From: Mirax327 Date: 06 Aug 1999 04:20:16 GMT Subject: NEW: "One-Ninety Proof" by Jennifer Scott. NC-17 "One-Ninety Proof" by Jennifer Scott Mirax327@aol.com Rating: NC-17 Classification: VRA Keywords: M/S, Mulder POV Spoilers: None Feedback: Well, I'm too proud to beg. Aw, hell, who am I kidding? PleasePleasePleasePleasePlease!!! Archive: Gossamer, Ephemeral, yes. Anywhere else, if my name is attatched, nothing is changed, and you ask-- I'll say yes, I just want to visit! Summary: Does the hair of the dog that bit you REALLY work to cure a hangover? The morning after.... Disclaimer: THEY'RE ALL MINE!!! MUAHAHAHAHA!!! {CC's lawyers and MIB run in, brandishing court orders and guns} "Thus we see the violence inherent in the system! Thus we see the violence inherent in the system! Help, help! I'm being repressed!" Author's notes at end. X~X~X~X~X Sweet fucking Christ, what have I done? I wake up, and I'm not sure which fact I am more keenly aware of: that my chest and cock are pleasantly warmed from being pressed into the curves I'm wrapped around, or that Scully has hogged the covers, leaving me with my ass in the wet spot. Just to check, I open my eyes and peer under the small corner of blankets I am left with. Yes, my first instincts were correct in that-- A. That *is* Scully I'm wrapped around, B. We *are* both as naked as the day we were born, and C. That *is* one raging hard-on I'm sporting. Feeling my flesh pucker in the frigid breath of the air conditioner, I do what any sensible man would do, in my dangerous position: jump out of Scully's bed and race for the bathroom. Once I'm inside the bathroom, I quietly shut the door, hoping Scully won't wake up. I consider locking it, but something tells me that Miss Manners would disapprove of locking your partner out of her own bathroom just after you've fucked her silly. Scully might have a few choice words to say on the subject too. Oh, God, I'm gonna catch hell for this. I don't even want to think about the possible repurcussions at work from what we did-- I've got plenty to worry about on the issue of Scully's reaction. I mean, sure, she SEEMED willing enough when I was suckling her like a starving newborn, but I think once she wakes up and gets her clothes back on, she'll reconsider. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is precisely why I suddenly feel a migraine coming on. I respect Scully far too much to even consider any kind of half- assed relationship with her. I would say that she deserves better than me, but since I logically know that she has the right to make her own choices, I'll settle on 'She deserves better than that from me.' And I'm not exactly the candlelight and romance kind of guy, if you know what I mean. Scully should have the best of everything, and I'm afraid that I just don't fall into that category, as much as I might like to. So I have to figure out what happens now. I guess that's why I feel like the worst part of hell. All hail Fox Mulder, King of the Suffering Bastards. The King can't quite seem to bear to see his own reflection in the mirror, so I plant my ass (My BARE ass, I notice as I hit cold porcelain... Why couldn't I have stopped for a pair of boxers?) on my Throne. I begin to mull over exactly what hurts, when I come to the sudden realization that I feel hung over. Scully is the most potent alcohol there is, and I guess this is the universe's not-so-subtle hint that I've had too much of her. For some bizarre reason, the almost painfully-trite Scully-as- alchohol metaphor amuses me to no end, so I begin to ponder it further. She is absinthe-- the forbidden. She is the richness of full- bodied wine. She is as smooth as exorbitantly priced cognac, older than I am. As intoxicating as sherry. As soothing as a nightcap. As strong as rotgut whiskey. And if the way I'm anticipating feeling is any evidence, she burns like tequila on the way down. So, what are the symptoms of The Morning After Hangover? My mind promptly hits upon possibilities. Dehydration. Alcohol (The kind from a bottle, not the one sleeping in the next room over) purges most of the fluids from your system, tampering with electrolyte levels. I almost snort. There was so much exchanging of bodily fluids going on in there, that we both lost track of whose sweat was whose, whose sex, whose tears. Headache. Booze anaesthetizes the brain's inhibitory and motor centers, increases cardiac output, raises blood