"What a day, what a day..." Fiona's half-saying it, half-singing it to herself as she takes the stairs up from the alley to the flat. Three days gone, and then she'd returned to London, to the relative sanctity of her own flat, showering and changing her clothes. Gone are the queenly robes and gone is the London punk, though the outfit she's changed into isn't so far removed from the latter. It's club gear, plain and simple - or perhaps not so plain and simple, considering...
     The black tanker boots tuk-tuk on the steps, silver buckles shining as if just given a coat of polish, climbing up along her calves almost to her knees. She's got on a black latex miniskirt, a flash of cherry red at either hip, paired with a matching cherry red top that leaves both shoulders and her midriff bare but otherwise is skin-tight, sleeves extending down to her wrists. Printed on the front is a black cat curled up with one yellow eye open, the words 'Naughty Kitty' in silver arcing above it. There's a black leather collar around her throat, and her hair is at its full length with a thick fringe over her forehead - but bleached white except for a single streak of that cherry colour in the fringe.
     Maybe she's having an allergic reaction to spending three days as a queen...
     She knocks first, then puts her key in the lock, giving it a twist and pushing the door open. "Anyone home? Housekeeping. I brought you a present..." And, to judge by the satchel at her side, it isn't even the outfit. Maybe Fiona's feeling a little ... guilty...

     He's spending less and less time downstairs these days and nights. Just doing what needs to be done for Kelly's retirement from the world for a while. Kelly himself has been buoyant and celebrated, with a party that happened, in fact, while you were gone. Just a show of appreciation by the waitresses and Llew, the Heir Apparent. There's a bigger one planned for his last night behind the bar. Free drinks on the house.
     There's music playing -- he's showing his age: it's Love And Rockets. But there's also sounds coming from the kitchen -- running water and now the sound of his voice. "Hello? Do I know you?" he's laughing then, and soon enough you have a vision of the Black Jack Davy in what the Davy would wear now, if he were still terrorizing the countryside -- a pair of vintage jeans and a black shirt, Docs on his feet and his hair cut. The overall length is short at the nape but the length in the front has been left. He has fringes of his own. He pulls out his phone, and, grinning, talks into it as he looks at you. "Thanks for calling. I was beginning to wonder if you were coming back or if we were going to have one of those Hollywood romances where it's all phone calls an vignettes, like You've Got Mail. Or sommat." Smartass. He winks and tosses the phone to the nearby chair cushion and takes a look at you.
     "Mm... so... looks like you have plans." A look to the satchel. "Did you do some more shopping? I did a bit myself..." Rhodri shadows you, his hands at your latexed hips. He kisses you suddenly, the sort that makes one wonder why one ever left in the first place and then he leans back to take another look at you. "I love it," he murmurs. "And the hair, nice. Red and white. My colors. You completely should have." Hands grasp your hips (reminiscent of a recent day?) and he pulls you flush to him. There is a physical sign that you have been missed.
     "And I love you." A hand smacks the latex. "So ...the outfit's present enough ... do I get to unwrap you now or later?"

     "Mmm, you look good." Fiona's eyes widen appreciatively as you, folding her arms over her chest and giving a mock-pout as you address the phone. "Plans are negotiable, though. I thought we might go out and paint the town red, but you know, I'm flexible." As you well do know. You have flexed her often enough.
     You approach her, and she holds her ground - for all that you're looking at her, she's looking right back, arms unfolding and going up to your shoulders as your hands go to her hips, and the kiss... "Mmm," she murmurs as you pull her close. "Glad you like it. I got it with you in mind, yeah - I got back this morning. Got a lot accomplished a lot faster than I'd expected, so ... I won't be going away for a little bit."
     Not forever, but for a while...
     One knee bends forward slightly, and she leans up against you, arms going around your neck. "I forget what I was going to say," Fiona complains, starting slightly as your hand comes against her. "When you kiss me like that, you can't expect me to actually remember shite! As for unwrapping, I should probably be contrary, but I actually feel fairly mellow." She's almost Drancy...
     Her arms tighten around your neck a moment, and then she releases you, moving to free herself. "I like the hair," Fiona admits. "I might keep it for a little while. Maybe cut it a little shorter - mid-back, so I don't sit on it and give myself whiplash. But you... you look ... really good." She looks you up and down again. "I mean ... mmm. I almost wish I'd worn the other outfit I'd been considering getting instead."

