Scully/Fowley fic
Scully smut for projectjulie
Title: All Sorts of Rules
Fandom: The X-files
Pairing: Dana Scully/Diana Fowley
Timeline: Early-mid Season 6
Rating: MA/NC-17(?)
Words: 409
x-posted to saffic and girlslash
“I don’t trust you.”
“We’re even then. What’s there to trust?”
It starts simply. Lonely days in the basement office. You, sick of Spender. And Scully, sick of Him. Tired of lagging behind him like a perfume trail, as he turns every crap assignment into an X-file. Or steals the folders right from your desks. It doesn’t matter how many files Spender shreds, or how much Scully mutters,
“Damn it - it’s against the rules.”
There are lots of rules she's breaking by sharing a bed with you. But of course Mulder would never know about those nights. He can only wonder, when she doesn’t answer her cell. You can always feel it vibrate on the nightstand, as Scully moans with your fingers inside her.
“Let it….ring.”
He's paranoid. The phone goes on and on, like Scully’s gasps, as she rides out her orgasm.
“He’s going to get suspicious,” you say, as her breathing slows and she stretches beneath your sheets.
“He has enough on his mind.” And she gives you a look, as if she knows. Knows intimately how much you’ve already betrayed him. But then she kisses you with too much sweetness, and you wonder if she has any clue.
Anyone would be lonely with Mulder as their constant, their only example of humanity to gage their days by. It isn’t a wonder that she turned to you. The only wonder is how long it's lasted.
There are nights where you test her, push her over the edge, tease her until she begs. You like to punish her, enjoying the feeling of her muscles, tightening over your fist. The bruises that fade to yellow on her breasts. But she never cries his name, not even in her sleep. She doesn’t do anything but draw on her religious background.
“God…Oh, Jesus.”
She never says your name either, unless you take it from her forcibly.
“I want to hear it.”
“Diana,” she gasps, and you stop teasing her, until she moans “Diana Diana,” between each breath, like she’s discovered a new form of punctuation.
You don’t talk about work, because you’d only disagree. It would only remind you of the fact that you hate her, really. She hates you, and knows you are one of her less intelligent mistakes.
The only thing you can agree on are the things that make her shiver, and which side of the bed you both fall to at the end of the night.
Title: All Sorts of Rules
Fandom: The X-files
Pairing: Dana Scully/Diana Fowley
Timeline: Early-mid Season 6
Rating: MA/NC-17(?)
Words: 409
x-posted to saffic and girlslash
“I don’t trust you.”
“We’re even then. What’s there to trust?”
It starts simply. Lonely days in the basement office. You, sick of Spender. And Scully, sick of Him. Tired of lagging behind him like a perfume trail, as he turns every crap assignment into an X-file. Or steals the folders right from your desks. It doesn’t matter how many files Spender shreds, or how much Scully mutters,
“Damn it - it’s against the rules.”
There are lots of rules she's breaking by sharing a bed with you. But of course Mulder would never know about those nights. He can only wonder, when she doesn’t answer her cell. You can always feel it vibrate on the nightstand, as Scully moans with your fingers inside her.
“Let it….ring.”
He's paranoid. The phone goes on and on, like Scully’s gasps, as she rides out her orgasm.
“He’s going to get suspicious,” you say, as her breathing slows and she stretches beneath your sheets.
“He has enough on his mind.” And she gives you a look, as if she knows. Knows intimately how much you’ve already betrayed him. But then she kisses you with too much sweetness, and you wonder if she has any clue.
Anyone would be lonely with Mulder as their constant, their only example of humanity to gage their days by. It isn’t a wonder that she turned to you. The only wonder is how long it's lasted.
There are nights where you test her, push her over the edge, tease her until she begs. You like to punish her, enjoying the feeling of her muscles, tightening over your fist. The bruises that fade to yellow on her breasts. But she never cries his name, not even in her sleep. She doesn’t do anything but draw on her religious background.
“God…Oh, Jesus.”
She never says your name either, unless you take it from her forcibly.
“I want to hear it.”
“Diana,” she gasps, and you stop teasing her, until she moans “Diana Diana,” between each breath, like she’s discovered a new form of punctuation.
You don’t talk about work, because you’d only disagree. It would only remind you of the fact that you hate her, really. She hates you, and knows you are one of her less intelligent mistakes.
The only thing you can agree on are the things that make her shiver, and which side of the bed you both fall to at the end of the night.