TITLE: Mutual 3: This Time It's Personal AUTHOR: Jess EMAIL ADDRESS: snarkypup@mindspring.com DISCLAIMER: You're kidding, right? DISTRIBUTION STATEMENT: Anywhere, just let me know. SPOILER WARNING: None really. RATING: NC-17 CONTENT WARNING: Um... sex? CLASSIFICATION: MSR, smut with a cherry on top SUMMARY: Returning in the third installment of this little series, Mulder and Scully go to the Bureau Ball (thanks to whoever gave me the idea to try and blow the lid off that cliche-ridden experience) and find themselves... in between a rock and a *hard* place? Fun ensues. Email me or I'll have to let them leave at this... ++++++ There are few moments in my life when I feel I am truly lucky. Most of those moments, granted, involve Mulder. Some involve my daughter or my mother or just a bright winter sunset and a warm sweater. Yesterday, running the tip of my tongue up the slick underside of Mulder's penis, has to be the absolute topper. This man, this brilliant, handsome, silly, sexy, annoying, loyal, loving man was sitting in his chair, behind his desk, unable to function at the thought that I might actually touch him. He kept throwing pencils at the ceiling. Jesus, Mulder, as if I wouldn't be able to figure that one out. I wonder if that's what it's always meant? So now here we are, again. At a crossroads. We have not, in typical Mulder and Scully moodily dysfunctional fashion, discussed what exactly it means that I have now given him a rip-roaring blow job beside his desk. Nor do I believe we ever will discuss it. We'll just continue to act, to move forward, fumbling through the game until we reach the ultimate goal. I can hardly wait to score, so to speak. Let me explain something? I am an intensely sexual person. Not that you would know it to look at me. Or talk to me. Or be me. I don't know exactly what Mulder thinks, but I'm sure he's convinced that he will need to break down my modest exterior to gain access to my inner passions. Right. Knowing myself as I do, that ought to take all of? ten seconds. Or three beers. At any rate, I am finding that side of myself, long buried beneath a veneer of business suits and flashed badges, suddenly very much in the forefront of my slavering mind. I want to touch him. Hell, I want to fuck him. Not that that's anything new, but now he knows. I'm completely consumed with anticipation. Which brings me to tonight. Or rather today, preparing for tonight. You see, it's that time of the year again, when G-men and women from all over the nation gather at the Bureau headquarters to dance and drink the night away. Yes, the Bureau Ball. We ought to sell tickets, like the Police. Boy, wouldn't that wake up middle America? See your dedicated public servants get severely plastered and pair off for fornication like participants in an African mating ritual. You know, the one where the men dress up and make strange faces at the girls until they choose the prettiest boy and go off into the bushes for a little night loving. Not that I don't enjoy this yearly attempt by the powers that be to get us to behave like normal people and actually have sex with someone other than the occasional suspect. Mulder looks, how can I put this? magnificent in a tuxedo. We have spent the last six of these things moving around each other, eyes meeting, bodies aching, like moths around a shining window frame. Tonight, I intend to do some fornicating, yes I do. So I am currently standing in a very spacious dressing room at a very exclusive department store, trying to decide whether or not to wear the little navy blue thing or to go for the low-cut red one that shows off my tattoo. I turn slowly, sliding my hands down over my hips, picturing Mulder's face when he does the same thing. I wonder if they really do have people monitoring these things? In the end I go for the little navy thing. I want Mulder to be looking at me, not dwelling on the red and green ink representation of my need for him. Basically, I want him to look out across that room of desperate faces and see only me, waiting in the midst of the turmoil like a pool of cool blue water at the edge of a long crawl through scorching sand. Tonight, I will be the sweet lake balm to his burning skin. I will let him float within me and the thick moisture of my desire will finally penetrate his scalded outer layers. And then I will rock him, battered little ship that he is, until he drifts to safety. The salesgirl packs up the dress and a pair of very high-heeled black pumps. My mother always said you shouldn't wear navy and black and for the life of me I have never figured out what I am supposed to do instead. Tonight, at least, stockings will be no issue. I will be bare beneath the dress, shimmering and smooth. There, I think, gently placing the bag in the back of my car. I've taken another irrevocable step toward sex, at least mentally. You have no idea how exciting that is for someone who's had what