#ust

[aloysiavirgata]

prompt:

byers: why dont you tell scully you love her?

mulder: i cant, she'll think im only saying it because were having a baby.

They’re eating wings at Kislings in Baltimore. Langley won’t touch blue cheese, something about spores and a fungal internet, so Mulder had to order ranch as well. Like a fucking pussy.

Frohike crunches hard on a log of celery. “You talk to her yet?”

Mulder scowls. “I observed that she would look like a bowler hat if turned sideways. She declined to be amused.”

Frohike groans. “Jesus. Did you really?”

Mulder scowls with increased vigor. “Dear Abby never covered this particular situation, my apologies. Should I approach the lady in white tie or a morning suit?”

Byers pokes at a pile of discarded chicken bones. “Have you tried being honest with her?”

For a man who has spent most of his adult life in pursuit of the truth, Mulder looks deeply disgusted.

“What the fuck does that mean?”

Even Langley is contemptuous at this. He rises, disappearing into a darkly recessed corner that houses Ms. Pac-Man.

“You’re an idiot,” Frohike observes into the mound of chili fries. “UPenn, Oxford. The dumbest motherfucker I know. I’ll marry her tomorrow; when do the courts open? Mulder, with all due respect and forgetting the rest of it? HAVE YOU SEEN HER?”

“Shut up,” Mulder says, weary.

Byers, ever gentle, squeezes his friend’s shoulder. “Why don’t you just tell Scully you love her? She knows, or she wouldn’t have asked. And you know, or you wouldn’t have agreed.”

Frohike snorts around a mouthful of fries. “He’s hopeless, that’s why.”

Mulder glares into the middle distance. “I can’t. She’ll think I’m only saying it because we're having a baby.”

Byers, with his deep, wise eyes. Byers, with his own human credential. “I know,” he says, soft. “I know why you feel safer to say that. But Christ, Mulder. You two aren’t teenagers. It’s not a Cracker Jack engagement ring and a quickie wedding. You could have something here.”

Mulder looks back at his friend. At his friends. Behind Langley’s absence is his love for Scully; for Mulder. Frohike’s gnomish tenderness, Byers’s deep, endless honor.

Mulder imagines himself at 17 - a pregnant Catholic girl, a debt of honor. Imagines how his parents would throw money and secrecy at it all without ever once considering the people involved.

He throws a hundred on the table.

He pulls out his phone.

[rivka-kopelman]

[anotherwellkeptsecret]

To a Stranger: Prologue & 1-5

This comic is based on a true story--about how a lonely waitress by day and artist by night crosses paths with the man who stood up for her when they were children.

This comic does not have a set update schedule. I will draw pages as time allows. Please enjoy!

[19silvermirrors]

🌞 hot summer days in the Yuliang village be like

[tofumiao]

will 4ever be an atenean x thomasian satosugu truther (unfinished suguboo ><)

[renny-mayflower]

What a sunny day!

[anotherswap]

🎼RUNEDELTA - The Fable

Track made by @curcurbita-moschata

[thalialunacy]

[for the @calaisreno May Prompt-a-palooza; cw for bodily functions]

(1) (2) (3) (4) 5: awkward (6) (7) (8) (9) (10) (11) (12) (13) (14) (15) (16) (17) (18) (19) (20) (21) (22) (23) (24) (25) (26) (27) (28) (29) (30) (31)

Sharing a home with someone, regardless of square footage or relationship, involves an unavoidable amount of intimate physical knowledge. As an army mate of John's had once said eloquently, 'Well, I know what your shit smells like, don't I?'

Those things, John is prepared for. Has got used to, even, in his once-and-future living arrangement. He's a doctor, a combat veteran, and a widowed father. He's not exactly squeamish.

And he can personally attest, on several levels, to the fact that Sherlock is not a machine. You can't share a bathroom and not learn a few things about a person.

But… it's like some switch got turned on after their 'moment' in the stairwell.

(Because no, they had not marched back upstairs and worked things out per Mrs Hudson's request. As will shock no one, they had instead gone on their stubborn ways, and are ploughing through their daily lives willy-nilly as long as they can.)

(Which is not very long.)

Things keep happening.

