God damn, but these beef pockets are tasty...
By now, he's gone through the whole plate. And he's not even regretting it. Yet. With a satisfied smile and contented sigh, Davydd leans forward, setting the plate on the small table. Nearby, the Stricken Toreador lies curled up on the sofa, covered in a warm coverlet, surrounded by comfort. Maybe it will be enough.
His green eyes are keen. Sharp. And so too the air around him. He knows where everything is, where every knick-knack is placed, where everyone is. He can hear the clock ticking in the back room.
Hands fold against his stomach as Davydd settles back. His eyes on the woman. Wondering. What to do, what to do. Call Girault? Call Christian. Fuck's sake, call William? That's a call I'm dreading. Lips purse together as he ponders it all. The sudden insanity -- though maybe not that sudden, considering Edward's previous critique -- the bloody scrawl she made on her wall. Davydd's hand goes to his mouth, his fingers idly pressing his lower lip, squeezing between thumb and forefinger.
What should we do, my love. Next, I mean. Well, I know I must call William, but we can't keep her here. We're not a sanitarium...
"Come to bed, Davydd," Sandrine says at the doorway, head peering around it. She's managed a conversation with you for the last half-hour as she prepared for bed. Sandrine has something pink on, but it is hard to tell. "She is not going anywhere," voice firmer than telepathy, "...and you keep talking anyhow," she smiles. It's not as if her mind is going to rest with yours blaring loud and clear.
"We can listen for her in here," she grins, reaching around to tap one of the flat panels that turns the lights off.
Oh well... when you put it that way...
A smile pulls at that mouth as fingers release it. Hand lowers and he rises in one motion. One last look to the sleeping woman, one last look around. The house is secure. I checked the locks three times. No, it is good. It is enough. It is all I can do.
"Aye," he rumbles in the hallway, a quiet sound but rumbly nonethless, "...bit gabby am I? Aye well," an exhalation chases a smile and he rakes his hand through bronze curls. True red these nights. He follows the promise of pink. Such a color. A tea rose. A beautiful woman's blush. It only lights upon Nature's most wondrous things, that.
I'm going to taste like beef pie. Eh, you like them or you wouldn't have made them, aye? Davydd chuckles, a snort of a laugh, held more in his throat and gut and he joins you in the hallway. "Say that again," Davydd whispers. "Come to bed, Davydd," not a bad parrot of your accent. Even in the darkness his eyes glint.
Course, aura watcher, you know he's his own beacon...
Sandrine grins and rolls her eyes, turning to head down the hallway. "I happen to like pie. But..." she turns and pushes at your chest, pink gown ending at her thighs, "...you can't come to bed as a pie. We'll leave the door open," Sandrine motions. "We'll hear anything that happens, I'm sure." About the friend.
"Does she have family or others that might miss her?" Sandrine wonders, remembering your thoughts a moment ago. She enters the inside bedroom on the right side of the hallway. "I mean, someone has to wonder..." she expects, moving towards the bed.
"It would be a messy affair if I did," Davydd grins, eyes widening. Oh, I can be a pie, alright. His eyes light on that pink gown, still a touch wider than normal. Fiery eyebrows cock up as eyes drift downward to where the nightgown ends. It becomes the beginning and the end of the world. Right there. That pink horizon, with world of pink beneath it. Christ, how did I manage to cash my karma check in and get it all in one, juicy payment...
He is two steps behind you, coming in and taking off his jacket. "That's a lovely thing," he says of the nightgown. Tori who? Whose friend? What are you talking about? "Hmm? Oh," Davydd grins, plopping down on the bed to start the great undressing. "You know... I don't know. I barely know her really. I know she's known William long enough to get jewelry from the man, was with him in the United States when he was princing about the great north woods." The shirt is off and he glances about, then stands finally. He's a man of strange order, Davydd Llewelyn. He prefers to hang up his clothes rather than throw them around. He doesn't have servants. He crosses over to his closet.
"I know she had a lover she had not been able to find..." He looks pointedly to you. "Sounds like someone else did," he murrs. Davydd dances around in place on one leg as he pulls off a shoe.
