Title: Acquitted
Author: aka "Jake"
Rating: NC-17 (graphic sexual content)
Classification: SR (Story/Romance -- Mulder and Scully of course)
Spoilers: Very vague references to several episodes through season 7
Disclaimer: The characters Fox Mulder and Dana Scully are the property of Chris Carter, FOX and 1013 Productions. No copyright infringement intended. This is for fun, not profit.

This story contains graphic sexual content. This is smut, impure and simple. No kiddos allowed! Sincere apologies to any of my relatives who might inadvertently stumble upon this dirty little morsel and be embarrassed. I'm just tryin' to stretch my creative writing muscles! "Acquitted" has a follow-up fic called "Encore."

Summary: "Somehow, I always pictured the circumstances would be a little more romantic, but you know what they say about beggars. Besides, cabin in the woods, a roaring fire, only one bed... Hell, even with the dust and cobwebs, it's more romantic than my apartment. I'm thinkin' I'm gonna get to make my move at last -- Scully's bound to be feeling sorry for me after she sews my leg back together and I'm not too proud to accept a pity--"


We slam the door behind us and both lean into it, our combined weights holding back the...the monster. Only a slim wooden panel separates us from the menace. Scully's breath comes in ragged gasps; clouds of steamy vapor explode from her lips into this small frosty room.

"Lock it!" I manage to rasp, my own throat chafed raw from our frenzied, nearly failed escape. I hear her slide the bolt before...IT...the thing...our pursuer, crashes against the outside, jolting our bones and scaring the shit out of us. Scully screams. At least I think it was Scully. Maybe it was me. Anyway, it was just a little scream -- enough to send me scrambling toward the biggest piece of furniture in the room -- a dresser/bureau/hutch-kind of thing -- and like those mothers you hear about who in the heat of an emergency are able to lift a car off their trapped infants, I manage to haul and shove the whatever-it-is piece of furniture across the room toward the door. Scully squeezes out of my way just before I push the makeshift barricade into place. Her eyes are as round as flying saucers and she's staring straight at me.

Two, three, four more pounding thumps shake the meager door. Scully is trembling and my teeth ache from clenching my jaws. Another wallop is followed by a gut-churning roar. We don't breath. We don't move. We hope like hell the thing...the creature...the beast...IT...will go away and leave us alone.

CRASH!

CRASH!

CRASH!

ROAR!!

Persistent son-of-a-bitch. Then...nothing. Silence. And when the silence continues for more than a minute or two, we begin to breathe...a little...very, very quietly. Scully's enormous baby-blues are still locked onto me like tractor beams. Jesus, Scully. What can I tell you? How was I to know when we left DC this morning we'd end up running for our lives from...from...

"Jesus, Mulder," she says aloud. "We...we..."

"I know! We actually saw Bigfoot! Can you believe it?"

"Bigfoot! What the hell are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about the...the thing that just chased us at least three-quarters of a mile through snow and woods...and...and snow to this cabin."

"Mulder." Her tractor beams narrow until they look and feel more like laser beams. "Don't be ridiculous. That wasn't Bigfoot. That was a grizzly bear. A goddamn huge grizzly bear."

"I know what I saw, Scully, and I saw...Bigfoot. For chrissake, the thing...it...the thing...was close enough to rip a gash the size of Barringer Crater in my leg!" I point at my left thigh. Oops. I hadn't intended to remind Scully about my injury. Immediately her face turns all doctor-like and she's coming at me as though she's prepping for surgery. Damn. "Scully, I'm fine. You don't have to--" Too late -- she's propelling me toward the nearest chair.

"Sit," she orders and I wonder how such a compact little woman can wield total, complete and utter control over a man at least a head taller and almost seventy pounds heftier than she is. But, naturally, I sit. Scully removes her snow-encrusted gloves and bends over my lap. She delicately peels back the torn flap of fabric on my pants' leg, allowing her to peer into the nasty split in my thigh. Blood oozes from the wound at a rather revolting rate. I think I might throw up when I glimpse what could be bone down inside the deep rent in my skin and muscle.

"We've got to get this cleaned up," she announces.

I'm certain I'm going to vomit.

"With what?" I squeak and swallow the bile threatening to launch out of my stomach with the determination of a ballistic cruise missile. "I don't see any handy first aid kits lying around." As a matter of fact, this place could hardly be less sanitary. We're in an incommodious one-room cabin without electricity or running water. The wood stove is draped with cobwebs and the thick dust that blankets everything in the place is so crisscrossed with mouse tracks that the furniture resembles a miniature version of a Denver ski slope during Christmas break. I think I see a triple black diamond trail over by the woodpile. Scully and I have unwittingly stumbled into a little vacation getaway that makes the Unabomber's last private residence look like Buckingham Palace. Where is Martha Stewart when you really need her?

Scully is scanning the room, a crease settling between her brows.

"Put pressure on that wound, Mulder, while I start a fire. We'll boil some water from melted snow." Scully transforms instantly from Uber-Doc to Campfire-Girl-of-the-Year. She swipes spider webs from the woodstove and checks the damper before building a textbook-perfect pile of kindling. Have I mentioned Scully is the best partner on the planet?