pressure, and causes the brain to swell. Not the best way to wake up bright eyed and bushy tailed. I think I already mentioned the migraine coming on. Well, those inhibitory centers definitely suffered complete meltdown, even if, from Scully's responses, motor functions were still functioning fine. More than fine, if I think back on it. My cock, which had begun to settle down after being separated from Scully, agrees, springing back to life at the memory. Fatigue. Any party animal, one poor Fox included, knows all too well this morning that over-indulgence is a sure-fire way to wake up to a miserably sore body. Check. Next? Nausea. Alcohol increases stomach acidity, leading to irritation and vomiting. I consider that. Huh. What do you know? I don't have that one. Maybe I'll have some more luck when I talk to Scully about-- I imagine Scully's possible reactions when I announce that this can never happen again; they range from silently suffering stoicism to vengeful rolls in the hay with someone else-- and his face kept changing. Skinner, Krycek, Pendrell, Frohike. Next thing I know, The King has been de-throned, and I'm on the floor, kneeling at the porcelain altar as I suffer wave after wave of dry heaves. I suppose I deserved that. As soon as I let that particular nugget of self-deprecation slip forth, I stumble across the final symptom of The Hangover, but even I'm not sure whether I'm referring to consuming too much alcohol, or too much Scully. Though it might be last, it'd make you feel bad if you called it least: Guilt. Whether because of actions while inebriated or the very fact that one succumbed, remorse almost always follows drinking binges. Didn't John Keats write, "Wine is only sweet to happy men"? That fits both sides of my painfully extended metaphor a bit too well for comfort. I suppose this is the cue for the proverbial "I'll-never-drink- again" declaration, one of the most pitiful demonstrations of bullshit in all of human behavior. I need help. Quick. I want this pain to stop. The part of my brain that's only good for esoteric trivia supplies that the symptoms of hangover are usually most severe once all the ethanol has been cleared from the body. Fuck. I spit out my bile-tasting saliva, rise from my undignified crouch in front of the toilet, and flush. As I step into Scully's shower, I muse that I feel so dirty. Even though I'm covered in the evidence of our indiscretion, I suspect that my disgust with myself is more indicative of what I'm preparing myself to do, than with what we already did. I turn the water to as hot as it will go, close my eyes, and lean against the wall under the shower-head, letting it spout white-hot needles of strength against my neck. So much for courage in a bottle. Now, try: courage in pain receptors. Maybe I should bottle it. Coming soon to a grocer's aisle near you. Since my self-punishment doesn't seem to be working very well, I turn the knob, bringing the water temperature down to a more reasonable level. Opening my mouth, with my eyes still closed, I let the water sluice between my lips, rinsing away the taste of bile. I feel a slight draft of cool air, and realize that I must have left a gap in the shower curtain. Flailingly, I reach out my hand to bat it closed. Imagine my surprise when the venturing hand lands squarely on a warm, full breast. When I open my eyes, I am momentarily blinded by the rivulets of warm water coursing into my face. Yet, I still know it's her. //Well, it is HER bathroom, you moron. Who else is it going to be? The milkman?\\ After I finally am able to see again, having stepped forward, out from under the spray of water-- though dangerously close to her tantalizingly naked body-- I see her standing before me, arms at her sides, eyes boring into mine. "I heard you in here," she says, "And was wondering if I could join you?" I gaze stupidly down at her. "It is your bathroom." "Why, what do you know? It sure it." She smiles, and the blood re-routes to south of my stomach. "I guess that means I can be in here if I damn well want to, then, doesn't it?" She picks up a washcloth from the ridge where it lay, and works the soap into a lather. I'm still staring down at her like I'm not quite sure what to do with her. Which is true, but still... "Yeah, Scully, I guess it does." "Good." She looks up at me and winks. "Because I don't think I would have left, anyway." Then, her hands are on my body, softly