********************* So Beautiful by Merri-Todd Webster ********************* DISCLAIMER: "I made this!" says Chris Carter of these characters, history, universe. "I made this!" I say of this particular arrangement of words about Mr. Carter's property. I know--between this and "Wet Dreams", you're gonna want a sequel. I'm workin' on it. ********* They'd be so beautiful together. I admit that "beautiful" isn't a word often applied to men, but it comes easily to mind when describing Fox Mulder. Nobody's going to argue with me about that. Yet after several years of working under his supervision, I have to say that Walter Skinner is beautiful, too. He'd probably laugh at me for saying this, but not only does he have a great body, he has a beautiful soul behind that dour exterior. Trust a Catholic girl on this one. They're in Skinner's office right now, talking about something. Skinner is sitting behind the desk; the harsh light of the lamp gleams on the crown of his bowed head and glints off his glasses. As usual, his jacket is somewhere else, his white shirtsleeves rolled up, and God, even his forearms are magnificent. Mulder is leaning over the desk, his face close to Skinner's. His palms are flat on the desk, supporting his weight, and his tie swings freely between his straight arms. He's turned almost three quarters away from me, so I can't really see his face, but I can see his ass quite nicely, thank you. Mulder is a fidget, can't stand still sometimes, and when he shifts his weight from one foot to the other, his ass glides beautifully against the fabric of his pants. I have to bite my lip to keep from shuddering, from making some revealing noise, because all I can think about is what might happen next if I weren't out here, in plain sight. It's so easy to imagine Skinner looking up, his face tight as usual, looking up at Mulder's teasing expression and not being able to stand it any more. His hand comes up and grasps Mulder's tie--a bright floral one I gave him--and drags him down against Skinner's mouth. It's a hard kiss, exasperated and greedy at the same time. I know Skinner just has to nip that irresistible lower lip and suck it into his mouth. That's what I've been dying to do since the moment I first laid eyes on Mulder. The kiss doesn't last long, though. When Skinner takes his mouth away, Mulder just sags. He doesn't keel over or anything; he just looks like Skinner's hand, which is now on his chest, is the only thing holding him up. Skinner pushes back his chair and gets up. In the dim light, he seems to tower over Mulder. The next kiss is slow and thorough, Skinner's hand snaking around to the back of Mulder's neck, his fingers splaying into the soft brown hair. I know how soft that hair is; "silky" is cliche, doesn't even begin to describe it. It's more like feathers, the fragile crest of some exotic bird. Mulder's hands rise, drift through the air, move toward the AD's shoulders, but drop and settle on the older man's waist. Now Skinner pulls Mulder against him, arms around his back, and starts kissing his cheek, his ear, the side of his neck. The way Mulder throws his head back, I know it feels good, wonderful, fantastic. Skinner bends lower, moves to the other side of Mulder's neck, and I can see that slender throat exposed, the adam's apple showing, so gorgeous I want to sink my teeth into it. I see Mulder shudder and guess that Skinner has just done exactly that. Skinner's hands run up and down Mulder's back, then suddenly grasp his lapels and peel back the suit jacket. Mulder looks startled but frozen, like a rabbit caught in oncoming headlights. He leans against the desk as the AD deftly unknots his tie and flicks open the buttons of the silvery grey shirt. Skinner's quick with his hands. They run in large circles over Mulder's flat chest, stirring up the fine dark hairs, brushing over the brown nipples. Mulder arches like a cat to that touch, and pretty soon Skinner's fingers are concentrating on those nipples. It's obvious Mulder likes it; his eyes are closed, his mouth open, lips wet. So smoothly that I can't really track it, Skinner lowers the younger man to the desk. Mulder still has his shirt on, but the tie has slipped off, and more is soon to come. Head slightly raised, Mulder watches raptly as his boss unbuckles his belt. He raises his hips to let Skinner pull the trousers down his legs; they come off with a final jerk that takes Mulder's shoes as well. Mulder's wearing his usual boxers, but even in those loose shorts, his erection is obvious. Is Skinner going to take those off, too? Well, not yet. Instead he bends over Mulder, standing between his legs, and starts