Vaqueiras, the mathematician. He can note the formulae of how a leaf falls, and yet he does not miss the wonder of the floating leaf itself. He can tell me how the water of the fountains run -- how swiftly, by what hydrodynamic laws -- and yet, he does not delight less than a poet on the sound it makes, on the soothing constant rhythm, or how it naturally cools the air -- which still can be a concern here even sometimes in January. Vaqueiras is a lyricist, and it is the universe itself that provides the voice for it, her laws its metre.
I have learned this...
And Nicolau de Voya, the gunmaster. Whose knowledge, at first, I thought would mean so little to me. Who has already taught me much -- most importantly, not to discount the direction from which Knowledge itself might come, even as he taught me how to clean a gun. He could tell me the history of such weapons, but instead we talked of family history, of mountain passes, of music.
Thirdly, Marquez Morales. I did not believe there was a God until I heard your reasoning. You said, look to all these things again.
There are three gifts set out for delivery tomorrow; one, for each of these men, who in this short time have come to invigorate Montague. To move his mind and cause his spirit to think. His heart to feel passion for Ideas as much as your spirit, your flesh and blood. And in this second week he has started to set himself apart. Valan Montague is carving a place for himself in this place of diplomats, priests, scholars and kings.
And now, once again, it is his time. Free time. To think, to not think. To read, to not read. To bathe again -- there is such temptation never to leave the bath! -- or to continue to learn. Every moment may be spent so. But he has sent for you. Asking one of his two attendants to find you -- he wants to see you. And while he waits, he stands before the window of his chamber, watching the sky go from deep blue to midnight, the sky pocked with stars. His clothes hang loosely -- ivory silk, so supple it might melt at the touch, slightly honeyed, so be a shade lighter than his skin, but vibrant. His trousers, tailored to fit him, cuffed at the feet, a silky resonance and touch. His hair is brushed, mostly Mod -- yet tamed somewhat -- and gold-green eyes lift from the window's view to his door. He waiting. Expecting. And there is a touch of nervousness. Like new lovers have...
What if he does not come?
How could he not? Your evenings are spent secreted within the sacred halls of Alydar, discovering the faceted jewel it is. Edward? He does the same, by wandering her halls and gardens, her kitchens and stables. He looks to rekindle old relationships, visiting with those who are so honored he would give his time to them. Alydar's beauty is maintained by those who quietly walk her halls, and this he knows. He could be in closeted rooms, relearning what he knows. Instead, Edward's reminded of his real part at the mosque, and it is to spend time with those that keep it alive.
A servant found him, Savion, one of the two assigned to your apartments. Experienced he is, in the customary ways of Alydar. About that time, the other who sees to you, elegant and dutiful Flavia, also arrived, seeking to provide the same request.
And so I went. Excusing myself from the musician's corner, I had two long sides of Alydar to walk. It would be some time before I would find you, passing the southeast oasis, the English library, and a few Christian suites. A turn, and I walked in intermediate areas, passing a small library closet, a common reading room, before taking the steps down beneath the Hebraic rooms. Funny how the third floor dips to the second there. Certainly, there is some traditional reasoning.
Another corridor, another half set of stairs. Yet always at my right shoulder, held within, is the great plaza. Even now, first prayers are taking place, a gathering of some forty men upon their rugs. They face east, towards Mecca, some continuing a ritual they started hundreds of years ago.
The night is deep now, indigo replaced with black. Four am. Alydar is doubly quieted for prayers, the earliest of Matins, and those sleeping. If I were outside, I could see shining colored points, streaming brilliantly. But I am not there, for respect of those whose blessed time it is. No need for my shadow or steps to serve as distraction.
It is no matter, really, for I am already at my destination. The Yellow Hall, it is called, due to the fresoed stones and sandy walls. It is the suites for special guests, those not categorized by religion, study, or role. It is the ultimate of private apartments.
My knock is cursory. Already, I am opening the door, leaving the patterns and rituals of Alydar behind. In here, it is Fleurlil or London. It is our space, boundless.
