by The Spike
1247 9th Street
The parked Buick is dark, and cold enough that Alex can see his breath, but
Alex isn't feeling cold: he's feeling heat: friction sparking between hand
and cock, both trapped inside his jeans. Sitting behind the wheel, his eyes
glued unblinking on the target's front stairs but the target is a nothing
job and Alex doesn't care. He can't help it—it comes over him like this
sometimes, the memory of Mulder sprawled on the floor that night: a soul cut
loose; elegance undone by desperation and the promise of hope and no time
for Alex to take what his noble speech had won. No time even for the kiss
he couldn't help but steal and then he had to go...
Oh, fuck. Want. Want... He wants... Desperate grind of hips, the heel of
his hand strips so rough it makes him gasp and his own harsh sounds run
electric shivers through his cock and balls. He wants... And, Christ, he's
tired of knowing what it's like to want. What he wants is now: that
moment back—no faceless rebels waiting for him on the other side but
Mulder's eyes coming up wide and bright to meet his, and Mulder's too flat
words: "You wanna fuck me, Krycek?" Yeah, Mulder. Yeah, I do. And stroke
after matchhead stroke turns into rising lust that winds him up and up,
higher and tighter than he ever wanted to be and will not let him go.
# 42, 2360 Hegal Place,
Mulder leans back, shudders, gasps at the touch of firm, warm rubber against
the crack of his ass. Worse. This is getting worse. The preparations more
elaborate; the fantasies darker and more perverse. Watching himself in the
mirror: naked, gagged, his belt around his throat. A joke: Clyde
Bruckman's dirty joke and the humiliation of the enormous dildo—neon
green gel, tapered head, wide alien eyes—bought for its absurdity; it's
kitsch and look at it now, braced in the crack of the dresser drawer and
disappearing between the slicked cheeks of his ass with slow, inevitable
slide. To the frantic flutter of his heart, buckle of his knees as it enters
him, fills him. His body holding back, not exercised enough yet to open
easily to the monstrous rod. Ridiculous thing, but—ahh ahh fuck...
muffled through the gag as he rocks his hips—it's the only thing remotely
close to what he imagines Skinner's cock to be.
Skinner's cock—just thinking the words conjures the bulk and heat; Canon
cologne and the crisp white shirt. Skinner's muscled arms around him like
a velvet vise. Mulder's self-cuffed hands drop to the head of his swollen,
drooling prick. Barest thumb touch of the glans and he imagines:
"Don't..." in Skinner's tense growl. Verisimilitude of real fear at the
thought of Skinner angry, Skinner scared. Maybe Skinner, like himself, a
prisoner of a man who watches from the shadows, wreathed in smoke. Mulder
imagines a gun pointed at their heads, commands and threats but—oh—sweet Jesus—
The overblown fantasy fades to black as the inner barrier gently gives way,
the massive rubber head slides home. Mulder bucks wildly, fucking himself
in earnest now. All he can think of are Walter's broad hands, strong arms,
chocolate voice and the anchor of his cock in Mulder's ass and that's all
there is to hold onto as ecstatic fire ignites at the base of his spine,
travels toward the cock he still has yet to touch...
828 Viva Tower,
And Skinner can hardly breathe for the terrifying tension building beneath
his hand. His fantasy Krycek is no longer defiant but utterly subsumed—face bruised, mouth bloody around his swollen cock—too bloody and there
is the muffled thump of artillery in the background and it isn't really
Krycek at all, is it? Cuffed to his balcony, begging to be fucked—it's
goddamned Mulder, on his knees, or bent over his desk, pants around his
ankles and Skinner's belt is in his hand.
But no... no... he doesn't want to hurt Mulder like that. Wants to cradle
him, fuck him slowly, gently. Make it good. Plant kisses on that tender
mouth... bloody mouth... No! But the image of that Mulder impaled on his
cock; a Mulder beaten, bruised—legs spread and tied to bamboo poles, raw
cane-stripes down his back, head hung in shame and pain—takes him another
notch up the dial of need and Skinner sinks to his knees, callused hand a
blur of motion, the slick crackle of flesh on slippery flesh almost loud
enough to drown out the ghosts of mortar fire and distant screams but not
the rising pitch of his own hoarse cries...
