Dream Catching by Annie Jennings

Go to main “Dream Catching” page

Dream Catching by Annie Jennings

From: Auralissa <[email protected]>

Date: 19 Sep 1998 22:14:33 GMT

Subject: NEW: “Dream Catching (1/1)

By: Annie Sewell-Jennings

DREAM CATCHING (1/1) By: Annie Sewell-Jennings ([email protected])

Disclaimer: Fox Mulder and Dana Scully do not belong to me. They belong to Chris Carter. You know, the rich guy in Los Angeles. The blond dude who doesn’t talk very well and whenever he does manage to squirt a few words out, he doesn’t say very much, which disappoints the fans seeking valuable spoilers or romantic pacification.

Summary: Scully suggests some ideas to an impressionable Mulder in sleep, and he takes the initiative. It’s really just some mind candy and smut, but there’s nothing wrong with that.

Category: VR (Mulder/Scully Romance).

Rating: NC-17.

Spoilers: Little itty-bitty one for “Paper Hearts”. Other than that, plotless mind candy. 😀

Author’s Note: I think that there’s been a shortage of mind candy recently. What with the angst-ridden epics, the swarm of Endfic and flickfic, and the character studies that are filling up the mainstream, I think we all deserve a little fun once in a while, you know? So, thought that I’d make a contribution of my own and take a departure from my usual brand of angst. 🙂

For Kristin, who encouraged me to finish this little germ of an idea, and for pushing me into posting this. Feedback me, and she’s the one who deserves all of the credit.

---

DREAM CATCHING

---

There is something enigmatic and wonderful about watching someone sleeping. You feel as though you’re taking a glimpse of something secretive and private, and there’s a heady feeling of exhilaration in knowing that no one knows what you’re doing. It’s as though I’m stealing something, but there’s no consequence in being caught. Not now. And then, the feeling of danger disappears, but that’s not necessarily a bad thing. Because then, I’m left with the feeling of invitation. That Mulder is summoning me to watch him. To take him with my eyes. To ravish him with my gaze.

I have ravished Mulder in many ways over the past few days, caught up in both the novelty and the newness of the lovemaking. Once granted access to the more intimate aspects of his heart and body, I’ve used the key over and over again, and, well, I suppose I’ve exhausted him. Understandable under the circumstances. He lies in slumber on his sofa, stretched out and peaceful on the leather cushions, and I sit at his desk, distracted by the less-than-urgent paperwork by my sleeping lover. We have an early flight to investigate a case in the morning, and I can’t really rouse him from the much-needed sleep. After all, if we mean to keep up appearances, he has to appear more well rested than I’ve allowed him to be of late.

And so, I make love to him with my thoughts, with the reverence and admiration in my wondrous watching. Stroking the length of his lean, trim figure with my eyes, lavishing extra attention on the gentle slope of his belly. Mulder is athletic and slender, but there’s a gentle little incline to his stomach, just the touch of a tummy. I love that roundness, and I wash over it with my eyes as I yearn to do with my hands.

Trailing up, I lick my lashes toward the curve of his ear, the small points at the tips that make him seem magically elfish in nature. Mulder has adorable ears, quite unique and yet fitting for Mulder. His hair is tousled by sleep, and the rich cocoa strands are cast in gold from the lamp that still shines behind him. I brush through the thickness of his hair with my gaze, wanting to reach out and twine my fingertips through the honeyed locks, unsullied by any gray. Yet I suspect that were Mulder to go gray, it would be suiting and seductive, that little touch of age on him that would make him vulnerable and endearing.

My visual veneration of him goes lower, seeing the lanky limbs that rest underneath the Indian blanket, thinking of how wonderful they would be, prodding between my thighs in a request for invasion, and a request that I would happily meet. But my attention is swiftly drawn to his feet, long and slender, with their sweet toes and high arches. Mulder’s hands are delicate in nature, spindling and elegant, and his feet carry the same sloping beauty to them. I love Mulder’s long feet, the sharp contrast between them and his gangly legs. He must have been the most awkward youth, judging from his underlying insecurity and from those large, obtrusive feet. It’s charming and sweet, something tender and exposed about him.

