The Feisty Filly Fantasy Ranch.
No, you did not make that up.
“A hotel in Nevada,” he said. “Strange things happening in one of the suites,” he said. “The employees are worried,” he said.
The Feisty Filly Fantasy Ranch.
It’s 2016, and this is the straw that’s going to break the proverbial camel’s back. You’re finally going to kill him.
One month back at work and he’s already pulling this crap again. You’re too old for this. He’s too old for this. Only he’s not, and you know it. He’ll be chasing monsters when he’s ninety, and you’ll be right there beside him, rolling your eyes and pretending to be annoyed and thinking boring, uninspiring things like I’m too old for this.
You hide a smile, despite the obnoxiously-glowing neon sign looming before you. As lascivious as The Feisty Filly Fantasy Ranch promises to be (and if the silhouette of a busty woman riding bareback on the marquis is any indication, it’s pretty darn lascivious), it’s still a world of difference from where the two of you were a year ago. You’ll trade depression for debauchery any day.
Damned if you’re going to let him know that, though. He’s giddy enough with this assignment as it is. No need adding fuel to his insufferably slaphappy fire. Look at him over there, grinning like an idiot. You honestly feel like smacking him.
“C’mon, Mulder,” you say, making your way toward the door (it’s pink; the door is hot fucking pink). “I’m anxious to hear the full story in here.”
He smiles, his hand magnetically connecting with its spot on your back (doesn’t matter you’re not together anymore, doesn’t matter you’d like to punt him from here into next week, it’s still his spot—it’ll always be his spot).
“I must say, Scully, I’m impressed by your enthusiasm…”
“Don’t be too impressed,” you quip back at him. “I’m merely gathering evidence, determining how severe your ass-kicking’s going to be once we’re back in D.C.” He chuckles as he opens the door, then guides you straight into the depths of hell. Well, okay, maybe not hell. But some smoky, dimly-lit, fuzzy pink approximation of it.
Yes. The ass-kicking is going to be brutal. It’s going to be absolutely ruthless.
The complaints are numerous. Bright flashing lights. Strange noises. Girls never heard from again. A viscous, white “slime” left upon various surfaces of the room.
You hold your tongue for that last one.
While the stories are straight from a 1950’s B horror movie, the house mother (Miss Filly Fiona—it just keeps getting better) and the girls are genuinely terrified. They’re deathly afraid to use the room and are losing clients as a result. Their biggest fear though, it seems, is that of the ranch’s hot-blooded proprietor, Stallion Sid (yes, just better and better), a physically opposing man with a tendency towards rage when his “fillies” don’t meet quota. If for no other reason, you’re willing to play along just in order to minimize further incidents of that nature.
One night. You agree to one night, your eyes piercing through Mulder’s upturned cheek like laser beams when Miss Fiona insists you’ll need to dress the part ‘just so you won’t look suspicious to the other patrons, hon,’ ushering you into a back room overflowing with bits and baubles former fillies have left behind.
“Tonight’s the perfect night,” she blathers on, shoving lace and cheap satin and so many dangling straps at you, you fear you’ll entangle yourself like a fly in a spider’s web, “Sid won’t be here, so you’ll be free to do your fancy investigatin’ and such. He’d never stand for it if he knew, nosiree, there’d be quite the commotion if he knew, my Lord, I don’t even want to think about it…oooh, this one would be darling on you, dear!” She holds a frilly atrocity up by a fakely-manicured fingertip while you try your damnedest not to cringe. Have you already mentioned you’re too old for this?
“Thank you for your help, Miss Fiona,” you say sweetly, “But I hate to take you away from your work. Why don’t you let me glance through your offerings here, and I’m sure I’ll find something suitable.”
Mulder’s nosing his way around the cramped bedroom when you find him. He pouts as pathetically as you’d have expected when his eyes take in the satin robe you’ve cinched tightly around your waist. Sorry, bud, you’re going to have to do more than just roll up your shirtsleeves and sulk to get a peek. Although, damn, those forearms still do something to you, and he knows it. Especially when he’s clenching and unclenching his fists like that. It reminds you of that time oh God yes, that time—
“Okay, partner,” you blurt out, for fear you’re about to embarrass yourself, “Why don’t you give me the scoop?” That’s some mighty hip lingo, Special Agent Scully. You sound like a character from a cheesy 1980’s crime drama, for Christ’s sake.
He frowns, waving those distracting forearms in the air like he’s purposely trying to tempt you (you’re fifty-two years old; you’re quite adept at not being tempted, thank you very much), then says, “Nothing, Scully! I don’t see anything out of the ordinary here. I don’t understand it. Even the celestial spectrometer isn’t picking up on anything!”
You feign surprise what? you mean no mysterious white goo? whatever shall we do? while ruefully assessing the accommodations. A rickety vanity with mirror and matching stool, armchair upholstered in what appears to be one of Maria Von Trapp’s curtains, and The Bed—you’ll be here all night; is there any way you’ll be able to avoid it? Mulder has apparently determined the answer to that question is no.
