The moon above was luminescent, tinting everything below with a white,
preternatural glow. His eyes had adjusted to the darkness and while everything
was visible to his fully dilated pupils, the world still had a sinister cast, a
dark nuance that nothing but daylight would eradicate. It was easy to believe
that the sun's warm glow could erase any darkness, be it before his eyes, or on
his soul.
Perhaps that was the reason why they were so comfortable in the long, forgiving
shadows of nightfall. Perhaps that was why they rarely ventured out under the
harsh light of day. While the sun, like water's cleansing balm, could remove a
sin, could obliterate darkness in all its inky forms; it also was unforgiving,
forcing the eye to focus, its pupil drawing to a pinpoint under its brilliant
glare. In daylight, there was no room for those comfortable shades of gray they
both seemed to find themselves steeped in.
Mulder's eyes were drawn to the knife held almost carelessly in the other man's
hand, its blade gleaming white as it reflected the moon back at him. The
reflection was dazzling, the not-quite-sunlight hurting his eyes for a bare
instant. His eyes followed the knife, impossibly sharp, a formidable tool or
weapon, especially in Alex's hands. The pain, the long streaks of red, healing
over into shiny discolored scars, were only a different shade of ecstasy Mulder
discovered in an ever-widening prism. It was not so much the pain that brought
the pleasure, but the dizzying sensation of the pain when the torment was over.
At least, that's how it began.
He would never forget their first night. It was like, and yet so unlike, the
many that followed. He'd stumbled onto Krycek, who had been following him
diligently for one reason or other, quite by accident. It had been dark then
too, twilight giving the world a purplish tint.
Prophetic? Possibly.
They had fought, of course. Mulder had wound his hands into the material of
Krycek's jacket, slamming him hard against the red brick wall of an anonymous,
nameless building. Blows had been dealt, cracking hard across ribs and jaws,
bloodying noses and splitting lips. The pain was throbbing, excruciating...
Exquisite.
He'd gone home that night, his battered and bruised body slinking into the
shower, under the hot, stinging spray. He'd jerked off violently, his cry
echoing off of the lonely tile walls of the bathroom.
The next encounter was just as accidental as the previous one. They had fought,
growling and punching; left hooks and right crosses clashing painfully with jabs
and blocks. If it was possible, even more blood was shed this time than the
first. Again, arousal flowed freely, almost ferally through his body, his
erection nearly painful with every blow dealt, every punch received.
It was that night, in a moment taut with tension, as a single bead of blood
trailed from his lip, that Alex Krycek slowly and methodically swept his tongue
across the red streak.
The beginning of the end, so to speak.
They had fucked then, and many times after that. Location mattered little; in
fact, they slowly lost all distinguishable characteristics, melding into one
bleak place, never changing. Alleyways, parking garages, warehouses...
Neither one could answer with any degree of truthfulness when these meetings went
from being chance to being planned. And they weren't planned in any sort of
conventional way. Wordless hints were dropped, cryptic messages left for one or
the other. Sometimes they met, sometimes they didn't. When they did, however,
blood was shed. It was inescapable, unavoidable, inevitable.
And, like the darkness steadily eclipsing both of them, their meetings grew
later.
It was a path they'd taken, unwittingly, to where they were tonight. The
cemetery was still around them, save for the occasional flapping of bats' wings.
The lit world had long since retired, leaving night things to roam and revel in
the cool shadows. Even the river gurgled softly in the background, a faint
lullaby beneath the layered sounds of frogs croaking and crickets chirping.
Mulder's kidneys ached from where Krycek had slammed him against an unyielding
stone monument, his mouth sang with the coppery piquant of the blood that filled
it, and he was fairly sure he was suffering from one or several bruised ribs.
