Title: Poetry in Motion
Author: Rhondda Lake
rhonilak@icontech.com 
Category: V, MSR
Rating: R - NC-17 depending on your sensitivity
Summery: Ummmm... Poetry and thoughts lead to action
Disclaimer: CC, FOX and 10/13 owns them. I'm just borrowing them. I
promise to put them back on their separate little sexually repressed
shelves when I'm done.

Note: I know this isn't my usual style. But I'm trying to combine my
two loves. My first actual published works were poetry, which I love
to write. I also love writing mind candy. Here is the result.

Thanks as always to the Rhino Readers. My own group of loayal beta
readers. Also to the members of the Romantics mailing list who kindly
did some extra beta editing for me.



Glistening Pink
Promises of heat and moist welcome.
Longing
To feel flesh slide against flesh.
Torment
Your own wetness slicking
Where I want mine to be.
I shudder
To think all this passion
For your mouth, alone.
I would
Be undone, only by your kiss.

Tempting. It's the only word that comes to mind as I sit here and
watch the bright red coffee stirrer tap against my partner's bottom
lip. His pouty, slightly glistening bottom lip. Tap, tap, tap. A
artistic juxtaposition of cherry red against pale peach.

His tongue darts out, just a little, to lay atop the flattened end
before his lips close over it, drawing it in. I can imagine that
tongue caressing the edges cradled in his mouth without thought. His
inquisitive nature taking in the taste and feel of it, the precise
dimensions. The stirrer writhes from such attentions. I can't much
blame it.

I realize, suddenly, that I am jealous of an inanimate object. Not
just any inanimate object but a two cent piece of molded plastic that
will be tossed in the waste can as soon as Mulder finishes writing up
his report. Chewed, warped beyond usefulness it will join a graveyard
of its brothers in the bottom of the garbage can. How pathetic.

I return my attention to my own computer screen, but shortly find
myself transfixed, once more. I try to mask my observation by glancing
only out of the corner of my eye.

I don't think he is even aware of his own oral fixation. Mulder is one
of the most tactile men I have ever met. But everything,
unconsciously, tends to gravitate towards that mouth. His pencil
holder is stuffed wood and plastic surfaces covered in teeth marks.
Pencils and pens get nibbled as often as his, more edible, sunflower
seeds.

As if my own thoughts conjure action he pulls the chewed, glistening,
stirrer from his lips and sets it aside as his other hand raises
bringing one of those tiny offerings to his mouth. Lips part, just far
enough to glimpse pearlescent teeth, a seed is placed and he bites
down, gently, almost reverently. Again his tongue, snaking forward to
coax the tender bit of flesh from the shell. His hand comes down as
his mouth closes. He discards the shell as his jaw works, chewing the
tiny morsel. He licks his lips to savor the last tang of saltiness.

Next the coffee cup ascends with a casual grace. It presses into that
still moist bottom lip before tipping up. His Adam's apple bobs as he
swallows, but it is a delayed reaction. He's taken the time to savor
the taste of the bitter liquid, surely gone cold by now.

The cup comes down and pauses. The pause surprises me and I look for
the reason. My heart skips a beat. I am caught.

Heated caress
Moving over me, stroking my soul.
Searing,
Immersed in burning ice.
Breathless
I lose myself in you
And in all that you are.
Desire
In warm blue ecstasy.
Your eyes capture me.
I long
To see them slide closed in pleasure.

I felt the fine hairs at my nape rise, little antennae for danger.
Awareness of being watched. Scrutinized.

I swallow my mouth full of cold coffee and glance at my partner to see
if she's the culprit. To see if I have somehow offended and am the
oblivious object of 'the glare'.

Oh, she is watching me, alright, but the glare is conspicuously
absent. I feel my blood thunder through my veins and a coil of
tightness south of my belt at the gaze I have upon me. Hungry. When
did I become the main course?

My mind spins as this actually hits home. My chest constricts and I
have a hard time breathing. Those laser blue orbs have darkened to the
color of the twilight sky. Scully's face is not the totally blank look
of someone lost in a daydream; she is looking at ME. For one, naked,
raw moment, the desire is rolling off her in waves. The moment is
shattered when she notices me staring back. Immediately an invisible
door slams shut and the force of it reverberates on my skin.

She looks startled, then wary. Wordlessly she looks away, turning back
to her laptop. No word or action to support the momentary flash I have
seen. A flash that brands me as lightning would. Crackling along nerve
endings, jolting my entire system.

Scully's eyes have always held a perverse fascination for me. So much
is spoken through them. When she speaks to me I have to watch those
eyes, to be certain I get every nuance of her communication. The warm
blue of a summer sky at times transforms to the biting cold of ice.
The soul within shines through those eyes. Exquisite in its own right.
When deeply moved, the twitch of her left eyelid gives her away, a
trait I find fascinating.

And those amazing, brilliant, searing eyes had been focused on me.
With desire. Having seen this miracle once, I have the instant need to
see it again. It is not a longing, or a wish... but a pounding need as
intrinsic to my continued existence as food or sleep, or even - air.

