Disclaimer: Children, what are you doing in here? Get out of here! It contains descriptions of males entertaining graphic sexual thoughts about other males and vocis coitus interruptus. If you don’t like that sort of stuff, or know you are too young for it, I understand Disney has some wonderful entertainment for you. Oh, and I don’t own any of these characters. I’m just borrowing them for a little storytelling. They are all owned by Chris Carter, Fox, ten thirteen productions, and the rest of the people with the money. I don’t have any. I do, however, have an overactive sexual imagination and a good grasp of how to drive a plot home. Oh, dear, that didn’t come out quite right . . . oh, well.
Send comments to address above. I welcome constructive criticism. I also relish confrontation, so feel free to flame me. I hope you’re up to the challenge.
It was early afternoon, and a driven young FBI agent by the name of Fox William Mulder was in the library of the Quantico Training Academy, doing research spurred by a random comment in a preliminary psychological profile. If he could figure out the connection between the constant appearance of certain lines of Renaissance Italian poetry at murder scenes and the major works of Nietzsche and Goethe, he would have a hook into the mind of a particularly vicious sexual predator stalking the Williamsburg area. His goal was to find it before the killer found his next victim. Such was the life of a brand spanking new agent in the Violent Crimes Unit.
He was sitting alone in a study room that he had claimed for himself, surrounded by papers and books and his own notes. His glasses lay on the floor, where they had fallen unnoticed during one of his many moments of searching for yet another puzzle piece. At the moment, he was feeling very defeated and disappointed. His hazel eyes were bleary; his brown hair covered with the dust of books that normally lay untouched in this library; his face looked tired and unhealthy in the dim flourescent lights. Mulder realized that the answer was there, but he wasn’t going to see it until he got some rest. Years from now, his stamina and determination would carry him straight through crises like this one, but at the moment, he was still young and very tired.
Mulder decided on some fresh air. He stalked out of the study room, trying to leave his frustration behind. He paused only to grab his folder of notes, planning to read them over when he got outside. He walked obliviously into the main hallway, heading toward the front entrance, when he collided with a warm soft naked body.
His notes - and his concentration - scattered all over the hallway. A gang of streakers, male and female, were pelting down the library hallway, wearing only paper bags over their heads. Giggles erupted from the main group, at the sight of a very confused FBI agent holding a naked young man in his arms.
Mulder jumped back, still staring into a pair of the most intensely green eyes that he had ever seen.
“Oh god - I’m so sorry.” The stranger knelt and quickly collected Mulder’s papers and handed them back to him. He didn’t seem at all disturbed by his own nudity, or Mulder’s inability to move. “I’m really sorry. Please, forgive me.”
Mulder weakly accepted the papers, barely able to stand. What an incredible voice... what beautiful eyes... what a cute butt... Mulder shook himself free of that thought and stood up slightly straighter, taking a deep breath and recollecting his thoughts.
The streakers regathered their fallen companion, and continued on their merry way down the hall. Mulder just stood there, thinking. He looked down at his notes, still somewhat enraptured by the memory of the slender, tightly muscled body nestled so closely to his own mere moments ago.
A sudden clarity came to him. Was this how the killer felt when he took his victims? Did he lose himself in the feel of their skin, the look in their eyes, the rhythm of their breathing? The rhythm... Mulder looked down at his notes again. The names...the poetry of their names... He had it. He could see it, just as clearly as if he were the killer.
He ran back to the study room, collected all of his notes, and picked up his glasses - how had they gotten on the floor? - and ran back to the car. He had to tell the Task Force what he had found.
*.*
“He’s writing a poem, with the names of his victims. It matches the rhythm of the poetry that he is already obsessed with, and it justifies his own sense of nihilist romance to kill them when he... is finished with them.”
The rest of the Task Force gathered around the main table, gazed at the writings on the blackboard, and the eager young agent’s notes. “That’s incredible,” murmured someone. “I think he’s got it.”
“Good work, Agent Mulder. I think this addition to the profile gives us a real handle on this guy.”
Mulder flushed with pleasure. “Thank you, Agent Black.”
“Now, let’s get back to work. Someone run this stuff down to the secretarial pool so that everyone can have a copy.”
“I’ll do it.” Mulder wanted to leave the room before he turned bright red. One of his idols had just complimented his work; despite the fact that he felt like he had just dragged his mind through a gutter, he could get used to this kind of treatment.
Mulder handed the notes over to a reedy middle-aged male secretary he didn’t immediately recognize. A quick glance at the man’s ID badge revealed that he was a long term temp. Mulder smiled kindly, which usually worked to get his job moved to the front of the copying list. “I need 22 copies of this as soon as possible.”
The man nodded, seemingly unaffected by Mulder’s smile.
Mulder watched hopefully as someone finished with the photocopier, and the secretary with his notes approached the photocopier.
The secretary noticed Mulder staring. “This will take a few minutes,” he warned. He had a rough, accented voice which Mulder didn’t bother to try and place.
