txf fic

All his Scullys: fic

Today, Mulder is making a fire in the yard. There is a strange elasticity in the air, a stretching of time and place and memory. The flames snap and flicker on the rush of fuel and his mind snaps and flickers on images of Scully through the years. 

Naive in an ill-fitting suit, mouth popping open in disbelief. Still in a hospital bed, drifting away from life, from him. Bruised, bloodied but defiantly alive. Gossamer-fragile from a cruel disease. Bitter from betrayal. Brilliantly flirty, desperately sad, resilient and angry. All her selves. All the Scullys he loves curl through the tendrils of the fire. Slightly out of reach. Drifting away on the smoke before he can snatch them to his heart. Heat shimmies skyward. He closes his eyes, holding on to the pictures of her.

It’s only when her arms curl around his waist that time bends back to the here and now. Solid again. Warm and whole together. He tilts his head down and round to see her, rugged against the cold, hair bright as the fire. 

God, he loves all his Scullys.

anonymous asked:

Post-S11 prompt. Mulder asks Scully to tell him everything that's happening at this point in the baby's development, partly because he wasn't there the first time and he wants to soak up all the details, and partly because he secretly loves it when she's knowledgeable Dr. Scully.

words: idk! A lot! / MSR / post s-11 / cute fluff for today


“How the hell do they get these fruit measurements? Do they just measure the baby and go ‘yeah it looks about the size of a cherry, whatever’.”

“I’m sure I don’t know, Mulder.”

They live in the bathroom now, it seems, Scully’s forehead consistently pressed against the cool porcelain of the toilet while Mulder sits on the counter and tries to offer company, crackers, ginger ale, words of reassurance. He’s currently pouring over some pamphlet that the doctors gave them, eyes glancing across the size scale as it folds out in front of him. His eyes coast off the page to stare at the back of her neck.

“Was it this bad with William?”

Scully pauses, then shakes her head. “Not in the slightest.” Her stomach lurches and she dry heaves over the bowl for a while. There’s nothing left in her stomach, and yet.

“Could it be twins?”

Her gaze flickers angrily up at him.

“If you even put that possibility into the universe again I will kill you.”

He raises his hand in defense. She turns back to the bowl, sighing.

“There’s a lot of reasons it could be worse. I’m older now, I have different sensitivities, my hormones are much different than they were even five years ago, let alone eighteen. Sometimes if babies have more hair later in development, it causes different hormone imbalances,” she hums softly and lifts into a slumped but seated position. “It could be a girl instead of a boy.”

Mulder’s eyes light up softly. Scully chuckles.

“Don’t get your hopes too high, it’s just a speculation. My mom said Charlie gave her the worst morning sickness.”

Mulder slides from the counter and settles on the ground next to her, fingers brushing the soft, still flat plane of her tummy.

“So what do we know, then?”

Scully pauses. “Well, I’m only nine weeks. So we know that the baby is- what did you say, the size of a cherry? The baby is medically considered a fetus now, instead of an embryo. And the baby has lost its tail- it looks more like a baby.”

Mulder’s head snaps a little and Scully laughs.

“No tails,” he murmurs. “That’s good.”

- -

Mulder comes home one day, jogs up the porch steps and stops short when he sees Scully sitting on the porch swing, deathly still. Her eyes are fixed on a point a few feet in front of her, her hands settled gently on the soft curve in her abdomen.

“Scully,” he cautions, causing her to gaze up at him through her lashes. She moves slightly, something resembling a smile flickering across her lips. He approaches with careful steps. “Are you okay?”

She nods once. “The baby is moving.”

Brows lifted to his hairline, Mulder quickens his pace and joins her on the swing, his hand finding her belly in an instant. Moments pass in a breathless silence. Mulder glances up at her.

“I don’t feel anything.”

Scully shakes her head, a few pieces of hair falling to curve around her cheekbone. “You won’t, yet,” she hums. “The baby is too small. I barely feel it, it just feels like bubbles- or popping popcorn.” Her hand brushed against his and she taps the back of his knuckle with the pad of her index finger. “Like that.”

Mulder’s face falls just a little, but he keeps his palm pressed to her belly. “Oh,” he mutters. She squeezes his hand.

“Soon, honey. The baby is only sixteen weeks. Avocado sized, according to that app that Will told me about.”

“Well, what’s new with baby then?”

Scully smiles. “Baby is growing well. My hair is growing faster. Baby has eyelashes and their eyes are sensitive to light now. And baby can hear.”

Mulder perks forward and Scully nods with a smile. Wordlessly, Mulder slides from the porch swing and settles with his cheek pressed against Scully’s hip.

“Hey baby. Get ready for a lot of stories.”

- -

“Mulder, let me up. I need to pee.”

Mulder sleepily shrugs his arm off her waist and lets it fall into the warm space she leaves in the bed. He hears her walk over the creaky floorboard by the dresser, the snick of the bathroom door as it closes, the flush of the toilet and the gentle stream of warm water before she sinks back into the mattress, a soft groan pulling from her throat.

“You okay?”

She nods wordlessly as she lays down again, pillows tucked dutifully beneath her belly and between her knees as she rolls to face him.

“Just sore,” she hums, voice thick. “She’s restless tonight.”

/She./ A girl. No matter how many times Mulder hears it, it still sends a bolt of lightning down his spine. They both cried when they found out, images of a perfect little freckle-faced girl filling their imaginations. His hand comes to rub slow circles on her belly.

“What’s new in babyville?”

Scully smiles, meets his hand. “Twenty-five weeks is cauliflower sized. She’s rolling, she knows her up from her down. She’s practicing her breathing, even if it’s just amniotic fluid.” Her belly twitches softly a couple of times and Scully huffs a sigh. “She gets hiccups at very inconvenient times.”

Mulder laughs wildly, her belly bouncing softly beneath his hand.

“Beautiful,” he giggles.

- -

“God I hate those classes.”