"Got any matches?" She looks my way. When I shake my head no, she morphs into G-Woman, Superhero, and pans the room with what must be x-ray vision. "Ah ha!" She heads straight for a closed cabinet, removes a rusted tin from the shelf and rattles the container at me with an all-knowing grin. I can only blink at her when she opens the lid and pulls out a fistful of matches. How the hell did she--? "Oh, good." She beams. "There are needles and thread in here, too."

"You planning to do some embroidery?"

"No. I'm planning to stitch up your leg. You want me to monogram your initials while I'm at it? Or do you prefer petit point?"

Christ. "Let me give it some thought," I suggest.

Scully lights the fire and coaxes a nice warm blaze from the wood she's neatly stacked in the ancient stove. Once she's satisfied the fire isn't going to go out, she's clattering through the cupboard for a pot in which to boil water. The pot is easily located. Getting the snow for the water is going to be a tad more difficult. After all, the snow is outside, beyond the barricaded door -- with...IT. Suddenly my heroic little partner doesn't look so brave. She glances over at me.

"Mulder?"

"Hmm?"

"Um...you wanna...?" She waves the pot at the door. She's adorable, trying to appear casual and unconcerned.

"You need my help, Scully?" I know she will never, ever admit to needing help -- mine in particular -- so I can safely assume I'll be ensconced in this chair for the duration of our stay.

"No. No. I just thought you might...need to..." Her voice fades out.

"Check on Bigfoot?"

"No. No. Uh...never mind." Forgoing the door, she crosses to the window and raises the sash. Snowflakes flutter in on the cold breeze. It's getting dark. Scully drapes herself over the sill and cleverly scoops a pot-full of snow from the deep bank drifted against the outside our tiny wilderness cabin. She's so quick, I get only a momentary peek at her pretty rounded ass as she bends and straightens. But praise sweet Jesus for my photographic memory 'cause this was a definite Kodak moment. Her heavy snowpants scarcely conceal her sexy curves.

So sue me because I *occasionally* look at my partner's womanly attributes. Well, okay -- maybe more than occasionally. Maybe a lot more. But most of the time, I *am* a true Man of the Nineties. Really. I respect Scully -- and all women -- for the skills she brings to the job, for her insight, her opinions, her inexplicable albeit endearing ability to put up with a sorry-ass like me. And to be honest, I'd be lost without her. I'll admit it -- I'm not a complete fool. Without Scully, I'd be worse than lost. I'd be nothing. I've known this unalterable fact for a very long time. I can't pinpoint the exact moment, but somewhere during our last almost seven years together -- maybe it was in the sewer with Flukeman, or more likely it was on Skyland Mountain with Duane Barry -- I lost my heart to Scully. I knew then as I know now, she's the woman I cannot be without. I gladly risk my poor excuse of a life on a regular basis to keep her with me. I love her -- plainly, if not simply, for all she is and all she brings to me. So if, now and again, I lust after my sexy little female morsel of a partner, I don't view it as insulting or degrading or depersonalizing. I see it as worship, in the most heartfelt definition of the word. Anyway, as for "Man of the Nineties," put the emphasis on "man" and recognize that the Nineties are over.

Oblivious to my covert admiration of her physique, Scully sets the pot on the stove. Taking unspoken, age-old advice, she doesn't watch the pot, but returns to me and rechecks my wounded thigh instead.

"Take off your pants, Mulder."

Well! Those are words I've longed to hear spill out of Scully's pretty, lipsticked mouth since practically forever. Somehow, I always pictured the circumstances would be a little more romantic, but you know what they say about beggars. Besides, cabin in the woods, a roaring fire, only one bed... Hell, even with the dust and cobwebs, it's more romantic than my apartment. I'm thinkin' I'm gonna get to make my move at last -- Scully's bound to be feeling sorry for me after she sews my leg back together and I'm not too proud to accept a pity--

"Mulder?"

"Hmm?"

"Pants. Off. Now."

"Yes, ma'am," I readily agree and slide the snowpants down my legs.

Damn. Bigfoot's Big Dig hurts like hell. Getting my jeans off might prove a tad troublesome. "Hey. Scully. How about you show me yours if I show you mine?" I suggest, stalling. Nnnnnnn, didn't think so. I get a raised eyebrow before she thrusts her head into a cupboard looking for God knows what. "Anything to eat in there?" I ask, postponing the inevitable.

"How do you feel about Baked Beans a la Botulism?" she holds up a swollen can.

"No, thanks. I'm pretty sure that's what I had for lunch yesterday at the Bureau cafeteria."

"Maybe you'd prefer the House Special -- Rat du Jour." She dangles a frozen mouse by its tail. She's not actually touching the tiny corpse; she keeps a dishrag between her fingers and the rodent's hairless tail.

The pot on the stove makes hissing and spitting noises as the snow turns to steam. The sound brings Scully back to my side where she stands for a moment with her hands on her hips.

"Take 'em off, Mulder."

"I think you're gonna hafta help me. It kinda hurts." I point at the bloody gash. She gives me a disbelieving stare and then blows air into her cheeks.

"Fine."

Now we're talkin'! Her dainty little fingers reach for my belt and I'm suddenly more excited than...uh oh...oops...too excited. Below decks, the little guy in the engine room is letting me know this ship is ready for docking. The captain in my head is thinking it might be a better idea to put out to sea. The crew, however, decides to mutiny and forces the captain to abandon ship.

Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!

I let Scully unbuckle my belt.

Phhpptttsssss! We both jump when the pot on the stove boils over. Scully rushes to take care of it and I figure it might be better if I take off my own pants -- before I boil over, too, and embarrass myself.

