Title: Non-Resolved 1a 0f 3 Author: IndigoMuse E-mail address: IndigoMuse@aol.com Archive: If you like..just let me know where. Rating: NC-17 Category: RST. MSR..if only they'd talk about it! Summary: A story in three parts - each part summarised separately. This part...A proposal to resolve the unresolved leads to more non-resolution (and how many times can I use variations on the same word in one sentence). Disclaimer: Nobody's mine. I'm borrowing them..I'll give them back in just a few pages time and I'm sure they'll be glad to go. ** Non-Resolved 1a Just under 6 years. Just over 6 hours. Respectively? The former...how long it took me to identify, understand and actually accept exactly how I thought I felt about Dana Scully. The latter...how long it took me to realise that I was kidding myself...to have my perceptions shattered. Just over 6 hours ago I lusted after her. Lust. Absolute. All consuming. I mean I know people think I'm an odd guy but not that odd for God's sake. Come on, look at her. She's beautiful. She was beautiful the first time she walked into my office and I lusted after her then. It was rather base at that point, a purely physical reaction to a hot little body and a prissy little 'don't fuck with me' attitude that - well - made me want to do just the opposite. And not just with her mind! The more I got to know her the more the lust grew. There was nothing about her that didn't turn me on. Every inch of her flesh. Every word she spoke. Every movement she made. The way she thought..and argued... laughed...sulked...slept...walked...ate...hell, even the way she sliced up corpses. I don't deny I'm a sick man. Anyway you get the picture...total lust. And I loved her. That took far longer to arrive and longer still for me to admit. There comes a point though when you have to acknowledge that certain things go beyond loyalty and responsibility to your partner. When was it? When I lost her? When I got her back? When I realised I'd kill or die for her? When I realised she'd kill or die...or even lie, (and believe me that was almost a bigger deal for Little Miss Protocol than either of the other two) for me? Did it come when I realised I trusted her? Does it matter when? It was real. It was all consuming. So I did what I always do with any feelings that really matter...I put them in a little box, wrapped it up nicely, labelled it "Do not open til forever" and tucked it away somewhere. I never quite forgot it was there but I was just about able to resist the urge to tear the paper off and play with what was inside. So what's changed now? She's still as beautiful as she was 6 hours ago...shit...more so. I've never seen her look so mind blowingly gorgeous. But then I've never seen her sleeping naked, covers tangled round her feet, hair tangled round her face, lips swollen from my kisses, body flushed from my touch, before. I know that when she wakes up I'll see that everything else is still the same. She hasn't changed from the person she was yesterday. But I'll never look at her again through eyes that lust for her and love her like they did yesterday. It's her fault. ************************ I can hear him pacing back and fro in front of the window. He thinks I'm not awake yet and for now that's what I need him to think and I concentrate hard on maintaining the slow and steady breathing that pretends sleep. If he knows I'm awake he might try to talk to me. I don't want to talk to him. I certainly don't want to listen to him. I feel faintly embarrassed as I realise that he is probably looking at me and I'm sprawled naked across the bed but consider that he there's nothing here he didn't see last night - and it's not like what I've got to hide could be seen in the physical. Everything is altered. Everything's changed. Less than half a night out of nearly six years and I all that I thought I felt, that I thought I had detailed, categorised, completely come to terms with, has been shot to hell. Last night I...I what? I lusted after him. Simply and basically I wanted him. I've wanted him since I first walked into his office and he came out with all that crap intended to patronise and intimidate. He got over it relatively quickly. He's an idiot at times but a fair one and I knew that he respected my right to my opinions even if he couldn't quite stop himself from playing the role of Font of All Wisdom periodically. We developed an intellectual intimacy that stimulated my body at least as much as it did my mind. Everything about him aroused me...how he looked, never entirely comfortable with himself, how he processed things, his humour, his arrogance and his contradictory self depreciation...and that's ignoring the visual feast he presented. I craved the sight of him. And I loved him. Love and lust...they were surprisingly uncomfortable bedfellows. I used the former as a means to suppress the latter, trying to convince myself that it was somehow sullying the purity of what I had come to recite as rote was platonic love. I would do anything for him...and have. I have compromised my integrity, my sanity, family and life for him...and I don't know whether it was the realisation of how far I'd go for him or the absolute knowledge that he would do all that and more for me that forced me to confront the feelings. And having confronted them I dissected them into easily manageable chunks and brought them out only on the special occasions when I could dress them up as something else. So what is different now? He is still Mulder...still the same infuriatingly complex man in the same exquisitely styled body. Except that I know that body is pacing back and fro just yards from me, probably unclothed, areas of glorious flesh I'd only ever seen bared before through detached medical eyes now invisibly marked by my touch. Never before have I felt his presence with the taste of him searing my mouth. But I'll never be able to just touch him again with hands that carefully manage love and lust like they did yesterday. Everything has changed. And it's all my fault. I crossed the line. **************************** She started it. Well no..I guess I started it but *I* wasn't doing anything out of the ordinary. I was flirting. I do flirt. Often. And she usually purses her tight little lips, or raises that imperious eyebrow, or looks at me as if I'm some pimply adolescent; any number of things that serve to remind me that there are lines she will not permit to be crossed... ...until yesterday. It was simple, so simple. She stood up suddenly as I leant over her to look at the laptop. I wasn't paying attention, we collided and I knocked her flat on her ass, falling over her. In my hurry to get up I failed to acknowledge the way she had grabbed my jacket in a failed attempt to stop herself falling and was still holding on so when I tried to rise, she inadvertently pulled me back down onto her. Embarrassed. I was embarrassed, partly for being such an uncoordinated doofus but primarily because being on top of her like this was proving more than ample encouragement for a certain part of my anatomy to decide it wanted to play too. And embarrassed I did what I always do....I made some asinine comment.... "Don't you want me to get up Scully...hey...is all this rolling about on the floor turning you on?" But she didn't play by the long established rules. She didn't sigh or sneer or chastise whilst pushing me away with a 'behave' threatening in her eyes. She did something utterly unexpected, totally incomprehensible. She said yes. And then she kissed me. OK..panic, incredulity and confusion were heading the line. However, when you're sprawled on a motel floor with the woman you've wanted for 6 long years and she's doing her damndest to force her tongue down your throat your brain doesn't tend to be the organ you think with. What else was I going to do? **************************** He looked utterly dumbfounded but certainly wasn't resisting. If I hadn't been so damn terrified about the speech I had rattling around my brain I'd have had to laugh at him, but I didn't have the time. I knew it'd be only a matter of moments before he'd come up with a suitable get-out clause and I wanted to make sure he'd heard me first.... He listened to me, mouth agape as I imitated a calm I was far removed from actually feeling and propositioned him, as I explained the logic behind what I was proposing. We were mature adults, we respected each other absolutely, we were dancing around the tension between us trying to pretend that each of us were not as horny as hell so why not just do it, get it out of our systems - cathartic sex - hardly an original concept so.....indulge in what amounted to a one night stand then back to the daily grind of emotions more easily managed. ************************* I couldn't actually believe what I was hearing. These words could not possibly be coming from her mouth. This was not a Scully I recognised. In the oh so rare moments I'd allowed myself the indulgence of fantasising about this moment I'd always had the decorum to dress it up with at least a pretence of romance. I'd somehow never imagined it coming down to what she was offering...a 'tonight only offer' of a casual fuck. This seemed so crude but whatever I was trying to tell myself about how stupid this was, I'd be lying if I said that the view of her slipping over the edge of that pedestal I'd placed her on was not a damned attractive sight. What was she saying that wasn't true? We were mature adults, we did respect each other and I knew that I at least was certainly more than ready to get laid. It had been so long that I was in real danger of acquiring repetitive strain injury! So we what....had sex, got it all out of our systems and strode off into battle tomorrow, no