There are the fragments of his day, together they make a mosaic...
The large tome of Alhambra rests upon a table, there beside it a glass that has been used intermittently and throughout the day. And another book beside it, the Story of Pi and another Zero. These more modern books rest beside other borrowed copies of Islamic texts -- they have to be interpreted for him -- but they are filled with historical references to the growth and blossoming of algebra.
Against a wall, leaning into the shadows of a corner, rests a foil -- kept for practice in an idle hour, to be returned tomorrow. There is the smell of a recent bath, and the lingering humidity of the heated water. The smell of citrus. The smell of almond soap and oils. And he is barefoot. His new shoes resting idle at the foot of the bed, upon a rug especially woven for that purpose.
And though his nights are full of learning and of the pleasure of learning from early twilight to midnight, it is this time he has come to most treasure. The time when he is afforded you. There is some truth to absence and its working on the heart...
At the knock, Valan turns, and the eyes that had been focused upon the deepening night brighten as they expect to find you. And find you with warmth that follows from his eyes to his mouth, to the smile that is his gaze's furthest ripple. And most notably the gawky, coltish movements are gone, smoothened over, showing signs of first polishing. This is what Alydar has done for him, as it once did for you, Eduard Meurelle.
"Ami," comes the voice of Montague, that soft rush of French, trailed by the widening smile, "...I was imagining...whether you were out riding tonight, or off on some quest," gallant, he thinks, or no. Golden eyebrows arch upward, "Turkish coffee?" and he gestures to the two porcelain cups and the pot resting nearby. The scent of dark bean, of cinnamon.
"You learn fast," Edward smiles. His bath was much earlier this evening, and he brings with him the scents of much of Alydar. He is well-apportioned for a night of socializing, but nothing as you are. Seeing you so brings a smile to his face, and behind him, he pushes the door closed.
Sable gaze glances to the coffee, and then he waves his hand gently. He has had much coffee, tea, and other spirits this evening. It is the way of this place. In brown slacks and beige shirt, Edward easily moved from area to area. He steps from his shoes at the door -- some habit from earlier in the evening -- and moves towards you, letting his arms lift above his head in a stretch. Yawn. "Dieu," he whispers, "I am tired." Amazingly so.
"How was this evening?" he wonders, hands lowering, your waist soon touched. "Everywhere I go, I hear that you have been through and you were delightful," Edward smirks, hands now stroking silk.
The coffee is forgotten...
Silk moves beneath your hands, seemingly melting like confection in water. You feel it there, honeyed, and then you feel his skin. Warmth lingers there, from the bath, from the previous cups of coffee and tea. Gilt-green eyes lower, straying over your mouth-throat-form, a quick journey. They lift in time to see your smirk. "It is strange when the world becomes still," Valan whispers, a conspiratorial look. Yes, he is busy all the time, your Montague. Even relaxation is an art to be studied here in Alydar. A hand lifts to dark hair, his form moves in unconscious ways, fitting to your own in the same motion. His mouth leaves a brush of warmth behind, and some flavor of the recent Turkish drink -- cinnamon, coffee, honey and milk. "My evening has been full, and yours...? Ami," fingers curl in your dark hair. "Come to the bed with me," Valan whispers, "I shall tell you of my day. I wish to hear of yours."
His other hand rests against your side, a moment and then his arm is around your waist. "Today, I held a gun, can you believe such a thing of your Montague?"
Of the delight he brought to those you met? No, he did not miss your saying it. The smile curved at the corners of his mouth just-so. Pleased by it. And pleased that they told you. This means it is true. I am starting to find my way...
Licking his lips, Edward's arms move to escort you to the bed. "A gun?" he quirks, rather surprised to hear it all. "Who got you to do that? Milneaux?" He laughs faintly, adding, "He has a way of making guns sexy." Hand crumples silk, eager to find the skin beneath.
"What did you think of the gun?" he wonders, looking over to you. "What kind was it?"
