Friction
by Satina and Shannon
Date First Posted: March 2005, I think. If you know, please let me know!
Rating: NC-17 * Pairing: M/K
Archive Permissions: Freely given. Just make sure you somehow distinguish the two styles of email so as not to lose clarity.
Disclaimers: Mulder and Krycek are not my characters. They belong to Fox and Chris Carter.
Warnings: None.
Summary:
This takes place after Apocrypha. Krycek joins a paranormal list anonymously and finds Mulder there under a weak pseudonym. The two strike up a friendship, although Mulder has no idea who he's getting so close to. A physical encounter brings everything into clear focus, however.
Feedback Welcomed HERE.
Return to The M/K Shrine
NOTE: This tale is told partially through emails.
Mulder's words are always in bold, to help you keep things straight.
I sigh, flinging the last of my dirty luggage inside the door and kicking it shut behind me. My lip is held between my teeth in anticipation as I take the time only to take a much-needed piss before hurrying over to my computer. I blow off the dust before booting up.
I just spent six weeks in Idaho, in a communal living arrangement undercover, infiltrating a purported UFO cult that was suspected of running a white slavery ring. These kinds of projects are particularly satisfying, as it pisses me off to no end when people set up some dirty scheme and call themselves a UFO cult. I took extra pleasure in exposing them and shutting them down.
As the computer whirs to life for the first time in six weeks, my heart speeds up just a little bit at being back in touch with my *real* UFO cult.
I’ve been a member of this online list for just under a year, now. It’s a very exclusive list, by invitation only, and some of the greatest minds in UFOlogy and parapsychology can be found there, lurking under various pseudonyms. I’m actually using my old moniker M.F. Luder, even though thanks to a fellow listmate, Max, I’m perfectly aware that the people on the list know who I am. They also understand the importance of discretion, and it’s a stipulation of joining the list that no one ever talks online about who they really are or what they do for a living, keeping the online discussions limited to the topics at hand, and using only the pseudonyms each member provides.
I’ve actually gotten some great leads and done some very useful consulting on the list, and more than that, it's a place where I feel welcomed, liked, admired. I’m actually, if you wanna know the truth about it, somewhat of a celebrity there, and I can’t help but enjoy my newfound circle of fans. It’s an amazing gift in a life of being misunderstood, avoided, and snubbed. What a blessing the Internet has become.
When I’m home, I usually check in with the list daily, sometimes just to chat with like minds, often to read fan letters, which never fail to totally make my day, and sometimes to post essays sharing my own thoughts on different paranormal and E.T. matters that no one else would want to read. Again, being lauded and praised for such writings is such a far cry from the rest of my life. This place has become an oasis in the relative desert of approval in my pathetic life.
Damn I’ve missed this crowd. I call up my email, grinning at the roughly 500 unread posts. I decide to say hi to everyone before attempting to get caught up.
To: truth-c-kers@yahoogroups.com
From: MFLuder@fastmail.fm
Subject: I’m baaaa-aaack.
Hey all,
Well, I’m finally back from the dead. Actually just from the great Northwest. Nothing personal to anyone from Idaho or anything, but what the hell do you people do for fun? Beautiful state, though. Lots of trees.
Anyhoo...
I’ve missed you guys. Six weeks without my computer...my god, it almost killed me. I’m sure I’ve missed some great stuff while I’ve been away...visiting my grandmother. 500 unread emails! You’ve been busy. I don’t even know where to start. And I see a couple of new names, too. You guys will have to help me get caught up. Direct me to the good stuff. I’m working on something new...some ideas my visit with my grandmother inspired. I’ll let you know when I’ve got something I can share.
Can’t wait to hear what’s been happening while I was gone.
~M. F. Luder
I slide the third deadbolt home and punch in the code on the alarm, smoothing back my hair with a deep sigh. No more work, I decide. Not for as long as I can stand it. No more designer stalking, crouching in shadows, going without meals to surveil the oblivious, to track danger before it can track me. No more covering of paper trails. No more whispered conversations into pay phones, threatening anonymously. No more smelly t-shirt, I think as I move away from the door and into my small studio apartment, stripping off the offensive garment and chucking it toward the hamper in the corner.
I don’t bother with the lights. I know I’ve covered my tracks. I know this place is as safe as ever. But I still don’t want to illuminate anything that could beckon the dark forces like nefarious moths to the blazing flame of my haven. The one place I have left to go when I just can’t stand being me anymore.
No more for now.
I go to the bathroom, windowless, and shut the door, lighting the two candles I have set up by the tub, and engage in my most secret ritual. I run the bath, peeling the dark denim from my hips and legs like shedding a snake skin, although I can’t leave it like a jungle anaconda, moving on and away, constantly renewing, never looking back. Soon, I’ll have to don the old scales again, a snake in snake’s clothing. But tonight, I don’t even look at them again, crawling into the more than warm water and sinking beneath the surface, submerging, becoming lighter, my breath buoying my body up and down as though floating in a placid little lake, the moon of my body making the water lap like waves at the porcelain.
When I emerge back into the living space and re-dress, it is with a little of the tension drained away. I put on my soft, worn, holey blue jeans, remaining shirtless and sockless. I enjoy the nearly soundless noise my bare feet make on the hardwood. I prefer carpet, but the wood is really more strategically purposeful. If they ever did find me, the sound of their boots or well-shined dress shoes, depending, would alert me within an instant.
I fix myself a TV dinner and indulge in the luxury of a cream soda as I seat myself in front of the HP notebook, booting it up.
I need this. My breath is heavy as I chew my food absently and wait for the desktop wallpaper to materialize, its boring, cyber blue signaling the computer’s readiness to do my bidding. To some extent. I stuff a microwaved bite of mashed potato into my mouth with a plastic spork and wait less than patiently for the icons to load.
“Come on,” I urge lowly around the bite. I swallow it and chase it down with a gulp of sweet soda, moving my middle finger along the touchpad and hovering the arrow over Netscape.
I should research the biotech data I pilfered tonight. I should do follow up, trail my mark even now with the blissfully convenient mode of transportation that is the Internet. But I don’t want to. Don’t think I can take it for one more minute.
The Cheers theme song flits through my head as my mail begins to load, and I roll my eyes. I haven’t belonged to this list for very long. Maybe a week. The tip I got to join didn’t come from my usual sources. It didn’t seem to be connected to the little, shadow-plagued world I crawl around in at all. When I first started researching paranormal activity on-line, I was astounded by not only the prolific array of topics and websites dedicated to them, but also the intelligence that accompanied their enthusiasm, and the obsession that seemed to classify and sometimes wrongly invalidate their knowledge.
I got sucked in big time.
I’ve always wanted to know more. Ever since...him. They told me to stick to the job, not even educating me on anything having to do with the Project or alien invasion or anything beyond how to behave around Mulder and on what kind of easily shredable paper they liked to receive my notes on him. They told me dick. It was only after knowing him for a couple cases that I began to really get the jist of how much they weren’t telling me. Not just about the conspiracy to cover up the existence of extraterrestrials, but all the rest of it. All the rest that Mulder seemed to bathe in, like Pig Pen, walking around in a perpetual cloud of paranormal energy.
I liked it.
But after...all the shit that went down...I never had the time to reenter that world and find out more of what I was sure I wanted to know.
Years went by in the cliched blink of an eye. Or more correctly, in the flick of an old man’s fingers against his cigarette, my hopes of exploring Mulder’s world of ghosts and goblins falling to the floor like ash.
First I was their boy. Then, when they tried to explode me to tiny bits, I became my own free agent, anything but free with that tape clutched in my hands, both a blessing and a curse, providing power and danger in one fell swoop. I was too busy selling it left and right and dodging hitmen to be anything else but a sweaty, sleepless, paranoid thug.
Then *he* found me, pounding me with his phone and then exacerbating the pain with his head, the relief of him and the stench of real, rage-filled danger coming off of him a welcome change from my shadow life, all that angry Mulder coming at me in a well-lit airport.
Then It found me. And things happened that I’d rather forget.
Now I’m still in the shadows. But I also have this. This little world of people who don’t know me from Adam and who have welcomed me into their fold, and suddenly I’m someone else. Someone other than who I’ve been for so long that it feels like more than one lifetime. It feels...good. Like the bath. Like these jeans.
When I wrote the first article, I didn’t expect anything. It just felt good, and exciting, to write it all down, my ideas, my fledgling passion, to put something out in the world other than either lies or sold half-truths so dangerous I could be charged for murder for releasing them.
I wrote about werewolves. And I thought about all those casefiles down in Mulder’s old basement office. I smiled as I researched and hypothesized and typed furiously, smiled bigger as I went back and changed all the forms to froms. I had never expressed anything of this side of myself except when I was his partner. I didn’t realize I missed it so much. I didn’t even realize myself that it was an actual part of me and not an act.
I hit send on the essay with a sigh. And not even a day later, I got a reply. Fan mail. I had a believer. It felt amazing. So I wrote another. And got even more response than the first. And I was told about this list where I was told, if I passed the rigorous, paranoid testing, I’d fit right in.
Fitting in. Something I had no experience of in this lifetime. I joined.
Now here I am, getting all excited about the potential feedback and swallowing down the rest of the rubbery turkey.
My email loads and I scroll down until...
“What?” I ask the screen, eyes narrowing. It can’t be, I think, even as I realize that there’s no better place for him to pop up. Still... I hadn’t thought...
My shaking finger angles the arrow at the subject line, conveying a light-hearted tone that catches my breath. “I’m baaaa-aaack.” I click. It opens. I read.
Mulder. He’s here. He’s on my list. From the sound of how long he’s been here, *I’m* on *his* list.
“Fuck,” I breathe, staring at his words, imagining the long fingers typing them. Fast? Or hunt and peck. He’d be quick. His hands a mere extension of that infamous intellect.
I read over the words again, unable to relinquish them to ‘read mail’.
He’s here. And he doesn’t know I am. He doesn’t know.
I run my hand through my hair again and then settle my fingers against my lips, lightly pinching, a gesture I adopted from him and have made my own. What should I do? Unsub? The black words stare at me and I get the eerie feeling he can see me through the screen. But still I don’t close the mail. In fact, I find myself reaching forward and hitting ‘reply.’
The compose window comes up and my breathing shudders through me. Am I really doing this? No. I’m not. I close it again.
I stand up. I pace. I feel the TV dinner roil uncomfortably in my stomach, my internal organs protesting the name Fox Mulder in my head. Or M.F. Luder. It’s all the same.
I find myself walking back to the desk and opening the drawer on the right. The paper on top has curling corners and is torn slightly at the very top, a testament to its well-handled state. It’s stapled to similarly abused sheets beneath it. I pick it up again.
Vampire Seduction:
A Treatise on Negative ET Involvement
by M.F. Luder
How many times have I read it? Over dinner...as bedtime story...or worse...ignoring the meaning of the words and simply imagining his voice speaking them as if to a small but rapt audience. Sometimes an audience of one. Myself.
I read it again, lingering over my favorite parts, but on the whole less able to concentrate than usual with his email staring blatantly out from my computer screen.
He’s a genius. I’ve been convinced of that for a long time. Way back when I worked with him...I often wanted to tell him so. But I was scared of the part I was playing. I was scared of a lot of things. Not much has changed.
Except...
Except that this is anonymous, my devious mind supplies. I stand staring at the notebook, vaguely hearing the quiet singing of electricity through its hungry circuits.
I could, conceivably, do it.
I run my tongue along my bottom lip and walk slowly toward the computer desk, looking at it like a live thing, possibly wishing to dupe me at any moment.
I could tell him, I think, settling myself back down in the hard chair. I could do something right with him for a change. Even if he doesn’t know it.
Suddenly, I’m practically salivating at the chance. I’ve never shied away from a dangerous situation. I live in danger, knowing virtually no other way. So the feeling of bringing up the reply box again isn’t one of what most people would typically classify as terror. But more a thrumming, flesh-heated stroke of pulse-rocketing excitement.
I’m going to email Mulder. I’m hard for it. I lick my lips and poise my fingers over the keys.
I walk over to the computer before I’ve even taken off my jacket, jiggling the mouse and double-clicking on the blue E to get Explorer open. I quickly type in my web-based email URL and log in to get my email started loading. Then I head into my bedroom and pull the sweaty workclothes off my body, tugging on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, heading into the kitchen for food. I make myself a bagel with cream cheese, grabbing a Pepsi to down it with, then head over to my desk, feeling my breathing speed up a little.
I’ve wanted to slip into my Internet email all day, but I had so much followup to do on the white slave ring case that I didn’t even get the chance to grab lunch with poor Scully. I’m taking her out to dinner tonight to make up for it.
It feels a little on the unhealthy side, how important this group has become to me, but it’s just so much easier to socialize this way, and I don’t know any better way to bring together a group of like minds from all over the world. And it’s safe. Well, relatively safe.
I only use this account for this group, and I smile as I see that along with the 400+ unread emails I didn’t get through yesterday, I have twelve new ones. Nine addressed to the list, plus three personals. Two of them are from buddies of mine on the list, but the third is an unfamiliar email address. The subject is ‘Vampires and Grandmothers.’ Oooo…maybe I’ll get lucky and it’ll be fan-mail. I grin and hit Enter, bringing up the email.
To: MFLuder@fastmail.fm
From: AKA@hotmail.com
Subject: Vampires and Grandmothers
Hi. :) We haven’t met here yet, but I’ve read your work, and when I saw that M.F. Luder was on this list... Well, it’s kind of like talking to a celebrity. ;)
I hope you don’t mind my writing to you. I’ve just never encountered ideas like yours before. Literally, no one I know or have met thinks like you do. I think what you have to say is beyond fascinating.
Specifically, your essay on vampirism and the possible link to negative ETs. Wow. I think I’ve probably read it ten times. It’s something I never would have considered...but it makes so much sense.
And the way you talk about the seduction. You seem really...uninhibited, so unafraid to suggest the links between sex and blood and control. The way you talk about the psychic orgasm colliding with the physical one... I found it very...interesting.
I don’t want to bore you, M. I just wanted you to know. I believe in you.
Sincerely,
AKA
The rush I usually feel when I get new fanmail fills my heart, and I chew my lip and grin some more at the screen. AKA, huh? I wonder if that’s a man or a woman. That one line about psychic and physical orgasms almost sounds a little like a come-on. On this list, there are extremely open minds and all kinds of alternative viewpoints, and the majority of the work tends to examine the connections between sex and the paranormal. It’s great. I’m almost as likely to get flirtation from a man as from a woman, and though I never take any of them up on it, it‘s fun either way.
And either way, the energy and enthusiasm of this email especially draws me. Moreso when I remember from the 100 or so emails I did sift through last night, that one of my good friends on this list recommended this very member’s work as something I absolutely shouldn’t miss. An awesome newcomer, he’d said. Read it before you read anything else.
I had. My heart beats a little faster as I remember.
Werewolves:
The Unleashing of the Beast Within
By AKA
My friend was right. AKA’s work was amazing. Sharp, insightful, clever, with more than a fair share of unabashed, smart sensuality. His brash confidence made me think he was a man. He wrote that he thought (and had researched evidence to substantiate) that werewolves were participating in many more sexual conquests than actual kills, but that the victims of such attacks didn’t usually report such incidents, and the reports that were made were passed over as hysterical victims of human rape. His comfort level with speculations on the victims actually enjoying, and later looking forward to and even lusting after and obsessing over the attacks, impressed me. He’d seemed very titillated as well as fascinated with the aspects of domination and sexual enchantment. As I’d read it, I’d found myself getting aroused as well as intrigued. My favorite combination.
After I finished that essay, I searched out any other work by him, and found that he’d only been on the list a week, and there was only one other article to be found, a short, informal piece discussing why the grays seemed to be so fascinated with experimentation on the human reproductive system. Short, but just enough to let him showcase his sensuality as well as his grasp and knowledge of the subject matter in a way that took it seriously while having fun doing so.
I smile and hit reply.
To: AKA@hotmail.com
From: MFLuder@fastmail.fm
Subject: RE: Vampires and Grandmothers
>>> Hi. :) We haven’t met here yet, but I’ve read your work, and when I saw that M.F. Luder was on this list... Well, it’s kind of like talking to a celebrity. ;)
Hi AKA. Great to meet you. So when you say we haven’t met ‘here’ yet, am I to take that to mean we’ve met before in...another life? ;-)
>>> I hope you don’t mind my writing to you. I’ve just never encountered ideas like yours before. Literally, no one I know or have met thinks like you do. I think what you have to say is beyond facsinating.
Thanks! Coming from you, that’s high praise, considering your work on werewolves. I found it extremely intriguing, especially where you speculate that the victims of the sexual attacks by the werewolves have their own inner beast somehow triggered, and therefore begin to look forward to, and even deeply desire further attacks.
I thought it was very courageous of you to tackle the subject of nonconsensual sex in such a straightforward way without giving any indication that this holds true of victims of human rape. It ensured that rather than indignation at the suggestion that these victims end up in essence ‘wanting it’, that the reader (I) experienced arousal at the possibilities of the victims’ responses falling outside of the usual psychological parameters.
LOL...all that hot air is my way of saying your stuff rocks, too, AKA. I’m glad you like mine.
>>> Specifically, your essay on vampirism and the possible link to negative ETs. Wow. I think I’ve probably read it ten times. It’s something I never would have considered...but it makes so much sense.
Thank you again. Now if only my theoretical understanding of how negative ET-possession causes vampirism could lead me to a way to actually cure it so that we didn’t have to take the life of a vampire to free him/her from it. If you come upon anything along that vein (ha ha) of thought, please keep me in mind.
>>> And the way you talk about the seduction. You seem really...uninhibited, so unafraid to suggest the links between sex and blood and control. The way you talk about the psychic orgasm colliding with the physical one... I found it very...interesting.
Glad I could...interest you. I’ve always been especially ‘interested’ in the links between the paranormal and sexuality. Sexuality itself falls into the realm of the super-natural, or beyond our human parameters of understanding, all by itself, if you ask me. Studying the two together is just too much of a thrill for me to resist, I’m afraid. ;-) And it’s something I don’t often to get to do in my ‘other life.’ So I tend to overdo it on that subject around here. Hope you can handle it. ;-)
>>> I don’t want to bore you, M. I just wanted you to know. I believe in you.
Flattery will get you everywhere, AKA. It’s never boring. Seriously, there’s nothing I enjoy more than talking about this stuff, so don’t ever feel like you’re bothering me with your emails. I look forward to reading more of your stuff and getting to know you better.
~M.F. Luder
I stare at the email for several long moments, wondering if my language is too suggestive...or even offensive. I don’t want to scare him away or give him the wrong idea, because I’m not gay, or even bisexual, but I am very open-minded, and I like to maintain a very casual, sensual persona on the list. This is my place to relax and be playful. Everything I write here tends toward the sexual, so I figure there’s no reason not to go ahead and be myself with him right from the start. He’ll see that I’m that way with everyone. Damned if I’m going to tame it down for some newbie. If he can’t take it, he’s on the wrong list anyway, whether he knows that yet or not.
Besides, I really do think his stuff is hot.
I hit send.
I look forward to reading more of your stuff and getting to know you better.
~M.F. Luder
I stare at the text before me. Stare at the name. And instead of his pseudonym, the letters rearrange themselves in my head to form his real name.
Mulder wrote back to me. Mulder wants to get to know me better.
No. He doesn’t, my jaded side replies quietly yet impactfully.
He doesn’t know it’s me, of course. Has no clue. I read over his response again, taking in the little, veiled flirtations. Such small, tentative admissions. Who does he think he’s making them to? The guilt washes through my throat like bile and I close my eyes. I grip the arms of the chair.
I get up suddenly and head to the little kitchen area, getting a large glass of tap water and downing it lustily.
How can I hurt him if he doesn’t know it’s me?
I stand looking at the wall, and it stoically provides no answers. I close my eyes again, squeezing them shut. The little part of me that wants to believe I can do this starts to stealthily override the other, larger part.
I open my eyes.
I miss him.
It’s really that simple. I miss the time when his darkest suspicion of me was that I was stealing paper clips off his desk. I know, though, that that time never really existed at all. He suspected something worse of me from the start. The hardest part of my job was that day I had to act indignant at being ditched, when inside I knew he had every right.
No. Not the hardest part. The hardest part was not cleaning out that ashtray...walking away from my own booby trap...leaving it and then handing over those keys to him as the sweat dampened my forehead and I watched him not hate me for the last time.
I wanna go back to that moment and hand him a confession instead of a ring of keys.
Fuck.
I walk back to the desk and stare down at his words, towering over them menacingly. Then I reach out and touch the screen with two fingertips.
I miss him. I miss a man I never knew.
I sit down, withdrawing my hand and resting it on the keyboard.
It was another long, boring day of doing followup on my undercover assignment, and it’s so good to just come home to silence and the welcoming green glow of my Area 51-themed computer screen. Truth be told, my computer, and specifically my truth-c-kers list, have taken the place of most of my other leisure-time activities...including my x-rated vid collection. More often, I jerk off to the images and thoughts inspired by the articles posted there. God knows the writing is infinitely better than any porn tape, and when I can touch base with some of the sharpest paranormal minds in the world at the same time, why go elsewhere?
