The Thing with Feathers PART TWO AUTHOR: Diana Battis DISTRIBUTION: OK for Gossamer and Spookys. Anywhere else, just ask. I usually say yes. CLASSIFICATION: MSR, S, RATING: NC17 SPOILERS: Yes, right through to X-Cops. SUMMARY: A hope starved will eventually die. DISCLAIMER: Don't own 'em. Never have, never will, damn it! AUTHOR'S COMMENTS: Thanks to Narida, Kristy, and Chris for their comments, insight, and hand-holding. Ladies, I'm in your debt! FEEDBACK: All4Mulder@aol.com or DianaBattis@aol.com My fanfiction can be found at: http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Vault/4090/TheXFilesFic.html ********** Hope is the thing with feathers That perches in the soul, And sings the tune without the words, And never stops at all, Emily Dickinson *********** She shoots back the bolt and shoves open the door on her side, barely keeping it from slamming into the wall in her haste. Raising a hand, she knocks on his, tentative little raps that she can barely hear above the pounding of her heart. The waiting seems endless, though she knows it isn't true. Her palms are sweating, and she runs them down the sides of her tee shirt as she waits for him to answer. Silence. It's a bad idea, she tells herself as the seconds pass. She should just close the door and crawl back between those scratchy sheets and pull the covers over her head. Stepping from one foot to the other, she's like a restless child awaiting a promised treat. The carpet is rough beneath her feet and she thinks longingly of her bedroom at home, with its polished hardwood floor, soft area rugs, and blessedly comfortable mattress. But that room doesn't have Mulder less than ten feet away, and she closes her eyes and knocks again. He hears her this time. The floor is vibrating with his steps, coming nearer to the door. Scully takes a deep breath, knowing that in seconds he will pull it open and she will have to say her piece. Wetting her lips, she smoothes her hair with slightly trembling hands, and hears the bolt sliding back. . . "Hey, what's up?" he asks, his eyes dark and sleepy. His hair is standing on end, still damp from his shower, and she fights the urge to smooth the spiky strands. "I thought you'd be asleep by now." "We need to talk," she replies, swallowing the lump in her throat. This is just Mulder, she tells herself, but the lump refuses to listen and has moved back with a vengeance. He moves aside, and she takes an experimental step into his room. The carpet is the same tired brown, chosen for its ability to hide dirt, and the room itself is a mirror image of hers, only the furniture's veneer differs, his being walnut. Her mind files away these little details as she carefully moves further into his room. She hears the door shut, sounding unnaturally loud to her ears. It reminds her of a vault being closed, and she feels a momentary sense of panic. Mulder doesn't seem to notice anything unusual. Though she's standing there in just a tee shirt and panties, she might as well be wearing a full coat of armor for all the attention it attracts. He's assumed she wants to discuss the case, and he's leaning over the bed, fumbling through a stack of papers laying there. He's shirtless, and she watches the play of muscles under his skin as he stretches to reach an empty folder. Her fingers itch with the desire to touch him, to trace a path along his spine to where it disappears below the low-riding sweat pants. . . "Scully, are you all right?" He turns to face her, a quizzical look on his face. She can feel the heat in her cheeks, and imagines the color washing into her face like the tide on her dream beach. She hears him laugh again, knowing he sees it. Her thoughts are confirmed as his palm rests against her face, cool against her sensitive skin. "I'm fine, Mulder. Why do you ask?" She moves out of his reach, and immediately misses his touch. "I've asked you a question three times and you haven't answered me." He shrugs, and walks over to the desk to spread out the sheets he's been holding. "Now, I talked to someone in the coroner's office, and they've assured me we'll have the autopsy results on. . ." His voice drones on, reciting facts and figures and dates. Scully can't believe that he's so oblivious to her and what she wants. "Mulder -- shut up!" She has his full attention. He frowns and purses his lips but she can see the wheels turning in his mind, making calculations based on some Mulder chart that he has filed away in that