Chapter Text
The unyielding pressure of the metal handcuffs digs deliciously into Scully’s wrists as she drifts beneath Mulder’s steadily surging bulk. He’s warm and strong above her, his lips carving sweet paths of pleasure up and down her neck with each steady thrust.
She’s languid. Relaxed. Her eyes slip closed as he notches the web of his thumb and forefinger beneath the crease of her knee, hitching her leg up higher against her torso. She hears the clink of the cuffs against the headboard as she jerks, the slight variation in position making Mulder’s shaft feel impossibly thicker and harder inside her. She lets out a shuddering breath as his hips grind into hers, pushing her deeper down into the mattress and mussed sheets. He nips at her shoulder and she quivers again beneath his unyielding frame.
“My Scully,” he husks into the tender divot where jaw meets earlobe, “You’re all mine.” She hums happily in response.
Involuntarily, unexpectedly, her mind gently suggests to her the reality of her current situation. Her hands are bound, prone on her back upon a surface that allows her absolutely no purchase to get up quickly. She’s completely vulnerable in this position.
Weak.
Trapped.
She pushes the thought away, irked that her ever-restless Special Agent mind is interrupting her with training instincts while Mulder is clearly intent on giving her the fucking of her life tonight. She gnaws on her lip, determined to enjoy the thrumming, pulling ache that is building between her legs, but suddenly the steady, sharp clink of the bracelets seem so unbearably loud.
God, you’re with Mulder right now, she reminds herself, You’re safe. He’s making you feel good. Nothing bad can happen to you when Mulder’s here. Focus on Mulder.
He wasn’t there the last time the Devil decided to pay a visit, Dana.
Donnie Pfaster’s grinning face suddenly swims into her mind’s eye, his smirk slowly widening until it is shrouded in horrifying malice. Her blood runs cold as she feels the phantom bite of glass digging into her forearms and palms, feels the rough fabric of the gag around her throat. Chilling, sharp dread streaks up her spine like an iron rod, and the previously pleasant comfort of Mulder’s breath on her neck suddenly becomes hot and intolerable. Her body stiffens, not in pleasure this time but in panic.
There’s no way out, girly girl…
“Mulder!!”
Scully surges up so quickly that the metal restraints wrench her shoulders painfully back. She can’t breathe, can hardly see, can barely think aside from processing the fact that she is having a panic attack. Despite her logical mind knowing it’s futile, she yanks her arms sharply against the shackles, inadvertently dislodging Mulder as she takes a deep, gasping breath.
“Scully—?” she can hear the surprise and confusion in his voice, although with the rapidly descending tunnel vision it only serves to panic her further. She can taste iron on her tongue, can hear the cottony sound of the blood rushing and pounding in her ears.
“Mulder, please—” He’s completely withdrawn from her, his limbs no longer bracketing her to the bed, but this only narrows her awareness ever more acutely to the bindings around her wrists. Traumatic memory bleeds into reality as Pfaster’s face shimmers into the blurry mist of every rapid blink.
“Get off me!” She shrieks, “Get them off me, please don’t hurt me!” She is actively sobbing now, pleading to Mulder, fruitlessly trying to free herself from her physical and mental terror. She continues to flail, kicking and crying out, faintly aware of Mulder’s attempts to release her, but he’s unable to get close due to her vigorous movements.
“Hey, hey, hey, Scully,” though his voice sounds as though it’s coming through a tinny telephone receiver, the soothing cadence of his tone calms her enough to cease her violent thrashing. “Scully? It’s okay. I’m here. We can be done, Scully. We’re all done.” His hands gently cradle her face as he demonstrates a slow, deliberate inhalation and exhalation, softly guiding her to take a deep breath.
Donnie Pfaster’s face vanishes as quickly as it materialized, leaving Mulder’s intense expression in its wake. Before she can fully grasp the last blurry twenty seconds, Mulder swiftly grabs the handcuff keys from the side table, meticulously detaching her from the bed frame. Once liberated she scrambles instinctively away from him, still faintly caught in the last vestiges of cortisol and adrenaline, before her hands drop lifelessly to her sides. She can’t move, is almost afraid to breathe, although she is painfully aware of how concerned and bewildered Mulder must be. She sucks in a handful of sharp inhales, attempting to calm her racing heart.
“Scully?” She hears him attempt, his voice the gentle tone he ordinarily reserves for children and victims of violence, “Honey? Talk to me. I need to know if you’re okay.” Through the muffled thudding in her ears she can vaguely hear the tightness in his words as he attempts to remain calm. She can feel the back of his knuckles against her sweaty, overheated cheek. His eyes refuse to leave hers as he cautiously reaches a slender arm over to grab one of her favorite throw blankets, silently gesturing his intention to wrap her in it. Mutely, she nods her consent, shivering when he reassuringly squeezes her forearm beneath its cozy folds.
“I—” she tries to swallow, but all she can manage is a dry click in the back of her throat—her mouth is completely devoid of saliva, “Mulder, can I please have a glass of water?”
