little skinner


“I’m gonna call Skinner, Mulder.”
“I’m sure he’s going to want to say a few words about this. Guys, give it a rest, huh?”

It’s 10:30pm on a Saturday night, and he’s just sat back down on his couch after grabbing another beer from the fridge when the phone rings. The caller ID only shows the number for the Hoover Building switchboard, but somehow he already knows who it is. (Who else would be calling him via the switchboard this late on a Saturday?) He lets it ring a couple more times while he takes a swig of his beer and steels himself for whatever nonsense is about to be dropped in his lap.


“Good evening, sir. I apologize for calling you at home so late.”

“What is it, Agent Scully?”

“Well, sir, as you’re aware, Agent Mulder and I are currently in Los Angeles. And, as it happens, the LA County Sheriff’s Department is also looking into the series of incidents we’re out here investigating.”

“Let me guess. Agent Mulder failed to properly liaise with the local LEOs, and now we’ve got an inter-agency pissing match on our hands?”

“No, that’s… that’s not it at all, actually.”

“He didn’t get himself arrested again, did he?”

“No, sir!”

“Well, get to the point, agent. I know you know what time it is here.”

“Sir, they’re filming an episode of COPS tonight. Here. With the LASD.”

He doesn’t know what he was expecting her to say, but it sure as hell wasn’t that. Inexplicably, he finds himself stifling a laugh; he turns it into a cough. Dear god, Mulder running his mouth about aliens and what-have-you on national TV… he should not be finding this funny at all, and yet…

“Assistant director? Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.” He clears his throat. “So am I to understand that because the LASD is working cooperatively with you on this investigation, their film crew shadows are now yours as well?”

“That’s correct, yes. And Agent Mulder… well, his working hypothesis for the case is, as you might guess, paranormal in nature, and–”

“Yes, Scully, I’ve met him.”

“Uh… right. So, they can’t use any of the footage they’ve already gathered unless we sign off on it. I assume you want us to refuse?”

Skinner pulls his glasses off and rubs his eyes. On the one hand, the probability of Mulder saying something that will make himself (and possibly also the Bureau as a whole) look foolish is incredibly high. On the other hand, Skinner’s got a friend in that industry; he knows that rather than waste the film, the show’s producers will insist on simply blurring his agents’ faces and garbling their voices instead, and he won’t be able to get around that without a big legal fight. And if they do that, it’ll just look like the Bureau’s hiding something, which will end up an even bigger PR mess on balance. Plus, he has no doubt that Scully will do her usual thing of tempering Mulder’s eccentricity and countering his more bizarre theories. And also, despite everything, Mulder is ultimately a good agent. It probably won’t be that bad.

Fuck it. Let them get filmed. If everything goes to shit and Mulder does something even more ridiculous than usual, they can always change their minds before the show goes to air.

“Nah. Cooperate with the film crew. Keep me posted if things totally go belly-up, but short of an emergency, I don’t need to hear from you again until tomorrow morning at the earliest. Are we clear on that?”

“Sir? A-are you sure that’s wise?”

“The FBI has nothing to hide, Agent Scully. That’ll be all.”

He hangs up the phone and shakes his head, then replaces his glasses and reaches for his beer. Those two are going to drive him to an early retirement, he has no doubt.

Eleventh Christmas

the series is as follows so far:

FirstSecond ThirdFourthFifthFifth Christmas, Part 2SixthSeventhEighthNinthTenthEleventhTwelfthThirteenthFourteenthFifteenthSixteenthSeventeenthEighteenthNineteenthTwentiethTwenty-firstTwenty-secondTwenty-third


They’d been forced to leave northern Minnesota mid-February after Mulder caught one of his bosses staring longer than necessary and asking more personal questions than Mulder deemed appropriate for someone on the run from all kinds of law to be able to answer. Scully had quietly left with him at midnight, walking away from her job, her semi-friends and her identity as Ella Fargas, the nice janitor lady at the high school who hadn’t flinched, regardless of what she had to clean up, which impressed everyone at that school above and below the age of 18.