This short catalog of injuries fled his mind as his eyes were drawn briefly from
the knife to the face of the man who held it. Krycek's eyes were dark, almost
black in the darkness, the angle of his head casting long, dark shadows down his
face. Alex's tongue slid slowly across his lower lip in anticipation, and Mulder
felt a ripple of a shudder pass through him. He closed his eyes, waiting. With
sight cut off, the nighttime sounds around him seemed to magnify, to amplify
themselves in his mind. Crickets chirped, owls and bats flapped their wings in
the distance, and other nocturnal animals went about their nightly business.
They were all a part of a sort of vespertine fraternity, and paid each other no
mind.
Alex looked down at Mulder, his chest heaving with recent exertion. He lay,
stretched out across the cold marble slab, still and waiting. A cold smile
curled his lips as he felt the tension rise a few more degrees when the other man
let his eyes slip shut. He knelt, straddling Mulder's crotch, only too well
aware of the hardness growing there. He licked his lips again, the tangy taste
of sweat standing out on his tongue, increasing his craving exponentially.
Slowly and methodically, he brought the blade to Mulder's chest and dragged the
sharp edge across it, his eyes going immediately to the dark liquid, beading
along that thin red line. He felt Mulder jerk instinctively at the sensation,
and knew better than to think the other man had gasped in pain. The wanton
grinding at his crotch told him differently. Mulder was panting, gasping for air
now, but Alex Krycek recognized the actions of a man trying hard to keep his own
desires in check.
The sick bastard was enjoying this as much as he was.
Which didn't say much about himself.
Alex lowered his mouth to the cut and slowly dragged his tongue across it,
smearing the blood as he licked it up, moaning softly at the harsh metallic taste
that screamed across his palate. He smiled darkly as Mulder whimpered and
writhed beneath him, and he slowly dragged his fingertips down the other man's
ribcage as his lips and tongue worked in tandem, lapping and suckling the cut. A
moan manifested itself deep in his own throat, though whether it was at the taste
of Mulder's blood, or the desperate grindings against his crotch, Alex was in no
position to say.
"Now," Mulder moaned, arching his back, trying to force Alex's hand. The sharp
slice of pain forced his eyes open as endorphins rushed through him. Now the warm
wetness of Krycek's mouth on him was definitely enough to send him into erotic
oblivion.
"No, not now," Alex murmured, dragging the sharp blade lightly down Mulder's
sternum, taking care not to cut too deeply. Again the dragged lips and tongue
through the coppery redness, licking the blood not unlike an almost-sated cat,
licking at a bowl of cream. The warmth of the liquid, the taste of it was as
addicting—if not more so—than the man himself. Alex brought his mouth to
this new laceration and sucked hard before looking up and meeting Mulder's gaze,
licking the redness from his lips like an animal in the midst of feeding.
Once again, Krycek brought the knife to Mulder's chest, and drew a third and
final line, breaking the skin and causing the dark red liquid to gather and ooze
slowly. His hunger growing, rather than ebbing, Alex continued to nip and lick,
slowly dragging his tongue across the salty flesh. With every gasp, every moan,
every futile thrust against his hardening cock, Alex's pleasure grew. And if
Mulder's body was any indication, he was enjoying this just as much.
Mulder lay on the slab, the pain in his kidneys forgotten, the all-over ache of
the fight, forgotten. His hands were buried in Alex's hair, holding the other
man's mouth close to his chest, his hoarse moans absorbed by the warm night air,
thick with humidity and the cloying scent of flowers, dead and dying, in the
cemetery. Suddenly, Alex's hot mouth had torn itself away from his skin, leaving
him feeling bereft, empty. He looked up dazedly and felt himself being forcibly
flipped onto his hands and knees. The knife landed with a soft clang onto the
slab.
