Mulder is flushed, a little more drunk than Scully or just playing it up.
His jacket is off, ruffled tuxedo shirt open to the third button, bow-tie
untied. His eyes are glittering, face a little shiny and his smile...
There are no words in Dr. Dana K. Scully's vocabulary to describe that smile
and she has to rummage through memories of hormonal haze and adolescent
crushes to find the expression that fits. His smile is wicked. Wicked
ungood. His smile is making her wet. He is standing behind the third
member of this strange little party—Alex murderertraitorcoward Krycek.
He has his left hand on Alex Krycek's shoulder, his right—the hand with
the gun—out of sight behind Krycek's back, and he is whispering something
in Alex Krycek's ear. Whatever he's said, Krycek looks scared. Looks more
scared than he did ten minutes ago when they caught him in the parking lot,
pretending he wasn't breaking into the Bucar Ford. Scully feels a terrible
giggle rise in her throat.
"What did you tell him, Mulder?" Mulder's lips are right at Krycek's ear.
"Tell her," Mulder stage-whispers.
"No..." Krycek rasps back. His voice is breathless with something like
horror. His eyes are wide. Sweat beads heavily on his upper lip. Such a
perfect pretty face, Scully has always wanted to slap it, scratch it with
her nails. Maybe she will tonight. Things are definitely getting out of
hand and worst of all Scully knows she doesn't care.
"Tell her," Mulder insists and Alex gasps and arches forward as if
something hard and dangerous is pressing into his back. He too is flushed
—the color in his face seems to have gathered in his cheeks like rouge,
seeping thinly down along the tense line of his jaw.
"I..." Krycek stammers. "I—he..." He stops, looks down at his feet.
Scully raises a questioning eyebrow at Mulder but Mulder just gives her that
smile again. The one he gave her just after he said "Aw fuck..."; just
before he took her in his arms on the dance floor and kissed her long and
hard and real enough to make her say, dizzily: "Okay..." and mean it any way
he wanted to take it. Dangerous smile that once more sets a little fire in
her little red muff and he leans in, rests his chin on Krycek's shoulder and
says:
"Take your clothes off, now..."
His voice is like fly-cast strike directly to her brain. Dana feels a
thunk in the pit of her stomach and her hips arch without her volition to
grind her clit lightly against itself. She can feel her nipples rub against
the satin and lace of her bra. Her hand goes to the top button of her
shirt. Oh my God, she thinks: I'm going to do this. Mulder is looking into
her eyes and she feels like she is falling, falling...
But:
"God. Please Mulder, don't. I'll..." Krycek's voice is thick with
desperation. He looks up then at Scully, eyes pleading. Scully's hand
opens, flattens against her throat as she realizes. Momentary stab of—
disappointment? Jealousy?—but then her gaze meets Mulder's smile again
and dark understanding blossoms like a black rose in moonlight.
"Do it," Scully says. Krycek's mouth falls open, then shuts. His shoulders
slump. Mulder steps back, leans back against the wall, arms crossed. Scully
takes a swig of her beer.
"You heard the lady," Mulder says. Krycek glances up at Scully once more.
His eyes are hard and green like jade. His expression is unreadable. He
straightens his spine and shrugs and his jacket falls off his shoulders.
Scully feels a hot little shiver run up between the tight, wet lips of her
cunt. The jacket hits the floor with a soft thump. He is wearing a white
t-shirt underneath. Her gaze flicks instantly to the artificial arm, ivory
white and crudely jointed—and back up to his face. And what is it she
sees? Shame and pain? Or is that a smug little smile? And why is it so
hard to tell? And why the fuck does she care? The bastard has cut as much
or more from her. And besides...besides...
Besides the artificial arm there is the rest of him. Thick-muscled,
big-boned but not heavy—the barest swell of a belly beneath the thin
cotton, slim hips, long legs and against her will she imagines the hot satin
of his skin, the swell and hollow of his flesh beneath her hand. And she
watches as his hand, his real right hand, reaches back and grabs the collar
of the t-shirt, pulls it off over his head. It catches on the leather
harness of the prosthetic, drags as he yanks at it.
