TITLE: Str8 Five
NAME: Mik
E-MAIL: mik_dok@yahoo.com
CATEGORY: M/K
RATING: NC-17. M/K. This story contains slash i.e. m/m sex. So, if
you don't like that type of thing - STOP NOW! Forewarned is
forearmed. Proceed with caution. Of course if you have four arms you
can throw caution to the wind.
SUMMARY: The case in California that Chris didn't tell you about.
ARCHIVE: Only with my permission.
FEEDBACK: Feedback? Well, yes, if you insist .
TIMESPAN/SPOILER WARNING: This is right after 3.
KEYWORDS: story slash angst Mulder Krycek NC-17
DISCLAIMER: Fox Mulder, Alex Krycek, and all other X-Files characters
belong to Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen Productions and 20th Century Fox
Broadcasting. No copyright infringement is intended and no profit is
being made from their use. I'd rather say that they really are mine,
but I've been advised to deny everything. But when I become king ...
Author's notes:
If you like this, there's more at https://www.squidge.org/3wstop If you didn't like it, come see me, anyway. Pet the dog.
Str8 Five
by Mik
I kissed him.
I'm not sure why. Well, yes, I am. I wanted to. And I won't go into the apologetics of it, and blame the case, or the moment, or that I was mentally and physically exhausted. There's a bare fact that is immutable. He leaned over me, and those big bottle green eyes were hot and dark, and his lips were parted and he said `Kiss me'. And I did.
We had kissed before, of course, out in the parking lot of the bar. But it had been for the benefit of others and I doubt either of us enjoyed it. But this time, it was strictly between us and there is no denying that I did enjoy it. His mouth was warm and mobile and firm. There was a peppery sweetness that came from the vodka and the last time he brushed his teeth. He smelled good. He felt good. And he had such soft hair. Softer, even, than Scully's.
Thinking of Scully made me moan and tear my mouth from his, but he wasn't letting me go that easily. He was panting, and hot, and there was the unmistakable pressure of his penis against my leg. I pulled him against my mouth again.
I'm not sure how much I wanted. I had spent two hours trying to marry my clinical understanding of homosexuality to all the sights, sounds and feelings I had been exposed to the last few days. There was a dichotomy there that I'd never seen in a textbook. Between men and women, the drive is to mate, to find someone to build and protect the nest. Between two men, however, there was something more. A need to top or be topped. A simple three letter word that defined every man in the bar. Of course there were whole subsets underneath that top/bottom issue. There were men who liked being treated like a lady, and men who wanted to be used like whores. There were men who wanted all the passion and romance of a Harlequin novel, and men who wanted nothing more than anonymous orgasm. There were men who needed to prove they were men by using other men, violently.
None of that mattered at the moment. All that mattered was his mouth was hot, and his cock was hard, and his fingers were reaching under the waistband of my shorts.
I knew I wasn't ready for that. I put my free hand on his chest and pushed lightly. He was in enough pain still to go backward, obediently, and there I had him, the cap of his skull cradled in my palm, my mouth on his, licking, sucking ... wanting to climb inside him.
When I moved my mouth to his ear, he started to groan and shudder. "Please, Mulder, I need ... please ..."
I understood his need, and let my left hand slide down his incredibly firm, smooth body to find his cock. I wrapped my fingers around him firmly and began to stroke. It was hard to assess by touch, but I would say, erect, he was eight or nine inches, slim enough to get my fingers all the way around him and overlap, but with an impressively shaped mushroom of a head, fiery hot to the touch, and leaking profusely. And it felt good.
I sucked that spot under his ear and worked him, listening to him stammer and chant, feeling his fingers grope for me, where I was pressed hard against his hip. I slapped his hands away, and resumed my task. "My way," I hissed in his ear.
He choked out a laugh. "God, Mulder, you're a top."
I lifted up enough to look into his eyes. "I'm whatever the situation calls for," I answered, and started gnawing on his Adam's apple.
It was a challenge to masturbate him with my left hand, but I gave it every effort, trying all the tricks I used on myself; little twists and squeezes, pushing all the way down against his balls to hold off his orgasm as long as I could.
He was writhing under me, hands clenching and unclenching, almost sobbing my name. Humming in a little staccato rhythm as I increased my speed. "Oh ... sh -- sh -- sh -- sh -- sh -- shit ... mmmm ... nnn ... mmm... nnn ... ohhh." And then he came ... his body jerking up, his eyes squinting tight, his teeth set so hard on his swollen lip I thought he might draw blood.
