#the xf fanfic
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𝐂𝐀𝐁𝐈𝐍 𝐅𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑 [18+]
familiar! ghost × witch! reader
you are a witch trapped at home by a devastating blizzard. ghost is the demon that answers your call. ( PART 1 of 2 )
DEAD DOVE. RATED R. HORROR/SMUT. 6k. – AO3
please please please read the warnings under the cut before reading. this is leagues darker than my usual work. it is a dark fic, and you know your limits better than i do.
warnings: discussed cannibalism. graphic depictions of gore. vomiting. killing/butchering animals. violent thoughts. malnutrition. alienation/isolation. manipulation. corruption. mentions of somnophilia. dark!ghost – i.e. simon does not conform to human morality. afab reader using she/her pronouns.
inclusivity note: the reader is described as smaller than simon, but he stands at 250 cm in his true form (8"2), so i assumed everyone – if not, most – would fit that category. she's also malnourished/sick at the start and so there are some references to unhealthy weight loss
Situated between a dense network of ancient oaks, a lesser demon would have mistaken the cottage for a boulder had they spawned further than ten metres away. Save for the warm orange glow illuminating its arched windows, the home married perfectly to its surroundings – disfigured and hideous, walls warped by unevenly stacked stone and a roof bowed under a thick blanket of snow. Overgrown bushes stick out from under its gnarled fence, dead branches desperately reaching, and the ivy he assumes was once adhered to its front has since been ripped out by the storm, whipping in the howling wind.
But Ghost is no lesser demon; in fact, he’s far above this whole affair. Something of his rank answering the summons of a novice who could offer no more than sheep’s liver buried in their front yard was an occurrence practically unheard of. For good reason, too. He’s dangerous in the right hands, willing to resort to lengths that even the devil wouldn’t dream of so long as he receives proper payment. Most power-hungry neophytes would slaughter, have slaughtered, to have him as their familiar. Even then, he is above their grovelling.
So, to be lured out of respite by sheep’s liver, of all things…
He supposes he has no excuse for it, not that he has to explain himself to anyone. Perhaps he’s here only to satisfy his curiosity. The call hadn’t come from the lips of someone who’d been practising – sharp and sure, roused by a brand of audacity special to cocksure practitioners – but from someone softer. More sceptical. It’s unusual that an occultist would have both knowledge and skill to summon a familiar, yet still be suspicious as to whether they even exist at all. He’s not so much offended, then, as he is morbidly interested in what reaction his appearance would incur.
Disgust. Terror. Reverence.
Warmth pools in his belly, blood oozing in fat globs to fuel the flame that compels him to head into the small home. It’s hard to make out what’s inside merely by looking through the windows; the glass has glazed over from the contesting temperatures on either side of it, painting a bleary picture of a fire silhouetting vague shapes. The doorstep creaks under his heavy foot, but nothing – from what he can see – moves in response to the disturbance. It’s late, he knows. If it weren’t for the thick clouds shrouding the sky, he would see the moon sinking towards the west horizon. Anyone with any sense in this world knows to be asleep during witching hour.
The doorknob is round. Brass. Worn by a hand that’s gotten very good at grasping it in the same manner every time. Ghost takes a moment to digest what that tells him about his new client before turning it and ducking inside. He was right to assume it’d be unlocked. While he’d have been able to find a way in otherwise, the silly little oversight manages to elicit more excitement in him than necessary. Their mistake is added to his quickly growing character evaluation. A routineer. Garden-variety mortal, too naive for their own good. Someone isolated. Someone–
Small.
Size has always been relative for something of his stature. At two and a half metres, he’s able to tower over even his own. But it truly hits him, right there, how long it’s been since he last encountered a human. He tries to tally the decades in his head, only to fail and fail again by fault of distraction. It shouldn’t hit him as hard as it does. She fulfils every bit of what he expected, after all; plain, though younger than the typical practitioner of familiar-summoning ability. Fast asleep on a threadbare couch. Drowned in clothing, skin dewy with sweat. A book abandoned, open on her chest, stuffed with spare pieces of parchment and illegible annotations. Ink-stained fingertips.
But his hand could crush her head if he was truly compelled to do so. He could scoop the bare ankles currently peeking out of her quilt and throw her over his shoulder like wild game, skinned and simple to carry back to hell. He remembers the fallow deer he’d feasted on just last week, belly soft as he sunk his teeth into it, and considers letting his appetite get the best of him with the one that’s unwittingly made herself available tonight. Crack open her ribcage to gorge on the gooey insides that no doubt taste like honey to a monster with his appetite. Bury his snout into her sweet-scented neck and get a sense for prey that can fight back, if just barely.
But the moment passes. In her slumber, she shifts to lay on her side, spooning the grimoire closer. The minor hint of life reawakens another, more primaeval urge in him, last felt aeons ago when he was a younger fiend and the world had been a much more vulnerable place.
(The urge to take, to bend and break to fit his fancy. Chewing on cartilage until it smacks like gum between his maw, flossing the foul curl of his canines. To sink his claws into tender calves and carve an irreversible Ghost-shaped hole in her home, a haunting so stubborn she’ll turn to a fake God to try and expel him.)
And it’s violent. A rather restive longing. But placed next to the patience he’s learnt in the centuries since, he makes his choice. A natural conclusion to a creature who’s always gotten what he’s wanted.
Yes, he’ll stay. Be here when she wakes and revel when those eyes widen at the sight of him, darkening the corner of her room. He’ll stay; trail around and observe as she tries to make sense of her routine in light of the beast looming over her shoulder. He’ll stay, maybe ravage what's between her legs, devastate her sense of preservation and instead make her beg for the damage. Fall short on his duties as a familiar. Stay until he gets bored, when he’s had his fill of the crying and the quaint box she calls home. When playing with his food any more will lay the morsel to waste. Only then will he finally tear into the temptingly delicious meal in front of him.
For now, though, his neck aches from having to stoop under such a low roof. He resorts to a bygone human form instead, one he consumed ages ago – bones snapping, flesh dimpling, folding, morphing into a much smaller thing, a man – and waits.
Morning finds you doubling over the side of your couch to retch up what little food you had scavenged the previous evening.
The loss is sore. Your stomach protests as the stale bread and water emulsion punches up your throat, emptying out onto the hardwood floor. Acrid. Bitter on the back of your tongue, sharp like the cramps that erupt in your abdomen once you lay back down. Sweat plasters baby hairs to your forehead, crawling down your back and pooling underneath your bandaged breasts. You wipe it off with trembling hands, kicking the suffocating quilt until it slouches off the armrest on which your feet lay.
Last night’s fire is little more than smouldering ash. Still, the cottage maintains a pervasive heat, the air buzzing with an unnamed vigour. It’s unlikely that the blizzard has ceased long enough for the snow blanketing your home to melt – and given the walls’ remarkable ability to release warmth faster than they absorb it, the current temperature is enough to confound you.
Likely a fever, you think, pressing knuckles to your temple. The timing is unfortunate enough, though something about your conclusion falls apart when tested against the churning of your gut. You’re clearly unwell, that much is apparent by the bile spoiling your floor, but you’d be a fool to miss the supernatural root of it. Like a perpetual tremor, never waning despite the way your muscles flare. A delirium that unfurls from your nape to slowly embrace your ears. You blink, trying to make sense of the queasiness that continues to wrack you.
You’d run out of herbs two days after the blizzard snowed you in, the remaining potions lining your pantry ones best left untouched. It couldn’t have been anything you took, then. Nor was it a spell; the last one you’d cast was an ignition charm you’ve performed so often you know its effects like the planes of your cheeks. You cycle through yesterday's happenings with febrile imprecision, sipping long gulps of oxygen to tame the queasiness lapping up your chest. Like bailing water out of a quickly sinking raft. Cupping it in your palms and throwing what you can overboard. You get nowhere, and your nausea only worsens.
You’d gone to sleep with your grimoire in hand. Had you cast something while in a hypnagogic state? Possible, though rather uncharacteristic. Your fingers dig into the cushion gutters, poking for any sign of the thick book. As a migraine begins to tear at your skull, your search borders on unhinged. Pillows fly across the room, cushions following suit. The quilt billows as you air it several times over, providing some fleeting – yet much needed – airflow.
You’re so focused on finding it that you almost miss the fact that the charred voice behind you is not your panic made material. Not the voice inside your head.
“Under the couch.”
This one is hoarse. Deep. It almost instantaneously shatters the heavy atmosphere cloaked over your shoulders, breaking your pyrexia with a sharp shiver down your spine. Pure ozone injected into the bubble you’ve made for yourself, the one you thought was so secure. Where the knife you taped to the underside of your table has remained untouched in the years since you moved in, unneeded. Hunched the way you are now, you can see it. Glinting as a mocking smile does; all teeth. Too far for you to retrieve without alerting your intruder. Too far for it to be an option. Your instincts rear.
Slowly, you crouch lower, hand skimming under the couch. Your pinkie grazes the well-loved leather of your grimoire’s cover. It manages to ground you to the situation at hand, though the reality is far more horrifying than what you could’ve conjured on your own. Distorted still, rippling with the impact of your fear. Paralysis battles adrenaline – your mind freezes with the shock of drowning, your body championing for survival. It doesn’t give you time to catch up.
Wood splinters under your heel as you twist, springing in the general direction of the voice. Heavy book in both hands. Your shoulders square, steadying as hinges to your attack. The figure is just visible; you barely make out the silhouette of its head before you aim for it.
But it grabs your wrist and flings your grimoire across the room in a fraction of the time, the spine splaying open onto an adjacent wall. Your stomach capsizes. The raft tips, flips, sends you crashing into frothing waves. Migraine blinding you for a brief, horrifying moment; one where you can’t see the thing shackling your wrist, or anticipate the hard kick it gives to your ankles. You buckle with the pain, held up by one heavy paw. A low whine syphons from your chest.
“Enough of tha’, now.”
Your vision comes into focus several seconds later. Still watery, brine spooling over your eyes, readying them for pruning, but clear enough to make out the depth of this ravine you’ve shipwrecked over. And it’s–
Uncanny. Teetering the thread between jarring and inhumane. Nothing about it – you’ve a hard time believing the moniker of ‘man’ – strikes you as superficial. Nothing skin-deep. Like a mountain seen breaking the horizon line from continents away, its rocks humming a song too closely resembling a banshee’s shriek for it to be alluring. Something concealed within its caves; underground, bubbling, molten. An impetus for myths, undiluted by tired parents using it to scare their children into bed. Still crowned by its original savagery, conceptualised centuries ago by a peasant who made the mistake of getting too close.
But it isn’t a concept, you quiver. It’s here – fleshly, corporeal. And it's even made an attempt to look human. As if you wouldn’t feel it itching to burst out of this skin, suffocated by too small constraints. Over six feet and then some, shoulders doubling yours and fingers that stretch a bit too long, a bit too thick. No face: everything but its eyes covered in knitted headwear, framing the pair of pale pupils, shadowed by a heavy brow.
Some suicidal, hare-brained part of you wonders what would happen if you were to lift the bottom of its mask. (What you would see. How it would react.) But the compulsion is quickly stifled by another wave of gagging, empty stomach looking for anything to regurgitate. The thing masquerading as a man catches on fast, flipping you so your back tucks against its chest. You end up projecting water over the carpet, coughing until your head pounds like a ripe bruise. It’s then that you realise your condition has everything to do with its presence, souring now that you’re practically nestled against its abdomen.
“What…” You question between dry heaves. “What are– What do y-you want with me?”
“Better question ‘s, wha’ do you want?” It murmurs back, rumbling too close to your ear. Rot thickens its breath, potent enough that it draws the tears already dotting your lash line. No doubt a corpse remains stuck somewhere down its gullet, stored away for later. No doubt you’ll join it soon, gnawed on until your flesh falls off the bone. The perfect victim; all alone, the town pariah. A witch by the common man’s standards. Cast out to a dismal forest to die.
“I don- I don’t–”
“Summoned me, didn’ you? Dug a nice little hole and all. Well,” His hand shifts, clasping tighter around your struggling arms. “I’m ‘ere now. ‘Bout wha’ you expected?”
You use your retching as an excuse to play a game of catch up, squeezing the last of your tears out. Your memories bleed into one another, ink on wet parchment. Summoned. Dug a… hole, to call on this thing of supernatural proportions currently occupying your home. Why would you want that? What have you done? The past year has been marked by loneliness of a drastic degree, certainly, yet–
And then it comes flooding back to you.
(Washing the salt off of preserved sheep’s liver. Fastening it to a bouquet garni with twine. Folding the modest sacrifice under layers of earth. Pouring milk onto the upturned dirt.)
“Aren’t you supposed to be an– an animal… Or something.” You choke.
(You never thought it’d work: this magic amateurishly scribbled onto the back of your book by a hand long necrotized. The runes had been difficult to fathom on their own. And the way the spell had sounded on your clumsy tongue made you sure you’d done it wrong. It was purely a pursuit of curiosity. Something to keep you occupied, for lack of anything else to do.)
“Or something.” It answers.
A familiar. Yours, to be precise. In service to you since it took the offering you fashioned. Or, of greater import, one that can’t do anything to you lest you ask for it.
(Foolish to think you can clamp a collar on a feral beast and expect it to heel.)
The girl has a harder time adjusting than his original estimate.
Of course, there’s the illness. The affliction that plagues all mortals who come in contact with a demon for the first time. She’s violently sick for days, verging on the full first week of his arrival. Constantly bent over herself, holding a metal pail close for the inevitable purge of bile, that which her liver overproduces to compensate for a lack of food. Her under eyes blacken five shades darker. Her cheekbones grow more pronounced. Ghost watches it all with a macabre sort of interest, unable to take much satisfaction in the affair as his meal withers away before his very eyes. Wrists thinning into willow branches. Lips flaking like dead bark.
He's almost tempted to do something before she begins to recover herself. Gets more used to his unnatural presence, it seems. Gradually. Slow.
It starts when she wakes up one morning, having slept in later than he’s known her to, hiccupping but otherwise solid. After laying on the couch for an hour, she limps off with dwindling energy to fry a batch of velvet shank for breakfast. The meal is hardly enough for one, yet she plates two-thirds of it for Ghost and places the dish on the table he’s commandeered for his own. It’s a kind gesture; he doesn’t have it in him to be kind about it, though. Yet before he can criticise her efforts, she waddles off to pry a window open. Frigid winds encroach on her sheltered home at once, snow flurrying in, but she braves the cold until a crow lands on the windowsill.
“Hello.” She croons, smoothing a knuckle across its crown. “Sorry I’ve been away. Here,” Digging into her breast pocket, she pulls out a handful of chokecherries and feeds them to the bird. “make them last. Supply is low.”
The crow merely picks them off her palm, coos lost in the roaring storm that batters at the door. For the first time since his arrival, Ghost is tempted to bleed into the shadows. The affair he’s made voyeur to is delicate, an understated glimpse into a life entirely foreign to him. It aches when he can’t piece together why she would give up her food for nothing in return, or why she treats him the same way she does a feral bird. He thinks it must be ego, this snarling anger in his chest.
So when the crow flies off with a final farewell pet down its back, he hardens into a nastier version of himself. Ghost still hasn’t touched the paltry breakfast when she turns her attention back to him, a fact she meets with a gingerly raised eyebrow.
“’Fraid I won’t eat tha’, pet.”
She takes a moment to process his epithet of choice, eyes narrowing in an almost comical turnaround of her previous gentle expression.
“Wouldn’t it be the other way around?” She scoffs.
The indignation alone should be enough to incense him further, never mind the apathy she adopts when she shucks the contents of his plate onto her own and marches back to the couch. It doesn’t. If anything, he calms a little at her willingness to take away what she so graciously offered. The cat does have claws, then. Albeit petty, piddling little claws – like the runt of a litter who’s learnt to bite back at anything that gets too close – but a fire, nonetheless. He appreciates that, perhaps more than he assumed he would.
Her sickness, he finds, is not the only issue.
Ghost lacks context for her situation – why she lives alone when the closest towns are just bordering the forest, or why no one ever seeks her out – but it does not escape him that the girl isn’t properly socialised.
In the centuries since they first emerged, he’s absorbed a keen sense for mortal behaviour. Credit to their alarming predictability, pattern recognition has halved the effort needed for his hunts. Not that he pretends to be at one with their psychology, but it’s easy to pin just where exactly she deviates from the norm when his strategy for ravaging her depends on it. More than once, he finds himself inexplicably engrossed in her habits.
Given her home is limited to the living room, kitchen, and washroom, she struggles to find a space where she can escape his oppressive presence. Ghost does not make it easy for her, either. He could choose to blend into the darker corners of her cottage, embodying the moniker he’d been given all those years ago and disappear almost completely – or enough to give her a mental break. But the mood strikes him more often than not, and he’ll loom over her like a spectral shadow, looking to provoke the grave mood swings that seize her like Satan does his miscreants. By far the most entertaining outcome had been when overstimulation trounced her usual level of tolerance and she pulled a knife on him, zeroed in on his jugular. He’d managed to scruff her by the nape until she wore herself out – which isn’t to say she didn’t put up quite a fuss.
Since then, she has yet to lash out to such an extreme, instead locking herself in the washroom when her temper skyrockets. Ghost is almost disappointed.
That’s his pet at her worst. At her best, she opts for quiet coexistence, either whispering to the crow who visits daily and appears to be her only friend, or cradling that ugly book in both hands. The back of the couch where she lounges most often obscures his view of her, but he’ll get the occasional vision when she pokes her eyes above the top to check on him. He maintains eye-contact – the heavy, uncomfortable kind that engenders pure humiliation and pummels her back into place, eyebrows furrowed and contentment spoiled – until the boredom gets to him.
The next time she sneaks a peek, then, he effects a gruff “Still ‘ere.”
She keeps to herself after that, nose buried in her grimoire like a chastened fawn.
It takes three weeks for her to settle into normalcy. By that time, Ghost’s patience has already started to wear thin.
The girl operates under the impression that he can’t do anything unless she orders it of him. He doesn’t blame her, credulous thing that she is. The notion is generally accepted by most of her grade, propagated by some text meant for beginners, written by a man who lacked the subtlety to discern between rules and good form. It’s true that familiar’s tend to only perform feats their counterparts ask for, but only because to do otherwise is bad practice. What else motivates a symbiotic relationship if not trust? Dependency?
Of course, that’s if a demon has anything to gain that a human can provide. He’s always found it to be a little more than pathetic. Reared to hunt, formidable in his thaumaturgic ability – Ghost has lasted centuries by remaining self-sufficient, unwilling to lean on the inferior class of rational beings. Unwilling to do their dirty work in exchange for blood he could obtain very well on his own. At least, that had been the conviction when he’d answered her graceless summons, bent on killing both his curiosity and hunger with one stone.
But something about her had made him glad to abide by the niceties. Had soothed the spring of his haunches as he prepared to pounce, or otherwise convinced him to play passive until golden opportunity struck. He’d wanted her to have as much a hand in her own unravelling, like a frog brought to a boil, entirely oblivious of its impending death until much too late. Her erroneous understanding of their dynamic, then, had paired nicely with his purposes. So he led her on to believe it, wasted most of his days amenable at the dining table as if waiting for instruction. As if she was the one in control, buzzing to shatter the perception when she inevitably asks something of him.
What he’s found, unsurprisingly, is that she’s blossomed under the reassurance. The initial fear that gripped her once she realised he wouldn’t be going away has since watered down to a weak, background agitation. He tastes it in the air; the mild unease as she flits about her cottage, the first thing to go when something else captures her attention. The way she hardly takes note of him anymore, waking up or retiring to sleep with nothing but covert glances to where he monopolises space.
So that feeling of frothing irritation returns at her docility, only more powerful than it had been when she’d offered her last chokecherries to the crow. No witch or wizard of her acumen has ever been so lacking in spite – and from what little she’s allowed him to see of her outbursts, he knows she isn’t short of it either. Yet she’d given up so quickly. Forfeited her home and comfort to a monster she hasn’t attempted to make any use of. And fuck– if that isn’t what he’d wanted. He needed her secure in him, pretty and soft enough that she’d be tempted to trade him for favours, for little feats of magic or the completion of chores she no longer has to worry about now that she doesn’t live alone.
Nevermind the detail that she refuses to ask anything of him; it still claws at him the wrong way, razor-sharp and deadly as it tears up his throat. This anger on her behalf. A compensation for the response she should be having. It stirs him when he realises that, for all intents and purposes, what he feels is pity. Perilous, committed sympathy.
