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soft-thrills · 1 year

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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

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jessahmewren · 10 months

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The Ship questions - Mulder & Scully, #15. 🤩👽

I was so excited when I got this ask! I haven't written for Moose and Squirrel in ages. Thank you, friend.

I hope you enjoy. This is what I came up with.

Based on this prompt list (I'm still taking requests!)

Scully watched he scenery slide by in green/blue flashes. They’d been driving for ages. Her tattoo itched, but she couldn’t discreetly scratch it without Mulder noticing, and it was still a sore spot for him.

Ed Jerse was a sore spot for him.

She couldn’t stop thinking about what he’d said to her…his rebuttal to her rightful assertion that it was her life and she could do whatever the hell she wanted. She pursed her lips, still gazing out the window as the world zoomed by. “Yes but it’s my—“ What? My what, exactly?

She chanced a glance at him. His plump lips were working on a sunflower seed. It was a disgusting habit, and she’d never had the gumption to tell him. He was spitting the shells in little cup he held between his legs.

“Jesus, Mulder. Can you toss those out the window?” Her brow was furrowed…she could feel an indescribable need to be cross with him…to pick a fight. She couldn’t scratch the tattoo, but she could do this.

Mulder looked over at her, his eyes narrowed. He made a show of working the shell out of his mouth and holding it between his lips. He cracked it with his teeth and spit it into the cup.

“No,” he said tersely. He stepped on the gas with a little more gusto, barely imperceptible, but she noticed. He kept his eyes on the road, hands tight on the wheel, little cup of sunflower seed shells stuck between his legs.

She sighed, resting her head against the window. They had hours to go, and she could use a stop…some fresh air to clear her head. Mulder’s simmering anger and annoyance at her lapse in judgement with Ed Jerse was making the confines of the car claustrophobic.

“What’s your problem, anyway?” Mulder asked her, his jaw tight. Scully whipped her head around. “I’m not the one with the problem,” she spat.

Mulder guided the car off the road and slammed it into park. He was deathly quiet. He put the cup of sunflower seeds in the cupholder, leaving the car to idle.

Scully rolled her eyes and opened the door. She paced beside it on the grassy shoulder. There was nothing but fields of green for miles…they were in bum-fuck-nowhere looking into a supposed miracle birth. Again, his idea, not hers.

She had her hands on her hips. It was hot. A bead of sweat rolled down her back, further irritating the tattoo. She heard the car door slam and closed her eyes.

“Talk to me, Scully.”

She whipped around, hands balled into fists. She was vibrating with so much pent-up anger she wasn’t even sure she could form words. Mulder stepped forward, closing the space between them. He was wary of getting too close, so he stood looming over her. He was so stupidly handsome and tall, she thought. It only pissed her off more.

“What did you mean to say, Mulder. 'It’s my what?'” She looked up at him, eyes softening a little. The sun was behind him, and it threw his shadow between them. “What claim do you have over me? We are work partners. That’s all.”

A muscle in his jaw clenched, and if she didn’t know better, she would’ve thought he was still eating sunflower seeds. But they were in the car, which was still idling.

“I thought we had an understanding,” he mumbled in that sultry bedroom voice of his. It made a different type of heat unspool in her belly.

She pursed her lips, mouth turning down at the corners. “I don’t know what you mean, Mulder. You’re not making any sense.” Her anger had abated. She was tired. Hot and tired.

Mulder, closed the distance between them, a large hand on her upper arm. His hazel eyes were darker than usual. He spun her around, pressing her front to the side of the car.

“Lemme see it,” he gritted out. “I want to see it.”

Scully swallowed, pulse racing. “Mulder—“

His fingers toyed with the edge of her shirt, asking for permission. She swallowed. “Go ahead,” she said tightly. “If that’s what you want.”

She felt the warm breeze hit her skin as he lifted her shirt in back. He slipped his fingers beneath the waistband of her pants, and she couldn’t hide the little gasp that escaped her lips.

He pulled them down just an inch, revealing the ouroborus.

