The Game
By Palinurus
December 20, 1997
It's so convenient to know people. Just a few people in a few strategic places, who can slip some innocent pieces of information. It just so happens that I know a girl who works in the FBI Travel office. She's cute, slightly naive, and easily impressed. And she really loves being able to impress me in return. I'm easily impressed too.
So it's no coincidence that I'm standing outside yet another grubby little motel, where FBI Special Agent Fox Mulder is going to spend the night. He thinks he'll be alone. He's not very happy about that. Alone at night in a grubby motel, hundreds of miles away from any sympathy, people get depressed. And Mulder gets depressed more easily than most.
The curtains of this grubby motel are a disgrace. They're almost transparent when the light is on inside, even on a moon-lit night like this. I can see him at the desk, facing the window, typing away on his little computer, occasionally pausing. The very sight of him makes me restless and almost unable to keep still, but I have to wait a bit longer. He's taken off his jacket and his shoes. His legs don't really fit under the desk, they're too long; he keeps shifting in his chair. His glasses reflect the text on the screen. He takes them off to rub his eyes, puts them back on again. He rests his head in his hands, looks at the screen once more. Then he switches the machine off, takes off his glasses a second time, and gets up.
Now is the time for my move. Despite my resolve, my heart rate goes up. I walk up to the door and knock. I can see him walk over to the dresser to get his gun before he goes to the door and opens it, on the chain.
"Krycek." He looks annoyed, and slightly upset. That's to be expected. He hates being surprised. He hates being followed, and he hasn't figured out yet how I find him. But it's the only way he'll let me get near him. "What are you doing here?"
"Hey Mulder. You looked kind of lonely in there, so I thought I'd knock on your door and see how you're doing." My voice at least sounds cool enough.
He sighs deeply, looks at me hesitantly for some very long moments. He excels at wearing out my patience, frustrating me, provoking me into doing something stupid. I'm prepared for that; I wait. Finally, he closes the door to take the chain off, and opens it again to let me in. He steps back and leans against the wall, looking at me, challenging me to overstep my bounds. He looks tired, exasperated, and gut-meltingly beautiful. My skin tingles, aches with lust, with anticipation. With nervousness. In these initial minutes he is like an deer in the woods - the slightest unfamiliar movement, the slightest suspicious sound, the slightest hint of danger, and he flees, expecting a bullet. I have to be very careful.
I flip the switch next to the door. It is a master switch. The room is enveloped in darkness, lit only by the faint light from outside. I move over to him, hook my fingers around the back of his neck and kiss him. He mutters something into my mouth, then shuts up and gives in. I pull his shirt from the back of his pants and slip my hand inside, kneading his ass.
I run my hand up along his spine, until the confines of the shirt make it stop between his shoulder blades. No amount of physical contact can satisfy my greed now. It almost suffocates me. Panting, I crush him into the wall, grind my hips against his, my mouth against his. His fingers dig into my back. My hand retraces its route down to his hips. Pressing him against me, I slide my right knee up between his legs, pulling his hips away from the wall. I lift my leg up as far as it will go.
He gasps, begins to rock against my thigh, hanging on to my shoulders as I almost lift him off the floor.
My tongue strokes the inside of his mouth. His eyes are closed, his face is relaxed, almost dreamy. His hips slow down, stop. We stand motionlessly. His breathing slowly returns to normal, his grip on my shoulders softens. He turns his head, breaking the kiss, and looks away.
I know my cues. I stand on two feet again, and let go of him. It almost hurts.
"Why did you switch off the light?"
"Because this room is like a theater stage when the lights are on."
He moves away from the wall, not looking at me. "This can't go on, Krycek."
"I don't see why not. It isn't interfering with anything that I can see."
"It's interfering with my peace of mind, damn it."
"Mulder, you haven't had any peace of mind since a long time before we met. I'm not saying I did much to improve that, but don't blame all your problems on this little... folly."
He must have his round of ritual protest. I have no choice but to wait it out. Wait, Alex. Wait.
He walks over to the bed and sits on it, his arms stretched out between his knees, his head bowed. He looks like an despairing schoolgirl. He is comparing the future of ten minutes ago with the future now. The next twelve hours look better: he won't have to spend the night alone. The twelve hours after that look a lot worse: he'll regret what happened, he'll feel guilty, ashamed, scared, confused.