I’m licking my lips as I watch my emails come up, and I scan the senders for one in particular, breath held.
Yes. He wrote me back.
To: MFLuder@fastmail.fm
From: AKA@hotmail.com
Subject: The Beast Within
>>> Hi AKA. Great to meet you. So when you say we haven’t met ‘here’ yet, am I to take that to mean we’ve met before in...another life? ;-)
Maybe. So I take it multiple lives figure into your belief system?
>>> considering your work on werewolves. I found it extremely intriguing, especially where you speculate that the victims of the sexual attacks by the werewolves have their own inner beast somehow triggered, and therefore begin to look forward to, and even deeply desire further attacks.
You don’t think I went too far? I have to admit, I was a little nervous about that one. I suppose you’ve probably guessed that I’m a man. I certainly never wanted to come off as misinterpreting human rape and offending anybody there who might have survived one. Especially a woman, since a misunderstanding like that could have easily led to harassment claims and little ol’ me being kicked off the list. But I take it from your email that everybody’s pretty open about sex there...even discussing noncon paranormal screwing? ;)
>>> It ensured that rather than indignation at the suggestion that these victims end up in essence ‘wanting it’, that the reader (I) experienced arousal at the possibilities of the victims’ responses falling outside of the usual psychological parameters.
Well, first of all, I’m glad and relieved that you feel I ensured a positive response. I certainly haven’t had any hate mail yet so that’s good. I really like it there. I don’t want to piss anybody off. I don’t normally feel too comfortable in groups. This one just seems to be different. And meeting you here... Seems to be a big sign that it’s the right place for me. At least...a place I wanna be.
Second of all...you like noncon, M? I don’t wanna weird you out. You don’t have to answer or expound if that touches on a personal boundary. Jesus, I’ve rewritten this about five times now, and I’m not sure why I’m still sending it. Guess I just really wanna know. For whatever reason.
>>> Now if only my theoretical understanding of how negative ET-possession causes vampirism could lead me to a way to actually cure it so that we didn’t have to take the life of a vampire to free them from it. If you come upon anything along that vein (ha ha) of thought, please keep me in mind.
I will, M. Can I ask you something? How do you have such compassion for what most people would term a monster? If they acknowledged it at all. Do you sometimes find it hard to...believe in redemption?
>>> Glad I could...interest you. I’ve always been especially ‘interested’ in the links between the paranormal and sexuality.
You have? Maybe I need to read more of your work. ;) I just found an article you wrote on the Incubus/Succubus phenomenon. Would you recommend that one? Seems potentially very sexy.
>>> Sexuality itself falls into the realm of the super-natural, or beyond our human parameters of understanding, all by itself, if you ask me.
What do you mean?
>>> Studying the two together is just too much of a thrill for me to resist, I’m afraid. ;-) And it’s something I don’t often to get to do in my ‘other life.’ So I tend to overdo it on that subject around here. Hope you can handle it. ;-)
I look forward to it, M.
>>> Seriously, there’s nothing I enjoy more than talking about this stuff, so don’t ever feel like you’re bothering me with your emails. I look forward to reading more of your stuff and getting to know you better.
I can’t tell you what it means that you took the time to read my essay. And that you actually liked it. There’s always been something really attractive about werewolf lore to me. I never was able to pinpoint it. Until I saw Bram Stoker’s Dracula and saw that scene. Do you know the one? With Lucy? Where he’s...fucking her. That really...did something to me. And it made me think, too. ;) It’s where I originally got the idea for the article. Then doing the research...discovering those brushed over investigations in New England, then the fabricated report from the incident in Wisconson...
I understand your desire to link paranormal activity with sexuality. If nothing else, what two more interesting topics can you have?
It feels like a relief to talk to you. Like you understand everything I say. If I’ve misjudged, please don’t hesitate to put me back in my place.
I dunno. Maybe I’ve just felt alone lately. And talking to you feels like breaking out of a cage.
Later,
AKA
Wow. I sit there looking at his email to me for several moments, reading it over and over. He really wrote a lot. And it’s well-thought-out, serious. This isn’t just some fun, off-the-cuff fanmail letter. He’s really sharing with me, and asking me to share with him.
But his tone isn’t nosy or pushy at all. In fact, it seems very respectful and courteous...even careful, sometimes. I appreciate that. As hard as we try to moderate this list, sometimes people do get carried away, and although the fact that’s it’s all just email lends a certain security, people getting too nosy too fast can be a very potentially dangerous situation.
I know that everyone there, probably including this guy, knows who I am, and I don’t really think there’s any danger, because it’s not as if I ever discuss cases onlist. And anyone who wants to read my perverted ramblings is welcome. Still, the subterfuge does offer a certain modicum of protection from those loonies who would seek to drag my real name through the mud. I can always deny everything if that should happen. My real name is nowhere on this list, except in the scrambled letters of my pseudonym.
This...doesn’t feel like that at all. This feels more like someone who just thinks a lot like I do, and who is open enough to talk about it. I really appreciate his candidness, especially regarding the scene in Dracula. I can tell that he’s pushing the bounds of what he thinks might be acceptable to me, using the word ‘fucking’ rather than some clinical phrase to describe the animalistic, violent, questionably-nonconsensual sex scene.
I like him.
I find I can’t wait to hit reply and start typing.
I’m slinging my jacket onto my arm when I hear the little ding that signals new email coming into my box. I installed the ding yesterday. I’m only considering it a curse today. I’m late. I stand there with one arm in my jacket, mouth open slightly, looking back over my shoulder at the screen.
Then I stalk back over, cursing breathlessly, boots pounding a conspicuous rhythm on the floorboards. I peer down at the screen.
“Dammit.”
It’s him. It’s Mulder. I seem to go cold and hot at the same time. My physical reponse to seeing his name a quiet tightening of the cells, one drop of perspiration down my temple.
I can’t read it. I have to go.
I turn away, sheathing my other arm in leather before walking out the door cautiously.
I get to the job quickly, parking and keeping to the shadows as I patrol the city park. I meet with the dealer, noticing only that his attempted intimidating smile as he threatens me shows that he apparently has all of his teeth not to mention a mouthful of bad breath.
I take his threat, hardly giving it any attention at all, as I pull my gun on him before he even has a chance to shut his repulsive mouth. I shove it in his gut.
“Scope, Juarez. You should use it sometime,“ I tell him, reaching into my pocket with my free hand and producing a wad of cash.
He gawks at me silently, and I push the money into his pocket, simultaneously extracting the vial and slipping it into the recesses of my leather.
I step back, gun still poised.
“Have a nice night,” I tell him in Russian. Then I disappear into the shadows and back to my car.
I rev the engine, one thought eclipsing all others.
Mulder.
Get back and talk to Mulder. See what he said. Swim in it like in a pool that’s closed and gated off, illicitly thrilling at the soft water in teen-age bliss.
I pull out of the park, under street lights, taking a zig-zaggy way back to my studio. I’m halfway there when my cell phone rings.
I hit talk but say nothing.
“I know you’re there, Sean,” the voice breathes, and the uncertainty is almost veiled.
I stay quiet.
“Can I see you?” This time, even though it’s a question, it’s more assertive.
I sigh, turning a corner.
Mulder’s waiting. He’s there. On the screen in big, printable letters. He’s there wanting to know me. I fight the urge to close my eyes in indecision.
“Okay,” I say gruffly. “Where?”
“Usual,” Victor says, clearly feeling more confident now.
I hang up the phone, squeal the tires at the next intersection making an illegal U turn, and then take off toward our bar.
I close my mind off to anything but the driving. To the power of the engine and feel of the turns taken too fast.
Maybe he’s what I need. Maybe all this emailing with Fox Mulder has put me at a disadvantage, taking up space in my mind better occupied with figuring out how to survive, how to stay one step ahead. Juarez might have thought I was in perfect control, but I knew I wasn’t. I knew that underneath the mask I always wear and underneath the gun I always pull, there was the ghost of a thought that threatened me louder than Juarez’s over-rehearsed words. And the thought was Mulder.
I swerve into the back parking lot, never using the front door anymore. Not needing to.
So. Victor wants a meeting. I swallow, gripping the wheel and feeling none of the excitement one should feel when meeting up with what could be considered a lover. I don’t have time for lovers in the traditional sense. When nobody can know who you are, it tends to restrict a relationship anyway.
But Victor doesn’t seem to mind what we have. Right now, I don’t either. I need it to counteract what I feel happening back on that computer. I need a little perspective.
I step out of the car and make my way through the back entrance. I weave through the crowded hall, down another at a right angle to it, into a little dim room where Victor sits waiting, his brown hair cut short and spiky, a little like mine, built body encased in tight white T-shirt and jeans.
“C’mon,” I say, not wanting to suffer through the preliminaries and knowing just how to provoke the response I want.
“You think you’re gonna get what you want?” he slurs.
He has no idea what I want, and I see that in his eyes as he stalks over. I encourage it with a lift of my chin. He slaps me across the face sharply, and when I taste blood, I smile a little.
Before I turn my head back, he throws himself on me. I put up the smallest fight I can so that I don’t accidentally rip his windpipe out. Just enough to keep him rough.
He turns me and tries to bend me over a plush, leather arm chair. I struggle more forcefully and turn in his muscular arms, forcing him to hit me again to subdue me. He does. This time a punch to the jaw which aches exactly like I’d hoped.
“Why you gotta fight me?” Victor asks, wrestling me back around again. I let him, breathing hard. “You know I’m gonna have that ass of yours, Sean.”
He bends me over, reaching under me to rip open my jeans. My cock is still soft. I know of only one sure way to get it hard.
I whisper it to myself under my breath so he won’t hear. “Mulder.”
A glimmer. Just a tingle. I shut my eyes as I feel Victor getting his erection condomed and lubed.
I picture Hong Kong. Being pressed into that phone bank. The pain at my back. The pain in my head. In my gut from not having eaten and from the gun in my stomach.
And the pleasure as he pushed hard in between my legs relentlessly.
My dick pulses with blood, but I’m not quite there when Victor shoves up inside me. I bite my lip and draw blood. It’s either put up with it, conjuring Mulder like a witch with a spell, or dislodge the grunting, fucking man behind me and break his neck.
Victor’s not an evil guy. He’s just misguided. And I’m too exhausted to take him out without a lot of effort. I lie there with him rutting between my butt cheeks, moving back and forth across the leather, and I don’t even try to think of Mulder anymore. It’s what I wanted to avoid anyway. I just take it like a man until he comes passionately and eventually pulls out.
I stand up slowly, pulling my pants up and zipping them.
“What the fuck is wrong with you, man?” Victor asks behind me, still breathless.
I turn on him and have him pressed against the wall before he knows what’s happening, my arm against his throat and my face in his. I say calmly, “Don’t ever call me again,” as he chokes.
Then I push myself off of him and stalk out the way I came.
When I arrive home, I go to the bathroom to clean up and piss before I go to the computer. I half entertain not checking it tonight. I don’t want to see him like this, I think, smirking humorlessly. But I know I can’t ignore him. Seeing Mulder talk to me this way, even knowing he doesn’t know it’s me...fills me with a kind of peace. While at the same time it tumbles my intestines violently and makes me feel like even I don’t know who I am anymore.
I jiggle the mouse to wake the screen. To wake Mulder from his slumber. Having briefly showered and changed, I feel much more like I can do this, like I can wipe off the deal and the fuck like sweat and start clean.
Talking to Mulder like this makes me feel clean. New.
I take a breath and read his words.
From: MFLuder@fastmail.fm
To: AKA@hotmail.com
Subject: RE: The Beast Within
>>> So I take it multiple lives figure into your belief system?
Most definitely. But I was actually referring to offline activities when I said ‘another life.’ Sometimes it feels like I’m living several, and I wondered if perhaps we had run into one another offline before. Onlist, the rule is we don’t discuss our outside lives, but offlist, it’s up to each individual what to disclose. You don’t have to tell me where we might know one another from, if you don’t want to. I know it’s not always a safe world out there. I am right in assuming that you know who I am, aren’t I? You said it was like having a celebrity on the list? Maybe you should tell me who you think I am, so you don’t end up thinking you’re palling around with Steven Hawking...or Stephen King. ;-)
>>> But I take it from your email that everybody’s pretty open about sex there...even discussing noncon paranormal screwing? ;)
LOL...when you blend paranormal with sex, nonconsent, or coerced consent more accurately, tends to dominate the discussions. It’s funny. When I joined this list, I think it was more balanced. More eclectic, with a variety of paranormal subjects. I was so excited to find it that I wrote a huge glut of material, all of it relating sex to the supernatural, and it kind of ended up transforming the list somewhat. Dominating it, I guess. Hell, I think everyone probably always *wants* to talk about sex a lot more often than they actually do it, so I figure I did everyone a favor by just making it de riguer around here. ;-) So, no, you’re not going to get kicked off for talking about noncon paranormal screwing. Unless you name names. Then we might have to hurt you. But then, you might end up liking that...
>>> I don’t normally feel too comfortable in groups. This one just seems to be different. And meeting you here... Seems to be a big sign that it’s the right place for me. At least...a place I wanna be.
I’m the same way about groups. I don’t often fit in, believe it or not. ;-) It takes a pretty weird, wild, and crazy bunch of people to put up with me. I do feel like I’ve found that here. I hope it ends up being the same right fit for you.
>>> Second of all...you like noncon, M? I don’t wanna weird you out. You don’t have to answer or expound if that touches on a personal boundary. Jesus, I’ve rewritten this about five times now, and I’m not sure why I’m still sending it. Guess I just really wanna know. For whatever reason.
First of all (to use your phrase), I’m not weirded out by talking about sex. I don’t mind answering personal questions, either. As I intimated before, I really think people should be more open about it in general. After all. Everyone has sex, and if they aren’t having it, they wanna be having it. So why not talk about it?
Now, to answer your question, I’ll have to ask you one. What do you mean by noncon? Articles about it? Simulation of it? Or actual forced sexual contact? My answer will depend greatly on that clarification.
>>> Can I ask you something? How do you have such compassion for what most people would term a monster? If they acknowledged it at all. Do you sometimes find it hard to...believe in redemption?
No, actually. I can’t help but think that, ‘there but for the grace of God, go I,’ when I encounter the so-called ‘monsters’ of this world. We’re all just beings sharing this planet, doing our best to get through the experience. And I believe that we are all, at our core, inherently good.
You might think that’s naive, but trust me, I’ve seen the worst society can throw at me, and I can still see a little of myself behind every horrific mask.
They really just want what everyone wants. Maslow’s hierarchy of needs, beginning with safety, survival, then sustenance, and then what we are all seeking, once we’re fed and safe...love. Don’t believe everything you see in the movies about vampires, AKA. They’re just people who have gotten themselves into a physical situation that currently no one I know has figured a way out of. Except death. I really hope to help change that with my writings. I don‘t just do this to turn people on and get them hot for vampire lovin‘.
I take it that you find it hard to believe in redemption, AKA?
>>> I just found an article you wrote on the Incubus/Succubus phenomenon. Would you recommend that one? Seems potentially very sexy.
LOL...well, depends on what you’re looking for, AKA. If you’re looking for the truth, I’d have to say that it’s a solid example of that. If you’re looking for good jerk-off material, look elsewhere. The incubus/succubus experience is not an erotic one. Actually, it sounds as if it would be helpful for you to read the article, just so you don’t get your hopes up about being visited by a juicy little succubus babe.
>>>>>> Sexuality itself falls into the realm of the super-natural, or beyond our human parameters of understanding, all by itself, if you ask me.
>>> What do you mean?
Well, it’s more than just two bodies causing friction against one another, isn’t it? Ninety-nine percent of it is mental, or emotional, or even spiritual. Completely unpredictable, unquantifiable, and uncontrollable. People say you can’t help who you’re attracted to, and I’ve certainly found that to be the case. Sometimes I find myself lusting after people who are emotional, or even physical suicide for me, but my body just doesn’t seem to give a damn. Why do you think that happens?
>>> There’s always been something really attractive about werewolf lore to me. I never was able to pinpoint it. Until I saw Bram Stoker’s Dracula and saw that scene. Do you know the one? With Lucy? Where he’s...fucking her. That really...did something to me. And it made me think, too. ;) ...
Heh heh...yeah, I know the scene. And it made me...think, too. ;-) Although it didn’t lead me to the same sharp speculations that it did you. But now that you’ve pointed that out, it seems like a natural connection to make. I look forward to reading the articles you cited, actually. Maybe delving more deeply into the cases themselves. It’s kind of a hobby of mine. ;-)
>>> I understand your desire to link paranormal activity with sexuality. If nothing else, what two more interesting topics can you have?
You wouldn’t be interested in having my love-child, would you? ;-)
>>> It feels like a relief to talk to you. Like you understand everything I say. If I’ve misjudged, please don’t hesitate to put me back in my place.
You’ll find I never hesitate when someone truly needs to be put back in their place. ;-) People say I have a somewhat strong personality. (Actually, they say I’m a spooky, arrogant bastard.) You’re doing fine, AKA. I really enjoy talking to you, too.
>>> I dunno. Maybe I’ve just felt alone lately. And talking to you feels like breaking out of a cage.
I know what it’s like to feel alone. Probably everyone on this list does. You’re among friends, AKA. Come on out from behind those bars and play.
~M.F.
My mouth gapes as I read over it for the third time. The sharp mind he credits me with puddles around my feet as I try to assimilate all of it. Every nuance he used. Every vulnerability he showed. Every intimacy...
And the things that he said to me, shared with me...
Not with me, my brain screams. But I’m tired and wanting and sick of being a shadow rather than a human. Everything in me that wants, my training and my life as Alex Krycek tries to slam shut. But it doesn’t reach my eyes, which travel over his words again. He’s fucking smiling at me. I can’t turn my back on this. My fingers join the excited betrayal of my eyes and I poise my hands to type.
Scully’s coming over tonight. We’ve got some catching up to do after my long stint in the Idaho wilderness. We usually don’t feel the need to spend a lot of our leisure time together, seeing as how we spend our whole workday in one another’s space, but there seems to be a little bit of a distance between us after this long absence.
But I have some time before she gets here, to shower, change clothes, tidy up the place, order some dinner…and check my email. I go over to the computer and start it loading while I head for the shower. While I’m lathering my head, I find I’m thinking of almost nothing except the possibility…no, let’s face it, probability…that there’s a nice, long email from AKA waiting for me in there.
I finish cleansing myself and hastily scrub my hair dry so I’m not dripping all over the floor, then wrap a towel around myself and head for the computer. I know I have stuff to do, but I’ll just take a look and see if it’s there. Reading it won’t take that long. It’s usually the answering that eats up the night.
Not that I mind. Not at all.
I lick a droplet of water off my upper lip and sit down in the chair, getting water all over the seat. I see his name in the senders column and grin, clicking on it excitedly.
To: MFLuder@fastmail.fmSweet dreams?
From: AKA@hotmail.com
Subject: Friction
>>> I am right in assuming that you know who I am, aren’t I? You said it was like having a celebrity on the list? Maybe you should tell me who you think I am, so you don’t end up thinking you’re palling around with Steven Hawking...or Stephen King. ;-)
LOL! Yeah, I know who you are. You’re Fox Mulder, Special Agent with the FBI. You work on the X-Files. I wish I could even the playing field and tell you more about me, but...I’m afraid I just can’t do that right now. In my situation. I’m sorry.
>>> I was so excited to find it that I wrote a huge glut of material, all of it relating sex to the supernatural, and it kind of ended up transforming the list somewhat. Dominating it, I guess. Hell, I think everyone probably always *wants* to talk about sex a lot more often than they actually do it, so I figure I did everyone a favor by just making it de riguer around here. ;-)
So you single-handedly popped the list’s cherry and now they’re all wanton whores? ;)
>>> So, no, you’re not going to get kicked off for talking about noncon paranormal screwing. Unless you name names. Then we might have to hurt you. But then, you might end up liking that...
I’ll refrain from commenting.
>>> I’m the same way about groups. I don’t often fit in, believe it or not. ;-) It takes a pretty weird, wild, and crazy bunch of people to put up with me. I do feel like I’ve found that here. I hope it ends up being the same right fit for you.
Feels good so far.
>>> Now, to answer your question, I’ll have to ask you one. What do you mean by noncon? Articles about it? Simulation of it? Or actual forced sexual contact? My answer will depend greatly on that clarification.
Well, I think I know that you like articles about it. You liked mine. ;) Hmmm... The second one. Simulation. I guess I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t curious. I have to tell you that I really, really like your open mind. I guess I wonder how wide it goes. ;)
About the last...I can’t imagine that being in law enforcement you’d get off on actual rape. That said, we all have our fantasies, right? Doesn’t mean we have to act on them. And it’s my speculation that good and bad are just figments of our guilty imaginations. I believe in karma. And I believe things happen for a reason. Even if someone doesn’t particularly deserve it, I think some people seek victimization. And probably chose it before they were born. I guess that’s all I’ll say lest you think you’ve been talking to a serial rapist or something. I just...I’ve seen a lot. And my opinions are kind of radical.
