From Hell: WIP
Quite a few of you read the pornbattle entry I wrote set to the prompt Mulder/Scully, Victorian England AU, and quite a few of you demanded that I write more. Well, I have been writing it, slowly, and in dribs and drabs. I hadn't wanted to post it until it was finished, but a) that looks like it might be a while yet, and b) this is appendix two for my creative process essay (minus the porn, that is) so I thought I may as well put it up. Comments, feedback, etc. appreciated, even though it's nowhere near finished.
Title: From Hell
Author: memories_child
Spoilers: None
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 1883
Disclaimer: As much as I’ve begged CC and co. The X Files still doesn’t belong to me.
Author's notes: If you don't like historical AUs, it's probably best you don't click on the link.
____________________
She’s a good Catholic girl, she tells herself as she wraps her lips around his cock and teases its head with her tongue. She goes to church every day, twice on Sundays; sends the money she earns back to her family in Ireland, repents her sins in the small confessional after mass each week, before giving the priest head in the crypt. She’s a good Catholic girl, and what her family don’t know won’t hurt them.
“ - just can’t work it out.”
She tunes back in to the monologue her Friday night regular has been indulging in while she’s rubbed her knees raw on the cold floor.
“There’s no sense to it. Oh Jesus, that feels good.”
She tongues the head of his cock as she cups his balls, massaging the soft skin with a practiced hand. She draws his cock into her mouth until it fills her throat, and only familiarity prevents her from gagging.
“Don’t stop,” he groans as she pulls him in deeper. He rocks his hips, thrusting into her as her teeth graze his cock, as her right hand traces her tongue up the length of his shaft.
Of all her clients (she uses the word loosely) he is the one she is most fond of. Every Friday, regular as clockwork, he meets her in The Ten Bells, housed on a corner in Whitechapel. He buys her jellied eels and a half of stout, and treats her like a woman instead of a receptacle for semen and saliva. It’s almost a pleasure, taking him in her mouth and bringing him to orgasm, though not so much that she won’t charge for it.
He quickens the pace, rocking into her mouth, and she feels herself becoming wet. It’s his voice, she thinks, that husky monotone, that indescribable intensity. She imagines his lips on her neck, his fingers teasing her nipples as his cock slides in and out of her tight cunt.
The fingers of the hand that has been massaging his balls find their way to her thigh. She feels how wet and hot she is through the underwear that chafes against her clit as she rocks with him, knees on the hard floor. She is sure he is aware of what she is doing, of what she does every Friday when his breath hitches in the back of his throat and she tastes the salt of him.
She is not smooth, pushing two fingers deep into herself and rubbing frantic circles on her clit. She pushes her fingers deep inside herself as her hips thrust to the frenetic rhythm, as her tongue laps greedily at his cock, as his hand joins her and matches her pace.
His voice is a moan into the cool London air as he comes.
“So this Jack business is getting you worried?”
“I don’t know why you girls call him Jack,” he replies as he buttons up his trousers. “There’s no precedence for it. No reason. You’re using a signature on a postcard to make this creature human. In God’s name why?”
“Even a monster needs a name.”
He frowns.
“That’s as may be, but Jack?”
“You’d have rathered something like Fox?”
“I’d have rathered something resembling an identity that’ll lead me to the killer.”
He pecks her cheek; a chaste goodnight, before swinging his cloak around his shoulders. Dana watches DI Mulder as he walks away into the Victorian smog.
* * *
Someone, somewhere is laughing at him right now, Mulder thinks as he trudges back to his digs in Scotland Yard. Chasing another mystery through the rain-slicked streets of London; they must have thought it a godsend, when the Whitechapel murders hit the headlines. For a start it would keep him out of the office, away from the more important - more solveable - cases the Yard was working on. He knew he was an embarrassment to his superiors, knew the name they had for him around the building when they thought he couldn’t hear. Spooky Mulder. Whose sister disappeared on the night of the last Spring-heeled Jack sighting in the East End. Another mystery to add to the Yard’s files. Another monster terrorizing the streets of London town. Hell, they even shared the same name.
He pulls the thick cape tightly around his shoulders as he pads the street, the cobblestones slippery with rain under his boots. London is in the middle of a pea souper, a fog so thick you could get lost three feet from your front door. The perfect weather for murder. He sighs, watching his breath hang in the air above him. Samantha is turning into a fairytale to him. A story he recites to himself on cold nights in front of his meagre fire when the snide comments and sideways glances, and worst of all the loneliness, become too much for him to bear.
