Feet move quietly and quickly over the runner of carpet that ribbons and winds its way through the house. Pins are drawn out of oak-blonde tresses, allowing heavy locks coils to slip away and down, past shoulders in a tumbling fall along her spine. The house is quiet; the master and mistress of it may be in attendance, but they are in isolation. No doubt below-stairs tongues are wagging as much as they ever have, about the young lady of the house and now, her beau...
     The door of the Blue Room is opened, a slender hand drawing it closed again from behind. The diamante heels are slipped off and kicked into a corner with more haste than gentleness, the lock engaged behind her as she makes her way across antique blue carpets with white roses to the diamond-paned windows. Fresh air!
     Clasps are undone (as they may be soon in other places), and the window is thrown outwards-open. Fiona leans forward against the sill, dropping an elbow as she peers out at the darkened sky. "I should really be wearing something more archaic for this," she says aloud. "How Romeo and Juliet, or Lady of Shallot, or something. Nice moon for it, though." The stars are almost visible, this far from London's seeming eternal glow...

     There is a nice moon...
     And a clear sky to go with it...
     The freckled sky has turned its face to you, Once and Future Queen, and with a light, smiling breeze. Can you see the grin of the wind? You have, after all, employed them...
     There are few birds that sing at night, perhaps few birds that sing here at all. Moments pass in gentle solitude. You are there, with hair unbound, you a lady in a modern tower, waiting for a prince to arrive.
     Who said fairytales were dead...
     There are two stars suddenly brightening. Are they novae just this moment seen from earth? Or some mirage, some spell cast on the sky to make you think the jewels there were placed upon Night's cheek for you...
     Or are they, instead, the reflection of light from the eyes of a red peregrine falcon...
     I'm a better sailor than I am a pilot. You might want to give me a little room! There's a laughing, windy sound that comes with that, the sound that both is and isn't your lover's voice. Riotous -- oh, he gets that from his father! -- and merry and warm.
     You may see it approaching, that falcon, making its peregrined dive...

     As occasionally bitter as Fiona can get, she is never sour. And now, of course, she has no reason for sourness or bitterness. The world is perhaps not hers for the plucking, but it lays open and ripe before her - not one, but two worlds. Two kingdoms, and while in one she might not be queen, she is the less constrained and the world the more her oyster...
     The jeweled lights upon the sky gain her attention, gaze sharpening up at the sight. But it's your voice in her mind that draws her to reality, what it is that really is about to occur. Fiona takes a step back and inside, straightening up towards where she thinks you might land. So much for holding out my hand for you to land upon my wrist. So you'd have better luck if this were a boat?
     There is warmth in her thoughts - there is the overwhelming surge of emotion behind them, such pleased delight with the play that's been and being enacted, the thrill of being alive and who she is. It is New, isn't it? For her, it is...
     And me without so much as a willow wand. But that'd be more for your father ...

     The falcon is red and white, even as Rhodri's colors are red and white, with talons curved and sharp. His wings spread wide as he hovers, and his landing is more a controlled crash, a hop until he stops, turning amber eyes to you, opening the beak without sound -- perhaps, if peregrines might be said to smile, this is a smile.
     A moment later, without any seeming effort on his part, Rhodri becomes Rhodri. He has left his suit in his room. What remains is the shirt and the trousers. He puts a finger to his lips and grins. They'll never know I'm here...
     He comes to you, a slow stride to you, his hands moving to your hips, then around the small of your back. He draws you to him. Tonight went well, I think. Your father likes me. He grins at your neck. "And you... and your mother... you seemed to wage a victorious fight," he breathes at your ear. I kept listening for the dogs of war, but never once heard them bark.
     It is going to be like this. His mouth against your neck, waging its own delightful battle. His words beneath your skin, warmly issuing with every inhale and exhale of your breath. He breathes such words in you. Now, tell me... have you ever wanted to have a night like this in your parents' home?
     Even his laughter is telepathic. It moves within you as a shiver...