>>> You might think that’s naive, but trust me, I’ve seen the worst society can throw at me, and I can still see a little of myself behind every horrific mask.
Does it help you understand the monster you’re looking at? Or does it sometimes just make you hate yourself?
>>> They really just want what everyone wants. Maslow’s hierarchy of needs, beginning with safety, survival, then sustenance, and then what we are all seeking, once we’re fed and safe...love. Don’t believe everything you see in the movies about vampires, AKA. They’re just people who have gotten themselves into a physical situation that currently no one I know has figured a way out of. Except death.
I think I sometimes understand that more intimately than I want to. It’s still kind of shocking to see it written out here. That someone…that you…understand.
Have you ever had a monster you couldn’t redeem? Or ones that might have been saved but they just couldn’t get out? Couldn’t stop being monsters?
>>> I take it that you find it hard to believe in redemption, AKA?
I guess so. It’s not a regular part of my existence. But…I want to believe.
>>> The incubus/succubus experience is not an erotic one. Actually, it sounds as if it would be helpful for you to read the article, just so you don’t get your hopes up about being visited by a juicy little succubus babe.
I guess now’s as good a time as any to come clean about something. It’s just too weird to continue these discussions (which I really like, by the way) with you not knowing this about me.
How do I say this?
I’m more the, uh, incubus type. I’m gay.
Is that…going to be a problem?
>>> Well, it’s more than just two bodies causing friction against one another, isn’t it?
Isn’t that enough? ;)
>>> Ninety-nine percent of it is mental, or emotional, or even spiritual. Completely unpredictable, unquantifiable, and uncontrollable. People say you can’t help who you’re attracted to, and I’ve certainly found that to be the case. Sometimes I find myself lusting after people who are emotional, or even physical suicide for me, but my body just doesn’t seem to give a damn. Why do you think that happens?
I don’t know, Mulder. Can I call you that? Or is that beyond bounds?
Anyway. I think I know exactly what you mean. Sometimes…I know it’s wrong. Even sick. But it happens anyway. There doesn’t seem to be a logical reason. Just this…pull. More than pheromones. More than the physical, even though in that instant I am reduced to my body.
Maybe it’s that karma again. Maybe the universe knows more about these things than we do down here feeling small and confused and driven by forces we can’t explain. Or deny. I don’t know. I wish I did.
>>> I look forward to reading the articles you cited, actually. Maybe delving more deeply into the cases themselves. It’s kind of a hobby of mine. ;-)
From what I’ve heard, the X-Files is more than just a hobby for you, or your job. But if you want to remain somewhat anonymous, I can respect that and say only, whoever you are, I believe in your quest for the truth.
>>> You wouldn’t be interested in having my love-child, would you? ;-)
As long as you don’t insist on naming him Floyd. ;) And I want the damned epidural.
>>> You’ll find I never hesitate when someone truly needs to be put back in their place. ;-) People say I have a somewhat strong personality. (Actually, they say I’m a spooky, arrogant bastard.)
It’s in my astrological chart that I tend to get along with spooky, arrogant bastards. And I find it comforting to know you’d never let me get too out of line.
>>> I know what it’s like to feel alone. Probably everyone on this list does. You’re among friends, AKA. Come on out from behind those bars and play.
>>> ~M.F.
Thank you. I’d stay up and see if I get a response tonight, but I’ve had one of those days and I think I really need some sleep.
In case you see this, though…sweet dreams.
AKA
And he’s gay?
I think this guy likes me. I think maybe he likes me likes me. I let out all my breath at once, considering how I feel about that.
There’s no question that I also feel a very strong attraction to him, although I would never have categorized those feelings as romantic, having never had a romantic attraction for another man before. But then, I’ve never felt this way about another man before.
I’ve never felt this way about *anyone* before.
Shit.
Whoa.
Okay.
So…this man knows exactly who I am. But I must not know him. I’d remember somebody like this. I’d be more than just email-buddies with someone like this.
Would I be…lovers…with somebody like this?
I am open-minded. But I’m also completely lacking in any actual homosexual experience.
Oh, sure, I’ve had a few guys come onto me, but I was never even remotely interested in any of them. Not even as friends, honestly. Actually, I could say that about nearly every human being…and some other classifications…that I’ve ever encountered.
I dunno…most people just aren’t worth the energy it takes to maintain a relationship with them.
This guy’s different, though. And it’s not just because he seems to be a fan of my work.
I just…really like him.
I find myself breathing harder as I read over the email for a third time, wanting so much to hit reply and start typing. He said so many things I want to address. I wish we could just sit down with a couple of beers and have a conversation, instead of having to type it all. God, I wonder if that’s possible? Probably not, with his reluctance…no, refusal to even tell me who he is. For now, this is all we can do. Maybe someday, things can be different. Maybe I can gain his trust.
I decide I have time to start on the email before Scully gets here. The place isn’t really that messy, and it only takes me two minutes to throw on some jeans and a t-shirt. I have to remember to order the Chinese food at least 20 minutes before she’s supposed to be here, though. That place is great, but damned slow.
I lick my lips, wondering how much I should reveal about my own feelings for this guy, and click on reply.
I’m about a third of the way down the email, totally engrossed, towel slipping down my hips as I type, when there’s a knock at the door.
Shit! Scully!
I feel my face flush guiltily as I bolt up out of the chair, leaving the towel in a heap on the floor.
Naked! Shit!
“Uh, just a sec, Scully,” I call, hurrying to my bedroom and jerking on my jeans and a t-shirt, forgoing underwear to save time. It’s so much less comfortable than it is sexy to do that, by the way. I glance into the mirror and see that my hair has dried a bit funky. I rake my hands through it, only making it marginally better, and go to the door, pulling it open. “Hi,” I say a little breathlessly.
“Hi, Mulder,” she says, brows raised. “Did I interrupt something?”
She’s looking at my hair. I self-consciously run my hand through it again.
“No, I mean…no,” I say, shaking my head. “Uh, why don’t you sit down and I’ll order the food.”
“All right,” she says, nodding. She walks into the living room and sits on the end of the sofa nearest my computer. Which is still on, my partial reply to AKA’s email still boldly sitting there. She looks over, noticing the glow in the low light of my apartment.
I hastily flick on a light, realizing it’s nearly dark in here, since when I got home it was still light out, and I didn’t notice it getting darker as I was typing my reply.
“I’m sorry, were you working on something?” she says, looking at the screen and then at me.
“Oh, nothing important,” I tell her, smiling. “Just an email.”
“Oh, well why don’t you go ahead and finish it,” she says. “I don’t mind.”
“No, that’s okay,” I tell her, praying that any minute now my flying saucer screensaver will rescue me. “I’ll just get our food ordered.”
The food takes forever, my jeans chafe my bare ass, and the conversation is a bit awkward and stilted as I remain somewhat distracted by my unfinished email. We eat a very late dinner, then I’m walking her to the door. She gives me a soft, “Good night, Mulder,” and heads home.
I stand inside my closed door, chewing the inside of my lip, feeling a gamut of emotions washing through me. Guilt being paramount. I feel like I’m keeping something from her, even though I’ve never even met this guy…that I know of. The intensity of my feelings alone feels like something too big to be kept from my best friend. But geez, I have nothing to even tell her at this point, other than that I’ve met this great new guy on one of my lists.
And that I’ve started wondering what it would be like to have sex with a man.
Jesus. I wonder if he’s even good-looking. He sounds younger than me, somehow. Jaded, but immature in some ways. God, I don’t even have a ‘type’ when it comes to guys. What would I even find myself attracted to, physically?
It hits me that I’m already attracted to him, physically, even though the only part of him I’ve so far been exposed to is his mind.
Damn.
And with that thought, I head back over to the computer, jiggle the mouse to dismiss my flying saucer screensaver, and sit my chafed ass down to finish the reply, even though it’s now nearly 10 p.m. and I know it will take me at least another couple of hours.
I’m lying on the couch, three messages from Victor blinking on my machine, which is connected to my home phone which is routed through a different number which is routed back to the number he actually called. Can’t be too careful.
The first message was apologetic. The second downright whiney. The third angry and shaking and threatening. I wonder if I should use piano wire or not waste my time on his five floor walk-up and just use the laser site from the bushes and take him out of his misery.
I sigh, and the moment my eyes shut, I hear the telling ding from my computer. My eyes fly open and I’m sitting up before I decide to.
My email instinct is now as honed as my survival one.
Just to torture myself, and futiley try to prove that my obsession with him hasn’t turned dangerous, I go into the kitchen area and get a cream soda out of the fridge first. I take a long draught of it; it’s nearly frozen, it’s so cold. I feel it cooling the tight, hot places inside: throat, stomach… But my heart stays fast and terrible like a jet engine, the thumping so strong as to have become a roar.
I sit down and take a breath. I’m scared. Terrified. I’ve always known I had the capacity to become obsessed with Fox Mulder. I’ve successfully held it at bay for a couple of years, now, only unleashing it a little at our meetings. And not with words. Only with the way my body opens and submits to his for the only kind of touch he seems to want to give me.
I’ve never gotten off thinking of Mulder touching me like a lover.
I’ve gotten off plenty of times just remembering the rage barely contained in his body…flooding into mine when it reaches critical mass, the first feel of his fist connecting, closing my hand around my cock ruthlessly as I come.
He is my one weakness. But in that moment between singing nerve endings on the point of electrical fire, and the sated, liquid aftermath of orgasm, it feels like I’m stronger than I’ve ever been.
It’s just the next moment. And the one after that, and after that. I have to always fight back to a place where what I do is survive and fight and win, and who I am is cold and resolved and asexual and unconcerned with anything other than saving the planet by any means necessary.
It usually only takes a cool shower and a change of clothes. Then I’m back. And I can push him away.
That was before all this, of course. I sit staring at the computer screen, perceiving my life as someone else’s, something I hopefully will never have to take responsibility for. I don’t know how much longer I can go on, fooling myself more than him. All I know is it feels too good to stop. Better than bringing myself off to his whispered curses, the stolen moments wedged between hits like little slices of humanity.
Infinitely better. Him smiling at me…
To: AKA@hotmail.com
From: MFLuder@fastmail.fm
Subject: RE: Friction
>>> LOL! Yeah, I know who you are. You’re Fox Mulder, Special Agent with the FBI. You work on the X-Files. I wish I could even the playing field and tell you more about me, but...I’m afraid I just can’t do that right now. In my situation. I’m sorry.
I respect that. I hope the situation changes. I’d like to know you better.
>>> So you single-handedly popped the list’s cherry and now they’re all wanton whores? ;)
ROFL! Well, since you put it that way…yeah! ;-) I didn’t dirty their minds, though, I have to say. I just gave them permission to let them out to play with mine.
>>>>>> So, no, you’re not going to get kicked off for talking about noncon paranormal screwing. Unless you name names. Then we might have to hurt you. But then, you might end up liking that...
>>> I’ll refrain from commenting.
You do know that when you plead the fifth, you end up looking incredibly guilty by default, right?
>>>>>> Now, to answer your question, I’ll have to ask you one. What do you mean by noncon? Articles about it? Simulation of it? Or actual forced sexual contact? My answer will depend greatly on that clarification.
>>> Well, I think I know that you like articles about it. You liked mine. ;) Hmmm... The second one. Simulation. I guess I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t curious. I have to tell you that I really, really like your open mind. I guess I wonder how wide it goes. ;)
I’m wondering that myself.
I’ve played around a bit with bondage and dom/sub stuff, but I don’t consider that noncon. True BDSM includes the full consent of both parties. I can’t get off unless my partner does, too.
Does that answer your question?
>>> About the last...I can’t imagine that being in law enforcement you’d get off on actual rape.
I’m glad that goes without saying.
>>> That said, we all have our fantasies, right? Doesn’t mean we have to act on them. And it’s my speculation that good and bad are just figments of our guilty imaginations.
Hmm…’There is nothing good or bad, but thinking makes it so?’ Again, I agree completely, and again, I can’t get off unless my partner does. And yes, fantasies are another matter altogether. I believe our fantasies are our way of exploring other facets of ourselves that would be too hard to face in reality, or that would do more damage than we are prepared to do, just to have that experience.
But the human mind, and even the spirit, doesn’t like limitation, and so it tends to want to experience every last sensory experience it possibly can, and much of that is done through our fantasies and even our dreams. We all have fantasies that involve being hurt or hurting another. It’s a basic part of being an unlimited being. Those of us who are at a higher evolutionary level spiritually have just learned to act them out only in our minds, rather than in our reality.
And you thought *your* opinions were radical. ;-)
>>> I believe in karma. And I believe things happen for a reason. Even if someone doesn’t particularly deserve it, I think some people seek victimization. And probably chose it before they were born.
I agree. Some people have lessons to learn that they seem only to be able to learn through either being victimized, or victimizing others. But, I also believe in radical evolution and change, and that once you’ve learned the lesson that the victimization is there to teach you, you can free yourself of it forever. I guess that goes along with my belief in redemption.
>>> Does it help you understand the monster you’re looking at? Or does it sometimes just make you hate yourself?
It helps me both understand and have compassion for the so-called monster. As for hating myself…that particular monster is one that doesn’t live anywhere outside of myself. It isn’t other people that have the capacity to make me hate myself, it’s me. My choices.
>>> Have you ever had a monster you couldn’t redeem? Or ones that might have been saved but they just couldn’t get out? Couldn’t stop being monsters?
Sadly, yes. But then, I deal with actual monsters, and the ones I deal with have the deck stacked against them with fucked-up genetic mutations and other extreme anomalies, a lot of the time. I deal with human monsters, too, of course. They’re usually just not ready to let go of whatever dark, horrific lessons they’re trying to learn. My work doesn’t put me in touch with people trying to change, except for the rare exception. It exposes me to people…and beings…who are stuck in a dark hell of their own making, with which they’re infecting the others around them.
I can’t save them. That’s not my job. I just do what I can to bring them into the light, even if that means locking them in a cell so that they stop hurting other people. When they can’t stop themselves, I stop them. My job doesn’t really put me in the position to redeem people, I’m afraid. That’s a job for the gurus and the shrinks.
>>>>>> I take it that you find it hard to believe in redemption, AKA?
>>> I guess so. It’s not a regular part of my existence. But…I want to believe.
Sounds like we move in some of the same circles. I still stand by my own belief. The trick is that the person has to truly *want* to be something different than what they are. I’m not willing to give up on anybody, as long as they’re willing to work…really fucking hard. I don’t waste energy trying to help people who are content to stay at their present level of evolution. I hope that doesn’t sound harsh.
>>> I guess now’s as good a time as any to come clean about something. It’s just too weird to continue these discussions (which I really like, by the way) with you not knowing this about me.
>>> How do I say this?
>>> I’m more the, uh, incubus type. I’m gay.
>>> Is that…going to be a problem?
Only if I try to set you up with my boss’s cute little blonde female secretary.
Why would you being gay be a problem for me?
>>>>>> Well, it’s more than just two bodies causing friction against one another, isn’t it?
>>> Isn’t that enough? ;)
Oh, AKA…I can see that even though you write some blistering hot commentary on werewolf fucks, you have a lot to learn about sex. ;-) No, friction most certainly is NOT enough. Hell, it’s barely even necessary! That’s proven every time you have a wet dream.
It’s all in your head, my friend. Good sex…no, GREAT sex is all about what’s going on between your ears, not between your legs. Anybody can stroke your dick. Hell, YOU can do it, and probably more effectively than anyone else on the planet! But it’s what’s going on in your mind while it’s being done that makes things hot. And if you’re with the right partner(s), it’s also what’s going on in *their* mind(s).
You can’t tell me you haven’t fantasized while you were fucking somebody, and had that fantasy makes things ten times better. Think about what that means. That ain’t the friction, AKA.
>>>>>> Sometimes I find myself lusting after people who are emotional, or even physical suicide for me, but my body just doesn’t seem to give a damn. Why do you think that happens?
>>> I don’t know, Mulder. Can I call you that? Or is that beyond bounds?
Well, it seems silly to have you keep calling me a fake name, now that I know you know my real one. I guess to be honest, it feels better to have you use my name, because it feels like you’re talking to *me*, rather than some email persona that may or may not be who you‘re actually interested in.
If you call me Fox, I *will* hurt you, though.
Of course, we never really established if that would be much of a deterrent for you, did we?
I just wish I had a real name I could call you.
>>> Anyway. I think I know exactly what you mean. Sometimes…I know it’s wrong. Even sick. But it happens anyway. There doesn’t seem to be a logical reason. Just this…pull. More than pheromones. More than the physical, even though in that instant I am reduced to my body.
>>> Maybe it’s that karma again. Maybe the universe knows more about these things than we do down here feeling small and confused and driven by forces we can’t explain. Or deny. I don’t know. I wish I did.
That makes more sense than anything else I’ve heard anyone say on the subject. So, given that, do you think we should act on these intense, unexplainable feelings when we have them, AKA?
>>>>>> I look forward to reading the articles you cited, actually. Maybe delving more deeply into the cases themselves. It’s kind of a hobby of mine. ;-)
>>> From what I’ve heard, the X-Files is more than just a hobby for you, or your job. But if you want to remain somewhat anonymous, I can respect that and say only, whoever you are, I believe in your quest for the truth.
It’s too late to remain somewhat anonymous. ;-) Yeah, the X-Files are pretty much my life, such as it is. Guess that’s no big secret, even wherever you’re from, huh? It’s…nice to have someone believe in me. It’s nice that *you* believe in me, AKA. Thank you.
>>>>>> You wouldn’t be interested in having my love-child, would you? ;-)
>>> As long as you don’t insist on naming him Floyd. ;) And I want the damned epidural.
ROFL!!! I’ll only name it Floyd if it’s a girl. Deal?
>>> It’s in my astrological chart that I tend to get along with spooky, arrogant bastards. And I find it comforting to know you’d never let me get too out of line.
How old are you, AKA? I just wanna know a little more about who I’m keeping in line. ;-)
>>> In case you see this, though…sweet dreams.
I saw it. I looked forward to it all day long.
I’m off to bed now. I guess you’re already asleep, by the sounds of things. ‘Nite.
~M.F. Luder…AKA…Fox Mulder
And there it is. An admission I didn’t think had the power to knock me off kilter. I mean, I *knew* it was him. Beyond a doubt. I guess it just feels like one shoe has dropped...his own name spilling off his fingers against his better judgement. I have a bigger piece of his trust than I ever hoped I might when all this began. I can almost hear him say it. His own name from those lips a stroke along my skin.
Mulder.
“Mulder…” I say aloud to my apartment, feeling foolish and reckless and good.
The other shoe… My name. A name I cannot tell him. Just hanging there by the laces, a silent, ready indictment.
I sigh.
I saw it. I looked forward to it all day long.
My eyes caress the words, merely returning what they’ve done to me. It floods my veins like carbonation, filling my body with liquid excitement, through my fingertips which long to answer: I’ve missed you.
Oh, Mulder. What the fuck are we doing?
I take a drink of the sweet soda and ready myself to meet his questions as honestly as I dare.
Jesus, what a fucked-up day. I should have known that my few moments of acceptance at the VCU were all a bunch of bullshit. I couldn’t believe they actually asked me to come in on the case when it started looking a little paranormal. But I went, ignoring the looks and the whispers behind my back, just doing my job.
And it was going well, too. I actually had some damning evidence that would have forced some of those fatheads in VCU to take my work seriously for a change. Until it disappeared, that is. Then they couldn’t wait to discredit me, attack my professionalism, and send me back to my dark little basement, telling me what a waste I’d made of my life and my talent.
Sometimes I think they’re right.
Why do I even bother? Why do I keep doing this, day after day after day? Am I really making any significant progress?
All right. Enough pity-party. I know that I’ve stopped more than my share of sick people and monsters in my time, making the world just that much more safe for the rest of us. But sometimes it’s hard not to want something for myself.
I think my emails with AKA are actually much more of a catalyst in making me think this way than getting screwed over again. The contrast is becoming greater, I guess. I spend hours, now, every night, with this guy, and it’s time I never regret having spent. Time I look forward to. Time I cherish, truth be told.
I’ve started to wonder what I’d do if I didn’t have it. Guess I’d be working harder, still bringing work home every night to push away the loneliness and emptiness of my apartment.
I haven’t done that in several days now. Not since I returned from that long assignment and came home to…him.
God, this is pathetic. I’m looking forward now to coming home to my computer like other people look forward to going home to families. Lovers. Mates.
Well, it’s a start, anyway. And it sure as hell feels as real as any of those things to me.
I strip off my clothes and take a shower before sitting down to check my email. I want to wash off the day’s disappointments and disasters and go to him fresh, relaxed, and clean. I really should grab something to eat, too, but I’ve spent enough time away from the computer, and my need to hear from him outweighs the growling in my belly.
I pull on a comfy pair of sweat pants, running my hand through my wet hair, and finally let myself head over to my desk.
I watch the email load, tapping my finger impatiently on the desk. I let out an audible sigh of relief as I see his name come up among the others. And I realize that I haven’t actually kept up with the list mail for about three days, now. In fact, I haven’t done anything here at home except read his emails and reply to them. Geez, I hope I’m not pissing anyone off by ignoring them. I promise myself to at least read the last few days’ emails, letting the remaining 400 old ones go in favor of getting current quickly and hopefully staying that way.
