Like Cats and Earthquakes
Website: http://themkshrine.angelfire.com
Pairing: M/K
Rating: NC-17
Keywords: Sequel to ‘Tasting Bach.’
Spoilers: Not for the show, only for the previous story.
Archive: Yes, to lists it's posted to. Everyone else just ask!
Summary: You know, there’s something about hate that’s an awful lot
like love.
Disclaimer: Mulder is David Duchovny’s. Krycek is Nick Lea’s.
I call ‘em like I see ‘em.
Date of First Posting: July 8th, 2004
Mulder
Basketball is my religion. My meditation. I just really get into
the pace it sets. For my Sunday off, yeah. All revolves around
whether the Knicks will take it into over-time, how long a pizza takes to
get here, the length of the commercials and how bad I have to piss.
But also just the game itself. 24 seconds on the clock. They
run like the tide. 3 second violation and I know I have just enough
time to get a beer from the fridge before the freethrow.
It lulls me into the same kind of nirvana I experience when I run.
Usually.
Not really today. The day after. I can still feel where the ropes
anchored me down. Not to mention where he put his mouth.
I’ve had about three beers now and it’s one in the afternoon. I can’t
drown him out, though. I can’t drown myself. When he said I didn’t
know the first thing about him he really meant it. If I’d known, that
first day we met, how good he could eat ass, I would have shaken his fucking
hand.
And then where would we be? Would he have betrayed me still?
Fruitless question. Especially with three beers in me and the Knicks
losing by 12 points in the 4th.
Thing is…I liked it.
I had Alex Krycek’s tongue inside my asshole and I liked it. A lot.
Hell, I liked it before he even touched me.
Don’t get me wrong. I hate the son of a bitch. Hate him.
He’s the worst thing ever to happen to me. And the most memorable.
And I learned a long time ago that I’d rather hit him and shove him and push
him and yell at him than just about anything else I can think of.
He’s better than basketball. And don’t think I don’t hate that, too.
I hate him. And there’s something I love about that.
I sigh and turn the game down low. A cheerful, steady drone.
White noise like rain and wind and surf. I miss Patrick Ewing. He was
a truly unattractive man, but damn could he shoot. I made Scully watch
a game with me once. All she had to say was, “He looks like a Neanderthal,
Mulder.” I couldn’t argue. She didn’t seem enthused with his
season stats. I decided not to broach the subject of my appreciation
for Reggie Miller’s lean, sweaty body and cool arrogance behind the three
point line despite my hatred for the Pacers in general.
Scully doesn’t know I’d switch teams for him.
And she certainly doesn’t know that I did it last night for Krycek.
I didn’t do it for him. I did it for me. And before you suggest
it, I didn’t do it just for the kink factor. Or maybe I did.
Because if I didn’t, then it seems more likely that it actually had to do
with who I was in bed with rather than about being tied up.
But it was about him. And about the ropes. Krycek and ropes.
It’s a good combination, just not how I’d pictured things. Of course,
if I’d tied him up he probably would’ve ended up a bloody mess and I’d’ve
never gotten laid. He probably knew that. Kudos to the traitorous
fuck.
And yeah, I hate that he knew what I really wanted. Needed if you get
another beer in me. But for now, wanted.
There’s something awesome about the way I hate him. But only when he’s
around for me to appreciate it. It’s an empty hatred when he’s gone.
It’s quite satisfying when he’s around, though. Satisfying in a visceral
way. Physical, underneath his skin down to the blood. That’s
how I like it.
How I like him. Like to hate him.
I thought he was there to fuck me. With his cock, I mean. I knew
he was there to rape me. I was into it. There wasn’t even a doubt
in my mind that I wanted him to. Maybe somewhere down there amidst
my other subconscious yearnings, there lay a desire to have yet another reason
to hate Alex Krycek. And if I got fucked in the process, well…
If I had to I had to.
I didn’t expect what he did. I didn’t expect anything about how he
was.
*Has no one loved you here before?*
That word from his lips should have been a sacrilege. Utter blasphemy.
I should have hated hearing it. But his tongue licked a truth onto
me. Maybe his first.
I came for him like a bathhouse slut. And that was after he freed my
fucking legs. I gripped his head between them and rode his face for
all I was worth. He drained me, and what I hated most was that I wasn’t
filled with hate the second it was over.