     "I thought it might be time for a change," he says. "I was... inspired," the smile makes its way across his face like a thieving gallop. "I do have plans for you, but they require that we stay in. Would you be disappointed?" The question is asked against your mouth, and then he draws back to look again. "I really like the hair. I ...would like to see you keep it for a while. You're... a queen after my own heart. Besides, we look fucking," you're pulled in again, a squeeze that follows the measure of those syllables, "...great together." He grins. "I missed you but I understand... next time... try to see me in person before you go. I didn't even get a goodbye kiss or hug..."
     Such a protest. It is coupled by a glint of a wink -- a wink before a wink is born. "What's in the bag?" One hand holds you securely against him -- you're not going anywhere, little missy -- while his other reaches for the bag. He's quite dextrous, but you knew that already. "Hmm? Is it animal, vegetable or mineral?" Rhodri laughs, his mouth teasing kiss.

     "Mmm..." Fiona sighs it, draws it out, a pleased, tasting sort of sound as you hold her to you. "I think I could count myself as persuaded. I'll keep the hair for a bit, at least. I like it too - you must've been inspiring me more even than usual." She nuzzles in against your shoulder, curving contentedly close to you. "I missed you, too. But I really did get a lot done. Worked out a lot of things that needed to be settled - now I'll just need to concentrate on wedding plans for a bit, and scheduling the other wedding."
     Her hand comes up to play with your hair in front, your reverse-mullet. "You really - I mean, if you'd shown up at the school when I was in school, you could've led me anywhere, do you know that? If you looked as you do now, I mean." Fiona shakes her head admiringly. "I would've been eating out of your hand. Well. If I could've gotten up the nerve to talk to you. Probably I just would've looked from a safe distance..."
     You get hold of the bag easily, even though she squirms a bit for form's sake. "No fair! Well, alright, if you're going to be like that about it." A hand slaps against your shoulder, her other hand going to your ribs in an effort to tickle. "Bastard," she challenges, grin lopsided. "I love you..."
     The bag contains coals to Newcastle - it's a bottle of Chambord seated cozily next to a still-cold bottle of cream. Nestled in the bag with them is a disposable camera, and an envelope taped shut. "Go on, let go and you can open it," Fiona murmurs, nudging at you again.

     If he were ticklish, he'd never admit it. He's too cool to be ticklish. But he bites down on his lower lip and lets you go after another wrestling moment. "I love you, too. And if I'd met you in school, I'd have been arrested. Happy," he grins, "...but arrested." His own hand makes its own grab for you, just a parting shot.
     The bag is set on the counter and unpacked item by item. "A bottle of Chambord. Cold cream." Emerald eyes flicker to you. "Sounds decadent. And a camera...this'll come in handy later. I'll be able to capture the look on your face when I give you your own present. And... what's this?" A sealed envelope? "Did Miss Scarlet kill Colonel Mustard in the Drawing Room?"
     Rhodri nods to the Chambord and cream -- Make us a drink -- as his fingers go to open the sealed envelope. You can see he's intrigued by all of this. He likes mysteries and puzzles. But then, what pick-pocketing, safecracking thief doesn't?
     "I think we're going to be in for a long, luxurious night. And god knows I need it. I'm not used to celibacy anymore. It sucks."