He’s helping her into the car, a hand loyally at the small of her back, and he laughs a little.

“I know, but they’re a little helpful, right?”

Scully rolls her eyes, waits for him to climb in on the drivers side.

“Maybe? How many people actually practice those techniques in labor anyway? And what if you have a c-section? Useless.”

Mulder laughs again and maneuvers the car out of the community center parking lot, tapping his fingers to the tune on the radio.

“Cut it out,” Scully mutters, fingers pinching the bridge of her nose. “Or turn the radio up, I don’t want to just listen to you tap.”

Mulder stops, nods softly. Scully sighs again.

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs softly. “I’m just annoyed today. She’s been down in my hips all morning and my pelvis feels like it’s being held together with Elmer’s Glue.”

He nods, laying a sympathetic hand on her thigh.

“I know, baby. I’m sorry. I’ll massage you later, I promise. What’s new with baby girl?”

Scully smiles, shifts a little in her seat.

“Thirty-four weeks, is that right? So, she’s a little lower. I can breathe a little more but she’s right on top of my bladder. Her immune system is almost fully functioning. Her bones are soft, she can hear really well,” she giggles, glancing sideways at Mulder. “And she’s really craving some soft serve right about now.”

Mulder laughs, lane changing to get them to their favorite ice cream shop.

“I’ll bet she is.”

- -

“Oh dear God, I want her out.”

Mulder smiles sympathetically from his spot on the floor, gazing up the length of her legs as he massages each sore foot, each swollen ankle.

“Thirty-nine weeks, Mulder. William didn’t even make it this long. He was early. I thought it was rare for women to reach their due dates.”

“You’ve still got a week, honey. She’s got time.”

“I want her out.”

Her hands splay anxiously over her belly, groaning as Mulder hits a spot on the ball of her foot, her head lolling back.

“Am I hurting you?”

She shakes her head, smirking. “No, but keep it up. I hear there’s trigger points in the feet that can jumpstart labor.”

Mulder sets her foot against the couch with a kiss and she pouts. He scoots forward and leans his temple against her belly, feeling their daughter stretch a limb outward.

“What’s she doing?”

Scully scoffs. “Ruining my hips for all eternity.”

Mulder shakes his head, hand coasting over her belly button. “No, tell me.”

She pauses, rolls her ankles.

“She’s kind of a full grown baby now. She’s full term, she’s got her muscles and bones and skin and hair and eyes. Her brain is nice and big. False labor is obnoxious as ever. But she’ll be here soon,” she smiles. “Actually- grab my bag from your office, that little black one.”

Mulder rises and disappears, returning with the bag in question. Scully reaches into it and pulls out a stethoscope, tucking the earpieces gently into her ears. Lifting her sweater, she sets the chilly diaphragm against her belly and moves it around. The baby responds to the cool metal and stretches around it, making Scully laugh. Eventually, lower down the crest of her belly a smile breaks over her lips.

“Here,” she hums, pulling the earpieces out and handing them to Mulder, keeping the little metal circle pressed to the one spot. Mulder places the earpieces in his ear and instantly brightens, laughing softly.

“Her heartbeat,” he murmurs, his voice echoing with awe. “There she is.”

They lay in silence for a while, taking turns listening to their daughters life force as the sun dips low in the sky.

- -


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.

anonymous asked:

If you are taking prompts and this one interests you: An AU where Requiem never happened. Mulder was never abducted, Scully was never pregnant with William. They have been together and working on the X-Files the past 15(ish) years when they are confronted with the unexpected/impossible late-in-life pregnancy.

This may not be the epic you were hoping for, but we all know I work best in shortform.  And hey, maybe I’ll expand it later!

Keep reading


My Valentines contribution. Written a bit tipsy and hastily on my phone, un-beta’d, natch. Posted via mobile.

Spoilers: everything up to s10 (I think, depending on your interpretation)

Rating: NC-17

Trigger warnings: mentions of depression

Tagging @today-in-fic


Perhaps Valentines Day wasn’t the best time to start venturing out as an official couple again on their therapist- prescribed ‘date night’.

Dinner went as well as could be expected, and she might have had one too many glasses of house red to ease her nerves and abate the tension. The restaurants are crowded with other couples—some laughing, some quiet, others clearly going through the motions, checking their watches. The close proximity and bustling noise make Mulder nervous, isolation has made him hypersensitive and fidgety. But he’s trying for her, for them. Not even the deepest of depressions could smother his New England breeding. He’s pulled out her chair, led her expertly in a gentle foxtrot to Sinatra, been attentive and complimentary, and anyone who didn’t know him as well as she does would never have noticed his lack of appetite, or his incessant swallowing as if a dinner roll were caught in his throat. The food is delicious and they are still companionably quiet at their table, which is a relief, but the environment with its scraped linens and roses and music, combined with the scent of rich sauces and overbearing perfume is the equivalent of a romantic pressure cooker. Before dessert menus can be suggested by the over-solicitous waiter, Scully takes pity on him and slides her hand over his.

“Let’s go home,” she suggests calmly.

He interprets her subtle meaning perfectly, but is caught off guard nonetheless. Her eyes are steady and sure enough for the both of them, though, even though her mind is all but screaming that this is too soon. But it’s Valentines Day, damnit. And she’s had a little too much wine, she’s feeling frisky and pliant, and he looks good enough to eat. Even when his eyes are clouded, the melancholy in his features suits him, even his bone structure lends to a forlorn sort of beauty. She wants him. She wants his hands and his body and being in his presence lately just isn’t enough.

He kisses her knuckles as they pull into the drive, and she feels a trill of hopeful anticipation flutter around her rib cage. Sometimes she forgets that despite their recent distance, he is still the man who knows and loves her best. He’s still in there, and he’s fighting his way back.

