vapingahole

[vapingahole]

Want is more than erotica. It’s a smart collection of anonymous fantasies shared by women all over the world. It was inspired by “Secret Garden”, by Nancy Friday, which was a similar collection published decades ago.

The audio book features Gillian and other voice actors, and it makes the stories more personal. It really adds to the storytelling.

The book made me wonder how I’ve shaped my own fantasies. I’m the product of my background, cultural norms, religious upbringing, my feminist POV, who I am as an adult woman, and all of the societal obligations or expectations that go with it.

“Want” made me wonder if fantasies are a component of our survival instincts. Is imagination part of our reproductive process? Everyone has fantasies. And even if all of our needs and wants are met, the women who shared their own fantasies demonstrate how much our brains seek more. Secrets that only matter to ourselves.

Even if you don’t read erotica, and it’s not something I necessarily gravitate towards, the book is fascinating. Women sometimes (privately) share the same premises in their fantasy lives. That’s mind blowing! Plus, we learn more about our own needs and wants.

“Want” is a lot smarter than I thought it would be. Oh, and also? The stories are sorted in a cohesive way, categorized, and it’s all a very compelling and fun collection.

[vapingahole]

Some AI pics you might like. #xfiles #msr

[vapingahole]

IN THE SPACE BETWEEN

A X-Files fanfiction by MJ (the vaping a-hole)

This takes place before the bee ruined everything. A cinematic love scene we deserved. I’m not a fanfic writer, but I wrote this for me. I’m happy with it - wanted to share. It’s my headcanon. #msr #rst #xfilesfanfic #ratedR #FightTheFuture #muldersndscully #xfiles

INT. HALLWAY OUTSIDE MULDER’S APARTMENT — NIGHT

Mulder steps into the hallway, barefoot, hair tousled, jeans low on his hips, dark blue T-shirt clinging to the sheen of sweat at his collarbone.

Scully is halfway down the corridor, dressed for war and consequence: a black skirt suit framing her body, white blouse crisp, diamond studs catching the light. Her spine is straight, but her steps falter when she hears him behind her.

MULDER

You’re wrong, Scully. You said I didn’t know what to believe. But the truth is… I don’t know if I want to do this alone. And I don’t know if I can.

She turns, eyes flashing.

SCULLY

This isn’t about you.

MULDER

It is. It’s always been about us.

She exhales, lips parting—but says nothing. He steps closer, slowly. She doesn’t retreat.

MULDER

You kept me honest. Made me whole. I owe you everything. And you owe me nothing.

Silence. His voice drops, rough and raw:

MULDER (softer)

I don’t want to lose you.

Her shoulders ease—not in defeat, but surrender. They’re inches apart now. Years collapse in the space between their bodies. He breathes in her perfume—something clean and warm, bergamot and skin.

She lifts her gaze. No more reasons. No more running.

Her fingers rise and brush his cheek. He leans into her touch like it’s air.

Then—he kisses her. A pause. A breath. The sense that something irreversible has just begun.

They’ve always lived in the pause. Glances held too long. Fingers brushing without retreat. Silences filled with volumes. But this—this is a choice, not chance. Intention.

She hadn’t thought she was waiting—but now it’s here, and her body knows it before her mind does. The air thickens, charged. Not dangerous, but weighty.

He feels it too. A shift in gravity. He’s kissed women before—beautiful, complicated—but never with this kind of clarity. This reverence.

The moment stretches. He wonders if moving will break it. But she doesn’t pull away. She’s watching him.

There’s no armor in her gaze. She’s fully present, alert to every nerve ending and every inch of space between them. She’s no longer pretending not to feel this. Maybe she never did.

This isn’t about need. Not tonight. It’s not lust, not fear. It’s recognition. Of everything they’ve been and what they might still become.

It’s about trust.

He thinks of the years. The almosts. The times she saved him by saying nothing. How she sees him—not as a hero, not a lunatic, but something in between. Someone worth believing in.

There’s the tilt of her head. The breath between them. The world falling away.

And when their mouths collided so beautifully—it’s a relief. Soft and unspoken. An answer to a question neither dared ask.

There’s no going back. But neither of them wants to.

The kiss isn’t tentative. It’s reverent, hungry, searching. She kisses him back with equal urgency. His hands slide to her waist, up her spine, then cup her head like he’s anchoring her.

Their mouths find rhythm. Tongues brushing, learning, open and deep. Hips press. Breath tangles.

She tastes like adrenaline.

His body responds instantly. His hands tremble. Her fingers slip under his shirt, skimming his back.

His palm glides under her blazer, tracing the edge of her blouse. She breaks for breath, then pulls him in again, deeper. Her hand threads into his hair. He groans into her mouth.

Then, with aching precision, he lifts her—one arm behind her thighs. Her legs don’t wrap around him, but she clings to him, back pressed to the wall beside his door.

She leans her forehead to his.

SCULLY (a breath)

Inside.

He fumbles for the handle, opens it, draws her in.

INT. MULDER’S APARTMENT — NIGHT

The door clicks shut. Mulder locks it without looking.

They’re still touching—backs, hips, hands—tethered more than tangled.

Scully shrugs off her blazer. It falls. He watches her—not ogling, but memorizing.

She steps out of her heels.

He takes her hand.

They move through the apartment, quiet but electric. She knows the way—has been here often. But never like this.

Each step toward the bedroom is a breath, a year unraveling.

He closes the bedroom door behind them.