It was a night much like this when Samantha disappeared. The fog lapped at the door and the window pane, curling and wreathing like a sea of ghosts outside the room where he and Samantha sat. The fire crackled in the grate as he lowered his voice and told his sister the tale of Spring-heeled Jack.
“He prowls the streets on nights like his,” he whispered, Samantha leaning forward to hear him over the logs popping in the fire. “They say he’s tall and thin, and he looks like a gentleman at first glance but when he gets closer you can that his face is like the Devil’s and his eyes are blood red balls of flame. They say that he can see into your soul with those eyes, that he knows all of the things you’ve ever done, and if the bad outweighs the good he’ll takes you away.”
He leaned forward, the light cast by the fire throwing dark shadows across his face. Samantha gripped the rag doll she carried everywhere more tightly and frowned at him.
“Fox, stop it.”
“He doesn’t make a noise when he appears. He sneaks up on you when you least expect it, and out of the mist and the fog comes his clawed hand, reaching out to grasp you by the shoulder. He breathes fire at you when you turn, blue and white flames that make you faint dead away, and he picks you up and carries you away, leaping walls that are ten feet high and howling with diabolical laughter all the while.”
She stared at him, her eyes wide and mouth open, the rag doll held tightly to her chest. He leaned forward, moving his hand closer to her on the floor.
“I mean it Fox, I want you to stop. Mummy said you were to be nice to me.”
“Mummy’s not here. And I want to tell you about Spring-heeled Jack. He was first seen around here you know, at the end of our street. He leapt over the cemetery railings and scared a businessman half to death. After that he got braver. He started ringing doorbells and scaring the servants who answered them.”
“We haven’t got a doorbell.”
His hand edged closer to Samantha’s leg as the fire crackled behind them, sending sparks flying.
“He’s been spotted all around London. In Kensington and Hammersmith and Peckham. No-one’s safe from Spring-heeled Jack.”
He grabbed Samantha’s ankle and he laughed as she screamed, leaping backwards at his touch.
“I’m going to get some water.”
The kitchen was cold and dark and he walked on tiptoe across the cool flagstones, laughing to himself. Samantha was so gullible, so easy to fool. Sometimes - not often, but sometimes - it was fun having a younger sister.
The living room was empty when he returned, the spot that he and Samantha had occupied on the rug by the fire cast orange in the dying glow of the flames. He placed his glass on the table and grinned as he looked around the room.
“Very funny, Samantha. I know you’re here somewhere. The question is where.” He peered into the corners of the room, looking for a shadow slightly darker, slightly more human than the rest.
“There aren’t that many places to hide in here.” Samantha wasn’t under the table, or hiding behind any of the doors in the room.
“You might have been quick enough to go upstairs,” he called as he padded into the hallway, lighting a candle on his way, “but I know you don’t like the dark-”
His voice trailed off as he saw the open door, leading into the cold and foggy London street. Samantha couldn’t have, wouldn’t have, opened the door to anyone. Not tonight with the two of them alone in the house. Not after being scared half to death by stories of Spring-heeled Jack.
He moved like a machine to the front door, each step seeming to take longer than the last. He peered outside, sure that he’d find Samantha sitting on the steps, hiding behind the door ready to make him jump; to scare him in return for his scaring her.
There was no one there.
He swung the candle above his head, trying to make out shapes in the fog that writhed around the city. He called her name twice, three times - the sound bouncing back at him from the mist and smog. There was no reply. Only, he saw, her rag doll, lying discarded in the gutter. And from somewhere far away the laughter of the devil.
Mulder shakes his head, trying to dislodge the thoughts of his sister. Nights like this always bring back memories, no matter how much ale he consumes in the Ten Bells or how pleasant his dalliances with Dana are. He doesn’t know what it is: the fog that deadens sounds and makes the eyes obsolete so that there is nothing for him to do but retreat into the past; the hollow pit that nestles close to his heart making him yearn for, yet scorn, the company of others; the thought that he is being paid to safeguard the streets from someone - something - that leaves no clues. It all adds up to make him feel helpless, vulnerable, and for a bobby in one of the biggest cities in the world, it isn’t a feeling he is comfortable with.
His lodgings loom sudden and strangely familiar out of the darkness and he fumbles in his pocket for his key, feeling some small relief at the prospect of a warm fire and a soft bed. He lets himself in, closing the city, the smog and the past behind him and hangs his cape and hat on the back of the door, letting the water slide off them and puddle onto the floor.
