It took her a bit to recover, and in truth, she still hasn't really recovered. She may never fully recover, from intimacy that was more than intimacy, bindings that were more than just emotional, more than just physical, more than just magical...
     She's stolen a shirt from the floor (appropriate, a thief in a thief's bedroom) and draped it over her damp skin to pad out to the kitchen, luxuriating in the feeling of stretched muscles and satiated urges, the colour of her eyes washed out to a pale, sparkling grey by it all, as if the passion-smudged air had something to do with it. The fridge is tugged open, and she takes out items. Sausages are examined with a slightly silly grin, then set aside. Bacon. Eggs. Mushrooms. A brick of cheddar. Bread. Onions. Potatoes. Butter...
     There's a glance to bedroom and living room, then she gets out a few pans. She knows her husbands' appetites. You both have large ones, in all meanings of the word, and it makes Fiona grin contentedly as she begins taking over the counter with her cooking. After all, how often has she gotten to cook for you two lately?

     The remarkability of what occurred is only further confirmed by the state of one of the former Bachelor Kings, now resolutely and thoroughly married. Intoxicated, spent, wrung through, so much given to you. If you hum with energy, it is because he has none left.
     Disheveled, Davydd wanders down the hall, becoming visible with his writhing dragons from one of the guest bedrooms. He wears a robe, which he hasn't yet bothered to tie, his anatomy and his tattoos on display, the dragons frozen in their various and original positions, no longer writhing and coiling. Apart from the motions to be expected with the operation of musculature. His hair is short and in humanizing disarray, punkish.
     There is a smile given to you, an openly emotional look, as he stops short of the kitchen and with slow and plodding steps goes and plops down on the sofa instead. You will have to make sure he does not fall asleep here, or he'll be burned to a crisp.
     No, really...
     "Hmmm... food," comes the quiet, monosyllabic greeting. Me Davydd. You Fiona. Meat good. Davydd chuckles in his throat and gut, not worried about waking Rhodri. He's passed out so hard angels couldn't kick him awake. A hand lifts, smacking against his face and then manages to run through short red hair (further mussing it) and scratch his head.
     I'm glad you feel like standing. His 'voice' quips in you as his throat cannot make it do just now. He covers himself with the folds of the robe, feeling the night's chill after so much close and confined quarters and crammed bodies.

     The smile that is given back is just as emotional, just as warm - dazzling, really, as befits a newly married bride. "Food," Fiona agrees. "Eventually. I thought you two might be hungry. You ought to be." She's still keeping her voice low, it's a bit husky, rather, but the smile just won't go away. And why should it?
     There's a little butter melted in a pan, streaky rashers of bacon arranged in strips, a little pepper ground over them all, a little maple syrup drizzled for good measure as they begin to sizzle and cook properly. A dozen eggs have been cracked into a large bowl and beaten lazily, a bit of milk added for colour and now she stands over the bowl, grating cheese into it.
     Standing is easier than sitting right now, comes the retort. Mmm. You're such a brute. And she adores you for it. You can tell; she hasn't got to look at you for you to see it, sense it, hear it, smell it.
     Another pan is set on the stove, with more butter, fat white mushrooms chopped loosely and given a quick stir, then dropped into the melt. Good thing you two are immortal, there's going to be enough cholesterol in this to kill a cow. How are you feeling, or is that the stupidest question I've asked you yet?
     Fiona leans out of the kitchen to grin at you, then ducks back in. She's got potatoes to peel, onions to chop, more food yet to cook. She casts a glance at the cupboards, then gives her head a shake. You'll have to do without waffles. I've no idea where he keeps the flour, let alone if he's got an iron.

