Title: The Game
Author: Charlotte Veazie
Email address: feklar@panix.com
Fandom/Pairing: X-files--Scully/Other
Rating: R-ish
Archive author: Feklar
Archive email address: feklar@panix.com
Series/Sequel: no
Archive/Distribution: anywhere so long as you keep my name attached


The Game

"C'mon, Scully, you'll like it, besides, I already have the tickets." Mulder waved two tickets under her nose, trying to wheedle in an engaging way. His hazel eyes gleamed with mischief.

"Mulder, I'm tired, and you *know* I don't like basketball."

"Oh that's just 'cause you're--" //short, no that would not convince her// "you've never had the chance to properly enjoy it, in a fitting arena."

She glared, copper eyebrow cocked, lips pursed, "And Madison Square Garden is that 'fitting arena'?"

He pulled out the big guns: pouting lips and puppy dog eyes. "I'll spring for hotdogs and beer?"

A long, drawn out sigh, "Fine, I'll come along . . . " //It's not like I have anything better to do, even if I don't like basketball.//

She shot him a quick suspicious glare, "And it's not because I'm short!" And she was off, marching through the crowds, up the broad concrete steps to the Garden.

He ambled after her, smiling in anticipation. Nothing like a good game, and it had been far too long since he had seen pro-ball *live*. He wanted to enjoy every nuance of the experience. He stared up at the banners hanging from the rafters leading to the entrance, watched the kids crowd excitedly around the T-shirt and program vendors, and admired the larger-than-life posters of larger-than-life athletes, hot and sweaty, driving for the basket or grappling for balls. He sighed in satisfaction. //Too long, indeed.//

He'd traded some of his profiling expertise for the tickets with a contact in the New York office. New York's team wasn't exactly the top of the league, but they had several impressive players, enough to make the deal worthwhile. Besides his friend had assured him the seats were so close to the bench, they'd be splashed with sweat when players sat down.

Scully waited at the entrance for him to arrive with the tickets, right foot tapping in impatience.

She was little surprised at the number of women and girls milling around inside. //Probably because there are too few bathrooms.//

"I hadn't realized how big a tourist attraction these games were."

"I don't think we're exactly *tourists*." Mulder looked at her in confusion.

"Not us, them--" she waved at the crowds. "I don't think I've ever seen so many foam-Statue-of-Liberty hats in my life."

He smiled and shrugged, then, some preternatural sports-sense having been set off, he grabbed her hand and started charging through the crowds. "C'mon, they're starting the pre-game warm-ups"

//Pre-game warm-ups? The game itself isn't long enough, but we've also got to watch them *warm-up*!//

They worked their way through a maze of ramps and tunnels before they suddenly popped out into the cavernous arena. The arena wasn't half-filled, but still, rows of seats filled with cheering, shouting and waving bodies rose around them on all sides. Scully winced.

"Mulder, do you know how much damage this will do to our ears?"

He grinned at her triumphantly.

//Great, Mulder has succumbed to a mass psychosis.//


When the teams first entered the court, Scully looked at Mulder suspiciously, but he was engrossed in watching the players doing passing routines and taking practice shots. So she poked him in the ribs, "You could have told me it."

"Far be it for me to presume that your decision-making processes could be biased for such a blatantly sexist reason."

He ignored her scowl.

She poked him in the ribs again. "Where's my hotdog and beer?"


At first she tried following the ball. Hand to hand, between legs, over shoulders, through the hoop, but it was just too frustrating to figure out why it was bounced at one time and tossed at another, why players grappled over the ball one second, then handed it away the next, so she just watched the bodies.

More and more her eyes were drawn to one player in particular. Her face was not beautiful, but was strong-boned and expressive: passionate in the huddle, feral in play. Her fierce grin shot through Scully like electricity, dancing from her nipples to her cunt. //I bet she wears that grin when she comes.// The thought left her crotch hot and wet, while her mouth was too dry. Scully licked her lips, squeezed her legs together and tried not too squirm too much.

The player stole a ball, using her whole body to attack, defend, run, play, shoot. Her body was a lesson in Anatomy that med school instructors would envy. Arms, legs, hips, shoulders, moving with precision, screaming of restrained power. She twisted and turned, muscles bunching, coiling and flexing with preternatural grace. Muscles as defined as marble, but rounded, without the hard edges and angles of a man. And the hands . . . hands that held the ball so easily; long, powerful fingers dimpling the rubber with their strength and control.

Then she was tripped, rolling, painfully sliding on a back rounded for protection.

