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scullymakesmefeelautopsyturvy · 4 years

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Several Times Scully Got Locked Out Of Her Motel Room In Her Scanties (First Time Smut Ensues) Chapter One

Space (Season One)

They sat on the city steps in the midday sunshine awaiting another of Mulder’s mysterious informants. She, eating a sad little excuse for a sandwich: cucumber-dampened white bread encompassing roast chicken lovingly Saran-wrapped and pressed into her hand after Sunday lunch at her parents’ house. An awkward lunch, during which her father had accomplished the stellar feat of not asking her about her work once. I should have cheered everyone up by asking if anyone had heard from Charles lately, Melissa had joked, darkly, over the phone afterwards.

The sandwich stuck in her throat a little as she swallowed, and out of nowhere, everything felt so… insufficient.

Was this really her life now? Crackpots and conservative suits and no sex since Jack? Reading journals alone on Friday nights and eating her mother’s leftovers?

She was still stashing a fastidiously initialed brown bag in the Bureau staff kitchen fridge each morning, as she had been in the habit of doing at Quantico.

Dana Katherine Scully, you’re hardly a schoolgirl anymore, she told herself.

Perhaps it was time to graduate to lunch in the cafeteria, like one of the big kids.

Mulder nibbled on his inescapable sunflower seeds. Rental car cup holders. The top drawer of the basement desk. The bottom drawer, and the middle. Even loose, once, inexplicably, in her suitcase when she arrived home from a three-night case in Iowa. They were everywhere, pervading her entire life with their woody scent and their easy charm just like the man who unceasingly consumed them.

He was close, now, his knees spread wide and swinging with casual rich-kid confidence as he began to lose patience with his anonymous NASA tipster. Scully kept her stockinged legs primly pressed together, her well-lined heavy linen skirt draping over her kneecaps, preserving her modesty. His fingertips brushed her own as he handed her the informant’s note, and she was glad of the excuse to break his gaze, to look down and away from his face; the inevitable thrill she was coming to know so well shooting through her body from tip to toes.

When the Space Program whistleblower did arrive, it was a she; a development Scully could well have done without. Especially one as… developed as this.

Long and lean, blonde, finessed; Michelle Generoo looked exactly like the full-sized version of the girls Scully imagined Mulder growing up with on Martha’s Vineyard, summering in Rhode Island, picnicking on lush lawns by sparkling waters while she herself played hopscotch with scavenged pebbles on Navy base blacktop, or avoided cracks in uneven paving slabs as she skipped along in hand-me-down pleated skirts and fraying hand-knitted sweaters. This was probably exactly the WASP-y horsewoman type Mulder’s parents had always envisaged him marrying, with her tweed jacket and her long silky locks and her mirror-lensed aviators.

Not a squat, pale, Irish Catholic Navy brat with full cheeks, wiry russet hair and stubborn freckles that were probably popping exponentially with every second spent sitting in this sunshine. Who still brought homemade sandwiches to work.

Michelle Generoo: Mission Control Communications Commander for the Space Program in Houston. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for me now, for I must have sinned, and am being punished with the early-afternoon arrival of Fox Mulder’s ideal woman, sent from heaven to enact my own personal hell.

Scully hated this feeling: this creeping sense of little sister inferiority. It was the mid-semester first day at a new school all over again, having been transplanted with her father’s latest deployment; Bill laughing and joking with the jocks or the prettiest clique of girls he could find, she hiding with a book in the library. It was enviously watching Melissa tame her curls into elaborate braids when all she could manage was a stubby ponytail with lumps at her crown, aged seven, twelve, twenty-nine.

What was it about prepubescent inadequacies that made them so infuriatingly unassailable? Successfully reinterpreting Einstein and near-perfect pistol qualification scores had only ever compensated for so much.

At the mention of a fiancé - a Shuttle Commanding astronaut fiancé, no less - Scully relaxed somewhat. For once, she was glad that Mulder’s particular obsession with certain matters of the universe was a little less than impressive to the casual observer.

Mulder disappeared off into the city on some unspecified errand, and sent her back to the Hoover Building to arrange flights and accommodation, agreeing to meet her at the airport.

On the plane, he seemed disappointed when she didn’t want to read his brand new copy of NASA: A History of American Space Travel, and peppered her with trivia instead.

“Did you know, all twelve men who walked on the moon agree, the surface smells like spent gunpowder?”

“Oh really,” Scully said. “And what did the women say?”

Mulder looked a little uncomfortable. Having made her point about why she might, perhaps, feel a little excluded from his spaceboy enthusiasm, Scully pondered this fact.

“They can’t remove their helmet on the moon; there’s no atmosphere.” She countered. “How do they know what it smells like?”

“From the dust left over on their spacesuits,” Mulder was clearly happy to be able to inform her.

Scully frowned at him.

“You think they’re so cool, don’t you Mulder?”

He looked personally injured. “Scully, how can you be the one person in the universe - a physicist, no less - who doesn’t think space travel is cool?”

She turned her torso in her narrow seat to face him.

“Mulder, when I was five years old, for Apollo 11, I was just as excited as you are now. My older brother and sister and I followed the news of the mission; we watched the moon landing just like everybody else. Bill and Melissa dressed up as Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin for Halloween that year; they made me be the Stars and Stripes so we could all pose for photos together. I had to stick my arm out and wobble the flag. We were just as space crazed as anyone. And over the years, as the missions continued, I read everything, I mean everything-” Mulder nodded, he could surely believe that of Scully at any age - “and I found out some trivia of my own.”

Mulder titled his head, curious.

“You know, a spacesuit is a sealed environment. It has to be airtight, right?”

Mulder nodded.

“And spacewalks last between five and eight hours on average.”

Mulder was listening intently.

“Well, there’s… nowhere to… go. When you have to go,” she gestured euphemistically. “And in a zero-gravity environment - or any environment, in fact - you don’t want to just relieve yourself inside the suit.”

Mulder frowned.

“So they wear these… things. It’s called a MAG: A Maximum Absorbency Garment,” she enunciated carefully. “You just… let it go, and it… absorbs it.”

Mulder looked perturbed.

“So basically, underneath that cool, space-exploring exterior,” Scully continued, “you’ve got a bunch of highly trained, hero-worshipped men - and now, women - floating around wearing adult diapers.”

Mulder swallowed hard.

“You know, I have a little brother. Charles. When he was still wearing Pampers I would watch my mom changing him, and I’d smell those foul odors and witness the frankly terrifying contents in some detail, and I just - I could never look at astronauts in the same way again after I found out about the MAG. I don’t know, it just ruined it for me.”

Her partner sat back quietly in his chair, more than a little disturbed.

Scully smiled at him weakly, and decided to take a nap.

On the tarmac in Houston, the cabin lights, dimmed for landing, switched back to full brightness as the seatbelt indicator dinged off. Mulder sprang out of his seat, already reaching up for the overhead bins to retrieve their luggage.

Scully sat calmly with her forest-green briefcase on her lap, not willing to pointlessly stand for ten minutes while the passengers in rows A-R filed interminably slowly up the aisle, huffing and checking her watch as though that would change the physics of the aircraft and hurry anything along.

No, patience had always been her friend; she would await her turn peacefully, could wait for anything forever, so long as she knew for certain it was coming to her.

Alighted, they bypassed the checked baggage carousels, Mulder carrying the suitcases and Scully toting only her leather satchel. The pair walked to the Lariat desk, where Scully hung back, and Mulder flirted with the smiling clerk working the night shift.

In the car, Mulder questioned her again about the arrangements.

“Intercontinental, Scully? It’s probably the furthest possible airport from the Space Center.”

“...and all requisitions would let me book at such late notice. The flights into Hobby were almost double the cost. It would be a waste of taxpayers’ money.” She signalled right, checking both directions.

“Are we heading further North, Scully?” Mulder asked, checking the constellations through the windshield.

She tsked and gripped the steering wheel a little tighter. “It’s late. If you want to make all future travel bookings, be my guest, Mulder. But as it stands we’ll stay up here tonight, drive down for our eight-thirty a.m., and stay down there from tomorrow.”

At the mention of the morning meeting with Lt. Belt, Mulder brightened, and stuck his head back in his book for the remainder of the journey to their motel.

When they arrived at the Spring Creek Mercury Motorlodge, she threw him a look. A warning shot.

Don’t say a word, Mulder.

The motel took shabby to a whole new level: the paintwork was more chips than oil-based matte; the blown bulbs outnumbered the working ones, the woodwork of the bare-bones portico looked like it should have been condemned alongside the Rosenbergs.

The sign on the office door declared, ‘Desk open 7 a.m. - 10 p.m. ONLY ring bell outside of opening hours for ABSOLUTE EMERGENCIES.’

Scully checked her watch. It was approaching midnight. A handwritten Post-It stuck at an angle underneath read, ‘Scully booking, rooms # 8 & 12. Doors open. Keycards inside.’

“Always nice to experience that famous Southern hospitality,” Mulder deadpanned, peeling the note from the glass. They moved along the walkway, counting up as they went.

The door to number eight was propped barely ajar with a rotting two-by-four. Scully could see the square of exposed woodwork where an old lock mechanism had been removed: replaced by a newfangled electronic keycard system. She ran her eyes over the crumbling porch roof and thought, Really? This is where they chose to invest their refurb budget?

Mulder pushed the door open for Scully and held her gaze as she stared at him momentarily. He looked like he was about to follow her into the room.

“Thanks,” she gulped, taking her suitcase from his hand.

But he stayed put outside, grabbing the handle to pull the door shut, double checking their plans for the morning. “See you at seven-fifteen then? All checks complete and ready to strap ourselves into the command module?” He grinned.

Scully dropped her case onto the bed and sighed. He was going to be insufferable tomorrow.