I’m not stupid. I knew before I ever ran into him in Hong Kong that
hate shouldn’t feel this good. I knew that if I truly hated him I’d
want to get away from him…want to get him away from me. I’ve never
wanted that. I want to fill him up with me. I so overflow with
feeling around him that I can’t hold it anymore. I have to give it
to him. It breaks over me and spills out onto him as giddy as champagne.
Always does.
You know, there’s something about hate that’s an awful lot like love.
After all, I could use the word really easily in regard to Krycek.
I love to hit him. I love to accuse him. I love that first glimpse
of him coming back into my life. I try to hold him there for as long
as I can. I love the disgust that fills me when I look into his eyes
for too long. Nevermind that it doesn’t feel like disgust for long.
That it changes, the very cells of that emotion contorting or fusing, maybe
breaking apart to form something completely new.
Desire. Sex. Fucking. It’s all there, not even beneath
the hate because they’re kissing cousins. The hate isn’t something
that covers up the lust. They go hand in hand. Equals.
And he had to go and say love. I hated him for saying it, before the
cells began to shift and his mouth touched me again and I knew it wasn’t
the wrong word. It never was.
I think what I hate the most about Krycek is that he doesn’t get that I get
this shit. I’m some one-dimensional asshole to him. See Krycek.
Hate Krycek. Hit Krycek. See Krycek bleed. He can say the
word love because he just knows I won’t feel it. Well, fuck him.
I felt it before he did…before he left on a waft of stale smoke, his car
keys jangling from the ignition. I felt it then and I’m feeling it
again now. It didn’t just die because he almost killed me…because I
wanted to kill him.
I hope he does come back. I left the ropes right where he left them.
I know he will come back. I can feel my bones tightening with it.
Like my body knows exactly when. It carries the tension of him until
he returns, and as much as my mind is always surprised by the sight of him,
something in me was expecting it. Every time. He shows up like
clockwork. I feel him now in the calm before the storm.
I wonder if he’s expecting me, too.
Krycek
“Do it,” I tell him, because he just lies there staring at me. I look
over my gun at him. My breath rushes through my skull, not even making
it to my chest, to my aching lungs. I swallow and click the safety
off. I tell him one more time. “Get up.”
I almost say his name – Mulder… - or stroke him with a Russian endearment.
But I don’t.
I vaguely wonder if my terror is evident. If he reads it off of me,
the glossy page slick with my lust.
My cock feels conspicuous here. Confined against my hip, balls protruding
between my legs and straining the faded inseams of my jeans.
He starts to sit up in bed. The covers fall past his hips, gathering
to barely conceal his cock; it’s pushing a little at the fabric. I
see the outline as it starts to get fat and ripe. He’s not wearing
any clothes, and the dark, exotic tuft of his pubic hair flirts with me above
the tan cotton sheet.
I let him steep for about a month. I had some urgent business out of
town. I went sometimes days without touching myself. I’d let
the tension trap in my body, going in circles to find a way out, brimming
inside my ball sac until I’d flick off the lights, pull down my pants and
shoot on the fifth tug.
Most of the time, I was in a hotel room in Moscow. It’s summer, finally.
The easy apathy of Spring giving way to the taut, still damp of summertime.
I conducted my business during the night hours and got back to my hotel just
before dawn. I’d either fall into bed and sleep until noon or jack
myself sore.
I did it in front of the window most nights. Curtains wide open, sun
not yet peeking over the bleak horizon. I’d strip to nothing, standing
nude in front of the yawning glass, seeing my reflection a whiter shade of
pale than in the mirror.
I like to watch myself. And I like to put on a show. I’m the
opposite of a voyeur, I guess. I’m an exhibitionist.
I was five stories up and doing myself. Slow wrap of hand around my
yearning cock… A tease, then thrust, until I was jerking it hard enough
to burn myself…to leave marks, then...
Money shot against the brightening glass.
I bet Mulder’s been spanking it a little in my absence, too.
I look down now and see the head of his cock slip past the covers and peek
out at me, pink, moist, and shy. My mouth floods with saliva.
I’m his dog. I’m undone. He blinks and my body dances a wicked
shiver. He’s without his gun. Mine is steady and unafraid, as
hard as my cock. But inside…behind narrowed, black eyes…I think I might
actually die tonight.
