Story Archive

Shocking Blue II

by Karen Matheson

Shocking Blue II
by Karen Matheson
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: Gethsemane
Keywords: Sk/Sc
Summary: Scully tries to make peace with Skinner, who has other ideas on his mind.
Disclaimer: The characters and situations of the television program "The X Files" are the creations and property of Chris Carter, Fox Broadcasting, and Ten-Thirteen Productions, and have been used without permission. No copyright infringement is intended.
Author's note: thanks to Red Valerian for haranguing me about finally sitting down and writing this damn sequel. And, of course, thanks to Stephanie, my main editor, who forgives my trespasses against Shipperdom.
Warning: this story is NC-17, so if you are under 18, ske-daddle, young-uns!
Feedback (please!): Please put 'To Karen' in subject line.

"Scully? It's me."
"Where are you?"
"Why --?"
"I wanted to see the coast."
"Anything wrong with the Atlantic?"
"Too many memories."
"I miss you."
"I'll call again. I just wanted to hear your voice."
The line goes dead and another piece of me dies with it. I've always been independent, but three months of sharing my life and bed with Mulder have changed me forever, and not all for the better. Even his absence anchors me, defining me by what I am not. I am Without Mulder. It's been three weeks since he left me. Left without a word. But he didn't need to say anything. I knew. I always know what he's thinking, even if there's nothing I can do to convince him that he's wrong.
And this time, I'm not sure that he is.
It's 11 pm on a Saturday night. Normal people are curled up on the couch watching TV or out dancing or some silly-ass thing. I'm standing outside my boss's apartment, trying to work up the courage to knock. I know this is insane. But I'm desperate. And there's no one else to turn to.
I've barely seen him in the months since "it" happened. In part, because I was truly too embarassed to face him, but also because of Mulder. Even when the two of us were called to Skinner's office (hardly a rare occurrence, even before), my partner would insist on going alone. And he would return alone, with never a word said about the AD's reaction to my absence. Occasionally Skinner and I would run into each other in the hall. He always seemed startled to see me, which in itself was odd. But then that open, almost vulnerable expression would melt into something else, something penetrating and dark. It never failed to take my breath away. Then he would brush by me as I continued shakily down the hall. Back to the basement bunker where my one true love awaited.
So why did I keep dreaming of another man?
Now, my hand hangs in the air, poised above the polished ebony wood. A shadow falls over me and I jump, turning to face the figure. Collar turned up, hands stuffed in the pockets of his long black coat, Skinner looms over me like a vulture.
"What are you doing here?" He rasps, his voice unnaturally thick. His dark, intense gaze demands answers. My lips purse -- an old nervous habit -- as I try to formulate a reply.
"I need to speak to you, Sir."
He says nothing, merely cocking his head slightly, one corner of his mouth jerking up in an imitation of a smile.
When did he start to hate me?
"I'm sorry to come by so late, Sir," I murmur as he leans past me to unlock the door.
"Any earlier and you wouldn't have found me home, Agent Scully." He pushes the door open with one arm, standing on the threshold and motioning for me to precede him into the dark apartment.
The door closes softly behind us. For a moment we stand motionless in the shadows. The lights of the city spill in through the French doors of the balcony. I can hear him breathing. His eyes are boring into the back of my skull. Then he reaches past me to switch on a lamp and the moment passes. Thank God.
The apartment is as cold and austere as its occupant. Skinner shrugs off his topcoat and suit jacket and throws them on a chair, pulling angrily at his tie as he strides to the small kitchen.
"Care for a drink?"
"I won't be staying long."
"Mind if I indulge?" The fridge opens, ice falls noisily into a glass. Liquid pouring.
"Of course not, Sir. It's your home."
"Yes. It is." Standing in the doorway to the kitchen, one hand thrust in a pants pocket, the other bringing the glass of amber liquid to his lips. His eyes gleaming.
I exhale and walk to the windows, pretending to admire the view.
"I'm sorry to disturb you, Sir, but I need to discuss some things with you."
"This couldn't have waited till Monday?"
"No," I reply, eyes briefly returning to him, then glancing away quickly. "Were you in the office today?"
He looks questioningly at me, then down at himself. "Ah, the suit. Yes, I was in meetings. Jeans and a T-shirt just don't cut it when you're trying to avoid a screwing from the higher-ups." The bitterness in his voice feels like an accusation.
He crosses to the couch, oddly graceful for a man his size, sits and throws one arm casually across the back. "After a 14-hour day of private meetings, I needed a drink."
"This was a bad idea. I can speak to you on Monday." I move toward the door.
"Stop. Right. There."
I freeze in my tracks, immobilized by his voice.
"Please...say what you've come to say." His tone is carefully neutral but there is something flashing in those opaque eyes. Head tilted slightly back, observing me as I would an interesting specimen under a microscope.
My nerves are raw, adrenaline screaming for me to flee this potentially dangerous situation. I came to plead my case, but the tension in the air is clouding my brain. "I have to talk to you...about what happened. And about Mulder," I blurt out.
