TITLE: Mutual (1/2) AUTHOR: Jess EMAIL ADDRESS: jessica@amazon.com DISCLAIMER: You're kidding, right? DISTRIBUTION STATEMENT: Anywhere, just let me know. SPOILER WARNING: None really. RATING: NC-17, maybe an R. CONTENT WARNING: Lots of slapping of the proverbial Salami CLASSIFICATION: MSR, pure crispy smut biscuit SUMMARY: Scully is caught doing something... erm... private. Mulder decides to let her know the feelings are mutual. Email me, I substitute it for food. You know, by nature, I am not necessarily a patient woman. I know Mulder thinks I am, but hell, he probably also thinks I'm still a virgin, so I don't put too much stock in his opinion of me. I have been writing in my journal all evening, the way I always do when we've finished a case, the same stilted, artificial language I've been using to express my feelings since I was ten. I don't talk like that, I don't think like that, what on earth possesses me to write like that? I quote: "Somewhere beyond the finite recesses of our logical minds, we have found it impossible to let go of the idea of the primitive man-beast, feral and predatory, waiting for the moment of greatest weakness toÉ" blah blah blah. Why do I do this? No one ever reads it. Except that time Mulder read my diary in the hospital. Even then I was embarrassed, and not just because I didn't want him reading my private thoughts. I mean, how private are they when you obsessively spell-check them as you write? What kind of freak am I that I cannot let myself go even to myself? It's like I'm a little knowing Anne Frank, hoping if something happens to me, Mulder will publish the sad testament to our pathetic little crusade. But I digress. I am not patient. I have been waiting for six long, impossibly long, years for him to do something about this itch I seem unable to find anyone else to scratch. It's not that I haven't made the occasional attempt. Ed. Oh, don't get me wrong, it felt wonderful to lie in his bed, my shirt off, his hot hands scrolling over me, but in the end, I just couldn't do it. Why? Because I'm a slave to love. I'm an idiotic, whipped little puppy to the master that is Mulder. The way he looks at me when he wants something nasty, like a four-hour autopsy of a guy found in a sewerÉ I'd do just about anything for him. Even give up the one legitimate chance of mind-blowing sex I've had since I met him. Ah Mulder, the sacrifices I've madeÉ But here I am, Saturday night in a cheap motel on a strip of road known only to loggers and the occasional Big Foot nut (Mulder included), completely alone. In the room next to mine, just a thin connecting door away, lies the single sexiest, most infuriating, most lovable man I've ever known, clearly watching bad porn too loud on the crappy Seventies 20-inch TVs this place provides. Why, I ask myself, would he prefer to watch "Night Treasures" or whatever the hell is on pay-per-view tonight than to climb into my bed and slip, pulsing and greasy with lust, into my body? Is he some sort of strange aesthetic, who eschews pleasure in order to form a greater connection to the spiritual? Is he gay? Then of course, the usual doubt hits me. It's not him, I think, listening to the forced moans and "oh yeah, come on my face"es from beyond the wall (like any woman in the history of the universe has said that without being paid first). I know he loves me. But I don't think he's actually "in love" with me. He thinks I'm beautiful, sure. He worships me in a nice, crush-y sort of way, but he doesn't really want to get down and dirty with me. The unbelievable swiftness of his sexual reaction to Diana Fowley should certainly prove that to me. Six fucking years, and he's out of his mind with hallucinations, doing the wild thing with Diana in the span of one jealous beat of my heart. Ok, so maybe the hallucinations helped him get past the fact that the woman has the face of a very old racehorseÉ no, I'm just being mean. He's attracted to women with long legs and dark hair and smoldering gypsy looks and I have none of those things. He loves me, but in the way he loves his sister. Unattainable and remote, Antarctica in the flesh. Speaking of thatÉ I play over the moment in the hallway in my mind. We must have stood there looking at each other for nearly a minute. The entire time, my mind is chanting like a Hari Krishna "kiss me, kiss me, kiss me." And he must have realized that if he did, I would stay. So, after much obvious internal debate, he finally leans down andÉ well, we all know what happened. Since he has not attempted, in over a year, to repeat the performance, I can only assume he has realized that I am not about to walk out the door any time soon and he may once again start looking for big breasted ex-girlfriends to screw. Do I sound that bitter? Damn. I lean back in bed, propping my head up with one arm. I do love him, so intensely that at times I find it difficult to breathe in his presence, as if he's strangling me. And maybe he is. No doubt if I had never met Mulder, I would now be married to some nice fellow pathologist, living in a lovely suburban brick house with our darling childrenÉ and then when the coming viral apocalypse hit, at least I could have just become bewildered alien fodder like everyone else. I wouldn't be lying here alone with the knowledge that in the truest sense, we are all dying any day now, and this is certainly not what I would have planned to do with my final days on earth. I have only one fantasy, sexually anyway, of Mulder. The sick reasons behind the exact positioning involved are obvious even to psychologically stunted me. We are in our office, late at night. Lights down, door closed. I stand to go, feeling sleepy and aroused (this could be because it's my fantasy), and suddenly Mulder is behind me. He's caressing me, stroking my breasts, kissing the back of my neck. Just thinking about this makes me crazy. I slide down lower in the bed, naked and already sweaty, and spread my legs. The cool air against me is magnificent. Mulder slides his hands up under my shirt. "Don't move, Scully," he says and roughly grabs my breasts, running his thumbs across my nipples. This is all he ever says to me. Funny that normally talkative Mulder becomes so silent in my fantasies. I doubt this is because I really want him to shut up, though sometimes I do. I suspect it's because all the other things lovers say to each other sound false coming from my fantasy Mulder's lips. Why would he tell me how sexy I am, when I know deep down he doesn't see me that way? How the hell I ever achieve orgasm with this running commentary of despair in my head is a mystery. But even so, I am unbelievably wet already, and as I slick my hands through my own liquid, I am aware of how nauseating this whole thing is. Doesn't matter, I jump and buck into my own hand. I groan. "mulder" A soft little word, like cotton, like clouds, like the inside of my own thigh. He slides my skirt slowly up my body. I am shaking, quivering with fear and lust and horror all in one desperate moment. In my fantasies, I am never, ever wearing pantyhose. Gripping my underwear, he pulls them down and pushes me, one arm around the front of my waist. I bend for him. This is the sickness of this fantasy, you see. I can't see him. He can't really see me. We don't have to look at each other. I don't have to see the contempt in his eyes. He enters me swiftly, hard, pushing against me with a manic fervor. There is no attempt to pleasure me. Hell, I'm now rubbing myself, so my fantasy Mulder can hump away with no fear that I won't come. I think, to be honest, that just having Mulder that near me, with that intent, could do it. God forbid he ever knows that. I am close now, hovering around the edge of my orgasm like a nervous wife. I work myself, faster and faster, harder, groaning, thrashing, moaning his name over and over. "Oh God, Mulder, right there, just like that. Oh please, please, pleaseÉ Mulder, please." And then suddenly, there I am, cresting the wave, surfing away. I gasp his name again, almost a whisper and collapse, spent. It's then that I see, out of the corner of my eye, the connecting door quietly slip closed. I have no idea what I'll say to her this morning. Here I am, holding two cups of steaming Joe (perhaps I should not think about "steaming" anything), desperately hoping she didn't know. Really, I just wanted to get a case file. I swear on my father's unconsecrated grave. And as usual, being me, I just pushed open the connecting door without even really thinking about it. First I heard her, a low moan and then my name. Jesus, my name. I've never heard her say it like that. I thought, stupidly, "maybe she's having a nightmare. I'd better go wake her up." Yeah, smooth move, slick. So I open the door a bit more. And I'm transfixed. She's lying on her bed, covers off, stark, fucking, amazing naked. She has her hands between her legs and she's putting first one and then two fingers inside herself. I can't move, I'm frozen. I want to be her fingers, I want to know them intimately, in the biblical sense. In any sense. I want to lick them clean. She moans and whispers "please, Mulder, please." A wiser man would have turned around and run like hell before she realizes I've witnessed this most private of moments. A very wise man would have settled his face between those spread thighs and given her what she was begging for. I am a very, very stupid man. I just stand there, watching as she thrashes her head and lifts her hips. I am seeing way more of Scully than she ever intended. And my God, she's absolutely breathtaking. I know, because I'm turning blue even thinking about it now. She sweaty and slinky and sexy as hell. Not that I ever thought she wouldn't be, but there was no way I ever pictured anything like this. My Scully, and I mean the Scully I know well, because I could never possess her in any wayÉ my Scully is buttoned-up and in control, able to cut into the moldiest dead body you've ever had the pleasure of inhaling and come out of the room smelling like a strawberry cheese cake. She doesn't roll around covered in a fine sheen of her own juices whispering my name and aching for me to touch her. Let's just say I need a new paradigm. So here I am, waiting for her to answer the door (there is no way I'm just opening it) so we can go chase another Sasquatch sighting and all I can think about is that she wants me. She wants me. It's become my mantra. I will sing it from the rooftops. Don't get me wrong, I know I'm an attractive man. And I've had no shortage of offers, if you know what I mean. But with Scully, I've always felt so inadequate, so unable to live up to the men she grew up with, and the woman she is. From the very first moment she walked into my office and appraised me with those cool blue eyes, I've been as intimidated as a schoolboy witnessing his first real bra. She is so far above me in the pantheon of decency that sometimes I have difficulty looking up at her, floating in her white robes in the clouds. She is Aphrodite and I am Mars, an ugly troll toiling down in the bowels of the volcanic earth, trying to forge weapons to fight against an unseen enemy. Clearly, I read too much. She opens the door and, without looking at me, skitters out into the hall. There is no other word for it. She moves like a spider afraid of being swatted. I am absolutely sure she knows. Well done, Mulder. What I can't figure out, is what to do now? I don't know exactly how she's feeling yet. Is she ashamed? Angry? A combination of these things? Right now