Proof of Ownership
STORIES ON THIS SITE ARE INTENDED FOR ADULTS ONLY
Okay, we all know these characters are not mine. They belong to Chris Carter and 1013, and no copyright infringement is intended. Just mayhem and nastiness. I just photocopied them and cut them out and made a nasty little paper doll game with their images.
STOP RIGHT THERE! Do not pass go until you read this, 'cause I don't want to shock anybody. This is NOT a love story. This is not a complicated plot story. This is not a story where you'll say 'wow, that sure was good characterization.' Whether or not what happens in this story is a matter of free will is open to interpretation. This is not a nice story. If you want nice, go back right now. If you don't go back, then don't write me and yell that this isn't a nice story. I already know that. But it sure was fun writing it! Hope you'll think it's fun reading it.
Click for Content Warning:
Dubcon elements
Proof of Ownership
"If he's yours... Then prove it to me." The voice was low, rasping, as smoke ruined as its owner was corrupt.
Fox Mulder struggled, twisting from side to side against the weight of the two burly men who held him, bent, flat on his stomach, his arms pinned to Walter Skinner's desk. He'd thought only to spend a couple of hours of his Sunday evening working on a backlog of paperwork. The refrain that kept running through his mind, winding faster and faster like a tape recorder set on fastforward, was 'How did I wind up here? Why me? How did I...'
"What do you mean, if he's mine?" Walter Skinner, standing just out of his range of vision, snapped back at the cigarette voice.
Something about not being able to see either man amplified the tones of their voices, made them surreal. Skinner sounded like a gruff, growling bear. The other one slithered like a snake.
"Prove to me he's yours, Mr. Skinner. And then, of course, I would never touch him."
At the thought of being touched again by *him*, those stained, rough fingers moving over his skin, Mulder struggled harder. He could still feel the scald of the first touch, the hand crawling up inside the back of his shirt, touching the base of his spine. He kicked back with his legs, was rewarded by a hard grunt as the heel of his shoe connected with the leg of one of his captors.
The man kicked back at him, missed his flailing leg, and stopped when someone, probably Skinner, stepped closer. "Prove it?" Skinner's voice was closer now, just to his right. But he was still out of his sight. In contrast, the Smoking One moved into sight, smiling as he did so, enjoying the anger that the sight of him provoked. He rolled the tip of his cigarette between his thumb and index finger. Slow, sensual, foul movement.
"Take him," he said softly. The light reflected in his dark eyes was as hot and red as brimstone and fire. Reptilian. Loathsome.
Mulder went absolutely still. For a moment, the only sounds in the room were breathing, that of the two men, Skinner's, his own. And the slow, hated draw on the cigarette.
Then Skinner said quietly, angrily, "You're crazy."
"Perhaps," the rasping voice responded, just as quietly but without the emotion. "But that's your choice. Prove he belongs to you, and I won't touch him." He smiled at Mulder once again, puffed a cloud of smoke into the clean air, and moved away.
Mulder twisted, bending at the waist until he could see Skinner's face. It was grim, mouth held tightly under control. Hot, bright spots of color stained his face.
Of the Smoking Man, only the cigarette, held lightly, casually, between stained fingers, was visible now. He had retreated into the shadows until his face was hidden. But Mulder knew he was still smiling, lips drawn back like something savage, the weathered skin around his lips creased.
"I don't do performances," Skinner ground out.
Mulder squeezed his eyes shut, praying that the other didn't hear how wooden Skinner's voice had gone. How unconvincing it was.
"I do," came the easy reply. "You can watch me take him."
The hands of the two goons descended on Mulder again. Tugging at his shirt. Knuckles digging into his back as his pants were yanked down around his hips.
He kicked, lashing out with his arms. The punishing weight of two bodies descended, pinning him again. He struggled with less force, panting. He could feel cool air on the small of his back, his waist. Hot, sweaty hands on his bare hips, on the back of his neck.
"Stop it."
