Bailey's Irish Creme

Alex sips at his glass of Bailey's and smiles. There are times for drinking vodka, yes, but there are also times when it's more apropos to linger over something smooth and sweet and mellow. So it's Bailey's tonight, and the soft caress of a satin robe against his skin, as he leans back in the easy chair that cushions his body so perfectly that it feels like an embrace.

And gazes at the man on the couch.

Long limbs in glorious sprawled disarray, black satin pajama trousers against the black leather of the couch, as the muted light gleams and highlights the contours of his lower body. Further up, the paler tones of flesh, of the man's bare chest. And further still, his face, his eyes...

Mulder is looking at him. Surveying him, head to toe and back up again, lingering on all the interesting parts in between and then returning to gaze into his eyes.

Krycek gazes back steadily, smiling a little more.

It would be a moment's work to rise to his feet and go to him, kneel beside the couch or spread himself over the other man's body, but that wouldn't be any fun. That wouldn't provoke this delicious feeling of suspense, the desire building slow and hot in his groin. That wouldn't make him tingle quite the same way, in small escalating doses of need and want.

It seems as if the empty space between them crackles with electricity, the sharp ozone scent of impending lightning in the air. An explosion, building...

Another sip of Bailey's. Smooth. A small warmth curling in his belly from the liquor, a gentle glow, blending well with the growing heat further down.

Mulder shifts position languorously, hips moving -- swell of flesh beneath satin between his legs, and the other man reaches down almost casually to rearrange himself. Pulling his hand away with a small tug of effort before the sensation of contact can get too good; letting Alex's eyes do the touching for him. Arching into the gaze as if it were Alex's hand, stroking. And when Alex tears his eyes away from those delectable contours, Mulder's eyes are fastened upon his: hungry and tender, savoring and pleading, and appreciative in a way that sends a sharp shock down his spine.

This beautiful, beautiful man wants him. It's one hell of an aphrodisiac.

And Alex wants to touch himself, but forgoes the indulgence; sips again at his Bailey's, instead, and lets the powerful knowledge of Mulder's desire arouse him instead. Moves a little himself, feeling satin glide over his growing erection with a whispery caress, and hearing Mulder draw a sudden, quick breath.

The ache in his loins reminds him of other nights of wanting: eons ago as Mulder's partner, more recently as Mulder's nemesis, thinking of this man and aching, wanting, burning with a need that could not be assuaged. But this is different. This isn't deprivation -- this is foreplay. Tantalizing with a glance, teasing with a quirk of lips, deliberately letting that ache escalate into something overpowering, and it's as smooth and sweet as the Bailey's flowing down his throat. The other times hurt, but this...

Mulder's tongue darts across his lips, moistening, adding a small liquid gleam, and now it is Alex's turn to inhale sharply.

He is fully erect now, his cock tenting his robe amusingly. A twitch of movement, and the robe falls away, revealing the extent of his arousal. For a moment, Mulder stares: eyes riveted to Alex's hard-on, dark and smoldering with passion -- then his eyelids snap shut, as he bites his lower lip. Summoning control -- and the obvious effort makes Alex's cock throb harder.

It's taking all his strength to keep from grabbing at himself. Every pulse of his cock is a near-audible howl: need, need, now, now! -- and Alex's fingers tightens on the glass of Bailey's until he thinks it might shatter in his hand. Until he is sure he will shatter, from the sheer force of the pressure within him.

Then Mulder's eyes open again, fix once again on his lover's... and it is Alex's turn to stare as Mulder's hand moves, a swift savage jerk at the waistband of his pajama trousers, wrenching the fabric aside. And yes, he knows what Mulder's cock looks like, in all its various stages of activity and rest: but the sight of it now is almost enough to destroy his precarious restraint. Straining toward him, glistening invitingly, begging to be stroked, licked...

Alex doesn't know how he can look away, but somehow he does. Fastens his gaze on Mulder's eyes. Black pools of lust, heat and velvet to sink into and be lost. Nothing exists except those eyes. Yet he can feel Mulder's hand creeping over his hip, over his thigh, gripping his own leg to keep from touching himself where he needs it most; he can feel it because his own hand is making the same progression, forsaking the glass of Bailey's in favor of a far greater desire.

Mulder wets his tongue with his lips again. Then those lips part, and a voice emerges -- faint and hoarse and low, the sound of sheer desire. "Alex," and with those two syllables it is as if Mulder has touched him; he can feel the sensation of those words against his cock as if it were Mulder's hand.

"Mulder." The reply is reflexive, almost a groan; and Mulder shudders.

Fingers touch Alex's cock, just the barest contact; and they're not Alex's fingers, they're Mulder's. Even though Mulder is on the other side of the room. Those hot velvet eyes are still fastened to his own, and he can feel Mulder stroking his cock, sating and inflaming his need at once. And his hand is doing the same in return to Mulder -- his hand, attached to Mulder's body. The gaze is their connection, and it doesn't matter now whose hand is whose.

A little whimpering moan from the couch, and Alex trembles as if he's been deep-kissed, remembering-feeling Mulder's tongue probing his mouth.

Another stroke, and it won't take much, he's almost there, but god he wants this to last. The ache is almost unbearable, and yet it's the most wonderful thing he's ever known. And Mulder, on the other side of the room, is so close to him that it's as if they're one person, with one body, swelling and sweating and arching up into that familiar-foreign touch... Two hands move in unison, touching each other, touching themselves, and two throats issue a single quivering cry. Heat and velvet and lust in dark eyes. Another stroke, and it's close, it's too close, every muscle clenching in preparation for release, tightening... and Alex fights the reflex to shut his eyes, to let his head sag back; instead, he maintains that eye contact as Mulder's hand pumps him again. Harder. Once more. Almost. And again. Yes...

And Mulder is there with him, down to the exact rhythm of the spasms, down to the exact timber of his cries, as the orgasm wrenches through him.

Somewhere in the midst of recovery, Alex's eyes close against his will, as his body struggles to reassert normal heartbeat and respiration. Parts of his robe feel wet and sticky against his skin, and briefly he wonders if it'll stain, or come out in the wash. He feels oddly alone, and lonely.

Opens his eyes, and there's Mulder, still gazing at him. Flushed, flaccid, utterly spent. The heat and the tension has been dissipated, and there's nothing but tenderness in his expression as a slow lazy smile spreads across Mulder's face.

Then, with immense effort, Mulder rises from the couch. Catches the waistband of his pajama trousers before they can fall, snaps them closed -- winces at the brush of loose fabric over sensitized skin. Moves slowly, almost gingerly, toward Alex's chair. Unbidden, Alex edges to one side, and Mulder falls into the bit of free space. There isn't really room for both of them in the chair, but they manage. Arms close around him, and Alex lets himself relax into the embrace.

But it's not an embrace; Mulder is reaching past him. To the coffee table, to the half-full glass abandoned there. Draws away from Alex infinitesimally, holding the glass between them.

Alex's puzzlement fades when Mulder raises the glass to his lips; he waits for Mulder to tip the glass, and he drinks.

Mulder smiles at Alex; then pulls the glass back and drains the remainder of the Bailey's himself.

Carefully sets the empty glass down on the table again. Then pulls Alex close in earnest, kisses him deeply and thoroughly, and the taste of the liqueur is still evident on his tongue.

Smooth, and sweet, and mellow.

And this is the full extent of Alex's awareness, as he sinks willingly into Mulder's arms.

| imajiru | fiction | astrology | email |