This need neither surprises me nor comes as any kind of epiphany. No
grand disclosure whispering to the recesses of my soul. Hardly. I've
been physically aware of Scully since she walked into this office five
years ago. At first that was all it was. Physical. She was drop dead
on your ass gorgeous, and hadn't a clue that she was. Not my usual
type; I was able to shove the attraction down with only a few
embarrassing near-misses. Over time I began to value the person within
the package as I value no other.

That I loved her was no revelation. That I wanted her was no great
headline. That she wanted me... now that had hit with the force of a
runaway train. That she had ruthlessly covered that little bit of
information not-withstanding, I wasn't about to let this go.

Once I'm on to something I never let go. Now I'm on to Scully. In a
brief, three-second flash of insight my world got turned on its ear. I
could no more let this go than I could burn all my pictures of
Samantha.

No, you can't tune me out now, Special Agent Dana Katherine Scully. I
vow this silently to the view she has given me of her gently curved
back. I've just been handed a promise of something I had barely dared
dream about. A draught of water offered to a man dying of thirst. You
can't pull it away now.

I need to see that look in your eyes again. I need to see that look
explode into a thousand pieces as you arch under me. I need to feel
you clench around me as your lids slide closed over that look. I
intend to obtain each of these treasures, one by one. I need to hold
your heart in my hands as surely as you hold mine. I will not
entertain the thought that you might crush what you hold. Because I
trust you not to. Because I need you to trust me as well.

I don't give up.

Delicate touch
The arch and flow of controlled movement.
Seeking
The burning center, my heat.
Trusting
You will catch when I fall
>From the heights brought by you.
Agony
Can you feel me tremble
Waiting for your touch?
Those hands
Moving o'er my sweat slicked body.

The past three weeks have been hell. But it's been a strangely
glorious hell that teeters on the edge of heaven. Sparing me glimpses
of rapture then drawing me back into the arms of the demons of doubt
and fear.

Three weeks ago I had thought, no I had hoped, that Mulder had somehow
missed the look I was giving him. That he was so absorbed in himself,
in what he had been doing that he had been oblivious to my gaze. That
hope lasted about twenty minutes. Till I looked up to see him looking
back. He didn't flinch or turn aside. Bold and brazen he continued to
look, his eyes fixated on my face, then sliding over my form, my arms,
my torso. The invisible caress bringing the blood in my veins to the
surface of my skin in a heated blush.

His look told me that he had seen and, worse, he returned my thoughts.
It terrified me. It excited me. A million and one emotions tore
through me till I felt weak and sick to my stomach with apprehension
and desire.

That's when it began. He waged his seduction as a war. A war on my
senses, on my sense of self. But he did not charge into battle with a
hew and a cry, battering down my defenses with a brutal assault. I
might have been able to handle anything that direct. No, he was much
more insidious and underhanded.

It started with the looks. Whatever he had seen that day he returned
it a thousand fold. Momentary gazes filled with such longing it made
my heart ache and such heat my bones felt the consistency of jello.

Then came the worst of it. The touches. Oh, he was too clever to do
anything at all threatening, nothing that could be construed as sexual
harassment. Not by anyone but me, that is. The familiar hand at the
small of my back pressed a bit more firmly, lingered just a touch
longer, and in leaving stroked downward, just short of a caress. His
arm would brush against me when we spoke, leaning into my personal
space. Something he always did, but now seemed to do more often.

In discussion he'd lean in, his breath, hot and moist, teasing my ear.
His everyday conversation bearing an underlying message. 'I know you
have a secret. I want to uncover that secret, to savor it. You can't
hide forever.'

I hate him. I love him. I fear him. I want him. I rage against him. Oh
God, how I want to give in.

If this were any other man I'd despise him for this. For seeing a
moment of weakness and charging in, trying to win a trophy. Notch
their bedpost. Objectify me and disregard me in some inane need to
sexually dominate me. If it were any other man I'd have ripped his
balls off and handed them to him on an autopsy tray.

But this isn't any other man. This is Mulder. He has not ceased to
listen to me, to value my opinions, even when disagreeing with them.
He isn't seeking a notch on his bedpost. He doesn't even own a bed.

No, instinctively I know this is something infinitely more dangerous
then some display of male libido. He doesn't want to get me into bed
and toss me aside. Oh, Lord help me. He wanted to play for keeps. It
was in his eyes. In the heart he wears on his sleeve at times. But
mostly I knew this, know this, because it is Mulder. My Mulder. He
plays for keeps. He doesn't just want to devour my body. He wants to
lay a claim on my soul. If I give in, I will lose myself in him. He'll
consume me. And I'm terrified there won't be anything left.

We'd been away on a case last week. For a while I almost convinced
myself that I had been mistaken. That all was as it had been before.
Mulder was immersed in the work. He applied his own particular genius,
his twisted logic. I disputed him, pulled him back, and made him look
for evidence. It was the parry and thrust of our work as it always had
been. We both focused on the work, gave it our all. It's what we do. I
almost had assured myself that the prior week had been a delusion
brought on by too little sleep and too many long nights without the
warmth of a body beside mine. Almost. Until the last night. After we
wrapped up the case. Caught the bad guy.