- John, sitting guilelessly at the table, makes to stand just as Sherlock is walking by, and ends up with his nose essentially in the armpit of Sherlock's dressing gown. Which Sherlock is still wearing. After sleeping several hours in it and old pyjamas.

- John, Rosie in his lap, snorts awake to find himself-- well, both him and his daughter-- slumped into Sherlock on the sofa, credits scrolling on the television screen while Sherlock scrolls through his phone. And, unfortunately, both John and his daughter have managed to leave sleep-warm saliva on Sherlock's person, in two round spots on his breathtakingly expensive shirt. Sherlock, who must have noticed, seems unconcerned. John wonders briefly if he's woken up in an alternate dimension, then realises they'd been watching Doctor Who and it must have seeped into his psyche.

- John, now one hundred percent accustomed to wiping his toddler's nose, is so focused on his laptop screen when he hears a sneeze that he doesn't think (at all) before pulling out a tissue and reaching over to the face of the sneezer. That it's Sherlock is only a fact he recognises a split second too late.

- John, brain uncaffeinated, yawns while reaching across Sherlock to grab something off the table, and realises with a start that it's 6am and neither of them have cleaned their teeth. He stares at the mouth so close to his, at the man whose breath is bitter, yes, but somehow not unagreeable, then jerks away gracelessly. 'I'll just--' He points his thumb over his shoulder at the loo, and escapes, face flaming.

- And finally: John, going quietly mad when Rosie gets her first real, frightening fever. His training doesn't stand a chance of overriding his lizard brain, so he spends three days ignoring absolutely all personal hygiene and never leaving his daughter's side. When it finally breaks, when John feels like he can breathe again, he notices Sherlock is there, too, beside him, quietly watching her sleep restfully for the first time in what feels like long, dusty years. And he suddenly realises he must smell like -- well, like a locker room and a crowded pub rolled around in the dirt then pissed off a skunk, probably. And Sherlock is standing next to him as if he smells like roses. This, unexpectedly, makes John's stomach broil under a surge of affection, and he feels his eyes stinging for one horrifying, sleep-deprived moment.

Soon, after so many of these things, he can't help wondering if God or whomever is taking the piss. If fate is having a good old go at John H Watson by giving him the closest, most fulfilling relationship he's ever had-- and making it with the one person who can knock him flat on his arse and keep him there.

He's tempted, more than once, to give the sky two fingers. But he has yet to get around to doing it. He's too busy, for once, actually living.

[❤️]

[thatonesalmonlingnamedspike]

lwk kinda ass. although I am NOT spending 6 more hours of my life on banlab on a school chromebook remaking this for the 3238 time/silly

[ghostofnuggetspast]

Got me again. ugh UGH

[aloysiavirgata]

Prompt! Vulnerable post-case Scully. She can be prickly (because I love your Scully) but also delicate. Case-related vulnerability is my most favourite vibe in the series and every so often I get sad that there are no more moments to watch. Thank you 💜

By the time she gets around to taking it off, her blood-soaked starched blouse has all but melded with her skin. They have to peel it from her body with a crackling sound. Her jacket is already stiffly tented in the corner.

He will burn those items later, he will burn and burn and burn.

***

Acrid scent of gunpowder in the air still. Blood like pennies baking on hot tarmac. Cortisol, adrenaline.

Terror.

Her grasping fingers, her grasping hands, her wracking sobs even as he pried her away to check for wounds.

***

Mulder helps her to his bathroom, holding her elbow as she staggers beside him like a fawn. Her hair is dried in ragged, bloody clumps.

He settles her onto the toilet lid, gets the bath running at her preferred level of scald. He squirts in a few blobs of his pine-scented body wash, which begin to foam. Scully smiles a heartbreaking smile in thanks.

“Bubbles,” he says, inanely.

Scully’s chest is caked with blood, even with her shirt removed to reveal the stained satin of her bra. Her belly is streaked with it, her black trousers rusty and stiff.

How is there any blood still inside her? How is she still here?

She has her arms crossed at her lap, her head bowed. He cannot see anything but her white shoulders and her draggled hair and her dark, narrow thighs.

“Scully,” he whispers.

She gazes up, hollow-eyed. “He didn’t…” she begins. “We never….”

She looks away, lower lip between her teeth.