longer encumbered with the inconvenience of unresolved sexual tension. OK...it sounded workable. "So how do we do this?" ...Of all the stupid questions...! She giggled. A wonderfully girly, open, inviting giggle. "If you don't know that Mulder I don't think you're going to be a great deal of good to me!" and in the unexpected moment of humour the tension was lifted. **************************** _Suddenly we were frantic. It was as if we both feared that any hesitation would become an obstacle we didn't want placed between us. Clothes were pulled off: our own, each others, hands bumping, arms tangling in the desperate hurry to undo, remove, until we were naked, kneeling before each other, taking each other in with hungry and appreciative eyes whilst trying to pretend that we weren't looking at each other at all. A momentary embarrassment - but easily overridden as his eyes met mine and his lips curled up in a slow smile.... I don't know which one of us made the first move towards the bed but suddenly we were there. There was no attempt at slow seduction from either of us - purpose was clear and six years of innuendo, surreptitious glances and nights alone with tight hands and deft fingers were foreplay enough. A moment of almost farcical wrestling, each of us seeking the upper hand so as to speak before he succeeded in rolling me beneath him, though not against my will and the heat of his gaze and the smile that he pressed to my lips told me he was aware that this was a willing concession. Our faces were so close I could feel his breath over my skin as steady fingers placed the hard head of his cock between my thighs, pressing just hard enough to hint at entry. His eyes seemed to ask permission as a slight shrug appeared as apology for the 'straight to it' approach...an approach that was more than fine with me, desperate as I was for the feel of him inside me and I cupped my hands around his ass and pulled him towards me..into me. A moment allowed for adjustment, for me to relax long idle muscles against this welcome invasion before I bucked my hips so slightly below him and the rhythm was set, each slow withdrawal followed by a swift hard thrust, each accompanied by his sounds, the low gasps, the guttural words....I heard my name, he told me I was beautiful. I am so glad he is not a man who automatically pants out an insincere declaration of love on the crest of his arousal. I might not have felt it then but I know now the words would have crucified me. What coherent thoughts I could form were ones consisting of a worthless litany, an insistence I told myself I believed at that point - that this meant nothing more than the sex.... He couldn't seem to stop smiling at me, although it is a smile that contorted to a grimace with each descent deep into me, his cock as steel, increasing it's force with each thrust. Twisting slightly, without breaking contact he pulled my knees high, hooking them over his arms as he continued to thrust, increasing his momentum and the depth of his penetration. Harder. Harder. Over and over, accelerating, urging, craving, each of us fighting to concentrate enough to maintain the too perfect tempo of this dance. ************************* Non-Resolved 1b. Our eyes were locked, heat mirroring heat as our breath met in the smallest of spaces between us, a space that I suddenly closed, unwilling to keep looking at her, to keep wondering at what I should read into the dark blue that it would have been too easy for me to misinterpret as more than the tension relieving exercise this was meant to be, crushing my lips to hers, savouring her, tasting her, my tongue twisting and tasting in the tangle of hers. It seems our mouths reflected the frenzy that the steady rhythm of our lower bodies denied, frantic, crushing, sucking and biting, tasting and testing each other. Teeth caressed lips, hard enough to draw blood but it didn't matter. Right then nothing mattered but the burning, pulsing drive, the heady mix of pleasure and bewilderment that came from being buried between her thighs. ...or so I believed. Over her, tasting her, smelling her, I couldn't prevent myself from panting out her name, unfathomably grateful to have felt and heard mine on her lips, between her gasps and the strange little squeaks that drove me on. A smile such as I had never seen before, and I realised with a sudden and desperate sense of loss that I would never see again, played over her face. Ever conscious of the temporary nature of this act I still felt as if I'd been there for an eternity. I was surprised I lasted so long. Perhaps my subconscious mind had more control over my body than I suspected and had decided that if this was only going to happen once it'd happen long....though I certainly couldn't maintain that position, needing to ease the ache in my forearms from holding up her legs and so I released her, turning us onto our sides... Together on sweat damped sheets, heat on heat, Her leg cast over mine, her inner thigh pressed to my outer, wet and slick with the combined juices of these exertions, denying friction, meaning that she had to keep shifting her hips, pulling herself back up, lest she slip too far. I'm buried so deep inside her and she's so hot and wet. Though I have no gods I count myself lucky for at least this brief view of heaven.. Slowly withdrawing. Slow and steady. Steady and hard. Hard and deep. *************************** It was so good. It was what I wanted. It was what I asked for. And yet it was proving to me that I am far less a master of my emotions than I believed myself to be but I could still pretend. I could concentrate on the intense pleasure singing from every nerve ending and not the feeling of impending loss I knew to be approaching. Concentrate. When I reached for his hand and guided him down between my legs, still holding him as fingertips together brushed the slick rigidity of him as he moved in and out of me, he allowed surprise to fleetingly cross his features. It made me want to laugh. You'd have thought the fact we were here at all would have given him a clue that when I do start with the requests, I go for what I want. It took him less time than it took for the surprise to fade to understand this request and twisting free of my grasp he worked long fingers into the folds just above his point of entry, and finding his target started an easy, slow rotation, increasing his pressure until my arch towards him told him he'd got it right...really really right. Working my hips to counter the rhythm of his, losing myself in the added sensation his fingers provided until I felt myself shuddering, rushing forwards on a convulsive crest, spasming around him, hard enough to draw a gasp from him that matched my own as he tipped me once again to my back, allowing himself more leverage as he slammed hard into me, riding me through the continuing tremors for just those few thrusts it took him to catch up with me. The first he groaned into my mouth, seemingly believing he could hold on even a little while longer. The second, he bit into my shoulder, eliciting a deep growl from me that played bass to his higher whine. The third was the last as his rhythm failed him and he began frantically thrusting, twisting, almost as if he were trying to crawl inside me as he came, falling down onto me, his weight as comforting as it was oppressive as I tightened around him while he continued to twitch and throb inside me, drawing myself back into the mattress, milking him, realising suddenly and sadly that I didn't ever want to let him go. The look on his face, the sudden tension in his features, the ensuing relief, the lazy smile that turned up the corner of closed eyes with an unmistakable satisfaction...all of this sent a bolt of arousal through me that elicited a far deeper groan than had been produced by my own climax. His eyes shot open and he regarded me with curious eyes, then nodded slowly as if he understood. As if he could possibly understand. ************************* I knew that things were not panning out the way we'd intended, that something about this felt so wrong when it should have felt so great but understanding regarding just how the feelings had changed came in a matter of seconds. It was not any of the things I might have expected that brought the realisation home. It could have been the sight of her, the smell, the way she had uttered my name on the crest of so many different voices, the sensual delight she so obviously took in my pleasure...the list, like the regret, was endless. In actuality though it was a far more chaste encounter - or lack of. Sleep sedated I had reached for her - and she wasn't there. She hadn't run out on me - she was simply and reasonably in the bathroom but the sense of loss, the panic, the fear that she had sneaked away literally took the breath from me. The relief when she appeared from the bathroom and ambled back to the bed, nestling beside me with a murmured "G'night", as if our sleeping together naked and sated were a time established comfort, was all encompassing. And that's it. How can I look at her like yesterday? How can I lust and love as then? Where lust was there is passion, desire. There is a difference and one I've never clearly understood until this moment. Where yesterday I loved her, I now know myself to be 'in love'. I would laugh aloud at my own sentimentality did this not hurt so much. If she had not made her intentions clear last night in the words of her calm proposition, her actions illustrated more than adequately. As she'd nestled against me I raised up and leant over to kiss her, words I felt had to be said, the declaration and explanation I needed to make playing on my lips....and she turned away. Simple. Painful. It seemed