Bohoartist Masterpost

Organized in the order that I could remember them. I hope you enjoy! All stories are MSR.

Shear Bliss - NC17, While on the run, Scully gives Mulder a haircut. Smut ensues.

The Healing Power of Touch - G, Post Sein Und Zeit, Scully’s thoughts and desire to comfort Mulder following the events of SUZ

Miles To Go - PG13, Post The Truth, Teeny-tiny drabble written for @leiascully‘s XF Writing challenge prompt: Distance. Its angsty. I hate that I did this. Don’t look at me.

“Are You Out of Your Damn Mind?”  - R, Tiny, angsty nugget written for numbered prompt #2 “Are you out of your damn mind” on Tumblr. Requested by @dashakay

Taking His Time - NC17, Mulder takes his time experiencing Scully for the first time in his bed. 

Taking Her Time - NC17, Sequel to Taking His Time, Scully’s turn.

The Happiest We Ever Were - G, Fluffy post-Existence 

Good To Be Bad - NC17, Post En Ami, my take on the black dress/angry sex trope. He placed soft kisses along her mandible, traveling to her ear where he softly whispered to her, “you smell like cigarettes.”

Stay - NC17, She packs the last suitcase in silence.

Dearest Dana - R, Companion piece to Stay. In the midst of a raging depression, Mulder drafts a letter to Scully. This one hurts.

Drive Faster - NC17, Dana Scully has always been proud of her ability to give one hell of a hand job.

Too Sober For This - NC17, Cancer-Arc, “I’m tired of feeling bad, Mulder. Just for once, I don’t want to think. I don’t want to over analyze my actions, I don’t want to think about tomorrow, I don’t want to prepare for sickness. I just want to be here, right now. I want to feel good tonight, Mulder. With you.”

Parking - NC17, Mulder helps Scully experience a previously missed rite of passage.  

Personal Interest - PG, Mulder realizes something very important regarding Scully’s feelings about Diana.

His Family - G, Skinner and Mulder have a conversation post-Existence regarding Mulder’s new role. Written in response to a prompt from @piecesofscully

Heat - NC17, Our intrepid heroes find their own relief from the heat.

Three Times Mulder and Scully Got Caught and One Time They Didn’t - Part 1- PG13 - Someone sees something they wish they hadn’t

Part 2- PG13 - Someone admits to seeing something they wish they hadn’t

Part 3 - NC17 - Someone overhears something they wish they hadn’t

Part 4 - NC17 - Someone gets their comeuppance when they wish they hadn’t


Summary: An alternate ending to Triangle, inspired by an offhand remark on Twitter. What if Scully had said, “Oh fuck!” instead of “Oh brother!” I think it would have made the ending better! Let me know if you think so, too!

No smut, just bad words. =)

Click here to read on AO3.

Tagging @today-in-fic

“I love you.”

Scully’s eyes grew wide. “Oh fuck!”

My god, did she actually say that out loud?

Keep reading

What Comes Next

A/N: Season 11 Scully simply asking for what she needs got me thinking about Per Manum and how she (and Mulder) processed the failed IVF.  My personal struggles with infertility certainly influenced this, but I did my best to stay true to our beloved Foxy and Sculls.  This is pure feels, folks.  Tagging @today-in-fic   

She felt like giving up, like burrowing deep in her bed, drawing her knees to her chest, weeping until the tears were gone. She felt like binging on junk food, real junk food - not tofutti rice dreamsicles, and watching Steel Magnolias on repeat. She felt like tequila shots and curse words and hitting things, breaking things, destroying things. She wanted to quit her job, take a vacation, get the hell out of here for however long it took.  She felt like working endlessly, tirelessly, until she couldn’t feel anything at all anymore, ever.  Despair, pity, rage, abandonment, distraction.  She felt broken, exhausted.  And so she had asked Mulder to go, pleaded with him to leave her alone, practically pushed him out the door despite his objections.

Scully flipped the deadbolt and turned around, leaning back against the door to her apartment, palms flush against the wood. It was quiet; she knew he was still standing right there on the other side, but she was still and after a moment she heard Mulder’s footsteps quietly recede down the hallway.

He had been here waiting for her when she came home.  She hadn’t said much, hadn’t needed to;  he could see it in her eyes, feel the ache of her broken heart.  “It was my last chance,” she’d cried into his shoulder. And he had taken her face in his hands, his beautiful hands, and kissed her forehead. “Never give up on a miracle,” he had said, holding her to him, trying to absorb her sorrow by osmosis.

She went to the window and watched him walk into the street, turning to look up at her. He saw her standing there; she knew he saw her.  He got into his car, but didn’t start the engine, didn’t drive away.  She had shut him out, both literally and figuratively, but he’d stay there until she was ready to let him back in.

Scully let the curtain fall back and turned away from the window.  She took a deep breath, a willful effort to stave off more tears, and set her shoulders.  A hot shower would provide the relief she sought, however temporary.  She found soft black leggings and a worn grey t-shirt in her dresser and pulled a fresh towel from the linen closet.  Subconsciously needing to feel safe, surrounded, held, she locked the bathroom door before slowly removed her clothing; taking care to fold each piece and stack it neatly on the vanity.  Blazer, skirt, camisole. Pantyhose, bra, panties. Somehow, this made it easier to breathe, the removal of her clothes.

She studied herself in the mirror, turning right and left, looking over her shoulder to examine all the angles.  Fingers traced freckles and wrinkles and scars and she wondered what was so wrong with this tidy package of organs and bones and skin; why couldn’t it give her the thing her soul longed for, how it could betray her?

She stepped into the shower, letting the steam billow around her, hot water doing nothing to melt the tension from her muscles.  Then, tears already stinging her eyes, she braced herself against the cool tile and let herself cry.

Mulder sat in his car, looking up at the windows of her apartment. She had moved from the window but he could still see her, in his mind’s eye, going through the motions, trying to maintain some semblance of routine.  He thought maybe she’d made dinner, taken a shower, gone to bed. Maybe all those things, maybe none, and his heart shattered again and again when he thought of her alone, with no one to dry her tears.   

He’d known the instant she’d come through the door. He was half-asleep on the couch but he saw the light in her eyes was gone, and it was all he could do not to cry with her then, as he held her and told her not to give up. He was surprised when she’d asked him to leave.  He tried to bargain with her, offering to pick up dinner, sit in the living room while she slept, hold her, anything. But she was too far gone, then. Too heartbroken, too scared to let him see it even though he already knew.  He was aware she didn’t need him there with her, certain she wouldn’t do anything irrational, but he wasn’t ready to leave.  So he sat outside her apartment in his car, and she knew he was there.  

His throat was thick, his eyes heavy, and eventually he quit fighting the tears.  He didn’t bother to wipe them away.  They slid silently from the corners of his eyes, hot and salty, careening down his cheeks, in the ravines of his nose, across his lips; they dripped off his chin onto the steering wheel and his pants and the floormats of the car.  His heart ached for her, he ached because this wasn’t something he could fix, this wasn’t a favor he could call in or situation he could diffuse with a light-hearted comment.  This was real and heavy and dark and devastating, and it crushed him, pulverized his heart. He squeezed his eyes closed, dug his knuckles into his eyelids and saw all the colors flash in the dark.  God, he loved her.

Scully stepped out of the shower into the cool air, toes curled into the soft strands of the rug, water slicking down her body. She dried herself slowly, taking the time to carefully pull the towel over each limb, each curve and plane of her body. She pushed the towel into her hair, squeezed hard to absorb as much moisture as she could, curls beginning to spring up with the humidity.  She brushed her teeth, flossed, smoothed lotion over her skin; all things she hoped would help her feel normal again.  Scully pulled on the leggings and brought the grey t-shirt to her face.

It was his t-shirt, Mulder’s; she knew because it smelled like him.  She had snuck it from his travel bag long ago, promising herself she would wash and return it.  Tears flooded her eyes as she drew the shirt over her head, down her body.  She blotted them away with the hem but more came anyway, and she couldn’t keep up.  Suddenly she was on the floor, sobbing uncontrollably, writhing, filled with rage; tears and spittle and fists flying.  Scully was angry.  Angry at God, angry at the men who played god.  Angry at herself for hoping, and at Mulder for letting her.    