He deflates slightly, lowering his head and taking another drink.
"Where is he?" He asks emotionlessly.
"I don't know, Sir. He's called me a few times, but...he refuses to say when -- or if -- he's coming back."
"He has a lot of vacation time built up. But eventually, I'm going to run out of excuses for him." Resignation -- and resentment -- in his voice.
"I know Sir, and I appreciate, more than I can say, you covering for him. Especially considering Mulder's attitude to you of late."
Skinner grimaces. "I know I'm not his favourite person," he replies tersely.
"I left a lot of things unsaid between us, Sir. I should have done this a long time ago, right after it happened. It wasn't fair of me, it was all my fault that it happened, and then to just pretend it hadn't...I can understand if you hate me for that."
Skinner looks up at this, incredulity and -- pain, I think -- softening his steely gaze. "Hate you?"
"I really screwed things up for all of us. I was in pain, and all I did was bring about more pain." I pace about the room, unable to stand still. "I brought needless conflict into your life, I gave Mulder an irresistible excuse to doubt himself...Maybe there's nothing I can ever do to reassure Mulder, but I can at least apologize to you."
"Apologize." Skinner considers his drink. "Sure. That's just what I want."
"At any rate...the other thing I need to ask you -- Mulder...left, because he couldn't handle everything's that's happened between us...the three of us. I tried to reassure him, and I thought he believed me. But all the while...I think this has been eating at him."
Skinner glowers in my direction, the rest of his face carefully schooled to reveal nothing.
"And how am I supposed to help him?"
This is the hard part. The part that brought me here, in the vain hope that if I couldn't reach Mulder, maybe the man who unwittingly stalks his nightmares could. "If I could tell him that you...and I...if I could tell him that you know what happened was a mistake, that it will never happen again, that he has nothing to fear..."
A short bark of laughter. "If I could tell him that, don't you think I would have by now?"
And there it is. Naked between us. The truth, but not the one Mulder and I have been searching for. No, this truth is dark and moist, seductively hiding beneath the polite veneers of our desperate attempts at denial. Waiting for a moment like this to ooze between the chinks of our armour, to wrap itself around our fragile human resistance and drag us to our knees.
Skinner puts the drink on the coffee table before him. A subtle change has come over him, and the air in the room is suddenly charged with heat. His large frame seems to ripple with barely restrained energy, making him look much like one of the great cats, a lion perhaps, about to pounce on its helpless prey. He removes his glasses.
I stand, frozen, the 10 feet between us seemingly melting away as the heat of his naked gaze reaches for me.
"I think I'd better go..." I move for the door again, but this time he stands, blocking my way.
One word, stabbing me through the heart, the blade moving deeper down, brushing tantalizingly against my buried secrets. I can't stand this. Arms clutched protectively in front of me, I turn once more toward the window, walking toward it until my forehead is pressed up against the cold glass.
Seventeen floors below me, ribbons of light from night-time traffic ebb and flow. Snow is falling. It's beautiful outside. I glance up and see Skinner's reflection in the glass. He unbuttons his cuffs, rolling them up slowly. His large, blunt fingers move to his tie. The silk knot is slowly unwound. His eyes lock with mine in the reflecting glass. Almost imperceptibly, he is moving forward. Toward me. Now the scrap of fabric that so ubiquitously adorns his throat is gone, tossed aside carelessly. The top button of his crisp white shirt is opened. Then the next. And the next. His movements are slow and steady, unhurried, his face a frighteningly empty mask.
I shudder and clutch my arms tighter, fingers digging into my biceps, the slight pain reassuring me that this is real and not a fantasy. Unable to move, unable to run.
I want this. And that terrifies me.
He's right behind me now. Hot, whiskey-breath burning the nape of my neck. I can still leave. He won't force me. As long as he doesn't touch me...
But he does. Huge hands cover my own, the thick, rough digits lightly caressing the smoothness of my skin.
His voice rumbles in my ear. "I can't lie to Mulder...or myself...or you, any longer." His hands inching up my arms, toward my throat. Loosely circling my neck, then pulling me back against him. Oh my God, the heat. So hot. So hard. Unbidden, my body loosens and my head falls back against his chest. A growling chuckle escapes his lips as he turns my face back toward his.
"Tell me you don't want me." Low, commanding voice.
"I...can' this -- Mulder--"
The hard, cruel line of his mouth descends, wiping out all thought, all resistance. One hand on my chin, holding my face against his as his tongue slips past my defences and claims me, a deep moan signalling my surrender. The other hand travelling down my throat, tracing the path of my gold chain, dipping below the tiny cross to the valley between my breasts. Undoing the top button of my V-neck sweater as I sigh and sway against the implacable column of his body.
He breaks the kiss and still holding me by the chin, turns my face back toward the mirror. "Mulder doesn't *love* you..." His voice and tongue slither past my ear. "He *worships* you. You're an unreachable, unknowable goddess to his ever-reaching acolyte. He doesn't believe that he was ever meant to have you...that he *deserves* to have you. And find his untouchable goddess could be less than perfect...could be human..."
