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One Blue Line

Chapter Text

He’s waiting outside in your living room. The timer is set for three minutes. You realise you didn’t decide beforehand if you’d go out to be by him for the time, or stay here alone. You stare at the green tiles.

This is the first of three possible tries, your doctor told you. Told you, ‘don’t be disappointed if this one doesn’t take’. You’re silently sure you’d have been more thoughtful in choosing words than that, had you gone into medicine.

Feelings of desperation swirl around you, as you try hard to balance your emotions on a knife's edge, forcing you to wonder if it’s worth it. Being engulfed and consumed by something beyond your control, is an uncomfortable state of being for most people. For you, who gathers calm from order, a tidy apartment, a finished report; near impossible.

Out of control is fighting cancer. Fighting for your life. Now, you want another life. Another you… and Mulder. Only Mulder…

You try to manifest some control. If there’s only one line, you tell yourself, you’ll only go once more. Just once, not twice. You’re telling yourself this to soothe… It’s not working.

The tinny ring of the buzzer snaps you out of your reverie.


One. Blue. Line.

How can so much meaning and weight be placed on one tiny, blue chemical reaction?

You don’t want to cry but the tears come in spite of yourself. You sink down onto the toilet lid, continue to sink until your head is in your hands.

Too many things are churning in your head and you can’t catch onto a single one.

Then a knock. A gentle knocking.

He’s knocking.

You all but forgot he was out there.

Now he’s coming in.

You’re wiping your face and straightening up. He’s moving into you. Kneeling in front of you. Doesn’t bother to ask, he knows. He sweeps you into a hug. Kisses your forehead and rubs your back.

You make noises as you cry again and wet his shirt, swipe your face dry as you turn your head to settle at his chest. He stays there with you until you stop trembling.

He leans back and cups your face. He’s bestowing you the gentlest, softest, kindest look. You blush.

He kisses the moisture from each of your cheeks, and tells you he won’t give up.

You promise yourself that if he won’t, then neither will you.

Chapter Text

He won’t give up…

He envelops you again. You let him. Sink into his warmth, his heat and smell.

You don’t ever want to let him go. You are so thankful that he agreed to father a child with you; the enormity of that hasn’t quite finished washing over you yet. Thankful that he’s here with you now, that he won’t give up. Thankful for him.

You breathe a heavy sigh and let the last of your tears silently follow the wet trail down your cheeks.

You rely on him so much. Need him so much. And when you needed more, a little piece of him for keeps. He said yes…. You’ve asked more from him than you think you deserve.

There’s more, though. More you want.

In the desperation of the moment and the acute loss you feel at the missing blue line, your vulnerability, that he is holding in his hands, you don’t let yourself think before the words are tumbling out of your mouth.

“Mulder.” You swallow and keep going. “Would you… do something for me?”

He unfurls you from his arms. Leans back and looks at you. Cups your face, and you lose yourself in the hazel depths of his soul. You forget to breathe.

“Anything.” He says. He trusts you so much that he’s already giving an answer without a clue as to just how inappropriate your request will be.

“I want to try to get pregnant… Um…”

You can see his pupils darting between your eyes. Trying to predict the rest of your request…

“I know you do.” He says gently, when you don’t continue. You’re sure he’s knows that wasn't your complete thought.

“No, I mean.” Breathe. “I want to try and get pregnant by, um, well… sexual intercourse.” You don’t stop now. Your words running over one another. “Mulder, in med school… I just…. well… there isn’t the technology to remove a woman’s ova altogether, that I know of, without removing my ovaries completely. And they’re still there. I’m not saying I know better that the fertility doctor, or that I know what the hell was done to me, but I just, I really want to…” you can hear yourself rambling, rambling and reddening.. “…I guess, cover every avenue. Know that I did everything I could.” He’s not saying anything, and you can’t look at him. “Everything I could… to have a baby.”

There, you said it. You finish and you bite your lip and look at your hands.

You realise you’re overdue for a manicure and start to scratch at your chipped nude nail polish, when you feel his index finger on your chin. You left him lift your face, your gaze.

He has a careful smile on his face and you find you cannot read his thoughts.

You hold your breath.

'Ok.' He tells you.

Ok. He said ok.


“Yes ok. Scully, I’m with you, you know that. I know you want this, and I told you I want to help.” You could honestly cry again. Instead you just repeat yourself.

“Ok.” You can breathe again, and a smile breaks out across your face.

Now what, you think. You swallow hard. And then he’s speaking, and you’re so pleased he’s speaking, because you don’t think you can.

'Now…? Or, when?'

“Um. We could... um... now, … I guess… if… that’s ok.”

Oh God Mulder. I’m so embarrassed. I’m so grateful… Should we go to the bedroom? How do we do this? You want to say but can’t.

He doesn’t say anything either, just stands and takes your hand and leads you out the door. You follow.

Of all of your fantasies of making love with Mulder, none of them ever started like this. You had wanted to ask him, to try this, if the implantation didn’t work. But you failed to plan the next steps out in your head and now you don’t know what to do. Your palms are wet with sweat and the knowledge of what is about to happen dampens your underwear.

You both make it to the bedroom. The sun is fading and you’re thankful for the dim room; the half-light trying to make its way through your blinds. Lines are striped across your bed, like the lines on a blank piece of paper begging to be filled in. You wonder to yourself what story is about to be written on that bed. On those lines. A clinical transaction? A scientist’s neat notes? Nothing more than the hopeful combination of sperm and ova, to illicit the creation of a life.

Or will there be kissing. Caressing. Passion and sweat. A lust filled desperate love story scrawled haphazardly across the sheets.

He stops. Turns at the foot of your bed to face you. Still has one of your hands in his. The other is now tucking a tendril of hair behind your ear. You think you remember every single other time he has done that, and remind yourself again to never grow it long enough that it remains tucked.

He cups your cheek then and the corners of his mouth curl up. Up into a sweet genuine smile.

‘Are you ready?’ he asks you.

Yes. Oh, God yes, I’m ready. I have been for so long, Mulder.

You don’t have a single word. Your head nods though and you try to return his beautiful smile.

He leans down and lightly touches his lips to yours.

You press your lips back onto his and you feel them part. Your mouth falls open too. His hot tongue slips out and drags its way between your lips. His other hand comes up to cup your face and he pushes his tongue into your mouth. You feel it find yours and you lap at him, lick at his tongue, taste him. A small moan escapes his throat and your knees feel like they might fail you.

Then you realise all at once that it’s about to be the latter. Kissing, caressing, passion and sweat.

Chapter Text

You’re standing in your bedroom in the fading light, on what should have been an otherwise regular Thursday night. But then, it was time to take the test. The test with the blue lines. The one that was destined to turn this night into one of joy or disappointment. Devastation actually. To perhaps change the course of the rest of your life.

No, it’s not a regular Thursday night…

But, not for pee on a stick, or for blue lines, or for possible changing futures. But for the man standing in front of you. The man standing in front of you with his tongue in your mouth.

Your colleague, your FBI partner, your best friend, your…

You find your hands moving of their own volition, up over his chest, his clavicles, around his neck; meeting there and holding on. You push yourself up on to tippy toes; your heels left by the sofa before you headed into the bathroom earlier.

The extra height affords you the advantage to explore his mouth more. You take that bottom lip of his, the one that has the ability to turn the most monotonous descriptions of the paranormal, into something to look forward to. Take it between your lips and suck. You run your tongue along it. So smooth, and soft and warm. You suck it back between your teeth and his hands move to cup the back of your head as he pulls you even further into this kiss.

Kiss. One singular word. A kiss; something you can place on a friend’s cheek, or the top of a baby’s head. It’s not enough to describe what is going on between you.


You’ve had a meeting of the minds, you two, almost from the moment you met. Perfect sparring partners for all things spooky and intellectual, fearsome and dark. For years your minds have met. But this. This kiss is a meeting of your souls. You realise, then, you already know each other. Your souls do. And here, right now, they finally get to embrace.

Maybe you’ve been standing there, kissing, for a minute. Maybe it’s been an hour. Eternity wouldn’t be long enough. You don’t remember kissing ever feeling this way. You remember the butterfly feeling, but the fireworks going off in your belly right now, have frightened them all away.

He begins to smile into your mouth. It forces a smile across your lips too. Your teeth bump and you part. Pull back and gently grin; study one another.

He starts to say something, “Scully, fuck you can kiss…” rolls out of his mouth, and you’re almost sure that’s not what he was intending to say by the way he looks down and shakes his head. As if he trying to locate a thought in there.

“You too.” You manage to murmur, wishing you were kissing again to remove the self-consciousness rising up and blushing your chest.

“Now...” he says, as he steps, unbelievably, further into your space, holding your cheek and tracing circles there with his thumb.

“…I may have thought this...” he tells you, as he tenderly swipes that thumb across your lips for emphasis, “…was how babies were made when I was seven, but I’m pre-tt-y sure we have to do more than just kiss.”

He’s grinning at you now and you can’t help but laugh. It’s all you needed to break the tension. Your mouth opens to speak, but no words come out; it still taken over by a stupid grin. You try and swallow it from your face.

