This is dedicated to Dasha -- extraordinary friend and wonderful human being. She asked, I delivered. Merry Christmas. Think of this as you do the mounds of holiday fudge you'll be served this week: it's decadent and you know you shouldn't eat it, but the urge is overwhelming. Be warned. TAKEOFF By Alanna +++++ British Airways Flight 222 Washington-London She holds up two fingers. That's my cue. She rises gracefully from her seat, then walks to the small first-class washroom. I glance out the window as I wait. The Atlantic passes below the plane as the sun lowers over the horizon. It could be beautiful if I'd let it. Instead, I have more pressing matters to attend to. Like my erection, already growing in anticipation of Scully waiting for me. The plush seat is suddenly uncomfortable, and I shift in it, trying to tamp down the flow of blood for just a few moments, until I can meet her. A flight attendant passes by me, offering cocktails to the passengers. I shake my head slightly and she moves on. As she disappears down the aisle, I stand up and walk toward the washrooms. Maybe it hasn't been two minutes yet, but I need her. Now. First Class has its advantages. The washrooms are bigger and you don't feel like you're pissing in a vat of aluminum foil. Both of the rooms show "vacant", so I push open the door of the one on the right, hoping that it's the one she chose. It is. I push the door shut behind me and lock the latch, and the lights come on. She is already naked, fucking naked. Pardon the pun. Her hair is mussed in that wanton style which can make me hard just from one glimpse. Scully pushes me back against the toilet then throws herself against me, her hands scrabbling along my back, nails leaving marks. With one hand, I fumble with the fly of my jeans until my cock is free, caressed by cool, stale air and soon by her hands. We don't have enough space for me to go down on her, and I regret that for only a second until she pushes me to a seating position then lowers herself onto my cock with steel precision. God. She uses her strong thighs to create a rhythm; I'm barely capable of thinking, much less pistoning my hips up and down. My ears begin to pop, whether from the altitude or the incredible thrill of it all, I don't know. We don't have much time, and she needs to come. As her mouth latches onto the artery along my neck, I move my hand to her clit and straighten my fingers, so that I can rub against her every time she moves down. This will be over too soon, far too fucking soon, but I want it to last forever. I want to be inside her forever. I want to come inside her as the mindnumbing speed of the plane makes contact with the runway at Heathrow. But this quickie will have to do for now. Biting my lip to keep from screaming out my pleasure at my orgasm, I shoot into her at 500 miles an hour. She continues to move up and down on me, paying little mind to my quickly-flaccid cock. Somehow, I regain the presence of mind to keep rubbing her clit, and I force my eyes open. In the washroom mirror, I can see her back, muscles moving beneath burnished gold skin like rivers of fire. Then she tightens around me, her spine stiffening and her head lolling back in ecstasy. Through clenched teeth, she growls.... "ALEX!" Slowly she comes back to herself, descending in landing, her gear already lowering as she composes herself once again. I can only watch mutely as she scrambles for her clothes, pulling them on with consummate poise. I can't help but chuckle when she grabs a wad of toilet paper, stuffing it into her panties. Does she want to keep that part of me within her? And then she quickly inches out the door, leaving me stunned in her wake. I think I'm in love. This is not good. +++++ We land at Heathrow with a thud. Another advantage of First Class is that we get to leave the plane promptly; unfortunately, its benefits don't extend to Customs. We follow the arrows to "Non-EC Nationals" and wait impatiently for our turn at the desk. Finally, it's our turn and we present our passports. We display blue booklets for "Carrie and Chris Calloway", those being our chosen names for this journey. I bite back a laugh as the bored officer asks if we have anything to declare. If she only knew..... After examining our return tickets she waves us through, and we make our way through the corridors to leave Customs, Scully pulling a roller bag behind her while I carry a battered black leather duffel on my good shoulder. We finally emerge into the international arrivals terminal, and there he is, waiting for us. Mulder. He's holding up a hand-lettered sign proclaiming "Welcome, Carrie and Chris!", and I want to knock him senseless... if only he wasn't so goddamned, well, cute. He's wearing a white t-shirt, jeans, and leather jacket; God, two weeks away from me and he starts to turn into me. I glance down at my matching outfit with dismay. We look like one of those fucking elderly couples in Florida, except we