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 a 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.
The End
Vicious
Kiss
by Isahunter
Fox Mulder's Apartment