Shoe plops down. Davydd smirks. "My sister's ring nonetheless. How cheeky is that?" He stands on one leg again, removing the other. Both are placed in the closet. Now he's down to socks and trousers...
Sandrine sat on her side of the bed, looking away rather distractedly. She nods and crosses her legs, as you get to the present. "Something like that," she nods. Sandrine's foot kicks back and forth absently.
"Your sister?" she blinks, not catching the connection. Sandrine twists to watch you, leaning back on her hands that are anchored on the bed. "Oh," she realizes. "Well, maybe he is her closest friend," Sandrine sighs, twisting her lips. Maybe you'll have to make that call, love. Sorry.
Sandrine looks past you, disappearing into some point in space. She's thoughtful, mind racing with questions: who would care about me? I could have easily been her. How is it...that some have no family, no one that cares whether or not they fall off the planet...
"She has a well-placed friend," Davydd comforts. "And you..." he smiles warmly, "...you have a man who's stark raving for you. And he has friends," he continues, crossing the room, suddenly, there's a knee on the bed and then he's crawling across the bed, to your side. "... I'd care very much. And I would see that they bloody well would."
There is a kiss, there's a smile, there's quiet confidence. "You'll never have to worry about that, cariad. That I promise you." Another soft kiss and he leans forward a little, grinning. Kiss parted for a long, long look at you. "And believe you me, if the winter wind so much as blows a strand of hair awry, heaven and earth would hear of it." A hand finds your hip, his mouth finds your chin. And Davydd exhales. "I will call him tomorrow. He will... likely take her in. William... believe it or not," and I barely do and I know him, "...has a great heart. He's generous with his friends, severe to his enemies." And I should know. I've been a little of both.
Sandrine's chin rests on her shoulder as she looks at you, still leaning back on the bed. "You're a good man, Llewelyn," Sandrine smiles, eyes sparkling like glint crystal. Her lips twist awry and eyes widen. "And you're the only family I have." A shrug follows, and she tries to smile brighter.
Sandrine blinks and slips back to the bed, allowing her hands to rest beside her ears. "I'm glad you like the pies," she cheers. "I am glad that someone can eat whatever I toss out. Otherwise, much food would go to waste."
"I'm the only family you need. With me... it's as good as having twelve Nordic brothers and a pack of crazy uncles." Green sparkles with a wink and he watches you, each motion leading up to the next, of you lying back on the bed. "And ... I have a weakness for pies, I know I should have told you this from the start," he mock-protests, then grins. "Particularly after a night of flying through windows."
The bed rocks, bouncing a touch, as he lies back as well. Hands to the fastening of his trousers, he's about to get very comfortable. A hand pats his stomach -- very full -- as if he were worried about packing on the poundage with you're cooking. Impossible. "Each one was a pocket of inspiration. I have the energy to move mountains at the moment. Or write an entire tome of sonnets." Trousers off and kit out. Ah, I needed that. Freedom! Precious and glorious freedom!
Pants and socks -- he's not one of those chaps to leave his socks on -- and then he's all bare and all relaxed, covered only by his tattoos.
Davydd turns his head on his pillow looking to you. "I mean it, you know," he murmurs. "About you not having to worry. And you have the dogs and the cat. Do you want another cat? We have a family. True, it's not my plump red-headed babies but... there's nothing wrong with an old man and a cluster of well-meaning animals." Davydd grins, "... an the old man is a well-meaning animal, himself..."
Sandrine laughs, shaking her head as she bites her bottom lip. "I guess I have a family," she admits, head turning to see you. "I've never had one before...well...since..." since she's been undead. Sandrin grins, looking back to the ceiling.
"By the way," golden brow furrows, "...where is everyone?" The animals, that is.
"Aye well... so tis..." He grins and then. Hmm. "Now that you mention it..." Davydd sits up, then leans over the side of the bed, pulling up the runner and skirt of the bedding to look underneath.
Quite the view, by the way, of tattoos on shoulders and the small of his back. Fortunately for you, he was ritually shaved when he was painted. Else, he'd be a huge hairy Cymri. Thank God for small favors, what?