***

After showering, hanging up her burgundy pantsuit for the next day, then losing a fight with the room’s overactive heater, Scully unravelled the tightly rolled pink satin pajamas from her suitcase. You get fewer wrinkles if you roll rather than fold, her mother had taught her.

Stepping into them, she could already feel herself perspiring lightly, and wondered if it would be better to do without the pajamas or the comforter. Her mind flashed to the various possible emergencies that might see her fleeing her room in the middle of the night: a fire, a tornado, an intruder.

Keep the pajamas, lose the comforter, she decided.

But she suspected she’d need more to keep herself cool. She remembered passing an ice machine a few doors down, and grabbed a metal bucket left on the dresser for just such purposes, tucking her keycard into the breast pocket of her nightwear as she went.

She was so warm and the ice machine was so close, she didn’t even bother with shoes as she tiptoed the few feet along the walkway. The machine hummed and clanked as she lifted the front and noisily plunged the bucket into the crisp, dry cubes.

Ice.

The Arctic Ice Core Project. Alaska. A sparsely appointed supply closet. Mulder crouching down to her level and hissing his balmy, furious breath directly into her face.

I don’t trust them. I WANT to trust you.

He’d been angry and sweaty and ripe, and it had been the two of them against the others. They’d made what felt like a binding pact, whispering conspiratorially; sealing it with their laying on of hands.

If she’d been asked prior to that about the most intimate part of a person’s body, she might have given the same answers as anyone else. Reproductive organs her studies had given her medical names for. Mammary glands meant for feeding young but warped by western culture into symbols of sex and shame. Perhaps the cushiony swell of the gluteus maximus, so favored by jocks, and creeps in bars.

But she’d finished that case on the Icy Cape with the discovery of more than a new species of worm; she’d learned for the first time about the deep, heady, overwhelming intimacy of touching another person at the back of the neck.

Jesus, she’d already been so wet when he’d grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her back to inspect her spine. She feared her unguarded gasp had given her away. And when he’d brushed aside her hair and lain his whole palm against the nape of her neck, awaiting the telltale wriggle of the homicide-inducing parasite, it was she who had squirmed beneath the hot, unrelenting pressure.

Oh god, what he’d be able to do to her with those big, strong, capable hands.

Alaska at that latitude had average winter temperatures of less than zero degrees Fahrenheit. November on the North Slope saw little more than three hours of sunshine a day. They regularly experienced impenetrable blizzards that could freeze a person to death in under an hour.

But when Dana Scully thought of the Icy Cape, all she could feel was searing, blazing, pulsing heat.

She filled the ice bucket, slammed the machine shut, and carried her personal cooling system back to her room, balancing it on her hip like an infant as she swiped the keycard for entry.

She got a red light.

Furrowing her brow, she swiped again.

Red.

Again.

Red.

Sighing her frustration, she ran the card through the slot several more times, resting the bucket on the floor and jiggling the handle as she tried over and over for green, listening for the buzz of the latch electronically pulling back.

Nothing.

She threw her hands up in the air and tried twice more to no avail.

She looked about her for assistance, finding none. No one was about. She started off towards the office and slowed as she reached the door. She re-read the sign.

ABSOLUTE EMERGENCIES.

Well, she couldn’t get into her room. Surely that was an emergency. She pressed the bell and waited, but no one came. She pressed again, and again, nothing. This was ridiculous. She tried once more with the bell, and after two minutes, sighing furiously, strode back along the walkway, her bare toes starting to go numb. She’d successfully cooled off, at least.

She continued past room eight, doubling back to try the lock three more times then kicking the door with great vexation before jogging up towards number twelve, wrapping her arms around her breasts to warm herself. The ice bucket stood sentry, dripping condensation.

She lifted her knuckle to knock on Mulder’s door, then hesitated slightly. She stole a glance down at her pajamas. They were not thick, and clung to her curves, puckering at her bare nipples. Mulder had seen her wearing far less - had checked her for mosquito bites clad only in what her maternal Grandmother would have called her smalls on their very first case - and remained professional, but that had been a rare exception, borne of her neophyte panic. She worked so hard to be taken seriously, to be seen as a colleague and an expert and a peer, and not as a sexual object. It was hard to project an air of authority in pastel pink satin with your breasts announcing themselves to anyone within five hundred yards. But Jesus, it was freezing out, and she had to be up and dressed in less than seven hours. She wasn’t about to spend a frostbitten night out in the cold and give herself hypothermia for the sake of avoiding a little embarrassment. She was a fully grown woman; Mulder, a fully grown man. They were both adults here. They could be mature about this.

She knocked, hugging her chest again afterwards.

Mulder opened the door still in his shirt and tie, although his jacket was hung over the desk chair in the corner. The NASA book lay face down, open on the bed. He chewed on one of his infernal seeds.

“You okay, Scully?” he asked, frowning. “Couldn’t sleep?”

“Couldn’t get back into my room,” Scully explained, huffing. “I went out for ice and my… the keycard doesn’t work.”

“You should ring the bell for the owners,” Mulder suggested, unhelpfully.

“I did,” Scully said, pointedly. “No answer.” She looked up at him and pressed her lips together apologetically. “Can I come in?”

“Of course, of course,” Mulder said, standing back to let her enter. He stood with his back to the door after it was closed. “You can sleep in here; it’s no bother. I’ll crash on the floor.”

“Thank you,” Scully said, perching on the desk. Mulder sat himself on the end of the bed and gazed over at her.

“You cold?” he asked.

Actually, Mulder’s room was as toasty as hers had been, and her toes were already thawing out.

“Warming up,” she said, thankfully.

“Just that you’re… hugging yourself,” he explained, gesturing at her arms, still clamped across her unsecured bosom.

“Oh,” she said, self-consciously, but let her arms drop slowly to her sides, gripping the edge of the desk with both hands for security. “I’m not… wearing very much, is all.”

“Oh,” he echoed softly, his eyes scanning the length of her nightwear all the way to the floor and back up again. Yes, she was certainly feeling some heat once again.

“What you are wearing is… very nice though.” His eyes settled on her own for a few seconds, then flicked down to her breasts, and she inhaled sharply, silently, she hoped in retrospect. When he looked back at her face, her mouth was hanging slightly open, and she caught herself, licking her lips for discipline, her chest heaving. He looked down again.

She felt her cheeks burning, and averted her eyes to the book on the bed, a change of focus for her mind, which was racing with thoughts of candlelight and shower-wet hair, of thermal shirts and platonic supply closet fumblings: Mulder and his fingertips the common denominator in these scenarios.

She forced herself to look back at him. He was comfortably staring now, his face giving nothing away, but she knew he was quite aware she’d seen him appreciating her exposed form. He was leaving this up to her.

She wrestled with her conscience.

She shouldn’t do this. They were partners. It was against Bureau policy. It was unprofessional. It could ruin her career if it ended badly. Worse, it could come between her and Mulder, drive a wedge between them and prise apart their newly cemented friendship.

But…

She thought of Oregon and hands and Alaska and ice, and she knew what she wanted.

You’re hardly a schoolgirl anymore...

She stood up slowly, wordlessly taking a few steps towards Mulder on the bed. Yes, they were both fully grown, and she had some very adult ideas about what they could do together.

She paused one or two paces from his knees, and held his gaze for a moment. She let her lips fall open once more, her breathing labored, and she saw his breath was keeping pace with her own.

She thought of Michelle Generoo, and of her own jealousies and insecurities, and second guessed herself momentarily. She’d always suspected she wasn’t Mulder’s type. Yes, he had moments ago brazenly taken in the sight of her nipples brushing against the silky confines of her pajama top, but he was a red-blooded straight male, and they had been right there, still standing at attention from her time out in the cold. And yes, he was looking at her intently now as she crossed the room, the propulsion of months and months of unverbalized, unresolved sexual tension at her back, but his expression was blank, and he might be nervously wondering how the hell he was going to abort this mission.

There was one way to be sure. He had done his fair share of looking; it was her turn to be brazen.

She dropped her gaze to his lap, seeking a different kind of green light.

In the dim glow coming from the slightly open bathroom door, she found exactly what she was seeking. The bulge that tented Mulder’s pants cast a promising shadow. She was go for launch.

She took another step, and found his eyeline once more.

His pupils were dilated, his lips pillow-soft and pouting, the ridge growing noticeably larger even in her peripheral vision.

She reached down for his left hand and brought it to her breast, pressing it against herself over the pajamas.

“Make me see stars, Mulder,” she whispered, breaking into a lazy smile.

His momentary expression of disbelief gave way to a grin, and he looked up at her with reverence. She let go of his fingers, dropping her arm to her side once again, and his palm moved with feathery softness over her breast, centering her nipple in the smoothest spot, where you’d clutch a baby’s fist, or a prized possession. The heat of his hand radiated through the satin, the friction of skin on fabric even more erotic than direct contact. Their gazes were locked. His mouth fell open a fraction, mirroring hers, and he raised his other hand to work both breasts, his fingers held up and away from her body as he traced circles with her hardened peaks against his deep volar arches. She closed her eyes and moaned, low and soft, letting her head fall backwards. Her knees went limp, and Mulder steadied her with one hand, docking her at the hip.

His grip sent shockwaves to her core, her pulse now strongest between her legs. She knew she was already leaving a damp mark on her pajama bottoms.

She lifted her head back up and looked down at Mulder, still seated on the edge of the comforter. They panted together in the quiet, each awestruck by the other, and Scully reached up to her top button, deftly pushing it through the opening with her delicately manicured fingertips. She did not avert her eyes from Mulder’s as she worked her way down to her waist, finally letting the shirt hang open at the front.

She took his left hand once more and tucked it inside the front panel, his massive palm easily encompassing the entire fleshy mound there. He squeezed her hip gently, cupping her and pulling her towards him at once, guiding her between his knees. Checking her eyes for continued consent, he brushed the center of her shirt to one side and revealed half of her chest to his vision for the first time.

