He'd nearly stopped at Scully's on the way home, but he'd forced himself to
drive on by. The maudlin mood he was in tonight, he was likely to do something
stupid like half-convince himself he was in love with her, and act a complete
fool. So here he was alone again in his empty apartment. Time to start pawing
through the videos, and try to find one that hadn't completely lost its effect
over repeated viewings.
There was a quiet knock on the door. Mulder sat up, cleared his throat and
looked at his watch. Nearly midnight. There was a tingling rush of electricity
to his groin. He tried to suppress the anticipation. It couldn't be. Not after
all this time. But who else knocked on his door in the middle of the night?
He pushed himself to his feet, rubbing the back of his neck. Maybe he'd go
for a massage tomorrow. He went to open the door.
Alex Krycek. He wore a black leather jacket, tight jeans and a white
tee-shirt. The same thing he'd been wearing when he'd attacked Skinner and
stolen the DAT tape from him. A lock of dark hair fell in his face, and a
sardonic smile pulled at the corners of his mouth. How did he dare to come here
like this? The midnight visits had ceased after Mulder had tried to kill
Krycek, the night after Mulder's father had died. Mulder had thought he'd been
scared off for good. Apparently not.
"Hi, Mulder." Krycek strode confidently into the apartment.
Mulder allowed the renegade agent to shoulder past him, but did not close
the door. "I'm not in the mood for this." His need to punish Krycek's
unforgivable betrayals warred with his need for the soul-shattering sexual
thrills Krycek could provide.
Krycek stood chest to chest with Mulder, so close that the leather of his
jacket brushed against Mulder's shirt. Mulder felt Krycek's warm breath on his
cheek. Long, slender fingers stroked the side of Mulder's neck. "You always say
that," Krycek murmured, his throaty voice sending tiny tremors down Mulder's
spine, "but you always seem to get in the mood."
Mulder took one step back. But he pushed the apartment door shut behind
him. Who was he trying to kid? He'd never had the power to refuse Krycek's
advances. It had begun just a few weeks after they'd met—the knock on Mulder's
door at midnight. The sweet-faced young agent smiling up at him from under
incredibly long, dark eyelashes. I know what you need, Mulder. Let me give
it to you.
Krycek looked up at Mulder now in just the same way. The face was no longer
quite so fresh-scrubbed and naive, but the smile was just as sweet and
inviting. And just as deceiving. There had never been anything sweet about
their encounters. Krycek slowly unbuckled his belt and withdrew it from the
loops around his waist. He slipped the belt around Mulder's neck, threading the
end through the buckle and drawing the loop snug. Mulder felt his breath
quickening at the rough caress of the leather against his skin.
"Then get on with it," Mulder ordered roughly.
The smile deepened. Krycek turned and walked toward the bedroom, leading
Mulder by the end of the belt around his neck. Mulder allowed himself to be
pulled along. His fists clenched.
In the bedroom, Krycek turned to face Mulder. Letting the belt dangle, he
took Mulder by the upper arms and stepped torward him, pushing Mulder back
against the bed, forcing him to sit.
"I didn't think you'd come back." Mulder began to unbutton his shirt.
Krycek stood back and shrugged out of his jacket. "Just can't stay away
from you." The tone was too flip to be much of a declaration. He quickly
stripped off his tee-shirt and shoes, then unbuttoned his jeans and stepped out
of them. Dressed only in his shorts, he straddled Mulder's thighs. His hard
cock strained against the cotton, rubbing against Mulder's belly.
Mulder had only gotten as far as removing his shirt. Krycek stroked
Mulder's chest, pinching each rosy nipple between thumb and forefinger. When
he'd brought each tender nub erect, he took the took the belt, with the raw,
unfinished back against Mulder's chest, and brushed the leather over the
sensitive tips. Mulder closed his eyes and moaned. Krycek's touch was delicate,
yet always with just the desired edge of roughness. His control was firm, but
never heavy-handed. The pain was a delicious counterpoint to more conventional
caresses—just enough to drive Mulder over the edge, but never more than he
could handle. Mulder despaired of ever finding another lover whose needs so
perfectly meshed with his own. Yet he despised the man with furious intensity.
Mulder slid his hands down Krycek's back, underneath the cotton shorts. He
kneaded the firm buttocks with his fingers, working his fingers between the
cheeks, finally forcing one finger into Krycek's anus. Krycek squirmed in
Mulder's lap, dropping the belt and pressing himself against Mulder's chest.
"You going to do me tonight, Mulder?" His voice was a breathy moan in
Mulder's ear.
