As a revival disliker, this book isn’t too bad. It does its best to fix My Stuggle IV. Worth at least a skim through if you consider the revival as canon.
I feel like I’m reliving my early MSR days all over again. Mulder initiates a kiss with Scully in an alternate universe (oxygen deprived dream? hallucination?) , and a romantic dance in an alternate ending,
…and Frank initiates an (almost) kiss with Karen in a hallucination.
These yearning men just be dreaming their very own shippy fanfiction for themselves 😂🥹
My Valentines contribution. Written a bit tipsy and hastily on my phone, un-beta’d, natch. Posted via mobile.
Spoilers: everything up to s10 (I think, depending on your interpretation)
Rating: NC-17
Trigger warnings: mentions of depression
Tagging @today-in-fic
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Perhaps Valentines Day wasn’t the best time to start venturing out as an official couple again on their therapist- prescribed ‘date night’.
Dinner went as well as could be expected, and she might have had one too many glasses of house red to ease her nerves and abate the tension. The restaurants are crowded with other couples—some laughing, some quiet, others clearly going through the motions, checking their watches. The close proximity and bustling noise make Mulder nervous, isolation has made him hypersensitive and fidgety. But he’s trying for her, for them. Not even the deepest of depressions could smother his New England breeding. He’s pulled out her chair, led her expertly in a gentle foxtrot to Sinatra, been attentive and complimentary, and anyone who didn’t know him as well as she does would never have noticed his lack of appetite or his incessant swallowing as if a dinner roll were caught in his throat. The food is delicious and they are still companionably quiet at their table, which is a relief, but the environment with its scraped linens and roses and music combined with the scent of rich sauces and overbearing perfume is the equivalent of a romantic pressure cooker. Before dessert menus can be suggested by the over-solicitous waiter, Scully takes pity on him and slides her hand over his.
“Let’s go home,” she suggests calmly.
He interprets her subtle meaning perfectly, but is caught off guard nonetheless. Her eyes are steady and sure enough for the both of them, though, even though her mind is all but screaming that this is too soon. But it’s Valentines Day, damnit. And she’s had a little too much wine, she’s feeling frisky and pliant, and he looks good enough to eat. Even when his eyes are clouded, the melancholy in his features suits him, even his bone structure lends to a forlorn sort of beauty. She wants him. She wants his hands and his body and being in his presence lately just isn’t enough.
He kisses her knuckles as they pull into the drive, and she feels a trill of hopeful anticipation flutter around her rib cage. Sometimes she forgets that despite their recent distance, he is still the man who knows and loves her best. He’s still in there, and he’s fighting his way back.
The kitchen floor is slippery and cool to her stockinged feet, a contrast to the flush in her cheeks. She is pouring them each a glass of the bottle they bought from that winery how many years ago, and he is behind her nuzzling and nipping, sending gooseflesh over her skin and heat to her groin. She giggles uncharacteristically and uses her bottom to push him off, encouraged by the feeling of his thriving erection. He is undeterred, though, and presses her belly into the counter, retrieving the glasses from her hands, whispering “later” into her ear, and she mentally chides herself for putting him in the position to be the smart one. But something about his pragmatism seems off. Abruptly she pushes his hands away and turns to face him, noting with dismay that his expression is one of practiced enthusiasm. Her temper flares but is quickly extinguished.
“Hey,” Her hands are on his face and stroking behind his ears, the way she knows renders him totally helpless. “we don’t have to do this if you aren’t ready.”
The best thing about their rehabilitated relationship is that they are consciously avoiding evasive tactics. They cut to the chase because lying to each other would only be an exercise in futility. Briefly he looks offended, but just as quickly his face turns sorrowful, knowing full well she’s seen straight through his carefully orchestrated seduction. He pulls her close and kisses her forehead in apology. “I’m sorry. It’s not that I don’t want this,” he says to her hairline, “I just….its like….wanting chocolate cake…even though my taste buds don’t work anymore.” She can feel him close his eyes above her. “I remember what it was like…to feel things. But right now it’s, it’s like I feel everything, and nothing all at the same time.”
Her hand travels to the nape of his neck and she lifts her face to kiss that button chin she’s secretly obsessed with.
“It’s ok, “ and she smiles, genuinely smiles up at him, so utterly thankful for his honestly that her earlier plans now seem trivial. “It will get better.”