The two men obeyed the sharp command in Skinner's voice, as Mulder did. He froze as if it was he who was trying to strip a man in the Assistant Director's office.
Gasping for breath, he twisted again. His gaze met Skinner's. The bigger man stared at him, nostrils flaring with every breath, mouth pursed into something hard and unforgiving. His eyes were like steel, glinting like gun metal. And he was waiting for Mulder to tell him what to do.
Mulder swallowed, rage and impotence threatening to close his throat. He tested the strength of the grip on his wrists and was rewarded with a soft, mocking laughter from his captors. He couldn't get free. The hot fingers on his hips slid up inside his shirt to his ribs.
He shied away from the touch. Shuddered in horror at the thought of yellow, nicotine stained hands on his skin. Skinner had saved him from something his mind wouldn't even contemplate by walking in only moments before. He'd barged into his own office and demanded that Mulder be let go, that the other one back away from him. How far would he extend his protection? How far would he go? Mulder caught Skinner's gaze with his own. "Don't let him touch me."
Skinner's eyes closed, for just the briefest second. Drawing a deep breath, he jerked his head in a nod. 'I understand.'
Mulder shuddered again, closing his eyes, too. A second shudder ran through him, almost painful. The hands binding his wrists tightened down, and he steeled himself, waiting for them to bite into him, to bruise his bones. But the next touch on him was gentle, warm on his shoulder.
"Let go of him," Skinner ordered gruffly. He brushed the two men aside as if they were pesky ants, circled the desk and came to stand behind him.
Skinner drew him up, pulled him back against his chest the way he would have held a woman. Gentle, protecting. Mulder tensed at the touch. Hard chest, hard thighs, hard arms encircling him.
Skinner pulled him back tighter, bent his head to Mulder's neck as if he was going to kiss him, except that his mouth didn't touch. Only his breath did as he whispered, "Are you sure this is what you want to do?"
Mulder shivered as Skinner's ragged breath rushed down his neck. Across the room, the blue haze of cigarette smoke caressed the yellowed fingers, owner disembodied in the shadows. Bile rose in his throat, and he grasped the thick forearm across his chest. Squeezed tight, hoping that he could impart some of his panic, his horror, into its owner.
He turned his head, put mouth near Skinner's ear. He could smell Skinner--not cologne, just the scent that was peculiarly him--part soap, part freshly laundered shirt, part masculine skin. Part fear. Clean and pleasant and threatening in some vague way he couldn't define. "Don't let him touch me. I don't care what you have do to me. Just don't let him touch me."
The Smoking Man chuckled, as if he heard the whisper. As if he knew everything Mulder was thinking, feeling.
The sound sent revulsion rushing down Mulder's spine.
Against the side of his face, Skinner nodded. Still shaky. Still unsure. But his hand came up, went across Mulder's face as if it was the sweetest caress. Tipped Mulder's head to the side. "If he thinks for a minute that we're faking..." he warned in a whisper.
Teeth touched his neck. Mulder stiffened. Forced himself to drop his head further to the side, exposing his throat. This was for show. This was for the goons, standing so close. For their leering, hot eyes. For the monster hiding in the shadows.
Skinner looked up from his nuzzling, indicated the two with a jerk of his chin. "Get them out of here."
When there was no response from the shadows, he repeated the command and added, "This is not a peep show. If you have to have proof, then I'll do it. But they don't have to be here."
After a long moment, the cigarette waggled in the air. Ashes drifted to the carpet. "If you guarantee the good behavior of your...agent."
Skinner still held Mulder against his chest. He brought his hand up, spread the whole broad width of it across Mulder's exposed throat. His fingers were gentle but menacing just the same. "He'll do what I say."
Mulder swallowed, feeling muscles and skin move against the massive hand. He had never felt so vulnerable as he did at that moment, with the hand of a man he was forced to trust wrapped around his neck. With the subtle threat of violence behind the promise of his good behavior.
