From: jstoy@mailhost.tcs.tulane.edu
Date: Wed, 27 May 1998 08:04:55 GMT
Subject: New-- Charts of Pain (1/1)

Charts of Pain
by Jennifer Stoy (jstoy@mailhost.tcs.tulane.edu)
Rating: NC-17
Classification: SRA
Keywords: Mulder/Krycek. Slash.
Spoilers: Up to fifth season.
Summary: Encounter in the parking lot.

Disclaimer: CC, 1013, they own X-Files. Nuff said. Archive this anywhere you
want as long as my name and email remain attached. Warning: SLASH. And I mean
it, nothing namby-pamby in this one. This is the sequel to "She's Your
Cocaine," "Exit 75 (One for Lollipop Gestapo)" and "Ice Cream Assassin" which
makes it Choirgirl universe, post The Red and the Black. Assume the rest of
Fifth Season didn't happen. Feedback, as always, is appreciated, so send it to
jstoy@mailhost.tcs.tulane.edu

Charts of Pain
(Another of the Choirgirl Set)
by Jennifer Stoy (jstoy@mailhost.tulane.edu)

You're a special boy, Mulder. You always were. A thing of beauty and a joy for
never. Those dark eyes of yours-- hazel eyes, changing dark or light with
emotion. Eyes I could chart for hours. And I don't think anyone can help but
rhapsodize on your lower lip. Fuck, man, you know what that lip does to me?
You use it like a weapon, that pout. It turns women to mush, I bet you every
time it makes Scully weak in the knees. It makes me want to taste it, bite it,
claim it for my own.

Yeah, so I followed you from that prep-ass Marriott. What, did you really
think I'd just let you go from me to *her* without any protection? I'd done my
job for the evening, and I was free to pursue my own interests. And you,
asshole, are interest number one on that very short list.

I wait in the parking lot. I knew you'd fuck her, you're weak when it comes to
these things. I admit it, she's beautiful. A Pre-Raphaelite damsel hidden in
Donna Karan. Not as beautiful as you are, but those eyes are shining stars,
glorious blue sparkling things deep enough to drown in. God wrought well to
create her form. But under that smooth soft exterior is steel, something as
hard and cold and heartless as you fancy me.

Listen to me, a quick fuck with you and I turn into some kind of poet. Shit,
that's pretty crazy. But you always did drive me crazy. You, you, you with
your attitude and cocky hiss and quick wit. "Did it say how many people were
put to sleep by their statistics?" Even then, who drove you to the edge? Not
me. You wish. It was none other than Special Agent Dana Scully. You're fucking
nuts, man, and you turn us all out of our heads.

So I wait. I mean, I want to make sure you got out of there okay. And damned
if you weren't stupid enough to tell her! How did I know, you ask. I can just
tell, the way your shoulders sagged walking out, the constant gazes back. You
tell her the truth and she tells you to fuck yourself.

But you don't have to. I'm here, even if she's not. So I wait. So I wait and
watch as you get close to that ugly car of yours, and when you're fumbling
with the keys, I step out of the shadows. You jump a little. Not expecting me?
Did you really think I could wait until Wednesday?

"Hey, man, hard night?" I sneer at you.

"Go to hell, Krycek," he says. "I don't have the fucking time for you."

"Good thing it's not time I'm interested in, Mulder," I reply. You, damn you,
are beautiful. That lean body of yours, even when stooped in defeat, it's
graceful, a runner's body, a swimmer's body. I gaze at you hungrily. Each
muscle is tensing and untensing, and I fancy I can feel your pulse quicken,
see through you, hunter watching his prey.

"I'm going home."

"Sure you are. After you wait for her to go. Isn't that right, Mulder?" I ask.
"She can take care of herself, asshole."

"She might decide to blow her head off."

I sneer. "You're a big arrogant prick, Mulder. If Scully hasn't blown her head
off over-- let's see, being abducted and experimented on, her sister's murder,
her cancer, her sterility, the death of her child, the fact that thing in her
neck could fuck her over at any time-- what the hell does it matter to her if
you're fucking me instead of her? She can find another vibrator. I bet she
knows all about them."

You slam me against the car so quickly I can't believe it. Your elegant hand
tightens around my throat, cutting off the air supply.

"Don't you ever speak that way about her," you growl. "Don't you dare, you
fucking rapist, you murdering asshole."

"I didn't rape you, Mulder, so get that out of your fucking head right now," I
gasp. "Let me go, man. Knock it off."

You don't move. "You don't know anything, Alex, do you?" you whisper, your
other hand finding my groin and grinding against it. "You don't know a
god-damned thing."

"I can't breathe, Mulder," I say. I can smell you, alcohol and Scully in my
nostrils. It's heady. She hovers like a ghost, the unfortunate third in our
game. Your hand loosens ever so slightly on my throat, but I can't get a good
breath. "What the hell is on your mind?"

"You. Her. I can't get either of you to let me go. I didn't ask for this,
Alex," you say, moving in closer, your tongue flickering out and finding my
earlobe. I buck involuntarily, especially with your hand moving like it is.

"What do you want, Mulder? What the fuck is it driving you?" I hiss. "You let
us do this. You need us both."

You squeeze both throat and groin, and your lips are so close to mine, please
kiss me, sweet God--

"I don't need you, Alex," you murmur. "You don't know shit."

