A Sound of...
Inside, all is golden warmth and whispered elegance. The Inn
has stood here for well over two hundred years and is
unsurprised by the two of us together. I wish Mulder shared that
serenity.
Tonight, though, he is charming and witty. His humor ambushes
me from unexpected directions, demanding smiles and
occasional laughter from me. He is more playful when he is
away from the office; I suppose I am, too, although this is no
game to me. There is a fire in the massive fireplace behind me;
I feel its warmth at my back and watch its light touch Mulder with
gold; it whispers as it burns, in a language strange, yet already
known to me. His hands flicker in and out of shadow even as his
voice drawls, laughter lurking behind his words. The fire kindles
hot green embers in his eyes and I am suddenly too warm,
staring.
—"Walter?
Last night, I had taken him to a basketball game. The Wizards
lost, but neither one of us cared. It was enough merely to be
together, relaxed, enjoying ourselves in a normal way. I have
never thought of basketball as a seduction technique, but I am
slowly learning that every lover is different, perhaps this one
most of all.
I took him home, following him up to his apartment, as I had
three nights in the past two weeks. That moment outside the
door is always the tricky one. It used to be the point when a
gentleman kissed his date good night and left. But hallways are
not my style, and I hardly think Mulders neighbors would smile
tolerantly at two men kissing desperately outside their doors.
Inside, the apartment still dark, he turned and flowed into my
arms. A few evenings of breathless experimentation had taught
him exactly how I liked to be kissed. He had also established
that it took very little effort on his part to turn my mind to jelly
and to make my body rebellious, his touch lighting a thousand
traitorous fires for me to fight. The scientific mind at work is a
frightening thing sometimes.
—"Stay.
He opens his mouth to protest, to argue, to seduce. Before he
can speak, I kiss him very gently and leave. That is getting
harder and harder to do. But he needs to know me, I want him
to understand who it is he is getting. Because, once he is mine,
I will not let him go. Ever.
We have finished an excellent meal and some very old brandy.
I pay the bill and we rise to leave. Mulder has protested every
time I have done that, and I have ignored him every time. It is
my weakness, this need to be in control, to be the source of all
strength and good things for the one I love. I have to let him
see this, too.
The drive back to the city is quiet, a comfortable, thoughtful
silence. We are still mellowed by firelight and brandy. The
highway is empty and moon- dark; it seems as if one could see
quite clearly, but the moonlight blurs edges and disguises the
depths of things until all is twisted out of true and
undependable.
We have not spoken of that night, the fog and Krycek. I know
that he has gone to meet the woman he believes is his sister.
He will tell me when he can. I know, too, that he has not seen
Krycek since that night. What I do not know is whether he ever
will again.
Without fanfare, his hand has come to rest on my thigh, where it
is burning into me. I cant speak; I can feel his gaze on me but I
cant take my eyes from the road. I know myself well enough to
know that if I look at him now, Ill stop the car and ... Im too old
to feel this way.
Something is different tonight; Mulder is different. We reach his
apartment and he gestures me inside before him with a brittle
kind of courtesy that crumbles the moment I am through the
door. I have taken two steps inside when I hear it slam behind
me. Strong hands seize, spin and throw me back against the
door. Then Mulder is against me, pinning my arms, face very
close to mine, as he whispers, grinning,
—"No mercy tonight, Walter. You are not leaving here until you
fuck me.
I shake my head.
Now, his teeth are bared and his eyes burn and I remember
belatedly that he carries a gun. He is hot and dangerous and
there will be bruises tomorrow where he grips my arms.
—"You bastard.
I am not good with words; I try again to tell him what I have
been telling him for two weeks.
—"Oh yes, theres a difference. And one other thing. If I stay
tonight, Im not leaving ...
He starts to grin again and I can see him formulating some
smart-ass remark about snoring or sharing a pillow.
—"...ever.
I have discovered the third way to shut Fox Mulder up, and
smile, as I lean down and kiss him. His mouth opens to me and
I am lost in him. He tastes wild and sweet, like summer fruit
eaten hot from the tree. How can I not take all that this man
wants to give me?
Mulders agile fingers have been unbuttoning, unfastening,
unzipping, unbelievable while I have been caught up in his
sweetness. Somehow, I am now bared, chest to thigh, for him,
my clothes pushed aside or stripped from me.
He presses my hands flat against the door.
He starts at my left ear, licking and biting at it, lingering. Then
he allows himself to slide down my body, just a fraction at a
time, kissing, licking, sucking, biting, nibbling. He is flowing
down me like honey and there is a sound of bees in
summertime. He is humming against my skin and I can barely
keep still beneath his mouth.
