Millennium Kiss by Leyla Harrison

Millenium Kiss cover


Millennium Kiss by Leyla Harrison

Millenium Kiss cover

From: Date: Mon, 22 Nov 1999 15:27:15 GMT Subject: NEW: Millenium Kiss (1/1) NC-17 by Leyla Harrison

Millenium Kiss by Leyla Harrison

Disclaimer: Mulder and Scully belong to CC, 1013, Fox and God knows who else.

Classification: MSR

Spoilers: Very vague references to 6th and early 7th season events, but nothing major. Unless, of course, you count the fact that this story is based on a spoiler for an episode that has yet to be aired. Confused? It’s been confirmed by Fox that Millenium, the episode that will air on November 28th, will contain a kiss between our two heroes. I have a feeling the kiss won’t be done in the way I would like to see it happen. Which leads to the-

Summary: It’s New Year’s Eve, 1999. Mulder and Scully do what most people do on that auspicious occasion – they share a kiss – and since it marks the beginning of a new millenium, it’s going to be pretty amazing.

Rating: NC-17. Yep, hide your eyes, kiddies!

Note: Thanks to everyone for all the feedback for my last piece. I thought my return to fanfic would be a one-time thing. I guess I was wrong. <g> You all are to thank – or to blame – for that.


I’m busy working on my laptop when I realize that my living room is bathed in a warm pink glow.


Hardly. Besides, that’s Mulder’s territory.

I look up and realize that it’s the sunset, filtering in through my sheer curtains. I check my watch. 4:16pm. I can’t believe it’s getting dark so early. I can’t believe I didn’t notice it sooner, like, say, a few months ago. I’m lucky I remembered to move my clocks back when it was Daylight Savings Time.

You might say I’m a little preoccupied.

Actually, I’ve been preoccupied since I started working with Mulder on the X-Files. Little by little, what I used to recognize as my real life slipped away and I was consumed by the same passionate madness that Mulder carried alone for years before my arrival. Not that I mind anymore. But sometimes – sometimes, I miss the little things.

Like nature, for example.

I’m a scientist, after all. Nature can be explained. Which is why I’ve always loved it.

I get up and cross the room, parting the curtains and looking outside. What I find is a pastel fantasia. A confection that can only be described in muted shades of some of the most perfect colors: a background of tangerine, streaked with smudges of cotton candy pink and fiery magenta and about six other pinks in between. And like little eraser-marks – they’re lilac. Lilac? I’ve never seen actual purple in the sky before. It’s magnificent.

The next time the sun sets, it will be in a new millenium.

Good God, it’s New Year’s Eve, and I’m sitting at home, alone, with no champagne and no man to kiss at midnight when the ball drops, and I’m working on a backlog of old case reports from August.

I must be insane. I truly have no life.

I decide that I’m going to make the most of the rest of the 20th century and stop working. I shut down my laptop and check my refrigerator for supplies. Apples. Yogurt. Salad dressing. I sigh. Lately I go shopping about as often as Mulder does.

I suddenly feel incredibly sleepy. My eyelids are drooping and all I can think about is a nap. I haven’t slept well in ages – not with all the things happening with Mulder, anyhow. I shut the refrigerator and make it to the couch, where I curl up, putting a throw pillow under my head, and I drift off to sleep.


I awaken to the sound of knocking.

I bolt upright in pitch-blackness. Disoriented, I blink my eyes, thinking that maybe I just need to clear them of sleep and I’ll be able to see. But there’s nothing to see in the dark.

The knocking starts again.

“Scully?” I hear Mulder’s muffled voice through the door.

Oh, Jesus, I think. I’m in the living room, and I fell asleep without putting any lights on. I reach for the lamp next to the couch, succeeding in both turning it on and then toppling it over. It crashes to the floor.

“Scully?” Mulder calls again, although this time his voice has more urgency to it. I can just seem him now, standing outside my front door, gun drawn, ready to bust the frame to save me. From a broken lamp.

“I’m fine, Mulder,” I call back. “Hold on a second.”

When I get to the door and open it he doesn’t exactly have his gun out, as I had imagined, although he looks like he was about to break the door down if I had taken any longer to answer it. He’s carrying a large brown paper bag.

He peers over my shoulder, and I turn to look as well. The room is lit eerily because of the broken lamp on the floor.