You know this because he takes a flying leap from a foot away to land right smack dab in the middle of it. Typical.
“You’re really enjoying this, aren’t you?” you grumble, delicately placing your satin-covered derriere on the vanity stool.
“C’mon, Scully! Isn’t it great to be back? Pondering the unknown, ridding the world of monsters, explaining the unexplained?” You have to admit he’s cute over there, damn cute, all brightly-lit eyes and rolled-up sleeves and foolishness spilling recklessly from his mouth. It’s been a terribly long time since you’ve noticed how cute he is.
“Exposing ourselves to STD’s…,” you add. He may be cute, but he certainly doesn’t need to know you think so.
The concoction you managed to put together from Miss Fiona’s stash is slippery beneath your robe, and you squirm trying to find a comfortable position. Each cross of your legs gives you the sensation you’re about to slide right down to the questionably carpeted floor. You may wind up on that bed after all, because you’re certainly not risking the chair. Bedding can at least be laundered. You doubt a cleaning product’s ever even been in the remotest vicinity of that chair, though you’d guess it’s seen its fair share of mysterious white slime.
You glance across the room to Mulder trying to tuck away a grin. “This is all quite amusing to you, isn’t it?” you ask, properly-annoyed-platonic-business-partner voice in check.
"Not amusing per se,” he responds, “But I have to admit I’m enjoying our time back in the field, aren’t you? And delightfully eclectic accommodations like these bring back memories—of fifteen, twenty years ago—how many nights did we spend in roadside motel rooms just like this, Scully?”
You finally relent, sliding your rear from the stool and over to the bed. At least these aren’t your own clothes risking contamination.
“Mulder, may I remind you that this delightfully eclectic accommodation is not a roadside motel, it’s a brothel, and never in all our years in the field did I sit beside you on a bed wearing anything even close to this.”
“Brothel, schmothel. It’s simply an alternative consortion establishment. And by the way, how can I concur that you’ve never worn anything like this when I haven’t had the pleasure of seeing what this is?” He reaches over with those familiar fingers to tug at the shoulder of your robe, but you play your dutiful role by swatting his hand away.
This is more difficult than you’d anticipated—working together again, dealing with him again. When you left a year ago, it had felt like your only choice. You’d been losing yourself right along beside him. But he honestly seems to be back now. Thank God. Oh thank God. He’s back, and he’s just as frustrating and challenging and gorgeous and brilliant as ever, and Christ you’ve missed him so fucking much it hurts.
It’s for the best it ended up this way, you tell yourself.
There are days though, when you wonder how you’ll make it through. Working in such close proximity, being practically assaulted by his smell and his voice and his damn tempting forearms… How in the hell did you manage this for seven years without giving in?
You scooch away so those long, inquisitive fingers can’t reach you. He doesn’t need to know what’s beneath the robe. Doesn’t need to know that you chose what you did as soon as you saw it, the black lace and peachy-colored satin taking you right back to that night a few years ago dear God that delicious night, the one you can’t even consider without blushing. No, he certainly doesn’t need to know that.
“So what now?” you say. “We just wait until something ‘unexplained’ occurs?” You even add finger quotes for emphasis. You’ve really mastered irritated and bitchy lately, haven’t you? But sometimes that’s easier. Irritated and bitchy masks lonely and nostalgic remarkably well.
“I guess that’s the plan,” he relents. “Sort of a shame to waste such inspiring surroundings on simply waiting though, dontcha think?” You don’t even need to look at him to know his eyebrows are waggling. Damn him. His ability to be simultaneously exasperating and enticing is really starting to piss you off.
“I’m sure I could find a spare filly out there to help you take advantage…,” you throw back across the bed at him. “You should probably warn her about the cosmic goo though…” See? You can play this game, too.
He leans across the bed until he’s touching the satin edge of your robe again, then slips those damnable fingers beneath it. “Scully,” he rumbles in a voice you’d forgotten he even possessed, “The only filly who’s getting her hands on my cosmic goo is you…” Jesus Christ, how does he DO that? You know he’s only teasing, and yet suddenly your heart is racing a mile a minute, your cheeks embarrassingly hot. This assignment is quickly becoming a problem for you.
“Stop it, Mulder,” you murmur. “We’re partners now. We’re just partners.” It always comes down to you to be the spoilsport, the one who can’t take a joke. But you honestly need some distance for a minute. You used to be a pro at navigating his smothering-you-with-innuendo persona. It’s disheartening how out-of-practice you’ve become.
“I’m sorry, Scully,” he responds immediately. “You’re absolutely right. That was unprofessional. It won’t happen again.”
You feel terrible. A year ago, you’d have been rejoicing to hear him make a joke, and now you’re admonishing him? God, calm the hell down. He didn’t mean anything.
“No, I’m sorry,” you reply, “I was just feeling off-kilter there for a minute. The outfit and these surroundings… I’m fine now. Let’s play a game or something to pass the time though, okay?”