“Oh, Scully,” he said in a hushed voice, and - permission silently granted by Scully’s hungry gaze - lifted his mouth to her nipple and latched on, sucking, circling his tongue around her hot, pink bud. She moaned again and grabbed the back of his head, twisting her fingers into his hair, her nails scratching at his scalp.

His mouth broke contact with her delicately pale skin, and he pushed the satin from her shoulders, letting it whoosh to the floor.

He was gazing up at her again, and she leaned down to kiss him now, finally allowing herself to experience in the flesh that which she had longed for, imagined, fantasized about for some time. Their lips met; wet, fervent, ravenous. Their shared craving drew them together, suctioning them to one another at the mouth as though they could consume one another entirely, and meant to. His salted breath mingled with her own, and their tongues tangled and danced. He ran his hand up her naked back, and her breasts pressed against his collarbone.

He pulled away, and she held the side of his face tightly to her bare chest, breathless, eyes closed.

“Scully,” he ventured, “are you sure about this?” He looked up at her with his soft, beautiful, hazel eyes. She didn’t know what had possessed her for so long, being able to resist those eyes all these months.

She straightened up, and took his hand once again, reaching behind herself to slide it down the back of her waistband, over her rounded ass, and into the molten cleft of her body. She spread her thighs as his fingers found her desire, parting and probing her on their voyage of discovery. He dipped a single digit inside her body, and she exhaled on a low moan.

“I’m sure, Mulder,” she murmured, smiling again. “Take me to the moon and back.”

He relaxed a little, his shoulders dropping, “Oh is that the game?” he teased, “Space puns?”

She shrugged playfully.

He smiled wide at her, or she thought he did; it was hard to see with her eyelashes fluttering closed. Her head dropped back once more as he pumped into her, his thumb resting fortuitously against the base of her perineum, that dark, forbidden, blissful spot. She felt alive, animal, raw. She let her breath come out ragged, allowed her rasps and moans to escape unbridled. Mulder paused his efforts for a second or two, leaving two fingers curled inside her, using his free hand to yank down her pajama pants. She helped, kicking them loose from her ankles as he grabbed a handful of her ass with his spare hand and pulled her toward the bed, reclining face up on the mattress and encouraging her to crawl on her knees up to his shoulders and sit back. Only then did he remove his fingers from inside of her, and her body sucked at them as he did, protesting their departure.

Scully was giddy with want, and Mulder looked up at her just then with such veneration that her heart burst with renewed affection for him. She’d never been made to feel more worthy in her life. This was so Mulder. She had not specifically realized it before, but this was how he often made her feel, in his best moments.

At the insistence of his hand pressing gently on her lower back, his fingers sticky with her own yearning, she lowered her sex to his mouth.

As soon as his velvet tongue met her clit, she cried out, almost lifting herself up on her knees at the shock of it. He held her steady, lapping at her hardened bundle of nerves with the flat of his tongue, softly at first, then applying more and more pressure as she sunk further down onto him, his chin pressing up into her heat, her slick juices gliding her inner walls against his light stubble. Oh Jesus, it was divine, and she called out his last name as she rode his face, her breath hitching in her throat as her trajectory was set to climax.

Scully chanced a glance downwards and saw that he was watching her in her ecstasy.

She was wanted. She was valued. She was enough.

She smiled down at him, not halting her movements, and reached up to pinch her own nipples with her dainty, expert hands. Mulder groaned his pleasure into her body, sucking and licking and holding her down so she could not get away.

“Fuck,” she gasped, and was lost; her face lifted to the heavens, her body and mind spinning and soaring in concupiscent formation, her voice clamorously invoking two thirds of the Trinity with various, stertorous monikers as she rocketed into her own private orbit.

Mulder massaged her hips and kept his chin tilted up into her as she twitched and panted and called out for God, and she felt her inner muscles contracting around his way-past-five-o-clock shadow. The humid air of his heavy breath rushed from his nose, tickling her pubic mound as his lips remained clamped over the hood of her clitoris. She exhaled the last of her shudders and sat back on her haunches, resting on his solid pectorals, running her tongue over her lips, wetting them with exhausted delight. Mulder’s chin glistened in the dim room, drenched, and she laughed, reaching down to wipe him off.

He let her, but then caught her by the wrist and held her soaked palm against his mouth, kissing it, hard, and smearing the residue of her arousal all over his lips once again. He licked them clean, unblinking.

She buried her face in her other hand and laughed shyly.

Mulder chuckled along with her, resting his hands on her still-spread thighs, his thumbs dipping close to her parted labia. She bit her lower lip and looked him in the eye once again, unable to hide her happiness.

“Luckily, out here, no one can hear you scream,” he joked, a question in his eyes suggesting he was worried he might not get away with this, and she pushed him away teasingly but giggled as she climbed off the bed. She picked up her pajama pants from the floor.

“And where do you think you’re going?” Mulder asked her as she stood up.

“I’ll be right back,” Scully responded, flinging the bottoms over her shoulder and sauntering off to the bathroom, looking back at him to make sure he was getting a good look at her receding form. “Don’t move.”

She glanced down at the enormous bulge in his pants once again, and knew she needn’t worry. He wouldn’t be going anywhere with that thing.

She returned a few minutes later, now wearing the satin pants, and sporting a dark gleam in her eye as she crept across the carpet towards him. When she reached the bed, he leaned up on his elbows and reached for her to pull her onto the bed, but she shook her head. Instead, she reached for his belt buckle and deliberately undid it, sliding the leather through the metal loop before reaching for his fly. As she unzipped his pants, Mulder lifted his hips, and his erection bounced up, pushing the flaps of the zipper to either side, straining against his boxer briefs. This was one shuttle she wouldn’t mind watching blast off, and she was ready to fire up the booster rockets.

She helped him remove his pants, then tugged at the waistband of his underwear. He removed it and lay himself back down on the bed, looking almost anxious.

“Mulder,” she reassured him. “Relax; I want this. I want you.” She whispered the last part, lowering herself to kneel at the foot of the bed.

His manhood loomed large, worryingly large for such a petite person, but Scully had never met a challenge she didn’t want to face. And face it she did; this hard, quivering invitation to wantonness inches from her mouth. He smelled like the Mulder she had come to know, only stronger here; that musky, spicy pheromone blend that brought her to her knees - now, finally, literally - and she breathed him in with abandon.

She gripped him in her hand, taking his tip into her mouth, sweeping her tongue around the head of his cock as he exhaled forcefully. She slid her closed palm up and down the base of his shaft, letting her saliva drip down to lubricate her ministrations, then working him further into her jaws so that the top of his penis rubbed just against her soft palate. She bobbed her head against him. He filled her mouth easily, and she thought of all the times she’d surreptitiously stolen a glance at his lap. Her curiosity had been satisfied, and then some. He was every bit as big as she’d always suspected, and her small oral cavity made for a snug fit as she worked him into a frenzy on the bed.

He clutched at the covers and murmured her name, encouraging her efforts all the while. He slowed her at one point, just managing to explain through his moans that he wanted to enjoy it a little longer, but his thighs were soon flexing again and she accelerated her pumping with her fist, sucking a little harder, working the tip of her tongue against his popping veins.

Mulder reached out and grabbed at her shoulder, clumsily pushing her back. “T-minus... T-minus five seconds and… and counting…” he sputtered, and she risked another tongue swirl, another deep thrust towards her throat.

“Scully!” Mulder choked out, and she pulled her mouth away. She kept her hand in place and he wrapped his own around it, working his erection skillfully as he delivered his impressive payload over their ten conjoined fingers and down onto his stomach. A coy smirk plastered itself across Scully’s face as he collapsed back onto the bed.

She raised herself from the floor, rolling her neck from side to side, and grabbed the box of tissues that was sitting on the nightstand. She held them out and sat on the mattress, one foot tucked under the opposite thigh, her breasts sitting proudly on her chest with the pert insouciance of youth.

Mulder cleaned himself up and aimed the balled up tissues at the wastebasket, missing. He sighed, but didn’t get up, so Scully laughingly dragged herself over and retrieved the errant missiles, dropping them into their intended target. She returned to the bed and lay herself down in the crook of Mulder’s arm.

He kissed her temple, a peck, brushing a strand of hair from her forehead, then lifted her chin with one finger so that he could plant a full kiss on her mouth. She breathed in the scent of herself on his lips, their musky scents intermingling on both their tongues.

“Wow Scully,” he smiled. “That was fun.”

She nodded, grinning herself.

“Although, it was a bit of a close encounter, if you know what I mean,” he said, and she buried her face in his shoulder and laughed, any residual worries she’d had about this changing the fundamental nature of their relationship flying away on her huffing breath and disappearing into the vacuum of the mattress.

Mulder lifted his head. “Oh god, it’s past two,” he announced. He must have been checking the display on the alarm clock. “You should get some sleep Scully; you gotta drive us down to the Space Center in the morning.”

“Hey, it’s your turn,” she whined, sitting up and pulling the covers back to climb beneath. Her pajama shirt lay forgotten on the floor. Tornadoes and fires be damned, she’d already had her ABSOLUTE EMERGENCY for the night. It was too hot for more clothes, especially with Mulder’s intense body heat so close. And she did intend to hold him close tonight. And other nights, if he wanted her.

“Talk about a waste of taxpayer’s money, Scully,” Mulder droned, sitting up and shaking himself alert. “The two of us sharing a motel room while another sits empty.”

“Oh,” Scully replied sleepily. “Believe me, I’m demanding a refund on my room.”

“Demanding a refund, Scully?” Mulder queried, now folding his pants and setting them on the chair by his suit jacket. “You weren’t happy with the level of service you just received?”

She squinted one eye open to look at him. “Mmm, you? You did good, Mulder. I’ll be sure to leave a generous tip for you at check out.” She patted the mattress next to her.