Mulder is up off the wall, but Krycek has the shirt off before he can reach
for it. If Krycek knows he's there he gives no sign. He drops the t-shirt
at Scully's feet. On impulse she picks it up, holds it to her face and
inhales. Leather and laundry soap and fear. Or something else—the smell
of him; some pheromonal essence that fills her with a sudden want. Or maybe
it's not that at all but just the power and the play, the wildness in
Mulder's eyes, the alcohol, the pre-menstrual ache between her thighs...
"Keep going," Mulder says, low in his throat, and Krycek jumps a little at
the sound. Had he stopped? Had he been watching her? He isn't now; eyes
closed, he toes off his boots—old leather, well worn; black socks
underneath—toes those off too to reveal surprisingly well-formed feet.
And his hand goes to his fly. And Scully realizes she's sitting forward on
the bed. He unbuttons, slides the zipper down, one-handed peel of dusty
black denim revealing—oh God—pelvic hollows, black fan of pubic curl
—naked underneath the jeans.
"Well, well..." says Mulder brightly from behind and Scully is amazed to see
tumescence—Krycek is half-hard already and rising—at the sound
of... Mulder's voice? And this time when she looks Krycek's eyes are open
and there is something naked there.
Well, well, indeed. The jeans pool at his ankles and he steps out. Nude
Venus rising from the waves. For seven heartbeats no-one moves or speaks.
Then Krycek clears his throat, laughs nervously, looks over his shoulder at
Mulder.
"What are you going to do with me?"he asks. The sixty-four thousand dollar
question and Scully looks to Mulder, too. And Mulder isn't smiling now. Or
not quite smiling. Scully doesn't think she's ever seen that look before.
She thinks he's going somewhere dark with this, but he surprises her again.
Just shrugs expansively.
"Scully...?
Back to her. His gift. To do with as she pleases. Not by the book, not
through the system that has so badly failed her, but as she pleases. She
can read it in the open yearning on his face. Only you know what will make
it right for you, Scully. Only you know what you need, what you want...
So what does she want?
Looking at Krycek now, scared to shaking (or is that just the cold?), cock
rampant; nipples taut with unconcealable arousal (or is that just the
cold?), eyes begging for release—Don't. Please. Don't—or is that
just her own desire to see him beg? And yet, unerring she knows she knows
the truth: It flows down her spine to her groin like a slide of molten gold.
"Turn around," she says. She sees the shock of recognition pass through
him; the unfinished shake—No!—of his head; oh, but the traitor's
traitorous cock leaps to the task. The wine-stain flush along his jaw
bleeds down to throat and chest. Naked, naked everywhere and he turns.
And oh, Mulder's face. Scully wishes for one moment that she were an artist
so she could reproduce that radiance in oil and canvas—it is the
inspiration for a masterwork. Soft chuckle in her breast. A mistress
work—Dana Scully, Dominatrix, and she envisions herself in porno drag—
thigh boots and corset; catwoman mask and crop and she will tell Mulder this
some time, she thinks and maybe...
Maybe anything is possible now because she is looking at Krycek's long
straight back, his perfect peachy ass and past him to where Mulder stands—
expression open and waiting; breath coming fast and shallow—a pleasantly
impressive bulge straining the black silk of his trousers. She catches
Mulder's eye and smiles.
"Tell him what you want," she says. Oh, yes, she knows... Mulder swallows
hard, lips part as if to speak but once more it is Krycek who rushes in:
"You're fucking nuts," he husks, too low for anger. "Both of you."
"Your bad luck," says Mulder to Dana's silent cheer. He waggles the gun—
"I think you'd better do what she says."—which really isn't fair. Isn't
right. Force will only break the fragile crystal structure of what's
forming here.
"Mulder," she says. "Put the gun away." He hesitates. Looks as though he
might argue but she arches an eyebrow at him and he shrugs and complies.
It's not like she doesn't have a gun herself. And besides, he's going to
need both his hands for what she has in mind.
She stands then, beer bottle still in hand and steps up to close the
distance. She lays her hand on Krycek's lower back—surprising heat and a
v of silky hair like the vestige of a tail pointing down to the cleft of his
ass—and feels him start. She gentles him, stroking lightly, using her
nails to gently rasp his flesh and then to draw a line up the curve of his
back to the tense set of shoulders—the draw and pull of those terrible,
wine-dark scars beneath the straps and Velcro tabs. Her fingers lightly
touch, scratch along the leather web. Krycek arches reflexively back into
her hand, then winces away. Impulsively she presses the mouth of the bottle
into his back.