They’d learned, over the years, to keep everything packed up and ready to go. They didn’t have too many personal possessions but what they had, they didn’t want to lose. Scully’s suitcase contained her clothes, her carved chess set and the ornaments they’d collected while her backpack contained the monstrous medical exam and study book she’d received the previous Christmas from Mulder because ‘he didn’t want her to lose all those smarts she had’. In Mulder’s suitcase and backpack were his laptop which they’d saved months for and gave him access to the world, articles, newspapers, the Internet and forums for everything and anything he wanted to find out. Also, his notebooks, a collection of stolen pens and as he told Scully, a few other odds and ends that were completely and totally useless but completely necessary to life.

They lived out of these bags, two each plus a third large duffel for winter gear, shoes and food in case of quick getaway.

This out-of-suitcase living was now so common place that when Mulder forgot momentarily and hung up his clean shirt in the closet, she gave him a look of such incredulity that he flushed, feeling like he’d cracked their system in half and the world was on the verge of collapse.

Then she smiled at him, taking the shirt from the hanger and folding it, packing it away with the rest of the newly laundered items, “brain farting, as you put it Mulder, is not usually your style. Got something on your mind?”

“Not yet.” Squeezing her hips as he slipped by her, “I’ll tell you if it pans out though, promise.”

Now intrigued, she carried on with her nightly routine, bathing, hair-drying, reading, having Mulder quiz her, volleying back and forth about some whacked-out theory Mulder found online before she asked again, “what are you planning in the brain of yours?”

Poking her side as he lay next to her under the sheets, “hey, a little intrigue is good for us. Keeps the fires alive.”

In one fell swoop, she rolled him over, climbed on top and pushed his shirt up around his neck, “I think our fires are just fine.”


They wandered East and West, North and South, back and forth, two days or a week at a time, deciding the comforts of their semi-settled Minnesota existence might not be the best way to go for awhile. It wasn’t until late September that they slowed their ramble, Scully becoming frequently more ill-at-ease with the aimlessness of their journey. She’d made it through almost three years but it was taking its toll. As a couple, they were doing okay, the occasional fight, the occasional silence, the occasional mutterings of ‘jackass’ and ‘pain in my ass’ while both fumed at one another, testing who would crack first and apologize.

But her mind and her spirit were exhausted and it showed, Mulder apologizing more frequently and hugging her more closely than she thought possible.

One morning, huddled safely in a cabin they’d rented in cash, off the beaten path to all but the passing deer hunter, he pulled her towards him, moving the stray blonde hairs from her cheeks, “hey Scully?”

“Unless you have breakfast somewhere in the vicinity of my mouth, don’t wake me up.”

Knowing her just that well, he held up a torn section of cinnamon roll from last night’s dessert, “will this do?”

Eyes still shut, she opened her mouth and accepted the peace offering, sucking the icing off his fingers with a slow, drawn-out lip smack, “yes. What do you want?”

“What would you say to us looking for a place to live, like a real place to live? One with walls and windows and a fridge bigger than a stamp and maybe even more than one toilet.”

He really should have waited until she’d swallowed before dropping this bomb on her and it took a few minutes to dislodge the dough from her lungs, coughing until she cried then calming again from her scary little fit of near-death, “what?”

Mulder could smile now that he knew she wasn’t going to die in front of him, “I was thinking that we could start concocting some kind of story where we’ve gone our separate ways and you would like to come back to the real world and need help finding a house and you could talk to Skinner and see if it’s even possible. Have him feel things out, maybe ask around to know if it would be safe for you to go back to normal.” Sliding her gently back down to lay beside him, “I can’t keep doing this to you. You deserve more than hotel mattresses and living out a suitcase.”

“Mulder …”

“No, I think we should think about this. If it works, then good but if it doesn’t, at least you know we’ll have tried.”

“You … you wouldn’t really leave though, right? You promised.”

“I would be perfectly content to hide in the house all day. I can go running and outside after dark or if we get a place with enough land, I could garden or build stuff, who knows. I just know that I can’t do this to you anymore.”

