She's beautiful, raw, and vulnerable. He doesn't know what makes him feel luckier: the fact that he's able to read her so readily, or the fact that she trusts him enough to allow him to see her like this.

He's grateful for either option.

She's pliant and warm in his lap, her skin velvet soft and dewy with the light misting of perspiration that has gathered from their exertions. Her previously shower-damp hair has become humid and mildly frizzy, contributing to her beautifully wild look as he runs his palms up and down her bare back. She's panting as he thrusts, her little hands resting on his shoulders for leverage. Each exhale of her breath brushes lightly in his chest hair.

"Oh..." she whispers, "Oh...Mulder...oh yeah..."

Her voice is husky, devoid of oxygen, and he can discern the little twitches in her pelvis that denote her impending orgasm. She feels so damn good, so hot and wet and snug, and he knows the minute he feels that first pulse he's not going to last.

Gotta make this good for her. Always gotta make it so good for her.

He peppers kisses along her jawline and down her throat, knowing she responds positively to passion-coincided gentleness. He feels the vibration of her moan against his lips as he skillfully edges his middle finger to where they are joined, seeking out her slick clit. He knows she's sensitive tonight when he feels her nails dig sharply into the ball of his shoulder. Her other hand clasps his wrist, holding his rubbing fingers in place between her legs.

"Oh—" she gasps, "Oh yeah...oh—"

Any moment now, he prays as he concentrates on kissing, stroking, and thrusting, any moment now she's going to make that sweet little grunt and she's going to come un—

"Oh...oh my god, I'm coming..." Her eyes slip closed as her brow furrows, her hips writhing against his. Almost immediately the very-rare-to-impossible happens and he feels his balls seize, his body melding to hers as they slowly fall headlong over the cliff of blissful oblivion. Their mouths meet messily, not so much kissing as it is sharing their frantic breaths.

She breathes quiet little "oh my god"s against his lips as she slowly, steadily descends, and he does his best to brush her hair from her eyes in a somewhat coordinated fashion. He shivers with aftershocks, the ghost of her voice telling him she's coming threatening to pool his blood again well before he's ready.

"How do you always know," she breathes against the crook of his jaw, "exactly what I need?"

He chuckles into her sweat-dampened hair.

"Let's just say you make it easy for me," he replies affectionately.

Into the Light

Rating: E Tags: hurt/comfort Season: 7

Prompt: After another near death experience, Scully approaches Mulder needing a reminder that he’s there and she’s safe. Life affirming sex occurs and something very, very important gets said for the first time.

[Originally written April 15, 2023]

I wrote this for the 2023 X-Phile-fest NSFW fanzine ...I'm not sure what happened with that, but I decided this deserves to see the light. Xx

(( Read on AO3 ))

///

Scully remembers her mother once taking her and Melissa to a bird show when she was a small child. She remembers being enthralled by the vivid colors of the parrots, by the power and beauty of the raptors. She remembers a beautiful horned owl, coaxed by its handler to swoop over the audience, its speckled wings spread wide as it seemed to float in a perfect semi circle.

She especially remembers how it made no sound as it glided effortlessly over where she sat, the only evidence of its presence the silent whisper of a breeze against her cheek.

Tonight, she swears she can still feel a very different puff of air—one from a bullet that had only narrowly missed her head.

Whizz.

Chink.

Ricochet.

The sharp, angry sound of that bullet speeding past her ear plays over and over and over again in her short term memory tape recorder. The arrowhead surge of cortisol and adrenaline that had resulted in that initial sound had willed her into immediate action, driving her to draw her own firearm and scream at Mulder to take cover while she did the same. 

Two more bullets had rung out in her direction but had thankfully been far off target, as she had managed to wedge herself behind some concrete piling at the end of the alley. One well-placed  discharge from her P228, two from Mulder’s, and it was all over.

Another day on the X-files where the monsters of the world are all too often all too human. Subject apprehended. Handcuffed or hospitalized. Taken away by the appropriate authorities. And yet.

Whizz.

Chink.

Ricochet.

She hears the gravely crunch of the motel lot beneath her Keds as she makes her way to his door, two numbers down from her own accommodations. It’s one in the morning. Unsurprisingly she’s been unable to sleep tonight.

The last few months she’s never slept so well as when she’s pressed tightly against him with his arm slung across her belly. No sex on cases, she had murmured smilingly to him not too long ago while they had been eating a much-needed meal at some local digs. He had been stealing her sweet potato fries, and his unoccupied hand had drifted absently over her jean-clad thigh. Her heart had fluttered but her logic had won out.

