TITLE: FANCY HAUNTS AUTHOR: PBBURKS RATING: NC-17 CATEGORY: MSR DISCLAIMER: They still belong to Chris. But if he doesn't pay off BIG time this season, so help me. SPOILERS: You really should read Fancy Foreplay first, to get the background scoop. ARCHIVE: Yes. But please be nice and ask so I'll know where it's going. THANKS TO: Brandon, Lena, Ropo, Shannon - my Big Four! I you guys! AUTHOR'S NOTE: Continuation of a story that rose from an improv challenge for Scullyfic. BTW: All the Fancies are in The Den at http://www.angelfire.com/ks/quinnworld/TheDen.html; they're also found in the BFM archive babyfishmouth@egroups.com FEEDBACK: Makes our toes curl here at pbburks@bellsouth.net xxxxxxxxxxxxxx It is a dark and stormy night. Seriously. A storm is rolling in across the Atlantic, not too far offshore from our stakeout at the southern tip of a barrier island at the very end of Georgia. We crouch in the shadows of a burned-out mansion which fairly hums with the memory of those who have come and gone. Earlier we walked through the graveyard by the marsh, where the bones of lost loved ones rest beside those of strangers passing through. I have the oddest feeling that by my presence I'm intruding upon sacred space of the former, while being among the latter. Mulder is at my side, of course, dressed in those deadly black jeans, matching mock turtleneck and my secret weakness, that black leather jacket. I think he dresses this way on purpose, knowing the effect his attire has on me and my hormones. The waning, gibbous moon sits high in the sky, illuminating his features in the stark relief that is so damnably attractive on him. The world has gone black and white, confined to the blackened ruins of the structure that burned decades ago and the stark white of moonbeams, bathing the bare lawn with light. Mulder is a meeting point between that darkness and light. He's so excited to be here on this hallowed ground, on this night of all nights. Clearly he anticipates a visit from the great beyond, on this night when the veil between the worlds is said to be at its thinnest. Remembering my aunt, I'm thinking that maybe I'm not so afraid to believe, after all. That maybe there is something to all of Mulder's talk of spirits and the messages they come back to deliver. Aunt Olive's passing opened my door of willingness to believe in communication with the dead. She's also responsible for my being here this on Hallowe'en, ghost hunting with Mulder, while a fancy schmancy full-fledged ball is going on in the inn up the road, invitations to which Aunt Olive left for me to go in her stead. We'd nixed attendance at the ball ten minutes after Mulder caught sight of the costumes we were supposed to wear, thoughtfully left on the enormous four poster bed in our suite on the fourth floor of the circa-1900 Greyfield Inn. Aunt Olive had always done everything in style and her choice in accommodations for the yearly Hallowe'en Ball was no exception. We were luxuriously ensconced in the inn's premier suite, our windows presenting a hauntingly lovely view of the marsh, the river beyond it to the west, and further south the Atlantic Ocean, barely visible from our location near the middle of the island. "Scully, you know that I love you," Mulder had told me, grasping my shoulders between his hands, his look most sincere. "And that I'd do damned near anything you ask of me" I could see it coming. "except mingle with a roomful of strangers wearing those pants, if you can even call them that. And pretend that I'm enjoying it." I felt a touch of disappointment at being denied the fulfillment of the visual image I'd been nursing all day: his well toned ass beneath those snug little brown doeskin breeches, Mulderbulge barely concealed by the hem of his claret velvet coat, his long, lean legs swathed in shiny black riding boots that reached halfway up his thigh, his rapier hilt a-twinkle at his hip. My very own Highwayman. I looked longingly toward the gown that was to transform me into Bess, the Landlord's daughter, yards of rich midnight blue muslin hanging on the open door of the chifforobe. The baggy-sleeved underdress, what Aunt Olive had called an Irish chemise, was a pale blue confection of soft cotton and the bodice-and-skirt-in-one dress was worn over it, lacing up the front with gold satin ribbons. Where once I would have been disappointed at losing the opportunity to play dress up with honest to goodness period clothes, I now had no desire to force Mulder to do something he didn't want to do. Not when there were other extreme possibilities we would both