The Unicorn Tamed 4: Initiation

Life just keeps getting weirder by the minute.

If anyone had informed her that she was destined to tell Mulder about her masturbatory fantasies, she would have called that person a liar. Or else run for the nearest set of hills, and hid in some hermit's shack until that particular window of possibility had been nailed firmly shut. Was there anything more embarrassing to reveal to another person -- especially when the subject of said fantasies was that person?

And yet, it had felt right. More than right. It had been absolutely the only way she could handle the situation. He'd been so down on himself, so filled with self-loathing, over something for which she herself had never felt more than momentary pangs of distant guilt...

He wants me. And that was an even bigger mental adjustment than her revelation to him: the fact that her attraction to him wasn't merely a one-sided folly of her too-active imagination, but something reciprocal.

But good lord, she'd never dreamed that there would be so much emotional baggage to work through, first.

It infuriated her anew, each time she let herself think about it. That twisted, warped little bitch... Here was Mulder, utterly convinced that he was a pervert of the worst sort, when she was the one with the perversions: she'd had to have power over him, as much as she could possibly get, working her tendrils into his psyche so thoroughly that her influence had lingered to haunt him for decades... If I ever see her again, Scully vowed, I'm going to beat her to a bloody British pulp.

He didn't deserve what she'd done to him -- and the worst part was, on some level, he believed that he did.

Well, she would just have to convince him otherwise.

Tonight, she hoped, would be the beginning of that.

She'd considered wearing something formal and sexy, then rejected the idea -- he was so nervous already; why exacerbate that by accentuating the purpose of their meeting? He already knew why she'd invited him over -- Chinese take-out and the nine-o'clock movie on ABC, that was the ostensible reason; but both of them knew what lay behind the invitation. No reason to spell it out in a way that might make him even more uncomfortable.

But she wanted to look appealing for him, and so she'd taken the concept of 'sexy' in a different direction. Her favorite old plaid flannel shirt, buttoned only enough to allow her the barest amount of modesty; and no bra underneath. A pair of old sweatpants that clung to her every curve, and sported a small frayed hole on the cheek of her ass; no underwear, either. Plenty for him to look at, and easy access if he wanted it, but nothing dressy enough to send him into spasms of anxiety -- she hoped. He was Mulder, after all; and nobody did anxiety as well as he did.

A knock at the door, then the sound of a key in the lock; she turned, as he stepped inside.

And was glad she hadn't dressed up, for he certainly hadn't -- blue jeans and a black t-shirt, and looking every bit as sexy in that as if he'd dressed to the nines. More so, perhaps; everything fit him like a second skin... "I got the food," he said, by way of greeting, and she could feel his nervousness even from the other end of the room.

"Great," she said, "I've got plates and things ready. Come on in, make yourself at home," as he moved gingerly across the room toward her, "relax," in a meaningful voice, trying to let him know that he had no reason to be afraid; this wasn't a test, wasn't a pass/fail situation. Tonight could be as much or as little as he wanted it to be. No pressure.

His eyes scanned her face, swiftly -- she did her best to project a telepathic message, that he had nothing to fear - - and must have succeeded to some degree, for he favored her with a sheepish grin and settled beside her on the couch.

"Relax," she repeated, and took his hand as he set down the bag of food; his long fingers wrapped around her hand gratefully, and for awhile they just sat there holding hands, the food forgotten.

His eyes flickered to the front of her shirt, to the curve of her breast, just barely revealed -- then flickered away; his face reddening with embarrassment. "I wore it for you," she told him, "look all you want. Mulder, I've never seen you like this..." The Mulder she knew was quick with an innuendo or a joke, not... not as shy as a schoolboy; and even knowing what she did about him, she was having trouble reconciling the change...

A twitch of a shoulder, a faint shrug. "That's because you've never been someone I thought I might actually have sex with," he said. "It makes a difference, you know; the whole cool facade goes right out the window," sounding vaguely unhappy about that.