You think he must sense your need for him to lead, as he moves his fingers to the first fastened button of your blouse. You look at his face, as he watches his fingers work to undo. You feel them brush purposefully against the swell of your breasts. He moves, down, and he licks at his lips. Down, down and then pauses at the last button not tucked into your pants. His eyes meet yours again and he is… the only way you can describe it is, …seductively pulling at the fabric, slowly untucking it, unravelling something within you as he goes. He looks down and undoes your final two buttons.

Your blouse drops opened, and his eyes fall to your breasts. You know it’s silly, but you’re suddenly glad that you wore a pretty bra today. There’s lace and there’s wire, pushing you up.

You can feel heat radiating off him as you notice him trying to gather himself. He gently slides the fabric over your shoulders, off your arms; gathering the garment and draping it over the foot of your bed.

He straightens himself back up in front of you then and evens the score. Swipes his T-shirt over his head in one movement. Throws it to the floor. You've seen Mulder's torso before. Touched it, to patch up scrapes and bullet holes, you yourself put there. You've not seen it in this light before. In this way; a prelude to your own seductive caresses and lingering lips and wandering tongue. You bite your lip. Hard.

He hesitates and you know he wants to touch you too.

‘Scully?’ he says as a question. His eyes remain at your cleavage.

‘I was just wanting to know, um…” He moves his eyes up to meet yours, “...the rules here?”

You tilt your head and let him know you need further information. A smirk dances at a corner of his mouth.

“I mean, I know we have business to attend to but… am I allowed… ah... can I have fun, enjoy myself a little…?”

His words spread a pink hue across your chest, shoot electricity to your core, dampen your underwear. You try hard to arrange your face into mock seriousness.

“Um, Mulder…” You’re finding it difficult to hold a straight face and you lick your lips. “….I’m pretty sure, for your part of the business, it’s kind of imperative, for you to enjoy yourself.”

He chuckles and nods his head before his face changes. The grin falls from the corner of his mouth. He sucks his lips between his teeth. There is a look in his eye you haven’t seen before. It’s burning you.

His arms reach around your torso and land on the clasp of your bra. He unclips it, gently and moves his hands to your shoulders, brushes the straps down, lets your breasts fall from the cups. He tosses the item onto the bed and sinks down onto your blanket box, twisting you to face him.

You feel like everything is suddenly moving in slow motion. His hands hold your hips, and then… his hot, wet, mouth wraps itself around your nipple. You feel sucking and licking and… teeth. Gentle teeth, before a soothing swirl of his tongue again. Over and again. You feel your arousal swell below and further wet your underwear. Your hands find their way to the back of his head and you pull his face closer into you.

You think for a moment about how wretched you felt in your cold bath room before, until he... your beacon of light, your homing beacon really, came in. You’ve resisted so long now, the urge to really need him. To love him. The thought terrifies you because you know you will fall. You try to push the notion from your mind… but it’s too late and it’s taking hold… and you know that you already have. Fallen. Hard.

You’re not sure now, how you move forward, with him, if this will be the only time his teeth tug at your nipple. If this will be the only time his hand drags its way from your waist, over your abdomen and gently nudges the underside of you breast before cupping you completely. If this will be the only time his fingers roll and pinch at your nipple. If this will be the only time his other hand deftly unbuttons and unzips your fly, makes room for his fingers, and slips them silently beneath the fabric of your underwear. You have no idea how you move forward with him, if this will be the only time his hand finds you wet and throbbing as his fingers slip down over your swollen clitoris, move further down between your folds and curl up inside you…

You don’t know how you’ll continue after tonight, but you do know that he’s here now, and by fuck you’re going to make it count.

“Mulder,” you breathe. “I don’t think my legs are going to hold me up much longer.” It’s your voice, but you don’t recognise it. Don’t quite recognise anything in this moment to be honest.

He pulls his mouth from your breast and your nipple springs free. He turns his head and presses the side of his face into your chest, hands moving and wrapping around your waist. It seems like he’s trying to catch his breath. He turns his face up to you and you smooth your fingers through his hair.

You stay like this for a moment. Both remembering how to breathe.

He stands and picks you up. Actually collects you in his arms. Kisses your mouth while moving you to the side of your bed. He lays you down in the middle, your head on a pillow. Crawls over to you then. Takes your waistband and slides your slacks over your hips, down your legs; his fingers caressing you the whole way down. He lays your pants next to your blouse and turns back to you. Your eyes lock. You feel… No, you know, that that look on his face is only mirroring yours.

Time slows and hearts beat into the silence of your once familiar room, made not so now by what it is bearing witness to. A new energy being released into the walls.

His hands move up your legs, he touches the top of your underwear with his fingers, eyes still on yours. His eyebrows raise slightly, and his head gives an almost indistinct nod. A small smile plays on your lips and your breasts begin to heave. Actually heave. You nod in return.

Yes. Yes, Mulder take them off. Pull them down... Expose me.

You feel the tiniest brush of his manicured fingernails scratch at your hips as the tips of his fingers hook into the fabric. He tugs at the material, and you plant your feet on the bed, slightly lift your hips to help him lose your underwear. As you’re revealed to him, you hear him take a deep breath through his nose, and then let it out, alongside a whisper of your name. Scully...

His eyes fall between your legs as your underwear is discarded somewhere onto the floor. Fixate for a moment. He quickly moves himself off the bed and undoes his pants, removes them. His boxers still on.

He’s back on the bed again, before you can question his attire. He crawls over you, hovering. Presses his lips onto yours once again, and his body onto your breasts. He feels so hot, and so electric. So strong and safe. You are having trouble keeping up with all the sensations. His touch, his gaze, his smell. Oh, his smell. A hint of deodorant, and sweet fresh perspiration and just, him. That Mulder scent you could pick out of a line-up of 1000 men.

His lips lose yours and then they’re kissing their way to your jaw, finding their way under your ear and you let your head fall back, exposing your neck. He kisses, drags his lip and his tongue, down your neck, down to your chest. A hand falls to your breast as his mouth finds the other. He licks you, hungrily. He’s moaning vibrations into your nipple, licking and suckling you. Caressing and kneading you. Your hands are running through his hair.

And then he’s moving again. Kissing down your stomach. One hand still at your breast. Kissing down and down and…

“Mulder you don’t….”

You know where he is going...

“…. you don’t have to...”

But you so want him to, want him there...

“…have to do that…”

You’re panting the words...

“…it’s not… necessary.”

The kisses stop. You look down at him. A look. His amorous determination boring into you from between your legs…

You prop yourself onto your elbows, your look questioning.
“Scully…” He breathes, “I don’t ever, ever want to hear you say that cunnilingus is unnecessary, do you understand?”

You bite your lip, suppress a grin. Before you can say anything, your words are stolen from you by the sensation of his tongue deep inside you, his arms wrapped around your thighs and his nose bumping your clit.

“Oh fuck…,” escapes your lips, and your head falls back.

Chapter Text

You know you’re a cerebral person. It’s something you like about yourself. You would never admit this to anyone, but if you were to walk into a room, and could have everyone there know one thing about you, it would be that, that you are smart.

Right now, though, you wish you could shut your brain off. Stop it firing in its usual way; observing, searching for links, finding connections, analysing, drawing conclusions… making sense… nothing is making sense right now.

Your mind is fighting between the enormity of this moment, the two of you, together like this, this new territory, this strange occasion of discovery, of exploring a part of Mulder you have never known... and the seriousness of the whole reason you’re here. Here in your bed.

To inseminate.


That is what you asked.

You cried. Gripped onto the stupid fucking plastic stick, with only one fucking line. Then he was there. Always there. Saying yes. Comforting you. Mulder then... And Mulder now

Mulder now…, here in your bed, in the fading dusk, his head between your legs… doing exquisite things…

Mulder, here now...

Your feet are planted on your comforter. Knees, pointed to the ceiling. He’s spread you wide enough to fit himself in there, arms loosely around your thighs. One hand caressing your leg; the other splayed gently across your abdomen. Covering more of you, than you might have thought it would.

You will yourself to let go of your mind. To be here. You can scrutinise later.

You close your eyes and you listen to your skin. Let it tell you the story playing out beneath him…

A finger is swirling a divot in your flesh. Gently circling. The feeling there, numb, nerves ripped apart, not mended with the scar. A finger swiping from acute to obtuse. Dull. No sensation in the skin. You can feel the pressure deep down, feel his intent. His concentration on that place.

More sensations; his tongue, the flat of his tongue, licking up, from dangerously low, sliding, tracing a delicate line. Slipping into you. And out.

This, this is working. Your thoughts fade away. Slide sideways somewhere. You’re here, on this bed, in this room, in this moment. Naked, with him.

He’s making a gentle noise. A low, vibrating hum. Satisfaction and desire. Another sensation, your ears joining in.

Down, and up and in and… over. And then, again. Stopping short. Short of where you know he’ll end up. There is no ache from you though, for him to get there. You trust him, he will. You give yourself over to pleasure, to him. There’s no rush. Time has stopped.

His arms move. Move from your thighs, and your legs fall open. Knees to the bed. Muscles no longer needed. You open up.

There’s dragging, slowly along your thighs, his fingertips coarse against your delicate skin. Lightly stroking, teasing, gently moving up and down. Up to the backs of your knees, down your inner thigh, circles and strokes. Both hands in unison; sending starbursts to every extremity, to every tip. Tips of your toes and your fingers, your nose and your ears. To the fringes of your being.