kissing him again. I see what he's doing: He starts at Mulder's mouth, travels over cheek, jaw, ear, throat, nips his shoulders--I wish I could hear them, too--stops for a long time at Mulder's nipples. But they aren't his ultimate destination. Skinner drags his mouth down the thin line of hair that runs from Mulder's chest right down to his pubic hair, and when he gets to the waistband of the boxers, then they come off. Men always look so sexy wearing nothing but a dress shirt. Mulder is irresistible; what's Skinner going to do? One large hand closes around Mulder's erection. Mulder arches into that touch so fiercely his back turns into a bow. Long minutes pass as Skinner slowly, carefully, skillfully, patiently strokes Mulder to climax, all the while watching the younger man's face with that intent, focused gaze that misses nothing, remembers and catalogues everything. Mulder in climax is even more beautiful than I'd imagined, his face transfigured, and I can hear him, now, crying out hoarsely as his come jets all over his boss's hand, his belly, even onto the desk. Unbelievably beautiful. A few minutes pass. Skinner stays with his hand on Mulder's belly, and Mulder's hands come to rest over the older man's. When Mulder starts to get up, Skinner's hands go to his own belt. Mulder turns away from me as Skinner says something I can't make out. I see hesitation in his shoulders, and then, oh god, he drops to his knees in front of Skinner. Skinner undresses just enough to expose his cock for Mulder's mouth. He's big, not overly long but really thick, with a wide, blunt head. I can only imagine what it looks like--Mulder's luscious lips wrapped around that thick organ, sucking it in. There's so much heat between my legs, I think my hose are going to catch fire. The expression on Skinner's face is fascinating; the hard set of his features gradually softens, very gradually; he bows his head and his hands come to rest on Mulder's shoulders. Skinner says something, and Mulder starts bobbing his head. Oh god, it's all I can do not to touch myself, bring myself off with them. Mulder's back is arched, I think he's getting off as much as Skinner, and then Skinner wrenches his head to one side and thrusts, once, into Mulder's mouth. They freeze like that for a few seconds. Then both men relax, separate. Skinner tucks himself into his pants and helps Mulder to his feet. Skinner has come more recently, but Mulder's the one who's swaying. He gets dressed, quickly, and then turns to leave the office--and he sees me. He sees that I've been watching them, and I see the shine of moisture on his mouth. He licks his lips. The door opens and Mulder comes out, cocking his head and smiling at the dazed expression on my face. I have a hard time remembering that all I've seen is a fantasy, a movie in my own head. "Penny for your thoughts, Scully?" ********* They'd be so beautiful together. I have to say, honestly, she's the most beautiful woman I've ever seen. Perfect. Nobody can touch her. She's so beautiful she scares me. And him, he's exactly the kind of man that's always turned my head. Different from me. Tough, a bit of a jock, well-built, but smart, too. They're both incredibly smart. Stupid doesn't do anything for me. Unless it's sex actors on video. I've been lying here on the couch, wasting my time. I don't think it would matter if I watched every damned porn flick there is. I look at the screen and all I see are Scully and Skinner. Maybe in a nice hotel room somewhere, where no one would know they're federal agents breaking the rules of fraternization. A nice hotel room with Monet prints on the walls and striped fabric, not just wallpaper, where they could rip each other's clothes off and fuck each other senseless. Her hands are all over him, just as fast and just as sure as his hands on her. Caressing and stripping each other at the same time, breaking each other out of the FBI uniform. And kissing. Her lush red mouth open against his, his hands on her ass getting up underneath the skirt and yanking down hose and panty. Ripping the nylon and throwing it aside. And she's not complaining, she's popping buttons off his crisp white shirt in her eagerness to get it off of him. He picks her up and deposits her on the bed, effortlessly. She weighs nothing in his arms. Scully lies still, head raised, propped on her elbows, watching Skinner remove the last of her clothes. When she's naked, white against the dark green covers, he drops his pants and sheds his briefs. God, he's big. Big all over, broad shoulders, long legs, solid, and hung to match. The look on her face says she's going to have every inch of that cock inside