Good Vibrations by Lysandra

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Good Vibrations by Lysandra

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From: Lysandra <>
Date: Mon, 02 Oct 2000 02:21:52 -0700
Subject: Good Vibrations – revision Source: revision

TITLE: Good Vibrations
AUTHOR: Lysandra

RATING: NC-17 to be safe…
KEYWORDS: M/S UST in a big way.

SPOILERS/TIMELINE: set in the 6th or 7th season, pre-“Sixth Extinction;” specific mention to “Ice,” which is so old that it really can’t be considered a spoiler, can it?

DISCLAIMER: “The X-Files” belong to Chris Carter, Ten Thirteen Productions, and Twentieth Century Fox. Believe me, no money has found its way into my hands because of this story.

SUMMARY: Mulder finds Scully’s stash.

Author’s notes and thanks at the end.

** GOOD VIBRATIONS ** by Lysandra


It was a bit hard to hear the guy on the other end of the phone; it sounded as if he was at a very loud party. I muted the television, which I wasn’t watching anyway.

“Hello, is this … Special Agent Fox Muller?”

Despite having answered my phone with my name, I reaffirmed my identity. “Yeah, this is Mulder; who’s this?”

“Mr. Muller, my name’s Pete. I work at Boy Toy, and I have someone here who I think could use your help.”

Boy Toy? Who would need my help at a male strip club? Boy Toy is one of those semi-classy clubs, a Chippendales rip-off, I guess, where housewives can go and not feel sleazy about slipping a five-dollar bill into a guy’s G-string.

“Who needs my help?” I questioned. “And what kind of help are we talking about?”

“Umm, I don’t know her name,” Pete said, and even over the din I could hear the smirk in his voice.

“So Pete — it is Pete, right? Who is this mystery lady who needs my help?”

“Hold on a second,” Pete half-yelled, then everything got muffled as if he’d covered the mouthpiece with his hand. After a moment he came back on the line. “She says her name’s Dana Scully.”

“What’s wrong with her?” I asked immediately. If Scully were in trouble she’d call me herself — unless she couldn’t for some reason. “Is she hurt?”

“No, but she’ll be hurting tomorrow,” the guy laughed.

“Pete? What does this woman look like?” This sounded like a joke to me, something the Gunmen would do, maybe. I’d end up lured into some warehouse to play Dungeons and Dragons in a weekend marathon.

“Lemme see. Redhead, great lips, not too tall — honey, open your eyes — uh, blue eyes.”

At this point I had a pretty clear picture of the situation, but I had to ask. “She’s drunk?”

“That would be putting it mildly,” Pete answered.

“I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

Scully. Drunk. At a strip club. Oh, this was going to be very interesting. I hung up the phone, grabbed my keys, and headed out.


I pull up in front of the place and park in the red, heading for the door. There’s a long line of men waiting to get in, probably at some pre-appointed hour when the show is over. The doorman confirms this, pointing to the end of the queue. “Sorry, buddy; females only until eleven.”

I discreetly flash my creds like the cool fed I am, and tell the bouncer I’m looking for Pete. He waves me past the ropes, calling ahead on his walkie-talkie.

The place isn’t too bad for what it is; the decor’s late 80’s, all chrome and glitter, but it’s clean and not as tasteless as I expected. A dancer gyrates on the catwalk to that annoying but catchy song from a year ago, that ‘I get knocked down, but I get up again’ song. The women are going pretty crazy, whooping and hollering; the guy looks like he’s a walking steroid. Yuck. Women don’t really find that attractive, do they?

The bar is long and curves at both ends, and there Scully is, at the far end, facing the door. There are a couple hundred women here, but *she’s* the one flirting with the bartender, who seems pretty intent on flirting back.

I can see why, of course. The rest of these women look as phony as that musclebound guy onstage. They’re overly made up, overteased, and overdressed.

Not Scully. She’s wearing the suit she wore to work today, although it’s been slightly altered to segue into evening wear. Her jacket is off, and what was once a crisp white blouse is now opened an extra button, maybe two, and the cuffs hanging open at her wrists give her that ‘freshly-fucked’ look, like she’s wearing a man’s dress shirt after sex. It’s almost too much to imagine, though I imagine quite a bit before blinking the thought away.

Someone else must have inspired her choice of hairstyle; she’d never wear it like this on her own. It’s pulled away from her face by about ten little black clips, all the pieces of hair kind of twisted back. Don’t get me wrong, it’s adorable; but Scully doesn’t do adorable.

I’ve never seen her in those glasses before — little black ones that make her look half schoolgirl, half dominatrix. How long has she had those, and why doesn’t she ever wear them to work, for Chrissake?

And I have no idea whose lipstick she’s wearing. This isn’t her usual color; it’s just a shade darker, I think, but the difference is stunning. Not that Scully doesn’t have stunning lips all day every day, but now it’s hard to tear my gaze away from the damn things. But I try.

I discover I can see down her blouse from thirty feet away, and the bartender’s about twenty-nine-and-a-half feet closer than I am. Had she worn that black lacy bra to work, under that white blouse? She must not have taken off her blazer all day, because I’m sure I’d have noticed that.

She still doesn’t see me; she’s splitting her concentration between her drink, which is green, and the bartender, who is blond. She uses her tongue to swipe a chunk of ice into her mouth, and then does sexy things with it as she leans forward to talk to the bartender. I’m sure he’s a perfectly nice guy — I assume this is Pete, the guy who called me — but if he touches her he’s a dead man.

She obviously has no idea what she’s doing, or else she has every idea and isn’t going to be at all happy to see my face ruining her little drinking party.

I walk down the length of the bar, avoiding eye contact with a few women who smile at me. I approach Scully from behind, nodding to the bartender, who’s still way too close to her for my liking. He nods back at me. “Are you Muller?” he asks, reaching across the bar to shake my hand.

At that she turns, and my hand, joined with Pete’s, stops her progress cold. She spills her drink all over the front of my shirt. No problem, Scully; I was about due for a cold shower anyway.

“Muller!!” She’s happy to see me; I suppose that’s something. “Oh, you’re so … so wet!” She giggles and grabs two inches of cocktail napkins from the bar. “Here, lemme dry you off,” she slurs happily, and I gently grab her wrists before she gets to my chest with those hands.

“Thanks, I got it, Scully.” I take the napkins from her and make a show of blotting some of the liquid from my T-shirt. Whatever she’s drinking, it smells sickly sweet.