“Sure, I’ll just - ah, get myself a coffee.” Mulder grinned, and ran down to the vending machines. He got himself a coffee with too much sugar in it, and drank it before going back to the photocopier to see how his job was coming.
“I made too many copies,” muttered the secretary, dumping one set by the shredder.
Mulder barely noticed, pausing only to trash his Styrofoam coffee cup before picking up his copies with a pleasant “Thank you,” before running back to the office.
After three more hours of discussion, the Task Force broke up, and Mulder went home alone, as usual. He was still heady with the pleasure of actually being complimented by a superior, not to mention the encounter in the library. He also had a gut feeling that the killer would be caught, and soon. He ordered some Indian food to be delivered, and devoured it as soon as it arrived, all the while thinking about the library.
What had that young man been thinking? To run naked and unashamed through Quantico, of all places. Mulder couldn’t even imagine what it would feel like, and knew full well he didn’t have the courage to even try. What had inspired them? He leaned back on his couch, wondering what it would have felt like to run his hands over that beautifully muscular body. To have pulled off that hideous paper bag while he was kneeling, and rammed his hardened penis into a mouth that had to be as sensual and attractive as the rest of him...
With a moan, Mulder closed his eyes and freed himself from his pants, and let his hands take over his fantasy, acting out the part of the stranger’s tongue and mouth muscles. He was at his favorite part of masturbation, that sweet plateau where you are only a few strokes away from your own salvation, when he was startled by a familiar and very unexpected noise.
He froze, wondering two important things: had he locked the door after the delivery boy had arrived, and where was his gun?
He opened his eyes and cursed silently. In addition to being an utterly horrifying situation, it was also incredibly humiliating. Mulder’s standard issue sidearm was pointed unwaveringly at his chest. A man stood in front of him, reedy, thin, with sandy hair and washed out blue eyes that were at present glowing from somewhere deep within.
The secretary from the office pool, who had so thoughtfully copied all the notes that were being used to find him - and Mulder’s personal notebook, which had his home address neatly typed in the front. “Why’d you stop?”
This time, Mulder acknowledged the slight Italian accent, and continued swearing to himself. “You surprised me.”
“So, what were you thinking about?” said the killer in an almost conversational tone.
Mulder’s mind raced over the profile that he had just spent all day going over. “Just -” he swallowed, his throat was dry and tight, he could barely talk. “Just something that happened to me today.”
The killer had a feral gleam in his eyes. There was no doubt in Mulder’s mind that the killer was at least intellectually aroused. “Tell me. You’re going to die anyway. What does a hot stud like you think about while he’s jacking off?”
Mulder was surprised, slightly thrown off track at hearing himself called that, and the fact the killer was also sexually aroused. It was about control, about having caught an FBI agent, of all people, in the moment of flagrant self abandonment.
While Mulder hesitated, he heard the safety click off. Words! He had to say something, whether he liked it or not. He had to keep his attention on the sex, delaying as long as possible the moment when the killer’s mind would turn to the aftermath.
“I - uh, I saw a really beautiful man today. He was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen -”
“Don’t pander to me!” said the killer scornfully. The gun shifted aim with frightening sureness to rest between Mulder’s eyes. “You’re not a fag. Don’t lie.”
“I’m not lying!” Mulder closed his eyes, he couldn’t do this while facing those horrible eyes. “Yeah, I normally like women, but this was... different.” The image sprang to his mind again. “He had a beautiful voice, and he was young, and...” Mulder let himself go a little, describing the stranger’s body in all the detail he could remember. “He was in such good shape, all lean and muscular. His cock looked so nice, not big and ugly or anything - just nice. His chest was totally smooth, as if he shaved it. So many nice muscles, and such narrow hips - and to top it all off, he had a great ass...”
He opened his eyes, and risked looking at the killer. His hands were shaking a little, and it looked as though the man’s erection was pressing quite uncomfortably against his pants. Mulder’s own erection was awake and alive, giving credence to his breathy recitation.
“...and his eyes,” whispered Mulder, feeling more in control of the situation, amazed at the power he was exercising, “his eyes were green, like the sea, like the forest, so deep and open -”
The killer moaned softly, so softly Mulder almost missed it.
“-- when he was kneeling in front of me, all I could think about was how good it would feel to have his lips wrapped around me -”
The phone rang. Mulder dived for it, and used it to knock the gun out of the killer’s hands, then tried to tackle him. The killer threw Mulder across the living room table, turning it over, but leaving the young agent much closer to his weapon than the killer was.
The killer balanced his chances, and decided to run. Mulder grabbed his gun, and attempted to give chase. The killer kicked the apartment door into Mulder’s face with perfect timing. Mulder heard something crack as he connected with his door. His knees gave way, and he sank slowly to the floor. The killer pried the gun away from Mulder.
“That’s it,” Mulder thought to himself. “Now, I’m dead.”
“Hey!” He heard Agent Black’s rough shout. “Hold it right there! Federal agent!”
Mulder heard the gun drop, and handcuffs click, and his nightmare was dragged away. Mulder gave honest thanks to the powers above for Agent Frank Black, and a naked green-eyed stranger.
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