AUTHORS: Dasha K. and Plausible Deniability
SUMMARY: What do mortal sins, fever in the blood, Cuban rum drinks, swollen noses, salty tattoos and hotel rooms in three states have in common?
DISCLAIMER: Nope, not ours. Really.
WORD COUNT: 22,600 total
POSTING DATE: September-December 1998
Oh God oh God oh God, did I really say that? I don't know whether to laugh or cry at my drug-induced idiocy. Instead, Mulder is the one who laughs. "Is that a question or an offer, Scully?"
I lean back into the couch cushions. How have I had this couch for so long and not noticed how insanely soft and comfortable it is? After a swallow of beer, I say, "Don't flatter yourself, Big Guy..."
"Big Guy? Thanks for the compliment."
The hole I am digging gets deeper and deeper by the second. "You didn't answer my question. Have you ever had sex high?"
He makes a funny little sound in the back of his throat. "I never smoked pot once I got out of high school."
"And your point is...?"
Now Mulder is the one to turn red, nearly as red as his stoner-boy eyes. "You were right, Scully, I wasn't getting any action back then. I wasn't a wild child like you, blowing boys in cars."
I start laughing so hard I tumble off the couch and land on the floor with a resounding thump, narrowly missing whacking my head on the coffee table. "What's so damn funny?" Mulder demands.
"I was, I was," I wheeze through waves of laughter, "I was picturing you as a teenager, giving head to another boy in a car."
Mulder chucks a wadded-up paper napkin at me. "Cute, really cute."
I crawl across the floor to the fireplace, since standing currently seems to be too complicated a process for my brain. I lie on my back and stare at the dancing flames. "I remember getting high in college, " I say. "I didn't do it a lot because I was a serious student, but sometimes my boyfriend Peter and I would share a joint and it was like heaven, the two of us on his narrow little bed, making love and feeling like I was floating at the same time. God, I wish I could be that young again, everything so uncomplicated..."
"It sucks being old," is Mulder's astute comment. He lurches across the room to the stereo. "Hey, Scully, you have any Pink Floyd?"
I groan. "God, Mulder, drag your ass out of the 70s."
He clatters through my stacks of CDs, dropping every third one until the room fills with the opening chords of "Hey You". "I knew you had some Floyd."
Mulder grabs a pillow from the couch and joins me on the floor in front of the fire.
"This song is so depressing," I moan.
"It reminds me of going to midnight shows of the movie. I wanted to be Bob Geldof when I grew up, even thought of shaving my eyebrows off."
I snicker. "I'll bet you had a black Pink Floyd tee shirt, huh?"
"Don't forget the feathered hair. My hair feathers really well."
Mulder, standing in front of the bathroom mirror, blow-drying his hair into perfect feathers. It's too much, I collapse in helpless giggles.
"If you think that's bad, you should have seen the mustache I tried to grow Senior year. Darcy, my girlfriend, thought I looked like Tony Orlando."
I'm gonna pee my pants if he keeps this up. "Is Darcy the one who wouldn't sleep with you?"
"One and the same." He shrugs ruefully. "Never got to add her to the Mulder Babe List."
I cock an eyebrow. "And just how long is that list?" Or maybe I really don't want to know the answer to that. I mean, anyone who calls it the Babe List, that's got to be some list.
He spreads his arms far apart. "Miles and miles. How about you? You asked first."
"Fine, let me see." I blow hair out of my eyes and think a minute. Math isn't my best skill right now. "Okay, I've got it. Nine, total. No -- it's ten, if I count you."
Mulder sits up. "You did NOT."
Ha, score one for me. Actually, score ten. I shocked Mulder for once, and that's a wonderful feeling. I won't tell him that they were almost all in college and med school and before him, I hadn't had sex since George Bush was in office, unless you count a little heavy petting with Ed Jerse on his couch. "I did, too."
"Ten, huh? There's a lot I don't know about you."
If that isn't the understatement of the year, I don't know what is. "What about you?"
He casts his eyes downward in a coy gesture. "Scully," he says in a low voice. "I'm terribly ashamed to tell you this, but I'm still a virgin."
I erupt into some unladylike snorts. "So, you're telling me I was shacked up with Eddie Van Blundht in Boston?"
