TITLE: Linoleum
AUTHOR: Susanne Barringer
EMAIL: sbarringer@usa.net
ARCHIVE: Why would you want to? Okay.
CATEGORY: HR
KEYWORDS: Parody, MSR
RATING: R-ish. Depends how much you visualize when you
read. ;)
SUMMARY: A parody "sequel" to Alanna's "Titanium." What
happens when Scully finally makes the *right* choice?
SPOILERS: none, not even really for "Titanium"
DISCLAIMER: These characters are just shallow caricatures of
complex, intriguing characters that took months of hard work and
sweat by Alanna (Well, technically CC, 1013, and Fox, too, but
mostly Alanna). Parody is the sincerest form of flattery . . . or
something. Written with Alanna's approval (not to mention that
double dare).
Thanks to...well, Alanna obviously, for the brilliant "Titanium"
which makes fanfic shippers like me jump ship long enough to enjoy
a great story, and also for allowing me to harass her about her S/K
"problem" and then helping me write this thing by contributing
immensely to the joke.
NOTE: If you haven't read "Titanium" you should because it's
fabulous ( http://alanna.net/fanfic/titanium/index.html ). Yeah, I
know, it's hard for shippers, but suck it up and try it. You just
might like it. Meanwhile, you can probably get the gist of this story
anyway, and it might be a *little* more suited to those who lean
toward shipperdom.
__________
Linoleum
by Susanne Barringer
"Alex." Scully's voice was breathy with desire, her lips planting
seeds of fire along his skin. The way she said that name, the way it
tripped over those luscious lips of hers, would have driven any man
insane. Any man named Alex. Unfortunately, his name was
Mulder. Or Fox, which kind of sounded like Alex if he really
wanted to pretend it was his name she was saying.
Then she said it again, "Oh, Alex." God, it was an incredible sound,
all kinds of sexual satisfaction promised in those two simple
syllables. But, no, she didn't say "Fox" and she definitely didn't say
"Mulder."
"Mulder," he corrected finally. Her eyes popped open and she
looked at him as if seeing him for the first time.
"Oh, sorry," she said, smiling coyly. "I was thinking about Alex
Trebek. Don't you fantasize sometimes, Mulder?"
Fantasize his ass. She was thinking about Krycek and he knew it.
He'd have to drive that man out of her head forever. He'd make
love to her so hard and so brilliantly that she'd forget her own
name, let alone that rat bastard's. It would be even better if *he*
forgot that rat bastard's name. Every time she said "Alex," his
thoughts wandered to the subject of conversation. Those hard
muscles, the high curve of his biceps, well one bicep technically,
those gorgeous eyes, hair you could just run your fingers through.
Krycek that was, not Trebek. Although Alex Trebek had that
mustache thing going for him.
Mulder shook it off and tried to concentrate on Scully, that it was
Scully's tongue running around his nipple, Scully's hands caressing
the bulge in his jeans. Yes, Scully, although he suddenly had a
strong urge to take her from behind for some inexplicable reason.
Meanwhile, Scully was trying to remember that she was making
love with Mulder and not Alex, which was becoming increasingly
difficult since Mulder wasn't as good a kisser as Alex, and, well, to
be honest, he wasn't nearly as well endowed (and screw all those
polite things women say--size does matter), and he didn't have that
incredible gift of touch that Alex had, even with one hand tied
behind his back, so to speak.
But this was Mulder, and she loved Mulder, so it shouldn't matter
that it was looking more and more like he was going to be a lousy
lay. Well, not lousy, but not up to the standards to which she'd
become accustomed. Yes, Alex had set the bar pretty damn high
and Mulder was going to have to do some serious pole vaulting if
he had a thought of winning even a bronze medal.
Oh well, gotta make the best of the situation, she decided, and, as
her hand closed around Mulder's groin, she learned that Mulder was
certainly making the best of it himself, no matter what she was
calling him. Hell, he had wanted her for so long she could probably
call him Mary and he wouldn't care.
Mulder rolled her onto her back and his hand moved between her
legs, pushing down hard into the wetness that was starting to grow,
albeit not like Niagara Falls or anything.
"Use both hands," she grunted into his mouth.