"Listen to me," she says. "This is your only chance. Your only hope. Do
you understand?
"Oh Christ..." Real fear. She wonders if he's hearing death in her words.
The threat of death and she does nothing to correct him. It's only a small
misunderstanding after all; she means exactly what she said.
"Do you understand?" she asks again Muscles jerk with tension but then he
nods. Let's out a shaky breath. The tension dissipates—defeat or
acquiescence or release? Ah, well, it will all end up to be whatever it
will be. And so:
"Tell him what you want." His second nod is barely perceptible, slow.
"I... uh..." he begins. "I want..."
Ten heartbeats this time. Twelve. Scully feels the first sinking pale of
doubt.
"I want..." Oh God, his voice is rough; a tear in the heart of the world—
so raw. "I want... you... Want..." Mulder is rapt on him, tiny frown of
concentration—can't Krycek see? Are hers the only eyes? "I want... oh
fuck oh Jesus... t-touch me." This last a ragged whisper and Mulder has
leaned in, no wicked smile at all but:
"Where?" Scully feels the shock under her hand, it ripples out like a wave
and she catches it, feels it in her secret burning heart. Krycek's hand
goes to his mouth—intended or reflexive gesture she couldn't say, but
Mulder's focus is unbroken. He leans in close, drops his head slightly,
takes Krycek's mouth. Scully gasps. She knows that angel's kiss, that kiss
that brought her here tonight. She feels them sway together long and slow
like the ground is rippling underfoot. Krycek's hips buck gently under
her hand. She hears a whimpered moan, the slide and whisper of slick flesh
and then the tender suck as Mulder breaks the kiss.
And Mulder takes Krycek by the shoulders, turns him to her, turns him to
reveal what he has done—a face once pretty now marred, made beautiful by
naked need—eyes half-mast and glazed, lips soft and cherry-stained and
she has to pull Krycek down to reach them, take them for her own. So soft
and faint taste of oranges, of Mulder. She slips her tongue between them,
licks the glossy ridge of teeth. Krycek's own sharp tongue darts out and
nudges hers. She opens to him, one hand cupping his cheek, the other
tracing collar bone to breast, fanning against the fevered flesh, sparse hair.
They kiss and kiss, such sweetness and such heat—and then an anguished
cry and Krycek yanks himself away as if he's burned.
"What are you..." He's panting, wiping at his mouth with the back of his
hand. "What do you want from me?"
"Shh," Scully says gently. "I want you on your knees." She places her
hands on Krycek's shoulders, puts pressure on them. Resistance at first but
she neither increases nor removes the pressure and slowly he begins to fold.
Then Mulder's hands come to rest lightly upon hers, twine with hers and he
gives her this look, this half-bemused look with crystal glitter underneath.
And she can only shrug: There's magic in the air. Motel magic and beer
magic and dancing at the end of the world magic. They are spinning together
across this threshold and Scully has no idea of what is on the other side,
only this clear, undeniable faith in the rightness of their course.
"I love you," she mouths silently to Mulder, words that have lived forever
in the quiet space between her tongue-tip and the air. His surprise is
evident, innocent and so sweet she wants to lick it off his lips. Of course
I do you big baboon, she thinks. You love me too, you know. But she
doesn't say any of this, just leans to kiss him, farther to brush lips
against his ear
"Your turn," she whispers.
"I'm not so sure I know this game," he whispers back. But he releases her
hands, pulls Krycek's head back for one brief kiss and then brings it
forward again, holding Krycek's gaze in place.
"What do you see?" he asks. Krycek hesitates, unsure:
"Agent—Agent Scully?"
"What else?"
"I don't know," Krycek complains. "Her legs, her skirt. You want me to
describe her?"
"I want you to tell me what you see," says Mulder.
"You're going to kill me," Krycek says. "You're going to play this fucking
game with me and then you're going to kill me."
"Is that what you see?"
"Just fucking do it then. Get it over with."
"Anything but the truth, eh, Krycek?"
"That is the truth." But Mulder twines his hand in Krycek's hair, pushes
his head forward and down.
