E-MAIL ADDRESS: flyn121@yahoo.com
Website: www.geocities.com/cratkinsonflynn/
CLASSIFICATION: V, R, PWP - MAJOR PWP
KEYWORDS: Mulderbation
DATE: November 21, 2000
DISTRIBUTION: Just lemme know where it goes so I can visit.
SPOILER WARNING: Nada one.
RATING: NC-17 for adult expressions of affection.
FEEDBACK: Makes my little heart go boom-boom.
SUMMARY: It's sex, guys. Just sex.

DISCLAIMER: My last name is not Carter.

As always, thanks to my bestest friend Christine, for whom the word Smut
is a verb.

Note from Flynn: With everyone so anxious about the new season, to say
nothing of Where In The World and/or Solar System Is Mulder, it just
seemed time for a gratuitous sex scene. No point. Just all the things this
writer would love to do with a certain Special Agent. <hint: I don't mean
the one with red hair, either>




~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Simple Joy of Cooking
by Flynn
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There was something about Scully's apartment. Maybe it was the lighting,
which was much brighter than his place. Or it was the scent of vanilla and
spice that seemed to hang in the warm, still air. Or maybe it was because
she had so much more . . . everything. Furniture. Color. Space. Whatever.
Maybe it was just because this was where she'd lived and breathed since
before their partnership began. He could see her moving around this
apartment in that quiet, efficient way she had, getting ready for the day . . .
or night.

He liked it here. Which was, in part, why he jumped at the chance to spend
the day with her. He knew they'd end up back here. So what that the
occasion was something less than thrilling? A family gathering, the first
since they'd started sleeping together. Maggie and Bill and Tara, all in the
same small space with him for . . . how many hours? Hell, he didn't care.
This domestic stuff . . . if he could do it with Scully, then even her
self-righteous, shithead brother was something he could put up with.

He left her to lock the car and headed up with most of the grocery bags.
Fumble with the keys, single out the right one, shoulder aside the door, set
the bags on the tile counter beside the sink. He smelled the basil as soon as
he opened the first bag. The peppery aroma, he was pleased to note, was
actually something he could put a name to. The rest of the stuff she'd
picked out - well, it wasn't exactly an X-file, but he just didn't see why so
many small, smelly things were necessary to prepare a simple family dinner.

Well, he was there to learn.

She flashed him a quick grin as she kicked the door closed. She'd caught
him standing there, staring down at the items in the bag as if he'd never
seen half of them. She couldn't help but smile. How could a man who knew
so much and seen so many unbelievable things be stymied by something as
simple as cooking? His frown was more befitting a theoretical discussion of
the role the Sphinx played in the lives of ancient astronauts, or whether it
was ethical for a bank to charge for using your ATM account to pay for a
facial. Maybe he was taking the whole affair a little too seriously. And she
really had to do something about that frown. "This is the last of it." She
was gratified when he stepped forward to take the bags from her. It
brought him close to her, closer than she normally would have permitted.
Well, 'normal', as it applied to them, had recently undergone certain
changes, hadn't it? Not only did he touch her now, but she found she could
reciprocate in ways that she'd barely allowed herself to consider in the dark
depths of her quiet, lonely nights.

God, he smelled good. No strong cologne for a Saturday jaunt to the
grocery store; hell, not even a shave. Just good old soap and Mulder
pheromones. Oooh, and that whisper-soft denim shirt hung on his spare
frame just so. There were a few buttons undone, of course, allowing her a
glimpse of skin and that sexy, sparse chest hair. And his throat. That spot
beneath his left ear, right there by the carotid, where the skin would be so
warm and prickly to her lips, to her tongue . . . It brought back memories
newly made, memories of tangled limbs and mingled breath, of moans and
soft cries and the sound of wet skin slapping.

She shivered. He was so close, all she had to do was lean forward a little to
run her tongue along his clavicle. She steeled herself against the
temptation. He fumbled for a moment with the bags, saving one with a
dramatic move when it threatened to fall, and in the process managed a fast
grope of one breast. She battled back a grin as she spun away. "Mulder,
behave yourself," she said. Was that really her voice? Well, at least she
managed to *sound* stern.

