TITLE:   "Vicious Kiss"  (1/1)
AUTHOR:   Isahunter
RATING:   NC17
CATEGORY:   M/K Slash
SPOILERS:   Anything up to "One Son" is fair game.
ARCHIVE:   Yes, please.
FEEDBACK:   Isahunter@aol.com
DISCLAIMER:   Mulder and Krycek, sadly, belong to CC, 1013, and 
Fox...you know, the ones who don't let them play.
SUMMARY:   Was "The Red and The Black" truly the first time they 
kissed?

For zephirine.  Thanks to Shael and Alli for good beta.
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You still don't remember me, do you?

I can't say I really blame you.  Even I didn't remember at 
first.  To me, you were nothing more than an assignment.  Get 
close, establish trust, get the information and get out.  I did 
my job, and we worked well together.  Not surprising.  We did 
from the very beginning.  Still, it didn't explain the tense 
muscles I was forced to massage every day after working close to 
you.  And it certainly didn't warrant the steamy showers I took, 
fucking my fist, yelping your name as my cum splattered the 
tiled wall.  Watching the hot water slowly disintegrate the 
remains, I blamed the lust on the intensity of the work, the 
power thrill...never knowing the tangled roots reached far 
deeper than that.

I betrayed you, and I was surprised you took it so personally.  
You were nothing to me, why should my actions mean anything to 
you?  But you wouldn't let it go.  Even all these years later.  
Maybe, deep down, you remember that night, too.

Had I known then of the animosity that would come between us, I 
would have savored that moment when we first met...before 
becoming partners seven years later.  Replayed it over and over 
in my mind, paying particular attention to the desperation on 
your face.  But I was nothing more than an eighteen-year-old 
punk.  Full of spunk and bullshit, acting like I owned the 
world, had everyone wrapped around my finger.  Things don't 
change much, do they?  Had I known you would blame me for your 
father's death, I would have spit in your face.  Sure, I killed 
him.  But there's no way you could have known that.  Unless you 
know me much better than I think.

You weren't the first boy to make me come, I'm sorry to say.  I 
was a loner as a kid, and rather than turn out as I loser, I 
became the school yard bully.  Tormenting and teasing the 
smaller kids, using my speed to the advantage against the bigger 
ones.  The enormous surge of power I got after beating the crap 
out of someone left me so hard I could barely walk.  It wasn't 
sexual...at least, not at the time.  But when I broke Justin 
Walker's nose and got blood all over my white tee shirt, at only 
eleven years old, I had my first orgasm.  Without a touch to my 
own body.  Not even jacking off, which I'd been doing for years, 
could produce such staggering results.  I was grinning, barely 
able to breathe, my shorts sticky and wet...and I kissed the 
blood right off his baby-soft lips.

High school was altogether different.  I'd grown into my lanky 
body, and became a jock.  A superbly honed athlete who could 
have his pick of any of the cheerleaders to fuck under the 
bleachers.  A straight A student with above average 
intelligence, a favorite of the faculty and my peers alike.  Had 
I not been forced to move locations and change my name several 
times before and after graduation, I just might have been 
tempted to stay in that white-picket-fenced world.  Where I was 
the one thing every girl wanted, and every boy wanted to be.  
But I'd known from the beginning it couldn't last.  I would only 
have one last brief taste of honey-sweet freedom before the real 
fight began.  Isn't it ironic that the last lick and suck was 
all yours?

Virginia, June of 1988.  I was graduating soon, and went to 
party at bar just outside of Quantico.  I shouldn't have been 
there, was underage, and the place was full of FBI agents and 
Marines.  But I didn't give a damn.  With spies as parents, I 
had one hell of a great fake ID.  Christ, I had sets of 
identification in five different names.

Drunk off my ass by ten o'clock and pounding down my umpteenth 
shot, I didn't see you walk in the door.  I've no idea how long 
you sat at that bar, all alone, drowning your misery in a bottle 
of scotch.  Actually, that isn't entirely true.  You'd ordered 
the bottle, but you nursed that same damned glass all night 
long.  I guess the old man's vice really did scare you shitless.  
Around one in the morning, when the place grew empty and quiet, 
you finally noticed me playing a solitary game of pool in the 
corner.  My friends had gone home, pleading rest for the last 
days of school tomorrow and after, but I was too keyed up to 
budge.  And when you challenged me to a game, they couldn't have 
dragged me away.

