Attention: I DID NOT WRITE THIS STORY

TITLE: Mr. Mulder Makes Out

NAME: Mik

CATEGORY: SRA

RATING: NC-17. M/SK. This story contains slash i.e. m/m sex. So, if you don't like that type of thing - STOP NOW! Forewarned is forearmed. Proceed with caution.

SUMMARY: If music be the food of love, play on. Shakespeare

FEEDBACK: Feedback? Well, yes, if you insist ... Flames? Send 'em to my brother, he's having a barbecue.

TIMESPAN/SPOILER WARNING: No thanks, against my religion.

KEYWORDS: story slash angst Skinner Mulder NC-17

DISCLAIMER: Fox Mulder, Walter Skinner, and all other X-Files characters belong to Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen Productions and 20th Century FOX Broadcasting. No copyright infringement is intended and no profit is being made from their use. I'd rather say that they really are mine, but I've been advised to deny everything. But, when I become king …

And thank you, beta-kitty, for keeping Beethoven in vogue.

If you like this, there's more at http://homepages.go.com/~frogdoggie/3wstop.html

If you didn't like it, come see me, anyway. Pet the dog.

Mr. Mulder Makes Out

by Mik

The odds against me being happy have always been incalculable. My history, my nature, my singular purpose, my intense focus, my complete inability to connect with other people, and just the fact that, as a whole, I’m a pretty boring person; all of these things have conspired to keep me alone, and dismal.

I am, however, at this moment, very happy. Someone actually sought me out, wanted to connect with me. And not just any someone. Someone I respect, admire, hell, someone I LIKE. Okay, there are some drawbacks. He is a man. He is my boss. He is the surliest bastard this side of Gandolf, in Lord of the Rings. But, I’ve never known anyone who can suck face like this.

I think I’ve actually met someone who could rival me in the focus department. At this moment, I doubt he knows anything exists but me, specifically my body, more specifically my mouth and he’s focused on that as if his life depends on it.

I admit, I never saw him as a sexual creature. I saw him as … well, as Stonehenge; huge, solid, historic and unexplainable. Timekeeper to the gods, or something. That was him, answerable to those men who used his back door with impunity.

Imagine my surprise. This Timex takes a licking and keeps on ticking. I know this because I just got through with a thorough oral exam of his minute hand. In college, the boys used to tease me about the way I was hung, but Mr. Skinner should not feel the slightest bit inadequate. He’s a work of art, to be quite honest.

You’d think a man who spends his days riding a fence, being a paper jockey, would be finding soft spots as he sneaked up on the half century mark. Not this guy. Evidently, no one has served notice on his body that he isn’t twenty seven anymore. He’s hard and lean and muscular and, aside from some rather grim markings on his middle, flawless. Some day I’m going to ask about that scar tissue, but not today. I have a feeling those scars go deep, and I don’t want to ruin the mood.

Right now I am content, nay ecstatic, to allow him free reign over me. Tomorrow I may wake up and find myself in a padded cell someplace, screaming his name, but this moment is too perfect to despoil.

I really don’t know where my anxiety and self-doubt went wrong. I was fully prepared to let him walk out, slip out, sneak out. I had already accepted that I would be dumped. That terror would stalk his memory whenever my name was mentioned. Little did I know that when I set that breakfast tray down at the side of my bed, I was about to become creamed Mulder on toast.

This, evidently, is a good thing.

His touch is remarkably gentle. I think he is accustomed to the feel of a woman beneath him and doesn’t appreciate that my body can withstand a little more aggression. My body WANTS a little more aggression. I don’t know where this raging erection came from. I would have thought I shot my rounds last night, and my clip was empty. But apparently the little agent fairy came in sometime in the magic moment between midnight and dawn and reloaded for me. And from the pressure on my hip, it is safe to say there’s a little AD fairy who makes house calls, too.

He opens his eyes. I am looking up into searing blackness. At this proximity there is no color to his eyes, only heat. He stills. I know what he sees. He sees the eyes of another man, eyes he knows too well, eyes that have seen things they weren’t supposed to see. And maybe he doesn’t like those eyes looking back at him.

I don’t know whether to caress him, soothe him, comfort him or let him pull away.

He pulls away.

His eyes go over my face, one heated sweep I actually feel. His hands loosen from the knots they made with my fingers and he brings one up our bodies.

I steel myself. I expect him to strike out. I deserve it. I led him astray. I caused him to disregard everything he believed in for mind-numbing passion and blinding sensation. I’ll watch his fist come. I won’t look away.

His hand comes down, finds my cheek, strokes it. His expression has softened to … wonder? Well, he’s bemused, at the very least. I try to smile, I try to find something pithy to say. Nothing. I am struck dumb by the reality of something that was beyond fantasy. If nothing else, he must remember this as the day Mulder couldn’t think of a smart comeback.

He says nothing, but zooms in for another oxygen sapping kiss. I’m now dizzy, and reach up to hold onto those incredible shoulders. It’s like having my own personal mountain range. The Grand Skinners. Yeah, I like that.

His mouth moves to my neck, his thumb comes over my cheek to stroke my wet mouth. Impulsively, I suck the digit inside. Nothing like what I had earlier, but incredibly erotic in its own way. I bite, I suck, I swirl my tongue around it.

He begins to slide it in and out, soft oral intercourse. Every movement against my lip is like a caress on my cock. I want him again, now, however he wants to have me.

I wind my hands up around his neck, fingering that fine fringe of brown hair. I rub against his hip, hoping he’ll take notice. But nothing in the world matters to him at this moment, but his thumb in my mouth and that spot on my neck where he’s devouring my soul.

I didn’t even hear myself moan that faint, desperate "Please," but he heard it and disengages to raise his head and meet my eyes. He smiles and shifts, sliding downward. I stop breathing. Will he? Could he? Is it possible?

Oh, all saints, his mouth is hot on me, wet and consuming. I’m being drawn into hell, and cannot get there soon enough. If I shut my eyes, red hot embers circle me, make my lungs a furnace. I struggle for cool air, and can only gasp. I feel him sucking, smiling, humming.

He’s humming! And I think … yes, it is. Ode to Joy.

Beethoven did not intend this piece to be played on the love kazoo. Who cares? It is a virtuoso performance. Every note sends a vibration throughout my soul. He is drawing me closer and closer to a triumphant climax. Suddenly, I wish I could speak German. I wish I knew the words to this song. I wish I could sing.

I do sing. My body does. A resounding chorus flooding from me to him. And then, he is silent, I am groaning.

He rolls away from me. I look down at him. He looks … stunned. He didn’t expect that. I should have warned him. I should have but I had been rendered incapable of speech.

I draw away, anxious, fumbling for the towel I dropped on the floor last night. When I look back, he is smiling. No, he is grinning. Walter S. Skinner grins.

And I am happy.

-THE END-