could only really be termed as an unending dry spell. I am still savoring the feel of Mulder's fingers inside me, searching for permission I will happily give. Thinking of that moment on the plane, of his face as he watched me come, I am nearly unable to drive. Snaking my hand between my legs, I press hard against myself and moan. Of course it's only then that I notice the enormous truck about to pass me. Ok, so maybe masturbating in the car isn't such a fantastic idea. But maybe masturbating in the tub is. So here I am, my body heavy in the warm water, sliding my hands over my own breasts, gasping. I need him so badly that I don't want to come. I don't want to be satiated tonight until it is Mulder's own rigid body that does it. Forcing my own hands to still, I allow only my mind to indulge in a taste of what is hopefully to come. I picture him, arms shaking under the strain of raising his already weary body, looking down at my breasts as he slips slowly in and out of me, pushing the swollen head of his penis past the slick outer barriers of my body until I can no longer bear it. My body pulses, slightly, coming just at the thought of him. A tiny orgasm, compact and really no relief at all. This night has the possibility of being unbearably long. At last the time has come and I am waiting for the taxi. Hair's up, legs are shaved (all the way up, I might add, something of a Scully rarity), fuck-me shoes are on, and the dress? ah the little dress. I have to keep yanking at the hem to keep it from creeping up my body like a lover's face, scratchy and marvelous. The desire to see him is so intense now that I can hardly stand it. My stomach seems to have migrated into my throat and is hovering there, shaking and shimmying like jello. What will he look like? I feel like I've never seen him before and this is a blind date. I've only been told that he is as delicious as a crisp summer apple. I am aware, in the taxi, that I am constantly licking my lips. I had never really noticed this trait of mine until one day I found Mulder staring, blatantly, at my mouth. I must have licked them again at that point because he actually started as if he'd been kicked by an angry relative under the table. "What's wrong?" I asked and received my answer the next day when he wordlessly handed me an unopened tube of Blistex. I didn't point out that my lipstick negates any need to moisturize. Licking is no doubt a nervous habit. I have made a point of doing it ever since. Mulder's a fine one to talk, anyway, as if his very sexy swirling and cracking of seeds, straws, pencils, whatever isn't an obvious turn on. I once stole a pencil he'd spent the afternoon gnawing on and actually masturbated with it, sliding it from my mouth into my own body like a little yellow surrogate Mulder. Maybe that's why seeing him lick his own finger clean of my juices was so damn devastating, knowing that he has had the same longing fantasy of the taste of entrance. Here I am, standing outside the hallowed halls of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Like I don't come here everyday, just differently dressed. But I am different tonight. For the first time in many years, I arrive at this building with hope building inside my body like an inflating balloon. I am buoyant with it, two inches of clean air protecting me from the pale gray concrete stairs. The grand meeting room at the Hoover building is an innocuous enough place most of the time, the product of the same poured-concrete madness that makes the outside of the building so obviously the home of a government agency. Lovely cheap wood paneling stained to look like oak, green velvet swag curtains with gold cords holding them back, parquet floor and cut-glass chandeliers with light bulbs made to look like flickering candle flames. I stand at the door, about to launch myself into the frenzied shifting of bodies inside, feeling less like Cinderella and more like her pensive and annoyed alter-ego. Who are these people, with their loud laughter and loosened bow-ties and champagne and red lipstick stained glasses? I have no desire to join this society, no need for them and their frat-house braying. These were the people I wanted to impress when I began here, these were the men and women I was hoping to scramble my way through. What was I thinking? I know I will only have to see his face to realize the idiocy of those aspirations. Mulder truly is a redwood. These people are microscopic plant life. Skinner is the first to spot me, weaving his way over with two drinks. That he hates these things nearly as much as we do is no consolation. I just want to see Mulder and no one, not even a beloved boss, can assuage my need. "Agent Scully," he says and then draws me forward, all small talk and smiles, as if he hasn't opened the door to the devil's box with us. I am aware of the sound of his voice, deep and rumbling. I don't know if I've ever mentioned this, but