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Intaglio I and II

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Intaglio by rac

by rac / August 27, 1999
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: M/Sk
Archiving: yes to ArchiveX; others, please ask.
Disclaimers: Nope, not mine. Although I like to pretend and make them do what I want them to do.
This blurbed out while in the midst of writing a long zine story, probably because my brain needed a change of pace. Well, it certainly is *that*. Dedicated to Francesca for inspiring me with her latest, and to Melissa, for just...inspiring me, in many ways.

by rac

He didn't know why he was acting the way he was. God knows, he was pushing fifty, and his hormones weren't exactly burbling over at the seams anymore. But it sure as hell felt like they were.

He had a very visceral memory of his thirteenth year, in junior high school. With Miss Petersen. All he'd had to do is come within ten feet of her and he could *smell* her. Smell not just her perfume, but *her*, a musky, heady woman-sex smell.

He became adept at carrying his bookbag strategically that year.

And now? Now he was very thankful for large desks, conference tables, briefcases, long suit jackets and long overcoats. By the time this went away, he was sure he'd take advantage of each and every one of them.

His clothes had even started driving him crazy. He favored plain white briefs, a hold-over from his time in the military. But they'd begun dragging against him, the bumps and seams of the fly placket pressing and rubbing against him with distracting magnification. It was annoying; it was appalling. It bothered him enough to head to the mall one weekend, combing the department stores for irritation-free underwear. He thought he'd found it in the silk boxers he'd bought, $150 later, all ten pair.

But then the feel of the silk sliding across his skin turned out to be an even bigger sensual stimulation. And so he found himself in his executive bathroom once, in between meetings, jacking off just to release the low-level hum of sexual tension that had spiraled up since he'd arrived at work. Fifty years old, and walking around with a semi-hard-on. Smelling the scent of everyone he stood near, or those who came into his office. Looking into their eyes, wondering. Watching the way they moved. Their body language. Imagining them naked. Imagining what they'd taste like.

It had gone too far. Way too far. But he couldn't seem to enact the one solution which would make the problem go away.

He had changed his personal email address. Three times. Each time, the emailer had found him within a few days. He had pulled out all his skills from his field days, and personally tracked down the accounts from which the emails were being sent, but to no avail. His personal shadow was using web-based email accounts, changed almost daily. Virtually untraceable.

There did exist one final solution. One guaranteed to work. He could simply stop opening up and reading any mail from unknown sources on his personal account. Then the torture he found himself experiencing would stop. The writer of those emails did not have any other way to reach him. To speak to him. To whisper incredibly erotic and creative suggestions to him in the sexless, faceless 'voice' of the computer screen. To plant in his mind some of the most intense sexual fantasies of his entire lifetime. To talk to him about his own body, what he felt, what he could feel. What the writer would like to do to him. With him.

Each day, he still opened his mail.

He'd taken to watching people closely. Their eyes. Their body language. Wondering, is this the one? Is it she? Is it he who is sending the earthquakes through his computer, black and white symbols on an electric screen which shook up the world he'd known with such devastation?

It had to be someone in the Hoover, it had to be. The sender had knowledge of his schedule. His computer pal sent notes after meetings asking about the people he'd been with; male and female, it made no difference. Everything was an erotic possibility to his unknown assailant.

And it was an assailant. An intruder. This faceless person had intruded into his life and attacked him at the very core. The person had turned his life upside down so that every minute of each day was a raw scrape against his nerves. He didn't know who he was anymore; he didn't know the people around him as he once thought he had. He was seeing them--and himself--in an all new light. A bright, searing light, throwing things into sharp relief and highlighting new edges.

Now when he looked at his executive assistant of five years, he no longer saw a competent, professional young woman; he saw a sensual, earthy female with a predilection for ropes tied to the bedposts. He'd sat in the weekly Director's meeting--the *Director's meeting*--with the other ADs, and his mind had wandered, filled with the images his faceless correspondent had talked about so recently, seeing his peers not in their costly business garb, but wanton, and abandoned, in various stages of deshabille.

He had no idea if the images painted so skillfully by his email friend were true or not, but in the end, it made no difference. The scenes and ideas painted in each letter with such nonchalant abandon were forever etched upon his mind. Like an aquatint created with exquisite talent, the various shadows in his soul had been highlighted and brought to the fore in the acid washing of suggestion. After a lifetime of rigidly held ideals and ethics, he watched as they eroded away to reveal something unknown buried underneath.

