Fear of Success
Author: Shannon
Website: http://themkshrine.angelfire.com
Pairing: M/K
Rating: NC-17
Summary: The Speedo.
Disclaimer: Blarg!
Archive: Yes, to any list it's posted to. Others just ask.
Date of First Posting: 11/05/04
Sequel to: A Jog in the Park.
I wake on my stomach in a pool of my own cum.
I groan and shift a little. I must have been thrusting in my sleep because my briefs have worked their way down, exposing my cockhead.
I groan again. I’m still tingling, and when I try to lift myself, a line of dick-drool stretches out between my slit, slightly aching, and the bed.
“Fuck,” I murmur, rolling over and wiping myself off with a clean corner of the sheet I pull my spunky underwear down and off, tossing them irreverently across the bedroom.
I don’t remember exactly what the dream was. That is to say, which position, where my dick was, where his was, if it was a long, agonizing fuck or 69 or whips and chains or what… The only thing I remember, and the only thing that matters, is that it was him. It’s fucking always him.
I throw my arm over my eyes, blocking out what feels and looks like mid-morning sun.
You know those freaks who have a fear of success? Well, I might’ve become one. I’m not sure. But I’ve stopped stalking him. I’m thinking maybe I’m afraid I’m gonna get my cock sucked again. It doesn’t make a lot of logical sense, and truthfully, just thinking the phrase nowadays sends the Little Engine That Comes into a frenzy. All those sex words like fellatio, blow job, suck off, head, going down, whatever…they all come stamped with a picture of his face, photo-perfect, eyes closed, cheeks hollow, fat mouth wrapped around me and nursing like he loves it. Okay, like I love it. He seemed pretty indifferent, really. Just a suck and run. Literally. Just fucking with Krycek. Just nothing.
Anyway. He’s right. I can’t think straight. I think about sex all the time. I can be holding a gun on some piece of shit Syndicate fuck and it can be life and death, and if I so much as think the name Mulder, I’m hard and ready. I think I’ve scared many a man with my budding erections during negotiations. Much more so than my gun in their guts. Maybe Mulder even did me a professional courtesy. I know of at least two guys who didn’t flinch when I cocked my gun but who started squealing like little pigs when they noticed me getting hard in my pants in front of them. Could be my new gimmick. The Erect Assassin. Make ‘em talk with the threat of nonconsensual gay sex. Not bad.
I get up, staggering into the shower, washing the dried gunk off before even making coffee, which is pretty unheard of. Juan Valdez is my dealer, the candy man. I get the shakes if I don’t get the bean, man. It gets ugly. Anyway…
Thing is, I don’t really like that I’ve been having wet dreams about Mulder. Like some hormone-overrun twelve year-old who just found out what that piece of meat between his legs can actually do. I’m used to Mulder giving me hard-ons. He’s probably used to it, too now, after he’s discovered me with one three times while in varying states of interrogating and/or punching me. Four times if you count the park last month.
But I really hate him showing up in my dreams like this. It’s not fair. I have no defense against him there. I’ve tried to fend him off, too. I’ve pulled a gun on him, but it just turned into a huge, hot pink dildo, and he made me fuck myself with it. Fucker laughed the whole time, too. I came like a porn star. Woke up with jizz on my own mouth if you can believe that.
I frown and scrub myself, washing my left armpit ruthlessly, feeling him everywhere.
I’ve tried running away from him in my dreams, but he chases me every time and that alone turns me on. Sometimes I come before he can even touch me, the thrill of the chase being quite enough. His hot breath behind me, little grunts from both of us, how hard he’s running, how badly he wants to catch me… It doesn’t help that I’ve slapped the salami a few times on that fantasy wide awake and therefore trained myself to come on that moment when he’s about to bring me down.
Other nights, in the dreams, he gets me…tackles me to the ground and “rapes” me. Sometimes I have barely enough time to put up a fight and then let him get it inside me before I’ve shot my load and I wake up.
I turn the water off, already half-swollen once more just thinking about all the various ways Mulder degrades my body while I’m asleep. God, he does some kinky shit! It’s appalling. Truly disgusting. I’ve never come harder.
Anyway.
