It’s a drop of sweat drizzling down your side that jerks you from dreaming. You come awake with a start, disjointed in the dark and muddled from half-consciousness. She’s trembling in your arms and your cock is ramrod hard and nestled between her naked ass cheeks…she’s wet, you can smell her arousal in the curve of her neck, and her breathing is rushed against the pillow. Your hips are pulsing and she’s rocking lightly against you. Christ, you two were as good as fucking in your sleep.
“Don’t stop, Mulder,” she murmurs, “…please don’t stop.”
You wouldn’t dream of stopping, not with that needy tone in her throaty voice, not with how easy it is to just slip effortlessly inside her. She’s smooth and swollen with sleep and the moan she releases coaxes out one of your own. The pace is leisurely, easy, as though you both are still drowsing but have somehow managed to meet in the same dream. You can’t see her, but you can feel her, hear her, and smell her. She’s everywhere around you and that thought alone tips you over.
It’s the softest orgasm you’ve ever had but you can feel it in virtually every part of your body. She quivers in your arms with her own release and then falls quiet, a long, heavy sigh the only signal that she came. You should get up, be the considerate man she deserves and fetch some tissues or at least a towel, but she’s sound asleep again. It’s all too easy to join her.
It’s not about control. Well…perhaps it is, a little. There’s something undeniably empowering about giving a man enough pleasure to make him completely lose his college education and his ability to form coherent sentences. It’s even better when that man is your partner, best friend, and—more recently you’ve discovered—the best lover you’ve ever had.
He smells good and tastes even better. Warm and desperate, his husky scent is heightened even more with the rush of the blood simmering in his veins and arteries. You love hearing his soft gasp when you press a kiss to the underside of his velvet shaft, his little dry sob when you gently tease his slit with the tip of your tongue. The ease with which you engulf him in your mouth is too right to be wrong.
His fingers are in your hair and you relish the additional small point of contact. His nails lightly scrape at your scalp and the sensation settles in your nipples and clit, where your free hand gently presses and squeezes. He moans at the realization that you’re deriving pleasure from his own and you smile before dragging your tongue up his length. He whimpers again.
It’s not about control. Really, it’s not…it’s all about him.
“What?” Mulder asks, casting a defensive jawline over his
shoulder.  “What is that look?” Â
Silence.
“Look, I know that I’ve made things weird around here.  It’s been years and years of just… this.  You and me, and our… what would you call
it?  Friendship… partnership?  However you want to define it.  I can imagine how it would be weird for you.”
Nothing.
“I slept with her, okay?
I just slept with her.  It doesn’t
necessarily mean anything… I’m not saying she’s not hot enough, she’s
beautiful, she’s really beautiful, but so are you.  And she’s smart and she’s… Look, it’s not a
competition.  You can both be in my life…
Oh come on, don’t just turn your back on me like that.  I’m trying to talk to you.”
He rubs his forehead in his hands, leans forward, digging
his elbows into his knees hard enough to be sure he is awake, this is happening. Â He has actually gone and done it, turned his
whole life upside down for one stupid night of passion. Â Not because of anything to do with him; if he
wanted to have feelings for her, he could.  There’s nothing wrong with him.
Yes, there is.  It hasn’t been said, but it may as well.  He looks up, his eyes burning, his voice
spitting with self-loathing.
“I’ve seen the way you look at me when you think I don’t
notice.  You think I can’t do it?  You think I’m just this shell of a man who
dedicates his life to specters and shadows and little green men.  You think it’s just porn and aliens, that’s
what my life is about, that’s all I’m capable of, just because that’s what you
see day in and day out?”
He looks over at the other side of the couch, where just
about twenty-four hours ago he had her, the woman in question, undressed, pressed awkwardly into the
corner of the couch. Â After some heavy
petting, she wiggled out and climbed on top of him, tilted his head back over
the arm of the couch, her hand flat against his Adam’s apple.  She slid her tongue so far down his throat he
thought she might come up with change from between the cushions.  They struggled to get each other’s shirts off
at the same time, pawing like two kittens on their hind legs, engaged in a
practice fight. Â
She pressed herself against the fly of his jeans until she
tore the seam of the simple underwear she’d been wearing, the ones she hadn’t
been expecting to let anyone see. Â Just a
tiny tear, but enough for him to remember, enough to make him hard at the
thought of it.  And he shouldn’t be
thinking about it.  He’s in the middle of
setting things straight.
“I’m not in love with her, okay?  I mean, I know you’re not asking me that but
I need you to know.  I’m not in love with
her.”
They moved through time signatures and positions like dance
partners. Â Hard and fast, slow and
tender, squeezed tight against him, at a tongue-teasing distance, spinning…
spinning… spinning. Â
But it was still only one night. Â
They had fucked until she fell asleep on top of him. Â When his neck got stiff, he picked her up
like a princess in a forest and carried her to the bed wrapped up in his Navajo
blanket.
As he thinks of her creeping out of bed this morning
quietly, his voice pipes back up in a hoarse mumble, eager to settle questions
that haven’t been asked.  His chest is
tight with fear. “If I am in love with her then… then I’m going to need you
more than ever.  To get me through it.”
There’s a knock on the door.
“It’s open.” Â
She makes a film noir out of her entrance: Â files in hand, shiny red lipstick and a
rain-slicked black trench coat tied, belted tightly around her waist. Â She leans her umbrella against the wall and
shakes out her hair, wavy with weather.
And he knows he’s been lying this entire conversation.  He knows he’s in love with her, he’s known
for so long he can’t remember now when he didn’t know, and that was only about
thirty seconds ago. Â He goes to her,
kissing her softly on the mouth. Â She tosses the files onto the counter.
“Hi,” she says, as if she’s a game show winner who’s just
chosen the right door. He is moved by the idea that she’d been insecure about
seeing him, that she wasn’t sure how he would receive her.
“Hi.  I was just
talking about you,” he says without letting her go.
“Talking to who?”
“The fish.  They’re
having some jealousy issues after what they witnessed the other night.”
“Oh,” she says as he tangles one hand in her hair.  She hooks her nails onto the trench’s belt
buckle, slides it out slowly, the material shaking raindrops onto his arms as
it loosens. Â And when it falls open, his
lungs stop working for what feels like eternity.
“Sweet Jesus.”
She pulls him toward the bedroom in nothing but lingerie,
whispering conspiratorially.  “We should
go in here.  What we’re about to do could
traumatize them forever.” Â
reblogging even though I think I’ve done this before because OHHHH YEAH
Just Holding Hands 