Twice in this week's meeting, someone had called his name and pulled him back from his licentious wanderings. He'd dug the closed end of his Cross pen deep into his thigh muscle to keep himself from wandering off on any more unrestrained daydreams for the rest of the hour. His leg ached where he'd gouged in, and a small, purpling bruise formed to remind him of his folly.

At first, he'd thought that his faceless emailer was nothing more than a juvenile prank, some trickster targeting anonymous email addresses. That idea was quickly scrapped when the emails began to mention his co-workers by name. He'd thought at first it was an old Marines buddy of his in the DOJ across the street; it wouldn't be out of realm for Jackson (Jackass, his old company handle) to pull that kind of prank.

A few late night drinks and some pointedly worded comments had changed Skinner's mind about that idea, though; Jackson had been honestly perplexed when the subject was broached. Which left Skinner back at square one and in the dark.

It left him with a whole realm of possibilities to consider, some more sinister than others. Despite the vague threat the situation could contain, Skinner refused to examine too closely what it was about the whole thing that had him loath to stop opening each new email everyday.

Maybe it was that despite the inherent prurient nature to the writing, there was a certain innocent hedonism that shaped the missives. They had a simple eudemonistic outlook, a life ethic Sister Mary Katherine and the staff at Holy Mary Star of the Sea Catholic school had done their best to eradicate from all the little souls under their care.

Obviously, their scrubbing and polishing so many years ago had only served to ready the surface onto which the faceless engraver was now etching his creation. Into *him*. Into Walter S. Skinner, Assistant Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Remaking him into the artist's own image.

* * *

*Five weeks later*

Skinner hadn't realized the past month had only been a warm-up, a prelude to a discomfort he'd never imagined himself living with daily. If he thought it had been bad before, he was now rapidly revising his opinion. Being reduced to squirming in his chair was too horribly reminiscent of those long, winter days spent in Miss Petersen's classroom. In the front chair. Right next to the side of her desk. Squirming behaviors were expected in a 13 year old, but they sat ill on Assistant Directors. Plus, they were highly noticeable when the Assistant Director in question had a reputation for his stone-faced demeanor, his rock-like countenance.

Rocks don't squirm.

Skinner adopted that as his private mantra late one Thursday afternoon. The determined winter sun slanted through the window, shading everything in the room a soft yellow, a golden haze clouding his eyes. It picked up the golden highlights in Scully's red hair, turning it into a cloud of gilded cinnabar. It leant warmth to her skin, glowing a creamy peach underneath her scattered freckles. She looked agonizingly like the description his nemesis had recently used, waxing poetic about the agent's beauty and her appeal. About the way her body would look stretched out naked on a bed flooded with streamers of that creamy golden light.

He took a deep breath, willing himself under control, when another trial, a more insidious one, walked through the door. Late, as usual.

No matter that he rushed, Mulder still managed to look calm and collected, his suit fitting elegantly, his hair brushed into a semblance of order. The golden yellow light picked up glints of shine throughout a glossy, sable mane. Skinner found his hand curling in on itself in defense, because, yes, just as had been slyly suggested to him, he *would* like to run his hands through it. Feel the weight of it in his hands, smell the scent of his hair, push his head down and--

He managed to get through the meeting on a bare minimum of words, less than his usual taciturn commentary. He let Mulder ramble on about the MacLawhorn case, missing three words in five, more fascinated with watching the way Mulder's lower lip stuck out, full and ripe, as he had been told to observe. When Skinner's eyes slipped back up and encountered Mulder's now silent hazel gaze, he couldn't help the color that heated his skin, wondering just how long he'd been staring at Mulder's mouth...and why Mulder had silently let him.

Later that week, he received a crucial email. It winked with coy language at his lust for his subordinate, then went on to suggest that his feelings were more than returned.

*Well, well*. Skinner felt a lightening in his gut, a sense of freedom he'd been denying himself for a long time. It might have taken him a while to figure it out, but he hadn't exactly had a lot to go on. Now he did, and it all fit together.

His question about the identity of the faceless emailer was answered.

It only took a matter of moments to log on to the internet, find MSN, and sign up for an anonymous email account. And send a reply to his anonymous email lover. In his typical focus-hard-on-the-goal way, he mailed it, not back to its originating email-pseud-du-jour, but directly to the private and personal address of one Fox William Mulder.

No sense in beating around the bush.

