GINGERSNAPS FOR OEDIPUS AND THE ULTIMATE 
FAILURE OF ART OR: SN;AFU

1/3

Author  OneMillionAndNine 
Feedback: kokotheuberchimp@hotmail.com 
(Don't bother telling me I'm just sick; I 
already know)
Rating: Seriously NC-17; not a speck of 
fluff  
Archive: Sure
Spoilers: SuZ 
Summary: yet another take on the first time 
for our heroes. A veritable angst-o-rama.
Disclaimer: If The X-files belonged to me 
the word Samhain would be pronounced 
correctly and Teena Mulder would have, at 
least once before she died, referred to 
Scully as "The Shiksa".
Category: V, A, MSR 
Notes: Thanks to MaybeAmanda for asking good 
questions and keeping me from posting fic 
that looks like it was done by e.e. cummings 
on mescaline.

Warning: CONTAINS A MEDITATION ON OEDIPUS 
REX and some very graphic, very unsafe sex. 
Probably not the single most wholesome 
depiction of The King of Pain ever to
grace a computer screen.

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XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

PART I  : FREUD  

I steadfastly refuse to blame my mother.  

I mean it.  

Show me a man without an Oedipus complex and 
I'll show you an orphan. . .since birth.  We 
all have them.  Maybe I'm on the far side of 
the spectrum, but it is a universal 
condition.

So what if mine is slightly more pronounced?  

Slightly?  If Scully had a clue, she'd vomit 
and ask for a reassignment - not necessarily 
in that order.  Or maybe not.  Maybe she 
guesses.  Maybe she knows exactly how much I 
have in common with the bozo we have been in 
lovely Detroit profiling.  Maybe I'm not in 
his league, but we are definitely 
practitioners of the same sport.  

Somehow. I can't see the topic coming up, no 
matter how long the stake out was.   {"Hey 
Scully, I ever tell you about the time I got 
a woody for Mom?"}  She'd rather hear about 
mothmen.  Or Reticulans.  Or liver eating 
mutants.  So would I.  So would I.

I don't know why they even bothered tocall 
us in.  A chimp could have put the pieces 
together.  Byron Sheets might as well be 
strutting around the Motor City wearing a 
shirt that says I KILLED EIGHT WOMEN AND ALL 
I GOT WAS THIS LOUSY T-SHIRT AND A HARD-ON.

All we had to do was realize that a month 
before the murders began there had been a 
grave desecration where the body had been 
defiled in amanner that was virtually 
identical to our killer's work.  Such as it 
is. 

As serial killers go, he's not particularly 
Enigmatic, or even interesting - just a 
Garden Variety Oedipus gone bad.  More than 
a few narcissistic elements to his 
personality, not exactly a paragon of social 
skills, he nonetheless has good grooming and 
manages to get the women to go willingly 
with him.  He is tall but his manner is so 
unassuming that the victims can't seem to 
imagine a viable threat coming from the boy.

Boy.

Scully maintains that crushing women's 
pelvises with a mallet qualifies him as a 
man.  I say no matter how you slice it, 19 
is a boy:  look at the bodies, look at the 
evidence, talk to a few neighbors and school 
officials, and there it is. 

Pretty cut and dried, really. Young, single 
mother is emotionally isolated and 
completely unprepared for the responsibility 
of parenthood. Young mother tries to 
compensate for her ambivalent feelings by 
focusing her entire life on the boy while 
also forcing said boy to meet all her 
emotional needs.  By the time the boy hits 
puberty, the sexual culmination, probably 
initiated by the mother, is almost a 
foregone conclusion.  However, as he neared 
adulthood and his organic bipolar disorder 
began to assert itself more aggressively, 
Mom attempted unsuccessfully to end the 
sexual relationship.  In the end, she 
thought she could only cut him off 
permanently by committing suicide.

Only he was more persistent than she 
imagined.  First, with her corpse, then a 
series of women with the misfortune to 
strike a sexual chord with him. 

Broken pelvis followed by rape and 
strangulation.Scully says the rape and 
strangulation took place simultaneously.

Ain't love grand?     

I don't know why he is getting to me like 
this.  I am nothing like him.  Teena Mulder 
was no Rebecca Sheets.

Where's the cheesy band with the velour 
jackets?

Something's wrong.  John Coltrane is playing 
in this stupid Holiday Inn Lounge.  Well, a 
recording of John Coltrane, and I am 
helpless.

I rarely drink, but I'm drinking now, and at 
the mercy of my brain, which is replaying 
one terrible memory among so many.  Not the 
most horrific, just the most sickening.  

Really, I'm tone deaf.  Shockingly, 
bizarrely, tone deaf.  Coltrane is the only 
music without words I can recognize.  Why?   
Because I heard the same album every 
Thursday for 16 years, that's why.