He’s searching her eyes for any trace of pity, and finds none. And something about that sends his libido surging. He kisses her, eyes open, so he can gauge her reaction, and she lets him, complicit. Standing at such close proximity, she can feel his heart thud, causing the buttons of his dress shirt to shiver. Large palms grip her buttocks and hoist her round his waist with little effort. Thicker in his later season, the effort that he has put in to fight his demons has paid off.
The next few moments occur in flashes, the trip around him and up the stairwell, her laughing in earnest and his hot breath at her neck. He drops her carelessly onto the bed and leers, unabashed, then gathers her skirt around her waist. Ever mindful, he chooses not to rip her silk blouse away and instead carefully frees each button, pulling the cups of her bra down and away, flesh spilling forth. She knows that her acceptance has done wonders for his ego and by proxy his desire, and part of her wants to pick this moment apart, figure out who this new animal is. The hedonist in her does not care. Her nylons were discarded at some point, she does not remember when, and now his palm is at her mons, warm and reassuring.
“What do you want?” She can hear her voice, but cannot place where it originates.
“I want to feel….” his eyes are on her groin but unfocused. His thumb grazes her clitoris, “you. I want to feel you.” And he’s suddenly ripping at his belt, zipper, freeing himself.
He places her hands at her inner thighs, presses, opens her. She is a willing oblation. He teases her first, entranced by the way his shaft now glistens and slides through her folds, then enters her with an audible grunt. This acute focus he has right now on their sex, his reveling in the sensation, it’s arousing to the point it’s making her delirious. His eyes are glazed over, onyx black and focused solely on where his body is entering hers. His pace is purposeful, deep and perfectly rhythmic, like good blues. He’s loud tonight. He’s vocalizing his pleasure, moans making its way past unmoving lips, deep from his chest and increasing in pitch and desperation. He’s positively entranced and it thrills her, god it thrills her to watch him get off on her this way. He’s wholeheartedly objectifying her, they both know it. He can’t stop himself. And she’s loving it. She is so swollen and aroused, tender and leaking as an overripe peach. The ridge of his glans presses on the front of her wall with purpose and the sensation feels like a spinal block, warmth and heaviness flooding her from the waist down. Her own climax is close, just a few swipes and her body would start to milk his. But something about the way he’s gazing down makes her not want to obstruct the view. So she pulls back, spreads herself wider and revels in victory when his expression turns pained and desperate.
Mulder has always been a giving lover, an intuitive one and he knows what she’s needing. But tonight is about him, and she finds herself being the one to try and hold out. He’s not making it easy. As much as he’s studying her, she cannot avert her eyes from the sinewy flex of his obliques as he pumps into her. There’s a new-penny shine of sweat concentrated at the apex of his clavicle she would love to lick clean. He grunts again, growles her name and that does it. She writhes and arches, possessed, as her orgasm seizes her. Waves of pleasure arc their way through her body, causing her internal muscles to contract, then quake in its release. He watches, triumphant and slack jawed. She is left quaking, with goose flesh and chattering teeth. When he allows himself to come, it chokes him silent. He collapses atop her, the distended veins in his throat and fluttering of his eyelids being the only hint at its intensity. His orgasm explodes and then seems to reabsorb, an endothermic process, and she can swear his body temperature rises 10 degrees. He’s a specimen of physics, her lover, and that in itself is intoxicating. She she luxuriates in the feel of his pubis as it pulses and contracts, spilling into her. He comes and comes, and she wonders how long it must have been for him. His breath is rainforest warm and wet at her throat.
Sated, he’s tender but spent and weak. At times like this, she feels so exquisitely close to him. It is as if any separation were a ruse, a disguise, and this physical joining were their true form, hidden away in secret and brought to life by a certain kind of moon, like one of his beloved cryptids. His muttered gratitude is hoarse but genuine, and she knows he’s expecting a “you’re welcome” of some sort, but her endorphin-soaked brain has one phrase on loop and it’s all she can think to counter with.
daydreaming an au where scully is lovingly haunted by melissa for the rest of her life.
mulder leaves scully’s apartment after another late night case debrief and missy materializes to ask, loud as hell, when she is going to make a move. cue one exasperated scully “OH MY GOD, move into the light at the end of the tunnel already!”
Today's prompt was "caught in the rain." This is a Requiem fix-it fic, because if they have to be caught in the rain, they should do it where it first happened and then live happily ever after. Nothing bad will happen to them ever again.
Also on AO3
Tagging @today-in-fic
He wants to go for a walk. She happily goes with him. Hand in hand, out of town, aimlessly. Just walking, together.