He grinned, unrepentant. "What'd I do?" he murmured, sidling back
alongside her and nuzzling her hair - he really wanted to get his hand on
that breast again, but with his arms full, there was little chance of that
happening. "I'm till thinking about what the butcher said. Terrible thing,
having to choose between a breast and a loin. Guess it's a good thing he
wasn't talking to me, huh?" His heart skipped a beat when she turned her
face up and into his kiss. It was sweet and full of promise, but it was much
too fleeting to suit him. Damn, she really was single-minded. Not that that
was a bad thing, really, but did she have to waste such determination in the
kitchen? There were other rooms where her attention to detail would be
much better served.

And recently had been.

First things first, though, and at the moment that was helping with dinner.
He set the bags on the counter and watched as she sorted through them.
Roast. Vegetables. French bread. Wine bottles. All those little bundles.
Okay, so maybe she'd had a point. On the rare occasions that the take-out
places he frequented were closed, he could fend for himself well enough -
after all, he was a child of his times - but serious cooking, with so many
*things* . . . it all seemed a little much. Where was the microwave, the
single dish, the ready-to-eat-in-five?

Still, he had to admit that some of the bundles smelled really good,
whatever they were. And she said it wasn't all that complicated. He could
do this. So he might be on the far end of thirty - a guy could still learn.

She brushed past him, her hands caressing his sides and making him shiver.
When she crouched down and dug around in an absurdly low cupboard, he
found his eyes lingering on the shadows where her loose flannel shirt
gaped. He knew now just what resided in those shadows. Something - no,
a pair of somethings that were soft and pale and so damned sweet that his
mouth watered and his fingers ached to touch them. He bit his lip and
forced his gaze elsewhere, then awkwardly pushed himself away from the
counter. Had to distract himself. Pants were already feeling tight. "You got
that?" he asked shortly.

She shot him an amused look. "I'll let you know if I need something from a
top shelf," she said as she extracted the desired object and held it up.
"Although you'd be hard-pressed to find much of anything on a top shelf
around here. Can you put this in the sink?"

Ah, roasting pan. Coated with dust; must not get used much. He mentally
kicked himself for that observation. Nothing in her kitchen was ever used
much, was it? Well, except for the coffee pot. And the first-aid kit. Maybe
a dishtowel or two if they had really big wounds that needed binding . . .

She eyed him critically. He was too quiet. That rarely boded well. Quickly
she slid her arms around him, pinning him against the counter. "Hey there,"
she murmured, nuzzling her face into the side of his neck. She smiled when
he shivered again, and then his arms found their way around her. That's
better, she mused. Still, I bet I can do better than that. What's say we try
for a groan, Agent Mulder? Gently she kissed the side of his neck. A lick.
Another nuzzle. Then the barest pressure of teeth against stubbled flesh,
and with it, the slightest suction. Bingo! A soft sound escaped him,
something less than an exclamation but definitely more than a sigh. She
smiled inwardly. Hey, you aren't the only one in this little act who can drive
a person to distraction, she thought as she gently worried his Adam's apple.
A shudder racked him, and she was not surprised when he gently but firmly
drew himself away from her. There was a nice color rising in his face and
throat, and she could see his pupils were already dilated within the
gray-green irises. Caution tempered her self-satisfaction. As fun as it would
be, this wasn't the best time to practice her seduction skills on him. In fact,
now she had to give him something to do to distract him. Something simple
- he clearly wasn't up to the challenge of organized thinking just at the
moment. "Do me a favor?" she asked.

He swallowed hard as he forced his hands to release her. "Anything."

She nodded to the bottles. "Pour us a drink."

He looked at her, bemused. The wine? Open the wine? That was not what
he was expecting. Hell, after that nibble, he was ready for a
Me-Tarzan-You-Jane-In-The-Bedroom scene. Or the kitchen. More than
ready. Pants were definitely too tight for comfort. Now no Tarzan. Just a
cold bottle and a corkscrew. "Huh? Are you sure?" He blinked. "I mean,
sure, but it seems kind of early."

