Coffee by Cynthia J
STORIES ON THIS SITE ARE INTENDED FOR ADULTS ONLY
DISCLAIMERS:
* "The X-Files" is the creation and exclusive property of Chris Carter et al. Yeah right. The way a pearl is the exclusive property of an oyster! Sorry, Chris. Try to think of it as flattery rather than theft. At least I'm not in this for the money!
* Warning: NC-17 - This story contains sexual imagery that may be deemed inappropriate for minors and repressed adults. In fact, this file is rife with horrid Boschian panoramas of unspeakable acts of perversion with goats, crustaceans and three-toed tree sloths, rancorous uses of fruit by-products, the incantation of demons through bizarre whipped-cream rituals and repeated, heartless humiliation of the basic tenets of Nature. And that's just in the disclaimer section! In all seriousness, this story is more sensual than it is sexual. However, sex is a resident and--I assure you--it is quite tame and normal. If you are more of a major than a minor and have no misgivings about erotica, sex would just like to invite you for a cup of coffee in its apartment. No, it's not going to take weird pictures of you or approach you with gherkins or anything! Let me assure you that it has a very tasteful and cozy home decorated in a sharp balance of bohemian and metropolitan. It's not like it lives in a greasy shack and belongs to some bizarre, hate-driven militia. It's a friend and has taste. Share a cup and relax. Life moves too fast; it's time to slow down.
* To further avoid suit and to generally be a nuisance, let me state again that everything even remotely related to "The X-Files" is the undisputed property of Chris Carter et al. This story is a flagrant misappropriation of his work and exists without his permission. I've had to move to a subterranean vault to escape the marauding gangs of lawyers and heavily armed patent officers. They're very interested in the millions I make off these stories and the companion line of mugs, T-shirts and action figures. Oh sure I'm rich, but I breathe through a makeshift pipeline of drinking straws and live a very lonely, hollow existence. Don't follow the path of this wayward fool, my friend. Respect property laws and never use your imagination. :) In truth, it is out of the greatest respect that I humbly employ Chris Carter's characters and premise to shape erotica. Lighten up.
* Please do not distribute or post my stories, I beg of you. I want this writing to stay at this site. Take a snapshot for yourself but don't make reprints. In all seriousness, I'm really self-conscious about my writing, and I prefer to have it ridiculed in only one spot at a time. I might take it on tour as a circus attraction someday, but for now I only want to see rotten tomatoes flying at this site. Be kind to the rest of the site, though. I'll martyr myself in its name.
* "Buns of Steel" is the property of fitness instructor Tamilee Webb, and the patented "clench-n-flex" system is... oops, wrong disclaimer. Sorry. Strike that.
* Today's story is brought to you by WABE (Writers Against Bulk E-mailers). This is my own private crusade against the relentless onslaught of junk e-mail that I have to weed through daily to discover that I don't actually have any real letters. If we really want to know about super vitamins, mutual funds or enema kits, I believe we are intelligent enough to seek out information on our own. There's a fine line between propaganda and intrusion. Even though it doesn't waste paper like standard junk mail, bulk e-mail is more annoying. We're paying for this time, after all! Even though you'll probably just end up talking to a machine, write them back and voice your displeasure. Is there no place we can escape the mad murmur of consumerism?!?
* Let me point out that none of these stories connect--with the exception of the episodic ones. (Speaking of which: yes, I'm writing more. The last thing I want to do is keep you hanging.) Think of them as separate realities, alternate possibilities. If you've read any of my other stories (thank you, by the way--your self-punishment is laudable!), please cast aside any preconceptions. It's time to start anew.
* To brace you for any future disappointment, let me confess that there is no explicit action in this story. It's kind of a sensual exploration. I hope you enjoy it.
