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*BACCARAT FUTURE: MORNING MUSINGS*

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By Sean Spencer

seans13@hotmail.com <mailto:seans13@hotmail.com>

CATEGORY: VR

RATING: NC-17

KEYWORDS: Mulder/Skinner Slash

SUMMARY: Skinner contemplates his lover's physical charms.

DISCLAIMER: Fox Mulder and Walter Skinner are the properties of Chris
Carter, 1013 Productions and Fox Television. No copyright infringement
is intended or implied in their use in this work of fiction.'

WARNING: Brought to you by the letter G for Graphic and Gratuitous.

 

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I wake up with a warm figure snug by my side. Occasionally, that same
figure is plastered against my back. It's something I've grown used to.
Fox needs physical contact when he's asleep.

Not when he's awake. He still shies away from my affectionate touches on
occasion. In the beginning, when we started "going out", much more so.

"Out" isn't exactly the operative word here. We're not out in any sense
of the word. Only a few people know, very close friends at that, but the
rest of the world doesn't.

The moment he's asleep, Fox seeks me out by inching from his side of the
bed until he's practically hogging my side. I learned this the hard way.

As I remember, it was a warm, no, a hot summer night. I even threw off
the single bed sheet over me. Fox was snoring against my back and I was
uncomfortably sticky and sweaty from the heat he generated. I slowly
drew away from him to cool myself off. I noticed that he'd talked in his
sleep, making a little protesting sound. Again, he snuggled close with a
satisfied sigh. Again, I found my back sweating within a few minutes of
enforced contact. Again, I moved a few cooler inches away. No luck.

He never fails to find some part of my body to lay against.

You learn to live with each other's peculiarities. I personally call it
his Starfish Mode. He's a starfish and I'm the coral he clings to
against the vast, turbulent ocean of life. Corals are deceiving,
however. They provide shelter for fish, but can be brittle and easily
break off. Too often, I find my temper just as brittle, especially when
I used to contend with incompetence of paper-pushing bureaucrats.

As I learned to live with Fox's eccentricities, he'd learned to live
with mine. Before retirement, office gossip was that I'd mellowed
through the years. Fox takes the credit for that.

I turn around in bed and look at my starfish. He's very much asleep,
head nestled in between pillows. His thick head of hair, one of his more
obvious charms for near-hairless me, is spiked up against the bed linen.
Those intriguingly slanted eyes are closed, eyeballs quiescent under the
lids. Non-REM sleep. The long nose, I recently found he was
self-conscious about, is half-buried in one of my pillows.

He'd ventured on the idea of plastic surgery for his proboscis and I had
to beat him with a figurative stick to make him see that his nose wasn't
what made his face, his face.

It's those eyes, occasionally sad, haunted and far-seeing. And those
lips, luscious, made to be kissed, to suck and be sucked. The cupid's
bow prominently abutting against the full lower lip. Sensuous,
especially if he pursed it in deep thought.

At the moment, those lips I'm looking at and thinking about so deeply is
half-open with a trail of drool from the left corner. Not a posture we
like others to see, but as his lover, I get to see whether I like it or
not.

His dark morning beard all the more stands out against the pale skin of
his face. His skin isn't pale from lack of physical activity. He's
active, more so than other men his age. Swimming is done in the indoor
pool at the gym or here at home. Jogging is done in the early mornings
or in the evenings. He simply doesn't have the time to bask under the
sun. It's only when we're on the rare holiday that his skin becomes
golden and tawny, a striking shade that goes well with his hazel eyes.

About his skin, I can go on and on, if anyone lets me. It's something
only the lovers of men can understand. Calluses and roughness, at hands,
elbows and knees, exist side by side with softness and velvet, all
encasing hard sinew, muscle and bone.

His neck and arms are darker than the skin on his torso, which, in turn,
is lighter than the shade on his thighs and legs. Beyond the obvious
part that is pure pale skin, the skin he was born with that his red
Speedos cover, there are secret places, which are mine alone. The skin
of his inner upper arms and inner thighs. Pure velvet and ivory, as
soft, downy smooth and tender as any woman's.

I ruefully learned how easily bruised those parts are when careless
grips in lovemaking leave dark, yellowish spots that last for days.

Over his sternum, he has scant hair, very different from the mat on my
own chest. Unusual, too, is the sparse growth under his arms. We've
joked about it often enough, how his full head of hair and thicker
morning beard is in direct contrast to his torso, where hair is sparse.
I, on the other hand, have a pronounced lack of it over my head but more
of it on my body.