“But I wanna help,” she pouts, and I gently swat her hands away. No, I don’t need her touching me right now. Not looking like that, all bedroom eyes, her tongue swiping across that lipstick that she doesn’t usually wear.

I can’t look at her at the moment, so I swing my gaze back over at the bartender. “Do we owe you anything here?” I ask, just wanting to get her out of here as soon as possible.

He waves me off, shaking his head. “All taken care of.”

“Great,” I mutter, and turn my attention back to Scully. She’s thrown her head back, tipping her empty drink glass high, hoping for one last green sugary drop. I wish I had a camera.

“Come on, Scully, time to go,” I tell her, and she frowns, knitting her brow as I carefully remove the glass from her hand and slide it onto the bar. “No more for you, young lady; you’ve had quite enough,” I mumble.

“Where we goin’? We goin’ somewhere else?” She tries to help me get her jacket on, but her arms don’t work and I don’t want to force them, so I just sling her jacket over my arm.

“You got a purse or anything, Scully?”

“‘Course I do, Muller, ‘cause my gun’s in there,” she mutters, twisting her head from side to side looking for her purse. “Oh, wait, is not, I put it in the trunk ‘cause I knew I’d be drinking lots … don’ wanna go around shooting while intoxiclated.” She giggles at her own mispronunciation. “Intoxicated,” she states for the record, enunciating each syllable.

I take a step back and spy her purse at her feet, and as I bend down to pick it up I see she’s kicked her shoes off. God, I’m glad she’s not wearing a skirt; the temptation to sneak a peek would be far too strong. Her damn ankles are sexy enough. Above me, she’s still wildly looking for the purse. “Scully,” I yell up to her, “it’s down here, and if you stand still for me I’m gonna put on your shoes, okay?”

“Okay, shoes are good,” she yells back. I wonder if her feet are ticklish, but I stop myself from fondling her toes. She’s actually quite docile as I slip her stockinged feet into the fuck-me pumps she wore to work today. I hope she can walk in these things now, as drunk as she is.

I rise up and she does a little happy hop for some reason, and grabs on to my arm. “Thanks, Muller, ‘cause no way can I drive after—” she looks toward the bartender. “Peter, how many drunks did I have?”

“She had eight, maybe nine,” he discloses apologetically.

“What was she drinking?” I’m not sure why I need to know this, other than gauging her drunkenness, but for some reason I want to know.

“Midori Sours, mostly,” Pete tells me. “The last couple were Melonballs, but I mixed ‘em pretty weak.”

“Great.” I give Pete a look of gratitude, despite my previous thoughts of dismemberment. “Thanks for calling me,” I tell him, passing him a fin before putting my arm around Scully. “You ready?” I ask her, watching her blow an imaginary hair out of her eyes.

“I’m ready, yeah,” she shouts. “Wait, I gotta go to the bathroom, Muller, I have to pee.” The ever-helpful Pete, wiping the bar in front of me, points out the ladies’ room.

“Can you walk?” I question, and Scully looks at me as if I’ve insulted her greatly.

“‘Course I can walk!” And she proceeds to illustrate her point by doing a remarkable impression of a drunk — a drunk on stilts, thanks to those damn heels — but at least she’s headed in the direction of the restroom.

I have no intention of letting my partner out of my sight, and don’t think twice about entering the ladies’ room behind her. The place is plush, nicer than my apartment, and none of the women seem to mind my presence. They’re scowling at Scully, though; she’s bypassed the line, making a beeline for a newly vacated stall. “Sorry about that,” I mutter, and they pretty much leave me alone while I hold Scully’s purse and jacket and try not to watch them touching up their makeup.

“Muller,” I hear from the stall, “you know what we need for the office?”

I’m afraid to even ask. “What do we need, Scully?”

“Midori!” she shouts happily, her voice resonating over all the other chattering female voices.

“Yeah, sure,” I mutter, willing her to shut up before she embarrasses herself. Or me.

Scully’s voice continues to float over the stall door. “I get knocked down … but I get up again…” she sings. Well, it would be kind to call what she’s doing in there singing. Scully has a nice speaking voice, very self-assured and sexy, but her sense of pitch leaves a lot to be desired. Oh no, it’s getting worse — her voice has risen by an octave and she’s attempting the other part of the song, probably amusing herself with her drunken wit. “Pissing the night away … pissing the niiight awaaay!”

A bottle blonde who may or may not be attractive under all that makeup sidles up to me, leaning in close to my face. “That your wife in there?” she whispers, cocking her head toward the stall. “Or is she … your sister?”

“Go away,” I whisper back. One drunk woman is plenty for me tonight. The blonde reaches into her purse and hands me a business card.

“Call me,” she whispers. “I can carry a tune.”

“I’m sure you can,” I tell her, slipping the card back into her hand. “But I like that song.” I nod toward the stall where my partner continues her concert.

The woman rolls her eyes, telling me, “Your loss,” as she walks away.

I’ve got to get Scully home soon. It’s one thing to get drunk, but singing the tubthumping song, especially in public, is another. I give a little knock on her stall door. “You okay in there, Scully?”

“I’m fine, Muller,” she proclaims, sounding irritated. Yeah, right. If she’s fine, my name isn’t Fox Muller.

“Okay, well, there are a lot of people waiting out here,” I say, hoping to coax her out of the stall.

“Fuck ‘em, Muller, I’m peeing in here!” she hollers, and I stifle a laugh. The women in line don’t seem very amused at all, and all I need is a horde of pissed-off women after me; I’m happy they haven’t ganged up and kicked me out of the bathroom as it is.

“Take your time,” I sigh. “No problem.” Rule number one: don’t argue with a drunk. I am beginning to get the feeling that this is going to be a Very Long Night. Scully is usually the one who saves my ass in situations like this. I guess it’s my turn to be the responsible one.

After another minute or so, she emerges from the stall, fiddling with the side zipper on her slacks. She spins around like a puppy chasing its tail, and I laugh at her for a moment while out of her line of sight. After she’s made two complete revolutions, she gives forth an exasperated sigh and looks my way.

“You gonna zip me up or what, Muller?”

If it gets me out of here any quicker, yes I will.

“Sure, Scully,” I say quietly. I lean down, grateful that the zipper is on the side; it’s less personal, though I can’t help but see something lacy and black and sexy. She leans on my shoulder, swaying as I slide the zipper up its tracks and hook the weird little clasp after a few attempts.