Why is he being so cruel? Why is he torturing me with these truths and half-truths I don't want to hear? I sob and look away. He turns my face back to the glass.
"But I accept you...and celebrate all your incarnations. The tough-as-nails agent. The compassionate doctor. The grieving lover. The wanton." With this last word the hand at the base of my throat slips under my sweater and bra, cupping a swollen breast. I gasp as the coarse pad of his thumb brushes the nipple, the sensitive bud stiffening under the rough caress. "Especially the wanton," he breathes.
"Oh God..." I manage to whisper as his fingers return to the business of unbuttoning my sweater. I am trapped by my own passions, needing him to take me as surely as I have ever needed anything, a wanton in every sense of the word...
The sweater slips to the floor. I watch in the reflection. My head is thrown back, eyes glazed. His hands move up to my breasts, squeezing them hard. A spasm of lust shoots through me like electricity. Then my bra is gone, but his hands don't return to where I want them. They grip my arms near the elbows, pulling me back roughly against him, forcing me to expel a huge gulp of air. I can feel his erection against my lower back and ass. In the window's reflection, I can see the determination in his eyes. I see myself, exposed, restrained...
"I waited for you," he whispers, lowering his head to where my shoulder meets my neck, kissing and biting. "And now you've come to me."
"That's not why I came." I don't want to remember why I came. I don't want reality to intrude on this incredible, dangerous fantasy.
Gently, but firmly, he turns me to face him.
"But it's why you'll stay..."
I meet his eyes. And nod. I brace my palms against the solid heat of his body. My fingers move to the remaining buttons of his shirt as he regards me grimly. Soon, the vast expanse of muscle and power that is his chest is exposed to me. I run my hands over the crinkly hair and tiny, puckered nipples, trembling with desire.
He stands motionless, allowing me to undress him, his face still unreadable. He doesn't even flinch when my hand brushes over the bulge in his charcoal-grey dress pants as I reach to undo his belt. But I do.
Then his hands fly up to grasp my wrists, imprisoning me yet again. A small cry escapes my lips.
What does he want from me? Sex? Love? Or revenge?
And does it matter?
"You first," he hisses, ripping at the button and zipper of my slacks. Before I can do more than gasp, he falls to his knees in front of me, yanking the garment and my panties down my trembling thighs and calves. I can only watch, unable to assist or hinder him in his quest. Impatiently, he lifts my feet out of the shackles of cloth, tearing off my shoes and white cotton socks as he goes. My rubbery legs refuse to support me and I lean forward, grasping his broad shoulders for balance. Standing over him like this, exposed, is so desperately exciting I can barely breath, let alone stand.
The clothing tossed away, Skinner presses his face into me, tracing my inner thighs with feathery kisses and teasing nips. Groaning, I press my hands to the smoothness of his scalp. Too soon, he stops and returns to his feet.
Now, head slightly bowed, I stand naked before him. He strokes my arms from shoulders to elbows.
"You're so beautiful..." The tenderness of his voice gives no hint of his next action.
His fingers bite into my skin as he half-lifts, half-drags me to the couch, tossing me on it like a rag doll. I look up at him. Shocked. Frightened. Aroused beyond words.
"I dreamed...that if you came to me...I'd give you what you deserve..."
What I deserve? I try to scramble up, but he easily subdues me, kneeling between my spread legs and pushing my shoulders back on the couch.
"Don't move." An order.
He head descends over my torso, stopping to lick a nipple, his tongue barely touching my flesh. I need more. So much more. His anger. His love. And whatever he wants from me, I will give it. Willingly.
And what he wants is located at the juncture of my thighs. As his lips test the softness, the wetness of the flesh there, my body bucks violently, back arching off the couch. His powerful hands claim my breasts, pinning me down. I run my own hands down the iron cables of his arms. I couldn't move if I wanted to. And as his tongue parts my folds and dart against me, I want to move. To writhe.
"I said, 'Don't move'!" He hisses. His eyes meet mine. Black, so black.
Carefully, with the same attention to detail he brings to every task, Skinner inventories the source of my undoing with his tongue. The hard tip enters me briefly, then continues up to enfold my throbbing clit. He takes it into his mouth, then allows it to slide back out through his teeth. White-hot pleasure clutches me, forcing a tortured squeak from my lips.
His attentions to the lower part of my body eases as the hands at my breasts pick up the pace. He tentatively pinches a nipple, then another. Encouraged by my responding moans, the fingers now twist the aching buds, the intensity building to a point just short of pain. All the while, he slowly kisses and licks my sex, the counterpoint of roughness and gentleness driving me mad. His focus changes again, his hands now soothing me, his teeth nipping at my labia and clit, then tongue-fucking me with a force I hadn't before dreamed possible.
Holding still is becoming impossible and my hips begin to swivel and buck beneath him.
"Please! Oh God, please!" I cry out desperately.
"Please what, Dana?" He doesn't even raise his head. His voice is toneless.
"Please! Oh God, I can't bear it!"
"Do you want me to stop?"
