "I am. I just ... haven't been sleeping much lately. I keep having these dreams ..." My mouth catches up with my mind and I shut up. That's enough information.
"What sort of dreams, Scully?" He's curious, concerned, and I'm too tired to think of some easy answer to fob him off.
"About you," I mutter, thinking of Mulder in his yellow pyjama pants, opening his mouth and saying to me, 'I need to kiss you, Scully'. Jeez, shutup, please.
I look away from him, and I realise I've said it wrong, and I know he's imagining my dreams are ... what they are, and not some sort of standard, everyday 'Mulder gets killed nightmare'. And then I think: I dreamt that too. "I should go," I say abruptly, and jump up.
"Hey." Mulder's voice is mild; he's still holding my hand and he tugs on it. "Don't go, Scully."
"It's late," I say lamely, not looking at him. "We both have to be at work early tomorrow morning for a meeting with Skinner."
He sighs and shifts on the couch, moving to sit on the edge. He still has my hand in his. "Please don't go, Scully." I take a deep breath and meet his gaze. He's serious, intent, and I wonder what the heck has gotten into him tonight. "Just stay a while longer, hmm?"
I look down at our linked hands, then back into Mulder's eyes. I hesitate. I don't think this is a good idea, really I don't. I feel ... strange. The mix-up dream I had for the first time last night, the one with Mulder in bed, dead, disturbs me more than I care to admit, even to myself. I don't know why it bothers me. It didn't happen. Mulder wasn't shot. I mean, he's here, alive, *fine* in fact, so why do I keep picturing this scenario? It never occurred, it couldn't have.
And another thing - Mulder is being a little more familiar than he usually is. He's touching me too much, like he did during the time we played house in Arcadia. Sometimes I like it and sometimes it drives me nuts; it always unbalances me when he behaves this way. I'm never sure how to respond. If I'm annoyed with him, it's easy, it's safe; I can ignore him, which I often do, or bluntly shove him away ... though with Mulder, that doesn't always work too well. Trying to pry his hands off me when he wants them *on* me can be like trying to splice apart a damn oyster at times.
If I like it - him touching me - and I try not to let that happen - I usually push him away too. It's too dangerous to do otherwise though I refuse to think just *why* that is so.
And then there are times, like now, when I don't know what I'm feeling, or maybe it's that I don't *want* to know what I'm feeling. I know that I want to spend more time with him ... why?
He's waiting. I say, "I don't want to work on any more cases right now, Mulder."
"It's okay," he reassures me. "Just ... uh, just sit with me, hmm?"
I'm going to give in, I know it. Mulder must know too, because he tugs on my hand and I let myself fall back beside him onto the couch. He stretches his long legs out on the coffee table on top of one of our files, and I shuck off my shoes and tuck my feet up under me.
The angle I'm sitting at makes me lean his way slightly, and I find myself snuggling up against his chest. One of my hands drops onto his jean-clad thigh, and I think about moving it away, but I don't. I'm too comfortable. I can hear the steady pulse of his heartbeat against my ear. He's warm. His arms encircle me loosely, and I relax in his embrace.
Funnily enough, I
don't feel so tired any more.
*********
Shit. Scully's hand is stroking my thigh. Has she totally lost all common sense? Doesn't she realise what she's doing to me? Her hand is only a matter of inches away from ... well, you know where. And to make matters worse, her shirt has pulled to one side, revealing the thin, lacy bra strap on her shoulder. It's black, she's wearing a black bra. God.
I'm getting a painfully stimulating glimpse of that and other ... things ... from my vantage point above her. This is supposed to be two platonic friends spending some time together, but if she could read my mind she'd think I was a freaking pervert or something.
Oh no ... no, no, not now, no, please ...
Dammit.
I'm getting an erection and I know Scully's going to feel it if she moves her hand one inch to the left. I think she's going to see it, but she'd sure better not feel it. Just in case, to head off any inadvertent move on her part, I tighten my arms around her and, at the same time, manage to nonchalantly move her hand another inch away from ground zero.
