TITLE: The Boys of Summer
NAME: Mik
E-MAIL: ccmcdoc@hotmail.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: Remember how you made me crazy? Remember how I made you scream?
ARCHIVE: Only with my permission.
FEEDBACK: Feedback? Well, yes, if you insist ...
TIMESPAN/SPOILER WARNING: This is an AU, very vague spoilers for multiple episodes, nothing current.
KEYWORDS: story slash angst Mulder Krycek R
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.

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.

Boys of Summer
by Mik

Ten minutes past midnight. In my line of sight, there was a curtain fluttering, taunting me to believe there was a breeze. But I ignored it. At ten minutes past midnight I was aware of two things ... the heat that was making rivulets of sweat drip down my chest, and the sweat and beer and leather flavor of Alex Krycek. His arm was wrapped tight around my waist, holding us crotch to crotch, and I had both hands wrapped tight around his face, devouring him.

At that moment it didn't matter that he was my blood enemy, or that he was a double agent, a killer, a man. At that moment, the only thing that mattered was that he was real and there, and I was holding him close.

He broke the kiss, backed up a step, worked his fingers into the waistband of my jeans and stared up at me, breath ragged, eyes glowing, his dark hair a matted mess on his sweat covered brow. "I didn't know ... always hoped, but I didn't know."

I was having trouble breathing, his voice seemed to be coming from a very far place. For once I didn't want to think, didn't want to know. I didn't want to question what I was doing licking the back of his throat. All I knew was that I was hot, steam rising off my body. All I wanted was to be closer to him. I think I giggled and stepped back 'til he tumbled forward into my arms. "Are you asking if I'm gay?"

His face was a perfect fit against my neck, and he settled there, his fingers clutching at my jeans. "Yeah," he said, and his breath was like fire across my skin.

"Dunno," I admitted. "Didn't think I was."

He broke the embrace at that point. He took steps out of my reach and poured vodka for both of us. He knocked his back, hard, and dropped onto my sofa. "Then why are we doing this?"

I let breath go heavily, puffing out my cheeks, almost whistling. I reached for my glass. Like drinking lighter fluid. Damn. He wants me to think. Just what I didn't want to do. "Does it matter?" I challenged. "I'm here, you're here, I'm willing, you seem ..." I gestured toward the obvious ridge under his jeans. "... very willing."

"Yeah, it matters. I don't want to be an experiment, Mulder. I don't want you to wake up in the morning saying 'Oh, my God.'"

I tilted my head quizzically. "Are you going to be here in the morning?"

He looked down into his glass. It was empty. His eyes came to me. They were not.

I reached for him. "Let's take a shower."

He evaded my grasp. "Not yet." I wasn't used to seeing emotion in those classic features. I'd always imagined him with a cold, lifeless sneer. Seeing him earnest and urgent disconcerted me. "We need this settled."

I sat. "Okay." I reached out and poured another glass for myself. Nasty stuff. "Let's settle it." I took another drink, made another face. "I never thought I had any sexual proclivities that included men ... I mean, beyond the usual adolescent experimentation."

His green eyes flickered at me. "You experimented?"

I shrugged. "Sure, didn't you? It's normal, it's healthy, it's practically a rite of passage. We start feeling these ... I'll call them romantic urges for lack of a less clinical but more accurate definition. We don't yet socialize with girls so we focus these urges on the people we spend time with ... our mates." I stopped myself. I hadn't called another guy 'mate' since ... well, not in a long time. "Our pals."

He almost smiled. "You? You had a crush on a boy?"

I don't know why he seemed so surprised. "Yeah, I did. It lasted ... oh, a whole week, maybe two. Then his old man found us out, called my mother and told her we were gay. She called my father, he came and dragged me off the island and took me to a psychologist in Boston. He told my father it was perfectly normal. That may be why I became a psychologist." I laughed slightly at the idea.

Krycek leaned forward, curious. "What was he like?"

I shrugged. "I don't know ... just one of the summer boys, you know."

