From: Lysandra Date: Tue, 06 Mar 2001 22:28:44 -0700 Subject: NEW: Until They Found Me (1/1) NC-17 by Lysandra Source: xff TITLE: Until They Found Me AUTHOR: Lysandra E-MAIL: Lysandra@mediaone.net or Lysandra31@aol.com URL: http://www.angelfire.com/ms/lysandlys/main.html RATING: NC-17 for MSR-type smutting. CLASSIFICATION: SR SPOILERS: Nothing too specific after Season 7, but it's set in Season 8 and refers to a Mulder return that is completely imagined. And Scully's pregnant. And Doggett exists. DISCLAIMER: These characters belong to Chris Carter, 1013, and Twentieth Century Fox. DISTRIBUTION: OK for Gossamer. Others, please ask permission before archiving. SUMMARY: Mulder's in the kitchen fixing lunch. Scully's sprawled out on his couch, channel surfing. Can it get any better than that? Well, yes, actually... NOTE: Improv elements and thanks at the end, as well as the inspiration for the title. ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Until They Found Me by Lysandra Scully did not like Mulder's sofa. Contrary to his belief that it was sexy, she found leather furniture an annoyance. It made noises, the kind of noises that should require a "pardon me." In hot weather the leather was horrible to any patches of skin that should touch it. If Scully was going to get wet while on a couch, she really wanted more pleasurable activities to cause her dampness than the mere fact she was sitting there. Lastly, leather sofas just gave off a bachelor pad vibe that wasn't Scully's favorite. But she sat on the sofa and was glad the day was cold so that she was covered in clothing from neck to toes, and not making strange sofa sounds. The dark storm clouds outside hadn't reached their hiding place yet; the windows were closed against the damp. If the thunder ever turned to rain, she might open the window to smell the air, but for now the clouds would remain separate and the sofa would squeak only minimally. Mulder was making strange kitchen sounds a few yards away Not his usual kitchen sounds, which involved dialing a phone, or humming whilst he stood in front of the refrigerator and wondered if any two foods therein would constitute a meal. There was a spoon-in-a-teacup sound, but not quite, and it sounded like he opened that cabinet above the refrigerator, the one she couldn't reach. She'd give him a few minutes before asking him what was for dinner. She picked through a tiny box of chocolates on his coffee table. He never had the large boxes, just the little gold ones that contained four perfect chocolates. That way she could satisfy her newfound sugar fetish in small increments. She usually ate one chocolate for each hour she sat on his couch, and there were three left in the box. If she finished them tonight, he was a dead man. In all the times she'd come here, Scully hadn't worked out how to control Mulder's television/cable/VCR combination. There were three remotes, and they weren't the same as hers. They didn't tend to watch much television, though, so it hadn't been a real problem. But Mulder was now humming and she was bored and actually getting comfortable on his bachelor leather, which seemed to welcome her into its depths. The television was already on, and the VCR was dark, so she chose the cable remote and closed one eye as she aimed and fired. Bingo. Channel successfully changed. If she knew which channels represented which stations, she'd be cooking with gas, but as it was she had to flip flip flip flip like a man just to see what was on. There were the Teletubbies, which her nephews loved. Drove her brother crazy -- "Dana, they're not human, they're not animals, and they all seem to be male but one carries a purse!" -- but she didn't mind them as much as something like Barney, with his insidious song. The Teletubbies had silly names but seemed harmless for children and amusing for stoned teenagers. Flip. Andy Griffith. Not really funny anymore, not since she'd met a real-life Sheriff Andy Taylor. Flip. A phony Jamaican woman talking to the air as if she were the air's obnoxious meddling sister. Flip. Rock Hudson arguing with Elizabeth Taylor. Good movie, but at least half over. Flip. Basketball. Quick flip before Mulder could hear; if he knew there was a college game on, he'd come running in asking the score and the evening would be over and she'd eat all the chocolates. Speed skating. Flip. A man selling juicers. Flip. A tease for the five o'clock news: "A revealing look at Mardi Gras; it's more than beads and beer!" A coed in a tank top revealed her digitized breasts. She was wearing beads and hoisting her beer in the air. Whoever coined the term "vast wasteland" was right. Scully turned the TV off, sighing into the couch as she laid down. "Mulder," she said, "if you don't hurry up, I'll be asleep by the time you get in here." "Don't fall asleep, Scully," came from the kitchen. "I have plans which require your consciousness." "Hmmmmm," she said. Promises, promises, Mulder. Her arm was a fine pillow. She heard him closing in on her, despite his shoeless state. She felt his breath on her cheek as he pushed her hair out of her eyes. She kept them closed and inhaled deep; he smelled like heat and sugar and cotton. The fabric of our lives, she thought, as she blindly pulled him close and sniffed his shirt. Mulder was all cotton today, t-shirt and Levi's, just like she liked him. She opened her eyes to see what nutritious treat he'd found in his kitchen. Peanut butter and jelly. At least he had decent bread; she'd cured him of his addiction to sticky white bread a few months prior, although she couldn't pull him much further into healthy eating than simple wheat. She'd begged him to at least try twelve-grain but it was useless. If he could struggle through