Saturday Night Special Night Special by JHJ Armstrong RATING: NC-17. CONTENT: MSR. Smut. A little humor. A lot of fluff. SUMMARY: Fun with guns. DISCLAIMER: Anyone you recognize, of course, isn't mine. I do this for love, not money, which is more than some people can say. *pointed look at certain misogynistic folk on the left coast* SPOILERS: Minor. As for timeline ... it looks like we're somewhere in season 7. DISTRIBUTION: Anywhere, but please link to my site and drop me a line if you think of it. URL: http://copygirl.softballjunkies.com/pigsfly.html FEEDBACK: fullback48@zdnetonebox.com Notes at end. ================================== Friday 6:38 p.m. Scully unlocked her apartment door and stepped inside, dropping her purse and briefcase where she stood. Leaving her shoes to amuse themselves on the throw rug, she shuffled into the kitchen, stiff from being hunched over a keyboard all day. The fruit of her labors was a reasonably true account of how she and Mulder had gone to Tennessee on Monday and got kicked out on Tuesday, and her brain was still feeling mildly stained from the task. All she wanted now was some time where she didn't have to think about anything but food, bath and bed. Really, she didn't blame Mulder for their hasty exit from The Volunteer State. He was just being Mulder. Once, she could have held a grudge for weeks over something such as this, but now she couldn't help but smile at the memory of hightailing it to the highway, burly construction workers driving bulldozers and front-end loaders in hot pursuit. They, it seemed, weren't big fans of her partner's theory that the building site was cursed by the restless spirit of a Tennessee Valley Authority worker who was beaten to death there in the early 1930s for a rape he didn't commit. Scully, of course, didn't necessarily believe it either, but having decided to join Mulder out on his limb, she wasn't going to let him hang alone. She thought of a moment in his doorway when time had stood still for death and life and alternate worlds; they had both come a long way to stand together, but now instead of "you and me and the world," it was "you and me against the world," and she had a hunch Mulder was feeling it, too. He'd given her this look in the midst of one of their cat-and-dog arguments last week, a look of frustration, and some anger, but an electricity sparked quicksilver underneath the surface. Just remembering it made her shudder a little ... and the more she thought about it, the more she liked it. Which was why Scully was glad she hadn't seen him all day. She needed a clear head to digest these, these creeping movements toward something phenomenal, and his presence was not conducive to analytical thinking. So, she'd left work when her report was done: no Mulder until Monday. When her cell phone rang, she looked at the display and thought perhaps she should have informed him of her plan. She shut the oven door on Lean Cuisine before jabbing the button. "Scully." "What are you wearing?" "You need to think up some new lines, Mulder." "Admit it, Scully. You love my old lines." "Love wasn't the word I had in mind. Besides, your taste for cliches isn't normal." "Normal's what some call two eyes and no tail," he said. "It's also a city in Illinois," she said. "But," he said with glee, "that's not important right now." She resisted the urge to groan. "God, Mulder, we need to get out more." "Funny you should say that, Scully, because I have just the thing." "Mulder, why are you calling?" And why did she think her weekend with no partner was about to become a lost cause? "Didn't know I needed a reason other than to hear your lovely voice ..." Crickets. "Anyway, I was just wondering ... Did you see there's a shooting competition at Quantico tomorrow?" She heard the hope and the hesitation in his voice, and she pre-empted his strike. "You signed me up." "Well ... " "Mulder, I have better things to do with my time than poke holes in paper men. You seem so excited about it, why aren't you doing it?" "Scully, you and I both know that some days I couldn't find the kill zone with six hands and klieg lights. Think of this as a chance to shine, to chalk up another one for the fairer sex, to pull one over on the old boys' network that is the FBI." "You bet on me, too." "Um. Yes." "Mulder! How much?" "Not ... too much ..." "Mulder." She used the tell-me-now-or-die-slowly-in-a-lot-of-pain voice. He tried to slur the words, slide it past her. "Senfiff. But it --" "SEVEN HUNDRED AND FIFTY DOLLARS? Mulder, are you *nuts*? Why? How?" There was a long silence. Scully just waited, letting him hang, mentally counting down from ten ... Three, two, one. "Okay, okay. You know I gave that lecture at Quantico today? Well, afterward some Blue Flamer was all puffed up about torching his classmates on the firing range earlier in the week. I asked him what his score was; it wasn't even close to your last qualifying score, and I said as much. "He said he didn't believe that anyone, much less a woman, could shoot with that much accuracy and speed. I told him you'd prove him wrong anytime, he asked if I'd care to bet on it, and before I knew it you were signed up and I had the better part of a grand invested." At the words "prove him wrong," neon lights and