Kelly came in and he set the painting down, just as you directed. And even through the sound of the paper, even through a moment of girlish laughter, even through Kelly's departure after seeing the face of it, Davydd slept unmoving and the sun burst golden at the edge of rolling mountains.
     And then the world went pink, a glistening moment, like sun against the skin of an Avalon apple, resonant in color and warmth and promise. And then the sun slipped away again, the world becoming shaded.
     More...
     And more...
     As soon as the sunlight faded, the last gasp of it behind the line of the mountainous horizon, Davydd shifted upon the bed. A leg. An arm. Ah now, would you look at that...
     His fingers land upon your side of the bed, curling... then spreading... seeking but not finding you. There's an exhale, a grumble and then a red head pops up, green eyes seeking some sign that you've been around, and he sits up, the opaque canopy parting, the linens and coverlets falling, pooling at his waist. Blue dragons vibrantly greeting another evening. And Davydd ap Owain glows with life returned...
     There's the faint smell of apple blossoms on the air...
     The cool sensation of clean, pure water on the tongue...
     He rubs his eyes, then blinks them hard...

     It was too good a joke to pass up, really - the faerie nature moved in her and seized her hard, and she had to reveal it, even with all the fragility of her Truth so revealed.
     The smile's stayed with her, though - something to warm herself by, until your summer sun and weight returns to the same world as she's in. Perhaps she could join you there while you sleep, but ... there've been things to do.
     A pot of coffee sits on a tray on a table to one side, along with carrot seed and root tea steeping slowly in a separate small pot, cream and sugar and honey upon the tray. There's a sizable platter of currant buns - the sticky kind, she picked them up while she was in London - and how appropriate, fairy cakes, glistening with syrup and powdered sugar over that. But that's off to the side, almost as much as she is, almost out of sight...
     More interestingly, more eyecatchingly, is the object propped up in the foot of the bed - not just -at- the foot, but inside the covers, the bedpost serving as a standing board, the oil painting carefully rendered in William's unmistakable and artistic hand.
     And there is Fiona, caught unmoving, the introspective expression to her changeable eyes, one hand lifted to touch the pearls forever frozen about her throat. The cornsilk gloss, the slightly parted lips, the fire banked for the night - not gone but dimmed to vulnerability...
     But where is she, herself? Off to the side, by the window, one hand curled upon the drapes as she watches you wake. Sea-coloured eyes focus on the sight of you waking from your slumbers, the red hair, feeling the restoration of your true presence.
     Funny, how empty the castle seems when you're asleep...
     She doesn't speak, waiting for you to finish rubbing your eyes open, finish blinking not at her, but at her image, a small mischievous smile pursed upon her lips.

     One hand bears him up and as he regains his sight through the bleariness, Davydd drops his hand. You see it move over him like the various colors of sunrise or sunset. Surprise -- with the slight snap back of his head and the widening of his green eyes -- that slowly dissolves into Realization -- with the intense shine of his eyes, the windows to his world, coupled by the slow quirk of his mouth. This, in turn, transforms into pleasure and desire. He hasn't seen you yet -- or maybe he wants you to see the reaction. His skin goes ruddy and warm as his head tilts looking there and here, here and there, the depiction of a body he has come to know and continually now seeks to discover. That discovery is also there. One part known, another to know better.
     It may not be the high comedy you were seeking, but his reaction is rather...
     Well...
     The coverlets fall away as he's on his knees, a stretch and then he lies on his stomach to come face to... well...figure with the figure there. "Where have you been all my life? Come here often?" he quips, smile slanting, and then he glances past the opaque curtains, the layers of the canopy drapes.
     The rarely seen tattoo on the small of his back glows. The Rowan with its natural pentacle....
     "Oh," Davydd grins, "... sorry...caught me with a mistress already, not even with me a week..." He readjusts a little, letting legs lord over the pillow side of the bed.

