TITLE:   VISIONS OF MULDERPLUMS
AUTHOR:  JACQUIE LAVA
RATING:  NC-17
CATEGORY:  MSR
CLASSIFICATION:  HOLIDAY FIC
KEYWORDS:  DUEL POVs
SPOILERS:  Well... just keep your mind away from Requiem and all of
Season 8, and no one'll get hurt...
SUMMARY: When will Mulder learn to keep Scully away from Vodka
Shooters? Never, if the end result ends in his favor...

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Oh, the look on your face - how I wish I had a camera. Shock, pure
and simple... wide-eyed shock. You weren't expecting this, were you?
Of course you weren't.

I think you knew we'd have a nice dinner, and maybe dance a slow one
or two - I think you figured we'd hold each other close and I'd press
my cheek to the starched white of your shirt, and the music would
flow through us as we moved. Maybe there would be a kiss under the
mistletoe. After seven years of knowing each other a kiss would
surely be in order, don't you think? Something warm and sweet; a
touch of affection from you to me - lips not quite closed but not too
open, no tongue. Hands cupping my cheeks, perhaps; while mine curve
around the back of your neck - a firm yet tender press of mouth to
mouth.

Maybe it would have gone down that way, but for the vodka shooters.
But of course, you had no way of knowing, did you? What vodka does
to me; to my inhibitions. And I had no idea I was drinking vodka.
The glasses were already filled and the trays passed around by
smiling white-coated waiters. Innocuous-looking... deadly. I had no
idea.

And I had no clue as to the level of nervousness I would be
sporting, being here with you. Silly, very silly - I know that now.
But this was a date, of sorts - and I was seeing you in a different
light - and I was nervous and I saw alcoholic liquid of some sort
making its way around the crowded room - and I grabbed. Several
times, as a matter of fact. Enough to bolster my nerves. Enough to
embolden me quite a little bit.

Enough to open my mouth under yours in a kiss that just about
swallowed you whole...

Merry Christmas, Partner.

You know, just three days ago I was running all over town hunting
for a suitable dress. I hadn't purchased anything beyond business
suits, for years. I hadn't needed to. By choice, I admit freely -
but now, thinking ahead to this night, I know that I wanted to,
needed to look my best, for you. I wanted to look that way for you -
so you could wear the exact look of stunned amazement you wore when I
opened my door to you. Your low, "Scully... wow..." put a big smile
on my face. Any worry that I had spent far too much money on an
article of clothing was immediately soothed, as I took in the
expression in your eyes. I could feel myself blushing... and in that
moment I felt more womanly than I'd felt in a very long time.

The dress was simplicity on the hanger and calculated seduction when
on the body. Not that I had planned it that way... I hadn't. But I
could not resist it. I'd seen it in the window of the very last
boutique I'd visited, by then desperate to find something, anything -
and the dress had my name written all over it. A slip of deep blue-
grape, in some lights almost black; pure thick raw silk cut on the
bias, with little spaghetti straps and falling diagonally from my
right knee to my left ankle... it was perfect. It clung in all the
right places and gently skimmed the wrong ones; made me look taller
and slimmer and sexier and more sultry than I had ever looked - ever.
The sales clerk gasped when I walked out of the dressing room - and a
man sitting on a low stool waiting for his lady to finish trying on
clothes, fell off his stool gawking at me. I think he clinched it
for me - he was tall and dark-haired, like you. I thought if he
liked it, then maybe you would as well.

I found a pair of strappy, sexy black satin pumps with ridiculously
high stiletto heels; they had a thin line of rhinestones on the
straps. I adorned my ears and my neck with more rhinestones and wore
what I knew to be your favorite scent. I fussed a lot with my hair;
nerves mostly... but it seemed the more I played with it the better
it looked. Forty five minutes after messing with it my hair looked
damned gorgeous, I thought. As finished as possible, I perched on
the very edge of my sofa and waited. And waited.

Thirty minutes later you finally arrived; I was so relieved you made
it that it never occurred to me to actually look at my watch and
comprehend that I'd gotten ready a whole hour too soon... But the
look in your eyes made it all worthwhile, Mulder.

You have been so gallant all evening; holding doors and chairs for
me; fetching little plates of delectable food for me, even though
I've still been too nervous to eat... and you have refused to dance
with anyone but me. So gallant... making me so on edge with the
staggering possibilities contained in this evening, that I have
downed more vodka than I have ever consumed in my life... and it has
either made me very brave - or very foolhardy. Maybe a little bit of
both; I'm not sure. All I know is that in your arms I've felt as if
I've been allowed to touch a small spot of heaven and the music has
floated in and out of my consciousness, feather-light and dreamy.
It's our seventh year together as partners and I suddenly want it to
be our first together as something so much more... and the drink has
made me loose and completely relaxed - and open to extreme
possibilities.

