How the nights come and go. Seamlessly moving one to the next. This is what it is like, remember? When Time is forgotten. No, when it loses its meaning. It is not yet The Lord's Birthday -- we know this only because the house tells us this. Otherwise, would we recall? No day, truly, is anymore special than any other day -- and yet, they are each one precious. Each moment spent with you. It is the same for anything over several centuries in age. What is a day...
     A night...
     Yet, where would I be without you? And so... talk of rugby morphed easily into raucous warming in an active bed. And last words were whispered just shy of the sun. I love you. That is the last thing I recall and then...
     Twilight. It comes so early in the Rosshire highlands. Afternoon is a blink. A glimmer of last light, and then the horizon goes pink and the sky darkens to indigo. So full of stars and swirling stellar dust. Strathfayr has the best view of the Milky Way. The house is buzzing with the second crew, but in the southwest turret there is stillness. Two forms beneath blankets and furs. And then... as twilight slips into the first part of evening and the last pink of the sun has turned to scarlet...there is movement.
     A first breath. Inhaled. Held. Exhaled. The dark ermine and red fox then subtly lift and lower with rhythmic breathing. Slow and steady and deep. Living. Almost. And in the still darkness of his yet closed eyes, Guillaume XI... your William... reaches out to explore with a just-wakened hand. To make the 'morning's' first discovery of your flesh.
     Oui. I am here. You are here...

     At home, the earliest indigo-fingers stir even the oldest of our kind. Something about the season, the light -- how she crawls away from the castle -- and the comforts of a bed best known.
     Skin is soft that you feel. Softer than soft. Almost silken, with an ease of line that bespeaks curves. Full and flush already, though the twilight of your eyes has barely filled the room or washed across the glen where we live.
     But a sound comes, muffled in linens and furs. The body beside you shifts, bringing a flush of reheated warmth to you both. And at your thigh, a hand with a gentle scrape that seeks you out as well. Good morning, it says, turning into the press of slender fingertips that swells over the mound of your leg and presses into a lithe hand....

     Ah, the wakening Angevin mind has not wrapped around subtle changes. It knows Body. It knows Warmth. And the soft sound. Hmmm... how many mornings arrived as this is arriving? A full bed, warm furs, the sound of a fire. Yes, Time is of little importance. It is Yesterday. It is Now. It is Tomorrow. Our mornings are evenings. Or days, nights...
     Slow, the smile that pulls upon the sensuous mouth. Heady, oui? With thoughts that yet dwell in last night and in the passing of nights in general. The hand upon his thigh -- wherever you touch, he shall wake and Live. You are more accomplished than Apollo in this effect you have on him. The bed sounds, as all things must when beneath his weight, and you feel him flush against you. It is not his hand that your hand receives...
     For his right hand is moving along your side... to your chest. The evening's first embrace...
     But somewhere deep in that labyrinth brain there is a spark. A question that follows and winds about the synapse and corridors of the rising mind, leading consciousness outward with a steadily arching Have I Got A Surprise For You path. Even as fingers followed the curve of your side that... feels different? -- what is that?... to find something far more rounded... soft...fingers send the first signal.
     William Plantagenet, there's a woman in your bed.
     Fingers have to confirm this, grasping just a little...making several passages over a rise of nipple...
     Definitely female, my lord... I mean, it's been a while... but you never forget. Rather like...what are those? Oh yes... bicycles. Like that, my lord...
     Indigo is deep and violet bursts sudden. Waking. What?

     There's a bit of laughter, more from the sudden tickling. "Will," calls the voice, like bubbles, "...that tickles..."
     She squirms against you, then turns over in an awkward struggle. Legs, hips, waist, and the sudden disappearance of the usual lines are perhaps shocking. The certain dismay might come from the sudden orbs that press against you. Everything is out of place.
     As she turns, blonde hair, twists around her neck, crawling over her shoulders. She purrs and places her nose to yours, eyes still closed. "What...time is it? I...should have checked..." her French mellifluous. Honeyed. Her small frame still packs a push, though, as she nudges your shoulder as if to get you to cease something. Be still. Rest.