Scully stuffs the boiling pot with a couple dishtowels to sterilize them while I inch my pants over my hips and down to my knees. The slash across my thigh is still bleeding and my entire upper leg is throbbing. The wound gapes open at its midpoint. I wonder how many stitches it'll take to close the cut. I suddenly feel like I just ate three heaping helpings of Baked Beans a la Botulism.

"Don't look at it, Mulder," Scully warns me, her voice gentle and sympathetic. I take her advice and look at her instead but am immediately sorry when I see she's busily threading her needle. She then takes her threaded needle, which is looking more and more like a harpoon with every passing second, to the boiling pot and, holding the tip end of the thread, she rhythmically dips the needle in and out of the water like it's a teabag. The motion makes me seasick. I think I actually groan out load.

"Mulllderrr." Her purring voice is a soothing balm even as she comes at me with the pot, boiling water and other miscellaneous instruments of torture.

"Be gentle with me, Scully," I plead. She smiles her little Mona Lisa smile -- a totally unreadable expression.

"Try to be brave," she urges.

"Do I get a lollipop if I don't cry?"

"I'll find some way to reward you."

"I've got some suggestions, if you'd like to hear them."

"That's alright, Mulder. I can be quite imaginative when I need to be."

Hoo boy! What do you suppose she means by that? I know what *I'm* thinking, but it's her opinion that matters here.

She sets the pot, et. al., on the floor by my feet and kneels to unlace my boots. As she loosens the knots, I stare at her bowed head. She looks like a child saying her prayers before climbing into bed. I bless her and my life as she carefully tugs and slides my untied boots from my feet one at a time, first from my right, then from my left. She's particularly gentle with the left, mindful of my injury. She gives my stockinged right foot an encouraging squeeze before pulling my jeans cautiously down over my calves and off my feet. Standing, she neatly folds my pants and places them out of harms way before nudging my boots aside, too.

"This could get a little messy," she says while studying my wound and mapping out her strategy. Once her plan of action is securely set in her mind, she softly brushes her palm across my eyes, closing my lids. "Don't watch," she whispers into my ear, the warmth of her breath circling its way into the depths of my auditory canal. I take her advice and sit frozen in my own world of darkness, waiting for her to heal me.

I feel a quick prick as she pierces my skin with her needle. She works fast, methodically dipping the point of the needle into my flesh again and again, tugging my wound closed with meticulous stitches and scrupulous concentration. Her fingers flutter against my thigh like a butterfly's wings even as her needle stings. The thread rasps through the fabric of my skin. Prick. Rasp. Prick. Rasp.

"Almost done," she murmurs and tears swim behind my lids -- not from the pain she is causing, but at the devotion in her voice. Then I feel the hot, soothing wetness of the dishcloth as she slowly wipes the crusting blood from my leg. Warm water runs in tickling rivulets down both sides of my thigh, collecting in a cooling pool between my legs before soaking into the cushion of the chair beneath me. I hear her rinse the towel several times in the pot of water. She rings out the excess before returning to my skin and bathing me once more. Her touch is as gentle as a mother cat cleaning her newborn kitten.

"You can look now," she announces, finished with her ministrations. She thoughtfully removes all evidence of the painful event from my view. I can't help but stare in wonder at the row of neat stitches dotting my thigh. There are six. Only six. The gaping breach in my flimsy suit of armor has been securely sealed. The puckered line is raw but it is straight and my insides no longer threaten to tumble out. "You okay?" she asks.

"No monogram?" I pretend to be disappointed.

"Not too late to add one, Mulder." Her concern for my welfare fades with my smart-ass remark. "I need to wrap that." She nods at my leg.

"With...?"

"Well, that's the question, isn't it?" She looks at me. "What do you have on under that coat, Mulder?"

"Uh...sweater. Turtleneck. Thermal undershirt." I mentally work my way down through the layers.

"Was the turtleneck clean when you put it on this morning or did you pick it off the pile on your bedroom floor?"

"Oh, ha, ha. It was clean. And for your information, I don't have dirty laundry on my bedroom floor. It never makes it out of the bathroom."

"Whatever. Give me the turtleneck. It's probably the least contaminated thing you've got on. And if you're fibbing about its prior whereabouts, don't blame me when infection sets in and I have to amputate."

"If I'm gonna strip down to my underwear, would you mind throwing another log or two on the fire, please?" I ask as I unzip my jacket and reluctantly pull my arms from the sleeves. "We both know the deleterious effect cold has on the male physique."

"I didn't bring my tape measure, Mulder, so quit worrying."

Be that as it may, I have no desire to measure-up on the short side.

Not to worry. Scully kindly adds fuel to the fire, in more ways than one, when she stoops to gather an armload of wood. Once again I get a grand view of her shapely backside.

"Maybe you should take off your snow gear, too, Scully, so you can get an idea of what I'm feeling here," I suggest. I yank my turtleneck over my head and hold it out to her.

"That's okay. I'm doing just fine." She takes the shirt from my hand and deftly tears the cloth into several long, even strips. She folds one into a neat pad and places it on my thigh, hiding her perfect handiwork. "Lift your leg a little," she orders and when I do, she feeds one end of a strip beneath me. She circles the cloth several times around my thigh, snuggly binding my leg and protecting my injury. It does feel better wrapped. "All done," she declares, removing her glorious hands from my upper, upper thigh. I immediately want her to touch me there again. I suddenly feel like a baby who's had his bottle snatched away.

