Disclaimer: Alas, alack, they are not mine. Yadda, yadda, yadda.
Title: Sloane Rangers and Lager Lovelies
Author: Dryad
Rating: X, NC17, M/o, XO
Spoilers: pre-XF, mytharc
Archive: Please do. A note where would be fabu.
Summary: 'Green and pleasant land' indeed, he mused, shuffling along
with the crowd, hoping to board the Circle line before the doors
closed. He couldn't imagine London ever being anything less than
dirty and grey and filled with people he didn't like.
Feedback:I like it.
Author's Note: This story may be triggering for sex trauma. No
minors are injured in this story.
*Special thanks to Stephen for Britpicking and grammar! (well, half of it)*
*Extra Special thanks to Bellefleur for going above and beyond the call of duty!*
Suggested listening: Mulder's Oxford Playlist - please see Ephemeral for link in part one, or search
the title on YouTube, the playlist will be in the top 5 or 6 results.
Alternatively: Underground 80s' on
Pronunciation guide:
Sian - feminine of Sean/Shawn
Diarmuid - DER-mot (mostly)
Rhodri - RO-d-ree (d is flipped)
Seonag - SHOW-nah
I was a modest, good-humoured boy. It is Oxford that has made me
insufferable.
-Max Beerbohm
~1~ THE BIG SMOKE ~1~
Phoebe leaned against the door frame in all her naked glory, one
corner of her mouth upturned. The look in her eyes was both sly and
sexy as she considered him, lying in her bed, equally naked under a
fine white cotton sheet. He grinned, hoping she'd notice the twitching
of his groin.
"You've got a phone call. Someone named Sykes?"
He considered ignoring it, but he didn't care for Sykes and Sykes didn't
care for him, which probably meant the call was important. Tossing
aside the sheet, he rose and headed towards the lounge, neatly
sidestepping her grab at his erection. If she wasn't going to play,
neither was he. He snagged the phone and flopped on the couch,
immediately bounced back up again. The Brits loved their leather
sofas but the things were damned cold when you weren't wearing
clothes. "Yeah?"
"Mulder, there are at least fifteen messages for you from a Mr. Wilson?
I know, because I answered every damned last one of the calls, which
started at three in the fucking morning."
"Must be a wrong number, I don't know anyone named Wilson,"
Mulder said, eying the French Rococo mantle clock and wondering if
Phoebe had made any coffee. "Sorry you had to keep getting up."
"No, these are definitely for you. You're supposed to be at the
American Embassy by eleven - "
He frowned, glanced at the clock again. "It would have been nice to
know this before noon."
"Hey, you're the one who doesn't leave a number when he takes off for
the weekend! You're lucky you're even getting this at all, you fucking
prick. If Gemma hadn't stopped by and told me where you were - "
"Fuck off," Mulder snapped, and hung up. He stood still for a long
moment, wracking his brain for someone named Wilson. Didn't ring a
bell. On the other hand, it couldn't hurt to call home. Phoebe walked
through the room softly, her wares now hidden beneath a bathrobe
and slippers. Dialing quickly, he said, "Gotta call home."
"Don't take long; my sister will kill me when she sees the bill."
Stung, he muttered, "I'll pay for it."
"You'd better," she shouted from the hallway. "I'm making a fresh pot
of tea."
"Okay," he called back, listening to the endless ringing on the line at
the same time. Eventually he hung up, then dialed his father's
number. Once more, no one answered. There was no reason for both
of his parents to be absent from their respective homes at this time on
a Saturday morning. Mrs. Lowry was probably up, except she was a
busybody and he didn't want the entire island to know he wanted to
reach his parents. But the Embassy...that didn't sound good.
Foregoing a shower in his anxiety, he dressed in jeans, shirt, and
sweater, unbelievably glad he'd taken his father's advice and always
bringing his passport with him when he stayed with Phoebe.
Speaking of whom. "Phee, I've got to run out, I'll be back in a while."