"What?" he mumbled, struggling to pull off her panties.
"You've got two arms. Use them for God's sake!"
Mulder did as he was ordered, keeping one hand between her legs
and using his other perfectly functional hand to caress her breasts,
which made it kind of hard for him to prop himself up so he
wouldn't fall on top of her, but he did his best. He couldn't help but
wonder how Krycek had managed it with just one arm, but maybe
Scully had always been on top. He'd be gallant and let her be on
the bottom for a change. That would show her he was better than
that rat bastard.
He tried harder. Still, Scully felt like it was taking way too long for
her to get anywhere.
"Speak Russian to me," she demanded. "That makes me hot."
Mulder stopped the kisses he was planting on her belly. He didn't
like being distracted just as he was going in for the kill.
"You know I don't speak Russian, Scully."
Scully cursed under her breath. Why was he so difficult all the
time? "Fake it," she growled. "'Cause if you don't, I'm gonna have
to. Do it for the cause, Mulder."
Damn that Alex Krycek anyway, Mulder thought. Not only was he
good in bed, but of all the languages in the world, Scully preferred
her sex talk in Russian. Well, he'd give it the old college try.
"Anatolie Karpov," he said lustfully. "Svetlana Boginskaya."
Okay, so the only Russian Mulder knew wasn't exactly the
language, just chess champions and Olympic gymnasts, but he'd do
whatever it took to keep Scully's mouth moving toward where it
was moving at the moment. "Boris Spassky, Nadia Comaneci."
"She's Romanian." Scully stopped her ministrations to interrupt.
God, was this woman hard to please or what?
"Close enough," he stated, wishing she'd just get back to whatever
that thing was that she had been doing with her tongue.
"No, it's not. Only Russian works for me. Romanian doesn't have
the same effect." Mulder was a bit disturbed that she knew that for
a fact. Just how many Eastern Europeans had she slept with
anyway? And had that been before or after the fall of communism?
"Dr. Zhivago," he said with passion, trying to rescue the moment
from his faulty geography.
"Oh God, yes!" Scully screamed.
Okaaaay, Russian it was. That was the most enthusiasm he'd
gotten from her since she stopped calling him Alex.
"Oh, Muldervich," she moaned as he entered her. Muldervich?
Well, at least that was better than Alex. And next time he'd try to
talk her into having American sex.
"Fyodor Dostoevski, Alexander Solzhenitsyn." Mulder was down
to authors from a Russian lit class he'd had about a hundred years
ago and growing awfully close to having to use politicians, which
didn't seem very erotic. Scully was taking her own sweet time
getting off. If she didn't hurry, he'd be out of Russian and out of
gas and this would be over way before it should.
He was working as hard as he could, with both hands, not to
mention the essential part, which wasn't really performing at its
maximum potential because he was too busy trying to remember
who wrote 'Eugene Onegin.' Was that Pushkin or Tolstoy? He was
beginning to feel like he was taking the S.A.T. exam instead of
having sex with the woman of his dreams. This was ridiculous.
He stopped the Russian and said what he felt, in his own language,
in his own way.
"I love you, Scully."
"What?" She looked at him, surprise in her eyes.
"I can say it in 47 different languages if you want, but I don't know
how to say everything I feel in any way but my way. I love you
more than anything. I want you and need you, and you complete
me."
"What was your name again?" she asked, but her voice was coy,
bemused, and her eyes sparkled. She knew full well what his name
was.
"You tell me," he said, thinking if she didn't get it right this time he
was out of there, although at the moment he was pretty comfy *in*
there.
"Mulder," she said softly. The right name. Said the right way.
With just a touch of the right emotion behind it. Her eyes were
shining like freshly-mopped linoleum, and she was looking at him as
if he actually was Mulder and not some Russian reject with one arm
and a fancy way with women.
Mulder figured the Russians must have a word for how wonderful it
felt, but he couldn't have cared less.
END
_________
Send feedback to me: sbarringer@usa.net
then go read "Titanium" if you still haven't
( http://alanna.net/fanfic/titanium/index.html ). Don't let this story
scare you off. ;)
(
geocities.com/area51/dreamworld) (
geocities.com/area51)