One on One
Author: Shannon
Website: http://themkshrine.angelfire.com
Pairing: M/K
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Working up a sweat together.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Archive: Yes, to any list it's posted to. Others just ask.
Date of First Posting: August 22, 2004
Sequel to A Jog in the Park and Fear of Success.
So I'm in Wal-Mart, frowning at the racks, trying to pick out a goddamned frisbee. Right now, it's between the yellow one and the teal. My first instinct was the pink, because it's really bright and would garner the absolute most attention for my buck. But being a pretty guy (Yeah, I know, but it's useless to act like I don't know it.) alone with his dog in the park throwing a PINK frisbee... I'm gay enough as it is.
And yes. I bought a dog. He's a Boxer. He drools a lot, is freakishly happy, and loves to play ball in the park. I named him Buster because I've never had a dog, and that seems to be what they call them a lot on TV. It suits him just the same.
This is going to sound all kinds of wrong, but I bought the dog so that I could get laid. Not by the dog, although he'd probably be just fine with that. He's a horny little shit. I have yet to do the dreaded snip-snip. As a man who prizes his nuts, it's just really hard for me to comprehend a life without a blinding sex drive.
And whenever I think about picking up the phone and making the appointment with the vet, he does that thing where he tilts his head, widens his already saucer-shaped eyes, and pouts at me. Which puts my mind on Mulder. Which is why I got the dog in the first place.
To get laid by Mulder.
Again.
See, I figure if I just hang out in the park with the dog, throwing around a giant neon frisbee, I won't have to be a complete loser asshole and stalk Mulder just to get a little ass. He'll jog by, see my raucous play, be softened by the fact Alex Krycek, assassin, liar, traitor owns a sweet, friendly dog (you know, my one true companion who counts the dark hours of night with me while I cry into my Vodka and ask where all the time has gone and lament hurting the world with my presence, especially Mulder yadda, yadda, yadda...) And he'll grab me, take me home, and fuck me stupid.
You're probably wondering why I don't just show up at his apartment. Especially since we've done wonderful, nasty things to each other twice now and no one's gotten punched, arrested, or betrayed to a secret government agency. But just walking up to the door, knocking, and saying, "Hey Fox, I was in the neighborhood. Wanna screw?" doesn't seem like the proper next step in our relationship.
I don't know what is. But I'm guessing the answer can be found in the sporting aisle at Wal-Mart.
I decided on frisbee because I used to be really good at it in college, and it's something I know I can excel at one-handed. You play it any other way and you're cheating anyway in my opinion.
A loud, nasally voice comes over the PA to let us know the store's about to close in five minutes. Yellow, teal, yellow, teal...
Finally, when I've been informed if I don't get out they'll choose a frisbee for me, I grab a purple one and make my way to the register.
This had better work. It's price had not been rolled back.
........
It's five o'clock now and Buster and I have been practicing our frisbee off and on for a couple of hours. I wanted to get to the park early to make sure we'd gotten our act coordinated properly. What if I'd gotten a defective dog who can't catch a frisbee was my reasoning. We'd need to rehearse. I want to make sure and get Mulder's attention when he runs right by.
I had no cause for worry it turns out. Buster's a natural. He anticipates my throw, smiling hugely, ears perked up, then when I let it fly, he bounds for the purple plastic disk as though if he doesn't catch it, the world as he knows it will end in some horrible way.
He contorts mid-air as though boneless to snare the frisbee between his teeth. Then, when he trots back to me, it's with these big, sparkling white teeth bared around the disk so that he looks like he just couldn't be happier about life.
I find myself smiling, too, as if I might be happy along with him.
We took a break for snacks and water. I tossed his doggie treats into the air and he caught those as well, looking quite willing to wait, fixated, as long as I would decree necessary before tossing him another one. But I didn't make him wait. That kind of devotion deserves a bountiful reward.
We've been at it for about an hour more and I've been pretending to throw when I don't and changing up the trajectory, trying to trick Buster up (quite unsuccessfully because he's some kind of dog genius or something), when I nearly miss the sight of Mulder sweating his way toward me.
I do this huge dorky double-take, body twisted, ready to throw the frisbee. Mulder's shirtless again, though it's quite a bit cooler now and I have to wonder if it's more for show than because he's just burning up.
His grey sweat shorts are almost too loose. They ride real low on that flexing belly and...
"RAUF! RAUF RAUF!!"
Buster is watching me, head tilted, wondering why I haven't thrown his frisbee. I take one more indulgent look at Mulder before I drag my gaze away, licking my lips. I turn my attention to my dog, who is panting and salivating and hunkering down like what I'm throwing around is a T-bone steak instead of a relatively useless piece of purple plastic. I wonder if there's an Olympics for dogs. Buster really is quite talented.
"RAUF!" he complains, and I spare the approaching Mulder one last glimpse before I send the frisbee over Buster's head.
He tears across the grass, tongue flapping out of his mouth, and catches the thing about five feet off the ground, executing an efficient about-face and then beginning his proud jaunt back to where I wait.
I'm so impressed by his performance that Mulder's voice actually makes me jump.
"That your dog, Krycek?"
I look at him. He's panting, rather dog-like himself, hands on his drenched hips at the edge of the lawn about three feet away from me. I calm my racing heart and look him up and down. Then I shrug, Mr. Cool, and allow a nonchalant, "Yeah," before I turn back to my happy dog who is now nudging my hand with the frisbee somewhat impatiently.
I smile down at him. "Good boy," I husk. Maybe I'll enter him in the Olympic event that showcases dogs fetching hot guys for their somewhat emotionally disturbed owners.
I take the drool-dripping frisbee and twist my body, ready to throw. Buster grins and takes off until he's a little ways away then turns and looks at my expectantly. I can feel Mulder's eyes on my back the whole time.
I throw the frisbee and watch Buster run it down with predictable gusto.
"Nice dog," Mulder tells me.
I turn only part-way to look at him. I give my bottom lip a lick. Then I shrug again. "Yeah, he's learning."
I'm nudged with the frisbee again, so I take it and repeat the process that Buster seems content to live out for the rest of his doggie days. Mulder watches me, and I try not to tremble with combined fear and lust. I'm a little hard.
"How long have you had a dog, Krycek?"
Oh, this is good. He's not leaving. He's curious. Very curious. He's even walked out onto the grass, coming to stand about two feet to my right. He's watching Buster like he's some kind of alien/dog hybrid. Like there's just really nothing more interesting in the world than a man playing frisbee with his dog. I allow a small smile.
"Little while," I say. Let him guess. Let him profile the shit out of this. I can't wait.
He nods, sagely, watching Buster bring me the frisbee.
"Wanna try?" I ask, holding it out to Mulder on a whim.
He swallows. "No thanks, I'm trying to cut down."
I'm not sure if he thought I meant for him to throw it or run off after it instead of Buster. I smile bigger and shrug again, tossing the frisbee out over the grass. Mulder and I watch together, squinting in the setting sunlight as Buster snags another one out of the sky.
Mulder stands there with me, silent, for about five more throws. I'm beginning to wonder if he's gone into some kind of dog-frisbee Zen trance state when he sighs quietly and turns his head, looking me up and down. I swallow, suddenly nervous, and wait for him to say something.