A puckered scar over his left shoulder has contracted to a barely
noticeable remnant of a gunshot wound years ago.

The light brown nubs on his chest have grown more sensitive through the
years. Feather-light touches here used to be ignored, but through nips,
caresses and sucking, I've changed all that. It's amazing how my loving
attention has altered his body.

Another scar on his right side, between the 6^th and 7^th rib reminds me
of that long ago car accident.

His hands. An occasional gnawed on thumbnail. The left one is crooked
and ridged. Of all the scars on his body, this tiniest scar is the one
that bothers me the most.

I lift off the sheet covering him and confirm that he doesn't have
six-pack abs, but neither is he on the soft side. Years of swimming,
miles of laps, has honed those broad shoulders, those long and lean
muscles. He doesn't bulk up anywhere, unlike me. Each muscle blends
harmoniously into its neighbor.

A smattering of hair starting a fingerbreadth below his navel disappears
into the waistband of his grey, cotton boxers, which covers the only set
of crisp hairs over his entire body. This covers a hairline surgical
biopsy scar. Only I get to notice this scar, visible with intense
scrutiny when I'm literally worshipping his body.

His grey boxers covers territory I am very familiar, no, fanatical
about. His short hairs down there crown his long, slender cock. It's at
half-mast, the way it is most mornings as he's beginning to awaken. From
memory etched in my brain, I know the shaft is darker and with an abrupt
shift to a pinker shade at the circumcision scar. The tip, so sensitive,
grows from rose to purple with able handling. The pair of balls
underneath is undoubtedly pendulous from relaxation. Darker skin here.

Strong, well-shaped buttocks cover his other sweet spot. What was once a
perfectly puckered orifice has a more vertical shape after years of
accommodating me. The walnut-sized bump, exactly two and a half knuckles
inside, provides his other important erogenous zone.

Arising from the hem of his boxer, is the mother of all scars, left
thigh this time. He literally went through hell and back with that one,
almost losing his leg when the gunshot severed an artery and fractured
the largest bone in his body. The doctors had warned him to watch for
signs of ischemia, sudden pain on heavy physical exertion. Fortunately,
that particular complication we never had to contend with. Yet.

Minute scars crisscross his knees and shins, some too faint. Not unlike
my own knees, testaments to active boyhood and youth. I can reduce him
to helpless laughter and squirms just by tickling each kneecap
mercilessly. It's an unusual sensitive spot on him. Those knobby knees
are deceptive; in the throes of passion, they can grip me powerfully by
the hips, leaving /me/ with bruises.

I look at the clock and smile with anticipation. We have time this
morning on our side. He's had a full night's rest so he won't be grumpy
if I wake him up before the alarm.

There's something about his skin that's irresistible after sleep. Warmed
for eight hours under the covers, skin becomes softer, more pliable,
smoother, definitely more fragrant.

Maybe it's the hours we spent together underneath the blankets through
the night. Maybe in sleep our essences mingle. All I know is, in the
mornings, he's more mine than anytime of the day.

I ruffle the unruly case of bedhead, lightly teasing away the pillow
over his face. I carefully run my hand over his right cheek, marveling
at its roughness, in complete contrast with the rest of his body. I lean
over and kiss his neck, redolent with soap and sweat. The moment he
begins to stir, I lift his sleep-heavy arm over his head, over the white
pillows and inhale the scent that is essentially him. With the turn of
my head, I give a long slow lick at his nipple.

I look up to him and see the first evidence of conscious thought from
him. A slow lazy smile creeps at the corners of his mouth.

"Just lie back," I murmur quietly.

He keeps his eyes closed, but his smile is wider. He turns onto his back
without effort, a sigh escaping from his lips. I make sure the blankets
cover both of us completely. No goosebumps spoiling his effect on me. He
accepts kisses on his neck and chest, our mouths not meeting. We know
each other's morning breaths, after all.

"Good morning, Walter." His voice is rough from sleep. Sighs issue from
him as he lets me take my fill of him. I caress his arms and sides,
which is best to rouse him to the waking world. Ridges of ribs lead to
the vulnerable belly. A tickle at its button. Finally his eyes open,
naked joy evident at being awakened like this. He raises both arms over
his head, beyond the confines of the blue comforter, a move he knew
would only further inflame my senses.

