Impulse
by Te
12/98

Disclaimers: Do I wish they were mine? Every damned
night. 

Spoilers: Vague reference to FTF.

Ratings Note: NC-17 for poor language and m/m 
smut.

Summary: It seemed like a good idea at the time.

Author's Note: Several months of vague Sk/K fantasies 
and attempt number two to quit smoking turned into 
this. Hopelessly AU, but I'd like to point out that both 
this and its sequel were written well before S.R. 819... 
*sigh*

Acknowledgments: To Sister Blue, for being a lovely 
addition to any soul. To Kass, for helpful suggestions and 
fine, fine audiencing, to a certain dearly departed list 
for love and encouragement, and to Rye and Pretty Pretty 
Dawn Pares for fine beta. All remaining mistakes are 
entirely my own fault. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Impulse
by Te
Daddy793@aol.com
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Alex wasn't entirely sure why he was in Walter Skinner's 
apartment. It was cold, yes. His laziness in acquiring new 
apartments in the D.C. area had resulted in his being left 
-- albeit temporarily -- homeless when Mrs. Jerzyk's 
mislaid cigarette had left the entire tenement (including 
Mrs. Jerzyk herself) sludgy ash amid the impure January 
snows, yes. He'd wanted to be warm for a night, yes.

But Crystal City...

The last time he'd been here had been a... lark. He'd been 
shitfaced, out of work after the Brit's untimely demise, 
and out of cigarettes. In a gin-soaked haze, he'd decided 
that, ultimately, all he really needed was something to 
suck on. In retrospect, it hadn't been all that difficult 
to file said lark under "half-assed death wishes" in his 
mind, but the night itself had been... good. 

A relatively easy break-in, the heavy silence of a Skinner 
at rest, his own pounding heart louder than his progress up 
the stairs. And in the heat of late July, Skinner had been 
sleeping covered by nothing more substantial than a pair of 
old boxers. Slipping onto the bed had been an exercise in 
terrified exhilaration. Slipping the head of the cut, 
nicely-defined cock into his mouth had been an act of near-
instinct.

His thoughts on the way to the complex had been nowhere 
near clear, but the intention had, apparently, burned 
itself on Alex's brain at some point: Get in, suck cock, 
see what happens next. 

What happened next had been a sleepy groan utterly at odds 
with the sparklingly alert expression on Skinner's face. 
Alex met the blackly ophidian gaze with a flare of 
unsatisfied want in his belly that he did his best to 
transfer into the restless motions of lips and tongue.

Catching the man asleep had been a good, useful move on his 
part, Alex decided. Skinner's cock was hard on his tongue, 
leaking salt and mildly gamy fluid, delicious. The 
sensation was of that needful simplicity that speaks of 
inchoate addiction and shorts out the forebrain in favor of 
sluttish, animal abandon.

Alex hadn't realized he'd closed his eyes and taken the man 
deep until he felt the broad, ungentle fingers in his hair, 
holding him still. Holding him close for the ragged thrusts 
of a Skinner in need.

It was a happy thought, and Alex hmmed his pleasure, 
slipping his hand along one lightly furred thigh, up and up 
until he could cradle the soft skin of Skinner's balls, 
roll them lightly, feel them tighten. Skinner was going to 
come in his mouth, and the only thing Alex felt about the 
prospect was the joy unique to the completion of any goal. 

"Krycek--"

The use of the name could have broken the spell, but the 
rough stretch of his throat, the throb of the other man's 
cock... it was all more than enough to keep him in that 
safe space. Keep him down and sucking. Skinner came hard 
after only a few more thrusts, and Alex pulled off just 
enough to taste, resisting the near spastic press of the 
other man's hand on the back of his skull. 

Dirty and good and when the pulses had finished, Alex 
dutifully lapped away those few drops that had escaped his 
greedy mouth, then rested his forehead lightly in the 
hollow of Skinner's pelvis. A few moments of harsh 
breathing on both their parts and then Alex became aware 
that the other man's hand had never quite left when the 
fist tightened in his hair and hauled his head upright.

