Alias Fan Fiction: Detached (Sydney/Vaughn - NC-17)
This is NOT my fan fiction.
This is a repost of one of my favorite Alias fan fictions.
Author: alikona
Email: alikona727@yahoo.com
Distribution: Cover Me, Allies, Omega-17
Rating: NC-17, baby. And this ain't no lovey-dovey smut, people.
Spoilers/Timeline: Missing scene from "A Dark Turn"
Summary: See Sydney thinking of checking Vaughn's computer in "A Dark Turn." See Vaughn have awkward moment with Will the next morning. See Sydney STILL suspicious of Vaughn at the Ops Center. Whuh? He slept over while she thought he was a traitor? What was *that* sex like?
Warning: Nothing too bad. Just some angry sex between two consenting adults.
Classification: Smutty angst.
'Ship/Pairing: S/V.
Disclaimer: Still not mine, damnit, no matter what the voices in my head say. Thanks to J.J. Abrams et al for the loan. Author notes and thanks at the end.
As the sounds of the shower spray tickle your ears, you perk up, realizing that this is your opportunity to see if Yeager's allegations are true. Vaughn typically brings his iBook home from the office, you remember, turning to see his briefcase on the counter. You pull the laptop out and wake it from sleep mode. The disk Yeager gave you is in the bedroom on your bedside table; you might not be able to get it quickly without arousing Vaughn's suspicions. So, you go straight to the recently used programs. No luck. Sherlock probably isn't going to just bring up something that's illegal to download, so you eye the icon for the hard drive, and then risk a glance in the bathroom's direction.
This is it. The decision must be made now. No looking back, no imagining your possibly traitorous lover in the shower or contemplation over joining him. You can't even think of him like that until you know for sure. So you go for that tempting icon, combing through directories and hidden files and all manner of digital minutiae in a search for...something. Proof, one way or another. You're just about convinced that Yeager's completely full of it when you spot it. Xenon. Of course, that's not the name of the offending icon. Vaughn's not stupid. He hid it well, named it something generic. But the file extension gives it away. You click on it, and there it is. Your gaze blurs, your eyes producing multiple images of the evidence on the computer screen, which just painfully burns it into your brain even quicker.
But then, the shower shuts off, and you quickly exit out of the program, put the laptop back in sleep mode, and slide it back into his briefcase. And freeze in the middle of the kitchen, the emotions coursing through your veins simultaneously making you tremble with anger and nearly weep over yet another betrayal. Your shaky hand grasps onto the counter, grounding your body even as your brain goes nuts.
You want to hurt him. You want to pummel him with your fists and scream at the injustice of it, your meaningless questions shrieking in the tense night air as he wordlessly takes your abuse, knowing what he's done and what he'll lose because of it. But most of all, you want to know who this person is who's stolen your heart and swept you off your feet. Who's surrendered himself to you, loved you with a fierce passion, and risked everything for you. Was all of that an act? Was it part of his scheme? Did he make up this dead father and the inheritance of his patriotic ideals? And did he do this to get to you? Your hand, once unsteady, propels you off the counter in one solid motion. You resolve to figure out his true motives, by whatever means necessary. With that decision, you stalk toward your bedroom, your task at hand the only thing carrying you along.
You pause in the doorway, observing him as he uses one of your towels to absorb the excess moisture from his newly washed hair. Otherwise, he looks like a Tommy Hilfiger model - white T-shirt and new jeans straight from the dresser drawer you cleared for him. He bought them last week on your first shopping expedition as a couple. You convinced him to buy them in tall, saying that denim shrinks too quickly, so for now, he's rolled them up a bit at the bottom, exposing his tanned, bony feet. You think there's no way anyone betraying their government could look as purely American as he does.
At that thought, he turns around, the towel dangling from his right hand as he runs his left through his unruly hair, trying to restore some semblance of order. To your delight, he's not a vain man, satisfied with the least amount of primping. He does frown at his passing reflection as he realizes that his cowlicks won't settle down, but he brightens when he spots you out of the corner of his eye. He turns and smiles at you as you lounge against the doorjamb, your lips staying perfectly still as you evaluate him, and then decide to make your move.
You walk into the room, absentmindedly pushing your door closed with your left hand. If he's at all suspicious of your movements, he doesn't convey it.
"Hey, have you eaten dinner yet? I haven't had anything since one of those God-awful tuna sandwiches out of the vending machine between meetings," he says absentmindedly, placing the towel on the end of your bed and refastening his watch to his wrist. In his movements, he doesn't see you approach him and reach out your arms to take his hands in yours, grabbing his attention. He turns to look at you and is taken aback by the blank expression on your face. He lets out a silent chuckle and says, "Syd? Anything wrong?"
