Title: Now-Resolved (NC-17) Author: IndigoMuse E-mail address: IndigoMuse@aol.com Distribution: Anywhere..but please let me know where. Disclaimer: They're not mine. I'll give them back in just a few pages time and I'm sure they'll be glad to go. Category: MSR Summery: A sequel - and finale - to Non-Resolved and Not-Resolved. If you want the vague storyline, you probably need to read them first. *This* piece does make some allusions to the others but has no plot as such ...I'm just trying to fulfil the requests for a happy, smutty ending.... OK...so I'm not getting any more imaginative in the way of titles but I'm still consistent... Now-Resolved. 1/2 This should not be a difficult task to perform. Open my door - walk for about 20 yards - knock on her door. Hardly sounds complicated. I've done the really difficult bit. I've spoken words that could have meant any number of things and heard her encapsulate their true meaning within the echo of her own. I told her I loved her. That was hard. This should be simple. So why can't I move? I'm confined to the edge of this bed by the immobility of legs that could not be more useless had they been cut away from me. I'm not measuring time but I know that I've been here far too long. I said I was coming over. From one motel room to another hardly constitutes a journey. I should be there now. She is waiting. But waiting for what? I told her I loved her. I know that I have to say more, something else, just something to clarify just how I...we... will pursue this but the astounding flood of revelation has left me floundering like flotsam in it's wake. It is far less that I need to figure out what I want to say than it is a case of my figuring out what she wants to hear. I have no idea at all and am absolutely and genuinely terrified of getting it wrong. If this had happened - the revelation, the declarations as opposed to the sex, further back along the line we'd come along, I might have been more confident in gauging just how I should act. I'd always imagined her to have a secret little romantic streak, to crave the adoring flattery, to want to be wined and dined...bought flowers....basically, old fashioned as it sounded, I had imagined that the way into Scully's heart and bed would be one of gentlemanly courtship. Although I locked all real thoughts of such pursuit in that neatly wrapped, never to be opened box, I had allowed myself moments of fanciful daydreaming along those lines always seeing myself the seducer and she the seduced but the personification of my idyllic romantic fantasy had pinned me to herself with strong tight arms on a motel floor and invited me to fuck her. Not a lot of romance in the expression of that sentiment...or in the fact that when my cock jumped at the chance, all too willingly I had followed. So in the aftermath of that I don't have a clue what she expects from me. I have told her I love her. She has told me she loves me. I dare not even try to define her words. I know beyond doubt that love is a sentiment that would never merit casual expulsion from her lips. Whatever else I can't figure out right now I do know that she means it....but means it how? There are more definitions of love than there are grains of sand on a beach. Unconsciously prompted to mobility and I find I'm making slow strides between my door and hers as I rerun the phone conversation in my mind. I know all the words that were spoken and still I recite them, in case I missed something, misunderstood something...but it all comes back to one word. More. More I told her....I want more. I know that when I spoke the words I meant them, but as she opens the door and I take her in with my eyes, her hastily hidden relief covered by the comfortingly familiar 'you're late again' scowl of irritation before the reluctant smile breaks I realise that once again I'd failed to be entirely honest with myself... I don't just want more. More will never be enough. I want it all. And before I can stop myself, I abandon all thought of poetic declarations, heartfelt confessions and with all the finesse of a ballet dancing rhinoceros I blurt the words out before I'm even through the door.... "I want it all Scully..." *********************** Where the hell is he? It's not exactly as if he has to organise anything to get here. Open a door, take a few steps...here I am. On my own. Where the hell is he? I'm pacing the small space between bed and wall in steady circles that would probably make me dizzy if I stopped to think about it. The longer it takes him to get here, the more time I have to think. I told him I loved him. I didn't intend to. The words escaped - tempted out by his own abstract confession. I might never have said it otherwise. But then he said he'd come...and he isn't here. It's only been minutes, but it only needed to be seconds. Even one minute is a minute too long. I'd had at least a moment, a brief interlude where exhilaration had been the governing emotion. He loves me. He loves me. He loves me. Like a little girl pulling petals off a daisy except I'd already got the final line I wanted. But now every second, every step, elicits doubts and questions..... What am I going to say? If