Title: Dust Mites 2/4
Authors: Jori Remington and MoJo

************


Shit.

I can't tell what is louder. The many bursts of thunderclaps or the
many bursts of Joan next door. Larry has gotten more in the last half
hour than I've gotten in the past decade. Scully feigns sleep, trying
to keep her breathing rate as modulated as she can, but occasionally
she slips. Like when Larry cried out 'ride me, big momma!' a few
minutes ago, I definitely heard Scully gasp.

Besides all the noise, this bedspread is making me itch. It also
probably has enough 'evidence' on it that if we did have some luminol,
it would light up like the sky on the Fourth of July. This could be a
good thing considering our lack of power right at the moment.

I'm not sure why I need this musty blanket anyway. After having the
opportunity to give Scully that impromptu back rub, it has got to be
at least 103 degrees in here. Then the thought of touching her soft,
warm skin combined with the even, rhythmic sounds of the neighbor's
headboard banging against the wall . . . the rain pounding against the
window . . . and Scully's soft breathing remind me why I have this
blanket over me. Down, li'l partner. No sense getting ready for a
party you are never going to be invited to attend.

And what really pisses me off about this whole thing is the fact that
the only channel that came in clearly was some pirated satellite porn
channel and now without electricity, I can't even turn it on. Not that
I would do that with Scully in the room, but now I couldn't even if I
wanted to. I could have turned the volume off and pretended the couple
on the screen was Joan and Larry. After years of watching that crap,
you've got to try new and unusual things.

I try to roll over in a desperate attempt to give my knees someplace
to go but I fail. Now I'm just wedged into this crappy little couch
tighter than I was before. It smells like someone's dog spent a week
sleeping on it and I'm sure if the lights would come back on, I'd be
able to see the bristly little hairs of some sort of a terrier. It
smells like a terrier.

Shuffling around again, I manage to free my ass from the crack between
the cushions and get my elbow into a more comfortable spot. Too bad my
neck is now wedged in tight. I should have jogged over to Det.
Cullen's. I could be in her bed by now, nicely stretched out and I'm
sure quite erect. Not crammed into what is most certainly a loveseat
without the love.

"Mulder, stop fidgeting," Scully calls out into the dark, sounding
like an irate mother talking to an hyperactive child at a portrait
studio.

"I'm sorry, but the last time I checked I was six feet tall and this
couch is maybe five feet long, leaving 12 inches of me with no where
to go," I say, hearing her breath catch at my statement. She says
nothing for at least two whole thunder claps and about ten 'Do me
faster, Joans.'

"Can't you . . . I don't know . . . put your legs over the arm of the
couch or something? Mulder, I've got to get some sleep. I've been up
for nearly 24 hours now. My whole body aches with . . . I'm not even
sure with what and I just want to go to sleep," she rattles off before
I hear her pat her pillow and put her head back down.

I try my best contortionist moves again, but this time I nearly fall
off as I twist around, catching myself before I hit the floor.

"I'm out of here," I say, standing up and heading toward the door.
Det. Cullen on 8243 Gulfview Drive. It can't be that hard to find even
in the pouring rain and it would be better than listening to Scully
complain about my inability to get comfortable on that flea-ridden
piece of furniture.

I grab my shoes and unlock the door just in time to see the
transformer on the utility pole a few yards from the motel get struck
by lightning. It pops and flares and sends little sparks everywhere,
lighting up the room. Well, on second thought, curling up on the
little couch would be better than death so I close the door again. I
part the curtains a little to let whatever bit of light there is out
there in here so I can at least see my misery.

With the transformer still flaring outside, I turn around in time to
see Scully climb out of bed, her robe parting briefly and showing me
the most wonderful view of her toned thighs and abdomen. She has on
just a pair of plain cotton underwear but somehow they are the sexiest
things I've seen . . . since the last time I've seen her in her
underwear.

"Mulder, you take the bed. I'll sleep on the couch," she says, quickly
yanking her robe shut. She looks at the couch and starts messing with
the bedspread and pillow like a mother bird making a nest.

