tadjan

What do you mean you want me to do another autopsy?! And why do I have to do it right now?! I just spent hours on my feet doing an autopsy, all for you. I do it all for you, Mulder. You know, I haven’t eaten since 6:00 this morning, and all that was, was a half a cream cheese bagel, and it wasn’t even real cream cheese, it was light cream cheese. And now you want me to run off and do another autopsy? What the hell happened to you?

by: mldrgrl Rating: PG Pairing: Hank/Stella Summary: Preparing for the big move

Leaving a job after more than twenty years was difficult.  Stella thought she could be an exception to the rule.  She’d kept her colleagues at a distance for most of her time on the force, which allowed her the detachment necessary to do her job effectively.  Whereas others might have felt isolated, she felt comfortable.

It came as a surprise to her that packing her office came with unexpected melancholy.  Hank had come with her to carry heavy boxes, according to him, but she knew it was only because he’d been curious about what her life in Scotland Yard was like and he’d never been inside.  If he didn’t tag along now, there’d never be another opportunity.  He rescued an anti-stress ball that had been in a gift bag from some conference somewhere that she’d just thrown in the rubbish bin and flopped down on the couch in her office to toss it around.

“I expected more funny hats,” he said.  “I never asked, why are your cops called Bobbies?”

“The home minister that created the police force was named Sir Robert Peel,” she answered, wrapping an elastic band around a folder of personal files to take with her.  “The public referred to them as Peelers for some time, and then Bobbies.”

“Do you think Emma Peel was named in honor of Robert Peel?  God, she was hot.”

“I’m not up to speed on my Avengers trivia, I’m afraid.”

There was a light knock on the open door of her office and she looked up from packing her files.  Jim Burns gave her a half-smile and gave a nervous glance around the room.

“You’re needed, Mrs. Peel,” Hank said in a posh British accent.

When the last of the horsehide has been slapped and the young boy has run home with his bounty tucked into the bib pocket of his overalls, they take their time in the outfield, gathering balls back into a wire basket.

He hadn’t thought further than this, really, he hadn’t, but with the feel of her body lingering against his chest like the phosphorescent afterimage of some bright light, he’s loathe to let this night end.

“I have beer,” he blurts. “At home. I, uh… If you’re interested.”

He thinks—and it’s dark, so he’s not sure—but he thinks there’s something like relief on her face when she says, “Okay.”

—

They drink in the kitchen. He has chairs, a couch, a perfectly good bed (God, don’t think about the bed), but they drink standing up in the kitchen, hips to the counter, a foot apart and inching closer.

“I can’t believe you,” he says when she tells him about her high school softball team. He can’t believe she never told him. He can’t believe he never asked. What else doesn’t he know about this incomprehensible creature before she was his?

She cocks her head and smiles, swirls the last half of her beer in its bottle. “Well,” she says, drawing it out. There’s a spark in her eye that he likes. “It’s not every day a girl gets a private lesson from Fox Mantle.”

She’s looking at him, he realizes, like a woman on a date. He’s seen women look at him like that dozens of times. Except, no. He hasn’t. Because this is Dana Scully, and there isn’t a woman alive who’s ever looked at him the way she does.

Passion, Dales said. Passion that can change your very nature. When has he ever been half the man he’s been tonight, half the man he’s been for her?

There’s really only one thing left to do and he does it. Her cheeks are soft and warm in his palms. He ducks his head to reach her and marvels at how little distance there is. She’s been so far from him for a year now. Miles and miles. And now she’s here. Right here.

His lips find hers and brush once, twice, bottom, top. She’s still for a moment, but then she’s with him, kissing him back, so warm and sweet in his arms. So alive. More alive than she’s ever been, and maybe that’s just him projecting, but it doesn’t matter because he has his tongue in Dana Scully’s mouth and she’s sucking on it, lapping at it, stroking it with hers, and this is more life than he’s ever had in thirty-nine years.

ficlet; s7; fluff and smut; mulder goes down on scully again! lmao. seriously nsfw.

