From: AgntSabine@aol.com Subject: "Speakeasy" DISCLAIMER#1: This is my very first posting. Can you hear the nervousness? I swear it's here..... This story started as an exercise, really; I rarely write from the male P.O.V. or with as much dialogue as I have here. AND I have never written with a self-imposed limitation like pre-existing characters -- in this case, our beloved Dana Scully and Fox Mulder. Anyway, I also like to make up words/phrases and I am a 'shipper at heart so prepare yourself for both, I suppose. DISCLAIMER #2: Scully and Mulder do NOT belong to me, although sometimes, late at night I like to imagine that they do, which is another story all together.They belong to His Majesty, Mr. CC and his fab company, 1013 Productions. I have borrowed them with a sinful lack of professional decorum and if I get sued because of it, someome will walk away with a really old computer and maybe some shoes, I don't know. In other words...it AIN'T worth it!!!! Uh.....oh, yeah. DISCLAIMER #3: This story is very short and kinda pervy. Rated NC-17 for language and adult situations. Plot is *very* limited. M/S Romance. Feedback: ANY and ALL is welcomed and slobbered after. I have another story in the works but it's going to be months before I am finished, so any words of advice or criticism or even lavish praise in the meantime would be tearfully accepted. Send your wise words to: AgntSabine@aol.com -- that's me. "Speakeasy" by Agent Sabine The rain hadn't stopped for six consecutive days and Fox Mulder was beginning to get desperate. A vacation day was supposed to be a veritable paradise of quiet moments, midday naps and lazy jogs through the lush nearby park. Instead, he was beginning to feel as much a prisoner of his own apartment as he did in the stale confines of his basement office. And to boot, he was alone. He found himself bouncing a tired basketball off the far wall, listening to the hollow boom as a sad echo of his fevered head. Bugs Bunny was no conversationalist for a lonely man. His feet were hot and his arms felt wobbly. No amount of clothing could be added or shed to balance the temperature in his living room. He tried slanting, crouching, cross-legging and slumping before giving up the hope of finding comfort on his couch. So he paced. Counted the number of steps to his CD player, to the kitchen, to the bathroom. He circled the coffee table once, twice, a dozen times, finding no aesthetic pleasure in the pattern of manila folders and empty take-out food containers arranged there in a calculated triangular pattern. He made paper airplanes from the travel section of The New York Times, demented-looking Origami swans from the classifieds. He read the comic pages aloud, trailing falsettos and guttural beefcake tones for varying characters. Finally he sighed. He was bored. He was lonely. And worst of all, he missed his job. Not, he concluded in an on-going head-conversation, that he wanted to spend another day cramped in a dank room with a crumbling ceiling and sterile file cabinets. Not that he wanted to stare unmercifully at sleek slides of mutilated cattle or white-silenced bodies. He reflected on his stubbled chin in the mirror of a mottled spoon and decided that a day at the Bureau was not what was lacking in his mundane day. He thought. And dropped to the couch, exhausted and frustrated with the inevitable conclusion. He grabbed the remote control from beside him and flicked the TV on angrily, trying to eradicate images of silken copper hair and dismayingly sensuous rosebud pouts. Channel 61. Playboy. He relaxed in his seat and reached absent-mindedly behind him to surround-sound the breathless giggles that unclouded before him in a garish Technicolor orgy. He smiled wanly at the wriggling figures on-screen. Buxom blondes with too-tight sweater sets seducing their far-too-chiseled English professor. A tall brunette with legs starting at her rounded chin waltzing into her employer's private office with tidy notebook in hand, ready to take dictation from in between the thighs of her beefy boss. Mulder frowned. And, disgusted with himself for the thought, he snapped the remote with one deft wrist-twist and threw the picture into blackness. Behind and all around him, throaty wheedling could still be heard, in crisp clear Dolby stereo. A fist-thrust later, he was drowning in silence, the stereo teetering from his unannounced blow. Hands itching and head bursting with the pressure of just-buried thoughts, Fox Mulder contemplated his stomach. A flash of olive skin peering out from between the soft