Concentrating heavily on those toes, the pads of his feet, I would love to lap my tongue between the gaps, swirl my mouth onto each digit, all in the promise of touching his cock with the same tenderness and worship. The arousal at this thought purrs deep within my throat, and I chuckle at the sound of it. The lowness of it, the rough rawness of that sound, reminds me of Mulder’s surrounding voice. When he speaks in low, intimate tones, breathing sandpaper and silk, I pool with arousal. The sound of my last name being uttered by that magical ripple of lustrous satin is enough to dampen my thighs, and when combined with the rounding of his plush, roseate lips, I feel compelled to brush my own against his mouth.

Mulder’s mouth is a dangerous weapon in that it’s the softest, most inviting mouth I’ve ever seen. The small teardrop of the upper lip that fits perfectly into the rich, luxurious softness of his lower. The vulnerability that he can express with one imploring pout, the despair that I’ve seen when he parts his mouth and trembles. The stretch of it when he reveals his straight, white teeth, allowing me his divine smile. These are the trappings of such a glorious mouth, the lure of his lips and the sweetness of one everlasting kiss. Mulder could seduce a million women with that mouth, but I have the security in knowing that he lavishes his lips only on me. It’s a little piece of knowledge that I carry with me daily, consoling me when I feel insecure, and cherishing when I feel depressed. Whenever I feel unsure of myself or my femininity, I turn to the comfort of owning Fox Mulder’s mouth. What a prize to carry. It’s truly an honor.

That mouth expels a short breath, a sigh, and it’s not soft with contentment, but low with desire. Intrigued, I crane my neck to watch him stir in his sleep, and smile when I see him restlessly stir beneath the blanket. The way that his legs wash together, grating against each other in an endless search for contact. The way that his toes curl and his foot points. The way that his cheeks flush… Yes, Mulder is aroused in his sleep, dreaming a dream that makes his body fidgety and relentless in slumber. It makes me shiver to see him excited, making my own earlier arousal double in reaction to him. If I stated that Mulder was beautiful in slumber, then he is magnificent in stimulation.

As he turns on the sofa, low murmurs of craving tumbling from his rosy lips, I think of my own dreams and fantasies when I sleep. Though they’re dotted by the occasional stranger, the best are always marked by his presence. By his gentle touch or his feverish hands. The soft tangling of his fingers in my hair. The thrust and shudder of his cock inside of me. The slur of his lips on mine, and of his tongue savoring my kiss. When I dream of Mulder, I manage to climax. It’s the strangest thing, considering that it never occurs with any other dream lover, but when he enters my reveries, I spasm around him and wake up with an empty bed. While I relish every millisecond of those dreams, it’s hell when they’re over. My body aches for the actual contentment of a man, of physical release, not just the imagining of a hand or lips, and I ache for his reality, too.

At least I own his mouth.

Sighing, Mulder arches beneath the blanket, his hips languidly rising and falling so that I can see the line of his erection. It forces my blood to flush my entire body, racing through my system. What would he do if I were to wake him by surrounding that cock with my body? If I were to place myself over him? Would he be shocked? Aroused? Grateful? Or, as I would be, ecstatic? The possibilities are endless for a fantasy that I can’t really act upon. It’s purely hypothetical, but tantalizing nonetheless.

Watching Mulder is taking a toll on my system, I decide, but it’s a lovely price to pay to simply look. Interaction is preferable, but I’ve learned along the way to take what I can get. If all that I can have is observation, then I will relish every eyeful that I can take. However, it doesn’t mean that watching can’t make my own body squirm in my seat, reacting like a voice to a pitch-pipe, honing and straining to match the tune that he marks with his long figure. I watch in exquisite torture as he rakes his own hand down his chest, believing it to be the hand of his fantasy lover, and I mimic the action with my own arm, sweeping it over my eager breasts and awaiting nipples. His hand disappears underneath the blanket, and I let out a moan. Oh, Mulder.

“Sc…” he utters, then the rest of the word turns into a dark groan of pleasure.

