The Fourth Day
Rating: NC-17, M/Sk slash. PWP: a pure, sensual, self-indulgent exercise in Mulder and Skinner appreciation. Sequel to "Getaway". No spoilers. This, like the first story, is set in some grey foggy area of the first season. Please forgive any anachronistic references to daytime TV programs; I've no idea if Regis and Kathie Lee even existed 1993 or '94, or whether they were birthed straight from an evil government cloning vat mere moments before their first broadcast. No copyright infringement intended. Archive MSSS; archive elsewhere by request. Feedback can be sent to me at: eliade@drizzle.com
*****
"Somebody tell me this is not happening."
Skinner stared almost mournfully out the window as he spoke, his unfocused gaze riding abroad in the thick snowflake-laced sky that was steadily whiting out the city. The window was a square of snow knitted in white and the lightest shades of grey; the knitting was furious. It was, as Mulder had commented a few days earlier, a real northern blizzard that had arrived and descended on Chicago, and if Skinner had in the dawn's early hours dreamed of a grey-haired grey aunt, riding in on a fast train and disembarking to inflict herself on an unthrilled family, knitting in her bag, a furious scowl on her wintry face, he certainly did not remember it now while looking out into the sky, but it would have made an apt metaphor.
"Okay, it's not happening," Mulder said from his rumpled oasis of bed. "It's not snowing. We're not stuck here. I'm not the most well-fucked man in the western hemisphere. And I'm not eating this last muffin."
Skinner turned. Mulder lay sprawled back against a plumped buttress of feather pillows, bridged by his breakfast tray. He was buttering a muffin with messy reckless strokes of a tiny knife, and his easy, imperturbable face wore about a dozen expressions Skinner might have catalogued had he been so inclined, blending sensual abstraction, calm, satiety, concentration and then, suddenly, mild disgust--as the muffin's friable edge crumbled into countless particles, most of which landed in his steaming coffee. He was naked--visible from the waist up, sheeted from the waist down. One wayward frond of hair stuck straight out from his left temple. He looked rumpled, sleepy, and incredibly familiar.
Skinner stared at him with subliminal appreciation, then recalled himself to the situation, pulled himself into the posture of an upright government executive, and glared at him. It irked him that whereas he had woken, showered, and dressed with an eye to their departure schedule, Mulder had woken, rolled over, called room service, and ordered a lavish and arterially challenging breakfast, which he'd been comfortably eating when Skinner emerged from the bathroom, at which time his subordinate, insubordinate (damn the man) agent had grinned at him and nodded wordlessly at the drape-covered window, beyond which lay the snowbound city, the fact of which Skinner had just discovered, along with the fact that the airport was shut down, the trains were not running, and the roads were impassable.
Damn the man. Skinner could not help but feel this was somehow Mulder's fault. Well--hadn't he as much as admitted to it? He imagined Mulder conjuring down the spirits of ice and darkness, and the mental picture he received didn't seem all that farfetched. Turning away from Mulder, Skinner moved a few steps to the desk, where, with one hand resting heavily on the receiver of the desk phone, he debated calling down to the front desk again. But to what purpose? He'd already established the inevitable. All he could do now was call HQ and give Kim the news.
Kim, I'm trapped in the Chicago Ramada, snowed in with Fox Mulder, please don't send help until I've fucked every last ounce of come from his blessed body and cored the heart from that tight little apple of an ass, thanks, Kim, and by the way Fed-Ex a strait-jacket up when you have a chance, better make that two. God help me, boy, if you don't stop licking that butter off your fingers I'm going to ram them right up your sweet butt and that's all the lube you're going to get before I screw you senseless, Jesus Christ if you aren't already well beyond that point.
His brain unscrolling a full ream of things he had no intention of saying aloud, Walter Skinner made the necessary phone calls to civilization, informing his assistant of his circumstances, cancelling meetings, dictating messages, briefing her on desktop matters, and in general rearranging his schedule to accommodate Mother Nature, who at the moment was looking remarkably like a meddlesome and overly- dramatic yenta.