enjoy. So I made a deal with him. We'd skip the party in lieu of a moonlight stroll down the dirt road running the length of the island, three-quarters of a mile or so to the ruins of Dungeness, the grand old mansion once owned by the mighty Carnegie family. A Gatsbyesque mansion of breathtaking opulence and beauty, in its heyday it had been a favorite haunt of F. Scott Fitzgerald and his contemporaries. Aunt Olive used to tell delightful stories of the parties she'd attended there as a debutante; I confess to a certain enchantment with the idea of walking in her footsteps at a place that brought her so much joy. In return for a few hours of ghost hunting with him, Mulder agreed to play dress-up with me. And drink champagne before the fire in our sitting room. And dance with me. Like we danced together on our very first night, although the music will have to be in our heads, since we have no CD player with us. No matter. Our heads and our hearts will supply the symphony, and our bodies will doubtless remember all of the passages and breaks and shattering crescendos that are hallmarks of our lovemaking. Standing here now, beneath the sheltering arms of water oaks dripping with Spanish moss, the wind whipping over the dunes and across the open expanse of prairie and the distant rumble of thunder filling the air, I wonder if I'll make it that long. I look over at him, his thick brown hair ruffling in the wind from the approaching storm, his lips parted in anticipation of an ectoplasmic event, and I'm filled with a feral hunger for him. I just want to jump his bones, right here, right now. Damn the dress-up game. He seems to hear my thoughts, as he does so often these days. I can see that he's aware of them by the little tug at the corner of his mouth, the bobbing movement of his Adam's apple as he swallows, the slow blink of his eyes. He turns his head to look at me, and our eyes zero in on each other and lock. "Mulderdick for your thoughts," he says, in a soft and sexy voice usually reserved for the bedroom. I can't stop the blush that creeps up my neck to consume my face, no more than I can tear my eyes away from his at this moment. Several weeks ago I had coined the name during a fit of pre- menstrual horniness and Mulder, delighted with both the word and my reaction every time I hear it, now uses it with glee. But I won't let him bait me tonight. Tonight the only games we'll be playing will be my games. "You know my thoughts, Mulder," I remind him. "Same as I know yours." There is a flash of white teeth amid the shadows obscuring his face, and a certain air of cockiness in his reply. "You know my Mulderdick, Scully." I can't resist. "Like you know my Mulderschtick," I toss back at him. He inches closer to me in the dark, circling around behind me and crouching low, his knees on either side of my hips and his head so close to mine I can feel his breath against my neck. His lips hover just above my ear. "Where would you like me to schtick it?" This is a dangerous game we are playing, and we both know it. Alone out here, nearly a mile away from our lodgings, with a thunderstorm approaching and a long, long walk down a tree-lined path before we reach shelter, we can ill afford to let our sexuality get in the way of good sense. "Preferably in me," I tell him, reaching one hand behind me to caress his cheek. "Back in our room. On that big old four poster bed. With the sound of rain and thunder outside our windows and the two of us making our own storm inside." "I like the way you think, Scully," he growls, a second before his lips latch onto the tender skin just behind my ear. I allow my head to fall back onto his shoulder, welcoming the shivers that he's sending coursing through my body. The things this man can do with his mouth No! I can't do this. Not here, not now, when there is a real threat of being caught out in the open on a barrier island with a major storm blowing in from the sea. The skies may be nice and clear now, with only the occasional cloud drifting past the half moon that hangs heavily in the eastern sky, but I can sense the change in the weather that will doubtless follow in the moon's wake. I pull away from Mulder and stand up, brushing my hands against my jeans as I do. I shake my head, tossing my hair back into place and clearing my mind with one movement. Mulder stays put, his nose level with my ass, and he doesn't seem inclined to move. He can doubtless sense my arousal. God, I smell it on myself, and he is much more attuned to such things than I am - and has his nose much closer to the source. He is still