By  Alanna Baker and Michaela
alanna@ibm.net
 

Date: Fri, 13 Mar 1998
Rating: NC-17 (And we are checking IDs at the door)
Classification: MSR
Keywords: SMUT!
Summary: A sequel to Smoking, by same authors.

+++++++++++++++

Poor Mulder.

When you have a man with as obsessive a personality as Fox
Mulder, the last thing this man should do is take up any kind of
activity that could become habit-forming. Mulder, as you may
know, has a tendency to embark on new, fascinating endeavors
with a certain exuberance and tenacity. In fact, he is a poster boy
for the addictive personality.

Trust me, I know Mulder well. As of late, I know him *very* well.
And as I sit here in our office, seemingly intent on the paperwork
before me, sneaking little peeks of him across the room from the
corner of my eye, I know one thing above all.

Mulder is jonesing.

Mulder has had the rather interesting windfall of adopting two
addictive habits in the same 24 hour period. Cigarettes. And me.
Forgive me if I allow myself a tiny smug smile at this last. I know I
must sound terribly vain, but Mulder has simply become hooked
on me. Not that I'm complaining, mind you. It's rather a heady
sensation, and one he must share because, after all, I'm mutually
addicted to him.

And I feel compelled to set the record straight here and
differentiate between a bad addiction and a good addiction,
because there *is* a distinction. Cigarettes - bad habit.
Undeniably destructive. Expensive, dirty, nasty, life-threatening,
and illegal in many public buildings. If nothing else, that
"Black-Lunged-Son-of-a-Bitch" (Mulder really has a way with
expressions, doesn't he?) ought to be reason enough not to
smoke.

But *this* addiction, this one we have to one another, isn't bad, it
isn't destructive and it isn't fatal. Unless we do it really, really well.
And wouldn't that be a hell of a way to go?

We're simply in that, if you'll pardon the trite expression,
``honeymoon phase.'' We can't get enough of one another. We
can hardly be blamed. Now that, after five damn long years, we've
finally succumbed to morephysical expressions of our love for
one another, we need it. All the time. As much as possible.
Anywhere possible. Although admittedly, this addiction *may* be
illegal in certain public buildings, too.

The fact remains, though, that I'm as addicted to the taste and
smell and sound and sight of him as any junkie craving a fix. I
want him. I need him. Now. But paperwork calls, and the office is
hardly the place to partake of such fantasies, and anyway, Mulder
has a bit of another addiction on his mind right now.

Cigarettes.

He never should have given in and smoked that first one. As I said,
he's a very addictive personality. I could have told him he'd be
hooked after the first puff, if only he'd asked. But then again, I was
out at Denny's watching my life pass before my eyes with Chuck,
and Mulder didn't exactly call to consult me before buying that first
pack.

I make a mental note to send a thank-you card to both Chuck and
the Stop-N-Go cashier who sold Mulder those cigarettes, because
I'm fairly sure that both of those clueless wonders are the reason
Mulder and I finally got past all our inhibitions and did what we've
been dying to do for 5 years.

I look over at Mulder again, and bite my lip to fight the smile
threatening to betray me, should he look over. His fingers are
tapping restlessly against his desk, and he is picking at a
non-existent hangnail. He wants a cigarette. He can't have one.
Government no-smoking policies. Poor man.

Did I mention he's only been smoking for *three days*?

I told you he was an addictive personality. You know, he's not
even hooked on the nicotine yet - trust me, I'm a physician. This
is pure psychology; this is the hand-to-mouth fixation of
cigarettes, the one experts and tobacco critics don't tell you is
harder to break than the nicotine addiction.

Hand-to-mouth. Hmmm It seems to me that the least a woman
could do for her lover is help him break a nasty habit. It occurs to
me that one way to do this is simply to redirect his attention
toward a moreappealing pastime. One addiction for a healthier,
certainly more enjoyable one. And I've never actually met anyone
who died of second-hand sex. So you could look at this as my
contribution not only to my lover, but to mankind.

Dana Scully, lover of all. My philanthropy staggers me. You can all
applaud my sacrifice later. Right now, I've got to get this man to
bed. Or at least out of the building

"Hey, G-Man, it's 5 o'clock. You ready to go?"