wear butch leather-bar costumes instead of matching velour sweatsuits. Our saving grace is Scully, who, if she were with us in Florida, would give all those horny old men coronaries. We walk past one of those ubiquitous Body Shops and a Tie Rack on our way through the terminal; my mind flashes back to the last time the three of us were together. Ties were involved: a selection of Mulder's best, wrapped around my wrist and ankles as he sucked my cock and I ate her out, her perfect ass on my throat nearly cutting off my circulation. If they were the x-rated Moose and Squirrel, did that make me Boris or Natasha? Whatever. Mulder leads us to the taxi queue, but instead of one of the big black monstrosities, he snaps his fingers and a long black Mercedes limousine comes calling. God, I love that man's wealth. Makes the world much more pleasant. The chauffeur takes our bags and places them in the trunk -- or, I guess, here that would be "boot" -- then opens the door for us. Scully and I climb in as Mulder murmurs something to the driver. Then he walks around the limo and opens the opposite door, settling himself on the seat beside us. Huey, Dewey, and Louie, off on yet another wacky adventure. The push of one button raises the privacy window; that, coupled with the mirrored windows, hermetically seals us into a cocoon of privacy. I can feel the limo pull away from the kerb and set off toward London. I glance out the window and watch the airport disappear. The sound of cheesy British pop music fills the back of the limo, drowning out any errant sounds. And then the real trip begins. One small hand snakes around my neck, pulling me toward Scully's mouth. I'm sandwiched between them, Scully kissing the hell out of me on my right as Mulder lowers my fly on my left. The two of them can make me harder than a calculus problem just by being in a fifty-mile radius, but having them touching my skin is more than any sane (or insane, in my case) man can stand. Mulder's mouth is wet on my cock. Scully's mouth is wet in mine. Wetness everywhere. I'm drowning in it. I'm drowning in them. This is definitely not good. +++++ We have a room at the Ritz on Piccadilly in London. Top-notch, of course. Mulder has already spent several nights in the room and when we walk in, it already smells like him -- his dark leather smell mixing with the starch of the sheets. While this extravagance of Mulder's is certainly welcome, I almost wish we could be staying at one of those seedy B&Bs near Victoria Station, where the rooms are barely bigger than a closet and the full English breakfasts drip grease down my shirt. The seediness would seem more appropriate to our reason for being here and, indeed, our relationship than this elegance. We're closer to shabbiness than gilt. Or is that guilt? Whatever. I want nothing more than to fall into bed with the two of them and fuck them senseless, but we have business to which to attend. Well, if you can call what we're here to do "business". The word "busy" is certainly involved. I'm just not sure what the "ness" is. Maybe Loch Ness. Mulder does resemble a long-necked prehistoric waterbeast at times, and I mean that in the best of ways. Scully is on the phone before I know it. Ever the gentleman, I put her suitcase on the rack while she talks, unzipping the case and hanging up her blouses, lest they wrinkle. Rumpled clothing is one of her peeves, I've learned from experience. Nothing puts her in a worse mood than not looking pressed and put-together... unless the mess is a result from boneshaking sex. Maybe we'll get her rumpled by the time the night is through. She doesn't say much on the phone, the conversation apparently being one-sided. Mulder shucks off his shoes and disappears into the bathroom, and I can hear water running and teeth being brushed. I'm not sure whether I should be offended: does he really need to wash my taste out of his mouth? Then again, I've been guilty of the same thing before. I hope he goes down on me again soon -- the feel of minty breath on my cock is divine. I hear the phone being replaced in the cradle, then Scully turns to me. "We'll be meeting Yarborough at 5 AM tomorrow. He'll let us into the building. After that, we're on our own." I nod my understanding. She stands up and stretches. I can see the jetlag in every flexing of her muscles. It's early in the morning London time, but it feels unbearably late. I watch her shed her clothing, picking up each piece and taking it over to her suitcase. She puts her panties in a plastic bag she keeps to separate soiled from clean, then hangs up her blouse and slacks. Then, naked, she flops onto the bed, lying flat on her belly with her face turned to one side. "Backrub?" she asks, and though I can never do it properly, what with my one arm, the good woman has earned it. I climb back onto the bed and straddle her, her ass pressing into my groin in a not-unpleasant way. Clinique does wonders in making her face