black cotton of his t-shirt and the nubby cloth of his navy sweats. He ran a hand lazily over the flat plane and up against the thick muscles of his abdomen. He pushed the shirt up lazily, staring down at the feathering of dark hair that protruded from the waistband of his boxer shorts. He touched it, trying to flatten the unruly hairs. They would not behave. Frowning, he licked his forefinger and molded them back into place. The wet pressure of his callused triggerfinger sent the prior day's repressed memory flying back in ultra vivid color. A string tied around his finger, purpling the flesh of his fingertip just past the first joint. A demonstration to show the way the blood had been kept at bay by a barely conscious knife-wound victim. Scully, unimpressed by the demonstration, had found the strength to smile only when Mulder attempted to remove the string he had tied far too tightly in his eagerness to prove a point. Even Scully's tiny deft fingers had not been able to free Mulder's finger from the minute tourniquet. His finger pulsing, then whitening from the loss of blood, it had finally been subjected to the only cutting device small enough to set it free. Scully's sharp white teeth. Though her mouth had been on him a mere moment, though she had been fast and on-the-mark, though she rolled her eyes at his sheepish expression afterwards, Scully's touch had affected him enough to send him hiding behind the expanse of his desk for the remainder of the afternoon. Fox Mulder, weakened by the pleasure of the memory, closed his eyes and fell into the embrace of his mind. He curled one arm across his forehead to keep the mop of bangs from tickling his brow and draped his long right leg over the edge of the couch. His right hand, clammy from the power of his provocative mental slide-show, inched below the waistband of his sweats. His fingers curled around himself protectively, caressingly. He felt himself lengthen, thicken and jump in his expert grasp. His mouth yawned wide as he stretched his fingers between his thighs and ground the heel of his hand into the bone of his pelvis. He molded the length of his fingers around his steel-rod cock and gently pulled it above the pleasantly too-tight elastic band of his pants. He pinched the tip between two soft fingers and felt, at the base of his groin, a raw, numbing pulse. He brought his hand up to his mouth, palm flat, and licked the crevices of life-line, love-line, fortune-line, dampening his caress. Drenched with as-yet-unswallowed saliva, his hand trickled warmth and wetness down the line of exposed stomach muscle to his expectant sex. He gasped at the familiar, yet inexplicable feel of his own soaking, searching fingers. He pulled once, swift and upwards, and then settled in to a slow stroking motion . His hips bucked and danced in a slow cycle. He saw one woman. His Dana smiling her secret smile with pink babylips. Her tiny hands drawing abstract patterns on his bare chest. He felt the whisper of her fire-head against his sensitive ears and a delicate, direct, pointed tongue taming the invisible hairs on his outer lobes before plunging softly into the center of his ear. He felt her hips on his, her sleek thighs bent to breaking over the width of his open legs. He felt her perfect ass on his cock, her hands flat against his stomach, balancing on him like a blood-and-bone seesaw. Mulder's face flushed and his tongue crept out from between cracked lips to taste the salt mustache of his beaded upper lip. His voice, surprised out of him by unwholesome images of his prim partner, was hoarse and wet. "Dana", he breathed.... ...as the phone rang. Fumbling out of his reverie, his reflexes still viper-quick, Mulder picked up the receiver mid-ring. "Mulder", He croaked. "Mulder. It's me." Mulder fought a gasp or a groan. "H-hey Scully. What's up?" Keep it together, man. "I need to ask you about some figures for this end-of-the-quarter report." Mulder felt dangerously close to giggling. He felt like Beavis and Butthead. "Go ahead", he swallowed, barely able to believe he could have so much unconsumed moisture in his mouth. "Do you have a sec...am I interrupting your holiday?" Scully sounded hesitant, guilty. "Nonononono...go ahead." A pause. "Okay. I am not sure how to list the third room in the Rest-Inn from Tallahassee that we rented for Agent Allanson." "As a nuisance?" Mulder replied grimly. Allanson had heard rumors of "Spooky" Mulder and had insisted on his own room for the investigation, declaring that he would not sleep in the same room with "a lunatic." A