From: ephemeral@ephemeralfic.org Date: Thu, 16 Dec 1999 15:34:09 -0600 Subject: If I Could Describe by Well Manicured Wife Source: direct Reply To: esther_greenwood@hotmail.com Title: If I Could Describe Author: The Well Manicured Wife Rating: NC17 Spoilers: through Goldberg Variation Keywords: MSR Summary: Scully struggles with poesy, and reaches certain conclusions. Posting: Wherever, just let me know. Notes: As a first-time fanfic author, I devote this story to some of the writers who have inspired me to write my own tales of the dynamic duo Dasha K, Punk Maneuverability, Jill Selby, Ellie Dustin, Anne Haynes, Plausible Deniability, and so many others whom I promise to acknowledge in later stories. This is for all the feedback I wanted to send, but couldn't. You see, I have a bit of a problem with descriptions myself, especially when that which I'm describing is so often beyond vocabulary. Cheers. If I Could Describe by The Well-Manicured Wife ****** Mulder, if I could describe the tear in my gut that formed when Skinner told me you weren't answering your cell phone, perhaps I could describe the feeling I have right now. If I could describe the heat of your forehead against my terrified lips, or the chill that permeates my spine when you lean in to whisper in my ear...maybe then I could do it. Or perhaps it would be easier if I could describe the hot feeling of tears that rose in my throat and sinus when I saw Richie's name spelled out on the side of the hospital that night, or the little golden fear that pierced the back of my neck in your hallway one summer, I could somehow wrap word around the spiraling emotions in my brain at *this* moment. But as it is, my experience with words is limited to autopsies and field notes. And maybe words are just too limiting in themselves for this...thing that has happened between us. In college, I took English courses. I read works by authors whose words were overwhelming the tension of T.S. Eliot, the austerity of Hemingway, the romance of Austen. At times, it was too much for my scientific brain to calculate. So when I had to write papers over these people, I had to work out a system. I had to go back. Back to the moment in the book or the poem when the words became too much. Because that was the moment that meant something. *That* was the moment I got lost, and in finding that moment, I found myself, so to speak. Then, I could diagnose the cause, and write it with appropriate accuracy. I made A's and B's, Mulder. I doubt the system was as poetic or appreciative as any you developed at Oxford, but it worked for me. So now, with your Ozymandias' arm wrapped around my tummy, your sweet snore in my ear, I'm going back to that moment. And I think it must be the kiss. Not the one from earlier tonight, when you breathed my breath into your own lungs, but the one from New Year's Eve. The one where you smiled at me with that curious (or was it cautious?) little smile and reminded me that the world didn't end. You were right. It didn't end. It just...trembled a little. I don't think it truly ended for me until tonight, but...I'll get to that later. So many of the emotions I associate with you seem to emerge from my stomach, Mulder. How do you explain that? Worry, excitement, hunger... Yes, that kind of hunger. See, that little New Year's kiss whetted an appetite that has grumbled in my belly for a long time. It was like a taste, like an appetizer. I was frustrated afterward, still pining for the main course, but unsure of your desires. I didn't know if you felt as strongly as I did. I didn't know how that kiss felt to you. Your eyes told me nothing! I wanted to shout. I wanted to beat my fists against your chest, slam you against the wall of the hospital parking garage and kiss you til you were as senseless as I felt. But two weeks later, I didn't have to do any of that. Another moment came one of those inexorable, unexpected, and indescribable moments borne of a wonder shared by two confused and needy souls. You came to my apartment tonight, braving the snowy rain that has fallen since this afternoon. I knew that you were the only one who would knock at my door at 11:21 under such heartless weather conditions. I couldn't help but laugh when I saw you dripping and shivering there in the doorway. I hadn't seen anything quite so funny and cute since you'd performed some amateur plumbing on that last case. But you accepted my humor - and my towel - with a kind humor of your own, and a dry laugh. "Thanks," you said, kicking off your squishy shoes and shrugging off your ice-pelted coat. The doctor in me touched your