From: Lynn Gregg <pythia@aye.net>
Date: Sun, 19 Apr 1998 09:05:44 +0000
Subject: 

Title: Into the Darkness 
Author: Lynn Gregg
Classification: VR
Rating: NC-17 
Disclaimer: The characters herein are the property of Chris Carter, 1013         
Productions and Fox Broadcasting. No copyright infringement intended.
Keywords: Mulder/Scully romance
Spoilers: None
Archive: Anywhere, with my information attached
Feedback: Welcomed by pythia@aye.net
Summary: An erotic vignette.

Notes: It had to happen sooner or later. I've danced around the issue long
enough. Here it is, over a year after my fanfic debut: Lynn's initial foray into the
realm of pure SMUT. I'm still blushing. Noromos, persons under age 17 and those
who are offended by graphic depictions of loving unmarried adults engaging in
consensual sexual acts should bail now.


 **************
Into the Darkness
by Lynn Gregg
 **************


     He came under cover of darkness, slipping wraithlike through the two unlocked
connecting doors that separated her room from his.  Picking his way carefully as a
cat across the preternaturally neat expanse of motel floor, he arrived to stand by 
the side of her bed, silent, watchful.  The minutes ticked by in blood-colored light
on the face of the travel alarm set atop the cheap veneered night stand: 1:01, 1:02,
1:03...  The weak glow of sodium-vapor streetlamps in the parking lot slitted
through the dusty venetian blinds, striping the no-color rug, banding her sleeping
form in shadow and light.  Her face was turned towards him, lax and innocent in
repose, hair a carnelian stain on the pillowcase, its flame only slightly muted by the
gloom.  The sounds of passing traffic came faintly from without, but over the
distant hum he could still hear her breathing: deep, soft, comforting.

     Comfort: now there was a word.  How often had he done precisely this, invade
her space, her privacy, unknown and uninvited, simply for the comfort of her
presence--the sight and the sounds, the very scent of her?  When had just the
simple reassurance of her continued existence, her unwitting proximity, become
sufficient to banish all the demons and hold his nightmares at bay?

     These were the questions he pondered, alone late on these endless nights after
he had returned to his own domain following one of his furtive forays into her
sleeping world.  When had he ceased to see partner and friend and started to see
instead a savior, a lifeline?  His eidetic memory stuttered and stopped upon that
threshold, refusing to return him even for a moment to the before time.  There had
never been anything before this.  There would never be anything beyond this.  Only
her small silent form, wrapped up in the night, as close as the length of his stride 
and as distant as the stars.

     He stepped close, closer still, close as he dared, dropping to his knees at her
bedside.  This too was part of the ritual, a new element added one dark night as
she lay dying and he contemplated bargaining with the Devil with the last pitiful
shreds of his soul.  In the end, that bargain was made by another, but still he
performed the obeisance, a lone worshipper at a shrouded shrine--but to Whom
did he pray?  Sometimes, in the dark, it seemed there could be no power greater
than this curious bond that twined his life with hers, pulled him as inexorably as the
moon ordered the tides, returned him to her side against all fate and all reason. 
And so he knelt, at her bedside, and rested his forehead against the cool threadbare
sheet.

     And felt a touch, insubstantial as a whisper, pass over his bowed head.

     His name came to him as a soft expulsion of breath, borne to him on a sleepy
sigh.  When he dared look up, her eyes were upon him, somber grey and
uncomprehending.  She spoke his name again, more firmly this time, and he
shuddered, suddenly somehow so cold and bereft and alone.

     She turned the coverlet back, exposing a welcoming expanse of warmed and
waiting bed.  Her small hand smoothed over it invitingly, and wordlessly he
scrambled up and in, drawing the covers tightly around them, closing out the cold
and the night and all that stood between them.  He turned to her, ready to plunge,
to risk it all in that hour.  Hoping she would catch him.

     Knowing she would catch him.

     "You're freezing," she murmured, drawing him closer, nestling up against him. 
She was so warm her skin burned his where it touched.  He burrowed into her,
absorbing her heat, his face buried in the hollow at the base of her throat.  It
seemed only natural to place a reverent kiss there, in that soft inviting spot.  She
started as though singed, then flowed back into him, quicksilver melding to the
planes and dips of his body.

     "So cold," he whispered into her skin.  "So cold, for so long.  I don't want to
be cold anymore."

     Her arms tightened around him, and then she was raining kisses upon him, a
blessed spring rain following an interminable winter blight.  Her soft lips, slightly
swollen, traced drowsily over the lines of his face, placed benedictions upon his
closed eyelids, skated along the jut of his nose and finally--after eternities had
passed and the world ceased its orbit--came to rest lingeringly, longingly, lovingly
upon his own.

     The Rubicon had been bridged.  Sliding his hand down to entwine her fingers
with his, he crossed the River of Jordan effortlessly, the last shreds of doubt
dispersed like smoke.  When the slight press of her lips relaxed he pushed forward,
reclaiming her mouth, breathing through her.  Their joined hands came to rest
upon the protrusion of his hipbone, and then her hand freed itself and began a
solitary journey, down and around, fingers cupping the firm globe of one buttock. 
He pressed it back hard into her palm, increasing the pressure of his mouth, tongue
snaking out to glide lightly over her full lower lip.  She moaned softly and with her
hand still on his ass urged him closer.