"No! ...oh please...I need you...I need you to..." Words fail me and I am reduced to incomprehensible moans, whipping my head back and forth in desperate attempt to communicate the urgency of my need.
I hear him chuckle darkly again and he redoubles his efforts, rolling my nipples between callused fingers, tonguing the bud of my desire into his mouth and sucking hard.
I explode. My inner thighs clamp around his head as the spasms take me high, higher, into the blinding white light. And as I reach that pinnacle and begin slowly to float back down, I am struck by a realization.
If Mulder wants to *worship* me, then Skinner wants to *possess* me.
And something in me wants both men to have to their wish.
My body is still twitching with aftershocks when Skinner's hands fly to his belt, quickly undoing the buckle, tearing it loose and tossing it aside. He rips open his pants and pushes aside his jockeys, freeing his cock, huge and throbbing. Hungry.
My limbs are as weak and uncoordinated as a baby's. But he doesn't need my help and I have already given my permission. He gathers me up and into his embrace, one hand supporting my bottom, the other pressing my head into the harbour of his neck. I can feel his pulse against my cheek, thrumming madly. Above the pounding of my own heart I hear his ragged breathing. My legs are wrapped round his waist and his erection throbs against my stomach. Waiting.
He's waiting.
Waiting to regain his self control or savouring my complete surrender? I'm not sure.
"Do you want me?" His voice trembles, thick with desire.
"Yes." No hesitation.
Then, one hand bracing my back, the other curled around the curve of my ass, he sheaths himself inside me, gliding into my achingly hot, wet core as though he belonged there. A delicious sigh of satisfaction escapes both of us.
Tendrils of pleasure fan out from my centre as my body opens to him, adjusting to his thickness, his size. For a moment it seems that we are too overcome by raw sensation to continue. His hot breath caresses my cheek. He kisses my face, his gentleness jarring, intoxicating after the intensity of his initial seduction.
A powerful thrust cuts through the sensual fog and rips me back into the moment.
Skinner is fucking me. And oh God, how I love it.
Again and again, impaled on his steely rod, I whimper and moan my unutterable pleasure. His is voiced in grunts, torn from deep within his chest -- that broad chest, covered in dark, curly fur that teases and torments my overly sensitized nipples. Arching into his thrusts, my head falls back and I cry out for mercy, for release.
Undone, perhaps, by the intensity of my reaction, he lowers me to the floor and plunges into me with abandon. In the dim light of the one lamp his irises have disappeared. His powerful shoulders and thick neck are slick with sweat and I feel the muscles twitching under my desperately grasping fingers as he nears his orgasm.
I clench down on his cock as my own climax breaks over me, so soon after the first, but no less sweet. "Yes," I gasp. "Yes, I want you."
With a basso groan that is frighteningly loud and a final savage thrust, he comes into me, back curved in a bow, the tendons of his throat stretched taut with effort. Shuddering waves of ecstasy wrack his great body as I plant tiny kisses on his neck and chest, any part of him that I can reach with my lips, grateful that I have managed to please him as he pleased me.
At long last, he collapses on top of me and I relax into his welcome weight, the deep pile rug tickling the hollow of my back. We breathe in unison, bodies still locked together. I am now reluctant to let him go. But he withdraws from me and rises slowly on shaky legs, still clothed in dark trousers open to revealing his softening member.
I gaze up at him, asking without words the question both of us feel hanging in the air. I open my mouth but he crouches beside me, putting one blunt, thick finger to my lips.
"Tomorrow," he whispers and lifts me into his arms. My head is cradled against his chest as he carries me to the stairs, mounting them slowly, carefully. I place one hand over his heart, fingers curling in the thick hair. He kisses the top of my head as we enter his bedroom. Without turning on the light, he walk unerringly to the large bed, depositing me gently in its centre. Quickly stripping off pants, jockeys and socks, he climbs in beside me.
He turns me on my side and curves his large frame around my tiny one. I feel safe. And sated. For the first time in weeks, sleep comes quickly. Just before dreams overtake me, I hear him whispering in my ear. I strain to make out the words, but the veil of night has fallen.
I wince as a bright light shines in my eyes.
"Answer the question, Agent Scully!"
"What...what was the question?" I raise my hand against the glare. I can only make out the silhouettes of the men questioning me. I seem to be back before the panel of senators. What do they want, wasn't this situation resolved...?
"The question, Agent Scully, is how you can justify destroying not one, but two men to satisfy your baser lusts?"
"What?" Fear is beginning to override my confusion.
"Consider the evidence," the voice continues and the spotlight shining in my face moves to focus behind me. I turn in my chair to follow its path. It illuminates the faces of two men. My men.
Mulder. Skinner.
Skinner is sitting ramrod straight, his face grim, jaw set. Mulder's shoulders are hunched, his expression one of open, unadulterated pain.
My breath catches in my throat.
"No! I never meant to hurt them, I love...!" My voice trails off.
"Who do you love, Agent Scully?" The voice breaks in, mockingly soft. "You can't have them both. You have to choose."
"I can't!"
"Then all you will earn is their hate."
