Ignition I: The First Fatal Spark
Author: Isabel "Izzy" Izenthe (izzy_izenthe@yahoo.com)
Archive: Anywhere
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Characters from the "X-Files" are the property of 1013 Productions and the Fox Television Network.


* * *
Avarice, envy, pride,
 Three fatal sparks, have set the hearts of all
   On Fire."
     -Dante Alighieri, Divine Comedy, The
* * *

Dana Scully, you're a whore.

I'm surrounded by idiot agents who think that beneath those stiff suits and grim veneer you're some sort of virgin saint. Can't they smell him on you? God, you reek of Fox Mulder like dime store perfume. I'd love to strip you down and dust you for prints one of these days after the two of you have returned from a long lunch. Sweaty, greasy traces of him would cover every naked inch of you.

So am I shocked by what I'm seeing? Hardly. I already knew what you were, Agent Scully. Nothing but a prostitute, giving sex for free but selling a little more of your life to Fox Mulder every time you let him fuck you.

Oh, I know you so well. Better, more intimately I suspect, than the man with his face between your legs. You hold professionalism up like a shield. Your control is the only weapon you need to keep the lusting rabble at bay. But, baby, I know your weakness. That control you grip so tightly is the one thing you're desperate to lose, and no man has ever been brave enough to take it away from you.

I want it. I'm greedy for it.

I'd rip it from your hands as I tied them to the bedposts. You might try to pull free, make a desperate grab for the succor of control, and if you truly wanted it, I'd give it back. I would never take something from you that you didn't want me to have. I suspect, though, you'd be happy to be rid of it for a few mindless hours.

Have you ever experienced something like that? Have you ever had a lover who would give unselfishly, who would touch and taste you until you were too exhausted to raise your head or close your legs, who would kiss you and cradle you and let you sleep instead of rousing you from your slumber to return the favor? Don't pretend you don't want that. Every woman wants that.

He doesn't realize, does he? He's too self-involved to see what you need. He thinks that by lapping at you like a bull at a salt lick, he's entitled to shove himself down your throat in reciprocity. He actually thinks you enjoy that. You probably told him so, and maybe you're fool enough to believe it yourself.

Do you hear me, Dana Scully? I said you're a fool. Of course you can't hear me. I could be standing by your bed, screaming the words into your ear, and you wouldn't hear a thing. Those sweet nothings Mulder whispers have left you deaf to reason. He anaesthetizes you with lovely words and mediocre sex and all the while, he's cutting out your soul. He wields that scalpel better than you ever could, Doctor, and you won't bleed or hurt until he's gone and you're left with nothing but the ache of his absence.

He's pumping away inside of you and I bet some articulate chunk of your brain matter is waxing poetic about being filled with his essence. Sweet, naive girl, he's syphoning you. He's taking, not giving. Your skepticism keeps you from recognizing the vampire crawling beneath your own sheets, draining away your strength, your judgment. He'll retreat and grow fat on the delicious guilt of destroying another lover.

And you? You'll be dead, or you'll wish you were. You won't emerge from the experience unscathed, at any rate. He'll leave you scarred, then hate you for losing what made you beautiful to him. Who will love you then, Dana? When he's destroyed you, when ugliness is all you see in the mirror, who will want you then?

I will.

I can save you. I'm the only person on earth who can. What an unkind irony that you won't let me near. Your type of woman is faithful to the bitter end. If I tried to warn you, I'd be treated to a sanctimonious lecture about the nature of trust in a partnership. A waste of words on speeches I've already memorized.

We'll suffer alone, you and I. You'll go on despising me, never knowing what I could have given you. I'll go on wanting you from a distance. I'll explore your warm curves with fingers pressed against a cold, flat video screen. The moans and screams I want to be mine, that are given to him, I'll record and share with these nameless men who own me now.

It would rip you apart to know these men watch you undress, witness your seductions, touch themselves as they watch Mulder touch you. If you didn't hate me already, you would hate me now for participating in this rape of your privacy. But before you condemn me, Dana Scully, know this: you'll be me soon enough. When the man you believe loves you better than life betrays you for a more noble cause, no one will be able to stop your fall.

Not even me, though God knows I'll try.