Above me, she’s still mangling that song. “She drinks a whisky drink … she drinks a cider drink…”

“She’s had too many drinks,” I sing along, steadying Scully as I rise back up to a standing position.

“I bet Allison’s had more drinks than me,” she blurts. “It’s her damn divorce party, anyway — she’s the one who should be drunkest.” Aha, the plot thickens. I was wondering who she’d come here with.

“Is Allison still here, Scully?” I look down at her and she squints up at me, scrunching up her nose and clicking her tongue against her teeth, like I just don’t know anything.

“No, no, they left before, they were going home to watch ‘The First Wives Club,’ I think. I hate ‘em, Muller. I didn’t even wanna sit with ‘em. Plus I came for my own reason. It’s my anniversary. But not a celebration anniversary,” she slurs. “It’s nothing to celebrate at all.”

I’m not really up for a drunken confession here in the ladies’ room, so before things start getting morose, I lead her back into the club. It’s definitely past Scully’s bedtime, and by my calculations I’m not going to make it home to catch that midnight showing of ‘The Birds’ on cable unless I hurry her up a bit. She doesn’t seem to mind my arm around her as I steer her toward the door. I can feel heat and alcohol seeping out of her and wafting over me. This is not good at all.

I purposely don’t ask her what the non-celebratory anniversary is; it’s possible that she’d regret telling me in the light of day. Scully and I both have plenty of things we don’t talk about with each other, and I don’t want her spilling her guts to me just because she’s filled to the brim with Midori.

We’re almost outside when Scully suddenly frees herself from me. “Muller, wait! I gotta say g’bye to Peter Peter Cherry Eater!” Spinning back toward the bar, she spies Pete the bartender and stumbles over to him. She leans on the bar and whispers something in his ear, and he hands her something. She then leans even farther forward, and gives him a kiss on the cheek.

I don’t know why that bothers me so much, but it does. She was probably just thanking him for being so nice to her; he obviously took good care of her before I got here. I’m glad she got him to call me when she needed help, and I’m glad that he apparently didn’t let her make too much of a fool of herself. But I’m not glad about the little moment they’re sharing right now.

Scully finishes up with Pete and laughs her way back to me, popping a maraschino cherry in her mouth. She looks like a college kid, out for drinks, her greatest worry what to wear to chem lab tomorrow.

“Muller,” she shouts over the music, the fake cherry glistening on her tongue, “I love Peter Peter Cherry Eater, you know why?”

I don’t think I want to know why she loves him, and I don’t want to know how he got this particular nickname. And if the two are related, that would just about sign Pete’s death warrant.

“Come on, Scully, let’s go,” I mutter, and pull her out into the night. She’s still laughing as I deposit her in my car and strap her into the seat belt. “Tickles, Muller,” she says, fiddling with the shoulder strap. “Don’t like this part. Cuts me in my neck.” She makes funny fake choking sounds, and I snicker as I shut her door. She’s quite an amusing drunk and it’s taking all my resolve to keep her from seeing me laughing at her.

After I persuade her to keep her seat belt on, she’s pretty docile. She sings along with the radio, and her renditions of today’s soft hits are off-key and slightly painful to listen to. Thankfully there are no signs that she might throw up in my car. Call me selfish, but I don’t want to spend the weekend getting Scully’s vomit removed from my leather seats.

“Hey Muller.” She sounds like she’s eating marbles. “I bet I can do something you can’t do.”

I keep my eyes on the road. “I’m sure you can, Scully.”

“No, I can prove it,” she giggles. “Watch me.”

I’m afraid to look, but I do.

She pulls a maraschino cherry stem from her mouth, detaching it from the cherry, and then grabs my right hand and spits the cherry into my palm.

“Don’t want that,” she explains, momentarily serious.

Bleeech. I roll down the window and dispose of the cherry, wiping the juice off my hand and on to my jeans.

“Muller, look,” she says. When I do, she’s contorting her mouth, presumably around the cherry stem. Yes, I know that trick. I’ve never seen Scully’s lips performing this act, though, and I can’t turn away.

It’s a good thing we’re stopped at a light.

The look of intense concentration on her face is priceless, and after thirty seconds or so, Scully smiles triumphantly and tips her head back, sticking out her tongue with the cherry stem tied in a knot for my approval. How could I not approve of a feat such as this? “Very nice, Scully.” I try to inject my voice with disinterest.

“Woo waa ihhh?” she says, mouth still gaping. Yeah, I speak dentist, and she’s asking if I want it.

No matter how appealing the thought of stealing that cherry stem from her tongue with my own might be, it’s just not a good idea. “No,” I answer, my voice breaking like a kid just reaching puberty, “you keep it.”

“Spoilsport,” she whines, and she rolls down her own window to spit the stem out in a most unladylike way. The rest of the trip to her place is uneventful, unless Scully singing along with Van Morrison counts as an event.

When we get to her door I use my key to let us in; she’s leaning her warm body up against me and singing quietly. “She drinks the whisky drink, she drinks the cider drink…” Oh, poor Scully. She is just so very drunk. And poor me for having to deal with her. I’m not even sure if it’s worth the fact that I’ll be able to tease her for ages over this. I’ve shown up at her door drunk, but not this drunk, and definitely not this silly.

Some people might think her pretty disgusting right around now, being such a sloppy drunk, but to me she looks cute as a button with her little hair things, and her black glasses, and especially that tongue which doesn’t want to stay in her mouth.

The whole package makes me think I should run away. Fast.

I’m a horrible person. I’ve seen “The Birds” about twenty times, and I should want to stay here and help my impaired partner. But at this point, I really want to get away from Scully, and repeated viewings of horror classics have nothing do to with it.

I throw her jacket and pocketbook on the dining room table, and half-carry my still-singing partner straight to her bedroom. What she needs right now is sleep, and plenty of it; and if I get out of here within fifteen minutes or so, I can still catch the movie and get a little shuteye myself. I’ll likely be up early in the morning to drive her to her car, and I’d rather spend the night at my place than here. It’s more driving, but also more sleep. Pete was right; she will be hurting tomorrow, and I don’t want to be less than rested. I’ve never dealt with a hung over Scully before, and I suspect it’s not a pretty sight.

Although she’s very pretty right now, by the light of the moon and the soft light from her hallway. I lay her on her bed as gently as I can, prying her warm fingers from their grasp on my neck as gently as possible.