* I would like to apologize for the fact that these disclaimers are growing exponentially, but they're fun to write. Please excuse my tendency to rant: I don't get much sleep anymore. These disclaimers are like a bank of commercials before a show you're not even sure you're going to like. Thanks for your patience. Well, we're on the eve of the story at last, but I have some sad news to share. As you weeded through the mad tangle above, decades screamed past. You're now well past your sexual peak and have more of an interest in playing golf, mismatching your clothes and muttering about why the next generation is so screwed up than you do in reading erotica. I'm sorry to have done this to you. I've taken so much. Now let me give a little... :) -Cynthia
Coffee by Cynthia J
exclusively for this site
The neon hummed against the glass, against the night. The glowing tubes twisted and curved around each other, gracefully entwining to form in pink and green the words "Vesper Cafe." Dark puddles threw back the light in blurred bands. The drizzle surged into a full cloudburst, and drops soon slid down the glass. Mulder turned his eyes from the window and checked his watch again. An hour stood between them and their flight. He flipped over the newspaper and returned halfheartedly to the crossword puzzle.
Scully sipped at her coffee. Documents and case reports dominated her half of the table. Having sorted through a few of the papers, she sank back into her laptop again, the soft tap of her keystrokes mimicking the rain. She wanted to get the final case report finished before the trip home. With everything out of the way, she was looking forward to sleeping on the plane. Thunder grumbled, clearing its throat for a performance yet to come.
They sat face-to-face in a booth astride a huge window. Dangling above them, the neon sign chattered at itself, buzzing one moment and droning the next. Splashes of pink and green reflected down the length of the glass. Between Mulder and Scully lay an enormous tabletop that kept them at a distance: a safe distance. The large gap allowed for privacy and spared them the conversational pressure closeness would not forgive.
Between the rain and the soft, self-involved murmur of the coffee shop, the moment was almost charming. They trusted one another implicitly, which afforded a degree of comfort, but personal ground was rarely trod. Between them lay the silence of respect, of companionship. The only similarities they had stumbled upon were their tragedies, and those were best left buried in their private plots. Besides, their partnership compromised intimacy.
Mulder spilled his coffee. As he scrambled to catch the hot flood with napkins, Scully snapped up and dabbed at the spill from her side. She glanced at him sideways, a smirk nestled in the corner of her mouth, and placed the papers out of harm's reach in her briefcase.
"Too much coffee?" she mused, making eye contact with him for the first time in over half an hour.
"Not enough," he said, holding her gaze only for a second. He chuckled dryly at himself and finished sopping up the spill.
Having watched them struggle for several seconds, their waitress wandered by to wipe down the table, a grin poised to engulf her face. Looking over their embarrassed smiles, she tried to gauge their relationship. As she dabbed at the tabletop, she could sense a tension, the tremble of muzzled feelings. It was clear to her that they were both repressed and buried to their necks in denial. She had seen it all before.
The table agleam, she stepped back and looked them over again. "What else can I get you two?" she said, digging out her pad and pen. "Is there something else you want?" She fixed each with a knowing stare and frowned a little when they pondered the face value of her question, missing her undertone utterly.
"I'll have a piece of the cherry cheesecake," Scully said politely and settled back into her laptop.
"Do you have sweet potato pie?" Mulder asked. The waitress cocked an eyebrow and shook her head. "Then I'll just have more coffee." He glanced almost imperceptibly at Scully before pretending to look over his newspaper again. Elbow on the table, he perched his chin upon his palm and stared out the window again. The waitress sighed and walked away.
A great rumble of thunder made their window wobble. In moments, the rain intensified, sizzling loudly on the pavement. Rivulets of water meandered down the glass in disorganized groups. Scully glanced up from her screen for a split-second, taking a mental snapshot of his face before retreating into the laptop. She was convinced he had nothing more than a professional or--at best--a fraternal interest in her. They were friends, she supposed. However, the wanting was in her again, and behind it the irrational desire to risk a good relationship for a bit of pleasure, of release. She tried to wad up those feelings and pitch them aside, but her imagination kept pondering the lines of his face, the tense pulse of his lips. Brow furrowed, she typed noisily and tried to leash her attention to the case report.
