What night did you pass, Oak King, with your arms empty of the woman you adore? While she passed her own evening - and night - and morning in the arms of another man...
     Fiona rose from her bed well after the chiming of the end of breakfast, when the sun was almost directly overhead. Heat shimmering off the waves, ignored by the newest queen in favour of calmer waters, nudity exposed with ease, without concern of onlookers. Noone will interrupt her here unless they are meant to be here, are summoned, or it is emergency enough for the intrusion to be warranted. And she bathed...
     And she dallied...
     Combing out the wild, tangled tresses, summoning handmaidens with gentle hands and nimble fingers to unknot the pale cornsilk locks, to weave the whole back from the heart-shaped face. And she rose from her toilette, and dressed simply, and then she changed...
     To the rising form of the little linnet, circling three times round the rooftop gardens with their hanging vines before angling off towards the castle and kingdom of Avalon...
     She angles her way to a specific balcony, evading predators with ease. No ordinary linnet, this - it would take a more knowing predator than most to single out this prey. And the small bird aims towards the balcony and windows of the Oak King's suite.
     Let me in, let me in...
     She resumes human form on the balcony, garbed in pale green like spring shoots and leaves, shimmering silk that sets off the massive emerald upon her hand, the pink diamond clasped about her throat and beneath it, the pale blue disc that was given her only the night before. One night ...
     How much can change in a single night...
     "Lucy, I'm home..."

     After so many engagements, so many parties, the contests, the dancing, the eating...and, lord, the drinking, the Oak King wished only the quiet of his own time, his own conscience, his own thoughts. And his own voice. He played, with windows open. He sang, with eyes closed. His empty arms?
     He filled them with the body of a carved lute, made for him and gifted to him by the Chief Bard of Camelot, with Tristan playing the first tune upon it ... just to warm it up for you, now the rest is up to you, he said...
     He went to sleep late, after looking toward the kingdom ...no, the queendom... that borders his own. And he missed her, and he loved her, but he smiled. He did not begrudge the man that held her this night.
     The day brought his waking late. The Twelfth Night and Twelve Day celebration is winding down. Tonight, the final night. Upon the table in the center seating area, rests a large book, apples and appleblossom wine, a blown glass writing pen and equally lovely bottle of ink. There are rose petals gathered on the table to sweeten the air, and rosewater tea with sugared petals floating on the surface, ready to be poured. He has spent his day in writing, playing, singing...
     And preparing the room for you...
     There are roses hanging from the window, every breeze creating perfume. There are roses and rosemary intertwined in the canopy of the bed, with petals on the surface of the sheets and pillows. Loveliness is in here. Romance is here. He is here, waiting for you.
     Rhodri's hair here is touched with gold, burnished bronze like his father's but strewn now with sunlight creating a red-gold hue. Long to his shoulderblades, his hair drapes, a slight wave to it (but not the outrageous curls of Davydd's). He is dressed in a tunic of white and silver, with silver leather pants and fairy metal boots. The crown is the color of his hair, strung with ruby acorns and gilded leaves.
     In his lap, that instrument. From his throat, that honeyed sound. He looks up as you enter, and as you enter the Oak King smiles. And the sun smiles. But the song does not halt.
     No, instead, Rhodri rises, leaving the lute on the sofa and his voice singing to you in a cappella. A song for you, about you. A man who chases lightning, who tries to catch the silver fish of Annwn with his bare hands, who tries to catch the woman who cannot be caught.

     She hovers, she listens, leaning against the balcony doorway. She sighs lingeringly, though without sound, a long, slow exhalation of breath for the sight of ... everything...
     You come to her, and she smiles, slowly but with warmth behind it. It is a reminder, of sorts; she loves Davydd, but she also loves you. And when she is with you she remembers that more...
     I thought you said you'd caught me already. Do you want me to run and hide myself and make you chase me down? What am I saying, of course you would. Fiona straightens with the soft rustle of silk, moving forward again to where you stand, a hand lifting to finger a lock of your long hair. You look ...