He nods. “Christ, it’s been so long since we’ve needed to play a pass-the-time game, hasn’t it? I’ve forgotten all of our old stand-bys. Whaddya think? Twenty Questions?”
“Mulder, we banned Twenty Questions about fifteen years ago...” You see that familiar glint in his eye, the one that tells you he damn well knows you banned it (and he damn well knows why), but is looking for a chance to mess with you. And you know what? Despite your momentary freak-out a minute ago, it feels good to be messed with. It makes you feel young again, alive.
“Oh, what the hell,” you say, “Okay, Twenty Questions.” The disgustingly giddy look on his face makes it all worth it, and you grin in spite of yourself. You only hope you’ll still be grinning fifteen minutes from now.
“Agent Scully, you spoil me,” he fawns while batting his eyelashes, and you can’t help but chuckle. It really is good to be back, alternative consortion establishment and all.
“Okay, I’ve got one,” he says, “Go.” He always goes first. It’s one of your unspoken rules. So many. There used to be so many unspoken rules between you. You wonder whether any still hold water.
“Bigger than a bread box?” you ask. In for a penny, in for a pound, you figure. He rolls those mossy-green eyes at you, and a flush works its way through your body. This is so familiar. This is twenty years ago, every roadside motel, every hours-long roadtrip, every overnight stakeout. God, the hours the two of you spent passing the time, doing anything you could to avoid the obvious—occupying your brains in order to keep from occupying your bodies. You can still feel it sometimes, that all-consuming ache, that emptiness that took seven years to finally fill. Funny how it’s there again now. By choice.
“Welllll, I guess that depends…,” he drawls. Dammit! Welcome to unspoken rule number two: do whatever it takes to drive Scully absolutely crazy. Can’t he just play nice for once? You’re about to lay into him when—
“Fuck me, fuck me HARD!” A female voice muffles through the wall, followed by a series of sharp, male grunts. The flush that was lingering low in your belly blossoms full-force now, reaching your cheeks, sliding all the way up to your ears.
“Another fantasy fulfilled by a feisty filly…,” Mulder cracks, and you shift uncomfortably on the bed.
“Just ignore it,” you say, doing nothing of the sort as another cry seeps through the plaster, “Gimme that big, fucking cock, ohhhh, so bigggg!”
Don’t think of cocks, don’t think of big, fucking cocks, don’t think of Mulder’s big, fucking cock. The game, the game. Just play the game. “Ummm,” you manage, “Is it alive?” You’re impressed by how unaffected you sound.
“You’re fucking me SO HARDDDD!”
You lick your lips, trying everything within your power to not imagine being fucked SO HARD. You’re a federal agent for Christ’s sake, but the grunts and rhythmic squeak of bedsprings are making fulfilling your duties extremely difficult right now.
“Uhhh, what was the question again?” Mulder squeaks. You know the question, Mulder. You KNOW the question. It’s the same fucking second question I ask every damn time we’ve ever played this game. You glance his way, and he looks just as uncomfortable as you feel. There’s a drop of sweat rolling down his brow that you kinda sorta wanna lick right off him.
You make the mistake of looking down, down toward his crotch STUPID move, Agent Scully and it’s fairly obvious he’s thinking about big fucking cocks fucking someone SO HARD right now, too.
“Maybe…,” you blurt out, “Maybe we should…” You don’t even know how to finish. Maybe you should get the hell out of here and not look back? Maybe you should stop pretending you don’t want to do exactly what the filly next door is doing? Maybe you should forget the last several years ever happened and slide off this stupid satin robe and let him see what you’re wearing, what you chose because it reminded you of HIM, maybe you should slide it off and spread your legs and let him pound into you with his big, fucking cock again and again and again, until you can’t see straight, until he can’t see straight, until he doesn’t remember his fucking name anymore?
NO. Don’t be ridiculous. You can’t do that. Good Lord, keep it together here. You close your eyes and suck in a deep breath. The only thing you can do is just keep playing this pointless game. Pulling at the front of your robe, you flutter it against your chest to try and get a little air, then say shakily, “The question was ‘is it alive?’”
“Fuck yeah, come for me, big boy! Come for me HARD!” Oh yes, PLEASE.
An agonized groan seems to indicate that Big Boy follows directions well. Thank you, Jesus.
You look him in the eye. His chest is heaving. His brow is damp. You already know the state of his crotch. Unconsciously, you slip your tongue along your upper lip. He moans, low in the back of his throat. He tries to hide it, but you’ve known the man for twenty-three years.
The robe slips slowly from your left shoulder (is it on purpose or by accident? you’re not even sure), a confection of peachy-pink satin and rich black lace falling suddenly into view. Somehow, you forget to pull it back up. Either that, or you get off on the way his breath catches, the way his eyes drop in hunger before wrenching themselves back up to yours.
“Mulder,” you utter hoarsely, but just as he begins to move toward you, your cell phone rings.
