by RavenD
I wonder if I could make you beg?
What a pleasant thought.
Come now, is that a hiccup in your step? Did you hear me? Smell me? No,
that's not possible, you're still a half flight above me and I'm still
waiting for you here in the shadows left by unmarked sedans. Not even the
cameras can sense me.
You couldn't know, but it makes me hard as fuck to imagine you do.
I started this game because I had to—it's stunning what I'll do for the
right cause and the continuing welfare of Alex Krycek is the most noble
cause I know—I'm playing now because I can. There's nothing like having
you at my mercy. It's better than anything, better than a hot whore moving
slick-wet beneath me, better than white powder in my nose. Better even that
my hand slamming into Mulder's oh-so perfect face. The feel of your throat
spasming around my cock, your eyes rolling with that clever mix of panic and
pleading and icy-cold rage... Oh, that is worth daring death.
Worth playing death.
Not that you'd know anything about this sort of thing, would you? The feel
of my broken body curled over your fist never made your dick like a diamond
in your jeans. Not that you've ever pressed me beneath you, spread my legs
and shoved yourself into my ass, right, Assistant Director Skinner?
Last time we played I had star-shaped bruises on my hip that lasted for
weeks.
The memory of you whispering your sweet nothings lasted even longer. "I'm
fucking you, boy. Don't you like it? Move, you son of a bitch. Ride me, you
sweet slut." Music to my ears.
I wonder, do you tell yourself I loved it when you're fucking your hand in
the dark, splashing your incredibly expensive scotch on your starched shirts
when you come? Do I moan beneath you, yielding and passionate, in your
white-static fantasies, or does the sound of screaming as you tear into me
make you hard? Do you look out on your balcony for marks made by cuffs on
the railing, look for stains?
Forensic evidence of blood and sweat and semen and spit.
Must be true love.
Come on, Skinner. Move down the fucking stairs. It's getting cold down here
and I miss you. I want to hold you close in my arms and whisper
long-forgotten lullabies into your ear while I let you wrap your lips around
the barrel of my gun.
What? Not romantic enough for you? Next time I'll remember roses.
If you're very good, I'll even let you fuck me again, call me Mulder when
you hit me. You can pretend it's punishment, pretend I'm a tortured lost boy
looking for a way home, pretend that you don't really like the feel of my
skin beneath your teeth and my cries in your ears and my tight ass squeezing
your cock.
I don't mind at all.
After all, I'm the one with the control, aren't I?
Here you are, moving out the door like a one-man swat team. Maybe you did
hear me, your gun's in your hand. Impressive. One of the things I love
about you is the flash of fury that slashes through that Quantico-inspired
predictability.
Look over here, in the shadows. Can you see me? I'm just an innocent little
rent-boy with a rock-hard cock and dead stone eyes. "Hey, mister, want a
date?"
You don't even have the good graces to look surprised.
"What do you want, Krycek?" I love how my name sounds like ashes in your
mouth.
What do I want? Same thing I've always wanted, Skinner. I want to fuck that
all-American-home-of-truth-and-God-and-apple-pie mind until the only way to
get my voice out of your brain is with a bullet.
Somehow I doubt that's what you want to hear. "You, obviously."
Oh, yeah. Press those lips together, clench those fists. Let me see how I
make you feel, Skinner. Cock that hammer back as I move closer. There's
nothing sexier than an armed man.
I tighten my shoulders, pretend I can feel it as the leather-bound fingers
move, pressing buttons. Your eyes are lovely in their agony.
On your knees, Skinner. It's my turn to call you "Boy."
hear you, stalking down stairs, one at a time, shiny shoes clicking like
death beetles. No one else sounds like you; hours of marching through swamps
and bureau halls have created their own peculiar cadence. I hold your life
in my dead hand, one push of a button and that odd, rhythmic man-music
stutters, stops. Those little creatures, mechanical representations of my
esteem, wait dormant within your blood like passion. One touch and you
would be on your knees, those creased slacks sucking the dust from a
thousand fibbie shoes between tightly woven fibers.