fireworks went off in a tiny, primitive part of Scully's brain, that small corner where she was a biker chick, a chain smoker and an eater of steaks cooked only medium rare. For just a moment, she entertained the vision of stuffing her target down that benighted rookie's throat, and she knew no one would enjoy the victory more than she. But ... but. "Let me get this straight. I not only have to defend *my* honor, but the honor of all women who can shoot a gun, all because you couldn't resist some infantile pissing match?" "I'm sorry, Scully." "No, you're not. Not really." She rubbed her forehead, the party girl warring with the practical woman. Did she really want to do this? What's in it, other than another day spent climbing the testosterone wall? Still, Mulder's faith in her, however backhanded, was gratifying ... and did she leave her shooter's goggles in the office, or were they in the lockbox on the top shelf in the closet? "You're going to be there, aren't you?" Mulder sounded worried, and Scully realized she hadn't said anything for quite a while. What the hell, she thought. All work and no play makes me a damned dull girl. And despite wanting a weekend sans her partner, she had to admit this sounded like fun. Oh, the burden of life with Mulder. "Yes, I'll be there. But when I win your bet, you better believe I'm getting half." -------------------------- Saturday 12:50 p.m. The sprawling FBI Academy at Quantico, Virginia, located on 385 wooded acres about an hour's drive south of D.C., has eight firing ranges, four skeet ranges and a 200-yard rifle range as well as the legendary Hogan's Alley, built as a practical, realistic way for agents to get experience without getting killed. There is also one indoor firing range, used for initial training of new recruits and ongoing practice for agents and other law enforcement officers. Five times a year, the FBI engages in a little friendly competition, a shooting contest intended to test accuracy and speed. Scully had been a spectator before, but never a contestant. She checked her watch. Ten minutes to go. She stacked her ammo and polished her goggles, starting to feel the way she always did before competing -- calm, purposeful, and more than a little invincible. -------------------- Mulder walked into the firing range observation room and elbowed his way to a spot at the window with Skinner on his left and Burson from Fingerprints on the right. "I see you're running right on time," Skinner said. "Better late than never," Mulder replied absently, eyes taking in the shooters' boxes from his perch above and to the left of the range. The fourth one looked empty; must be Scully. "Scully's number four," Skinner said. "Carlson's in three," the assistant director added. Mulder pretended he didn't see his boss' smirk. Either Carlson's mouth was bigger than Mulder thought, or the FBI rumor mill now had an executive division. "I've got five hundred on Pickering from White-Collar," Burson said. Skinner and Mulder turned to give him looks that doubted his sanity. Burson shrugged. "He's won the last three." Skinner and Mulder kept glancing at Burson with pity until someone in the back said, "Hey, they're starting," and then it seemed everybody in the room was squished up against the same pane of glass. Mulder, having trouble drawing a full breath, was very glad of two things: One, that he wasn't claustrophobic; and two, that most Americans shower daily. A horn went off, somewhat muffled in the observation booth, and an amber light flashed five times as the targets slid toward the far end of the room. A two-second pause, and then the light turned green. Showtime. ------------------------- Scully took a deep breath and steadied herself, and when the green light came on she raised her gun and the rest of the world simply fell away. She heard nothing, but her other senses were on red alert. She smelled sour mansweat and hot, oily metal. She tasted burnt cordite, powdery and bitter, as she breathed through a slightly open mouth. Her hands and fingertips caressed her SIG's cold, smooth steel as she aimed, took the slack out of the trigger and fired at the target, 15 feet away. Red circles and black gridlines on a white background were the only things she truly saw, and she emptied her first clip with 15 seconds to spare. As she reloaded, the target moved back 20 feet. Another clip gone, plenty of time before the buzzer. She even had time to appreciate the electronic sensor grid embedded in the target; apparently, they used to time each contestant with a stopwatch, but now the technology caught each shot and kept track to the hundredth of a second. One more clip left, this time at 60 feet. She had to wait a few seconds for the target to move into position, and her brain took the opportunity to note that if Mulder's gun was as fast as his mouth she might not have been in this position at all ... and then all she could think about was Mulder's mouth. She tried to concentrate, get her focus back, but flashes of him kept getting in the way ... Mulder's body, lean and lithe as he tilted back in his chair and reached for a file ... face earnest as he introduced a new case ... eyes bright as they argued over anything and everything ... She shook her head, but she couldn't shake