After I read his, of course. And reply to it. I click on his name, chewing the inside of my lip, breath held.
To: MFLuder@fastmail.fm
From: AKA@hotmail.com
Subject: RE: RE: Friction
>>> I hope the situation changes. I’d like to know you better.
I’d like that, too, Mulder. Then again, maybe you’d find out you didn’t like me so much after all. Maybe this is for the best.
>>> You do know that when you plead the fifth, you end up looking incredibly guilty by default, right?
I plead the fifth on pleading the fifth. ;)
>>>>>> I have to tell you that I really, really like your open mind. I guess I wonder how wide it goes. ;)
>>> I’m wondering that myself.
Haven’t reached the border guard yet?
>>> I’ve played around a bit with bondage and dom/sub stuff, but I don’t consider that noncon. True BDSM includes the full consent of both parties. I can’t get off unless my partner does, too.
>>> Does that answer your question?
Uh, yeah, I think so. So you’ve never just wanted to use somebody in order to take what you needed, whether or not they wanted something in return? Maybe it wouldn’t even be about sex, but about something being owed you. Do you think you’d ever let your dark side make the decisions for you? Do you think that’s ever the right choice?
>>> I believe our fantasies are our way of exploring other facets of ourselves that would be too hard to face in reality, or that would do more damage than we are prepared to do, just to have that experience.
I guess that’s where I sometimes diverge from most people. Sometimes I don’t have that knee-jerk response to stop…to keep it a fantasy.
Shit, you’re going to think I want to go around hurting people and raping them. I don’t want that. That’s not my fantasy. But my reality sometimes seems more like the fantasy, and when I fantasize I tend not to draw the line. I’m afraid when I’m back in reality, I won’t remember not to surrender to the fantasy.
>>> We all have fantasies that involve being hurt or hurting another. It’s a basic part of being an unlimited being. Those of us who are at a higher evolutionary level spiritually have just learned to act them out only in our minds, rather than in our reality.
So you don’t ever lose control? Don’t ever act in a way contrary to your evolution?
>>> I also believe in radical evolution and change, and that once you’ve learned the lesson that the victimization is there to teach you, you can free yourself of it forever. I guess that goes along with my belief in redemption.
So all it takes is releasing it, being done with it. Harder than it sounds, isn’t it?
>>> As for hating myself…that particular monster is one that doesn’t live anywhere outside of myself. It isn’t other people that have the capacity to make me hate myself, it’s me. My choices.
Are you sure the demons in your head weren’t planted there by someone other than yourself? I don’t like to think of you feeling hate for yourself. I hope it’s not often, Mulder. I really do.
>>> I’m not willing to give up on anybody, as long as they’re willing to work…really fucking hard.
What if somebody wants to be different, but they’re just in too deep and don’t see a way out? The wanting’s not really enough, is it?
>>> I don’t waste energy trying to help people who are content to stay at their present level of evolution. I hope that doesn’t sound harsh.
No. In fact, I think you’re incredibly compassionate. Everybody knows you’re brilliant. And the people on the list know you’re witty and sexy and fun. I guess I feel privileged to know this about you, too.
>>> Why would you being gay be a problem for me?
Maybe because I’m also incredibly attracted to you.
>>> Oh, AKA…I can see that even though you write some blistering hot commentary on werewolf fucks,
Uh, thanks. LOL!
>>> you have a lot to learn about sex. ;-) No, friction most certainly is NOT enough.
Maybe not for you. I’ll go ahead and admit that even the *memory* of good friction has been enough for me on several occasions.
Maybe I’m easy. Maybe it’s not putting a dryer sheet in with my jeans. Hell. Maybe the person I’ve had friction with is just a full-blown sex God but just doesn’t know it. Whatever it’s been. I like friction. I like it a lot.
>>> Hell, it’s barely even necessary! That’s proven every time you have a wet dream.
I guess I’ll concede that you have a point. ;)
>>> it seems silly to have you keep calling me a fake name, now that I know you know my real one. I guess to be honest, it feels better to have you use my name, because it feels like you’re talking to *me*, rather than some email persona that may or may not be who you‘re actually interested in.
I’m glad it feels good, Mulder.
>>> If you call me Fox, I *will* hurt you, though.
Promise?
>>> Of course, we never really established if that would be much of a deterrent for you, did we?
No, and now the jig is up and you know it’s not. Gonna have to use something else. ;)
>>> I just wish I had a real name I could call you.
I’m sorry. Will A work for now? Hell, do you even still want to talk to me? I don’t even know if I should send this email. I like you. I want to keep doing this. But I can’t deny that my feelings for you are more than just friendly.
If it helps, we could just keep talking but I can promise not to flirt with you. Even though I really want to. If it’s too much for you, I can try to keep things safe and boring and uninteresting and we can talk about New England’s new line backer and how far we can spit. ;)
I know I sound like I’m joking, but I’m really nervous, Mulder. I don’t wanna lose this. I hope you don’t either.
>>> do you think we should act on these intense, unexplainable feelings when we have them, AKA?
It takes everything I have not to act on them, Mulder.
I think…that’s a dangerous question. I think the answer is somewhere between your body, your mind, and your heart. What are they telling you?
>>> It’s…nice to have someone believe in me. It’s nice that *you* believe in me, AKA. Thank you.
Anytime.
>>> ROFL!!! I’ll only name it Floyd if it’s a girl. Deal?
When can we start? ;)
>>> How old are you, AKA? I just wanna know a little more about who I’m keeping in line. ;-)
Do I really wanna tell you this? Shit, I guess if I’m not gonna give you a name the least I can do is…
I’m 28. You happy?
>>> I saw it. I looked forward to it all day long.
That…feels really good.
>>> I’m off to bed now. I guess you’re already asleep, by the sounds of things. ‘Nite.
Good night again.
Fox.
;)
Sincerely,
A
Uh huh.
Ohhhkay.
This guy’s not exactly shy, is he?
I let out a deep sigh. This is what I was fishing for, after all, isn’t it? I threw a little bait out, wondering how much of a nibble I’d get. Forcing him to clarify for me just what his own feelings are, unfairly not really revealing much about my own for him.
Well, I got a bite. Now I just have to decide if I’m going to go ahead and pull him into the boat or make him tread water.
28 years old. And living a rather hard life, from the sounds of it. But still with a sensitive core of hope, a scorching sensuality, and a sharp, intriguing mind, willing to admit it doesn’t have all the answers, and open to learning more.
God, that alone is so damned attractive. That open, inquisitive, enthusiastic, seeking, passionate mind of his.
So. Now I just have to decide if I can go as far as he has. Take this to a level I’ve never been to before with another man. But, shit, what’s the alternative? Pretending I don’t feel what I feel? Restricting conversation with him to safe topics?
Impossible. Not with him. Not now. If I can’t be myself with him, then I’ll cut it off completely, because I have no room in my life to live a lie.
And I don’t want to cut it off. The thought brings me a physical pain in my gut and a little one in my heart. Sure, it’s dangerous to be as vulnerable as I’m considering being, but when have I run away from a dangerous situation?
Even when I should have.
Fingers trembling just slightly, I click on the reply button and start to type.
Shit.
I get in my car and rest my head on the wheel.
Too late.
The smoker got there first, leaving no evidence to suggest it was him beyond the lingering smell, and stealing the evidence out from under their noses. Discrediting him. Discrediting Mulder. In front of the ‘top minds’ in the VCS. Everything I know he worked so hard on. Gone.
“Mother fucker,” I whisper exhaustedly. I put the key in the ignition and sit back, unable to move.
I could track him down. Find his sorry ass and…
And what? Find him, pull the gun on him, and have my head blown off before I could pull the trigger? He’s got more hidden thugs around him now than cigarettes.
There’s nothing left for me to do tonight.
I can’t even comfort him.
Can I?
I start the car and head home, pushing the needle higher in an effort to get to him. To do what I can.
To: AKA@hotmail.com
From: MFLuder@fastmail.fm
Subject: RE: RE: RE: Friction
>>> Then again, maybe you’d find out you didn’t like me so much after all. Maybe this is for the best.
If you don’t think I’d like him, you must not like him, either. Maybe the person you don’t think I’d like isn’t the real you, and this person I do…like…is.
The question is, which ‘you’ makes you happy? Because it’s your choice.
>>>>>>>>> I have to tell you that I really, really like your open mind. I guess I wonder how wide it goes. ;)
>>>>>> I’m wondering that myself.
>>> Haven’t reached the border guard yet?
The bastard keeps moving. ;-)
>>> So you’ve never just wanted to use somebody in order to take what you needed, whether or not they wanted something in return? Maybe it wouldn’t even be about sex, but about something being owed you. Do you think you’d ever let your dark side make the decisions for you? Do you think that’s ever the right choice?
That’s a hard one. Sure, I’ve had those dark fantasies, but I’ve never taken any steps to make them real. I think I know that ‘what I need’ is more than just to use someone else’s body to get off. Which is not to say I haven’t had some rather empty, unfulfilling sexual encounters that were barely about reciprocating sexual attention and more about us both just using the other one to satisfy ourselves. But that’s certainly not the preferred situation.
I like to know I’m pleasing my partner. It makes things a hell of a lot better for me. It’s funny. I like my lovers to be vocal, not to hold back, so I know that what I’m doing feels good to them. But I used to be a really quiet lover, myself. I guess I demand more than I’m willing to give, sometimes, in the way of vulnerability. I’m working on it.
It sounds as though what you’re talking about is actually angry sex, though. Am I right? Taking out your frustrations on someone through sex? That can be really good, too, as long as it’s not the only means you use to work things out. Angry sex is some of the best sex of all, as long as there is resolution afterward. Then you can have make-up sex. Which is also some of the best sex of all. ;-)
>>> I guess that’s where I sometimes diverge from most people. Sometimes I don’t have that knee-jerk response to stop…to keep it a fantasy.
>>> Shit, you’re going to think I want to go around hurting people and raping them. I don’t want that. That’s not my fantasy. But my reality sometimes seems more like the fantasy, and when I fantasize I tend not to draw the line. I’m afraid when I’m back in reality, I won’t remember not to surrender to the fantasy.
What *is* your fantasy?
>>> So you don’t ever lose control? Don’t ever act in a way contrary to your evolution?
No, I’m perfect. Didn’t you get the memo? ;-) Sorry if I came off sounding like that. I am most definitely NOT perfect, and yes, I lose control and do things that I know are wrong. I’m human. Sometimes I want to hurt people, either because they’ve hurt me, or they’ve hurt others, or both. The rational me knows that isn’t going to solve anything, but the little, nasty me just wants to inflict some righteous pain…see somebody bleed a little.
It never really ends up changing anything, and it only feels better for a few sick moments, then I’m back to feeling bad.
>>>>>> I also believe in radical evolution and change, and that once you’ve learned the lesson that the victimization is there to teach you, you can free yourself of it forever. I guess that goes along with my belief in redemption.
>>> So all it takes is releasing it, being done with it. Harder than it sounds, isn’t it?
Much. It’s an ongoing process. It’s called life. Can you see my sardonic smirk from there? But hell, I figure…what the hell else do I have to do down here?
>>> Are you sure the demons in your head weren’t planted there by someone other than yourself? I don’t like to think of you feeling hate for yourself. I hope it’s not often, Mulder. I really do.
Well, like I said, I’m not perfect. I’ve done plenty in my life that I’m not proud of. Sometimes it all seems to loom over me like some giant shit-heap, and at those times, it’s hard not to feel a measure of self-hatred. Especially when my choices get someone else hurt. Someone I care about.
>>> What if somebody wants to be different, but they’re just in too deep and don’t see a way out? The wanting’s not really enough, is it?
No, it isn’t. I didn’t say that. What I mean is that truly wanting it is the key. That’s the fuel for the really hard work you have to do.
AKA, how happy are you where you are now?
How happy would you be if you got out?
Is the difference between the two worth it?
You don’t have to tell me that you’re in trouble. I’m not stupid. And if your world is anything like mine, sometimes you’re taking your life in your hands if you try to break out of the cage you’ve put yourself in.
But I’ve seen it done. I have to admit, I’ve also seen men die for it. For trying to change sides, for living what they believe instead of what others believe. But I’m pretty sure, that if asked, they’d say it was worth it. After all, are you really safe anyway, living the way you live now?
How can I help?
>>> No. In fact, I think you’re incredibly compassionate. Everybody knows you're brilliant. And the people on the list know you’re witty and sexy and fun. I guess I feel privileged to know this about you, too.
I’m blushing.
>>>>>> Why would you being gay be a problem for me?
>>> Maybe because I’m also incredibly attracted to you.
Oh.
You’re not really the shy type, are you? Seriously. I can’t tell you how much I admire the courage it must have taken, to admit something like that. I don’t have that kind of courage.
And the truth is…your being gay is still not a problem for me.
Well, that’s not entirely true. It is a problem for me. As is your attraction to me. Because it changes everything. It forces me to look at a side of myself I’ve never contemplated before.
I’m heterosexual, AKA. Or at least, for all of my previous 35 years I have been. I’ve never had any kind of sexual contact with men. I’ve never even wanted to. I’ve never been attracted to a man. Before. But meeting you…at least online, anyway…has made me question all of who I’ve ever been, sexually. Because if I’m totally honest with myself…what I’m feeling is more than just friendship for you, AKA.
I’m very attracted to you, too.
>>> Hell. Maybe the person I’ve had friction with is just a full-blown sex God but just doesn’t know it. Whatever it’s been. I like friction. I like it a lot.
Jesus. Who the hell is this guy? I’m jealous. ;-)
Seriously, if your lover is that hot, it’s more than just two random bodies getting it on. There’s something special between you. I hope that in addition to the mind-blowing sex he’s giving you, he’s good to you, too.
>>>>>> If you call me Fox, I *will* hurt you, though.
>>> Promise?
Don’t test me on that one.
>>>>>> Of course, we never really established if that would be much of a deterrent for you, did we?
>>> No, and now the jig is up and you know it’s not. Gonna have to use something else. ;)
Okay, if you call me Fox, I *won’t* hurt you. ;-)
Seriously, I’ve always hated that name. I always hear it in either my father’s eternally-disapproving and disappointed voice or my mother’s annoyed, impatient one. Or my sister’s frightened one. I know it’s odd to always use someone’s last name, and I don’t want you to feel like it means I don’t feel…close to you.
Tell you what. I’ll make you a deal. When you trust me enough to share your real name, if you still want to call me Fox, you have my permission. Sometimes.
>>> Will A work for now?
Is that part of your real name? It makes a difference.
>>> Hell, do you even still want to talk to me? I don’t even know if I should send this email. I like you. I want to keep doing this. But I can’t deny that my feelings for you are more than just friendly.
>>> If it helps, we could just keep talking but I can promise not to flirt with you. Even though I really want to. If it’s too much for you, I can try to keep things safe and boring and uninteresting and we can talk about New England’s new line backer and how far we can spit. ;)
>>> I know I sound like I’m joking, but I’m really nervous, Mulder. I don’t wanna lose this. I hope you don’t either.
I don’t either. And I don’t want you to be someone you’re not. I considered trying that, too, to stay safe, but I decided it’s not worth it. If I can’t be the real me, and let you be the real you, there’s no point to us even talking anymore.
Because it’s this you I like. It’s this you I…want. It’s this you that’s become an important part of my life, A. I can’t say I’m not scared, but I don’t run away from danger. Just ask my poor partner.
>>>>>> That makes more sense than anything else I’ve heard anyone say on the subject. So, given that, do you think we should act on these intense, unexplainable feelings when we have them, AKA?
>>> It takes everything I have not to act on them, Mulder.
If you’re with this amazing, sex-God lover, it doesn’t sound like you have anything to lack, A.
>>> I think…that’s a dangerous question. I think the answer is somewhere between your body, your mind, and your heart. What are they telling you?
Oh, we’re talking about me, now? My head is screaming, “Jesus Christ, Mulder! Are you fucking nuts???” My body is just whining, “WANT!” As for my heart…I guess I haven’t really learned how to hear what it’s telling me. Seems like it’s really scared of getting hurt. Again.
>>> I’m 28. You happy?
A little defensive there, A? 28, huh? And you’re interested in an old man like me?
You have me at a great disadvantage. I assume you know what I look like. I have no idea what you look like, A. I’m not obsessive about looks…hell, just the fact that you’re a GUY proves that, since I’ve never been the LEAST bit attracted to a man before…but I can’t help but be curious. It would be nice to have a mental image to go along with your words.
What do you look like, A?
>>> Good night again.
>>> Fox.
>>> ;)
I can see I have some work to do on your problem with authority.
~Mulder
Oh God.
I lean my face into my hands and just try to breathe.
How is this possible? Mulder…attracted to ME.
Not to all of me. Just AKA. Am I okay with that?
Fuck. YES.
It doesn’t take me long to decide that whatever Mulder has to give, I’ll take it. Gladly. I shove my chair back roughly, get up, and start pacing.
He wants me.
Kind of.
A crooked grin accompanies my short burst of laughter. I run a hand through my hair. Something so impactful occurs to me that it stops all other thought.
He wants the me I’d like to be with him.
Jesus.
I can have this. Over the complicated web of circuitry and ones and zeros, phone lines, and modems or cable, whatever the fuck he’s got over there…I can have him like this.
“Mother fucker,” I say a second time, this time on that same, now slightly painful, crooked smile.
I practically stumble over the end of my couch to get back to the computer. I have no idea how I’m going to answer some of it. All I know is that I have to give him as much as I can. After what he’s given me. As I click on reply, I decide that concealing information isn’t lying. I won’t lie to him like this. Even if it means throwing it away…I’ll give him the truth if he demands it.
I sit down, crack my knuckles, and go.
I’ve never before known what it was like to feel a conflict between work and…home. But when I realized that this new assignment was going to take me out of town and keep me incommunicado for several days, I actually felt…torn.
I don’t want to be away from him. Even though I’m not actually with him. I know I’m really going to miss talking to him.
But this is a big one, and I’m also very excited about possibly getting another chance at finally having some proof in my hands. Some time away from him might be what I need to get some perspective and figure out just how he fits into my life. I wonder if he’ll miss me while I’m gone. Hopefully it will just be a few days, but there’s really no telling.
I sit down at the computer, preparing to get my last fix for a while. I know, too, that given the subject matter, this is bound to be a pretty monumental email. Again, putting some distance between us might be a good idea after all this intensity.
I click on his name, gasping a little as I see the subject line, then say softly, “Hi, A.”
From: AKA@hotmail.com
To: MFLuder@fastmail.fm
Subject: Hi, Honey. I’m home. ;)
I just finished reading everything you wrote. I’m probably still a little too stunned to type, but I’m not gonna let that stop me. I just wanted you to know, first off, how much your honesty means to me.
Thank you.
>>> If you don’t think I’d like him, you must not like him, either. Maybe the person you don’t think I’d like isn’t the real you, and this person I do…like…is.
>>> The question is, which ‘you’ makes you happy? Because it’s your choice.
God, I wanna believe that. You don’t know. For a long time, it’s felt like choice was a thing of the past, a past so far away it might as well be a different life.
Being like this…being with you like this… It makes me happy. I want more of this.
>>>>>> Haven’t reached the border guard yet?
>>> The bastard keeps moving. ;-)
LOL!!! Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve really laughed?
>>> Which is not to say I haven’t had some rather empty, unfulfilling sexual encounters that were barely about reciprocating sexual attention and more about us both just using the other one to satisfy ourselves. But that’s certainly not the preferred situation.
I guess I’ve never even really let myself have a preference.
>>> I like to know I’m pleasing my partner. It makes things a hell of a lot better for me. It’s funny. I like my lovers to be vocal, not to hold back, so I know that what I’m doing feels good to them. But I used to be a really quiet lover, myself. I guess I demand more than I’m willing to give, sometimes, in the way of vulnerability. I’m working on it.
I’ve never been too vocal, either. I’d never really given thought to if it was a vulnerability thing. I’d always thought of it as not giving too much away, which is probably the same thing. I don’t know. It doesn’t seem to be something I do on purpose anymore. I just hold my breath, shut my eyes, and come. If he’s good. Sometimes I don’t even give that much.
>>> It sounds as though what you’re talking about is actually angry sex, though. Am I right? Taking out your frustrations on someone through sex?
I guess so.
>>> That can be really good, too, as long as it’s not the only means you use to work things out. Angry sex is some of the best sex of all, as long as there is resolution afterward. Then you can have make-up sex. Which is also some of the best sex of all. ;-)
More on this further down… ;)
>>> What *is* your fantasy?
I suppose I walked into that, huh? Shit. All right.
Strictly sexually? An angry fuck up against the wall. Bodies colliding, mine submitting to a force greater than me. Curses that turn into moans of pleasure. And everything’s different. When he comes, I know we’ll never be the same after that.
In a larger sense? Transmutation. That’s my fantasy. Making wrong right. Making pain pleasure. Making rage…sex. I guess the ultimate is turning hate to love. But that’s far-fetched even for somebody who believes werewolves are out there fucking their brains out. We all have border guards, huh?