“It’s New Year’s Eve, Scully, not Halloween,” he tells me, but doesn’t ask anything more.

“Thank you for that observation,” I tell him. “Are you coming in, or do you want to make any other witty remarks out there in the hall?”

He comes in and I turn on a few other lights. I turn off the broken lamp and bend down to collect the broken pieces. When I get up, Mulder is gone – but I hear him in the kitchen. I head in there to dispose of the broken glass and find him peering into my refrigerator.

“What are you doing?” I ask him.

He goes to the bag on the counter and pulls out two bottles of champagne. I eye him.

“It’s New Year’s Eve, Scully. It’s the eve of a new millenium,” he tells me by way of explanation.

“And what else have you got in that bag?” I ask him. Two bottles of champagne for two people – more than enough, I think, but I don’t say anything.

“I stopped at Hing’s Chinese Dynasty. Hot and sour soup, fried wontons, egg rolls, chicken with black bean sauce, beef with broccoli, and shrimp fried rice.”

“Who else did you invite over?” I ask him, laughing.

He pretends to look hurt, but I can see a hint of a smile on his lips. “I figured, you’re alone, I’m alone – we might as well be alone together when the clock strikes midnight.”

“How thoughtful of you,” I tell him.

“Which is, according to my watch, at the tone the time will be 10:07pm, exactly,” Mulder informs me. I can’t believe I slept so long.

We start to get dishes and silverware out for the feast he’s brought over – a regular smorgasbord of Chinese cuisine. I have to admit I’m starving. And the idea of spending New Year’s with Mulder isn’t such a bad one. After all, we’ve spent countless other holidays together for one reason or another. Christmas that night in that house, the one I will privately concede was haunted – well, that was one holiday we spent together, at least partially.

I am reassured by the fact that New Year’s is a pretty generic holiday – no ghosts or goblins or anything remotely spooky. Unless, of course, you count people’s hysteria over the Y2K problem.

“Let’s eat in the living room,” Mulder suggests. “Your dining room table makes me feel like we should have a turkey and stuffing and a bunch of pilgrims gathered around.”

So it’s off to the living room we go, armed with dishes and carryout containers. We spread out on the couch and Mulder reaches for the remote.

“Come on, Mulder, don’t tell me we have to watch Dick Clark for an hour,” I protest.

“The ageless man? Now there’s an X-File for you. Of course we have to watch him. It’s a New Year’s tradition,” he tells me, and so the TV clicks on and Dick and his party crew come to life.

“At least turn the volume down,” I request, and he does.

“So,” Mulder says, helping himself to egg rolls and chicken, “did you ever think about what you’d be doing on New Year’s Eve, 1999?”

I spoon some shrimp fried rice onto my plate and taste it. Pretty good. Pretty damn good. I should switch Chinese places – the place I order from isn’t nearly as tasty. “Not really,” I tell him. “I’ve always thought of New Year’s as a bogus holiday. You know, like Groundhog Day and St. Patrick’s Day,” I tell him.

“You mean St. Patrick’s Day means nothing to you?” Mulder asks, astonished. “I would have thought-”

“What, because all the Scully children have red hair, you assume we’re Irish?” I ask him, feeling a momentary pang for the other Scully daughter, whose red hair was matted with red blood as she died in this very room. I change the subject. “I mean, think about it. People all gather around outside in freezing weather to watch a ball drop? How much fun is that?”

“When you’re blasted, it can be a lot of fun,” Mulder responds.

“But no one really cares about what it really means. The passage of another year. It’s silly, really – meaningless to all those revelers out there in Times Square and at Disneyworld, waving their streamers and shouting. They just want to be on TV, or they’re drunk. The passage of another year is a little more significant than that, but no one really thinks about it.”

“I never realized it meant so much to you, Scully,” he tells me.

I shrug my shoulders. “It doesn’t mean that much to me,” I counter. “But if people are going to celebrate something, they should do it without it being an excuse to get drunk and act stupid.”

“Speaking of which,” Mulder says, and hops up to get the champagne. He calls from the kitchen,” Hey, Scully, you got any champagne glasses in here?”

“The cabinet over the fridge,” I call back to him, and hear him rummaging around. He brings two glasses and the bottle back into the living room, popping the cork. He pours the bubbly into the glasses and hands me one from his end of the couch.