And the effect was ... unexpected. I was suddenly an eight point buck ready to mount him like Bambi's girlfriend. I wanted to bite him, pin him down, use him hard, leave him marked for life. I pulled away from him, breathing raggedly. "L -- lie still," I said, trying not to squeak -- or grunt. "I'll get a towel."
In the bathroom, I turned on the tap to splash water on my face, and noticed a tiny white globule on my thumb. His cum. In spite of all I knew better, I licked it away.
I brought him a washcloth and a towel. The room was light enough now that I could see he was flushed, his nipples were dark and hard, and his semen was splashed all the way up his chest. He was panting, and his eyes were a dark green glow. "Here." I handed him the towel. I didn't want to get too close, yet. I didn't trust myself.
He cleaned himself, watching me as I went back into the bathroom and splashed more water on my face. I was so hard I could have drilled through the faux marble countertop, and I did slide my hand inside my shorts to feel myself. But I wouldn't jerk off, not now. Not for him. I came back out to the bedroom, and dropped down on my side of the bed. I made a great show of arranging my pillows and the blankets, and stretched myself out.
"You're just going to go to sleep?" he asked, incredulous.
I nodded.
"But you ... you didn't ... here." He scooted close. "Let me take care of you." He was purring.
"No." I pushed his hand away. "Not now. Go to sleep."
He rested his brow on the ball of my shoulder. "Will you at least let me stay close to you?"
I forced irritation into my voice. "We are not lovers, Krycek. That didn't consummate anything. And, besides ... I don't ... I don't cuddle. Go to sleep."
I felt him go rigid next to me and then roll away. I'm pretty sure he was swearing at me under his breath. Which I didn't mind at all. What frightened me was the possibility of him crying. But no ... not Krycek. That's what I told myself, and tried to fall asleep.
Sleep was impossible. I could feel him next to me. I could still taste him. And my mind was whirling with a million questions, most of which I knew he held the answers, but I couldn't bring myself to ask. What happens now? What did it mean? What does he expect from me? Why did it happen? How? How could I let myself get distracted from the case? How could I kiss him while Scully was ... oh, God! Scully. Maybe I was the one who would cry.
*******************************************
We gave up at complete daylight. The sunlight was filling enough of the room that there was no longer any way to ignore that we were in the same bed. We both jerked into action almost at the same moment, rolling to our respective sides of the bed, both of us snorting and groaning like old men. With my back to him, I dared ask, "How are you feeling this morning?"
He was quiet for a moment. "I'm all right," he said. I felt him turn slightly. "You?"
"I'll let you know after coffee." I got up and staggered into the bathroom.
He followed me a moment later, tugging on his jeans. "Are you all right?"
I let myself look at him in the harsh light. His chest looked slightly bruised, his mouth was swollen and he had the faintest suggestion of a black eye. His hair was standing straight up, he was barely tucked into his jeans. He looked ... "I'm fine. Of course." I turned back to the sink, and got a good look at myself in the mirror.
I was the one who looked as if I'd been beaten in an alleyway. Hollow eyed, greyish complexion, hunched and haggard looking. "I'm going to take a shower. Why don't you try and be useful and see if you can find someone from housekeeping and get some coffee supplies in here?" I pushed back the shower curtain.
He put a hand on me. "Mulder ... what happened last night ... that doesn't make you gay."
"That is one thing I know for a fact," I told him. No, kissing him and masturbating him didn't make me gay. But there was the undeniable fact that I wanted to throw him back on the bed right now and ride him like Secretariat. That probably meant the inclination was in there somewhere. "Coffee."
He let go of me and backed out of the bathroom.
I turned on the water, and started to shed my shorts, but I was keenly aware of his movements out there and turned and gave the lock a flick before I dropped them and stepped under the water. Juvenile, I know. I could breach that lock in a minute, and no doubt Krycek could do it even faster.
The water felt good, soothing, and I let it pound my weary shoulders while I tried to shake my mind back into focus and leave behind thoughts of Krycek and his lips and his ... No, again. I thought about my revelations early this morning. Our unsub was going to leave the helpless child he had been and move on to wreak vengeance on the father who had abused and tormented him. I tried to picture the next victim. If my profiles were accurate, his next victim would be about the same age his father was when the abuse escalated to the point where either the unsub ran away or finally fought back. Since his victims to this point had been very young in appearance, we were looking for a man who was the right age to have a son between fifteen and twenty. So ... very likely, we were looking for a man in his late thirties, or early forties.