     The smile you receive is warm and welcoming, the glance as heated as it was in the dining room. You move to her and she moves to meet you, arms going up and around your neck. You're warm...
     As if she were so cold; but she isn't. It doesn't stop her from luxuriating in your heat. Oak King, Summer King...
     If you keep that up, Fiona responds with more than just thoughts, the taste of strawberries blossoming on her skin and in her thoughts as your mouth moves against her, I don't know how quiet I can be. You have a way of demanding responses of me.
     She draws a hand down along your shoulder to rest, palm flattened, against your chest. I think mother and I have come to an understanding. There is that grim triumph again. I doubt we'll ever be close. But I think I've drawn her fangs for good.
     Her thoughts turn away from maternal war as you make her shiver, and she turns in your arms to lean back against you, head tipped back to look up with lips parting in beguiling invitation. With a thief in the night, breaking into my room? I think I should change back into what I wore the other night. Maybe we should make a trip of that to Betty's, sometime. You're a lunatic, Rhodri. Fiona's hand goes to yours at her waist, fingers skimming over yours. So it went well?

     Even as Davydd's power has crested, Rhodri's has grown. He may not even be aware of how much, how recently. His warmth is that of the sun in its zenith, the height of its power, even as Davydd's is that of the sun in its absence, the apex of its own diminishing. It moves within and along your skin, burns without searing as he kisses the offered mouth.
     What a sacrifice...
     I think you should change back into what you were wearing this morning. Which is to say, nothing at all. He chuckles again, in soundless ways beneath your skin. The laughter is physical, tangible, but not audible. A hand lifts to your hair, wrapping it around his hand and wrist and pulling your neck into a gentle arch.
     It went very well. He wants for nothing but your happiness, and I have sworn to keep you in happiness, in comfort, safe, secure. He will be passing the title, and he has already provided for the children we will have. A dowry. You knew that was coming. He was exceedingly generous...just like I am, hmm?
     Betty's gets a chuckle. You like making a spectacle, you have always liked that. I like spectacles, myself. I believe we can arrange something. Perhaps I will let you tie me to the wall of perdition. Precious name, that. And make good and proper use of me...
     His mouth leaves your neck, following the line of your jaw and plucks at your mouth until it turns flushed and full, no kiss lasting long, the spaces in between them blessedly short. Congratulations for your victory. I know it was hard-earned. You should be rewarded, don't you think? I think it could be... very interesting to see just how quiet you can be... when you have to be...
     Danger, romance -- he is the complete package...
     Rhodri parts from the embrace, a cool breeze issuing in the space now between you, and smiling his hands begin to slowly, quietly, free you of your clothing. We are going to have an amazing life together, you and I. A life full of pleasure, delight, wealth and happiness. In our Other World, together, we will be both inspiration and the magic that is created from it. I want to see you become a queen in your own right. I want to see you lying beside me when I wake. I want to see you grow with our children and be there at the moment of their birth.

     The flush of warmth that moves through her starts above her eyebrows and moves down through her groin, before the touch of your lips makes contact with her own. The connection that is there needs no physical reminder to be present; it is there nonetheless. But it is no hardship for it to be physically manifest. No hardship at all...
     You always like me naked. Fiona's gasp is involuntary and only barely voiced, caused by the gentle but unexpected tug that arches her neck. Eyelashes come down in lazy hooding of the blue eyes behind them, colour burning its way into her cheeks like a sunrise.
     He must like you. If he gave you enough for you to call it exceeding generosity, I mean. Your tastes are as lavish as mine. Now that she allows herself to indulge, her tastes can be lavish indeed. She presses against you, dragging her fingernails down along your shirted side in a slow scrape and then digging in a little at your hip. My twin sister and I can find a use for you, I'm sure. Or just torture you. You seem to like torturing me, after all.
     Nothing quite like frustration...
     And how quiet do I have to be, then? It's somewhere between anticipatory, breathless on the one hand, and almost indignant rebellion on the other. Fiona squirms a little, lifting her other hand to go up and round your neck. Let's leave my mother out of this.
     Her clothing is falling away, but she hardly minds. Between success and relief and anticipation and a certain pouting desire, she lies up against you as if she were horizontal. I don't make predictions. I just know that I love you and I need you and that you drive me crazy, Rhodri. I don't feel poetic right now, I just feel half-mad and it's your fault.

