From: AgntSabine@aol.com
Subject: "Speakeasy"

DISCLAIMER#1: This is my very 
first posting. Can you hear the nervousness? I swear it's 
here..... This story started as an exercise, really; I rarely 
write from the male P.O.V. or with as much dialogue as I 
have here. AND I have never written with a self-imposed 
limitation like pre-existing characters -- in this case, our 
beloved Dana Scully and Fox Mulder. Anyway, I also like 
to make up words/phrases and I am a 'shipper at heart so 
prepare yourself for both, I suppose. 

DISCLAIMER #2: Scully and Mulder do NOT belong to 
me, although sometimes, late at night I like to imagine that 
they do, which is another story all together.They belong to 
His Majesty, Mr. CC and his fab company, 1013 
Productions. I have borrowed them with a sinful lack of 
professional decorum and if I get sued because of it, 
someome will walk away with a really old computer and 
maybe some shoes, I don't know. In other words...it AIN'T 
worth it!!!!


Uh.....oh, yeah. DISCLAIMER #3: This story is very short 
and kinda pervy. Rated NC-17 for language and adult 
situations. Plot is *very* limited. M/S Romance. 

Feedback: ANY and ALL is welcomed and slobbered after. 
I have another story in the works but it's going to be months 
before I am finished, so any words of advice or criticism or 
even lavish praise in the meantime would be tearfully 
accepted. Send your wise words to: AgntSabine@aol.com  
-- that's me.



"Speakeasy"
by Agent Sabine


The rain hadn't stopped for six consecutive days and Fox 
Mulder was beginning to get desperate. A vacation day was 
supposed to be a veritable paradise of quiet moments, 
midday naps and lazy jogs through the lush nearby park. 
Instead, he was beginning to feel as much a prisoner of his 
own apartment as he did in the stale confines of his 
basement office. And to boot, he was alone. 

He found himself bouncing a tired basketball off the far 
wall, listening to the hollow boom as a sad echo of his 
fevered head. Bugs Bunny was no conversationalist for a 
lonely man. His feet were hot and his arms felt wobbly. No 
amount of clothing could be added or shed to balance the 
temperature in his living room. He tried slanting, 
crouching, cross-legging and slumping before giving up the 
hope of finding comfort on his couch. So he paced. 
Counted the number of steps to his CD player, to the 
kitchen, to the bathroom. He circled the coffee table once, 
twice, a dozen times, finding no aesthetic pleasure in the 
pattern of manila folders and empty take-out food 
containers arranged there in a calculated triangular pattern. 
He made paper airplanes from the travel section of The 
New York Times, demented-looking Origami swans from 
the classifieds. He read the comic pages aloud, trailing 
falsettos and guttural beefcake tones for varying characters. 

Finally he sighed. He was bored. He was lonely. And worst 
of all, he missed his job. Not, he concluded in an on-going 
head-conversation, that he wanted to spend another day 
cramped in a dank room with a crumbling ceiling and 
sterile file cabinets. Not that he wanted to stare 
unmercifully at sleek slides of mutilated cattle or 
white-silenced bodies. He reflected on his stubbled chin in 
the mirror of a mottled spoon and decided that a day at the 
Bureau was not what was lacking in his mundane day. 

 He thought. And dropped to the couch, 
exhausted and frustrated with the inevitable conclusion.

He grabbed the remote control from beside him and flicked 
the TV on angrily, trying to eradicate images of silken 
copper hair and dismayingly sensuous rosebud pouts. 

Channel 61. Playboy.
 


He relaxed in his seat and reached absent-mindedly behind 
him to surround-sound the breathless giggles that 
unclouded before him in a garish Technicolor orgy. He 
smiled wanly at the wriggling figures on-screen. Buxom 
blondes with too-tight sweater sets seducing their 
far-too-chiseled English professor. A tall brunette with legs 
starting at her rounded chin waltzing into her employer's 
private office with tidy notebook in hand, ready to take 
dictation from in between the thighs of her beefy boss. 

Mulder frowned.



And, disgusted with himself for the thought, he snapped the 
remote with one deft wrist-twist and threw the picture into 
blackness. Behind and all around him, throaty wheedling 
could still be heard, in crisp clear Dolby stereo. A 
fist-thrust later, he was drowning in silence, the stereo 
teetering from his unannounced blow. 