     It ranks. comes the sparking reply, a comet of thought sailing through you. I feel sapped. I wonder why. So blandly droll, and he can't do it with a straight face. A grin perches on his mouth. You could swear that in this low light you could see tufts of yellow feathers pop out...
     An arm comes up, laying across his eyes. I am a brute, this is true. And you like it. Duly noted for the future. The grin broadens to truly shite-eating. A rutting romantic. A woman after my own heart. Or sommat closer by and handy...
     The red head lifts, eyes going to the kitchen as the smells start to emanate from it. I'm starving. Gah, are you going to feed me? I think I deserve it. A pause. And I'm not sure I have the strength to hold a fork. I gave it all to you. Shouldn't we be making clever comments about sausage and meat? He laughs quietly at that, the sound pulling and lingering in his throat like a moan.
     That sound, that sound that was in your ears for an hour. And more...
     God, you were fucking gorgeous. I mean, you still are. Of course. But you were just so lovely and flexible and willing, God love you. Good thing I'm immortal, in-fucking-deed. Otherwise, I think I'd have more to worry about you than the eggs. The eggs might make my chest hurt but you could fucking kill me...
     Davydd rests back on the sofa, one leg on the sofa, the other stretched wide. Unintentional lascivious display, certainly unconscious. That's alright about the waffles. One thing I do know he has is beer. That'll do me fine. You'll bring me a can won't you, cariad?

     I'm not sure how I'm standing, let alone cooking. But I'm cooking, and yes, I'll feed you. I'm trying to figure out how much is enough for you and him and me together, but I figure half the fridge should do. Fiona's smile is something rare to see. It is content. You're giving her a hard time and she doesn't mind at all. The mushrooms pop; she leans in to lower the heat, then leans back out and begins chopping the potato she's just peeled, along with the rest. You should like the food, I sacrificed some skin from my knuckles, damned vegetables.
     A third pan's set on the stove, with more butter; into this she dumps the onion and potato mess, with a vengeance and a glower, sticking her injured knuckle into her mouth for a moment. A plate's handy and she takes the first round of finished bacon off, dropping in more hurriedly and darting back as the grease hisses and spatters. Consider the clever comments already made. That's why it's bacon for you. The sound you make tugs at her, and she smiles again, despite herself, remembering other appetites.
     I could kill you? I think I'm the one who's got a right to feel worried about death by sex, not the other way around! In case you haven't noticed, you two've got me outmassed, outmatched and outnumbered. And I won't be sitting down for a week, I think. All I can say is, you've got nothing to feel inadequate about. At all. The last bit is almost purred at you; Fiona stretches a little, feeling the languid heat of the past while settle in at openings, and she blinks. Mmm... I don't think a few eggs will kill you. They looked to be before their expiry date.
     The answer you get is the sound of the cabinet opening, then the fridge, and then Fiona hoves into view, a can of Guinness held in her hand. Guinness for you, Boddington for the Other. She's learned. Barefoot she pads to you, lips twitching as she glances you up and down. You look like an advertisement... for something I'd have to be two years older to buy in the Netherlands...

     Oh, I know. I'm a dead sexy beast. Emphasis on dead, ha. And you love me till you legs tremble. I know it. I just get that way, you know. I'm a Celt. It comes with the green fields, that sort of brooding rain. I'm glad you know it for the shite it is.
     You speak of the Netherlands and he cracks a laugh, looking at you as you bring him beer. "Diolch, dearie, for God's own gracious nectar." He means the beer, and reaches out for it, sitting up a little bit. The only reason the robe's rearranged is for position-sake. "I don't think he's going to be eating anytime soon unless you wake the great git up," Davydd points out after a swallow. He's snoring. How we outran the king's men with that rattlin', I'll never know." He teases his son-friend-companion. There's such fondness there and he lets you see it.
     One day... night... we'll have more to do than just rut around like ... rutting around things. But... that's not a night I want to see for a while. He grins as he swallows the beer, sighing at the taste of it, the coolness, the refreshment of it all, and he lies back, beer balanced in his hand. When I get to see you, that is. Those treasured moments. To think of the future makes the separation worthwhile. Hard... necessary... but worth it in the end.
     "Speaking of ... in the end," he rolls out in audible voice with the slant of a smile, "... you're alright then? Hmm? I think the last vestiges of virginity were obliterated in there. Apart from the obvious side effects of not being able to sit down. Sorry...well...not really. I fucking loved that, I'll have you know. And I'm not sorry in the least."
     Chuckling, he takes another long swallow of the Guinness and plops back down with a groan. "So, you've a lot to do. I'll be in my kingdom for a bit. I have to reinforce my work here, there. Then I'll be back. I'm going to want to see you on my birthday at least, coming up in August. Lughnasad. First harvest festival. I want you to come to Avalon...join us there. Rhodri will be there as well, it's the last of the summer festivals. We would love to attend our Queen again, to be sure..."