"What the hell are you doing here, Krycek?"

"Sucking your cock."

"I hope you don't think this means--"

"I got what I wanted. Just let me go and I'll be out of 
your... hair."

Skinner's expression was bemused through the satiation and 
basic bulldog anger. He seemed puzzled as to whether he 
should take the opportunity to ask more questions or 
perhaps just punch Alex in the face while it was handy. All 
he did, though, was to shake his head briefly and release 
Alex's hair. 

Alex ran his hand over his tender scalp, not missing the 
brief shudder of the other man's thigh as the cuff of his 
jacket ran over it, and turned to leave without another 
word. All the way downstairs he could feel Skinner 
listening for trouble, and had to restrain the urge to 
graffito the walls with his dripping cock. It was 
difficult, but he made it out the door without incident. 

And then went back to the roach-infested hole of the moment 
and jerked off while trying to imagine the feel of blunt, 
impersonal fingers probing his ass. 

And then proceeded to forget all about it until just last 
night. It had always been easy to let his mind become a 
sieve. Sometimes too easy...

But there had been cold, there had been homelessness, there 
had been a vague sense of wanton mischief. But all he'd 
done upon breaking in this time was to curl up on Skinner's 
couch and wait for... whatever. When he'd awakened there'd 
been a blanket tucked loosely around his body. And a large, 
expressionless Skinner staring down at him with his arms 
crossed. 

On most people, such a profound lack of obvious emotion 
could be described as bland, or dull. Alex was willing to 
concede that unfortunate positioning may have had something 
to do with his reaction to that face, but there was a 
distinct loom to the man, a sense of impending... 
*something*... that was impossible to ignore. Merely a 
function of positioning or no, it was certainly inspiring. 

"We're having oatmeal."

Alex blinked, tried to think of an appropriate response, 
gave up on the attempt as pointless, and simply said, "OK."

And they'd had oatmeal -- Alex with an amount of cream and 
pecans that even *he'd* felt was moderately obscene -- and 
now Alex was standing in front of the kitchen counter, 
wordlessly, mindlessly, awkwardly drying the dishes 
Skinner, beside him, had washed. There were times he wished 
he understood his own impulses better, if for no other 
reason than to have something in his head beyond 'huh?' at 
times like these. 

He shrugged internally and nudged the other man lightly, 
eyeing the dried bowls pointedly. 

"Third cabinet from the left, next to the dinner plates."

That little voice was still whispering of confusion, and 
there was a distinct prickle beginning at his nape, but 
Alex carefully tucked the dishes between his arm and his 
body and put them away. At some point, the What Happens 
Next impulse had crept back and Alex was in its thrall. 

As he was placing the utensils neatly back in the drawer, 
Skinner asked,

"What are you doing here *this* time?"

"I wanted to get some sleep, and I did. Breakfast was nice, 
though." Alex was fully aware of how annoying his tone was.

"Why *here*? What makes you think you can just come here 
and... take what you want?"

Brief hesitation in the low, earthen rumble of Skinner's 
voice and that was all it took to make Alex turn just 
enough to eye the other man from beneath his lashes. "I 
take what I can get... Walter."

Skinner lowered his brows darkly for a moment, and the next 
thing Alex was aware of was a rough hand circling his 
throat, not lifting him but poised to do so. There was a 
thumb pressing with mild intent on his windpipe, and Alex 
wasn't sure whether it was the sensation or his own 
helpless cough that jolted his cock to shameless, joyful 
life. 

Alex met Skinner's gaze as steadily as he could, but was 
unable to fully resist the urge to let his vision blur 
around the edges. It wasn't that Skinner was cutting off 
his oxygen so much as he was cutting off all drives toward 
machismo. The man was obviously feeling alpha malish, and 
the best way to cope with that had *always* been a timely 
surrender. Of sorts. 

And then he was being spun to face the counter, his jeans 
pushed down to puddle around his ankles. And Skinner had 
one hand on the back of his neck and the other was pressing 
suggestively against his boxers, sliding up and down the 
crack of his ass. 