incomprehensible mind of his. But she's not about to be analyzed by his profiling brain. "And sit down. I have a few things I want to say." He opens his mouth to protest, but she holds up a hand in warning. She's come this far; there's no backing down now. Surprisingly, he complies, pulling out the desk chair and straddling it, his arms folded across the back. His face is expressionless, but his eyes, green and clear like the eyes in her dream, are focused on her. She moves to the bed, carefully clearing a small spot to sit among the papers and files. His bedspread is tacky green chenille, and the scratchy surface irritates her skin as she wriggles to get comfortable. The tee shirt rides high, and his eyes leave her face and dip lower. Finally, he's noticed, and he isn't indifferent, she thinks, smoothing the shirt back over her thighs. How to start? Her mouth is dry, her tongue thick. She feels as if she's had too much to drink, and not enough, and wishes she'd thought to buy a bottle of something alcoholic for later. She might need it. Take a deep breath, Dana, and just talk. Funny how the words that have so preoccupied her for hours. . .years. . .now refuse to come to her. She feels like a foreigner, unable to speak the language of the land. The urge to run from the room comes, but those eyes, so intensely focused on her, keep her pinned to the bed. "I'm not sure I can do this." She's surprised to hear her voice, strong and resolute, break the silence. He's startled, and he rises quickly from his seat to stand before her. She can't look at him, and focuses on her hands, clenched in her lap. A much larger one enters her field of vision, covering hers with its warmth, and she jumps at the contact. "What can't you do?" he asks, crouching before her. There's fear in his voice, and she wonders for a moment what he's thinking, what he fears. . . So close, he's so close. She can smell him, the clean scent of soap and shampoo overlaying the musk and maleness that she associates with Mulder. His face is inches from hers. He didn't shave, she notices abstractedly, his cheeks still dark with an early morning beard. He swallows, and she watches his Adam's apple bob. There's a small hollow at the base of his throat, a place she's dubbed 'the spot.' It draws her eyes like a beacon, and she thinks of pressing her lips there, running her tongue around its circumference. . . Leaning forward, Scully closes the slender gap between them to place a soft kiss against the corner of his mouth. He shudders, exhaling a puff of air that stirs the hair resting on her cheek. She's confused him, but he's not pulling away. Her lips move to the opposite corner, kissing him there, the stubble scratching against her cheek. It feels good, and she puts her lips there as well, over the mole that's intrigued her for so long. "Scully, what are you doing?" His voice sounds raspy and unused, his tone a mixture of childish curiosity and panic, and it makes her smile. She presses wet, openmouthed kisses on his skin, moving along his jaw. Her tongue swipes at his ear, tracing the curves of flesh with little cat-like laps that have him moaning in pleasure. "Nothing," she answers simply, freeing her hands to stroke his head. The bristles of his hair prickle her palms, and she shivers at the needle-like touch. "Everything," she repeats, just before she touches his mouth again. This time it's full-on, no taunting with teasing little kisses. Her tongue swirls over his lips, pressing against the seam and pushing into the heated warmth. He tastes good, hot and bitter like coffee. She almost thinks she can feel the buzz of caffeine, coursing through her blood like a wake-up call. He pushes her away, his hands on her shoulders, gripping her tightly. "Are you feeling all right?" His voice is unsteady. His cheeks are flushed, and his lips shine wetly in the glow of the bedside lamp. She places a hand against him, her nails scratching through the crisp mat of curls sprinkled across his chest, and his breath hisses in response. He's not unaffected by her, she notes with pleasure. "I'm fine, Mulder." Truth rings clearly in her reply. Finally, she can say those words and mean them. She is whole and strong, and knows what she wants from life. "Fine," she repeats, and the message is echoed in the brilliance of her eyes. He shudders, his fingers circling her wrist like a bracelet, stilling her motion. "Scully, why now?" He's looking at her in an endearingly goofy way, like