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A White Russian On The Beach...
Side Note: Recipe for a Cerulean Blue -- vodka, Malibu rum, half'n'half and blue curacao, in equal proportions. Thank you, LuvFest 98.
| Daddy793: | Ceruleaned yet? |
| Imajiru: | Couldn't find blue curacao. But I have vodka, Malibu rum, kahlua and cream. A White Russian on a beach. |
| Daddy793: | Mmmmm yeah. You have fine taste, ma'am. |
| Imajiru: | ...Y'know, a White Russian on the beach goes incredibly well with creme caramel pudding. |
| Imajiru: | There's probably a smutfic in there somewhere. |
| Daddy793: | Oh god yes... |
| Daddy793: | Alex on his knees... |
| Imajiru: | You know the only problem with sex on the beach? Sand in the creases. |
| Imajiru: | Sand would stick to creme caramel pudding. |
| Daddy793: | I *know*... |
| Imajiru: | And a white russian on the beach would sunburn quickly. |
| Imajiru: | I'm entirely too much of a pragmatist. |
| Imajiru: | Maybe creme caramel pudding on the sunburned white russian...? |
| It's all your fault. If you hadn't fucked me on the beach, I wouldn't have fallen asleep naked in the sun, and I swear to God, Mulder, if you give me a hard-on now, I'm going to cut your balls off. | |
| I'll bet I could find something to take that burn away... | |
| Touch me and you die, Mulder. Slowly. Painfully. And without coming first. | |
| But you look so hot, Alex... | |
| I am hot. I'm blistering. In places that no man was meant to blister. Now shut up and bring me the vinegar. | |
| Wouldn't you prefer some nice, soothing massage oil? | |
| Vinegar. Now. Think castration, Mulder, and move. | |
| Ummm... small problem, Alex. There is no vinegar. | |
| What the hell do you mean, there's no vinegar? | |
| Well, remember that salad last night? | |
| The one you ate off my back? ...I thought that was ranch dressing. | |
| No. Oil and vinegar. | |
| Well, that explains why I had so much trouble washing off the bacon bits, afterwards. | |
| But I'm sure I can find something to make you feel good, Alex... | |
| I don't want to feel good. I want to feel nothing. | |
| Hey, Alex... I found something... soft, and cool, and soothing... | |
| What the hell are you... Mulder! | |
| Doesn't that feel good? | |
| It feels sticky. What the hell is that? | |
| Creme caramel pudding. | |
| Are you insane? How'm I going to wash that off?? | |
| Oh, I think I can take care of that... | |
| Mulder... | |
| ...mmm? | |
| Mulder...! | |
| Mmmm. | |
| AAAUGH!!! | |
| mmm? | |
| YOU FUCKING MORON! | |
| What's wrong? | |
| What do you think is wrong? | |
| Doesn't that feel good? | |
| Of course it feels good! | |
| So what's wrong? | |
| What's wrong?! MY DICK IS FUCKING SUNBURNED, THAT'S WHAT'S WRONG! | |
| Oh. So I shouldn't have done that. | |
| No. You shouldn't. | |
| And I shouldn't do... this... | |
| MULDER! No, you shouldn't do that. | |
| Or... this? | |
| I swear to God, Mulder, if I ever have the energy to get up off this bed, you are going to die. Slowly. Painfully -- | |
| And without coming first, yeah, yeah, I know. So that means you don't want me to do... this... | |
| You're a dead man, Mulder. | |
| Or... mmm... this... | |
| Mulder... | |
| ...or this... or even this... | |
| Mulder...! | |
| Okay, Alex, I guess I've tortured you enough. I'll stop. | |
| ...Mulder? | |
| Yes, Alex? | |
| It's, um, it's starting to feel good. | |
| But I thought you said you didn't want to feel good. | |
| That's not what I meant... | |
| I thought you said you wanted to feel nothing. | |
| Mulder... | |
| So I'll leave you alone now. Let you get some rest. | |
| Mulder...! | |
| I'll just stretch out on the couch. Night, Alex. Sleep well. | |
| MULDER!!! | |
| (door closes) | |
| (forlornly) What am I going to do about this pudding? |