There was movement in the shadow. Nothing Mulder could discern, but apparently the men could. Without protest, they left the room, closing the door behind them.
Skinner let him go.
He almost fell with the suddenness of it. Grabbed for his precariously balanced pants and poked the button through the band.
"Go to the conference table," Skinner told him. His voice was quiet, assured, commanding. So accustomed to being obeyed.
Mulder was halfway across the room before he realized he'd obeyed it. His step faltered. He glanced back to see Skinner closing a drawer of his desk. He watched him move to the door and turn out the light. The office settled into gloom, illuminated only by bars of reflected streetlight, shining through the blinds that stretched almost the length of one wall.
"Leave the lights on." Now even the cigarette was in darkness. Only the glowing orange tip of it was visible. The smoker's voice was commanding, too, but not with the power of Skinner's.
"I'm not going to make it easy for any cameras you have in here," Skinner retorted sarcastically.
Mulder's heart did a flip flop. Cameras? He looked around quickly, half expecting to see the red winking light of a video camera pointed at him. The snickering faces of a camera crew watching him, like a scene from a sordid, grade Z porn film.
"There aren't any cameras," the Smoking Man said smoothly.
"You'll be able to see what you need to see." Skinner's gruff voice overflowed with sarcasm.
So much in contrast to the gentle hand laid on Mulder's shoulder as he was guided the last few steps to the conference table. At the edge of the table, Mulder allowed himself to be turned by the light pressure on his shoulder. He looked up into the shadow that was Skinner's face, but Skinner wasn't looking at him. He was leaning past him to lay something on the table.
He followed the movement. A small bottle and a small foil packet. He gulped. Reality and unreality sinking in. He was about to be... By his boss... Lubricant and a condom? From the desk?! What was Skinner doing with lubricant and a condom in his Bureau desk?
Then Skinner's hands came from out of the shadows and unfastened the two remaining buttons on his shirt. All rational thought skittered away, like leaves scattering across a sidewalk. Skinner was about to touch him. What would he do? What would he do to prove his ownership? Mulder's mind flitted from one lurid vision to another, to another, twisting and turning. Panicking as each seemed more horrible than the last. More unbearable, more electrifying. No air to breathe. He glanced left, then right, searching for escape. Muscles bunching for flight.
Skinner's hands stopped him. As abruptly as if his brain had been disconnected from his muscles. Skinner lifted each of his hands gently in turn, undid the buttons on his cuffs, fingers brushing his knuckles. The images, the fear, the surroundings, blanked. Only sensation remained.
All he could hear, see, feel, all that connected him to the room was skin. Fingers. Resting on his shoulders again, turning him. Catching the edges of his open shirt and drawing it back. Brushing his chest, his shoulders, his back, as his shirt was pulled away. His skin shivered, an entity apart from the underlying muscle, trying to disconnect from his nerves as his brain had detached from his muscles.
Then Skinner left him standing there, alone, shivering. Blind and numb. Trying to feel his own skin wrapped around him, holding his bones in place.
He could tell by the movements behind him, the silk slithering of cloth on cloth, that Skinner was taking off his tie. Opening his shirt. He could hear the soft pop of each button as it slid through the buttonhole, monotonous and frightening in the otherwise silent room. By the time he heard the shirt slide to the floor, he was ready to run again. Muscles strung taut as piano wire. Teeth chattering as if he was freezing. He rose up on the balls of his feet.
The weight of Skinner's hand brought him down. The heat of warm fingers on bare skin suffused outward, downward. "Do you want me to handcuff you?"
He knew the question was solicitous, yet it sounded more like a threat. He sucked in his breath, held it there for a long moment. More images, flooding his mind. It would make it easier, wouldn't it? To not be able to move... To have no responsibility... To allow the offer to sound like a threat he could not refuse. "No." He shook his head. "No." If Skinner could stand it, then he could stand it.
Skinner caught him again, as he had before, in his bear hug of a grip, drew him back against his chest. The warmth of Skinner's hand had done nothing to prepare him for the heat of a man's body against his. The alien hardness of a man's muscles, bare chest against his back.
