Into The Woods by RivkaT

Into the Woods by RivkaT

STORIES ON THIS SITE ARE INTENDED FOR ADULTS ONLY

Into the Woods by RivkaT

Mulder sighed and lay down on the bed. His feet stuck off the edge. Par for the course.

This whole case was a disaster. At least the first few times he'd felt psychic links with killers, it was horrifyingly intriguing, in its own way. This guy was an idiot and he had nothing to share with Mulder except his misery.

And his sexual fantasies, thanks a lot.

Not that mutilating trees/people turned *him* on, but Mulder still felt a residual sexual surge from his glimpse into the killer's head.

Scully was out doing the latest autopsy, wasn't she? How she loved to cut. She'd be at least another hour. Plenty of time to release some of this tension.

He sat up and tugged off his T-shirt, then lay back down to shuck pants and boxers. He'd leave the socks on— with his luck, if he took them off he'd lose one, and somehow it wasn't as gauche solo as in company.

Let's see, what was something good and reliable? He was already half-hard, but he wanted something to erase the taint of the man they were hunting.

He settled on the painfully, pitifully obvious: the Scully striptease. When he bothered to analyze it, he conceded that the guilt from imagining her fucking him was part of the thrill. A large part, maybe. This perversion, at least, was safely hidden from her, and he could rationalize it as just another way in which she comforted him.

It began when she entered the room, wrapped in her G-woman trenchcoat.

Eyes closed, he watched her remove the trenchcoat, that garment that could conceal a multitude of sins. Even in his fantasy, she'd lost weight, as the demon inside ate her— no. Not now.

She had her back turned to him, but her head was swiveled around so that he could see her face. She raised an eyebrow, in the way that meant, Mulder, pay attention. The coat slipped gracelessly to the ground, and she pushed it to the side with one foot. Then she frowned down at it and stooped to pick it up and fold it carefully, laying it over the small folding chair
that was the only furniture in the room besides the bed.

Mulder grinned and stroked himself. Even his fantasy Scully was incapable of making a mess. He could imagine that she'd, totally unbelievably, want him, but not that she could leave the damn trenchcoat on the floor.

All right then. Scully had her back to him again. Peeking out from her white satin panties he could see the edges of the tattoo. Mmmm, what was it again? A phoenix, he decided, reborn from flame. Its tongue lolled at him, taunting him to reach out and claim it for his own.

She must have been doing an autopsy, because her hair was back in the short ponytail she only favored when she'd been slicing and dicing. She turned, a sly smile on her face, and raised her hands to free her hair. The motion thrust her breasts forward in the most pleasing way. Her smile widened when she saw his obvious reaction.

Yes, some part of him felt this as a violation of their relationship. But he needed it so badly, and, unlike most of the things he did to her, this couldn't hurt her. If he'd had a video, he'd have watched it instead. But he was isolated here with his own head, and Scully was the only show playing. Had been for a fairly long time, actually.

He pushed his thoughts aside and concentrated on the sensation of his hand on his cock, smooth skin sliding over the blood-engorged flesh underneath. His thumb stroked just underneath the head, right where he was most sensitive.

Scully turned again, to let him watch as she reached back and undid the clasp on her bra. She caught it before it dropped to the floor and tossed it onto the chair, on top of her trenchcoat.

Next came the panties. She bent, waggling her ass just a little bit for his benefit, and slid them off of one leg, then the other. She still had on her gloriously impractical two-and-a-half-inch heels, but was otherwise quite naked (he wouldn't imagine her in hose, and even dream-Scully was not the stockings type).

"Come here," he mouthed, imagining his voice hoarse with desire.

Scully grinned and joined him on the bed, kneeling next to him. She braced herself with her arms and began to crawl forward until her head was level with his. She bent her head; red hair scored his shoulder, setting him on fire as she whispered: "Fuck me, Mulder."

The sound of the command alone was nearly enough to make him come, but he wanted to prolong the experience just a little more.

She pouted a little as she realized that he wasn't doing anything to comply, then inched backwards until she could lower her head to his nipple. She swirled her tongue around it. She was hot and wet and when she pushed her tongue against his chest hair, rubbing it in the wrong direction, it was too much to bear.

"Scully..." he moaned as he arched up, hand pumping in the familiar rhythm. It was short, intense, and very, very good. "Scully," he breathed as he sagged back into the bed.

"Mulder?"

His orgasm-fogged brain at first thought that the question came from his lingering fantasy partner. But the uncertainty in the shaking voice, and its location— somewhere by the door, away from the bed— evidenced otherwise, something he realized as various parts of his mind turned back on.