Feigning interest in the rain, Mulder listened closely to her furious typing. He imagined those elegant fingers moving deftly, pistoning determinedly. He shook from his mind an impulsive image of how they could be put to better use and berated himself for not keeping a tighter rein on those thoughts. He knew she had no feelings for him. Professionally, they made a good team. Personally, he felt fortunate to have her for a friend, such as their friendship was. I don't want to screw up what we have, he thought. The rain drummed restlessly, almost sympathetically. He grimaced, wishing time would move faster.
The waitress returned, laying the plate on the table and refilling their cups. She laid their check in the middle. "I brought you some more napkins," she said, almost in bold letters. "I figured you could use them." She carefully placed a folded napkin before each of them and fled as though she had lit a firecracker on their table. Scully nodded absently and continued typing, forcing her eyes to stay within the confines of the screen. Mulder shrugged and turned to stare back into the storm.
In the flooding parking lot, a young couple beneath a black umbrella rushed out of the night toward the cafe. The man's "Nietzsche Sucks" T-shirt had caught Mulder's eye and inspired a smirk. He watched them in earnest, happy for any distraction. Puddles erupted under their feet as they ran. The woman's damp, red dress clung like a second skin, leaving only her birthmarks to the imagination. Mulder suddenly imagined Scully out there, her hair wet and disheveled, her conservative grey suit functionally transparent. When the woman almost stumbled, they both stopped abruptly, laughing as they tried not to trip over each other.
Since they were thoroughly drenched, the man let the umbrella fall to the ground. It rocked slightly and collected the rain like a scalloped bowl. Having brushed her soaked hair aside, he held the woman's face and kissed her ravenously. Affected deeply, her body swayed and began to writhe against his. She steadied herself against his shoulders. Mulder pictured himself tasting the raindrops on Scully's lips, feeling the incredible warmth stirring beneath her cold, damp clothes. He thought of the rain washing away the rest of the world and leaving only the two of them.
A sudden thunderclap startled the couple and snapped Mulder out of his reverie. The pair laughed into the storm. Eyes wide and passionate, the woman stared at her companion and spoke, her hands roaming his drenched body. The rain and the glass barred the words from Mulder, but he gleaned their sentiment and grumbled jealously. Mischief in her smile, she tugged the man back the way they had come. He reached momentarily toward the umbrella before waving dismissively at it and dashing away with the woman. Mulder lost track of them in the dark and soon found himself staring at his own reflection. He groaned quietly and ruffled his hair.
He glanced disinterestedly over the puzzle again. A six-letter word for "sweltering" beginning with "s" and ending with "y." A scrawl of a smirk appeared on his face. He penned "c-u-l-l" into the blanks and sighed, frustrated by the cycle of his thoughts.
Scully peeked over her screen. "Having trouble?" she asked.
"No," he lied. "I'm doing fine." He folded the paper and laid his pen across it. Sinking against the booth, Mulder let his head fall back. He stared at the back of the sign, listening for advice in the neon's erratic hum.
Scully pushed the computer aside and seized her fork. With the first bite, she hummed luxuriously and quickly cut away another bit. At least this is satisfaction to some degree, she thought, gobbling another bite. She cautiously watched her partner stare at the sign. His jaw was clenched, his neck tense and his breathing seemed erratic. To her he seemed impatient and trapped. She worried that he was bored by her company, that he couldn't wait until they left. She found little solace in the next creamy bite.
Mulder straightened, and she pretended to review her report as she snacked. Smiling weakly, he looped his fingers around the handle of his cup and halfheartedly watched the rain. The umbrella tipped to one side under the weight of the rain and spilled some of the water that was threatening to drown it. He sipped at his coffee and tried not to empathize.
On her way back from bussing a table, their waitress paused to watch them. Eyes rolling, she wanted to slap them both awake. Their feigned apathy was turning her stomach. With one last apprehensive look at their folded napkins, she hustled into the kitchen.