+++++++++++++++

Murder's still illegal, isn't it?

I really hope it is, for Dana Katherine Scully's sake.  Otherwise,
she is a dead woman.

So it's our first day back in the office, right?  Well, the little wench
decides to make fun of me.  Mock me.  Taunt me.  Can't she tell
I'm addicted?  Really.  I have never had a longer day in my life.
And I will never, EVER forget to bring an extra pack of cigs with
me to the office.  I went through two on the way to the office,
another on my morning break (funny how I've never taken the
Bureau up on its break policy before), then managed to fit one
more in after a *very* entertaining and, ahem, steamy drive through
Rock Creek Park during our lunch hour.

And then I was out.  An empty pack.

Scully laughed.

Wench.

Here we are, at the car.  Scully is being extremely quiet.  A little
*too* quiet.  Every time I glance over at her, she has the most
amazing shit-eating grin on her face, like she's planning
something.  If I weren't so damn focused on getting another
cigarette in my mouth, I'd be remembering all the things my mouth
was doing to her this morning.

Cigarettes or sex?

What a tough decision.

Just don't let me tell Scully, or she'll kill me.  And murder *is* still
illegal.  I think.

I toss her the keys so she can drive.  I don't trust myself at the
wheel right now.  She tosses them right back.  "You're driving,
Mulder.  Period."  I open my mouth to protest.  She cuts me short.
"Nope, no arguments.  You need to be doing something with those
hands."

Wench.

We get in the car.  I pull out of the space and head out of the
garage.  As we turn onto Pennsylvania Avenue, our eyes catch on
something nestled between the two front bucket seats.  A
half-empty pack of cigarettes.  I reach for it with a primal need.
But Scully's faster.  Damn her reflexes.  Before I'm able to scream
a protest, the passenger window is down and I watch,
heartbroken, as the cigs are flung out the window.

As I'm braking the car at the stoplight and turning to give Scully a
look of murder, her hand snakes over and closes over a very
sensitive part of my body.

"Hi, George."

How on earth can she make her mocha and sandpaper voice so
damn seductive?

"Ready to come out and play?"

I can barely force speech through my mouth.  My free hand closes
over hers, anchoring it right where it is.  I have to wonder just how
far we can go here in the car -- in *public*.  She slowly unzips my
flies and slips her hand inside, closing over my penis.  Oh, God.
Wow.  Scully gives it a little squeeze then pulls her hand away.  I
reflexively turn toward her and she cocks one eyebrow.

"Not until we get home, Mulder."

And then I remember my other addiction.  Her.

Cigarettes?  What cigarettes?

+++++++++++++++

There is something to be said for the power a woman has simply
by paying attention to her lover's more basic instincts. A very
heady rush of power, if you'll pardon the pun.

It's a rather thrilling feeling, I must admit. And Mulder is bearing up
considerably well. He's seriously craving a cigarette, and my hand
was, albeit briefly, down his pants.

I'm lucky he's still got the car on the road.

He steers the car toward for my apartment, it being the closer,
with a recklessness that leaves me breathless. Or at least, his
driving is partially the reason for this sudden shortness of breath.

We reach for our doors before the car even comes to a complete
stop, stumbling over ourselves in our haste to reach the seclusion
of my apartment. I race up the short flight of stairs, Mulder hot on
my heels, and with trembling hands, somehow manage to unlock
the door, hurtling myself inside, whirling around in time to see him
kick the door shut behind him with his foot.

He is standing there, just slightly out of breath, and I notice his
zipper is still down. His jacket is in the car, leaving him
somewhatexposed. I seriously hope that the neighbors weren't
glancing out the windows on our way in. I give him a smile, my
best smile, the one Mulder has rapidly learned is my
"Let's-get-naked-FBI-Man" smile, and I step toward him. He opens
his mouth, and I wonder if he's going to say something deliciously
wicked right now.

"I think I left a half a pack here last night, didn't I, Scully?"

He's a dead man.

I stop just inches from him, plant my hands on his hips and tilt my
head up to glare at him.

"What did you just say?"

"Cigarettes. I left them here, right?"