The spell is broken, and quickly, you turn away. What the hell were you thinking, letting things get this far? You move to get your phone, but his hand lands on your shoulder, the bare one, the one covered only by a thin black strap. “Ignore it,” he says definitively, and his tone makes your heart quicken.
But you can’t ignore it. This isn’t real. This is work. This is work and you aren’t a feisty filly. You’re not even feisty. Maybe you used to be, but not anymore... Yanking up the robe, you say, “I can’t, Mulder. We’re working. We’re just partners, remember?”
You slip from the bed to find your phone while he turns away and groans. This time he doesn’t even try to hide it.
A text message marked urgent. From Miss Fiona.
>STALLION SID IS HERE. He CAN’T know what ur doing!!! If he knows not turning profit from room, he’ll lose mind! PLEASE, hon!!! I’M SCARED!!! I told him new girl in room. He listens at doors. PLEASE!!!<
“Oh shit,” you whisper. “Oh SHIT!”
“What?” Mulder’s off the bed in a flash and at your side. “What, Scully?”
“Sid,” you whisper, “Stallion Sid is here. He’s a violent man. He can’t know we’re here or the girls are in trouble…”
“Well, that’s fine. We’ll just be quiet, right?” he says.
“No, Mulder, you don’t get it!” you whisper urgently. “He thinks there’s a new girl in here with a client! Me! He thinks I’m in here with a client!”
“So that makes me…” His eyes widen as the implications finally click into place, and then, as you’d have expected, his grin widens as well, “…the client.”
“Yes,” you say tightly, knowing precisely where his mind has wandered, back fifteen years ago to that absurdly fateful night, in a room not unlike this one, headboard slamming against the wall, your ass grinding quite vigorously against his crotch. Holy Christ, that night.
“We can do this…we can do this,” you say. Maybe if you repeat it enough times, you’ll believe yourself. It’s not working. You’ve always been a terrible liar. Oh my God, can you do this?
He’s still right there beside you. Why does he have to stand so close? This isn’t a damn subway train. He makes you feel like you can’t even breathe. GET IT TOGETHER, you’ve got a job to do here.
You step away to a more professional distance, where you can at least take a breath, then look to the ceiling. Closing your eyes, you groan, “Ohhhhh yeahhh” as unprofessionally as possible.
But even to your own ears, it’s weak.
“Scully, that sucked. You sound nothing like that when you’re…well… that sucked.” Your cheeks and the tips of your ears burn.
“You think you can do better?” you challenge him, secretly wanting to hear him try.
“Mmmmmyeahhhhh,” he moans, and you honestly have to cover your mouth to keep from laughing. The two of you have somehow forgotten how to do this. Or at least forgotten how to sound like you’re doing this. A year isn’t that long of a time, is it? You still remember though. You still remember his moan when you’d nip at his jaw, the way he’d gasp your name when he came. And that right there? That moan? It wasn’t even close.
There’s a sound just outside the door, and you panic. Before you can even think, Mulder’s grabbing you and shoving you against the vanity with his hips. You groan. Oh, how you groan. There, you haven’t forgotten. Jesus you haven’t forgotten.
“Oh God,” slips from your throat unbidden, not an act at all. He can tell.
“Mmmm, that was much more realistic, Scully. Good one,” he whispers, stepping back to rest against the bed. It’s one of the hardest things you’ve ever done, not reaching out your hand to keep him there.
“Yeah?” you respond, trying not to gasp, “Now you. If I’m the new girl, it needs to sound like I’m doing my job well…” You still feel him there at your hip, hot and hard, even though he’s gone. Why is he gone, goddammit? Shut up! This is WORK!
“Yeahhh baby,” he groans, but it’s laughable. C’mon, Mulder, you can do better than that. Knowing how he sounds for real makes everything else sound downright ridiculous, like a high school drama production of Grease.
“Not good enough,” you breathe, biting your lip as you look up into his eyes. “I’m better than that, aren’t I?”
“Jesus, Scully,” he whispers, his hips thrusting slightly. “Yeah, yeah you are. You’re a hell of a lot better than that. But I need…I can’t do this without some…some stimulation or something. I’m not a young guy anymore.” Look how cute he is. Look how goddamn cute he is.
He’s probably right though, you know. This would be a whole lot easier with something to work from, some inspiration, some motivation, if you will. Even a high school drama production has props.
You hop up onto the vanity, your back against the mirror (you tell yourself it’s because it’s more comfortable, but you know why… you know he likes mirrors; you just pretend you’ve forgotten). His eyes are wide watching you, and you like it. It makes you feel like you have some control in this situation, even though it’s becoming entirely obvious you don’t.
Just barely, you slip the robe from your shoulders, just enough for him to glimpse the upper swells of your breasts, black lace playing peek-a-boo against your skin. “How’s that?” you whisper, “Stimulation enough?”
“Fucking Christ,” he moans, and there isn’t a trace of Danny Zuko in there anywhere.