Mulder flops back down on the floor, this time onto his stomach, and runs his hand through his dark hair. I am suddenly all too aware of the way he smells. For a man who wears no cologne, Mulder still has a signature scent -- a little Ivory soap, Right Guard, pool chlorine and a dash of something dark that is his own. I scoot a little further away from him. He lets out a sharp breath. "Only six," he mutters. "Pathetic for a man my age."
He's embarrassed, this is too rich for words. I stifle a giggle, for I may be high, but I'm not patently cruel. "Are you counting me?"
"You've always counted, Scully."
I choose not to respond to that. Danger lurks therein.
Mulder's feet are distracting me. Somewhere along the line he removed his socks and he's wiggling his toes. Wiggle wiggle wiggle, I can't take my eyes away. It's fascinating. This little piggy went to market, this little piggy stayed home...
"What are you staring at?"
I raise my head. "Huh? Nothing, just your toes." More laughter bubbles up. "You keep wiggling them around!"
"I do?" Mulder looks over his shoulder at his feet. "So I do. My new shoes haven't been broken in yet and my toes hurt."
And then it's like I'm watching a movie of myself, in which I get up and make a beeline to the bathroom and rummage in the medicine cabinet until I find what I'm looking for. I return to the living room, all too aware of the silly grin plastered on my face. Got to stop smiling, my cheeks are beginning to ache.
"What do you have there?" he asks.
"I have the cure for what ails you." I brandish a small bottle. "Peppermint Foot Lotion from the Body Shop. How else do you think I'm able to run in those high heels?"
"Foot lotion?" His eyebrows rise in suspicion. "Isn't that for girls?"
"You'll thank me for it tomorrow."
He settles back on the floor, this time on his back, and I sit near his feet. Okay, I don't have a thing for feet at all, in fact most men's feet are disgusting, but Mulder happens to be blessed with a nice pair of feet -- narrow, well-trimmed toenails, high arches and long, slender toes. And you know what they say about men with long toes.
I squeeze a handful of the minty-fresh goop in my palm and start massaging it into the instep of his left foot, which starts moving around in my hand. "Ticklish?"
"Nah," he grunts. "It feels weird, kind of tingly."
"That's the menthol in the lotion." I pick up his right foot and rest it in my lap, working the lotion in with even strokes. Mulder sits up, watching me with dark, intent eyes. Soon he is breathing harder and beginning to squirm. This isn't turning him on, is it? It can't, I mean, I never get excited when I go for a pedicure.
As I rub harder, his foot relaxes in my fingers and I get this irresistible urge to take his big toe in my mouth.
Oh God, do I have a foot fetish after all? Will I have to start hanging out in feet chat rooms on the internet?
The next thing I know, I'm bending to his foot and my tongue is slowly running up his arch to his toes. And then it is exploring the little crevice between his toes and the pad of his foot, tasting mint and salt. His toes scrunch up.
I just made Mulder's toes curl.
This is so, so wrong. What is my problem? But I can't stop myself as he squirms at my ministrations and pants louder and louder as I circle his big toe and then surround it with my lips.
He scoots backward a little, as if suddenly afraid of me. "Scully," he says between harsh breaths. "You have to stop that."
She lifts her head from my foot and regards me silently.
"Please," I beg. "Just stop."
She gazes at me, and a slow smile spreads across her lips. "What's the matter, Mulder?"
"Scully, don't play around with me. Come on. Please." I am almost on the verge of tears.
Her head dips to my foot again. I watch in dismay as her lips close on my toe, and she begins to suck. She keeps her eyes, those big blue eyes of hers, locked on mine the whole time.
Oh, fuck. Oh fucking fuck. I don't know if it's the brownies or the lotion or just the sight of Scully's beautiful mouth surrounding a part of me, but I am in
serious trouble here. Serious, serious trouble. I am breathless and my heart is racing and I am hard -- really hard. I can barely sit still.
She keeps on sucking. I curl my fingers through the pile of her rug in a death grip. She swirls her tongue around my toe. My knuckles turn white.
She makes a little noise in the back of her throat -- half sigh, half moan.
I yank away, none too gently, and skitter backwards across the rug out of her reach. I sit there panting, staring at her, with my knees drawn up so that she can't see my erection. Oh, God. Oh, God. I lean my head down, and rest my fevered forehead on one knee.