I need something to stick over my lap. A file perhaps? No, she'd assume I was wanting to work again and she might take it as a hint to leave. A throw pillow, that's it, that's what I need.
Problem is, I don't have many of those such pillows, and the only one in reaching distance is stuck behind her back. I wonder if it would look natural if I grabbed it and dropped it ever-so-casually on my lap. I think about it for a few moments, before reluctantly discarding the idea. Dammit, this is not good, this is getting painful.
I need a distraction. "Scully, what were you dreaming about, when you were dreaming about me?" She got a inscrutable look on her face before when I asked her that, and I want to know what it means. She wriggles, and I shift uncomfortably. Don't do that Scully, you'll be sorry. "Scully?" Why is she so tense all of a sudden?
She tries to pull away a little but I won't let her in case her hand unwittingly trespasses into no-man's land ... one guess as to who would get shot if that happens. She tilts her head up and the skin between her eyebrows creases. She gets an expression on her face I recognise, one that says 'screw it, let him have it'.
"I was dreaming about your waterbed springing a leak and you being late for work," she says matter-of-factly. "You had on yellow pyjamas, just the bottoms. And you fell over your running shoes," she adds.
Huh? I'm not sure if she's kidding or not. "Did you really dream that?" I ask, and she nods. Something suddenly occurs to me. "Scully, I was wearing those pyjamas yesterday morning, when my bed burst. And I did fall over my running shoes, they were in the middle of the floor and I fell flat on my face. How did you know that?"
She looks puzzled, and frowns slightly. "I don't know, Mulder. I just ... I just dreamt it that way."
"Deja vu, Scully?" I tease, referring to our conversation yesterday, and she arches one eyebrow.
"Mulder, I think you would remember if I had seen you living that moment before," she says, and my eyes widen at the implications of her words, of Scully in my bedroom, in my bed. With me.
"Yeah," I say to her before I think. "You would have been wet too."
Shit, did I just say that?
Apparently so, because Scully is stretching back to peer at my face, her hand clutching my thigh for balance, and I nearly forget that she shouldn't move that same hand *too* far. I grimace, and my eyes dart around the room, seeking inspiration.
"Hey, Scully, um ... do you .. do you want to watch a movie?" Shitshitshit, bad idea, now she's looking at the video collection in the bookshelf. "Um, I ... ah, I meant on tv," I specify.
"I know Mulder, I was just messing with your head," she says kindly, and I can't stop the unexpected snort of laughter escaping.
"Thanks," I grin down at her, relaxing. "So, what else was in that dream of yours? Anything I should know about?"
She suddenly seems to be fascinated by the x-files on the coffee table. She's staring at them. She's also rubbing her free hand, the one she doesn't have clamped on my thigh, up and down her leg, her fingers brushing back and forth across the white material. I wonder if she realises what she's doing. "No, no, that was all," she says too quickly, and I know she's lying. Hmmm. How elucidating.
"Are you having dreams of a sexual nature about your partner, Agent Scully?", I ask glibly, not believing it for a minute, and my heart leaps in shock when she blushes. Holy shit. I am on to something here.
"Scully?" My voice is incredulous.
"Mulder, of course not. No." she says, looking at me straight in the eyes, but she's nodding her head slightly, the little fraud. First rule of body language, Scully: when you say no and mean it, you *shake* your head.
I'm grinning madly. "So, what did we do Scully? Did we kiss? Or did we do something ... more ... in my bed? Or maybe I -"
"Shut up, Mulder." She scowls at me in a half-hearted way, and pushes at me, and I'm having such a good time I forget why I'm not supposed to let her move.
We both freeze.
*********
I am sitting with my partner, on his couch, which is not so unusual. But my hand is ... um, my hand is resting on top of his groin, which is definitely *way* out of the ordinary. That is, I mean, this situation is way out of the ordinary ... although right now, his groin is out of the ordinary too, come to think of it. He is, to put it bluntly ... *erect*.