***

They’re kissing lazily on his couch, mouths slipping and sliding with no sense of urgency. The best part about kissing Scully is how natural it feels. Being with her is like the aftermath of a back massage by a thick-knuckled Russian grandmother; the initial suffering is all so goddamn worth it. She is so. Fucking. Worth it. 

“I can’t believe–” he puffs against her mouth, but she licks his bottom lip and words are lost. Damaged goods. Maybe it’s because she talked him into wine instead of beer, maybe it’s the sun setting outside that they can just barely see through his window, maybe it’s the sheer improbability of him ever meeting the best person in the entire world, who is so stupid smart and has tits like that. But he is feeling romantic. 

He rubs his hands down her sweater-covered arms and shivers when she nips at him, tilting his neck to give her better access. Her tongue touches his carotid and he wills his blood to greet her, show her how much he wants her. He feels it in every cell, in every new cell, in every new new cell. It only keeps multiplying. 

by: mldrgrl Rating: PG-13 (at most) Summary: See Chapter 1

It was almost two months before another case would bring Scully back into Mulder’s life.  He wasn’t disappointed not to have a body to bring to her for her consideration, but he was disappointed that he couldn’t think up a reasonable excuse to drop in on her again.  

Detective Thomas Thompson of the Atlantic City PD and Mulder had rubbed shoulders before back in Mulder’s Golden Boy days.  When the body of a homeless man was found by a family on a weekend camping trip, he thought nothing of it, until he saw the body.  That’s when he called his contact at the FBI and in turn, Mulder hit 3 on his speed dial.  She picked up on the fourth ring.

“Dana Scully.”

“How’s the patriarchy looking today, Scully?”

“Cloudy with a chance of patronizing.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

“It’s nice to hear from you again.”

“Is it?”  Mulder couldn’t help but smile a little at the thought that she was pleased he had called.

baby!fic baseball!fic blind!fic cancer!fic colonization!fic stuck!fic* (personal fave 10/10 five gold stars) timetravel!fic undercover!fic wet!fic

VIRTUAL SEASONS OF SMUT THE X-FILES PORN BATTLE ON LJ

alex krycek the lone gunmen the scully family jeffery spender maritia covarubias

doggett/reyes mulder/krycek scully/krycek scully/doggett scully/skinner skinner/kimberly skinner/krycek

Quick lil fic to celebrate International Friendship Day Mulder and Scully style. NSFW. Tagging @today-in-fic

There are petals strewn over the desk, soft pink piles, creamy-white ones, blood red velvet too. They are scattered over the floor, the shelving, the chair. She follows the trail out of the office and up the stairs where the petals decorate each step, gathered in the corners, where they rest on the landing and the hand rail post, where they lead her to the bedroom. The dresser, the closet, the lounge chair, the window sill, the covers, the pillows, rose petals cover the surface. She sinks to the bed and scoops up a handful, breathing in the delicate perfume.

              “Hey,” he says, opening the bathroom door, wearing a smile that speaks of a thousand ways he loves her and a thousand more ways he’ll find to love her.

              “Hey,” she says back, letting the petals flutter around her. He’s naked save for a towel around his waist and she looks at the definition of his abs and thinks about 25 years of growth. His body is a work of art these days, not just because of his age now, but because he’s sculpted those grooves through hard-work and pain, she’s admiring those shadows because of his sheer determination, she can run her eyes over those lines that narrow towards his pelvis because he put the past away.

              “See anything you like, Scully?” he asks, sinking on to the bed next to her, towel slipping open so that tufts of dark hair peek out.

              “Thousands of petals, Mulder. I like those.”

              As she unbuttons her blouse, his smile grows exponentially. “You like those?”

              “Mmhmm, they’re pretty.”

              “Like you,” he says, resting his thumb and forefinger around her neck, where her necklace lies. “So pretty.” He leans in to kiss her.

              “What’s got into you?” she says, reluctant to pull away. His cock nudges against her thigh but there’s a skirt in the way and she needs to feel his skin on hers.

