Who is he thinking of today? Skinner? Mulder? Maybe both, imagining a
little Alex-worship for a change, both of them stroking his thighs,
sharing him. He's imagining four hands, too many hands, running up and
down his legs, smoothing lotion onto him. Sweet cocoa butter smell and
warm skin and the hands starting to rove—his inner thighs, his balls
—his own hand moves lightly where he imagines theirs to go.
If they only knew, they would. Want him. Just like this.
He can feel warm wind on his thighs—kind of exposed where he is, but
he's not moving. All of Washington spread out below and fuck 'em, let
'em look. It feels too good. He imagines the breeze is Skinner blowing
on his legs, ruffling the silky hair.
Oh yeah, Skinner—big man Skinner. Sneering, stone-faced, tell you
where to get off, Skinner. Don't like young punks with good
connections, do you, leatherneck. Do you? No. I didn't think so, Sir!
No, Sir! Maybe don't like boys with pretty faces, either? Pretty
asses. Or maybe like 'em too much, huh. Keep those big eyes, hard
body lurking under all that suit and tie. I know you want this bad.
Yeah, Skinner. Nose to the peach, baby. Just like that.
He allows himself one gentle stroke, one thumb glide to circle the
pre-come around the head of his cock. It makes him shudder. And whose
hand would that be? Mulder's. Yeah. No, make it Mulder's mouth. That
lip—he can't suppress a moan, presses one bare heel back against the
jamb for leverage.
Legs tangled in his jeans, but he likes the way it holds him there.
Keeps his movements small. He can't escape the hands, the mouths.
They're insistent, demanding. Mulder's mouth on his cock and Skinner's
hand sliding up to capture his balls. Squeeze and roll them gently,
starting that dizzy slide. Pressing back, the smooth wood cool against
his ass.
He brings his Skinner-hand up to search the breast pocket of his shirt.
Finds the lotion, flips it open, pours it out directly on his cock,
gasps at the cold stripe there, and another down his belly.
He pockets the lotion again, smoothes it with his hand. The other hand
(mouth—he corrects—Mulder's mouth, a little cold from his beer
and the alcohol would tingle, just like that...) moves up and down his
cock so softly it makes him want to scream.
Oh fucking Mulder. Arrogant prick. Shove your cool, your contempt,
your fucking St. Scully down my throat all day. Rich boy. Didn't need
to suck dick to earn your Armanis, but look at you now. Sucking my
white-trash cock and loving it. Can't get enough, can you Mulder? No.
You thought you didn't want me but look at you now...
Fantasy Mulder is sucking on him, greedy. He'd be hard. Yeah. His own
cock untouched and weeping, weeping...
And Skinner's hand slides down from his belly and over his hip, strokes
one cheek. Cups it.
Oh yeah, he thinks, You want that baby, don't you? Phantom Skinner
nods, dumbstruck with lust, eyes glazed. Yeah. Yes he does.
Let me, Krycek...please.
Sure, big man, I'll let you kiss my ass.
Slick fingers (Skinner's fingers—no, no—Skinner's tongue)
running up and down the crack of his ass. Skinner's face between his
cheeks and Mulder on his knees, rapt. He allows himself a thrust into
Mulder's mouth, his throat.
//Take it, baby...// and Mulder moans. Wants him. They both want him.
And fingers (tongue) at his entrance, his foot slides on the wood and he
braces himself, both feet on the floor. He stops a minute, tries to
catch his breath. But it's hard—he's imagining Skinner's hot breath
sticky at his hole, warm stubble grazing tender flesh.
Imagining that tongue, firm and unholy soft and wet, flicking in and
out. He slips his middle finger in and out as he pictures it.
Shuddering.
So exposed—and god, he knows, he knows...
If it were real, who would be the one to beg?
Skinner? Mulder? He gasps what couldn't be a laugh. No.
No. Alex Krycek would be begging. Would be groaning, giving it up
like a teenage girl to cock and lips and fingers. Mulder. Skinner.
They would own him, hold him helpless, writhing, trapped between heaven
and their hellish hot mouths. And he hears himself gasp, loud again.
And close.
God, no. Not like this... but it's too late. It feels too good. He
pulls his fist off his cock, slides his middle finger deep enough to
start the ache he craves.
"You going to come now, Krycek?" Mulder asks. So flat. And Skinner's
flatter: "Hah!" rumbles through his bones. A joke between them. Alex
Krycek. Fucked. And he wants out. Out. He can hardly breathe.
But Mulder takes him in again, this time deep and unrelenting—fist
and finger (fingers now, he slips another in and they are Skinner's
fingers, and Skinner's brutal tongue sometimes and Mulder's mouth
pulling a hard counterpoint, tonguefucked, mouthfucking, blind—his
hips slamming back and forth and he knows he's making way too much
noise...
But oh, ohhh....
And they would know. They would know they had him. They would know who
was the weak one; who wanted who...so desperate. NO...
And there he finds it, blinding strokes of heat and light flashing
through him and he is coming, yelling, knees buckling, still shooting
hot over his own fist as he sinks to his knees. Echoes of his cries...
Blinks.
The phone is ringing. Has been ringing for a while.
He picks it up, still come-dazed.
"'Lo?" His voice is shattered.
"Alex?" The suck and draw of a cigarette inhaled. Alex feels the flush
come over him, hot, then cold. Another draw. Exhale. Time enough to
think. Regret. Despair. Before he has to answer 'yes' and 'please'
and 'how high this time, sir'.
There are worse things than being unwanted, he has learned.
But really, not that many. Or that much.
"so I'm walking through the desert
and I am not frightened although it's hot
I have all that I requested
and I do not want what I haven't got"
I Do Not Want What I Haven't Got
by The Spike
Alex Krycek on the weekend. Out of uniform, the pale grey polyester
skin crumpled on the closet floor. This is just for him. The real
Alex, or close enough for rock and roll: jeans and underwear rucked
down on his thighs; Indian cotton shirt unbuttoned, fluttering a little
in the breeze. Leaning against the door jamb, sunshine on him.
Sunglasses. Suntan lotion. Just lost in it.
—Sinead O'Connor