It is this offering of his whole being to me, for me, was what his
posture conveys. I let my hand stray to the single layer of cloth
between us and note with satisfaction that the bulge inside has grown.
He arches his back as I gently nip his brown nub, the first moan a
silent echo in our room.

Reluctant to shed the warmth of the covers, I unbutton the single snap
of the grey cloth and reach inside. He's hard already and only grows
harder with my enclosed fist. I lazily contemplate on whether I should
bring him off or if he should wait for me.

His right arm makes a move.

"Walter?" He poses a question with his eyes. Another jolt of lust goes
straight to my groin.

"Keep your arms there," I growl. His query for my own needs is deeply
appreciated but I wanted him where he was. "Just feel, babe."

He gives a small nod, and another smile. He likes it this way, too, in
the mornings. His brain hasn't kicked in yet. I, the recipient of this
gift of himself, find it perfect for both of us at this time of day. He
helps me untangle the boxers from his legs, no mean feat but easy
through all the years of practice. A shudder ripples through him.

"Oh!" A small moan, his head thrown back. I rub him more vigorously and
am rewarded by him exposing his throat, which I greedily feast on. He's
holding the headboard with clenched fist, and almost against his will,
or subconsciously, his knees bend on the bed.

Frogglegged and arms outstretched, neck arched back, his surrender to me
is complete. He is ready for our ultimate joining. I don't probe him
down there.

"Fox?" It was my turn to ask.

The rest of the question need not be said. It's up to him how he wants us.

"Inside me, W-walter...b-but use condoms." His eyes are closed, maybe in
embarrassment. We've learned through the years, occasionally the hard
way, and only by trial and error, when to slip a finger inside him in
the mornings.

My hands and mouth leave him for a moment as I reach to the nightstand
for the necessary supplies. I lay the things under our cozy cocoon and
before anything else, I return to kissing and caressing him to banish
any traces of unease he might have for not being fully ready this morning.

"Mmmm..."

"Yes," I encourage as he arches to my hand.

Finally, it's time to pull back the covers. First, we slide nearer the
foot of the bed, only a few inches, both of us being over six feet. His
grip on the headboard remains sure; his eager hips moving up onto the
pillows I slide underneath him.

I roll the condom on me, then coat it generously with lubricant. I also
put the stuff into the crease between his buttocks, but carefully avoid
his anus, as he had earlier requested. Then I lean over him with my
whole body, my weight on my forearms, checking to see if my feet are
correctly braced on the footboard.

Footboards are long ignored as a necessity for a bed, but believe me,
this detail isn't a simple decoration. I've found out how this helps in
the important business of making love effectively.

I thrust in slowly, growing ever closer to my Fox. This has to go slow,
as he gauges his body's response to my intrusion. He grows very still
for a second, a faraway look in his eyes. Only when he nods again do I
go deeper into white hot heat once more.

To be enveloped in him and have to wait to move is sheer torture, but
we've talked about consideration in bed being primary over mere
pleasure, and I wait. After what seems like an eternity for me, but is
in reality only a few seconds, Fox nods again.

"It's all right," he groans. "Go for it, Walter."

I plunge in fully, the closest I can ever be with him in this physical
world. He finally lets himself go, allowing me full access to his body.

"Oh, baby." I clench my teeth at the unbelievable pleasure of being one
with him, my friend, my lover, my sweetheart. My weight is on my
forearms, my feet at the footboard, allowing me to have a purchase
against something solid. Each thrust and I am closer to heaven. Against
my instincts, I go as slow as I can take it. I savor the way his legs
buck against his chest at each thrust.

"So...tight..." I was barely coherent. "Oh, baby, you...you're
unbe--lievable."

The bed creaks against the strain, as we test its limits, as our
movements grow more vigorous. I lift myself on one arm, the other one
going under his buttocks to draw him even closer to me. My need for him
at this point is at its most primal; this need to own him, possess him,
take him. His trust in me is complete, his torso growing more pliant as
each plunge I make draws us together. For a frantic second, we pause as
he wraps his legs around me.

His head draws further back as our pleasure builds and builds. We're
going at each other rapidly, our connection to each other the blazing
center of our consciousness. His right hand strays from the headboard
and takes himself to further heights.