I didn't need this, he thought, looking again at Mulder as he hung up the phone. I was ready to cut this orgy short and return to business. Damn it, he was ready. Now he looks like the sultan's favorite catamite, lounging around, a private harem of one.
Mulder looked up then as if reading some stray thought from Skinner's mind, or perhaps just reading the ambivalence in his disgruntled face. "They might have another room freed up now," he said, his lucid eyes locking their gaze onto Skinner's with captive, mastering force.
Skinner could never help but marvel at Fox Mulder. The man blew up like Mount St. Helen's at the most arcane points of honor and the most hopeless of causes, but could deliver lines with the aplomb of a Zen master that anyone else would have loaded and launched with an unbearable freight of emotion. It disarmed him, befuddled him. He sighed.
"There's no point in that."
At once--as if this response were just the one he'd been waiting for to let him utterly off the hook--Mulder smiled. It was a wide sunny smile, the kind that obscured the charming but bone-deep dementia of the man. "I'm glad you still feel that way."
Warily, grumpily, Skinner narrowed his eyes. "Just because we're sharing a room for another day"--god, he hoped it was just a day--"doesn't mean we're going to. . ." He trailed off, a host of possible acts clamoring for pride of place in his mental catalogue, most of which they had performed during the last three days. On the bed. On the floor. In the shower.
"Thingie," Mulder finished for him cheerfully.
Skinner glowered--or tried to; it was hard to tell if he were successful given the pleased and placid look on Mulder's face. "I have work to do," he said. "I have a laptop and obligations--and plenty of time." He paused, frowned pointedly. "You have work to do, too."
"I didn't bring my laptop. And I have forty-seven accumulated vacation days and a mandate from the bureau's trained Freudian to take as many as possible before the year is out."
Skinner was momentarily nonplussed, but had to admit Mulder was actually justified; the most recent stress analysis rating in Mulder's bureau file had carried a recommendation for the agent to take two weeks vacation 'ASAP', a leave that recent events had not yet contrived to allow.
"Fine," Skinner grudged. "Just don't bother me while I'm working."
"No TV?"
"I don't care if you watch TV. Just don't. . .talk."
And Mulder didn't talk. He finished his muffin. He flicked on the TV. He drank coffee as Regis and Kathie Lee concocted curried sweet-potato latkes--an abomination Skinner could not entirely block out--and interviewed Maria Shriver. He switched channels to what sounded like a screwball drawing-room comedy and drank more coffee. He made a small grizzling sound that turned into a yawn but carried no coherent words, so that Skinner could not reasonably voice an objection despite its somehow provocative tone.
As Skinner valiantly attempted to concentrate and make notes on the reports he was reading, Mulder moved his breakfast tray to one side of his bed and then, his eyes pinned to the television, performed a series of lazy stretching movements that involved both the visible expanse of his upper body and the masked lower length of him that still lingered under the sheets: undulations, sinuations, twists, torsion, a buckling and unbuckling of knees, a corkscrewing circulation of neck, convolutions of body that seemed the natural extensions of his coiled, intricate, serpentine self, gestures born from a helical inner frizz of cell and thought suddenly allowed expression.
Skinner, ostensibly focused on his computer screen, watched this careless demi-dance from the corner of his eye until he could bear silence no more. "What the hell are you doing?"
Mulder didn't break his gaze from the television, on which a psychic
advisor was pledging viewers her words of wisdom, toll-free if you called now. "Hmm?" Mulder's hand began moving toward the phone.
"Stop fidgeting, Agent Mulder. You're working my nerves." The disclosure might have been an unwise concession of leverage, but the other man's slow sensual movements were raising a restless, sympathetic ache in Skinner's own limbs.
"Okay," Mulder said absently, surprising a frown from the other man.
Skinner watched in rising dismay as Mulder pulled the hotel phone onto his lap, nudged the receiver between shoulder and ear, and began dialing. "Tell me you're not calling that psychic," he blurted.
