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(For new subscribers: I'm in the process of crossposting all of my fic from my LJ onto DW. You may have seen these before.)
Title: In The Kitchen
Author: Amal Nahurriyeh
Summary: He lets himself remember
Pairing: DD/GA
Prompt: "Did you ever actually want to fuck me, or was it your sex addiction talking?"
Rating: R/NC-17 (reasonably explicit past-tense sex)
Originally Posted: September 22, 2008
Lengthy, Above-the-Cut Author's Notes (4 May 2009): So, I toyed with not posting this. After all, I never posted it on my LJ, which means it is sort-of orphaned. Part of my reluctance was because X-Files fandom, more than most, is highly squicked by RPF. I understand why people are squicked by it; I think the arguments for why RPF is morally questionably have a lot of worth. I don't want my fic to be ignored because I fall on the "wrong side" of this divide, or to have to defend my position when I am, frankly, not all that interested in RPF as a form, or defending it as such.
But I wrote this. I wrote this because, holy hell, how can you look at that prompt and not want to figure out how to put those words in somebody's mouth? I wrote it because, looking back over all of the fiction I've ever written, most of it was RPF, only the RPs in question were me, my mother, my grandmother, my best friend, my wife, my imaginary daughter, so the idea of exploring real peoples' motivations through fiction is familiar and comfortable for me. I wrote it because it was a porn battle, and I had never written porn, and was terrified of having to write straight people having sex, and this was a nice, easy, vaseline-on-the-lens-frame way to ease myself in. I wrote it. It's not bad, I think. I don't know if I'll ever write XF RPF again; I don't feel drawn to it, but stories come and stories go, and I try to follow them where possible.
Anyway. That author's note was about the same length as the story, I fear.
They are in her kitchen, 2 am Greenwich time. He is all time-zone blurry, awake for no reason, sitting at the table drinking strange European Coke. She got up with the baby, saw his light on, came to visit. He is six weeks out of rehab, tired of being stared at, tired of living in the ruins. Her invitation to come and hide out in London was honest and impetuous and he had responded in kind. Sometimes it's good to have somewhere to hide.
They have been talking half an hour, her random recitation of the actions of a six-week old, when the silence falls and he realizes the elephant in the room is about to trumpet This is why he came here, he thinks angrily for a moment, to get away from the looks, the questions. How are you doing, David? can only be asked in so many different tones of voice before you become entirely sick of the question, and it's not like there's any real answer he can give, not like there is anything to actually talk about, to actually say. So she cocks her head at him in the bleary kitchen light and he dreads it while he waits for her to figure out what to say.
"So, David," she says, and she might even sound a little sly. "Did you ever actually want to fuck me, or was it your sex addiction talking?"
Well. At least it's a new question. Give her credit for that.
He laughs nervously, looks at his glass. "I don't think there's a person on the planet who doesn't want to fuck you, Gilly."
"Seriously."
He looks at her again, and she is regarding him evenly, little baby head curled into her neck, leaning against the counter, doing that slight rock that somehow everyone who's ever held an infant knows. She wants an actual answer, the first actual answer that he's been asked to give in weeks, and she's been his friend so long that how can he avoid it? Fuck this making amends shit and whatever, he just wants to be able to tell someone the truth.
So he turns back to his drink and lets himself remember. The smell of the skin of her neck, the first time, the taste of salt. Kissing her, aggressive and hungry and absolutely without compromise. Her hands pinned to the bed beneath his, the perfect curve and stretch of her lips, the arch of her back, the sharp snap of her hips against his. We should do this again sometime, she had said, and he had agreed without thinking.
And then. Learning the soft liquid noises she made as he fucked her, as he wrapped his tongue around her nipple, curled his fingers in her cunt. Makeup having to cover the bite marks on his shoulders, the finger-shaped bruises on her calves. That one time, in her trailer, her hands braced against the ceiling and her back against the wall and she burst out laughing as she came. That mouth, god, sliding against his chest, sucking on his earlobe, swallowing his cock. He remembers every single time, back when they were both single and bored because there is only so much to do in Canada on a Friday night when you're famous.
He turns to face her again, looks her in the eyes. "Yeah," he says, and finds his throat is hoarse. "Yeah, I did."
She nuzzles her son's head with her cheek. "Good," she says, and smiles.