Your only response is to take your hands and place them on either side of his face, leading his lips down to yours for a sweet kiss, much like the one you shared when he first arrived at your apartment. He responds, moving his arms around to your back, intimately drawing you closer in tohim as you and he have done hundreds of times by now. But there's no way he's ready for what you've got planned next.
Just as he opens his mouth to let your tongue explore, you move your teeth into position and sink them down into his lower lip, biting with all the pent-up anger you have inside. His eyes fly open and he stills, shocked at this hint of violence from you, the woman who sees suffering and destruction every day. But you keep at it, nipping and biting at his mouth and his tongue, feeling your teeth clashing against his and piercing his delicate skin. He finally has enough, pushing away from you with his hands strong on your shoulders.
Ask me why I did it. Ask me, damnit. Get angry with me. You would never want me to act like this. You would never understand why I would want to hurt you.
He is thoroughly confused, his green eyes clouded over as he regards you, standing with half-lidded eyes, tasting blood in your mouth. He raises his right hand to his lower lip and brushes it, and his fingers come away bearing shiny, metallic red. His eyes dart from his fingers to your face, and he watches you lick your lips, wiping his blood along the path of your tongue. And with that, the storm in his expression clears, and something much hotter and feral takes its place.
He strides the steps between you in a millisecond, his hands reaching up to grab your shoulders and his momentum propelling you the several feet backwards to your bedroom wall. Your backside strikes the surface with a resounding thud, and he takes advantage of your momentary daze to slide your hands above your head and fasten them to the wall with strong arms. You struggle, but before you can break free, he attaches his lips to your neck and levers his body to pin you against the wall. His mouth travels up your throat, lapping and laving along your throbbing arteries until he reaches your lips, brutally attacking them, his arms still rendering you helpless. You get lost in his probing kiss, his mouth openly slanting and sliding across yours, his tongue fighting with yours for dominance. While he may have you beat by sheer upper body strength, you still have a few tricks in store. You alter the pitch of your hips, instantaneously creating a warm, welcoming cradle for his growing arousal, and raise your thighs to bracket his ass. The change in angle shifts the balance of power as you sense his enraptured surprise, and use the opportunity to shake your hands free of his death grip, shoving him away from you once again. His lips leave yours with an audible pop, and you stare at each other, eyes burning mere inches away from each other as you both struggle to regain your breath.
Suddenly, you reach out and take a fistful of his t-shirt, yanking upwards and succeeding with yet another surprise as he flails his arms up in shock, allowing you access to his bare chest. But he won't let you gain the upper hand as he snags the hem of your black sweater, jerking you closer to him and inaugurating the frenzied tango you make across the carpet, each struggling to remove the other's clothing on your mutual trek to the bed. Your calves bang against the foot of your own bed, the contact forcing you to the soft surface with a stunned huff as you look up at him, his skin burning gold in the artificial light, his green eyes threatening to tear you apart. You manage to raise yourself up on your elbows before he reaches out and grabs your ankle, hauling you closer to him so he can reach the button of your jeans. In one swift motion, he strips you of any last disguises, but you only remain exposed for a moment as he whips off his boxer briefs and practically dives on top of you, your angry, heated skin searing together and your legs parting out of instinct, providing him with a resting place.
He focuses his attention on your breasts, sucking and biting your nipples at an almost painful clip as his hands work their way between you and his thumb jabs at your clit. And you like it. He feels your wetness spreading over his fingers as you keen with each fierce contact. He knows that you're more than ready, and your actions have certainly revved him up. His arms circle your thrashing head and his lips take yours as he moves into position and impales you with one hard, fast thrust. Any remaining breath is driven out of your lungs and you arch your spine, throwing your head back and forcing him to refocus his efforts on your neck and chest, leaving livid violet marks in his wake. He starts out rough, wasting no time, and you encase his frantic hips with your legs thrown around him like a vise as he pistons in and out of you. You wrap your arms around his shoulders, your hands clenching at his tensing muscles. But then, his tone changes. Even as he continues to slam into you, his sharp bites and jabs become loving caresses, his tongue soothing the bruising marks he's left on your neck and breasts, and one hand comes down from your face to wedge between your bodies, the thumb just producing a feather touch now.
No no no no no no it's not supposed to be like this he's not supposed to care this is just a fuck so don't do that like that but oh GOD yes yes yes.
