On my back. Where I like the view of the world best, and you in it, amours. There is nothing that compares with that vista. And, even better, I can spread out upon the world-bed and conquer comfortable territory. You know how well I like that. But, the best of it all, amours, is watching you move, superior, empowered, taking me... well.. taking me measured to your own liking. Thus, you may take as much of me, or as little of me as you wish...
     I have to say, I enjoy it thoroughly. It is my favorite...
     Hand slides off your skin, warmly. You both eminate such heat, even though sweat has cooled, and as his hand plants itself at your hip, his other reaches out. And grabs his cell phone off the nightstand.
     "That could have been dangerous," the Occitan lilts beautifully, edged with the fire of ancient syllables, and it compliments his face, his mouth. It is fitting that he should speak so. Indigo eyes, darkened, glint as he narrows them, focusing on the phone. A press, the phone beeps. Off.
     "You should not let me leave that on," William murmurs, mouth spreading slowly, he tilts his head back against his pillow, and then his hand is in your hair. "Or let me leave you that long, three days. What were you thinking, Ian Dunross..."

     "Wha--?" Ian breathes raggedly, opening his eyes. Despite the hurried motion he seems to be in, he manages to understand the topic of conversation.
     Conversation, even.
     And he makes a face.
     "You...can...ignore the phone," he reminds you, each word coming behind a move of his hips and an exhale. Why in the world are you looking at a celphone? How in the world can you look at a celphone? Ian watches you put the device back upon the nightstand, as he never misses a beat.
     As for leaving him? That was your decision. He was happy here at Chinon, in some state of blissful paradise. But, as usual, Prince William got bored. Way bored. So bored that he had to go to that God-forsaken city on that disgusting river, to spend some energy.
     And then he came back, to spend some more energy.
     I will never thoroughly understand you. I know this now. But I'm alright with that.
     The hand in his hair seems to cause Ian to close his eyes. To tilt his head again. He doesn't mind doing all the work, and in fact, tonight seems almost effortless. The way he sits upon you, the bend of his knees. The tension in his thighs. Instead of draining energy from him, he seems to exert so little.
     Has so little ever meant so much to so few?
     But...where is his phone?

     This is how it can be between old lovers. Particularly The Married. It happened between he and Catherine, too -- though they were only married a few years. But on occasion, even so, there were times when lovemaking started and then talk of taxation insinuated itself, or the coming harvest...
     Now, it's a cell phone...
     But don't take it personally, it's not that he wasn't paying attention....
     A hand on your hip, large Plantagenet paw -- it grasps, encourages, seeks a coup. The other in your hair, curling, tangling. And then there is his mouth. "Again," he wonders, and he smiles, the wretch, as if he's surprised...
     The phone is forgotten. Tours forgotten. Long drive forgotten. Art show and old Normans forgotten. He leans up, hand bracing, legs anchoring upon the bed, but his own hips lifting and lowering, knocking you upward. You have to be vigilant all the time when you live with an Angevin duke. They're prone to sudden movement. And they like to be in control, mais oui? And will you allow this? Or will you shove him back to the bed, hands upon his shoulders and make him hold still while you have your way with him?
     William smiles at the thought, holds it in his mind, and hopes you hear him...
     Oh, and it wasn't boredom. Not yet. It was art and work and... well... wanting to get the fuck out of France and away from Tours for a night or two. That became three. Boredom? That will surface later. Unless of course, you don't allow him the luxury of time to worry about it.

     Hands reach out and push at your shoulders, sending caressing hands back towards the bed. With the motion, Ian lowers, the muscles across his back spooling tense. "I wasn't thinking," he growls, lips at your ear, "...you...were the one who wanted out..." almost accusation in it. But you must know otherwise. It is but that voice he sometimes gets when he's hungry.
     His mouth closes upon your throat slowly, in opposition to the quickened pace his hips keep. We know what follows, his motions speak, and I can't help it. It's your fault, really, Prince William, for having left me here.
     The bed bears upon under the force and weight that sends it forward and back. But then, it is no normal bed. The posts and frame have seen lifetimes of nights like this. No matter how either of you groan or call each other's name, the bed has never spoken. No matter how the sheets fall, hands collide, or bodies twist and thrust against each other, it hasn't divulged a secret. It's become a third party to this all.
     Ian blinks as he thinks of it, his nose buried at the pillow, somewhere near your jugular. Christ. Now you've gotten me distracted too....