for a moment more, as I keep my back resolutely turned to him, looking out now at the dark line of trees that part in a narrow path back to the inn. For all my FBI training, for all the monsters, both worldly and otherwise, that I have encountered over the years, I am still frightened at some very basic level by the thought of walking along a dark path, surrounded on all sides by the silent sentry of trees. Especially on a dark and stormy night. "Mulder, let's go," I suddenly urge him, wrapping my arms around me to ward off the sudden chill I'm feeling. He stands and his arms immediately encircle me, pulling me back against him. "S'okay, Scully," he assures me, wrapping himself around me like a cloak. "What was that?" I gasp, my eye caught by movement at the edge of the property, on the side closest to the dunes and the beach beyond. But now there is nothing, only the dark shadows of trees and saw palmetto that dominate the untamed land behind the grounds of the mansion. "What?" Mulder is instantly alert, I can feel it in the tension that springs into his body behind me. "Out there," I say, nodding in the general direction. "At the edge of the grounds, just behind the pergola. There he is again!" Through the gloom I can dimly make out the figure of a man, dressed in uniform, but not of this time. He is hatless and seems to be walking directly toward the mansion. I can see no details, but I have the definite impression that he is anxious to get some place else, up ahead, and that someone is waiting for him when he gets there. "Is that your Gray Man, Scully?" Mulder asks in my ear. At that very moment the figure fades from sight, and once again all is still and silent. We are frozen, stunned with the realization of what we've just seen. Then I remember what the appearance of our ghostly visitor is said to herald. "Mulder, let's go back," I urge. "The storm's coming soon. Let's get back to the inn." His arms drop from around me and he takes my hand as we turn to the path that will take us back. We walk in silence, wrapped in our thoughts of what we just witnessed. I can't help wondering if I really saw what I think I saw, or if I'm just more sensitive to suggestion since Aunt Olive's death. But Mulder obviously saw it, too, and is happy as a pig in shit that he got his wish for Hallowe'en. I sneak glances at him as we walk, and he's grinning like a kid at Christmas. Okay, big boy, you got yours, I think. Just you wait 'til I get you back to our rooms. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Thunder and lightning chase us all the way back to the inn, booming over our shoulders as the storm sweeps in from the sea, crackling overhead, but thankfully none of the bolts touching the ground. Walking down long, dark, tree-lined paths is one thing; traveling them with the fear of being struck by an errant charge from the sky as you go is quite another . I don't think I've run so fast for such an extended period of time in my life. Mulder, of course, is barely even winded; in fact, he seems exhilarated from both the storm and our encounter in the ruins. The skies break just as we reach the intersection where the main road meets the path that leads to the inn. By the time we reach the wide verandah we are soaked to the skin. To avoid the party in the front of the house, we skirt around to the back entrance, slipping in the side door to the kitchen. A bright-eyed young lady, hard at work loading hors d'oeuvres onto silver serving trays, takes note of our plight and tosses us a couple of kitchen towels from the cupboard behind her. Thanking her quickly, I make a few swipes at my hair and clothing before Mulder takes my hand and pulls me along behind him. He leads me to the back stairs and we leave a wet path four full flights up to our floor. By the time we reach the landing we are both breathless. Mulder unlocks the door to our room and ushers me inside, locking it behind him and turning to sweep me up in his arms as he heads toward our private bath. "Don't want to puddle on the floor, now, do we, Scully?" he murmurs into my ear, and just like that the switch is flicked again and I am back to a state of full arousal. He lowers me to the floor as we reach the door to the bathroom, which is nearly as large as the kitchen in my apartment. Like the rest of the suite, this is a lovely room, all porcelain and ornate, with shiny gold fixtures and elaborate metalwork on the walls, the sink - and the huge old bathtub that sits proudly on curved legs in the corner of the room. He sees my look at the tub and shakes his head. "Not a