#vnerate

[n1cap]

“ 𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚛𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚘𝚞𝚜. ” from dana katherine scully, @vnerate

❛   ────nervous, ey?   ❜ uttered out of one side of his coy smirk, he's careful to tread lightly around the fact that while he's busy lounging there leafing through the community's seemingly endless book of covenants, conditions &. restrictions, rob petrie's dearly beloved is sauntering brazenly around their new home with a face mask that makes her look less like a lady and more like a creature from the black lagoon ──

in the back of his mind, he can't help but picture what win shroeder or big mike raskub would think if they saw laura out on the lawn rocking that unconventional shade of marshland green [ ... ]

in lieu of the mischief glittering in his eyes, he wedges a fingertip into the book to keep his place; then, he reclines a little in the bed ( 𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚘𝚊𝚔 𝚞𝚙 𝚊𝚜 𝚖𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚙𝚕𝚞𝚜𝚑 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚝 𝚊𝚜 𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚢 𝚋𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚌𝚑. ) ❛   consider this a character building question, agent scully: why ever would someone like laura agree to love and cherish a man who makes her nervous for as long as they both shall live?   ❜ barely giving her a chance to respond, he furrows his brow with an insufferable amount of confidence in his own humor.

❛   chop-chop, honeybunch. clock is ticking. anyone other than your dutiful and loving husband would definitely have raised suspicion by now.   ❜

[cultfic]

for all their stolen glances and shared history, it's not often that they get to work a case together. but as fate would have it, it turns out the killer he's been sent to hunt down is a person of interest for the xfiles unit. it's been well over a year since he last saw her, himself buried deep in his own files, busy tracking down half the current convicts in maryland. so busy, in fact, that he'd put aside all sense of romance since his wife left, though the ring still lingers on his finger. and the sight of dana scully had been enough to waken instincts put on temporary hold. he pushes aside the folder displayed on the table before them, turns blue eyes upon her with a lazy smile and observes her a moment. ❝  is this a good time to say i've missed you? that i've been thinking about you?  ❞ because he has, at times despite himself and others with a glad mind. but in no scenario he's ever come up with for them has he been able to find a plausible positive outcome.

sc. @vnerate

[blindsite-a]

the little restaurant they were eating at was nearly deserted. it was late in the evening, dusk threatening dark. they'd traveled most of the day and checked into the hotel prior to finding food. across the street, lit by a few dim streetlamps and lights on houses. mulder followed scully's gaze outside to a porch. a quaint little house, off-white paint peeling around the most worn parts of the building. middle-aged couple sat in two rocking chairs side by side, between them their hands were intertwined and each had their own thing to read or look at in the other. mulder then found himself fairly certain that scully hadn't mean to speak that aloud. or maybe she had, but only for herself.

hazel eyes trail from the couple back to his partner's face where she still stared softly out of the window. steam from their food was fading fast and it rose past her to seek an escape in the ceiling. but none would be found. mulder's head tilts minutely and long strands of bangs sweep against the top of his forehead. the simple act of the couple sitting on the porch together and existing separately, but connected through their light grasp wasn't something that he thought would strike her so intensely. and it tugged at something within him. something that hadn't been discussed yet. she'd probably never guess that he felt so similarly.

his food was abandoned which is not like him at all. he was lost in thought while gazing at her. finally, her head turns back towards him and it breaks the trance. ❝ i can only hazard a guess. ❞ his response, while vague, says all. mulder could guess because there is someone who he feels that way about. in his own, roundabout way that wasn't fully developed. large hand curled around his coffee cup and he brought it to his lips. it was only just barely still hot. another few minutes of sitting and it wouldn't have been. along with their food. and finally he eats, day dreaming himself of a porch, and a book, and someone to sit with. / @vnerate sent : ❝ what does it even feel like to be loved that much? ❞

[esbye]

`    ♡   .        PROMPT        ⅋        DEVOLPMENT .

“Did you ever think about me?”      ➜      sent,      @vnerate​.

To him it feels like such a silly thing to ask.  How foolish!  Of course,  of course,  of course!  How could he not?  His parents had told him young,  always being honest with him right from the very start.  It didn’t make him view them any less;  he loved them more than anything,  that wouldn’t change.  But that didn’t mean there wasn’t a part of him that always felt missing.  A constant yearn ache for something so faded in his mind,  constantly missing a piece inside.  He can recall so faint,  a space mobile on display,  a blurry redheaded woman.  At first he thought he’d conjured it up;  stolen from the visions and dreams of the blurry redhead woman;  the golden cross necklace so prominently displayed.  Now it all made sense with Dana right before him making the blurred images come to high definition as he makes out each of her features that looked so familiar, the curve of her jaw and slope of her nose vastly similar to his own.

“Everyday.”    It’s quiet,  a small lump gathered in his throat that’s soon swallowed shortly after.    “Since my parents first told me.”    A pause,  knee bouncing as his thumbs press together.    “I was about four or five.  Not sure.”    A shrug as he feels the nerves sweep through him,  crimson flooding the sides of his neck and splashing across his cheeks as his palm comes to his nape and rubs back and forth.    “Did…  did you?”    Now he feels silly and foolish for asking.  She’d given him up,  wouldn’t that mean he’d have been casted aside?  Or did his own missing piece match one of her own?  For the completeness he felt inside seemed to burst in her presence,  a familiar warmth he’s only ever felt from his mother.

