Glorious Glutes

..::Glorious Glutes::.. by prChung Challenge (500 words or less to describe our favorite AD's butt...) She was helpless as her gaze automatically began to roam over the tidy smoothness of his rear end. Momentarily, she contemplated whether or not he tucked the tail of his dress shirts into his underwear to get his ass to look so deliciously smooth beneath his trousers. The only other way to achieve such perfection was going commando as they said. She doubted that Skinner was the type to go without underwear; he was far too staunch for such a thing. Watching him pace the room, back and forth, to and fro-Her breath caught in her throat with every forth and every fro. Oh what a wonderful view those forth and froes afforded.The way he walked with absolute poise; his hips rolling with a vigorous grace that tightened and flexed those glorious glutes. No discernable creases, no lines… She straightened in the chair as Skinner walked in her direction once again. He was still going over the case, reading from the file in his hands, his rich voice humming in her ears. She was listening, really and truly, she assured herself as she watched him pivot once again. She leaned forward a bit, her gaze drifting cautiously downward, caressing the gabardine, following the traditional cut of the man's slacks over the plump swell of fine ass. She was beginning to strain her eyes seeking the elusive lines, a trace of seam-Some sign that there wasn't merely a fine wool blend between her and Skinner's keister! On the edge of her seat, fixated with a man's behind and the fascinating notion that- Skinner turned unexpectedly short in his stride, punctuating some decree with his motion, and startled the hell out of his one-woman audience in the process. She straightened just as suddenly, and promptly slipped off the edge of the chair and onto her butt. Silence fell around her and all was still. She didn't dare look up; he would see her chagrin-her total mortifying, humiliating chagrin! "Agent Scully?" she heard him say, and the question, like that fine rounded rump was wrapped quite tightly with incredulity. "Are you all right?" Her tongue was tangled and tied, her eyes fixed on floor when once they had been elsewhere-Oh had he noticed? Had he seen? Did he have any idea---? Of course not! She looked up with imminent resolve. "I'm…" she began and then smiled, and answered quite clearly as he walked toward her, trouser crotch at eye level, "I'm just fine, sir." --End--

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Obscene Matters (4/...)

Startled, Scully stepped back and came up against the counter. Svensen stepped in to close the distance, bringing his painted face close to hers. "I didn't want to be like this," he told her, "I had a fiancé, you know. She was beautiful like you are."

"Bert, please." Scully put her hand on his chest and gently pushed him back as he tried to come in even closer. "I know it's been lonely here."

"You have no idea," he said and pushed against her hand, his lips pursed.



Obscene Matter (4/5)
--by prChung
--Oct. 2005
--Cat: Sk/Sc, UST
--Contact: prChung18@gmail.com

--Note: This started out as my "summer" story, and now that I am finishing it up as Halloween approached, I realize it has taken on a decidedly eerie tone, as well as a bit of humor.



Obscene Matter (4/5)
--by prChung

At the far end of the tiny kitchenette, just beyond a wheeled utility cart was the access way to the delivery tunnel.

Svensen stood watch as Scully and Skinner moved the cart out of the way and ducked their heads into the space to examine the possible escape route.

There was no sound in the dark and narrow tunnel, which dead-ended here at Svensen's domain, only a faint whisper of a steady breeze that ruffled Scully's hair and carried the smell of electrical smoke and oil. The space was black beyond what light let in from the kitchenette area and Scully's penlight, but it definitely led somewhere.

"There's a third rail," Scully noted as she flashed the penlight downward to a set of tracks about eighteen inches below the level of the kitchenette's floor.

"That's electrified, you know." Svensen informed from behind them.

"When does the mail car come, is there a schedule?" Scully asked, coming back into the kitchenette.

"Oh, yes, it's here." Svensen brought a piece of paper for her to see.

Scully looked over the schedule, and then checked her watch. "If this correct," she paused to get confirmation from Svensen, who nodded. "Then there should be another one here in six hours."

"That's an evening car. As you see they come only three times a month." Svensen took the yellowed schedule from her to look at. "You're lucky you came on a day the delivery is scheduled."

"Imagine that," Skinner muttered as he pulled himself back into the kitchenette area.

"How much voltage could be running through that rail?" Scully wondered aloud.

"Probably less than it would be for a larger rail," Skinner surmised, and looked at her.

"But do we really want to find out the hard way?" Scully's question seemed more of a warning. She suspected Skinner would jump down there and try to walk out of here. Wing tips weren't the optimum shoe wear to be tap dancing across a miniature third rail line in the dark with.

Skinner nodded in agreement that seemed somewhat reluctant.

...

Six hours could slip by quickly, and then again it could drag on like an eternity depending on what one choose to do with their time. Svensen choose to do what he had been apparently doing for the last thirty odd years; he played records, sang songs and paged through his photo albums. Scully kept Svensen company while Skinner choose to venture back into the file tunnel to take inventory of what was kept back there.

"I've nearly put all the loose photos into the final album," Svensen explained with a trace of pride as he closed one album and reached for another.