"That's the truth too," Mulder says. "Tell me what you see." Scully sees
Krycek's passion and his pain: his cock, ripe and swollen, leaking tears of
need.
"That's not my fault..."
Boys, boys, Scully thinks. Poor scarred boys who don't know how to play.
"Mulder," she says, softly. He looks up at her, anger evident. "I think
you need to tell Alex what you want."
"What I...?" Outraged, but then he stops, considers, and the argument on
his lips transmutes to a gently crooked smile. The glitter returns to his
eyes. Busted. He shakes his head, wryly. Eases Krycek's head back up and
turns it so he is looking into Krycek's eyes.
"Christ," he says, laughs. "What I want... I want you, you son of a bitch.
I want your cock in my mouth; your mouth on my cock... everything. I want to
fuck you. I want to make you come. I want to make you beg to come and I
want to watch you come apart screaming my fucking name and then I want to
come so hard up your ass that I can't even remember whose fucking name I'm
screaming..." And as Mulder is talking, he's stroking Krycek's head and
throat and chest and every stroke sets off a long, slow wrack of shudder
through the kneeling man's body. He's making Krycek beautiful again and it
makes Scully want to cry with joy to see such godly alchemy.
She puts the beer bottle down at her feet, steps around the boys—her
boys?—so that she is behind Mulder. Reaching up, she unbuttons his
shirt, skims it down off his shoulders. She takes one of his hands, removes
the cufflink, tugs the sleeve away. Does the same on the other side.
Clothing falls away like shed cocoon, silk dress pants, silk boxers (neon
green alien heads—oh Mulder—and the cock that leaps joyfully free of
them is as impressive as she'd hoped); socks and shoes jumble at his feet
and she sweeps them all away. And Mulder is so lovely naked—slim and
smoothly muscled and his skin is such fine pale gold it makes her ache to
stroke it (and why hesitate?) and so she does.
Sharp inhale of breath from Mulder and her fingertips raise trails of
gooseflesh in their wake. His back, his hips, around to cup momentarily
that heavy, heated rod in her palm, run her thumb around its cherry head.
"Ah... Dana...God..." his gut-wrenched prayer to her. "I want..."
"Shhh," she says again. "Not yet. We have to do this first."
"Do what?" For a moment she doesn't know—she is playing this by ear,
making it up as she goes, blind navigator following the sound of distant
pipes. And then she does:
"Krycek," she says. "Alex."
"What...? he answers, turning to look at her over his shoulder. His eyes
are wet and dark. His heavy eyelashes clumped with unshed tears. She can
see it in his face—he thinks she's mad, she's cruel, she's lusting for
his blood. And yes, that's there, that's part of it. But... it's down to
the heart of everything she is. She can't go on like this. This night
might end in fire or blood—she has to admit the possibility is there—
but still, she knows she must go on. And so:
"It's your turn now," she says.
"My... turn," he echoes. Uncertain. Disbelieving. Scared.
"To do with as you please," Scully says, a sudden trickle of cold terror
running down between her breasts. Krycek laughs.
"You'd let me walk out of here," he says, flat sarcastic snarl.
"If it's what you want."
"Yeah?" he needles. "And what about you, Foxy? You down with that?" Mulder
makes a face, sighs, runs his fingers through his hair.
"Well, I won't stop you," he says. Seven heartbeats. Eight. Krycek shrugs.
"All right," he says. He gets up off his knees, awkwardness and grace
combined in every move. He reaches for his shirt, the one that Scully
pressed against her face, then stops; turns back.
"What if I want something else?" he asks.
"What if?" says Mulder. Scully only waits.
"Say I want what you said you wanted. To fuck you. Or her," he added,
as if it made no difference. "Can I do that?" Challenge, defiance, but
yes, Scully decides, he is really asking, too.
"Is that what you want?" she asks.
"Say it is," he shrugs.
"You're a big boy, Alex," Scully says. "You don't need my permission—"
And she barely has the words out, barely registers the change in his face
before he's there, one-armed embrace and crushing her against his chest,
mouth swooping down to snatch her mouth like prey. Not a pretty kiss, not a
loving kiss—but brutal, ravenous. Teeth click and clash and she is right
there at his mouth, snarling, snapping and his hand comes down and grabs her
ass. Grinds her against his swollen prick, nearly lifting her off the
ground. And oh, it's fucking good to war like this, to be this real. She
grabs his hips, his ass, and bucks against him hard. She is making noises
—grunts and snarls all mixed up with sighs as pleasure starts to burn.