She suspects that any other man would have made a less-than-thinly-veiled remark (or worse, a joke) about the truncated duration of their coupling, regardless of her clear emotional response, and for not the first time she’s grateful for her partner’s seemingly uncanny insight into her needs. Without a word he immediately rises from where he’s seated on the bed, heading in the direction of the bathroom to fulfill her request. Emotional sponge that he is, she’s hardly surprised to see when he stands that his previous erection has been rendered completely soft, and she feels illogical shame and regret that her panic attack has put a clear end to their intimacy for tonight.
Her remorse only worsens when he returns with a frosty glass and a warm compress; the glass he hands to her easily, but he hesitates with the washcloth. Great, now he’s afraid to touch her. Any other time he would have pressed the warmth between her legs with no indecision, sensually laving her of their combined mess of bliss, sometimes to the point that both of them would be ready for round two.
Ashamed, she tugs the cloth from his grip, shakily downing a third of the water before half-heartedly using the compress to wipe her face. Mulder stands awkwardly beside the mattress, his hands idle and slightly curled on either side of his beautiful naked hips. She can feel his natural urge to comfort and soothe silently at war with his anxiety over spooking her, and she’s too embarrassed to address it.
“Shall I—” he clears his throat nervously and makes a vague gesture at her bedroom doorway, “If you want me to—”
He’s trying to offer her a graceful way to dismiss him (he knows her all too well), and while it is tempting to fall into her solitary habits, a fleeting glance at the hastily discarded handcuffs on the carpet makes up her mind for her.
“No,” she manages to choke out weakly, “Please stay tonight. I need—I want you to stay.”
His shoulders drop infinitesimally in relief and something hot and tight in her chest loosens a fraction. Silently, though a little less uncomfortably, they set the room straight for sleep. Mulder dons his boxer briefs and graciously conceals the cuffs while Scully uses the toilet and numbly slips her silk pajamas back on. She chances a brief glimpse of herself in the vanity mirror, mildly struck at how drawn she looks. So different from the flushed, inflamed woman who had furtively whispered to Mulder a mere thirty minutes ago that she wanted to be bound tonight.
He waits for her to get back into the bed first, and she’s grateful once again for their non-verbal communication when he correctly interprets her shifting to the center as an indicator that she wants to be held. She tries to ignore the way his eyes widen in clear anguish when he notices the state of her wrists, which are red and slightly raw from the ordeal. She can almost instinctually sense the apology about to escape from him, and she gently touches her palm to his collarbone, whispering a soft ‘Mulder, I’m okay.’ He pauses briefly before gently clasping her wrist and brushing his lips against her delicate pulse point. Turning silently, he switches off the lamp. He settles down beside her immediately, and she feels his arms wrap around her body in the darkness, pulling her close to his chest. His masculine warmth and the satin softness of his bare skin feels so good it makes her teeth ache. She breathes his scent in deeply, nestling her cheek against his sternum. He presses a long kiss to the top of her head.
“What happened?” he asks so gently that it tightens her throat, “Did I hurt you?” She shakes her head emphatically, not wanting him to believe for even a moment that anything tonight was his fault.
“No,” she croaks out, “No. Nothing. I just…I got a little anxious.”
“You called out Pfaster’s name, Scully.”
Well so much for skirting the subject.
“I um…” as she begins to process, overwhelm hits her and warm tears begin to swell and spill down her cheeks, “I don’t know what happened, I just suddenly realized how much I couldn’t move, and then his face suddenly appeared and I—” The tears come in earnest now, a combination of processing and a reaction to Mulder’s tenderness and understanding, something she’s never truly excelled at being resistant to.
“Shhshhshh, I know,” he coos, an attempt to soothe, not silence her sobs, “Dana, do you need to revisit the Bureau therapist again?”
Again she shakes her head frantically, mortified at the mere notion of bringing up her and Mulder’s shared sex life as a cause for her post-trauma relapse. Thankfully he doesn’t press the matter, instead passing smooth and slow circles over her back with his big hands. Her tears slowly fade to a natural cessation, leaving tranquil if slightly weighted silence between them. She swallows thickly, steeling herself for what she feels ought to be stated next.
“Mulder, I’m sorry that—” she hates that her voice is shaky. She hates herself for feeling so small and weak, unable to separate the things that have happened to her from what is supposed to be exciting and pleasurable experiences.
“Scully, stop,” he rasps quietly, carefully brushing aside the hair tangled and stuck to her damp temple, “I am so far from thinking about that right now. I need you to be okay and comfortable when we do things like this.”
“I am,” she insists, perhaps a tad too quickly, but the honest intent is there, “I want to be. I trust you so much and I want to do this, I just didn’t expect it to…”
Her throat begins to close with emotion again, and he leans over her, meeting her trembling mouth with a calming kiss.
“I know,” he murmurs, “I know. Don’t worry. If you want to try again we can do it slowly another time until you’re comfortable. Okay?”
It takes her a beat to not become stirred again by his endless patience and compassion, no doubt crafted from the years of his own horrid experiences. She silently nods, languishes in his heavenly heat and her gratitude for his welcomed proximity, these mollifying thoughts eventually lulling her into a mercifully dreamless sleep.