“Oh, Scully.”

His hands are gentle at the clasp of her bra; he turns his eyes from her breasts even though he’s seen them.

He unbuttons the fine wool trousers at her waist, slides them down with her dark panties. He doesn’t look or touch or breathe more than he has to because the idea of connecting any of this to lust makes him sick.

Her hips, the dark triangle of sunset hair between her thighs, are also sticky with blood. The lace clings a little and she winces. Her trouser lining tugs. Finally, she is nude. She is so small and so bloody and so bare, like a newborn creature.

Mulder guides her towards the tub, averts his eyes like she is Artemis bathing. Tries not to think the name Diana.

Scully, breast-deep in bubbles. Scully dripping rusty rivulets in the steam. Her tears are silent now, streaking paths down her blood-smattered kidskin face.

Mulder fills a scuffed blue plastic Knicks cup with water, curves his palm around her eyes. “Look up,” he murmurs, and she does, distant, outside of herself.

He sluices water over her head until it runs clear, until she is sleek as an otter, a siren, a goddess. She gasps a little, spreads her fingers against her skull.

Her freckles are magnified by the falling water, her eyes a little too big. A little too round. Her nose is straight and queenly throughout however; her lips parted like a budding tulip.

He massages pearly-blue Head and Shoulders shampoo into the rare, persimmon beauty of her hair. He massages her scalp until she purrs a little. He touches her until his nerves are settled.

“Mulder,” she says, and grasps his forearm in her fine, pale hand. Her face is pre-Raphaelite. Her face is like a D below middle-C; a plucked bowstring, still quivering.

Agent Mulder is already in love.

“Padgett was crazy, he was -“ she begins.

“Sshhhh,” he says. “I have conditioner.” He holds the bottle out, a drugstore brand promising THICKNESS!!! and SHINE!!!

She laughs and it warms him like a hot toddy, like the sun in August, like the sand at Ninigret Pond.

***

Scully is clean, finally, even her smudged makeup rubbed away. They’ve drained and refilled the tub with fresh water, with fresh bubbles. She seems like herself again, not so dazed.

He passes her his robe, turns his head to hold it out when she stands.

“You’re so Victorian.”

“Oh, you know how much I love to lie back and think of England.” He glances over. “The memories are so nice, Phoebe and all.”

Scully ties the too-long belt in a big square knot. “It was kindly meant.” Her smile is soft.

“I know.”

They shift awkwardly for a moment in the small space. Scully looks like a kid dressed up as an angel for a Nativity play in that enormous robe, her bare face and bare feet and tumbled halo of hair.

“Thank you,” Scully begins finally. “I couldn’t have-“

“I’m sorry,” he says at the same time.

Scully frowns. “Why on earth are you sor-“

“My neighbor. So I feel like I..I don’t know. I led him to you.” He picks at a non-existent hangnail.

Scully sighs. “Oh, Mulder.”

He shakes his head. “No, I don’t… I didn’t mean to make it about me, I know these are your choices, that you’re not some damsel in distress. I just hate when these things hurt you.”

Things is such an inadequate word, but no word ever could be adequate.

Scully blinks. She opens the door, wafts into his bedroom with the steam. Trails his bathrobe like a court gown.

Mulder follows after, wary. Watches her sprawl on his bed, far from the blood stains in the living room. He’s already called the crime-scene cleanup company.

Again.

She pats the bed next to her. “I promise I won’t take advantage of you.”

He laughs a little at that, remembers her looking a lot like this years ago in Bellefleur, in that awful motel with that terrible brown Clairol wash on her hair. He flops next to her. “Any mosquito bites you want me to check, Doctor Scully?”

She thumbs his cheek. “I was a child.”

He kisses her nose so that he doesn’t kiss her mouth. Though why shouldn’t he? Why shouldn’t they?

“I was a child and she was a child in this kingdom by the sea…” he quotes. Trails off. What are they doing, this isn’t a partnership. This is strange and awful and gorgeous. Her dying baby in his arms, her ova, her-

“In her sepulchre there by the sea…” Scully murmurs. “In her tomb by the sounding sea.” She closes her eyes.

They breathe one another’s air. They breathe artificial pine scent, dryer sheets, warm nitrogen. Faded cotton, old paper.