Skinner half turned him, one hand anchoring him to the floor with its weight on his ribs, one splayed across his jaw, tipping his face back. Skinner's mouth descended.
Mulder gasped, soaking in the taste of another man, trying to shut his senses down again, but this time they stayed awake and aware and exuberant. Hand firmly clamped on his jaw, fingers spanning the thrumming pulse at his jugular, preventing him from wriggling free. Slick, sweet like candy pressure against his lips, threatening to invade.
He retreated from the assault and was pursued. The tongue penetrated him, rummaged in his mouth. Explored his teeth, his gums. Not a kiss. A claiming.
And that was exactly what it had to appear to the man watching them. Suddenly realizing what Skinner was doing, he went limp, acquiescing to the pressure on his lips, the demand on his tongue. The moment he did, Skinner drew back, releasing his tight grip, head dipping down to his neck. "Don't let me hurt you," he whispered. Mulder nodded. Despite the sweet slickness Skinner had left behind in his mouth, his throat was too dry to speak.
Breath again, warm on his throat. And teeth. He gasped. Just when he thought he'd regained his equilibrium, his sanity, it skittered away from him again. He strained against Skinner's arms.
Teeth nipped at his neck. Skinner's warm, wet tongue trailed across the stretched taut tendon. Cold air trailed behind, marking the path. Palms, warm and rough, slid across his ribs. Fingers delved into his navel. His nipples tightened as rough, masculine fingers played across them. Pinched. Something warm and sluggish awakened low in his belly, where he should be numb and repulsed. Agitation radiated down into his balls.
He shied backwards from the dancing fingers, away from the awakening sensations, back into a body as hard, as unforgiving as stone.
"Be still," Skinner growled in his ear. That voice of command again. So rough, so strong.
Making him hard and breathless. He rolled forward without protest, boneless, as Skinner guided him down, draping him over the table. The surface was cold against his chest, his belly. He could see the big table in his mind, polished to a mirrored shine, gleaming in the morning sunlight.
He quivered. Breathed a soft 'no,' so soft he was sure no one heard. Wriggled in protest, as if he could escape. As if he could make himself want to.
Skinner's hands quieted him. Petted him and soothed him as if he was a skittish colt. Hands, warm as sunshine, started at his shoulders and caressed, kneaded the length of his back. Hands as practiced as a masseuse's. As knowing as a hooker's.
Without conscious volition, he arched up into the touch. Like a cat stretching. He thought cats were whores. Always rubbing and stretching towards someone's hands. Not caring whose hands, only that the hands were caressing and stroking. Only that the hands felt unbelievably good.
Skinner's hands filled the space between him and the table, rolling his nipples, playing across his belly.
He writhed beneath the touch, stretching away from it, yearning towards it. Teasing over him again, slipping inside the waistband of his pants to toy with the one button holding them on. Taunting him. Dancing away again. Across his ribs, down his thigh. He could feel the heat of each finger through his pants.
He was ready. He was crazy. He reached to unfasten the button himself, and the strong hands stopped him. Pinned his wrists to the cold table. Pressed for just a moment, as if warning him to keep them there.
Skinner leaned forward, covering him, caught his head gently in both his hands, turned his face away from the window. Away from the other. "Turn your face this way. So I can see you," he whispered, voice rough and rasping, unsteady.
Something rippled through him. Something he refused to define. It was just a flutter, a jolt of fear. His muscles spasming. Skinner only meant 'so the other one can't see you'. That was what he meant.
Heated skin brushed against his back. Crinkly mat of hair, scratching him, tickling him. Hard thighs against the backs of his legs. Alien hardness pressing against his ass. That heat, too, he could feel through his pants. He shied away from it, then pressed back. Fascinated. Repelled. Enticed. Repulsed.
Skinner caught his hips and pulled him back, held him there tight against his erection, not moving. Forcing him to acknowledge his arousal. To accept it. To want it.