"What are you all doing back in the corner?" he says in Welsh, voice lifting in inflection and lilting. "Huddling like scared children from the bogeyman... come on out of there...no, she's not going to eat you. I wouldn't let her. Don't be daft..."
One by one, the menagerie makes itself known. The two plump corgies, looking a little shell-shocked and tentative. The cat, merely looking sleek and bored. "Go to your pillows, Bwci.. Rhyddid...it's alright now..." Cowards.
"She makes flowers wilt and Welsh animals cower in fear..." he drolls in English. "Such a sight. Tsk..." Rhyddid and Bwci look back, not convinced there isn't a reason to be cowering in fear, quite frankly. They plop down on their pillows -- two baskets on the other side of the room with big colored cushions. The cat hops up on the bed.
"Hewwo, Frik," Sandrine coos, letting the cat pad over to her. "Kiss, kiss," Sandrine murbles, encouraging the cat to rest on her stomach. "Come here, sweet," she coaxes, hand patting the chiffon at her tummy. "No, not interested?" Well, of course not, Sandrine's expression twists, it's a cat. "Okay," she waves off, looking back to you.
"Light?" Sandrine asks, turning on her side. Cat had its chance. The gown rides higher, and she makes no move to lower the layers of pink to a level more modest. "You can talk to William tomorrow," she says, "...once we see how Victoria feels."
You rang?
The cat might not be interested, but a blue dragon is. You call, he comes, grinning, murmuring, "Alright, if you insist..." You did say Come here didn't you? His arms encircle your small waist and he's too far away to turn off the light. Davydd closes his eyes, drifts in a world of pink chiffon, face buried in it gladly. Can you feel the grin?
Frikka seeks higher ground, walking up bold as you please onto the great Cymri's back and shoulders. Peering over like an audience, white tail curling around her forepaws. The little princess.
Normally, she'd be halfway across the room by now, in flight, but he's busy...
"Tomorrow," Davydd says to both, a mouthful of chiffon. Such light, airy fabric. Barely fabric at all. The warmth of his mouth and his breathing, so mortal, felt easily. The lights are on and the door is practically wide open! Has he no shame?
She was about to reach for the cat, but instead finds herself wrapped around. Sandrine lifted, then fell back, grinning as you disappear into chiffon. "I meant Frik," she says. "But you will do," she admits, hands alighting at your back. She doesn't remove the cat, but massages your broad shoulders.
"That's a no on the light," Sandrine clarifies. "And the door? One of us does have a little shame," she says, lifting her knee and setting her foot on the bed. Get the point? It is rather...public.
There's a grunt for the light. There's a no. As far as the door? Well now, I may yet have a bit of magic for that. Face still buried in chiffon, there's a whisper against fabric and skin. Door.
...And one of the dogs trots over to close it, putting corgie forehead to the door surface and walking forward till it shuts...
"There," he grins, and he gives his weight to the bed, but then rolls over, "...better...?"
I am in absolute heaven... Christ have mercy. So beautiful. Warm. Soft.... Pink...
Navel to thigh, down he goes. Down for the count. To the place he loves the best. When not cradled between your breasts, murmuring poetry to you in the waking hours of the morning or the waning hours of the night, he may be found murmuring odes to you, held between your thighs. Sometimes, he has to be made to leave. He could, in truth, spend all night there and take nothing for himself but that.
"I hope you can hear," Sandrine teases, sighing as she shakes her head. Oh well. Blue eyes look down at you with mock-disappointment. "Better," she finally allows, hand waving at Frik to be gone.
I can hear... just fine...
Rhyddid is already snoring. Bwci is settling back on his bed. Snorting. It'll end up as snoring in about half a minute. Your cat -- our cat -- is purring. And sleeping on my pillow. The clock is ticking.
Besides, if she wakes up, I don't think we're going to have a problem hearing her...
There's a muffled chuckle, followed by a long -- and grateful -- sigh...
Posted by rowan at June 24, 2003 03:43 AM