model-perfect, but it can't hide the freckles on her back. With one finger I play connect-the-dots, drawing maps on her skin. The map to her heart? Perhaps. Then again, I'm not sure I know the way. She's already provided a map to Mulder. I feel an insane surge of jealousy. But then, she has given me a map to her thighs, after all.... Not now, I tell myself. Just a backrub, that's all. My fingers continue to play along her back, which shakes with twitches and silent laughter. "Quit!" she murmurs, and I begin to apply more pressure, kneading her tired muscles, setting free her tension. One quiet moan from her and I'm gone. What could possess me to think that Scully would love me? What could possess me to think that Scully would love me, when she has Mulder? Sex, that's all it is to her. But that's not all it is to me. Damn. +++++ We wake, courtesy of the off-kilter ringing of a British phone, at the ungodly hour of midnight. Mulder's arms hold me close; Scully is curled into herself on the other side of the bed. She likes to sleep alone. Mulder needs the nocturnal comfort. He needs so much. Does she know everything he needs? Does he care that I do? That's me: Alexander "Third Wheel" Krycek. But back to the phone: I yank it out of its receiver and slam it back down, knowing that it's just the traditional wake-up call. I want to go back to sleep, but instead I drag myself out of Mulder's arms and into the shower before either of them can beat me to it. Some part of me knows that they'll end up taking one together. A lovers' tete-a-tete. Or cock-to-cunt. Something like that. I shower quickly then manage to towel-dry my hair with one hand. Drying the rest of my body is more difficult, but I've learned how to do it. The nubs of the towel rub over the end of the stump which used to be my left arm. Ah, the good old days. I feel phantom tingles as I dry it; the scar tissue has no real nerve endings, but I can still feel the sensation. When I emerge, still naked, I find them in bed, having curled into one another as I had just been with him. I want to begrudge them the closeness, but I force myself not to. Scully untangles herself from Mulder's arms -- both of them, yet another advantage he has over me -- and he follows her to the shower. I dress myself quickly then sit at the desk and open my documents portfolio, pretending to do some work. But instead I'm listening to them, trying to hear a moan or a sigh, some evidence that they're having a quick shower-fuck before we head out for some early morning skulduggery. Maybe my ears deceive me or maybe the shower is just too loud, but all I hear is water splashing and muffled thuds in the shower. When they finally emerge from the bathroom, he's naked but she's wrapped in one of those terrycloth hotel robes she loves. I've seen the collection she has back at her apartment; some people take home plastic snow globes as souvenirs -- Dana Scully takes home robes branded with hotel insignias. After a few minutes, we're all dressed in black, like teenaged goths back from a night of debauchery. Her hair dry now, Scully takes out a can of black temporary dyeing mousse and combs it through her hair. I asked her once why she doesn't just wear a cap to hide her hair. She responded that that was too easy. Scully likes it hard, pardon the pun. I put my portfolio into his briefcase, then fasten my Sig into a waist holster -- right side, of course. Mulder leads the way out of the hotel room, and Scully and I follow like disciples. Nobody'd ever mistake Mulder for Jesus, but he does have that ability to create devotion in his followers. Or maybe they all just want to jump his bones. Guess Jesus never had that problem -- or if he did, the Bible sure as hell covered it up well. We go down in the elevator -- no, not THAT way -- and emerge into the underground car park. Scully and I follow Mulder to "Yet another fucking Taurus," he growls, but he doesn't seem particularly upset. Actually, it's a Ford Mondeo, which is the European version of the ubiquitous Bucar. Scully rides shotgun (how appropriate) and I stretch out in the backseat. I'm the only one who knows the way to where we're going, so technically, I should be the one up front, but I prefer my space. Mulder navigates himself out of town just fine on his own, and soon we're on the M4 to Somerset. Here we go. +++++ Drives along the motorway give a person plenty of opportunity to think. The problem is, I don't want to think. I want to just exist. I want to pretend that the three of us can just keep driving until we fall off the edge of the earth then are somewhere where only the three of us exist and I can love Mulder, I can love Scully, and both of them can love me in return. Where I'm not sidelined at the expense of the overpowering devotion they have to one another. God, book me a personal appearance on Oprah. European motorways are a class unto themselves. Driving along them, you can believe that you and the other cars