Fuck, do you have any idea how beautiful you were to me?  Even 
then, with Erika Thomas's phone number in my pocket and Vanessa 
Kline's panties on my dashboard, I couldn't stop myself from 
staring at your lower lip.  Plump, moist, slightly indented from 
being recently bitten, that lip gave me a bigger hard on than 
I'd ever had before.  My throat was so dry I could barely speak, 
let alone move to hand you the chalk.  You barely looked at me, 
across the dim smoky space between us...but when you did, your 
gaze was electric.

For once, I didn't pay as much attention to the game.  My 
competitive streak was still there, ready to win, but my eyes 
were on you rather than the balls.  Then again, considering my 
stare, that's not entirely true.  You didn't say much, but what 
little you did was neatly filed away in my brain.  I never knew 
your name, only that you were working the Violent Crimes Unit of 
the Bureau.  You didn't say anything about your case, but I 
knew, whatever it was, it was eating you up inside.  Your eyes 
were tired, droopy, ringed with red.  Disheveled clothes, floppy 
tie, hastily rolled up sleeves, finger-combed hair.  If you'd 
gotten any sleep in the past week, it didn't show.  But it 
didn't matter.  Fox Mulder would make my blood boil even on the 
brink of death.

You asked my name, and for some reason I told you the truth.  
Mikhail.  You called me Michael.  I would use that name in your 
presence again, years later, but I wouldn't remember you then.  
Considering the embarrassing circumstances, I'm lucky you didn't 
recognize me then, either.  

Our paths have crossed time and again, but never like the first 
time.

Your mind was wandering.  Instead of focussing on the game, you 
were lost somewhere deep inside that maze in your brain.  
Hunting faceless killers and demons, listening to women 
screaming, seeing little girls' lifeless bodies.  Just like your 
sister.  And when you slammed down your pool cue and walked to 
the men's room, I should have let you go.  Thank God I didn't.

You were angry, sickened, desperate, and I was the first thing 
you latched on to.  At first it was ugly, bitter hatred.  You 
threw me up against the wall, nearly knocking me senseless, 
ready to punch.  How dare I follow you?  How dare I look at you, 
and the soiled empty shell of your soul?  How dare I stare at 
the malevolent, infested, shattered man before me and see 
anything worth wanting?  You screamed, your words echoing in the 
cavernous space, sounding every bit as evil as the slime you 
profiled every day.  Sparks of rage flew from your eyes, your 
hand drawn back to strike, the other holding me by the throat.  
And you could have done it.  You could have beaten me within an 
inch of my life and I wouldn't have stopped you.  But instead 
your fingers fisted in my shirt and you dragged me forward into 
a vicious kiss.

Smashing your lips against mine, brutal and grating, ripping at 
my flesh.  I could taste blood in my mouth, but felt no pain.  
The molten lust surging through my veins was sublime.

I gripped you hard with both arms, determined never to let go, 
attacking your mouth with the very same ferocity.  Biting, 
licking, sucking on that lower lip.  You slammed me up against 
the door, rocking your pelvis into mine, grinding your straining 
erection on the aching bulge in my too-tight Levi's.  You 
grabbed my ass with both hands, holding me still against the 
driving thrusts until I felt every little movement through our 
clothing.  Not even layers of cotton, denim, and silk could keep 
us apart.  Moving in rhythm, our mouths meshed, you stroked me 
to a lightning-fused orgasm using your cock alone.  And when you 
gasped your release into my mouth, I could damned near feel the 
eruption rocketing through you.

Panting, suddenly weak with exhaustion, you stepped away from me 
and stared.  As if I'd made you do it.  Luring you in like a 
snake charmer.  Still, even the bitter accusation on your face 
couldn't hide the excitement.  You walked out the door, wanting 
me still.

And I walked home, head throbbing, once again with cum in my 
pants.

So here I stand, all these years later, my gun to your head, 
your life in my hands...your desire for me written all over your 
face.  And you still don't remember.

One day, Mulder, you won't be able to forget.

END.
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You can find more of my slash stories here--
http://www.angelfire.com/ak3/expositions/slash.htm