Summary: Skinner is rewarded for a tough week at the Bureau. Takes place after SR819.
Pairing: It's a surprise.
Rating: NC-17
Archive: Ask, please: I always say yes.
Disclaimer: These are the property of CC, Fox and 1013: besides that, who cares!

The mirror's reflection of the vodka bottle on the coffee table was Skinner's first indication that all was not right in his apartment.

He kept on hanging up his coat, stashing his briefcase in the closet, using the actions to mask the drawing of his weapon.

"Not a good idea," said a voice from the depths of the leather armchair still in the shadows.

Skinner stilled. "Krycek." Turned to find the interloper comfortable, sprawled sideways, legs over the arm of his favourite chair.

Krycek saluted Skinner with the glass he held in his prosthetic hand. In the other, his own, he held the palm pilot.

"You look tired, Skinner. Things not going well at the office?"

Skinner ignored Krycek's sympathetic tone. Tried to ignore the thumb hovering over the palm pilot. The sinking feeling in his stomach. Perfect ending for the week he'd just had.

"What do you want, Krycek?" He tried to put some authority into his voice; it came out only sounding tired.

Krycek finished his drink. "First, put that gun on the table. Now, pour yourself a drink and refill mine. Good. Now sit down there on the couch."

Krycek sipped his drink, waiting for Skinner to join him.

"As I was saying, you look tired. That's not good. I don't want you stressed this way. And I know the reason you're stressed is because of Mulder."

Krycek sighed. "Shit hit the fan big time this week. Monday, he got himself thrown off that military base. Tuesday, you had to placate Agent Spender because Mulder broke into his office. Wednesday, you discovered he'd taken off for Iowa without permission. Thursday, you had to deal with the Des Moines office, the state and local police. And today, you not only had Cancerman harassing you all day, but the budget committee about Mulder's expenses the last time he decided to go investigating on his own."

Krycek shook his head, commiserating.

Skinner closed his eyes, rested his head back against the top of the couch. Listening to Krycek's litany (How the hell had he known all that?) brought back all the frustrations that had accumulated over the week.

The worse of it was that Krycek was right: it was all due to Mulder. When he got his hands on the bastard...

But that was the problem. No one knew where Fox Mulder had disappeared to. Not Scully. Not Cancerman. (Else why would he have ensconced himself in Skinner's office all day, till the air was thick with the smoke of all those damn cigarettes?)

He'd even stopped by Mulder's apartment on the way home after getting the keys from Scully.

Nothing.

He took another swallow of some of the best vodka he'd ever drunk. "Private source?" he raised his glass.

Krycek grunted, watched Skinner finish his drink. In a graceful move, he swung his feet to the floor, carefully gripped the bottle in his new super-duper plastic hand and refilled Skinner's glass. Poured some into his own. "Imported from a small St. Petersburg producer. Hits the spot, doesn't it?"

Skinner raised the glass. God! He was tired. Hadn't eaten since breakfast and here it was 8:30. He knew he was getting drunk. But what the hell! Maybe it would dull the pain when Krycek started playing with that thing in his hand.

But Krycek merely resettled in the armchair, quietly watching Skinner make his way through his drink, occasionally taking a sip from his own.

"Got a surprise for you," he finally said.

Skinner knew it was going to come now. Wondered how long Krycek would torture him. Wondered why he suddenly found he didn't much care.

"Why don't you come with me."

Skinner stifled the impulse to ask why Krycek couldn't just torture him here on the couch and, with a moan, pushed himself up. He had a bit of trouble with his balance there for a moment, but he hadn't been a Marine for nothing. A deep breath and stiffly, if not steadily, he followed Krycek up the stairs to his bedroom.

Krycek waited for him, leaning against the doorframe. With a gallant gesture of his hand, he directed Skinner in and turned on the light.

Skinner froze. His jaw fell open. His heart stopped then took up beating in double time.

There, on his bed, was Fox Mulder.

Spreadeagle.

Wrists tied to the headboard, ankles to the top of the baseboard. Tied with some of Mulder's flashy ties.

Almost naked except for the gag, the harness strapped around his hips, bisecting his groin. Black leather against that beautiful white skin.

