Bliss of Another Kind
by Jennifer Stoy (jsto-@mailhost.tcs.tulane.edu)
Website: http://members.tripod.com/~j_stoy/writing.html
Rating: NC-17, and hard-edged.
Classification: PWP, just keep reading.
Summary: Sex is a mindgame. Winner take all.
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters. Yada yada. Don't sue. 

Life is simpler when it lacks a code of conduct that takes effort or
rationalization. I've pared away all that's socially acceptable and
conditioned, and what's left is extremely simple to live by. I look
around. I see what I must do and what I want to do. I do what I have to.
Then I do what I want. I take what I want, and everything else is
bullshit.

I notice him in the lobby on a very bad Saturday night. He's too pretty
for my usual tastes, and too smug by half. If Alex Krycek is such a bad
motherfucker, how did he end up less an arm? I've been around a lot longer
than he has, and I'm not missing anything, unless you count my soul. Which
I don't-- it's more of that social conditioning bullshit.

But I'm desperate. It's all well and good to put Mulder into a padded
cell, and it's lovely that I'm the Big Boss's woman, but there are times
when being a kept woman is about as fascinating as watching paint dry. The
old man doesn't love me, anyway. I'm a substitute and a tool, and that's
about as flattering as you can imagine. I don't even think I look like
her, but I suppose when you've got the-- ahem-- skills that I've got, it
doesn't matter if the face is wrong. Everyone looks the same in the dark.

So I approach the pretty-faced, swishy-assed (and trust me, the rumors may
or may not be true, but he *acts* queerer than a three-dollar bill-- I
swear Alex Krycek has a hard-on for Mulder every time I've seen them
together) son of a bitch. He blinks.

"What the hell do you want?" he asks me, giving me an I'm-so-fucking-cool
sneer. I grab his wrist and pull it towards my waist. "What the fuck? Are
you crazy?"

"I'm bored," I reply bluntly. "Make me unbored."

His jaw drops. Men. They can say shit like "Suck me, beautiful" to a woman
they barely known and expect to be taken seriously, but I reciprocate and
I'm beyond the pale. Especially a smart woman, who apparently is supposed
to be sexless. Fuck that.

"Here? Now?" Krycek stutters. I suppose, if I were in a better mood, it
would be endearing to see big bad Krycek acting like Mulder, but it only
heightens my annoyance.

"No, Krycek," I say with a grin. However, it's a grin that says don't be
stupid. "Room 316. Do you know how to use an elevator?"

"Yes," he says, glaring at me. "What if I don't want to?"

I pull him closer, so that I'm pressed up against him, groin to groin,
breasts to chest. "What? Am I not Mulder enough for you, Alex baby?"

"Fuck you," he replies, pulling my wrists over my head. "Maybe I'm just
worried about disease."

I wrench free of his grip and slap him across the face. 

"You're such a kidder, Alex," I say, controlling my rage very admirably. I
should tear his other arm off. Then again, after all the irritations I've
suffered in my life, I ought to be good at maintaining control.

"You're really serious, aren't you?" he asks, staring at me. "No
formalities, no reason, you just want to fuck and I happened to be handy?"

I stare at him coldly. "Did I not make that clear? If you're not man
enough for the job, maybe I can go find some podunk banker from that
convention staying here. Yes. Let's fuck already."

His eyes light up. No matter what he says, he has heard the rumors and he
wants his chance. Men are all the same, but at least it's nice that I've
found one who has at least as much morality as I do. It makes it so much
easier when I get some and get gone. I pull further away from him.

"Room 316. Race you," I say laconically. Wasting words in these situations
is annoying, and I've never been one of those gushy, talkative women who
needs to be assured and reassured of everything in sex. I see it as a
pretty intuitive process, and if it's not, it's because someone-- usually
the guy-- is doing something wrong.

He stares at me in disbelief, so I get a head start and don't have to do
anything silly, like run. I simply take the elevator to my room, let
myself in, and take off my clothes.

Krycek takes four minutes and twenty-eight seconds to find room 316. He
knocks like a frightened virgin. That is rather endearing, especially when
I open my door stark naked and he drops the brown paper bag he's carrying,
undoubtedly containing condoms.

Cute. He and the condoms get inside, however, and I slam the door, and
then I slam Alex up against the door.

"Fuck me," he mutters in a low voice. I pull his face to mine, and start
kissing the hell out of him. He's pretty goddamn good, and the way he
lifts me up and pushes me against the door lets me know it's going to be
hot. I wrap my legs around his waist, and move my lips to his ear.