"Listen, Scully . . . we are both adults. I'm sure we can share the
same bed without the world coming to an end," I say, sitting on the
edge of the double bed. The cheap mattress sinks from my weight and I
know what will happen if we both get into this bed together. To
prevent ourselves from rolling into the center and 'accidentally'
brushing up against each other, we will both spend the night clinging
to our own side like drowning men clinging to a life raft. "I promise
I won't come anywhere near you."

"Yeah, like I haven't heard that before," she mutters under her breath
as she fluffs the pillow.

"You have?"

"A million times over," she says but never tells me where.

"It will be okay," I say in my best 'oblige me' tone as I pat the
other side of the bed. I can almost hear her brain kick into overdrive
as she begins to formulate excuses for sleeping on the couch. "I'll
keep you safe from the pirate ghost."

"Mulder, there is no pirate ghost," she says with an exasperated sigh.
She sits down next to me on the edge of the bed and we both almost
slide off and hit the floor. The floor would probably be better to
sleep on than this sad excuse for bedding. Then again, there's a good
chance that the floor also smells like terrier.

"There are plenty of pirate legends in this country. From the Florida
Keys and all up and down the Gulf coast . . . damn it, don't they ever
stop?" I ask as I scoot up the bed and rest against the headboard. I
can feel the vibrations coming through the wall from the other room.

Scully doesn't move but rather, she remains at the foot of the bed.

The sound of thunder reverberates through the room just as Joan
'finishes' next door, both competing with the other to be heard. Over
the many years we've traveled, I've listened to many people screw
their brains out while I sat alone, but this is the first time I got
to listen to it with Scully and it isn't quite as 'pleasurable.'

"What were you saying about pirate ghosts and legends?" Scully asks,
trying to talk a little louder than Larry next door. She moves up the
bed so she is sitting next to me and holds a pillow to her chest.
Larry is still not done but is presently engaged in crying out 'Right
there, baby' every few seconds.

"Lafitte isn't the only pirate legend of the Gulf . . . there . . .
are . . . several . . . in . . . the . . . Keys . . ." I try to say
but the wall keeps getting knocked between every word. She must be on
the headboard and he's pounding into her.

We are both silent, waiting for Larry's big finale. Joan seems to be
back into it now and they are talking so fast that it almost sounds
like someone calling a horse race. I wonder if they have even noticed
that the electricity went off?

Finally, the wall suffers one hell of a big bang as Larry cries to
heaven, hell and any place he can think of about how good this is
before he shuts up.

"I don't remember it ever being *that* good," Scully says with a
sarcastic tone in her voice.

"Maybe you just weren't with the right person," I say without
thinking. Even in darkness, I know she turns her head toward me and
judging from the squeak her neck made doing it, she's pissed. That's
okay. I've apparently done nothing but piss her off for a few days
now. What's one more time going to do?

"And who exactly would be the right person . . . Mulder?" she asks and
I know I'm in for it.

I can play this a few different ways. The easiest way would be for me
to pretend I'm suffering from narcolepsy and fall asleep right now. Or
I can answer honestly and see how she deals with it.

Turning to look at her, a well-timed flash of lightning illuminates
her very pissed off expression. She looks like something straight from
some horror movie. Luckily, the room falls into darkness and I don't
have to see that stare for long.

"I . . . well . . . I think the right person would be . . . me . . . I
think," I say, my voice stuttering as I go.

"Oh, you do, do you?" she says and I am unable to tell what she is
thinking by the tone of her voice.

"Yes, I do," I say and a clap of thunder rolls through the room.

************

Shit.

I don't need any lights to know what expression he is wearing. It's
the same one I've been looking at all day during the dead cows, dead
farmers and dead pirates. The look of utter conviction. He honestly
believes he *is* the right person. Besides, I can hear it in his
voice, too. The soft stuttering that's a tell-tale sign that wasn't
some off-handed quip or snappy repartee. It throws me so completely
off-balance that I nearly slip off the mattress and onto the shag
carpet.