A LOVE SUPREME.  It's so fucking funny that 
I could stick my head in the oven.  Like 
mother, like son.

Thursday was the maid's day off.  We went 
through more than a few, but that was canon 
- Thursday was her day off, whoever she  was.  
Thursday was also 'our day' - the day when, 
instead of going off with her friends, Mom 
played cards with me from 4 to 6.  She 
smoked; I ate gingersnaps straight out of 
the bag. 

I remember trying to work up the nerve to 
tell her I was going to Quantico.  I was 24 
and I had just come down  from Oxford with 
my Ph.D.  She was expecting me to enter 
private practice.  The very idea seemed 
incredible - exactly what did she think I 
had to offer a patient?

She saw through me the minute I told her.  
Both of us smoking at opposite ends of the 
kitchen table, cards in hand.  Of course, it 
was Thursday. 

She listened to me talk about joining the 
FBI, but she knew my real words were "I'm 
going to look for Sam."  Her reply was a 
bottle of gin, a bowl of olives, the 
vermouth, and two glasses.  Not exactly 
heartwarming, but at least it was a 
reaction.  She hadn't pushed me away, so I 
followed her lead, got drunk, martini after 
increasingly sloppy martini, and kept 
playing cards.  In retrospect, I would have 
been better off with the gingersnaps. She 
won.  Of course, she won.  She didn't know 
how to do anything else.  Then she asked me 
to take her to a movie.  And I did.  Of 
course, I did.   She was not a warm 
comfortable mother like Scully's mom.  Even 
before she lost Samantha, she was distant 
and preoccupied.  I've often wondered if she 
had some sort of attachment disorder, or was 
suffering from major depression, or if, 
perhaps, she just didn't like us.  Maybe she 
was afraid to get close because she knew 
what was in store.  I never knew the smell 
of her body, just the smell of her perfume.  
A succession of maids were more involved in 
my day-to-day life than Mom was, so I knew 
enough to take what I could get from her.

She wanted to go see a Thin Man double 
feature at a local art house theater.  She 
was drunk.  I was drunk.  Everyone on the 
screen was drunk.  Teena Mulder, in her 
pearls and beige lambs wool twin set, had 
brought a bottle in her handbag.  It was 
undoubtedly the best time we ever had 
together, bar none.  The most we ever 
laughed.  

Rain and melancholy overtook us on the way 
back to her house, though.  Fumbling with 
her key, she asked me, "Do you really think 
you can do it?"

I knew her question meant 'find Samantha,' 
not 'be an FBI agent.'  "I'm going to try."

She got through the door just in time to 
crumble, her shoulders shaking with tears.  
This was familiar.  This, I knew.  After the 
divorce, this was my chore - some boys took 
out the trash, I comforted my mother when 
she cried.  Her face was pressed against my 
chest, my arms around her back.  Just like 
old times, Mom.

I knew I would have to save my own tears for 
later - she would not appreciate the 
intrusion.  My loud, awkward feelings made 
her uncomfortable, always had.  Maybe that 
was what she wanted this time; maybe I had 
been gone so long that she had found a 
little tenderness for me.  But she broke 
precedent.  She broke precedent and hugged 
me back.  It felt nice.  It was normal, 
right?  

She whispered, "I'm proud of you, Fox.   I 
love you." 

Wow, like a normal mom.  A regular fucking 
Hallmark moment, and all I had to do was 
graduate the top of my class at Oxford and 
swear myself to a near-impossible mission.  
I pulled her tighter, unable to speak.  
Kissed her forehead, and was rewarded with 
an instant, raging erection.

For a terrible thirty seconds, I was keenly 
aware of a conscious desire to have sex with 
my own mother.  I stood very still while I 
tried to decide how to kill myself.  

She pulled herself away.  Her eyes shut, her 
mouth formed a perfect 'O'.  With her back 
to me, she spoke.  "Leave, Fox."

And I left.  My sexual performance has been 
erratic ever since.

Everyone knows I hate Freud.  I hate Freud 
because he was right.  Right about this, at 
least, about me.  Pretty much every woman I 
have ever slept with has been a substitute 
for her.  Every one I've ever wanted - 
Diana, Phoebe, various and sundry nameless 
whoevers, some of whom I managed to get it 
up for.  Sundry is right.  Kind of 
ridiculous how jealous Scully gets 
sometimes, when the truth is, a sexual 
experience with me is not unlike Sacramento 
as described by Gertrude Stein:  there is no 
there, there.  