After endless weeks of unspecified longings and a slow build up of tension, having a focus for his thoughts and energies was an incredible relief. It gave a purpose and explanation to everything. Skinner had his first good night of sleep in over a month as his constant sexual hum finally gathered and focused in one, tangible direction.

He awakened early as usual, completely refreshed. Manfully forbearing the urge to check his email account, he disciplined himself with his usual thirty minutes on the rowing machine while watching CNN, MSNBC and a few minutes of yesterday's Congressional meetings on C-SPAN. Only after showering, dressing and eating a spare breakfast did Skinner allow himself to sit down at his computer, agitated by the appetence that thrummed through him like the beat of his heart.

It seemed to take forever to dial in, waiting as the computers talked to one another and exchanged passwords and account information, while the *Connecting* window hung there, waiting, waiting, fucking *waiting*--

Until finally, it clicked through and the mail server coughed up its bounty. He scrolled through seven messages: three spam, a bill from his ISP, two from friends, and the last--the last from "".

Skinner's fingers fumbled against the keyboard as he opened it. His breath expelled loudly and his heart started beating again at a faster rate. He cursed the dizziness he felt; fifty years old and dizzy like an adolescent. It didn't stop him from keying a reply from his own email account, four short sentences:

>Let's stop dancing around the truth. My place. Tonight. 8:00pm.<

When he hit the send button, Skinner laughed out loud, a burst of nervous hilarity that sounded odd in his apartment. It had contained far too little real laughter since he'd moved in. Maybe he could change that now. At the very least, it would contain *something* that it hadn't before.

Skinner sighed in mingled lust, terror and disgust. The anticipation of tonight was going to make the coming day go very, very... S.L.O.W.L.Y. He winced, remembering it was Thursday, and the weekly Director's meeting started in two hours.

Skinner wondered what new injuries he'd have to inflict upon himself to get through it.

* * *

*Thirteen hours later*

The doorbell rang. Skinner had entertained a fantasy that Mulder might pull out his lock picks and force his way in to the apartment, forcing his physical presence into Skinner's life the way he had insinuated himself mentally and emotionally. But that really wasn't accurate, or fair. Mulder had knocked on the door, needing permission to enter, just as he had in his emails. It was left up to Skinner to open both.

He pulled the door open. There stood the object of his fantasies, eyes searching and brilliant and full of things unspoken.

Mulder hesitated. "You did say eight, right?"

Skinner suddenly relaxed. It seemed he wasn't the only one unsure of himself. "Yes. I did. Come in."

Mulder stood awkwardly in the foyer, turning around to look closely at Skinner again. "I--Your email. It was...unexpected."

Skinner's eyebrows rose. "Unexpected," he repeated. He shifted closer to Mulder, catching the unique scent that was this man's own: a particular aftershave and soap, his hair and skin. "You must think me damned impervious. A piece of cold stone."

"Stone? Not really, but--" Mulder frowned.

Skinner stepped in again, and this time Mulder automatically leaned back as Skinner invaded his space. His bright hazel eyes widened even further, and Skinner felt an absurd pleasure slide through him. After all this time spent off-center, it suddenly felt damn good to have the shoe on the other foot. Desire and determination surged even higher in him.

"You think I can take weeks of your actions, and not respond, not react to it." Skinner leaned in close to Mulder, his mouth brushing soft hair as he growled in Mulder's ear. "I think you've seriously underestimated me, Mulder. You let the big cat out of the cage, and now he wants to play." His voice dropped even deeper. "With you."

There was a soft gasp, a sudden inhalation of air. Skinner pulled back to see a stunned, humorous brilliance in Mulder's eyes. His mouth hung open slightly, and laugh lines radiated from the edges of his eyes.

Skinner grinned with delight for the first time at this man he'd known for years. "I see I've really surprised you by taking the initiative. I wouldn't have thought I could shock Agent Spooky Mulder, super profiler and manipulator extraordinaire."

A rusty laugh came from Mulder. "I don't know about being a manipulator, but yeah, you did."

Skinner felt his blood gravitate south while watching Mulder laugh; he felt light-headed and hard as hell. "Then it's about damn time." He covered Mulder's mouth with his own, swallowing any protest Mulder might have made.

