From: izzy pywacket To: Subject: New story Exorcism in Blue by Pywacket NC-17 Date: Wednesday, March 28, 2001 7:46 AM Title: Exorcism in Blue Author: Pywacket Email: Pywacket1975@hotmail.com Classification: S, MSR Spoilers: Demons, SUZ, Closure Archive: Go ahead Rating: NC-17 Feedback: Pure catnip. Disclaimer: They aren’t mine. I’d certainly make sure they had more fun if they were. He isn’t sure what woke him. Perhaps it was the lumpy, unfamiliar bed, or the lack of city noise. More likely, it was the absence of a warm body nestled against him. His hand slides over sheets that still retain the tiniest bit of her body heat. After sleeping alone for so many years, it took him a ridiculously short time to become accustomed to her presence in his bed. The thin gray light slipping past the window blinds signals the early hour. The floor is cold against his bare feet, and his muscles ache from over use. God, pretty soon he’ll be making old man sounds when he gets out of bed. He trips over a sneaker in the half-light, swearing softly as he bends to pick it up. Ha. It isn’t even his sneaker, unless he wears a size six ladies Reebok. Well, she couldn’t have gone far in bare feet. He sniffs the air, detecting the wonderful scent of coffee filtered through salt air. The kitchen is shadowy, illuminated only by the range top fluorescent light. He pours steamy coffee from the battered old pot into a thick ceramic mug. The mug’s handle is chipped, but then again, every piece of crockery in the beach house appears to be chipped. He wonders if his parents bought it all that way—pre-chipped summer house dishes, accented by dented pots and pans. The screen door squeaks as he pushes it open and steps out onto the back deck. Pausing for a moment, he sips his coffee and listens to the ocean sound whispering through the trees. The deck feels gritty under his feet; he wishes he’d taken a moment to put on his shoes. Scully sits on the wide, flat railing that encloses the porch, sipping coffee. Looking up at the sound of his approach, she favors him with a little smile. His navy sweatshirt covers her to mid-thigh; her smooth legs appears pearly in the early morning light. He’d complain about her poaching his clothes if she didn’t look so beautiful in them. “Scully, it’s cold out here. You should come back in the house.” “I’m warm enough,” she says, swinging one sock-covered foot. “It’s so peaceful here. As if nothing bad could ever happen in the world.” He almost laughs out loud as he hitches himself onto the railing near her and leans back against a support post. Quonochontaug’s peace was only an illusion. Bad things had happened here. Terrible things that continue to reverberate even now. If he concentrated, he could still feel the tremors under his feet from decisions made under this roof. By all rights, this should have been an excruciating weekend. He had been reeling from his mother’s death, still coming to grips with Samantha’s fate, when he received a call from the realtor who usually handled the summer rental of the house. He shouldn’t miss this golden opportunity, the man said. The market was perfect for selling the beach house--he’d never get as much for it if he didn’t move now. Mulder knew the realtor was primarily interested in getting the highest commission possible, but somehow, liquidating the house sounded like a good idea. He couldn’t put his finger on why, but ready cash seemed like something he might need soon. Scully stuck to his side like a barnacle when she discovered that he intended sort through the contents of the house. Loyal girl--she’d never let him come here alone. He’d damn near put a bullet through his head the last time he was in this house. For that matter, he’d come too fucking close to firing a bullet between her blue eyes that night. He shivers, either from the memory or the early morning chill. Maybe both. She draws her feet up onto the railing, the white of her panties winking at him in the dim light. He feels a wave of arousal at the sight and sips his coffee to avoid jumping her right there. The ocean isn’t visible from the deck, but its presence is heard in the hush, hush, hush of the waves and the tinkling of wind chimes stirred by the sea breeze. He looks up at the assortment of shells and beach glass hanging from fishing line. He and Samantha had spent days working on the craft project their last summer here. He’d drilled holes in the shells and smooth glass while Samantha had tried to poke the clear line through and tie it off. He remembered how hard she had concentrated, her little fingers nimble. She was truly the most amazing kid. They’d come back the summer after Samantha disappeared. His father had taken the wind chimes down, muttering that the clatter annoyed him. Dad had a lot of headaches in the mornings that summer. They didn’t return to the beach house the next year. Scully had found the wind chimes yesterday, as they rooted through boxes of old clothes, board games, and mildewed books. She held it up by the mason jar top and flicked her finger at the shells to make them sound. He couldn’t bring himself to stop her as she carried the clinking bundle onto the deck, dragging a kitchen chair behind her. He’d watched her hang the chimes from the hook in the porch ceiling, rising on her toes and stretching a well muscled arm to full extension. Coming up beside her, he slung an arm around her thighs. He’d tossed her over his shoulder, caveman style and carried her into the house. “Back to work, wench. Enough goofing off.” He can still hear her laughter, ringing like the wind chimes. He’d dropped her onto the sofa, releasing a cloud of dust that made her sneeze. He was on her in a heartbeat, tasting her lips, nuzzling her neck. She’d kissed him back eagerly, exploring his mouth with her tongue. His hands had roamed over her body, squeezing her breasts through the soft cotton of her shirt. He felt her nipples grow hard under his palms, and slipped his hand under her top. Eager to cup her roundness, he tugged her bra and shirt out of the way. She moaned when his mouth left hers and latched onto one pink brown nipple. He rolled its twin between his fingers, tugging gently, and she arched