Bellefleur, Oregon. Seven years, she thinks. Seven years. This is where it all started.
The sky is overcast, dark clouds before the sun shroud everything in an air of mystery. It smells like rain.
Tomorrow, they’ll fly home. Who knows how this will all continue. But it looks better than it did yesterday. Because he’s here. Because she found him. Because he was returned to them.
“How are you feeling?” she asks.
“I’m okay,” he says.
He doesn’t remember anything from the past few days and she thinks maybe it’s better that way. A few minor injuries, nothing as bad as it could have been. Five days, that’s all it took. The longest five days of her life. But here he is. Safe and sound.
This is where it started seven years ago, their first case. This is where she got him back. Once they leave, she never wants to come back here, not ever again. They’ll take their happy memories with them, but the dangers they will leave behind.
“How are you feeling?” he gives her question back to her.
“Good,” she says. “I feel fine.”
“Yeah?”
She meets his eyes. She knows what he is asking, and she squeezes his hand with a smile. “Everything’s okay, Mulder. I promise.”
He lifts her hand to his lips and kisses her knuckles. “Just making sure.”
It makes her happy that he’s happy. Not that she had time to worry about that while they were frantically looking for him. But the light in his eyes, the way he hugged her when she told him is something she will never forget. “I’m glad you’re here,” she says.
“So am I.”
She knows these roads, she remembers them. The woods. They’re near the cemetery. Retracing steps from seven years ago. How far they’ve come.
“You should take some time off when we get back,” she suggests.
“Only if you take the time off with me.”
There’s no better proof that something has changed than the fact that he doesn’t argue. She remembers what he said just a week ago. There has to be an end. She doesn’t know if there will be. But there will be a beginning. And when he talks about it now, he talks like he means both of them. Whatever that beginning is, it will be theirs.
“Okay.” She doesn’t want to argue either. They need a break. And right now, all she wants to do is be with him, in this new reality stretching out before them. They have some things to figure out.
“Your place or mine?” he asks. “Please say yours.”
She laughs. He just assumes they’ll spend their days together, and their nights. There’s nothing she wants more. “I’m fine with that.”
They walk, their clasped hands swing between them, and she can’t imagine a greater happiness than this. This day, and the thought of all the days to come.
The woods are close and the path is gravel, and she lifts her head, face towards the sky as the heavens open and fresh, cold rain falls all around them. She laughs.
Mulder laughs beside her, then turns and nods back towards the town, towards the dry and warm motel room that they share. “Come on.”
She’s drenched and he is too, there’s no reason to hurry, but she jogs along beside him still holding his hand and giggling because this is Bellefleur, Oregon, and of course they’re getting rained on. It’s seven years ago again and she only just met him, and the pull of him is so magnetic she knows she will never break free. Doesn’t even want to.
He stops abruptly and she spins around at the tug on her arm, now face to face.
“What is it?” she asks, shouts over the sound of pelting rain.
“Do you remember this?” he asks, grinning so widely she takes a step closer, takes his other hand too because she can’t bear not touching him in every way she can.
“Yeah.”
“Seven years ago.”
“I was running out of dry clothes so quickly.”
He links their fingers together, his hair plastered flat to his head, rain dripping off his nose and lashes just like it did back then. “I fell in love with you in the rain.”
She knows he loves her. Of course she knows. But her heart jumps in her chest at the confession all the same. “Funny,” she says. “I fell in love with you in the rain too.”
“That night in the cemetery.” He takes a step closer to her, and he was standing so close even then, back when they hardly knew each other. “You didn’t walk away.”
“Neither did you.”
“You were laughing,” he remembers. “You worked it all out and you laughed, and I knew. I just knew.”
Mulder all those years ago, she knows he never expected her to stay. She wasn’t sure she wanted to stay. Mulder standing before her in the rain, so beautiful, so lonely. So happy in that moment they truly became partners.
Her hair is clinging wetly to her face and he brushes it away so gently before he leans down and kisses her. She puts her hands on his chest and kisses him back, slow and unhurried. God, how she wanted to kiss him seven years ago. Right here, in this town, in the rain.
He pulls back and he’s smiling, and he tells her, “I love you.” For a second, his eyes flicker down to her belly and she knows the words are not just meant for her.
“I love you too.”
She does, and she loves the rain as well, has loved it for seven years because it ran down his face as he laughed with her and changed her whole life forever.
“Let’s go home,” he says, and she takes his hand.
One more night in Bellefleur, Oregon. And then: the rest of their life, wherever it will take them.
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