It was shocking, it was exhilarating, it was the hottest thing Skinner had felt in years. Pressing Mulder up against the foyer wall with his hips, hands and mouth might just be enough to set him off, if he wasn't careful. He *needed* to be careful, he wanted to make it *last*. He wanted to think about why it felt combustible on so many different levels. He wanted to delve into the sensory world literally at his fingertips, taking his time to map and chart everything he felt. Most of all, he wanted to hear Mulder *beg*.

A trail of clothing lay as flagrant testimony across the foyer, up the stairs and into the master suite. Throwing caution to the winds released a Pandora's box in Skinner's soul; it seemed he now desired to be as outrageous as he could possibly be. And since he would always be a Marine, he'd planned for that contingency.

For all Mulder's big talk for the past six weeks, nothing seemed to have prepared him for Skinner's onslaught. When he snapped the cuffs around Mulder's wrists, Skinner waited for a protest. Instead, reduced already to monosyllables, Mulder stared through half-closed eyes and could only groan as he tested the taut connections.

Mulder's body was sleek as Skinner ran a hand over it. He was riveted by the sight of Mulder's long, naked limbs, his pale skin flushed with excitement. Muscles flexed in Mulder's stomach as Skinner pushed his legs farther apart, trailing a hand along the crease of hip and thigh until he reached Mulder's cock. It thrust out, long and eager. Skinner curled his hand around it and Mulder groaned, thrusting lightly. Holding Mulder's hips down with his other hand, Skinner slid his a finger and thumb up and down Mulder's cock. He breathed deeply with the rush of lust rolling through his body, fascinated by the pulsing of swollen veins against his hand.

Skinner's eyes turned nearly black with desire. "This is a good look for you, Mulder. Silent, captive and amenable. I like it."

Skinner's eyes turned nearly black with desire. "This is a good look for you, Mulder. Silent, captive and amenable. I like it."

Mulder groaned again and bit his lip. "I hope you're planning on doing something about it."

"Eventually." Skinner explored further with firm hands, discovering Mulder's reactions to each touch. "I'm sure you understand that your provocation demands an equal response." He took Mulder's balls in his hand, gently pulling and rolling their fullness.

"What--*oh*--what provocation?" Mulder gasped, trying to thrust against Skinner's hands.

"You do love to flirt with danger, don't you." Skinner shifted to straddle Mulder's body. "Let's start to even things up a bit." He slid up until his own cock, heavy and turgid from weeks of erotic frustration, dangled in front of Mulder's face. Hot brown eyes met hazel ones. "I think that for now, I want my cock in that smart mouth of yours. Let me see how smart it can be." Skinner pushed against Mulder's mouth, demanding entrance. Mulder opened his jaw, and Skinner nudged in.

Hot and wet, Mulder's mouth was so damned hot and wet. Skinner slid out just so he could watch his cock slide back in between Mulder's full, stretched lips. Weeks, no, years, he realized, it's been years. His thoughts fractured as the pleasure demanded more of his attention. He shoved in, his balls nearly dancing in delight as Mulder's tongue curled around his shaft. Settling into a steady rhythm, he was hypnotized by the way Mulder's cheeks hollowed out each time he sucked hard as Skinner withdrew.

"You may think it's only been weeks," Skinner muttered, his words raw and ragged, "but I've wanted to do this, wanted to fuck this mouth of yours for a long time." He pushed in with more force, picking up the pace. "Everytime you gave me one of those I-dare-you looks, or some cock-and-bull story about ignoring my orders," Skinner's hands curled into Mulder's hair, "I wanted to fill this pretty mouth of yours so you couldn't hand me any more. I wanted to come down your throat, hard enough to spill out the sides of your mouth."

He was slamming in good now, shoving hard enough that he could feel himself scraping against the back of Mulder's throat, and Mulder was taking it, taking it and going with it, not gagging, still sucking and using his tongue on the underside. His handcuffs rattled against the wooden headboard as Mulder strained against them.

"Weeks," Skinner gasped, feeling himself get close, "weeks at your mercy, living out your fantasies, while I twisted in the dark." He took a ragged breath, his fingers locking onto Mulder's head to hold him tight as he thrust faster. "Yeah...this is my fantasy, boy." He fought the urge to close his eyes and throw his head back as the coil of need in his gut and behind his cock tightened with exquisite tension.