She squeezed his hand. "It's okay..."

"It is not okay. I work hard on that facade, and you just get right in under my radar..." A soft sigh. "I'm not used to being known this well."

"It's not a bad thing," she countered.

"That depends on what's done with the knowledge," was the quiet answer.

Scully thought about what to say to that -- platitudes wouldn't do, not for him; he'd been hurt too often and too severely for casual reassurance to be meaningful. "I'm your friend," she said at last, "and I love you," and he nodded a little, as if a theory had been confirmed.

"So," she said, changing the subject, "what'd you get?" indicating the bag of take-out food on the table.

"Oh, just a whole bunch of stuff, sweet and sour, chow fon, lo mein..." and she listened as he rattled off the menu; his hand disengaged from hers as he began taking containers from the shopping bag and setting them in a neat line on the table.

The atmosphere lightened significantly as they worked their way through dinner; after all, it was hard to maintain sexual tension while wrestling slippery noodles with a pair of chopsticks... They talked of inconsequential things, laughed over small jokes, and it seemed to Scully that the sheer normalcy of the situation put her partner at ease in a way that nothing she might say could have. After all, how many evenings had they spent this way? in dingy motel rooms scattered across small-town America, chasing one faceless threat after another? Take-out food eaten on somebody's bed, mindless chatter to take their thoughts off the case at hand, or discussion about the case if it was a particularly thorny one... This was familiar. This was 'safe'.

They ate, and he helped her carry the plates and the leftovers (of which there were a significant amount) to the kitchen, stacked take-out containers in the fridge while she loaded the dishwasher... Then they were on the couch again, sitting side-by-side, while the television droned away in the background, ignored.

"I almost copped out, you know," he mentioned, in an offhand tone. "I almost came down with an unspecified virus and called you to say I couldn't make it tonight."

"I'm glad you didn't," she said softly.

Another one-shouldered shrug. "Well, I'm not going to get anywhere by running away from the situation."

"Mulder, I love you so much." Perhaps if she said it often enough, he'd begin to truly believe it; maybe he'd begin to understand what love could mean, when the person proclaiming the emotion didn't have their own agenda of cruelty.

Her words provoked a small smile -- she knew that look, knew what it meant: I don't believe it, but it's nice to hear... and she sighed.

She took his hand again, but instead of simply holding it, began a slow massage -- stroking his fingers, the sensitive skin of his palm, in a subtle caress. "Mulder," she said - - not Fox, never Fox; she called him that -- "look at me," because if he was looking at her instead of staring fixedly at a nondescript spot on her carpet, maybe he would see her instead of the nightmare-memories. Maybe he would see her, and come to know that the past was gone, that there was no reason why it should continue to haunt him.

As bidden, he looked at her -- and she was astonished by the multitude of emotions written on his face: shyness mingled with desire, and wrapped up in five or six different types of fear. "Relax," she said again, bringing her other hand up to the side of his face, feeling him lean into that caressing hand as if he wanted nothing more than to sink into her soul and be enveloped.

He reached out for her, drew her close, and she settled against him -- the scent of him, maleness accentuated by the cologne he always wore, was intoxicating; the feel of his strong arms around her was deeply enticing, and if the situation had been different, she would have pulled his head down into a passionate kiss -- but that would only make things worse, she knew. His pace, that was what she had promised him. No matter how frustrating that might make it for her.

And yet, there was something terribly exciting about that, too: wanting him, so desperately that her body and soul resonated with the wanting, and not knowing when, or if... Was this how Phoebe had captured him? Had this been the trick she'd used to wind him inexorably around her little finger?

Never mind that now. He was holding her, burying his face in her hair, pressing his lips against her forehead in a soft kiss -- yes, Mulder; oh, yes -- another kiss, on the tip of her nose, moving slowly downward until his lips hovered scant millimeters from hers, poised and breathless, knowing that the next step was irrevocable...