     He smiles. It is a simple smile that is fathoms deep in its meaning. You squirm so beautifully, you make such... sweet noises. How can I resist? Tell me, Fiona... how am I supposed to resist such a thing as torturing you. The clothing drops away, stripped from you easily, gently and tossed upon the floor.
     His fingers press and roll against your flesh, making it his, flushing it as he goes. He tips his head to watch the blushing blossom, along with the heat that flushes you. Fingers trail and splay at your throat, bending your neck as if he were to kiss it, bite it. But he doesn't. He simply tilts his head and watches you as he cups a breast.
     Quiet. That depends on whether you want your parents walking in on us or throwing me out and taking back the cheque. Rhodri grins, his laughter felt again, like his fingers padding you from inside-out. His fingers slip between your thighs without any warning whatsoever.
     I should allow you to get even one night. At least for one night. So... I will promise you, when we go to Betty's...twin sister or not... you can have your turn in the torturer's chair. You should be allowed your victories. From time to time. What a bastard. All this while fingers tickle and swirl.
     He does not need the bindings and the headboard and its hooks. He doesn't need the cuffs or leather or fur. Those are just props. What he is, he is by nature...

     Bastard. It's as much a gasp as if it were aloud. Her face is red from the effort - not to make noise under the assault on her senses. You don't play fair. I should make you go back to your own room!
     As if she would. As if she could. Your fingers go between her thighs, and her lips part, eyes squeezing tightly closed as she lurches forward suddenly in surprise and from the desire that stabs its way into the pit of her stomach. Teeth clamp down on her lower lip, subduing and strangling a moan down to a soft little whimper.
     Rhodri... Even her thoughts are ragged. Fiona twists, pulling herself straight with a shudder. At least let's sit down or something... something, please! Bloody thief, are you trying to make me curse your name?
     This would be a very bad time for her parents to check on her, locked door or no...

     There's no fun in fair and we can't lie down. The bed will squeak. His mouth covers yours, taking your sounds and cries soundlessly against his tongue. The floor will thump too rhythmically. And the warning bells will sound and your Blackjack will have to run. Then what would you do? He pulls from the kiss, grinning like a Black Jack Davy would, his kisses stopping but his fingers spiraling onward.
     Round...
     Like a circle in a spiral, like a wheel within a wheel...
     Never ending or beginning...
     on an ever spinning reel...
     Rhodri gives you respite. He turns you, letting the wall bear your weight, to make a bed for you. You are lifted, your feel dangling slightly off the floor as you are made airy desire, floating on it. That's what it feels like, does it not. As if you are floating, suspended, on the pleasure from his fingers. Not curse my name, sweet, I'm trying to see if you will moan it out with your eyes.
     He grins, eyes crinkling at the corners and twinkling in the low light. "I love you," he whispers. "I love you this way...can you imagine the looks we can give one another tomorrow over breakfast... thinking about me having you against the wall tonight?"

     When, really, has she ever been interested in playing - or fighting - fairly, when bite and kiss and bite back have always been more fun? Lips part for kisses, by kisses, and remain parted. So get a cat to get rid of the squeaking. And you know what I'd do if you had to run.
     She's caught by your fingers, though, hips moving without her intending them to, breasts lifting as her back arches, the slight stumble of her movements. The wall is a welcome relief in some ways, even with as little give as it has. Oh...
     Fiona lifts her hands to your shoulders even as you lift her, head back against the wall. The blue of her eyes is veiled now, eyelids shuttered as she pants a bit, trembling in your grasp as she tries to regain some sense of balance, some sense of equilibrium. I always forget how strong you are. It isn't a complaint...
     Rather, it is almost awed, absurdly pleased. That is one of the things about you and about Davydd which attracts her - you are strong, and physical, and real. You can easily overpower her, and make her feel fragile...
     "Bastard." Fiona barely murmurs it, voice trembling as much as the rest of her as she furls her fingers partly closed, nails digging in at your shoulders. "I can't think - I need you. God... do you need me to say it? Rhodri, I don't know if I'll even be able to come down to breakfast!"

     You may have to feign a headache. Too much sherry... but what will be my excuse? Laughter, again. Physical, again. With the same cadence as his fingers until his fingers move away from you, his other hand gripping you at your hip, lightly but firmly, his thighs becoming your ballast, with your legs at either side dangling.
     Alright, no more teasing, my love. My sweet, sweet queen. My arching, beautiful, needy queen. I'm not that cruel. You feel him there. There is just a moment's breath before you and he crash in quiet concert against the wall.
     Fragile you may be in his arms, in his head, with him within you, but he will not drop you, he will not break you. There is honesty there, even in the most cruel and teasing moments -- the honest knowledge that he would never hurt you. Fragile as he makes you, he treats you as the treasure you are.
     He loves you. It is easy to forgive him...

Posted by rowan at December 19, 2004 04:29 PM