She was trembling. She had her hands braced over the car’s hot metal roof. The burn on her palms distracted her from the burn between her legs.

Mulder thumbed over it, gathering the sweat that he collected there. He pursed his lips. “It’s peeling,” he said dispassionately.

Scully swallowed. “Yeah,” she said.

Mulder stared at it a few more moments before he pulled her shirt down. He placed his hand on her back, a small press of apology. “I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I take a lot for granted. I take you for granted,” he muttered.

Scully held her breath. She pushed off the car and turned around to look at him. His eyes were wet. Her previous anger had left her drained and shaky. She reached out and placed her hand on his arm. “Come on Mulder. Let’s get back on the road.”

Mulder nodded. His long strides took him to the driver’s side in just a few steps. Before climbing in, he took the cup of sunflower seeds and poured them out onto the ground. They were back on the road without a word, miles of green farmland stretched out in front of them.

#the x files #txf #msr #the x-files #dana scully #mulder x scully #scully x mulder #msr fanfiction #msr fanfic #msr fic #txf fanfiction #txf fic #the x files fanfiction #fox mulder #the x files fanfic #the x files fic #answered asks #my writing

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cutemothman · 8 months

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Snake Oil

Chapter Five | Start at the Beginning

Sent on a case to investigate a 'miracle cure', the agents find themselves at odds with their fate, the powers that be, and each other.

Mulder doesn’t want to wake Scully when the plane touches down at San Diego International Airport. He would be content to let her drool on his shoulder as long as she needed to. Her pregnancy is still in its early stages, but it’s already started to take its toll on her.

He has always been amazed by Scully’s ability to fall asleep anywhere. Anytime she takes the passenger seat, she’s out like a light, leaving him to amuse himself with a solo game of eye spy on many occasions. But he’s done his research, and all the books say that women early on can experience fatigue as a result of increased progesterone. So he wasn’t surprised when Scully leaned her head against his shoulder as soon as they took their seats on the plane and immediately conked out for the entire five hour flight. He also read that at eight weeks, their baby is the size of a kidney bean. He intends to update Scully periodically by reminding her what fruit or vegetable their baby resembles. When he mentioned his kidney bean factoid last night over dinner, she smiled so big and shook her head. He figures she knows all of these facts already, being a doctor, but she’s kind enough to let him ramble on with his new found knowledge.

Keep Reading

@today-in-fic

#msr #txf #msr fic #fox mulder #dana scully #i keep changing how i format these posts #also i forgot to post chapter 4 on here oops #the x files #chrissy writes #txf fanfic

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danascullysjournal · 10 months

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Eternity

An X Files ficlet. Post Revival.

TW: Death, Severe Angst.

____________________

He changed.

It was imperceptible at first. Strands of his hair began to mirror clouds on an overcast day, and his face and hands were slowly peppered with darker spots. She called them freckles. He let her. They both knew it was a lie.

Her hair kept the same sheen, and her pale skin freckled, as it always had, but was never taken over by the aging blemishes that most women feared. He noticed smile lines begin to settle in a bit deeper, but not for age. She simply had so much more to smile about with him. It showed.

As the years had passed, his changes became more magnified. His stride, once hindered only by his desire to help her keep up, became smaller. Less sure.

She retired. To spend more time together, she said. Neither of them spoke of the finite nature of his life, or the infinite nature of hers. It would cut too much. Instead, she packed picnic lunches and laid the blanket under the gnarled tree. Clouds passed overhead and changed from one thing to another. Just like him.

The day came when he shuffled. She shortened her stride to match.

Food lost some of its taste. He didn’t want much anymore. She prepared his favorites the best she knew how, adding extra butter. More protein. And pies, homemade, filled with love. He tried to eat, for her. His lack of appetite stifled her own.

They grew thinner together. She cried quiet, happy tears that at least in this, she could share some of his experience.

He slept more. She sat beside him, her fingers curling through his thinned, cinder-flaked hair. He smiled and nuzzled into her as he slept, a child in an old man’s body. She told him stories of strange creatures, of a man hungry for truth and adventure who was willing to sacrifice everything.