Which only makes me more angry at him. How the hell am I supposed to
sleep after that comment? I'll be up all night thinking about it now.
I need Dimenhydrinate or Gravol or even Tylenol P.M. Sleep is a
biological state that is caused by the discharge of specific neurons
in certain parts of the brain. Normal low cycles, the circadian rhythm
lows, occur between 2 A.M.
and 6 A.M. when sleep is absolutely necessary for both physical and
mental health. A glance at the decrepid analog clock tells me it's
3:25 A.M. I've been up for over 24 hours and my mind is begining to
hallucinate doing the wild thing with Mulder and giving Larry and Joan
a run for their money. But I'm onto him now. I narrow my eyes at his
supine form, reclining ever so invitingly against the headboard.

"Sleep deprivation," I say accusingly, wise to his cunning plan. I
toss the pillow aside and get on all fours, crawling across the bed as
I stalk Mulder like a red-haired lioness in heat. I will rip him to
shreds and they'll be picking what's left of him off the peeling beige
wallpaper for days.

"Excuse me?" Mulder squeaks. His hands come up and he holds them in
the air in the small space between us. Is that fear I smell? You
better be scared, Mulder. . .

"I *know* what you're doing to me," I continue, breathing hard and
heavy as I swing one leg over his hips. Beneath me the mattress
strains under the combined weight. It's going to have to hold just a
while longer until I'm through. "Sleep affects almost every
physiological and psychological
process."

"What are you talking about?" he asks. I ignore his attempt at playing
innocent and straddle his hips with mine. His solid, firm erection
makes contact with my wet, soft center and I swallow back a gasp. I
can't let him know he has any kind of effect on me even though I'm
just as aroused as he is.

"Decreased judgement abitlity and decision making," I say, grinding
slowly into him with every word. He lays still, although I know he's
dying to buck those hips. "Know what they are?"

"No," he answers feebly. All the while, I feel him growing harder and
harder beneath me. I'm draining all the blood from his big head to his
little head. Which isn't so little after all judging from the length
I'm brushing against. He wimpers and shifts his hips around a bit,
trying to alleviate the pressure caused by his constricting shorts.

I've got him right where I want him. I watch his lower lip tremble
nervously as a low moan escapes them. His breath is jagged and tense
as he watches me with wide eyes.

"Symptoms of lack of SLEEP!" I hiss loudly, like some feral cat.
Mulder winces and covers one ear with the flat of his palm. I rise up
on my knees to break any sexual tension between us, nails ready to
claw his tanned arms and chest. I come in for the kill. "You're trying
to wear me down, aren't you? Make me give in with promises of how good
it'll be? When was the last time you got any, Mulder? Or can't you
remember that far back?"

"I *could* have gotten some tonight if I really wanted it," he
counters, a flash of lightning cutting through the darkness so I can
see the smug expression on his face. I just want to slap it right off.

"With Det. Cullen?" I say, folding my arms tightly and sitting back on
his thighs. "I bet she's already done it with everyone in this
godforsaken town. I bet she's even fucked your Pirate's Ghost."

"You can leave *Tessa* out of it," he counters, using her first name
just to irritate me. "Besides, you were certainly quick to keep me
here...weren't you? What are you afraid of, Scully?"

Outside as if on cue, the tornado sirens start up. Blaring their dull,
flat warning over the hotel. Great. Tornados are in the area. With any
luck, we'll end up in Oz soon. Although I'm sure Mulder and Dorothy
are probably on a first name basis.

"C'mon, Scully," he prods, fingers crawling up my naked thighs and
making me ache even more. "Answer the question."

"I'm afraid of . . . you . . .uh. . . embarassing me professionally by
screwing the detective assigned to this case," I stammer, completely
flustered by his touch. It's so slow and deliberate. How far up is he
going to go? I shudder when his thumbs make contact with my inner
thighs.

"Nice try, G-woman," Mulder says, with a tiny laugh. He withdraws his
hands. "You're classic Freud."

"What's that supposed to mean?" I sneer, eagerly waiting his
psychoanalysis.

Mulder plants his hand firmly on either side of his torso so he can
push up to a sitting position. The mattress starts to cave in and
Mulder's hips are sliding with me still on top.

"Everything is about sex," he says, drawing the word out. His face is
almost level with mine and his breath is hot on my damp skin. A thin
layer of sweat covers his forehead, neck and bare chest. He digs his
fingers into the bed. "When was the last time you had it?"

