Welcome To The Harem
Conquest by Annie Sewell-Jennings
Summary: Deslea's rec: "This tale of manipulation is exceptionally well done. Ruthlessness and predation are difficult to write, and it's easy to descend into one-dimensional contrivance. But Krycek and Diana spark off each other here in darkly vibrant ways. This isn't a "nice" read for fans of these characters, but it's certainly intruiguing. Definitely worth a look." Summary: Two rivals attempt to defeat the other at their own game. Krycek/Diana.
Archvist note: I attempted to request archive consent, as requested by the headers, but the given email address no longer exists. If you're the author of this story and would like to either formalise consent or have the story removed, please drop me a line. CONQUEST (1/1) BY: Annie Sewell-Jennings (Auralissa@aol.com) DISCLAIMER: The characters of Diana Fowley and Alex Krycek are not my property. They are the creation of Chris Carter and Ten Thirteen Productions. I apologize for their use. SUMMARY: Two rivals attempt to defeat the other at their own game. CATEGORY: VAR (Krycek/Fowley) RATING: R (language, sexuality, some slash references) SPOILERS: Post-"Biogenesis" ARCHIVAL: Please request permission first. AUTHOR'S NOTES: I've wanted to tell this story for a very long time now, but I couldn't get into the feel of it until after watching "Cruel Intentions". For some odd reason, the ruthless richness of the film got under my skin and in my head, so I sat down and wrote. By the way, "Cruel Intentions" is a really good movie, and I'm not biased by the hot young cast. "Dangerous Liaisons" was excellent. :) Oh, and for those of you fellow Krycek fans who blanch at the thought of him ever being with Diana, this is hardly a love song. Thanks to my editors: Heather, Alanna, and Sue. :) ***** CONQUEST ***** The sun rose over the Atlantic in a slow, burning globe of orange flame. Its rays covered the waters, the beaches, the swaying palmetto trees and set the entire African coast alight with fire. The world became an inferno, and Diana Fowley liked it that way. Slowly, she exhaled in a cloud of smoke, and the husky smell of cigarettes veiled her cold, emotionless features. The bitter taste of tobacco tingled on her tongue like spice, and she let it burn her senses. She liked cigarettes, liked the thought of inhaling fire and turning it into nothing but intangible smoke. She liked the thought of breathing flames. Like a dragon in a prettier package. Tilting her head, Fowley took another breath of her cigarette. It was high-quality tobacco that seared her tongue and circulated through her lungs. Only the best for the best, of course. She would settle for nothing less. No imperfections, no flaws, and no substitutions. It was the same when it came to her men. A dry smirk lit her face for a moment before melting away. The man tangled in her satin sheets was far from perfection on the outside. Yes, he had a face that would make angels cry, but not from rapture. From anguish. The anguish of knowing that he was hell incarnate, wrapped up in sinful sensuality and tied with a dark red bow. That was everything that Alex Krycek was, no matter that he was missing an arm. Where he achieved flawlessness was inside. Because inside, there was nothing. No guilt, no baggage, nothing but cold determination. That was the way that men should be built - pretty on the outside and silent within. And they should certainly know how to fuck like Krycek knew. He was terribly dexterous with that one remaining hand. Fowley exhaled another cloud of smoke and glanced at the sky. The sun was rising higher with every second, and she knew that time was of the essence. They had only arrived in Africa the night before, hot on the heels of their targets. Surveillance had to be set up and the clean-up crew had to be briefed. She inhaled again from her cigarette, long and hard, just the way that she liked, and exhaled an irritated sigh. It was always her job to brief and direct. Her job to organize and correct. The men made the errors and she cleaned up afterward. She felt like a fucking janitor. At least she didn't have a janitor's salary. Turning her back on the sunrise, Fowley walked away from the French doors and walked across the silk rug to the luxurious bed. The unbelted crimson robe fluttered around her nude body like vermilion wings as she approached her sleeping bedmate. He had to wake up. Time was wasting. Swiftly, she lowered her cigarette to the stump where Krycek's left arm used to be and ground it ruthlessly into his skin. At the combined hisses of Krycek's voice and skin, she threw the cigarette into the crystal ashtray and moved toward the closet. "Rise and shine," she said coldly, and Alex Krycek