When Skinner finally reached, undid the button holding his trousers on, reached inside, he was ready. Swollen. Trembling. He moaned softly at the heat, the rough touch. Thrust into the encircling fingers. Wanton. Beyond caring.
His pants slid down. Cold air caressed his bottom, the rough cloth of Skinner's pants chafed against him--neither was what he wanted. He reached back blindly, groping. Found a hardness like, and so unlike, his own.
Skinner allowed the groping caress for only a moment, then pushed his hands away, pushed him back down on the table. Pressed his wrists and palms to the cool surface once again. More pressure this time. More warning. *Stay there. Don't move.*
The sound of a zipper opening. Foil ripping. He arched. A cat in heat, stretching up, up. Not caring. He pushed his feet as far apart as the cloth bunched around them would allow.
Skinner came back to him. Warm along his side. Hand reaching beneath him to reestablish the stroking tempo that had been lost. He muffled a moan against the polished surface of the table. A finger slipped and slid along the crease of his ass. Cold. Slick. Caressing. Finding a spot he had not known existed. A place of lightning and fire. He hissed. Surprised. Pleased. Disapproving.
The finger probed at him. Trying to invade. He froze. Lost some of the pulsing insanity that had gripped him. He bucked, tried to break free.
Skinner came down on him, holding him. Tongue and teeth and lips across the back of his neck. Hand stroking. Soothing. Insistent. Knowing. Slipping lower and lower. Rough warmth engulfed his balls. Squeezed gently. Stroked. Seducing.
And he opened. Flowering. Skinner's finger slipped inside him. Stretched him. Two fingers, moving gently. Lightning and fire again. Fingers twisting inside him, flame twisting through him. He grunted. Rose up on tiptoe.
Skinner caught him, lifted him half up off the table, lowered himself halfway down, so that they were touching from shoulder to calf as he positioned himself to enter.
"Don't let me hurt you," he whispered. He pushed forward gently, slowly.
But it did hurt and Mulder gasped aloud before he could stop himself. He'd never thought of pain as a savior. He'd never thought of pain as sanity. He snatched at the sharpness, the only rational thing in a whirling, red blaze of insanity and sensation. But it was too near pleasure. He couldn't hold onto it. The pain swirled away, danced across his nerve endings as the hand danced on his cock, became lightning and electricity and ecstasy.
He bucked back to meet his invader, engulfed the hardness probing at him, was rewarded with a hiss of pleasure from Skinner. Spangles of light danced in the shadows as he stilled, waiting for his body to adjust the invasion. To welcome it.
Skinner was trembling against his back, his thighs. He moved experimentally. "Okay?" His hands flexed across Mulder's chest, on his hips, drawing him back tighter.
Mulder closed his eyes. The spangles of light made the leap from the shadows to the backs of his eyelids. So full. Stretched to the breaking point. Friction. Pleasure/pain, like music, like electric fireflies, rippling along his nerves. Sparkling.
Skinner moved further this time, move of a withdrawal, more of a thrust home. He repeated the slow, agonizing, slick withdrawal and thrust.
It wasn't enough.
"Okay?" Skinner whispered again in his ear. His breathing was ragged, his voice strained.
Mulder's answer was to move, to roll his hips from side to side, back and forth.
Skinner hissed "oh, yes," breath hot on his back.
The thrust this time was rougher, deeper. Closer to what he wanted.
"You like this..."
Skinner's words were ambiguous, one third question/two thirds command. *Do you like it? I'll make you like it.*
Then a demand for guidance. "You like this?"
*Or this. Or this. I'll make you like it.* "Yes," he groaned. Yesyesyes. Yes to it all. To anything you want to do to me.
"Tell me." Hissed demand.
Mulder's answer was to grasp Skinner's hand, to guide it down his belly, close the thick fingers around his cock. Show him the pace he wanted. Needed. Had to have.
Skinner moaned against his shoulder. Fingers, hips tightened reflexively. "Oh, god, Fox..."