The silk moves as you wish it. It remains, a kind of teasing barrier -- seemingly dissolving at your fingertips, and yet covering the skin all the same. It may even fool you, this silk. It allows the warmth of what it covers to seap through. "Milneaux, he has a gift. But today it was Nicolau de Voya, and it was today that I actually held one. I have not arrived at shooting just yet. I learned to clean a pistol, to take it apart, to put it back together -- all while discussing music. He is a student of the guitar, we talked of Andalusian musical traditions and those of Bordeaux..."
Valan turns at the edge of the bed, standing there, pausing there, smiling there. "Soon, I had the gun in my hand and he said it is an instrument like any other. Not so different from the guitar. I could understand this..." his voice finishes in a hush and Valan falls into quiet staring. The garnets at his throat remain, sparkling darkly, deep resonant red. "I trembled when I first touched it, and then I thought," Montague continues, smile creeping across his expression, "I had done the same when I held you the first time. But... I am bold, and in boldness I shall find my way..."
"That you shall," Edward exhales, leaving his lips parted so that they might cover your own. Hands tangle in silk, fingertips becoming more eager to find you. His mouth opens and closes, pulling with each motion.
"Tell me," Edward whispers, eyes drawn low, "...was it so the first time?" Nervous and exciting all at once, requiring boldness. "Maybe it was," he concedes, forehead touching yours. Between you, breath is heated though he tries to calm his own intensity. At his throat, amber flickers, a sign that you and he are swaying together.
"It was so then..."
It is so now...
Persistence pays, as the adage goes, and seeking fingers meet with a sudden, greater warmth and something slightly less supple than the silk shirt. Skin, taut as activity made it once, and your blood has now made it forever, resists far more than the slip and draping of silk. And you feel the tremble there. Were he a mortal, his skin would jump with the electric thrill of a tingling rush. A shock to the system, traveling up his spine upon a circuit of nerves. Now, it is the blood that courses and the blood that jumps.
I do not feel myself move, though I know I am moving. A motion so natural with you that only the subconscious is aware of it. Arms, fingers, these hold you lightly and begin exploring...
"It is like having lightning dance through you, what you do to me. I touched the gun, I thought of you, and it ran through me again. And I knew... I would have to treat such a thing and such a knowledge as I treated you." With all the respect due to a force of nature as you are. But there is no more for now on the gun, as Valan moves his forehead against your own, then his kiss. Lightning swift, so eager. No, no... the kiss is bold.
Edward groans, desirous when you treat him so. Without kid gloves. In truth, it is his preference, unafraid of what may come, what may happen. Risk in all things...for with no risk, no unknowing, there is no pleasure, no joy, no excitement.
It's how you live now.
"Maybe," Edward purrs, pushing now at your slacks, "...we are much like a storm, ami. Tossed this way and that, filled with lightning and rain." He shrugs a little, smile forming. But Edward's hands rush to free you of the remaining fabric, his tongue stroking your bottom lips. A kiss again, this one quick.
"Maybe I should stop using metaphors," he smirks, hands rising to pull away his own shirt.
Soft rolling laughter, it is like the traveling of thunder, distant at first and then rumbling all around you. So much for metaphors. A flash of a grin, "Please... no thinking now," Valan murmurs. "Now is a time for ..doing..."
He has such a way with language, your Montague. Even he has to chuckle at it. Such a phrase, what is it that poet said? A vile phrase, it is a vile phrase...
He takes you in hand as he took the gun -- with respect of the power but with bold fingers. Taking you up now as he took you up then, without a forethought to safety. Without a nod to caution or discretion. Headlong. The kiss is returned with conviction. Hands spread your shirt, parting cloth from skin, even as he feels the light layers peeled from him.
Refined grace, taught to him in a thousand subtle ways since his arrival in Alydar, focuses where mouths are joined. It begs for metaphors, parting as suddenly and with as great a shock as it was begun, and silk drifts to the floor even as Valan drifts downward to the bed...
~*~ ~*~
...Fingers trail with winding thoughts. In the quiet, Avicenna crowds his mind, and of the nature of Islamic philosophies, so earthy and so passionate -- as much from the heart and the gut as from the mind. And the poetry, of the bird on the wing, of Rubyiat and Rumi. He has never read such words that put fire in the blood quite like those. How distant to him from the force of life do French poets and philosophers seem now.
