I am here...
There it was, a burst upon the blood you share. A surprising feeling, a sudden sound unheard and unfelt for the past several nights. Where he may have been sought, he had retired. Where lust or even jealousy may have welled there was only contemplation. Such a still pool of water was the Plantagenet Mind. Where are the torrent seas and rivers with which you have been long acquainted? Where are the flashes and flames of his Angevin temperment?
You heard the great car approaching, the limousine that brings him from Lyon. Heavy upon the St. George Bridge and pulling into the car port, you heard each tire as it moved against the honeyed Loire limestone.
Even before the door is opened, there is a discovery made against the bond. Of where you are. Of those who might be with you. An announcement of his arrival -- as if the car were not enough. A wondering, even, if you are going to meet him. Or if he will have to come find you and clear out his bedroom. Or his bath. Or his library. Or...
If you choose to miss this show, you will kick yourself afterwards, for there has perhaps never been a more glorious entrance of this being into this castle since both Guillaume and Chinon have known one another. Though the long coat is carried, abandoned and unneeded in Chinon's warmer evening since departing Scotland, the rest of the suit is nothing short of immaculate. Where there was surcoat and mantle, chain and leather before now there is silk, a suit of some rich blue, the flecks of violet within it brought out by the violet of his own eyes and that of the tie and the shirt beneath.
Coat in his hands, and tucked in the coat are the gloves and the cigarettes from his ride, William stands, eyes directing their attention to the rising towers of his home. He stands in this view a moment. It cost him millions to restore it. An early lifetime's wealth. And it was worth it. The blue slate roofs rise to Gothic points above limestone towers. And he, a Lancelot worthy of such a castle.
A small smile grows at Ian's lips, glad to know that you've successfully returned.
There you are, Prince William. Welcome home...
At the car, the usuals greet you, escorting you in, seeing to your every need. The car will be handled, your bags will be handled, and all will be well.
You don't need me down there. I'm inside, waiting...
He's true to his thoughts, Ian is. He let you know his week's emotion: calls to Sidhe, a visit with Gerald. Frustration with them both and then stillness and relaxation with calligraphy and fingerpainting. The floating emptiness and release that comes with swimming. The steaming lust for you, taken on by two others.
That part was unabashed. Ian wanted you to know.
Just like now. He wants you to know that he's thrilled to feel you, thrilled to know you're in Chinon and soon for him and the bed.
He turned down the advances of a woman, eschewed all pubs and clubs. He was true to his penance and to his word. It has been a cloistered week of travel, art and thought. And nothing else. You shared with him the events of your week. And he... he was quiet. There was little shared except for his presence and his love and the energy of the old house on the Royal Mile.
He fed instead from the images gleaned from within, from feelings and thoughts. How strong the connection is -- neither of you require a phone or any other mode of modern communication or connection. Yours, the one you share, is so much greater, faster, personal. When you feel it, he feels it. When you think it, he considers it. And he absorbed it even as he absorbs it now.
Smiles and greetings given to those who come for him, the car, the bags. The words are easy, personable as he tells them about his trip. As he is telling them, he is also telling you.
It is good to be home... The words come in Occitan, native, intimate. You feel them even as you hear him approaching the Logis Royeaux. In a few moments, you expect to hear the door. < You are in the room waiting for me?> There is the warmth of humor and pleasure behind that sentiment.
Hunger. Longing. These are so intertwined. He should have eaten, he thinks of it now, but he will worry about it later. As soon as you feel the stirring of his energy, smoothening and heating the stones of the Logis with his entrance, you simultaneously feel him controlling it.
It is so warm... I am overdressed... even in June, Edinburgh was damp and chilled... ah, I brought you something... As you knew he would. It is in my bag... Wherever that is now.
His steps sound upon the stairs and by now, perhaps, you can hear him breathing. William is quiet. He listens for you. He opens himself to feel you. How and where you are. Thrilled. The corners of his mouth upturn, that mouth spreading in a slow smile, and he approaches the door that leads to your suites.
It is a good thing the master suites are spacious, no? There are four who share it now, not just two. On one side, the library borders the great sitting room, formerly the great hall. On the other side, the bedroom, and beside that yet another apartment. The extra apartment was once used as an extra antechamber and reading room. But it has been converted to be the bedroom of the two chosen Favorites. With the change in their status, additional horse trainers and equestrians have been hired and invested at Chenonceau. Marco and Amadeo have become ... family...
There is no disappointment.
Soon, you will not worry about clothing. And yes, I've been waiting since last evening.
The excitement is real, though even as you enter the chambers, there is no rush from the bedroom. The door remains open to you, just as Ian is. The week was a week. And now it is over. An end to be celebrated appropriately.
There is only us this evening, Will. Just us...and my last drop of scotch from this bottle.
Do not weep for lack of scotch, for I have brought you fresh reinforcements. How could I go home and not bring back the soul of the land with me, bottled as it is? There is the sound of his breath, a relieved exhalation as he enters his private space, the vast sitting room, that once was the great hall of kings. Now, yours and his alone.
The overcoat (the cigarettes, gloves, cell phone and lighter, too) is left behind, lain across one of the chairs, and as he becomes visible in the doorway, in his blues and violets, his hand is already lifting to loosen the tie.
Yes, the tie. It is an entire suit. Dressed and travelling as a modern duke, he is. He loosens it, but he does not remove it. He will leave that to you. William smiles as he enters, as a hand comes out and closes the door behind him.
"Bonsoir," comes the slow pull of that voice. It is coupled with the spreading smile. And within his mouth, canines distend. The air around him feels him, moves for him, parts for him, and he approaches the fountain. One day, I think, we should make it run with wine...