that the kisses bred from hard arousal had been permitted but one that might speak of intimacy, of real affection was forbidden. Unwanted. Almost expecting her to kick me out of the bed I was surprised at the sigh that spoke of comfortable sleep, but felt sure this was a concession, not remission. This was the physical - prompted by, but not to be a part of the other parallel relationship we managed. Functional. But that other manageable relationship was totally screwed. She had known her needs and we had perhaps both failed to consider that bringing our bodies together like this might also meld our spirits...at least from my side of the equation. I couldn't package these feeling away like I could the others. There was no box strong enough to keep these hidden away. She will wake and she'll be the person she always has been. She'll be practical, efficient and she might even allow us to talk about this as long as we clearly establish the past tense and the refusal to dwell.... The gates will be closed...and I'll be standing on the wrong side of them. I need to be more involved than she clearly wants to be and I don't know how to hide that from her anymore. ************************* Your own stupidity is a heavy weight to bear, and the realisation of just how indulgently I'd demonstrated mine all but knocked the wind from me. Of all the things, the moments, the sweat slicked touches, the endearments that might have driven home to me just how much I'd misjudged what I was doing, that which actually did was the most innocent of contact. Knuckles bumped when he handed me the glass of water from my bedside table and I realised with a sudden horror that as many times as I'd felt a similar touch before I'd never experience it in the same way again. Never again could we touch each other without my memory of this foolish ecstasy being revisited. This was suddenly too big, too solid to be formed into manageable chunks. It was intact - unbreakable. I could not dissect this and store it away as I had before. I had believed I was opening a door that would enable us to do something that we both wanted to do so that we could pass through it together but all I've done is make myself aware of how impossible it is for me to pass through it at all. He will manage this, deal with it, process it away, physical satisfaction numbing any tension that might have been, and walk on as I had intended. He conceded to my stupidity because it was sex. I don't deride him for it. It's exactly what I offered...exactly what I wanted, or had thought that I wanted. When he had moved over me, leant forward to kiss me I had wanted nothing more than that embrace but knew I could not accept the lie, however well intentioned. He knew how to play the role of grateful lover well, but whereas I could swallow the kisses that swam with the flavour of sex, I think I would have choked on the taste of one that pretended more. It would be so unfair to expect him to understand that I'd changed the rules, and that in doing so I'd lost the game. But the door will slam behind him, leaving me, too weighed down with the burden of these feelings which I'd always before managed to bury, to follow. I tried to make things better but I've placed a barrier between us I'm not sure I even dare to try and scale. In it's simplest form...I want more than he ever could and I don't think I can pretend otherwise any more. * Where can we go from here? End Part 1 ************************* Not-Resolved. 2a Time flies when you're having fun? Well it also passes far more rapidly than you might anticipate when you're dissecting your own misery. It was only an impatient 'hurry up' demand someone was issuing to their companion from outside that made me aware of the time and consequently of the fact that despite how much I'd like to indulge the soon to be lost opportunity to gaze at her superbly naked form, I had to wake her. For just a moment I considered an act of utter cowardice. I could set the alarm clock beside her and creep away so she'd wake in my absence. One slight problem - we're in *my* room. I could just shout at her from where I'm standing but that seems...I don't know...impolite and something I'd never do in usual circumstances and I do after all remember the loose terms of this contract... mature adults...carry on as usual. But what is usual now? Just what the hell is the appropriate manner in which to rouse your naked partner and friend after a night of good - and despite my proclivity for emotional flagellation it was damn good - but never to be repeated sex? I know how I want to wake her. I want to lay back down on that bed beside her. I want to pull the loose strands of hair from her face and kiss my way down her neck. I want to pull her to me and feel against my chest the changed pattern of her breathing as she stirs. I want the first thing she registers on waking to be the heat of my flesh on hers. But her? Hell - all she expects from me is 'business as usual'. I wonder at how many men might envy me my current position...the knowledge that not only can I walk away without any emotional responsibilities or liabilities but that I am expected to. I should be able to take the licence she issued to do just that, owing her nothing but a thank you, moving on, moving past this. I don't think I can do it. Slowly, so slowly I ease myself down on the bed beside her, just sitting. A hand towards that unruly strand of hair but fingers withdraw just in time. The touch suddenly seems inexplicably and inappropriately over-intimate. I settle for a quick hand on her shoulder, a tiny shake, a mumbled name, rousing her from a sleep she exits with a surprising speed and clarity. Her first move is to grab the tangled sheet from around her feet and pull it up around herself, making me instantly aware of my own previously unconsidered nudity. She smiled up at me. I've seen few enough of her smiles to recognise that they only come with the accompaniment of sincerity and so I knew this one was real. Warm and genuine and yet she seemed to be straining to keep it on her face as her actions prompted a wry little chuckle and she commented.. "I guess it's a bit late for coyness eh?" "I guess..." but nevertheless found myself crossing my legs away from her in a belated attempt to preserve my own modesty. We sat immobile, each of us I felt waiting for the other to say something, to figure out just what we should be doing, how we should be behaving. What the hell should we say? *************************** I could hear him moving across the room towards me. Although I still hadn't opened my eyes I could sense the light on the other side of them and realising we were well past night-time guessed he was going to wake me. After all we have work to do and nothing gets in the way of Mulder and his work. I know that's unfair. Of course he will move past this back to our professional roles. Is that not what I had insisted I wanted, expected? I try to close some non existent second eyelid against the image that intrudes into my darkness.. his sweat slicked face, the taut muscles of his neck as he arched above me...his teeth on his lower lip just before he released it to gasp my name....damn it - stop! When the mattress dips besides me and I realise that he is going to touch me I almost whimper aloud. I hadn't anticipated any repeated proximity to his naked body and had prepared no guards against it, no solid Scully walls to deflect the wave of want that came crashing towards me. Now. If he does or says anything now that offers me even the hint of intimacy I refuted last night when I turned from his kiss I swear I'll nail the man to the bed before I let him walk away from me. Of course he doesn't. He is calm and practical, the same Mulder he was six hours ago...tender enough with firm fingers on my shoulder to remind me of everything I've screwed up, brief and efficient enough to establish that he has no problem playing by the rules I set. Business as usual. I'm no great actress and didn't play the waking from deep sleep bit too well, opening my eyes and propelling myself upright with a speed that seemed to surprise him. I grabbed at the sheet on the bed to cover myself without really knowing why. I'd been laying here for what felt like an eternity knowing he was, or might have been - maybe in the aftermath of having seen it/done it I held no further interest for him - watching me uncovered and naked. I feel suddenly childish and find that I need him to think I'm not really embarrassed and to somehow acknowledge what has passed between us, to make him believe I'm on the same path back to professionalism that he is, however far from the truth that may be. "I guess it's a bit late for coyness eh?" I don't want him to think I regret what we've done despite the fact that with every atom of my being I do. He'll misunderstand the regret. I know this man's capacity for self recrimination so well and even though his perfect memory will recall every word I spoke, though he might tell himself and I would echo the truth, that I initiated this, I cajoled him into this with what amounted to a promise of sex unfettered by any requirements past the physical, he will interpret regret on my part as a failing on his. I won't allow that. I try to figure out just what is appropriate here. We have to move and our clothes are piled on the floor far enough away for me to have to walk across the room to have to get them. This is his room so I can hardly ask or expect him to leave. I don't want to have to drag the sheet with me but equally I don't want to get out of the bed and move even that short distance in front of him. The casual familiarity that would allow me to feel so unabashed is a comfort accorded to lovers and amongst the