She smiled. Shit, a full-blown grin, the kind he'd seen maybe three times in
their first year, and not too many more since; a Plan Nine From Outer
Space grin, the kind that made his heart flutter and his stomach melt right
into his socks. Who could he pay to see that she smiled like that every day
for the rest of her life? No, even longer than that. How long was eternity,
anyway? Jesus, what was she saying? Was it important? ". . . wouldn't do
for us to be totally gone when Mom and the others show up, but what fun
is cooking if you're stone-cold sober?"

He nodded as he forced himself to turn away. "You're the boss, Agent
Scully." He picked up and hefted one of the bottles, then took the
corkscrew from her outstretched hand. It was one of those elegant, simple
ones, thank God. He barely had to fumble with it. The wine made a sweet,
musical sound as he poured it. Fun? Scully had smiled. Really smiled. And
they weren't doing anything yet that could even be construed as fun. Man,
he really was a pitiful bastard if such a little thing could make his heart sing
like this.

Her gaze was steady and missed nothing. "You look so serious," she said,
taking one of the glasses and swirling it gently. There was a playful twinkle
in her eyes. "How much thought does it take to open a bottle of wine,
Mulder?" Her wry smile softened when he didn't respond. Her hand settled
on his forearm and gave it a little squeeze. "What is it? What're you
thinking?"

He smiled as he looked at her. God, he loved her. Her body was pretty
damned nice, sure, but this woman was more than a set of measurements.
He loved her mind and her spirit, her wit and her moods - all five thousand
of them - and he loved that sarcasm that wasn't really sarcasm so much as a
near-Saharan sense of humor. He loved that she could discuss autopsies
over pizza, and that discourse with her about psychosocial aberrations
could actually turn him on. That she could make preparing dinner, even one
that involved her asshole brother, something to be enjoyed. Savored, even.
He loved that he could make her laugh, however rarely it happened.
Thoughtfully he touched a fingertip to the point of her chin. "I'm thinking,"
he replied softly, "that I've probably seen you cry more often than I've seen
you smile."

She scowled as she sipped her wine. "You have not. I don't cry all that
often."

He let his hand drop away. "I rest my case."

They were silent for a moment as they regarded one another. Then she set
the glass down on the counter and stepped into his arms again. "Is that so,"
she said softly, tipping her chin up and trailing kisses along the underside of
his jaw. "Well, I'm not going to turn into any sort of grinning idiot, Mulder.
Not even for you."

He kissed her. It lasted a long time. When they separated again, her eyes
were almost glazed. "I never imagined I'd hear myself say this," she
whispered, "but God, you taste good."

He smiled. "I was just thinking the same thing."

Her brows drew together in a delicate frown. "Well, maybe, but it's just
wine. Big surprise. You taste like . . ." Her eyes dropped to his lips. ". . .
sunflower seeds. Of course, they never taste this good straight out of the
shell. Why is that?"

He nuzzled his face into her hair. "You're the doctor, you tell me."

Oh God, she was working that spot on his neck, the one that was
tailor-made for lovemaking. She *had* to know what that did to him - why
else would she choose *this* moment to do that? "Mmm, well there is the
immediate enzymatic reaction of the salt and seeds to your saliva," she
murmured, nuzzling and then licking that damn spot. He couldn't have
contained a groan even if he'd tried. "Then there's the unique chemistry of
said saliva. We're singular creatures, after all. Your chemical composition is
. . ." she paused for a lingering kiss ". . . different from mine. And we have
to take into account that lunch we had. The meat, and the spices. Mmm,
we really do not eat enough Mexican . . . "

