From: KassXF Date: 20 Mar 1999 20:36:08 GMT Subject: NEW: Insanity - M/Sk NC-17 Disclaimers: They aren't mine Summary: Post One Son For MJ because it is her birthday..... Insanity by Kassandra (KassXF@aol.com) The basement was dimly lit, as always, but golden light spilled out from door on the far wall, not quite fully shut. Scully was on vacation. Skinner wasn't sure why he'd come down here, but he *knew* Mulder. The man worked obsessively, and now that he was reassigned to the X files, his obsessions were even stronger. He had good reason. They all did. He as much as anyone, but he couldn't let himself think about the nanocytes in his blood or he'd be paralyzed, too paralyzed to act. To think. To do what was right. And he couldn't tell either Mulder or Scully that he was owned, more or less. Only owned as much as he allowed himself to be, he'd decided that already, decided it anew in the deeps of each night. But Krycek hadn't called on him. He was grateful for that. He didn't really want to die, and facing Krycek would mean both their lives. Because he'd made up his mind how to handle it. Each night. Morning really, the three am darkness of the soul. His feet carried him to the door, he pushed gently and it opened. Mulder's head was pillowed on folded arms, atop a stack of folders that Fowley and Spender had ignored. Faint sound of a not-quite snore, the agent was out like the proverbial light, deep in sleep. His mouth curved against his will. The man was an idiot at times, but one had to admire the stubborn devotion. He stepped across the threshold, careful and quiet, moved to stand beside the desk, next to Mulder's chair, trying to peer at the folders beneath, wondering what had kept Mulder here until nearly midnight. Dark eyelashes shadowed cheekbones, and the vulnerable nape of neck was tempting, too tempting. He studied Mulder, let himself give in to the desire to touch the soft, spiky hair--the worst haircuts, they made him long to shake Mulder, and it was only envy of the thick dark hair. His mouth curved again unconsciously, his fingertips brushed velvety strands and without intention, his hand curved around the base of Mulder's skull in something that was undeniably a caress. His brain seemed to have gone on hold. He stared at his hand in something approaching shock and horror and Mulder shifted, pushed himself up, still more asleep than awake, turned toward him even as the voice in his head began gibbering explanations, apologies...pushed himself up and turned his face into Skinner's shirt front, one arm sliding around Skinner's waist. Warm breath through the fabric of his dress shirt and the undershirt beneath, the heat of Mulder's skin threatened to mark him for life. No word spoken, by either of them. He couldn't hear past the pounding of his heart. Cupped the side of Mulder's head, half afraid to breathe, unable to think, and his fingertips shaped the shell of Mulder's ear. A sigh. They stood there, frozen in tableau, and his internal censor was screaming obscenities at him, warnings of impending disaster, of discovery, of humiliation--he closed it out, the moment was too sweet, too unreal. No disaster, just Mulder's weight against his belly and his right hip and thigh. Mulder's arm around his waist, beneath his suit jacket. He wasn't even sure Mulder was awake, it was entirely possible that the apologies wouldn't be his, but Mulder's, frantic and mortified. Another moment, and then another, and he was loathe to move, to shift, to disturb either of them. Mulder's breathing was regular, slow, but his arm did not relax, it stayed around Skinner's waist. The heat of it was going to leave marks, Skinner thought distantly, a handprint at the very least; his fingers made a tiny circular motion on the soft hair at Mulder's temple. His lower back began to complain, a tiny ache that began to distract him, and suddenly, Mulder's other arm lifted, Mulder's other hand moved to cup his hip, Mulder nuzzled his belly through the fabric that saved him. He froze again. Heard another sigh, felt the warmth of it again on his skin, and he was abruptly hard, fully erect. Madness. Lunacy. His fingers slid, felt beard stubble, traced the line of Mulder's jaw. Mulder's hand moved to cup him through his trousers and the inner voice was silent, all he had was vivid images of bare, hot skin, the wet heat of a full-lipped mouth and Christ, he'd gone fucking insane, he was losing it, he'd gone stark raving mad-- Mulder sighed again. He was lost. "Come on," he said roughly, "You need to go home. I'll drive you." A brief stiffening against him. Mulder's hand fell, and Mulder shifted back, nodded without looking at him. It twisted something in his gut. He touched the dark hair again. "You're exhausted." More gently. Another nod, a quick flicker of a glance. Mulder put on his suit jacket without speak, rose and got his coat. They left the office without speaking, left the building. Walked into the cool darkness of the early spring night. The silence weighed on Skinner, heightened the unreality of the moments in Mulder's office. Images still danced behind his eyes, and he couldn't find the strength to deny them power. He unlocked the passenger door, heard the murmured thanks and stood there, watching Mulder fold himself into the car seat. Pale, serious face in the darkness of the parking garage and all he wanted to do was yank Mulder back out, touch Mulder. Discipline forged by years of self-denial melted in the heat of that desire. Swallowing hard, he closed the door, moved around to get in behind the wheel, his thoughts chaotic and