There’s a reason he steers clear of it, too. Quick to snowball. He already feels it growing, avalanching into the hollow recess where he’d suppressed the soul of his first meal. Something shifts, then. He can’t place it. Just knows that the outcome he’d envisioned – where her bones serve to pick his teeth of the soft flesh from her thigh – is no longer a viable option. Just knows that his intentions with her mutate into something perhaps more dangerous, a little more unhinged. To weed out the wickedness he’s only seen in flashes. To see her corrupted into a far worse version of herself.
It’s late into his twentieth night when Ghost decides to do something about it.
He wedges back into her cottage when dawn splinters over the virgin snow. If he were a passionate man – not this hellhound trailing blood behind him like breadcrumbs – he’d remark on the way the tepid sunlight stains the forest in shades of peach and lurid blue. But the crow between his teeth hangs limp, and he’s hurried for the best way to present his gift, too absorbed in the task at hand to pay much mind to scenery.
The house is as tranquil as it always is at this time. Suspended in amber, a fossilised quaintness he’s grown used to. Golden, almost sticky slow. She’s still fast asleep on the couch, soft snores whistling from underneath a patchwork quilt (which smells so much like her that, to his mutt senses, they’re one-in-the-same form.) Despite the precarity of the moment, he makes no effort to keep quiet. His natural disposition isn’t prone to making any unintentional noise though, and so the only thing he disturbs are the dust motes bobbing in suspended animation.
Ghost places the dead bird on the table. It won’t be long before the blood drains from the punctures in its neck, and he prefers his meat iron-rich and wet, so he makes quick work of morphing back into his human form and washing his muzzle clean. There’s a sick thrill that curls in his gut; something like adrenaline, ozone-rich. Ruthless. He holds a crystalline picture of her reaction to the slaughtered friend he dragged into her home; angry, doe eyes glazed with tears as she yells at him for acting against her best wishes. Bad dog. Perhaps she’ll pull the dagger she keeps taped to the bottom of the table to indulge a sense of security. Perhaps she’ll drive it into his chest. That’s for hoping.
Standing over her now, he imagines the way her serene face morphs into something foul when she’s pushed to her limits. His cock twitches at the mental picture, aching behind the confines of his pants. A heavy hand moves to adjust it, stilling once it cups his balls to consider whether it’d be overkill to tug it over her face while she remains nice and still like this. It would be – not anything he’s above, granted, but excessive nonetheless. Besides, she’ll have plenty of time to accept the attention. Learn to love it, even.
When she wakes, Ghost has already plucked the crow. The feathers pile in the centre of her round dining table – distinctive even when detached from a body, meant for her to draw parallels to the game he currently masticates. Yet she hardly notes his presence at all. Instead, the unsuspecting thing merely clears the sleep from her bleary eyes, weighed down by a heavy cloak of sloth, more focused on wiping the drool off her chin than him. If she had been, perhaps the pieces would fall that much faster; at least, that’s what the quick-tick rap of his pulse insists upon.
But he’s no over-eager brute. He can wait.
Yet he is tense when she shuffles to and from the bathroom, bare feet padding along hardwood. Like a flood, his body grapples against the tidal urge to grab her jaw and force her gaze upon his bloody teeth, sharpened and marred behind the mouth of his true form. Look at me. Have you no survival instinct? There is a threat in your home and you parade in front of it, blind as a mole. You’ll get eaten like this. You’ll be condemned to hell between the jowls of horrible men.
(More monster than ever, really. Even like this, bound by his approximation of what a mortal man looks like, his face remains stuck to its original construction. The knitted mask he wears is more for her sake than his; he’s never been able to replicate the particulars of humanity. The delicate planes of their lips or the angles their noses protrude at. Better not to try, then. Better to hide it all away.)
It’s as she scrounges for breakfast that she finally heeds the pinpricks of blood dotting the floor. Fat, dark splotches draw a clear line from the doorway to a very calm Ghost, sat with his thighs spread over her too-tiny chair. He’s yet to finish his meagre meal – each bite seasoned with a satisfaction that bloats heavy in his stomach – hence the evidence of his crime still paints the corner red. A violent picture. Distressing, if he were to interpret the way her brows knit tight.
Crimson meat marbled ivory. Wings pried off a picked apart ribcage, shanks sucked clean of slightly tougher muscle. Still intact are the heart, tongue, liver – their membranes dissolving to soak into the table. The smell of death will be hard to rid of, he’s sure, much like the inedible parts of the bird that scatter carefully in front of him. Its glossy black talons. That tell-tale beak. Feathers on which her eyes linger, like she recognises the sheen but is too upset to connect it to the crow she fed daily. Her only friend.
She steps closer. Ghost devours every minute expression that flits upon her face. For the expressiveness of her pupils – contracted, small like organic pearls – she doesn’t portray much externally. Her fingers wring her skirt, twisting and twisting until it wrinkles in the impression of her thumb. Her lips purse into a thin line. But as far as his sharp observation goes; no tears. No ugly rage rippling her cheeks.
“What is this?” She asks in a small voice.
“Breakfast.” He says. It isn’t the response she’s looking for, and a frown tugs at her mouth. Not necessarily sad. Her hands release to clench at her sides. He smiles behind the mask. He can’t help himself.
“I didn’t tell you to do this.”
The smile breaks into a low chuckle. “No?”
“No.” Shaking her head, emotion surges up her throat. It bubbles thick and forces her to adopt a higher pitch to overpower it. “You brute. I-If you could’ve done whatever… whatever you wanted t-the whole time–”
“C’mere.” His hand snakes around her wrist, using it to wrench her closer. He consciously keeps his grip light – too much force and he could easily shatter bone – but the girl does not share his concern. She pulls and fights and stubbornly protests his direction.
“No! Get the fuck off! Get out!” She heaves. Seethes. Spittle launches from her tirade, her nails digging into his palm. She looks for blood but he won’t give it to her. She’s doing well, but not well enough. Eventually, he is able to pull her onto his lap, locking thick arms around her squirming form. “You bastard. You monster! I’ll fucking kill you. I’ll murder you in your sleep and feed your rotten insides to the maggots. Let me go!”
He’s blood-filled in his trousers. The hefty bulge knocks the small of her back and of all things, that’s what gets her to suddenly slacken. Though her chin tips to rest between her collarbones, lashes deliberately cast down. Refusing to meet his eye for all she’s worth. Good, he thinks, a warmth blossoming in his chest.
“You ough’ to know your friend didn’ put up a fight.” He starts, nosing the part in her hair. Despite his knitted mask serving as a direct barrier between them, he can smell the pine and juniper berry soap she uses to wash up. Sharp. Sweet. Particularly potent behind her ear, where he considers her lobes like low-hanging fruit.
“Shut up.”
“Need to hear this, pet.” She doesn’t listen, naturally, hips bucking wildly the instant he loosens his hold. His fingers bruise when he readjusts her on his thighs. “Need to know it was your fault as much as i’ was mine. Yeah? Y’let it grow too comfortable. Fed it daily and robbed i’ of its ingrained fear of strangers. In the end, it got much too friendly. Didn’ have the sense to fly away when I approached it.” Her breath pinches into a piercing whine. Ghost likens it to the kettle she keeps over her stove, waiting for steam to burst out of her ears.
It does not come. Instead, she cries. Beads of brine break her waterline, streaking miserable paths down her cheeks. He’ll grant her this: she does not sob unreasonably. Her hiccups are limited to if and when the air hardens in her lungs. He lets her have a moment before continuing.
“S’what happens, see. You get complacent, ‘n’ next thing you know, you’re meeting your God. Tell me, pet: do you think the afterlife would be pleasant to a witch?”
When she doesn’t respond, he bounces a knee to knock some sense back into her. Her weeping starts anew, only this time accompanied by a stuttered acknowledgement.
“Hm?”
“N-No.”
“No. ‘Course I could ‘ave told you that much, but it’s importan’ you come to the moral of the story yourself. Fight, or die.” Ghost strokes the goosepocked flesh of her upper arm, voice softening to deliver the final part of speech. It’s treacherously low, ultimatum like powdered ash cushioning the roughness in his throat. “And believe me when I say, dying ain’ the better option. There are far worse fates than me in Hell.”
He does not know whether it lands like he wants it to. If it accomplishes anything at all. But she doesn’t attempt to peel herself off him in the aftermath. Instead, she mourns herself dry for the next hour, snivelling wretchedly on his lap.
When her crying stops, the air is still laden with something. Hesitation rolls off her in waves, dense with the renewal of fear. He supposes it must be hypocritical of him, to both strike her with terror and expect her to overcome it, but he hums anyway, nudging her temple off his shoulder in an appeal to state what’s on her mind.
What comes instead is a deceptively simple question.
“What’s your name?” She asks. Doesn’t demand of him to tell her. Doesn’t set up grounds for him to ask for something in return. He can either answer, or not. She leaves the choice up to him. Clever girl.
He grapples with it a moment too long. A long dead man beats at his ribcage and demands to be heard. A meal he never managed to digest. Hissing. Snarling. S-Si-Si–
“Ghost.”
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#simon ‘ghost’ riley#simon 'ghost' riley x reader#simon ghost riley x reader#ghost x reader#simon riley x reader#simon riley#ghost#call of duty#fanfiction#fanfic#modern warfare#cod mw2#simon 'ghost' riley x you#ghost x you#simon riley x you#simon ‘ghost’ riley x female reader#x female reader#xf!reader#dead dove#dark fic#fic ༄ cabin fever
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The Silver Dragon (1)
The Bronze Bitch's Daughter
Prince Daemon Targaryen has grown tired of his Lady wife, the “Bronze Bitch” Rhea Royce. But he is not so easily rid of her. She survives not only his brutal attack, but his cruel violation of her. Though she remains broken and weak, she endures just long enough to deliver a child: a girl of silver hair and steely eyes.
Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x OC (Daemon and Rhea's daughter)
Warnings: Heavily implied rape
Author's Note: Here's the first chapter of my rework of The Silver Dragon! I'm keeping the old versions up, but they will be labeled "archived."
*Important Note* While he's not the villain of the show or book, Daemon is the villain of this story. We are seeing him through the perspectives of people he's hurt in various different ways. As such, he is not as morally gray as you may be used to. If you think this will upset you, don't read. Thank you!
Series Masterlist - Next Chapter
Rhea Royce lay prone on the earth ground of her beloved Vale. But she could feel neither the cold of the stone nor the dampness of the grass and stone as it seeped through her hunting leathers and onto her skin. As the heat of her body met with the chill in the ground, the runes of protection etched into her pauldrons became fogged over – rendered unreadable.
She knew she should hurt. The pain should be unbearable. Yorwyck was a mighty beast, like the Bronze King he was named for. The whole weight of the horse had come down upon her, so there was no doubt he caused her great damage in his fall. She had heard the sharp cracking of her own bones. Yet she felt none of it.
All she could feel was fear.
The cloaked man waited until her steed was out of sight. Rhea was well and truly alone, with only the distant ramparts of Runestone peering from between the hills as witness to whatever would come next.
He approached her slowly, casually, as if he couldn’t hear her desperate whimpers. She knew he just didn’t care. He ran his violet eyes along her body as he approached her head. It was not a gaze of lust. He looked on her with the same disdainful curiosity as one examining a woodland rodent crushed by a cart.
As he stood directly over her, he turned his eyes from her face – he had always avoided looking at the face he found so displeasing. Instead, he turned to her outstretched arm. He took another step, raising his foot above Rhea’s lower arm. The ghost of a wicked smile danced in the corner of his mouth, and he stepped down.
Nothing.
He raised and pressed his foot down again several more times. Not to be sure, but to emphasize to his victim that she was utterly helpless – precisely as he wanted her. Rhea knew the horrors his men had inflicted on the criminals of King’s Landing and the followers of the Crab Feeder. She knew the cruelty he was capable of and of his unparalleled creativity. He had hated her for years. In all that time, he must have imagined countless ways to torture her.
Rhea braced herself for what would come next. At least she would not feel the pain.
But his steps retreated.
All the fear in Rhea’s heart evaporated, swiftly replaced by rage. After these long nine years, this was all he had for her? For nine years, he traveled the whole of the Seven Kingdoms and beyond, slandering her and her family in the courts, then further insulting her with his brazen whoring. She had lost count of how often he had called her “Bronze Bitch” and accused her of ruining his life. She had been anticipating a reckoning from him.
But this?
This was an insult she could not stand.
Rhea knew she would be signing her soul over to the Stranger, but she would not let Daemon Targaryen have the final say.
“I knew you couldn’t finish,” she spat at her retreating husband.
He turned back, looking at her face for the first time. Rage twisted his face, but his eyes were wide with shock. He had not expected that. But she was, after all, his Bronze Bitch.
What he said next had Rhea’s blood running cold as she thanked all the Seven that she would not feel what was to come. “My dear, lady wife,” he said, breath heaving and voice dripping with hateful venom, “perhaps it is time we consummate our union.”
The Lady of Runestone was dying, nine months on from her “accident.”
The people of the Vale were told that it was a miracle from the Seven themselves that she had survived such a devastating fall from her horse. Even more miraculous still, her husband had swooped in on dragonback to rescue her before she succumbed. He had even used his mount, Caraxes ‘the Blood Wyrm,’ to find and dispatch the offending horse. A true Targaryen prince, rescuing his bronze damsel. It was no wonder when her cousin and heir, Gerold, announced to the court that she was with child. They cared little that their Lady’s rescuer had swept flown out of the Vale as swiftly as he had arrived.
Only her cousin, her Maester, and her ladies-in-waiting knew the truth. Maester Kerith had spent countless hours binding the broken bones that could be saved, and those he could not, he promptly removed. When Lady Rhea next sat the Bronze Throne, she made sure her ladies dressed her in her riding leathers rather than a gown that would hide her injuries. She wanted her court to see what she had survived, even if they could not know the truth.
When it became clear that the consequences of what her husband had done extended beyond mere injuries, Maester Kerith offered her moon tea, but she refused. With her health still declining and her body struggling to overcome the trauma she had faced, she knew she would not survive long. But again, she refused to let Daemon have the final word in their hellish marriage. He had insulted her, paralyzed her, and raped her, but she would not let him forget her.
She would leave him with an Heir of Bronze.
The babe was born as the sun rose, though the day remained dark beneath the clouds that so often surrounded Runestone.
Rhea wept for the first time, having felt no pain throughout the birth, when she saw that her daughter had the silver-white hair of her father. She had prayed for months that her child would look just like her, to be a constant reminder of his Bronze Bitch. But the babe was just another silver Targaryen. Her final revenge had failed.
Gerold sat at her side, cradling the girl in his arms, as her mother could not. Then, as the babe began to cry, he held her out so Rhea could see her.
“Cousin, look at her eyes,” he whispered, all too aware of the grim looks on the Maester and Septas’ faces.
Rhea turned her head, lifting her neck as much as her weakening body would allow to try and glimpse her child through her tears. She looked past the white hair at the small but wide eyes that beheld her.
The slate grey eyes of Runestone, the Bronze Kings, and the First Men. Royce eyes.
Rhea smiled. Perhaps her revenge would not be as sharp as she would like, but so long as her daughter remained, Daemon would never forget her. He would always remember that he could not break her.
The Lady of Runestone’s breaths came slower, and though the Septas flurried around her, she paid them no mind. She had known all these months that she would not live to see the look on Daemon’s face when he first met his heir. She knew these were her last moments. But she did not want to spend them afraid. She wanted to spend them with her daughter.
Fitting, she thought, that Daemon’s heir should be a girl. His young niece had usurped his claim to the Iron Throne, and now his claim to Runestone was usurped by his own daughter.
And what a beautiful daughter she was. Rhea’s vision began to blur around the edges, and the voices of the others in the room faded as she beheld the babe. Her eyes were bright, even as she cried softly, and the silver-white of her gently curling hair seemed to bring out a metallic shine in her grey eyes. They complimented each other, as her parents never had.
This girl was not bronze.
“Arianwyn,” Rhea whispered, naming her child as the life, at last, left her broken body. Lady of silver.
It was not Prince Daemon who came to Runestone to receive the child on behalf of the Royal family, but the young Queen Alicent Hightower. She came with the unwelcome news that the child’s father had already remarried. Less than a month after he became a widower. He had departed with his new wife, Laena Velaryon, to Pentos without leaving instruction on the care of his daughter – or even acknowledging her birth.
Alicent, despite her reputation as a fierce supporter of her husband’s family, was more than empathetic to the child’s plight. It seemed to Ser Gerold that the young Queen held a similar opinion to his own regarding Daemon Targaryen. She commiserated with him on the pain the prince had caused his family, especially Rhea and her daughter. It seemed that As long as the prince had vexed the Royce family, he had been equally maddening to his brother.
But what was most shocking to Gerold and the court at Runestone was the offer the Queen brought: to bring the child to King’s Landing and raise her there. Despite her father’s indifference, the child was a Targaryen. It was her right to live amongst her people, to learn the traditions of Old Valyria.
And at the Red Keep, Arianwyn would not be alone. The Queen had three children, each young enough to be peers to their newest Targaryen cousin, and more were anticipated from both Alicent and the recently wed Princess Rhaenyra.
The King had already given his approval, both to the fostering of his niece at the Red Keep and of Gerold serving as regent of Runestone until the girl had come of age. Indeed, all the arrangements were already made. The Queen had even brought a small contingent of attendants for the child, from nursemaids to Dragonkeepers, who carried a great, steaming urn containing a silver dragon egg – supposedly chosen by the Queen’s infant son – to be placed in Arianwyn’s cradle.
Gerold had only one caveat before he agreed to the King’s plan: that Arianwyn would not venture to the capital alone. A handful of attendants from Runestone delegates would be sent with her to educate her on the history and traditions of House Royce. So that even surrounded by Targaryens, she would not forget why her eyes were grey.
Queen Alicent, herself clothed in Hightower green, happily agreed.
After a long journey from the Vale, Lady Arianwyn Targaryen arrived at Red Keep, cradled in the arms of her aunt, Queen Alicent Hightower. As her attendants, including one of her late mother’s most trusted Lady’s Maids, continued on to prepare her rooms, the newest Targaryen was brought into the Great Hall.
A hush fell over the gathered courtiers when the doors to the throne room opened, and they beheld the silver-haired babe. But the chatter that so often filled the capital quickly resumed when they saw the blanket she was swaddled in. A burnished bronze velvet, carefully embroidered with the same ancient Runes that graced the ancestral armor of House Royce.
It was a slight on the Royal House that, in another court, would have undoubtedly caused a scandal. But in this court, where the Queen herself so brazenly wore the colors of her own house rather than her husband’s, it was immediately relegated to petty gossip. So the Lords and Ladies quickly resumed their conversations as the Queen approached the Iron Throne.
“My King, may I present your niece, Lady Arianwyn Targaryen,” Alicent said as she bowed before her husband as best she could with a squirming infant in her arms.
King Viserys’ eyes brightened, and he dismissed the Hand from his side. The King, having lost so many of his own children by his first wife, was always cheered when he had the chance to meet a healthy babe.
“Hello, my dear niece,” he cooed, reaching out to hold her, “what a delight you are!” His arms strained slightly at the weight of the plump child, so he pulled her into his chest. She relaxed into his against him, fussing softly as she reached for his long white hair.
Viserys laughed, running his fingers through her own hair. The exact shade of silver-white that graced nearly every member of his family. Though hers held significantly more curls than any Targaryen he had ever known.
“She is indeed a beauty, cousin.” A familiar voice drew the King’s attention. His cousin, Rhaenys, approached the throne. “It is a comfort to see our families flourishing.”
The King smiled and nodded, allowing his cousin permission to approach. She ascended the steps to the Iron Throne and ran the back of her fingers along the round cheek of her new baby cousin. “It is a shame her father is not here to meet her.”
Viserys heart sank. In his joy at meeting Arianwyn, he had momentarily forgotten the circumstances under which she arrived – without her father. Once again, his brother had shamed not only himself, but his family and the Crown itself. At least the child’s hair had put to rest any rumors that Rhea had been unfaithful.
Suddenly, the sight of the babe made his heart ache. “Alicent,” he called to his wife, “take Arianwyn to her rooms. I am sure she is tired from the journey.” He handed his wife the child and slumped back into the throne, readjusting himself to try and remain comfortable. Then, when Alicent was out of earshot, he again turned to Rhaenys.
“What has my brother done now?” He said, running his gloved hand over his face.
Rhaenys grimaced. “I am loathe to speak against him now, as he has so recently taken my daughter to wife,” she sighed. “But I feel confident in saying that none of us can ever say exactly what your brother is doing, much less predict what he may yet do in the future.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Viserys said, “I just pray that poor girl won’t suffer any more than she already has.”