"Take it," he muttered under his breath, "take it, take it all, suck it, yeah, *fuck*--" With painful strength, Skinner's fingers tightened in Mulder's hair, pulling his head up off the pillow as he rammed down deep, his cock exploding forcibly in Mulder's mouth and throat. He could feel Mulder swallowing, gagging slightly, but Skinner was too far gone to care. He came for long, electric moments, his toes and fingers curling up from the pleasure, shooting what felt like a gallon of cum down Mulder's throat as he struggled to keep up.

The flood finally ceased and his muscle contractions slowed down to brief and shuddering aftershocks. Skinner opened his eyes and tried to focus on Mulder's face again. He saw a white rivulet leaking out from beside his cock, from the corner of Mulder's mouth, and his aftershocks peaked once again, a small, dry spasm taking him unawares.

"Mulder," Skinner groaned, leaning slumped down against the headboard. One fantasy fulfilled, he thought, and breathed slowly to get his heart rate back to a manageable speed. After half a minute, Skinner pulled out and slid down to lie half draped over Mulder's still-taut body. "I suppose your mouth is as smart as it seems." He nuzzled into Mulder's cheek, working his mouth around to kiss Mulder his thanks for bringing him such delicious pleasure. He tasted the lingering salty-sourness of his own cum as their tongues dueled. Skimming his hand south, Skinner discovered that Mulder's erection was harder than ever. He grinned. "You must be wanting some attention now, too."

Mulder rubbed himself like a cat against Skinner hips. "Yeah, it would be nice."

Skinner grinned again, feeling lazy and replete. "Too bad. You're going to have to wait. I'm feeling awfully tired." Skinner yawned and nuzzled in closer, one leg thrown over Mulder's hips to help pin his lower body to the mattress. He closed his eyes.

"Wait a minute." Mulder bumped Skinner's legs.

Without even opening his eyes, Skinner wrapped his arms and legs around Mulder's prone body more tighly.

"Skinner, come on. Walter, take the cuffs off, don't leave me like this. At least bring me off, dammit. Skinner! Walter, dammit, come on, what are you doing?" Mulder tried to move so he could rub against him, but to no avail.

Skinner fell asleep to the sounds of Mulder cursing and begging.

* * *

When Skinner awakened a few hours later, Mulder had drifted off to sleep also. The soft lighting cast deep shadows in the room, and threw Mulder's face into high relief. His eyelashes, lying against his face on closed eyes, seemed unusually long.

Skinner sighed and rolled away, feeling deeply satisfied. He'd lived out one of his fantasies, every last bit of it. But poor Mulder, well...Skinner contemplated his sleeping form. Maybe he deserved a respite.

Then again, maybe he didn't. Not yet.

Skinner slid off the bed quietly, padding into the bathroom to use the toilet, wash up and dry off. He'd skipped dinner earlier, too keyed up to eat. Now he was starving. Naked, he padded out of the bedroom to find food, leaving a still-cuffed Mulder slumbering on the bed.

He returned later with a tray laden with sandwiches, fruit and two bottles of beer glistening with sweat. Mulder finally stirred when Skinner arranged the tray and himself on the bed.

Mulder eyed him before speaking. "This is cruel and unusual punishment, you know. Nothing I've done in the past deserves treatment like this." He attempted looking royally pissed off, but the effect was spoiled by the huge yawn that split his face.

Skinner took a bite of the sandwich, closing his eyes in bliss as the food began to hit his system. "I *am* contemplating letting you out of the cuffs."

"*Please*. I have to piss and I'm in pain."

Skinner glanced at Mulder's dick, still semi-erect even now. It must ache like the very devil. He wanted to make it memorable, not torturous. Leaning over, he snagged the keys on the nightstand and with two efficient motions, the cuffs fell away from Mulder's wrists.

"Ow." Mulder slowly brought his arms back down. "I think I'm crippled for life." Slowly, he rolled to the edge of the bed opposite Skinner and hobbled to the bathroom like an old man.

When he came back out, he was moving considerably better, and snagged a beer from the tray.

Mulder sat next to Skinner on the bed and swigged his beer. "Can I ask what this was all about? And after we get the explanations out of the way, can we then *finish* what you started?"

Skinner put the beer bottle down, picked up a piece of fruit and lay back on the bed. He took a bite of a ripe plum, felt the juice dribble down his chin and sent Mulder an opaque look. "It was about six weeks of driving me crazy. And yeah," he mused, nodding, "I'd like to see you...finished. Good idea."