So open that when you danced me over to a doorway adorned with
mistletoe, not realizing where your exuberant waltzing had taken
us... I decided that it was now or never. I looked up, hoping you'd
notice where my attention had wandered... hoping you'd take the not-
so-subtle hint -

Terrified when you did.

You smiled down at me with those eyes of yours, the look in them one
that renders me weak in the knees every time I see it. Countless
times in our past together that look has just about decimated me, and
you never knew it, did you? Never knew that with just that
particular look you could have anything you wanted of me; not
understanding the strength of power you have over me. Never taking
advantage of that power... until I gave you permission. Never
expecting you would ever get said permission...

Until now.

You glanced up at the scrap of mistletoe in the doorway, and then
down at me; murmuring, "Hey, Scully look - mistletoe. You know, what
the astronauts get when they don't change their socks." Your inane
banter made me laugh - I think I'd been doing a lot of that this
evening. Vodka is responsible for that, as well - making me laugh
like a hyena. And you didn't expect to hear my laugh; that much was
apparent by the surprise on your face as my giggles popped out. You
looked happy to hear it... as a matter of fact Mulder, you looked
delighted.

We were still swaying to the lilting strains of the waltz; if you
asked me now I couldn't tell you what it was. My eyes were locked to
yours, the laugh fading on my lips as the significance of where we
stood hit both of us. And when you indicated the mistletoe with a nod
of your head, and a soft, "It's traditional, Scully..." I nodded my
agreement and you bent down to me, and I lifted up to you - and when
your lips touched mine in a chaste but properly friendly kiss, I
obeyed my inner voice, the one who was drunk on vodka... and my lips
devoured yours.

The look on your face, Mulder...


*********************************

Am I dreaming? I must be dreaming, or high on something - some
substance which causes hallucinations. This can't be real. I am
standing in an open doorway at a ritzy hotel in downtown DC, holding
the most beautiful woman in the world in my arms - you - and you are
kissing the legs off me. Willingly. Hungrily.

When did I get so lucky? For that reason, why did I get so lucky?

This entire night has been that way - lucky. From the moment I
knocked on your door, not three hours ago... lucky. I remember going
into the elevator in your building; thinking to myself that I could
have found a prettier bouquet of flowers to give you; worrying that
we'd be uncomfortable around each other because it had been months
since we'd spoken to each other in any language except shop talk. I
knew I was putting much too much significance on a casual, "Sure,
Mulder - I'll go with you," when I had asked you a few weeks ago to
accompany me to the annual FBI holiday gala. This was only the
second gala I had attended and my first with you; usually we both
avoided these like the plague. This year it was impossible to
avoid... so here we go.

I knocked on your door and as I waited there I stuck a finger into
the neck of my tux shirt and tried to loosen the bow-tie. I hate
tuxes. This was the nicest tux I have ever worn, not that I noticed
much because to me they are all monkey suits. The breed of monkey
would be what decides the comfort level of the suit, I suppose... but
at that moment I could have worn a cashmere tux and I still would
have been itchy, hot, miserable and nervous as all get-out.

Then you opened the door, and I about fell to my knees - and forgot
all about my tux-griping.

I have never seen you look like this, Scully. I have seen you naked
for God's sake - and you've never looked like this. Your dress was a
sensual dream; dark and slinky and daring and elegant... and you had
on these amazing shoes. My friends at college used to call them
"fuck me" heels, and that's exactly what they were. I fought to keep
a mental image out of my head; of you with those heels on - and
nothing else - legs wrapped around my back... well, I fought, as I
said. I did not succeed very well, which was why I changed my focus
to other things... such as your hair. Oh, my...

Caught up on top of your head in a little twisty pouffy thing, and
all around your face these little kisses of wispy hairs clung to your
soft neck and your cheeks. I found myself having to actually clench
my hands to keep my fingers from touching each and every wisp, and
freeze the rest of me in place to assure my mouth would not take off
after my hands... and the only thing I could utter was, "Wow"...
It's a miracle I could form something that intelligible. But you
smiled at me; one of your rare, all-encompassing smiles - so I knew
I'd pleased you with my suave demeanor and my fulsome compliments...