A door has opened with you Edward...
Not only to a life without end, so long as we choose to live it, but of a world I barely even knew, with its unfolding histories, its thoughts, its mosques and temples...
His fingers drifted downward from your stomach to your hip and between as 'temples' occurred to him, and reaching there subconsciously -- and then recognizing it -- Valan smiles. "Ami, my mind is so crowded," he whispers, "I do not know whether to lie down, jump up and grab a gun, write an epic to match the old tome, make tea or ruminate on the birth and concept of zero." Blond hair moves against your skin as he tips his head back against your chest, green-gold eyes seeking you. "How did you... soak all of this in. How will I... I feel I could stay here a century and only maybe scratch the surface..."
And how will I simply return to simple London and simply go dancing ever again without thinking of the warmth and the water, the consequences and the patterns of doing such?
He softly laughs, muscles jumping at the burst of energy. "You have enough time to do them all," Edward explains, hand drawing circles on your skin. His other hand rests beneath his head, cradling. "There is nothing you cannot do, ami. I know this. So, you'll just have to choose where to start."
"It wasn't so hard to soak it all in," Edward exhales, closing his eyes. "I had two centuries. That...is a long time to make mistakes. To learn and relearn. I had time. And you have time too, ami. Right now," he murmurs sleepily, "...it seems that you have been blind, oui? That you have wasted Time. But that is not so." How he looks like the sage, speaking from his wise blind state. "The Time you have spent has been well used...you lived as a mortal. You learned basic things. Now, you will go on to the next stage for you, whatever that may be."
Such time is still unfathomable to me. I do not understand it. I wrestle with such. Always, it is today and today and today. It has to be done today, ami. For there are not so many tomorrows. I cannot count on tomorrow. That is the time I understand. Two-hundred years? I do not know how this works. How will this work? What does it mean to spend two-hundred years? What does it mean, ami, to spend fifty. This is harder to imagine than I thought!
There is a sigh. Yes, you read his mind. You are good at that, he does not ask how. You, who have some six-hundred years of experience greater than he. Valan lies back, head cradled against your chest, the shoulder you give to the bed. A tangle of legs, and he sighs again. "There is so much, I do not know where to start. But," green eyes close, "I have more than a day to figure it out. I think," he continues with barely a pause, "I will start with writing." There! A decision made! Ah, but will it change tomorrow? "I do not know, ami," his mouth parts at your chest, a kiss blessing skin, "how did you do it? How... did you learn to ... not worry about time, to let it pass, to ... focus. How, ami, did you learn this? I feel as if I must... do it all now, that Now is what I have..."
Ah, the beauty and the curse of Mortality... and of those so recently Mortal...
The arm beneath his head extends, and Edward lifts, scooting his arm beneath your head and pillow. Ah. There. More comfortable.
An exhale, eyes opening. "It is like being mortal," he murmurs, "I do not know when I will round a corner, and there will be five wolves there, waiting to tear me to shreds," he whispers. So quiet. "But, I think, the difference is that...the ~mundane~ ways of my perishing are impossible. It would take, indeed, something supernatural or something...extraordinary, to cease...me." His smile is warm, reflection of the windows of his eyes. "I hope I do not sound like I am invicible, because I am not. I hope," he blinks, looking through you and to somewhere in the past, "...that I understand my immortality. It is like inertia...unless something dramatic happens, then I shall continue on this path, unstopped, unceasing."
And then, Edward Meurelle looks to you, Valan Montague.
"You learn to not worry about not having enough Time. As long as nothing...insane..." fingers tickle, "...happens, then you shall go on. You do not think of dying when you are mortal and young, oui? You don't think of running out of time as a teenager, yes? Then...in many ways, when you are Kindred, it doesn't change. As long as you stay healthy...mortal or immortal...you have Time..."
