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scullysexual · 5 months

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m | ao3 | @today-in-fic

Mulder grasps at her hips, turning her onto her stomach. As he does so he sees the red snake and a flash of anger surges through him stopping his movements. The bastard tattoo… [In which Mulder and Scully have a little chat]

I Liked It But I Didn't Enjoy It.

No one gives head like Scully. Not Alex or Phoebe. Not even that girl he met a few weeks ago.

Mulder resurfaces from sleep just before the familiar tug in his balls as his come ripples through his cock and spurting down her throat. What a glorious way to be woken up.

Mulder lays back, eyes closed, breathing heavily as he lets himself calm down. When he reopens his eyes he catches the sight of Scully wiping the corners of her mouth before stretching her deliciously naked body, lost in Scully-Land.

He's missed this so much. Missed her so much. His chest aches thinking about those weeks without her. He was an idiot.

He’s still gazing at her even as he grabs her attention with a simple “Hi.”

The smile she gives him is enough to make his body combust right there.

“Hi,” she greets back.

An idiot he may have been but even he can’t ignore their break apart has done them some good.

“Come here,” he whispers and Scully follows, crawling back up his body to situate herself on top of his stomach. His skin feels moist and when she moves slightly he spies a smearing of wetness. His hands grip the top of her thighs.

“And what’s got you so wet, Scully?” he asks.

His hand reaches out towards her centre, a singular finger delving between her folds. A heavy sigh escapes her lips as her muscles clench around his one finger.

“My cock just tastes that good, huh?”

A thumb touches her clit and she whines, clawing at his chest.

Fully hard once more, he pulls his hand away much to Scully’s disappointment and rolls them over. Completely, wonderfully overwhelmed he buries his face in her hair and ruts his hips against her. He wants her in every which way possible, wants to be inside her before he dies.

Mulder grasps at her hips, turning her onto her stomach. As he does so he sees the red snake and a flash of anger surges through him stopping his movements.

The bastard tattoo…

“I think I saw Scully in the tattoo shop the other night,” Langly had told him a few days after. “She had some random man with her. What the hell happened between you to?”

“…was gloating about how he fucked your girl the other night.” Alex says over the phone one night. “He said he’s never met anyone else like her before. How wild she was, how good she at giving head- we both know that though, don’t we…” His laugh twists Mulder’s gut. “Still swears he won’t touch used goods though he’d always make the exception for her again.” When Mulder didn’t answer Alex asked, “You good, man? You gone quiet over there…”

Eventually Mulder had given in to temptation and stalked the man and what a lowlife he turned out to be.

“What you doing with someone like that, Scully?” he’d muttered to himself.

“Mulder? Are you okay?”

His stillness had caught the attention of Scully. There’s the look of worry and guilt across her face. Without a word Mulder slides his hand across the silky skin before pushing his fingernails into the tattoo. Scully’s breath catches in her throat.

“Got something to feel guilty about, Scully?”

She immediately schools her features. “No.”

Mulder looks down at the tattoo and releases his hand, soothing the nail marked skin.

“Ask,” Scully is saying still looking towards him. “Go on. I know you want to.”

He keeps his gaze on her tattoo, following the circle with his finger.

“Where—”

“On one condition,” she cuts in.

“Yeah?”

“I get to ask about you after.”

He thinks on it for a second then, “Okay.”

“Okay,” she repeats. “Ask.”

Eyes falling back to the tattoo, he does ask.

“Where did you do it?”

“On the floor. His apartment.”

We did it in the alleyway, we’re still winning.

“Was he rough?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you like it?”

When she doesn’t answer immediately he squeezes her hip hard making her draw a gasp.

“You know I did,” she says finally.

He thinks about other stuff to ask but she speaks again.

“But I didn’t enjoy it.”

“Huh?”

“I did like it. It did stuff to me and I didn’t want him to stop but I didn’t enjoy it.” She pauses and Mulder waits. Finally she speaks again. “He hated me.” It’s spoken at a whisper, hard to catch at first. “Like you hate me now.”

His stomach coils. “Scully…” he says, panic gripping him. “I don’t hate you.”

His words have her turning to face him and one look at her tearful eyes and tear-stained cheeks has him disgusted with himself.

