He'd closed his eyes when the rains came. Ian had turned his head at the sound, his cheek pressing against his pillow. An overnight storm, frought with the promises of fall's coming harvests. His hand idly stroked the back of the man lying across him, a swirl of jet black hair breaking the white of the sheet at Ian's chest. Ian lifted his other arm and placed it beneath his head.
The storm came from nowhere, in truth. Some vintners will cry in the morning, fearing the worst done to their grapes. This is not the most ideal time of year for heavy water. Perhaps the drops will roll away on the baked soil, helplessly wending to the Vienne.
Ian didn't need to see the fulminating clouds to know of the storm's arrival. When the Logis Royeaux sounded with the pelting drops, he smiled at you above him and encouraged you on. Waves coincided, and the bedroom quieted before the rains did outdoors.
Ian's eyes open and he is greeted by the open bed drape and the external wall that shields you from the elements. His hand still remains at your back, and his other hand touches the headboard above him. Strangely enough, for a moment, he thought he was in Scotland, hearing the noise outdoors. But he smiles, remembering that no, this is Chinon, his other home.
You may well imagine that your homme will be in his boots tomorrow night, walking with the vintners, surveying the effects. He has been worried about some of the trees in the orchard, a summer bout of worms, although now eradicated, may mean a lean fruit harvest -- and a lack of plum and apricot brandy or liqueurs for the following year. Your homme, not your lord. Your man, your husband, if that word may even come close to describing the relationship. He will be in his boots in the sandy mud.
So in Chinon... so too in Scotland...
For wouldn't he strike a similar pose after similar storms, taking great care, one would even say loving care, of Strathfayr, making it his business once again, as it was in the past before art had even occurred to him. Before selfish will and sickness sent him packing for Italy. With eyes closed or open, listening to the late summer storms. A brief swell of wind, even distant thunder.
So in Scotland... so too in Chinon...
Where once there was separation between the two homes, locational identity so disparate that one was thought to have been preferred over the other, there is now only a balancing unity. He lives as comfortably here as he had in Scotland before. He lives as comfortably and as completely in his adopted Scotland as he ever had in his native France.
Perhaps it is because he is so often lying upon you. And you are, in his mind, most comfortable...
William sleeps now after love making, drowsy with the effects of the ritual taught and the magic used, magic so natural it bids a natural response. Orgasm. Slumber. But you feel him stir to the touch, the strong back you touch shifting slightly. Like the passing of the storm dwindled to the senses, his waking is as gradual. A soft groan like the sound of thunder in the far distance. The sound of sheets moving like the sound of the departing wind. And you are here together, in the calm of it all.
Your homme. Your man. He does not yet speak. He likes the quiet, to feel you on all sides of him. For now, he lets his body do the talking (how eloquent that is), moving to meet the idle wandering of your hand.
Ian grins further. He shares the same feeling, and suddenly realizes that you are experiencing the same thing. "Who thought it first?" Ian murmurs in your tongue, amused at the intensity and immediacy of the connection between you. "It's becoming harder to tell, sometimes." Who thinks what first, or who felt something but it's expressed by the other. Ian looks down himself to see you there, wondering if you agree.
"Hear that?" Ian suddenly quips, quirking to hear the storm continue outside. The warmth of his smile spreads at his chest. "I love them," he whispers.
Like the quiet of evening was broken by the storm, so too the quiet of his expression is broken by the sudden smile. That laze of look, winding smile, as if half-slumbering still, William opens his eyes, darkly blue-violet and looks at you. And he too wonders who thought it first, who felt it first. "It is starting not to matter," comes that languid baritone, the flecked-with-fire sound of the Langue d'Oc. And then William grins.
For it is true these nights... so with Ian, so too with William...
"Me too," William remarks even as he resettles, with the distant echo of thunder there is also the closer echo of the bed springs shifting with his weight. "I like it most when it is far away, when it is not making the glass rattle. But the rain, most of all. I like the sound of it. It reminds me of the sea." A pause. "Of home. Scotland." The coast. And even Oregon and its coast.
William has a care, suddenly, and rolls off of you, giving his shoulder to the bed and then his back, his arm reaching out to offer you the chance to lie on him for a change. Well, not so much of a change, as he frequently wants you on his lap with he on his back when you both occupy this chamber.
His hair is short shorn these nights, still. Not abandoning that look for the rascalian looks of centuries gone by. And clean shaven, clear eyed -- even when his mind is in a lingering orgasmic haze. Nothing detracts now from his face, from his eyes, amazingly vibrant. He turns his head, he looks to you, he draws you in, and he kisses you again. Softly. Yes, there is great tenderness there.
Ian moves, continuing the sounds from the bed. He rises and turns, his midriff slender and lithe. Is it much wonder how men looked at him? Perhaps Ian should think differently, if he could see himself through your eyes.