After all this time, I still feel the same.
After all this time, he makes my body leap and my blood hot.
It takes so little. He stands in the doorway, and for an instant, he does not belong to me. He surprises me with his looks and a move of his hand.
A tie pulled. That is all it takes.
I want him to choose me. Choose me, William, and you'll not be disappointed.
It's not a game of bowls or team tag. But that's how I feel. For an instant, I want him, the man who's come into the room, to just choose me.
And then I'll belong somewhere. Maybe to him.
"Bonsoir," Ian says, his look ordinary, save the pyjama bottoms and the wave of his drink. Cheers. "Welcome home," Ian murmurs, fresh from the bath that he is. His hair is mostly dry, though wisps still stick to his skin.
"Trip alright?" he asks, mostly leaving you the opening to speak as you wish. Ian leans against the post of the canopy bed nearest you, finishing off his scotch with a tilt of his head backwards.
That is all I wanted. Welcome home. There is nothing better than being welcomed back after a time away. A day. A week. A month. A year. A simple statement that, for him, reaches across centuries and touches each incarnation of himself from this most modern to that most ancient.
William pauses at the bedpost, a hand resting at your side in that firm gentleness, that certain possession. Each time he touches you, you are chosen. And you are again now. He smells of cinnamon -- you know where he places it -- as he leans in, his shadow moving over you, a separate touch. A kiss is left behind upon your forehead, where he smiles. "Good, short." There is much to talk about, maybe later.
Something important. Something secret. There is still that nugget of information that he does not relinquish, but you know it is there. "So... penance complete..." And he grins, the smile living in violet in his eyes, brows sweeping upward. His free hand lifts again, tugging at the tie. "I think you should help me get out of all of this before I melt, mais oui."
He chooses you...
Do you doubt it with that look? That look that drinks you in, that makes canines distend, cinnamon lift at his skin from the rise of heat wherever it was placed. Do you see there that he asks the same question...
Choose me...
Of all of those that you could have. Of all of those who want you. Let it be me, again. Let it be me.
I will not mistreat you...
I will not damage you...
I will treat you as the golden gift you are...
"In a minute," Ian grins, glass tossed to the bed behind him. Watching you so finely dressed is nothing to let slip away. Once his hand is free, Ian slides his arms around your shoulders, one hand pulling the tie, yes, but drawing you toward his mouth instead.
And so we choose each other again, as we have a million times. I never tire of it, letting you know that you are where I place my hopes and dreams.
"Penance done," Ian whispers, his tongue leading his mouth to yours once more.
The bed has never been so full...
In his absence (even in his presence), the other two men fill your senses, their blood runs easily at your mouth and tongue like the juice of pregnant grapes. But even as some nights have become more shared, more public, when privacy reigns, when it is just you and he, privacy and intimacy never felt so true, so complete. An interesting side effect. When you come to him now, when you and he are alone, there is no one who can penetrate that privacy. No thought but you, he, this.
When choices are made, there is really no choice. There is no one but you for me. And for you, there is no one but me. "I will repeat the prayers," he says at your lips. He grins there between his words, between the pulling of his mouth at your mouth, the kisses that are immediate and full, and interrupted. "...against your skin..." When you were with them, I had to resort to prayer, amours. Me! I touched no one. I drank from no one. I left them both here for you. You enjoyed them. It was in my brain and in my blood. The sight. The smell. The feel. I had all of it memorized.
It is all in the kiss. The explosion his body and soul could not find. It is all in the suckling of his mouth at your bottom lip, the tease of fangs. The sound that rises from his throat, his gut, points lower.
The Occitan is a audible seduction. Where it is whispered, there is fire. It is a miracle and a wonder that any of the troubadours bothered to dress. Or William, for that matter. William smiles at your mouth, kiss broken and in it lust controlled (though not tempered). "I wore this for you. Each part of it worn was worn with the thought of you removing it. There is nothing here that was not put here for you..."
He knew that, without you telling him. Ian pulls away to look at the suit, made by the finest tailors shared by you. Fingers touch the cloth, recalling a time when he wondered how you should look in such a thing. The indigo of your eyes and the blue of the silk. Ian smiles to think of it, and the man beneath the cloth. That man, who Ian once thought was owned by the world, is now hidden to all save him.
Ian's eyes seem to flicker as they stare, anticipating what awaits. Fingers finally leave its delicate touches to unbutton the vest. Panels, like the coat, are left open. "They only had so much of me this week," Ian explains. You are the last to know him fully. "I was preoccupied," he confesses, cool air soon at the chest beneath slipping silk shirt.
He makes no move to help you, no assistance to be given. None required. And none requested. He leans against the bedpost, a portion of his weight given to the bed he designed. William watches you as you unwrap that which belongs to you. Only to you. The two that share your bed share him only so far as you wish them to, and not half as well or fully as you.
Cinnamon lifts at the parting of the silk, inspired by the body heat encased in the silk and by the breeze now moving against him. Soothing, that coolness. But in truth it is barely felt. The heat of summer, and of old blood, are more powerful.
Beneath the silk is a physique created by steel and iron, the blatant virility of your husband's form. Open to you, yours to have. Silk is a better companion than the leather he once wore. The deception of silk in its smooth lines concealing such strength makes the appearance of his form all the more powerful. It does not need the leather to accentuate it. Hidden, it waits for your hands to make it known.
"I enjoyed it nonetheless," William murmurs. It has been a busy week for us both. But... we can discuss that later. "I wanted to be here. I wanted it to be me. You drank them... I drank scotch..." Which is as close to You as he can drink while being away. That mouth. That mouth spreads in a smile, the corners upturning slightly before smoothening. "I bought you a bottle... dated 1780..." Maybe we will drink it ... tonight...