when we first met, Mulder's voice annoyed the hell out of me. It seemed high pitched and yet gravely, as if he were always shouting through larangitis. I know exactly when that changed for me, when it became as soothing as a mother, as my own soft inner sounds. After my father died, when he sat next to me and tried to comfort me, I heard for the first time something beyond the outward fear and paranoia and grief that tinged his words and timbre. I realized that more than anything, his inner voice was filled with concern and a genuine need to touch something in me beyond a simple grief-suppressing caress. Now all he has to do is whisper "Hey Scully, it's me" and I am instantly, suddenly clearer, as if someone has wiped the fog away from my immediate surroundings and cleared a little Mulder-bubble of sanity. I have never been so in love, I realize, listening politely as Skinner laughs with another agent. Never, in all my years of meeting and loving men, have I felt anything remotely close to this. I don't know why that shocks me, but it does. I suppose I've been thinking all along that this is a road I've traveled before, when in fact I am stumbling along an unmarked trail. And I need to hear his voice to clear away the ridiculous cliches of this night. It is then, in this moment of terrible loneliness, when I first see him. Standing across the room at the other entrance, handing his long black trench to the coat girl, flirting just enough to make her feel special without crossing into any intimacy. Just like he used to do with me, before it became obvious to us both that intimate was what we were. Just seeing him, knowing he is here, I feel the murky waters settling. When will he see me? Will this mystical connection we claim to share kick in and draw him to me? I sense that I am too quiet. Skinner is looking down at me, his face softened by alcohol and pleasantries. "Agent Scully?" he says. And I know what he is asking. Why, he wants to know, am I staring at my partner? "Sir," is all I can reply. My heart is leaping and rolling around in my chest like a puppy. "Scully," he smiles, "go on. He's waiting for you." With Skinner's blessing then, I am moving through the crush of people, wishing I could use the patented Scully "just do it!" shout on them. Mulder is talking, none too animatedly, with Wilson from Special Crimes. I catch his eye at last and see that he too has been waiting. Watching him separate from Wilson and come toward me, I half expect to be swept up by him and carried on the crest of him out of the room. Instead, he pauses just in front of me, glorious and swank in his expensive tuxedo. Mulder has marvelous taste in clothes, at least most of his clothes. I have long wondered why men's formal wear remains so unchanging, while women flit through a thousand styles in any given year. Looking at him, scrubbed and brushed and frisky as a fox, I am certain I know. Nothing has ever been as sexy as he is now. And he is drinking me in, sucking my breath from my body by staring at me with an open need. "My God," he whispers, and I know he has seen the oasis. You know those tracking shots in movies, where the camera spins around two people, their stillness accented by the whirling motion of the background? Mulder and I are stationary now, as the planet rotates around us. We must touch each other, it is as necessary as the gentle push and shove of blood through our hearts. "Come with me," he says and takes my hand, openly. I am briefly struck with a sense of panic. Everyone will know and I don't want them to. I can't expand enough to let the world in. But then I am following him through the gyrating crowd of revelers and no one is looking at us. No one cares. God, how freeing to realize this. My legs are mushy and weak, the legs of a newborn. I stumble behind him and he slows until he can put one hand on my back, leading me ahead of him, guiding my way. We reach a set of French doors, the edge of the physical party. Mulder opens them and we step alone onto the small balcony. I bless whatever possessed those architects, in the midst of their corporate brutalism, to place this small island of night air at our disposal. I move to the railing and turn to see Mulder stop. "Scully," he says and I must grip the railing to keep from either fainting or screaming like a Sixties teenager at a Beatles concert. "Mulder," I answer. "I've been dying," he says. "All day." Of course he has, I too have been feeling the little death. "I know," I say. "I know." He steps forward again and behind him I see the anxious movements of couples on the dance floor. I will not be witnessed like this. I will hold us back, private and rare as a mythical animal. Stepping around him, I flatten myself against the wall beside the window, out of view, caught in the violet shadows of the building's cool walls. Turning, he sees me there and knows what I am hiding from. Pressing my overheated