Mulder woke some hours later to a tapping on the window.  Scully, eyes red-rimmed and puffy.  He got out of the car and folded her small body into his arms, resting his chin on the top of her head.  They stood in the still, quiet, light of dusk for an eternity before she whispered, “I need you,” against his chest.  He nodded, felt her sigh, and turned to guide her inside, hand at the small of her back.

“Scully…” he trailed off as he shut the door of her apartment behind him.  He took off his shoes, hung his coat on the rack.  He watched her move around her space.  Wiping the counter, folding the dish towel, opening and closing the refrigerator.  She was doing ordinary things as an avoidance tactic, an attempt distract herself and him.  “Do you want some tea?”  She forced a smile and rummaged in a cupboard, coming up with Earl Grey.  She shook the little silver tin, raised her eyebrow.  He didn’t want tea.  “Sure,” he said.  “Let me make it.”  When she didn’t move, he tried again.  “Please.”  His eyes pleaded with her to let him do this for her, to let him take care of her.  She put the tin in his outstretched hand.

Scully tugged a blanket from the back of the couch and settled in.  She folded up her legs and balled up her fists, tucking them under her chin.  She was too tired to sleep, but closed her eyes anyway.  She breathed deeply and focused on the sounds of the kettle, spoons clinking in mugs, footsteps across the floor.  Mulder brushed a copper curl from her face.  “Hey,” she said, voice and eyes both foggy.  He handed her a warm mug and took his place beside her.  She wedged her toes under his thigh, but he pulled her feet into his lap instead.  He pulled the ends of the blanket over their legs and put his feet up on the coffee table.

“Do you want to talk about it now?” he said, looking down into his mug.  

“Do you?”

“This isn’t about me, Scully.”  

“Everything else is.”  She didn’t mean it, instantly regretted saying it.  But she didn’t apologize, didn’t look at him.

“Oh.”  He knew she didn’t mean it, not really, but there was some truth to it, there had to be because he certainly felt responsible for this, for all of it.  This maybe isn’t about him, but it’s because of him, because of his relentless search for the Truth.  The abduction, the injuries, the lies, the cancer, her infertility… Everything that’s happened to her has been because of him.  

They sipped their tea, carefully avoiding words and eye contact.  Mulder drew light circles around the slim bones of her ankles and her eyelids grew heavy again.  “Scully… maybe you should go to bed.”  

“Not yet, Mulder.”  She paused, setting her mug on the coffee table and looked over at him.  “You’ll stay for a while?”  This was her apology, an unnecessary olive branch, and he granted her the forgiveness he knew she was seeking.  

“Sure.”  He squeezed her feet.   

Scully rolled onto her back and extended her legs across his thighs, leaving her toes peeking out from under the blanket.  She folded her hands across her ribcage, forearms tucked up beneath her breasts, and closed her eyes.  Mulder adjusted the blanket to cover her, resting one hand easily just above her knee as the other tunneled back under the blanket to search for her feet.  He moved back and forth between the right and left, traced pressured circles and lines up and down her arches and across her delicate toes.  Scully’s breathing slowed and he felt the muscles in her legs unwind, watched as the lines of her face relaxed.  He leaned his head back and closed his eyes.

“I don’t know what to do now.”  Scully breathed, breaking the silence.  “I accepted my infertility a long time ago, Mulder, but when you told me… when I found out there was still a possibility… and then you agreed to, to…” her voice breaks.  “I just thought maybe I could finally do this, finally have…  I let myself hope, I let myself believe…  It was my last chance.”  Her voice is barely above a whisper, but it is firm; a declaration of defeat. There are no more tears to cry now, but anguish settled deep in her chest, and she threw the blanket off to breathe.  “This is not what I wanted.  This is not what I believed would happen.  I didn’t have a plan for this.”  She sat up, legs still draped over Mulder’s lap, arms encircling her thighs.  “… I…I just…”

“…don’t know what comes next.” he finished for her, and she nodded.  “Scully, they stacked the deck against you when they convinced you to leave your office at Quantico and join me in the basement.  But every single time you’re dealt a bad hand, you sit back down at the table and play another round.  You’ve never faltered, Scully, never quit.  I don’t know how you do it.  You are so damn strong, every damn time.”  His voice was filled with wonder and admiration, but she didn’t say anything, didn’t argue or agree, so he continued.  “I know you feel like there are no tears left.  You think you’re done with the anger.  All you can see now is the darkness, you feel like you’re drowning and I can tell you’re fighting it, Scully.”  He reached for her hand, dragged his thumb across her knuckles.  “Don’t fight it.  It will feel like it’s getting worse, maybe it will get worse, and maybe not all at once but eventually, over time. There will be more tears and more anger and more darkness, but don’t fight it, Scully, please don’t fight it.”  He looked at her earnestly, transparently.  “This… this loss, it requires grief, and I can’t let you shut it down, lock it up.  Scully, you need to go through it if you want to heal and move forward, to do what comes next.”    

Scully’s breath hitched and he scooped her up into his lap, stroked her hair as she crumbled against him.  She twisted his shirt between her fingers as she wept.  “I want to save you from this part, Scully.  I want to keep your heart from breaking, I would give anything to keep that from happening… but it won’t help you heal.”  He lifted her forehead to his, brushed the tears from beneath her eyes.  “But I will not let you do this alone.  I will not leave you alone,” he whispered. 

“It hurts,” she sobbed against his chest.  “Mulder, it hurts.”  

He carried her to bed.  She had fallen asleep as he held her on the couch, making restless little hums and mews in her dreams, but she didn’t wake when he moved her.  Mulder wandered her apartment aimlessly then; looking, touching, thinking, unable to sleep.

He stepped into the bathroom, used her toothpaste to dispel the taste of tea and tears, and decided to take a shower while she slept.  As he lathered and rinsed, he took inventory of her things: shampoo, conditioner, too many soaps, shaving cream and razor.  He opened the bottles one by one, and each time it was like he’d walked into a room she had just left, catching her scent in the breeze of their passing.  It only depressed him, and so he turned off the water and stepped out of the shower to dry off.  He pulled on his t-shirt and boxers, rummaged for the sweats he kept at her place, combed his hair with his fingers.

He made the rounds then; turned out the lights and locked the front door.  But as he closed the bedroom door, he found her awake, propped up an elbow.  Her eyes were bloodshot, cheeks stained with tears, and her hair was disheveled.  He felt like an intruder.  He couldn’t bear to see her so broken, but she made no attempt to disguise her grief now.  Mulder could see all the colors of her stained-glass heart.

“Did I wake you?  I woke you.  I’m sorry,” he apologized.  Mulder sat on the edge of the bed, cupped her face in his palm, brushed the tear-salt from her cheek with his thumb.   

“I heard the shower.”   

“Do you need anything?”  

“Maybe some water.  And ibuprofen?  It’s in the medicine cabinet.”  

“Ok,” he nodded, then pressed a kiss to her forehead.  “I’ll be right back.”  

Scully wondered if it was appropriate to ask him to stay with her, to hold her.  She had thought she could do this alone.  She had wanted to be alone, she even thought she needed to be alone, needed the space to grieve.  But when he carried her to bed and she heard him clean up their tea, straighten the blankets on the couch, take a shower… it gave her a sense of normalcy, of comfort.  And she felt safe when he held her, she always had.  She needed to feel safe now, to know that she wasn’t alone in the dark.

“Scully?”  She hadn’t realized he’d come back.  Mulder held out a glass and two pills for her.  “Anything else?”

“Yeah,” her voice wavered.  “Mulder… will you stay?  Here, with me, I mean.  I… I think I don’t want to be alone.”

“Of course.”  Mulder took the glass from her hand and set it on the nightstand.  He turned off the lamp.  “Is this okay?  Or would you rather I leave it on?”  Scully smiled, small but genuine in the moonlight.  “Mulder, I’m used to sleeping in the dark.”  He climbed beneath the covers on the other side of the bed, not knowing how close he should be.  He wanted to take her in his arms again.  He so desperately wanted to shelter her, provide a safe place, but it was important that he give only what she asked for.  

