Normal People

by Livia Balaban

Rated NC-17 = MSR smut crumpet with a dollop of humor
Spoilers: None
Summary: For every action, there is an equal and identical reaction.

She woke, breathless, to the sound of his voice.

The image of her interrupted dream retreated as she reached for it, as it always had. 
She would awake to the sensation of a stunning revelation, the truth of it always 
lying within the slippery boundaries of the dream, but each move she made to 
reclaim it sent it skittering farther away from her conscious mind.

"Damn."

She heard the sound again. The one she heard when she first rose, shaking, from 
that exquisite dream.

"Mmmmmhhhhhh...Scuuulllleeeee..."

She closed her eyes and shook her head, wondering if *he* was able to recall those 
dreams upon waking. Those hundreds of dreams she'd overheard through adjoining 
hotel room doors, while he lay on his bed, sometimes writhing, sometimes deathly 
still, but always moaning her name.

Sometimes he called out her name in fear, in panic, and on those occasions, when a 
case was especially trying, or his emotional state was especially fragile, she would 
slip into his room and wake him, muttering comforting phrases, reassuring him with 
her presence. And he had done it for her, during times she was certain she had been 
calling out his name in terror.

They used to leave the doors slightly ajar in order to be able to protect each other in 
case of a break-in or other emergency. But over the past couple of years, the 
slightly- open doors afforded them a kind of intimacy, a protection against internal 
demons as well.

But despite the urgency and horror of the nightmares when they came, the more 
common sleep sounds she heard issuing from Mulder's room involved gentle 
mutterings, sweet intonations of her name on his soft, sleep-calmed lips.

Something in his tone was familiar tonight, some elusive quality about the hunger in 
his voice, but she couldn't pin it down. It slipped away from her, just as had details 
of the aborted dream.

She found herself at the doorway, listening for the accustomed lushness of his 
breathing.

"Ohh.....yeahhhhhhh.....mmmmmm" A ragged breath followed the moan.

Scully leaned her forehead against the door jamb, breathing in time with him, closing 
her eyes and riding on the waves of his soft gasps of imagined pleasure.

Her hand began to wander, as it often did at these times, gently tracing down across 
her shoulder, up her throat, grazing her jaw, and slipping down toward her breasts. 
She imagined herself supplying him with fodder for that dream, every touch of her 
own skin prompting another raspy groan in his throat.

And, as she began to understand that her own hunger wouldn't be quelled by merely 
listening to his subconscious fantasy, she set about one of her own.

She returned to her bed, threw the covers aside, and closed her eyes. Wrapping her 
arms firmly about one large, fluffy pillow, she brought it down over her, feeling his 
weight above her. She raised her hips to meet it, pressing against his firm, muscular 
flesh. A soft "oh", escaped her lips, but she barely noticed it for the touch of her 
fingers - his imagined fingers - against her cheek, slipping down to her lips, to gently 
tease them. Her tongue flitted out to taste the skin at the tips of his fingers, and he 
slipped one through her lips and over her tongue, reveling in the sensation of her 
moist warmth as much as she reveled in the firm certainty of his salty skin.

His finger slipped from between her lips, and glazed a silky trail down her chin, her 
sensitive throat, beneath his shoulder and down to her breast. Still slick and warm, 
his finger gently teased the firm, responsive flesh at the tip. She shuddered and 
cooed a soft, "Mmmmmmmmmmulderrr" into his neck, as she wrapped her legs 
around his thighs, more fully pressing her ravenous hips into his.

There were times when moments like this caught Scully by surprise. She would open 
her eyes suddenly and realize she was, for all intents and purposes, humping a 
pillow, and throw it off the bed in disgust and shame. But over the past few months, 
she began to find solace and comfort in these extended, nearly-satisfying moments 
of fancy.