When she arrived, the Queen’s three children were waiting inside the solar of their cousin’s new rooms. Aegon, now four years old, ran from his nursemaid, cackling as he swerved precariously between the servants attempting to arrange the room. Helaena, approaching her second nameday, stayed in her nurse’s arms, hands clasped tightly around her ears as she took in the unfamiliar space. And Aemond, only a few months older than his new cousin, lay peacefully in his maid’s arms as he watched servants haul numerous sparkling bronze trappings into the rooms.
“Come and meet your new cousin, darlings,” Alicent called to Aegon and the nursemaids bearing her other children, “She’s come a long way to be with us.” The Queen sat on a plush chair near the west windows of the room, gently lowering the babe into her lap.
Aegon reluctantly approached, sneering slightly at the child in his mother’s lap. “She doesn’t look like Daemon.”
Alicent sighed. “Nor did you look like your father when you were so young. Indeed, even now, I wager you look more like me. You have the Hightower nose.” She tweaked the tip of his soft nose – the same as hers - to drive her point home.
“I am a Targaryen prince!” Aegon insisted.
“Of course, my boy. How could any of us forget it with this on your head,” she said, ruffling his unruly mop of white hair.
Aegon grunted, looking back down at the baby. He gently reached out to touch her silver hair, both neater and curlier than his own. “What is her name?”
“Arianwyn.” The Queen responded.
“Ari…” Helaena started, her hands finally coming down from her ears. Alicent nodded for the maid to set her down, and the young girl approached her mother and the babe.
The Queen spoke slowly and carefully as she repeated, “Arianwyn.”
Helaena listened intently, then repeated the name several times, struggling with the pronunciation. “Ah-ree-an-win.”
“That’s it! Very good, my sweet,” the Queen said, placing her hand on her daughter’s shoulder, though the young girl winced at the touch.
Aegon continued fiddling with his cousin’s curls, “It’s a weird name.”
“Her cousin Sir Gerold Royce told me it is of the Old Tongue,” the Queen said, motioning for one of the nursemaids to bring her youngest babe closer, “it has some meaning, though I am afraid I forget what it is.”
Releasing Arianwyn’s hair, Aegon made a noise of quickly waning interest and stepped away, eager to resume his perpetual torment of his nurse. Had she not been holding her young niece, Alicent may have chased after him. But for now, she lifted the child babe to face her own.
“Aemond,” she said softly, “meet Arianwyn.”
As he beheld his bronze-wrapped cousin, he smiled, cooing and reaching a squirming fist toward her. A smile appearing across her own face, Arianwyn reached back toward him.
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#aemond#aemond fanfic#aemond targaryen imagine#aemond targaryen fanfic#aemond targaryen#aemond one eye#aemond imagine#prince aemond#aemond x oc#house of the dragon aemond#house of the dragon#hotd#hotd aemond#aemond fic#hotd fanfic#aemond xf!oc#aemond x original female character#aemond x original character#the silver dragon
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Come Away With Me | Joel & Tommy Miller (The Epilogue)
Summary | A final visit to our favourite family.
Word Count | 1.6K
Chapter Warnings | Consumption of food, allusions to smut, brief talk of difficult pregnancy, family dynamics, lots of fluff & a little surprise for you in this.
Authors Note | Well, I can't believe I'm about to say this, but we made it! Trial & Error Season 2 is complete, which marks the end of the line for my favourite threesome and their family. I firstly wanted to say thank you to each & every one of you for continuing to support this story and me. I never dreamt that you would love these three as much as I love them, and I will always be eternally grateful to this story for helping me through some tough times this year. I hope you love this ending as much as I do, and if you, I'd love to hear from you. Please always feel like you can scream at me in my inbox, and reblogs & comments also really help. This isn't it from our fabulous threesome, I have one-shots and ideas to bring to life in the future, but for now, it's adios to Joel, Pretty Girl & Tommy. And, as always, If you want to support me, you can donate to my Ko-Fi.
A reminder that I no longer use taglists - to keep up with my writing, please follow@thetriumphantpandanotifs and turn on notifications to keep up to date.
Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist | Ko-Fi
The sun is warm but there is a slight breeze that crosses your skin, moves the long grass on the ground and rustles the trees. The summer has been hot, but it’s moving into time of year where it cools a little, isn’t so stifling that it makes you want to tear your skin off or spend all your time in an ice bath.
You smile, watching not one, but two young children, just after their second birthday’s, sit in the grass and play together. Twins. Two baby girls. Your heart is full. Your soul is full. Your family is complete in a way you never thought it would be. Sitting on the porch, mug of coffee in hand, you can see the broad expanse of a man walking towards you. The sun is blocking his features from view, framing him perfectly in light. You’d know that outline anywhere. Joel.
“How are my girls?” He smiles, bending down and placing one of his palms on the back of Ava’s head, the other hand holding one of the toys up for Addie to take hold of in her little hand.
He stands again, walking up onto the porch to where you’re sat. He dips to kiss your forehead, then, when you tilt your head to him, he presses a kiss to your lips too, “And how is my pretty girl?”
“I’m good,” You smile, snaking your hand around the back of his neck to pull him into another kiss, “Worked hard?” You ask once you’ve pulled away, letting him sit next to you on the porch bench.
“Can you not tell?” He chuckles, pulling the rag from his pocket to wipe his brow of sweat.
You put a palm on his thigh, looking back out onto the land you now call home. It’s vast, fields upon fields of open land. You can see the other house in the distance, the one Tommy and Joshua call home, the one that you spend half of your time in. It’s a pleasant walk between them, one you’ll take tomorrow morning, twins in arm. A ranch. Land bought when you’d found out you were pregnant again, this time with two babies, not one. It's further outside of the city, which you love. Peace and quiet and a wonderful place to raise your children. Joel and Tommy had worked hard throughout the nine months you’d carried Ava and Addie, taking contracting jobs wherever they could find them, squirrelling away enough money to build the life you have now. You’d offered the inheritance money from your parents who had passed away just before you’d met Tommy, which had built the two houses you all called home. Joel has insisted on sheep for the ranch, whilst Tommy had wanted cattle, so they’d compromised and gone with both.
You hadn’t thought that being the wife of two ranchers would have been something you’d enjoy, but you’d proved yourself wrong. You could take Joshua to school each morning and pick him up each afternoon, you could spend as much time as you wanted with your baby girls, you’d learnt to bake properly, and cook meals for everyone each evening. You would all sit together, eating and drinking into the evening, until you fell into one bed or the other, curled up next to Tommy or Joel, and sometimes even both of them, until you fell asleep and started all over again the next morning. It was the life you loved, and you wouldn’t change it for the world.
You can see Tommy walking from the other house, Joshua’s hand clutched in his own. He’d taken him out today, let him ride with him on his horse, mostly in an effort to tire him out because at six years old, he was starting to run rings around everyone with his energy.
You watch as they come into view, Joshua dropping Tommy’s hand when he recognises his baby sisters. He’s always been so gentle with them. He kneels down on the blanket with them, picking up some of the toys in his hands to start playing with them. He hands Ava a small wooden car, and Addie gets one that is slightly bigger that she can’t quite hold properly. He tries to get them to engage in a race but it’s relatively futile, they just giggle at him and wave their arms around.
You chuckle to yourself as Tommy heads up onto the porch too, he bends to give you a kiss similar to the way Joel had, but leans against the post that connects the porch to the roof that covers it, taking out his own rag to wipe his hands with. You’re about to open your mouth to ask if anyone is hungry, when the front door is ripped open and the newest addition to your family comes bounding out.
“Didn’t keel over and die today then, old man.”
You bite back a chuckle, as does Tommy, but Joel doesn’t seem to find it so funny.
“What have I told you about bein’ rude, Ellie?”
“I wasn’t being rude,” She shrugs, “I was just being observant.”
You think you hear him mutter something about her being a little shit under his breath, which of course is no better than her previous comment, but you let it lie, “Anyone hungry?” You ask.
Everyone agrees, so you push yourself up and head down the steps to pick up Addie. Joel follows behind, taking Ava in his arms, whilst holding his hand out for Joshua to take, walking everyone into Joel’s home, where the pot roast has been cooking for most of the day.
Ellie hadn’t really been planned. Once the twins had been born, you’d thought that was it. It had been a hard pregnancy, you’d struggled with sickness at first, and then at the sheer amount of extra weight you’d been carrying around. You’d swollen in places you didn’t even know you had, and spent that last month being as still as possible. With the way your relationship had changed, you’d agreed early on that the twins would be as much Joel’s children as they were Tommy’s, but whenever Joel watched you walk away to spend time with his brother, which he didn’t resent in any way, and you took the twins with you, that big ranch house felt awful lonely to him, with Sarah still being away at college.
He’d shocked you and Tommy when he’d sat you both down and mentioned adoption. Giving a home to someone who needed it. It had more rooms than he knew what to do with, space enough for another child. You don’t think you could have picked someone more perfect for him than Ellie. In some ways, she was the complete opposite of Sarah, but in others, they were very similar. She wasn’t ever going to be a replacement, Sarah still visited often, was still a huge part of everyone’s lives, but she kept him company in those lonely nights, made him laugh, kept him on his toes, and you loved her just as much as if she were your own. She was a love all of Joel's own.
Everyone takes their seat at the table, helps themselves to as much food as they want. Between mouthfuls of your own food, you help Addie eat, with Joel doing the same with Ava. Tommy is helping Joshua, who still doesn’t quite have the hang of how to properly cut things with his knife and fork, and Ellie is talking, mainly at Joel, about what she’d been doing that day. Its domesticity at its best. You and the two men you love with every fibre of your being, your children who you would lay down your life for, including Ellie. Everything you always wanted, all at the same time, no compromises.
You sit around the table for most of the evening. Ellie helps you put the twins to sleep upstairs when they start dropping off. She knows the dynamic of the family, you’d sat her down one day when Joel and Tommy were out working, fumbling over the words of how to explain exactly how things worked.
“So, they both love you, and you both love them?” She’d asked, mixing the batter for the cake you were making together, “Sounds cool,” She’s shrugged, as if it were the most normal thing in the world, “Just so long as I don’t ever have to hear what you and my old man get up to.”
You’d smiled, given her a hug, and promised to keep it down with Joel whenever you were there. It proved to be difficult, that man knowing how to make you cry out and scream whenever he got his hands on you.
Once Joshua has settled himself on the couch, resting quietly with the TV on in the background, and Ellie has gone to her room to read or whatever else it is she does up there, you reach next to you and take hold of Tommy’s hand. He clutches it right back, with Joel’s arm resting across your shoulders. You look up at Joel, who is smiling softly, with that glint in his eyes that tells you he’s dying to take you upstairs.
You look Tommy directly in the eye, “Together?” You ask, squeezing his hand.
“Together.”
And that’s how it is. That’s how it will always be. Some nights spent alone with your men, others spent sandwiched right between them as they take turns making you feel good, coaxing orgasm after orgasm from you until you don’t know who you are or what day of the week it is. And then being able to snuggle into one of them, tonight you know it will be Joel, who will drape his arm over your waist and press his front as close to your back as is humanely possible, with Tommy clutching your hands from the front. Your two men, their girl, and the life you’d risked almost everything to have.
THE END.
#Joel Miller#Joel Miller fic#Joel Miller Fanfic#Joel Miller fanfiction#Joel Miller smut#Joel Miller angst#Joel Miller fluff#Joel Miller x you#Joel Miller x reader#Joel Miller x female reader#Joel Miller xF!Reader#Tommy Miller#Tommy Miller fic#Tommy Miller fanfic#Tommy Miller fanfiction#Tommy Miller smut#Tommy Miller fluff#Tommy Miller angst#Tommy Miller x you#Tommy Miller x reader#Tommy Miller x female reader#Tommy Miller x f!reader#The last of us#the last of us hbo#tlou#tlou hbo#the last of us fic#tlou fic#the last of us smut#tlou smut
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How about some middle-aged reflections on the early days of their (romantic/sexual) relationship?
They’re spreading mulch around the trees, tucking flowerbeds in for winter. The air is crisp and dry, sharpened by the pungent smell of the mulch.
“Got the Stanford alumni newsletter yesterday,” Scully says. “Guess who their new entomology professor is.”
He frowns back, puzzled. Her tone indicates that the answer is one he should get. Does he know any entomologists?
Mulder starts to shake his head. “I have no-“
He sees her face, the smirk she’s trying hide, and then he remembers. “Nooooo,” he says, drawing the word out with a laugh. “Bambi?”
“Bambi,” she confirms, grinning now. “Did you sleep with her? I honestly can’t remember.”
“No!” He’s a bit shocked that she thought this. He’d kind of wanted to though, he recalls. Little khaki shorts.
Scully rolls her eyes. “Oh, sorry to impugn your virtue.”
Mulder offers her a petulant look. “You make it sound like I was Wilt Chamberlain-ing my way through every case.”
She leans against the big sycamore, scoffs. “You’re mighty defensive there, Marty.”
He grins back. “Judge away. You weren’t putting out yet. Not to me, anyway.”
Scully laughs. “We were so young.”
“We were so young.”
She rolls her palms around the rake handle, her beautiful slim fingers with oval nails like the inside of a seashell. She’d been pretty back then, he thinks. Lovely. But now she’s ethereal, refined to some radiant essence.
“I think….hmm. I think some part of me really felt that if you and I followed the rules then everyone else had to as well, you know?” Her expression is a little wistful. A little sad.
He does know. “I like to think it made it that much sweeter in the end.”
“It did. I loved you so…so….purely. I remember when you made it to that Congressional hearing. I think I was done then. The rest was just waiting to happen.” She laughs, a little shy even now.
“You were like Beatrice,” he says to her, adoringly, in the honeyed light. “Come to lead me into Paradise.”
Scully drops the rake, walks over to take his hands in hers. “Is this heaven?” she asks, gazing up.
Mulder smiles back, squeezes her cool little fingers. The wind chimes on the deck ripple like harp strings. The sun makes a halo on her tawny head.
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True Lies
by: mldrgrl
Rating: R
Summary: Post-Terma, Scully can't help but think they need protection against any future kangaroo court congressional hearings and comes up with a rather unconventional solution that she proposes of Mulder.
Read on AO3
This fic took me two years to write. Literally, I looked at the start date on my google doc and it was April 17, 2022, and that's not counting the months spent forming it in my mind. I kept losing steam off and on and some days could barely form a sentence, some weeks I couldn't even write at all, but it's finished!
A big thank you for anyone that was reading it while it was a WiP! Let's never do that again! :D <3
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Do you have a list of comfort fics? Not them comforting each other but for when you're feeling wrecked and you just need something lovely to make it better?
randomfoggytiger's Comfort Fics
I'm not joking: I've reread more fics than I'll ever read new ones. My usual routine is to pop open Google docs, select an author, and mow down their list.
These three pieces were the ones that started it all; but I forgot to include @seek-its-opposite's photosensitivity. A+s, all of 'em.
Authors that I can't single out comfort fics from and can't tag because Tumblr is restricting my tag options: @baronessblixen, @settle-down-frohike, @onpaperfirst, @markwatneyandenesemble, Lapsed_Scholar, Apostrophic, @ghostbustermelanieking, @o6666666, touchstoneaf, @welsharcher, @scenes-in-between, @mldrgrl, @spooky-nerd, @melforbes, etc.
**Note**: Will ghost edit later~
PART I
Bittersweet Comfort Fics
misslucyjane's Scully seeks insomnia advice from Mulder, and Mulder dies, then lovingly watches Scully live the rest of her life
Kipler's cancer arc set casefile involving WWII vets and letters
melforbes's cancer arc Mulder takes his new bride to the sea for her last spring, and Pre-IWTB Mulder and Scully finally have a home
MldrItsMe's AU Redux II Scully is REALLY suffering, and Sein und Zeit Mulder's suicidal confessions
@discordantwords's Mulder and Scully are almost killed by the Fiji mermaid
mixiz877's Mulder and Scully fight off a gryphon
@fbismostunwanted1158's Scully is beaten down ala Stella Gibson in The Fall
Joyce's S5 AU Mulder is killed, comes back to life to save Scully, and Mulder dies but stays as Scully's partner solving cases with her (Part 1, Part 2, and-- my favorite of the three-- its Halloween sequel)
@teethnbone's post Travelers fic with Mulder and Scully
@sarie-fairy's AU Tithonus love confession, Post Milagro Scully realizing what it feels like to be Mulder, and Post The Unnatural Scully is bleeding out on a failed Sasquatch hunt
@sigritandtheelves's Post Monday Scully remembers Mulder's death
whatliesabove's Post Milagro Scully stays dead (or does she?)
ChaneenW's Pre-IVF arc Mulder is shot into a parallel timeline, reliving the Small Potatoes adventure with Scully
dee_ayy's post Amor Fati recovery fic (with baseball)
@bohoartist's Sein und Zeit through Scully's eyes, and Post Closure Scully rescues a photo of baby Mulder
Lolabeegood's AU where S8 Mulder is returned with false memories (would also recommend Lolabee's IWTB era fics, btw.)
@dreamingofscully's AU S9 Skinner entices Mulder back into profiling... and it doesn't end well
@television-overload's Pre-IWTB Mulder surprises Scully with a baseball field (and his old self again)
@queeenpersephone's AU where IWTB Scully stuck it out with Mulder
@danascullysjournal's Post IWTB bonding fic between a discouraged Mulder and uplifting Scully
@kateyes224's Mulder and Scully content in their UH, and Mulder sells the UH, and Scully buys it
@realmofextremepossibility's Breakup Mulder waiting for Scully's return Part I and Part II.
vulcanscully's Post Breakup Scully stops hearing from Mulder and assumes the worst
enigmaticdr's AU post IWTB Scully thinks she has cancer again (she's pregnant), Breakup Mulder is defeated at their anniversary dinner, AU where Revival Scully gets cancer, and The Revival baby laughs for the first time
prufrockslove's AU Mulder is a Welsh prince, Scully is his betrothed bride, and lots of Prince John high court drama ensues (part I of a sweeping, interconnecting AU series)
Thanks for reading~
Enjoy!
#txf#fic#randomfoggytiger's Comfort Fics#asks#calimanc#Comfort Fics#xfiles#x-files#the x files#xf fanfic#mine
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The First Time, Every Time: E.B.E.
Rated X / 2105 words / Tagging @today-in-fic / Posted on AO3
He makes it to the front doors of her apartment building before he turns back, the photograph that she just insisted is a fake clutched tightly in one hand. He’s irritated and angry, in part because she’s always pushing back on him, and in part because she might be right. He does tend to overlook contradictory evidence when he’s hot on a lead like this. He does want to believe Deep Throat badly enough that it’s possible he’s not thinking clearly.
She said she trusted him. More than that, she said he’s the only person she trusts. But her trust isn’t given blindly, and he can’t decide if that’s something he resents or appreciates. He just doesn’t know what to think.
When she answers the door, his anger immediately wanes. Her eyebrows are all pushed together and she’s scanning his face for clues as to why he’s back already, and he’s still not used to someone looking at him like this all the time. Like they care.
“Is something wrong?” she asks, opening the door wider and stepping aside.
Mulder walks into her foyer and turns to face her. Truthfully, he has no idea why he came back. The conversation just felt unfinished somehow.
“Why is it so hard for you to believe? Even after the bugged pen?” he asks, more frustrated than anything.
Scully closes the door and sighs, then props her hands on her hips and levels him with an icy stare. How she manages to be intimidating at five foot nothing and with that pretty face is an X-File in itself.
“I’m a scientist, Mulder. I don’t believe anything without irrefutable evidence. A bugged pen is not evidence that your picture isn’t a fake,” she says sternly, with a nod to the envelope in his hand.
Mulder huffs and shakes his head, though he can’t disagree with her.
“I just wish you could be a little more open minded,” he says, and Scully presses her lips into a tight line.
“Your skeptical partner,” she says under her breath, and he feels a little flash of embarrassment at the memory of Langly’s comment. He may have vented to them a bit shortly after Scully started working with him, but he could also tell during their brief introduction that the Gunmen liked her. A lot. “You know what, Mulder, I wish that you could be a little more open minded,” she says sassily.
Mulder scoffs.
“To what, exactly?” he asks, tossing the envelope onto her kitchen table and taking one step towards her. She lifts her chin defiantly, and he has the overwhelming urge to kiss her, which catches him off guard.
“To the possibility that you’re being manipulated,” she tells him, her eyes locked on his. “To the possibility that you’re wrong.”
“What if I’m not wrong?” he asks, moving even closer, craning his neck down to bring his nose inches from hers.
Scully blinks rapidly, unmoving aside from the labored rise and fall of her chest. It’s something he’s noticed about her, a tell that she’s emotionally activated even when all other signs indicate calm. He watches for it now, listens for it on the phone. Her breathy, “Mulder, it’s me,” tells him everything he needs to know.