other lessons I've learnt these past few hours secondary only to the severity of my own self revelation is that sex has made us far less lovers than intimate strangers. There is a hesitation in his eyes as he looks at me. Why is he sat there just looking at me? I can't help but feel he is seeking reassurance, confirmation that he owes me nothing... I have to say something...but what falls out of my mouth is so banal... "It's OK Mulder...we're OK" His mouth smiles at me but his eyes refuse to join in. I try again... "It was ...good. Thank you.." I had thought that was what he was waiting for but perhaps not. His smile does not recede but his eyes change. The man is looking at me as if he hates me.... ************************** I tell myself that I would have said it, I would have told her but that brusque assertion that we were OK was so clearly a dismissal. Hurry up Mulder...get over this hovering and leave me be. In that moment she snatched away the words I was forming. OK? Just one little word - not even a word actually, just two idiotic letters that make the position clear and all my courage is gone. It seems that even the part of this ridiculous mess that we agreed on is not to be mentioned. OK. Fine. Lets just get on with things. And 'it was good - thank you.' What the hell is that? She was talking as if I'd taken her to the movies. Damn the woman. I can see her eyes flicking between me and the pile of clothes and realise her indecision comes from a reluctance to let me see her. More than anything else this saddens me, that she can - that she needs to - detach herself so completely from what has gone before. It seems to suggest a coldness in her, a mercenary attitude I would never have accredited her with. Then what of last night would I have accredited her with? The fact is that she was more than willing to strip herself in front of me, to revel in our nudity for the sake of sex but feels unable to relax enough in the light of day to trust me with the sight of that which I had caressed, kissed, licked, slid over and in last night. There could be no clearer expression of her desire to move past this, to return to the 'office' role. She used me. But then, at the outset had I not been willing enough to use her? What a fucking mess. I take her hand, surprising myself even as I do so, and squeeze her fingers lightly, more in an attempt to ground myself, rein in these feelings, than to reassure her, but she can take it how she will. I will concede to her modesty telling her as casually, as normally as I am able that I'll go shower...see her in the diner for coffee in half an hour, the message clear. I won't watch you. Go away. Put on your working skin while I put on mine and we'll pretend this never happened. She flashes me a tiny smile, barely perceptible, showing comprehension and gratitude. In just that moment, even as I crumble inside under the weight of newly defined love I think I could hate her. ***************************** I wait until I hear the sound of the water before I climb off the bed and reclaim my clothes, pulling on just the minimum required to afford decency before I head out of the door. Nothing in my life has ever sounded as final to me as the click of the latch falling into place as it closes behind me. A moment... for just a moment I consider turning and hammering on the door, shouting it out at him. But what would I say? 'I screwed up. I thought we could do this and carry on. I can't'.....and most ridiculous of all, the greatest truth...'I love you' . No. Not even the pain I'm feeling now could be as bad as the lack of reciprocation I would see in his eyes. At least this way I'm the only one despising myself for my weakness. Minutes later, under water hotter than I can really endure, I huddle on the floor of the shower, allowing the wet heat to wash over me, carrying the last traces of him, of his touch, into the water pooling around me. I watch it trickle down the drain with a sense of irrational loss and fear. I could not feel greater privation at that moment were it my life blood flowing away before me. Almost unaware of myself my fingers travel over my stomach, between my legs, trying to recapture just something of what he gave me, of what I have no right or reason to miss, but despite my familiarity with this act, my long perfected touch, it is a pointless exercise in relief. I feel nothing. I am empty of anything but the image of him. For minutes I sit, wallowing in my misery, damning myself for my idiocy in ever having initiated this and damning him for his compliance...for being such a...a man...taking easy sex without a thought for the consequences. Why not? I'm beating myself up enough here - I cannot help but throw one of the punches his way. Then, like a rubber band snapping back into place I snap myself together and the professional Scully comes into play. However much effort this takes I will match his ability to step back in time to before this. I am confident that with all my years of practice I can carry this off. After all I have blended self denial and self control to a perfect consistency, one which I savour, carry around with me as necessary sustenance, without which I might just crumple against the glare of my own self revelation. It takes no small effort to do it, to maintain the perfect facade, and it is my weakness and not my strength that keeps it going. That keeps *me* going. ********************** She had been nearly an hour before she made it to the diner. I had long since assumed she just wasn't going to come and was about to go back and get her when she marched through the door. There was a look on her face that, contrary to the many I'd seen since last night, I *could* identify. Fierce determination. About what I couldn't quite figure, but I was grateful for the easy way she slid in beside me and took up the now lukewarm coffee I'd ordered for her. This was a Scully I did know...the one who stood apart. Her walls were up and with hers in place, I hoped I'd find it that bit easier to rebuild mine. By the time we actually left the diner something approaching conversation had begun. We managed to talk almost non-stop whilst, apart from the occasional work related interaction, saying absolutely nothing at all during the entire day, as if we feared silence might impose a compulsion for us to actually face up to ourselves. The enforced joviality was probably harder work than the baring of souls would have been, not least because it is so out of character for both of us. Strange how we seem to be seeking our defences in the unfamiliar when the whole point of this awkwardness between us is the pretence that we are carrying on as usual. I've made all the resolutions....do not think about it, do not question it, do not dwell, but my mind keeps drifting back to the memory of the sight of her, of how she felt, both soft and hard beneath me, head thrown back against the pillow, her legs tight around my hips, that low resonant growl she expelled when I emptied myself into her.... The most powerful image though, burnt onto my vision, is of something that never happened. I see a picture so clear that it is almost impossible for me to believe it's not a memory...when I lean over to kiss her she reaches for me too, takes my tongue into her mouth, claims my lips with hers. In my mind's eye she does not reject me. She loves me back. In just these few short hours those four small words have come to represent my greatest wish and the more her incessant chatter rattles around me, and my own non-stop responses bypass my brain, the more I know that I shouldn't have left it alone. I should have done something, said something this morning. Now...it's already too late. Time is a far greater divide than distance. By playing her game I've cut myself out of it. ******************************* End 2a Not-Resolved. Part 2b It was far far easier than I had anticipated to start pretending but far far harder to maintain the pretence throughout the day. I am almost driving myself insane with the sound of my own voice as I go on and on, talking non-stop about the most ridiculous things just because as long as I am talking I can chase the images that rush in every time I look too long at him...the memory of the shape, the feel, the scent of him. How long I wonder, has it been since anyone else got to smell that heady mix of sweat, semen and Mulder? I feel almost crippled by the thought that there might have been anyone, anyone at all since I've known him. The greatest test of my ability to obey my internal orders comes when I watch him eating those damn seeds. Jacket off, sleeves rolled back, that casual, automatic bite, suck, lick, spit. It's too much. I want that mouth - and in realising that I wonder anew at my stupidity in rejecting it last night when it could of - would have - been mine. The whole basis of the relationship we do have is honesty, is trust. In 6 years I have never lied to him. Last night when he went to kiss me I wanted that kiss more than I have ever wanted anything...but determining it an untruth I turned away - and so the dishonesty became mine. But I believed myself. We played the game throughout the entire day and I felt confident that I'd played my part well. The tension between us was palpable but I told myself that that was inevitable. Even if I'd woken feeling the same way I had yesterday, even if I had been able to adhere to my own pre-conceptions we would be tense...after all we had acknowledged each other as sexual beings instead of 'partners' and that was bound to cause some awkwardness. Once he had got over that, I would be on the way to disguising my deeper anxieties far better. It became painfully uncomfortable at the end of the working day when we headed back