The sudden deep lunge, the whispered, never used name in a voice hoarse with pleasure, lit the fuse to an explosion that had already started to ignite. Sparkles swelled into ripples swelled into waves into thunder as his orgasm poured through him, out of him.
Stuffing his wrist against his mouth, he stifled sounds that wanted to be screams of pleasure. Rocked and twisted and drove himself back to be met by a lunge that finally matched his own need. Felt, for only a couple of thrusts, what they would be like together, if they were alone, if they weren't holding back. What Skinner would be like, riding him. Savage and wild. Commanding. Owning him.
Skinner thrust deep, went rigid against him, chest and arms and thighs like granite with the shudders of an earthquake coursing through them. Gasped, once, loudly, before clamping down on the sound.
Feeling Skinner's orgasm sent another shock of pleasure through him. A second, dry surging that he relaxed into, savored, as the man who held him also slowly relaxed, drooping down over him. Still encircling him. Still covering him.
Skinner's body was lax, hot, sweat-plastered against him. Resting on him. Skinner moved slowly, gently, still half hard.
Aftershocks, sparkling not so diamond bright now, rippled along his nerves. His muscles spasmed, but with little power, and Skinner shivered against him, in unison with him.
Then Skinner pulled away, as slowly, as gently as he had begun. Where Mulder had been warmed by another body, cold air rushed in to claim his flesh. Where he had been filled, he was now empty. It was an odd, deprived, relieved sensation.
As he slowly gathered himself to stand, he heard the rasp of a zipper, the jingle of Skinner's belt.
Then Skinner said, "Satisfied?" Smug, hateful tone.
Jeering at him for wanting something he should not have wanted. For liking it. Then reality hit him in the belly, a missile dropped from a thousand feet. Skinner wasn't talking to him.
He stiff-armed himself up and saw that Skinner was standing in front of him, shielding him from the view of the other. The hated, forgotten enemy.
"Well..." The lazy voice rumbled, self important, superior, "Not so satisfied as you, I'm sure. But..." Begrudging. "He's yours, Mr. Skinner. I won't touch him."
Mulder yanked up his pants, not caring that he was sticky and messy. Only that he fasten them as quickly as possible. Did he imagine regret in the man's voice? Jealousy? The hair on his arms and neck stood up. His stomach did a slow, sick rollover at the thought.
"Good night, Agent Mulder."
Mulder glanced at Skinner's broad back, but didn't look around him. The door opened, closed, and it seemed the air in the room changed, became lighter, cleaner. He breathed it in deeply, cleansing his lungs, his blood of the taint of cigarette smoke. And it's owner.
He had left a sticky mess on the shining table, and the sight of it brought heat to his face. He stepped over two pools of white on the floor, his shirt and Skinner's, and found his jacket where it had been tossed under a chair. Found the wadded handful of tissue in the pocket.
Skinner handed him his shirt as he passed, then turned his back, walked away, as he cleaned the table. By the time he'd finished and slipped his shirt on, Skinner had his shirt and his tie on. He was standing behind his desk, looking out the window.
As he watched, Skinner opened his pants and tucked the tail of his shirt in neatly. Mulder wanted to look away, but couldn't. Incredible that something so innocent should seem so intimate, after what they had just done. His skin tingled as he thought of Skinner's hands, sliding down around his hips, his belly, his ass. Strange, but that thought didn't turn his stomach. He forced his gaze away, unwilling to examine just what it did do to him.
Clothes fastened and tucked neatly back into place, Skinner shoved his hands into his pockets, stood staring out the window. That stonefaced, noncommittal expression was back in place. He looked as if the last few minutes had never even happened.
Until Mulder moved. Until the question he could no longer contain popped out into the room. "Why did you do that?"
"What?" Skinner took his hands out of his pockets, folded them across his chest. His face was different somehow. Still giving away nothing, but different...
Mulder hesitated so long that Skinner glanced at him.