"I didn't cry," I remind her.

"So you didn't." She leans down and gives me a quick peck on the cheek.

"That's it? I'd rather have the lollipop," I tell her, feeling somewhat gypped. She starts to reply but then closes her mouth. She squints at me.

What is she thinking? What unidentified flying objects are humming around in that pretty skull of hers? I quit trying to figure it out when she slowly, slowly, slowly unzips her jacket. The teeth of her zipper tick like a Baby Ben when she lowers the pull-tab and each individual pop causes me to blink with astonished anticipation. I'm trying not to get my hopes -- or anything else -- up yet. What appears to be a striptease to me may be no more than the removal of her winter outerwear to her. But a man can always dream.

The coat slides seductively from her shoulders and although she's exposed not a single square inch more of her skin than before she wriggled out of her jacket, I'm salivating like she's a t-bone and I'm a starving junkyard dog.

She looks me straight in the eye and I know the jig is up -- there's no point trying to hide my hunger from her. She's seen my want in its rawest form. My balls are in her court, so to speak, and I'm hoping like hell she'll volley my serve.

Her eyes drop shyly to the floor, but she toes off her boots while her fingers travel to the waistband of her snowpants and she works to unfasten the closure at her fly. Honest to God, I don't think there's a single drop of saliva in my mouth. My tongue has turned to sandpaper -- coarse grit. Don't ask me anything that requires a verbal response, Scully, please. Not now. I can't even swallow as she incrementally inches her outerwear down over her hips, past her thighs, her knees, her calves, her tiny little ankles. She daintily steps from the pile of fabric and then her eyes focus on me. She's still completely clothed but I feel like I'm looking at Lady Godiva.

"Com'ere." I manage to stand and she takes two or three tentative steps my way -- then stops. "Please?" I can only whisper. It's a prayer. A fervent prayer.

Well it must be Sunday because the Church of Scully opens for the business of redemption. She grants absolution -- hers and mine. Without any hesitation, she strides across the room and plants her luscious lips right smack dab on top of mine. Lord almighty, I am delivered! Hallelujah!

Scully's lips are the softest, warmest, softest, warmest -- am I repeating myself? In any case, she's pressing those soft, warm lips of hers ever so tenderly against mine and I'm thinking that if I died right now -- if I never took another single breath -- my life would be perfect because of this perfectly perfect moment. I love Dana Katherine Scully and my heart is about to explode from the overwhelming magnitude of it all.

I expect her to pull away, of course, ending my moment in heaven. When she doesn't, tens of thousands of years of animal instinct kick in and, idiot male that I am, I lunge at her. My arms wrap around her waist of their own accord, dragging her to me. My mouth attacks hers; my teeth nip at her lips; my tongue tries to force itself into her mouth. The need for her is so uncontrollable, there's no room for etiquette. Emily Post, step aside -- I'm operating on nothing but pure testosterone here. Every Y-chromosome in my body is leading this campaign like it is the most important military coup of all time. Uncharted territory is within arms reach and I'm ready to plant my flag.

If Scully has other ideas, she's keeping them to herself. She melts into my embrace like she's chocolate on an Alabama sidewalk. Best of all, she opens her mouth and lets my tongue fill her. I explore the little ridges arching upward across the roof of her mouth, the sharp edges of her teeth and the soft give at the back of her throat. I want to dive into her, live in her. She tastes wonderful.

I withdraw from her when I feel her tongue pushing persistently against mine, ready to probe my mouth as I have searched hers. I willingly make room for her. When her tongue finally sits on top of mine, I suck on it, pulling her as deeply into me as I can, hoping to swallow her.

Unable to satisfy my craving, I plummet back inside her mouth.

My hands move across her backside like they've never felt the wonderful, pliant malleability of a woman before.

Well, let's face it -- it has been a long time.

Scully is all yielding curves and no hard edges. My palms skim across her shoulders, up and down her ribs and over her small hips.

She tenses when I spread my open hands across her amazing buttocks and squeeze.

Uh oh. Her tongue withdraws from my mouth and her palms push against my chest.

Damn it.

Damn it.

Damn it!

"I'm sorry, Scully." I immediately let her go. Although I suspect I just fouled out of the big game, she only looks confused. And a little flushed.

"No, Mulder. It's not...I just want to take off my sweater. It's gotten kind of warm in here."

No kidding.

No kidding? She's not kidding! She steps back a bit and hauls her sweater up over her head. I blink, too awed to speak.

"Oh, what the hell," she says next and then peels off her turtleneck, too. Now I'm totally speechless. Unlike yours truly, Scully is not wearing an innermost layer of thermal underwear. Beneath her turtleneck is nothing but her bra and her beautiful creamy white skin. And her bra is...is...well, it's this pretty, flowery thing that looks like it's made of satin or silk or whatever it is they make women's slippery- shiny underwear out of. It's nothing like the one I saw her wearing almost seven years ago on our first case together. Not that that one wasn't nice, too, but this...this--

"Aren't you hot, Mulder?"

"Huh?"

"Hot. Don't you want to take this off?" She's plucking at my undershirt.

"Uh...oh, sure!" I yank the offending shirt over my head. She laughs at me and tries to tame the static electricity that spikes my hair. I reach for her, wanting more than anything to feel her skin under my fingertips.