healthy foods at her place, though, she could struggle through comfort foods at his. Compromise worked. "Open," he said, and she dutifully opened her mouth for a bite of sandwich. He'd only made one. He liked to share. Oh, wow. Wow. This was the best damn peanut butter and jelly sandwich she'd ever tasted. Just the right ratio of peanut butter to jelly, and the jelly was fantastic. It tasted like fresh raspberries. "Mulder, what kind of jelly is that? What brand, I mean?" She didn't care that she was talking with her mouth full. "No brand," he said with a smile. "It's from my neighbor. She makes it." "I hope you've checked her out, because this is delicious." She marveled at her paranoia as she chewed. She was getting more like him every day. And she was getting to like him more every day. "She's fine," he answered. "You know I've checked everyone in the building." "I could be a double agent," she said, pulling at his wrist to eat another addictive bite. "I plan on doing a full cavity search momentarily," he said. He managed to keep a straight face for about five seconds, then Grouchoed his eyebrows. "No cavities," she said around her bite of sandwich. "I brush after every meal." "I'm sure we can manage some oral hygiene," he said. He didn't seem to be eating any of the sandwich, she noted. He was just enjoying watching her enjoy it, and enjoying their non-touching foreplay. Well, more homemade jam for her. "Got milk?" she asked. He rose and nearly took the sandwich with him. "Leave that with me," she ordered, and she sat up a little to balance the small plate. After a minute or so he returned with a big glass of milk. Mulder and his two percent milk. She'd never finish it, but he'd probably guzzle what she didn't drink. She winced as she took a gulp and handed the glass back. "Mulder, I don't know how you drink that stuff. Too fatty." He put the milk on the coffee table. "Sure, Lady Godiva. You're watching your weight." He nodded at the box of chocolates. "Fat only bothers you when you don't like how it tastes," he said. "Semantics," she said. "Fat-filled milk isn't worth its fat content, and Godiva is." "True." His eyes started to look like an animal's. Always a good sign. "But that milk's good for the baby." In an instant he was on her -- lips on her neck, tongue teasing her skin, his bared teeth nibbling. In another moment the couch squeaked from their combined weight, as he straddled her and unbuttoned her jacket and blouse. She sat up so he could unveil her completely, and shimmied out of her bra just before she pushed his t-shirt over his head. He butted his warm chest against hers as he pushed her back into the leather. Kissing kissing. His taste was two percent milk and ninety-eight percent Mulder. Delicious. She didn't mind the sounds of the leather below her, because the sounds above her were so delightful. His humming and slurping and grunting drowned out the squishy squeak of the couch, and hell, she could ignore the sweating if he could. What was a little wetness between friends? When she ground her hips into his, he ground right back, shifting so her legs were outside his and they could dry-hump on the couch like kids. He knew much more about how to treat her nipples than any boyfriend she'd had in high school or college, though to be fair, her nipples were also more sensitive in her current condition. His mouth on her breast and his hands on her back made for a strangely relaxing yet invigorating massage. She felt boneless, but the sugar kept her alert, and she expertly worked his button fly so she could reach her hands into his jeans. He groaned when her hands touched his rear end, and she thrust up as she pulled him down onto her. She loved being able to touch his ass after so many years of lusting after it, when it was always hidden from her. She drew hearts with her fingers, reciting Neruda in her head as she struggled to remember the Spanish word for "walk," but it was elusive. She couldn't remember the poem, either; Mulder had sent it to her in e-mail once. She just remembered that Mulder loved her feet because they walked until they found him. It was odd that he'd say that, since from her perspective it was he who'd walked and walked to find her when she'd needed to be found. She attempted to reach his bare feet with her sock-clad toes, but his legs were too long and he'd dangled his feet over the arm of the couch. He leaned up to unbutton her pants, and she shifted her hands' attentions to shove his jeans down past his hips as far as she could push. She didn't know how he could stand not wearing underwear, but easy access was always welcome. She wrapped her hand around his cock and he seemed to lose focus for a moment, letting loose a throaty groan before reopening his eyes and getting rough with her trousers. "Lift up," he ordered. Yes, Sir. He skimmed his hands down her ass, making her shiver as he pulled down her slacks and panties. "Up up up," he said, and he kept going, pushing one pant leg completely off. She'd be trapped by her panties if he forgot them, though. "My underwear," she reminded him, and when he did nothing she let go of his cock for a moment. That got his attention, and after she repeated her request, he managed to bend her leg enough to get the underwear off it. "All the way," she told him. She didn't want to make love with one leg still in her panties. "You're killing me," he said, but he shifted his weight and did what needed to be done to get her completely naked. "Okay?" he asked. "Can we fuck now?" "You too." She gestured at his jeans. "All the way off." He was such a guy. If it were up to him they'd probably fuck up against the door and he'd just open his fly and be able to button it up right afterward. "You're so