curlyq9393's drabble thread!

[Xsneezelover3932]

?? Wow!!! That was so incredibly sweet! Excellent!

[curlyq9393]

Hey y’all! The new season of X Files inspired me to write a sweet lil X Files themed drabble. It’s set during the revival era, so Mulder and Scully aren’t *exactly* together BUT they have the *potential* to be, y’know? 

It’s not inspired by any particular prompt, but the idea came from a tumblr post that used the phrase “milky tired” and I knew I needed to use it in a fic. Also, the title is taken from the song The Moon Song by Karen O and Ezra Koenig. It’s beautiful. Listen to it.

”i’m safe and we’re a million miles away”

Her face is pressed to the cool glass window. Outside, rain falls in thick silvery sheets; warbling yellow headlights, lighthouse beacons, illuminate the highway that unfolds like a ribbon before them. There aren’t many other cars out. It is late; very late. It is the sort of late that is neither morning nor night. The strange uneven time. She doesn’t know if she should be drinking coffee or sleeping. She is tired in a way she hasn’t been in years, a tired that reaches beyond her bones and wraps its arms around the small world surrounding her. Milky tired, she thinks, and she knows it is true. Her vision is fogged and runny, distorted as though she’s looking through the warped bottom of a handblown glass. She has forgotten this tired. The body remembers. The body forgets.

Her head is throbbing. If you asked her if she was dreaming, she isn’t sure that she’d be able to tell for certain. She swallows past the dull ache in her throat, blinks her burning eyes. Her eyelids are melting closed. She is hot, shivering hot. Fevers, she thinks, are a very contradictory thing. Respiration has become a difficult, alien concept, as though she is trying to breathe through water. She wonders if she should mention this to Mulder. But when she tries, the words are marble heavy on her tongue. Breathe, she thinks. I breathe, you breathe, we breathe. Breathed. Breathing. The more she thinks it, the less familiar the word becomes. It stops being important. She trusts her body. It’s fared worse, and she is still here.

She opens her eyes. It’s been an hour. It’s been a minute. It’s been both, and it’s been neither. Next to her, in the driver’s seat, Mulder is humming tunelessly along to the radio. Her eyes close. She doesn’t recognize the song, and for a moment, in her delirium, she wonders if perhaps they have crossed universes. She thinks of losing time. She thinks of the possibilities of impossibilities. She thinks: Mulder. Mulder Mulder Mulder Mulder.

“Scully?”

How nice, she thinks, that he heard me in my dream.

“Hey, Scully? Are you okay?”

Someone jostles her arm. She blinks into wakefulness, just manages to catch a sneeze in her cupped hands. “What?” she croaks.

“You said my name,” Mulder says, forehead creased.

She closes her eyes again. “I dreamed your name,” she whispers. “And you heard.”

Mulder’s palm is dry and miraculously cool. It feels the way snow looks. He whistles lowly. “Scully, you’re burning up,” he says, and she is coherent enough to hear the worry in his voice.

She slowly shifts so she is looking at him. “I think I’m coming down with something,” she says, though her throat protests speech. 

Mulder grimaces. “I think it’s safe to say you've already come down with something, Scully,” he says.

Scully leans her achy head back against the seat. “My bones are sore,” she says.

“We’re almost back to D.C.,” Mulder says. “Twenty minutes, tops.”

He starts to say something else, but she misses it. She is dizzy, dizzy, a comet spinning into sleep.

 

[lifelove1]

AHHHHHHH I saw this story on ao3 when you first posted it and was just smitten. You have such an incredible gift and intuition for the thoughts and dialogue of your characters. (Yes, I did go back and read through all your drabbles again because they're so beautiful!)

What comes across to me most in all of your writings, and especially this most recent one, is love. Obviously as a species that's something we all crave, but I think that love and acceptance are so intimately tied up in this fetish that it's deeply gratifying to read the literature of someone who can capture it so well without being over-the-top and saccharine. This drabble in particular is the perfect example. I've only been this type of sick a few times in my life, but your description makes me remember it so vividly, especially the warped sense of time...it's perfect. I love the level of trust implied in this story, even after all the time that M&S have been apart. 

Honestly, your style is so gorgeous that I would eagerly read anything you wrote, fetish or not, but I feel especially grateful that you have decided to turn your talents to this particular subject matter  

[Xsneezelover3932]

Awesome!!!!! I too read this on ao3 but didn't realize it was you who had written it!  ❤️❤️Love it! You have such a wonderfully descriptive writing style, I can picture everything so Clearly. Truly wonderful! 