Humming and smiling, Scully swings her legs off the side of the mattress, and plays with the collar of her blouse. She looks about fifteen years old. “I’m hot, Muller,” she garbles. “Are you hot? Never mind … you’re always hot,” she giggles.

What does she mean? Hot as in warm, or hot as in … hot? I have no clue, and she seems relatively safe there on the bed, so I go into the kitchen and fill a big plastic cup with ice water. I don’t see any aspirin or painkillers, so I head for the bathroom. Nothing there either. But the woman’s a doctor; I know she’s got medicine around here somewhere.

I pad back into her bedroom and she’s lying face down, shoes on the pillows and her head at the foot of the bed. Still humming and talking with her sweet mushmouth. I can’t understand a word she’s saying.

“Scully?” I whisper, leaning down close to her. “You awake?”

“Sure I am,” she mumbles into her arm. “I’m always awake, alla time…”

“Okaaaay. Uh, do you have some aspirin or something? You should take some.”

“Sure, Tylenol’s great for a hangover, Muller, there’s some in the bedside thing … that thing next to the bed.” She flails an arm in the direction of the night table. “But I don’t have a hangover, not yet, ‘cause I’m still too drunk for hung over.”

I shake my head and open the drawer on her night table.

Oh God.

The entire drawer is filled with vibrators.

Please, let this be a bad dream. I want to be mistaken. I don’t want to be seeing this, I don’t want to think about this, and I especially don’t want Scully to know I’ve just gotten an instant erection from seeing this.

Vibrators. Lots and lots of vibrators.

And K-Y Jelly. And batteries. And Kleenex.

Okay, I can do this. I’m an adult. Although right now I feel about fifteen years old also, raging with hormones, confronted with the evidence of my partner’s autoeroticism while she’s not three feet away, drunk out of her mind and cuter than usual, which is saying something.

She’s still babbling away, talking too loud. Maybe she’s still got club music ringing in her ears; I don’t know. “…Muller, would you dance for money like those guys? You could make extra money at parties and stuff … but can you dance? I’ve never seen you dance, well, only a little … did you take lessons when you were a little boy? I took ballet lessons … position five!! Plie, releve…”

She’s lying placidly, her head still half-buried in the crook of her arm, her feet attempting ballet positions on the pillow.

I think if I can just find the Tylenol and shut the damn drawer, I’ll be home free.

I gingerly slide the drawer open further. I don’t want to touch anything in there except Tylenol. But I don’t see any Tylenol. All I see is vibrator after vibrator, in a variety of colors and sizes, some with little attachments and cords and who knows what else. Scully could open a vibrator museum.

The sight of so many fake cocks that have touched Scully has made my real one extremely jealous. Where’s the damn Tylenol?? My head is swimming and I could use some relief myself here. I really figured Scully to be a one-vibrator woman. If at all.

Peering into the drawer, I try not to focus on anything that doesn’t have a childproof cap, but I can’t see a thing for the sea of sex toys.

Jesus, I can’t believe she has the nerve to make light of my supposed deviance – what’s a few girlie mags and videos compared to this, Miss Goody-Two-Shoes? I mean, how often does one woman need to masturbate? Especially when that woman is Scully?

Scully seems to have forgotten I’m here, for which I am extremely grateful. She’s still lying on her stomach, singing god knows what, and while I’ve resigned myself to missing Hitchcock this evening, I now have an appointment with my cock on my couch. I have got to get home as soon as possible.

I decide that if I don’t find the pain reliever in the next thirty seconds I’m out of here. She’s going to have a hell of a hangover either way. I take one last look in the drawer and way in the back I see something that might be Tylenol, so I pull the drawer out further.

Too much further. It comes all the way out and crashes to the ground, scattering a plethora of vibrators all over Scully’s carpet. I freeze, hoping that she somehow slept through it, but since she wasn’t asleep in the first place it was a fleeting thought at best.

Scully pops up to a sitting position and I immediately know there’s no way I’m getting out of this alive. She looks at me, then at the floor, then back at me, a blank expression on her face.

Until she bursts into hysterical laughter. “Lookee, Muller!” She points at the vibrators, giggling, “Issa Vibrate-O-Rama!” She’s practically crying, she’s laughing so hard.

I wish I knew the protocol for this type of situation. Do I have to pick them up since I was the one to drop them?

Scully silently answers my question, clambering off the bed to sit on the floor amid her little battery-operated friends. She grins up at me as she picks up a vibrator. I wish I could look away, but it’s like a six-car pileup, and the urge to rubberneck is impossible to resist.

If I wished for a camera earlier, it was nothing compared to what’s come over me now, looking at my partner, cute black glasses askew on her face as she sits cross-legged on her floor surrounded by vibrators, her little hand grasping one of the damn things.

Seeing her fingers wrapped around something so phallic causes my cock to twitch. She’s smiling up at me like she’s got a delicious secret. She never looks at me like this.


I backpedal, and my calves hit the bed. Unable to think of anything else to do, I plop down on it. I try desperately to come up with something to say, something funny but not sarcastic or mean. The only thing I can think of is ‘Scully, why the hell do you have so many vibrators?’ but I’m not sure I’m ready to hear the answer to that question. So I just sit silently and listen to my partner laugh her ass off.

“Check it out, Muller!” Scully uses the vibrator in her hand to point to something on the floor. It looks like a lipstick, with a red and white swirly pattern on the case, only I’m pretty sure it’s not lipstick. “Pick it up; look!” I reluctantly lean forward and using only my thumb and forefinger, I pick the swirly thing up and hold it silently. “Go on, whip it out, Muller!” she giggles.

Oh, please, save me from this, somebody. Gingerly, I open the case and inside — of course — is a vibrator. It’s narrower than the rest and shorter, only about four inches, and it’s swirled red and white like the case. “I take that one to work,” she continues, “because it looks like a lipstick, huh? And you never ever knew about it, huh?”

Dumbfounded, I shake my head.

Scully continues to babble. “God, Muller, you’re so dumb, so dumb, dumb, dumb! I can’t believe you never knew. How could you not notice when I’d take my big ol’ lipstick into the bathroom … how long I was gone?” She snickers. “Not even to mention the fact that I din’ even have any lipstick on when I came back! Did you really not know, or were you just being polite ‘cause you knew I wasn’t getting laid and you felt sorry for me?”

I open my mouth but nothing comes out.

