soft-thrills

[soft-thrills]

XF Fic: Mean

Rating: Smut. Smut smut smut.

Summary: “I think I’d also like it once in a while if you were a little… mean,” Scully says.

Content warnings: dirty talk, name-calling, toeing the edge of degradation, but all in good kinky fun

Smut after the cut. Hope your holidays are happy, friends! Ubeta’ed. I intended to sit down and write something with some redeeming value to society but alas, I could not get this out of my mind, so instead: shameless smut.

They’d had a conversation about a month ago in which he’d asked her if there was anything she wanted that he wasn’t doing.

“I want you to keep your travel receipts in chronological order,” she’d wryly replied.

“That’s not what I mean, and you know it,” he’d said, and the hint of an edge in his voice got right to the core of the thing that she wanted that he wasn’t doing.

And so she’d told him, after a half glass of wine too many.

“Well, I like it when you’re a little rough, which I think you’ve kind of figured out. But I think I’d also like it once in a while if you were a little… mean.”

He grinned. “Mean how?”

“I don’t know, just… you know, don’t hurt my feelings, but maybe you could tease, or kind of, talk dirtier. Jesus, this is so embarrassing, forget I ever mentioned it, ok?”

“Don’t be embarrassed,” he said. “Although I get the sense that maybe that’s what you’re after.”

His ability to see right through her was kind of embarrassing in and of itself, and she knew she was blushing.

They’d had sex then — and he hadn’t been mean, not at all. Instead he’d devoured her, praising her for sharing something she felt shy about, telling her there was nothing she could ask for that would make him think less of her or upset him — not him, a man who’d spent years frequenting porno theaters and calling phone sex lines.

For weeks, the conversation lurked in the back of her mind. She’d almost convinced herself he’d forgotten, except Fox Mulder is not a man who forgets these kinds of things.

And so she finds herself beneath him as he holds both her slender wrists in one of his big hands, pinned above her head. He looms large over her.

“I didn’t forget our conversation last month, you know,” he says, taking her left nipple between his fingers and pinching until she gasps. “You remember it, don’t you?”

She nods, at a loss for words.

“Good. If you don’t like anything I do or say, Scully, all you have to do is tell me, and I’ll stop, okay?”

“Yeah,” she breathes. “Yeah, okay. I understand.”

“Good girl,” he praises her. “Although I think we both know that’s probably not what you want me to call you. I think you want to be a bad girl.”

She arches her pelvis up toward him, silently asking him to touch her there, to slide inside her.

“Already getting to you, huh? You weren’t kidding, Scully. I haven’t even touched your pussy yet and look how desperate you are.”

Mean.

“Oh my god, Mulder, please,” she whimpers. “Please touch me.”

He smirks at her. “All right, but only so I can judge how much my words are getting to you.”

His fingers trail down her body and he dips his index finger between her lips, dragging back and forth a moment before pushing inside her. She arches up into his touch and spreads her legs wider, as best she can beneath him.

“You like spreading your legs for me, don’t you?”

She squeezes her eyes shut for a moment. She can’t believe he’s talking to her like this, she can’t believe she asked him to. But she’s more turned on than she’s ever been in her life.

“I can feel how much you like it, Scully. You’re so wet for me. Such a dirty girl.”

Suddenly, his finger is gone from her pussy, and a second later, she feels his wet fingers grip her chin.

“Open your eyes and look at me when I talk to you, Scully.”

Her eyes fly open. There’s something about him talking to her like this while still using her last name that makes it feel even dirtier, which she suspects he realizes.

He kisses her, deeply, a reward, a reassurance. He can talk to her like this and still love her. And he can certainly still want her — she can feel his erection against her belly.

“Please, fuck me,” she says. “I want you.”

That grin again. “I know you do. But I’m not done playing around with you. That’s what I’m going to do: play with you like the toy that you are.”

His fingers find her pussy again, and then her clit, a few quick circles. She feels like she could shatter at any moment.

“I don’t think I’ve ever felt you this wet, baby. I’m so glad you told me how to treat you. Now I know what you need. And I’m having a lot of fun putting you in your proper place.”

He takes his fingers away from her clit.

“No,” she moans, screwing her eyes closed again. “Don’t stop.”

His wet fingers on her face again but this time, a soft tap on her cheek, the barest suggestion of a slap, sending her eyes back open in shock.

He laughs a little. “I told you to keep your eyes open. If I have to tell you again I’m not going to let you come.”

Mean. She whimpers and nods. Unable to close her eyes, she instead gives voice to the terrible, wonderful feelings warring inside her - the hint of humiliation and the arousal fueling one another.

“Why do I like it so much when you treat me like this?” she asks.

Straddling her, he brings his hands to her breasts and pinches each nipple. He looks bemused, like she is a problem to be solved, and then looks back down at her tits.

“Well, I could tell you it’s because kinky sex is subversive, a way to play with the gender roles we push back against in everyday life. I could tell you lots of people like things in bed they wouldn’t like outside it and there’s nothing wrong with that. I could tell you it’s because you trust me and know that I love you and respect you and we’re just playing around.”

His hands move to her sides, and he drops down to his elbows, briefly kissing down her sternum between her breasts.

Then he looks up at her face, making eye contact.

“But we both know that’s not why you like it,” he says. “You like it because you’re a dirty little slut.”

And then suddenly, his cock is pushing inside her, and his finger is on her clit, and she comes harder than she ever has in her life.

“Well that didn’t take much,” he teases her, and it only extends her pleasure. “So easy.”

His cockiness aside, it doesn’t take much for him to come, either — she’s still thrashing around with the aftershocks when he comes inside her after a few more hard strokes, moaning into the crook of her neck.

When she comes to her senses, he’s rolled off of her and is looking at her with the sweetest smile.

“Wow,” she says, still catching her breath, blushing as she thinks about what he said to her.

“Good wow? Or you never want to talk to me again wow?” he asks.

“Good wow. Thank you for giving that to me. I wouldn’t have been able to let go like that without anyone else,” she says, rolling over and curling into him.

He cuddles her protectively, hands stroking up and down her back, through her hair, wherever he can reach with comforting little touches.

“You did so well,” he says, and while she doesn’t really feel like she did anything, the praise warms her. “But sometimes things like that can hit you after you come down from endorphin rush. If it starts to feel bad, promise me you’ll let me know.”

“I will,” she says.

They lounge a while and it does, indeed, start nagging at her a little.