     I worry about you, because you are dear to me. But I'm not afraid to smack you around, either. Cheeky to the end. The can is handed over and she sinks down to her knees next to the couch, leaning over the arm of it. "Amazing, what people can do when they've got to, hm? Outrunning the king's men, snoring to wake the dead... You don't usually snore, but on the other hand, you're such a complete hog with the pillows and blankets."
     Fiona lifts a hand to drag through your hair, grabbing and giving it a light tug. More to do? I don't know, that 'more' might kill me yet. But yes... I miss you all the time. But you knew that. I tell you often enough.
     Your hair is released and she stands, reddening a little but grinning down at you nonetheless. "Seems fitting that I lose my virginity to you twice over, o great and mighty king," Fiona teases, a hand to her hip. "It was ... I don't know ... you know I liked it. Do you need me to tell you that? You know that I love you. And what you do to me." A little heat creeps back into her voice and into her gaze as she looks down at you, where you stretch on the couch.
     Turning, she moves back into the kitchen, checking temperatures, checking pans, turning bacon over and giving mushrooms and potatoes a quick stir. Four slices of toast into the toaster, jam taken out and put into a pot and put on the table, along with yet more butter. Plates arranged. A fourth pan, finally, added along with the final bit of butter, and the eggs sluiced into the pan, and then she comes back.
     "I'll be busy myself," Fiona agrees a bit demurely, leaning now over the back of the couch, on her folded forearms. "But yes. I'll see you on your birthday - I told you, you get birthdays, yours and mine certainly, and other times as well. Twice a year wouldn't be enough. Every day wouldn't be enough, though I know, it has to wait. And I promise your Queen will attend the festival in full regalia. Now, speaking of our arrangements, I ... have something I want to offer you. Something I'd like you to do for me, if you're willing."

     I do know it. I just like to see it. Look, the way you are blushing. You wonder why I ask these things? Darlin, to watch you remember me with you, to see its echo. Your king is a greedy king. He grins and sits up only long enough to take a long drink of the Guinness, can half gone.
     Dark green eyes pop open at the mention of a proposition, coupled with suddenly quirking eyebrows. "There's nothing wrong with being comfortable," he murmurs in response to being a bed-hog, but you can see his mind is elsewhere. Curious on this favor you are asking. It's not that he's resistant, or even suspicious. He's just... intrigued. "Go on..."
     Now, he sits up. The smell of food energizing him. His appetite is not completely as it was before his transformation, the need for blood taking some of his champion eater stamina away from him. That said, you can see him anxious for food. His dark eyes glint, he looks at the kitchen, then sets his Guinness on the coffee table. He hopes you serve him here. He still doesn't look in the mood to move around much...

     "Let me just check the eggs first." Fiona makes you wait - contrivance or coincidence, does it matter? She turns and goes back into the kitchen, conscious that you're looking at her. And I don't mind you being greedy. I'm greedy too. But I can't help blushing. I'm just too tired to smack you for it right now...
     The eggs are close-on to being done. The bacon is already; she adds it to the platter, then the mushrooms are poured into a bowl. Those are brought out to your couch-side - read your mind, or at least, your comforts. And she smiles, then turns and goes away again.
     Toast, jam, honey, butter - and another can of Guinness for you, ice water for herself. She needs to rehydrate. Then it's in the kitchen for the last lap - silverware, napkins, and finally, plates with potato and onion and plenty of scrambled eggs with strong cheddar. Your plate is set in front of you as ceremoniously as at any four-star French restaurant, and she settles herself down at the side of the table, on her knees again and with a faint wince.
     "I hope you like grease. I hope you're hungry." Fiona takes a gulp of her water, then passes you your silverware. Far too demurely, she inquires, "Would you care to say grace, dear?"