I know that name. I know the way his lips turned to form the first syllable. I saw him say it; I heard the connotation that he attached. He was saying my name. The hand that he stroked his own chest with, the hand that he is touching himself with, belongs to me. Sweating, I curve my neck back, whispering his own name. Oh, God, Mulder.

I don’t think that I can stand another moment of this private tension, this passion that I live in during the night and cannot whisper to him in daylight. I want to take him into me, replace his limbs with mine, and surround myself in the substance of Mulder, not just my imagination. Desperate desire washes over me as Mulder lurches his hips upward, a louder groan meeting my ears. “Scull… Scully.”

And I impishly have the idea of how to wake him from this slumbering fantasy. It’s a simple enough task to take to hand, and after our earlier work in this arena, I’m positive that Mulder will appreciate the “wake-up call”. After all of the lovemaking we’ve undergone in the past few days, this will be another memorable addition to the book.

Standing, my legs weak and my inner thighs damp, I walk toward him and sit on the edge of the couch. I really should let him sleep; we haven’t caught much sleep in the past twenty-four hours and there’s a red-eye out to San Diego in about three hours. But sensibility leaves little room for imagination, particularly when the imagination is derived from the erotic. I settle the situation with a rationalization. If Mulder wakes up, I’ll finish what I plan to start with him. And if he doesn’t, he’ll have a full night’s sleep and I’ll finish what I plan to start in a state of slumber.

I’m counting on my light-sleeping Mulder to stir soon.

Very, very soon.

“Yes, Mulder,” I whisper, just above his ear, and perspiration dips into his temples. He’s sweating now from the force of the dream, and I wonder what I’m doing to him in his fantasy. Am I touching his face? Now I am. My hand caresses his cheek, just a whisper of my palm skipping across the soft peach-fuzz of his nightly beard. It’s wonderful that Mulder’s growth is as soft as an adolescent’s, barely there and silky instead of rough. It tickles rather than scratch. The early morning lovemaking never scratches; it soothes. The backs of my knuckles sweeps across his jaw, and he parts his lips and gives a ragged moan. “Like this…”

“Scully,” he breathes, and I loosen at the way he murmurs my name. Slurred by sleep and languid arousal, soft and whispery, and delicately sensual. I have many memories of Mulder speaking my name, all of the beautiful and individual ways he’s said “Scully”. But the loveliest way of all is the way he speaks my name out of arousal. “Mmm…”

“Where, Mulder,” I whisper, and his hand flutters to his stomach. Remembering my earlier attachment to that barely sloping belly, I take my hand down and draw lazy circles on it through his thin tee-shirt. My fingernail tickles the dip of his bellybutton, and I’m rewarded with a desperate little cry, almost a whimper, and I know that he is mine now. “Where else.”

And his hand dips lower, beneath the blanket, and I follow it with my own. Letting him lead me to his most intimate needs, letting him take me deeper, I feel his hand slide over his hard, long cock, and I slide my hand on it, too, forcing his hand off of his erection so that I, the realized lover, can take over. Tracing his length through his sweatpants, I feel the heat and potency radiating through the cloth, burning its memory into my palm so that I will never forget this. I never want to forget this. Me, touching Mulder. Me, stroking him. Caressing him.

And the bucking intensity of his hips quickens, lashing against my palm, and I dive my hand underneath his sweatpants and boxers so that I am touching his skin. Hot, dampened, thick and swollen. In that aspect, the male and female sexes are not that all different, as I feel myself throbbing and flushing too. How would he like to be touched in this dream? Teasing at first, his hips and speed tell me, and so I tiptoe my fingers up the length of him, the hard, engorged heat of his cock, and then feel the plunge of him against me. He’s speeding up, rising faster, and I realize that it’s going to have to end of my own accord if I want to make love to him with my body, and not just a dream Scully that exists within his unconsciousness.

And there is only one way with which to wake this slumbering wonder. My hand leaves his cock, and I frame his square, soft face with my palms. Bending my head down to his lips, the lips that he gave me, I kiss him. My lips slide over his, my tongue gliding easily into the depths of his mouth, and his own tongue responds with lazy ease. And then the laziness is gone, and Mulder is wide awake.