back against the concrete, I wait until he stands just inside my personal space, the fine hairs on my skin reacting to his proximity. He removes his hands from his pockets and places them on my hips. I am only able to lift my head and stare at his dark eyes; I cannot possibly move. Maybe he will slide his hands down and lift my dress, my giddy head whispers and I shiver. "Cold?" A mild smile, as if the question didn't contain seven years of answers. I shake my head and he leans closer, nipping at my neck, rather hard. Moaning, I try to motivate my arms to move, but only succeed in grasping wildly at the smooth wall behind me. He senses my movements and slides his slow hands up my body, the opposite of my movement in the dressing room, the reflection of it. "This is a very nice dress," he murmurs. Trust Mulder to be a talker. "Is it silk?" I nod weakly. His hands run past my breasts to my armpits then up my arms, raising them above my head. He holds them there, leaning against me, his full weight pressing me into the wall like a limpet. For a moment we rest that way, pinned together, reveling in the feel of our combined weights. Then he begins to move, gently pressing his growing erection into my stomach. Or where my stomach would be, if I could just swallow it again. It is attempting to flutter right out my throat. When he groans softly in my ear, I feel it drop straight to my groin along with my entire blood supply. We are dry-humping, grinding against each other like horny teenagers out behind the school yard. Frantic for contact, we are moving against one another so violently now it is a wonder we do not merge into one person. Mulder is gasping above me and I look up to see his lips parted, his eyes dark and shuttered. "Mulder, kiss me." He moves his torso back a bit to see me, not breaking the aching contact of our lower bodies. "Anything you want," he whispers, "anything." Then he dips his head and lets go of my arms. They are instantly around his neck, pulling him in. I can't wait any longer to taste him. Last night I had a moment of this knowledge, but I was too afraid of missing the opportunity to pleasure him. Now I must know. His lips hit mine -- there is no other word for it and we open to each other. Who would have thought it? Mulder tastes like the sweet salt of sunflower seeds, even when he's sipped at a glass of wine. I am enveloped by him as he teases me, drawing back and swooping in only to stop millimeters from my lips. We giggle together at the discovery that we are playing at kisses like children. And then he pushes urgently against me and we dissolve again into each other's slick mouths. "Scully," he moans, "I want to kiss you." "You are," I remind him, touched. "No," he says. "Not on your mouth." And then I begin to slide down the wall like water. "Where?" I dare to ask. "Here." He flattens one hand over my left breast and then begins to stroke and pluck at me like a harp. "Yes," I tell him. "That would be wonderful." "I would like to wash you, bath you like a kitten." I push against his hand and murmur pleasing sounds, listening to his breathing and to the rapid pounding of my own blood. "Scully, I want to be inside you, completely. I'm not just talking about? I mean my whole body, drowning in you." He is sucking on my neck as he whispers to me, drawing both my breasts together and sliding one finger in and out of my cleavage, fucking me. "I would never let you drown," I tell him and he smiles against my skin. ++++++ Of course I have always been unlucky. It's pretty common knowledge. Poor Spooky Mulder, lost his sister, lost his father, lost his marbles? but what they don't realize, what none of them know is that I have just become the single most favored man on Earth. Possibly in the universe, though I haven't seen enough of it to be sure. Tonight, Dana Scully is wearing a dress the exact color of a tropical night sky. Every other time we have attended these functions she had been dressed in black, her color of choice since her abduction. But oh, this color of blue. Like arctic water, like midnight in the South. I could lose myself tonight and never surface again. Ever since her performance in the basement yesterday, I have been looking at my life in an entirely new light. Prior to this, the knowledge that Scully existed was all that kept me alive, kept me skipping across my day like a stone thrown from shore. But once I realized that Scully loved me, was in love with me, wanted me, would actually dare to do me, I've been gently sinking into her depths. She is the only thing that matters to me anymore. I think I've told her that, but now I need to show her. Her body is the warmest thing in this cool DC night. She moves against me, around me, through me like a ghost. The stiff silk of the dress (only Scully would choose a rigid silk, I think with a smile) rubs between us, riding up and up till I am breathless with the thought of its