this had been some other time...if the previous night had never happened, I might have been clearer about how to proceed, but then, if it had never happened I'd still be looking forward to a future of slicing up sentiment into manageable little chunks and hiding it away somewhere dark. It had been the best and the worst of things to do. It had told me how I felt. More remarkable to me, more unbelievable, it had told me how he felt. I couldn't let it be a starting point though. We couldn't ever go back but somehow had to start again. Even as, stood there clutching a silent telephone, the recollection of his touch sending waves of need across my flesh, tearing at nerve endings and pooling between my legs, I knew it couldn't happen again unless it was a beginning....Without that, all we would be were friends who fucked and I've no intention of hanging myself in the emotional web that weaves. So what are we going to do? If I've ever allowed myself the luxury of imagining us as a couple, I'd almost seen myself having to coax him into it - a man who will empathise with the most bizarre of strangers and yet who shies away from real intimacy even as he seems to plead for it. I'd discovered that the way into Mulder's bed, and even his heart was a simple one of physical gratification.... but staying there? I fear that may be a far harder feat but it's what I need. All or nothing. I want it all on an emotional plane, from the casual and comfortable familiarity in which we already indulge, through to the sharing of the most intimate, most wonderful, most painful, most humorous, most banal of personal histories, revelations and expectations. I want to speak to him endlessly and yet I want never to have to say a word, everything communicable through that silent language of body Braille that only the perfectly attuned can share. I don't just want to feel *about* him and *for* him - I want to feel *as* him. I want to enshrine as a separate perfection, whilst paradoxically entwining so closely there can be no distinction between the two, the corporeal with the emotional. I want to experience every exploration and expression of the physical with him...every touch, every taste, every scent, every agony and ecstasy from the simple adolescent joy of holding his hand in the street to feeling him buried so deeply inside me that he might never climb out. I want his to be the only flesh I'll ever caress between this breath and my very last. I want to know that mine is the only face he'll ever see, the only name he'll ever call or gasp or sigh, be it in his most private of self indulgences or most furious of shared intimacies. And then he is knocking at the door and I'm so relieved that he is here just as I'm terrified about facing him. Hands on the door handle I pull back the last barrier between now and our future, guarding my apprehension behind a silent reproach at the time it has taken him to get here....and before I can say a word, before I can even step aside to allow him entry he is blurting out an impassioned precis of my own thoughts before they are even clear in my mind.... "I want it all Scully...." leaving me to confirm as best I can that I understand, that I accept, that these are my words too so with the only vocalisation I can think of I reiterate the sentiment... "Body and soul." No other words are spoken. There are none that could be appropriate to this moment. Right now, all he's asking for and offering, all that I need and am willing to give is touch, contact that resembles not the mere physical gratification of the night before, but clarification - confirmation. I can read in his stance, his eyes, the near desperation that carried his words, that we will have later to set out the rules. Right now we have to put this right the same way we made it wrong. There is no frenzy this time, no desperate rush to disrobe, no panicked need to be on each other, over each other before sense catches up....for this is all the sense we need. This is perfect logic. There are no lost moments, no confusion. I document for recall every single step, the sound, the depth and length of every single breath taken between the harsh crack of the door slamming behind us and our stance beside the bed. In as much as two such physically different people can mirror each other we do, each reflecting the other's actions as we shed what little clothing we have on, indulging each others steady appraisal. No pretence at not looking is made this time, no embarrassment at being seen to stare, to devour visually, and devour I do. I may have seen this all before but then I careered along the easy path before me. This time I am mapping my route, charting my territory, laying claim because I *will* be revisiting this land. He is the first to breach the small distance between us, reaching two large hands forward and cupping my breasts, allowing the faintest of smiles to cross his mouth as I press into him just before he relaxes his touch enough to make me step forward to seek it once more, moving towards him, into him, the growing solidity of his cock crushed against my stomach, nudging, invading against the flesh. I edge an eager hand between us and draw