You let your eyes open and they fall on his back. Faded strips of light from outside dance lines across his honey coloured skin.

He's scraping lines into your skin now. Subtle lines. Prose of tender adoration.

Lines. A chemical reaction. A space where a line should be.


Fuck lines!

He’s building you fucking sandcastles in the sky, over the line in the sand you’d dared never cross. Devilishly drawing a line, with his tongue, between your folds. Licking the line between friend and lover, smudging it away.

Tracing a line now, the crease where the top your leg becomes the curve of your arse. Nails gently scraping. Leading him to your centre. Slowly outlining your folds, sliding gently, exploring. Teasing in.

He pauses. Stills.

"Oh Jesus, Scully. You taste…" He doesn’t finish his thought, but his tongue tells you. Licks you again, diving deep. This time, when you feel him stroke up, up and over, he finds that spot, circles there.

Your insides turn outside. You clutch at your breast. Bite your lip.

He does it again and you steel yourself. Ready for more.

His fingers go in, you don’t know how many, but they belong there, you know it. They move in and out, short firm strokes. Curling up into you, inside you, as they swipe.

His other hand finds yours. Clasps it and pulls you down. You hear him breathe your name as he places your hand over your arousal.

"Show me." He tells you.

"Show me what you like."

His words come out between kisses and nibbles to your inner thigh, to your lips down there. His fingers inside you, pushing, slowly pulsing. His other hand covers yours now, beckons you to move.

You don’t think and your hand finds its way. Follows the pattern of a familiar routine. Strokes and circles, not too fast, not too soft.

You let yourself smile at the thought, that whenever your hands have been down there, it’s him you’d imagine they’d belonged to.

Now you’re coupled together; fantasy melding into tangible to real. Your fingers demonstrate, and his shadow. Replicate the pressure, the movements, the patterns; practiced on a thousand lonely nights.

He’s moaning. Watching and moaning. Noises of pleasure unabashedly released into the room. Filling the air.

'Fuck Scully, you are so….' He takes a moment, a breath. '…. fucking sexy.'

A burst of electricity escapes, low, inside. Curls a smile into you lips.

He spreads you further open with his fingers.

His mouth takes over then. Moves over your hand. Sucks your fingers between his lips. His tongue slides along, tickles your fingers and then releases you. He takes your slippery hand in his.

His mouth wraps around your clitoris. Captures you, lips fold over. He mimics your familiar routine. Perfectly. His busy fingers still inside. Speeding up.

You pull your hand back, grip his and take it with you. You’re going to show him where your other hand goes. You push his palm into your breast. Squash it under yours. Link your fingers between his. Show him. You brush over your nipple, so painfully tight. You pinch and let go, he pinches too.

“A little harder”, you whisper, as you take your hand away; place it in his hair and scrape over his scalp.

He pinches again and it stings. You puncture his caramel moans, swimming in the air, with a sharp “ahhh.”

“Oh my God, like that,” comes out of your mouth before you think. “Fuck, Mulder, all of it… don’t… stop.”

'Scully. You like that?' He asks fervently, titillation lacing his voice. His thumb replacing his tongue. 'You like that Bab…' the last ‘b’ is a breath. He swallows it back.

Can he call you Baby? Oh yes, you want him to.

“Yes, just like that” you breathe again.

And then he does. 'Oh fuck, Baby… I want to see you come. Come for me, Baby.'

Baby. So easily from his lips now, like maybe... maybe it's been on the tip of his tongue for a while…

His mouth shrouds your clit once more. Firm long strokes, then circling tongue. Up and back and around. Over and again. His thumb spreads your lips, making way. You feel his bottom lip drag up your folds on each upward lick. You imagine it pushed back against his chin, wet with your desire.

His fingers thrust harder and deeper and faster. Curling back towards him, pulsing and rubbing. His hand at your breast, squeezing and pinching.

By God, he called you Baby, and his mouth is making love to your pussy, and you sink beneath your own surface for a moment. Sink into this bed. Sink into this feeling. Let go of the why and the how, of the weight of this. You’re weightless and you’re sinking; at the same time. Letting yourself sink into him.

It’s all that you needed. Your own permission to let go. And like a helium balloon, free of a fist, you rise. Shoot up to the stars, and the stars rain down. Down on you, and in you. And he’s there. Hot lips at your thigh. Fingers still inside, holding you down. Holding you down lest you fly away.

You’re jerking and trembling and lost above yourself.

You feel his warm fingers slip out, his palm cup over you. Firm and still. Kisses to your skin.

You’re catching your breath and back on your bed. Panting. Quivering.

Your eyes open and you tilt your chin, see him.

He’s there. His breath matching your own, biting his lip like he hasn’t finished consuming you.
A humoured pant escapes your lips, along with an ineloquent “wow”. The only word you can find.

He’s grinning at you now, a self-satisfied grin, he has never more thoroughly earned, spread across his beautiful face.

He shakes his head at you, begins to climb up your body… Laughs, smirking playfully… Reaches your mouth… gets so, so close...

“Not fucking necessary….. Scully.” He teases, taking your breath, and any retort you may have had away, his mouth crashing passionately onto yours, tonguing your lips and finding his way inside again.

Chapter Text

He’s kissing you. Oh boy, is he kissing you. Smearing the tang of your arousal across your lips. It’s nothing you’ve wanted before, but everything you need right now. From him.

You feel his fingers at your mouth, the sea spray scent of them. The very fingers that have just come from inside you. He pushes them in to join his tongue. Affirming the taste of what he just unearthed in you. Fingers and tongue and lips and the sounds on his breath, all reverberate within you. Connecting you. You feel desired. Raw and feral.

His other arm keeps him steady, by your pillow, affording him the freedom to stroke the hair at your temple. Casually flicking your tresses through his fingers.

He’s holding his weight, though enough of him is pressing down. Spreading over you, like a sheet, dragged up your naked body, on a warm night. Rubbing velvet friction across your skin. His thigh presses down between your legs, deliberately, holding together what he just tore open. You’re captured beneath him, more than physically, in this instant he owns you. Can take any and every piece of you, and you would let him. Have you always felt this way?

He raises his face above yours, leaves his fingers in your mouth, toying with your tongue. Eyes opened, boring in. Seeking you, and you’re caught. Fixed in his gaze. You wrap your lips around his digits and suck. Hard. Tongue swirling. You’re almost sure you see his pupils dilate. You definitely hear a moan from deep inside of him. He slowly takes his fingers back, painstakingly withdrawing them, before he swipes them along the seam of his own mouth. His deep pink tongue curling around them on their journey past. They find your nipple. Wet and cold. Twist and roll. Pinch and pull. The prickle of cool air over saliva coated flesh, tightening further, the pink pearl of your breast. The pressure, perfection. A tingle, creating a field of goosebumps across your skin.

He leans back down to you. Opens his mouth on yours and envelops your lips. Laps at your tongue. Bristles drag across your chin. There is a desperation to his kiss. You recognise it, as it’s ascending from you too. Escaping. You’re desperate for him. Even though his hot skin is pressed against yours, and only moments ago he elicited a peak from you, like you’ve never known. You want more. You want him forever. Does he feel the same way? Or is he really just here to have fun. To have fun and gift you his seed.

He’s here. That’s enough. Enough for now.

He’s kissing you, consuming you, and for a moment you forget. Forget to kiss back. You’re paralysed by the sensations. Slippery… hot, deliberate tongue; swirling, exploring, inside and out. The taste of him: salty and delectable, full bodied and bold. The pressure. Pressure of his hip, pushing in-between your legs; still throbbing from his effects. The pressure of his hardness rubbing against your hip. The touch… of his fingers, plucking at your nipple. Grasping at your flesh. And the sensation of, whatever the fuck you call that thing happening inside you – your arousal pouring honey ecstasy into the depths of your core, spilling out and bursting, bursting to your edges.

Your mouth is open, and you’re letting him in. It’s like he is feeding from you. You’re sure if someone walked in on you right now, it would look like he was the villain in an X-File. Possessing you. Sucking you free of your soul. But he’s not. Oh, God he’s not. He’s filling you up. Filling places you didn’t even know were there.

You close your mouth around his now, your tongue finds his and rolls around it. Your top lip crushed in the space between his lips and his nose, your bottom lip firmly in his mouth, being caressed and tongued. Your hands slip around the back of his neck and you pull him down farther. Tilt your head and join deeper.

You can hear yourself making little sounds, but you are powerless to stop. His lips widen into a grin. He pulls back from you. His hand still at your hairline, stroking.

"Scully"… he breathes, looks at you but starts again, "Baby… I love those little noises you’re making." A flare-up erupts in your belly at the way he just addressed you.

He’s seriously grinning at you now and you feel your face reddening.

“Sorry.” You tell him. Blushing.

He laughs, then tells you he just said he liked it.

His lips find yours again, his hand moves to cup your jaw. His kisses are so tender now. You can’t remember ever being kissed like this. Somewhere, though, inside of you knows, that whatever he may be doing with his tongue, his lips, his hands; it’s the Mulder variable that is making all the difference.