all that matters is that she's not looking at me. "I got coffee," I say. She glances up at me and smiles weakly. Her normally pale skin has a distinct rosy glow. I am tempted to take her hand and tell her it's me, she doesn't have to be embarrassed or ashamed. Doesn't she know how crazy I am for her? How can she not know? I've told her, outright told her, that I love her. It's not my fault if she refuses to believe it. "Thanks," she says and when she takes the cup, she looks me briefly in the eye. And then I know. Special Agent Dana Scully, a woman who can face shape-shifting aliens and flukemen and Skinner, for God's sake, is terrified. What on earth, I wonder, does she have to be afraid of? She couldn't possibly be afraid of me. Could she? I examine her as we walk, my head filled with seriously pornographic images of Scully writhing beneath me. What could she have to fear from me? Rejection? Disgust? She keeps her head down, her eyes lowered, like a good subservient middle-eastern bride. I hate it. "Scully," I start to say something. But what can I say? God, you're gorgeous when you come? Say my name again, please, in that same wonderful throaty way? I love you, I want you, please believe me just this once Ð this is not a paranormal phenomenon? She's looking up at me, wary and on edge, ready to flee. "Mulder?" she says and sends my brain crashing straight down to my groin like a stone. "IÉ I just wanted to know if you'd like to go get breakfast somewhere." God, where did that come from? The geeky depths of my teenage self? But I must have hit the nail on the head, because for the first time since we walked out the door, she smiles gently and nods. "I would love to," she says and tucks her hair behind her ears, shyly. She is shy. Scully is shy around me. She fears me. She wants me. She wants and fears and needs me and I am lost in the sensation of it. And she is still two paces behind me. Come on, Scully, catch up. Don't you know that we are equals? We are more than equals, you are my pace car. I glance back at her and slow until she is forced to walk beside me. Then I place one hand in the small of her back and rub it, ever so slightly. Maybe she'll mistake it for a pat or the inadvertent twitching of my hand. I don't care, as long as she can feel it. Equality. I have placed her on a very high pedestal. Maybe it's time to bring myself up out of the gutter and sit next to her for a moment. After all, I'm fairly sure that she thinks she's tumbled down to my level. end one of 2 TITLE: Mutual (1/2) AUTHOR: Jess EMAIL ADDRESS: jessica@amazon.com RATING: NC-17, maybe an R. Summary in part one. Email me, I substitute it for food. It wasn't as awful as I'd anticipated. He didn't hate me or reject me or tease me. In fact, he was abnormally sweet to me today. I know what he heard, then, I knowÉ God, did he see anything? I will, I swear, collapse in a little puddle of green alien goop if he saw. I think he's being sweet to me to make me feel less embarrassed. But it isn't working. If he'd wanted meÉ well, who could have resisted what they wanted, splayed out like a pinwheel, groaning and calling their name? The only reason someone would creep out of a room where their friend, their partner was madly pleasuring herself to their image is if they don't really share the same feelings and wanted to spare that person the inevitable shame. Too late, Mulder. I know you know. So here I am, on a Sunday night. Watching the Simpsons without a trace of a smile. And in the other room is Mulder, going over case files, puttering, whatever the hell it is he does when I'm not there. He didn't invite me in to watch Futurama. He didn't start quoting Bart or Lisa or Grandpa. He said "I'm bushed, Scully. I'm gonna go for a run and then head to bed." Right. Bushed and running do not normally go hand in hand. If I weren't so crazy head-over-heals in love with the bastard, I'd hate him for this, I swear. I can't do this. I can't sit here and pretend that I'm fine with watching TV on my own in this room. I need him to talk to, to sit near. Even his presence is necessary to me now. I no longer crave time alone. I crave moments with him. Rolling over, I hear Mulder's gentle knock on the door. Oh, so we're knocking now, are we, Mulder? "Come in, Mulder." It's open. It's wide, fucking open. "Hey Scully," he's freshly scrubbed, showered and glossed like a damp peach. "I'm just turning in. There's that early day tomorrow. Thought I'd pop in and say goodnight." In other words, Scully, feel free to masturbate to your heart's content. I'm not going to open this door again. "Goodnight, Mulder." "You should rest," he says, walking over to the TV and turning it off. So Mulder, so pushy. "We've got to be on the plane at five." "Right," I say. Rest. Uh huh. He crosses back to the door. He hesitates for a moment, then smiles to himself, opens it and steps into his own room. I feel shame rising inside like a cramp. That little smile at the door. Bastard. I can't lie here with no TV. My thoughts will drive me slowly mad, until I'm pacing around my own head like Mulder interrogating a choice witness. I rise and make my way into the shower, turning it up to "scalding" just to spite myself. When I step out, the room is dark and quiet. Mulder's TV is off now, no loud Swedish groans echoing through the walls. I slip into bed feeling dirtier than ever, despite a good half hour of scrubbing and soaping. Close your eyes and you'll go to sleep, I tell my unwilling mind. It doesn't work. Slowly I open them and stare at the ceiling. Gee, no chance of touching myself tonight. Maybe not ever again. I glance at the opposite wall, toward the offending door. And then I realize, it's not closed. A small bit of light floats in from Mulder's TV, still on but silent as an old film. Flashing, flickering lights. Probably another porn film, I think. I'm immediately annoyed. How dare that damn door stay open? Hasn't it given me enough trouble? I rise and make my way over, intent on closing it. Until I get close and hear his voice, soft, like an echo carried on the wind. "Scully, oh God, Scully." I gasp, internally at least. There is no way I'm going to let out a peep now. Carefully, in an exaggerated slow-mo of my normal g-woman surveillance routine, I open the door another crack and peer in. Mulder is lying on his bed. He is completely nude. I am in shock and have to stop myself from slamming the door. Clearly, he wanted me to see this. To know this. His hand strokes his erection, slowly at first, teasing himself. He is taking his time. "Oh yeah, sweetheart, right there. That feels so good, Scully." Sweetheart? I sink slowly to my knees in the doorway, watching with rapt attention as he touches himself. He is giving himself to me, taking away my shame and loneliness in the sweetest way possible. He is putting us back on the same ground. Maybe that's all it is, I think. Maybe he doesn't do this all the time and he's only doing it to keep me from running away. But then his hand begins to move faster and I lose my train of thought. "Scully, god, you're soÉ" He stops and I wait, breathless. His hand pumps again. "Lovely." Lovely? Such an old-fashioned word, so gentle and kind andÉ I sigh. I know he's heard me, because he slows down again, gasping for breath. "Oh, oh, please, Scully. Please come for me." I moan, without thinking about it. I moan. And then the spasms begin, shuddering through my body. I am going to come just watching him, just knowing that he wants me to. Told you I was slavish. "That's it baby, that's it. You're so good, Scully. Too good for me. Keep going, sweetheart, keep going." Who knew Mulder was such a romantic? Prone to pet names other than "red"? I suppose I did, from his performance as Rob Petrie. My body melds and shifts and I feel my orgasm arrive. It isn't huge, after all, I haven't even touched myself, but it's there. From his voice, from the long dark slope of his body, from the sensuous way he moves his hand, the other curled around a clump of bedspread as if he's going to slide off. I sigh, again, this one deeper. He moves quickly then. We are in rhythm, as always. He knows I've come, feels my release, and moves toward his own with a rapidity I would never have suspected. Obviously, he was close, waiting for me. "Scully, oh yes, oh please. Harder, Scully, please let me. Harder." I let him. At least in my head, I do. And he senses it, releases, gasping and glorious, his weary hand sliding down his side to rest on the bed. He moans. I echo him. We are together. Slowly I stand, my legs aching, my whole body still pleasantly throbbing. He turns to see me and smiles a lazy little half smile. I smile back, filled with longing and desire. I know it isn't time yet. But I leave the door open. end 2 of 2. Still reading? Then email me, please! TITLE: Mutual 2: Son of Mutual (1/2) AUTHOR: Jess EMAIL ADDRESS: jessica@amazon.com DISCLAIMER: You're kidding, right? DISTRIBUTION STATEMENT: Anywhere, just let me know. SPOILER WARNING: None really. RATING: NC-17 CONTENT WARNING: Oh come on, it's NC-17, what the heck do you THINK? CLASSIFICATION: MSR, delicious creamy smut pudding SUMMARY: Back by popular demand, Mulder and Scully continue to prove to each other that the feeling is... you got it, Mutual. Email me, I'm on a hunger strike till I get feedback. It's been two days. Two of the longest damn days of my life. And I've had some long days, I mean, think about it. Ever since Mulder revealed his, well, secret to me (after my inadvertent revelation of the same damn thing), I have been completely unable to think of anything else. Case, what case? I've seen my partner's glorious manhood, heard my name whispered on his magnificent full lips, and I am now living in a constant state of sexual haze. I mean, I haven't had any in nearly eight years. I can't be expected to process this. And that's why we have done nothing, nada, zero about it. That, and we're Fox Mulder and Dana Scully, Special Agents with the FBI, capable of remarkable feats of daring-do but not doing-it. How could two grown people go as long as we obviously have and still be sleeping chaste as children in separate hotel rooms? Rob and Laura indeed. Remember the twin beds? "'Night Rob" "'Night Laura." "'Night Libido." It's almost unbearable. My body buzzes with a continuous ache, deep in my belly, and I want to prick it, pardon the pun, with a pin and make it dissipate out through my toes. And MulderÉ God knows how he's holding up, what with his porn-driven world of fantasy to draw from. So here we are, on a plane somewhere overÉ Wyoming, I think. We are both pretending to read through the case files, heads down in unison like two teenagers on a first date. But we aren't thinking about the next example of alien fetus mutation. I know this partially because it's all I can do to keep from using this vantage point to eye Mulder's crotch and urge it, like the fliers of a Japanese man-lifting kite, to Rise! Rise! and because he hasn't turned the page in at least half an hour. Someone should put us out of our collective misery. Why that person has to be someone other than us, I'll never know, but thank heaven for Stewardesses. "Would either of you folks like a blanket?" asks the lovely Marge. And a plan forms in my mind. The nice thing about being me, I have to add at this point, is that I hide my inner workings well. I smile my sleepiest, most innocent Scully smile and say (with that slight lisp that I know drives Mulder mad) "I'd love something to snuggle under." He actually chokes, on