It was also likely that the victim would be attractive and charming. The father was undoubtedly someone unlikely to be suspected of such crimes, even if the boy had dared to protest or complain. He would also be dominating, a strict authoritarian, perhaps a military man, or in law enforcement. My mind went over the detectives I had worked with since coming to California but not one seemed to fill the image we would have to create. Krycek couldn't do it ... he was just too young. I had to laugh thinking of that woman from the bar calling him Skippy.
I wrenched the water off, and stepped out, groping for a towel. I could hear him out in the other room and I realized I had no clothes in the bathroom with me. I considered putting on the shorts I had abandoned a few moments before, then decided I could be a mature man about all this, tucked the towel firmly at my hip and stepped out into the bedroom.
He'd been out. I didn't realize I'd been in the shower that long. He had dressed, and gone across the street to the coffee shop, and returned with coffees, bagels and grapefruit halves. He looked up at me and then at the spread he was arranging on the table. "The only thing missing is a good shot of Stoli to kick start things."
I looked at the bed where he had very carefully recreated the havoc of files I'd left on the table. "I'll tell Mighty Mouse she owes us."
He snickered. "Mighty Mouse?"
"Yeah, doesn't that seem right?" I went to the drawers and pulled out shorts, socks and a dress shirt.
He snickered again. "Oh, yeah, very right."
I sent him a meaningful look, my hands full of clothing.
He rolled his eyes and turned back to the table.
I sat down on the edge of the bed and tugged shorts into place. By the time he turned again, I had my shirt shrugged on and was pulling on my second sock. He smirked at me as he handed me a styro cup. "Good look for you, Mulder."
"Fu -- uhhhhh, yeah." Oh, that was witty, wasn't it? I took the coffee. "Thanks."
"Okay. Next step?" He pulled up a chair and looked at me.
"Well, we can go back and look at the sexual predators files, but I don't think they go back far enough to find what we're looking for."
He nodded. "I can handle that."
"Good." I took a sip of coffee. "The next thing to do is find our mark. Our `victim'." I got up and went to my garment bag. "We need someone mid thirties to early forties. Possible military or law enforcement, but definitely with an authoritarian bearing. Reasonably attractive."
"You."
I looked over my shoulder. "Seriously. Can you think of --"
"You," he insisted. "You're all of the above. Granted, you're not too toppy in your day to day mannerisms, but you've got it in here." He pressed a fist to his chest. "You could pull it off."
"Come on, Krycek." I pulled a suit down and laid it on the bed. "We need someone believable." I grabbed a tie and squinted at it. I've been color blind my entire life, and I still squint as if I think I could actually perceive colors if I put pressure on my ocular nerves. "Besides, he's seen me already. He wouldn't believe I suddenly turned ... toppy." I held the tie up to him. "Does this match?"
"Mulder, how do you get dressed at home?" He stood up and pulled the tie out of my hands. "And he probably saw you get toppy on my ass in the bar last night." He produced another tie.
"I have a great dry cleaner ... he numbers everything for me ... 1 for black, 2 for navy, 3 dark grey ... you get the idea." I draped the tie around my neck. "But ... I've been on the road so long, I've lost my little number tags." I slid the slacks off the hanger. "Giving you a shove on the dance floor qualifies as getting toppy on your ass?"
"Oh, definitely." He reached for my tie, and forced my collar up. "We'll go back, and I'll be your little Skippy tonight. We'll really play up the act." He measured the ends of my tie, and started to knot it, while I worked cufflinks into my sleeves. "You speak and I jump."
"It's like a dream come true," I told him. I let him finish the tie before I stepped into my slacks.
"Yeah, and some tops spank their bottoms," he teased.
I was surprised at the way that word hit my balls. I steeled reaction from my face. "Somehow that just isn't very satisfying to me." I slid my belt and holster into place. "Now, whipping you into a coma ... do tops do that?"
A cloud flickered over his face. "Some."
Well, that answered a lot of questions, some I didn't want answers for. "Huh." I grabbed my jeans from the floor and collected wallet, badge and gun. "Hey, after last night, no one would be surprised if you wanted to just kick back today. Why don't you take the day off? We're going to be working tonight."
"What? You trust me to be on my own for a whole day?"
"Well, I suppose I could tie you to your bed for the day," I allowed, pulling my jacket on. "But that might upset housekeeping." I began to gather my files. "Why not catch a movie or something?"