chance, Scully," he warns. "Not tonight. I'm a patient man, but not that patient." He looks pointedly down at my nipples, which are rather pointedly looking back at him, clearly seen through the wet cotton of my cream colored tee. Before I can catch my breath he lowers his head and takes the right one in his mouth, suckling the moisture there, penetrating the fabric down to the multitude of nerve endings that are screaming for attention. A few gasping breaths on my part later, he pulls his mouth away and looks down upon his handiwork, at the rosy tip of my breast glowing pink and pulsating beneath the thin veneer of clothing. He lifts his head back to mine, grinning in triumph. "Still wanna play dress-up, Scully?" he asks, his tone deep and dark and delicious, like the best chocolate truffle imaginable. I shake my head. "Not tonight, Mulder," I tell him, taking the lapels of his jacket in my hands and pushing it off his shoulders. "It's time I gave you a proper dressing down." The jacket hits the floor and I move next to the button of his jeans. "Five years, together, Mulder - you *must* have seen this coming." He laughs outright at this, a joyful noise charged with the sound of a man who's about to get some, and knows it. He sucks in his breath as my fingers manage to unzip his jeans and I slip my hand inside the damp denim, deftly capturing the moist heat of him. He groans, deep in the back of his throat, the sound low and feral. He pulls the hem of my shirt from my jeans and his hands slip underneath and around my back, finding the clasp to my bra and snapping it loose with one quick flick of those nimble fingers. He moves them around to my front, encircling my breasts, teasing my now painfully erect nipples with his thumbs, and his mouth descends over mine, stifling the gasp that is just leaving my lips. Dear God, I can very nearly reach orgasm just from the erotic pleasure of kissing this man, with our tongues exploring, each doing our best to swallow each other from the inside out. We break free only long enough to whip our shirts over our heads and off before we are kissing again, running our hands all over newly exposed hot spots, gasping into each other's mouths and sharing the pleasure of every touch, every caress, every stroke of goose-pimpled flesh. We step out of our wet jeans and leave them in a dripping heap on the tile as Mulder steers me backward, toward the bedroom and that four-poster I've been wanting to break in. Looks like I'm going to get *my* Hallowe'en wish, too. Mulder lowers me gently backwards until I'm lying on the high bed and as I lie back I feel his erection through the tent of his boxers at exactly the right height for a perfect entry. I come up off the bed and reach for his shorts, pushing them roughly off his hips and smiling at the rigid member that bobs up at me with enthusiasm. Mulder sees my eyes widen and can't resist the opportunity. "Mulderdick, Scully?" I nod, reaching for him. Mulder backs away, grabbing for my legs instead and whipping my panties down them, tossing them to disappear somewhere across the room. "Uh-uh," he purrs. "Not yet. I'm hungry." He climbs up on the bed with me and takes a knee in each hand, pushing my legs up and apart so that I am splayed open for him in all my naked, horny glory. I can't believe the abandon the man inspires in me, am astounded still by the utterly primal nature of our lovemaking at times. I open slitted eyes to see Mulder's face just as his fingers descend on either side of my sex and open me fully to him. He looks like a starving man about to be turned loose at a banquet. He plays with me for a bit, teasing me with nips and light pinches and lubricating strokes as he dips his middle finger inside me and paints my lips with my arousal. Still he watches me, as if he has not seen it many times before, as if every time he brings me to this point is a source of wonder to him. It's such a turn on, to see him looking at me like that, to know the effect it has on him, and to have first-hand knowledge of how he intends to follow up on what he has started. I am strung taut, every nerve ending in my body anticipating that first touch of his mouth, the first swipe of his tongue, the slow suckle that he will employ to turn me into a quivering mass of pleasure. When that first touch comes, so do I. My hips buck up off the mattress and I suck in my breath with a sharp "aahhh!" and abruptly the room is aglow in the primary colors of the rapture he brings me. Mulder, of course, does not let up in the face of victory, but keeps going, wringing two more