From:             Valeanna1 <Valeanna1@aol.com>
Date sent:        Wed, 25 Mar 1998 21:58:37 EST
Subject:          'Functional' (1/1) by J. C. Sun


Title: Functional
Author: J. C. Sun
E-mail: valeanna1@aol.com

Rating; NC-17 for sex, profanity, implied violence and generally disturbing
content
Category: VRA
Summary: Bodies are cheap.

Author's note: This is the first in a two-part vignette series concerning
M&S's relationship.  The other, 'Red Herring', is written from Mulder's POV.

.functional
.j. c. sun

Mulder and I, we fuck.

We do not make love.

That conjures images of a lambent silver moon, suspended in a dark sky, the
rushing of tides playing accompaniment to the thudding of our hearts.  Of
candlelight, expensive wine, his hands tracing full round circles on my face,
his voice soft, low, .  Of caresses in a white canopy bed to the slow climax
of Mozart.

Making love implies the presence of that emotion.

We fuck.

When the words threaten to slide into blows, when the emotions pound inside us
and intelligible speech is blurred by rage, we fuck. When speech is strangled
by fury, when the sheer idiocy of each other roars in our ears and the world
streaks into a multicolored haze, the rage of our blood the exploding in our
veins, we plunge into each other with burning, consuming frenzy.  Blows and
slaps are transmuted into socially acceptable forms; harsh, searing
profanities into the slap of skin and the permissible frenzy of lust.  

We do not speak when we fuck: moans, whispers, sobs, yes.  The occasional name
cried in pleasure, the word whispered and lost in the pulsating air.  A cry of
absolution in his mouth as he presses against me, confession in the patterns I
draw on his chest. But we do not discuss.  We do not speak of deep and dark
and relevant matters, we use only shattered fragments, the primeval channeling
of our rage.  

Nor do we cuddle afterwards. Pull it out, zip it up.   We pull on our clothes,
we take a drink of water, and we walk out, cool, calm, partners once more, one
of mind, one of purpose, two of body yet striving for the same goal.  We walk
out and we attend a press conference or write a report or drive to 312 Merryl
Street and tell a mother that her daughter is dead, slit from gullet to
pudenda by beast without conscience or soul.  We tell her this, and then we
bang each other with the fervency of the drowning.

And we do this often.  In a janitor's closet.  On the sink.  A motel table.
The conference room, with the blinds shuttered and the door locked.  An empty
bar.  In the stairway, my head pressing into the rough concrete, ass against
metal.  Occasionally, on his couch, though he prefers sex on functional
objects, for that is what our relationship is.

Functional.     

When the grief curls inside us, a tight, potent snake of sorrow, we fuck; to
feel our hands ghosting across each other bodies, to feel the roughness and
the hurt, to feel alive.  We use this, we use our bodies, our mouths and hands
and genitals as therapy, as release of these things inside us. Penetration is
cartharsis; orgasm, the release of memory.  His hands tearing at my hair, a
scream of frustration, the speaking of the unspeakable and the true.  My
teeth, drawing blood, the shriek of revenge for slights, for the emptying of
my soul as I looked into the grey Washington sky and wept for the supposed
death of the man I believed I loved, a man who perished in a boxcar, in the
hellfire he feared.  Wrapped in the twine of ecstasy is Tunguska and Roush and
Tooms and Duane Barry.

Functional.

I like that.

It's like that. 

And it has always been that way, from the first time, from the very first time
he pressed his mouth against mine.

It had been in the office.  Black and white littered his desk: the white of a
dismembered limb against the black earth.  A left foot, or the pelvic area,
carved out of the torso.  The twisted screaming face of another victim or the
plump white schoolgirl hand complete with class ring against the cardboard box
that the hand had been delivered to the police station in, courtesy of the
Butcher.  All these, in black and white, piled, a thousand foul memories
twisting.

My hands were trembling, the world shimmering from the veil of my tears.  I
leant against the glass, cheek on coolness, rocking on my heels, trying to
wipe

Mulder's hand sliced down my back, nail pressing into the flesh, burning,
carving me up.

Five years is foreplay enough.

As he sprawled across his desk, papers flew, curling upwards before drifting
down, floating, huge snowflakes with dirty prints that rustled when they
collected about the legs.  His own legs hung of the edge, shoes swinging,
banging against metal, breath hissing fast, hands plucking at the corners and
his body arching like a plucked string when I ran my hands down his naked
haunches, the hard line of them, feathered softly with dark hair, clenched
hard underneath me, face twisted into a harsh conundrum of pain and pleasure,
mouth giving a long, despairing wail he gave as I mounted him.

I remember I developed a run in my stocking from that.

And I remember how very large and sudden and dry the experience was.  

But I can't remember if it hurt. 

It hurts, still, occasionally, but for other reasons.  His nails in my back,
mouth nipping, fingers pinching and me arching up and screaming something
obscene about him hurrying the fuck up.

But it's me, me, who leaves the prints, the bruises, the scabs and the red
half-moons up and down his back.  

And I suppose it pleases me, in so vague, meandering perverted way.

It evens things out.  

It evens the hurt.  

Usually.

.end

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