the slide show until she thought of his broken finger at the hands of militia men in Arkansas and pictured his captors in the center ring. She barely emptied her gun before the final horn, and when her target came back to her she saw she had some catching up to do. ------------------------------ Upstairs, they had posted the scores, and Burson was sweating. "Jesus, who turned the heat on in here?" He paced the room, peeling off his windbreaker to reveal a faded blue T-shirt, thin and nearly soaked through with sweat. "It's the middle of April, for fuck's sake." Mulder was sprawled across an armchair, picking at the pills on its side. He glanced at Burson, then cringed. "Christ, put your clothes back on ... you're scaring the fish." He pointed at a small octagonal aquarium on a tabletop, where two goldfish were darting to and fro. Burson tied the jacket around his waist. "Fuck you, Mulder. You're the one who ought to be sweating ... your partner's in third. Told you Pickering was a safe bet." "Don't let her hear you say that, Burson. Hazardous to your health -- and your wallet," Mulder replied. He wasn't worried. He knew a few people might be quicker than her on the trigger, but when it came to accuracy she was peerless. He thought of her in her Weaver stance, compact frame taut and eyes totally focused on her target. He'd never tell her, but he called it her "dead" look; it was usually reserved for suspects and corpses, neither of which stood much of chance of escaping once she'd cornered them. It was also a complete and total turn-on. He decided to torture himself and watch the next round from the observation room behind the shooters. He stood, but one of Carlson's lackeys stopped him on the way to the door. "What's up with your partner?" he asked. "She looked like she had a serious case of the yips." "The yips? She's shooting a gun, not putting a golf ball." "Whatever. She totally froze for about ten seconds. I can't believe she still got all her shots off." Idiot, Mulder thought. "So, what's your point?" "Double or nothing." "You must be kidding. Or stupid." "I'm serious. There's no way she's gonna catch Carlson ... or Pickering, for that matter. She does, you get fifteen hundred. She doesn't, we get nothing but bragging rights." "You're on." And you're about to go down in flames, Mulder thought as he shook the flunky's hand and left the room, whistling. -------------------------------- Scully was headed for the water fountain, the cold one on the opposite side of the building, when the stair door opened and her partner appeared. "Scully, there you are," he said. As if she'd be anywhere else? Well, she heard Bora Bora wasn't bad this time of year. "Mulder," she replied, thinking he and Bora Bora would suit each other, especially when he looked like he did today. She took in his button-fly Levi's, and wondered if they felt as soft as they looked. She noted his unshaven jaw, and imagined the slight burn it would leave on her skin. She pushed the little silver button and bent to take a drink, and a jet of water smacked her in the face. Sputtering, she groped blindly for something, anything, and encountered his worn red T-shirt with the tear in the pocket and ragged hem. She heard him chuckling above her as she wiped her mouth. "Drinking problem, partner?" "Isolated shower." She pushed the button again, watching the trajectory this time, and safely slaked her thirst. She thought it was possible Mulder was watching her mouth as she pursed her lips and sipped, but she derailed that train of thought not long after it left the station. The last thing she needed was another distraction. She started back toward the firing range, and he followed. "What are you doing, Mulder?" "Going to watch the next round from down here." "Why?" He ran a hand through his hair, scratched his head a little. "Because the bet just went double or nothing, and I wanted to, oh, offer you some moral support?" Scully just shook her head. He deserved a smack of some sort, that much she knew, but she didn't know what she wanted to do more -- hit his grinning face, or kiss it. She figured a whap on the arm would do for now. She stood on tiptoe then, intending to whisper that it was better than a bee sting, but he turned his head to protest the thwapping and their mouths connected instead. Her whole body reacted to the contact, and the hallway suddenly felt as hot as Bora Bora. Eyes wide, she took a quick step back and tried to smile as she looked everywhere but at him and his smooth, soft, full, lickable, perfect lips. "Sorry, Mulder, I ... sorry." She scurried toward the door that led back to her gun, hoping to get out of his presence before he could say anything and make her more flustered than she was already. "Scully." She stopped dead in her tracks. God, where did he learn to make his voice sound like that, like he'd be buck naked, rock hard and in her bed in two seconds flat if only she were to ask? "Yeah?" And when did she learn to emulate a 1-900 operator? "Hold that thought. We'll finish it later." Lord, she hoped so. ------------------------- Fuckin' a, Mulder thought as he put in his ear plugs. We kissed. Sure, a third-graders-on-Valentine's-Day-at-recess kiss, but ... fuckin' a. He could hardly wait for the final buzzer. He