Even Scully - and if I'm honest with myself 
for half a second, I have to admit that what 
pathetic emotional life I have revolves 
around Scully - reminds me of my mom.  She 
may not be another, tall, dark, and cool 
Teena knock-off but she has that same sort 
of sad distance to her, something inside her 
permanently beyond my reach.  

All of them had that.  Maybe it's their 
sorrow that turns me on.  Maybe, if I had 
been a little more monstrous and little less 
intellectual that wet day, I could have 
brought us both a moment of real comfort.  
Maybe even love.  Of course, I would have 
had to shoot myself afterwards, and with my 
luck, I'd have missed and wound up in a 
chronic vegetative state - Fox Mulder, ever 
the failure.  

Or maybe not.  I have sometimes wondered if 
maybe there are men out there walking around 
who have actually done it.  Normal men who 
have crawled back in from whence they came 
if only for a short time and continued to 
live some semblance of a normal life.  
Incest is under-reported - that's a fact.  
So maybe there are guys like that, who have 
acted out the Oedipal dream for real, with 
no notable ill effects.  Could I have been 
one of them?

Never in a million years.  Sure, I probably 
could have pushed and wheedled and gotten 
her to comply.  Her passivity was epic in 
its proportions, and I was always her 
favorite - not just favorite child, favorite 
person, I think, which is pathetic, 
considering how distant our relationship had 
always been.  Anyway, I could have made her 
say 'yes' to me.  

But I can't even handle normal sex.  Marital 
relations with Diana were creepy and 
pathetic.  I do best with videos and 
prostitutes, a one-night stand every few 
years.  If I had managed to get my tongue in 
her mouth or my hand on her breast, it would 
have been the end of my life, even if I'd 
lacked the balls to opt for the time-honored 
and utterly reasonable route of 
murder/suicide.  I would have moved into her 
guest room and might still be screwing her 
to this day.

Well, not to this day -  she's dead now.  I 
think I'm gonna throw up.

What would Scully say?   She'd be kinder 
than I deserve.  She always is.  Would it be 
"your inhibitions were lowered by alcohol" 
or "you were emotionally starved and getting 
confusing physical and emotional stimuli"?  
She'd explain it away, but she'd be 
disgusted and she'd know.

What would Scully say if she knew how much I 
fantasize about her?  Scully, not Mom.  Old 
Spooky's  not quite that sick, not 
completely ruined.   What would she do if 
she knew the fantasies aren't always nice?  
If she knew one or two nights a month I rape 
her in my dreams.  I force her, tear her, 
cover her little body with bruises, make her 
cry, and afterwards, she thanks me, offers 
me her undying love?

As if.  I know no one wants to be raped.  I 
may be a degenerate scumbag but I'm not a 
moron.  If I thought I really wanted to rape 
Scully, I'd eat my gun here and now.  No, I 
think the appeal of the fantasy is that it 
is uncomplicated.  I want her.  I take her.  
I make her mine.  Of course, if I made a 
move on her in real life, she'd shoot my 
sorry ass.  And I'd consider myself lucky.

Mom is intruding into my brain again.  I 
never call unless there's a damn good 
reason.  Correction:  I never CALLED, past 
tense, unless there was a damn good reason, 
and now that option is gone.  I remember 
talking to her after the first time she met 
Scully, though.  I was desperate to know 
what she thought, desperate to seem casual.  
She ignored my pretense.

"Is it all right that you touch her like 
that?"

"Like what, Mom?"

"Intimately.  Did she tell you it was all 
right, or are you waiting for her to stop 
you?"

Of course, I panicked.  I didn't even make 
skin contact when I touched Scully, but my 
mother called it intimate.  She knew.  She 
knew what I was.  She knew what I wanted.  
What I wanted from Scully.  She also knew 
her baby boy was one part Quasimodo, one 
part Travis Bickle, and three parts Walter 
Mitty, because the next thing out of her 
mouth was:

"Don't break your own heart" 

What would Scully do if she knew I called 
her Esmeralda?  Someday, when I get up the 
courage, I'm going to give up buying her 
cheap silly gifts and get her an emerald 
ring.  Emerald for Esmeralda.  It will be 
stunning on her.  As if she needs it - as if 
she isn't stunning already, as if she hasn't 
had me stunned for years.  

Who am I kidding?   I'll never do it.  I'm 
Fox Spooky Chicken-Shit Mulder.

I realize now I'm still talking.  Okay, 
lecturing.  Stuck on Oedipus.  Drawing 
together Jung and Freud and Campbell on this 
one.  I should have my projector.  "It's 
universal, Scully; all men want to screw 
their mother."

"All men?"  There she goes with the eyebrow

"All men," I  nod soberly.  Or, it would be 
soberly, if I weren't drunk.  

"Even you?"

Might as well go for broke, Spooks.  
"Especially me."  