I can’t help it, he’d mumbled back, an innocent but knowing grin tweaking the corner of his mouth, I just like touching you.

Now, standing in front of his hunter green motel door, she reflects on how badly she needs that touch tonight. She just wants to feel safe…just wants the warm, satin heat of his body to soothe her and remind her that as long as he’s near her, nothing can hurt her.

He’s already proven that multiple times, long before they ever started sleeping together.

She wrestles with herself mentally for a few moments, standing there in a bathrobe with her bare feet jammed in sneakers like she snuck to the back porch for a cigarette. Finding her resolve she raps quietly but firmly—not enough to wake him if he’s asleep, but enough to alert him if he is indeed awake.

The door creaks slowly open, spilling lamplight out onto the uneven wooden slats beneath her feet. He’s clearly also been wreathed with insomnia as well, his shirt wrinkled and his eyes bloodshot. Regardless of his bedraggled appearance he’s beautiful, and she immediately feels herself calm when he murmurs a soft “hey”, his voice moving over her like warm honey. She wonders when she first regularly began to find that a source of comfort.

Without a word from either of them, he loops his arm around the back of her neck, guiding her to the mussed bed. She toes off her sneakers, wedging herself against him as soon as he lays back down on the mattress. What starts as a brief good night kiss soon devolves (or evolves) into a frantic push and pull of tongues, lips, and teeth, and she knows on no uncertain terms that she’s breaking her “no sex on cases” rule tonight.

Maybe it was more of a guideline anyway.

She almost hates that they’re doing this, using a part of their relationship that is typically remote from the ugliness of their work and utilizing it as a coping mechanism. Or, more accurately, an avoidance mechanism. Up until now, it’s always been about making love, not fucking away problems. But oh God, his hands… 

Her eyes slip closed and she inhales the scent of his skin. His hands and mouth are everywhere, testing the heft of her breasts, tracing the line of her throat, slipping down into her panties. She feels the tension and fear from four hours ago slowly start to melt away with every caress.

Within minutes they’re both naked, the dim room silent save for the wet smack of their mouths and the hushed hiccup of her stalled breathing. He reaches between her legs but she intercepts him and reaches for his erection, drawing him inside her before he has a chance to make this about her.

She needs them tonight.

The moan he exhales as he slips within her breaks her entire body out into goosebumps. She loves knowing how her body makes his body feel, loves how he as open about his feelings in bed as he is when they’re in the office in front of his slide projector.

“Fuck me,” she wraps her legs around his waist, popping her hips upward to dig him in deeper. He whimpers like he’s been wounded, presses his weight down on her as though he is loathe to have any part of them separated.

“I can’t,” he gasps suddenly, the wet heat of his breath puffing against the curve of her neck. He draws back just enough that she sees his grimace of pleasure: his brows drawn, his forehead sweaty, his mouth slightly agape with quiet puffs.

Whizz.

Chink—

For a paralyzing moment she thinks he’s referring to sex, and her brain frantically pages through all the reasons this decision to come to him was wrong. Of course he can’t—he’s as emotionally compromised as she right now. He’s stressed, he’s probably still processing all that has happened tonight and sex is probably the last thing that will help.

This was a mistake.

To her brief confusion he keeps his steady pumping despite his words, his hips following that delicious rhythm she’s come to know and adore in such a short time period. Her eyelids flutter as he rubs against the spot that no other man has bothered to find. The investigator in her needs to know more but the lover in her is awash in bliss.

“I can’t, Scully—” She braces her hands against his arms, trying to understand what he means and confused as to why he hasn’t stopped fucking her.

“Mulder—”

“I love you,” he breathes against her temple, “I love you so goddamn much and I can’t let another night like tonight pass without telling you.”

All the air in her lungs is instantaneously squeezed out, her heart is pounding so hard she swears she can feel her eardrums vibrating within her skull. He lets out a soft groan while his words register in her brain, sending a heated pulse through her pelvis. He’s stopped moving inside her, his forearms now dug in between her back and the mattress, his face still buried in her neck. His breaths almost sound like sobs now, his chest shakily drawing in deep gulps of air.

“I can’t,” he says once more, draws one hand upward to tangle his fingers in her hair, “I can’t stand not telling you anymore. I love you and I could have lost you tonight, Scully. I could have lost you, god dammit, and I never would have said what I feel every damn we make love.”

Whizz—

A sliver of heated light moves up her spine and with only minimal hesitation she grips her arms unyieldingly across his broad back, squeezing him as hard as she is physically capable. Her mind is spinning; she’d known without a doubt the first time she kissed him that this moment would come, and now she is woefully underprepared for it.

