From: "e. b.e." Date: Tue, 05 Dec 2000 18:49:54 -0000 Subject: New: Interrupted Source: direct Rating: This part, PG-13...will be NC-17 by the time I'm done. Archive: Will send to Gossamer separately. All others can grab it if they want it. Oh, you want it, you know you do. Spoilers: Extremely mild. Blink and you miss 'em. Basically a time line free piece, although it obviously takes place either before Mulder's abduction or in some as yet unknown future. Keywords: MSR, Scully POV Summery: Daydreams discovered Disclaimer: Santa gave them to me for Christmas...what do you mean, there's no such thing as Santa? Then who was the big fat man in my room! Oh Lord... (translation: Ain't mine. Belong to others. Making no money) Author's notes: I'm baaaaaaack! Did anyone miss me? Yeah, that's what I thought. Bunch of ingrates. Anyhow, this is the first in what I think will be a four, possibly five part series. Very little plot. I've always enjoyed stories that drag out the anticipation, so I thought I'd try my hand at it. By the way, I'm also having a contest. Each part will feature a song quite heavily but never refer to it explicitly. First person to name all the songs wins...um...a big sloppy kiss from me. Hey, I'm poor, what can I say? Incidentally, all lyrics used without permission. What can I say, I steal television characters, now I'm pilfering music... All hail Bonnie, the finest beta reader in all the land. You rule. Interrupted by e.b.e. (ebe1013@hotmail.com) He sits at his desk, tie loosened and askew, shirt sleeves rolled up to reveal dark wiry hair, smooth tan flesh. Even as I watch one of those arms moves, lifts, slender fingers pressing absently on the bridge of his glasses, guiding them back to balance at the top of his distinctive nose. That same hand strays to his hair, short spikes flattening briefly under his palm before returning to their natural state of abandon. And yet as much as I enjoy looking at all these parts of his anatomy, they are only an afterthought, little visual side trips when I fear my gaze has too long rested on my favorite spot. His lips. Beneath my covert appraisal they purse and pout, close gently around a pencil or a seed. Full, mobile, sometimes swollen and glistening when he takes the bottom strip of flesh between his teeth, nibbling gently, then soothes the site with the practiced flick of this tongue. Yes, his mouth would definitely be my Achilles heel. Sometimes, when he spouts yet another insane theory (never mind that he's usually correct), I find my mind drifting, my eyes glued to that sensual mouth as it twists and writhes around vowels and consonants. I can't even count the number of times I've had to mentally douse myself with cold water, anything to force myself to concentrate on the words that spill from his lips rather than the orifice itself. In fact, I'm staring now, powerless to turn away as yet another seed is selected, placed delicately on the tip of his tongue, which curls and draws it further inward. His jaw tenses deliberately, the soft crush of fragile shell audible even over the sursurration in my ears. Then his tongue appears again, works in harmony with those lips, spitting salt and saliva and shell fragments into the Styrofoam cup on his desk. The entire procedure leaves his lips moist, parted slightly, and before I can catch myself a small sigh whispers in the quiet of the room. I manage to duck my head before his raises. I can feel his eyes slide over me; finding me presumably immersed in my work, he abandons his perusal and return to the form laid out in front of him. Heart hammering in my chest, I keep my gaze pinned studiously to the expense report I've been working on for what seems like forever. Guilty delicious fear floods my face, that I almost allowed my dangerous obsession to be discovered, that my secret is still safe. Too smart to allow my eyes to wander again, I instead make do with memories, fantasies. I have dozens of MulderMouth fantasies, some of them erotic enough to put even those videos he doesn't own to shame. But today I select my favorite, the oldest, sharpest of the bunch. Almost tame in comparison to some of the raunchier ones, but still enough to make my blood boil. My eyes close briefly as I imagine... What would happen if we kissed? We have kissed, I know. Comforting brush of lips against foreheads and cheeks, tender reassurances in hospitals, after tragedies. Even less frequently his breath mixing with mine as our mouths align, abortive almost in his hallway, nervous tentative touch on New Year's, our first and only lip to lip contact. And it was good, sweet and trembling, little tingles skittering up and down my spine then and every time I've thought about it since. But it was so much less that I'd dreamed for, hoped for, awkward exchange after the fact representative of our uncertainty. I wouldn't trade it for anything, yet it served only to whet my appetite, fan the flames. What would happen if we really kissed? Hesitant at first, I've always imagined, our breathing faltering, suspended as the reality settles in our shocked, repressed brains. Break, gasp, gaze to confirm it is real, pause to assure the other of our mutual desire. Return. Hot, wet, flavor of coffee, seeds, Mulder washing over my taste buds, reverberation of his moans against my palate. I can almost feel his arms tightening around my waist, the soft bristle of his hair tickling my palms. It is urgency, passion, an explosion of emotion and sensation as our lips meet, again and again, in my mind. Would your tongue slip past my lips? Of course, thick and slick and warm, dancing across my teeth and gums, laving the roof of my mouth. My own tongue responds in kind, flicking playfully over that insanity-provoking lower lip before diving into the haven of his mouth, tasting, savoring, drinking him in. Would you run away? There is that possibility, little frissons of terror and doubt bringing that dreaded scenario to the forefront on rare, troubling occasions. Fear in his eyes, raspy apology as he tries to explain it away, tries to