He moves down, down your neck. His tongue trailing, licking you, sucking you, kissing you; the whole journey to your breasts. Your head tips back onto your pillow. Rests there as your awareness finds your ceiling. The moon and a street light cascading colours in competition; casting shadows of leaves dancing in couples across the paint work. The same familiar ceiling you’ve stared at over and again, the one you’ve come down from, after long Mulder phone calls, that beg you slip a hand into your underwear. It never mattering, the subject, just the timbre of his voice, his warmth permeating the line; resonating into that place inside.

You can smell his hair, as he moves over you, feel it as it incidentally brushes your skin. There is something so altogether familiar. His scent, his heat, his proximity. It feels like you’ve been here a hundred times, and none.

So much of this is familiar: his closeness, his heat. You’ve been engulfed in his heat before. Wrapped yourself in it. His warmth, like a blanket. So warm. Heat is heat, but mixed with that Mulder smell, his heat was life; gave you life. You remember the hot-blood of him. Life affirming, when yours was slipping away. You would cling to it, when you were disappearing, and couldn’t get warm. He’d give you his jacket. His smell and temperature would sink into you. When you would shiver, he would get close; tuck you under his arm in airport chairs and cold diners. Or those few times he held on to you, in this very bed, while you fell into sleep after sickness.

So familiar.

He’s sucking your nipple and his hands are moving every place. Tracing up your ribs and brushing the side of your breast, continuing; dragging up your arm, over your elbow and clasping your hand above you; holding you down, but lifting you up.

You feel him shift his weight. Move his hand for a moment and you become aware that he’s taking his boxers off. Has taken them off. Does it before you could register what he was doing. Damn, you think, you wanted to do that. You realise all at once that you’re being too passive.

You need to touch him. And tastehim. To look at him. See him.

You find that compartment in your head. This one with all the Mulder fantasies; kissing and thrusting and trembling and gliding and sucking and pulsing and licking and embracing and skin and bodies entangling and passion… and love…

You’re afraid you’re letting this moment slip away. This first time (or only time). Being a recipient, not a participant. All of the things you’ve wanted to do with Mulder, to Mulder… Well he’s here now, kissing you, naked, and yes, by the pressure pushing into your thigh, very, very hard. You move your head to see. To take him in, but he’s obscured. Damn, you want him so much, he’s so close, but feels far away.

Special Agent Dana Scully M.D., you’re normally a planner, you like to plan things. Not sex, you don’t plan out sex. But you’re admitting to yourself now though, that you have different categories for sex. One-night-stand sex, is different from slow-love-making, is different from the I-just-want-to-rip-your-clothes-off kind… Right now, you’re not sure which this is… actually you feel like you are faced with all three, all at once and your brain, or body, or both is switching off and can’t make a move.

You beckon your authentic self to open. He has never seen you this way before. Somewhere inside of you wants to set a precedent. An honesty with him. Even if this is the only time, maybe especially if it is. You have wants and needs and desires. Your Desire is currently naked in your bed. Pressed up against your thigh. You want him to know just how much you want him. How much you’ve craved him… to know how much you love him.

You take a breath. FUCK! Fuck analytics. You push Scully aside, move your hands to his shoulders, shove Mulder back onto the bed, and let Dana take over…

Chapter Text

You’re beside him on the bed. One of your hands still at his shoulder. His beautiful face a mix of smugness and awe, probably at the move you just pulled. Your eyes leave his and you take in his form.

Naked. Together. No contamination shower divider between you. No pretence of the line between doctor and patient. No façade of professionalism to hide behind, having to sneak glances at his arse or conceal when you’d notice an erection through his trousers. No need to mask your curiosity, your gaze. And you do, gaze. Stare. Take him in.

You’ve seen Mulder’s penis before. In a bath, in that shower. Helped him change once or twice… caught glimpses. Briefly. You always willed yourself to remain inside your doctor brain, whenever you’ve seen his body that way. Just a body. A body to mend and care for.

Faced with naked Mulder now, on his back, in your bed, in the mottled light creeping in, you realise that up until this point, you have never seen his cock.

You blush for thinking of it that way. But there is no other way. He is big, fuck, so big, and hard and waiting at attention. For your attention.

You run your tongue along your top lip and your hand up the inside of his thigh, pushing his legs apart as you go. You allow your hand to continue, gently caress him, cup him between his legs.

You venture another look at his face. You’re startled, slightly, by his expression. It’s desire, sex. It’s wanton, animal. It’s entirely how you felt before. How you feel now. You feel your own wild longing further coat your sex.

You wrap your hand around him. Around his thick base. Watch him push himself into you. Grip him harder. Hear and feel him groan into you. You press the tips of your fingers and thumb of your other hand together, poise them at the head of his cock, dripping with his own arousal. Push down his length, running his slip with the pads of your digits, firmly down until his head bumps your palm, evoking a deep sound of pleasure. You circle your fingers, push them into his smooth, satiny skin, as you pull back up. Down and up, dragging, pressing along his shaft. Another sound of gratification. Down and up.

You have to taste him.

You lean down and make space for your lips, and it hits you, his scent. Oh, his scent. Everyday-Office-Mulder mixed with… musky… heady, sex. Potent. Overwhelmingly seductive. You slip your tongue from your mouth and lick him. A firm swipe with the flat of your tongue, from base to tip. Your eyes roll back, close at his essence on your tongue. Lick the length of him again, as your hand pumps slowly.

He speaks. Breathy and gorgeous. “Scully…” He pants. “What are you doing?”

You lift your head and look at him across his torso. Raise an eyebrow. A voice comes out. Your voice, deep and throaty. “Just… what you said before, Mulder…” you bite your lip and deliberately let it pop from your teeth, “… having fun.”

His jaw falls open slightly as his eyes blink closed. You feel him grow, twitch in your palm, a response to your mere words. The corners of your mouth curl up and you don’t give him any chance to respond. You open your mouth, your jaw and take him. Swallow him. All of him. Mulder’s cock is in your mouth. You still, breathe through your nose and adjust to him. You lift up, stop at his head, wrap your lips around him, and then back down. Again. And then, again.

The result of him swelling in reaction to you, churns a thrill in your gut. Makes you feel powerful, sexy. Your single thought is to pleasure him. To give to him. To bestow him the manifestation of years of ache, of longing and pent up desire. That he, this beautiful man, might finally know what you could never tell him with words. That you want him, need him, crave him. That you love him.

You lift up once more, and curl your tongue around his head. Suck on him, trace the seam at the tip, with your tongue, as your hand moves faster.

You let him pop out of your mouth. Kneel up and concentrate on his satisfaction, with your hand, moving, without tipping him over the edge. Look up at him to gauge his breath. Your eyes sweep across his body.

The body of an athlete. Lithe and firm. Long and lean. You’ve never wondered before but you’re not sure how his body is so bronzed. Always, whenever you have seen it. A bronzed sculpture, befitting of Michelangelo. Your eyes travel over his shoulders. His torso. The lines that define his physique. How his deltoid folds neatly into his clavicle. A wave of taut skin stretched over his pectoral. A masculine smattering of hair. His ribs, inserting into the blade or gladiolus. Caging his heart. You think of his heart, inside a cage. And how much you want that key.

You blink your eyes at him and smile. Open them and his face has changed again. Amorous. You notice his right shoulder, how the lines of his muscle ripple across the Greater tubercle. His hand is moving. You follow his arm down and see that he is holding himself too.

“Scully … oh my god… Scul …” You hear him.

You still your hand.

“I am loathe to stop you, because … Jesus Christ baby …”


“But … I think you’d be kind of pissed … if the whole reason we’re here …”

His words are coming out in a staccato.

“… were to you know … eject itself … in the wrong … you know?”

You realise you’ve absentmindedly started pumping your hand again.

“Please… stop!” He says. Commands.

You do. Continue to hold him in your fist, steady and firm, your hand nestled amongst his spongy pubic hair.

“Um, sorry.” You tell him in that voice again. A voice that tells him you are anything but sorry. That voice that sounds like it belongs to a ‘4am Dana’, raspy, after one too many tequila shots, and shouting in a noisy, smokey, divey, college bar.

You know now, you have his essence on your lips, in your mouth, and you want to give it to him. Coat him in your combination.

You release your hand, move up his body. Press your breasts into his chest. Your thigh onto his handness. Kiss him. Press your mouth to his and swipe you tongue between his lips. He immediately captures it. Sucks, before your lips push onto his in a crushing kiss. He holds your face gently in his hands. Knowing he must be tasting himself on you, shifts something inside. A palpable knowing washes through you. That in spite of the reason you both agreed to be in this bed, this was never agreed to. This is impetuous, personal, wild and unabated. This is seven years of passion, extinguished in cheap motel rooms and apartment hallways. Replaced with polite reason, and lonely self-gratification. This is not polite, nothing about this is polite.

You break from his lips and push your hands to his chest, hitch your leg over and straddle him. Land directly over his cock. He’s flat underneath you, against his stomach. You slide yourself over him, tilting your hips. You place yourself so your clitoris drags his length, slides, stimulating you as you smear him in your arousal. Back and forth. You feel him jerk beneath you. You lift your hips up, hover over him and take him in your hand again. Line him up. Before you can sink onto him, his hand is there too, holding himself, his other hand at your hip. You let him go, steady yourself on his chest again. Glance at him, and follow his eyes to where he’s looking, down between your legs.