just hoped Scully wasn't *too* distracted. At the moment, he was happy he remembered his own name. He watched her prepare for the accuracy round, and just as the light was about to turn green, she turned around and winked at him. He almost felt sorry for Pickering and Carlson. Almost. ------------------------------------ "So, Agent Carlson, want some shooting lessons later?" Mulder was gloating. Scully thought about telling him not to rub it in, but she had beaten Carlson's punk ass by a hundred and ten points. The way his neck flushed red in embarrassment was actually rather satisfying. Carlson, bending over a hall table to write a very large check, didn't answer, but even his checkbook was conspiring against him. He tussled with the perforation, and the slip of paper he ended up shoving at Mulder was missing a chunk of its upper right corner. Mulder held up the mutilated document for her inspection. She tsked. "So much for accuracy," he said, and tucked it into his wallet. "Y'know, Mulder, we ought to just get it framed instead of cashing it," she said. "Posterity and all that." "Really?" Carlson couldn't help asking, but as he looked from one partner to the other, his face fell as he seemed to sense he was about to get burned. They answered in unison. "Nah." Carlson opened his mouth, and probably would have put his foot in, but Pickering saved him by shouting down the hall. "Hey, Carlson, how's that humble pie?" The rookie did his impression of a thermometer again and stalked off in the opposite direction as Pickering approached, grinning. He'd ended up second by the narrow margin of twenty-six points, but Scully got the feeling he couldn't have cared less. "Yo, Mulder, we're going for a beer or twelve. Comin' with? I hear you've got enough to buy for the night." As he spoke he held out a hand to Mulder, but the handshake Scully expected to see turned into a strange gesture that could have been sign language with partners or maybe tribal signals, she wasn't sure. "Sorry, Carl. Some other time. I've got ... other plans," he said, tilting his head toward her, and the hallway got hot again. "Your loss." Pickering's smirk was not unkind. He held out his large palm to Scully, who was disappointed to get a firm handshake and nothing more. "That was some piece of shooting today, Agent Scully." "Thanks," she said, and smiled. "You, too." Pickering nodded. "See you on the court, milk," he told Mulder, and left to meet a long-necked man named Bud. They were alone. It was dead silent for about twenty seconds before he turned to her and said, using that voice again, "Meet you at your place. I'll pick up dinner on the way back into D.C." The phone sex operator was back. "Wouldn't miss it." ------------------------------------ Scully's apartment 6:30 p.m. Mulder was due any minute. Scully had been home for half an hour, during which time she had vacuumed, dusted and brushed her teeth. Twice. Flossed, too. Her razor was dull and a frantic search of the hall and bathroom closets didn't turn up the bag of new ones, so she made do. By the time she was done she'd nicked both her knees and her right ankle. Great. Now showers would sting for a week. She threw on jeans and a shirt and tried not to obsess about her hair. Then there was a knock on her door, and Mulder was in her apartment, and she didn't have time to worry about how she looked or what she would say because he was kissing her. Somehow he moved them into the kitchen, where both she and the bags of takeout were hoisted up onto the counter next to the sink. He stood with his legs between hers and kept right on kissing her. He tasted the way coffee and vanilla smelled, comforting and scrumptious. His hands crept around her waist, fingers daring to lift her top and tease the skin at the small of her back, and she shivered and broke away. She leaned her head against his chest, fists full of his T-shirt and mind empty of everything but the way he was making her feel. "Do you want to eat?" he asked from somewhere above her. "It'll keep." She should say yes, they should eat. She should welcome the chance to step back, take a moment, enter this new territory with a clear head. She really, really should. But he smelled so good and felt so solid ... maybe eating would just prolong the inevitable. And maybe just this once it wouldn't hurt her to do what she shouldn't. She took a deep breath and made her decision. "Want you." He inhaled sharply, then moved back a step and tilted her chin up. She lifted her eyes slowly, taking in his strong shoulders, fine neck and those lips before meeting his eyes. Her doubts vanished the instant she saw the intensity in his face; he was not taking this lightly, and the realization made her want him even more. "Scully, you were incredible today. You're incredible every day," he said, but before he'd finished speaking she was pulling him toward her for another kiss, wrapping her arms and legs around him. He groaned and picked her up by the waist, intending to carry her somewhere, but he listed to the left, losing his balance a little. He managed to aim his stumble so his back hit the wall and then his hands were cupping her ass and they kissed and dry humped until he got his equilibrium back and got them the rest of the way to the