The moan formed deep in his chest and purred through his throat as Alex's hands,
now impatient, unfastened his jeans and yanked them down brutally. There was the
warm slickness of lube against his ass before the sudden sweet pain as the head
of Alex's cock forced itself through the tight ring of muscle. Mulder's eyes
squeezed shut at the exquisite, burning sensation of being stretched. He arched
his back, pressing wantonly against the warm body behind him. He tilted his head
back, baring his teeth as Alex established a hard, brutal rhythm, tendons
standing out on his neck with every hard brush against his prostate, the
sensations tearing through Mulder as Alex's balls slapped against him. The
noises emanating from him, forming in his chest and tearing through his throat,
were animalistic in nature; growls ripping through the close night air.
Mulder's own erection strained, neglected, as Alex grasped Mulder's hips and
thrust into him. His head dropped forward and he stared, almost unseeingly at
the red drops landing on the slab beneath him, dripping from the cuts in his
chest. They fell in perfect rhythm with Alex's hard thrusts and Mulder's own
heavy breathing. Before long, those growls and moans turned to screams as the
sensation against his prostate became too much to bear. His cock still throbbed,
having not been so much as touched during the encounter, and that discomfort was
nearly as erotic as the finer, more concentrated pain of the blade breaking his
skin.
Mulder felt his entire body tighten at once, and heard Krycek scream behind him,
coming violently. The grip the man had on Mulder's hips was nearly a bruising
one and he slammed home until the jerking shudders ceased. He sighed softly as
Krycek withdrew and re-zipped before rolling back onto his back, the marble now
warm with his body heat.
Krycek smiled at Mulder, laid before him almost like a sacrifice. The three long
red welts down his chest stood out starkly against the pale skin, a beautiful
study in contrast. Mulder's cock strained upwards, silently begging for
attention. Alex's smile darkened. Beg indeed. Slowly he dropped to his knees,
between Mulder's spread legs, pressing himself against the tomb Mulder was laying
on.
"Krycek," Mulder growled, impatience roughening his voice.
"Shh," Alex hissed sharply. He would take his time, and refused to be rushed.
He glanced down and retrieved the knife from where it had fallen earlier and
gripped it tightly. Slowly, he licked Mulder's cock, from base to tip;
practically feeling Mulder's relief at the attention paid his straining erection.
His was a heady addiction, the exhilarating rush of power especially when coupled
with the sensation of Mulder's broken skin beneath his mouth. There were times
when he fancied he could feel the other man's pulse against his lips. There were
times when he imagined that pulse thrumming behind the blood as he licked at the
lacerated flesh. Far more erotic than even the now-familiar tightening of
Mulder's ass around his cock, never failing to send him spiraling into a sensual
supernova.
In fiction and religion, both, blood is symbolized as life eternal. From Jesus
Christ down to Count Dracula in all of his many hackneyed forms, the consumption
of blood—the ultimate exchange of bodily fluids—equals out to one thing:
everlasting life.
Alex exhaled a wry, mirthless chuckle. Didn't dealers hook their buyers in with
similar lines?
And didn't junkies believe every word?
Alex drew Mulder into his waiting mouth, sucking as hungrily and as eagerly on
the blood-heated erection as he had along those vibrant lines of tangy red
liquid. He didn't know it, but Mulder had become his addiction, providing him
with this intoxicating power-thrill.
Alex's throat tightened around Mulder's cock as he forced him deeper, running his
tongue all around the member, tasting the faint salty taste of flesh and precum.
No, Mulder could never know how much Alex had come to crave this—not just the
power, no, but that sensation of wild deviance. Alex moaned, sending shockwaves
of sound through Mulder's erection, causing the other man to thrust helplessly
into Krycek's mouth, further into his throat.
No, Mulder could never know.
Mulder lay, writhing on the marble slab that had grown slick with his sweat.
There was a hazy, drunk feeling surrounding him, at war with the stinging
sensation both on his chest and in his ass. Tonight had been harder, rougher
than other nights; but now, as Alex's hot mouth, slick and wet, cocooned his
cock, Mulder believed the trade-off even. A growl passed his lips as he thrust
desperately into that mouth, Alex's teeth lightly grazing the ultra-sensitized
flesh.
