Popcorn Battle

If memory serves me right, Mulder had finished half of his beef and broccoli at Ming Hao's, and I had some leftover shrimp lo mein in the fridge, too. So, it was for no apparent reason that Mulder wandered off to pop a bag of microwave popcorn during whatever we were watching on TV on an ordinary Saturday night. I checked his cable guide, and excitedly switched the station before he got back with his steaming treat.

"What the hell are you watching, Alex?" he asked, holding the hot bag gingerly by one corner and shaking it to distribute the salt evenly.

"Iron Chef. Sit down and shut up. You'll like it." Patting the spot beside me on his couch, I yanked the bag out of his hands before he could prop his feet on the coffee table.

Snatching the bag back and ripping it open, he grabbed a few kernels and then handed the bag back to me. He listened for a moment, then asked, "Is that Japanese?"

"Yep. They caption him, but dub everybody else."

"Who is *he*, and why is he dressed like a cross between a feudal warlord and a circus clown?"

"Him?" I asked through a mouthful of crunchy popcorn. "That's Chairman Kaga. This is his party."

"Excuse me?"

"Well, supposedly, he's some rich weirdo..."

"With a scary wardrobe," interjected Mulder.

"True--a rich weirdo with a scary wardrobe that pits his chef champions against gourmet chefs from around the world."

"You said "supposedly"..."

"Well," I grinned my best Kaga grin, "he's just an actor, you see. There isn't really a Chairman Kaga. It's just a bit for the game."

"Okay, now I'm confused..."

"Don't worry about it. Eat your popcorn," I entreated, handing the bag to him.

We munched quietly for a moment listening to Kaga going through his introductory histrionics. "Think he's gay?"

With a long, slow turn of my head, I regarded my lover, who could have been serious.

"I mean, with clothes like *that*..." He grinned, equally Kaga-like.

"I'll run right out and buy you one of those sequined jackets. I bet you'd like that..."

Eyes narrowing amusedly, he added, "Don't forget a shirt with a ruffled collar--the outfit wouldn't work without it."

"Not to mention the black leather gloves..."

He captured my prosthesis in his right hand and pressed its back to his lips. "I'll just borrow some of yours." We chuckled and snuggled a little more closely together.

Before long, ingredients started simmering away onscreen, while I started simmering a little being so close to the handsome Fox Mulder. "Whoa! That fish is still *alive*!" I exclaimed, fascinated by the contest.

"Uh, yuck?" Mulder reacted, his nose wrinkling up amusingly.

"Hey," I nudged him firmly, "I thought you *liked* fish..."

"*Dead* fish," he replied, flinging a small handful of popcorn at me to punctuate the word "dead". "Who is *that* hunk?" he asked, his attention distracted by the chef in silver satin on the television.

"Who? Morimoto?" As he didn't answer, I went on to explain, "He's the Japanese champion. He's the chef in a restaurant in New York, and *no*, we're not driving up there tomorrow, to answer your next question."

"Awwwww," he whined in a sexy, childish tone.

I threw some popcorn back at him in retaliation. "Stop drooling at the chef and start drooling at the food, okay, Mulder?"

"Okay," he agreed reluctantly, pouting for effect, and sat back against the sofa quietly. *Too* quietly, I had to notice at last, because soon I was being bombarded with popcorn kernels.

White fluff sailed through the air for a moment, until I stiff-armed him (as if that thing were ever anything *but* stiff) and held the popcorn bag out of his reach. "Cut it out, bub. You're cruising for a bruising..." I threatened teasingly.

"Please?" he smiled, his kinky interests piqued.

"Oh, shut up," I groaned, feigning annoyance while munching on another handful of popcorn from the bag I was shielding from him with my body.

"At least gimme back my popcorn. *I* made it..."

An almond-eyed starlet in a pink ballgown made some vapid comment from the TV panel and giggled in a dubbed voice that sounded far too deep and sophisticated to be her own.

"You can't be trusted with it. It's a dangerous weapon in your hands. Besides," I continued, chomping demonstratively, "cooking shows always make me hungry."

Eyeing the kernels in my hand steadily, he offered, "I think there's still some leftover Chinese in the fridge..."

In a tone exactly like that of a sportscaster, the commentator ticked off the seconds of the TV chefs' final preparations in the background.

"Actually," I demurred, "maybe "hungry" isn't the precise word..." Catching his eye, I carefully placed a single kernel between my teeth and turned to face him, my head tipped provocatively.

Immediately he jumped to the right conclusion, tipped his head in the opposite direction, and leaned in to capture the bite from my mouth, pressing his salty lips against mine as he chewed. Once he had swallowed his mouthful, he murmured against my smiling teeth, "Want some more..."

I began to turn my head to reach for another kernel, but he stopped me with his hand on my chin.

"Not *that*..." he prompted, his eyes turning dark yet twinkly all at the same time. At once his smile crushed mine, and his tongue went searching the gaps in my teeth for leftover crumbs.

A crew-cutted photographer and an ancient lady astrologer on the TV sat at a long table, tasting the bounty before them and making well-considered comments. I was entirely unable to discuss the tastes of Mulder's mouth, but I savored every drop of them.

When at last we broke for air, I ran my hand along his lap, pressing my palm against something hot, hard, and ready to be savored.

"I think it's time for tasting and judgement," I growled, loosening his belt and unbuttoning his fly to let his cock spring free.

"Judgement?" he echoed jokingly.

"Whatever. Want some more..." Pushing him backwards on the sofa, I pounced on his erection and took it roughly into my mouth.

His hips bucked beneath me, and he moaned as if in pain, but a quick glance at his face showed me that he was in little if any discomfort. I sucked him hard, running my tongue around the head of his penis and scraping my teeth along his shaft eagerly.

"Oh, shit, Alex! God, you've got... Oh, fuck, that's good... Ow! Oh, my God!" The flavor of popcorn in my mouth was soon washed away by ribbons of his come, hot and salty and wonderful. Swallowing it all, I was finally no longer hungry.

"Yummy. Better than any old fish, lemme tellya..."

"Oh, yeah," he groaned, sitting up and stretching as he tucked himself back into his jeans cautiously.

I watched him examine himself before he buttoned up and sat back on the couch. "Is something wrong?"

He honest-to-god blushed. "Uh, Alex... I think you still had some salt on your lips, because I think a grain of it got in the tip of my cock as you were blowing me, and..."

Practically jumping from where I sat, I reached out a comforting hand. "My God, Mulder! Didn't that hurt?"

Regarding me from under sheepish brows, he nodded. "Yeah, at first. But not in a bad way..."

I suppressed a shudder as I leaned over to kiss his evil grin away. "Are you sure you're all right?"

Giving a small sigh of satiation and relief, he gave me a reassuring smile. "I may be sick and twisted, but I'll be fine, babe. Thanks."

Just then, the closing theme music blared from the television. "Wait a minute! The show's over? But who the fuck won?"

He slammed his thumb down on the remote and plunged the TV into darkness. "I think *I* did, Alex. Let's go to bed for a rematch, hmmm?"

Watching his outstretched hand suspiciously as he stood before me, I rose to join him. "You wanna eat the leftover Chinese later?"

"Sure," he agreed, following me into the bedroom. "Sex always makes me hungry..."

Feedback tastes good, too! (And the Popcorn Battle is OVAH!)