From: ginevra Date: 20 Oct 1998 16:50:33 GMT Subject: New! "Midnight Snack" *NC-17* Author: ginevra Category: XRA Summary: Our dynamic duo duke it out over popsicles. Yummy. Rating: NC-17. Archival: Anytime, anywhere, just send me an email to let me know. Feedback: Cherished and adored by the author at p_blossom@vt.edu. Notes: In the same universe as "Tough Comfort", but not at all a sweet story like "T.C." Just a lil' NC-kiddies vignette to take my mind off my midterms. Thanks to Mary Ann for the line "a more congenial spot." Someday, girlfriend, I'll write like you, but til' then-Hope y'all like it! I lean back into my bed and breathe in short gasps, finally satiated, but still alone. As a doctor, I know that this is a perfectly healthy activity, but I can't help feeling empty with my efforts. Well, it gets the job done, doesn't it? He's been gone so long. I shake the beads of sweat from my neck and stumble into the kitchen. I pop the freezer open and lean my head on the edge for a moment, letting the frigid fog rush over my steamy scalp for a moment. Damn, out of ice cream again. He must have finished off the last of it. I dig around way in the back under a bag of frozen peas, finding a popsicle, double barreled and covered in white paper. Red, my favorite. Purple turns your mouth a funny color and orange doesn't taste like anything at all. But red tastes like swing sets and sandboxes and all things summery. There is a knock at the door. Bothering me during my midnight snack? I know who must be standing sheepish on the other side of the door. I glare through the peephole at his familiar stooped silhouette. I debate momentarily with myself on the idea of ignoring him, but what good would it do? I peel the popsicles apart with a syrupy sound and open the door, handing him one without preface or words. He looks a bit surprised, but recovers quickly. He pops it in his mouth and smiles. Goddamn that oral fixation, but it does shut him up. "Late night sugar cravings? Something suspicious I should know about? No EPT's laying around this place, are there?" he asks. "Nothing amusing here at all, unless you're hiding a pint of Haagen-Dazs in those jeans," I say tartly. He meanders around my apartment, poking at things. He isn't hiding much of anything in those jeans, I think. He turns around and mumbles something around the popsicle. "What?" I ask, annoyed. "Nice PJ's," he says, trying not to look at me. I realize I am still a disheveled mess, hair sticking up with sweat, silk boxers with the waistband rolled up in some places and not in others, my shirt half-buttoned, and that half wrong. I glare at him and attempt to repair myself. As I fumble with holding my popsicle and buttoning the slippery fastenings, I shiver at a sudden coolness on my left nipple. I jerk my own hand away; hoping my popsicle doesn't leave a stain on the white silk. The cold is still there. It's him. Mulder seems absorbed in the reaction of my skin to the coolness of the ice. I cross my arms and toss my best haughty stare at him. God, that feels good, tough. He looks in my eyes and a slow wicked smile spreads across his face. I catch a glimpse of myself in the hallway mirror. Cheeks flushed a high pink, hair sweaty and cleaving in strips to my head, eyes softened by desire pooling in my belly. Oh God, he knows. He knows it was him I was thinking about before he came. He knows I wasn't just sleeping. He bends his head smoothly and flicks his tongue against the white underside of my breast, catching the melting rivulets of red. The water of his smile slides soft across my skin. A sidewise glance up at me, and our eyes lock in mutual consent. He slips one hand inside my now-ruined pajama top and flicks the last button open. The popsicle goes on a slick journey to my other breast. Red sugary rivers combine with sweat to run down into my navel, down my body in what seems like endless cold veins, shocking my body to life. Beyond words, I look down at him again. His sidewise glances at me are the only recognition that I am being observed with anything other than complete sexual abandon. Even in this, the most erotic moment I have ever experienced firsthand, he is making sure, silently, that what he is doing is okay. A wave of tenderness is followed swiftly by a breaker of ardor. The cold and the heat are sending me senseless. He puts both hands on my hips and unceremoniously tosses me onto the counter, ridding me of my boxers in one fluid moment. Again the evil flash of a grin as he worries the popsicle in his mouth for a moment. He licks the trail left by the popsicle to the juncture of my thighs. Then the glistening saccharine ice slides over the most sensitive part of my secrets, teasing the pearl he finds with the tip of the popsicle. ::a goddamned ice cube, just about:: I think, almost ready to haul off and slug him or end this charade and jump on him. ::oh my:: The coldness seems to infiltrate my senses as he slides the entire length into me. I'm going to die, no doubt. The temperature contrast is now almost more than I can bear. I wriggle beneath his ministrations, eager for something, anything, to end this delicious distress. Suddenly, I am filled with him, with luminescence, with an inferno raging low in my body, threatening to spill over into the edges of my universe. Red coloring outside the lines. He is inside me, holding me steady on the countertop with his hands. Inside my center. ::oh my, indeed:: He brings me up to climax faster than I can gather my wits to suggest a more congenial spot. I nearly tumble off the edge, but he holds me steady, not releasing me. He arches back and comes with a following swiftness, almost simultaneously with me. Enough time behind that I can watch his face twisted up in ecstacy. I slump against his shoulder, panting in exhaustion. Remains of popsicles leave scattered puddles on my floor. A mess, for sure. Stains, no doubt. For once, I couldn't care less.