Rat and Fox

ADULTS ONLY

Contains explicit male/male rough sex.

Pairing: Mulder/Krycek

Summary: Mulder, Krycek and Clyde Bruckman’s prediction. Follows “Clyde Bruckman’s Final Repose.”

6/96

Disclaimer: X-Files characters belong to Chris Carter, 1013 Productions and Fox Broadcasting. No infringement is intended.

* * *

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.

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.