              “Do you know how many roses it took, Scully?”

              They’re lying down now, facing each other and she’s tracing the shape of a rose on his chest. He’s unhitching her blouse and waiting for her to guess. She’ll be wildly wrong, she knows, but this is part of the game.

              “I don’t know, Mulder.”

              “Guess,” he says, slipping her shoulders free. “For me.” He kisses the rounded bone and her nipples tighten.

              “300, 312.”

              “Cold,” he says, kissing along her claivicle.

              “427.”

              “Warmer.” His lips trail south and she unzips her skirt, wriggling it off her hips.

              “582.”

              “Warmer.” His palm flattens on her tummy and she opens looks at her skin, softer now, silvery threads across her abdomen. The warm pressure of Mulder’s hand there takes away the pain of those memories and she lets him kiss each breast, licking, nibbling. “Guess again.”

              “300,” she says, arching her neck. She doesn’t want to be right. He chuckles and there’s a light scratching from his bristled chin. She plucks some petals from the sheet and sprinkles them over him as he laughs. “666.”

              He springs up and over her on all fours, a devilish grin on his lips. “Hotter,” he rasps. His tongue snakes a path down from her belly button to the line of her panties.

              “750,” she whispers as he thumbs them off and she lifts herself to help him.

              “Scorching,” he says before burying his tongue into her, where she’s gone from cool to hot in the space of a few seconds. His chin works her, his nose presses her clit, his lips spread hers. She rocks and bucks and tears petals between her fingers, releasing their perfume.

              Coming down takes a while and he’s always loved to watch her mellow out. He’s propped on his elbow, cock still rigid, just biding his time because that how he is.

              “790 roses with an average of 12 petals makes 9480,” he says, grasping his cock and  stroking himself. She likes to watch him do this, loves the way his breathing changes, his face sets, his eyes half-close.

              “What’s significant about 9480, Mulder?” She closes the gap between them, pressing her breasts against his chest and slipping her hand between them, closing a fist over his cock.

              “That’s nearly how many days we’ve known each other, Scully.” His voice hitches as she speeds up her action. “Twenty-six years next month and you’re still my best friend.” Face buried in her neck, he groans.

              “You bought nearly 800 roses to tell me we’re just good friends?”

              “It’s International Friendship Day,” he says, sucking on the skin between her neck and shoulder as she works him faster. “I thought it was a nice gesture.”

              She can’t help but laugh but as she does, she pushes him on to his back and climbs across him, sliding down in one smooth motion. Her hands are covered in petals and there are pink and cream ones on his chest, his neck, his chin. “It’s very thoughtful,” she says, moving back and forth. “But I think we’ve moved on from platonic.”

              He grabs her ass and holds her down, grinding against her pubic bone so that pain and pleasure mingle. Through gritted teeth he says, “I think it’s good to know where we fit together.”

              Pushing himself up, his hard middle crushes hers and before she can register what’s happening they’re up and he’s pressing her against the wall, hands still under her ass, teeth on her neck. She wraps her legs around his waist as he pumps.

Candid

Found my response to this photo prompt from a while ago that kinda got tacked on to a reblog and wanted to republish it myself (with some edits that I think actually help a lot). This is a screen cap from s5e20 “The End.” Just a little ficlet, rated G. Tagging @today-in-fic

—

The first time she notices it, she doesn’t say anything. He’s typing up his report at their desk, the only sounds in the room the clacks of keys and cracks of seeds. It’s 4 o’clock on a Friday and Scully’s looked at her watch three times since 3:37. She’d split early, but the paperwork from this case was monstrous and the last thing she wanted was for it to carry over to Monday. She’s desperate to go home, run a bubble bath, pour a glass of Cabernet, and call it a week. 4:06.

It’s the flash of her own hair in the photograph that catches her eye. Most of what’s on the wall is grainy printouts, newspaper clippings, black and white pictures. This one is new, different. 