“I don’ want your pity, Muller, I don’ … anyway, that one’s not bad, for being so little, because really, nobody’s dick is actually that small, well, nobody I’d fuck, anyway …” she giggles softly. “Shit, I said ‘fuck.’” Her expression turns serious. “But anyway … I know your dick’s not that small, so don’t you worry ‘bout it, okay?” She says this with complete sincerity. “Turn it on, Muller!”

This is torture. I study it for a moment and realize it must turn on at the end, so I give it a little twist and it springs to life, humming quietly in my hand. It doesn’t feel much stronger than the vibrations of, say, an electric razor, but it still startles me, since I can’t help thinking about where Scully puts it.

I absently drop the case, and it makes a little thud as it hits the floor.

She doesn’t seem to take any notice, but she smiles a knowing little smile. “Muller,” she snickers, “look — it’s not much bigger than your finger! Only your finger could … squirm around in there and stuff.” She’s giggling in earnest now, and I’m biting my bottom lip to keep from smiling. Or screaming.

And still she goes on.

“But your fingers can’t really vibrate…” Oh, Scully, please, don’t make this personal; my heart can’t take it. “Hey Muller, you should get batteries!!” The look on her face tells me that she thinks this is a viable option.

“Uh … sorry, Scully, batteries not included here,” I blurt out. I somehow have the presence of mind to turn off the vibrator and drop it to the floor.

She doesn’t seem to be listening to me anymore; she’s opening yet another button on her blouse to fan herself with her vibrator-filled hand. Jesus. That blouse was too much for me back in the bar. I’m glad she’s drunk. If she was sober and caught me peeking down her top like this, she’d probably slap me silly, or worse yet she’d just wilt me with a look. The look that says ‘Shut up, Mulder’ without her saying a word. I hate that look, I do, but at the same time I find it incredibly arousing.

Of course, right now she doesn’t have the sense to give me the look.

She picks up a crazy-looking thing and it takes me a moment to focus on it. It’s kind of purple and jiggly, with a white handle, and something on top … it’s a little monkey who looks like he’s riding on the damn thing! I don’t know how much of this I can take. For god’s sake, the monkey’s holding a little banana like a gun!

She waves it at me and it’s all I can do to not run screaming from the room. “This one’s Charlie the Chimp,” she says, and how she manages to keep a straight face I’ll never know. “Muller, I never used this one … it reminds me of Curious George. And my dad read me Curious George, so it’s just … ewwww,” she moans. “No masserbating with Curious George; that’s jus’ wrong.” Her eyes widen and her lips quirk into an absolutely evil smile. “‘Cause Curious George isn’t that curious!”

And that’s it for me. I burst out laughing and fall right off the bed to join Scully on the floor. I think I hurt my shoulder in the fall, but I don’t care. Scully’s laughing, I’m laughing, and this whole thing is too surreal for words.

All of a sudden, Little Devil Mulder taps me on the shoulder. This is an entirely new situation for us. Two, actually. Firstly, she’s intoxicated, and secondly, we’re talking about things we most certainly do not talk about.

At this point there’s no way I can stop myself from taking advantage of my drunk partner. Not sexually, I’d never do that — but … who knew Scully would be a talkative drunk? The real Scully is close to the surface tonight. I can feel it. Besides, she’s having fun; why shouldn’t I have a little fun too?

“…Lookee,” she chirps, thrusting Charlie the Chimp into my face, “his little banana, issa clit stimulator, an’ it vibrates, but he doesn’t have batteries in him, ‘cause of Curious George … but yes, we have no bananas…” she sings, delightfully off-key. She looks at me as if she’s just told me the secrets of the universe.

Did Dana Scully just say clit???

Devil Mulder is completely in control now. There’s no little Angel Mulder on the other shoulder even giving the slightest argument.

A silver vibrator catches my eye; it looks like a giant bullet, and Devil Mulder tells me to pick it up and wave it in front of Scully’s face. “How about this one, Scully?”

“No, Muller,” she says, making a face, “I don’ like that one, that one only has one speed, it’s either off or it’s way too fast; and plus it’s just smooth, and it’s metal, y’know? I don’t like metal up in there. Reminds me of a speculum, and tha’s no fun at all … there’s no bigger turnoff than a speculum, Muller, you know that?” I’m sure I’d have a snappy answer if my jaw weren’t on the floor. “Well, I guess you don’t know that, but I’m telling you, it’s true. Speculums are *no damn good.*” She emphasizes her last three words, shaking her head on each one. “Wait,” she continues, “I think the plural is specula. Never mind, it doesn’t matter. I mean, I know they’re necessary, I do. I get checked alla time, ‘cause once you’ve had cancer you can’t be too safe, but speculums suck, and that thing’s like a speculum. I hate that one. Don’ wanna speculum. Throw that one away.”

Well, that was Too Much Information. Too Damn Much Speculum Information.

“No! Wait! Give it to charity!” She’s far too excited about this idea. “Can you give vibrators away? What if someone wants it? It could be sanitized, right? We could put it in the autoclave in the lab! Then give it to some women’s shelter or something, right? Right?”

I should say something; I know I should.

“Uhhh…” Yeah, I’m suave. Just not at the moment.

“Oh … am I being insensitive? Do you want it, Muller? ‘Cause you’re my friend, and wha’s mine is yours … really … you could use it for something, right?”

She’s asking me a question. I can answer a question, can’t I?

“No, Scully, uh … no thanks.”

“Really? You don’ want it? I know you’re a man and everything, but it still might feel good … some people like it on high … do you like it on high, Muller?

I have to make her shut up. Here goes nothing.

“Uh, Scully, though I find the thought of taking your vibrator home with me … intriguing … I think I’m gonna have to decline. Do you really want me to throw it away? Because what if you regret it in the morning, and then blame me? I don’t want to be responsible for your, uh … lack of pleasure


“Muller, I always blame you for my lack of pleasure!”

“Scully, I blame myself for a lot of things, but your lack of pleasure is not one of them. How could that possibly be my fault?”

“Because! Because, Muller!” She looks the way she looks when she’s about to convince me of something scientific, and she knows she’s right.

“Because what?”

“Because you don’t give me any pleasure, stupid!”

Scully wants me to give her pleasure???

She’ll never remember any of this, I know. Knowing that, I don’t censor myself. “Scully, I wish more than anything that pleasuring you was part of my job description, really I do, but when you’re sober it’s just not an option.”

She emits a drunken little humming laugh. “You’re funny, you are…”

I’m funny? That’s a laugh, considering how amusing Scully is at the moment.

