Chocolate by LaTigre
BY: (Lady Jaguar)
DISTRIBUTION: Unusual Suspects, Basement (elsewhere by permission --I'm easy) Email forwarding is OK.
RATING: NC-17 (Plot? What Plot? this is smutfic with geeks. You expect plots in smutfic?)
SPOILERS: None. This is July 2000. We don't know much about the characters, so I extrapolate. I'll be ashamed of my bad guesses later.
SUMMARY: F/L - Frohike cleans out the fridge. Langly is... ah... err... his usual helpful self. Yeah. Helpful.
NOTA BENE: I can't believe I write this stuff.
DISCLAIMER: Chris Carter, 1013, and Fox own the Gunmen, not me. I own the chocolate and the fridge that needs cleaning, though.
BETA: Still a fish. Or is that "betta"?
FEEDBACK: Only encourages my bad habits.
"Today we have naming of parts," I recite as I open the mysterious Vault of Time that we call the refrigerator. Langly glances up at me with a puzzled expression on his face.
"Naming of parts -- it's a line from an old poem. About World War I and soldiers; a contrast between the studies of destruction and the pull of the lifeforce of spring in Europe during war," I explain.
He looks at me suspiciously over the tops of his black-framed glasses. Dead poets and metaphors won't seduce him away from cleaning up the server's hard drive. I weave my fingers in a mystical gesture in the air. "I'm cleaning out the refrigerator," I intone. "You are eager to help."
"Hah." He turns back to the keyboard. I've really got to work on my Jedi Mind Whammy technique. I'm zero for two today and it's not even noon.
So I sigh and start weeding out the terminally mummified bits of whatever from the bits that are probably edible. Agent Scully could probably have a forensics field day with the assorted remains haunting our refrigerator. I poke at one inert brownish lump. "Tomato. Or maybe carrot. Or radish."
"Probably left over from New Year's," is the laconic reply from behind the wall of monitors. "You went on a health food kick about then."
The lump looks even less healthy than I do. It gets swept into the trash can along with something that I hope is old celery. I don't bother to postmortem the contents of the pizza boxes before tossing them in the trashcan. Some things are better left unexamined.
"Burrito. Chinese take out. Err... jelly? Hmm tomato . . . again. Uh...ugh! No....don't wanna know this one. Grapes."
A pale hand snakes between my arm and my body as another hand slides around my torso and flattens itself against my stomach. Warm breath ghosts along the nape of my neck.
"Rin....go...." I manage to gasp. A little frisson of fear, desire, and shame skitters across my chest at his touch; settles into my stomach. I still can't quite believe we're lovers. I still can't believe I'd want to be touched by a man; to be loved by a man this much. But the feel of his hard, warm body pressed against my back starts a slow surge of arousal in my loins and I lean back into his embrace. "I ..."
"Shhh," he whispers, hand moving very slowly over my belly, insinuating itself into my shirt, tracing circles on my abdomen. My skin burns like fire under that whisper-soft touch.
"Ringo . . ." I'm not sure if my whisper is a plea or a prayer. He nibbles the nape of my neck and then pulls the elastic band from my ponytail with his teeth. I lean back against his broad chest, feeling the ghost-tickle of his baby-fine hair against my cheek. It is so easy to sink into his strength; to melt into those long, wiry arms; to feel the heat of his body enveloping me.
"You like this?" he whispers into the other ear.
"Yes....". It's the understatement of the year. My braincells shut down as he presses hmself against me. I can feel the ridge of his erection pushing against my ass.
His hand rises, finger held up for attention and I watch, curious.
"Look what I found!" he whispers gleefully. The other hand rises, hefting an opened bottle of chocolate syrup. A COLD bottle of chocolate syrup, fresh from the refrigerator.
"Ringo Langly, don't you DARE--"
"Dare what?" The bottle waggles suggestively as the other hand strokes higher, brushing my nipples, pulling my tee shirt upwards.
"Put that thing back! I don't do kinky," I growl at him. It's sad, but true -- I've found that kinky is far more fun to watch than to participate in. In most cases you get five minutes of fun and hours of uncomfortable sheets and sticky residues. I eye the bottle and plan atttck angles. There's no way he's getting near me with that stuff.
The bottle waggles again and I narrow my focus on it -- just as he intended -- setup for a sucker trap. While I'm busy tracking that cold distraction, one hand snakes up to my face and snatches away my glasses. As I make a grab for them, he plants that ice-cold bottle on my solar plexus and I fold like a bad poker hand. That's when he grabs my teeshirt and pulls the front edge of it over my face and head, and I'm trapped against his body, my teeshirt pinning my upper arms.
I've been had.