>>> No, I’m perfect. Didn’t you get the memo? ;-)
LOL! Took a sick day. ;)
>>> Sorry if I came off sounding like that. I am most definitely NOT perfect, and yes, I lose control and do things that I know are wrong. I’m human. Sometimes I want to hurt people, either because they’ve hurt me, or they’ve hurt others, or both. The rational me knows that isn’t going to solve anything, but the little, nasty me just wants to inflict some righteous pain…see somebody bleed a little.
I want you to know I understand that.
>>> It never really ends up changing anything, and it only feels better for a few sick moments, then I’m back to feeling bad.
I’m sorry.
>>> I’ve done plenty in my life that I’m not proud of. Sometimes it all seems to loom over me like some giant shit-heap, and at those times, it’s hard not to feel a measure of self-hatred. Especially when my choices get someone else hurt. Someone I care about.
I know the feeling. When you end up hurting somebody you care about is the worst. How do *you* deal with that?
>>> AKA, how happy are you where you are now?
How happy am I.
I’m not. I haven’t been for a really, really long time. I lost myself somewhere back there. I pretended I was somebody else one too many times, that now I don’t know who I am. I try to think back to when I was a kid. It doesn’t seem like me. The parts I can remember. But this doesn’t either. Well, talking to you does. More so than anything I’ve done in years.
But the world needs me to be a certain way. At least…that’s what I’ve believed. And now if I’m not that…it could get me killed.
Unless there really is some way out. I don’t see it, but talking to you has made me want to find a way. If there is one.
The difference between the two… Night and day is pretty cliched isn’t it? How ‘bout…death row in Alcatraz and life on Maui, drinking Corona with fresh limes, and feeling the sea breeze turn cool against your sun-drenched skin at nightfall.
Yeah, Mulder. I wanna get out.
How can you help? I don’t have a fucking clue.
But thanks for offering.
This. This helps. Just having this. I can’t tell you how much.
>>> I’m blushing.
Bet it’s a good look on you. ;)
>>> You’re not really the shy type, are you?
Can’t really afford to be. I take chances. It’s what I do. I can’t seem to stop myself, even when I think I really should.
>>> Seriously. I can’t tell you how much I admire the courage it must have taken, to admit something like that. I don’t have that kind of courage.
You have more courage than I could ever possess, Mulder.
>>> I’m very attracted to you, too.
To me? You don’t even know what I look like, what my name is. How can you say that? Not that I… God, it’s… I’m just trying to comprehend how my life could suddenly go so fucking RIGHT. Jesus. It’s almost incomprehensible. I… Shit.
I want this so bad I can taste it.
So…where does this leave us? I mean…you’re straight. What does flirting with a gay guy on-line…feel like? And…where do you draw the line?
Not that I’m asking you to cyber or anything. Not that I’d be against that. ;) I’m just wondering…what this means.
>>>>>> Maybe the person I’ve had friction with is just a full-blown sex God but just doesn’t know it. Whatever it’s been. I like friction. I like it a lot.
>>> Jesus. Who the hell is this guy? I’m jealous. ;-)
>>> Seriously, if your lover is that hot, it’s more than just two random bodies getting it on. There’s something special between you. I hope that in addition to the mind-blowing sex he’s giving you, he’s good to you, too.
I think you’ve got the wrong impression, Mulder, and I’m sorry. There’s nobody giving me mind-blowing sex. I never said I was having sex with him, or that he was my lover. We just have…friction. Not all of it good. We’re volatile. We fight. He NEVER touches me like a lover. But it doesn’t matter. What he’s got to give, I want.
That said, you have no reason to be jealous. You need to know that. All right? Just trust me.
>>> Seriously, I’ve always hated that name. I always hear it in either my father’s eternally-disapproving and disappointed voice or my mother’s annoyed, impatient one. Or my sister’s frightened one. I know it’s odd to always use someone’s last name, and I don’t want you to feel like it means I don’t feel…close to you.
I’m glad you told me. I’m sorry it has those connotations for you. And I’m both happy and sad that you feel close to me. I feel close to you, too. I just wish I could give you more of me. I want to.
>>> Tell you what. I’ll make you a deal. When you trust me enough to share your real name, if you still want to call me Fox, you have my permission. Sometimes.
Wow. Thank you. Shit, you’re amazing, you know that, right?
>>>>>> Will A work for now?
>>> Is that part of your real name? It makes a difference.
Yes. It is.
>>> Because it’s this you I like. It’s this you I…want. It’s this you that’s become an important part of my life, A. I can’t say I’m not scared, but I don’t run away from danger. Just ask my poor partner.
Jesus, you blow my mind. Is it revealing too much to tell you that I reread “this you I…want” and “important part of my life” about ten times? I feel like a fucking virgin. LOL!!!
>>> If you’re with this amazing, sex-God lover, it doesn’t sound like you have anything to lack, A.
Now you know I’m not. And it feels like I lack for a lot less knowing you like this.
>>> Oh, we’re talking about me, now? My head is screaming, “Jesus Christ, Mulder! Are you fucking nuts???” My body is just whining, “WANT!” As for my heart…I guess I haven’t really learned how to hear what it’s telling me. Seems like it’s really scared of getting hurt. Again.
I don’t want to hurt you, Mulder.
Selfishly, I’m tending toward thinking you should listen to your body. ;) LOL!
Mine’s telling me the same thing.
>>>>>> I’m 28. You happy?
>>> A little defensive there, A?
You could say I’m accustomed to taking shit over it, yeah. ;)
>>> 28, huh? And you’re interested in an old man like me?
Let’s just say I think you’re aging well and leave it at that for now.
>>> You have me at a great disadvantage. I assume you know what I look like.
Uh, yeah.
>>> What do you look like, A?
All right. You certainly deserve it.
I have dark hair and green eyes. I’m pretty tall. Not sure what else to tell you. I guess I could say that I don’t often get told I’m ruggedly handsome. Unfortunately, I get…(sigh)…Pretty Boy quite a lot.
I think that’s all I wanna say on that.
>>> I can see I have some work to do on your problem with authority.
I look forward to it. But I won’t call you the ‘F’ word again. Okay, baby?
;)
Affectionately…
A.
I let out a gasping laugh, re-reading the last sentence of his email. He called me ‘baby.’ Was that just to get a…rise out of me? Or is that something he really wants to do, use pet names like that? I’ve never done that with anyone, really. Well, not reciprocally.
I’m going off on a tangent here, though. Focusing in on the last line, when the whole email has me breathless and hot all over.
Jesus, a 28-year-old, pretty, hard boy. Who evidently likes it more than a little rough.
I find I really don’t know how I feel about that.
Rough isn’t what I want to be with him. Given what he’s said, he might be pretty disappointed with me, really. If we were ever to actually get together…physically, that is.
God. I actually plan to have sex with this guy. I just realized that. Yeah, he’s being all cagey and subversive about his identity, but in my head I’ve already decided that eventually, I want to do a lot more than just meet and talk to this guy.
I want to touch him. I want him to touch me.
I wonder…if I let on about that…if it would help him with his trust issues. I smile lazily and click on reply.
To: AKA@hotmail.com
From: MFLuder@fastmail.fm
Subject: RE: Hi, Honey. I’m home. ;)
>>> I just finished reading everything you wrote. I’m probably still a little too stunned to type, but I’m not gonna let that stop me. I just wanted you to know, first off, how much your honesty means to me.
>>> Thank you.
You’re welcome. Honesty is incredibly important to me. You may as well know that up-front.
>>> Being like this…being with you like this… It makes me happy. I want more of this.
I want more of this, too. I honestly don’t believe choice is ever really a thing of the past, although sometimes our choices are more limited than others. But there’s always a way out. Maybe if you tell me more about what you’re dealing with, I can help you find it.
>>> LOL!!! Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve really laughed?
Wish I could hear it. I look forward to hearing it.
>>> I guess I’ve never even really let myself have a preference.
It makes me sad to read that. There’s more out there than just quick, selfish fucks, A.
>>> I’ve never been too vocal, either. I’d never really given thought to if it was a vulnerability thing. I’d always thought of it as not giving too much away, which is probably the same thing. I don’t know. It doesn’t seem to be something I do on purpose anymore. I just hold my breath, shut my eyes, and come. If he’s good. Sometimes I don’t even give that much.
Give??? You don’t GET that much. God, A. Who the hell are you having sex with? It makes me want to punch them in the mouth, just reading that.
>>>>>> What *is* your fantasy?
>>> I suppose I walked into that, huh? Shit. All right.
>>> Strictly sexually? An angry fuck up against the wall. Bodies colliding, mine submitting to a force greater than me. Curses that turn into moans of pleasure. And everything’s different. When he comes, I know we’ll never be the same after that.
I can’t help but ask, who’s ‘he’? Why does anger have to be part of you getting together with someone? Does it? Always?
>>> In a larger sense? Transmutation. That’s my fantasy. Making wrong right. Making pain pleasure. Making rage…sex. I guess the ultimate is turning hate to love. But that’s far-fetched even for somebody who believes werewolves are out there fucking their brains out. We all have border guards, huh?
Transmutation is awesome, but why do you have to start with hate to get to love? I can’t help but think that you’re talking about someone specific here. I don’t want you to take this the wrong way, but if you’re this obsessed with this guy, maybe you need to deal with that before trying to go any further with…me.
>>>>>> Sorry if I came off sounding like that. I am most definitely NOT perfect, and yes, I lose control and do things that I know are wrong. I’m human. Sometimes I want to hurt people, either because they’ve hurt me, or they’ve hurt others, or both. The rational me knows that isn’t going to solve anything, but the little, nasty me just wants to inflict some righteous pain…see somebody bleed a little.
>>> I want you to know I understand that.
I believe you do. Maybe too well. I guess I worry that you let people hurt you, A. I don’t like thinking about you letting others hurt you.
>>> I know the feeling. When you end up hurting somebody you care about is the worst. How do *you* deal with that?
I have to remind myself that other people make their choices, too. Sometimes, yeah, it’s all my fault and I have to just humbly do my best to make things better, whatever that takes. And make sure that I never do it again. I have a really hard time saying, “I’m sorry,” though, I have to admit. Usually, I’ll chicken out and just try to use actions rather than words, to make it up to them.
Sometimes, with some choices, there’s no way to really make things better, so all I can do is give what I can to the person to pay back what I owe. Sometimes things are just really fucking hard, and all I can do is be as genuine as possible in letting the other person know I’m sorry. Whatever they ask of me in return, I give, if it’s within my power.
This is really depressing, isn’t it?
>>> How happy am I.
>>> I’m not. I haven’t been for a really, really long time. I lost myself somewhere back there. I pretended I was somebody else one too many times, that now I don’t know who I am. I try to think back to when I was a kid. It doesn’t seem like me. The parts I can remember. But this doesn’t either. Well, talking to you does. More so than anything I’ve done in years.
I’m glad to hear that, and sorry that you’re not happy. I know that I’m happier since ‘meeting’ you.
>>> But the world needs me to be a certain way. At least…that’s what I’ve believed. And now if I’m not that…it could get me killed.
>>> Unless there really is some way out. I don’t see it, but talking to you has made me want to find a way. If there is one.
I really think you should tell me your situation. I’ll do whatever I can to help you get out. I promise you can trust me.
>>> Yeah, Mulder. I wanna get out.
>>> How can you help? I don’t have a fucking clue.
Tell me what’s going on. We’ll figure it out together.
>>> You have more courage than I could ever possess, Mulder.
I seriously doubt that.
>>>>>> I’m very attracted to you, too.
>>> To me? You don’t even know what I look like, what my name is. How can you say that?
Honestly, I don’t know. But there it is. I just feel something really…strong for you, that translates to me not only wanting to know you, talk to you, see you, but wanting to…touch you. Be touched by you. Even though you’re a guy, and I’m het. I have no idea what’s going on, here, but that’s the way it is.
>>> So…where does this leave us? I mean…you’re straight. What does flirting with a gay guy on-line…feel like?
Can you see my smile? Really fucking good, A. Really fucking good.
>>> And…where do you draw the line?
So far, you’re the one drawing lines, not me.
>>> Not that I’m asking you to cyber or anything. Not that I’d be against that. ;) I’m just wondering…what this means.
Give me a little bit of your trust, and let’s find out together.
>>> I think you’ve got the wrong impression, Mulder, and I’m sorry. There’s nobody giving me mind-blowing sex. I never said I was having sex with him, or that he was my lover. We just have…friction. Not all of it good. We’re volatile. We fight. He NEVER touches me like a lover. But it doesn’t matter. What he’s got to give, I want.
That really worries me, A. And not just because I don’t like to think of you getting hurt. Also because I don’t think I can really compete with that. You say, “What he’s got to give, I want.” But that’s not what *I* have to give, A. That’s not what I have in mind at all. I can’t give you what he gives you. Are you sure you *want* what I have to give you?
>>> That said, you have no reason to be jealous. You need to know that. All right? Just trust me.
I have to say, A, that so far I’m not convinced.
>>> And I’m both happy and sad that you feel close to me. I feel close to you, too. I just wish I could give you more of me. I want to.
So give me a try, A.
>>>>>> Tell you what. I’ll make you a deal. When you trust me enough to share your real name, if you still want to call me Fox, you have my permission. Sometimes.
>>> Wow. Thank you. Shit, you’re amazing, you know that, right?
I want you to know I’m serious.
>>>>>>>>> Will A work for now?
>>>>>> Is that part of your real name? It makes a difference.
>>> Yes. It is.
Thanks, A. It’s small, but it’s a start.
>>> Jesus, you blow my mind. Is it revealing too much to tell you that I reread “this you I…want” and “important part of my life” about ten times? I feel like a fucking virgin. LOL!!!
I don’t think that anything that is the truth is revealing too much. I admire that in you. It’s one of the things I find so damned attractive.
>>>>>> If you’re with this amazing, sex-God lover, it doesn’t sound like you have anything to lack, A.
>>> Now you know I’m not. And it feels like I lack for a lot less knowing you like this.
I still have my reservations about this one. Are you saying that you want us both? I’m not sure how I feel about that, A.
>>> I don’t want to hurt you, Mulder.
>>> Selfishly, I’m tending toward thinking you should listen to your body. ;) LOL!
I wasn’t talking about you when I was talking about people who seem like emotional and physical suicide, A. I’ve had some pretty fucked-up romantic experiences myself, as a result of listening to my body over my mind. My heart’s never really gotten into the act.
Until now.
And I want you know, that’s what I’m listening to, doing this with you. I want to make sure you understand that. This isn’t a body thing. Although my body’s getting into the act now, too. ;-)
>>>>>>>>> I’m 28. You happy?
>>>>>> A little defensive there, A?
>>> You could say I’m accustomed to taking shit over it, yeah. ;)
Did you know they call me Spooky sometimes? I know what it’s like to take shit. I’m not gonna give you shit over it. I think it’s hot. Although I still don’t understand why you’re not with some other hot young guy.
>>>>>> 28, huh? And you’re interested in an old man like me?
>>> Let’s just say I think you’re aging well and leave it at that for now.
Well, I still have my hair, anyway. And most of my teeth. :-D
>>> I have dark hair and green eyes. I’m pretty tall. Not sure what else to tell you. I guess I could say that I don’t often get told I’m ruggedly handsome. Unfortunately, I get…(sigh)…Pretty Boy quite a lot.
>>> I think that’s all I wanna say on that.
Oh yeah? Pretty Boy? Well, I’d think that if I was going to be attracted to a guy, I’d probably pick a pretty one. ;-) Thanks for the image, A. It uh…helps. Can’t wait to…flesh it out. ;-)
>>>>>> I can see I have some work to do on your problem with authority.
>>> I look forward to it. But I won’t call you the ‘F’ word again. Okay, baby?
No one’s ever called me baby before. And lived to tell about it. But maybe if I knew what it sounded like in your voice…
I’ll quit pushing.
A, I need to let you know about something. I’m going out of town for work. I’m not sure when I’ll be back, but I’m hoping it won’t be more than a few days. I won’t be able to be in communication with you, so I’m sorry but I probably won’t even see this reply unless it hits my email before morning.
I want you to know…I’m going to miss talking to you. But maybe this time will give you the space you need to decide what you want to do next. Because I know what I want to happen next. And it’s not limited to cybering.
Wish me luck, A. This could be a really big case for me. I look forward to reading your reply when I get back.
~Mulder
Scully and I tried to get into the compound earlier today, but met with resistance. Armed resistance. About six-foot-four, dressed in black. Two of them. So now she’s back at the motel and I’m skulking around the perimeter of the building, trying to see in the window.
My body goes hot and cold as I feel the chilled muzzle of an automatic weapon stab gently at the back of my neck.
“Stand up! Hands behind your head!”
The muzzle jabs me as I do as told, slowly straightening up. My gun is wrestled from its holster and I’m prodded, not-gently, with another jab of the barrel. I sigh deeply, mind racing as I try to figure a way out of this one. I guess I should feel damned lucky they didn’t just shoot first and forget all about the asking-questions-later part. I try to turn slightly to check out just who it is that has me, but at the slightest turn of my head, I get another sharp jab of the gun into my lower back, so I just stagger forward. I know there are at least two. They start herding me toward the main building.
Just where I wanted to go, but under quite different circumstances. My eyes dart around, scouting the area for some chance at escape. I spot a tree about ten yards away. Maybe I could make a run for it…
As I look out of the corner of my eye at the tree, gauging the distance and deciding whether to take my chance or not, a dark shape steps out from behind it. Great, another one. Hope dies, and I start to look away, searching out some other last-minute option. Then my eyes go back, my head nearly turning and earning me another jab in the back. Something about that dark shape…as I study it, walking slowly past, the shadowy figure resolves itself into…shit, it’s Alex Krycek.
Oh wonderful, so he’s in on this whole mess, too. I should have known. I narrow my eyes as he raises a gun, pointing it directly at me. I’m pretty well covered, asshole, I think, then I jerk, mouth dropping open, as he fires.
Two silenced reports in quick succession, and my body jolts with each one. Then I realize that neither bullet impacted me and…my two assailants are crumpled on the ground on either side of me. I lower shaking hands, adrenaline making me light-headed, and look down at their bodies in shock. Then I look up to see Krycek tuck his weapon back into his pants as he turns and takes off running.
Instinct has me diving for one of the goons, wresting a semi-automatic off him then taking off from a crouch into a dead run after Krycek.
“Dammit! Wait!” I call, completely confused and frustrated. He’s running full-out, but my legs are longer and my stride more practiced, and, honestly, he runs like a girl. I don’t yell any more as I conserve my breath, putting every bit of extra adrenaline into catching up with him.
As I do, I lunge forward, tackling him, and we both fall to the ground with simultaneous loud grunts. I quickly grab his shoulder, wrestling his body over face-up, sticking my gun into his face as I lock my thighs around his hips, straddling him.
It’s dark, but there’s enough light to see that his eyes are wide, his mouth open and gasping.
“Don’t move, Krycek!” I spit, still catching my own breath. He continues struggling, trying to buck me off, but I press in hard, putting the nose of the gun against his sweaty forehead. “I said don’t move!” I snarl, bending in close.
He gulps for air and mostly stills, only making a token attempt to dislodge me now, sobered by the gun at his head.
“What the fuck was that?” I ask him, frowning deeply, keeping my voice to a rough hiss. I stare down into his eyes, just about six inches below mine.
“Mulder,” he gasps. “There’ll be more. You don’t have time-”
I cut him off, shoving the gunpoint into his pale skin. “You’re not going anywhere until you tell me what the hell is going on here, Krycek! Are you in with these people? Do you know what’s going on here?”
His eyes squeeze shut, his mouth a tight line, and I jerk on top of him, shoving him harder into the dirt.
He groans a little, gasping for air.
I sigh in frustration, letting show some of my fear that his reluctance to talk is going to get us both killed. “Just tell me what this is about.”
His lashes flutter, then his eyes blink open and he stares up at me, desperate, intense. He licks his lips, and his voice comes out a harsh whisper.
“Friction…”
My mouth drops open, my eyes going round. Realization hits me like a bucket…no, an entire bathtub of ice water being dumped over my head.
“A…K…” I choke out, body paralyzed.
Then there’s a blur of black and a sharp pain lances through my gun arm as he breaks my hold, shoving me off into the dirt, rolling away from me and taking off running into the dark.
For a moment I lie there, arm throbbing, in the dirt, mouth gaping, dust coating my throat as I gasp it in. Then I hear shouts, and survival instinct kicks in, forcing me to my feet and into another dead run, this time out of the compound and away from the area. I run until I can’t run any more, seeing no sign of either Krycek or the men who were most certainly sent out to see what happened to the other two sentries.
As I gasp and wheeze oxygen into my overtaxed lungs, my brain just keeps going over the same thing over and over, my needle most definitely stuck in its groove.
AK…Alex Krycek…AK…Alex Krycek…AK…Alex Krycek.
I try to recall every one of his emails to me on the long, exhausting walk back to my concealed car.
