TITLE: Once More With Feeling AUTHOR: Drovar E-MAIL ADDRESS: drovar@alltel.net DISTRIBUTION: The Ferret Cage. SPOILER WARNING: None really RATING: NC-17 CLASSIFICATION: V, PWP, smut KEYWORDS: Spender/Mulder Slash SUMMARY: Spender helps Mulder come to an important realization. DEDICATION: To Kristina and Sandie for aiding, abetting and even encouraging this stuff. AUTHOR'S NOTES: Written during an AIM session with Kristina so it's a bit rough. It isn't the best it isn't the worst, but I wanted to give Jeffrey the chance to be the sleazy manipulator for a change Mulder came by my office again last night . . . not to the door, never that. But I heard him prowling around the hallway outside pretending to search the shelves. I'm sure he'd have come up with some, possibly plausible, item as the goal of his search, if I'd bothered to ask. I could hear him rattling boxes and containers as he waited . . . waited for me. He'd been showing up down here once or twice a week. Building his courage I suppose, trying to figure out how to ask, how to satisfy his curiosity. Finally, when I'd gotten tired of his malingering I left the office door open. I sat at my terminal . . waiting for him, waiting for his courage and curiosity to overcome his hesitation . He came in without a sound, not introduction, no banal greeting. He sat and watched, it was almost respectful in a way. I finished my report and turned toward him. He sat on the low couch next to the door, his hands at his side. He reminded me of nothing so much as a big school kid, waiting for his turn with the principle. "Can I help you Agent Mulder," I asked finally looking him in the eye. He looked startled, unsure of himself. He was on rocky ground and he knew it. But there was a deep longing there too, I had an idea what he wanted, but I'd be dammed if he wouldn't ask for it He cleared his throat, stumbling for the words. "I just wanted to talk, if you've got a minute." I shut my computer down, stood and walked around the desk, leaning on it, my arms crossed. "About what Agent Mulder?" I asked. Mulder lifted his head slowly his eyes trailing up my body. You can always tell when one man wants another. Watch the eyes, watch where they go, watch what they follow. where they linger. The quick darting glance is the giveaway, the eyes are windows to the soul, true enough. He turned two shades of red as I looked at him pointedly, and waited. "Well there's been some talk in the agency . . ." "About me?" I ask. I play the idiot well enough. Enough for Mulder and Skinner and that old smoking bastard of a father of mine. He shades into purple at that, the poor guy . . . it's almost humorous. "Yes, " he replies, his voice a little steadier, but sort of hollow sounding. He sounds 'defeated' as if he came here thinking himself a man of noble standards and intentions only to find himself among the basest of the gossip mongers. I know the things he's heard, the things that have been said, whispered over coffee and bagels. I know full well. "It's true . . . all of it." I say, letting things fall as they may. I know why he's here, I can smell his need. He looks at me blankly for a moment. He doesn't understand. He came here expecting denial, anger . . . something like that. Me, an offended agent with his sexuality in question. "So you're really . . . " "Queer, yes." I snap a little more harshly than I mean. My words nearly rock him in his seat. He's not used to this. In his sterile, in-bred, New-England clam chowder sucking clan, this is the big taboo. "A pillow biter, fairy, fudge-pounder, friend of Dorothy, queer bent bastard, whatever words you want to use." The blood flares in his face then. He's not used to such ribald declaration. For all his supposed overt sexuality, and porn collection; despite his oh so coy, and as far as I known unfulfilled, flirtation with Agent Scully, Fox Mulder is something of a prude. "I was just . . . " he stammers. "Curious, I know," I reply. I shift slightly on the desk setting my feet apart a bit and sitting down. It brings my crotch into his direct line of site. It's unavoidable. It's either look me in the eye or stare at my groin, or stare at the floor . . . it's an easy enough choice. "I mean all guys are curious about that kind of thing right?" I ask rhetorically. He perks up, as I help him slide a sheen of into denial over his soul. "I guess so," he says, his eyes never leaving my groin. I put my hands on my hips and then raise them in a long sinuous stretch, letting my hands fall back nonchalantly into my lap. He watches. I adjust myself casually, scratching and pulling a little at the soft package. The suit pants cling to me every bit like a second skin, as they say. He's deeper into the scene now . . . his shyness fading before his curiosity. I stand up casually and step