“Really?” she asks.

“Hey…” He moves off her to the side, moving up and stroking her back soothingly. “Of course not. Do you think you’d be here right now if I did?” She shrugs. “Well you’re here, aren’t you?” She nods. “There you go.” He brushes her hair away from her face a few times. “You’re infuriating sometimes but I don’t hate you, Scully. You’re the best thing I have.”

She smiles a little at that. “Mulder?”

“Yeah?”

“Can you fuck me like you were going to?”

“You sure?”

She nods. “Yeah.”

He shuffles back between her legs, grabs her hips and rolls her back onto her back. It’s not exactly what he had in mind before seeing the tattoo but he knows he has to see her face right now. There’ll be more times for other positions later anyway. He lines himself up and pushes his way in. Whilst she’s not as wet as she was prior their conversation there is little resistance. He laces their hands together and squeezes, trying with everything he had to show he doesn’t hate her in the slightest.

When they’re both finished he holds her as close and as tight as possible. They’re just about to drift off when he realises he never fulfilled his end of the bargain.

“You can ask about her if you want,” he says.

“Who?”

“The girl I fucked.”

“Oh. Who was she?”

“Her name was Kristen. I think she’s a vampire.”

“Vampires aren’t real, Mulder.”

“Well she was one. Anyway, I liked it but I didn’t enjoy it either.”

“Why not?”

“Because she wasn’t you.”

And that was the end of that. No more was said on either subject. Mulder waits until Scully’s drifted off before he closes his eyes himself.

#the x-files #the x files #txf fic #xfiles fanfiction #80 days of smut #smut prompts #kinktober23 #msr #mulder/scully #scullysexualwrites

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soft-thrills · 1 year

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XF Fic: The Wager

Rated Teen

Scully faces the failure of her IVF cycle -- and faces where things are headed with Mulder.

tw: infertility and ivf. more in notes below the cut!

a/n: Anyone who has gone through IVF knows the arc in the show is a total mess. This is my attempt to make a little sense of it. I've sought to describe that process and the emotions it can bring sensitively, as someone going through it myself. But turn back if you're not in a place to read about failed transfers right now. <3

Autumn, 1999.

Her fertility clinic does embryo transfers on Thursdays, and the blood tests for pregnancy the following Friday.

Mulder offers to come with her to the transfer, offers to wait in the waiting room for her if that’s more comfortable than having him in the room, considering the whole legs-spread-in-stirrups situation.

“No, it’s all right, I can go alone,” she says. “It won’t take long, and it’s a pretty straightforward procedure.”

He nods.

It isn’t really fair. Half the embryo is his, after all, but she’s not sure she can bring herself to sit beside him in the waiting room, with a bunch of normal couples, not knowing how to define what they even are to one another. Partners. Friends. Partners and friends who share their gametes with one another, but only in a petrie dish.

Scully tries to be inconspicuous as she looks around the waiting room, and sees the faces of women who are terrified and sad and hopeful, just like her. They all trade sympathetic looks, but the truth is it’s impossible to find people who can totally understand. They’re all here for infertility, like she is, but Scully didn’t do the egg retrieval portion of IVF like all the other women in the waiting room. There was no injection of stimulating hormones and careful monitoring by a doctor; there was just months of missing time while whatever dark forces that abducted her harvested all of her ova, stealing her future.

This embryo transfer is her only hope.

The truth is frozen eggs don’t hold up that well under the best of circumstances, and her situation — her partner stealing her frozen eggs from a shadowy facility and not fucking mentioning it to her for several years — is less than ideal.

Fifteen eggs fertilized. But just two made it to blastocyst. They were frozen and biopsied, and only one was euploid — that is, it had the right number of chromosomes. A chance to grow inside her. Her last shot. Her only chance.

In the procedure room, naked from the waist down under a hospital gown, she scoots to the edge of a tiny table and lifts her legs into stirrups. She is a doctor and not ashamed of her body — even as it has failed her — but she can’t help thinking the whole thing is so undignified. One more humiliation courtesy the men who took her all those years ago, who have never paid for it.

She wishes she had let Mulder come with her, stirrups and all. She stares at the ceiling and waits for it to be over.