“I can’t remember the last time I drank champagne,” I tell him, clinking glasses. “Wait, wait. Shouldn’t we wait till midnight for this?”

“Why bother?” Mulder asks, and I shrug.

“You’re right,” I tell him, and we clink again.

“Cheers,” he says, smiling.

“Cheers,” I repeat, and take a sip.


I reach for the bottle and pour myself another glass. Mulder grabs my wrist and looks at the bottle. “Is that all that’s left?” he asks. “We should save it for later.”

I shake my head, tipsy. “Don’t worry, we still have that other bottle,” I remind him.

“No,” Mulder tells me, “that is the other bottle.”

I set the bottle back down on the coffee table. “Are you sure?” He nods, trying to look serious, but failing. I giggle, clapping a hand over my mouth as I do. I’ve never giggled in front of Mulder before, and even though the champagne has gone to my head, I’m still shy about doing it. “I can’t believe we’ve drank two bottles.”

“Almost two bottles,” he corrects me. “And I think the word is drunk, Scully.”

“Drunk,” I tell him. “I feel drunk. A little drunk, that’s how I feel.”

Mulder grins at me, then abruptly looks at the TV. “Shit! Scully, it’s the last minute. Where’s the remote? We’ve got to help Dick count down the last few seconds of the millenium.”

I fumble through the couch cushions, but don’t find it. “I think you had it. It’s got to be on your side,” I tell him, moving over on the couch and sliding my hand beneath the cushions there. “I got it.”

“Hurry,” Mulder urges me. I can tell from his voice that he’s had a little too much to drink as well. I press the volume up button and can hear Dick Clark talking about thirty more seconds. “So now you can tell your kids you rang in the year 2000 with me and Dick,” he jokes.

“New Year’s Eve, 1999, with Mulder, Dick Clark, Hing’s Chinese Dynasty and a little too much champagne.”

“Not enough champagne,” Mulder says, and I can swear his tone is suggestive.

“Look,” I point at the TV. “Ten seconds.”

“Nine, eight, seven-” Mulder intones.

“Six, five, four,” I pick up where he leaves off.

“Three, two-” we both say at the same time, then look up at each other.

The ball drops and people and cheering. I don’t see it, because Mulder reaches for me and pulls me closer, his lips landing on the corner of my mouth. He whispers, “Happy New Year, Scully,” and I turn my head and suddenly we’re kissing.

I mean to pull my mouth from his, but I can’t. I’m fascinated by the softness of his lips, how they fit mine so well. Mulder shifts and puts one arm around me. He puts one hand in my hair, his fingers threading through it as he kisses me with a little more intensity. A little shock goes through me, starting at my mouth and traveling right down to the place between my legs.

And then, I panic.

I pull back, separating myself from him, and stand up. Mulder looks astonished and a little angry, and I back up and turn around, not able to face him for that moment, touching my mouth with my fingertips for a moment. I don’t feel drunk anymore. I feel completely, totally sober.

I walk to the wall, on the far side of the room, as far as I can get from him. Not because I’m scared of him, but because I’m scared of myself. I’m scared because I want him, and yet I don’t know why I should be scared of that. There’s been enough sexual tension between us for so long that I shouldn’t be scared. I’m not blind and I know he’s not either. Although we’ve never spoken about it, we’ve both known that it would eventually come to this, and yet I can assume that my fear comes from the fact that I always thought it would be me who would make the first move.

Dana Scully, control freak.

I know myself well enough to know that it’s been fear that has held me back for years. If we took one step closer to each other it would make it more desirable for others to try to tear us apart. Yet we couldn’t be any closer than we already are. We’re linked, Mulder and I, and the only thing that has been missing all these years has been the sex.

So now Mulder has made the first move and I feel a little out of control, a little unprepared emotionally, and that’s what’s scaring me.

Idiot, I tell myself.

I hear Mulder get up and I turn around to face him. He crosses the room and steps in front of me, his eyes filled with desire, the same desire I felt when we kissed, when I felt the arousal go from nothing to everything in seconds.

There’s something dangerous in Mulder’s eyes. I hold his stare.

It’s like I know what he’s going to do. It’s like I know what’s going to happen. And I want it.