bedroom. They plopped onto the edge of the bed, him on top, and she discovered the tender spots on his jaw and behind his ears before he moved her to the middle of the bed, nipping lightly at her neck. She was about to say she was impressed with his balancing act when he obliterated any and all thought by pushing up her shirt, pulling down her bra and latching on to her left nipple. Her fingers tangled in his hair as he switched from one breast to the other. He flicked his tongue across the right nipple, then blew on it, making her arch her back in sublime pleasure. "Mulder!" she gasped, and he hummed and unhooked the clasp with one hand. He didn't take it off, though, just left it hanging open while he removed her jeans and socks. But he stayed standing at the side of the bed, and when he'd stood there for almost half a minute she raised herself up on her elbows to look at him. "Mulder? What is it?" He gave her an impish yet innocent look, the man letting his inner schoolboy shine through. "I might be getting old, Scully, but I'll never be too old to want to appreciate the female form, especially when it's as lovely as yours." She blushed, but her wits had returned. "I bet you say that to all the girls." He sobered then, and shook his head. "No. Only you." No one had ever looked at her like that, like she was goddess and princess, lover and porn star. It reawakened the party girl, powered up the latent adrenalin rush from winning the shooting contest, and sent her blood pounding through her veins. She felt wild, animalistic, feline, and she wanted to sink her teeth into his flesh, find some way to claim him, mark him as hers and hers alone. An idea popped into her head, a wicked, sexy, lusty fantasy of an idea, but she wasn't sure if she should be so bold the first time they made love. She tested the waters with a small, sultry smile, letting a hungry gaze linger on his crotch before meeting his eyes with a look that she hoped telegraphed her primal state of mind. Her heart leaped when his response was a gulp and a quirk of the lips that seemed ... nervous? "I --" he started, but his voice didn't seem to be working. He swallowed again. "I think I'm scared of what you're thinking, Scully," he said, and his words were all the encouragement she needed. "Don't think, Mulder." She cupped her left breast with one hand, slowly, rolling the nipple between her thumb and index finger, her confidence increasing when he couldn't maintain eye contact and his gaze locked on her chest. "Just watch," she whispered, and a giggle almost escaped her when his eyes widened as her right hand trailed down her stomach and underneath the waistband of her underwear. "You like to watch, don't you?" she prodded, and he took a ragged breath and jerked his head up and down, once. Satisfied she had his full attention, she closed her eyes to concentrate then, licking her lips as her fingertips toyed with the crisp, springy hair between her legs and traced the upper part of her labia before she applied more pressure and gently began to stroke her clit, sending little jolts of pleasure sparking all over her body. Above her, she could hear Mulder breathing faster, and she half-opened her eyes to watch him watching her with a rapt expression that might have been awe. The sight of him, combined with the practiced touch of her hand, sent her to another, higher level of arousal; senses whirling, unfettered, she let her legs fall farther open to his gaze. She moved her fingers in a circular motion, dipping down into her vagina to gather the slick wetness -- so wet! --and spread it over her clit. Her hips twitched, and she moaned as a surge of emotion swept over her. When she looked at him again, she saw the bulge in his jeans and the way his hands were opening and closing, right hand moving toward his fly and then away from it. Oh, sweet Christ, she thought. Did she have the balls to take this step? She was almost too turned on to spare the thought, but the image of him touching himself was too delicious, and it branded itself on her brain. The mental picture inspired one more pinch of her nipple, one more stroke of her clit, and then she knew she just had to see the real thing. "Go ahead, Mulder. Do it," she whispered. "Oh, God, Scully ... " He tore open his fly and took his cock out, throwing his head back as he started stroking the shaft but quickly returning his gaze to where her hand was still hidden by navy blue cotton. "Like what you see?" she asked, and he groaned. "Jesus, yes." His eyes flicked from her breasts to her face to her crotch. "Yes." She sat up then, and his hand fell away from his cock as her face, her mouth, got nearer. She took off her shirt and bra, then leaned so close to the tip she knew he could feel her breath on it. Was he gorgeous everywhere? She looked at his long, strong, smooth shaft and heavy balls nestled in dark, curly hair and answered her own question with a resounding yes. Big, but not too big -- perfect for him, and for her. Another glance up found him mesmerized, seemingly focused on nothing other than the proximity of her lips to his dick. She normally found it difficult to be the aggressor when it came to sex -- men talked about wanting a woman to take charge but got scared when confronted with