“Gooood. That was good,” you breathe, “But I’m not young anymore either. I need stimulation, too…” Yes, you realize this is work, just work, but you’re expected to make your best effort, aren’t you?
“Oh yeah?” he says, and after a beat, begins unbuttoning his dress shirt. Your fingers twitch against the wood of the vanity wanting to help. For years, you had fantasies about his dress shirts. Years. When it’s finally off, your tongue finds its way to your lips. You can’t help it. He may be fifty-five years old, but what’s coming next, what’s beneath his tshirt, well, it can still make you drool.
He stops though, looks at you as though he’s done. “Wha—, you can’t stop there…,” you whine. A whine can still be considered professional, you tell yourself. You’re just doing your job here, right?
“I think we seem about even,” he says cockily, folding his arms across his chest and grinning. The bastard.
“Fine,” you pout (you even do your pouty-face, because you know he can’t resist it—YES, a pout can still be professional, THANK YOU), sliding your robe a bit further down to your elbows. Your breasts are in full view now, straining against satin and lace. That oughta get you what you want.
“Better?” you croon.
“Ohhh, oh yeahhh,” he groans, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth that bottom lip that DAMN bottom lip.
Well? you ask with a precisely curved eyebrow. You arch your back a little, just enough for emphasis, and after another slight groan, he obliges. His tshirt is off in the blink of an eye.
“Mmmmm, oh yeah, you know what I like, baby,” you drawl in a breathy voice. After all, you’ve gotta play the part to some extent. But yes, he does know what you like. Mmmhmmmm. And you like it a lot. It’s been at least a year since you’ve seen his bare chest, but holy hell he’s right back where you left him. He shifts on the edge of the bed, and his abs define themselves like a row of little tin soldiers. You moan again, and this time it’s not just for show.
“You like that, huh?” he asks, “You wanna see more?” Okay, now he’s really doing well. That sounded almost real.
“Yeah, I wanna see more,” you say real sexy-like, “Please, baby.”
And then, in a whisper, you add, “Pretend…pretend you’re showing me more. Pretend you’re showing me your… well, you know, Mulder.” You try not to sound too desperate when you say it, you try to sound like you’re just doing your job, like this is all for show, like you don’t really want to see it. But none of that is true. Because you are desperate. And you really do want to see it. That can be your own little secret though.
“Mmmm, nice and thirsty,” he teases, and you could slap him because he can read you so well. “But not just yet...” He’s trying to sound like this isn’t affecting him, but you can tell he’s on the edge here, too. That one purple vein in his throat, the layer of sweat at his brow, the infinitesimal way he’s tensing his thighs.
Nothing prepares you for what he says next though. “It’s your turn again. Tit for tat, right? So show me those tits, show me those fucking pretty tits of yours, Sc—baby…”
You gasp. You can’t tell if he’s being real or just playing his part, but fuck, either way, it’s doing something to you. You love it when he talks dirty, and he knows that. He knows that. Look at him over there with his tin soldier abs and that bulge in his pants, toying with your emotions. Well, two can play at this game.
“My turn, huh? Are you sure?” you ask coyly, then cup your breasts in your hands, lifting them up so they’re practically spilling from your sinfully trashy lingerie, “These tits? Are these what you wanna see?” He has such a weakness for your breasts. You’ve known that since two years in. Don’t think you haven’t learned to use it to your advantage. You knead them nice and slow, the way you know he likes, just to make sure he gets the point.
He moans, just as deeply and desperately as you meant for him to, his hips rising from the bed. “Fuck yeah, those tits. Christ, Scully.” At his use of your name, you involuntarily pinch your nipples through the satin, a gasp escaping your throat before you have a chance to stop it. Shit! You drop your hands immediately and shoot him a look. This is WORK, Mulder, WORK. Your nipples don’t seem to realize that though, because now they’re nice and hard, poking through the satin and waiting for more.
“Now…now…,” you breathe, “now pretend…your cock…” It’s only fair after all.
“My cock?” he asks gruffly, “You wanna see my big…fucking…cock?” You’re meant to laugh at him echoing those earlier through-the-wall words, but you can’t. Holy hell, you can’t. Because suddenly his hand is there, cradling that big, fucking cock through his pants, and then yeah, yeah you wanna see it, you want nothing more than to see it right this very instant.
You moan, somewhat embarrassingly. Your clit is throbbing, the muscle memory of him grinding up against it spurred suddenly back into place. “God yes… Please…,” you beg. But only just for show. The begging is only for show. That’s what you tell yourself anyway.
You think you may be panting a little bit. You know he is, with his hand down there, clenching. Yes, clenching. He’s clenching his cock and panting, and you’re expected to actually work here? This is absurd. Ridiculous. He’s just your partner. JUST your partner. And yet, the way he’s looking at you, panting, clenching, tongue right there near the corner of his lip, all you can think about are those years he was so much more. So much more. He was everything then. Absolutely everything. And much as you tried to change that when you walked away, the truth is he still is.
