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bellefleur, oregon

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He’s telling her that he remembers a presence. A bright light in the room.

The streetlights outside only cast a faint glow in the room, the candle on the bureau barely illuminating. But, in the heft of his surety, he himself seems lit from within.

Intoxicating, driven. Flaring in intensity. So heated that the warmth rolls in her own stomach, jostles with the current iteration of her need.

It’s madness, she thinks. Absolute madness. But in this humid hour, graceless in its vulnerable honesty, Mulder is indescribably persuasive. And she is starting to feel the pull, a want she can’t put a name to.

She had toppled at the edge of his gravity since meeting him, and, in a moment of weakness and instinct, she had let him in. Then, on purpose, intentional, he had let her in, too.

And now, he is staring all the way through her eyes, into her amygdala, her hind brain.

She thinks that he is rewiring her emotions, implanting memories. She thinks that this must be a dream, surreal and tingling down her spine. She thinks that he is changing her irreversibly. She wants him to crawl inside her body, to lift the felted blanket from her hips and smell the tang of her in the air.

She thinks that she has never felt a want so irrational, so urgent.

For you, she would tell him. Pull him between her thighs, the lonely, aching bulk of him, this beautiful man. Rut against him like a teenage boy. Scent mark him and tumble in the sheets. Seduce him into fucking her bareback.

In the limbo of this newfound connection, anything seems possible.

“Nothing else matters to me,” he’s saying, rough and serious. “And this is as close as I’ve ever gotten.”

Caught as she is in his magnetism, Dana decides, wildly, that she would follow him anywhere. Upon going through with it, she decides will tell herself she hadn’t meant to, that he had dragged her into it.

It will be a lie.

And he’s pressed up against the bed, now, his arms so close to hers. She hadn’t thought she’d let another person get this close again, ever, but here he is. She has to remind herself that she barely even knows him. That feels like a lie, too.

Enraptured is the word she’s looking for. Fixated. Not him, but herself.

She’s nodding wordlessly, barely aware of her own actions. The scent of motel shampoo and sweat is wafting off of him, and she wants to bury her nose in his skin, bed down.

“You gotta understand, Scully,” he says, and he almost sounds desperate. She loves her last name on his lips. “This is who I am.”

The marvel of him is that he is showing her, too, and that his words match up to his actions. The marvel of him is that he does not want anything but her attentiveness in response.

That he does not want her to be any less than she is.

It takes her a long pause before she can bring her thoughts to words. She’s never been very good at that part, not when there’s emotion involved.

“I do,” she tells him, and her voice is raspy as sandpaper. She wonders if he can hear how much she wants him. “Or, I’m starting to.”

What can she say, really, that holds up to what he’s given her? What can she possibly tell him to balance out the trust?

Her fingers itch to open her robe again.

With a sharp exhale, Mulder moves towards her, further up on his knees. Drawn to her, like a climbing flame. Suddenly, impossibly, she’s certain that he wants her just the same.

That’s what does it, Dana thinks. The surety. With how fiercely she wants him, that’s all it takes. Before she can second guess, she’s reaching for him, the muscle of his shoulder, the coarse denim of his collar.

Her own teeth sink into her lip, and she tugs him towards her urgently, feels the easy surge of him as he joins her on the bed, almost as if he has only been waiting to be allowed. With him above her, falling onto her back is natural, spare hand shoving away the blanket he’d given her in invitation of his closeness. Just her robe between them, now. And he’s already seen her without it.

Had she wanted him to take advantage, when she’d stripped down? She’d been afraid, but moreso, she’d wanted his attention. She had wanted to see what he would do. And, oh, he had been so gentle. Soft, almost feminine, and green as the forest just outside. This beautiful, hesitant man.

Beneath the hovering arch of him, now, she softens, slides her palm along the line of his jaw. His mouth is a breath from hers, and he stays there.

“I want to trust you.” He’s earnest, ragged around the edges. Not yet fully formed. “You don’t seem like a spy.”

He’s been acting, since they met, as if he doesn’t care for her. But, here is the secret, hiding at the corners of his eyes – it’s all been pretend. He likes her far more than he should, just as she does him.

“I’m not,” Dana whispers. “But they want me to be.”

“Do you want to be?”

She shakes her head, slow, scoops her palm along his face. Open lips, arched throat, eyes meeting in the half darkness. Sharing his air is the most erotic thing she’s ever done.

She wants him.

Danger coils at the base of her spine, that familiar need to pounce, and she convinces herself to wait. He doesn’t trust her fully yet, she knows. If he doesn’t kiss her first, he may never trust her at all.

And she wants to be trusted. Needs it, with a fervor she hasn’t felt in a long time. It’s his form of approval, she realizes now, and she has always sought that from the men in her life, for better or for worse.

She would say that he is no different, but that, too, would be a lie. 

“Scully,” he murmurs.

There it is again. Scully. How strange, to suddenly be someone else. How much stranger, that she’s taken to it so quickly. That already, she feels more like Scully than she ever has Dana.