Hands itching and head bursting with the pressure of 
just-buried thoughts, Fox Mulder contemplated his 
stomach. A flash of olive skin peering out from between 
the soft black cotton of his t-shirt and the nubby cloth of his 
navy sweats. He ran a hand lazily over the flat plane and up 
against the thick muscles of his abdomen. He pushed the 
shirt up lazily, staring down at the feathering of dark hair 
that protruded from the waistband of his boxer shorts. He 
touched it, trying to flatten the unruly hairs. They would 
not behave. Frowning, he licked his forefinger and molded 
them back into place. The wet pressure of his callused 
triggerfinger sent the prior day's repressed memory flying 
back in ultra vivid color.

A string tied around his finger, purpling the flesh of his 
fingertip just past the first joint. A demonstration to show 
the way the blood had been kept at bay by a barely 
conscious knife-wound victim. Scully, unimpressed by the 
demonstration, had found the strength to smile only when 
Mulder attempted to remove the string he had tied far too 
tightly in his eagerness to prove a point. Even Scully's tiny 
deft fingers had not been able to free Mulder's finger from 
the minute tourniquet. His finger pulsing, then whitening 
from the loss of blood, it had finally been subjected to the 
only cutting device small enough to set it free. Scully's 
sharp white teeth. Though her mouth had been on him a 
mere moment, though she had been fast and on-the-mark, 
though she rolled her eyes at his sheepish expression 
afterwards, Scully's touch had affected him enough to send 
him hiding behind the expanse of his desk for the 
remainder of the afternoon. 

Fox Mulder, weakened by the pleasure of the memory, 
closed his eyes and fell into the embrace of his mind. He 
curled one arm across his forehead to keep the mop of 
bangs from tickling his brow and draped his long right leg 
over the edge of the couch. His right hand, clammy from 
the power of his provocative mental slide-show, inched 
below the waistband of his sweats. His fingers curled 
around himself protectively, caressingly. He felt himself 
lengthen, thicken and jump in his expert grasp. His mouth 
yawned wide as he stretched his fingers between his thighs 
and ground the heel of his hand into the bone of his pelvis. 
He molded the length of his fingers around his steel-rod 
cock and gently pulled it above the pleasantly too-tight 
elastic band of his pants. He pinched the tip between two 
soft fingers and felt, at the base of his groin, a raw, 
numbing pulse. He brought his hand up to his mouth, palm 
flat, and licked the crevices of life-line, love-line, 
fortune-line, dampening his caress. Drenched with 
as-yet-unswallowed saliva, his hand trickled warmth and 
wetness down the line of exposed stomach muscle to his 
expectant sex. He gasped at the familiar, yet inexplicable 
feel of his own soaking, searching fingers. He pulled once, 
swift and upwards, and then settled in to a slow stroking 
motion . His hips bucked and danced in a slow cycle.

He saw one woman. His Dana smiling her secret smile with 
pink babylips. Her tiny hands drawing abstract patterns on 
his bare chest. He felt the whisper of her fire-head against 
his sensitive ears and a delicate, direct, pointed tongue 
taming the invisible hairs on his outer lobes before 
plunging softly into the center of his ear. He felt her hips on 
his, her sleek thighs bent to breaking over the width of his 
open legs. He felt her perfect ass on his cock, her hands flat 
against his stomach, balancing on him like a 
blood-and-bone seesaw. 

Mulder's face flushed and his tongue crept out from 
between cracked lips to taste the salt mustache of his 
beaded upper lip. His voice, surprised out of him by 
unwholesome images of his prim partner, was hoarse and 
wet. 

"Dana", he breathed....

...as the phone rang.

Fumbling out of his reverie, his reflexes still viper-quick, 
Mulder picked up the receiver mid-ring.

"Mulder", He croaked.

"Mulder. It's me."



Mulder fought a gasp or a groan.

"H-hey Scully. What's up?" Keep it together, man. 

"I need to ask you about some figures for this 
end-of-the-quarter report."

Mulder felt dangerously close to giggling. He felt like 
Beavis and Butthead. 

"Go ahead", he swallowed, barely able to believe he could 
have so much unconsumed moisture in his mouth.

"Do you have a sec...am I interrupting your holiday?" 
Scully sounded hesitant, guilty.



"Nonononono...go ahead."

A pause.

"Okay. I am not sure how to list the third room in the 
Rest-Inn from Tallahassee that we rented for Agent 
Allanson."

"As a nuisance?" Mulder replied grimly.

Allanson had heard rumors of "Spooky" Mulder and had 
insisted on his own room for the investigation, declaring 
that he would not sleep in the same room with "a lunatic." 
A small fight had ensued and Scully, tired from a 3-day 
stakeout, had ended the attack and mended the bruised egos 
by renting a third (and, in the eyes of the Bureau, 
"unnecessary") room for the disgruntled Floridian agent. 
Without Allanson's time, the investigation would have gone 
on for an extra day and would have cut into the partners' 
mutual vacation time. 

