by The Spike
And Alex can't get the taste of Skinner's hot iron kiss off his mouth no
matter what he does. No matter how many times he hides in the shadows
and watches Skinner buckle as he slides his finger up and down the
screen.
Still something, to see that muscled frame quail and shudder at his
lightest touch, to see Skinner's head come up from whatever it has hit
—bar or desk or concrete floor—his eyes black with rage, nostrils
flared, blindly seeking his tormentor like a wounded bull. Yeah, let
A.D. Walter Skinner call the game whatever the fuck he wants, there's no
question of whose hand holds the only gun that matters.
And even so, even though he knows that what he has is power, whatever
spurt of satisfaction it gives never lasts longer than it takes for him
to get hard again, to remember Skinner's hot breath on his face, the
pinning weight of him and the agonizing temptation to yield. Give
over—go belly up and spread his legs and beg for Walter Skinner's
cock in his ass.
And there it is—the taste of iron in his mouth and Alex snaps the lid
of the palmtop closed, slams it into the glove compartment, starts up
the car.
Son. Of. A. Bitch.
You wanna know this? he thinks viciously at remembered-Skinner
playing at sub between his thighs. You want to know what it feels
like to really give it up like that? I sure as fuck hope so, Walter,
because you are about to find the fuck out.
Walter Skinner comes up through layers of chittering blackness and knows
that he's been dead again. Or close.
He's alive now, though. Definitely alive. Naked, face down on a bed—
his own bed—hands cuffed together and over his head to the
headboard. And...
...oh...
...ohhhh...
...fucked. He is being fucked. Long and slow and steady. Smooth glide
in and out, no pain and, Christ, it's been a long time. Feels good
though. So good. He groans. Is answered by a low chuckle.
"Hello, Walter," says Alex Krycek from behind his ear. The voice is
graveled and a little tight. The words are punctuated with a rolling
thrust that forces a cry from deep in Skinner's throat. Oh God, so
close—his own erection being burnished against the sheets by the
driving force of Krycek's hips. Krycek's hands-
hands?
—grasping his ass, thumbs spreading his cheeks to make every stroke
count. And he is weak to it, helpless to it. Pleasure running like a
cold burn under his skin, gathering in his joints, behind his eyes.
He's going to come. Even with Krycek holding to his slow and steady
rhythm, the spiral of tension is accelerating inward. Downward. Going
to come.
No! He won't—he will not go that way. Not like this. And he
clamps down hard enough to make the next stroke knife-edge agony. He
grunts through clenched teeth. Not a sex sound. Sheer force of will,
of pleasure denied and still he hovers on the edge.
Krycek gasps at the sudden compression, hangs on the out-stroke and
catches himself on the selfsame edge. His grip on Skinner's ass flexes
and tightens. He presses his cock in hard, but doesn't thrust again.
Doesn't withdraw.
They balance like that, both trembling, for a long, long moment and the
silent intensity of stillness brings Skinner's focus in to the place
where their bodies join. His ass feels so hot—stretched and tight.
Krycek's cock feels huge inside him. It throbs, or he is throbbing
around it. Hard to tell because the doubled pulses echo through his
flesh, sending out trickles of pleasure that make him want to move. He
bites his lip to pain, wills his hips to stillness but his flesh still
twitches as the nerve-ends fire.
"What's the matter, Walter?" Krycek growls through gritted teeth. "Not
hard enough? Not fast enough? You want me to hurt you more...?"
Skinner denies the rush those words send down his cock, manages a rough
sound that barely passes for contempt.
"Coward," he snarls. To his surprise, Krycek laughs—a high-strung
sound, a little ragged, but real enough.
"That's all right, baby," Krycek answers low and mock-sultry. His
fingertips trace fire across the cheeks of Skinner's ass, sending
shivers up and down his spine. "You take all the time you need."
Time. Jesus. Time is going to kill him here, lay him open like a
prayer book on a plea for mercy. And sure enough, after a time—long
time, short time—Krycek begins to rock. Slow, small. A gentle,
tidal motion without thrust or friction. It wreaks its subtle erosion
on Skinner's control—no rush, no sizzle, just a deep deep ache in
some unguarded portion of his center that sends wave after slow seismic
wave of sensation along every nerve.
No way to deny it now, he's going to come, willing or no...come for Alex
Krycek, moaning like the bitch he's pretending not to be.
Then he hears it—Krycek's ragged breathing, each gasp catching on a
low note deep in his chest. Skinner feels a feral smile curve his lips
back from his gritted teeth. He's got the game now—not a tussle, but
a race and they are neck and neck, cock and ass, in and out and...
oh...
ohhhh...
He feels Krycek's cock jump and thicken inside him—too too sweet to
bear but just as his own wave crashes on the shore the darkness starts
to close around him.
No...!
He howls it in his head, bucking hard against the onrushing dark. But
it's not enough and even as the fire ignites, it dies; pain and pleasure
slip away and everything fades to black.
And back to light. Skinner is lying on his back, not bound, not spitted
on a cock. But not alone. Krycek is lying beside him, fully dressed—
gray sweater over worn black jeans, black boots. He's not asleep, his
hands are folded on his chest. Legs crossed at the ankle. Staring at
Skinner's ceiling. Waiting.