what I have no idea. His desire maybe? Knowledge of Mulder's lust for me has made me bold. This is the Scully that Ed saw. The Scully that exists somewhere beyond Flukemen and Consortiums and Autopsies. In the mythic world of this Scully, women are called by their first names. I am known as "Dana", mistress of spooks. That long, slick, metallic sound you hear is my sword being drawn. I have obviously spent too much time with Langley. Madge or Marge or whatever hands me a cheap blue blankie with United Airlines embroidered on the corner, wrapped in plastic so I'll know that no one has contaminated it with their grubby little fingers. Airlines are so weird. I thank her and sit it neatly in my seat as I stand up. Mulder looks at me curiously, a bit wistfully, and I ache for him. Time to slay this dragon, definitely. "I have toÉ" I gesture toward the bathrooms. He nods and stands in the aisle to let me out. It must be hard to be that tall and fly on a Bureau salary. In Scully's world, where we are paid in direct compensation to the level of security we are routinely asked to breach, Mulder flies first class. "Thanks," I say, and eye his lean form for just a moment longer than I used to. He notices and turns bright pink. I used to think I was slavish, but now I'm not so sure who cracks the proverbial whip. I hate airplane bathrooms. Ok, I just hate planes. It doesn't matter which portion of the plane I'm currently wishing I wasn't on. The bathroom is no worse than anywhere else. I considered, just for a moment, giving myself a new reason to enjoy flyingÉ namely, inviting Mulder to join the Mile High club. But really, how sexy can it be in a place where the toilet flushes green water? Too close to a certain other green substance, if you know what I mean. For now, mission accomplished, I head back to my seat. I am hoping Mulder's trademark powers of observation will be off today and he won't notice that I've just removed my pantyhose and stuffed them in the flap marked "sundries". I know he won't know that I've got my underwear in my pocket, unless he's still telepathic. Settling back in next to him, I cover my lap with the blue United blanket and lean back. "Tired, Scully?" he asks, casually, as if he doesn't care what I do, really. "Oh no," I say, in that same sleepy-Scully voice. "I just need to warm up." He's staring at me, unsure what's going on. Oh Mulder, you are so about to find out. He is resting one hand on the case file, the other is supporting his head as he leans on the tray table. I decide to take advantage of the hand he isn't using. And when I say 'take advantage', that's definitely the right wording. I reach over and take his hand by the wrist. Now he's really staring. "Scully?" he says. I just smile. The Enigmatic Dr. Scully would like to do a little play-doctoring with you, Agent Mulder. You see, I have this itchÉ Sliding his hand under the blanket, I rest it, gently, on my inner thigh. My absolutely buck bare starkers inner thigh. For a moment we both freeze and then I remove my own hand and close my eyes. "'Night Mulder," is all I can think to say. But I do give him the smile. For a long ticking minute, I'm absolutely sure he won't move his hand. It would be, I'm sorry to say, typical of Mulder to blow this one. And I mean the bad kind of blow. To decide I'm drugged or stupid or that the Syndicate is now bugging blankies. But he seems to have come under his own control again, because I feel the tips of his fingers, moving like the gentle tickle of fish nibbling my toes. He circles the soft middle reaches, where he has been placed, with all the patience of a man who is willing to sit on twenty-eight hour stake-outs to see if someone's eating human livers. I can't really describe what it feels like to have Mulder's hand on me. Suffice to say I am instantly panting, like Pavlov's pup. If I thought drooling was sexy, I would be, damn the airline personnel. Mulder flattens his hand against my skin, and his skin is warm and a tad rough. He seems to be savoring the slow nature of our mutual seduction, as am I. After all, we are Mulder and Scully, and as I've said before, snails in the game of love. You would think, after all these years, we'd be in for a storm of passion that tosses us both up on satiated shores like shipwreck victims. But I know us, and we are well protected behind our shells, creeping toward our inevitable destiny. At least it's inevitable now. If I'd been asked a week ago, I would have said he'd sooner stroke Skinner's secretary's thigh than mine. I once had the strangest dream, where I came to Mulder's apartment to discuss something with him and caught him making out with Kersh's assistant, of all people. But never mind, back to where I sit now, with Mulder's hand fluttering, butterfly-like, up toward the damp and humid puddle that I've become since this began. To encourage him, I shiver slightly and then moan as quietly as I can, just a little gasp above the sound of the engine's hum. He pauses and I open my eyes. Mulder is still staring at me, but now his face is a strange mixture of lust and fear and something else, something softer. I am not yet ready to identify it as love, but it sure looks that way. I smile, bleary with pleasure and close my eyes again before I can see his own answering me. I couldn't bear that look of devotion, not until this is over and I'm sure he wants me. His hand snakes higher and I hear his sharp intake of breath when he reaches the curls I have left unprotected for him. I can practically hear his mind racing. "Scully's naked" it says. "Has she been this way before?" I smile again and press forward ever so slightly. Covering me with his hand, he squeezes gently, feeling the weight of me. I grind again and he parts me with his index finger. Now I can follow his breathing, listening to each revealing shock. I am dripping, glistening wet and he has just discovered this. And then, in a moment that will rank right up there with the time I realized I could make myself come, I feel his finger enter me. He is slow, he doesn't want to hurt me. My God, I think, feeling myself contract around the slenderness of him, has it been that damn long? And then he curls up, toward my belly and I can't help but gasp. What he's hit, I don't know, but I'm sure it's been the subject of many a college thesis. I am writhing. Good thing it's late, dark and the man in the seats across from us is dozing with his mouth open. "Mulder," I whisper. "Oh God." When he withdraws his hand, he's violently shaking, like a man with the chills. But I'm old enough and have been in the back seat of enough cars to know what this means. "Do that again," I whimper. He doesn't, and I feel him withdraw his hand from the blanket. My eyes fly open to see him inserting that single digit into his own mouth. I am now convinced that were an alien aircraft to intercept this plane and transport one of the passengers off into space, I would hardly notice. Sex with MulderÉ well, I always knew it would be intense, but we aren't even having sex. We're just doing a little naughty petting like kids at the movies and I'm so turned on I couldn't move now if he asked me to. My legs have ceased to feel anything as all the blood is now pooled somewhere else. "Oh," I say and he licks his finger like a popsicle on a hot day. "Taste good?" I ask, feeling cocky, pun intended. He doesn't answer, only nods. Clearly he can't trust his own voice. But his hands, he trusts. The same lucky appendage travels back up my thigh and now searches for the slick little clump of nerves. When he finds it, I jump, actually levitate would be more accurate. Chalk up another x-file solved by Fox Mulder. Woman levitates in plane due to intense flood of sensation to her clitoris. I am hovering now, his thumb inside me, his middle finger tickling and pressing in a gentle pattern. Where on earth did he learn this? Maybe he was abducted. Taken to the planet Viagra by the women of all those Swedish porn-fests and taught all there was to know about Lovin'. He increases the pace, matching it by leaning in close to me and breathing heavily in my ear. This is beyond erotic. I'm now suffused with sex; like lymph fluid, it's circulating through my entire existence. "Mulder," I whisper. "You're going to make me come." And for the first time since I started this, Mulder's smoky voice echoes in my ear. "That's the general plan, isn't it, Agent Scully?" That's it. I'm over the edge, somehow sliding up that slippery slope and groaning at him, around him, his tongue swirling tightly in the crevices of my left ear. "Oh Mulder, GodÉ IÉ IÉ" "What, Scully, tell me." That tongue again, on my neck. He's still touching me. I'm going to pass out now and we'll have to make an emergency landing in Buffalo. Won't that be embarrassing. "I want you." "Ahhh." It's a moan, an answer, a plea. "I'm so fucking glad." And then I actually giggle. Giggle with Mulder's thumb still the willing recipient of little pleasure pulses in my nether regions. This is going to be one hell of a delicious game. end part 1 of 2 TITLE: Mutual 2: Son of Mutual (2/2) AUTHOR: Jess EMAIL ADDRESS: jessica@amazon.com CONTENT WARNING: Oh come on, it's NC-17, what the heck do you THINK? Summary in part one. Email me, I'm all a-quiver. I cannot believe this is happening. Scully, the most intensely private, closed-up, barricaded woman I have ever know (and the only one with walls worth bothering to scale, consequently), has just come around my finger in the very wide open body of a 737. I think that deserves another striped folder to add to her collection. I have been inside Dana Scully. I don't think anyone else can appreciate the significance of that. I have just been INSIDE Dana Scully. It's all that goes through my head as we collect our luggage. Inside. As we walk down to the rental car, Scully talking quietly about the traffic this time of night. Inside her body. I drive her home, flying like a hummingbird. Touched the sweet, plush, hot softness of her innermost skin and felt it contract around me when I stuck my tongue in her ear. Note to self: Tongue good. Tongue on clit, better. Inside. I drop her off at her apartment. God forbid she ask me up. I mean, I only just gave her a mind-blowing orgasm on a PLANE. But I know what's going on here. I may be completely unable to figure out when a woman wants me, but I know when she's said "I want you" it means she does at some point wish to have intercourse with me. Waiting is my forte. I drive home alone. Inside her. Jesus. I will never be able to get that thick taste out of my head. It's been burned there. Some women are musky or sour or just disgusting (let's be honest), but Scully wasÉ not sweet exactly, not spicyÉ tangy in the best way. Like sucking on Lemonheads or Sweettarts in the movies as a kid. LemonheadsÉ that's about the size ofÉ stop, I tell myself. You will go insane. They will put you back in that padded room and that will be it for you. In the morning, freshly scrubbed without the residue of last night's foray into Scully fantasy land (where everything smells like vanilla and mangos and is seen through the soft veil of red mist), I am ready to face whatever she decides to throw my way. Except Skinner. She raises one manicured eyebrow. "Did you forget our meeting with AD Skinner this morning, Mulder?" Gee Scully, I was stuck in a repeating time loop where you and I writhed naked on a bed and I couldn't get outÉ never mind. "Yep." God, how idiotic. She smiles at me. "He's not that pissed this time," she