particular," he said, but he was smiling. "Always wanting to be completely naked." "Nude," she amended. "And while you're down there, take off my socks, would you?" She moved a little and damn if she wasn't sweaty and making icky couch noises. After he fucked her, they were going to have a serious talk about sleeping in his bed, because her back wasn't going to like sleeping on this couch in a month or two. Ever since he'd come back, he didn't want to do anything in his bedroom. Something about the windows. His phone rang. "Answer and die, Mulder," she warned. He peeled off her socks and twisted his head to kiss the sole of her right foot. "Wouldn't think of it," he said, finally returning to drape his naked self over her. His penis wanted her vagina and settled right over it, not yet pushing inside, just introducing itself at the door. *Hello, Ma'am, I'm here selling sperm for a program that keeps wayward sex organs off the street.* It wasn't eloquent, but it was honest. The machine picked up and they both stilled to listen. "Agent Mulder, this is Agent Doggett. Agent Scully said she might be over there." Scully shook her head. Nope, nobody here but us chickens. "If you see her," Doggett's voice said, "please ask her to call me at the office? ... Uh, thanks." "I'll call him back," she said. Mulder smiled. "I love your newly fucked up sense of priorities, Scully." "Of course you do. They all involve you." She smiled back. His penis aimed itself at her again, but missed and slid provocatively over her clitoris. She made a squeaky sound something like the couch. Her cell phone rang. "No," she said to nobody, and let Mulder push her into the leather. She reached down between them and guided Mulder into her. He pushed deep and she loved him. "Damn, you're tight," he said. "Feels good." The phone stopped ringing. "Mmmm, good," she echoed, because he felt huge and hot and amazing. Her phone kept ringing as he pulled back and pushed in again. "No," he said. "No," she echoed as she arched up and met his thrust. She needed a new phone. This one sounded like a fire alarm. Sweat above her, sweat below her. After a few rings her cell's voicemail must have picked up. Doggett would call back if it was something important. Mulder skimmed his fingers down her side, breast to waist to hip, and he kissed her, pushing his tongue in her mouth as he thrust his cock into her again. His sense of control had doubled since he'd come back. She loved this new slow thing. He seemed to be able to last as long as she needed, giving him time to take care of foreplay while he was already inside her. She didn't care if it made sense or not, it was so good. His hand came back up to her breast and he pinched her nipple just as her damn phone rang again. It's my day off, she thought. "Be quiet," she told him as she reached over for the phone. "Scully," she said, looking at Mulder's eyes. She pushed a damp lock of hair off his forehead. Doggett said something about expense reports. "Not right now," she said. "I'll do it tomorrow." Doggett said something about Mulder, and wanting to talk to him about his abduction. "Not right now," she said. "We're busy." Mulder looked like he was trying to hear what Doggett was saying. Scully wasn't much listening herself, not with Mulder pulsing inside her. "Agent Doggett," she said, "can I call you back, please?" Doggett kept talking. Expense report, blah blah, Kersh blah blah. Scully threw her head back and sighed, and hoped it sounded bored rather than sexual. X-files blah blah. Mulder grabbed the phone. "Doggett, you've got the wrong number," he said, and he clicked it off and it landed on the floor. "He'll be angry," she said. "Let him find his own woman," Mulder grunted. "It's the weekend." He started pumping into her in earnest, and her arousal picked back up immediately. She sensed that he wasn't going to last forever this time so she reached down to rub circles into her clit. "Thanks," Mulder said. "My pleasure," she said, and she was about to kiss him when her orgasm hit and she forgot everything except the Spanish word for walk, and she screamed it: *andar!* He must have came, also, because he fell on her, heavy and wet and sweet, and as she struggled for breath, lightning lit the room. A few seconds later thunder rumbled through her chest. After a while, she didn't know how long, she urged Mulder off of her so she could release herself from his squeaky sweaty sofa, and she padded naked to the window and opened it. It was raining. * end * ---------------- Let's see, which elements made it? Homemade raspberry jam. Children's programming. Bare feet. Vague mentions of tastiness. A James Dean movie (though I didn't mention James Dean). A character getting wrong numbers (though it's a bit wishy-washy there). A half-eaten box of Godiva chocolates. Stress relief. Pablo Neruda. Mardi Gras. And a thunderstorm. Thank you to Noelle Leithe and Brandon Ray for beta, and to Jenna, who supplied an elements list that made it easy. Here's the Pablo Neruda poem. In English, because I didn't find a version in Espanol. ::sigh:: Your Feet by Pablo Neruda When I cannot look at your face I look at your feet. Your feet of arched bone, your hard little feet. I know that they support you, and that your sweet weight rises upon them. Your waist and your breasts, the doubled purple of your nipples, the sockets of your eyes that have just flown away, your wide fruit mouth, your red tresses, my little tower. But I love your feet only because they walked upon the earth and upon the wind and upon the waters, until they found me. o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o Visit my fanfic -- it won't bite unless you want it to... http://www.angelfire.com/ms/lysandlys/main.html