The thought honestly scared her but in a giddy, good way and kissing him, icing still on her lips, they celebrated the possibility of not having to run anymore.


It was a long process and they were holed up in North Carolina when Christmas arrived, with two feet of snow, windchills in the double negatives and a Mulder-smile, commenting on how it felt just like they were back having their first Christmas together, only naked this time.

Even though it wasn’t Christmas morning, Scully leaned over the edge of the bed and retrieved his gift, “open it. I know it’s early but open please.”

Never arguing with an unclothed Scully had been his personal rule since the first time he’d laid eyes on her perfect breasts and not about to break that rule, he took the gift, unwrapping it with paper flying everywhere, then staring at it in confusion.

It was a clear ornament, one that unscrewed in half, holding a single key.

Opening the orb slowly, he took out the key, never taking his eyes off her, “you have me totally befuddled.”

“That’s one of our house keys.” Now he just looked so totally ‘what?!’ that she smiled, sitting up, wrapping comforter around shoulder before continuing, “the paperwork went through with a little help from Skinner and the real estate lady sent the key to the Post Office box and I picked it up yesterday and thought it would be a pretty good gift.”

For some crazy reason, the fact that she would be in a home again soon, with him, like some sort of kind of a hint of a real family, made tears fill his eyes. Holding it up between them, “we should go look at it now.”

“Um, it’s after 9pm, it’s a three-hour drive and that boatload of snow out there isn’t just for looks. Maybe tomorrow or the next day after they’ve plowed some of the highways but right now, we’d be stuck before we got out of town.”

Impatient to the core, he opened his mouth to argue but she shut him up swiftly, her mouth covering his, her body following. Eventually, exhaustion forced him into sleep, mouth slack, body sated, limbs tangled with hers as he mumbled something about christening the new house as soon as possible.


Three long days later, they were trudging through snowdrifts higher than Scully, forced to leave the car at the main road while they walked the half-mile to the house. Frozen solid, yet sweating profusely under their winter coats and leggings, they didn’t stop to look at the porch or the shuttered windows but went right inside, shucking off clothing to leave in a heap by the door.

Only when they were stripped down to jeans and thermal shirts did they look around.

This time is was Scully crying, stepping up the stairs a few feet to grab him in a proper hug, squeezing his neck until he choked out a laugh and she lightened her grip. Burying his face in the side of her neck, “welcome home.” A few minutes later, he peeled away from her, holding up a finger to keep her in place, which she obeyed with open wonderment. Watching him carefully remove a box from his jacket pocket, he held it up to her, still in its Christmas paper, “I would have given you this on Christmas morning but decided to wait until we got here.”

Intrigued, she ripped the paper, opened the box then removed a clear glass Christmas bulb. Without looking or reading the words on it, she looked at him, “you stole my idea.”

“Actually, Dana Scully, you stole mine. I’ve been waiting since October, when we decided to find the house.”

The Dana made her grin, the Scully made her warm from head to toe but the gift made her speechless. Inside, on a bunch of pulled apart cotton balls, sat a simple, gold band, a small, deep red-purple stone set with a small diamond on either side. Stomach officially all over the map and brain forgetting how to speak, she turned the bulb slowly, reading, “will you marry me?” and the year, Mulder’s script careful and precise in its sloppy familiarity.

She couldn’t answer. She couldn’t breathe. She could, however, feel her heart thudding against her ribs, painfully strong and erratic as all hell. The only thing she could do was stare, the tears blurring things before they fell but in between watery visions, she could see Mulder clear as day, across from her, perfect as anything in the world and all hers.


The answer shot out towards him like a bullet, fast, sharp, crisp and unmistakable.

He laughed, truly afraid for a moment she was either going to faint, explode or most scary of them all, say ‘no’. Taking the ornament from her, he opened it, slipped the ring on her finger then held up the words to her again, “sure about your answer to this?”

This time her ‘yes’ was whispered in his ear.