Title: In The Kitchen
Author: Amal Nahurriyeh
Summary: He lets himself remember
Pairing: DD/GA
Prompt: "Did you ever actually want to fuck me, or was it your sex addiction talking?"
Rating: R/NC-17 (reasonably explicit past-tense sex)
Originally Posted: September 22, 2008
Lengthy, Above-the-Cut Author's Notes (4 May 2009): So, I toyed with not posting this. After all, I never posted it on my LJ, which means it is sort-of orphaned. Part of my reluctance was because X-Files fandom, more than most, is highly squicked by RPF. I understand why people are squicked by it; I think the arguments for why RPF is morally questionably have a lot of worth. I don't want my fic to be ignored because I fall on the "wrong side" of this divide, or to have to defend my position when I am, frankly, not all that interested in RPF as a form, or defending it as such.
But I wrote this. I wrote this because, holy hell, how can you look at that prompt and not want to figure out how to put those words in somebody's mouth? I wrote it because, looking back over all of the fiction I've ever written, most of it was RPF, only the RPs in question were me, my mother, my grandmother, my best friend, my wife, my imaginary daughter, so the idea of exploring real peoples' motivations through fiction is familiar and comfortable for me. I wrote it because it was a porn battle, and I had never written porn, and was terrified of having to write straight people having sex, and this was a nice, easy, vaseline-on-the-lens-frame way to ease myself in. I wrote it. It's not bad, I think. I don't know if I'll ever write XF RPF again; I don't feel drawn to it, but stories come and stories go, and I try to follow them where possible.
Anyway. That author's note was about the same length as the story, I fear.
They are in her kitchen, 2 am Greenwich time. He is all time-zone blurry, awake for no reason, sitting at the table drinking strange European Coke. She got up with the baby, saw his light on, came to visit. He is six weeks out of rehab, tired of being stared at, tired of living in the ruins. Her invitation to come and hide out in London was honest and impetuous and he had responded in kind. Sometimes it's good to have somewhere to hide.
They have been talking half an hour, her random recitation of the actions of a six-week old, when the silence falls and he realizes the elephant in the room is about to trumpet This is why he came here, he thinks angrily for a moment, to get away from the looks, the questions. How are you doing, David? can only be asked in so many different tones of voice before you become entirely sick of the question, and it's not like there's any real answer he can give, not like there is anything to actually talk about, to actually say. So she cocks her head at him in the bleary kitchen light and he dreads it while he waits for her to figure out what to say.
"So, David," she says, and she might even sound a little sly. "Did you ever actually want to fuck me, or was it your sex addiction talking?"
Well. At least it's a new question. Give her credit for that.
He laughs nervously, looks at his glass. "I don't think there's a person on the planet who doesn't want to fuck you, Gilly."
"Seriously."
He looks at her again, and she is regarding him evenly, little baby head curled into her neck, leaning against the counter, doing that slight rock that somehow everyone who's ever held an infant knows. She wants an actual answer, the first actual answer that he's been asked to give in weeks, and she's been his friend so long that how can he avoid it? Fuck this making amends shit and whatever, he just wants to be able to tell someone the truth.
So he turns back to his drink and lets himself remember. The smell of the skin of her neck, the first time, the taste of salt. Kissing her, aggressive and hungry and absolutely without compromise. Her hands pinned to the bed beneath his, the perfect curve and stretch of her lips, the arch of her back, the sharp snap of her hips against his. We should do this again sometime, she had said, and he had agreed without thinking.
And then. Learning the soft liquid noises she made as he fucked her, as he wrapped his tongue around her nipple, curled his fingers in her cunt. Makeup having to cover the bite marks on his shoulders, the finger-shaped bruises on her calves. That one time, in her trailer, her hands braced against the ceiling and her back against the wall and she burst out laughing as she came. That mouth, god, sliding against his chest, sucking on his earlobe, swallowing his cock. He remembers every single time, back when they were both single and bored because there is only so much to do in Canada on a Friday night when you're famous.
He turns to face her again, looks her in the eyes. "Yeah," he says, and finds his throat is hoarse. "Yeah, I did."
She nuzzles her son's head with her cheek. "Good," she says, and smiles.
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I fundamentally write to understand people--to humanize them. (I'm fairly sure I'm a social scientist for the same reason.) So I'm glad this succeeds there.