But it doesn’t matter.
I have to know.
I jerk my head to the side, indicating I’d like him to stand. I want
to see him unfold, to lose the modesty of the bedsheet. To be with me, standing
proudly in the thick fear. I want face to face. I want to confront
his obsession with my own, compare, measure it up like two pricks in a pissing
contest.
Who needs more? Who’s gonna bottom tonight? Who sweats cum waiting
for the other one to show up again? To reclaim the other.
Will it be his fist? Or my tongue?
He slides out from under the covers, silently standing in front of me now,
his whole body long and rosy like his erect cock. He says nothing.
I remember how he screamed my name, his cum dripping on my face, his asshole
seizing and clenching, wanting me forever.
I start to undress one-handed, always keeping the gun leveled at his heart.
I watch the beating pulse in his throat as I take everything off, finally
whipping the shirt down my arm and re-aiming, catching his vein-blue eyes
in the moon splash.
His gaze dips and finds my jutting cock. We have sex in that moment.
That space of time when he’s staring at it. In that wedge, that mere
fifteen seconds, he drops to his knees for me, or he bends over the dresser
and spreads his own asscheeks like a whore, maybe finally takes me under
him and makes us one, ripping through my body with a hedonistic groan.
As soon as it starts, it’s over, though. And with a flit of his lashes,
his eyes flash mercurial silver and rise to my own once more.
I swallow audibly and crawl up onto his bed. I lie on my back, gun
trained on him with certainty as he turns toward me. And I say it:
“Tie me down.”
I’m careful to watch his breathing. I could still shoot him.
My trigger finger has no conscience. If sex turns to murder on his
face, I could do it.
But I won’t. And the fire in him keeps burning a deep red, the color
of his need, his sex. It doesn’t shift into black, losing itself to
a darker purpose, a less secret desire.
I see in him that he might just kill me. But it won’t be with a gun.
His angry cock is his weapon, full of blood-rage. And I’ll let him
use that on me any day.
Still… Nothing is certain. Especially when he doesn’t say anything.
Just moves to the foot of the bed and pulls my ankles apart, his eyes locked
on mine. My gun barely shakes. I swallow and track his movements
with religious zeal.
He moves to the left. My foot is in front of his crotch as he takes
my ankle in his hands and starts to drag the ropes up over it.
His hands don’t hurry. They close around my leg. I feel delicate
and defenseless in his grasp. But the gentleness remains only in his
hands. His face portrays a barrier made of sex and control and silence.
Even as his hands speak to me about a restraint having little to do with
the rope he’s tying me with.
He makes the last knot, tugging on the rope, and it hisses, drawing tighter.
He moves to the other ankle, taking it on top of his cupped palms like he’ll
bend down to drink me…lick the instep slow and deliberate. He stands
close again, pelvis tilted forward slightly. His fingers glide across
the thin skin, white and blue over the bone, and his cock bobs…slaps his
belly and then comes to rest against my toes.
He and I both gasp.
And then we pretend that we didn’t.
He watches the rope as he ties it, and I focus on the ache in my arm as I
continue to hold the gun on him.
His cock taps my toes once and then hardens away from them, stiffening against
his belly.
“Left wrist,” I tell him. It’s a whisper, a sharp plea disguising itself
as command.
I watch his body move as he walks slowly around the bed. Closer to
me. I concentrate on the synchronous pull and slide of his muscles.
Thighs and flanks, hips and shoulders. Broad swimmer shoulders with
long, thin, strong arms. Graceful hands dangling arrogantly.
I watch the bunch of his ass muscles, and then the relax as he shifts his
weight. I watch the body work and imagine it fucking me, straining
to work itself into me, over me, through me, an organic machine.
Would he grimace? Drip his sweat onto me? Would it be hot like
his jizz? Scalding even? Sizzling on my skin like heroin ready
in the spoon.
Would his fuck be hard and withdrawn, like the secret held in his eyes?
Or does he make love? Will his hands keep their promise? And
his cock follow through with a graceful, measured slide into orgasm?
What does his mouth say? Not speaking now. Slack. Is it
waiting for my body, for my touch to ignite his words?
I have to know.