     She's released, face flushed but with a grin in place, and obediently she moves into the kitchen to get hold of a couple of glasses and a silver spoon. "I almost wish I /had/ met you in school, but I was a very different person then. Probably wouldn't have quite been your type. Pre-rebellion, you know." The glasses are set up along the counter with careful hands as she moves into position.
     "That's what the camera is for - well, partly. You'll see. Though I want a picture of you the way you look right now, it'll keep me warm on nights when I'm all alone." Not that there will be many of those if you have your way and Davydd has his. The white fringe lowers as she looks down to begin picking loose the plastic seal on the bottle. "Open it and find out. Or maybe Miss White," her, "will kill Captain Crimson," you, "with a bottle in the living room..."
     While she pours a generous amount of Chambord into the two glasses, the envelope is easily opened. In it is a bill of sale for what appears to be a Triumph Tiger in a colour called Lucifer Orange with after-market modifications and detailing - and a set of keys.
     So ... she must either feel really guilty, or have been planning this for a while...
     "You two got me hooked on a number of things," Fiona murmurs, floating the cream over the back of the spoon, watching it trickle into the glasses one at a time. "A lack of celibacy is just one, you know. So, are we ordering in again, or not worrying about food for the foreseeable future?" How terribly nonchalant she is. If only she weren't watching you so closely, even if covertly.

     Keys chime in an unplayed song that may find its way to a piano someday but must at the moment content itself with dangling from a male muse's fingers. He picture of the car is held in his other hand and an eyebrow quirks up. "Mrs. Robinson. Are you trying to seduce me? What's this? And don't say: It's a car, what does it look like. You ... can't be serious." He is smiling, but peering at you.
     You are serious aren't you. Hell of a gift. You must have really missed me. You know... you don't need to lavish me with gifts... but... I'm not about to look a gift Triumph in the mouth. It's going to be quite the night for... high-tech presents. There's no way we can stay in now...
     "Is it parked outside?" A crimson eyebrow lifts, not that you can see it behind the bangs that well. "Captain Crimson," he grins, "... I like that. I think it should stick. So... I think we should ... go for a spin, drive fast, a little autoerotica and then come home for your own present. It's not for ... public consumption. But I think you'll like it..."
     Rhodri grins, flashing the picture at you and putting it on the counter, the dangling keys are pocketed. "Besides, you look too good to stay inside all night. It's not fair," he leans in and plants one on you. "Is it," he murmurs close. "To keep such a beautiful queen indoors when she's clearly dressed for dancing..."

     "Parked outside," Fiona confirms with a smug grin. "Down in the alley. And let me tell you, I must've presented a hell of a sight, driving it here." She looks up from underneath that thick white fringe - even her eyebrows and eyelashes match, making her look somehow almost Asian - and slides your drink over to you. "I had ... some rather phenomenal success with my business," the mortal business as well, "and I was tempted by the idea of being snug up behind you with my arms around your waist... so you see, it's really for me as much as it is for you..."
     After all, it isn't as if you're going to be picking up other girls with it...
     She picks up her own drink, leaning back against the counter and saluting you with her glass. I missed you so much that I was tempted to walk up to you and do a package check on you, comes the nonverbal retort as the glass goes to her lips. I know I don't need to buy you things. But I like to. The people I love, I want to do nice things for. And saying yes to you isn't going to be enough to last us the rest of our lives, as long as we intend to live.
     Fiona takes a healthy swallow of her drink, cheeks going a bit pink again. "Autoerotica, huh. You know, you're a wicked man and I love you dearly." The glass is set aside as you lean in, and she lifts a hand to your cheek in caress. "Mm, dancing could be fun too. I'm in a strange mood," she murmurs back to you, sliding closer. "The sort of mood where I want you to take me someplace rude and wait for some drunk git to hit on me so I can see you pound him into the ground. Or maybe just make out with you on the dance floor until you're one step away from throwing me up against the wall and having me right there in public. Or maybe just get a leash and clip it onto my collar and drag me out for all my teasing..."