The kitchen floor is slippery and cool to her stockinged feet, a contrast to the flush in her cheeks. She is pouring them each a glass of the bottle they bought from that winery how many years ago, and he is behind her nuzzling and nipping, sending gooseflesh over her skin and heat to her groin. She giggles uncharacteristically and uses her bottom to push him off, encouraged by the feeling of his thriving erection. He is undeterred, though, and presses her belly into the counter, retrieving the glasses from her hands, whispering “later” into her ear, and she mentally chides herself for putting him in the position to be the smart one, to remember that combining alcohol with antidepressants is not only contraindicated, it could be an impediment to his responsiveness to her. But something about his pragmatism seems off. Abruptly she pushes his hands away and turns to face him, noting with dismay that his expression is one of practiced enthusiasm. Her temper flares but is quickly extinguished.

“Hey,” Her hands are on his face and stroking behind his ears, the way she knows renders him totally helpless. “we don’t have to do this if you aren’t ready.”

The best thing about their rehabilitated relationship is that they are consciously avoiding evasive tactics. They cut to the chase because lying to each other would only be an excise in futility. Briefly he looks offended, but just as quickly his face turns sorrowful, knowing full well she’s seen straight through his carefully orchestrated seduction. He pulls her close and kisses her forehead in apology. “I’m sorry. It’s not that I don’t want this,” he says to her hairline, “I just….its like….wanting chocolate cake…even though my taste buds don’t work anymore.” She can feel him close his eyes above her. “I remember what it was like…to feel things. But right now it’s, it’s like I feel everything, and nothing all at the same time.”

Her hand travels to the nape of his neck and she lifts her face to kiss that button chin she’s secretly obsessed with.

“It’s ok, “ and she smiles, genuinely smiles up at him, so utterly thankful for his honestly that her earlier plans now seem trivial. “It will get better.”

He’s searching her eyes for any trace of pity, and finds none. And something about that sends his libido surging. He kisses her, eyes open, so he can gauge her reaction, and she lets him, complicit. Standing at such close proximity, she can feel his heart thud, causing the buttons of his dress shirt to shiver. Large palms grip her buttocks and hoist her round his waist with little effort. Thicker in his later season, the effort that he has put in to fight his demons has paid off.

The next few moments occur in flashes, the trip around him and up the stairwell, her laughing in earnest and his hot breath at her neck. He drops her carelessly onto the bed and leers, unabashed, then gathers her skirt around her waist. Ever mindful of her expensive taste, he chooses not to rip her silk blouse away and instead carefully frees each button, pulling the cups of her bra down and away, flesh spilling forth. She knows that her acceptance has done wonders for his ego and by proxy his desire, and part of her wants to pick this moment apart, figure out who this new animal is. The hedonist in her does not care. Her nylons were discarded at some point, she does not remember when, and now his palm is at her mons, warm and reassuring.

“What do you want?” She can hear her voice, but cannot place where it originates.

“I want to feel….” his eyes are on her groin but unfocused. His thumb grazes her clitoris, “you. I want to feel you.” And he’s suddenly ripping at his belt, zipper, freeing himself.

He places her hands at her inner thighs, presses, opens her. She is a willing oblation. He teases her first, entranced by the way his shaft now glistens and slides through her folds, then enters her with an audible grunt. This acute focus he has right now on their sex, his reveling in the sensation, it’s arousing to the point it’s making her delirious. His eyes are glazed over, onyx black and focused solely on where his body is entering hers. His pace is purposeful, deep and perfectly rhythmic, like good blues. He’s loud tonight. He’s vocalizing his pleasure, almost constant moans making its way past unmoving lips, deep from his chest and increasing in pitch and desperation. He’s positively entranced and it thrills her, god it thrills her to watch him get off on her this way. He’s wholeheartedly objectifying her, they both know it. He can’t stop himself. And she’s loving it. She is so swollen and aroused, tender and leaking as an overripe peach. The ridge of his glans presses on the front of her wall with purpose and the sensation feels like a spinal block, warmth and heaviness flooding her from the waist down. Her own climax is close, just a few swipes and her body would start to milk his. But something about the way he’s gazing down makes her not want to obstruct the view. So she pulls back, spreads herself wider and revels in victory when his expression turns pained and desperate.

Mulder has always been a giving lover, an intuitive one and he knows what she’s needing. But tonight is about him, and she finds herself being the one to try and hold out. He’s not making it easy. As much as he’s studying her, she cannot avert her eyes from the sinewy flex of his obliques as he pumps into her. There’s a new-penny shine of sweat concentrated at the apex of his clavicle she would love to lick clean. He grunts again, curses her name and that does it. She writhes and arches, possessed, as her orgasm seizes her. Waves of pleasure arc their way through her body, causing her internal muscles to contract, then quake in its release. He watches, triumphant and slack jawed. She is left quaking, with goose flesh and chattering teeth. When he allows himself to come, it chokes him silent. He collapses atop her, the distended veins in his throat and fluttering of his eyelids being the only hint at its intensity. His orgasm explodes and then seems to reabsorb, an endothermic process, and she can swear his body temperature rises 10 degrees. He’s a specimen of physics, her lover, and that in itself is intoxicating. She she luxuriates in the feel of his pubis as it pulses and contracts, spilling into her. He comes and comes, and she wonders how long it must have been for him. His breath is rainforest warm and wet at her throat.

Finally sated, he’s tender but spent and weak as a kitten. At times like this, she feels so exquisitely close to him. It is as if any separation were a ruse, a disguise, and this physical joining were their true form, hidden away in secret and brought to life by a certain kind of moon, like one of his beloved cryptids. His muttered gratitude is hoarse but genuine, and she knows he’s expecting a “you’re welcome” of some sort, but her endorphin-soaked brain has one phrase on loop and it’s all she can think to counter with.

