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leiascully · 10 months ago

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Fic: adoration, contrition, thanksgiving, supplication (R, MSR)

2050 words; M for intimate situations; sex is easy (sometimes); trigger warnings for mentions of canon-typical violence, trauma, and guns

She is drawn up slowly from the caliginous depths of sleep by sensation. It speaks to years of therapy and her body’s subliminal connection to Mulder’s that she doesn’t reach for her gun. It is her instinct now, trained into her bones. The textured handle of her pistol is as familiar as a teddy bear. It wasn’t her dream to go from somnolent to armed in less than two seconds, but she’s made the acquaintance of too many nightmares.

Tonight, or this morning - she has woken into ambiguous, crepuscular light - she recognizes Mulder’s specific bulk behind her, the particular texture of his fingertips as they skim up her thigh. They have rules: the first touches are firm, reassuring, familiar. They begin with less vulnerable areas. She flinched from his hands, once or twice, involuntarily. He hissed between his teeth when she touched his head from behind. Fight or flight, fawn or freeze: they are both a little feral these days, peering out from the underbrush of their memories. There are hollow places inside them where an echo sounds like a scream.

This moment is very nearly normal, or what she can remember of normal. She doesn’t have to consciously unclench each muscle. She doesn’t count her quickening breaths. When he kisses the back of her neck, she leans into him. His fingers trace the lean line of her thigh, dipping teasingly between them before his palm flattens over her hip, her belly, her ribs. He cups her breast, thumbing the tight bud of her nipple. His lips are warm against the curve of her shoulder.

Sex is easy for them, after all the years of lofty intellectual foreplay. He was inside her psyche long before he was inside her body. She’d explored every coiled passage of his thoughts. There was a shocking intimacy about it, their minds meeting like an open-mouthed kiss. Each conversation stroked along her nerves. Each argument was a shared breath. The devoutly wished consummation, when it happened, had a rhythm so familiar she wondered for a moment if it wasn’t the first time, if she’d forgotten somehow, but it was just the push and pull that had always been between them, translated from air to flesh.

Sex is difficult for them, too. Arousal and fear walk the same paths: adrenaline spikes, hearts race. Gooseflesh ripples her skin and she forgets to breathe, and it feels like love, and it feels like terror. They both have their too-tender places where the nerves are laid bare. There are times he starts to move against her and then shies like a skittish horse. They are gentle with each other even when they abandon civility. Each time is a first time, still, strangers exploring strange lands, even though she’s mapped him on her own skin.

In this liminal moment, she craves him like salt. She turns her face to his, captures his mouth. He squeezes her breast and she groans into the space between his teeth. She likes to feel him swallow the sound, hungry for her. Mulder consumes her like a forest fire. There’s a heat between them that’s necessary for her survival. They go up together, sparks against the night sky, and find themselves unharmed, renewed.

She slides her tongue into his mouth, tasting his need. She tugs at his lower lip, plush as a carnival prize. Her back is still pressed to his belly. She spreads her legs, hooking her foot behind his calf, and reaches between her legs to find his cock. Now he’s groaning as she licks the sound out of his mouth. She reaches down again, pushes two fingers deliberately between her folds. She’s so, so wet for him, and so grateful that her body can do this, after everything. Whatever she’s lost, she still has this: the slickness of her against the unyielding heat of him. His cock rests in the groove of her like they were made for each other. When she moves, just a little, his head grazes her clit and she gasps.

“Fuck,” he says into her mouth, and she swallows that too, unwitting inarticulate ejaculation. This is what she does to him: she’s a bull in the china shop of his mind, rendering his fine thoughts into shards. But he does the same to her. She can name the bones of the wrist until he’s wrist-deep inside her; the only insertions she remembers are the way he pushes into her. College and grad school and med school and the Academy and all of it gone. She takes God’s name in vain. She forgets her own.

He growls, just a little, and slides his other hand under her, caressing her other breast and urging her over at the same time. She straddles him, leaving a wet spot on his belly. They like it when she’s on top. She’s in control when she wants to be, along for the ride when she doesn’t, and she knows he likes the view. He pulls her down to suck at her breasts. She leans in, guiding his hand to the nipple that isn’t in his mouth. Together they roll it between their fingers. She doesn’t stifle her cries. She feels them spike through him like electricity. His hips jolt behind hers.

His free hand is on her back, caressing the long muscles. It’s sweet, soothing; it doesn’t satisfy her. She guides his hand between her hips and his belly instead. His fingers find her clit unerringly. X marks the spot, she thinks. She sits up, gazes down at him with half-lidded eyes. He loves to see her like this. Scully, victorious, he calls her sometimes. She touches her own tits and lets him watch. He’s so fucking beautiful like this. She is cognizant, every time, of the gift of himself that he offers her.

His fingers underneath her slide further, the tips dipping inside her. She lets him see how it feels, how she loves it, how warmth blooms inside her. He watches her parted lips with ravenous avidity. She reaches behind her and wraps her fingers around his cock. If he can’t have her mouth at the moment, at least he can have the cup of her palm. His fingers sink deeper into her until she’s riding his palm. His cock throbs in her hand.