“If you’re so confident it’s real, why won’t you have it analyzed?” she asks, practically panting.
Mulder slips his hand into the space between their bodies, and she startles when his knuckles brush against her chest just beneath her clavicle. He fingers the gold chain around her neck, fishing the tiny cross that hangs from it out from beneath the hem of her shirt, though his eyes never leave her face.
“I have faith in my source,” he says, his voice low, and she draws in a shuddering breath.
“A faith too fragile to be questioned is hardly faith at all,” she retorts.
He has two concurrent realizations, with the backs of his fingers resting against the satiny skin of her breastbone and his face so close to hers that he can smell the wine on her breath: she is the most maddeningly stubborn person he has ever met, and he finds her immovable nature wildly arousing.
He tells himself that he absolutely cannot kiss her at the exact same moment he realizes that he already is, and he pulls away sharply, terrified. Her eyes are wide and her lips slightly parted, and she looks just as likely to slap him as she is to kiss him back.
“Sorry,” he stammers, taking one step away from her. “I don’t know why I did that.”
His head is hung in embarrassment, so he doesn’t see her moving closer. He feels the painful press of her fingernails digging into the back of his neck, and when he looks up her mouth immediately covers his. She’s teetering on her tiptoes, anchoring herself to him with an arm slung across his shoulders, so he stoops down a bit to compensate for their mismatched statures. Her hands move to his face and her kisses grow hungrier, soon accompanied by little whimpers that make his head spin.
“Scully,” he tries to say, but she swallows the sound of her own name and shakes her head with a muffled “Uh-uh.”
What does that mean? Is he supposed to stop her? Should he let it happen?
Her fingers brush over the fly of his slacks and he jumps, grabbing her hand to still it and pulling his head back, just out of reach.
“What are you doing?” he asks breathlessly, very aware that she just made full contact with his very hard dick.
She just stares at him for half a second, her expression unreadable.
“I don’t know,” she says, looking mildly shocked. “Should I stop?” she asks, flashing her eyes to his groin.
Mulder’s jaw tenses. He knows what the right answer is, but he can’t bring himself to say it.
“I don’t know,” he parrots back to her.
A beat passes wherein they look at each other, his hand still wound around her wrist. He knows she won’t keep going unless she’s absolutely sure he wants this. He can feel his heart beating in his cock, and in his periphery he can see the generous tent it’s creating at the front of his slacks. Scully’s tongue slides across her bottom lip and his cock jumps, making up his mind for him.
“No,” he says suddenly, tugging her closer by the arm and sending the front of her body colliding with his.
After that initial hesitation, things move exceptionally quickly. She pushes his suit jacket off his shoulders and then strips off his belt so aggressively that the leather snaps loudly, setting off gooseflesh all over his arms. He manages to get her top off before she slips her hand under his boxers, and he struggles with the clasp on her bra as she drags her fingernails over the papery skin of his scrotum. They’re still standing beside her kitchen table, and all the lights are on. He truly has no idea what will happen next.
Cool air slides over his legs when she pushes both his slacks and his boxers off his hips and they puddle on the floor around his feet. The sound of his heart pounding in his ears is so loud that it drowns out any rational thought. The only one that makes it through is sex . Sex and Scully , two words that he has carefully compartmentalized but are suddenly forcing their way into the very same box as she strokes him firmly with one hand and pops the buttons on his shirt with the other. Meanwhile, he’s got two handfuls of her perky little tits and is working up the nerve to divest her of her pants.
It doesn’t feel even a little bit real. Not when he takes her by the shoulders and guides her back to the table, not when his palms run down the length of her naked thighs as he removes her panties, not when he hoists her up and sets her bare ass down right on top of the manila envelope that brought him here in the first place.
“You’re sure?” he asks, though the fact that she’s got her hand wrapped around his shaft and is guiding him into her wet heat makes the question somewhat rhetorical.
Sex. Scully. Sex. Scully.
She takes him in with a gasp, and his knees wobble when she immediately quivers around him.
“ Shhhhiiiiit ,” he hisses under his breath.
He isn’t prepared for this. It’s been a few days since he jerked off, and under normal circumstances he’d spend as much time as necessary to make sure she got off before he even entertained the idea of coming himself. But it’s Scully, and she’s naked, and her little tits are perfect, and her cunt feels like heaven, and he’s so jacked up on all this E.B.E. shit that he’s operating on a hair trigger as it is.
Baseball. Parking tickets. Budget meetings. Airport security. He imagines something banal with each thrust, trying not to notice the slick sounds of just how wet she is.
It’s not working. Her hips jump up off the table as she slams herself into him, holding steady with one hand on the back of his neck and the other planted on the tabletop. They hold their faces close together, not quite kissing but not giving enough distance that they might meet eyes and realize how stupid this is. Mulder closes his eyes to block out the visual input of her tight pink nipples bouncing on every thrust and holds on for dear life, determined not to make this both a mistake and a disappointment.
“Oh god,” Scully shouts just before she clamps down on him.
Stars burst behind his eyes and he quickly goes from on the edge to careening over it, coming so hard he can barely stay standing. Scully throbs powerfully around him, moaning beautifully in his ear while her cunt strokes every last drop of cum out of him. By the time they’re both finished, she’s on her back and he’s draped over her, listening to her heart slow and wondering what the hell will happen now.
“There’s a roll of paper towels on the counter there,” Scully says, pointing just over his shoulder.
Mulder slowly stands and pulls out of her, and they both politely avert their eyes while he grabs the roll of towels and rips one off before handing it to her. After pulling his pants back up, he quickly retrieves her clothes from the various places they landed and turns his back while she dresses. The manila envelope is now sporting a wet spot in the shape of a wide “V,” which he carefully wipes away. Only then does it occur to him that they didn’t use a condom.
“I’m on birth control,” Scully says, as though reading his thoughts. He turns and looks at her just as she’s tucking her shirt back into her slacks, offering her an awkward smile that she returns.
“That’s reassuring,” he says.
He taps the edge of the damp envelope against his palm, trying to think of something to say that won’t come across as flip or crude.
“I’m sorry,” Scully begins, giving him only quick glances. “That was very unprofessional.”
Mulder laughs, and she looks at him sharply with a mildly bemused expression.
“Sorry,” he says, shaking his head. “Pretty sure it was a mutually unprofessional indiscretion. Takes two to tango, as they say.”
Scully smiles bashfully. “Right,” she says with a nod.
“We got a bit carried away. Happens,” he offers, and he sees her relax.
“Shouldn’t happen again, though,” she says, and he detects a hint of a questioning inflection.
“Right,” he agrees. “Well, I better get going,” he says as he moves towards the door. “Need to see a man about having a photograph analyzed.”
Scully’s expression of surprise quickly gives way to amusement.
“So that’s all it took to convince you, then,” she observes, clearly mildly embarrassed by her own joke.
“I am but a man,” he teases back, delighted by her genuine smile. “We’re um…we’re good?” he asks.
She meets his eye and nods. “Yup,” she says, seeming confident that they can move past this, if not still a bit chagrined that it happened in the first place.
“See you in the morning,” he says as she opens the door to let him out. He takes one step beyond the threshold, but then turns back and leans down to bring his lips to her ear. “I think it’s remotely plausible that somebody thinks you’re hot,” he whispers, then presses a kiss to her cheek before he turns and leaves.
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A friend posted this picture on Twitter and I couldn’t resist writing a little something. ❤️
They had to fly out to a San Diego for a conference.
“A thought,” Mulder said after William had been put to bed.
“What’s that?” Scully asked.
“What if we stretched the conference into a mini vacation? Your mom could fly out with William?”
“Yes,” she agreed with a smile.
Mulder’s conference ended sooner than hers, and he hurried back to the hotel to change and collect Maggie and William to go to the beach.
Scully had no thoughts of changing, only of seeing her boy enjoying the Pacific Ocean as she had done as a child when she met up with them.
Maggie took picture after picture of them, laughing as William squealed in delight and splashed in the waves, stood with his toes squishing into the wet sand, and toddled after the seagulls, all of them laughing when they took flight and he froze in surprise.
The last picture taken was of the back of them at the shore as Mulder held William in one arm and Scully’s hand with his other hand. Her blazer had long since been discarded and her pants were rolled up. The waves hit their feet and they smiled as they looked at one another.
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Mini Moon Lord Supreme | Baby boy DFQC
#I was very inspired by one fanfic and I decided to draw a mini version of DFQC (This particular scene is not in the fanfic)#What a treasure he is!😭#clj#cang lan jue#dongfang qingcang#苍兰诀#cdrama#moon supreme#xf#dfqc#xunfeng#clj fan art#love between fairy and devil#lbfad#art#clj-art-blog#My 30th CLJ art#Have I already have 30 clj arts?!?!😶
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Milagro Fic Recommendations
These are good for any time of year, of course, not just February 14. But here are my favorite fics related to the season 6 episode Milagro, a long time favorite. (And @sisterspooky1013's favorite episode of all time: happy VD, girl!) I’ve been reading and sifting through these for some time, and I have tried to include some from all eras: newer AO3 fics, some written right after the ep aired, etc. But I'm sure I've missed some, so hit me with your own faves, please.
Because of Milagro's ending, this entire genre of fic tends to be heavy on the hurt/comfort and angst (which is fiiiiine by me), but that’s not all that’s here. Many of these are smutty, but not all.
Adagio - Terma99
A meditative, peaceful take on the aftermath of Milagro by a veteran author that includes both agents realizing something they had learned. Lovely.
Alma - 6hoursgirl (@sixhours)
A lovely hurt/comfort Milagro piece. This one is Mulder POV, which is a little less common for post-Milagro, I think, and I like this characterization of Mulder as desperately wanting to help Scully, desperately wanting to protect her, but also a tiny bit scared of the intimacy and relationship he feels they’re on the cusp of. He’s so good-hearted and also a little dysfunctional here, and I love it.
Bated Breath - dreamingofscully (@dreamingofscully)
This one has an original take on Scully's experience; it leaves Scully with clarity and new direction in her relationship with Mulder. DreamingofScully tends to write a more confident, in-charge Scully in the MSR than some do, and I appreciate it.
Beyond the Strokes of a Typewriter - storybycorey (@storybycorey)
When Scully is stricken and ashamed that it’s been so long since anyone has seen her as a woman as Padgett did, Mulder is pushed to revelations. Mulder 3rd person POV. Very good smut build up. And nobody does a gorgeous feelings reveal from Mulder like storeybycorey, man.
I Believe - Diana Battis
There are a lot of lovely, heartfelt hurt/comfort fics about the aftermath of Milagro (for obvious reasons), but this one is especially well done. Viewed from Scully’s third person point of view, it focuses on Mulder’s capacity for tenderness and guilt. Plus some smut.
Don’t Look Up - ArtemisX5
After Padgett's hallway revelation, Scully is horrified that she has no secrets left. But you know, Mulder is much slower on the draw than she gives him credit for. There is also such moving hurt/comfort in this.
Intimacies with Strangers -mldrgrl (@mldrgrl)
This mid- and post- Milagro piece has Mulder and Scully simmering in tension and then boiling over. Their relationship is complex and painfully entangled, and I love how it plays out. There is also excellent Scully characterization. This one helps me to get more fully why she might have been drawn to Padgett initially, something I struggle with in the episode.
La Madrugada - h0ldthiscat
A carefully told tale of RST that takes both characters seriously and is sincerely moving. Excellent.
Lacuna - Aloysia_Virgata (@aloysiavirgata)
This is a longer work, not really a classic post ep per se. But I love this moody, angsty casefile set right after Milagro. This Scully has not come to terms with her emotions, is thoroughly freaked by how she reacted to Padgett, and hasn't even entirely worked out how she feels about Mulder. There is Scully/other here, but the ship is steering home. The end of this is so moving, but cw: dark themes in the casefile, extreme violence against children, traumatized agents.
Still Life - Seek_Its_Opposite (@seek-its-opposite)
Ah, this is such a thoughtful and exquisitely written Scully character piece — and it contains some truly beautiful insights about Mulder, too. It suggests the heartbreaking idea that Mulder’s way of showing Scully respect (giving her distance) is continually hurting her. So tragic (and consistent with canon, e.g. Never Again.) One memorable line: “Every one of their fights is about how to care for one another, every last one.”
Alma Gemela - matchingfabric (@matchingfabric)
After the events of Milagro, Scully (and Mulder) get accustomed to platonically sharing a bed for comfort. This is a slightly different take on post-Milagro. Exceptionally, irresistibly sweet. Oh, and smutty.
What did I miss? Tell me. And yes, I'm working on my own short Milagro fic that will be coming soon-ish.
#x files fanfic#xfiles fanfic#xf fanfic#fox mulder#dana scully#msr#milagro#fic recs#fic rec list#love fic recs#season 6#xf valentines day#valentines day
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👽 X-Files Season 7 Fic, Part 11
There are so many great stories set in season 7 of The X-Files! Here are even more, following seven prior sets of season 7 fic recs. There are a lot of good season 7 stories. Enjoy!
Parts 1 ** 2 ** 3 ** 4 ** 5 ** 6 ** 7 ** 8 ** 9 ** 10
Aquinnah by Anjou
Axiom by allimarie
Birthday Series by @syntax6
Hallowed by OnlyTheInevitable (@gaycrouton)
Harmonice Mundi by @aloysiavirgata
Into the Light by @msrafterdark
keeping count by scullyism
Learning Curve by JLB
Mezzo Luna by msk
Secret Spots by @baronessblixen
Strangers and the Strange Dead by Kipler
throat, eye and knucklebone by audries (@audriesfic)
Untitled by @aloysiavirgata
Untitled by @aloysiavirgata
Untitled "Millennium" fic by @aloysiavirgata
Untitled "Orison" crossover fic by @aloysiavirgata
Wishes by @baronessblixen
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Good Morning
Rated X // 2300 words // Read on A03
tagging @today-in-fic @ao3feed-msr
Summary:
He loves her first thing in the morning.
Notes:
A little smutbiscuit for Kinktober 2023. Prompts: morning sex, frottage, (light) somno. I was 3 or 4 days into writing this fic when the painfully talented @msrafterdark posted this piece and it was like fate and the universe had come together.
He loves her first thing in the morning.
Well, he loves her all the time—volleying theories back and forth across the office over burnt coffee and crappy photocopies, singing along off-key to whatever radio station comes through the static three hours into a road trip from one corner of nowhere to another, lounging on a tiny motel bed with sharp springs and a pile of reports spread out like snow across scratchy blankets. He loves her on his couch sharing a beer after a long day, in her kitchen as they dole out boxes of takeaway (broccoli beef extra spicy for him, kung pao tofu for her, and she always nabs the carrots from his shrimp fried rice), nestled against him with her tiny feet propped up on the coffee table and a bad movie on TV. He loves her when she presses her sweet lips to his and breathes hot into his mouth, when she wraps her smooth white legs around his waist and whimpers “more,” when she clenches around him in the dark as she shatters on a gasp of his name. Oh yes, he definitely loves her then.
But he especially loves her first thing in the morning.
It’s something about how soft she is. Agent Scully is all crisp lines and barbed tongue, the creases of her suits pressed sharp enough to kill a man as she slices through the hallways of the Hoover Building like a red-headed sword of justice, eyes flashing blue steel. Agent Scully can unman the most cantankerous and blustering small-town sheriff with the twitch of one razored brow, can force Death itself at scalpel-point to surrender the most intimate secrets of the grave.
Agent Scully flashes through her days like a machete, too sharp to touch and so blindingly bright it hurts him to look at her sometimes. But Morning Scully. Oh Morning Scully…
Her edges blur in the evening, melting under his words and his mouth and his hands, but it takes until morning for her to grow butter-soft and creamy between the rumpled sheets of their bed—her bed or his, both are theirs, though this particular morning they’re secure behind door 42, the honeyed sunlight of a rare empty Sunday drizzling through the blinds and illuminating the intricate dance of the little dust motes that hang in the air. She sleeps on her side with her back to the window, the light catching her crimson hair in a nimbus that he thinks would inspire a better man to painting or poetry, but reduces him to gibbering wonderment.
He watches her sleep with something like awe. Her lips slack and slightly parted, still plump and red from kissing. Freckles sprinkled like cinnamon across her sleep-pinked cheeks, hair in a delightfully tousled disarray that makes him think of sunset clouds and cotton candy. There’s a little crease between her eyebrows as if she’s dreaming of something unpleasant, and he smoothes it oh so gently with his thumb. He doesn’t want to wake her; he’s not done looking yet.
The sheets have shifted as they slept, revealing the hourglass curve of her side, the mole cradled just inside the firm crest of her hip. She had whimpered last night as he tongued it, a long detour on his slow journey to the oasis between her thighs. Her body is ripe with secrets to explore, his mental map of her slowly filling in as he traverses every hill and valley. He writes “here be monsters” beneath her ribs where she is too ticklish to touch, “here be angels” on the curve of her breast where the gentle scrape of his teeth makes her breath hitch. He finds heaven in the cradle of her hips, nirvana in the fragrant skin of her neck, paradise in the lush press of her lips.
Morning Scully may be soft, but Morning Mulder is getting decidedly less so by the minute.
She stirs slightly and rolls onto her back, the sheet slipping down the slope of her breast. One rosey nipple emerges into the cool morning air, pebbling quickly into a tantalizing peak, and he can’t resist anymore. He leans over her and circles it gently with his tongue, then pulls it into his mouth. He licks and sucks, feeling her flesh tighten even more, and when he scrapes his teeth against it, her chest jumps beneath him. She sucks in a breath, and her hands come up to card slowly through his hair. “Morning, Mulder,” she murmurs, her words still slurred with sleep.
“Good morning, Scully,” he answers as his mouth slides wetly to her other breast, on which he lavishes the same attention as the first, the slow and thorough consideration of his lips and teeth and tongue. Her breathing quickens, her pulse jumping visibly beneath the soft skin of her throat, and she moans low and long. He runs one hand up her leg, and her thighs part with a contented sigh; his fingers move higher until they brush against the curls of her sex, parting them to reach the hot, slick slit beneath. Morning Scully is always putty in his hands, her limbs loose and heavy, making love to him like something from a dream. “Sleep well?”
“Mmmhmm.” Her hips move in small circles as he plays between her legs, right on the line between soothing and arousing, and a blush blooms across her chest. “Wh-what time’s it?”
“Late.” He kisses his way up her neck, suckles on her earlobe until she whimpers softly. She still hasn’t opened her eyes. “I let you sleep in as long as I could stand it. Sorry.”
“S’okay.” His fingers skim her entrance and she twitches beneath him. “This is a nice way to wake up.”
“Do you want to go back to sleep?”
Her face scrunches adorably, and she makes a grumpy whining sound in her throat. “Maybe?”
He smiles into her skin, presses his fingers just barely inside her. “Do you want me to stop while you figure it out?”
Eyes still closed, lower lip between her teeth, she smiles and shakes her head.
Her body is sleep-warm and limp as he drags her thigh over his hip, opening her to him. His erection presses into the firm flesh of her ass as he strokes her, coaxing her arousal slowly to life. He slides his fingers through the slick folds of her sex, coating them in her wetness; some of it must be from last night, when he had pressed her into the cushions of the creaking leather couch and come inside her with a cry that made the upstairs neighbor bang on the ceiling—and then again, in this bed, as she rode him like a prize pony until they both came apart at the seams. She clenched around him like a vise as they came together, and the way he spasmed inside her only set her off again, until their orgasms seemed to feed off each other in an ouroboros of pleasure that felt endless and left them both gasping, shaking, too exhausted to even roll off the wet spot, let alone clean up properly.
She’s slick halfway down her thighs.
“Fuck, Scully, you’re so wet. You feel so good.” He slides his tongue into her ear and one finger into her slippery, aching heat, and her neck arches off the bed. “You felt good last night, too, especially the second time”—and now he scrapes his teeth along the shell of her ear, slides a second finger alongside the first—“when your pussy was already full of my cum, when I could feel it leaking out of you as I fucked you.”
“Jesus, Mulder,” she gasps, and spreads herself open even more, hooking her leg behind him and shifting a little onto her side. He holds her across her stomach and gathers her partly on top of him; her head falls back on his shoulder so he can tongue the soft column of her throat, nibble the sweet ridge along her collarbone. He ruts against her as his fingers pump slowly in and out, her clit hardening beneath his thumb. One arm is still trapped against the mattress, and he wriggles it free as best he can to fondle her breast, rolling her nipple between his fingers.