His fingers delicately manipulate your pliable skin, the tension in your body ebbing and flowing from head to toe. So you unfurl your tight grip and sink your nails into the skin of his shoulder. This doesn't stop his tantalizing movements, so you dig in and rake your hands down his toned back, your nails leaving angry, blood-tinged currents in their wake. But this just spurs him on, his pace quickening even more, his breath coming in shorter puffs against your neck. When you reach the small of his back, you just move on to the tight globes of his ass, taking one in each hand and burrowing your claws in once again. But at that moment, the combination of his gentle thumbs and his working hips sends you rocketing over the edge, your hands flexing in surprise at your response and your right hand jumping up and coming down with a solid smack against his backside.
Your orgasm and the stun of your slap still and silence him, his lips merely dancing along your jaw as he rides out your spasms. You finally calm, your breath catching in your throat, and as he starts to move again, you plant your shaky hands against his shoulders and push, catching him off-guard as you use your strength to propel him off and out of you. You send him sprawling toward the foot of the bed, and he lands on his backside, his whole body thrown off-balance. His eyes return to that confused green, but his gaze narrows as he sees youcrawling towards him from the spot on the bed where he had previously squashed you down. He flops back down on the duvet and moans when you wrap your lips around his glistening member.
You know he likes to watch you when you do this to him, see you looking up at him with your innocent brown eyes, shiny hair pooling around your face, and a mouthful of cock. He loves that you know he knows that he likes to watch you. But you deny him this pleasure, keeping your head bent as you suckle him, tickling your throat with his tip, your hands squeezing his balls in time with the motions of your tongue. You reach your hands up and tweak his nipples, sliding down to yank on the fine hair bisecting his stomach, leading to that tender spot where you're currently lavishing attention on him. His hips jump as you hit that particularly sensitive vein, his left arm flinging above his head in complete surrender. But his right hand has other plans. He reaches down to brush your clenched hand, cup your flushed cheek, smooth your mussed hair.
"Oh GOD, Syd. That feels so fucking good," he breathes, uttering the first words either of you have spoken since this intense dance has begun. And tears spring to your eyes.
No, don't say that. I am not Syd, you are not Vaughn. We are not agents for the CIA. You are not my former handler who swept me off my feet. We are two nameless, faceless individuals enjoying each other's bodies and no more.
As much as you like having this power over him, you can't face him anymore. Literally. So you release him from your mouth, leaving him dangling at the precipice. He groans at the loss, but you cause him to produce an all-together different sound as you rise up on your knees and turn around, leaving yourself fully exposed as you grasp the solid edge of the headboard. You can't see him, but you can practically feel him bristle at the sight of you. Both of you have been more than content thus far with traditional lovemaking and haven't felt the need to try anything remotely experimental quite yet. But you feel the steadfast depressions he makes on the mattress as he approaches you. He's not going to turn down this opportunity.
Without warning, he grabs your hips, and after a moment of marveling at this new, wondrous position, he enters you roughly, his arousal giving him precious little time to relish the details. Your ass audibly slaps back against his hips as he grips onto your hipbone and uses the leverage to penetrate you. You would scream as he stimulates delicious depths he's never touched before, but the noises coming out of your mouth sound more like hiccups as each devastating thrust forces all the air out of your lungs. You hear him grunting as well, his hands slipping around on your sweaty back and waist as he vainly searches for that final release. The muscles in your arms and back begin to burn in protest, but you can't provide them with any relief quite yet - his dominating movements pitch you forward, your head coming dangerously close to the dark wood. Your limbs try to complete the battle for you, but as he fiercely rides you into the bed, you're forced to surrender.
You rest your forehead on the cool mahogany, and with each thrust he makes, he jolts your spine into consciousness, the frames on the wall stuttering in time. Every part of your body can feel exactly what's happening, and as you close your eyes to take it all in, you feel his fingertips probing you once again, his imminent release spurring him to expedite yours. And with one flick of a nail, you're gone. All the pleasure and pain and victory and loss and disappointment and pride come to a head deep in your core and you explode, your voice tripping around the single syllable of his name.
He comes as well, pumping his hips as you ripple around him, violently releasing himself warm and thick into you, his voice deep and gravelly as he interchanges your name with some select explicit phrases. You both shudder in awe of the pleasure that just coursed through you. Your upper body has given up the fight, and your forehead slides down the headboard towards the pillow, your fingers just barely maintaining their weakening hold. Your hips remain airborne, held in place. He finally releases you, leaving you empty, and you close your eyes, still conflicted about what might be your greatest character miscalculation yet. The Vaughn you know would never objectify you as he just did, treat you as a vessel for his own pleasure. But as your body seeks the comfort of the mattress and he slides up your body to join you, he plants gentle, loving kisses along your spinal column, sending your brain into a neurotic frenzy. You are confused with this person, the man who touches you in complete adoration yet fucks you like an animal, the man who idolizes the patriotism of his dead father yet engages in subterfuge against his own country. You have no idea who this man beside you is.
