Process Of Elimination: Tat For Tit

by XochiLuvr

Title: Process of Elimination: Tat For Tit Author: XochiLuvr
Category and Rating: NC-17, MSR, SPOV, H, smut, MT Archive: Ephemeral, Gossamer. Others: Please Ask. Disclaimer: Mose and Squirrel aren't mine. Spoilers: Never Again, Tithonus

Summary: Scully, augmenting. But not that way. Mulder, floating in a most peculiar way. But not like that. Confused? So are they. Read on, McDuff.

Author's Notes: Yes, ladies and germs, it's that time again. For those of you wondering why this installment of the Curious Strong series took so long, I'm afraid I must apologize. I was in Borneo and my laptop was stolen by a moose. Wait. There was no moose, and I've never been to Borneo - it was just a nasty bout of Writer's Block. I knew exactly what was going to happen but I just couldn't seem to get the damn moose done. Thing. Damn thing done. So I quit smoking, and a few weeks later here we are. In the PoE universe, this story currently follws Breaking and Entering by my partner in crime, moose. Ahem. My partner in crime, mimic117, who is most assuredly NOT a moose. She created this lovely little playground and was gracious enough to let me play with it. I mean in it. Sorry. I swear that wasn't me, that was the moose. I mean, moose.

Beta snaps: Your momma's so ugly - wait, wrong snaps. Mammut americanum sized thanks to CindyET for going easy on me while still making sure I got it right. As usual, I also bow to my mistress, mimic117, without whom I'd probably be slightly more normal, but much less interesting.

Visit the new and (arguably) improved Process Of Elimination website at

PoE: Tat For Tit

So, I did it. It's not like it was my first time or anything. I felt pretty exposed and a little scared, but the man didn't seem too concerned. I guess he has to deal with half naked, demanding women quite often in his profession. Just another job, I suppose. Considering how much it cost to have him do me, the pay's certainly good.

What I've done is so far removed from my Catholic upbringing my mother will probably faint if she ever finds out. However, it happens quite often in the Navy - even my father did it a few times. Mulder's going to be so pissed at me, too. I mean, the last time I did this I was with that psycho whose name I dare not speak.

On the other hand, I know Mulder has grown to love the other tattoo. He's commented on how sexy he thinks it is that wherever we are, on a case or stalking through the halls to Skinner's office, he can touch that secret spot on my body. I'd never thought of it like that but now, every time he touches the small of my back with those strong fingers -- clothed or not I feel a pulse of heat there, shooting down into my core.

My first tattoo was a symbol of my rebellion against life with Mulder, of what I felt I was losing and had already lost - things I felt his quest had taken from me. A sign that I was my own person and that he, his quest and his baggage and his office and his desk and his nameplate and his everything could go take a flying fuck and see if I care. This one is different, but hardly the opposite. This one is a symbol of my embracing, my cherishing this new life with Mulder. This one says that I am still very much my own person and that I have chosen him. That I will never live in fear of losing what I freely give. That our quest, our journey, will be taken together.

Of course, getting the damn thing scared the shit out of me. God knows, the first one hurt like hell but, to be honest, I wasn't exactly myself the last time I did it. Thankfully, my partner in crime was too drunk to fuck when I got the oroborus. I may not have Mulder's capacity for guilt, but we Catholics are very aware of the concept - I'll be kicking myself until the day I die for my stupidity. Penance with Mulder is highly enlightening, though. Even sober. Especially sober.

However, while sobriety is a good quality to have when deciding to get a tattoo, drunk and numb is a good state to be in when having one done, unless you happen to have a fully equipped board-certified anesthesiologist with you. A fifth of Southern Comfort is much cheaper. Nowadays it's probably safer, too.

I was pleasantly surprised as the design was pierced into my skin. It wasn't nearly as painful as the first one and after a time, the vibrations became lulling and sensual. The artist's palm rested on my nipple on occasion as he worked, but he made sure his actions were very professional.

I adore the design - it's stark, angular and oddly endearing. Just like Mulder. I'm as anxious as I am scared for him to see it.

I admit it, though; I'm being a total coward. I got it last Thursday, a day before Bill and the rest of his family came up for a week to visit. Mulder and I have had virtually no personal time together in the last nine days, more than enough time for the tat to heal. It itched and burned a little for the first couple days under the bandage, but some acetaminophen, fresh air and time and it's healed well.