He secures my wrist to the headboard, fingers glancing across my own, whispering
about an intimacy neither one of us will acknowledge.
I gulp back the urge to plead for my life, click the safety back on, and
toss the gun down onto the bed, between my legs.
I love him bravely. And I have to know.
“Do it,” I breathe out, shutting my eyes and waiting.
I mean it both ways. Do it. Tie me. Do it. Kill me.
Do it. Send me home.
I hardly hear him move. Around… To the foot of the bed.
Nearer the gun, and I hold my breath.
Around. To my right. Closer. Away from the gun. Leaving
it there. For later. Forever.
I feel the deft clutch of his tender fingers taking my wrist. He guides
my arm up over my head like a lover. He fastens the ropes around me.
A trickle of sweat rolls down my temple. His hand brushes along that
place on my arm. The one people cut open and let bleed when they want
to kill themselves. His touch is overly warm, the sensation gripping
my cock like the first gush of piss that you’ve been holding for hours, or
the moment you know nothing’s going to stop you from coming.
He lets go. Nothing happens. I frown, eyes still closed, and
wait. But nothing happens.
I’d like to open my eyes. See if he’s left. If he’s looking down
between my legs, not at my cock but my gun, considering. I want to,
but I can’t. I can’t predict what I’ll see, and the loss of control
is more terrifying than whatever the outcome is going to be.
Then I feel the mattress dip between my knees. My breath is shallow
as I feel him settling.
“Does it get you off?”
His voice in the room so suddenly, after so much dripping silence, makes
me start. I open my eyes to look down at him.
He’s kneeling between my legs. And holding the gun. Not aiming.
Just cradling it calmly. Looking at me.
“What?” I ask, breathless.
“I said…” he begins again, staring at me, one hand holding the gun, the other
stroking along its sleek barrel. “Does it get you off?” He gestures
with a dip of his chin down to the gun. “Thinking I might kill you.”
I watch his hands work. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe it’s his hands
that are lethal. Maybe they slip in soft only to betray in the end.
I should have known. He always hits me. Always uses them.
A gentle touch would only be perverse. Ironic foreplay. The hurt
is the truth underneath. Where we always end up.
I watch him fondle my gun, caressing the cool metal as my hot cock goes untouched.
“Does it, Krycek?” he asks.
I swallow. I blink. And suddenly, I can’t tell him yes.
Even if it’s true. I can’t say anything.
And just when I think he’s going to shift his grip and fire that goddamned
thing into my balls, he ejects the clip, letting it fall into his hand, and
then he throws each, clip and gun, in opposite directions across the room,
snarling as they land with a loud clatter, “Well, tough shit.”
Then he’s over me, face to face, a lion prior to feast. I lay raw beneath
him, and he presses his lips down on mine hard. He turns his head,
opens my mouth, eats it out. His tongue is rough inside me. His
moans are low growls of displeasure even as he grips my hair and licks deeper,
working an arm under my back and pushing his body down onto me. He
presses us together, already moving on me.
I’ve never felt anything so frightening in my life.
He tied me good. I am immobile. And he’s wild on top of me, scraping
flesh on flesh, grinding hips down, down, down, hard and insistent.
I can’t do anything but let him. He tilts my head back, baring my throat
and kisses me ruthlessly, humping the pried-open cradle of my thighs with
animal thrusts. His cock goes on top of mine, then rubs off, slipping
beside it. Our pricks drool together, naked.
I can’t move. Can’t touch him. He ruts on me. He grunts
down my throat and jams his cock into my balls, bruising my inner thighs
with his cruel hipbones.
I love him. My brother, my enemy. My brutal, angry Mulder.
Possessed by his need for me.
The gun is gone. And I know. He loves me, too.
He pants into my mouth, barely lifting his lips off mine long enough to come.
I feel his cock already dribbling semen, too late to stop, and then he’s
arching hard, gasping short shouts of release, and his cum floods between
our bodies, up my stomach, shooting across my chest. His fat dick burrows
down into mine and the last of it gushes out over my erection, coating me,
wet and warm. I groan, nearly sobbing.
He lifts up, shaking, and starts to untie my ankles like I did with him.
I moan helplessly, because I’m not ready for it to end.
He’s panting still, dripping, and instead of letting me go, he hikes my legs
up roughly over his shoulders.