This was one of those moments. Groaning softly with pleasure and anticipation, she 
traced a line down the front of her silk pajamas, disappointed by the muddled 
sensation. What she needed was his skin on hers. She managed to slip out of them 
without losing the sensation of his weight above her. And when a small pile of satin 
lay crumpled beside the bed, -his- hand began to retrace the familiar line from her 
breast to her hip, lightly circling, teasing, making her beg for what she wanted.

"Mmmmmmulderrr, please..." He could be a real bastard when she wanted him to 
want her to suffer. He was also exquisitely tender, understanding when to caress, 
when to hold, when to pinch. His touch was electrifying.

She was in an agony of expectation, waiting for him, wanting him to take her, to 
touch her, to give her the pleasure and release she knew he could. Because he had, 
countless times, in hotel rooms, in motel rooms, in her own bed. Once on her living 
room floor, and he hadn't even known it, as he spoke to her on the phone about a 
case. How could he not know he was there in the room with her, pleasuring her with 
his own fingers?

That was her Mulder - a sensitive, oblivious, beautiful bastard. Oh, she wanted him.

And then he was there, slipping his fingers between her thighs, pressing his head 
against her neck, sighing her name into the soft flesh of her throat.

It was only a pillow, only her own hands, but they WERE Mulder - his beautiful strong 
body and his delicate, talented fingers. He touched her in just the place that had 
ached for - forever, it felt like - and she arched her hips into his patient hand. He 
chuckled an imaginary something about Scully needing to give more obvious signs of 
what she wanted, and she tried to chuckle in return, but the waves of shudders 
coursing through her made speech impossible.

Except for one word: "Yessss".

And another: "Mulder."

And a complicated combination: "Yessss, Mulder, Ohhhhh." As his strokes firmed and 
his radius narrowed to one acutely sensitive spot, she moaned again. "Mmmm. . 
.yesss...yes..."

She closed her mouth over his firm, strong shoulder, to muffle her cries of pleasure, 
and just in time, for his motions over her clitoris finally became too much to bear, 
and she released in a cleansing, shuddering orgasm.

After a moment or two to recover herself, she shifted the pillow over to her side, 
tugged the pajamas with difficulty over her damp skin, and rolling on to her side, 
wrapped her body around the pillow, around him, to sleep peacefully, warmed by 
him.

**********

Mulder awoke with a start. He'd heard Scully call his name, he was certain of it. He 
blinked himself fully awake, and waited to see if she would call again.

She did.

He chuckled.

It wasn't an intruder, or even a nightmare. It was another glorious Scully pillow-
fuckfest. Mmmmm, how he loved the sound of his name on her lips as she pleasured 
herself.

To her credit, Scully was moaning *very* softly, but Mulder's hearing was acute, and 
there's nothing you will hear better than something you're actively listening for.

Since this little pillow polka began a few months ago, Mulder had come to catalog 
every sweet Scullysound. There was the low, soft moan, which she used when she 
was warming herself up. Later there was the groan, a kind of permission-giving 
moment, when she would always say "yes". And his name, of course. And when she 
was in full swing, absolutely out of her mind with pleasure, there were the guttural, 
monosyllabic grunts she would bury in the edge of the pillow, hoping to muffle her 
cries.

It never worked. At least not with the adjoining doors cracked open as they were.

Mulder rose and stood by the doors, listening and smiling at the sound of this 
glorious rhapsody. She was definitely in a permission-giving moment, because all he 
could hear from her was "Yes," and "Mulder". He loved the way his name melted out 
of her, naturally and effortlessly.

If he'd had the courage, he would have entered her room and given her what she 
wanted. What *he* wanted. But he was also respectful, and understood that nothing 
could happen between them until she was ready. And it seemed obvious that she 
would need a few more mildly-satisfying-but-not- mind-blowing experiences like this 
to convince her that the man in the next room could give her so much more than 
just a quick little orgasm. That he wanted her, was waiting for her.

With a rock-hard erection. Steel. What was that stuff that drilled through steel? Oh 
yeah, tungsten-carbide. A tungsten-carbide erection.

He would have to do something about that.