are the only humans alive. Cities and towns are distant, marked by dizzying roundabouts. Somewhere on the other side of Reading, I notice a sign for one of those big truck stop-esque centers the government operates. Ah, Europe. Scully announces that we have to stop, so Mulder expertly navigates the car up the ramp and into the center. I keep forgetting he's lived here before. The only part of the station open at 3 AM is the gas (oops, petrol) station. Mulder begins to fuel up the car, as Scully escapes into the women's bathroom. For a brief second I entertain the thought of following her inside, but instead go into the men's room. One-handed pissing is a joke, but I've learned to cope. I take care of business then fumble with my dick, managing to ensconce it back within my black jeans. When I emerge, Scully is once again near-unconscious in the front seat. It takes me a second to realize that she's in the driver's seat. Damned British cars -- they do everything backward. We're once again on the road, with Mulder in the backseat next to me. He pushes up the front passenger seat to give himself some legroom, then opens the briefcase and begins spreading out the documents. We found out a few weeks ago that the dearly-departed John Waltingham, 7th Earl of Parkington, was keeping a cache of documentation relating to The Project at his estate in Somerset. And, surprisingly enough, the security wasn't especially strong. In other words, they were pretty much ours for the taking. Now, two years ago I would have gotten the damn files on my own then taunted Mulder with their existence. But that was before the Organization decided I was expendable but not worth the effort of knocking me off. But that was before I fell in love with Mulder. Life was so damned much simpler then. God, I sound like a maudlin drunk. I shift in my seat and look at Mulder. Of course he'd sit on my left, which meant that I practically had to sit with my back to the window to be able to reach anything on his lap. Including his cock. But then, this isn't the time for that. Maybe later. We start going over the plans. Go in, get the documents, leave. Pretty damned simple. Fire our way out if necessary. Get the hell out of England. When I first came to Mulder with the information, he asked what I thought they would do if they found out we had the information -- as if I know what the hell the organization is up to these days. I told him that they probably would be pissed off beyond all belief. But the truth is, they probably wouldn't be overly threatened. The only real threat Mulder and Scully pose to them is exposure, and at this point, they figure that nobody would really believe Mulder, anyway. His reputation is too far gone. Which makes him all the more attractive to me, but that's another story. And one which shall have to wait, as we're nearing the exit we need to take to get to the facility. +++++ END (1/3) (Elizabeth says to keep reading, that it all makes sense in part 3 ) Takeoff (2/3) emmalanna@aol.communique +++++ Alex Krycek is a lying, murdering bastard. Yes, I know that much. But God, he's good in bed. Dana Katherine Scully, welcome to your crisis of conscience. Then again, sometimes I think that I lost my conscience a long time ago. I hardly knew him until recently -- every time I'd been in contact with him, it had been with Mulder nearby. Those two gave off more sparks than a backfiring engine. I admit having lain awake some nights, imagining the two of them fucking one another senseless. Two beautiful men caught in the throes of passion: what an image to fall asleep to. And now I have the reality of it whenever I choose. Hell, I can join in. I hated him for what he'd done to me, what he'd done to Mulder. But the scary thing is that when he told me that he hadn't done those things -- have me abducted, murder Mulder's father and my sister, and so on and so on and scooby dooby doobie -- I believed him. God, am I fucked up that much? Then again, he gave me something Mulder can never seem to do: proof. Pages upon pages of forensics documents and even videotape showing his innocence. I can't deny the evidence, and it seemed authentic. I asked him once why he did it. His glance at Mulder was my answer. He loved Mulder. I loved Mulder. It was a regular fucking party. "But why show it to me?" I asked him. He looked away. "Mulder loves you." Okay, he had a point. The man is really quite pathetic, but in a strangely endearing way. And he's damn good in bed. He fucked me that same night. And it was good. It was very good. Two nights later, Mulder joined us. I watched them, horny as all get-out, until they asked me to join them. Aside from a three-way with a girlfriend and boyfriend back in college, I'd never done that sort of thing before. But, given the complete unreality my life has become of late, why not add a little more? God, it was good. Like the adage goes, once you've had sex with Mulder and Krycek together, you'll never