Arm pulls you back against himself easily. The bed sighs for it. "Stay smart, ami. Stay out harm's way. If you are in harm's way, may it be a situation you control. And doing all that, you will Live..."
Doing all that, you will Live...
"I shall, ami... I will not involve myself in wars or play politics, for I wish to live and to remain free," ah such words of the Young. Did you once say the same? Did Plantagenet or Llywelyn? Was Medici ever that Young? Valan rolls into you, a leg insinuating its way between your own, and his arms surround his rock, his strength, his sage knight.
"There is no fun in invincibility, ami," he agrees with you, smiles at you, "but you are, oui? Exceedingly strong." And I could throw myself into that again, if only my limbs would obey me! "I love such a man," is breathed against your skin.
"I may even have enough time, ami, to become good with horses and guns. We can go packing in the wilderness. You can show me what it is like to live on the land. Right now," a chuckle, "I fall off in a high wind. They know I have never ridden, these beasts...and they make fun of me, I know it," he drawls. "I want to learn such lessons from you, ami, you are a most excellent teacher. One day, maybe I can learn how it is you look so alive..." He drifts a moment. "Not like Plantagenet et Dunross, that is too much living, beautiful they are but... I ... I do not understand so much as that. But... like you. Normal. I want to feel I can walk in the world and not be... like one from the circus."
His hand lifts, brushing against a broad shoulder -- you know... freaks...
He exhales again, brows furrowing. "Is that how you feel?" Edward asks, arms enfolding. "You think you...look that way?" He sighs, frustrated at that. Have I made a mistake? "I will show you whatever you wish, ami," he corrects, "...and I am sorry, not to think of how you look. You always look so wonderful to me," Edward murmurs softly, chiding himself for not thinking of the niceties of existence.
"But you will find yourself in wars and politic, ami. Do not think you won't. It will find you, believe me," Edward smirks, kiss placed at your ear. "Just...be smart. Aware. That is all one can be, ami. Sharp. Attuned to the world, in your way. Sometimes, smart is not all about fists and fighting."
Despite what everyone sees with Edward.
"I am not the best teacher, ami, this is why we are here. This is why I want you to have friends like William and Dunross. Like Girault and Maria. There may come a night," he fades here, "...when I am no longer with you." Barely said. Arms hug. That frightens him. For what it means for himself and then for you.
"To be Free, ami," Edward explains, "...means much work, sometimes. But, it means...you can do anything. Anything, ami." As I do. No boundaries, no limits. "That's what I want for you. Maria does too. I see that."
I do not want to think about that...
And he brushes the thought away with the glancing touch of stroking fingertips. No such thing. Gliding touches lead to your throat, then your jaw. A kiss, and then fingertips lower to your chest, lingering there.
"Non, I do not... well... ami, I do not know. To me... I do not seem so different and yet I am worried I may be. I have not spent much time in the company of ... Mortals. Sometimes, I think they are looking at me as if trying to... figure something out, oui? I do not think I look like a freak," a reassuring smile there. "Non, ami... I just... want to learn so I do not become like that. Blinking, remembering things. Reaching for a glass without seeming that the glass magically appears in my hand... I worry that I am blazing in Their World, showing Them what I am..."
That is all...
Valan turns his head toward you, eyes seeking yours. And he nods after a time. He will have to consider this. Politics and wars. It is perhaps impossible, but I shall dream of being on the outside of such things. "William and Ian are very open with me, I am glad you introduced me to them. Ian knows... so much. I think William knows... but maybe he does not want me to know that he knows. I do not understand him. But he is warm to me. He loves you very much. If... there were ever to be such a time," and he frowns, I do not want to think about it, ami, "... I would feel safest there. I will go there."
It is not that the brave do not fear. It is that, in fearing, they turn anyway. And it is so with Valan. "But I would come here too, this is my home now I feel. I feel that is what is beneath all of the preparation. It is ... an expression of acceptance?" Valan looks to your chest. "Maria is very wise. I am very fortunate to have such a second world, Edward." And it is you who have given him this, "and you are a good teacher," he murmurs. Do not think otherwise. "I would still be sitting on the floor in your kitchen if you were not."