repair the tear before we are rendered asunder. Rarer still, practically non-existent, I pull away, echoing safe status quo over the brightly burning unknown. Only when I am angry or disappointed with him does this path present itself, turning pleasure to shame. Would you stay? So much more likely, I think. We've remained practically inseparable through catastrophes and death, so why would this prove the catalyst? Even were it to happen and then one of us (not I, surely?) decide it was a mistake, we would stay together, our partnership stronger than mere awkwardness or unrequited desire. If they would pull us apart, we would not be together now. But more than that I think we would stay in that moment, locked in an embrace of bodies and mouths. I can't fathom plunging so deeply only to retreat, my dream encounter invariably leading to more than simple kisses. Impossible that either of us would choose to sip when we could drown, sink beneath the surface of an eternity of pent-up longing. I would willingly surrender, surfacing only when we were both sated, complete. I would melt into you. Electric, brush of hands and fevered lips. I am totally immersed in this fantasy, his fingers trailing phantom fire over my flesh. My senses are stripped bare, naked need, raw primal feeling. There is no time, no place; I am defenseless, unable to comprehend anything except him, his taste and scent and body. Lust meeting lust, burning, spontaneously combust. All from a kiss. Whoever said that a kiss is just a kiss obviously never spent the better part of seven plus years longing for one. Hard, bruising kisses now as my daydream takes its usual turn, his mouth and mine clashing, forceful, greedy as hands and bodies seek their pleasure. Endless possibilities, parallel realities weaving with each move, each position, each thrust. And through it all, through the blinding roaring release and molasses blur of aftermath, is his tender mouth. "Scully!" His voice intrudes and reality collapses onto my dream. He looks bemused, standing with his hands on his hips staring down at me. How many times did he say my name before I heard him? My traitorous skin shows my embarrassment, two bright spots of chagrin. "Have you finished that yet?" Not trusting my voice to hold steady, I shake my head. Not likely to be finished any time soon, either, at this rate. I fight to control the flutter of my hands, reassuring myself that it is impossible for him to hear the hammering of my heart. His eyes, deep shifting pools of greens and browns, twinkle merrily, and that treacherous, gorgeous mouth twitches at the corners. "Something on your mind, Scully? Something more interesting than government forms?" Bastard, to tease me like this, but all I can see are those lips. Talk about your one track mind. He isn't done yet, though. Emerald, those dangerous glittering eyes as he leans closer, breaching the tissue paper thin wall of air that separates us. I can't see his mouth anymore. Instead I feel it, the shivering dance of his breath against my neck, the sensitive shell of my ear. I have to remind myself to breathe. Gravel and honey, the thick husky timbre of his voice as it penetrates the gold red paralysis of my senses. "You seem flustered, Scully. What are you thinking about? Is it something I could help you with? I'd like to help..." My body betrays me with a tiny gasp, a faint shudder, and I know he knows. He knows. He pulls back a little and we are face to face. Frozen, this moment forever etched into my mind as if I were the one with the eidetic memory. The heavy lidded smolder of his stare, the stain of color high on his cheeks, the soft frantic burst his breath against my suddenly dry mouth. And his lips, wet, parted, brief glimpse of hard white enamel and then my own eyes slip shut against the dizzying sensory overload and we move, together, to make fantasy a reality... "Am I interrupting something, Agents?" We shoot apart, my chair squeaking hideously in my skid, papers flying off the desk in the wake of Mulder's spin. AD Skinner stands in the doorway, hands on his hips, stern blank face revealing nothing. "You were due in my office to discuss a new case fifteen minutes ago. Are we having a problem with punctuality this morning?" My face feels like I'm on the verge of bursting into a huge, humiliated flame. Even my usually glib partner seems momentarily at a loss, stammering something about an eyelash in my eye and we were both on our way up. Skinner raises an eyebrow and nods, leaving as silently as he came, leaving us uncertain and unbalanced. What just almost happened? Was it only a figment of my overworked imagination and neglected libido? On autopilot I don my suit blazer, locate the file in question. Meeting. Case. Normalcy. "Hey Scully," Mulder whispers conspiratorially as we walk toward the elevator, and I turn to look at him. Big mistake. He is all mischief and hope and scared little boy, eyes wide and mouth quivering just the tiniest bit. I almost can't speak around the pounding in my throat. "Yes, Mulder?" "How about a raincheck?" Damn, but that took courage, more than I knew either of us possessed, and I can't help but smile and nod, suddenly bashful in the face of his naked plea. "Thank God," he murmurs in my ear, and the familiar touch of his hand on the small of my back burns. "Thank God. Because I've been wondering too." Even though I know I'm leaving myself wide open, I simply can't resist. "Been wondering what?" His smile is feral, and I know in this instant we are on a journey neither of us has the power, or the inclination, to stop. "The same thing you have, Scully. I've been wondering..." "What would happen if we kissed?" Finis End notes: If you've ever heard the song, it wouldn't be too hard to figure out. I'm not exactly the most subtle person in the world. Anyhow, hope you enjoyed. Feedback encouraged, in fact begged for, at the following address: ebe1013@hotmail.com The second installment is already done, and the third in the works, so throw this poor old dog the bone she needs to keep on going....