her, for as long as possible. Skinner joins her on the bed, and her body almost disappears under his. They're kissing and touching again, hands roving over naked skin. His thigh is so dark against her fairness. She throws her head back, moaning, when he splays his hand over her swollen breast. Face buried in her throat, he takes his time, kneading, tracing, teasing, finally getting that rosy nipple between thumb and finger and rolling it mercilessly. Scully is crying out, little desperate mewing sounds that get higher when he fastens his mouth to her other breast. She's underneath him and all I can see is her face, half-covered by the flaming hair, and her legs thrashing. There's no mistaking the look on her face, the piercing cry that comes with it, the thing that looks like agony but isn't. She's had an orgasm just from his attention to her breasts. Laughing softly, pleased with himself and with her, Skinner kisses his way down her body. Scully falls back and spreads her legs for him eagerly, one hand on his head as it settles between her thighs. The hair at her crotch is every bit as flame-red as what's on her head; I'd be willing to bet even the hair she shaves away is red, at least red-gold. Her mouth forms a perfect "o" as the pleasure takes hold of her; the intense blue eyes slide shut, and her head rolls back and forth on her neck as loosely as a marionette's. His head bobs a little as he works on her with his mouth; he seems to be taking his time with this, not rushing. Those wide, strong hands on her hips don't stop her from pushing against his face. The smell of her rises like the smell of yeast, or burning wax, or a flower. Choked noises come out of her mouth and then one word, repeated in a voice barely her own: "Yes! *Yes*! YES!" Skinner backs off when Scully goes limp under his mouth. He waits until her panting has subsided a little, then presses his mouth to hers. Oh, she likes that. Her tongue darts out to lick her own flavor off his face. Then she sits up, turns, and takes hold of his thick cock. Her hand looks so small, so delicate, but his face tightens with what she's doing to him. He doesn't let her keep doing it for long; he takes her hand away, laughing shakily, and at once she rolls onto her hands and knees, presenting her ass to him. Oh god, she's so beautiful. I don't know how he keeps from just shoving it into her, pushing her down on the bed and smothering her with his need. But he cups her mound in his hand, slipping his thumb into the wet opening, so wet it glistens. She moans as he opens her with his fingers, making way for the size of him. "Please...." Even now, he goes into her slowly. The thickness of him stretches her wider, but her face is ecstatic, like the face of a saint seeing God. The whole length of him slides into her delicate body, I don't know how, and he pauses a moment, hands on the curve of her bottom. She shifts against him, and maybe that triggers what happens, the way he starts ramming against her, into her. You'd think it must hurt, but she urges him on, broken cries of his name and yes and please and oh god. He's really fucking her, not holding anything back, and then he arches back, imbedded in her to the hilt, and groans like a dying man, while she literally screams, mouth open wide and tongue extended, and then they fall forward together. After a moment he rolls her over, cradling her against him, hands cupping those perfect breasts again. The smile on her face is the catlike smile of a thoroughly sated woman. She runs her fingers along his thigh, his arm. He kisses her throat. His eyelids dropp like he's about to fall asleep, but she's probably already thinking about the next time. Maybe I'll run the redheads tape again. ********* They'd be so beautiful together. There's a sort of inevitability about it. I wonder if they know, if they're having the relationship half the bureau thinks they are, if they know what they look like together. Christ, she was dying, and all she could think about was whether he would eat and sleep without her nagging him. And if she had died, I know he would have eaten his gun. Every time they leave the office, I wonder if they're going to make love some time that day. I stare at the paperwork on my desk and wonder if they make time for one another in between checking out corpses and testing Mulder's spooky theories. I wonder if a casual pizza and beer on the weekend turns into hours spent in bed, luxuriating in one another. I wonder if he calls her "Dana" when he's inside her. Her apartment is as compulsively neat as his is compulsively messy. Probably they go to her apartment; he keeps some clothes there, she picks