"'Summer boys'?"

"Yeah. The summer people, the folks who only came to the island for the summer. There were those of us who lived there year 'round, and there were the summer people."

He made a face. I know, I know ... I spoke of a life a socialist like him must see as privileged. It wasn't. "Was he good looking?" he asked.

"Krycek ... what does it matter?" I asked, exasperated. The painful edge of desire was starting to dull now. "It happened ... twenty five years ago."

"Was he good looking?" he persisted.

"Yeah, he was," I said defiantly. "Light blonde hair and dark blue eyes. Summer tan. Full lips ..." I let the words trail away. Yeah, he was good looking.

Krycek reached for the bottle. "How far did it go?"

I shook my head. "Oh, not very far at all. Kissing. Wriggling around together. Not really sure what to do. Those first pangs of adolescent arousal and absolutely no clue what do to with them." I laughed ruefully. "Just when we'd sort of got the idea, his father caught us in the middle of a wank and that was it."

"A wank?" Krycek repeated.

"Yeah ..." I pursed my lips and said in a superior tone, "a mutual masturbation."

Krycek actually giggled into his glass. "I can just imagine what your father thought of that."

The superior feeling passed. "Well, it really didn't matter. While I was in Boston, I met this girl ...a little redhead, and all thoughts and feelings about ... about ..." I frowned. "I don't even remember his name anymore. Shit. My first kiss, you'd think I'd remember that."

Krycek put his glass down on the table. "I never took you to be sentimental, Mulder."

I snorted into my glass. "You'd be surprised."

"I'm not surprised about the redhead, though." He stood, and with surprising grace, given his lopsided body structure, peeled off his tee shirt and then his jeans.

It was still dark enough in the room that I couldn't really see him, except the outline of a lean, well formed body, a definition of muscle, and the silhouette of a large, proud penis. And I could smell him. Smell something more than sweat and leather and vodka. There was a whiff of need, very strong, very arousing. He moved in front of me and, with his good hand on my shoulder, straddled my thighs. He leaned in and kissed me deeply, the tip of his erection prodding my belly. "You'll remember this kiss, won't you, Mulder?"

I don't know where my glass went. My hands were in his hair, fingers locked, pulling hard. I wanted his mouth, I wanted his body, I wanted the taste and the smell and the touch of him. I wanted to bathe in him. "And so will you," I snarled against his mouth. I've never imagined myself particularly butch, or strong, or macho, but I wanted him and I wanted him only one way. I kept one hand locked in his hair and the other around his middle. Somehow, miraculously, I stood, without falling, breaking his back, or giving myself a hernia. His legs wrapped around me tight, his tongue invaded me, and I stumbled blindly, toward my bedroom.

My bedroom is the black hole. The universal holding place for every misplaced set of keys, lost socks and paperbacks gone missing. If you lose something, give it a week, it will show up in my bedroom, probably in my bed. As I yanked the bedclothes back and threw everything to the floor in a loud clatter, I dumped him back into the mattress hard, wondering who was missing a Russian double agent, and would they mind if I fucked him blind before I returned him.

He was moaning, rubbing himself against me as I climbed up between his legs. "Mulder, you've never ..."

"No. And you won't be the first." I bit his lip. "Not yet, anyway." I rubbed my crotch over his swollen cock roughly, making him howl. "You want me, Krycek?"

He opened his eyes. Damn, they were too green to be human. "Call me Alex."

I smiled and kissed him again. "You want me, Alex?"

He gasped under me. "I want you, Fox."

I pulled back, and tsked him, loudly. "Call me Mulder."

"No," he groaned. "Fox."

It hit me then. He didn't want a one off, a one-night stand. He wanted a ... shit ... it made my eyes sting. I backed off him. "Don't move," I said roughly. "I don't have any lube, but I've got some lotion around here, somewhere."

"I've got lube in my jacket pocket," he muttered, his hand creeping down to his dick.