The tailored silk trousers add smooth lines to a tall and a large form. Eyes lowered to watch your hands lift to your face as eyebrows lift, and soft laughter lingers in his gut and in his chest.
1780?
Momentary distraction.
Three layers of silk part at Ian's gentle fingers. Edges brush your chest and his hands as he slips his fingers lower to find your belt.
1780. Really?
Ian smirks, knowing that you've caught him. Maybe the distraction isn't so momentary.
Despite his thoughts of aged Scotch, literally, the belt jingles in the bedroom's quiet, followed by the tear of a zipper's teeth.
Oui... it cost a fortune.. The very idea tickles him. ...Don't stop... And he exhales when you do not, closing his eyes momentarily. He cannot help it. Blood rushes and his eyes close at it. At the intensity. At the need to brace himself. The world snaps suddenly into focus, balanced at the crown of his cock. It thickens visibly past the silk and scotch, no matter the age, couldn't be further from his mind. And you can see the cinnamon oil. You know it heats the skin. Smoothed over the crown, he has been on fire since leaving Scotland.
Some things never change...
At this moment, he couldn't rub two thoughts together. You've lost him. You've caught him. You have him. You know what it would take to bring his consciousnes forward -- the snapping of your fingers, or the grasp of your hand around the root of him.
Across the bond you share, across that invisible cord that binds you together, solar plexus to solar plexus, blood to blood and soul to soul, there are the images of you on him, in this bed, thinking forward by a handful of moments, thinking of you straddling him.
It is the best way really. You control the ardor. You control the intensity. The assertion is all yours. And it is how he likes you. It is how he likes this. To be within you, buried to your heart, but to see you above him. To be able to hold you, watch you. To claim you. It is the best of both worlds...
"I need to feel you around me... end my penance, Ian..." He lets you come to him. You need to come to him. He remains open for you to take... you need to take him. That is how the power of this is balanced, how his power is balanced. William bends to kiss you. His mouth moves over your mouth, a brushing, a quick clasping. With an exhale, he devours you, mouth claiming, wide. And you taste the cinnamon he placed on his tongue. The hum of it hums against your own.
I thought it would be slower. Slower, Will...slow...
Ian's fingers do search within the folds of your silk suit, seeking to grasp and hold what they know.
I swore to be slow...
Ian sighs softly when his hands encircle the cinnamon-touched crown. Nothing's changed. Like a glove, his fingers crawl lower, his arms disappearing within the folds of darkness.
We want the same thing, don't we, William? Still?
Slow... slow...
The kiss parts at the thought, at the suggestion. He tips back his head, his head meeting the bedpost -- not as softly as he intended -- and he closes his eyes again. Breathe... breathe.... You hear him talking to himself.
It is several moments after he feels your words, your thoughts, your meaning, that he opens his eyes. Control resumed, his eyes trail their way from your face to your lips, to where your hand reaches in. Yes, we want the same things. We are going in the same direction... your hand feels so good, amazing...Dieu what you are doing to me. You are worried, amours... why do you wonder this...
Slow.... William... slow...
He can't help but think of you, of how he would like you. The images slip between the moments of the running conversation. He answers you. Then he thinks about you tasting the cinnamon from his skin. He listens to you. Then he thinks of covering his length in that oil and sliding it into you. He considers what you say, what you do not say, he waits for you to answer him. And he can already hear the springs of the bed in action, his eyes already aching for the sight of the golden prize being his, on his lap, belonging to him.
The images are shared. And while Ian's mind speaks of slowing down, and your breathing encourages the same, he's far more eager. The scenes of you and he flash between you, and divination of the future becomes the present. Forcing the possible into the now.
"Will," Ian utters, his hands stroking faster. He's been waiting since last night, but now, your own thoughts exacerbate the situation.
Now, now! I'm ready now! No, no, slow...no, now...yes, that's it. That...
That image of him and you, William, in your mind's eye.
Do you remember in America, how it was with us? Everything was immediate. I had to have you now, a drink now, a smoke now, fuck everything in sight and play with my food. Remember when you had to teach me patience, even as little as four years ago? The golf, the torment... oh you would make me wait... you would get me so lathered and then you would stand and go in the other room. I would almost frenzy the next time I found myself on you.
Everything then was Now...
Now, the torment is shared, images flipping back and forth, we are already in motion in the future, I am already within you. You are already calling my name. We find patience by fucking in the future.
Now we can wait... but... why, amours...
He groans your name as he pulls himself from you, he takes your hands and he leads you to him. To the bed. You feel his pulse against your stomach as he presses to you, presses you against the edge of the bed, his hands freeing yours, slipping between you to untie the pajama bottoms. Now... comes the thud of him against you in time to the pulse of his length against your skin. Now...
His hands land against your hips, those claiming hands, possessing you, lifting you up. Your pants are removed in the motion of his lift, of your placement on the bed you share, the bed he made for you to share. And William shrugs out of his jacket, the vest, the shirt. Silk piles upon the floor, a heap of blue and violet, shimmering.
Indigo smolders, eyes fastening their attention on your face, your mouth, your body. And he smiles. That mouth. Even though it is not suckling on your skin, when it moves in his smile it is as palpable as a stroke, as if it were surrounding you already. He thinks about it. He wants it. Indigo fixing between your thighs.
The bed sounds with joined weight. He leaves his pants, socks and shoes behind. It is a mess. Clothes everywhere. Tie at the bedpost. Shirt and the rest at the foot of the bed. Shoes kicked away, socks peeled off with dexterous toes.