She studies it at a distance. From what she can see, it’s her and Mulder at a crime scene. She can’t make out much, but Mulder seems to have papers in his hand and they’re looking at them. Does she have a hand on the papers too? Mulder stops typing and she drops her chin quickly, refocusing on the folder on her lap.

“It was the Cardiff case, in Louisiana.” She looks up to see his gaze directed at the picture. He absentmindedly spins a pencil across his knuckles as he speaks.

“The crime scene photographer was testing for light, but somehow the picture got mixed into the file. It obviously didn’t belong there, but I, uh, felt weird throwing it out.”

Scully stands to get a better look at the photo. She does have a hand on the papers. She’s pretty sure Mulder’s other hand is on her back. It would surprise her if it weren’t.

“I mean, we don’t actually have any pictures together, you know? And this one’s kinda nice.” He pokes her side with the eraser end of his pencil. “Plus the intrigue is unmistakeable. How you manage to pull off a government issued potato sack with ‘FBI’ stamped on the back is a mystery in and of itself.”

She settles back in her chair, warming at Mulder’s explanation and the idea of him wanting a picture of the two of them. She silently thanks whoever slipped up and put the photo in the file. 

“Well I like it. The picture that is, not the potato sack. And it’s much more of a pillow case than it is a potato sack—too flimsy.”

They share a smile and lapse into a comfortable silence. Scully finds that her pencil flows more easily now. 5:14, the clock reads when she grabs her coat.

“Catch ya later, Scully.” He gives her a little wave as she heads out the door.

I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with this information, so I’m going to disagree with you, Anon, in fic format.

The further out of Comity they get, the anger in Scully ebbs to nothing and then slowly becomes chagrin.  She’s as much alarmed at her irrational behavior back in that town as she is embarrassed by it.  And she doesn’t know where she’s taking them either, she was simply so bent out of shape she drove.

Slowly, she pulls the rental car to the side of the road and stops, letting the engine idle.  “I’m sorry,” she says to the windshield.

“Forget it,” Mulder says.  She seems him roll his head towards her, but she keeps her eyes on the dark road ahead.

“My behavior…”

“Wasn’t your fault.  Like being inebriated, but by planetary alignment opposed to wine.”

“I just want you to know that you have my apologies for intruding into your attempts to get closer to Detective White.”

“What attempts?”

“Come on.”

“Scully, she came on to me.  Again, no one should really be held all that accountable for their behavior these past few days.  It was…”

“The planets.  Right.”  Feeling a little deflated, she unbuckles her seatbelt and opens the driver’s door.  She leaves it open as she slowly makes her way to the front of the car and crosses walks into the path of the headlights.

Mulder opens his door a few seconds after she does and comes around to meet her halfway.  He blocks her way and reaches out to tug gently at the cuff of her trench coat.

“She’s not my type,” he says.  “You don’t need to worry.”

“I’m not worried.  I just didn’t want you to think that…why wouldn’t she be your type, Mulder?  Tall, smart, blonde, attractive.”

Mulder cocks his head to the side a little and smiles a little smile that makes Scully lower her eyes a little.  Their shadows blend together in the road, between the headlights.

“Call me superficial,” Mulder says, “but I like a woman with hair I can run my fingers through.”

“What?”

To Scully’s surprise, as she looks up, Mulder raises his hand and brushes his fingers through her hair, starting where her part begins at her forehead and down.  His palm caresses her cheek lightly, then her ear then her jaw, then the side of her neck as his fingers slip casually out of the curl past her shoulder.  Her eyes slide half-way closed and her body pitches forward ever so slightly as he moves back.

Scully stands perfectly still, staring at the paisley pattern on Mulder’s tie.  He crowds her, takes a light hold on her shoulders and moves his head down towards hers.

“I’m also partial to brunettes,” he whispers lightly into her ear, and then he leaves her standing in the headlights as he makes his way to the driver’s door.

Mulder’s childlike wonder at seeing Lyda move books on the shelves by merely pointing to them.