"Scully, sit down, for chistssake!" A hand on her shoulder dragged her back and down into her seat.

"Mulder, I'm a doctor, I can help!"

Mulder snorted, he actually snorted, "Scully, do you know how many doctors they have waiting down there? Team doctors, sports doctors, bone doctors and head doctors . . . all waiting for the least little emergency."

He stifled a laugh at her affronted expression. "In any case, I don't think she'll be needing your tender care."

Scully watched as the woman rolled easily to her feet; her show for the ref was over and there was a foul shot to be made. The free-throw line was directly perpendicular to Scully's seat. As the stadium grew quiet, she studied the woman, impressing each detail of her body onto her mind.

Scully willed her body to move as the other, to feel the flexing knees, the rolling shoulders, the sweat trailing the indentation between muscles. She saw herself kneeling between those knees, head between those powerful thighs, bathed in wet musk, grasping, biting and licking the muscles braiding up to her hips. The tendon that held her femur to her hip would be as big around as her mouth, a braided steel cable. She would bite it and feel the body tremble with weakness and lust. Her teeth would follow it to the dark-furred vulva, agile lips and tongue would part the labia, worrying and licking and probing into red, pulsing heat. She would riffle through hair, swirl her tongue through petals of flesh to suck on the hot sweet kernel of feeling and electricity. Suck and bite. Then her entire body coiled in on itself, knees, hips, arms, contracting, then expanding up and out . . .

. . . into a smooth arc the ball followed to the hoop. It fell through, barely touching the net.

"Unnhhh," sighing, Scully leaned back into her seat licking her lips. //So that's what *swish* means.// Her limbs felt like water.

The player was already preparing for her next freethrow, spreading her feet a little wider, then bouncing and flexing, loosening her muscles and joints. Scully squirmed in her seat as she felt her cunt quicken again.


"Yeah?" She was still transfixed by the player.


"What, Mulder?" A time out was called, so she slid him a quick glance. He was sitting at an angle in he seat, arms crossed, watching at her with an evilly amused glint in his eyes.

"If you lean back and start shouting, 'Oh my God! Oh my God!', I'm going to disown you."

"I would never--"

"Uh huh." He looked entirely too amused.

"Like *you've* never--"

He snorted, "Not in front of ten thousand people." He started laughing.

"You're just jealous because you *can't* in front of ten thousand people... at least not without putting your career in jeopardy." He did look a little dismayed by that. Scully turned back to the game, an amused grin on her face, as the players got back into position along the freethrow lines.

The second shot went as smoothly as the first and the ball was passed to the other team to be thrown back into play.

A woman stood under the hoop, bounced the ball once, faked two passes, then threw the ball to her teammate. A clear area became a flurry of activity, resolved into an orange streak. Coming at her face. She heard and felt a commotion beside and behind her, but she only saw the player--her player--flying and spinning in slow motion. A long powerful hand, ropy veins and tendons, curved around the ball, caving it in, forcing it back into play; the body continued to spin towards Scully. She stood and waited.

The hand curled into a wrist, an arm. Beautifully defined muscles played like a piano. Tricep folded into bicep, formed a shoulder, round, hard, soft, wet, warm and salty against her mouth. Scully's arms rose around the body, fingers caressed a hip flexed with the effort of flight, a stomach rippling with the effort of twisting and pushing against air. The impact threw her back a step, but she curved her body to receive it, to cushion and welcome the other body. A hard, round ass against her own soft stomach, rubbing against her crotch, the back rubbed against her nipples, hot, wet, and erect with the other's sweat seeping through her silk blouse and lace bra. And they were falling, backwards, past the seat, to the floor. Her mouth was still open, her lips moving against the other, tongue lapping sweat, shocked by the salt, heat, arousal. Falling. Her nose flared with a scent unlike any other: spicy, clean, aggressive, female. Her teeth ran along the flesh, soft, hot silk sheathing hard muscle. And she bit, ever so lightly, ever so sharp, just to feel, to taste, to know that flesh, that heat against her own. To penetrate it, mark it, remember it.

"Are you all right?"

Scully looked up into that intelligent, feral face. Her lips, breasts and cunt were still sensitized and electric; she smiled and sighed.

"Yes, I'm fine."


The End.


Warning: This thread may contain sexual innuendo including, but not limited to, the discussion of the male anatomy and/or games played involving the derriere. Do not drink and read.--Tina

When you live in the shadow of insanity, the appearance of another mind that thinks and talks as yours does is something close to a blessed event. -R. Pirsig