And I have spent the evening dancing with you; the feel of you in my
arms so incredibly right... I have fed you and laughed with you - and
made you laugh as well; I have refused to let you dance with anyone
else and I have refused all offers myself. I have not cared about
the raised eyebrows and the knowing smiles. None of that has
mattered to me. I have had much more to drink than I have imbibed in
a very long time, and my loosened inhibitions have been a blessing
and a curse. When it at last dawned on me that we'd danced under a
doorway loaded with mistletoe, I never gave a single thought to
anyone else in the room. Not caring if we suddenly became the hot
topic of conversation... I wanted to kiss you. I wanted to kiss Dana
Scully, my partner of almost seven years; wanted it so badly I could
barely summon the wiles necessary to make it seem as if we'd danced
under this particular doorway in error.

I made some inane remark about mistletoe and astronauts with sock-
rot; I can't even remember now although it was only a few minutes
ago. I made you laugh again, that full-throated laugh I just want to
swallow up and savor... then it was as if all the gods in the heavens
smiled down on just me, because I bent down to you, and touched my
mouth to yours, knowing I would have to force myself to keep it
casual and yet affectionate; not wanting to scare you away with my
passion...

And your mouth opened under mine and with one soft sigh of pure
hunger, you slipped me the tongue - and every fantasy I'd ever had
slipped in right along with it.

My partner knows how to kiss.

I'm in way over my head, but I struggle to hold on. It's like
kissing a dream. I have touched your lips before in a kiss, but it
was never like this. And once I dared to run a finger over their
plump softness, as you slept in the car; on the way back from yet
another long day in the field. With your head leaning back against
the seat-rest, you seemed very deeply asleep, and I was fiercely
drawn to your lips. They'd looked so inviting; so rosy and tempting;
I had to touch them. You never woke up - and I never forgot the way
they felt against my fingertips, which I brought to my own mouth to
taste, imagining I tasted you. And I stole a look at you as I
pressed my fingers to my mouth, in a sudden panic that you might
awaken and see what I was doing - but you never did.

Of course, the reality of your kiss was nothing short of
apocalyptic... and I am now in the middle of it, feeling myself
sucked down into it - and I hope I never surface.

Every inch of your silky body is pressed to mine - head to toe - and
yet I have to pull you tighter, grab more and more of you. It never
occurs to me that we are still mostly in public view. Vaguely in the
distance I can hear faint music and the tinkling of glasses; hear
muted conversation all around me - but I feel so sorry for these
people because they don't know what they're missing, by not finding
their own mistletoe-laden doorway, and taking advantage of an ages-
old tradition. I lose count of the number of kisses we have
exchanged. I lose track of the number of times my heart has stopped
beating, only to kickstart again and pound in my chest, tripletime.
I lose sense and sensibility of everything, but you.

Your hands in my hair and your fingers pressing into my scalp - my
body throbbing and tightening in cadence with my poor overworked
heart. You could be lethal, Scully... good thing I'm a healthy,
horny male.

Good thing you match me, in that respect... if the tenor of your
breathing and the way you rub up against me is anything to judge...
And then as our mouths part from yet another draining kiss; as we
force ourselves to take in needed oxygen... a voice buzzing over my
shoulder, an annoyingly familiar voice pipes in with typical sarcasm
- and brings home to the both of us just what we have revealed of
ourselves here tonight.

"Jesus, Mulder... get a room, wouldja?"

I stiffen in shock, still trying to catch my breath... look over
your shoulder for the offensive clod who said that - and there's no
one that close to us; in fact, no one in particular even looks our
way. When I snap my eyes back to yours, knowing I have to have the
King Daddy of bemused confusion etched on my face - you bring a soft
palm to my cheek, and your throaty whisper instantly tightens every
muscle in my body.

"A room... what a great idea. How lucky for us I've already got
one..."

I gape at you in disbelief, and your calmly glowing eyes gaze right
back. Christ Almighty... you're serious.

Uh-oh... did I just say that aloud? I must have, since your face is
now wearing an expression of mingled exasperation and amusement.

***************************

Yes, I'm serious, Mulder... and I can see I've shocked the hell out
of you in more ways than one. We've just finished melding together
under the flimsiest of kissing excuses - mistletoe - to the apparent
enjoyment and viewing pleasure of more people than I care to
contemplate... people who know us; who work with us from week to
week. People who will no doubt go tearing off to Skinner, Kirsch and
God knows who else, and gleefully report what they have seen.

Ask me if I give a rat's ass, right about now. Believe me, I don't.
I open my mouth to speak; my tongue comes out to moisten suddenly dry
lips and I can see how that little movement fascinates you, Mulder.
And I can think of a lot that I could lick, besides my lips... I'll
show you later, if you're interested. But for now...