She feels this last admission rates both the 
snort and the raised eyebrow.

"I'm going to bed, Mulder."

"Need a hand?"

"I have two."

I'm nearly stumped  "Well, in that case, I'd 
like to offer any other equipment you might 
need that I might have."

"Might?"

I nod.

She is blinking and smiling.  "Got an 
adjustable locking wrench, Mulder?"

"Got a . . .plumbing problem?"  I try to 
leer, but my eyes feel strange.

It is her turn to nod.  "Umm hmmm.  My 
bathroom sink is driving me nuts."

"Maybe I could take a look at it."  This is 
pure bullshit, of course; she is much better 
at this stuff than I am.  Come to think of 
it, I'm not completely sure I'd know an 
adjustable locking wrench if I saw one.

Scully is staring, not even sarcastic  "Get 
real.  I'm going to bed."

She pays her bill.  I pay mine.  We're so 
fucking modern.

Shit.  I can't stop watching her ass.  My 
partner has to have the best ass in the 
world.  

I am now officially drunk to the point of 
stupidity and she is swinging her hips down 
the hall.  I could reach out and grab that 
ass, pull her down and take her right here, 
ten feet from her room.  

Okay, I couldn't do it really.  Not me, not 
Fox Performance-Anxiety Mulder.  Not unless 
I had my gun handy for a late night snack.  
But I can enjoy thinking about it.  Hell, 
I'll think about it whether I enjoy it or 
not.

Suddenly, I am incredibly angry with her for 
rubbing my nose in this.  {Bad dog, Mulder, 
bad dog!} 

As if from far away, I can see myself 
leaning in her doorway, sneering.  

"Scully has anyone ever told you you're a 
tease?"

End 1/3

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kokotheuberchimp@hotmail.com




GINGERSNAPS FOR OEDIPUS AND THE ULTIMATE 
FAILURE OF ART OR: SN;AFU

2/3

Author  OneMillionAndNine 
Feedback: kokotheuberchimp@hotmail.com 
(Don't bother telling me I'm just sick; I 
already know)
Rating: Seriously NC-17; not a speck of 
fluff  
Archive: Sure
Spoilers: SuZ 
Summary: yet another take on the first time 
for our heroes. A veritable angst-o-rama.
Disclaimer: M&S belong to Chris Carter and Fox. 
This story about them is mine. 
Notes: Thanks to MaybeAmanda for asking good 
questions and keeping me from posting fic 
that looks like it was done by e.e. cummings 
on mescaline.

Warning: CONTAINS A MEDITATION ON OEDIPUS 
REX and some very graphic, very unsafe sex. 
Probably not the single most wholesome 
depiction of The King of Pain ever to
grace a computer screen.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

PART II : LAWRENCE 
 
He was drunk.  She was drunk.  And there was 
that damned adjoining door, but she was doing 
her best to ignore it. 
 
Son of a bitch.  So what if she had given her 
ass a little extra wiggle walking ahead of him 
down the hall?  So what?  Lean in her doorway 
looking like God's fucking gift to women and 
call her a tease.  Motherfucker! 

As if sixteen separate and distinct 'frigid' 
jokes directed at her by the local 
investigators over the last three days weren't 
enough. Yeah, she was frigid.  She was a tease.  
She was one of the guys. But a small, weak guy 
who should probably be left behind when things 
get too intense.  Heaven fucking forbid she be 
capable and assertive AND attractive, let alone 
have the same human drives as the rest of them.

Not only had Mulder failed to come to her 
defense, failed to notice what was happening at 
all, actually, he was now jumping on the Shit-
on-Scully-Bandwagon.

Her favorite space cadet had been completely 
and utterly glazed over the last two days and 
for no good reason that she could see.  This 
was not the Patterson case, for Pete's sake.   
These murders were so clear-cut even the 
Detroit detectives originally assigned to the 
case could have solved them.  Why they didn't 
she still couldn't quite figure out.  But even 
if Mulder was bored out of his mind, he could 
still pay some damn attention to HER.

Or maybe he hadn't really been oblivious.  
Maybe he was silent because he secretly agreed 
with them.  {You've got it guys - seven and a 
half years trying to defrost her, and I'm still 
out in the cold.}

She'd show him.  Bust through the damn 
adjoining door and give the ASSHOLE the best 
head of his miserable life.  Yeah, she'd show 
him.  Tease!  How dare he? 
 
She started undressing.  Pinched her nipples, 
imagined it was his hands on her.  Oh, shit! 
 
She stopped.  Maybe this was a bad idea. 

Maybe it would end up just like the X-Files, 
just like everything with him - he'd push her 
into things she didn't want to do, push her and 
push her into extreme possibilities, until 
they'd seem normal to her, until  she'd need 
them herself.  Until she was as bad as he was. 
 
