From: The Spike <firstname.lastname@example.org>
"I Do Not Want What I Haven't Got"
Disclaimer: Well, I've never seen any of them do *this* on
TV. Summary: Alex. Self-abuse and masturbation. Notes: Takes place
shortly after Sleepless, no spoilers tho. Rating: NC-17
Thanks: To Ti' Zoot for naughty ideas that mutate, and commas; Nonie Rider for beta
on the fly.
Archive: Sure thing, lemme know
URL: http://avalon.net/~nonie/spike/spindex.htm Feedback: Any and all to Spike21@home.com
"I Do Not Want What I Haven't Got"
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.
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.
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...
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"