But you do know. This is Vaughn. And he has beaten you.
You keep your eyes closed against this reality. You know he's smiling, you can feel it. So you open your eyes and see possibly the most beautiful sight of your life. His face is rosy and flushed as he heaves trying to regain his breath, his eyes twinkle with that telltale sign of a man thoroughly laid, and his giddy smile practically threatens to split his cheeks. And his damp hair sports a newly wild style.
"Where the hell did that come from?" he asks breathlessly. You want to tell him why, to wipe that grin off of his face, to confront him and demand why he's placing these doubts in your mind, why he's deceiving you. But you know it's not a self-satisfied grin. He's looking at you like that because you've just provided him with what might possibly be the greatest sexual experience of his life. He's looking at you like that because his entire list of great sexual experiences consists of you and only you and he loves you for it. He loves you. You see nothing else on his face but that simple, true fact. And in that moment, you know beyond all doubt that you love him too.
Finally, you reply. "I don't know," you meekly offer, a smile reluctantly growing on your face too. He damns his tired lungs and reaches over, grabbing your face with both hands and bringing his lips to yours in a kiss entirely too energetic considering what just transpired. But perhaps as a warning against taking things any further, his stomach chooses that moment to grumble loudly, causing both of you to giggle into each other's mouths.
He draws back, still glowing, and takes your left hand between his as he always does at this point. He kisses your knuckles.
"You never answered my question from earlier," he says between finger nips. Your spine, having made its presence painfully known just minutes earlier, now vanishes, leaving you as a puddle of gelatinous goo, your breath hitching as his tongue caresses your palm.
"I already ate," you finally stammer out, your lips curling at your double meaning. He senses this and looks at you, that dangerous glint appearing again in his eyes. You cut him off before he can take that thought any further. "There are some cold cuts in the fridge and leftover sourdough from the restaurant around somewhere."
He lets go of your hand with a smile and rises from the bed, grabbing his boxer briefs and jeans for a quick foray into the kitchen. Before he ventures outside, he turns and asks, "Are you sure you don't want anything?"
Always the considerate gentleman. You let out a sigh.
"No, I'm okay."
If he wasn't smug before, he is a little now as he thinks your activities have reduced you to short, perfunctory answers. An evil-looking grin passes over his features as he makes a quick exit. You hear him banging about in the kitchen, looking for the mustard, picking out a knife. You look over at the disk you left on your bedside table, and then quickly stare back at the ceiling. You then hop out of bed and pick up your discarded clothing, depositing it in the hamper and grabbing a tank top and boxers for bed. You check yourself out in the mirror, hardly recognizing the woman with her flushed face, wild eyes, and love bites covering her neck and chest. But you do recognize her. She's positively glowing, and you haven't seen this version of yourself in a long time. And you smile.
You turn back to the bedside table and finger the disk. The CIA may want you to betray Vaughn even as Vaughn betrays you, but it's never been that simple. Because this Vaughn came to your rescue when your virtue was under question, not them. Because he would be a fool to count on you to follow your father's tragic path. Because you know Vaughn, and you know there is a reason for this. And you will be the one to discover it. You will deal with him for doing whatever he did. You, not them.
You hear him returning, so you quickly shove the disk into a drawer, and then fling yourself back on the bed. He comes in, juggling a sandwich on a plate and a carton of Häagen-Daas lemon sorbet. Your favorite. Your heart sings even as your brain throws a temper tantrum.
"You said that you weren't hungry, but you deserve some of this," he says, smiling as he hands you the slippery, frozen carton and a spoon. He sets himself down next to you and dives into his dinner. You can't help but stare at him, this enigma who's somehow wormed his way into your heart. He notices your gaze and returns it, his mouth full.
"Syd, anything wrong?" he says, trying not to spit crumbs all over your bedspread.
You smile and say, "No, not at all."
You don't want to go there quite yet, so you lean over and plant another kiss on his surprised lips. You draw away, the dangerous, dominating ember starting to burn in your eyes again.
But he's forgotten the question. He's forgotten his food. He leans over and captures your lips again. And as he bears you down to the bed, you revel in your power over him.
I own him. And I will discover his secret, sooner or later.
FIN