molten. Still silent, Mulder stared out the passenger window as they pulled out of the garage. As the car moved through the night streets, Skinner turned sharply toward his own apartment, ignoring the sudden, abortive movement from the seat beside him, the brief catch of breath. Nothing else broke the silence. And when they reached his building, Mulder rode up in the elevator with him, still not quite meeting his gaze, but studying him in the polished metal of the elevator door. It only heated him further. Sanity had taken flight, and it felt good, he wanted to feel the bone and muscle under his hands, wanted to take that mouth for his own. Wanted to touch. And once the door had closed behind them, he turned toward Mulder, meaning to take hold of him. Froze suddenly, feeling....hesitation. Saw apprehension in Mulder's eyes. And instead of seizing Mulder, he lifted his chin. "Did you eat anything?" The first words that came to him, and his voice sounded rusty with disuse. The apprehension turned to startlement. "Yeah." Huskily. The faintest flicker of a diffident smile. It undid him again, he did reach out, touched Mulder's face. Mulder's eyes widened briefly and then his eyes closed, he turned his face into the touch and all capacity for coherent thought vanished. He moved close, turned Mulder's face back and kissed the full mouth. Beard stubble, warm dry lips that parted for his tongue and then he was conscious only of Mulder's response, his taste, the shape of Mulder's erection against him. Licked his way out of the kiss to find that he'd shoved the other man against the wall, that Mulder was making small sounds in his throat, was pliant against him. "Christ," he muttered and dove in again, grinding their bodies together. Mulder seemed to go boneless, intent on falling to the floor, so he let it happen, tugged Mulder down. Clothing was an irritant, he shed his coat, his jacket, tugged Mulder free of his, all but tearing the buttons off the dress shirt that blocked his way. "Wait, wait." Mulder sounded as frantic as he felt, he leaned back and watched in appreciation as the undershirt followed the dress shirt to the floor. Rid himself of his own and felt renewed heat at Mulder's expression. That mouth....Christ, he kissed Mulder again, sliding his palms over the smooth skin of Mulder's back, they were really doing this, really doing it and for the life of him, he couldn't recall why he'd ever prevented himself from thinking about it, why he'd ever resisted the tug of desire and need that he'd felt a dozen times a dozen times in his dealings with Mulder. Threading his fingers through the soft, dark hair, he turned Mulder's head, sucked on a downy earlobe, ran his tongue inside the whorl of Mulder's ear and heard a whimper that made his swollen cock throb. He rocked his hips forward, sucked on the smooth skin beneath the ear, felt the boundary where beard became smooth skin and sucked on it, marking the pale flesh. Gently bit the tendon at the curve between shoulder and neck and licked at the hollow of Mulder's throat. Mulder arched up into him, wordless sounds, pleading for more. He gave it, found a nipple that shivered erect under his tongue and teeth, moved across and found the other. Shifted back and down, used his fingers to unbuckle Mulder's belt, to work the expensive trousers open. Rimmed the shallow cup of navel, nipped at it, and Mulder obligingly lifted his hips, letting him tug the trousers down. Cotton knit, stretched by the shape beneath, damp where the tip of Mulder's cock pressed against it--bending his head, he sucked at the head through the fabric, heard a strangled noise and felt Mulder's hands cup his head. Salt and fabric, his thumbs slid beneath the elastic and freed Mulder, he tasted the fluid leaking from Mulder, ran his tongue over the rim of the head, sucking gently. The taste of cock, he'd forgotten it in the years of self-denial, he raised his head and gazed at Mulder's face, taut with pleasure and desire. "How long?" Huskily. A slow blink and the tip of Mulder's tongue flicked out, moistened the puffy lips. "A long time. He rubbed his thumb over the tip, aching with need. "How long?" Mulder arched. "Oh, Christ, too long. Five years." The words almost a whisper, reluctantly given. The words were hot, he felt like wax in the candle's flame, bent his head again to swallow Mulder down, fingers cupping the soft, heavy shape between Mulder's legs, rolling gently. Muffled cry and Mulder arched again for him, the long body like a drawn bow, and something in that comparison made him shiver, he sucked hard, flicked his tongue ruthlessly, drawing Mulder's pleasure from him, stealing it, opening his throat and letting Mulder's cock slide in deeply. Taste and scent and sight and sound: the salt of sweat and precum and skin, the scent of a man who had lived in his clothes for too long a day, sweat and soap and warm flesh; the flat belly, one outflung hand attempting to dig into the carpet, the other arm stretched out, fingers closing over his shoulder; the wordless speaking in tongues of a man on the edge of ecstasy, needful and helpless--he wanted to come, wanted to drive into that body, spike that ripe ass with his own need, but he could wait. He'd waited long enough already. A final cry and Mulder arched impossibly taut, flooding his mouth and throat, hot and slippery and he had to draw back or choke and cough. Instead, he swallowed, gentled his lips and tongue until the shape in his mouth began to soften, until there were more whimpers, until Mulder's fingers weakly tried to push at him, tried to push