No, not every night worked out like this one. There were times when he found
himself over Krycek, his hips ramming against that firm, muscular body. Nights
when he teased Krycek, sometimes tying him, other times just making him wait
while Mulder took his time, unwilling to be rushed... Much like Alex was doing
now. There were nights that Mulder slid the sharp blade along the other man's
skin, licking at the blood, tasting yet another facet of this man.
But those sorts of nights were nothing like these sorts of nights. The sublime
sensation of the cold blade dragging across his skin, faint pressure behind the
hand holding it. He could feel Krycek's hot breath against his skin even before
he felt the wet roughness of his tongue.
Mulder felt his mind slide away from him as Alex began sucking hard, one hand
massaging his balls, just this side of rough. His jaw tightened and he forced
his hands to remain where they were, resisting the urge to wind his fingers in
Krycek's hair and fuck his mouth mercilessly until he came, because Mulder knew
any release gained in that fashion was nothing but hollow.
He ignored the taunting voice in his head that suggested that what they were
doing was nothing but hollow anyway. There were things he had come to need, come
to depend on... Dependence, that's what it was. Mulder had come to thrive on
the fight, taking advantage of the endorphin high after the fact. He had come to
crave the pain, be it from a lucky crack across his jaw, or a result of Alex's...
enthusiasm. He had come to depend on, be addicted to that deviant pull that
seemed to tug at the very recesses of his soul. It was a sick need, this
willingness to be taken and used, fucked and bled. But it was a need nonetheless.
His was a depraved addiction, the rush that accompanied these meetings, the
blessed streak of pain that screamed across his skin as Krycek cut him, a
sensation that could only be akin to the sound of angels singing.
Oh yes, he was a disturbed individual.
More so that he had come to depend on Alex Krycek to fulfill this need. Krycek
played dealer to Mulder's junkie, supplying him with the intoxicating sensation
of a bruised and battered body, razor sharp blades carving intricate patterns
into the skin, and the humiliation of submission as Mulder simply laid there and
took whatever it was Krycek wanted to dole out.
He wasn't naïve enough, even for a moment, to think that love even began to play
a part in their game. He didn't love Alex Krycek, and he knew that the feeling
was more than mutual. That didn't allay the addiction, or eradicate the sense of
withdrawal he went through during his nights alone. He could not deny nor ignore
the insane restlessness he experienced in the quiet sanctity of his apartment.
One night he had craved release so desperately, he had actually tried cutting
himself by his own hand and then licking away that blood. But that too had been
empty, hollow... pointless.
Now, as he thrust wantonly into Alex's mouth, the pain of the earlier lacerations
still screaming across his chest, Mulder felt the rush of adrenaline and
endorphins that had become his drug of choice. His balls tightened as an
indescribable warmth began to unfurl in the pit of his stomach. More
meaningless, wordless phrases tore past his lips into the silver-lit night.
Alex felt a feral grin tug at his lips as he heard the now-familiar strains of
Mulder's desperation. He glanced up at the other man, examining him through dark
lashes. His hand skimmed the smooth stone that held Mulder's weight, his fingers
searching until they closed around the handle of the knife. By now Mulder's hips
were thrusting in earnest, needy mews and whimpers forming behind a barrier of
clenched teeth. Deciding to up the stakes somewhat, he held the blade of the
knife against the juncture of his thigh, where muscular leg met lean body.
Mulder's senseless cries were growing more and more frantic as hazel eyes flicked
between the gleaming silver blade and gleaming green irises.
Mulder gasped raggedly as Krycek brought the knife to that tender spot on his
body, anticipation growing to infinitesimal levels. The simple pressure of the
blade, pressing against his skin sent dizzying sparks through his system, dancing
up and down his spine, weaving through and around his nervous system. With a
final, ragged cry, Mulder's hips thrust upwards, hard, and he came into Krycek's
slick, hot mouth. So blessed was this release that he didn't feel the blade
slice easily through the skin, into the flesh.