     He was about to laugh, you can feel the tremor of it at your mouth -- or maybe that was just a swallow, hard to tell. We are not communicating well tonight -- but it is amazing all the same. The urge... he has to fight the urge to roll you over and just thoroughly have you. It is a kind of discipline, to be had. But then he feels your philosophy like the touch of an unexpected hand...
     Damn it, stop thinking! Bite me... look... see, there's a pulse there... go get it!
     William closes his eyes as you quicken, closes his eyes in anticipation. Encourages with a soft voice. A soft voice that says in Occitan: take it. Ah, the Angevin mating call. Take it. Take it. His voice gets louder with every iteration, baritone pulling at the throat, edged with quick falling breath.
     Such is magic...
     Now, whether you bite him or not...
     Whether his blood spills or not...
     You feel him thicken, if that's even possible, extend to full. And then his hands fly up again, fingers grasping for your thighs. Wanting your hips. Wanting to bounce you -- you're doing well enough on your own. William twists beneath you, and every muscles is on the trembling edge...
     Now, there's one moment when you know you have his complete attention. And that is This Moment now. The pre-orgasmic moment. It is when you have the most power...

     Finally, the saga of the bed is let go. Ian heaves from the sudden lift beneath him, it sending his directly to the appointed spot.
     The world turns on this. It never ceases to startle him, to knock him backwards for a loop. Some nights, he expects the energy you release, the power of your blood. Other nights, nights like this, when it is combined with heady passion and the pangs of separation, it becomes unbearable. Royal blood spilled upon his lips, aged and filled with preternatural magic. It screams of an ancient land, a lineage others can only imagine. Blood of the living combined with a power still yet untapped. Ian drinks deeply, but in the same moment, his breathing stops and hands at your shoulders grab fiercely.
     He can't. No matter how he groans at your ear, how his hips bear down upon you, he can't drink any more. Ian's cheek presses tightly against yours, holding on -- holding tightly. The press of his lips together, the struggle to swallow...all play upon your skin.
     ...And there are horses here. Horses upon a craggy slope. And beyond where eyes see, blue water and armies.
     Beside you, Ian's arm reaches for yours, hand grasping at the sheets, your fingers...
     "This was yours," the voice says, "...what I should have shown you so long ago. And I promise, it all will be again..."
     A well-formed man, not especially tall, looks back at you both..then smiles as he, dressed in military finest...screams out, causing the toy soldiers in the field to rush against other toy soldiers across a sandy beach. Soon, it is hard to make out the difference in the glistening sunlight, but the fighters rage on, sparkling under the sun on a white beach...
     "Gwilym," comes something in the here, the present filling the space once more. Ian's eyes are wide, and he's managed to rise enough to see you. His breathing races, and grey orbs look left and right, as if scanning some vista...

     Horses run in the expanse behind the fighting field, animals of mixed breeds. They charge together, left, then right, as if confused. Where should we go? What should we do? But in the end, it matters not. The entire northern part of the beach is there, and they claim it, a rushing herd.
     Beneath them, on the beach, the battle rages. He, dressed in beaten metal, walks along a ridge, looking at the situation below. Others can now be seen, trailing behind him. He is the commander here, and he takes an interest in what is happening below.
     Yet, no matter how dire the battle is, he seems to look over his shoulder, over those who are with him, to see you. To let you know he knows you are still here. And that he is with you. The smile grows knowing and slants, a faint nod there.
     If you have to go...you can...both of you...