He starts to move past me - is he serious?!?! -- and I take action,
planting my hand firmly in the middle of his chest and pushing him
back against the door with a lot more strength than I'm given credit
for, given my size. His eyes widen and he looks down at me.

"Mulder, do you think you're here to *smoke*?"

"Of course not, Scully," he says cajolingly, and I start to relax a
little. "I just thought, you know, I could do both."

Did I mention he's a dead man?

I grab him by his tie and jerk his head down toward me. His face is
directly above mine now, and I can see by the light in his eyes, he
is teasing. Sort of.

"We need to have a little talk about this nicotine addiction of
yours," I say softly, weighing my voice with the heaviest tones of
seduction I can summon.

"Really?"

"Mmm hmmm," I hum in reply, and begin slowly unraveling the
knot in his tie. "It occurs to me that smoking could be hazardous
to your health. *Very* hazardous."

"How do you mean, Scully? You been listening to that nasty
Surgeon General again?" He seems distracted enough now, his
hands running restlessly up my sides, pressing into my hips and
waist as I toss the tie away and begin on the buttons to his shirt.

"I'm not so much worried about the long-term effects of nicotine
and tobacco additives, Mulder," I croon, spreading his shirt wide
as each newly-released button gives me a better view of the man
beneath. "I'm more concerned about how your preoccupation
with smoking a cigarette is distracting you from other pursuits. A
potentially *dangerous* situation, if you catch my meaning."

"Distracting me?" he murmurs, bringing his hands up to begin
peeling away the various layers of my own clothing. That's better. I
move my hands down to his pants and casually remove the belt,
unfasten the button, push the fabric from his narrow hips.

"Sure." I move closer and brush a light kiss against the center of
his chest, letting my tongue flick against the warm saltiness of his
skin for a moment. I feel his sudden, deep draw for air and smile. I
lift my head to look at him again. "You must know, Mulder, that
cigarette addiction is partially nicotine dependency and partially
something to do with your hands. And I'm puzzled, because
surely you've realized at this point that there are so much more
satisfying things to do with your hands than hold a cigarette."

And with that, I slip both hands inside his boxers, and surround
that oh-so-delicious part of him. And gently squeeze.

It's a few seconds before Mulder can speak again, and when he
does, it makes me smile.

"You bring up an interesting point, Scully," he manages
eventually, though his voice is distinctly more strained than before.
"That really is a more satisfying place for hands, I agree, but it
makes me wonder. Are you suggesting that's where I should place
*my* hands?"

Oooh. A challenge. How lovely.

"Why, Mulder, that's intriguing, and a thought I may want to
pursue later," I say somewhat shakily, affected by the very thought
of it. If that doesn't just bring up about a *zillion* fantasies I've had
for the last five years. Mulder touching himself. Steady on "But
for now, I thought you could, um, reciprocate. So to speak."

"Ah, taking a healthy interest in my recovery, are you, Scully?" he
drawls, and, thank God, the skirt is gone and in a rare display of
recklessness *and* forethought I remembered to wear thigh-high
panty hose. Well done, Dana. He slides his hands up my back to
release the clasp on my bra, and I take a deep breath, relishing
the freedom and anticipating his hands replacing those confining
bits of fabric against my breasts.

"Well, Mulder, I'm here to help," I say lightly, still massaging him
with my fingers.

"It really does my*heart* good to know that," he murmurs
against my ear, flicking his tongue against the very sensitive
whorls of flesh there.

"I'm just a real people person," I try to chuckle, and he smiles
against my cheek. I can feel it. It makes me smile, too. Then he is
hooking his thumbs into my panties, at my hips, and then he is
rushing down my body in a startling burst of speed, stripping them
down my legs before I can even draw breath to muster a gasp.

I look down. He presses a kiss against my stomach, right below
my navel, and then he looks up at me.

"But wouldn't you say that cigarette smoking is a hand-to-*mouth*
addiction, Dr. Scully?" he says with a truly lascivious leer.

Oh dear. I've created a monster. Now I know how Dr. Frankenstein
felt.

+++++++++++++++

You know, there's nothing more attractive than a woman with the
upper hand.  I mean it.  I'm not one of those guys who always has
to be in charge -- though it's certainly a nice bonus every so often.
I love the feeling of just laying back and letting a woman have her
way with me.