-“I love you.”-


momdadimpoppunk  asked:

Prompt: Mulder and Scully on their first case after consummating their relationship.

words: who knows / MSR / pick a season

definitely had this mostly typed out and lost it so let’s try a TAKE 2


Scully’s flirty side is a force to be reckoned with. She leaves him breathless and flushed with nothing more than a glance, a swirl of her straw around an iced coffee, the tweak of her lips when she chews her cheek in thought. All of it feels premeditated, her eyes sparkling with secret mischief any time he catches her eye.

In Skinner’s office, she’s uncrossing and re-crossing her legs, making a point to let the toe of her heel slip briefly into the cuff of his trousers, undetected by Skinner across his desk.

He slides a thick file and two plane tickets across the desk and announces their dismissal. They rise in tandem and Mulder lets his hand linger in the small of her back a moment too long on the way out of the room.

- -

The next morning he brings her a coffee with extra hazelnut and kisses her cheekily on the mouth. His own lips taste of coffee and mint toothpaste, his aftershave slight on his skin. He carries her bag for her and sidles in close to her in the back of the cab, their thighs warm against each other.

The plane ride is percolated with dancing fingers, lips brushed against hands, against cheeks, against mouths. Without their uniforms and badges to mark them, they’re just another pair on the plane. They order wine on their own credit cards and let the flush of heat in their cheeks embolden them further.

- -

The motel owner has only one room available, despite the Bureau’s previous reservation.

“I can still show that it’s two rooms on your statement, for the purpose of your company, but I can only give you the one room.”

Scully shrugs, smirks softly, and bumps her hip into Mulder’s.

“I’m sure that will be fine.”

- -

The first night they brief the case with each other between rounds of wine and bread, long soaks in the tub, hours lost to the feel of each other. They stay up much too late, go for another round the next morning when the alarm goes off, soaring water and time with a shower together.

When the local sheriff mistakes them for a Mr. & Mrs., they don’t correct him right away, simply exchange a glance and flash their badges before proceeding. A woman they interview comments on their synchrony, their ability to volley back and forth with each other seemingly without effort.

“You make a good team.”

Mulder smiles and works another sunflower seed between his teeth, teasing Scully with his tongue against his lips.

- -

The case closed, bad guys behind bars, Mulder slips into their motel room the last night with a bottle of red wine tucked under his coat. He finds Scully in the bath, waiting amidst a sea of bubbles. He pours two glasses, rolls up his shirt sleeves, and dips his hand between her legs. She loses herself and he wets the side of his shirt in the process. No matter.

- -

Back in D.C., things resume something resembling normality, at least within the confines of the Hoover Building. At home they are free to do as they please, and when Skinner calls them down to his office for another briefing, they are nothing if not professional. Skinner sees all and nothing all at once, oblivious to the pair in front of him.

“We’ve booked you two rooms in Nashville, your flight leaves tomorrow.”

Back in the basement, Mulder glances over the file and waggles his eyebrows.

“Check it out, Scully. The rooms are adjoining.”




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.

scully-loves-ruthie  asked:

52 for the first time prompts

A/N: First time they went grocery shopping.  I caught a case of feels and this happened. Post Redux/ReduxII.  Unbeta’d.  Tagging @today-in-fic

Subtly Requited

Sunflower seeds, the weird granola with flax and dried cranberries, coffee.

He always stocks up before he meets her at the airport or picks her up in the rental car.  Sometimes, if the case is particularly gruesome, he’ll grab a couple donuts, the kind with frosting and sprinkles, as a sort of buffer; a reminder that not everything is bad.

But this time, as he pushes the cart up and down the narrow aisles of the grocery store, one wobbly wheel squeaking in protest, it is Scully who picks out the donuts.  And the granola, the weird kind with flax and dried cranberries, because she is a creature of habit.  She chooses fresh fruit; apples, a bunch of bananas, grapefruit, strawberries.  Next, a bag of carrots, a plastic container of salad greens, and a balsamic vinaigrette.  Then a package of chicken breasts and a dozen eggs.  Coffee, of course - whole beans that she’ll have to grind at home. Oatmeal and brown rice, soy milk and yogurt, and a pricey little wedge of white Stilton.  She fills the cart with her favorite things, the things she needs and the things she wants.

They unload her plunder onto the dusty conveyor belt at the checkout and Scully makes pleasant conversation with the cashier. He stays quiet and wonders how she does it.

She has always been “the healthy one,” picking at a salad while he scarfs a burger (though she does steal his fries, and the thought makes him smile).  She likes the weird granola and tofutti rice dreamsicles and lately she’s been researching bee pollen, which he never even knew was edible.  But this is different, he thinks.

Her cancer is in remission, and she is pale and frail and tired but here she is, making small talk with a stranger, and the smile on her face is genuine. This shopping trip, this purchase, isn’t about food. It is about fuel. It is about medicine and healing and restoration. It is meant to make her strong again, to make her whole, to put the lovely blush back on her cheeks.  She is not meant to be pale or frail or tired; she is none of those things to him.

As they push the cart through the parking lot, he fights tears, battles joy and anguish; when she notices he blames it on the wind and presses his hand to the small of her back to remind himself that she is real.  She is alive.  She reaches in the waxy bakery bag for a donut with frosting and sprinkles, because not everything is bad.

He carries the bags for her, making three trips to bring them inside.  Not because she can’t, but because he can and because he wants to. He wants to do everything for her; he always has, but now more than ever, he needs to. He’s not sure if this is for her benefit or to satiate his own selfishness, but it doesn’t matter because he feels like something was missing and he’s finally got it back.

He begins to unpack her groceries, hoping he’s put the oatmeal in the right cupboard, the milk on the proper shelf. He is determined not to miss a single chance to help her, to do things for her, to protect her.  He loves her, he realizes, as he’s closing the door of her refrigerator. Maybe he’s known it all along, but it is vivid and urgent now; imperative that he prove it to her.  

He reaches for the empty paper grocery bag and his head tilts slightly with wonder, when he discovers it is not empty. A smile whispers on his lips as he withdraws the final item.

