TITLE: Five Senses: Finale
AUTHOR: Susanne Barringer
EMAIL: sbarringer@usa.net
ARCHIVE: Anywhere okay as long as these header lines remain intact.
CLASSIFICATION: VR
KEYWORDS: MSR
SUMMARY: Part six of a five-part series! Hmmmm. Consider it a
bonus. Mulder demanded his chance to be sentimental, so he gets the
honor of pulling it all together.
RATING: Low-end NC-17? (suggested more than explicit)
SPOILERS: None
DISCLAIMER: Characters aren't mine. They belong to Chris Carter,
1013, and Fox. No infringement intended.
___________________
Five Senses: Finale
by Susanne Barringer
When I was a young teenager, I was a closet John Denver fan. That was
after Samantha was taken, after words like "home" and "family" and "love"
took on meanings too dark and menacing for any song. The never-ending
pain and grief were the only reassurances that I could still feel anything at
all. I craved the simplicity of contentment. "You fill up my senses, like a
night in a forest." As a boy, those particular lyrics held me in thrall,
although I could hardly understand the sentiment. In my adult life, they
held much less mystery to me. I understood the words were just something
from a song, a piece of fiction, the invention of a songwriter who wanted
to hide the dark truth about love in maudlin sayings that make music but
have little application in the real world.
Until Scully.
As corny as it sounds, she fills up my senses. When she's near, and often
even when she isn't, my senses are on alert, strung tightly, attuned to every
word, sigh, movement, and scent that drifts in my direction. Like now.
She is sitting across the office from me, and every atom of my body is
leaning in her direction, waiting for just the slightest quiver of movement to
come my way.
John Denver obviously never knew Dana Scully or else he would not have
so profoundly underestimated how much effect a woman can have on the
senses. They are more than filled. My senses overflow with Scully.
Monsoons and tidal waves of her howl through me. The symphony of her
movement, the bouquet of her voice, the feather-touch of her smell, the
poetry of her hands on my body all haunt me. And how she tastes. My
God, how she tastes!
I see her as she is when the deluge is at its most boundless, when my senses
are so stimulated that the abuse threatens to extinguish them forever. My
mouth, between her legs, tasting her. I see her opened up wide for me,
smell her truth, hear her voice calling me. Rapture is feeling every ounce
of her power captured in that one small hidden part of her that vibrates on
my tongue and quivers with need--when the taste of her merges with all the
other parts of her to build a tsunami of sensory stimulation that threatens
me with my own self-destruction. Fill up my senses? She engulfs me. I
become more than myself. More than her.
My senses bubble over. The only release possible will come later, when I
am inside her and she surrounds me, scorching, steaming, wet. I will feel
her legs wrapped tightly around my hips, pulling me into her, absorbing me.
I will see the light reflect off the sweat glistening on her skin, prisms of
desire bathing us in a spectral glow. She will taste as I have come to
expect, her skin as delicious to my mouth as her lips. I will sink my face
into her ambrosial hair and drown in my senses as I fill her. As she fills me.
These images drive me toward her. I get up from my desk and walk over
to where she sits. She watches my every movement carefully. I know she
studies me all the time, with both a doctor's eye and a lover's gaze. I perch
on the edge of her desk; her nearness stirs up the brewing storm of my
senses.
"Scully," I say, and I know she knows from the tone of my voice exactly
what I am thinking, what I want.
"Mulder," she breathes in return, and I hear so much in her tone--
understanding, desire, love, and the same torrent of senses that consumes
me. We look at each other, watching, neither moving. Nothing will
happen here in the office. We keep our personal and professional lives
separate. It's not that we're afraid of bringing our sex life into our work.
No bureaucratic bullshit could keep us apart. It's our fear of letting work
into our lovelife that keeps us chaste on the job. Our work is too dark, too
dangerous, all manipulation and lies--far too mind-numbingly depressing to
allow anywhere near our personal relationship. So, we have separated the
two sides of our life together, and that is a promise made to each other that
we will not break.
All I can do now is watch her. Later, I can touch her and claim all the
promises she now makes to me with her eyes. She shifts in her chair,
uncrossing her legs and separating them ever so slightly. My senses are
wound tightly, coiled in my belly, converging on her. Her slight movement
rings through me so loudly I thank God there is no one else in the room to
hear it. My senses are intensified to the extreme. I hear her leg scrape
over the fabric of the chair. I feel the skin of her thighs pull apart as her
legs separate. I see the heat gathering in her face. And I swear to God I
can smell the need that rises up from her. I know if I reach down to touch
her she will be wet for me. That same desire shimmers in her eyes,
mirroring the place that waits for me. Always.
She is torturing me, using my senses against me. With her, I am constantly
overwhelmed and overpowered, but I welcome it with a carnal simplicity I
didn't know was possible. She has dragged me out of my own oblivion,
breathed happiness into me, patched the holes, bandaged the wounds, and
shocked my senses back into life.
____________
THE END END
Yay! At last, finished! Thanks to all those who provided feedback on
different parts of this series (double thanks to those who wrote me after
EVERY part). Just because it's over, though, doesn't mean the feedback
has to be . . . :)
All my fanfic is available at my webpage:
http://www.oocities.com/Area51/Dreamworld/2442
sbarringer@usa.net
(
geocities.com/area51/dreamworld) (
geocities.com/area51)