     Grace? He looks at you as if he needs you to define the word. Then to the food. Then back to you. And he smirks and winks. "Sure. God bless us, every one," he rings out in falsetto tones, then cuts into the eggs. A bit of that with the toast, jam notwithstanding, is stuffed into his face.
     Yes, he is hungry...
     So you were saying. Don't mind me...see, this way, you can eat and talk with your mouth full. Barbaric? Maybe, but also efficient. Sue me. Davydd goes for the bacon next. So, what's on your mind, cupcake? Cupcake, you are now. Well, he can't exactly call you 'sweet ass' now can he?

     Fiona's laugh is genuine and immediate, face going red with the effort made not to snort or choke on her water or on her own saliva. She picks up her fork, helping herself to a bit of bacon, eyes lowered to her plate as she sets herself up with a bit of this and that. "Actually, what I want to talk to you about won't matter for, oh ... probably three or four years, but I wanted to talk to you about it before I forget."
     She has a long memory, but not for everything, and you've proven very good at distracting her, in the past...
     She settles back as best she can, chewing meditatively on her strip of bacon. It's about our child - well, when we go to have one. I was thinking about it the other night, and I want to wait until the first one is weaned, but ... apart from that, I want you to decide when.

     He looks at you, swallowing, and for that time no more food is shoved in to replace it (rather reminiscent to your earlier evening, if you stop to think about it), and he blinks at you, holding your gaze for that time. His expression softens. "Diolch," he murmurs his thanks in Welsh. Davydd nods. "Alright," he says easily. "Let's just ...call it now. Three years after your first child," with his child, "... from whatever date that ends up being, we'll," he smiles at you, "... conceive one of our own. Three's a good age. Gets you past weaning and past that... independence seeking period where every word is a shade of 'No'. Just when you miss when your child was small."
     Davydd stares at you. He is seeing you in the future, you can tell. There's a glint in his eye that will be that child someday. Green eyes focus on your midsection. His mouth twitches, sliding and slanting. He's trying not to give a toothy grin, somehow as paternal as it is predatorial, but he's only half-successful at hiding his obvious pleasure.
     The open robe isn't helping matters any...
     "You are going to make a very beautiful pregnant woman," he informs you, as if he's able to see the future. "I'll be here to rub your feet," he croons to you. "Almond oil on your belly to soften the skin. You will be so spoiled, you realize..."

     "Whenever you decide." Fiona smiles, though the smile goes lopsided, not quite shy but not quite serene, either. "Just ... I thought about it. And - I feel you should get that. Not just for evening things out, but because you're - well, you're you. I'm not saying it very well, am I."
     She gives her head a brief shake, looking down at her plate. Her fork wanders over the hills of eggs, selecting a place to dig in. She's hungry, and she's made some inroads already, but suddenly her concentration's wandering away from the food...
     "I'm probably going to curse both of you to Kensington and back," Fiona mutters, though she's blushing again, a hand coming up to swipe at a cheek as if to wipe colour away. "I'll be fat, and I'll have trouble walking, and my back will hurt. But I'm looking forward to it. I don't know why, but I am. And I'm ... looking forward to you informing me when you decide it's time."

     "Probably," Davydd chuckles, returning to the feast. "I'd be surprised if it were so short a trip as just to Kensington. Madagascar's more likely. Now," pausing to chew and swallow another bit, "...I've a favor to ask you...about your firstborn..."
     Taking a long draught of the draft, Davydd looks to what remains of the impromptu breakfast you've made. "Your firstborn will be the heir to Avalon after Rhodri," he notes. "The succession of my current kingdom won't run through me. It'd be too confusing. Our children, the ones you and I have together, however many that shall be, will have a different inheritance. For when I return to the Otherworld permanently once the century is done, I'll be ascending to high kingship. Of all the kingdoms from Eostarra to Avalon. High King Davydd. Your children of mine will be heirs to that crown, and to that responsibility."
     "But, back to your firstborn." It's a tender thing when he says it. There's a lot of emotion to the idea of it. Your first babe, his but by way of his son. It's not a sore subject in the slightest, mind you. Just one of emotional depth. "I know it may be difficult with your parents... I want the baby to be born at home, not in hospital. Whatever estate or property you and Rhodri purchase... I want it born there."