But then, before I actually touch her, something stops me.

Concern for her?

Feelings of inadequacy?

Guilty conscience?

Maybe all of the above.

"Uh...Scully...are you sure you want this?"

"This?"

She knows full well what I'm asking. For chrissake, I'm standing in front of her wearing nothing but boxers and socks and it's more than evident what I have in mind. Time to be blunt.

"*This.*" I point at my bulging crotch.

"Oh," she innocently whispers, her eyes widening in mock horror.

Very funny. My hands are on her again. This time it'll take an act of Congress to remove them.

"Um, Mulder? Would you let go so I can take off my pants?"

Okay, my hands are instantly at my sides. My fists clench and unclench. I think I'm gonna jump right outta my skin. But, oh man, this...this is worth it.

Scully unbuttons her fly one agonizing button at a time, slowly opening a vee at the waist of her jeans pointing south to her...her...arghh!

Hurry up, will ya, Scully?

Those jeans of hers ride down her body sooo slow, they remind me of hot fudge dripping its way over a mound of vanilla ice cream.

Finally, finally, she's standing before me wearing nothing but her pretty, flowery, slippery-shiny underwear and a pair of thick, fuzzy socks. I stop breathing. I've never seen anything so beautiful in my life.

My eyes outline a trail across her milky-white skin, plotting the path my fingers will take if and when I manage to get my brain to reconnect with my muscles. So far, my mind seems frozen, suffering from sensory overload -- or blood deprivation, a distinct possibility considering the circulatory demands in the southern region of my body. I desperately need a battery jump-start and am wondering if I should call AAA when Scully drives me to further distraction by bending down to remove one delightful little wool sock at a time until all ten of her enchanting pink toes are exposed and bare. When her eyes lock onto mine once more, I feel like a porcupine caught in the headlights of a ten-ton, flatbed tractor-trailer truck careening down a thirty-degree grade -- without brakes. She stands shyly waiting for me to confirm or deny my obviously protuberant intentions and I still can't move.

Then a simple lift of her eyebrow catapults me out of my stupor and into motion. I become G-Man the He-Man, a real live action toy, ready to play.

I grab her wrists and yank her hands toward my naked chest. When her fingers settle feather-soft on my stomach, I release my frantic grip on her and try to slow down by tracing twin paths up over the hollows of her elbows to the tops of her inconceivably beautiful shoulders. She closes her eyes and the heat pours off her like she's about to spontaneously combust. The inferno beneath my palms is igniting a conflagration of inspirational proportions in my groin. When she tilts her head to one side, my lips plant themselves on her neck. I run my mouth up to her ear. With my nose embedded in her beautiful red hair, I inhale her. She smells like a mixture of shampoo and whatever it is that makes Scully smell like Scully. I never want to leave this place.

Of course, a despicable and predictable nagging doubt necessarily pokes me, sowing a seed in my brain that instantly sprouts into a redwood, dwarfing the hard-on I sport down below. I love Scully, but until this very moment, I had no idea how she felt about me. Actually, I'm still not sure. I guess my self-loathing is so complete, I can't imagine how a woman as perfect as Scully could possibly want or need a fucked-up, poor-excuse of manhood like me. She brings everything good and right to my life -- orderliness and truth and sanity. She fixes my feet to the ground. She is a refuge I return to again and again. My unholy existence is sanctified by her unselfish sacrifices. And it's because of her sacrifices that I am continually persecuted by my own well- deserved guilt. I realize I bring nothing to her. Nothing but six years of suffering that would crush the spirit of anyone with lesser fortitude. Anyone but Scully.

"Why now, Scully?" I puff into her ear, my self-reproach squeezing the breath out of me. She nuzzles a silky cheek against my lips.

"Because it's time."

"Time?" I want her to ameliorate my heart, explain her motives in a language of crystal-clear conviction, leaving no room for my perpetual culpability. I am on trial, prosecuting myself. Scully, you be my judge. Find me not guilty, please.

She turns her head so her lips are brushing mine.

"Time for us," she sighs. "Time for you and me. No flukemen. No tulpas. No shadowy government conspiracies. Just you--" she kisses me lightly, "and me." She kisses me again. Deeper. And her sweet kiss lifts my heart. As always, she is saving me. For this one moment, I'm able let go of my self- recrimination; I am released from my own constant accusations of blame -- reproach that circles endlessly through my brain like a round of Row Your Boat.

"I love you, Scully," I say, my voice sounding like I'm suffocating. I need to tell her. Give her something, if only the worthless emotion of my heart.

"Show me," she says, giving me permission to do what I most want to do.

Sliding my fingers under the straps that curve over her shoulders, I drag the silky strips of fabric downward until they hang loose around her upper arms, releasing the weight of her breasts. Carefully, I unfastened the tiny plastic clasp at her cleavage, my fingers too unwieldy to be graceful about it. Her flesh is exposed incrementally as I shift her inconvenient bra aside, bit by bit, until her nipples finally appear from behind their secure hideout. Delighted by the sight, I cannot wait to stroke them and immediately run my thumbs across their delicate pink tips. When they pucker and harden, a riposte to my touch, I can't help but smile. Scully allows me this and I wonder how far she plans to let me go. Do I have unrestricted reign over her body? Can I do what I want? Will she object if I put my mouth there on one of her lovely pink nipples? Taste it? Suck on it?