     He laughs at the package check. "If I'd known that, I would have tied a bow around it. But, as such, it is undecorated. Apart from the usual, that is. And I'm glad to see your business is booming. I'm not sure what to do with such things when I haven't pinched them myself..." his voice trails off as he takes his glass. The drink is sipped and then downed -- so it's going to be like that, then -- and he sets the empty on the bar. "But I suppose I'll get used to it..."
     The smile is broad and blithe as he leans forward into the touch of your hand, "You want to go out dancing... we can go," Rhodri murmurs. "I'd hate the outfit to be wasted. But not Betty's. We've been there, done that. There's a new place I've heard of... just opened in an old theater not far from the South Waterfront. It's ... not strictly BDSM. Mostly dance or house music, it's supposed to be Tokyo street...baby dolls and anime and wild drinks...sound...interesting...?"
     His hands land on your hips again and he pulls you to him, mouth cutting a wide smile. "I think you'd be a smash. And maybe you'd get your wish to see me thrash someone for your account. Though I'd hate to get arrested. I don't want to break my winning streak. And then," a kiss, "...we return here and I... give you your gifts." Plural at that. "I think you will like them."

     Gifts? There's the glint of curiosity in her eyes - but she'll wait. She'll have to, won't she? She draws her hand back, tracing the edge of her nails lightly against your cheek. They're not cut as short as usual, but they're still not what most people would call long - slightly tapered, gently rounded, rather than squared off or claw-like. Unpainted, as if paint on them would just be too much.
     "Well, if you want, we could return it and then you could go steal it for yourself," Fiona offers, her arms going up and around your neck as you pull her close. "I'm game for trying a new place if you want. Sounds good to me... knowing you, there's more you're not telling me, but I'm learning to like surprises..."
     It seems to all be a matter of who's dishing them out...
     There's another small sound for the kiss, and Fiona leans in to seal her mouth against yours demandingly for a moment. Kiss and kiss back, tit for tat. "Let me finish my drink and then I'm ready whenever you are. I was going to get you leathers to go with the bike, but I didn't know your size."

     The Triumph was a streak of Lucifer orange as he drove like the Devil from The Strand and took the long and scenic route through the City to the South Waterfront, past Gabriel's Wharf and Waterloo, past the ferris wheel (which he promised to take you on after a few drinks -- hold him to it), and past a lot of modern glass structures, the sort of which attract such clubs as Mitaro...
     Very new...
     Very upscale...
     Very International...
     Very freaky...
     It is not one of those wharfside throwbacks, hidden away like Betty's in a warehouse with a plain door. Sure, those at Betty's want to be seen, but only really by their circle. Those who come to Mitaro want to be seen by Everyone. There is a variety of those who come here. Rich, middle-class hopefuls, those from Japan who have resettled here (they make up the majority) and the Youth into House and Techno, into "Tokyo Street" fashion, baby dolls and technicolor anime princesses.
     In other words, doll, you fit right in...
     So does the man on the Triumph...
     There's a valet for the Triumph, it is led away rather than ridden, a tip given now -- another will be later. When you left the house, he was in jeans and a t-shirt... somewhere along the way, when the Triumph streaked like a fiery comet through the London streets, denim was joined by haute couture plucked from the creative universe -- a pinstripe blazer over two layered, thin tees, the outer a red and white screenprint of Welsh poetry (his own, in fact), the straight and long forelocks naturally scarlet-auburn -- needing no embellishment.
     There's a line to get in but you don't have to wait for it. One of the benefits to being married to a male muse, the Triumph and the way the two of you are dressed provides a front row ticket. His arm goes around you, pulling you into the darkened club lit by the fish-tanks (large enough for jellyfish displays, creating a living, breathing psychedelia) and girls with neon trays. It's all color and sound with the latest Japanese pop remixed into a House sound. There are pockets of booths and tables, interspaced among several dance-floors. Looks like a giant DDR virtual reality booth. All over.