Jesus.

"So that's your philosophy, Krycek?"

"Hmmm...?" He was quite sure he sounded like an idiot, and 
sincerely hoped the way he was bucking back against the 
hand was compensating for it. 

Down went the boxers and the marble of the countertop was 
cool and intoxicating against the head of his cock. And 
Skinner's thumb never stopped teasing his entrance. 

"Take what you can get, whenever you can get it?"

It sounded pretty good to Alex. "Sounds pretty good to 
me..."

His IQ was somewhere in the vicinity of his pants but he 
just couldn't care. There was some worry about the 
roughness of the inevitable coming fuck, but he was quickly 
losing concern for such niceties. 

Skinner's hot mouth on the side of his throat, Skinner's 
other hand moving down to his waist, cruelly bypassing 
Alex's twitching cock to slide up under his sweater and 
play with his nipples. Alex moaned and twisted for more 
contact. 

"Are you always such a slut?"

It could've been, hell, probably had been intended as an 
insult. Perfect butch behavior toward those men said 
butches couldn't help but want to fuck through the nearest 
wall... but the voice was too hoarse, and the hands were 
too intent on teasing Alex's wanting flesh for him to take 
the question even remotely seriously. 

Alex snickered breathlessly and continued to writhe. "No, 
Walt, you just... just *do* something to me." Just enough 
truth to the statement to make his gut clench wonderfully, 
just enough assholery to make Walter chuckle against his 
shoulder and bite him hard.

It was precisely this sort of occasion that made it so 
*difficult* for Alex to resist his basic impulsiveness. He 
made a mental note to worry about that later, though, 
because suddenly there was slick wetness against his ass. 
Alex's knees nearly buckled at the simultaneous urges to 
giggle and moan. 

"You brought... brought *lube* to breakfast?"

The immediate response was a blunt, yet curiously gentle 
finger up his ass --

"Oh fuck--"

-- the secondary: a low, darkly cheerful whisper in his ear 
of, "I used to be a boy scout."

It was the perfect opportunity for some mildly perverse 
commentary on the supposed nature of Walter's time in short 
pants and sashes, but all his throat seemed willing to 
provide was a series of short, stuttery groans, roughly in 
time to the fingers -- two now -- twisting and tormenting 
him.

Walter appeared to have no interest in moving on, and Alex 
began to wonder if it was his own fault. As much as he 
enjoyed being fucked with actual cocks, there was certainly 
nothing particularly inferior about skillful fingers, 
dildoes, bottles, whatever. Alex knew that, if there had 
been a mirror in front of him, he'd be assaulted with the 
sight of, well, a slut. He was working himself hard on 
Walter's fingers. 

Oblivious to the world, in motion for nothing but his own 
pleasure. Dimly, through his own haze, he could hear Walter 
whispering obscene encouragement, do it, fuck yourself, 
faster, and it was all just fine for Alex, because he was 
getting precisely what he'd wanted -- at some point. The 
fact that he couldn't pin down precisely *when* he'd 
decided that he wanted to do this, be this, for Walter was 
entirely irrelevant. 

It was happening with precise correctness, and that was all 
that mattered. Alex decided vaguely that the implementation 
of plans for vague, open-ended goals was a better idea than 
he'd previously allowed and continued to let his body do 
everything he wanted to, agreeing with everything Walter 
said through the motion of his hips and whatever wordless 
cries he could manage.

"... have to fuck you now..."

The words sank in, but Alex still whimpered a little at the 
loss of those fingers. Ached at his own need for *more*, 
tossing his head, fully aware that he looked like little 
more than a fly-maddened horse at the gate. Finally, 
finally, Alex felt the head of Walter's gloved cock pressed 
against him.

"Yes..."

That was a definite word, and he was proud of himself for 
its production. Firm hands on his hips, steadying him for 
the slow, inexorable assault on his body. Alex strained 
against the pressure, desperate to push himself fast and 
hard onto Walter's cock, but Walter wouldn't allow it. He'd 
have bruises tomorrow, and wondered if he still owned any 
jeans low-slung enough to show them off, somewhere. 