He just nods, though, awkwardly. As if we're business colleagues who accidentally met up at a strip club and don't know if they should be embarrassed or relieved to see the other one there.
I drop my eyes as he starts to walk away. I throw the frisbee for Buster again, trying to concentrate on my dog and not the fact that he's just going to leave. That I'm not going to get what I want.
I squint harder, watching my dog run.
I've thrown twice more and I had assumed Mulder was long gone when I hear, "Hey Krycek."
I startle a little and turn, seeing him standing there watching me still. "Yeah?" I ask uncertainly.
"You like basketball?" he asks.
I blink, caught off guard. Truth is, I love it. I used to play in high school until my English grade got so bad I had to quit. Is he gonna ask me over to watch a game? Shit, should I bring beer? Domestic or import? Are we going to just watch or do we fuck first or what? Shit!
"Krycek?" he prods.
I look up at him. I swallow hard. Then I manage, "Yeah, sure."
"RAUF!!"
Mulder's eyes are drawn to my impatient dog. When he looks back at me, he asks, "You know the court on Franklin and 5th?"
Stupefied, I nod.
"Meet me there in an hour," he says.
I blink at him some more, but he just turns around and jogs away.
He's long gone and my dog has gotten sick of barking at me and sits quietly halfway across the park, head tilted so far it's sideways, when it finally hits me.
We're not going to watch. We're going to play.
I sit heavily on the grass, amazed, scared, speechless, and, above all, confused. Buster bounds over, skidding to a stop in front of me. He tilts his head impossibly far again. I grin at him, still not quite believing what I heard. Buster licks the side of my face from jaw to hair, and I wince. But his look seems to attempt to reassure me.
I pet his head roughly and stand. "Come on, you big doofus," I tell him. "I think you'd better stay home for this one."
.........
I shower off the funk of sunshine and dog paws. I want to get funky with *him*. Because of him.
For the first time I wonder if he's gay. I know he hasn't been with a woman since I left the Bureau under suspicion of everything but over-turning the bullpen water cooler and he went to bed with a vampire in beautiful, sunny California.
There's an episode of Buffy... Yeah, joke if you must. It's a fantastic show and all gay men must watch. It's mandatory or they take away your gym membership.
Anyway.
There's an episode of Buffy -- fifth season -- where she finds Riley getting his forearm gnawed on by some vamped-out chick in a crack house for bloodsuckers. He's doing it for the rush, yeah. But it's more because he's hurting. (And yeah, I don't really give a shit about Riley. Spike's my man, after all.) But I *do* give a shit about why Mulder almost got himself offed just for a quick lay.
And if it was because of me. Because I left. And because maybe he missed Scully and wearing her cross wasn't enough. And because his vampire, the one he fucked, was dangerous. Like me.
Before that it was Diana Fowley and we all know how vanilla that was. Exactly fifteen minutes of standard foreplay, followed by the missionary position. All if it underneath the sheets. Or so the dossier reports in stark black and white.
And yeah, there was Phoebe, but as far as I know, those three are it.
And there's me. Me in his mouth. Him in my hand.
Us playing basketball.
It occurs tome that it just might be a set-up. I show in my Pumas and get surrounded by a dozen feds in their saucy purple jackets with their steady slick guns.
I stand in my bedroom, nude and still damp, and look down at the shoes I've pulled from the very back of my closet. I even shook them out for spiders. I don't even know if they'll fit anymore. Last time I really played, not just me taking shots at a hoop one-handed, I was in the Academy. Last time I played, I was good. In every sense. Now I'm bad. In most senses.
It's not a set-up. I get the feeling he wants this almost as much as I do. That he needs it. That I'm meeting some need in him by being so freakin' needy.
Maybe I'm just a sure thing. A woman you have to work up a little bit. Dinner, drinks, conversation... Might happen, might not. He's got it figured out that there's no hit or miss with me. I'm guaranteed. Wanna fuck? Find Krycek.
But that doesn't explain the basketball. Maybe that's Mulder's newest version of foreplay.
I glance at the clock. I've got twenty minutes. I'm dressed and out the door in five, leaving Buster passed out cold on his fluffy mat.
.........
I hide in the bushes and just watch him.
The court is bare of anything but him. His feet pound the black-top. The chainlink fence sections him off into little diamonds of skin. He's wearing a shirt this time, but sleeveless, so the smooth, tanned roll of his shoulders entices my tongue to dip in as he takes aim and that crease forms between the muscles, a pale bead of sweat already running down, as intimate as my kiss.
He makes the shot, and I miss the swoosh sound the net usually makes. The warring tribes of teenagers roaming these streets have already cut it off in some afternoon victory. Mulder's basket just rings a dull tone as it battles the rim and drops into the void.
He dribbles the ball under control, and, head dropped, makes his lazy way back to the free-throw line. The slope of his neck is wet. He glistens like heat in the buzzing yellow lamps.
I make my way from bushes to fence.
He's here. And he's waiting for me.
I'm silent during his next throw, watching the muscles pile themselves on top of his bones, straight and perfect, ready for the completion of the winning shot. He's taking free-throws. I must have fouled him. Fitting.
I have a moment of fear, feeling, acutely, the empty left sleeve of my T-shirt. I watch Mulder's fine-boned hands with their clipped nails and long fingers. One hand cradles the ball in its palm. Like the butt of a beloved infant. The other hand, the one I don't have, strokes over the hide. It looks a little like love. Or a wish made on a lamp. Just a parting caress, a fare-the-well, before he sends it up to heaven, hands hanging in mid-air, waiting, suspended in the thick atmosphere of hope.
No swoosh again, but he makes it. After he tracks the ball down, battering it into submission again, he turns and lifts his face right to me, finding my gaze unerringly through the diamonds that separate us still.
He licks sweat off his lip and stands straighter, dribbling the ball deliberately, as if marking the time it takes me to breathe back the fear and integrate the electricity flaring between his body and mine.
"Gate's over there," he indicates with an arrogant jerk of his chin. His eyes follow me as I make the trip, ball still bouncing insolently, nearly in slow motion. It occurs to me that when I step through onto this sacred ground, I'm in Mulder's world. Here, he has ultimate control. Even of gravity, time, and space. He's lord of the court. I'll be lucky if I survive.
I open the gate and then let it slam closed behind me, awakening the night around us. It feels like we're the only two humans prowling D.C. at this hour. But I wouldn't be surprised if a cougar stalked by, or a cockatoo flew overhead. This feels foreign and insular. Canopied by stars, flanked by trees, the street as far away as the desert. It's magic here.
Mulder smiles a little and then backs up, making room for me to follow into the center of the court. And suddenly, he shoots the ball my direction in a bounce pass. I move with reflexes practiced in violence, response wound tight from drawing a gun and firing, but the effect is the same. My hand shoots out, and I tame the ball beneath my palm, dribbling steadily. I like the tingle as it slaps my fingers.
Mulder's smile widens. He backs up more, in the paint. Then he leans down and puts his hands on his knees, watching me and rocking back and forth. He licks his bottom lip, a challenge.
Come and get him.
Oh, God...
I dribble and sidle up to him from the left. His eyes never leave my body. I feel my cock warm in my briefs. I lean down and drive. He's ready. I feint left to draw him out of my way, then take my shot. Mulder's fast, though, and he jumps at it, getting the block, knocking the ball across the court.