“I’ll be right there,” he assured her, disappearing off into the bathroom.

She was asleep before he even turned out the light.

***

Scully had witnessed Mulder ejaculating for the first time at the Spring Creek Mercury Motorlodge, but she genuinely worried she might see an impromptu repeat performance when they arrived at the Space Center the following morning. Walking to their meeting, they bantered for the benefit of their NASA escort, Mulder practically bouncing off the walls and once again bombarding her with facts and figures.

“You remember all that stuff?” she asked, wearily, suppressing a yawn.

“You never wanted to be an astronaut when you were a kid, Scully?”

“Guess I missed that phase,” she sighed, mouthing ‘adult diapers’ at him behind their guide’s back.

She couldn’t help but make fun of him for his adulation of Lt. Belt, either. “Didn’t you want to get his autograph?” she teased as they left the Space Shuttle Program Director’s office, and when Mulder caught up with her he tapped her lightly on the ass in retaliation.

At some point in the afternoon, Mulder slunk off and made some phone calls, and when they drove to their accommodation after the successful launch that evening, it wasn’t the motel Scully had booked but a ritzy hotel with bellhops and room service. They finally made it back there in the middle of the night, following the complications with the mission and Lt. Belt’s questionable press conference.

At the reception desk, Mulder retrieved two keys, but when he held one out to Scully and she grasped her forefinger and thumb around it, he didn’t let go. She looked up to meet his smoldering gaze.

“What’s the matter Houston; do we… have a problem?” She managed to keep a straight face, just about.

“What do you say we waste some more taxpayer’s money tonight, Scully?” he grinned, his voice hushed, seductive. “Maybe we can cross... the final frontier?”

She halfheartedly rolled her eyes at his pun, but her insides were already aflame. She drew her mouth into a tight, shy smile, and nodded her agreement.

nb. I want everyone to know that I watched the Falcon 9 launch and I managed to refrain myself from using the phrase ‘good orbital insertion’ in this fic. And that was a struggle.

AO3 link here.

#xfsmut2020 #mulder and scully #mulder #scully #the x files #x files #x files fanfic

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darlinrogue · 3 years

Note

He encounters Adam in a secluded area of the backstage, and he knows, instantly, that something is wrong. (After years apart, he still know him better than he knows himself.) What is wrong, Kenny doesn't know—until he approaches Adam and notices the damage: bruises and bloodied knuckles. Adam was never one to fight without reason, and he hasn't changed much, if at all, over the years. "Did something happen?" At Adam's doe eyes, Kenny, bristling, speaks with more conviction. "Who did this."

I Wrote This Title During Dynamite So I Don’t Know What’s Happened Yet, But I Hope Kenny Doesn’t Do Anything Really Stupid

Kenny and Adam for @ofgrief

Adam brought the plastic bottle to his lips and spat-out blood. He choked and coughed, chest racking, clearing mucus from his raw throat. The cold floor seeped through his pants and he shivered. Wedged against the wall, Adam sat alone, knees curled to his chest. Sweat clung to his shoulders and bruised ribs, chest flushed crimson red. The silence of the building grated on Adam’s last nerve and muddled with his pounding head. The crowds had dispersed thirty minutes ago and the ring crew were packing-up for the night. The arena was quiet, emptying, and Adam would wait another hour before he escaped. It was safer that way, on his own. Adam spat into the bottle again, the taste of iron at the tip of his tongue. With his thumb he checked for all his teeth. He smeared the residual spittle and sanguine onto his hip.

Footsteps echoed down the hall. The cadence of a soft heel, ring shoes, a wrestler walking at quick pace. The pattern dug at his heart, he imagined the long stride long, a one, two three, familiar from his old dreams, and more recent nightmares. The plastic water bottle crumpled beneath Adam’s grip. He studied the grout lines. Adam hid his bruised face and bloodied lips behind the arch of his shoulders. The footsteps stopped and the person hovered a few feet away, their shadow cast on the far wall. Adam ran his fingers through his hair, a small pet to soothe his raw nerves. Another shiver rolled through his spine.

“Did something happen?” The scratch of the voice took him by the throat and throttled him. Adam’s bottom lip trembled, he ran his hand over his eyes, and forced himself to look-up.

For six years in Adam’s memory Kenny Omega had been twenty-four years old. He was lean and thin, bones as delicate as a bird’s leg. His hair spun gold on Adam’s pillow in the morning, tight curls tangling around his placid, sleeping face. The thin wisps of a patchy beard, soft under Adam’s hand as he traced Kenny’s angular jaw with a reverent touch. Adam would turn over in bed first and run the callous of his thumb over Kenny’s pink lips. Then, kiss him awake. Kenny’s eyelashes batted against his pale cheeks and Adam loved the sky in Virginia, but he loved the pure blue of Kenny’s irises more. Those mornings, they’d shower together and wash each other’s hair. Breakfast and coffee at Waffle House as they plotted their route for the day. Adam would take the first shift and Kenny would sing to Anime OSTs from shotgun. That night, in the ring, Kenny was a maestro, and sometimes Adam would forget to make the tag because he was too busy marveling over Kenny. He was Adam’s favorite wrestler, even in his too small, ugly neon blue trunks. They’d fell asleep past midnight in a pile of tangled limbs in their cheap motel suite. With Kenny’s head on his chest, over the heart he owned, Adam didn’t know where he started and Kenny ended.

Adam never let himself wake-up from these recollections because the next morning Kenny was gone and the bed was cold.

But he did have to wake-up, and brought to the morning light, gold rusts, and now Kenny is thirty. His cheeks filled-out and the stubble is a full-beard. Powerful muscle broadened his chest and shoulders, laced his arms, and each time Kenny flexed in the ring, Adam lost his breath. Dark shades hid Kenny’s eyes most days and he wore leather coats like mantles. He dyed his hair silver and black, but in recent months his curls bled blonde. All of the same mannerisms of the old Kenny stayed in-tact, but more exaggerated and poignant. The flutter of his hands. How he brought his thin fingers to his chin to think. The hint of a smirk playing at his lips, or the confident swagger of his walk. Yet, a little more jagged and unclean, less pristine than how Adam remembered him. Bigger too, and bigger in a way that twisted Adam’s gut with terror.

“Jesus, how much do you think Kenny Omega weighs now?” Some guy had mused in the locker room earlier. Adam had laced his boots a thousand times but for the first time in the past few hundred, his fingers slipped.

“Two-hundred, two-ten, maybe,” some other guy mused. “But as far as the office is concerned, he’s two-twenty no matter what the scale says.”

Adam had tied the knot, grabbed his vest, and left. In the ring he eyed-up his opponent as the announcer billed them at two-hundred-twenty-one pounds and thought he looked about Kenny’s size. He won the match with a lariat and in the post-match interview declared he kept his promises from March after his third succesful defense of the IWGP Heavyweight Championship. This was his belt and anyone who wanted it could pry it from his cold dead hands. Snarled into the camera and barred his teeth like a viscous hound. Adam left the media room and halfway to the back, a hard object collided with his left cheek. It was a right fist and after the party of assailants finished kicking his ass, he collapsed to the floor to lick his wounds. Instead of a mean dog, Adam was a dejected, kicked puppy, cowered in a corner, whose ex was about to throw him a pity fest.

“Who did this?” Adam repeated, that was such a stupid question, his voice rasped. He leaned back and pushed his head against the wall. He laughed and his chest seized, pain interwove with his ribs. Something was bruised, or broken, or cracked, it just hurt, he wasn’t a doctor. “You mean? You don’t know?”

He spat again and blood stained the floor. Adam reached below him and dug his fingers into the floor to find purchase. Leaned against the concrete behind him lifted himself up and to his feet. Adam wheezed and the corners of Kenny’s lips pulled downwards. Kenny stepped forward, hand out-stretched and his fingers brushed against Adam’s elbow. Adam flinched, and he stumbled back, his arms hooking around his waist like a shield. He pressed his shoulder into the wall and closed his eyes. The ringing in his head subsided and the pounding faded.

“Of course, he didn’t tell you,” Adam growled, and the smile on his mouth was fleeting. “That’s rich, that’s— fuck, I knew they were using you. I knew it all the way back in July when you stepped-up on that damn apron like a good little dog.”

Kenny reached for him again and this time Adam let him— because he used all his kick-outs in the ring earlier. Kenny pressed his palm against Adam’s cheek his touch warm and soothing. His fingertips traced the edge of Adam’s tender bruises. A sigh, soft and giving, escaped Adam’s chapped lips. He closed his eyes and took in a shuddering, stuttered breath. He leaned into Kenny’s hand and let Kenny take some of the weight off his burdened shoulders.

“Tell me who did this to you, cowboy,” Kenny repeated, and dark malevolence dripped off every word but the last. When he threaded his other hand through Adam’s disheveled hair and let his thumb glide over the angle of Adam’s cheekbone, the touch was tender. Fuck, he knew all of Adam’s weaknesses.“Tell me, and we’ll take care of it.”

All Adam could do was laugh. “No, no you won’t, you’re not going to do shit.” He shook his head and chuckled, snarled at Kenny with bloody teeth. He yanked himself away. Smacked and batted Kenny’s hands away. “It was your faction, the Bullet Club, that kicked my shit in. AJ Styles and the Good Brothers attacked me, you dumbass. They jumped me right after my match like chicken shit cowards.”

AJ looked so pleased with the IWGP Heavyweight he lost in his hands. He smashed the gold against Adam’s face and dropped it like lead to the floor. The belt still laid, scattered somewhere further down the hall

Kenny’s brow lifted beneath his glasses. His lips parted and then his teeth clacked closed. Kenny placed his hands on his hips. Beneath Adam’s scrutiny he fidgeted and wilted, but didn’t give. He ducked his head to his chest and then looked back up at Adam. Kenny worked his jaw like he was chewing on gristle.