Her back was to him, and he reached out to touch her.  He gripped the curve her her neck, long fingers splayed across her collar bone, thumb pressed into the nape of her neck.  

“I’ll be right here,” he whispered.  

She had asked him to stay, and he had been kind and tender.  But when he pulled his warm hand away from her shoulder, the distance between them made her feel cold and alone.  Scully crept backwards until her body fit with his.  Their knees bent together, the soles of her feet flat on his shins.  His arm came around her waist, and he sighed sleepily into her hair.  His nose nuzzled behind her ear.

“This my t-shirt?” he mumbled into her ear.  “I’ve been missing it.”

“Mine now.”  



“I’m sorry.”

“I know.”  She took a deep breath and settled against him, safe, home.  Tomorrow, together, they would figure out what comes next.

Sinners Masterpost + Meta Commentary because I’m extra

Sinners Trilogy - set in a universe where Scully married Daniel Waterson, and meets Mulder one night in a bar:

Sinners Come Down (Part 1)

This Heart of Mine (Part 2)

Need You Now (Part 3)

Full Series On AO3

As for the song:

“Sinners” by Barns Courtney , which is one of my favorite songs of all time

Some meta bullshit on the part of the writer:

1. Scully is fascinating but also a beast to write in this universe, because her character arc seems kind of backwards. Unlike in the series, I wanted to portray her as being less jaded as she gets older, while Mulder has grown more cynical.

2. I ran with the idea that had he never fallen in love with Scully, Mulder would have attached himself to the X Files in the same way he did his partner. The cases themselves would become his constant and his other, but also the thing with which he constantly bickers and struggles. His love affair would be with the X Files themselves, and I don’t have much to back up that notion.

3. The most significant moments in the entire series are when Mulder writes his address down on the napkin, when Scully closes the front door between her and William, and when she sits next to him on his couch.

4.  I said when I started this project that I only intended to write one installment. I wanted to end the series on a bittersweet note, and I wanted the ending to reveal what you infer about Mulder and Scully through the show and through the fic. If you believe Scully will leave her husband, if you believe Mulder will keep his life together alone with the X Files. If you think they’ll ever see each other again. 

That said, I like ending this on a cautiously optimistic note, and I feel like I did create something realistic out of the sequels. I couldn’t bring myself to believe Scully would leave Daniel immediately, and she doesn’t. I also couldn’t bring myself to believe she’d stay married to him for much longer, or decide to have kids with him in the picture. I felt like the most future for Scully would be one in which she cuts Daniel from her life, and has a very close relationship with her mother instead, perhaps closer than in the series, because she’s such a crucial hand in raising William.

5. Mulder in his middle age writes science fiction mysteries. I struggled to decide whether Mulder would be out of the sinkhole of the X Files enough to even write about it, especially when he doesn’t have someone else in his life. But I felt like the books would provide somewhere for him to put his thoughts when he talks to so few people, and doesn’t have a partner like Scully whom he can talk to at any hour. Ergo, he does write, and that’s one of the things that keeps him sane, or at least sane enough that Scully believes she can have a relationship with him given the place she’s at in her own life.

6. I know Pirates of the Caribbean was a very strange analogy to run with in Part 3 but if we put aside my pirate obsession for a moment, I felt like it was a fitting homage to canon Mulder and Scully. It felt like a way to watch them on screen, a passionate rebel and a woman who starts out angry and along for the ride, but who ends up becoming a pirate queen. It felt like a way to pay my respects to the partnership that didn’t happen in this AU. 


A “Millenium” post-ep fluff piece that randomly popped into my head. Didn’t fit with any of my prompts, unfortunately. But here you go. 

“Scully, where are you?”

Having blindly answered the phone, barely awake, Scully swallows. Her mouth is dry, her eyes refuse to open, and why is Mulder calling her at this hour anyway? Whatever hour it is. Didn’t she just take him home after the hospital? After that kiss? Oh, that kiss.

“Scully?” His voice gets louder, sounds impatient.  

“I’m here.” She mumbles into her pillow before she turns her head to look at the time: 4.42 am. Oh, Mulder, why.

“You’re not here,” he sounds strangely accusatory, she thinks still trying to wake up; he might be fine with just two or three hours of sleep, even drugged up, but she’s not. “You left.” He finishes.

“I went home, Mulder. Like I said I would.” Her brain refuses to come up with the exact dialogue, but she knows she told him she’d be back tomorrow. Considering the time then and now she might have used the words ‘later today’. She never said she’d stay with him. She knows because she had to make herself leave.

“You said you’d stay.” She can practically hear him pout on the other end of the line.

“Mulder,” Scully sighs, “I drove you home and I said I’d be back later.” There’s a pause on his side and Scully’s eyes, which she just managed to open somewhat, are in danger of falling shut again. This is the reason she wanted to go home, why she didn’t stay with Mulder. That and the fact that she thought he’d be out for a couple of hours. She had given him the good, strong stuff. Even that was no match for his determination, it seems. He didn’t want her to leave of course (and part of her really wanted to stay, too). His hands took liberties after they left the hospital. After another push forward – the world didn’t end, no it didn’t – a first, tentative kiss. Now touching. They were doing this slowly, without words, just testing the waters. Except Mulder, on painkillers or not, tended to jump in. She didn’t stop him when he planted his hand on her thigh in the car. Or when he leaned heavily against her when she followed him upstairs. She even gave him another gentle peck right before she left. But she knew she couldn’t stay. Because of this. Before this could go further, and there was no doubt that it would, she needed to think about it. She couldn’t do it when Mulder stared at her like a puppy, when his hands roamed over her body; when his whole presence fogged up the reasonable part of her brain.

“It’s later now, Scully.” His voice, still pouting (she hears it, she truly does), jolts her back to the present moment.

“Mulder, it’s the middle of the night. Why don’t you take another dose of painkillers and sleep? I’ll be there in the morning-”

“It’s morning.”

“Later in the morning.”

“I could drive over to your apartment.”

“Mulder, your arm is in a sling. You can’t drive.” Scully pinches her nose. She can barely move; her own body, without the aid of painkillers, reminds her that she’s not getting any younger.

“I can drive with one arm, Scully. I told you.”

“You can’t, Mulder. Or you shouldn’t. Just stay where you are, all right? I’ll see you in a couple of hours.” He’s quiet again and as much as Scully longs for him to hang up the phone so she can go back to sleep, she knows the silence is not a good sign.

“I shouldn’t have done it, huh?” His voice is barely above a whisper, breaks and Scully sits up in bed, awake now.

“What are you talking about?”

“Kissing you. I shouldn’t have done it. It was too soon.”

“Oh, Mulder,” Scully murmurs, “you did nothing wrong. I loved the kiss.” She flushes when she realizes what she’s just said.

“You did?” Now she can hear him grin. It makes her smile, puts her in a better mood despite the wake-up call and her exhaustion.

“Yeah, Mulder. I did.”

“So I can – we can – do it again?”

“I was counting on it.” Scully admits.

“I’m coming over now, Scully.”

“Mulder, no! You’re not supposed to drive with your arm.”

“But Scully…” The pout makes a comeback. Scully sighs again; it feels like she never stopped sighing once. She gets up, feels her weary bones and stretches.

“You stay where you are, Mulder,” she tells him a voice he knows means business and he’s quiet, “I’ll be there in half an hour, all right?” Without turning on the lights, she grabs random pieces of clothes; it doesn’t matter anyway. She doubts they’ll spend much time outside. Her stomach tingles thinking about it, about what she’s about to do; what they’re about to do soon. So very soon.

“I could be at your place in 20 minutes, Scully.” Mulder’s impatience distracts her, makes her roll her eyes.

“Mulder, if you want a repeat performance of that kiss and if you want to go further than that – ever – you will stay where you are. Understood?” Another pause that gives her enough time to roam through her closet.

“Uhm, Scully…” She knows that tone; he’s guilty. He’s done something stupid.

“Mulder, what?” Scully doesn’t get an answer. Instead she hears a knock on her front door. She startles and pads barefoot to answer. She looks through the peep hole even though she knows. Of course she knows.

“Hi.” Mulder smiles sheepishly, phone still in hand, his other arm in its sling at least.