"Mulder... did you know I have been reading up on the Official Regs
and there really isn't any given rule which prohibits a relationship
between co-workers, within the Bureau? Not unless one of us is a
direct supervisor of the other - and we haven't been that in a very
long time. We can't use that as an excuse any longer, Partner..." I
move closer to you, and lay my palms upon your chest, right at nipple
level. I can do that to a man; fondle their nipples in public.
Sometimes being a woman is especially sweet... I watch you break out
in an actual sweat. Your nipples must be very sensitive to touch -
I'll have to remember that. I add, "We're running out of excuses,
you know - time to fish or cut bait." At that you smile, and cock
your head to the side, and I notice you're still holding me rather
tightly.

"Where on earth did you hear that antiquated phrase? It's something
I used to hear from the old-timers out on the Vineyard, all the time.
And I'm not cushioning myself with excuses, Scully - but you gotta
admit, both of us are not ourselves this evening. Maybe I have to
question the why of it, before I plan the when of it."

I nod slowly; your words make sense to me. But my head is floating
on a vodka-cloud, and my mouth is still thrumming from the kisses you
gave me not five minutes ago - and so the words you speak make just
enough sense for me to want to shut them down. I don't want to talk.
I want to feel, the way I have been feeling all evening since this
dance began; the way I felt when you came to my door and ate me alive
with those damn bedroom eyes of yours. I want it so much that I am
quite prepared to make every and all moves necessary; moves both
physical and verbal...

"I know the why of it, Mulder. It's simple... I want you. No,
actually it goes far beyond want. I crave you. Not that the term
'crave' is much better... I ache for you. That's what I feel... an
ache." I slip my hands down your tight abdomen and around to the
small globes of the most perfect male ass in the known world... and I
watch you close your eyes and swallow hard, swaying a little on your
feet. Hmmm... found another sensitive spot, didn't I? I'm getting
good at this. I continue stroking and cupping as I finish speaking.

"As for the 'when', Mulder... that's entirely up to you. I wasn't
kidding - I have a room. So do you, as a matter of fact. So does
everyone at this party. I got a memo last week, when you were out in
Bethesda finishing up that briefing. Our Fed gods aren't taking any
chances this year, that we'll be drinking and driving... the entire
hotel has been booked solid for us. All we had to do was ask... so I
did, for both of us. I can go downstairs and pick up my key anytime
I like. And I could also pick one up for you."

I press my fingertips a little deeper into your gluteus maximus; I
cannot believe how brazen a shitload of vodka can render me... I
think I like it. I look into your eyes - your dilated, smoky hazel
eyes... and I think I may want to change the 'like' to 'love'. Your
lips part; I stare at them, fascinated by the glimpse of inner moist
pink I am seeing. Your tongue; mmm. I may have to go after it, with
my own. A little tongue-tag... hope you're up for it, Partner. I
feel myself rising up on those stilts I insisted on wearing and
gentleman that you are, you obligingly bend your head down to me so I
can reach you. And the kiss you give me tells me in tones louder and
more strident than any mere words that you think a room is the best
idea I've had in a very long time... but just one room, in either of
our names. One room...

********************************

The air in the room is cool and smells of gardenias. I found it a
bit awkward unlocking a door with you flung over my shoulder in a
fireman's lift... but since I had been holding you that way since
we'd left the elevator, why stop now?

We'd traveled twenty floors alone in an elegantly-gilded elevator
cage, and for at least thirteen of those floors I kept your mouth so
busy that you couldn't draw breath. Not that you needed to, with me
giving you mouth to mouth. Pressed up against the wall, your dress a
silky barrier between me and my monkey-suit... I continued what you'd
started down in the doorway of the main ballroom of the Willard
Inter-Continental Hotel. I stood there leaning into you, hardly
comprehending that I had you in my arms this way; that every inch of
your soft little body was soaking into mine, and that you were there
willingly. I wonder if you had any idea, at that moment - what you
were doing to me? Or if you understand what you are doing to me
right now, this minute?

I let you slide down the front of me, and catch you before your feet
touch the carpeted floor. This is a very fancy room - and neither of
us will notice or even care until very late tomorrow morning, of that
I am positive. I only care that there are candles lit and scattered
here and there around the bedroom, and a bottle of champagne chilling
in a tall silver holder, next to the bed. Atmosphere, that's what it
is - very thoughtfully provided by hotel management, who probably
labor under the assumption that we are newlyweds. Well, I feel very
newly-created, at this very moment. Actually, I feel as if I have
never been alive until this very moment... and I find myself lost in
your eyes as I struggle to tell you how I am feeling. That I want
this so badly - but I can't help but worry a little.