     The air is cold when driving at maniac speeds, and even if she didn't already want to hang on tight, she hangs on the tighter for your warmth. Not that she didn't want to - you'd have to peel her off with a paint chipper, her face buried into the back of your neck, eyes closed for the most part as she luxuriated in the scent of you and of the whipped air. Her hands are firm around your waist, confident that her grip can't possibly be too tight for your solid form...
     She's been a bit out of the club scene lately, too busy with business and popping between worlds and planning weddings. The only clubbing she's been doing this past bit has been with you, which means mostly to Betty's. The change of scene is not unwelcome. It's different, anyway, and she could probably use a break...
     A toss of her head is all she needs to get her hair to fall back into place as she slides off the Triumph, grabbing hold of your hand a moment as if for balance and laughing. "The lady or the Tiger?" But you have both. You know it. She knows it. This is not a battle that has to be fought and won. And apparently, neither is the line - such advantages. Fiona's lips curve up at the edges, widening as your arm circles her and pulls her along. She should've worn sunglasses - but the look is complete enough. She looks around, in ten directions at once or as close to it as she can, keeping up with you more due to your arm than anything else.
     "I feel like you must've slipped me a tab," Fiona mutters with a halfway grin, boots enjoyably solid to her as she moves along with you. "Be funny if I ran into anyone I knew, but I'm too out of it for it to be likely. So. Drinks first?"

     "I think that's supposed to be the effect.... of course, some are probably... fairly tabulated, if that's the word for it," he says at your ear. There are two large and semi circular bars (also with sushi offerings), well lit with several bartenders tending -- all of them busy. Waitresses pass by, gathering glowing martinis on flying saucer trays, each one wearing a completely unique (and equally outrageous) uniform. One, a stewardess from the 60s. Another, Judy Jetson. And so on.
     A hand takes your hand and he leads you (will you always let him lead you?) passed the dipping, sweet-faced waitresses. Davy's Girls are so... country compared to these girls! But at least the man you're with has the good sense not to get whiplash. Davydd on the other hand ...
     "Tokyo bomber," Rhodri says, he turns to you, "I hear that's the drink of drinks. Want to try it? Make that two," he goes ahead and orders for you. Of course you want to try it. His arms surround you as he presses up against you. You're surrounded from behind. Like he's your coat. "One drink, then we dance... before we get too sauced," his tongue flicks your ear. "Or too distracted."
     His hands slip to your hips, pulling you back in a teasing tug as the drinks are prepped. A platinum card is handed to start a tab, accepted with a pleasant nodding bow.
     The Tokyo Bomber is a tall fluted cocktail, neon pink with swirled marshmallowy white liqueur swirled through it. Or at least that's what it looks like. It's a liqueur to be sure, and definitely sweet. Intoxicating? Are you kidding? Two of those and you might jump up to dance on one of the fish-tanks...

     If you did whiplash, she'd just smack you with her palm and get on with her life. But then, she's not jealous the way she used to be. Funny how that works. She laughs as you take her hand, for no reason at all, really, giving your hand a squeeze.
     "Being so commanding," Fiona murmurs, almost coyly. She started out a bit ... excited and excitable, and it's only going higher. You get a glimmering blue-eyed glance from beneath those white bangs, and she leans slightly forward for a moment as you press against her, then back against you as your arms go around her, and she lets you take her weight. "Mmm," she sighs. "You distract me plenty. Bastard. Captain Crimson..."
     The drink arrives, and white eyebrows lift. She picks it up, peering at it from varying angles, then takes a sip, then a swallow. "What's in this? It's decadent, but not the sort of decadence I usually major in." Not that she's waiting to find out. She takes another swallow, settling herself at a more elegant angle, a fingertip tracing along your wrist. "So how much did you miss me?" She's all over the place tonight...

