Title: Leather -- no Lace
Author: drovar -- with special thanks to BethLynn my exceptional 
partner in crime.
Pairing: Spender/Mulder Slash
Rating: NC-17.  
Notes: Consider this an AU if you must, or just my own twisted 
vision of the way things might have . . or might still work out.

A recent comment regarding Spender in leather bars joggled this 
story loose. Don't ask me the how or the why of this thing . . . I 
have a weird muse and just do what I'm told.




Jeffrey Spender checked his cell-phone again, just in case. Not that 
he could hear anything over the insistent thud of country music. He 
snapped the case shut as the singer reached a crescendo of misery, 
and clipped the phone to his belt. The belt was a real find, 
authentic Marine issue with the corps insignia still on the buckle. 
He'd paid a hefty price for that, but it added just the right touch. 

He'd done his research carefully, observing, surfing the web. 
Lingering in chat rooms and joining certain mailing lists had been 
especially helpful and enlightening. Although it had taken him some 
time to decipher the lingo, and even more to realize and cogitate 
that things such as Spreader Bars and slings were real and just how 
such things were put to use. He still got lightheaded considering 
the possibilities.

He ran a hand down the sleeve of his brown leather flight jacket. 
The fabric felt soft, almost sensuous as it dimpled and rippled at 
his touch. The jacket was pure indulgence, the result of a lingering 
childhood avidity, a need for 'things' that occasionally overwhelmed 
his normally frugal ways. He'd managed to avoid the new DVD player, 
though he'd carefully read the specifications of each model, 
weighing the pros and cons of Dolby Surround Sound and DVX 
compatibility. He'd made his choice, moving slowly towards the 
register, ticket in hand, only to realize  . . . . he didn't really 
like movies.

A sudden flash of skin pulled him out of his reverie. A young man, 
no, a guy his own age, half-dressed in jeans slid by. Spender chided 
himself for feeling, hell *acting* like an old man. Tonight was 
about letting go of that, dropping the inhibitions, having a little 
fun . . .  tonight . . . Tonight was about fulfilling a lingering 
frustrated need. It was a need that he ruthlessly suppressed and 
denied, giving it only the briefest releases in the darkest moments 
of night. He had come to learn lately, about this and many other 
things, that often the truth refused to remain buried and forgotten.

The bar was growing steadily warmer as more people, more men, 
filtered in. Soon the small dance floor was hip deep in lean hungry-
looking leather-boys, mingled with long lanky men in military drag, 
all moving to a beat that grew even louder and more up-tempo. 
Spender was starting to sweat as he watched. Occasionally one of the 
dancers or the watchers would lock eyes with him, taking his 
measure, questioning, a proposition with a blatant stare and a 
twitch of lips and hips. Spender found himself looking away, staring 
at his drink, a blush surging over his face, more than once.

He could feel a slick sheen of moisture forming beneath his T-shirt, 
pooling under his arms and around his collar. He slid his jacket 
off, stretching awkwardly in the small booth. He felt, and smelled, 
damp and warm.

Why did the music have to be so loud? He was as far from the sound 
system as he could get, and still his ears pulsed with every 
thudding beat.

He picked up his scotch. It was Jack Daniels, smooth, and easy 
drinking, with a taste like smoke and fire. He watched the liquor 
shiver and wiggle in time to the music. Calm, relax, enjoy, it's 
okay. He took several deep breaths, sipped, and tried to relax, 
letting the music, the smoke, and banal chatter wash over and 
through him.

He didn't notice the man at first, only sensing a masculine presence 
on the periphery of his thoughts. It was a sense of something jean-
clad, lean-hipped, sensual, dangerous and close that lingered just 
out of range and then suddenly bloomed into staggering 
consternation.

"Spender?"

If it were physically possible to jump out of one's skin Jeffrey 
Spender would have done so. As it was, he nearly coughed up the 
Scotch burning in his gullet. His gaze went right, taking in the 
tight jeans enveloping a fit body tapering into a well worn olive 
drab T-shirt over a broad and vaguely familiar torso.

His breath froze in his chest, his heart clenched hard seeming to 
stutter-step to a halt, and he was fairly certain his testicles had 
crawled whimpering back up into his body. Not that it mattered, his 
life as a FBI agent of any sort was clearly over. Jeffrey Spender -- 
FBI Leather-punk, he could hear the office chatter already.

"Mulder?" he said, cursing himself as he heard the defeated quiver 
in his voice. He imagined Mulder regaling Scully with his story; the 
two of them, huddled together conspiratorial, red faced with 
laughter.  Mulder working undercover in a gay bar when who should he 
come across but little Jeffrey Spender.