a kid at Christmas who can't believe he just got the ten-speed bike he's always wanted. Smiling, she leans against him again, nuzzling her face into the curve of his neck. There's a time for words, and a time for action. "Mulder, shut up and kiss me." In seconds he complies, his mouth covering hers with unconcealed hunger. A moan vibrates in her throat as he runs his tongue over her bottom lip, teeth nipping lightly at its fullness. Sighing in satisfaction, she curls her fingers in his hair, humming with the need to know all the wonderful things that mouth can do. She's melting, her body responding automatically to the magic of his touch. His thumbs inch their way under the neck of her tee shirt to circle the hollows at her collarbone. He has such talented hands, and she's shuddering under their mastery. And then those hands push, and she's falling. . . They land on the bed, his body heavy on hers, crushing her like she is crushing the papers and folders he'd so carelessly strewn on its surface. His lips are open, kissing her fiercely, making gruff little noises that send shivers down her spine. His tongue strokes hers, flicking and sliding hotly. It's wet and invasive, acting as surveyor, mapping out all the sensitive places of her mouth for future reference. It feels so damned right that she can't believe she'd waited so long or worried so much. He's already hard, and his erection presses solidly against her stomach as his body moves over hers. So good, she thinks, her nipples tightening pleasurably against the friction of soft cotton and Mulder. Her hips are rolling beneath him, seeking firmer contact. . .her breath catches, but now it's pain that's the culprit. Something sharp is stabbing her, savagely digging into her back. "S. . .something. . .poking me," she murmurs against his mouth, twisting her fingers in his hair to pull his head away. His eyes are heavy-lidded, twin green flames that burn brightly with passion. "Isn't that the idea?" he rasps, before diving down to recapture her lips. "Mmmmph. . .Mulder, no!" He lifts his head, his breath echoing harshly in quiet room. "Do you want to stop?" he asks, his gravelly baritone an equal mixture of disappointment and uncertainty. "No, no!" she answers emphatically. "It's something sharp. . .under me. I can feel it poking into my back." She hastens to reassure him, her hand caressing the curve of his jaw. He stands quickly and pulls her to her feet, a look of concern on his face. She feels breathless, lightheaded, and braces herself against the wall of his chest. It's the lack of breakfast, she thinks. The soft curls feel good under her cheek, and she rubs against them in sensual abandon. "Probably that bed. I think it's alive." His laughter rumbles in his chest as he surveys the offending piece of furniture. "Or it could be that damned pen. . .Christ, I'm sorry, Scully. Are you hurt?" Soft, so soft, his fingers are stroking across her back. Moving lower and lower, she feels them slide under her shirt to tiptoe across the small of her back. They skip along her spine, warming the skin in their path. "Everything feels. . .good," he breathes, and she finds herself nodding in agreement. It's hard for her to believe they're doing this. She must still be asleep. Her mouth opens, and her tongue tastes the skin next to her cheek. Salty, tangy, real. This is no dream. She kisses her way to a nipple, enjoying the shudders and tiny gasps that signify his pleasure. Yes, she thinks, it does feel good. "Move away from the bed," he instructs, and she automatically complies. With a flip of his wrist, the spread is off, thrown to the floor with all the papers and files. "And we won't be needing this," he declares, peeling off her tee shirt with an economy of motion. "Or these," he states, pushing her back down to the mattress to remove her panties. They join the untidy pile of clothing, bedding, and paper on the carpet. Sighing, she collapses fully onto the mattress, scooting until her head rests on his pillow. She watches him pull off his sweat pants, his erection springing free. Her breath catches at the sight; her mouth suddenly dry. He's so big, so beautiful, she thinks. Mulder's body is a work of art, and she wants to appreciate the hell out of it. She's impatient, and tugs at his arm until he collapses on the bed beside her. "Closer, Mulder," she orders firmly, but the effect is lost with the reedy tone of her voice. It doesn't matter; it seems to be exactly