He turns me on like no-one else. It's hard to say exactly why. He is good-looking, but not spectacularly so. I've had sex with better-looking people. He is smart and funny when he wants to be, but that is not exceptional either. It is that peculiar combination of stubbornness, vulnerability, aloofness, need, arrogance, self-depreciation - and the unpredictable shifting from any of these moods to the next, in the space of minutes. Seconds. Sometimes I can bring on another state of mind. The guilt handle is especially effective; surprise also frequently does the trick. But equally often, he does it himself, and catches *me* by surprise, and leaves me breathless with fascination. And slightly afraid. It's like working with a half-trained leopard: unpredictable, often dangerous, infinitely exciting. And much as I try to stop it, he still has the power to hurt me. Badly.
I have learned to live with this a long time ago. He *is* happy to see me; but he will never tell me so, though he will show it in other ways. He wavers forever between hostility and desire. Once I hoped that I could pull him out of this, or at least shift the balance a bit; but it won't work. He will never be at ease with the situation. I've swallowed my disappointment. I try not to expect much from him anymore. We have sex. I mess with his mind a bit. He messes with mine a bit. We have achieved a balance of power, although we both still start wrestling from time to time, hoping to gain the upper hand. From time to time, he gets under my skin and does some damage. Not quite intentionally, but because he hits me while he's thrashing around in his discomfort.
And I keep pushing him, a little bit at a time, towards my destination. It's barely noticeable; but we are moving. Mulder and I are going places.
I have made plans for tonight. I always make plans; it goes with my job, and after a while it becomes second nature. I ponder my projects, take them apart mentally, consider all aspects, try to anticipate all eventualities. And I know where I want to go with him. I don't know if he will agree, but I'm fairly certain that once he is over his initial wariness, he will let me take him almost anywhere. He is shy, flighty, even paranoid; but he is also intensely curious, heedless of fear, of propriety, of modesty. That is why I keep coming back. Mostly. Every time I push him a little further, watching him like a hawk for signs that I push too hard. To force him beyond his limits would probably end everything. I have to be careful, and I am. I know him well.
Finally he looks up and says, "Well, you're here now. I don't suppose you brought a bottle of wine?" His warmest welcome. He can't help doing it; I can't help resenting it.
I extract a hip flask of vodka from my pocket and, after a brief struggle with the wrappings, pour some into two of the plastic cups the motel so kindly provides. I give him one and sit next to him on the bed. I want to kiss him, to ravish him, to feel him writhe under my hands. I want to hear him try to hold back the cries of pleasure. I want to gobble him up, to swallow him whole. But he wants to talk. No, it's not even that. He wants to make sure I remember whose idea this is. It has to be understood that I make him do this; he has nothing to do with it, it's happening to him. He wants to make me assume his guilt. And I smile my brightest smile, pour him a drink, and wait for my moment.
"Why do you keep coming back?"
Suddenly, for a moment, I almost regret coming here. The anger sits inside me like a small, ferocious predator, asleep, but on the verge of waking up.
I know I must not let him make me angry. This anger comes from bleeding inside, slow but continuous bleeding. It's unpredictable. Too difficult to control.
I decide his time is up. I must not wait any longer; I'll treat his last question as rhetorical. I down my vodka, toss the cup to the floor, and move over to him, kiss him. He doesn't resist, though I think his penitence isn't quite over yet. I stand up, pull him up too and begin to undress him.
I rarely miss my left arm more than when I'm having sex. Then especially, so many things depend on symmetry. When I fumble with his belt buckle, he impatiently takes over, undressing first himself and then me in record time. His dark mood has run its course; the game can begin.
He grabs my hand and pulls me into the bathroom. "No lights," he says. The bathroom is pitch-dark, lit only by the faint outside light falling through the open door.
While we wait for the water to warm up, he suddenly turns to me and fastens himself upon me like a drowning man, sealing my mouth with his, wrapping both arms and a leg around me. I hear my ribs creak under the sudden pressure. I can feel his cock pressing into my belly. I push him against the wall and let him do what he wants to do. He's panting. He lets go of my mouth and buries his face in my neck, his lips fasten there like an octopus' sucker. His tongue feels rough, like a cat's. My leopard. His hand slides down my spine. He grabs my ass, pushes one finger into the crack, then inside. My knees go weak from the sensation and from his obvious need. I can feel his heartbeat against my chest, distinct from my own.
"The shower," I say.
He raises his head, sighs deeply, lets go of me and steps into the tub. I follow, my mouth dry, my muscles tight in anticipation.