the real deal -- however, she sensed with Mulder it was something offered freely, and the power came in accepting the gift. She reached out for the head with just the tip of her tongue, and at the first contact he jerked his hips away. She followed, though, and wrapped her lips around the first few inches. He hissed, but stayed still, and soon she'd established a steady rhythm with hand and mouth. His hands were clenching and relaxing again, and she could tell he was skating on the edge of control. She listened to his sounds of pleasure, learning that a hiss meant back off, a certain kind of "oh" meant speed up, another kind meant stay right there. She let her tongue and teeth play, loving the way he felt in her mouth, more than willing to deal with a sore jaw if he would just make that sound again -- oh, yes. He liked a swirl of the tongue on the way out, a tickle of his balls on the way in, some suction in the middle but not on the head. She savored his flavor and his scent, better than chocolate and just as yummy. She thought she was maybe five seconds shy of finding out what he looked like during an orgasm when he dug his fingers into her shoulders and removed himself from her mouth, panting like he'd just finished a marathon ... She'd seen that look before, and when it appeared there was only one thing a woman could do. She stood up, took off her panties, propped herself against the pillows and said something she'd always wanted to say at a time like this: "Mulder ... take me now or lose me forever." He made a sound that was something between a growl and a groan, and pounced like a starving panther on fresh meat. He entered her with one thrust, and like before he stopped to appreciate the moment. Scully couldn't recall the last time she'd felt so filled, literally and figuratively. Then he started to move, and she thanked God the heart was an involuntary muscle, keeping up its rhythm while the rest of her splintered apart. He brought her to the edge again and again, somehow knowing just when to stop, withdrawing completely before she could reach the peak. She tried to recapture control, desperate for the release, but every time she reached for him he grabbed her arms or her hands and drove into her until she shook and trembled and writhed beneath and above him, giving her no choice but to surrender. In the middle of things he gentled the pace but not the intensity, driving her out of her mind with slow strokes, soft kisses and gentle whispers and touches. He sent her flying with words more than actions that time, his impassioned voice inflaming her than any technique. She had never screamed, or whimpered, or begged during sex, but she did all that and more as pillows got squished, sheets got torn off and a lamp got knocked over. He took her from behind, and she held on to the headboard so hard she thought she'd break it. When she finally, finally erupted, all the stars in the universe seemed to go supernova in her head, but he waited until she could see again before letting himself go. She knew the look on his face when he came would stay with her forever. She'd seen him sick, grieving, near death and raving like a lunatic, but this was the first time she'd seen him out of his mind with happiness. He eyes slammed shut when it started, and his mouth opened in a silent shout of pure bliss, his hips driving deep, so deep into her, and then the best was over and he opened his eyes and showed her his soul. He had a few more tender kisses left, but then he went face-first into what remained of the bedcovers. She found a pillow and managed to shove it under his head. He slept like the dead from almost that moment, but Scully stayed awake for a little, stroking his hair and sifting through the events of a life-changing day as she, too, drifted off to sleep. ------------------- Scully's kitchen 3 a.m. "You know, Mulder, I'm not sure if I had multiple orgasms or if I had one unbelievable, drawn-out orgasm with a lot of peaks." She spread cream cheese on a bagel and topped it with lox, the food they had neglected earlier in favor of feasting on each other. Mulder spoke with his mouth full. "Either way, that was the kind of sex that curls the toes and breaks furniture." She nodded. Yes, indeedy. "Thankfully, my bed is made of solid oak and withstood the onslaught." She leaned over for a lox-flavored smooch. "We should check the slats later, though." "How about now?" he said. He didn't start out with a leer, but he ended with one. "Last one there loses," she said. Much, much later, she figured they'd both won. -- 30 -- =============================== feedback to justmoose@onebox.com thanks for playing in the sandbox with me Notes: Chocolate shakes with real whipped cream and lots of maraschino cherries to Livia and EPur, who kicked my ass in helpful ways, and to Punk, who saved my ass. I took liberties with the shooting range and other things, but Deep Background let me start off on the right foot. Lovely site, that is. Y'know, this was going to be nothing more than a smut biscuit, something in between some serious, longer stories I'm working on. But nooooo, I had to go find a plot and characters and dialogue and ... *stuff*. Sigh. So please don't hurt me because I made you wait for the good bits. Go home