INT. MULDER’S BEDROOM — NIGHT

The room glows dim—orange from the streetlamp, silver from the moonlight slipping through blinds. Shadows flicker across walls, across skin. Soft light and quiet.

They meet again in the center of the room.

Mulder reaches for her blouse, eyes asking. She nods.

One button at a time, he undoes it. Peels it open. The lace of her bra frames her chest. He slips the blouse from her shoulders. Reaches behind. Unhooks the clasp. The bra falls.

She wants him to look and see.

His hands move to her skirt. She unzips it. It slides down. He kneels to remove her last layer, tracing her thighs. She steps free.

Now she stands bare. Moonlight touches her shoulders, her stomach, the curve between her legs. He inhales her.

Then she lifts his shirt, slow. He raises his arms.

She traces down his chest, unbuttons his jeans, draws the zipper down. He steps out, shedding everything.

No barriers left.

He draws back the blanket and slides into bed. She follows, straddling him. Their skin meets—charged and warm.

They kiss again. Wet, open, slow. That first kiss, now unspooled.

His hands roam—back, thighs, hips. His mouth finds her breasts. Her breath catches, sharp and audible.

His fingers drift lower. Find her. Slick, ready. He circles her with careful pressure.

She kisses him harder.

She moves her hips, seeking more.

He keeps touching her, watching her, worshiping her openness.

Then she reaches down. Guides him to her.

He holds her hips. Forehead to hers. She lifts slightly—and sinks onto him.

A shared breath. Stillness.

Then movement. A tide.

She meets him, hips rolling. Her lips on his jaw, hands in his hair. He strokes her as he thrusts, steady and knowing.

Tension coils.

She comes first—quiet, deep, trembling. He holds her through it.

Then he follows—shuddering, her name torn from his throat, releasing inside her.

They stay like that. Tangled. Real.

MORNING — MULDER’S BEDROOM

Early light seeps through blinds. Mulder sleeps, arm around Scully, hand at her waist. His features are soft.

She stirs, blinking awake, her body still pressed to his.

She doesn’t move. Not yet. She listens to his breathing. Warm. Safe.

When she shifts slightly, he pulls her closer. Instinct.

She smiles faintly. Watches him.

Then she gently runs her hand along his chest. Down his arm.

He stirs. Eyes blink open. Meet hers.

SCULLY (softly)

Morning.

Mulder tucks a lock of hair behind her ear.

MULDER (sleepy)

Morning. You okay?

SCULLY (quietly)

Yeah. I’m… fine.

He studies her face. That mix of vulnerability and strength.

The light softens the room. She slips out of bed, silent on the floorboards. Heads to the bathroom.

Mulder listens. Waits for the water to run. Then gets up, uses it after her, and pads back to bed. She raises a brow, amused. He leans in and kisses her forehead.

KITCHEN — LATE MORNING

Mulder stands at the stove, flipping eggs, tank top and boxers. Toast scents the air. Coffee brews.

Scully leans in the doorway, wearing his robe—too long in the sleeves, bulky, and yet perfect.

SCULLY (teasing)

Didn’t know you were the domestic type.

MULDER (half-smiling)

I’m not. But for you… I’ll try anything.

She laughs softly. The sound grounds him.

MULDER

Would you… stay here? This weekend. Just us.

SCULLY

You’re serious?

MULDER (nods)

No FBI. No cases. Just us.

She smiles. Steps closer. Kisses his cheek.

SCULLY

Alright. This weekend. But only this one.

MULDER (grinning)

Deal.

They eat together, smiling between bites. The outside world fades.

INT. MULDER’S BATHROOM — MORNING

The shower runs, steam rising from the glass. Scully stands beneath the water, letting it cascade over her skin, her head tilted back. The quiet of the water fills the room, but it can’t wash away the quiet charge between them.

She hears the door creak open behind her. Mulder steps in, his presence a familiar weight. He stands there for a moment, watching her, eyes steady.

She doesn’t turn. She doesn’t need to.

Without a word, he steps under the spray with her. The space between them is close now, filled with the heat of shared silence.

His hands find her back, warm, steady. He presses a gentle kiss to her shoulder, the water blending with the tenderness of his touch.

They stand together, letting the quiet moments stretch, wrapped in the simple act of being.

LATER — MULDER’S BEDROOM

They’ve made love again—this time urgent, tender, exploratory. Now they lie together, limbs entwined, quiet. Her fingers draw circles across his shoulder and chest. His head rests on her bare chest, eyes closed, breath evening out against her skin.

He is quiet like this—unguarded in a way only she ever sees. Safe, with her heartbeat beneath his ear.

LIVING ROOM — LATER

They sit on the couch. Scully curled into him, newspaper open in front of them. No rush. No tension.

Her head rests on his shoulder. His fingers move through her hair.

They say nothing. They don’t have to.

They don’t speak of Monday. The hours stretch like a borrowed world—unpromised, unreal.

Outside, the city hums. Inside, they linger in a hush that has no name.

They have crossed a line and now stand, together, on the wrong side of something too real to define—agents first, lovers second, or maybe just two souls clutching warmth in the eye of a storm not yet broken.

What waits is not peace, but weight. Secrets will calcify. Desks will grow distant. A child will come and vanish. Mulder will be lost. Scully will wake to silence and unanswered prayers. Grief will mount like files on a desk—cold and endless.

And still—they will carry each other. Beneath skin. In memory. In choices made without understanding why.

Even in distance. Even in darkness. When time steals names, homes, hope.

This weekend will remain. Not spoken, but known. Not easy, but real.

It will be enough.