Does she have any idea what torture I am suffering here? This is all just a game to her, a flirtatious little brownie-induced joke, but she is playing with fire. Every nerve ending in my body is tingling, including a few I didn't even know I had.
I am not going to touch her. I am NOT.
She starts to laugh. "Mulder, I was just kidding around."
Mmmm-hmmm. It might be funny, if I were made of steel. I am not made of steel. "Scully, don't talk to me for a second," I say, my head still leaning on my knee. "Just give me a minute, would you?"
Jesus, what a pathetic dork I am, I think as I struggle for some composure. I must look pretty damned hilarious to Scully, Dr. I-Number-My-Lovers-in-the-Double-Digits.
On the stereo, Pink Floyd is singing "Comfortably Numb." Don't I wish, I think glumly. But how am I supposed tofe el? She was sucking on me, for God's sake.
I hear the soft sounds of her moving across the rug toward me. "You okay, Mulder?" she asks. "You're not going to be sick, are you?"
I laugh weakly, still not looking at her. My erection shows no sign of subsiding. "Jesus, Scully. I'm stoned, not drunk."
She giggles. "You're funny when you're stoned.".
"And you're pretty scary."
She moves even closer. "So did that -- you know, did it feel good?"
Yes, it felt good. And war is heck. Scully has a gift for understatement. "It was okay."
She giggles again. "You have nice feet, Mulder. Nice other parts, too." Her voice is warm and a little rough around the edges.
"Scully, please," I groan. This would be difficult enough even if I didn't have hash brownies coursing through my bloodstream. The blood is pounding in my head. I can feel it pounding lower, too, my cock pulsing with every beat of my heart.
"You want me to do the other foot?" she says, so close that I can feel her breath on my neck.
I want you to do every inch of my body, I think treacherously. I want to put Peppermint Foot Lotion all over you and then lick it off as if you are a giant candy cane. I want to come inside you. "No, thank you."
"You want another brownie?"
I can't help laughing. "No, I think I've had enough."
"Mulder, why won't you look at me?"
Instead of answering, I just sigh and listen to the music swirling around me. I mouth the lyrics along with the song: "There is no pain, you are receding; a distant ship's smoke on the horizon..." I used to love this music when I was in high school.
I feel Scully's hand on my shoulder. "Mulder, say something."
I turn my head and look at her, still with my head leaning on my knee. "This must be some good weed."
Things just keep getting progressively worse. What the hell is wrong with me tonight? It's like we've entered a TV movie -- "The Three Faces of Dana."
Mulder is staring at me and I feel deep shame. I've gone completely out of control, sucking his toes like that, teasing him. I'd like to blame it on the brownies, but is that really it? My head is swirling with arousal and contradiction and suddenly I just cannot deal. I have to get out of this room.
I mumble something to him about needing a drink and flee to the brightly-lit refuge of the kitchen. After pouring a glass of apple cider and downing it in one cotton-mouthed gulp, I press my forehead against the cool of the fridge.
Mulder and I, stoned. What a joke. We really are the partners that put the fun in dysfunctional.
Why doesn't this stuff come easily to us? Why can't welaugh and make love and forget ourselves like normal people?
You and Mulder are the farthest thing from normal on the planet, I think, and stifle a giggle as tears begin to drip down my cheeks at the same time.
Must. Not. Cry. But it's too late, the wave is breaking over me and I have to clutch the refrigerator's handle to keep from collapsing on the linoleum below.
Footsteps sound behind me and I look over my shoulder, blinking away the tears. Maybe he's too high to notice. "Do you want some juice?" I offer.
His face falls and he sits down at the table, staring at his hands. "I should go home," he mutters.
I shake my head. "You can't, you're in no condition."
Mulder looks up at me and I see the naked pain in his eyes, which have turned a steely gray. My heart does a little lurch and I wonder if this is how it feels to have a broken heart, to break a heart. I dab at my eyes with a hank of paper towel and sigh, leaning against the counter. "I'm sorry," I exhale. "Can I blame it on the drugs?"
His mouth twists into a poor imitation of a grin. "I was drugged..."
I remember a chubby, teenaged maybe-vampire and Mulder singing the theme song from Shaft in his undershirt. It seems so long ago.
