Location: Russian toilet - photo by Project Mayhem.
Fight Club Location Challenge
Disclaimer: These boys belong to 1013 Productions and nobody gave me permission to play with them.
The actual photo is in Cheliabinsk, but Juliet said that they are all pretty similar, so I've taken a little liberty. I'm duty bound to warn you that this piece is in questionable taste.
Fine, incredibly fast beta by phyre and Sebastian to whom I
give my grateful thanks.
~~~~~oo (O) oo~~~~~
It's not always snowy in Siberia, - sometimes in the summer, it rains. It's raining right now, and the two men who get off the train are pretty soon soaked with the constant fine drizzle that meets them head on, driving into their faces, clouding their vision and trickling down their necks. They are both tired and their tempers have long since frayed, their uneasy alliance all but in shreds as they stand on the platform, easing the kinks from cramped muscles while they attempt to formulate some kind of a plan.
The station is deserted, as well it might be in the tenebrous evening, and it's a monochrome vista, grey, dismal and forgotten. Meadowsweet and fireweed grow from cracks in the concrete of the platform and there are oil drums in stacks that have weeds straggling around them. Everything seems to be waiting for the on-switch to be pressed. It looks as if it's been waiting for years.
"I have to visit the can." The man in the baseball cap breaks the silence, his voice rusty and surprisingly loud in the gloomy surroundings.
"Knock yourself out, Krycek," is the laconic reply as the other follows him, sighing heavily, theatrically.
Nothing further is said as the two of them move to the squat, brick-built mass of the station. The doors are made from wooden planks, and the paint is peeling, any color long since faded from it. The signs are in Cyrillic script, but presumably the man named Krycek understands it, because he sets off in a long, smooth lope to a particular door and through to the room beyond. The other follows him, distaste and irritation written on his features. The smell of the room is throat catching, and he makes a small gagging sound in the back of his mouth as he enters this unknown place.
Wonder of wonders, the light switch works, and the dim, fly-blown bulb reveals a couple of toilet stalls surrounded by blue glazed tiles set onto concrete platforms that require one to step up prior to squatting. Krycek begins to unfasten his belt, heedless of the other man's presence, his face closed, totally shielded, encased in his own, private thoughts.
The other man watches him for a minute or two, and makes a moue of distaste.
"You actually gonna use that?" He shudders, indicating the porcelain receptacle, stained with rust, and time, and heaven knows what else.
"Come on, Mulder, When you gotta go, you gotta go. When you think what I'm gonna do to it?"
Krycek's husky voice contains a glimmer of real humor as he continues with his preparations to mount the throne behind him.
"I think I'd rather go behind a tree," Mulder snaps. "Get a move on. We don't have time to piss around."
Krycek laughs at his choice of words, and Mulder shoves him angrily, reiterating in a hiss that he should hurry. That makes Krycek a little nuts. He's been pushed around plenty by this jerk, and now here he is again, and this time the shithead's interfering with his bodily functions. It's not to be borne. It's far too much. He hauls off and gets his weight behind him, then pushes at the center of Mulder's chest, sending him reeling back into the tiling with a smack that knocks his head against the wall, and causing the breath to rush from his lungs with an OOF.
The man stands, weight forward on the balls of his feet like a punchy boxer, trying to clear his head, and Krycek moves past him to stand over the toilet bowl in preparation for relieving himself. He's about to drop his pants when Mulder grabs his collar and hauls him back off the platform, dumping him on his ass and causing him to turn the air bright blue with invective that spans several languages and encompasses slights ranging from the sexual, clean through to the scatological. He grabs hold of Mulder's leg and sinks sharp teeth into the flesh of Mulder's calf, relishing the yelp of pain that results.
"You bastard! You rabid, poisonous bastard!" Mulder's cry causes a faint snigger to escape from Krycek's lips, and then he thinks that maybe he's made a mistake. He knows he has when Mulder growls low and hurls himself into him just as he's rising from his seat on the cold, hard and utterly filthy concrete of the floor.
The tackle carries him back to the raised steps of the dais in which the toilet is set, and Mulder's hands are around his throat. With a surge of effort that causes his joints to crack, he manages to tear himself loose and swing around so that the side of Mulder's head smacks into the wall. At this point Mulder seems to go a little limp.
Krycek is good and furious now. He holds Mulder's head down into the porcelain bowl and yanks on the chain hanging overhead. The toilet flushes, pouring stale and rusty water over Mulder, drenching him and making him screech in outrage. Calmly, Krycek tosses him backwards to sprawl on the floor, turns into position and then drops his jeans as he squats to relieve himself. It feels really good to get it out of his system, and he groans as the endorphin rush takes him. Some pleasures are free, and taking a crap while watching a soggy Mulder collect his addled wits is one of them. It will stay with him forever, warming him when he's far from here. He only wishes he had a camera with him.
He scrabbles around for paper, and wipes his ass on a sheet torn from Pravda that's thoughtfully been hung on a hook by the management. It's curled and yellow around the edges, but it performs its function perfectly adequately, and he flushes the toilet once more before standing to begin raising his pants.
Why he thinks that Mulder isn't going to retaliate is one of life's great mysteries. Mulder shakes his wet head and stands, every inch of him vibrating with outrage. It would appear from his face that he's pre-empted vengeance and made it his own. He snarls, full lips twisted into an animal grimace as he sees Krycek stoop to bring his jeans up from around his ankles. Fast as a striking snake he's got Krycek by the collar, yanking him forward. Krycek stumbles. His feet are hopelessly entangled in the constricting blue denim and with a cry, he throws his arms out to save himself. He's unable to break his fall as his forehead smacks the floor where Mulder has lately been sitting.