"Scully... are we gonna regret this in the morning? I mean, I'm
not... but are you? Are you sure? This isn't just a ton of vodka
talking, is it?" Your eyes widen a little. I don't think you knew I
was keeping track of your intake, but I know what that much alcohol
does to a person, especially someone as petite as you. And I don't
want this to occur because of an overindulgence of booze. I don't
want it happening because you feel as though seven years is enough
foreplay, or because neither of us is getting any younger. I don't
want it because we haven't had it, from anybody, in so very long...

I want you to tell me you want it because you are madly,
passionately, irrevocably in love with me and you can't take another
day without me... the same as I am about to tell you. And I find
myself saying that, all of it - emptying those very words into the
cool, gardenia-scented air between us. The words spill from me,
thick and fast; I can no more stop them than stop breathing... which
I about do, as I hang suspended, waiting for your answer. I stare
unto your eyes and flounder in their blue depths, waiting for those
words; any words... and you cup my face with both your hands, and
your thumbs rub against my bottom lip. The caress dissolves me... as
do your words.

"Mulder... I am seven molecules away from sexual turpitude of a
Federal Agent, and I know at least four dozen people in that ballroom
downstairs who now comprehend with pure finality my feelings for you.
They can take out an ad in the DC Herald tomorrow for all I care. I
am so in love with you that I can't see straight. And if I don't get
skin to skin with you in the next five minutes I am going to go off
the deep end of what little sanity I have left." The words barely
leave your mouth before I scoop you up in a shaky embrace and cover
your mouth with mine. I tremble at the force of it, of what we have
between us. What we have always had, simmering down beneath the
surface of that so-called cool exterior I thought possessed in
abundance. Where has my cool gone?

Ask me if I care, Scully...

******************************

So this is what happens when I try to swing on the tail of a
slumbering tiger... I get eaten alive. I can't reach the floor with
either foot, and my heels hang on my ankles by a thin strap. My
dress is crumpled between us; with a growl you set me back on the
carpet long enough to pull it over my head, and then you jerk me up
into your arms again. I am face to face with you, and I lose myself
in the heat of your skin and the uneven puffs of breath that fan my
ear as you bury your face in my hair. You yank at the decorative
pins holding the mass in place and it comes tumbling down over your
fingers; and I feel the damp fire of your tongue slipping along my
cheek, until you reach my mouth, and take it deeply.

God, I love the way you kiss, Mulder.

You kiss as though you are starving and I am the only sustenance in
the universe; kiss as though your entire life depends upon it. Your
lips draw me in and your tongue takes complete control of mine;
alternately strokes, stabs and licks mine, until I am so dazzled by
the force of it that I would melt into the floor if you were not
holding me up...

I am drowning; going under for the count; knocked out and pinned to
the mat - or is that the bed underneath me? I was so focused on the
magic of your kiss that I missed the moment when you took me to bed.
I lie beneath you and feel you remove the last of my clothes; peel
off the remaining layers until I am bare and vulnerable before you.
And you kneel alongside my body and stare at me; just stare. One
finger wanders over my cheek and down the center of my chest; gently
circles each nipple and traces a scorching path further south, until
four more fingers join the first, and curl around and through my damp
hair. And still you stare; eyes moving all over me; taking in every
quivering inch of me while your fingers comb through my curls and
your palm keeps me warm. The raw emotion behind your hoarse words
humble me.

"I must be dreaming... Jesus, you're perfect, Scully. So damn
perfect..." And my small whisper of disbelief stalls the rest of your
words, as I shake my head there on the pillow.

"Mulder, I'm far from perfect..." The rest of my words are muffled
by the hand you place over my mouth.

**************************

Nobody puts my woman down... not even my woman.

I need to convince you further; this I can see... so I do.
"Perfect, Scully - perfect for me. Everything I need is right here,
within touching distance." And I prove it, by touching random areas
of delight upon your body, my mouth following the path my hands
create. Over a nipple and under a breast, dipping a tongue into your
little navel and nipping at the tender skin below it. On a trip to
heaven, my mouth has a mind of its own and knows just where it needs
to be. And when I get there, I use tender fingers to part your silky
curls and see what lies beneath, waiting for me. And I can hear your
breathless protest that nothing down here can be that fascinating to
look at.

