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Title: "The Bigger They Are. . ."
Author: Angela W.
Category: Jimmy/Yves romance
Rating: R
Summary: Jimmy and Yves get to know each other a lot
better. Told in First Person, Yves' POV.
Timespan/Spoilers: This takes place sometime after the
end of the first (and, presumably, only) season of
"The Lone Gunmen" and during and immediately after the
events of the "X-Files" episode "Existance" at the end
of Season 8. *MAJOR* spoilers for the final eps of
both shows.
Disclaimer: These characters do not belong to me. They
are the property of Chris Carter and 1013 Productions.
Archive: Feel free to archive anywhere!
Feedback: If it's nice or contains *constructive*
criticism, feedback is valued.



A couple of days after Jimmy and that Mulder man got
us away from Morris Fletcher, I go over to the guys'
place. I walk in on a speaker-phone conversation
between Byers, Frohike and Langley on one end and
Mulder on the other; from what I could gather of the
conversation, his wife just had a baby. Well, *some*
woman just had his baby, anyway; maybe they're not
married. Apparently her name is Sally or Shelly, I
couldn't quite understand which. So the three older
guys grab some baby gifts - I guess they knew she was
expecting - and rush off to see their friends' son.

That leaves me alone with Jimmy at their place.

"You okay?" he asks gently. "I know that whole
experience with Morris Fletcher and his goons upset

"I'm fine," I assure him. "That Morris Fletcher guy
was more annoying than evil. He kept kind of. .
.leering. . .at me, but he didn't hurt me or

"Would you like something to eat?" he inquires.

"No, I think I'd better be," I begin, but then the
lights go off. I give a little squeal and grasp
Jimmy's arm.

"Yves, it's okay," he assures me. "This is an old
building. The power goes off occasionally, especially
in the summer when it's hot."

"I'm scared," I say. Oh, hell, where did *THAT* come
from? I never, ever let on that I'm frightened. It
leaves me too vulnerable.

"Morris Fletcher won't be coming back," Jimmy says.
"He and Agent Mulder reached some kind of agreement. I
think they both work for competing government agencies
and were attempting to arrest each other; they just
decided to drop it."

"It's not that," I reply. "I'm scared of the dark." I
wait, then, for the scorn and disbelief that is sure
to follow such a statement. Adults aren't supposed to
be afraid of the dark. But Jimmy surprises me.

"Come on," he says, tugging gently on my hand. "I've
got matches and a candle in my bedroom."

When we reach his room, he places my hands on either
side of his waist. "I'm going to need both hands to
light the candle," he explains. "Just hold on for a
minute." He strikes a match and touches it to the wick
of a candle. The small flicker of light is reflected
in the mirror, banishing the darkness a bit further.

He must still see some fear lingering in my face,
because he tips my chin up and bends his mouth to
mine. His lips are just barely whispering against
mine; it's meant to be a kiss of comfort and
reassurance. . .I realize that but, perversely, it's
not what I want.

So I wind my arms around his neck and stretch up on my
tiptoes, arching my body against his.

Jimmy slides one hand into my hair, angling my head so
that he can deepen our kiss. The other hand slips down
to my butt and he pulls me closer. He's a good kisser.
For a moment that surprises me, then I realize it
fits. Anything physical - playing football, skiing,
dancing, kissing - he's extremely adept at.

When we finally come up for air, he says simply, "Tell
me what you want, Yves. I don't want to push you to do
anything you're not ready for."

It occurs to me, for the first time, that he could
certainly force himself on me if he wanted to. We're
all alone in this cavernous building and he's about
ten times stronger than I am. And some men would
definitely consider my reaction to what began as a
"comfort kiss" to be all the permission they needed to
take things as far as they wanted them to go. But not
Jimmy. That knowledge is, strangely enough, what makes
me say what I do.

"Make love to me, Jimmy."

He grins and reaches over to shut and lock the door.
"You're beautiful, Yves," he says, nimbly unbuttoning
my blouse.

"So are you," I reply, before I realize that
'beautiful' is not an adjective normally applied to
men. Apparently my brain has decided it doesn't need
to come along on this ride. "I mean, uh,"

"I know what you mean," he says with a relaxed smile
as he unhooks my bra and slides it off my arms. "Glad
you think so."

Not wanting to be the only one getting naked, I tug at
his T-shirt. It comes off easily, revealing a truly
impressive span of well-muscled chest and well-defined
abs. We pause to kiss again, this time with our upper
bodies skin-to-skin.

Jimmy pulls back the covers of his bed, then finishes
undressing me. He strips the rest of his own clothes
off and slides in beside me.

