From thalia@goodnet.com Mon Jan 13 13:38:14 1997 SPEC-TACULAR by Thalia D'Muse Summary: Scully spec-ulates about her partner and his glasses. Classification/Rating: VRA, PG-13 (for some naughty Scully thoughts ) Spoilers/Warnings: None. Archivists/Newsgroups: I give permission for 'Spec-tacular' to be posted on the archives and newsgroups as long as my name, e-mail addy and intro remain intact. Disclaimer: You know, this really gets monotonous after a while... Fox Mulder and Dana Scully are not mine. Chris Carter and all of his little corporate buddies at Fox and 1013 own these characters, but I'm going to play with them while they're not looking. Author's Notes: OK, Amy - you asked for it, you got it! This story is in answer to Amy Clayborn's challenge to write a story involving a bespectacled Mulder. This piece is a bit different for me, so let me know what y'all think. Please send all feedback to . Special thanks to Charli for her constant encouragement and for her Never Say Never series, which served as inspiration for this vignette. And now, may I present... SPEC-TACULAR by Thalia D'Muse He has no idea, does he? He has absolutely no idea what he does to me when he wears those glasses. It's amazing, really, what a pair of light wire frames can do. I'm truly in awe at the way those small circular pieces of metal can soften his face and change his expression from something so serious and intense to something more relaxed, more sophisticated, more innocent. More sexy. More irresistible. I'm entranced at the little mannerisms that accompany the glasses, namely the way he chews on his bottom lip. It's automatic. I think the acts are instinctually linked. The frames go on, the tongue darts out and the teeth start lightly gnawing on that wonderfully full lip. Every time. And whenever I see him raise those wire frames to his beautiful face, perching them upon his long nose, I get a shiver that starts at the base of my neck and travels straight down to my core. Every time. He truly has no idea. He doesn't know that most of my fantasies about him begin with those glasses. The setting is different in each, but the end result is always the same. We will be in the office, at his apartment, my apartment, or in some hotel room in a strange town. He is seated in a chair, reading through a file, gnawing on that bottom lip. I rise from where I am seated and approach him. He looks up at me, silently questioning me with those hauntingly expressive hazel eyes, now magnified by the lenses of his glasses. I touch his still-moist lip with my fingertip, tracing a line up to his temple. I lift the glasses from his face and begin to lay soft kisses where the frames touched his head. Starting behind one ear, I work my way around to the front, paying special attention to the bridge of his nose where those glasses have spent so many hours, perched like little windows promising to reveal to me the real Fox Mulder. I kiss away the small indentations that the frames have made in his skin and continue on until I reach his other ear. With one little nip on his earlobe for good measure, I lift my head from him and replace the glasses on his face. Smiling at him, I touch that bottom lip again, then turn to leave. He always stops me, grabbing my arm and pulling me toward him. He kisses me with an intensity that threatens to burn me from the inside out. He rises from his chair, embracing me and running his hands along my body, leaving paths of fire behind. Breaking the kiss, we both scour the room with our eyes, desperately searching for the nearest flat surface. Sometimes it's a bed, other times it's the floor, or my personal favorite, his desk. He lowers me to that surface and he makes love to me, sometimes slowly, sometimes frenzied, always passionately. And always with the glasses on. He really doesn't know. He doesn't realize the power he has over me when he looks at me from behind those glasses. My entire stoic facade threatens to melt before his eyes. My gaze remains steady, though my pulse begins to race. I meet his eyes with my own, praying that their color doesn't cloud and darken with desire. I smile and act nonchalant, all the while fighting the butterflies for control of my stomach. But I've become very good at hiding the effects of his bespectacled stare. I can't let him know how he affects me. He would never take advantage of the situation, I know. That's not what worries me. The loss of control I feel invading my body every time I think of what it would be like to make love to him, to feel him on me, in me... that's what worries me. He still has no idea. And if I have anything to do with it, he never will. THE END