Skinner closes his eyes and turns his face away. Mulder, tears streaming down his face, nods in bitter agreement. Then both men rise, turn their backs to each other and leave through separate doors.
I am alone. Judged. And punished.
I wake up bathed in cold sweat. The light is the cold dawn streaming in the windows of Skinner's bedroom. I glance beside me. The man who soothed my pain on two separate nights is sprawled on his back, one arm flung up over his head. Asleep, he seems strangely vulnerable. And beautiful. Choking on the full impact of my actions, I slip from the bed and flee to the adjoining bathroom.
I collapse naked on the cold tile floor, stifling wrenching sobs with a balled fist. Oh God, am I insane? What have I done? And what do I do now?
My sleep is dreamless, too deep to allow the intrusion of images hoped for or feared. Too deep to hear my lover slip from our bed. Yet, somehow, not so deep that the softest whispers of weeping fail to breach the walls of my incomprehensibility.
Rising, I swing my legs over the side of the bed and stare at the closed bathroom door, listening. I developed excellent hearing in my youth - not for usage such as this, but it serves its purpose.
Behind the no-doubt locked door, Dana is crying. Crying because of what I have done. Crying because I practically forced myself on her, when any decent man would have left her alone. My hands fly to my face and rub it roughly, as if they could scourge the flesh and gouge the eyes of a man beneath contempt.
Fuck it. No time for self pity. Eventually, Dana is going to emerge, and somehow I get the feeling that the last thing she'll want to see if is me in the buff. From the chair beside the bed, I grab a pair of jeans and quickly slip them on. It's an old pair. Sharon gave them to me - she said if I had to conceal what she called 'a Grade A ass' in anything, it really ought to be faded denim. That was back when clothing was definitely optional around the Skinner household, at least during the cherished, too-short times when I was home and not stalking my career with single-minded purpose.
This is really not the time to be thinking about *that*. I'm about to go find a T-shirt and possibly slip downstairs to retrieve my glasses when the door opens slowly. I sit back down on the bed, legs suddenly weak with dread.
Barefoot, eyes red, Dana stands in the doorway, drowning in my white terrycloth bathrobe. It's so big on her, she looks...adorable. Definitely a word that Special Agent Dana Scully would hate to hear associated with her, but I can't help it.
It reminds me of that movie, what was it called, Bull Durham, when that idiot stud tells an indignant Susan Sarandon that she's mysterious and exotic and...cute. I don't usually go in for romantic comedies, but this was about baseball and Sharon wanted to see it - she had a thing for Kevin Costner. I remember thinking at the time, that I had just about as much to offer a woman as Tim Robbins' character did - a big cock and not much else. But Costner's character had the soul of a poet. Like someone else I know. No wonder he got the girl.
"Hi," she says almost shyly, bravely trying to conceal her sorrow. But her face would have given her away, even if I hadn't heard her. Her lips are pinched, eyes unnaturally wide and glistening. I hold out my arms toward her, and after a moment's hesitation, she comes to me. I wrap my arms around her tiny form and hold her, settling her safely on my knees to sob against my bare chest. I bury my nose in her hair, inhaling deeply. God, I...I can't get enough of her.
"I'm sorry," she wails.
"You have nothing to be sorry about," I tell her gruffly, rubbing her back in vain attempt of comfort her. "I'm the one who should be sorry - and I am."
She raises her head from my chest and I immediately miss her warmth. My God, her eyes are beautiful, maybe moreso shining with tears. I brush a sodden strand of hair back from her face. I long to kiss the tip of her elfin nose but don't dare.
"It's very hard for me," I falter, "to talk about how I feel. I...lost Sharon because of it. And when you came here last night...I let my actions speak for me. I wanted you...I wanted you to feel how I felt. I wanted to break down these walls of denial we've built between us. And now I've hurt you and I am...So. Very. Sorry."
And then I do kiss her. Very lightly, on the lips. Again, actions speak louder than words for overgrown bullies like me. I should push her from my lap, send her away, never speak to her again... But instead, my grip tightens. How does she do this to me, set my soul on fire for her without so much as even raising a tiny, delicate finger?
With some effort, I draw back from her. Her eyes meet mine.
"Tell me how you feel." Her breath whispers against me.
"I don't think you want to know."
"I have to know."
This is hard. I haven't said these words in years. Years and years of loneliness, filling in the emptiness with an often misguided devotion to a greater cause. Telling myself that a man like me has no need of the gentler emotions.
"I..." I can't say it. "...feel very deeply for you. I don't want to - *God knows* I've tried not to, because I know you can't love me back," the words come forth finally in a torrent, only to be halted by one trembling finger brought to my lips.
"Shh..." she soothes. "I know. I know." And then her fingers curl at the base of my skull and pull my head down to hers. "Show me. I need you to show me - one more time."
Well, there's only so much a sane man can resist, and at this point my sanity is seriously in doubt. And so, I reach for the sash tying my robe around the waist of a special agent under my command, someone I should *never* have touched, and slowly untie it. She shifts on my lap and my cock throbs against the pressure. My hand hovers in the air for a moment, and then alights on the fullness of a newly exposed breast. She sighs and brings her lips to mine.