She groaned.  Oh God, maybe that was just what 
she wanted.

What would he want her to do?  She groaned 
again and took off her skirt, her bra. 
Water sports?  Yes.  Blood  sports?  Maybe. 
Analingus?  She'd already done that one. 
She pictured herself putting painful little 
clamps on his nipples and a shiver ran through 
her. 

It was not a bad shiver. 

He would blindfold her and do indescribable 
things to her.  She often caught him gazing at 
her stocking feet.  She imagined him cupping 
them around his penis and thrusting away like 
mad.  Would he ever want a menage-a-trois? 
Nope - he was waaaaayy too jealous for that. 

Too bad. 

She told herself she was drunk.  It didn't 
help.  This was either a really good idea, or a 
really bad one, but she couldn't decide. 

She was standing in her panties.  She was 
having her period.  She was still wearing her 
stockings - it was too fucking hot for 
pantyhose.  She decided to check the adjoining 
door.  The damn adjoining door. 
 
Of course, it was unlocked.  Oh Lord, deliver 
us from temptation.

Too late.  Too late.  Now she had to go in if 
only to prove she was not a tease. 
 
She stood in the shadow and stared.  Pray for 
us sinners, now and in the hour of our death. 
Which may be arriving shortly . 

He was in the bed with a huge fist wrapped 
around an even more huge - no beating around 
the bush - her partner had the reproductive 
organ of a horse.  Or, at least a donkey - some 
kind of big, sweaty animal, anyway.  Well, 
Mulder sort of was a big, sweaty animal, in his 
own over-thought way.  What had she told 
herself about extreme possibilities? 
 
He was pounding hard, grunting, eyes shut. 
jaw set hard.  He hissed her name. 
 
She almost jumped before she realized he was 
not talking to her, that he was talking to some 
Scully-movie playing inside his head.  He bit 
his lip, moaned, struggled with feet tangled up 
in sheets. 
 
The movie in Mulder's head was an old favorite.  
MovieScully was naked except for a pair of 
black pumps.  She also carried a riding crop. 
He had already passed the spanking part of the 
movie, and even the part where she brought the 
crop down hard across his cock.  He had 
reached his favorite part, the kiss-it-and- 
make-it-better part.

It was good.  Better than usual.  It felt so 
real.  It felt so real.  It felt so. . .
 
Oh shit!  It was real.

Scully's, the real Scully's, candy apple lips 
made contact all the way down to his raging 
fist, all wet and sloppy, and his eyes flew 
open.  Mesmerized, he drew her head down to the 
base with both his hands.  She never made the 
slightest motion of resistance, just swallowed 
it all, her eyes shining. 
 
She could feel him start to soften in her 
mouth, but chalked it up to shock.  His voice 
was low and serious.  "C'mon, quit it." 
 
"Ummmm uuummmm" she shook her head playfully. 
 
"I mean it."  He was completely soft now, and 
she was tenderly trying to revive him. 

Suddenly, he was yelling, shoving her back so 
Hard, she landed on the floor. 
 
"I can't!  I'm impotent, okay?" 
 
She thought for a fraction of a second he was 
going to hit her, but he turned instead, angry 
and red-faced, to the wall.  She would have 
thought the jolt of adrenaline would be enough 
to overpower the alcohol, but she would have 
thought wrong.  They both still seemed  very 
drunk. 
  
She was having a hard time keeping a straight 
face.  She bent her tongue backwards on the 
roof of her mouth to keep her lips from 
twitching, but her brain was racing, giggling. 
Fox  Fucking Mulder, Impotent?  Every time he 
walked past the secretarial pool, he left them 
all so aroused you could sail little toy boats 
in their panties. 
 
She tried to calm down, but her head was 
swimming.  Of course, he was insanely hard on 
himself - he blew any minute mistake totally 
out of proportion, castigated himself 
continuously until the only person he could 
trust himself not to disappoint was himself. 
  
Oh, Mulder. 
  
He spoke under his breath.  "I thought you'd 
figured it out." 
  
She didn't trust herself to uncurl her tongue 
yet, so she shook her head.
  
"You don't think I would have made a move if I 
thought I could carry it off?" 
  
She shook her head again. 
  
"Then you're stupid" 
  
She fought to remind herself that he was drunk, 
too, to tell herself the that the idea that she 
could fix him was drunken pride.  She was 
moving toward him, anyway. 
 
"Mulder," she whispered, "let me - " She paused 
long enough to consider strategy.  {Approach 
the beast on his own terms, Dr. Scully. Avoid 
prolonged eye contact, don't make any sudden 
moves, and, above all, remember he can smell 
fear.  Drive the fear out of your brain.} "Let 
me suck your cock."  
 