"No, I've got some calls to make." He returned to the table and picked up his bagel. "The sexual predators list. A couple of local agencies that go back a bit further."
"You've got contacts in L.A., Krycek?" I reached for my own bagel. I shoved it between my teeth and pushed files into my briefcase.
He shrugged. "I lived out here for a couple of years before Quantico." He look a long ... an unnecessarily long drink from his coffee. "There are a couple of private agencies around here who have been tracking sexual predators and victims longer than the FBI. Actually a lot more forward thinking than the Bureau ever was. I'll put in a call, see if we can find our unsub as a kid, as a victim."
I nodded. I had a very bad feeling. "We're going back probably twenty years ago," I told him around the bagel.
"You don't think the father abused anyone else?"
"No. I think the father considered this abuse justifiable. I don't think our unsub has realized that yet, though. I don't think he will until he's killed his father ... at least once," I added grimly.
He shot me a funny look. "We're not going to let him do that," he said firmly. "Are we?"
"Nope." I tucked my gun into the holster at my back and snapped my suit coat down into place. "I'll see you tonight."
He gave me an outrageous pout. "What? No kiss goodbye?"
"No, but I'll shoot you, if it will make you feel better," I retorted and left. I was smiling. I don't know why.
*******************************************
I thought Krycek had overdone the `bottom' look just a little bit. Tight leather pants, another sleeveless tee, and a gold dog chain around his neck. It scared me how hot he looked. I decided not to vary my costume any, and just got back into jeans and a henley for the night. We decided tonight it would be appropriate to be seen arriving together, and we did. The Saturday night crowd was even bigger than the Friday night crowd, which we thought our unsub would try to use to his advantage.
I let Krycek pay the door charge, because it seemed like something a bottom should do, and he trailed after me like a hungry puppy as we worked our way into the crowd. Mich didn't look happy to see us, but she did give us the requisite `yeah, you're a regular' nod and resumed her duties. Krycek managed to find us a table back by the bandstand and while I would have preferred the other side of the bar, this afforded us a good view of the entire place without looking as if we were staking it out.
Krycek surprised me by moving his chair around the table and sitting close, but not touching me. I assumed this was appropriate behavior for someone who was `owned'. Krycek had been full of advice all the way down to the bar and I was becoming more and more intimidated by the role of a `top'.
I sent Krycek for drinks while I reviewed the information. The sexual predators database had given us nothing, as we had anticipated, although they offered to send a zip file with some archival information in the morning. Great. Let's give the bastard another night to get even with his father. Krycek's local connections turned up little more, just a vague memory from a guy who thought there had been a similar case about twenty two years ago ... one victim, who lived, but no charges were ever brought. There were no details immediately available.
Part of the difficulty was the fact that I couldn't get Krycek out of my head. There were so many things going on in so many levels of my consciousness that it was hard to keep it all straight, pun intended. I still didn't trust him, not after Scully's abduction. I know he had a part in that, I just don't know what. But there was an attraction building there. An attraction fortified by an unexpectedly protective attitude; the idea that our killer might have tried to add Krycek to his list of victims had me watching him carefully all the way to and from the bar, where he returned with a beer and a shot for me, and his precious Stoli.
"Mighty Mouse says hi," he told me, putting the glasses down.
"You didn't call her that," I said, matter of fact.
"Oh, no, Sir," he assured me in an almost simpering voice. He stood, waiting. When I didn't respond, he looked pointedly at the chair at my side. "May I sit down, Sir?"
I reached for my beer and took a long ... unnecessarily long drink, wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and then nodded. "Sit."
He took the seat, reached for his glass, lifted it to his lips and said, "You're loving this, aren't you, asshole?"
"That's no way to talk to your master, boy," I said sternly. But ... I was.
A very sweet looking thing slithered up to us, his long blond hair spilling down over his shoulders and into his eyes, and he had incorporated the tuck behind the ear movement into the way he was undulating as he stood at our table. He looked at me ... then he looked at Krycek ... then he said, `"I want to dance."
I looked at Krycek. "Do you want to dance?"
He gave me a look that promised me he was going to kick me someplace hard. "Yes, Sir."
"You may," I said with the air of royalty granting dispensation. "One song."
Krycek got up and followed the kid, whose ID I wanted to get a good look at because I think he was there dancing while his science homework languished at home next to his Nintendo. Krycek was out there to teach me a lesson and he was putting everything he had into one of those Whitney Houston songs we couldn't get away from. I'm Every Woman, I think. The irony made me laugh. But his movements made me squirm.