“You’ll still be able to look me in the eye at work after that, right? It won’t change —”

“Scully, nothing could ever change how I feel about you. I love you more than anything. I respect you more than anyone. I’m honored you’d share your desires with me and I’d never betray that.”

“I know,” she sighs. “I guess it’s just good to hear it.”

It occurs to her he hasn’t said anything about whether he enjoyed himself.

“Did you like it?” she asks gently. “Because I don’t want to ask anything of you that you don’t —”

“You couldn’t tell if I liked it?” he jokes. “It was so hot, Scully. Seeing you melt like that.”

She smiles, and then feels his hot breath on her ear.

“I’ll treat you like a dirty slut anytime you like,” he promises.

She laughs. “Thank you,” she says, and she means it.

#xfiles fic #xf fic #xfiles fanfic #msr #xf fanfic #msr smut

[soft-thrills]

Any fun smut prompt lists going around?

Or feel free to send me a prompt of your own making. MSR. Got some free time tonight and interested in perhaps writing a few short somethings :)

[soft-thrills]

XF Fic: The Wager

Rated Teen

Scully faces the failure of her IVF cycle -- and faces where things are headed with Mulder.

tw: infertility and ivf. more in notes below the cut!

a/n: Anyone who has gone through IVF knows the arc in the show is a total mess. This is my attempt to make a little sense of it. I've sought to describe that process and the emotions it can bring sensitively, as someone going through it myself. But turn back if you're not in a place to read about failed transfers right now. <3

*

Autumn, 1999.

*

Her fertility clinic does embryo transfers on Thursdays, and the blood tests for pregnancy the following Friday.

Mulder offers to come with her to the transfer, offers to wait in the waiting room for her if that’s more comfortable than having him in the room, considering the whole legs-spread-in-stirrups situation.

“No, it’s all right, I can go alone,” she says. “It won’t take long, and it’s a pretty straightforward procedure.”

He nods.

It isn’t really fair. Half the embryo is his, after all, but she’s not sure she can bring herself to sit beside him in the waiting room, with a bunch of normal couples, not knowing how to define what they even are to one another. Partners. Friends. Partners and friends who share their gametes with one another, but only in a petrie dish.

Scully tries to be inconspicuous as she looks around the waiting room, and sees the faces of women who are terrified and sad and hopeful, just like her. They all trade sympathetic looks, but the truth is it’s impossible to find people who can totally understand. They’re all here for infertility, like she is, but Scully didn’t do the egg retrieval portion of IVF like all the other women in the waiting room. There was no injection of stimulating hormones and careful monitoring by a doctor; there was just months of missing time while whatever dark forces that abducted her harvested all of her ova, stealing her future.

This embryo transfer is her only hope.

The truth is frozen eggs don’t hold up that well under the best of circumstances, and her situation — her partner stealing her frozen eggs from a shadowy facility and not fucking mentioning it to her for several years — is less than ideal.

Fifteen eggs fertilized. But just two made it to blastocyst. They were frozen and biopsied, and only one was euploid — that is, it had the right number of chromosomes. A chance to grow inside her. Her last shot. Her only chance.

In the procedure room, naked from the waist down under a hospital gown, she scoots to the edge of a tiny table and lifts her legs into stirrups. She is a doctor and not ashamed of her body — even as it has failed her — but she can’t help thinking the whole thing is so undignified. One more humiliation courtesy the men who took her all those years ago, who have never paid for it.

She wishes she had let Mulder come with her, stirrups and all. She stares at the ceiling and waits for it to be over.

*

Lots of women take an at-home pregnancy test in between, but Scully doesn’t. She dutifully injects herself with progesterone in alternating ass cheeks each evening, takes an estrogen pill three times a day, a prenatal each morning, and waits.

But she doesn’t take a test. Might as well only be let down once, when the doctor delivers the news. The truth is she wants to hold on to the hope for as long as she can — for those eight days, there is the possibility she is pregnant, something that has not been true for her for so long.

She’s hopeful. The odds are in her favor: a euploid embryo transfer has a sixty percent chance of resulting in a live birth. She has to be hopeful, what else is there to be?

Friday comes and she feels like she is going to crawl out of her skin.

She goes to work and finds Mulder is there, waiting for her, with a croissant and a cup of tea.

Mulder.

Mulder, the man whose sperm met with her egg before they’ve even kissed. The man she is terribly, awfully, unrelentingly in love with. She could find the words to ask him to scramble their DNA, but she cannot bring herself to tell him something as simple as that: I love you.

“Good morning, Scully,” he says. He knows today is the day, but he doesn’t mention it, and she is eternally grateful. “I figure we can knock out those expense reports Skinner wants done, and then cut out early.”

She smiles at him and accepts the cup of tea from his outstretched hand.

“Sounds good. I have to go to the doctor at four,” she says, like it’s a routine visit and not an appointment to find out their future.

He nods, and once again she cannot bring herself to invite him to go with her.

“Will you come over? This evening, I mean,” she says. “Come over. We can order dinner.”

Again, he nods.

“I’ll be there waiting for you when you get home,” he says. He looks at her in that unnerving way he has. “I’ll always be there, Scully. No matter what.”

She nods tightly. She wants to believe.

*

The news is not good.

She holds it together in the office with her doctor. She walks out into the parking lot, gets into her car, and just sits there, in the quiet. She doesn’t cry. She doesn’t yell. She doesn’t pray. She doesn’t curse God. She doesn’t call anyone because there’s no one to tell. No one knows she’s even tried. No one but —

Mulder.

Her stomach twists. Somehow, telling him feels like the worst part. She doesn’t even know if he’s ever really wanted to be a parent, but she’d put the option on the table, and now, the option was gone.

With her, anyway.

The truth is, Mulder could be a father, with someone else. The thought fills her with a level of dread she’s never felt before, a bottomless kind of dread she has no right to feel. They are not married. They’ve never even properly kissed. But they’d been prepared to — what, coparent as cordial colleagues? The truth is she has no fucking clue what they were doing anymore. It feels like they are moving toward the inevitable, but they’re both blinking. Both afraid to call the other’s bluff.

A few hours ago her life had held such promise, such possibility. And now, it is gone.

She sits there, alone, silent, in the parking lot until the sun goes down.

How is she going to tell him?

*

In the end, she doesn’t have to. He can tell. He can always tell.

She opens the door to find him lightly dozing on her couch.

“Scully? I must have dozed off. I was waiting for you to get back,” he says.

He can read it on her face.

“It didn’t take, did it?”

“I guess it was too much to hope for,” she says.