     There's a soft, poorly smothered laugh from Fiona where she stands, watching you; a softening in her expression, almost a tenderness to match the vulnerability that glows from the portrait. She grins, the edges of her mouth curving and tugging upwards as she watches the colours of you, the intense glow of you.
     She drags back the curtains, then turns to approach the bed, one hand leaning forward to touch the tattoo at the base of your spine, leaning forward. "Funny how much she looks like me," she quips, her other hand lifting to draw the canopy drapes away, not entirely but enough for her to move between the gauzy layers, one knee up on the edge of the bed. "It's been a long life, after all. You can't expect a man like you to diet..."
     Fiona quirks another grin, eyes crinkling at the corners. "I wanted to surprise you. You did say you wanted it in your room so you could see it every morning. So ..."
     "Good morning, Davydd... Come and have some coffee?"

     "Well you know," Davydd exhales as he rolls over onto his side, head propped upon the heel of his hand, elbow to the surface of the bed. "That's a compliment, my having a mistress who looks just like you. Means you're on my mind," that recently wakened voice rolls out in its half-rough, half-dreamy Welsh tones.
     As you part the curtains and put a knee to the bed, he's reaching out for you. "I don't believe in dieting, no," he rumbles on, drawing you to him, not expecting much fight as he pulls you into a morning kiss.
     It's not as brief as you might imagine it would be for just waking up...
     "I love it," Davydd says softly at your mouth, "...it belongs in here...and you're a good and kind woman, bringing me treats. What's the occasion?" he quips suddenly, his grin a streak of gold across his features. "Oh, wait... that's right... " Another kiss. "... you love me. Say, are those fairy cakes and sticky buns..." He looks at you. She's going to feed me.
     Not only do I love her... she deserves it...
     Davydd sits up. Yes, he will require a sticky bun -- it'll give his mouth something else to do. Other than you. Ha! Riot! It's a widening kiss, warm, and momentarily wild. And then, suddenly over with the upturned start of a smile. "It is a nice surprise, the painting and breakfast..."

     "I had to have help, getting that thing up the stairs. But I'm glad it's me on your mind - I figure having my picture there will keep your eye from straying quite so much. Either that or you'll get bored with me faster," Fiona answers, voice carefully light as she looks to you, smiling nonetheless at the tone to your voice. "And I'll have to go be all Lady MacBeth followed up by Ophelia."
     She lets you draw her to you without the fight, this time - too much of a surfeit of emotion for it to be followed by pushing and shoving just yet, though the length of the kiss has her squirming and laughing without breath left for volume. "No getting things started when there's drinks getting cold," she scolds, without much real severity...
     "I'm glad you like it," she continues, one hand coming up to rummage through your already sleep-disheveled hair. "I was in London much of today, taking care of ... stuff. But I do love you, and you're a brute to know it so well, you know that?" She leans into the kiss that follows, a hint of grin still curving up her mouth.
     Fiona pulls back as you sit up, starting to speak before she's surprised by a third kiss. "I-mphmm." What did her mother tell her about feeding strays?
     "I'm - um, yes, sticky buns and fairy cakes. Currant buns, to be specific - hope you like them, but if not, more for me. Couldn't get hold of clotted cream, and they were all out of jam cakes," she adds wistfully. "But just as well, I shouldn't overdo it. But I hoped it'd be a nice surprise, because, well..."
     Sitting up a bit straighter, Fiona squirms slightly again, one hand coming up to readjust the turtleneck's collar. "I ... brought some stuff back with me, you know, and I've been thinking." Always a bad sign. "So there's some stuff we should talk about, but why don't we get some coffee into you - and some tea into me?"