He chases it down, and now I'm left to guard the hoop. I hunker down, knees bent, ready to spring, and I watch him approach. The power in this act overwhelms me. Like if he gets a goal on me, its tantamount to sexual conquest. If he can get past my defense, he'll mount me and claim the spoils of his victory. I feel every nerve in my body sting with anticipation.
I put up a good defense, and I'm surprised at myself. I don't let Mulder get past the three point line. I hate to be cliched, but it *is* like riding a bike. Without the wheels, of course. And it's never felt quite like this.
Aversion tactics flash across my mind.. I feel myself anticipate his moves. I feel his energy rise up in his body, watch his eyes for a clue, sense the open space at my back and the hole that tempts him closer. He feints, fast and down low, and I follow only to be eluded as he takes the jumper, nailing the three point shot, and even if there *had* been a net this time, the silence would have echoed the perfection of that shot.
He gives me a shit-eating grin. "Three/zip, Krycek. Your ball."
As I track down the wayward ball, my back to him, I realize something. Something that should have occurred to me in the very first moment: he's not changing his game for me, the one-armed man. He's not doing me the disservice of holding back, giving me points, or slowing up his advance. I wonder if he'll even play dirty. The thought brings a smirk to my lips.
When I turn, I drive immediately, taking him by surprise. I take it into the paint while he struggles to get under the hoop and block me. I lay it up, watch it lick the rim like a thirsty tongue and then drop into Mulder's waiting hands.
He huffs an appreciation, but his words retract it. "Still down by one," he declares, like a child.
I smile now. "Not for long."
He comes at me slow, eyes wide and wet and hungry. He stalks me, ball bouncing between his spread legs. I wonder if dropping to my knees and giving him head would be considered a foul.
He charges, and I stand my ground. He butts against my body, but gently. More would send me to the free-throw line. But it was enough. I'm utterly aware of how heavy and hot my cock feels. Swollen but not yet hard.
Mulder grabs the ball up under his arm and makes the signal for time out. I nod, standing straighter. And then I watch him let the ball bounce free, ripping his shirt off over his head. He wipes his face with the damp cotton, which gives me an opportunity to stare at his chest.
Shit, he's got a good body. Not like a Bow Flex commercial. Not that kind of good. But beautiful, still. He's softer than what we're told, as gay men, we should be. And of course I'm only basing that gay thing on how he goes down and the abandon with which he received my handjob.
Anyway. His muscles aren't perfectly defined. They're long rather than thick and bunchy. He's got these small, brown-red nipples capping off his rounded pecs. Just a little hair. More than me. And the sweat is making it lay down on his chest, wet and dark.
He throws the shirt off to the side, behind the goal, picks up the ball. "Game on," he husks, and I can only nod, speechless.
He changes tactics, then, turning his back on me. I shift from foot to foot, and then he backs into me. Slow...deliberate (and totally within NBA regulations), he leans back. I go still, feeling his slick back against my chest. He bounces the ball, head turned, not quite looking at me. He leans more and I push against him a little, daring him to foul me with a charge as he dares me to foul him with holding.
I feel my heart beat against his spine. I feel *his* sweat drip down *my* body. He eases back, making me stagger backwards toward the goal. Then with a quick intake of breath he turns, dribbles once, and fires one up. It sinks in, and he smiles.
"Yeah, five/two," I say before he can gloat. I take the ball and dribble it back out to halfcourt.
"I wasn't gonna say it," he tells me.
I scoff at him, wishing I could cross dribble, hand to hand. It always looks so cocky. I want him to sweat my moves. I want him to drip with anticipation. I want his cock to declare a time-out this time.
"You look hot," he says suddenly. I almost falter, nearly committing a walking foul. "Lose the shirt, Krycek," he adds. Then he shrugs. "If you want to."
I dribble over to the right slowly, squinting at him, and he follows. He licks across his bottom lip almost compulsively. I look for any sign that it's just curiosity about the stump. Not that I can blame him. Whether people are repulsed or fascinated, they're always curious. And Mulder's one of the most inquisitive people I know. Okay the *most* inquisitive. Him and his truth. I narrow my eyes further and fake a charge to get him to sag back into the paint. He does, and I take a three pointer. It glances off the rim, deflected.
He goes after the ball. "Tough shot," he tells me. I wonder if he's condescending to me, but he follows up with, "But *I* coulda made it," and I know he's not.
And I can tell he wants my shirt off for vastly different reasons than just because he wants to see where they cut it off. Still. As much as he may have earned the right to it through his own pain, the pain I've given him, I can't bring myself to give this to him. Not like this. Not yet.
When he drives to the goal the next time, I jump and block his shot. My hand smacks the ball down violently, and we're left standing too close, face to face.
His eyebrow goes up, but I turn and chase down the ball, relieved at the space put between us.
We play hard for what feels like no time at all but that, when I check the clock at the bank across the street, actually turns out to be two hours. My shirt is sticking to my body, completely soaked through. My crotch is swampy and hot. I smell. I run my hand through my hair and then fling the drops off my fingers. It's great.
Mulder is equally the worse for wear. The score is 52/50 in his favor, but my defense shows all over his body. The way he's panting as he awaits my advance, bent at the waist, wilting like a jungle flower.
"Fifteen seconds on the shot clock, Krycek, get your head out of your ass," he drones, smiling lazily, rocking back and forth.
There's no fucking shot clock, but I humor him, sidling up toward the three point line. He looks beautiful. I want to be closer to him. I want to risk a flagrant foul just to get to touch him. I'll throw the game, at this point, just to feel that body under my hand, my mouth.
And I must be distracted when I drive because before I know it, Mulder has stolen the ball, mid-dribble, and he's spinning to take a shot.
"At the buzzer!" he exclaims. "Final score..."
"*Final* score?!" I retort, hand on my hip, but I'm not really angry. I don't give a shit.
"Final score 54/50," he insists, grinning at me wolfishly. He saunters over, ball forgotten. "I win," he says childishly. A smirk fights its way past my frown.
He walks in close. I have to resist the urge to take a step back, and in the end, my resistance makes no difference, because he shoves me, forcing my back to hit the fence, sending out a call into the night, the metal quaking with my impact and my breath rushing out of my lungs.
"So pay up," he murmurs, grabbing the fence behind me, focusing in on my lips, now parting. I can smell him. Definitely funky. Ripe earth, stung sweet with salt. I want to feel it bloom across my tongue as it assails my nostrils. I salivate for it. "Take that shirt off," he demands.
I swallow, fear and arousal burning my chest. "What for, Mulder?" I ask, playing at coy but with real suspicion tainting the words that leak out on my breath.
"It's my prize," he says softly. "I won...so you take your shirt off."
"That was never the deal," I inform him. "There never *was* a deal, Mulder."
He quirks his head to the side. "There wasn't?" Then his right hand is slipping casually under the dripping hem of my T, fingertips touching my belly. I hold my breath, and they skim up my body, four points of contact, pushing the sweat along my skin until I'm sure it flows over the tips and down the backs of his fingers.