He opens his arms to embrace her, and she lets him. And that’s when the tears finally come, too much and all at once, ugly crying into his chest.

She says aloud the thing she’s only ever admitted to herself: “It was my last chance.”

He squeezes her, kisses her forehead. God how she wishes he’d do more, how she feels ashamed for even having the thought, for having the need, for wanting more than this man has given her already.

“Never give up on a miracle,” he says.

She kisses his cheek, his neck. She lets him hold her and she cries until there’s nothing left.

Later, he draws her a bath and lets her soak while he orders them dinner. He goads her to eat a little something, at least. He pours them each a glass of wine, and cuddles up beside her on the couch, because what the fuck else is there to do at this point anyway.

She is surprised by her own capacity for disappointment. Of course it didn’t work. Nothing ever works.

“Sometimes it feels like nothing good is ever going to happen to me again,” she says, embarrassed at how maudlin and miserable she sounds as soon as the words come out of her mouth.

He looks at her not with pity, but with promise.

“There are plenty of good things in your future, Scully,” he assures her.

He kisses her then — not like before, not her forehead, but her mouth. Quick, chaste, but not exactly friendly.

What the fuck are they? What are they going to be?

“What is this, Mulder? What are we doing?” she finally asks.

“I’m not sure. But I don’t think we should make any big moves tonight,” he whispers.

She nods, on the brink of tears again.

“Would you stay with me? Tonight? We don’t have to—”

“Of course,” he says. “Of course I’ll stay.”

*

She wakes in the morning alone, but to the sound of her front door opening.

“Hello?” she calls out.

“It’s me,” he replies. “I got us breakfast.”

He’d slept in the bed with her, holding her. They’d kissed again, a little longer, but nothing more. She knows he doesn’t want to take advantage when she’s vulnerable. But the truth is she’s not sure she’ll ever be whole again.

He ambles into her bedroom with a to-go cup and a paper bag. This time it’s coffee, not tea. She’s not pregnant, no need to deny herself caffeine. She takes it appreciatively.

“I got us bagels. Real cream cheese,” he says. “None of that tofutti bullshit.”

She rolls her eyes as if she were in their office and not in her bed in her pajamas.

He grins. “There she is,” he says, running a thumb across her cheek.

She feels herself blush.

“What do you want to do today, Scully?”

It’s Saturday, she remembers. She has nowhere to be and she supposes he doesn’t either.

He fills the silence: “We could catch a movie, or if you’ve got stuff to do I could get out of your hair…”

“No,” she says. “No, I’d like to spend the day together.”

He smiles. “Me too. If you’re not up to doing anything, we can just hang out here. Eat takeout in bed all day,” he waggles his eyebrows.

She smiles, and then the realization hits her all at once.

“I want to do something stupid,” she says.

He laughs, and she realizes she’s taken her profiler partner by surprise.

“Ok,” he says. “Well, I’m an expert on doing something stupid. But what kind of stupid? Breaking into a government facility stupid or watching Dumb and Dumber stupid?”

She grins.

“I want to do something frivolous. Something fun. I want to get out of here, away from here. Away from everything.”

He looks, suddenly, like a man with an idea.

“Do you mind a bit of a drive?” he asks.

“No, I don’t mind. That would be nice, actually.”

“You’re a Springsteen fan, right, Scully?”

She nods. “Sure,” she says.

“Well, put your makeup on and fix your hair up pretty, and meet me tonight in Atlantic City.”

*

They listen to Springsteen on the way, actually. Well, part of the way -- a bit of a drive was maybe an understatement, and they’re working their way through a good chunk of Mulder’s CD collection. Springsteen. The Traveling Wilbury’s. Elvis. Prince. They debate which is the best Beatles album, then, which is the best Beatle.

After a few hours they hit the New Jersey Pinelands, and in the distance Atlantic City’s skyline, in all its gaudy glory, sparkles into view.

“You know, it’s kind of ironic, Scully,” Mulder says. “Last time we were in Atlantic City was to chase down the Jersey Devil. And if I recall correctly, *you* had a date.”

She nearly blushes.

“That is correct.”

“And now, here we are again, on our first date,” he smirks.

“Is that what this is, Mulder? A date?” She arches an eyebrow, but she’s teasing, smiling.

“I think so. There’s just something about casinos, after all. Don’t know whether it’s day or night. Free drinks. Fancy restaurants. The thrill of risk and reward.”

She glances in the rearview mirror at the two overnight bags on the backseat, an unspoken decision they’d each made that this would be an overnight jaunt.

“Well, I suppose you can’t win if you don’t wager on something,” she says.

He takes her hand into his on the center console.

*

Scully wanted frivolous, and the Tropicana is frivolous.

A Havana-themed casino towering over the boardwalk and the Atlantic ocean, complete with an attached shopping complex with fake palm trees and blue sky and fluffy clouds painted on the ceiling.

It’s early in the afternoon when they arrive. The casino floor smells like cigarettes, and the chimes of slot machines bounce off the windowless walls as women in stretch pants and men in football jerseys lose their paychecks. Later, the women will don high heels and the men will begrudgingly wear a collared shirt to go to a steakhouse and then pay a twenty dollar cover to dance.

And she wants to be part of it. She wants to sit next to Mulder at a five dollar blackjack table and laugh at his stupid jokes while the dealer rolls her eyes. So she does.

But even when she’s being reckless, she’s still Scully.

She puts one hundred dollars cash on the table and tells Mulder: “This is my limit. I’m not doing the gambler’s fallacy thing. If I lose it, I lost it, and I’m not putting more down.”

But she doesn’t have to make that decision anyway, because by the time they leave the table, they’ve had two free drinks and she’s up three hundred bucks.

“See, Scully,” Mulder says as she squirrels the black poker chips into her purse. “I told ya there were good things in your future.”

* They go out for happy hour to a Cuban place in the attached mall with the fake sky, and order beers and a platter of potato croquettes and empanadas and other fried things that aren’t very good for you but taste delicious.

She feels warm, comfortable, happy, which just twenty-four hours ago seemed impossible to her. Frivolous had been a good idea. Atlantic City had, against all odds, been a good idea.

Scully can feel the dopey grin on her own face as they banter and eat and sip, which is part of why his question is so shocking.

“Do you hate me?” he asks her, lifting his beer bottle to his lips but still watching her intently.

“What? No,” she says, like it’s the most ridiculous thing in the world, because it is. “Why?”