The drawback is obvious: I haven't gotten laid in a week and a half. After years of abstinence, my body rebelled at the sheer amount of sex we had that first week together. The ache in my loins was delicious but an ache nonetheless. Now my body fairly hums with sexual energy, just waiting for Mulder to tap it. I suppose it's like a runners high, endorphins screaming to be released, neurons and synapses begging to be fried. If he doesn't tap me often I get cranky. Neither one of us has been in a good mood this week. I need a good tapping. As soon as possible.

Hopefully, that will be tonight. Now that Bill's on the way home Mulder and I can have an evening together. I even took a personal day from work to prepare, after clearing it with Skinner, who thinks I'm taking the day to help my mother recover from last week's little reunion. I left a message for Mulder at the office that was more honest. "Dinner's at six. Dress casual."

Dinner's a quick paella recipe my mom developed in high school. Mulder may be an Oxford grad, but when you're hungry nothing beats a meal invented by a "Betty Crocker Homemaker of Tomorrow." Mulder and I are like this dinner: disparate ingredients coming together to become something unique and delicious.

I dump dinner into a glass bowl and pop it into the oven to keep warm and maybe brown just a little. I walk over and sit down at my desk and wake the laptop. Clicking the browser open and typing the address from memory I hit the boards. Well, the board.

I haven't posted myself yet, but reading what other people have to say is funny. The topics run the gamut from sexual frustration to pleasure overload. Several woman volunteer to "practice" new ideas on their husbands and report back with the results. I smile as one woman proclaims that a young man will never know true pleasure until he's made it with an older woman, remembering my own disastrous and embarrassing first times. A topic further down makes light of erotic fiction that refuses to follow the laws of physics. Another thread talks about "broken penises" and my mind is filled by the physiological complications that could occur. I cross my legs in sympathy and thank God that's one injury Mulder's never had to endure. The board members are clearly women - no locker room bragging could possibly compare to this ladies room snickerfest.

I finally spot tonight's position. If I balance against the desk chair and use the lumbar cushion in the closet... I'm not quite sure I can stand on my hands that long, though if Mulder holds my ankles it should work. The laws of physics are about to be broken after all.

Now that I have everything ready, I go for a quick jog to limber up. Flexibility is a necessity when having a relationship with Mulder. After a long relaxing bath I have just enough time to get dinner ready before Mulder knocks.

I'm just putting out the plates when he unlocks the door with his key. He greets me by wrapping his arms around me and kisses my neck after I lift the paella onto the stove top. What a picture of domestic bliss we must make, the "little woman" in mismatched oven mitts and casual clothes, the man of the house coming in from a long day at work.

Then there are the little details that turn this piece of Norman Rockwell tranquility into Jackson Pollack confusion. The two guns he's wearing, the little scar on the back of my neck, beneath his teasing lips hiding the tiny piece of possibly-alien technology that keeps me alive. Stains on the living room carpet, matching multiple blood types. Sara Lee meets Annabel Lee.

"Honey, I'm home," he whispers into my hair.

"Honey me again," I say, leaning back into his embrace as I pull off the mitts, "and you might just get lucky."

He chuffs lightly in response, teasing the tips of my hair with his breath. I shiver at the tickling sensation and he backs off slightly.

He helps me set the table and I scoop dinner onto the plates. Dinner is eaten quietly, as if we have nothing to say. But several conversations pass silently. He smiles at his plate and chews slowly, and I know he enjoys the meal. I push my empty glass forward an inch or two and he fills it only half full, knowing I want to finish my wine with my dinner - anything left in the glass will be wasted. I see the position of the napkin in his lap and I know he desires me. He sees my nervous motions and looks a question at me that I refuse to answer yet by any mode of communication. Each brief expression and movement is a story no picture of any size could tell.

We gather and wash the dishes in the same comfortable, quiet companionship. >From here on it's my choice. We could lay on the couch and watch TV and cuddle. We could sit together and catch up on our reading. We could revert to the early scene of domesticity and tell each other what our day has been like. Or I can quit stalling, show him the tattoo and fuck his brains out before he has an opportunity for reproach. I whip the dish towel from his hands, toss it on the counter and drag him to my bedroom.