But Krycek's hand is in her hair and he pulls her off his mouth. Pulls
himself away. Panting hard. Trembling. Both of them. A silken strand of
pre-cum stretches between the tip of his cock and the wet crotch of her skirt.
And Mulder is just inches away, brows furrowed, intent as any child watching
parents fight. Krycek's mouth opens as if he is amazed and another laugh
comes out, high and harsh and he grabs Mulder by the hair and pulls him
close, too. Mouth opens to his mouth; their kiss is deep and wild and slow,
not ended but drunk complete and they break apart without a sound.
"Take her clothes off," Krycek says. His voice is thick, rough. Dark as
midnight oil. Scully feels it resonate like cave bells through her flesh.
Mulder steps behind her. His hands touch her shoulders, slide over her
collarbones to the collar of her blouse. His long fingers work the small
pearl buttons free, gently tug the blouse free of skirt. The cool air
sizzles on her hot flesh, her nipples chafe. The shirt is pulled away and
Krycek is in front of her, hands meeting Mulder's on her waist, pulling her
close to take her breast into his mouth. Wet heat through lace and ecstasy
is racing through her veins, and Mulder at her neck, behind her ear,
tonguing hot and sweet. And Krycek at her other breast now, teeth teasing
at the tortured nub of nipple and this is—oh—this is... It is.
Both mouths on her now, front and back and her lacy bra is gone. Tongue in
her navel and someone is tugging off her skirt, her nylons... Hands feather
light upon her hips and those hot mouths. Tongue of fire down her spine, at
the cleft of her ass, hot mouth suckling at her Venus mons. Her thighs are
dripping, drenched; the honeypot is filled to overflowing and now devil's
tongues are flicking in and out, rough boy's tongues like snakes and snails
and puppy dog tails. Tongues hot and hard, tongues soft and wet, spreading
her, entering her, drinking her like wine from a cup. And oh, this is good
and—ahh—this is right and for a moment she can almost see the shape of
the heavenly plan. Overwhelmed with joy and she tries to tell the
tongue-wielders but she is speaking in tongues and there are lights
sparkling round the corners of her vision, there is a molten river flowing
to her cunt and her legs are full of light and she is coming, coming,
coming, coming, coming...
There.
Long shaky breath and Mulder's arms around her, cradling her, holding her
up. Krycek, down on one knee before her, hand on her hip, forehead pressed
against her belly. She rests her hand on his dark head. Stray thoughts
ghost through her still-ringing brain: I dub thee Knight... She doesn't laugh.
"Was that..." she says, surprised at the shakiness of her voice. "Was that
what you wanted?"
Krycek doesn't speak, but his grip on her hipbone tightens. He nods against
her flesh, then shakes his head. Then raises his face to hers, beautiful
glamour of sex upon his features; lips and chin still shiny with her slick.
"I want..." he begins again, his only chant, but Mulder cuts him off.
"It's my turn now," he says. Well, technically, Scully thinks, it's hers,
but this is right. This is what she wants. She turns in Mulder's loose
embrace, light bite and kiss on the point of his chin and she breaks away,
steps back.
Krycek on his knee to Mulder now. Mulder's smile is rich.
"And I want—"
"I know what you want."
"Then get on the fucking bed."
"Make me," Krycek snarls. Mulder shakes his head, crosses his arms and purrs:
"Beg me,"
"You son of a bitch," Krycek spits and leaps at Mulder. They tangle—
bruises, thumps but Mulder presses his advantage, gets Krycek's good right
arm twisted up behind his back, grabs a handful of his hair. Turns Krycek's
head for another scourging kiss. Krycek staggers against him and Mulder
pushes him away.
"Get on the bed." Krycek backs away. The bed catches him behind the knees
and he sits abruptly, looks up, looks away but does not rise.
"On your back," Mulder says, gentler now. "Go on." And slowly Krycek
complies, crabwalks back until he is laid out flat, arms—ivory and flesh
—at his sides, eyes on the ceiling. He flinches as the bed dips under
Mulder's weight, as Mulder stalks the length of him like a panther.