     Blood so blue it's indigo. Same color as his eyes...
     Charlemagne rolls off your tongue, and dripping caesars flow into Holy Roman Emperors, pooling in the hollow of his throat, running over the mountains and plains of the body of the last Angevin Comte du Poitou. Guillaume XI runs in torrents, over your lips, down your throat, dripping against his skin wherever it is missed. Blood so blue...
     As it flows, so does his voice, thundering. The commander in pleasure. Your name on his lips, as his blood is on yours. William shudders, convulsing, hips lifting and holding himself far within you as his length lurches. Oceans of heredity remembered fill you. Virility recalled, made real by magic. He holds you as if hoping that seed will take hold, bouncing you erratically, until he falls into the bedding, writhing.
     Blood so blue, it's indigo...
     As you sit up, leaving his neck, his blood runs down his skin. Ecstatic eyes are dark, violet, unfocused. "Who," comes his voice, the accent thick, the dialect so ancient it is dead and forgotten just as he is. A hand fumbles upward, stilling you, stilling the Universe, will it quiet the visions? His large Plantagenet hand lands squarely on your hip, bracing. Anchoring. And his eyes close, head turning, crimson shiny at his neck...
      ...a look over the shoulder...
     I am with you...
     William does not turn from the vision but rather, eyes closed and orgasmic, flows into it, even as he flows into you...blood and oceans between you. And in the vision he remains in the distance, upon that same ridge, the large crusader upon the now dead stallion with the Hebrew name. Baruch the Blessed, bred by Sephardic Jews in Cadiz. The double descendent of Roman heritage -- a living combination of the rise and fall of Rome. Barbarian blood surges therein from snowy north and frozen rivers...

     Blonde strands shake violently, glinting fireworks against a dark canopy. The world sparkles as blood from Ian's lips spills onto yours in a soul-stealing kiss. The swirl of his tongue is punctuated by the last grindings of his himself into you. "William..." he whispers dreamily, your lips parting so that he might close the wound at your neck, "Will..."
     Nevermind. Before he can call for you again, Ian lets the last of his own pleasure ripple through him, regardless of the visions upon your blood. He swallows and drapes above you as a second canopy, holding on as he knows he must until you settle.

     "Not here," the voice says, already fading. He has a battle to attend to, the general on the ridge. "Look," he motions. Ian is gone. A nod, and he encourages you to do the same...

     Eyes open to the kiss and the vision shatters, blood is spilling, his/yours, and his mouth is being conquered. He lets it. There are a few times... maybe too few... when he lets himself be utterly conquered, and this is one of them. His eyes half-close, dark between dark lashes. His hands are alive again, gripping you, halting. Blood is dark upon his mouth, that Bordeaux you love so well, and his neck. He wakes...yes...
     That must be what happened...
     Dreamily, Seduction Himself smiles. The smile, that one... the one that makes the general populace shudder... or flee. "I passed out," flecks the Occitan, dripping fire and honey onto words. And he delights in it. So, that's what it's like...
     Hands cup you, slipping beneath the rounds of you to hold you right where you are, still full of him. He rides out the euphoria. The loss of blood. The orgasm. You. "I had the strangest dream...mais oui... I ...did not know people dreamed when they passed out from amazing sex..." The mouth on Guillaume XI. Were it not hereditary, it would not be believed. His eyes look to you, darkness glassy like gems. Amethyst...sapphires tossed into fire. "You...I like you like this best...we rest for a little," he murmurs, intoxicated. "I already want you again... I want you to take me again... like this..."
     Ahhh... life with the Angevin libido...
     "Hmm... strange dreams," William murmurs, eyes drifting closed a half moment. "A Roman general was on a ridge... and he was looking at us. We were both there, amours. And he smiled..."

     Lips opened to provide a lascivious reply. Chin tipped upwards for some humor. For you holding him so sweetly. Lewdly. But then you mentioned a dream...
     "You saw that?" he asks, slacking upon and around you. The heightened tension of sex with you...lovemaking be damned...falls away instantly. He had been hoping it was his own insanity. Ian sighs, his head coming to rest on your shoulder. "Laird," he swallows, "...alright..." something is going on.
     Hand taps at your arm, indicating he had best be let go, to roll beside you. Presumption that this needs discussing.

     Well, there's lovemaking... which happens... but then there are the rest of the nights, which are just indescribably sinful. As you begin to take your leave of him, there's a disappointed sound at his throat, and knitted eyebrows. Confused that you are moving off your lap, where he likes you best. As he said. "Oui...that is ...what I saw. What do you mean, too? And where are you going," he wonders. An eyebrow cocks up. As if there is a better place than on my lap to be...
     But as you move, William begins to slacken, softening and relaxing. Since more is not imminent, he makes himself comfortable in the bedding. Bloodied, but unconcerned about it, he looks to you, eyes narrowing. "Something is wrong?" he wonders.
     He really does believe he dreamed it...