says. "He's just mildly annoyed. I told him you were probablyÉ distracted by private matters." I am dying. I must be. There is no way in hell that a living, breathing me would be on the receiving end of a come-on by Dana Scully. "That's exactly what it was, Scully. Exactly." And I am suddenly aware of the tension in the room. I want her. She wants me. And it is her turn. "Really, Mulder," she says. "We can't have you distracted like this. It looks bad, especially when we've just got the x-files back." "So," I say, "what are we going to do about it?" She just gives me that little half-smirk and shrugs. "I don't know, Mulder. We'll see." I hate waiting. I lied before. I hate it. But I'm a good little soldier. I sit down at my desk and watch as Scully sits down at hers. I'm throbbing, absolutely aching. If I were any harder, I would stab myself and die from a slow gut wound. Scully tucks her hair behind her ear and lowers her head to the case file. I launch a pencil at the ceiling. Not an entirely inappropriate metaphor. She ignores it, licking her lips as she writes something. She knows I'm watching. When I first realized that Scully wanted me, I was frightened for her. For us. All these years, I'd been holding back my desire for her, protecting her from the cataclysm that is Mulder. Fuck me, I thought, buy a one-way ticket on the Syndicate's little train to nowhere. But over the last few days, ever since I revealed myself to her, I've come to the realization that this is going to happen, whether I think it's a good idea or not. And as a result, I started thinking about consequences. Or maybe just justifying what I am sure we are going to end up doing. When Scully first entered my life, I fought my attraction to her, fought her growing hold over me, even going so far as to tell her off for trying to reenter my life when they shut down the x-files. But I wasn't doing it because she might be a security leak. I was trying to avoid the very thing that ended up happening. She was abducted. Not because she had something special, God knows they'd be too blind to see that, but because they knew me. Then, of course, they gave her back. And nearly took her again, with the cancer, only to hand me the cure without much cost to meÉ which left me wondering. Maybe the point all this time wasn't to take her away and drive me mad with loneliness, but to give her back and drive me closer and closer to being madly in love. Maybe this day, this moment, is what they've wanted all along. Because being in love with Scully, consumed by her, keeps me sane, keeps me fighting. And of course it distracts me at the same time, takes the urgent edge off my quest for my sister. Ah hell, I just decided, fuck 'em. Who cares what they want? It's what we want, in this brief shining moment we consider our lives. We want each other. God, what a gift that is. To find someone, know them to be a person of integrity and beauty and thenÉ they offer themselves to you. How lucky can one very cursed man get? She looks up and smiles at me, a sad, sweet little smile and my heart starts to pound. "You aren't working," she says. "How very observant of you, Agent." She giggles. I love that giggle. I could live on it, like pure oxygen, and it would leave me perpetually lightheaded. "MulderÉ" she says, and stands to face me, her arms crossed. She's soÉ Scully. So tempting and so, so off-limits. "We both know what you want. Why don't you just ask me?" Jesus. Where did this woman come from? I take it all back, this isn't the Scully I know. This woman isÉ commanding and sexy and woah boy, as she likes to say. "Ask you?" She takes a step forward and is standing in front of my desk, looking at me the way she looks at dim-witted suspects. "Ask me to touch you." Right. As soon as my tongue reels back up from the floor, I'll start talking. "Because I want to, you know. I really, really want to." Was I born this blessed? Did angels hover around my crib and threaten to return me to heaven? Did a fat little fairy flit overhead and wave her wand and say "this one shall have a gorgeous, intelligent, kind and loving partner who shall, on the morning of Friday the eighth, offer a hand job in his office"? "UmÉ I'm notÉ I can'tÉ" Clearly. "I would really, really like you to." There, spat it out. Only after looking like an idiot. But I can see by her face, an endearing idiot. Her idiot. All hers. She steps around to stand beside me and gently spins my chair till I am looking her in the eye, nearly. She is short, my Scully, no doubt about it. A compact and well-formed little package. She leans forward and gently kisses my cheek. No good, I've had enough of that sort of thing. I grab her face and kiss her, open-mouthed, tongue out and searching. She responds immediately, kissing me back with the sort of mind-numbing passion that leaves me gasping when she pulls away. She wipes her lips and it's the sexiest thing I've ever seen. "Enough of that," she says, though her eyes are looking at me longingly. "I came over here for one reason only, Agent Mulder, and as you well know, I cannot be deterred." I do know. I've seen that look before, as have one or two mutants and murderers. I never thought I'd envy them. She kneels in front of me and pushes away my suit jacket. I am now throbbing so hard I'm probably bouncing. Her small hands run over the bulge in my pants, sending electric shocks ratcheting through my head. "Jesus," I whisper and she giggles again, causing me to lose control of my neck. I'm now leaning back, looking up at the ceiling. My whole body is puddling. Pulling my shirt away from my pants, she unfastens my pants and bumps me till I look at her. She is smiling up at me, her face full of her need and I nearly come just staring at her. "Lift up," she whispers and I do, humping the air. My pants, my boxers are now pooled around my shoes. I feel like a nerd, but a very, very happy nerd. The king of nerds. Let Frohike beat this. Or better yet, don't let him. She is staring at me, at my penis. I hate it when women do this. What does it mean? What are they thinking? I always figure it's "that's what he's been going on and on about?" Scully touches me, sliding one hand slowly from the base of my cock to the tip, gentle and easy. Testing. She is going to fuck me with her hand. I know now what it means to have an epiphany. My mind cannot wrap itself around this fact: Scully is going to fuck me with her hand. I'm repeating it mentally over and over, when suddenly I realize that I am gloriously wrong. Scully is going to fuck me with her mouth. Oh God. She lets that small tongue, the one that peeks out from between her lips when she is nervous, the one that eats tofutti ice dream and chocolate, that one, slide slowly up my shaft and swirl like a kid with a lollipop around the head. Her hand wraps around the base and starts to move with her mouth. I can't deal with this. I'm unable to move, to think. A running phrase of gibberish is issuing from my mouth. Something like: oh god scully yes oh no oh I can't please oh god. Sucking. She is sucking, so help me. Rivers of pleasure are coursing up my stomach and down my legs, issuing from the wet, hot source of her mouth. I can feel the orgasm building in my balls, in my groin, somewhere near my ass and I don't want to think anymore. Just feel. Just feel. JustÉ there. I am going to come. I have to stop her. Reaching down, I grab her shoulder. "Scully," I moan. "Stop, I'm coming." But she doesn't. And being the obnoxious male I am, I thrust into her and let go, releasing seven years of empty beds and missed opportunities and needy touches into her and god save me, she eats those moments like food, devours them, licks her lips and sit back to grin wickedly at me. I am as spent as a man can possibly be and yet already I want her again. And again. Until we've made up for everything. She smiles and straightens up, brushing her skirt down, gazing at me rapturously. "You have no idea how wonderful you look at this moment, Mulder," she says. I know I am watching her though exhausted, aching eyes. She looks like a miracle. "Scully," is all I can say. Not I love you, or I need you, or even I want you. Just Scully. As if that doesn't say it all anyway. As if I haven't imbued her name with all those meanings. "I know," she says. "I feel the same way." Then she does something unexpected and completely inexplicable. She walks slowly over to the end of the room behind my desk, looks up and to my enormous surprise, flips the bird at the smoke detector. end part 2 of 2. Now, why aren't you emailing me? TITLE: Mutual 3: This Time It's Personal (1/2) AUTHOR: Jess EMAIL ADDRESS: jessica@amazon.com DISCLAIMER: You're kidding, right? DISTRIBUTION STATEMENT: Anywhere, just let me know. SPOILER WARNING: None really. RATING: NC-17 CONTENT WARNING: Um... sex? CLASSIFICATION: MSR, smut with a cherry on top SUMMARY: Returning in the third installment of this little series, Mulder and Scully go to the Bureau Ball (thanks to whoever gave me the idea to try and blow the lid off that cliche-ridden experience) and find themselves... in between a rock and a *hard* place? Fun ensues. Email me or I'll have to let them leave at this... There are few moments in my life when I feel I am truly lucky. Most of those moments, granted, involve Mulder. Some involve my daughter or my mother or just a bright winter sunset and a warm sweater. Yesterday, running the tip of my tongue up the slick underside of Mulder's penis, has to be the absolute topper. This man, this brilliant, handsome, silly, sexy, annoying, loyal, loving man was sitting in his chair, behind his desk, unable to function at the thought that I might actually touch him. He kept throwing pencils at the ceiling. Jesus, Mulder, as if I wouldn't be able to figure that one out. I wonder if that's what it's always meant? So now here we are, again. At a crossroads. We have not, in typical Mulder and Scully moodily dysfunctional fashion, discussed what exactly it means that I have now given him a rip-roaring blow job beside his desk. Nor do I believe we ever will discuss it. We'll just continue to act, to move forward, fumbling through the game until we reach the ultimate goal. I can hardly wait to score, so to speak. Let me explain somethingÉ I am an intensely sexual person. Not that you would know it to look at me. Or talk to me. Or be me. I don't know exactly what Mulder thinks, but I'm sure he's convinced that he will need to break down my modest exterior to gain access to my inner passions. Right. Knowing myself as I do, that ought to take all ofÉ ten seconds. Or three beers. At any rate, I am finding that side of myself, long buried beneath a veneer of business suits and flashed badges, suddenly very much in the forefront of my slavering mind. I want to touch him. Hell, I want to fuck him. Not that that's anything new, but now he knows. I'm completely consumed with anticipation. Which brings me to tonight. Or rather today, preparing for tonight. You see, it's that time of the year again, when G-men and Ðwomen from all over the nation gather at the Bureau headquarters to dance and drink the night away. Yes, the Bureau Ball. We ought to sell tickets, like the Police. Boy, wouldn't that wake up middle America? See your dedicated public servants get severely plastered and pair off for fornication like participants in an African mating ritual. You know, the one where the men dress up and make strange faces at the girls until they choose the prettiest boy and go off into the bushes for a little night