"Mulder...."

"Joking Scully," he replied, disappointed at his fading 
fantasy and the memory of the smug, fat face of the older 
male agent. 

"Shall I list it as our expense or one of mine"

"Scully, it was *my* fault that prick..."

"Mulder" He heard the warning murmur in her voice.

Mulder sighed.

"List it as one of mine, okay Scully?" He was embarrassed 
at how close he was to pleading with her. 



Silence. Then a sigh. Scully gave in.

"Fine, Mulder, whatever."

Mulder relaxed, a small tiff avoided. He concentrated on 
the sound of her breathing, the nearly inaudible whispering 
of Scully's writing implement. Mulder thought of her, 
curled into a saggy armchair, barefoot. A pad of legal paper 
on her lap. Those overlarge wire-rimmed glasses tilted on 
the edge of her nose. The tip of her pencil caught lightly 
between her teeth as she reviewed what she had written. 
That last thought undid Fox Mulder and his hand strayed, 
not unguiltily. He pressed a hand against his rising flesh 
and sighed.

"Mulder?" Scully's ears had caught the breathy exhalation 
and was worried. "I'm sorry to have inter..."

"S'okay, Da --  er --  Scully" Mulder interrupted, his mind 
whirling too fast to catch his near-mistake before it was 
uttered.

A wry chuckle escaped Scully's lips. 

"Vacation time already getting to you, Mulder?"

Mulder felt a soft grin blend his sharp features together at 
the familiar, dry teasing of his partner's voice. She was 
settling into a conversation with him. He heard the pad of 
paper drop, the soft "plink" as the pen followed suit. A 
flutter-shifting as Scully re-positioned herself in her chair. 
The pressure of his hand grew steadily softer. He wanted to 
drawn this out as much as he could stand it. The whistling 
in his head faded slightly and he held his breath, 
concentrating on the minute sounds echoing from the 
receiver. 

"You know *me*, Scully, " Mulder murmured

"All too well," was the response that prickled his ears and 
strengthened his grin. 

Mulder heard the whisk of Scully's hair against the phone, 
her fingers sliding on the base of the phone. He heard her 
neck crack and the soft exhalation of freed tension. His 
hips arched towards the telephone. She was going to drive 
him mad by doing everything and nothing at all. 

"So, Scully...." He fought to keep his breathing steady, his 
voice unwavering.

"Hmmmm?" 

"What are you wearing?"

He tried to play it off as a joke, but he was seething, 
spinning. He *had* to know. For a second there was 
silence; he thought with a blinding thrill of panic that he 
had blown his cover. Then he relaxed, hearing her muffled 
swallow as she peered down at herself, neck against her 
chest. A slow chuckle. 

"Nothing too exciting, Mulder. Just a t-shirt and jeans, I am 
afraid..."

He felt the world go dark. He was going to explode. The 
thought of her rounded ass hugged by faded Levi's, the tab 
on the back pocket a go-ahead-red. A white v-neck shirt 
dipping down to display the cool sunset curves of her 
perfect breasts. 

"Why? What are *you* wearing, Mulder?" She asked 
warmly. 

His eyes flew open. His hand stopped mid-stroke. His mind 
careened, stumbled, fell flat on its face. He looked down at 
himself, hipbones shiny with heat, pelvis arched, 
sweatpants a struggle of cloth below the thick, jumping 
bulk of his cock. He closed his eyes in amusement.

"A suit of armor, naturally," he replied with a weak snort of 
laughter. 

"Really?" she asked with only slight sarcasm, "I figured you 
to be a chain-mail man, myself."



Mulder winced. He was breathing like a sprinter at the 
finish line of the 500 meter dash. He was beginning to 
understand, slowly, sharply, that he was *not* going to 
make it. He had to hang up *now*

"Scully, I..."

"Mulder, listen, I have to ask you something."

"...have to go, Scully." he said, writhing. *Why* wouldn't 
his hand *stop*????

"Just a moment, Mulder, this is important to me."

He held his breath, counted to 5, thought of little grey men 
experimenting cruelly on puppies....

"What?" he managed to croon.

"I am getting that portrait done for mom, tomorrow. I need 
to know if you think I should wear my red suit or the beige 
one." She sounded too comfortable, like she was leaning 
into the phone.

His head burned. She sounded amused. Something was 
very very wrong. Since when did Scully accept fashion tips 
from a man whose ties had to be screened for Bureau 
events and meetings with victims' loved ones?