     The indigo eyes that opened so suddenly widen as sight thereafter follows and a woman's nose is at his own. And the breasts... and hips... and...
     How much did I drink last night? I... am awake... aren't I? A hand leaves you just long enough to pluck a hair out of his arm. Pain. I'm not dreaming. Oh shit...he's going to kill me. And in his bed...what the hell have I done?
     Upon the edge of your yet powerful nudge, Plantagenet bounds back. Furs are displaced, bed groans with the sudden and great shifting. And then there is such a knocking of wood to punctuate the comedy of it all. A wince as his head meets the post on his side of the king-size canopy bed. A hand goes up and he peers at you in the squint of it. Why is it every time you show up, woman, I hurt myself...
     William clears his throat, but does remain more or less on that side of the bed. "Bonsoir," he murmurs, blinking away the few remaining stars. And then... he extends his hand. A platonic handshake at that promised in the motion. "My name is Guillaume d'Angevin," he says in shared French, his of an old inflection. Sudden care is taken to make sure he's... not hanging out anywhere that might startle the young woman and then... ah, and only then does he focus. You look familiar. Gods, you'd hope so since I must have slept with you...
     Iona, it has been three years... the lord doesn't seem to recall you immediately. But then... you know...it's been a busy three years...

     All that stirring and elephantizing...you're taking up the bed! Iona stirs, discomfited. Grunts and starts and sighs come from her, until you are sitting up. It was the thud that did it though. Grey eyes open and start, sitting up and twisting around to see you.
     "Yes, it is...Normandy," she says, matter-of-factly. A boyish smirk seems to come from her, slanted lips and arched eyes. Hey, it worked. An experiment gone well. she looks down at herself, retracting her hand from you, then pulls the sheet down to verify.
     Yep. That worked.
     She looks up, her golden-white hair cascading around her body. Aphrodite's daughter...she is nothing of Eve. "Will? You...alright?" You are indeed...confused. She peers at you, and then smirks, "Wow, forgotten already?"

     Both brows lift in an arch and his expression goes... quite blank. Yes... sorting through the various stimuli and details. He is awake now, however. All dreams fled from him. The gaze is suddenly sharp and focused. Keen and brilliant. His hair, uncombed and mussed, hangs forward in a sheen in a recently-disturbed artistic disarray. And what with the seemingly permanent appearance of the few nights' worth of beard he looks the part of Normandy right now. His right hand comes up to rub his eyes and with regained composure, he settles back to the bed, readjusting the blankets and furs on his way. Yes, still careful to keep "what's his" to himself. "Bonsoir...Iona, is it?" Languid baritone plays upon the elongated murmur. And the blank look turns to noble placidity. Even as the sensuous mouth forms a slanting smile.
     "You must forgive me... it seems... my eyes were rather shocked open," both dark eyebrows lift, "... before my mind was ready to see..." His looks upon your naked form come only in fits, starts and stops of glances. Polite. Chivalrous. Platonic.
     Indigo to the furs, eyebrows yet lifted, William's expression is awash with curiosity. With warmth, although the ritual has not yet been performed. "Ah... aren't you cold?" A sudden nonsequitur.

     Lips twist familiarly. Iona grins and pulls her blankets up, scooting back to rest against the headboard. "No, I'm fine, thank you," she grins, grey eyes looking at the valley of fur that separates you. Legs, sink, legs. She smirks and brings dove-grey gaze upwards.
     With blankets up, Iona bends her knees to her chest, wrapping her arms around them. It allows her to rest her cheek to her knee, beatific face turned, like moonlight, towards you. Maybe this was not a good idea, she thinks, but a smile is on her face. "Want me to change back?" she asks softly, pale brows rising.

     You have his smile. It is you. And I love you. The swirl of energy -- quite nearly powerful enough in its own right to part the drapes with a snap -- begins to calm. Lowering. Lowering. Until indigo eyes smolder as normal, violet held like embers of some otherworldly fire. Electric, blueing. And William blinks. Suddenly relieved. You wanted this. I didn't ask for it. Is
it ... alright? You are asking me this?
     "When you ... get it in your mind to... surprise me... you really do not stop at half measures, do you?" And he laughs. Quietly but suddenly. Yes, it will take some readjusting and some... getting used to. Mostly... due to memories of fumbling. Of... blurred lines. Of...unclear understandings of true wants. William rakes a hand through his hair, more or less putting it into its normal place, at least pre-shower, and he shakes his head. "Non... you do not have to..." he murmurs. "I'm... just... not used to being in bed with ...what appears to be a beautiful woman..." A self-effacing smirk follows. "Believe it or not, I used to be suave..." And a hand makes the gesture. Smooth.
     He settles with a sigh, head turning against his pillow to look at you. It is You. A knightly arm opens outward. Come here. And lips curve upward in a growing smile.