to the motel through. We'd usually head off, shower, change and then reconvene, we'd hunt out or call in food, watch bad TV and go over the days work but I knew I couldn't set foot in his room and I didn't want him in mine. The indecision raced as the car pulled into the parking lot and I sat hesitant in the seat. Again he is looking at me in that way that professes understanding and even as I dismiss the possibility he surprises me, proves me wrong with a suggestion that we go out to eat. Such a simple thing - the comprehension of and respect for how I'm feeling - and I'm lost. I mumble some inanity about wanting an early night - it's only 6.30 - there's early and then there's early - and propel myself out of the car and across the parking lot towards my door without waiting for or looking at his response. ************************ Six hours later and I've run further in those six hours than I usually would in six weeks, though in that as in all else it seems I am going nowhere. I needed to be out of the room though as the air, despite the cheap freshener sprayed around by housekeeping, is still redolent with the smell of her arousal, still plangent with the throaty sounds of her pleasure. Inside I lay on the bed and watch monotonous B-Movies with none of my usual delight. I actually start to pack my case in anticipation of tomorrow's flight but discover a far greater release comes from just throwing things against the wall. I remember to eat and I guess by the smile on his face I really over tipped the delivery boy because I couldn't be bothered to count out the bills. In the shower I slid a soaped fist around a hard cock and pumped ineffectually for the time it took me to realise the water would be done before I would because all I could smell there was soap and shampoo - not her. This act habitual to me I strayed into the same territory again laying on the bed, convincing myself that this release will take me far enough away for long enough for me to sleep. As much second nature to me as breathing I have no trouble coaxing the physical response, large hands and hard fingers have me solid in my palm. Tight fists work their oft rehearsed choreography, one clenched tight around my balls, the other working a first slow, then gradually faster rhythm, practised fingers squeezing firm around the head, scooping each tiny bead of moisture that appears and using it to lubricate hot solid flesh. My mind claws desperately for the images I know arouse as my hips begin to work in counter rhythm to my wrist, my breath ragged and unfathomably loud even to my ears. I bite my lip so hard I taste the copper tang of blood to forcibly prevent myself from calling her name as I spill hot and wet over my fingers. Her face invades...her face turning away from my kiss... and with that image I wipe my hand along my thigh, indifferent to slight discomfort of the now cold stickiness and turn away from the spectre of her. There has never been an evening that we have stayed in any crummy motel where at least some part of it has not been spent together. It is the closest thing to socialising we actually ever do. In just these few hours I miss her. It is such a pathetic understatement of what I am feeling. I crave her. I yearn for her. I ache for her. I hunger for her. And this not a sexual need, despite what the rapidly drying smear along my leg might say of that, although I am not so dishonest with myself to deny that urge, the urge to revisit last night's haste and make it something different than what it was. To dispel this I close my eyes and recite a list of all the times she has cut down my theories, my arguments, laughed at and disparaged my less conventional ideas, but my face smiles despite itself as I wipe all of those aside with the memories of just how many times, both literally and figuratively, she has held my hand and pulled me out of my darkness. I can't throw that away because of this.... So I took the step. I picked up my cell phone and regarded it as if it were a deadly weapon, primed to explode in my hand if I so much as breathed in the wrong direction. I thanked whomever had come up with the idea of programming telephones. I would have been utterly incapable of dialling the number. Each button pressed would have brought me one tiny bit closer to either putting right or compounding what might have been the biggest mistake of my life and I didn't need to hear my fate measured out that way. ********************************* Six hours later....and it may as well have been a six hundred. I've showered - three times. Written and rewritten reports which lack coherence to such a degree I'll have to rewrite them all again come tomorrow. I've watched TV without seeing a single thing. I called out for food that sits congealing, uneaten on the table. To try and get myself away from this I sat and wrote a list of every single thing he's ever done to piss me off. It was practically a novel by the time I'd finished. I wrote another of all the reasons they didn't matter...one word.. .his name and it's more than enough to provide absolution. I tried to read the book I'd brought but at the end of every page realise I haven't taken in a single word. Eventually I tried to sleep but found myself seeking the scent of him on the pillow, despite the fact he'd never touched it. I lay rigid on the bed, daring myself to revisit the images, telling myself they would lead me into sleep but when I ran my fingers over my belly, they were not as heavy as his and so I couldn't feel them. I moved downwards, pushing through flesh too dry, to devoid of arousal for pleasure, but still I persisted, pushing into myself against the resistance, using practical knowledge more than touch to stimulate physical response. Despite myself I feel his weight, his heat, his raw wet action, until eventually I feel my lower body tense, the muscles in my legs tighten as I contract around tired fingers, somehow utterly devoid of satisfaction. Conceding defeat I curl into a ball and chant my own name as a lullaby but hate myself for my susceptibility when I find tears rising at the realisation that I couldn't make it sound right because I couldn't mimic his voice. I damned myself for the damage I'd done and for my absolute imbecility in imagining I could pretend. I wasn't particularly surprised when the phone rang. In the back of my mind I think I had almost been expecting him to come knocking on the door, but I guess the phone provides an additional armour - could he possibly be as uneasy about confrontation as I am? He certainly isn't hesitant, not even waiting for me to acknowledge I'm on the line before he jumps straight in. "We shouldn't have done it." I replay the words even as he speaks them, searching for the recrimination, but despite my resolute determination to locate it I hear only sincerity and regret...so concede. "No..we shouldn't." "But we did." "Yes." Silence. Small talk has never really been our strong point. "Scully?"...as if he is checking I am still listening. "Why is it so wrong? Is it just the sex?" Goddamned male egos! Is that all that this is about - him seeking reassurance that he measured up (to what)? Even the irritation can't push me into a lie though. "No. No Mulder, the sex was good - great actually. Amazing..." I am sure that I can hear him snigger. "Yeah? Well you were pretty hot yourself Scully." I cannot help but smile. Hey - even in the depths of misery a woman likes to know these things...and then I realise that he is still speaking, serious again. "So what is it? For you? Why are you so uncomfortable when it was you...." Me who what? Jumped him? Basically leapt on him? The attack of the hormonally crazed woman. I just can't answer him. The truth is still too terrifying to me. He chooses to answer my silence though. "Shall I tell you why it's wrong for me?" I foolishly nod as if he could see me, but as if he can he responds... "I want more." I could just pretend to misunderstand him. I could pretend that he's just talking about getting laid again, but the tone of his voice nearly takes my legs from under me... he sounds like a man pleading for his life. I realise two things almost simultaneously. One, that Mulder has just - or at least I *think* he has just - told me that he loves me. Second that I am shaking my head as if in the grip of some manic dementia, chanting a mantra over and over.. "metoometoometoo..." He doesn't interrupt my repeated intonement, waiting for me to draw to a close before he speaks again, his voice slow and steady yet resonant with trepidation... "Did I just tell you what I think I did?" "I think so." "And did you just respond in kind?" "Yeah." "Than there's something we need to do Scully..." "Yes?" "Figure out where the hell we want to go from here!" End Part 2 ********************** Now-Resolved. 