     "Yes," Rhodri breaks his song, "...and I can see..." He does not tease further. Your hand on his hair, he leans in for a kiss. He stops. He smiles and then he takes you in his arm and gives you a greeting befitting your station as his future bride and the woman he loves.
     "And it is good to see you. The bed is really large," Rhodri grins. "Which is a good thing when it is full. Not so good, when it is not." His hand comes up and cups your chin. He looks at you for a moment and with a thief's sharp eye he measures your worth to him. By his look, by his smile and by the next kiss that worth is great indeed...
     Arms come around you. "You ...look..." his voice trails off into the slant of a smile (inherited from You Know Who). "Today... we are on our own. No one but ourselves to please. I have prepared lunch," he glances to the table and the rosewater tea (and the food nearby). "In ... anticipation," Rhodri grins, "... of your return, I thought I would spruce up the place a bit. You like?" His hands slide down to the small of your back, giving you a slight squeeze.
     And then it happens...
     Your world is turned topsy-turvy...
     You are scooped up, lifted in your King's golden arms...
     "I thought we could start with a light snack, sing... plot our conquest of the music world... drink rosewater tea and appleblossom wine. And you can show me how much you missed me..."

     "Bastard," Fiona accuses, though it's a soft accusation, broken by the kiss. Her arms go up to twine round your neck, and for a moment, there is no thought of the Other, your dark half, your father. She nuzzles your lips with her own before she draws back.
     "No fair making fun of me," Fiona murmurs to you as if sharing a secret. "But oh, good - food. I'm starving, I can't imagine why." Though it might have something to do with feasting upon the fruits of love and working up an appetite. She glances to the food, then up to your face again, smiling at you.
     The smile goes skew to a yelp, blue eyes widening as she's suddenly lifted. "Rhodri! Put me down." It's said laughingly, without the heat or indignation that sometimes accompanies the demand, and relenting, she winds her arms around your neck, leaning in to kiss your cheek, to nuzzle your ear.
     "I always miss you... brute. I love you." Fiona lifts a hand to trace fingers delicately along your cheek, voice slowing, turning tender, as tender as her gaze. "And I always miss you except when I don't. But ... blasted thief. Do you have any idea how good you look? Why are you with me, anyway? You could have any of the countless ladies, princesses and queens down there..."

     "But where would be the fun in that," Rhodri says grandly, a great grand smile on his face. "When they only tell me what I want to hear, wouldn't know a good song if it stood up and kicked them in the arse," he lowers you to the sofa, his mouth sweetly finding you.... sweet, indeed, the honeytongue and the kiss narcotic in its wake. He is a living aphrodisiac. As apples are to him, he is now... to you?
     "When I have the woman I want already, who lets me chase her even though she's already caught me," he murmurs at your mouth. It is teasing, a plucking grasp upon your lips as if they were fruit and he the bee. Open-mouthed, he brushes his mouth to yours, taking your breath with a sudden wildness, tangled, summer-heated. "I missed you, too," Rhodri whispers there a moment after parting. "And love you? More than a little."
     His hand goes to your hair, lightly skimming, as he rises and twists to pour a glass of the cooled rosewater tea. The icecubes have sugared roses frozen inside of them. He left no detail out. Handing it to you, treating you like the queen you are, Rhodri turns, unveiling the lunch. Roasted figs and salmon cakes, hazelnut bread pudding, apple roasted pheasant, and a few pastries.
     "I can't imagine why you're starving either," your Oak King chuckles at you with a shake of his head. "But eat your fill. You'll likely want more later," he insinuates.

     "It isn't my fault I'm argumentative," Fiona mutters, eyeing you with the corners of her mouth turning up. Of course it's her fault. Who else's fault would it be? But she enjoys saying it nonetheless. And you kiss her...
     And she sighs, curling against you, leaning up against you almost bonelessly all of a sudden, eyes drifting closed. "I love you too," Fiona echos, as if she didn't say it first. "Talk to me, though..."
     She takes the glass from your hand, eyeing it with curiosity to see the tiny roses in the cubes of ice. "Are you sure," Fiona asks after a moment of introspection turned to that, then to the meal, "that you aren't gay, Rhodri? I mean, the attention to detail on all of this..." Her smile quirks into being, and she turns to look at you. "It smells lovely. Thank you. Tell me, have you been running into ... female problems ... in my absence?"