I go back to the motel, waking Scully at 5am to tell her that I’m no longer interested in pursuing the case and ready to drive back to DC. She frowns sleepily, but I know she’s relieved at not having to chase after this particular wild goose, and an hour later we’re on the road.
When I finally get home, I don’t even bother to shower away the sweat-caked dirt, just going directly to my computer and calling up my email. No reply. I print off every correspondence between AKA and me. As soon as my printer spits out a page, I’m poring over it carefully to see what I just know is there, what I missed, somehow, the clues that should have told me who I was dealing with here.
And I’m also searching for signs of manipulation, obfuscation, or outright lies. Motivation for why he would do something like this. Hurt me this way. Use me this way. What’s he trying to get from me, tricking me into falling for him over some goddamned email list? How could that possibly serve any kind of agenda for him, other than giving him perfect ammunition to humiliate me and hurt me on an even more personal level than he ever has before?
Jesus, has he no life? Is this how he gets his kicks? Making a complete ass out of me?
I sink down to the floor, pages fallen around me, as it hits me. There is no AKA. This unbelievable friendship-turned-chemistry-turned-whatever…was all just a lie. I’m back to not having anything again. Back to not having AKA in my life.
God, it hurts. It fucking hurts. I crinkle up one of the pages in my hand, flinging it to the side as the grief hits, gritting my teeth and threatening to spill over into enraged tears.
You took him away from me! I want to yell. You took away the best thing that’s happened to me in…maybe forever, you son of a bitch! I silently curse him, surrounded in the fallen leaves of our emails.
As my body tires, the rage starts to subside, and my rational mind starts asking me questions that the pain was keeping at bay.
What was he doing there? Why did he shoot those two thugs, possibly saving my life?
Why did he break his own cover, by gasping out that one damning word to me before hitting me for the first time ever in his life and running away?
Why did he do this in the first place? What could he have to gain? Surely he has more important things to do with his time than play tricks with my mind, making me think he’s got some kind of crush on me.
Is it all bullshit? Or is some of it real? Is it really just lies, hidden within truths, as Deep Throat taught me to be wary of?
Or…
I don’t let myself even think it. It hurts too much. But what if… My heart squeezes, my gut clenching with pure terror as I allow myself one tiny shadow of hope amongst all the black suspicions vying for attention within.
I slowly get to my feet and sit down at my computer once more. I call up my email with shaking fingers and see that there is still no reply to the last email I sent him.
I hit Compose and fill in his email address with sweating, trembing fingers.
To: AKA@hotmail.com
From: MFLuder@fastmail.fm
Subject: The man behind the mask.
Hey Alex,
What, no reply? You wound me.
Tomorrow, Thursday, 1AM at the DC Interchange parking garage, section 4-b. If you’re not too much of a coward to play your games offline as well as on, that is.
Fox Mulder
I hit send and get up from my computer to finally go wash the grime off my body.
It’s not easy running with a hard-on.
And as much as it kinda hurts, I try to focus on the little pain. It’s better than thinking about what I just did.
What did I just do?
I came out.
I’d laugh if I weren’t afraid it was the stupidest mistake of my life.
It’s why I ran. Not because I was afraid of him hitting me again. It’s well established that I have no problem with that, after all. What scared the ever loving SHIT out of me wasn’t even experiencing that physical contact with him again, now with everything we’ve said to each other between us. Well, for me anyway. It wasn’t him manhandling me, the feel of his fingers tightening on my arm possessively, his breath in my face.
No, it was his eyes. Those eyes looking into mine…seeing me.
Knowing me.
The fear alone had driven my cock up to erect as I’d watched the dust settle around the two men I’d dropped and watched him focus in on me like a heat-seeking missile.
I think I hissed, “Fuck,” before I turned and ran like an illegal alien for the border, just trying to reach my car without having to look into those deep, inquisitive, eerily perceptive, hazel eyes.
No such luck. Not only did I have the handicap of my proudly jutting cock, but Mulder’s a much more accomplished runner. He caught me, and tumbled me, and rolled me in the dirt like a horny teenager, and the fear that must’ve shone in my eyes when he turned me over beneath him…
I’m sitting in my car now, after having taken a serpentine route back to my apartment. I parked in an unusual spot in the dingy underground garage. And now I sit. Knowing my fate is probably sealed, but unwilling to look the truth of the matter in the face.
I sit and remember how it felt to have him sitting on me, asking me things in that voice I’ve been hearing in my head when I read his emails to me. And looking down at me. Eyes pursuing mine even when the pleasure-pain of him on top of me was so great they almost rolled back in my head.
And he’d pushed me. Both with his hips and his gun and his words. And his imploring, excited, frustrated look. Even in the darkness I could make out the little gold flecks in the chameleon irises.
I cracked wide open, wanting him to know so badly in that moment. Wanting him to know and to keep me anyway. Wanting to let it all out, let him see, and have him like that, on top of me and panting…knowing.
So I said it. And watched his face transform with understanding.
God, it was beautiful. Terrifying. When his eyebrows had lowered just a fraction and he’d fairly whispered my assumed name, I knew what being a coward meant. Because I just couldn’t stay there one more moment to see his look of shocked comprehension turn to the sickening glower of hate.
I did something I’ve never done before. I hit him, shoved him off my yearning body, and ran for my life.
Now here I am. Afraid to go up there and log the fuck on. I’m not quite sure if I’m afraid I won’t have an email from him or I will. Begrudgingly, and with a sick feeling in my stomach, I push open the car door and go inside.
Once I’m standing, walking, moving forward again, I find I’m almost over-eager to get in there and see it, whatever it is. I walk briskly, and once inside, bolt the door and secure the alarm with flying fingers. I even almost trip over the couch again in an effort to get to my laptop.
But once I sit in that chair… I don’t know, it’s like being at the dentist’s office. You know you have to do it, and you’re not sure if you want the wait to last forever, the nurse forever peeking out and calling someone else’s name, or if you want to pull your Glock and ram it up against her temple so that you can be next and just get the horror done with as quickly as possible.
I sigh.
I Glock the nurse and boot up.
My mail loads. I hold my breath.
And there he is.
He *did* write to me. Why does that give me hope? Why should that mean anything? But the little unearthly flutters in my chest don’t eradicate the sinking sensation in my gut.
I open it.
He wants a reply. He wants a meeting. To kill me?
He called me Alex.
I take a shaky breath.
He thinks it’s a game. God, all of what I’ve shared with him about how I feel…all a lie. But if he believes that…why not just not say anything? And why the meeting?
Unless he *does* want to kill me.
Or if he doesn’t quite believe it’s all a lie.
Shit, which is it?
I stare at the screen and belatedly remember to swallow.
There’s really only one thing to do either way.
If Mulder wants a reply, he’ll get one.
After my shower, I dress in my sweats and t-shirt and crash on the couch, trying to catch up on all the sleep I haven’t gotten in the past 48 hours.
But I can’t sleep. I roll over and stare at the black, silent screen of my shut-down computer. I shut it down, rather than just leaving it on, flying saucer zipping across the screen. Somehow, leaving it on was like anxiously waiting for a reply. Which I’m trying not to do. Desperately. I roll back over onto my back and stare at the ceiling. It’s early evening. Most people aren’t asleep yet.
I wonder if he is. I wonder if he’s checked his email.
I wonder if he’s replied.
All I expect is a curt agreement to meet me. I’m sure he’s going to just keep me guessing until the last minute…maybe beyond that. Maybe I’ll just spend the rest of my life guessing…maybe he won’t reply or show up at all, and I’ll just forever wonder what the fuck all this was about.
I’m not going to turn that thing on. I’m not. I need to get some sleep. I haven’t slept in over two days, now. I stayed up all night after our…encounter, then spent all day driving home. Then spent an hour or so freaking out. And now I’ve spent two hours showering, changing, and staring at the ceiling, the walls, the dead television, and the dead computer.
Time enough for him to get home and read his email? If he even has any intention to follow through in any way on this, whether to laugh in my face, or whether to…carry it forward.
I close my eyes and replay our encounter at the compound in my mind.
Why was he there?
He knew I was going out of town. And really, how hard would it be for someone like Alex Krycek to find out exactly where I was going, then follow me there, for whatever reason?
So what was his reason? Was he involved in that mess? Was he trying to keep me from finding that out?
Then why kill the two thugs who had me? Surely, if he was a part of that operation, killing a couple of his partners wouldn’t be the best way to ingratiate himself with them.
He probably saved my life.
So why did he run, after?
Duh, Mulder. Why does he always run when he sees you?
Actually…he doesn’t. He doesn't even try to get away.
More memories to replay. The first time I saw him after our partnership. At my apartment, right after my father’s murder. I beat the shit out of him. Nearly shot him. He did try to get away, that time. He even tried to fight back…a little. I’m not sure what he did after that, because Scully shot me. She told me he ran.
Then the next time I saw him was in Hong Kong. He ran, yeah, but only after throwing his partner-in-crime to the wolves and locking her on the other side of the door from me. He could have thrown me to those same wolves. But he didn’t. And then, and only then, he ran.
I absolutely could not believe my luck when I ran into him at the huge, crowded Hong Kong airport. What are the chances?
Coincidence? Most of the time, I say I don’t believe in coincidence.
In any event, he was there. And I attacked him. Beat him up a little, threatened his life, then sent him into the bathroom to clean the blood off his face.
He could have run. I’ve thought about that since. He could have tried, and I wouldn’t have been able to do much more than chase him down. He’d have had a damned good chance of getting away, if he’d tried.
But he didn’t. And when he came out of that bathroom, he certainly didn’t.
I’m a moron that I didn’t notice. Didn’t at least suspect. I mean, my God, what was I in Hong Kong investigating, for Christ’s sake? But I just assumed he was being surly, and we rode back to DC in strange silence.
Then he disappeared. But not because he ran. Because someone ran us off the road. Next thing I figure out is that Krycek is IN that silo, somehow, with the very secret I’m looking for. But I can’t get to him. So close…and then denied.
That was the last time I’d seen him. Until last night at the compound. Why in the hell would he have any reason to stick around, even after dropping the men who were holding me?
He ran because he expected me to hurt him again.
What really sucks is that what I told AKA in that email is true. Hurting him doesn’t make things any better. I want accountability. I want him to just…stop. Stop running away. Stop lying. Stop hurting me.
So why…why in the HELL did he make that confession?
Any answer I come up with for that just scares me more with its hopeful possibilities. And I roll over on the couch and stare at the blank computer screen some more.
I wake up still turned toward it, pale dawn cutting through the slats in my blinds. I blink it out of my eyes and swing my legs over the edge, sitting up. I rake my hands through my hair, yawning hugely. I get up and head toward the kitchen, trying not to admit to myself that I’m just trying to prove that I’m not dangerously anxious to check my email.
I’m proud of myself when I actually get the coffeemaker percolating before I head back out to the living room. The coffee’s not done yet, but I made it at least fifteen minutes more, after all.
Is his email in there, just waiting for me?
The computer seems like some possibly pregnant beast, more alive somehow than usual. I stand in the middle of the room just looking at it, narrowing my eyes threateningly, as if I can will it to tell me what I want to hear through intimidation.
What *do* I want to hear? I bite down on the inside corner of my bottom lip and head over, lowering myself in the chair, coffee forgotten.
I boot up the machine, then hold my breath a little as I bring up my email. It stops completely, choking me, when I see his new message to me. I swallow hard, looking at the subject line and blinking, then take a shaky breath and open the email.
To: MFLuder@fastmail.fm
From: AKA@hotmail.com
Subject: Healing the Wounds
>>> Hey Alex,
Hey Mulder.
God, I can hear his voice.
>>> What, no reply? You wound me.
I’m sorry. I had somewhere I had to be.
I want to give you a reply now.
>>> Tomorrow, Thursday, 1AM at the DC Interchange parking garage, section 4-b. If you’re not too much of a coward to play your games offline as well as on, that is.
I’ll meet you. But it’s so you’ll understand that it’s not a game.
I can feel my heart speed up, pounding in my throat. He’s gonna be there. I’m gonna see him tonight.
This first… You deserve it.
His tone…so different than I expected. So serious, so intent. So…genuine.
I don’t let myself hope for too much, or at least that's what I try to tell my thudding heart as it threatens to beat its way out of the cage of my ribs.
>>> Honesty is incredibly important to me. You may as well know that up-front.
I know it is. And I’m sorry I’ve not been so with you in the past. I want to make up for that. I’m going to be as honest as I possibly can be now. Even when it’s hard.
God, is he? Is he really? Why are my eyes already tearing up? Jesus, I really have to become less attached to the outcome, here. Promise me honesty and I’m all yours? Get your shit together, Mulder.
>>> I want more of this, too.
Even if everything’s changed now…thank you for that.
The words blur together now. Because I remember what I was feeling when I wrote that, and just having that kind of hope made my life better, even if I didn’t know what was in store for me.
But now I feel it’s exactly that hope that will destroy me.
No, I can’t give him that over me. I can’t care that much about whether this is real or not. I have to approach this with distance. Just detached curiosity, that’s all.
I don’t let a single tear fall, blinking them back and hardening my expression.
>>> I honestly don’t believe choice is ever really a thing of the past, although sometimes our choices are more limited than others. But there’s always a way out. Maybe if you tell me more about what you’re dealing with, I can help you find it.
I hope that remains your belief. I know your beliefs are strong, so I don’t doubt it probably does. That said, I think you know what I’m dealing with to a certain extent. And I don’t expect you to help me, knowing who I am. But I feel compelled to ask if you think the limitations are…terminal. I guess it would help if you knew more.
God. God. He doesn’t expect me to help him, but he still wants me to tell him if I think he has a chance in hell of getting out.
Jesus, why does that hurt so much?
Continued below…
>>>>>> LOL!!! Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve really laughed?
>>> Wish I could hear it. I look forward to hearing it.
I want that, too. If somehow, some way you’d still…want this with me…maybe someday that could happen. That’d really be something, wouldn’t it?
Something I can’t yet let myself hope for. I just need to keep reminding myself of that.
>>> There’s more out there than just quick, selfish fucks, A.
Not for me, I don’t think. Not the way I have to live. I wish things were different between us, Mulder. You make me want things I never thought I could have before. I wish the only me you knew was AKA. I want to know how you make love. You were planning to make love to him…weren’t you? You don’t have to answer. It’s probably better if you don’t. That way I can just keep that with me. If you can, I want you to keep AKA with you. There’s nothing he wants more than to be with you.
Why? Why would he say those things unless one of two things were true? That A) he wants to rip my heart out as completely as possible or B) it’s the truth.
My chest feels tight and my gut clenches as I squint my eyes, warding off another attack of blurred vision.
Don’t do this to me, Krycek. Do you know how much this hurts?
Maybe you do.
>>> Who the hell are you having sex with? It makes me want to punch them in the mouth, just reading that.
LOL! I’m sorry, Mulder. But it’s funny, don’t you think? You wanna punch yourself in the mouth. Of course, we’re not lovers, so it’s not the same. I just wanted you to know. That made me smile.
I’m still too sad to share the smile,but it hovers. I wanted to hurt someone for hurting him. God, when will I get it through my head that hurting anyone for any reason just ends up hurting me?
I’m so fucking tired of the hurt.
>>>>>>>>> What *is* your fantasy?
>>>>>> An angry fuck up against the wall. Bodies colliding, mine submitting to a force greater than me. Curses that turn into moans of pleasure. And everything’s different. When he comes, I know we’ll never be the same after that.
>>> I can’t help but ask, who’s ‘he’?
God, YOU. You, you, always you, Mulder.
Jesus, I’m gasping. Hard for his fantasy. Harder when I imagine his voice saying those words. You, you, always you, Mulder. God.
>>> Why does anger have to be part of you getting together with someone?
Because you hate me.
I…don’t, though. I just…God, Alex, I just want to understand. Help me understand.
>>> Does it? Always?
I don’t know. I don’t think that part’s up to me. I’ll tell you that it sometimes feels good. Not just…in a sexual way. It feels good…karmically. Like I need it. And if you haven’t had enough, I want to give you all of it, so that you have what you need. But whenever you’re ready… Fuck, IF you’re ever ready for something else with me… I want that, too. I want it like I can never explain to you. So much.
Enough. Enough pain? Enough hurting him? God, I really don’t want anymore. I just want all the pain to stop.
I start feeling really, deeply scared by how much I don’t want to hurt him anymore.
Is he winning here? Is he ‘getting me’ with incredibly convincing bullshit?
That’s my deepest fear, but I can’t honestly say it’s my suspicion.
My suspicion, however, seems to scare me just as badly. Because what then? What now?
>>> Transmutation is awesome, but why do you have to start with hate to get to love? I can’t help but think that you’re talking about someone specific here. I don’t want you to take this the wrong way, but if you’re this obsessed with this guy, maybe you need to deal with that before trying to go any further with…me.
I think you’re probably right. But the question now isn’t what I should do. It’s what do you want. If anything.
What do I want? I‘m too scared right now to say, even to myself.
>>> I don’t like thinking about you letting others hurt you.
Then can we be exclusive? ;)
I can’t help it, I laugh out loud. A sad, gasping, desperate laugh that hovers on the verge of tears but isn’t allowed to go there. I breathe it back, still smiling a little, shaky smile, and continue reading.
Sorry. I don’t want you to think I don’t understand how serious this is. I do. It’s fucking killing me.
But I do want you to know that no one has to tell me what I deserve. You’ve had every right.
I feel ill. Is he right? Do I have the God-given right to hurt him because he has hurt me? And if I do, will that serve me in any way whatsoever?
And if it won’t, what will? What will make things better?
I’m starting to think I know…
>>>>>> When you end up hurting somebody you care about is the worst. How do *you* deal with that?
>>> I have to remind myself that other people make their choices, too. Sometimes, yeah, it’s all my fault and I have to just humbly do my best to make things better, whatever that takes.
What would it take to make things better with you, Mulder?
I gasp. Then I stare at the words, reading them over and over. Frowning. Because I don’t know. I honestly don’t know. Would what I’m thinking of…considering…really do it? Would anything?
Does it serve me to hold onto my pain? Does it serve me to take the risk of just…letting it go?
>>> And make sure that I never do it again.
I don’t ever want to hurt you again. I don’t ever want to be pitted against you and if I am, I’ll throw down. If you’d have me, I’d be on your side. It’s what I’ve always wanted. But now…especially now…when I see what it might be like… I think I’m ready to do what it takes. I don’t even know what’s possible, but… I’d try for you.
I grit my teeth against the tears once more. Because I know, in my heart, how good we could be together. That’s been one of the things that killed me most. Knowing what we could be, and having no hope that it would ever happen.
Would you really do that, Alex? Fuck, I don’t even know what it would take.
>>> Sometimes, with some choices, there’s no way to really make things better, so all I can do is give what I can to the person to pay back what I owe. Sometimes things are just really fucking hard, and all I can do is be as genuine as possible in letting the other person know I’m sorry. Whatever they ask of me in return, I give, if it’s within my power.
Take what you need, Mulder. If you can take it tomorrow night, please just do it. I want to pay back what I owe to you.
This is the hardest. Because when I wrote that, I felt, intimately, the pain of having wronged someone and not knowing any way to make things truly right. And I see that mirrored in his words. I *feel* that, so clearly. And now I’m the one with the power to make it all go away.
What would I need to take from him to feel better?
>>> This is really depressing, isn’t it?
Only in that I’d-rather-die-than-fuck-this-up-and-I-have-no-experience-not-fucking-up way.
Another laugh, sad and frightening in the silence of my apartment, at his bleak, dark humor and an earnestness that I don’t think a human can fake.
And what if he does fuck it up? Will I survive it?
>>> I know that I’m happier since ‘meeting’ you.
Do you still feel that? Any of it at all? I ache to read it now, I want it so much.
Oh Jesus. Do I? Can I really call what I’m feeling ‘happy’? I don’t think that’s the word I’d use, but maybe…hopeful.
>>> I really think you should tell me your situation. I’ll do whatever I can to help you get out. I promise you can trust me.
I know AKA can. I know you can’t promise me anything, Mulder. I don’t expect it. What I’m about to tell you could be used against me and if you decided to do that, I wouldn’t blame you. I know you’re a good man and the choices that you make, even if they hurt me, aren’t bad ones.
Where the hell did he ever get such faith in me, anyway?
So here it is.
I no longer work for the men you know to be the Syndicate, or the Consortium. Once I’d obtained the tape from Skinner, they set a car bomb to kill me. I got away. You found me in Hong Kong selling the secrets as I’m sure you remember well. I don’t remember a lot of it because I was infected by the black oil in the airport bathroom. (I do remember our encounter before that and I’ve cherished the memories both because they’re of you and because there are so few from that time.) And the next thing I knew I was retching up oil on top of a space ship in a missile silo, deep underground in North Dakota.
I was rescued by a militia group who I sold information to so that they’d trust and release me. They know me as Arntzen. I’ve been working freelance, giving them bits and pieces, some false, some innocuous, some true and dangerous just to hold my cover as an ally.
I’ve been planning to hand you a bust, so that you can know what they know and more than they know. I’m just waiting until I have enough evidence, mostly in the form of receipts, which I’ll still send to you if you want them.