a hard thumb along his length, feeling the last of his malleability flee beneath my touch as he becomes rigid. There can be no greater swell of pride than that which comes with the knowledge that I have the power to do this to him...that this is because of me. This is for me. For a moment I think he has read this sudden vanity in my eyes as a low chuckle escapes him and I look, questioning.... ************************* I can not bear to wait for her to touch me and so reach forward, cupping hands around her breasts, marvelling at the simple weight, the perfect fit...she was surely made just for me..but I cannot resist the urge to test and so relax my hold only to feel her push herself firm against me, welcoming, seeking my touch. I could never have imagined something so deceptively elementary, as simple as just being wanted could elicit such monumental response and my heart surges along with my cock which is struggling to attain its full potential against the soft swell of her belly, a struggle ended by her sudden and sure touch, a swift and knowing stroke which leaves me hot and hard beneath her fingers, unable to mistake the glare of possession in her eyes, the 'this is mine - I did this' that I have no intention of denying. Recognition of the anomaly between this flushed, eager and utterly unabashed Scully and the one who had sat, shrouded in her sheet, shying away from my view this morning escapes me in a quiet chuckle and she looks, questioning until I explain. My laugh is echoed then subdued as serious she answers the unspoken question... "I only knew how *I* felt then..." Momentarily I falter. If she knew then...if she knew...why? The memory of that aborted kiss surges into my mind but before I can form the words she is pushing me with a strength belied by her stature onto the bed, fixing me with a stare that almost seems to dare me to resist whilst warning me, urging me not to... Straddling my thighs, edging forwards, flattening my cock against my stomach, never flinching from the intense stare as she uses a hand to....I don't see what - I'm too entranced by eyes that are gleaming with the darkest, deepest, brightest blue I've ever seen...but it feels as if she is almost parting herself, folding herself around me, enveloping me beneath her as I'm pressed hard against my abdomen by her weight. What was hot before is searing now. She reaches out, inviting, instructing and my hands rise as bidden to meet hers, palms pressed hard together , fingers tightly entwined as she begins sliding atop me.. so slowly I can barely perceive the movement visually.. but I can feel it...Jesus can I feel it! Senses soar as she slides herself along my length, crushing me against my own flesh, under hers, so hot I could burn for her, so wet I could drown in her - god I want to drown in her. I've never felt anything like this in my life. Each time she slides forwards I can believe that I'm inside her, buried deep and warm, until she covers the head of my cock and just rotates herself, slow and firm, grinding her pubic bone against me before, just as slowly, sliding herself back, releasing me into the air that, although body warm can only feel icy cold in comparison to the fire she torments and delights with. Sliding, riding so slow until she traps my balls beneath her in the same way, grinding herself against me again. Again, again, again. The heat of her thighs clenched tight around my hips, the slight weight she imposes on my upright arms each time she pushes herself back on me until I'm moving with her, thrusting against her steady rhythm...pressing, turning, sleek and scorching. I want this to go on forever....I want to feel this, feel her like this till the world stops spinning...but right now I'm all too well aware of my own spiralling and the fact that the ultimate expression of this ecstasy will also spell it's end.... "Go - u - sto...' "English please Mulder." She is laughing at me. The delightful little witch is laughing at me, knowing damn well that while she continues to slide, slick and wet over me I have very little hope of maintaining the ability to breathe, never mind summoning enough brain cells to actually speak coherently...but I have to tell her this so I try again, dragging my focus from genitals to brain... even as it screams it's protest at being so denied. "Stop. Scully - stop." Hard. Unbelievably hard she thrusts herself against me, her smile widening as she takes in the arch, the sudden expulsion that could be name, word, plea, curse or just a desperate attempt at actually breathing with any degree of efficiency...as she cocks her head almost childlike in her mischievousness and replies... "Nah...don't think so." End 1/2 Now-Resolved 2/2 Oh God...I don't want to have to think as hard as I'm going to have to to be able to form a whole sentence but it looks like she's going to make me...breath.... concentrate...speak... "If you ....ahhh....don't stop...Jesus....now....then you better not....oh god....have any other...ohh...any other ....plans....for me....for this...ahhh....for a while..." She's still moving, still pressing, still dragging me along a knife edge of ecstasy I never imagined could be