She must be caught in the lucid dream they’re inhabiting together, where everything is true to its metaphor. Bellefleur, Oregon, beautiful and exhaling with constant rain. The way it soaks her down to barest impulse, opens her wide like a flower. It is a name that defines itself, Bellefleur. Like Scully, from the Gaelic for student. From her father.

In comparison, what kind of a name is Dana?

Her other hand, now, too, twins sliding their way along his face. The structure of his bones appeals to her. She wants to sketch out his skeleton, the way they do for anatomy textbooks. 

If there are consequences, she’ll deal with them when she wakes.

“Mulder,” she murmurs back.

And then, he kisses her.

As soon as his mouth covers hers, she rewards him with the slightest of moans. His fat bottom lip, his slackening jaw. The roof of his mouth like ribs. The human, heated taste of him. The blood pulse like a spark between her thumbs and his temples, source indistinguishable.

Young and lonesome as he seems, Mulder knows what he’s doing. She concludes rapidly that kissing him until the sun came up would be a far better use of her time than trying to debunk his work.

And yet, he doesn’t push, doesn’t take control or wrangle her into submission, no. Instead, he melts. Lets her in, all the way, groans softly when she nips at his lip. Moves with her hands as they sculpt his jaw, tangle in his silky hair.

For all his drive, his intensity, he is suggestible and languid as clay. And when they come up for air, he is staring down at her as if bewitched, bewildered.

In awe, seemingly of her.

Somehow, she doesn’t think she will hold his attention like this for long. He’s already promised to another endeavor, and for all she knows, to another woman. But she’s always wanted things all the more when she has to struggle to get them, and for now, she will languish under his gaze.

“What do you want?” He breathes.

Dana blinks up at him, rubs her thighs together. It is at question at once physical and metaphysical. She almost asks which way he means it, but discovers in short order that her answer is the same regardless.

So, she pulls him back down, takes his mouth again. Fumbles between them, shoving his denim overshirt away and off his shoulders. He is an entirely different breed, this beautiful man, and she is seeking the feel of him on her palms.

Shoving her hands up under his shirt, she finds him, tensed, the bumps of his abdominal muscles trembling just slightly against her fingers. He shoves himself up on his knees, only for a moment, to pull it over his head, and then his frame is covering hers again and she is raking her nails through the curlicues of his chest hair.

Dana doesn’t miss it, the way that he is offering himself to her. Baring himself, again.

One hand cupping his neck, she unties her sash with the other, and opens her robe for the second time. An invitation, now, rather than a temptation. A silent plea, not a test. An answer, instead of a question.

I trust you, too.

She releases him only for a moment, to wriggle out of the sleeves, shivering as the cool air hits her arms. Her belly, her chest, are warmed from the radiating heat of him, but the outsides of her body feel exposed, and she draws herself in, rises against him.

For a moment, Mulder catches his breath, merely staring into her eyes as if reluctant to look elsewhere. As if it might betray her trust.

“Mulder,” she whispers, stroking the pulse in his throat. The tender feeling in her chest takes her by surprise.

She feels him swallow, and then he’s rocking back on his knees again, sitting on his heels, this time pulling her up with him. The vertigo of the sudden movement makes her weak, and he reels her in by her wrists, her arms, catching her and drawing her close into his lap.

His jeans are rough between her thighs, and his face is so close to hers, back bowed just enough to press his tongue into her mouth. As if he’s bestowing something upon her, thanking her.

Dana unhooks her bra. He slides his hands up her sides, thumbs running across the soft swells of her breasts, caressing unbelievably gently. Not fumbling, not nervous. Careful.

When he meets her eyes again, he looks almost uncertain. A little lost, a little childlike.

Already, it is a push-pull, an animal, this thing between them. When he balks, she pushes forwards. When she is uncertain, he fills in the space in wait.

When he travels halfway, she meets him just past the middle, setting them once again in motion.

And so it is the hesitation in him makes her rise up to compensate, to balance him out. With his lips once again guided to hers, she sheds the plain cotton bra with a confidence she’s never felt before, and grabs his palms, moves them to cover her breasts.

The smoothness of his hands, the feel of them against her skin, sends heat straight down to her core. She sighs into his mouth, and for the first time tonight, he responds in exactly the way that she expects, as a normal specimen should.

He presses closer against her nipples, the softness off her flesh. Lets out a faint, honest to God growl as she sucks on his lower lip.

An end to the breathless pause, motion resuming, and the living thing they share starting to grow again.

Winding her fingers in her hair, she rocks her hips against him, sliding closer, seeking out the bulge she knows is waiting. And, oh, there it is, sizeable and rigid, and she’s just about to reach for his fly when he rocks them forwards again.

She careens backwards towards the bed, and Mulder catches her just in time with one hand between her shoulders, surprising a slurred laugh out of her.

“Trust fall,” he tells her, as if it’s an explanation, a glimmer in his eyes.

And maybe it is an explanation, for all of this. She starts to laugh again, the dream logic of it all, but then he’s licking his way into her mouth, and she’s curling herself around him, spreading her thighs to make room. His hips crush deliciously into hers, wringing a moan out of her, drippy and hot.