Undressing fully is still awkward between us, though we're getting more comfortable all the time. Maybe weird is a more accurate term. It's not some prepubescent fear of shared nudity, but a desire to look our best for the other person, and no one looks their best when tripping over half-removed pantyhose or stuck headless in day-worn, sweaty undershirts. We strip with the other at our back, and the first one done gets to sit on the bed and catch a peak, the creak of springs warning the other. The adolescent restraint of parts of our relationship contrast starkly with the uninhibited nature of our passion. We both yearn for equilibrium as much as we fear it. Just another dance of avoidance before we eventually come together. Or as simultaneously as possible, anyway.

We never bothered turning any lights on in the bedroom, letting the waning sunset around the edges of the closed blinds provide the only light. I hear him sit and hurry to join him, moving to the side of the bed. My side. We scoot in, using our feet to move the covers down and reach for each other at the same time. A dance of togetherness now. The kisses at first are slow and dry and the targets are random: lips, face, hair, nose, palms, neck, ears, fingers. Escalation is in stages, an explicit launch sequence.

Mulder is the first to move to the next stage by sucking and nibbling my carotid artery before soothing the sensitive patch of skin. I moan into his ear as he works, his shivers joining mine as I bite and suck his lobe. Mulder moves the timetable forward again by licking and kissing a fast line down my chest, down my collarbones and around my breasts. His torso shifts around as he paints spirals on my stomach and other places with his tongue, the hair on his chest brushing other parts of my body. He stops, abruptly, and I moan piteously as his lips release my skin. He moves back up and off my body. Has he finally seen the tattoo?


"I smell blood, Scully. I need to see-" I can feel him stretch for the lamp as my hand jumps to my upper lip, checking for the telltale wet warmth. I feel nothing and gasp as my mind figures it out. Mulder switches on the lamp just as I leap off the bed and scurry to the bathroom, almost slamming the door behind me. I snap the lock just as he rattles the handle. "Scully?"

"I'm fine Mulder," I say, reaching under the sink. "Can you grab a pair of my underwear? Plain white ones."

"Granny panties. The thrill is gone," his trailing voice says through the door, but I can tell the joke is forced. He's still confused, still hasn't figured it out. He knocks and I unlock and open the door just wide enough for him to pass the underwear through.

I insert a tampon and look in the mirror. What the hell - we'll both just have to deal with it. I return to the bedroom, sans panties. Mulder's perched near the head of the bed, frowning. "You okay?"

"Nothing a few days worth of Midol can't cure," I smile to him, and his shoulders relax even as the frown deepens. Yes, Mulder, no nookie tonight. Not that kind anyway - you'll have to wait until another day to find out what I've had planned. I step up to him and realize the lack of sex isn't all of what's bothering him. He's only now noticing the tattoo. His hand reaches up tentatively and rubs the design with the scratchy pads of a finger. His eyes ask what his mouth can't, but for once I can't translate. Is he wondering why I got it, why I got it -there-, or is he afraid I got it while drunk off my ass and in the company of another man? Considering the design, I doubt he thinks the latter.

"This time it's all about you," I confirm, grasping his wrist as his thumb continues to trace the little fox, the rest of his hand caressing the curve of my flesh under it.

"Accepting for the moment that last time wasn't," he says softly, "Could you tell me why?"

"The first one really was all about me. Or, I guess, the absence of you. I felt smothered, out of control, secondary. It was about avoidance, about dreams unfulfilled, about having no time left in which to have them fulfilled," I say, stopping as I see him wince. "This one's about reveling in those same dreams, now fulfilled beyond measure. By you."

"So this is a good thing?" He questions, looking to my eyes for confirmation.

Oh, Mulder. "The best." I step between his legs and hang my arms around his head. His cheek presses against the tattoo.

"I'm just happy it's not a fox eating it's tail," he mumbles.

I'm struck by inspiration and before either one of us knows what happened he's flat on the bed, one of my hands pressing on his chest, the other gripping his half-hard member, my face in between, chin resting on his belly button, my body laying to his side, half off the edge of the bed. He pushes himself further up the bed and I follow, moving between his spread thighs.

I look at his face and try to smile as seductively as possible.

"The only thing this fox is eating is you."

With that I press a kiss against the top of his penis. I follow with another and slip the head into my mouth, wetting it with my tongue. I slowly ease him deeper, making sure Mulder has a clear view of the proceedings. Quite frankly, he's got a clear view of almost everything in this position. With him resting on top of two pillows and with me kneeling ass-up, I'm sure he's got a perfect view of my butt as I move my mouth on him. It's still an uncomfortable thought, that I'm so open for him, so I concentrate on his pleasure, on the task at hand. Or mouth, rather.