Couple of pillows under his head. Couple more under that tight runner's ass, propping it up.

Skinner felt all his blood pool in his groin. "Jesus!" he whispered.

"Thought you needed a little tension releaser, Skinner," said Krycek as he reached into his pocket, put something into Skinner's hand.

Skinner still hadn't moved. "What?" obviously not having heard a word of what had been said to him.

Krycek snickered. God! He really was enjoying this! Wondered if Skinner was even remotely aware of the boner he'd sprouted.

He patted Skinner on the shoulder, hard, to get his attention. Held up the palm pilot. "Take your clothes off, Walter."

Finally had Skinner's full attention. Well, as much of it as Skinner could give him. "What?"

"Take off your clothes, Walter," Krycek repeated. "You're too tense. At this rate, you're going to give yourself a heart attack. You won't be of any use to me if this continues. Now Mulder here is responsible for all that tension you've been under. So, it's only fair that he help you get rid of it."

Skinner was finally aware he had something in his hand. A bottle of lube. "Krycek, I can't..."

"Yes, you can," interrupted Krycek. "Look down at yourself, Skinner, and tell me you can't. Come on, Walter. Think of the week you've had. All because of him. He owes you, Walt. Big time."

Skinner was just drunk enough to be torn between his common sense and his pulsating cock. Krycek pushed him over the edge. "Do it, Skinner, or I get to play with my new Gameboy."

Skinner tossed the lube onto the bed, suddenly aware that all along Mulder had been making noises of some kind behind the gag. His hand hesitated at his tie. Could he do this? It had been years since he'd fucked a man. Weeks since he'd had a woman. And Mulder was a treat, lying there, gift-wrapped, so to speak, just for him. And God knows, the man had been a pain in the butt since day one. Maybe it was time to return the favour.

He finished unbuttoning his shirt, tossed it onto the floor. Toed his shoes and socks off. Pants, briefs joined the shirt.

Krycek settled his shoulders comfortably against the door and watched.

Mulder was shaking his head, yelling something behind the gag. Skinner ignored the sounds, concentrated on that beautiful white skin.

He sat by Mulder's hips.

As if watching through Krycek's eyes, Skinner saw a hand, his hand, reach out and rest on Mulder's chest. Golden tan against white. Saw the hand move to those flat pinkish-brown nipples. Fingertips playing with the nub. Soothing. Pinching. Gently at first, then with more force.

The sounds coming from the gag changed in tone, became less protesting as Skinner raked fingertips, nails back and forth over the skin between the nipples. He bent and took the nearest in his mouth, tongue playing with the now sensitized nub. Brought his teeth into play, nipping.

Mulder gave a sort of squawk. That got through to Skinner where the other noises hadn't.

"Jesus, you damn right squawk! I spent the week dealing with the squawks you caused." Skinner felt alcohol- released anger warring with his rising passion. Punishment versus pleasure. "All bloody week long, you fucking bastard!"

When his mouth went back to work on that beautiful white skin, it left a trail of reddening suck and teeth marks.

Across the chest, abdomen. Along the soft side of the outstretched arms. Bruise-rising marks along the collar bone and throat.

The sounds coming from Mulder only inflamed him. Enticed him to move from Mulder's side to between those splayed legs. Brought those big hands into play, stroking the skin stretched tight over rib cage. Gently and not so gently.

Accompanied by a litany of obscenities and complaints. Venting the frustrations of the week.

From the doorway Krycek watched with raised eyebrows. The action was getting hot enough to affect even him. He put his hand into his pocket, went to stand behind Skinner, tossed the foiled packs of condoms over Mulder.

Which got Skinner's attention.

He pulled back, sat on his heels, drunk now with alcohol, horniness, the sense of power he had over the bound Mulder.

Skinner caught his breath. Looked at the condoms scattered over the bed, lying on Mulder's stomach. "I think," he said, voice struggling for levelness, "you overestimate my stamina."

"Skinner, the purpose of this exercise is for you to relax. Not Mulder. Make him wait for it. Take your time. You've got all night." Krycek returned to his place by the door. "Come on, Skinner. Surely you've had a few fantasies about that body. Play them out."