Shut up, Dana, she told herself. There wasn't time for this right now. The
family was going to be there in a matter of hours. There were things that
needed to be done, things that *she* needed to do. She'd get to them . . .
she really would . . . in just a minute. Something here needed her attention
first. That spot, that warm, prickly skin right there was beckoning to her . .
. it was sweet and tangy, and as she plied her tongue to it again, she heard
another groan. Her fingers were working at the buttons of his shirt, freeing
them. He tried to deflect her, but the attempt was half-hearted. He was
getting hard. Hell, he'd been in a state of semi-arousal since picking her up
that morning - she'd seen the evidence herself in the grocery store - but
now it was painfully obvious. She could feel it against her belly, the heat
and form of his burgeoning erection through . . . how many layers of
clothing? Those jeans must be torture by now. God, she didn't have time
for this, neither of them did, and yet she couldn't seem to stop herself.
*Years* she worked with this man, without so much as a thought about
what was lurking just behind the austere fa‡ade and those calm eyes. What
indeed. And that was a damn dirty lie - why did she persist in trying to
deceive herself? - like hell she hadn't thought about him! She'd hated herself
for it, too, for wondering what it would be like to do this, to undress him
and touch him and lick the smooth, dark nipples until they rose up just as
hard as hers. To smell him and taste him . . .

He cupped a hand around the back of her head, cradling her to him,
encouraging her. He whimpered when she pulled away. His eyes were
shining, and saliva gleamed on his lower lip. "Tell me," he rasped softly, "is
making dinner always this much fun?"

Shit. Stop. Take a deep breath and regroup. Don't start what you can't
possibly finish right now . . . She sighed and set her shoulders as she turned
away. "Mmm, we've not yet begun to sensualize," she murmured.

He smiled. Bless her anyway. A verbal hockey puck, one to dally back and
forth as they struggled to control their libidos. "There's no such word. You
made that up."

A playful smile drew at her eyes. "So what if I did?" She ran water into the
sink, then carefully removed the herb bundles from their little wrappers.
Her hands were shaking. He leaned back against the counter beside her, his
arms folded across his chest. His half-opened shirt gaped a little, and he
caught her quick glance at his exposed skin. It gave him a little stab of
satisfaction, and he tried not to smile as he indicated the bundles with a jerk
of his chin. "Are you sure you know what you're doing, Scully? What *are*
all these, anyway?"

She untied the packets and rinsed them in warm water, then set them on
the drain board. "Different things. Basil, rosemary, tarragon." She held up a
handful of feathery stems. "Here, smell this."

He half-smiled. "A little like licorice."

She nodded. "They're related. I don't remember the genus." She opened a
drawer and produced a pair of knives. "Help me? Here, take the rosemary.
Strip the needles off the stems and mince them up."

He did as she directed, his nose wrinkled. "Pungent stuff. What's this for?"

She gestured with her chin to the package beside the sink. "We'll mix it
with a few other things, and then we're going to knead it into the roast."

He grunted softly. "You mean, I get to play with my food?"

She grinned at him. "Not just yours. Everyone's. See how much fun
cooking can be?"

He eyed her thoughtfully. "Okay, so we massage our meat . . ." One
chiseled brow rose sharply, and he smiled. "Sorry, we massage the herbs
into the roast, and then we stick it in the oven. How long does it take to
cook?"

She bit her lower lip thoughtfully. "Something that size . . . it'll take the rest
of the afternoon."

He narrowed his eyes. "Oooh, I like the sound of that. Then what?"

She gestured with her eyes to the waiting vegetables. "Peel, chop, and add.
Make a salad, warm the bread. Pretty basic, really."

He pursed his lips as he carefully chopped the tender needles. "So, what do
we do while the meat's cooking?"

She shrugged and folded her arms, and though she chose that moment to
look away, he caught her fleeting smile. "We can do any number of things.
Watch TV. Clean the bathroom. I suppose we could even . . . what was it
you called it . . . do the naked pretzel? That was it, wasn't it?"

Oh shit, what she could do to him without laying a hand on him. That
could be an X-file all on its own. He felt himself twitch as he stared at her,
and his pants edged a tad closer to unbearable. She looked back at him, a
small, devilish smile drawing at her lips. Her lips. Those lips he'd seen
wrapped around his . . . the ones that formed a perfect, soft O when he did
that thing with . . . Hell. Time to get his thoughts out of that sweet, hot
neighborhood. Oxygen was at a premium right now; most of his blood had
long since gone south. Possible topics were limited, safe ones even more
so; he stuck to the most obvious and gestured to the roast. "Ahhh . . . are
we about ready for that?"

She passed it to him, and they both shivered when her hand lingered against
his for a few precious seconds. "Cut the plastic but leave the webbing.
Rinse the pan, then lay the roast out flat."