I make coffee. He’s at work. He’ll go home and, soon after, take his evening jog, and once again, I won’t join him.
Fear of success. Yeah, right. Fear of everything else maybe. Of being beaten for my trouble. Of being pitied for my obvious obsession. Ridiculed for this weakness.
But none of those is really on the money. You know what I think my biggest fear is? That he’ll ignore me. Just let me chase him, never again turning around to throw me up against a tree and give me heaven, never turning at all. Never touching me.
*Don’t touch me again.* Maybe he’ll finally hear me.
I sigh, looking at my dry-erase calendar on the fridge door, sipping my coffee. I’m naked. I hate clothes. I’m naked all the time at home. I’d love to join a nudist colony except that I’m not as big a fan of other people’s naked bodies. Excepting Mulder, of course. And yeah. I’ve seen it. You’re totally missing out.
I couldn’t join one anyway. I need a place to holster my gun. And they might be real strict or something and count my prosthesis as clothing.
Anyway. Calendar. Meet with Bernstein on the 24th. That was yesterday. Nothing again until the 1st where it says in purple pen: Infiltrate Colorado base, pay rent.
So I’m a free agent for a seven days. Edleson will want me to check in, but the work load is lite just now. We’re in gestation phase. Well, bad choice of word with this new intel we got on the Greys’ most interesting biology. Planning phase. Watching and waiting. I’ve conducted my “interviews”, gathered the data. The date is set for my next move. Now I just have to wait for further instruction.
I take my coffee into the living room and decide to check in with my favorite cocksucker.
I prop my feet up on the coffee table and put on the headphones, turning up the volume on the feed I have going from the basement office.
“…not our jurisdiction,” Scully protests.
Oh, good. A new case. I turn up the volume and close my eyes, letting his voice fill my mind and his face appear in the eye-lid black.
“It fits an old casefile. Come on, we’ll just go for a day or two, whaddaya say?”
I can just see him. Confident, feet up on his desk, pencil eraser tapping his lips… She’s gonna cave. She’s gonna go. I smile.
She sighs. I picture his eyebrows going up, a slight pout going now, curving that bottom lip. (The one that dragged along the underside of my --)
“Two days, Mulder,” Scully warns. “But if…”
“Yeah, Scully. No X-file, we’re outta there. Scouts honor.”
“You were never a scout, Mulder.”
“I was, too.”
“You were a cub scout.”
Pouting further now: “’still a scout.”
God, I wanna suck his dick.
Scully sighs again, a non-verbal warning. I take it to heart and adjust my balls. Down, I admonish. Scully’s right. All business. Think with your brain, Alexei, and not your libidinous tendencies. Maybe I should put some clothes on.
“I’ll book the tickets,” Scully says, sounding martyrly.
“No need,” Mulder answers, the cheer in his voice utterly breathtaking. “I got us a car. Said we’re checking out nefarious activities at American Mutual. Possible bank fraud. It’s a national bank.” His chair squeaks as he stands. “What was that about jurisdiction, Scully?” She sighs in answer and he continues, “If we drive we can see the beautiful foliage this time of year.”
I sit up straighter. Where. Tell me where, Mulder.
“They have foliage in Jersey?” Scully asks incredulously.
I hold my breath.
“Are you kidding?” he says. “Why Scully. It’s the Garden State.”
I take the headphones off as they leave the office. I have to get dressed. I’m going to New Jersey.
……….
So I’m back to stalking him again. Only now I’m in my car about five back from his. I’m not sure if this is progress or declination.
Mulder takes an exit just south of Hackensack and he and Scully hit the Dairy Queen. I wait in the Shell station across the street, sipping coffee that’s been on the hot plate for maybe…I’m guessing eight hours? and pretending to read the headlines.
They emerge, Scully empty-handed, Mulder with some huge cup of something, mouth working at the straw in a way I can only describe as pornographic. Must be a shake. I lick my lips and make my way to my car, trailing them to their hotel.
Go, Mulder. It’s a Ramada Inn. Complete with weight room, mints on the pillows, Hallelujah! a coffee maker in the room, and an indoor pool. All the Motel 6’s must’ve had no vacancies. There is a Rod ‘n Gun show in town.
Anyway.