“Are you okay?” he asks, so he doesn’t slip a finger between her thighs. So he doesn’t say I love you the way oysters love the morning tide.

Her finger at his lips, her breath on his lashes. Her sweet, warm skin and her extraordinary brain and the scarred palimpsest of her body right here.

“No,” she says, stroking his jaw. “But I will be.”

****

She stays with him all night and he stays with her all night and they are arranged like the Lovers of Valdaro.

His coffee pot is programmed. His carpet is soaked in her blood, her gun is going to be the subject of an investigation.

He and Walter will protect her.

***

She loses the robe at 2AM, mumbling something vague about being tangled and too hot. Her naked body is now asleep against his chest and he lets go, finally, in the sweet vulnerability of her slim arms that can heal and kill.

[rivka-kopelman]

[msrpusher]

Chapter 3: Fissure

If you like this chapter, please comment. Comments make me weak in the knees like when Mulder sweeps Scully's hair behind her ear. If you know, you know.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/66617185/chapters/172055107

The Morning After

The morning arrived with the subtle cruelty of a hangman’s knot, tightening steadily around Scully’s temples. She groaned, pulling the pillow over her head, but the dull throb behind her eyes persisted, a rhythmic drumbeat to the regret of last night's whiskey. Every nerve ending seemed attuned to the low thrum of the hotel’s distant HVAC system, amplifying it into a relentless jackhammer. Her mouth felt like it had been stuffed with cotton, then left in the desert sun.

A soft knock sounded at her door, insistent but polite. Scully squinted at the digital clock on the bedside table. Seven o’clock. Unconscionable.

“Scully?” Mulder’s voice, blessedly modulated, floated through the wood. “You alive in there?”

Another groan escaped her. “Barely. Go away, Mulder.”

The front door cracked open anyway, a sliver of light invading her sanctuary. Mulder’s silhouette filled the frame, a tall, surprisingly crisp figure against the morning’s muted glow. They always got an additional key to each other’s rooms, a silent, unspoken agreement born of necessity, as you never knew if and when it would be needed.

“Are you decent?” he asked, his voice low.

“Yup,” she responded, her voice still rough with sleep and irritation.

Mulder muttered under his breath, “Too bad.”

“What?” Scully asked, pushing herself higher on the pillow, a frown creasing her brow.

“Never mind,” he replied, a faint, unreadable smile playing on his lips. He carried a small, clinking tray.

“Thought you might be needing this,” he said, his voice dropping to a sympathetic murmur. He stepped inside, placing the tray gently on her bedside table. It held a glass of water with a fizzing tablet dissolved within, a small cup of black coffee, and a single, perfectly peeled orange segment. “Electrolyte supplement, caffeine, and vitamin C. The trinity of resurrection.”

Scully pushed herself up on an elbow, wincing at the sudden rush of vertigo. “And you, ever the miracle worker,” she rasped, eyeing the offerings with a mixture of suspicion and profound gratitude. “What did you do, send down for it?”

“Intuition,” he replied, a faint, unreadable smile playing on his lips as he watched her, a quiet concern in his eyes. He sat on the edge of the other bed, giving her space but not leaving.

She reached for the fizzy drink, downing it in one go, the tartness momentarily shocking her senses but bringing a wave of mild relief. The coffee was next, a welcome jolt. “I blame you,” she stated flatly, setting the empty glass down with a clink that resonated through her skull.

“You accepted Potts’s invitation, Scully, not me,” Mulder reminded her, a hint of playful accusation in his tone. “Still your fault,” she retorted, and Mulder merely nodded, a wry smirk playing on his lips.

“I merely observed,” he chuckled softly, a low sound that vibrated pleasantly in the quiet room. “Though I must say, you were quite the showstopper on the dance floor last night.” He leaned forward slightly, his eyes wide, a pouty lip forming. “And why, I might ask, do you never pull out those dazzling moves for me?”

A fresh wave of heat, fueled by residual anger and embarrassment from the night before, washed over her. The image of Amber, sleek and possessive, at their table still stung. “Oh, I saw you observing, Mulder. You seemed quite taken with Amber.”

