DISCLAIMER:  How many different ways can one write this? 
Not mine:  I'm playing with someone else's toys, but playing 
nicely, I hope. This is definitely totally and purely NC-17. 
Feedback is welcomed at viriditas@geocities.com.

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Wet Dreams III
by Merri-Todd Webster
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Bad.  Very bad.

Bad enough to dream about Scully.  How could he not? 
Seven days a week, sometimes, she was by his side, all 
day, most of the night, and he was constantly reminded of 
how gorgeous and brilliant and courageous and trustworthy 
she was.  He had to love a woman who could outtalk him. 
On the job, no doubt, your partner was your life, and Mulder 
was damned happy that Scully was his partner and his life. 
It was understandable that his dreams tossed up images of 
her being more than his work partner, of an easy segue 
between work and leisure, Scully always by his side, of 
sleeping in the same bed on those cases that took them on 
the road for days.

But Skinner...?

Shivering, Mulder wrapped his arms around his torso and 
went to the closet for a blanket.  He had definitely been 
having a highly erotic dream about... Walter Skinner.  Jesus. 
Okay, the man had a great body and Mulder certainly 
enjoyed men almost as much as women and he'd actually 
started to trust Skinner almost as easily as he trusted Scully, 
but still....

He's kneeling on his couch, facing the back and holding onto 
it for dear life.  He's naked and painfully erect, and there's a 
large hand gripping his left shoulder firmly, almost too firmly. 
That hand digs into his muscles, kneading, holding him still 
while another hand strokes the cleft of his ass, easing 
between the curves of muscle to delve into the opening 
there.  Mulder hears himself moaning softly, beseechingly, 
but the man behind him is silent, a focused silence that 
makes Mulder all the more aware of his presence.  He can 
feel the strength in the hand and arm that steady him, the 
rough texture of the palm, smell the musk of the other man 
distinct from his own, two flavors of arousal like tenor and 
bass in duet, but he can't see his lover, can't hear him.

One slick finger penetrates his body with confident 
carefulness.  It's a touch that knows how to do this, how to 
make it easy and pleasurable, and it's a touch that knows 
him, Mulder, specifically.  He moves with it and feels it 
intensely as it glides all the way, smooth and slick, filling him. 

"Please...."  The hand on his shoulder tightens fractionally, 
and the pressure inside him shifts, strokes across his 
prostate.  Mulder makes a sound suspiciously like a sob, his 
arousal heightened still more by that touch and by the 
determined silence behind him. 

The finger withdraws and is replaced by two.  Mulder throws 
back his head, grinds himself in slow spirals on the fingers 
that are stretching him. The cool gel of the lubricant heats up 
rapidly in the friction of their bodies.  "Touch me," he begs, 
not quite sure what he's asking for.  A terrific shudder runs 
through him as lips brush across the back of his neck, light 
and dry, a minimalist caress.  The lips stay there and the 
fingers press deeper, gently, and the steadying hand 
tightens, until Mulder's sure he'll have a mark, even a bruise. 
He doesn't care; it's going to be so good when it happens....

He cries out sharply when two fingers are replaced by three. 
It is on the verge of being painful and yet so good, to be this 
filled. Mulder's hands clench on the slippery black leather; he 
is shaking, and his knees are wet with sweat against the 
couch.  "Please," he says again, close to coming just from 
this, and the fingers slowly pull out of him, leaving him empty 
and shaking still worse.

Then the hand leaves his shoulder and wraps around his 
chest, the tantalizing lips open against the back of his neck, 
and the head of his lover's cock seeks entrance.  It is wide 
and thick and stretches even more than his lover's fingers; 
the sensation balances, teetering, on the tightrope between 
pleasure and pain, and would tip over at once if the man 
taking him were any less patient, any less controlled.  He 
sinks slowly into Mulder as if he has all the time in the world, 
and Mulder has already ceased to make sense even to 
himself, saying yes and please and god and fuck me in 
incoherent combinations.

When he is all the way in, the other man's hands slide over 
Mulder, brushing his throat, his nipples, his cock, and come 
to rest on his hips. The short nails dig in, and Mulder is held 
so efficiently he can hardly move; he can only let it happen. 
It happens slowly, gradually, building in barely perceptible 
increments.  Mulder can't stop shaking, doesn't know if he'll 
ever come, can't make his throat work to ask his lover to 
touch him, touch his cock.  But just when the thrusts are 
coming so hard they start to cross the line into pain, a warm 
hand wraps firmly around his cock, and with only one hand 
holding him still, Mulder can move, finally, into the hard 
thrusts, into the grasping hand, into an orgasm that tears his 
voice from his chest and sends him into a serene blackness 
that wipes out everything.

When his senses return, a moment later, his lover is gasping 
fiercely, the landed-fish sound of a man who has just come 
and is trying to stay in control.  One sweaty hand leaves 
Mulder's hip, skitters up his side, and cups his cheek.  "It's all 
right, Fox," his lover says at last, his voice deep and husky 
and breathless.  "I've got you."

Recognizing the voice, Mulder turns and meets Walter 
Skinner's dark eyes.

Mulder turned over on the couch.  The smell of the leather 
was getting to him; the dream had been so vivid....  After a 
minute he threw off the blanket, got up, and went to stand by 
the window, looking out into the night.

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end