She pulls him from the crook of her shoulder, pressing her hands to either side of his face so that he will look at her. His eyes are not only red with insomnia but now wet with tears and she stares into them, her throat tight with her own unshed emotions.

“I know, Mulder, do you hear me?” She manages shakily, watching as his gaze drifts restlessly over her face, “I’ve known all along.”

She pulls him down for a kiss, drawing back just enough so the words spill out—

“I love you,” she breathes, “I love you, and I won’t hide from it anymore.”

His eyes drift closed and she is a first hand witness to relief and peace as it spreads across his face like a drop of dye in water.

“God…” he whispers, and presses his hips fluidly into hers again, causing a moan to involuntarily pull from her throat. With the words spoken, the frantic, angry pace of earlier settles into something liquid and intense. This time she allows him to stroke her and she effortlessly peaks beneath him, bliss pooling in her abdomen as he quickly follows her with a choked cry.

They lay close together for well over an hour in the lamplight, letting their bodies cool and their minds settle as best they can. He drifts his fingertips over her face and chest thoughtfully as she floats between realms of consciousness. She swears he whispers his adoration one last time before her subconscious finally allows her to rest.

Though her sleep later is somewhat fidgety, with the new dawn the world will seem a little bit safer when she wakes.

"In your vast medical knowledge Dr. Scully, what would cause that?"

She stares at him, her eyebrows raised to her hairline in a seamless combination of disbelief and bemusement.

"Are you genuinely asking me what would cause an otherwise normal teenaged boy to start sweating different colors? Mulder."

"Well, I mean," he adjusts his stance, resting his hands on his hips, "It could be some kinda chemical reaction, right? Like how hippos sweat blood."

"Hippos do not sweat blood, that's a common misconception. It's actually a non-benzenoid aromatic compound that appears as red pigment when the sweat evaporates."

Oh God. The way those complex, multisyllabic words glide effortlessly off her tongue makes him perspire. She's standing there looking so intelligent and beautiful and he can't stand it.

"Rudy could be dealing with a type of alkaptonuria, perhaps. It results in a build-up of a chemical called homogentisic acid in the body's tissues, which prevents it from breaking down tyrosine and phenylalanine. If we can get a urine sample—Mulder, where are you going?"

He is achingly, astonishingly hard, a fact that he attempts to hide as he awkwardly totters down the high school hallway to the nearest restroom. This is not the reaction he should be having to this topic of conversation, but Jesus, her voice...

"Bathroom emergency, Scully," he grimaces, "Be right back."

Her look of bewilderment as he leaves is worth not embarrassing himself.

Ahh, I just now saw this! I appreciate you so much, and thank you. Xx

Scully nude study <3

(( Mulder companion piece here ))

I gotta admit, I often feel like the nude study drawings are primarily for myself, but hopefully you guys can enjoy it too. ;) Perhaps there will be a Scully one next? We shall see what the muse inspires.

(( WIPs and early access on my Patreon! ))

(( Scully companion piece here ))

Thank you, my kind supportive friend.

💗 Thank you. I'm trying to be better about letting things go when I just don't feel like continuing it, I forget sometimes that this is supposed to be fun and an outlet but I always feel like I'm letting people down when I do so.

My brain can be a real piece of work.

You are so kind, friend -- thank you! I'm sorry I have not completed the series yet, though I still intend to. I got stuck in a creative black hole after the holidays and by the time I got out of it it seemed pointless to continue the story, so I apologize.

I hope to eventually come back to it. 🙏

"Oh!"

"Shh shh shh..." His hush is soothing, sweet, not at all condescending. He gently pinches, causing a deep breath to draw into her lungs as she feels the slightly pleasurable burn of overstimulation.

"Oh, Mulder..."

Her hips flex as she attempts to push her mound closer into the curve of his hand. His index and middle fingers are directly on her clit, drawing ceaseless loops of direct pressure. It feels so good it almost hurts. The contact is direct, almost unrelenting, causing within her an uninterrupted battle between pushing his hand away and never moving until she can finally crest. She can't decide yet if she's in heaven or hell.

If successful, this will be her third orgasm of the evening. The first took place while she stood against her tiled shower wall, Mulder's mouth sweetly lapping and suckling between her legs as the blissfully scalding water sluiced around their sleek, hungry bodies. The second was on her bed with Mulder buried inside her, his belly heaving as she watched him come above her, his jaw slack as he moaned her name. Her own eyes rolled back moments later.

Now she's cradled in his naked arms, her back to his chest, his warm semen in her pubic hair as he tries to coax that last little bit of pleasure out of her.

