Title: "Great Men"
Spoilers: "Two Fathers"
Keywords: K/Sp, Slash, PWP
Rating: NC-17
Feedback: Pyrephox18@aol.com
Disclaimer: Take my apologizes, oh great Carter! I've been naughty
with your
creations.
Summary: Missing scene from Two Fathers.
Author's Note: This was just dying to be written. I can see the
audience turning
green already at the thought of NC-17 with Spender, but hey, *I*
think the
fellow's about to redeem himself, and knowing Carter, bite the
bullet soon
afterward. So ... consider this a particularly smutty dirge for
the
not-yet-fallen. Oh, and it's not healthy sex. Not at all.
***************
"I'll be my own great man," Spender muttered, and went
to brush past the
"baby-sitter" his father had assigned. A baby-sitter
that had to do *his* job
for him. The fact that he found himself increasingly more reluctant
to do that
job meant nothing. The failure was just another flash in the glare
of his own
incompetence. His shoulder struck Krycek's, and he pushed stubbornly,
reluctant to give ground, even though no one gave a damn anyway.
The slick
leather-clad shoulder gave way, and Spender couldn't resist a
brief surge of
satisfaction. That was before the one-armed man moved, a lightning-quick
strike reminiscent of an enraged cobra.
Before he could do more than draw a startled breath, Spender found
himself
kissing the cool fabric of the sofa, one arm wrenched high behind
his back, the
other pinned by the impossibly heavy weight of Krycek's prothesis.
The
"baby-sitter's" lean body was flush against his bent
back, his breathing slow
and steady at Spender's ear. He pressed closer still, until they
were touching
from ankle to shoulder; Spender felt his breath catch and hiss
in his throat, as
his chest protested the force with which he was held against the
sofa's upper
edge. The constriction made it hard to get the breath for speaking,
which must
have been why his voice, striving for anger and authority, came
out like a
plea, "Get... *off*... of me, you son of a bitch!"
"Not until you've learned the lesson, Junior." Krycek's
voice was a silken
whisper, mocking in it's easy grasp of the control Spender had
reached for.
"Lesson?" Spender demanded, or made a brave attempt
to demand, "What the
fuck are you talking about? Get off of me or..." His breath
was cut off with
abrupt and painful certainty as the man above him leaned heavily
into him.
With no noticeable change in tone, Krycek continued, "Lesson
number one:
great men do not react in anger. Anger invites exposure ... exploitation..."
As
he spoke, his arm released Spender's own, and slithered out from
between
their bodies. Easily suppressing Spender's off-balance attempt
to free his
arms, Krycek's free hand wandered languidly from his prisoner's
shoulder,
beneath the jacket, along the sleek lines of Spender's surprisingly
well-toned
body. "...violation..." Krycek whispered, as the hand
wandered boldly near,
then below, his waistline.
Spender heard himself gasp in a ragged intake of air, and his
whole body
flushed. "What the hell do you think you're doing!?"
His voice was given
strength by sick fear. They couldn't know ... no one knew ...
his blood seemed to
freeze, as Krycek's hand dipped low ... he heard the sharp sound
of a snap
giving way, then his gun was torn from his belt, and nudged gently
against his
sweat-slick temple.
"...and ultimately, defeat." Spender sagged bonelessly
for a moment, relief
flooding his muscles. "What did you *think* I was doing,
Junior?" The
whisper against his ear was amused, all smug superiority. Unable
to help it,
Spender bristled, reuniting the line of their bodies that had
disintegrated in
his slump of relief. Only this time, there was something different.
Krycek pressed into him again, making the change in contour all
the more
apparent, as the fabric-blunted bulge of his erection scraped
against
Spender's buttocks. "Is this what you thought I was doing?"
Krycek purred,
and the warm gust of air sent signals to Spender's body that the
man's mind
tried desperately to ignore.
"I don't... know... what you're talking about. Now, *get
off*!" Spender gasped,
his voice rising in near panic on the last two words. He could
still smell the
copper-and-sulfur of the dissolving thing not ten feet away. Not
here, he
prayed, oh God, not here.
God was either busy, or had abandoned his darker children, for
the only
answer was a barely audible chuckle, "Oh, Junior, I will
... if you're good, I
might even take you along with me..."
The gun at his temple wavered, and Spender heard the *snick*
of the safety.