     Well, don't you think so? His mind says. The vista is replayed, with the general, his soldiers, the beach. And pale brow cocks, even as Ian falls onto his side, legs wrapped in yours. Hand reaches down for covering and he pulls the sheet up to his waist.
     Ah yes. And a little replay of what just transpired and annoyance that the night seems ruined. That's in his mind too...
     He sighs and closes his eyes, leaning back, figuring you'll sort it out pretty quickly. Sometimes, words are just too laborious.

     You are on your side, you are still in range. The arms of your Crusader enfold around you, drawing you to him. His mouth going to your neck. The Angevin libido not to be outdone. As his mouth pulls there, suckling at skin, just for the taste of it, not needing blood, he closes his eyes. You saw that? You saw it, too...
     It doesn't take long, and even the Angevin libido is put in-check by the realization. Lips leave you, and William draws himself up on an elbow, head propped on the heel of his hand. Violet-blue eyes narrow again. In thought this time, and his tongue comes out, swiping at the taste of you... of him... on his mouth.
     And so the question is, amours, who came to us tonight? An eyebrow lifts, wondering. A joined vision... well, at least it wasn't a vision of someone coming into Chinon and killing us. It could be worse.
     It could have been my mother...
     Just as an example...
     William sighs, half-frowning. And I had such an evening planned, all of it entailing you riding me into oblivion. And that essential mouth pulls, suddenly, into a wicked slide. "So, what shall we do about it," his voice sounds suddenly. "We have an old Ventrue... or something... checking up on us, it would seem... so... what shall we do, amours..."

     He doesn't know whether to smile or be grumpy. Ian's never been one for invasion -- unless it's you. "Not sure," he swallows, twisting his lips as if thinking. "Don't even know whether it's a Ventrue. Or who the hell it is -- by the way, why do you think it's a Ventrue?" now that you mention it?

     "I suppose it doesn't have to be, but I was thinking... mind games equals my Beloved Clan. But it could be a thing, another thing. I suppose Toreador..." He doesn't even mention Tremere. Not that he isn't thinking about it. Or a witch, I suppose. "He sent me after you," William mentions. "When I passed out from the orgasm, well done, by the way," he tangents, grinning, "... he nodded for me to follow you. He said, Not here...he was fighting a battle, still. Hmmm... I just do not know." And then great shoulders shrug. "Maybe it was just a vision of one of my ancestors... on the blood. Sometimes... that can happen, yes? That is what it is," he murmurs, lifting to kiss you, to comfort you, to tempt you, "I am sure of it."
     Of course it is. It is the easiest explanation ne c'est pas? And as we know, that is how things go...

     Ian looks skeptical, but doesn't keep you from gathering him to you again. It's really what he'd rather prefer...a night of lights out, plenty of drinking and rutting. Of course, someone would have to step into our minds.
     "I'm sure that's what it is," he adds, laughing a little. You're on a roll, Plantagenet, and nothing will stop you. Not some aged Ventrue Secret Master. Or Gehenna for that matter.
     Ian sighs, letting you kiss him. "Think you can draw a picture of him?" he wonders. For posterity's sake.

     No, that is the truth of it. If a Plantagenet is on a roll, stand back. Beds will shake or nations will fall. That is why we are so loved, yes? That is why you love me. Admit it...
     His lips pause at yours, kiss halted, and then a dark eyebrow quirks upward slightly. "Certainly," he murmurs there. He closes his eyes. He sees the imagine again. "Oui," he whispers, and then he smiles. "Easily. Hmmm... but if only I had my things, charcoal... a pencil ... something..." William lowers to the bedding again, his eyes taking their time to move over you. "Call a servant," he whispers, "I don't want you leaving my bed." So demanding. How do you live with me...
     I will draw him... easily. Quickly. "Hmm," he breathes against your neck, rolling you in his arms again. "...and have them bring more wine. Maybe the plum liqueur or the pear. You can feed me the fruit and watch me get drunk..."

     So demanding. The world will never really know how much. Ian's brow lifts again, as if to say cheeky bastard, and he scurries to dip below the horizon of the sheets, into the bedding.
     The servant who comes in will be horrified. Maybe.
     "And have them bring a towel, for martyrs' sake," he says half-muffled, "...wet. I hope you didn't think I was just going to put this into my mouth..."

Posted by rowan at June 21, 2003 09:43 PM