I shut the door to my room and resist the urge to strip naked, knowing I’ve got work to do. I wait until I hear two doors close and then both their voices in the hall, heading off toward the elevators. I hear something about the bank and then lunch. I watch the parking lot out my window. I watch them get in the rental car and drive away. I get my equipment ready.
Bugging his room is easy. The hotel is old and still uses real keys in real locks. Simple to pick. A thirty second job. I’m out with plenty of time to spare. I even treat myself to room service while they’re gone. Philly cheese steak. And God, it’s good!
They’re actually gone so long, I wind up ordering dinner, too. And then waiting some more. I think about getting a little Pay-Per-View soft core action, but they don’t have anything that really suits me, i.e. two or more guys doing each other, so I settle on Nova on mute.
I’ve watched a show on walruses and one on black holes when I finally hear two pairs of shoes in the hall. I adjust the earpiece and wait.
I listen to the sounds of Mulder. Key thrown down. Huge yawn. TV coming on. Fucking Nova, wouldn’t you know? Footsteps on the bathroom tile. Peeing. (I get a little aroused at that.) More footsteps. Then bedsprings sagging and a sigh.
We watch PBS together, and I eat my pillow mints.
I’m getting really fucking sleepy and it’s probably three in the morning when I hear a harsh, frustrated breath in my ear. Then, “Son of a bitch.”
Bedsprings. He’s getting up. TV turned off. Shit, he’s gonna leave! I get up off the bed, and when I hear his door close, I rip the earpiece out and peer out my peephole.
Just a flash of him, but man, it makes my mouth water. Shirtless. Towel wrapped around his waist.
Mulder’s going to the pool.
It’s closed for the night. But I have no doubt Mulder will find his way in. And so will I.
I pace and wait five minutes before leaving and taking the stairs down. I didn’t bring a goddamned swimsuit. I don’t own a goddamned swimsuit! And anyway, what the hell would I do if I did? Jump in and challenge him to some laps? I’m pretty fast with just the one arm, but I’d probably be too busy trying not to drown while he beats me to worry about inadequacies.
I don’t know what I want to do. (Besides touch him. Besides have him, lick him, eat him, fuck him…) There’s never really been a plan. Mostly because Mulder is so unpredictable. I’m just going with the flow. As I peer through the window in the door, silently picking this lock, too, and watch him drop the towel and head toward the edge of the pool, it doesn’t seem to matter anymore. Having a plan.
He’s wearing a Speedo.
A white one.
I’m panting. God, when that gets wet it’s gonna…be…
He dives in, parting the water with hardly a splash and cutting quickly from deep-end to shallow. I take a breath, the bolt clicking, and dart through the door quietly while he’s under, dashing to the rubber plants in the corner and ducking behind them.
He starts doing laps. Strong and smooth through the sparkling blue. The only light is from the under-water lamps and the moon shining in through the huge windows. He no longer looks human. He should be on Nova. He’s a sea creature. A thing of the water. Made of water. Liquid grace and undulating like a serpent.
I watch him glide from one end of the large pool to the other, over and over. Easy. Methodical. Hypnotizing.
I’m taking off my shoes and socks before I even know it.
I’m reaching for the prosthesis when he pulls himself up over the lip of the pool, rising like something mythic and dripping.
Sure enough. See-through. He walks unselfconsciously to the deep-end and steps onto the diving board. The outline of his cock pushes at the wet lycra. He’s so long it has to veer off toward his hip or else spill over the top.
I’m all for spilling.
He bounces on the board and dives, and I rip the arm off, coming out from my hiding place, taking the three steps to the side of the pool and slipping in discreetly where it says 5 ft. I’m in my T-shirt and jeans still. I can’t wait. Can’t risk stripping. I just get in, clothes and all, not caring about anything other than him.
He stays under and flips, turning to swim back to the deep-end. I try to control my breathing as I watch him nearing and bide my time. Finally, when he’s close, long body rippling beneath the clear water, I reach my hand out and touch him. Just a glance of a touch. Just a swipe along his side.
But he feels it. His head bursts through the surface and he looks around, sending sprays of water everywhere.
“Wha--?” he sputters, before his eyes alight on me. They go wide and disbelieving. I smile, bobbing a little in the wake he’s created. I blink wet lashes at him. I’m so turned on and so scared.