her back in pleasure. He took that opportunity to tug her shorts and panties down over her raised hips. “I don’t know why I bothered to get dressed,” she gasped as he pushed her legs apart and parted her humid curls. “I’d much prefer it if you didn’t,” he replied, before touching just the tip of his tongue to her clitoris, circling it lightly. He traced along her folds, the ins and outs of her, returning always to the firm little bud of her clit. Her body bucked in pleasure, back arching, heels digging into his back. She cried out, her body rigid, as she climaxed. He climbed over her to press slippery kisses to her lips, as she reached down to grasp his cock, hard as steel, through his jeans. Kissing him, she fumbled with the button and zipper, finally releasing his straining erection from the denim. She stroked him with a firm hand, her fingers running the length of his cock. Impatiently, he stripped his jeans and boxers down, kicking them off his feet. He positioned himself at her opening, but felt no urgency to enter her yet. Driving Scully wild with need was too delightful to rush the process. He ground his cock against her slick center, enjoying the sound of her increasingly frantic moans. She gripped his ass, her fingers digging into his flesh, urging him in. It was time to end her sweet torture, and with one push he slid home. He paused, allowing his mind to process the sensations: hot, tight, sticky, throbbing. He thrust deeply, enjoying the friction between their bodies, the little noises she made deep in her throat. He took an almost adolescent pleasure in making love to her there, on the sofa where long ago, his parents had cocktails with the devil. Her ragged breath in his ear nearly obliterated the memories of bitter voices drifting upwards, of children frightened in the night. Her murmurs turned incoherent as she dug her nails into his back. Her body quaked under him, around him and he shouted her name as he pumped into her. He shook with the last tremors of his orgasm, collapsing over her, his face nestled in the hollow of her shoulder. The air was permeated now with the salty damp tang of sex. They’d christened every room of the beach house. The first night, they made love on the swayback mattress in the master bedroom. He could still feel the pinch of a bent spring that dug into his ass as Scully rode him, breasts bouncing with every movement. He avoided that side of the bed the next night, earning a dirty look from Scully in the morning. Scully’s every action had fascinated him all weekend. If he behaved this way at work, he was sure she would have shot him. It took so little--the curve of her ass as she picked up a box, her arm sweeping to dust a shelf--and he was instantly hard. This couldn’t be normal for a man staring down forty. They’d bought soft shell crabs to steam for dinner last night. He’d played the clown, pretending to organize a crab jailbreak while Scully filled the pot at the sink. They’d laughed, tears running down their faces, as they held onto each other. He remembered nights when he and Samantha had eaten dinner alone at the kitchen table, listening to the grown ups argue in the next room. How long it had been since anyone had laughed in this kitchen? Scully’s face had been inches from his, flushed pink from the kitchen’s heat. Her body was warm and pliant as she leaned into him. Her lips were plump and slightly parted, so close he could feel her breath on his face. A moment later, he was kissing her. They made love on the kitchen table before the water began to boil. She was spread out like a banquet before him, her round little bottom resting on the very edge of the table’s surface, her legs draped over his arms. Jeans bunched at his ankles, he had stood and buried himself in her hot center. He watched, fascinated, as his cock slid into her, disappearing with each thrust into the nest of auburn curls, emerging again, slick with her juices. It felt primitive, elemental, as if they were the first two people to ever fit themselves together this way. They climaxed in unison, grunts and moans echoing with the rattle of the pot as the boiling water hissed and spat. His knees threatened to buckle, and he clung to her, both of them breathless. The kitchen smelled like sex, steam and brine now, and the ghosts were quiet. He’s so lost in his thoughts that he doesn’t hear her when she speaks. It’s only when she touches his bare arm that he startles back to the present. Her hand is hot from her coffee mug, and he wishes she would warm him all over. “Where were you, Mulder?” “Here. I was just here.” Here now, and here in the past, and he much prefers the now. On some level, he knows what he’s been doing this weekend. He’s pretty sure Scully is also aware of his do-it-yourself exorcism project. She sets her coffee mug on the deck floor and shifts to lean against him. He wraps his arms around her middle, under the swell of her breasts, and rests his chin on her hair. For the first time all weekend, he just wants to sit and hold this woman close. “Thank you,” he says against the crown of her head. “For being here with me, helping me.” “Mulder, I know how hard this was for you.” She squeezes his hand. “We really didn’t finish sorting, though.” “What can I say, I was distracted,” he quips. “I, uh, I feel as if I’ve used you in a way.” “Why?” she asks, turning in his arms to face him. “Because you made love to me….a lot? Did you think I’d mind that?” “I was using you as a human security blanket, holding on to you for dear life in a scary place.” “You made love to me. You didn’t fuck me—you loved me. And if we filled this house with something positive and life-affirming, well, good. It’s about damn time.” He has nothing more to say on the subject, so he kisses her. She’s right—it’s about time that this house was filled with something other than misery and fear. He hopes the scent of sex continues to linger here, that new owners will find themselves in a mysterious state of arousal. Maybe the house is still haunted by the past, ghostly adults locked in mortal combat over the fates of the shadowy children who cower together in fear. But maybe he is finally free from those ghosts. The end. Meow.