A long silence passes until he says, "I tried so hard to be good tonight, to not touch you, but you were making it awfully difficult back there."
More tears speckle my face. "I wanted to leave you alone, too."
He looks straight at me and I notice his eyes seem to be completely focused and sober now. "I promised myself that I'd never force myself on you again."
I have to try really hard not to laugh. "Force yourself? Is that what you think it was those times on the road? God, Mulder, did I ever turn you away? Did I ever say no?" Please, each and every time I temporarily shucked off the guilt and eagerly jumped into bed with him.
Mulder shrugs. "There's saying no and there's saying no."
He just doesn't get it, doesn't think that I could possibly want him the way he wants me. Mulder doesn't understand that I've been suffering just as much as he has.
I cross the kitchen and kneel before him, grasping his warm hand in mine. "I never said no in any way, shape or form. Believe me, you would have been made very aware of it if I hadn't wanted to be with you."
He squeezes. "Why did you cry in Boston?"
Burying my head in his lap, I fight another storm of tears. Is this what happens when I suppress my tears for so long? I lift my head. "I was crying because I knew it had to be the last time."
His entire body seems to relax and Mulder strokes my hair. "Why aren't we able to really talk to each other, Scully?"
I smile. "Because we're two lonely, misanthropic people."
He nods. "How do we stop wanting each other?" I can feel the proof of his want under my cheek.
That's it. I give up, I'm hauling out the white flag. Total and complete capitulation. I can't fight my desire anymore, I can't keep struggling against the current of the inevitable. Mulder and I can't go back to the way things once were. As my mother likes to say, it's impossible to pour the spilled milk back into the glass.
I may still be a little high, but it all seems so clear to me now.
Mulder's eyes are wide and fearful. He knows he's just put it all in my hands. I take a deep breath. "I don't think we can stop. I don't know if I want to stop."
As if by the mutual accord of our unspoken agreement of surrender, our mouths meet. Collide, really, in a hot and sloppy kiss.
He pulls away from my lips. "Here we go again..."
"We can always blame it on the drugs," I chuckle.
Perhaps we'll always need an excuse to feel that it's okay to be together like this.
My fingers travel to the fly of his jeans and clumsily start working the buttons. Now who was the genius who thought up the button fly? I'd like to smack him.
"Scully," he gasps and throws his head back. He raises his hips off the chair and pushes his pants and boxers down.
I smile and bend my head to this most agreeable task.
Have I mentioned how I have the munchies right now?
If this is not Nirvana, if Heaven is actually better this, then I don't want an afterlife because I really don't think I could stand it.
This has to be the best blow job of my life.
Maybe it's the pot, but I can feel everything in amazing detail: the back of Scully's mouth, the swirl of her tongue, the friction as her lips slide up and down my cock. She has her hand wrapped around the base of me, working back and forth with every bob of her head. It's driving me crazy.
"Oh, God, Scully," I groan.
I'm not sure why it's so good. Not that I've ever really had a bad blow job; "bad blow job" is the ultimate oxymoron, more nonsensical than "genuine imitation" or "definite maybe." But this is incredible.
She slips her free hand between my thighs, and fondles my balls. Her mouth is like silk. I'm breathing like a bellows, just trying to stay ahead of the sensation.
Eventually sensation pulls into the lead. "Scully." I squeeze my hands into fists. "Scully, you'd better stop."
She shakes her head -- which, considering where her head is and what it's doing, only makes matters worse.
"Scully, that's enough." I tense the muscles in my legs and hips, fighting the urge to twist my fingers in her hair and thrust up into her mouth. "Come on, stop. Please."
But no, a very take-charge type is my Scully. She's not taking orders from anyone. Instead she just keeps doing what she's doing. She lifts her head away just far enough to sweep her tongue in a complete circle around the head of my cock, and then plunges her mouth back down again.
"Scully!" I can barely get the words out. "Scully I don't -- I don't want to -- "
She shakes her head again.
God, how I would like to put my hand on the back of herhead and give in to it, coming hard, coming loudly. But, face it, I get one chance, and then the show's over, at least for a while. Right now the thought of being outside Scully's body for even the briefest of times is not something I'm willing to contemplate.
I put my hands on her shoulders, and push her away.