"Cute boy," said a husky voice near me. "I see you've got him a little better trained now."
I looked up. It was Johnny Cash! Well, okay, it was a man dressed entirely in black, with long black hair and a hard round face. "He's always well trained," I answered uncomfortably. "I just let him off the leash now and again."
"Had him a while?" He was helping himself to a seat.
I narrowed my eyes at him. "A few months. Sit down, won't you?"
"Interested in trading up?"
Well, that was the end of my cover. I gaped at him. "Wh -- what?"
He was reaching into the breast pocket of his jacket. "I've got some interesting properties available."
"Clayton." It was Mighty Mouse, herself, and she looked annoyed. "I've told you a hundred times, this isn't a playpen. Take your little pussy posse and get out of here."
I'll be damned if that great big, menacing looking guy didn't tuck his envelope away, duck his head, tip his great big black hat at her and move away.
"I've told him we don't trade in here." She turned to me. "I guess I misjudged you, didn't I?"
I was still staring at his retreating back. As he moved toward the exits, three young men detached themselves from various poses around the room and trotted after him. "Misjudged me?" I mumbled.
"Looks like you got Skippy on a lead tonight. Or are you just researching what it's like to be a Dom?" She was wiping at our table, but her eyes were on me.
"A ... Dom?" I echoed. I never claimed to be a scintillating conversationalist but I was at a low ebb at that moment.
"I see." She smiled. "What kind of line has he fed you?" She picked up my untouched shot. "You be careful with him. He's not all he seems."
Oh, lady, you don't know the half. "Who was that guy?" I asked impulsively.
"Clayton?" She tossed a glance toward the door, making curls bounce all over her shoulders. "Oh, he's a butcher."
"A b -- butcher?" He didn't match my profile, but ... holy shit!
"Yeah, runs a meat market," she explained bitterly. "Every once in a while, he trots in a pack of kids he rounded up off the street and tries to sell them into sexual bondage to someone. It's disgusting. One of his boys ended up dead less than twelve hours later." For a moment she looked as if she might cry. Then it passed.
I was getting a tingly sensation at the back of my neck. Clayton. I needed to check this guy out.
"Looks like your boy's got his hands full," she said. "Does he want another shot of his Stoli?"
I looked around her. The music had changed into something that could be considered a slow dance, and a large Latino was trying to pull Krycek into his arms. I might have laughed it off except he put his hands on Alex' ass. "No," I said. "Later." I stood up and worked my way into the crowd until I was planted right in their path. "Excuse me. This one belongs to me."
He called me a couple of names that I don't think would ever be found in the Langenscheidt Spanish to English dictionary. "No, seriously." I put a hand on his forearm. "He's mine. I don't like anyone touching him that way."
He tugged Krcyek harder against him.
I leaned in and whispered, "I am licensed to carry, and I have on my person a Smith & Wesson .32 caliber magnum, which makes tiny entry holes and big exit wounds. Would you like to step outside and discuss this further?"
He gave me a moment of consideration, trying to decide if I was bluffing, then let him go. I pulled Krycek into my arms, tight.
Krycek was giggling. "It's Dirty Mulder!"
"Shut up and dance," I snarled. But it did feel good to hold him so close ... and I had always liked Rod Stewart. The song was Have I Told You Lately That I Love You. Why didn't I ever tell Scully how I felt? Oh, Scully, where are you?
He was humming against my neck.
"Have you heard any talk about a Clayton?" I asked into his hair.
"Yeah, small time flesh peddler. Somehow he never gets caught," he shifted against me, sighing. "They never do." He hummed a moment longer. "Doesn't meet the profile."
"One of his kids might be one of our victims," I answered.
The song shifted. A little more uptempo, but I wasn't ready to let him out of my arms. "Unrelated, I think, but maybe we ought to bring him in and see if he can tell us who the kid was sold to." He dropped his arms around my waist and pressed his crotch against mine. He was smiling at me as he sang along. "I'll never get over you getting over me."
At that moment, all I wanted to was ...
"Hey, how's your ribs?"
Krycek went rigid in my arms. A husky Asian kid was gyrating next to us and grinning.
"What do you know about it?" I demanded. "What did you see?"
"See nothing," he laughed. "Except the surprise on his face when I popped him a good one."
"You hit him?" I let go of Krycek. "Why?"
The kid grinned wider, showing a place where a tooth had disappeared. "Cause he paid me to, that's why." And he gyrated off, laughing.
- END Five -