Earlier that day I watched his hands as they traced over a bleached
bone. A femur. A clue that had eventually led us to the UNSUB. The way
the long, tapered digits ran over the hard surface. Stroking, tracing
each imperfection, each ridge. I imagined how they would feel on my
skin. Warm and soft. Delicate and demanding. Mulder has beautiful
hands. Pianist's hands. There is a grace to their movement, yet a
strength to their make up.

That night, with our battle against the world won for now, when
defenses were down, he raised the stakes in our own private war.

I was finished my part of the field report, hunched over my laptop. My
neck was sore from the position and the days tension. I rolled my head
from side to side, to try to find some relief.

Then I felt them. Those hands. They gently brushed away my hair,
baring the back of my neck. I shivered, remembering a similar caress,
long ago, in the cold of Alaska, under less peaceful circumstances.
Those hands, dry and warm and strong, stroked from the base of my
skull to the base of my neck. Ripples of sensation flowed over my
skin. Awareness, primal and needy, shot through me. I forgot how to
breathe as those strong fingers dug in. Finding a hard knot of tension
he plied it. Knowing just what pressure to apply, just how to soothe,
and arouse. Wrapping me in some delirious spell.

As my traitorous muscles became pliant and lax under his burning touch
I felt the heat coil in my stomach, lower. Tingling where I wanted to
feel those fingers work next.

The knots gone his touch gentled, stilling me as his fingers glided
over the sensitive skin at my nape. I swear I could feel each ridge
and swirl of his fingerprints branded into my flesh. I closed my eyes.


Something softer than fingertips pressed to my hungry flesh, then.
Soft and hot and moist. His lips. I sat, frozen, as he pressed his
lips over the tiny scar at the back of my neck. The one over the chip
he believes holds the shadow of death within me at bay. For the
briefest instant I feel the electric jolt of his tongue just touching
my skin. It scorches me. Then it's gone. He's gone. I hear the door
connecting our rooms close softly and I open my eyes.

He had left me, alone, in my room. My body the thrumming jumble of
over-sensitized nerves. Left me. Cold and wanting. Alone. Bastard. I
realized then that I had been holding my breath from the moment his
lips touched me, and I let it out in a shaky hiss. I didn't get much
sleep that night. My only comforts were my own hands and the sounds of
tossing and turning in the next room.

This past week has been played out at home. In our office, at lunch.
All the little brushes, touches, and those damnable looks of such
erotic longing. It's slowly driving me mad. I feel taut as a slinky
pulled straight. Any moment I will snap back, all out of shape and
lacking my former order.

If I give in I am lost. If I hold my ground I go insane. If I
retreat... If I retreat he will follow. Damn him. He will never give
up. He will hold on with the tenacity of a pit bull. I am lost
already.

Gossamer veil
Living flame sheathed in silken tresses.
Flowing
Cool over my burning skin.
Aching
To see it spread round you,
Sweat damp from our passion.
Imagine
It tickling down my chest
Or brushing my thighs.
Your hair
Its fragrance alone stirs my blood.

I have to admit I've been playing by ear. Oh, I planned this
seduction, yes. Over one thousand, eight hundred and twenty odd
nights. Fantasies, most much more tame than anyone might expect of me.
Some as prosaic and simple as holding her hand, feeling the pressure
of her fingers against my knuckles as she squeezes, communicating
love, tenderness, intimacy. A few of them, however, have been as hotly
erotic as a eighteen year habit for porn can possibly make them.

I find it funny, really, considering my usual brand of entertainment,
that not even in my most frenzied and wettest dreams have I ever
dreamt of fucking her. I don't shrink from the word. Everyone needs a
good fuck at least once in their life. As a matter of fact, when I'm
not moderating my speech out of respect for Scully's feminine nature,
I tend to use the word with embarrassing frequency. The best swearing
an Oxford education can buy can flow from my mouth.

But I never once imagined fucking Scully. Making love to her, yes.
Bringing her to the very pinnacle of pleasure again and again, hell
yes. I've imagined stroking her, touching her, tasting her, the feel
of her, the sounds she'd make, the smell of sex surrounding us. But
not one single flash of a good, fast fuck.

She deserves better than that. Now, I could go into a long convoluted
explanation of precisely why my imagination has such a tender bent
towards my partner. I could quote chapter and verse on Goddess Complex
or fear of losing her to my more animal nature. I'm a psychologist,
after all. I know about all these things. But they all mean exactly
jack-shit in this situation. The fact is I am hopelessly in love with
her and would happily kill anyone who'd do anything so carelessly
insensitive as fuck her.

Which is where seduction comes in. Ever since I knew she wanted me at
least as much as I want her, I knew I was going to have to prime for
battle.

Scully is going to have all these neat and tight little reasons why we
shouldn't. Each completely irrelevant and easily contested. She is
going to fear the effect it might have on our work. Too distracting.
Yeah, as if standing around imagining what her skin tastes like isn't
distracting. At least if I KNOW what being with her is like the
distraction would be limited to looking forward to doing it again, the
security of knowing it WOULD happen again and a solemn promise from
her that she would never, EVER lick her lips while on duty again.