Fellatio is something I've always been proficient with, but never good at. It's easy to get a guy off in ninety seconds, another to make it last. I love doing this to Mulder, drawing it out, taking our time. I vary my rhythm and every so often stop to kiss or lick or stroke his length. The variations, and the not -too- gentle scrapes and pokes and scratches I give him on his hips and buttocks with my fingernails, prolong the experience. I'm not rough with him, but I make sure he goes near the edge, not over it.

I wonder if I look submissive to him, bowed and servicing him like this, and I wonder if he has any clue how powerful I feel instead. With every lick and suck my confidence grows in leaps and bounds, as it always does. Not because I control him, but because I control his pleasure. My mouth pleasures him and we both relax into a haze of lust.

I watch his face when I can and see his eyes roam over my body. When I do this for him he always stops at particular points. My ass cheeks, clearly visible, bent as I am. The tattoo on my back and the curve of my spine. The exit wound from when Ritter shot me.

My breasts are a favorite stopping point for his eyes and slowly I start moving more than just my head. As I put more of my body into pleasuring him my unfettered breasts begin to move in counterpoint to the rest of my body. He watches my chest, my breasts alternately hidden and revealed as my hair sways while I move up and down to take him in. Tonight, Mulder is spending more time looking at the bullet wound then I'd like. When he sighs, "Oh, Scully," instead of moaning it I decide it's time to try something new and get him back in the game.

He arches his back and pleads when I release him from my mouth. I shift my head up and kiss his navel, gathering my courage as I gather his flavors. I know I put on a good front, but I'm not always the perfectly composed woman my partner and most people see. My self-confidence is normally well-earned, but Mulder has shown me more and better ways to give and receive pleasure in our short time together than I learned in my entire life before him. He keeps me guessing - he's predictably unpredictable in bed, as he is always. It scares me sometimes, and I know I push myself to compensate, to prove that, like in every other aspect of our lives, I can give as good as I get.

I sit up and roll off the bed, pulling him to stand with me. I take his place on the bed, moving all the pillows out of our way before I lie down flat. Getting him to straddle me is easier said than done, since he knows intercourse isn't in tonight's program, but he gets the picture finally. I direct his kneeling body manually, pulling and pushing his hips into position.

Nope, Mulder, too far. Back down a little. Right there. Stop looking a question at my face and look down. See where not-so-Mini-Mulder is? That's right. Tonight's gonna be a whole 'nother kind of ride, partner. For both of us. Take a deep breath, Dana Scully. You can do this. You CAN do this.

I always considered breasts to be a sexual target, something to be manipulated by a man's hands and tongue and lips, not something with which I could physically stimulate a man. I've been wonderfully surprised by Mulder's reactions every time I show him a new trick I've learned, and I hope this won't be an exception.

Pushing my breasts together I'm unable to completely cover his penis, but I'm more than amply able to press firmly against the sides of his saliva-slicked cock. The tips of my fingers can brush the crown and the top of his entire length. I'm pretty sure from his viewpoint the fox tattoo is clearly visible to him. Instead of exerting pressure on his hips as before, I encourage him to move by pushing and pulling my breasts up and down, his length trapped in between. He gets the message much faster this time. As much as I am able, I continue to lubricate him orally.

I smile as I look down at his cock between my breasts, sweat and precum and saliva providing just enough lubrication for a smooth trip without denying all the pressure and friction we both feel. An old joke pops into my head: "If olive oil is made from olives, what's baby oil made of?" Or in this case, "If a blow job is oral sex, what's a boobjob?"

I watch the head of his erection slip through the passage I've created for him, past the tightly peaked nipples now clenched firmly between my fingers, my palms continuing to exert pressure from the sides. He takes long, slow, full strokes, extending the contact between us as much as possible. If I concentrate I think I can feel his pulse against my breastbone. He punctuates thrusts that are particularly pleasurable with vocalizations that make my nipples ache that much more. "Oh, Scully," "Love you," "Mmmm," "So good," "God, baby" and "Can't believe" are the ones repeated most often. Mission accomplished. Almost. Time to really shock him.

"Mmmm, Mulder, that's so hot. It's called a titty-fuck. I've never let anyone do this before. Oh, yeah... You could say I'm a virgin there. -umph!- You're the first to fuck my tits. Mmmm, you like that, huh? Wanna be the first? Come on my virgin tits? -umph- Yeah, like that, come on me, yeah, let me suck it, Mulder, come for me, come on, mmmm..."