Now this is a situation I haven't been in before. I mean, I've touched ... it ... before from a purely medical standpoint, and I've even brushed up against it a few times by *accident*. And I will even concede we've had some, well ... near misses would be the proper term, but nothing has ever come quite this close.
He's let go of me, his arms have fallen slackly by his sides and his eyes are downcast. He's embarrassed. "Shit ... I'm sorry, Scully," he says, and I wonder what peculiar whimsy is keeping me from moving my hand off him. Why am I still touching him?
He's alive, warm and firm under my palm, and the dream hits me: he's not dead, he wasn't shot, he never died. I'm staring at my hand on his penis like I'm in some sort of trance. I think I whisper, "You're alive," and I run my fingers up and down the length of him over the stiffness of hot denim, he groans and his whole body quivers, and I'm suddenly shockingly aware of what I'm doing.
I make it half-way to the door before I hear him behind me; his hand clamps down on my shoulder, biting into my flesh, and he spins me around to face him. I panic, lashing out at him, pushing.
His eyes are wild, his movements clumsy and graceless, his voice urgent. "Don't you run out on me now, Scully."
"I have to," I tell him, the words tumbling out of my mouth and spilling all over the floor. I realise I'm shaking. I'm terrified. God, what have I done?
"No, no, no Scully, please." He shudders, and sucks in a deep breath, and his hands loosen their hold on my shoulders and slide down my arms to cup my elbows. "Don't go, it's okay, it's okay," he pleads, bending down to look into my eyes, his face open, and I don't know what he sees in mine, but it makes his countenance soften, and he relaxes fractionally.
What is happening here? I duck my head, letting my hair fall down to hide my face. I'm unable to hold his gaze. My eyes inadvertently fix on his swollen groin and I shift them away hastily and stare at the carpeted floor. His feet are bare, so are mine. My toenails are painted a pastel blue. I think light blue is meant to be a soothing shade. Or maybe it's supposed to make you want to go out and buy fastfood - no, hold on, that's red, or yellow, right? Think of McDonalds or Burger King or Pizza Hut.
"Scully?" His voice is calmer now, and he's rubbing his hands up and down the backs of my arms. I shudder violently. But he doesn't stop, his touch is soothing, and gradually I feel the tension draining from me. He must sense it too, because he steps towards me, and slowly, I guess to give me time to object if I wanted to, he slips his arms around me and carefully pulls me against him.
I close my eyes against his chest, breathing him, listening to the accelerated beat of his heart.
We're quiet. He's so warm. He's stroking one hand back and forth across my back, and the other is tangled in my hair, his fingers lightly brushing against my skull. His touch is comforting, almost asexual, yet I know that this is a pivotal moment for us.
I think I've almost stopped shaking.
I swallow, and before I lose my nerve I blurt out, like I'm divulging a sworn secret, "I had another dream about you, Mulder."
He hums a small, questioning noise, the sound rumbling against my ear, and briefly clutches me before he steps back a fraction so he can see my face.
"What?" he prompts me gently, and I stare into his eyes for a moment before my hand reaches out to press against his chest.
"I ... yesterday at the bank, Mulder ... I know you were joking about deja vu ... but it seemed so familiar." I trace a circle on his chest, right above his heart. "You ... you were supposed to get shot. Yesterday and today, whenever I close my eyes I keep seeing you with so much blood on you, and I know you're going to die, and there's nothing I can do about it, nothing at all, I can't save you, I -" I stop, my voice close to breaking point, and he sighs my name.
His hand has slipped over my palm on his chest, and his fingers are threading through mine, slowly moving back and forth. His other hand has stretched out to cup the back of my neck; he's drawing me towards him.
I can't look away.
I want this, but I can't be the first, I can't take the risk, even though I know I wouldn't be rejected, that Mulder wants this - *needs* this - too.
He must understand, I know he reads me, because he bends and presses his mouth against my forehead, and his fingers lift from the nape of my neck and smooth over my cheek. He says quietly, his lips moving against my skin, "Don't be scared of this thing between us, Scully." He presses another chaste kiss across my temple. "I know what you're thinking. You're thinking 'nothing gold can stay', aren't you?"