Mulder looked convincingly confused. "What six weeks? I've sent all my reports in on time, dammit, for the past couple of months. And I haven't lost one cell phone. No dead bodies where they shouldn't be, either. I've been good." He couldn't resist the runnel of juice and flicked his thumb over Skinner's skin, then stuck it in his mouth to taste.

Skinner smiled, his voice deceptively soft. "Cut the crap, Mulder. And come here." He tumbled Mulder down, pulling him in for a deep kiss. Their tongues dueled, mingling flavors of beer, fruit and the lingering bite of spicy mustard from the sandwich, all overlaid with the earthy musk of sex that was still redolent in the air.

Skinner pushed Mulder over, rolling them until he was leaning over Mulder's body. "You want to come? Okay, let's work on that." He took the half-eaten plum and began rubbing it on Mulder's skin at his neck. Following behind with his mouth, he licked and suckled until he'd removed all traces of it. Then he rubbed the plum over both of Mulder's nipples.

"That's...oh yeah, that's nice." Mulder squirmed beneath Skinner's determined mouth attack.

"Is this more of what you had in mind?" Skinner rumbled as he dragged the fruit down Mulder's stomach and swirled it in his bellybutton, tracing the path with his tongue.

Mulder was staring with intensity at Skinner's mouth. "This is surreal. I know I'm going to wake up any moment and find out I've been drooling in my sleep. But yeah. Don't stop."

Skinner took the fruit and painted a sticky juice shine up and down Mulder's rampant dick. " what, Mulder? What do you want now?"

Mulder's eyes got large and he looked appalled. "Don't stop *again*."

Skinner had to stifle his grin. "Then what's the magic word, Mulder? I haven't heard the magic word." He rubbed the plum around the glans, watching pre-cum leak out.

"How the hell should I know," Mulder nearly moaned, leaning up on his elbows and watching Skinner's forays at his groin. "Why don't you tell me, and I'll say whatever you want?"

Skinner did smile now. "Just beg, Mulder. Prettily."

"Oh. Okay, please, *please*, suck me. I'm begging. Please."

"Very nice, Mulder. And you'll do anything?"

"I--" Mulder hesitated momentarily. "I'll do anything, yeah. Just, please, *suck* me."

"Good boy," Skinner murmured, and swallowed him down.

Mulder tasted like sweet and salt, fruit juice and the sharp bite of musk and pre-cum. Skinner held his hips immobile when he tried to thrust further into Skinner's mouth. "Slow down, I'll set the pace."

He did, taking his time about it and not letting Mulder have the satisfaction of a hard, firm rhythm. It was exquisite torture; Mulder kept up a soft litany of imprecations and noises. Skinner kept his hand tucked around Mulder's balls, fingering them occasionally. When he felt them begin to draw up and Mulder begin to thrust with less precision into his mouth, Skinner released both Mulder's cock and his balls, sat back and just--stared.

"*Fuck*. What is it this time?" Mulder groaned.

Skinner smiled. "I think I want to watch."


"Yeah. Watch you. Do yourself. Here." Skinner grabbed Mulder's hand and placed it around his cock. "Bring yourself off." Mulder groaned. "And don't forget to make some noise."

Mulder complained even as his hand slid over his flesh. "You're just as much a hard-assed dictator in bed as you are at work."

Skinner lay on his side facing Mulder, enjoying the view. He massaged Mulder's abdomen and thighs, watching Mulder spread his pre-cum around to help lubricate his strokes. "But I'm *your* hard-assed dictator, and you seem to like it." A groan vibrated from Mulder's chest. "Yeah, that's it, Fox, do it. Let me see what you looked like all those nights while you wrote those emails to me and played with yourself." Another groan as Mulder's hand moved faster. Skinner leaned in close to Mulder's ear. "Did you know I had to jack off in my bathroom at work because of you? You chiseled away at the surface, and patterned me underneath in your image, because all I could see after a while was you, naked, doing this, each time I opened my mail."

Mulder shouted, and jerked, white cum pumping out all over his belly and hand. Skinner was hard again. He slid on top of Mulder before he finished coming and began humping against his sprawled body. Skinner's cock slid over Mulder's belly, through Mulder's still-warm cum, and it surprised the hell out of him when he came again himself a minute later.

So much for nearing fifty. Not one, but two orgasms in less than four hours. Skinner thought he just might keep Mulder around; he liked the effects.

They both lay without moving for ten minutes, drowsy and sated now after sex. Skinner reluctantly stirred, wanting to clean up and take the tray off the bed before they knocked it over onto the floor.