“Because I didn’t tell you — about the ova. Even after you got better, I kept it from you. I don’t know why I did that, but I think it may be the worst thing I’ve ever done, to anyone, and I did it to you, which makes it so much worse,” he says, in a rush, like it was weighing on him for a long time and he just had to let it out.

Part of her is annoyed — annoyed that he’s harshing the buzz she has from the booze and gambling winnings and the possibility simmering between them, annoyed she has to tend to his feelings when she’s the one he’d wronged, when she’s the one who had to spend the last two weeks doping her body with artificial hormones, when she’s the one who can’t have a kid of her own.

And maybe it’s that annoyance that spurs her to be bold in her response. Maybe it’s the beer. Maybe it’s the big hair and bright lights of a New Jersey casino.

“Mulder, I don’t hate you,” she says. “I’m not happy that things happened this way. But I don’t hate you. I love you.”

There, now she’s done it, too: said it all in a rush, spilled out what has been churning in her guts, said the big heavy thing that can’t be unsaid.

His eyes are wide — he was not expecting this.

“I, I love you, too, Scully,” he says.

He’s told her that before. But she needs to make sure he understands what she’s really saying.

“Mulder, I don’t just love you. I’m in love with you. I probably should’ve told you that before I asked you to make a kid with me. But that ship has sailed, and it’s still true: I’m in love with you.”

“Well, that’s a relief. Because I’m in love with you, too, Scully. I think I have been for a pretty long time,” he says.

She grins. She laughs.

“We’re so fucking stupid, Mulder,” she says. “Wasting all this time denying ourselves. For what? Propriety? The rules we don’t care about anyway?”

“I was afraid,” Mulder admits. “I was afraid that I’d fuck up what we already had. Sometimes it felt like we could never -- like if we did it, the world would end.”

“Everybody thinks the world’s gonna end in a couple months anyway,” she says, draining her beer. “Might as well have fun.”

“So this is the Scully that stole her mom’s cigarettes and hits up seedy tattoo parlors,” he raises his eyebrows.

“Yeah, and gambles in low-rent casinos with rebellious men who carry guns,” she says. “Men -- well, one man -- she’d really like to take her upstairs to their room right about now.”

Mulder calls the bartender and asks for two shots of top shelf tequila. She watches his tongue lick up salt from finger, watches his neck as he swallows, watches his lips as they pucker around the lime.

They walk out of the bar hand-in-hand, and when they kiss for the first time -- beneath a painted-on sky, next to a fake palm tree -- he tastes salty and sharp, like the sea.

And in that moment, Dana Scully is absolutely sure that something good is about to happen to her.

*

a/n 2: I'd love your feedback. I'm on my third round of IVF myself without success so far -- hoping for positive news next week, actually! So please be kind and sensitive. I hope I've done justice to anyone else going through this.

My intention was for this to end in some fun Atlantic City smut, but it just didn't get there. Zero promises, but I'm not ruling out following up with a little first-time fic of what happens when they get upstairs.

#xfiles fanfic #xfiles fic #xfiles fanfiction #xf fic #msr fic #xfiles #Mulder/Scully #Mulder x Scully

[soft-thrills]

Is there a general consensus in fandom of when the Per Manum flashbacks take place?

I want to write something about the IVF arc and I know it’s somewhat disputed whether they had already slept together or not at the time. I guess the main reason people think they haven’t started sleeping together yet is the awkward conversation around Mulder being a donor, right, and it not coming between them? Although there’s a big difference between having a sexual relationship and having a family, so I guess you could argue that was more what he was getting at?

Part of the reason I’m interested in writing is because I’m going through IVF now and I want to process some of my feelings into writing, I guess. Obviously the show’s IVF and infertility arc is a total fucking mess lol, like bordering on offensive. But I still don’t wanna be totally off base on when I set this and whether or not there’s established MSR, even though I know that literally nothing in canon makes sense or is consistent so why should I hold myself to higher standards?!

Anyway would love to hear people’s thoughts on when the IVF stuff happened!

[soft-thrills]

Intrusive Thoughts

For the @xfpornbattle prompt: “Scully holding/squeezing Mulder’s hand during orgasm”

Summary: Mulder has an intrusive thought about Scully as she’s hypnotized during The Red and the Black -- and imagines her making those noises in another context. He returns to the thought more than once. 

Fic behind the cut! Unbeta’d.

The thought first comes to him as just a flash, for just a second, as they sit on the doctor’s couch in Silver Springs. 

Next to him, his partner is breathing heavily. He’s never heard her voice like this, raspy and breathy. He’s never seen her neck arched back, never studied the contracting of her throat as she gasps.

“Oh!” she breathes. “Oh!”

She reaches out for him, fingernails scraping against the hunter green leather of the couch, her pretty, capable fingers curling as if she --

Stop it.

But for just a moment, he can’t help to think of her making these sounds — of her throwing her head back — in response to pleasure, instead of pain.

He takes her hand and holds it, hoping to reassure her. By the time she’s describing the fire, the thought is gone, buried as it should be. She’s describing trauma. It’s wrong. 

When it’s over, she looks at him and asks: “You were here the whole time?”

He nods, ashamed.

*

He keeps it buried for weeks. He tries so hard not to think about it ever again. It’s just an intrusive thought, after all, to use the term he learned back in school. It doesn’t necessarily mean anything about him. It just happens.

And so on a Friday night, on his own leather couch, his cock in his hand, he tries to focus on the woman on his television screen. The woman doesn’t look anything like his partner -- that’s become a self-imposed requirement of his when it comes to choosing a tape from his collection. It’s wrong to think about her. And it’s really wrong to think about the sounds she made on that doctor’s couch, the way her head was thrown back, the way her --

Stop it. 

But he can’t. He’s weak. She’s there now, in his mind, in his fantasy, and who is he to turn her away? Who is he to kick her out of bed, or off his couch, even if only in his mind?

I’m sorry, he thinks, with the last grasp of his rational brain, I tried. I’m sure she’d appreciate the effort -- Sorry, Scully, I tried really hard not to reappropriate your traumatic recollections as masturbation material, but I just couldn’t do it. 

In his fantasy, she’s in his lap, her legs spread. They’re on his couch, the blue screen at the end of a forgotten and finished movie giving off the only light in the room. Her blouse is unbuttoned. Her skirt hiked all the way up around her waist. Her underwear long ago discarded on his floor. 

In his fantasy, he’s the reason she’s making those sounds. He’s slipping a finger, then two, then three inside of her, reveling in the wet heat, anticipating how it will feel when he replaces his fingers with his cock. But the fantasy isn’t really about his pleasure -- it’s about hers. 