so damn sharp.... "How long?" What? I can't speak again. Don't make me talk again Scully..... "Minutes...hours...days...weeks...??" She can't stop herself laughing out loud as she teases...and still she doesn't cease, doesn't desist, doesn't break from this pounding, pressing, the continuation of which is going to make this a rather pointless conversation in a very short period of time. I manage to grunt something at her and silently thank her apparent ability to to translate pre-orgasmic man-speak. "How many hours...?" Damn it, the woman just won't stop laughing at me as she continues..."I mean...I've got no plans for the morning Mulder - how 'bout you?" I manage to shake my head "Well that's OK then isn't it....." and in one swift movement she glides back capturing my balls under her slick folds, contracting against, around me, squeezing with muscles I never even imagined existed as she untangles one hand from mine, slowly licking her fingers before she slides, pushing into the flesh of my stomach to get them under and around the head of my cock, already so wet from her juices, with a touch that is far far away from gentle and yet bordering the right side of perfection...working tight, firm circles with a rhythm utterly unfamiliar but so right that I marvel at how, in years of practice I've never discovered it myself. "Come on Mulder..." The words are barely whispered, invitation, temptation and promise wrapped in the softest of tones, the most powerful of declarations ever made to any man. I've never heard this voice before and yet I already know it absolutely. It is the final push - the flood gates open. I feel every muscle contract and release, every nerve ending scream, bucking upwards against her so sudden, so hard that she has to wrench her other hand free from my grasp to balance herself against my chest, and I'm lost, spilling past the tiny fingers, calling to my new found god - goddess - with a raw desperation as I adorn the flesh of my stomach... I swear, if she hadn't just dragged everything I had out of me, if I'd come back together with coherent thought that quickly, then I'd have lost it again at her next act. It was sight that could have made a eunuch come! Raising herself off me, rewarding my gasp at the sudden chill with a smile that bordered on evil, she pushes her knees down the bed until they rest alongside mine, hands heavy on the bed beside me, another flash of evil delight and then she moves her head down to my stomach. She doesn't just lick me clean, though god knows that would have been astounding enough to me...making sure she has my gaze - as if I wouldn't claw out my own eyes in preference to voluntarily turning away from this - she curls her tongue under the translucent white, rolls it languorously up clearly displaying her prize to me before slowly, so so slowly taking it into her mouth and tipping her head back, showing me the white expanse of throat as it flexes, as she swallows....and then again and again until it is just her finger, scooping the last traces... "Have you ever tasted yourself Mulder?" I shake my head like a man demented. "Try..." Her finger is dancing in front of my lips. "You taste beautiful..." I do not hesitate. This is not something that has ever appealed, or frankly occurred to me but right now if she had dragged her hand over the floor of a cow shed and invited me to lick it clean I'd have been there....I wrap my tongue around the invading finger and suck it clean. It is cold, gelatinous and vaguely salty. Not particularly unpleasant but hardly beautiful...but the concept, the raw eroticism of her act, her words? They are ambrosia. ****************************** For a moment, just a moment he actually looked scared of me. A sudden doubt rises. I realise that after jumping his bones last night I might be appearing less assertive than aggressive and I'm on the verge of pulling my hand away when his tongue reaches, envelops, as he begins to suck...Absolute confirmation that I have overstepped no unspoken boundary comes as he grabs my wrist, almost but not quite hard enough to hurt, holding it firmly in place as he transfers his attention to my other fingers, coaxing them past his lips with a persistent, persuasive tongue. Teeth nipping across my palm and along my wrist as he eases himself from beneath me, tipping my onto my back. Fingers skimming skin, a touch so light I have to concentrate to convince myself it's really there. A trail of goosebumps rise in the wake. Warm traces along my shoulderblades and down...briefly, all too briefly over my breasts, rapidly floating past nipples that jump, almost screaming for attention, dancing feather light over my ribs, down over my hips and back to my stomach where he begins tracing lazy circles around my bellybutton. Every millimetre of skin he touches comes alive, electric...and when he grazes those certain locales, those particular spots where pleasure pools I hear my breathing change from the tiny shallow pants that reflect his touch to sharp gasps, almost squeaks. He is making me squeak. I don't squeak! And with each squeak that I remain pathetically adamant I'm not producing I arch towards him, a plea for