Call me a Man of the '90s.

So now I have Scully naked.  Wow.  Her body.... her body's just
amazing.  Sorry, I can hardly summon coherent thought at all,
much less my mental thesaurus.  But I do remember saying
something about a mouth, so I tilt my head down and kiss her.
Deeply.  My tongue tussling with hers.  Whoa.  But then, she
pulls away and takes me down.   Literally.

Damn, that woman is good.  She told me she'd aced the
hand-to-hand combat course at Quantico, but I didn't believe her.  I
do now.  I barely feel my body hitting the hardwood floor, but I sure
as hell feel her foot on my stomach.

She simply says, "Stay."  I don't dare move.

I watch the sheer perfection of her body walk over to her sofa and
grab a cushion.  She clasps it in both hands and holds it behind
her.  Then she turns to face me.  She is naked.  Oh, God.  Control
is but a dim memory.  I raise up on one elbow and make a move
to get up, but Scully stops mid-step and repeats herself.

"Stay."

Fine with me.

I am mesmerized by the way her breasts sway as she walks.  I
am mesmerized by the way her hips remain still, as if they're
begging for my touch.  I am mesmerized.... by the box of
Marlboros I glimpse on the coffee table as she walks around it.
Scully follows my gaze, then coolly picks up the box and
withdraws the four cigarettes inside.  And then she breaks them in
half and throws them in the wastebasket.

I think my heart just broke.

This time, I feel the back of my head hitting the floor.  I feel my
body starting to twitch.  I don't feel Scully standing over me... but I
do feel her nudging my legs apart.  I dare to open my eyes.  She
is kneeling between my legs, a coy grin on her face.  She leans
forward and lifts my head with one hand, slipping the cushion
underneath it with the other.  That's my Scully -- so considerate.
And then she leans back on her heels, slowly running her hands
up my legs.

"Just want you to be comfortable, Mulder."

Oh, Lord.  Suddenly, cigarettes are the least of my concerns.  In
all my travels, I don't think I've ever seen anything as incredibly
arousing as the sight of a naked Scully kneeling between my legs,
her hair falling in front of her face and her hands braced on my
hips, framing my very-erect penis.  And then she smiles.

Wow.

"You know, Mulder.  This addiction of yours isn't very healthy at
all."

"Oh, it isn't?"

"No, it isn't.  Now, we have several ways of curing you of this
addiction to smoking before it gets out of hand."  And with that,
she clasps me in her own hand and runs her fingernails down my
length.

If I try *really* hard, I think I can manage to say, "Oh, and what
might those be?"

"Well, we can find another outlet for these hand-to-mouth
tendencies of yours.  And if you still need the nicotine, we could
always use a patch."

"A patch, Scully?"

"Yes, though I don't think you need *that* quite yet.  But just in
case, it might be a good idea to find a good place on your body for
one."  She leans back on her heels and grins at me once again.

I think I'm in love.

Scully runs her tongue over her lips.

I know I'm in love.

"So, Agent Mulder, you ready for some investigation?"

+++++++++++++++

If I believed in reincarnation - which I don't - and if I believed that
one was rewarded in this life for benevolent deeds performed in a
previous one, then I would have to draw a very clear conclusion at
this moment:

I must have been very, *very* good a few lives ago.

After all, I'm crouched between the legs of the very naked and very
sexy Fox Mulder, who is sprawled on my living room floor, naked
but for the boxers I have yet to divest him of, and he is utterly
devoted to submitting to whatever ministrations I may choose to
offer.

The possibilities simply delight me. And I'm rather intent on
making sure they delight him, too.

I slowly lean forward, knees on the floor between his legs, and
brace my hands on either side of his shoulders, careful not to
touch any part of him. He is staring up at me with that slumberous
desire burning in his gaze, searching my eyes as if they might
give him some hint of my next move. Perhaps they might. He has
always been disconcertingly adept at hunting out my emotions
from simply the look in my eyes.

So I drop my eyes instead, hiding their intentions behind
half-lowered eyelids, letting my sight roam over the smooth, faintly
golden skin of his upper body, calculating all possible targets.