forehead once it was dry. "Mulder," I admonished. "You'll catch your death out there." Something dark and yet... light...was in your eyes as I withdrew my warm hand. "What are you doing here at this hour?" You sighed and handed me your suit jacket. "Nothing. I...I just left the office and..." You were chewing on your upper lip and looking down at the stubborn Christmas tree needles that dotted the floor near my fireplace. I had to touch that uncertain face. "Mulder?" I don't believe in psychics. You know that. But at that moment, I acknowledge some psychic transfer between us something physical rather than mental. A shock of something hot and dangerous shot up my arm and, for some reason, into my neck. It must have choked my voice when I said your name, because you looked at me funnily. A soft sound of admission slipped through your lips like a warm ghost come to haunt me. "Scully..." My name never sounded better to my own ears. "Can't I just want to see you?" You asked. Suddenly, that question carried so many meanings. I felt strangely naked in my long, satin robe. Of course, it might have been the way you were analyzing each of my curves with a new interest...an interest I'd seen before, but denied each time. I felt that speaking would break whatever spell that gaze had formed, so I whispered, "Do you want something hot? Some coffee or..." I trailed off. The heat that you wanted had swiftly risen to my cheeks and lowered just as swiftly to the woman's heart between my thighs. 'That sounds nice' was all you said before your hands took my head and your lips took my lips. Your moan was delicious, Mulder, and hotter than any coffee or...whatever I was going to offer you. Your hair was wet and cold between my fingers and when I scrunched it tightly, you broke the kiss to favor my neck with your kisses. I think I said, "Oh God." Or something. I felt your erection pressing on my thigh insistently and there was no turning back. "Scully, please..." You panted against my ear. "Yes," I said. "Stay with me." Like you were going to leave... We couldn't get our clothes off fast enough. I tossed your jacket over the couch. You slipped my robe over my shoulders before we even got it untied. Everything was happening so quickly and it felt so right, Mulder, so *right*. Like I'd always imagined it and yet nothing at all like I'd imagined it. For the first time you were healthy and virile when my fingers touched your bare chest and your cold fingers were baring as well, baring my breasts to their rough and yearning touch. I don't think I'd ever realized the potential for the passion between us until I was against the wall leading to my bedroom and your insistent hand was pushing my long gown up my thigh. I felt utterly devoured by your mouth on my neck and I wanted more, so I told you. "Mulder, touch me." There really were tears in my voice tears of desperation and happiness and disbelief. Between the two of us, we remembered how to work a belt just as we fell onto my bed. Your fingers had discovered the secret to rolling my nipples in just that way and your face, when I looked into it, was alight with that discovery. "Does that really feel good?" Your voice was so full of shock, as if you could not believe you did this to me. "So good," I assured you in your ear. My hands in the meantime had finally found their way past the barriers of button, fly, and boxers to stroke your hot, straining erection. "Oh, Jesus, Scully!" You were so loud in my ear that I gasped, pulled my hand away. But you soothed my fear away, crooning, 'Don't stop' and 'Yes' and 'So sweet' into the crease where my neck meets my shoulder. Our bodies had settled into this new experience quite well. My hands slowed their ministrations on your cock so that I could process every vein, every sticky drop, and you were grunting in response, slowly making love to my breasts with your mouth. Oh, we both wanted so much, Mulder. I know I did. I wanted it all at once, and when the joy of knowing that we had so much time later to have it finally set in, I threw my head back and laughed. You met my eyes with your own unabashed grin, pulling my hands from your pants. I watched you stand in the dim light of my bedroom and strip smoothly, each muscle tenderly attended to by my eyes. "Oh, Mulder..." I moaned when your gaze returned to me, and your knees made the bed creak when you climbed between my legs to push my gown up over my hips. It felt incredibly erotic, having all that satin scrunched around my waist like that. Of course, I'm sure the lust I saw in your eyes was a definite contributing factor to the eroticism