"Show me, Mulder," she repeats and links her fingers behind my neck, encouraging my head to bow to her breast and take her nipple into my mouth.

Oh, God, she tastes good. I push my nose into her soft, warm flesh in an effort to satisfy an instinctive craving. A quiet moan rattles through the hollow and bone of her chest. It strips me of all thought. Only the plump heat beneath my mouth is real.

I draw on her breast, recklessly sucking her into me. I hunger for corporeal sustenance. When none is forthcoming, I clamp down my teeth and bite her.

"Ouch! Mulder!" she cries, startled. She drags my face from her breast to her lips where she presses more kisses against my mouth.

"Sorry," I apologize. I want to return to her breast, make amends. The raw-looking welt that circles her wet nipple chides me for my impatience. I pet her there, trying to remove any hurt I may have caused.

"Take it easy," she suggests. "We have all the time in the world." Demonstrating her preferred pace, she languidly strokes the back of my neck. I'm afraid to resume my exploration of her, uncertain if my greed can be kept in check. Seven years is an awfully long time to wait, even when you're waiting for something as perfect as this.

She senses my hesitancy and guides my hands back to her skin. While she kisses me, my palms glide over her. I could spend eternity traveling along her curves, exploring the never-ending surface of the Mobius Strip that is her body. Around and around, only to find myself amazingly back where I began. Outside to inside--

The thought of investigating Scully's inner topography nudges my hands toward the waistband of her panties. I don't want to appear too hurried, but now that my mind has latched on to the more private aspects of her anatomy, I'm at a loss to stop myself. I skim my palms across the outside of her silky-shiny-flowery underwear. My left hand follows the protuberant curve of her ass and my right cradles the shallow mound of her pubic bone. Her panties are so sheer, I can feel the texture of her hair beneath the fabric. Her heat singes my fingertips and I dig deeply against the cloth of her panties. She presses against my palm and moans. I feel like a king and Scully is my birthright.

Dipping my hand beneath the elastic band at the waist of her panties, I pause only briefly to cosset her soft, springy curls, I inch downward to the sheltered cleft between her legs. I'm ecstatic to find her wet, slicked from her desire for this. I want to be inside her. My finger parts her softly split form and hovers at her closed entrance.

"Scully?" I manage to ask, a barely restrained whisper.

"Mmmm," vibrates from her throat. She relaxes against me and shifts position, parting her legs ever so slightly. So I thrust my finger into her. She gasps and there is startled astonishment in her opened eyes. I drive deeper into her as she wetly envelops my finger. I desperately want to make her gasp again. Inside she is slippery and searing and smooth and tight. I can shove no further when the end of my finger finally presses deeply into her cervix.

I watch as a flush spreads from her breasts, up her neck and across her face. Her cheeks glow as her breathing begins to labor -- quick, shallow pants expand and contract her chest. She is beautiful.

I move my finger inside her, dragging it from her only to return with force. Her eyelids close until she watches me through mere slits. Her lips are pummeled, swollen and red. Her breath becomes more and more irregular as I pump my hand into her. She is on the edge. So soon. Maybe she has been waiting for me as long as I have waited for her. On my next thrust, I insert two fingers into her and it is enough. She squeezes her eyes shut; her face contorts in false agony. She inhales one final gulp of air before her body shudders in my arms, against my hand. Her internal muscles contract around my fingers.

"Mulll...mm...derrr!"

I kiss my name from her lips, swallow her next cry, and wait for her to return to me.

"Mulder?" Her voice is small. Her vulnerability closes my throat. She would hate for me to think her vulnerable. But our intimacy, her nudity, makes me want to protect her, wrap her in my arms and keep the evils of the universe forever from her.

"Hmm?" is all I can manage without crying.

"Is there a bed in here somewhere?"

In this way, she rescues me from the brink of tears and I laugh. I scoop her up in my arms and carry her easily across the room. I expect her to struggle, to demand I put her down, but she nestles against me, content to be carried. This unpredictable woman never ceases to dumbfound me. There is no hope I will ever figure her out.

When we reach the bed, I'm in a bit of a dilemma. I had wanted to set her romantically atop the pillows, but it turns out there are no pillows and the uppermost blanket is thickly layered with dust and mouse droppings. Not exactly the ideal love nest.

"I'm gonna hafta set you on your feet, Scully."

Her pout tells me she was actually hoping for a Prince Charming, swept-off-her-feet kind of thing. I decide I can't disappoint her.

"Put your arms around my neck," I whisper into her ear. She brightens and does what she's told. "Hang on tight." She snugs her arms around me and locks her fingers behind my neck. When I'm sure she has a secure grip, I let go of her with one hand and yank back the bedspread.

"How is it?" She cranes to see around me in order to evaluate the cleanliness of the underlying blankets.

"It's fine," I try to assure her, but she stiffens when I attempt to set her down.

"Let me see," she insists. So I wait, cradling her in my arms while she twists to inspect the bed.

"Okay, Scully?"

"Yes. Okay."

I spread her across the bed like a banquet. And suddenly, I'm famished. She looks good enough to eat.

"These hafta come off, Scully." I tug at her panties. From the expression that settles on her face, you'd think I just morphed into Bigfoot. She clings to her underpants, preventing me from sliding them off her hips.