"God, I want you to come again, Scully..." his voice is husky, strained in his larynx, "I wanna feel you come again baby, so bad." She feels his finger dip just inside her dilated opening, just for a heartbeat before he concentrates his calloused pad once again on her aching clit. Her eyelids drift closed for a moment in an overwhelm of sensation, completely doped up on love-fueled sex.

"H-harder," she shudders, telling him what she needs. He complies with a hungry hum, rubbing so fast and hard she can feel the tendons in the forearm she's clutching onto stiffen with effort. The sensation is sharp and immediate, forcing a hiss from between her gritted teeth. The pain blooms into a deep, thrumming warmth in the bowl of her pelvis and she knows she is indeed going to come again. A sound she could only classify as a wail builds and builds until it emerges on the arched spine of a dry sob and she's falling, the lapping waves of pleasure building and building until she can no longer focus on the light glowing from her bedside lamp.

Once again he has taught her to defy belief.

"Jesus, Mulder..." she huffs when she can finally form a coherent sentence, "If you're going to kill me I'd appreciate a warning before you give me a ticket that bypasses purgatory and goes straight to heaven." She feels his loopy smile as he presses his lips to her temple.

Warm and Relaxed

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In retrospect she really had no business just blindly giving Mulder a present for which she had no knowledge of the contents. She had truly set herself up for failure from the offset. But there had been something about the way Ellen had looked at her when she'd suggested giving the already-wrapped package to Mulder, it was as if she knew that Dana Katherine Scully—youngest kid sister—couldn't resist the allure of a dare.

"If I said you should give this to your delectable partner, I bet you won't do it. You'll thank me for it later."

She'd had no idea just what to say, even as she'd shoved it in the back of the closet and tried to resist her curiosity. Even when the unremarkable package had found its way into her luggage for this trip. And now she stands in Mulder's bedroom (well, Bill's guest bedroom) on Christmas night, deciding she is going to go through with this, consequences be damned. He'd responded with a delighted "oooo, surprises!" when she'd presented it to him and now he tears into it like a little boy as he sits on the bed. She watches him blink several times, then cocks his head like a curious golden retriever. Her interest is at full bore now.

"So Scully, um...under what context did your friend suggest you give this to me?"

He's not looking at her, instead choosing to stare at whatever he has revealed, which from where she's standing the crumpled wrapping paper obscures the contents. She can see that he's trying very hard to school his expression and it makes her puzzlingly nervous.

"Why?"

 "Just...gathering information? Humor me," He scratches idly at his jaw and the sound of the sandpaper scrape makes her mouth go dry.

"Ellen just said I should give it to you and that I wouldn't have the guts. Is it a gag gift or something?"

Instead of answering verbally, he waggles his eyebrows suggestively at her and turns the item in his hands so that she can clearly see it. It takes her a second to comprehend what she's looking at, then the blood rushes to her head so rapidly she almost loses her balance.

"Oh dear God, Mulder, I'm—" She can't even finish her sentence, she's completely horrified and wants to murder Ellen. Mulder makes a show of looking at the package, then to her, then back to the package again.

"What's wrong, Scully? I'm impressed! I'm all about repricocity, it's for her and for him!"

It's a cock ring. Her best friend from school tricked her into giving her partner a God damned cock ring and what makes it even worse is it's a couple's cock ring. Which could only mean Ellen thinks...she doesn't even want to finish that thought.

"I can't believe Ellen would—why would she—I—why are you looking at me like that?" He's just sitting there on the bed, watching her pace in absolute agony with a shit eating grin on his face. He's lucky he's handsome or she'd slap him upside the head.

"You're adorable when you're embarrassed," he looks positively delighted and entertained, and it just serves to appall her further.

"Jesus Mulder, I am mortified," her face feels hot and flushed and she knows that she's as red as a beet as she presses her palms to her flaming cheeks. She'd like to strangle Ellen but she really has no one to blame but herself.

"Aw, it's just good fun. C'mon, I betcha Frohike would do the same thing." She manages a humorless chuff at that remark. He gives her a sympathetic look and to his credit he doesn't seem to want to maintain his amusement at the risk of prolonging her suffering.

"Get over here, Scully," he practically purrs and with a quiet grumble she sits down on the bed about two feet away from him, attempting to ignore the fact that he sounds just like he did that night on home plate, right down to the little lilt of his head that had sent a pulse through her clit. She feels it this time too, God dammit.

"C'mere," he chuckles, patting the spot immediately next to him and tossing the offensive package onto the night stand, "I'm not embarrassed, I think it's hilarious. Sounds like Ellen has been a fan of us shacking up just like everyone else."