want to fly solo again. But I'm digressing in a big way. So here we are, "Huey, Dewey, and Louie" as Krycek calls us, on our way to raise some hell. My turn to drive, and I put the pedal to the proverbial metal. I hear the two of them talking in the backseat, and glance in the rearview mirror. Mulder's pouring over documents, and Krycek is staring at him with a dumb look on his face. The boy's got it bad. I'd feel threatened if I didn't know that Mulder loves me and sees Krycek as an amusing plaything. I take the designated exit and somehow manage to navigate the roundabout in the darkness. We're running a little late and I cross my fingers that no cops will see fit to pull us over on the way. The last thing I need is a British speeding ticket. They're quiet now in the backseat. I glance in the mirror again and see Mulder adjusting his waist holster while Krycek stares out the window. I hear Krycek breathing in a long, very sexual way, and wonder if Mulder notices. Fortunately, the directions Ian gave us were quite precise. He directed us to a location not too far off the motorway. I'm surprised to see that what he referred to as a "facility" is actually a goddamned estate. Looks like something out of one of those British movies I feel guilty about loving. I pull the car down a dirt side road, per his instructions, and kill the lights. In the darkness I allow myself a quick fantasy about being lady of the manor. We park behind some trees and, like a forest gnome, Ian appears. He doesn't look like I expected: first, he seems to be mixed Indian-Anglo. Second, he seems to have adopted "scruffy chic". Longish black hair and a half-tended goatee mixed with impeccable slate grey shirt and pressed slacks. And Doc Martens. But the Brit accent is there as he verifies our identities then motions for us to follow him. We follow him to the stables. How appropriate: the means to the Truth housed with the horses. And then it all falls to hell. +++++ My body is slowly disassembling itself, cell by cell. I haven't felt this shitty since chemo. I inhale and end up breathing in a mouthful of hay. The stables. I'm lying -- bound, I discover as I try to move my arms and legs -- on the floor of the fucking stables. Warm breath scurries along my neck and my first thought is that it's one of the horses, but I manage to turn my head and it's only Mulder. "Only Mulder", Scully? Damn, when did he become "only" anything? At least he's here. I glance around the stable and don't see Krycek. I feel a pang of guilt that I don't really care. My second thought is that the bastard set us up. Just as I'm summoning up rage while I struggle with my bonds, I see him, passed out in the corner. And then I utter that time-honored phrase: "We've been set up." At least Krycek is here with us -- lessens the chances that he's to blame. I find that a relief, in a strange sort of way. No windows in this stall, just hay. Lots and lots of hay. I'm embarrassed to admit it's a turn-on. My mind flutters with images of making the wild beast with two men in the home of the animals, but not now. I may be rather kinky, but I'm not an exhibitionist. None of us say a word, lest we be overheard. And it's too dark in here for decent eye-contact. So we just sit and wait. And wait. And wait. Finally, Ian joins the party. He throws on a light and I slam my eyelids shut, giving my eyes a chance to adjust. When I re-open them, Ian's still standing there, watching us. "I'm sure you've figured out by now that you're not going to get anything today." I bite back a sarcastic retort. He turns to face Krycek. "Remember me, Alex?" Krycek stares him down. Ian continues. "Said I gave head better than anyone else you'd ever had. Remember?" Krycek spits at him. He looks almost... scared. As I'm processing that information, Ian chuckles. "That's right -- you don't swallow. You spit. Right, Fox?" "Go to hell," are Mulder's first words. Ian doesn't seem perturbed in the least. "I'll give you two options, Alex: You can stay here with the horses until I kill you all, or..." his voice draws out the word, "You can go down on the two of them. I want to watch. For old times' sake, of course." Krycek's voice is a growl. "Fuck you." That earns us a fully belly laugh from Ian. "No, fuck THEM." He glances around the stall. "I'll leave you three alone to make your decision." With that, he's gone. I crawl over to a corner of the stall and vomit, without the luxury of Mulder holding back my hair. How are we going to get our way out of this, Huey? After recovering my composure, I sit up and look at Krycek. He's just sitting there, hands still bound and a glazed expression on his face. Nice, Alex. Good time to space out on us. But Mulder is still alert. He crawls over and sits next to me. We undo one another's bonds, then work on Krycek's. "This is beyond fucking ridiculous." I'm not sure which one of us says it, but we certainly both think it. Finally, Mulder speaks. "So, we get