Title:  Juggernaut
Author:  Ellie Dustin
Feedback to elliedustin@hotmail.com
Spoilers: up through Millenium
Keywords:  MSR, V/A
Rating: NC17
Summary:  Scully gives Mulder what he wants.

Notes:  This story is a gift for Plausible Deniability.
Congratulations!  Nobody does it better.

Juggernaut
by Ellie Dustin

*****

Mulder and I never stood a chance.

There are some forces that nothing can stand against, not
love, not duty, not self-respect.  I'm discovering that lust is one of
them.

For a long time, I didn't believe that.  Lust, like pride or
anger or gluttony, was just another thing to keep in check.  Just
another
sin to control.  Call it my Catholic upbringing.

Then my partner kissed me, a stupid, inane, almost boring
kiss that nevertheless opened my eyes to extreme possibilities.
Suddenly, Mulder was everywhere in my head, and pride was no longer the
most dangerous of the seven deadlies I had to worry about.

He kissed me again, that next Friday before we left work.
And Saturday, when he brought over pizza without even calling, and
Sunday morning, when I rolled over and saw him smiling at me.  And we
were off and rolling, and it was no longer plausible for me to deny
that what
I was feeling was lust.

I wanted to call it love that first week.  I felt that
phrase in my head--"I'm in love with Mulder,"--over and over again those
first days.  In love with Mulder.  What a surprise.  It seemed . . .
well, it seemed obvious.  Mulder and I loving each other is as
inexorable as the sun rising and moon waning.  Frankly, for me, the lust
is the more interesting part right now.

Which is why I sent him on a wild goose chase to a wine shop
half a hour away after work so I could come to his apartment and use my
well-worn key and wait on the couch for him to come back.

And now I hear him coming.

I move to stand behind the door.  My purse is on the floor
behind me, my shoes are still on my feet, and I washed off my perfume
when I got here.  He'll come in, hang his coat on the hook, and head for
the bathroom, or the couch.  He won't get to either.

His key turns in the door, and Mulder moves like clockwork:
keys on the table, coat on the hook, door shut, two steps, and I've got
him.

I slam him up against the wall in the hallway, one arm stiff
against the base of his neck, twisting his arm behind his back and
yanking, just a little.

"Hey, Scully," he says, turning his head.  "I thought you
were okay about the porn."

"You're not sassing me, are you Mulder?"  I tap his feet
apart (for a federal agent he's remarkably familiar with the position),
and disarm him.

"Depends.  Do you like sass?"

"Keep your hands on the wall," I say.  Mulder moves like
he's about to speak again--he's never happy unless he gets the last
word--but he stills when I reach my hand around in front of him and grab
his penis through the soft material of his trousers.

I smile against his back.

Mulder is gorgeous, taller than any man I should want to be
with, lean, angled.  He's a joy to look at, and more of a joy to touch.
I lay hands on Mulder and he succumbs instantly, like a dog who will
roll
over to let you rub his belly the minute you pat his head.

Sometimes, in the office, I'll put my hand on his bicep
while we're talking, a little nothing touch that I've given him a
thousand times before, and he'll just stop and look at me.  Usually, I
don't look back.  Scully doesn't notice such things.  But she does them
all the time, just for fun.  I'm telling you, lust is a juggernaut.

I slide my hands over his fly--Mulder will stay where I put
him--feeling him move in there, feeling the little pulses that tell me
I've got all of his attention.

The belt is easy, even from the back.  A pull to the left, a
pull to right, and it hangs open, dragging down the waistband of his
trousers, just a little bit.  Mulder's pants never fit right.  His
weight fluctuates like a girl's.  He sighs against the wall, and I trace
his zipper with my fingertips.

"You planned this, didn't you Scully?"

"I can stop," I say.  He presses his forehead against the
wall, a penitent vowing silence.  It won't last.  Mulder's vows rarely
do.

I unbutton his pants and slip my hand down the front, over
his cock, not grabbing for anything just touching, and pull the zipper
with my other hand.  Mulder's pants fall like the gracefully cut silk
blend I'm sure they are.