Sunflower seeds.

heartbash  asked:

80. “How can you think I’m anything but hopelessly in love with you?” Because love confessions just fuck me right up.

okay, so this is 110% not at all what you were requesting, i’m sure, but in light of our recent conversations, i couldn’t help myself. if you want to re-request, i’ll do my best to deliver an r/n edition at some point too. either way, please accept this gift as a token of my friendship and appreciation. set somewhere in season 6?

The first time he says it, he’s high. The second time he says it, he’s drunk. Timing has never been his strength.

“Mulder,” she says, not quite a warning, not quite not a warning. “You’re drunk.”

Yes, Scully, he thinks. And so are you. So?

He only says the last part, so?, and manages it without too much slurring. A bead of sweat tracks a path down her jaw, derailing his attention.

They are in a dive bar masquerading as a Mexican restaurant in El Paso, and it is hot. Stopping for dinner had been her idea, but neither of them have managed more than a handful of under-salted tortilla chips apiece. The shaky, ancient ceiling fans do nothing to combat the heat, merely stir it around. Their appetites curdled before they even sat down.

So,” she says, gathering the condensation from her beer bottle on her fingertips. “You’re not thinking straight.”

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The first thing Scully registers is his face. He’s blurred, his features fluid. He moves his mouth and no sound comes out, and something is wrong, so deeply, terribly wrong. And then the cold hits her, the bone-deep bite of freezing air, a thick invasion in her throat. She tastes bile and river slime, a faint chemical sapor. 

Oh, God, what’s happening?

The memories spill back into her in a kaleidoscopic torrent - prisms of shattered glass on the asphalt, chunks of concrete rubble. The air warped with billowing flame. A whirlwind of flights and trials, a sticky, edematous corpse in cold storage. Mulder, whiskey-soaked at her door. Black helicopters in the hot night, a buzzing swarm, the parchment brush of cornstalk against her cheek. His voice a homing beacon, rising bright over the mayhem. 

Hegel Place. You kept me honest. You made me a whole person. 

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For @wtfmulder@perplexistan and @frangipanidownunder​ who so kindly encouraged me to emerge from lurking in the shadows and write this based on my 1 AM anon response to @wtfmulder​‘s ask prompt: where do Mulder and Scully get it on?. I’ve never written any X-Files fanfic before, so hopefully it’s not as awful and awkward as my brain insists on telling me it is 


“It’s a Halloween party, Scully. Not a funeral.”

Mulder is tipped back in his chair with his feet propped on the desk amongst various casefiles and his tongue working its way around a sunflower seed. His eyes rake over her black floor-length Victorian pinafore and his pouty lips twist into a teasing grin.

Scully scowls, her long puff sleeves swishing as she crosses her arms.

“For your information Mulder, this is a nearly exact replica of the dresses Marie Curie wore while conducting her groundbreaking scientific research on radiation, which led to her being the only person - male or female - to win a Nobel Prize in two different sciences, despite being denied access to higher education because she was a woman.”  

Mulder swings his legs off the desk and stands. He’s dressed head to toe in a black spandex bodysuit printed with the skeleton of the human body. Unlike the baggy pants of the early years of their partnership, this suit concealed nothing. Scully can see all of his, um, bones. Every single one. He crosses their cramped basement office to her and fingers the lacy ruffles of her high-necked smock.

“Don’t worry, Scully. I still think you look very cute.”

Scully keeps a face of neutral composure, determined not to let her quickening pulse betray her. She cocks her eyebrow and fixes her cool blue gaze upon him, giving him that look. She was already displeased at having to spend her first free Friday night in a month at the annual FBI Halloween party and his jokes are not helping.

She had barely contained her ire a few hours ago when Skinner announced that the party was now mandatory, as part of the Bureau’s new “Healthy Work/Life Balance” initiative. To be fair, Skinner was not overly thrilled with this new development either.

“If I have to go,” he’d said with an edged monotone that brooked no argument, “everyone has to go. No exceptions. I’ll see the two of you there in four hours.” He’d resignedly plopped a cowboy hat on his head with all the enthusiasm of being forced to attend a UFO convention with Mulder, “Yee haw.”

“A skeleton?” she shoots back. “Really, Mulder? How very spooky of you.”

“Not just any skeleton, Scully.” His boyish grin grows as he steps behind her to flip the light switch, plunging the office into darkness. “A glow in the dark one!”

She’s grateful for the newfound darkness that hides her begrudgingly amused smile and eye roll. The press of his hips into her backside and his sudden gravelly voice in the shell of her ear makes her heart jump and her cheeks burn.

“Wanna bone, Scully?”

Her stomach flutters in response to his offer and the closeness of his body. Licking her dry lips, she turns to face him, tilting her chin in defiance. Mulder knows this not because he can see her in the dim greenish glow of his suit, but by the warmth of her breath on the underside of his jaw.

“I dunno, Mulder,” she says in a low voice, her hand coming up to cradle his cheek. “With 206 of them, however will I choose?”

Scully brushes her thumb over the fine sandpaper of his jaw. “Should I go with the mandible?”

She can feel his Adam’s apple bob as she trails her hand down his neck, sweeping over his collarbone. “Or maybe the clavicle.”

Dragging her hands lightly down, “Sternum,” her fingertips pause over each bone as she goes. “Rib 1…2…3…4…” She can feel his heartbeat jackhammering in its cage, his chest rising shallowly because he’s forgotten how to breathe.

 “10…11…12…” Scully’s hand smooths over his waist before settling firmly on his hip. “Mulder, did you know that the pelvis has three different regions?”

Whatever breath he had left catches in his throat, his mouth too dry to make any sounds remotely resembling human language. He shakes his head in response, even though he knows she cannot see.

“The ilium.” She begins her descent over the curve of his hip. “The ischium.” Her hand sweeps up his groin to palm his barely concealed spandex bulge. “And the pubis.”

“Or perhaps,” Scully whispers, slowly sliding her hand through his quivering legs to press her fingers into his tailbone, “the coccyx.”