Skinner brought in a wet cloth for Mulder to use. "Thanks." Mulder took it, used it and lay back down. When Skinner finally sprawled on his stomach on the bed, Mulder rolled over and propped himself up on one elbow. "Walter, before you go to sleep, answer one question."

Skinner grunted. "What."

Mulder looked at him curiously. "What emails are you talking about?"

* * *

*Two weeks later*

"Read this one. When they get into it, they really get *into* it."

"Maybe we should stop infiltrating their computers and intercepting their mail now. This is kind of private, you know."

"That didn't stop you before. You really got into writing some of those emails. I didn't know you had it in you."

"Yeah, well, that was then. This is now, and we need to do the right thing."

"Oh, come on, if we did the right thing, we'd never have done this in the first place. Speaking of which, you owe me fifty bucks."

"Yeah, you're gonna have to wait for it. Oh! Uh-oh....I think we're in for it. Read this one."

"Trouble? What--uh-oh, shit, we're screwed. How'd they find out? Mulder or Wally must be smarter than we figured. Maybe we can avoid Mulder for a while, until he gets over it. After all, we did him a big favor, the way I look at it."

"Somehow, I don't think he's going to be thinking of that for a really long time. And it's not Mulder I'm worried about."

"Oh. Oh. Yeah, you've got a point. I have a feeling Baldy has a long and unforgiving memory."

"Hey, guys, what are you two doing? What's that? Why'd you shut it off?"

"Hi. Nothing, we're just...figuring out who won a bet. It's nothing."

"Nothing. I see. Well, since it's nothing, help bring in the grocery bags before the ice cream melts."

"Oh, what flavors did you get? Oreo cookie? Fudge ripple?"

"Yes and yes. Now help. Before it's soup."

Byers watched Frohike carefully clear the computer screen before hopping up and walking out the door, still arguing with Langley. Obviously, they'd been up to something, and weren't going to tell him.

Considering some of the other things those two got into, John wondered if he even really wanted to know.

-=the end=-

Feedback gratefully received at

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Requited: A Mulder/Skinner Fantasy @
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From: rac []
Sent: Monday, September 13, 1999 9:44 AM
Subject: X/STORY Repousse (1/1) Sk/M (PG)
Repousse (Or, Bas-Relief)
by rac / September 1999
Rating: PG, fairly harmless
Disclaimers: I sure as heck didn't know he'd done it! But I'll blame him, too.
Author's Notes: Thanks oodles to Rhiannon for the idea whispered in my ear...blame this one on her. This is a direct sequel to "Intaglio" which can be found at: I'd recommend reading that before this, otherwise they'll be spoiled.
For those who commented "what's intaglio?" after that one, here's some info: re·pous·se 1. Shaped or decorated with patterns in relief formed by hammering and pressing on the reverse side. in·ta·glio 1. a. A figure or design carved into or beneath the surface of hard metal or stone. b. The art or process of carving a design in this manner.

Repousse (Or, Bas-Relief)
by rac

The SIG looked huge digging into the side of Frohike's jaw. His eyes were just as huge, and for once, he stood silent, his normal smart-assed rejoinders noticeably absent.

Mulder leaned back against the wall casually and ate a handful of chips from a bowl sitting on the table. "Don't you think the gun's a bit overkill?"

Skinner smiled at Frohike, not a reassuring sight. His eyes gleamed a suspiciously nasty light. "Overkill, that's a good word. It describes exactly what I'd like to do to him."

A tense silence fell over the small group as each contemplated that scenario.

John Byers cleared his throat nervously, venturing into the fray once more. "Mr. Skinner, whatever he's done, I'm sure he didn't do it intentionally."

Mulder barked a laugh, coughing on the chips. Frohike started to turn green around the edges.

John wished he'd had the foresight to exit out the back door as Langly had done once he'd seen who was standing at their door. But John had no premonition of disaster. He'd let the two men in as always. Poor Frohike never had a chance; he'd been dragged from a deep sleep once Mulder and Skinner gained entry.

"You're sure of that, are you," Skinner raised a lazy brow.

"Well, I--"

"Why don't you ask Frohike, here, just what he did so....unintentionally."

John looked at Frohike; he'd never seen the man look so cornered. "Melvin? What the hell did you do?"

"I, uh, infiltrated Skinner's and Mulder's computers."

"You *what*?"