He did as he was directed. She dipped her fingers into the chopped leaves
and began applying them to the meat. He watched, spellbound. Those
delicate-looking fingers, the ones that could wield a scalpel and lay bare all
the secrets of the human body - and some that weren't so human - touched
and stroked the mound of flesh with the tenderness of a mother caring for a
newborn. He felt his mouth go dry, and he quickly reached for his glass.
Mmm, the wine was warm and smoky and just a little sweet. It combined
with the pungent aroma of rosemary and whatever else she had there.
Thoughtfully he raised a finger to his lips. Man oh man. Was it just his
heightened awareness that made it so irresistible? Not just the smell of the
herbs, but the taste. It was beyond delicious.

On impulse, he dipped two fingers into his glass, then offered them to her.
"Scully," he murmured, watching the drop form and play between his
fingertips. "Check this out."

She opened her mouth without hesitation. Oh, shit. The instant her lips
closed around him, fire shot up from his pelvis and formed pearls of sweat
on his upper lip. Oh, God. Her mouth was hot, and her tongue swirled
seductively around his fingertips, exploring his nail beds with the velvety
underside, the suction gentle and yet relentless; and her eyes - they were
staring up at him, blue and smoldering, and he knew beyond any doubt that
she knew *exactly* what she was doing to him. No, he'd gotten himself
into this, and she wasn't about to let him off the hook. He wondered
vaguely what her reaction would be when his knees actually gave out and
he sprawled on his ass there on her kitchen floor. He heard himself groan
as she worried his fingers gently with her teeth. "Mmm," she murmured,
releasing him. "And you said you couldn't cook."

He blinked, then gestured to the tent in his crotch with a flick of his eyes.
"I've got something simmering right now," he breathed. "I certainly hope
you're going to help me deal with it. And don't offer me an ice pack, Dr.
Scully. It isn't that kind of swelling."

She smile, wide-eyed. "I don't know what you expect *me* to do."

A soft growl rose in his throat. "I'm not facing your brother sporting a
hard-on with these dimensions. It would make the unavoidable pissing
contest a little too . . . erratic for my satisfaction."

She pursed her lips thoughtfully. "Hmm. I guess I'll have to do something
about your *satisfaction* then, won't I?"

Oh, hell. The throbbing down below was rapidly taking over his higher
thought processes. Fuck the roast, his inward Neanderthal grunted. Fuck
the vegetables. And while you're at it, fuck the woman. Again and again
and again . . .

She smiled a knowing little smile as she turned away, and for moment he
was tempted to give free rein to the hairy beast within. No, he reminded
himself, shifting his feet uncomfortably, that would definitely set the wrong
mood for the evening. She didn't just have to consent, she had to
participate. Bide your time, ape-man. Let's get the food cooking. Maybe
pour a little more wine. Then you can fling her over your shoulder and
carry her back to the cave and let her do something about your satisfaction.
Maybe you could manage to do something about hers while you're at it.

He fidgeted restlessly as she finished prepping the roast. Close one, she
thought with a twinge of satisfaction. Jesus, how long have I wanted to do
that? Well, not necessarily give his hand a blowjob - but just to see what it
would take to wipe that smirk off his face. Better not do it again, not until
we can do things up right. Soon, Mulder. Just give me a minute to finish
this damned roast and get it in the oven, and then you're so mine . . .

Mine. Not a possession but a part of the whole, something I can't be
without now. Two arms, two legs, one heart, one Mulder. God, the
thought that I, Dana Scully, would need anyone like I need him . . .

He said nothing as he watched her finish up. Water added to the pan,
carefully so as not to wash away the dusting of leaves. A judicious
application of garlic. Then she stooped to put it in the oven, and he found
himself staring shamelessly at her ass. He remembered the feel of it in his
hands, bare. His fingers kneading the soft curves. The feel of being inside
her, of her writhing on him, the sounds she made, the way she said his
name that was half moan, half purr. God, this was agony. Another minute
of this and his pants would *have* to go . . .