“It’s you,” she said. But he knew that it wasn’t, anymore.

The day came when his heart wanted to stop. She found him on the floor, and she fell down to his side. Her compressions on his chest were a hollow, desperate prayer. She couldn’t bring herself to stop.

She watched his lips grow pale through blurred tears.

“I want to come with you,” she said.

Only his eyes could answer. “I know. I’m sorry.”

She watched him slip away, an old man in her immortal arms, and she cursed a future void of the only person that mattered.

The clouds over the cemetery were gray like his hair, cold like his lips. The sky opened, pouring rain over the headstones and the fresh earth above his body. She remembered Bellefleur and starlight, finding ghosts in the darkness, and she sobbed, begging him to find her in this darkest eternity.

________________________

Author’s note: I’m sorry �� I couldn’t get it out of my head so I wrote it down. I maintain Scully is NOT immortal and none of this actually happens

#txf #msr #msr fic #txf fic #post revival fic #the x files #txf fanfic #mulder and scully #scully and mulder #immortality #tw: death #tw: angst #fox mulder #dana scully #x files

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cthene · 2 years

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Apocalypse Mulder and Scully from my fic, In the Watchfires of a Hundred Circling Camps

#the x files #x files #txf #fox mulder #dana scully #mulder and scully #x files fic #x files fanart #msr fic #msr #my art #my fic

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yuebings · 5 months

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like a lonely house

relationship: scully/mulder

word count: 12,303

rating: T

tags: pining, misunderstandings, and there was only one bed!!, slight jealousy, canon territorial mulder, vaguely season 6 but it isn’t important

summary:

“I said seven thirty,” Scully complains as she opens her front door, trying not to look as flustered as she feels, “not seven—”

She pauses. Looks up at Mulder’s sheepish expression and the unmistakably sauce-stained bag of Chinese take-out in his hands. Looks down at his casual jeans and shirt, the comfortable sneakers he usually prefers wearing during flights.

“Mulder,” she says slowly. “If that’s your definition of ‘something nice,’ I seriously worry about the state of your closet.”

Mulder hijacks Scully's meticulously-planned evening with the discovery of a new case on the other side of the country.

read on AO3

#msr #msr fanfic #msr fic #the x-files #txf #yue’s fic

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unremarkablehouse · 2 years

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Holiday Traditions

Summary: Season 7 post millennium holiday fluff. NC-17 Wc:765

Bingo square: Tradition (right column middle box)

Tagging: @xfilesbingo and @today-in-fic

The late morning light filters through Scully’s bedroom window making it near impossible to stay asleep. With renewed determination she cuddles in tighter next to her lanky companion, shielding her face in his chest, enjoying the relaxed sleep-in. Mulder’s hands slowly trace up her naked arms and lightly tickles their way into her hair. He begins to twirl and play with strands of her hair while she listens to the sounds of his heart beating. As comfortable and enjoyable as cuddling together on a lazy weekend morning is, Scully knows Mulder is starting to get bored and will soon be bugging her. Like clockwork, Mulder has taken the strand of hair he was twirling and has begun to use it to tickle her nose and face. She giggles as she swats his hand away and is greeted by soft kisses in response. Not a bad way to wake up she thinks. She glances over at the clock and sees that he’s let her sleep in until after 9am, so she rewards his patience with a slow and lazy kiss. The kiss breaks off and she places her head back down on his chest.

“Hey Scully?”

“Hmmm”

She doesn’t open her eyes but that doesn’t stop him from continuing.

“I was just thinking about how all of the American holidays have really strong food traditions associated around them.”

This random non-sequitur has got her attention and she gingerly opens her eyes to see where he’s going with this.

“That’s what you’re thinking about right now?”

“Well yeah”, pleased to have her attention Mulder nuzzles her neck and let’s his hands start to wonder as he continues his point.

“I don’t think it’s even a conscious decision anymore. Between mass marketing and media, we all just know that certain holidays have food expectations. Like Thanksgiving and turkey.”