     Yeah, that is a bad sign. Davydd looks a little wary, eyebrows cocked up and the expression that's half curious, half afraid. It's a humorous, suspicious look. But then he's rising from the bed, off in search of where he tossed his lounging trousers last night. Normally, he folds everything and puts it away but... last night he was in a bit of a hurry to get unclothed.
     He takes a moment to survey the lovely items on the food cart, however. Comfortable in his skin, enough that he forgets he's on display. "Currant buns..." he murmurs dreamily. He must be a fan. Turning, Davydd wears an aha! expression as he sees the trousers on the foot of the bed. He has enough manners to know that he shouldn't eat naked.
     He's back at the cart soon enough, pouring a cup of coffee for himself, checking on the tea and pouring that into a cup, wrinkling his nose at it. You poor thing. "The way we're going, you should probably bathe in the stuff," he chuckles, waggling his brows then turning to look at you with a mouth full of bun and coffee in hand.
     "Tho... whaff ith i...?" That wasn't Welsh. That was mouth-is-full for What is it?

     Rising to her own feet, Fiona gives a half of a grin; apparently she speaks 'mouth-is-full' as fluently as she does Welsh. Must come from hanging round all those punks. "Kelly was by earlier, and he and I had a longish chat. He was really very nice - put me quite at my ease. Helped me with the damned painting, too, as he was sure I was going to break my neck."
     Which reminds her of something, and for a moment the sea-coloured eyes narrow in your direction before she begins making her way over to the table, brushing back her french braid. The sight of you, nude, isn't enough to distract her entirely from her thoughts, but it's a bit disconcerting still, and she pauses to glance to the window, moving back towards it to pull the drapes closed.
     "Anyway, he's interested in the idea of the band, Davydd, and, I, well, I told him I'd talk to you about it. Because ..." Ah, there goes her nerve, round back to cower underneath the compost. "So what's this about the apples of Avalon and my breasts?"

     Fiery eyebrows waggle as he lifts his coffee for a sip and returns to the bed, mindful of not disturbing the painting. That's going to have to move or it's going to get disturbed sooner or later today. "The apples of Avalon are firm and round and pinkish-gold...and just large enough to fill the hand. Not too much, not too little. Perfection." And he stares at your chest a moment then flashes a grin. "So he told you?" Davydd laughs, his laughter softening in a swallow of coffee. "Or was I muttering in my sleep again? Sometimes I do that..."
     Leaning back against the pillowed headboard, Davydd all but inhales the bun. "So was he up for the idea, the music? I figured he would be. I think it's worth exploring. Nothing like sheet music to help teach control... and it's a good tool... a good focus." Davydd pauses, smiling warmly. "What are you nervous about, little queen? Come on...the hardest thing you've ever told me is that you liked me...how bad can it be, this idea of yours?"

     "He told me," Fiona confirms, squirming in momentary embarassment as she leans over to pour tea for herself, gaze dropping downwards as she doctors it with cream and sugar, helping herself to a bun and a cake apiece. "My breasts aren't perfect. Though he did go quite red, so I don't know, maybe he agreed with you."
     She sets plate down, lifting the bun and taking a bite and washing it down with sweetened milky tea, then sets those down as well to move over to the bed and lean up against the edge of it. "The hardest thing I've ever done was telling you that I loved you, Davydd. 'Like'? Love left that in the dust by a country mile," she answers, smiling lopsidedly. "As for my idea, I, well..."
     There's all these emotions to go with it, to complicate it, and she can no more just say the idea without the explanation than she can breathe without air.
     "...You make me nervous, you know. I love you, and I do trust you, I just ... I don't know if I can explain without you laughing at me," Fiona answers, honestly, "or ... one of us getting upset. Or saying something - well, you know. I'm afraid of doing something stupid, I suppose." She pulls herself up onto the edge of the bed, both hands on one bedpost. "Go on and laugh now, right? I know I'm being silly, or dense, or - something."