“You clean?” he snarls.
“Y-Yeah,” I gasp, seeing now that still-hard, very wet, red cock being positioned,
pointing down at my anus like a missile on countdown.
I nod furiously, gripping my legs tight onto his shoulders, unready.
I feel him nudge me, and then he takes my hips. He plunges into me,
head back, and then surges forward, landing on hands braced under my up-raised
arms. He tears me open like a present…enters my bowels and starts fucking.
Tears course down into my hair. I pull at the ropes, in pain, riveted
by the feel of him up me. But I don’t want to push him away.
I want to pull him in. I want the full force of him. I want him
to know my own want through the feel of my hands on his body, stoking the
inferno that rages under his sweat.
Instead, I’m helpless as he does me. I try to buck with him, arching
like a slut and slamming myself down on his fuck. I feel the tapered
end of his long prick parting me, the muscles inside me never allowing, never
given the chance.
I look up at him, finally, through the hot blur of suddenly succumbing to
this version of us. Both of us, giving in, peeling back the rusty layer
of torn emotions and ruined union. We’re seeing ourselves born new
inside the other. The flicker in his eyes is my reflection. Me,
being screwed down into his bed, all my scars faded under the gold specks
floating on the iris.
“Krycek…” he pants, always fucking, always a part of me.
His thrusts are long and powerful. I get the whole cock each time,
head to root and back again. I get all of him: the veins in his
neck bulging dangerously, hair with the ends wet over me, flinging sweat
onto my chest. Him, Mulder, Lover, Pornographic Angel. My fists
clench, nails biting the palms.
He says it again. “Krycek.” And I’m afraid he’s demanding permission
for something. I give him all I can.
“Mulder.”
And then he’s collapsing onto his forearms, covering me, short jabs of his
hips now. I’m impaled on the deepening stroke of his wet cock, fully
open, fully his.
He bites my shoulder, growling, and I feel his balls slap my ass. My
legs slip down off his shoulders and I suddenly wish I was nineteen again,
able to keep my knees up by my ears and fuck ‘til dawn.
But he moans into my neck when I squeeze his slim, whipping hips between
my hard thighs. I want my arms around him. He’s gotta hurt, staying
hard like that, fucking me after he already came.
As though he hears me, he lifts his head and stares down into my eyes, breath
coming in small moaning pants, body rocking even as his look is steady.
I swallow. “Untie me,” I whisper.
His breath catches and shudders. The rhythmic piston of his fucking
cock hesitates. He pushes in and stops. My aching hole throbs
around him. He blinks, and then reaches up, face in my neck again,
to unfasten my bonds.
When I’m free, I feel him stop breathing. He’s just there, deep inside,
crushing me beautifully, afraid to move.
I lower my arms carefully. The sting of blood rushing through my limbs
compliments the ache in my asshole. I curl him up in me, tightening
on him as my arms go around his body, for the first time holding him in rather
than pushing him away.
His moan is strangled, choking off the hope. I grab his head…get my
lips on his and kiss his mouth. I taste his sweat. I dip my tongue
in deeply, my own violent fuck, then I let him take it over…wrap my legs
around his waist and hold him too tight, grasping, clawing, begging him to
split me open.
He starts moving, tongue into my mouth and cock into my ass. Perfect.
Slow at first. Both fucks wet. Both so very intentional.
I feel my ass invite him in; I make my hole suck him…suck his cock
as it pulls out, then open for its return. I let my mouth slacken for
the intoxicating kiss. I let my hands roam him, sliding over sweat-slick
muscles, up his neck, through his hair. I make him know I love him
with my hands. And I’ve never been fucked like this. Never guessed
it could happen. Not me. Never him. Not ever us.
My gun’s in pieces across his bedroom; the ropes are gone. It’s just
him and me here. Nothing in the way. Our love bared. We’re
naked and loving. The truth of him inside me will burn for days, maybe
years. I know it. I know everything.
And then I come. He holds me fast as it tears through me. He
smears his lips on my chin, my head thrown back, body given over to him.
He kisses wherever I’ll let him reach as he rides me through it. Lips
over my face, my hair, my neck as I empty my balls through my aching prick.