He launches toward me, and the way the water drags at his body gives me enough time to get the upper hand, turning and shoving him, pushing him back against the wall, trading places. Water erupts over the side.
I think I’ve kind of pissed him off with that move, and he fights with me, dunking me a couple of times while cursing my name. I think he’s forgotten about our interlude in the park. He sees me, and I enrage him. That’s the real us. The one he’ll always remember. Still. It’s so nice to have his hands on me. It’s good to be close to him. If he’ll just let off enough for me to not have to struggle to stay above water, maybe I can make him understand that I’m not here to ruin his life.
“What are you doing here, Krycek?” he finally hisses, holding me by the wrist. His other hand is completely free. He could be fighting me harder. It makes my pulse quicken. He’s holding back. Holding back. And he’s flushed. Not from his swim. From me.
I don’t say anything for what feels like a long time. I just stare at him, and he stares back at me. Gradually, his gaze goes softer, though he frowns a little. I’m breathing hard. I can hardly look at him. But I can’t look away.
Finally, tired of waiting for me to respond, Mulder speaks again. Or rather, he opens his mouth. All that comes out, though, is, “Kruh-- “ And his grip loosens a little on my wrist.
I swallow, preparing to do the only thing I’ve been able to think about for weeks. I pull in his grasp. To my surprise, he lets me go, and my wrist slips from his fingers. I reach down and hold his gaze while I find the only thing keeping his cock out of my hand. When my fingers graze just the slightest bit of elastic over his hip, he gasps. I blink at him, lips parting, and dip my hand into his suit, finding his cock already thick with desire. I fight the urge to close my eyes as my hand closes around it. His eyes do close, fast, and his chin lifts, baring his throat. I start to tug a little, fattening him up in my fist. I watch his beautiful face, and soon he can’t resist either; his eyes find mine again.
I pump his cock and watch his expression. Confused…aroused… I pull his cock out, shoving the Speedos down over his balls. He groans, turning his head and closing his eyes again.
“Look at me.” I don’t know how I manage even that. It comes out back-road rough and quiet.
I expect his defiance. Maybe a “Fuck you, Krycek,” even as his hips jerk once, pushing his cock through the tight hole my fist is making. But he turns his face back, and then flutters his lashes open, looking at me, panting quietly.
My cock pounds with that look. I hold his hot gaze with a determination that springs tears to my eyes and fills my body with a nearly unbearable fire. I start moving my hand on him fast. I’m causing waves to swell around us, buffeting us, lapping the sides of the pool loudly. My breathing matches his, hard and shaking. He grips the side of the pool with one hand and grabs my shoulder with the other, groaning short, a warning that I interpret so well I almost hear the real words: ‘Gonna come.’
His fingers dig into my arm as I work his cock, and I know he feels my muscles working to bring him off. It turns him on. It has me almost coming. He has to close his eyes now. It’s good. He doesn’t see my tear fall as he comes.
His cock pulses in my hand and I alternately watch his face contorting, his mouth uttering a string of inarticulations, and his cock ejaculating, turning the water to a foggy milk between us. I stroke his release loose and his hips jerk into it, welcoming it, begging for it, as his expression turns pained and his last loud cry turns to a whimper.
I did it. I jacked Mulder off. And he let me. I let his cock go, backing up, eyes wide. I have no one-liner for him. I don’t feel like I’ve won something. I feel scared. Before he even opens his eyes all the way, I’ve vaulted over the side of the pool and I’m grabbing up my prosthesis. Fuck the shoes and socks, he can have them.
“Krycek!” he shouts, his voice hard in the humid room.
I don’t turn, just bolting for the door. I have my fake arm tucked under my stump and I’m reaching for the knob when Mulder calls out again.
“Alex!”
Turning softer on the second syllable now…almost imploring.
It halts me. I take a breath, fingers brushing the dull brass. I turn my head.
He gulps a swallow, still recovering. I think the sight of his wet, inquiring face is the cruelest beauty I’ve ever witnessed.
I find myself smiling at him. Just a small smile. And I feel new tears again, so I turn before he can stop me once more and take off through the door, leaving a wet trail behind me.
END
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