[vndicate]

I don't have motivation to describe it all pretty atm but please write abt mulder brushing her hair, the dash deserves 2 see it

she’d begun growing it longer when they were on the move.   no particular reason---   she could’ve had a haircut at any time.   he liked it.   he loved it,   really,   the messy buns she wore at work and the way it would fall,   gently wavy by the time her work day was over and she fought the band away from a lazy folds.   but she’d always tell him he was biased.   he could remind her day and night how he’d adored every inch of her,   however,   and she’d insist he was being polite   (   but she’d have a smile that met her eyes and he knew it would stick ).   she’d shake her hair out in their bedroom after peeling off layers of scrubs and removed shoes that made her soles ache,   squinting while the hairband was released,   and he’d reach,   a request,   to comb through with his fingers before she attacked it with a brush as a well-deserved bath poured in the other room.

he draws it back and behind her ears,   now,   cards it gently through his hands and stops at the smallest resistance.   she reminds him he doesn’t need to be so gentle---   but it had taken one day of a small whimper years ago when he’d tugged through a knot and he’d assured himself to be more careful.   he’d work them out slowly.   take her brush and hold a small tuft and work away the little tangle,   then continue with gradual brushes through damp hair,   pleasantly scented.   it was as relaxing for him as for her,   perhaps.   he’d sat her down and offered,   after all.

and it would dry as he continued,   slowly but surely,   combed out towards him in layers but sure to meet every strand.   she would tell him about her heavy work week and he would listen intently,   fixing what parts may fall over her shoulders when he wasn’t yet finished.   simple,   yet cherished,   a mere five minutes tops turned into ten or fifteen as he would review his work with extra brushes to let her finish her story.   a rare moment---   it always took longer,   when he did it,   but they could allow themselves the time together.   indulging rather than simply addressing their basic necessities.   a loving,   careful touch and adoring hands which would do a last sweep to feel soft sandy-red through fingertips one last time,   and to grace her cheek with a kiss as she turns to thank him and steal her final thanks against her lips.

[azarchive]

@vnerate​ | “ he’s dead. he can’t talk. ”

She snorts, attempting to school her expression before the woman looks back at her, though a smile lingers at the corners of her mouth. She nods towards the body on the table, and her brows quirk slightly. ‘He’s certainly dead. And unless your partner has any theories about an impending zombie apocalypse, I doubt he will speak to us’. She glances at Scully again, and pauses, genuinely curious. ‘That isn’t his theory, is it?’ She’s heard about Mulder’s outlandish theories, stories usually accompanied by an eye-roll from her friend. Though personally she thinks zombies are much more far fetched than aliens. 

[drlisacuddy]

@vnerate​

❛   This  is  INSANE.   ❜   Cuddy is frustrated, and it shows. Tight lips, an anxious body bursting at the seams, screaming at her to move, move, move  --  Cuddy paces, instead; it barely takes the edge off.  There is a certain brand of pain that comes from always wanting to DO.  ❛  Please tell me you’ve found something.  ❜

[vnd---archive-blog]

❛❛ Let me hold you for a while. ❜❜ / an old softness meme

  it’s a meme and it sure isn’t getting an icon.   ⇢  @vnerate

ears ring ,   a deafening headache ,   pressure against his eardrum ebbing to be replaced by a rising shrill ,   emerging from a dreamlike vacuum .   blindspots from sources he could never distinguish burned into mind ,   lights too intense to keep eyes open ,   merging now with absence of light in familiar bed   (   this is not blindness ,   but a setting well known    ) .   figments moved out of sight ,   silhouettes he couldn’t see whispered paranoia with cold sighs on the back of his neck ——   but so had their concept conditioned a man ,   fearless of nothing ,   to tremor in his sleep .   the memories   :   they’re all tucked away somewhere deep ,   the same place all the vague recollection of samantha went .   now awoken he clutches the blanket ,   their silent bedroom in the middle of the night holding its breath ,   his chest heaving ,   his skin glistening with a cold sweat ,   his throat scraping with the scream that woke them both .

eyes adjust to the darkness .   her legs move by his side ,   disturbs the duvet as she pushes to a seated position .   he had slept soundly for weeks .   days they relished in the serenity of a full night’s rest ,   a room inviting with comfort in warmth and the soft scent of her perfume .   he would lay still ,   snores muffled into her hair ,   pressed against her with both arms across her body like they used to have ,   years before the abduction .

jaw quakes with each gasp  ;   her fingers trace his forearm ,   brush down the venous curve of wrist to palm .   she’s careful to wait until memory returns to his brow ,   when panting halts and a sigh attempts to veil demeaning desperation .   he welcomes her gentleness ,   then .   he stills and watches the gesture as if it is the sanctum of a hazy amber lampshade in pitch dark ,   spreads fingers to interlace with hers .   their custom :   hunched forth ,   elbows on thighs ,   shoulder to shoulder ,   color returning to knuckles and cheeks while his heart matches the gentle tapping of hers ,   thrumming against his thumb which presses against her pulse .

obedient to the silken tone that could convince him to touch a fire that’s already bitten him ,   he returns to the warmth of where he laid .   moves into arms extended for him ,   rests cheek against chest .   the beating of her heart strengthened ,   flesh to flesh ,   much calmer than the rush of blood through his ears .   nails feather down his spine ,   drains adrenaline ,   cradles him to sleepless exhaustion .   eyes shut ---------    not for renewed hope ,   but for the isolation of warm words whispered against his hair ,   the palm which fans over his shoulder blade .