"Circle Jerk" by Spike (1/1) M, K, Sk
Okay, first time up to bat for one of these challenges, but torch's
challenge is just too tempting and, by golly, I've pretty much*done* the
Disclaimer: I know these guys belong to someone else but if there were
justice in the world they would be ours.
Rating: NC-17 for perverse ideation, strange toys, longing and
compulsive onanism. Deeply weird.
Spoilers: yes, small ones for Tunguska, the RaTB and strangely, Drive.
Summary: three men masturbate to the tune of some dirty and disturbing
Author's note: spell checked but not beta-ed -- just want to get the
sucker out and hope I don't end up regretting my impatience.
Feedback: Yes, yes, yes... public or privately to <email@example.com>
"Circle Jerk" by Spike
828 Viva Tower, Crystal City, Va.
It'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.
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,
Crystal City, Va.
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
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
828 Viva Tower, Crystal City, Va.
...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, Alexandria, VA
...and in the arms of tenderness he comes
And night rolls on.