You are mesmerised, as he taps the head of his erection onto your now aching clit. Tapping shock waves right through you. The image of these two parts of yourselves about to combine is so erotic. You feel yourself gush as he swipes back and forth at your entrance. Taps you again. Purposefully. You look at him. His face. He’s biting his bottom lip and when he releases it, it’s like he ejects pheromones into the air. Or something. Something overpowering is swirling around you. You’re having trouble holding yourself up as he’s coating himself with your lubrication. Rubbing between your folds. A tease. A taste. Every swipe elicits an electric pulse deep inside. Inside where you know he will reach. You look up at him. He is looking at where you connect. He must sense you and your eyes meet. You feel him stop, and a hand goes to your face. He rubs circles into your cheek.

“Oh. Fuck, Scully. Jesus. I just…” He’s searching. “I didn’t know this would… you would feel….” He’s breathy. Panting. Seemingly can’t hold onto a thought but he is holding his stare. Eyes telling you. He smiles at you in earnest.

“I know.” You say. Not sure you entirely comprehend what he’s saying, but feeling it. You put your hand over his on your cheek.

“Oh…. Baby.” His brow suddenly furrows.

“It’s ok I that I call you Baby?” His eyes, emploring.

“Yes.” You grin stupidly at him for a second, not wanting to point out that he already has, a few times already. Instead you say. “I like it.” You’re both suspended in mid-air. Caught.

One last moment to take this in before you consummate seven years of knowing him. Before you know him. Know this ‘man of your dreams’. But he’s not, is he? He’s not the man of your dreams. You never dreamed of a likeness of Mulder, when you were a girl. Nobody could dream up Fox Mulder. He’s is an enigma. The hot, cool, weird guy at school that nobody could get close to, but that everybody secretly wanted to. And you are the one. The only person he trusts. You’re behind the curtain with him. It’s silly, but you feel so special. He picked you. Chose you.

You move you hand from his and steady yourself at his chest. He holds onto both of your hips, and you begin. Lower yourself as he simultaneously pulls you down. He is filling you up, inch by unbelievable inch. Lower and lower, fuller and fuller. You can feel yourself stretch. Moulding to him and it is unlike anything you have felt before. A delicious pain. All of your sensors firing. There is just the right amount of light filtering into the room from the light outside and from the hallway to ignite his body, his features, the expression on his face. You have almost taken him as deep as he could possibly go, but it’s the little circles he is smudging into your hips that are sending ripples of pleasure across your skin.

His eyes are heavy, and he blinks slowly as his tongue darts out to lick at his bottom lip. You lower still, sitting on his thighs, encasing him completely. You let the breath out of your body, unmoving for a moment. Adjusting. Your eyes lock with his and he moves his hands to the space between you, holds them out. You take them in your own. Interlock your fingers. Connected: eyes, hands, the most intimate parts of yourselves – as connected as two people could possibly be.

You detect it then, a gentle nod from him. That same affirmation for you to go ahead with a line of questioning, or turn a corner, gun raised. Telling you he has your back. The same. This is your and Mulder. There’s no performance here. No roles to play. The promise you made to yourself, when you entered the bureau, to not fall victim to another man’s ideal of you, want of you, not to be molded into their version of you, you’ve managed to keep, in no small part because of him. Mulder’s Scully is somehow more authentically you than you’ve ever been in your life. Than you’ve ever know. Daddy’s little Dana, Mom’s only daughter now, Daniel’s ingenue, Jack’s protogege. Mulder’s equal.

You respond to his nod. Begin to move. Slowly take some weight into your thighs and tilt your hips, forward then back. His lets out a groan. You let go of your hands, simultaneously, his to your hips, and yours; one to his chest, and without thought the other goes to your own breast. You roughly pinch at a nipple, push on your breast. He sees you and his mouth falls open.

“Oh, Scully. Fuck…” He doesn’t hesitate, takes his invitation, finds your other breast and swoops up, captures you in his soft, elegant hand. Kneading. He finds your nipple and pinches in pace with the swing of your hips. You speed up, lifting slightly as you tilt forward, sheathing him once again as you rock back.

His other hand moves behind you. Caresses you, as you rock. Firm hands cupping and letting go, planting small pats on your arse. A pat and a handful. His fingers then gently swirl over the dip on the side of your glute and you jump. You twitch. He swipes over again and it sends a jolt to your centre, making you clench around him.

A small noise of humour erupts from him. He does it again and your nipples pucker, your pussy squeezes.

“You like that?” He breathes.

“I guess. I didn’t know that before…” And you didn’t.

“Hmm, an undiscovered Scully erogenous zone. I love it.”

You lose yourself in the pleasure. His hands, his hot body beneath you. You drop your guard completely, as you pick up the pace. Your hand at your breast, halting it’s rhythmic motion, as you roll your nipples between your fingers. Enticing another groan from him. You lift yourself high and tighten your muscles to clench him as you slide him back into you. You’re in an exquisite sway. Your hips undulating, as you move him inside of you. He is so hard, and each time your arse returns to his thighs, you can feel him throb.

His hand steady on your hip shifts. Shift enough for his thumb to extend itself to where you are joined. The pressure is soft at first. Tentative circles. The tentative turns to confidant at the invitation of your words escaping, “oh my god.” Firmer now. Rhythmic strokes. Incrementing. Climbing, faster.

Your head falls back and your mind crashes back with it. This feels so good. You can’t remember why haven’t done this before.

You know why you’re doing it now though. You remember your conversation.

‘I have a chance’ you explained, ‘you can say no,’ you reassured, ‘a donation’, is what you called it. Nothing emotive like father, or his child, or … husband. Not much to ask. Just one single cell. Just one from the billions upon billions of Mulder cells. One cell to connect you for all eternity.

Somewhere within you yearns at that thought, in the hope that you already are. Bonded to him. Children or no children. In the realm between consciousness and sleep, in the moments when your firing brain begins to shut down, you feel that space, where time and place doesn’t exist. Feel it deeply, that otherworldly tie that binds you. And then, it slips away, dips back into your subconscious.

He looked like he was going to answer you straight away when you asked him, and you’d told him not to. Told him had to take some time. As in the bathroom before, Mulder would say yes before thought and reason had a chance to transpire. As was his trust in you. His trust… You wonder if those words could possibly fully encompass, could completely describe his motivation for helping you. He would say he was your friend. He wanted to give you something. Do you a favour. Doing a favour is getting someone a cup of coffee, helping them move house. What was this?

You want there to be more there from him. I reason motivating him. That he wants in. Wants a part of your future. More than just the X-Files. More than just your usefulness to his quest…

You get broken out of your reverie by the sensation of being lifted, strong hands at your hips, you lose him from inside you, lifting, flipping, turning. You find yourself on all fours facing the end of the bed. Then he’s in you again. Hands at the top of your arse, gripping you in place. He’s further in now. Deeper. In and then out. You tilt your hips back to meet him, part your knees a little more.

“Oh Scully. You are so… oh my god. I want you so bad. Oh baby, you feel so good. You’re so… argh… this feels so good. So fucking sexy. Jesus.” All broken up, panting as he drives into you.

His words are melting you, electrocuting you, just as much as much as his thrusts are. The amalgamation of cognitive, of physical. Reaching you, stretching to your core, and your mind, and the parts of yourself you lock away. No-one was to get there. Those parts were just for you. He’s in there though. He’s resided there for a while, you know it.

He’s in so deep, and bumping. Hitting that spot. Sliding over it with firm strokes.

He leans over you. You feel his hips and lower abdomen wrap around your arse, one hand to your nipple the other finds it way to your now throbbing clit. He begins his percussion. A beat of his hips, drumming into you, the snag of his pinches, rolling around your tight ruby nipple, the swirl of his fingertips, vibrating together, resonating over and onto and into every part of you.

You feel him swelling. He fills you and then empty. Again. Swell and shudder. Pushing and pulling back. Harder and harder. Tan skin, slapping against alabaster.

Mulder wonders at the extraordinary. At the big, magnificent unknown. Strives and pushes for it. To be the object of his wonder, of his desire, feels like it means something more than when any other man desired you.

You bite your lip, and your eyes roll with the waves of pleasure…

You spy something on your dresser. A file, your list of meds, IVF information… The reason you’re here. Your true reason for wanting Mulder inside of you right now. Inside, then out. Then in, then out.

“Wait, shit…Stop, Mulder. Stop.”

Chapter Text

You’re on your back. Comfortable, with your head on your pillow. Mulder’s warm skin blanketing yours, his long, lean body stretched between your bent up knees. Fingers curl short strands of hair over your ear. His palm shapes your breast, kneads and teases, flicks and rolls your nipple with elegant fingers. You’re kissing again. It feels different this time. There is no urgency here, no desperation. There’s time and thought and tenderness, and … something else. He keeps stopping to pull back, to look at you, pierce you with his eyes, before settling on your lips and sinking his tongue inside your mouth again. There’s a rhythmic thrumming below as he pulses himself into you with a languid, hypnotic sway of his pelvis, like waves lapping a shore. Your body tilts to meet his. Nudging together, then apart, the melodic cycle of a piston. It feels wonderful. Right.

“Stop Mulder, stop.” You’d said before. Told him to stop, during what was the precise moment of the best sex of your life. You could feel him; were sure he was about to come.

“Sorry… it’s just, I need to be on my back… when you…” You swallowed hard and continued…

“… climax… I just, sorry, I want … um, gravity to take as little of your sperm from me as possible.”