Inch by slow inch, and it occurred to him through the vivid 
mental image of a Walter straining and gasping -- he could 
hear the gasps -- that this slow torture was for no one's 
benefit but Walter's. He didn't want to come too fast, and 
that was both gratifying and annoying.

It was nice to know he was just that sexy, but, as far as 
Alex was concerned, if Walter came too fast he could just 
jerk off, secure in his well-fucked condition. Few decent 
men seemed to understand that, though, and the rest... the 
rest didn't bear deep thought. 

"Walter, please--"

Brief, painful tightening on his hipbones and then Walter 
was sinking in the rest of the way with a glide that lost 
some of its smoothness with speed. Perfect. Alex steadied 
himself on his hand and breathed deep, savoring the brief 
space of seconds he knew he'd be allowed. But Walter yanked 
him back up against his chest and held him there, slick 
hand slipping down to Alex's cock. Squeezing and pulling 
with expert strokes.

Alex cried out and let his head fall back against one broad 
shoulder, slipped his hand back to brace himself on 
Walter's thigh and began to fuck himself. Walter caught his 
rhythm and took over immediately, moving one hand back down 
to hold onto Alex's hip again while he thrust. 

Stroke, snap, and roll. These were the only things that 
moved through Alex's mind as Walter set to work. He had no 
idea what he was doing there, and he had no idea what had 
taken him so long. Walter took his mouth suddenly, 
awkwardly, and Alex sucked the man's tongue happily, moving 
his hips in practiced glides, moaning continuously.

Walter's cock was a force unto itself, a skewer, a pivot to 
some small universe of dark need and short-circuited 
rationality. It was the only home Alex had ever wanted, a 
place where responsibility, speech, anything and everything 
beyond flesh and teeth and muscle was rendered useless, if 
not entirely illegal. 

There was no room here for thought and if Alex had wanted 
to say anything at all, Walter's bite to his throat was 
more than enough warning away from such things.

A little bliss for a moment of forever, a deep thrust to 
catch Alex where he needed it most, and Walter was jerking 
his dick faster and harder in a way that spoke volumes of 
the man's own proximity to the brink. 

The shout at his ear was a shock to his system, pulling out 
an answering call of affirmation and pleasure in this, just 
this and Alex wanted their corner of reality to fold in on 
itself and pocket, create their own endless present of musk 
and sweat and shuddering wails, but instead lost himself to 
Walter's complete loss of control as he came. 

No rhythm to the thrusts beyond that of the other man's 
undoubtedly irregular heartbeat, and this, *this* was what 
Alex always craved -- the undeniable proof of his power 
over powerful men in their helpless grasps at his body, in 
their mindless orgasms. 

Always perfect, always enough, and at the mildly convulsive 
but clearly restrained last squeeze of his cock, Alex 
followed suit, screaming.

Immediately boneless, Alex nearly slumped to the floor 
before Walter caught and held him close again, shaking 
himself. They stood there for long moments of caught breath 
and shivers. Gradually, Alex became aware of the ticking of 
the kitchen clock and struggled a bit in the other man's 
grasp. Walter tightened his hold for an intriguing moment 
before letting him go. 

Alex bent dizzily to pull up his boxers and jeans, didn't 
bother with refastening them just yet. Walter just kicked 
off his own jeans, but did pull up the boxers. Alex 
indulged himself with a long look at the well-muscled 
thighs, the beautifully defined torso beneath the other 
man's tee -- hopelessly translucent in several places with 
their sweat. It probably took longer than he would've liked 
to admit to reach Walter's eyes, dark as ever and -- mostly 
-- unreadable.

Alex licked his lips once before speaking, was rewarded 
with a lovely narrowing of the near-black gaze.

"So, Walter... did you get what you wanted?"

Slow, wicked smile and Alex was shivering again.

"I'm not through with you yet... Alex."

The new year was definitely shaping up pleasantly...

~~~~
End.
~~~~