“I don’t think you can use Thanksgiving in your argument, it’s a holiday commemorating a feast so the food associations are implicit. What about Memorial Day?”

Scully lightly scratches down Mulder’s side making him shiver.

“That’s easy; ribs. It’s the start of grilling season, so technically any BBQ and sides, but ribs are pushed the hardest.”

Scully nuzzles into Mulder’s neck and nips at his earlobe before continuing.

“Easter?”

“Ham and candy”

“New Years?”

Mulder seamlessly flips them over and presses his hard naked body against her. Bracketing her head between his hands, he bends over and places a quick kiss on her nose before continuing.

“Now this one might surprise you. While the typical drink is champagne, it’s one of the highest selling days for crackers and cheese.”

“I can believe that. So, I take it this discussion is because it’s Presidents Day?”

Mulder starts kissing the shell of her ear and responds in a low grumble.

“Yes, and there’s no real food associated with it ..”

“I could go for coffee, maybe some eggs right now. We could make that the holiday food.”

Scully pushes against Mulder’s chest and halfheartedly attempts to get up.

“No!” Mulder kisses her passionately until her body relaxes back into his, only stopping the kiss after her hips automatically rise up to meet his. He slowly grinds his hardness up and down her slit while continuing their discussion.

“Those are just breakfast food. President’s Day deserves something special, it’s right after Valentine’s Day and it falls a few days before your birthday. Our noble leaders deserve a fitting tribute.”

“What did you have in mind?” Scully replies in a breathless moan. He places his head near her ear and seductively whispers “I think you should be the traditional Presidents’ Day meal..” Scully is caught off guard and lets out a sharp laugh and stills his body.

“You’re ridiculous. All that set up for that lame joke!”

“Who said it was a joke?” Mulder bends down to kiss her but is stopped.

“Ok, so how do you suggest we get this started? Should I start offering myself up to my neighbors first or is this more of a scheduling situation?”

“No! This is just a two-person tradition”

“So, you and somebody else?”

Mulder possessively kisses her.

“Only me and you. And maybe your friend Ellen if I can watch”

Scully lightly slaps Mulder’s shoulders as his head starts kissing down her body.

“You’re the worst!”

Mulder pauses as he kisses above her navel to reply.

“In about 5 minutes I bet I can change your mind…”

‘I bet you can too’ Scully thinks to herself as Mulder continues his ministrations between her legs, ready to start his new President’s Day tradition.

#msr fic

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deathsbestgirl · 1 year

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okay i just started this but this bit has won me over:

incredibly excited to keep reading 😂

#msr fic #x files fic

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greekowl87 · 11 months

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After a long while, my fic contribution, "The Basis for Trust", to the @xfilesfanficexchange Undercover exchange is finally done and submitted. Please let me know what you think!

#xfiles #xf fic #msr fic

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queeenpersephone · 2 years

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Fandom: The X-Files Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Relationships: Fox Mulder/Dana Scully

It’s not so much the reminder that he prefers his last name. Instead, she thinks, it’s her own reaction to his reaction that has her discomfited. She thought herself long over the thoughts that plagued her in the first year of their partnership, and again with the appearance of Diana, of whether he even saw her as a woman given that nearly every other woman who he showed interest in called him by his given name. It had been petty and catty of her to feel that jealousy, and she is ashamed of it. It’s not who she wants to be.

She knows that she and Will are Mulder’s world. Occasionally, she wonders if he would be like this if he still had the X-Files or his search for Samantha to concern himself. She knows intellectually that he’s always been near-obsessive about being the most important person in her life, but sometimes, when she thinks about their lows, she has her much-hated doubts.

aka

the one where they finally, FINALLY, talk about mulder's first name.

tagging: @today-in-fic

#msr #msr fic #the x files #txf fic #my writing #<3

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gillians-leoni · 2 years

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new strip club au chapter <3

sorry for the late update 🥺

@today-in-fic

#the x files #dana scully #fox mulder #my fic #msr #the x files fanfic #msr fanfic #msr au #msr smut #msr fic #mama dana scully #dana scully/fox mulder #fox mulder/dana scully #scully x mulder #mulder x scully #emily sim

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soft-thrills · 2 years

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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

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agent-starbuck · 1 year

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Post-Detour. Somewhere in North Carolina. Mulder decides to make it up to Scully after ditching her to go chase Mothmen.