I don't know why I'm not quaking in my Reeboks at the thought of being
with Scully. I guess by now I have rationalized away all those
niggling little doubts that I know still plague her. After all, one
thousand, eight hundred and twenty two odd nights is a LONG time for
introspection.

I think back to the hotel last week. The feel of her skin under my
palm. Soft, smooth, the texture of rose petals, yet so warm, so alive.
Tender and creamy. The feel of her hair against the backs of my
hands. The soft fragrance of her shampoo and her own Scullyscent
wafting up at me. Each strand shining copper gold in the artificial
light of the desk lamp. The color of strawberries and fire. Ready to
burn me.

The tiny groan ripped from her throat that night almost undid me. I
had to leave before I did something rash and stupid. She was close to
being ready, but she wasn't ready yet.

I intend each time I brush against her to paint a slow picture of
desire. I want every touch I give her to set her senses aflame. I want
her to know exactly how much I want her. To feel her against me,
around me, through me. So when we finally do come together it will be
a force of nature. All encompassing, devastating, forever changing the
landscape of our lives and thoughts.

So I sit here now, on my own couch, the muffled groans on my
television set becoming nothing but background white noise as my hand
squeezed the terrible aching heat of my cock. I imagine the taste of
her skin. The clean tangy salt of it where I had pressed the tip of my
tongue. How it would change when slicked with sweat. How her eyes
would bear that look of hunger as she rose up above me. My hand is
proving to be a poor substitute for the tight furnace of her exquisite
little body.

When I come I come alone. My hand and stomach covered with the thick,
white accusation of my own unfaithfulness with myself. I've achieved
release, yet I'm left wanting. It was so damn empty and cold, even
with the phantom image of her. I've had enough of fantasy, damnit. I
want the real thing. I want to lay back, replete and satiated, my body
still locked with hers, feeling her heartbeat through my shaft.
Keeping me warm, keeping me alive.

Soon. Soon she's going to snap. My guess is she's going to cover her
insecurity with anger. I trust her not to shoot me again. I'll get
through the anger. I'll cut through it with the Truth. Perhaps the
only real, pure, ungarnished Truth we may ever know.

The Truth is we have something few people ever get a chance at. The
Truth is we already belong to each other. The Truth is if I don't hear
her voice catch on my name soon I'm likely to spontaneously combust.


end part 1...


Poetry In Motion
by Rhondda Lake
(part 2/2)

Warm as honey
The feel of your flesh against my own.
Straining
I want to feel you in me.
Torture
You tease my waiting need
Glory, in desire.
Intimate
As you press against me.
Would you feed on me
If I
Spread myself open to your touch?

My fingers drum against the steering wheel. I have to end this.
Tonight. There, decision made. Traffic between my apartment and
Mulder's is light at this time of night.

I revel in the darkness. I need its concealment tonight. I need the
shadows to hide me. To give me security in what I know I must do. My
stomach tightens. He probably never will have contemplated what I am
about to do. His own ego sometimes blinds him to reality. Who am I
kidding? Sometimes?

Before I realize it, much too soon, I am pulling up to Mulder's
apartment building. Is it fate or dumb luck that the space just in
front of Mulder's car is open? And if it's luck, is that luck good or
bad?

I pull in and turn off the engine, feeling my car cease to vibrate
around me. In the dark silence I hear my own labored breathing. Damn.
I have to get a grip. I have to face this. I am about to face Mulder.
I have to be strong or I'll crumble. I have to follow through with my
intent. I have to stop this whole mad carnival ride before we careen
out of control.

As I ride the elevator up I feel my heart hammer in my chest. I try to
still it, to allow the mask of distance and professionalism conceal my
inner turmoil. I just hope I'm doing the right thing.

At his door I hesitate. The number four has fallen off, again. I stare
at the number left as if it held the answer to the meaning of life.
The universe. Everything. But it only gleams back at me, keeping its
secrets. Gathering my courage I knock. I hold my breath, waiting to
hear his voice.

And I wait.

Damn, this wasn't in the plan. I knock again.

Nothing.

Where the hell can he be at eleven forty six at night? My courage
wavers for an instant before my resolve hardens around it. I dig out
my key. I'll just wait inside. This is important.

I slip inside to find the light by the couch is on. Then I hear it.
The distant hiss of the shower. No wonder he didn't answer the door.

My mind flashes on an image of a wet and naked Mulder. This time not
huddled in a tub trying to get warm, but standing and vibrant and
healthy. I refuse to let my knees shake.

Dana Scully, I tell myself, you came here to do a job, now stick to it
and get it done.

My back straightens and my chin lifts. I march purposefully to the
bathroom door. I open it to be smothered in oppressive mist. The steam
formerly filling the small room escapes to freedom all around me,
mowing down everything in its path, including myself.

I step inside.

Mulder whips aside the shower curtain and grabs my wrist. The water
instantly soaking my sleeve. I jump, but make no sound. I don't think
I can for a moment.