     Fiona listens, picking her way through her own food as she does so. High king? You'd made mention, but she was a bit distracted at the time. "I'm all in favour of making at least some things simpler," she murmurs. "I anticipate having four children sometime in the next ten years - two each, you know. That way, they can grow up together, fight together, see who does what best, they'll all do something best, I'm sure. And when they're old enough to fend for themselves, Rhodri can go back to being Kelly, or - well, whatever he'd like to do best, then. Who knows, maybe I'll be one of Davy's Girls, then." She flashes you a minx's smile.
     After all, she's already 'Davy's girl'...
     "Back to my firstborn," she echos you, watching you and shifting her plate away, wiping her mouth and her fingers. "I hadn't planned on having any of the babies in hospital, Davydd. I mean, think about it. Rhodri was born covered in tattoos. I've had tattoos just - appear on me, and that's been rather the least of it. I don't know what's going to happen to me or to any child coming out of my body, but I imagine it'd be safer for me and them and for all concerned if I don't go and have them where a bunch of medical practitioners can be amazed at the impossible things that happen. Rhodri's children might try to steal the doctor's wallet. Yours might try to seduce the nurse. Either way..."

     "God forbid the doctor spank it soon as say good morning. It might be born with knives," he chuckles. He's kidding, of course. In a manner of speaking. He seems relieved suddenly. "Good. I feel better. That said then, you don't need to worry about a nurse or nursemaid. I've delivered every child I've fathered." He pauses, cocking a smile. "Intentionally at any rate. You'll be in good hands..."
     "Besides," he quips, "I don't want another man with his hand up your vagina. So, good, we're clear then." Seeming satisfied, Davydd digs back into his food, making quick work of the eggs, the bacon decimated, the jam and toast is surely next.
     I like the idea of raising them together. It'll be easier when they're younger if they're siblings. At some point, they'd need to be told. But I'm all for not complicating it more than it needs to be. You'll be happy to know that twins don't run in my line, so you should be spared that.

     Fiona reddens again, picking up her water and gulping down about half of it at a go. "Bastard," she murmurs once she can speak again. "It'll be your hands near my vagina that'll lead to other parts and that'll lead to me giving birth." She sets the glass down, collecting her hair and pulling it back, tying it once into a simple knot that's out of her way. Then she leans forward, pushing her leftovers onto your plate.
     "You worked hard tonight," she quips, "so you need to eat and get your strength back. Way you are right now, I could tweak your nose and you wouldn't be able to catch up to me." Much.
     It'll also mean less wear and tear on me. I'm sure I'll love our children, Davydd, but the idea of motherhood still is a bit frightening to me. I can't help viewing it as somewhat something to do and get over with. With all these titles and kingdoms to take care of, I know there have to be children. I don't mind that. And ... it's strange, but it's a little bit of a turn-on, the thought of carrying your children. Fiona moves into the kitchen with her empty plates, putting them in the sink with a bit of soap and water, mental tone softening with the flavour of a semillion to richen it. Probably just me being all sentimental. But yes, raising them together will solve one set of problems, and noone's going to look at it too funny. More and they might.
     A small pause, and then, casually as she comes back out, wiping her hands on a towel, "Rhodri met my parents, you know. So I'm pretty sure my father also gave him the 'carrying on the Arundel line' speech. So the stuff on this side's all getting lumped together onto some poor child's head too. Though apparently daddy did give a cheque. I'll have to ask Rhodri later how much my father loves me."