a little degradation with our morning coffee?" "I can't do it." He turns to look at me. "And you'd rather die?" He has a point. All I can say is "Shit." Once upon a time, I wouldn't have second-guessed this decision. But now... now the situation has a certain sort of appeal. God, I'm so far gone a thousand Hail Mary's won't absolve me. Just then, Krycek sits up a little straighter. He crawls over and whispers in my ear. Two words: "ankle holster." I knew the man was good for something beyond sex. The plan is set with pointed glances and non-verbal communication. Then, for the benefit of Ian -- provided he's listening in -- I say, "I'll do it. I'll let you go down on me. The bastard can watch." I swear I can hear a phantom chuckling outside the stall. A few moments later we hear footsteps beyond the door and latches being undone. Krycek takes advantage of being hidden behind the door to draw his weapon. As Ian steps through the door, Krycek fires two shots, both hitting Ian point-blank in the chest. The man's weapon falls to the ground, laying on blanket of straw. I struggle to my feet while Mulder fumbles through Ian's pockets, locating two sets of keys: one for our car and the other apparently for the stable gates. A pool of blood covers the hay as Ian's dead eyes stare up at us with glassy brilliance. We emerge into the main part of the stables and look around. Aside from a dozen very spooked horses, the place appears deserted. Mulder goes over to the main gates and throws the latches to lock them, which won't provide us much protection from interlopers, but it's a start. I open the very rustic-looking door marked "office" as Krycek covers my back. Good Lord. Inside is a high-tech facility, all steel and safety glass, with several computers. Everything appears to be locked, so I do what I have to do: shoot the locks off. They come with a satisfying pop. I'm too busy to contemplate the sexual overtones of that. Time is scarce, lest any of Ian's friends come calling, so the three of us grab everything we can and then haul ass out to our car. We're back on the M4 toward London before any of us dare stop holding our breath. Finally, I hear a laugh in the back seat. It starts low but graduates in strength until it reverberates the air in the car. Krycek and I merely stare at one another with annoyance. We let Mulder laugh himself out then, several minutes later, my beloved asks, "Krycek, would you have done it?" I look at Krycek, waiting for his answer. He's silent for several moments, then says, "Not in front of motherfucking Ian. But yeah, I'd go down on the two of you anytime, anywhere." The answer's good enough for me. I steer the car and count the miles back to London, as my inner thighs get wetter and wetter. +++++ The lift at the Ritz takes forever as we ascend to the eighth floor. I'm not sure I've ever been this jumpy in my life. Behind me, Mulder and Krycek occupy opposite sides of the elevator, each of us keeping our distance until we're in our room. I need this too much for my sanity. Finally, FINALLY, the elevator doors open on our floor, and I fumble in my pockets for the key. When we reach the door, I stab the key into the lock, forcing it until it gives way. Then we're inside. I pull Mulder into my arms and kiss the living hell out of him while Krycek locks the door behind us. My tongue scrambles around his mouth, searching for him within. I need him inside me. Now. Lest we forget him, Krycek comes up behind me and puts his good arm around me, fumbling to feel my breast. I pull away from Mulder slightly to give Krycek access, then gasp into Mulder's mouth as Krycek begins kneading my breast with his hand, his mouth biting at the skin above my collar. The sensations are intense, so intense, and I can barely stay upright, wedged between these two men. As if sensing this, Krycek backs away from me and tugs on my shoulder, pulling the three of us over to the bed. I undress and scramble over to it, then lay on my back, watching the two of them quickly shed their clothes, not bothering with the seduction of undressing one another. Then the two of them stand naked before me, one tall and dark and bronze, the other gorgeously asymmetrical with pale skin taking on a violet sheen with desire. And I'm a statue, shaking with desire, waiting for them. Mulder climbs up on to the bed, crouching next to my waist. His hands quickly cover my breasts, kneading them and kissing me to distraction. I pull him as close as physics will allow. At the end of the bed, Krycek parts my legs and his mouth is immediately on me, eating me everywhere as he had promised. Oh. GOD. I'm dying. I'm drowning. I cease to exist on the physical plane and become a creature of lust and thinly-stretched nerves. I think I'm flying. With a shaking hand, I grope for Mulder's cock, running my fingernails up and down it until Mulder groans in my mouth. Everything we're doing defies physical logic, convention. It becomes an