"You still want him, don't you, Agent Fowley?" my anonymous colleague is presumptuous enough to ask as we watch your partner roll over in bed, sleepy and sated.

Mulder? No, I don't want him. I haven't for a very long time. When you look at me, Dana, don't let jealousy color your eyes. I'm the jealous one who dreams of owning the heart Mulder hoards, and I'll cry with you when he destroys it.

* * *

Your feedback would be very appreciated at izzy_izenthe@yahoo.com.

==
Isabel "Izzy" Izenthe
http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Keep/5048/

"Please leave your values at the front desk."
                  -In a Paris Hotel Elevator

 


 

Ignition II: Dying Of Envy
Author: Isabel "Izzy" Izenthe (izzy_izenthe@yahoo.com)
Archive: Anywhere
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Characters from the "X-Files" are the property of 1013 Productions and the Fox Television Network.
Note: This story is a sequel to "The First Fatal Spark." That story is available from the author or the Chronicle X Fanfiction Archive at http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Keep/5048/.


* * *
Avarice, envy, pride,
 Three fatal sparks, have set the hearts of all
   On Fire."
     -Dante Alighieri, Divine Comedy, The
* * *

Nice panties. Silk, aren't they? Expensive I bet, but then fashionable underwear for the tasteful slut doesn't come cheap.

You've been sleeping with Mulder for what, six months? By now you've got drawers full of sheer bras, thong panties, garters and stockings. Under all that wool and starch you're his celluloid fantasy become tangible, a sex doll made for Mulder. He was reluctant to even mention it, I'm sure, the first time he asked you to spread your legs while you answered his phone, unbutton your shirt so he could see your tits while you filled out his expense reports, raise your skirt so he could finger you while you did his filing. You get your daily reward at noon with a drive-thru burger and a trip to his apartment for a quick bang on the couch.

Not very appetizing. Not very healthy. A McFuck.

Yeah, I remember those.

You don't have to work that hard for an orgasm, Dana. That's just one more thing you'll die without knowing.

You'll never know why Mulder isn't here. Why he isn't answering even though you're begging for him. You'll never understand that I came here to save your ungrateful ass, or appreciate the risks I took, or apologize for getting your blood all over my six-hundred-dollar suit. You'll never realize that the only thing holding any blood at all inside your beautiful body is my fist.

That bullet that ripped through your gut might be the best thing that ever happened to you because it'll kill you while you're ignorant. You'll spend eternity with bite marks on your breasts and whisker burn on your thighs, and you'll treasure the pain as proof you were loved on earth. If I had made it here in time, convinced you of the truth about Mulder, you might have stayed alive but those Judas kisses of his would have scorched like Hell never could.

Do you know how pathetic you are, writhing around in rat shit, wasting your last breaths on his name? Mulder will show up eventually so he can apologize to your corpse. I'm to be nearby to comfort him with words or a blow job or whatever my handlers tell me to provide. That's the role I was assigned.

I should walk out of here and let the cockroaches bear your spirit to the netherworld. This little improvisation will likely send me to hell on your heels. Under Diana Fowley's pretty skin, I'm the Frankenstein creation of the men who salvaged the useful parts from the woman Mulder broke. If I malfunction, I'll be terminated and a more attractive model will take my place. Who knows? If I manage to save your life today, you might be their next monster.

Would you be flattered to know that corporations have been launched with less money and planning than was expended on arranging your murder? You and Mulder twirl on a stage for the entertainment of decrepit old men. You eat, sleep, work, screw and die when they wish it. You tagged along to this clandestine meeting in an abandoned house, offered to stay and wait while Mulder followed a second lead, then spun into the path of a bullet because that's the choreography of the dance.

Dance with me instead.

Let me see you like this, with your shirt torn open, your pants pulled down, bucking under my hands, but in pleasure, not pain. Beg for me like you beg for him. Live to let me kiss your scars.

Or die, but say my name once before you go. I'd settle for that. I dream big but my expectations are small. A whispered word would do.

I know you've suffered before and, baby, I know you're suffering now, but I would trade lives with you if I could. I'd drain my bank accounts, give you the keys to my car, sign over the deed to my house. I'd bear all your burdens, push that bullet into my own belly, if I could only regain the one thing you haven't yet lost.