"I'm ordering a bowl of cereal from room service--and some more coffee. Want anything?"
Skinner shook his head, squared his shoulders, and returned to his work, but Mulder's quiet voice, monotonous yet with that alluring, nearly subvocal rasp, made a distractive tickle in his ears.
". . .no corn flakes? How can you not have corn flakes? . . .oh. Mm. No--I don't like raisins. No. Sorry, granola is a valid lifestyle choice but not one I can get behind. . .I knew you'd say 'bacon' sooner or later. Marjorie, you're just trying to fatten me up. It won't work. I don't suppose they'd let me come down to the kitchen and make an omelette. . .no, never mind. Send up two more of those blueberry bran muffins--no, three--and some more of that whipped butter in the little cups, a bowl of strawberries, some powdered sugar, and another pot of coffee. And the New York Times, if it came in. Thanks. . ." He listened, then laughed. "I'm not sure yet. Maybe I'll just move in, live an old-fashioned life of ease, room service and fresh sheets every morning. . .I think so too. Thanks."
*How the hell do you know the kitchen manager's name*, Skinner wanted to ask, but refused to, for to do so would have betrayed his interest. Statistics on laboratory evidence test clearance rates filed down his screen; submission standard levels, accuracy, response-time. He read, jotted notes, received a phone call from Kim, who then patched him through to the head of the FBI's forensic lab section for a base-touching brief on top cases. When he got off the phone he removed his glasses, rubbed the bridge of his nose, and then surprised himself with a sudden yawn.
Resuming the small but aching burden of his glasses, he focused on the room beyond his makeshift desk. Mulder's food had just been delivered, and to answer the door the other man had donned a pair of Academy-issue sweat pants, which hung loosely on his hips. His well-formed back and the lightly-clad curvature of his backside were presented to Skinner's view, a display of lankily articulated muscle that tapered gently to a neat waist, following the long stem of spine down to where it cleft his ripe ass.
What a handful, Skinner thought, brooding pleasurably on the sight. When Mulder turned and caught his eye, Skinner didn't bother to conceal the renewed smolder of interest he was feeling. Mulder grinned at him.
"Want a muffin?" he asked, raising his tray slightly and waggling his brows.
"No."
"Coffee--"
"Put the tray down and come here."
Mulder put the tray on the end of the bed and was beside him with gratifying dispatch. "I thought you wanted to work--eek--"
Having grabbed Mulder between the legs with no forewarning, Skinner now leaned back in his chair, a leonine smile turned on his agent. He did not relinquish his grip, but rubbed his thumb and fingers hard through the light cloth, across what was rapidly hardening to match his touch. "Make that sound again," he said, not quite laughing.
Mulder squirmed. "Make me," he muttered challengingly. "Oh god," he groaned a moment later, when Skinner roughly pulled the ties of his sweatpants free and let their loose drape slide down his thighs.
Without further preamble Skinner took Mulder's ass in both hands and filled his mouth with the lifting blade of his cock. It was live flesh, jumping, warm, and tasting of an ecstacy spent the previous night, which still saturated the smooth fabric of skin. He could feel that skin stretching and blushing against the pressure of his mouth, felt the velvety tip go slick with pre-ejaculate as it was drawn across the ribbed vault, felt it blaze when he worked his tongue along the underside of its jutted ridge. Mulder's right hand cradled the back of his head; with his left he was clumsily trying to remove Skinner's glasses.
Feeling this, Skinner withdrew his mouth--slowly, deliberately--to the accompaniment of a soft, worried hiss from Mulder.
"Don't stop," Mulder pleaded, when Skinner had released the scalded head of his cock and was considering it closely as if deciding his next best approach.
"I've got some more work to do," Skinner said, squeezing Mulder's ass once before letting go and leaning back in his chair again.
"Yes," Mulder said with a meaningful glare, "you do."