"Why did you...?" What? He struggled for the right words. What was he trying to say. 'Why did you make it so damned good?' "I didn't expect..."
Skinner almost smiled. Understanding. Too understanding. The expression was as knowing, as avid, as anything Mulder had ever seen on the face of the other one.
"Did you want me to hurt you?"
The response was not the explanation he had wanted. It, and that almost smile, so quickly wiped away, brought up more questions than it answered. "No. It's not that... It's just... How did you know?" 'How did you know I'd roll over for you? Melt for you?'
Skinner turned and faced him squarely, eyes boring into him.
He felt the gaze from the roots of his hair to the soles of his shoes. It made him tingle all over. It threatened to sparkle.
"Come here."
That voice again. The voice of someone who expected to be obeyed without hesitation. And he obeyed it without hesitation, walking across the room to stand in front of Skinner. Even standing so close, his eyes only a fraction of an inch lower, Skinner seemed taller. How could someone only an inch taller appear to tower over him?
"It's just that it felt too good. Isn't that right?"
Mulder nodded. Wordless. Heat crawling up from under his collar. Yes, exactly. Too good. And why did Skinner have to make him look at it? Too good. So good, he wanted-- He squelched the thought, before it could form, then stood there lost, wondering what it was he wanted. Wishing he'd let the thought finish before he'd banished it.
"Should I have raped you? Torn you? Would you rather I hadn't done it at all? You asked me not to let him touch you. Was I wrong?" Rough voice. Angry voice.
Mulder shivered. His stomach shimmied, threatened to flipflop again with repulsion. "No. Don't even say it. I can't stand the thought of him touching me." The heat retreated as the blood left his face, his lips. The shiver traveled back up his body, threatening to ricochet down again. Left unsaid was that he could stand the thought of Skinner touching him.
But Skinner already knew it. Skinner reached out, touched his jaw, changed the shiver into something else entirely. Something warming. Something hot. Reassuring touch. Gentle touch. Proprietary. "It's all right. He won't touch you. He said it himself. You're mine now."
Skinner's gaze held his, penetrating his skin, his defenses. Reminding him, even more strongly than words that he'd been in Skinner's arms, in his protection. That he'd been his. Was his.
The burn of Skinner's fingers sent a rush of light along his nerves.
Something was wrong. Way wrong. He'd only done it because it was the lesser of two evils. He'd only done it because anything was preferable to the other one touching him. Hadn't he? So why, now, that it was over, did the tingling threaten to become sparkles behind his eyelids?
Skinner smiled. As if he knew the effect of his touch. Even with the arrogance and control marring it, the smile was awe-inspiring. It changed his face. And Mulder realized he would do anything for the man who wore that expression. Anything...
It put images, possibilities, in his head, of things he didn't want to examine. He shuffled away nervously, edging toward the door. He had to talk to Scully about this. She would understand. She would help him understand. Something had changed. Something important...and he couldn't put his finger on what it was.
Skinner let him go.
But Mulder glanced back just before he slipped out the door, and Skinner was smiling as if to say, 'You'll be back'. As if he knew.
Dana Scully darted a glance around Walter Skinner's office, registered quickly the Smoking Man seated on the couch across the room. The thick scent of smoke fouling the air. Her gaze jerked away from him, found Skinner standing in front of his desk, Mulder beside him.
Her wild eyed, heart pumping fear stabilized in a big, round, hard knot in the pit of her stomach. Not what she'd expected, to find Mulder and Skinner there. Not what the two men who held her had expected either, from the way their hands had twitched, then gone loose on her arms.
She'd expected, feared, that only the one man would be there, surrounded by the blue haze of cigarette smoke. She'd thought... She'd thought... She couldn't even make her mind go there, to what she'd thought was going to happen, any more than she could force her gaze to stay on *him*.
"What...?" Skinner closed the file in his hands with a snap, handed it to Mulder without even glancing at him.