I had faith once. Faith like yours. Stronger maybe. I prayed and thought there were divine ears that heard. I listened to Mulder's promises and believed them.

You're just an innocent child, Dana, who still believes in lovely fairy tales of happily ever after. I envy you. Heaven will be there for the believers, I think. The rest of us have to live in the perdition we've made for ourselves. I should let you go to your paradise, but I don't know how to love you that much. I love you superficially, in that selfish way that demands you stay, even if you choose to leave.

I love you the way Mulder loves you.

You're trying to stay alive for his sake, but I'm the one who called the ambulance you're hearing. You're in agony instead of a body bag because my hands are keeping your blood in and death out. Why can't you say my name?

"Bitch."

At least it's an acknowledgment. Actually, it's rather endearing.

Bitch.

Takes one to love one, sweetheart.

* * *

Your feedback would be very appreciated at izzy_izenthe@yahoo.com.

==
Isabel "Izzy" Izenthe
http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Keep/5048/

"Please leave your values at the front desk."
                  -In a Paris Hotel Elevator

 


 

Ignition III: Pride Before The Fall
Author: Isabel "Izzy" Izenthe (izzy_izenthe@yahoo.com)
Archive: Anywhere
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Characters from the "X-Files" are the property of 1013 Productions and the Fox Television Network.
Note: This story concludes the "Ignition" series. Previous stories in the series can be found at the author's website at http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Keep/5048/


* * *
Avarice, envy, pride,
 Three fatal sparks, have set the hearts of all
   On Fire."
     -Dante Alighieri, Divine Comedy, The
* * *

Just think of me as Hell's own Welcome Wagon.

So, Dana, is it everything you thought it would be? You weren't expecting flames and whips and devils writhing in orgiastic bliss, were you? That's the awful secret of Hell, I'm afraid. Disappointment. That's all you'll find here. Demon debauchery is reserved for the slums of heaven.

It's my job to get you settled in as comfortably as I can and then I'll be on my way. Others volunteered to make this visit, of course, but they don't understand you like I do. They would have used force and testosterone to tear away the last scraps of your pride. They would have raped you and left you to bleed behind perdition's door. I saved you from all that unnecessary brutality and had to put a lot of wrinkled old cocks in my mouth to do it, not that I expect any thanks from you for my trouble. I finally convinced my employers there was no point in stealing something you were prepared to give away. Candy from a baby, I told them, and, baby, from the looks of you, I think it may be even easier than that.

You think of Mulder as your soul mate, though you would never be so trite as to call him that. Our souls, yours and mine, aren't meant to mate. They're incestuous twins, simultaneously drawn and repulsed by each other. You wouldn't let me save you, so now I'll destroy you. To me, the choice is inconsequential. I love you and hate you in equal measure.

I'll get credit, maybe even a promotion for accomplishing your downfall, for delivering you in broken pieces to the men who will remake you into their fair-skinned demon, but here's the best part: Mulder did the work for me. He brought the blight on your soul. He rotted away the substance of what you once were. You may look whole to everyone else, but I recognize the hollowness in you. You'll fall and no one will hear the sound except the woman who swung the axe.

Metaphorical destruction still hurts like a bitch.

What brought you here, Dana? What makes the soulless chasm of the Bureau firing range more seductive than Mulder's warm bed? Why do you struggle to fire that gun again and again when it feels like the barely healed skin on your belly will rip apart under the strain? Why do you relish the pain? Tell me why you would rather be rocked by recoil than a Friday night fuck with Mulder, or better yet, let me tell you.

It's because he won't touch you. You see, Fox Mulder is a carrier. He infects and moves on once you display the symptoms of his disease. A gunshot wound courtesy of his enemies, a dozen slashes from a psychopath's blade, the affliction manifests itself in different ways but the result is always the same.

Did he tell you what happened to me? No, of course he didn't. He finds guilt too delicious to share. Fox and I were handling some routine interviews. So routine that he decided to follow up on one of his X-Files and left me to handle the last interview by myself. He fucked up by leaving me without backup. I fucked up by living through the attack.