Mulder's eyes flew open and he confronted his red-faced partner, her eyes almost fixed on his face (discounting the quick glances down his body).

He made a sound, something like "urk." His hand fell from his rapidly shrinking cock to the side of the bed, and he was unable to make it move even to cover himself up.

She stepped toward the bed, heavily, almost as if she were being unwillingly dragged there by invisible strings. He wanted to vomit.

"I finished early," she said softly, then, apparently satisfied that her voice was doing her bidding, continued, "but you seem to have started without me."

Mulder's stomach seemed to flip entirely over.

"Hold that thought," she said, and spun on her heel, disappearing from the doorway as if she'd never been there. For a moment, he hoped that it had been some sort of postorgasmic delusion, but the faint sounds from Scully's bedroom suggested otherwise.

Maybe, if he were really lucky, he'd finally cracked. His brains were oozing out of the hole in his head, and he was under a Thorazine drip somewhere in a nice Maine mental hospital.

All the same, having her walk in on him was not without its benefits. Now, something was going to happen, something big, and there was nothing he could do about it. He'd pushed off the top of the hill, and the sled was going to end up on the bottom one way or another. The only question was whether he'd ram into a tree on the way down.

Scully returned with two washcloths, a pair of pantyhose, and scissors. He raised an eyebrow at her, but he was really in no position to make fun. She stood in the doorway a moment, and for the first time in a while he could tell what she was thinking again. He nodded. He'd do anything for her. Especially this.

"Tell me if this hurts," she said, and she was blushing, evident even in the dim light from the high window above the bed. She wouldn't look at his face, but she efficiently wrapped the washcloths around his wrists and used one leg of the quickly-sacrificed hose to tie each of his wrists to the bedposts. He tugged experimentally and found that the washcloths distributed enough of the pressure that his wrists were fine, even when he pulled against the bonds, though the bed creaked alarmingly.

He dared a glance at her face. It was blank with apprehension. She needed to do this, needed to have him at her mercy, but she didn't know if he was willing to go with her.

He wanted this to be easy, to happen without words, but she needed more. "I trust you," he whispered, and she looked into his eyes. He saw the tears start and automatically tried to reach up and touch her face, but was brought short by his bonds.

Her face contorted, not with pain, he thought, but with an emotion so powerful that it was also painful, and she nodded.

Scully breathed once, deeply, and looked down at him. "Now that I have you, what do you suppose that I should do with you?" She was such a cool customer, he thought in bemusement.

"Anything you want," he said, as sincere as he'd ever been. You don't make demands of a miracle.

Scully began by simply touching him, exploring his body with gentle fingers. He hadn't recovered from his first, fantasy lover yet, so the experience was purely sensual, almost painful when she touched a sensitive area. She touched his neck, his Adam's apple, the sides where the tendons in his neck joined his shoulders. When she ran her fingers behind his ears and in their fluted crevices, he shuddered and jerked back into the bed, kicking his heels uselessly, but she followed him until her exploration was complete.

She seemed enamored of his arms— the smooth skin, interrupted by a few prominent veins, of his forearms; the contours of his biceps and triceps. She stroked his neck, his chest, his stomach— even though that tickled, and he made a muted complaint— working her way down his body, avoiding the puddle of semen left on his belly.

She paid special attention to his hips, sliding her hands under him to cup his ass experimentally, then just stroking the sides where the sparse hair of his torso gave way to the thicker, darker hair on his legs. She traced lines down the hollow between his abs and his pelvis, not quite bringing her fingers to his pubic hair, just circling around his hipbones.

Mulder shifted uneasily. He wasn't eighteen any more, but he couldn't remain unresponsive when Scully was being so thorough. He didn't want her to catch him looking to see how his cock was faring; he just had to trust that it would meet her expectations.

Scully looked up from his stomach and caught his eyes. Her lips were swollen, her brow sweaty, and her cheeks flushed dark red. She looked like a girl caught doing something very naughty, simultaneously ashamed and unrepentant.

"More," he begged, and she ducked her head.

After a second, he felt her mouth warm on his collarbone. The contact was so intense that it made his entire body shudder. He thrashed, but Scully had tied her knots well and there was nothing he could do but experience it.

She moved quickly up his throat and to his ear. When she blew, he turned his head away; he thought his heart would burst. But the motion exposed his other ear, and she put her mouth where her fingers had been, licking the back where his glasses would rest and then diving into the crevices of the ear proper.

He was grunting something. Whether it was a plea, an order, or something else entirely, she ignored it. When he stopped twitching and was able to lie quietly under the assault, she pulled away and moved back to his collarbone. Her mouth was like a rainstorm on a hot day.