“…Sometimes I hate men, Muller,” she’s saying. “I mean, you’ve got it so eeeeasy, you just need a hand and … that’s it! Women need … devices, with cords sometimes, and batteries … well, some of us do, anyway … It’s just not the same when it’s just my fingers…”

Oh, God. Here we go.

She’s actually waggling her fingers in front of her face. I can’t bear to look, yet I can’t force myself to look away, either. I’m caught in some alternate reality where Scully has a drawer full of vibrators and lots of stories to tell about them.

“…‘Cause my fingers are too short, Muller! They don’t reach my G-spot, not even my middle finger.” She holds up her hand and thrusts her middle finger at me. I feel as if I’m going to faint if she keeps this up. Seriously, I’m not getting enough oxygen or something here. I’ve probably forgotten how to breathe.

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Good.

Scully’s tongue takes up residence between her lips as she searches the array of vibrators. She spots something near my foot and leans over, flashing me a great view of that lacy black bra — and its contents….

Inhale. Exhale. My lungs feel tight. My jeans feel tighter. Nothing of mine is breathing right at the moment.

“You okay, Muller?” she asks. “You look all sweaty.”

“Fine.” It’s not much, but it’s all I can do not to tackle her and shove my tongue down her throat, so it’ll have to do for the moment.

She grabs the vibrator she was going for, and holds it a foot or so in front of my face, twisting the base as she speaks.

“This one, this one hits the spot … so to speak,” she sniggers, pleased with her pun. Jesus, that thing’s loud! It sounds as if it could use a tune-up or something, but from the way her hand is jiggling I can see that the motion is pretty strong. It’s long and slim, made of smooth pink plastic, and the end is slightly curved around and comes to a bit of a point.

She has to speak loudly to be heard over the noise; it’s like a tiny jackhammer. “This one is called the Slender G-Spot, and it reaches my G-spot juuuust right.” Her eyes roll back slightly and she gives a soft sigh, which suggests that she’s thinking of just that.


“But iss too loud,” she frowns, turning it off. Thank god; between the noise and the images flying through my head I can barely think. “I can’t take this one on the road or anything, because you’d hear it! How embarrassing would that be?”

“Yeah, I imagine that’d be pretty embarrassing, Scully,” I say.

She barks out a laugh. “Oh, Muller! As if you haven’t done it yourself!”

Oh, no. No, no, no.

And yet I can’t stop myself from asking. “Done what, Scully?”

“Jeeze, Mulder, I’ve heard you … in motel rooms and stuff.”

“Heard me?” I croak.

She demonstrates almost unconsciously on the Slender G-Spot, her hand jerking up and down. “You know…”

Christ, if I wasn’t so shocked, I’d probably start involuntarily doing the same thing to myself. Lucky for me my hand/cock coordination is impaired at the moment.

I’ve got two choices here. Play innocent, or play along. Neither option is any damn good, as far as I can see. I make a lame attempt at splitting the difference. “No, Scully, I wouldn’t know anything about that.” God, I hope I’m wearing a straight face. It’s hard not to giggle like a kid with his hand caught in the cookie jar.

“How could you think I wouldn’t hear? I mean, you’re not ‘zackly quiet, Muller. Not at the end, anyway.” She smiles up at me beatifically, and I have no idea how I’m supposed to feel, especially since ‘the end’ often involves my saying her name. And I suppose I don’t always say it quietly.

“Well, Scully, you must be really quiet, then, because I’ve never heard you,” I admit.

“Really? I mean, really really, Mulder?”

“Yeah, really,” I sigh. “I guess I must have been busy in my own room,” I wink. In for a penny, and all that. I might as well settle in.

“Anyway, this one makes me, uh…” For the first time tonight, she actually looks a bit shy. Maybe she’s sobering up. I hope not.

“Makes you what, Scully?”

“It makes me…” She looks at a spot on the wall somewhere behind me. “It makes me…” she sighs.

I scoot slightly toward her. Very slightly. “What?” I use my most soothing interrogation voice.

“You know already, you have to,” she says. When I shake my head, she rolls her eyes. Her next words are just a whisper. “It makes me scream your name.”

Her voice is so very quiet, but the force of her words nearly knocks me over. Scully screams my name when she comes? I seriously might pass out here, and I can’t help it; I lean down until my head is between my knees.

I’m not down there a few seconds before I feel her hand in my hair. “Muller, it’s not your fault,” she’s saying. “… Not … your problem, I mean.”

I lift my head slightly and peer up at her. She looks serious; guilty, maybe. Now I feel guilty and I don’t even know why.

“It’s jus’ that … oh, never mind,” she says, and I barely glimpse a secret little smile as she looks at the vibrator and turns away. No way, Scully. You’re not getting away with that.

“Spill it,” I challenge.

Scully bites her bottom lip as she turns back toward me, slowly. Seductively.

“Muller,” she purrs, “I know that this thing—” she nods toward the G-spot vibrator, then uses it to point to my crotch, “is shaped … like that thing.”

What? How the hell would she know that?

“Only yours isn’t so slender,” she giggles.

“Scully! Does your mother know you talk like this?”

“I hope not!” Her eyes widen, but she’s grinning. She seems slightly more lucid, but still much less uptight than usual. Now we’re cooking with gas.

“And you would know this how, Scully?” I inch closer to her, very interested in her answer.

“Oh, Muller, I can’t tell. Issa secret.”

“Oh, you can tell me, Scully. I promise not to tell anyone else.” If she’s going to flirt, I’m flirting back. I don’t get a chance like this very often, after all.

I repeat my question. “How would you know?”

She peers up at me and actually makes a drunken attempt at batting her eyelashes. “I’ve seen it,” she smiles. “I saw it … in New Mexico. You don’t think you got dressed all by yourself when you were all drugged up, do you?”

“Scully…” I ask, batting my lashes back at her, “Did you shoot me just to get a peek at my package?”

Scully snorts in a most unladylike manner, but I’m determined to get back to the real topic of interest. I lean slightly closer to her as her laughter dies down, and I speak quietly and evenly.

“Scully … is mine … the only name you scream?” I hold my breath, not believing the question actually escaped my mouth.

Scully is silent. A blush creeps from her cheeks to her chest, and she looks away from me for a long moment.

Finally she peeks at me through lowered lashes. “I … when I …” She takes a deep breath and continues. “When I scream … and it’s not that often, by the way,” she shyly smiles, “there’s … there’s nobody else’s name.”


I mean it. Wow.