She tore her arms loose from the grip of the two men, rushed across the room and without any hesitation, leaned into Skinner. Protector, champion, savior.
Her gaze met Mulder's. His eyes were stretched wide. Glinting green/gold in the waning sunlight. His tongue darted out, touched his lips. Quick, nervous, surprised. Fearful.
Heart hammering, she buried her face in Skinner's chest, burrowed into the clean, white shirt. Twisted her fingers into the starched cotton. His chest was hard, unyielding against her forehead. He went so still she wasn't sure he was breathing.
She tilted her face up, gazed up at him through a screen of tumbled hair. 'Save me,' she tried to scream at him with her eyes. 'Save me the way you saved Mulder.'
For a moment, he only stared at her, his face rigid. Little pulse twitching on his jaw. Almost black eyes glittering.
"Don't tell me," the Smoking Man said from across the room. "*She's* yours, too." His voice was filled with disgust.
Slowly, Skinner's hand came up, smoothed the hair back out of her eyes. His fingers threaded through the tangled strands, combing them in a loverlike gesture.
He covered her cheek with his hand, pressed her head back to his chest. With the other, he pried her fingers from their death grip on his shirt, brought her hand down and up behind her back, used her arm like a lever to jerk her up against him.
The power behind it made her shiver. The pain made her gasp, made her lean into him even more heavily.
She knew what was coming. What she would have to do. What Skinner would do. Mulder's crazy story had prepared her for that. Until the two men grabbed her in the basement hall, she had only half believed it. Even after Mulder drank too much and swore he wasn't joking and fell asleep on her couch curled up like a baby, she'd kept waiting for the punch line. Not daring to believe because if she did, she'd go crazy.
"Mine?"
Scully shivered, feeling the rumble of Skinner's voice through his hands, in the heavy muscles against her face. The command in the way he held her splayed against his body.
She knew what was coming, and he did, too. She could feel the heat of him through her clothes. He was hard. So hard against her belly. Ready to protect her. To make her crazy, the way he'd made Mulder crazy. To make her his. That was the part Mulder still didn't understand. He was the psychologist, and he still hadn't figured it out. That he belonged to Skinner because he believed it in his own mind. Because he chose it, not because he feared what would happen if he didn't.
Skinner's thumb slid back and forth, back and forth along her jaw. He was waiting for her to tell him what to do. She remembered what Mulder had said, about how Skinner had looked at him, waiting for him to make the decision. Like a vampire waiting to be invited in. Waiting for him to say 'Make me yours.'
Mulder had cloaked his decision as desperation, as fear. She'd felt fear, when the two men grabbed her in the darkened hallway. When the door to Skinner's office opened, and she'd smelled the cigarette smoke. She still felt fear. Delicious, frightful anticipation. She wanted everything he would do to her. Had ached for the weight of his hands since the night Mulder told her.
She moved against him, a delicate arching of her spine, a slow, sensual undulation against his cock. Her fingers uncurled, letting go the fistful of shirt, flattened against his chest. She could feel the hard, tight button of his nipple through his shirt. Image of touching it with just the tip of her tongue. "Please," she whispered softly, and there was no question of what the plea was for.
His eyes never left hers as he answered. "Yes. She's mine."
Between her legs, warmth and wetness blossomed.
The cigarette waggled in the air, as if it was waving goodbye. Flicked ash onto the carpet carelessly.
"Well, Mr. Skinner..." The owner of the cigarette paused in the doorway, glanced back. "You got what you wanted. They're both yours now."
Skinner, seated at his desk, raised his gaze to meet that of his enemy, his compatriot. And he smiled. A feral, wicked drawing back of his lips, exposing his teeth and his satisfaction. His eyes glittered, as black as gun metal. "Yes, they're both mine." Seduction voice, malevolent, warning, obscenely pleased.
The cigarette shivered in response to the movement of his fingers. Smoke feathered in the gentle flow of air through the door. "I'll be in touch, Mr. Skinner. When I need the favor returned." The door closed softly.
- end -
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