     He makes a low whistle, "Money. I'm sure Rhodri loved that..."
     "I did, actually," Rhodri's voice is sudden from the hall. "And does anyone other than me realize that it's two in the morning? Oh look, breakfast, thank you, darlin..." He's dressed much as Davydd, but he had the forethought of tossing on some boxers, found somewhere in that pile of clothing they discarded. "And it was a big check, too. I'm getting aroused just thinking of it."
     "You would," Davydd cracks, sitting back. His plate nearly spotless. He takes the beer with him.
     Rhodri passes by, his steps slow as Davydd's but gathering strength. "What's on the menu, ooh, eggs and toast... thanks, sweetheart." His arms go around you as he bends, kissing you, and then going for a plate. He'll finish up the rest. "I'm surprised you're awake, and cooking too." Emerald eyes lock onto dark green. There's a smile that goes between them, but no words.
     "I better head to a bed in a room without windows," Davydd lilts. "Though..." he exhales. "...now I'm awake..." You've roused the beast. Oh what shall we do to pass the time into sleep? His mouth tugs to the side and his eyes sparkle darkly. Looking at the table, he spies the cigarette and lighter he tossed there before. That'll do for now. Lighting up, Davydd exhales smoke through mouth and nose, the great smoking dragon that he is.
     Rhodri returns to the living room with his own plate and a Boddingtons. "How are you?" he whispers to you, Fiona, as he takes a seat across from Davydd and next to you. Since the two of you have eaten, there's no need for him to wait...

     "Oh, you're awake." Fiona glances up with a smile. "I didn't mean for us to wake you up - you were passed out pretty hard." There is such a wealth of affection and adoration in that smile, giving to you both. It's strange, but it's right, and as long as it's right, who cares what the world would think... "I was just telling Davydd you met my parents and that daddy gave you a cheque, wondering how much my dear old father really loves me and all. He got to meet my mother," she explains parenthetically. As if it weren't obvious. "One thing you won't have to deal with, Davydd, until the wedding, and you can avoid her then..."
     She glances from one set of green eyes to another, eyebrows quirked curiously. What are you two up to now... that you have the energy to be up to anything...
     Roused the beast? Oh, dear - I fed the stray kitty and he followed me home, daddy, can I keep him? Fiona can't resist. The grin that parts her lips is slow and wide, and she laughs out loud, moving to sit very cautiously on the other couch. "Hope I made enough - I tried to guess how much would be enough, but if you're still hungry after, I can always make more. Do you own a waffle iron?"
     That has to go on the list of least romantic questions asked after a night of passion.
     Reclaiming her water, Fiona reclines back, eyes closing for a moment but smile remaining, dreamily present. "Mmm. Good. Sore. Turned on. Tired. Full. I am large; I contain multitudes. What about you, how are you feeling? After ... all of this ..."

     "Hungry," he answers, eyes going a bit wide. "Waffle iron?" He pauses to think about that. "I don't think so. Kitchen downstairs probably has one," the bar does serve food, afterall. "I tend to be a pancake man," he explains in a lordly tone, a tone that makes Davydd chuckle on the sofa. "Nah, you weren't loud. I smelled food."
     Something going on? Who? Us? Davydd wears an innocent expression as he smokes the cigarette, the smoke creating a kind of halo. As if he'd ever have a real one. "Maybe I should dance with your mother," Davydd smirks. "She sounds like she could use a little lightening up..."
     "Fuck, you'd have to dance her over a landmine for her to lighten up," Rhodri mulls out after a swallow of Boddingtons. "Her father's a good chap. For an Englishman. Just wants me to make her happy." He winks as he looks from his father to you, Fiona. "How'm I doin' so far?" he lilts out.

     "Eat if you're hungry." Fiona doesn't jab elbows this time; instead, she just sprawls back against the cushions, luxuriating in the aches that have settled into her muscles. "I feel vaguely like I did after my first - and only - steeplechase. Although with rather fewer bramble bushes and less nesting material ending up in my hair. The strap on my helmet broke," she explains airily, "and, well ... you both know what sorts of things go on around me."
     Can you imagine the havoc that an adolescent version of Fiona might have caused at a steeplechase? It must have been a sight...
     Yes, you. She eyes one male, then the other, then shrugs. She doesn't care. She smiles slowly, the expression growing larger and larger, closing her eyes. "Mmm," she says throatily. "I'll have to keep a scorecard. Quarterly and annual performance reviews. Goals met and unmet. And daddy's a nice man for any sort - or have you two forgotten that I'm an Englishwoman?" Fiona sits up suddenly, reaching over to poke this time. "Do you two have a problem with that?"