more, but he consistently denies me, moving hurriedly away whilst looking at me through eyes that promise a reward for this denial. His fingers leave my stomach to dance tiny steps towards my thighs and so sure he's reached his intended target I press my heels into the mattress and bend my knees, opening my legs for him.. "Greedy Scully...." I open hazed eyes to look at him and he is grinning up at me, slowly shaking his head as with a strong forearm he presses my thighs back to the bed. "Patience Scully...", the teasing unmistakable... "..is a virtue." No. No. Patience is a torture. Sweet sweet torture as fingers gone he is over me, resting on hands and knees, low enough to touch flesh to flesh along our length but without imposing his weight.. He suddenly rests his forehead on mine. How many times have we sought and given comfort with this touch? Never has it had the sense of permanency, of cohesion I feel now. I know he is staring at me as I am at him, but we are too close for focus. Alternating breaths, his then mine, each ragged with expectation, sound impossibly loud about us. A slight shift and I am certain he is going to kiss me, and I'm more than ready, more eager for this than I have been for anything in my life, but as his head moves I feel him bypass lips as his tongue snakes along my cheekbone, down my neck. A swell of disappointment is easily sent flying into a temporary oblivion as his lips pull skin between his teeth and he bites...the perfect pressure, the exact match of pleasure and pain and I realise his earlier exploration was a means to identify his terrain.... His mouth follows the path his fingers traced just moments before, some perfect memory leading him to each particularly sensitive area where lips and tongue are replaced by teeth...always just more than I expect, just slightly less than I can take. As he moves from my neck over my breast I realise I'm almost purring at him. Squeaking and purring? What the hell has the man done to my self control and vocal repertoire? His mouth works magic, wide to encircle an eager nipple, sucking hard, so hard I can feel the blood rushing leaving me oversensitive to the almost casual bite and the gentle caress from his tongue that follows. Slowly, with an almost arrogant languor he moves to the other and lavishes the same attention, sucking, biting, licking in a perfect proportion. I'm starting to grind my thighs together, twisting legs against the bed in a desperate need to appease the fire building between my legs. He lifts his head to nod consent at me and it's only at this acknowledgement that I become aware that I'm moaning, low and continuously...'please pleasepleaseplease'. Leaving me whining, bereft of the touch as he turns his attention away from my breasts, he replaces the missed sensation with the delight of another as tongue and teeth glide in rapid succession, nipping skin along my belly, dipping his tongue, pointed and hard into the dip of my bellybutton, swirling it around as if seeking sustenance before he shifts his position completely, sliding one arm underneath my ass, raising me. I can feel expectation and arousal free flowing, the heat of him as he straddles my leg, his soft cock pressing against me, reminding and promising, making me wetter than I can ever have been...and I'm wondering just how good this is going to feel when I have to wait no longer. Hot breathe heralding the rapid descent of his mouth and his tongue is on me, pressed against me, wide and flat, immobile, I'm writhing about, thrusting my hips up, trying to urge him into action, to encourage him to move that damn tongue. Then he's gone, his mouth is gone and as I'm about to protest, demand....basically throw a serious tantrum of the sexually frustrated kind I hear his voice. "Look at me Scully..." and from within this heady fog I raise my head, peering up over my raised abdomen as I feel the warm wet touch again, tongue sliding flat across, pointing and dipping briefly into me and then he's curling it into his mouth as he tips back his head... and I realise he's copying my earlier actions, devouring, savouring me as I did him. I'm so entranced by the vision that I don't see his hand move as suddenly he thrusts a long slim finger inside me... "Jesus...".. "No?" "No...yes...I mean yes, god yes...". I'm aware just how desperate I sound and don't care at all. I'll beg if I have to - I might hate myself for it but if it means more of this then I'll beg - but thankfully he doesn't require any more, sliding a second and then a third finger into me, hard and fast, turning and curling as he pumps into me. I'm sure there is a rhythm there but I can't find it. I don't care. For me its just a frenzied melee of fingers, mouth and my own frantic drive against them both. Fingers in me, mouth on me, then fingers on and tongue in... I want more. Whatever he's giving I want more. I don't care what of him is on me, in me - he just feels so damn good. Hell, good doesn't come close. There aren't enough variations on good in any language on this planet to describe this....I want to carry this sensation with me every minute of every day I have left on this earth. I can hear a shrill