It’s all I can do not to reach over and touch her somewhere, anywhere. I want to hold her hand, or touch her hair, or run my finger over her lips, but I just can’t. Not when she’s drunk. I don’t know how I can justify this conversation any more than I could justify touching her, but I’ll find a way, I’m sure.

She’s looking more sober by the minute, and I’m feeling more and more intoxicated. I know I should leave before any lasting damage is done to our partnership, or our psyches, or our relationship. But I’m now having such a good time, and those are few and far between these days. I don’t want it to end.

I somehow know I’ll regret it, but I pick up a huge flesh-colored vibrator, thrusting the supposedly realistic cock into my partner’s hands, reluctantly displacing the one that makes her scream my name. “What about this one?” I ask.

“Nah, this one’s no good,” she states categorically, shaking her head.

“What’s the matter with it?”

“I mean, there’s realistic, and then there’s too real, y’know?” Scully runs her fingernail down a fake blue vein from the tip to the base, and I can’t help it; I shiver. I know it’s not real, but still…

“I don’t mind veins and stuff when issa real man, that’s fine; but this—” she proclaims, waving the cock in the air, “—this is ridiculous! And ‘sides, this thing’s too big — I mean, if I’m gonna be in pain the next morning I at least wanna person there all night to cuddle with. Muller, do you like to cuddle?”

What do I tell her? That I sometimes dream I’m holding her in my arms, and when I wake up without her I nearly weep? No, there’s honesty and then there’s Too Much Honesty. I just nod and keep my mouth shut.

“Oh, good,” she yawns, “‘cause I like to cuddle.”

She drops Big Cock and picks up a smaller one, also fleshy but more reasonably sized. It’s not realistic at all, even though it’s skin-colored. It has these things — these ridges, I guess — almost all the way to the tip.

“This was my first one, I mean, it was mine from a long time ago … and one day it jus’ stopped vibrating, so I changed the batteries, you know? And it still didn’t work, and I mean, it’s not like I wore it out or anything, ‘cause I didn’t even use it all that often, and then a week or so later, I was at Allison’s bridal shower — she’s the one whose divorce was final today, man oh man — so it was her bridal shower, and our crazy friend Laura was the one who threw it, and it was like a lingerie and sex toys party, and this woman was there with … all this stuff, y’know?” She sweeps her hand to indicate the vibrator selection in front of her. “Anyway, I mentioned, all quiet, in the kitchen, jus’ to Laura, that my vibrator had gone kablooey. And she laughed at me, and said that the ones with batteries tend to run out, and I should get one that plugged in, but I said no thank you, and I thought that was that.”

“That wasn’t that?” I venture.

“No!! It wasn’t!” She says, eyes wide. “A couple months later, it was my birthday, and whaddaya think Laura got me?” I think this is a rhetorical question, but apparently it isn’t. “Guess, Muller!”

“Um, did she get you … a vibrator, Scully?”

“No, not a vibrator! She got me ALL these vibrators! She signed me up for the damn Vibrator of the Month Club!”

I bite my lower lip because I don’t think Scully would appreciate me laughing again. But imagining vibrator after vibrator being delivered to her door….

“And Muller, that’s why I have so many vibrators,” Scully explains. “And at first I din’ even use them, because it just seemed … I don’t know what it seemed, but I didn’t.”

“But then … you did?”

“Well … it’s not like I’m a prude…”


“Shut up, Muller.” She’s coherent enough to give me The Look. I’m in trouble now.

“Go on,” I prompt.

“It’s not that I’m a prude,” she repeats, “but it was jus’ embarrassing, I guess. I’d only ever had one vibrator, and then they started coming one a month, you know? And anyway, I never much felt the need, until, uh…” She looks at me shyly again, as if another personal admission is forthcoming. I might just be salivating.


“Until after we came back from Alaska,” she whispers.

“Alaska? Icy Cape? What was that, Scully, ‘93?” I have a feeling I’m grinning from ear to ear.

“Suuure, maybe late ‘93. When I was packing for that trip, Laura came by to get my keys because she was gonna water my plants. So I was in a hurry, and she was helping me pack, and I guess she thought it’d be funny, and she threw in a vibrator. And when we got up there I found it, and of course I didn’t use it, but…”

“…But it was quite a trip,” I offer.

“Yes,” she agrees. “It was quite a trip.” She doesn’t say anything for a bit, instead fiddling with her collar.


“Oh, uh, so … God, I can’t believe I’m telling you this.” She smiles at me, though, and sighs before continuing. “So, I felt awful about the way I treated you, letting ‘em lock you in that closet and everything, and the whole thing was jus’ intense, and scary, even affer it was over.” She’s speaking much faster now. “And I came home and I was restless and I couldn’t sleep, so I unpacked … and there the damn thing was, jus’ … jus’ … waiting for me.”

She’s right about that trip; it was intense. No doubt I came home and did the same thing, minus the vibrator but armed with thoughts of Scully and me in that stark closet, the rest of the world locked outside.

I must have zoned out there for a minute, because when I focus, she’s looking at me rather intensely, and just for a moment the air between us seems damp and heavy. Her eyelids droop and she drops the vibrator when she lifts her hand to stifle a yawn. This, I realize, is my cue to leave. I turn away and hoist myself up, using the bed for leverage.

“Time for me to go, Scully.”

“Yeah … yeah.” She looks relieved.

“Do you need anything?” I stand upright and work the shoulder a bit, cracking my neck back and forth for good measure. “I never found that Tylenol,” I add.

“Need anything, hmmm…” she mutters, looking at me like I’m a midnight snack. She’s Drunk, She’s Drunk, I silently chant. I really do need to get out of here.

Shit, her car’s still at that place. “Should I come get you in the morning?”

“No!” she says, a little too vehemently. “I’ll take a cab.”

“You sure?”

“Sure, Muller,” she frowns. “You go.”

“I’m going.” And I am; I’m backing out of Scully’s bedroom and, ever the hostess, she’s rising to walk me out — but she wobbles, and I reach forward to catch her before she slips on one of the toys littering her bedroom floor.

“‘M’okay, Muller,” she protests, squirming her warm body in my arms.

“Easy,” I whisper into her hair, very aware that I’m holding her longer than I should.

“Hmmm, cuddling,” she murmurs into my chest, her hands making vague movements on my back that I can’t quite fathom. “You’re warm, Muller.”

Warm doesn’t begin to describe it. If I don’t get out of here right away, I’ll never leave. And that wouldn’t be fair to Scully, not at all.