At her emphasis on that penultimate syllable, a strangled whimper drops from his lips.

“Hey Mulder,” Scully asks, her hand still between his legs. “You want to know the biggest difference between Marie Curie and me?”

The upward press and subsequent pause of her hand and forearm into his groin intonates that she expects a response from him. Mulder swallows hard, trying to wet his throat enough to form a coherent response.

“…uh yeah?” he asks weakly, unable to control the shaking timbre of his voice.

Reversing the path her hand traveled, trailing it back over his crotch and upward, Scully leans into Mulder’s broad chest and rests her smooth cheek against his stubbled one, her lips curving into devious smile an inch from his ear.

“Marie Curie wore underwear under her dress.”

She turns sharply on the heel of her black lace-up boots and exits the office, leaving a certain spooky skeleton speechless in the dark, bones glowing.

Plus One

Part 2

Inspired by @kateyes224‘s post/prompt here. Tagging @today-in-fic

M / 5,600 words / A03

Summary: Mulder convinces Scully to let him be her plus one at an old friend’s wedding.

“I didn’t know you had a wedding coming up,” Mulder commented as he fingered the invite stuck to her fridge by a magnet. 

“Well, I haven’t RSVPed yet,” Dana replied, sheepish. 

"I can see that. According to this, they wanted an answer three days ago." 

"I know,” she sighed. “I’m calling her tomorrow.”

“What’s the verdict?”

“I won’t be going.“ 

"How come?" 

"We haven’t been close for years and I don’t have anyone to take with me and anyway I’m sure some humanoid creature will start leaving bodies and I won’t be able to even make the wedding because I will be dragged to a flight to God-knows-where.” 

"Hey, I’ve been very respectful of your weekends lately. It’s been—” He counted on his fingers. “—Five weeks since I’ve woken you up on a Saturday.“ 

“Thank you?” 

"I should get one of those signs,” he went on. “‘It’s been 53 days since I’ve interrupted Dana Scully on one of her well-earned days off.’" 

She rolled her eyes.

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team spirit

rating: pg-13
timeline: ‘the unnatural’ through the revival era
msr, obviously

NOTES: First and foremost, Hello Fandom! You may have seen me around, reblogging your stuff. Or maybe you have no idea who I am. I’m a relatively new addition to The X-Files lore. I only started watching late last year (I know), but trust: this damn show has consumed every day of my life since. That said, I’m no newcomer to fanfic, but I’ve never written anything for TXF before. Actually, correction: I’ve never published anything for TXF before. What I love most about this fandom is the boundless creativity with which you guys continue and build upon this show’s legacy. And truth be told, I’m intimidated by your seemingly limitless talent. Before I posted anything of my own, I wanted to make sure I could deliver the quality that these characters, this story, and this fandom deserve. I have a few things I’m working on, but I never planned to write this.

TLDR: I’m recovering from surgery this week, and Percocet dreams are damn weird, man. And last night, I literally had a dream about Mulder’s jersey from The Unnatural and woke up with this head canon that Scully — not Mulder — has held onto it all these years. 

tagging: @today-in-fic; @fictober


February 2000

“How’d you get your hands on this so quick?”

She’s standing at his closet, one of his gray cotton t-shirts skimming the middles of her thighs. Underneath, she wears water droplets from the shower they just shared. Nothing else.

“What’s that about putting my hands on things?” He’s approaching behind her then – fresh from the bathroom – towel slung low on his hips, toothbrush hanging from his mouth. When he reaches her, she feels those hands – his hands– battle with the hemline of the shirt that’s now hers. Up, up, up… over her thighs… smoothing over her hips; she feels him exhale when he realizes they’re bare.

She grins as she nestles herself back against him. “This,” she gestures to where his arms are bracketed around her lower half, “wasn’t quick.”

No, this – freely touching each other’s naked bodies – took more than seven years.

He takes a hand away now, presumably to lift his toothbrush from his mouth, because when he bends down to her ear, his voice is clear: “I like to take my time.”

It’s not the minty coolness of his breath that makes the hair on her neck stand on end. No, it’s likely his wandering fingers, trailing slowly up her belly, to the underside of her breast. Or maybe the growing hardness, poking precariously at the small of her back.

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The Smoking Man offers Mulder a deal.

One of the Samanthas, distraught and shrill, her crooked pixie face lit up in diner-glow red. The sink of déjà vu, the sticky honeycomb ribs of an alien hoax, a microchip in deionized water.

A victory at the hearing, a condemnation, as empty and satisfying as a midnight cigarette.

In her hospital bed, Scully sits like the Kumari Devi against a mountain of pillows, bloodless and sacred, a strange energy around her, something heavy, something ultimate. “Mulder,” she says, and it’s all he can do not to fling himself at her feet.

He tosses his jacket and tie into a corner chair and eases himself onto the edge of her mattress. Their hands find each other; her cold small fingers knit into his large warm ones, her paper hospital bracelet hushing against the thin bones of her wrist.

“Scully,” he says, searching her face for the girl she’d been in Bellefleur. Baby fat and frizzy hair, freckles tossed haphazardly over the bridge of her nose. She’d been the one to kiss him, and he can still conjure the tack of her chapstick on his lips.

This rare woman, who loved him with her actions, who’d shoot him, lie for him, follow him into the darkest night. This woman, who’d begged him to let her carry his sins to her grave.

How unfathomable, that something as prosaic as cancer would dare to touch her.

“Mulder,” she says, and he releases her hand to cup her cheek. She nuzzles into him, blinking slowly in that lopsided way he adores. He pulls her into his arms, surrounding her frail body, bile in his throat. “Mulder,” she sighs into his shoulder.

After a moment, Scully pulls back, and her sublime, sallow face tears him to shreds. “I, um. Got the results from my last scan.”