loving. Not that I don't enjoy this yearly attempt by the powers that be to get us to behave like normal people and actually have sex with someone other than the occasional suspect. Mulder looks, how can I put thisÉ magnificent in a tuxedo. We have spent the last six of these things moving around each other, eyes meeting, bodies aching, like moths around a shining window frame. Tonight, I intend to do some fornicating, yes I do. So I am currently standing in a very spacious dressing room at a very exclusive department store, trying to decide whether or not to wear the little navy blue thing or to go for the low-cut red one that shows off my tattoo. I turn slowly, sliding my hands down over my hips, picturing Mulder's face when he does the same thing. I wonder if they really do have people monitoring these things? In the end I go for the little navy thing. I want Mulder to be looking at me, not dwelling on the red and green ink representation of my need for him. Basically, I want him to look out across that room of desperate faces and see only me, waiting in the midst of the turmoil like a pool of cool blue water at the edge of a long crawl through scorching sand. Tonight, I will be the sweet lake balm to his burning skin. I will let him float within me and the thick moisture of my desire will finally penetrate his scalded outer layers. And then I will rock him, battered little ship that he is, until he drifts to safety. The salesgirl packs up the dress and a pair of very high-heeled black pumps. My mother always said you shouldn't wear navy and black and for the life of me I have never figured out what I am supposed to do instead. Tonight, at least, stockings will be no issue. I will be bare beneath the dress, shimmering and smooth. There, I think, gently placing the bag in the back of my car. I've taken another irrevocable step toward sex, at least mentally. You have no idea how exciting that is for someone who's had what could only really be termed as an unending dry spell. I am still savoring the feel of Mulder's fingers inside me, searching for permission I will happily give. Thinking of that moment on the plane, of his face as he watched me come, I am nearly unable to drive. Snaking my hand between my legs, I press hard against myself and moan. Of course it's only then that I notice the enormous truck about to pass me. Ok, so maybe masturbating in the car isn't such a fantastic idea. But maybe masturbating in the tub is. So here I am, my body heavy in the warm water, sliding my hands over my own breasts, gasping. I need him so badly that I don't want to come. I don't want to be satiated tonight until it is Mulder's own rigid body that does it. Forcing my own hands to still, I allow only my mind to indulge in a taste of what is hopefully to come. I picture him, arms shaking under the strain of raising his already weary body, looking down at my breasts as he slips slowly in and out of me, pushing the swollen head of his penis past the slick outer barriers of my body until I can no longer bear it. My body pulses, slightly, coming just at the thought of him. A tiny orgasm, compact and really no relief at all. This night has the possibility of being unbearably long. At last the time has come and I am waiting for the taxi. Hair's up, legs are shaved (all the way up, I might add, something of a Scully rarity), fuck-me shoes are on, and the dressÉ ah the little dress. I have to keep yanking at the hem to keep it from creeping up my body like a lover's face, scratchy and marvelous. The desire to see him is so intense now that I can hardly stand it. My stomach seems to have migrated into my throat and is hovering there, shaking and shimmying like jello. What will he look like? I feel like I've never seen him before and this is a blind date. I've only been told that he is as delicious as a crisp summer apple. I am aware, in the taxi, that I am constantly licking my lips. I had never really noticed this trait of mine until one day I found Mulder staring, blatantly, at my mouth. I must have licked them again at that point because he actually started as if he'd been kicked by an angry relative under the table. "What's wrong?" I asked and received my answer the next day when he wordlessly handed me an unopened tube of Blistex. I didn't point out that my lipstick negates any need to moisturize. Licking is no doubt a nervous habit. I have made a point of doing it ever since. Mulder's a fine one to talk, anyway, as if his very sexy swirling and cracking of seeds, straws, pencils, whatever isn't an obvious turn on. I once stole a pencil he'd spent the afternoon gnawing on and actually masturbated with it, sliding it from my mouth into my own body like a little yellow surrogate Mulder. Maybe that's why seeing him lick his own finger clean of my juices was so damn devastating, knowing that he has had the same longing fantasy of the taste of entrance. Here I am, standing outside the hallowed halls of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Like I don't come here everyday, just differently dressed. But I am different tonight. For the first time in many years, I arrive at this building with hope building inside my body like an inflating balloon. I am buoyant with it, two inches of clean air protecting me from the pale gray concrete stairs. The grand meeting room at the Hoover building is an innocuous enough place most of the time, the product of the same poured-concrete madness that makes the outside of the building so obviously the home of a government agency. Lovely cheap wood paneling stained to look like oak, green velvet swag curtains with gold cords holding them back, parquet floor and cut-glass chandeliers with light bulbs made to look like flickering candle flames. I stand at the door, about to launch myself into the frenzied shifting of bodies inside, feeling less like Cinderella and more like her pensive and annoyed alter-ego. Who are these people, with their loud laughter and loosened bow-ties and champagne and red lipstick stained glasses? I have no desire to join this society, no need for them and their frat-house braying. These were the people I wanted to impress when I began here, these were the men and women I was hoping to scramble my way through. What was I thinking? I know I will only have to see his face to realize the idiocy of those aspirations. Mulder truly is a redwood. These people are microscopic plant life. Skinner is the first to spot me, weaving his way over with two drinks. That he hates these things nearly as much as we do is no consolation. I just want to see Mulder and no one, not even a beloved boss, can assuage my need. "Agent Scully," he says and then draws me forward, all small talk and smiles, as if he hasn't opened the door to the devil's box with us. I am aware of the sound of his voice, deep and rumbling. I don't know if I've ever mentioned this, but when we first met, Mulder's voice annoyed the hell out of me. It seemed high pitched and yet gravely, as if he were always shouting through larangitis. I know exactly when that changed for me, when it became as soothing as a mother, as my own soft inner sounds. After my father died, when he sat next to me and tried to comfort me, I heard for the first time something beyond the outward fear and paranoia and grief that tinged his words and timbre. I realized that more than anything, his inner voice was filled with concern and a genuine need to touch something in me beyond a simple grief-suppressing caress. Now all he has to do is whisper "Hey Scully, it's me" and I am instantly, suddenly clearer, as if someone has wiped the fog away from my immediate surroundings and cleared a little Mulder-bubble of sanity. I have never been so in love, I realize, listening politely as Skinner laughs with another agent. Never, in all my years of meeting and loving men, have I felt anything remotely close to this. I don't know why that shocks me, but it does. I suppose I've been thinking all along that this is a road I've traveled before, when in fact I am stumbling along an unmarked trail. And I need to hear his voice to clear away the ridiculous cliches of this night. It is then, in this moment of terrible loneliness, when I first see him. Standing across the room at the other entrance, handing his long black trench to the coat girl, flirting just enough to make her feel special without crossing into any intimacy. Just like he used to do with me, before it became obvious to us both that intimate was what we were. Just seeing him, knowing he is here, I feel the murky waters settling. When will he see me? Will this mystical connection we claim to share kick in and draw him to me? I sense that I am too quiet. Skinner is looking down at me, his face softened by alcohol and pleasantries. "Agent Scully?" he says. And I know what he is asking. Why, he wants to know, am I staring at my partner? "Sir," is all I can reply. My heart is leaping and rolling around in my chest like a puppy. "Scully," he smiles, "go on. He's waiting for you." With Skinner's blessing then, I am moving through the crush of people, wishing I could use the patented Scully "just do it!" shout on them. Mulder is talking, none too animatedly, with Wilson from Special Crimes. I catch his eye at last and see that he too has been waiting. Watching him separate from Wilson and come toward me, I half expect to be swept up by him and carried on the crest of him out of the room. Instead, he pauses just in front of me, glorious and swank in his expensive tuxedo. Mulder has marvelous taste in clothes, at least most of his clothes. I have long wondered why men's formal wear remains so unchanging, while women flit through a thousand styles in any given year. Looking at him, scrubbed and brushed and frisky as a fox, I am certain I know. Nothing has ever been as sexy as he is now. And he is drinking me in, sucking my breath from my body by staring at me with an open need. "My God," he whispers, and I know he has seen the oasis. You know those tracking shots in movies, where the camera spins around two people, their stillness accented by the whirling motion of the background? Mulder and I are stationary now, as the planet rotates around us. We must touch each other, it is as necessary as the gentle push and shove of blood through our hearts. "Come with me," he says and takes my hand, openly. I am briefly struck with a sense of panic. Everyone will know and I don't want them to. I can't expand enough to let the world in. But then I am following him through the gyrating crowd of revelers and no one is looking at us. No one cares. God, how freeing to realize this. My legs are mushy and weak, the legs of a newborn. I stumble behind him and he slows until he can put one hand on my back, leading me ahead of him, guiding my way. We reach a set of French doors, the edge of the physical party. Mulder opens them and we step alone onto the small balcony. I bless whatever possessed those architects, in the midst of their corporate brutalism, to place this small island of night air at our disposal. I move to the railing and turn to see Mulder stop. "Scully," he says and I must grip the railing to keep from either fainting or screaming like a Sixties teenager at a Beatles concert. "Mulder," I answer. "I've been dying," he says. "All day." Of course he has, I too have been feeling the little death. "I know," I say. "I know." He steps forward again and behind him I see the anxious movements of couples on the dance floor. I will not be witnessed like this. I will hold us back, private