what he wants to do, and she sighs happily as he settles himself over her again. "Like this?" he asks, rubbing against her. His body hair is abrasive on her skin. It's like fine sandpaper, smoothing the rough edges of her desire. She shudders at the teasing movement, her nipples harder than she'd thought possible. His mouth moves over her face, kissing an eye, a cheek, her chin. He samples her skin like it's a rare vintage wine, little sips at a time. He's slow and patient, and she closes her eyes, giving herself up to these sensations. Next he focuses on the slender curve of her neck. He nibbles along the surface while his fingers move lower to find one of her breasts. They play against her nipple, rubbing across the pebbled flesh in tandem with his little nips at her collarbone. "You've got beautiful breasts, Scully," he murmurs against her skin, working his way over to capture the peak with his mouth. He sucks hard at the flesh, his tongue flicking across the nipple. A low whimper leaves her mouth, and she curls her fingers in the roughness of the sheets as he circles the aureole. "Tastes good," he approves, and in seconds he's suckling more of her into his eager mouth, making little noises of pleasure that vibrate against her skin. Her fingers tangle in his hair, directing him by touch. Harder, softer, more to the left or right. She's surprised at how quick he is to respond to her directions. "Good, so good," she keens, as his teeth scrape over the sensitive tip. His fingers stroke down her side, caressing the curve of her waist and flare of her hip. He's teasing her, his touch on her skin feather-light. Her hand dances down his arm, grasping his fingers and placing them at the juncture of her thighs. "Mulder," she gasps, her hips rocking, "please." "Is this what you want?" he asks, lightly stroking along her folds. But she's so slick that his fingers slip over that sensitive bundle of nerves in vain and she wants to cry in frustration. "Harder," she pleads in a breathy voice so unlike her normal one. He instantly adjusts the pressure and thrust of his fingers. They slide over her, circling firmly before moving deeper. Probing at her entrance, he pushes a finger into her, watching her reaction with burning eyes. Her breath hitches, and her hips buck up against his hand. "So wet," he murmurs in amazement, adding another to join the first. "Yes," she cries, as his fingers work their magic. In and out they move, the rough pad of his thumb swiping over her clit with every thrust. Oh, God, he's hitting that spot, creating a whole new parade of sensations for her to deal with. Too much, she thinks, stifling her cries against the back of her hand. The insistent pressure, the measured thrusts, overloading senses too long left idle. Her head rolls against the pillow, his rhythmic movements bringing her closer and closer to the edge. His strokes are firm and sure, playing her body like a fine instrument, slowly building to a crescendo. . .and suddenly she's there, her orgasm a white-hot force coursing through her body as she clenches against his fingers. "God, Scully, you're beautiful," he rasps, before covering her lips with his. He kisses her deeply, capturing her cries in the heat of his mouth. His tongue slides against hers, hot and wet, and she knows she's never tasted anything as good before. He pushes her legs apart, settling himself between her thighs. She feels the tip of his cock probing her folds, inexorably parting them as he slowly enters her. Wrapping her legs around his waist, she pulls him closer, moaning as he slides further in. It's almost too much, and she bites back a gasp of pain as her body stretches to accommodate his girth. She takes him in, inch by inch, until his balls nestle snugly against the curve of her buttocks. Hot and large takes on a whole new meaning, redefined within the confines of her body. "Are you okay?" he asks hoarsely. At her nod, he starts to move, pulling out then easing slowly into her again. Repeating the motion, he growls lightly as she lifts her hips to meet his thrust. Oh, yes, this is what she wants, only more. As if he can read her mind, he picks up the pace, thrusting faster and harder. The feeling is both strange and familiar, and she hears his gasps as her muscles clutch him tighter with each stroke. Scully closes her eyes, biting her lip to hold back the cries. It's been so long since she felt this way. This isn't just sex. It isn't some quick fuck with a