"Well, Mulder,'' I say finally, "there are any number of possible
locations for placement of a nicotine patch, should you need one. I
think it's going to take some rather thorough study on my part to
determine the best possible course of action."

"Dr. Scully, I bow to your medical expertise," he chuckles, a bit
raggedly, and I reward him with a little smile.

"That's good. I'm glad. But you have a responsibility here, too.
You'll need to let me know which areaworks best for you. I'll be
counting on you to let me know."

"I'll do my best."

"I should hope so," I parry, and then I lean down to place a
lingering kiss on first one strong bicep, then the other, running my
tongue along the well-defined edge of muscle on each arm, my
teeth nipping with teasing delicacy. "Mulder? This would be
considered the more traditional placement of the patch. How does
that feel for you?"

"Well, I can certainly see the appeal, but I don't think that's really
the right spot for me."

I nod my head soberly, the good physician listening to her
patient's needs, and nibble at my lower lip for a moment before
leaning back down. This time, I aim for that particular spot beneath
his chin that I discovered our first night together, laving it
thoroughly with my tongue. This time I feel his breath shudder
through him, and I raise my head to lift an eyebrow in his direction.

"A little better," he says huskily, and I smile again.  A *little*
better.  Right.

"Well, Mulder, I am a rather *exacting* scientist, so I'm going to
have to make sure I find the perfect spot."

I spend infinite, timeless moments across his chest, nibbling,
tasting, and sucking, giving notable attention and consideration to
his nipples, teasing them into rigid points, as he has so skillfully
done for me in the last two days.  I graze my teeth against the
pebbled texture of them and hear him gasp beneath me, his hands
flying from stillness to grasp my upper arms. His breathing is
ragged now.

I purr something soothing, lifting my mouth from his chest with a
barely audible pop, and allow a teasing smile.

"Asthma, Mulder? Cigarettes are no good for that, you know."

"Scully," he growls warningly, choking on a helpless note of
laughter.

"So is this a location you find satisfying?" I ask, leaning down to
flick my tongue against his nipple again.

"Yes," he bites out, through gritted teeth. I laugh, thrilled, then try
to arrange my face in more appropriately somber lines.

"Still, I think there may be better avenues to explore."

With that, I slide back, running my tongue down the toned plane of
his stomach, my hands sliding along his sides to the elastic
waistband of his boxers, easing them down over his hips. I study
the material bunched in my fingers, considering it carefully. He is
watching me, I can sense it even as I am hidden behind the
curtain of my hair. I slowly bring one hand around to meet the
other, at the side seam of his shorts.

They rip with a particularly satisfying sound that makes me smile
and makes Mulder practically levitate off the floor.

With quick efficient movements, I slide the remaining scraps of the
fabric off his body and return to my place between his legs,
bringing my gaze to meet his. He is staring at me, hazel eyes
wide and burning into mine.

"Sorry, did I startle you?" I ask coyly. He looks completely - and
happily - devastated; he never saw that one coming. I guess a lot
of men might think about ripping a woman's clothes off in the heat
of passion, but how many of them have ever thought a woman
might return the favor? Apparently, not Fox Mulder. I am delighted
with myself.

Then I glance down, and suddenly I am the one feeling
overwhelmed. His erection seems to actually rear up at me, raging
and beautiful, and I am rather swept up in this sudden need to
completely overwhelm him. I can feel him trembling, my hands on
his upper thighs. I know how he feels - I have already lost count of
how many times I have been shaken to my very core within his
arms.

I lower my head close to his penis, letting my hair brush across it
and actually nuzzling it with my cheek as a kitten might. I open
my mouth, dart my tongue across my lips, and make my final
request of this poor, addicted man.

"Mulder, let me know what you think of *this* particular area."

+++++++++++++++

END (1/2)
 
 

The Patch, part 2.
By Michaela and Alanna Baker

+++++++++++++++

I'm 36 years old.  I'm a strong, healthy, reasonably intelligent
red-blooded American male.   I've spent the overwhelming majority
of my life searching for something -- I could give it fancy
psychological labels, but I think it could simply be peace.  Just a
little serenity in my life.  Contentment.  The peace I thought I
would feel when I found the Truth.