"I like the rattling windows. When it seems that the storm will destroy the very foundations. It reminds me...that there are things more powerful, than even us." Ian smirks, he easing upon your lap. You shall have the full view of him as his hands clasp and press at your stomach. Blonde-white tendrils of hair brush at Ian's shoulder blades when he rights himself and then smiles at you beneath him. Ian lifts and lands again, making sure that you are where you should be between his legs.
He's quiet. Ian looks down, something on his mind. Thoughts of continuing change, something once cleaved beginning to mend. To speak of it, may cause it to disappear. And so he doesn't. Ian closes his eyes and gently bobs, letting you sort out the blur within him.
"I suppose I should lay aside the vanities of a king," William smiles, "...having never been one." He actually laughs, softly, it amuses him now. To think one does not want to be reminded that one isn't the most powerful thing around -- that is vain, he thinks. "I like the window rattling power," he concurs. "It reminds me of you and I..." Rattling, that is. Bed, headboards, springs...
Power. Do you want to know what power is? It is to watch you, to look at you sit on me. That stomach. His eyes half-lid at the thoughts as you settle, lift, lower and settle again. How do I endure it? "I like to see you there," he murmurs -- he does not need to say it, you can see it, the darkening eyes, the way his gaze moves and where it moves -- and especially where it lingers.
But he has more than two thoughts to rub together, and more than one thought to thrust, mastering passions as he does these nights. Not a victim to them, not held hostage by them. In command of them, to give into them as much, or as little, as he wishes. William looks at you in quiet, from the white-blonde crown to the stomach, to thighs and between them. That is my homme. And the thought makes a corner of his mouth curl upward.
And the thoughts of continuing change...
Indigo lifts from your stomach to your face. He acknowledges your feelings with a slow blink, with a direct look, and with a gentle smile. William does not speak of it -- perhaps it deserves, as with most things most sacred, the reverent silence. He lifts with the squeaking of the bed, a hand touching your face, his mouth pulling at your mouth.
The kiss is ripe with post-coital decadence, reminding itself of the pleasures it knows, the pleasures it gives, the pleasures it takes in return. Wide, warm. But brief. Over as soon as begun.
William lies back, propping himself up a bit on pillows, his legs bending at the knees, feet to the bed's surface. And a hand reaches for your hand, his look still direct. His mouth pulls in a langourous smile. You don't have to speak it, he thinks. It is enough you feel it. That, most important of all, amours...
Ian twirls his hand inside yours. The other remains at its muscular bed. Ian gently undulates, as if idly keeping time. Back and forth. He runs into the hill of your knees at his back, which he uses to send himself slight forward. "I like to be here," Ian replies softly. The smile has gone, and he focuses.
"It seems so quiet," Ian murmurs, extending preternatural senses. "Everyone is sleeping. Riding the storm." Grey eyes move to you. "Including us. They wonder," Ian says softly, "...about us. How we...are such lovers. And spend much time in our bed. It amazes them -- even some of the younger men." Those who understand libido best. Ian smiles for the thought. "They call us insatiable. I hear them. And then they laugh, calling it jealousy for our resilience."
Indigo eyes close briefly, just briefly. He listens to the room, and then past the room, beneath the door to the apartments, the quiet apartments of the Bei Ragazzi. He tries to stretch it down the hall, down the stairs, but he is not so proficient yet. You can see the brows knit in a moment of concentration and then he opens his eyes, his smile winding slantwise, but slight in his own focus.
"This quiet time," William murmurs, "I like it best. Sometimes, I can hear quite far now." Not as far as you, but his world is not as Silent as it used to be. He likes the quiet time, for the quiet times of night are filled with the usual unheard multitude of sounds. He smiles a bit more, a certain curling of that mouth. "Do they?" He loves gossip -- some things will never change. Gossip and pillow talk. "These nights," William continues, "... to have you when I first wake and then to find you late at night," these nights, it has been twice a night, this ritual between you. "... it adds a nice symmetry to time. If only they knew, mais oui, how often I thought of it..." Being with you.
I think of finding you here and there... loving you wherever I find you...no matter where it is. Coming to you, showing you how much I need you. "There is very little space in my mind that you do not occupy," William chuckles. "So... to say that we make love only half the time I think of making love, why... we could be said to show restraint."
Which is more than I can say, dieu, if you continue rocking like that, amours. "What else do they say of us?" he murmurs.
"Well," Ian grins, his cheeks roseate again, "...you tell me. I bet you can hear farther than you imagine."
Despite the thought, Ian continues to occupy his energy with undulating. It pleases him to feel you this way, it is true, as opposed to the more direct knowledge. "Close your eyes," Ian whispers, closing his own with you, "...and find them. You will hear them, just fly the halls and turrets..."