     She laughs, and it sounds more like tinkling crystal than a young man's blushing exuberance. "Well, put it this way..." she says softly, moving her hair about so as to keep it from tangling worse, "...it is not...as easy at it looks," her warm softness moving closer, finally coming to a rest at your flank.
     An arm folds over you diminutively. She takes up such less space. Where beauty was combined with strength, the power seems little apparent. But it still felt, carried across the bond you share. "You still feel the same," she teases, poking finger at your side, "...well, except you seem...bigger...somehow." Perception is everything.
     "It's weird, hmm? I want you more suddenly." Now that she's seen herself. "I mean...seeing myself, seeing you..." she shrugs, "...nevermind, I don't know how to explain it. But...I want you...but if...we..." her lips smile on your skin, "...you know...well, if we did, I'd want to go back to...me." If that makes sense.

     Ah, that is one thing I have not missed. So much hair, women! It gets everywhere. A little goes a long way. But as you move against his flank, William half rolls to lie upon his side, you wrapped up so easily. "Hmmm..." comes the guttural sound, that is the husband you know and love, yes? "... do yourself a favor and do not look beneath the sheets..." Such an ass. Do you still want me? You have the patience, and the endurance, of a saint...
     William lifts up, head resting upon the heel of his palm, his eyes taking a few more liberties now. Seeing her. But the Bond tells of it, Ian. He sees her. He is thinking of You. "If we...?" Eyebrow lifts in a sweep. But he grins and does not say, nor does he tease you anymore. Though, in this form... he does find it much easier to tease you. "Ah, no need to explain it... I... will seek to understand it myself..." He leans, he bends, and his mouth is at Iona's. Yours. "...I ... agree," he murmurs there, eyes glancing down the woman's form. And you feel the coil of wakened muscles against you. "...I...like to look at the woman, this is true. But I want to make love to the man..." His head bends, mouth trailing against the throat. The feeling of down-soft skin. "One thing... before you change back..."
     William opens his eyes, mouth again at your mouth. Eyes both dark and brilliant full of fiery shards. You know what that foretells. "...I want to feel... what it is like just once... to have smaller hands perform the ritual..." Usually, this is done before you wake... but... since you are here and it is not yet done...

     She pulls back, looking skeptically. "Which ritual?" she smiles, cocking a brow. Her brain works quickly, putting Tab A into Slot B, and coming up with...nothing. "Though," Iona smiles, "...you can..." her finger waves in the air, "...keep doing that throat thing..."
     But what you said is what she meant. Iona confirms this, murmuring, "You explained it though," as if finishing a thought ages ago. "I want...to be myself...when we..." you know, that word....

     "If I keep doing the throat thing, I'm going to end up doing the other thing..." He says this with full knowledge. Knowing himself as he does. And yet, even upon the edges of that word, he bends his head, his mouth continuing its exploration. "The ritual," comes the murmur at the hollow of your throat, "... that you taught me..."
     The bed sounds, and you are summarily swallowed in the embrace, and then rolled upon your back. He keeps his weight off of you -- ah, and you have quite the few along the length of him. Indigo lowers along you from hollow of your throat... between your breasts. His mouth is soon to follow. Between and then... to the left, over the gentle rise. "..the ritual that lets me enjoy it fully when we...." You know. He lifts his head, and the grin is smooth and edged with heat. "Fuck... I think is the word you're looking for... oui?"
     He's so beautifully crass...

     "Goddess!" she cries out, laughing while dismayed. Iona's hands coming to rest on your back. She tickles and gives a love tap, as if to send you away. Bad boy.
     "I do not even know why I am with you," Iona chides, turning her head askance in mock disgust. A smile remains upon her lips though, her throat slender and bared. With hands at your shoulders, a leg seeks to twine. "And...you do the ritual each night without me...you can do it by yourself," she grins, scratching her nails at your back in idle massage.

