Title: Worship
Rating: Think about it. Just think about it.
Summary: She goes to church. He goes to bed.
Disclaimer: I want to believe that I own the show, but alas, it's not to be.
Scully didn't attend church services, but she did go to church. There didn't seem to be a specific pattern – at least, none that he could make out. She'd go on a Tuesday afternoon, late on a Thursday night, or go there to greet the dawn on Wednesday morning. He wasn't sure what she did there; if she went to confession, prayed, or simply stared up at the carved figures. He didn't ask, and she didn't tell him. It didn't matter. It helped her feel closer to God, giving her a sense of peace and resolution.
He, too, had a way to feel closer to God, a way to feel joy and peace that bordered on divine. It wasn't exactly conventional, but it worked for him.
And Scully certainly wasn't complaining.
It was a Monday night in between cases. She'd left about half an hour ago, leaving him to finish up some notes before he headed home. Assuming she'd gotten to the church by ten, given that she spent anywhere from twenty minutes to an hour there…
In other words, he had no idea what time she'd be home.
He waited, though, finishing up a field report and catching up on some reading. When he heard the key turn in the lock, he set aside the book, waiting. She entered the bedroom, smiling gently at him as she took off her coat and dumped her purse on the dresser. There was always such a smooth, peaceful look on her face when she came back.
"Sorry to keep you up." She apologized, taking off her shoes.
"No need to apologize. I wanted to." He stood up, his lips curling upwards helplessly. She was so lovely, and so brilliant, and so amazing. He could hardly believe that he got to have her.
"Let me." He whispered, carefully unbuttoning her blouse. "Let me."
This was what made him believe in God. This was how he worshipped.
He pushed the blouse off of her shoulders, letting it slip through his fingers and drop to the floor. He slipped his hands around her waist, trailing his fingers upwards to undo her bra. She felt so soft, like cream, pale and smooth and utterly perfect. She placed her hands on his chest, her fingernails gently scraping at the skin, letting him do as he wished.
He leaned in, his nose brushing against her forehead, inhaling the smell of her. Her perfume was something simple and vaguely floral, nothing fancy, adding to the gentle scent of strawberries and the pure, yet deep, rich smell that was uniquely Scully. He trailed downwards, his lips barely touching her skin, enjoying the fact that he could even do something as simple as this with her.
Scully reached up, moving his hands downwards, encouraging him to unzip her skirt and push it down past her hips, relieving her of her last pieces of clothing. She grabbed gently at his wrists, pulling him along, leading him gently towards the bed. He encouraged her to lie down, marveling at the mass of flawless skin exposed to him, laid bare for him – and him alone – to touch and kiss and admire.
He started at her neck; bestowing openmouthed kisses in clusters as he worked his way down. He picked up her cross with his teeth, sucking on the tip of it before letting it fall back onto her chest, abandoning it in favor of nuzzling her breasts, feeling the rise and fall of her body as she breathed heavily, straining not to touch him.
Usually she'd be mewling by now, moaning or at the very least encouraging him. Usually she'd be touching him, clutching at him, burying her fingers into his hair. Usually she'd be his partner in this, just as she was in everything else.
But not at times like these. This was his benediction, his sacrament, his daily prayer. She was so perfect, so real and true and yet so flawless. He ran his hands down her body, feeling the curves and dips and planes. When he was presented with such a creature as this… when he could do nothing more than marvel and worship… that was when he felt almost certain that God existed. Only something greater than this world, greater than the supposedly superior extraterrestrials, could have created something like her.
And she let him. She let him pay homage to her. She let him kiss and stroke her, drawing little patterns on her skin, pressing promises into her flesh. She let him work on her, work in her, and she offered nary a protest, even when he kept her hanging for hours.
He moved down the flat of her stomach, his hands at her hips, his thumbs swiping slowly along the jut of her bones. He dipped his tongue into her navel and he felt her trembling like a taut string. He glanced up and saw that her hands were fisted into the sheets, her head tipped back and mouth open, gasping. He grinned and kept moving, skipping down to her feet and working back up from there. Normally this would have earned him some sharp words of protest but Scully's grip on the sheets only tightened slightly, clenching so hard that her knucklebones threatened to break through the skin.
Slowly, as slowly as he could, he kept moving. She nearly kicked him in the head when he reached the ticklish spot behind her knee, making him chuckle. He nipped at her inner thigh, sucking at the sensitive skin, moving ever closer to his goal.
There was something about the way she tasted. It was the same taste as her skin, only deeper, headier, like he was drinking from a mountain spring. He couldn't get enough. She was his water, his bread, and his wine. This was his communion. This was his baptism. In tasting her, he was reborn.
She kept silent through almost all of it, although her breathing became choppy, her chest heaving. She was doing her best not to move, but she was trembling like she was in a strong gale, so he held her hips down to stop the occasional bucking and twisting.
Her pants became heavier and more rapid, and he knew that she was close. He changed tactics, filling her with his fingers and moving his mouth to seal it over her clit, humming in anticipation.
Scully arched upwards, crying out his name. She continued to sigh his name as she rode out the waves, her murmurs dying away into satisfied silence. He bestowed light kisses up her body as he rose up to meet her, whispering into her skin. He said her name, both first and last, over and over again, his own blessing, his own Hail Mary.
When they were nose to nose he kissed her, slow and languid, their tongues twining around each other. It was slow heat, simmering, a cleansing holy fire. Her body rose to meet his, and he yearned for her touch. He nodded, sucking on her bottom lip. She immediately wrapped her arms around him, kissing him with ferocity.
"Let me help you." She whispered, her hand fluttering down his body and stroking him.
"You sure?" He didn't want her to be overly tender.
His eyes were closed so he couldn't see it, but he felt her smile against his mouth. He loved her. Her loved her so much. He might never set foot in a church or other religious building again unless it involved a case, but he had his own way to get a religious experience. He had his own altar to worship at.
I love these two. Castle and Beckett will always be my favorite couple but Mulder and Scully definitely paved the way. They are the ultimate slow-burn couple.
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