     He flushes a little bit then narrows his eyes at you. "Just because a man fondles another man in the cold dark of night does not mean he's gay. It just means he's cold." And then he cracks a meteoric grin. "I did not dip them in sugar and freeze them myself, my dessert chef made them. I just appreciate beauty. And prefer the company of women." He smirks. "Mostly."
     Pouring a glass for himself, he takes a seat beside you. He sips at the rosewater tea and then takes up his own plate. "I have been thinking of what we talked about the other day, night..." whatever. He pauses to have a bit of the pheasant, careful not to get it on all his white. "About your music idea?" As if he has to remind you. "I've decided that you should have the best guitarist at your disposal so... I am at your service. And I'll manage us as well. I'm a crackerjack businessman, I'll make us a bloody fortune. Not that we need it. So... your top musical influences... we should get cracking on what we want to do, how we want to do it, and how many others we may need to get it done..."
     He chuckles as you mention female problems. His sphinxian look would say 'yes' but with him you never know. That wicked sense of humor of his. "Problems?" he says, taking a swallow of the tea. "No, not any problems. What do you mean?"

     One eyebrow arches at that. You have her attention. "Mostly?", Fiona echos again, regarding you with care. "What do you mean, mostly?"
     She sinks onto her seat, leaning forward to take her plate and beginning to pick at it. She eats carefully, meticulously, slowly - with the self-restraint of a woman trying not to turn into a ravening horde of one. "So you can be the manager," Fiona finishes, "as well as the guitarist, and between the two of us, we can write songs. Along with whoever else is in the band, since I don't really want to be the next Roxette. My top musical influences? How many do I have to limit them to?"
     She crosses her legs daintily, settling her plate on one knee, and again you get a look. This one has her chin down, her glance up through her eyelashes - which flicker - and a smoldering attention. "Should I be checking under the pillows and bedspreads for mislaid knickers? Or, in light of your initial statement, misplaced greaves?"

     "Mostly, when they are not questioning my choice of gender preference just because I have taste," Rhodri chuckles. "I like nice things. It doesn't mean I want to fuck Huw. It just means... I like nice things." His inflection is lifting. "I prefer the company of men platonically, how's that..." He finds it funny, at least. Davydd? He'd fly off the handle and the slightest implication. He has no sense of humor about himself. Rhodri? He doesn't take himself seriously.
     Your look just eggs him on. "The chambermaids have been very attentive, but very professional. I made sure they left with all of their possessions." He can't finish that without cocking a grin at you. The look he'd wear at night with a mask and a pair of flintlock pistols. "Jealous, darling?" The idea tickles him, clearly.
     With another swallow of the tea, Rhodri sets his glass aside, leaning thereafter into the body of the sofa to watch you. "I think we have to have a sound... a style...what do you want to sound like? If you had to pick two artists or bands to be the primary influences to your own style, who would they be?"

     "I like nice things too," Fiona agrees, one corner of her mouth curling upwards, "and I like being given nice things. I've come to the decision that I like being spoiled rotten. But I'll try not to let it go to my head."
     She taps a finger to a tightly bound coil of hair, then takes a sip of tea. "Of course I'm jealous," Fiona declares coolly. "I'm horribly jealous and possessive. I thought you knew that. I like an ounce of jealousy, anyway; it makes me feel wanted. It - keeps things from getting dull, in a way." The cool mask melts, and she grins at you lopsidedly. "I'm horribly insecure. I thought you knew that by now. So even though I've got two of you, I want to be your one and only... both of you. Not very fair of me, is it?"
     She rubs a hand against her cheek, turning sideways to put her plate down. "Bowie," Fiona says immediately, "for one. For the other - I'm not sure. I almost want to say that's complex enough to begin with. What do you think?"

     "No it's not very fair," he teases out, a smooth intonation that lilts along its way. "Rather despotic of you, actually. All of these women offering themselves to me as courtesans and dancing partners, perfumed handkerchiefs and other tokens, I've a drawer full of them now," a glance to the king's nightstand. "You should see them. I'll let you keep what you like so you can wear them as trophies." That twinkle in his eyes! "And all I can think of is having some simple token of your own. A lady of your rank should have a champion. I couldn't trust any other man with your honor but me."
     Two lovers...two husbands... two champions...
     But every Night must have a Day...
     "Even if he has such grand style that his lady fears him far more into knights than her knickers," Rhodri grins. He leans in toward you, gazing up at you through bronzed lashes. "As a gift to you, I bestow the nightstand drawer, and all its contents," he whispers. "You may read the love notes and burn them if you wish. Whatever you desire."
     As for Bowie...
     Rhodri thinks on that a moment as he sits back on the sofa, an arm extending across the back of the chair to surround you. His fingers toy and twist strands of your sunlight hair, his eyes turned to watching it wrap around him; how wrapped around your finger he is, in truth. "It's a good start, sure. So something with a glam pop sparkle.. but you'll want an edge to it... but not so prancing as Adam Ant. A nice balance..."