When I step into the shower, I bump into him. I can't see a thing. He has better night vision than I do. He grabs me again, pushes me face-first against the wall. I let him. He needs a lot of leeway at the start of the game; then he will play along more easily later on. He has managed to find the soap somehow, and proceeds to cover me in lather, reaching around to do the front, taking his time. It's tantalizing, mouth-watering, but I'm passive, my cheek against the cool tiles which are rapidly becoming slick with steam. He kneels down behind me and I feel a soapy finger entering me. I moan involuntarily, then try to keep quiet as he expertly moves it around, then withdraws and smoothly re-enters with two fingers. He is good. He pays attention, he anticipates and notices the tiniest signals. I feel his mouth a bit higher, on my lower back, creating another hickey. I hang on to the towel rack, gasping.
He withdraws his fingers and gets up, steadying himself with a hand on my hip. He leans his entire length against me and moves his cock into position.
"Can I?"
With anybody else it would be a gratuitous remark to crank up the tension; with him, it's politeness. First he hurts me to the core with his hesitation; then he asks for permission to fuck me. He sees no contradiction, and wonders why I get exasperated.
"Jesus Mulder, move on!"
He pushes into me, very slowly, much too slowly for me, but I make myself stay still. I'll let him run free, for now. When he's finally made his way in, he stops again, waits, until I almost grind my teeth with frustration. His hands roam over my chest, playing with my nipples, tracing my ribs. His mouth lodges itself on a vertebra in my neck. I can feel his cock give little twitches inside me, in response to my gasps.
He ignites a forest fire in me, a slow-burning, all-consuming heat that slowly eats me up, gnaws a path to my balls... I can't let this happen, it's too soon, and I have other plans. I brace myself against the cool tiles, reach down and squeeze my cock hard to halt the orgasm that's tantalizingly close.
His hands move up over my chest, and his fingers hook themselves over my shoulders. He pulls on my shoulders with all his weight, almost bringing me down, but my hand reaches the towel rack just in time. He starts to thrust, setting a very fast pace. He begins to moan, and I suddenly realize that he's about to come too, about to ruin my plans for the night. I quickly let go of the towel rack and lose my balance, forcing him to stand on his own feet or risk crashing to the floor of the bathtub in the blinding darkness. He slips out of me with a muffled cry, and I feel his weight leaning against me. "God damn you, Krycek..." he croaks.
I turn around carefully, pass my arm underneath his, and close my fingers around his neck, as far as they will go. I flex them. He groans, and I kiss him to stifle the sound. He puts his arms around my waist and thrusts his rock-hard cock against my belly, panting into my mouth. His urgent movements and grunts send shivers down my spine, and for a moment the roles are reversed: now I'm hanging on to him for fear of dropping to the floor. My fingers ache from the strain.
I regain my control, let go of his neck and move away from him. His arms tighten around my waist, his thrusting becomes more desperate. I twist, but he won't let go. I reach down between our bodies, making him moan loudly, and grab his balls. The moan turns into a strangled gasp when I dig my fingers into the tender flesh. He lets go of me and backs into the wall with a thud. For a moment I think he's sobbing, then I realize he is only trying to catch his breath.
"Don't do that again, Krycek," he whispers. I'm sure he wanted it to sound like a threat, but it comes out sounding like a plea. "Then don't try to rush me along," I reply.
I stand in front of him again. My hand moves across his chest. I find a nipple, stroke it with my thumb until it hardens under my touches. He leans forward slightly. I take it between my thumb and forefinger and pinch it, hard. His breath catches in his throat. I feel his cock jump against me, but he stands very still. My hand moves to his other nipple, and he shivers in anticipation. I draw this one out, stroking gently, brushing the nipple with my forefinger, stroking again. He leans forward further, his forehead now resting on my shoulder, his hands on my waist. I nibble on his earlobe, take it between my teeth. I don't hurt him, just keep him there. When my nails finally close on his nipple, he gasps, but his head stays in place.
I let go, turn off the water, grab a towel from the rack and thrust it into his arms. "Dry me." Meekly, he goes to work, and is done is seconds. I take the towel and begin to dry him, careful to avoid his cock; he doesn't make it easy. In the end, I reach for his balls again. He backs off and behaves, stands very still again while I finish drying him.
After the pitch dark of the bathroom, the bedroom seems brightly lit for a moment. He heads for the bed, but I grab his arm and deflect his course to the desk. I turn him around and push his ass against it. I move away a few steps and watch him at leisure. He is backlit by the moon; it's too dark to see his expression clearly from this distance. He crosses his arms, leans back and waits, shifting slightly from side to side. After a minute he says: "Krycek, I'm getting cold."