He returned to his bed, threw off the blankets, and lay back, one hand behind his 
head, the other playing mindlessly with the drawstring on his light cotton 
sweatpants.

Mmmmm, Scully on a case. Brilliant, insightful, defiant. Nope, wrong image. She was 
always stunning in her business suits, but he needed a more visceral image.

Scully in a red latex thong. He laughed at the mental leap and the thought of her so 
brazen. That wasn't the Scully he needed either. He needed a real Scully, feminine 
and pliant, adoring and lovely. Warm, real Scully.

Scully in snug jeans and a soft little sweater. And bare feet. Her bare feet drove him 
insane, those little toes curling into the carpet, the tiny tips painted deep burgundy.

No, not her feet tonight. Her thigh. A glimpse of white, creamy thigh would do it. 
And it did.

He plucked from his handy memory bank an image of Scully rising from a car seat, 
her skirt slipping open just enough to expose a patch of gloriously smooth, pale 
thigh.

His hand slid inside his sweatpants, and grazed the base of his penis.

"Mmmmm." He knew she'd be out cold soon, so he didn't have to be overly careful 
about his volume.

He replayed that moment again, her beautiful legs rotating, angling herself out of the 
seat, and the slit of the skirt riding just a little too high, as she moved her leg out of 
the car, and there it was again, affording him a clandestine opportunity to gaze at 
her supple flesh and imagine the glorious, creamy texture of the rest of her.

His fingers dabbed at the moisture accumulated at the tip, and spread it along the 
firm length of his cock.

If her thigh was that sweet and smooth, her lovely little belly must be... "Ohhhhhh."

His hand grasped completely around his hard girth, and began slow, careful strokes. 
When he reached the head, he shuddered with pleasure, and quickly covering the tip 
with his palm, accumulated more slickness, and distributed it down his length on the 
next stroke.

"Yeah...Sculllleeee..."

His breathing increased and shallowed, and he began to pump in earnest, 
strengthening his grip, and imagining, oh, what a beautiful sight.

Scully lying back in her bed, reaching out to him, calling his name, asking for him to 
come to her.

<Yeah, that's good.>

His fist slid up to the head and slammed down to the base, and he found his hips 
rising to meet his eager hand.

Scully, copper hair dazzling against black satin sheets, touching her own breasts, 
rounded and firm, in anticipation of his arrival.

"Mmmmm, yeah."

Scully's soft, full lips parting for him - - no, that's the wrong image.

Scully's soft, full lips, moist in expectancy, waiting for him to give her the feeling and 
view she most desired.

<Oh, yeah, that's it.>

Scully's sweet soft breasts, pushed together forcefully, encasing his pulsing, 
engorged cock. <Yeah, a Scully tittyfuck. THAT'S the image.>

"Yeah, Sculllee...ohhh...yeah, that's it, right there."

She usually pretended she didn't actually have breasts, that they weren't as full and 
lush as they actually were, concealing them beneath severe suits and baggy 
sweatshirts. But there were days when a blouse button would falter, falling aside 
gently to reveal a trace of surprisingly curvaceous cleavage. Oh, she was petite, but 
exceptionally well-constructed.

The anticipation was excruciating, but the image of his rock-hard cock clamped 
between her perfect breasts was so intense, so charged with excitement and need, 
that he lost his rhythm for a moment.

"Oh, shit...yeah...Sculleeee."

And regaining his pace, reacquiring his grip was all it took to send him into pumping 
contractions, coming, calling her name.

He'd barely had time for the blood to return to his brain when the telephone in his 
room rang, loud and harsh.

He rolled over on the bed, instantly regretting it, as he squished uncomfortably in his 
semen-soaked sweatpants, and picked up the phone.

"Mulder?"

<Shit.> "Yeah?"

Pause. She sighed.

"Mulder, can we do *anything* like normal people?"

 

=======
End.

Notes: Heaps o' thanks to my personal editing diety, Sarah Ellen Parsons, smut 
queen extraordinaire.

 



livia@stoodjood.com

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