#oh woow
rating:pg-13
timeline:‘the unnatural’ through the revival era
msr, obviouslyNOTES: First and foremost, Hello Fandom! You may have seen me around, reblogging your stuff. Or maybe you have no idea who I am. I’m a relatively new addition to The X-Files lore. I only started watching late last year (I know), but trust: this damn show has consumed every day of my life since. That said, I’m no newcomer to fanfic, but I’ve never written anything for TXF before. Actually, correction: I’ve never published anything for TXF before. What I love most about this fandom is the boundless creativity with which you guys continue and build upon this show’s legacy. And truth be told, I’m intimidated by your seemingly limitless talent. Before I posted anything of my own, I wanted to make sure I could deliver the quality that these characters, this story, and this fandom deserve. I have a few things I’m working on, but I never planned to write this.
TLDR: I’m recovering from surgery this week, and Percocet dreams are damn weird, man. And last night, I literally had a dream about Mulder’s jersey from The Unnatural and woke up with this head canon that Scully — not Mulder — has held onto it all these years.tagging:@today-in-fic;@fictober
============================February 2000
“How’d you get your hands on this so quick?”
She’s standing at his closet, one of his gray cotton t-shirts skimming the middles of her thighs. Underneath, she wears water droplets from the shower they just shared. Nothing else.
“What’s that about putting my hands on things?” He’s approaching behind her then – fresh from the bathroom – towel slung low on his hips, toothbrush hanging from his mouth. When he reaches her, she feels those hands – his hands– battle with the hemline of the shirt that’s now hers. Up, up, up… over her thighs… smoothing over her hips; she feels him exhale when he realizes they’re bare.
She grins as she nestles herself back against him. “This,” she gestures to where his arms are bracketed around her lower half, “wasn’t quick.”
No, this – freely touching each other’s naked bodies – took more than seven years.
He takes a hand away now, presumably to lift his toothbrush from his mouth, because when he bends down to her ear, his voice is clear: “I like to take my time.”
It’s not the minty coolness of his breath that makes the hair on her neck stand on end. No, it’s likely his wandering fingers, trailing slowly up her belly, to the underside of her breast. Or maybe the growing hardness, poking precariously at the small of her back.
