The Legacy of Orson Wells
by Shannon
(203 words)

"Petunia?"

"Shut up."

"Daffodil?"

"I said, shut up, Mulder."

"Maybe daisy... Ouch! Don't be such a baby. You've got lisitsa. I wanna pet-name you."

"Why the *fuck* does it have to be a flower?"

"Krycek. Vixen? Jesus, you deserve worse. Buttercup?"

"Fuck you. ... What are you doing?"

"Nothing."

"Mulder..."

"What, I can't touch you now?"

Silence.

"Roll over, Krycek."

Silence. Stubbornness. Then, "Mmpph."

"... What about...chrysanthemum? ... What?"

"You gonna fuck me or what, Mulder?"

"The thrill is gone."

"Stop it."

"What?"

"That tickles."

"But I like how it makes your tush squirm."

"My what?"

"Your tush. Butt, ass, twin globes of fleshy heaven..."

"Well, stop it. I like it hard, remember? ... What are you doing now?"

"Just looking at your pretty, pink pucker, Petunia."

Grumbling. Purring.

"Shut so tight. ... So pink it's almost red. ... It's almost like a..."

"A what?"

"Rosebud."

"How Citizen Cane of you."

"Many critics theorized that Wells was actually referring to the clitoris."

"It's a sled, Mulder."

"Not from where I sit. Not a clit either. ... So that work for you, Krycek?"

"Oh yeah..."

Bed springs. Weight shifting. A gasp.

Grunting, "Good. ... Rosebud it is."

"Whatever you say, Mulder, just..."

"Fuck you?"

"Yeah."

"No way, Rosebud. I'm making love."

END

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