     "Fucking the English is one thing," Davydd quips with a flash of a grin, thorny edge to the extra canines showing just slightly.
     "Having tea with them is something else," Rhodri chuckles, leaning away from the poking. You're too sexy to be English. Or at least sexy enough for us to overlook it.
     Bastards.
     "I think," Davydd leans forward, stamping out the cigarette, "I should get into bed so I don't explode when the sun rises in a few hours. And so you don't have to try to move me. I think I'm going to sleep like the dead." He cackles at that. Ha, riot.
     Rhodri nods, another swallow of the beer. "Good idea. I'd hate to have to try to get the ash out of the carpet. See you tomorrow night?" He knows that once Davy's out, he's out for the day most likely.
     Davydd nods, smiling down to both of you. "Aye," he murmurs, rising, gathering the robe to him. With a bend, Fiona, he kisses you. "Good night, love." The kiss lacks the wildness, the bite, the consumptive fire of before, but still there is that taste of cinnamon and clove, the smoky resin of it, as it pulls upon your lips, sucking the taste of jam from them and then parts. "Night, boyo," he rattles gently to Rhodri, hand in his hair as he moves past.
     "Night, Davy-bach..." Rhodri says, turning to watch him go. And then his eyes go to you, Fiona. He smiles at you. What a night.

     Both hands go up to the sides of one husband's face, pulling down to prolong the kiss for just a moment. Bastard. I love you. Sleep well and don't dream about any other women tonight or I'll beat you while you're sleeping. There's the release, the sigh, the smile, and she settles back again on the couch. She can't seem to stop smiling...
     Reaching over, she takes your hand in her own, much smaller one. "So," Fiona murmurs. "That was ... one hell of a night, Rhodri ap Owain. I don't know how we're going to ever top this with a mundane wedding, though I imagine we'll try and fail happily. You two both ... words fail me." She shakes her head, grip tightening for a moment and then loosening, but not letting go.
     "I hope your public coronation is going to be a little tamer?" One eyebrow cocks up at you, tone cheeky. "As it's not going to be at Betty's..."

     Rhodri grins. It's a look both fond and wicked. "Depends on if someone switches the mead with apple cider." Emerald eyes widen a touch, his voice smooth and low as he leans in for a kiss of his own. It is sweet, plucking. "I'll see what I can do to... make your wedding night memorable..."
     "As for the coronation," he brings your hand to his mouth. "It will be before the court of Avalon. We will also announce our engagement, I think. Might as well have a feast and celebration while we're there. I'm sure we can ...arrange for another...marriage bed," the three of us, "... moment. Perhaps in the silver waters of the spiral river. Beneath the moonlight."
     He leans in again, the kiss this time fuller, wider. He makes a sound against your mouth. "It is as it should be," Rhodri murmurs there. "Now... it feels right and complete." His hand strokes the side of your face. "We love you. You love us. We need not keep this," the love in triplicate, "...for special occasions. We are married. It is as simple as that."

     "I'm saving the apple cider," Fiona retorts, "for a special occasion. After all, what would happen if someone got hold of it who wasn't either of you? Though it would certainly be a ... memorable coronation." She sighs against your mouth, a hand going to the nape of your neck, touching there and falling away.
     "Alright," Fiona agrees as you take her hand, smiling to you, smiling at you. "Mother's probably having our engagement here run in the papers, you know. Expect phone calls. I've got my calls being screened." For the thought of the image you invoke, there's a shudder, and she makes a small sound before you even kiss her. She shifts closer, closing her eyes.
     "Never knew being married would be so much fun," Fiona murmurs to you lazily. "Aren't we supposed to stop having sex now? I mean ... married. Isn't it against the cosmic laws or something? Though I'd miss it..." Her arms go up to wrap round your neck, and she chuckles, low, in the back of her throat. "Oh, that reminds me... I'm leaving a week from Friday for a couple of weeks. Just a bit of business to deal with. Thought you'd like to know."
     And then, of course, one hand snakes down to your hip and she leans forward, moving up onto her knees, bumping lips and rubbing noses, nipping at your lips with hers as she kisses you. "But I can give you a going away present..."

Posted by rowan at December 23, 2004 10:06 PM