and rare as a mythical animal. Stepping around him, I flatten myself against the wall beside the window, out of view, caught in the violet shadows of the building's cool walls. Turning, he sees me there and knows what I am hiding from. Pressing my overheated back against the concrete, I wait until he stands just inside my personal space, the fine hairs on my skin reacting to his proximity. He removes his hands from his pockets and places them on my hips. I am only able to lift my head and stare at his dark eyes; I cannot possibly move. Maybe he will slide his hands down and lift my dress, my giddy head whispers and I shiver. "Cold?" A mild smile, as if the question didn't contain seven years of answers. I shake my head and he leans closer, nipping at my neck, rather hard. Moaning, I try to motivate my arms to move, but only succeed in grasping wildly at the smooth wall behind me. He senses my movements and slides his slow hands up my body, the opposite of my movement in the dressing room, the reflection of it. "This is a very nice dress," he murmurs. Trust Mulder to be a talker. "Is it silk?" I nod weakly. His hands run past my breasts to my armpits then up my arms, raising them above my head. He holds them there, leaning against me, his full weight pressing me into the wall like a limpet. For a moment we rest that way, pinned together, reveling in the feel of our combined weights. Then he begins to move, gently pressing his growing erection into my stomach. Or where my stomach would be, if I could just swallow it again. It is attempting to flutter right out my throat. When he groans softly in my ear, I feel it drop straight to my groin along with my entire blood supply. We are dry-humping, grinding against each other like horny teenagers out behind the school yard. Frantic for contact, we are moving against one another so violently now it is a wonder we do not merge into one person. Mulder is gasping above me and I look up to see his lips parted, his eyes dark and shuttered. "Mulder, kiss me." He moves his torso back a bit to see me, not breaking the aching contact of our lower bodies. "Anything you want," he whispers, "anything." Then he dips his head and lets go of my arms. They are instantly around his neck, pulling him in. I can't wait any longer to taste him. Last night I had a moment of this knowledge, but I was too afraid of missing the opportunity to pleasure him. Now I must know. His lips hit mine -- there is no other word for it Ð and we open to each other. Who would have thought it? Mulder tastes like the sweet salt of sunflower seeds, even when he's sipped at a glass of wine. I am enveloped by him as he teases me, drawing back and swooping in only to stop millimeters from my lips. We giggle together at the discovery that we are playing at kisses like children. And then he pushes urgently against me and we dissolve again into each other's slick mouths. "Scully," he moans, "I want to kiss you." "You are," I remind him, touched. "No," he says. "Not on your mouth." And then I begin to slide down the wall like water. "Where?" I dare to ask. "Here." He flattens one hand over my left breast and then begins to stroke and pluck at me like a harp. "Yes," I tell him. "That would be wonderful." "I would like to wash you, bath you like a kitten." I push against his hand and murmur pleasing sounds, listening to his breathing and to the rapid pounding of my own blood. "Scully, I want to be inside you, completely. I'm not just talking aboutÉ I mean my whole body, drowning in you." He is sucking on my neck as he whispers to me, drawing both my breasts together and sliding one finger in and out of my cleavage, fucking me. "I would never let you drown," I tell him and he smiles against my skin. end 1 of 2 TITLE: Mutual 3: This Time It's Personal (2/2) AUTHOR: Jess EMAIL ADDRESS: jessica@amazon.com RATING: NC-17 SUMMARY in part 1. Fun ensues. Email me or I'll have to let them leave at this... Of course I have always been unlucky. It's pretty common knowledge. Poor Spooky Mulder, lost his sister, lost his father, lost his marblesÉ but what they don't realize, what none of them know is that I have just become the single most favored man on Earth. Possibly in the universe, though I haven't seen enough of it to be sure. Tonight, Dana Scully is wearing a dress the exact color of a tropical night sky. Every other time we have attended these functions she had been dressed in black, her color of choice since her abduction. But oh, this color of blue. Like arctic water, like midnight in the South. I could lose myself tonight and never surface again. Ever since her performance in the basement yesterday, I have been looking at my life in an entirely new light. Prior to this, the knowledge that Scully existed was all that kept me alive, kept me skipping across my day like a stone thrown from shore. But once I realized that Scully loved me, was in love with me, wanted me, would actually dare to do me, I've been gently sinking into her depths. She is the only thing that matters to me anymore. I think I've told her that, but now I need to show her. Her body is the warmest thing in this cool DC night. She moves against me, around me, through me like a ghost. The stiff silk of the dress (only Scully would choose a rigid silk, I think with a smile) rubs between us, riding up and up till I am breathless with the thought of its ascent. "Mulder," she says in my ear, her voice slick and guttural. "Let's go." But I don't want to. Not yet. I can't explain this. Why I'm not on the floor of her apartment right now, driving into her with all the lost intensity of the last seven endless yearsÉ is as great a mystery to me as the existence of extraterrestrials ever was. But for some reason, whatever it may be, I want to prolong this courtship, hold her at bay, wait until I can no longer bear to be touched. So I shake my head. "What's wrong with right here?" I ask. I have to lean back to see the raised eyebrow, but there it is, sexy as ever. "Someone could see us," she whispers. "Yeah, exciting, isn't it?" She laughs. "That's so Mulder. No understanding of risk." "Ah Scully," I tell her, biting at the straps of her dress. "I understand the risks. But you cannot have great gain without great risk." "You playing the market?" she asks, slipping her tongue under my shirt collar. "You once said you wouldn't bet against me." She giggles. "Catholics don't bet." "AhÉ but do they do this?" And I slide my hand up her inner thigh, which, incidentally, is the softest place outside of my grandmother's feather bed. She grabs my arms, holding on as we begin. I can't believe she isn't wearing underwear. Again. How often has this glistening, glorious thing been there between us, like the knowledge of a secret? She is slippery and wonderful. I push her lips apart and slide two fingers along her inner folds. It's as hot there as a night in Fiji. Had I known about this, it wouldn't have had to rain sleeping bags for us to keep each other warm. She gasps as I graze her clit, spreading her legs a bit wider to give me access. I slide first one finger than two into her body, reveling in the juicy peach ripeness of her. Her wetness astounds me, and is as marvelously slick as velvet must be to a man used to wool. "Mulder." A statement. You are in me, she is saying. I groan. "I want you," she whispers then. "Take me," I tell her, moving in and out of her body and up to her clit and back down again, unable to decide what feels more like home. And much to my astonishment, she does, pulling my shirt away from the front of my pants and unbuttoning them. I pause, I can't help it, half in her, the heel of my hand grinding into her. She unzips them, just enough to touch me but not enough to cause them to drop to my ankles and pulls me, gasping, out of my boxers and into the night air. This is right, I think, this is how it should be. Getting each other off as the rest of the bureau, the rest of humanity fades to a soft roar behind the glass doors. "Scully," I groan, unable to help it. We are like the kids in Titanic, running down the hall yelling "Jack", "Rose", "Jack" until we are horse, searching for each other as the water rises. Then she begins to move, sliding her hand up my penis and back down. The friction is painful, almost, and I start to pull back. But my Scully knows me, feels what I feel. She frees me and then slides her hand down my arm to meet me at the junction of my flesh and hers. I am gaping, mouth open, as she slides my hand out of her body and slips her own fingers in. My pulse is pounding in my ears and I am sure I will come right here. How did this incredibly sensual woman sit next to me in a car for six fucking years and I never knew she would do this? Slicking me with her own liquid, she slides her dampened hand up and down me until I am thrusting into her belly like a kid with a pillow. I must make her come, I am desperate. She has to feel exactly what I feel. That's the meaning of being one person, right? So I slide my fingers back along her, tracing the edge of her hair, slipping down into her and back out, rubbing at the tightened ball of nerves until she is panting like a long-distance runner. We kiss madly, missing each other as often as we connect. Wild with sex, we are strangely in synch, despite the fumbling. It is the single most erotic experience of my life. Together we speed up, pumping and pushing, the movements of our own circulatory systems. Then, just as I think I can't possibly do this any longer, she slams her legs shut around my hand and shivers like a distant star, pulsating around me. It is enough, to know she has met me and is passing over me, is enough. I back away from her dress a bit and come, dribbling like a fool onto the concrete balcony floor. She stares at me, mouth open, breathing in small gulps like a dying swimmer coming up for air. I lean forward and kiss her, slowly, letting her know that I am still here, still wanting her. "Mulder," she says, slowing down as I attempt to tuck myself back in before anyone ventures out. And then she starts to giggle, hysterical, like she's choking on oxygen. "Scully?" She gestures to the damp balcony floor and shakes her head. "At least the consortium will never find sperm stains on my dress," she laughs. end 2 of 2, so email the heck out of me! TITLE: Mutual 4: Mutual in Space (1/2) AUTHOR: Jess EMAIL ADDRESS: jessica@amazon.com DISCLAIMER: You're kidding, right? DISTRIBUTION STATEMENT: Anywhere, just let me know. SPOILER WARNING: None really. RATING: NC-17 CONTENT WARNING: Sex, sex and more sex. Did I mention sex? CLASSIFICATION: MSR, spicy smut curry over jasmin rice SUMMARY: Mulder and Scully finally do the deed and hundreds of fan fic readers around the world get off my back... kidding. No really, you guys have been fantastic in spurring me on to this climax (I'll stop now before someone gets hurt). Read on! Then email me. So here we are. The gauntlet has been thrown down. When the hell I'm going to actually get a little action is a mystery greater than any mutant we've ever faced, but heyÉ at least the possibility of action exists. Last night, after our encounter on the balcony, I fully expected Mulder to take me home and screw my brains out. I was practically begging for it. But no. We wander back out, go through a couple sweet rounds on the dance floor (looking very partnerly, I might add, unlikeÉ sayÉ Walter Skinner and that girl from legal) and he offers to drive me home. So I'm thinking, ok, takes him a while, but now we'll go upstairs