She sighs in frustration and scoots closer, "Mulder, we haven't even—"

And before she can speak further his warm, wonderful, infuriating mouth is on hers.

He figures the least he can do is take out the garbage after being treated to one of the warmest and happiest Christmases he's had in his adult memory. Scully always looks so grateful any time he offers to take out the trash at her apartment. Maggie had positively beamed at him—he'd felt like he'd offered to go hunt a deer with his bare hands and bring it back for supper instead of volunteering to take out a plastic bag of paper plates and turkey bones. There's something intoxicating about earning the approval of a Scully woman.

Despite being the dead of winter, the San Diego evening air is balmy and pleasant and he takes a deep, satisfying lungful. The sun is just beginning to set, leaving the neighborhood in a dusky, purple cast. He can see why Scully enjoys California so much—aside from her obvious love the of ocean, the rolling hills and lush greenery clustering up between the neighborhoods feels like a strange cohesion uniting nature and modernity. Very little like the uncompromising concrete, glass, and metal of DC.

He sees a small, somewhat shriveled old lady, presumably one of Bill and Tara's neighbors immediately next door, attempting to lift her own hefty garbage bag into her bin while it is clearly too heavy for her. Feeling compelled to assist, he immediately makes his way down the block to the end of her driveway.

"Ma'am, would you like some assistance with that?" She turns quickly to the sound of his voice, a relieved and friendly smile gracing her wrinkled face.

"Merry Christmas, young man. Yes, I'd be very grateful, thank you! Are you one of William's fellow officer friends?" This is asked while Mulder is lifting the surprisingly heavy bag of trash into the elderly lady's bin, and he almost chokes and drops it.

"No, I'm a friend of Sc—Dana's, his sister."

"Oh, Dana! How nice, Maverick and I don't see her too often, I'm glad she found herself a nice, handsome husband," Before he can even clarify himself, he hears a sharp voice behind him.

"Mulder!"

He gulps. He can count on one hand the number of times he's heard Scully's brother call him by his preferred name, and as stuffy as "Mr. Mulder" sounds to his own ears, hearing Bill dispense with the prefix makes it feel even more foreboding.

"Yes, Bill?" out of his peripherals he can see his only possible ally totter her way cheerfully back along the driveway to her own house and he finds himself foolishly wishing the newly-acquainted stranger would stay and help him buffer whatever onslaught Bill is about to deliver unto him.

He pretends to be occupied, taking longer than it ordinarily would to trudge to Bill's garbage bin, open the lid, deposit the trash bag, and close the lid again. By the time he's needlessly brushing off his hands Bill has reached him, looking intent. Out of tasks, Mulder turns to face him, hoping whatever is forthcoming can be later reported sympathetically to Scully. She's always skilled at being attentive to him when it comes to her brother.

"Mulder, I need to get something off my chest." Mulder attempts to keep his expression as neutral as possible, his hands curled but ready in the pockets of his jacket. He feels a twitch of anxiety low in his belly, assuming that whatever this man has to say to him, it can't be good. It seldom is.

"Okay?" He prompts carefully. He almost feels sorry for Scully's brother, he looks positively ill.

"I've seen the way you and Dana have been with each other, it's been made very clear to me the past few days how close you two are."

"Bill, we—" Bill holds up his hand in objection and at this point Mulder doesn't know which of them is more uncomfortable.

"For the love of God, please don't get into it. I do not want to know."

"Bill, I don't want any trouble," Mulder insists cautiously, almost helplessly. What he wants more than anything is to get back into the living room and finish watching Miracle on 34th Street with Scully and Tara and get as far away from whatever agonizing interaction this is as possible.

"I know you don't," the other man exhales. Mulder bites his lip and is silent, waiting for the proverbial pendulum to fall.

"I don't..." Bill finally sighs, pushing the tip of his tongue into his cheek reflectively, "I'm not giving you my blessing, nor do I think you deserve it, but this is the happiest I've seen Dana in years, maybe even happier than before she started working with you. And with reservations I just wanted to say...please keep doing whatever you're doing."

Mulder is genuinely at a loss for words, a dumb "what?" stuck somewhere in his throat, but he does manage to somewhat unintelligently nod.

"I'm going for a walk," Bill says gruffly, and stands there for a beat. Something passes between the two men, not quite an understanding nor a friendship, but maybe an acknowledgement. He sees Bill's head ever so slightly nod curtly, then he tucks his chin into the fleece collar of his coat.

"Tell Tara I'm going for a walk," he requests, then heads off down towards the end of the driveway towards the sidewalk. Mulder watches him for a moment, lets out a breath bearing the weight of three years, then steers back to the house lost in thought.