We moan and cry out, shout, groan and sob. Our civilized selves take a
back seat to our primeval nature of yielding to pure sensation. He gasps
and I drive into him, he grabs onto me and I go faster, our hips bumping
and grinding to a fever pitch. Each thrust brings us closer to the
headboard until Fox upper torso is pushed against the mountain of
pillows, his legs drawn up, his bottom resting on my thighs. The angle
of thrusts is upwards this time as Fox rides me to ecstasy.

"Just like this," he pants, urging me to keep our bodies at this angle
where we can see each other as clearly as is humanly possible. No
secrets remain between us. A tear from one eye accents his grimace of
mounting fulfillment.

"Love you, babe," I cry out, my body emptying and filling the condom
with my warmth. I shudder and spurt again, spilling and falling into the
void of ultimate pleasure. I don't hold anything back. Through the haze,
he smiles with satisfaction as he beholds my orgasm.

He stiffens, and then his hot wetness between rewards us.

I lie in his arms, finally aware of the ache on my hips where the sharp
points of his heels had dug in. As the pounding in my chest ceases and I
gulp in more air, I sense my consciousness expanding from beyond my own
cock.

He's all sweet after this. Heck, I'm sweet to him, too. The aftermath,
the glow of completion, just as important as the physical release of our
joining. The emotional and spiritual release comes as our honeyed
tongues murmur faith, warmth, affection and undying love. Any other
times and the words we utter would have been absurd.

Our words, our smells, our sweat, only for us in this moment. I hold
onto the condom as I push away from him. I toss it into the wastebasket
swiftly, to avoid looking at it to spare him. Even now it embarrasses
him, even when we barely had secrets from each other, when we know every
square inch of each other's bodies. I hear the rough hiss of cloth
against plastic. He fumbles for the Wet Ones at his nightstand, wiping
semen from his stomach and from mine. Another Wet One for remnants of
lubricant and other matter. The parts that united us a few minutes ago
become more fragrant.

Once the pillows are returned, our bodies settled under a sheet, he
nestles against me.

"I love you, Walter," he murmurs with a yawn. I glow inside; those words
are important to me, too. It took a while before he could say them
without reservation, after all the hurts in his life. "We should do this
again sometime, preferably soon."

I cuff him good-naturedly and he laughs at the absurdity of his
statement. As I said, we're all sweet after morning lovemaking, when the
veneer of life is stripped away and we're exposed to each other like a
raw nerve.

His skin isn't so pale anymore, after all that has gone on. There are
red splotches all over his chest and stomach, his face high with color.
Sweat on his back and between his legs is another aftereffect.

"Sinuses clear?" he asks. Good sex always clears my sinuses.

I sniff experimentally then nod. A wide grin animates his face, like a
self-satisfied cat that ate the canary. After a few minutes of lying in
my arms, just when I thought he was going to fall asleep again, he
pushes away from me and gets up.

The toilet flushes after a pause then he is back in bed, where I welcome
him with all my heart.

All mine and no one else's. How lucky can a man be?

I look forward to a few minutes of physical contentment before the start
of the day. Then my ears prick up at the faint sound. I strain my ear
and discern it's tinny music. I crane my neck from the pillow and
realize with horror that it's the neighbor's radio.

Radio?

"Fox, d'you hear that?"

"Uh-huh." This time, Fox goes on full alert beside me. "It's the weather
report."

"We can hear the weather report from here," I repeat dumbly. With bated
breath, we both listen.

"Now, it's the morning news." Fox claps a hand to his forehead and
groans quietly.

"How come I never heard anything beyond these walls before?" I hiss.

"She has a new stereo," Fox explains. "I helped her with the box last
week. She set it up in her study, which is right behind..." His voice
fades as he points to the general direction of the wall.

"We haven't exactly been silent all these years." I'm mortified at the
countless times I've elicited sounds of enjoyment from Fox. Then I
recall sounds he elicits from /me/.

Five years of loving, fighting, weeping, laughing...loving, fighting,
making up, loving again, singing off-key...All that to an audience?

"Beethoven's Ode to Joy," Fox moans, hiding under the pillows.

I'm too embarrassed. Ostrich-like, I pull the covers over both our
heads. This is not happening.

It's /definitely/ time to move.

 

END OF BACCARAT FUTURE: MORNING MUSINGS

 

Feedback very much appreciated seans13@hotmail.com
<mailto:seans13@hotmail.com>

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"A beacon in the night."

Mulder in reference to Skinner

Nisei

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