He heard Mulder slide into the booth across from him. He couldn't 
raise his eyes from the table where he slowly turned his glass in 
his hands. He couldn't look up at that broad smirking face filled 
with triumph at finally nailing 'that rat-bastard'. Spender steeled 
himself against the creation onslaught of Mulder's infamous wit. He 
glanced up, wary and uncertain, when the torrent of sarcastic jibes 
didn't come.

Mulder's expression was bland, deadpan, non-committal and impassive 
in a way that only Mulder ever mastered. If eyes were windows to the 
soul then Mulder's windows where drawn, shuttered and hidden in 
shadow. The man was thoroughly inscrutable. Spender thought he could 
see just a trace of glee or mirth in Mulder's expression. Though the 
man remained infuriatingly stolid and silent.

"Well." Spender asked finally. "Aren't you going to bust me? Tell me 
I'll be hounded out of the Bureau." Spender looked down at his 
hands, unable to meet Mulder's gaze any longer. "This is the part 
where you tell me I'm a menace to normal-decent society isn't it? 
Maybe call me a few choice names?" He looked up again sharply when 
Mulder made a nearly soundless snort.

Mulder's stoic expression shifted as Spender watched, the leaden 
blankness fell away with the suddenness of an avalanching cornice of 
snow, revealing the hard, vaguely dark face beneath. His eyes were 
abruptly sharp and clear, the subtle sleepiness gone, replaced by 
eagerness, and something almost predatory; a gleam that sent shivers 
ricocheting through Spender's body; shivers that careened and 
collided and finally collapsed into a electric charge that cascaded 
down his body and sizzled in his groin.

"Are you always such a drama Queen Spender?" Mulder said, as he 
leaned forward. 

Spender hesitated for a moment, uncertain and a little afraid. Their 
gazes met and locked. Mulder's eyes appeared to shifted, or perhaps 
it was the dimming light that made them seem so deep and enveloping; 
dark olive drab shot through with pools of brown, near to black 

"No I'm . . .," Spender stammered, suddenly aware of Mulder's 
closeness, the sheen of his skin, and scent of him; smoke and 
alcohol and something deeper, and darker that tickled at his senses, 
something he could feel seeping into him. 

Mulder signaled to the bar, and in moments he was tipping back a 
long necked bottle. Spender watched unabashedly as Mulder drank 
deep. Even over the blare of the music and the crowd Spender thought 
he could hear the sound of Mulder's lips on the bottle, the soft 
sweep of skin on glass, the subtle smack of lips as he released the 
bottle and set it down half-empty.

Mulder focused on him, seemed to come to some conclusion, and slid 
out of the booth leaving his half-finished beer behind.

"C'mon," Mulder said, holding out his hand.

"What?" Spender's voice jittered uncertainly, his gaze sweeping to 
Mulder's face, shadowed by darkness and smoke, and back to his 
proffered hand. Spender grimaced, downed the last of his scotch, and 
grabbed his jacket. Mulder couldn't possibly be intending what he 
seemed to be intending. 

To his growing horror, Spender found himself propelled toward the 
crowded dance floor.  

"I can't do this," he said, looking over his shoulder. Mulder pushed 
him deeper into the crowd.  Spender found himself jostled and bumped 
as he tried to protest. Mulder was already moving, his eyes closed, 
lost deep in the music or the moment, or whatever the hell was 
driving him.

"Move," Mulder said, his voice tinged with demand; it was subtle, 
but still an order. The music was something Spender didn't 
recognize, something with a hard driving tempo and a Euro feel. He 
shrugged his jacket back on and considered simply walking out the 
door.  This had been a mistake, a big one -- that much was clear.  
Now was the time to cut his losses, crawl home, and pretend the 
whole sorry mess never happened.

He felt large hands on his shoulders, as he began to turn -- Mulder. 
A jostle from a frenzied dancer pitched him awkwardly forward. He 
tottered for a moment caught between steps before toppling over. He 
had one glimpse of Mulder's face as they fell together. He was, for 
lack of a better word -- serene, as if this were part of some well-
calculated plan. With one quick breath of shock, Spender thought it 
just might be. 

They crashed to the ground, arms and legs entangled their bodies 
pressed close. Spender rolled as they landed, propping himself up on 
his arms, his face just inches away from Mulder's. The man's 
expression became an enigmatic grin.

"So you *are* having a good time," Mulder said. A leering tone 
slipped into his voice as he spoke. Spender's face grew hot as he 
tried to scramble to his feet. He felt the raw hardness of his own 
body pressed between them as he moved, and the way Mulder was moving 
. . . pressing against him, insistent, hard-bodied, demanding a 
reaction. 