     "Scully," he mumbled, tongue feeling thick and alien as it tried to shape her
name.  "Scully."

     "Yes.  I'm here."  She pulled back, just enough to lock a level gaze onto his
bewildered one.  "I've always been here, Mulder."

     "Touch me," he insisted, part command and part plea. "I need you to touch
me."

     Her hand--the same small, capable hand that had soothed him so often through
their years together--left the curve of his cheek to begin a ministration of a quite
different sort, back down and around to grip him through the wash-worn cotton of
his sweatpants.  Muttering, he pushed his cock into her hand, even as he tucked his
face into the side of her neck, leaving a trail of heated moisture there. 
Emboldened, she hooked a finger into his waistband and thrust her hand within,
closing it around his bare engorged flesh.

     Biting back a groan he shifted positions, rolling her onto her back and trying
with numb fingers to free the buttons of her pajama top.  She continued to stroke
him all the while, testing the weight, the length of his erection.  Her other hand
came up to caress along the side of his face, to stroke through the thick dark hair. 
Despite these sweet distractions, he eventually succeeded in releasing all the
buttons; slowly, cautiously, he opened her silky shirt, laying her chest bare to his
gaze.  The roseate points of her nipples puckered immediately at the cool air, an
effect that inexplicably delighted him.

     He moved to lower his mouth to them, but she stopped him; confused, he
looked to her face and found she was smiling at him, shaking her head.

     "Not yet," she said, lifting her hips and wriggling easily out of her pajama
pants. "All of me, Mulder.  I want you to take all of me."

     All.  All of her, just as she had had all of him, all along.  His burning eyes
traveled the length of her--the firm, small breasts, the flat musculature of her belly,
the riot of auburn coils where her strong slim thighs met, the curvature of her
calves, her narrow high-arched feet.  Beautiful.  His strong, beautiful Scully--all of
her, no barriers, no pretenses.  He wanted to weep.

     But instead, he reached out for her, letting his hands read the Braille of her
skin--hearing, absurdly, in his mind a snippet from Donne as he did so: "License
my roving hands, and let them go before, behind, between, above, below..."  He
touched her everywhere, seeing her with calloused fingertips, learning her in a new
way, memorizing her.

     Her cool fingertips brushed over his chest, over his nipples, feeling them begin
to prickle and tighten.  Languidly she played with the wiry dark hairs between the
slight rises of his pectorals as his hands moved lower, over her hips, along the
planes of her hard thighs, skimming between them tantalizingly.  Her breath caught
as one finger darted between her lower lips, skating over the erect nub concealed
there, dipping back to where the moisture was beginning to gather.  A little
guttural noise escaping her, she lifted her hips from the mattress, straining up to
increase the pressure.

     "Do you like that, Scully?" he asked, low, urgent.  "Tell me how you like it. 
Tell me how you want me to touch you."

     "Harder," she gritted, in a voice not quite her own.  "God, yes, there.  Harder,
Mulder."

     No longer gentle, her hand grasped his cock, squeezing and stroking in rhythm
with his motions.  She reached down, massaging his sac, before plunging one
finger beneath it to glide along the secret soft expanse at the edge of his perineum. 
At the contact he bucked, closing his mouth over her shoulderblade, teeth digging
into the soft white flesh.  With a laugh she urged him closer, tugging lightly but
insistently at his erection, rolling on to her side to rub up against him catlike.  He
tried to still her, wanting to prolong the agony, but to no avail.

     "Now?"

     She pushed him onto his back and straddled him, grinning wickedly.  "I think
five years of foreplay is enough, don't you?"

     She settled down, knees gripping firmly either side of his lean hips.  Bending
low over him, her tongue played lightly over his lips, even as her distended nipples
brushed against his chest and her slick folds rubbed teasingly against the engorged
tip of his shaft.  He bumped up towards her, blindly seeking entry; and, taking him
in hand once more, she led him to the center and drew him in, sighing against his
mouth as she enfolded him at last.

     For a time they remained so, Scully stretched full length upon him, not moving,
not speaking.  In that silent space the tension built anew until it became unbearable
and she began to shift restlessly, starting a slight slow friction that grew steadily as
a flame.  Raising herself above him, her weight supported on her hands planted
squarely upon his shoulders, she began to rock, sliding up the length of him till
only the head of his cock remained within, then descending upon him again with
agonizing slowness.  Frustrated, close to the edge, he caught one nipple between
his teeth and sucked at it roughly, gentleness fled, countering her rises with short
hard thrusts.  She seemed to catch the fever that gripped him and speeded up her
motions, slamming down hard against his pubic bone.  Wrenching his eyes open he
could see with unearthly clarity the beads of sweat gathering along her hairline, the
furrows of concentration etched into her forehead, the set of her lips as she bit
back her response.

     "Come on, Scully," he urged, arching into her.  "Come for me.  I need to feel
it.  Give it to me, Scully."

     He thrust up again, again; and she gave way all of a rush, a dam breaking,
going rigid upon him before collapsing, crying out, almost sobbing with the force
of the spasms that wracked her.  The sensations of her muscles contracting, wave
after wave shuddering through her, gripping him, milking him, was more than
Mulder could bear and he followed her, willingly, into the abyss.


      ***


     After the storm subsided and he lay sated, still within her, feeling the warm
solidity of her all around him, Mulder marvelled at his fortune.  And for once, he
wished he could hold off the approach of dawn.


    ~~End~~


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