His lips against hers, gently. So gently. His tongue, gliding over her lips, past her teeth, meeting her tongue and being greeted like an old friend, more than welcome... his arms tightening around her as a shudder swept through his body, passion seizing him; and before that fact could reach his conscious mind and frighten him, as it had before, she slid her hand to the back of his neck, holding him in place, pulling him closer, encouraging him to continue.

From the few times they'd embraced, in times of great stress, she'd come to know that he was a deeply tactile person -- and yet he held himself separate so much of the time, maintaining a distance between himself and the rest of the world... The dichotomy made sense to her, now. But she was left with the realization that he was touch- starved, desperate for the contact that he refused to allow himself; and she thought that maybe that was the key to helping him overcome his fear...

The t-shirt was neatly tucked into the waistband of his jeans; she tugged at it until it came free, then slid her palms along his back -- a soft moan emerged from his throat, and she felt him shiver -- and his hands began to wander, finding their way under her shirt and mirroring her caresses. His hands, moving along her back, pulling her closer with trembling urgency; even that small touch was remarkably intense, and she felt herself echo his cry of desire.

Then he pulled back, and she moaned again: no, don't stop -- his face was flushed, eyes wide and dark, holding an expression of dazed passion -- she gazed up at him, thinking, god, he's beautiful. Mulder, you're so damn beautiful, do you have any idea...?

"This is too much," he murmured breathlessly, sounding forlorn. "I can't handle this."

Her eyes flickered downwards, to the visible sign of his arousal -- in those jeans? That's gotta hurt -- "You're doing fine," she said.

"Scully, I can't..." and his words chopped off in mid- thought, punctuated by a sharp cry, as her hand slid along his thigh to the prodigious swell of flesh between his legs. Just the barest touch: but he reacted as if she'd swallowed him whole. If he's like this now, my god, what will it be like when we get closer? Now that would be something worth waiting for...

"You can," she told him gently. "We can," feeling his hips arch up into her hand, seeking the pressure, the stimulation she was providing. "What are you so afraid of?"

"Anything. Everything. Oh, god, don't stop," spoken in a hoarse, ragged voice, as if he was already nine-tenths of the way there... She thought, briefly, of what it must be like for him: dreading his own body's natural responses, unable to find even the most elementary relief without extraordinary measures, knowing that every time would be an ordeal punctuated by self-loathing -- felt the fury rise within her again, at what That Bitch had done to him -- set it aside, because he needed her love, not her rage; and because the prospect of giving him freedom from those mental chains was too sweet to let anything get in the way.

"I want to make you feel so good," she whispered, moving her hand away -- hearing him groan at the loss of contact - - just long enough to unbutton his jeans, then sliding down the zipper that held his erection confined.

There was a bit of awkward maneuvering as she worked the layers of denim and cotton underwear out of the way -- he didn't move to help, didn't move at all, as if the sheer strangeness of the situation held him paralyzed, or as if he feared it was all a dream that might burst like a soap bubble if he disturbed it. Finally, though, it was done; and she wrapped her hand around his hard-on, felt him draw a long, shuddering breath in response.

Sprawled on the couch, legs spread slightly, chest heaving, head flung back, eyes shut tightly, sweat sparkling on his face... "You're so beautiful," she told him. "Do you know how beautiful you are?" hand moving slowly, gently, because he was so aroused that too much stimulation might well be painful. She snuggled up beside him, felt his arm curve around her shoulders, holding her -- not so much an affectionate gesture as an attempt to keep her there, as if he feared she might stop, might go away... "Mulder," she whispered, and kissed his sweaty cheek.

"Scully," the barest breath forming her name; and his head turned sideways, his lips capturing hers in a passionate kiss.

She kissed him, kept kissing him as her hand found a steady rhythm; felt the effect she was having on him, as his body trembled against her, as small strangled sounds formed in his throat -- was that part of her brainwashing? that he should remain silent? -- as his hips rose, forcing himself further into her grip, begging silently for more, more... The arm around her tightened, hand clutching at her almost painfully; she was certain she'd be bruised in the morning -- and didn't care; it was clear that her ministrations were having the desired effect, and it was one hell of a turn-on to know that she could affect him that way.