Lots of women take an at-home pregnancy test in between, but Scully doesn’t. She dutifully injects herself with progesterone in alternating ass cheeks each evening, takes an estrogen pill three times a day, a prenatal each morning, and waits.

But she doesn’t take a test. Might as well only be let down once, when the doctor delivers the news. The truth is she wants to hold on to the hope for as long as she can — for those eight days, there is the possibility she is pregnant, something that has not been true for her for so long.

She’s hopeful. The odds are in her favor: a euploid embryo transfer has a sixty percent chance of resulting in a live birth. She has to be hopeful, what else is there to be?

Friday comes and she feels like she is going to crawl out of her skin.

She goes to work and finds Mulder is there, waiting for her, with a croissant and a cup of tea.

Mulder.

Mulder, the man whose sperm met with her egg before they’ve even kissed. The man she is terribly, awfully, unrelentingly in love with. She could find the words to ask him to scramble their DNA, but she cannot bring herself to tell him something as simple as that: I love you.

“Good morning, Scully,” he says. He knows today is the day, but he doesn’t mention it, and she is eternally grateful. “I figure we can knock out those expense reports Skinner wants done, and then cut out early.”

She smiles at him and accepts the cup of tea from his outstretched hand.

“Sounds good. I have to go to the doctor at four,” she says, like it’s a routine visit and not an appointment to find out their future.

He nods, and once again she cannot bring herself to invite him to go with her.

“Will you come over? This evening, I mean,” she says. “Come over. We can order dinner.”

Again, he nods.

“I’ll be there waiting for you when you get home,” he says. He looks at her in that unnerving way he has. “I’ll always be there, Scully. No matter what.”

She nods tightly. She wants to believe.

The news is not good.

She holds it together in the office with her doctor. She walks out into the parking lot, gets into her car, and just sits there, in the quiet. She doesn’t cry. She doesn’t yell. She doesn’t pray. She doesn’t curse God. She doesn’t call anyone because there’s no one to tell. No one knows she’s even tried. No one but —

Mulder.

Her stomach twists. Somehow, telling him feels like the worst part. She doesn’t even know if he’s ever really wanted to be a parent, but she’d put the option on the table, and now, the option was gone.

With her, anyway.

The truth is, Mulder could be a father, with someone else. The thought fills her with a level of dread she’s never felt before, a bottomless kind of dread she has no right to feel. They are not married. They’ve never even properly kissed. But they’d been prepared to — what, coparent as cordial colleagues? The truth is she has no fucking clue what they were doing anymore. It feels like they are moving toward the inevitable, but they’re both blinking. Both afraid to call the other’s bluff.

A few hours ago her life had held such promise, such possibility. And now, it is gone.

She sits there, alone, silent, in the parking lot until the sun goes down.

How is she going to tell him?

In the end, she doesn’t have to. He can tell. He can always tell.

She opens the door to find him lightly dozing on her couch.

“Scully? I must have dozed off. I was waiting for you to get back,” he says.

He can read it on her face.

“It didn’t take, did it?”

“I guess it was too much to hope for,” she says.

He opens his arms to embrace her, and she lets him. And that’s when the tears finally come, too much and all at once, ugly crying into his chest.

She says aloud the thing she’s only ever admitted to herself: “It was my last chance.”

He squeezes her, kisses her forehead. God how she wishes he’d do more, how she feels ashamed for even having the thought, for having the need, for wanting more than this man has given her already.

“Never give up on a miracle,” he says.

She kisses his cheek, his neck. She lets him hold her and she cries until there’s nothing left.

Later, he draws her a bath and lets her soak while he orders them dinner. He goads her to eat a little something, at least. He pours them each a glass of wine, and cuddles up beside her on the couch, because what the fuck else is there to do at this point anyway.

She is surprised by her own capacity for disappointment. Of course it didn’t work. Nothing ever works.

“Sometimes it feels like nothing good is ever going to happen to me again,” she says, embarrassed at how maudlin and miserable she sounds as soon as the words come out of her mouth.

He looks at her not with pity, but with promise.

“There are plenty of good things in your future, Scully,” he assures her.

He kisses her then — not like before, not her forehead, but her mouth. Quick, chaste, but not exactly friendly.

What the fuck are they? What are they going to be?