She makes the sounds he’s committed to memory from the tapes of her hypnosis. The little moans. His fingers slow inside her, and then he takes them away. 

“Oh my God,” she whimpers. “I can’t --” 

Just the way she said it -- no, stop it, he thinks.

He adds in some new dialogue. 

“You can’t what, Scully?” he murmurs into her ear, her hot back resting against his chest. He palms her breasts over her bra as she wriggles against his erection. 

“I can’t take anymore teasing, Mulder. Please,” she whimpers. 

The tenor of her voice, the little gasps, the desperation, they’re familiar. But here, in his fantasy, she’s writhing with pleasure. 

“You want to come?” he asks her, moving a finger to her clit. 

She jolts, throws her head back against his chest. He imagines the movement of her neck as she gasps for air, as she swallows, as she says: “Yes, God, Mulder, make me come.”

He slips a finger inside as he works her clit.

“I’m going to make you come, Scully, and then, I’m going to fuck you until you think you can’t take anymore, and make you come again,” he promises her.

“Oh,” she whimpers as his fingers move faster. 

Her eyes are closed, and she gropes blindly to find his free hand. 

She clutches his hand in hers, and she comes, shaking and moaning his name. 

As fantasy Scully — perfect, pure — comes in his mind, real life Mulder — guilty, ashamed — comes in his hand, alone, thinking of her. 

*

He stuffs it away, in a corner of a closet in his mind. It’s something he mostly forgets, and then stumbles into, unexpectedly, now and then. When he’s imagining her bent over his desk, or in his mysteriously delivered water bed with the mirrored canopy, or in a dirty motel after a draining case, he’ll realize the sounds his Imaginary Scully is making in his mind aren’t imaginary -- they’re real, lifted from an ugly memory. He always feels bad about it, but it never stops him from coming, which makes him feel worse about it. It doesn’t happen a lot. But it happens.

Eventually, Scully isn’t strictly imaginary. Eventually, she winds up in his bed, on his couch, in her bed, on her floor, all sorts of places -- for real. 

He doesn’t need to imagine how she’ll sound in a moment of pleasure, or to reappropriate a moment of horror to hear it in his mind -- because he’s heard it, for real. Those are the memories he comes to revisit in his mind on the nights he is alone, when she’s beyond the connecting door, or across town at her apartment. The box is stuffed further into that closet in his mind, at the back of a high shelf, cobwebbed. 

Until.

Until one day, they’re on his couch, and he realizes, with a start, that they’re in the same position as his fantasy. She’s in his lap, he’s teasing her, she’s moaning, she’s panting, calling out to her God in frustration and desperation when he pulls back.

As he draws back in, she grips his hand, tight. And he remembers.

This, he thinks, this is the real deal. He thought he knew back then -- he thought what was on that tape of her hypnosis session was how she’d sound. 

But the real thing was different. Yes, there was desperation in her moans and cries. But there was also joy, and a sense of comfort and safety that had been totally absent during her hypnosis session, and as such, absent in the fantasy he’d drawn from it.

“Yes,” she pants. “I’m so close. Don’t stop.”

His big hand squeezes her smaller one. He feels an overwhelming desire to keep her safe -- even from his own dirty mind.

“I’ve got you, Scully,” he murmurs into her ear. “I’ve got you.”

“Oh, Mulder,” is all she says in reply before she comes, clutching his free hand for dear life. 

He never thinks of the hypnosis session again. 

*

author’s note: I mean come on, I’m not the only pervert whose mind goes there during that scene, right?

#my fic #xfiles fan fiction #xf fanfic #xf fic #msr fanfic #msr fic #msr smut #xfiles smut

[soft-thrills]

Submit some enticing prompts so that I can maybe finally get my brain to write something again! :)

Prompts open: NOW! Prompts close: September 30, 2022 at 11:59 EST.

Submissions open: NOW! Submissions close: October 21, 2022

Hey all! I apologize for the delay. The schedule for the latest Porn Battle is above, and I'm doing things a little differently this time. Instead of having submissions start after prompting closes, I've decided to open them at the start. I know it will take time for everyone to write their prompt fills, but I figure an aribtrary start deadline isn't necessary. Whenever your story is ready, feel free to post.

As always, prompts are accepted through the submission feature, or an ask.  Filled prompts can be posted on via submission, or by simply tagging @xfpornbattle in your post. If you would like your story to be posted anonymously, you may submit it here OR email me at [email protected]! I'll copy/paste your stories to this blog, crediting you as 'anon.'

Check the formatting and about pages for more info on how the Porn Battle works. If you still have questions, just drop me an ask!

[soft-thrills]

I have an unrelenting urge to write a Better Call Saul/X-Files crossover where Kim Wexler and Dana Scully meet in a bar in the desert and commiserate about blowing up their lives and I am shocked to find no crossovers already on AO3. Not that hard to believe fugitive Mulder and Scully might have crossed paths with our favorite shady attorneys in the early 2000s southwest, cmon people!

[soft-thrills]

An early Christmas gift nobody has asked for. (Gentle) Domme Scully. I wrote this in the middle of the night.

I don’t know where it came from. No, that’s not true: I do know, but if I told you, I’d have to kill you.

Smut, and nothing else, behind the cut. Not beta’ed, barely proofread. If you like it, let me know. Either way, I wish you all a much better 2022.

It’s a risk.

There’s been no discussion, no negotiation. She’s not planning anything that would require a safe word — nobody is restrained, nobody is going to get hurt, at least beyond their pride. But it’s still a risk.

“Are you close?” Scully asks, as she rides Mulder, her palms hot against his chest.

It’s a risk. But despite her strict rationalism and science and all that straight and narrow stuff, she’s a risk-taker. People who play it safe don’t use their medical degrees to get a gun and a badge, after all.

“Yeah,” Mulder pants, thrusting up into her. “Close. Gonna come.”

She takes the risk.

“No,” she says.

He looks at her, flabbergasted. “What?”

“I said, ‘no.’ I want to decide when you come,” she says. “Can you wait? Can you do that for me?”

She is stern but sweet — encouraging even. Like a personal trainer who gets the very best out of you, who throws on that extra resistance because she believes in you, and you wouldn’t want to let her down, would you?

“Oh — okay. Yes,” Mulder says.

“Good boy,” she purrs.

“Fuck,” he hisses. “Where is this coming from and why is it turning me on so much?”

She grins.

“I don’t know, on both accounts. But what I do know, Mulder, is I’d like to come again before you do. What do you think about that?”