stranger. This is Mulder. They're making love, with all the messy emotional entanglements that go with it. She revels in it, in his taste and smell, in the way his body feels as it moves over her, in her. How could she have ever been afraid of this? He's slamming into her, and she sighs her encouragement. Each time seems deeper than the prior one. So hard it almost hurts, but she welcomes the feeling, using her legs to pull him back to her with equal ferocity. She feels a tingling, the start of another orgasm, and her mouth opens against his shoulder, tasting the saltiness of his sweat mixed with the tang of his skin. It isn't long before her second climax hits. This one is less intense; warm and easy, it washes over her in gentle, soothing waves, like the tranquil ocean of her dream. Mulder continues to pound into her, and his cock seems to grow hotter and larger with each stroke. His arms are shaking with the effort, and sweat glistens on his torso. Her tongue slips out to bathe the hollow of his throat, that spot that fascinates her so much. One taste leads to another until she's sucking at the flesh hard enough to bruise, and that's enough to send him over. His back arches, and his lips twist into a grimace of pleasure as he comes. She feels the hot wetness filling her, and it's an invocation and a benediction, sealing their covenant. Gasping, he collapses onto her, his weight not unwelcome. His breath is hot, stirring the hair that clings damply to her cheeks. There is so much she wants to say, but for the moment she lets her hands do the talking. She smoothes them along his back, which is slick with perspiration, soothing him with her gentle caresses as his breathing returns to normal. After a while, he moves, flopping onto the bed beside her. He tugs her arm, pulling her until she's nestled along his side with her cheek pressed against his chest. She can hear his heart beating, the sound echoing her own. His fingers stroke her hair, combing through the tangled strands with a surprising gentleness. "Scully?" His voice is hoarse, his tone undefinable. "Yes?" She's trembling, and she clenches her jaw, willing her body to stop. Now that it's over, she wonders if he regrets this, and is almost afraid to hear his next words. "You do know I love you, don't you?" Mulder brushes the hair off her brow, placing a kiss on her sweat dampened skin. Something shatters inside her, and she feels tears slip silently down her cheeks to mix with the hair on his chest. "Hey," he mutters in alarm. "No obligation to return the sentiment. I'll still respect you in the morning," he teases. She uses the back of her hand, to swipe away the residual tears. Though he's trying his best to make light of the situation, she senses his tension and seeks to correct his mistake. She's not ashamed of her emotions; only of the distress they've made him feel. "I hope so," she answers softly. "I want your respect, almost as much as I want your love." Scully pushes up on an elbow, looking into the murky depths of his eyes. "I love you, Mulder." She leans down, her lips brushing softly against his. A few moments later, she lifts her head, her cheeks flushed and breathing irregular. He grins up at her, raising his brows suggestively. "Thought maybe you were just overcome by my manly charms. It's been known to happen," he boasts, yelping when her hand connects with his stomach. "I didn't hit you that hard," she says defensively. "No, it wasn't that, it's. . .Christ!" He sits up quickly, his hand rubbing at the small of his back. "I think this bed just bit me." Scully stifles a laugh. He looks so relaxed, so. . .happy. She feels an almost smug sense of pride in that look. To think that she is in no small way responsible for it. "You think that's funny?" He looms over her, bracing his hands on either side of her body. She pretends to consider the question, and a brow quirks reflectively. "Funny? Hmmm. . .that may be too strong a word. Let's say I find it mildly amusing," she finishes, a small smile appearing on her lips. "Amusing, my ass. That goddamned thing hurt. This mattress isn't filled with feathers, you know." He pouts, in that instant looking like a little boy. She smiles at his words. You're wrong, Mulder, she thinks. This is a regular, old feather bed. And she pulls his head down to kiss him again. ******** The End Feedback is appreciated! All4Mulder@aol.com Back to Miscellaneous Stories Page Back to main page FastCounter by bCentral