That's what you think, Scully. Personally, I think I've just found
the eighth wonder of my world. Softly pink and hot to the touch;
glistening and mysterious and oh-so-desirable... I have to kiss it
hello. I have to greet it properly...

I have to make you gasp and arch against my mouth. And as I claim
you there, I growl into your flesh, "Mine..."

********************************

"Yours..." I find myself moaning that word over and over as you
first stroke and then taste me in a place where no man has gone in a
very long time. In my past I would let only a few men do this to me.
And the few who did obviously did not know what they were doing...
because I have never felt anything this intense. How can your tongue
be soft and yet hard at the same time? I am writhing against the
slippery bedspread, nothing to grip except your thick hair as you
manipulate my body, my emotions and my heart in one fell swoop. You
kiss me there as if you were kissing my mouth and it's as if you are,
for I feel again all the nuances of kissing with soul-searching
depth. My hands twist into your hair and my body shakes as you
intensify the sweep and depth of your tongue. I cannot help but
wonder if I will survive this... And just as I decide this may well
be one of my favorite things, you stop, Mulder; you take me to the
very edge of madness and then you just ... stop.

I think I may have to kill you after all...

"God, what - Mulder, don't stop..." Does that thin, high sob of a
voice really belong to me? Surely not... because four seconds ago I
was going to kill you, and killers sound much less girly than that.
I find myself pulling at your hair, then your ears; trying to keep
your nose to the grindstone, so to speak - but you lean your chin on
me, right above the crest of pelvic bone, and your grin is blinding
and sweetly evil. You're enjoying this, aren't you? Please,
Mulder...

"Please, Mulder..." There it is, that girly voice again. My body
is so tightly wound that if you even breathe on my clit I'll explode;
I'm shaky with need and the slow burn within me has escalated into a
painful roar. The look on my face must be a sight to see because you
chuckle, low in your throat; that little chin movement is almost
enough to send me over. Almost, but not quite. And you know, don't
you? You know, because you immediately raise your chin enough to
take the pressure off the one place I need it the most.

Bastard. And I told you I loved you... I suppose it's too late to
take it back.

As if I would.

Your voice is softly raspy and low as you murmur, "Easy, Scully...
we've got all night. Took so long to get here; I don't wanna rush a
thing. Trust me, okay? I won't let you suffer, I promise." Your
hands slip underneath me and gently turn me over onto my stomach;
part my thighs just a little - and then I feel your mouth trail over
the back of each leg. From mid-thigh, along the tight tendons and
bunched muscles there; tongue flicking out to taste my skin. Jesus.
I never knew the backs of my legs could be stimulated so quickly. It
feels incredible. Over and over, your tongue traces me, tastes me.
Up and down each leg until the fine hairs on the nape of my neck are
standing straight up. I clench my hands into the bedspread and moan.
Then as I feel your lips move up my back, between my
shoulderblades... your fingers slip beneath my hips, and rub at me
for a sweet few seconds, before plunging inside. The muffled cry I
send into the pillow beneath my face could otherwise raise the
dead... and you are still running a hot tongue all over me.

Somebody is sobbing, "Mulder God it feels so good damn you don't
STOP..." I suppose it's me again, though if you ask me tomorrow I
will deny all and any admissions of whimpering. Nothing ever felt so
good... until your other hand steadies my hip, and tilts me up,
almost on my knees... and that tongue of yours snakes out to finish
what you had started only a few minutes ago, except at this new angle
the feeling has tripled in intensity. From the back I am much more
exposed, and now you are relentless in your need to do this for me.
I push back against your mouth and I am melting down into liquid;
when this is over you'll have to sponge me off the bed.

Between the deep movement of your fingers and your mouth, you have
me flying high again; with each stroke and push I climb higher and
the altitude is so thin up here; I can't breathe but I don't need
oxygen - I just need more and more of what only you can offer me...
until with one supple twist of your hand and a not-so-tender nip, you
send me free-falling over the edge. And the cry I try to muffle into
the pillow must surely stream out and shake the glass in the windows
of our room...

A full minute later I finally come to an awareness of myself and
what you have made me feel - the enormity of it more than I can
assimilate... and as you turn me over onto my back and look down into
my eyes with heart-stopping tenderness, I realize that not only have
you not proactively benefited from my release, but that you are still
fully-clothed.

And the thought that a gorgeously sexy man just made exquisite love
to me while fully dressed in an elegant tuxedo...

I think it's my turn to simply say, "Wow"... and to plot just how I
am going to repay you.