     "I'll look through them," Fiona promises, "and make notes on any of the unflattering remarks about myself. And then - well, maybe I'll make a dress, or a shawl, out of all of the handkerchiefs." She looks at you again with a hint of a flutter of eyelashes, then sets aside her glass...
     "Whatever I desire? You offer me heady promises indeed..."
     You touch her hair, and she sighs, inclining her head in your direction, towards you. "Right. I'd rather not be the latest flash in the pan, of course - here today, gone tomorrow once my belly button's lost its allure - but something a bit edgy. Not all the way over into full-out punk, and you know, I don't really want to go for the grunge style. I'm not Avril Lavigne, either. Something that'll last, and make a splash - more Madonna than Britney."

     "What instrumentation would you like?" His finger moves to the rhythm of his cadence, the lift and lowering of his words in perfect concordance with the twining of his finger through your hair. His fingers skim the side of your neck and he tilts his head to watch you. There, the spirit of a smile upon his lips, drifting there as the two of you talk.
     "We will need to really develop a sense of our sound, have a good foundation, discuss style, or the lack of style. We will have to allow room to reinvent. That is the only reason Madonna lasted. Her talent was questionable. But she manipulated the media well and was in constant motion. You can't hit a moving target. I understand your meaning..."
     His hand slides along the nape of your neck, strongly massaging as he thinks, anything to touch you. "Allure, with an edge. We can definitely do this, hmm?" his voice is melodic and murmured between you as his fingers rub. There is warmth, otherworldly heat that radiates from his fingers and moves down your spine to settle at your root chakra. "We should think of names, hmmm?"

     "I could play piano - well, keyboards. Or I could do guitar." Fiona moves towards you, her hand on your shoulder now, eyes intent on your face even as her voice goes a bit absent. "And, of course, I can sing. I'm not averse to letting you sing once in a while, though."
     Her smile curves, and she sighs, closing her eyes as you begin to massage, going a bit limp. "Mmm... yes, reinvention is key," Fiona murmurs absently. "I'm - oh, that's nice. I - if you keep doing that, I can't think at all, Rhodri. Names... names. Well, I suppose it should be something catchy. I don't like most of the names people keep coming up with lately..."
     Her hands go to your shoulders again, and she pulls herself along, sliding until she's slid herself up closer to you, onto your lap where she can curl like a kitten, eyes still closed, cheek pressed to your shoulder. "You're so different," Fiona murmurs. "I don't understand you at all."

     "What's to understand?" he murmurs. "Don't you fancy the enigma?" His arms surround you as you curl onto his lap like a kitten in a spot of sunshine. Rhodri grins, his head tipping back slightly, tilting so he can look at you. That amused look, the upraised eyebrow, that ... secretive, thieving curve of his mouth.
     "I think I shall enjoy you... figuring me out, Queen Fiona. I am your puzzle, you can hold me in your hands, move me as you like, learn to pick the lock by ...listening to how the tumblers move. I'll show you," he whispers. "I shall turn you to a thief queen yet..."
     Conversation has turned from music to what matters: understanding what is growing between you. This energy that is a puzzle. It is complex, and it is deep. "Reinvention ... is the key," Rhodri turns his head, his mouth brushing at your forehead. "To a long life, and a long love. Besides... it will keep us both young. At least at heart."
     His hands guide you, so that you are sitting on his lap but facing him. His arms move to cup you, drawing you suddenly against him as he grins. "If there is anything you wish to know... anything at all you wish to ask... do so... and I will tell you. I will be a good sphinx and give you more than three chances. Because I love you..."

