Nabokov’s Apprentice [X-Files]

Nabokov’s Apprentice
by Jennifer-Oksana
Rating: NC-17 for sex and a rather dark set of themes.
Keywords: Slash.
Summary: Stuff happens. If I say any more, I’ll ruin it.
Disclaimer: 1013, CC, FOX, yada yada.

When his hand traces my face, I tremble.

When his lips caress my ear, I shudder in little spasms of delight,
spasms that are a precursor to that little death I will soon experience.
Those sharp spears of unspeakable, delightful sensation, they pale
in comparison to the future.

It’s not even the future, because it’s already happened. Inevitable.
It’s like the French phrase, vient de, except for it needs to refer to
the immediate future, not the immediate past. It happens even as I think
of it.

When my lover’s hand rests on my jacket, one might suppose my heart
speeds up. It doesn’t. It just gets louder, so we can both hear it
beating. I swear it beats the syllables of his name.

Al-ex. Al-ex. Tha-dump, tha-dump, tha-dump. Each syllable ending so
softly that I can keep the rhythm, over and over. Alex. Alex. Alex.

He laughs at me and says my heart beats louder only because it’s guilty.
It wants to remind me exactly who is in my arms. That I am guilty, as
Humbert Humbert was guilty.

Alex, my Lolita. Alex, my man. Oh, my sweet man, with those green eyes,
pretty eyes. A bad little boy, or am I fooling myself? I know what
you’ve done. A man with any scruples at all would condemn you to hell
for eternity– killing my father. Hurting my only friend. He is a
killer.

And I want him.

My lover’s fingers pry at my buttons, tracing my nipples, tracing
patterns and spiking desire over and over. Sweetheart devil darling–
precious dagger, pressed to my heart.

We do not share words any more. All of our words have been bled away,
sweet nothings, angry accusations, sullen blame. It’s as though we
believe that maybe we can forget that this is real.

Forget to remember that it’s my hand pulling off the jacket, being oh-so-
careful with the prosthetic. My poor beautiful boy. My dangerous enemy
whose mouth and teeth and tongue clash with mine, like an ignorant army
by night.

Enemy. Lover. Brother. Entwined in his arms, your arms, my lover with
only one arm, I can’t even just appreciate the sensations, I can’t even
remember to pull off my own shirt, til his sharp whisper breaks the
living, earthy silence.

“You wanna do this or not?”

Of course I do. There is no question.

The shirt comes off, so does his, and the tempo increases. Lolita was
no innocent. Alex is no innocent. Alex is the devil’s minion, the boy
sent from Hell to tempt me.

Alex is easing us into bed. A bed in an anonymous hotel room, my
idea and not his. Alex is without inhibition. For all he cares,
Scully could be sitting next door, watching. And he is beautiful right
now, naked to the waist, a golden boy, a built and muscular man. My man.

Nymphet. Nymphets are adolescent girls, aren’t they? I don’t care.
Alex is a nymphet. Sexual, he’s overtly sexual, he’s the kind of thing
you want to throw against a wall and fuck senseless. I have experienced
many sorts of lust and desire– the desire to survey the beauty of my
Scully. My God, she’s beautiful. I adore her. Other desires linger–
release. Punishment. Self-immolation. Kristen was self-immolation.

But with my nymphet, it’s different; it’s almost all sensation or
something. Or that may be more of me in denial.

When his tongue laps at my navel, my breathing takes on a gasping,
dangerous rhythm. He’s pushing me closer to madness; of course, I could
already be a madman. I may already be a madman.

“Please,” I murmur, threading my hands in his hair. I have to unbutton
my pants myself. Not that he wouldn’t, but there are practical
constraints now. My nymphet’s head rises, he looks at me with those
killer green eyes.

“Me first,” he says. And of course he’s prepared, lube and condoms.
We have an unspoken thing about that. It was his turn to bring the
supplies so we could camp out and play.

“Should I help?” I ask archly, going for the buttons of his fly. He’s
got a magnificent erection, and that only turns me on further.

When my lover’s aroused, he doesn’t fuck around. With his one hand he
shoves me face down into the bed, yanks down the jeans and the boxers,
the simple grey cotton boxers. His legs pin me down, I hear him groan
and fumble at his own jeans.

“Why you first?” I protest into the mattress. His hand traces a path of
fire down my back, all the way to where back becomes ass. I’m burning
up. Into ash. Into nothingness.

“Because–” he pauses and comes down on me hard, chest to back. “Because
I said so.”

The scrambling sounds for lube, condoms, they’re almost amusing. Of
course, the reality of my situation is a bit frightening. I’m pinned
down by the man who killed my father, an assassin who’d most likely
blow my head off if he felt like it. If only.

If only his skin weren’t like molten gold, if only the bite of bead
stubble against my cheek, my chest, my ass weren’t so invited. If only
the fire touches of his tongue and fingers didn’t burn so strongly. If
only every twitch of his muscles didn’t lead me willingly further down
the madman’s path.

He thrusts. So considerate. Well-lubricated. He knows his business.
I always liked that about my Alex, my Lolita in black leather and
jeans. He only fucks up once. Never again.

He thrusts.

My sanity skitters on a straight edge. The world is coming down to
nothing more than the breathless heat generated by fear and hate and
pleasure right here. I’m groaning and whimpering and pleading, and
his one hand snakes around and starts to slide up and down, scratching
my itch.

So considerate.

He thrusts.

I think I’ll stop breathing for good during one of these sessions just
out of sheer delight. That Bruckman guy mentioned autoerotic
asphyxiation, didn’t he? I don’t know. Hypoxia. Don’t knock what works.
Oh, God, just a little more. I can’t hold my breath much longer.
I’m close to that edge.

The straight edge is a razor sharpened til it gleams.

I’m going to fall and be sliced in two.

I’m going to fall–

“ALEX!” I scream, as he falls and takes me with him. Where are we going?
Who knows. Who cares? I come with him, further down the path where
demons fear to tread and the jaws of hell gleam open like my lover’s
green eyes.

When my lover kisses me good-bye, it aches like a thousand razors
slicing into me.

When he pats my ass and zips himself up, it’s like the world shattering.

When he whispers– “same time next week, lover?” I tremble.

This time for a different reason.

A different reason entirely.

END

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