“Mulder,” you whisper, voice hoarse, not quite sure where you’re going with this, just knowing you’ll die if you don’t say his name. Your heart is hammering in your chest. You know this is just a job, just work, but it’s—
The melody of your cell phone slices through any further introspection. You shake your head to clear it, tearing your eyes from his while he quickly pulls his hand from his crotch. With fumbling fingers, you reach for your phone on the other end of the vanity.
Another text marked urgent. Again from Miss Fiona.
>SID OUTSIDE YOUR DOOR!! PLS!!<
Your eyes go wide, and you motion toward the door, mouthing SID as distinctly as you can. OH SHIT he mouths back, and you definitely have to agree.
“Oh babyyy,” you groan loudly.
“Fuck meee,” he groans back.
It’s not nearly enough, and you both know it.
You look at him with panic in your eyes. But then suddenly he’s there, larger than life before you, spreading your knees roughly apart with his hands. You scooch quickly back against the mirror, jumping when your shoulders hit the cool glass. “Wha—?” you begin, but when he starts rocking, gyrating against the vanity with his hips, you want to kiss him for just how brilliant he is (you want to kiss him for other reasons, too, but his brilliance is at the very top of the list).
Immediately, the rickety wood begins creaking, and you bite your lip at the memories that suddenly flood your brain. How many times through the years have you come to that exact sound, him right there beside you? Or above you, or behind you, or… You grip the edges of the vanity and groan.
>He puts his hands on the tabletop on either side of your thighs for leverage. Good thinking. Don’t want him to fall or anything. The robe is bunched around your waist by now, and you’re getting all tangled up. You shake it from your wrists until you’re free. The feel of his eyes scraping hungrily over your body is electric. He’s grunting a little, and the force of his thrusts are enough that your breasts are bouncing right along with his hips. Each bounce rubs your nipples against the satin, and you arch your back at the sensation.
“So hot, so fucking hot,” he grinds through his teeth, eyes right at your chest. That was for you. That wasn’t for the new filly. That was for you.
“Yeah?” you gasp. “You’re not too bad yourself.” You reach out with your hand and drag it down his chest, paying special attention to each tin soldier along the way. You’re just trying to make this scenario as real as possible of course. For Stallion Sid’s benefit. He grunts even louder.
“You wore something like this that night a few years ago…,” his husky voice whispers. His thumbs find the lace at the sides of your thighs and work their way beneath it. Holy Christ. Since when were the outsides of your legs such an erogenous zone? Since it’s been more than a year since he touched them, that’s when.
You moan, deep and low, then breathe, “You remember that night, Mulder?” Of course he does. That night was…that night was amazing. Your hips slide slightly forward on the vanity’s surface towards his heat. It’s slippery after all. And the motion of the rocking makes it hard for them not to.
“Hell yes, I remember,” he groans. The mirror of the vanity is hitting the wall now with his thrusts. Clunk, clunk, clunk. Your heart’s doing the same within the walls of your chest. God, but he’s an attractive...partner. Yes—partner. Makes working together so much more productive. Or something like that.
You feel the strap of your negligee flirting with the edge of your shoulder, threatening to slip down your arm. A couple more bucks of his hips and it falls, the upper curve of your breast just begging for his touch. For a second, you consider pulling it back up, but then you see his eyes there, and his tongue doing that thing along his lips, and you sort of forget your plan. He did say he needed stimulation, right?
He’s looming over you now, grinding his hips (no, let’s be real, his dick) against the wooden edge of the vanity in quick little thrusts, just the way you know he likes. There’s a drop of sweat trickling down his neck. “God, you look hot,” you say accidentally, but maybe a little on purpose, as you reach out and swipe it away.
He clenches his teeth and moans. “That outfit…Christ, Scully,” he breathes, “So pretty, so fucking gorgeous.”
You bite your lip to hold back a whimper. He’s always known how to talk to you, the perfect combination of vowels and consonants to make you squirm.
“Feels so good, baby,” you cry out, then softer, “Mulder…remember how…how you sometimes pulled my hair?” God, your scalp tingles at the thought. You slide just a bit closer. You can’t help it. Damn slippery vanity.
His pace increases, as do his grunts and groans. “Yessss, fuck yes,” he spits out. His thumbs have worked their way further, on up your thighs, the sides of his hands pressed roughly against your skin. You’re so damn wet.
“Maybe…maybe pretend you do that now,” you breathe, eyes finding his through the flurry.
“Yeah, oh yeah, baby,” he pants. His bottom lip is slick from his tongue, and God you want to suck it. He raises his hand so that it hovers near your ear. You feel it there, vibrating, like a halo. It’s suddenly very hard to breathe. Calm down, it’s pretend, it’s just pretend. Closer then, closer, until his fingers tunnel lightly through your hair. Wait, no, he’s not supposed to do it for real! He knows, he knows what it does—
“Oh god!” you cry as his fingers clench against your scalp, your head dropping back against the mirror. He knows, he knows… Your hips slide further. His cock is a damn magnet and you’re iron, melting down to meet him.