He thinks about it in the future. He makes it manifest in the present. In this way, you both are prophets. His mouth surrounds you, it engulfs in sudden warmth then pulls as suddenly away, his mouth ending at your own. ...Slow...
Slow...
The kiss is slow... that's a start...
A drink to an alcoholic. Dying men have it so much easier.
Eyes bright and lips parted, Ian lies beneath open to every whim. His breathing is elevated and his skin is warm wherever touched. Reaching up with his hand, fingers touch your cheek.
Is a week so long?
Along your thighs, William, his knees rise, sending an unmistakable message. The hand at your cheek beckons you downward, even as the rest of him rises to meet you. Ian's hand at your side holds to the muscles there, massaging firmly.
A week is a blink of an eye...
But in the evenings you have had, beginning in Scotland in the spring and throughout the summer to this point, there has been scarcely a night without you, without the 'Ragazzi Bei', without some combination of you and Them and him. A week after such could seem interminable...
Interminable...
Had he taken care of the hunger, the natural hunger that would rise after the passing of seven full nights, perhaps this would not seem so desperate. Ah, or would it even matter? For when he touches you, the universe peels away and he can think of nothing else. It has always been that way. It has only become moreso in the last several years.
In the last several months...
William stills, suddenly. He turns his head into your hand, his mouth parting at the center of your palm. He smiles there. A week is ten-thousand seconds. It sounds long to me... Deep and soft, his laughter echoes at your hand and finally, finally he moves to the request of your hand. Downward.
Down...
How many times has his mouth surrounded you in the last 830 years? Do numbers even go that high? At this point, would it resemble pi?
Do the calculations...
A week has more than ten-thousand seconds, comprising nearly one-hundred and seventy hours...
It is more than the blink of an eye...
The more aware of the young men will understand what is happening in the master's rooms. They instictively understand what happens to men who are parted. There is energy and need that cannot be denied. There is lust that can never be truly controlled.
In some ways, it's the cross of all males. To bear their own insatiable appetites.
Ian's knees relax, falling away from the lock they were about to create. He closes his eyes, brow knitting with the expectation of your lips.
It was 1780, though...
He grins at his thought, bringing his kissed palm to his mouth. Ian places a kiss of his own upon yours, then rests his hand at your shoulder.
In the neighboring chamber, two bodies have been at rest for some time. Closeness guarded as secretly on the other side of the door as this side. They are in a marriage now, they understand it. They understand the triplicity of it. That their other partner belongs to another. But... that he is still, in some part, truly their own. It is different when it is only the three of them.
Marco's eyes open at the sound, the rise and fall of voices, the squeak of the bed. He expects to hear it against the wall again. Smiling, he bends, murmuring this to Amadeo. They chuckle. They speak softly of you, Ian. Each speaking love for you. And a hand disappears beneath the sheet...
Do you hear them?
The bed sounds as you are lifted, his hands scooping you up, scooping you into his mouth. He rolls until his shoulders and back are flat against the bed, with you above him. Gravity makes you sink into his mouth, lips folding and tongue folding around you. William spreads you, hands clasped at the rounds of your rear.
1780... you do not want to know how much money I spent...
William tilts his head and tilts your hips in his grasp, his mouth slipping from your length to parted flesh. He exhales, his breath moving against your orbs as his tongue swirls within you. He lifts his hands, the great paws on your hips, bracing you.
In the next room, there is the sound of voices stirring, the stirring sound of a moan. There is even the sound of your name.
"Do you hear them?"
Ian smiles at nothing in particular. He looks down and along the length of his body to see you, the smile falling away.
For now, the bed sounds nothing like it will later; later speeds by with each passing instant.
How much did you spend? And can we have some now...
"In a bit," Ian whispers to himself, finishing his own thought.
Do you want the scotch or do you want this? My mouth, here. I hold you to my mouth, you are sitting on my face and you are thinking about scotch? Distracted, his mouth pulls away, he looks up at you, bemused indigo eyes between your straddled thighs. A black eyebrow lifts. "1780 ...Ferintosh... how much do you think I spent?" the Occitan rolls from his tongue, thick and slow. Honey and fire. Its syllables are so precise; its vowels so lazy.
Can you feel it? The summoning done. A servant called. The scotch shall soon be on its way. The air hums, at your skin where he touches you. Eyes trace up your form, dark and bright, then you lose sight of them as he dips between your thighs again, his tongue spreading you from within.
"Who?" he murmurs there, the murmur easing into a groan, slipping into the sound of his mouth...slipping...
And down the hall, footsteps are approaching...
And in the neighboring room, a bed has begun to move...
The servant down the hall...
Or the Italians in the bed...
"Ach," Ian laments.
Stop, stop. I'm done. Blessed scotch. It's your fault...
Ian looks down again, brow arched. "You blew it," he says, straight-faced. No joke in that for him. But he smiles It's alright.. and begins to roll over, onto his side.
"Fucking marvelous," he breathes, that in English. So unusual that sound, that language from his lips. But then, visiting the Island does have an effect on him. With that language, one might think he paid a visit to Llywelyn or Meurelle instead of Jezebel...
An arm comes up and covers his head. No, it's not alright. That energy. That energy that has had no place to go, no place to release, welling and stirring for seven days and now risen, will have to find... another expression. Flesh adjusts and deflates much more easily than the blood that drives it.
I will have to learn Marco's secret...me... having to take lessons... There is an exhalation and William sits up. Well, for all of this, he may as well be dressed when the servant enters. Steps down the hall give the approaching servant away. No clothes nearby, William opts for the bed, form disappearing between sheets, head disappearing beneath a pillow.
The door to the sitting room opens...
The bed in the neighboring room does not slow, does not quiet just because yours did. They will wonder about it later, of course. How silent it was in your chamber. It was the last thing they would have expected...