Just wanted to give some love to this adorably awkward duckling

Thank you for existing, Jeff Skinner

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anonymous asked:

Please write more platonic Skinner and Scully fics!!!!! Can you make a master post with links for them too?

I think I’ll save creating a master list for when I’ve got enough of them to warrant their own sub-section, but for now, you can find them all under the “Prompt Responses” heading at the bottom of my master fic list!

Totally named Walter’s parents after my grandparents.  Sorry not sorry.

Walter Skinner’s father brought him up with a collection of strict values, chief among them: work hard, own your mistakes, never pick on anyone smaller or weaker than yourself, and, at all times, and in all company: respect women.

Skinner’s mother Ethel had been one of many proud and hardworking “Rosie the Riveters” during the war, while Skinner’s father had been at sea in the Pacific.  But unlike many of her fellow workers, when the war had ended and the men had returned, rather than heading back to run her household, Ethel had switched from building bombers to building cars, taking time off only to give birth to Walter, his older brother Daniel, and his younger sister Evie.  Walter’s father, a man ahead of his time, had been fully supportive of his wife’s desire to work.

“A woman can do almost anything a man can do,” Lloyd Skinner had told his sons.  “You talk to a woman the same way you would a man.  You don’t treat her like she’s any less smart, any less capable.  Above all, you respect her.  If you wouldn’t want something said about your ma or your sister, don’t you dare ever say it to- or about- another woman.”

Maybe it makes Skinner a little less popular among the boys’ club at the bureau, his reluctance to join in on all the locker room talk about the various physical attributes of the handful of female agents walking the halls, his distaste for the practice of ranking the secretarial pool according to attractiveness.  He doesn’t care, as long as he can look his female subordinates in the eye, as long as they know they won’t be met with contempt from him, should they need to file a complaint against a male co-worker.  He never wants any of his agents to think his motivations for assigning or not assigning cases are based in anything other than competence.

He’s heard of the betting pool, of course.  In fact, he’s pretty sure its existence predates Mulder and Scully being assigned to him.  Certainly the agents perpetuating it know better than to mention it within earshot of him… but he almost wishes they would, sometimes, so that he can dress them down over it.

He’s never wished for that more than at this moment, though, standing by Scully’s hospital bed, because he knows that soon enough, a new betting pool is going to spring up, and this time, his agent is going to be left to deal with it on her own.

Even in the midst of his shock, as he looks down at Scully, her eyes full of tears, her emotions at war on her face, it’s his first thought: The gossip pool is going to have a field day with this.  And then he’s immediately ashamed that this is his first concern.  He’s relatively certain the issue’s not causing so much as a blip on her radar.  She’s got more important things to worry about.

He doesn’t ask her who the father is; he doesn’t need to.  And in any case, such a question goes directly against his father’s edict of respect.  Even if he weren’t more or less certain about her child’s parentage, it’s not his business.  All that he needs to concern himself with is what she needs from him- both as her boss, and as her friend.

He reaches out and takes her hand, and is encouraged when she doesn’t immediately jerk away.  She brushes the tears from her eyes, embarrassed to be caught in such a display of emotion.

“Dana,” he says, “what can I do to help you?”  She gives him a shaky smile.  She reminds him of his mother sometimes, with her take-no-prisoners, no-nonsense attitude, her glares that can freeze grown men in their tracks from half a room away… but right now she’s scared, vulnerable, and doing everything she can to hide it.

“Exactly what you’ve told me you’ll do,” she tells him.  “I need you to help me find him.”

“I will, Dana,” he swears, squeezing her hand.  “I promise you that.”

“Hopefully” [Hercules X Reader]

Prompt: I really loved the Laurens fic! If you don’t mind, can I request 385 and/or 386 from the list thingy with Herc???

385: “You’re not alone”

386: “You’re safe now. I’ve got you”

A/N: I was writing this as Oak updated his snapchat so it got a lot fluffier than originally planned

T/W: slight pain

A/U: Hamiltime

Words: 1261


You slowly walked through the streets of your town with your eyes up to the sky, taking in the thick, warm summer air. Your corset was tight, your hair was up, and the smell of revolution seeped into every corner of the nation.