Oh fuck, oh fuck, on repeat.

“And then, I should elevate my legs…”

You’d crumpled up your face as you spoke, as if that could’ve somehow diminished the embarrassment that possessed you. Mortified that perhaps you’d broken a spell, or burst some alternative universe bubble, where you and Mulder were lovers, where what you were doing, was perfectly normal.

You waited for things to get awkward. You’d been abrupt. Told the man mid passionate thrust, mid raptured pulse, mid mutual ecstasy, to halt. And your voice had been decidedly Scully, when you spoke. Not that bedroom voice that had come out of you before. But it didn’t happen. The awkwardness. Instead, he stopped, brushed his hand across your shoulders, so affectionately, used his other hand to help him withdraw.

He’d said, “On your back then,” and kissed your spine. Helped you change position. Swept his hands all over your body once he laid you down.

His hand, no longer at your breast, traces your lips with a finger. A gesture that seems incredibly intimate, despite your obvious other connection. Slowly following the couture line that defines your pout. He scrunches a smile into his face, crinkling his nose, as a finger gently makes its way in. Seeking. Like he is trying to elicit some words from in there. A confession? You lick him. Lick, before sucking him in, swirl your tongue around and his eyes nearly close.

Your hands are lazily, aimlessly resting at his hips. It all feels so easy. So, you and Mulder; your simpatico in the field, translated to your bed. You move a hand to his face. Mirror your finger to his mouth. Push his bottom lip down. Poke your way in as his tongue moves out to greet it.

But for the fact that you know this is happening, that this a real true moment, because you are here in your room, in your bed, and you can see him, and taste him, and feel him, fuck can you feel him, you might deny it. You and he wear tailored suits together, embrace, only in the depths of grief or despair, brushes of skin on skin, so rare and meaningful. But, here he is, on top of you. Redolent of the scent of him after three rounds of one-on-one, in the FBI gymnasium. His bare, completely naked body, slipping so gracefully across your own. You, entirely full of him, so hard and so big.

He leans down and kisses you, your fingers still in each others’ mouths. Feeling your kiss; a mash of tongues and pushed-back-lips and teeth. You slip your fingers free, hold onto jaws, stroke cheeks. Let the kiss take hold.

You slide your hands around to his waist, caress him. You’re sure he’s caught you checking him out before; in the office, on assignment, getting out of cars. Too many times to remember. All the while you wishing you could somehow have permission to do exactly this. Touch him. To slowly explore his arse; deliciously smooth, taut skin. You feel the flex of his solid, lean, muscles, firm under your palms when he thrusts into you, then your fingers sink in, kneading at relaxed flesh, when he withdraws. You begin to match his rhythm. Pulling him forward, in time with rigid muscles. Catching him, letting him back into your hands when he pulls out. Then in. Over and again.

With every rock, pulse, breath; fireflies furiously escape your belly. Burrowing into every space inside of you. Igniting you from within. This is making love, you think. You may have begun with the slightly nervous, bashful, one-night-stand feeling, then moved through the furious, lustful, I-want-to-rip-your-clothes-off fucking. But this is unmistakably love making. You’re making love, you two.

The thought had crossed your mind earlier tonight, that you might just have sexual intercourse – baby making. Practical, period. You linger on the idea of what you are doing. Of what you might be creating. What you’re inscribing on the lines in the book of you and Mulder. Maybe you are filling in the first imagined entry into your child’s Baby Book. It would never be an actual entry, it would be a silent, secret, prologue. One otherwise normal Thursday night, a fox in your bed. Your father… A missing first page you’ll smile at, smugly, when you look through the first smiles and locks of hair. You’ll know. This is how you were made.

He breaks from your lips and lifts his face from yours, tucks his chin and looks down at where you are connected, the ends of his hair tickling your forehead. You see him. Waves of desire flush his expression, matching how you feel at his reaction to your coupling. Your eyes wander the familiar physiognomy of his face. His disproportionate nose and chin, balanced out by a jumble of features, perhaps unremarkable in solitary, perfecting arranged, as if by an artist, into his wondrous face. His eyes, oh, his eyes.

Then they find you. Capture you, inundate you with their moss green depths. And you’re caught. The conversations you’ve had with those eyes, from the second you met. Even though you know it impossible, you’ve often felt him reading your mind. No, not your mind, your truth. Your soul. Perhaps that isn’t so impossible after all.

You cup his cheek.

“You’re beautiful, Mulder.” You tell him.

His mouth makes the shape of a smile but his eyes hold something else. You think you detect a glisten in the corner of his eye. You suspect then, that no one has ever told this undeniably beautiful man, with his beautiful mind, that that’s what he is. So beautiful.

He turns his face under your hand and kisses your palm. Eyes still focused on yours.

It’s becoming apparent to you now, that this might be the longest you’ve gone without breaking his gaze. You always seem to manage to wriggle free. Before you get burnt. Before he can find the truth in there. You’d glance at his lips. Find something in the room to cling to for a moment. Refer to the file in your hand. You, always being the first to break. You would sometimes feel as though you were tearing away from him, you’d sense his disappointment. A times, he’d even physically lift your chin, so you would have to see. Passion radiates out of him. He has always burned so bright and doesn’t know what it is to be looked at that way. With so much reverence. It becomes too much.

You’re feeling more naked now, than you have since he removed your clothes earlier. Something is passing between you. You feel it and then see it flicker in his eyes too. You simultaneously want to close your eyes and escape, run away from this silent conversation, and bear yourself to him. To look away from him now would feel like you were tearing something. Breaking it. Like it might hurt more, hurt both of you more, to close your eyes or focus elsewhere. So you stay. Stay and let yourself be studied. Examine him back.

Open up. Be true. Expose yourself. Tell him. Tell him. Just tell him.

A single tear frees itself, streams down from the corner of your eye and disappears into the carmine tangle being caressed by his thumb. God, you hope he hasn’t seen.

He swipes it away. Another silent tear. Another tender brush of his thumb. You think of his thumb print. Of something so unique to him. Like it might unlock you. His thumbprint, pressed to your temple to identify him as the someone with access.

Tell him …

Something wells in his hazel perception. It’s too much. This… was the fuck is it?

What is happening?

His brow furrows and he goes to speak. Swallows and then tries again.

“Scully.” He breathes.“What’s happening?” A question. Your question. Truly seeking an answer from you. You can see it in his eyes. Confusion. You feel the overwhelming moment has a hold on him too.

But you do know the answer.

Your bodies still beat a desirous tempo, a separate entanglement, as hands still brush over soft skin.

You’re in that secret world you both share, caught in the space between you. It’s been there from the start. An inextricable, unexplainable connection. An unknown combination. A chemical reaction that forged you together. Tied you. His eyes mirror yours. Moisture pooling, slipping down. Down the side of his nose.

An exchange between you. An honesty you’ve never known. A strange contradiction of vulnerability and security engulfs you.

You breathe in sync. Beat your hips in time. Grip onto each other. Dare not blink.

It’s love Mulder, … tell him.. it’s love. I love you.

“I, Scully… I,” He leans down to you, then a kiss, eyes still open. Arresting you. So intimate. That close. He pluses himself deep inside you and stays there. You clench around him. Hold him there. Still. Your lips connected, pressed, and you stop for a moment. Lips still. Eyes locked; a fuzzy view of him. Up so close. Don’t dare blink. Everything, every part of your being is on fire. Alive and lit up. A flow of energy courses, from body to body, being to being. Eyes still looking, he breaks the kiss, goes to speak again.

“I…” He sucks in a breath. His mouth opens, and words don’t come.

And you can’t.

Not like this.

Not in the middle of the sex that you asked for, because you didn’t get the chemical reaction you were looking for, not during the sex he’d said yes to, while he held you crying in your bathroom, so

“It’s oxytocin, Mulder.”

You let him off the hook. You don’t want him to say something in the moment, that he might regret.

“Released by the hypothalamo-pituitary magnocellular system.” Got to keep going now.

“Known as the ‘love’ hormone.” You see the word register in his expression.

“A physiological response to the physical … feeling of sex.” Default to science, Doctor Scully.

“That’s… that’s what we’re feeling.”

“Ah,” he responds. Of course he knows what oxytocin is. You detect a nanosecond of disappointment, before he replaces it with a smirk.

“Fuck, you’re sexy when you use big words, Scully. You know that?”

He starts to buck into you again, a little harder than before.

And the moment is gone.

His eyes shift, just a fraction to look at where his thumb is, as he wipes one last tear from your face. He bends himself to you, kisses your lips. Halts the subject. Who’s letting whom of the hook…? God, does he ever know you.

His hand by your head, settles on stroking your hair as his other hand traces a clavicle, down over your breasts, over your abdomen, your hip, swirls around your newly discovered Scully Erogenous Zone, eliciting a jerk from you, a grin and a sex-dripping moan from him. His hand continues on its journey, dragging around behind him and down the length of your leg, settling at your foot. He picks up your ankle and lifts your leg, tucks it in the crock of his elbow behind your knee. You see him gauge your reaction. You have no chance to arrange your face into anything but authentic arousal. You bite your lip.