But I never would have thought that I'd find it on the hard wooden
floor of Dana Scully's apartment, especially when my heartrate's
doubled and I'm having a hard time finding my voice.  I open my
eyes and see her face shining up at me, a grin threatening to
break through her oh-so-professional facade, and her hair shining
over my abdomen.

Oh, man, I've got it bad.  The Big L -- Love.

And yes, mushiness.  I'm feeling extraordinarily mushy.  And I
have absolutely no problem with it.  If this is what comes with
quitting smoking, I might have to pretend to be addicted just a little
while longer.

But back to the action....

She's still looking up at me, her cheek resting against my
erection.  She moves her chin up a tiny bit, then down.  Nuzzling
me.  Sending little sparks of fire through my abdomen.  Her face
tilts forward and her voice calls out.

"Mulder?"

I'm still speechless, but if she wants me to talk to her, I'm sure I
could manage.

"Yeah?"

"You'll have to be very specific here, and let me know *exactly*
how this feels."  Her hands smooth over my hips, tracing the pelvic
bones.  "Exactly how it feels."

"Oh, I'm sure that won't be a problem, Scully."

Then again, maybe it will.  She begins to kiss me around my
base, her nose brushing against the hair down there.  I can't help
laughing.  Yes, I'm ticklish.  I admit it.  She looks up at me and
the grin breaks through.

"Good?"

"Yeah."

"How 'good'?"  Her voice punctuates the word.

"Um.... well, it's a very sensitive part of my body.  All those nerve
endings, you know.  Any type of sensory stimulation placed there,
such as a patch, is bound to be effective."

I look down at her.  My eyes focus, then blur.  Her lips open to
speak.  "ANY type of sensory stimulation, Mulder?"

And then I watch her lift her head, the red crown gleaming in the
lamp's glow.  Her eyes stay on mine and she plants a wet kiss on
the tip of my penis.  Just like that.   Suddenly, all the humor has
left the exchange.  The flirting, the coy banter -- none of it matters.
All that matters is that we are here together, doing something so
common to couplehood, and yet so very intimate and *us*.  We're
not common.  Nothing we ever do will be common, and I love that.
I love that I share something with her that nobody else can or ever
will.  And that I can trust her enough to treasure it.

It's all about trust.

I know that she knows this -- I can see it as she lightly flicks her
tongue over my tip -- but I still have to tell her.  So I open my
mouth and, my voice ragged, I say, "Hey Scully, I think you need
to examine that area thoroughly.  I want you to."  I rest my hands
on her shoulders, rubbing my thumbs over her collarbones.  Just
touching her, needing to be connected in that way.

"I trust you to."

She stares back at me.  I am overwhelmed.  And then she slowly
begins to swallow me.

My head lolls back on the sofa cushion, unable to move of its own
volition.  I become very still, trying to absorb every little sensation.
It's funny, though -- I don't even really feel any one thing in
particular, just an incredible tight swirling sensation along my
erection.  It builds and builds and I feel like I'm flying.  I can feel
her moving up and down, up and down.  In and out.  I feel the
pressure of her tongue amidst the sensory overload.  I've no idea
how long this is lasting, just that I am here and she is here and we
are joined in this way.  It can last forever and I will just love it --and
her-- more.  My eyes are closed and my body slack.  And even
though I don't see her, I know that Scully is taking care of me,
exploring me, and protecting me.  Because I love her.  Because I
trust her.

I explode, and she is there to gather me up and put me back
together.  Her hands massage my still-throbbing but flaccid penis,
and her tongue moves along it to clean me up.  I lazily watch her
through half-open lids.  She has asked so little of me, but
everything she's asked for has been *for* me.  I know that I could
ask of her anything else, and she'd do it.  That's the kind of bond
we share.  Wow.

Yes, I've found peace, I decide.

My hands move under her arms and I pull her up toward me,
making her a place next to me on the sofa cushion.  I gather her
into my arms, scarcely conscious of anything except the feel of
her alongside me and the bond between us.  Yeah, what we have
is about sex, I'll admit it, but it's also about this moment, right
here right now.