"Get what you wanted?" Skinner growls flatly, wondering how he feels.
His voice is hoarse, throat a little raw. Krycek turns his head on the
pillow, looks at him, face blank and bland as Mulder's.
"I don't know," Krycek says. "Maybe. Did you?"
Skinner snorts. Not quite a laugh.
"Might have if some asshole hadn't pulled the plug."
Krycek looks away with a tiny wince. The closest he's going to get to
'sorry', apparently.
"I don't like to lose."
Skinner shakes his head, amused. He wonders why he isn't angry. But
then again, he knows.
"You're one fucked-up little boy, aren't you?" he says. The way
Krycek's jaw muscles clench under the skin pleases him. As does the
fact that Krycek doesn't roll away. Doesn't rise.
"You going to spank me, Daddy?" Krycek asks. Back to staring up at the
ceiling. His voice is flat, uninterested, and yet...and yet... Skinner
feels his sleepy cock twitch. He reaches down to stroke himself lazily
under the sheets, expecting to find cold, congealing come. To his
surprise, he's clean. Hard to imagine Krycek dabbing at him with a
washcloth. No. He would have used his mouth for this.
Oh, lord...
But was it worship? Or did he feed...? Skinner presses his lips
together to stifle a groan, feels his erection fill his hand.
"Suck me off," he says. He feels the body next to him stiffen but
doesn't wait for a response. Instead, moving on instinct, he rolls
over, grabs Krycek's too-short hair and slams his head back against the
pillow. Just force, brute force. He levers himself up on his knees,
straddles Krycek's chest—soft cotton sweater, body heated, grazing
his ass. His cock is in his fist, hard and slick and dark. He presses
it against Krycek's lips.
Those lips, soft, pale, open slightly at the touch. Reluctantly,
maybe. Krycek's eyes are closed. Face expressionless. He hasn't
struggled at all.
So does he want it? Doesn't he? Skinner has the sudden anxious urge
to check Krycek's groin, ensure that he is hard. He holds there for a
moment, hand trembling a little, crystal cock-tear glittering with the
movement. He looks down at Krycek's fallen angel beauty, the shine of
moisture at the outer corners of his eyes.
You need it, he thinks. You need it and it's who you are, but
sometimes...
...should have been my quest too...
Sometimes...
Been there, boy. Go there every fucking day.
Sometimes you just want something else.
And he looks down at the weapon in his hand, his tool and wills it to
be something else. An offering. A gift.
And:
"Please..." he whispers, hears the tremble in his voice. Feels the
pulse the sound evokes. "Please...?"
Krycek's eyes flutter open on a frown. On disbelief. Skinner can only
shake his head, hold himself open for this. Open, naked. Needing.
Long, long moment watching the dance of shadows across those almond
eyes: doubt to hope to slyness to...something hard and sure. Not
boyish at all. Hands come up to cup him from behind, pull him forward.
Lips open to reveal a pink and pretty tongue.
Those eyes. That gaze is locked on his. No guarantees here. Nothing
like trust. Just two strangers meeting again on a familiar razor's
edge.
The first cut of the sharp, wet tongue makes Skinner gasp. The next and
he is writhing, slain. Krycek's mouth is soft and sure, a warm wet ring
around his cock, he pulls Skinner in deep—taking what he wants. What
he needs.
And Skinner bucks and writhes, cut loose like a flag in a windstorm. So
good. So sweet. To be taken like this. And only by this man, his
enemy. His prey.
Oh God. So close already that his hips are wild, his body anchored only
in Krycek's mouth, trapped between his hands. And when semi-slick
fingers find their way inside him, pierce him like an arrow, he is gone
gone gone.
This time not down into darkness but up, into merciless light.
Back out in the world it's cold. Cold inside his clothes. Cold in the
car but Alex doesn't turn the key right away. Instead he finds himself
staring at the closed hatch of the glove compartment. On impulse, he
slides his fingertips over the brittle vinyl, toggles the hasp. The
hatch falls open. The small, rectangular case rests heavy inside his
jacket.
He can take it out right now and play its deadly game.
He can drive to Chesapeake Bay and toss the fucking thing in and never
play anything ever again.
He can, if he wants, just sit here for the next 400 years, remembering
Skinner's broken cries of need, Skinner's wild, rocking weight on his
chest and the taste...the taste...
He shudders. It had been so...
Christ, and he still hasn't gotten the taste of Walter Skinner out of
his mouth. He almost laughs at that. Enough to break the strange spell
that keeps threatening to bind him here.
Four hundred years. Skinner's cock.
Maybe in the next life, huh?
For now he still has places to do, things to kill, people to be. And
if Skinner gave him something that felt like an oiled key fitting into a
rusty lock, well, it doesn't have to mean any fucking thing at all. Not
in the pitiless glare of what waits, what needs to be done. Certainly
not in the light of what he will make of the man in due time.
Nothing.
Even if his pretty new left hand is shaking as he tosses the palmtop in,
closes the glove compartment and starts up the car.
Not even that.
on of a bitch and son of a bitch and son of a bitch...