Mulder had always meant to take Krycek one day. And Krycek seemed willing
enough. But their encounters were so infrequent, there never seemed to be
enough time. His other needs had to be filled first. "Maybe later." He allowed
his finger to slide free, and brought his hands up to Krycek's waist.
Krycek smiled sadly. "There's no 'later,' Mulder, you should know that by
now." He stroked Mulder's temple, letting his fingers trail down behind
Mulder's ear.
The occasional almost-tender touch. The brief hint of regret in the voice.
These were the glimpses of the man behind the facade that Mulder didn't want to
know—that was real pain, too deep to be allowed out. Mulder let himself fall
back onto the bed, his eyes closed. He found the front of Krycek's shorts and
pulled them down, freeing the erection and taking it in his hands. His own cock
ached against the constriction of his jeans. He was content to let it ache.
Krycek moved in his lap, trying to thrust into Mulder's hand.
Presently, Krycek stood up, pulling free of Mulder's grip. He grabbed
roughly at Mulder's crotch, causing Mulder to groan and arch, then he leaned
over to begin undoing the buttons of Mulder's jeans. Mulder lifted his head to
watch the other man undressing him. Krycek's shorts were still down around his
thighs, his genitals hanging loose. Mulder lifted his hips to allow his jeans
to be pulled down to his knees. Krycek chuckled. "You look so cute in boxers."
He slid one hand up Mulder's thigh, under the leg of the shorts, to grasp
Mulder's cock. Mulder thrust, lifting his hips further off the bed. Krycek
squeezed once before letting go, and pulled the shorts down to meet the jeans
at Mulder's knees.
Then Krycek knelt to remove Mulder's shoes and socks. Mulder sighed and
waited passively while Krycek finished stripping him. This was all just
preliminary—pleasant enough, but no great improvement over any casual
encounter. The real events of the evening were yet to begin.
When Mulder was completely naked—except for the belt still around his
neck—Krycek stood and pulled off his own shorts, then sat on the bed beside
Mulder. He took the belt in one hand and tugged the loop tight—too tight for
comfort, but not yet restricting breathing.
Mulder swallowed with some difficulty past the belt around his neck. "You
know, I've been told I'd die like this." The words had to be forced out. His
voice sounded thin and echoey in his ears.
"Having sex?"
Mulder put his hand on Krycek's, still holding the belt firmly. "Autoerotic
asphyxiation." He found it easier to whisper.
"Don't be stupid, Mulder. It's not autoerotic if I'm doing it to you. Who
told you that? Scully?"
The laugh came out a strangled cough. "No. A psychic we met. He could see
the way people were going to die."
Krycek let the belt loosen. "Well, I'm not going to let you die. If I
wanted you dead, I'd have killed you a long time ago." He seemed almost
offended by the suggestion.
And strangely enough, Mulder believed him. He felt safe with Krycek, in bed
at least. He never worried about letting Krycek half-strangle him. Or maybe it
was just that by the time Krycek pulled the noose that tight, Mulder was too
far gone to care whether he came out of it. "The little death. That's what the
French call orgasm."
"Yeah, well, let's not get metaphorical about it. There's not going to be
any dying here."
Mulder reached up to touch Krycek's neck with thumb and two fingers. "Do
you ever...?"
"No. I prefer to be conscious while I'm screwing. And speaking of
screwing...."
Mulder nodded, and pulled himself up onto the bed. Krycek stood while
Mulder arranged himself on his stomach with his face in the pillow. Then Krycek
stretched out beside him, and ran his fingers down Mulder's spine, all the way
from the back of his neck to his tailbone. Shivery tingles followed the touch
down his back. Soon, now. He would have what he craved very soon.
Krycek reached for the nightstand drawer. "I hope you're not out of
condoms. There were only three left when I was here last."
Mulder's face burned. He suddenly remembered what was in that drawer, along
with the same three condoms and the lubricant—something Mulder didn't
necessarily want Krycek to see. But it was too late to worry about that—Krycek
already had his hand in the drawer.
And drew out the dildo he found there. "How sweet. You missed me."
It was true, Krycek had given him the taste for penetration. A taste that,
in Krycek's absence, he preferred to satisfy alone. But he didn't like the
mocking tone in Krycek's voice. He snatched the dildo out of Krycek's hand, and
tossed it back into the drawer. "I won't need it tonight. Will I?"
"No." Krycek grinned. "You get the real thing tonight." He reached into the
drawer again, this time pulling out one of the condoms and the tube of
lubricant.
Mulder nodded then, and relaxed. He could deal with Krycek's attitude, as
long as he got Krycek's cock. And the strap around his neck.