"Oh, come now," Ian says softly, rather excited about the scotch. Visions of dancing shot glasses float in his head. He grins, knowing that welled energy must be released. Just later. "I'm sorry, laird," Ian says in Gaelic, preparing for the taste of home. "I'll make it up to you in a while..."
"Where'd you get it? The single, I mean..."
He'll have to be talked into it later, coaxed, humored. For now, he contents himself with the darkness beneath the goose down. There is a grunt for the apology. You know the routine. Sexual tension can so quickly turn to annoyance. The squeaking of the bed next door is like a slap in the face suddenly. William lifts his head, pillow coming with it, and he peers at the wall, as if it will lunge out of his way and wave at the young Italians to stop.
The servant enters, not just any servant but the lead valet, Eros Foury. Handsome, he is the older of the valets, in his 30s. Dark haired, brown eyed, tall. He is not stiff like your English staff, even your Scottish staff. There is a southern breeziness about him, "Yes, sirs..." he says, his Occitan -- the modern revival version -- is exquisite. And he waits, in his white linen shirt and his dark blue pants.
"Ah, Eros," a relief that, William half rolls, half sitting up, dark eyes settling on his faithful attendant. "... it is good to see you..."
"...and you, sir..." his eyes are expectant...
"My bag... there is a bottle inside. Please bring it and two glasses...thank you..."
"Certainly," Eros says and he tilts his head. The deference is of an easy, casual sort. The respect is natural, not an air put on, a role worn. It is true. He returns to the sitting room. There is the sound of him opening a bag.
A moment more passes, he realizes there was a question unanswered. William settles back down with an exhale and begins lording the bed from beneath the covers, legs stretching, toes curling, muscles given something else to do. "You know it... the old spirits shoppe... up near the castle. The one Burns used to loiter around..."
"He has such a good name," Ian says, rather cheered now. He tries not to gloat at the situation; he does love getting his way. The bed creaks as he sits up against pillows and headboard, drawing the heavy bedding up discreetly around his waist.
"By the castle, eh?" Ian nudges, elbow into your arm. Come on, it's not so horrible. Just enjoy it. Listen to the boys. Aren't they marvelous...
"How was Genevieve?" Ian wonders idly. He always uses her real name, and she never has minded it...
I don't want to listen to the boys. They're not that fucking marvelous... No, he would rather be doing, not listening to others doing. Not after a week of doing nothing. May as well have been two months. You were here with them, no penance for you. I suppose it might not matter as much.
You know his energy. When it has no other place to go, it turns inward. Hurricane William. That much has not changed.
"Eros is a good man... from Chinon..." That subject seems to mollify him a little. Not enough for him not to lean over the bed and start reaching for a shoe to throw at the other wall, however.
Eros enters bearing the old bottle in one hand, two glasses in the other. "Shall I open and ...." a look to William, what are you doing? "...and pour, sir?" he turns to you, Ian, eyes wondering, glancing over to William.
In the next room, there is a rise of voices, a clamor of bed moving, but it does not signal the end. Marco is just getting into his rhythm. He has that in common with your husband.
And Eros is good. He does his best to ignore it.
"Genevieve was fine," William notes simply. "She looked wonderful. Victoria was visiting as well..."
"Pour," Ian affirms for Eros, "...thank you. So, she was fine. And Victoria continuing on her Scottish tour. I wonder why she stays, since we're not there?" No venturing to the continent. "One day, she will not be so American..."
Hope springs eternal.
Ian grins at the rising voices, rather delighted to hear the sounds. He enjoys them. "You had time to find scotch. I thank you for it." Especially when I begin the drinking of it. "Nothing else in the City? Did you have a court audience?"
Bullheadedness. Was this among the attributes you love in him, which you described to him so beautifully as he carried you to the bath? Yes? No? No? Hmmm. Pity. He's fully bully now.
Leaving thoughts of hurtling shoes behind -- what would happen if I accidentally hit the ten thousand dollar bottle and wasted what will likely be the only enjoyment in this room tonight -- William lies back, arms and legs spreading, covering territory. Attempting not to frown.
A hand covers his face, fingers rub at his eyes, his nose then falls back away. A slow, rolling face-palm. "You're welcome."
Eros does indeed pour, his expression placid. He is doing his best not to listen, in that way that servants have, though they hear everything. He pours three fingers' worth in each glass and he caps it again.
The scent is strong. Ancient. Your land in a glass. It is there, smoothened by time like a stone worn smooth by the torrent of a highland river.
"Will there be anything else, sirs?" Eros asks.
The voices in the other room swirl around one another, around the squeaking bed. With the gift of your hearing, you can even hear the sound of flesh meeting flesh.
William closes his eyes and he breathes. For a time he says nothing -- it's just as well. "Genevieve is fine. Thrilled with the boy and his basket," the recently revived Caravaggio. "She has another painting she would like me to restore. I have tentatively agreed. It will mean I remain in Chinon for a year." A pause. "Apart from a short vacation to Scotland. You do not have to stay if you do not want to. You can take Oh God and Harder in the next room if you want," the languid drawl curves sardonic over the words. "And... yes... I was surprised to see Victoria. I did not know she was in Scotland. I must have missed that bit of news. It makes me wonder if she is getting bored in New Port, in particular, and America, in general." A pause. "Or in Ui..."
"Nothing, Eros, thank you. Just leave the bottle nearby," Ian says, rather keen on having it at his side.
"Good that she liked the work," Ian seamlessly moves on, "...but...you have to stay in Chinon a year? For another project?" That is curious. Said as if it's a done deal. "Alright," Ian shrugs, wondering how that all transpired. He's not sure whether he should follow in or not on that topic. You seem to have enough trauma for now.