up after him. She throws the pizza boxes away instead of letting them pile up. For her, pizza is a treat, not a basic food group. She'll clean up the mess before they wander into the bedroom. Maybe he comes up behind her while she's wiping off the table, takes her waist in his hands, starts kissing her neck. She smiles and wiggles a little bit in his grasp, but she finishes what she's doing. Only after the sponge has been rinsed out and returned to its place on the sink does she turn and put her arms around his neck, raising her mouth for the kiss he's been wanting to give her. He doesn't let go of her mouth while he steers them both into the bedroom. She undresses for him. Not provocatively; she doesn't have to try. Just to see Dana Scully taking her clothes off, her eyes never leaving yours as she makes herself ready to be vulnerable to you--that would be more than enough of a turn-on without her doing a fancy striptease. He sinks to his knees in front of her, still clothed, and bows his head against her stomach, hands on her back. She's almost too beautiful to be real, and the way he touches her shows that he realizes what a privilege it is to be allowed to touch her, to give her pleasure. He nuzzles the fiery patch of hair between her thighs until she giggles like a little girl, twists away from him, and gets on the bed. She sits there watching him undress. She's seen him naked plenty of times, too many times--hurt, wounded, in shock. It's a turn-on to see him come to her strong and healthy, maybe erect already. He's long and slim and elegant all over, right down to his cock. He gets on the bed, and their bodies twine together like vines, leaning back on the pillows, kissing and caressing. He grasps her buttocks, and she gives a sinuous wriggle, presses closer to him, her hands moving like butterflies over his hair, his back, down between them. Mulder groans, pushes her gently back onto the bed. He settles half beside her, half on top of her, finding her mouth again as though incurably thirsty for it. Her eyes are closed, her face serene with bliss as that luscious mouth of his wanders down her body, worshipping it. Covering her breasts with kisses, nibbling, licking, suckling, worshipping every inch. Trailing down her softly curved stomach and over the perfectly shaped thighs, now one, now the other. She is sighing, deep, contented sighs that deepen gradually into moans as he coaxes her thighs apart with kisses. He draws back to look at her for a moment: Dana Scully, relaxed in pleasure, legs spread, her sex open like a hothouse flower. The pressure of his cock against the bedspread is sweet torture when he sees her like this, wanting everything he can give. He starts tasting her very gently, nuzzling her fur, brushing his lips to hers. Her moans deepen still more when he opens her with his tongue, and she rolls her hips up so he can delve into her, drink from her, reach every fold. He spends a long, long time eating her pussy, making her come over and over. With each orgasm, her voice rises out of a throaty moan and climbs like a siren to an impossibly high note, then relaxes back again. He keeps at her until a faint look of disbelief crosses her face, as if she hadn't thought it possible to know this much ecstasy. Her back arches wildly when long fingers slip inside her, opening her still more, and she screams yet again when he keeps the fingers there and adds his mouth, sucking on her. Her fingers clench in his hair and she thrust against him, completely out of control. She is still crying out her climax when he drags himself back up her body and slides his cock in, all the way home in one smooth motion. She's shaking now, completely undone with pleasure. She shakes even harder as he moves inside her, slowly at first, trying to prolong it as far as possible. But how can he hold out any longer after what he's done to her? He must need her even more than she needs him, and it isn't long before he's driving hard into her body, too far gone to think about hurting her, and all she wants now is to come with him, just one more time. They both throw back their heads, cry out, everything in the universe waits for them as they climax together, trembling, vulnerable, triumphant. Silence. For a long time, they don't move. Can't. But as soon as she stirs beneath him, he rolls away, pulling her on top of him. They're both smiling, sweet, dreamy smiles. She gropes for the covers; he pulls them up over both of them. Drowsy conversation drifts quiet as they fall asleep in one another's arms. I know she'd take him into her bed, into her heart. Why do I have to be the only one who sleeps alone? ********* end