Krycek applied the lubricant between Mulder's buttocks with clinical care,
using his fingers to relax and open the muscle. Mulder moaned and spread his
legs. Krycek's touch here was always gentle and sure. There would be no pain.
Even in the beginning, when Mulder had been inexperienced and nervous, Krycek
had made sure there was no pain with the penetration. Mulder wondered what
Krycek would be like with someone he really cared about. Did he really care
about anyone?
Krycek paused to take the condom from the nightstand and roll it on. Then
he settled between Mulder's legs, and took the belt in his hands, rearranging
it so that the buckle was in the back. Holding the loop tight, he positioned
his cock at the entrance to Mulder's body, and slowly began to press into him.
Mulder lay flat on the mattress, legs splayed, arms bent at his sides,
clutching at the sheets. His eyes were tightly closed. He felt the weight of
Krycek's body on his back, knees spreading him, cock piercing him with steady
pressure. Krycek's forearm rested on his shoulder, as his fist held the belt
taut around Mulder's neck. The position was familiar to him now—not as
frightening as it had been at first, although there was still a thrill of fear
at being so helpless under Krycek's control. But there was also safety beneath
Krycek's warm body, and freedom like he'd never known—to just lie here
boneless and allow himself to be taken to undreamed of heights of physical
pleasure.
Krycek held the belt just at the point of discomfort as he made his slow
entrance. The constriction at his neck and the pressure in his ass combined to
increase Mulder's feelings of helplessness—and his excitement. As his
breathing quickened, the belt became more painful. He found himself gasping and
a wave of panic hit him. His fists pounded the mattress and he twisted wildly,
but Krycek held him firmly. His struggles only served to impale him further on
Krycek's cock. His own cock burned, and he ground it into the mattress.
Finally, Krycek jerked his neck back firmly, and with one sharp, deep thrust of
his hips, drove his cock home.
Then Krycek relaxed, loosening the belt and allowing Mulder to breathe.
Mulder quieted, shifting his hips to adjust himself to the hard bulk of the
cock filling him. Krycek stroked his hair. This was one of Mulder's favorite
moments—lying here quietly, having had a taste of what was to come, being
stroked and filled and petted. He could almost convince himself that he and
Krycek were not enemies—that somehow, this was real and it was all the other
pain and horror that was the dream. He was glad, for that reason, that the
respite was brief; gone before he had the chance to believe in it.
Krycek gathered up the belt again and pulled it snug, then began to thrust
slowly in and out of Mulder's ass. Mulder set his hands firmly on the mattress
and tried to prepare himself for what came next. It was futile, he knew—there
was no way to prepare for having your soul ripped out and shredded into
nothing—but the struggle against the inevitable was part of the act, and one
he could not resist.
As the thrusts into him quickened and deepened, the belt tightened around
his neck with sharp tugs. Each tug shot shards of sweet pain through his body.
Each hard thrust into his ass added tendrils of fire-tinged pleasure. The waves
of sensation combined and overlapped until he didn't know one from the other.
Red mists gathered behind his eyes. Desperately, he tried to control his
breathing, to keep it shallow and even under the constricting leather. His
tortured lungs demanded huge gasps that would not come. Rushing blood buzzed in
his ears and waves of dizziness joined and intensified the heat spreading from
groin and ass and throat....
Another tug stopped even the shallowest breaths. He was vaguely aware of
his body thrashing, hands scrabbling at the leather bruising his neck, screams
gathering and dying in his crushed throat. As he fought for breath, his mind
spun out of control, and white-hot pleasure spread through his body. Orgasm
took him with unbearable sweetness. He dissolved into the all-consuming spasms;
felt the life spurt out of him, and his consciousness followed, dripping out of
him as white heat faded first to red, then finally to black.
When Mulder came to, Krycek was already up and getting dressed. Mulder
shifted carefully over onto his side and rubbed his aching throat. The belt
still hung loosely around his neck. He swallowed experimentally and watched his
erstwhile partner pull on his jeans. Krycek had become quite attractive since
he'd let his hair grow out and stopped wearing those ridiculous suits. Too bad
he was such irredeemable scum.
"I hate you, you know." Mulder's voice was a whispery croak.
Krycek grinned at Mulder as he stooped to pick his tee-shirt off the floor.
"Yeah, Mulder. I hate you too." He pulled the tee-shirt on and tucked it in.
"You okay?"
"Yeah." He didn't want Krycek's concern. Just his cock.
"Well, this is the last time. I'm not coming back." Krycek began buttoning
his jeans.