“Please,” she whispers. He smiles at her, dazed but wry. They’re both pleasure-drunk, dizzy with needy delight. She pushes up on her knees until his fingers slip out of her. It’s simple to angle her hips to take his cock instead, just the tip straining against her entrance. She dips her head to tease his nipples with her teeth. His chest hair tickles her face. She rubs the tip of her nose over his pecs, enthralled by the texture and the scent of him. And then she eases back onto him, inch by agonizingly slow inch until he’s panting.

There’s always an exquisite triumph in this moment of joining. They’ve conquered Everest; they’ve saved the world. Closer to say they’ve discovered the truth, she thinks. All along, the alchemical reaction was simple physics, or biology, or chemistry. All along, they had the pieces of the alembic, if they’d thought to assemble them.

Her hips ache but she sinks down further. She can never take him deep enough to satisfy her, though he’s buried to the hilt, her mound flush against his curls. She rises, sinks, grinds. He heaves up into her and she rides him like a rough sea. She rakes her nails lightly over his chest. He reaches up for her tits. Every place he touches her is illuminated, she’d swear. Light dances across her vision and through her body.

She’s close, God, she’s so fucking close to losing herself, but he’s so far away down there on the mattress. She needs to see him, to know him, to feel his arms around her. There have been other Mulders, imposters and replicas. She needs to recalibrate, reassuring herself that he’s the genuine article. Besides, she loves the drowsy glint of his dilated eyes, the sharp edge of his desire striking sparks off her own.

She tugs at him, her words lost in the maelstrom of pleasure, and he manages to sit up without dislodging her. Their frantic movements slow as they gaze into each other’s eyes. She slides slowly down from the precipitous edge of pleasure into something softer but no less rapturous. They rock together, equal partners. She shifts again to take him deeper and he tilts his hips to give her what she needs. She kisses him and he opens his mouth to her. There’s a profound reciprocity in the way his tongue yields under hers.

Each movement is mutual. Each sigh and moan is echoed, amplified. Their hands skim over each other. They hold each other close. She loves the urgency when they fuck, but this is something achingly sweeter. His eyes gleam in the dim. She thinks she might cry - maybe out of relief, maybe just a release.

“I love you,” she tells him. She’s never said it out loud before, somehow.

“Scully,” he says in a voice of infinite tenderness. She thought she’d mind that he doesn’t use her first name, even now, but it’s a shibboleth between them. He has passed her checkpoints; he can enter at her gates.

“Mulder?” She might be crying now. She might be laughing. But he’s there with her: half a gasp, half a chuckle.

“I’ve always loved you,” he says. “Since the rain and the mud in Oregon. Since you stripped out of that bathrobe. I would have done this then if I’d thought you wanted to.”

“You should have asked,” she says, though she knows that’s in flagrant disregard of their history. They weren’t ready for each other then, not like this. They might have had sex, but it wouldn’t have been this discursive inception: her moving in him moving in her, souls grafted together, blooming, fruiting.

She can tell by the crinkle of his eyes that he knows it. There were moments in Oregon in the rain and the forest and the hotel that every possibility felt open to them. She feels it still: wistful for what might have been if they had touched each other before the world had reshaped them, grateful for the relative safety and joy they’ve found in the life they’re living now. Sex is almost the least of their intimacies now. Still, when she touches him, when he touches her, she feels transformed.

After all they’ve endured, she is poignantly aware of the precious fragility of this peace, this pleasure. Whatever price they have paid, they have redeemed the investment. The rising light of dawn brings out gold flecks in his eyes. Under his hands, she feels the steel of her own spine. She kisses him, murmuring his name like a benediction. Blessed is she among women. She wouldn’t take back any step on the path that has brought them here.

There are no words after that. They don’t need them. Their bodies talk the way their bodies have always talked, a communication beyond language. She moves over him and he moves in her until they’re both quivering. They have sanctified this space. She is washed clean in the waters of his love. And she’s rising, rising, rising on the crest of a wave of pleasure. She whispers his name into his neck and he holds her close and there’s a moment of apogee that stretches out and then the wave crashes and she’s submerged in sensation, gasping for breath. And Mulder’s coming too, crying out as he shivers into her. She clenches her inner muscles around him as his cock throbs, relishing the feeling.

Sometimes after he comes, he’ll lick her clean, his arm braced over her shaking hips as she comes and comes and comes. She loves it, but it’s not the kind of night where he leaves her too weak to walk. Instead, they slide slowly onto the bed together. He wraps her in his arms. They’ll get up in a minute, clean up, find a washcloth for the wet spot. For now, she melts into him and whispers a prayer of gratitude. When she opens her eyes, he is haloed in light: holy, holy, whole.

#leiascully fic #my fic #msr fanfic #the x-files fanfic #i had just that image of fingers on thigh in my docs for so long #and it's nice to finally have the energy and brainspace to write more #you will take smut as a technique for character study out of my cold dead hands

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