"That's why we're here, isn't it?" I whisper, pulling his earlobe into my
mouth and sucking hard. He bucks up against me, slamming my head into the
door. The pain is arousing, and as I blink away the stars, I latch my arms
around his neck and pull him closer, grinding against his now very-obvious
erection.

A thought enters my head as he drags us towards the queen-sized bed in the
middle of the room while I try to tear the shirt off him. Oh, hell, yes.
One thing about this evil empire and its men: they're all hung like
stallions, and that's ever so useful.

I'm flung onto the bed like property, and I wouldn't admit it aloud, but I
like the change of pace. Krycek is just like me. He lets himself get used
because it's going to further his purposes. And he wants this. And what
people like us want, we take.

"Take your pants off," I growl at him. He gives me a look that's just on
this side of contempt.

"No," he says sarcastically, pulling off his cotton t-shirt and tossing it
aside with a casual disregard. "I thought I'd fuck you wearing my jeans."

"As long as I get off, whatever," I reply. If he wants to act like an
asshole, fine. He glowers at me, and gets his jeans off. What a shock,
he's not wearing any underwear. I don't want to think about how chafed he
must get, the little slut.

"Happy now?"

"Ecstatic," I reply, as he sits down on the mattress. "How about we stop
talking and get down to business? I have an errand to run for the big boss
tomorrow."

"Fine by me," Krycek hisses at me, moving towards me with the grace of a
gymnast. Before I can blink twice, I'm pinned underneath him, my hands
over my head, hips arched up against his extremely hard cock. 

For a one-armed man, he's good. Our lips are pressed together within a
matter of seconds, making all of our needless, boring chatter superfluous.
I rub against him, liking the feel of his muscles beneath his warming
skin. He's crushing me, but it's a good ache, and I move my thighs further
apart.

He mutters something in Russian that I think is the equivalent of My God
or Fuck Me. Either way, it's a good mutter, as he slides his arm up the
length of mine, causing me to shiver and thrust up against him harder. My
thighs clamp around his legs, feeling warm with sweat as I get wetter. I
am really fucking hot tonight, and thinking-wise, I'm on the level of fuck
me now, oh baby, oh baby.

"Condom," he mutters at me, and god dammit, I have to let go long enough
for him to go grab the brown paper bag by the door. I moan in frustration,
my breasts my thighs my pussy my everything ready to just GO and not
think. Thinking is bad right now. Fucking is good right now.

He fumbles with the condom under my horny, impatient glare, as my fingers
slide around my breast and play with the hard nipple, as the other hand
strokes the inside of my thighs, bringing my desire to a fever pitch as I
start feeling swollen everywhere.

Finally, he finishes with his idiot fumbling and falls on top of me again,
my thighs open as far as they'll go, and my hips thrusting frantically,
trying to get him inside of me, where I need him now, and when he finally
pushes in, I howl. I don't come-- that only happens in bad porno flicks
and the woman, trust me, is faking-- but fuck, it feels good.

We start fucking with a good, crazy rhythm, and he's good, god damn it,
he's really good, and I'm pushing back against him, trying to get the
right because I'm wound up now, I need to come hard, dammit. I slip my
hand between us and start rubbing my clit.

Oh yes. Oh yes. He grunts and starts thrusting harder, and I feel it all
starting to build in the base of my spine, so I start jerking harder
against him, gasping and whispering to God or him or whatever. Oh yes.

I've just breathed in when I come hard, convulsing and pushing like I've
been electrocuted. Krycek just keeps shoving against me, and, well, I've
always been a quick come, and get off for a second time just before he
comes, howling in Russian and grunting.

Then he collapses on top of me, and it hurts.

"Get off me, dumbfuck," I growl. He pulls away and stares up at the
ceiling.

"Fuck," he says. "That was amazing, Scully."

I nod and stand up. "Yeah, it was great. I gotta shower. See you later."

He stares after me as I get off the bed and close the door to my bathroom.
Like I said, I'm not for complicated systems of ethos. I take what I want,
and then I'm over it. I guess that's a little too brutal for Krycek. Pity.
And he seemed to have such potential.

THE END

Thanks for reading. Gotta thank my betas: Laura, Reade, Rachel, and the
late-night girls for helping. Feedback, you know, rocks....
jsto-@mailhost.tcs.tulane.edu

Jennifer
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