We begin kissing again, letting our hands wander along
each other's bodies. I haven't, really, had all that
much experience with sex. I don't think too many
people would guess that about me. To be brutally
frank, I bring some of the misconceptions on myself;
I'm not above flaunting my looks to get a story or
scoop the competition.

My two previous lovers were, each in their own way,
unsatisfactory. The first was my college boyfriend and
I was his first, too. I guess it was only to be
expected that our initial encounters were somewhat
awkward, but things never got any better. The second
was a divorced, middle-aged man; he seemed more
interested in taking me out and impressing other
people with me than going home and impressing me.

After those two experiences, I decided sex was
tremendously overrated and I wouldn't be indulging. So
what am I doing naked in Jimmy's bed? I think I'm
about to find out what all the fuss is about, that's
what! I'm suddenly reminded of the line Rhett Butler
says to Scarlett O'Hara when he's trying to convince
her to marry him: "You've had a boy and an old man.
Why not try a man in his prime?"

Jimmy doesn't seem inclined to rush through foreplay
on his way to the main event, nor does he seem overly
focused on my breasts, the way many men are. He
touches them, sure, but it's just a featherlight
caress with his fingertips. It's not until I place my
hand atop one of his and squeeze gently that he begins
to apply a bit more pleasure. Somebody's moaning, and
I realize with a start that it's me. In the past, I've
always been able to maintain a bit detached and to
analyze what was going on during lovemaking, rather
than being swept away by my feelings. Now I'm about
two seconds away from forgetting my own name.

Lowering his mouth to my breasts, Jimmy moves his
fingers down to the juncture of my thighs. He strokes
me and plays with me while suckling at my breasts. All
I can do in response is pant and paw weakly at his
shoulders. Finally, after what seems like hours of
having his attention lavished on me, he murmurs, "Are
you ready?"

Ready? I'm writhing against the bed and dripping all
over his hand and he wants to know if I'm ready?
"Yeah," I pant.

Jimmy begins to enter me and my eyes go wide. Every
time I think he must be all the way in, he pushes in a
little farther. He's going slowly, but it's not only
that he's incredibly long; he seems, in my admittedly
limited experience, to be unusually thick, as well.
Finally, I point out the obvious. "Jimmy, you're

I sense, rather than see, him smile at me in the
darkness. "We can try a different position if this one
is uncomfortable, Yves."

"I'll be okay, as long as you keep going slow."

When he's finally all the way in, he leans down and
kisses me. The combination of his tongue in my mouth
and his huge cock inside me nets an unexpected
response. I climax, convulsing around him endlessly.
When I can finally speak I say, "Wow!"

"Okay for me to start moving?" he asks, a combination
of tenderness and pride in his voice.

"Yeah," I say softly. He begins to thrust into me,
drawing almost completely out each time, than sliding
all the way back in, 'til his tip bumps my cervix and
his balls bounce gently against my ass. He doesn't
seem in any hurry and the comment he made when we were
in Texas, the one about making love for hours on end,
drifts through my mind. At the time, I thought it was
either make-believe or bravado. . .now I'm not so

"Tell me what you want, Yves, what feels good," he

"Jimmy, I already came," I say.

"Once," he replies.

I open my mouth to say that I'm not multiply orgasmic,
then promptly shut it again. What the hell do I know?
I've never felt anything this good in my life. "Just
keep doing it like that, Jimmy. It feels - Oh! -

I start moaning again and claw at his back. After a
few more minutes, Jimmy slips one hand under my ass
and tilts my hips at a different angle. I let out an
inarticulate scream and come again. He starts moving
more quickly while I'm still quivering; I want to tell
him to slow down, that it's too much, but before I can
catch my breath his own orgasm hits. He bellows out my
name so loudly they probably heard it on the other
side of the Potomac, then collapses on top of me.

A moment or two later, he pulls out and rolls onto his
back, cradling me against his chest. I expect him to
fall asleep immediately, but he doesn't; instead he
kisses me and strokes my hair and back softly. Finally
he murmurs, "That was incredible."

"Yeah," I say slowly, drawing the word out. Suddenly
I'm hit by the fear that this is only going to be a
one-night stand. "We'll. . .do this again, won't we,

"Sure, Yves," he replies, sounding faintly puzzled.
"Whenever you want. But let's sleep for a little bit
right now."

As Jimmy's breathing evens out and I lay there with
aftershocks of pleasure still quaking through my body,
I'm struck by the stupidity of some of the things I've
heard about sex all my life. All those silly sayings
like "It's not the size of the boat, it's the motion
in the ocean" or "It's not the size of the wand, it's
the skill of the magician". That's all bullshit. After
tonight, I know the truth: bigger *is* better!

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