Mulder laughs, harsh and triumphant, and surveys his companion as he lies stunned, ass pointing at the ceiling. The sight does things to his libido that he's unable to ignore. Krycek is a constant taunt merely by existing. He's wanted that ass, and now here it is. He's hard inside his jeans and he rubs his groin absently as he takes in the sight of Krycek, rounded haunches raised like an altar, and between them, the heavy scrotum, full and tight in front of the penis, brownish purple in the shadow between his thighs.
He licks his lips, moisture suddenly absent from his mouth. He feels the swelling of his cock as though it's the distant surge of the ocean when the tide comes in. Visible and delicious, Krycek's buttocks swell before him - a taunt to him as he stares and then begins to salivate. Krycek is starting to moan now, a little breathy sound that shimmers in the thick atmosphere. He stirs, groggily moving his hands to cushion his head.
Mulder kneels behind Krycek, knees pinning down the jeans that are still entangled around the other's ankles, and unzips his pants, allowing his cock to spring free. Then he spits on his fingers and begins to coat the blunt crown of his erection, while Krycek utters a groan, and tries to push himself up onto his forearms.
Mulder looks, and it's too much. He has to. He centers his dick, and thrusts home, splitting the cheeks of Krycek's ass with the thickness of his shaft as he drives himself into the hated, desired, longed-for person of Alex Krycek.
Alex is all heat and quivering tension. He screams out once as Mulder pierces him, and then again when Mulder jerks back on his hips, forcing himself home into Krycek's bowels with his own grunting cry.
They are still for a minute, a tableau from Dante's inferno, and the first level of hell is there with them as Mulder feels the heat surrounding him, burning up the inside of his thighs to lick at his balls. It's all inside him, the stabbing pleasure of taking this man, showing him his place at last, and Krycek is awake again, moaning in earnest as he's held still and fucked, slow strokes that burn him, burn his ass, raise his cock and make him squirm.
One hand is still at his forehead, but the other creeps beneath him to grab for his own cock, feeling it surge and grow in thrilling little spurts. He takes hold of it, and begins to stroke as Mulder presses home and gasps at the strength of the sensations that he feels. It's too much - far too much for Mulder. He has to move. As ever he has no control over himself or his actions while the sensations build, and he fucks, hips jerking in short, sharp punching movements while he drives in again and again.
Krycek is trying to get himself off, but it's plain that he won't get there in time. Sure enough, Mulder goes rigid and jams his cock as far into Krycek as he possibly can, his orgasm shaking him as he jets creamy white fluid into the hot silk of the prone man beneath his hands. In another instant he's slipping out, leaving the sticky residue of his passion behind him, and Krycek moans once more in sheer frustration.
"What's the matter Krycek? Want something?" There's no reply, and Mulder hauls the still-groggy man up until his plight is clear. He's harder than iron, and Mulder has already come. Krycek, swaying on his knees, eyes turned up and cock jutting red and leaking, is a sight that would turn on almost anyone. Mulder takes in the vision with satisfaction, and sits himself back on the concrete step to pull the other man over his knee, ensuring that his erection is situated between his own two thighs. Krycek slumps forward, and once again Mulder examines the marble curves of his behind, stroking them, admiring the spring of the flesh as he dents it, pressing in with a finger to watch as it reshapes itself on release.
Raising his hand, he brings it down to clap against a cheek, relishing the artistic effect generated by the red print on the pale flesh. Krycek utters a little, breathy cry and he raises his hand again, beginning a steady rain of blows down onto the smooth white skin, and watches with delight as it first flushes pink, and then glows red. Harder and harder he spanks, hearing Krycek cry out and then begin to pant as his hips start to jerk. He closes his thighs around the dangling cock, tightening them against the other man's thrusts, and his hand continues, warm palm slapping heated skin, from buttock through to inner thigh. As Krycek's hips dance faster, Mulder stops his onslaught, sucks his finger to moisten it, and then drives it inside Krycek, who lets out a yell when Mulder finds and fingers the little gland inside that causes him to see sparks fly.
"Let it go, Krycek." The voice is quiet, and in a way wondering, amazed that he could be causing this pleasure and that the other man could be permitting it. Krycek gives a low and intense groan, and then Mulder can feel the other's cock pulsing, spurting between his clamped thighs, ass clutching around Mulder's fingers as it all pours through him, feelings, sensations and finally jism. He comes.
They are still for a moment, and neither of them speaks. Finally, Krycek gives a rueful groan and rolls to his knees, then clambers to his feet. He yanks another piece of Pravda down from the hook with which to begin his clean up, and then looking at Mulder, hands him one as well. Then he starts to laugh - shaky gusts of mirth that become stronger and stronger.
"What the fuck? What's so funny?" Mulder is puzzled, still squatting on the step as he attempts to soak up the after effects of Krycek's orgasm with his piece of newspaper.
"Pravda," gasps Krycek, between paroxysms of laughter. "It means the truth, Mulder The truth is out here too In the outhouse."
Mulder shakes his head, but the irony of it hits home, and finally the pair of them begin laughing again.
By the time they are ready to go, it's a dark, dark night in the town of Tunguska.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~(( The End ))~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
However, even though feeling flushed with success, Dr Ruthless remembers that a job's not finished until the paperwork is done.