1247 9th Street
Car window's fogged—Alex couldn't see the target if he tried but fuck,
he's almost there. So close it tastes like copper in his mouth and—left
knee braced against the steering wheel, right foot flooring it between the
pedals—he has Mulder on his hands and knees; Mulder on his back. Yeah,
that's it:
Punk up and look at me, Mulder. Look who's going to make you come: the
traitor's gonna make you come. The coward's gonna make you come.
Gonna make himself come too—beat us both with one hand, Mulder, see how
smart your mouth is screaming out my name.
But somehow the Mulder in his mind just doesn't have it right—looks up at
him sullen, distant, like he doesn't care. Ah, Mulder don't let me down
like this. And Jesus all he needs is fire, a little fire. A man you can
point your gun at who won't go soft. A man you can get on his hands and
knees with steel and still need both eyes open because he's big and he's
mean and blood doesn't bother him. Not yours, not his own—and are we
even now you fucking, cocksucking leatherneck bastard. Oh Jesus, yes—he'd be riding the fucking tiger then, wouldn't he? And one wrong move and
he'd be on his ass, on his back, Walter Skinner's bitch cuffed to the
balcony rail. Skinner's monster cock... And oh, oh fuck, that's going to do
it—never fucking fails.
# 42, 2360 Hegal Place,
And this is the way it's going to end, vision sparkle-fade to black, big
green jelly Walter up his ass and the head of his penis exploding like some
racist hick's head in the back seat of his car because, Jesus wept, it's
come or die time and he doesn't think he's going to come...Too much to bear,
this howling, aching pleasure in his ass, his balls—too much like pain,
going on forever, and sudden frustration he pulls the dildo from his ass,
spits out the gag. The belt is harder with cuffed hands chinking at his
throat, but he manages to get the buckle off, feels the blood returning to
his brain. The handcuff key...? Around somewhere. Fuck it, he thinks. Later.
He staggers to the living room; curls up on the cool sanctuary of the
leather couch. Still horny as a dog but he's just too tired now, too
overwrought. Why does he have to complicate it all like this? Couldn't he
just spank the meat like a regular guy? Maybe someone with a softer touch.
He snuggles his still-cuffed hands into his groin, takes gentle hold of his
slippery, drooling prick. Light strokes along the rigid shaft—a new and
subtler torture—but no, not torture, just gentleness. Soft hands, soft
lips. Sudden, shivery memory of Alex Krycek's lips against his cheek makes
him moan. Oh, Alex, Alex. This time, in fantasy, he turns his head
towards. Brushes those lips with his own, opens to that hot wet velvet
tongue. Nothing but tenderness in his touch and imaginary Krycek making
love, is making heat. Not fire, but warm ripples like the aurora borealis,
pulsing out from where imagined kisses fall and Mulder is rising again, but
slowly. Sweetly. Both hands on his cock and Alex's name upon his lips...
828 Viva Tower
...and in a bloody haze of lust and pain, he comes.
1247 9th Street
...and on his knees to mastery again, he comes.
# 42, 2360 Hegal Place
...and in the arms of tenderness he comes
And night rolls on.
828 Viva Tower
Crystal City, Va.
11:19 p.m.
t's dark and Assistant Director Walter Skinner of the FBI stands naked at
his balcony doors. His reflection in the glass is shadowed, eyeless; his
cock is in his hand. The balcony is empty now, but in his mind the familiar
movie runs: Alex Krycek—cuffed and cowering; defiant but oh so shit
scared. Pretty boy in black leather and olive drab, stinking of cordite and
fear and kneeling up to offer him his mouth.... Skinner strokes and
shudders. That image alone is enough to get him off most nights, but
tonight he's tired; hard as a stone. This isn't about anything he
understands and he is nowhere near release.
Arlington, Va.
11:21 p.m.
Alexandria, VA
11:25 p.m.
Crystal City, Va.
11:31 p.m.
Arlington, Va.
11:32 p.m.
Alexandria, VA
11:34 p.m.
Crystal City, Va.
11:36 p.m.
Arlington, Va.
11:36 p.m.
Alexandria, VA
11:36 p.m.