He brings her hands up to kiss her knuckles, one by one, trying to free the desperate thing that’s thrashing in his ribcage. He can’t bear to look at her, not with the news he knows is coming. His lips touch the mound at the base of her thumb, the line of fate, the labyrinthine whorls of her fingerpads.

“I… I can’t begin to comprehend… nevermind explain … you’re the first one I’ve…” she’s breathy, and the hitch in her voice forces his eyes open, back to hers. They’re glassy and wide, and something begins to dawn on him.

“Mulder… I’m in complete remission. The cancer is gone.”

He stares, the breath sucked from his lungs. And then she breaks into a smile, her tears spilling over, and he’s weightless with a sudden, electric joy. Without thought or reason, he crashes his face to hers, kissing her with everything he has, sloppy and frantic. Laughing against each other’s mouths, his arms tight around her waist. She’s tugging him down on top of her, fumbling at his shirt buttons -


Maggie and Bill at the door, the fluorescent hallway light spilling across the tile. Mulder untangles himself immediately, sitting up, and Bill’s eyes flick wildly from him to Scully and back again.

“Dana?” Bill says, and the hope in his voice makes him sound like a small boy. Scully just nods, the colour high in her cheeks, her goofy, tear-soaked laugh like an answered prayer.

Maggie rushes to the bedside, dropping her purse in a clatter on the floor, drawing Scully into her arms, gasping her name. Bill follows, staring down at Mulder, an uneasy camaraderie written between them.

Mulder slips from the bed, squeezing the lump of Scully’s foot under the blanket. “I’ll, uh, give you some time with your family,” he mumbles, euphoria still humming in his chest.

He’s almost at the door when a hand grips his elbow. Maggie sinks against him, burrowing her cheek into his chest, just as strong and small and sweet as her daughter. A fresh wave of relief seeps through him, and they stand there, embracing, for a long time. She pulls back, reaching to hold his face in her hands, those untamed oceanic eyes so like Scully’s. “Fox, son, you are family.”  

Later, in the hallway, Mulder clutches a bloody, glass-flecked photograph, taken in 1972. He allows himself to grieve. The Smoking Man is dead, and along with him, his best chance of finding the truth about Samantha.

But Scully… Scully is alive. And he’s going to do this thing right.

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sonantis tonitrui

Summary: My take on the birth of baby girl Mulder. Set post-S11, obvs.

Rating: PG?

WC: 2400

Author’s Notes: Fic number TWO! This was inspired mostly bc I can’t do math and thought Scully would be due in August (such is not the case and I am an idiot). BUT, I didn’t want to wait until October to post it, so here it is. Enjoy!

Thunderclouds roll thick and sinister above the house and Scully takes them as an omen. She herself feels much like a raincloud, heavy and filled to the brim with frightening potential. She’s perched at the sink, staring at the approaching rainstorm with one hand on her belly. She feels cumbersome and clumsy today, stiff and sore and ultimately anxious. She feels as though she’s waiting for hiccups to cease, or like she’s been holding onto a sneeze for the last eight months. It’s torture now. The clock ticks incessantly and it’s driving her insane.

A low rumble sounds through the October sky and Scully can feel it in her back and hips. No wait, that’s another contraction. Her eyes glance at the clock and she tries to time it, but her brain is clumsy, and she miscalculates. No matter; it passes in mere moments, not even long enough to hold her breath for. Her grip on the edge of the sink lessens and she straightens her back. The baby kicks and it’s uncomfortable, no longer the butterfly kiss sensation that was so enamoring twenty weeks ago. Her hand runs across the front of her belly and the baby stills, seemingly sensing her mother’s discomfort and anxiety. She is already intuitive, Scully thinks, an empath even in the womb.

Mulder approaches loudly, lumbering down the stairs and into the kitchen for a bottle of water. Upon seeing Scully, he wraps her arms around her midsection, and Scully wonders if the baby can sense his blissful ignorance.

“You okay, honey?”

Scully just nods, eyes glued to the darkening sky.

“It’s going to rain tonight.”

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drabble; nc-17; msr; smut; season two-esque; prompt - “I did not mean for that to happen.”

They’re in a storage closet of all places, and it’s a tight fit, and it’s hot as hell, and it’s all her fault because she wasn’t supposed to go after him. But of course she did, and there’s nothing to do now that there are twenty other agents on the chase and he doesn’t even have enough room to reach for his gun.

The fact that she smells so good just makes him angrier. Dove soap and a hint of gunmetal. It’s a sexy kind of dangerous he isn’t accustomed to associating with her, mostly because he tries very hard to not associate her with anything sexy. But when he looks down at the top of her hair and notices how healthy and shiny it looks and how bad he wants to pull it till it hurts, he realizes he’s screwed. One and a half years without touching her or even really thinking about it – he’s a pretty brilliant guy, no matter what others might tell you, and he knows better than to bite the hand that feeds, or the pretty redhead who validates (validated) his work. He’s already seen her mostly naked, but she hadn’t had her red hair, she’d been smaller and less… god, busty, she’d put on some weight and he loves it. His imagination is a strong, fine thing, and he’s able to fill in the spaces, so to speak, so well that he forgets the real thing is pressed right against him, her little body wiggling for some modicum of comfort in cramped quarters.

He’s got her in his lap on their little bench, it’s late at night and he’s told her something particularly devastating, something about leaving the Bureau or D.C. or the country altogether. And suddenly she’s pulling down her skirt and shit, her innocent cotton panties, with a wet spot in the middle, and climbing on top of him and telling him he can’t leave. Sorry Mulder that’s the way it works. Ya can’t leave now. It’s cold so he wraps his trench coat around her and tries not to come immediately as she pulls his sticky cock out of his pants and sinks down around him. It’s a little scary how he wants to strangle her most of the time, but in this he imagines them at their most tender, and god, he’s so screwed.