She sits back on her heels and looks up at me accusingly. Those huge blue eyes of hers are as wide and bottomless as infinity. "Mulder, what do you think you're doing?"
I laugh breathlessly. "I'm being a total masochist."
"Mulder, I wanted to -- "
"I know what you wanted to do, and believe me, I appreciate it." God I'm aching. Still panting, too. "You have no idea how much I appreciate it. But I don't want that right now."
"Mulder, I don't mind..."
"Well, I do." I slide off the chair, and kneel before her on the floor. "I want something a little more...landmark."
"Scully," I say, reaching out and pulling her pajama top off over her head, "when am I ever going to get another chance to make love to you stoned?"
"I don't even think we're really stoned anymore. I think it's wearing off."
Ever the logical one, isn't she? I yank off my own shirt, and tug her against me. "Shhhh," I say. "Don't spoil my sex, drugs, and rock and roll fantasy."
She laughs. I have a shirtless Scully pressed against me, laughing. Does it get any better than this? I don't think so. She said she didn't want to stop. She said I never forced her. Maybe it's not the most circumspect thing in the world, sleeping with my partner, but it feels right.
Fuck circumspection, I think with great satisfaction. This isn't just some momentary lapse. I want this. I've been wanting it for years.
I lift my hands to her warm breasts, and kiss her. My pants are down around my knees and my cock is prodding her in the navel, wet and a little sticky from a moment before. I probably look ridiculous but it certainly feels good, rocking against her like this. Her breasts are soft and she tastes like apple cider.
"Let's go in the bedroom," she whispers, as I circle her nipples with my fingertips.
"Unh-unh," I say, throbbing. "Your bed's too big. We'll lose the whole wild college high-on-pot vibe."
"Then where? I don't have a twin bed."
"Right here. On the floor." I push her flannel pajama pants down off her hips. "What was the name of your college roommate, Scully?"
She laughs. "Julie."
"Okay, we're in your dorm room," I say, reaching down to find she's already wet. "We have to do it now, Scully, right now, before Julie gets back from the library."
"In college I was the one who was always at the library."
I ease her over onto her back, and cover her body with mine. "Don't screw with my fantasy, Scully."
"Nope, we have to do it now." My fingers stroke through her slick folds, pushing a little way inside her. "I'm going to fail all my classes because all I can think about all day is fucking you."
"You're going to fail, Mulder?" Her voice is playful, but with a breathless catch in it that makes my temperature soar.
"Oh, yeah, Scully. If you don't let me fuck you right now, that is."
"I wouldn't want you to flunk out..."
"Yeah," I agree. "We couldn't have that." I position myself, and thrust inside her.
I didn't really have a plan for this; I didn't stop to think whether I ought to make it slow and languorous or go for broke. It's probably good that I didn't have a plan. Adrenaline takes over.
I start shoving into her, hard. "We college boys -- like it rough," I say, panting. I have one hand under her ass, holding her against me. "Rough and -- fast."
"Got to hurry." I'm slamming into her. "Before Julie --gets back."
She closes her eyes. She's tilted her hips and she's straining against me, meeting my thrusts with thrusts of her own. I drive into slickness so tight and so sweet that I can hardly stand it.
"Come on, Scully," I growl, the words coming out in jerks. "God, you feel good."
She's gasping, squeezing my cock with muscles designed, it seems, just to reduce me to incoherence. The soft little noises she's making are like gasoline on a brush fire.
"Yeah. That's it. Gonna major in -- fucking -- "
I pound into her. Her hands are clawing at my back. I realize how crazy this is, spinning out college fantasies while nailing her on the floor, but the thought just makes me that much more out of control.
And then, mercifully, she gives a little cry and her back arches and that wild convulsive feeling explodes around me. And the knowledge that it's so soon -- that Scully is already coming and we really *have* beaten the imaginary roommate -- is like a shot of pure hormonal insanity. Just a few more thrusts, just a few seconds later, and I gush into her, coming as hard as if I really am twenty-one years old again.
I collapse against her, dead weight, dizzy.
And then we both burst into laughter.
It's a mighty good thing that my mother is miles away and has no chance of seeing her daughter lying in the bathtub with her partner, holding a beer in one hand while said partner passes her bits of leftover kung pao chicken with his chopsticks. It's a blessing she can't see the post-coital blush on her daughter's face or the loopy smile her partner is wearing. My sweet, terribly naive mother would never get over the shock.