orgy of sensation. And still, Krycek is licking at me, thrusting his tongue into me and panting onto my clit with harsh breaths. I come with a shudder, a scream into Mulder's mouth. He pulls away from me and grins, teeth clenched as my trembling hands continue to work at his cock. It's all too much sensation. Mulder crawls away and I sit up, trying to regain some control over my body. As I'm gasping for breath, the two men come together, kissing hungrily. The sight is enough to make my cunt twitch again. God, those two are beautiful, and even more beautiful together. Mulder breaks away from the kiss then moves to where Krycek had just been, thrusting with one long motion into me. I clench around him, my hands scrabbling at the sheets, grabbing them with a white-knuckled grip. As he begins a rhythm, Krycek crawls up beside me and I tilt my head until my face is inches away from his cock. I've never been able to come through simple penetration, which should give me the presence of mind to go down on Krycek. The man sits back on his haunches and I shift until I'm able to take him inside my mouth. He jerks backward as I do, and I almost lose my grip. Instinctively, my teeth bite down on him and he lets out a strangled scream. I open my mouth to release the pressure, but he growls, "No!" and so I bite down again, with less strength this time. He convulses within my mouth. This could be over far too soon, so I ease up, using my tongue instead of my teeth. And then I begin a rhythm to match the one Mulder has started between my legs. The three of us are like a trio of drums, pounding out beats and thrums. Mulder brings one hand up to my clit and begins to rub, and my legs tighten around his hips. I'm momentarily distracted from giving head to Krycek, but I force myself to concentrate. Concentrate. My tongue traces Krycek's cock and I bring my hand up to grope at his balls. He begins to jerk frantically, thrusting into my mouth until I have to pull back a bit, lest he choke me. This is not a way I want to die, though it's one of the more pleasurable ones I can imagine. Mulder continues to thrust and I rocket closer and closer to climax. The three of us coming at once has never happened, nor is it going to happen this time. Krycek's motions build and build until he stills inside my mouth, finally filling it with his bitter, salty semen. Before I have a chance to swallow, he shakily pulls out of my mouth then leans down to kiss me. His mouth is open and I run my tongue inside it, spreading his seed along his tongue, his teeth. The sensation is extraordinarily erotic. But Mulder won't let us forget him, and his thrusts gain intensity along with his fingers on my clit. I'm still kissing the hell out of Krycek as Mulder comes inside me, bathing me with his own come. His balls slap against my thighs as he does, his hand pressing against my clit until I'm overcome too. I bite Krycek's tongue in my ecstasy. Our climaxes are all teeth and tongues and jerks. We live within an electrical storm as we slowly return to ourselves. Mulder crawls up the bed until he's lying against my back, pulling me close. Krycek gives me one last kiss then collapses in exhaustion on the other side of me. And though I prefer to sleep alone, without arms around me, I let them hold me close as we stare up at the ceiling, coming back down from the amazement of it all, our blood raining down on us from the storm. +++++ END (2/3) Takeoff (3/3) emmalanna@aol.communique +++++ If you had asked me a year ago whether I would ever be naked in a bed with Alex Krycek and Dana Scully, I would have laughed in your face, then kicked your ass. Okay, I always knew that I'd end up in Scully's bed one day. I'd been waiting for it. And when we did make love, it was amazing. It was lovemaking, in every sense of the word. I'd found the person I'd spend the rest of my life with, and I still feel that way. But Krycek? The thought was reprehensible to me... until it happened. I'm able to separate the way I feel about him from the way I feel about Scully. I love her. I love her with a passion I'd never felt for anyone or anything. I still do. Our relationship with Krycek is all about sex. And power, in a way. The fact that I now own him and can bend him to my will is an incredible aphrodisiac. No matter what he might have done in the past, he is mine now. He won't grow old with Scully and me -- in fact, I have no idea just how long he will be on our side -- but the here and now is exhilarating. The two of them are already asleep. I can hear their breathing deepen, and I wonder just what they're dreaming. I know that I won't sleep tonight, not after everything that has happened. All I can do is lie awake, and think. I untangle my arms from around Scully and get out of bed. First, I pick up the phone and arrange for a 6 AM wake-up call, so that we'll have enough time to get to the airport before our flight tomorrow morning. Then, I go into the bathroom and take