She ran her tongue over his shoulder, pausing at the scar she'd given him. To avoid it, she moved down, licking under his arm. He could feel her breathe deeply to take in his scent. When she reached the sensitive skin just above his armpit, on the underside of his arm, he actually moaned her name.

He felt her smile against his neck, and chuckled a little at himself.

"You like that?"

Some god who wanted him to get laid aided Mulder in repressing the automatic smart-ass comment, and he contented himself with moaning "Yes," in a tone that would have been humiliating if anyone but Scully had been there to hear it.

Scully rewarded him by returning her attention to his ear, which seemed to have developed a direct line to his cock. It was still wet from the last time she'd kissed him there, and the change from warm to cold made him arch off the bed as soon as she touched him. Her tongue flickered in and out of the curves, then back behind the entire ear.

Mulder was moaning now continuously, unable to control himself. When Scully pulled back, he gave a near-sob of protest.

She smiled and leaned over him to give the same treatment to his other ear.

After a pleasurable eternity, she returned to his shoulders, then moved to the center of his chest. She was leaning over him, straddling him but not touching him except with her mouth— and, at frustratingly erratic intervals, the tips of her breasts as she brushed against him. He could feel her arms braced beside him and her legs, spread so wide he thought she must surely break, but she held herself aloof.

He was ready again now, as hard as he'd ever been, and not entirely sure how much longer he could wait.

Then Scully put her mouth over the still-sticky patch of come near his belly button, and he screamed.

The only coherent thought in his head was a fervent prayer that this would last forever, and that he wouldn't come right then and embarrass himself.

Scully was panting heavily as she licked him clean. One small hand snaked between his thighs to grab his pounding cock, and once again Mulder was reminded that she knew everything when she held him just right to delay the orgasm without hurting him. Her tongue darted into his belly button, and he jerked beneath her, tickled and delighted.

She moved her head up until they were looking at each other. Her hand was still wrapped around him, and he never wanted it to leave.

Scully kissed him, wetly and sloppily, and he could taste himself deep in her mouth. He was ready to die, right then and there, because he knew that his life would never be any better than it was at this moment. He fought her when she pulled away, bracing herself above him with her free hand, but he had no leverage and she escaped.

"I have a favor to ask, Mulder," she whispered. He moaned as her hand left his cock.

"Anything," he said.

"Can I fuck you?"

The question alone was nearly enough. He'd never imagined it in any of his Scully fantasies, but it suited the real woman just fine.

"Please," he said, too aroused by her even to joke about it.

Scully scooted off of the bed and stood. She stripped as efficiently as she did everything else— blouse, pants, bra, and underwear flew off and she was amazingly, shockingly naked.

There was one long-term question answered: yes, she really was a redhead.

She put her hands on the bed, then her knees, stalking forward towards him like a cat. Without knowing it, she was mimicking the show her imaginary doppelganger had given him not half an hour ago. Her breast brushed the tip of his erection as she advanced over his body.

All he could do was watch, open-mouthed.

She squatted above him, no longer graceful, and grabbed him firmly. She rubbed the tip of his cock over her lips, already wet and slick, and then eased herself down.

He couldn't help it— he bucked his hips upwards. He had to be further inside her. He'd die otherwise. He'd die to be further inside her.

She moved her hips, helping him, and she was sliding down and he couldn't breathe and she was taking him in, letting him all the way in. He had closed his eyes without knowing it and he was shocked when he felt her body pressed completely against his. Her thighs, her breasts, her lips against his neck. She was so much smaller, but she was everywhere with him.

Scully put her hands on his shoulders and pushed herself up. He had to watch her. He forced his eyes open as he slid through her. Her belly rubbed against his and she threw her head back. Mouth open, eyes closed, she was every wet dream he'd ever had. She set the pace and he matched her. He had to, because if he didn't he'd lose some of the contact, and if he slipped out of her even a millimeter he'd never recover from the tragedy.

For the first time in his life, he truly understood the difference between fucking and being fucked.

He could barely blink, only shutting his eyes for a fraction of a second whenever his sweat ran into them.

As she got closer to the edge, her rhythm changed. She was leaning back a little as she rocked her hips against him. Her left hand toyed with her nipple while her right rubbed against her clitoris; he could feel her shudder as she approached orgasm. She was lost in her own private world, head tilted back and panting.

But when she came, she screamed his name.

Mulder dug his nails into his palms. He could feel the blood start to flow, but even that was barely enough to keep him in control.

Scully shuddered and slowed on top of him. Chest heaving, breasts gleaming with sweat, she looked down at Mulder. Her gaze was still unfocused, a little dreamy.

"Cut me loose," he commanded, and she blinked a few times, trying to clear her head.