“Mulder.” Is all she says; she wants to be angry. She wants to yell at him, wants to strangle him even maybe, but instead she drags him in by his good arm, closes the door and pushes him against it. She’s on tiptoe and he still has to lower his head. Not that she cares. Let him suffer some more, she thinks.

“Told you I could drive with one arm.” He whispers against her lips and Scully doesn’t want to argue with him and so she captures his lips with hers and seals their fate. She’s not going to get any sleep any time soon that’s for certain.


For my dear @edierone, in response to her fantastic prompt: “The directions were unclear, but they’ve clearly missed a turn or something; they’re miles away from where they were supposed to be, and definitely going to miss the last flight out.”

Title: Parking

Rating: Explicit/NSFW

Timeline: Season 7, post Rush

A/N: Mega-thanks to @piecesofscully for giving it the once over and correcting my mistakes. I swear to God, I will one day learn where commas go and when to capitalize or not capitalize things…


The busy expressway they had been barrelling down has slowly transitioned and narrowed into a one lane highway. Scully adjusts her speed, guiding the silver Taurus along a soft curve through the thick Virginia forest. Mulder is quiet in the passenger seat, an unopened bag of sunflower seeds sitting untouched in the cupholder as he gazes at the passing trees through the window. He jumps in surprise at the gentle touch of Scully’s hand sliding over his knee, the soft caress startling him out of his reverie.

“Sorry. I guess I zoned out there for a little bit, Scully.”

Scully smiles, her eyes jumping back and forth from his face to the bumpy country road. “I said I think I might have missed a turn or an exit some ways back. Can you check the map?”

Mulder nods his head and reaches for the glove box, digging through receipts and paperwork.

“You ok, Mulder? You’re awfully quiet. You haven’t said much since leaving the hospital.”

Mulder speaks as he unfolds the map. “Sorry, I uh, I guess I’ve just been lost in nostalgia. This case has me reminiscing about what it was like to be a teenager, the desire to always be older and faster, the excitement for new stages of life, the angst. I think you should turn around up here.”

Scully slows down and checks the surrounding traffic before swinging the car into a U-turn.

“Do you miss it?” she asks.

“What?” he asks as he studies the Virginia state map.

“Being a teenager.”

He looks up from his lap to ponder the question before responding. “No. Yes. No.” Heaving a sigh he looks at her and shrugs his shoulders. “I don’t know. Do you?”

“Hmm.” She pushes a lock of hair out of her eyes and adjusts grip on the steering wheel. “I miss the lack of responsibility, but I certainly don’t miss the tumultuousness of that time.”

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The Taos Hum

Her cell rings at eleven forty-eight, while she’s cloistered in the steamy grotto of her bathroom, submerged in some hippie brew of jasmine oil and mineral salt that she bought at the farmer’s market. She flings water from her hand and dries her fingers in her hair before reaching over the side of the tub to retrieve it. She’s been expecting this. Expecting him. 

The phone rings a few more times in her palm, and she’s relishing that delicious moment before hearing him, that sweet anticipation that she can feel in her teeth - and then she gives in, thumbing the little green icon. 

“Scully,” she says into the receiver, trying not to sound like she’s purring. Three glasses of wine, and her muscles are hot and loose around her bones. 

“Are you familiar with the Taos Hum?” Down the line, Mulder is such a presence that it’s as if he’s in the room with her, wiping steam off of the mirror with a finely-muscled forearm, dipping his hand between her knees to swirl the bathwater. Stop it, Dana. Don’t. 

“Hmm. Vaguely.” Five days without him, and she misses him like a limb. 

“For decades, residents of Taos, New Mexico, have been hearing a low frequency hum. Nobody seems to have been able to ascertain where it’s coming from, why it’s there, what it means." 

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Petals: fic

Quick lil fic to celebrate International Friendship Day Mulder and Scully style. NSFW. Tagging @today-in-fic

There are petals strewn over the desk, soft pink piles, creamy-white ones, blood red velvet too. They are scattered over the floor, the shelving, the chair. She follows the trail out of the office and up the stairs where the petals decorate each step, gathered in the corners, where they rest on the landing and the hand rail post, where they lead her to the bedroom. The dresser, the closet, the lounge chair, the window sill, the covers, the pillows, rose petals cover the surface. She sinks to the bed and scoops up a handful, breathing in the delicate perfume.

              “Hey,” he says, opening the bathroom door, wearing a smile that speaks of a thousand ways he loves her and a thousand more ways he’ll find to love her.

              “Hey,” she says back, letting the petals flutter around her. He’s naked save for a towel around his waist and she looks at the definition of his abs and thinks about 25 years of growth. His body is a work of art these days, not just because of his age now, but because he’s sculpted those grooves through hard-work and pain, she’s admiring those shadows because of his sheer determination, she can run her eyes over those lines that narrow towards his pelvis because he put the past away.

              “See anything you like, Scully?” he asks, sinking on to the bed next to her, towel slipping open so that tufts of dark hair peek out.

              “Thousands of petals, Mulder. I like those.”

              As she unbuttons her blouse, his smile grows exponentially. “You like those?”

              “Mmhmm, they’re pretty.”

              “Like you,” he says, resting his thumb and forefinger around her neck, where her necklace lies. “So pretty.” He leans in to kiss her.

              “What’s got into you?” she says, reluctant to pull away. His cock nudges against her thigh but there’s a skirt in the way and she needs to feel his skin on hers.

              “Do you know how many roses it took, Scully?”

              They’re lying down now, facing each other and she’s tracing the shape of a rose on his chest. He’s unhitching her blouse and waiting for her to guess. She’ll be wildly wrong, she knows, but this is part of the game.

              “I don’t know, Mulder.”

              “Guess,” he says, slipping her shoulders free. “For me.” He kisses the rounded bone and her nipples tighten.

              “300, 312.”

              “Cold,” he says, kissing along her claivicle.


              “Warmer.” His lips trail south and she unzips her skirt, wriggling it off her hips.


              “Warmer.” His palm flattens on her tummy and she opens looks at her skin, softer now, silvery threads across her abdomen. The warm pressure of Mulder’s hand there takes away the pain of those memories and she lets him kiss each breast, licking, nibbling. “Guess again.”

              “300,” she says, arching her neck. She doesn’t want to be right. He chuckles and there’s a light scratching from his bristled chin. She plucks some petals from the sheet and sprinkles them over him as he laughs. “666.”

              He springs up and over her on all fours, a devilish grin on his lips. “Hotter,” he rasps. His tongue snakes a path down from her belly button to the line of her panties.

              “750,” she whispers as he thumbs them off and she lifts herself to help him.

              “Scorching,” he says before burying his tongue into her, where she’s gone from cool to hot in the space of a few seconds. His chin works her, his nose presses her clit, his lips spread hers. She rocks and bucks and tears petals between her fingers, releasing their perfume.

              Coming down takes a while and he’s always loved to watch her mellow out. He’s propped on his elbow, cock still rigid, just biding his time because that how he is.

              “790 roses with an average of 12 petals makes 9480,” he says, grasping his cock and  stroking himself. She likes to watch him do this, loves the way his breathing changes, his face sets, his eyes half-close.

              “What’s significant about 9480, Mulder?” She closes the gap between them, pressing her breasts against his chest and slipping her hand between them, closing a fist over his cock.

              “That’s nearly how many days we’ve known each other, Scully.” His voice hitches as she speeds up her action. “Twenty-six years next month and you’re still my best friend.” Face buried in her neck, he groans.

              “You bought nearly 800 roses to tell me we’re just good friends?”

              “It’s International Friendship Day,” he says, sucking on the skin between her neck and shoulder as she works him faster. “I thought it was a nice gesture.”

              She can’t help but laugh but as she does, she pushes him on to his back and climbs across him, sliding down in one smooth motion. Her hands are covered in petals and there are pink and cream ones on his chest, his neck, his chin. “It’s very thoughtful,” she says, moving back and forth. “But I think we’ve moved on from platonic.”

              He grabs her ass and holds her down, grinding against her pubic bone so that pain and pleasure mingle. Through gritted teeth he says, “I think it’s good to know where we fit together.”