“But that’s okay,” Adam growled. He stepped in closer to Kenny but on his terms this time. Adam wavered, his balance uncertain, he had to swallow to regain his equilibrium. He jabbed his finger into Kenny’s chest, “Because you can deliver a message for me. When you see AJ, later? Tell him I hope he liked the taste of my fist in his mouth. He can attack me from behind, bring the whole Bullet Club to beat me up, bring an army if he has to, but if he wants the gold around my waist—” Adam moved his hands over his midsection to indicate the IWGP belt— “He’s going to have to step in the ring again eventually and this time, he’ll have personally. Pissed. Me. Off.”

Adam shoved Kenny’s shoulder but the pitiful thrust did nothing but make Kenny rock back on his heels. Standing a hairs breadth from Kenny, drawn to what height he could manage, Adam imagined melting Kenny’s glasses with his glare. So, that Adam could see Kenny’s eyes and the imagined fearful tremble he hoped to inspire. A failed effort as a pinch of pain in his ribs almost doubled him with groan. The last of his adrenaline dissipated and a wave of nausea washed over him. Adam reached for the wall and swallowed bile.

“They’re not going to get away with this, Page,” Kenny assured him. His voice a low whisper, like this was a secretive promise. “I’ll make sure of it.”

“You’re not going to do shit,” Adam barked. He coughed again and turned his chin into his shoulder. Gallows had almost put his foot through Adam’s diaphragm and probably rearranged a couple internal organs. He had to step back, reach for the wall to steady himself. “Go ahead, confront AJ, get your shit rocked too! No, you’re going to duck your head and be a good little boy just like you’ve done for the past eight months. I know you and you’re a fucking coward— me or the Bullet Club merch money, we both know which you’ll choose.”

“Adam—” And for all the years Adam had known Kenny, he never heard Kenny say his name like that.

The vitriol in Adam’s words turned like a double edged sword and cut back into him. Poisoned by his own concoction of anger and hurt, speaking to Kenny like that tasted bitter. At first Adam built the divisions and weight classes of New Japan as a mountain between them. With each pound Kenny put-on he traversed the distance. Then, Adam laid barbed wire and tangled thorns, inscribed signs with cruel warnings he never kept. Never daunted by a little blood Kenny pressed through and all Adam was left with was regret. If his bad attitude didn’t deter Kenny then Adam’s final contingency was to turn tail and run. He took the first step, back to his hotel, back to the airport, back home, back to his dog, and his empty bed.

Instead, Adam’s knees wobbled and the walls dislodged, spinning the room in wild angles. He collapsed against the cinderblocks and his legs gave beneath him. Instead of a hard collision with the floor, an arm wrapped around his waist. Kenny hooked his hand on Adam’s back and pulled Adam against his chest. Adam softened, tension running from his sore muscles and his bones leaning against Kenny’s bones. A content and amused chuckle rolled though Kenny’s shoulders. His warm breath tickled Adam’s ear as Kenny swept sweat soaked curls from the back of Adam’s neck. Trembling hands tangled in Kenny’s jacket and Adam realized they were his. Kenny smelled of leather, sweat, citrus, and him, just so distinctly Kenny, it made Adam’s heart ache. One vertebrae at a time Kenny trailed his fingers along Adam’s spine. Explored each ridge and bump of his back. All the new scars that marred his skin since their last night together.

“Yeah, I got you, cowboy,” Kenny murmured. “You big, handsome chunk of hunk, I got you.”

“I hate you,” Adam muttered into Kenny’s throat. Kenny giggled and that vibration warmed something deep in Adam.

Kenny pulled Adam’s arm around his shoulder, his hand wrapped tight to Adam’s hip. With small encouragements, he cajoled Adam into walking with him. He even stooped to pick-up the title and hand it back to Adam. It reminded Adam of when they’d stumble home from parties —Adam sometimes more tipsy than he should be— and Kenny would complain about how ‘fat’ he’d gotten. He referred to the easy muscle Adam packed on as his frame as he filled-out from lean adolescent to a full grown man, in his early twenties. That, despite being the same age, Adam weighed, twenty, thirty pounds heavier than Kenny. Now, there wasn’t a word of complaint as Kenny dragged them through the halls. He carried Adam like he weighed nothing. Adam could feel the strength and power in Kenny’s chest, shoulders, arms, and legs with each step. Kenny was much bigger and much stronger, and that terrified Adam.

Kenny guided Adam into a locker room without any observers. The locker room was empty except for a gear bag thrown against the far corner. In the full privacy of the walls, Adam wilted. He collapsed onto a bench and his head fell into his hands, the air leaving him with a sigh. Kenny closed the door and Adam almost begged him to open it again, so they wouldn’t be alone. Instead he fought off another flash of nausea and cursed the day AJ Styles was born. While Adam devised plans of torture, Kenny riffled through his gear bag. He pulled out a bottle of water and cracked it open. Kenny took the first sip and then offered the bottle to Adam.

“Drink something,” he ordered.

“Fuck off,” Adam growled. Yet, somehow the water bottle was in his hands.

“Be good, Page,” Kenny sang. He pushed to his feet and approached Adam. Kenny ghosted his fingers along Adam’s jaw. Adam captured his wrist in his hand but the grip lacked bite, so Kenny laughed. There was something proud in Kenny’s eyes when Adam took the first drink. Adam swished water between his teeth and washed away the taste of blood. It was like Kenny had won. Like, Adam had just admitted defeat. “There, that wasn’t so hard? Take these.”

Kenny gave Adam two Advils and Adam took them with a generous swig of water. Adam leaned forward, elbows braced against his knees. He swiped his thumb over his mouth. Accepting that as an answer, Kenny shuffled off and searched through his gear bag again. The pattern on the carpet floor fascinated Adam. If he could draw his thoughts it’d be like a scribble with a dying pen. Kenny appeared in Adam’s line of sight, kneeling and looking-up into his face. He took Adam’s hand in his and Adam flinched. He attempted to snatch his hand away but Kenny tightened his hold.

“I’m just making sure you don’t get an infection, you idiot,” Kenny snapped. He giggled to himself, “it’s not like I like you or anything.”

Adam settled and Kenny upturned a bottle of disinfectant onto a cotton ball. He dabbed the cotton to Adam’s bloodied knuckles and Adam jumped with a hiss. Kenny held firm and cleaned both of Adam’s hands. Adam watched him and how Kenny’s thin fingers wrapped around Adam’s broad palm. He remembered holding hands with Kenny and walking down town avenues, caring too little about the world around them. His heart thudded and Adam trembled again. Kenny tossed the bloodied cotton balls into the trash. With a wet rag he wiped sweat and blood from Adam’s face and chest. Then he handed Adam a change of jeans and t-shirt.

“I won’t look, I promise, well, not unless you want me to—” Kenny said with a sly grin. A look from Adam sobered him and he raised his hand. “Okay, okay, scout’s honor. I have to get dressed too, anyway.”

Adam turned his back on Kenny. He slipped out of his ring pants and traded it for Kenny’s jeans, which were a little tight for him. As Adam tugged on Kenny’s shirt —something Anime themed— he glanced over his shoulder. Kenny pulled cargo shorts over his ring gear and shrugged on a plan white crewneck. Adam’s cheeks flushed hot when Kenny caught him staring. Then, Kenny lugged his bag over one shoulder and Adam over the other. Kenny helped Adam find his gear bag in another locker room and carried that out of the arena too. They stumbled out to the curbside, where traffic criss crossed the roads and neon lights illuminated the black city night. They waited for the cab, a marvel for pedestrians to gawk at, Kenny gripping Adam’s hip and Adam unable to let go either.

They sat on opposite sides of the cab, as far apart as the small car allowed as it weaved city traffic. The engine, horn honks, Kenny talking to the driver in quick Japanese, the city bustle, blurred in Adam’s head like a discordant song. He pressed his cheek to the car window and Kenny shook him awake when they arrived at the hotel. Bearing both bags and Adam, Kenny took Adam to his room. While Kenny put down Adam’s bag, Adam used the bathroom and slid out of Kenny’s jeans, leaving him in his boxers. He washed his face, stared into the mirror, and was shocked to see Kenny still there when he came out, peering over the cheap art on the wall. Adam tossed the jeans in his hands on top of Kenny’s bag where it sat in the main walkway. He blinked, eyes heavy, and grumbled something incomprehensible as Kenny pulled back the covers for him. Adam slipped into the bed, the mattress conforming to his aching limbs. Adam pressed his face into the cool pillow and closed his eyes, sighing softly in relief.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Adam grunted. He flipped onto his side, turning his back on Kenny. “I didn’t ask you to do that.”

“Hmm, that face is too pretty to see all busted-up,” Kenny replied. In another life Adam pealed back the blanket and invited Kenny to his side. This would be the perfect night to cuddle Kenny and persuade him to be big spoon for once, Adam could pull some very persuasive puppy eyes— Instead he buried his nose into the pillows like a petulant child. “Aw, you’re so cute— Sleeping beauty.”

Adam turned over in bed and with a burst of energy he snatched Kenny’s wrist. Kenny’s lips parted, his hand stiff underneath Adam’s.

“Don’t pick a fight with AJ,” Adam growled. “He’ll—”

“Oh, is that concern?” Kenny interjected, the question was mocking. He leaned forward so the front of his thighs leaned against the mattress. Now he was teasing,“Are you worried about me?”

“Shut-up,” Adam snapped. “Get the fuck out of my hotel room.”

Kenny smirked, and pulled back. Adam released his hand and turned back over onto his side. He packed the pillow underneath his head and the light clicked when Kenny turned it off. “You can keep the shirt.” Kenny laughed, high pitched and haunting, his footsteps receding towards the door.