"Wait, where are you going?" she cried, hurrying into the hall just as
he opened the front door.
"Be back soon," he replied, shutting the door on her plaintive, "Fox!"
Ignoring out the imperious looks and the odd rude comment, he ran to
the Sloane Square Tube Station and bought a day pass. 'Green and
pleasant land' indeed, he mused, shuffling along with the lunchtime
crowd, hoping to board the Circle line before the train doors closed. He
couldn't imagine London ever being anything less than dirty and grey
and filled with people he didn't like. It was standing room only and
no matter how he shifted, someone kept touching his ass. The
teenaged girl in front of him smirked when he made an obvious check
of her hands.
Less than a minute later he was in Victoria Station, forced to walk at a
snail's pace. Another hot, crowded, and miserable ride later, he
disembarked at Green Park and ran all the way to Grosvenor Square.
Once there he stopped, bent over to catch his breath. After a moment
he stripped off his sweater and sat down on one of the nearby
benches. Growing up on the island, he thought he knew all about
moist air and mugginess, but London always seemed to be
perpetually on the verge of rain, no matter what the season or amount
of sunshine. So he was hot, which meant he was sweating, which
meant the guards would look at him funny as he approached the
sharply angled concrete monstrosity known as the American
Embassy.
Thankfully there was a breeze, and while he cooled down he watched
the police doing themselves no favors by arresting a small group of
protestors - more about nuclear disarmament, the dregs of the Miner's
Strike, even a couple of anti-police signs, clearly holdovers from the
recent riots in Brixton. From where he sat, at the opposite corner from
where the action was taking place, it looked rough, lots of shoving and
shouting and oh, batons being used. Looking around, he could see
everyone else in the square watching as well, the dog walkers, people
in suits eating their lunch, passersby.
The sweat hadn't quite cooled from his brow when he entered the
Embassy. After showing his passport to multiple people and being the
subject of at least one less than surreptitious phone call, he was given
a visitor's badge and shown to the sixth floor by an older woman
with badly cut blonde bob and blue eyeshadow. She knocked once on
the third unremarkable door of the hallway, opened it and waved him
in.
"Fox," his father said gravely, rising from behind the desk.
"Dad? What - ?" Mulder took in the dark brown decor, the rows of legal
books along one wall, the bright yellow binders along the other, the
three men sitting in chairs at their ease before his father's desk, eying
him without expression. He pulled his wandering thoughts together.
"I'm sorry, I only just got your message."
"It's fine," his father said, coming around the desk. He handed Mulder a
card with three phone numbers scrawled on it. "This is Mr Smith and
Mr Jones."
Mulder glanced at the third man, but was not introduced.
"They're going to be looking out for you while I'm away. If
you have any problems you call them immediately."
"Away?" Mulder asked, not really understanding the words. He
whispered harshly, "I didn't even know you were here. Are you going
home? Is Mom okay?"
"Your mother is fine," His father looked away, brought his pipe out of
his pocket, then returned to his desk. He opened a drawer and began
tamping the pipe with shreds of tobacco.
"Dad?"
"Yes, I'll be away for some time. I don't know when I'll be coming
back."
For this he had left the promise of sex with Phoebe? Mulder snorted,
spun and took a step back towards the door. "Well, have a good trip."
"Fox!"
He turned around, unable to disobey his father's tone of voice. And
yet...there was something in his father's eyes - an appeal? A warning?
Or merely anger that his son showed such disrespect?
"Remember, call if you need anything, anything at all."
On the way back he stopped at WH Smith's and bought the new Radio
Times and the weekend edition of USA Today, rag that it was, plus a
Kinder Surprise because somehow he'd become addicted to the
damned toys inside the chocolate eggs. He also grabbed two fish
suppers as a late lunch, added a bottle of Irn-Bru (how on earth the
bright orange soda had become an acquired taste was a mystery) for
himself and an Orangina for Phoebe, then headed back to the flat.