He hooks your knee over his shoulder and kneels up, lifting you with him. Your other leg still wrapped around his waist. He grabs a pillow and moves it under your arse. Leans over you, steadying himself by your head, leans down and opens you up. You hold onto him, his shoulder, or upper arm, or you put your palm on his chest. Brush over his nipples, touch him.

His free hand finds its way between you, spreads you with his fingers. Brushes firmly across your patch of pubic hair. Rolls his thumb over your clit. Begins to strum, in time with his thrusts.

His eyes glance over your body and he leans a little closer to your face, stretching the back of your thigh, pulling you further apart. And he’s looking. Watching you in this new, very exposed position. You feel him swell within you as you clamp down. It sends a thrill to your already throbbing centre, coating him further in your slick.

Something is building.

He pumps into you, rubbing you and you are holding onto him, pulsing your walls in time. He looks like he’s straining to keep control. He looks untamed. He looks so fucking sexy.

You feel the familiar tight spring inside. Wound up and ready to uncoil, beginning to vibrate deep within.

“Mulder,” you pant. “I’m going to come.”

For some reason you feel the need to tell him, even though you’re sure he knows, sure he can feel your muscles spasming, gripping around his cock, see the flush of your chest, feel the nails in his deltoids. He looks at you. Smiles a megawatt smile and you melt…

“Ok baby, let’s go…”

Then his mouth covers yours and you begin to breath your ecstasy into one another.

And that was the last thing you were fully cognisant of … for some amount of time.

Chapter Text

Mulder is peacefully slumbering behind you. The elegant ‘S’ of his spinal curve sculpting his form into a bespoke mould of you. The tops of his thighs cradle your arse and his arm drapes over the dip of your waist. His hand, now slack, remains cupped at your breast.

You can feel his warm breath on your neck, further affirming him, here in your bed. You didn’t ask him to stay, he just assumed. He was right. He nuzzled you, touched you, until he fell asleep. His hand had crept up under your pajama top, encouraged by your fingers interlocking his, as he lazily brushed over your nipple. His lips settling at the nape of your neck, after trailing from just under your ear. They’ve fallen away now, followed him into sleep. Fallen away from the place where he concentrated them before. Kissing the line in your skin. A tiny dash of pink, the mark where flesh was cut opened and your life was returned. You’d buzzed under his warm mouth at the thought that he would locate that place. Reminiscent of him palpating your abdominal scar. Two tiny disfigurements, that all but took you from him.

You’d both come down, from your time in the air, in the space in the room. Souls and energies continued to swirl. Your bodies stunningly moved themselves through your effects on one another. Panting and writhing. Any scrap left of inhibition discarded through orgasm. He was on you and over you and in you. Your vertebrata in a twist together. He arranged, so his torso crashed on the bed beside you, draped across you, still inside for a long while. Bodies contorted to make sure your faces were close. So lips could reach out and unite. Rest against one another, as you found your way back into your skin. Nails scraped along electrified flesh. You held onto each other, in case this was some kind of last good-bye. Some kind of first time, and desperate last time.

You untangled from one another, unfurled yourselves from the strangeness of the evening.

Put your legs in the air, like you told him you would. Up the wall, your backside against your head board.

He kissed you, lingered on your lips. Then arranged a sheet over you, kissed your forehead.

Pulled on his boxers and T-shirt, and disappeared.

Came back minutes later and told you he’d ordered dinner, and asked how long you’d have to stay upside down for.

You smiled at him and told him it was only about 15 minutes.

After the time, you stood, felt him trickle down your leg, all warm and sticky. An unfamiliar yet altogether welcome sensation. No-one had ever come inside you before.

You showered. Touched your body anew. Evocative tingles, prickled your skin, as you ran your hands over the places Mulder’s fingers and lips and tongue had been. You began to swell and ache below.

You dressed in your pyjamas and robe.

Found him on the sofa with your favourite take out.

You ate and talked.

Not about what you just did. Not about IVF, or babies or the mind-blowing sex you’d had.

Not about being naked together. Making love to each other.

You were giddy, though. School-crush nervous. A secret between you. Dinner eaten with matching smirks at the corners of your mouths’. Giggled apologies, when your hands bumped, reaching for the kung pao. Catching each others’ looks, like the beginnings of a conversation.

He showered and you gave him a new toothbrush. He put on a fresh undershirt and boxer briefs, from the stash of his clothes at your place, that somehow got mixed with yours. Perhaps packed back into your bag on an assignment, or left in your car, or some other innocent reason.

Then, it was time for bed.

And he stayed. Tucked you in and crawled in behind you.

His arms held you, and you held his arms.

Sleep for him.

You lay awake, thinking…

Still thinking…

You’ve heard Mulder’s sleep sounds before. On long drives and living-room sofas, in hospital beds or hospital chairs - waiting for each other to mend. It’s only now that you appreciate the comfort it brings. The steady sound of air in and out. Long, drawn out, through sleep. The occasional smacking of his lips or a murmur.

This close, you feel the breath at your neck, in your hair. The accordion rise and fall of lungs, pressing his chest to your back, nudging his groin a little toward your arse, then retreat.

You’re thinking. Can’t shake the feeling that you should have said something. Talked. Confessed. Asked.

Where to now?

You realise that something he said has been on repeat in your mind. Or the way in which he said it. When he told you he would help you with your IVF journey, he’d said, it was weird, but he didn’t want it to come between you. Your honest assumption was that should have been the lead in for a negative response. I can’t give you a baby, because it might come between us.

But it wasn’t.

“The answer is yes.” He’d told you.

Did he think you would hold it against him if he said no, that it would ruin your friendship? Your working relationship? Did he feel he had no choice but to agree to this out of some pressure? Was he fucking with you, in the way he said it? If he had said no, would that have come between you? What is it you want to know now? That he didn’t feel pressured. Maybe that he wants more …

“Scully, I can hear you thinking.”

You feel his fingers move over your breast, graze against your nipple; it puckers under his touch. He pulls you into him. Runs his nose up the back of your neck.

“Hmmm? Yeah. Sorry.” You tell him.

God he feels good.

“You should try and get some sleep.” He mumbles, into your hair.

“Mmm.” Yeah, you probably should. But fuck he feels amazing. He begins to swell and press into you. He ever so slowly starts to rock.


You turn your face to the side.

“Yes?” He kisses your cheek.

As good as he feels, you want to talk to him, so you turn, roll in his arms. Face him.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.” He says, brushing the hair from your eyes. Tucking it behind your ear.

“Um, when I asked you a few weeks ago to, um … why did you answer the way you did?”

He gives you that look, and you know he doesn’t comprehend. So you continue.

“You said that you didn’t want it to come between us.”

He searches your eyes, brow crinkles slightly.

“That’s how you started.” You tell him.

He nods ever so slightly. Still caressing your hair.

“It just … really seemed like the lead in to a no, is all.” You try to keep your voice steady. You don’t want things to get uncomfortable. You bite your lip.

“What do you mean?” He questions, still stroking your hair. Not uncomfortable. Yet.

“When I asked you … to be the father my child, you…” You begin to explain…

“No, you didn’t.” He cut you off.

“Wha… didn’t what?” Now you’re confused.

“Ask me to be the father of your child, Scully.” And his hand is gone.

This is where you should say something, but it feels like a Mulder word game, so you just wait.

He props himself up on and elbow.

“You asked for my sperm.

That seemed like it was the end of his explanation. You’re still confused.

You prop yourself up too.


“That’s very different.” he said.

Fuck, Mulder… different to what?

“I don’t … follow.” You honestly don’t have any clue what he’s talking about.

“Ok …” He exhales, not angry, maybe a little … tired.

He wriggles himself upright and leans back against the headboard. You hesitate for a moment and realise you think he’s waiting for you to do the same. So you do. Sit up beside him. He’s facing ahead.

“Look, Scully. When all this came up, I had to do some serious thinking …” He turns to you. “… and not about what you’d suspect, given what you’d asked. “I guess, I didn’t realise that I’d made some assumptions.” His voice is soft. Tender.

“About what?” You match his tone.

“Well, I realised I took for granted that we would … um… ok… I realised that…” he breathes again, taking his time. He twists his body towards you.

“… whenever I think of you, Scully, I think of us.

“O-k. That makes sense, I guess. I mean, we’re together all the time.” You say, trying to follow along.

“No. Um. When I think of myself, or … my future … I think of you.”

“Ah ha,” you say, slowly.

“I honestly can’t remember when that started,” he says, a small smile finding its way to his lips.

“But …” He takes a breath, looks down at his fingers, and picks at a hangnail.

“ … when you asked for my participation in your IVF…

“I guess …” He looks up at you now. Serious and earnest but there’s a sadness there too, “… I just thought there would always be an us, Scully.”

You know your mouth just dropped open a little, at this admission from him, even though you’re not entirely sure what he’s saying. You move your mouth to speak but realise you don’t know what to say.

“ … and I didn’t ever really think about what shape it would take, or look like, but just that it was. You and I, always.” He finishes.

Your mind flashes back to your bathroom, and crying, and the foot of your bed, and him unbuttoning your blouse, and your fear for how hard you knew you’d already fallen for him. Is that what he was talking about? Why was this so complicated?

You don’t know how to respond, and you still don’t understand what this has to do with how you asked him to help with your IVF. The possible implications of what he admitted are enormous.

So you just stutter a little and say … “Um, ok.”

