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Vin Noir III -- Youresucha Brut

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Vin Noir III -- Youresucha Brut

Vin Noir III -- Youresucha Brut

by Mik

Date: Saturday, June 30, 2001 9:12 PM


TITLE: Vin Noir III -- Youresucha Brut NAME: Mik
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: Red runs my lover's blood, spilled for the flames of mine. 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 Krycek Mulder 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. CAUTION: This isn't schmoop. If you like the idea of a restrained Mulder, helpless in the hands of ... oh, who am I talking to? Never mind.
Author's notes: To himself for black wine and sweet tears. To herself for hairbrushes and u-removal.
If you like this, there's more at If you didn't like it, come see me, anyway. Pet the dog.

Vin Noir -- Youresucha Brut
by Mik

It almost seems as if I sleep. For an unmeasured span of time I lie still, in a heated, pulsing haze. My legs are trembling, my groin aches, I know tomorrow I will feel every thrust in the small of my back. Sex with Mulder is always a full body workout.

And it isn't over. Beneath my body I am aware of his incredible need. I can feel his struggle for measured breaths, the little sobs that escape him. His entire body is twitching. I can smell blood, sweat, tears, semen and raw desire. His hair is stuck flat against his sweaty brow, his lashes spiky with tears. Bruises are coming up under the welts on his arms, his thighs, his waist, all the places I hung on during that amazing, heart-stopping ride. His lips are swollen and red. But the look on his face as he returns my study is almost angelic. Love, hope, wanting, submission.

Submission. I sigh inwardly just thinking about it. People outside, people who don't know ... they don't understand. Can't understand. If I were to tell you that Mulder is a beautiful submissive, you'd pity him, mock him, deride him. You'd think he was weak and pathetic. But you don't know ... couldn't know. No one can understand until they've had someone kneel before them, welcome the whip, kiss the hands that wield it. It takes an incredibly strong man to submit. A stronger man than I'll ever be.

And I love him for it. When I am through testing him, teaching him, punishing him, owning him, I want to worship him for all he is. For his strength, his beauty, his obedience, his love. I want to offer something back to him. I need to make him feel possessed, desired. Mulder tests me so that we can go through these little rituals. He runs so I can bring him back, and show him where he belongs. So I can make him feel safe. And when I do, I feel like the strongest man in the world.

It's a heady wine we drink. More powerful than heroin and twice as addictive. A black vintage, it takes time to appreciate its body and flavor. Even though the first glass might seem bitter to the unsuspecting palate, it lingers sweetly on the tongue and in the memory. I can't even remember the first night we shared it, but I do remember thinking no one else could ever so completely quench me as he did. As he does.

It's a side of this man no one else ever sees. They see the man who is in control, self sufficient, self-centered. They see the man who is so focused on his quest that he has no time for his body or his soul. They don't get to see how he lays down both for me, and trusts me to pick them up and keep them whole. I do it with restraints and rules and ruthlessness. By giving him boundaries, I contain the demons in his life. I do this for him. It is my responsibility. It is my act of love.

"Alex," he whispers tentatively.

"Mmm?" I answer, warm and drowsy and sated.

I feel him shift helplessly. He knows he mustn't ask. But he wants me to finish him.

And it's time. Time to reward him. He's endured his punishment, submitted to my will and my wrath and now he reaps the benefits of having pleased me. I slide down his body, let my hand cup his balls, knead them gently. My mouth finds the wide head of his cock, slick with his desperate want. I take in the head, whole, and hold it.

He cries out. He tastes of pre cum, and the copper of blood rising to the surface. "Alex, please," he mutters. "Please."

I take him in, slowly, inch by inch, relaxing my throat to let him penetrate me completely. I wrap my tongue around him and move it gently, stroking the shaft, swallowing against the glans. My fingers slip down to his crack, and into him.

He's sore from my rough use and my touch makes his body jerk up, his cock pushing deeper into my throat. I breathe deeply. I love the scent of Mulder fully aroused. My fingers push in and out, playing in my semen and his blood, rubbing and teasing, making love to him this time, this way.

"Please, don't do it this way, Alex," he begs in a far off voice. "I'll never walk again."

I keep playing with his hole, in and out. He clutches at my fingers. I lap at his cock.

"Sssssssooo close," he groans.

His legs are shaking harder now, nearly dislodging me as I lie against him. I begin to suck harder, push deeper.

"Oh, shit. You really are a bastard, Alex." He's laughing and crying, his body jerking and trying to lift into my mouth, or shift down on my fingers.

It isn't about sex. It isn't about hurting him. Or even about loving him. It is about the worshiping of his body, this body he has surrendered to me. It is about recognizing the gift he has given me, and paying homage to it. It is about bringing him to the most intense moment of pleasure, holding him, letting him ride that killer pipe all the way back to the shore.

I pull off his cock and began to lick, up and down. Hard then soft. My fingers working him, my tongue drawing him forward. Glancing up to meet his eyes, smile, making silent promises. This is for you.

At the last moment, I stop. Teeth set just over the ridge of his glans, I pull my hand free and yank on the cords that bind his wrists. He lets out a bloodcurdling scream as his limbs fall, and blood rushes back into his arms and legs, like a thousand hot swords, and I suck, hard, pulling him over, forever binding the pain and the pleasure into one exquisite, heartbreaking sensation. He howls my name as he pumps into my mouth. His fingers, numb and useless, claw at the air, his legs thrash, his hips jerk upward. He calls out to saints and demons. He swears, he cries, he convulses. And then he is still.

I let his cock slip from my mouth and move up to lie against him. His face is flushed, tears stain his face, his eyes are closed, his breath is shallow and ragged, his heart is pounding. He turns and buries his face against my neck. This. This is when he belongs to me.

  • END -

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