“You like that, baby?” he growls.
“You know I do,” you gasp, “You know…” Clunk, clunk, clunk. It isn’t fair. It isn’t fair he’s so attractive, it’s isn’t fair this feels so good, it isn’t fair he’s looking at you that way. It’s all a year too late, and you still love him God how you love him, but how are you supposed to deal with all this right now?
His hand slips from your hair to trickle down your back. The vanity’s still rocking; it’s bucking up against the wall like an ornery pony. Like a feisty filly. How positively apropos.
You still love him. So fucking much.
“God… oh my God,” you whimper, partially for effect, but mostly because you can’t stop yourself. You want to touch him—so badly. You want to fit your fingers between his ribs then pinch his flat brown nipples, you want to lick your way up his neck then scrape your teeth through his five o’clock shadow. You want to taste his lips. You want to feel his hard and frenzied cock against your clit. You want you want you want.
His hand is playing along your back now, slipping over the satin and tangling in the straps. You don’t know how much longer you can do this. “You’re so fucking beautiful,” he murmurs, not even loud enough for Stallion Sid to hear.
“Pretend…,” you whisper, finding his eyes, “Mulder… pretend we still love each other…,” and then you allow yourself to melt those final few inches, your hips finally meeting his at the edge of the vanity.
He groans, his hands immediately gripping your ass and yanking you even closer. You don’t even think, your arms and legs encircling him the same way they’ve done dozens of times before, hundreds of times, too many times to count. In your old apartment, in his old apartment, on bathroom counters in countless roadside motels, that one time in Bill’s guestroom God yes that was a good one, on the old mahogany dresser in your little white house, but never, never in a brothel, never while worrying about flashing lights and cosmic goo, never with a maniacal, violent man just outside your door, and most especially, never while you’re supposed to be working, while you’re not even together, while you’re only just partners.
It’s divine, feeling him this close again, his arms and his chest and his cock. You’d never have thought the Feisty Filly Fantasy Ranch could feel so much like home. He’s grinding himself against you, right there oh thank God, right where he knows you like it best. You grind right back, there’s no way you can’t, and your eyes close as you fall against his chest. “Just partners,” you gasp, your lips sliding down his neck to suck at his clavicle, “Remember we’re just partners...”
His hand is squeezing your breast when he responds. “That’s a load of crap, Scully.” He’s loud, loud enough that Sid could hear. Then softer, he adds, “And you know it. We’ve never been just partners.” He finds your earlobe and nips. Hard. You whimper.
“Then what, Mulder? What is this?” you pant. Your fingernails scrape up his neck and get lost in the thick of his hair. He needs a haircut. Who does he have now to remind him to get a haircut? His lips slide along your jaw.
“Scully…I never stopped loving—“
He’s cut off by the trill of your phone.
Forehead tucked into the curve of his shoulder, you sweep your hand blindly across the vanity to reach it. How the hell it hasn’t fallen to the floor by now is a mystery.
Miss Fiona again. Doesn’t she realize you’re very much in the middle of something here?
>Coast clear. Sid gone. Great job convincing him, hon! WHEW!<
You toss the phone onto the bed, then murmur against his neck, “Sid. He’s gone. We…we can stop.” It’s silent then, both of you trying to calm your breaths. There’s not even a trace of fantasies being fulfilled in the other rooms.
You start to pull away, but he wrenches you back, his voice growling hot in your ear, “Like hell we’re stopping,” and you’re suddenly so wet, it’s embarrassing. And then his lips are there, at your throat at your jaw on your mouth, devouring you oh sweet Jesus yes.
“Yes,” you gasp, as if the way you’re clutching and clawing at him isn’t enough to tell him you agree. It’s overwhelming at first, having all of him versus just bits and pieces, knowing he wants this as badly as you. You’ve numbed yourself for months, and now your senses are exploding, in bright, oh holy shit that feels good vivid technicolor.
Doing this amidst a ranch-ful of feisty fillies may not have been your first choice, but you’re okay with that, because his jaw still fits perfectly into the cup of your hand, and your waist still curves just-so to press against his palm, and his lips still cover your breast like…
“Ohhh Goddd…,” you moan.
He sucks at you through satin and lace, until you’re yanking and twisting and pulling, arching your back into the most impossible impersonation of a rainbow in order to get the fabric past his hungry insatiable mouth. Skin. You need to feel him against your skin. “God, Mulder, GOD!” You’re just as hungry as he is, and once the peachy-pink mess of satin is gone, you hold him to your breast and you sigh. You’ve missed this man’s mouth. So damn much.
The way he curls his tongue around your nipple, flicking and teasing until it’s so hard and sensitive you want to cry please please please, the way he knows the instant you can’t take anymore and sucks the aching bit of flesh inside. His mouth is magic, and though you may not have missed the absurdity that spills from it daily, you’ve most definitely missed it (shut up, you’ve missed the absurdity, too, and you know it.)