and finally consummate our relationship. Instead he walks me to my door, kisses me gently on the cheek and before I can say "flukeman" three times fast, disappears into the waiting elevator and is gone. Is it me? Did he suddenly discover, after six years, that I have a really repulsive smell? What the hell is he afraid of? Trust me, I've seen the salami and it's a plenty spicy slice of meat. I am not concerned about this. I just want him. Ok, it's more than that. Lately, I've been feelingÉ softer. I used to be this way all the time. I was sweet, innocent even. Having grown up around my dad and brothers, I still had my trademark rapier wit. But I was girly. Then I stopped having sex; fell madly in love with my insanely untouchable partner; got abducted byÉ well not aliens, but someone; got cancer; lost my daughter, my sister, my mindÉ and I became bitter. It's true. Angry and bitter. How else to explain, even after I have held Mulder's quivering cock in my hand and pulled on it like I was fully expecting him to suddenly lactateÉ how can I now be sitting on my couch, hating myself, hating him, hating my life for bringing me to this point? Waves of insecurity are sweeping over me like nausea. If he wanted me, he'd have acted. Right? But he has acted. Sort of. And maybe that's it. He hops into bed with Diana, for God's sake, while he's sick as a proverbial dog and I can't get him to come in and have a naughty nightcap after some of the most mind-blowing not-sex I've ever had. It's so difficult to understand, so random, soÉ Mulder. I just want to see him. I know if I could look at his lovely face right now it would ease my fears, my insecurities, my need. And then I could kiss him. And finally tell him. That's the rub. We've pushed and pulled and gasped and grasped and shoved and shivered and come, but we haven't said a word to each other about what it means after six years of friendship. So in the early morning, cool pink light of my apartment, listening to CNN blather on about something irrelevant to me but extremely important politically no doubt, I am slipping under a bubble bath of disbelief and self-loathing. I want to be reassured. I want to be loved. Because I love. I love Mulder so much it eats at me like an alien virus. I will be consumed by my love, eaten up and transformed into something alien to the old Scully. The bitter, nasty one who lectures the man she loves about toilet seats. I want to be reborn as the woman I was before all of this unhappiness and fear. The woman Mulder still believes me to be. That's why my temper, my disappointment, hurts him so much. It's Saturday. I can call him. I can invite him somewhere, to a movie. I can sit here and dream about eating him like cake. Or I can do nothing, which is much more in the Scully repertoire. What would old Scully do? The one they called Dana, way back before she had to distance herself from the universe. She would be professional and demure, at first. But now, after holding him in her hand, after tasting his luscious plump plum lipsÉ she would devour him. Lick him till he dissolved in her mouth like a popsicle. Suck and tickle and let him slowly slide into her body like hot fudge melting through ice cream. Then it's decided. Current Scully can sit here on the couch moping and wondering where this is all going to lead and how did she get here and how miserable can she make herself, but old Scully is going to go get herself laid. Thoroughly. I rise and slip my feet into my shoes. It's six am. The pre-Mulder hour, when he finally falls asleep and lies sprawled across his bed in nothing but his boxers and soft bare feet. I know, I've peeked into his hotel room a time or two. Two can play that needy game, Mulder. The streets are deserted (for Washington DC, I mean, not Coffeyville, Kansas or somewhere where deserted means deserted) at this hour on a weekend. A few bums, some street-types, the occasional mad jogger risking death. Today will be warm, I think. Not hot, but pleasant old building with oil-filled radiators warm. Snuggle into a thin sweater warm. Mulder's hand on the small of my bare naked back warm. Ok, that's just conjecture. I park in front of Mulder's apartment building and watch the little old lady who lives down the hall come out with a straw broom and sweep down the front steps. She glances up and sees me sitting here, undecided. I know she likes me, she's always smiling and nodding as I stride, usually pissed the hell off at someone, down Mulder's hall. This morning she senses my hesitation and opens his door wide for me, nodding and smiling and welcoming me. My way has been prepared, swept and dusted and old-lady approved. Now I just have to get out of the car. As I pass, she leans over and says something like "good morning dearie", but it's hard to tell. Mulder says she's Lithuanian. I say she's just old and has no teeth. I reply "good morning" and step inside the warm hallway. The elevator lies just ahead. I have done this before, I remind myself. But never with this intent. Ok, sometimes with this in mind, but never with the actual possibility hovering just ahead like a heat mirage. I punch Mulder's floor and wait as I travel up, ascending into my own personal hell. What if he's not happy to see me? What if I embarrass him, or myself? That is a possibility. I could seem too needy. Isn't there some rule for this? Don't come over to a man's apartment at seven am on a Saturday the morning after you've finger fucked unless you want to look like a fool? Sounds about right. 42. 42. I can't get past his door number. I glance back at Padgett's old apartment. What a sniveling little freak. As if I could consider observation a replacement for years of knowledge and belief. Am I any less guilty of stalking and obsession than he was? At least the only heart likely to get ripped out at this point is my own. Ok, dilemma number one: knock or just let myself in? I hesitate. Lift the hand, put it down, rattle the keys, lift the handÉ The door opens. Mulder is standing there in nothing but his boxers (white cotton, starchy and covered in tiny baseball players) with a slight smile and the distinct early-morning musk of sleep and sweat. His morning erection has almost, but not quite, dissipated. "Hey there," he says. "Guarding the door against crazed weenie writers?" I can't move. I have seen Mulder in various states of undress many times over the years, but never have I had the distinct option of touching at the same time. He's like an ancient Greek athlete, oiled for competition. I want to be the wooden squeegee that wipes him clean. Funny how ancient history seems to be the only coherent thing available to my brain right now, including speech. "Scully," Mulder says softly. "Better stop ogling and come inside." I nod and follow him inside like Mary's little lamb, sure to go. He shuts the door behind me and stands, arms folded across his chest. I cannot speak. I feel oddly like I might cry instead. Mulder sighs. "Scully, I'd come over there and kiss you passionately, but as you haven't spoken and it's seven o'clock in the morning, I'm not so sure you aren't here to kick my ass for something." That elicits a smile and frees my tongue at last. "I just needed to see you." He nods, as if this is not a surprise, coming from Dana "I-don't-need-jack-shit-and-especially-not-you-Mulder" Scully. "I know," he says. "I was lying here wondering how late it would have to be before I could come over, wake you up and make you eat breakfast with me." "I wasn't exactly thinking of breakfast," I tell him. He blushes. Fox William "snappy comeback" Mulder blushes. Score one Scully. Taking two of those giant steps he always makes when he wants to suddenly loom over me, he is standing one bare inch from my chest. "What were you thinking of?" he asks. "I was wondering why I didn't wake up this morning with you naked in my arms?" Ok, at least I'm honest. "Ah," he says and backs up a bit. "That." And the word "that" never held so many possible meanings. Overnight. Sex. Love. Intimacy. Everything. I wince. "Yes," I say. "That." "Come sit down, Scully." I must be looking at him like a jackrabbit being led over to the fox, which is, of course, exactly how I feel. He smiles and takes my elbow gently. "Just let me explain why I haven't ravished you yet, ok? I've been thinking about it this morningÉ ravishing you, I mean. And I think you have a right to know why I've waited." Ok, I'm not skinned and eaten yet. Staring at the stew pot and wondering what's on the menu, but not yet dinner. We sit on that damn leather couch of his, and I am aware that the whole room smells like sleepy Mulder. If he hurts me here, I know it will be fatal. "Scully," he says. "First of all let me say that I want you. I think it's possible that I was born wanting you, and only just recognized it in the last few years. Like meeting a sibling you never knew you had and suddenly thinkingÉ hey, that person seems like one of my family." "Sibling?" I say, incredulous. "NoÉ bad analogy. But you know what I mean." And I do, so I nod. I can't process this, though, really. Mulder has wanted me for years? Years? It's like someone telling you that a million dollars has been buried right under your bed. All I can think of is all the missed opportunities. "Well, over the last four days I've been trying to figure out why I'm finding it so difficult to act, you knowÉ to grab you, sweep you up and do what I've imagined doing a thousand different times. I just needed to waitÉ I couldn't explain it, but I think you've felt it too." I smile, thinking of the night I saw him lying on his hotel bed, naked and molten as a lava lamp. "Yes, I know what you mean." "Do you know why that hesitation is there, Scully?" Shaking my head, I find myself almost unconsciously scooting over to sit against him. "Because there's only one first time for us, Scully. There's only going to be one first moment of entry, one first glorious realization of it, one first painfully wet thrust, one first sweet interior orgasm. And I don't want to fuck that up, no pun intended, by having come earlier in the day or having some case file on my mind orÉ or anything. I'm not thirty-two anymore Scully, I don't know how often I can feel you around me in one night. I just wanted to wait until the moment was perfect. Till we were ready." For a moment I find myself lifted away from him, from myself. An out of body experience, if you will. I see us sitting there together, two enormously lonely people, so in love they can hardly breathe without the other nearby and we are soÉ beautiful and silly and sad. And ready, so very ready. I return with a realization. "Like now," I say. "We are ready now." And then I climb onto his waiting lap and start divesting myself of clothing. end part one of two TITLE: Mutual 4: Mutual in Space (2/2) AUTHOR: Jess EMAIL ADDRESS: jessica@amazon.com RATING: NC-17 Summary in part one. Email me now or die the death of a thousand camel tongues. Email me and I'll elaborate. Scully and I are lying naked on my bed. I want everyone to understand this. Scully. Me. Naked. My bed. Just the fact that I have a bed at all is a miracle. But then, add in the other components and we're looking at some sort of astrological event. Planets have aligned. Stars have exploded. Life is good. She is tracing little circles around her belly button and watching her own body in the mirror above us. And I am lying on my side, propped up, watching and listening to her. Yes, listening to her. Because we are talking. Scully and I are