It was the evening, and you found yourself downtown, drawn to the distant sound of people shouting in the square. As you approached closer, you saw two men standing on soapboxes, debating about something you could only guess was heavily influenced by the revolution. You manoeuvred into the centre of the swarming crowd, finding yourself squished between rowdy men shouting encouragement and ladies with unnecessarily large skirts.

“Oh my God. Tear this dude apart!” Your eyes snapped up to the tall, burly man next to you, who had a scarf wrapped around his head like a headband. You couldn’t take your eyes away from his beautiful face. You saw his friend, who was taller and a little bit skinner with his hair tied back, nudge the man and motion to you. Both men looked over at you as you ripped your eyes away from them, first awkwardly glancing to the ground, then fixating your stare onto the scene in front of you, rather intensely. You felt them moving next to you, and caught the man with the scarf whispering to his friend, through gritted teeth,

“No Lafayette, piss off, ugh.” Suddenly, there was another hand taking yours, and you followed its movements until it reached the lips of the man just referred to as ‘Lafayette.’

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full name:
Claire Malon
other names: N/A
title:  N/A
age:  15-18 + (Depends on verse.)
gender:  Cisgender Girl
sexuality: pansexual
origin: (Depends on verse.) Canon verse is Orda
current location: (Depends on verse) Canon verse is a little wooden hut at the far end of her village.

nationality: N/A (For now.)

ethnicity:   (Depends on verse) Canon verse she’s and Elf and…sweats…(I just released she can’t really be african in her canon verse cause africa doesn’t exist….fuk.)

spoken languages: (Depends on verse) English
religion:  Great One. (No actual name yet god damn it.)
height: 5′8
body type:  Strong but a little on the skinner side.
hair:  long, curly and black.
eyes:  Sky-blue
tattoos:  N/A
piercings:  just the ears
educational background: (VD)  Went to school for 5 years. Stopped at the age of 10. 
career:  (VD) Hunter
social media:  (VD) N/A
smoking:  nah
drinking:  nah
drugs:  nah
athletics:  Archery, track, dance.
hobbies:  exploring, dancing, playing music.
virgin: (VD) Yep.
favorite drink: Orange juice
favourite food: Oranges, fresh fruit. 
favourite music: She likes all types pm
clothing style: Leggings, tees, crops,
underwear type: N/A Or a simple white set.
Tagged by:  @burning-torch
 @purblinded @ater-nex @ghostpillow (And really anyone else~)


Here you all go! 4:50 mark is what you’re all looking for. I will upload the rest tomorrow :)

“Of Gods and Men”

Summary: There is something profoundly strange about the forest behind Will Solace’s new house. The trees, it seems, breathe magic. The truth is this: there are things that the forest hides that humans cannot understand.

Nico di Angelo is one of them.

The first time they meet, Will is seven.

His new house is big and foreign, way too large for a family of once-four-now-three. The halls reverberate, bleed silence; when Will walks through the empty corridors, his footsteps are spat back out at him. They sound like gunshots in the quiet, rounds of bullets emptied into him, and he hates it.

Will hates lots of things, which is a little funny, because he’s a pretty small kid, all things considered, and small kids shouldn’t contain that much hate. He hates it when his juice boxes don’t have a hole where the hole should be. He hates when his socks have tears in the toes. He hates it when his mom and big sister, Kayla, talk in whispers about his dad and money, using big words and small voices, so Will can’t understand.

He hates the house most of all.

It’s in the middle of nowhere, tucked into the words like an afterthought, something half-forgotten and almost lost. The stairs creak, the windows screech when they open, and Will’s bedroom smells musty, damp. The outside is painted a pale green, and knobby, twisting trees are encroaching on the yard, stretching greedy fingers towards the elderly building like they want to claim it, take it as their own.

Will hates the house, but he does like the woods. He likes the gnarled, grandfatherly appearance of the underbrush. He likes the way the sunlight filters through the branches and turns the whole world yellow. And he likes the way the air smells like magic.

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