He felt Mulder's hand slide around the back of his neck, as sinuous 
and muscled as a python, it pulling him downward.

"Please," Spender whispered as he struggled against the pull. His 
breath drew tight in his chest and his plea came as a slow hiss lost 
in the music and crowd. Their lips close, Mulder's feline smile was 
lost as Spender's vision narrowed to Mulder's eyes, heavily 
shadowed, but still seeming somehow hazel and bright. 

"Let's go," Mulder said over the noise that enveloped them.  His 
lips brushed Spender's as he spoke, a suggestion of a kiss, 
touching, then gone and back again. 

Spender staggered to his feet feeling dull and confused, the world 
narrowed to a distant horizon. Everything spun into a blur of music, 
and dancers, light and noise. He wobbling on his feet and for a 
moment he was certain he was going to pass out.

Suddenly the noise and light were gone, replaced by darkness and 
cool damp air. They were outside the bar; he didn't remember 
leaving.

The cold air felt good, almost supernaturally clean and crisp after 
the bar's smoke filled air. A tug on his belt sent him stumbling 
backwards. Mulder caught him mid-tumble.

"What's a nice soldier like you doing out on an awful night like 
this?"

Spender shivered as Mulder's lips brush his ear.  The man was truly 
insane and suffering from a profound psychotic episode. There was no 
other plausible explanation for the lips now working deliberately at 
his neck or the hips grinding against him. Mulder was a caress of 
motion touching him everywhere at once. 

Then they we're moving again; driving quickly through Washington in 
a nondescript coup -- a bureau car.  A surreal dichotomy enveloped 
him as he looked over at Mulder. He appeared every bit the 
officious, bored agent, taciturn and surly, his eyes locked on the 
road ahead. But beneath that mask, bubbling and boiling below the 
enigmatic surface he seemed coiled, wound tight around some thought 
or feeling Spender couldn't fathom.

"Where are we going?" Spender asked at last.  His breath and mind 
had returned as the swelling in his groin subsided. Mulder grunted 
in reply. Spender wondered about the wisdom of leaving his gun 
behind that evening. Mulder, on occasion, could be unbalanced, 
dangerous. Spender sighed in relief when they turned onto a familiar 
street. Maybe he wouldn't need his gun, after all.

"My place?" he asked. His voice rose barely above a whisper.  Mulder 
stared ahead, unresponsive, like stone and mortar. 

Spender repeated his question, louder this time.  Mulder turned, a 
sharp smile on his face.

"My place is bugged."

Spender jerked upright in his seat, his eyes wide. The unspoken 
questions of who and why curled around them like unsettling wisps of 
smoke in the darkness. They both knew the answers, and left them 
unsaid. Spender settled back into his seat and sat in silence as 
they turned into the parking garage.

* * *

Spender fumbled at the lock on his door, forcing one key then 
another into the lock.  Mulder leaned against the doorframe 
grinning, almost leering. Spender sighed in relief as the door 
finally opened.  He tossed his leather jacket across the back of a 
chair and turned.

"Can I get . . . "

His offer of a drink was cut off by lips pressed against his own and 
hands roaming over his back and shoulders.  Strong hips slammed 
against his, raising a groan from them both.  Spender staggered back 
across the apartment, fighting to keep his balance and answer the 
wave of passion threatening to engulf him.

"Music we need music . . ." Spender said as he untangled himself 
from Mulder's arms. He turned and slipped a random disc into the CD 
player, as he willed his breath to slow and his heart to stop 
racing.   He hit the play button as he felt Mulder's hands slip 
under his arms and across his chest.

Mulder pulled Spender close as the music began, their bodies 
grinding heavily together. Spender felt suddenly loose and relaxed 
as the music filled the apartment with a thick sensual melody. 
Mulder leaned forward, bring his lips close to Spender's ear. 

"Mmmmm . . . . . Moonlight Sonata, interesting choice," Mulder said.  
He nipped at Spender's ear, biting just short of pain. 

"You've never done this before, have you?" Mulder asked softly as he 
slid down to nuzzle  at Spender's neck.  A short gasp preceded a 
hesitant voice, heavy, sleep-sodden with want.

"No . . . " Spender's voice faltered, falling to a whisper as he 
leaned close "No, never."

"A box that's never been opened," Mulder whispered slowly pushing 
Spender's shirt up.  His hands roamed the pale skin, searching out 
the hollows and nubs that defined the body beneath, squeezing, 
caressing, and sliding down the slender back. Spender shuddered when 
Mulder's hand landed on the web-belt at the back of his fatigues, 
lingered there a moment and slipped beneath, dipping into the warm 
channel and probing for the sweet hidden spot.

