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Fox-Locked

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Fox-Locked by A. Leigh-Anne Childe

29 Oct 1997
Short Story Challenge

Note: Written for the short-story challenge (somebody stop me, please!). 500 words. Archive? Sure--at your own risk, and only if you fix bad line wraps. <weg> The boys belong to CC, their private parts to me. NC-17 for rude, raw sex between beautiful men, and for explicit use of an unmentionable object...heh heh heh. (Nb--I've just learned there's a brand of lock called "Fox", but I doubt they're used for anything but normal domestic doors. Oh well.) P.S. I *do* hope the damn line wraps come out better...


Fox-Locked
by A. Leigh-Anne Childe ()

***

"This is not good. This is very not good."

Alex paced back and forth, arms wrapped around himself, his head tucked instinctively into his chest to conserve warmth. "No shit, Sherlock," he snapped at Mulder. " 'Very not good.' Jesus, did you go to *Oxford*?"

"Oh, shut up," Mulder muttered, his breath a soft white puff of air. Kneeling and squinting at the door, he said, "You got a pick set on you?"

Alex paused in his investigation of a covered prep tin. "If I had a pick set, I'd be using it." Unspoken, was the suggestion: *on you*.

Mulder halted his study and directed a sour look at Alex over his shoulder. "You raggin' it, partner?"

Eyes glinting like sharpened steel, Alex bit back the retort that rose to his lips and instead forced himself to join Mulder. "It's bolted," he said. "From the outside. . .what's your plan?"

"Remove the handle. Use it as a prybar."

Alex snorted but looked around the walk-in freezer. After contemplating several alternatives, he said, "Here's a whisk." He handed it to Mulder, who took it skeptically.

"I'll just whisk us out of here, then," he replied, bone-dry.

Alex snorted wordlessly.

Thirty fruitless minutes later, after partially dismantling the whisk and working the lock at length with a freed wire-end, Mulder swore and tossed the tool against the wall. "Fuck!"

Alex eased down next to him. "Hey," he said. "Take it easy, Mulder."

"My kingdom for a cell phone," Mulder muttered tiredly.

"Why didn't you say so?" Alex asked, sliding a hand into one pocket.

Grey-green eyes chilled contemplatively, then cleared. "No way," Mulder said, grimacing.

"Gotcha," Alex murmured. Frowning absently, he pulled out a condom. "Hey, Mulder--"

"No."

"Lubricated."

Mulder gave a tiny, crooked smile. "Okay."

Alex shook his head. "You throw the curve for easy, Mulder."

"So they say. It'll warm us up." Easing his belt open and his trousers down, Mulder leaned against the door, forehead pressed to its cold metal surface. "Pray for a timely release."

Behind him, Alex stroked himself hard, then rolled on the condom. "I'm ignoring that." He paused, kissed Mulder's ear. "Like cucumbers?"

"Why not?" Mulder said silkily.

Stunned speechless and breathless, Alex hesitated again, withdrew, then returned with the vegetable in hand, buttered. "You're sick," he said, sliding it between Mulder's legs.

"I know." Mulder's voice was low, rough, a self-inflicted cruelty.

Alex pushed hard, eliciting a harsh, raw gasp. "Don't be ashamed. Don't--" He pushed again, raising now a savage, stifled groan.

"Harder," Mulder whispered. "*God*, harder!"

After several compliant thrusts, Alex withdrew the item and replaced it with his erect cock. "Yes?" he asked.

Mulder nodded. Reclining back into Alex's thrusts and accepting his hand's caress, he said, "Hope these assholes are having salads tonight."

Startled to laughter, Alex groaned between tickling sobs of pleasure and delight, "Oh god, Mulder, I think I love you." His voice was husky, wild and dark.

"You're sick, Alex. Sick. . ." Mulder's voice fell to an unheard whisper. "I love you too."

(End.)