by The Spike
Scotch. Neat. It's been a very long day. And even though it was a
while ago, he keeps seeing the look on Mulder's face when he told him
the case was closed, and it still makes him feel like shit. At the edge
of his vision, he can feel the shift and slide of Krycek's self-control;
anger radiating out from the man on the sofa like heat. How long 'til
the mouthy son of a bitch can't stand the silence anymore? Not long,
he thinks. And presto:
"I'm not going to go away," Krycek says.
Skinner just looks at him. Krycek holds up the Palm Pilot. Skinner's
jaw tightens and he holds the stare. And then he has to give it up.
And Alex just swells with pleasure. Can't hold back his grin.
"Walter Skinner is my bitch," he says, musing, like he just has to have
the taste of it on his tongue. And it's just over the top enough that
Walter remembers who he's dealing with. He shakes his head, ruefully.
"Any asshole with a big enough gun can find himself on top," he says.
"It doesn't mean he is."
Alex's jaw sets, Skinner-like. Walter is amazed to see how much this
means to Krycek. He decides to push it a little. Maybe it's his way
out. Maybe just a chance to play.
"Well, go on, then," he says. "Flip your switch. Lay me out."
Alex glares at him. His thumb hovers over the Palm Pilot, and Walter
can see he's torn. Kind of a thrill in that. Just a little heat
between the legs. Maybe there is something to this.
"Power of life and death, Alex. You can make me hurt," he says. "But I
think you need more than that."
"So I should drop my 'gun', take you on, hand to hand?" he says. "How
stupid do you think I am?"
Walter is looking at him, though. There's a sheen of sweat on Alex's
face. He's holding his mouth, his whole body, rigid. Walter wonders if
he's hard.
"Pretty stupid," he says. "Look, if you came here to give me an order,
give it to me and get out. If you came for something else..."
Alex looks up sharply.
"...you can't get it that way.
"Did you come to give me an order?" Walter asks. Alex, hesitates,
shakes his head, no. "Then put your fucking Gameboy down and come
here."
Alex's thumb hovers again. Shaking. And he closes the case. Puts
the Palm Pilot down on the sofa. Gets up.
Shit, Walter thinks. The boy is looking good tonight. All in black.
Black mock turtle neck. Black boots. Black jeans. Tight across the
thickening bulge at his crotch.
Walter feels the rush. He thinks: the prick could have me. Too bad
he doesn't know it.
Or maybe that's a good thing.
And he spreads his hands in invitation, and Alex goes for it. Comes in
low and dirty for a head butt to the ribs and they go over. Walter
grabs him up in a headlock. Alex lands good, bruising body blows to the
ribs, but Walter gets him down on the carpet. Bears down on him with
sheer weight and gets a submission hold.
"That's not the way," he says. Panting. Alex struggles at the sound of
his voice. He rolls Alex over on his back, rolls on top of him. Length
to length and he can feel the burning heat where their sheathed cocks
meet. Alex looks around, desperately. Writhes.
Walter lowers his head, runs his nose around Alex's ear. Takes the lobe
between his teeth. Bites hard, then sucks gently.
"Fuck!" Alex hisses. Walter chuckles into his neck.
"Come on," he says. "Top me." But he doesn't let up an ounce of
pressure. He runs a hand down Krycek's ribs. Pulls the thin, cotton
shirt free of Krycek's jeans. Slips his hand up, to slide it over the
hot, sweat-slick flesh. Finds a nipple. Tweaks it hard. Alex's head
slams back against the floor and he tries to buck.
Walter leans in and bites the tender throat.
"Don't..." but he doesn't stop. Leaves a mark. Nice ring of teeth.
"That's a point against you, boy," he says. "Want to try again?"
And Alex does. He pries one hand free, grabs the back of Walter's head,
pulls his mouth down for a brutal, biting kiss.
Walter doesn't buck. He grinds. And Alex groans.
"Better," Walter says. "Now tell me that you want me to suck your
cock."
