"In Silence" by Sheela-na-gig (sheela-na-gig@thespark.com) Category - Dark 'n' angsty smut! Fine to archive; just let me know where. Rated NC-17 Disclaimer - They're not mine, not even a little. 1013 and Fox own 'em and will never, ever let 'em have this kind of fun. I hope to God they don't sue me for trying to help 'em out. Summary - Mulder knocks on Scully's door one night... ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ At eleven-thirty they come, the three hard raps at my door, in quick and urgent succession. They are imperious, demanding rather than asking entry. I freeze, catching my breath, my heart taking a quick leap within me. I glance down at my plain cotton nightgown. It won't matter, of course, what I am wearing. I'm not even sure he notices what I'm wearing. Soon enough it will be bunched up in his fists, pulled roughly from my body, cast aside. Maybe it's better that it's not one of my nicer ones. Sometimes I find that the fabric is rent the next morning when I pick the poor discarded thing up from the floor. I shake my head suddenly and head for the door. He won't knock twice. It's understood that I can elect to ignore his summons. There's so little warning -- maybe a look, maybe an unguarded moment when his hand lingers just a little too long in the small of my back. Some nights I can feel his intent as clearly as if he already stood outside, and I find myself listening, waiting, for those three sharp knocks. Other times I am caught off guard and have to decide in a matter of seconds. My fingers find the chain at the door and draw it back. I twist the lock in my other hand, hurrying, feverish. I'm amazed every time at how quickly the desire leaps up in me, and at its strength. The moment this door swings open I know I'll surrender my precious control and give myself over to this force of Nature, to this thing I'd thought civilized people had banished. I was never the kind of woman to do a thing like this. I was a nice girl. Of course I'd wanted Mulder -- how not? But I had wanted hearts- and-flowers, I'd wanted romance. I wanted that normal life I kept asking him if he'd ever missed. I should have known, should have understood, when he always gave me that blank look and told me this *was* a normal life. The knob turns in my hand and I pull the door open. He is waiting there, as I knew he would be; we risk a moment's eye contact before he brushes past me and strides into the room. I have hardly shut the door when he seizes me and tugs me into his arms. The denim and leather he is wearing are cold against my skin. He grasps a handful of my hair; his mouth meets mine hard enough almost to hurt. I don't care. I am already clawing at the collar of his leather jacket, trying to find a way to pull it off his body. The first time it happened was after yet another wild-goose chase of an investigation that had dragged us for a long and fruitless week on a tour of Heartland America. I had lingered in the shower, relishing the warmth, and when I had gone back into my room and heard the knock at the door on the other side of the bathroom I called out, "I'm done -- it's all yours." I heard Mulder come into the bathroom, but the door on my side didn't close; instead, he came into my room. I pulled my towel a little tighter around myself in surprise. "Mulder...?" He didn't answer. He just came to me, and took me by the shoulders, and stared into my eyes. I opened my mouth, fully meaning to ask what the hell he thought he was doing, but the look in his eyes left me speechless. His eyes burned. I had never seen him like this. It struck fire in me, and I forgot all about holding up the towel, and raised my hands to his face. And he leaned over me and began to kiss me as if he thought he could actually drink me in, and I threw my arms around him and seared myself against the scorching heat of his body. It's the same feeling here in the entryway of my apartment. It's the same feeling every time. I think he feels the same. I have no way of really knowing, because we never mention it. We never even say a word while we do this. There are no whispered endearments, no words of love; we never call each other's names when we're coming. We are dark things, coupling in the darkness and the heat; the most we utter are the gasps and moans we cannot hold back. As much as we can, we do this in silence. I pry his arms away from my body long enough to tear the jacket from his back. I tug furiously at the bottom of his sweatshirt, trying to pull it up over his torso, but his arms have snaked around me again, and he is running his hands up under my nightgown, squeezing roughly, pulling me harder against him. I grind my hips against his hardness and he fairly snarls at the back of his throat; at the sound I sink my teeth into his shoulder, getting