sure. fine. whatever.

I know you're at home working on your fancy garden and waterfalls and shit but come play on tumblr with me. Write me a 3-sentence (or 3000-sentence) something.

Son of a bitch, Ismat. I know you’re doing a rewatch, so Scully’s water feature can make a cameo for you as well.

She bought the house after her mother died, a fortress against sentimentality. Pictures on her phone and in albums if she wants them, but gone are the framed wedding pictures and favorite snapshots. Gone are the knick-knacks, the souvenirs, the mementos that kept her tethered to a space. She wants only a port.

A Pisces, she likes the water that tumbles beneath her walkway, eroding tiny nibbles from the ground as she stands on it. She likes the burbling entropy of it, reminding her that this all too shall pass. 

The TV guy came, forcing her into brittle small talk, and she ended up with a full home integration system. There is a monotonous peace in the setup, the self-contained sterility of her environment. It contains no surprises. She gave the dog to a neighbor, hoping it would be enough distance to keep him safe.

Mulder says it looks like Bill Gates’s guest house.

Mulder, Mulder, with his precarious heaps of organic matter all about. Books with thick creamy pages, pictures and posters and t-shirts and afghans. His fireplace takes logs, his freezer takes ice cube trays. He and his house thrum together in a symbiosis Scully can no longer tolerate. She hates the weight of obligations, of being needed at all. Her house is sufficient without her, a synthetic organism with no need for her messy human biology.

Her son is a quiet specter, appearing in distant corners and late hours. He requires nothing as well, not even her acknowledgement. She gazes at his face (Charlie’s adolescent face, mostly), blinks, looks away. Though he wouldn’t know her anyhow.

Three dead sisters - they don’t come to call and she believes this means William is alive and well because they watch him instead. She likes to think of Missy and Samantha guiding him with auntly pride, wispy Emily both older and younger than her baby brother.

Nights at Mulder’s when she wants them, cozy with pots in the sink and cheap wine and sweaty skin and panting breath, all tangled up in his mismatched sheets. Her car parked in the dirt, wind chimes clanging on the porch. Mulder is a fully immersive material experience.

She never stays longer than a couple of days, afraid of all the gravity his possessions have. They could draw her back into their odd orbit, out of her own trajectory. She could crash on the surface of his strange planet and be marooned there again. Organic molecules need warmth and water to spark into life, and she refuses to risk nurturing anything that might die.

Scully clicks the fireplace on, taps out a grocery order. Loneliness is a choice.

Prompt- Mulder and Scully get hot and heavy while stuck in a wine cellar.

Her back is pressed against a gritty brick wall and he’s kissing her, god, he’s kissing her like there’s no tomorrow.  She sips at him like she’s tasting the wine they had upstairs (and she is - they’re both soaked in it.  Maybe she should have spit, but she didn’t, and they haven’t eaten all day, and she’s lucky she’s just intoxicated, her head floating away, without the sour stomach drinking while adult often entails.)  Mulder’s big hands are on her hips, pulling her against him and pushing her back at the same time.  Her arms are twined around his neck.  She digs her nails into his tender nape to make him gasp into her mouth.  She swallows his Sauvignon-scented breath with a smirk and slides her tongue deeper against his.  He reaches down and hitches her leg over his hip.  Her other toes barely touch the ground, but it doesn’t matter: she’s wedged between his erection and the brick wall, dust in her hair, her shirt being absolutely destroy.  She grinds against him. Her long skirt pulls between her legs, delicious tension across her thighs.  She’s wet; he’s hard; it’s a perfect concordance.  He can press her into wine with the weight of himself, he can fill her with a sweet elixir, oh god she’s so gone and it’s more him than the wine.  It’s always been more him than anything else.  He goes straight to her head, or some more fundamental center of her.  Maybe he’ll fuck her against the wall.  Maybe he’ll bend her over a wine barrel and she and the wine will both slosh with the force of his thrusts.  Maybe some poor employee will have to come down here and chase them both out like teenagers caught under the bleachers during the pep rally.  

“You ever read The Cask of Amontillado?” Mulder teases, his lips murmuring over her cheek and through her hair.

“Let them wall us in,” Scully says defiantly.  “At least we’ll have a goddamn moment alone.”  They have plenty of time to themselves these days, really, but old grudges die hard, and hers is against the world.  

He chuckles, rolling his hips against hers until she groans.  “That’s one solution.”

She sticks her hands down his pants and he stops talking.  Good, she thinks, but misses his voice all the same.  But she’s going to hear it - she’s going to make him call her name, raspy and desperate and ecstatic.  And then they’re going to go upstairs flushed and rumpled and sweaty and find some goddamn food.  

Fuck, she’s great at planning.