He takes my hand in his other and brings it high over my head, pressing my wrist back against the fence. He takes the shirt, balled up in his hand, and pulls it up until it clears my head. I lift my stump to help, feeling destroyed and completed. Lost and triumphant. Naked and full of sin.
He strips the shirt up my arm to meet his other hand at my wrist. He holds it there for a moment, both his arms raised, keeping my hand pressed against the chainlink. His heat surrounds me. His deep breathing presses his chest to mine for an instant. Then his mouth mashes to mine, grinding my lips into my teeth. His tongue pries into my mouth; he laps his salty sweat back to my throat and I groan.
God, yes. Here. Right here, I think. My cock has begun to pound to get out to him.
We fight each other to throw my shirt aside, then my hand is in his hair, pulling, ripping, and he's growling and changing the angle of the kiss and taking my body, hauling it into him, pressing dripping flesh to dripping flesh. He grinds his thick, covered cock between my thighs; it ruts to find my own confined shaft throbbing and waiting for him.
He pushes me back into the fence making it clang its loud herald to the neighborhood, an announcement of our mating. He's smothering me with his mouth, licking my lips and then dropping to bite my throat, leaving bruises under the skin, snarling wet against them and sucking them to completion.
He growls, pinching my nipples between his fingers so hard I gasp. He kisses me again before I can yell, and he tugs on my aching tits while he fucks my mouth with his hot tongue.
His lets go with one hand to take my shorts down. He grunts, kiss interrupted, and I pant into his mouth, lips on lips, as he drags my briefs over my hard cock, setting it free to bob between his legs. It rears up and slaps him in the crotch.
Then his hands are off me and his teeth are ripping into my bottom lip as he wrestles with his own clothes. It's not long before he's got both hands on my ass, a cheek in each hot palm, and he's thrusting, thrusting, thrusting, our cocks beating off on each other. His mouth drops to my shoulder, my left one, and he bites down.
I cry out, strangling the sound into a grunt. Our bodies slap loud in the quiet; the fence rattles behind me. His hands are pulling my cheeks apart and I feel the cool night air licking my asshole while Mulder bucks against me.
Then his face is tilted up to the sky, in worship to the half-moon. His mouth is slick and lax. His breath ignites the air between us. I grip the fence behind me, letting his body take me there, feeling it boiling up under my skin, feel the tightening, the stinging of lust in my balls. My legs begin to shake.
Mulder's cock starts to dribble hot, bubbling cum; his snapping hips paint it up and down the length of my cock. His face contorts like it did in the pool, and then he shouts to the sky, pulling my hips into his again and again hard while he climaxes on my cock and stomach, bathing me in a pungent stream of his semen.
It feels beyond good, his cum dripping off my balls and running down my thighs. The bruises feel good, the sweat and the adrenaline and his release.
He hasn't even caught his breath when he takes my ramrod hard cock in his sweaty palm and starts working it. I groan, closing my eyes and dropping my head back against the fence, gripping it tighter in my hand. I open them again when I feel him shift. He's bending down and taking the sticky end of my cock into his mouth.
"Awfuck," I groan, legs almost unable to hold me up now. Mulder swirls his tongue around the girth of my cockhead, starting to suckle, his hand still pumping me from the root up to where my penis disappears inside his pink lips.
I feel the fingers of his other hand creeping closer to my now desperate asshole. I want something inside of me so bad. I can almost feel it...can nearly imagine what it might be like to feel his mouth on my cock and his cock up my ass at the same time. He must feel that need because his finger starts poking and circling at my sweaty hole until it slips inside.
Then he's holding my cock steady with one hand while he blows it, and finger-fucking my butthole with the other. I want to stay in this place longer...suspend myself in the amber timelessness of pre-orgasmic sex and forget anything else but penetrating him while he penetrates me. Of liquid warmth between my legs and fire up my ass.
But he shoves his finger into me, finding my prostate, and I shoot into his mouth, layering his tongue with ribbons of cum. I feel him moan around my flesh, but I can't hear him because I'm whining his name. "Muh-OhMulder... God, Mulder... Oh God..."
When I finish, he withdraws his finger, my pucker kissing it good-bye. He straightens, standing before me, and brings his fingers to his nose. He breathes it in. God... When he lowers his hand, I see that his lips are shiny with spunk.
He starts to pull up his shorts, covering up that long, wet cock. It seems like a sin to veil such beauty. I follow his lead, avoiding his eyes. A horn honks in the distance, and I'm afraid the spell will be broken.
Mulder swipes up my shirt and hands it to me. I wipe my chest with it and tell him, "Thanks," voice low with uncertainty.
"Looks like you need a shower," he says.
It seems like an odd observation as he's certainly as disgusting as me, and I lift my gaze and open my mouth to take offense, when he stops me, stepping in. "You can use mine," he adds softly.
I close my mouth, and I swallow, blinking into his continued gaze.
"C'mon," he says, swinging his hand down and scooping up his own wet T-shirt. Then he retreats, dribbling the long forgotten basketball up and catching it in the crook of his arm.
I push off the fence, following. Then I stop. "Mulder," I call.
He stops and turns, eyebrows up.
"My dog," I tell him.
"That really was your dog?" he asks, looking, to my chagrin, rather stunned.
"Who'd you think he belonged to?" I growl.
He shrugs, fully smiling now. It's so bright in the sweet shine of the moon that I can't help letting my anger drain away to nothing. He tells me, "I dunno, I guess I figured you stole him from some poor kid or something."
I sigh, squinting at him. "He's *my* dog," I say. "His name is Buster and I got him from the pound."
"Really," Mulder replies, gentler now.
I just nod.
"So you...need to go home?" he asks tentatively.
I sigh once more. "Yeah." I feel my heart sink, and if my penis could shrink up in misery it would.
Mulder nods thoughtfully, biting his lip and staring at the ground between us. "I'd say bring him, but my landlord doesn't allow pets."
I swallow. I've got an idea. A real stupid one. One that could get me into deep, deep shit. More so than if I left Buster home alone couped up for another hour or two to go shower at Mulder's.
It's crazy. It's suicidal.
It's irresistible.
"Wanna come over?" I nearly whisper.
He's silent for a moment, then he nearly *yells*, "To *your* place?"
I roll my eyes and scuff the toe of my Puma. "Yeah."
I can't look at him. I feel the tension charge the air all around us. I feel his rejection somewhere in my very near future. Then he says, "Okay."
I jerk my head up to see his face, open expression waiting for me to give it a reason to close.
I just nod. My heart drums out a loud, disturbing song on my ribs. I pass him, opening the gate to the outside world, and he follows me to our cars.
.........
I keep checking my rearview mirror to make sure, but...
Yep. He's still there. On me like a terrier with a soccer ball.
And there's no pretense. There's no...'coming up for coffee' bullshit. Or in our case...'coming up for intel.' He's coming up to shower and, I presume, bang the shit out of me
I've lost my mind. I'm letting him come over to my place. Mulder. FBI Agent. Nemesis. Archenemy.
Fuck buddy?
Boyfriend?
Shit. I wonder what he thinks it is. I wonder if he'd like a cup of coffee after all. If my bathtub is clean enough for him and big enough for two big men to shower together without giving each other black eyes with their elbows. If this is going to end ugly, the two of us three months from now looking at each other over our guns, through our daily disguises. If he'll remember how his cum smelled on me before he pulls the trigger.