     Oh, he will need more than a tap, and as you twine... he settles in. It is a long night... and a long night can become two. What is the rush, when Time is not a factor? And so, there is no vaulting from the bed like it is a saddle. He settles lightly upon you, covered in blankets and furs. Ah, a lord of olde. "Because you love me," he murmurs at your throat. There, you can feel the pull of a grin. The brush of his mouth. And then the parting...
     Of lips...
     Of thighs...
     As mouth suckles even at the heart of your throat, the knight's thighs press yours outward. Oh, no... there is no danger. "Hmm... but... with you, amours, it will be even better..." The bed softly sounds. It is just motion. Feeling what it is like to have this beneath him. Experiencing it... since you have given him the opportunity. Looking. Touching. Tasting. And the flesh beneath your fingernails tightens. Oh no... there is no danger. But blood has begun to flow through him. Wakened. Electric. His presence thuds against the space around you. Expanding...
     And you can feel the blood surging -- not only against the bond... but against your stomach. "What was the special occasion, my love... that... inspired this...?"

     No matter the form, your beloved knows your body's changes. She smiles, shrugging innocently. "A change? We shall have a long winter," Iona purrs.
     No matter the form, your beloved knows what he likes. Iona stirs as you do, taking the chance to feel how you infuse her body with hints of delight. Different the physical is, but the emotion of it? The chills you give? No, those are no different. And so she sighs and arches beneath you, not even knowing how her body subtly rises to meet the masculine one above it.
     "I don't know, really...just...something different? It did not seem now," with life between you so changed, "...that it would feel as it did the last time. Maybe...it's just because we are different. And..." she pushes gently, parted legs circling your thighs, "...I do remember when you were suave and liked to look at pretty things." Has that changed, her look asks. "Well, let alone touch pretty things. And whatever else you did with them," she smirks.

     What is it... about this... that is so ...different. Yes, he finds you beautiful in this form. But this form... makes him prone to...conversation?
     William?
     William Plantagenet?
     "It... does feel different. I think..." his form settles upon you, but with an elbow to the bed, the better part of his weight is off of you. Thankfully. There is much bulk to your husband, no? "... it is because we... have nothing hidden hmm? That... if you were uncomfortable, you would say something. And..." His other hand lifts, index finger tapping Iona's pretty little nose. Your pretty little nose. "... I trust that you would say something. And... if I were uncomfortable... " He lingers there, upon that word, that thought, and then smiles, "... I would say something."
     He is quiet for a moment, and the beautiful face shows the sudden warmth of humor. "I am... not suave anymore then? Not with you in any form?"

     She laughs at the touch, shaking her head no for the question, "Certainly you are," she snuggles close, drawing you down to her, "...absolutely you are. I was only picking up on what you said," Iona grins. "But, oui, I think we'd say something now." Then a pause.
     "Are you uncomfortable then?" she asks, grinning for the obvious.

     Again, the eyes narrow. But this time, it is a slight squint of thought. Thought. Coupled with that grin? Oh beware. This is the Plantagenet you know and love. "A little...hmm... hold on..." He means this literally...
     Before you can think to do much more than react, and hold on as he spoke it, the bed shifts and you find yourself lifted. A breeze moving through the loosened tresses. Now... you see him from above...
     Where bodies are joined, you see a blend of dark and gold. And the length of him... ritual or no... the blood has moved, has it not? Where your thighs rest, his sides taper. Where your hands rest, muscles form at waves and lead upward to his chest. Upon the top of either thigh, a large, knightly hand rests. So out of proportion to you now. You seeming so... tiny. Like a little flower resting on a great mountain.
     Dark, the eyes the look to you as he spreads comfortably beneath you. Flickering in blue and violet. Electric morning glory. Now fully wakened. Glorious.
     Beautiful. His black hair lies against the pillow, and in comparison to your fair complexion he is quite nearly swarthy. Bronzed olive. Sensuous, the full mouth. That holds the slight smile, curving. Promising. Eyes make a downward sweep, from your mouth, along your throat, between your breasts, then downward to the shapely hips and between them. "Now... I am comfortable," comes the languid murmur.

Posted by rowan at August 06, 2000 11:23 PM