In a lifetime of travel, you can pick up some colorful expressions. I spend five minutes detailing parts of Ringo's ancestry, morals, habits, tastes, sexuality, and other more intimate things before I run out of steam and pause for breath, panting.
"Wow," he murmurs against my neck. "I don't think you repeated yourself once." Then he nibbles lightly down the length of my neck and the heat of my anger becomes a slow burn in the pit of my stomach. I feel like a fool for letting his sensual mouth distract me like this; a bigger fool for wanting his lean, warm body so badly.
I'm getting spooked again.
I've always heard that relationships between people with more than than 10 years difference in their ages is a bad idea. I'm nearly 17 years older than he is -- old enough to have fathered him and our relationship is still new. Two weeks of passionate sex still can't silence the voice in the back of my mind that howls each time he touches me: "how could he want someone as old and ugly as YOU?"
He senses the fear somehow. A finger traces my cheek. "Here and now," he says, reminding me of the night he came to my bed to help me keep my night terrors at bay. "This is here and this is now." And he slides against my body, letting me feel his heat and his desire. I am ashamed of my doubts about his feelings for me. I bow my head and gently kiss the arm that folds across my chest.
We never speak of love. It's not something we can do comfortably. But I allow myself to close my eyes and lean back into him, relaxing, trusting, knowing he will understand what I am telling him.
He hugs me a little tighter for a brief moment, then begins nuzzling my neck. "I love those wicked scenes we do in hotchat," he says softly as though there had been no interruption. Hands, warm and gentle, finish stripping my tee shirt off.
"I thought it might be fun to try some of them," he adds.
My eyes snap open and my mind starts overclocking, trying to figure out WHICH of the fantasies that we hotchatted about was the one he had in mind for today. The one small comfort is that it can't possibly be the one involving Federal Agents and abductions by alien chocoholics. There's too much setup needed for that scene. Besides, Agent Scully would simply storm in and kick his ass from here to Sunday if he suggested it to her. Mine, too.
His hand captures mine. "Here. You first," he says, and guides my forefinger to the chocolate. The thick syrup is cool against my skin. He lifts my finger to his mouth and gently tongues it, tracing small swirls down the finger and into the palm of my hand. I have to remind myself to breathe as he moves back up along the length of my finger and sucks slowly on the tip. In and out... In and out...
His other hand glides down my stomach, fingers sliding into the waisthband of my pants. My cock rises to meet his hand, straining for the touch of his fingers.
He murmurrs into my hair; a soft purr of satisfaction as his fingers circle my errection. He slowly begins stroking me, making the motion of his hand match the motion of his mouth on my fingers. I thrust into his mouth; upward into the tight circle of his fingers, falling toward climax, losing myself in the here and now.
A sudden sharp chill brushes against my left nipple, but before I can do more than gasp, his warm hand replaces the cold bottle and the heat of his hand after the shock of the cold feels like fire. I thrust harder into the tight warmth of his fist, whispering nonsense to him.
I lean against him, feeling the light icy caress of the bottle flicking against my chest and abdomen; little electrical jabs that drive into the heat of my building climax. He gnaws on my finger and I twist in his arms and lunge against him, capturing his mouth with mine. His hand circles both our cocks, stroking harder and faster.
He tastes of chocolate
His mouth is demanding, our kisses are an erotic battle for mastery, and that damned bottle of chocolate sauce is back again, brushing lightly and unexpectely against my back, my asscheeks, my chest, my neck. The coldness burns into my skin as we writhe against each other; the heat of our bodies making the contact even more unexpected.
He moans against my mouth, a soft, erotic sound that pushes me over the edge. And that damned bottle is back again, rubbing against my balls as I climax.
I swear I'm going to kill him one of these days.
But not just now. He thrusts against me, in the tight channel of his fist, and then I feel the hot stickiness of his cum spreading on our bellies. Wordlessly, he folds me in his arms and nuzzles the side of my head.
I sag against him, helpless, panting, eyes closed. "Perhaps I should bait the fridge with chocolate more often," I manage to huff.
His chuckle is warm and intimate. "Hey, we haven't gotten around to the other goodies, yet." There's a hint of something in that voice that just tells me I'm in trouble. Ohyeah. Lord Manhammer is plotting something, indeed, and the best defense against bratboy is a good offense.
A garish shape on the top shelf of the freezer catches my eye -- the half-empty box of Cherry Garcia ice cream that Byers bought last month and then forgot. And since the cosmos dictates that no good deed should ever go unpunished, I grin up at him and gnaw his nipples just hard enough to make him yelp. A slight push and I've got him where I want him, braced against the solid white refrigerator. As I pull his mouth down to meet mine, my other hand moves oh-so-gently toward its target. The Klingons say that revenge is a dish best served cold.
. . . and sweet and cherry-filled, too.