You've finally figured it out, haven't you? Fox Mulder only loves the dead and the disappeared. Those of us who survive are expendable. Our bodies are the murals he painted with his incompetence, then abandoned because he hates his art.

Want to see my scars? This one is my favorite. Better than a tattoo, don't you think? Not every woman has a heart carved around her left nipple.

It intrigues me that you're not shocked to see a woman stripping in front of you. We'll call it clinical detachment if it makes you feel better about it, but do all doctors smell like a bitch in heat? Do their nipples get hard like yours just did? Or is this yet another of Mulder's legacies?

You knew about his videos and his magazines before you fucked him, but you thought the love of a good woman would change him. How very philanthropic of you. Screwing for a good cause like some sexually enlightened Girl Scout. You weren't the first to try, nor were you the first to discover you can't change Mulder. Mulder changes you. Junkies don't have a conscience, Dana, and Mulder slipped you more and more of his favorite drug every time he pushed his cock into you. You're just as depraved as he is, only he's out pouring his guilt into some two-hundred-dollar redhead while you're shooting the balls off a paper man and getting wet over a set of scarred up tits.

Right now the only thing that matters to an addict like you is getting someone's face between your legs and you don't give a shit if it's Aqua Velva or Oil of Olay rubbing against your thighs. Lucky for you, I was once a Girl Scout myself.

But first, my love, let's work on your marksmanship. Not everyone around here is as friendly as I am, and you won't last a week with aim like that. Relax your arms a little. Lean back and I'll hold you steady. Oh, sweetheart, here's the problem. You can't wear a tight shirt when you're recovering from a gunshot wound. You need a full range of motion. Let me get those buttons for you.

Like taking candy from a pretty, pretty baby.

Mulder would like this, wouldn't he? Watching two beautiful women fucking on the firing range. Girls and guns -- it doesn't get any better than that for a man with a porn habit. Well, I have a little surprise for you, Dana. Mulder will be watching.

He'll watch me pull up your skirt and see me feign amazement that the prim and proper Agent Scully doesn't wear panties.

I already knew you were a whore.

He'll unzip his pants as I push you against the wall and spread your legs.

Such a slut.

He'll see on your face how much you like the pain when I claw you from the inside out with my fingernails.

And a masochist, too. Mulder taught you well.

He'll grab his cock when you grab my hair and he'll be able to tell from the time stamp on the videotape that it was 11:58 when I put my tongue on you for the first time.

Now that's interesting. I didn't have you pegged as a beggar.

When I imagined this, I thought you'd taste like nutmeg or vanilla or that tea you drink all the time, but you taste like a woman so desperate for an orgasm, she would fuck her worst enemy. It's a good flavor on you. Your pride drips sweet on my tongue. Yum.

You'll drop your gun on the concrete floor and the microphones will be listening when your heavy breaths give way to moaning and the moans give way to God's name, then mine. For a few seconds, I'll be all the God you require. Mulder will hear you and hate you for your faithlessness. His trust will collapse when you tumble into my arms and I'll suck away his love from you with my mouth on your breast. The absolution you've offered for a thousand of his betrayals will be meaningless to him. Mulder doesn't reciprocate well. I'm sure you've realized that by now.

Even so, he won't be able to look away. He'll jerk off when he watches me kiss your mouth and cover your face with lipstick and shiny smears of your infidelity. He'll curse you as he comes in his hand and then he'll wipe the mess off his stomach, pick up the sports page and, just like that, your old life will be over.

I'll take care of you, show you around, introduce you to some people. You'll see, life in Hell won't be so different from what you're accustomed to. Sure, it might be difficult at first, but everyone gets used to it eventually. The pay is decent, you'll drive a company car, and staffers get to eat at all the best restaurants. Old men can be almost palatable with the right wine.

Oh, sweetheart, I know it's tough to think about these things right after an orgasm. We can go over all the details later. I have a videotape to deliver now, but we'll do lunch soon, I promise.

Welcome to Hell, Agent Scully. I think you're going to fit right in.

* * *

Your feedback would be very appreciated at izzy_izenthe@yahoo.com.

==
Isabel "Izzy" Izenthe
http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Keep/5048/

"Please leave your values at the front desk."
                  -In a Paris Hotel Elevator