She was scraping together what was left of the chopped herbs and teasing
them into a glass dish. On an impulse, he stole a pinch and crushed it
between his fingers. Rosemary and basil and tarragon . .  it was
modern-day alchemy. He caught her arm when she started to brush past
him, drawing her close, so close that he could feel her breath caress his
face. She didn't even try to pull away. Slowly he trailed the scented
fingertips down her throat, from the quivering artery beneath her ear to the
deep crevice between her collar bones. Then he took a quick sip of wine,
and dipped his head. She gave a little gasp. "Mulder, be careful - "

He groaned against her flesh. Wine and herbs and the best of his partner, all
in one delicious mouthful. Somehow he found the strength to drag himself
away. "The roast is in," he murmured, taking her hand and pressing it with
purpose to the bulge in his pants. "I'm in some serious distress here. Time
to pay the piper."

Her hand tightened around him just enough to make him catch his breath.
"Piper, huh?" she murmured as she toyed with the buttons of his fly. "Yeah,
I could *pay* the piper, I suppose . . . but I'm hoping he'll let me play on
his pipe."

He stared at her mutely, unable to move. Breathing? Fine, fine - just so he
didn't have to actually think about it.

How the hell did she get his pants open so fast? His belt was undone, his
fly unbuttoned, his jeans and boxers shoved down to his knees. She
murmured her approval as she took him into her mouth. His knees almost
buckled under her assault, and he clutched the counter desperately for
support. It wouldn't do to fall on her now. Oh, shit, that mouth. Hot and
slick, just like . . . Couldn't do this, he was so close now, so close, so close
. . .

"Stop," he croaked, and moaned aloud when she did. His cock twitched as
his hips circled aimlessly, seeking and not finding that delicious heat. He
tugged gently on her am. "It was gonna end way too soon, and I don't want
to leave you dangling. So to speak."

She rose, sliding gracefully up the length of him, and pressed herself
against him. He wondered vaguely how fast *he* could get *her* clothes
off. "Don't worry - I'm no stranger to manual gratification," she whispered,
encompassing him with her hands and slowly drawing down and up,
pumping him. He fought the impulse to follow through with a little action
of his own. Shit, the strength it took to resist - !

She smiled as she fell back a step. He said nothing as she kicked off her
shoes, then slid her shirt off her shoulders and tossed it over the back of
one of the dining room chairs. Her jeans followed it. Then her bra.

"Now," she whispered, returning and pressing herself against him, "where
were we?"

He stepped close and slid his arms around her waist. "Fair is fair," he said,
his voice sweet gravel. "You've had your fun torturing me - now it's my
turn. Up on the counter." Her eyes sparked, but before she could respond,
he had her airborne. "Now."

She bit back a yelp - the tile was cold against her ass. "Whoo! Okay, I'm
up. Now what?" He said nothing as he leaned forward and kissed her
temple. Her eyelids. Her mouth, deep and long. She groaned as he dragged
his teeth over her throat, then raised his chin so she could return the favor.
God, the smell of him was maddening. Slowly he glided downward past her
shoulder to the curve of her breastbone. A lick and a kiss. Her arms rose
and enfolded his head, guiding him downward. Contact. His mouth
touched her breast, kissing and nuzzling and finally engulfing it. She arched
into him, gasping, and her legs snapped closed around him. She bit her lips
as he suckled her. That mouth. Christ, that mouth. It was torture, his doing
this to her. It made her ache for more. Much more. He was talented, but
could he possibly be two places at once?

Oooh, make that a resounding Yes. A finger trailed down her side to the
juncture of her hip and thigh and gently teased aside the scrap of material
she still wore. His thumb brushed her nub as that finger found its way . . .
She stiffened, and her hands tightened convulsively in his hair. Oh, shit.
Hot damn. Oh, heavenly tongue that never left off at her nipple, the right
one that was just a tad more sensitive than its twin, and God bless that
hand that was doing a whiz-bang job of driving her mad. Her breath caught
in her throat, and she began to pant. Such a gentle touch. One long finger
inside, massaging that place . . . oh, make that *two* long fingers, stroking
slowly, the thumb faithfully circling, its rhythm unchanging even when she
began to grind herself helplessly into the contact. Her head fell back as she
clung to him, her mouth hanging open, and she couldn't seem to breathe,
already he had her on the edge, and it would only take the barest of nudges
and she'd . . .