She’s come once already, with her thighs pressed against Mulder’s ears as he devoured her pussy. But several thousands of years of patriarchy mean she doesn’t feel too bad about seeking this two-for-one deal.

He’s about to reply when she speaks over him.

“Before you answer,” Scully says. “Remember, it usually takes me a little longer to come the second time, and I don’t want you making me promises you can’t keep. So: can you hold off until I come again? Can you do that for me?”

“I can try,” Mulder offers, shakily.

She squeezes her inner muscles around him and he groans.

“Not good enough,” she says, her voice stern again. “Will you put me first? Will you hold off for me?”

She lifts herself off his cock then, and he groans, a bereft sound.

“Even if it’s hard?” she asks, pun intended, gripping the base of his cock with a hot hand. “Even if you know, rationally, that you could flip me on my back and fuck my brains out?”

He makes a strangled sound, then, and maybe he’s imagining it. But he stays docile under her hand, not even thrusting up into her fist.

“Yes. I promise. You come first,” he says. “You know I love making you come. Please let me.”

“Good boy,” she whispers, before sliding back onto his hard cock.

Maybe she’s trying to assert herself, maybe this is some kind of psychosexual outlet for her feelings of inadequacy compared to The Work. Maybe it’s just hot. Whatever it is, it seems to be working for both of them — he’s rock hard inside her, and she’s slick around him. Her thighs burn from bouncing up and down, but it barely registers against the hot desire at her center, the thrill of being in control, of having this power over her partner.

“Touch my clit, Mulder. Make me come,” she says.

His thumb finds her clit in record time, spinning tight circle, soft at first, then harder.

“It feels so good to ride you. To use your nice, hard cock for as long as I want,” she teases him. “Do you like that? Me using you, for my pleasure?”

“Yeah,” he grunts, lifting his hips off the bed to meet her harder now. “Please.”

She smiles — half sweet, half condescending. She lifts one hand from his chest and brushes his hair away from his forehead.

“Please what, honey?”

He grunts — she doesn’t usually use pet names.

“Please, I don’t know if I can last much longer,” he says.

The smile disappears, for his benefit, really.

“You can,” she says, squeezing her muscles around him, eliciting another grunt, “and you will.”

“Please,” he begs again, his thumb working her clit faster, tighter.

“Mm, I am getting close. I bet you can feel that, can’t you?”

He nods.

“I love the way you’re touching me. If you keep up like that I’m going to come.”

A beat. Two.

“So I want you to stop.”

It takes him a second, which she can’t really blame him for in his current state. His thumb slows, stops, but he doesn’t remove it.

“What? No, please,” he begs her.

“Hands at your sides,” her voice is clipped, like she’s cuffing a suspect. “Now.”

He obeys, but not without whining.

“Please, please let me—“

“Let you what? Let you touch me? Let you get me off? What I really suspect is that what you want is for me to let *you* come,” she says. “After all, you usually don’t have any problem teasing me — getting me close and pulling back, holding out on me.”

It’s true, not that she has had any problem being teased, being brought to the edge only to look over and be pulled back once, twice, however many times before they’ve tumbled over together.

She stops moving on him for a moment, just keeps him buried to the hilt. Her own hands wander up to her breasts, pinching her nipples, soft, then a little harder.

“Can I tell you a secret, Mulder? I like it when you tease me. It gets me so fucking wet. And I thought you might like it if I did it to you,” she says. “And I think my hypothesis was correct. I think you like this.”

“I like it so much I’m about to embarrass myself, Scully, if you keep putting on a show like that,” he nods in the direction of her breasts.

She smirks.

“What do you want, Mulder?”

“I want to watch you come,” he says.

“Good. Play with my clit again,” she says.

He breaks the previous record time in getting his thumb to the place where they’re joined. She speeds up moving on top of him.

“God, that feels so good. But it’s going to feel even better to come on your cock. Give it to me a little harder,” she says.

He thrusts up faster, best he can in the position he’s in.

“I’m close,” she tells him. “I bet you are too, but remember: you don’t come until I tell you. Understand?”

He nods. His fingers move faster. She looks down at him, and on his face she sees a mix of the intense discipline it’s taking him not to explode and of wonder, desire, adoration for her.

“Scully,” he says, and it’s those two little syllables that push her past the edge.

She bucks around him, clenching, moaning, feeling more free and uninhibited than she ever has. Sometimes she feels shy on top, but not now — she feels strong, powerful. Later she’ll feel exhausted, and thankful for all the squats she’s added to her gym routine. But in this moment she feels only pleasure, only power, only love for the man who has given it to her.

He’s still hard when she comes down from it. He’s drenched in sweat, his jaw set with determination.

“I’m so proud of you,” she says, and it’s strange but it nearly chokes her up. So she tempers it by being dirty and remembering what she’d told him before: “Flip me onto my back and fuck my brains out, Mulder. You’ve earned it.”

And he has. And he does.

#Reblogging #xfiles fic #xfiles fanfic #xf fic #msr #msr smut #domme scully #xfiles smut

[soft-thrills]

An early Christmas gift nobody has asked for. (Gentle) Domme Scully. I wrote this in the middle of the night.

I don’t know where it came from. No, that’s not true: I do know, but if I told you, I’d have to kill you.

Smut, and nothing else, behind the cut. Not beta’ed, barely proofread. If you like it, let me know. Either way, I wish you all a much better 2022.

It’s a risk.

There’s been no discussion, no negotiation. She’s not planning anything that would require a safe word — nobody is restrained, nobody is going to get hurt, at least beyond their pride. But it’s still a risk.

“Are you close?” Scully asks, as she rides Mulder, her palms hot against his chest.

It’s a risk. But despite her strict rationalism and science and all that straight and narrow stuff, she’s a risk-taker. People who play it safe don’t use their medical degrees to get a gun and a badge, after all.

“Yeah,” Mulder pants, thrusting up into her. “Close. Gonna come.”

She takes the risk.

“No,” she says.

He looks at her, flabbergasted. “What?”

“I said, ‘no.’ I want to decide when you come,” she says. “Can you wait? Can you do that for me?”

She is stern but sweet — encouraging even. Like a personal trainer who gets the very best out of you, who throws on that extra resistance because she believes in you, and you wouldn’t want to let her down, would you?

“Oh — okay. Yes,” Mulder says.

“Good boy,” she purrs.

“Fuck,” he hisses. “Where is this coming from and why is it turning me on so much?”

She grins.