"Here," Ian smiles, turning to offer you a glass. "You should enjoy the fruit of your purchase." There's a glance to the wall, but then Ian returns his attention to you, twirling his glass beneath his nose. "Oh, you do have a talent for finding bliss in a bottle, laird."
"Slainte," Ian whispers. "The past come to life again. Do you remember what you were doing in 1780..." Ian teases with a smile, tipping his glass and closing his eyes to take a whiff of memories.
Eros nods his head to you both and turns in departure...
"Nothing good and nothing half so pure as this," comes the leonine rumble. "Slainte," he murmurs. He sits up a little, glass in hand. The scotch is inhaled, held, not yet tasted. "In 1780, I was up to my ass in duels, as I recall. Duels and drinking. Those were the days." He closes his eyes, he inhales again. This time, the drawn breath is held, exhaled across the scotch as it is sipped.
Smooth fire. A delicacy of flavor like the triple folding of a damascan steel sword. Refined. Worth hundreds of dollars per sip. Truly.
"The only facilities I have for the type of work that will need to be done is downstairs," in the locked and protected vaults. "And it is not a work that can see the light of day." Still, you get no images. Nothing more than this. This, he realizes is probably too much. But he has to tell you something.
William settles back on the pillows, glancing toward the room as someone is climaxing -- ah, Amadeo -- and Marco will likely not be too far behind. The annoyance and disappointment are fading, the... energy crystallizing into a more pure form, libido, eros. Pure and simple, as fiery as the drink and more ancient. William exhales again. "I have expressed my interest. I have noted the necessary fee, but nothing more." Though you can feel it. It is not something he feels he can turn down. "She has a way of tempting me with things I cannot possibly turn down. It is the only way to flirt with me, perhaps, now that I keep the exclusive company of men..."
And there it is, Marco's groan, the wild shuttling of the bed. And then stillness.
"Finally, some peace and quiet," William rumbles. He takes another sip and then reaches out, setting his glass upon his beside table. "I'm being such an ass," he smirks and he settles back. Enough of the scotch for now. He lies back then turns, stomach given to the fine linen, face to the pillow. "It's like 1780... all over again..."
"Is it?" Ian asks, brow arching for the other room too. He sighs. "Too fast. It is almost like listening to symphony." Background noise. Oh well.
"I remember 1780. I recall sending monies to France to fight in the Americas. I remember avoiding France, as there was political movement in the country." He smiles. "And duels and lavish courts."
"I remember us in Vienna." At one point. A wonderful few weeks.
Ian closes his eyes to take a taste. The power of it shows in the furrowed brow of surprise and joy. A relaxing of his eyelids.
"I remember how we dressed. How fine everything was. The elegant demise of egregious living," he smiles in the recollection. "As if it would stay so beautiful and dangerous forever..."
"...and young men dressed in silks and brocade..."
"...girls tied and pinned, desperate for any moment to be free of it all..."
"And we all indulged in each other, hoping it would last, but knowing that the end was near..."
"Were I drunk, I could quote Shakespeare for that." A pause. "I will need more scotch." More scotch in his mood? Probably not recommended. It makes him moody, fitful. He needs no help with that tonight. Still, William cradles the scotch to himself. A reach of his hand, a pluck, and he pulls it in, lifting his head and letting the liquid roll down his tongue. From tongue to throat to blood.
"It is amazing how easily all those pins and bows, bodice and chemise, could be undone," he murmurs in his pillow. The bed squeaks, not with love making -- as it bloody well ought to be -- but with the shifting of his glass from one hand, beneath him, to his hand closest to you. He holds the glass out for a refill. "I was dashing then. A pain in the ass to live with, but then... has that really changed, amours?" A snort. "Dashing... deadly... I put on the rebel's mask then... I became the rake of popular literature. And in 1790, I took back my title and took back Chinon. Amazing the benefits gained from someone else's beheading..."
One crop of royalty and nobles killed, another comes along and takes the spoils of a revolution. "Everyone was at war. Everyone was an enemy. It was dangerous. It was beautiful. It was brash. And so were we..."
"We were...something..." Ian smiles, twisting to grab the bottle. As one hand holds his own drink, Ian places the scotch between his lips, pulling the cork out with a pull. He spits the cork out next to himself and commences with pouring you a fresh glass.
"We shouldn't dwell on it," Ian decides to counter, glancing over at the room again. He's disappointed. Maybe they'll start anew soon. "Too many died," he remembers, nodding as his brows arch.
Well, disappointment is at least shared. Though for different reasons. "Hmmm... it was what it was, when it was," William finishes. The bed squeaks again as he masterfully guides his scotch from one hand to the other, and then lastly to his mouth. All without sitting up. A little lift, a redistribution of his heft. The strong back and shoulders is the view you have.
"Nice glass... money well spent," he murmurs. "Robert Burns would weep to see it." William lifts a little, head tipping and he again lets the liquid roll over his tongue, down his throat, to his blood. It is potent. He will begin to feel it by the bottom of the next glass.
In truth, it is already affecting him. He is quiet, the energy roiling unspoken. He drinks again, and he closes his eyes, the glass cradled to him beneath the sheet. He is frustrated, doubly. Frustrated and blunted from his first and desired aim. Frustrated that he is no longer in the mood to correct it.
In the room, there are soft voices again. Can you hear what they are talking about? What is all the talking going on in the other room (yours). Surprise that there is no other noise. Marco is thinking of coming in. Maybe you would like to join them.