Water runs over his chest, slicking down the sparse hair there, before
sliding down his ribs, his navel, the thatch of dark hair where his
sex nestles. He practically shines with water as the spray continues
to beat against him. Glorious.

"Scully?" The sound of shock in his voice pulls my attention back to
his face. His hair is plastered to his head and he was blinking the
water out of his eyes.

"What do you plan on doing, Mulder? Soaping me to death?" I gesture to
the bar of Irish Spring in the hand not locked around my wrist.

His eyes flick to the bar of soap and he must have just been hit with
the utter ridiculous nature of the situation. I think he's actually
blushing.

"Scully, I'm in the shower."

I nod. "I can see that, Mulder."

"I'm naked."

I let my eyes rake over him once more. Is that a twitch I see? "I can
see that, Mulder."

"Do you mind?" His tone had become exasperated.

"Not at all." I smirk and take a step back, forcing him to release my
soaking arm. I make no move for the door, but rather, place the lid
down on the toilet and sit myself down. I raise my eyes to see Mulder
looking at me, his eyes about to pop from his head.

"I'd like to finish and dry off." He choked out at long last.

"Be my guest." I gestured to him. "Go right ahead. Don't let me stop
you."

The shower curtain slides shut with a snap. The water stops and I see
his arm reach out to snatch a towel from the rack.

I check my own sodden sweater. Damn, he soaked my watch. I hope it
isn't ruined.

I hear the curtain slide back again and look up. Oh my. He's decided
to play along.

He finishes swiping his chest with the towel then tosses it to the
floor. He stands before me unselfconciously nude. The air is suddenly
oppressive again and I'm not certain it's just the steam buildup. I
could tell I had his... er... interest.

I take a deep breath of humid air.

"Mulder I've decided this has got to stop." I stand and raise my chin
in defiance. "I just can't work like this anymore."

"Stop what, Scully?" He crosses his arms and allows his eyes to settle
over me. He actually wants me to say it.

"THIS!" I gesture between us. "This teasing, this pushing, this thing
that you're doing. All of it."

"Scully, you're the one standing in MY bathroom." He has such a flair
for the obvious.

"Yes I am. Because I decided it has to end, not tomorrow, not next
week. Tonight. Right this minute." I start to walk past him, toward
the door, then I veer suddenly and reach up to take hold of the back
of his neck. I pull his face down as I reach up on tip toes and lock
my mouth over his.

I almost smile in triumph. I have just thrown Fox Mulder for a loop.
He gasps and I sweep my tongue into his mouth. He tastes of darkness
and secrets, of obsession and passion and danger. He tastes of all the
things your mother warned you about when you were a teenager.

I trace the smooth roof of his mouth before seeking more mobile prey.
I'm not given that chance. All of a sudden his hand is at the base of
MY skull, cradling my head and offering no escape. His other hand is
at the small of my back, pulling me to him, and Fox Mulder is most
definitely kissing me back.

I want your taste.
Salty-sweet forbidden fruit cocktail.
Running
Pure, hot and slick down my throat.
I need
Your dark and musky scent
Filling all my senses.
Can you feel
My tongue bind a love knot
Round your inner child?
Your lips
Wrap around my name as you come.

How did I get here? Is my life reflecting a dream or is my dream
reflecting my life? Why the hell am I asking philosophical questions
when my arms are full of soft, pliant Scully?

>From the first moment her sharp little tongue invaded my mouth I was
gone. Lost. Completely captivated. I had never expected her to take
the offensive. I had thought I would have to convince her. God, I am
an idiot sometimes.

Her mouth, I'm drowning in her mouth. Hot, hungry against mine. Her
tongue dueling with mine, the feel of the sweet invasion, the taste of
spices and hidden delights. That's it, Scully, let me in.

Her own mouth is intoxicating. It's a heady drink that steals reason
and thought. I'm drunk in an instant, and know I'll crave this philter
ever after as a drunkard craves alcohol. I need to know every texture,
every dimension of her mouth.

What was that? That moaning sound again. It vibrates along her tongue.
I tear myself away, taking in a great gulp of air as we break the
kiss. My forehead rests against hers, both of us are breathing hard.
Regaining our balance.

"Scully," my words are thick in my mouth. I have to bite around them
to speak. "If you don't want me to rip your clothes off and make love
to you until you scream yourself hoarse, you had better go now."

Her small, capable hands slide from around my neck, over my
collarbones and down my chest. Manicured nails circle and torment my
own nipples and a soul deep shudder rips through my body.

"Mulder, you already ruined my sweater, what's a few more pieces of
clothing?"

When did she begin to lead this dance? Not that I much care who leads,
as long as the rhythm is right.

"Let's get this off you before you get chilled." I reach around and
pull the sweater up, up and over her head. She helps me, watching the
soft green knit drop to the floor with an audible, wet plop.

"I'm touched by your concern for my welfare," she manages to drawl as
she turns those eyes back to me. There it is. That look. The look I
vowed to see again. The look I'm not about to let fade from those
sapphire depths.

I only smile softly and twine my fingers with hers, tugging her to the
door. We emerge from the sultry heat of the bathroom into the cool
dryness of my living room. The change causes our flesh to pucker and
twitch.