over to the office door, I close and lock it. He gasps slightly. "I mean," as I turn around and shrug my suit jacket off my shoulders and tug at the knot in my tie. "It's not like you're gay or anything." I can see him nodding in agreement, his eyes thankful for the proffered deception. I return to the desk without a word. I rub my crotch in earnest now. I watch him beneath half-closed lids. He sits there eyes wide, mouth hanging open just slightly. He doesn't move, doesn't protest . . . I've got him. I slide the zipper down, more confident now. He won't bail on me, he's too far gone to run. I can see the dawning of understanding in his eyes. He knows what's next, thinks he knows what this is all about. He thinks he's a bystander, an innocent, faultless and blameless. He doesn't understand that I'm not the show, he is. My already half-stiff cock falls out easily, expanding to its full and rather impressive length, with no more than a few quick strokes. I've always worked well with an audience. "Jesus," he swears softly as I pull on the foreskin, letting my hard cock sway and rock as it swings on the loose skin. I grin wickedly, my head down where he can't see me leer. I stroke it again twice, letting my hardness slide back and forth in the tube of skin. I learned how to do the dry shuffle years ago, one of the many benefits of being uncut. Lifting my eyes I watch him openly now. He's deeply into the scene, sitting on the edge of the couch, his hand straying, almost accidentally, to his own heavy crotch. The buttons on the slacks gives me little trouble as I undo them. I stand, unbuckle my belt and let the thin cloth slide off my hips and puddle on the floor. He doesn't seem to either notice or care that I've gone commando. I spread my legs wide as I sit back down on the desk, letting my balls dangle over the edge, swinging loose. My free hand slides into my shirt to pinch my own nipples into hardness. I groan softly, my only sound since I started. He doesn't hear me or doesn't care. His eyes are literally wide and glassy, almost mirror like with moisture. A few more strokes and I can see his own cock outlined in his trousers. He won't take it out, won't let me see it, not yet. He isn't queer, not Fox Mulder of the FBI, he's no fag . . not yet. I watch him carefully, as I stand and quickly shed my remaining clothes, my right hand stopping only to release my shirt. His eyes are all over me now, devouring every inch of my body, washing my skin with his gaze. He gives a small startled throat sound when I turn and present my ass. I watch him over my shoulder. His eyes linger on my ass, even as I continue to stroke. I'm getting close now, and from the way his hand is moving over his groin I suspect he is as well. My left foot finds easy purchase on the desk as my right stays on the floor. I switch hands and dip a finger beneath my balls letting it linger on my exposed asshole for just a moment before I push a little. A quick lick for lube and I slide it in. A glance over my shoulder tells me all I need to know. Mulder's body is taut, rigid, he's nearly ready to explode. I know the trigger and I use it. I start to moan as my own finger penetrates me and is joined by another. My soft cries fill the small room as I push myself higher. I can hear Mulder's panted gasps from the couch. I know what he's doing, where his mind and hands are right now. I can hear the slap of skin even over my groans. I moan louder as I rush towards a climax. There's something about the sound of a sex-heated moan that drives men. I've heard that men are visual creatures. I think we're incredibly auditory as well. My balls tighten in the first rushes of orgasm. I turn quickly and close the space between us. I'm standing right in front of him now, my blurring hand and bobbing cock no more than a few inches from his sweat dampened face. My back arches and I bobble up onto my toes as a strong orgasm racks my body. Mulder's groans follow. I can only hear him, my eyes are closed as I roll through the shattering of muscle control that comes with it. I throw myself on the couch, spent, uncaring any longer of Mulder or his suppressed libido. In the last moment he rolls toward me I let him expend himself on my thigh, my hand stroking through his hair as I listen to his staccato gasps of pleasure. We're still for long moments before he stands and rearranges his clothes. He's a mess, he reeks of sex, of orgasm, both his and mine. I try not to grin as he wipes himself futilely with a handkerchief. He fumbles awkwardly for the door, and is gone. I lay there for a few moments, stirring his come casually as it cools and dries on my skin, thinking . . . He'll be back. I know how these things work. I know about gossip and words, and things that have power over men. I know them well. [end]