From: "K. R Carp" Date: 1 Dec 1998 07:41:41 -0800 Subject: NEW: "In Your Dreams" (MSR/NC-17/Post-Ep) Category: MSR/Post Episode Rated: NC-17 (For sexual situations Kids - run away! Grown up stuff ahead!) Spoilers: For "Dreamland I" - US Season Six Disclaimer: The characters portrayed herein belong to Chris Carter, 1013 Productions, and Fox TV. Sue me not. Archive: Anywhere Title: "In Your Dreams" Author: Carp (goldkoi@juno.com) Summary: What *was* Mulder dreaming about that night? +++++++++ x x x x x x x x x x x x x +++++++++++ It must have been a dream. I was in a kitchen. Not my kitchen, with its mini-stove and rickety dinette. A huge kitchen filled with the warm scent of buttered toast and hot coffee. There was a small tray set before me offering up a glass of apricot juice and the paper. Bright sunlight streaming in between white blinds, the soft muted tones of late fall shining everywhere. Cool air, crisp and clean, with the slightest hint of snow piercing its edges. There were copper pots hanging from the counter top, a batch of potted plants on the window sill... And Scully standing at the stove. Wearing an apron. Wearing -just- an apron. "Eggs, Mulder?" she asked, turning around and beaming at me, frying pan in hand. The apron slipping down much lower than modesty should permit. Much, much lower. I goggled at her in reply. She didn't seem to notice. Flipped the eggs over with one fluid motion, and turned back to the stove, whisking something in the bowl that stood by her side, humming tunelessly as her hips swayed to the *swish* of the whisk. *sway* *whisk* *sway* *whisk* "I'm making strawberry pancakes too," she murmured, making the word "pancakes" sound more enticing than a bottle of baby oil and a floor-sized sheet of Plexiglass. She sighed and swayed a little more, her voice sweet and birdlike. "You know what the best thing about pancakes is, Mulder?" I shook my head without opening my mouth, for fear that I'd swallow my tongue. She turned around again, the apron definitely not in the proper position to protect her from stains, splatters, spills or the eyes of a desperate man who hadn't seen a pair of naked breasts since Scores declared bankruptcy. "Licking the batter, " she purred and proceeded to demonstrate. Hungrily, she attacked the whisk with long, smooth licks, her pink tongue twirling in and around the thin wire loops. Back and forth, in and out, with the pure white batter disappearing between perfect crimson lips, her body gently swaying and that ridiculous, wonderful little apron still hanging loose and low around her hips. Back and forth. In and out. Around and around and... I tried to say her name, tried to croak out something that would bring reality crashing back in around me, but my neurons weren't falling for it. They were having *way* too much fun. "Scul..." I croaked as she sauntered over, bowl and whisk in hand. She bent over me, and smiled. She smelled like... like... like cookies, hot and sweet, fresh from the oven. Butter cookies, with jelly filling. Her breasts swayed in front of me, and I was mesmerized. Ready to be hypnotized by them and let them make me strip naked and cluck like a chicken for their amusement. "What is it, dear?" she whispered, as I stared at her and those amazing breasts, wide-eyed and flushed hot red. "Do you want to taste the batter too?" "Uh, guh, yuh, huh..." I replied. "Good," she said sweetly. Straddled my lap and dipped the whisk into the bowl. Carefully, she ran the wires over her breasts, leaving behind a trail of white batter across nipples which were hard and beautiful and perfect. Bent over and whispered in my ear. "Eat up, darling." Suddenly starving, I did what I was told. Licking, nibbling, and sucking even when the batter was gone. Felt her squirming over my erection and heard her laughter, sweet and low floating by my ear. Her hands were unbuttoning my shirt, yanking off my tie and her hips were still grinding over me, driving me completely out of mind. Whatever was left of it. "Do you like the pancakes, baby?" she whispered. I nodded frantically, trying to squirm out of three layers of clothing at once, nearly howling with frustration when both shirt sleeves got tangled in my coat, effectively turning my sombre black Bad Guy suit into a straightjacket. Nibbles along my ear, warm lips pulling at the lobe. "Do you like being married, baby? We can do this every day now, Mulder. Every morning, noon and night." A hand on my erection, stroking through my pants, making me arch up and groan. "Do you like being married, hmm? Do you, babe?" I nodded frantically as I felt another gentle, maddening squeeze. Yes, I did love being married. Loved, loved, loved it. Received a sly look as she slid from my lap and knelt in front of me, still licking her lips. I gaped as nimble fingers undid my belt, and nearly lost it when those same fingers pulled down my pants zipper, freeing an erection the size of which I never quite remembered having before. Felt a whisper against the head. A tongue flicking at -all- the right places. "And you know what I like even better than strawberry pancakes, Mulder?" A warm pair of lips, slowly starting their descent. Shivering, I closed my eyes, leaned back and... Oh, god, did I love being married. It was better than a warm day at Astroland, on the Cyclone, the track rattling beneath me, and the earth hurtling up to meet my dizzy, blood-starved brain, and I was just about to go around that last loop of infinity, the tail end of the last car to whip around the final bend of no return when I heard... "MORRIS!" I awoke with a jerk. "Who's Scully?" snarled the woman looming above me and waggling a finger in my face, a long nail dancing dangerously close to my half-open left eye. "Who is SCULLY?" Correction. I awoke with a bitch. It was Mrs. Fletcher, hovering over me like some Fury straight from Honeymoon Hell. She was beet red and furious, and I waited with terror for her head to explode right in front of me, just like poor Mr. Crump's. Maybe if I got her in a car and started driving -really- fast. Off-a-cliff fast. "I'm telling you, Morris, I'm not taking this anymore! You PIG! Watching filth and making noises in your sleep about some tramp named "Scully!" she shrieked. "Uh, guh, yuh, huh," I replied groggily. She sniffled, wiping her nose on a tatty sweater sleeve. "You hate me, don't you, Morris? You want a divorce." Her face screwed up into a hideous expression of self-pity and tears, combined with a singularly murderous rage. "Well, why don't YOU JUST SAY SO?" she shrieked right in my face. I goggled at her in reply. "What's the matter, Morris?" she howled. Eyes flashing red bloodshot anger. "Don't you LIKE being married to me?" Fearing for my life, I leapt up from the recliner and searched frantically for the car keys. At that moment I was feeling a terror that no Flukeman, beast woman or rabid cat could ever dream of inspiring in me. Mrs. Fletcher was still wailing as I ran out the door and frantically jogged toward the car. Could still hear her howls even as I dove in behind the wheel, slammed the door shut and rolled up the windows. Breathing hard. Wondering what the hell I'd done to deserve this. "You hate being married, don't you, Morris? You HATE it, DON'T YOU?!" Shivering, I closed my eyes, leaned back and...oh, god, yes, one thing was certain. Did I hate being married. +++++++ the end - carp goldkoi@juno.com