"Um...Mulder?" She's beginning to panic. Of course, I'm clueless as to why. I can't figure out what I've said or done wrong. I let go of her panties and sit down on the bed beside her.

"What's the matter, Scully?"

"Um...Mulder...you don't need to..."

"Need to what?"

"Um..."

"What, Scully?"

"Perform...you know...oral sex..." -- she doesn't meet my gaze -- "...on me," she adds needlessly, as though I had the option of going down on myself. I chuckle and my laugh obviously offends her because now she's glaring at me.

"Scully, why not?" I tuck a strand of her hair behind her ear. I try not to stare directly at her bare breasts but still keep them in my overall view. When it becomes obvious she has no intention of answering my question, I ask, "Scully, did you know the strongest muscle in the human body is the tongue?"

"Yes, I did know that, Mulder. And don't worry -- yours gets plenty of exercise without..." She waves a hand in the general direction of her crotch.

"Are you insinuating I talk too much...or I date too much?" That puts a picture in her head she doesn't like.

"Mulder, I just don't think..."

"Don't think what?"

"I don't think I...probably...taste very good."

Now I really laugh.

"Scully, *all* women taste good."

"Oh, you've done a personal survey?"

"Extensive research, actually. Didn't I ever tell you how I got my PhD?" I'm tugging at her panties again, but she's not buying my bullshit. "Scully, I'm betting you taste fine. Actually, I'm betting you taste better than fine. How about you give me one teensy-tiny lick, just to find out?" I waggle my eyebrows.

"Mulder..."

"Just one little taste? Pleeease?"

Her fingers release their hold on her panties. I take that as a green light and slide her silky-shiny-flowery underpants over her hips, down her legs and off her feet, pausing to kiss the sole of each small foot while I'm right there.

Completely naked, she couldn't be more beautiful. I lovingly trace my finger from her bellybutton to her pubic hair and then brush my fingers across her curls. Stubborn, she still keeps her legs squeezed together.

"Scully, what's this place called?" I ask while I place my palms on the hollows where her legs join her hips.

"Uh, the psoas medius...the pectineus...and the adductor longus," she tells me, relaxing a little as she recites the groups of muscles she knows so well.

"And this?" I trace the graceful ridge that runs from her outer hip to her inner thigh.

"The sartorius."

"And this?" I place a fingertip high on her inner groin, right next to where I want to be.

"The adductor magnus." Her voice is a mere breath of air.

"Oooh. I like the adductor magnus." I lean down and place a soft kiss on that spot. I can smell her wonderful fragrance as my lips linger on her smooth skin and I completely forget all about my own recently stitched, throbbing thigh. My tongue cautiously pushes past the tickling texture of her hair to her satiny skin beneath. I taste her. Salty. Thick. Wonderful. My cock is rock hard with desire to go where my tongue is right now. I gently push Scully's legs apart, opening her until I'm staring at paradise. With my fingers splayed across her hips, I use my thumbs to spread open her folds and expose her clitoris. I gingerly touch it with my tongue and Scully reacts with an uncontrolled jerk. She pushes her hips into me and I bury my face in her. My tongue sweeps from her vagina to her clitoris and back, lapping her moisture like a man whose thirst can't be quenched. I extend my tongue as far into her welcome oasis as possible before withdrawing to swirl circles around her swollen folds.

Although not exactly what you'd call a screamer, Scully is pleasantly vocal while I work on her. Her encouraging yeses and tiny moans keep me informed about what pleases her. A sudden "Oh, God" lets me know I did a good thing when I teased her opening with my finger while still licking her clit. A quick learner, I continue to run my finger around her entrance, threatening to plunge into her, but holding off while her muscles tighten and a pretty sheen of sweat forms on her skin.

I'm feeling like I have a hidden talent for this when Scully starts repeating my name. A guy can never hear his name too many times while having sex, you know. At this point, I'm slowly sliding my finger in and out of her while my tongue flicks rhythmically over her. She's rocking her hips toward me with each little thrust. Her insides are on fire, despite all the wetness. Then she utters those magic words:

"Mulder...I'm...coming. Mulllderrr!"

YES!

Not that I'm in a hurry. I know there are some guys who don't enjoy going down on a woman, but the way I look at it: hey, more for me if they don't. Personally, I can't think of many nicer ways to spend one's time. Anyway, this is no moment to be thinking about what other guys do and don't like while they're in the sack -- Scully is cresting on a wave of pleasure. And all because of me! I'm feeling quite proud when she yells out my name one final time.

I move up the bed to hold her as she gasps for breath, recovering from her orgasm. She curls into me, her pulse pounding just beneath the surface of her skin. I can feel her blood pumping frantically through her veins. While her heart slows and her breathing returns to normal, I think about how brave a woman is to let a man get this close to her. She is completely open, totally exposed. Suddenly, I'm overwhelmed that Scully has trusted me with this act. I fold myself around her with gratitude.

Although Scully is tucked into me as if she plans to drop off to sleep, she's definitely not down for the count. Her dainty little fingers have finagled their way beneath the waistband of my boxers. She's combing through the hair on my abdomen, nonchalantly pretending she's not playing Hide and Seek with Mr. Happy. I see no reason to be coy, so I shift slightly until my dick lies comfortably in her hand. You're "It," Scully. She gives me a squeeze and I moan into her hair.

"You like that, Mulder?"

As if she has to ask.