     "You know that I fancy the enigma. You know I fancy you, Rhodri." Fiona sighs, shifting against you, rubbing her cheek against your shoulder. "You make me weak..."
     You draw her close, and she blinks, colour speeding to her face and she sighs again, thighs spreading so that she straddles your lap, knees to either side and her arms going around your neck. "I love you, too," Fiona murmurs. "I'm not sure if that surprises me more, or if your loving me does. You ... don't seem ... how do I put this..."
     It's as awkwardly shaped as a smashed Rubik's cube. "Why are you content with just me?" Fiona says it plainly, knowing no easier way. "You know that you could have anyone - but you don't want others, or if you do, you've been damned discreet. I grant that as distracted as I've been, you could probably pull the wool over my eyes - but I don't think you have."
     She silences herself for a moment, glancing down to the (lack of) space between her body and yours, a hand lifting so that delicate fingertips trace the bridge of your nose, trace your cheek. "And that confuses me, too," Fiona murmurs. "You're a thief. You don't play by rules. Why are you ... so willing to ... have just me?"

     "As remarkable as it may sound, I prefer monogamy." He and his father are opposites after all. "I had a very lustful and wild youth, as you may well imagine. When I was fifteen and with my father on the King's Highways, I could have...and did have...any woman I wanted. As well as her jewels." It is a fox smile, crafty and mischievous.
     "But as centuries went by, Fiona, what I wanted was a woman who could catch me. Who could intrigue me. And someone I could trust. Someone I could ... share my wealth with... my time..." Rhodri tilts his head to hold your look, that ever-present amusement in his eyes. "What mattered to me at fifteen... doesn't matter to me at ..." He chuckles, the sound in his throat. "When was my birthday... 1510," he suddenly remembers with a meteoric smile. "So... at five-hundred-and-four then. Does that...answer your question, Fiona? Thief or no, and I am, I am still a man, and I want someone in my life. It's that simple."
     "As for why it's you..." The smile begins to wander and the emerald eyes begin to glint. "Because you are unique... you are yourself... you weren't trying to impress anyone. Mostly, when I saw you, you wanted to be left the hell alone. You have a certain... fox-like quality... that I recognize in myself. So ... I fancied we were kindred spirits of a kind. And ... I like a woman with spirit...and you have that in spades."

     "Five hundred and four," Fiona murmurs, then shakes her head a little. "And me only twenty-three. Between you and your father, you really have smashed the cradle and set fire to the kindling and knocked it all off a cliff like you once said, haven't you."
     Her hand draws a circle against your shoulder, and then both hands join together on your chest. "How does this shirt... thing... open? - I don't know who else I could be, Rhodri. If I'm not me, I mean - I don't want to be anyone else, except to play. Of course, when you saw me first, I was pretty bloodied - and bloody-minded. I don't really know why you'd find that attractive, but then, I suppose the scent of blood in the air would trigger the hunting instinct."
     Fiona leans in, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth and then drawing back. "I like you as a thief," she whispers. "And as a king. I like it when you surprise me... take me unawares. You're a creature of fantasy, aren't you? Wet dreams, more like..."

     "Lift it off," Rhodri suggests with a whisper and a smile. "Blood in the air, wild hair color, a nice figure... and then I heard you sing... I saw you take a swing at the old man," his mouth cuts quicksilver. "Like a thief, I staked out my territory... and then faced a great obstacle, my own father. But, in the end, my hands proved quick," and indeed they are, for they -- in sleight of hand distracted by his story -- has untied the fastenings of your own gown. "And my jewel...was mine...and I'm very happy with her."
     His mouth finds the crook of your neck, moves along the side of it, his hands leading you into a gentle arch. "You are the queen for me," he says against your chin, his teeth scraping your skin, "... flesh and bone, beauty and bite, voice like an angel, wicked humor to match my own. And you... like me... are of two worlds and not doomed to die in dust as those that came before you..."
     His fingers lift to unfasten your hair, to let it fall on you and him in a golden curtain. Rhodri lifts his arms, his eyes on you. A signal for you to remove the king's tunic. "Am I your wet dream, my queen?" He grins, and the sunlight halo, that aura around him that you can see, beams with it.

     "You're so difficult," Fiona whispers, shivering as your hands make such easy work of her gown, as your teeth move against her neck. It is ... distracting ...
     Small hands tug at your garment, even as her thighs spread wide, knees no longer bearing her weight but rather leaving your lap to do the work of it. The tunic is crumpled and allowed to fall, her hands smoothing up along your painted chest from your stomach on upwards, and then her head bows, she bends to kiss your chest. "You still have to share," she whispers, "but there's only the two of you. I don't want - I'm not tempted by anyone else..."
     No other can woo her but your dark half...
     "I sometimes wonder if you aren't," Fiona answers, suddenly serious, glancing up at you even as she leans up against you again - as if to hide bared flesh from some peeping tom. "You fit too well into some of my fantasies."