A third finger and a final touch and she was gone. Ignited. Burning. The
paradox of frenzied movement without moving. She was frozen in place,
mouth open in a silent scream of agony and anguish and ecstasy . . .

. . . rolling . . .
. . . falling . . .
. . . burning . . .
. . . loving . . .

Fox Mulder? Fucking Michelangelo, that's who he was.

And there he was, peering up at her with his smoky eyes and flirtatious
grin, watching her expressions change even as he felt her inward spasms
subside. "That didn't take long," he murmured, and kissed the side of her
neck where the artery was still dancing to the beat of an insane heart rate.

She couldn't move. Couldn't raise her arms. He was painfully rigid, but she
was utterly and completely without structure. If he let go of her, she'd slide
off the counter and end up in a puddle on the linoleum. Damn but he was
good. And judging from the fire in his eyes, in desperate need of care and
attention himself.

It took a moment to find her voice. "Yeah, okay. That was . . . nice." She
struggled to sit up straight.

A grin split his face. "Nice? Don't get carried away with the compliments,
okay, Scully? You know I hate it when you gush."

She flashed him a look. "When *I* gush? Shouldn't I be saying that about
you?" She pushed him back and slowly lowered herself onto still-shaky
legs. "C'mon, partner. I'm going to have to make your eyes spin."

He tipped a shoulder to shed the denim shirt. "Bring it on, honey."

She led the way to the bedroom, albeit backwards, kissing his face, his
neck, chest, shoulder - anything she could reach. He could feel her hands
moving on him, and distantly he realized that she quite literally leading him
by the dick. Pausing to flip down the bedspread, she directed him to stretch
out and even helped him arrange the pillows so he was comfortable. Then
she slid her underwear down over her hips and settled herself beside him.
He sighed under her steady hands. She too began at his temple, nuzzling
and caressing her way down the side of his face on the way to his mouth. A
long kiss was shared. She stopped him when he reached for her. "No," she
whispered. He frowned, but she shook her head. "It's not about me this
time. I want to do this." Her fingers stroked his mouth, dragging slowly
over his lower lip. Puzzled, he nodded. She wanted to do something for
him, even if he didn't know what - who was he to say no? He could do this
he could submit to her. He let his head fall back again.

She lavished attention on his mouth, then moved slowly down his neck and
chest. One flat nipple, licked and gently bitten, and then the other.
Gooseflesh rose in her wake, and he shivered. Downward she moved,
trailing teeth and tongue over his belly, around his navel, to her final
destination. "Quite a marvel," she murmured as she caressed him tenderly.
His eyes fluttered and then closed. "Kind of defies gravity, doesn't it?" It
twitched beneath her hand, and he heard her smile. "I think it likes this. Let
me see if I can come up with something else it might enjoy."

Oh, hell. She didn't believe in beating around the bush, but cut straight to
the chase. Would it be undignified to thank her before she really even did
anything? He supposed it wouldn't be in the best taste. And what the hell
were those sounds he was making? It was her name, over and over, or at
least it was meant to be; his tongue just couldn't get the consonants right.
Groans. Soft coughing grunts. Tension rippled through him, and it wasn't
long before he found himself driving up to meet her. It was going to
happen . . . yes yes yes oh God don't stop . . .

"Shh," she crooned when he began to pant. A hand stroked his chest
slowly, soothingly. "Slowly. Calm down. What's the rush?" He felt his
aching muscles slowly unclench, and the hand joined its mate. Warm
fingers encased him, caressed his thighs and then carefully stroked the
tender skin of his testicles. A gentle squeeze and he groaned again, this
time louder. He curled his hand into a fist and crushed it to his mouth. God,
this wasn't a fantasy. It wasn't a celluloid facsimile. He didn't have to
pretend it was someone that it wasn't. He managed to get his eyes open,
but a fall of red hair shielded her face. He reached out an unsteady hand
and brushed it aside. She looked at him, and a smile tugged at her eyes. An
answering rush of delight made him shiver.