washing me, and my physical self betrays any good-intentions I might have had. My pulse quickens, my skin flushes, and I don't even have to look down to tell that my cock is now impossibly hard-- as it is, it's pleading for attention all on its own. I drop my chin to my chest and open my mouth to tell her that we can't be doing this, that it won't work, that it can't happen, that it's not right, but, already standing perilously close to me, she chooses that instant to look up and kiss me. Wouldn't you know it, but my mouth is already open, so it's almost painfully easy for her to slip her tongue between my teeth. And it's more right than anything else I can think of, even if the list of priorities on my mind is obscenely short. I try to summon the words that will make her understand, but I am sex-stupid, drunk as sure as if I had just downed three fingers of scotch... for the ninth or tenth time. What did I say about the "I'll- never-drink-again" declaration being a pitiful demonstration of bullshit? I press the length of my body up against hers, and suddenly realize just how easy it would be to stop trying to fight this. As we stand under the jets of water, the friction between our bodies proves so intensely pleasurable that I almost lose control at the sensation. Before I'm completely lost to her, I try to summon up ways to cure myself of the Scully Hangover. The only infallible way is time, and abstaining from alcohol. Nope, Sorry, I think, as I turn, pinning Scully against the wall of the shower. Not gonna work. Next? She only responds by making a little whimpering noise that really turns me on, and wrapping her arms tighter around my neck. An old Chinese remedy-- I recall, as she captures my earlobe in her mouth, biting down gently-- is to pinch the earlobes tightly between the thumb and forefinger. It's supposed to energize the mind. Well, that's not my mind being energized. I slowly rock my hips, pressing my cock into her soft belly, and with a gentle hand and slightly spread legs, Scully invites me into her body. I lower my hands from where they have been teasing at her nipples. Grasping her tightly by the waist, I slide her further up along the wall, holding her in place with my own body. She sighs as I push into her, and I press light kisses across her forehead. With quickly failing logic, I ruminate that the hair-- //Yes, she has wonderful hair, doesn't she?\\ I nuzzle into her hairline, and trail kisses down to the nape of her neck. Focus! --that the hair of the dog that bit you is supposed to be one cure for a hangover, relaxing shattered nerves and numbing pain in the head. Though, more alcohol always seemed to me to be a great step on the road to alcoholism. Not a habit I'd suggest. As the water pours down onto our joined bodies, it darkens her hair, deepening it to the color of blood. Bloody Mary is the standard morning-after drink. Doesn't the hair of the dog sound pretty good-- pretty DAMN good right now? Oh, fuck it. I want this. I want this more than I've ever wanted almost anything. I wonder if there's some kind of twelve step program for me? Hello, my name is Mulder, and I'm a Scullyholic. X~X~X~X~X END X~X~X~X~X Author's notes: I signed on to post this story, under a different title, but lo and behold, someone else had just used it. *Sigh.* And I really LIKED that title with this story. I suppose I'd resent it, if the other one hadn't been so damn good. Oh, well. I considered renaming it "Cheating the Hangman: the Hangover Remedy" but discarded that as too long. "Inebriation" didn't suit the story, a homonym of "Liquor" would have just been crass, and "Hair of the Dog" was taken. I chose "One-Ninety Proof" because the alcohol with the highest proof I know of is a rum with 151, and I just had to get one (or thirty-nine, as the case may be) up on it. Plus () I calculated that this story's plotline was 95% sex. (For those that don't know, a drink's proof is double its percentage of alcohol. I.e. most vodkas are 40% alcohol- hence 80 proof.) Oh, and... I don't mean to make light of any serious substance abuses in this story, so I hope it doesn't come out that way. If you could please send me some feedback, this is my first NC-17 fanfic, so I need to know what to work on in the future. Thanks in advance. And, guys, I gotta tell ya. The research... {stagger} for this story... {hiccup} was fun. But I'm not as think as you drunk I am. {Out cold.}