And then, he has to laugh...
He laughs too, forgiving that humor bobbles you away from him. No matter. He simply gathers you closer and clears his throat. "This is your home, ami. I mean," Edward digresses, "I have...here as the Kindred home, let's say. Fleurlil is my family home, the one associated with my history, my family, my mortal self, my original self. London is...the place I toss my clothing," he laughs subsquently.
"You will do the same, n'est pas? You will have Touraine, and here. Maybe you will have a soft spot for London or Switzerland," he smiles. "But we all learn to have places we call home."
When you say it this way, it is easier to understand. My mind can catch this, grasp this, hold onto this. "Oui...I understand." And he pauses. "I was going to save this, ami, until I knew more about how it was going to happen but... I am creating an... endeavor. I am going to call it Bacchus. Eventually, I want to have my family's winery and lands in Bordeaux. That will be... for us, too. Something for me to build. Something for us to have. And that, and Fleurlil will be my home. But," he turns so he can look at you, "I will be happy to throw my clothes in London for as long as you wish to remain there, oui? I will be happy to buy clothes in London, for that matter," gold-green shivers as he winks. Your lover, the clotheshorse. "But... I have been thinking about it since I visited my family last," almost a year ago, hasn't it been? "I will have Bordeaux and I will have Alydar," Valan murmurs, echoing your own words, "... Switzerland will always make me...warm..." his fingers finding their way against your skin, "I will never remember skiing perhaps, but I will always remember our secret cabin..." He laughs at that, and even reddens a little.
"I understand," he finishes, finally. A breath against your throat, and then the brush of his mouth. "Hmmm... I have learned so much already. I am so lucky. I can break eggs and shoot a gun..." Ah, the simple pleasures, "...and I have begun to plan. I have met your Maria, I am being accepted here. Things... are going well for us, ami. You know, I am becoming quite spoiled. What will I do, ami, when I can no longer bathe in milk and honey, have attendants rub rose oil into my skin?"
Cripes. They did the rose oil bit too? Edward's eyes roll, and he shakes his head at the princely treatment you've received. "Well, you can stay at Alydar," Edward grumps, "...and feed from the breast of milk and honey if you want," the last words emphasized, suggesting you vote against that option.
"Besides, your idea...of a business venture....is a good one. Hard to build something like that...from so far away, oui?"
But then Edward quiets, the tension of a changing topic growing. "What about your family, ami? Have you talked to them much?"
It appears I have touched a nerve. You are cute, ami, when you are disgruntled. I cannot help it, I softly laugh, a sound caught in my throat like a purr. "Ah, ami... as if I would not have them teach you how to do it, so I could have it wherever we go." Oh, dear god. The Loire grows such men. Touraine and Anjou repleat with them. God damn them all...
But laughter gives way to quiet. Quiet that lingers a little after you speak of family. His family. Low and long the breath that leaves Valan, moving against your throat and chest, such a heavy sigh. "I have exchanged some e-mail." Father wants me to be more involved. Mother wants me to visit more often. Brother is now working with father and hating it. Sister One is pregnant again. Sister Two is jealous of Sister One. Sister Three is bored of Paris and wants to move to London. "They seem fine. I am busy, I tell them, traveling..."
When I saw them that last time, when I saw all of them, I saw the pantomime disguised as love. They are so unknowing. So unknowing of what they say and do. And they hate that I am so free...
"Maybe," Edward chimes gently, though his body against you is anything but, "...you should see them, ami. I..." he considers his words carefully, "...do not want you to do anything you should regret, oui? They are your family. And you still walk among them."
He is quiet for a while after. Hearing you, feeling you, knowing the balance between strength and gentleness -- you are so brilliant, Eduard, I tell you constantly and yet it is not enough. He looks at your chest, oh, he finds his comfort there. His leg, nestled between your own, shifts just slightly. A tease, both conscious and not -- for if you roll him in your arms he does not have to think about facing them. About not being around in the daylight. Of not being able to be who and what they want him to be. Ah, but even this immortal change would not have altered that..