     "Well I don't know what you're being silly about yet," Davydd notes, foot on the surface of the bed, his other leg lying lax. "I promise I won't laugh," he tacks on, sipping at the coffee, "...if that helps. Or at least not right way," comes the rumble of his voice. Leaning over, he sets the coffee down on the night table, his arms free, hands free to take you in them.
     Come on, out with it, brave girl. You've not let anything stop you yet... Leaning back on the crowd of pillows, Davydd quietly watches you. Your nervousness. He opens out an arm, hand offered to you. "The closer you come, the less nervous you'll be. I love you for your ability to speak your mind whenever you bloody well want to," his mouth makes the start of a smile, and those green eyes of a green, lush world look at you brightly. "And since my opinions on your breasts are the only ones that matter, they're perfect..."
     Lest you think he forgot about the Avalon apples...
     Now the smile that was forming spreads into a grin. "Come on," Davydd murmurs, "... brave girl, out with it..."

     "The closer I come," Fiona retorts, "the more likely you are to put an end to the conversation in favour of tumbling me about your bed." Nevertheless, she moves onto the bed properly, leaning forward to twine her fingers through the gaps between yours, a quick smile offered.
     "I've let things stop me before, just ... different from how other people get stopped, I suppose." Her hand squeezes, then releases, and she smiles again, laughter coming out of her with a nervous rush of breath. "This is going to sound really stupid," she warns, shifting closer and flouncing back against the pillows, one foot crossed on top of the other.
     Keeping hold of your hand, she pulls it across and into her lap, holding onto it and tracing the muscles and sinews in your fingers and wrist with one fingertip of her other hand. "I think I love you too much," Fiona murmurs. "I'm so close to saying things, doing things I never would've even thought of before this, Davydd. And it's not that you're asking me to - it's that I'm wanting to. You've changed my life in so many ways, and my own reactions, they're scaring me a little. If I change because you love me, will you still love who I become?"

     "Come here," he rumbles, and there is a little mirth in his eyes, a certain sparkle. "I promise I won't try to tumble you. I'll hold off for at least an hour. I think I can make it that long. It's natural to be scared," Davydd assures, Welsh tripping from his tongue as you plop down beside him. His strong arm comes to surround you and he rests his red head on the neighboring pillow. "Anyone would be. You are more than the culmination of your personality quirks. Some quirks may change. You'll get new ones and I'll love those. Or they'll annoy me and give us something to talk about on cold winter nights. It's not going to make me love you less. Do I love you less without your purple hair? Your spiked collar or Ramones t-shirt? If you didn't have your bunny slippers would I cease wanting to make love to you?" Davydd shakes his head in answer to all of the above.
     "If you didn't change, if you were unable to change, then we'd have a bigger problem, Fiona. Don't worry about that future, darlin'..." He draws you in against the blue chest, dragons like sentries and guards. His arms are a safe haven. His kiss reassuring. "It's not stupid," he whispers. "Just nothing to worry about." His other hand reaches up, fingers lifting your chin and his mouth brushes yours again.
     A brush of warmth ...
     A breeze from the west...
     The scent of apple trees...
     Davydd grins against your mouth, halting his own toying kiss there, cheeks and ears reddening, freckles standing out puckish in the sudden flush. "Sorry... you were right... I do want to tumble you..."

     There's a hint of a sigh paired with a smile as she turns on her side to face you, comforted perhaps by the weight of your arm over her. "I don't know," Fiona murmurs. "I'm worried that this won't last - and I want for it to last, Davydd. I keep - pulling back a bit, because I find myself wanting to say things, do things which ... it's like saying 'I love you' all over again, only harder, because it's all so much bigger than just me. Do you know?"
     You draw her close, you kiss her, and she leans into it for a moment, as if there's answers to all her problems in it. Sea-grey eyes drift closed, then snap open again, and she rests a palm against the back of your head, twining up to you, with you.
     "I don't know if saying it will help or make it worse, but I see more than just your kingdom in your eyes these days," she whispers. "And it's enormous. So I get scared - because I'm not recognizing myself lately. Think I should spit it all out, or save it for later, Davydd, when maybe it'll be a little smaller?"
     There's a laugh as you kiss her again, as you stop, and she presses up against you, kissing you with sudden energy and pulling away a moment later. "I knew it. One-note song, Old Man..."