Or does this change it all? I mean, deeply, cellularly change it?
I wonder if he knows he's the yang to my yin.
I wonder if he likes Buster.
I wonder if he has any expectations.
And if we find ourselves one day with our lives in each other's hands, is he going to remember that I killed his father and then will all that time be like time lost to the blink of an eye? And how much time are we talking about? A month? A year? A lifetime?
Does he want me to give myself to this with the sick knowledge that any day it could crumble around me to nothing? Worse than nothing. He could kill me with this and he may not even know it.
And can I even choose not to?
His headlights cut off as he parks behind me. I scan the area as I always do. I try to stay alert even as he emerges from the car, torso still bare, shorts clinging to his inner thighs.
We don't speak as I lead him up to the door. I check it for tampering, and then satisfied, push it open. Buster is on me right away, his claws scratching my chest as he tries to reach my face with that enthusiastic tongue.
"Down," I command, and he drops to all fours with a tilt to his head, still licking the air. His tail is wagging so hard, I'm afraid he's going to hurt himself. "Good. Stay," I tell him. I gesture for Mulder to follow me in.
The dog is good for a few moments, about as long as he can be, I expect, but having Mulder here is too much for him to take, and he can't control himself. I see the guilty expression flash across his doggie face as he looks at me right before he bounds up to Mulder and jumps to try to lick him, too.
"Down!" I order more sternly, but he's long gone, kissing Mulder with a joyful worship he didn't even give to me. "Down!" I growl, tugging on his collar, but he just turns his big, sleek head and licks my wrist, front paws still planted firmly on Mulder's chest. I growl again, then try, "Please, dammit?" But now he's just jumping and alternately attempting to French Mulder and myself. I sigh and then just give up. "Good boy," I finally rumble grudgingly, letting Mulder fend for himself.
"Come in if he'll let you," I tell Mulder.
"Yeah, no problem," Mulder answers, dodging the tongue that seems determined to go right between his eyebrows. Then he takes Buster's paws and walks him in.
I smirk, going to the kitchen. "Do you want a drink?" Might as well go with the tried and true, I guess.
"Water," Mulder says, now bending down to pet a more subdued Buster. Buster lies down and rolls over onto his back, and Mulder squats down to rub his tummy. I smile as I turn my back once more. I don't know what it is, but the sight of that, Mulder appreciating Buster, just gives me a little thrill of hope.
I grab a couple bottles from the fridge, setting the one down on the counter. I use my teeth to unscrew the cap off mine, spitting it into the trash before setting it down and bringing the other bottle to Mulder.
"Thanks," he murmurs, finally standing.
I nod.
Buster rolls back over and sits up quickly, looking pleased with the attention but alert and ready for more at any time.
"I need to walk him," I tell Mulder. Great start, I think. I hope he wasn't expecting the kind of sex they have in movies where they're not even in the door and their clothes are half-off. I wonder if he'll leave now. This can't be his idea of a fun time.
"Mind if I come along?" he asks.
Come along? With me and the dog? I gape at him and then gather myself enough to speak, frowning now. "Uh, no. No, that's fine."
I take a deep drink then grab Buster's leash from the table and clip it onto his collar.
"You want a shirt or something?" I ask, feeling awkward. This is all way too crazy. Walking my dog with Mulder after we had sex on a basketball court... It's a whole new kind of strange I had not expected to experience in my life.
"Nah," he replies. "It's nice out still."
I nod and edge past him with a bouncing Buster to get to the door.
Buster leads on our usual route, already established in the short time he's been living under my roof. Mulder falls in next to me. It's phenomenally bizarre. Such that when the subject is brought up, it's almost more a relief.
"So whose side are you on now, Krycek?" Mulder is looking across the street at the houses getting bigger and nicer and plainer with better kept lawns. He's deceptively relaxed.
I swallow. "Nobody's," I say. Then, "My own, I guess."
He nods, chewing his lip. Buster stops to sniff a tree and then lift his leg to it. Mulder and I stand side by side, shirtless and stinking of sex, and we wait.
"Do you know anything about the case in New Jersey?' he asks, and now his voice is a little tight.
"The bank fraud?" I ask, incredulous. Why does he even care about that?
He frowns. "The other one."
Buster tugs, but I hold him back. "Stay," I demand, but he just tugs as persistently as ever. "Good dog," I snarl, holding him in place by sheer will. I look back up at Mulder. "N-No..." I tell him, unsure what his case has to do with us.
He just sighs, seeming unsure himself. Then he nods. Buster barks and I let him lead us down the sidewalk again.
After a few moments, Mulder asks, "So you gay, Krycek?"
I have to laugh a little now at his bluntness. I bite my lower lip and then look up at him sideways, under my lashes. "Yeah, Mulder. I'm gay."
He pouts his bottom lip and nods again as if this information is pertinent to him as an agent of the FBI rather than the man who's been having sex with me. Then he sighs and smiles a little, more relaxed now that that's out there. Still, I hold my tongue on the same question. As long as he's willing to fuck me, I guess I don't need to know.
"You play a good game," he tells me, catching a glance from time to time as we walk, same as I'm glancing at him.
"Thanks," I answer. Then I decide to be honest. "You play a great game."
I hear the smile in his voice, the sweet, boyish pride as he answers, "Thanks."
Buster stops to take another pee, and we wait. He sniffs around the tree in great interest, and I make serious work of looking at the tree myself, as if it's that interesting for me as well.
"You smell like me." Mulder's voice is very soft..a little breathy.
I inhale in surprise, but it only serves to lift his scent to my nose. I let it fill my head with him, my lungs with him. He's on me. I reek of him. I'm getting hard.
Buster lifts his head and pulls to cross the street. This is where we double back. Thank God. I want this man next to me. I want him as soon as I can get him. I want the promise of how that body moves, they way it pinned me to the fence...want it moving that way with his cock inside of me.
He's watching me. I smell his cock, the wealth of scent wafting up from between my own legs. Us.
We're silent for the rest of the walk, and when Buster is clearly finished with his outing and starts to pull toward home, I let him and pretend that's why we're walking so fast. That's why we're in a hurry. Because I just can't control my dog. Not because we want each other. Not because Mulder's smell is on me and because every breath reminds me of how it feels to have him want me. Not because I think he might want to fuck me as badly as I want him to.
I feel Mulder close behind me as I start to unlock the door again, Buster's leash hooked over the knob. I'm high on the fast, deep breaths I'm taking. The key won't push into the lock. My hands are shaking. I feel Mulder's hand rest on my waist and I gasp, hand making a tight fist around my keys, eyes shut. His hand dips down into the waistband of my shorts and as his fingers grip my bare hip, his lips mouth softly at where my neck meets my shoulder.
"Fuck," I whisper.
"Open the door, Alex, or your neighbors are going to watch me fuck you," he murmurs, lips tickling my skin.
And there's a part of me that doesn't care, that wishes only for him to yank my shorts down and stick it in.
But Buster barks, and it renews my desire to get inside first.
I jam the key into the deadbolt, Mulder's deep moan resonating down every fiber of muscle, penetrating to the bones and then beyond to where my yearning sleeps until he calls it forth.