              Pushing himself up, his hard middle crushes hers and before she can register what’s happening they’re up and he’s pressing her against the wall, hands still under her ass, teeth on her neck. She wraps her legs around his waist as he pumps.

“You’re right,” she says, as her climax wells in her centre. “Even after all these years, one should always know where one stands.”

sleep talk

After the first time, unable to wipe the grin from her face, she steered her car towards home through the empty streets at 3am, casually wondering if they should set up some sort of ground rules should this ever happen again. 

After their second time together, the need for boundaries became more apparent. She found that he now hovered a little longer when reading over her shoulder and sexual innuendos that were once disguised with an air of nonchalance had taken on an entirely different meaning. And he was always touching her; stolen kisses at the copy machine, linking index fingers in the elevator, his hand becoming a permanent fixture at her lower back. 

Mulder shifts in his sleep beside her, satiated after their third time, and turns to his side. It hadn’t been established that affection in public was off limits, or that they would keep it strictly platonic while on a case. They hadn’t even attempted to broach the subject of what this meant, of how this changed things. Beneath the sheet, she feels his hand come to rest on her hip as the question plagues her thoughts. 

What are they?

Friends, sure. Partners, of course. But beyond that she has no idea. The addition of reoccurring physical intimacy to their relationship is something she hadn’t truly prepared for. She could have written off the first time as a silly mistake, never to be discussed again. The second time, the irresponsible result of a high stress situation. The third time, however, was hoped for, she admits to herself.

But what is she hoping for now? Fox Mulder doesn’t exactly scream married with two kids, a golden retriever named Buddy, and a white picket fence. He isn’t lazy Sundays spent at the farmer’s market and weekend trips to Cape Cod. 

She squeezes her eyes shut and buries her face into his pillow to muffle her groan. Does she even want that anymore? 

The likelihood that this will happen again is great. There’s no going back now, so what does this make her? His girlfriend? She cringes, wondering if it’s even appropriate for women in their forties to still use that term. His significant other, she amends. Life partner? 

Oh my God, she could scream. 

Mulder flinches in his sleep and grips her hip. His voice is thick and groggy, caught in the limbo between awake and asleep when he asks, “You ok?” 

“Fine,” she replies quickly, then sighs. “I’m fine, Mulder.”

His arm slips around her waist and pulls her to him, closing the distance so that her back is flush against his chest, and he presses a sleepy kiss to the back of her neck. “That’s my girl.”

The simple words he likely won’t remember in the morning instantly calm the fraying of her nerves. His girl. 


After a moment of consideration, she tries the term on for size, slipping it on like a couture evening gown that looks appealing on display but will probably require adjustments, and she’s surprised to find that it fits quite nicely. Perfectly, in fact. She closes her eyes, allowing herself to melt into his embrace, unable to stop the smile tweaks the corners of her mouth. 


In the morning hour she calls me (post-finale MSR )

This is my take on the post-MS IV canon compliant babyfic. Title is taken from Country Roads (John Denver). Based in part off a post from @foxmulders about Mulder and Scully’s magic teenage son who can explode heads but knows nothing practical about adulting. Tagging @today-in-fic.

Pairing: MSR

Rating: Explicit

Summary: Slowly and strangely, Mulder and Scully reconnect with their son. 

He bought the ring years ago. She saw it tucked away in his underwear drawer, once, during the early days of living with him. Two silver bands twirled around each other in a neverending optical illusion. It had taken her a second to realize what it was, another second to realize what it meant, and a third to remember that no, they weren’t already married. They certainly fucked like newlyweds, on every surface that would hold them and some that wouldn’t. They had cracked every piece of furniture but the coffee table.

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remember that night

msr | s1/revival | mature | words: 1.1k

mulder and scully remember (and disagree about) their first date.

inspired by a conversation about mulder and scully’s season one dates. dedicated to @marinafrenzy, @wholeperson, @i-just-knew1013, @whereismyflukewife, and @talitakuomi. you ladies rock. tagging @today-in-fic.

— — —

Years from now, on an unremarkable night at the end of an unremarkable week, when they are both loose and languid and a little bit drunk on wine and life and each other, she’ll remember this as their first date.

And he will lift his wine-heavy head and look her straight in the eye and say, “Scully, what the fuck are you talking about?”

“Our first date,” she’ll say, dreamy. Because he makes her dreamy. Because remembering him, her, them young and naïve and not-yet-but-soon-to-be in love makes her dreamy. “After New Jersey. The Smithsonian. Remember?”

“I remember,” he’ll say, “but that wasn’t our first date.”

And so she will lift her wine-heavy head and blow away a lock of her wine-colored hair and say, “What do you mean, it wasn’t? I turned down another man for it. We spent hours there—”

“You loved the dinosaurs,” he’ll say. “The plesiosauruses.”

“—and then you bought me ice cream. We sat on a bench and I told you about my family. How isn’t that a date?”

“I didn’t say it wasn’t a date,” he’ll say. “I said it wasn’t our first.

And she’ll look at him the way she does when she’s intrigued but doesn’t want to be, all coy and sweet with her eyebrows and her little pink mouth just-so, and say, “Alright then, what was?”

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scully-eats-sushi  asked:

Mulder and Scully are accidentally set up on a blind date by mutual acquaintances who don't know that they are partners.

Tingle: fic

She grabs her briefcase and heads to the door, bidding him goodnight in as normal a voice as she can muster. He’s suddenly beside her, hand on the small of her back, escorting her into the dark basement floor maze. It’s late. Later than she intended to leave and she strides out.

           “In a hurry, Scully?”

           She opens her mouth to respond but he’s wearing that grin again, the one that makes her tingle. She’s never been sure if the firing in her synapses is because he exasperates her or because he excites her. Maybe it’s a combination of the two. She’s never met a man who displays so many childlike tendencies and yet manages to be empathetic, intellectually demanding and incredibly charming.

           “Got a date?” She ignores him but he presses on. “Someone going to bust down those walls and find out who the real Dana Scully is?” He’s seriously grating on her now. That tone, bordering on intrusive but with a touch of amusement. He’s digging for gossip. She finds her car keys.

           “Cos I have,” he says, smiling as her car bleeps open. “Got a date. A blind date,” he says, drawing out the words like gum. “Wish me luck. I hear she’s a firecracker so I might have third degree burns by the morning.”

           In her mind, she’s thinking, if that firecracker finds out who the real Fox Mulder is, she better run a mile. Instead she says, “I’m sure you can handle her.”

She doesn’t know what to wear. She bought new jeans on the weekend and a body, high necked crimson velvet. But it feels all wrong when she tries the outfit on, like there’s too much of her, it adds a layer, something tactile, like she’s more than she is. She removes it and it lays on her bed, still in the shape of her. She buttons up the dusky pink silk blouse and tucks it into her jeans, threading her black patent leather belt through the holds. She slips on black heeled pumps, smoothes her hands over her ass as she looks over her shoulder into the mirror. Her hair is up, but tendrils fall around her face. She dabs perfume at her pulse points and sighs.

How did she get herself into this mess? A new job was one thing, but a new boyfriend too? Tash at Bean, the corner coffee shop, was hardly a friend, so what had possessed her to agree to this date? Her stomach sinks. She untucks the blouse. Is loose better? Or does that say something else? She’s not sure she’s ready to make a statement about anything, let alone who Dana Scully is.

She wonders how Mulder’s feeling. Or perhaps she should be more concerned about how Mulder’s date is feeling. Firecracker. What sort of pejorative, sexist insult is that? As she hails a cab she hopes Miss Firecracker blows a rocket up his arrogant ass.

Her date is late and she’s squirming in her seat, nursing a nerve-emboldening gin and tonic and wishing she led a life that leant itself to small talk. What was your week like, Dana? Oh, I got run off the road by men in black and rescued my dumbass partner from a secret military base where he got his memories sucked out of his nose. How about you? She laughs to herself and shakes her head. She’s going to lay into Tash tomorrow. Seriously, this is a disaster. If Mulder ever finds out about this, he’ll laugh at her until next year.

           There’s a familiar smell under nostrils before she can register what’s happening. “Isn’t it nice to be suddenly so highly regarded? Who did you tick off to get this blind date, Scully?” He kisses her cheek and it burns under his lips. He sits opposite her and grins. It makes her tingle. “How was your week?”