3a This should not be a difficult task to perform. Open my door - walk for about 20 metres - knock on her door. Hardly sounds complicated. I've done the really difficult bit. I've spoken words that could have meant any number of things and heard her encapsulate their true meaning within the echo of her own. I told her I loved her. That was hard. This should be simple. So why can't I move? I'm confined to the edge of this bed by the immobility of legs that could not be more useless had they been cut away from me. I'm not measuring time but I know that I've been here far too long. I said I was coming over. From one motel room to another hardly constitutes an arduous journey. I should be there now. She is waiting. But waiting for what? I think I told her I loved her. I know that I have to say more, something else, just something to clarify just how I...we... will pursue this but the astounding flood of revelation has left me floundering like flotsam in it's wake. It is far less that I need to figure out what I want to say than it is a case of my figuring out what she wants to hear. I have no idea at all and am absolutely and genuinely terrified of getting it wrong. If this had happened - the revelation, the declarations as opposed to the sex, further back along the line we'd come along, I might have been more confident in gauging just how I should act. I'd always imagined her to have a secret little romantic streak, to crave the adoring flattery, to want to be wined and dined, bought flowers. Basically, old fashioned as it sounded, I had imagined that the way into Scully's heart and bed would be one of gentlemanly courtship. Although I locked all real thoughts of such pursuit in that neatly wrapped, never to be opened box, I had allowed myself moments of fanciful daydreaming along those lines always seeing myself the seducer and she the seduced but the personification of my idyllic romantic fantasy had pinned me to herself with strong tight arms on a motel floor and invited me to fuck her. Not a lot of romance in the expression of that sentiment...or in the fact that when my cock jumped at the chance, all too willingly I had followed. So in the aftermath of that I don't have a clue what she expects from me. Albeit in abstract form, I have told her I love her. She has told me she loves me. I dare not even try to define her words. I know beyond doubt that love is a sentiment that would never merit casual expulsion from her lips. Whatever else I can't figure out right now I do know that she means it....but means it how? There are more definitions of love than there are grains of sand on a beach. Unconsciously prompted to mobility and I find I'm making slow strides between my door and hers as I rerun the phone conversation in my mind. I know all the words that were spoken and still I recite them, in case I missed something, misunderstood something...but it all comes back to one word. More. More I told her....I want more. I know that when I spoke the words I meant them, but as she opens the door and I take her in with my eyes, her hastily hidden relief covered by the comfortingly familiar 'you're late again' scowl of irritation before the reluctant smile breaks I realise that once again I'd failed to be entirely honest with myself... I don't just want more. More will never be enough. I want it all. And before I can stop myself, I abandon all thought of poetic declarations, heartfelt confessions and with all the finesse of a ballet dancing rhinoceros I blurt the words out before I'm even through the door.... "I want it all Scully..." *********************** Where the hell is he? It's not exactly as if he has to organise anything to get here. Open a door, take a few steps...here I am. On my own. Where the hell is he? I'm pacing the small space between bed and wall in steady circles that would probably make me dizzy if I stopped to think about it. The longer it takes him to get here, the more time I have to think. I think I told him I loved him. I didn't intend to. The words escaped - tempted out by his own abstract confession. I might never have said it otherwise. But then he said he'd come...and he isn't here. It's only been minutes, but it only needed to be seconds. Even one minute is a minute too long. I'd had at least a moment, a brief interlude where exhilaration had been the governing emotion. He loves me. He loves me. He loves me. Like a little girl pulling petals off a daisy except I'd already got the final line I wanted. But now every second, every step, elicits doubts and questions..... What am I going to say? If this had been some other time...if the previous night had never happened, I might have been clearer about how to proceed, but then, if it had never happened I'd still be looking forward to a future of slicing up sentiment into manageable little chunks and hiding it away somewhere dark. It had been the best and the worst of things to do. It had told me how I felt. More remarkable to me, more unbelievable, it had told me how he felt. I couldn't let it be a starting point though. We couldn't ever go back but somehow had to start again. Even as, stood there clutching a silent telephone, the recollection of his touch sending waves of need across my flesh, tearing at nerve endings and pooling between my legs, I knew it couldn't happen again unless it was a beginning....Without that, all we would be were friends who fucked and I've no intention of hanging myself in the emotional web that weaves. So what are we going to do? If I've ever allowed myself the luxury of imagining us as a couple, I'd almost seen myself having to coax him into it - a man who will empathise with the most bizarre of strangers and yet who shies away from real intimacy even as he seems to plead for it. I'd discovered that the way into Mulder's bed, and even his heart was a simple one of physical gratification.... but staying there? I fear that may be a far harder feat but it's what I need. All or nothing. I want it all on an emotional plane, from the casual and comfortable familiarity in which we already indulge, through to the sharing of the most intimate, most wonderful, most painful, most humorous, most banal of personal histories, revelations and expectations. I want to speak to him endlessly and yet I want never to have to say a word, everything communicable through that silent language of body Braille that only the perfectly attuned can share. I don't just want to feel *about* him and *for* him - I want to feel *as* him. I want to enshrine as a separate perfection, whilst paradoxically entwining so closely there can be no distinction between the two, the corporeal with the emotional. I want to experience every exploration and expression of the physical with him...every touch, every taste, every scent, every agony and ecstasy from the simple adolescent joy of holding his hand in the street to feeling him buried so deeply inside me that he might never climb out. I want his to be the only flesh I'll ever caress between this breath and my very last. I want to know that mine is the only face he'll ever see, the only name he'll ever call or gasp or sigh, be it in his most private of self indulgences or most furious of shared intimacies. And then he is knocking at the door and I'm so relieved that he is here just as I'm terrified about facing him. Hands on the door handle I pull back the last barrier between now and our future, guarding my apprehension behind a silent reproach at the time it has taken him to get here....and before I can say a word, before I can even step aside to allow him entry he is blurting out an impassioned precis of my own thoughts before they are even clear in my mind.... "I want it all Scully...." leaving me to confirm as best I can that I understand, that I accept, that these are my words too so with the only vocalisation I can think of I reiterate the sentiment... "Body and soul." No other words are spoken. There are none that could be appropriate to this moment. Right now, all he's asking for and offering, all that I need and am willing to give is touch, contact that resembles not the mere physical gratification of the night before, but clarification - confirmation. I can read in his stance, his eyes, the near desperation that carried his words, that we will have later to set out the rules. Right now we have to put this right the same way we made it wrong. There is no frenzy this time, no desperate rush to disrobe, no panicked need to be on each other, over each other before sense catches up....for this is all the sense we need. This is perfect logic. There are no lost moments, no confusion. I document for recall every single step, the sound, the depth and length of every single breath taken between the harsh crack of the door slamming behind us and our stance beside the bed. In as much as two such physically different people can mirror each other we do, each reflecting the other's actions as we shed what little clothing we have on, indulging each others steady appraisal. No pretence at not looking is made this time, no embarrassment at being seen to stare, to devour visually and devour I do. I may have seen this all before but then I careened along the easy path before me. This time I am mapping my route, charting my territory, laying claim because I *will* be revisiting this land. He is the first to breach the small distance between us, reaching two large hands forward and cupping my breasts, allowing the faintest of smiles to cross his mouth as I press into him just before he relaxes his touch enough to make me step forward to seek it once more, moving towards him, into him, the growing solidity of his cock crushed against my stomach, nudging, invading against the flesh. I edge an eager hand between us and draw a hard thumb along his length, feeling the last of his malleability flee beneath my touch as he becomes rigid. There can be no greater swell of pride than that which comes with the knowledge that I have the power to do this to him...that this is because of me. This is for me. For a moment I think he has read this sudden vanity in my eyes as a low chuckle escapes him and I look, questioning.... ************************* I can not bear to wait for her to touch me and so reach forward, cupping hands around her breasts, marvelling at the simple weight, the perfect fit...she was surely made just for me..but I cannot resist the urge to test and so relax my hold only to feel her push herself firm against me, welcoming, seeking my touch. I could never have imagined something so deceptively elementary, as simple as just being wanted could elicit such monumental response and my heart surges along with my cock which is