Krycek swallowed the hot, salty liquid, satisfaction warming him as he saw what
he'd been able to reduce Mulder to, yet again. As he pulled away, licking his
lips slowly, his eyes darted to the knife still clutched in his right hand,
stained with the sticky redness of Mulder's blood, now oozing freely from the cut
he'd just made.
Alex blinked, watching the dark liquid flow. He glanced up at Mulder, who was
breathing heavily, his body fairly glistening with sweat, the moisture catching
the moonlight, giving him an almost ethereal look. Alex's eyes slid back down to
the cut and he felt his tongue slide slowly across his lips, arousal starting to
stir within him once again. He couldn't help but notice that this cut was
deeper, far deeper than the others. The blood flowed—danced, almost—with a
pulse, the beat of Mulder's heart pumping away. He stared at the sight,
swallowing at the sheer beauty of it. The stream of red pooled, still thudding
with that silent beat. Alex's own heartbeat sped up as his mouth descended
hungrily, his tongue and lips bathing themselves in the warm, thick liquid.
There was a far away sound as Mulder moaned, moving slowly beneath Alex's hungry
mouth. He paid it no mind, though, and continued to lick and suckle, the
metallic taste making lust pool in his veins. The blood seemed to flow as fast,
perhaps faster, than Alex could lick it up. This realization should have sent
panic slicing through his insides, it should have set off warning bells, it
should have done something other than increase the intensity of desire already
present within him. Greedily he drank, almost able to feel Mulder's energy
transferring to him. Alex could feel the sticky wetness slick his lips and trail
down his chin, and yet he couldn't stop. He refused to.
After an indeterminable amount of time, Alex looked up, finally sated. At some
time during his gorging, Mulder had stopped moving, stopped writhing
uncontrollably beneath him.
He now lay still, naked atop the marble slab.
Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Alex got to his feet. Curious, he
walked around and knelt by Mulder's head, reaching up and prodding at his neck
with two inquisitive fingers.
The pulse was thready and faint, but present.
Alex rocked back and lowered himself onto his haunches. He'd cut too deeply; one
glance down at the still-seeping wound told him as much. He'd cut too deeply,
and now Mulder was unconscious. Alex raked his eyes across the sleeping face
once before reaching for the cell-phone stashed in his pocket. He looked down at
the numberpad, then back at the man, his own features appearing to have been made
of the same marble he slumbered on now.
Three numbers.
Dial them.
He doesn't have to die.
Alex looked between the phone and Mulder, his thumb hovering over the "9" button.
He could make the call and leave, and no one would ever be the wiser.
Except Mulder.
Saving him meant never again indulging. It equaled out to an unseverable
emotional tie between them. Mulder would know Alex had placed the call. They
didn't need that kind of bond tainting their relationship. They didn't need the
confusion emotion inevitably brings. Never again would they be able to...
All of it, over.
It's over anyway.
At least, Alex thought, standing and turning on his heel, then heading down the
grassy hill, this way, it's a clean break. This way there will be nothing tying
him to me, or me to him. Nothing between us. No gratitude, no debt. His steps
lead him to the concrete path and through the large, ornate gates. They seemed
to gleam at him in the darkness, appearing almost like a beacon, the glowing path
to exoneration. Whatever the gothic gates seemed to promise him, though, Alex
Krycek refused to be swept into their lies.
Alex's palate ached as he thought about never again tasting the salty heat of his
cock, or the coppery piquant of his blood.
But then, saving him meant never tasting it again either.
Shades of Gray
by Fox's Gal
"...my endeavours should be directed to persons and characters supernatural,
least romantic; yet so as to transfer from our inward nature a human interest and
a semblance of truth sufficient to procure for these shadows of imagination that
willing suspension of disbelief for the moment, which constitutes poetic faith."
—Samuel Taylor Coleridge
