Title: Solo
Author: Laura Jacquez Valentine (laurav@stones.com)
Spoilers: Clyde Bruckman's Final Repose, Small Potatoes, The End,
Travelers, Unusual Suspects.
Codes: M/Sk, M/Diana (I know, I know...), M/Sc
Summary: Maybe Mulder doesn't get laid, but that doesn't mean he doesn't get
action.
Rating: NC-17 (language, masturbation, fantasizing)
Disclaimer: Chris Carter, 1013, Fox, yadda yadda, own the X-Files and
Fox Mulder.  Me, I own an 88 Volvo named Jenny Lind, and if they sue me
and try to take her away, I'll sic my cats on them.  I love my car.

This takes place *before* we-the-audience meet Diana in "The End".  It
also explains why Mulder had a wedding ring in "Travelers" and "Unusual
Suspects". 
-----

So I'm a loser, Eddie?  By some definitions, I suppose.

It's not as if I've had a lot of practice winning, in relationships
anyway.  Which is, of course, what he meant.  Eddie-fucking-Van Blundht, 
supergenius; Fox Mulder, loser.

Not that I was surprised, really.  He'd been in my bedroomless
apartment--no wonder he headed for Scully's.  And Scully is one of the
sexiest women I know.  I'm not surprised he tried what he tried.  If it
weren't for my dismal record with relationships, I'd probably have tried 
it too.

Diana would laugh if she could see me now.  Standing next to my dresser,
wearing only a pair of ratty boxers, fingering my wedding ring.  It had
really ended before it ended--four years of marriage gone--though I'd
worn the ring for six months after she left, hoping she'd come back from
Berlin.  We never told the Bureau we'd married, never told them we'd
divorced.  We were lucky no one cared  enough to dig or enforce
fraternization rules, and if anyone noticed that Agents Fowley and
Mulder started wearing wedding rings the same day...well, no one
mentioned it. 

Diana and Eddie Van Blundht know the same things about me.  I'm no damn
good at relationships.  Diana couldn't accept it, and she left me.
Eddie thought I didn't know, and he told me.  Scully--

Scully, thank God, seems to know and to accept.  Scully, who has kept our
professional relationship professional when I would have mucked it up;
Scully, whose occasional flirtations and flickerings of interest are
always tempered by an awareness of the boundaries; Scully, who seems to
know damn well where my tastes lie, and keeps it to herself.

My tastes, my many and varied tastes.  Pornographic films of the gay and 
straight and farm animal variety.  Strip clubs.  Dominance.
Submission.  Implements.  Leather.  Fantasies about my boss (Oh,
Skinner...you can top me any time.  I just know you're a top.  Say yes,
Skinner, I'm begging you), about my partner, about my ex-wife.  About
Byers, for God's sake.  Magazines.

And, yes, Clyde you fuck, auto-erotic asphyxiation.  If you've never
tried it you can't imagine how it feels, and I suspect Clyde never tried 
it.

He's really the only one who had me pegged.  I'm no damn good at
relationships, but I'm damn good at solo.  And since my marriage ended,
I've almost exclusively been solo.  Oh, I dream about Skinner, about
Scully.  Do I ever.  A Mulder sandwich.

But solo is the way I fly these days.  By choice, yes, but by
inclination as well.  No one else touches me the way I do; no one else
knows how to tighten the belt just right around my throat (tight enough
to constrict, not tight enough to leave marks for Scully to pester me
about).

I slide my wedding ring onto my finger.  I wonder if I'll ever risk
another marriage, another relationship serious enough for a ring.  If
Skinner was gay and willing to put up with me, I'd give him a ring in a
second.  Or if Scully--

No use thinking about them.  Especially them together.  I slide my left
hand down my body, the cold metal warming against my skin.  My fingers 
beneath my boxers, long and gentle against my erection.

Left-handed isn't as awkward as it used to be.  I've had a lot of
practice since Diana walked out on me.

I imagine Skinner as he'd look in orgasm, his body arched and
shuddering, and I trace patterns up and down my cock.  His mouth,
swollen with lust, lowering to mine.

Scully, her legs around me as I thrust into her, her nipples rosy-pink
and hard against my chest.

I tweak my own nipples with my right hand and remove my left from my
shorts.  Fumble in the dresser drawer for the belt; twist it around my
neck with the ease of years of practice; kneel, loop, tighten.  My blood 
thunders in my ears and I use my left hand to control the pressure.  My
right has other things to do.

I caress my cock, pressing against the central ridge just below the
head.  I'm leaking precum already, and I snag the liquid with my thumb
and use it as lubrication, wrapping my hand around my erection and
pushing into my own skin, my skin that feels like no one else's, that
reminds me that here I am in control.

I tighten the belt and rock into my hand, the slippery precum keeping my 
firm grip from being painful.  Pretending it's Skinner's hand, or
Scully's body.  Feeling the building orgasm and the building
unconsciousness, the tightness in my balls and the tightness in my
chest, moving frantically into my hand, listening to my breath whistling 
through restricted spaces--

I jerk and cry out with what breath I have, semen coating my hand and
the inside of my shorts, the force of my orgasm tightening the belt
further, intensifying the feeling.

I manage to loosen the belt during the aftershocks, enough so that I
don't lose consciousness.  Consciousness is life.

I lie still for a while, letting the constriction in my chest ease.
Then I get up, remove the belt and ring, and tuck them back into the
drawer.

Another successful solo flight.

Fox Mulder, flying ace.

---
The End.

Feed me at laurav@stones.com or jacquez@andrew.cmu.edu