"That's none of your business," I snap, before Mulder loses his
struggle with the mattress and we both tumble into the sagging center.
Our positions are reversed and now he's on top. His lips brush my neck
as he groans into my shoulder.

"C'mon, Larry," cries Joan the nyphomanic. "Ride me again!"

"No, you ride me, Joan!" screams Larry. He *must* be on Viagra. No man
can get it up that much in one night.

Mulder's legs ease mine apart and the damn robe is working to his
advantage by separting in the front. Leaving my naked skin rubbing
against his naked skin as he lowers his hips into classic missionary
position. Mulder raises up on his arms and I sink deeper as the
springs give away even more beneath my buttocks. Gravity pins me
between Mulder and the bed from Hell. The hot, greedy flames licking
my insides are proof of its true orgins are not Serta or Sealy.

"Let's hear your definition of good sex," Mulder says, with the cantor
of a college professor in Sexuality 101. "Is it what's going on next
door?"

"That's a good fuck," I clarify, rolling my eyes as the headboard
thumping starts up again next door. "Good sex isn't just what's going
on between your legs."

"Could have fooled me. If not, then what is it?" he presses verbally,
as his erection presses into me. Adreneline surges and descends to the
contact point. The tension is almost unbearable, even through the
layer of heather gray cotton panties and nylon running shorts.

Mulder's eyes travel downward to where my robe has come undone, giving
him a good view of my heaving breasts as they rise and fall into the
matching heather gray cotton bra. This bed isn't going to hold out
much longer. It creaks and creaks as we sink lower and lower. He's not
going to let me up until I answer him.

"Good sex starts with the mind," I say, my voice thick and husky.
Mulder thrusts very slowly against my core. "I have to be. . .
stimulated there above all else. I need a man who's my intellectual
equal."

"Someone who can challenge you," he whispers, pulling his hips back
out and lets them fall back into place. My nails dig into his arms,
silently imploring him to do it again. "And I know I challenge you,
Scully. What else?"

"Commitment," I continue, finding it increasingly difficult to form a
coherent thought. He rubs himself against me again, sending a shock of
electricty and awakening sensations I haven't felt in ages. "Good sex
takes a commitment to the relationship."

"The reason I didn't go over to Tessa's is I just didn't *want* to,"
he breathes, and I let my thighs relax even more around him. "I'm
committed to you, Scully. Haven't you figured that out by now?" Mulder
smiles, grinding a small circle to emphasize the point. "I'm two and
O. What else?"

"Chemistry," I breathe, mentally willing the mattress to stop slipping
so he can do that little circle thing again. Dear God, I might . . . I
might if he keeps this up. I open my hazy eyes as another thunderbolt
shakes the walls. Joan and Larry just might have some competition.
"There has to be chemistry that's just there from the start. An
intuition about the other person's needs. Both physical and
emotional."

"What about sexual needs?" Mulder asks, as I moan softly. My eyes
flutter close as he slides back and forth across my folds through the
cotton. Up and down until he hits a certain bundle of nerves right at
the top without any kind of direction on my part. He just knows where.
"An intuition about the other person's sexual needs?"

"Uh," I wet my lower lip and look up at him. "Yeah."

"Yeah?" Mulder asks hopefully, raising an eyebrow zeroing in on that
spot. Over and over again.

"Yeah," I exhale, wishing I could arch my back. Damn this cheap,
mite-infested mattress. I close my eyes and pretend we're anywhere
else but here. And it's hard with the thunder, Joan, Larry and the
tornado siren to remind me where we really are.

I suck in air and clench my teeth as I start to quiver. Soft at first,
but enough to know what's about to come. Me. Oh God . . .

"Scully?" Mulder whispers, but doesn't stop his motions.

"Here it comes, Larry!" cries Joan in estacy. "Oh, Larry!"

"Give it up, Joan!" answers Larry. "Give it up!"

My heart beats hard and fast as I pulse in time with it. I squeeze my
eyes shut, surrendering completely to the sensation. Did I just feel
the earth move?

"Scully?" Mulder whispers again, louder this time. He stops rocking
his hips and my eyes snap open to see a look of panic on his face.