small fight had ensued and Scully, tired from a 3-day stakeout, had ended the attack and mended the bruised egos by renting a third (and, in the eyes of the Bureau, "unnecessary") room for the disgruntled Floridian agent. Without Allanson's time, the investigation would have gone on for an extra day and would have cut into the partners' mutual vacation time. "Mulder...." "Joking Scully," he replied, disappointed at his fading fantasy and the memory of the smug, fat face of the older male agent. "Shall I list it as our expense or one of mine" "Scully, it was *my* fault that prick..." "Mulder" He heard the warning murmur in her voice. Mulder sighed. "List it as one of mine, okay Scully?" He was embarrassed at how close he was to pleading with her. Silence. Then a sigh. Scully gave in. "Fine, Mulder, whatever." Mulder relaxed, a small tiff avoided. He concentrated on the sound of her breathing, the nearly inaudible whispering of Scully's writing implement. Mulder thought of her, curled into a saggy armchair, barefoot. A pad of legal paper on her lap. Those overlarge wire-rimmed glasses tilted on the edge of her nose. The tip of her pencil caught lightly between her teeth as she reviewed what she had written. That last thought undid Fox Mulder and his hand strayed, not unguiltily. He pressed a hand against his rising flesh and sighed. "Mulder?" Scully's ears had caught the breathy exhalation and was worried. "I'm sorry to have inter..." "S'okay, Da -- er -- Scully" Mulder interrupted, his mind whirling too fast to catch his near-mistake before it was uttered. A wry chuckle escaped Scully's lips. "Vacation time already getting to you, Mulder?" Mulder felt a soft grin blend his sharp features together at the familiar, dry teasing of his partner's voice. She was settling into a conversation with him. He heard the pad of paper drop, the soft "plink" as the pen followed suit. A flutter-shifting as Scully re-positioned herself in her chair. The pressure of his hand grew steadily softer. He wanted to drawn this out as much as he could stand it. The whistling in his head faded slightly and he held his breath, concentrating on the minute sounds echoing from the receiver. "You know *me*, Scully, " Mulder murmured "All too well," was the response that prickled his ears and strengthened his grin. Mulder heard the whisk of Scully's hair against the phone, her fingers sliding on the base of the phone. He heard her neck crack and the soft exhalation of freed tension. His hips arched towards the telephone. She was going to drive him mad by doing everything and nothing at all. "So, Scully...." He fought to keep his breathing steady, his voice unwavering. "Hmmmm?" "What are you wearing?" He tried to play it off as a joke, but he was seething, spinning. He *had* to know. For a second there was silence; he thought with a blinding thrill of panic that he had blown his cover. Then he relaxed, hearing her muffled swallow as she peered down at herself, neck against her chest. A slow chuckle. "Nothing too exciting, Mulder. Just a t-shirt and jeans, I am afraid..." He felt the world go dark. He was going to explode. The thought of her rounded ass hugged by faded Levi's, the tab on the back pocket a go-ahead-red. A white v-neck shirt dipping down to display the cool sunset curves of her perfect breasts. "Why? What are *you* wearing, Mulder?" She asked warmly. His eyes flew open. His hand stopped mid-stroke. His mind careened, stumbled, fell flat on its face. He looked down at himself, hipbones shiny with heat, pelvis arched, sweatpants a struggle of cloth below the thick, jumping bulk of his cock. He closed his eyes in amusement. "A suit of armor, naturally," he replied with a weak snort of laughter. "Really?" she asked with only slight sarcasm, "I figured you to be a chain-mail man, myself." Mulder winced. He was breathing like a sprinter at the finish line of the 500 meter dash. He was beginning to understand, slowly, sharply, that he was *not* going to make it. He had to hang up *now* "Scully, I..." "Mulder, listen, I have to ask you something." "...have to go, Scully." he said, writhing. *Why* wouldn't his hand *stop*???? "Just a moment, Mulder, this is important to me." He held his breath, counted to 5, thought of little grey men experimenting cruelly on puppies.... "What?" he managed to croon. "I am getting that portrait done for mom, tomorrow. I need to know if you think I should wear my red suit or the beige one." She sounded too comfortable, like she was leaning into the phone. His head burned. She sounded amused. Something