"Wha—?"
"You're making me your bitch," he says. "Remember?"
Alex just stares up at him, hard. Like he's not sure he believes this.
Like he doesn't believe this, but it's too good to pass up.
He tries a grin.
"Okay, bitch," he says. "Suck my cock."
Walter rolls his eyes. But he dives in anyway, takes another kiss that
leaves Alex breathless. Starts to work his way down. Kissing, biting
—real nips that make Alex jump before he writhes.
"Tell me to pay attention to your nipples."
"Yeah...yeah," Alex says. "Suck my nipples."
"You sound like you're begging," Walter says.
"Jesus," Alex says. "Suck my goddamn nipples. Now!"
Almost. Not quite, but fuck—the boy is hot enough to melt lead and
so he complies. Slides up under the cotton shirt. Takes a nipple in
his teeth.
Just holds it there, until Alex says:
"Do it." And then he sucks it into his mouth. Suckles. He wants to
leave another mark.
"Fuck, do it," Alex says. again. "The other one."
"Yes...sir," Walter says, softly. And moves over to the other nipple.
Tugs at it with his teeth. Rolls it. Rasps the trapped bud with his
tongue.
Alex is holding Walter's head with both hands, running his thumbs over
the smooth skin above his ears.
"Christ, Walter—do it. Take me in your mouth. Now."
And it's Walter's turn to gasp a little, because that was convincing.
He gives one last pull on the nipple and moves down between Alex's
thighs. Stops.
"How do you want me?" he asks. Alex looks up, a little stunned.
"Just...just like that," he says. "On your knees like that."
"Dressed or undressed?"
"Son of bitch," Alex growls. "Stop...stop baiting me and get my—"
Punctuating his words with a pointed writhe...
"—cock in your mouth."
"Yes, sir," Walter says again. Less of a jibe this time. Letting
himself feel it. He tears open the button fly. Yanks the jeans down
Krycek's hips, releasing the dusky pink and swollen flesh.
Walter puts his lips to the glistening, rosy head. Looks up.
Alex is glaring down at him, mouth curled into a snarl, eyes dark and
glassy. "Suck. It."
Yeah.
And Walter slides his mouth down around the slippery, salty head.
"Take it all."
Oh yeah—the boy has got it now.
So Walter does. Impales himself, slow and relentless. Swallowing to
lodge the head in his throat, working the muscles around it, making
suction. He tongues long, flat strokes along the shaft. Krycek is
making strangled sounds, trying to buck against Walter's weight. So
good. And Walter is falling into pleasure, letting go.,,
He pulls off, sucking hard.
"Like this?" he asks, through gritted teeth.
"Yeah, like... like that."
"You want more?"
"More. Yeah."
The helpless need in Krycek's voice goes through him. He could take it
all back, here and now. Break the boy, make him beg. But, fuck, so
close to something else. Something... more.
And fuck, what difference does it make? That gorgeous cock in front of
his face doesn't care one way or another. And that's enough. He lowers
his mouth to take Alex in again. Sucks and suckles. Fucks his own face
up and down. Alex is making harsh, breathless sounds his throat now.
Hips rolling under Walter's mouth.
Give it up, baby, he thinks, liking the swing and sway of power in his
mouth. But sudden, surprising hands grasp his head, hold it still.
"Listen to me, Walter," Alex growls, low and harsh. Different than
before. Something about his voice sends a real, cold thrill to Walter's
gut and he stops, listens:
"I want you to jerk yourself off." Walter tries to lift his head, but
Alex holds him still. The cock down his throat is throbbing and hard.
"I want to jerk—I want you to jerk yourself off, with my cock in your
mouth. Just like this. Do it, Walter."
Like a shot of molten steel to the balls, and Walter whimpers—Christ, that helpless sound—around that cock and finds himself
scrabbling to yank his fly open. Balanced on his knees and anchored by
the cock—Alex Krycek's cock—solid and throbbing in his throat.