He lowers himself into the chair by the fire, where the last flickers of his earlier blaze fumble in the grate, and sinks his head into his hands. Samantha, Dana, Jack - the three tumble through his mind, chasing each other in endless games of cat and mouse through the streets of London, which inexplicably turn into the rooms of the house he and Samantha had lived in when he was young, her face the face of the prostitutes he sees walking the streets. His head lolls back and his left hand drops to his side as the fire burns and he sleeps. Tomorrow will be another day.
Title: From Hell
Author: memories_child
Spoilers: None
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 1883
Disclaimer: As much as I’ve begged CC and co. The X Files still doesn’t belong to me.
Author's notes: If you don't like historical AUs, it's probably best you don't click on the link.
____________________
She’s a good Catholic girl, she tells herself as she wraps her lips around his cock and teases its head with her tongue. She goes to church every day, twice on Sundays; sends the money she earns back to her family in Ireland, repents her sins in the small confessional after mass each week, before giving the priest head in the crypt. She’s a good Catholic girl, and what her family don’t know won’t hurt them.
“ - just can’t work it out.”
She tunes back in to the monologue her Friday night regular has been indulging in while she’s rubbed her knees raw on the cold floor.
“There’s no sense to it. Oh Jesus, that feels good.”
She tongues the head of his cock as she cups his balls, massaging the soft skin with a practiced hand. She draws his cock into her mouth until it fills her throat, and only familiarity prevents her from gagging.
“Don’t stop,” he groans as she pulls him in deeper. He rocks his hips, thrusting into her as her teeth graze his cock, as her right hand traces her tongue up the length of his shaft.
Of all her clients (she uses the word loosely) he is the one she is most fond of. Every Friday, regular as clockwork, he meets her in The Ten Bells, housed on a corner in Whitechapel. He buys her jellied eels and a half of stout, and treats her like a woman instead of a receptacle for semen and saliva. It’s almost a pleasure, taking him in her mouth and bringing him to orgasm, though not so much that she won’t charge for it.
He quickens the pace, rocking into her mouth, and she feels herself becoming wet. It’s his voice, she thinks, that husky monotone, that indescribable intensity. She imagines his lips on her neck, his fingers teasing her nipples as his cock slides in and out of her tight cunt.
The fingers of the hand that has been massaging his balls find their way to her thigh. She feels how wet and hot she is through the underwear that chafes against her clit as she rocks with him, knees on the hard floor. She is sure he is aware of what she is doing, of what she does every Friday when his breath hitches in the back of his throat and she tastes the salt of him.
She is not smooth, pushing two fingers deep into herself and rubbing frantic circles on her clit. She pushes her fingers deep inside herself as her hips thrust to the frenetic rhythm, as her tongue laps greedily at his cock, as his hand joins her and matches her pace.
His voice is a moan into the cool London air as he comes.
“So this Jack business is getting you worried?”
“I don’t know why you girls call him Jack,” he replies as he buttons up his trousers. “There’s no precedence for it. No reason. You’re using a signature on a postcard to make this creature human. In God’s name why?”
“Even a monster needs a name.”
He frowns.
“That’s as may be, but Jack?”
“You’d have rathered something like Fox?”
“I’d have rathered something resembling an identity that’ll lead me to the killer.”
He pecks her cheek; a chaste goodnight, before swinging his cloak around his shoulders. Dana watches DI Mulder as he walks away into the Victorian smog.
* * *
Someone, somewhere is laughing at him right now, Mulder thinks as he trudges back to his digs in Scotland Yard. Chasing another mystery through the rain-slicked streets of London; they must have thought it a godsend, when the Whitechapel murders hit the headlines. For a start it would keep him out of the office, away from the more important - more solveable - cases the Yard was working on. He knew he was an embarrassment to his superiors, knew the name they had for him around the building when they thought he couldn’t hear. Spooky Mulder. Whose sister disappeared on the night of the last Spring-heeled Jack sighting in the East End. Another mystery to add to the Yard’s files. Another monster terrorizing the streets of London town. Hell, they even shared the same name.
He pulls the thick cape tightly around his shoulders as he pads the street, the cobblestones slippery with rain under his boots. London is in the middle of a pea souper, a fog so thick you could get lost three feet from your front door. The perfect weather for murder. He sighs, watching his breath hang in the air above him. Samantha is turning into a fairytale to him. A story he recites to himself on cold nights in front of his meagre fire when the snide comments and sideways glances, and worst of all the loneliness, become too much for him to bear.
It was a night much like this when Samantha disappeared. The fog lapped at the door and the window pane, curling and wreathing like a sea of ghosts outside the room where he and Samantha sat. The fire crackled in the grate as he lowered his voice and told his sister the tale of Spring-heeled Jack.