     The drink is a rush of strawberry, or is it cotton candy, or is it some indescribable but thoroughly Japanese flavor that can be said to be, simply, Japanese? It's a confluence of berries and sweetness, frothiness and whipped wonder...
     Rhodri blinks at it and takes another sip before chuckling at your ear. "I think I'm going to pass on another. Here, you finish mine. It's... way too sweet. But I'd like to see if the double bomber rumor is true." Arms surrounding you, Rhodri looks over to the bartender. "Sake menu?"
     It appears upon request as the bar turns to another flurry of activity. Rhodri takes a quick look and then scoots it back.
     "Imperial Lotus," he says. "They do specialize in sake infusions and that I will try. No more... bombers for me. But you should really drink them both."
     He's not waiting until you hit the dancefloor to move, though the motions are subtle. As you stroke a finger along his wrist, the hounds rush against your own skin (magical sight would allow a view of it, were it not so otherworldly lit in here), and bringing with them a warmth bursting from the inside of you.
     "You'll see, darlin," Rhodri chuckles, "...you'll see." It has that ...timbre to it. That sound that lingers in his throat. He reaches over taking his sake (the Imperial Lotus is a three-shot concoction of flavored sakes). The golden is sipped. The pink is shot. The clear is savored on the tongue like brandy.
     "Later, trust me... I will show you how much I missed you. Besides... I still owe you for the voice mail..."

     It curls in her stomach, and she leans a little forward against the edge of the bar, one foot en pointe - well, as much as the boot allows. She's well aware of what she looks like, and she darts a glance at you to see if you're looking. "I like sweet drinks," Fiona murmurs, taking another swallow from hers and lining your tasted one up behind it. "Knew I should've made you take me to dinner first. Bastard. Trying to get me drunk so you can take advantage of me."
     As if you needed to...
     What you say is as intoxicating as what you do and easily the match of the alcohol. Fiona acts nonchalant, turning so that her back is against the bar and she is on display to you and to anyone watching. She picks her drink back up, lips pursed before the swallow. "I'll see, huh. You know, for a poet, you're not being very eloquent," she dares. "Cat got your tongue? Or you prefer to be all mysterious..."
     There, one drink gone - faster than she usually drinks. She's reckless tonight, a certain strut in her attitude, as if taunting you with her self as she takes up the second drink - though doesn't drink it so fast as the first. "Oh, the voice mail?" Fiona isn't able to be quite as nonchalant, though she attempts to pass it off with a blithe shrug. "I figured you'd be busy. I didn't want you to worry, after all. But if you say I owe you... hmm. Do you take cheques?"

     "You will pay," he murmurs -- and yes... he was looking, "...but you will pay in moans, the coin and currency of dissolving flesh," you wanted poetry? Are you certain about that? His mouth plucks the straw of your drink -- too agile, it is too agile -- and he steals a drink (even though it's too sweet) and he plucks at the pucker of your mouth --- too deft, he is too deft -- grinning there.
     I know. I was not angry. As if you should think otherwise. He interrupts another drink with a kiss. Why are you drinking so slowly? He teases beneath your skin. Don't you want to dance? Cruel! Well, you knew he was a scoundrel when you decided to marry him.
     The music is perfect after one or two of those bombers. It's a confection of sound and beats. A hand lands at your waist, and regardless of the drink you hold in your hand, Rhodri begins to draw you forwards, he moving backwards. It would be a tango with the right music. Possession. You are pulled to him, flush, no space between you as he guides you to the anime-designed dancefloor...

     Cheeks abruptly go as red as any apple, her hand tightening a moment about the hold of the glass, eyes widening a moment as she looks at you, giving you ample time to lean in to drink and then to kiss. It's the kiss that recalls her to her senses - or some semblance of them; she's far too excitable tonight, energies erratic and dispersing with each new target for them. And it's all your fault...
     If you keep kissing me, the only dancing I'm going to want to do is back home. Bastard. As if you didn't know. For as tart as the thought is, it isn't meant, not truly, and she turns away in order to finish the drink. Your hand at her waist makes those blue eyes widen again, and she sets her glass down to turn towards you, drawn ineluctably, inescapably in your wake.
     Arise, o sun, and slay the inconstant moon ... Fiona ignores the skittering of her emptied glass along the bar, eyes lifting to yours, hands to your shoulders. "So maybe I should've gone with the djinn costume after all, huh?"