“I don’t know, on both accounts. But what I do know, Mulder, is I’d like to come again before you do. What do you think about that?”

She’s come once already, with her thighs pressed against Mulder’s ears as he devoured her pussy. But several thousands of years of patriarchy mean she doesn’t feel too bad about seeking this two-for-one deal.

He’s about to reply when she speaks over him.

“Before you answer,” Scully says. “Remember, it usually takes me a little longer to come the second time, and I don’t want you making me promises you can’t keep. So: can you hold off until I come again? Can you do that for me?”

“I can try,” Mulder offers, shakily.

She squeezes her inner muscles around him and he groans.

“Not good enough,” she says, her voice stern again. “Will you put me first? Will you hold off for me?”

She lifts herself off his cock then, and he groans, a bereft sound.

“Even if it’s hard?” she asks, pun intended, gripping the base of his cock with a hot hand. “Even if you know, rationally, that you could flip me on my back and fuck my brains out?”

He makes a strangled sound, then, and maybe he’s imagining it. But he stays docile under her hand, not even thrusting up into her fist.

“Yes. I promise. You come first,” he says. “You know I love making you come. Please let me.”

“Good boy,” she whispers, before sliding back onto his hard cock.

Maybe she’s trying to assert herself, maybe this is some kind of psychosexual outlet for her feelings of inadequacy compared to The Work. Maybe it’s just hot. Whatever it is, it seems to be working for both of them — he’s rock hard inside her, and she’s slick around him. Her thighs burn from bouncing up and down, but it barely registers against the hot desire at her center, the thrill of being in control, of having this power over her partner.

“Touch my clit, Mulder. Make me come,” she says.

His thumb finds her clit in record time, spinning tight circle, soft at first, then harder.

“It feels so good to ride you. To use your nice, hard cock for as long as I want,” she teases him. “Do you like that? Me using you, for my pleasure?”

“Yeah,” he grunts, lifting his hips off the bed to meet her harder now. “Please.”

She smiles — half sweet, half condescending. She lifts one hand from his chest and brushes his hair away from his forehead.

“Please what, honey?”

He grunts — she doesn’t usually use pet names.

“Please, I don’t know if I can last much longer,” he says.

The smile disappears, for his benefit, really.

“You can,” she says, squeezing her muscles around him, eliciting another grunt, “and you will.”

“Please,” he begs again, his thumb working her clit faster, tighter.

“Mm, I am getting close. I bet you can feel that, can’t you?”

He nods.

“I love the way you’re touching me. If you keep up like that I’m going to come.”

A beat. Two.

“So I want you to stop.”

It takes him a second, which she can’t really blame him for in his current state. His thumb slows, stops, but he doesn’t remove it.

“What? No, please,” he begs her.

“Hands at your sides,” her voice is clipped, like she’s cuffing a suspect. “Now.”

He obeys, but not without whining.

“Please, please let me—“

“Let you what? Let you touch me? Let you get me off? What I really suspect is that what you want is for me to let *you* come,” she says. “After all, you usually don’t have any problem teasing me — getting me close and pulling back, holding out on me.”

It’s true, not that she has had any problem being teased, being brought to the edge only to look over and be pulled back once, twice, however many times before they’ve tumbled over together.

She stops moving on him for a moment, just keeps him buried to the hilt. Her own hands wander up to her breasts, pinching her nipples, soft, then a little harder.

“Can I tell you a secret, Mulder? I like it when you tease me. It gets me so fucking wet. And I thought you might like it if I did it to you,” she says. “And I think my hypothesis was correct. I think you like this.”

“I like it so much I’m about to embarrass myself, Scully, if you keep putting on a show like that,” he nods in the direction of her breasts.

She smirks.

“What do you want, Mulder?”

“I want to watch you come,” he says.

“Good. Play with my clit again,” she says.

He breaks the previous record time in getting his thumb to the place where they’re joined. She speeds up moving on top of him.

“God, that feels so good. But it’s going to feel even better to come on your cock. Give it to me a little harder,” she says.

He thrusts up faster, best he can in the position he’s in.

“I’m close,” she tells him. “I bet you are too, but remember: you don’t come until I tell you. Understand?”

He nods. His fingers move faster. She looks down at him, and on his face she sees a mix of the intense discipline it’s taking him not to explode and of wonder, desire, adoration for her.

“Scully,” he says, and it’s those two little syllables that push her past the edge.

She bucks around him, clenching, moaning, feeling more free and uninhibited than she ever has. Sometimes she feels shy on top, but not now — she feels strong, powerful. Later she’ll feel exhausted, and thankful for all the squats she’s added to her gym routine. But in this moment she feels only pleasure, only power, only love for the man who has given it to her.

He’s still hard when she comes down from it. He’s drenched in sweat, his jaw set with determination.

“I’m so proud of you,” she says, and it’s strange but it nearly chokes her up. So she tempers it by being dirty and remembering what she’d told him before: “Flip me onto my back and fuck my brains out, Mulder. You’ve earned it.”

And he has. And he does.

#xfiles fic #xfiles fanfic #domme scully #msr #msr smut #xf fic #xfiles smut #hi it’s me time to check in like once or twice a year with some filth #xfiles fanfiction #xfiles

[soft-thrills]

me: has never written any xfiles fic with a real plot, and has not written anything at all in months

also me: ok but maybe i should write an apocalyptic end of the world story and / or a massive season 10/11 rewrite/fix-it fic?!

#I do this like once a month #also have an idea that won’t go away re: Scully’s season 11 pregnancy reveal that people would freaking hate and yet… #maybe I will write it if I ever write any fic ever again #how do people write plots anyway #all I can do is smut and character studies and character studies with smut in them

[soft-thrills]

My mom was searching for quirky fiberglass animals for her lawn (don’t ask) and happened upon this:

SCULLY AND MULDOON

MUST BE SOLD AS PAIR

HERE THEY ARE, THE DYNAMIC DUO WE KNOW AND LOVE, IN WAX FORM:

#the xfiles #xfiles #my best guess is this is from FTF era given the clothes? #but like...why would a wax museum not put them in suits? #does anyone know what this is from #I am deceased

[soft-thrills]

The return of Chris Meloni to the Law & Order universe has led me to dip my toe back in to SVU, which in turn led me to wonder if all that SVU fic I wrote in college was any good, which then led me to realize the archive I posted it to is long gone and I can’t find any of my stories in the ~cloud~ anywhere. They probably exist on the old laptop I have around here somewhere but! Take this as a lesson from me and save your fic!