"I-I couldn't say, Scully...."

She knew he was a convicted fashion faux-pas. She knew 
he thought grooming was for pampered animals. 

"Mulder...."

Her voice was a teasing murmur. She knew. Oh shit, she 
*knew*. He could hear her lazy grin through the phone.

"I AM COLOR BLIND" he nearly shouted, desperate.

"Well, then you probably haven't noticed that the red one 
*is* a bit tight around the chest," she mused, "But I was 
told by the studio that I ought to wear something *warm* 
for the camera."

His chest heaved, his hand blurring as it crashed into 
hyper-speed. His left knee knocked against the wall. 

"Scully", he pleaded.

"Mulder?," she asked, feigning innocence "Do you need to 
get off...."

A sharp cry exploded from his swollen lips

"...the phone?"

"Havetogohavetogohavetogo" he keened.

"No" she replied quietly, but with commanding firmness.

His body swooned upwards, his clenched thighs ramming 
his hand with the force of an enraged bull. He heard a brisk 
pop as the suction from Scully's lips left a ringing kiss on 
the dotted section of her handpiece. His heart dove, 
drumming staccato. His windpipe closed with a muddy 
slam. The pressure in his groin was enormous, 
overpowering. He sank back into the couch.. 

"Scully." His voice was a hundred billion trillion light-years 
away. Wheezing and broken. 

"What are you thinking about, Mulder?" Scully whispered, 
all velvet and cream.

Mulder whimpered. He was so close....

"You can tell me, Mulder. I can keep a secret."

His hand was slapping against his stomach to the rhythm of 
his circling hips. He was beyond hiding the moans, his 
ruined voice crackling and humming from deep inside his 
chest.

"What are you thinking about" It was a barely a murmur.

"You. You, Scully. Oh, God, you"

Scully let a croon fall into his ear. A shaky sigh of utter 
satisfaction. 

"I want to hear you, Fox"

Something buried deep inside of Fox Mulder's brain broke 
wide open. His back looped, bowing his lithe form into a 
muscled arc. The phone fell from his saturated grasp, 
swinging from its spiraled cord to rest beside his thrashing 
head. His left hand coiled into a fist and blocked the full 
pressure of his roar, his teeth grinding down on his 
knuckles with vampiric force. With his right hand, he let 
everything go. A rush of blood filled his ears, ringing and 
pumping with his release. A dense shower of warmth 
trailed down his fingers as his cock blazed, relief racing 
through his cramped legs, arms, thighs. The room swam, 
blackened and cleared within the space of a heartbeat.

A year's moment passed in silence as Mulder's mind picked 
itself up and brushed itself off. He looked around the room, 
expecting to see that the walls had fallen in around him. An 
irritating buzz by his head whisked him back into reality's 
sighing embrace. He picked up the empty receiver, and 
replaced it within its matching plastic cradle. He pulled his 
wrecked ensemble back together, arranging himself 
wincingly into his boxer shorts and sweatpants. The phone 
taunted him, still warm with the fog of his mouthprints 



Mulder shook his head slowly, a sadness pulling the 
corners of his mouth skyward in a shrugging half-smile. He 
fought himself a moment before grabbing the receiver and 
jabbing speed dial #1 with a crooked finger. 

"Hi Mulder," Scully answered mid-ring, a mere hint of 
mirth sweetening his chagrin to a fevered honey-pitch. 

"Hey Scully," he answered quietly, "You okay?"

She laughed then, a throaty bell of surprise.

"I'm *fine* Mulder," , "How are 
*you*?"

Mulder grimaced.

"I'm sorry, Scully, I-I guess I just got carried away."

Silence on the other line.

"I mean, I didn't want...(sigh)..I don't know"

Mulder looked down at his hands, clasped and shifting, 
feeling oddly sick to his stomach.

"You there?" he asked.

"You didn't want...?" Scully urged, a set and a strength to 
her voice

Mulder paused, struggled, and gave up the ghost.

"Shit, Scully. I didn't want to tell you *this* way."

"Didn't want to tell me what?" Scully inquired warily.

"That...that I felt this way, that I *feel* this way about you."

Scully exhaled sharply.

"It was unprofessional..."

Scully interrupted with a bark of laughter.

"...And pretty unromantic." Mulder surprised a smile out of 
himself at the vast understatement.

"Mulder..." 

Scully paused.

"Yeah?"

"It was good for me, too."

Outside, the rain began to drench the earth again as Fox 
Mulder' s face broke into paroxysms of incredulity and 
bliss. 



*end*

    Source: geocities.com/solofbi