struggling to attain its full potential against the soft swell of her belly, a struggle ended by her sudden and sure touch, a swift and knowing stroke which leaves me hot and hard beneath her fingers, unable to mistake the glare of possession in her eyes, the 'this is mine - I did this' that I have no intention of denying. Recognition of the anomaly between this flushed, eager and utterly unabashed Scully and the one who had sat, shrouded in her sheet, shying away from my view this morning escapes me in a quiet chuckle and she looks, questioning until I explain. My laugh is echoed then subdued as serious she answers the unspoken question... "I only knew how *I* felt then..." Momentarily I falter. If she knew then...if she knew...why? The memory of that aborted kiss surges into my mind but before I can form the words she is pushing me with a strength belied by her stature onto the bed, fixing me with a stare that almost seems to dare me to resist whilst urging me, warning me not to. Straddling my thighs, edging forwards, flattening my cock against my stomach, never flinching from the intense stare as she uses a hand to - I don't see what - I'm too entranced by eyes that are gleaming with the darkest, deepest, brightest blue I've ever seen but it feels as if she is almost parting herself, folding herself around me, enveloping me beneath her as I'm pressed hard against my abdomen by her weight. What was hot before is searing now. She reaches out, inviting, instructing and my hands rise as bidden to meet hers, palms pressed hard together , fingers tightly entwined as she begins sliding atop me, so slowly I can barely perceive the movement visually but I can feel it...Jesus can I feel it! Senses soar as she slides herself along my length, crushing me against my own flesh, under hers, so hot I could burn for her, so wet I could drown in her - god I want to drown in her. I've never felt anything like this in my life. Each time she slides forwards I can believe that I'm inside her, buried deep and warm, until she covers the head of my cock and just rotates herself, slow and firm, grinding her pubic bone against me before, just as slowly, sliding herself back, releasing me into the air that, although body warm can only feel icy cold in comparison to the fire she torments and delights with. Sliding, riding so slow until she traps my balls beneath her in the same way, grinding herself against me again. Again, again, again. The heat of her thighs clenched tight around my hips, the slight weight she imposes on my upright arms each time she pushes herself back on me until I'm moving with her, thrusting against her steady rhythm...pressing, turning, sleek and scorching. I want this to go on forever....I want to feel this, feel her like this till the world stops spinning...but right now I'm all too well aware of my own spiralling and the fact that the ultimate expression of this ecstasy will also spell it's end.... "Go - u - sto...' "English please Mulder." She is laughing at me. The delightful little witch is laughing at me, knowing damn well that while she continues to slide, slick and wet over me I have very little hope of maintaining the ability to breathe, never mind summoning enough brain cells to actually speak coherently...but I have to tell her this so I try again, dragging my focus from genitals to brain... even as it screams it's protest at being so denied. "Stop. Scully - stop." Hard. Unbelievably hard she thrusts herself against me, her smile widening as she takes in the arch, the sudden expulsion that could be name, word, plea, curse or just a desperate attempt at actually breathing with any degree of efficiency as she cocks her head almost childlike in her mischievousness and replies... "Nah...don't think so." Oh God...I don't want to have to think as hard as I'm going to have to to be able to form a whole sentence but it looks like she's going to make me...breath.... concentrate...speak... "If you ....ahhh....don't stop...Jesus....now....then you better not....oh god....have any other...ohh...any other ....plans....for me....for this...ahhh....for a while..." She's still moving, still pressing, still dragging me along a knife edge of ecstasy I never imagined could be so damn sharp.... "How long?" What? I can't speak again. Don't make me talk again Scully..... "Minutes...hours...days...weeks...??" She can't stop herself laughing out loud as she teases...and still she doesn't cease, doesn't desist, doesn't break from this pounding, pressing, the continuation of which is going to make this a rather pointless conversation in a very short period of time. I manage to grunt something at her and silently thank her apparent ability to to translate pre-orgasmic man-speak. "How many hours...?" Damn it, the woman just won't stop laughing at me as she continues..."I mean...I've got no plans for the morning Mulder - how 'bout you?" I manage to shake my head "Well that's OK then isn't it....." and in one swift movement she glides back capturing my balls under her slick folds, contracting against, around me, squeezing with muscles I never even imagined existed as she untangles one hand from mine, slowly licking her fingers before she slides, pushing into the flesh of my stomach to get them under and around the head of my cock, already so wet from her juices, with a touch that is far far away from gentle and yet bordering the right side of perfection...working tight, firm circles with a rhythm utterly unfamiliar but so right that I marvel at how, in years of practice I've never discovered it myself. "Come on Mulder..." The words are barely whispered, invitation, temptation and promise wrapped in the softest of tones, the most powerful of declarations ever made to any man. I've never heard this voice before and yet I already know it absolutely. It is the final push - the flood gates open. I feel every muscle contract and release, every nerve ending scream, bucking upwards against her so sudden, so hard that she has to wrench her other hand free from my grasp to balance herself against my chest, and I'm lost, spilling past the tiny fingers, calling to my new found god - goddess - with a raw desperation as I adorn the flesh of my stomach. I swear, if she hadn't just dragged everything I had out of me, if I'd come back together with coherent thought that quickly, then I'd have lost it again at her next act. It was sight that could have made a eunuch come! Raising herself off me, rewarding my gasp at the sudden chill with a smile that bordered on evil, she pushes her knees down the bed until they rest alongside mine, hands heavy on the bed beside me, another flash of evil delight and then she moves her head down to my stomach. She doesn't just lick me clean, though god knows that would have been astounding enough to me. No - making sure she has my gaze - as if I wouldn't claw out my own eyes in preference to voluntarily turning away from this - she curls her tongue under the translucent white, rolls it languorously up clearly displaying her prize to me before slowly, so so slowly taking it into her mouth and tipping her head back, showing me the white expanse of throat as it flexes, as she swallows....and then again and again until it is just her finger, scooping the last traces... "Have you ever tasted yourself Mulder?" I shake my head like a man demented. "Try..." Her finger is dancing in front of my lips. "You taste beautiful..." I do not hesitate. This is not something that has ever appealed, or frankly occurred to me but right now if she had dragged her hand over the floor of a cow shed and invited me to lick it clean I'd have been there....I wrap my tongue around the invading finger and suck it clean. It is cold, gelatinous and vaguely salty. Not particularly unpleasant but hardly beautiful...but the concept, the raw eroticism of her act, her words? They are ambrosia. ****************************** End 3a Now-Resolved 3b For a moment, just a moment he actually looked scared of me. A sudden doubt rises. I realise that after jumping his bones last night I might be appearing less assertive than aggressive and I'm on the verge of pulling my hand away when his tongue reaches, envelops, as he begins to suck. Absolute confirmation that I have overstepped no unspoken boundary comes as he grabs my wrist, almost but not quite hard enough to hurt, holding it firmly in place as he transfers his attention to my other fingers, coaxing them past his lips with a persistent, persuasive tongue. Teeth nipping across my palm and along my wrist as he eases himself from beneath me, tipping me onto my back. Fingers skimming skin, a touch so light I have to concentrate to convince myself it's really there. A trail of goosebumps rise in the wake. Warm traces along my shoulderblades and down, briefly, all too briefly over my breasts, rapidly floating past nipples that jump, almost screaming for attention, dancing feather light over my ribs, down over my hips and back to my stomach where he begins tracing lazy circles around my bellybutton. Every millimetre of skin he touches comes alive, electric and when he grazes those certain locales, those particular spots where pleasure pools I hear my breathing change from the tiny shallow pants that reflect his touch to sharp gasps, almost squeaks. He is making me squeak. I don't squeak! And with each squeak that I remain pathetically adamant I'm not producing I arch towards him, a plea for more, but he consistently denies me, moving hurriedly away whilst looking at me through eyes that promise a reward for this denial. His fingers leave my stomach to dance tiny steps towards my thighs and so sure he's reached his intended target I press my heels into the mattress and bend my knees, opening my legs for him.. "Greedy