He moves suddenly, swiftly, catching my wrists with his hands and pinning my arms to the wall. He presses up against me, his body smothering mine. His chest crushes against my breasts and my nipples go instantly erect. His cock is pressed into my belly, and I can feel its hardness, its insistence.

He’s breathing heavily. My wrists ache from being held down, but I don’t fight him. Don’t get me wrong – I really enjoy slow, sensual lovemaking amid the soft sheets of a bed, but there’s something in me that enjoys an urgent fuck when the time is right. Blame it on a strict Catholic upbringing – enough years of that and anyone would rebel.

And after seven years of innuendo and near misses, I don’t want Mulder to rain kisses on my body as he slowly worships it from head to toe. Not right now, anyhow. I want him inside me, now.

A very male smell emanates from his skin. I dip my head slightly, coyly, and he lets go of one hand to lift my chin up so that I’m looking right into his eyes.

He kisses me again. This time there is no pretense, no awkward fumbling. His tongue pushes into my mouth, kissing me hungrily, bruising my lips. I kiss him back, my free hand snaking up and clutching at his back. My nails dig through the fabric of his shirt and into his skin. He releases my mouth and breathes against my lips, releasing a low growl from deep in his throat.

We manage to get out of our clothes our clothes from the waist down. We do it roughly enough to be erotic, but not violently enough to pop any buttons. We don’t have time to get everything off. Just enough so that our bodies can be joined. I can feel wetness dripping out of me, coating my inner thighs.

Mulder leans forward and licks the pulse in my neck. I reach for him.

His hands find my breasts through my shirt and paw at them. His thumbs go right for the nipples, as if he’s had a map in his brain for the last seven years.

He parts my legs with his knee, sliding a hand against me. He doesn’t wait. He threads through the curls and the wetness floods his fingers, as I knew it would. Without warning, he slips one long finger inside me, stroking me, and I cry out.

“Oh, God, Mulder,” I moan. They’re the first words that have been spoken since all of this started.

The heel of his hand bumps up against my over-sensitive clit and I toss my head from side to side, clutching at his shoulders. It feels good, but I want more.

He seems to understand. He slides the finger out, and I contract the vaginal muscles as he does, letting him know that I’m ready for more than just his finger, that I want another part of him there. He wraps his arms around my waist and lifts me up, against the wall, and I can feel the roughness of the paint against my skin. When he lowers me down, his cock is poking at my entrance, just the tip, pushing to get in. My breasts are almost level with his face and through the material of the bra I’m wearing his tongue darts out and licks my nipple, first one, then the other, taking them in his teeth and nipping at them lightly.

“Please,” I beg him.

Mulder lowers my body and he slides into me, so deep that I can almost feel him at the tip of my cervix.

He leans his face against me and lets out a groan. “Scully,” he says, his voice tight. “God, Scully.”

We’re both overly aroused. He lifts me up and then lowers me back down again. It has to be hell on his arms. For the moment, though, he doesn’t seem to care. My clit is stimulated with every stroke; my head falls back, hitting the wall. I imagine, for just a moment, that I must look like a porn star. And I don’t care.

He thrusts over and over, and then a few more erratic times, and then he comes, groaning and burying his head between my breasts. I feel him soften slightly within me. My entire body is trembling with desire.

Mulder lifts his head. “Jesus,” he whispers.

Before I can say anything, he slips out of me and drags me down to the floor, on my back. He straddles me and starts to remove the rest of my clothes. His tongue traces little circles around my nipples before he pulls them between his lips and suckles. He moves down and places light kisses down the middle of my chest, down my belly.

“Gonna make you come,” he murmurs against my skin, his lips vibrating against it, and the thought of it makes me shudder and part my legs involuntarily to give him better access. But when he reaches the triangle of curls between my legs, he stops. I can feel his hot breath on me.

“Mulder?” I ask, raising my head from the carpet to look down at him.

He gets up and pulls his sweater off, tossing it aside. He rolls onto his back. I’m slightly disappointed, but I don’t quite know what he has in mind. I do know that I want contact with his body, and so I climb on top of him.

It’s just like Mulder to be so unpredictable even when it comes to sex.

He reaches up and slides his hands under my shirt, around the back, releasing my bra and tossing it aside, and I feel my breasts as they are released, finally free of their constraints. He unbuttons the shirt part of the way, exposing more than cleavage – the tops of my breasts peek out at him.