"Stay like that," Skinner said, holding Mulder's gleaming grey-eyed stare. He let the likelihood of other words roll on his tongue for a moment, savoring them, then added, "Until I'm ready for you."
Amazement turned to disbelief as Mulder registered Skinner's orders. "Am I supposed to get off on this--this authoritarian manipulation of yours?"
"I know what you like," Skinner replied evenly.
"You think I won't jerk off? Don't bet on it."
Skinner smiled: a faint, knowing twist of lips. "If you do. . ." He didn't finish, but simply continued to stare up at Mulder, dryly amused and more than a little self-satisfied.
"Some threat that is," Mulder said, yet though he looked frustrated, even pissed off, he also had the torn, longing expression of one who knows where his best hope lies.
"Move aside, Agent Mulder--you're blocking my laptop," Skinner said, his tone carrying the perfected nuance of arrogant command.
Scowling and smoldering--the very image of precious resentment-- Mulder refastened his pants and flounced off. Hell if he didn't flounce, Skinner thought to himself, swallowing a grin. He'd surely done it deliberately, given that insolent little bump of hip in Skinner's direction. Tall and lean, Mulder when wearing his flat, utilitarian G-man shoes moved almost awkwardly, or with erratic athletic grace; but in private--barefoot and half-naked--he seemed to have an entirely different flow, a gait that was sensual, casual, and au natural.
Returning to his reports, Skinner couldn't help but give some fraction of his attention to the small muttering sounds emanating from the area of Mulder's bed. It made for an enjoyable soundtrack to his work, actually.
Nettled, battling both his temper and the uprising between his legs, Mulder returned to his lounging nest on the bed and drew his second breakfast tray of the morning down toward him. Despite himself, he shot Skinner a glance, then hid a vulpine smile in the consumption of a muffin. It wouldn't do to betray just how much he enjoyed the other man's little game. As temper eased and arousal remained steady, Mulder's natural perversion took rein and he relished the ache of his body and the necessity of waiting.
He idled over coffee, and drew out the destruction of a single muffin for at least half an hour, dividing his attention between the nonsensical movie unreeling onscreen, and Skinner, who in the wake of his own rebuff was looking increasingly uncomfortable. Mulder gloated to himself and made a show of licking butter from his fingers with apparent unconcern. He could almost feel the other man's temperature rise by degrees; from the corner of his eye he watched Skinner's flush build and the tiny twitches of stress begin.
Mulder fluffed his pillows, stretched back, let a hand rest on one thigh (fingers dangling near his balls). He sipped coffee, stretched, rolled a strawberry in powdered sugar and ate it--slowly. The hardness of his cock abated only slightly; he was still riding the rude jolt of lust Skinner had delivered. Given the leisure to reflect, the older man's ingenuity intrigued him. Granted, Skinner had proven his flexibility of limbs and limits in a number of different ways. That thing with the champagne bottle, for instance--and that other thing, with the raspberry chambord jam. . .he had no aversion to belts, or the innovative use of silk ties; he had never avowed his indisputable masculinity on an objection to bubble baths or rose petals; and of course, in Philadelphia, there'd been that escapade with the women's lingerie, followed by the ride back to the hotel in Mulder's rental car, which when all was said and done they'd been lucky to survive. . . .
Mulder's face took on the smoldering glow of reminiscence. What had he been thinking about now. . .oh, yes. But despite their mild indulgence in discipline scenarios, Skinner had never asserted himself in quite this way. It was new, and it was too damn bad this streak of minor sadism was appearing only now, near the end of their trip. Skinner had been holding out on him. They could have gotten far more mileage out of this, if only he'd acted up sooner.
Mulder considered throwing an admonishing strawberry at the other man, then stayed his hand. Let things escalate a bit further at their own pace. Instead of direct action, Mulder was determined to gently but inexorably undermine the other man's resolve. Until he howled. What a joy it was to poke at his reserve, to fire the full armament at his defensive walls--what a shame he couldn't do this more often on government time without compromising his own borders and boundaries.