"Your hand feels a heck of a lot better there than mine," I tell her and she actually blushes! Bonus points!

"Maybe I can offer you something you can't do for yourself."

Is she saying what I think she's saying? Who's blushing now? Scully, the bonus points go to you! She's tugging my underwear from my hips and I'm plenty eager to help her. When my boxers land on the floor, Scully looks at me and laughs. I'm about to take offense until I realize she's not looking at my hard-on. She's giggling at my socks. I guess I do look a tad ridiculous, lying here sprouting wood and wearing nothing but a goofy smile, a makeshift bandage and a pair of wool socks.

"Strip me naked, Scully," I challenge. She obliges by slowly rolling first one sock than the other from my feet. She tickles me with one before tossing them on the floor where they land next to my boxers. Next thing I know, Scully's straddling my legs and taking my cock into her pretty little mouth.

Ooohhhh!

That's nice!

I gotta believe there's no such thing as a bad blowjob, but some are certainly better than others. And this one is...is...excellent. Scully's lips run lusciously up and down the length of my dick, her tongue swirling...ooohhhh... swirling delightfully around me. She flicks the tip of her tongue on the most sensitive spot. How does she know exactly where that is? Do they learn this kind of stuff in med school or what? I guess I really don't want to know about the "or what." Anyway, it's too difficult to concentrate while her sharp little teeth are digging gently into my flesh. Ooohhh! Scully! She's too good at this. Or I'm too horny. I gotta stop her before our fun ends prematurely. I half-heartedly lift her off me. My cock drops heavily from her mouth onto my abdomen, streaking my skin with her saliva. Lordy. Lordy. Lordy.

I haul her up over me like a blanket and kiss her, putting my tongue where my cock left her only a moment ago. She twirls her talented little tongue a few times around mine just to remind me of what I'm denying my aching dick.

"Where'd you learn to do that?" I can't help asking once her tongue has left my mouth.

"Med school."

"Good answer."

"Mulder, am I hurting you? Is your wound okay?"

"Wound?"

With her breasts against my chest and her pubic bone pressing against my hard cock, I can barely feel my recent injury. I grind into her.

"Scully, do you feel like...?"

"Like...?"

"Doin' it?"

"Hoo boy," she says with a smile.

I roll us over until she's under me. My body is ready to get serious. I kiss her again before reaching down between us to guide myself into her. This is truly a momentous occasion. After nearly seven years of idiotic denial, we're finally on the brink of consummating our previously indefinable relationship. It's only fitting we had to run from Bigfoot to get here.

"You ready, Scully?"

"Damn it, Mulder, hurry up and get inside me." She has the decency to even look a little desperate. I love this woman.

"I love you, Scully."

"Now, Mulder!"

Okay, okay. I cautiously glide into her. She sucks in a breath of air and holds it. I push a little more. Oh, she feels so good. Her thighs cradle me. She's warm liquid beneath me. Around me. Her moist heat presses against me. Envelops me. I move deeper into her. When she moans, I lay all my weight on her, in her, and she sighs into my neck.

"Oh, Scully," I sigh right back.

She shuts me up by kissing me. I guess it's up to me to determine what comes next, no pun intended. I withdraw from her, slowly, almost completely and hold myself still. Waiting. Waiting for her. She lifts her hips to bring me back and I slam into her, causing her to bark out my name. I pull out of her again, nearly disconnecting our bodies, and I pause once more. She whimpers and I thrust into her. Hard. Her fingers dig my arms where she's gripping me. I bite her shoulder, I think. My focus is on the part of me that is joined with her. I surge in and out of her. Slow, even, delicious. A wonderful rhythm punctuated by Scully's sighs.

"Mulder?"

Is Scully talking to me?

"Hmm?" I moan or grunt or something.

"I love you, too," she whispers. My movement into her ceases for a second while her words work their way through the rush of blood thrumming over my eardrums. She has never said these words to me before. I don't dare begin to think what they will mean when Scully and I are done here and we resume our regular lives. If I think too much about her words now, I will most certainly weep. I won't be able to finish this act of love we are sharing.

"Good," I manage to grunt.

To avoid crying, I select a new rhythm, a faster, more insistent pace. Scully seems pleased. I thrust into her, hard and swift, jarring her beneath me until I can feel my own orgasm approaching, overtaking me. I've reached the point of no return. I spill into her, my eyes squeeze shut and her name is forced from my throat. A
Series of hot, sticky explosions throb out of me and into her.

She is mine.

She is mine.

She is mine.

When there is nothing left in me, I roll off her and gather her to my chest. I'm slicked with sweat and so is she. The room smells of sex. My semen is already flowing out of her, slicking her thighs. I trace a finger through it, then let my hand remain there, resting on her leg. She is falling asleep. Her lashes rest on flushed cheeks and her hair sticks to her brow and to my sweaty chest. Today is the best day I've ever lived. Bar none. After all, I have been acquitted. I have found the woman I love loves me, too.

And I saw Bigfoot.

THE END


Although I promised myself when I first started writing X- Files fanfic that I would only write case files and NEVER, EVER write a Scully-and-Mulder-Do-It-Smut story, I've fallen from grace and finally crossed that line (or gutter, whatever the case may be). Gotta say, there's lots of company on this side of the line!

I've written a follow-up fic to "Acquitted" called "Encore." If you're interested, check my website.


Return to Bump In The Night