He knows. Wordless, I tilt my head back to meet his eyes.
His voice drops to pleading murmur. I'm mesmerised by the urgency and the need in his tone, the single crucial theory I must corroborate. "But this will last, Scully, it's been between us for years, and it's time, right now, to do something about it." He adds simply and honestly, "I don't think I can wait any longer."
It's a combination of his words and the sheer love in his eyes that does me in, that strips me of all defences I've ever had against this man and this situation. I whisper his name, and reach up to drag his mouth down to mine. Our kiss is tentative to begin with, a touching, tasting and learning, but it becomes more, so much more, very quickly.
We're both breathing heavily when we pull apart, and against my stomach, I can feel Mulder's erection pressing into me. Any inhibitions I might have had vanish with this new thrilling contact. I rock against it and he groans, his pupils darkening.
"Scully," he murmurs, and buries his face in my hair, his arms holding me so tightly against him I can barely breathe. He trembles, and I stroke his back, pushing his t-shirt up so I can touch the warmly muscled skin beneath.
And then his hands are back in my hair, lifting my face again, his mouth is on mine, and his tongue is hot and probing between my lips.
God, he tastes so wonderful. His mouth is warm and spicy, it's everything good. I can't get enough of him. I pull at his shirt; he takes the hint, breaking our kiss to rip it off over his head. It falls on the floor somewhere behind me, and that is the catalyst that starts the avalanche of unbuttoning of pants, the sliding down of zippers and the shedding of clothing until we are both naked.
Still kissing, we inch back towards the couch, but we're impatient, and before we can reach it properly we are sinking together onto the floor, our limbs tangled, my breasts pressing against Mulder's chest and my arms propping my body up above him. It's amazing to have him beneath me, naked, but I want better access, I need to be able to touch his body with both my hands.
Holding the back of his head, I rock back on my haunches, pulling his mouth with me. He follows eagerly, but he breaks our kiss so his warm lips can trail across my jaw to nibble my ear, worrying at the soft lobe. His hands glide across my stomach and over my hips: one travels upwards to cup my breast, and the other follows a path around my back to settle on my tattoo, his fingers lightly drifting over the swell of my buttocks.
His mouth revisits mine, then his tongue fashions a wet, sensuous path down my neck, moving gradually lower until his lips close over my breast, suckling and circling my nipple. Ahhhh. He's making little guttural sounds in the back of his throat, his lips and tongue flicking moistly, back and forth, back and forth; he's driving me insane.
I pull his head away from my breast and he lets go of my nipple with an audible grunt. He stares up at me, breathing heavily. His face is flushed, and his eyes ... his eyes are dark with the force of his emotions; I see lust and love and a base, animal need. For me.
Slowly, slowly, slowly, he brushes his hands back down the sides of my body, his fingers cool and firm against my burning skin. He shuffles backward to lean up against the side of the couch, his hands urging me to follow him. I straddle his lap and he brings his knees up so I can lean back against them for support. We both groan as I rub myself back and forth over his engorged cock. In this position, I know I am going to get carpet burn on my knees, but at this point in time, I really don't care.
"Scully," he moans, and I take advantage of the opportunity to shove my tongue back inside his mouth. I don't know what's gotten into me, but I know what else I want to get into me. I must be crazy. This is unthinkable, but so right. And I have no intention of stopping.
I am so wet, so ready, I want it fast, now, and all I can think about is sinking down on him and taking him inside me. I move, positioning myself over him, but Mulder has other ideas. He clutches me against his chest, and slides two fingers between my legs to gently probe the hot moisture he's generated, and I rock mindlessly against his hand, wanting more.
"The bed?" he breathes against my mouth and I bite his lips. How am I supposed to concentrate when his hands are torturing me?
I manage to stumble out, "Ummm, no, too far," and he grunts and breaks our kiss.
"Couch then?"