She moans, squirming against him and pushing her ass deliciously against his hard length, begging for more. A quick shift of her hips, an awkward moment of fumbling, and then his cock is no longer trapped between their bodies but gliding between her slickened labia, and she brings a hand down to press him more tightly against her. He thrusts languidly, trapped between her hot little fingers and her even hotter cunt; he skims across her entrance with each stroke, rubs the head of his cock against her clit, her hips rolling in counterpoint to his sweet, unhurried rhythm. She reaches backward to grab his hair, whimpering, and his newly unoccupied hand busies itself at her other breast, groping and tweaking them in tandem.
“I love making you feel good, Scully.” His voice is velvet and gravel, his cock almost painfully hard against her molten core, and he talks to keep from embarrassing himself by coming before he’s even gotten inside her. “I love making you wet, feeling your clit pulse under my fingers, my tongue.” He licks her from shoulder to ear, leaving a glistening line of saliva along her skin, then sucks on the sensitive little spot where her jaw meets her throat. Soft little oh s spill from her lips as she grinds harder against his cock, and stars crowd his vision. “I love making you come, over and over. The sounds that you make, the way you smell, the way you squeeze me with your tight, wet cunt. ”
“Oh God.” Her whole body shudders and he feels a warm trickle of arousal coat his cock. Her face turns into the pillow, muffling the increasing volume of her moans. Greedy for the sound of her, he cups her jaw to pull her into a long, sloppy kiss, swallowing each whimper as she writhes against him with growing desperation.
“Are you awake yet, Scully?”
“Yes,” she pants helplessly against his mouth, his cock gliding between her soaked folds with almost no resistance. Soft, wet sounds fill the room, broken only by her breathy moans, his desperate panting. “More,” she manages to gasp. “God, more.”
His arm tightens around her stomach, and in one smooth move he drags her fully on top of him and scoots until his back is against the headboard. Her thighs fall to either side of his and he spreads her wide, his thick cock still thrusting along her slickened sex. She drops her head back against his shoulder and he growls, “Touch yourself,” into her ear.
A moment of hesitation, a deepening blush in her cheeks, and then she obeys. He watches her hand moving in quick tight circles over her clit, brushing the head of his cock as he slides it up and down the length of her. He slips just barely inside and she cries out, chasing him with her body when he withdraws, teasing her again and again. She gasps his name between casual blasphemies, notes in a symphony of moans and whimpers. “I want you inside me,” she finally begs. Her hand is slick with her own arousal as she wraps it around his cock, pumping him slowly, holding him against her entrance. She arches back to kiss him, plunges her tongue into his mouth, unable to stop the embarrassingly high-pitched whines coming from her throat. “Fuck, Mulder, I need you inside me when I come.”
“I live to serve,” he purrs against her mouth, and thrusts firmly upward, impaling her in one smooth motion. A loud cry pours from her throat—the neighbors are definitely going to complain again—and then she’s riding him for all she’s worth, her hips rolling and the muscles in her thighs clenching as she gallops toward release.
“Yes, oh God, Mulder, yes,” she gasps again and again, breathless and wanton, her tits bouncing in his hands as he pinches her nipples and her fingers making ever-more-frantic circles over her clit. “Close, so close, harder—”
Her words melt into a loud moan as he begins to plunge into her from below, his feet braced against the bed for leverage and his cock bumping against her cervix with every stroke. “Yes, Scully,” he hisses into her ear. “I want to feel it. Fuck me until you come.”
She’s tight and clenching around him, hotter than hell and slicker than sin, and his hand leaves her breast to join her fingers, stroking her clit together. He bites her nape, hard, and with a startled “ Oh! ” she shatters, her inner walls squeezing his cock in strong, rhythmic flutters as she gushes around him.
“Christ, Scully, did you just–?! Oh my god–!” Before she has a chance to answer or even catch her breath, he squeezes her tightly against his body and thrusts hard and fast, unable to hold back any longer. His ass lifts off the bed as he pistons in and out of her, desperate for release, and when she tightens around him again he comes with a roar—someone next door bangs on the wall—spurting hot inside her until his eyes roll back in his head and his vision goes red at the edges.
He comes down to find himself spooned against her, her ass cradled in the bowl of his hips as he softens inside her. They’ve made quite a mess, but his legs are burning like he’s been running for miles, and she’s gone completely limp against him; the last thing he can imagine is getting out of bed.
Still, he tries to be a gentleman.
“Want me to make some coffee? Then maybe a shower?”
She shakes her head against the pillow and pulls his arm tighter around her body. “I think I might be falling back asleep.”
He smiles into her hair. “Want me to wake you up a little later?”
“Absolutely.”
Hope you enjoyed! As always, comments will be printed and pasted into my little self-esteem scrapbook <3
#my writing#my fanfic#msr#msr fanfic#x files fanfic#fox mulder#dana scully#the x files#txf#xf fanfic#kinktober 2023#good morning
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of our own making
(an X-Files fanfic)
Oh hey, look, it's that massive story I've been working on since January! I'm so thankful to everyone who has shown interest in the concept of this fic and the little snippets I've posted. You've been more help than you know. Without that support, I don't think this would have ever gotten finished.
A special thanks to @numinousmysteries who kindly beta read for me and did a fantastic job. I wanted to make sure I got this right, and she was a great help!
And now I can't wait to share this with you all! New chapters posted daily!
[Read on AO3]
Chapter 1/34 - ink and paper
How long has he been thinking about this, she wonders. What exactly is he thinking? Her mind races, trying to reconcile this Mulder whose deepest desires are spilled out here in ink on worn and crinkled brochures with the one she’s spent nearly every day with these past several months.
She'd never have guessed...
Find out if adoption is right for you!
Visit us at 8080 Meadowlark Ln. Annapolis, MD
“A Home for Every Child!”
Scully stares down at the brochure on the desk. One of many, which are half buried underneath a pile of paperwork from their current case. Certain words and phrases are circled in pen, underlined, annotated in the margins in the familiar scrawl she knows almost better than her own.
stability – less travel? change in division? discuss with Scully
loving home – ask Frohike for real estate agent #
The word “family” is circled three times.
She swallows with some difficulty, finding—to her dismay—that her hands are shaking. Mulder will be arriving any second, and here she is, frozen like a statue.
How long has he been thinking about this, she wonders. What exactly is he thinking? Her mind races, trying to reconcile this Mulder whose deepest desires are spilled out here in ink on worn and crinkled brochures with the one she’s spent nearly every day with these past several months.
She’d never have guessed…
“Morning, partner,” his voice calls out, and she jolts in surprise. She hears the door snick shut behind him, but she can’t bring herself to turn around. With deft fingers, she pushes the brochure back under the stack of papers where she found it, only the colorful corner of the page visible.
“Morning, Mulder,” she tries, clearing her throat. It comes out strained, but she hopes he doesn’t notice. She hides her trembling hands in her lap under the desk.
He looks down at her, half amused, half concerned. “You okay? You're not getting that stomach bug that's been going around, are you?”
“I'm fine,” she answers defensively, warning him to back off. She grabs a file off the desk in front of her with a little more force than necessary, plopping it open.
‘Okayyy,’ he mouths exaggeratedly, eyebrows raised. He sits down at his desk and leafs through some papers sitting on top, arranging them into neater stacks. When he uncovers the brochures, his eyes widen and he clears his throat, hurriedly covering them with other papers and trying to act natural.
Scully thinks about letting it go and pretending she doesn’t know what he’s hiding, but she knows she won’t be able to sleep until she finds out what’s been going on in that ridiculous head of his.
She idly flips to the next page of the file in her hand, displaying a confidence she doesn’t feel in the firm set of her shoulders
“Doing some light reading, Mulder?” she asks, attempting to look disinterested.
His head shoots up, a look of alarm on his face. For a second he thinks she might be talking about something else, that she couldn’t possibly know, but one look at her throws that theory right out the window. He glances back and forth between her and the papers on the desk a few times before dropping his shoulders in defeat.
“I’m sorry, Scully, you weren’t supposed to see those,” he says, shuffling all the brochures into a pile while carefully avoiding eye contact. “I was working here late last night. I must have forgotten to put them away.” As he speaks, he opens the top drawer of his desk and shoves them inside, then takes a seat at his desk. His nose is buried in a file before she can even respond.
She watches him now. He is a curiosity, determinedly feigning concentration on a case she knows he finds disinteresting and a waste of time.
Typical.
“You're really not going to say anything?” she asks, arms crossed in front of her.
That rankles him. “What do you want me to say?” he asks, indignation boiling below the surface.
She looks at him incredulously, the file in front of her all but forgotten.
“You're thinking of adoption? When were you planning to share this with me?”
He sighs and shakes his head, pleading silently with her. “It's too soon, Scully. I didn't think you'd want to hear it yet.”
“But you're looking into it because…”
“It's just been on my mind, that's all.”
She stares at him, brows furrowed.
“Since when?”
Since when… Images flash of a life he didn’t recognize. His sister, alive and grown up. A quiet suburban neighborhood. Cancer Man living just down the street. A wife and kids, but not the right ones. It was wrong, all of it was wrong.
“A hallucinatory trip into an alternate universe tends to make you think,” he answers simply.
He’s looking at her now, deadly serious despite the joking tone. She doesn’t respond. Can’t respond.
“I'm sorry, I didn't want to bring all this up,” he continues. “I know it's a sore spot for you.”
It takes her a moment to conjure words from her mouth, her lips moving but no sound coming out. “I just wasn't expecting…”
“For all I know, this isn't even something you'd want.”
What does she say to that? Is she interested?
“I– I'm not sure. I've never really considered it before.”
He waits, his eyes assessing her for some hidden meaning, some insight into her state of mind. He gets nothing. She’s totally blank.
“Well… what do you want?” He thought the question was innocuous enough, safer territory than straight up asking her if she wants to adopt, but apparently not.
She shuts her folder, abruptly standing and slinging her purse over her shoulder. “I'm going back to the crime scene,” she declares, changing the subject. “I want to see if there's anything we missed.”
“Scully…” he tries.
“Not now, Mulder.” Without even taking the time to put her coat on, she flees, leaving the door partially open in her rush to get away. Cursing under his breath, Mulder grabs his coat from its hook and hurries after her.
The elevator doors are almost all the way closed by the time he catches up, but in this case, he figures it’s worth the potential loss of a limb. He throws his hand between the closing gap in the metal doors, and it bounces back open to allow him entrance, to the extreme displeasure of one Dana Scully. He wisely stays silent in the elevator, stealing glances at her every few seconds out of the corner of his eye as they ascend. He can feel the frigid air coming off her in waves. It’s been a while since he’s seen her this annoyed with him, this eager to get away.
He won’t let her. Not this time. He’s learned from his mistakes.
In the parking garage, she's walking briskly, heels clicking on the concrete, and he has to pick up the pace to keep up with surprisingly agile little legs.
He didn’t want this confrontation. There was a reason he was keeping his research a secret. This is exactly what he was hoping to avoid, at least until the time was right to carefully drop some hints here and there. But now? There’s no carefully about it. No option to wait and let this blow over. There’s only one way out of this at this point, and unfortunately, that way is through.
He picks up the pace.
“You're the one who brought this up, Scully, I was perfectly happy throwing those brochures in my drawer and not saying a word.”
His voice echoes in the concrete parking structure, sounding harsh even to his own ears. As frustrated as he is with her, that isn’t his intent. He only wants to know what he can do to help her, how he can help her fulfill her dreams. He lets out a breath, and with it, releases his selfish frustration. She’s still walking away at a breakneck pace, and he doesn’t know how he can get her to stop and face this.
“If you want to talk about it, let's talk about it,” he says, pleading. “I can't help you if I don't know what you want. You want me to shut up, never mention the subject again?” he shouts, throwing his hands in the air, “Fine, just tell me. What do you want, Scully?”
“I just want to be a mom, okay?” she yells, whirling around to face him. Her words instantly silence him, and he watches stone-faced as tears spring in her eyes. “I see all these other moms out there and think… I could do that too. Why can’t I do that too?”
Well, mission accomplished. The truth is finally out there. Part of him feels bad for pushing her, but the other part knows that it was doing her no good to keep her feelings bottled up inside to deal with by herself. He reaches out a hand, intending to comfort her, his eyes softening in sympathy.
“You could. Scully, you’d be the best mom.”
She flinches away, stepping out of his reach. “You don’t know that, Mulder. I can’t even—even my body is even telling me no. Over and over.” She resumes her brisk walk to her car, and he thinks he sees her brush angrily at her face, no doubt wiping away the evidence of the stubborn tears that have managed to escape.
He rushes to get in front of her, walking backwards so he can keep her in his sight.
“When has that ever stopped you?” he asks. “You had cancer, and you kept fighting. You’re alive today because you refused to give up when your body quit on you. What about that?” He stops abruptly, forcing her to come to a halt before she crashes into him.
There’s no way out of this, is there? Her shoulders slump in defeat.
“You saved me, Mulder,” she admits quietly, shaking her head. “You’re the one who didn’t give up. Not me. It was only because you were with me that I survived.”
This time, when she goes to walk away, he stops her, placing a hand on her shoulder. The simple touch causes her to freeze, hardly breathing, and when he steps closer, she stays. His hands slide down her shoulders, holding her securely in place to ensure that his next words come through loud and clear.
“I’m gonna be with you here on this too, I promise.” His thumbs brush back and forth on the fabric of her sleeves, for his comfort or hers, she’s not sure. “You can still be a mother, Scully. I’ll help you.”
She shakes her head, her heart feeling like it has been ripped to shreds. “I can’t.”
“Yes, you can.” He gives her a little shake for emphasis. She still won’t look at him. “You’ve kept me alive all these years, how much harder could a baby be?”
That gets a breathy chuckle from her, and her head falls to her chest. Groaning with the agony of this burden on her heart, she stops fighting it and leans into him. Without hesitation, he wraps an arm around her shoulder, pulling her into his embrace.
Her hand comes up to find purchase on his suit jacket, relishing in the comfort only he can provide. She’s past caring if anyone sees them like this here. Let them talk. They already do, anyway.
“Well, at least when you wake me up in the middle of the night, you’re not crying,” she speaks into his chest.
She feels him shrug, and can almost see the goofy smile she knows she put on his lips.
“Usually.”
She looks up at him with her chin on his sternum before taking a deep breath and pulling away.
“It's raining,” he says softly, glancing down at her and brushing a strand of hair out of her face. “We can go back to the crime scene later.” She nods, unsure what else to say. She allows herself to be led, his ever-present hand brushing against her back as they start toward the basement.
“Adoption,” Scully mutters to herself, shaking her head in disbelief. “I don’t know, Mulder. This—this is different than IVF. With that, all I was asking for was your…” her eyes dart around, looking anywhere but at him, “genetic material. This is something entirely different.”
He’s pleased she’s at least considering it, but she doesn’t get it at all, if that’s what she thinks.
“How? ‘Cause from where I’m standing, the process of getting a baby is a little different, but in the long run, the result is the same.”
She pauses, looking at him in confusion. “What– what are you saying?”
He runs a hand awkwardly through his hair, suddenly taking a unique interest in his shoes and the floor of the parking structure.
“Yeah, we probably should have talked about this before…”
“Talked about what?”
He sighs and guides her into a stairwell. It’s stuffy and poorly-lit with a flickering lightbulb, but here, there’s less of a chance they’ll be overheard.
“Look, Scully, I don’t know what you had in mind for my involvement beyond contributing to half the baby’s DNA when you first asked me to help you get pregnant,” he starts, fighting hard to meet her eyes instead of shying away. “But, I– I had hoped it would be a little more than ‘Say hi to Uncle Mulder,’ every couple of months.”
She blinks back at him, speechless.
“I’m sorry if that’s overstepping, I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable with all this, I just—” He takes in a breath. “I guess I got to thinking of what it might be like to have a family again.” His bout of honesty is met with a blank stare, and his nervous smile drops. “I completely misread the situation, didn’t I?” he asks, self-loathing waiting on standby. “Got ahead of myself…”
She stops him by catching his coat sleeve. “No—uh. No, you didn’t.” She collects herself, willing herself to offer him some reassurance. Her fingers release the fabric of his coat, shifting her grasp instead to his hand. “I didn’t realize you felt that way.”
He glances down at where she holds tightly to him, and his lips curl into some semblance of a smile.
“I guess they might have had a point with all those communication seminars we’ve skipped, huh?”
She chuckles softly.
“I don’t think this is exactly what they had in mind…”
With a gentle tug, Mulder leads her down the stairs, committed to holding her hand as long as she’ll let him. The air is stagnant and silent, only the rhythmic echo of their shoes clicking on the concrete steps as they make their way to the bottom floor.
She’s thinking. What she knows now, it changes everything.
She had asked him to leave. Hid her grief from him as much as possible after her initial lapse into weakness when she came home with the news. She had almost kissed him, then, unsure of what else she had to live for. She knew she was hurting him by folding inward on herself in the weeks that followed, but that didn’t stop her from doing it. She was in a dark place, hardly able to see what was right in front of her. What she couldn’t see was that his hurt wasn’t just for her, born of some misguided sense of guilt or pity. It was his own, too.
“Mulder, all those months, after it failed—” There’s something like fear in her voice as she utters these words, or maybe regret.
“I was just worried about you.”
She squeezes his hand, feeling tears well in her eyes once more. “No, you were grieving like I was, and I didn’t notice. I pushed you away…”
“Dana…” He turns, a couple steps ahead of her, so for once it’s him who has to look up to meet her eyes. Her lip wobbles as she looks down at him, and he brushes his thumb tenderly over her knuckles. “You had to deal with it on your own, I understood that. I don’t blame you for anything.”
Those eyes. So open and honest and sad. She wonders how anyone could hurt him, could bear to break this man’s heart. How could she?
Choking back a sob, she falls into him, wrapping her arms around his neck and holding tight. His arms encircle her back, supporting her weight, and she feels herself being lifted as he goes up a step, closing the distance between them.
His hand climbs up to the back of her head, stroking her hair soothingly.
“I just wanted to be there for you,” he mumbles into her neck.
“You were, Mulder,” she gasps between bouts of tears, finding comfort in the feel of his soft hair between her fingers. “You’ve always been there.”
He pulls back, lifting his hands to cup her face and wiping away the tears he finds there with the pads of his thumbs.
“You don’t have to give an answer now,” he says, reassuring, “This is… a big commitment, I know, and I don’t want you to say yes just because I suggested it. I just wanted you to know it’s an option, and if you want to have a baby, I’m in. However you want to go about it, I’ll be as involved as you want. Just– let me know, anytime. Okay?”
He’s looking at her now, head ducked so those sad, puppy-dog eyes can get his message across.
She nods, holding tight to the wrists that so tenderly cup her face.
“Okay.”
~~~
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#msr#txf#x files#xf fanfic#mulder and scully#my fanfiction#fox mulder#dana scully#of our own making#ooom#msr adoption fic#adoption
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Handfesta
He wants to marry her in a primeval fashion that transcends man and law and God.
MSR/S7ish/Explicit
@today-in-fic
[on Ao3]
Although they’d been involved, entwined, inseparable, cosmically linked (take your pick, really) for years, he feared actually being with her would mean making promises he couldn’t keep. He’d want to give her the world: A husband who didn’t feel the urge to drive across the country at the mere suggestion of strange lights in the sky. A home to fill with as many blue-eyed babies as she wanted. Or, at the very least, a dog.
But he can’t marry her. They can’t live together. The babies are a moot point��an especially painful one after their failed IVF attempt. And look what happened to poor Queequeg.
In the end, though, pretending he didn’t love her proved more painful than admitting that he did.
***
1.
If the world didn’t end in the early hours of the new millennium, it certainly shifted on its axis. The sun had yet to rise on the first day of the year and Dana Scully had already let him kiss her, insisted on staying the night at his apartment on the flimsiest of pretenses (to look over his barely fractured radius), and is now—assuming he isn’t hallucinating—naked, astride him, and riding his cock.
He isn’t ready to rule out a drug-fueled hallucination quite yet, although this feels pretty fucking real. Underneath the fingers of his one useful hand, the delicate skin on her hip feels soft and warm. Her scent envelopes him like a halo. Moving his thumb to the wet bud of her clit elicits more of the breathy moans that he could listen to for the rest of his life.
She throws her head back, exposing her pearlescent neck. Earlier on his couch, he lavished the skin there with hungry kisses as he fumbled with the buttons on her blouse. She pulled away briefly to put him out of his misery by freeing herself from her clothing. Then she dragged him by his good arm into the bedroom. She helped him out of his jeans but they didn’t bother getting his t-shirt off with his sling in the way so he kept it on as she got on top of him. The thin gray fabric covering his chest makes him feel oddly chaste like an actress who kept her bra on during sex scenes.
