by philiater

Author: Philiater
Category: M/S, vignette
Rating: R for sexual situations
Timeline: takes place sometime during season 7 Disclaimer: Not mine, never were.
Beta thanks:
Summary: Maybe the first time wasn't so great.

For Sybil, on her birthday. I'm posting early because I 'm working nights and computer access will be limited. One line must be attributed to the great Jean Helms.

This really should have been better.

It was supposed to have been beautiful, rapturous, soul defining. It was supposed to make up for years of waiting and the interminable longing. Such longing...

Perhaps we'd just waited too long. We'd built up too many expectations about how it would be, what it would mean. When it finally did happen, it was...good, but certainly not soul defining.

I can tell he's a little disappointed, too. Both of us are trying hard not show it to the other, but after working together for so many years, reading the other's moods has become second nature.

We're lying in his bed, but not in each other's arms. After 'the big moment' we'd parted quickly, each going to one side of the bed like two prize fighters at the end of a round.

Though this parting is mutual, it has now cast an awkward mood between us. Whoever breaks the silence first will be the one who will have to explain, will have to be the one to apologize.

Neither of us wants to be that person. So we lay here in silence, our bodies cooling under thin sheets in refrigerated air.

I long to slide my body over to his and wrap my cold arms around his waist. I want to warm myself against him and fall asleep in the crook of his arm, but my soul is as cold as my body, and I close my eyes tightly against tears of frustration.

To my utter surprise, he decides to break the silence first.


"Let's just sleep on it, Mulder."

I feel the mattress lighten and fear he's leaving me, but he's only retrieving another blanket from the closet. He returns with it and thoughtfully spreads it over both sides of the bed before getting in again.

"Goodnight, Scully," he says quietly.

"Goodnight, Mulder."

I dream about nothing in particular. No monsters, Donnie Pfasters or blood sucking vampires intrude upon my deep slumber. Instead, random, meaningless images that I probably won't remember in the morning flit across my mind. There's something oddly comforting in dull dreams.

My boring slideshow is interrupted by the sensation of something touching me. Slowly I drift up from sleep to the realization that Mulder is kissing me.

I know it's Mulder by the shape of his mouth. Lips, full and soft, gently caress mine. He's going slowly, quietly seducing me away from sleep.

My inhibitions are greatly dampened by relaxation, and I wrap my arms around him. Until now I haven't opened my eyes, just enjoyed the sensation of his body on top of mine.

He moves lower to trail kisses across my jaw before descending to my neck. I run my hands from his smooth back up through his spiky hair, urging him to go lower still.

That clever mouth doesn't disappoint. He kisses a path down to my left breast with slow deliberation. Using lips and tongue, he teases small gasps of pleasure from me. To my deep satisfaction, the other breast receives much the same treatment. Mulder, I realize, is a nipple connoisseur.

Warm wetness begins to seep from between my legs. A sharp longing for him begins deep inside me, and that's where I want him to be, but Mulder seems in no great hurry.

I try to touch him everywhere I can, try to get his hips roughly aligned to mine, but he resists.

"Let me touch you, Scully."

Relaxing back, I let him do just that.

Slowly he maps my body with his soft mouth and knowledgeable hands. No inch of skin goes untouched, no place is forbidden him. Before I realize what's happening, he's brought me to orgasm.

I yelp with the pleasure of it, arching my back high off the bed. He waits patiently for me to descend back to him. When I do, I hear him chuckle.

As revenge, I reach between us and stroke him gently. Suddenly his face is wiped of amusement as he thrusts into my hand.

With a frustrated growl, he rolls me under him, pinning me to the mattress with his body and kissing me breathless. This time I get what I want. He aligns his hips with mine.

"Scully, look at me."

I open my eyes and see his handsome face silhouetted in the dim morning light. His eyes hold mine as he slides deeply into me. Once joined, he pauses, checking for pain or regret. I make sure he sees neither and wrap my legs around him as encouragement.

He moves slowly, his thrusts a leisurely torture. I move with him, strain to kiss him, so that both halves of our bodies can be joined.

Despite my urging, he doesn't quicken the pace. He's waiting. Waiting for me.

Just when I think I will go mad from this treatment, a slow building of sensation begins. When it finally happens, this orgasm is bigger, longer and far more satisfying than the first one. It echoes along my nerves and causes me to cry out.


His weight alone keeps me rooted to the bed. At this sign, his thrusts quicken and he comes soon after me. The emotion in his face must be repeated in mine--joy, satisfaction, hope.


Instead of moving away from each other, we kiss and touch for a long, long time. We are loathe to disconnect-- as if the newly formed emotions will slip away with our bodies--but eventually he slides out of me with a sad inevitability.

He rolls on his back, bringing me with him. I rest my head on his solid chest and nestle into his side. Again, no words are needed afterwards, but for far better reasons.

Yes, this time was better--so much better--effectively wiping out the memory of that first awkward coupling.

So really, that first time doesn't count.

Does it?


Thanks to Cynthia Baker for indirectly giving me an idea. You never know where inspiration will come from.

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