     "I prefer you in your skin," his mouth is at your ear, the dance to the dancefloor is one of close-quarters, the melding of two bodies as far as clothing will allow. But you can feel him, the thin veneer of fabric cannot hope to hold the magic behind it, unfelt. Or the strength of the physique beneath it. Or its warmth. "Wearing the red fabric of a blush... that is all I need... no beaded gowns but you in your natural perfection..."
     You started it. You wanted poetry. You had to egg him on...
     His arms surround you, and in the quick-tempo music you and he move this way and that. Your white-blonde-red-streaked hair floating outward, displaying his colors like a pennant. His own moving with you.
     Rhodri's hands lift from your hips to frame your face, to bring it to him in a kiss that dances as surely as your joining bodies. Open mouthed, he breathes, kisses, sings to you in Welsh that has little to do with the blaring Japanese pop, but somehow manages to fit it nonetheless.
     "You are what I want, what I want, what I want right now..." The words are swallowed by crushing mouths, the only sound you make is muffled by your lover. Isn't this what you wanted, what you said in the kitchen above the bar. But who will want to leave the club first? Or will you even make it that far?

     She already wants to leave the club, to be able to be peeled out of the PVC and everything else, to put your poetry into practice. Practical poetry... what a concept...
     "Wicked," Fiona murmurs, words spoken as if counterpart to your poetry, the backbeat rhythm. "Rogue. Villainous knave..." Her hand glides against your shoulder dreamily, touching as if the music were hardly there at all. She's aware that there's an entire club of people, but it's like being aware of gravity; you don't have to think about it for it to exist.
     Her words are silenced quite effectively by your kisses, her head bobbing slightly up and down even as her eyes drift towards being closed. Between two Tokyo Bombers and your words and your kisses, Fiona is going nowhere that she is not led, wrists balanced on your shoulders as if they are all that is keeping her upright, that and your grip on her hips, on her face. Probably some of the clubgoers are wondering what you put in her drinks - or how much she charges, and if it's by the hour or the half-hour...
     Rhodri ... Even mentally, her voice is intoxicated, the taste of the drink laced through it, with the taste of ginger and aloe. Her hand slips down to your hip, a finger looping into the belt of your denim and tugging lazily. Mmm... master me ... The blue eyes close, though she keeps moving, keeps upright, holding onto you as if she were being moved by the currents of air and the beat of the music, animated by nothing else.

     There is the smile, that smile. He doesn't need to touch you to claim you. He doesn't need to kiss you to possess you. But he kisses you. And in that kiss, he lifts you. Master you, you say? The kiss draws you in. With a sunburst against the darkness of your closed eyes, your Oak King shows himself. Rays of light and heat radiate with you.
     ...There is Avalon...
     But where he is there is only apple. Ancient, flowering boughs, with the blossoms dripping on the river of your blood, each drip-drop creates a shudder electric. He is there in naked wonder, red carvings swirling on his skin, on the rigid thickness extending in that vision -- the carvings echoed on each and every trunk of each and every tree...
     Do you even notice when you and he pause at the bar. A platinum card collected and small tab (with an enormous tip) settled. Such mundanity -- the minutia of minutia, commerce and trade and simple mortal motion. But such a commotion you are making. You made an entrance, and now you're making a hell of an exit...
     Cool wind soothes the heat of Summer from his kiss, the embrace parted, you are set with your feet back on terra firma -- ah, but with a balancing arm there to support you. More cash trades hands and keys to the Triumph are returned.
     But there is the residue of honey on your mouth...
     Sweetness thick there, with the humming of poetry...
     The lightning thrill of Inspiration that surges...
     The memory of the apple orchards...
     Come on, baby... let's go home... it's time...