Buster bounds in once the door is open. And then it shuts, and Mulder pushes me against it. His hands hold my shoulders, and he licks along my collarbone to the crease of my armpit. I hear Buster lapping up water in the kitchen. The echo of his thirst seeps through the stark quiet as Mulder lifts my arm, burying his face in my armpit, and starts licking the hair there, sucking it into his mouth and nuzzling with his tongue to get to the skin beneath.
"God," I groan, out of language. I've never been religious. Never suffered to honor Saint Michael in the deep chill of November or knelt in rapture under some stone angel's feet. Although if I were to pray it might be to Lucifer, the beautiful one who I always wanted to kiss and hold and befriend because no one else would.
Mulder is my piety. Mulder's tongue craves my stink, curls in the cup of my arm and tickles more sweat out of me. He carves his name there, and I feel my stump involuntarily lifting, seeking that same redemption, that soft-edged cut.
"Do you let anybody touch it?" Mulder murmurs, face lifting from the fit it found. His eyes spark dew over their irises, and I have to wonder if he's ever cried for me. Like I did for Lucifer. He only came down to do what no other would. Not even Jesus Christ. Nor God himself.
I take Mulder's hand. "Come on." And I lead him through to the bedroom. I hear my dog bluster, having snorted water up his nose accidentally. He shakes his head, ears clapping against that big, tough head.
I pull Mulder in. "You want a shower?" I ask.
"Can I touch it?" he responds.
I let his hand go, backing up a step even as his eyes follow me, holding me inside a certain circumference, not allowing my flight from courage.
I decide he can wait. I decide that cherry can only be popped in the exact right conditions. Speed of arousal calibrated to correspond with the urgency of the moment, leaving room for just that heat-frozen second when all things seem to stop and he'll know he can have anything he wants of me.
Even Mulder has to work at *some* things.
So I deliberately misunderstand, hook my thumb in my shorts and briefs and pull them down, exposing myself, letting my erection spring free, lush-pink and glistening. "Sure," I purr. "You can touch it."
My penis throbs against the back of my thumb. I let my other fingers hang loose and arrogant between my thighs. It calls him like a siren, like I'm in heat for him and he moves as though he intends to mount me. But as he nears, I see with xanthic diamond clarity the haunting hope in his eyes. That I'll let him as I do no other. Touch the stump. Maybe even taste it...see if the memory of blood lays dormant there, and like a volcano, might erupt into his mouth, my sacrifice so that he can release his own demons.
He grasps me behind the head and I meet his gaze. He takes my cock in his other hand and squeezes until a droplet of pre-cum spills from the tip and rolls down to pool in the place where his thumb meets his hand, slicking the web. My breathing shudders and the silence becomes excruciating.
He massages the shaft, getting a feel for how it fills his palm. Then he leans in and whispers in my ear, "It's a damned nice cock, Alex...but you know that's not what I was talking about." He sinks his fingers into my wet pubes and strokes idly. I swallow a sigh and my dick jumps. "It's okay, though," he continues, tugging at the moist curls, dragging me toward him. "It can wait." Then he cups my balls and rolls them possessively. "I want to wash you clean of me so I can defile you again, you stinking little ratfuck." And with that grinning pronouncement, he takes me by the cock and turns away, leading me with it to the open door of my bathroom. I'm left no choice but to follow, my aching prick throbbing in his hand as he pulls.
He undresses me, stripping the stained cotton down my legs roughly. I step out, and he stands in wait for my hands on him. He watches me with drowsy eyes while I work his shorts and underwear off his hips, letting his penis fall out, thick and heavy.
The water is hot on my already fevered skin when he pulls me under. The deluge feeds an already wet kiss. It plasters my hair down while Mulder slips his tongue past my lips with slow thrusts.
He wraps me in his arms as a lover would. My stump reaches for him, brushing his biceps before lowering in surrender. For a moment, his hands grip my back and his tongue chokes off my breath, like the stroke of the amputated arm signals a new fire in him.
It feels good to touch somebody with it. Even the parts that don't feel. The numbness of the skin, the deadened nerves, can't stop the memory of sensation. And my arm remembers Mulder way back from days when I would sit too close in the bullpen, my sleeve brushing his. If I'd known what was to happen, to me, to us, I might have grabbed him with it, broken the sacred platonic seal, shoved my fingers eagerly between the buttons of his shirt and ripped them away. I might have pinched his nipples in front of every other agent in that building. Might have jacked him off and then licked his hot seed from every finger.
Might have done it all again a thousand times.
The shower washes my tears away, and Mulder insists on washing my hair. I kneel, but as I reach for his turgid cock, too heavy with length to arc toward his belly like mine does, so that it lazily gestures for my hungry mouth instead, he stops me.
"Don't suck it," he says. My heart does a sad little trip over itself. "Not till I tell you," he adds. "Not yet." This last a whisper.
Then he guides soap-glossed hands into my hair, against my scalp. I stare at his erection, salivating, while he cleans me.
He tilts my head back into the spray to rinse me, and I shut my eyes, Mulder's hands holding me, covering my ears and making that seashell sound.
He guides me up and we wash each other. We linger over places on each other's bodies, both different. My hand stills over his chest, feeling the thump in the heart of my palm, between life and love line. I distract him while I pause there, taking his tight nipple into my mouth for a suck.
When it's his turn, he runs his fingers into the crease between my butt and thighs. He stops there, holding my ass as though weighing it, then his fingers rub through the dimpled valleys, over and over like he's reading Braille or committing the feel to memory. He distracts *me* with a kiss, fierce and strong, even as his fingers gently part the globes of my ass, then squeeze them together, lift them, let them drop with a bounce, pinch lightly underneath the swells where those fingers had found the warm crevice and stroked compulsively. Quick, sharp little pinches to pinken the flesh while his tongue darts against mine.
Drying off is time best spent elsewhere, and we move as though this has been verbally communicated, fondling through the doorway, sopping wet, angling for the bed.
I run my hand through his slick hair and tilt his head so I can get at his long, graceful throat. I lick it, tasting clean skin, but already smelling a new musk from him, rising from the steaming pole protruding out of its glistening nest of amber-dark pubes. He groans as his dick brushes over my scrotum; I feel the vibration of it in my lips.
His fingers thread through my hair. "Do you want to go down?" he husks.
I answer on a hiss of near pain. "Yes."
He pushes on my head and I sink down, falling to my knees in front of him. He watches me, lashes sticking together, water dripping off his chin. I surround his thick cockhead with my mouth and start a slow, hard suckling.
"Shit..." he murmurs. I glance up to see him close his eyes; the hand on my head trembles. A shiver erupts through his body, and his dick twitches hard in my mouth. I take him deeper, licking the glans and tasting the bud of pre-cum on the back of my tongue.
"Ohshit," he whines again. He humps my face a little, then, sliding his cock almost into my throat. "Fuck you..." he whispers. He pumps my mouth. "Fuck you, Krycek," he curses. But it's the most tender of phrases, a sweet promise of things to come.
He pulls my head off his cock, watching how the slicked erection re-emerges from between my distended lips.
He crawls up onto the bed and lies on his back, reaching out his hand to me. "More," he growls, cock now laying at his hip, a resting animal deceptive in its stillness.