His hands are smoothing their way downwards, too, slipping
over my chest and ribs and stomach. Now he is kneading my
thighs, grinning in victory as he feels the muscles quiver and
twitch at his touch. Yes, Mulder, you have that power over me;
I give it to you freely.
He nuzzles my erection. My teeth clench on a shout as he rubs
his night-roughened cheek across the head of my cock. His
eyes glitter up at me; he knows exactly what he is doing to me
and likes it this way. Likes me this way, incoherent and weak
with lust.
He lips the head of my penis and I feel the touch of his mouth
ripple through me. There is a sound like slate slipping; it is my
hands clawing helplessly at the door behind me. Then I am
sliding, plunging into the fire that I have always known burns in
him. He is still humming and his hands wander restlessly across
my body. I know that he is cataloging me, my reactions,
learning every sensitive spot on me that he can reach. On his
knees, head bent, my cock filling his mouth and he is the one
in control. How odd, I think, then stop thinking entirely as he
begins lapping at my balls. My hands are cupping his head
before I realize that I have moved them.
His hand slides down and takes my erection in a firm grip; it is
almost, but not quite, too hard as he pumps me. I am balanced
on the fine edge of madness, watching the tip of his tongue
slowly slide across his full lips as he watches me, judging the
exact moment to slaughter me with his mouth. Without warning,
he sucks me in deep and there is nothing I can do. I cant even
make a sound. It is too hot, too sweet, too much. I am pouring
down his throat and it lasts forever, his head between my
hands, his hands cool against my burning skin.
He looks up at me, finally, and wipes at the corner of his mouth
with one thumb, considering.
—"Debauched is a good look for you, Walter.
His laughter is cool, bright water flowing over me. Suddenly, I
can move again. I shrug my jacket and shirt off my arms. They
fall to the floor, forgotten, as I yank my slacks back up. He is
still laughing as I drag him to his feet, flushed and beautiful
when I kiss him.
Mulder tastes bittersweet and triumphant. We are still kissing,
but moving toward the bedroom, clumsy and exultant. I am
half-carrying, half-pushing him; the rasp of his shirt against my
heated skin is maddening. It tears away easily and he is
laughing again. I know now that I will do anything to hear that
untainted sound from him.
He tumbles backward onto the bed, pulling me down on top of
him. It is his turn now and he turns his head, offering me his
throat. Not in submission, no; he is demanding pleasure from
me. So I give it to him. I nip and suck at the side of his throat,
the same place that started all of this. That mark has never had
a chance to heal; I renew it every time I see him alone. Down
his chest, caressing him with my lips, I hear the sound of waves
on a rocky shore; it is my own harsh breathing against his skin.
He tastes of salt and cedars, like the rainforests on the coast,
mist curling up from the ocean to tangle among the trees. I
nuzzle his smooth abdomen and grin as I feel the tremors start,
under my lips, beneath my hands, against my chest. They stop
as my lips close around the head of his cock. His body is
surging up to meet me, like a wave caught and held, timeless
and yearning to crest. And the sounds he is making ...
-Walter, please.
I slide back up his surging body and cover his mouth with mine.
Not to silence him, but to capture and swallow those sounds, to
keep them with me forever. My head is caught between his
hands and he wrenches me away from his mouth to gasp,
—"Now?
He is flexing and straining beneath me and his teeth are
clenched; I might almost think he were in pain. He seems
bewildered by his abandonment to his own senses.
—"Now, Fox.
Mulder twists beneath me and claws something out of the
drawer of the bedside table. He is shoving a condom and a
tube of lubricant at me with the finality of a condemned man
refusing a blindfold.
—"I told you, Walter. No mercy.
Startled, I stare at him, not knowing what to do, until I see the
green devil-light rekindle in his eyes. Then he is kissing me
again and we are sliding against one another, toward some
place where heat and hardness are one. I need to see his
eyes, to be anchored by them, to prove that I am here, in this
moment. The gel is cool on my fingers as I slide one, then two,
into his warmth. He is bucking and thrusting against me, the
desperation back in his eyes.
—"No. Not yet.
He is the one who demanded no mercy, I think, and grin, slowly
twisting my fingers in him. A raw animal noise bleeds out from
between his teeth and I am lost. His legs lock around me,
dragging me into the heat and madness of his body. I am
fighting him to keep from hurting him, but he wants none of it.
He yanks my head down to his and thrusts his tongue into my
mouth, demanding the same thing from the rest of my body. He
is bucking and twisting beneath me, my bulk no match for his
need.
All common sense is ripped away then.
Our lovemaking is fierce and hot and rougher than some
not-so-friendly fucks I have had. Once again, it is Mulder who is
so different from all that I have known. He has not always
been so much larger than his partners, as I have been. He can
freely kick and pound at the sheets, his thighs, my shoulders—
he has no restraints on his pleasure. And now I have none
either. Because he can take whatever I give him, and more.