His shirt is wrinkled where it was tucked in and hangs over
his ass.  I can't see a thing from this angle, but I've known since I
pushed him up against the wall that Mulder isn't wearing underwear.  I'm
not sure if this is a new development since our . . . thing, but since
he seemed to be wearing underwear all of the times I saw him
incapacitated in the almost seven years of our partnership, I'd hazard a
guess that it is.  I wonder if he's been waiting for years to stop
wearing
underwear.  He might have been: Mulder's a bit of a pervert.

I slide my hands under his shirt over his smooth hips, and
up his ribs.  His breathing's a little rough.  I drag my nails down his
back slowly and he arches into them like an animal that wants
scratching.

I cup his ass in my hands--Mulder has a great ass, his pants
don't do it justice--and squeeze a little.  "You love me."

He nods, cheek pressed up against the wall.  At this point,
I think I could get Mulder to admit that in all the years of our
partnership I have never been wrong.  Ever. I could get him to swear to
me that the world is flat and science is king.  And he’d believe it.

I know he loves me--this is just a fun time to get him to
admit it.

I put my hands on his hips and turn him around.  He lunges
and grabs, wanting to kiss me, and I'm tempted for a second to let him,
to let him sweep me up and tear my clothes off and fuck me while I'm
still half-dressed on the semi-firm mattress he got to replace the
waterbed, but I don't.  I push him back by the shoulder, and smile up at
him, and go down on my knees.

His hands flatten against the wall.

I rub my face over the white plains to his shirt, over his
belly and the cotton-covered ridge of his cock.

He is torn between squeezing his eyes shut and staring down
at me.  Men always do that when you're about to take them into your
mouth.  They stare down at you like they can't believe what's happening.

Even Mulder, who believes in things that are just plain
stupid, looks at me like he can't believe that I might actually put his
dick in my mouth.  It makes me feel magnanimous, and powerful,
and sexier than hell.  I'd do it for Mulder every day if he wanted to,
as long as I got that look.

He gives in and looks right as I pull his cock out from
under his shirttails and slide my mouth over it.  His back arches, and
his head goes back.  He wants to watch, but watching . . . well, Mulder
catches glimpses, and that's apparently enough for him.

I curl one hand around his cock to hold him still, and run
the other one over his stomach, feeling the muscles there shiver.  His
legs are shaking a little, too.  I draw him into my mouth, let him slide
out, draw him in again, slowly.  That's the advantage to this: control.
I want Mulder to feel every motion.

He does.  Every time I move my tongue, suck, squeeze with my
hand, Mulder gasps.  He's writhing against the wall--his shoulders are
going to be raw after this--and I can hear the sticky sound of his
sweated skin moving on the paint.

There are words now, my name mostly.  Scullyscullyscully,
over and over again, whispered like a litany, mixed with some calls to a
deity Mulder professes not to believe in.  He only swears during the
really rough sex, which I'm grateful for.  Nothing like a well placed
noun to make a girl on her knees feel like a slut.  When I do this,
Mulder only calls my by my name.

His cock is hard and slick in my mouth: I can taste the salt
and bleach taste of pre-ejaculate, and feel the minute thrusts of his
hips against my mouth.  His hands are fists against the wall.

"Scullyscullyscully," he says, and his breathing changes,
grows harsh and surprised, and his eyes fly open, and I shove his hips
against the wall, and push my mouth forward and take him all the way in.

Mulder roars, and I swallow, once, twice, three times.  He
makes an oddly flattering sound like a dog being strangled, and
collapses on his side, sweaty and panting, hair sticking out in all
directions.  I've never seen him look better.

I run my hand over his ribs.  After a while, he looks at me, grinning.

"You okay?" I ask.

"Does this mean you're not mad about the porno?"

I stand up, ignoring the ache in my knees, and hold out my
hand.  Mulder reaches out to take it, yanking his pants up and holding
them together like a kid clutches a beach towel, all bunched in his
fist.

He leans down and kisses me, and for a moment I'm convinced
that love will win after all, that I have beaten the demons back, and
will sin no more.  Then he smiles at me.

"C'mon," he says.  "I've got something I want to show you."
 I sigh, as if I mind, and follow him to the bedroom, feeling
the stirrings of sin and the inexorability of us.

The End