When he reaches Krycek's left shoulder, Mulder stops. Experimentally tugs
on the leather webbing. Krycek flinches violently at the touch. He screws
his eyes up tight, covers them with his hand. Mulder finds the catch, the
tabs. Clever fingers pull them free—resounding rip of Velcro—he lifts
the leather yoke and its heavy burden, lays them to one side. Krycek gasps,
a sound so sharp it just might be a sob. He's shaking again. Mulder
doesn't seem to mind. He seems lost in this—this task; this exploration
of the undiscovered fleshscape laid before him. What does he see there,
Scully wonders. Beauty? Horror? The anamorphic rendering of his own
desire? His clever fingers map the new terrain—following invisible lines
of force, tracing secret paths in flesh scarred and unscarred—and here
and there his mouth dips down, sends out exquisite geometer's tools of lips
and teeth and tongue to lick, nibble, taste or worry at some tender bit of
flesh. And every inch of Krycek's flesh seems to rise to this touch.
Krycek is making tiny mewling sounds and writhing, heels pressed into the
mattress, hips arching off the bed.
Mulder works his way down Krycek's ribs and belly—tender bites down
across that barely rounded tum; swirl of tongue around that navel. He
lingers at the pelvic cut, nibbling, nuzzling one side then the other;
rubbing his cheek far too lightly against Krycek's cock, making Krycek's
body beg. And Scully, sitting now in the room's only chair, arms wrapped
'round her naked knees, finds that she is silently begging, too, warmth
glowing in her loins like banked coals aching to be kindled into flame.
And Mulder drops his head, his angel mouth descends and he takes the
weeping, swollen head of Krycek's cock into his molten furnace heat and
sucks...
And Krycek howls: the sound ripping from his throat, strangled and raw and
it pierces Scully's soul, drives searing heat directly to her clit. So
beautiful, so right. To watch as Mulder takes him deep, that rod of flesh
disappearing between swollen lips, emerging time and again, polished and
taut under the swirling chamois of a tongue. To hear the breathless need in
Krycek's abandoned cries as Mulder releases that tortured cock at last,
pushes Krycek's knees up, lifts his hips and lowers his face to burrow deep
beneath his balls.
Oh god, to rim—and Scully wants to burrow with him, plunder that rosy
bud, feel her and Mulder's tongues twining together in Krycek's ass—and
next time maybe she will, they will... and Mulder lifts his head. Licks his
lips, surveys what he has wrought. And Scully, gazing from her distant
perch, suddenly sees what Mulder sees: this gorgeous creature conjured by
his hands and tongue—emerald glitter of eyes and carmine cheeks, a sprawl
of loose muscle and glowing flesh and at the center, the core of his
burning, brilliant need—Krycek's cock, a marvel of strained flesh,
weeping uncontrollably now, glistening and red as a coal. And Mulder's own
cock—purpled, rampant. Scully only sees it now that he has paused—how
barely contained, how close to the edge he's brought himself with this
artful seduction. Ha! No art to it at all, only wanting. Mulder wants
and she looks up to see his face and she knows he knows she's there and
Mulder smiles.
"Scully," he says. But she is on her feet already, at his side and she
takes the fingers of his hand, kisses them, slides them between her pussy
lips. Holds them up shiny, glistening with her slippery juices. Mulder
looks at her in dumbstruck wonder. Scully can only smile, shrug.
"I'm a Girl Scout at heart," she whispers. He gives her that shiver-wicked
smile again.
"Bring your cookies round my door anytime, little girl..." and he slips his
hand back between her legs, thumbs her clit until she moans, comes out with
honeyed hand. He slides his slippery fingers down the cleft of Krycek's
ass, presses one finger through the rosy center, slides it up inside.
Krycek's moan is high and wild. He is lost somewhere, Scully thinks. He is
falling through the dark, anchored to the world only where Mulder touches
him. Not Venus but Atlantis rising from the waves, so easily let go to sink
again. But Mulder fixes his hooks—another dip and slide and he is
stroking a second finger into Krycek and a third. Pressing up and in,
grazing the firm nut deep inside until Krycek is crying out continuously,
wordless wails and Mulder can no longer control the pace.