Skinner thought about it. Smile started on his face. That spread into a wicked grin. A really wicked grim. Unconsciously, the tip of his tongue licked his lower lip.

Mulder reacted with panic. He struggled against his bonds. Screamed obscenities at both Krycek and Skinner. (Only grunts and squawks got through.) Tried to shift his hips.

The black harness caught Skinner's eyes.

He passed his fingers over the thin black leather belt, buckled tightly just over Mulder's hip bones. He could barely get a finger under it. Mulder would carry the mark of that tightness for some time. That white skin, that lovely white skin, showed bruising all too easily.

His hands followed the belt over Mulder's hips to the small of his back. Found the connecting strap, the one that bisected his groin. It too was tight.

There was just enough room for a thumb to glide between it and the ass crease. To follow that route till blocked from going further by the anal plug, held in place by a slit in the leather.

Skinner played with the plug, tugging it, twisting it. Dreamily enjoying the noises coming from Mulder. The hips beginning to buck in reaction to his teasing. Overwhelmed by the sheer pleasure he got from hearing and watching.

Finally he left the plug alone (Mulder protested.) and continued tracing the path of the strap, his thumb nail scraping gently the sensitive skin between asshole and the pair of balls, now separated, sitting like encased eggs on either side of the thin black leather.

A testicle in each hand, he rolled, squeezed gently and not so gently (on a power kick), watching Mulder's cock, already erect because of the leather cock ring snapped around its base, harden even more.

As he watched, the head wettened with a drop of pre-come. He bent and casually licked. A familiar memory from the past: that sour, gamy taste, once tasted never really forgotten.

He pulled his hands back to his own cock. Rolled his balls in his hands with practised motions, moved to his own cock. Rampant. Stroking the thickness, bringing himself to the edge of orgasm.

And stopping.

He looked Mulder in the eyes. Saw frustration, protest. Anger?

Those white hips wriggled, calling for attention.

With brusque motions, Skinner lifted Mulder's ass, unsnapped the strap from the back, pulled the anal plug out, leaving it in the leather binding and pushed it to the side.

Quickly, he tore open one of the foils, rolled the rubber over his cock, lubed it and, with no other preparation, pushed himself slowly into the tight orifice that was Mulder's ass. Just as slowly pulled back.

Barely noticed that Mulder's sounds were deepening in tone, less complaining, more encouraging. More like moans than groans.

"Jesus!" Skinner intoned. as he stroked himself slowly back and forth. "Christ, Mulder, you are so fucking tight. You feel so fucking good." Kept on, adjusting his rhythm, until he felt his balls lift and tighten. Came with a gasp and release of not just come but some of the anger he'd been carrying around with him all week.

He let his body drop onto Mulder's, resting as his heart rate returned closer to normal. Felt Mulder trying to rub his own cock against Skinner's stomach reaching for an orgasm of his own.

Skinner pressed his hips down denying Mulder that satisfaction.

Slowly he raised his upper body, weight resting on hands placed on either side of Mulder's chest. Looked Mulder in the eyes. Very frustrated eyes.

Smiled. Not altogether kindly.

Shifted his weight to one side, lifted his freed hand to the slicked gag in Mulder's mouth. Untied it.

Listened with a sense of real enjoyment to the curses that came out of it. Finally heard the words between the cursing. That Krycek had left some time ago.

Slowly, like some great cat, Skinner pulled back, sat on his heels and stretched. He removed the condom and tossed it in the nearby wastebasket. All the time ignoring Mulder's words. Like he often felt Mulder ignored his.

Mulder was still flushed, still belted, still erect.

Skinner began stroking the lovely white thighs that were spread in front of him. Slowly. Back and forth. Mulder's ass picked up the rhythm.

He bent and took that lovely thick cock into his mouth. Not deeply. Just enough to tease. A slight caress with his tongue, promising more.

By now Mulder's curses had changed into a chant of "Ohgod, don't stop, Jes, Skinner, don't stop."

Skinner pulled back again. He had Mulder exactly where he wanted him.

And, as Krycek had said, he had all night.

The End

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