Tethered by GoldX (NC-17)
Fandom: THE X-FILES
Pairing: Mulder/Scully
Author on LJ: n/a
Author Website: GoldX's Gossamer page
Why this must be read: This is Mulder's perspective of part of season seven, from just before the beginning of "Theef" through "all things", but though it does involve discussion of cases, it's mostly a relationship story, and quite a bit of it an observation of Scully. A lot of the seventh season's MotW episodes were fairly light-hearted, but this fic goes deeper, to a Scully who's struggling to get her bearings after Africa, whose struggle breaks out in ways like her trip with Spender in "En Ami", and her general malaise and uncertainty during "all things", and who finally finds herself again.
The story itself is told in a roughly elegant way--it's Mulder first-person, and the voice seems very characteristic of him, managing to have turns of phrase that are almost poetic without any hint of purple prose. It's almost lyrical at times, but still in character. The prose is evocative, visceral at times, and I just love most of the descriptions. This fic is a journey, and one well worth traveling.
California. California. California.
Home of the shallow stuff and the very deep stuff.
My sister's spirit lives in a moonlit grove in Victorville, eternally at play. Gossamer starlight and no pain. Happily ever after. Until she walks into another life. May it please Fate to have mercy next time around.
And now I'm finding out what the hero does when the quest is over.
At forty, one thing he really can't do is take back the adolescence he missed. I'm way too old to be serious with Ms. Croft. I look below me at the clouds burning off on the Pacific coast. Maybe I'll just float away and dissolve.
Scully's hand finds mine and those porcelain fingers play over my knuckles, glide down the length of my fingers, smooth over my nails. I don't look at her, only at her hand at play. She turns over my palm and traces its lines. Fate, life. Heart. The tips caress the mounds below the fingers, firm and real. Her hand in mine is the ultimate reality. Nothing else exists. She's so damned sensuous, so full of life. A fire lights my palm.
She says she loves my hands. I can't see it; they are tools to me. But I love my hands in hers or on any part of her- her back, her perfect face, the down of her arm. My life with Scully is a continuum. Sex doesn't start or end in bed- or on the rug, or on my couch, or on a blanket under the sky. We've made love from ten feet apart in evidence rooms, across the booth in diners, and over sad and hideous remains in anonymous morgues. While Skinner's droned on about some meaningless transgression against protocol and regulations, we've had intercourse. I've made love to bumps on her back in a small motel in Oregon and consummated our arranged marriage, spilling the words of my life into her ears that night, just hours after meeting her.
She makes love to my hand. To hell with the bed. I can wake up and work this case.
Tethered
Pairing: Mulder/Scully
Author on LJ: n/a
Author Website: GoldX's Gossamer page
Why this must be read: This is Mulder's perspective of part of season seven, from just before the beginning of "Theef" through "all things", but though it does involve discussion of cases, it's mostly a relationship story, and quite a bit of it an observation of Scully. A lot of the seventh season's MotW episodes were fairly light-hearted, but this fic goes deeper, to a Scully who's struggling to get her bearings after Africa, whose struggle breaks out in ways like her trip with Spender in "En Ami", and her general malaise and uncertainty during "all things", and who finally finds herself again.
The story itself is told in a roughly elegant way--it's Mulder first-person, and the voice seems very characteristic of him, managing to have turns of phrase that are almost poetic without any hint of purple prose. It's almost lyrical at times, but still in character. The prose is evocative, visceral at times, and I just love most of the descriptions. This fic is a journey, and one well worth traveling.
California. California. California.
Home of the shallow stuff and the very deep stuff.
My sister's spirit lives in a moonlit grove in Victorville, eternally at play. Gossamer starlight and no pain. Happily ever after. Until she walks into another life. May it please Fate to have mercy next time around.
And now I'm finding out what the hero does when the quest is over.
At forty, one thing he really can't do is take back the adolescence he missed. I'm way too old to be serious with Ms. Croft. I look below me at the clouds burning off on the Pacific coast. Maybe I'll just float away and dissolve.
Scully's hand finds mine and those porcelain fingers play over my knuckles, glide down the length of my fingers, smooth over my nails. I don't look at her, only at her hand at play. She turns over my palm and traces its lines. Fate, life. Heart. The tips caress the mounds below the fingers, firm and real. Her hand in mine is the ultimate reality. Nothing else exists. She's so damned sensuous, so full of life. A fire lights my palm.
She says she loves my hands. I can't see it; they are tools to me. But I love my hands in hers or on any part of her- her back, her perfect face, the down of her arm. My life with Scully is a continuum. Sex doesn't start or end in bed- or on the rug, or on my couch, or on a blanket under the sky. We've made love from ten feet apart in evidence rooms, across the booth in diners, and over sad and hideous remains in anonymous morgues. While Skinner's droned on about some meaningless transgression against protocol and regulations, we've had intercourse. I've made love to bumps on her back in a small motel in Oregon and consummated our arranged marriage, spilling the words of my life into her ears that night, just hours after meeting her.
She makes love to my hand. To hell with the bed. I can wake up and work this case.
Tethered