He was getting angry again.  "Haven't you been 
listening?" 
 
She swallowed hard and decided to be 
manipulative.  She was drunk, so she could do 
what Mulder did:  she could whine.  "But I've 
always wanted to.  I promise I won't expect a 
thing.  Can't you just enjoy the sensations?  
Like a back rub?"  She was totally shameless 
now. 
 
He was both dubious and amused.  Flattered. 
Scully, begging him, actually begging him, to 
LET her give him a blow job.  Dana Scully.  "A 
back rub?" 
 
She nodded.  "All the pleasure, none of the 
pressure." 
 
She had to be joking.  But she wasn't.  He 
rolled out of his fetal position and she slid 
silently between his legs. 
 
She went slow.  Very slow.  Gave no hint at 
what she had planned.  Her face betrayed 
nothing but pleasure.  He began to relax.  She 
rubbed her soft cheek against him, ran her 
tongue  over his balls, circling, circling. 
He was not getting hard but was making sweet 
little noises in the back of his throat.  Her 
lips brushed up and down his shaft - dry, 
gentle, chaste, almost.  Then a flick of 
tongue at the base, growing softer as she moved 
up to the tip, until it was only a whisper. 
She continued on.  Kisses in his thick pubic 
hair turning to nothing but breath by the time 
she reached his glans. 

She took a chance and gradually increased the 
wetness and pressure of her attack.  It paid 
off. 

When he realized he was completely hard and 
shaking in the dark, over air-conditioned motel 
room, he started to panic, and she retreated to 
his testicles, taking them both in her wet 
mouth.  She stroked his member with one pretty 
finger, almost absentmindedly.  Almost. 
 
He was starting to flag from the anxiety; she 
had to do something to distract him.  An idea, 
like a cartoon light bulb, flashed over her 
head.  A big light bulb!  She could feel him 
leap under her hand as she ran her tongue down 
the cleft of his ass. 
 
He couldn't believe it.  He was throbbing in 
her hand and Dana Scully was giving him a rim 
job.  It was too much sensory information, too 
much pleasure to be afraid, to worry.  Two 
small, very wet fingers slid into him.  Sure 
and purposeful, she massaged his prostate. 

Mission accomplished.  She was overcome with 
smug satisfaction.  He was moments away from 
coming hard.  There was no way he was going to 
lose his erection, now.  Dr. Dana Scully - 
Winner and still Champion - drew her wet tongue 
up his length and promptly swallowed him whole. 
 
Christ, it was like choking down a baseball 
bat!  She counted to ten, relaxing her throat 
until she was able, with great effort, to 
breathe, slowly, through her nose.  When she 
had regained her bearings, she began to slalom 
her tongue from side to side, pushing waves of 
pleasure left to right across his shaft and 
back again. 
 
He never imagined anyone could produce 
sensations like this in him .  It was ecstatic 
in the truest sense.  He felt beyond human - 
pure sensation, all nerve endings, no brain. 
 
Her jaw was getting sore, but he was so close.  
She slid him out slowly, all the way down her 
throat again, and he started bucking against 
her lips.  She struggled to breathe, to move 
him to where he could see himself coming in her 
mouth.  He'd like that.  He was a visual 
person. 

God, she was drunk. Agent Scully didn't even 
think things like this, let alone actually do 
them. 

{Well fuck you, Agent Scully, and fuck you too, 
Agent 'drinkorgoawayscully' Mulder.}  She 
lowered her head and gazed at him in what 
seemed to her to be a parody of desire, though 
it sent Mulder over the edge.  At that moment, 
in every way that mattered, she owned him. 

She had worked it just right.  His mouth was a 
wide, silent testimony to shock as he watched 
himself come, salty bitter rope after salty 
bitter rope, mostly in her mouth, leaving just 
a little tell-tale sticky white on her lips and 
chin.  

He pulled her up, kissed her hard, got 
it on his face, too. 
 
He was squeezing her to his chest.  "Damn damn 
shit fuck fuck fuck"  He was shivering, 
whispering.  His shoulders shook.  "Thank. . 
." 

She stopped him with a violent shake of her 
head. 
 
"How do you feel?" he asked, instead. 
 
"Like I just performed fellatio on a horse." 
 
He was laughing and breathing like he'd just 
come in from a run, wrapping his arms around 
her.  She snuggled against him, not at all 
sleepy. 
 
"Scully?"  He was leering down at her.  
"I...want...uuuuh...fancy some...Shiatsu?" 
 
She thought she was finally slightly less 
drunk.  "No." 
 
He was sticking out his lip, trying his best to 
look wounded.  "No?"
 