Adam swallowed hard and he clutched the pillow. Don’t leave, please, don’t leave. He almost rose from the bed, kicked aside the blankets, and screamed. He could beg Kenny to stay, for just one night, please. He didn’t care about the morning or whatever the hell came after, or if Kenny loved him. Let him pretend, let him be delusional and weak, with Kenny curled in his arms. Just one night and he’ll never ask for anything again. Instead his aching body and fragile mind betrayed him. He remained curled in the security of the blankets and the darkness held him safe as the latch turned.

“Adam, when you wake-up in the morning—” Kenny’s said. He paused, and Adam could feel the hesitation curl his lips. Yet, he couldn’t imagine Kenny’s eyes beneath those shades. “No, I’ll text you.”

The door closed and Adam curled into himself. His legs pulled to his chest and he buried his face in the pillow. Adam’s hand fell to the shirt he’d forgotten he was wearing. Soft cotton bunched under his grip and his muscles tightened but he lacked the strength to rip it. Instead, Adam pulled the collar to his nose and he breathed in deep: leather, sweat, citrus, and him. The memories rushed him. Kenny whining, stretched across the blankets and pliant under Adam’s hands. Kenny the first time he kissed Adam, shy and sweet at the end of a show. Kenny and Adam throwing each other through suplexes in the ring until they were bruised. Kenny— and Adam snapped beneath the pressure.

The realization that Kenny was moving-up to the Heavy Weight division.

The realization he was wearing Kenny’s shirt because he intentionally forgot to give it back.

The realization that he was still in love with the man who left him six years ago.

Adam cried, deep racking sobs that shook his shoulders and pinched his ribs. Tears dampened his cheeks and he bit his palm to suppress the pitiful noises that escaped him. Adam devolved to weak hiccups and soft whimpers, until he turned on his back, his eyes squeezed shut, desperate for sleep. Unconsciousness eluded him for hours as the last ten years played out like a silver screen in the forefront of his mind. And only when he admitted that he didn’t know what he was going to do besides kick the ass of anyone who tried to take his title —because living for the next fight was how he survived the past his sixteenth birthday— did he wake-up to burning sunlight and a text message, the next morning.

["You alive?”]

Adam, with the headache of a lifetime, every single muscle in his body screaming in pain, and uncertain if the pop in his back was a good thing, replied:

[”yes”]

#ofgrief #‘Deals with God’ || Adam: Verse #‘The Hangman’ || Adam: IC #lmao kenny did something stupid

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lolcat76 · 6 years

Note

a person who is STILL ENTIRELY ANONYMOUS wouldn’t turn down Mulder and Scully inherit a house together au

Not AU, because there’s this one house that Mulder and Scully visited that I LOVE SO MUCH. And not prompted by @okaynextcrisis, because Mia knows better than to prompt me when she OWES ME A PROMPT.

December 24, 2006, Somewhere in Maryland

They kept coming back to this house, every Christmas Eve. Atfirst, Scully feared that the FBI would track down the ownership records and arrestthem on sight, but the house was held in an LLC (who knew that ghosts knew howto finagle property taxes), and finally even she had to admit that the FBI hadbetter things to do on Christmas Eve than stake out a house that had sat vacant,more or less, since the turn of the last century.

It was a nice house, she had to admit. The façade was crumblinga bit, and there was some graffiti sprayed on the side, but the bones weregood. In another life, in another universe, she’d have been happy to make ahome here.

In this one, she could still make out the faint trails ofblood leading to the front door.

“Sure you don’t want to go in?” Mulder asked.

She raised her eyebrow. He asked her that every year, and everyyear she debated saying yes, just to see him chicken out at the last second.One of the benefits of a healthy disrespect for the laws of the paranormal wasthat logically, Scully knew nothing in that house could harm her.

Even if ghosts were real (they weren’t) and even if what shethought she’d seen all those years ago had actually happened (it didn’t), shestill would have ventured up those steps.

If nothing else were true about that night (and it wasn’t),one thing remained…she dearly loved to prove him wrong.

A few lazy snowflakes descended from the sky and landed onthe windshield of the rental car they’d been driving for a week and a half.Some fourth-rate rental car company; they could no longer afford the extra legand trunk room of a Ford or an Oldsmobile that the FBI had paid for in the Lariatdays. If she weren’t terrified of the after-effects, she’d tap into the trustfund her mother had established when her father died and bought them a realcar.

Better to know that money was out there, for emergencies,and suffer the indignity of a beat-up Hyundai. She flicked a dial on the dash,and Johnny Mathis crooned White Christmas.

Johnny Mathis. Of course. Christmas wouldn’t be completewithout yet another reminder of how their past had been so fucked up as to leadthem here. Wonderful, wonderful indeed.

“You know I love you, right?” He took her hand and broughtit to his lips, pressing a small kiss on her knuckles.

She did know. She wouldn’t be here, now, wearing the samebeat-up t-shirt she’d been washing in motel sinks for four years now if shedidn’t know. She’d have left the FBI, taken up a low-paying ME job in someflyover state, and left Mulder to pursue the truth via rental cars and pre-paidcellphones years ago if she didn’t know.

“You know I love you too?” she asked, because she had herown pre-paid cellphone and wallet full of cash, and she wasn’t going to leavehim either, no matter how sick she gotof what remained of his New York Knicks jersey.

“Yeah?” he said, his eyes lighting up in the dim glow of thestreetlights. “Because I got you a little something.”

“I got you a little something too,” she giggled. Every year,they had the same conversation. In November, she reiterated the firm denialthat the holidays meant anything, when Scully was on the run and separated fromher family. He countered with the even firmer statement that if that’s what shewanted, he wouldn’t get her anything, but if the holiday was important to her,it was important to him.

(It wasn’t. She was, so it was.)

The gifts were oftenpractical, sometimes racy (at least the gifts from Mulder), but they all hadone thing in common – they spoke to years of shared history. Even the year thatthe best Mulder could do was a pair of pliers, it was because she’d cried whenthe clasp on the cross necklace had finally given out.

She handed him her gift – silly when she wrapped it, evensillier now, but one of the best moments of her life had been at a diner inOklahoma City when he’d told her that he couldn’t possibly ever love her as much ashe loved the watermelon margarita he was drinking. Given that he’d married her lessthan two hours earlier, she hadn’t believed him. She’d tucked a coaster inher purse, ringed with the sweat of his beloved margarita and initialed in hercareful hand. FM – DS – 6/12/2004. Framed and preserved in glass for all eternity,or as much eternity as the fates and the universe would allow them these days.And still small enough to shove in a pocket in case the Feds came knocking.

He loved it – he recognized the coaster immediately andlaughed at the memory of the mariachis singing to them, harmonizing to thememory of the Spanish version of “Can’t Help Falling in Love With You.”

Scully, fluent in German, could only hum along in thosedays.

“My gift is smaller.”

Liar. His gifts were always too big, too much. He handed her a box barely big enough for apiece of jewelry. The one thing she’d never wanted and he’d never given her,save for that Apollo 11 keychain. She pried the tape from the paper and slidher finger under the seam of his oh-so-careful wrapping job.

“A key?”

He nodded at the house in front of them, dark windows andall. “I can’t promise it’ll be as exciting, but I can promise that it won’t behaunted.”

“A house?” It couldn’t be a house. Keys to a car, a storageunit, a safety deposit box that held God knew what, she’d understand, but a keyto a house – that wasn’t Mulder’s style.

“A little house in Virginia.” He ducked his chin, hidingjust as much from the streetlights as he was from her. “I said we’d never useyour money. I didn’t said we’d never use mine.”

“A house,” she whispered.

“Unremarkable. I’m pretty sure you’re going to hate thewallpaper.”

She probably would. “A house,” she repeated.

“A home,” he promised.

Somewhere in Maryland, she shifted in her seat. “Mulder,take me home.”

The ghosts of Christmas past could wander as they liked. Shehad better places to be.

#lolcat fic #msr #msr fic #x files fic #xfiles prompt #dana scully #fox mulder #Anonymous

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oldshowbiz · 6 years

Photo

Lariat Motel

#john margolies #motel #motels #motor inn #motor inns #roadside motel

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scullymakesmefeelautopsyturvy · 4 years

Text

Several Times Scully Got Locked Out Of Her Motel Room In Her Scanties (First Time Smut Ensues) Chapter Two

Chapter One here.

Irresistible (Season Two)

They stood pressed against one another in the foyer of Donnie Pfaster’s mother’s house in Minneapolis, Mulder holding her head, a steadying hand on her upper back as she cried her terror and relief into his chest, finally letting go.

The handcut Swiss voile table runner Pfaster had used to gag her was still tied at the back of Scully’s neck as Mulder rested his lips against her bloodied, tangled hair and softly assured her things were all right.

They weren’t all right, they weren’t all right at all. They were so far from all right she didn’t know how to process it, and could only cling to him in her effort to remain upright, and present: to remain real, somehow.

A part of her was glad her father had not lived to hear about this. She couldn’t have faced telling him; couldn’t have met his eyes, knowing that he knew. She had broken his heart by veering from a career in medicine to work at the FBI, but she’d always felt certain in her conviction that she was still following the path he’d foreseen for her: to use her skills and her training to help those in need.

Yet here she was, entrusted to protect others from the predators of the world, and she just seemed to keep falling victim to them.

She had disappointed her father, and now she had failed herself.

She attempted to calm down with the technique Dr. Kosseff had outlined, closing her eyes and noting what her senses could detect in the room around her, rooting herself in her environment.

What she could hear: Pfaster being cuffed and read his Miranda rights; that was no help.

What she could smell: Mulder’s laundry detergent, the salty, sea-air tang of his deodorant, the earthen aroma beneath it that was all him. She sucked it in through her nose, filling her lungs with the scent of him between heaving sobs. That was better.