Three Times Mulder and Scully Got Caught and One Time They Didn’t Care -- Part 4

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Rating: Explicit

Author’s Notes: Here it is, folks. The conclusion to this smutty little journey. This series has been an absolute blast to write. It was definitely a challenge dipping my toes into pools of different writing styles, but I had a ton of fun writing this. Thank you so much to all of you for reading and for leaving wonderful bits of feedback. As always, thank you so very much to the beautiful @piecesofscully for being an incredibly encouraging beta and someone with whom I can shamelessly spiral. Thanks, babe! 


She is nearly done with organizing the last of her slides in her designated area near the back of the newly reconstructed basement office when she is startled by a loud thump.

“Scully! Door!” Mulder demands, his voice muffled behind the closed door.

“It’s unlocked, Mulder!” She yells back.

She leans down to her microscope once more only to be startled again by yet another loud thump.


“Jesus, Mulder,” she mutters under her breath as she crosses to the door.  She swings it open to reveal her partner balancing two cardboard boxes precariously stacked one on top of the other.

He stumbles toward his desk and drops his cargo loudly onto the clean surface, the dust from the boxes soaring into the air like infectious spores. She waves them off with a flick of her wrist.

“What is all this, Mulder?”

He looks at her sideways before lifting the lid off the top box. “Files.”

Scully’s eyes involuntarily shift to the series of filing cabinets that line their freshly painted walls. “Mulder, what files? These X-Files stayed in this office the entirety of Agent Fowley and Agent Spender’s assignment.”

Mulder’s silence screams at her as he steadfastly ignores her and thumbs through the various folders.

“Right? Mulder? All of The X-Files stayed intact. Here in the office. Right?”

Taking a large breath, he answers, “Yes, Scully. Those X-Files stayed right here in the office. Those. Files.” He casts a mildly contrite glance at her for a beat before stressing,  “Those.”

She crosses her arms over her chest as her head tilts in admonishment. “Mulder, you didn’t.”

“Hey, I needed some light reading while we were off shoveling literal shit, Scully. What Diana and Spender don’t know won’t hurt them, and besides, we have The X-Files back. These are officially our files again.”

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pilgrims creeping toward the dawn

msr | s6 | explicit | words: 4k

she starts to ask where the hell he’s been, then, if he’s not dead or dying, but then she hears it: a woman’s voice in the background, uttering that one syllable. that one simple syllable. the one from which she herself has long been barred.


hell if know what this is, but i’m proud of it nonetheless. post-monday, pre-arcadia angst. diana’s the catalyst but doesn’t actually ever appear, because i know what i’m about, and it’s not that. title is a tweaked line from the eagles’ long road out of eden, which is an objectively fantastic song.

tagging @today-in-fic, @marinafrenzy, and @i-gaze-at-scully. thanks for the encouragement, friends. xx

— — —

It’s been a long time since she’s done this, primped on a Friday night. It’s been a long time since she’s had a reason to dab perfume on her wrists, in the hollows behind her ears. Since she’s had a reason to survey her closet in just her towel, to push aside her suits and sweaters and search for the clothes she hasn’t had a reason to wear. Shorter skirts, cashmere blouses, things with lace and velvet and soft, feminine edges.

He’s never asked her to dinner before, not like this. Not dinner with a capital D. But that’s how it had sounded when he’d said it, when he’d helped her into her coat before she left for the day after the botched bank heist.

Got any plans this weekend? he asked, lifting her hair out of her collar and skimming her neck with his thumbs.

No, she said. Careful, composed. Afraid of another last-minute trip to chase sea monsters or sasquatches or some other far-flung improbability. You?

Have dinner with me, he said with that casual tone that told her he was anything but.

And she, against her better judgement, because she was tired of denying and being denied, said okay.

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Inbox prompts “touch” and “puppy”, from @xf-fan1993 and @xfilesobsession​ - thank you for the words, lovelies! 

In her dream, the pounding is thousands upon thousands of hooves, sending dust clouds swirling around her so that she’s gasping and retching and clutching her throat. And the pounding is a drum, rippling dark and deep in the pulse of her blood. And the pounding is the rhythmic, cyclical birth and death and rebirth of the universe, and the pounding is in her ears, and the pounding is a fist against her apartment door. 

Even before she’s fully awake, Scully knows that it’s Mulder. 

He does this sometimes, and she pretends that she minds it more than she does. He’s a creature of the night, after all, and she’s been becoming one for years. 

She rolls out of bed, blindly reaching for her robe and pulling it over her rather skimpy summer pajamas. The silk is cool against her skin, sending a crescendo of goosebumps along her arms and the back of her neck, pebbling her nipples. 

The pounding persists, and now that she’s truly awake, she can hear the unmistakable tone of his voice - dogged, determined, and, she’s beginning to suspect, quite drunk. “Scullaaay - Scullaayopenthedoor, Scullay, s’me -”

Well, yeah, who the hell else would it be? She finds herself thinking, a little irritated at the unnecessary noise he’s making. He’s got a goddamned key, why doesn’t he just use it? 

She opens the door just as she hears his key scrape against the doorknob, missing the slot completely, and he tumbles in, steadying himself by clapping a large, heavy hand on each of her shoulders. “Mulder, shut up, for the love of God,” she hisses. 

“Oh, sorry… hi,” he offers a boyish half-grin. In the wan light of the hall, she notices that he’s got a black eye brewing, dried blood on his cheek. 

“Mulder, what did you do? What the hell happened to you?” 

“You should see the other guy,” he chuffs, leaning back against the open door, causing it to slam shut with a bang. “Whooaah, hah.” Scully cringes at the sound, and reaches past him to refasten the tidy row of locks. How she hasn’t been kicked out of the building by now is completely beyond her. 

“Kitchen. Now. And keep it down.” It’s like babysitting, is what it is. Babysitting a scrappy, naughty, 6-foot tall puppy with a gun strapped to his ankle.

Resigned, he follows her, pulls a chair from the kitchen table practically into the middle of the room, and slumps into it. Scully flicks on the kitchen light to get a better look at him, gingerly stepping between his long, splayed legs. The skin on his cheekbone is broken, and that eye’s gonna be swollen shut tomorrow. She explores his face with gentle fingers, turning it side to side, looking for more lesions. He’s pliant under her hands, obedient as a guilty dog. 

“What… where were you tonight? How…”

“Gunmen. College kids at the Bear n’ Kilt. Some guy wouldn’t leave this girl alone. Told ‘im to stoppit. Yadda, yadda, yadda, boom.” He mimics a right hook, brushing his knuckles against Scully’s cheek. A shiver trickles down her spine at his touch. “Givvit to me straight, doc, mm’I gonna live?”

She softens, warming to him. What a dumbass. A valiant, sweet, heroic one, but still a dumbass. “Oh Mulder,” she sighs, and out of habit, runs her hands through his hair, petting him tenderly. It’s soft and thick, his scalp warm. “You don’t always have to be everyone’s knight in shining armour, you know. Give yourself a night off of saving the world now and then.” 

He gazes up at her, lips parted, something unfamiliar and wonderful burning in his eyes. It’s only then that she notices his hands smoothing lightly over the curves of her hips, the silk of her robe bunching over his fingers. 

“I’m… going to go get the first aid kit -” she begins, her tone measured, careful, a warning. She removes her hands, but he captures one of her wrists, violently, pulling her forward so that they’re dangerously close, even for them. His eyes are dark and aggressive as they drop to her lips, the unmistakable, familiar weight of desire hanging in the air between them. 

The pounding has returned, and it’s the thump of her heart against her ribs, frantically redirecting all of her blood into her core, preparing her body for something her heart isn’t ready for.

“Why do you touch me like you do, Scully?” The sharp, amber smell of whiskey on his breath. The faint, bread-like musk of his sweat. The dizzying sight of the clench of his jaw. She starts to lie, starts to form her deflection - like what? I don’t know what you’re talking about - but there’s something about the raw hunger in his eyes that makes her honest. 

“I should ask you the same question.” 