My bathtub, which normally seems as large as a swimming pool now seems crowded after adding Mulder to the equation. To save room I'm sitting between his legs, with my head resting against his chest, which is not a bad way to spend a Friday night.
"Green pepper?" Mulder asks and I nod my head. En route to my mouth it slips from the sticks and splashes into the pale lavender Tranquility Bay-flavored water. Mulder fishes it out from under my left calf and hurls it towards the toilet, where it lands in the bowl with a satisfying splash.
He raises his arms and cheers. "A three point shot for Fox Mulder and the crowd at Madison Square Garden goes wild!"
I snort with laughter, not really sure if that was actually funny or if I'm still high.
After setting the carton of chicken back down on the floor, Mulder steals my bottle of Bass and takes a long swallow. Leaning against him the way I am, I can feel his esophagus contracting as the beer travels down to his stomach.
Mulder sighs, but it seems to be one of contentment. "I don't know if I'm high any more."
I smile. "I am, but I'm not sure if it's from the brownies or the sex."
It's probably both. A powerful combination -- pot, chocolate and Mulder.
His hand reaches up and lightly pinches my right nipple between his fingers and I loll my head against his shoulder. "Do you like that?" he whispers in my ear in a sly voice. The other nipple gets the same treatment and I smother a gasp. "Do you?" he repeats, circling my nipple with wet fingers.
"God, Mulder, what's not to like?"
Fingers trail ticklish patterns on my belly. "I just want to make sure you're...satisfied."
Was he temporarily deaf back there in the kitchen? No, simply as insecure as me. "More that satisfied," I manage to say as his fingers dip lower under the water to my lower thigh. "I'd say sated."
"Good," he mutters and bites down on my neck. "But does that mean you don't want more?"
Oh, his fingers have found my clitoris and make feathery circles. Tease. He sets the beer down and soaps his fingers and slides them back and forth, back and forth. I have to bite my lip to keep from crying out.
"Do you want more, Scully?" I can feel him hardening against my lower back. You have to love a man who at his age is still as randy as a teenager. Perhaps there's something to be said for not resolving the sex issue for more than five years.
With shaking legs I stand up. "What are you doing?" he asks.
"Room," I say, turning around to feast my eyes on his happily aroused state. "We need more room."
I give him a hand up and out of the tub. "Your bath mat looks awfully comfy," he cracks.
"Mulder, do you have some deep-seated aversion to beds?"
His answer is to push me down onto the mat. I shiver, my wet body protesting the loss of the hot water, until he covers me with his warm flesh. He makes a nice blanket.
Damn, that man can kiss, not too much tongue, just enough of it entering my mouth and teasing with light movements in and out. I groan in happy protest and spread my legs, wanting desperately to be touched again. With unerring psychic ability, his hand finds me again and dips into the
wetness, spreading slow circles.
Then, I can't help but cry out as his head moves lower and his tongue starts its talented little dance across my clitoris, his lips nipping and sucking in turns. Some day I'm going to have to ask where he learned to do that, I think, as my fingers increase their grip on his shoulders. He should teach a community ed class.
He lifts his head from me and I howl in disappointment.
"Go back, go back," I mutter as my thighs begin to shake at the loss of sensation.
"No," he grins. Mulder orders in a low growl, "Put your hands on the edge of the bathtub." Bossy, but that's fine; next time I'll be in charge. I turn around so my back is to him and grip the porcelain between my hands, spreading my legs wider. His mouth moves down my back and he makes a
happy humming noise as his two fingers move into my vagina and gently thrust.
Holy Mary, Mother of God, I think.
I arch my back as he moves behind me and his cock slowly slides into me, my hips pushing him further in. It's strangely exciting not being able to see his face, but to hear his panting and groaning in my ear and feel his hardness driving in and out, at an increasingly faster pace.
"Harder," I mutter.
"You like it rough?" he asks and I can hear the grin on his face.
"Harder," I repeat.
With one hand grasping my shoulder and one pushing against my clit, he complies, throwing his back into the task. I hear myself mumbling his name over and over again, a litany of my desire until I simply can't stand it any more. "This is so fucking good," I mutter into my hands, eyes squeezed
shut. Oh God, it's going to happen again, I think, as my heart starts madly pounding.