     "I'm sorry," and he seems to mean it. Almost. He smiles and lies back, taking you with him. A pat upon your shoulder, followed by a rub. "Give him an inch, he'll take a whole mile," he says theatrically. "You know, usually this is my problem and not the people I'm with. I'm the one blurting out things, saying too much or too little then blasting it all out at once..." Turning his head, he looks to you.
     "The one thing I hold above all else is Truth. If you're truthful," his hand brushes over your cornsilk hair, "...there's little that can be lost by it that shouldn't be, if you follow my meaning. That's what's kept me miserable more than anything. My holding back on the truth. Either not existing truthfully or speaking truthfully. It only makes things worse in the end. Truth usually doesn't make matters worse for long..."
     Green eyes are on you again, "Don't try to bear the world in it, little queen. All you have to do is bear your own truth." He grins then, "...and occasionally my weight."
     "Alright, frequently..."
     Davydd laughs richly. "Who am I fucking kidding," he mutters. "Nightly...."

     "You don't have to apologise for wanting me, Davydd." And she's entirely sincere, without a hint of sarcasm. "I can push if I really want to - I just ... haven't really wanted to, so far, because you really are that damnably hard for me to resist. So far. I suppose I'll build up an immunity in due course."
     Fiona settles along you, curving herself to make herself comfortable as you draw her back with you. "It's who you are more than anything else that makes me feel this way. Not what you look like - though I like that too," she tickles lightly at blue-stained ribs, "not where you live, nor where you're from. Not even the magic, though I admit it helps... magic is ... sexy."
     She lifts a hand to touch a fingertip to the corner of your mouth, tracing the edge to the centre of your lower lip as she shifts to raise herself slightly, looking down into the green landscapes in your eyes. "I love you," Fiona finally says. "I really do - I love you so much that I can feel my heart contract when I look at you. It isn't just bedroom games... I want to be here, I want to be with you. It makes me nervous, because ... well, a lot of reasons. It means you've got an awful lot of ability to hurt me, and - I've never liked being that vulnerable. And yet you were the first one to look at that painting and see me in it, in a way."
     She lifts her hand away, lightly, sliding down to lie next to you, head still on your shoulder. "I've been seriously thinking about quitting my job, turning down the Beeb if they offer me a job, to do this music thing with you. And while I know it's not just because of you; I mean, I don't like the idea of being a porcelain-painted talking head repeating what someone else decides is fit for public consumption, and while the production work is more interesting, it drives you into the ground and grinds you up after a while, there's an awful lot of travel involved and I was using it to run away from you, from my feelings for you, not because I had a real passion for the work. But even so, if it weren't for having you, I'd be doing it, or going for the Beeb job, because I wouldn't have you - and because you're here, I keep thinking of just ... giving them up, and - well, moving in with you. As long as," she qualifies, "there's the music thing or something else. I'm not cut out for a life of utter leisure, I'd go stark staring mad."
     There's a pause for breath as she splays her fingers out over your chest, watching the blue glow of dragons and trees between her fingers. "Part of me wants to lose myself in you so thoroughly that you're all I know, Davydd," Fiona says finally. "I told you I'm not casual. I - almost say things, and then I stop because if I say them, it takes shape, and now I've said one of three. Do you really want to hear the other two?"