talking. Will wonders never cease? We have not made love yet. So far my greatest pleasure has come from stilling her working hands and gently unbuttoning her cardiganÉ God, how do they get away with calling that seductive little piece of skin-tight warmth a "cardigan" as if she were Mr. Rogers? And then discovering that Scully does own underwear. Little black lacy silky push-up things that make me crazy with lust. And that slip off her shoulders with a small shrug. Then I stood her up and unbuttoned her jeans and slid them down over her hipsÉ damn. And discovered that she likes matching lacy panties. And that I can remove them with my teeth and she'll giggle hysterically. And that if I bury my nose in her crotch like a dog she begins to moan and circle her hips into my face slowlyÉ I am so gone at this point, she has no idea. I rose back up her, trailing my tongue up her stomach like the wolf in a Tex Avery cartoon. Her breastsÉ have I mentioned these lately? They are soÉ Scully. So adult and womanly and real and sweet with little tiny pink nipples and the softest areolas in the universe. I sucked on each for a moment, tasting musk and sweat, until she arched her back and dropped her own hand between her legs. That's when we moved into the bedroom and I began to babble like a lunatic. "Éand the thing is," she's saying, "I knew even then that it was crazy, that I was drunk and I would regret it. But the funny part is, I don't actually regret it. I find it kind of sexy of me." "Roll over and show me again," I say, watching her nude butt and feeling like someone just handed me my own heart coated in chocolate. I will never forget this. She is looking over her shoulder at her own tattoo and at me looking at it. Outside I can hear my neighborhood waking up, the sounds of rushing cars and people walkingÉ where could they possibly be going? Don't they know the entire world exists here, in the soft curve of Scully's lower back? I trace her tattoo with my index finger. A snake, a circle. How appropriate for the only person who matters. "It's not so bad," I tell her in a joking voice. "It's only a little hideous." She laughs and rolls over again to lie against me. I have been in a state of near-constant erection since she touched me last night, so it is no surprise that I am erect again at just the electric nearness of her. She kisses my shoulder, working her way down my arm with little soft whispered pressings of her lips and the tip of her tongue. I am sure at some point I will wake up back on the couch, alone. "Scully," I say suddenly, or at least it seems sudden to a man who has a new understanding of "missing time". "Scully, when did you first fall in love with me? And when did you first know it?" She flops onto her back, hands on her stomach like a child holding a comfortable bear, and grins at me. "Only you would assume that me being here naked means I'm in love with you," she says mildly. I know she is stalling, so I just wait. "Ok, Mulder," she gives in. "I first fell in love with youÉ" I realize I have asked a great deal of her. To make sure she is all right, I lay one hand on top of both of hers and gather them up like flower stems in a bouquet. "I fell for you on our first caseÉ you remember, sitting in your hotel room after you'd examined my naked back and pronounced me safe." Of course I remember. Those silly bites, the way she bared herself to me. Jesus, did I fall then? Was it that soon? Or was it sooner? "Ok, now when did you actually admit that to yourself?" She smiles and grows somber at the same moment. Classic Scully. "I suppose I knew when I returned from myÉ abduction and all I wanted was to see you, to hear your voice again. I think I realized it then, though I was too frightened of it to vocalize it." "Doesn't count," I tell her. "When did you vocalize it to yourself? When did you sayÉ I love Mulder?" She rolls again and snuggles against me, hot and small. "Last night." Ok, that was unexpected. "Your turn," she says, though I'm sure I'm about to die of horror. Only yesterday? "Before or after?" I ask. "Before," she says, reading my mind. "But I've loved you for such a long time, Mulder. Understand that. I just stopped my mind from admitting it. I didn't want to find the truth and then be left alone with it." "You know, Scully, when I said 'trust no one', I didn't mean for you include us in that." She kisses my chest and seeks my balls with her right hand. "Tell me," she says. "Stop fucking around." "Ok, okÉ" She holds my life in the palm of her hand. I try to remember when I didn't love her. That's the only way to figure this out. "I think I fell in love with you the moment I walked away from our fist meeting. I remember thinking 'ooo, she's a feisty one. I'd better be careful.' That's a sure sign, warning yourself." "Indeed," she says, massaging me, kneading like I'm two firm rolls. "And I first realized itÉ oh, that's easy. Remember Tooms?" She nods, kissing my neck, amping up the pressure on my balls, on me. "You said, in the car on the stakeoutÉ 'Mulder, I wouldn't put myself on the line for anyone but you.'" "I was drunk on liverwurst sandwiches and root beer," she protests, sliding down to nibble a nipple. "Scully," I tell her, "no one has ever said anything even remotely like that to me. Ever. Not family, not friends." "Mmmm," is her only answer. Her mouth is buried in my navel. And then she is licking the very tip of my penis and blowing steamy puffs of Scully-scented air on it. We are about to do it. I can tell from the visible heat waves in the room. We are about to copulate and God help me, I am so unbelievably ready. I just hope I can hold out. I ease her back onto the bed, kiss her hard and then push her legs apart. Here we goÉ I have waited so long for this that I was patient with Mulder's need to be chatty. I know him, I understand him. He wants to ease into thingsÉ but enough is enough. I'm naked and horny as hell and he's so damn erect thereÉ and I'm babbling about liverwurst. Screw it, screw mental intimacy. We've been mentally intimate for so long I can't remember when he wasn't providing snide commentary in my head. I want the physical. I want his body. When he spread my legs I thought, ok, this is a bit sudden, but at least we're finally getting somewhere. But trust Mulder, and I do, to not go that route. Instead he slides slowly down my stomach, tongue out and lapping, day-old beard tickling and scraping, hands searching until he reaches my pubic hair. "Scully," he admonishes, "you aren't a natural red-head." "I most certainly am," I tell him. "I'm natural red-head turned auburn with age enhanced by modern technology." He grins and then looks down at me. I've never had a man outside of my gynecologist examine me so carefully, opening me with his fingers and looking at me at if he half-expects to find gold there. "Tell me how this feels," he whispers, sounding like my gynecologist. But my OB/GYN has never, ever run one long finger up from my ass to my clit and back down the other side while staring me brazenly in the eye. "Not bad," I murmur. "Not bad. But I need something to compare it with." "How's this?" And then he does the same thing with his tongue. I suppose the fact that I gasp and lift my entire lower body off the bed may be an indication of my feelings on the subject. "Like that?" he asks, grinning like the cat who got the cream. Oh Mulder, you haven't seen cream yet. "Yeah," I pant. "Yeah, that's all right. Better than the first." "Tell me what you think of thisÉ" His tongue again, snaking into me, pulsing and filling my entrance. I can't breath, so I can't reply. I just moan and thrust against him. Let him figure it out. He does, and moves up again, flicking at my clit like he's tasting something very hot but delicious and he can't wait for it to cool down enough to eat. I'm throbbing everywhere, tightening muscles I'd forgotten or maybe didn't know I had. His hand leaves my left thigh and one finger delves into me. I grasp his wrist, hold him there and realize I'm saying his name. "Mulder, please, oh God." "Please what, Scully? Please what?" he asks between mouthfuls of me. "Please fuck me, Mulder," I manage to get out. He pauses and stares at me. "Nope," he says and I groan in frustration. "Calm down. Someday, I intend to fuck you. But tonight, I intend only to make love to you. No fucking allowed." "God Mulder, only you would argue semantics at a moment like this. Make love to me, fuck meÉ I know you love me, just get inside me for heaven's sake!" That elicits a gentle chuckle from down around my upraised knees and more soft lapping at my body. I squirm, closer and closer, feeling my orgasm building beneath my pubic bone, capturing my gasping lungs and thudding heart and racing blood. He licks one more time, his wide tongue encompassing everything about me and then entering me again. I come, calling him. "Mulder, in meÉ in meÉ I'm coming." He slides up my body and guides himself to the edge of entrance. For a moment we pause, me still gasping and pulsing, his face red and blissful from his efforts. Then he is sliding into me and I am widening, accepting him. It isn't painful, not much anyway, and once he is in and slick and wonderful, all I can feel is him everywhere. He kisses me and he tastes like me and him and sex. "Oh MulderÉ" I am overcome with tenderness at the feel of him there, moving within me. "You feel so goodÉ" "Damn right I do," he murmurs in my ear and lets out one long breath, sending shivers into my stomach. "I feelÉ wonderfulÉ connectedÉ aliveÉ in loveÉ" He punctuates each word with a deeper thrust. We rock together, gentle and slow. Then it catches, that strange frantic animal need that sometimes comes in the middle of sweet sex. He moans and begins to push harder, moving faster and deeper than before. Lifting his body up from mine, he is staring at me. We are seeing each other, together, and it is goofily profound, like the meaning of life feels at two in the morning. This is it. This is the meaning of everything we have ever done. I lift my legs up until my knees are folded completely and he is hitting every side of me at once. "Oh fuck, ScullyÉ shit, oh fuck!" I want to laugh at his sudden sense of awe, but I'm too sweaty and passionate to do anything other then tighten around him. I can see us in the mirror, Mulder's gorgeous ass pumping into me, my red hair plastered to my skin, sweat everywhereÉ I sigh and feel myself spasming around him. It's not an orgasm, exactly, but it's like a little grasping kiss. Mulder moans and kisses me again, deeply, tongue pulsing in my mouth to echo the movement of his hips. "I'm coming," he murmurs and licks my earlobe as if he'd just told me I had nice breasts. I feel him push one last hard time and then shudder, a million tiny thrusts emanating from somewhere in his lower back. He is inside me, now, literally. I sigh with the pleasure of knowledge. "Good, Agent Scully?" I smirk. "Acceptable, Agent Mulder. Though my control group right now is too small for much scientific comparison." "We can do further research, I'm sure. Establish some sort of a paradigm. A sexual standard." I can feel his soft hands caressing my sides, his hardness slowly retreating between us. The moment for separation is soon. But not yet, thank God. Not yet. "Ah Mulder," I whisper. "I could do that forever." "Scully," he sighs, lifting his weary head and kissing the very tip of my nose, "the feeling's mutual." end 2 of 2. No more. All done. Sex always ends it, ya know? I'm feeling chatty, email me.