him away. He drew back, then, letting Mulder's cock slip from his mouth, leaned back and surveyed his prize. Stretched out, legs still pinioned by Skinner's weight, Mulder was sated, glorious, dazed. Impossibly still there, still gazing at him with grateful bewilderment. His cock gave a demanding throb. "Six years," he told Mulder softly and shifted back, freed Mulder of his weight, tugged off the trousers and cotton knit boxers that were already down around his knees. Rolled to his feet and rid himself of his own, stood there without any shame or regret. Leaning up on one elbow, Mulder stared at him. Licked his lips and pushed himself up right, to his knees. "Six years?" He nodded, holding that gaze. Mulder leaned forward, steadying himself by holding Skinner's hips. "Six years." As if musing on it, and then that tongue flicked out, tasted Skinner. He nearly groaned. "Not here." Hoarsely. Tugged Mulder up, claimed that mouth again. "Not here, I'm too old for rug burn." Brief, antic smile. "And I'm not?" "You're a puppy." Skinner kissed him again, nipped at jaw and throat. "How do you feel about beds?" Mulder swayed against him, graceful as any houri or courtesan, eyes heavy lidded. "Christ." A whisper. Smooth skin and Skinner counted the vertebrae, splayed his fingers in the small of Mulder's back. "Is that a yes?" "If that's where you want me." Hot against his throat. A half a dozen other locales immediately suggested themselves. "I want you anywhere," Skinner growled. In his office. And in his car. And on the street. And in the shower. The images multiplied, dizzying him, he swayed back against the wall, felt the scrape of Mulder's teeth against his throat. He closed his eyes and groaned as Mulder slid back down to his knees, put his fingers in Mulder's hair and carded it again and again as the heat and warmth of Mulder's mouth closed over his cock. "Fine," he gasped, "Here is fine, too." No rug burn, after all, except on Mulder's knees. But that was by choice. Shifting from one foot to the other, he fought the desire to simply grab Mulder's head and fuck his mouth, let Mulder set the rhythm, let Mulder suck him down a long dark spiral of pleasure that didn't want to quit, that didn't release him when he thought it should, he kept coming and coming, and Mulder wouldn't release him. His knees gave way, he slid down, which didn't seem to stop or dissuade Mulder, he sprawled on the carpet after all, legs splayed, and finally, thank Christ, he was released, Mulder sank back on heels and gazed at him with an expression that managed to combine smug delight with wonder and worry. It seemd to take an eternity to catch his breath. To reach out and tug Mulder closer. He tasted himself on Mulder's tongue, felt the distant throb of that and groaned. "Now what?" Mulder finally asked, his voice muted. Skinner tilted his head back and closed his eyes. Hearing what lay under the words. He'd gone stark raving mad, all right, but somehow, insanity was more lushly tempting than the chill severity of sanity. "As soon as I can get my legs to function," he muttered, "We get something to eat. I never did get dinner." A brief silence, not wholly uncomfortable, but not comfortable either. "And then what?" An almost wistful tone. "Tomorrow's Saturday." Something he had just remembered. "After that, we go to bed. I profoundly hope you like bagels, because I don't, as a rule, do lavish breakfasts." Another silence, but this one was kinder. "Do you have good coffee?" "Kona," Skinner told the inside of his eyelids, then cracked them both open a slit. "Will that do?" A sweet smile, one he'd never before seen on Mulder's face. "Good enough for me. You want some help up?" He reached out, traced the shape of brow and cheekbone with his fingertips. "Yeah, I would." Huskily. Another sweet smile and Mulder rose, held out a hand. He pulled his legs under him, used the hand to steady himself. "How do you feel about pizza?" Mulder's eyes glinted with mischief. "What's on it?" He was feeling generous. "Whatever you like." "Can I choose the place?" Narrow look. "We're not going out." "They deliver." Skinner waved a hand. "Knock yourself out." "Pizza is fine." "No anchovies." "Okay." Equable tone and that sweet smile again before Mulder looked around for the phone. He was going to have to pray that smile never appeared in his office. Sanity wasn't proof against it. Not that he was sane any longer, and the fact that he watched the play of muscle as Mulder walked to the phone was evidence enough. *************************************** Skinner woke again in the deeps of the night, the glowing letters of his alarm clock switching from 2:59 to 3:00 as his vision focused. Remembered agony and shivered, still lying next to warmth. Krycek was going to reappear one of these days. Demand something of him. It was as certain as sunrise and regret. Shifting, he found that Mulder had rolled on his side, facing away. He'd made his decision anew again each night over the last months. He didn't feel the need to renew it now, he'd renewed it when he put his hand on the back of Fox Mulder's neck. Maybe it was time to tell Mulder. Maybe. Making the decision alone was easy. Keeping Mulder and Scully at arm's length hadn't been. And now, he'd blown all his well ordered plans to hell. Reaching out, he touched Mulder's hair, heard a drowsy murmur of inquiry. He didn't answer, just spooned behind Mulder and folded his arm over Mulder's belly. "We'll talk tomorrow," he whispered. Closed his eyes. Letting the other decision stand, sealed for good. Sanity was good. Insanity was better.