But even though I work for myself now…Mulder, I’m just working not to get killed. The Consortium would love to get rid of me once and for all. The militia would execute me without blinking if I even looked at them funny. And all the while, I’ve been trying to work my way into a camp in Russia that I believe has a viable vaccine against the black oil.
Getting out seems like such an empty phrase when I really look at my life and see all the holes I’ve dug for myself.
But if I could help you… If I could give something to you and prove myself…if I could be who I so want to be and show you…
There’s nothing more that I want than to throw in with you, Mulder. Every way I can. I want to destroy the past. I want everything to change. I want to be on your side. I want you.
Another gasp. Because even though he’s said it before, every time he says it it hits me again, in the heart, and in the groin.
And in regards to his little…projects…I can’t help but be impressed, and more than a little excited. I wonder…
>>> Tell me what’s going on. We’ll figure it out together.
Jesus, that sounds so fucking good…
Yeah, it does, doesn’t it. Damn, Alex.
>>>>>> You have more courage than I could ever possess, Mulder.
>>> I seriously doubt that.
And now?
And now? Well, if this is all bullshit, he’s still pretty fucking courageous and really damned fucking good at lying. And if it isn’t…I’ve never really seen someone risk so much. Expecting so little.
>>> I just feel something really…strong for you, that translates to me not only wanting to know you, talk to you, see you, but wanting to…touch you. Be touched by you. Even though you’re a guy, and I’m het. I have no idea what’s going on here, but that’s the way it is.
I feel it, too. I want you, too. To touch you, Mulder. You touching me. I’ll aways want that. No matter what happens now.
The hell of it is, I feel the same way. I’ll never see him the same again, no matter what happens now. And we're bound to have run-ins, since we're fighting the same things.
So why not just…
>>>>>> What does flirting with a gay guy on-line…feel like?
>>> Can you see my smile? Really fucking good, A. Really fucking good.
Felt really fucking good to me, too. I’ll miss it. More than I want to say.
God, the ache in my heart at the thought of it. Of missing it. Not having it. His final-sounding language, already acting as if there is NO hope at all, as if it’s over. It *hurts* dammit.
And who has the power here?
>>>>>> And…where do you draw the line?
>>> So far, you’re the one drawing lines, not me.
Now you know why. I don’t want any lines either, Mulder. I never did. I wanted to protect you. I foolishly thought we could have what we had and you’d never have to know. It just felt too good to have that with you. I’m so sorry, Mulder. I was a selfish prick. I guess I kind of thought that some part of you would recognize what you hate in me and the line would be drawn for both of us. You’d just feel it…and you’d break it off and walk away. Eventually. But you didn’t. And I’m so glad. I’ll never regret it. What you gave me, even if you withdraw it in retrospect…I’ll hold it in my heart.
Withdraw it in retrospect?
That’s not how it feels. I meant it all. I just need to know if the person I meant it about really, truly does exist.
I have to find out.
>>>>>> I think you’ve got the wrong impression, Mulder, and I’m sorry. There’s nobody giving me mind-blowing sex. I never said I was having sex with him, or that he was my lover. We just have…friction. Not all of it good. We’re volatile. We fight. He NEVER touches me like a lover. But it doesn’t matter. What he’s got to give, I want.
>>> That really worries me, A. And not just because I don’t like to think of you getting hurt. Also because I don’t think I can really compete with that.
Oh, Mulder. : ) If you actually fucking me is much better than you interrogating me…I’m in a shitload of trouble. ;)
A genuine smile this time. And then a re-reading of what he said. Now knowing he’s talking about me. Me as a lover competing with me as a violent prick.
I find myself wanting to show him who’s gonna win that one.
>>> You say, “What he’s got to give, I want.” But that’s not what *I* have to give, A. That’s not what I have in mind at all. I can’t give you what he gives you. Are you sure you *want* what I have to give you?
Are you still sure it’d be different? What you want to give me?
Yes. As much as that scares me. Jesus.
>>>>>> That said, you have no reason to be jealous. You need to know that. All right? Just trust me.
>>> I have to say, A, that so far I’m not convinced.
I’ve never wanted to fucking kiss someone so much in my life.
Ohhh God. Until this moment, I hadn’t pictured a kiss. What it might be like. I’d pictured the sex, in a very vague way, but not his lips touching mine. What would it be like? Would he be rough? I tend to think he would, not because he’d want to be, but just because he knows no other way.
Ohhhhh shit, I think I wanna show him another way.
>>>>>> I’m both happy and sad that you feel close to me. I feel close to you, too. I just wish I could give you more of me. I want to.
>>> So give me a try, A.
Deal.
Gah. Ball’s in my court now, huh? Well, if I go down, you’re going with me, Alex.
>>> I want you to know I’m serious.
And it means so much to me, Mulder. I am, too. I always was. No games. Never again.
>>> I don’t think that anything that is the truth is revealing too much. I admire that in you. It’s one of the things I find so damned attractive.
I must be particularly stunning by now. ;)
Now I’m seriously laughing. Oh God, Alex. Your sense of humor just makes me wanna…show you.
>>>>>>>>> If you’re with this amazing, sex-God lover, it doesn’t sound like you have anything to lack, A.
>>>>>> Now you know I’m not. And it feels like I lack for a lot less knowing you like this.
>>> I still have my reservations about this one. Are you saying that you want us both? I’m not sure how I feel about that, A.
Yes, you sex-God. I want you both. I want all of you. I want whatever you’re willing to give.
Laughing again. Fading into a smile.
>>> I wasn’t talking about you when I was talking about people who seem like emotional and physical suicide, A.
Weren’t you? I know I have been. I don’t want it anymore. I think you know what I want. If you’ll let yourself believe.
I want to. I really, really want to.
>>> My heart’s never really gotten into the act.
>>> Until now.
>>> And I want you know, that’s what I’m listening to, doing this with you. I want to make sure you understand that. This isn’t a body thing. Although my body’s getting into the act now, too. ;-)
I feel the same.
Jesus, I feel the same.
Ah, God, Alex, what’s happening to us?
>>>>>> Let’s just say I think you’re aging well and leave it at that for now.
>>> Well, I still have my hair, anyway. And most of my teeth. :-D
LMAO!!!
Mulder, Jesus… You’re beautiful. Don’t you know that?
My breath leaves me in a rush. Is that really how he sees me? Beautiful? I want so badly to see him, now. To look at him knowing what I know. What will I see? I find it hard to really even remember what he looks like, even with my eidetic memory, the visual of him always tainted by my own dark feelings and thoughts.
I have a feeling, though, that he’s…well, beautiful. I really, really want to see if I’m right.
>>> No one’s ever called me baby before. And lived to tell about it. But maybe if I knew what it sounded like in your voice…
I want to say it. I want you to hear it. Tomorrow night, even if you don’t want anything else from me…please just let me say it. Just once. Please.
Another gasp. I may not have a clear visual, but I’ll never forget that voice. And the thought of it wanting to call me ‘baby’…not to mention the thought of it begging me to do so… Mmmmmm …
>>> A, I need to let you know about something. I’m going out of town for work. I’m not sure when I’ll be back, but I’m hoping it won’t be more than a few days. I won’t be able to be in communication with you, so I’m sorry but I probably won’t even see this reply unless it hits my email before morning.
You can’t go back there, Mulder. But I think I can get you what you want. You can let me know tomorrow night if that’d be okay.
My brain is already processing possibilities. I can’t wait.
>>> I want you know…I’m going to miss talking to you. But maybe this time will give you the space you need to decide what you want to do next. Because I know what I want to happen next. And it’s not limited to cybering.
Jesus God Mulder… Even if you never want to see my face again… Just…thank you. Fuck, thank you.
I want to see his face. God how I want to see his face.
>>> Wish me luck, A. This could be a really big case for me.
Still can be. Think about it.
Doesn’t seem nearly as monumental, now. But we’ll see.
See you tomorrow night.
I love you, Mulder.
AKA/Alex Krycek
Oh my God. Oh my God. I find I’m biting my knuckles, leaving marks, as my body, mind, and soul try to take that in.
I have to see him. I have to see him and then I’ll know. I’ll be able to tell if this person exists in him after all. I’ll see it or I won’t, and then I’ll know.
God, how will I get through the day until 1am?
...12:40 a.m....
I’m here early. I’m reasonably sure he is, too. If he’s coming. And I think he is. Because whatever else he may be, that email has proven to me that Alex Krycek’s not a coward.
Of course, I’m in the section next to the one where I told him to meet me. I look around at the sparse number of cars in the dim garage, wondering if one of them is his. Wondering if he knows which one is mine. Wondering if he’s watching me.
Finally, at 12:55 I step out of my car and look around. No sign of him. I start to feel the beginnings of panic, even though he’s not even on time yet, let alone late, as I walk over to section 4-b.
When I reach the center of the section, I stop. And I hear a slight scuff behind me. I whirl around, gun pulled, and he steps out from behind a big square column, both hands held up, palms out. He’s shaking. I can see it in his hands. I feel somewhat bad for holding the gun on him, because I know it’s not a bullet he fears.
As I walk closer to him, his lips part, his breath coming faster. I maintain an outward calm, breathing deeply, keeping my face expressionless, trying to ignore my pounding heart.
I’m about six feet away from him now, and I stop, still holding the gun on him. He’s standing next to the big column he stepped out from behind. His lips are still parted, and his tongue darts out to stroke along the bottom one quickly then withdraws, his eyes blinking rapidly, then one slow blink as his chest rises and falls.
I don’t say anything, letting my eyes take him in slowly from head to toe. He’s wearing the same motorcycle jacket I caught him in in Hong Kong. I remember the zippers scratching me as I ground him into the phones. White t-shirt under that. Tightly clinging to his rapidly heaving chest. Blue jeans. Even Nike tennis shoes. I smile, then, because I can tell he’s trying to look harmless. Not the forboding head-to-toe black he was wearing in Hong Kong.
He does. Look harmless, I mean. And good. I let my eyes travel slowly up again, lingering on his crotch. God, he’s so hard under there. I can practically see the shape of the plump, flared head, pressing against the softly worn denim.
My own lips part, letting the softest of sighs escape. I find I’m licking my lips unconsciously. I continue my visual journey, up over his rapidly expanding and contracting abdomen and ribcage, finally alighting again on his face. He exhales a little roughly as I meet his eyes, and I can see that they’re gleaming and moist.
And so. Fucking. Beautiful.
I narrow my eyes. Because he just became infinitely more dangerous to me. Because it’s scary how much I want him. His lust for me sure looks like the real deal, though.
But what about the rest of it? How will I know?
What questions should I ask him? What answers would convince me?
I take another step in, and watch his shaking get worse. Another step and he gulps. He actually gulps. We’re face to face now, and I smile as I realize what I’ve gotta do.
I step in, lowering my gun arm and sliding it around his waist slowly as my other hand goes behind his head and into his hair. He makes a tiny, little sound deep in his throat, and I bend in and push his lips open with my tongue, sealing my mouth to his.
He whimpers loudly, his body sagging in my arms as I stroke slowly through his mouth, breathing him in, swallowing his cries, my fist tightening in his hair, then releasing, then tightening again.
Oh FUCK it’s good.
I groan and have to force myself to stay gentle, wanting to shove my tongue down his throat and fuck his mouth roughly, but wanting even more than that to show him just how deadly tenderness can be.
If he did happen to think that playing with me would be a safe game, he’s going to learn differently.
He’s whining into the kiss now, his hands still held up at the sides of his head, and I smile a little against his mouth and jerk him up against me, not roughly, just firmly, bumping his obvious erection up against mine.
Ahgod! Sweet agony! He cries out and it’s so fucking good I do it again.
He cries out again, sobbing into my neverending slow and thorough conquest of his mouth, and I sigh through my own staggering arousal and start thrusting against him, moaning as it very quickly brings me to the very edge of coming.
I press myself against him hard, breathing into his mouth, holding off the orgasm, but then his body jolts against me, his mouth falling wide open on gasping sobs as I feel his cock, pressed tight against mine through several layers of fabric, swell and pulse and spurt, wet, hot cum seeping through his jeans and into mine.
“Ah God,” I gasp into his open, panting mouth and I’m there, gripping him even more tightly against me as I jerk and shudder my way through my own almost-painful orgasm.
As I sigh my way through the end of it, I realize I’m pulling his hair out and I force myself to release it, even though I know he doesn’t mind. I want to show him everything *but* pain. I want him to know who he’s really dealing with here.
As I finally pull my mouth off his, letting us both come up for much-needed air, I open my eyes to see that his are still closed, and he’s weeping silently, the tears falling off his jaw onto the collar of his leather jacket. I think I may be the only thing holding him up, and my suspicions are confirmed as I start to slide my gun arm from around him and he sways, staggering into me slightly.
“Easy,” I murmur, smiling as I reach out and steady him, and I watch his eyes blink open slowly as he steadies himself. They fix on me, dark and wet and glazed.
“Mulder,” he breathes. The sound wraps itself around me.
“Hey Alex,” I say softly. “Good to see you.”
His brow wrinkles in an uncomprehending frown, and his tongue darts back out to stroke slowly along his lower lip. God, that’s sexy. I wonder if he knows how sexy that is. From the totally stunned look on his face, I doubt he even realizes he’s doing it.
Or that he’s still, after all of that, holding his hands out to the sides of his head.
“You can put your hands down,” I tell him, smiling slightly as I slide my gun into the back of the waistband of my jeans. “I’m convinced you’re not a threat.”
He doesn’t smile back, just staring at me, still breathing hard, as he slowly lowers his trembling hands to his sides, wiping them on his thighs. His hair is messy and spiked from me grabbing it. Damn that’s a good look. My smile gets bigger.
“I got your email,” I tell him.
He just looks at me, tongue tip flicking out now against his upper lip for just one second, licking away the sweat and tears. That tongue sure seems to want to lick something. I feel my cock stirring, still half-hard and getting harder.
“Why don’t we go over to my car? You look like you might need to sit down.”
He nods, face still serious, and I gesture with my head for him to follow me. We walk over to my car, where I unlock his door and watch him climb in rather unsteadily, before going around to my own side and slipping in, feeling a bit shaky myself. When both doors are closed, I notice the scent of semen and sweat is quickly filling the air. I breathe deeply and shift in my seat, getting comfortable.
“It’s all true, isn’t it?” I ask quietly, turning my head to look at his face. It’s shiny with sweat, his eyes sparkling in the darkened interior of the car. He turns to look at me warily, licks his lips, and nods briefly. He turns his face forward again, sighing.
I sigh deeply, studying his profile in the low light. “We have a lot to talk about,” I say, my voice a bit startling in the quiet.
He inhales and exhales but says nothing, still staring straight ahead.
“Is your place safe?” I ask, reaching over and just barely touching his left arm.
It jerks under my fingers and he turns to look at me. “Uh, um…I don’t…no,” he says finally. “Not really.”
I nod, leaving my fingers barely resting against his arm, feeling the heat of him through the leather of his jacket. I watch his eyes as they try to stay on mine, straying for a half-second to where I’m touching him, then darting back up to mine, as if I’ll be angry that he’s not maintaining eye contact.
“You know a good hotel around here where two guys can check in together, ask for a King sized bed and not take any shit over it?” I ask casually, hiding my own nervousness at what I’m proposing.
His lips part and he just basically stares at me…panting and blinking for several long seconds, then he closes his mouth, licks his lips, swallows, then opens his mouth again. But he doesn’t say anything.
I give him a patient smile. “We’ll find one,” I tell him. And I can’t help but reach up with my fingers and just barely touch the back of his neck, stroking through the short hair. The full-body shiver complete with eyes fluttering closed that this earns me brings my cock to full-on stiffness again, and I sigh, withdrawing my hand and reaching into my pocket for the keys. I put them in the ignition and start the car. “Try to relax, Alex,” I tell him, placing my hand on the headrest of his seat and turning to look behind me as I back out. God, he’s like a toy I can’t wait to exhaust myself playing with. “Is it okay if we leave your car here?” I ask him, looking over, brows arched.
“Uh yeah,” he answers, sounding distracted. He looks up and when I catch his eye I smile and then lick my lips slowly. I can’t help myself. He’s so much fun to tease. And it’s not as though I don’t plan to follow through. His lips part and he just stares at me, lashes fluttering, looking like I hit him in the head with a plank.
I nod and start driving us out of the parking garage.
I take us into Dupont Circle and pull into the parking lot of the Mariott, where the sign says Vacancy. I turn off the engine and we sit there for a minute in an awkward, just-about-to-check-into-a-hotel-and-have-sex kind of way. I let out a soft, incredulous laugh, looking down at my keys in my hand.
“Listen, Mulder, if you don’t want to-” Alex starts. It’s the first thing he’s said since we left the parking garage, and his voice is rough.
I look up at him and cut him off. “I told you, Alex, we have a lot to talk about.” I let a tiny, mischievous smile curl my lips.
He swallows and nods, and I nod back and turn to open the car door. I step out of the car, grateful that my hard-on has wilted a bit in the absence of further provocative sounds, responses, looks, and reactions from Alex, so I can walk relatively comfortably into the lobby. I fasten my blazer-style leather coat around me, covering the wet spot in my jeans and look over to Alex to see how he’s handling the problem.
His jacket is only waist-length, so that won’t work. I watch him blush and pull his t-shirt out of his jeans, stretching it to cover the spot. “Just stay close behind me so people won’t see your crotch,” I tell him with a smirk.
He looks up at me with unreadable eyes then slowly walks over, not looking away from my eyes. My breathing speeds up, my heart beginning to pound in my throat. He moves in right behind me, probably no more than a couple of inches between our bodies. His breath is hot on my neck as he says in a voice barely above a whisper, “I’ve got your back.”
Ohhh God it aches now, and I sigh and breathe in his hard body, semen, light sweat smell, my own eyes threatening to close with the bliss of it. I wonder which one of us is really going to win this game of seduction after all. I decide to see his move and raise him one. I reach around with my right arm quickly, jerking him up against me.
“Uhh!” he grunt-gasps as his hard cock is bumped against my ass.
I let him go and start to walk away. I hear him moan quietly and fall into step right behind me.
We enter the brightly-lit, deserted lobby and head over to the front counter where a cute, young woman with short, dark hair gives us a winning smile.
“Hi guys,” she says, meeting both of our gazes in turn. “How can I help you tonight?”
“We’d like a room,” I tell her, as Alex stops about two feet behind me. Not as close as he stood in the parking lot, but still damned close. I look slightly over my shoulder and back. “King bed.”
“Oh, okay,” she says, faltering slightly. “Okay, um, let me see what I’ve got for you.”
I can tell she’s trying very hard not to scope us out as she clicks away at her keyboard, and I just smile politely and wait, listening to Alex breathe…loudly…behind me. She makes a few more decisive clicks and looks up, smiling. “All right, I’ve got one on the third floor, end of the hall,” she says. “Will that work?”
I turn my head to look over my shoulder. “Alex?” I ask him, only because I know how much it will freak him out.
I watch his mouth open, lashes fluttering as no sound comes out. It’s hard not to laugh. I know I’m being mean. I’ll make it up to him. I turn back to the girl. “I think that’ll be fine,” I say. I reach into my wallet and extract my credit card, handing it to her. She takes it and runs it, then gives it and the two card keys back to me.
“Any luggage you need help with?” she asks, looking behind us.
“Nope,” I tell her. “Thanks.” I slip the card keys into my pocket and head toward the elevators, hearing the soft sound of Alex’s sneakers on the marble floor as he falls into step behind me.
We step onto the elevator and ride up silently, then we walk down the third floor hall to the last door on the right and stop. I pull the card keys out, wordlessly handing him one as I use the other to open the door. I hold it open for Alex, who ducks his head slightly as he steps in past me, and the sense of déjà vu from our first meeting in the FBI bullpen is so strong I squint against it. I close the door and watch him slowly walk into the middle of the room and turn to face me, pushing his hands into his jacket pockets. God, he looks so young. And fuckable.
I start shrugging out of my jacket. “Twenty-eight?” I ask him, laying it on the counter-dresser. “Really?”
“Um, yeah,” he answers, taking his hands out of his pockets and starting to shed his own jacket. He leans over and puts it on the small table in the room, and the zippers rake across the polished wood surface loudly in the pregnant quiet.
I work at controlling my breathing, trying not to sound as nervous as I feel, trying to maintain control of the situation, both because I’m way too nervous to let Alex have control and because I think maybe this is what he wants most from me. Needs most.
“When’s your birthday?” I ask, pulling my own turtleneck off over my head. I’ve been shirtless in front of countless people with absolutely no problem before, but I can *feel* his eyes on me like a touch, and suddenly I feel bare-assed naked. I try to shake it off, keeping my tone and expression casual.
“July,” he says quickly. “Tenth.” It’s an exhale as he just stands there, hands twitching, held slightly away from his sides.
I nod at him, gesturing to him to take off his own shirt, and he hurriedly grabs the hem of it and rips it off, dropping it on the floor. I struggle to control my breathing as I watch his own chest rise and fall, rise and fall so rapidly I’m afraid he may pass out.