Scully eyed the numerous stacks of albums around the base of the Victrola's stand. Inspite of what these album's contained, the history and visual evidence of a bizarre dark side of the FBI few if any knew existed, she found herself fighting back a groan. She'd seen far more than she ever wanted to; too many parties, too many strange pairings, too many images of young boys and old men consorting in decades long past.

"I think I'll make some more tea," she said and stood from the sofa.

"Oh, I'll make some," Svensen eagerly offered, and started to get up.

"No," Scully said and motioned for him not to get up, but he was already hauling himself up from the floor. "If you don't mind I'll make it."

"I don't mind at all," Svensen told her with a smile. "I'll put on some more music while you make the tea."

In the kitchenette Scully heard 'Moonglow' begin to play again, and after a moment Svensen glided into the room humming. "It's so odd to have guests," he said as he opened a cabinet and took out a round tin. He brought it over to Scully and opened it to expose an assortment of cookies. "I usually go through them pretty quick," he told her quietly. "Maybe I knew I shouldn't this time. Maybe I knew there'd be a special occasion to save them for."

"Maybe you did," Scully agreed.

Without warning something shifted and Svensen's expression intensified as he took a step even closer to her. "It's been so very long," he declared, his tone gone husky with a sudden desperation.

Startled, Scully stepped back and came up against the counter. Svensen stepped in to close the distance, bringing his painted face close to hers. "I didn't want to be like this," he told her, "I had a fiancé, you know. She was beautiful like you are."

"Bert, please." Scully put her hand on his chest and gently pushed him back as he tried to come in even closer. "I know it's been lonely here."

"You have no idea," he said and pushed against her hand, his lips pursed.

"Bert, don't," Scully said, but he plastered his mouth against her, lipstick smearing to her cheek before she managed to give him a shove that forced him back and caused him to drop the tin of cookies.

The round tin bounced and then rolled on its edge scattering cookies across the floor and under the dinette.

Svensen gasped at the sight of his prized treats lost and dropped to his knees in sobs as he tried to gather them.

"What happened?"

Scully turned to see Skinner standing in the doorway looking incredulously back at her. "I," she started, and then, "he..."

Skinner stared at her expectantly.

"Forget it," she exclaimed and knelt to try and help Svensen.

He shrugged off the hand she laid on his shoulder and spat, "I don't need your help. Just go away."

So Scully got up and started out of the kitchenette. Skinner followed her into the parlor and stopped her, his glaze darting back and forth between the smeared lipstick and her eyes. "What happened in there?"

Scully swiped at her face, where she felt the greasy lipstick. "It doesn't matter," she grumbled, now feeling shaky and upset.

"Are you all right?" Skinner pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and started to wipe the lipstick from her face.

Scully pulled away and took the handkerchief from him to do it herself. "Yes, I'm just..." she trailed off and gave Svensen a wary glance. "I'm fine."

"But he's not," Skinner said and drew her attention back to him. "We've only got a few hours until that delivery train arrives. Until then we stay together."

"If you'll excuse me," Svensen announced himself as he came out of the kitchenette. Holding his chin up as he walked past them swiftly and into the bedroom, shutting the door behind him.

"What if that delivery train isn't large enough for us to ride out of here?" Scully asked Skinner.

"That's when we take our chances on that third rail."

Scully nodded, and then her attention drifted to the handkerchief in her hands. Suddenly, her upset was belayed by an odd and charming realization; Walter Skinner carried a handkerchief. A linen one at that.

"I don't think this will come out easily," she said, holding up the lipstick stained cloth.

Skinner glanced down at it. Unaffected, he said, "I have others."

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End - Part 4 of (5?) again, having too much fun with this...
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Obscene Matters (3/...)

Skinner looked up from his pitiful meditation with a pained expression. "We have to get out of here," he muttered to no one in particular and pulled out his cell phone to try once again.

Svensen paused in his perusal of records to watch Skinner use the cell phone. After a moment he looked at Scully quizzically, and asked, "Everyone has one of those thingy's now?"

"It seems like everyone has one," Scully told the man, who upon first seeing their cell phone thought they were cigarette cases. The cells might as well have been vintage cigarette cases since they were completely useless down in this concrete tomb.

Obscene Matter (3/5?)
--by PR
--Oct. 2005
--Cat: Sk/Sc, UST
--Contact: prchung18@gmail.com

--Note: This started out as my "summer" story, and now that I am finishing it up as Halloween approaches, I realize

it has taken on a decidedly eerie tone, as well as a bit of humor. There's some intentional references throughout the story that may be somewhat esoteric, but I hope will prove to be amusing in the end.
Enjoy.

Obscene Matter (3/5?)
--by prChung

Scully was at a complete loss for words.

This went beyond scandal and conspiracy; this was something of legend and gossip. Special Agent Bert Svensen was like some Japanese soldier who had no idea the Second World War had ended.

Skinner looked completely crestfallen. Sitting on the lounge, elbows resting on his thighs as he stared at the Persian rug under his feet; He looked like a man who was about to tell the Pope that God was a well constructed fictional character, and then show him the irrefutable proof.