"What is it?" I ask, still high on endorphins.

"The . . . bed . . . Scully," Mulder says, as I realize why the earth
is moving. The bed is collapsing. Mulder tries to pull himself up, but
he can't get a grip on anything. I can't move at all. He can no longer
support himself. Mulder's arms fold around me as if trying to prevent
the bed from sucking me into the Netherworld from which it came. But
instead, it snaps and cracks off the headboard as the frame finally
gives away with a loud crash.


*********

Shit.

We are cursed. Probably by that damn pirate's ghost I insisted we
chase around. Larry and Joan have been banging away for half a day
without injury next door but, no . . . not us. We can't even carry on
a conversation without the damn world falling apart around us. Yes, it
was more of a conversation. More like high school kids dry humping
each other through their clothes, but after all these years, it felt
great.

"Are you okay?" I ask Scully as I try to separate my body from hers.
Thankfully, the neighbors quieted down. Now we are left with pounding
thunder and the monotone drone of the civil defense siren. Should we
be doing something when that goes off like hiding in the bathroom?

"I'm fine," she says but this time I'm not convinced.

I try to roll off of her but every time I move, she moans. I'm
assuming it isn't the same slight moan of pleasure that escaped her
throat a few seconds ago. Yes, that was pleasure. This is . . . most
certainly pain.

"Mulder . . . Fox . . ."

"Mulder . . ." I say, not quite sure we were intimate enough for her
to be switching names just yet.

"Mulder, your knee . . . it's in my . . ."

"I'm sorry . . . Scully, your arm . . ."

"I'm sorry . . ."

We somehow get out of our game of bed twister and end up standing on
opposite sides of the debris, staring at each other. I really have no
idea what to do next. We were getting pretty cozy and I think she
might have even . . . reached orgasm? I can't look at Scully and use
any slang terms with ease. Scully just 'creamed her pants' while I was
riding her? I don't think so.

"Scully . . . listen . . . that was . . ." I start.

"That was something . . ." she continues.

"And I'd understand if you . . . well . . . were upset."

"I'm not . . . Mulder, shut up," she says as she comes over the top of
what was the bed. With her feet planted firmly on what was the
mattress, her mouth meets mine perfectly. All of a sudden, the only
siren I am aware of is the one who's tongue is delving into my mouth.
Sleep deprivation my ass. She wants it no matter how little sleep
she's had.

We end up moving toward that hairy little couch, her forward motion
propelling us in that direction. I feel it hit the back of my legs and
I go down with her on top of me, straddling my hips again. My ass
sinks into the crack again, and its frame creaks loudly. I only give
this piece of furniture about an hour before it looks like the bed.

Scully's bee-stung lips don't leave mine and she tastes sweeter than I
remember. Of course, that kiss lasted exactly eight seconds. This one
has already gone on for over a minute with no signs of anyone coming
up for air soon. She tastes of magnolias and sweet tea. She tastes of
summer days and ocean breezes. She tastes like home but who's home I'm
not sure. There were no magnolias on the Vineyard that I can remember.

She finally pulls away from me and watches me with eyes that I know
are bottomless pools of azure. Her lips are pursed as if she is
seriously considering where this should go next. I have a few ideas
myself.

"Do you smell a dog?" Scully asks, sniffing the air and killing the
mood just a little. Like the neighbors, the thunder and the blaring
siren haven't done enough of that.

"Yeah . . . a small dog . . ."

"Like Toto," Scully says, as she closer to me, stroking me through the
clothes we have on. If it feels this good through cotton and nylon, my
mind can only barely begin to fathom how it will feel flesh upon
flesh. Her mouth makes contact with my neck, that tongue darting out
and tasting me with the same slow precision with which she does
everything.

My cock stirs mightily in my pants as she moves down my chest, tongue
swirling around my nipples. I know I moan something but it is drowned
out by the sound of police sirens going down the road in front of the
motel. Scully doesn't break her stride.

Her mouth dusts little kisses down my abdomen and she is no longer on
my lap but is on her knees between my thighs. Now my cock isn't just
stirring but is practically doing some happy dance at the proximity of
her face, dying to be released from this material.