Settling back further, Mulder by increments stared more openly at Skinner, giving him the kind of study usually reserved only for marble statues and zoo animals. He was a bit of both, to Mulder's view; by turns a regal Roman cast in stone, and a baited lion whose roar and sharp teeth were just barely interred by protocol. Tall and built on an awesome scale, with a broadly drawn and distinctive face, he could be mistaken for no one else even in a crowd of a thousand. His face was bluntly formed, with the hammered, weathered look of a man whose not-too- distant ancestors had tilled the earth. The roughness of it appealed to Mulder; its flattened, imperfect aspect made Skinner seem somehow more dangerous, as if he were channeling a more primeval appetite, that of a Medici prince--Lorenzo the Magnificent, most likely--or maybe a tiger shark. The hint that at any moment he might sink teeth or dagger deep into Mulder's body was not without its appeal.
The capricious, romanticizing nature of Mulder's observations buoyed his arousal; eyelids lowering, he half-consciously played with one nipple, chafing its surface and teasing it erect.
"You've made reservations on a flight for tomorrow morning," Skinner was confirming into his phone while tapping a pencil on his legal pad. Tap, tap, tap- tap-tap. His absent gaze swung Mulder's way, locked on where he was stroking himself. "Thanks, Kim. . .well, we can still hope. . ." He listened, grunted once in vague response, eyes lifting to fix on Mulder's. "I appreciate your concern, but I do have my cuffs--and my gun."
Mulder grinned, accurately suspecting the nature of Kim's concern. As Skinner folded up his cellular, Mulder teased, "When are you going to use those cuffs on me, Walter?"
"Don't tempt me."
"But I'm trying to tempt you."
"This is becoming obvious."
Mulder let a slow, zealous smile steal over his face. "I want you to come over here, Walter--come over here--"
"I'm busy--"
"--and have your wicked way with me."
Skinner felt his cock stir in the confines of his briefs; blood brimmed to the surface as the beat of his pulse quickened its blows, hammering his flesh erect as if straightening a nail. He shook his head at Mulder. "I'm busy."
"Mmm. Look at it snow. . .nothing like a wind to stir the blood and blow the body warm. . .nothing like a storm to wind. . .mmm. . .gyre, whined, winned. Turning and turning in the widening gyre--"
"Shut up," Skinner said, almost affectionately.
"A Shape with lion body and the head of a man," purred Mulder. With abrupt but graceful movement, he rose and removed the devastated breakfast tray from the bed and laid it aside, then bounced across the mattress toward Skinner, arriving at the end of the bed with a small creak of springs. "Want me to rub your shoulders?"
"No."
Mulder came off the bed and sidled behind Skinner's chair, where the other man would have had to crane his neck to see him. Skinner stared at his non-reflective monitor screen and wondered what to expect. He waited for Mulder's touch, but it didn't come. When he did glance back over his shoulder, Mulder was leaning against the window, gazing out into the darkly flurried day. His ripely sweet ass was eye-level and close enough to bite. Skinner bit his lower lip instead and turned away again.
"This could go on for days," Mulder said in a detached voice.
Skinner's cock pressed beseechingly against the inside of his trousers, flushed with its wanting. "I don't think so," he said cryptically. He felt rather than saw Mulder turn his way, then finally received the benediction of his hands. They rested on his shoulders a moment, warm and moderate weights, then began kneading the bunched muscles there. From shoulders and neck they worked their way up around his skull, thumbs exploring bone inch by inch, fingers brush-stroking gentle designs on his skin, gifted and curious.
It was too much. Skinner leaned back and surrendered, hungering for more. Twin palm leaves molded themselves under his chin, held him steady while two thumbs shuttled across his cheekbones, his aching lips. Bliss. He released a long breath, and thought of Sharon, and let the thought go, and wondered about the condition of his soul, and let the worry go. He could feel the warm rub of abdomen, a hard but silken pillow fitting itself to the back of his skull. Gooseflesh struck the length of his body and he could not remain seated and remain sane.