Svensen made tea to try and help lift their mood, but it didn't do much to help. The delicate tea service Svensen used only seemed to reinforce the awful truth of the matter at hand.

Scully looked back at the photo Skinner had brought to her attention-- the photo she'd been forced to put face down on the table. Spacecrafts and alien bodies hidden on a secret airbase in the desert was not the best kept secret anymore.

Restless, Scully got from the overstuffed chair she'd commandeered and went to the table of framed photos. She stared at the photo in question for a moment, and then picked it up to look at more closely, perhaps this time she'd find some telltale sign of it being fake.

There was always the possibility the photo was doctored, but after Svensen had granted them access to some of the file cabinets she knew more than likely the photo was genuine. Still, she searched the image, and searched.

After an intolerably long moment Scully had to look away. She put down the picture, repulsed. A flouncy black dress, heels and a curly dark wig along with a lot of makeup had not been enough to disguise the unmistakable chiseled features of J. Edgar Hoover.

What were they to do? Did they take the responsibility of perpetuating this cover up? Was it even a cover up? Was this simply the facts that were kept out of the public eye for obvious reasons?

Scully glanced at Svensen, he was sitting on the floor in front of the Victrola going through records humming along to 'Doing What Comes Natur'lly.' She winced at the thought of what needed to be done for this poor man. His life was lost to a lie. Bert Svensen had no clue he had been protecting the secret and very personal files of someone now dead over thirty years.

Svensen's own file was back in the passageway. With something sandwiched between pride and shame he'd pointed it out to Scully and Skinner; 'Northstar' the file was labeled, and contained the court documents not only detailing the official change of his sexual identity but the final orders of the Bureau's Director that Svensen remain "undercover" and in seclusion for purposes of his own safety and that of national security.

The documents were convenient in their blatant placement; these served to convince Svensen that he had no choice but to stay here in this time capsule buried beneath the Capital. The cruel fact of the matter was Hoover wielded some insidious control from the grave with the help of his secretary and her family.

Arthur Gandy, the kindly store keeper who'd entombed Skinner and Scully, inherited from his dead sister, Helen Gandy, the task of perpetuating the lie Svensen lived. When Hoover died, his obsessively faithful secretary of fifty years had gather and stowed hundreds of Hoover's files. No one had known the extent of those files, only speculated when a handful would surface here and there; files on pinko commie gay radicals like Richard Nixon, Cary Grant, Albert Einstein and George Carlin.

After the McCarthy hearings and the blacklisting no one who paid attention to the contents of the surfacing files were surprised. It was old school bureaucratic bullshit that paled in comparison to the crap going on in the post cold war era. And all of it was here now, guarded like the Holy Grail, not by a Templar knight, but by a confused transexual.

"My tiny baby brother, who's never read a book," Svensen sang along with the record happily, "Knows one sex from the other. All he had to do was look..."

Svensen was going to need therapy for a long time, and even with therapy, Scully thought, there was no guarantee the man would have any type of normal life before he died.

Skinner looked up from his pitiful meditation with a pained expression. "We have to get out of here," he muttered to no one in particular and pulled out his cell phone to try once again.

Svensen paused in his perusal of records to watch Skinner use the cell phone. After a moment he looked at Scully quizzically, and asked, "Everyone has one of those thingy's now?"

"It seems like everyone has one," Scully told the man, who upon first seeing their cell phone thought they were cigarette cases. The cells might as well have been vintage cigarette cases since they were completely useless down in this concrete tomb.

Skinner hissed and flipped the phone shut, having no luck to get a signal. They suspected they were at least two stories underground, and was it was unlikely either his or Scully's phone would get a signal before the concrete drained their batteries entirely.

"Well, I don't know about you two, but I'd certainly get my money back on those gadgets," Svensen announced as he stood to put a different record on the turntable.

"I'll be sure to mention that when I get back to the Bureau," Skinner grumbled.

"Bert, are you certain there's no way of opening the door into the Gandy shop from this side?" Scully questioned him again.

"Without appealing to Arthur's good nature, which he doesn't possess in all truth, then no, there is no way of opening the door from inside."

Scully blew her breath out in frustration. "We have to figure out a way to get that door open."

Svensen let out a laugh. "Well, until you figure out just how to do that I recommend you just send a message the old fashioned way, that is if you still use pen and paper at the bureau."

As the melodious chords of 'Moonglow' began to play off of the phonograph Skinner and Scully looked at each other, heads cocked like the RCA dog. "Pen and paper?" They said together and then turned to Svensen.

"Of course," he said as if they should know better. "I guess you're just going to have to resort to writing a note to put in with my order since you can't make a phone call."

"Your order?" Scully repeated.

Skinner came up off the lounge. "Where do you send out your order? How do you get what it is you order?"

Svensen looked between the two of them, his eyes wide with innocence. "On the mail car of course."

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End - Part 3 of possibly 5... possibly... I'm having too much fun with this right now...

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