whine in my ears and only vaguely acknowledge that it is me. He shifts the arm still under my ass, lifting me slightly higher as he seems to slow, fingers still thrusting, so deep I can feel his palm pressed flat against me, persistent in their pursuit of my pleasure as his mouth goes to work again, this time targeting, tongue hard and pointed, lips pressed against teeth to shield me from the touch that would be just too sharp there and now as he sucks and squeezes with a skill that an envious streak in me hopes comes from a long held memory and not any recent experience.... I'm mumbling all manner of inanities, offering thanks to countless deities including the one with his face pressed between my legs and as he continues, unfaltering in his attentions I feel my crescendo building, a symphony of sensation rushing for release, as I pull the sheet into a sweaty ball beneath frantic hands and feet and then I'm shattering against him. I'm everywhere I could ever want to be as I crash, both figuratively and literally, into the bed, panting harshly, wanting to say something - anything - to him but unable to do anything but intersperse gasp with groan so I settle for flailing an uncoordinated arm around to invite him back up here, to hold me, to keep me warm as I shake against him, as I sink into him as surely as if he were a mold cast for my fit. He is silent, just offering himself, binding me to him with tight arms and we lay, casual caresses given without thought as I come down....I'm skating effortlessly on the border of sleep when I hear him break his silence with whispered words... "Scully?" "Umm?" "We've still got a lot to figure out..." "I know." "Scared?" "Terrified." "Me too."....and I seem to think he's saying something else, something after that but I'm drifting. Sleep always come to claim me when passion's spent and the last thing I remember is not the sound, but the wonderful scent of him, pressed against my face. ****************************** I have lain beside her now for almost two hours. I'd always assumed the slide into sleep that followed release was a male prerogative but it came swift and easy to her, rendering void the conversation I was hoping we could complete, Scully it seems as content to snore into my shoulder as she might be to whisper the questions and answers that map our route from here. For long long moments I just stared at her. I'd be lying if I said she'd never looked more beautiful...I'd seen her wear beauty better on many other occasions... but the way she looked now was the image I wanted to remember forever. Right now she looked like she was mine. Mine. And whereas I've never in my life before seen any woman in terms of possession, and this stridently independent one less so, I know now that she owns me so entirely that I feel no sense of shame at the Neanderthal concept. It's a fair exchange. This has been all and more than I expected, than I could have imagined, but I can't let this go. There is still something I want, something else that I need before I can relax into a sleep that will allow me the luxury of believing in a tomorrow - just a few short hours away - where I can wake up flesh to flesh with her and know she will not hide. Pulling her to me I nuzzle against her face, murmuring her name, low and slow until she opens bleary eyes and regards me with a tired confusion. I wait, silent and steady until I am sure that she is fully with me. If there has been anything in my life that scares me more than what I am about to do, I cannot recall it. If she repeats now what happened last time...if she denies me this now she will have destroyed me as surely as if she put a gun to my head, but as I lean towards her I see the remembrance and realisation in her eyes. Nothing that she ever does, ever says to me from this moment will mean as much as the way she now acknowledges the reassurance I am seeking, taking from my mind the memory of the kiss she denied me last night and not waiting for me to move closer places firm hands on the back of my head and pulls me down to her, her mouth already open as she claims mine. There is nothing chaste and yet nothing sexual about this kiss. It is deep and hard, savouring, tasting, taking and giving. Teeth grinding on teeth affirm all we have done these past few hours, speak of gratitude and the promise of more to come. Tongues duelling with tongues answer all the questions I might ever seek the answers to and lips crushing lips pledge a future.... and finally, after a far too short eternity of the taste of her, the basic need for oxygen intrudes, causing her to pull away, to release me, even as she replaces the embrace with one from her arms and I relax, content and sated into it. She has told me everything I need to know, given me everything I need to have...affirmation, resolution. *********************** Feedback? Oh pleeease.....I always ask..this time I'm making an impassioned plea. I just don't do happy ever after and certainly don't do happy smut, so whether I've got this hideously wrong or tolerably OK..please tell, so I can decide whether I should risk veering off my more usual path of misery again some time... IndigoMuse@aol.com