He tightens his grip on her wrist, rubbing his thumb along the delicate bone there, his other hand roughly kneading the bit of flesh on her hip. 

“Mulder, let me go. You’re drunk.” She tries to hide her breathlessness, tries to sound firm, clinical, professional. 

“No.” He lifts his chin, searching her eyes, fierce and powerful. She could do it. She knows they both want it. She could give in, and it would be… it would be incredible. She knows it would. She could let him claim her, ravage her, let him sheath himself in her body, let him brand her with his teeth and his hands, let him make her come - but then what? What happens after it’s all over? If they finally strike the match, will her whole world go up in flames? 

“MULDER.” She wrenches out of his grip. “Stop it.” She turns away, her cheeks and neck burning. She remembers the first aid kit, and stalks away to rummage in her cupboards. 

She hears the chair scrape against the floor as he gets up, and whirls around, humiliated and half-raging. At herself, at him, at Blevins, for damning her to a life of shadows and self-denial. 

“Mulder, sit down. You need medical attention.” 

“It’s a black eye, Scully, an excuse. I don’t need shit.” 

He won’t meet her eyes. “Sit. Down.” She reaches for his arm, but when her fingers brush his elbow, he rips it away. 

“Coming here was a mistake.” He storms back into the living room, fumbling with the locks on her door. 

“At least let me call you a cab, Mulder, Jesus -” 

“I’ll walk.” 

He slams the door shut behind him, and then the pounding is her upstairs neighbour, knocking their disapproval from the ceiling.

Frangipani’s Masterlist #1: Smut

No particular order, all MSR, all seasons.

Don’t Let Me Stop You:

Just how dependent on each other are they? Revival era. Slightly AU.

Five Times Mulder Went Down on Scully:

Accident ~ Awkward ~ Alive ~ Angry ~ Away

One Fantasy at a Time:

Revival era.

Through My Eyes:

Pregnancy smut.

Breakfast Special:

Mulder and Scully play trivial pursuit

Now Scully:

Bathroom sex, revival era, slightly AU.


A high school reunion.

Plain and Simple:

A Christmas feast at the Scully household, a medicine ball and Bill Scully.

The Undress:

Sequel to The Dress. What happens when the dress comes off?

Velvet and Ice:

What do you do at an FBI ball?

Recovery Period:

Revival era, playing doctor and patient.


Does Mulder manscape?

Wedding Party:

Titty fuck at a wedding.

ATTHS. Twice:

Cracksmut metafic for Plus One

Open Door:

Diana walks in on Mulder going down on Scully.


Celebrating International Friendship Day, Mulder and Scully style.

Top Five:

Pornbattle for Unsexy Files ep The List.

Tunnel of Love:

A raunchy ride at the carnival.


In the library.


Scully comes around Mulder’s fingers.


Scully sees a tape of Mulder having sex with Diana.


Mulder has a stressful day.

Strange Fruit:

Fruit and other pleasures.

Three Point Turn:

Board games and smut.

anonymous asked:

You wrote something set after paper clip which was one of my fave ever msr cuddle fics. Could you please write them cuddling in another scenario? I love them platonically sleeping together and you tap into the emotions so well ❤️

Sorry it took me so long to answer this one. Here’s a cuddle fic set in season 2. Hope you enjoy.

Her first thought is that she’s crazy, paranoid like her partner. Lack of sleep Dana, she assures herself nipping at the glass of water she just poured herself. Cars park in front of your building all the time, she continues her internal monologue. This only bothers you because it’s 2 am and you can’t sleep. She nods to herself, but the feeling gnaws at her steadily. Her lights are off so she moves to the window, peeks outside. The car across the street is still there, unmoving but slightly askew as if ready to flee at any given moment. There’s a shadow inside, moving slowly, and Scully’s heartbeat picks up. This is not real, she tells herself taking a deep breath. That’s what her therapist keeps telling her: breathe in deeply, breathe out, repeat. Scully reiterates these words, mouths them silently, breathes in between. She wills herself to relax and thinks of Mulder. Her partner, who’s been nothing but forthcoming since she’s come back from… from whatever she’s come back from. Her mother refers to it as the time Dana went missing. As if it were a cute story you tell your children and grandchildren. Mulder calls it an abduction, his voice harsh when he says it, breaking guiltily on the last syllable. Unless he is looking at her. Scully doesn’t want him to see her like that, like a vulnerable bird out in the cold that needs to be taken inside, needs to be taken care of. But right now, she wants to call him anyway, tell him all about the car outside. Most of all she wants him to reassure her that she’s safe, that this is a figment of her overactive imagination. Not real. Her hand reaches out to grab the phone. But she can’t call him. He’ll come over and then he’ll glance at her, maybe not even say a word, and he’ll feel like he needs to protect her. No. She takes the phone with her, her gun too, and puts them on the nightstand. Just in case, she tells herself, before she tries, and fails, to fall asleep.

The next night, after she’s rubbed off the make-up she used to hide her exhaustion, Scully switches off all the lights and checks that the door is locked. Twice. Only then does she allow herself to peek outside. No car. She sighs in relief, laughs. She shuffles off to bed, praying she’ll get some decent sleep tonight.

As so often these days, luck is not on her side. Two hours later, she can no longer stay in bed, feels the desperate need to move. Without turning on the lights, Scully walks into the kitchen to boil tea water. A while ago her mother brought her this herbal tea claiming it would relax her. Tonight, she is willing to try. Everyone keeps telling her to relax, to enjoy life. As if her disappearance is nothing to worry herself with now that she’s back. The water gurgles softly in its kettle and Scully is too restless, too curious to stay there. She tiptoes to the window in her living room. She rolls her eyes at herself; there’s no reason to be quiet. But as soon as she looks outside, she sees it. The car. It is the same one, the shadow clearly visible inside. Her heart beats faster as sweat breaks out on her forehead. When is this going to end? In the kitchen, the kettle whistles angrily, startling her. Scully’s hand trembles as she pours the boiling water over the prepared tea bag, but the soft lavender scent is unable to calm her nerves. Safe for leaving her apartment, there is only thing she can do. Her hands curled around the hot mug, her eyes flicker to the cell phone on her kitchen table. She may not see it in the darkness, but she knows it’s there. She takes a sip from the scalding hot beverage before she puts it down, knowing it won’t help. There’s only one thing that will.

“Mulder, it’s me. I hope I didn’t wake you.” Her voice sounds robotic in her own ears. How often have they done this? Nighttime calls hoping the other one wouldn’t be angry. Usually it’s Mulder who calls her and she has to assure him that she doesn’t mind.  

“Scully, are you all right?” Unlike her, Mulder sounds alert. And, just like she suspected, terrified.

“I’m fine, Mulder. I just- I’m probably overreacting but…,” she takes a deep breath and hears Mulder hold his, “there’s a car in front of my building. It’s the second time I see it and I’m sure I’m overreacting, but…”

“I’ll be right there, Scully.”

“You don’t have to come over, Mulder. I just needed to… talk to someone, I guess.”

“Scully? I’ll be right there. I’m uhm, in the neighborhood anyway. See you soon. Just stay put.” He hangs up without a goodbye or explanation. That’s nothing out of the ordinary. In her neighborhood at this time of the night? That certainly is.

Not ten minutes later there is a knock at her door. She knows it’s Mulder, but she stares through the peephole, asks anyway. Just in case. These days she can’t be careful enough. Her furiously beating heart agrees.

“Hi.” It’s pure relief when Scully ushers Mulder inside. He lets himself be dragged to the window, trusting her to navigate through her pitch-dark apartment. “Look.” She tells him. He’s standing behind her, his chest gently pressing against her back. His head is over her shoulder, staring outside. Puffs of gentle breath brush her cheek and this, she realizes, is so much better than any herbal tea. She hasn’t felt this relaxed in days, weeks maybe. Thank you Mulder, she thinks, wishing the words were easier to say.

“Tonight is the second time I saw it, but who knows how long it’s been there and why.”

“A week.”


“That car has been there a week.” Mulder, still close to her, tells her evenly. Her blood runs cold with a sudden, inexplicable sense of betrayal. Goose bumps cover her arms as the feeling disappears and makes room for something else, something new.  