The freedom is like nothing else I have known. I am murmuring
his name over and over, staring into his eyes, sinking into his
body deeper and deeper, again and again. Something tightens
impossibly within him and everything about him is still for a
one-breath eternity. And the wave breaks over me and I am
tumbling and lost and shouting.
I am lying, shipwrecked, on his chest, listening to the ebb and
flow of his breath as his hands slip across my slick back.
Sometimes, I tip my head up and kiss his slack but welcoming
lips. Sense and cognition are slowly soaking back into me and I
begin to slide off of him before I can smother him. His arms
clutch around me.
—"Its OK, Mulder. Im just going to go clean up.
His smile is like the dawn coming up over the sea and I know
what to say next.
—"I told you; Im not leaving. Ever.
I swim out of sleep to feel his hot, elegant length pressed
against my back. His hands are coursing, one sliding up my
spine and across my skull; the other, slipping around to stroke
my cock. Before I can even move, his hands are gone. I clench
my teeth and try not to roll over and pounce on him. It is not as
easy as I had thought it would be, this yielding to someone,
giving over control of my own pleasure. It is what I have been
trying to do for weeks, yet, now, at the very moment, I am
afraid. Then I remember what I knew last night—he can take
anything I can give him, and more. The real question is, can I
give him myself? Trust him as he trusts me now? Then he is
slowly, carefully, slipping a slick finger inside me. It has been so
long, the flash of pleasure is mistaken for pain and my breath
catches.
—"Its OK, Walter. Let me make love to you...please.
His whisper is hot sand blowing across the shingle. That mouth,
that demonic grinning mouth, is slipping across my shoulders
and neck, making it almost impossible for me to concentrate on
what he is doing with his hands. There is an undertow pulling
me away from myself. I let it.
—"Fox. Now?
His reply is a ripple of sound across my back.
—"Now, Walter.
He slides into me and my thoughts are all washed away by the
pleasure of him moving within me. This is new to me, this sense
of completion, of connection, of union. Moving together, deeper
into one another, free to feel the animal joy of loving one
another. And I do not want it to end. I will never let it end.
—"Mine. You are all mine, now. I belong to you.
Possession is a two-way street.
When I wake again, I am alone. I have a dim tactile memory of
him stroking my face and there is the echo of a soft voice, then
a door slamming in my head. Running—thats it, he is going
running. I get up, grope for my glasses and pull on the sweats
that he has left out for me. Baggy and long on him, they hug
me and whisper against me in places left sore and loved from
the night before. And this morning. Mulder has left coffee made
for me and I pour myself a cup. Then I stand at the kitchen
window, gazing idly out at the silent street below. I feel lazy and
sated and hungry and my skin hums with recall. There is frost
on the window and it frames my lover as he stretches against a
telephone pole, then stands for a moment, his breath steaming
straight into the gray morning sky. He ripples into an easy jog,
a joy to watch. My heart beats in time with his footfalls and I
smile at the foolish romanticism that has been born in me. As
he reaches the end of the street, a dark-haired man in jeans
and a leather jacket swings into step beside him. Mulders pace
falters for an instant, then the two men are running in synch. As
they round the corner, out of sight, the dark mans left sleeve
flaps uselessly in the icy air.
—"No mercy.
JimPage363@aol.com
No Common Senses IV
by JiM
It is a freezing night tonight. We stand in the parking lot of the
Inn for a moment and listen to the sound of ice on the river,
cracking in the cold. The air is like crystal and the moonlight
flows down, coating everything with silver.
—"I was just remembering.
At his raised eyebrow, I explain.
—"I was remembering how you looked last night. And felt.
He flushes and looks away, over my shoulder, into the flames. I
smile. I have finally found a way to shut Fox Mulder up. Two
ways, I remind myself, and am washed by heat again.
—"Not tonight. Soon.
—"Theres an ugly word for this kind of behavior, Walter.
He is only half-smiling, a hard, hungry edge in his eyes.
—"And theres a nicer one for it. Soon.
-Youre wrong, Mulder. Im never going to fuck you.
—"I am going to make love to you.
He looks puzzled, as if I am speaking a foreign language, one of
which he has incomplete mastery.
—"Theres a difference?
he asks slyly, slowly rolling his hips against me. That pressure
kindles the slow fire that begins rolling through me, cutting off
everything that is not this man, this heat and hardness of him.
My voice thrums oddly in my chest, hard against his, as I say,
—"Easy, Mulder, easy. Let me love you.
—"Walter. Im not made of glass. Come on, give it to me!
There is no sound in the empty kitchen.
A Sight of... will conclude the No Common Senses series