I pull her closer and place light, fluttering kisses on her forehead,
over her eyes, her cheeks, her nose, her chin. A soft humming emanates
from her. The human variation of purring.

Her palms smooth over my shoulders, down my biceps, giving my skin
momentary heat only to leave it pucker again in the cool air.

I nip at her earlobe, my tongue toying with the tiny stud laced
through it. "You are still wearing too many clothes," I growl into her
ear.

Her quiet laugh dances in my ears, playing along my nerve endings and
sending spikes of desire down my spine. "We'll have to rectify that
situation." Her whisper burns my ear.

She steps back and reaches behind to undo her bra. I stand, transfixed
as the scrap of plain tan satin slides down, catches for a moment on
one hardened nipple, then flutters gracefully to the floor. She is
perfect.

I groan, as I feel all the blood leave most of my extremities. Her
smile, taunting and wicked, promises more.

She does not allow me to help her. This part is for me. She slides her
pants down her legs, bending down so that her breasts jiggle
invitingly. Next her panties. She steps out of her shoes and her
puddled clothing with care.

I cannot move. I am not paralyzed by fear or uncertainty. No. I feel
myself held captive by her presence. The soft curves of her ivory
luminance. I ache to touch her.

"Get on the couch." It's somewhere between a command and a request
that earns me an arched eyebrow. But she does as asked. Her white skin
outlines perfectly by the black leather as she sits. "No. Lay down. On
your stomach?"

Now she really looks confused. "Trust me." I add, softly.

She does. I approach her slowly, pulling in all my self control.
Gently I swing one leg over her hips and seat myself in the curve just
above her ass, carefully keeping my weight off her for the most part.
My hand reaches up to brush the strands of red silk away from her
neck.

"What are you doing?" She tries to turn but I won't let her.

I lean forward, my erection pressing into her back. "Picking up where
I left off."

My hands cover her small shoulders and stroke down even as my mouth
settles over the spot. The tiny scar. My tongue dances out to touch
it. Then I press my mouth lower. Over the vertebrae just below the
scar. Open mouthed I let my tongue trace the ridge and shape. Bone
directly under skin. I feel her shiver.

My hands continue to stroke, to caress, as I move to the next
vertebrae, the next. As I move down I am forced to slide myself down
as well, rubbing myself against her back, her ass, her legs. Glorying
in the glide of skin over skin. Dana Scully is an all encompassing
experience. I want all of my senses involved. I want all of her senses
involved.

My wandering hands confine themselves to the smooth expanse of her
back. Her skin is touched by hundreds of tiny fairy kiss freckles.
They beckon me to follow their trail, see what wonders they will lead
me to. I want to touch and taste every one. My nose nuzzles her skin,
taking in the scent of woman aroused. Not any woman, Scully. I feel
the gooseflesh and the heat, and a surge of pride flows through me. I
did this, I'm bringing this flush to her skin. I'm making her shiver
and gasp. Nothing has ever made me feel so powerful, so alive.

My lips follow her spine to the upsweep of her beautiful ass. I
scatter kisses there as well. The soft, firm skin gives under my lips,
the muscle twitches beneath them. My tongue traces that exquisite line
where the top of her thighs mate with the swell of her buttocks. First
one, then the other. She shivers again and I get up and move away from
her legs. My shaft dancing over the backs of her legs, hot and hard
and ready. Not yet. I'm not done playing.

I move down the backs of her thighs. My fingers seek every spot that
makes her start or moan. My tongue writes hot slick runes of desire on
her skin. Down, down, until I gently nip each heel.

I move up and gently turn her over. Oh God, please have mercy on my
soul. She's flushed and breathing rapidly. I can smell the earthy musk
of her arousal. Her eyes... One look into them and all my former
imaginings of power slip away. Dark with passion those eyes hold
complete power over me. They can tear me apart, destroying me utterly,
or they can look at me like this and make me feel the king of the
world.

I bring my face close to hers. My eyes looking into hers until I see
myself reflected back. I can see each strand of color. Her eyes are
not merely blue, but a hundred little shades of blue blending in a
spoked wheel to create the changes of shade based on mood and emotion.
Her pupils are open wide, there is wonder there.

I feel her little panting breaths blow into my face. I taste her in
those breaths. Her arms raise and twine about my neck, settling there.
I feel her fingers weave through my hair, her manicured nails scraping
my scalp.

I kiss her again. How easily I am lost in the delicious, wet heat of
her mouth. Relishing the slide of her taste buds on mine.

My hand slides down her neck, between her breasts, over her stomach. I
feel the crisp, damp curls at her apex against my palm. I think I can
die happy now.

As my mouth devours hers my fingers part her. Her thighs move apart to
allow this invasion and I note the triumph of such compliance. She is
so hot I feel the first layer of my skin blister from it. I keep my
hand from shaking by a force of will I hadn't known I possessed. I
feel her, and savor how she arches up into my palm. My fingers
discover the joy of reading the braille that is Scully. This fold
spells 'desire', this one 'need', and this one... this one 'paradise'.
I swallow the sounds she makes, consuming them. They feed me, feed my
own desire.