I walk over to him, stand so close to him that my erection meets his. He has apparently agreed to keeping still. I look at his face, but he's looking at the floor. I touch his shoulder, his biceps, trail my fingers over his lower arm. He follows my hand with his eyes. I move it up along the other arm, his neck, his jaw. Now he's staring at me, breathing quick, shallow breaths. I stare back. I've turned him into a lamb, and a lion has woken up in me.
I take hold of his shoulder and turn him around to face the desk and the window. I kneel down next to him. I press my nose against his left buttock. The muscle twitches. It's a shame that we just emerged from the shower: there's only the slightest hint of his scent left. I lick, then press my lips against the muscle and suck, strongly. I run my hand up and down his inner thigh. He places his feet slightly farther apart. I touch my teeth to the skin of his buttock and hear him gasp; but I don't bite. Not yet.
I run the hand up between his buttocks, spreading them. His feet move further apart. My tongue follows my hand, stopping at his anus, sucking softly.
He sighs, leans forward on his hands. His fingers tighten around the edge of the desk; I can hear a joint snap.
I lick, kiss, push my tongue inside as far as it will go, then out again. I fuck him with my tongue.
His sighs are becoming heavier, his leans more strongly. His head falls forward, his shoulder blades jut out. When I fondle his balls, his right knee buckles, but he catches himself.
I pull back, holding his hips in place with my hand. I pinch his buttock, then move my hand into the cleft again, insert a finger. He pushes against it. I rub his prostate, forcefully. He cries out, arches his back, moves with my finger. His upper body sinks down to the desk top, then he rights himself again. His hips buck, he moans softly.
I hold still, pull out of him. "Mulder."
He swallows, tries to catch his breath, waits for a long time, panting. He whispers, "What?", almost inaudibly.
"You turn me on so much..." His hand reaches down, fingers entwine themselves in my hair. I think he is thanking me for the compliment. Or trying to placate me with an offering.
Very slowly, I start pushing two fingers into him. No lubrication. It must hurt. It does hurt. I can see him pulling his shoulders together, I can feel him tensing. He breathes fast, deep breaths. I can hardly breathe at all, my heart takes up all the space in my chest.
When my fingers are almost all the way in, I stop, then move them slightly, feeling the tension shoot through his body. His breath is shaky now.
My mouth, dry as parchment, traces his thigh, goes back up to his hip. I pull out, then start pushing in again, now with three fingers.
He gasps in pain.
I go very, very slowly.
His back begins to arch, his head moves back. I can see his face now. His eyes are squeezed shut, his jaws are clenched. I can see the jaw muscle twitch. There is a sheen of sweat on this face. When I curl my fingers inside him, he breathes, "Ahhh".
I whisper, "Does it hurt?" He nods, his eyes closed, his breath ragged. I give a sharp twist. "Aaah... y- yes..."
My heart is pounding, a slow, hammering beat that makes the edges of my field of vision shimmer. His pain arouses me immensely. He hands himself over to me without any reserve. Not because he trusts me, but because he gives no thought to self-preservation. I strip his skin away, get to the raw nerves lying underneath. I can push him around now, and he may like it or not like it, but he will let me. I can look into his soul. All the guards are off.
I turn my fingers inside him. He moans, tries to move with them to reduce the friction, but he can't. I whisper, "You're so beautiful when I'm hurting you." He takes a sobbing breath.
"Put your knee on the desk."
Slowly, painfully, he lifts his knee, rests it on the desk top, next to his computer, witness of another life. I feel the pressure on my fingers increase when he tenses his leg muscles, then lessen when they relax again.
I move very close to him. I can smell his sweat. I rub my nose against his buttock; it is slick with sweat. I withdraw my fingers, insert my tongue in their place. I know what I am doing to him. He gets used to the pain; mixed with pleasure, it will be harder. I kiss him, tickle him, lick the bruised flesh of his sphincter. My hand follows his thigh on the desk, reaches around to his cock. He is rock-hard. I put my thumb and forefinger around it, just below the head, and begin a small pumping motion.
His fingers tense around the edge of the desk, so hard I think they may break. He leans forward, trying to give me more room. He produces small moans, in time with the movements of my tongue.
I stop. My hand moves back over his thigh, slides into the crack of his ass. I can see his muscles knot in anticipation.
I don't know if he'll be able to take four fingers. When I start pushing in he bends over, then rights himself again and tries arching his back once more. He's covered in sweat now; a trickle runs down the indentation of his spine. His arms are trembling. I push hard, with pulsing, twisting motions. It takes a lot of strength, my arm is beginning to hurt. I'm almost lifting him off the floor. He groans through clenched teeth and makes a sobbing sound that catches me in the groin, blinds me, almost makes me lose my balance.