Too early, Scully thought, a silent, deeply buried truth. Too early, that unburdened sway, that unfettered joy. When the night was still young, and the whiskey had yet to loosen her careful control, he was already too much, too captivating, too entirely irresistible. That kind of freedom, that utter abandon, it was for a soul already laid bare, a heart already surrendered. And hers, for all its yearning, was not yet ready to dance so freely for him.

He sighed, the amusement draining from his face, replaced by that familiar, guarded expression. He had seen the look she’d given Amber, the barely contained fire, and something in him had both bristled and subtly, selfishly, soared. But the memory of Potts, of his easy charm and the undeniable comfort Scully had found in his presence, still gnawed at him. Potts was a man who belonged, who offered stability, who could give Scully a life far removed from the shadowed corners and endless roads they traveled. He was normal, and the thought was a chilling, seductive poison. He could offer her what Mulder, in his own mind, could not. He could offer her a future.

He cleared his throat, shifting his focus, deliberately, to the case. “Scully, about today. I know you’re not thrilled about cutting short your beauty sleep, but we need to hit the ground running. Dr. Potts can give us some anecdotal evidence, but we need hard data, medical records, a comprehensive overview of these symptoms.”

Scully rubbed her temples, the coffee doing little to completely dull the ache. “I’m aware, Mulder. That’s why I took the case. I just hadn’t anticipated a social component that would leave me incapacitated.”

“Right,” he conceded, his gaze softening slightly. “Look, this isn’t just about collecting files. Your expertise, your medical intuition, it’s crucial here. These aren't typical neurological presentations. And the electrical anomalies, the missing time. It suggests something… beyond the ordinary. Beyond what a local trauma surgeon, however competent, can see.” He leaned forward, his voice dropping, infusing the words with an earnestness that was undeniably persuasive. “We need your specific kind of scientific rigor, Scully. We need your ability to spot the subtle inconsistencies, to find the gaps in the conventional explanation. To connect the dots that no one else sees.”

He wasn’t just talking about the case, and they both knew it. He was talking about them, about their partnership, about the way their minds intertwined. He needed her to connect their dots, to bridge their divide. The words were couched in professional necessity, but the plea beneath was naked and undeniable.

Scully met his gaze, the oceanic blue of her eyes, despite being slightly bloodshot, piercing and intelligent. She saw the worry there, the quiet desperation, masked by the urgency of the case. She saw the ghost of last night's jealousy, the quiet battle he’d fought. A small sigh escaped her, less of annoyance now, more of resignation. He was right, of course. He usually was.

“Alright, Mulder,” she said, swinging her legs over the side of the bed, feeling the floor cold beneath her bare feet. The headache was still there, but a different ache, one she understood even less, was beginning to assert itself. “But next time, you’re the designated drinker. And you’re carrying my bag.”

A genuine smile, rare and open, touched Mulder’s lips. “Deal.” He stood, giving her a moment, before heading towards the adjoining door that, tonight, remained stubbornly closed. “Meet me in the lobby in thirty. Try not to spontaneously combust.”

Scully watched him go, the door clicking shut behind him. She was still hungover, still annoyed, but the quiet, unspoken conversation that had just passed between them had eased some of the tension. The space between their rooms, a symbol of their current distance, still felt vast, but for a moment, the possibility of crossing it felt a little less terrifying. __________________________________________________________

Virginia Beach General Hospital

By eight o’clock, the soft glow of the hotel room was replaced by the stark, fluorescent hum of Virginia Beach General Hospital. The scent of antiseptic and stale coffee clung to the air, a familiar backdrop to the quiet urgency of a medical crisis. Dr. Danny Potts stood waiting for them just inside the main entrance to the trauma unit, a professional air replacing last night’s casual charm, though his smile for Scully was still notably warmer than the curt nod he offered Mulder.

“Dana, Agent Mulder,” Potts greeted, his gaze settling keenly on Scully. “Glad you’re here. We’ve had another patient admitted overnight with similar symptoms. Their vitals are stable, but the cognitive deficits are alarming. I’ve prepped a brief on what we know so far, and I’ve got permission for you to access the secure medical files. I was hoping you could join me to review the new patient’s charts immediately.” He gestured toward a nearby consultation room, clearly expecting Scully to follow.