There’s nothing chaste about the way Scully is writhing above him, though. She’s so wet that he’d be nervous she'd slip off of him on each upstroke if she wasn’t also clinging to him so tightly. They shouldn’t fit together this well—fuck, they shouldn’t even get along—but they’ve seen phenomena far more difficult to explain than this, so why not?
She folds forward to kiss him and he sucks greedily at her mouth. Her lips are plump, swollen from the barrage of kisses he assailed her with the moment the apartment door shut behind them. Their New Year’s kiss at the hospital had been restrained, but it was enough to crack open the floodgates between them. They barely spoke on the drive back to his place, both sharply attuned to the new dimension of their partnership. He’d become an expert at reading her moods from across a car’s center console. He knew when she was angry or tired or hungry. Now he knew how it felt to sit beside her and feel raw need emanating off of her. And he knew she sensed it from him as well.
He wants this to last forever, to live in an endless time loop of watching her perfect breasts bounce in sync with the rhythm of her hips and her face contorting in pleasure. He wants to take up permanent residence here and have all his mail forwarded in care of Dana Scully’s glistening, velvety vise of a vagina (although she’d certainly shoot him again if she heard him say anything of the sort out loud). But they’re both so close now and when she arches her pale belly toward him and reaches back to stroke the seam between his rigid balls, he lets go. Seven years of pent up desire rush out of him in desperate hot spurts. She comes in stride, squeezing him dry as her inner walls frantically contract in pleasure.
Once he feels all of her muscles surrounding him relax, he half-expects she’ll disappear like a phantom in the night, the delirium of a love-starved man. She lifts up her hips and rolls over next to him. With her chest flush against his side he can feel the hammering of her heart. Alive, alive, alive is all he hears with each beat. He’s come too close to losing her too many times. The simple mechanism of blood pumping through her body is a holy sound to him. A prayer, an incantation, a vow.
“Let’s get married,” he says, testing his luck.
He suspects she’ll blame it on the painkillers, the orgasm-induced euphoria, the sudden rush of blood away from his brain, but instead she says, “Okay.” Her voice is quiet yet resolute and he questions if he’s been propelled into an alternate reality.
“Okay?” he asks, turning to her and squinting in disbelief.
“That surprises you?”
“Scully, I’ve seen you take more time deciding what you want from a vending machine.”
She shrugs. “You’re my best friend. The only person I’d want to spend every day of my life with. We’ve already made it through the sickness and health part more times than I’d like to count. And we love each other.”
She ticks off the reasons with the same confidence she’d use to explain why a pair of tracks in the woods couldn’t possibly belong to a sasquatch. She loves him. In the first two hours of the new millennium Dana Scully has kissed him, fucked him, and said she loved him. Now he’s even less sure he isn’t hallucinating.
“You know we can’t…really…” he trails off, feeling the heft of reality settle back over him like a dark cloud heavy with rain.
“I know,” she says. She bites her lips and glances down. “But we can be married in all the ways that count.”
“You don’t want a big church wedding? A cake with fondant flowers? A taffeta gown?”
“Taffeta, Mulder? Really?” she smirks.
“You’ll have to excuse me,” he says. “I haven’t been to a wedding in at least a decade. I suppose bridal fashion has evolved.”
“Clearly.” She smiles. “But I’m serious. Marriage is a union based on love, companionship, and trust. We have all of that. I don’t care about the window dressings.”
“We’ve even consummated that union,” he says, trailing his fingertips along her upper arm.
“Yes, we have,” she responds. She rests her palm on the flat of his abdomen just below his t-shirt hem. “For what, I hope, will be the first of many, many times.”
“Wait ‘til you see what I can do with two hands.”
2.
“You were married before,” she says, somewhere on an empty stretch of highway. Of course she brings it up when he’s stuck behind the wheel and can’t escape.
“How did you—”
“The Gunmen told me.” She’s staring shyly at her hands. It’s the first time they’re speaking about Diana since her death.
“Shit, I’m sorry, Scully. I should’ve told you. But it only lasted a few months. I was young and stupid. I convinced her to go down to the courthouse mostly because I was terrified she would leave me. Not that it made a difference. I only told my parents after she fled to Berlin and I needed help from their lawyers to get an annulment. They were scared she’d try to get a big settlement, but I just wanted to forget about it.”
“It’s okay,” she says, still examining her lap and not looking at him. “We met as adults. We’ve been in serious relationships before. There’s no reason to be ashamed.”
“Does it bother you?”
“Honestly,” she turns to face him now. “Not as much as I thought it would.”
“Scully, what we have is so much more—” he pauses to find the words but comes up short.
“I know,” she says, bringing her hand to rest on his thigh. “I know.”
After a few miles of silence she asks slyly, the corners of her mouth arcing into a smile, “Did she wear taffeta?”
“I don’t remember,” he says, and it’s true. An eidetic memory and you’d think he’d remember what his bride wore on what was supposed to be the most important day of his life, but he draws a blank. All he can picture is staring at the gold band she slipped on his finger and trying to convince himself it meant he’d never be alone again.
3.
She has to know he’s up to something when he starts applying his Socratic style to global wedding traditions instead of astral projection or lizard-eyed cryptids.
“Did you know the bouquet toss originated in medieval times and was meant to serve as a distraction so the bride and groom could slip off to their private chambers unnoticed after the ceremony?” He asks her on an airplane on the way back from Chicago.
“I know my cousin Nora once elbowed Missy in the gut to push her out of the way so she could catch one.”
“Ouch,” he winces. “How’d that work out for Nora?”
“She actually did get married the following year to some guy she met on a singles’ cruise. Last I heard, though, he ran away with his secretary and left her with reams of credit card debt,” she says. “And he went bald.”
“You win some, you lose some,” he says. “Did you know wedding rings are traditionally worn on the fourth finger because of the belief that a vein in that finger ran directly to the heart?”
“Well, that’s just inaccurate,” she asserts with a smug smile.
“Did you know that Congolese newlyweds aren’t allowed to smile for the entirety of their wedding day? Or that brides in ancient Rome used to paint their faces red?”
“I did not,” she says, scooting closer to him.
“In the Chinese Yugur culture, the groom shoots his bride with three headless arrows before the ceremony then breaks the arrows in half to symbolize unbroken love.”
“I already shot you once, I don’t think you need to return the favor.”
He playfully reaches for his shoulder and winks at her. “Jews, of course, break a glass for the same reason, while the Greeks smash plates. Did your parents do the whole full Catholic mass hoopla?”
She shakes her head. “My father’s commanding officer married them on base in Norfolk. We pretend not to do the math, but it was only six months before Bill was born.”
Mulder whistles. “Oh, Maggie. Remind me to thank her again the next time I see her.”
“For what?”
“For everything. For you.”
“What about your parents?” She asks.
“Oh, the Kuipers-Mulder wedding was the social event of the summer of ‘59. I think some distant Kennedy cousin even showed up. My mother’s parents didn’t like that he was nearly two decades older than her, and my father’s parents didn’t like that she was Jewish but they had enough money to throw a nice party so it all evened out. Not that any of that pomp and circumstance did them any good when the shit hit the fan.”
“And yet you still believe in marriage,” she ponders.
“I believe in marrying you.”
Even though they have a row to themselves on the plane and everyone around them seems to be asleep or absorbed in a book, he’s still surprised when she leans over to kiss him on the lips. It’s a quick, close-mouthed peck but still more than she’d typically allow in public. They interlock their fingers under the arm rest and he wonders what he ever did to deserve her.
4.
They’re curled toward each other on the motel bed like a pair of parentheses, too wired to sleep. He tells her about seeing the spirit of his sister in a field of dead children. She kisses his brow and pulls his head into her chest. She thankfully doesn’t suggest his vision is the result of a mind warped by grief and stress. The silk collar of her pajama top darkens with his tears and she holds him closer. He’s been cold for so long and her touch is thawing him.
He first told her about his sister in a motel room not unlike this one. Even then, Samantha had already been dead. She’d already been dead when Scully embraced his quest as her own. She’d already been dead when Scully was abducted, when Scully lost her chance at motherhood, when Scully nearly died in a hospital bed from a cancer that had been given to her. He finds it’s this that stings the most—that he made her suffer for nothing.
“She’s been gone this whole time,” he whispers into the hollow of her throat.
“I’m so sorry, Mulder.” She presses her warm lips to the crown of his head, her words muffled in his hair.
It’s been a long day and he can smell her skin and sweat through faded layers of powdery deodorant and woodsy perfume. He likes that she chooses to smell like a forest and not a flower. He likes her natural scent even more.
He’s an orphan now. The last of his kind. And yet, cradled in her arms, this moment feels like a beginning and not an ending. The ties that held him to this earth have been severed and it’s only her firm grasp that’s keeping him from floating away.
“Be my family, Scully,” he says, raising his head up to the pillow so he can meet her gaze.
“Always,” she swears. Her lower lip is quivering and her eyelids are heavy. New tendrils extend, stretching between them, twisting around and around each other, serpentine. They’re interwoven and he never wants to break away. He can stand to lose anything except her.
He kisses her lips softly and feels her starting to cry. Tears stream down their cheeks and it’s impossible to tell which are hers and which are his. She is his home and everything about her feels right. Deepening the kiss, he rolls on top of her.
She brings one small hand to his chest to stop him. “Are you sure, Mulder?”
She asked him the same question in his apartment after autopsying his mother. That night he was seeking numbness and she, rightfully so, wouldn’t give it to him. She bore witness to his pain, holding him as he wept and slipped into a fitful sleep. Tonight, though, he is sure. He’s coming to her purely out of love, to rededicate himself to her.
He nods solemnly and she brings her hands to either side of his face, pulling him in so she can probe his mouth with her tongue. The taste of diner coffee lingers under the artificial mint of her toothpaste.
He takes his time unbuttoning her pajama shirt, revealing the milky skin of her chest. Tracing a trail down the valley between her breasts with his tongue, he pauses at the scar on her abdomen. It’s a reminder of her fragility and her strength. He kisses it to pay tribute to the duality of her nature.
She gasps when he reaches the hem of her pajama bottoms. Lifting her hips up, she lets him ease the silk down her legs and slim ankles. Her presence feels so powerful and all-encompassing that he sometimes forgets how small her actual physical form is. Her feet are so delicate he can’t believe they have the endurance to carry her to crime scenes and autopsy bays and wherever he asks her to follow him. He kisses the arch of each one in gratitude and then lets her pajama pants drop to the floor.
As he works his way back up, she starts spreading her thighs apart in anticipation. He can feel the heat of her sex radiating on his face like the sun before he even reaches the space between her legs. He inhales deeply and takes in her intoxicating essence before dragging his tongue up from the folds of her labia to the nub of her clit. Her thighs tighten around him and she rakes her nails through his hair.
“Mulder,” she begs of him quietly, his name an invitation on her lips.
He answers by latching onto her sex with his mouth, sucking and releasing her clit with increasing speed and intensity. Breathing feels unnecessary when he’s devouring her like this. He can’t be sure if the swirl of dizziness in his head stems from a lack of oxygen or a surge of adrenaline. Either way, he doesn’t come up for air until he sees her clenching the sheets between her fists in his peripheral vision and hears the high-pitched whimper from the back of her throat that lets him know she’s close. He loves making her come this way, knowing he’s able to give her this much-needed release, but now she’s tugging on the sleeves of his t-shirt, pulling him up to meet her.
Rising to his knees, he sheds his shirt and peels off his boxers, freeing the erection that’s been throbbing to the beat of her moans. He pulls a pillow from the other side of the bed and slides it under her hips.
She reaches down between them, taking his length in her hand and confidently guiding him inside her. They’ve done this 12 times in his bed, nine times in hers, thrice on his couch, and now in their sixth motel room (the eidetic memory works when it counts) and yet each time feels like a new discovery.
Tonight feels endowed with a singular significance. He has finally laid his sister, and therefore his quest for her, to rest, and can give himself to Scully fully. The rules feel like loose suggestions now. Why not quit the bureau and run away with her? Why not stake his claim to her in the light of day and marry her in front of everyone they know?
But he’s getting ahead of himself. Right now, there is only this moment—only their bodies gliding together in this timeless dance. They are prehistoric cave dwellers mating on a pelt of wolf fur. They are medieval peasants copulating under the thatched roof of their cottage. They are federal agents making love on the polyester duvet of a budget motel room in Sacramento, California. Plunging into her, he knows he has loved her in every lifetime.
Their bodies find a rhythm that feels as natural as their age-old verbal tête-à-tête. Perhaps after all this time it shouldn’t be such a surprise that they’re so good at this.
“What?” she asks, breathily, and it tears him from his stream of consciousness.
“Hmm?”
“What are you smiling about?”
He must’ve had a shit-eating grin on his face by the way she’s staring at him. It makes him laugh and he collapses on top of her and chuckles into the side of her neck.
“I just can’t believe how lucky I am,” he whispers into her ear.
“We finally found something you don’t believe in,” she says.
He doesn’t know if he wants to smile or cry or keep thrusting into her. Somehow, he manages to do all three and soon they’re both coming hard and likely earning a noise complaint in the process. Fuck it, he thinks, let everyone hear.
After he slides out of her, they’re too mentally and physically exhausted to move so they stay lying atop the covers side by side. The window air conditioning unit kicks on, cooling the damp sweat that coats their skin. Feeling the goose pimples rise on her skin, he maneuvers them onto their sides so he can hold her from behind.
“I officiated a wedding for two of Sam’s Barbie dolls once,” he tells her. The scene surfaces from the hazy sea of his memory. It was months before her disappearance. They’d heard their parents fighting nearly every night that summer and he imagined Sam’s precocious mind grappling with the knowledge that marital bonds could be so brittle.
“Yeah?” she asks hesitantly.
He wants her to know that it’s alright, that talking about his sister feels lighter now.
“Well, I started anyway but I wasn’t taking it seriously so she made me stop and kicked me out of her room.”
“She couldn’t have asked for a better big brother,” she says. He wraps his arms around her and chooses to believe.
5.
His lungs are mostly healed, although he isn’t cleared for active duty yet, when he insists they head back to North Carolina for a “personal mission” over the weekend. She doesn’t want him to risk flying so she agrees to let him pick her up early on Saturday morning for the long drive. They’re on the road before the sun rises.
“I know you’re feeling better, Mulder, but you’re really not up for anything too vigorous,” she says as he steers the car south.
“Well, it’s up to you how vigorous you plan on being on our wedding night.”
He looks over to find her eyebrows predictably raised.
“Open the glove compartment, Scully.”
He takes his eyes off the road just long enough to watch her remove the pamphlet for the Irish-themed bed and breakfast in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains and the braided ivory rope he’d sent away for.
“What is this, Mulder?” Her skeptical tone is replaced by a light, hopeful voice as she examines the rope.
“It’s for our handfasting ceremony.”
Looking over at her again, he sees even more questions in her eyes.
He doesn’t tell her he’s chosen this because their bond is so pure and elemental that he wants to marry her in a primeval fashion that transcends man and law and God; that he wants to tie his soul to hers like the stars are tethered to the sky; that he needs to know that even when their bodies have long decayed and reverted back to base matter, even when the sun has burned out and the universe has collapsed back within itself, that their essences will still be bound together.
He only shrugs and says, “It’s Celtic. Like your ancestors.”
Her smile breaks his heart wide open and he knows she understands.
“We missed May Day—you know, the feast of Beltane, the lusty month, and all of that—but Ewan says the old Neolithic hunter gatherers weren’t too picky about auspicious dates.”
“Ewan?”
“Byers’ cousin. He owns the B&B and does these things from time to time” he says. “But don’t worry, the other two Stooges don’t know anything. I didn’t want to hear Langly’s spiel about the evil capitalist roots of marriage—nor did I have the heart to let Frohike know you’re officially off the market.”
“I appreciate that,” she says with a toothy grin.
“I hope you’re not upset I sprung it on you like this,” he says.
“Oh, Mulder,” she sighs. “A pagan ceremony preceded by a mysterious seven-hour road trip with a 5 a.m. wakeup call is the only way I would ever expect to marry you. Truly, if you got down on one knee with a diamond ring after a candlelit dinner I’d probably immediately order a CT scan to check you for a cerebral hemorrhage.”
The old stone home that houses the B&B looks straight out of a fairy tale. It’s drizzling when they pull up and he starts humming a few bars of Alanis Morisette. She catches his eye and he winks at her.
“Rain is considered good luck in Italy and India,” he says.
He fetches their luggage from the trunk of the car and follows her inside. There’s no check-in desk, just a cozy living room with overstuffed floral furniture, a wood-burning fireplace, and Ewan waiting for them.
He’s only a little disappointed when Byers’ cousin turns out to be a gentle-looking older man dressed in a flannel shirt and hiking boots and not a bearded druid priest clad in white robes and a crown of antlers.
“Agents Mulder and Scully,” he says, shaking their hands. “It’s such a pleasure to meet you. John has told me so much about you. I’m honored to be a part of your sacred day. Why don’t I show you to your room and give you some time to freshen up before the ceremony?”
He leads them up a creaky flight of stairs to their room. It isn’t much larger than their standard roadside motel room but has far more character. A linen bedspread with Celtic knots woven in emerald thread covers the four-poster bed and there’s a wooden rocking chair in the corner that looks like it’d made the journey from the old country.
“Take your time,” Ewan says as he heads out. “You can meet me downstairs whenever you’re ready.”
After he closes the door behind him, Scully crosses the room to envelope Mulder in an embrace, resting her head under his chin.
“This is perfect,” she mumbles against the fabric of his sweater. “Thank you.”
They take turns using the bathroom and then head back downstairs. Ewan leads them through the B&B’s tidy eat-in kitchen and out the back door.
“Did any ancient mystics speak of the significance of a bride wearing jeans?” Scully whispers to Mulder as they follow Ewan to a clearing in the woods.
“I’m sure if any of them ever got a chance to see what your ass looked like in that pair, white dresses never would’ve made the cut.”
They’re walking hand-in-hand and she gently nudges his upper arm with her shoulder. After months of playing platonic in public, getting to touch her out in the open like this—even with the woods and John Byers’ cousin as their only witnesses—feels like taking a deep breath after being submerged underwater for too long.
“We’ve made it,” Ewan says, leading them to the center of a circle made from small stones. He guides them to stand face to face and take each other’s right hand.
Mulder recalls the first time they touched—shaking her hand on the morning she entered his office. He remembers her fresh-faced energy and how she met all his theories and hunches with fully formed counterarguments; how they improvised the steps of a dance that would become second nature over the years. Locking eyes over their hands, she smiles at him and he knows she’s reliving the same moment.
Despite whatever attempts she made to tame her hair into submission back in DC, the humidity and light drizzle in the woods bring out the soft frizz he loves to run his fingers through. He thinks of a downpour in an Oregon graveyard, the first time the peal of her laugh struck a chord in his soul.
He hands the rope over to Ewan who starts wrapping it around their linked hands and explaining the meaning of the ceremony. The words—commitment, love, intention—wash over him. He knows he could spend years studying the OED, the works of Byron or Neruda, and still never find a combination of letters that describe how much he loves the woman standing in front of him. For two people who rely on words to explain, argue, dispute, and affirm, they’re shockingly bad at expressing what they mean to one another using language. Or perhaps they’d reached as far as words could take them and only stumbled when they had to take the next step without any.
Ewan has looped the cord around their wrists and tied it in a string of nautical-looking knots that make Mulder wonder if Scully is reminded of her father. Ewan has them repeat a series of vows to each other. The words echo through their lips but Mulder knows they can only begin to encapsulate the commitment they’ve already made to each other. There’s no point in the ceremony where they’re instructed to kiss, but he does it anyway when Ewan stops speaking, leaning in to open her lips with his and feel the slick warmth of her mouth. Does it feel different now that they’re married (at least in some spiritual sense)? He isn’t sure, but he plans on conducting more experiments once they’re back in their room alone.
They break apart and Ewan looks up from the ground where he’d been staring in respectful silence.
“A first handfasting represents an engagement or a trial marriage. The ceremony is repeated in a year and a day to formalize the union,” Ewan says. “It’s tradition, I promise. Not just a way to stir up repeat business.”
“Well, same time next year, I suppose. Put us in the books,” Mulder says, looking down at their bound hands and then up at Scully’s wet eyes. She gives him the softest smile and a gentle laugh. A year, a day, and a millennium from now and, he knows, they will still be tied together.
They wear no rings. They sign no papers. Their union isn’t documented in any official records. By the time they get back inside and warm up with cups of coffee, the faint lines left on their wrists by the cord have faded. The interstitial fluid under the skin has redistributed itself, restoring equilibrium, but their internal balance has been forever recalibrated.