And he keeps going, breathing against my cheek as his concentration goes
to his own need. I think I can feel his cock press my ass open even
wider as it starts to happen, as he gasps in his breath and holds it, pushing
stronger, fucking himself over the edge inside me.
Then it spills, his breath and cum and everything he has. He gives
it to me on a moan of intense satisfaction.
And my name. “Alex…” A groan and an ironic prayer for mercy from
me. “Oh Alex…”
My mouth opens on a smile as I rock under him.
He’s on top of me for a couple minutes more, the drug of our sex inducing
me to stupor. When he pulls out, I realize I was almost asleep. He
falls to my side on his back, one arm thrown up like a centerfold.
Then he reaches out with the other and tugs at me, drags me over until I
crawl up on top of him, fear seeping into my pores and crouching behind my
eyes, waiting.
He arranges me, head in the crook of his collar bone. I can feel his
cum leaking out of my ass and onto his thigh.
“It’s almost morning,” he says, turning his head and peering out his window.
His hand is absently in my hair. Except there’s nothing absent about
it. About us. Everything is thought-out. Everything intentional.
So it makes his gesture even more impactful somehow…the meandering of his
fingers through my damp hair, over my scalp. My head screams and my
heart beats out a dangerous code against his bony ribs.
I nod, my cheek caressing his chest.
We lie still for a while longer. I watch the time pass on his digital
clock. Twenty-two minutes, it calculates. Enough time for his
hand to pass over my head a hundred and twelve times.
“I have to get ready for work,” he tells me softly, his lips so close to
my ear.
I nod and start to get up. He tells me to take a shower. Says
he’s going to make coffee.
Coffee. A shower.
My eye catches sight of one of the ropes dangling from the footboard as I
pass.
Clean and dressed, I drink Mulder’s coffee and listen to the sound of him
showering.
He comes out in a suit, hair brushed, shaved and perfect. I’m standing
in his kitchen with my clothes on, my jacket. I can’t meet his eyes.
He reaches behind me, stepping in close. Grabs a donut from a half-open
box on the counter. He takes a bite and then holds it out to me.
I take it and hesitantly sink my teeth into it. Cream bursts on my
tongue and I lick it quickly into my mouth.
He reaches out and takes the donut from my hand. We finish it like
that. Back and forth. He hands me another and grabs one more
for himself.
He talks to me around a bite of it. “I’m gonna order a pizza tonight.”
I lift my eyes to his. I watch him chew and then swallow, taking a
deep drink from his coffee mug, just staring at me. He lifts his eyebrows.
“What?” I manage.
He licks his lips. “Pizza. You eat it, Krycek?” His next
blink is slow, then he turns and stalks out of the kitchen, leaving me with
the memory of his poker face.
I follow dumbly, setting my own mug aside.
He turns to me in the foyer. “Look, I can’t wait for your answer all
day. I gotta go to work.”
His eyebrows are raised again. I’m frowning.
“Dinner?” he prods, looking irritated now.
“Yeah. Okay.”
He clears his throat and straightens his tie. “Good.” He turns
to the door, opening it for me. “Six-thirty. Don’t be late, I
hate that.” Then he asks, “You get your gun?”
I swallow and then nod.
“Good,” he says again.
Is it? Are we?
Good?
Then he reaches out and wraps his hand in my hair, gripping almost painfully.
“You can bring it,” he says lowly. “But I’ll never use it, Krycek.”
He kisses me. Short and hard. “Just get that.” Then he
pushes me through his door with a reminder as it shuts. “Six-thirty.”
Six-thirty.
I stand in the hall for a moment, feeling the air change around me, a jump
of electrons. Lightening flashes outside the window at the end of the
hall. Summer storm.
I make myself walk outside. The sun is behind the clouds but the morning
has lightened to grey-silver brilliance behind the heavy drops now landing
on the pavement.
I turn down the sidewalk, getting wet on the way to my car. I still
taste the donuts. I taste his cheap coffee and the shower running over
my mouth. I taste my own surrender in his arms. I taste the pain
of him fucking me.
I wonder if I’ll even taste the food we eat together tonight. If I
show up. If he was serious. If I can keep from sinking to my
knees and making it about sex because I’m scared, because I’m horny, because
his dick owns me.
Bach, the ocean, Mulder…
I wonder if I’ll taste anything else ever again.
End
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