     You know, Llywelyn, in all your years of courtship, wooing, fucking, screwing, stealing (or just permanently borrowing), in all the things that have been said, sung, chanted, panted and moaned, that's about the nicest goddamned soliloquy to romance that you've ever -- and are ever like to -- heard.
     So, don't just sit there all open-mouthed gaping and blinking like she just hit you with a stick. And for gods' sake, don't say anything stupid...
     As you spoke all that, the Welsh red head lifted, and the most remarkable expression commanded his features. Not the mouth open, rattling off some comment expression, or the brace yourself and spread your legs expression. Not even the aren't girls fucking cute expression. But one that is open, honest, warm, a bit flushy, and rather touched.
     His hands land in the oakblonde hair again and he rolls over to lie upon his side, flush against you, head soon propped up on an elbow so he can look at you. He doesn't even stare at your breasts, the hollow of your throat, the bend of your elbow, or your belly -- favorite areas all. He looks only at your eyes. "That's about the nicest thing anyone's ever uttered to this old dragon," he murmurs. "I used to tell ... well, I told everyone... that I wasn't good at making the pretty words, poetry and all. I lied about that, or rather... didn't take credit for that. But I can say Diw i'n ti caru, I love you," he softly translates, "...because I mean it. You're the dearest thing I've ever held. You're a jewel and a treasure, and all I want to do is horde you like a proper dragon. Such a tender thing," now his eyes and his free hand are in motion, hand to your face, eyes to your mouth, "... that in my caring and in my love and in my desire, which is great indeed, I have to remind myself not to squeeze the flower to death for wanting to smell it, taste it, know it. To be the earth, Fiona, that you spring from..."
     There is a wealth of emotion and it wells in his eyes. Emotional Welsh, with their watery eyes, tight rumbly voices and high complexions. He goes red and then he goes quiet.
     And then he grins. "I would love to make music... to have a partner voice. It's always been a dream of mine, one I held quietly, mind you," not that he told any of the women per se -- though he is the reason Rose ever put voice to mic. "I'll support whatever you want to do with yourself. If that means you quit and move here, that's fine. I'd love for you to be here. We can work on putting a studio up for recording and getting our things in order here. We could tour the Isles, Brittainy. We could travel a while if you wanted to do that. I've not done much of that in a while, and never much in the first place. If you want to quit, then quit, Fiona. There's no need for you to do anything... you don't want to do."
     He ends all that with a kiss. A sinking, spreading, plucking, savoring thing, that. And then an exhale of sugar -- ah, from the pastry. "Hmm... is it going to make me go all girly and weep again if you do?"

     She's still as she watches you, her own skin reddening both with her own admissions and with the observation, one hand balling into a fist and brought up to under her chin. Your hands touch her hair, her hand comes back down from her throat to grasp the bedsheets where it lies...
     "I don't see myself the way you seem to, Davydd," Fiona murmurs, voice lowered as if to prevent outsiders from listening in, from the wind rattling against the windows overhearing her words. "I wish I did - maybe then I'd understand what all the fuss is about." The corners of her mouth quirk up slightly, and then she squeezes her eyes closed tightly. "I'm not used to this - being in love. It seems filled with contrasting urges and a lot of emotion - it makes me want to forget that I'm English, you know. Your bad influence."
     The mention of music makes her eyes open again, as she tilts her face upwards with a stirring of her hair on the pillows, lips held slightly parted, as if about to speak. There's still a wealth of emotion in her gaze, caught behind the mirror of her eyes, roiling and tumultuous at the flow of poetry that's slid from your mouth across her skin, making her grow pinker for it. She sighs as your mouth connects with hers, a brief arching of her shoulders and she shifts, leaning one hip up to yours the closer. When you pull away, her eyes are suspiciously bright, and she sucks on her lower lip for a moment before speaking.
     "I don't know, it might. Or it might make you bolt for the nearest set of hills, through the window with it still closed - you feeling particularly like a cartoon coyote tonight, Davydd?"

     The smile is a streak of gold, a comet, a sunstreak, the glinting off a hero's sword. Broad, fiery, full of life. "I like the coyote," he quips. "He's like me. All he's trying to do is get his breakfast..." That was a moment of English, lifting in inflection as he's wont to do when humored or pissed off, Rs trilling mightily. "Go on then... tell me..."
     "...and if I've made one Englishwoman forget she's English, well then," Davydd continues in a rumble. "I consider my work done and total conquest within arm's reach. First Fiona Arundel, then the world."
     Green eyes, the doorways to a green and growing world doubled, look at you, your pink sunrise/sunset skin. The hand on your face lowers to your hip, curling, grasping strongly there and with possession, too. "Go on," he breathes at your neck.
     There is a triad kiss that follows...
     On neck...
     On chin...
     On mouth...
     "I'm not a coward," Davydd murmurs. "You can tell me..."