Mulder stepped forward, a subtle shift in his posture, a quiet assertion of his authority. “Thank you, Dr. Potts. But Agent Scully and I are going to start by interviewing the first victim. We need to hear their story firsthand, get a clearer picture of the incident from their perspective, before diving into the medical minutiae.”

Potts’s brow furrowed, a flicker of impatience crossing his features. “Agent Mulder, with all due respect, these aren’t typical cases. The physiological changes, the rapid onset of symptoms. Agent Scully’s medical expertise is paramount in deciphering the immediate data. Her clinical eye, combined with my observations from the attending staff, will be far more productive than simply taking a layman’s statement. Every minute counts here.” His argument was compelling, his tone persuasive, and his focus remained solely on Scully.

A familiar weariness settled over Scully as she watched the two men. This wasn't about the case, not entirely. This was a pissing contest, a subtle but unmistakable battle for her attention, for her professional collaboration, for her very presence. The air crackled with it, a low hum beneath the medical urgency.

She took a breath, then stepped between them, placing a hand on Mulder’s arm. “Mulder,” she said, her voice quiet but firm, pulling him a few steps away from Potts, into a less exposed alcove near the nurses’ station.

He looked at her, his expression a mix of frustration and guarded hope.

“Listen,” she began, keeping her voice low, for his ears only. “What you said this morning, about my expertise being crucial, about connecting the dots no one else sees... you were right.” She paused, letting her gaze hold his, reinforcing the unspoken understanding between them. “This case, it needs my medical eye on the ground, with him.” She nodded subtly towards Potts. “He’s the direct access point to these patients, the one immersed in the clinical details.”

Mulder looked at her, then gave a slow, deliberate nod. It was a weighted nod, heavy with understanding, acceptance, and a suppressed battle he was still fighting within himself. He knew she was right, professionally. But the concession felt like a small, sharp loss.

“We can catch up this evening,” Scully continued, her voice softening, a reassurance just for him. “Exchange notes, compare information, figure out our next steps. Fully debrief.”

“During dinner?” Mulder asked, his voice barely above a whisper, his eyes searching hers, a question in their depths she didn’t immediately comprehend.

Scully blinked, a slight frown creasing her brow. “During dinner? Yes, of course. That’s usually how we do it.” The question confused her. Meals were always assumed, a natural extension of their long workdays, a comfortable routine he’d never questioned or formally asked about in the past.

Potts, who had been waiting patiently, offered Scully another expectant smile. She turned back towards him, a professional composure settling over her features once more. As she did, Mulder turned abruptly and walked away, heading towards the hospital exit without a backward glance, the lingering unspoken questions hanging in the sterile air. ___________________________________________________________

Back at the Hotel

Later that same evening, the oppressive humidity of the day, coupled with fruitless interviews under a relentless sun, left Mulder in a foul mood. But deeper than the heat or the uncooperative victims, his irritation festered, fueled by the lingering image of Scully and Potts's easy camaraderie at the hospital. He’d showered quickly, the cool water doing little to wash away the day’s frustrations. He was in sweatpants and a T-shirt, his hair still damp from the shower, a towel slung over his shoulder.

In her own room, Scully, also fresh from a shower and similarly clad in comfortable sweats and a soft T-shirt, her hair damp strands curling gently around her face, stood before the adjoining room door. Her fingers, almost unconsciously, traced the faint line where it met the frame. This door. It was more than just painted wood and a brass knob. It was a membrane, a living, breathing symbol of everything unspoken between them, a tangible representation of the aching distance she felt in this "space between."

On the other side of that same door, Mulder paced, a restless energy vibrating through him. Potts’s over exuberant gestures, Scully’s unrestrained laughter—it had been a brutal, unwelcome sight. He knew, intellectually, that he should be supportive. He should want this for her, a life, a “normal life,” uncomplicated by dark theories, endless shadows, and a global conspiracy. He repeated the mantra in his head: platonic work partners, that’s what they are, what they must be. He glanced at the impassive door, his jaw tightening. It was best it remained shut. Safer for everyone.

But then, with a quiet sigh that was almost a surrender, Scully reached out. Her fingers found the knob, twisting it gently. The door swung inward with a soft click, revealing… another closed door. Mulder’s side was shut, a dark, silent barrier. A faint pang, disappointment mixed with a strange kind of relief, went through her. She lifted a hand and knocked.