From the corner of her eye, Scully watched his lips as they hugged the rim of his cup once more. They looked tense but receptive. Questions bubbled up and vivid images answered them. Would his lips feel hard or soft? Would his kiss be fast and desperate, hungry and overwhelming? Or would it be tender and unending, careful and indulgent, like a massage? How would her lips feel to him? Would they inspire him? Would her lips tense or quiver when held by his? Would he find that exciting?
Shaking the chorus of questions from her mind, she was surprised to find the cheesecake gone, a lone cherry left behind in the center of the plate. A smirk tickling the corner of her mouth, she laid the fork on the plate and spared the cherry. Instead, Scully sipped her coffee. Turned toward the screen, she peeked again. She wondered what he saw in the rain with such glum fascination: he would not bring his attention inside where it was warm and dry. He gulped more coffee, and she chided herself for feeling envious of a cup. She could well imagine him tipping her to his lips and consuming her greedily.
Having centered the laptop in front of her, she resumed typing. "His lips steal mine, and suddenly there are no barriers," she wrote. "His hands are in my hair, inside my clothes, upon my skin. His kiss holds me fast, and his eyes burn with fiery promise." She paused for another swallow of coffee and smiled at herself when she found the cup empty. Subtly staring, she sought more inspiration. The case report had been finished for a while. An old haunt, the erotica file had been something she toyed with when work was done. She believed it balanced that contained, clinical side of her: the side others saw. The side he sees, she thought, the corners of her mouth drooping.
Warned by a telltale itch, Scully snatched up her napkin and sneezed loudly into it. Mulder jumped, and a grin rescued his resolute face. Heads turned their way. As Scully dabbed at her nose with the crinkled napkin, the waitress grimaced. An embarrassed flush bloomed on Scully's cheeks, and her eyes rolled nervously back and forth. Mulder whispered something about planning their escape before the local seismologists came to investigate. She laughed, her self-consciousness dissolved. Smiling absently, Mulder finished his coffee, tipping the cup high.
Scooping up the cherry, Scully wondered if it wasn't time other desires were fulfilled. As she lifted the fork to her mouth, the cherry fell off and rolled over the back of her hand, leaving a sticky, red trail. Sighing, she laid the fork on the plate and searched for something with which to wipe her hand.
"Here," Mulder said. "Use mine." He offered her his napkin. She unfolded it and dabbed at her skin. When she was done, she glanced at the stained napkin, and her brow furrowed. "She wants you" was scrawled in ball-point. Baffled, she glanced around the cafe and realized the waitress was watching her. The woman quickly hung her head and clapped her hand over her eyes. Scully's eyes bugged, and she turned to stare at Mulder, who was fidgeting with his pen. Uncertain how to interpret her bewildered look, he shrugged.
He glanced at his watch and started. "We've got to get moving, Scully." He quickly laid bills over the check as he stood. Scully stashed the laptop in her briefcase and rose, thoughts simmering in her head. They quickly shrugged on their coats. Scully's head buzzed. Suddenly very self-conscious, she peeked over her shoulder as she followed Mulder into the rain. The cold drops only made her feel how flushed her cheeks were. Bewildered, she didn't notice how thoroughly the rain soaked her.
She glanced back and caught the eye of the waitress clearing their table. Frustration seethed in the woman's eyes. Thoughts and feelings blurring, Scully wondered what the woman saw in her, what inspired the attraction. Her cheeks burned. She was convinced she wouldn't be napping on the plane as planned.
Splashing ahead, Mulder rescued the umbrella, tipping the water from it and shaking it. Falling in step beside her, he held the umbrella over them and smirked. They had walked several paces before she noticed. She looked a question. He shrugged. "Go with it, Scully."
-Cynthia J exclusively for this site
| Stories | Links | Awards | Submissions | E-Mail | Bobbi's Blabber |
| New: Off-site Stories | Read the Guestbook | Home |
AEA has been salvaged & archived by x-sites.org. "The X-Files" is ©1013 Productions and Fox Television.
This is clearly a fan site and does not generate any profit
More information is available at xf-redux.com
