Building Her Symphony
by November Tuesday
 
I can't stand it. I cannot stand this. Every night it's the same.
Every damn night, staring at the ceiling; god, I hate the cracks in the 
ceiling; thinking about her, wanting her.
What would she look like if I were fucking her, post-orgasmic and en 
route to another, soft and flushed with her head tilted back, eyes closed, 
mouth open.
I always see her red, warm, mussed. Lips wet with kissing me, eyes 
sleepily drawn, warm and yielding under me.
With my photographic memory I can picture her face that way, create it 
with a reality that shocks me, and the image is almost painful.
Every night. Except when we are on a case. Then it heightens, it is 
worse.
Then in those motels I want to sniff like a dog at her door. Sleeping; she 
is breathing just a thin wall away from me. I pace, cagey and hard and 
tense. Crazy with want. Crazy. Scully.
Sleep is hard to come by when we are on a case. I must confront my 
throbbing cock, and yes it does throb when I am close and I think of her, 
take it in hand, and hold very still just before I come. If I want to sleep I 
wrestle it into submission.
Once rarely brings on sleep and I'm not twenty anymore so as I soften 
in my hand I picture her. Smelling her. Sweet perfume, Warmth of her 
hair falling over my face. I imagine. Smooth and soft as silk?
Her lips, which I can't look at while at work, not kissing me, but grazing, 
just barely grazing mine, rubbing back and forth, open and sultry and 
full. Then suddenly pressing frantically, hard, lips mashing mine in a 
warm fervent frenzy, strong hands holding the base of my skull, kissing 
so hard her lipstick smears on both our faces. The image explodes a 
bullet of cold adrenaline in my gut, branching out and tearing me up, 
and it makes me hard again.
Hard again, for her, only for her, already wet with my own cum.
My hand circles it and grasps it, slowly. Slowly moving the skin up, slow, 
over the head.
Down, slow, fingers buried to the hilt, in my nuts.
It dries and heightens into a sticky friction, and it is then that I imagine 
that it is four in the morning, and that I am fucking her, slow and 
masterful, and it is the third or fourth time that night and we are rough 
and almost sore.
That last orgasm in my mind comes with a frenzy as I stare down at her 
warm lips and golden red hair, her moving with me, allowing me to 
make the rhythm, to control her, to make her body shudder with the 
force of my impact. Yeah, fucking hard and slow. Watching her breasts 
bounce with each stroke, small and delicate, stubborn insistent nipples 
poking up toward me.
I see her in my minds torturing eye, and come and come and come 
again.
The pictures, I can imagine. Even her scent becomes real to me, in 
fantasy. The question that I obesss over at night is what sounds she 
would make.
Nonsense, says the work-Scully in my mind's eye, the suited Scully with 
one eyebrow arched or eyes rolled. This Scully is succinct and 
controlled and only speaks when events around her make it necessary. 
This is not a scully who has orgasms.
Sometimes I actually belive this, actually think that a thirty-three year old 
woman, a stunning woman, is a virgin.
Yeah, right.
Then, it starts me down the beaten path of obsessing over everyone 
she has ever slept with. High school, college, med school? The path 
branches off into a million more compelling ones. How old when she lost 
her virginity? Has she slept with anyone I know? (Other than Jack Willis, 
who incites an itch in my trigger finger on a regular basis.)
The most trodden pathway: what does she sound like?
My profiler's mind tries to get inside her head, beyond her head, to the 
subconscious rush of life within her, and to imagine how the sounds of 
her sex would cross her lips.
Part is intuitive, trying to tap into that life force, swim with it, flow with it, 
and predict what her sounds would be like.
Part exacting logic as I extrapolate from known data about her voice, 
her mannerisms when upset, surprised, worried.
Just like us, yin and yang, a discourse building, weaving around itself as 
we hone in on truth.
But my spooky mind fails me, and I can't imagine it, can't picture sounds 
of lovemaking coming from her mouth. Of course the empirical-Scully in 
my head raises an eyebrow and says that I don't know what she sounds 
like when she comes anyway, therefore I can't verify that I'm wrong.
This woman has invaded my brain. Embedded her science in the core 
of my being, she is like an internal itch between the inner ear and cheek 
that cannot be scratched. At work, it makes us brilliant together. After 
hours, it tortues me, makes me abuse my self and body and cock until I 
am stupid-eyed and empty and I sleep only from sheer exhaustion.
Tonight is one of those multi-tissue nights. I throw away this residue as I 
feel sleep finally approaching and I pull the covers around me. The 
water below shifts and responds to my movement, it is warm. I try to 
cling to her, to drift off with some sweet fantasy of Dana in my mind.
She fades, trailing echoes of elusive lovesong, glinting flash of a lover's 
moan in the silence, and as I sleep there is nothing.
   
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Fanfic by November