“He prowls the streets on nights like his,” he whispered, Samantha leaning forward to hear him over the logs popping in the fire. “They say he’s tall and thin, and he looks like a gentleman at first glance but when he gets closer you can that his face is like the Devil’s and his eyes are blood red balls of flame. They say that he can see into your soul with those eyes, that he knows all of the things you’ve ever done, and if the bad outweighs the good he’ll takes you away.”
He leaned forward, the light cast by the fire throwing dark shadows across his face. Samantha gripped the rag doll she carried everywhere more tightly and frowned at him.
“Fox, stop it.”
“He doesn’t make a noise when he appears. He sneaks up on you when you least expect it, and out of the mist and the fog comes his clawed hand, reaching out to grasp you by the shoulder. He breathes fire at you when you turn, blue and white flames that make you faint dead away, and he picks you up and carries you away, leaping walls that are ten feet high and howling with diabolical laughter all the while.”
She stared at him, her eyes wide and mouth open, the rag doll held tightly to her chest. He leaned forward, moving his hand closer to her on the floor.
“I mean it Fox, I want you to stop. Mummy said you were to be nice to me.”
“Mummy’s not here. And I want to tell you about Spring-heeled Jack. He was first seen around here you know, at the end of our street. He leapt over the cemetery railings and scared a businessman half to death. After that he got braver. He started ringing doorbells and scaring the servants who answered them.”
“We haven’t got a doorbell.”
His hand edged closer to Samantha’s leg as the fire crackled behind them, sending sparks flying.
“He’s been spotted all around London. In Kensington and Hammersmith and Peckham. No-one’s safe from Spring-heeled Jack.”
He grabbed Samantha’s ankle and he laughed as she screamed, leaping backwards at his touch.
“I’m going to get some water.”
The kitchen was cold and dark and he walked on tiptoe across the cool flagstones, laughing to himself. Samantha was so gullible, so easy to fool. Sometimes - not often, but sometimes - it was fun having a younger sister.
The living room was empty when he returned, the spot that he and Samantha had occupied on the rug by the fire cast orange in the dying glow of the flames. He placed his glass on the table and grinned as he looked around the room.
“Very funny, Samantha. I know you’re here somewhere. The question is where.” He peered into the corners of the room, looking for a shadow slightly darker, slightly more human than the rest.
“There aren’t that many places to hide in here.” Samantha wasn’t under the table, or hiding behind any of the doors in the room.
“You might have been quick enough to go upstairs,” he called as he padded into the hallway, lighting a candle on his way, “but I know you don’t like the dark-”
His voice trailed off as he saw the open door, leading into the cold and foggy London street. Samantha couldn’t have, wouldn’t have, opened the door to anyone. Not tonight with the two of them alone in the house. Not after being scared half to death by stories of Spring-heeled Jack.
He moved like a machine to the front door, each step seeming to take longer than the last. He peered outside, sure that he’d find Samantha sitting on the steps, hiding behind the door ready to make him jump; to scare him in return for his scaring her.
There was no one there.
He swung the candle above his head, trying to make out shapes in the fog that writhed around the city. He called her name twice, three times - the sound bouncing back at him from the mist and smog. There was no reply. Only, he saw, her rag doll, lying discarded in the gutter. And from somewhere far away the laughter of the devil.
Mulder shakes his head, trying to dislodge the thoughts of his sister. Nights like this always bring back memories, no matter how much ale he consumes in the Ten Bells or how pleasant his dalliances with Dana are. He doesn’t know what it is: the fog that deadens sounds and makes the eyes obsolete so that there is nothing for him to do but retreat into the past; the hollow pit that nestles close to his heart making him yearn for, yet scorn, the company of others; the thought that he is being paid to safeguard the streets from someone - something - that leaves no clues. It all adds up to make him feel helpless, vulnerable, and for a bobby in one of the biggest cities in the world, it isn’t a feeling he is comfortable with.
His lodgings loom sudden and strangely familiar out of the darkness and he fumbles in his pocket for his key, feeling some small relief at the prospect of a warm fire and a soft bed. He lets himself in, closing the city, the smog and the past behind him and hangs his cape and hat on the back of the door, letting the water slide off them and puddle onto the floor.
He lowers himself into the chair by the fire, where the last flickers of his earlier blaze fumble in the grate, and sinks his head into his hands. Samantha, Dana, Jack - the three tumble through his mind, chasing each other in endless games of cat and mouse through the streets of London, which inexplicably turn into the rooms of the house he and Samantha had lived in when he was young, her face the face of the prostitutes he sees walking the streets. His head lolls back and his left hand drops to his side as the fire burns and he sleeps. Tomorrow will be another day.