     "There'd better not be others you use these methods of persuasion on, Davydd Llewellyn," Fiona mutters, arms lifting to slide around your neck. What did she say...
     Something about you not being to keep your hands off her...?
     Well, as long as it's mutual ... right?
     "That really isn't fair, you know," Fiona mutters, with a relenting sigh as she brushes her lips back up against yours, tangling her fingers in the slowly lengthening curls at the nape of your neck. "Bloody Welsh bastard. How's a girl supposed to think straight, with this? Poetry on your lips, sex on your mind - and don't try to tell me it's not, at some level, I know better..."
     She bumps up against you lightly, then subsides, sighing almost contentedly under your hand upon her hip.
     "It's - embarassing, though," Fiona continues, mulling it over, working on disentangling the threads of thoughts. "I mean - here I am, a thoroughly modern young woman of the present century, right? I'm not supposed to like your caveman tactics. Okay, well, sometimes I don't, and I kick," she scowls playfully, "but generally..."
     She falls silent for a moment, staring intently at your face as if mapping it by slow degrees, the cells divided into hectares and acres, a foreign topography that she's come to know. Eventually, her eyes, now very blue and still brightened by a liquid sheen of unfallen tears meet your own.
     "It's very strange to realize that I want the whole conventional package, when it comes to you," Fiona says finally, putting an end to stalling. She stiffens very slightly, face glowing with colour; she's uncomfortable with her own admission. "To be yours in every way... to meet the people who're important to you, whether or not they're related to you, and to hope that they'll like me and approve of me. I never knew..."
     There's another pause, and the pale lashes come down, a brief barrier - as if the rest is just a little too difficult to get out while maintaining that intimate look. "I never knew I could still be myself and want the entire package - not only want it, but be willing to give it, Davydd. Make the rounds, the ring on the finger, the words, and ...to ... um. This is a little scary. To have ... your children."
     She falls silent again, blushing as if she's about to burst blood vessels, eyes still tightly closed, so tightly that she must be seeing sparks behind her eyelids. After a few moments, she very cautiously opens her eyes to slits - as if expecting to see something she doesn't like, with her lower lip caught hard between her teeth.

     It's a good face...
     High cheekbones like the cliffsides of Cymru overlooking the Irish Sea (Welsh Sea, rather). The small nose, almost upturned even, with freckles dotted across the bridge of it. Bronze-gold-copper eyebrows, prone to arching. The mouth, not thin-lipped, and prone to broad, sweeping expressions, comet-like smiles and frowns like dramatic pronouncements, but usually given to smiling, smirking and giving birth to ready laughter. And the eyes. Once they were dark green flecked with something lighter here and there, periwinkles. But now that you know how to See them, they are reflections of a thick-wooded world, with old oak groves, flowered meadows and sunlit, silver rivers, wild, lush.
     "I want you to be my woman," Davydd answers, "...and I want you to have my plump red-headed babies. There's nothing conventional about it, you can ease your fears, Drancy," he uses that name, for it's Drancy who'd likely have the biggest issue with it. "You're a fae-blooded witch, in love with a blue-tatted, dragon-wearing fairy king, who, while he has a name and a family and lives here solid as earth, doesn't really exist, though he was once high prince of Wales. Your children... our children," Davydd continues, smiling, "... would hardly be normal...there's no picket fence, but three castles and several manor houses...and two talking dogs." The smile goes sideways. "It's hardly Ozzie and Harriet. And it's alright if you want it. I'm ... glad to hear it actually. I want that with you. And, even though I don't really have an existence as far as mortal ken is concerned, I want to meet those you hold dear as well. Your family. This is a partnership we're making. A union, here... it's not simply shagging and eating." A pause. "And shagging..." Davydd grins suddenly. "I'm glad it's working," his hand grasps your hip, pulling you against him. "But you know... there's nothing wrong with giving in to your man, making him happy, and yourself in the bargain. You like it, aye?" He chuckles.
     Another roll and he's settling over you, on you. "I'll teach you ways to get back at me," Davydd murmurs. "I promise... and then you'll have a dragon eating out of the palm of your hand for your revenge." Another kiss, this one pulling more than pressing, a capture, a suckle. "And then we'll be even...aye?"