A moment later, the muffled thud of footsteps. Mulder’s door opened, and he was there, looking just as disheveled and damp as she felt. His eyes, though weary, still held that sharp, questioning gaze.

“Hey,” she said, offering a small, tentative smile. “We need to go over our day. Debrief.”

He nodded, and entered Scully’s room. The air in her room suddenly felt smaller, more charged with his presence. It was a simple space: her bed, a small, rinky-dink desk with one wobbly chair that she usually used to pile files on. Mulder, for lack of a better option, sat on it, turning it to face her.

They began to debrief, running through the details of their respective interviews. Scully, methodical as ever, recounted her findings, mentioning Potts’s name a few times, referencing his insights into the patients’ charts.

“He’s really into you, you know,” Mulder interjected, his voice flat, devoid of inflection. He watched her, waiting for a reaction.

Scully didn’t even look up from the file she was scanning. “Hm?”

“Potts,” Mulder clarified, a subtle edge creeping into his tone. “He reminds me of a Labrador puppy, all eager enthusiasm, just begging for a pat on the head. He’s very… keen to please.”

This time, Scully looked up, her eyebrow raising, a faint smile touching her lips. Mulder pushed, testing the waters. “He’s really perfect, isn’t he? Good looking, athletic, a brilliant surgeon…”

“Mulder, if you’re that interested,” Scully interrupted, a dry, amused tone in her voice, “I can pass him a note in study hall tomorrow.”

He leaned back slightly, a ghost of a grin playing on his lips. “I’m interested for you,” he corrected, gesturing vaguely in her direction.

Scully rolled her eyes. “Are you my Bubby?”

Mulder's face remained perfectly deadpan. “Bubby? I hear the kneading of challah is very therapeutic for existential dread.”

Scully let out a short, incredulous laugh, shaking her head. “Alright, Mulder, back to reality. What about these victims? Did any of them recall anything about the… energy surge?” She tried to steer them back to the case, to the safety of facts and evidence.

Mulder, however, ignored the redirect. “So, are you into guys that fawn all over you like Potts does?” he pressed, his gaze piercing.

Scully paused, genuinely confused. “Why do you want to know?”

“Just trying to be the best bestie I can be,” he deflected, his voice light but his eyes serious.

Scully scoffed. “Great. After we braid each other’s hair, I’ll tell you all about my preferences with men.”

A mischievous glint lit Mulder’s eyes. “Great. I’m first,” Mulder declared, turning and straddling the wobbly chair with a sigh of mock resignation. Scully was already sitting on the edge of her bed, facing him, a mischievous glint in her eyes.

“Alright, Bubby,” she teased, reaching out to touch his damp hair.

As her fingers grazed his scalp, a shiver unexpectedly traced its way down Mulder’s spine. He leaned his head back, offering her better access, the faint scent of his shampoo filling her nostrils. Scully began to idly separate strands, her touch surprisingly gentle.

The initial playfulness began to subtly shift. The quiet intimacy of the small room, the lingering heat of the day clinging to their skin, the casual comfort of their sweatpants and T-shirts—it all contributed to an atmosphere that felt charged.

Mulder shifted in his seat, a restless movement. As he did, his elbow brushed against her thigh. Her breath hitched almost imperceptibly. The casual touch lingered for a beat longer than necessary. His fingers now, warm and surprisingly firm, pressed lightly against her skin through the soft fabric of her sweatpants. A different kind of heat began to rise within Scully, a slow burn that had nothing to do with the Virginia summer.

Mulder cleared his throat, his hand finally dropping away, leaving a lingering heat on her thigh. The air between them felt thick, almost viscous, heavy with unspoken things. He leaned back again, his damp hair now tickling her fingers as she resumed her tentative braiding, though her focus had blurred. The silence stretched, punctuated only by the soft sounds of their breathing, a primal rhythm starting to take hold. Scully’s gaze drifted from his dark, still-wet hair to the tantalizing curve of his neck, an inexplicable urge to reach out, to trace the bare skin there, pulling at her. Instead, her fingers tangled more deeply in his hair, the strands surprisingly soft and yielding beneath her touch, a sensual anchor.