Typical male. As soon as the word virgin passes my lips his rhythm shifts from those long, controlled strokes to short, wild jabs, the head of his cock none-too-gently butting against my chin as my tilted head looks down at the spectacle on my chest. True to my word I open my lips - I can't quite reach the whole of the head from my position so I swipe at the leaking fluids with my tongue each time it passes close enough.

Mulder's vocalizations are a constant now, and I know the time is near. I press him tighter, give him some more dirty talk and make little slurping sounds with my mouth that in any other circumstance would be considered silly. Actually, they're silly even under these circumstances, but for Mulder, aural sex is as much of a turn-on as oral.

Taking more control, he grasps my breasts with his own hands, pressing me almost painfully tight around him. My arms now free, I stroke his hip with one hand as I worm the other between our bodies to manually stimulate myself.

>From my perspective his cock is much larger than normal. With a final emphatic grunt his ejaculate rushes forth, aiming straight for my face. My own personal IMAX movie - a thirty-foot tall Mulder!Cock complete with SurroundSperm (tm). I jerk my head back in surprise and swallow reflexively as his first jet shoots directly into my mouth. The second arcs over my head like an ICBM and I watch it like some slow-motion Discovery Channel documentary. I close my eyes in self-defense as it impacts onto my forehead and hairline. Several more strategic blasts follow.

While I will never understand why men find this sexy, I am intensely turned on by the fact that this is Mulder, my partner and lover, and I have clearly pleased him well. I rub my clit briskly. I come almost immediately after he finishes and arch my back reflexively, dislodging Mulder and throwing him off the bed.

It takes a while before either of us move. Crawling off the bed, I don't even bother with a robe as I go to the bathroom and wash my chest off with soap and water. After drying myself, I pad into the kitchen and get a big glass of ice water and wrap a cold pack in a clean dishtowel. Stopping by the bathroom again, I grab the towel I'd just used and a clean washcloth, which I wet under warm water.

By the time I return to the bedroom, Mulder is just starting to pull himself off the floor. I put the glass down on the dresser and toss the towel and icepack on the bed before helping him stand. Moving the hand he has clutched to the back of his head I put the warm washcloth in his hand. I press my fingers against his skull and feel the lump forming. I touch the pack to the swelling as he cleans himself off.

"You should be more careful," I chuckle.

"If I'd known I was going to be in a rodeo I'd have worn chaps and boots to bed," he smiles in return.

After he's cleaned and dried himself and our escalating pile of laundry has been dealt with, we get back into bed. We're still naked, and the cooling sweat forces us to retrieve the bedclothes and pull them up to our bellies. Cuddled together like this, our standard after-sex snuggle, I think Mulder has finally realized why I had the tat placed in that particular location. He keeps lifting his head from its resting place and looking from the fox's face to mine.

Mulder has this post-coital habit of laying his head on my chest. With his ear on my breast, right over my heart. He tells me he likes to hear my heartbeat, likes how it slows in the minutes after our joining, a timpanic onslaught that eases and quiets until he can feel our blood pulsing in harmony. Putting the fox tattoo right over my heart is both a declaration and an invitation.

"Consider it your own personalized parking space," I say.

"Seems to me I've parked myself here twice tonight."

"Good night, Mulder."

"Yes it was."


Process Of Elimination _WILL_ return in:

Desk Jockey, by mimic117

Mimic's Musings:

More Mooses, I mean, More Notes:

The fact that this fic got finished, at all, ever, instead of just being four and a half months late, is thanks to all the ladies of the chat group, particularly Nell, Vel, Mims, FatCat and Carma. Donnilee and sdani especially went above and beyond the call of stalking. You ladies are my ten in five billion. Or something.

Did you know the word fellatio is NOT in the built-in MS Office dictionary, but it does tell you when you spell it wrong? I want -that- job. Now, if only it could tell the difference between "the" and "them" in context.

I'm blaming all this insanity on the lack of sufficient nicotine in my bloodstream and too much oxygen in my lungs. Or maybe it's a lack of nicotine in my lungs and too much oxygen in my bloodstream. Whatever. Just remember, sending feedback is a GOOD habit. Get hooked.

*Apologies to moose. I mean Monty Python. Whatever.

God I want a smoke.

Craving lots of things I can't have,


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