I part his left thigh from his right and crawl between. I lower my mouth once more, taking the long cock as deeply as I dare. Not even half the length disappears into me. But Mulder cries out, grabbing for the back of my neck.
"Yes," he says. "Suck it," he says. "Suck me. Suck me, Alex."
I wonder for the first time if I'm his wet dream, too. I'm throbbing with pleasure.
I take up a rhythm, honeying his fat cock with my saliva, longing for that begging keen he can't help now when the tip of his cock touches the back of my throat.
He bends his knees up far, tilting his hips, heels dug into the bed. He gags me. I draw back, and he strokes my cheek.
"Christ..." he pants. I lick around his balls, then up the shaft, then gnaw his belly, letting his penis caress my cheek.
I'm about to take him in my mouth again when he breathes, "Do you rim?"
Aw, shit. I groan and shove his leg up, knee into his armpit. His other follows as though I had two hands with which to do this. He said it like I'm some street whore. Asking if it's on my roster, like I either never do it or I can't get enough and I eat ass for dinner at the right price. And he has my number all right. *He* has it. Mulder. I haven't done this since college and I haven't wanted to. But I start licking over his anus now with an enthusiasm that doesn't seem at all psychologically healthy.
"OhFUCK!" he growls.
I moan into the soft downy crack of his ass. It might even taste better than his cock. More subtle, this small tight bud that I want to blossom open in my mouth. I lap from his tight anus to his balls, then up his cock, kissing the tip and sucking the milky droplets from his piss-slit. Then I dive back into his ass, combining the tastes and getting him so wet his sweet little pucker is drowning in my spit.
He fucks his ass on my face while I kiss his hole open as wide as I can get it. I dip my tongue into the gripped muscle and feel him quiver.
"Krycek," he calls, breathless.
I lift my face, chin soaked to a shine.
"I want you to fuck your ass on my cock," he tells me, but it's nearly a whine, and I can't resist the pull of Mulder's desperation. I take a breath, relishing the sight of his ass reddened by my tongue, then I crawl up over him, one knee on either side of his slim hips.
"Like this?" I ask.
"Yeah."
"I've got condoms," I tell him, but then add, "I know you're clean, though." I'm already working his dick in my hand, preparing it for my asshole.
His eyes go half-mast. He swallows. "Whatever you...want," he gasps, hips bucking up once into my hand.
I want it nasty. I want it messy. I want skin on skin and his cum driven up my ass. I'm sweating with how much I want him right now. I reach over and get the lube out of the drawer. I drizzle it over his dick and then work it down to his balls. Then I squirt out more directly onto my anus. I drop the bottle to the bed and reach around, stroking it into my hole.
"Turn around," Mulder commands.
It takes some maneuvering but then I'm facing away from him. I bend over, resting my head on his leg, and start slowly finger-fucking my ass. I look behind me to see Mulder masturbating.
It's too good to end. I time my insertion with the downward stroke of his hand. I add a second finger, stretching myself more as I watch him watching me.
He rises up on an elbow, eyes glued on my anus. His hand starts to work faster. His tongue licks along his bottom lip, leaving it moist. I'm panting. I add a third finger just to see what it does to him. He throws his head back and grips the base of his cock so hard his arm is shaking.
He waits a moment, breath held, and then releases the tight hold that kept his orgasm at bay. "Stop," he whispers, sitting up behind me. I take my fingers out of my ass and he pulls me back urgently. "Back into it," he instructs. Then he points his swollen cock at my asshole.
I take a breath, swallowing my own lust, and start to ease back until I feel the blunt end prodding me. We both gasp with that first touch.
"Yeah," he murmurs as I push until it's stretching me nearly wide enough to pop inside. He thrusts fast and sudden and sinks his cockhead in. I grimace, but he breathes again, "Oh yeah..."
I ease down, letting it rip me a little just to get to feel the whole thing inside of me, thoroughly impaling my rectum. Mulder groans, and I start to gently rock forward and back, forcing his girth into my body.
Mulder grabs up the bottle of lube and squirts more onto the place where my hole hugs his cock. It starts to slip in and out more easily, and I increase the pace, rocking bigger, spreading my knees, braced on my hand. I wish I had another for my cock, but just his cock up my ass is almost enough. I start to bounce in his lap. He's sliding over my prostate with each thrust.
"OhGod," I whine, my body opening to the pleasure fully now. Mulder wraps his arm around my belly and starts to fuck me hard, taking loud panting breaths behind me.
My insides coil tight with heat, tingle in preparation for release. I work fast and rough against the friction of his cock for a few seconds more, and then I'm unloading it all, cum, curses, tears... Coming long, coming loud, moving on Mulder's prick inside me until the last drop of lust spills from my body in a wonderful flood of warm semen.
And then Mulder explodes inside of me. I feel it gush into me as he cries out, arm holding me tight. "God!" he shouts. "Alex!"
And then it happens. A deep mournful bellowing howl from Buster just on the other side of the door.
"AAAOOOOOOOO!!!!"
Mulder's cock is still spurting into me, still deeply sunk into my bowels, but his next moan of pleasure fractures into an uncontrollable giggle at the horrible sound.
Mulder's head comes to rest on my back, both of us slick from the fuck, and Buster lets forth with another winner.
"AAAOOOOOOOO!!!!"
I can't help but join in Mulder's mirth. And it's ridiculous to be laughing. Mulder's dick inside me. Mulder's arm wrapped around me. Flushed with the fire of sex. And I'm laughing. *We* are laughing.
"Shit," I chuckle, now feeling that it hurts to clench that tight around the invasion of Mulder's still-hard penis. I subdue my amusement, and Buster's angsty howls die down until the only sound now is him scratching at the door.
"Better see to that," Mulder tells me, shifting backward to let his spent cock slip from between the cheeks of my ass.
I hiss. "Sorry." I look back at him.
There's a lazy smile on his face. "Kiss me first," he says.
I turn around, blinking, and come to gingerly straddle his lap once more. His hand holds the back of my neck as I lower myself down, dick still hard, lifted high, balls coming to rest gently on the curve of his belly. I press my mouth to his, and his lips pry mine open, deepening it. He moans. I blink my eyes closed, my own hand closing around the back of his head.
Mulder's lips linger on mine before pulling away. "Your breath is like cock and ass," he says. I'm not sure if he's finding it distasteful until he adds, "Fucking kiss me again."
So I dip my mouth down with a snarl and eagerly tongue-fuck him, letting him taste himself and my appreciation of his taste as well.
The dog scratches at the door again and emits a yelping cry of distress. I groan and drag myself away from Mulder. As I crawl off the bed, he swats my ass.
"Water," he says, and I nod. I feel the slight sting of his handprint and the wet ache up inside.
I leave Mulder in the room, lying back against my sheets and sighing.
.........
After I take a reclining Mulder a bottle of water, I take an overly long time getting Buster pacified. I wash out and then refill his water bowl while he licks at the backs of my knees. I get him fed then turn his radio on easy listening so maybe he'll go to sleep. I lure him over to his bed with a rawhide and rub behind his ears while he chews.
It doesn't take an Oxford-trained psychologist to figure out I'm stalling going back in there. Maybe he'll want to fuck again, maybe he'll want to interrogate me, maybe I'll be put under arrest. I wonder if there are any outdated sodomy laws on the books at this time.