"Victory," Mulder laughed, as Skinner tumbled him back onto the bed.
Skinner said nothing, merely stunned the other man to silence with a kiss. Within a few loosely sequential minutes his glasses, shirt, shoes and socks, had all been flung overboard from the bed, and Skinner's mouth was dancing cruelly across the length of Mulder's body. Gasps were pushing up out of Mulder's lungs in synch with Skinner's touches; the rougher Skinner's mouth and teeth, the more rapid and desperate were the sounds Mulder made. Skinner yanked Mulder's sweatpants down off his body, releasing the swollen bow of his cock, baring his ass and his finely tailored legs.
Entirely naked, Mulder seemed younger, wilder, and it would have been hard to place his identity or profession without the clues of his clothes. Not FBI agent, certainly. Model? Actor? Exotic dancer--hustler? These shades of fantasy Mulders excited Skinner's imagination. He rubbed his hand across Mulder's mouth, his chin, grabbed his neck and pinched his nipples, letting his gestures briefly take on the flavor of violence and license, which seemed to stoke Mulder's hunger even higher. A light backhand to the face made Mulder cry out with anguished pleasure, made his hips lift off the bed.
Skinner slapped him again--once, twice--using the flat of his palm. Mulder began to buck against him urgently, wordlessly. His eyes were shut, his face flaming and uplifted. The next slap made him cry out again and his hand leapt to cover Skinner's own. Holding him in a tensely-fingered grip, he kissed Skinner's hand, licked its palm and bit it frantically, then urged it down across his own body. Skinner jerked his hand away and rolled Mulder over. Blood pounded in his ears, a susurrus of relentless feeling that washed in and out like the crash of sea waves. He struck again, spanks that impacted with almost no force withheld now, and yet Mulder was pushing up into his hand, rising off the bed to meet him, crying aloud: "God, yes!"
But they'd done this before, and those few times had raised a fear in Skinner of his own capacity for violence. These were acts he and Sharon had never pursued; she would not have welcomed such force; Skinner himself would not have dared to test her limits--or his own. And with Mulder, though Skinner had given into the temptation, it was somehow even more risky, more improper. He could not bring himself to continue, though it seemed Mulder would accept whatever Skinner was willing to give, even to the point of consummation.
He broke off the blows, let his hand merely rest on the slap-blushed surface of Mulder's ass. Mulder jerked even at that light touch; his breath was a gasping appassionato jag. "Don't--stop--" he managed to say.
Skinner winced at the fierce tone, whose hardness couldn't mask its breaking edge. "I'm done," he said flatly.
"Bastard!" Mulder spun to one side and glared.
"I'm done with that," Skinner said, feeling some clarification might be needed. Mulder, however, continued to rest on his hip and glare at him. "I want you to fuck me," Skinner said, watching Mulder's face.
Mulder swallowed. "Last time--"
"Practice makes perfect," Skinner said, curtly interruptive. He worked free of his trousers, tossed them to one side, and then rummaged the necessities out of the bedside table drawer.
"I don't like to be pushed into this," Mulder said.
Skinner turned and stared at him, eyes narrowing. Though still glutted with all the signs of arousal, the younger man also looked disgruntled, upset, worried. Skinner moved fully onto the bed again, stretching out a bit and then, when Mulder didn't move near, dragging him up to lie next to him. "I want you to fuck me," Skinner repeated, staring into Mulder's eyes from the distance of just a few short inches. At this proximity, Mulder seemed more easily reassured. Already he was relaxing, smiling.
"You do, huh. . .sounds like an order."
"Take it as you like."
Mulder's smile broadened now. "That sounds like an offer."
"Mm. I want to watch you come."
Mulder's lips parted; his heavily-lidded eyes gleamed slightly. "Oh. .."
"Come hard," Skinner said evenly, making that sound like an order.