What she could feel: the full body press of his every contour against her aching, bruised form. The safe, scratchy cavern of his shoulder, where her stricken face was hidden from the gaze of the local field agents; his muscled arms, hesitantly encircling her; his ribs, crushing her breasts painfully as she clutched him tight; and his manhood, making lengthy, innocent contact with the soft swell of her stomach. That was… confusing at this time.

She took in a deep breath, the flow of her tears stemmed for now, and patted Mulder’s back in thanks, stepping away. He watched from a close, anxious distance as she untied the makeshift gag and ran her fingers through her hair, averting her eyes from any and all inquiries as to her health and wellbeing as she waved off medical attention.

“I’m fine. I just want to go to the motel,” she insisted, in a quiet voice.

Agent Bocks drove them back, Mulder silently riding up front, Scully pressing herself into the corner of the back seat against the door, her hands folded in her lap as she vehemently admonished any teardrops that dared to appear in the corners of her eyes. At a stoplight, the driver behind braked a little late, and she snapped her head back, bracing for an impact that never came.

A female agent had retrieved her bag from the trunk of her wrecked Lariat rental, and it awaited her in her room.

She turned on all the lights.

In the bathroom, Scully peeled off her dusty, bloodstained clothes and dropped them to the floor, hanging her red satin robe on the hook at the back of the door. She inspected herself in the mirror, fingering the abrasion on her chin, the contusion above her right eyebrow. There were angry stripes on her wrists and ankles from where they’d been roughly tied. There were too many cuts to count. Purpling weals were beginning to marble the pale skin of her hips, knees and arms. Her back too, probably: the raised welts a catalogue of every individual violent contact made with walls, stairs, floors. She felt each blow anew as her hands explored the injuries.

As she began to draw the bath, the sound of the cascading water sent her mind reeling to the image of Pfaster falling backwards into the tub. She saw him collapsing over and over until she wrenched off the faucet. The final few droplets fell from the chrome-plated plumbing, and as she looked down onto the settling surface she saw herself submerged below the waterline: lifeless, immersed in billowing scarlet seeping from severed veins.

She had to get back on this aqueous horse without delay. Baths were her respite, her lone sanctioned self-indulgence: scalding, frothy, synthetic-scented Elysium. Dana Scully did not shop ‘til she dropped. She rarely imbibed more than a single glass of wine. She hadn’t smoked a single cigarette since completing her undergraduate thesis. She had been averting her eyes from lingering, suggestive gazes since Quantico. She would absolutely, resolutely, categorically not allow Donnie Pfaster to ruin baths for her.

She made sure her gun was within reach, resting atop the cistern.

Climbing into the bubbleless water, she laid back against the tub, her eyes wide open. She listened to the room. The faucet dripped every few seconds. The shaving light above the mirror buzzed. A clock mounted over the TV in the bedroom counted passing seconds. God knew what time it was. She risked a few long blinks.

Behind her eyelids, she saw white. A bright light. A gurney. Her own abdomen; distended, illuminated, invaded. Images so familiar, of which she could make no sense. It looked like a dream.

It felt like a nightmare.

Like the other nightmares that shocked her awake at all hours, gasping and sweating and reaching for her weapon on the nightstand: Eugene Tooms squeezing through her hallway air duct; Duane Barry silhouetted outside her bay window; darkness, and the insistent droning whir of helicopter blades.

She sank beneath the water to soak her hair.

She washed herself; then, when the temperature began to drop, dragged her body up and out of the bath, gingerly drying off, dabbing rather than rubbing at the sore spots, which were legion. The plughole gurgled as the last of the bathtub contents spiralled away, and she shrugged her robe over her shoulders, tucking her SIG-Sauer, still in its hip holster, into the pocket.

She walked towards the bed and was about to dig her pajamas out of the open suitcase when she heard the noise behind her. A rustle of some sort. A breath, or a shuffle, maybe. She grabbed for the gun as she spun around, unclipping the holster and flinging it away from her. Safety off, she held both her arms ramrod straight and aimed for the bathroom. Her heart pounded, the only noise she could now hear the thumping of her own blood in her ears. She didn’t wait around to see if there was something else she might be missing, but backed out of the room, sidestepping the bed. Once outside, she slammed the door shut with excessive force and screamed.

Long. Livid. Loud. Not a scream of fear, but of abject fury.

She knew there was no one in that room. She was simply on edge, her body reliving her panic, her mind re-experiencing her abduction. Abductions. She didn’t need to wait another few months to know these Pfaster flashbacks weren’t just going to disappear.

Goddammit.

How would she ever escape this hell when it lived inside of her?

A body has a story to tell.

Would her own body be telling her this same story for the rest of her life, returning to the beginning at every unexplained noise, every unexpected knock, every headlight in the rearview?

She screamed again, raging against the closed door, slamming her gun-toting fist into it.

Fuck. Another bruise she’d have to nurse. And no one else to blame for this one.

“Scully?” came a quiet voice from her left. Mulder was standing outside his open motel room door, clad only in T-shirt and boxers, holding a toothbrush in his right hand. A curtain twitched across the courtyard.

“I locked myself out,” she said, just now realizing it was true, and huffing the statement through gritted teeth, as though it were the worst thing to happen to her that day. She brought her left fist to the door and thumped the side of it into the flimsy but unyielding wood for emphasis, and because she was still indescribably irritated by her overreaction.

Mulder stepped away from his door, making room for her to pass. “Scully, get in here,” he said, sounding annoyed. She glared at him, but let her shoulders drop in defeat, and obeyed.

Inside his room, she put the safety back on her handgun and left the weapon sitting on a chair. She stalked over to the empty desk and stared at herself in the mirror. The only light came from a bedside lamp.

“Are you okay?” Mulder asked, closing the door and audibly locking it.

She caught his gaze in the reflection and rolled her eyes. “Mulder, I’m-”

“Fine, yeah, I know. I thought that’s probably why you were pistol whipping your motel room door in the middle of the night. Because you were fine.” His face was stony.

She scoffed at him, pushing out her chin in vexation.

He walked towards her, dropping the toothbrush onto a small table, posture and voice both softening. “Talk to me, Scully. You can trust me. Don’t you know by now that you can trust me?”

“I don’t want to talk,” she said, looking down at her knuckles, regarding her fingers spread out on the table top. Fingers that Donnie Pfaster had wanted to disarticulate with rusted gardening shears and keep in his freezer next to his peas and carrots. She balled her hands into tight fists, and pressed her lips together, hard.

“What do you want, then, Scully?” he asked, his eyes searching hers in the mirror.

She studied her reflection. Wet hair and red robe. This wasn’t the first time she’d stood before him in a motel room like this. She thought about what she’d wanted, even then.

She didn't want to be paralyzed by fear anymore. She didn’t want to have to be protected. She wanted to protect herself. She wanted to rid herself of the traumas that resided within her body. She wanted to be her own kind of Persephone: ride into the underworld of her own volition, driving her own chariot, and emerge triumphant.

She wanted to rewrite this story, to start it when she chose to, take it where she liked, control it and end it; end it for good.

Mulder was behind her. He was right behind her, only inches from her skin, which was bare beneath the flimsy robe.

“I want you to touch me, Mulder,” she stated, loud and clear, holding his gaze.

He tenderly reached out and rested his palm on her shoulder, his eyes worried. Kind.

That wouldn’t do at all.

“No,” she said, still staring at him in the reflection. “I want you to-“

Like he did.

“I want you to grab me.”

A look of horror washed over Mulder’s features.

“No,” he said, aghast. He withdrew his hand, rubbing it over his rough stubble.

“Mulder,” she said, low and deliberate, shifting her hips so that the scarlet satin of the robe grazed over the curves of her ass, pushing out her chest so that her nipples brushed the fabric, visibly rippling the front of the garment. “I need this.”

She watched him watch her in the mirror, his pupils enlarged in the gloom. He razed his eyes over the hills and valleys of her figure, then looked away.

“Scully,” he pleaded.

“You said you could always use my help, Mulder. Now I’m asking you for yours.” She steadied herself against the desk with her hands once again. “I need to do this, on my own terms. If I need to find someone else, I’m sure I can. But Mulder,” she paused, making sure he met her gaze in the mirror once again. “You’re the only one I trust.”

Mulder stood, motionless. “I’m not certain what you’re asking of me, Scully,” he murmured.

Scully let her tense muscles ease a little. “Come here,” she instructed, softly, turning around to face him. She reached out her hand, and he took it.

Scully sat herself on the edge of the desk, her knees spread. The fabric of the robe draped over her inner thighs. A minute shift one way or the other would expose her to him completely. She pulled him towards her, tugging him close until his face was directly opposite her own, their fingers entwined, resting on her knee.

She kissed him. His lips were soft, his cheeks scratchy, and he didn’t stop her, but he didn’t give himself to her fully, either. She pulled away.

“What’s the matter, Mulder?”

“Scully,” he whispered. “I don’t - you’re not yourself.”

She sighed, taking his face in her palms. She realized she was shaking. She levelled her gaze with his. “Mulder,” she began. “That man, his crimes, I’ve never felt anything like this. I need you to bring me back to myself.” She moved her hands, resting them on his shoulders. “I want to feel human again.” She searched his eyes, silently reassuring him this was okay. “That’s what I’m asking, Mulder. Stop looking at me like that, and show me that I’m more than just his victim.”

Mulder blinked, long and hard, and this time, he kissed her. Not gently, not tenderly, but with purpose, intent. He opened his mouth to hers, and she rolled her tongue against his, powerfully, without fear or shame.

She tucked her arms beneath his, reaching up with one hand and pushing her fingers into the base of his hairline. With the other, she tugged on the fabric of his shirt at his lower back, feathering the pads of her fingertips against the skin that emerged beneath. They were still kissing, hard, and Mulder took hold of her firmly around the ribs. She gasped, half in pleasure and half in pain, as the heel of his hand dug into one of the bruises she’d examined in the bathroom earlier.

He immediately broke off their kiss, pulling back to gauge her reaction.