***
A year and a day passes. He dies and she brings him back to life. She gives birth to their son and then begs him to leave.
Their anniversary does not find him reunited with her in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains but alone in the desert of New Mexico. Of the few personal belongings he took when he fled, the one he holds most dear is the braided ivory rope she pressed into his hands on their last day together. I’ll bring it back, he vowed.
The cord is yellowed from the oils of his fingertips constantly worrying over it and the dust of the desert, but he holds it tighter on this day. He doesn’t know when he’ll be able to safely return to her and to William, but he intends to keep this promise.
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(if you are accepting prompts!) what iffffff you wrote a soft gentle little fic in which Scully has a spectacularly unlovely head cold and after some grouching Mulder looks after her? There are so many moments of peril on x files that sometimes it’s nice when the enemy is just a simple rhinovirus, lol.
He doesn’t even attempt to make it himself. Calls ahead to Loeb’s with his order, which he accepts from a stylish young Mexican man whose name tag reads Pierre.
“A sheynem dank,” Mulder says, echoing the grandmother who called Samantha a shaineh maideleh.
Pierre nods. “Bitte, baby,” he says. “De nada.”
***
Mulder clomps up her stairs with Puritan determination. He feels that since he did not cook the food himself he must exert some other effort for it. His soul is at eternal war with itself.
He doesn’t knock; lets himself in with the Home Depot key Scully had made for him around the time that Tooms wanted into her pants for all the wrong reasons. It sticks a little still, even after so many years. He’s rarely had to use it - when aren’t they together?
A hacking noise from her bedroom, something wet being coughed. Spat.
Mulder helps himself to a bowl, a plate, a spoon.
“I’b arbed,” she rasps from down the hall. “I’b a Federal Agent.”
“Don’t shoot,” Mulder calls back, hunting down a napkin. “I am a poor boy from a poor family.” Her mother wears Revlon and his wears Guerlain.
He tips some soup and two of the matzo balls into a bowl, wedges one of the challah rolls next to it. He puts the leftovers in the fridge.
Mulder carries the plate down the hall, the nearly-full bowl sloshing dangerously atop.
He enters Scully’s bedroom. She’s been upgrading over the past couple of years, replacing her IKEA basics with good secondhand finds in cherry and walnut. The candle she’s lit smells like white flowers with thick, creamy petals.
Scully is tucked into bed like an Austen heroine, all delicate pallor and genteel unhappiness. Her nose is pink-tipped and raw, hair in a ponytail. She’s wearing a gray sweatshirt instead of her usual pajamas.
Mulder sets the food down on her nightstand, next to a vase of dried roses and her Yaqui slide holster. A speed loader. There’s a well-framed Monet print over the bed.
Pat Conroy’s Beach Music is open face down on her lap, surrounded by crumpled tissues. She doesn’t look happy to see him, her purple-shadowed eyes narrowing a bit.
“Go away,” she says. Sneezes.
“Brought you some soup,” he says, unnecessarily. Points at it, also unnecessarily.
“Bulder,” she sniffs. “Go hobe. I don’t like being fussed over. I hab a cold, dot Ebola.”
“Too bad,” he says. “I’m going to. Do you have Vick’s Vapor Rub? You really should have Vick’s Vapor Rub.”
She closes her eyes. Pinches the bridge of her nose, centering herself. “It’s dot your fault I’b sick,” she says, looking back over at him after a moment.
“I dragged you into the woods again. You fell down a hole full of corpses! You’ve been in remission for like…twenty minutes.” He jabs the spoon at her.
She rolls her eyes. “You don’t get a cold frob being in the woods. Or frob being chilly. You get a cold frob a virus.”
He feigns outrage. “Excuse me, but are you contradicting noted excellent mother-slash-world-class-epidemiologist Doctor Teena Mulder MD?”
This sends Scully into a flurry of coughing. She swats at him in annoyance. “Ugh,” she says at last. “You see why I can’t hab you here, you’re a lousy durse.”
Mulder takes her hand, pale as a kid glove. He shoves the spoon into it, squeezes her fingers about the handle. “Eat the soup or I’m calling your mom. I’m calling BILL.”
She narrows her eyes again. “You wouldn’t.”
“I think you’re well aware that I’m capable of being overly dramatic when the wind is southerly and the fancy strikes.” He holds the plate before her like an offering to a goddess.
Scully considers him. “You did get us out ob the teabwork sebidar,” she observes. “Techdically.”
“I did,” he agrees.
“You bade be sing,” she adds. Reproachful.
He grins. “The angels all were singing out of tune, And hoarse with having little else to do, Excepting to wind up the sun and moon, Or curb a runaway young star or two.”
Scully looks at the spoon in her hand for the first time, as though wondering how it got there.
“Byron,” she says, a little smile. She picks up the roll, examines it. Peers at the soup. Sneezes again. “Mad, bad, and dangerous to know.”
“Caroline Lamb,”Mulder replies. He doesn’t point out that Caroline Lamb had been Byron’s lover, that she’d sent him a clipping of her pubic hair in the mail. He certainly doesn’t think of the juncture between Scully’s thighs at all, whether it matches the drapes, whether it tastes like kettle corn and Vineyard whitecaps in July. Lobster rolls and saltwater taffy.
He’d meant it, about the sleeping bag. He wishes there had been a sleeping bag and he is so, so grateful there was no sleeping bag.
Scully sniffles again, defeated. “You got be batzo ball soup?”
He thumbs an escaped tendril of hair back from the sweep of her extraordinary cheekbone.
“I did,” he murmurs back. He sets the plate down between them. He peels the roll open, yeasty and fragrant, and dunks it into the golden broth.
He raises it to her mouth.
Scully sucks at it, draws it past her lips. She bites. Chews, swallows. She holds his eyes with hers. She catches an escaped droplet with her tongue.
“Good,” she mumbles. Watches him dip the dry part back into the bowl. “Thank you.”
He feeds her another bite. Her mouth opens like a snapdragon, like an oyster in the tide. She drops her gaze this time. Her guard.
They complete the entire roll this way, and one matzo ball. Silent, slurpy. Scully’s lids droop, her lashes brushing her cheeks.
“Sleepy,” she mumbles, curling onto her side. Her paperback falls to the floor.
Mulder returns the food to the night table. He strokes her hair until she’s out cold, snoring a little. He curls into the bed as well, his nose to hers. He touches her philtrum with his pointer finger. He traces the tender pink whelk of her ear.
They sleep for hours until she coughs awake, gasping, her thin chest heaving. Mulder rubs circles between her scapulae.
“Go hobe,” she says, knees drawn, leaning against his chest. “You deed to sleep.”
He puts his arms around her, drops a kiss on her tangled head. “Okay,” he agrees.
She’s out again in moments. He holds her upright until he drifts off as well.
They sleep until morning. He feeds her soup for breakfast, calls into work with a case of Ebola.
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I ║ Palomino
Jack Daniels x f!reader
{ Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist | Part 2: Buckskin }
Rating: M (will be E in future chapters)
Summary: Unable to get a refund for a week-long horse-riding pack trip you'd booked with your ex, you decide to go solo. As it turns out, a rebound with a cowboy named Jack while traversing the wild landscapes of Wyoming might just be what you need.
Warnings: Extremely self-indulgent solo travel romance, flirting, yearning, language, matchmaking themes, lots of horsey details, mention of breakup, no use of Y/N
Word count: 6.5k
Notes: This story encompasses a lot of firsts for me - first new series since Consent, first time writing Jack, first time writing something so action-heavy and close to my heart. While I'm not 100% confident I got everything right, I am so excited about this fic. I hope you're ready for the ride (I apologise in advance for all the horsey puns incoming)!
I want to call out (affectionate) LJ @prolix-yuy for lighting a fire under my ass for cowboy Jack with her incredible Westworld AU Cognitive Dissonance. I also need to thank Ani @deadhumourist for the idea of a company retreat that I used in this chapter, and for sharing with us her amazing Jack fic Under Marula Trees. And of course, Ash @mandoblowmybackout for enduring my almost non-stop screeching about Jack ❤️
More notes in the Series Masterlist on horses and travel, etc!
Palomino: a pale golden or tan-coloured horse or pony with a white mane and tail, originally bred in the south-western US.
The door creaks long and loud on its hinges as it opens, barely letting through a bustling figure before slamming shut so hard it rattles on its heavy oak frame.
At the long-suffering frown sent his way from across the reception desk, Champ holds his hands up in apology and tip-toes in exaggerated fashion to his desk. Ginger shakes her head fondly - being quiet is not one of her employer’s strong suits.
She presently returns to the phone call she’s in the middle of, using her most placating tone on this customer. ‘Look, we have regulars coming in the same week as you. They come every year for a company retreat, and they are just the loveliest people you can meet. I promise you’ll have a great time.’
The vintage Chesterfield groans under his weight as Champ settles down, and with a practised flick of his wrist, his cowboy hat lands on its designated hook on the wall. He turns to the ledgers Harry left on his desk two days ago - he can’t keep putting them off much longer…
His mind quickly wanders. He’s a people person, and he’s always been more interested in the dude ranch holiday part of the business. However, Ginger is so good at her job that she’s made him redundant, banishing him to the whiskey distillery side of things.
It doesn’t stop him from keeping half an ear on the ongoing phone conversation though.
‘I’m so sorry, ma’am, it’s not our policy to offer refunds. But I promise you’ll have the best birthday with us on the trip.’
Champ steeples his fingers and leans back in his chair. Ah, a customer wanting to cancel. Always tricky.
‘Tell you what - since you’ve already paid a 40% deposit for two guests, why don’t I waive the 20% balance for your holiday for one party?’
Champ arches a grey eyebrow in curiosity.
‘Alright, perfect,’ chirps Ginger brightly. ‘We look forward to seeing you in a few weeks. Bye now.’
‘What was that about?’ he asks as soon as she hangs up.
Bringing up the reservations system on her computer, she types busily as she replies, ‘A guest booked a holiday with her boyfriend, but they broke up, and she wanted a refund for both their places. I convinced her to come alone instead with the discount. She’s here the same week as the Kingsman so she definitely won’t be lonely.’
Champ gives her a double thumbs up. ‘Nicely done, Ginger. And did you say it’s her birthday while she’s here?’
‘Yes. Don’t worry, I’ll give Poppy a heads up to bake a cake in advance.’
‘Do you have a photo of her?’
Ginger’s fingers pause and hover over the keyboard, a warning in her voice. ‘Champ.’
He blinks innocently. ‘What? I’m a nosy bastard.’
With a sigh, she pulls up a Whatsapp profile picture and holds up the phone to him.
He puts on his reading glasses to look at the screen, and proceeds to nod thoughtfully. Finally, they haven’t had any single guests at the ranch for months on end. Surely, she’s his type…
‘Champ?’ Ginger’s voice pulls him out of his thoughts. ‘Stop meddling!’
He feigns ignorance. ‘Whatever do you mean, ma’am?’
She rolls her eyes affectionately. ‘He’s a big boy, he doesn’t need your help.’
Champ barks in laughter. ‘Like hell he doesn’t. Call the Kingsman and reschedule them, Ginger. I have a plan.’
You’ve never travelled on your own before.
Now that you’re speeding down the empty country roads towards the Bighorn Mountains - windows down, dust flying, radio blaring - you honestly don’t know why you waited so long.
You’re glad that the woman at the Statesman stood firm when you called a month and a half ago, asking for a refund. The discount sweetens the deal too.
To be honest, the week-long dude ranch trip you booked months ago had completely slipped your mind in the aftermath of the breakup. There were more pressing matters, like - what were you going to do with the house you bought and remodelled together?
You’d just finished tiling the backsplash with the vintage Italian mosaic you found at a flea market when you were informed that he didn’t feel the same way about you anymore. In fact, he hadn’t for some time.
You were only reminded of the trip when you started clearing your stuff out of the attic, finally having found an apartment you could afford on your own that is also not a shithole. You found the riding gear that you’d stashed away, gathering dust since you two started dating.
You should be thankful that at least there’s no costly wedding venue deposit to forgo or a pet custody battle to muddle through. He’s always hated animals - you really should’ve known.
But you can’t bring yourself to not be bitter about everything. Not yet.
Maybe it’s a good thing that you’re going on this trip. That lazy bastard can start pulling his weight and sort out the house viewings for potential buyers for this week. He’s been dragging his feet - just because he can afford to pay both the mortgage and rent at his new bachelor pad doesn’t mean you can too.
You shake yourself out of it and crank up the stereo. Fuck it. You’re not thinking about him or the house or anything this weekend. It’s your solo birthday getaway and you’re gonna enjoy the fuck out of it.
And who knows? If you’re lucky, you could be rebounding with a handsome cowboy, like one of those awful Unicorn Club novels you used to read over and over again when you were fifteen.
You laugh, the pull of the muscles in your cheeks unfamiliar after weeks of disuse. A girl can dream.
You switch off the ignition, hands gripping the driving wheel tightly, and you take a moment to compose yourself.
‘You can do this,’ you murmur, giving yourself a reaffirming nod in the rear view mirror.
Hopping off your rental truck, you shut the door behind you and start towards the only building you can see, a rustic lodge with a red roof. Statesman is blazened in iron letters, nailed proudly above a wraparound porch with welcoming rocking chairs and armchairs scattered about.
The gravel beneath your sneakers crunches loudly. You can hear in the distance sounds that you haven’t heard for a long time - clip clop of hooves, the drag of a barn door on rusty hinges, the low whinny of horses. You breathe in the mountain air scented with a whiff of sweet hay. Things that were familiar once upon a time. Your chest constricts at something blooming between your ribs, and a small smile lifts the corner of your lips.
There’s a bark out of the blue, and a border collie comes zipping towards you, wagging his tail so hard that his whole bottom wriggles from side to side. You coo excitedly and crouch down to give him a cuddle when a man with grey hair emerges from the lodge. It’s a warm day, but he’s wearing a suit with a cowboy hat.
In a booming voice, he calls your name in greeting and makes his way over to you. ‘We’ve been expecting you, young lady! The name’s Champ. Pleasure to make your acquaintance.’
You stand and shake his proffered hand with a smile. ‘Nice to meet you, Champ. It’s good to be here.’ You gesture to the empty parking lot. ‘Am I early or something?’
‘You’re our only guest this week, actually,’ he replies in a thick Southern accent.
You scratch the back of your neck, taken by surprise. ‘Umm, but the lady I spoke to on the phone - she said that there are regulars joining? A company retreat or something?’
‘Sadly, they rescheduled. It’s just you, my dear. You’re our VIP!’ he grins and claps you on the shoulder. ‘Come! Walk with me. I’ll have someone take your bags to your room. You can leave the keys in the car, it’s safe - but you keep any food to yourself or Jameson here will run away with it!’
The border collie barks at his name and Champ scratches him behind the ear, dispatching him with a wave of his hands.
Your host starts at a brisk walk. ‘So, how was your journey, young lady?’
You have to power walk to keep up with him as the gravel fades into firm sand. ‘Long, but glad to be here. I’ve been really looking forward to getting away.’
‘First time travelling alone, I assume?’ Champ smiles at you kindly.
You nod sheepishly. ‘I’m a bit nervous, to be honest.’
He laughs. ‘You’re entitled to nerves, but I promise you, you’ll forget all about that in three, two, one -’
Right on cue, you round the back of the lodge and you can’t help the gasp that slips out as you stumble to a stop.
The full landscape of the ranch comes into view beneath your feet. A picturesque river cuts through the green sweep of land, small lodges with matching red roofs are dotted all over one side of the bank, and bigger barn-like structures stand on the other. The Bighorn Mountains tower over the entirety of the property. You see horses grazing in a huge, fenced field, tails flicking lazily at flies.
Champ practically glows at your reaction. ‘It’s taken thirty years to get to where we are. I hope it will stand for many more decades to come.’
‘It’s - stunning,’ you say rather inadequately.
Champ winks at you. ‘Wait till you go into the mountains, my dear. Come along, now.’
You resume walking side by side, and he continues, ‘Now, since you’re our only guest this week, I can give you two options for your trip. We can do day-long rides with you, and you spend the nights here at the ranch. It’s more comfortable, but it does mean that you don’t get to go as deep into the mountains.’
Champ stops to take a breath. ‘Alternatively, you can go on a week-long pack ride with our cowboy and camp along the way, just the two of you. It's a magnificent journey, I can promise you.’
It’s a lot of information to take in so quickly, and you hesitate. ‘Um - ’
He holds up a hand at you and pauses abruptly, something catching his eye. ‘Ah, speak of the devil. Before you decide, you need to meet our cowboy. He'll be your guide for the week.’
You’re craning your neck to catch a glimpse when Champ bellows so loudly that you nearly have to take cover. ‘JACK! Son! Say hello to our guest for this week before you take the horses to pasture.’
Your ears still ringing, the silhouette of a man on horseback comes into view halfway across the yard. The dust seems to magically settle and part, and a handsome face framed by a cowboy hat, a tidy moustache and a wicked sharp jawline comes into focus.
‘Whoa.’
You belatedly realise that you said that out loud when Champ wriggles his eyebrows at you.
‘Howdy, ma’am,’ the cowboy calls back, tipping his hat politely. His voice rings brightly in the space between you, but the delicious lick of his Southern drawl makes goosebumps chase across your skin. You manage a weak smile and a wave, not trusting your power of speech at the moment.
‘Be back at four to take the lovely lady on her orientation ride, alright?’
Jack gives him a two-fingered salute. ‘Got it, boss. See you soon, ma’am.’
You watch unashamedly as the cowboy smoothly steers his horse around, and with a whistle, the dozen or so horses follow suit as he canters out of view.
‘So? What say you?’ Champ interrupts your thoughts with an expectant look.
You can’t help the stupid grin that breaks upon your face. ‘The pack trip sounds good.’
Champ claps his hands together so loudly that you jump. ‘Your wish is my command, ma’am. Or rather - Jack’s.' He winks. ‘He’ll pick out a horse for you and take you for a short ride to make sure you’re comfortable before the trip starts tomorrow. Sounds good?’
‘Perfect.’
Stopping outside one of the lodges near the river, Champ sweeps his arm in a flourish. ‘There we go, this is your lovely room for tonight, with the best views of the mountains. Poppy’s left some lemonade and sandwiches inside if you need a pick-me-up, and your bags will be with you shortly. Just make sure you’re ready by four. Got it?’
He holds up a hand to you, and you give him a high five. ‘Got it, Champ.’
‘Welcome to the Statesman, my dear.’
Watching you bound up the stairs with a spring in your step, Champ gives himself an imaginary pat on the shoulder. Well done, old chap. The plan is in motion.
You lay your outfits on the large bed as you chew on a delicious sandwich, weighing the options for your afternoon ride. You packed according to the list the ranch sent in your orientation email, but you wish you’d brought something nicer. They really should’ve included a hot cowboy warning.
You wanted to spend some time on the porch and enjoy the magnificent views of the mountains from your doorstep before the ride, but by the time you’re finally happy with your choice of clothes, you’re startled by rapping on the door.
Sucking in a steadying breath and smoothing back your hair, you turn the knob.
Fuck me sideways. This man is devastatingly good-looking on close inspection.
‘Hi, again,’ you smile, hoping your words didn’t come out as squeaky as it sounded in your head.
The cowboy returns your smile with teeth and tips his hat at you - black suede with a leather band - then offers you his hand. ‘Jack Daniels. Pleasure to meet you properly, ma’am.’
You give him your name and your hand. His grip is firm and assured, the slide of his palm against yours feels weathered and rope-worn. You cross your arms self-consciously, but the words that come out are bolder than you feel. ‘So, Champ says you’re my own personal cowboy for the week?’
He chuckles and plays along, giving you a small bow. ‘I’m at your beck and call, darlin’.’
His rich voice curls around every syllable, dipping and climbing with each inflection, but the languid cadence doesn’t waver. You decide here and then that this man can call you darlin' any time he wants.
He hooks one thumb through a belt loop, leaning his shoulder against the door frame. He runs his eyes up and down your body, both professionally assessing and not, lingering on your breeches, riding boots and half chaps. He arches an eyebrow at you and says in a playful tone, ‘So, I see you’re one of those fancy English riders.’
You gesture at the flannel shirt you’re wearing, the ends tied in a knot to give it a cropped fit. You think you look cute - hopefully. You choose to crack a joke, ‘Give me some credit, cowboy, I’m trying to fit in.’
He holds his hands up in surrender, pushing himself off the door. ‘My apologies, darlin’, where are my manners? The illusion is perfect. You ready to go?’