Oh, you are sullen. He'd blame the scotch, but Ian knows better. The bed creaks again, and this time, cool air wafts beneath a fluttering sheet. Weight shifted and skin touches yours. Ian sits upon you in a straddle, though you're face down, and leans to set the bottle on the floor beside the bed.
"Money very well spent," Ian whispers, both of his hands at your shoulder. With a lean forward, he begins a massage. "I congratulate you again on your taste and smart eye," Ian adds softly, putting his body into the massage. With each squeeze and pull of his hands, his hips roll and heave, riding the man beneath him.
"Are you going to be like this all night? Maybe I should cork the scotch."
"I thought you would like it," he murmurs. "I would not have forgiven myself for walking away from it. I saw it, I plucked it..." There is a sound, low, leonine. It could qualify as a purr, if lions could be said to purr. He lifts his head, tipping it for a last drink. Two glasses down. His left hand reaches out, depositing the glass on his side table.
"Like what?" William turns his head, glancing over a shoulder, lifting an eyebrow. Disappointed that you'd rather listen to them in the next room than be interested in my mouth buried between your thighs?
Quick to temper and jealousy. You did mention the fact you loved that...
Didn't you?
William stretches out beneath your hands, tight muscles barely loosening. The tension at hips and thighs does not loosen. His back and shoulders become steadily more malleable. "I should not have anymore scotch." A moment of self-awareness. "Besides... I bought it for you. You should have the lion's share, non?"
"I don't need the lion's share...when I have the lion," Ian purrs, leaning to place a kiss between your shoulder blades. "I have had my tempting and tantalizing scotch, and now I'm ready for something else." His hands move firmly, as does his groin at your rear.
"I'm sorry for being distracted. I'm sorry that you were ready and I got momentarily blindsided. Forgive, laird?"
The arm reaches back, the hand landing squarely at your hip. "Hmm... aye...forgiven..." he murmurs. His hand squeezes then moves away, folding beneath the pillow. But now... he is too sullen. It will take more to coax him out of it than a massage.
Though he's not wanting you to stop the massage...
"The lion likes to hear it," he murmurs. Keep going... There may be something of a glimmer of a smile forming. No more scotch for him!
In the other room, there is the sound of footsteps. Maybe one of them heading to the restroom down the hall...? Another sound, Amadeo rising from the bed, approaching the door that adjoins the two chambers.
"It is no problem," William murmurs again, face still in the pillow. "We should not force it simply because I have been waiting. So what. Seven days. This is nothing. Do not worry. I will sleep. Tomorrow will be a new night..."
Ian can live with that, but realizes the general letdown. "Maybe we should ban scotch from the house...it distracts me and makes you melancholic, hmm? That way, neither of us can feel its effects."
A pause and twist. The ragazzi are moving. Hmm. "It is still early, you know," Ian reminds. "As with anything in our bed, things can change in a blink." Don't give up on me yet.
"Non... non... maybe instead you should teach me how to drink it properly." To overcome the chemistry that leads him into sullen thoughts, dispondency and melancholy. Why does it not set him on fire like brandy? Or, god forbid, Flagrante? He never rails as hard, cries as frequently, rumbles as grouchily or growls as lionly as after a glass or two of scotch.
But... he is Ventrue. There must be a way to control that... non?
He hears the Ragazzi Bei moving. His brows knit, eyes narrowing slightly in question. Did you call them? He looks from the door to you. This is true. But what is also true is once he is headed in one direction, he cannot simply switch gears and head in another. He does nothing half way. He is passionate all the way. He is sullen all the way. But maybe he can be led. Maybe, slowly... convinced that he is in the mood...
"Maybe it's easier for me...as it reminds me of home and myself. I can't get despondent about that," Ian smiles. He sighs, letting his weight settle fully on your rear. He continues to massage, quiet for a moment.
"Want to...take a swim? Or," a grin you cannot see, "...perhaps we need a jump start." The two in motion nearby.
The Ragazzi Bei... with one another? He is not sure. Do you want them... or are you suggesting we watch them to get back to where we were... The bed shifts as his legs move, as he moves beneath you, twisting, turning to look at you. He glances to the door as there is a soft knock...
They always knock...
You can feel the dilemma. He is balking at the idea that he needs to be jumpstarted. That... that he does not like. Yet, watching them might snap him out of the funk he finds himself in. Divided, he stares at you, the door then settles back down. "Entri, Amadeo..."
Amadeo peeks in, dark room to dark room. He smells of wine and Marco, sweat and oranges. "E calmo dentro qui," Amadeo murmurs, he wonders. Behind him, the sound of Marco returning, pausing. Oh, we are going in? Aegean eyes look between you both, and he smiles softly. He turns his head briefly, looking to Marco coming up behind him.
It is quiet in here. That's an understatement. William snorts to that and reaches back, hand landing on your thigh. "Venuto alla base, Amadeo..." Come to the bed.
Amadeo glances back to Marco, "Venuto..."
Amadeo's hand comes to your hip. You are kissed 'hello'. But observant Amadeo (and Marco, too. Both men of quick study and quick eye) looks to William, between the sheets he moves to embrace your husband's form. "Viaggio lungo?" he softly asks. He smiles, hand tracing along William's back, he looks to you. "Ho pensato sentire spezzarsi del soffitto e della parete," and he softly laughs, lying back, head resting on William's shoulder.
And Marco's hands land on your hips, his mouth against your shoulder. "Buona sera, signore bello," he says to you. He smiles at your skin. He looks to William. "Che cosa e errato?" a teasing tone, a nudge. "Perche non siete nel movimento?" Marco wonders, and he moves the bed in demonstration. Such a motion, Ian. Both you and William can feel it. Marco against the rounds of you, you against your husband's rear in the motion. Marco chuckles, he stops moving, but his mouth opens at your nape.