Okay, they’re in her little Quantico office, he’s not supposed to be there but whatever, and she’s making fun of him for believing in… whatever, the Mongolian Death Worm, shit, that doesn’t matter, but they both end up kind of yelling. Perhaps very uncharacteristically Scully finds his refusal to let something go very arousing, and she’s shoving him against her door and unbuttoning his pants. People are looking in through the glass windows, staring, and he loves it because yes, she is fucking Mrs. Spooky, she’s as weird and persistent as me, and he feels proud even as she’s she’s choking him and rubbing him roughly through his underwear…

And then she moans, it sounds very confused for a woman who initiated everything… his eyes snap open and he remembers himself, remembers where they are, realizes he’s been grinding his steely hard cock into her stomach for the better part of ten minutes.

He is going to die. His soul withers with his erection as he ponders all the terrible directions this is about to go, like straight to HR, and her walking her cute little ass right out of his life for good. No more secret spy rendezvous at Watergate. No more of this, her following him into dangerous hostage situations because he’d gone in without backup and gotten lost in a hallway…

“Lift me up,” she orders suddenly. Oh, fuck. Okay. It’s barely manageable in this stupid closet but he gets her wrapped around him, shoved into the corner with his dick pressed tight against the juncture between her legs. She’s so hot there, he swears he can feel it. Wishes there was enough room to open up her slacks and take inventory, take a taste, drag his fingers through her wet heat and bring them to his mouth.

He fucks her though their clothes, all the name brands and the kevlar, and tries with all his might to make it good for her. The situation just isn’t conducive to making a woman come. He does what he can, presses kisses into her hair, her forehead, the tip of her nose. Can’t reach her mouth like this, she’s too short. His fingers follow the edge of her vest, if he can slip them under maybe he can toy with her nipples… a dusky pink in his mind, like a freshly healed scar. He can’t get them in. He settles for getting the angle right and listens to hear when he does. When she cries out and arches against him he thinks he’s found it, her sweet little clit, and he thinks about holding it between his fingers and making her cry.

Watching her face, he comes like that in their little closet. It’s such an unexpected rush of heat and torture and… affection, for her, for them, that the intensity makes him tear up a little and fear for his fucking sanity. And his prowess, because he’s not sure she followed him. Shit.

When he catches his breath he’s made aware of her hands stroking his back and neck. He can’t feel all of it, not through the vest. He regrets vehemently they hadn’t taken them off.

Instead of letting her slide to the floor, he tugs her up closer and she wraps her legs around his back. “I hadn’t meant for that to happen,” he says into her neck. Waiting for her response is like waiting for the sky to fall. It’s going to be beautiful or it’s going to end his life. Or both.

She laughs, or does the closest thing she knows how. Tension leaves his body that should’ve been drained during his monstrous orgasm.

“Well,” she says in the dark. The pounding of boots and a storm of yelling just outside almost drowns her out, but he listens closely. “I’m excited to see what happens when you plan something.”


They’re in Bellefleur, Oregon, and they’re making a mistake. 

Rain crashes into the window, the motel mattress groans. Skin on skin, illuminated in restless candlelight, a rush of pulsing shadows passing over them, between them, betwixt. Fucking her feels primal, ancient, vital. He can almost hear the Beltane drums. 

She’s hot and slick under the slow sway of his hips, cheeks cherry-wine, fingernails thrusting tiny crescent moons into his ass. Her rain-ruined hair unfurls on the pillow like ink in water. Her kisses are voluptuous, hedonistic, her soft tongue, her lazy lips. They lock eyes and can’t seem to break away. 

Don’t trust her, he tells himself, but she’s so tender and proud and something within him aches with profound excitement when he looks at her. They’re just worked up from the case, he tells himself. They’re just blowing off steam. Just this once. 

(He can’t afford the distraction. He doesn’t deserve to be touched. She has a boyfriend, he thinks. And anyway, she’s not his type.)

Her orgasm is heartbreakingly earnest. She gasps and laughs in surprise and spasms around his cock and calls him Fox. He’s too wired to come, but after they’re showered and dressed and after they’ve made their sheepish vows not to let it or anything like it happen again, he does something far more intimate. 

He tells her the truth. 

mrssgeller  asked:

"you have no idea what you do to me" from that prompt list! MSR ❤️

MSR. Post Tithonuaus. Fluff. Pure MSR Fluff.

A/N: Hope you enjoy! Sorry for any typos :) Tagging @today-in-fic

After Mulder had arrived in New York, smiled, sat on the edge of her bed, took her hand and affirmed to both themselves that Scully was okay, she couldn’t be rid of her partner. For the first day or two, he slinked around her room and wing, sleeping beside her in a chair, hardly leaving her side. He sneaked in meals, New York style pizza slices that made her mouth water and that the nurses would scold him for. By the second day, Mulder was holding her hand, watching the tv as she dozed lightly on the bed beside her. He heard her room door opening and it revealed her mother and Big Brother Bill.

“Scully,” Mulder murmured in her ear. He bent over and pushed back a stray lock of red hair. Her grip instinctively tightened on Mulder’s hand as she came back to consciousness. He could already feel the searing gaze of Bill burning into the back of his head. “You’re mother and Bill are here.”

She pulled back and groggy blue eyes searched his face first for some sort of clue before focusing on her family. Mulder moved to yield the chair to her mother but found his hand chained to hers. She glanced at him quickly, wordlessly begging him to stay with her. He slumped back into the seat. Mulder caught Bill’s scalding gaze and Scully groaned dismissively. “Leave it be, Bill. Mulder wasn’t there.”

“He should have…”

“Bill, shut up,” Scully groaned. She tilted her head to the side as her mother hovered about her. “Mom, I’m fine.” She let go of Mulder’s hand in a vain attempt to escape her mother’s ministrations. “Mom!”

“Dana!” Mrs. Scully snapped. “I just flew on a moment’s notice with Bill from San Diego when Fox called, telling me of the news!”

“I’m fine,” she grumbled. Her eyes narrowed at Mulder. “This is your fault.”

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