     "Mmph," Fiona murmurs, lifting her head and one hand coming up to drag her hair where it's caught under one shoulder. She settles again, continuing to listen to the words, still with that half-wary undercurrent, even as her tensions ease slightly, with a sigh that moves her chest.
     "Well, no, you're not exactly likely to need me to kowtow and fetch your pipe and slippers, are you," she murmurs, leaning in for a moment, touching her forehead to your shoulder. "So you're a faerie king who used to be a mortal prince of Wales. I don't know, it all sounds very story-book to me, Davydd... it takes me back a long way. Almost to the person I used to be, back before - well, back before Drancy." There's a slightly bittersweet smile for a moment, and she touches your cheek with a fingertip.
     "If it were just shagging, you know, I'd have had to lie to myself in order to be here still." Her voice grows quieter and quieter, though her eyes widen for a moment as you pull her to you, and there's a hint of a grin to her features. "Bloody man ... it's working, yes. You know I like it, damn you. You have to make me admit it as well?"
     Her palms come up to your shoulders as you roll over her, chin tipping up as she follows your movements, meets your gaze. "Oh, I'd say that it'd be your reward and your revenge all in one. But by all means, king of all my desires... mmm." Fiona's eyelids have gone languidly heavy through the kissing and pulling, digging her fingernails in lightly at your shoulders. "I think that you will find me a very apt - and imaginative - pupil."

     Davydd grins, skin going all blushed and golden with it. "Extra points for creativity," he murmurs, recalling earlier conversations. "Why don't we start now?" He quips and grins. "...I'm of a mind to love and you've a desire to get back at me for making you want it..." He laughs. "Ah, we're meant for each other you know. You deserve me and god knows I deserve you."
     Mouth at your mouth, Davydd murmurs, words that become embraces. "We'll call this: How to get Davydd to shut up. Trust me... you're going to want to know how to do that."
     As if you don't already.
     Davydd taps your mouth with the light pressing of an index finger. "...Lesson one. Kissing the dragon..."
     And he doesn't mean his mouth...

     Her lips are coyly parted against yours as you speak, her hands still on your shoulders, gripping and releasing in a light massage. "Oh yes?", she murmurs in low retort. "What did I do to deserve a great big Welsh git like you, Old Man?"
     It's paired with a softening smile for a moment, and then ...
     What else can she do but bite the hand that feeds her ...
     Her teeth fasten onto the finger tapping her mouth, not quite painfully, though not as gently as could be either, and she growls in the back of her throat, shaking her head slowly from side to side. She releases a moment later, pushing against your shoulders as if to shove you over, nudging with her hip as well.
     "While I'm sure you can teach me quite a bit, Old Man," Fiona drawls, a challenging gleam in the shifting tides of her gaze, "it isn't very creative if all I'm doing is following instructions. So why don't you let me up there, and let's see if I can't..."
     Her mouth puckers, as if she's about to laugh...
     "...tame the dragon, mmm?"

     What was it that the Bible said... Ask and ye shall receive?
     I never did finish that book. I wonder how it ended...
     Davydd waggles his brows, laughs grandly, and the bed rattles and shifts, squeaks and sings, as your universe is tipped arse over eyeball. Now, says his eyes, this is much more like it...
     Much....
     ....more...

Posted by rowan at March 20, 2004 02:13 PM