Suddenly, the wobbly chair shuddered violently beneath Mulder. A startled sound tore from his throat as he lost his balance, toppling backward. Scully gasped, instinctively reaching out, but it was too late. He fell onto the bed, his body landing heavily, deliciously, on top of hers. Her breath left her in a soft gasp, a surprised moan escaping her lips.

For a moment, they were utterly still, bodies pressed intimately, perfectly, together. His weight was a solid, undeniable presence, pinning her to the mattress. He tried to shift, to right himself, his muscles coiling and tensing, but his movements only exacerbated the delicious friction. His hand brushed against her hip, then slid higher, briefly grazing the delicate curve of her bare skin where her t-shirt had ridden up, as he tried to push up. Their legs tangled, warm skin against warm skin, the soft fabric of their sweatpants doing little to mask the sudden, raw, overwhelming awareness. His chest was flush against hers, his breath a warm, ragged whisper against her cheek, sending shivers down her spine.

The air crackled, thick with unspoken desire, a potent, undeniable current passing like wildfire between them. Every slight movement, every shift of weight, seemed to heighten the intensity, drawing them deeper into a sensual trance. He lowered his head, just an inch, his eyes locking with hers, a deep, yearning hunger simmering in their depths, a silent question that echoed the frantic beat of his own heart. The scent of her—clean, warm, undeniably Scully—filled his senses, making him ache with a longing that was both ancient and utterly new.

Just as the tension threatened to snap, a sharp knock rattled the main door.

“Buon Giorno, It’s Pasquale’s Pizzeria!” a booming fake Italian accent announced from the hallway.

They both froze, then disentangled themselves quickly, scrambling to regain some semblance of composure.

Mulder, running a hand through his damp hair, strode to the door, pulling out his wallet as he went.

[byenuoya3]

FUKOUNA GIRL (Japanese version)

不幸なガール 【日本語版】

+ .SVP, instrumental, & video dl

[facewithoutheart]

Thanks for the tags @noblecorgi, @rimeswithpurple & @monbons ❤️❤️

What’s up kids we’re on day six of this hyperfixation I’ve written 25k things are dire. In the best way.

Okay, but the exciting part of working on a WIP none of y’all are going to read (a very valid choice, no judgement) is that I get to share one of my favorite scenes! Normally I’d keep this close to my chest to save the surprise but there is no surprise look at this I wrote it I LOVE IT what joy:

Eddie cocks an eyebrow. “Don’t start something you can’t—”

Buck bolts down the hallway with a whoop.

“—finish,” Eddie laughs, taking after Buck, skidding in his socks on hardwood floors as he rounds the corner to catch Buck in the kitchen.

Buck’s already got the fridge door open, a can of Ready-Whip in one hand poised to shoot.

“Oh no you don’t,” Eddie warns.

Buck shakes the can and grins.

Eddie snaps into action, tackling Buck by his waist and spinning him, pushing him out of the kitchen; the can of whipped cream falling with an impotent clink on the kitchen tile as Eddie gets Buck across the threshold.

“Eddie!” Buck giggles, joy echoing off the high living room ceilings as Eddie continues to push and push, catching the back of Buck’s knees on the edge of his sofa and pinning Buck to the cushions beneath.

“Gotcha,” Eddie says, grinning down.

Beneath him Buck’s red-faced and panting, something wild in his eyes and that’s when Eddie realizes what he’s done, what this looks like.

Buck’s eyes flick down to Eddie’s mouth.

Shit.

Sexual tension be tensing. This fic now holds the dirtiest smut I’ve ever written and this from the bitch who brought you lightning mccream.

Also, why does this line slap so hard:

“Yo, you got us some Welch’s, bro?”

Hope you all are having a fantastic Wednesday! Tags & hugs to my 911 (the show not the tragedy) hyperfixation subjects (thanks for letting me talk your ears off about this one day I’ll be normal) (lol jk NEVER): @sillyunicorn, @martsonmars, @raenestee, @thewholelemon & @bookish-bogwitch

I am once again not tagging people who don’t go here but you can tag me if you want to share your WIP with me 🥺

[renny-mayflower]

Right as I finish this too btw

Fuckin hell