“So, as to why I answered you that way … look …” He takes your hand and leans in a little, “… I feel like, in a non direct way, it’s my fault. Your infertility. So, I would have always given you a child. Scully. Always. I would have blurted out a yes right away, despite your telling me to take my time, if…”

It looks like the words got caught in his throat. He’s stuck…

You lean into him too. Take his other hand.

“If what, Mulder…?” You ever so gently implore.

He sucks his bottom lip between his teeth. Looks down at your tangled combination of fingers. It’s then you notice a line of moisture, dammed by his bottom lashes, threatening to spill. He hesitates. You reach out, gently place your index finger under his chin and lift.

“Tell me…”

“If … well, if … “ You see his Adam’s apple bob up and down and then he lifts his gaze to meet you.

“… if you’d asked for me, too.”

And it spills. Silenting runs down his cheek.

What?” You blurt at him in disbelief. What? What the fuck?

“You asked for my cum in a cup, Scully.”

Oh no! You can’t help it, and you don’t care, and you begin to cry too.

“You didn’t ask for a father … or help to raise this baby … or a romantic partner … you didn’t ask for me.

Before he can continue to talk any more, you move, put yourself in front of him, kneel down before him. Grab a hand in both of yours. He looks down at your hands.

“Oh my God, Mulder, I didn’t know, I didn’t think… that you wanted children or to be a part of …” Your voice trails away.

“When I found out, about what they’d done to you, that you couldn’t have children, I tried to imagine what that might be like. All I realised was that there was only one person I’d ever want to have them with and then… “ He looks at you. You know what he means.

“And so, I let that go. Didn’t think about it anymore.”

You swallow hard. He thought of having children with you. You have a million things to say, to ask, to tell him. Nothing comes out.

“Anyway, what I’m taking an inordinately long time to say is… the part that I couldn’t let come between us was not this possible child, or giving this to you, it was…”

Wet eyes, there is no desperation to them. You see a resolve. And so much affection. He smiles and cups your cheek.

“… that I didn’t want, that you don’t think of us on the same way I do … to come between us.”

“Oh, Mulder … please stop.” It comes out of you so softly, your voice betraying your words. No command to them.

He continues.

“It’s ok Scully, it really is. I realised that you are my friend, and that is enough. To be your friend, to give this to you.”

He smiles and brushes a thumb over your skin, smearing your tears, running them over your lips. Salt. Salt and sadness.

God, he was being so honest. So attached to his emotions. They lead him. You, squash them, always defaulting to your mind. The only thing you’ve come to allow yourself to trust. Emotions well up though. Well up from your heart and sweep to your forbidden parts. Allow you to fantasise. To dream. But you never allow yourself to respond to what you might feel rather than think.

You need to tell him. Tell him, tell him. Words are sitting on the edge of your tongue.

“Oh, Mulder,” Your eyes close and you try and take stock of what he’s telling you. “I am so sorry, I…”

Fuck, what have I done? Tell him. Tell him. Tell him. Tell him.

You look around the room and you don’t know why. Bite your lip. Searching.

The curse of being you. Will your nerve or the moment disappear first?

You can’t let it, so, without his finger to your chin, you come back to him. To his deep, soulful eyes. Searching, waiting … waiting for you … not waiting for you to say something, just waiting for you to see, just waiting for you to catch up.

And then you know, he already knows. Of course he does. Not that you don’t love him, but that you do. It was just that you might never let yourself know it.

“Mulder.” Your voice close, and soft, and clear, and unwavering. Your eyes connect and you tell him there first.

Then you say it out loud. “I love you. I’m in love with you… ”

And then, he steals the last word from your lips. Crashes his mouth to yours. Clasps his hands around your jaw and kneels up, bringing you up with him, and your bodies collide. Your hands hold onto his face too. Lips and teeth and tongues and moisture from your tears and noses and mouths; a mess of passion and desperate rapture. And you kiss, and you kiss, and you kiss.

He tears himself from your mouth and frantically rips open your pyjama top, buttons pop and you don’t care. He yanks down your satin pants as you wrestle to free your arms from your top. In a tangle of limbs, he husks off his boxers and T-shirt as you wriggle out of your pyjama bottoms.

Naked, he falls back against the headboard, reaches for you and pulls you onto his lap. Legs straddling, you sink onto him, all at once you’re full. He’s biting your neck and your hands are in his hair and your head falls back. His arms have you wrapped up, kneading your flesh, and he’s bucking up into you. You feel your breasts bounce in response, such freedom to the sensation. He takes one in his mouth, a mouthful. Feverishly sucks you in, laps at you, licks you all over. Growls and moans your name. Finds your nipple and suckles. Shallow thrusts, only afforded from your positions. Rough and furious, and sparking within you something deeper than you’ve ever felt. You drive down, frantic to meet him.

He stops ravishing your breasts and your mouths connect. Lips slide across lips; a blur in hues of pink. Your heads tilt to make way, to thoroughly immerse. Mouths alive to your earlier confessions. A boundaryless seeking. You hold jaws and napes and cheeks, to keep steady, to stay connected lest you detach from the rhythm below. You lose time and reality rolls away and you have no control. You let it all go. Give yourself over to the pleasure, to the love, to him. You give yourself over to yourself. Let yourself love. Be loved.

He dips a hand between you, swirls it over that place where you meet and you clench around him, rough and tight. No rhythm now. Mad and frenzied. Two people, crawling into one another. If that was love making before, this is two beings, to entities melding into one. Becoming one.

You’re both frantic, and feverish and it’s fast and slightly unhinged and you realise; this is how you two love. How you love each other. How you always have. So big and all-consuming and unbridled and furious and you are finally allowing yourself to show it, to feel it, to let it take over.

The coil within, is tightening, in the most delirious way, and you can feel him on the edge as well. Pounding, and plunging and gripping and sucking and kissing and licking and grabbing and holding the fuck onto one another as you crash through the rail together. Over and into the abyss of euphoria. Rise up and come down.


You’re heaped over him. Heavy on his torso, head lolling on his shoulder. Lips close, breathing the same breath. You’re in sync now. Left behind the rapturous, intoxicating, frenetic peak of your rhapsody. Your arms are wrapped loosely around his neck and his around your waist. The comforting rise and fall of your bodies as one. He, still half hard, inside of you. A wondrous feeling.

You stay there. Embracing. Tracing patterns into each others skin. He lets you go, for just a moment, to pull your comforter up over your back, cocooning you both underneath. No move, to move. You can feel yourself drifting, slowing, hovering in the space between wake and dreams.

What of tonight? You began with a small hope of two blue lines, and got one. Devastating. At first. Then, the ultimate result of that being the line you and Mulder have crossed. You’re here now, way over that line, cradled in his arms. Cradled in what feels like forever. A faint feeling of not quite believing this is real, paradoxical, as deep down, you know, this was inevitable. An altogether new feeling, that perhaps was always there. Safe and loved and in love. You imagine it must be what Missy meant when she would talk of soul mates and bliss, and you smile.

You feel his heart beat under your breast. Marking time. Pulsing moments between you, across your mind. An affinity from your first handshake. An overwhelming protectiveness at his immediate trust to tell you the truth. His expression when he poured your gold chain back into your palm, after you’d returned. And your desperation, over and again, whenever you’d thought that you’d lost him. His visceral relief that would engulf you, whenever it was you in the hospital bed. Inevitable.

What of you and Mulder next? You realise there’s nothing to analyse when the truth is told.

You feel him stroke your hair and you look up, his face moves closer. He brushes the tip of his nose against yours, back and forth. Cups your cheek in his hand. A feather-light kiss to your lips. You push up, press harder. Your mouths open against each other, gently. You feel a smile. His lips stretch from yours. You pull back and he is smirking at you. Mischief dancing in his eyes.

“What?” You say, humour lacing your voice.

“Oxytocin, Scully?” He raises an eyebrow as he speaks. “That was a good one.” He adds, and now he’s just plain laughing.

“Shut up, Mulder.” You tease. Bury your face and your embarrassment in his neck.

“Ok, Baby, I’ll shut up …,” he says and kisses the top of your head. “But not before…” he strokes your hair again, beckons you to look. You do. “… I tell you that I love you. I have for longer than I can remember.”

Happy tears roll down and away and you kiss him again.

Over, and again, you’ve kissed him tonight. This time is soft but passionate. Tongues welcomed immediately, lips slide, and fit together. Familiar now with the rhythm and flow. Connecting to inside. Sparks igniting low. The longing from your kisses before, no longer there. Because now you can kiss him forever…

You feel him soften inside of you. He must feel it too and he pulls back, looks and questions, goes to move.

“Do you want to lie down? Put your legs up?”

You shake your head no, sit up in his lap. Smile.

“No. I want to stay here. Like this.” Forever. “Forever.”

He smiles and his hand goes to your belly. Gently brushes across your abdomen.

“Well, we still increased the odds for you, Scully,” he says. Warmth in his voice.

You hold his face.

“Mulder, for us.”

“Us?” He smiles and bites his lip.

“Yes. For us.”

Contentment washes over his face and you lean back onto him, drop your arms to his waist and nuzzle his chest. Skin on warm skin. Your breasts snug against his soft chest hair. Your connection below, still damp from your love making. He pulls the covers up and rests his chin on your head and holds you tight.



~ The end ~