She motions for me to lift my hips and I do, feeling the material
slide down and off around me, leaving me naked before her. Scully's
eyes widen at the sight of me and a sudden surge of pride rises to my
chest though I know I have nothing to do with the genetics that
created it. But it is a man thing.

Before I can even react, her tongue is licking a wet line up the
underside of my cock, finally focusing on the a tiny area that makes
me squirm. I want to grab her head and beg for more, but instead, I
hold onto the fleas on the couch instead. She rises on her knees and
takes me in her mouth, her lips wrapping tight around me as she slides
up and down with ease. I can barely keep my ass on the couch and the
only thing holding me down is the gravity emanating from the crack
between the cushions.

This is all happening so fast. Scully, my beautiful and professional
partner, is giving me a blow job and a damn good one at that. Fuck,
where are the lights when I need them?

Her hand snakes in between my thighs and she fondles my balls, her
perfectly manicured nails grazing across them gently. She motions for
me to move my ass off the couch further and I oblige, sliding out of
the crack as much as I can.

"Oh . . . Scully . . ." I moan as her tongue trips lightly across my
cock and her fingers tickle my balls. I feel everything begin to build
up inside, a swell needing to be released and I don't want to yet, but
I don't know how to stop it . . . think of something fast . . .

*ring*

Well, not that . . .

"Igwore wit," Scully mumbles with my cock in her mouth, grazing it
slightly with her teeth.

*ring*

It is her cell phone. It is within my reach, on the table by this
couch and I could get it. I've answered her phone before so no one
would question that. No one would have to know I was in her room with
her lips wrapped delicately around my cock.

"Scully . . . oh man . . ." I moan as her finger slips further back,
away from my balls toward other places.

*ring*

"Downt answa wit," she tells me again, but I can't help myself. It
might be important. It might concern this case or the farmers or . . .
oh, damn . . . does that feel good.

*ring*

"ANSWER YOUR DAMN PHONE!" Larry shouts through the wall as if he has
the fucking right to be disturbed and I grab for it.

"Mulder," I answer, trying to sound like I'm calm and collected.

"Dude! What are you doing answering the delectable Agent Scully's cell
phone?" Frohike asks, sounding as disappointed that I answered as I am
going to sound that he called.

"What are you doing calling Agent Scully's cell phone?" I ask, my
voice pitched several levels higher than usual.

"I've been trying to call yours for the past two hours, man. Did you
lose it again?" he asks, sounding disappointed in me. I don't have
time for this now. Can't he hear that in my voice?

"No, I did not lose anything. Frohike, what do you need?" I ask
through clenched teeth, trying to maintain some sense of decorum here
and Scully's mouth and fingers do unspeakable things to me.

"We got back the tests from those cows and it doesn't look good . . .
Mulder, I think we are dealing with a classic abduction and mutilation
scenario here and . . ."

Blah blah blah blah blah blah . . . that is what he might has well be
saying because that is all I can hear right now. Scully is amazing.
Fucking over the top and down the other side amazing. I don't give a
shit whether it is because she's a doctor and they teach Fellatio 101
in medical school or because some former lover of hers taught her the
ins and outs. I don't care. She's got me in her mouth now and that is
all that matters.

" . . . Mulder, these cows are displaying an abnormal amount of . . ."

Blah blah blah blah blah blah . . . I should just hang up on him. That
would be the polite thing to do right now. But he's so into this cow
shit that I can't. Besides, my fingers aren't working well enough to
hit the little 'end' button.

"AGENT MULDER? Are you there?" I hear someone shout in my ear and I'm
brought back to reality for just a second.

"Yeah . . ."

"Did you hear me, man. These cows might not even be cows. I think they
are like mandroids . . . cowdroids . . I can't even . . . "

What in the hell is he rambling on about? Oh, Scully, what are you
doing to me? The phone drops from my ear and with her free hand,
Scully hits the power button, turning it off completely. Her other
hand hits just the right spot and before I can even say prostate . . .
before I can even tell her what is going to happen and that she should
really move, it happens. I come in her perfect mouth.

**********

Continued in Part 3