I wonder if what felt like a miracle was just my mind playing tricks on me.
Buster growls good-naturedly, his teeth firmly sunk into the blanched flesh of his treat.
"You're a good boy," I tell him, patting his ribs. "Good boy." I rearrange myself and sit cross-legged on the floor, becoming nearly hypnotized by the motion of my hand smoothing his sleek coat over and over.
"What do you think of Mulder, huh?" I ask the dog. He switches sides, holding the rawhide between his paws and gnawing the end with his back teeth. "Did you think he was hurting Daddy? Huh?" I ruffle his ears, and he whines in appreciation. Then I tell him again, "You're a good boy, Buster...good boy."
"Hey, Krycek," comes Mulder's soft voice from behind me.
I turn my head, feeling very naked. I'm quite aware of the bare expanse of my back leading down to the crack of my ass.
Buster drops his rawhide and jumps up, bounding over to Mulder with a wagging tail. Mulder deftly evades a dog nose in his crotch and tousles Buster's big-boned head between his hands. "Hey, kid," he says down to the dog. Then he looks up at me. "You coming back in or am I going to be forced to snoop through your apartment in order to occupy myself?"
Buster walks back over, taking up his rawhide once more and flopping down on his bed.
Coming back in. Relief fills me like a breath. He wants more. I stand up, and Mulder watches me with a subtle and thorough attention that has me wanting to blush.
I pass him. Our arms brush. The touch raises the fine hairs all over my newly-fucked body. He follows me back to my bedroom where he shuts the door. I feel him behind me.
I ask, as casually as I can, "So what do you want?" Painting myself the whore now.
His fingers glance over where my neck meets my shoulder. The left. "To touch you here," he says, lips at my right ear now. I shiver. He kisses the back of my neck, lips wrapped around the hard knot of bone. His thumb digs into my back. "I'm through hurting you, Alex," he tells me. I close my eyes. "Or hadn't you gotten that?"
"Mulder," I start, but it disintegrates into a whisper which dies all together when his hand slides down and gently cups what's left of my arm. I stop breathing.
"Did you ever grieve this?" he murmurs against my neck.
"Mulder," I try again, trying not to feel him, and to memorize the feeling at the same time.
He kisses the top of my shoulder. "Go lie down," he insists matter-of-factly.
My mouth has gone dry. I feel his heart beating against my back, and I remember the feel of his laughter there. I take a breath and walk away, lying on my stomach because I don't think I can watch him make love to me. It's not what I bought in for. It's not what we are.
I feel him sink the mattress between my legs. He lays himself out on top of me, body to body, covers me like soft sheets. I wonder why he doesn't want my suffering anymore.
I feel his dick stiffening and sliding its way between the cheeks of my ass again. I'm so sore there. I relish the itch of raw tissues and wait for him to breach me once more, to push the pain inside.
But he doesn't even move. He lets his cock lay in the cleft, still, and he coats my shoulder in wet kisses.
I gasp, tensing beneath him, too scared to get hard. Scared to believe. It's not about my arm. He can stick it between his legs and hump it for all I care. It's about softness. It's about that laugh and that grin and his body on mine now. When it was just about sex, I could stand it. I could *understand* it. This...
"Mulder..."
He ignores me, and his tongue, hot and sure, leaves its mark down the scars. His hand holds my other arm...slides up and links his fingers with mine. And he licks my wounds for me. Lips burning kisses on the torn flesh.
It doesn't hurt. All those places that I thought would sting don't, and all those places that I thought had lost feeling forever now feel. His warm tongue licks tears onto my skin.
"Beautiful," he whispers, nosing into my armpit and sighing. The word lances me in a place I thought felt no pain anymore. He breathes me in, then he kneads the hard ball of my shoulder muscle with his teeth. He lifts the stump with his hand and kisses the very end, the ugliest place. The place of no love. "Alex..." he murmurs.
Then nothing more is said as he slides off to my side, turning me in arms that never let me go, that wrap around me from behind and draw me back into his warm, solid, whole body. His fingers remain caught in mine, and both our hands rest against my stomach, both feel my breath, both cling tightly, unwilling to let go.
.........
The sound that wakes me is a familiar one. Mr. Coffee announcing his essence extracted. A repetitive beeping. Five regular beeps. Followed by a sound that is all together *un*familiar.
"Booga, booga, booga," goes the sound. And it's uncannily similar to Mulder's voice. "Yush," it continues. "Yush. Booga, booga, booga..."
I roll over, feeling a wonderful deep burn in my rectum and a stiffness in my thighs. Buster growls from the living room. The door is open. I see their shadows dancing on the wall like ancient cave paintings in fire-light.
Then he's there in the doorway. He tosses my frisbee onto the bed and Buster veers dangerously around the corner, bounding up and onto the bed, attacking me with his sloppy tongue, then grabbing up the frisbee and standing over me, wagging his tail in expectation.
"Coffee's ready," Mulder says. "I don't think he can wait for you to shower, though. Besides the park gets busy by mid-morning on Saturday." Then he lifts his eyebrows and disappears around the corner. "C'mon, Buster!" he calls back, and my dog springs from the bed as though I'm but a vague memory, some schlub he once knew. "Daddy needs his coffee," Mulder says from the other room, making my breath catch. "Let's go for a walk."
I swallow, sitting up finally. I hear the door open and then close. I don't realize I'm crying until the tear drips off my chin.
.........
"So did you go through my apartment?" I ask, keeping my eyes on the road, narrowing them.
"Of course," is his answer. I check the rearview mirror. Buster's head is hanging out the window and he's drooling.
I frown at Mulder's answer, though I would expect nothing less. "Find anything of interest?" I ask.
"Yeah," he answers, pausing for effect, trying to get me to sweat. I wait. "'Gang Bang in the Grass'? Alex?"
I smile.
As I make the turn into the parking lot at the edge of Hide Park, Buster barks and nearly squirms his way out the crack in his window. "It's a fine piece of cinematic art," I tell Mulder.
"Oh, I'm sure it is," he replies.
I'm reaching across myself for the door handle when Mulder stops me. "What's going on at the base in Colorado?"
I blink, smiling ruefully. I turn my gaze back to him. He lifts his eyebrows. "How 'bout you tell me over dinner?" he allows. And I see the hope in his eyes. Not about the intel. He knows that's in the bag. It's about dinner.
I nod, blinking again, feeling a shift deep under my bones, a place they couldn't reach with the knife. "And then 'Gang Bang in the Grass'?" I ask.
He smiles.
.........
The sun is setting again. Like it always does. Bright and orange and like the beginning of something instead of the end. I'm facing into it. Mulder is facing me. Buster is lying exhausted at his feet, panting. The frisbee comes my way, and I squint in the failing sun. I catch it with a grunt. I throw it back, watching it sail through the thick light. I don't want this to end. I want time to capture us...to hold us here, eternally throwing the frisbee back and forth. Mulder and me.
"Tired?" Mulder yells across the short expanse of grass.
"Not yet," I answer, meaning everything. Don't take this yet. This perfect thing I have.
He nods. I can barely make out his shining eyes in the new dusk. "Not yet," he agrees. He throws the frisbee back again.
End
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