--------

After a quick shower, he throws on a pair of jeans and a grey t-shirt before trekking through humid night air to the motel office. The bell jingles as he steps inside and he squints at the harsh fluorescent lighting, searching for the clerk behind the desk. Reruns of Three's Company drones on in the background.

“Uh, excuse me?” His tired, weary voice scrapes coarsely against the column of his throat.

A middle-aged man emerges from another room, resting his forearms on the counter while twirling a toothpick between his lips. He gives Mulder an unamused, blank stare.

“Whatcha need?”

“I was, um, wondering if you, by chance, had any of those little bottles of wine?” He pinches his index finger and thumb together for a visual. “Or any alcohol, really. Doesn't have to be wine. And cheese, too. Any kind of cheese would do--”

“This look like the Hilton to you, mister?” the man interrupts in a thick, southern drawl. The sitcom audience laughs on cue through the tinny speakers on the TV.

“Ah, no. No, it does not.” A self-deprecating grin tugs at his lips as he turns to walk out the door before stopping to peek his head around the frame.

“Vending machines?” He inquires out into the void.

“Around the corner next to the ice machine. Ice machine's broke, though,” the voice behind the wall replies, and he digs through his wallet for the crispest dollar bills he can find.

Back in his room, he locates the small tray that the ice bucket usually sits on and arranges his vending machine goodies, along with two flimsy plastic cups, on it. The presentation is lackluster-- almost comical-- but it's the best he can do under such short notice. He looks in the mirror to run a hand through his drying hair, and clears his throat, before walking over to Scully's room next door.

His knuckles rasp across the solid, metal door, and he waits anxiously, scuffing his shoes against the rough concrete outside. Her light is still on, the soft glow diffused by the curtains drawn shut in the window and inviting a swarm of insects to dance around what little light is bleeding through.

He hears the click of the lock moments before the door finally opens. Scully stands before him in a pair of light blue cotton pajama shorts, a white tank top, and a darker blue silk robe, still open in the front. A pair of reading glasses are perched precariously on the tip of her nose, and she's clutching a book at her side, her fingers caught in the pages like a makeshift bookmark.

He struggles not to stare at her with a dumbstruck look on his face but is wholly unsuccessful. God, she is beautiful-- standing there like a sleep-mused goddess. Seeing her like this feels intimate. Sacred. Any moment he will have turned to stone. It's what happens when mere mortals chance upon the Divine.

“Mulder? Is everything okay?” A crease forms between her eyebrows. He has the urge to smooth it away with a kiss.

“Yeah, um… can I come in?” He manages miraculously without so much as a waver in his voice.

She steps aside, and he walks past, standing awkwardly with his peace offering balanced atop his outstretched palm as she closes the door behind them. She doesn't say anything. Only nods curiously at the tray he's holding, setting her book down on the nightstand.

“I know it's not exactly wine and cheese, and I know I'm not supposed to be consorting with you in your hotel room,” he swallows as he puts the tray down on the table. “But I, I'd like to make amends for being a total idiot the other night.”

“Mulder… you didn't have to do this.”

“It was no trouble, really. For some reason the, uh, vending machine didn't have mini bottles of wine--”

“I'm shocked,” she feigns disbelief and he feels his heart grow lighter at her playfulness.

“I know! But I thought grape juice and highly, over-processed cheese and beef jerky sticks would be the next best thing.” He rips the clear, plastic covering off the cups and pours juice into each one.

“Mulder?”

“Mhmm?”

“That sounds like a terrible combination.”

His face is stricken with a look of disappointment as though she just told him Sasquatch doesn't exist.

“But, somehow, it's exactly what I'm in the mood for.” She offers him a breathtaking smile. He offers her a cup of juice in return.

“Cheers, Scully.”