"Mmmm, 'kay," I think I answer. I prop my hands on his shoulders and push myself up, slowly standing on unsteady legs. I begin to take a step over him towards the couch, but he stops me, his hands clutching the backs of my thighs. I look down at him.
He's still sitting on the floor, and his mouth is only mere inches from my crotch. "Mulder," I warn him, my voice weak, and he smirks at me. Oh God, I am never going to be able to look at that expression on his face in the same light ever again.
Without taking his eyes off me, he teases me, he makes me wait for what I just realised I really want, brushing his mouth up and down my thigh, laving my skin with his tongue, yet never touching that secret, wet place.
Finally, just when I can't stand it anymore, he wraps his arms around me, stretching up to nestle his head against my stomach. I reach down and run my fingers through the thick strands of his hair, and he closes his eyes briefly before he looks up at me again, his eyes liquid warmth.
"I love you so much, Scully," he says, his words rich with a thousand undercurrents that leaves me speechless and overwhelmed. But then I stop thinking, I stop hearing, I stop everything, because Mulder shoves his tongue in my folds and onto my clit. There are no preliminaries, no warnings, he just dives right in, and I cry out and buck wildly against his face, and his grip on me increases.
Oh God ... that mouth ... that tongue ... I slump against the sofa arm, clutching it for balance, pinning his head against the side of the couch. I hope to God Mulder can breathe down there, because if he stops, I will die.
Ohhh ... he could win an award, he's so good at this, his tongue is ... oh, yeeesss ... Mul-deerrr. I lurch against his mouth, climaxing quickly, my whole body shuddering, and slide boneless back down his torso and onto his lap. His firm cock twitches insistently against my ass, but he just kisses me tenderly and cradles me in his arms, waiting patiently. As the fog in my mind slowly clears, I realise he's been murmuring, "I love you Scully, I love you Scully," over and over again.
I take his face in my hands and kiss his ears, his nose, his eyes, the rough stubble on his jaw, and finally his mouth. "I love you too, Mulder," I say to him, and for some reason it's the easiest sentence I've ever uttered in my life.
He smiles against my mouth, a big, wide grin. "Scully?"
I'm smiling back, equally idiotic. "Hmmm?"
"The couch, now," he says, and I feel another rush of moisture between my legs.
"You're so bossy, Mulder," I say to him but I stand up, momentarily surprised to see that my legs still work. He grins and takes my hand, the gesture oddly touching, and we step back to the couch. He sits down, and I kneel over him, straddling his lap, brushing myself back and forth over his engorged penis, teasing him, teasing myself. He takes my breast back in his mouth, and I know I can't wait much longer. I bend down, my hand searching and finding him; I give him a few rapid pumps, my fingers circling the bead of moisture on the tip of his penis. He groans loudly and sucks harder on my breast.
Then I move; I sink slowly down onto his cock, my body stretching to accommodate him. He feels so amazing, rammed deep inside me. For a moment he goes absolutely still, his whole body stiffening, and then he strains up against me, shuddering, and his hands slip down on my waist, holding me firmly as he begins to thrust up into me. I press down on each upward stroke, and he starts groaning my name, his voice getting louder and louder with each sharp pump of his hips.
"Scu-llyyy ..." There's a tiny, sane part of me marvelling at the uninhibited noises he's making, but then I lose track of any lucid thought as another climax overtakes me, harder and faster than my first. I'm vaguely aware of Mulder crying my name, his voice hoarse, as he gives a few final, uneven, jerking thrusts and his fluids gush into me.
I collapse into his arms, weak and spent.
Ah yes, this is even better than my dreams. Perpetual bliss.
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THE END
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AUTHOR'S NOTES: I *LOVE* feedback (hint, hint). :) I had trouble with this story and wouldn't have ended up finishing it or posting it without bugs' suggestions and encouragement - thanx bugs, you're the best. Congratulations to anyone who's noticed where I ripped the title and some of the story idea from. Oh yeah, there's also a line in here that belongs to Robert Frost, a truly *great* poet, IMHO. :)
E-mail finn1013@hotmail.com
since 20 August 1999.