"Palm Pilot II: Upgrade" (1/1)
by Spike

Disclaimers: not mine, no evil intent
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: S.R. 819
Summary: Round two.
Thanks: Alicia, for superquick beta and patience: to Nonie, for being in my aether.

"Palm Pilot II: Upgrade"
by Spike

Son of a bitch and son of a bitch and son of a bitch...

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...



...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-


--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...



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.


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...


//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.


"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 a 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.


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.