of the moment. Your hands slid unhurriedly up my thighs, the fingers curving under the waistband of my panties to draw them down my legs. "You're so beautiful," you breathed, just before your mouth met the moist, tangled curls over my mons. A whimper escaped my throat and my hands went back to that comfortable clutch in your short hair. Your tongue soon set a gentle rising and falling cadence over and around my clit. You were looking and listening for the reactions that told you where to go, and my head was thrashing frustratedly on the pillow beneath it. Then, one of your hands ventured up to pull one of mine away from your head. I looked down and met your eyes. "Tell me, Scully," you said. "Show me." You put my hand over my labia, urging me gently, unthreateningly to communicate my pleasure to you. I forgot all in that moment, my Catholocism, my usual shyness...and lapsed into the routine I had developed in fantasizing about you in just that way. My index finger slid just to the left of my swollen clitoris and began its taut circular pulse. After you watched for a moment, amazement touching your handsome features, your tongue followed suit. The sensation was incredible. I felt your tongue moving against my finger and me and... "So good, Mulder," I groaned, thrusting against your face. "God, that's so fucking good..." I was being selfish just then, Mulder, though I'm sure you would forgive me for it. But I was so caught up in that pleasure that very specific and special pleasure that no other man had ever given me that I momentarily forgot about *your* pleasure. It wasn't until two of your long fingers slipped into my tight, ready passage that I realized how close you must be yourself. You wanted me to come. You wanted to see it and feel it rippling along your thrusting digits so that you could experience the same elation inside me. How could I refuse? The spring had wound so tight it couldn't be restrained. God, Mulder I wanted to tell you so much right then: how good you were making me feel, how right it all was, how I loved you, I'd loved you for so long and somehow...all those thoughts got caught up in the sensations that were jumping from dendrite to dendrite throughout my body til they tumbled out in a hoarse shout and tangled up in your hair with my fingers. I hadn't quite caught my breath when you crawled up my body. I wasn't quite ready for the size of you screwing into me, or the speed of you taking me, taking me. I wasn't prepared for the heat of your breath on my ear or the forbidden, delicious words you were saying there. But I don't suppose anyone is ever prepared for any of that stuff. All I knew was the demanding bump of you against my cervix, and the weight of you pressing me into the bed. I tilted my hips up to take you deeper and you approved, grunting 'Yes' against my cheek I raked my nails up your ass to hear your strangled cry and said, "Harder. Come on, Mulder. Give it to me." Those are things I just don't say, Mulder! Really, I don't. I never have. But they sounded so good, and the breaths they came out on puffed little drops of sweat off of your face. "Ah, Scully," you struggled to grunt. "You feel..." "Yeah, feel me, Mulder!" My voice had taken on the desperate whine of a woman whose lover's cock is pistoning inside her, creating a frightening friction and heat. My words had ceased to censor themselves, responding directly to the sharp pangs of pleaure that resulted from the angle of Mulder's hard pelvic bone grinding rhythmically against my clit. I never come twice in one night, Mulder. *Never*. But I did tonight. When your hand gripped my head and your arm tightened about my waist, I knew you were close. But I didn't know how close I was. I don't suppose I was prepared for that, either. It wasn't until you really started slamming into me, grunting an animalistic 'Yeah' with every thrust, that I felt the spring in me give way again. The spastic clutchings and releasings of my internal muscles pushed you to that blinding white light of release at last, and you collapsed sated and breathless against my breast. I think we were both crying then, Mulder... So now, here we are, spooned like old lovers. And maybe we are old lovers. We've been loving each other long enough I know. If I could just describe this feeling to you, Mulder, this intrinsic, wonderful feeling... But I feel you move restlessly behind me, and turning, I see your sleepy eyes smiling at me. So I kiss you, you tumble me beneath you again, and suddenly, descriptions don't seem important. The End ****** Feedback for the newbie to: esther_greenwood@hotmail.com