I slip a finger inside easily. She is so slick with wanting. Then a
second. My thumb finds that tiny bundle of nerves that holds the key
to her passion. My fingers press and tease, slide in, then slowly out,
only to return as my thumb circles her. She is an over-ripe peach in
my hand, and I feel the fruit burst as her body convulses. My heart
stops. Time stills. I've done this. I've made Dana Scully come. I felt
like a god. I break the kiss to allow her to finish riding the wave.
When she has stilled enough I keep my eyes locked on hers as I raise
my hand. I suck my two fingers into my mouth, taking in the smoky,
salty sweetness of her peach nectar. I close my eyes at last, partly
to savor the moment, the taste of her. Partly to keep the sight of her
from driving me mad.

You are my life.
With each thrust you bring joy to my flesh.
Joining
Our hearts and bodies as one.
Rapture
Between my thighs and yet
My heart does clench as well.
Can there be
Bliss in slapping wetness?
Hot-hard invasion.
Give me
The future as you flood my womb.

Oh my God. I try to bring my body back into solid form. I've melted,
liquified and flowed over Mulder's hands. He's done this to me. His
lips, his hands have done this, and I feel weak as the proverbial
kitten in the aftermath.

Somehow, despite the incredible orgasm I'd just been gifted with I'm
still hot, still hungry, still horny. Damn. Mulder might just turn me
into a nymphomaniac yet.

I open my eyes, trying to regain my sight after the blinding pleasure,
only to look upon Mulder, drawing his fingers into his mouth, his eyes
closing, savoring the taste of me. Amazing. It's one of the most
erotic things I have ever seen. I am the object of that oral fixation
for the first time. I was just to the point I could form a sentence
again and just like that the ability is gone.

Unable to vocalize I decide to take that 'unspoken communication' of
ours to the next level.

I reach out and wrap my fingers delicately around his wrist. His eyes
slide open, looking at me, into me. I pull his fingers from his mouth
and draw his hand to my own lips. My tongue darts out to taste. There
is very little bitter-sweet saltiness left. Mostly I can taste him. I
wrap my lips around those fingers and twist my tongue around them. The
smoothness of fingernail, the slight roughness of skin. I suckle those
fingers, lost in the feeling of having at least something of him
inside of me.

I watch his face as I do this. He swallows hard and licks his lips.
His eyes are riveted on my mouth. Fascinated by this simple display.

He pulls his hand away with reluctance. I don't know what he had
planned but I'm not done playing yet. I want to taste more.

I lean up on one elbow and attack his throat. His gasp makes my
stomach flutter. My teeth close gently over tendon. He tastes so good.
Mysteries and sex and maleness. I love his flavor. I crave more.
Open-mouthed promises made against flesh and muscle. I move from his
throat to his chest. The hair there rasps against my tongue. It tastes
clean and sweet. Soap and sweat.

I have regained my energy. His taste and feel are a restorative. The
best carbo drinks in the world can't come close to this.

I manage to move swiftly. Pushing him back and swinging myself off his
couch so we are both laying on the floor. Or rather Mulder is laying
on the floor, I'm laying on him. The air seems to leak from my lungs
at this particular tactile delight. How can skin so soft be so hard
all at the same time? I deliberately drag my body up his a bit,
enjoying the sparks the friction ignites.

"I should have known you like it on top." His smirk is lopsided. It
quickly fades and his teeth close over his bottom lip as I run my hand
up his leg.

The light from the fish tank over out heads cover us with rippling
movement. Even still we seem to writhe, lost in this lovers' waltz. I
slide to the side.

"This isn't about dominance, Mulder." I smile to see him turn, facing
me. We both lay on our sides as his arm snakes around me, pulling my
body against his. I don't think either of us can get enough of this
touching.

"I know. It's all about give and take." He's kissing me again. Not
devouring as before. Oh, there is passion here, it shivers through us
both, but this kiss is tender, telegraphing love and acceptance.
Trust.

When he breaks the kiss he's looking into my eyes again. I wonder what
he sees there: can he see the wonder I am feeling? Can he see the
love? The desire?

I stroke my free hand down his side. I find him. Looking down I can
see his erection. It is an impressive site. Dark, hot and gleaming
against the paleness of my thigh. I run my fingers over it and he
hisses as his hips thrust forward.

"I think I can take you giving me this." I can feel the drops of
sticky wetness against my fingers and I gently massage that clear
fluid over the head of his shaft. God, it's beautiful. He is
beautiful. I need him inside me soon.

He swallows hard at my words and I look back up into his face. "Do you
have any idea what you're doing to me?" His voice is a rough rumble,
shaking with some unidentifiable force.

"I have an idea. But I know what I'd rather be doing to you." I give
him a gentle squeeze.

His hand locks around my wrist. Oh my, haven't we been HERE before? He
pulls my hand away. Then he releases me to run his palm down my thigh,
sending little shivers up my leg and right to the very heart of me. He
smiles at my shiver. His smile is glorious.

He turns slightly and sits up, holding his hand out to me. I take it.
He pulls me into a sitting position and faces me. I grasp what he
intends as I inch forward, draping my legs over his thighs. He
hesitates.