His body gives beneath you. You feel the solid musculature at your leisure, at your pleasure, rather than having it meeting you with force. A middle that would have grown soft with age, had he been able to age naturally, is forever chiseled. But even so, just now it is a comfortable hardness. It is not frequently that such a phrase may be used to describe your homme. You move, he moves with you, as you wish him too.
William closes his eyes, his breathing very even, despite your undulations, and again his senses lead him past the doorway to the next apartments, down the hall. Whispers of voices, laughter, issue through the limestone, echoing. He follows it. "The young men...wish to please... one says he tried..." William chuckles. "Ah... there is Eros..." Loyal and attentive Foury, but so modern French, so seemingly detached. "You must not have pleased much, you are still in the kitchens..."
William opens his eyes, drawing his attention back, focusing it upon you. Indigo fastens upon you, you and your undulations. And he becomes steadily less soft. Gradually, there is less give.
"Not so hard, is it?" Ian quips, grinning from ear to ear. "One of the girls, says...that she hates to have to come to our halls at night," Ian repeats, his brows wiggling. "Apparently, she finds it unbearable...to have to hear the lords..."
Ian suddenly laughs and looks at you. "She can't say it. Others are giggling."
"It seems we...make noise." Ian's brow angles sharply at the choice of words. Not terribly descriptive, but true.
Ian lets the staff go, his attention on you for a quiet moment. He meets your own look and it causes Ian to blush suddenly. "Any other tricks?" he wonders.
"It's getting there, mais oui," he chuckles. The laughter erupts quietly, but ends, rumbling off like the thunder in the distance. His gaze lifts from your undulation, from what it is inspiring in him, and back to your face. "The more noise we make, the better it feels," William admits quietly. "The louder the better."
Having fun with one's staff. Well, one has to get some enjoyment out of it...
William lifts his arms, folding them behind his head. Such a vision, your homme. That is all yours, Dunross. "Hmm... tricks?" His attention drifts from your face to where the two of you meet, back to your face. "No more tricks," William laments. Apart from his being able to maintain his appearance without use of the amulet.
"I like how you make the sounds only for me," he murmurs. "Something reserved just for your homme," your man, your husband, your duc. "My job is to make... was that Vittoria?... miserable by making you want to cry out," the grin is smooth, slowly spreading.
Ian grins and shakes his head. "I am glad that I have sounds that are only for you. And yours that only I know you are capable of. Well, at least how intense and aching..." Ian taps your stomach, "...they are. I guess we are equal then. And you should do your best to make Vittoria unhappy. The sadder she is, the more delighted I must be..."
Outside, the storm takes a louder turn. Ian seems a little surprised, and turns to look at the wall. "That's interesting," he murmurs. "I really did not expect it to be so much tonight..."
Indigo eyes drift toward where the canopy is parted, to the wall and to the storm outside. "If only it would make her folding straighter or her coffee better," he says without truly thinking of it. No, he is thinking of the grapes, of the coming harvest. "It has been hotter than usual in the day, I can feel it in the stones," William remarks, "...then when it meets the wind out of Bordeaux, these downpours can happen." He actually frowns a little. "I wish it were not happening now, of course," his frown becomes a smirk. "I am going to try not to think of what it will mean to the harvest. I will worry about that tomorrow."
His arms unfold, his hands landing upon your thighs. It is difficult to think of grapes and apricots when he is busy looking at you sitting on his lap. He becomes distracted by the sight again. "Non, those sounds... they are evidence of your expert touch." His mouth forms a smile echoed in dark eyes. "I twist beneath that touch..." And he does so beneath you now, lifting a little. His legs stretch out again, spreading, covering territory, taking command of the bed. "We will have to see how full the moats are tomorrow, mais oui? I think the trenches are good, maybe the field will not be in total ruin. Most of the water should run off straight for the river." With any luck.
Ian nods with that, his hands now kneading up the taut stomach where they'd previously relaxed. Opened palms caress skin as Ian's own thoughts flash to you both twined together again, sheets wrapped around you. He smirks, remembering such emotional thoughts are easily visible to you. Even your breathing sounded in the image, you groaning and panting near his ear.
That's a favorite.
"I'd say A penny for your thoughts, but..." Ian smiles. Maybe he's the more vivid one.
Why pay for the cow, as they say, when the milk is free. Is that it? I am sure that is the saying. A penny for my thoughts? I have more than one just at the moment? Save your money, amours...
... Visions are easily exchanged, as palpable ... as real... as if they were already in progress...
Does he draw you to him, or is he only thinking of drawing you to him? But no, you feel his mouth, you feel the air moving, your hear the creaking of the bed, and beyond the canopy a streak of lightning followed quickly by the clap of ionized air. He upon his side, between your thighs, mouth at your mouth, a breath there, a groan there.
So much for thinking...
Think it and it Becomes. Believe it, and it Manifests. Desire it... and it comes...
Posted by rowan at September 20, 2003 12:58 PM