I thread my fingers through her hair, turning her face toward me.  I
see myself still all over her moist lips, and I can't help but smile.
Brushing a kiss across her lips, I murmur, "Yeah, I think that's a
perfect spot for a patch."  I'm feeling wonderful, just wonderful.
The joy floods back into my heart, along with my playful streak.

I wink at her and say, "Damn, that was amazing.  I need a
cigarette."

+++++++++++++++

Is it possible to be completely and entirely turned on - to be just a
tingling mass of sexual desire ready to explode at the slightest
touch - and yet feel utterly sated and satisfied at the same time?

It must be possible, because I feel this way right now, nestled
against Mulder's side, having just given him what I can only
deduce, based on his reaction, was one of the most singularly
exciting sexual moments of his life. And I am thrilled that I have
given this to him, that I have given *myself* to him in this way, and
that he was as delighted in receiving the gift as I was in giving it.

Okay, I admit it. I'm feeling rather smug right now, in an entirely
feminine kind of way. Like the cat who ate the canary. A canary
named George. I let myself smile at the thought.

But, touching Mulder has had its now-familiar effect on me - it's
gotten me hot. Very, very hot. I find this quite fascinating - that
the act of touching Mulder, of watching him lose control, and
knowing that I caused it, has turned me on so absolutely, when I
have yet to be touched myself. Now *that's* sexual desire.

So here I am, in the extraordinary position of loving this man into a
puddle of sweat, spending him entirely -- I glance down just to be
sureYup. *Entirely* -- and now I'm so horny I think my eyes are
starting to cross.

<Not exactly thinking ahead there, Dana ol' girl.>

I got caught up in the moment, what can I say?

"Damn, that was amazing. I need a cigarette," he says, as he
brushes a kiss across my lips. Ah. There we go. Inspiration. I may
not always think ahead, but we Scullys know how to *rally*.

"Mulder," I purr, shifting to my side and hooking one thigh high
over his stomach with a flexibility that sends his eyebrows up
toward his hairline, "have I taught you nothing?"

"Agent Scully, I grow light-headed at the very *thought* of what
you've taught me so far," he drawls with the happy glibness of the
satisfied.

"Yes," I agree, casting a coy, teasing glance southward down his
torso to the native that was no longer restless. "I noticed."

 He looks sheepish for a moment, and I fear he has misread my
teasing for criticism - Mulder can be insecure, and the most
gently playful jibe from my lips can throw careless arrows at his
heart. Then he grins, and manages a shrug of his shoulders from
his reclined position.

"You started it," he says playfully.

"Indeed, I did. And the lesson is not yet finished," I remind him
archly, and I ease into a crouch and then settle myself astride his
abdomen. He chuckles, and the vibration sends little spasms of
desire shooting through me, reminding me that one of us has not
yet passed the course, so to speak.

"Scully, I'm really flattered that you think I'mup for anything at
this moment, but you really trust me, you REALLY don't give
yourself enough credit," he laughs, not quite apologetic but
regretful.

"I'm sorry, did you forget what I told you about the smoking habit?"
I say with wide eyes and the most innocent, concerned
expression I can muster in my distracted state. "It's not just about
nicotine addiction. There's also a very strong *oral* fixation. That's
why you're craving a cigarette right now, Agent Mulder. You
simply need something to do with your hands and mouth."

I let a wiggle of my hips over his stomach send the point home.
His eyes darken with a look I have come to know well, in such a
short amount of time, and I let an arch smile touch the corners of
my lips, before adding, "Of course, I'm speaking purely as a
medical doctor here."

"Of course," he agrees solemnly, sliding his hands up the curve of
my thighs, dancing like little instruments of the devil over my waist
before firmly cupping my breasts, eliciting a gasp or relief and
absolute delight from me. "Purely out of concern for my welfare."

"Absolutely," I breathe, squirming slightly in his touch.
"Remember, Mulder. I'm just a giver."

"A real people person," he echoes my earlier statement and draws
a laugh from me that dissolves quickly into a moan as his fingers
so deftly find my nipples. I let my head fall back limply, marveling
in the erotic sensations of his hands on my breasts and the silky
feel of my own hair brushing against my naked back. There is
silence broken only by my own helpless whimpers and ragged
breathing. Then,

"Hey, Scully?"