woke up angry. "Fuck," Krycek muttered, flinching and cupping his injured right arm. The expression on the statuesque brunette's face was a mixture of amusement and irritation without a single trace of sympathy. Figures. Fowley hadn't been hired for her compassion. Still, she should pay him the respect that he was due as a colleague. Burning his one good arm wasn't going to score her extra points. "Get up and get dressed," she said in a flat alto voice. She walked to the French doors and pulled heavy velvet draperies across the glass, keeping out the early sunlight and plunging the room back into temporary darkness. "The sun's up and we're losing time." He knew all of this. Missions and duties were his specialty, his foray. Fowley was a player; so was Krycek. Interoffice relationships often worked out better than most people expected, if only because she completely understood his position and he understood hers. One slender, manicured hand swept a pile of dark mahogany hair from her shoulder, and Krycek decided that Fowley was beautiful in the dark. In the absence of light, all of the years and imperfections melted away to recreate her flawless skin and sleek figure, and the silver that was beginning to streak her hair melted into a pile of chestnut. As she pulled the red silk robe around her body, Krycek wondered if this was the woman that Fox Mulder had enjoyed ten years ago. If this was the body that he had relished and this was the face that he had loved. Probably, he thought. Mulder always had been a sucker for a pretty woman. He just never figured out what was inside until it was too late. Krycek had it all figured out. He knew what Diana Fowley was - a survivor. In his experience, survivors were the most dangerous people of all. Their desperation to live bred determination and mercilessness, and Fowley exuded all of these qualities. There was nothing wrong with that, of course. He was a survivor too. So were the men in charge. They were all survivors. Hence the mission. Go to the Ivory Coast, find the spaceship that Dana Scully had discovered four days earlier, and properly dispose of it. Simple. They merely had to wait for low tide tonight and move the spacecraft out, then tie up the loose ends such as any village witnesses and two very sick FBI agents. And he would succeed. "Where were they last spotted?" he asked, and Fowley shed the robe, letting it fall to the floor in a shimmering ribbon of red. It pooled around her feet like silk blood, and he decided that red was definitely her color. "The Sea Horn Motel," she replied, thumbing through rows of expensive designer suits. She selected one in navy, dark and sharp. Just like her. "Any activity?" he asked, stepping out of bed and moving toward his own closet. He felt Fowley's eyes follow his naked body across the room, and it was more flattering than it was arousing. Carefully, she draped the chosen suit over the back of an antique velvet chaise. "Agent Scully went shopping at a pharmacy down the street from the motel," she said. "She purchased two bottles of Tylenol 3 and a bottle of sleeping pills. Still, our preliminary surveillance team reports that neither agent slept the previous night." Krycek twisted his mouth in dry amusement. "I wonder what *that* means," he commented, and Fowley looked up at him sharply. Her cold eyes glittered at him maliciously, which did nothing to faze Krycek. He had been glowered and glared at a thousand times during his illustrious career, and none of it bothered him anymore. "They aren't fucking," she said, and he felt a little bit of satisfaction. Fowley had a soft spot. Not Mulder though, she was too smart for that. She didn't like the thought of being rejected for little Dana Scully. Smirking to himself, Krycek opened the closet door. Weaknesses... Every human being had them. He wasn't entirely immune to everything himself. His sore spot was his heritage, his past. His father's cancer and his mother's funeral plagued his sleep when he allowed himself to dream, so he knew that he was not entirely invulnerable. However, Fowley made pretenses about her coldness. She pretended that she was as stoic as a statue, that nothing hurt her. But that was a lie. Diana Fowley was pissed off at the thought that her ex-lover was fucking a woman like Special Agent Dana Scully. Fowley smirked at the sight of Krycek's selected clothing. "A leather jacket?" she mocked. "Come on, Krycek. How stereotypical can you get?" He didn't bristle, and she didn't expect him to. "You're one to talk, Fowley," he replied, gesturing to the black lace bra and panties that she had pulled out of her lingerie drawer. "Playing the dominatrix tonight, are you?" A slinky smile spread across her face. "I didn't