"You always say that." If only it were true....
"No, Mulder, you always tell me not to come back. I've never said I
wouldn't. Until now." Krycek's smile was amused.
"Why?" Not that he wanted Krycek to come back. He didn't. Didn't.
"Too many people trying to kill me. It's time to move on."
Was Mulder included in that special group of people? He considered. Get up.
Walk into the other room. Find his gun. Shoot Krycek. There were too many
reasons he would not do such a thing—the most immediate being that he doubted
he could walk just now. And even if he made the effort, Krycek would be long
gone by the time Mulder reached his gun. Another reason was the unspoken truce
that existed between them during these midnight encounters. Not to mention that
Mulder could not just shoot a man down in cold blood. Not even Krycek. No,
Krycek would walk away without hindrance from Mulder. If he walked away
forever, so be it. Mulder should be glad if he never saw Krycek again. He
should be glad it was over. He wasn't. He pulled the belt from around his neck
and held it out to Krycek.
Krycek waved it away. "Keep it." His grin was cold and cruel. "Souvenir."
Mulder let it fall to the floor.
Krycek picked up his jacket and put it on. Then he nodded to Mulder.
Suddenly, his smile was no longer quite so cold. "See you in hell, Mulder," he
said softly. He headed for the door.
"I thought that was where we were." But Krycek was already gone.
Mulder sat on his bed with the belt in his hands. He'd tried so hard to
forget. He'd done everything he could think of to distract himself. There had
been women. Occasionally men. An endless stream of books and magazines and
videos. He'd put the belt around his own neck and pulled it tight. He used the
dildo. Nothing satisfied. It was all just a pale shadow of the ecstasy Krycek
had brought him.
Once or twice, he'd tied the end of the belt around the bathroom doorknob,
just short enough to hold him off the floor while he sat against the door and
masturbated. It was stupid, he knew, and dangerous. If he passed out hanging in
the noose of Krycek's belt, he might never wake up. He remembered what Clyde
Bruckman had told him—There are worse ways to go, but I can't think of a
more undignified one than autoerotic asphyxiation. The psychic didn't
actually say Mulder was doomed to die that way. Perhaps it was just a warning.
Perhaps he was talking about something else entirely. Still, Mulder didn't need
any warnings from psychics to tell him that such practices were very risky.
Undignified was hardly the worst of it. Think of poor Scully, she'd probably be
the one to find him. And his mother—having already lost her daughter and her
husband, did she have to hear that her only son had hung himself while beating
off?
He should really forget about doing this to himself. If he really wanted it
that bad, he could just put an ad in one of the alternative weekly papers under
Men Seeking Men. SWM desires to be choked and fucked by young, experienced
partner in occasional midnight encounters. But that was dangerous, too, in
more ways than one. Just a few years ago, an agent had been dismissed when it
was discovered that he had put an ad in a gay newspaper. Notwithstanding J.
Edgar's own strange proclivities, the FBI still frowned upon agents engaging in
unsavory sexual practices. It was a risk he wasn't willing to take. He would
just have to wait and hope that some day someone else would come along who
would give him what he needed without being asked. He knew it was a vain hope.
Mulder sighed. Just once more. Then he would never do it again, he
promised. He would not tie the belt too short. He would try very hard not to
pass out. Just let him feel something vaguely like that white-hot thrill once
again.
Mulder slid the belt around his neck and pulled it tight. Just tight enough
to feel the discomfort, but still allowing him to breathe. He closed his eyes
and imagined that Krycek was standing in front of him holding the end of the
belt. He conjured up the feel of Krycek's hands undressing him. The throaty
voice murmuring in his ear. I know what you need. Let me give it to you.
Naked, Mulder stood. Holding the end of the belt out in front of him, he
led himself into the bathroom. It was the last time.
He did not walk out again.
end...
Souvenir
by Cody Nelson
Fox Mulder dropped his coat to the floor as he walked into his apartment, and
sat heavily on the couch. He'd stayed at the offices of the Lone Gunman for
hours, trying to get into the camaraderie and banter with his three friends.
But something was missing. He'd strained for less-than-clever remarks, laughed
a little too hard, and had to be called back to attention when his mind
wandered. Finally, after Langly had tossed his long yellow hair back and given
Mulder an intent and serious look through his black glasses, Mulder had gotten
up to leave. Langly meant well, but Mulder had no desire for a replay of the
last time he'd become weepy and confessional with the blond Lone Gunman. Maybe
one day soon he'd become desperate enough to allow Langly's kind of comfort.
Not yet. He leaned back with his hands over his face and sighed wearily.
