TITLE:   The Cause of the Effect
AUTHOR:  Lara Means
E-MAIL:  LaraMeansXF@aol.com 
WEBSITE: http://larameansxf.tripod.com/ 
CATEGORY:  MSR
CLASSIFICATION:  VRA
RATING:  NC-17 
KEYWORDS:  Angsty erotica.
ARCHIVE:  Gossamer, NO; Spookys, NO (I'll submit directly to 
both); Ephemeral, YES; Xemplary, YES; anywhere else, YES, but if 
possible please let me know

SPOILERS:  Emily, Closure.  (post-Closure; time frame 
indeterminate)

SUMMARY:  When guilt and grief have bled your soul dry, what's 
left?  And who'll pick up the pieces?

DATE POSTED:  08/15/00

FEEDBACK:  Encouraged and welcomed at LaraMeansXF@aol.com 

DISCLAIMER:  "The X-Files" is copyright Twentieth Century Fox 
Television and Ten Thirteen Productions.  The show, its premise 
and characters were created by Chris Carter and are used here 
without permission.  No copyright infringement is intended, no 
profit will be realized.  (I've also borrowed the name of a 
character from Carter's "Millennium" as a pseudonym.  Same 
disclaimer applies.)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You sit alone at the bar and all you want to do is drink 
yourself into a stupor.  But she won't let you.  She walks right 
up to you and sits down next to you.  She doesn't say anything 
for a moment, until the bartender comes over to ask if you want 
another one, and he asks her too.  She orders something you'd 
never think of for her -- Jack and water.  Funny, you've always 
considered her more of a wine drinker, beer maybe, but hard 
liquor never occurred to you.  You, of course, just drink 
scotch.  Straight scotch.  No ice, no water, nothing to dull the 
burning of the alcohol as it slides down your throat.

You sit there next to her for what seems like hours.  You can't 
remember having more than one or two drinks since she sat down, 
but you can't exactly trust your own memory these days.  Then 
the little band comes back from a break and strikes up a nifty 
cryin'-in-yer-beer tune.  Wonderful.  Just what you need.  
Country & Western angst.

"Dance with me," she says.  You don't say anything, you hope 
she'll just go away, but she doesn't take the hint.  She takes 
your hand instead and drags you off the bar stool, draws you 
onto the postage-stamp sized dance floor.  She places your hands 
at her waist, wraps hers around your neck, and pulls you close.  
It's almost like you're holding each other up.  Appropriate, 
tonight.

You sway together, barely keeping time with the music, just 
moving against each other.  You feel yourself getting hard -- 
almost an involuntary thing with her by now, you want her so 
badly.  You *need* her.

Then the band starts playing that song "How Do I Live," and you 
think how much the girl singer sounds like Trisha Yearwood.  And 
you sing along in your head.  How do I live without you?  How do 
I breathe without you?  If you ever go, how will I ever, ever 
survive...?

And you fall apart inside.

You can't fall apart outside, of course.  Not now.  You have to 
be strong.

Especially now.

But you're not sure why.  Why this grief has settled in your 
soul, why it feels like you'll never be whole again.

What you *do* know is that she can Make It Better.  So you pull 
her closer, so close she can't help but feel your arousal 
through your tight jeans, and you make your desperate need known 
to her.  You press hot, wet kisses to her throat.  You whisper 
her name, your voice ragged, and she moans a little.  And oh god 
it feels like she's thrusting against your hard-on.

Now you're devouring her, feasting on her mouth, her tongue, 
her... *her*.  And she's more than your equal in this.  Her hands 
are in your hair, molding you to her, making this kiss 
impossibly deeper.  Your hands are on her ass, encouraging that 
little thrusting motion, caressing a part of her you never 
thought you'd be able to touch.

All you want right now is her.

To fuck her.

To fuck her until neither of you can see straight.

Still, you're surprised when she takes the lead.

"Let's get out of here," she whispers, tugging on the collar of 
your leather jacket.  You're not sure you can walk, but you 
follow her anyway.

Her room is closer, so that's where you go.

Once in the room, you have her up against the wall, the door, 
the dresser.  She pushes at your leather jacket until it falls 
to the floor, and you do the same with hers.  Her eager little 
hands get underneath your tee-shirt and you both gasp when her 
skin touches yours.  You tear your mouth away from hers just 
long enough to yank the sweater over her head and the tee-shirt 
over yours.  Your hands are the eager ones now, kneading and 
squeezing her tits through pale satin and lace.  You fumble with 
the clasp until she just does it herself, baring her body to 
you.

You devour her tits as you devoured her mouth, lapping and 
sucking at them like a starving child.  She throws her head back 
and welcomes your attack, hungry for the touch of another 
person, another human being.  Now is not the time for tender 
words or gentle actions.  You both need to know you're alive, 
and the only way to know that right now is to fuck each other 
senseless.

She reaches for your jeans and tugs the zipper down, almost too 
fast, then shoves her hands inside to take hold of your cock.  
She squeezes and fondles and strokes you and it's been so long, 
so fucking long since anyone's hand but your own has touched you 
there...

Oh god oh god oh god...  Too good, this is too good...

Certain that if she doesn't stop you'll explode, you pull her 
hands away.  Then you give back as good as you got -- your hands 
in her jeans, in her panties, in *her*.  Her moans are nearly 
constant now, and she starts to tremble, to shudder as you work 
her clit and finger-fuck her.

Neither of you can stand another minute of this -- you both shed 
the rest of your clothes and fall onto the bed together.  Her 
thighs are open beneath you, and you shove yourself into her.

She's so fucking wet -- wet for *you*, your brain dimly 
registers.  She wants *you*.  And you're inside her.  Inside 
*her*.  Where you've always wanted to be.  Where you need to be.

And oh god it feels good.

She wraps her legs around you, lifting her hips, encouraging you 
to move.  So you do.  You pull almost all the way out, then 
drive back into her.  Then you do it again.  And again.  And 
again.  You're in so deep, you're sure you'll lose yourself in 
her.  Not a totally bad thing.

You want this to be good for her.  Not just some desperate act 
of lust or need, but *good*.  From the way she's moaning and 
whispering your name, she's enjoying it, but you want her to 
*really* enjoy it.  Your manhood is at stake here.

You snake a hand between your bodies to find her clit again.  
You know when you've found it by her sharp gasp and the bite of 
her fingernails into your shoulders.  You rub it just hard 
enough, and you let your pubic bone press your fingers against 
it with every thrust.  She's loving this, you can tell -- she 
struggles to keep her eyes open, to keep her eyes from rolling 
back in her head.

Then, all of a sudden, she's coming.  Her body shudders, her 
walls quiver and ripple around your cock.  Christ, the feel of 
her.  It's almost as if you've never had sex before in your 
life, it's so incredible.

This feels so fucking good, so goddamn right.

Now you feel free to be selfish, to drive toward your own 
release.  You pound into her, slam into her even as she trembles 
in your arms.  Ordinarily you're a sensitive lover, not only 
making sure your partner comes but that she has a chance to 
recover before you go for it.  But tonight you're not that man.  
Tonight, at this moment, you're an inconsiderate prick.  Now 
that she's had her chance, it'