"No, this is good fucking," he rasps and I laugh as the climax rips across me, leaving me a shaking, convulsing wreck.
Mulder turns me around so that I am sitting on him and again thrusts up into me. Our eyes lock and I can feel the tears well. His hand travels up to my face. "I'm not sad," I reassure him and he gives me a sadly sweet smile. We kiss as if the end of the world were near.
With the last burst of strength I move up and down on his cock with fierce abandon. "Oh shit," he says into my neck and I feel his lower body begin to tremble. With a drawn-out sigh, he comes, his arms tightly wrapped around my still-wet back, his lips pressing into my neck.
We stop and stare at each other.
"Oh God, Scully," he says, a red flush spreading on his cheeks.
"I know," I say, nodding.
Hard to believe that I had such a lover by my side for so many years.
The question now is, now that I have him, do I want to keep him? Or was this just another lapse?
No, I want this.
We clean up and dry off and hand-in-hand walk to my bedroom. I flick on the bedside lamp and turn down the covers. I knew there was a reason I did my laundry last night.
Sliding into bed next to him, I kiss his lips, loving his taste, his touch.
"In the morning we can christen this bed," I say.
"Who said anything about the morning?" he chortles, squeezing my bottom with his large hands.
Oh dear, I'm in big trouble with this man.
Well, for once I'll have something interesting to tell Father McCue at confession.
I fit my key in the lock and swing the door open slowly, a little afraid of what I'm going to find. And with good reason: my apartment looks like it's been hit by Hurricane Budweiser. There are paper cups everywhere, the coffee table has been pushed over by the window, there's a stain on the wall that I sincerely hope is just splattered beer, and an open bag of Ruffles is strewn across the couch and all over the floor.
Also on my couch is the reason for this disaster, my cousin Seth. He's stretched out with his Doc Martens up on the leather and he's watching TV with my remote control in his hand."
"That better be the Discovery Channel," I say, remembering that I left an apartment full of college kids alone with my video collection last night.
He looks up, and grins. "Hey, Fox."
There's nothing more silly looking than a white boy with dreadlocks. "Something happen to your arms? I mean, did you break all of the bones in some horrific accident that kept you from picking up all this shit?"
"I'll get to it."
I start collecting half-empty paper cups. "Where's Ari?" I ask, looking around for his girlfriend.
"She went out for some food." He sits up. "Hey, that reminds me, dude -- what did you do with our brownies?"
I give him the dirtiest look I can muster. "I ought to kick your ass for making those brownies in here. Did it ever occur to you that I'm a federal agent?"
He just grins and shrugs.
"I know what was in them," I add.
"Yeah, I bet you do. Good stuff, huh?"
I turn away so he won't see my smile. "Get off your ass and help me clean up this mess."
He does, but not without remarking, "You know, you're pretty crabby for a guy who just got laid."
I stop gathering cups and stare at him. "Who says I got laid?"
Seth starts to laugh. "Oh, please, dude. You didn't come home last night, you have a hickey on your neck, and even from here I can tell that you smell like some honey's bubble bath. Who was she?"
"None of your damn business."
"See what I mean? Crabby, crabby, crabby..."
I just ignore him, and go back to straightening up what used to be a habitable dwelling. Let him think I'm crabby if he likes, I decide happily. I'm not in an arguing mood. I may never be in an arguing mood again, not when I'm twice his age and I still got more sex than he did last night.
I look around me. There's a lot to do here. The living room is a mess, the kitchen is a disaster, and I haven't even worked up the courage to check out the bathroom yet. It's going to take a while to get this place back in shape. I should probably take Seth and his girlfriend out to lunch, too; I did invite him to stay here, and I remember how much I enjoyed the occasional escape from bad college food when I was his age. And then...And then...
I smile to myself. I can't help it if I forgot my laptop at Scully's again, can I?
PD and Dasha would like to add that we do not advocate drug use in any way, shape or form, nor do we advocate the abuse of Pink Floyd and steamed dumplings. Do not try these sexual acts at home if you have knee or back problems.
Thanks to Becky, Gwen and Alanna for mighty beta action.