     All she wants right now is you, all she wants is to see you, touch you, feel you, be held by you. It shows, it is palpable in every little twitch of movement, every little shudder of breath. And when you kiss her again...
     There is a not so quiet sound, a sharp little cry as if you'd bitten her, though you know that sound. It is not one of pain. Quite the opposite, in truth. She clings to you a moment longer, eyes open and lips slightly parted, cheeks flushed and all in all, noone would be surprised if you had your own little X Doll. Ecstasy girl...
     Who needs drug when magic is so much cheaper and better?
     She is in a daze on the way out, holding onto you without noticing anything except the flickering afterimages on her retinas, the glow of visions and the ambient heat of Summer that you possess. She is going through the motions of the real world right now, but her body is on autopilot, she isn't at the controls. Fiona is home, but she isn't answering the door. She is lost in You and can't find her way out, Oak King. Of course, she isn't looking very hard at all, is she?
     You set her down as the Triumph returns - the lady or the tiger. She does want to go home, though right now, she wouldn't care how or where or what. Fiona nods dumbly, then sighs, resting her head on your shoulder, speaking in a far away little voice.
     "There was a goddess - Hindu, I think. Or from the Tibetan Buddhists. Who rode upon a tiger, with a saddle made of her murdered husband's skin. She killed him because he wouldn't convert to the religion to which she'd converted. A demon goddess. I think your skin is safe, Rhodri. I'd much rather have you on the Tiger with me..."

     "There is only one goddess for me," Rhodri intones, lifting you, placing you upon the bike as if you shall be the one driving -- he would not be that reckless, not now. He straddles the bike, giving himself to you as he does so. There is a gift of a moment where he sits, where you can grab as you will.
     He'll give you that much...
     Hold on, dear heart... we are about to fly. The engine starts and the world peels away. Colors streaming pasts you are like the rays of his own light. It is as if moving through London were moving through Him. You are sure you are on the street, or are you sure at all, that you are driving and not really flying. The traffic rules don't seem to apply. There are ships that move through Avalon, along the rivers you saw your Other Husband create. A clipper ship bears you to the Oak King. Bears you to him where he is waiting...
     But that journey can't be completed tonight, not even tonight when you are in his bed. For that image, that dream you see is the ship that shall carry you to him. Not on a stag through the forest, but on a mighty ship blown to its destination by the breath of each Prince of the Wind...
     The motor stops in an alley, roaring to a whisper to a silent grumbling sigh. We're home...ready to get off? He must mean the bike. Surely he means the bike...

     Fiona slides her hands along you, around you, then moves close, a sigh escaping her. It is comfortable. It is heart-expanding. She wants to be close to you - wordlessly so, as close as she's so often told Davydd, to get into your skin, to swim in you. That will have to wait. Those small hands ruck at your shirt, then settle, holding on tightly.
     Everything seems to lead to visions, of late, and everything is surreal. Her reality has been replaced by the fantastic, and she never wants it to stop...
     Double entendres? Rhodri, I expected better. Fiona blinks. Home, so soon? She's still on the bike, still holding onto you, half tempted to ask you to carry her. The question lingers, unasked, and then she slides from the back of the bike, still pink with wind and desire and poetry and alcohol. "I don't know why you buy me drinks anymore. You go straight to my head."
     She moves for the stairs with a darting burst of speed, then begins to ascend. There's a pause a third of the way up where she glances at you over her shoulder with a coquettish toss of her hair, and then she resumes, movements languid, a roll of her hips on each step. No looking up my skirt, now...

     There is laughter behind you...
     The sound of his steps...
     The breathing...
     The heart-beat presence of magic, of power...
     Since you're in such a hurry... when you get in the bedroom, remove your clothing. Everything but the boots. Keep the boots on.
     You wanted to be mastered, didn't you...
     You've run ahead, but he's quietly caught up to you. Oh, little doe, he is a most persistent hound. The tinkling bells -- the sound of his keys chiming as they are removed from his pocket are loud in the otherwise quiet of the private stairway in the back of the bar, the stair way that leads directly to his room.
     I buy you drinks because I like to spend money on you. I like to watch you drink. Your mouth moves around a straw with real style. The door is unlocked and he grins, his hand landing roughly against your latexed rump. "I hope you like it," he says at your ear, his mouth covering your nape as the door is opened.

Posted by rowan at January 02, 2005 02:32 PM