"Soft . . . so soft," he whispered as if speaking to himself.

Spender groaned as Mulder's hand slipped further into the dark 
warmth of his body, down to his most private places.

"Oh God," Spender gasped as Mulder's finger's finally alighted on 
the twitching core of his body. 

"Should I stop?" Mulder asked huskily, even as he continued to poke 
and probe the sensitive spot.

"Oh Jesus," Spender said between moans, "Oh, please don't." 

Mulder grinned at Spender's eager consent and with apparent 
reluctance pulled his hands free. He dropped to his knees, propping 
Spender against the stereo as he started to sag like a boneless 
thing to the floor.

"Not yet," Mulder said as he slid his hands along Spender's chest 
again seeking out the soft nipples, poking and pulling them to rough 
hardness. Mulder looked up; his eyes bright and clear, almost 
predatory in their sharpness. Spender was suddenly intensely aware 
of the warmth of Mulder's hands on his skin, the feel of his breath 
against his stomach. In the distance, far off, some other world 
maybe, he could hear a solitary siren wailing faintly.

Spender met Mulder's gaze with the most direct look his badly 
distracted mind could muster.  "Respect me in the morning?" he asked 
arching one eyebrow.

With a soft chuckle, Mulder slid his hands down to the snap on 
Spender's fatigues.  Spender could feel Mulder's hands working 
efficiently, and in moments his cock was free, swaying and dipping 
with each breath he took.

An electric jolt surged from his balls to his brain, when he finally 
felt Mulder's touch on his overheated skin. Mulder placed his hand 
beneath Spender's erection and pushed upwards, pressing the hard 
flesh against his stomach, gently, then firmly, then hard. Spender 
bucked into Mulder's hand, gasping out in animal need and grabbing 
the stereo to prevent himself from toppling over.

"Do you like that Jeff?" Mulder asked. He pressed again. 

Spender's gasp and nearly silent whine was answer enough.

"Well well . . . " Mulder chuckled and stroked.

Spender shuddered.

Another stroke brought him tumbling to the ground.  Mulder gently 
guided the smaller man down, laying him out on the floor in front of 
the stereo, before reaching up and snapping the music off.

"Why?" Spender asked in confusion.

"I want you to hear this," Mulder replied. "I want you to hear the 
sound your skin on mine. I want you to hear your own breathing and 
moans, the sound of my lips on your body. I want you to hear your 
blood throbbing through your veins.  I want you to hear it, and feel 
it, and think about it. And remember who we are and what this means.

Spender's head dropped back to the floor, thudding softly on the 
carpet.

Slowly, teasingly, Mulder untied Spender's hiking books, pulled off 
his socks, carefully and thoroughly kissing each perfectly formed 
toe, before reaching up and skinning Spender fatigues off his body 
in one swift yank.

Mulder slid up Spender's body, nibbling and licking at the fair, 
lightly haired skin of his thighs as he went. He stopped just below 
the still rigid cock. Grinning at Spender he scuttled upwards, until 
they were face to face. Spender closed his eyes, and leaned back, 
feeling a scarlet flush of warmth spreading over him.

"What?" Spender whispered, as if speaking aloud would somehow 
shatter the mood of this one magic moment. He opened his eyes, and 
focused on the man straddling his hips.

Mulder winked and pushed his hips against Spender's. Spender could 
feel their crotches grind together, trapping his hardness between 
them and simply *moving*.

Spender's went from wariness to lust in a single thudding heartbeat.  
Mulder pushed harder, rotating his stiff cock against Spender's. 
Suddenly he swooped down attacking Spender's lips with his own, 
dragging him down into a deep, heedless, kiss. Spender hesitated for 
just a moment, then surrendered, allowing Mulder's hot tongue 
inside, to curl and twist and investigate.

Spender groaned as Mulder continued to gyrate, their bodies pressed 
hard together. He broke the kiss and gave a series of laughing 
joyous gasps, lunging his hips into Mulder's still clothed body.  He 
arched his back, bringing both of them off the ground and spasmed. 
  
As the eruptions of Spender's body wet the space between them, 
Mulder continued to grind and hump, pushing and forcing them 
together. After long shuddering moments Spender collapsed back to 
the floor, breathing hard.

"That was too fast," Spender said as he pulled himself up on one 
elbow when Mulder rolled away.

"You're young," Mulder said and squeezed Spender's cock again.  A 
think rope of semen oozed out over his hand.  

Spender gasped and fell back on the floor

"That was just to relieve the pressure." Mulder said.

Spender barked out a quick nasal snort. . . . It was going to be a 
long night.

[end]