I am on fire. My God, it's hard to maintain my equilibrium with this luscious morsel squirming so deliciously in my lap as she kisses me. But I have to try.
I take her chin in my hand, forcing her gaze to mine. "Are you sure?"
She trills laughter, sad and clear. "No. But I want to be."
I don't know what to make of that enigmatic answer. "I'm not like him," I whisper, hoping that the pain of those words eludes her.
"I know. I don't want you to be. Please - make love to me." She nuzzles my neck, drying her tears on my searing flesh.
And now all I know is the hunger in me, roaring for appeasement. I yank the robe back from her shoulders, exposing her to me and trapping her arms in its folds. Her head falls back and a ragged sigh escapes her parted lips. Her eyes now glazed with lust. How could he ever leave her? How could I bear to never see this look again?
I ravage her perfect white throat with rough kisses, my free hand roaming down to her hip to clutch her closer to me. My cock aches to be free of its confines, so I shift her onto the bed and then stand. She lies still, shoulders whiter than the sheets of my bed, arms tangled hopelessly in the robe. My fingers feel huge and clumsy as they fumble at the button of jeans, finally forcing it open. Next, the zipper, its raspy descent the only sound in the sun-filled room. I feel light-headed. I push the jeans from my hips and my cock springs free, impatient. She licks her lips and I just know that I have to feel that perfect mouth on me.
She smiles and writhes in invitation. I nearly lose my balance in my rush to lose my pants, but finally they're off and tossed aside with reckless abandon. I crouch beside the bed and just look at her, reaching out a hand to caress her upper thigh.
She tries to wriggle into my touch. "Walter...please..." she begs breathlessly.
The sound of my name on her lips is most definitely my undoing. "Say that again," I say as I slide onto the bed on my belly toward her. "Say my name."
"Walter. Walter. Walter, don't tease me."
"But I like to tease you. And you like to be teased."
Her eyes slide shut and mouth widens in a stunning sly grin as she shakes her head in lazy denial.
" do." I settle in beside her, not touching her - yet. "Will you allow me to test my theory, Dr. Scully?"
Her eyes pop open at this, questioning.
My voice is so thick, so deep with lust it almost hurts to speak. "Do you trust me?"
She nods.
Gently, I pull her into a sitting position and help her out of the robe, then push her back down to lie supine. I yank the sash out of its belt loops. Crouching above her, I pull it taut.
"Put your hands above your head."
Wordlessly, she complies. I loop the soft terrycloth belt loosely around her thin wrists, then tie the other end to the headboard. She can easily escape these bonds, but I'm hoping she won't try.
I rock back on my heels to survey my handiwork, raking my gaze down her slender, gloriously nude form, past the tight pink nipples, the impossibly tiny waist, the swell of her hips to the fiery thatch of fur at the vee of thighs. Her half-lidded eyes lock with mine as she writhes against the mock-restraint.
"Now what, Sir?" She asks huskily.
"Now," I breathe, threading a finger from her lips, down her chin, her throat, "I'm going to test my theory...and analyze your reactions." She twists under my touch, trying to push her breasts into my hand. "Surely you can appreciate the need for carefully collected empirical data," I continue, ignoring her efforts.
"Yes," she moans, "I mean no, I mean...touch me, please, touch me..."
"Are you *sure* you want that?" My finger continues its descent, over her flat, tight belly, skirting her sex, my nail scraping down her inner thigh.
"Yes!" She arches her back, legs falling open and pushing up against my hand, desperately trying to affect its direction. But I cannot be moved.
Except by one thing. "Walter..." Her voice silky sweet.
I have turned my attention to a careful study of her exposed sex, noting the glistening evidence of her arousal. "Yes?" I answer, without looking up.
"Walter...I want you in my mouth..."
Now that gets my attention. My cock throbs painfully. No point in trying to refuse that request.
I straddle her supine form. The tip of her pink tongue peeks out to wet her lips. Pink tongue, pink tongue. I remember how that mouth nearly drove me mad that night in her apartment. Now I can't wait to dive again into the pool of that madness. I lift her head up towards me, supporting her neck with my hands. Cautiously, she kisses the tip of my erection. I groan loudly. She smiles.
"Now who likes to be teased?"
"Suck me." The coarseness of my words shocks even me, and I search her gaze for a sign of fear, or even worse, disgust. But she merely smiles wider, then draws my achingly hard cock into her mouth.
My back is straight as a poker as she licks and laps and sucks at me. My mind races through the most boring of bureaucratic procedure in a vain attempt to stave off the inevitable. The tension is building in my balls as she moans around my cock and...
I pull out her mouth, just in time. She mewls in disappointment.
"Almost had me, didn't you, Dana?" I chuckle as I move down her body. "But then this would be over so quickly, and I want it to go on...for such a long time."
"You bastard," she hisses, tugging at her bonds.