mind-blowing series of spasms from my body before I reach for him and pull him up to me. There is only one thing left to say to him at this moment. "Mulderdick. Now." His smile is as big as the organ he plunges into me as the last word leaves my mouth. He buries himself to the hilt, stopping only when he can go no further, and murmurs huskily into my ear. "Now?" "Shut up, Mulder," I tell him in a strangled sort of voice. I tighten my internal muscles around him, tilt my pelvis toward him. "Move that fine ass and move it now!" Chuckling in triumph, he starts an inexorable rhythm that soon leaves me incapable of speech. The room flashes with intermittent lightning, and thunder roars overhead as the heavy downpour pounds against the windows, like Mulder is pounding into me now. I am reduced to throaty moans and groans and finally shrieks as he pulls me over the brink yet again. He follows me barely a stroke later, as I am still floating above the mattress, mindless with bliss. When I come back to myself we are lying spooned on our sides so that we're facing the window and can watch the rain continue to thwack against the panes. Strangely enough, I'm thinking of Aunt Olive, wondering if, during all the years she made this trek to the inn, she ever shared this suite with the man she loved. I remember her patient explanation when I asked her why the day is celebrated, our Hallowe'en, her Samhain. "This is the last day of the Celtic Year, Danie," she had told me in her sweetly lilting Irish voice. "Our New Year begins on November 1st, so this is the day we reflect on all that passed during the year. Today we take time to recall those who have gone before us, to remember them with a smile, and give thanks that they were a part of our lives." I think back now on the seasons just passed with Mulder. Our relationship had just begun to bud at Imbolc in February, sprouted its first leaves with Ostara. We bloomed with unrestrained glory with the coming of May, and knew full born fruition at Midsummer. Tested with the harvest of late summer, we clung to each other, pushed away and came back together again, to be renewed with the second harvest at the Fall Equinox. Here we are now at the end of the wheel of the year, having weathered three- quarters of the cycle, and I'm somehow not surprised to find how content I am with where we are. I snuggle my bottom back into the cavity framed by Mulder's belly and thighs, mentally purring, and I find that I'm looking forward to the winter. For the first time in my life I'm actually welcoming stay-inside-and-cuddle weather, because for the first time in my life I'm with the right man. Mulder's arms tighten around me, and his lips graze the back of my neck, lightly, lovingly. "What are you thinking about?" I put my hands on top of his enfolding arms and return the embrace. "Aunt Olive," I say. "Now?" he snorts into my hair. "Kinky, Scully." I spank his forearm, biting my lip to still my laughter. "Stop that!" He chortles into my neck and I can't help laughing with him. Happy. We are happy here. And tonight, as we ease from the last day of the old year to the first day of the new, I look upon the future with renewed optimism. I turn my head toward him, my body following until our fronts are flush together and my lips are a breath away from his. I hear the big grandfather clock in the hallway as it strikes the midnight hour and with every gong I plant a tiny kiss on his lips. "Happy New Year, Mulder," I whisper between kisses, ever so thankful for Aunt Olive and her legacy. "I can't wait to see what our next season brings." ~~~~~~~~~~~~ Notes: Okay, I know I meant to get this out before Hallowe'en, but as it turns out it wasn't ready until now. And now I know why it didn't come before: this Fancy is a New Year's story, rather than a Hallowe'en one. And I've been thinking this might just be the place to end the Fancy series. Thanks for reading and for the encouragement while I was writing them. It's been a ton of fun! Let's see what the new season brings. I can't mucking wait! And who knows what sort of whimsies it will inspire? BTW, the Greyfield Inn really is a lovely place for a weekend getaway, if you can afford it. If you want to take a look, do a search for Cumberland Island, Georgia, and check out the Greyfield Inn. I don't think anyone would mind if I listed their webpage, but maybe I should just leave it to the reader to go there. It is truly a slice of heaven and definitely on my list of places to go before I'm too old to enjoy it. But, then, that never bothered Aunt Olive, did it? Thanks for reading!