by C.M. Decarnin
Special Agent Mulder had had a lot to think about. Under other circumstances, having been fucked physically by a... male... would have been preeminent among those thoughts. As it was, the bare fact took a fourth or fifth place. Behind "How", "Who", sometimes a secret "If".
At home he'd gone naked down the hall to answer his phone. To turn on the stereo. To watch tv.
To see if the refrigerator was running.
The ghost or incubus or X-rated poltergeist had not returned, and his very skin felt lonely. He'd gradually resumed his clothed ways. But his wonder at the event had never faded, as much at his own response as at the fact itself. To say it had been uncharacteristic... he had not theorized or made notes with charts and graphs and slides mentally, he'd not had so much as a single intellectual synaptic connection after that full-mouthed kiss, he'd simply... ignited. Nor had he protested and whinged and backed and temporized at the possibility of doing something new, sexually, he'd simply... bent over. Had his mind been taken control of? Had his very being been commandeered, his own soul set aside, and some sort of possession taken over him?
If so, there was a lot to be said for it.
He couldn't kid himself that he had even a molecule of an objection. But shouldn't he? If something overrode your will, if something overturned every conscious habit and way of life you'd ever had so that you spread your legs and liked it like a junkie shouldn't you feel horribly violated and enraged, or at the very least, concerned?
Instead of waltzing down the hall, fanny to the breeze, soliciting encores?
The more so since he had acute suspicion it had not been any of his dear departed friends. That it was someone who had never meant him any good (he told himself, in no shape for extra ambiguities).
Should not that make him worry even more?
More than any clue within the act itself, he recognized his frame of mind. Here, he'd been before. A sexual strafing-run that had left him sitting pondering the ways of God, most notably the way of a serpent upon a rock, instead of chasing after the perp to kick him such a good one in the goolies. At least that dark night he had felt the insult of that kiss, alongside a state of going up in flames. At least he'd had the grace to be conflicted.
But the man who'd done that dastard deed was dead, and so, apparently, were all of Mulder's fine moral distinctions.
How could he not feel pain, outrage, self-hatred, self-contempt?
How come he felt -- light-hearted?
Even after so many days, even with his disappointment that the mysterious visit hadn't been only the first salvo in a prolonged campaign to dominate his very being and haul his soul away to hell, he still could feel the core awareness of the ecstasy that had ravished him: that he was loved, approved, admired and desired, that he deserved the unstinting pleasure bestowed by a grateful universe upon the wonder that he was.
Okay, he got the light-hearted part.
There might or might not be Russian treachery in this. There might or might not be proof of a Beyond. But shouldn't his main concern, at long long last, now really be whether he had crossed without a Customs check into the Land of Green Ginger?
We don't know where we're going but we're on our way had almost been his national anthem up till now. But he had always known that all the dread things people thought about him could come to pass. There was a line there. It was just that he had always thought he'd know, when he went over it. Every nutjob that returned to sanity had always said, there was a part of them that knew, throughout it all, they were nutjobs.
He didn't feel that way. He wondered, and he theorized, he hoped and prayed. But there was no part of him that stood aside, however frozenly, and said, "Right, Mulder, sure."
He felt such happiness.
Even in something as dumb as taking a pee, because bathrooms reminded him. He still worked late, he still obsessed, he was still hauled into midair by every passing conclusion like a frog at a skeet-shoot, and no one but Scully let themselves get close enough to notice any difference. And she didn't say anything. Maybe she thought he was doing a postapocalypso in his heart, complete with castanets and heel-stomps, because the Smoking Man was dead, dead dead, dead, dead, thrrrrrrrrocka-tocka-tocka-tocka-tocka tock tock. Thrrrrrrrrock!
It could be she was right. It certainly didn't hurt that very few people were now trying to kill or kidnap or perform unauthorized brain surgery upon him. Or her. Yet there had been a desolation in his mind, unaffected for better or worse by the finality of the tone of voice of cave-killer missiles streaking out of no-nonsense Black Ops choppers into irreplaceable ancient Anasazi cliff-dwellings and exploding into giant balls of fate-sealing fire.
He didn't know. He just hadn't felt that great. Since Scully's baby and everything.
Maybe the kid somehow fulfilled a biological imperative he hadn't known he'd had. Leaving him a reproductive empty husk.
Just somehow since that night that seemed to give him so much that he wanted -- Scully safe, a normal kid, one enemy he'd never see alive again -- life hadn't been worth living.
And now he was happy!
Today he'd worked so late, obsessed so much, that by the time he realized he had to pee, he'd barely made it to the urinal in time. The pee leaving him to play its next part in the great chain of creation was such a relief he smiled, pictured himself doing a little pee-dance down the line of urinals built when a lot more people must have worked down here, pictured the janitor looking at him tight-lipped, refrained. He waited, knowing there was pee backed up his ureters. Sure enough, a long last squirt.
Ahh. Buddha was right. Not much could beat the blessing of true emptiness.
He jiggled a bit to get the last drop off.
He started to make that slight leaning forward motion of tucking his cock back into his pants, when something pushed aside his hand and -- grasped him. From above, fingers wrapping under his thickness invisibly.