*****************************

Oh, Scully... the way you're looking at me right now tells me I'm
really in for it - not to mention way overdressed for the occasion.
I stare my fill at you, knowing I have never seen anything more
glorious than the sight of you lying on a satin bedspread still
flushed from a climax so mighty that it even shook me. There is a
heady power in knowing I gave that to you - and although my body is
screaming with the need to lose myself so far inside you that I would
need a trail of breadcrumbs to find my way out... another part of me
knows that if nothing more happens tonight it would still be the most
amazing night of my life.

When your hand reaches out and winds itself around the lapel of my
jacket, I realize I didn't even take it off when we came in the room.
Truthfully I was concentrating on more important issues than getting
into something more comfortable... Now I think it's a good thing I
left all these clothes on, because something tells me you're going to
have a great time stripping me naked.

You're tugging at the jacket, and I allow my shoulders to relax so
you can pull it off. You're up on your knees facing me, now yanking
at the bow-tie; nimble fingers unbuttoning and unsnapping and
unzipping. Silently rendering me without apparel; I remain on my
knees as well, and let you have your way. Your hands push at me and
topple me over on my back; off come my slacks. I look up at you,
waiting to see what you'll do; forcing myself to lie still because
it's torture and it's agony to wait but the waiting will make it all
that much stronger. I look up into your face and watch dumbfounded
as you stare down at me - and actually lick your lips. God... no
woman has ever looked at me and licked her lips. As if you can't
wait to take a bite. It's all I can do to stay still; letting you
look your fill is taking a toll on me.

Then your hands begin to move over my skin, and I know I am not
going to last very long.

Small and soft and tipped with sharp little nails... soothing and
enflaming at the same time. I have always sought your touch in any
form I could get it; knowing you had a reasonable reason for the
touching, and happy to receive it however I could. Never expecting
to have that tactile caress evolve into anything more than the
friendship we had between us - and now I'm at the receiving end of
more and I am dying here. And the way your hands are holding me and
rubbing into me, combined with the way your eyes eat at me... I feel
like the most fortunate man in the world, right now. And about to
get a whole lot more fortunate when your hands get bored and you need
to move on to bigger and better things.

Well, at least I hope you'll think it's bigger and better - because
right about now it's as hard as marble and ready to erupt; I clench
my hands into fists and fight to hang onto my dwindling control. You
hold my gaze fast as your hands slide over my chest and along the
slope of each pectoral, counting my ribs as you finger-walk down my
ticklish sides until you reach my hips. All the while, your eyes
tell me everything you can't quite voice yet, and I answer you right
back with sounds I can't hold in. When your wandering fingers curl
around me and begin stroking my length, my hips jerk off the bed. It
feels so good, Scully... so good. It's been too long since a tender
hand has held and cupped me with loving firmness. I am moving my
hips in time to your caress; my groans are getting louder, the
pressure building like nothing I have felt before...

And my eyes fly open wide when I feel your mouth replace your hands.
Jesus, if I live to be a thousand years old I will never forget how
this feels; how your lips wrap around me and your tongue slips over
my ultra-sensitive skin. Your palms cup around the underside of my
balls, holding them so gently, as the velvet of your mouth engulfs
me. Non-stop groans vibrate out of my throat and I can't breathe,
can't think... I can only feel. Your soft hair brushes my thighs
with every stroke you give me and I have to hold it, feel it ripple
through my fingers like a fiery waterfall. So good... I'm so
close...

Then cool air on my wet flesh, and my eyes snap open again, the
protest at your desertion forming and then dying on my tongue as you
pull your mouth away from me... and replace it with your body -
settling your still-wet heat directly over my straining flesh and
sinking down onto me.

Oh, Christ...

*******************************

A man in the pre-throes of sexual furor can be a very unappealing
sight - or the most beautiful piece of living art. Has very little
to do with physical perfection, and a lot to do with the man himself.
And in your case, Mulder... I would give anything for the ability to
capture on canvas the way you look right now. Eyes gone stormy with
need; skin damp and flushed, head thrown back and those lips of yours
open on a soundless gasp... I could come just gazing down at you as I
adjust myself to accommodate all that hot tight skin of yours.
Slowly, very slowly... I slip onto you inch by inch. I lock my eyes
to yours and my palms balance themselves on your shoulders as I take
you within. It's so much better when it's this agonizingly
unhurried; I can feel every pulsing vein and every satiny nuance of
the flesh I accept. Your hands hold me steady but they don't get
greedy; they don't push me down. You're letting me lead and I love
it - I love that you trust me this much.