Closer now, closer... He broke off the kiss, as a particularly insistent moan emerged from his lips. The sounds were coming more frequently now, harsher and more relentless, beyond repression or denial: hoarse, plaintive cries that seemed to plead, don't stop, don't... He was right on the edge, now, hovering there, achingly close to fulfillment -- and was this where she would have cut him off? half a breath from the point of no return, so that he could feel the agonizing specter of the pleasure she wouldn't permit him? And if the thought was crossing Scully's mind, was it passing through his as well? No, that wouldn't do... "Mulder," she murmured, hoping that her voice could banish any memories that might choose to assault him at such a vulnerable time. "Mulder, I love you. I love you so much..."

And felt a ferocious tremor race through him, then another; and a ragged howl burst forth as his orgasm exploded through him.

She stroked him in time with the contractions, prolonging and enhancing the pleasure for him as best she could, amazed by the intensity of it -- such a reaction, to just a hand-job? -- stilled her hand as the spasms subsided, simply providing warmth and contact. It took him a long time to come down, and she let him have that space in silence; when his breathing had returned to something approximating normal respiration, she asked, "You okay?"

A slow chuckle; he seemed to find that amusing. "Okay," he repeated, in a soft, lazy voice. "Okay... is an understatement," and suddenly both of his arms were around her, sweeping her into a crushing embrace. "Scully," whispered in her ear, two syllables conveying a wealth of meaning; unseen, she smiled, pleased with the definite success of the venture.

He drew away, after a few minutes, began rearranging and zipping; she glanced at the white spatters adorning the carpet and coffee table, snatched up a few napkins left over from their dinner and began wiping up the mess. "Sorry about that," she heard him say sheepishly.

"Not a problem," she assured him, thinking to herself, I'm going to have to watch where I aim that thing, and silently grateful that her carpeting was Scotchgarded.

Kneeling on the floor beside the couch, she was startled by the feel of a single fingertip, coursing up the back of her neck. "Seems like I owe you one," said a quiet voice behind her.

"Huh?" She'd been so wrapped up in his pleasure that she hadn't given much thought to her own needs -- now that she considered the matter, she became aware of a lingering ache that definitely could use some attention... "Mulder," she said, "don't worry about it." This night had been for him; it had been a delight, to give him what he'd so desperately needed. She could take care of herself later... far more easily and painlessly than he could, a fact for which she was thankful.

"Don't worry about it, she says. She gives me a taste of heaven wrapped up in five kinds of ecstasy, and says, 'don't worry about it'..." Hands on her shoulders, gently pulling her toward him. "C'mere."

"Mulder..."

"C'mere," repeated with gentle insistence; and she rose and obeyed.

Her couch wasn't all that big; there wasn't much room for two people to stretch out along its length. Somehow, they managed -- she settled into place as he urged her, half lying on her side and half resting against him, her back against his chest, his denim-clad crotch pressing against her ass cheek, his warm breath stirring strands of her hair... "Comfortable?"

"Yeah," she assented.

His right hand slid under her shirt, drifted upward, cupped her breast; fingertips flicked across her nipple -- carefully, skillfully -- and involuntarily, she moaned. "Is that good?" and he did it again, lingering this time to circle the areola, tantalizing the nub at its midst...

"So good," she whispered, and arched back against him, feeling his cock hardening and pressing into her.

She reached back, uncertain that she could twist enough to do anything substantial for him, but willing to try -- he deflected her hand, gently but firmly. "Uh-uh, it's your turn," and his hand found her other breast, lavishing the same attention upon it, lest it feel neglected. Where did I get the idea that he wouldn't know what he was doing? she thought hazily, as his hand smoothed over her stomach, over her groin, over the nest of curls below, exploring the folds of flesh and finding them wet and slippery already. The bitch taught him well -- damn her for her methods; but oh, god, as his fingers settled into position and began a rhythmic circular motion. Not too rough, not too lightly, but just enough, just perfectly right.