“What is this, Mulder? What are we doing?” she finally asks.

“I’m not sure. But I don’t think we should make any big moves tonight,” he whispers.

She nods, on the brink of tears again.

“Would you stay with me? Tonight? We don’t have to—”

“Of course,” he says. “Of course I’ll stay.”

She wakes in the morning alone, but to the sound of her front door opening.

“Hello?” she calls out.

“It’s me,” he replies. “I got us breakfast.”

He’d slept in the bed with her, holding her. They’d kissed again, a little longer, but nothing more. She knows he doesn’t want to take advantage when she’s vulnerable. But the truth is she’s not sure she’ll ever be whole again.

He ambles into her bedroom with a to-go cup and a paper bag. This time it’s coffee, not tea. She’s not pregnant, no need to deny herself caffeine. She takes it appreciatively.

“I got us bagels. Real cream cheese,” he says. “None of that tofutti bullshit.”

She rolls her eyes as if she were in their office and not in her bed in her pajamas.

He grins. “There she is,” he says, running a thumb across her cheek.

She feels herself blush.

“What do you want to do today, Scully?”

It’s Saturday, she remembers. She has nowhere to be and she supposes he doesn’t either.

He fills the silence: “We could catch a movie, or if you’ve got stuff to do I could get out of your hair…”

“No,” she says. “No, I’d like to spend the day together.”

He smiles. “Me too. If you’re not up to doing anything, we can just hang out here. Eat takeout in bed all day,” he waggles his eyebrows.

She smiles, and then the realization hits her all at once.

“I want to do something stupid,” she says.

He laughs, and she realizes she’s taken her profiler partner by surprise.

“Ok,” he says. “Well, I’m an expert on doing something stupid. But what kind of stupid? Breaking into a government facility stupid or watching Dumb and Dumber stupid?”

She grins.

“I want to do something frivolous. Something fun. I want to get out of here, away from here. Away from everything.”

He looks, suddenly, like a man with an idea.

“Do you mind a bit of a drive?” he asks.

“No, I don’t mind. That would be nice, actually.”

“You’re a Springsteen fan, right, Scully?”

She nods. “Sure,” she says.

“Well, put your makeup on and fix your hair up pretty, and meet me tonight in Atlantic City.”

They listen to Springsteen on the way, actually. Well, part of the way -- a bit of a drive was maybe an understatement, and they’re working their way through a good chunk of Mulder’s CD collection. Springsteen. The Traveling Wilbury’s. Elvis. Prince. They debate which is the best Beatles album, then, which is the best Beatle.

After a few hours they hit the New Jersey Pinelands, and in the distance Atlantic City’s skyline, in all its gaudy glory, sparkles into view.

“You know, it’s kind of ironic, Scully,” Mulder says. “Last time we were in Atlantic City was to chase down the Jersey Devil. And if I recall correctly, *you* had a date.”

She nearly blushes.

“That is correct.”

“And now, here we are again, on our first date,” he smirks.

“Is that what this is, Mulder? A date?” She arches an eyebrow, but she’s teasing, smiling.

“I think so. There’s just something about casinos, after all. Don’t know whether it’s day or night. Free drinks. Fancy restaurants. The thrill of risk and reward.”

She glances in the rearview mirror at the two overnight bags on the backseat, an unspoken decision they’d each made that this would be an overnight jaunt.

“Well, I suppose you can’t win if you don’t wager on something,” she says.

He takes her hand into his on the center console.

Scully wanted frivolous, and the Tropicana is frivolous.

A Havana-themed casino towering over the boardwalk and the Atlantic ocean, complete with an attached shopping complex with fake palm trees and blue sky and fluffy clouds painted on the ceiling.

It’s early in the afternoon when they arrive. The casino floor smells like cigarettes, and the chimes of slot machines bounce off the windowless walls as women in stretch pants and men in football jerseys lose their paychecks. Later, the women will don high heels and the men will begrudgingly wear a collared shirt to go to a steakhouse and then pay a twenty dollar cover to dance.

And she wants to be part of it. She wants to sit next to Mulder at a five dollar blackjack table and laugh at his stupid jokes while the dealer rolls her eyes. So she does.

