what_wings_dare | 🅧 Please explain to me the scientific nature of 'the whammy'

Her hand moves over his groin, and he groans against her mouth. So much of his body is still marked by the things that were done to him - but he can set those aside right now, with her hands on him. She looks at him like nothing's changed, even as she's blossoming into the life she's wanted for so long, and with something of his place in her life secured, he can bask in her reflected glow.

Once she's gotten his fly down, he shoves down the last of his clothes, letting them puddle around his feet. "If you make yourself comfortable on the bed," he murmurs against her mouth, "I'll figure out where to fit myself in."

"Comfortable might be overstating it," she answers with a laugh. She steps away, pausing to give him an appreciative look. If she let herself pause to worry, she would-- all things considered he's remarkably well-healed, but it's not as though the months... away... left no mark at all. But she's just too glad to let herself get mired down fretting, not right now, not when it would spoil the mood.

She settles herself on his bed, her movements deliberate but not tentative; she's had practice figuring this out and, if the way she automatically repositions his pillows the way she wants them is any indication, not all of it has been in her own bed. (His sheets, likewise, are suspiciously clean considering how long the apartment has been vacant, but smell faintly like her lotion and shampoo.)

She lays on her side, faced away from him because otherwise there's no way to get close, and glances up over her shoulder.

(There's a part of her that wants to keep her eyes on him every moment, afraid if she looks away he'll disappear, like it'll break some spell.)

"Come on in," she calls back.

He watches with no small fascination as she maneuvres herself, clearly an expert in this particular practice. If she's been sleeping over here, so be it - after cleaning the place up, she deserves no less. And whatever else might be true, he has to thank his abductors for doing most of their experiments on his face. Everything below the belt has survived untouched, and as he crawls onto the bed, his gratitude briefly outweighs all the anger that comes of waking from months of torture and living death.

"You don't have to tell me twice," he murmurs, burying his face in her neck, sucking a kiss against her pulse. His body aligns easily with hers, chest against her back, hips at her ass, cock pressing hard against her skin. It's not that different, really, until he reaches around in an embrace, pulling her close and cradling her belly all at once. Then, as his hand moves down further, delving between her legs - "Do you want to go slow or fast?"

How much is too much? How does he give her everything they both want without hurting her? She calls the shots here, as both the medical doctor and the one carrying a bowling ball's worth of extra flesh.

Her huff of laughter turns into a low moan as he moves from kissing her to pressing himself against her, and she arches back against him reflexively. There are so many ways she's missed him-- her partner, her closest friend, the father he could be to this baby-- it feels almost silly to put sex up there alongside the deep, emotional things he is to her. But God, she missed being touched terribly; her body has been sensitive and wanting and she's been alone for what feels like forever.

He'll find her already spectacularly wet, the anticipation more than enough. She bites her lip, torn between the sensible answer-- slow-- and what she really wants; she wants all of him at once, wants him to fill her and claim her, as though it weren't already obvious that she's all his. Being this close makes her feel wild; the heat and scent of his body so familiar, so overwhelming.

"Slow," she murmurs, because this is unknown territory. "You feel so good," she adds, gasped as her hips jerk impatiently in spite of her good intentions, desperate for more of him.

"So do you," he groans into her hair, hips pressing hard against her. It shouldn't be a surprise that she wants him; he has plenty of evidence, past and present, that she's a big fan of him, scars notwithstanding. (Those will heal, and he'll still be the man he was before his abduction, the singular creature she fell in love with despite every possible reason not to.) But that doesn't take away from the sticky thrill of his fingers moving easily along her slit. "You're the best part of being alive."

Maybe that's too much, but it's too late; it comes out without thinking as he circles her clit with one finger. His other hand's at her breast, running his thumb over nipple and areola without pressure. The rules have changed slightly, by biological necessity; he's not sure where the line between pleasure and pain lies anymore, having some vague notion that women's breasts get more sensitive while pregnant. "I don't know how slow I can take this, Scully, but I'm trying."

Having lived without him, there's nothing that could be too much. No amount of him could be enough. She moans, ragged and certainly too loud, his touch both a relief and a tease.

It's hard to tell how much is genuinely due to sensitivity and how much of how she feels is the weight of anticipation. She can't help a little whine; the only downside of facing away is she can't see his expression.

"Fuck me," she pleads. She can't think of anything else.

There's no such thing as too loud. Damn his neighbors, damn the world, let Scully make all the noise she wants while he's thrusting his fingers into her. She's beautiful, all curves - some soft, some surprisingly firm - and the scent of her hair makes him feel like he's really alive and in this room. This isn't a hallucination on some distant spacecraft or government outpost. This is Scully, here with him, begging for him to give into an overwhelming need for closeness.