Which is, of course, just how I want him.

Rather than cease this kiss, this entanglement of tongues, I ravish him more, and his lips easily comply with my wishes. Turning to meet mine, to wreathe and part around my lips, and his tongue slides inside of my mouth, teasing across my teeth. He laces my mouth with fire, and then retracts when his eyes open and see me, sitting in front of him. I smile at him, amused, and he blinks at me, puzzled. The arousal in his eyes is blurred by his confusion, and then twinkling with his amusement, emerald carnality sliding about with the rich brown pools. Mulder’s hazel eyes flutter underneath the thick lashes, and I perch on the edge of the couch. My hand presses gently on his chest, feeling the strength and broadness beneath my palm, and the swift rapidity of his breathing. “Thought you were asleep,” he casually states. Well, as casually as a man with an impressive hard-on can state.

“It was more interesting to watch you sleep,” I say easily, stroking circles on his sternum.

He smiles wryly. “Funny, cause I gathered you were doing more than merely observing,” he points out. I smile. Smiling, I slink a little closer, putting my hand up on his shoulder to trace his clavicle. Though I love touching him, I want to feel his hands on me. Those slender fingers drawing lines on my collarbone, slipping his knuckles up my throat to cup my jaw.

“Well, observation can get very stale very quickly,” I remind, keeping my voice as conversational as possible. The tongue sliding over to lick his lips is making conversation increasingly difficult. “My favorite part’s always been interaction, anyway.”

“I got that much,” Mulder dryly says, always with that trademark humor that I’m so fond of.

Leaning in closer, so that I can see the sheen of his mouth, that perfect lower lip, I smile. “Was it a good dream, Mulder?” I airily breeze my hands down the line of his abdomen, feeling his stomach cave when I brush his belly button, and then slowly careen down to his beautifully swollen groin.

He swallows again. “Well, um, yeah…”

I shake my head, beaming at him with the full force of an uninhibited grin. I’m usually not much of a smiler, brought on by an old insecurity from my bout with crooked teeth and then braces, but Mulder has always smiled when I smile. And Mulder’s smile is not something to be missed. “Are you tired?”

“After that? Naaah,” he scoffs.

I press my thigh along his, just rubbing a little. “Good,” I say, and he grins at me, the mouth that I own parting just a little so that I can see the flash of his teeth. Straight, white, gleaming, with the vaguest hint of an overbite. He didn’t wear his retainer. What a rebel.

“Very good.” His hand reaches out, warm but not sweaty, just enough to make my skin blush beneath its touch as he lays his palm on my cheek. “Because I don’t want to miss this.” His fingers curl around the base of my neck, the fingertips lacing the collar, and he presses his mouth to mine. If the kiss that he sleepily endowed upon me earlier was heavenly, then this is mastery. Mulder instinctively knows how to kiss me. Slow, whispering seduction, unfurling layers of passion like a darkly blooming rose, each petal unfolding with a deeper, richer desire noting its soft silkiness. As he slowly exposes himself to me, revealing the heat and fire of the men beneath the complexities and idiosyncrasies, I see the inferno that rages beneath his multifaceted soul. In retrospect, all men and women are one element beneath their thousands of quirks and characteristics. If Mulder is an element, then he is unbridled blaze, burning with an undying passion. And that passion is currently directed toward me. Toward only me.

“Mulder,” I speak into this kiss, feeling his hands pry through my silk blouse, undoing the simple buttons easily. As we part lips, I’m relieved that he doesn’t fumble, not wanting to take the time for errors, though I know that if he had been clumsy, I wouldn’t have minded anyway. Mulder could be the world’s most bumbling lover and I would still bed him. I’ve been learning that that unfortunate title belongs to someone else. Mulder is skilled, very skilled. At least when it comes to me. And quite frankly, I don’t want to know how he shapes up to other women. He’s mine now.