She stretched over him, trying to reach the windowsill where she'd laid the scissors. Her breasts swung over his face, no-longer-forbidden fruit, and he lunged and nipped at them, causing her to moan and pull away.

She couldn't quite reach, and she finally slipped off of him with a groan of disappointment, but then she had the scissors in her hand and she was cutting.

He didn't bother to get the washcloths off his hands; as soon as she'd freed him he put his hands on her waist and flipped her over. He wrenched her legs apart— she complied willingly— and guided his erection back into her.

He thought he might be dead already. Her thighs were drawn up so that her knees nearly met her arms, and she was moaning and whipping her head from side to side as he pounded into her. He held her wrists above her head; she couldn't move, all she could do was react to him and he was going to show her what getting fucked was all about. And she was warm and wet and smooth, so perfect, it was so right.

The world exploded, and went black.

Scully flipped through the latest autopsy file, trying to understand how Mulder saw so much in the simple arrangement of a dead body.

She had retrieved the file when she woke up; padding naked into the main room, she'd opened her briefcase and taken it out, then returned to lie on the bed next to Mulder, who was still dead to the world. She counted *that* as pretty solid testimony to her skills.

He lay on his back, breathing noisily. His mouth was hanging open, and he was perfectly adorable.

She didn't ruffle his hair, though she was sorely tempted, because she didn't want to wake him.

Truth be known, she didn't know how he'd feel when he woke up, so she wanted to delay the event.

It had just been so unexpected; she'd finished up the autopsy quickly, because there was nothing out of the ordinary about the man, except for having been slaughtered by a crazed killer. She'd thought that she'd surprise Mulder with her early return, and that was undoubtedly the case.

She'd never realized how sexy watching someone else masturbate was. Especially when that someone else was Mulder.

In the end, she just hadn't been able to resist.

How much time did she have, anyway? Not enough to deny herself, that's for sure.

But if he were ashamed, or unhappy, or even just scared— which he had every right to be— there'd be serious trouble.

Mulder sighed loudly and blinked, waking instantly.

He looked over at her and did a classic double-take, marred only by the fact that he was lying down and couldn't really step back.

"Oh boy," he mumbled, and she cracked up.

He turned his back to her and put his hands to his face. She stopped laughing immediately and waited for him to react.

"I'm sorry," he said.

No. This was the worst possible outcome. She turned away, too, so that they were each facing outward, minimally in contact.

"Why, then?" she asked, her voice nearly level.

"I just...couldn't help myself. You were so...God, so amazing."

Where were her clothes? She was frozen. If she moved, she'd have to expose herself. If she stayed, she'd be naked in bed with a man who regretted fucking her.

"Next time, I promise, I'll do better."

Scully's head snapped around. The content of his words, and the hopefulness in his voice, as if he were asking to make sure there'd *be* a next time, didn't make sense.

Tentatively, she reached out a hand to touch his shoulder. He rubbed himself against her touch like a cat. "Mulder?"

"Mmm-hmmm?"

"What, exactly, are you apologizing for?"

Now he turned, though she could see he was blushing. "I don't always...have to be on top to come, you know. It's not a macho thing with me. It was just...so powerful, you know?" Scully nodded wordlessly. He read her relieved expression. "What did you think I was— oh, Scully."

Mulder took her face in his hands, with the infinite tenderness he was capable of exhibiting at the oddest times.

"Whatever you think about me," he said slowly, "never think I would regret this. Regret you."

Scully blinked away the tears she felt threatening and nodded. She leaned her head forward until her hair brushed his chest. Insulated from his gaze, she was able to speak.

"I didn't think I'd let this happen."

He breathed in, and the sparse hair on his chest brushed her lips. "Why not?"

"Because it means we're— I'm— I'm dying."

Mulder put his hands on her cheeks and lifted her head so she had to see him. His eyes were enormous. She thought they would devour her. "You mean we can't have sex and stay together? Who made that rule?"

"I was under the impression that you had, Mulder."

He released her abruptly and she took the chance to roll away again. After a moment, she felt his hand, tentative, on her shoulder.

"If I did, I was wrong. Please— "

She allowed him to turn her towards him. He cradled her in his arms. She could feel his renewed erection against her belly. "Let's not argue about what happens tomorrow," he said, his hand tracing the knobs on her spine, sliding over her skin like water. Without thought, she began to stroke him, little touches against his stomach, his back, the muscles in his shoulders and arms.

"It's going to get worse before it gets better," she said. "It may not get better at all."

She felt his chest shake against her.

"I know," he whispered. "But I don't want to know."

"Then forget," she said, and lifted her head to kiss him.

End