This is everything.

"I want you," he murmurs into her neck, reaching down to line up his cock. One smooth push, and he's in her, his breath shuddering against her back.

She turns her head to the side to muffle her moan a little; if you didn't know better you might mistake the cry for one of pain, but truly it's relief. She wants him; she has him, and thank God for that. They deserve so much more than this-- they should have had all this time together, should have taken every step side by side, should have woken in each other's arms week after week. But they've got now, and it feels like everything falling into place as he enters her.

Her hand curls around his wrist, neither stopping him nor urging him on, just a point of contact-- ready in case it becomes too much to be touched. For both of them, her body is at once familiar and a mystery, her needs changed and unclear. But she trusts him to understand even when she doesn't. (He always has.)

"Yes," she hisses, to everything and nothing in particular, her back arched against him. Maybe she didn't mean slow after all.

He goes slow all the same - or tries to, at least. He just doesn't take it easy on her. Without thought, all instinct in this particular knowledge he has of Scully, Mulder draws his hips back, then pushes hard into her. Pausing there, every breath shaking, and then he pulls back again. Slow and hard, gentled only by the position, every thrust feeling like it could propel them forward if they let it.

This is home, this near-wordless communication. Squeezing her breast and slamming his hips against her slim little ass, kissing the space beneath her ear and moaning against her skin. She'll tell him if she likes it, how she wants it next, everything that'll get her over the top. She'll murmur encouragement and pant out little whining sounds when she's getting close. If she needs more, she'll drag his hand down to her clit. And all the while, he'll murmur everything she needs to know. "You're so good, Scully - fuck -"

Sometimes she thinks he knows with unnatural certainty what she needs; other times she thinks maybe all she needs is him, maybe the details don't matter as long as he's with her, touching her, inside her. He feels so good she could almost cry, but they've had enough of that. With every thrust she makes a small, desperate sound, needy and ecstatic. Overwhelming, this might be too much if it wasn't so good, so vital.

There are times when she wants to tell him she loves him but something holds her back. This is different; she doesn't have the words. Doesn't need them, maybe, when every inch of her aches for him, when she's clenching around his cock and panting. He must know how she loves him. The weight of her belly is a tangible testament to that.

Close, but not close enough, she urges him on to touch her clit, murmuring his name.

The reality of their bodies pressed together is enough to - briefly, anyway - chase away thoughts of anything but this moment. To hell with alien abductions and near-death-experiences and government conspiracies; to hell with the slowly healing wreckage of his skin. Every moment he spends here with Scully is restorative. He fucks her hard, holding her close, and he reaches between her legs when she makes it clear she wants it.

They're somewhere beyond everything else in existence, the whole world narrowed into the space taken up by two tangled bodies. She isn't his one in five billion, because there's only two people left alive. He speeds up as he's reaching his own end, fingertips sliding wetly over her clit in double time. Normally, he can hold out, but here with her now, fresh from the grave, maybe he could be forgiven for failing to be a gentleman about it tonight. With a moan, his whole body curling in against hers, he comes.

The last thing she wants from him now is to hold back. With every inch of him pressed against her she can feel how close he is-- and when he gives in with one hard thrust she cries out, too, triumphant and grateful and (more practically) wildly turned on. It's perfect and real, him coming inside her; claiming his place with her, an affirmation of life.

She takes over when his fingers falter but it doesn't take much for her to follow, tensing and burying her face again in the pillow, reaching again to grab his hand on her hip and squeeze his fingers.

They're both left shuddering and clinging to each other, riding out first one climax and then the other. Isis and Osiris, life and death, two minds in two bodies twined together so strongly that no senseless force can drive them apart. Her hand squeezes his, and he squeezes her hip in answer, pressing one kiss and then another to the back of her jaw.

It's enough just to lie there, a hand on her hip, an arm cradling her belly, his face in her hair. For a while, this is it - but eventually, murmured against her scalp, there are words. "I missed you, Dana."

It feels, somehow, like the beginning of something; the first fuck of the rest of your life, maybe, trite as that is, but she feels renewed in a way that's hard to put into words. The last time they were together neither of them knew what they'd made, and now they're facing a future together that they didn't dare dream of.

Her racing heart slows, her breathing evens, and he's still here. It's been so long since she had that feeling of peace; she isn't even drowsy, for once, just content.

She rouses a little when he speaks, and makes a soft, incoherent noise-- a trying-not-to-tear-up noise, really. (Happy tears, decidedly, but she won't miss the volatility of pregnancy hormones.)