Her left hand held him steady as she worked, while her right hand rose and,
to his surprise and delight, began to gently touch and stroke her breasts. He
groaned softly as he watched. God, it felt good, it felt so damn good. Her
eyes burned as she held his gaze for a moment, her lips gleaming with
saliva and his own fluids. Then she returned to her task. The hand left off
with her nipples, which were teased into impossibly hard points, and made
its way to the patch of hair between her thighs. He gasped when she
moaned softly; the sight alone was maddening, but the sound she made
echoed deliciously around his cock and made his eyeballs practically
vibrate. Mmm, if her goal was really to make them spin, she just about had
*that* accomplished. He found himself grunting again, softly, almost but
not quite forming the same syllable over and over again: Yes. Yes. Yes.
Shit, that hand was stepping up its tempo in the russet nest; he could see
the tension rising in her face, felt the tightening of her whole body, and for
a moment he considered rolling her over and doing right by her - it would
feel so damn wonderful to bury himself in her sweet, hot body - but he
couldn't move, couldn't say anything except that coughing *yes yes yes*,
and besides it wasn't long before her eyes closed and her mouth opened,
freeing him. "Oh, God," she breathed as her head fell against him, and for a
minute he was afraid he was going to lose it then and there. Her hand
abandoned him then, leaving him to take up the rhythm himself. It wasn't
anywhere as good as her mouth had felt, but he was so damn close, he
couldn't *not* do it, and he was too far gone to ever manage penetration
now . . . her right hand was still twitching between her legs, her left
stroking and rolling her nipples, fluttering from one to the other as her
body stretched out farther and farther until she was taut as a bowstring,
and her expression . . . God help him, her expression. He took it all in, rapt.
His pulse was crashing through his body, the pressure rising in him,
building as he pumped himself faster and harder; she writhed against him,
whispering his name in a high, breathy, frantic tone . . .

That was it, that did it for him, he was coming . . . coming hard. His back
arched as a cry roared out of him, carrying her name with it as creamy pale
semen fountained out of him. Heavy spurts cascaded over his hand and
drenched his belly, and her soft cries grew a little more strident as she took
it all in. *Oh yes, oh God, oh God, oh God* . . . who was saying that - they
both were, they were coming and he loved her, he loved her so much he
thought his heart would split -

At last they grew quiet. He could hear her fluttering pants, could feel the
wetness of her cooling perspiration as she rolled her forehead back and
forth on his shoulder. Mmm, that delicious post-coital glow was warming
him through. Somehow he found the energy to murmur her name as she
slid up his side and then collapsed against him, her head on pillow beside
his, her hand on his chest.

"Sorry," he murmured at last.

She frowned at him quizzically. "Sorry? For what?"

It was a temptation to let sleep take him, but he knew that wasn't possible.
Bill already hated him; what sort of reception would Mulder get if the
stiff-necked bastard found them sprawled in his sister's bed, bleary with
sleep and coated with congealed body fluids . . .  no, he had to move. And
he was going to. Any minute now .. .  "Didn't plan on finishing up quite this
way . . . wanted to be inside you when . . ."

She shook her head, then rolled onto her side and pushed herself up on an
elbow beside him. "I'm sorry, too. I . . . didn't think that would happen. My
own . . . you know. . ." She kissed the point of his shoulder, then nuzzled
the Spot. He immediately shivered. "I wanted it to be special for you.
Different."

Different? He fought back the urge to laugh - she just wouldn't understand.
He took her hand and squeezed it to his chest. "Listen to me," he
murmured, holding her gaze with his own. "Together or separately like
this, in bed or hell, in traffic . . . anything we do is special. Scully, I don't
have to *pretend* I'm making love to the only person in the world that I
want and can never have." He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. "I
don't have to pretend. That makes it different."

They were silent for a while, merely looked and one another. Then she
drew her hand back and rolled away. "C'mon, let's get you cleaned up. This
is not the way I want my family to find out about this thing between us."

He sighed and let his head roll slowly from side to side. "Mmm," he
groaned. "Scully, tell me something."

He could feel her bending over him, no doubt propped up on arms braced
on either side of his head. "Anything."

He smiled happily. "Is cooking always this much fun?"



~~~~
End