I’ve never looked at another man and tried to discern whether or not he turned me on before. I take my time with Alex, already so turned on by his mind and his unrestrained lust for me that any arousal I may gain from looking at his body is just…cream.
He’s very built. Moreso than I am. Broad shoulders and chest, solid, strong arms. Not much hair at all, just a tiny bit right between his pecs. I study him closely as I feel him studying me. I wonder if he likes what he sees, since I’m not as buff as he is. Probably not as strong. I think back on the few times we’ve fought, narrowing my eyes as I remember him never making a serious attempt to fight back. Especially in Hong Kong. He never touched me.
His nipples are small and pink and hard, and looking at them gives me the first glimmers of purely physical response I’ve had to his body. I want to touch them. I want to pinch them and pull on them, see what kinds of sounds I can get him to make, lick them and even bite them. I feel my mouth water a little. I slowly bring my eyes back up to his face, and his lips are parted, his tongue flicking out over and over as he breathes and stares at me.
“I’ve never done this before,” I say somewhat breathlessly. “With a man.”
“I know,” he whispers.
“I don’t know if I’ll really be any good,” I tell him, afraid that my lack of experience and skill may leave him disappointed, especially since it sounds like he’s used to doing things rough, and that’s not what I have planned for tonight.
“Oh, Jesus, Mulder,” he breathes. “You’re fucking kidding me, right?”
It’s the most coherent thing I’ve heard him say all night and it makes me laugh softly, both because of his somewhat impatient, incredulous tone and because it does reassure me to see evidence of how much he wants me. Then I become serious again, still a little unsure.
“You said you wanted me to hurt you,” I say quietly. “An angry fuck against the wall, curses turned to moans of pleasure.” I inhale and exhale. “That’s not really what I had in mind.”
His answer is somewhere between a whimper and a moan, his brow wrinkling into a frown. “Mulder, please,” he says in a begging tone. “Whatever you do, whatever you want, just…please!”
His desperate tone, his voice saying my name like that, draws me near to him, and I close the distance between us, stepping up in front of him. I reach out with now-trembling fingers, chewing my lip, and stroke the upper curve of his left pectoral muscle, just a couple of inches above his nipple.
His lips part on a gasp as his body sways toward me, arching into the tiny touch. I exhale and sweep my fingers down and around, underneath now, still not touching what I most long to.
He makes a choked little moaning sound deep in his throat, his brow wrinkling up as if he’s in pain, eyes closing. It makes my cock ache, my fingers tingle with the need to take that little pink nub of flesh between them and pinch as hard as they can, making him gasp and cry.
But I don’t, just breathing it back, trying to be patient, not wanting pain to be any part of what we explore together tonight. I reach for his jeans waistband with my left hand, just sliding my fingertips down inside a little and stroking back and forth.
His hips buck toward me with a little, pained moan, and his hands are clenched into fists at his sides, his eyes squeezed shut tight.
“Look at me,” I say, my own voice low and nearly lost on my breath.
He breathes out and opens his eyes, then clenches his teeth as I stroke along the outer curve of his pec, now just an inch to the side of his nipple.
“Amazing,” I breathe, just holding him lightly by the waistband of his jeans with one hand while I stroke and now lightly scratch around his nipple with the other one, never actually touching it.
“Ah!” he gasps out, his body arching toward me again, almost forcing me to touch that tempting nipple before I can pull my hand away quickly enough. His eyes are wet, pained, as if I’m hurting him instead of just caressing him. He tries to close them, to hide the tears I can see gathering there, but I stop him.
“No, look at me,” I tell him in a hushed whisper. “I wanna see what I do to you, Alex. What you tell me I do to you.”
“Ohh…” he moans, as if in pain. “Jesus,” he gasps. “Mulder!”
“This is the most fucking amazing thing I’ve ever done,” I say breathily. “You’re so fucking…incredible…” I tell him, losing the words, feeling them slip away as the need to touch him, have him, takes over my mind and body.
“Mulder!” he sobs, and he blinks rapidly as the tears spill over, wetting his cheeks.
And suddenly I want to feel that pent up passion and lust and frustration directed physically at me. I want to feel it from him, know it through him. “Kiss me,” I grind out, half-scared of what he might do.
And instantly his hands are in my hair, yanking me into his face forcibly, painfully, as his mouth mashes against mine, his tongue punching into my mouth, fucking it hard, and a deep, keening moan starts vibrating its way from his mouth into mine. Then one hand holds my head firmly in place by the hair as the other grabs its way down my back, pulling me in hard against him, scratching me and bruising me in the process, bringing our cocks into quick, violent alignment.
I cry out and moan long and loud into his still keening mouth, wrapping my own arms around him as my need rockets up to insatiable, igniting from the conflagration of his own almost-scary desire for me.
His mouth keeps devouring mine, grunting and groaning as his tongue plunges in deeply, nearly choking me, depriving me of oxygen as his arm locks around me like a vice, his other hand making my scalp tingle as it grips my hair.
I honestly can’t draw enough air, and I start to try to pull away, fighting against the hard hold he has on my hair. At first he whines and holds on tighter, then suddenly the hold breaks, and he releases me, both hands letting go at once as I gasp and pull back away from him, panting.
“Sorry!” he gasps. “Mulder, I’m sorry! Jesus, I’m sorry.”
I continue breathing hard, licking my lips and tasting a little blood, shaking my head as I run my hand through my hair, calming the still-tingling pain there. “Damn, Alex,” I say when I have enough breath.
“I’m sorry,” he says again, his face full of chagrin as he catches his own breath, hands trembling as he notices strands of my hair caught in them.
“Take off your pants,” I tell him, reaching down and quickly unfastening my own.
He moans as his hands fly to obey me, ripping the button free and jerking the zipper open, shoving them down his thighs and kicking them off faster than I can even get my own pants unzipped. Wow. I quickly work to catch up, shedding pants and underwear and kicking them aside, no longer as concerned with my nakedness in front of another man as I am with getting into the condition to *fuck* that man. And *now*.
“On the bed,” I say, and it sounds like a soft growl. “Hands and knees.”
He rushes to comply, getting into the stated position, head hung low, breathing hard and fast. Jesus, God, the submission. The pure, awesome beauty of it. I grind my teeth with the need to be inside him, feeling him from the inside out, making his body open for me and receive me and come for me once again.
Then I panic a little. How long has it been since I’ve had anal sex? God, years…and always with a woman, careful and slow and patient, nothing like this. There’s no way I can go slow now, I just can’t. Lube! I need lube! I didn’t bring anything like that with me, and I look around the room frantically, scouting for something that will work.
“Complimentary lotion!” I say, sprinting to the bathroom. Thank GOD I chose a place nice enough to give us more than just the little soaps. Oh, conditioner, that might work, too. I grab them both and head back out, then realize I have no fucking CONDOMS! “Fuck!” I yell, squeezing the two small, plastic bottles in my hands.
“What?” Alex says, lifting his head, eyes worried.
“I don’t have any fucking condoms!” I snarl.
He actually fights back a smile. This is no laughing matter, dammit!
“In my jeans,” he says, gesturing to them with his head. “In my wallet, left back pocket.”
“Thank God,” I gasp, reaching down and rifling through his jeans. I flip open the wallet, dig through various papers that will be absolutely fascinating once my dick isn’t screaming to come, and yank out a small plastic square triumphantly. I can tell Alex is smiling there on his knees, waiting as I rip the son of a bitch open and pull out the rubber, rolling it on quickly, catching a few hairs in the process. I unscrew the cap from the conditioner bottle and pound it in my palm, emptying the entire contents messily. I don’t have time for finesse, and rub my hands together briefly, then use one to slick up my cock as I climb onto the big bed behind Alex, reaching out and hurriedly smearing the slick stuff between his cheeks with the other.
He jerks away a moment, startled by my brisk touch, then moans and lowers his upper body to the bed, resting himself on his forearms, opening himself more for me.
“Alex, I need to fuck you,” I groan, sliding my fingers between his cheeks, rubbing the conditioner into his hole roughly, then pushing in with one finger. I don’t want to hurt him, so I hope he’s more used to this than the couple of female lovers I’ve done this with in the past.
“Ohhhh God,” he moans, and my finger slides in relatively easy, so I slide it out and add another on the second in-stroke, opening him further. “Just fuck me,” he gasps. “Please, Mulder, just fuck me, just fuck me!”
I’m not gonna argue with him at this point, and I grab my cock around the base with one hand, holding him by the hip with the other, then as soon as I feel the tip of my cock touch his ass I shove it in as hard as I can.
“Gahhhhh!” he yells, impaled to the root on my cock, shoved forward into the bed by the weight of my body.
“Oh Jesus FUCK!” I gasp, eyes closing, body trembling as I realize how deep inside him I am.
Oh God. I’m *inside* him. I’m fucking Alex Krycek.
“Ohhhh Gawwwwd,” I moan, unable to even think of moving yet. It’s too good. Too good and so fucking right.
“Ohhhhhh…” I moan again as I withdraw slowly, pulling my body back up off his, taking hold of his hips to stabilize myself. I’m gonna fuck him so hard. Oh God it hurts just thinking about it. “Gonna FUCK you!” I say, shoving in hard on the critical word. “Ohhhh gonna FUCK you, Alex,” I say again, beginning to thrust in and out in a building rhythm, the pleasure increasing exponentially as I speed up, beginning to slam into him, my hips making a slapping sound against his round, full ass.
“Oh God!” he sobs. “Oh God! Oh Mulder!” and he’s moving with me, trying to keep up with my steadily increasing tempo, shoving his body back into mine with every thrust he can, moaning and crying out as my dick jabs at his prostate at the bottom of each stroke.
“Oh God gonna come so fucking HARD!” I growl, feeling my whole body tense with the promise of it, every limb aching, every muscle singing in almost-scared anticipation as I dig my fingers into the flesh of his hips and yank his ass back against me.
“Ahhhh God! Muh! Mulder!” he yells, then his ass clamps down on my dick like a vice, over and over as he comes, crying into the bed as his body arches and jerks its way through his orgasm.
The pain of that pressure slows me down just long enough to wait for him, then as the waves of squeezing subside, I renew my own efforts, slamming into him hard, yanking his ass back to meet my every thrust, leaving bruises and scratches on his hips where I struggle with my slippery fingers to keep hold. Then I feel it cresting, and I open my mouth in a loud wail as it hits, blindsiding my entire body with its force and intensity.
I come and come and come, unaware of anything but the staggering, blinding pleasure that’s almost pain, and I only know I’ve been screaming by the way my throat hurts as I fall forward, shuddering and moaning through the last waves as they burn through my body. I fall onto Alex, who collapses onto the bed under me with a loud grunt, and I can do nothing about it but breathe, cheek against his sweaty back, cock still buried deeply inside him as I recover.
An undetermined amount of time later, I come back to reality, wondering if maybe I actually passed out or fell asleep for short time there, a trail of drool under my mouth where it’s been laying against Alex’s back. I slurp and try to raise myself off him, my trembling muscles protesting, my softening dick not really wanting to leave its hot, safe haven.
Alex groans unintelligibly as I slide around on his sweat-slickened body, reaching beneath me to grab myself around the base of my cock and pull out, groaning as the tight heat squeezes me in farewell, Alex moaning a little as I leave him. I sloppily pull the condom off and selfishly toss it on the floor, intending to leave a nice, fat tip for the poor housekeeping staff. Then I fall back down on Alex, trying to slide to the side a little so I don’t continue crushing him like before.
I breathe some more, lying half-on and half-off him, one arm under myself, the other flung across his back, my leg over one of his, soft dick pressed against his left ass cheek. It feels good there, and I moan and move a little, pressing into the soft, smooth flesh, nuzzling into the back of his neck.
“Uhhnn…” he groans, making no attempt to get away, but not exactly encouraging me either.
“Mmm…” I moan against his neck, giving him a little thrust, sighing as my softening flesh starts to warm to the contact.
“You’re kidding,” he murmurs through what sound like lips being mashed into the bedspread.
I smile against the back of his neck and lazily pulse my hips again, squishing my half-hard cock against the unresisting flesh of his ass cheek.
“Oh my God,” he moans. “You *do* wanna kill me.”
And the significance of that, the way we have, in his words, transmuted the meaning of that, swells my heart. I sigh and decide I have to share that with him. “How’s that for transmutation,” I say into the short hair at the back of his head.
His answer is a shaking sigh, and I tighten my hold on him with both my arm and my leg, kissing his hair.
As I feel his cock swell against me once more, even though what I said could be taken as protest, I can think only one thing:
YES. God yes, Mulder, do it to me again. Fuck that hole again and make me hurt.
But he’s kissing my hair. Lips softer than I would have imagined if I’d let myself imagine Mulder’s lips touching my body.
Transmutation.
He said that to me. Used my word. The realization that he’s doing it, making us different, believing me… I sigh into the moment, unable to fully comprehend his body pressed to mine, feeling it wash over me one moment and then disbelieving it the next.
He pushes that thickening cock against me again and I moan into the bedding.
“Ready?” he asks me.
“Jesus,” I breathe, my own flesh plumping up, filling, needing him.
He moves his delicious mouth to my ear and whispers, “I’m gonna have you all night.”
I whimper, eyes closing, the vibration of his voice stroking my cock stiff.
“Turn over, Alex.”
He lifts up off of me and I obey him, rolling over and facing him now. He hovers over me like a lion over its kill. His eyes, slow-blinking, drip over me like honey, from eyes to mouth to throat to chest and back. Then he rears back away from me, backing off the bed. I look at him quizzically, my heart skipping a beat.
“Stand up for a second,” he says, and I get up as quickly as my sated and singing body will let me.
Mulder strips the covers off the bed, removing the stained coverlet and the sheet along with it, baring the bed. It looks like a canvas we’re about to paint a mural on with our sweat and cum.
He surprises me by lying back down first, on his back, and then wrapping one arm behind his head and looking at me.
He looks down at his buoyant cock then into my eyes once more. “Straddle me.”
I breathe out harshly and it would have carried a curse if I could somehow remember a language to speak. I crawl up, shaking, and position myself over him, thigh muscles holding me aloft. I take his dick in my fist, looking down to aim him toward my entrance.
“Ohfuck,” he hisses, hand reaching out quickly and grasping my arm. “N-No…”
I pause, hand loosening a little around his girth.
“No, Alex,” he breathes.
I look down at him, feeling a little hurt and confused. He smiles and I let go of his cock.
“Not no,” he clarifies. “Just not yet.”
I take a breath and nod.
“Back up a bit,” he orders, and I take two small knee-steps back. “Si’down,” he adds. I lower myself so that my ass is cradled on his thighs. He looks down at my straining cock. “You stick up,” he tells me as if I didn’t know this about myself. I look down at how our dicks don’t quite touch, how they would if I were a little less erect. Mulder’s goes out a little more than mine, but not for lack of hardness it seems. It just goes that way.
I realize that I’m staring with my mouth open and that he’s been watching me. I look up into his face and catch his smile.
He rests one hand on top of my thigh as he lifts his head a little and moves his arm, reaching out his long fingers and touching my belly lightly. I gasp.
“What made you email me that first time?”
My closing eyes open wide and I look down at him. He looks at me, waiting patiently, as his fingers stroke up my body, over contracting and expanding ribs, brushing my left side.
I close my eyes again but remember how he said that he wants me to look at him so that he’ll know what he does to me. I open them and blink down at him, swaying into his hand as he stops just beneath my chest.
“Huh?” he asks, prompting me.
I swallow and attempt to answer. “You… I just wanted…” His fingers brush over my nipple and I gasp, pushing into his hand. He withdraws it briefly and I whimper a weak protest. Jesus, I want him touching me. I never dreamed, even from how his punches thrilled my body into an endorphin rush, that such simple, teasing touches from him would affect me like this…like nothing else ever has.
“You wanted,” he prompts me again softly, eyes twinkling only partially from amusement. His eyes are dark and dilated.
“I just…” I begin again frustrated, and his fingertips hover over the tight nub, waiting. “Uhnn… I wanted you to know I admire you.”
I can’t help but close my eyes, but I think I hear him inhale sharply. In the next second I don’t care because he takes my nipple between his thumb and forefinger and he pinches it.
“Fffffffuh,” I grunt, squeezing my eyes closed tighter and throwing my head back. I buck my hips on him involuntarily and our erections hit together once.
“Don’t move,” he cautions hoarsely and I bite my lip, forcing my lower body still. I find I’m also holding my breath. “But you can make those sounds I know you want to make,” he adds. And now his other hand has moved and he’s pinching both nipples at the same time.
“Ohgod! Oooohhhh…uhhhnnnn…Muh….fuhuhhuhhh….” I keen as he manipulates them, pinching and releasing over and over, pressing in and then retracting, rubbing them and pulling them and twisting them. I clamp my thighs in on his and stay still with an effort that scares me. But what I can’t express with my body, I let out through my mouth, eyes tearing up now as I moan. “OhMuldergodMulder,” I whine. And then he pinches me quickly, fingers fluttering as he works me and I lose it. My fucking cock explodes without a touch on it and I’m coming on him, now bucking and thrusting out of control while his hands take me through it, not stopping until I finish on a long, gutteral cry of completion.
My eyes are still shut as I breathe heavy and hard, still afraid to move.
But I feel his hands scrabbling at my flesh and he growls, "Get down here."
I whimper, opening my eyes, and lean down. His hands immediately wrap around me, one at my back and one behind my head, pulling me down where I land with a grunt on his chest, mashing his hard cock against my softening one. He brings my lips down on his and pushes his tongue into my mouth, moaning deep in his chest.
His tongue delves into me time and again, still not rough, only urgent, and he kisses me senseless. He moves to roll me over and I help to get myself beneath him once more, my cum sticking us together obscenely.
His hands are trapped under my body and we're pressed together, flush, my nipples rubbed sore are tingling where they are pressed to his chest. And his tongue... God, his tongue licks the inside of my mouth like I'm delicious, like I'm a treat, like kissing me is as good as fucking me.
I whine indelicately into his open mouth and he thrusts his hips, stroking his rock-hard erection against my half-hard and aching cock.
It hurts. Finally. Something hurts. And I cry out into his deep, masterful kiss at the shock of it, my thrice engorged and thrice released flesh now abused by the unrelenting hardness of his dick.
He pulses his hips rhythmically now, groaning enthusiastically into my mouth as he rides me.
He's never done this. Never touched his erection to another one. Never found pleasure in another man's body. And neither have I, really. Nothing like this has ever happened to me. Nothing even fucking close. My eyelids flutter open to steal a glimpse of him while he frots me. He's beautiful.
I tear my lips from his, wrenching my head to the side slightly, and he opens his eyes and looks down at me, too aroused to look frustrated or even questioning. I look deep into his burning, hooded eyes, and for the first time, I wrap my arms around his undulating body and hold him.
"Ohgod," he moans, thrusting faster, our sweat and my cum slicking the way for him to slide against me. It's perfect. Unreal it's so good. And I spread my legs for him, the hurt turning to a kind of burning ache that would have me hard again if I hadn't just shot twice in under twenty minutes.
Mulder's eyes roll shut, his mouth open, as he pants over me, bucking between my thighs.
I love him. I wrote it before I was even ready to admit it to myself. Now I can't help it. As he begins to lose himself in the sensation of his naked body moving on mine in a way neither of us had ever dared to conceive of, I can't help but feel how deeply I love him, how much I'd give for him.
I wrap my hand around his neck and slide my other to his ass, pressing down, and I start to push up into him just a little, but the increase in pressure has me gritting my teeth and him cursing and gasping and I know I almost have him there.
"Mulder," I grate out, raisng my head, bringing us cheek to cheek. "Unnn," I grunt, squeezing his ass and pressing my hips up hard against his thrusting. "Give it to me," I breathe, and he yells in my ear, thrashing now as he comes against my cock and belly, driving himself into me over and over, shaking with the power of his release.
Then once he's done, he flops down onto me with a kind of tortured, laughing groan that carries the words, "Ohgodfriction..."
Pinned beneath him, I can't laugh. I can barely breathe. And the tears still sting somewhat, hanging precariously on my lashes. I blink them back and try to breathe just enough to speak. It takes me a moment in which Mulder groans again, enthusiastically sated.
I gasp a short breath. "Mulder...I can't breathe.'
His lips caress my skin as he murmurs, "You like it."
I cough out a painful laugh, turning my head away from his face. I push on him vaguely, not wanting to lose contact but wanting only to draw breath rather than wheeze.
"You're drooling on me," I inform him.
He slurps noisily. "You like it," he insists again. But this time I feel his amused smile against my neck. It tickles a little. It's wonderful.
Then he moans and moves off me, but only a little, staying draped over my right side, head on my shoulder.
"That better?" he mutters, half asleep already it sounds.
I feel my own consciousness grow heavy like our bodies and let my eyes close even though I want to stay looking at him. I want to hold him here with my eyes, afraid if I don't, I'll wake to find he was merely an extremely realistic illusion and I've just gotten REALLY good at beating myself off.
"Mmmhmm," I let out on an exhale.
He's drooling on me again.
I sigh and hold him closer.
He's right. I like it.
END
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