Kronos has a gift for death.
More than a gift; Kronos loves it, loves death with a passion and a
yearning and a rare artistry. He always has, but it's never seemed
quite so clear as now. Methos can smell the excitement rising from him,
lifting off him in tangible waves as he caresses the case where his
virus sleeps. Death under glass, trapped for the moment, but not for
long if Kronos has his way.
Methos smiles a smile old and
mostly false, lounges back against the wall and regards the chilled
death with practiced nonchalance. Perhaps Kronos will even believe it.
At last he looks up to meet his brother's pale, mad eyes. Then again,
The lust is still there,
flavored with a hint of amusement. A cat regarding its prey, knowing
the prey's bravado is merely a facade. Methos leaves the smile exactly
where it is, regardless. It's the game they've always played. Kronos
takes a step closer and Methos feels the fear inside him rise.
It's not fear of anything
Kronos will do to him; it's the fear of becoming what he was. The man
he was is never far away and even less so now Kronos is here. He can
feel the monster rattling his chains even now. This is the power Kronos
has always had over him: the indefinable essence that speaks to the
darkest parts of him, that echoes, amplifies, and matches utterly those
parts of his soul he locked away long ago.
A thousand years of knowing
this man means he knows the second the amusement turns darker, when the
lust shifts into need, sharp and strong. Kronos needs him, like he
needs death. He doesn't need the man Methos is now. Only the desire
between them is unchanged.
Kronos comes closer, one step
at a time with his eyes fixed on Methos'. His body sings its response,
a mourning song for what he was and what he could be. He doesn't want
But he will. Kronos can make
him want it.
Methos lets his brother lead
him away from the virus, away from the stench of the doomed animals,
but not away from death. Death will follow them wherever they go. It is
an immutable law of their lives. And death is coming, one way or
another; he's known that since the moment the dagger hit his chest.
As if he can read his
thoughts, Kronos lays his hand exactly on the place his dagger had
been. Gently, when Methos had been expecting violence. Wanting it. But
Kronos won't concern himself with what Methos thinks he wants, Methos
knows that much without being told. And Kronos knows he knows it;
Methos can see that in the wry twitch of his mouth just before it meets
Kronos is kissing him, pressed
up against him, need and hunger tempered with a gentleness that
undermines all his defences. He has nothing that will save him from
this. Kronos knows his weaknesses and this has always been one of them.
Methos knows the soft touch of Kronos' lips and hands is merely a
weapon like any other, but the knowledge does nothing to shield the
It just makes the pain cut
Because his choices are
disappearing, because the part of himself that wants this is rising up
from its shallow grave, Methos gives into the kiss. He lets Kronos push
him back against a wall and take his mouth with a passion that has
always been peculiarly theirs.
Methos opens his eyes in the
middle of the kiss. The glow from the fire lights the scarred side of
Kronos' face. There is beauty there, the rough, damaged beauty of a
well-used sword, battered but still razor-sharp and deadly. Methos has
to close his eyes. He doesn't want to want this man.
But he does.
He doesn't want to feel
anything for Kronos, but the old, old parts of him, the ones hardwired
by all the years of their lives together, disregard knowledge,
experience, sense, even fear. All they know is power, submission and
lust. He can feel them sucking him down into the quicksand with the
touch of Kronos' hands on his body. And Kronos knows his body well.
It's as much a part of him as his sword and every bit as much his
Kronos' hands slide into his
hair, taking control and bending him back. His body is hard and hot
against Methos', so familiar it only adds to the feeling that no time
has passed at all. Fear and loathing pass into unimportance as the lust
flares. Kronos is biting at him, drawing blood from his lips, licking
it away, gentleness dissolved by fire.
His leg is between Methos'
thighs, pressing in hard, hard enough to hurt if he wasn't so achingly
erect. Methos' legs shift apart almost without his willing it, shifting
down into the pressure. He's hard enough to shatter and he's not sure
he won't. He can feel death coming, as sure as his own orgasm and just
as devastating. But he still wants one last taste of this before it's
all gone forever.
He wants this as he's wanted
so many things that were destined to end badly. And it will. He knows
that all too well. But all he cares about at this moment is that he
wants it. Never more so than when Kronos slips his hand to Methos'
throat. He is pushing him back, pressing his throat closed, making his
cock pulse and swell as the air grows short.
He presses his head back,
arching his throat into Kronos' grip. Kronos' mouth is still on his,
all tongue and teeth and kisses like razorblades, but it's the hand on
his throat that is stealing all his focus. He could die like this, die
coming and falling before the force of Kronos' lust for death. It
wouldn't be the first time.
The wall is rough behind him
and Kronos is pushing him back harder into it, releasing his mouth with
a final bite that tears him afresh. The pressure is gone from his
throat and he has to bite his tongue to stop himself begging it back.
He's bleeding and aching, gasping and needing as Kronos tugs the jeans
down his hips, down his legs and turns him to face the wall.
Kronos pulls the coat from
Methos' shoulders before he can even think about shrugging it away
himself. He should be cold, but there's fire in his veins and it's
crackling under his skin. The fire only burns higher when Kronos pushes
inside him. Sweet -- necessary -- pain burns a trail from ass to brain
and he's lost. Everything else is falling away, scorched to ashes by
the thrust of his brother's cock in his body.
Kronos' hand is back on his
throat, grasping hard like the one at his hip. He's thrusting in short,
harsh jabs, taking his pleasure of him roughly. It's so familiar that
time seems to shift back and forth, as unstable as ice under his feet.
He can feel it slipping.
His body is crying out, for
air, for touch, for just a little more before it's all gone forever.
Kronos' teeth are sharp on the nape of his neck and he can feel the
blood flowing once more. He doesn't want to love this the way he does,
but it's sharp and dark and sucking him under like a malevolent tide.
He spreads his legs wider and pushes back into Kronos' cock.
Kronos chuckles softly as he
licks the blood from Methos' skin, taking him harder and faster. He
knows. The knowledge is in every touch, every sound he makes. But
Methos is too far gone to care. He is lost in the past, lost in the
lust for what he and Kronos were together. What they are together.
The dark creature inside him
is swelling and growing, surging back to life. He was wrong, stupidly,
fatally wrong, he realizes in a moment of dizzying clarity. One taste
of this was never going to be enough. If he lets himself fall, nothing
will ever be enough.
The past comes rushing up
until it's the only thing that seems real. Power, hate, fear….
Orgasm slams into him as
Kronos slams him into the wall and the world tilts on its axis. He's
coming and falling with Kronos' arms tight around him, crying out in a
language he hasn't spoken in a thousand years while Kronos comes inside
him. Then Kronos lets him go, and he's on his own, on his knees with
his forehead pressed against cold stone.
It takes a vast act of will to
come back to himself, but a thousand years of freedom have given him
the strength to do it, even if the effort makes him bleed inside. The
clarity he found is still there, sharper than the icy shards of hate in
his chest. In his lust for death, Kronos would unleash his virus,
unleash the death inside Methos, unleash death in all its forms on the
world once more.
The darkness Kronos has
awakened is still there, growing stronger, but it's a darkness no
longer at Kronos' service. No longer embracing death, but the bitter,
red-clawed chi of survival. He closes his eyes over the knowledge,
hiding it from Kronos' gaze, wondering if Kronos knows he's sown the
seeds of his own destruction.
It is fit. Kronos loves death,
and death has come for him.
Back to Contents
The wonderful and talented Amand-r has remixed
this story and come up with something utterly incredible. You can find
it at her site here.