My movements are languid and I rock upon you, and you support me and
let me do as I please. My lips take yours in kisses as slow and deep
as our movements - and it's as much a way to get acquainted as the
intimacy of intercourse; it's a gradual process. It lets my body
rebuild and I want that connection; need to feel you inside when I
find myself on the ledge again. I have no doubt I'll climb there for
already I can sense it coming up, harder and faster than ever before.
Maybe it's because you just feel so damn good... maybe it's the
fingers you press into me as I move with more urgency. It could be
the low rasp of your voice, telling me how wonderful I am, confirming
what I already knew about the intensity of your love for me... Or
it's because for the first time in my life I am about to have a
second orgasm in the same night - and that has never happened to me
either.

I prefer to think it's all that and so much more. So much more I
can't fathom it; so much that I almost panic at the last minute, my
shuddering body on sensory overload and my fingers suddenly gripping
your skin hard enough to leave marks. I can't help it - and I can't
stop it. I'm flying again and I am coming down harder and harder on
you, full length upon you... and the sob I bite into your shoulder is
echoed in the clamp of release which pulls at you and makes you groan
into my damp hair as your final thrust prolongs the moment, for both
of us...

"Oh, God - I think I've injured myself." Did I say that with my
voice? I peek at your face, leaving most of mine still buried in
your neck. It sounded like the voice of a woman who has been loved
to within an inch of her very life and has barely survived -

Wait a minute; that would be me, after all.

I peek again, to assure myself you're really under me and inside me
and so much a part of me that I can't be sure whose skin belongs to
whom. Yes, there you are... and although you are still gasping for
much-needed oxygen you are fighting a losing battle not to laugh. I
huff at the indignity of amusing you at my expense - and you are
quick to assure me, in a breathless rush of words.

"I'm not laughing at you, Scully... I'm laughing because I feel so
fucking-A good - and it's all your fault..."

******************************

When I think of some of the places I could be right now at this time
of night... I'm sure glad I'm not anywhere but here. In two days
it'll be Christmas, and as far as I am concerned I don't need another
present for the rest of my life, Scully - I got my heart's desire the
moment you told me you love me. And when I was inside you, loving
you - the several more times you repeated those words, gasping them
into my ear... it's like getting one of those mystery gifts which
start out in a big box. You think the big box is the best gift and
you just can't wait to open it. And you find a smaller, wrapped box
inside - so you open that one as well, but you find yet another
smaller box. And so it goes, with you opening box after box, layer
after layer. The suspense and anticipation builds as you dig deeper,
looking for the gold... only to reach it upon unwrapping that final,
tiny box.

The smallest one - because everybody knows good things come in small
packages - good, perfect things. Sweet and valuable, priceless
beyond measure... and I have opened up my very own mystery box,
unearthing layers, one for every year we have been together. It has
taken seven layers but here I am, holding the last, innermost prize.

The best one, Baby - you. I whisper it in your ear as you rest
against me, keeping me inside you where I never want to leave. And I
chuckle in your hair hoping you won't take it the wrong way, but I
feel wonderful - no, better than wonderful. So much better that the
only way I can express it is with laughter. And you seem to
understand because after a few seconds of reactionary sputtering to
my laughter, you join in. And though it would seem impossible to
remain connected while tee-heeing together, somehow we manage to do
just that.

It's very late and we're both exhausted, still tipsy and satiated in
a way I think neither of us has been in a very long time. The
candles are burning low, and a few of the smaller ones have actually
fizzled out. I'm not getting up to blow out the remaining tapers
and neither are you; though, safety conscious as you are I know you
feel this need to jump up and blow out the candles - right Scully?
And yet... fire IS fire, even though those flames are mighty tiny.
Maybe we'd better be safe, Scully...

"Scully..."

"Mmmmm..."

"Should I get up and extinguish the candles?"

"Move one inch and you're a dead man, Partner..."

"But..."

"Mulder, the candles will extinguish themselves. Don't move, kay?
I wanna sleep like this, feels so good..."

"Anything you want, Baby..."

"Hey... you called me baby..."

"Yeah. Well, you are my baby, you know..."

"Ohhh... and for how long have I been your baby, may I ask?"

"For at least six mystery boxes, Baby."

"Mystery boxes?"

"I'll tell you in the morning, kay?"

"Kay... Sleep tight, Mulder... Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas, Scully... sweet dreams."

"Hmm, the best... I'll be having visions of MulderPlums dancing
through my head... Mulder? Mulder... stop laughing; you're shaking
the bed!"

end