|
Fox, Spock, and Sigmund Rating: a nervous NC17 Category: V, MSR, not quite slash, not quite crossover, another jaunt into both the sleeping and waking minds of Fox Mulder. Warning: this fic is probably a crime against good taste. Thanks: to Amanda for making sure it wasn't a crime against punctuation as well. Disclaimer: As if. As if Fox and Viacom would get together to produce a monstrosity like this. I woke up alone this morning, three weeks after our private little apocalypse, the great failure to conceive. Lately I keep wondering if maybe I wouldn't be better off if in therapy. With everything I've been through - with everything I'm going through - doesn't it make sense? Trouble is, I can't. It's not feasible. It's too risky. Chances are, any shrink I wound up with would be in the employ of the Forces of Darkness. And even on the off chance he wasn't on Darth Vader's payroll, I'd be putting an innocent in immanent danger of coercion, corruption, or worse. All that aside, I'd have a hell of a time trying to establish a therapeutic rapport. I may have a tendency, as the song goes, to spend the facts of my life like small change on strangers, but emotional intimacy comes harder for me. I'd probably be dead before I had a connection with the poor fool. I have my reasons for being emotionally distant, of course, and they are all good, sound reasons, the chief being my talent for embarrassing myself. It sort of encourages the personal armor, if you know what I mean. I have faced humiliation that would make Walter Skinner shit his pants. People who think they know embarrassment - ha! They ski the bunny slopes of disgrace. The double diamond trails and I, on the other hand, are on a first name basis. If I make it through the next year, I plan to go professional. It was too long ago to matter now, but I spent my last year at Oxford known as Ratboy. Personally, I blame my innate curiosity and a long standing penchant for distraction. You see, a lab rat has an enormous set of testicles, each one bigger than the animal's head. It would be like me lugging a pair of volleyballs around in my pants. One day, in a not over-populated lab where my attention was perhaps less than fully engaged, I noticed one of the little guys had a piece of shredded bedding material stuck to his balls. Rather than wait for him to notice or for it to get knocked off of its own accord, I picked him up and removed the dreck. It was fascinating, really, how evolution could equip an animal with an obvious vulnerability like that; cojones bigger than one's head had to be a danger in the wild, and yet the reproductive advantages seemed fairly obvious. The rodent's penis itself seemed disproportionately small, just a tiny cuff of foreskin. I decided maybe I could push it back and see the little culprit. Hmmmm - too bad there weren't any teeny little clamps I could hold it with; the damn thing was difficult to keep back. Maybe a couple of pairs of small calipers would work? At that point I should have realized two things: first, my voyage of discovery into the reproductive system of the male of the species Rattus rattus had attracted the attention of not only my fellow students, but of the wizened and sadistic Dr. Francis as well, and second, that the rat, named Spock by Phoebe earlier in the term, was taking my ministrations a lot more personally than I had intended. Mere moments after I noticed my audience, the rodent in question splooged on the side of my face. Dr. Francis then asked if I was planning to fellate the rat, because otherwise, he'd like to continue the class. Believe me when I tell you that there are few things more demoralizing than being known as the Guy Who Masturbates Small Animals. Compared to that, being known as Spooky the Alien Nut is downright dignified. I look back on moments like that as preparation for the life I lead today. Once a full quarter of a small island nation has heard of your exploits with laboratory animals, what do you care if the entire Federal Bureau of Investigation thinks you're a few fries short of a Happy Meal? On the downside, a lifetime of experiences like the one with Mr. Spock does not lead one to feel at ease in social situations. Or with mental health practitioners, for that matter. Honestly, sometimes a cigar is just a cigar, and sometimes a young man really can wind up with rat come on his face without any undue interest in bestiality. Curious about the rat's genitals doesn't necessarily mean that kind of curious. I don't even know why I thought about that - it was more than 15 years ago... Okay, maybe I do. Last night I dreamed I caught Scully in bed with Mr. Spock. Not the rat; the TV character. Eventually it turned into a three way, and. . . On second thought, I am relieved not to be under the care of a mental health professional. If I were, I might feel compelled to discuss this. We were on the old Enterprise - gray, black, and red, harsh angles every where. I followed a sharp corner into a room and the 'chheeeee whoosh beeepp beep beep' greeted me as the door slid out of my way. On the opposite wall