She's been so patient. Surely I should reward her, just a little. Settling myself between her legs, my cock pressed hard against the mattress, I finally grace her breasts with my attentions. Without preamble I suckle hard at one nipple, pinching the other between thumb and forefinger while she goes mad beneath me.
"Oh God! Yessss....don't stop!"
Carefully gauging her response, I deepen my caresses, nipping at the tight little bud in my mouth, shifting my hips and allowing my free hand to roam slowly down her torso to linger just above the pulsing heat of her core. She bucks beneath me like a wild woman, so far gone I can scarcely her as the recognize the unflappable Agent Scully. This is worth it. This is worth delaying my own satisfaction to see her so beyond herself, so lost I can almost believe she's...mine.
"Dana," I groan against her. I could remain like this forever, drinking in her sweetness. But that would be cruel...wouldn't it?
End of Part Three Title: Shocking Blue II - d Author: Karen Matheson Rating: NC-17 Classification: SRA Spoilers: Gethsemane Keywords: Sk/Sc Summary: Scully tries to make peace with Skinner, who has other ideas on his mind.
Disclaimer: The characters and situations of the television program "The X Files" are the creations and property of Chris Carter, Fox Broadcasting, and Ten-Thirteen Productions, and have been used without permission. No copyright infringement is intended.
Author's note: thanks to Red Valerian for haranguing me about finally sitting down and writing this damn sequel. And, of course, thanks to Stephanie, my main editor, who forgives my trespasses against Shipperdom.
Warning: this story is NC-17, so if you are under 18, ske-daddle, young-uns!
Feedback (please!): Please put 'To Karen' in subject line. _____________ SHOCKING BLUE IId KAREN MATHESON ___
My hand descends to cup her mound as my teeth continue to worry her nipple. Her breathing quickens and I afraid she's too close to the edge, too soon.
I draw back on my knees. "Turn over."
"What--" Her dazed expression shows that she's unable to process my command, let alone obey it. It's a good thing I don't need her help. Carefully, I turn her boneless form over onto her stomach. My fingers trace the sinuous lines of the tattoo on her lower back.
"What does this mean?" I ask her of the delicate design.
"It means I'm willing to take chances."
"That's appropriate. Get up on your knees."
"Just do it."
She does, with a little help from me. And now I look down at her, her rounded ass offered up to me, her head resting on her tethered hands.
"What are you going to do now," she gasps.
"This," I answer, and begin feasting on the sweet meat of her buttocks. She cries out as I bite and suckle and draw the flesh into my mouth. She tries to wriggle away but I hold her firm. I glance up to see her face in profile, biting down on the terrycloth around her wrists.
"Am I hurting you?" I ask. I don't want to hurt her.
"Yes!'re driving me crazy!"
I chuckle softly. "Can't have that."
I slide a finger inside she and she bucks against it, fucking my hand. I love the wanton in her. I love her...
Two fingers. She curses me some more. This is so much fun I'm loath to end it, but she's ready. More than ready. Now for the ultimate tease. Quickly, before she has time to realize what part of my body is pressed against her, I rub my cock roughly between the swollen lips of her sex, coating it in her juices. She screams as the head makes contact with her clit.
"Oh my God! Fuck me *now*! Pleeeaassee, don't make me beg!"
"You are begging," I point out, just before I bury myself in her, balls deep.
Her back and neck arch so violently I can see her eyes, squeezed shut as if in agony. I wrap myself around her, holding my body still as I flick my tongue in her ear.
"You're so hot...tell me what you want...tell me...Do you want it slow?" I rock my hips ever so slightly against her. She moans in frustration and tries to push back against me. "Or do you want it hard?"
Straightening back up, I put the full fury of my desire into my thrusts, slamming in, twisting against her, then pulling out. She's almost weeping now, it sounds like, completely given over to me.
You're mine, my mind screams as I surge again and again into the burning clutch of her sheath. Even for a moment, even for an instant, even if it's only in body, right here, right now -- You. Are. Mine!
"Yes. Yes!" She sobs, as if in agreement with my silent thoughts.
I need to see her face. I need to know if what she makes me feel is returned even a little, even a drop to slake my raging thirst for her love. I reach above her head and untie the belt, flip her onto her back, then roll with her till she sits astride me. Lifting her hips, I impale her once again on my cock.
But I still can't see her face because it is buried in my neck and now I'm not so sure I want to, because I have to tell her, have to tell her how I feel, have to --
"I love you," I groan, holding her hips tight against me and thrusting upward, into her perfect body.
She arches her neck and she screams and she comes around my cock, clutching it so hard and fast and -- Christ! I'm coming and I don't think it's ever going to stop and I don't want it to and... "I love you. I love you. I love you --" I can't stop saying it, I can't stop coming and her face is so beautiful, half-lidded eyes looking down at me, full lips kissing my face...
And then I am spent and she still hasn't said anything but I don't want to think about that because I am so happy, so happy to have her in my arms, so happy to see her sweet face above mine, slicked in sweat and flushed in desire and oh, so beautiful...
My Dana. Even for a moment, my Dana.