He gasped in air. And kept gasping. Something pushed him, like a full body-check walking into him, and again, again, until he hit the wall that separated the stalls from the urinals, while the light, sure, caressing hold on him never loosened. His hips pushed forward into it, shoulders against the wall, head back, and he felt a leg on either side of him, a mouth settling gently on his own. He made a long nnnnnnnnnnn sound of consent and need, moving, sliding on the slick tile of the wall, pressing his palms back against it to hold himself upright, pushing again into the hold around his organ. It felt... so... good... His mouth was just being kissed as if by someone after a long absence, a kiss of love much more than sex. The sense of a body he felt against him was almost as if he were imagining it, a thing he wanted so much it appeared, but not something he could grip, himself, or hold. A tongue parted his lips, just for a moment, and the kiss had ended. He felt a long sliding, down his body. The grip on his erection shifted.
Lips touched the head of his cock.
"Nnnnnnnnnnnno-o-o-o-oh-oh-oh-oh --" Negation in him, of what, he did not know, as wet softness on the end of his cock moved in circles within the gentle hold of the lips, and the beauty of the sensation made him weak-kneed. He felt his cock moved up and down in a penile nod, and laughed, astonished, and sucked breath hard as gentle fingers slid down the underside of his erection onto his balls, and under them, and lifted, as long tongue washed down, and the mouth hooded him. Soft glottis against his meatus made him wriggle and jump, all inward struggle against his own muscles, head turned, like some bound slave. Gossamer massaging of his testicles, the mouth moving up his penis slowly, and back down further, with swallowing sensations making his hips push out, heels up off the ground --
The long, slow, unendurable suck back up his reaching organ crumpled him, beginning at the knees, undermining his hips. His shoulders slid down the tile, his feet slid away, inexorably sucking softly re-engulfed him and he bucked, in a motion that ended with him helplessly on the floor, one shoulder propped still awkwardly against the wall, his head thrown back, one hand groping on the tiles, the other stretched spasmodically into the air. Gentle licks and rolls and wraps of the tongue were mining pleasures from him like jewels from a diamond-bed, each find more shimmeringly delicious than the last, brilliant against a setting of black velvet darkness -- his eyes had closed, his senses all converged down to the source from which awareness surged, need and fulfillment in one all-powerful tide rising through him. He felt a hand slide up around his groin, over his belly, onto his chest with ever-increasing pressure, holding him down, exerting possession, clutching his clothing; then riding down, in an arc, over him, as urgent sucking on his cock described needfulness, slipping up and down the wet hot column beggingly, until the hand dragged across his trousers and among the petals of his open fly, touched him with its fingertips, the base of his cock and the skin around it, tracery of adoration that made Mulder stretch into the circle of the fingers, closing carefully to capture him, hold his pleading shaft in balm and easement only until the next tongue-enfolded slide down on his love-flesh curled him in, up, out, into a squirm of lust-wanting. He scrabbled with his feet against the floor but they slid and he couldn't get himself arched as he wanted, and he started panting with whining, needing sounds as the mouth absorbed him full-length. He pushed against the floor, his ally in the battle for more touch, bucked, thrust hard into the throat that swallowed him and came down further as he fucked, accepting into heat and deep red pressure the demand, imperious, of all he was. His cock was all he was. As the tongue forced against him hard, he slid himself into the depths. His breath was stertorous, his body all but disappearing into the lunge of loins and thrust of phallus home, into blood-hot too-tight slit of throat burying him, holding, till no muscular force could get him further, contractions only wiggling infinitesimally and perfectly the delicate flesh against the most delicate of flesh, or nothingness, perfect, perfect, perfect until it opened irretrievably into the beyond perfection of the other side of orgasm, his body arched up like a longbow, his cum shot as a hot gold arrow into the target that he could not see.
Tongue stilled on him, then moved to pull final ecstasy into his cock, into him all over, his body rocking to the side, and to the other side, as the tongue moved.
Slowly the blowjob slid off of his cock.
"Don't go," he whispered. His voice felt cracked and dried out. "Don't go."
He felt his limp cock lifted and dropped floppily.
"You're only here for the sex?" He tried a smile fractured by exhaustion. A hand rested on his belly muscles. He whispered, "Who are you?"
He felt breath on his face.
The slightest scratch of stubble.
A kiss on his right cheek.
The hand reached under him. He felt a tug at his belt in back. He pushed at the floor, trying to sit up. He managed to wedge against the wall, trying to see what was being done. Of course he wouldn't be able to.
But he did.
He saw his Smith & Wesson in midair, then he saw it twirl like a whirligig, stop, twirl backwards fast as lightning, stop and shoot quick mock shots off at two ceiling-corners, flip and whirl even more spectacularly. He laughed, amazed. His gun performed a couple more wild-west spins, and then stopped, pointing up, suspended before his eyes.
Then slipped and hung, dangling upside-down from its trigger-guard.
Then lowered, and gently dropped into his lap.
He said the word, but no sound came out.
Cold and hot clenched in his stomach.
Of course he had no way to prove...
But no one had seen that. That dark night in his apartment. Unless they'd had infrared cameras trained on his every move.
They might have.
And who knew what the dead could see.
He should be able to answer that question.
But he couldn't remember anything of his time under the ground.
If this was even a dead person. Or any person. Or anything more than -- He didn't want to entertain that thought.
Perhaps you knew everything, once you were well and truly dead. Talk about access...
Nothing was touching him.
He had an impression as if someone had backed away, receded from him, and was gone.
The room felt empty.
He realized he was sitting on a restroom floor with his fly open and his gun lying in his hands. Not a flattering picture if somebody walked in.
Not wanting to, he pried himself up. He put his gun away, and zipped his pants.
Assaulted by a ghost in heat in the Hoover men's room.
His sex life certainly was looking up.
On to Glow