“Move up,” he says, “All the way up, Scully.”

“All the way?”

“Over me,” he gestures at his face.

I shake my head slightly. It’s too much. It’s too sexual. “Mulder, I can’t,” I tell him. I can feel the wetness, his and mine, leaking out of me and onto his belly where I am straddled.

“I want to taste you,” he tells me. “I want to make you come.” New moisture floods out of me with his words.

And so I move up, until my legs are on either side of his head, and I am wide open above his mouth. I feel downright wicked. I close my eyes.

Again I can feel him breathing on me, and he touches me, opens me with his fingers and places his mouth on me.

My body jerks up, the stimulation overwhelming. Mulder’s hands come up and anchor my thighs, lowering me more onto his face until I feel that I must be suffocating him. But my worries disappear right away. He’s obviously getting enough air in his lungs to use his tongue to stroke me, maddeningly avoiding my clit, instead tracing circles around it just like he did with my nipples.

I brace myself, expecting him to suck it into his mouth in the same way, but he doesn’t. Instead, his tongue moves down, tasting the wetness that is there and creating more along the way. Little electric shocks are running through my body, all of them centered at my core.

He continues his sweet torture. He’s licking now, lapping at me like a kitten, but much stronger, and his strokes move up to lave over my clit, finally. I cry out the first time he licks there, and I let out a long moan as he slowly drags his tongue down from the bundle of nerves, all the way down to my opening, and then even slower for the return trip up.

By the time he’s reached my clit again, I’m moaning continuously, making noises I can’t even remember having come out of my mouth before. I’m rocking my body in time to his movements, realizing that my own hands are rubbing over my breasts, first over my shirt and then underneath it. I find the nipples and stroke them, rolling them between my fingertips. It’s almost more than I can bear.

His lips catch my clit then, sucking it into his mouth, and the gentle suction is too much. “Mulder,” I gasp, “oh, Mulder, I’m going to come.”

He increases the pressure, just slightly, and that does it. I throw my head back and allow the sensation to take over. It starts in my clit, which suddenly feels like it’s been electrified, and immediately spreads through my body. A scream comes from my throat as the orgasm floods over me.

And it doesn’t seem to stop. Mulder’s mouth is still at work, only more gently now, and the waves keep coming. Spasms of pleasure continue to ripple through me, and I’m almost crying from the intensity. Mulder continues to gradually slow down as my moans do, and finally he stops, his lips resting gently on me as my body settles.

“Oh, God,” I murmur, my voice shaky. I manage to move away from his head, and I roll onto the floor, my nerveless body covered almost immediately with a blanket pulled from the couch, and then, at my side, is Mulder.

My eyes slip closed and Mulder kisses me softly. I can taste myself on him, and for a moment I’m shy, realizing what has just happened, what we’ve done, the sheer sexual force of it all, and Mulder strokes my cheek with his hand.

I open my eyes and look into his. They’re bottomless.

“I can’t believe that,” I tell him. “I’ve never-it’s never been that intense for me, ever.”

I can swear that a hint of pride washes over his face, just for a moment.

“Does that make you happy?” I ask him.

“Knowing that I did that to you?” he asks. I nod my head. “I have to admit, Scully, in my wilder fantasies, you always came that hard, but I always assumed it would be just that – a fantasy.”

Now it’s my turn to feel proud. For some reason, it makes me unbearably happy to know that he’s fantasized about me.

The strength is slowly coming back into my limbs, and I roll over to put my arms around him. “Do you think we can move somewhere a little more comfortable? I’ve never been inclined to like sleeping on the floor,” he tells me.

I smile. “I do have a bedroom, you know.”

“Does it have a bed?”

I punch him playfully. “Yes, Mulder, it has a bed. Don’t you want to have that last glass of champagne? Remember, toasting the New Year?”

“If we go into the bedroom and go lie down on the bed, are we going to go to sleep or-”

I smile at him, enigmatically. “I guess we’ll have to wait and see when we get there.”

“I know of a few very interesting uses for the rest of that champagne, you know,” he tells me, as we get up, and he wraps the blanket around my body to keep me warm on the short walk into the bedroom.

“Oh, I’m sure you do,” I laugh.



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