But oh, oh yes, more than all the rest though, you’ve missed this, the sight of his head moving lower. “Oh Mulder, yessss,” you hiss.
Your panties are off quickly (he’s so efficient), then he’s dragging your knees over his shoulders. His shoulder blades welcome your shins like long-lost pals.
His hot breath makes you shiver. His barely-there fingertips make you groan.
And then. And then. And then that glorious mouth is there, and Mulder Mulder Mulder every single ounce of absurdity he’s ever spoken is worth it ten times over. He delves and he dips and he devours, and he’s so damn good, you can’t breathe. You’d forgotten what his tongue is capable of. He may excel at long-winded theories, but nobody could ever convince you his mouth wasn’t designed precisely for this.
He’s frantic down there, all sucking and sliding, and he’s making you frantic, too. You squirm your way even closer. By the time he finally hits your clit, you’re writhing on the slippery tabletop, clenching your fingers in his hair.
“Don’t stop, oh Christ, don’t stop,” you gasp, and he moans that miracle-working mouth right up against you.
“Fuck, Scully,” he mumbles around your folds, “So wet, baby. Missed how fucking wet you get for me.” And that right there is what does it. You shove yourself against that dirty, dirty mouth and come for him, legs quivering against his five o’clock shadow.
“Good girl,” he whispers, “Such a good girl.” You’ve missed being his good girl so much.
You’ve missed it all so much—his absurdity, his relentless, his mouth, his cock… God, you’ve missed his cock. You’re barely finished coming, but Godddd, you’ve missed his cock. You yank him back up to his feet and tell him so. “I want it, Mulder, please...” You’re whining and you know it.
He wrestles his pants to the ground while you run your fingers through his too-long hair. You’re thrusting your pelvis at him before he’s even got himself in hand my God PLEASE.
“So impatient,” he mocks, and you can’t help but whimper, arching your hips even further. What the everloving fuck is he waiting for? “Let’s take our time, enjoy this..,” he teases, sliding his thumb through your folds. But you know he’s lying. You know he’s lying the same way you knew he’d try and mess with you in a game of twenty questions, the way you knew he’d love your outfit because it reminded him of the past, the way you KNEW he was still IN there goddammit you KNEW it when you made the decision to walk away so many months ago.
“Cut the crap, Mulder,” you gasp, pulling his head down for a kiss. “You want this just as much as I do.” Your words fight their way around his lips, his teeth, his tongue. “Now get the fuck inside me before I call back Stallion Sid and tell him you’re giving his new girl a hard time.”
He groans straight into your mouth as you bite that bottom lip (finally), and then “ohhhhh yessss,” he’s inside you and sweet Jesus Mary and Joseph, would it bring down the mood too much if you started to cry? But you don’t care, and the tears come rolling down your cheeks. He kisses them away while he pounds you into the goddamn vanity, your arms and legs holding on tight for the ride. He’s crying, too, you realize, salt and relief and he’s back he’s back he’s back all smearing together on your cheek in the place where he’s pressed against it.
God, he knows how to do this, the two of you know how to do this, you’ve known since the very beginning, that insane mess of a night in that insane mess of a hotel room, during that insane mess of a situation so wonderfully similar to this.
“Missed you…missed you…missed you,” he grunts in time with his thrusts, and you agree whole-heartedly, but you just can’t say it, your head rocking back and forth, too overwhelmed with the way he’s grinding frantically against that one little spot he hasn’t forgotten at all that one spot he knows will get you every…single…time.
You buck against him with an anguished groan of his name, gripping him tightly with your legs to hold him in place as you explode, and you vow in that brilliant, star-spangled moment to never, never let go again. One more surge of his hips, and he’s exploding as well, crying out and slamming that damn mirror against that wall so frenziedly with his sharp, twitching thrusts, Miss Fiona is likely to think someone’s dying in here.
Nobody’s dying though. If you want to get metaphorical (which you sometimes tend to do after mind-blowing sex), you’ve really just both come alive.
You collapse against one another in a jumbled tangle of slick, sated limbs, Mulder’s weight flattening your back to the mirror. You don’t mind. It’s a wonder he’s still standing. It’s a wonder the vanity’s still standing, too, quite honestly. This rickety piece of wood is most definitely on its last legs after that bit of action. Your cell phone has finally found its way to the floor.
You smooth your fingers through his sweat-slick hair while your breaths return to normal. Nuzzling your nose to his temple, you whisper, “I missed you, too.”
Your eyes are closed, and you smile as you bask in the weight of him, finally back beside you (or really, in this case, on top of you). If they were open, maybe you’d take note of the bright flashing lights coming from the closet. Perhaps you’d pay attention to the strange, distorted glow hovering in the corner. Possibly you’d notice the gooey white slime forming a puddle as it drips from the bed.
The question is whether you’d care.
The Feisty Filly Fantasy Ranch. Who would’ve guessed? This filly’s fantasy was most definitely fulfilled.
The ass-kicking’s still gonna be positively ruthless though.