ascent. "Mulder," she says in my ear, her voice slick and guttural. "Let's go." But I don't want to. Not yet. I can't explain this. Why I'm not on the floor of her apartment right now, driving into her with all the lost intensity of the last seven endless years? is as great a mystery to me as the existence of extraterrestrials ever was. But for some reason, whatever it may be, I want to prolong this courtship, hold her at bay, wait until I can no longer bear to be touched. So I shake my head. "What's wrong with right here?" I ask. I have to lean back to see the raised eyebrow, but there it is, sexy as ever. "Someone could see us," she whispers. "Yeah, exciting, isn't it?" She laughs. "That's so Mulder. No understanding of risk." "Ah Scully," I tell her, biting at the straps of her dress. "I understand the risks. But you cannot have great gain without great risk." "You playing the market?" she asks, slipping her tongue under my shirt collar. "You once said you wouldn't bet against me." She giggles. "Catholics don't bet." "Ah? but do they do this?" And I slide my hand up her inner thigh, which, incidentally, is the softest place outside of my grandmother's feather bed. She grabs my arms, holding on as we begin. I can't believe she isn't wearing underwear. Again. How often has this glistening, glorious thing been there between us, like the knowledge of a secret? She is slippery and wonderful. I push her lips apart and slide two fingers along her inner folds. It's as hot there as a night in Fiji. Had I known about this, it wouldn't have had to rain sleeping bags for us to keep each other warm. She gasps as I graze her clit, spreading her legs a bit wider to give me access. I slide first one finger than two into her body, reveling in the juicy peach ripeness of her. Her wetness astounds me, and is as marvelously slick as velvet must be to a man used to wool. "Mulder." A statement. You are in me, she is saying. I groan. "I want you," she whispers then. "Take me," I tell her, moving in and out of her body and up to her clit and back down again, unable to decide what feels more like home. And much to my astonishment, she does, pulling my shirt away from the front of my pants and unbuttoning them. I pause, I can't help it, half in her, the heel of my hand grinding into her. She unzips them, just enough to touch me but not enough to cause them to drop to my ankles and pulls me, gasping, out of my boxers and into the night air. This is right, I think, this is how it should be. Getting each other off as the rest of the bureau, the rest of humanity fades to a soft roar behind the glass doors. "Scully," I groan, unable to help it. We are like the kids in Titanic, running down the hall yelling "Jack", "Rose", "Jack" until we are horse, searching for each other as the water rises. Then she begins to move, sliding her hand up my penis and back down. The friction is painful, almost, and I start to pull back. But my Scully knows me, feels what I feel. She frees me and then slides her hand down my arm to meet me at the junction of my flesh and hers. I am gaping, mouth open, as she slides my hand out of her body and slips her own fingers in. My pulse is pounding in my ears and I am sure I will come right here. How did this incredibly sensual woman sit next to me in a car for six fucking years and I never knew she would do this? Slicking me with her own liquid, she slides her dampened hand up and down me until I am thrusting into her belly like a kid with a pillow. I must make her come, I am desperate. She has to feel exactly what I feel. That's the meaning of being one person, right? So I slide my fingers back along her, tracing the edge of her hair, slipping down into her and back out, rubbing at the tightened ball of nerves until she is panting like a long-distance runner. We kiss madly, missing each other as often as we connect. Wild with sex, we are strangely in synch, despite the fumbling. It is the single most erotic experience of my life. Together we speed up, pumping and pushing, the movements of our own circulatory systems. Then, just as I think I can't possibly do this any longer, she slams her legs shut around my hand and shivers like a distant star, pulsating around me. It is enough, to know she has met me and is passing over me, is enough. I back away from her dress a bit and come, dribbling like a fool onto the concrete balcony floor. She stares at me, mouth open, breathing in small gulps like a dying swimmer coming up for air. I lean forward and kiss her, slowly, letting her know that I am still here, still wanting her. "Mulder," she says, slowing down as I attempt to tuck myself back in before anyone ventures out. And then she starts to giggle, hysterical, like she's choking on oxygen. "Scully?" She gestures to the damp balcony floor and shakes her head. "At least the consortium will never find sperm stains on my dress," she laughs. End, so email the heck out of me!