[curlyq9393]

Fandom: Ocean’s 8

Pairing: Lou/Debbie

part 1

Debbie struggles to close the loft door against the fierce wind outside. It’s early December, barely past Thanksgiving, and uncharacteristically cold. Her cheeks are apple-red and stinging. Debbie doesn’t mind, though; she’s never been bothered by winter. It rejuvenates her, awakens some vital, bright part of her brain.

 

Winter does not, however, sit well with Lou; a side effect of being an Aussie until nearly adulthood, Debbie supposes. She spends those months perpetually sniffling and shivering; usually independent to a fault, in winter Lou cuddles up close to Debbie, even clings, craving her extra body heat. She becomes more prone to illness, too; she is the first to pick up any cold or cough that goes around, and is usually the last to shake it.

 

Debbie is reminded of this fact when she discovers Lou sleeping on their sofa under two blankets, bundled in a heavy sweater (that at one point belonged to Debbie) and a pair of thick wool socks. Lou’s brow is furrowed, as though even in sleep she is distressed by the draft seeping into the large, open loft. She’s paler even than usual, save the tip of her nose, which is a delicate, rosy shade of pink.

 

Debbie approaches the lump of fleece covered Lou and runs a hand gently through her short blonde hair. Lou shifts, mumbles fretfully, but doesn’t wake. Debbie shakes her, a bit more vigorously this time. “Sleeping beauty,” she whispers into Lou’s ear, “time to come back to the land of the living.”

 

Lou cracks open one eye and glares suspiciously at Debbie. “You woke me up,” she accuses.

 

“Well, yes,” Debbie laughs, “given that it’s only…” she checks Danny’s old watch, “8:00 at night.”

 

Lou grumbles something cranky under her breath and pulls the blankets tighter around her lanky frame. “I was tired,” she says, sniffling.

 

Debbie raises her eyebrows. “Are you feeling okay?” she asks.

 

Lou shrugs a single shoulder. “I hate winter,” she says, in lieu of an explanation. “My bones are sore.”

 

Debbie joins Lou on the sofa and pats her lap, a wordless invitation for Lou to curl up there. Lou does not need much more persuading than that. “You’re warm,” Lou says appreciatively, cuddling into Debbie’s arms. Then she sneezes three times, her body jerking, each motion accompanied by a small, stifled squeak.

Debbie hands Lou a napkin from the coffee table, leftover from Chinese take-out a few nights ago. Lou takes it gratefully and blows her nose, her eyes watering. Luckily, her makeup was already artfully smudged. She sighs and looks up at Debbie, who pouts. “I’ve a cold,” Lou says, wearing a pout to match Debbie’s.

 

“So I see,” Debbie murmurs, smiling sympathetically. “Poor Lou.”

 

“Poor me,” Lou echoes, coughing into her shoulder. She sighs shakily, her entire body slumping as she exhales.

 

Debbie works her way out from under Lou’s weight, even as Lou whines in protest. “Wait here,” Debbie instructs, gentle yet firm. “I’ll be back.”

 

Lou resettles herself on the sofa, wrapping the blankets around her like a cocoon. Her throat hurts and her eyes are burning. She listens to what she imagines to be the sizzle of garlic and onions hitting a hot pan. Her nose is stuffed up, but she pretends she can smell their savory scent. Her eyes drift shut.

 

And then, suddenly, the soft pressure of a cool hand on her forehead. “You’re a bit feverish, I think,” she says, frowning. Lou nods, then stretches the kinks from her achy limbs.

 

“100.8,” she says, leaning into Debbie’s hand. “I took it earlier.” She goes back on her elbows. “What time is it?” she asks, rubbing an absent hand across her face like a sleepy child. Debbie is hopelessly and stupidly and irrevocably smitten.

 

“Later,” Debbie says. “Good soup takes a while.” She offers Lou an oversized mug. “Here,” she says, “drink this; it’ll help.”

 

Through her congestion, Lou is just able to make out the rich smell of chicken and something that almost tickles her nose. She grabs her napkin just in time for a sneeze. “What is this?” she asks, swirling the pale broth, flecked with specks of green cilantro.

 

“Curried chicken noodle soup,” Debbie answers. “Guaranteed to cure what ails you.”

 

Lou takes a careful sip, mindful to not burn her mouth. Spices dance on her tongue. “This is wonderful,” she says. Debbie smiles, pleased with herself.

 

Lou takes another sip. “I didn’t know you were such a talented cook,” she says.

 

Debbie shrugs. “I’m a woman of mystery,” she says.

 

Lou sets the mug down on the table. “It really is delicious,” she says. “Thanks, Deb.”

 

“How are you feeling?” Debbie asks, a bit of urgency bleeding into her otherwise nonchalant tone.