"Hey Krycek," he says, breathy laughter just beneath desire. "You
want... you want me to f-fuck you now?
"Oh Jesus. Mulder. Fuck..." Krycek arches up, rubs cock to cock and Mulder
shudders, eyelids flicker, going down.
"I'll take that... as a 'yes'," he gasps, lifting Krycek's hips one final
time. And spreading his own and Scully's juices with shaky, stripping
strokes along his own cock, positions his cockhead against Krycek's waiting
ass, pushes himself inside.
Long, shuddering breath and slow, short strokes take him to the hilt. A
moment of stillness to gain control but there's no way this is going to last
and so he begins a slow and driving pace that Krycek can only take and take
and take. And Scully's thumb is on her clit, stroking to meet Mulder's
rhythm and the hand that grabs clumsily at her wrist is a surprise. Krycek's
head is thrown back and his hand is blindly groping... but for her. He
catches at her wrist, holds on this time, strong fingers trapping, hanging
on for dear life and she has to change hands. But it's all right. It's all
all right—they are all lost inside themselves, lost inside each other and
really, really, not lost anymore at all but traveling together through the
dark, through the night towards a waterfall of light. And light catches her
again, fills her full of magic and delight and Krycek bucks and cries a name
she thinks might be her own and Mulder's laughing as he comes and on and on
the magic spins...and on.
And sometime later, nuzzles of warmth and sleepy stretch and doze.
"So, uh," Krycek says from between them on the bed:. "You guys do this
regular or what?"
"Shut up, asshole," Mulder says, but Scully sees his hand come round to cup
Krycek's neck. Krycek burrows against the touch, but tension grows.
"I just... I was wondering... I want..."
"Oh now he's going to say..."
"Hey, guys," Scully interrupts. "Someone's trying to get some sleep, you
know? And besides..." she wonders if they can feel the grin, the heat and
all the rest. "Besides. It's. My. Damn. Turn."
This isn't really a songfic, but this song was running through my head the
whole time and altho I suppose there are lots of interpretations of why and
what is really happening between the three of them, I'd have to say I think
it's about...
'The Heart of the Matter'—Don Henley
I got the call today, I didn't wanna hear
I'm learning to live without you now
These times are so uncertain
I'm learning to live without you now
There are people in your life who've come and gone
I've been trying to get down
I've been tryin' to get down
The Heart of the Matter
by The Spike
Scully sits on the motel room bed, bouncing a little. She's a little drunk,
still holding a bottle of Dos Equis, half full, in her left hand. Her right
hand rubs anxiously against her nyloned thigh. Her mouth is dry. She licks
her lips, looks up at the two men in front of her.
But I knew that it would come
An old, true friend of ours was talkin' on the phone
She said you found someone
And I thought of all the bad luck,
and the struggles we went through
And how I lost me and you lost you
What are those voices outside love's open door
Make us throw off our contentment
and beg for something more?
But I miss you sometimes
The more I know, the less I understand
All the things I thought I knew, I'm learning again
I've been tryin' to get down
to the heart of the matter
But my will gets weak
and my thoughts seem to scatter
But I think it's about forgiveness
Forgiveness
Even if, even if you don't love me anymore
There's a yearning undefined
...people filled with rage
We all need a little tenderness
How can love survive in such a graceless age?
The trust and self-assurance that lead to happiness
They're the very things we kill, I guess
Pride and competition
cannot fill these empty arms
And the work I put between us
doesn't keep me warm
But I miss you, baby
The more I know, the less I understand
All the things I thought I'd figured out
I have to learn again
I've been trying to get down
to the heart of the matter
But everything changes
and my friends seem to scatter
But I think it's about forgiveness
Forgiveness
Even if, even if you don't love me anymore
They let you down and hurt your pride
Better put it all behind you; life goes on
You keep carryin' that anger, it'll eat you up inside
to the heart of the matter
But my will gets weak
and my thoughts seem to scatter
But I think it's about forgiveness
Forgiveness
Even if, even if you don't love me
to the heart of the matter
Because the flesh will get weak
and the ashes will scatter
So I'm thinkin' about forgiveness
Forgiveness
Even if, even if you don't love me