You release the hand on my groin, and grab your keys. You unlock the car, open
the locks to front and back seat. I know what you've got in mind. Those eyes
meet mine and silent understanding flickers between us. Thank God I'm
prepared. I have everything for this little encounter.

"Get in first," you order, letting go of my throat and pushing me toward the
car. A silent thrill of ecstasy shakes my frame. I don't have to command this.
I can get what I want from you. I do what you say, but I'm not going to let
you command this. I can be cruel even when I'm being kind. I don't know why,
but I have to hurt you, though I'm celebrating this victory.

You close the car door and lock it behind you, and swoop in for a kiss. And
that lower lip is as tasty as I ever dreamt. Kiss. Hell, it's more than a
kiss; it's practically oral sex. It's war, tooth and tongue and lip, the taste
of you and her and salt and blood and life.

"Tell me, little boy," you growl at me as we break from our kiss. "What were
you doing out so late at night?"

"Looking for you."

You laugh and cup me through the jeans, and I pull off my jacket and shirt.
Your eyebrow raises in surprise.

"What are you doing, Alex?" you ask lazily. "You act like you're about to get
some or something."

Mulder, you are such an asshole. I want to scream and fuck you as you sit, but
all you do is look at me, and we *are* in the backseat of a car, it's not as
though there's much space between us.

"Do you have some moral objection to me fucking you, Mulder?"

You look at me with those lazy eyes. "Little boy, you have no idea. C'mere."

Your mouth is skimming my throat now, I always knew those lips were talented,
and I rake my hands over your back as your mouth moves down, towards my chest.

"Don't call me little boy, Mulder," I moan as you rub against my groin, and I
am extremely hard by now, straining against the jeans. You chuckle, damn you
right to hell, and unbutton the top two buttons.

"Learn some control, little boy. You'll get what you deserve," you say. "And
I'll call you whatever the fuck I want. I'm so sick of it, Alex. Sick of you,
sick of her, sick of being sub. I want some control of my own life."

I burst into laughter. The more fool he. "You don't get it, do you, asshole?"
I ask, laughing and moaning as you lick at my navel. "You don't get it for one
fucking second what you do to me?"

You nip at me, but it still feels good, and I fumble to find condoms, lube,
anything, I'm always prepared, a good little one-armed Boy Scout. You push my
arm away and grab it yourself.

"I don't know what I do to you. I know what you do to me. You beat me down,
Alex, you both fucking beat me down!" you cry, desperation crackling in your
voice. "Why don't the two of you fuck each other over instead of me?"

"Because we hate ourselves for loving you, Fox," I say. "You don't get it, you
cocksucking bastard. I can't believe you don't know."

You shudder and finish unbuttoning my jeans, and I can almost see you cock
your head to discover I'm not wearing any underwear. I'm straining towards
you, I want your mouth on me so bad I can taste it in mine.

And then I find out how good that mouth of yours is. You take me in, without
any warning, just the feeling of your hot, wet mouth on me, moving, God, God,
God! I knew it. I knew it just watching your lip tremble, you know how to move
your tongue, and my fingers lace in your hair, needing more wanting more and
you owe me this you owe me this, Mulder, and I'm not a religious man but I
pray to God as you do this to me.

"We hate ourselves because you've captured us," I say, no longer speaking just
for myself. "In love with your pain. Because your pain is infinite, Fox,
Mulder-- oh GOD, don't stop!"

My hips buck wildly, and you must be choking, you deserve it, but you don't
stop and God, you got a mouth on you, boy-- and I'm so close so close
soclosesoclose--

I cry your name as I spill over the edge, into an almost-oblivion.

When I come back to myself, you're looking at me with disdain, almost hatred.
You're cold, further away than I could imagine.

"Get the hell out of my car, Krycek," you hiss at me. "Or I'll kill you."

"I guess this means no Wednesday at the Holiday Inn?" I ask sardonically.

"Fuck you," you reply coldly. "Get out. And don't get near me again, or I'll
blow your motherfucking head off."

"What'll happen when you want me again? I can find you, you can't find me," I
tease, and you drag me close and kiss me again, a vicious kiss, and you bite
my lip, and it hurts--

"Get the fuck out of my car, asshole," you hiss, even at so close a position.
"If you need me-- tough shit."

I pull open the door-- no mean feat for a man with one arm-- and scramble out,
surprised by your change of demeanor. For a man who had his mouth between your
legs, you have a pretty cold way of handling afterglow. I take off running for
my own car, and gasp when I finally reach it.

What the hell was that?

I ask you this as I start up my car, put it in gear, drive off. I ask you this
as I go to bed. What the hell is it with you, Mulder? I don't get you. Not one
fucking bit.

You, you, you-- it would have been better for me if I'd fucking killed your
ass in Tunguska. It would have been better for the world. It would have been
better for your precious Scully.

I'll come back for you, Mulder. It's not over. You'll get yours, because I owe
you big time, and I always pay my debts. I can be so cruel when I have to be,
and I have to be cruel to you, Mulder.

You wouldn't have it any other way.

END
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Author's Note: As with all the Choirgirl stories so far, the title is
something from Tori Amos, in this case, it's three words from her lovely song,
"Cruel". Please send me feedback! Please! Just reply to
jstoy@mailhost.tcs.tulane.edu, okay?

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