"That's not the best part, though. Tell him why you did it," Mulder grinned, looking like he was having a fine time.

John wished desperately that he'd left with Langly.

"I, uh, sent Skinner some anonymous emails."

John looked at the gleeful light in Mulder's eyes, the unholy light in Skinner's, and felt his stomach sink even lower. For some reason, he just *knew*. "You didn't." Frohike looked up at him, panic in his eyes. "Oh, shit, you *did*."

Skinner turned his laser gaze on Byers now. "Did *what*? What do you know about this?"

"I, I, I--" John stuttered. "It's, well, it's--"

Skinner glowered even more.

Mulder pushed away from the wall. "Don't stop now, Byers, spit it out. The hole's dug already. May as well jump in."

John closed his eyes. "Were the emails of an....erotic nature?"

Mulder laughed again as Skinner gritted out, "You could say that. Yes. Why? Has he done this before?" Skinner's empty fist closed around Frohike's pajama shirt front and yanked, pulling him to his toes. "I'll see the little weasel prosecuted myself for his actions."

"Oh, no! No, no, no...that's not what I meant. I just meant that... well...none of us is independently wealthy, you know."

Skinner blinked at the seeming non-sequitur. "So?" he barked, making Frohike and Byers jump.

"So...we had to find a way to finance our...operations."

Mulder stared at Byers, then Frohike, and started to laugh in earnest. "Melvin, Melvin, Melvin, you devil, you. Free enterprise is alive and well in America."

"What the hell is everybody talking about?" Skinner roared. "Explain it to me right now!"

"Well, you see" John began.

"Not you!" Skinner caressed Frohike's jaw with the barrel of the SIG. "This little weasel can do it."

All eyes turned to poor Melvin Frohike, looking like he might pee his pants at any moment. "It's p-perfectly legal," he began.


Frohike rattled where Skinner shook him with his fist. "A-Alright! I subsidized our operations by writing scripts and print media for the adult entertainment industry."

The silence was deafening, except for Mulder's choked snickers.

"Excuse me?" Skinner asked. "Are you saying, you write porn for pay?" Frohike nodded. "**So why the hell did you send those emails to me?**" He shook Frohike again, and the man's glasses fell askew.

"Because Mulder--"

"Whoops," they heard Mulder say under his breath.

"Mulder kinda revealed he had some...thoughts. To me. Once. When I was plumbing his extensive knowledge of the adult entertainment industry."

"Call it what it is, porn," Skinner said, looking and sounding distracted. He slid his eyes over to where Mulder stood, trying to appear innocent. "He talked about me? Specifically?"

"Not in so many words, but...yeah. I knew."

Skinner gazed without expression at Mulder for another few beats, then turned back to Frohike abruptly. "If I *ever* so much as get an idea you've infiltrated the FBI computer firewalls again, or my own or anyone else's personal computer, so help me, I'll personally skin you alive. You got that?" He shook Frohike for good measure.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, I got it. I got it." Frohike's head bounced up and down like a doll's as he nodded in agreement.

Skinner turned to John, standing to the side in shocked and speechless stupidity. "And you, you're supposedly the one with some brains around here. You keep the other two in line, or I'll have my men down on this place so fast, your head will spin."

John knew he looked just as stupid as Frohike as he nodded his head enthusiastically. "Yessir, I will."

"And tell that other hippie weasel, wherever he's hiding out, what I've said. The same goes for him, too."

Both men nodded.

Skinner's gun disappeared back into his belt holster, underneath his suit coat. With a bland, calculating look, he turned to Mulder. "Come along, Mulder. We have a discussion we need to conduct in private."

Mulder grimaced. "Thanks, Frohike. This is all your fault," he stage-whispered to the little man as he walked by to the door.

Skinner held it open for him. "That's right, Mulder. You can thank Frohike for the reaming you're about to get." He smiled blandly.

Mulder opened his mouth to reply as he walked past Skinner, looked at him and reconsidered for some reason. He left without a backward glance. Skinner looked back at the two Gunmen as he pulled the door closed.

Frohike sighed. "Shit! What a fucking way to start the day. I'm going back to bed."

John stood and watched Frohike disappear down the corridor to their personal rooms. The past ten minutes now seemed surreal, like a dream he'd had before waking up in the morning. Either that, or he was delusional.

That must be it. Why else would Skinner give them a blinding smile as he closed the door and mouth, "thanks"?

-=the end=-

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