But even when she’s being reckless, she’s still Scully.

She puts one hundred dollars cash on the table and tells Mulder: “This is my limit. I’m not doing the gambler’s fallacy thing. If I lose it, I lost it, and I’m not putting more down.”

But she doesn’t have to make that decision anyway, because by the time they leave the table, they’ve had two free drinks and she’s up three hundred bucks.

“See, Scully,” Mulder says as she squirrels the black poker chips into her purse. “I told ya there were good things in your future.”

* They go out for happy hour to a Cuban place in the attached mall with the fake sky, and order beers and a platter of potato croquettes and empanadas and other fried things that aren’t very good for you but taste delicious.

She feels warm, comfortable, happy, which just twenty-four hours ago seemed impossible to her. Frivolous had been a good idea. Atlantic City had, against all odds, been a good idea.

Scully can feel the dopey grin on her own face as they banter and eat and sip, which is part of why his question is so shocking.

“Do you hate me?” he asks her, lifting his beer bottle to his lips but still watching her intently.

“What? No,” she says, like it’s the most ridiculous thing in the world, because it is. “Why?”

“Because I didn’t tell you — about the ova. Even after you got better, I kept it from you. I don’t know why I did that, but I think it may be the worst thing I’ve ever done, to anyone, and I did it to you, which makes it so much worse,” he says, in a rush, like it was weighing on him for a long time and he just had to let it out.

Part of her is annoyed — annoyed that he’s harshing the buzz she has from the booze and gambling winnings and the possibility simmering between them, annoyed she has to tend to his feelings when she’s the one he’d wronged, when she’s the one who had to spend the last two weeks doping her body with artificial hormones, when she’s the one who can’t have a kid of her own.

And maybe it’s that annoyance that spurs her to be bold in her response. Maybe it’s the beer. Maybe it’s the big hair and bright lights of a New Jersey casino.

“Mulder, I don’t hate you,” she says. “I’m not happy that things happened this way. But I don’t hate you. I love you.”

There, now she’s done it, too: said it all in a rush, spilled out what has been churning in her guts, said the big heavy thing that can’t be unsaid.

His eyes are wide — he was not expecting this.

“I, I love you, too, Scully,” he says.

He’s told her that before. But she needs to make sure he understands what she’s really saying.

“Mulder, I don’t just love you. I’m in love with you. I probably should’ve told you that before I asked you to make a kid with me. But that ship has sailed, and it’s still true: I’m in love with you.”

“Well, that’s a relief. Because I’m in love with you, too, Scully. I think I have been for a pretty long time,” he says.

She grins. She laughs.

“We’re so fucking stupid, Mulder,” she says. “Wasting all this time denying ourselves. For what? Propriety? The rules we don’t care about anyway?”

“I was afraid,” Mulder admits. “I was afraid that I’d fuck up what we already had. Sometimes it felt like we could never -- like if we did it, the world would end.”

“Everybody thinks the world’s gonna end in a couple months anyway,” she says, draining her beer. “Might as well have fun.”

“So this is the Scully that stole her mom’s cigarettes and hits up seedy tattoo parlors,” he raises his eyebrows.

“Yeah, and gambles in low-rent casinos with rebellious men who carry guns,” she says. “Men -- well, one man -- she’d really like to take her upstairs to their room right about now.”

Mulder calls the bartender and asks for two shots of top shelf tequila. She watches his tongue lick up salt from finger, watches his neck as he swallows, watches his lips as they pucker around the lime.

They walk out of the bar hand-in-hand, and when they kiss for the first time -- beneath a painted-on sky, next to a fake palm tree -- he tastes salty and sharp, like the sea.

And in that moment, Dana Scully is absolutely sure that something good is about to happen to her.

a/n 2: I'd love your feedback. I'm on my third round of IVF myself without success so far -- hoping for positive news next week, actually! So please be kind and sensitive. I hope I've done justice to anyone else going through this.

My intention was for this to end in some fun Atlantic City smut, but it just didn't get there. Zero promises, but I'm not ruling out following up with a little first-time fic of what happens when they get upstairs.

#xfiles fanfic #xfiles fic #xfiles fanfiction #xf fic #msr fic #xfiles #Mulder/Scully #Mulder x Scully

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