"Mmmm?" With effort, I languidly curl my neck forward and find
myself staring into his eyes. They watch me with a fascination
that is startling, as if I am the most captivating thing he has ever
seen - and Mulder has seen *many* wonders in his long and
winding travels. I feel my breath catch. Then a spark of the rogue
touches the dark honey-and-walnut of his eyes.

"Didn't you mention that this was an *oral* fixation?" he says in a
low voice that sends rumbles through his chest -- and straight
between my thighs. I summon a smile that seems to want to
wobble out of place, the muscles of my body far more interested in
exerting their power further down.

"So enthusiastic about your treatment," I murmur breathlessly,
even as I am reluctantly pulling his hands away from my breasts
to draw his arms purposefully over his head, sliding my body
forward. I gently pin them above his head by twining my fingers
with his, never breaking eye contact, watching him watch me, as I
ease myself further up his chest, until my thighs are pressing
against his biceps and his mouth ishis mouth is *exactly* where
I want it to be.

"Well, you're so helpful, Scully, I just can't help but be caught up
in your enthusiasm," he teases softly, and I feel his breath hot and
damp against the already-humid core of me. I shiver. I struggle
mightily for something pithy and witty in reply, but I am saved from
this impossible endeavor when he lifts his head and brings his lips
to me. His tongue. His teeth, in gentle, delicate nips.

Dear God. Oral fixations are a wonderful thing. I hope he *never*
stops smoking.

"Mulder," I sigh, with nothing at all to add, just needing to have his
name on my lips, as his mouth is otherwise beautifully occupied.
My head has fallen back again, my neck utterly useless now for
holding it up, my hips rocking gently against him. I release his
hands and they swoop with startling speed to my breasts again,
touching them with a roughness now that turns me to jelly. I let
my fingers flutter over the softness of his hair, restlessly touching
the vaguely stubbled planes of his cheeks, feeling his jaw flex as
he works his lips so eagerly against me. His lips

I let my fingers explore until they find his beautiful mouth, against
me, and I am feeling us both. He emits a startling, utterly aroused
moan.

"Yes, Scully," he urges, his voice muffled against me. "Yes."

He wants to see this, to feel this, to know how I would touch
myself. I let myself ponder this amazing thought for a moment, my
fingers absently tracing the corners of his mouth. I am less shy or
embarrassed about this prospect than I would have supposed. I
trust him. I want him to see this. Me. All of me.

I return my fingers to the fused center of us, and we groan in
unison. I feel his tongue and his lips and his teeth around my
questing fingers, not vying for occupation but sharing it - eager to
share it. He finds my rhythm and joins it. I sigh, or whimper
perhaps, too tightly drawn to manage a moan, and he echoes it.

God, I wish this could go on forever, but I could not possibly
survive it. I am aching for release - I have been since we left the
office.

I lift my head, let my eyes drift open, and I look down, knowing
exactly what I will see, knowing exactly how it will affect me.
Mulder. At the heart of me. Eyes open. Watching me. Wanting to
see all of me. Wanting to see me fly apart around him.

I do.

Seemingly hours later, I can't seem to draw a deep breath, and
my thighs have become some burning, trembling mass of jelly that
I can no longer control. With a gentle hand from Mulder to assist
me, I lift myself from him and return to the cozy haven at his side,
feeling our skin rub slick and satiny against one another in a way
that is erotic and sating, all at the same time.

I try for words and emit some raspy squeak from a surprisingly
hoarse throat. Did I scream? I don't remember. I might have. Who
could blame me? I feel Mulder's head tilt toward me and I lift my
face to his, leaning into the gentle kiss he brushes against my
nose.

"You okay?" he asks with a tenderness that makes me want to
cry and laugh and jump him all at once.

I nod, swallow, and lick my lips to attempt to speak again.

"We have a problem, Mulder," I whisper. He frowns, gazes at me
with a worried intensity that sears my heart.

"What? What's wrong?"

And I flash him a blinding, playful smile.

"Now *I* want a cigarette."

+++++++++++++++

END (2/2)

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      +++++ alanna baker +++++
members.aol.com/emmalanna/fanfic.html
"sex and violence, melody and silence"
                 --the verve.