He pulls himself out—fingers cool on his fever-hot flesh. Already
slick and wet. And he takes himself in his fisted grasp. Groans.
"Getting good to you, Walter?"
Groans again and strokes. Tries to move his head up along the shaft in
his mouth, but Alex's grip is iron.
"Don't fucking move, Walter. Just your hands. Just like that."
And Walter does. Just his hands. Long practiced strokes and the heat
spirals up fast. Heat pulling in from his limbs, making every inch of
flesh aware. Feeling himself, slick flesh encased in shirt and tie;
wool pants softly abrading his ass: shoes and socks like lead weights
on his feet. Good, growling ache in his joints from being crouched over
his own hard dick. Alex Krycek's cock down his throat. And Alex
talking to him. Stroking the naked flesh of his head and murmuring.
"That's right, Walter. You do what I say. You do what I tell you now.
Just like that. Stroke it hard. No, don't move."
The rasp of his own throaty, abandoned noises—no choices to be made,
nothing to be weighed, just the pursuit of his own pleasure. At Alex
Krycek's command.
His hips are rocking now. He's getting close. And Alex has started to
rock too, thrust up into his throat. Reflexively, he pushes down onto
the pressure.
Feels a sharp smack on the top of his head.
"I told you not to move, Walter. I think there might...there might be
consequences for that..."
Consequences. The word fucks his head like a cold steel blade.
And that's all he needs. Thrusting hard into his own hands, and he can
feel the pressure gathering in his balls; feels it expanding in his
throat. Slow, hard pulse between his palms, and then he's coming, hot
and thick, and his incoherent scream is muffled around the solid
obstruction in his throat.
And even as he screams, Alex is thrusting hard into the sound. Still
holding Walter's head, riding his mouth until his thrusts turn jerky and
Alex makes a breathless noise and shoots. So hot in Walter's mouth.
The taste of him like a drug. He swallows, feels the warm drip of it
overflowing his chin. Laps after it.
Christ.
Alex lets him go and he rolls over. They lie there in silence for
while. Heartbeats slow to something like normal.
"How'd I do?" Alex asks. Walter winces, but he feels all warm inside.
"E for effort." he growls.
"How about C for you came all over yourself, big boy."
"Yeah, I'll give you that."
Krycek sits up, looks down at Walter still sprawled out on the rug. His
eyes are bright, glistening green with excitement.
"You'll give me everything, eventually," he says. "I'm gonna like
that."
"Maybe," Walter concedes. He reaches up, strokes his palm softly along
Krycek's jaw. Krycek's eyes narrow minutely with pleasure and he leans
into the touch...
And Walter grabs him by the throat—fingers digging into tender,
marked flesh and Alex's gasp cut off by lack of air. Walter levers
himself up in one smooth move to take Krycek's mouth in a brutal kiss.
The taste of copper blossoms and he holds it just long enough to feel
the man respond, feel the give, then shoves him roughly back.
The split second of naked need in Krycek's face—thin thread of blood
along his lip—brings the tilting scales back in line. And Walter
grins.
"But I think you like taking what I give you, even more," he says, and
then adds softly: "Bitch." And he stretches back out on the floor and
watches, with grim amusement and satisfaction, the way Alex doesn't look
at him as he gets hurriedly to his feet, tucks his shirt back into his
pants and scoops up the Palm Pilot from the sofa.
And even after Alex slams wordlessly out the door, he still lies there,
feeling the echo of satisfaction pulsing in his veins.
He has no idea of who has won this round, or when the next round will
take place. He only knows that it isn't over yet and that, for once,
he's found someone who knows how to play the game.
Or who, at very least, seems more than willing to learn.
The. End.
old Wednesday night. Late. Assistant Director Walter Skinner arrives
home to find Alex Krycek sitting on his sofa, Palm Pilot in hand.
Walter sees him there, but ignores him. He hangs up his coat, puts his
briefcase away, goes and pours himself a drink.
