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.

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

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. :)




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

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

"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

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

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

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

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.