“Don’t stop,” she panted. “That means I like it.”

He resumed his kissing, but this time against the side of her neck, one hand falling to her left hip, the other trailing up to cover her breast through the robe. A shock of desire ran through her body right to her core, the first she’d felt tonight. This had been mechanical before; a means to an end. She’d had herself half convinced this carnal, obliterative odyssey could be undertaken with just about anyone. It was only now she remembered how much - how often - she wanted this man, specifically.

She turned her face towards his, compelling his lips to return to her own. He complied, his breath sweet and sharp from the recent brushing, and she willingly swallowed his pomegranate kisses, hoping she could return to them in better times: harvest the unmarred fruit of their evident mutual attraction, so ripe with possibility. Not this sour, infested imitation, spoiled, and rotting from within.

She tried not to think about the differences between this encounter and the tender romance she’d previously imagined when daring to envision their sexual union. It would still be him. His body, inside hers. Carrying her away from herself, dragging her beneath the earth with the frantic merging of hot, sticky flesh, freeing her, and making her anew.

She fumbled at the rear waistband of his boxers and delved her flat palms inside, grabbing hard fistfuls of his smooth cheeks, pulling him towards her. She inched forwards on the desk, her robe parting beneath the tie at her waist and falling away at the crease of her thighs. His sex rubbed against her own through the cotton of his underwear, and she tilted her hips to gain purchase, to feel the full, swelling effect of his desire against hers.

Mulder clamped his lips down more insistently upon hers, his hands pushing into her wet hair, thumbing her earlobes, pulling her jaw up towards him. His chest pressed against her breasts, and she lifted his T-shirt at the hem. They broke contact only so that he could pull it off over his head.

When he returned his mouth to hers, Scully shoved her hand down the front of his underwear and wrapped it around his now fully hard cock. She ran her thumb over the already oozing tip, and Mulder jumped in her grasp, moaning into her mouth.

She tore her face from his, breathless. She held him in her palm, pulsating granite.

“Protection?” she asked, and he reluctantly extricated himself from her grasp, walking over to the nightstand and opening his wallet.

After a few seconds he held up the square plastic packet, a look of immense relief on his face. “Thank god,” he grinned, and she returned the sentiment with a smile of her own.

He walked back towards her, slow and steady, his gaze assured. Arriving at the space between her knees again, he pushed his boxers down his legs and discarded them to one side. Scully took a long look at him now. Good god, he was enormous. This was going to be perfect.

He tore open the wrapper and rolled the condom down onto himself using both hands, then reached to untie the knot at Scully’s waist. She stopped him, shaking her head. “Like this,” she said, pushing the robe open even wider over her thighs so that Mulder could get his own unobstructed view. She reached for his hand once again, and deliberately maneuvered it between her legs, where he ran two fingers between her drenched labia.

She turned her mouth to murmur into his ear. “I’m ready, Mulder,” she instructed, and pulled him forward by the waist.

She heard him grunt as his sheathed tip bumped against her upper leg, and she spread her knees even further to give him better access. She felt him reach down between their bodies to guide himself into her, and steeled herself for the pain.

She wanted the pain.

It had been a while for her, almost three years since she’d been penetrated by anything larger than a tampon or her own two forefingers, and Mulder’s girth was considerable. He stretched her inner muscles inch by glorious inch as he eased himself into her body. Her breath caught at the back of her throat as she tried to relax herself around him. He took it easy, but she wished he wouldn’t.

“More Mulder,” she pleaded, “I can take it.”

He grasped her by the hips, and she leaned her head back into the mirror, looking down to see him pull himself out of her a fraction before driving back in, slowly, all the way to the hilt. She felt the soft, peach-fuzz pressure of his balls against her body, and the ache in her center deepened.

“That’s good Mulder,” she encouraged. “That feels good. Now, hard. I want it hard.”

His head shot up to question her; he opened his mouth to argue.

“I said hard,” she demanded, grabbing for his ass to guide him as deep as he could go. “Please.”

He seemed to relent now, because he began to pump into her, forcefully. He placed one hand against the mirror for support, and held the small of her back with the other. She crossed her ankles behind him and relished the feel of him creating new bruises, her shoulder blades pressing sharply into the glass.

Mulder was working hard, building up a sweat, and she kissed his forearm where it swept up past her face, biting his briny flesh between her teeth in her sweet agony. “More,” she said, scraping her nails across his flexing glutes. “Faster.”

Mulder’s jaw set with anger, or determination, she didn’t know which, but either way he increased his efforts, and her thighs burned where she held them up, her sex ached and clenched around him, and her head slammed into the mirror over and over. Yes, this was good.

Mulder, in an effort to shield her, moved his mirror hand behind her crown, cushioning the blows. No, no, that wasn’t what she was after: a lessening of the punishment.

Another thrust, and her hair caught between his fingers, a shock of pain tugging at her temple. Well now, this could work.

“Mulder,” she panted, desperate now. She was close, so close to the relief she sought. “Pull my hair.”

He closed his eyes as he continued to fuck her, not willing to engage on this one.

“Dammit Mulder, I said pull it,” she insisted, digging her nails into the muscles of his rear, hard.

He reacted to the tearing of his flesh with a moan and a vicious thrust, clenching the damp strands in his hand and boring his now open eyes into hers. She looked up at him, her mouth agape, a single teardrop falling down one cheek and into her ear. He gripped tighter, pounding her harder, and she nodded.

“Yes Mulder,” she said. “Yes. Yes.”

His cock was driving into her, Charon’s oar plunging into the River Styx and stirring up the forbidden pleasures of her Catholic girlhood. He collided with her G-spot again and again, and she arched into him, pressing her clit into his abdomen as he grasped her hair and steadied her hip and stared her down, willing her to those dark shores. As soon as she began to climax, shaking and swearing and tilting her head back into his fist, Mulder came as well, his thighs tensing as he lifted her off the desk and gave her everything he had for the final few thrusts.

They were still afterwards, Mulder breathing heavily into the space between her ear and shoulder. After a while, he leaned backwards, sliding himself out of her and looking her in the eyes once again. Wordlessly, he reached for the knotted belt of the robe, and this time Scully allowed him. He loosened it, pulling the slick tie open, letting the garment fall open at her center. Scully swallowed hard.

He traced the lines of the robe down over her cleavage, and softly nudged the material apart, revealing her naked skin in a widening swath. The satin fell from her shoulders and down her arms, and she was fully visible to him now, her mottled skin marked at front and back, the bruises already several shades darker than they had been less than an hour ago in the mirror. They were coming out nicely now.

Mulder dragged his eyes from injury to injury, his eyes reflecting the pain as though they were his own. He reached out to touch the discoloration on her ribs, where he had first grabbed her, but pulled away.

“Scully,” he rasped, and hung his head.

She closed her eyes for a moment, gathering her strength.

She dipped her head, seeking his gaze, and gently placed two fingers beneath his chin. She lifted his face until his eyes met her own, and watched as the tears began streaming down his cheeks.

She opened her arms, and he stepped forward, his chest hair rubbing against her naked torso, his wet face tucking into her warm neck.

He shook with grief, and Scully steadied him with a hand on his lower back, delving her free hand into his hair once more. She kissed the side of his head.

“It’s all right, Mulder,” she whispered. “It’s all right.”

***

They eventually made it to Mulder’s bed for a few hours before their flight home, and reached an uneasy truce, her wrapped up in the robe once more, him spooning her, both of them sleeping fitfully. She heard a few unidentified noises, but didn’t reach for her gun. On the way to the airport, Mulder drove, and she watched the faces of other drivers in the rearview, but kept her panic at bay.

Waiting at a red light, Mulder broke the heavy silence.

“You know, last night-“ He cleared his throat. “Last night, I thought you called me Pfaster.”

She frowned at him.

“Near the end,” he clarified. “You said: ‘More, Pfaster.’ I thought.”

“Oh my god,” she said, horrified. “I said ‘Faster’, with an F.”

“Well, that’s what I figured. Hoped.” he nodded.

“Mulder,” she said. “You thought I called you Pfaster, and you kept going?” She was incredulous.

Mulder shrugged, looking ahead at the traffic. “You seemed like you needed to work through something.”

She gulped, tears forming. He was entirely too good for her.

Pfaster.

She closed her eyes.

Her mind wandered to another of her tormentors: Luther Lee Boggs. She’d told him to his face she’d be happy to throw the switch and gas him out of this life for good if Mulder died as a consequence of Boggs’ actions. And she’d meant it.

Donnie Pfaster was evil, pure evil, she was sure of it, but she knew she was fully capable of being monstrous too. She lay her palm across her weapon, nestled at her right hip, and imagined a different end to her stair-fall with Pfaster the night before. A few seconds more, and she might have been able to grab the gun and end it all, blast him directly between the eyes and send him straight back to hell, where he belonged.

But then how would she be any different to him? What destination would be awaiting her at the end of her days?

She suspected it would help her nightmares in one way if she knew he were dead, if she asserted control over that herself, but that it would exacerbate them in another.

She’d probably been wrong to make use of sweet, tender Mulder to try and exorcise her demons last night. Great as it had felt, she suspected she wasn’t out of the underworld just yet.

As they pulled into the Lindbergh terminal Lariat parking lot, returning to her most recent traumatic beginning, she reached out and gently squeezed Mulder’s knee. He placed his hand over her own, looking over to smile, gently.

He saw the good in her; he always had.

Maybe she could let him be her savior, follow his light and climb back out of Hades’ realm, reclaiming her faith in herself.

As Pfaster’s only living victim, she was going to have to be a witness. Perhaps this was her true opportunity to rewrite the story. Her own story.

She would argue for leniency. She would ask the judge for life.

She was going to change the ending, after all.

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#xfsmut2020 #mulder and scully #mulder #scully #x files #x files fanfic #smut

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