"Scully, protec..." My fingers fall against his lips and I shush him.
I am deeply touched that he thought of it.

"We both know that isn't needed. Not with me. And I saw your charts
last time you wanted to play doctor with a real hospital staff."

I wince inside at the pain that flashes across his features. I know.
It hurts me, too. However, I will not allow that to darken this. This
is for us.

"I want to feel you inside me. I want to feel your heat. I want this."
I wriggle forward a bit more, my thighs wide as I straddle his hips,
that heat just touches me.

His hands move to my ass and he lifts me, slightly, pulling me
forward. Onto him. Into him. My arms wrap around him and I pull him
close. Our mutual embrace slides him home. He is hot and thick and
rich and so deep inside me I can taste him on my soul. This is
perfect. This is bliss. I could stay like this forever.

But no, he has other ideas. Jesus, he is moving. Slow, lazy, circling
movements with his hips. Grinding his pelvis against me. I could weep
with the perfect pleasure of it.

I feel his tongue lap up a tear from my cheek. This position, sitting
face to face makes us equal. Share the work, share the moment. We are
of a height like this. I smile for him and kiss that small, dark mole
on his cheek, I nibble his jaw as I place one hand behind me on the
floor for leverage and use it to push me up, starting a rhythm.

I feel his hands cup my breasts and I lean back placing more weight on
my arm, giving him access. His mouth works wonders. Miracles. I can
believe in the paranormal abilities of Mulder's mouth without
reservation. He teases my breasts as he strokes into and out of me, as
we stroke together. Both of us striving for that goal. He nips and
licks and suckles until the thread of desire is pulled so tight I fear
it will snap.

And still he fills me. Heavy and hard inside me. I hadn't known I was
empty until now. I can feel the veins that run along him, feel the
pulse of his heart in the walls of my vagina. I can feel him pulse and
throb as we come together. So deep, so deep, clear into the next
dimension of me. This is my claim. This is my promise. Fox William
Mulder, you are mine.

I hear him chuckle and open my eyes to see his face. I had said that
aloud. "I still don't know why you want me, but I'm yours. And you're
mine. And God help anyone who tries to take this from us." He pumps
up, into me.

This slow minuet has sped up. The cadence becoming more frenzied. Our
mutual need feeding our efforts. Every stroke in rubs against my
center. Pushing me closer and closer.

Stars explode behind my eyes and angels sing. I hear a shout from
someplace far away as my whole body tightens and convulses. Mulder
catches me. His arms around me, holding me to him, pressing us so
close together our cells threaten to merge. Then I hear a second cry
as a flood of boiling heat erupts within me. Mulder, it is Mulder
filling me with his hopes of the future. His love.

I feel my head fall forward, my breath reflects back to me against his
neck. Our heartbeats hammer together, those fragile organs separated
now only by the measure of bone and skin between us.

Our breathing is harsh gasps. Desperate grabs for air as we seek to
stay alive in the aftermath of the nuclear explosion that has just
occurred. I feel his arms around me as he lays us back down, side by
side. Still together.

We will always be. I face this fact, now, without fear. We will
always be together.

Perfect heaven
This joy I find only in your arms.
Resting
Against our rich passions, spent.
Peaceful
This, your place, safe and warm
We lay linked together.
Your heartbeat
surrounds my spent desire
Reaffirming us.
Sweat slicked
Bodies entwined in soft repose.


My arm is asleep and I don't care. The little pinpricks of sensation
only add to the afterglowing imagery in my mind. I hold Scully against
me, against my heart, against all that I am and all that I will be.

I think she's fallen asleep. How can she sleep on a bare carpet, with
only me to blanket her? It doesn't matter. I'll keep her warm.

I feel a single tear track from the corner of my eye. My heart is
aching with perfect joy, if only for this moment. There will be other
moments. Hell, give me room to breath and assimilate all that's
happened here and there's gonna be another moment before the hour's
out. These are the moments I will hoard to my heart, to my memory.
Bringing them out when things get dark again. They always get dark
again. But now I'll have Scully there to lend me her light.

I smell the heavy musk of sex surrounding us and take it in. This is
our scent. The scent of us together. This is our breathing, flowing
together to create music. This is our hearts, beating in tandem. This
is our moment.

I know there will be rough edges in this relationship. I know there
will be moments of anger and hurt. I know there will be trials
aplenty. I also know that, side by side, we are invincible. We can
overcome anything. Even our own contrary natures.

I run the fingertips of the hand that's NOT asleep down Scully's back.
This is my hope. My Truth. My light. This woman. This love.

Our own temperament and natures are constantly changing, our hopes and
dreams always in motion. But there is a poetry to that motion. A
sublime symmetry that causes us to flow together, and there is
strength in that combination. I have no regrets.

That's what I always wanted as my epitaph. No regrets. Scully has
given me this single moment where that rings true. There will be other
times, and I'm looking forward to discovering each and every one of
them. With her. Always, with her.

-fin
---------------------------------

A Purple Rhino stands at a street corner holding a sign. "Will write