I stop. I feel his muscle clench spasmodically around my fingers, listen to his rasping breath. I smell his pain, his fear. Why doesn't he stop me? What does he get out of this? What do I get out of it?
My knees are beginning to hurt. I use the pressure of my fingers to turn him sideways, his back to the desk. He moves with me, gingerly; he has no choice. Amazingly, he's still erect, rock-hard. Leaving my fingers in place, I begin to suck his cock. His breath comes in sobs now. He supports himself by putting his hands on my shoulders. His hips buck, just once. He's forgotten about my fingers, and gasps again from the pain. After the gasp, his mouth stays open. I can see unshed tears shimmering between his lashes. He tries to move against my mouth with very, very small pelvic movements.
He is going to come like this, in this pain, very soon. His sphincter is still spasming in protest, his joints are almost creaking from the tension. Still sucking his cock, I slowly begin pulling out of him.
He gives an agonized cry, then slowly... deflates. Like a rubber doll, from which I've pulled the plug. He slumps over me, his hands slip off my shoulders. His leg slips off the desk. He almost topples over, then sinks to his knees. His heads falls forward, onto my shoulder. He's moaning softly, "Oh, no... oh, no..." He starts to shiver, not surprising as he's drenched in sweat.
I help him up off the ground, support him as we walk towards the bed. He lies down on his stomach. I find my jeans and get the little bottle of lube from the pocket. Then I sit on the side of the bed, grab one of his hips and turn him over. He stares at me. Away from the outside light, it's hard to see his expression. I touch his face, still covered with a moist film of sweat. I kiss him; he doesn't pull away, but stays passive. It is as if I have drained him of all voluntary motion.
I put my lips on his cock, which instantly comes to life again. I caress it, stroke it, kiss it, as sweetly as if I'm handling a newborn kitten. My hand moves over his chest, turning circles around the nipples until they are erect. He is relaxing, forgetting the pain.
I spread his legs and kneel between them, my lips still on him. My hand,
after endless practice, easily opens the bottle of lube
and pours some onto my fingers. It descends into the anal cleft again and
gently probes around for his anus. He tenses up, his
eyes boring into mine, never leaving me while I anoint him. He lifts his
hips slightly to give me room, gasps when I touch a
sensitive spot.
When I withdraw my hand, he lowers his hips and then lifts his legs on to my shoulders, first one, then the other, wincing. I use my hand to place my cock against his sphincter. I leave it there for a moment, and look down at him. His eyes are wide open, fixed on me, dark with lust, with anticipated pain. He's breathing rapidly, through his mouth, his teeth are partially bared. My leopard, now in his trap, glaring at the hunter, fully expecting death. Unafraid.
I push in. Slowly. The warmth envelopes me, embraces me.
He tries to hold back his cry of pain; it comes out muffled. His hands grasp the folds of the sheet below him. His legs tense so tightly I can feel them pressing against the tendons in my neck. His cock twitches.
I push on, feeling his sphincter flex, tighten, clamp down on me. I withdraw a little until it relaxes, then move forward again. He stares at me all the time. The cat and the hunter; the lion and the lamb.
I start to thrust. His hips move with me. I know how to do it, how to maximize the effect. He bucks when I first brush his prostate. Then he takes up the rhythm, almost takes over. The pain is now part of the pleasure. I don't touch him; there's no need. His hands are still tangled in the sheets. He's once again covered in sweat, his hair sticks to his forehead. His eyes never close. They stay interlocked with mine, opening wider.
I bend over him, thrusting harder, almost folding him in half. I can feel myself getting close. I put my hand behind his head and kiss him, pushing my tongue deep into him, paralleling the movement of my cock in his rectum. He resists furiously, jerking his head from side to side, then suddenly gives in, and at the same instant he cries out inside my mouth. His semen splashes against my stomach. His muscles contract, the pain causing a chain reaction throughout his body. One leg slips off my shoulder, the shoulder that has no arm to keep it in place.
I bury myself inside his mouth, inside his rectum, slowly find my way out of the darkness, further inside, into his soul, where I slowly, pensively empty myself. He is still there, though his eyes are now closed and his body has relaxed; he welcomes me.
He lies still, trembling, his back towards me. He's on my wrong side, I can't put my arm around him. I sit up, pull up the blankets, cover us. He could probably freeze to death without even noticing. I move closer to him. I have only one arm and it's still in the way. I climb over him, wrap my arm and one leg around him, and wait for the world to return to itself.
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