A moment later, the gun sailed past his head, to land a tantalizingly
short
distance away. He stared at it with barely seeing eyes, most of
his mind
busily processing Krycek's last words. I'm screwed, he thought,
and
wondered how long before the phrase could be applied in a fuller
sense of
the word. And then he wondered why he wasn't fighting back.
After throwing the gun away, Krycek paused. He seemed to be waiting
for
something. Spender could see the man's one hand out of the corner
of his
eye, resting easily on the sofa. Only the raging hard-on pressed
insistently
against Spender's back betrayed the facade of indifference that
had replaced
the teasing. "What the fuck? Having second thoughts?"
Spender growled the
words, refusing to analyze the irrational surge of anger that
prompted
them.
Above him, he could *feel* Krycek's smile, a hot and dangerous
baring of
teeth near his throat. "Just waiting on you to have your
first ones."
Yet again, Spender realized, someone was talking to him like a
teacher to a
not-particularly-bright child. Well, fuck *that*. He may not be
the most
competent FBI agent, or conspirator, and he sure as hell wasn't
any
insane-golden-boy like Fox Fucking Genius Mulder, but *this* he
could do.
He arched against his captor, wincing at the pangs from his arm,
and
rubbed his body along the one above in a slow, graceful movement
that
would barely have been believed from those that thought they knew
him.
He felt the whistle of air past his ear as Krycek sucked in a
hasty breath.
Krycek's hand dropped in an almost startled movement to the sharp
bones of
his hips, but Spender couldn't tell if it was to steady him, or
urge him on.
Not that it mattered, at this point in the game. The hand slid
around his
waist, almost like before, but instead of stopping at the empty
holster, this
time it continued down to his inner thigh, then crept upwards
to the crotch.
Spender's own erection was in full bloom, and the hand hovering
so close
was the sweetest kind of torture.
Spender strained his hips closer without shame, and tried once
again to
twist his arm free of the prosthesis that trapped it, failing.
Krycek's voice
rasped out of sight, "Lesson number two: great men know when
to let
others take the lead..." Any reply Spender might have mustered
was
whipped away, as Krycek began exploring the distended contours
of
Spender's pants. He lingered with amazing attention over each
blurred
curve, stroking here and there with a casual possessiveness that
seemed to
leave scorch marks wherever he touched.
By the time Krycek had worked his way up to Spender's belt buckle,
they
were both panting in harsh asyncronisation, the touch of each
other's
masked bodies leaping between like black lightning. The belt came
off
considerably faster than it had gone on that morning, Spender
noted in a
bemused and detached part of his mind as his pants and briefs
pooled around
his ankles, one of the advantages of a lover with only one arm,
he supposed.
Then that one hand slipped around his newly freed cock, and all
pretense of
rational thought exploded.
The hand, rough and cool against Spender's heated flesh, made
a few lazy
circles around the tip, sampling the fluid that gathered there
and spreading
it in a thin glaze over palm and fingers. The shaft jumped beneath
his hand
as Krycek stroked downward, encircling it completely. Spender
cried out at
the first stroke, the sound rung involuntarily from his lips.
As the stroke
was followed by another, then a rhythm, falling in and out of
time with his
racing heartbeat, Spender could feel the desert wind rush of some
plateau,
scouring his soul to the whispered, meaningless words that filled
his ears.
Seconds, minutes, or hours later, Spender began to shake, to
beg, his voice
harsh and loud; he heard that mocking, soft laughter, and didn't
care. His
hips were grinding mindlessly into his hand, his ass slapping
back into the
cradle of Krycek's crotch. Every muscle in his body froze, and
reality
shattered into a million screaming pieces.
When up and down rearranged themselves, Spender found himself
leaning
with both hands braced on the arm of the chair, his pants and
underwear
around his ankles, and a creeping sense of just how stupid he
had just been.
He straightened with the audible snap of a popping joint, then
flushed
darkly as he hurriedly bent to pick up his clothes. When he'd
replaced the
briefs, he looked around, and looked in confusion to Krycek.
The other man smirked, his eyes blank and dark. "Lesson number
three:
great men know how to manage time. And time is running out."
Spender's eyes flew wide, and the flush returned, this time for
an entirely
different reason. "Mom! That bastard's going to murder her!"
He fumbled on
the pants, and raced for the door of the house. Krycek followed
after a
second, glancing first at the puddle of goo that used to be alive,
then at the
snakelike length of Spender's belt, curled near the foot of the
couch. He left,
sparing not another glance for either of them.
The End.
***********
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