This time I wake to the smell of coffee, wafting up from the lower floor. The space beside me is empty but still warm. I touch his pillow. His scent remains, musky-sweet and wholly masculine. Languid, I rise from the bed and retrieve his robe from the floor, the belt from the bed, threading it through the loops with a small smile. I pad downstairs, the thick carpet curling sensuously around my toes.
Walter is standing at the kitchen counter. He's wearing those great tight jeans, a black T-shirt stretched across his muscular torso. His arms coated up to his elbows in flour.
"What on earth are you doing?" I ask, incredulous.
He looks up and smiles broadly. "Making biscuits." He jerks his head to the left. "Coffee's over there. Cups are up above the sink. I'd get it for you, but..." He holds up his broad hands, palms toward me, completely white with flour.
"That's okay," I chuckle, and pour myself a cup. I settle onto a stool in the breakfast nook, watching him work as I sip the strong, heady brew.
"I must say," I can't help commenting, "I never pictured you as the domestic type."
He swats playfully at my nose, leaving a dab of flour on the tip. "Haven't you ever heard that the best chefs are men?"
"What a lot of rot," I snort in reply. "Seriously, though. Biscuits?"
"My dad made biscuits," he answers, turning the dough out onto a heavily floured board and reaching for a wooden rolling pin. "Every Sunday morning he'd make breakfast while Mom got all of us little heathens ready for church." He smiles wistfully and looks up at me. "One of my favourite memories."
"You loved your dad."
"Of course. Didn't you?" He puts his back into his work, whipping the unwieldy dough into shape.
"Yes. Very much. I adored him, really." I think of Mulder and his father, his mother. He never talked much about his family. But I get the feeling that there was a great deal of emotional neglect, bordering on abuse. "But not everyone has happy childhood memories."
"I do." He pauses, then reaches for a glass and begins using it to cut out rounds of dough. "Don't get me wrong, it wasn't easy. We never had much money. And my dad was tough. He was no creampuff. But he was a fair man. And a good man."
"Like you," I interject with a smile. It's so nice to hear a man speaking fondly of his father. To see how the father has shaped the son -- and not warped him.
Walter smiles as he places the biscuits on a baking sheet. "Yeah, I'm definitely my father's son. Except for this," he jokes, running his hand over his bald pate. "Baldness comes from my mother's side."
"Were you from a big family?"
"Four kids. That's considered big today, but back then it was just average." He bends over to pop the biscuits in the oven, affording me a lovely view.
"I know."
"That's right, you're from a family of four kids too, aren't you?" He turns around, brushing his hands together to shake off the excess flour.
"I was." I take another sip of the strong coffee, peering down into its black depths to avoid his gaze. But it's too late. The spectre of my dead sister has been conjured, unwittingly bidden by his casual comment.
I lower my cup and he reaches for my chin, tipping my face up toward him. "I'm still so sorry about Melissa...that I couldn't resolve that case."
"You did a lot." I try to brush off his sympathy. "Nearly got yourself killed. I owe you so much."
"You don't owe me anything." His eyes are clear, entirely sincere. And I realize that with this man, I don't have to always be the strong one.
"Yes, I do," I continue, trying hard not to think too much about that last thought. "Mulder...explained to me about the deal you made with the Smoking Man."
"I wasn't sure he'd tell you about that," he says, leaning forward and bracing his palms on the counter. His eyes take on a faraway look as a muscle begins to jump in his jaw. "He ended up suspecting me of ulterior motives."
"I don't."
"Maybe you should." Once again, he captures me in his dark gaze. "At the time, I told myself that I was responsible for you. You were my agent. And maybe if I hadn't taken so long in getting myself out from under the thumb of that bastard, maybe if I had gone out on a limb more often to help you two...I don't know. But then if I'm totally honest with myself...there was more. There were feelings that I couldn't face. And I have to admit...that I didn't want to lose you. Even if you weren't mine to lose."
It must have taken a lot for this man of quiet strength to tell me that. "Come here," I whisper, holding out my arms to him, not unlike he did for me earlier this morning.
"I'll get you covered in flour."
"I don't care."
I wrap my arms around his solidness. He slides his great huge fingers into my hair, tilting up my head for a kiss. I meet him halfway. Minutes pass, of sweet, unhurried kisses, till warmth becomes heat becomes passion, once more.
Something's burning.
"The biscuits!" I cry.
"I don't care," he growls.
I flick on the light in my apartment. Funny, it looks the same. Even though everything's different now.
The biscuits burned to a crisp while we made love on the kitchen floor. But Walter made another batch and we ate them slathered in butter. They were delicious and went down fine with the scrambled eggs and ham he made to accompany them. I've never had a man cook for me before. It's nice. Very nice.
Strange how the apartment that first seemed so cold to me became so warm and comfortable. I finally had to leave, because I know my mother's going to be calling, asking me to come over for Sunday dinner. And yes, surprise, surprise, the light's flashing on my answering machine. I press the play button. And a cold chill runs through me as I hear Mulder's voice.
"Scully? It's me. I'm coming home."
The End (For Now)
Feedback to: Karen Matheson


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