“How do you know that, Mulder? Why didn’t you tell me?” Scully barely registers the squeaky quality of her voice. She turns around, pushes Mulder away. She misses his warmth immediately and it makes her angry; with him, the situation and worst of all herself.

“Because it’s me, Scully. It’s me.”

“You…” She tears at the drapes, stares at the car. It’s a black Sedan. Mulder likes to rent a Ford or a Taurus. In her mind his words don’t add up, don’t make sense. Where did he get that car? Her mind screams, unable to look at the bigger picture. Why is he watching her from a car in the middle of the night? The question, though, never comes.

“I uhm, I didn’t tell you because well, you keep telling me you’re fine. But Scully, I’m not.” Slowly, she turns to him. “I’m not fine. Most of the time when I’m not with you I stare at my phone. Waiting for it to ring and someone to tell me that… one night last week, I couldn’t sleep. So I drove here. I just wanted to make sure everything was in order. I didn’t want to wake you so I stayed in my car. I figured if anything were to happen, I’d be here. This time I’d be here.”

“Oh Mulder.” Scully doesn’t fight her tears, no longer fights the need to hold him close. His arms open and she falls into them. The anger she felt moments ago dissipates into nothingness.

“I’m sorry, Scully. I wasn’t thinking, I was just…”

“I’m not angry, Mulder.” She mumbles against his shirt. It’s warm, it smells fresh, and so much like him; she feels safe. When he huffs against her hair, she smiles. “Fine, I might be a bit angry. I wish you’d just said something but… I didn’t tell you either.” Communication 101, and they both flunked it. She wants to promise him, and have him promise her, that next time they’ll talk. Say what is real, speak their feelings. She knows it would be a lie. An empty promise made in the comfort of the darkness and each other’s arms. So she stays quiet, just hold him tighter.

“I should probably leave. Go home.”

“Did you sleep in your car, Mulder? That last week.”

“I… you know I don’t sleep much.”

“You need sleep, Mulder. It’s not healthy.”

“Thank you, Dr. Scully. It’s 2 am and look who else is awake.”

“You’re not leaving,” Scully decides, glancing up at him. Her eyes have gotten used to the darkness and she sees the exhaustion on his face, unmasked. “I want to make sure you sleep.”

“That sounds like a proposition.” His grin is so much more beautiful than the deep sorrow, the fearful lines all around his eyes and lips.

“I haven’t been sleeping well,” Scully admits, ignoring his remark, “and you haven’t been sleeping at all. So, come on.” She takes his hand and drags him towards her bedroom. He stops, glances at her.


“Just to sleep, Mulder,” she whispers, glad that he can’t see her blush, “Just to sleep.” Mulder undresses slowly once they’re in the bedroom. Scully considers switching on a light, but she needs the darkness; pretend this is a dream, she tells herself. Dana Scully doesn’t indulge in moments like this. Just for one night, she repeats mentally, just tonight. She hears the rustle of Mulder’s jeans then footsteps. He stands there, a big, large shadow, but she is not afraid.

They don’t speak once he’s settled. There are no questions, no fears. Mulder is on his back, warm next to her. Scully moves closer, needs to be as close as possible. This is what is real, she thinks. I’m Dana Scully, I’m his partner and he is mine. She takes his hand in hers, touches each finger as if examining them one by one. She laces them with hers before she carefully turns on her side. Mulder has no choice but to follow her until he is behind her again, the big spoon to her little one. She holds his hand, puts it under her chin. Mulder buries his face in her hair, her neck, breathing softly. This is the first, the only thing, that feels right.

“Thank you, Mulder.” This time the words come easily, fill the room. Her eyelids begin to droop as her heartbeat slows down. She doesn’t know if there will be nightmares. Mulder is not a miracle worker. Though he would do everything in his power to convince her otherwise, she is certain of that. The thought puts a smile on her face and it remains there as sleep captures her, catches her as she falls.

“All you have to do is ask, Scully,” dream Mulder tells her, or maybe he is the real one holding her; it does not matter, “and I’ll hold you every night for the rest of our lives.” What a wonderful dream, she marvels, before all other thoughts leave her be.

Three Times Mulder and Scully Got Caught and One Time They Didn’t Care -- Part 3

Part 1

Part 2

Rating: Explicit

AN: This was a very fun part to write! All of my love and gratitude to @piecesofscully for the lightning fast beta and just for being an all around wonderful person.


“God, Mulder, you really need to stop that.”

“Mmmm stop what?” Mulder asked as he continued to wind his tongue around her earlobe, his teeth gently tugging at her earring.

Scully closed her eyes, the hotel keycard missing the lock entirely as she leaned back into his chest, reveling at the feeling of his tongue in her ear and his hands pawing at her breasts. “You know exactly what you are doing, Agent Mulder. I’m having enough trouble with this key as it is, I really don’t need you doing, oh Jesus, that.”

He popped the top button of her shirt open as he leaned down and whispered a gentle laugh into her cheek. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you polish off that much champagne, Agent Scully. As the acting supervisor of The X-Files division I have to say, I am highly disappointed.”

Giving up on the door, she dropped the keycard to the floor before reaching behind her.

“Hmmm, that certainly doesn’t feel like disappointment, and besides, Special Agent Fox Mulder, FBI,” she sassed as she turned around and wound her arms around his neck putting her lips against his, “We are not currently on duty. A fact that I plan on continuing to celebrate with more alcohol and more you.” Scully punctuated her statement with a slow lick of his bottom lip.

“Oh, Scully, I don’t know.” He bent down to pick the card up off the floor, dragging his hands across the curves and planes of her body as he straightened back up. “Your level of inebriation is a cause of concern.” Mulder finally unlocked the door and held it open with an outstretched arm.

Scully lifted her eyebrow and her eyes to Mulder as she was forced to walk under his arm. “Seriously? Mulder, I might be a little tipsy, but I assure you, the keycard wasn’t working right. I am in no way drunk.”

After making sure the “Do Not Disturb” door hanger was firmly in place, he shut the door, flipped the lock and turned to her.  His eyes moved across her body languidly, taking their time to take in all of her before answering, “That is exactly why I am concerned.” Mulder crossed to the minibar, taking out tiny bottle after tiny bottle. “This is one, full, case-free, duty-free, FBI-free, weekend. Just you and me, Scully.”

Scully perched on the foot of the large king-sized bed and toed off her high heels, the shoes thumping to the carpet. “How did you manage to swing this, Mulder? How were you able to slide under Skinner’s radar? I thought for sure he would have us on another case this weekend.”

Ceasing his minibar raid, Mulder turned to her with a smirk. “Well, I may or may not have implied that we would be swamped with a backlog of purchase requisitions that need to be processed before being sent over to accounting –”

“Not entirely false.” Scully interrupted.

“And Skinner just so happens to be at a director’s conference all weekend, so there is no chance we are going to be called away on a case,” he explained, his smirk evolving into full-fledged smile. “Pick your poison, Scully.”

Toying with the buttons of her blouse she looked at him through her lashes before replying, “What do you think, Mulder?”

He sat back on his heels and regarded her, staring at her for a beat before answering. “You seem like a strictly wine and champagne girl. Maybe the occasional beer.”

“What would you do if I requested that bottle of Patrón in your hand?”

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soap bubble memories

msr | s2-7 | explicit | words: 5k

five times mulder and scully showered together + one time they bathed.

i have an inbox full of prompts and wrote this instead oops. tagging @today-in-fic.

— — —


The first time, he’s just gotten her back. Again. After she was taken from him. Again. To say he’s on edge would be the understatement of the century.

When they get back to the motel and she says she needs a shower, he thinks of mutants and sewer monsters, things that could find their way through drainage pipes to steal her a third time. He’ll be damned if he lets it happen again. So he stands outside her bathroom door, arms folded and alert, her own personal sentinel that she neither asked for nor approved, and listens. One wrong splash, one concerning clang, and he’s going in.

He hears the shower start, and that’s fine. The rustle of fabric, fine too. What’s not fine is the silence that follows, long and drawn out. He waits for the whisk of the shower curtain, for the pitter-patter sounds of water ricochetting off of her and onto the tile, for the thump of a knocked over shampoo bottle—anything.


And then, a sound.

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