I gently reach behind me and remove her arms from around my waist, giving us each some personal space. I gently urge her backwards, toward her bed. “Time for bed, Scully.”

“You comin’ with?” she grins up at me, as she plops back down on the mattress.

“Not tonight, I’m afraid,” I mutter as I pull back the covers and she starts to clamber under them.

“These are gonna hurt,” she pouts, pulling at the tiny clips holding her hair back. Her sweet little fingers don’t quite work, though, and she only succeeds in frustrating herself. “Mul-derrr…”

“Okay, okay, c’mere,” I prod, and she lifts her face up to me with a little happy sigh, seemingly thankful for my hairstyling expertise. I unhook the clips, one by one, and use my fingers to comb out her hair. She leans slightly into my hands, and I’m barely touching her, but the way she’s so accepting, it feels … intimate. As intimate as it can be, I suppose, with Scully completely blasted, probably unaware of her actions, and about to fall asleep.

Her gaze shifts toward the floor, and she moves to get up. “Gotta put those away … if I get up to barf I’ll slip on Curious George’s ‘nana peel.”

After I stop laughing, I put a hand on her shoulder to still her. “I got it, Scully, you just lie down and go to sleep.”

“‘Kay,” she agrees. I can’t believe I’m doing this, but I kneel down and pick up every last one of Scully’s vibrators and their accouterments, putting them in the displaced drawer, which thankfully isn’t broken. I slip it back into its rightful place in her nightstand, unsure of whether I’m sad or glad that the damn thing fell out in the first place.

I look over at Scully, who to my great dismay has stripped off her blouse and is struggling with her bra. Damn, that thing is sexy. Well, she’s sexy in it. She’s all creamy skin and freckles and moonlight, her hair now wavy from being in those clips all night. And with her hands behind her back trying to unclasp her bra, her breasts are pushing themselves tantalizingly toward me. Amazing how a dream come true, under the wrong circumstances, can be such a nightmare.

“Scully, stop,” I admonish her softly.

She looks through half-lidded eyes and pleads with me. “Muller … heeelp me, then.”

Christ. “Okay, just … turn around a second,” I order, and she complies. I attempt to unhook her bra without any skin-on-skin contact, but of course I fail miserably. Damn, she’s so smooth. After I get the clasp undone I just leave it hanging, and back away quietly. “All done,” I tell her.

“Ohhh, thanks, Muller,” she sighs as she flings the bra across the room. “That’s sooo much better.”

I catch a glimpse of nipple and turn away. “Okay, Scully, I’m leaving,” I say to the doorway. God, these jeans are tight.

“Aren’t you even gonna … tuck me in?” After reassuring myself that she did indeed say ‘tuck,’ I turn back toward her. I try to look at her face, I really do. But I’ve seen it so many times, and I’ve only seen her breasts twice, and neither of those times afforded me the opportunity to really get a good look at what Scully’s got to offer in this area.

She’s gorgeous all over the place tonight, she’s got great tits, and she’s licking her lips.

I mentally swipe Devil Mulder off my shoulder and take the high road. “Get under the covers,” I prod.

“Wait, no shoes!” she protests, flinging the blanket completely off. “Take off my shoes, Muller, pleeease? They’re too far away for me!” She points at her feet with a wave of her hand, as if she’d never reach all that way on her own.

I sigh. “Okay.” Pulling off her shoes is easy; trying not to stare at her chest isn’t.

She thrashes her legs on the bed, as if the movement will free her from her constraints. “Pants too,” she requests; “‘m hot.”

I take a deep breath and try not to think about how hot she is. I close my eyes for a moment, hoping this is all a very nice but frustrating dream.

“Sit still, and I’ll … I’ll take off your pants,” I inform her.

Scully sits up straight and clasps her hands in front of her, like the perfect Catholic schoolgirl. The perfect Catholic schoolgirl in a porno film, that is.

I slide down the side zipper that I zipped up earlier, and unhook the weird little clasp. She dutifully lifts her hips and I quickly push her trousers down to her knees, over more smooth skin … Jesus, the panties match the bra … I remove her silky socks while I’m down there, stripping the pants all the way off of her. Throwing them on a chair, I plead with her again: “Scully, get under the covers now, please.

“M’kay,” she agrees with a yawn, “all better now.” She turns over onto her stomach, showing off her lightly freckled back and that tattoo, circling just above her black lacy panties. I reluctantly decide not to touch it; not that I haven’t already crossed some invisible boundary tonight, but that just seems too personal.

Instead I lean over and deliver a light kiss between her shoulder blades. Seems safe enough.

“Muller, know what?” she mumbles, her face all but buried in her pillow.

I straighten up quickly and start to back away, clearing my throat. “Yeah, Scully?”

“I never told you what I was un-celebrating tonight…” I don’t know if I’m ready for this, but I’m very curious as to what would drive Dana Scully to drink.

She doesn’t wait for a response; she turns over in bed and sits up, letting the blankets fall around her tiny waist, and proclaims, “It’s been seven years today since the last time … the last time I got laid.” Her face is a mixture of drunkenness, embarrassment, and maybe a strange sort of pride.

I just stand there, staring at her for a moment, trying to find a response, but there’s nothing to say to that, and I’m not about to match her admission with one of my own. Finally, I just mutter, “Sleep, Scully.”

“Yeah, sleep,” she laughs. “G’night,” she mumbles dreamily.

“G’night,” I echo, taking one last look at her breasts since it’s rare I’m treated to such a perfect view. She doesn’t seem to mind, and simply falls back onto her pillow with a sigh as she closes her eyes.

If I get any sleep tonight it will be a miracle.



**This story was written back in 1999 or 2000.
**It won 2 Spooky Awards! 2nd place for Outstanding Humor, and 2nd place for Outstanding MSR UST.
**Big Vibrating Thanks to Brandon, Leilia, Livia, Magdeleine, Narida Law,
shannono, Shawne, Terma, and Trixie.
** If you liked this story at all, go check out a few stories that inspired
me: Terma99’s “Toy Story” and Missy Pennington’s “Tempest.”
** Many of the vibrators mentioned can be seen in all their glory at, a valuable research source for this fic. (Yes, that
includes Charlie the Chimp.)
** If you’re so inclined, I’d love feedback – at , or
or at AO3


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The X-Files remain the property of Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen and Fox, unfortunately. The original stories and art remain the property of their talented creators. No copyright infringement is intended. Any copyright concerns can be addressed to .

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