The other arm, the one trapped beneath her, edged its way to a place where it could reach her left breast; and the dual stimulation was incredible... "Scully," he breathed, "oh, Scully," and the sound of it, his voice low and soft and hazed with passion, was like a tangible caress, adding to the pleasure. So damn good... being held, being stroked, being loved by the one man who'd taught her more about trust than she'd ever imagined -- who was teaching her even more by daring to trust her when it would have been so much easier for him to lie to her, to retreat, to keep his secrets to himself... Only a few moments before, she'd held his cock and his soul in her hands and felt his cries of pleasure spreading joy through her own breast: and now here he was, aroused anew through his pleasuring of her, touching her in ways she'd only ever touched herself, loving her as no man ever had, with nothing but her pleasure in mind, nothing but her...

Normally, she was fairly quiet in bed, but this was several levels beyond normal, and Mulder deserved -- needed, she felt -- to know what he was giving her; so she let her pleasure surge through her voice... It would have embarrassed her, to be so vocal, except for the memory of Mulder's cries, and the knowledge of how powerfully it had affected her to hear him so aroused.

From the feel of the hard bulge pressed against her ass, her moans were having the same effect on him.

And he knew, as if they were telepathically linked, he knew when to pick up the pace, a little bit rougher, a little bit faster, hand leaving her breast to encircle her waist and pull her tight against him -- breathing ragged against her hair, hips thrusting his confined erection against her, as his own arousal grew -- but never faltering, bringing her steadily closer to climax. Now it wasn't a matter of forcing herself to be vocal; she would have been hard-pressed to constrain the moans that issued forth from her lips, as he brought her to the edge, and over it...

Her climax was astonishingly intense, wave after wave of ecstasy exploding through her; she felt him shudder against her, heard him cry out, and knew that they were sharing the moment.

As it subsided, she lay still in his arms, feeling his hand still tucked cozily between her legs and the stickiness permeating the rear part of her sweatpants, feeling his chest heaving against her back even as she struggled for breath, not thinking at all, just feeling, luxuriating in the feeling and loving it, loving him.

"Did I leave a change of clothes over here?" she heard him ask, lazy-voiced.

"Uhmmm. Think so," she murmured contentedly.

"Mm. That's good," and he shifted position just a little, making himself comfortable without relinquishing contact. "Gonna need 'nother pair of pants."

"We could stick those in the washer," she suggested. "Later."

"Mm. Tomorrow morning?" and she realized that it was a question, as if he honestly didn't know...

"Of course you're staying over," she told him, and didn't need to roll over and face him to know that he was smiling.

"'Course I am," he agreed sleepily. "Hey, Scully... that was okay?"

A soft chuckle escaped her lips. "'Okay' is an understatement," she echoed his words. "Mulder, that was incredible."

"Good. 'Cause you're incredible, Scully. You're just... incredible." A moment later, very quietly: "Thank you."

"Thank you, Mulder," she said, and again, felt him smiling.

It was comfortable, lying in his arms on the couch; but still... "We should sleep in the bed, maybe," she mentioned.

"Mm. Yeah. Bed is good. In a minute, maybe. Don't wanna get up just now..."

A moment later, he was snoring lightly in her ear.

Fast asleep. And hopefully, dreaming happy dreams... If not, well, she was there. She could soothe away the nightmares, bring him into a happier reality. She had no doubt about that, now.

Loving Mulder had never been easy: it required a certain suspension of disbelief on her part, and a ridiculous amount of patience. Loving Mulder as more than a friend and a partner was even less easy -- she'd known that before she'd learned his secret.

But it was worth it. Oh, lord, was it ever.

She smiled, closed her eyes and let slumber overtake her.

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