was very very wrong. Since when did Scully accept fashion tips from a man whose ties had to be screened for Bureau events and meetings with victims' loved ones? "I-I couldn't say, Scully...." She knew he was a convicted fashion faux-pas. She knew he thought grooming was for pampered animals. "Mulder...." Her voice was a teasing murmur. She knew. Oh shit, she *knew*. He could hear her lazy grin through the phone. "I AM COLOR BLIND" he nearly shouted, desperate. "Well, then you probably haven't noticed that the red one *is* a bit tight around the chest," she mused, "But I was told by the studio that I ought to wear something *warm* for the camera." His chest heaved, his hand blurring as it crashed into hyper-speed. His left knee knocked against the wall. "Scully", he pleaded. "Mulder?," she asked, feigning innocence "Do you need to get off...." A sharp cry exploded from his swollen lips "...the phone?" "Havetogohavetogohavetogo" he keened. "No" she replied quietly, but with commanding firmness. His body swooned upwards, his clenched thighs ramming his hand with the force of an enraged bull. He heard a brisk pop as the suction from Scully's lips left a ringing kiss on the dotted section of her handpiece. His heart dove, drumming staccato. His windpipe closed with a muddy slam. The pressure in his groin was enormous, overpowering. He sank back into the couch.. "Scully." His voice was a hundred billion trillion light-years away. Wheezing and broken. "What are you thinking about, Mulder?" Scully whispered, all velvet and cream. Mulder whimpered. He was so close.... "You can tell me, Mulder. I can keep a secret." His hand was slapping against his stomach to the rhythm of his circling hips. He was beyond hiding the moans, his ruined voice crackling and humming from deep inside his chest. "What are you thinking about" It was a barely a murmur. "You. You, Scully. Oh, God, you" Scully let a croon fall into his ear. A shaky sigh of utter satisfaction. "I want to hear you, Fox" Something buried deep inside of Fox Mulder's brain broke wide open. His back looped, bowing his lithe form into a muscled arc. The phone fell from his saturated grasp, swinging from its spiraled cord to rest beside his thrashing head. His left hand coiled into a fist and blocked the full pressure of his roar, his teeth grinding down on his knuckles with vampiric force. With his right hand, he let everything go. A rush of blood filled his ears, ringing and pumping with his release. A dense shower of warmth trailed down his fingers as his cock blazed, relief racing through his cramped legs, arms, thighs. The room swam, blackened and cleared within the space of a heartbeat. A year's moment passed in silence as Mulder's mind picked itself up and brushed itself off. He looked around the room, expecting to see that the walls had fallen in around him. An irritating buzz by his head whisked him back into reality's sighing embrace. He picked up the empty receiver, and replaced it within its matching plastic cradle. He pulled his wrecked ensemble back together, arranging himself wincingly into his boxer shorts and sweatpants. The phone taunted him, still warm with the fog of his mouthprints Mulder shook his head slowly, a sadness pulling the corners of his mouth skyward in a shrugging half-smile. He fought himself a moment before grabbing the receiver and jabbing speed dial #1 with a crooked finger. "Hi Mulder," Scully answered mid-ring, a mere hint of mirth sweetening his chagrin to a fevered honey-pitch. "Hey Scully," he answered quietly, "You okay?" She laughed then, a throaty bell of surprise. "I'm *fine* Mulder," , "How are *you*?" Mulder grimaced. "I'm sorry, Scully, I-I guess I just got carried away." Silence on the other line. "I mean, I didn't want...(sigh)..I don't know" Mulder looked down at his hands, clasped and shifting, feeling oddly sick to his stomach. "You there?" he asked. "You didn't want...?" Scully urged, a set and a strength to her voice Mulder paused, struggled, and gave up the ghost. "Shit, Scully. I didn't want to tell you *this* way." "Didn't want to tell me what?" Scully inquired warily. "That...that I felt this way, that I *feel* this way about you." Scully exhaled sharply. "It was unprofessional..." Scully interrupted with a bark of laughter. "...And pretty unromantic." Mulder surprised a smile out of himself at the vast understatement. "Mulder..." Scully paused. "Yeah?" "It was good for me, too." Outside, the rain began to drench the earth again as Fox Mulder' s face broke into paroxysms of incredulity and bliss. *end*