 

Lou rubs a thumb over the back of Debbie’s hand, hearing what she knows Debbie can’t quite say. “I’m alright,” she says.

 

“Promise?”

 

“Promise.”

[zakandsara]

EXCUSE ME! This is so pure and sweet. Debbie loving winter and Lou being unable to bear it is... *chef kisses fingers*. So sweet. 

[curlyq9393]

Part 2 of the above fic!

They go to bed early, Lou succumbing quickly to the Nyquil’s spell. Her soft, congested breathing is a lullaby to Debbie. She hates it when Lou feels poorly, but there is still something undeniably soft and sweet about it, too. It’s not often that Lou needs any extra care or attention, and Debbie knows very well that there aren’t many people Lou lets see that side of her. To Debbie, it is a special, lucky secret; a privilege that is hers and hers alone.

 

Some hours after they’ve fallen asleep, Debbie jerks awake; at first she isn’t entirely sure why, but then she realizes Lou is tossing feverishly in bed next to her. There are red splotches of color high in her cheeks, and her bangs are limp and sweaty, plastered to her forehead. Each breath rattles in her congested chest, and a knife of pity cuts through Debbie’s stomach.

 

She slips out of bed and pads down the stairs, gathering supplies from the kitchen and medicine cabinet. She mentally ticks off each item as it’s procured: ice pack, thermometer, cough syrup, Advil, water bottle, more tissues, VapoRub. When she creeps back into the bedroom, the knife goes through her again when she sees that Lou awoke while she was downstairs; she’s shivering, her eyes glassy and confused.

 

“You left,” Lou croaks miserably.

 

“I know, baby, I’m sorry,” Debbie says, sitting down on the edge of the bed and rubbing Lou’s back. “I just went to get some things so I can take better care of you, that’s all; I didn’t think you’d wake up.”

 

“Mmmm,” is all Lou can manage. She nuzzles her hot face into Debbie’s stomach.

 

“Will you sit up so I can take your temperature?” Debbie coaxes, playing with Lou’s hair. Lou huffs her displeasure, but does as Debbie asks.

 

“It’s almost 102,” Debbie says, scowling at the thermometer as if it’s done something to personally offend, after she’s removed the instrument from Lou’s mouth. “If it’s this high tomorrow there may be a trip to the doctor in your future.”

 

Lou shakes her head. “It’s just a cold,” she insists, catching two heavy sneezes in her wrist. “He'tnSHHHeOO!! Heh'IKtschhOO!”

 

“Not with that fever it isn’t,” Debbie tuts gently. “Which reminds me….” Debbie takes the ice pack and lays it on Lou’s forehead. Lou moans in a way that, under any other circumstances, could almost be classified as pornographic.

 

Debbie giggles. “I take it that feels nice?”

 

“The nicest,” Lou sighs. She falls silent, and is silent for so long that Debbie thinks she’s fallen back to sleep. But then: “My head is all...swimmy.” She vaguely waves a hand, as if to demonstrate what “swimmy” feels like.

 

Debbie caresses one of Lou’s hot cheeks. “That doesn’t sound very fun.”

 

“S’not,” Lou confirms, sniffling. She draws in a shuddering breath and cuddles closer to Debbie. “I’m so hot.”

 

“Lou Miller, are you coming on to me?”

 

“Oh yeah baby,” Lou says, her mouth turned up in a sleepy version of her usual smirk. “We’ll open a jar of Vapo-Rub and go to town.”

 

Debbie snickers and kisses Lou on the top of her blonde head. Lou sniffles again, a bit desperately, and frantically gestures a single slender, shivery arm. “Tissues,” she manages, voice hitching.

 

Debbie passes her a handful from the new box just in time; Lou snaps forward, and catches three congested, exhausted sneezes in them: “Hih'KtssCHHHuh!! Heh'IKtschhOO! He'tnSHHHeOO!!!”

Lou melts, bonelessly, halfway onto Debbie’s lap, as if those three sneezes used up all her remaining energy. Debbie adjusts the ice pack on her forehead and slowly starts to reposition Lou on her side of the bed. Lou clings tightly to Debbie’s middle, resisting Debbie’s efforts. “Stay,” she commands, bossy even as her eyes drift shut and her sleepy voice slurs.

 

Debbie curls up next to Lou, spooning her protectively. “I’m not going anywhere.”

[crazygirl22]

Oh my god, this is so great! Wish I'd seen the first part earlier. I love the two of them as a couple.

[March Hare]

OW JEEBIZZ OCEAN'S 8 FIC I LIIIVE FOR ITTT

THANK YOU HEENEY