"And who knows what else you've got in there." I produced a bottle of skin lotion and a condom from the detritus under my bed. "This will do." I stripped off impatiently. How long had it been since I'd been with someone, been in someone? Oh, too damned long.

Climbing up on the bed, I pushed his legs apart, hard. "This is a little cold," I warned him, holding the bottle against his anus and squirting.

He made a little sound like a small animal and nearly came off the bed. "Do you have any idea what you're doing, Fox?" he demanded raggedly.

"Yeah." I pushed two fingers inside him. "I have had anal sex with women, you know."

"Yeah?" His eyes were half open, and bright. He almost smiled as his body arched upward. "What did they use on you?"

I spread my fingers wide in retaliation.

He let out another one of those woodland creature sounds. "Shit, Fox. Take it easy."

I leaned over him and kissed him hard. "I'll take it easy next time," I promised.

"Next time?" He was panting.

"Yeah. Next time, Alex." I tore the condom packet open with my teeth and worked it down over my own cock with clumsy, slick fingers.

I covered him quickly, my body and both hands pinning him to the bed, pushing his knees back so that his thighs rested against his belly. My cock, sheathed in rubber, slid up and down his lubricated crack. My belly teased his cock and balls. In my ear, he was groaning, pleading, saying my name. My name. Now I understood. I caught his hand and held it over his head, lifting myself to aim better. It took a moment to find home, but I did. "Deep breath," I warned. And just as he gulped, I shoved, hard.

He screamed. I wanted him to. I wanted to feel his body convulse around me. I let it ripple through his body and into mine. I waited. I watched him. He opened his eyes, tearful, and he grinned. "Forgot how good and bad it feels."

"Been a long time?" I asked, and leaned down for another assault on his lips.

He nodded against my mouth.

I held still for another moment, letting him adjust, waiting for him to move. He felt so good, so right. Women are wonderful, and I have never not enjoyed making love with a woman, but there was something remarkable about this ... about understanding him. No games, no politics, no hormones, no Venus and Mars. Just another guy, familiar body, familiar sensations. Easier? Probably not. But comfortable. And ... right. I tried to remember that summer boy's name, I wanted to thank him. But all I could hear was Alex, Alex, Alex.

He was ready for me at last. He lifted his hips, his body surrendering and I slid in the rest of the way. "Alex, Alex, Alex."

Another nice thing about Alex was I didn't have to be careful, I didn't have to worry that I might fuck too hard or land too heavy or say the wrong thing. I didn't have to worry that he might not be satisfied. I could just thrust hard and fast and deep. Follow my needs and be confident that he was going to follow his.

I didn't want to draw out the pleasure, make it last. I wanted to come. I wanted to come hard inside him. I almost regretted the condom. I wanted him to feel full of me, marked by me, owned by me.

He tugged at his wrist, where I held him down. "Fox," he pleaded. "I need ..."

"Yeah ... Yeah, I want to see that." I released his hand and dropped back on my haunches, still buried in him, still rocking his hips with short thrusts. "Do it, Alex. I want to see it."

He didn't waste time. His hand came down around his cock and he gripped, tight. I smeared a little lotion over the shaft for him and he began to fist himself impatiently. He was moaning and writhing, and I had to hang on for the ride. I was so close ... but I wanted to wait, wanted him to come first so I could see it and enjoy it, revel in it. "Look at me, Alex," I demanded hoarsely. "Look at me."

His eyes opened. He moaned. His body became fires and earthquakes and floods and plagues, ripping me, rolling me, burning me, pouring out passion and need and cum over his belly and chest, and sending me into the sky on the tail of a comet.

Years later, I woke, my face against his chest, my cock slipping sticky and cool from the condom and his hole. His arm was wrapped around my neck, and his tears were silvery tracks on his cheeks in the moonlight. I lifted up and kissed his mouth. "Next time I'll do it easy," I promised.

His arm tightened around my neck. "Next time you'll do it exactly like that. Promise me."

"You're a masochist," I chuckled.

"I must be," he agreed weakly. "To fall in love with you."

- END -

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