a mouthful of cotton fabric to gnaw for my trouble. There is never any thought of gentleness. His fingers bruise my flesh as they might an overripe peach. Sometimes I stray beyond the boundaries, and the next day I see the marks left by my teeth, high on his neck where his suit collar can't hide them. I ignore them, just as he never remarks on the times I come into the office the next morning moving slowly and stiffly on my sore legs. Talk? What good would it do us to talk about it? We keep our secrets, and our silences. I struggle in his arms until I have enough room to get the sweatshirt and the underlying t-shirt up over his chest. I dive in and fasten my mouth over the first nipple I come to, and the surprise makes him loosen his grasp on me, and I shove the shirts further up. He lets go of me and pulls the shirts off over his head. Before I know it he has hooked one foot behind my ankle to push me off balance, and in one fluid motion he lowers me to the floor and sinks down between my thighs. There are a few awkward moments while he finishes pulling my nightgown over my head. If I could lie still it would be easier, but I just can't let go of his belt, can't for even a moment stop trying to unbuckle it. I don't want to wait another second to feel him inside me. He pins me down with his weight until I gasp for breath, and catches both of my wrists in one hand, stretching my arms over my head. He sucks one of my nipples into his mouth and reaches down to push his other hand into the yearning wetness between my legs. I writhe beneath him with a wordless cry, rocking my hips against his hand. It's not enough. Only one thing will be enough. I can't even ask him for it -- I push against him harder, hoping he'll understand. When he lets go of my hands they fly to his waist again, frantically opening the belt, tugging the zipper down as quickly as they can. He is already trying to grind against me, and he groans when I push his jeans down and reach into his boxers and free his cock. We don't wait. I guide him there and he enters me all at once with one hard push. It's perfect. It's almost too much. If I wasn't so wet and ready for him it really would be too much. I pull my legs up and wrap them around his waist and give back just as good as I'm getting. He buries his face in my neck, grunting with the effort of his thrusts. I'll hurt tomorrow from this hard floor, but I just don't care. That's something I'll worry about when it happens. Now -- right now -- there's only Mulder on top of me, inside me, and there's only the shocking, sudden awareness that I'm already so close to coming. I never quite know how it happens. It's never been like this, never been so easy, with anyone else. Maybe that's another reason I'm afraid to talk to him about what we do. Maybe I'm afraid of breaking this spell. I reach my arms further around him, pulling him into me even harder, even faster. He growls against my neck as he complies. The feeling creeps up on me, and I throw away the last tattered threads of control, and I clutch at his back and push my face into his shoulder to muffle the scream. I feel him follow me only a moment later. When I come back to awareness, it's awareness of the discomfort of his weight pressing me into the hardwood floor. I shift a little, groaning softly, and he rolls aside, still holding me. I don't open my eyes as he bends his head to kiss my cheek and my forehead. I lift one lazy hand to stroke his hair. This is as close as we ever come to tenderness, this afterward. He sits up, gathering me into his arms; I lean into him as he lifts me up from the floor and carries me slowly into my bedroom. My eyes are still closed, but I know that's where he's taking me. We never make -- We never do this in my bed. But he always carries me there afterward, and, as he does now, he lays me down and unfolds the extra blanket from the foot of the bed, and draws it up over me. He sits down alongside me. I hold his hand, and feel the other smoothing back my hair, stroking it with something that feels almost like regret. In the safety of the darkness I open my eyes. I know he won't stay. He used to stay, used to hold me as we fell asleep, waking before me and slipping away sometime before the morning. He stayed until the night he woke me, moaning in fear from some dream, and I kissed him awake and held him until the tears were over. He never stayed again. This isn't the way I would have chosen to have him. This isn't the way I wanted it, but it is the way it has come to me. I've chosen to take what I can get. I close my eyes again, consciously steadying my breathing, and feign sleep to release him so that he will think he can go home. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The Dark Place This is the fanfic your mother warned you about.