Mulder slides the silk off of my body, the sheer thinness of the garment tingling against my dancing nerves, and it falls on the floor. <<Dry cleaning bill,>> my sensibility tells me, making its first appearance so far this evening. As I have done the rest of the night, I discard my common sense and let myself fly with Mulder.

“What was I doing in the dream, Mulder?” I ask, keeping my voice light as a dreamlover’s. Moments ago, I was his fantasy, and I strive to uphold that title even in consciousness. To dispose of the gossamer veils that cloaked our earlier ventures would rip apart the tenuous magic of the evening, and I prefer to stay underneath this enchanted canopy for as long as possible. Before reality lashes us with its timed and trained whip. Before we are forced into sternness and solemnity. Right now, I wish to be frivolous. Fanciful. Fantastical.

There’s a curl to Mulder’s lips, pink and dreamy as cotton candy, and he takes my hand in his, guiding it over his body as he unconsciously did earlier. Sleepy eyes that glisten with awareness sparkle at me, and he draws my hand to his hair. Words dissolve into breath, reverting to the elements of bed-talk. A silvery moan. An ephemeral sigh. Perhaps the occasional murmur of a lover’s name. Or surname, in our unique situation. Following his lead, I keep my hand in his hair, sliding my hands over his head and feeling the silky threads tickle the spaces in between my fingers. “Mmm,” I compliment, and he closes his eyes, letting the darkness engulf us in surreal surroundings.

His other hand gently lines my breasts with fingertip kisses, circling the nipples and pinching them deliciously. Mulder is a scrumptious lover. I become anxious for the hazy foreplay to cease and the illusory intercourse to begin. Sensing my haste, Mulder allows me to slide his shirt off of him, watching the faint light illuminate the smooth muscles and aquiline abdomen. “Mm,” he murmurs appreciatively as I use both hands to scale the length of his torso, the planes of his ribs, and then pause at the incline of his hips.

I disentangle myself from him, standing to remove the rest of my clothing, and Mulder easily complies with my unspoken invitation. Good man. We’ve gone through the foreplay before; there is no need for any now. He shimmies out of his sweats and his boxers, and the blanket is discarded to the floor along with our clothes. No coverings are needed except for the mutual shelter of our bodies. And when we are naked, waiting, he slides to the side of the couch to allow me to slip underneath him.

The satiny length of his cock brushes the inside of my bare thigh. Smooth hardness of his erection. Smooth softness of my leg. They are introduced to each other, and they get along quite well. Actually, they’re becoming quite good acquaintances as of late. I moan; my head falls back onto his pillow, warmed by the shadow of where his head formerly lay. Silken thigh and silken cock caress each other as his silken lips descend upon mine, and then the heat of his tongue enraptures my mouth. He breezes his tip over my clitoris, teasing the demanding collection of nerves with the promise of contact, and I cry into his kiss with bliss. The perfection of his seduction is starting to overwhelm me. I had only dreamed of this artful worship of my body, and Mulder had always been the sculptor of my rapture.

Knowing that I will accept him, there is no hesitation as he glides into me, stroking the edge of my clitoris with the length of him as he enters. “Ahh,” I sigh, and he tilts both body and mouth at a new angle, gently thrusting and then accelerating to the tune of my arousal. The song that my desire sings is performed only to Mulder, and he harmonizes beautifully. All of my strength exists in this sensation, this symphony of sex that our bodies create. Crying out, I thrash beneath him. Not out of displeasure, but of the most intense delight.

Twining my fingers through his hair, I relish in his dark softness, and I note that throughout this interplay, his eyes have remained closed, shutting him out of all senses except for the feel of our bodies together. What that must be like… Without distractions of vision. Without the sense of reality to invade this first encounter. As though it were a rapidly enhanced dream, living in his lips or his hands…

My lids fall shut, and I slide into the rapture of his body. The long, feathery, continuous kiss of his lips onto mine. The pearls of sweat caressing his hot, sleek skin. The lustrous length of his cock, which I clench and contract around. The palms of his hands sweeping over my belly. These are the confines of my existence, and I blindly arch and rise beneath him.