Will those stories probably make me cringe when I find them? Yes, but I still want them (Unlike the X-Files fic I wrote in high school that I *do* know where to find on the internet but will continue to pretend does not exist.)

In my search of my gmail account for those fics I DID find a bunch of ancient X-Files/SVU crossover smut prompts from an old livejournal pornbattle and not gonna lie... I was tempted. Literally nobody is asking for a Scully/Stabler smut biscuit AND YET... my brain. Anyway that would require me to write ANY fic, which I haven’t done for months.

Anyway, hi! Hope you are all well. Back up your fanfic. <3

[soft-thrills]

Hi! I just wanted to say thank you for all the hard work you put in to your fics! I’ve been reading your work for ages now and I really appreciate what you do. Always excited when I see you’ve posted something new!!! 😌

Anon, thank you so much for this sweet note. It came as I am going through something very difficult, and it really brightened my day to know that you’ve enjoyed reading my work. I so enjoy writing and sharing it and hope to do a little more of that soon, as it’s often a good way through difficult times. ❤️

[soft-thrills]

Just gonna reblog this today for no particular reason

not with a bang

PG 

In which Mulder and Scully contemplate that maybe the end of the world is going to be more boring than they’d planned for. 

“my faith’s been torn asunder tell me is that rolling thunder or just the sinking sound of something righteous going under”

–bruce springsteen, “livin’ in the future”

They lie flat on their backs, on a blanket spread over the native grasses and clover and ferns that grow around their ramshackle home, the place they lock themselves away to try to distract from their ramshackle world.

Beside them, an empty bottle of wine. Cell phones with Twitter apps that are deleted in a fit of despair once a week, only to be furtively reinstalled when the desire to doom scroll overwhelms their will to stay sane.

“What if this is it, Mulder?” Scully asks, her voice quiet even though there is nobody around to hear her.

“If this is what?”

“The end,” she says simply.

The sky is clear and the stars are bright. The night is calm and quiet, early in an unseasonably warm November. But blocks from their old basement office in the Hoover Building, people are massed in the streets. The government they ostensibly work for has recently taken to tear-gassing those people. The president is refusing to acknowledge he lost a fair and free election. Scully’s old hospital is once again being crowded full of people with a deadly virus that’s killing more Americans than the extraterrestrial virus they chased ever did. The world had managed to escape an alien plague spread by bees but couldn’t avoid an entirely earthly one spread by little droplets of spit.

“It’d be awfully anti-climactic, Scully,” Mulder says.

“To think, of all the things we’ve seen,” she says. “And in the end it didn’t take an alien invasion, or a highly organized international conspiracy. It took a bat and a con man who was good at putting slogans on a hat.”

“Does that surprise you? We spent years chasing monsters and lights in the sky but it was always the humans we hunted who were the most capable of cruelty, of destruction,” Mulder says.

She thinks of John Lee Roche, of Donald Pfaster. She remembers Mulder attacking Roche in the interrogation room. And of course she remembers, in cinematic, slow-motion, five-senses detail, firing her weapon at Pfaster. She used to feel bad about those things, back when she was younger, concerned with living up to the ideals of her oaths to Hippocrates and to the Constitution. But after the life she has lived and the things she has seen, she doesn’t feel bad about them anymore.

“Do you ever feel like we should be… I don’t know, doing something?” she asks.

“What, like, saving the world?” Mulder replies, and while she’s staring up at the stars and not his face, she can hear his wry smile.

“Well… yeah. I mean, we used to think we had to, right? What changed?”

She remembers the months spent on the run, no badges back then. Guns with serial numbers filed off. Fake names and the occasional stolen car. Trying to save themselves but also the planet — still meeting with sources and whistleblowers and underground contacts, still breaking into mysterious labs and facilities and bases dressed up with just enough plausible deniability for their own government to deny operating them. Searching for magnetite mining operations in desert quarries. Searching for redemption and forgiveness for the terrible things she had done — to strangers who’d left their cars too long in the Wal-Mart parking lot, to black-clad armed men who’d gotten in her way at security gates, to Mulder, to her son, to herself.

Perhaps that’s when she stopped worrying about the oaths.

And then, 2012, and nothing. The world didn’t end. It hadn’t been saved by something they’d done. Maybe some other pair of disgruntled federal agents had managed to do what they hadn’t. Or maybe the shadow government was simply as incompetent and bungling as their real one, incapable of pulling off a conspiracy so vast and complicated, abandoned by the alien colonizers in favor of some better, smarter world. She doesn’t know and these days she doesn’t really care.

“I think, Scully, that we got older. Our priorities changed,” he says, a murmur.

“Saving the world is a young person’s game,” she replies.

“No, it’s not that, we can obviously still kick ass, that whole Titanpointe thing proved it, even if we were sore for a week afterwards. I think we were just smart enough to know it was time to get out of the damn car.”

She was a baby then, on that desert road. A million years ago, a million mistakes ago. She’d been wrong at the time, about stopping — they’d had miles more to go. But somewhere, some time, the road has to end.

She was the one to leave before, she knows that. But even after all this time, even after all the ways he’s changed for the better, some part of her still fears he’ll pick the work. That if it really is the end, he’ll need to be part of it. That maybe she will, too.

She tries to find a way to articulate these fears without sounding like she’s doubting him, so she doubts herself.

“It makes me feel kind of guilty. Like I’ve given up,” she says.

He rolls over then, to look at her.

“Scully, in the end, whenever that is, I have no doubt that we will go down fighting —for each other. We’ve given enough of ourselves to the world. All we can do now is protect our little piece of it.”

He brushes her hair behind her ear, a gesture he’s practiced for decades. It makes her feel just as warm as it did the first time, and despite everything else that has transpired in the time they’ve known one another, that makes her feel like the luckiest woman alive.

“Whatever happens, I’m glad this is where we wound up, Mulder,” she says. “If this is it, this is where I want to be.”

“Me too, Scully. Me, too.”

[soft-thrills]

7x10 / 10x04

[soft-thrills]

Hello there! Question: Just in case I'm missing something, did you ever finish the other 3 planned vignettes for for "Refugee"? I love your writing so much! Thanks!

Anon -- thank you so much! Sadly I never finished this... but... I guess you never know! I wrote a decent chunk of part two and then just sort of fell off the face of the Tumblr earth for a while. Maybe I’ll try to get back to it during this strange winter ahead of us. Thank you for reading it!!

[soft-thrills]

I for one am ready to hear Gillian voice a villainous cat and no I do not want to contemplate what that says about me