Disclaimer:  Finders keepers.

Genre:  Slam-bruise-thank-you-muse.

Warnings:  Ah, fuck it.

Thanks to Val for speedbeta!  Any remaining anarchy's down to me.

Hallow

by C. M. Decarnin

Alex's head fell back.  "Don't do this to me," he whispered, but it wasn't
a protest, and Methos knew Alex was only fighting with himself.
                                        "Something Wicked", by torch
 
 

Fox Mulder didn't spend a lot of time naked in his life.  He had been
brought up to feel very unclothed if he only walked down the hall in his own
apartment without anything on.  Talking on the phone naked embarrassed him.
And if it was Scully, he would have felt both embarrassed and guilty.
Though probably, she wouldn't.

But he'd been hoping for a call from a source all morning and the phone rang
and he'd just got out of the shower, and rather than lose the call he
hurried down the hall without grabbing for a bathrobe; he stood seeping
gently onto the carpet listening to nothing on the other end of the line.
"Hello?" he repeated forlornly, to only empty silence.  Finally, he hung up.
But stood there, in case they rang back, from one of those mysterious
car-phone non-connects, or some paranoid-source sense of reconnoitering.

It didn't ring.  He stood there, with his skin bare, air touching him all
over.  Its unaccustomed lightness like some mystical fairy clothing woven by
con-men, costliest thread and strands paid for with jewels and coin of gold.
Almost as if something were touching him, a light caress, across his tummy
-- there!  He jumped back, shivering and with his arms a little out.

Nothing could touch him, nothing was there, it was his apartment, nothing
was ever there but him, except the odd listening device or spy-camera, or
remnant of a break-in, or tape cassette in his newspaper, or slip of paper
on the floor, or -- not even those things, any more.

Nothing was ever there.

Still it made him feel so undressed out here, embarrassed as if he'd been
caught at something, standing now slightly behind his dampened footprints on
the carpet, and he could feel something again almost like touch on him,
across his butt, like a brush of air, that made him feel their shape, his
buttocks' roundedness, and the deep curve in up toward his waist.  A
vulnerable place, where he looked, the one or two times he'd caught a
glimpse there in some mirror, too soft, too curved, too girly.  The little
puff of air felt almost friendly, though, tracing the shapes of the least
favorite part of his body kindly... it almost felt erotic, as if someone
were appreciating him.

A draft getting in from somewhere.

He went back down the hall to the bathroom and dried off.  What little
remaining moisture there was on him.  He must have stood there longer than
he'd thought.  Waiting for the phone to ring.

It wasn't something that he did a lot, so few people ever called him while
he was at home.  He'd been surprised to find how bleak his life had felt,
these last few months.  Maybe, he'd thought in passing once or twice,
without an enemy left alive he had no impetus to live.  How pathetic would
that be?

He leaned in over his freestanding sink to the mirror to examine what
appeared to be an interesting scar, but it was only a spot he'd missed in
shaving.  The hell with it.  He wasn't going anywhere, or seeing anyone.
Even his sources never called, they never wrote...  His breath fogged up the
glass till all he could see of himself was darkly hazel eyes that stared
with that accusing, undeceivable, scary look that eyes seen in the mirror
always have.  He blinked and looked away, made himself look back and thought
he saw someone standing there behind him.

He jumped out of his skin, before he realized it was just his bathrobe
hanging there on the back of the bathroom door where it belonged.

"Spoo-kay," he sang derisively under his breath, as he turned away from the
mirror and felt a hand touch all around his cock and testicles.

It felt so good he only stood there with his chin up and his mouth opened, a
count of two, three, four, while the delicate stroking gentle as cool breath
made his balls shrivel tight and his dick stand half erect.  But then his
terror reflexes kicked in and he slammed back, hitting his left buttock hard
on the corner of the sink.  His eyes stared harder as if he could make them
see, when there was nothing there.

Succubus.

As if in answer to his incoherent thought a sensation like a hand settled
along his neck, and stroked softly upward to the corner of his jaw,
reassuringly, holding there.

Then lips touched his.

His eyes were open.  There was nothing there!  Yet in his mouth a tongue was
touching, filling, fucking, in intercourse so intimate his heart must surely
break, then the hand slid down his neck, along his naked arm, down, to his
thigh and to, onto, around his genitals, so softly touched, so good, so
good, his mouth so gently being taken, his eyes had closed, he felt a tear
run down his face, but his cock was full, upstanding, ready, ready --  he
felt himself being strongly turned, and bent in over the sink a little while
the touch on his cock shifted to an even better feel, so like a grip yet
nothing, really, nothing pulling, up, like a revelation of electricity, down
like a new color of blood, up like an ascent to heaven -- he felt something
touch between his buttocks and then he felt something enter him, long and
hard and deep.

It was the best thing he had ever felt.

There was not even a comparison.

It started as a hard ache in his balls that spread until it quickly and
completely filled his body, pulsed, and on the pulse transmuted.  From pain
it flowered to a depth of sexual pleasure he had not known had existed in
the world.  He tried to make a sound but there was nothing that his voice
could reach.  And then the thing in him pulled back, and he thrust forward
violently into the nothing that held his cock at the intensity of the
pleasure, and the long hard deep thrust with him, penetrated further into
him, he bent, he wanted to scream, he wanted to die, as if a truncheon of
pure ecstasy had forced its way within him and were brutalizing him with
bliss.  It pressed him, harder, harder.

Around his cock the sensation of fingers moved on pure, unbearable and
perfect joy.  He stretched up and back, and felt again the thing that moved
in him, through him, open him, become a darker pain that diffused as
loveliness so deep, so soul-denuding he could not survive, his heart
surrendered to the unforeseen rape of its uttermost secrets as his body
writhed and twisted in inescapable ecstasy.  He felt the thing in him move
hard, felt himself fucked, and yelped, and was fucked, fucked deeper, his
cock pushed through the perfect hold around it faster, faster till he
suddenly felt it touch the pinnacle, felt a universe of happiness and joy
that swept through him while what filled him, what held him, and the cum
that streamed from him united in a trinity, combined into profound orgasmic
union.

Gasping and sobbing for air, wrists sore from holding himself up, thighs
bruised by the sink, Mulder felt himself no longer filled, no longer held.
His voice independently made a cry of loneliness and despair he was ashamed
of.

Then he felt on the back of his neck the impress of soft lips.  He turned
his head, and felt a caress, and a kiss that touched his cheek.

Then nothing more.

He looked around.  There was nothing anywhere.  He looked into the mirror
last, at the astounded eyes of someone who was loved.

As no one ever, surely, had been loved before.

A new person who had already resolved never to wear clothes again while
answering the phone.

It hardly seemed to matter where such love as rifled him, remade him, had
come from...

But one thing sure, it wasn't any girl...

And it was someone who the whole time only touched him with one hand.

The End

6/2/02