The foreplay has barely been more than kissing, but she’s slick there already, aching for attention.

For the second time, Dana starts to reach for the button of his jeans, but he slides further down and out of her grasp, his breath hovering damp over her chest.

As she opens her mouth to protest, his tongue drags across her nipple, and she finds herself gasping instead as he takes the tight bud into his mouth. The waves of his hair are silken under her fingers, and it’s all she can do to cling, arch her back as he sucks at her slowly, needily.

It seems to go on forever, lush and decadent. She has never been so aroused by gentle, thorough treatment, didn’t even know that she could be. Mulder nuzzles into the space between her breasts, huffs out air as he plucks her nipple between his thumb and forefinger.

“You,” he murmurs reverently, eyes cast upwards, lips brushing her skin. “You, Scully.”

Just that, nothing more, his gaze burning into her obsessively, the inside of his mouth wet with saliva. The name, his name for her, floats just above them in the dim, waiting for her approval. Sure and studious, enticingly masculine. A name with a spine to it.


He nods.

And he hasn’t complimented her out loud, hasn’t referred to her as desirable in any way. Not once. But oh, she feels it, in a way she never has before. Under his gaze, his touch, his naming, she feels gorgeous, cared for, alive. New.

She would follow him anywhere, this beautiful man. Scully would follow him anywhere, and mean it.

When every one of her exhales sounds like a whimper, he shifts back up to her face, kisses her more deeply than before. Grinds his hips into her slow, as if to music.

She tugs at him, reaches down once and finally succeeds in unfastening his jeans, tucking her hand into his boxers to withdraw the stiff length of him, big and heavy in her palm. They rid her of her underwear together, and she’s too far gone to be embarrassed again of the plain cotton.

Mulder’s jaw loosens as he stares at the apex of her thighs, tongue creeping out to wet his lips, and a rush of surprise and arousal ripples through her as she realizes what he’s thinking of doing. Christ, how long has it been? She knows already how good he is with his mouth.

Outside, she hears the hum of the backup generator kick in, and the room feels slightly brighter, even though his lights hadn’t been on before the power went out.

Suddenly, she feels renewed urgency, near to being caught. As if the dreamlike state they’ve found themselves in is close to dissipating, wakefulness pouring back in around the edges. Before he can chase down the impulse, sink lower again and mouth at yet more parts of her that are soft and wanting, she reaches for him and pulls him fully atop her. Another time.

There shouldn’t be another time, but she doesn’t stop to think about it. She can’t stop at all.

He starts to ask if they need protection, says that he’s clean, and Scully shakes her head, mumbles about the pill. No more waiting. She can’t risk it, the chance that reality will sweep over them before she’s had him inside her.

She draws him in between her thighs, winds her legs around his hips, cradles his face in her hands. Tells him now, now, barely hearing herself speak.

The furrow in his brow, his sweet, open mouth, his eyes burning her clean. Her thumbs, stroking his cheeks, the way he nuzzles into her touch. The tightness in her throat, a surge of emotion so strong she can’t put a name to it.

She is sure, suddenly, that Mulder’s never been so aroused by gentle treatment, either. Maybe he’s never been given the chance.

And then, he is nudging at her entrance, coltlike, and she is welcoming him in, keening low. Praying he hears it as only pleasure, that he doesn’t see the tears that spring to her eyes. If he stopped, or pulled back, she doesn’t think she could take it.

With the arch of her back, his hand tucks beneath her, walks along her spine.

“Scully,” he tells her, grit out between his teeth. Rocks his hips, once, twice, the shock of motion dragging up her tailbone, and then stills inside her. “God, Scully.”

When she focuses on his eyes, they are distant, clouded with need, and for a moment, she is scared she’s taken advantage. Reaching for him, she grabs at his jaw, tendons tightly wired, trying to get his attention.

“Mulder,” she manages, a gasp more than anything else.

His gaze finds her in the low light. As she watches, pressing her thumbprints onto his bones, the haze starts to clear, replaced by a gentle, honest question. She hadn’t answered when he asked, not out loud. She had thought of, like an adolescent, of fucking. Of eating him up, pushing him around, tussling with him in the sheets. She had pulled him down to swallow him whole, and missed the point.

Scully cradles his face, this beautiful, tender man. She’ll make up for it now.

“I… want… you.”

Each word a soft exhale, a trust fall. Her mouth so close to his. She hadn’t thought she’d let another person get this close again, ever, but here he is, melting into her, soaking her through like Bellefleur rainwater. And she knows him.

Nothing else matters to me, he’d said, manic with the drive of it. Now, lit from within, he frames her face with his arms, and sets them in motion. Pours himself into her, open and vulnerable, trusting implicitly.

Maybe they’ve both lied tonight.

As his mouth covers hers, as the dream nears collapse, Scully winds herself closer, pushes against the gravitational pull. Meets him more than halfway, molding herself to the clay of him.

When he comes, it is with her name on his lips. Sure and strong, defining her.