You grab your riding hat. ‘Absolutely.’
Jack takes one look at your helmet and tuts, plucking it from your fingers. ‘Oh no, that won’t do. That is one thing I don't allow on my rides. We’ll find you a real hat.’
It’s a short walk to the stables. You hang back with all the subtlety you can muster to quietly study the cowboy you’ll be sharing close quarters with for the next week. His walk is deliberate, he almost prowls, narrow hips undulating with the rhythm of his strut. When he reaches up to adjust his hat, his shirt strains over his broad shoulders, sleeves rolled up in the afternoon heat. Your eyes are about to dip a lot lower when he turns back to look at you, and you duck your head like you’ve been caught with your finger in the pie.
Are you imagining the touch of self-satisfaction that’s crept into his warm eyes?
‘So, how long have you been riding?’ he slows down so you can catch up with him. You’re relieved he doesn’t call you out on your very obvious appraisal of him.
You shrug. ‘Since I was a kid, but I haven’t been on a horse since - ’ You pause to rearrange your words. ‘- for almost five years. And I’ve always ridden the English way, so I don’t know how well I’ll do with Western riding.’
He brushes away your concern. ‘Western is easy, it’ll be a piece of cake for you, I’m sure.’
The stables are large and airy with rustic beams framing a vaulted ceiling. Utility barns are clustered outside in close vicinity, but all is still in the mid-afternoon hour. Your footsteps echo as you make your way down the concrete corridor, Jack’s sturdy cowboy boots treading heavier and louder than your riding boots. Large and tidy stalls line either side, some empty and some occupied.
‘The horses spend most of the summer outdoors,’ explains Jack. Stopping in front of a huge chalkboard nailed to the wall, he gestures at the daily schedule listed next to each name, written in a neat hand. ‘We keep them on a weekly roster to make sure their workload is evenly distributed.’
Resuming your slow course deeper into the stables, Jack asks conversationally, ‘What are you looking for in your horse for the week?’
It’s a broad question that you don’t quite know how to answer. You purse your lips. ‘To be honest? I don’t know, it’s been a while.’
‘Ok. Let’s put it this way - what’s important to you?’ He ticks off the options with his fingers. ‘Character? Temperament? Speed? Stamina?’
Is it just you or did his voice dip an octave on that last word?
Flustered, you struggle to come up with a reply. ‘Um - ’
Seeing that you’re overwhelmed, he wipes the slate clean with a wave of his hand. ‘I apologise, I didn’t express myself well.’ He changes tact. ‘Why don’t you tell me about your favourite horse?’
That you can do. You think about the last horse you really loved, before you met your ex, casting your mind back to long weekend afternoons at the local stables. The answer comes easily to you as your eyes fall to the tips of your black boots.
‘I like a horse that's forward-going but responsive to contact, and on the hot-blooded side with a bit of an attitude - I like a challenge.’ Feeling his eyes on you, you lift your gaze to his apologetically. ‘Sorry, was that way too vague or way too specific?’
‘Not at all. I appreciate a lady who knows what she wants,’ he reassures you, seemingly pleased at what he’s hearing. ‘I got just the horse for you.’
You must be in the middle of the stables structure now, when Jack makes a sharp right turn into a spacious room. Your eyes widen at the rows and rows of beautifully polished Western saddles, bridles and an assortment of other tack, some of which you don’t even recognise. Eyeing the signs above each saddle, you remark, ‘I see there’s a recurring theme in the names.’
Jack hoists a gorgeously embossed tan saddle off its rack on the wall, holding it against his side as if it weighs nothing, then grabs the bridle next to it and a saddle pad. ‘What do you expect from a ranch that also runs a distillery?’
Your eyebrows shoot up. ‘A distillery?’
‘Whiskey,’ he replies, making his way to the exit. ‘I’ll show you when we ride up the mountain, it’s on the other side of the ranch. Champ spends most of his time in the distillery nowadays.’
‘Can I help with anything?’ you ask, your hands feeling very empty as you trail behind him.
‘Not a chance, darlin’, you’re the guest. But you can watch if you want,’ he adds mischievously.
Lord have mercy. This man has gotten you more wound up in the last fifteen minutes with a few cheeky words than anyone has in a long time. Pull yourself together, woman.
You pass at least another dozen stalls - this is easiest the biggest stables you’ve ever seen - before Jack’s long strides ease, and at his whistle, the handsome face of a palomino pops up from behind a door. He nickers and nudges the cowboy familiarly on his arm, ears pricking up in alert when you come into view behind him.
‘Meet Scotch,’ Jack says in introduction, giving him a firm pat on the neck. With an easy swing, he rests the saddle on the top of the door and unlatches it, leaving it ajar for you to shuffle in behind him.
‘Hello, gorgeous,’ you can’t help but coo, running your palm from his forehead - painted with a fetching white star - to his grey, velvety muzzle. ‘He’s sweet.’
‘Wait till you get him on the open road - he’s a speed demon.’
You must have let your nerves show, because Jack reassures you, ‘But only if you want him to be. He’s just as happy going steady.’
You lean against the wall as Jack makes quick work of tacking up. You admire the gentle way he fits the bridle over Scotch’s head and the bit in his mouth. Reaching out, you help untuck his white mane from the browband, etched with pretty flowery patterns, and brush out the tangles with your fingers as Jack fastens the clasps.
You can’t help but catch your bottom lip with your teeth when, with a soft grunt, the cowboy lifts the saddle over Scotch’s back. His shirt, tucked neatly into his jeans, stretches taut and you eye the hint of a soft belly underneath. It rests above an almost obnoxiously large belt buckle in the shape of - are you shitting me - a flask with Statesman spelled out in capital letters.
You quickly look away before you’re consumed by the want to reach out and check if it’s a real flask.
The Western saddle has far more bits and bobs than you’re used to, but you’re too far gone to pay attention to what Jack is doing with his nimble fingers anymore.
‘There.’ He straightens, dusts off his hands and places them on his hips, one dark eyebrow up. ‘I hope you were paying attention, ma’am, I might quiz you later.’
Oh shit. You stammer, ‘Um, I mean, you were quite quick -’
Jack crosses his arms and smirks. ‘I’m pullin’ your leg, darlin’. You’re so easy to rile up.’
Before you can restrain yourself, you take a step forward and give him a playful shove in rebuke. The joke’s on you though - the pectoral muscle underneath your palm is lean and hard, and your push makes no impact at all.
‘Employee of the year, ladies and gentlemen,’ you jest, retracting your hand reluctantly.
He leans in close and gives you an almost insolent smirk, voice dropping intimately. ‘Stop distracting me, darlin’, or we’ll never make it out of this stall.’
Fuck’s sake - your cheeks literally flame. You’re about as subtle as a bucking bronco.
Taking mercy on you, Jack herds you out of the stall with no further teasing, and Scotch follows obediently behind. You’ve barely scraped your brains back together when he stops by a doorway at the end of the stables, holding up a hand that brings the gelding to a smart square halt.
‘Stay,’ orders Jack in a stern voice as if Scotch was just a very large golden retriever - he has the colouring after all. He then nods at you. ‘Come on in, darlin’.’
Stepping into the small room, you gasp in delight - every conceivable surface is covered with cowboy hats of all colours and materials.
‘Let’s see what your size is,’ Jack mumbles to himself as he plucks some options off the wall. There’s no mirror, and you hold your breath when he steps into your space, putting one hat after the other on you as he narrows down the sizing. His face is set seriously, the bow of his upper lip drawn downward, brow wrinkled in concentration.
Eventually, you run out of oxygen and you breathe him in - summer grass, leather and smoke. Your tongue darts out and wets your suddenly dry lips.
In the minutest of glances, you catch his eyes flickering to your mouth for just a second. If you weren’t looking for it, you wouldn’t have spotted the fleeting stutter in his movements as he fits you with a cream suede hat with a brown leather braid. It sits snugly on your head without any pinch.
‘Try tipping your head forward and back,’ he instructs you, breaking the quiet tension. The hat doesn’t slip, and with a tap on the brim and a smile, he declares, ‘I think we’re good to go.’
Stepping into the open air, the bright afternoon sun makes you wince, and you pull your new hat a bit lower to shield from the light. You follow Jack across the yard, heading towards a chestnut with white stockings, fully tacked and waiting at a wooden post. Ruffling his thick mane, Jack says proudly, ‘Darlin’, meet my horse, Whiskey.’
‘How very fitting,’ you remark, smoothing a hand on his strong neck. ‘Hi, Whiskey.’
Scotch, who has been following you two dutifully, bumps noses with his friend in greeting. Reaching for his reins, Jack looks at you with a question in his eyes - all the tacking up, prepping and joking around is done. Suddenly, the likelihood of falling off your horse and flat on your bum in front of the cowboy seems extraordinarily high. Maybe you really didn’t think this through -
‘Hey,’ Jack cuts short your thoughts, chucking you gently under the chin. ‘Don’t be nervous. It’s all muscle memory - like riding a bike, you can’t forget. You do know how to ride a bike, don't you?’
Your shoulders quake with a laugh at his attempt to lighten the mood.
He tilts his head at you. ‘May I give you a leg up, darlin'?’
At your silent nod, Jack brings Scotch around, and you hope he doesn't see you wipe your sweaty palms on your breeches. One hand on the saddle horn, the other on the cantle you bend your left calf up and back by the hinge of your knee.
Jack steps in right behind your heels, his frame dwarfing you even as he leans down at the ready. One strong hand closes around your ankle and the other just below your kneecap. His voice is deep and brushes against the shell of your ear. ‘On three, darlin’.’
He hoists you up so easily that you nearly go all the way over the other side of the saddle, but you grasp the horn just in time and land squarely in the seat, albeit a bit clumsily. You can’t help but wonder what else he can do with his easy strength - a whole lot of other things, you reckon -
Scotch shifts underneath you as he adjusts to your weight. The basic instincts of being on horseback kick in slowly but surely. You gather the reins in your non-dominant hand, put the tip of your toes through the stirrup irons, push your heels down and sit up tall. You inhale deeply and smile at Jack, who’s checking the tightness of the girth and the length of your stirrups.
‘All good?’ he asks you.
‘Yes,’ you reply, relieved that you feel less like a fish out of water than you’d feared.
Jack unties Whiskey from the post. Slotting his foot in the left stirrup, he effortlessly pushes off the ground and swings his leg over the saddle, settling gently into his seat. It’s really not fair that he’s able to do it so easily in jeans that tight.
Whiskey starts leading the way towards the back of the property and Scotch follows, obviously not pleased to be left behind. Jack holds Whiskey back so that you’re walking alongside him. ‘You’ve seen people ride Western?’
‘I get the general idea. Reins in my non-dominant hand. Leg aids are similar.’
‘If you want to turn to the right?’
‘Reins to the right and shift my weight the same way,’ you reply, recalling the research you did before the trip.
Jack nods approvingly. ‘Sounds like you’ve got it sorted, darlin’.’
Going up a gently sloping path, the ranch disappears behind you as you begin to climb above the property, and the landscape dramatically opens up. Your breath catches at the sight of the rolling plains that stretch too far for your eyes to see, towards the Bighorn Mountains. Scotch’s ears prick up in excitement at the space, nickering and chomping at the bit. You keep your contact on the reins light even as he prances underneath you, mindful not to pull on his mouth.
Jack smiles, and you hope you're making a good impression. ‘Wanna warm up with a little lope?’
‘Lope? You mean a canter?’ you retort jokingly.
He chuckles at your cheek. ‘Alright, ma’am, look at you with your fancy words.’
With a stern finger pointed his way, you warn him, ‘You’re not allowed to laugh if I fall off, deal?’
‘I know you won’t, but for your peace of mind, I’ll cross my heart,’ he jokes and traces the motion over his chest with his thumb. ‘After you, darlin’.’
With the lightest nudge of your heels, Scotch steps straight into a smooth canter. The sudden movement jolts you forward in the saddle and out of balance, but you quickly adjust, and your hips begin to follow the flow of the familiar four-beat motion. The wind sings in your ears over the steady rhythm of hooves hitting the earth, the mountainscape blurring into green and blue.
Jack is keeping pace next to you from a safe distance, meeting your eyes when you send the biggest grin his way.
For the first time in months, you feel joy.
The sun sets on a mild evening, so you agree to an al fresco dinner by the fire when Jack poses the question to you on your return from the afternoon ride.
After a quick shower and changing into casual jeans and a sweater, you meet the rest of close-knit Statesman team at the dinner table, and Champ explains the logistics of the pack trip to you.
‘Since it’s just the two of you, you’ll only need one packhorse. You’ll sleep outside for the first two nights, then on the third, you’ll get to the Halfway House.’
The peculiar name piques your interest. ‘Halfway House?’
Champ chuckles. ‘Halfway as in halfway through the trip. We’ll drive out to stock up the house, bring you fresh clothes and anything you’d need for the second half of the trip back to the ranch. We’ll also collect your dirty clothes and have them laundered by the time you’re back. So make sure you pack two bags, we’ll sort them out tomorrow.’
Turning to Poppy, he starts discussing the provisions for the trip, and you take the chance to shuffle closer to Ginger. Jack is at the far end of the table, deep in conversation with a man introduced to you as Tequila (you didn’t ask), so you’re sure he can’t overhear you. You clear your throat. ‘So, I was wondering what the… lavatory arrangements are like out there?’
She gives you a encouraging smile. ‘It’s all au naturale, I’m afraid. But there are plenty of bushes so privacy won’t be an issue. We bring a portable shower for guests for the days you camp out, and there’s running water and electricity at the Halfway House. But at this time of the year, Jack usually just washes off in the river.’
Your jaw drops at that revelation, and before you can close your big mouth, you babble, ‘Wow… um, by wow I meant… bathing in the river must be… cold?’
Ginger gives you a knowing grin and clinks your glass. ‘I think you’ll have a great time on this trip, honey.’
It’s early, as the first day of a pack trip always is. The chill from daybreak still clings to the thin mountain air, but the glare of the sun is already strong, even from behind his sunglasses.
Jack runs through his usual checklists. Vetting the horses, triple checking the tack, bedding, food, supplies, first aid kit. He’s collected your bag from your doorstep and loaded it on the packhorse. You pack light, which he appreciates.
He spotted you at the breakfast table earlier, almost done with your toast, when he crossed the yard with the horses, so he reckons you’re on track to make a punctual start. With the heat forecast, he wants to make it to the cover of the forest path before midday. If you make good time, a sunset dip in the lake is on the cards.
As he double checks if all the straps on the saddle bags are properly buckled up, his routine is disrupted by a firm pat on his back.
Champ is a bundle of energy even at this early hour of the day, his suit on just the right side of presentable despite the wrinkles. ‘Have a good trip, son, and make sure you show our guest a good time. I like this one.’
‘You like everyone, Champ,’ retorts Jack, but there’s no real bite in his words. ‘Not sure it counts for much.’
‘I got a good feeling about her, I’m telling you.’
The younger man sighs, one hand on the rump of the packhorse and one on his hip as he braces himself for the usual spiel. ‘C’mon, boss - ’
‘You’re young, you’re single! If you insist on hiding away on this ranch in the middle of nowhere, you might as well at least try to have a good time when the opportunity presents itself.’
‘Why don’t you bother Ginger about it? She’s young and single too,’ grumbles Jack as he resumes his checks.
‘Because I know she can take care of herself. But you?’ Champ makes a face.
‘Thanks for the vote of confidence, boss,’ he grumbles. ‘Just so we’re clear, I’m not hiding from anything. I actually like this job, but half the time I think you’re just trying to get rid of me.’
Spotting you over Jack’s shoulder, Champ gives him one last clasp on the arm. He leans in and says in a low voice, eyes sincere. ‘You don’t have to punish yourself forever, son. Live a little.’
Jack shakes his head as Champ moves away and calls out to you, his boisterous voice carrying even further in the cold air. He knows Champ means well. It’s not the first time he’s tried to set him up with someone, and he can confidently wager it won’t be the last.
He knows for a fact that his boss rescheduled the Kingsman’s annual trip to engineer this one-on-one pack trip - they’ve been coming to the ranch the same time every year without fail since he started this job. He has no doubt they were more than delighted to be in cahoots with Champ in a scheme like this.
Jack huffs a dry laugh to himself. He must be coming off as really fucking sad for Champ to go to such lengths this time.
He straightens his well-worn denim jacket as you approach, looking almost shy this morning. You’re wearing a light fleece over what appears to be the same outfit from yesterday, hands tucked into pockets, hat dangling from the chin strap looped around your wrist.
He gives you a smile. ‘Mornin’, darlin’. Sleep well?’
‘Morning. Probably not as well I should have, considering we’ll be sleeping on the hard ground for the next couple of nights,’ you answer with a yawn, leaning on the post where the horses are waiting. You rub their noses affectionately. ‘Morning boys, how are we this fine morning?’
Jack gestures at the third horse. ‘This is Bourbon, our packhorse.’
‘Hey Bourbon.’ You give the pinto a firm pat, smoothing out his matted forelock.
‘You ready?’ asks Jack.
You put on your hat and nod determinedly. ‘Now or never.’
‘It’s not too late to back out, you know, ’ he jokes as you both start untying your horses from the post.
‘Oh no, you’re not getting rid of me now, cowboy,’ you quip.
When you’re both mounted, Champ and Ginger make an appearance, waving and beaming from ear to ear as you ride by. Champ grins, ‘Have fun, we’ll see you in a week! Don't come back unless you have plenty of stories to tell!’
You retrace the same path you took yesterday, up the back of the ranch and into the mountains. As the orange sun crests the top of the Bighorn, it dawns on Jack that he hasn’t spent any amount of time alone with another person for a long while, let alone seven continuous days with someone like you.
He shakes his head. You’re a guest, that’s all. One who hasn't lost your gentle hands and soft seat despite not having spent any time in the saddle for years; who is quick on your feet yet easy to fluster; who laughs at his jokes and poorly concealed innuendos - but a guest. It’s his job to keep you safe this week, and he’s good at it. He’s done this for years and years.
Sometimes, he thinks that it’s all he has.
Something like anxiety gnaws at his chest. You’re quiet, and he picks up on the stiffness in your shoulders. He clears his throat. ‘Nervous?’
You turn to him at his question, sucking in your bottom lip. ‘I suppose. Not about the riding, but… I’m a bit nervous about spending the week with you, to be honest. No offence.’
Well, at least he’s not the only one.
‘None taken,’ he shrugs nonchalantly. ‘And don’t worry, darlin’. Ol’ Jack doesn’t bite.’
His pulse skips a beat when you send him an almost impertinent sidelong glance. ‘I hope you do a little bit, cowboy.’
It takes him a second to let out a bark of laughter, and your whole body relaxes at the throaty sound. ‘Maybe I’m the one who should be nervous, then. Shall we stretch our legs? Start the day with a lope?’
Scotch recognises the word and whinnies, tossing his head excitedly.
A gentleman at heart, Jack adds, ‘Or later, if you prefer. We can go as fast or as slow as you want, darlin’.’
A slow heat burns under your skin at his words. Surely he must know what that sounds like, especially in that raspy drawl of his.
It must be the altitude that’s throwing your judgement out of the metaphorical window. Brazenly, you drag your eyes over him. His left hand grips the reins loosely, resting casually on the saddle horn, thick fingers of his other are splayed on his firm thigh, hips rocking to the pace of his horse.
You meet his curious stare in a challenge, imbuing your words with as much meaning as you could, letting a coy smile stretch your lips.
‘Let’s go fast, cowboy.’
As soon as your heels touch his sides, Scotch takes off at a lively stride, and Jack watches you go with a chuckle to himself.
‘Careful what you wish for now, darlin’,’ he mutters under his breath, and then he comes after you - fast.
Notes: Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed this first part! Comments and reblogs will be very much appreciated. If you would like to be tagged in the next part, please fill in my taglist.
If anyone is interested, there are some more horsey notes below (if it's boring, please let me know and I'll shut up lol):
About 'gentle hands' and 'soft seat': a kind rider uses 'quiet' aids to communicate with the horse (i.e. no pulling on the bit or flapping legs), and follows the horse's movements with their hips (i.e. their seat) to be gentle on the horse's back. It's a very subtle skill and you use a lot of core strength that is built over the years - sitting quietly on a horse is much harder than it looks!
If you can't tell, I ride the 'English' way and have never ridden Western. I've done as much research as I could, but if there are any inaccuracies, please let me know!
#jack daniels au#jack daniels xf!reader#jack daniels x fem!reader#jack daniels x you#jack daniels fanfiction#jack daniels fanfic#jack daniels x reader#jack daniels#jack whiskey daniels#kingsman fanfiction#kingsman golden circle
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