He opened the front door of the flat to find Phoebe, still in her
bathrobe, kissing a man he didn't know. A kiss on the lips, and no
peck, either.
She turned to him brightly, without a trace of shame. "Fox! Vince was
just leaving."
The man brushed by Mulder, shot him a sidelong glance as he opened
the door and slipped out into the shadowed hallway. Mulder watched
the man until he trotted down the stairs. Had he smelled like her or
was it just his imagination playing up over the scent of warm fish and
malt vinegar?
"I'm sorry," said Phoebe. "I completely forgot to give this to you."
Mulder took the business card she proffered. The logo of the
Metropolitan Police was in the corner, a name and a number printed
on the front, a handwritten note on the back asking him to call as soon
as possible. "When did this arrive?"
She shrugged helplessly. "Maybe Monday? You weren't here."
With pursed lips he shoved the card into his pocket. There were times
it felt like she didn't have two synapses to rub together. And why did
that always seem to happen when it was something important to
him? He just didn't want to think about it.
"So Mulder, does this mean you've been a bad boy?"
"No," He stepped around her to go into the living room - he was never
going to call it the 'lounge', damnit - but she grabbed his arm and
pressed him to the wall so hard he dropped their lunch. Once again he
was surprised by how tall she was, how much she could physically
push him around, how easily his excitement arose whenever she
touched him.
"I think you have been a bad boy," she murmured, a hard glint in her
eyes. She brought his other arm behind his back, twisted something
sharp and cutting around his wrists. There was a high pitched plastic
scream as she tightened it and he realized it was one of the long tie-
wraps he'd found under the kitchen sink while searching for more
garbage bags. There was no way to get free of them without using a
knife or scissors.
"What the fuck? Get these off of me!" Jerking his arms only proved how
tight the tie-wraps were; if he wasn't careful he could cut himself quite
badly. "Phee! Phoebe!"
Sex with Phoebe was always an experiment, and this time was no
exception. Not bothering with any niceties like kissing or biting or
even undressing him, after walking him into the kitchen she merely
unbuttoned his jeans and shoved them down just far enough, re-tying
his wrists to the back fretwork of the chair with a long red scarf she'd
left on the table the previous day. The position was awkward; he was
practically sitting on his hands.
Now that he was at her mercy, one corner of her mouth upturned
archly, she kissed him, stroked his cock with a too rough grip that felt
like she was trying to strip off the top layer of skin. Freight Train
Phoebe was rolling and nothing short of engine failure was going to
stop her. Mulder turned away in disgust even as he grew harder.
"Stop it, let me up," he said, detesting the less-than-convincing tone of
his own voice.
The slap was unexpected and shocking. A quick, short strike that
stung and burned his cheek.
"Shut up, Fox," she said with a smirk, untying her bathrobe and
lowering herself onto him. "You know you love this."
God, she was beyond wet, she was sopping. And, he soon came to
realize, there would be no attempt at getting him off. Good thing he
was still primed and ready from their morning's interrupted session.
If only he could use his hands! He knew she wouldn't regret it - she
never did.
Phoebe grew fiercer, riding him like the proverbial pony, dropping
hard onto his thighs. One last time and she juddered against him,
moaning and clutching at his shoulders. Mulder felt his balls draw up
tight - he was so close; he bucked up once, twice, grunting at the sweet
relief of ejaculation and orgasm.
Moments after The pain streaking through his shoulders and wrists
brought him back to his senses. "Get off," he said, grimacing.
"Mm hmm," she murmured, gently rocking against him.
"Not gonna happen," Although as soon as he spoke he felt the re-
stirring of interest. Which was funny, because he really was not at all
interested. He wanted his lunch and his Irn-Bru and a shower, in that
order. "Let me up."
Phoebe grinned again but didn't stop. Soon enough they were both
panting, though Mulder only half-heartedly. For him the moment was
over. Nonetheless, when she shoved her hand between their bodies for
her own pleasure he couldn't help watching in fascination, taking
little notes for their next adventure.