"You think... I will seem strange to them?" A pause and Valan smirks, "...more than I was already? Do you think, Eduard, that I am ready for such a thing?" He would put it off forever, even your brave Montague. And he sighs at that, upset...
Tsk, Montague -- you call yourself brave, yes? You tremble like a kitten...
...Upset that swells so easily, so suddenly -- you know how it goes with your blood -- and he stiffens all over. And he closes his eyes...
Those arms, arms that have danced, killed, and loved, embrace you. Each night is a reminder of That Night. "Not yet," Edward murmurs, speaking soberly. Honestly. "They will see their Valan, maybe, who shines even brighter than he used to. More beautiful than before." Or is that how I see you? Therein lies the problem...I have no objectivity where you are concerned, ami.
"But, you do not have a tail, nor are you so pale yet that they would think ill of you, ami. I say...if you have any inkling, ami, any tiny want, you should see to it. You will live a long time with regret. Do not make it your companion this early."
I hear you, ami -- though sometimes the blood is loud in my ears, it is hard to hear. It is hard to do anything but want to feel hot blood on the throat. Oh...
Oh...
Oh... and there it goes. With a breath, with a sigh, with an uncoiling of muscles I did not even know I moved. And the slide of my tongue against my teeth, I can feel the distending canines. I close my eyes, and I float on what you say. I hold onto your voice securely, until by doing so the sudden knot untangles and pulls free...
And you are right...
If I do not see them, I will know in a hundred years that I made my bed and forgiveness will be hard to find. You know, because you have probably felt similar things. You live to regret. That is the cost of This. You live to regret...
The young man in your arms begins to slowly become supple once more, folding against you, melding against you, softness for your strength. If the sun were not so close the curving of his hips into you would not stop at one. "I want, but I am also upset with them. I guess I should... get over it." Valan smirks into a sigh and gold-green eyes flicker to you.
He's surprised at your self-control. Edward looks down as you speak of your family, listening curiously. Yet it is not your family that comes from his lips when he replies.
"Why did you stop, ami?" You wanted it, you needed it. I am yours. I could feel your pendant heat. The heat of a vampire's desire. You halted it.
"Maybe...we've had enough this morning...on family." We'll talk of your anger with them another time.
The bedding slips as Edward rolls onto his back, letting you have the view from above. His right hand reaches across, touching your cheek, those lips. He smiles then, fingertips at your ear. Amber glistens at his throat, and now, there is no obstruction to stop you.
"Last enjoyment before the sun rises, ami" he whispers, eyes looking where his fingers land.
So much want, ami... sometimes it frightens me...
What if I cannot stop...
What if I do not want to...
What if I get lost...
And his blood replies: I don't care, I don't know, it doesn't matter...
I want him...
Resonant in his eyes, sparkling in the green and in the gold, you can see the war, Edward. He trembles where his blood shakes him. He held before. He cannot hold it more. As you roll onto your back upon the bedding, suppleness tightens and Valan rolls forward, his mouth immediate to your own. The kiss is consuming. Savage pleasure, both stinging and soothing, his mouth widens and blood issues between you, lost and found.
He will regret being so rough. He will wonder if you could love him after being so... He will apologize...
He straddles where once he tangled, and his tongue moves across your lips, suckling and curling, the blood rolled and captured, the wound healed. But the bloody echo of it is trailed over your jaw to your throat...
This will be next...
Gripped by hunger, sudden strike of lightning, his groan is the thunder, and we return to your metaphor, Edward. From the distending canines and the parting of flesh at the crook of your neck, to a shudder at his hips, to the curling of his toes, it passes through him in a circuit. And again, from his toes, to the grasp of his thighs at your hips, the twist of his back, the bloody sigh at your throat.
Back and forth, Valan becomes a tide and ebb of dancing muscle. He does not drink merely from his mouth, for his throat, guided by his tongue -- his entire body joins in. Sustenance. Love. Lust. The soothing of ...
What was that but a kind of frenzy?
Posted by rowan at June 21, 2003 09:43 PM