Now, you know your husband. And as you know him, there are two possible scenarios. One, that he will laugh, or roll his eyes, and take the humor with humor. Two, that the boys will wish that they had not been born.
And you can feel that there is some internal debate on which natural instinct to follow. It goes along with the teeter-totter of his own mood tonight.
In the end, William chooses to say nothing. But he does move...
In his half twist you are rolled into Marco's arms and Amadeo is covered with half of a Plantagenet. A heavy half. Though he is by no means lithe, he has not the build of your husband. Ooof. That means the same thing in every language.
Half-twisted to lie upon his shoulders, his head using Amadeo like a cushion, William looks at you, Ian. And the arms surrounding you.
Yes... maybe I will watch...
Good questions all. Ian smiles at the pair, then looks over at you at the bottom of the growing pile. Marco now lords over all and Ian's gaze goes to him.
"He is sick," Ian using the old term. Not of the body, but of the heart and spirit. "His body says one thing, but his emotion says another. I..." admission here, "...seemed to have...turned Prince William...off."
Amazing thing, that.
"Maybe you both could convince him otherwise?"
That gets a look from both of them. He has an 'off' switch?
Amadeo looks from Marco and Ian to William. "It is true, your body says only one thing," he switches to French, and his French is as fluent, and as lovely, as his native Italian. His arms go around William's shoulder and he curls against your husband, his current position much better for that sort of thing. "But it cannot be because of you," Amadeo says, eyes going to you. Eyes fill with gold, with fire. "Who could look at you and not want you? It is something else," Amadeo shakes his head and looks to William.
You feel it. There is a competition. Two dominant males in the same bed. The explosions, primal, sexual -- they singe the air between Marco and William. Roiling energy that combats with itself. The tension is incredible. The pleasure that occurs between the tug and pull of it, amazing. You and Amadeo are the beneficiaries. "If he doesn't feel like it," Marco says against your ear, "... he doesn't feel like it..." Not that Marco himself could comprehend that. Not of himself. Not of William.
Goading will not be successful.
William lifts an eyebrow to everything that is said, having said nothing since the arrival of the Ragazzi Bei. They marvel at his silence. But you do not need to. It is not you... He is so .. so...
Stubborn...
It must be a personality trait, something he cannot change. Where is the king's crown tonight? Why is he not taking up the sceptre? Is it the dousing of his fire by the cold water of 1780 scotch?
William exhales, mightily, and the King spreads out beneath you all. "There is too much talking," comes the languid roll of French moderne. "How am I to be entertained if all of your mouths are open... and empty..." Leonine, the roll of his voice, a grumble and he lies heavily on the bed beneath you all.
You know... you could kiss me... Why do I need to do anything but lay here? Should I not be as attended as you when I am away? With me, everyone gathers and ... talks. Christ. I'm not the pope.
Marco chuckles, his arms pulling at you Ian. He wants you. See, he wants you to want me. See? He wants our mouths to be busy. Let us give him what he wants. What I want...
Amadeo's laughter is softer, something more tender. He bends his head at the quiet suggestion, not heard but felt. And that mouth is irresistible. Amadeo does not need a suggestion. His mouth brushes and pulls at William's. "That is more like it," the rumble and roar they are more accustomed to.
Well, you do have a point. You do inspire talking as well as other things. Strange...
Ian hadn't quite noticed that before.
Ian smiles at Marco, sitting up to receive the kiss. Arms gently rest on Marco's shoulders, and soon voices are exchanged for other sounds.
Now, he is upset...
Talking... I inspire... talking. And Marco inspires.... what? I am between your thighs and we're ...talking ... he's at your back and it's like the second coming of Cassanova...
The energy has to have somewhere to go...
It has sat for a week, turning in on itself, fed by long distance conversations and the sharing of your nights full of Marco and Amadeo. He fed on it and it alone. No blood. No release for himself. Nothing but absorption. And he arrived home... full of it all... and frustrated.
That frustration has grown...
And now, he is painted in a corner. That is never a good place for him to be...
What is it then... what makes the difference...why do we need them in here... to jumpstart me.... ? Since when do I need the help of children?
The kiss that Amadeo tempted embroils him in full. It surprises him. It immediately inflames him. But then it is taken away. That mouth is taken away. I don't want his mouth... I want yours... I didn't wait and starve myself so I could kiss Amadeo... You go to Marco so easily. Why is coming to me so difficult?
"Alright," Ian says softly, pulling away from Marco. No, no, this isn't how it's supposed to go either. Ian lowers his hold on Marco's shoulders, twisting to see you.
"I think...William and I need to be alone for a few minutes," Ian adds, moving from his present position to a clear spot on the bed.
Misunderstanding. I think you misunderstand...
There is silence from Ian as he waits for the pair to make their move. His hand reaches for his robe that rests at the foot of the bed.
The first move they make is to being shocked. Amadeo pauses before the start of another kiss. He turns his head and looks to Ian. Marco looks momentarily befuddled but he reads the energy around him and he bows his head. "Signori...Sono spiacente che... andremo... Se ci avete bisogno, richieda noi." His hands are empty now, inspired, he must fill them again. He leans in toward Amadeo. "Venuto con me, il mio amore. La coppia ha bisogno di un momento a se stesso."
That command in him. It is no wonder you like Marco. Where is that command in William tonight? Why will he not say what he wants? Is he confused.
The Ragazzi Bei leave the bed. The bed makes its only true squeak of the evening and Marco leads Amadeo back to their chamber, murmuring to him. "Sul salotto del chaise... Desidero guardarlo guidarlo..."
Posted by rowan at August 03, 2003 02:49 PM