hear any complaints last night," she murmured, and Krycek graced her with a low, predatory grin. He would give credit where credit was due - Diana was one hell of a good fuck. Krycek hadn't been laid by a woman in three months, and he'd almost forgotten what it felt like to sink into heat and be surrounded by fire. It was like being burned alive; agony and ecstasy all rolled into one comely package. Quickly, Krycek pulled a pair of dark underwear on and looked over at her. She looked good in lingerie, sensual and sleek, and in the flattering darkness she appeared years younger than he knew she was. "Who's working surveillance?" he asked, and Fowley shrugged, running a brush through her thick hair. "A Frenchman," she said. "Olivier Dumas. He's supposed to be quite capable." Krycek arched an eyebrow at her coldly. "Then he's the best." A snort escaped her. "Your faith in the Syndicate is quite compelling," she said, and he clenched his jaw at her tensely. "Faith is for the uneducated," Krycek replied. "Dumas is the best out of what we've got. Besides, he'll give the best performance he can because he knows I'll kill him if he fails." There was a hint of security in Krycek's low tenor that Fowley picked up on. He had fucked Dumas; she could hear it in the arrogance that he exuded. Krycek's bisexuality didn't surprise her. It wasn't really a matter of sexual preference but adaptability. She shared his skill of assessing a situation and doing what was necessary to gain control over it. She had performed her fair share of fucks to make her way up the chain of command, both male and female, both domestic and exotic. After all, everyone had a weakness. It was just her job to play off of it. Fox Mulder had had a weakness: he was a sucker for love. All that she'd had to do was pay enough attention to him, feed him enough bullshit passion and enthusiasm, and he had fallen into her bed with a smile on his face. She'd told him that she loved him, told him that he was everything to her, and once she took his heart from him she shattered it and abandoned him. Fowley was an expert at breaking things, and Mulder was no exception. Yes, everyone had a weakness. Once she found it, she played it for what it was worth and then shattered the possessor. Now she just had to find Krycek's. A brief glance at the clock on the dresser revealed that she had time before they left. Not very much time, but enough. Her eyelashes fell lower over her eyes as she walked closer, wearing nothing but the matching set of bra and panties. She was well aware of her revealed skin, of how she looked in the rich bronze lamplight, and that she was in her element here. She possessed something that Krycek wanted - sex. She could give that to him, no strings attached, and thus earn his attention. She had a way inside of his head, and all that she had to do now was navigate. Her voice was low and throaty against his ear. "Was he a good fuck, Krycek?" she murmured, her lips brushing his earlobe. He paused when getting dressed, letting himself fall under her words. Krycek knew what she was trying to do. She was trying to turn him on, and that was fine with him. Arousal was nothing but a physical manifestation of attraction. Her tongue reached out to lick his the soft skin of his jaw, and he felt her hand curl around his shoulder, turning his body toward hers. "When he came, which name did he call? Lars? Oscar? Nicolas? Or did he get the privilege of saying your real name?" Her voice lowered again into a rich, husky purr. "Alex, Alex, Alex..." He could play this little game. It was what he had been trained to do. Push buttons, please, distract and destroy. They'd had the same set of sexual instructors, the same detachment from all other emotions, and the same experiences and disasters. He could fuck Fowley's head just like had fucked her physically the night before. It was nothing special to him. Coyly, Krycek turned to her and pressed his body against hers. One hand raised to trace the shape of her breast underneath the lace, smiling all the while as he chose his own weapons and words. "Do names really matter, Diana?" he said, his thumb wandering toward the peak of her nipple. "Or is it Regina? Or Laurel? Or maybe you let Marita call you Susan." He smiled wickedly. "Yeah, I think that it was Susan." A brief, appreciative chuckle escaped her chest, and Fowley covered his large hand with her own, running her fingers over his wrist and thus fastening his fingers to her breast. "My middle name is Susan," she whispered to him. "And you should remember that Marita never says anything in bed." Her lips caressed his as she spoke, continuing the battle while flirting with a kiss. "Sometimes I still have dreams about her