Scully...." I open hazed eyes to look at him and he is grinning up at me, slowly shaking his head as with a strong forearm he presses my thighs back to the bed. "Patience Scully..." the teasing unmistakable... "..is a virtue." No. No. Patience is a torture. Sweet sweet torture as fingers gone he is over me, resting on hands and knees, low enough to touch flesh to flesh along our length but without imposing his weight.. He suddenly rests his forehead on mine. How many times have we sought and given comfort with this touch? Never has it had the sense of permanency, of cohesion I feel now. I know he is staring at me as I am at him, but we are too close for focus. Alternating breaths, his then mine, each ragged with expectation, sound impossibly loud about us. A slight shift and I am certain he is going to kiss me, and I'm more than ready, more eager for this than I have been for anything in my life, but as his head moves I feel him bypass lips as his tongue snakes along my cheekbone, down my neck. A swell of disappointment is easily sent flying into a temporary oblivion as his lips pull skin between his teeth and he bites...the perfect pressure, the exact match of pleasure and pain and I realise his earlier exploration was a means to identify his terrain. His mouth follows the path his fingers traced just moments before, some perfect memory leading him to each particularly sensitive area where lips and tongue are replaced by teeth, always just more than I expect, just slightly less than I can take. As he moves from my neck over my breast I realise I'm almost purring at him. Squeaking and purring? What the hell has the man done to my self control and vocal repertoire? His mouth works magic, wide to encircle an eager nipple, sucking hard, so hard I can feel the blood rushing leaving me oversensitive to the almost casual bite and the gentle caress from his tongue that follows. Slowly, with an almost arrogant languor he moves to the other and lavishes the same attention, sucking, biting, licking in a perfect proportion. I'm starting to grind my thighs together, twisting legs against the bed in a desperate need to appease the fire building between my legs. He lifts his head to nod consent at me and it's only at this acknowledgement that I become aware that I'm moaning, low and continuously...'please pleasepleaseplease'. Leaving me whining, bereft of the touch as he turns his attention away from my breasts, he replaces the missed sensation with the delight of another as tongue and teeth glide in rapid succession, nipping skin along my belly, dipping his tongue, pointed and hard into the dip of my bellybutton, swirling it around as if seeking sustenance before he shifts his position completely, sliding one arm underneath my ass, raising me. I can feel expectation and arousal free flowing, the heat of him as he straddles my leg, his soft cock pressing against me, reminding and promising, making me wetter than I can ever have been...and I'm wondering just how good this is going to feel when I have to wait no longer. Hot breathe heralding the rapid descent of his mouth and his tongue is on me, pressed against me, wide and flat, immobile, I'm writhing about, thrusting my hips up, trying to urge him into action, to encourage him to move that damn tongue. Then he's gone, his mouth is gone and as I'm about to protest, demand, basically throw a serious tantrum of the sexually frustrated kind I hear his voice. "Look at me Scully..." and from within this heady fog I raise my head, peering up over my raised abdomen as I feel the warm wet touch again, tongue sliding flat across, pointing and dipping briefly into me and then he's curling it into his mouth as he tips back his head and I realise he's copying my earlier actions, devouring, savouring me as I did him. I'm so entranced by the vision that I don't see his hand move as suddenly he thrusts a long slim finger inside me... "Jesus..." "No?" "No...yes...I mean yes, god yes...". I'm aware just how desperate I sound and don't care at all. I'll beg if I have to - I might hate myself for it but if it means more of this then I'll beg - but thankfully he doesn't require any more, sliding a second and then a third finger into me, hard and fast, turning and curling as he pumps into me. I'm sure there is a rhythm there but I can't find it. I don't care. For me its just a frenzied melee of fingers, mouth and my own frantic drive against them both. Fingers in me, mouth on me, then fingers on and tongue in... I want more. Whatever he's giving I want more. I don't care what of him is on me, in me - he just feels so damn good. Hell, good doesn't come close. There aren't enough variations on good in any language on this planet to describe this....I want to carry this sensation with me every minute of every day I have left on this earth. I can hear a shrill whine in my ears and only vaguely acknowledge that it is me. He shifts the arm still under my ass, lifting me slightly higher as he seems to slow, fingers still thrusting, so deep I can feel his palm pressed flat against me, persistent in their pursuit of my pleasure as his mouth goes to work again, this time targeting, tongue hard and pointed, lips pressed against teeth to shield me from the touch that would be just too sharp there and now as he sucks and squeezes with a skill that an envious streak in me hopes comes from a long held memory and not any recent experience.... I'm mumbling all manner of inanities, offering thanks to countless deities including the one with his face pressed between my legs and as he continues, unfaltering in his attentions I feel my crescendo building, a symphony of sensation rushing for release, as I pull the sheet into a sweaty ball beneath frantic hands and feet and then I'm shattering against him. I'm everywhere I could ever want to be as I crash, both figuratively and literally, into the bed, panting harshly, wanting to say something - anything - to him but unable to do anything but intersperse gasp with groan so I settle for flailing an uncoordinated arm around to invite him back up here, to hold me, to keep me warm as I shake against him, as I sink into him as surely as if he were a mold cast for my fit. He is silent, just offering himself, binding me to him with tight arms and we lay, casual caresses given without thought as I come down....I'm skating effortlessly on the border of sleep when I hear him break his silence with whispered words. "Scully?" "Umm?" "We've still got a lot to figure out..." "I know." "Scared?" "Terrified." "Me too."....and I seem to think he's saying something else, something after that but I'm drifting. Sleep always come to claim me when passion's spent and the last thing I remember is not the sound, but the wonderful scent of him, pressed against my face. ****************************** I have lain beside her now for almost two hours. I'd always assumed the slide into sleep that followed release was a male prerogative but it came swift and easy to her, rendering void the conversation I was hoping we could complete, Scully it seems as content to snore into my shoulder as she might be to whisper the questions and answers that map our route from here. For long long moments I just stared at her. I'd be lying if I said she'd never looked more beautiful. I'd seen her wear beauty better on many other occasions but the way she looked now was the image I wanted to remember forever. Right now she looked like she was mine. Mine. And whereas I've never in my life before seen any woman in terms of possession and this stridently independent one less so, I know now that she owns me so entirely that I feel no sense of shame at the Neanderthal concept. It's a fair exchange. This has been all and more than I expected, than I could have imagined, but I can't let this go. There is still something I want, something else that I need before I can relax into a sleep that will allow me the luxury of believing in a tomorrow - just a few short hours away - where I can wake up flesh to flesh with her and know she will not hide. Pulling her to me I nuzzle against her face, murmuring her name, low and slow until she opens bleary eyes and regards me with a tired confusion. I wait, silent and steady until I am sure that she is fully with me. If there has been anything in my life that scares me more than what I am about to do, I cannot recall it. If she repeats now what happened last time...if she denies me this now she will have destroyed me as surely as if she put a gun to my head, but as I lean towards her I see the remembrance and realisation in her eyes. Nothing that she ever does, ever says to me from this moment will mean as much as the way she now acknowledges the reassurance I am seeking, taking from my mind the memory of the kiss she denied me last night and not waiting for me to move closer places firm hands on the back of my head and pulls me down to her, her mouth already open as she claims mine. There is nothing chaste and yet somehow nothing sexual about this kiss. It is deep and hard, savouring, tasting, taking and giving. Teeth grinding on teeth affirm all we have done these past few hours, speak of gratitude and the promise of more to come. Tongues duelling with tongues answer all the questions I might ever seek the answers to and lips crushing lips pledge a future.... and finally, after far too short an eternity of the taste of her, the basic need for oxygen intrudes, causing her to pull away, to release me, even as she replaces the embrace with one from her arms and I relax, content and sated into it. She has told me everything I need to know, given me everything I need to have...affirmation, confirmation, resolution. End. Feedback (sweet or sour) is the food of love. IndigoMuse@aol.com