a long, long piss. After emptying my bladder, I pull on some jeans and then look at myself in the mirror. Who am I? Am I bisexual? I never really thought of myself that way. That implies a certain delineation of sexuality, whereas I've always been attracted to the person, not the gender. I've slept with a few men in my day, though it was always just a physical thing. I forge emotional attachments to women, and tend to like the sex much better. Even when I'm with men, I don't generally do the typical male/male thing: I'll go down on a man but haven't had a penis up my ass. Have no real desire to do so, either. Maybe that does make me bisexual. Whatever. But as I look at myself in the mirror, I know that even though I just had some incredible sex with a woman and a man, my heart belongs to Scully. God, it sounds ridiculously sappy, but it's true. I run my fingers through my hair and brush my teeth, then pull on a shirt and my jacket. I leave the bathroom and then look at the two of them. Even in sleep, Scully seems to realize that I'm not there, and she has pulled away from Krycek's embrace. I'm the only person she will let hold her close while she sleeps, and that thought always warms me. I need to get out of the room -- get some fresh air and clear my head. I grab the room key then quietly let myself out of the room. I take the elevator down to the lobby then walk through it to the front door. It's already early evening and the city is still alive. I start to walk down Piccadilly, looking at the cars passing by and the people walking with singleminded haste down the sidewalk. People here in London don't stop, don't dawdle. They have a purpose. But I dawdle a bit, taking my time as I walk up the road to the Circus. Though it's early December, the holiday windows have already been lit. Fortnum and Mason is featuring Eastern fairy tales this year, and I stop in front of a window with a scene of Scherezade and her tales. I imagine Scully this way -- holding court as she spins a thousand stories. She has always been such a regal woman. A smaller window next to it features a selection of the food gift baskets the store is famous for. I can see Scully in each one of them. Looking to my left, I see that the store is still open, so I go inside and browse the baskets. I make my way to the gift selection and choose one for her, the teas, biscuits and jams wrapped inside a hamper of gold and burgundy. It seems to have Scully's name on it. I pull out my credit card and pay for it, then arrange for it to be shipped to Scully's home. As I leave the store, I realize that even if I were inclined to buy a gift for Krycek, I have no idea what he'd like. He is a mystery to me. He will probably always be one. I continue to walk, seduced by the bright lights of Piccadilly Circus before me. Though the streets feel chaotic, I feel a strange sense of peace. Maybe it's because I just got an incredible lay from the woman I love. Maybe it's because I know that if I go back to the hotel and wake them up, either one of them would be more than willing to give me the blow job of my life. Who knows? Sexual satisfaction will do that to a man. But I also feel like I'm standing at the curb of my life. I can either step off it into the mass of speeding cars, throwing myself to the winds, or I can turn away from it and walk along the same eased path. Which do I want? Do I give up Krycek? Do I tell him that, as amazing as it has been, it has to end? That I have to give myself wholly to Scully without his distraction -- then face the consequences, no matter how infuriated he might be? Or do I continue in this life, with the exhiliration and danger... and unease... it provides? I turn around and walk back to the hotel. +++++ END. Please send feedback -- flames and raves -- to emmalanna@aol.com ;) AUTHOR'S NOTES: I asked Dasha what she wanted for Christmas and she asked for some hot 3-way. Well, who am I to deny the Divine Miss D? The request seemed really tough to write... until I sat down and got started. Then it took on a life of its own. I'm not sure I've felt in ages the exhiliration I felt while writing this. As the others who have seen this -- Kirsten, Khyber, and Liz -- said, "It's twisted. It's really really EVIL!" And it is. I make no apologies for that. I know we'll never see this situation (or really, these characterizations) on the show, but they worked very well for the story I chose to write... and damn, it was fun to write. If you didn't like it, no problem. I completely understand. If you feel the need to tell me so, go right ahead! Just please explain yourself -- don't just send e-mail telling me to go to hell, okay? :) And for those appalled at the whole situation.... .... next on tap is a nice, semi-mushy MSR case file. Hopefully that will cleanse everyone's palate . Happy holidays, alanna +++++alannabaker+++++ http://alanna.net -- now with a festive flair! "safe in the wide open arms of hell" --crowded house.