Kissing, touching, thrusting, velvet mouth, gossamer hands, silken cock. Showers of sensation spring upon me, and I freely accept them with no regrets, no strings attached, and I exist in him. In his fantasy, his reality, this shared dream that is now realized.

And when I come, it is Mulder who brings me over the edge. Always, always Mulder. Just as it should be. Convulsing in a sea of heat, I feel as though I am shimmering with the combination of sexual afterglow and the faint mist of dreams. That feeling of magical reverie that always surrounds one in slumber, now caressing me as I lie beneath him, oh so very aware of our joining. I cup his face in my hands, lowering him to me for a kiss in the last ripples of orgasm, and then feel him wash over me with his own climax. Waves of him flow through me, and I revel in the gentle heat of him, filling me and caressing me. Mulder is a living caress; a strong and passionate presence that subtly seduces the soul.

As he slows, I slow, and we gather together on the couch, separating our bodies briefly so that we can rearrange ourselves on his sofa. Cautiously, my eyes open, stepping out of the dreamlike chimera of our lovemaking and into the reality that we exist in.

Mulder is looking at me, and he is smiling.

I wait for him to speak, and he does. With his eyes, with his smile, with the gentle entanglement of his fingers through my hair. This is the language that he communicates with, and I arch an eyebrow at him in reply. We kiss next time, and I tell him that I love him with the adoration that I lavish upon him with my tongue and lip. He repeats this vow with a soft touch to the side of my face with the backs of his knuckles, and I sigh into his kiss.

Our mouths separate, and I nestle into the slope of his shoulder. His lips curve to kiss my brow, and I opt to speak. “I take it that was a good dream,” I say with some pride. Mulder chuckles.

“A pretty damn good dream.” I sweep a damp lock of hair from his brow, touching his eyebrow while I’m on his face. He smiles a little. “Maybe you’re my lucky charm, Scully.”

My demure smile broadens, sparkling rather than shimmering, glittering rather than glimmering, and I wrap my arm around his strong torso. “That’s a high compliment coming from someone with your reputation,” I comment, and he gives me his most innocent expression in return.

“I have a reputation?” he asks, and I laugh openly. I rarely laugh, but when I do, it’s a gift that Mulder enjoys receiving, and he reciprocates with one of his dazzling smile. Laughter is truly the gift that keeps on giving.

“The sun’s going to come up soon,” I say, seeing the blackness of night start to streak with navy and gray. Waking crickets and birds are beginning to serenade us, and though their voices aren’t exactly symphonic, they seem somehow fitting for us at this time. “You’re exhausted.”

“No ‘m not,” he murmurs drowsily, yawning while he says this. I chuckle, feeling his breathing slow and thicken next to me.

“Ah, yes you are,” I disagree. “You were exhausted before I woke you up, and you’re definitely exhausted now. Don’t even bother arguing with me, Mulder. Go to sleep.”

“Don’t get back up.”

I smile, touching my lips to his in a chaste but tender good-night kiss. “Why would I do that?” I ask, and he wraps his arms around me as though he can reassure himself that I won’t abandon him. “Good night, Mulder.”

“Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

And he drifts off to sleep, trusting that no nightmares will shatter him and no memories will scream at him. For I am his lucky charm.

After the nightmares that came courtesy of John Lee Roche, I remember buying Mulder a present. It was an Indian dream catcher, one of those intricately designed and carefully woven ornaments made out of multicolored thread and bright, dangling feathers. Legend has it that these pendulant pretties protect from demons that would enter at night while hunters and women slumbered. And while I’m not particularly known for investing belief in such spiritual decorations, I do believe in Mulder. And in protecting Mulder from the darkness of the inner crevices of his mind. And at least this gift would express my concern for him, and my care for him.

The dream catcher dangles in the window in the early colorings of dawn, and my realized fantasy sleeps next to me. I am his dream catcher, and tonight, I caught him a fantasia.

---

(end story)

---

Feedback? Feedback? Did somebody say feedback? Please send me feedback at [email protected]. Remember, I have low self-esteem. :*(

Thanks for reading and (hopefully) replying! Sweet Mulderdreams!

---

Return to main “Dream Catching” page