"I love you so much," she manages to whisper after a moment, with only minimally wet eyes.

"Me, too." But that's not good enough, not knowing what it takes for Scully to say those words. He closes his eyes, letting his body relax entirely, and imagines the look on her face. He thinks he has it, tearful and happy and maybe just a little consternation at the fact that she's sniffling. "I love you, Scully. And I'm...really glad you exhumed me."

A joke to lighten the mood - but in all fairness, he is. She gets full credit for the fact that he's here with her, breathing deeply against her neck, his arms wrapped around her and around their son. The sun rises and sets for him because of her brilliant mind and unbreakable faith.

It just seems unreasonable that, having cried over losing him, she should have to keep crying now that he's back. That the reaction should be so much the same to two things so different. (Never mind that she hates to cry. That horse has left the barn behind for good; he's seen her worse than this.)

Like this all she can do is grope blindly to twine their fingers together; she'd turn to face him if she could, but it's enough to have him wrapped around her.

"I thought I was crazy the whole time," she admits, hushed and awed. But there he was-- incorruptible and impossible-- and here he is.

"You were." He's no stranger to weeping, but as long as Scully's in the middle of a little jag, he has the vague sense that he should keep it together for her sake. If tears prick his eyes, they mostly disappear into her hair. He squeezes her hand, his voice affectionate. "What kind of lunatic digs up a man whose funeral was three months ago? That's crazy, Scully, it really is. But it's a good kind of crazy, because you were right."

And anyone who doubted her is going to be kicking themselves to the end of their days. "Of course, now you're going to have to answer every question I can think of about the last couple of months. Did I miss opening day? Who's in the playoffs this year? Anything good on TV?"

They can lay here sniffling together; they've earned that. It's a thousand times better, at least, than crying over him alone.

"I have no idea," she says with a laugh-- a tear-wet laugh, but still. She's crying, but she's all right. "We'll look it up tomorrow. I'm not sure I'll be ready to let you out of my sight for a while."

"Wild horses couldn't drag me away." He's not expecting answers, and at the moment, he can resist the siren song of box scores. The only thing that really matters is right here beside him. Hungry though he is to kiss her, there's no way to make it anything but awkward for both of them; he presses his lips against her narrow shoulder. "There's a lot ahead of us. But tonight, I'm all yours."

She loves him, but she couldn't muster the energy to love baseball in his absence. Sorry Mulder.

The gentle kiss makes her smile, lifting an arm up behind her, groping behind her to ruffle his hair.

"This is everything I want."

Mulder grins, letting himself be rumpled by her wandering hand. This is something to savor; Scully loose-limbed and teasing is a privilege enjoyed by few. "In that case -" with another light kiss, this time to the line of her neck, "this is what you're getting. This, and me pestering you until you fall asleep. We could make his middle name Archibald."

She makes a noise that manages to be equal parts delight and disgust, snuggling in close against his chest. Already she's a little bit dozy, which is probably to be expected-- the truth is her tendency to fall asleep so easily has more than a little to do with how safe Mulder makes her feel. Always has.

(It's not that she didn't think she could do this without him, of course. There was a time when she was actively preparing for single motherhood. But it's different, so different, to be facing a future so rich with love.)

For a long moment she's quiet, perhaps drifting off... until she stirs and murmurs.

"I'd let you get away with Patrick."

He figures she's falling asleep - he's known the sound of her breath evening out for years, since long before they ever ended up in bed together. And while he's not tired, he's content to lie here and hold her for a while, lying here comfortably at her side.

(At some point he'll be irredeemably bored, and he'll have to get up. For now, though, the changes to her body - and by extension, to both of their lives - provide enough food for thought to keep him occupied.)

And then she wakes enough to offer a name he doesn't expect. "Why Patrick?"

There's very little that sounds as enticing as falling asleep now, and waking up and him still being here, still being real-- still being the love of her life and the father of her son. But his question makes her huff a little laugh, trying to glance slyly over her shoulder.

"Ewing, Mulder."

If she can see his eyes, she'll appreciate the way they've lit up at the thought. "Look at you. We'll make a basketball fan out of you yet, Scully."

And the idea's a pretty good one, at that. Ewing's more than proven himself, and it doesn't sound too bad. "William Patrick Mulder Scully."

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faithfulskeptic - 2024-01-23 18:19 (UTC) - Expand

[ n a m e ; ]	Dana Katherine Scully
[ c a n o n ; ]	The X-Files
[ g a m e ; ]	spicy times in noctiumrp