Catching his breath, Mulder pulled himself unsteadily to his knees and sought for the lube. "I like this new approach of yours," he murmured, working lube onto his fingers. "I didn't know you could be such a prick."
"Merry Christmas."
"A little late, aren't you." Despite his rebuke, Mulder gazed down at Skinner with a pleased and anticipatory expression.
As strong, oil-slicked fingers worked into his ass, Skinner sighed, smiled thinly. "Ungrateful brat."
Mulder blinked at him. "Hold on, let me see what I've got in my stocking."
Skinner felt the blunt edge of Mulder's cock press for entry to his body. He groaned, rather happily. "Do it."
Face resolved with concentration, Mulder slowly pierced him, while Skinner lay back and watched the show. He didn't take his eyes from Mulder's face; all the progress of his pleasure was clearly written there: the first, kissing thrill of his cockhead to the tense entrance of Skinner's body was betrayed by the music on his trembling lips; his tormented portrait mirrored by degrees the slow sheathe of his length; and then the triumphant flush on his cheeks evidenced the ecstasy of full impalement.
Skinner growled with encouragement as Mulder hesitated above him. He looked like an angel surprised, like a moist pink-skinned rose in full dishabille, tumbling into its constituent petals, coming undone around him. He seemed dazed by his fortune, drugged. His body moved at first with languid, experimental thrusts and twists, and then--when Skinner gave clear leave, urging him on--he began to drive his cock harder, faster, a man so astounded to find that the key fit the lock he was compelled to prove the truth of it, again and again.
He grabbed Skinner's hips, wrapped muscled legs around his own slim hips and danced in place, slamming his body forward, grinding himself at the gate where his swollen cock had battered through, lifting Skinner to him with an extraordinary display of strength, holding him fast as if afraid he would escape. He might have freed a hand to aid Skinner's release, but he was too caught up in his driving need, and Skinner didn't care, his own hands were free enough and it was marvelous to watch Mulder ride toward his bliss, watch him grow wilder, feel the raw tattoo of his embedded cock grow more ruthless. Head thrown back, his body twisting with arabesque lightning that drove backwards from his pumping cock, Mulder was utterly self-absorbed, blinded, grace-stricken.
My legs are cramping, my ass is pounding, he doesn't know what he's doing to me--it didn't matter. Skinner was approaching his own blinding bliss; it was rolling up on him, a huge dark wave. When it crashed down, he shouted, thrusting his swollen cock through the grip of his fist, clamping down brutally on the sliding thorn inside him, hearing a cry far above as he was answered.
Eons later, they lay in a lush, crumpled heap of flesh, twined together, sated and bemused.
"Storm's not letting up," Mulder said sleepily, cheek pressed against the rock of Skinner's chest. "Biblical proportions," he added a few moments later, blurrily, not quite sensibly.
"Thanks," Skinner murmured. A tiny smirk pulled at the corners of his lips. He felt Mulder grinning in return: a small tug of muscles brushing his own chest hairs.
"Come hard," Mulder said. The quote was dry, but he rubbed Skinner's arm gently as he spoke.
"I like it when you follow orders," Skinner said, swallowing a yawn that turned his voice into a velvety rumble.
"I'm going to keep this snow up until March if you're not careful."
"Spooky. . ."
"Disney?"
"Never mind."
"Time for lunch, I think. You like the sound of steak sandwiches, inch-thick fries, beer, ice cream--"
"What kind of ice cream?"
"I'm thinking butter pecan."
"I'm thinking this had better not turn up on your expense account."
"I'm thinking I've got to start attending more conferences. You think my boss would be pleased? He's a tough nut to crack. . ."
"He's got a lot of cracked nuts to deal with. One in particular."
"I'm going to tell Scully you said that."
Skinner caught a handful of Mulder's hair and raised his saucy, satisfied face to view. "Shower. Lunch. Then into the cuffs with you."
Mulder smiled in answer. "Bribery will get you everywhere."
End.