were the 3D chess set, the ax, the harp, and the strange little thing with the glowing coals in its stomach. I was in Spock's quarters, the room I had always imagined was my own. Scully was naked on the bed, and the first thing I noticed was that she had no pubic hair. The second thing I noticed was He was with her - Spock - and that he was not only naked too, but his hand was between her thighs. Her legs were trembling. My stomach squeezed like a mildewed sponge. She murmured to him in a language I couldn't understand. I remember thinking it sounded like she was talking backwards before I realized it had to be Vulcan. Things began to make perfect sense. Scully 'is' Vulcan, after all. That had been the real reason for her abduction - to remove the human parts of her and render her wholly alien. Wow - that explained it all. It explained the constantly raging core under the rational and brittle surface. It explained how she went seven years without sex and was now trying to see if she could literally wear my dick out. And it explained why the IVF had repeatedly failed -- the DNA was simply incompatible. Right? Of course. It explained everything. It looked like she was planning to get more than just a sample from the First Officer, though. I seethed, aroused beyond bearing. I wanted to kill both of them. Then she turned, smiling, and looked at me. "Come join us, Fox." She had never called my name like that before, even in a dream. Maybe that's why I did what she said. "Yes," Spock chimed in. "You should join us. It would be prudent. I may require your assistance in subduing the predator." I stared at what I assumed was his hard and oddly slanted reproductive organ. He didn't have much in common with his namesake lab rat, except for the fact I wanted a closer look. "Your curiosity is logical, Fox. Touch Spock's penis - it will amuse me." She was imperious, and it was then that I noticed her upswept ears and brows. I did as she commanded. I touched him. Honestly, the whole interspecies homosexual thing did nothing for me, but she was a different story. As usual, she made my little heart go pitter pat. I stood beside the bed and began to undress. Spock addressed me directly then. "Fox, I believe we should begin the insemination immediately." He leaned back on the narrow bed and she, nodding her agreement once, nimbly climbed on top of him. My ability to be humiliated knows no bounds - as it turns out, I don't even have to be conscious. "Where do I fit in here, Scully?" I asked after a few seconds of stupor. "It doesn't really look like I'm necessary." She didn't mince words. "You'll need lubrication." I moved toward the head of the bed, imaging she'd put her lips on me. But when I got close, all she did was spit. That ruby mouth right there, just inches away, and all she did was spit on my cock, leaving me to rub it on myself. True to form, I shook with both rage and excitement. Since it was dream, she took my cock in her ass like a pro - I slipped in, and that was that. She moaned and pushed back, but when the golden moment of penetration was over, she was so small that it was really just Spock and me, angry, nose to nose, each of us wishing the other would disappear, both of us wanting Scully to ourselves, and drawing more heat from the contest than we did from the prize. Our cocks fought, waging war through the thin layer of Scully between us. I hated that, for me, it was about him and not about Scully. I hated that my battle with him almost made me forget Scully was even there. I looked him in the eye as I bent my neck to kiss the top of her head. I tried to feel her hot, tight skin wrapped around me instead of feeling his penis pressing against mine. I pushed into her again and again, willing her weak and human. The more I pressed, though, the more I felt him. I was coming. I could feel him start to buzz, trill even, inside her. He was coming, too. AAAArrrrrrggggggg!!!!!! I woke up only to realize I was fucking my cell phone. And it was ringing. Shrinks, shrinks - I don't need no stinkin' shrinks. The dream was so obvious. Psychologist, analyze thyself. Let's see - Scully being inseminated by an alien, while my own efforts were so misguided as to preclude impregnation. Hell, I couldn't even get my coin in the appropriate slot. In retrospect, I don't think I particularly wanted it there. Ambiguity about fatherhood - not surprising, but not exactly a mature thought either, with death breathing down my neck. On the other hand, a neurotic half-human who gets laid every seven years sounded familiar to me. I could have been symbolically coming head to head with myself and my own emotional cowardice. Or some of both. Either that, or my subconscious fixation on Leonard Nimoy was finally seeing the light of day. The phone was still ringing as I attempted to wipe it off. Oh fuck, how was I ever going to get this clean? A cotton swab between the buttons, maybe? Ughhh. I was paralyzed two seconds later when I answered it, jizz and all, hoping it didn't stick to my face, and realized it was Scully on the other end. ==================
|