"Oh, come off it Mulder, don't make the kicked 
puppy face.  I'm  having my period" 
 
He slid his finger down her sternum.  "So?"  

She rolled her eyes as his finger continued 
down to her navel where it diverted, drawing 
lazy spirals, like crop circles, along her 
hipbones, pushing her panties down.  She 
couldn't help but smile; his hands felt so 
good. 

His voice was so quiet.  "Come on, Scully.  
What's a little blood between us, partner?" 
 
She winced, smiled, nodded slowly.  "Okay, you 
can...rub my  back." 
 
He practically jumped between her legs, pulled 
out her tampon like he was popping the 
cork on a bottle of champagne, and threw it 
against the wall, where it spattered. 
 
She held her breath.  This place was 
going to wind up looking like a freaking crime 
scene. 
 
"You know Lawrence, Scully?" 
 
"The one in accounting or the wire tap guy?" 
 
"D.H. Lawrence, Scully."  He was definitely 
still drunk. 

"Oh."  She sighed.  And she was not nearly as 
sober as she had thought. 
 
"The proper way to eat a fig in society is to 
split it into four and to open it so that it is 
a rosy, glistening, honeyed, moist, heavy- 
petaled flower.  Then you throw the skin away 
after you have taken off the blossom with your 
lips.  But the vulgar way is simply to put your 
lips to the fissure and take out the flesh in 
one bite." 
 
Which he demonstrated on Scully's clitoris.  He 
held it between his teeth, his lips.  He 
sucked, licked, kissed, slid two thick fingers 
mercilessly in and out of her until she came in 
a shivering agony, pausing only to allow her 
breath before renewing his attack.  It felt 
like he had jabbed a sewing needle straight 
through her clitoris but in a good way.  Was 
that possible?  How could a human tongue be so 
rough? 
 
Using more teeth now, he brought her to the 
crest of that wave not once, but two more 
times, each time increasing in volume. 
 
He was very good at this.  She felt a strange, 
painful pressure at the back of her cervix, a 
pain that also felt very good.  Oh, God.  He 
had made himself so good at this.  He'd had to. 

The next orgasm was so intense, it seemed 
like someone, mostly likely Mulder, was 
squeezing her brain like a sponge.  
 
When he rose, Scully cringed, terrified of how 
he might look, of how much of her blood might 
be on his face.  She tried to chide herself out 
of it {imagine the big, bad pathologist afraid 
of her own blood!} but the fear remained. 
 
She was relieved to find just a little smear on 
his chin and a ruby glisten to his lips; 
nothing too macabre.  His hands were a 
different story.  {He looks like he could be 
the - no, don't even think it} but he wiped 
them on the sheets. 
 
Her breathing was returning to normal, but her 
heart was still racing.  He was kissing her and 
she could taste her own blood on his mouth. 
Her blood had become the dominant smell in the 
room.  

She  was so full of thoughts, pulled in 
so many directions, all she could do was give 
in.  Give in to whatever he wanted, and as 
usual, he wanted everything. 
 
After a few minutes that seemed to Scully to 
last six months, he managed to take some of his 
weight onto his elbows, though he was still 
very heavy to her.  God, she knew how those 
Puritan witches felt being crushed to death by 
stones as part of their 'trial' {I cannot tell 
a lie - I caused my neighbor's cow to become 
afflicted with worms.  I cannot tell a lie - I 
just hopped into bed with a man I've been 
deftly avoiding intimacy with for nearly eight 
years.  Do I even want to wonder why?  No no 
nononononono.}

His soft penis was nestled between her labia, 
the spongy head resting against her clitoris.  

Jesus. 

End 2/3

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kokotheuberchimp@hotmail.com



GINGERSNAPS FOR OEDIPUS AND THE ULTIMATE 
FAILURE OF ART OR: SN;AFU

3/3

Author  OneMillionAndNine 
Feedback: kokotheuberchimp@hotmail.com 
(Don't bother telling me I'm just sick; I 
already know)
Rating: Seriously NC-17; not a speck of 
fluff  
Archive: Sure
Spoilers: SuZ 
Summary: yet another take on the first time 
for our heroes. A veritable angst-o-rama.
Disclaimer: M&S belong to Chris Carter and 
Fox. This story about them is mine. 
Notes: Thanks to MaybeAmanda for asking good 
questions and keeping me from posting fic 
that looks like it was done by e.e. cummings 
on mescaline.

Warning: CONTAINS A MEDITATION ON OEDIPUS 
REX and some very graphic, very unsafe sex. 
Probably not the single most wholesome 
depiction of The King of Pain ever to
grace a computer screen.