hands. Those soft little fingers dancing all over my skin... Down my belly... Up my thigh..." Krycek was very aware that he was hard at the moment, but that didn't amount to anything. He knew from the tightness of her nipple that she was just as aroused as he was. No points were being scored off of their own sexual interaction. They were playing off of words. "Say, Diana," he murmured, moving his one good hand down her stomach and toward the edge of her underwear, "when did you start smoking again? I thought that you quit after Mulder, and you never smoked that particular brand before..." He smiled when her mouth twisted into a more vicious smile. Her fingers were growing tighter around his muscular shoulder, and her hips surged against his with a violence that he liked. His baiting her had been a smart move. "Mulder used to have a nasty habit, you know," she murmured, and he listened with interest. Mulder was fascinating to Krycek, a complex puzzle that he often liked trying to solve in his spare time. So was Scully, with her undying mixture of skepticism and loyalty. Fucking Diana had been a smart move, if only to get little scraps of information. And he knew that that wasn't the only reason he was sleeping with her. Fowley continued, her mouth curling with a wicked smile. "He never slept when he worked for Patterson. He just sat up all night and chain-smoked, trying to find his way around in the darkness." As her lips started to make their way down his neck, Krycek chose his words carefully and threw them at her with a vengeance. "Does he still smoke when he's with Scully?" Bitterness crossed Diana's face, and she leered at him. "No, but he would smoke if he was with you," she said. "But unfortunately, that's not going to happen." The two stared each other down with malice, seeking out weak points and selecting other barbs to toss around. But then the glare broke, and the two turned away, abandoning the seduction and choosing to get dressed again. Both knew the truth after that one moment, but neither one wanted to admit it. Diana Fowley and Alex Krycek were cut out of the same cloth. Both were survivors, both were predators, and both had played the game in the same fashion - through seduction and brutality. Each had taken the other as a lover for the same reason, too. They had been competitors, climbing the Consortium chain, and both had been partnered with one Fox Mulder. And he had turned them both down, for reasons unknown, for a little redheaded skeptic. Mulder was their lost conquest, their disaster. Curiosity had prevailed and dominated about each other, and sex was inevitable. Each wanted to know how the other had both failed and succeeded. And each wanted to defeat the other at his or her own game. But now they both knew the truth - there was no winner or loser in this arena. Both were equals in their own rights, and that did not paint a pretty picture. Fowley didn't like Krycek for his methods, his arrogance, and his occasional recklessness. Krycek didn't like Fowley for her pettiness, her self-absorption, and her coldness. And if they were mirror images of each other, what happened if they didn't like the reflection? With a sigh, Krycek walked out to the French doors and pulled the drapes away, letting sunlight flood the room. In the glass, he saw Fowley's body behind him, and he knew that without the darkness to conceal her, she wasn't half as attractive as she had been earlier. No big surprise there. Mystery had made up all of her appeal, and now that the mystery was gone, so was the desire. Their one night would remain only one night, but he would work with her again. She was one hell of an operative. Narrowing his eyes, Krycek looked down at the waters below them and idly watched them wash upon the shore. Waves were a lot like lies, in retrospect. They started out small, then grew larger and larger, more and more complex, and they all eventually shattered. He wondered what would happen when this particular wave crashed ashore. Then a sudden pain shattered his skull, and he winced, feeling weak and faint as a rush of words penetrated his thoughts. Something was breaking inside of himself, something powerful and painful. "Fuck," he muttered, and then the spasm cleared. //Jesus Christ, what the hell was that?// he thought dazedly. And then one thought became crystal clear in his mind, spoken in Diana Fowley's cold, heartless voice. //At least I got to fuck him before he dies.// Silence covered the spacious hotel room, and Krycek stood at the French doors for a long time, staring down at the ocean while Fowley calmly got dressed. He had a feeling that the battle was coming to an end. ***** (end) *****
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