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PART III : JUSTICE 

I was terrified:  terrified he wouldn't be 
able to perform, and his new confidence 
would be washed out to sea; terrified he 
'would' be able to perform, and I'd wind up 
in some podunk E.R. because he'd torn me 
like I was made of paper; terrified 
everything would change; terrified that 
things would stay the way they were until 
one or both of us got killed.

My breathing was shallow.  He was cradling 
my head in his arms when it hit me that this 
was real, and this was right, and that he 
had gotten very hard, very fast.  

Could we have done it sober?  Somehow, I 
doubt it.  I doubt we could have gotten to 
that first time without a little impairment.  
What made it incredible was that it wasn't a 
fantasy.  I could smell my blood, feel his 
dried semen on my chin, feel the searing 
pain as he guided himself into me.  Inching, 
really.  I knew I was tearing, but I doubt 
he did.

This was no dream.  No guilty fantasy filmed 
through a soupy lens.  For one thing, he had 
this huge smile on his face and it made his 
overbite really apparent, and the blood on 
his chin had begun to turn dark.  He was so 
close up, his nose seemed twice as big and 
bumpy as usual, and when he kissed me, it 
smashed against my face.  Also, well, his 
breath left something to be desired, but 
mine probably did, too.  It felt like I was 
being pounded by a fist.  I found myself 
shaking, coming, as my partner fucked me.  
Even though it hurt.  Even though I didn't 
know what the repercussions would be.  

He was just a second behind me.  The pain 
was increasing and I felt relieved.  He 
thrashed and moaned my name, pulled my hair.  
We kissed. 

In the confusion of the instant, I could 
have sworn there was a sound when he came, a 
sound like distant gunfire.  Strange, but 
true:  having Fox Mulder come inside me 
reminded me of being shot while wearing 
Kevlar.  It was stinging and thrilling, 
scary and life-affirming.  I felt a little 
bit ashamed, a little bit bruised.  

Afterwards, he leaned back on one elbow, 
eyes closed.  I expected him to fall asleep, 
but he surprised me.  He looked over at me 
seriously, swallowed.  I could see it coming 
a  mile off, or rather, six inches away.  

"You know I love you, right?"  His voice 
never faltered. 

"I know."  I was trying to avoid seeming 
moony without seeming cold - a hard 
dichotomy to straddle, and I was in no shape 
to straddle anything.  So, I closed my eyes 
and popped my neck.  What the hell - as long 
as I didn't have to look him in the eye 
while I said it, I could keep from crying  
"I'm assuming you know I love you, too."

"I know now."  Where upon he gathered me up 
in his arms and we fell asleep.  

In the morning, the room did indeed look 
like a crime scene.  We were stuck together 
with semen and blood and it hurt to pry 
ourselves apart.  I think Mulder ended up 
paying for the sheets, and maybe the 
mattress, too.  I hope the motel didn't 
overcharge him.

I found it painful to walk for the next few 
days, but we finished the investigation, 
justice triumphed, yadda yadda yadda.  

By sheer luck, we happened to be with the 
local PD when they collared the killer.  As 
he struggled, he dropped a crumpled paper.  
Mulder, of course, never one to let impulse 
be squelched by trivialities like police 
procedure, picked it up, and, after a 
moment's glance, handed it to me for 
examination.  

A poem, torn out of a book.  Donald Justice.  

I hope the killer saw the irony - not only a 
murderer, but a vandal, as well.  


   But these maneuverings to avoid 
   The touching of hands  
   These shifts to keep the eyes employed  
   On objects more or less neutral  
   (As honor, for the time being, commands)
   Will hardly prevent their downfall.

   Stronger medicines are needed  
   Already they find  
   None of their stratagems have succeeded  
   Nor would have, no 
   Not had their eyes been stricken blind, 
   Hands cut off at the elbow.



Maybe it should have meant more to me.  
Maybe I should have said something, done 
something, other than shrug and turn it in 
as evidence.

It summed us up pretty well, but it offered 
no direction.

Once, during one of his vehicular monologues 
in the middle of nowhere, Mulder had said 
that the purpose of art was to elucidate 
complex emotions and situations.  

Mulder is full of shit.  

Either that, or art, in general, has failed 
big time.  

Nothing can elucidate this.

Sure, I love him and he loves me.  So what?  
Tell me something I didn't already know.  
Sure, sex with him was heart-stoppingly 
intense.  Never expected anything less.  
Again I ask, so what?  Sex and love are 
questions, not answers.  Ironically, Mulder 
is too naive to understand that.  

I am afraid.  I have no idea what will 
happen next.  Or as they say in the 
military: Situation  Normal; All Fucked Up.

End 3/3

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THE END  

Bring it on: kokotheuberchimp@hotmail.com