     "I don't mind it, you know," he murmurs. "It is as it was supposed to be." Does he have The Sight, too? "I do not begrudge you your love of him. As we are both kings, more than ever, we are two sides of the same coin. I would not ask you to stop loving him, even if such were possible. And it isn't," he answers it himself. He doesn't need you to tell him.
     "We were waiting for you...and now you're here and you've found us. There is nothing to fight about. There is no other woman for me, no other queen. I feel that this is right... from the center of my being, Fiona. I want you to believe it...and I expect you will, once you get over a young woman's doubt of her own beauty and desirability."
     Rhodri watches you, and he takes pleasure in watching you. It is one of his chief pleasures, and he savors such now. "I want to feel how much you love me. I want you to show me. To make me yours, my queen. To claim me, as I claimed you. Then, my lady, we will be even. We will both be thieves. You may bind me now even as I once bound you..."
     And does that fit too well into some of your fantasies?

     "How is it that you can offer to be bound by me and still make me feel overmastered, outmatched?" Fiona shakes her head slowly, cheeks flushed with the tumult of desire and emotion. "But I see the object lesson hidden in this, you know; I know what you're really trying to tell me." Or so she thinks.
     She slides free of your lap, rising to her feet and letting green silk fade away like spun sugar dissolving in warm water. "I don't need restraints with which to bind you, Oak King," Fiona murmurs, stand there, bare of all but her own skin and hair. "You're already bound to me - by me. By the promises you've made to me, by the demands I've made of you - but you shall not touch me today until I have given you my leave."
     She smiles, tilting her head to one side as she looks down at you. "Your torture for the day," Fiona murmurs. "I can touch you anywhere I want - but you can't touch me. Even though I'm oh, so very close..." She leans in, hands on her knees, until her nose bumps yours, lips brushing yours. "My thief..."
     Every queen should have a thief ... Brush turns to kiss, hands coming up off of knees as she leans in again, a knee going to the cushion next to you, one hand fluttering down along your ribs. Because queens need to remember their weaknesses...

     Your King, your Thief, returns your kiss (for you said nothing whatsoever about that -- yes, thieves are particular about the 'letter of the law'), taking pleasure as well as giving it, but his hands remain on his thighs, even as you have instructed.
     For now...
     "You touching me, my lady, is no great torture," Rhodri smiles. "I assure you...as I have pledged myself to you, it is not merely my heart I have pledged, but my body. You should enjoy it, my lady. It belongs to you." The smile is wicked, but tender all at once. How can he manage to be both? But he is. "You should enjoy the touch, the strength, the taste of it...you should take what you want of it...whatever you want of it..."
     The red tattoos have changed with his station. More vibrant, they twist slowly. The trees of Avalon are there, and the white stag pursued by heroes and poets alike, as fabled as any unicorn -- the color of the stag is the complexion of his skin, outlined and indicated in rich crimson.
     While his musculature is defined, he is not as bulky as the Holly King. He did not wear as much armor, he did not fight in so many battles. But he is strong, an archer's chest, shoulders and biceps. He is a bit more trim, more lean. He is faster. As a master thief should be.

     She nips at your lip, then pulls back to examine the changes to your skin. Fingertips touch to the stag, watch the endless hunt through sensory exploration rather than sight alone. "We will see what kind of torture it will prove," Fiona murmurs. "And to whom. I know you; you could be tied to the bed with every ounce and scrap of leather and chain I could find, and you'd still find a way to turn the tables on me if you chose. That's just your nature - you can't help it."
     An eye to the main chance...
     She leans in, she kisses your shoulder, and her lips trail over your chest and stomach by degrees even as one small hand finds its way to your thigh, kneading and caressing through the material, then palming against your groin. She isn't interested in subtlety at the moment...
     What would you do if I played the tease and left you here to suffer through it? Fiona wonders, a mischievous smile curving her lips as she slips to her knees, between your own knees. If I did that, and then went to my own quarters to change for tonight - or to have a bath, or pleading a headache. How roundly would you curse me then, Rhodri?

     "You said nothing in our bargain about my not pleasing myself," again, the letter of the law, lady, the letter of the law. His red-gold eyebrows tilt upward, and his own smile of mischief curls upon his mouth. "But why not torture me with your hands, lady mine, and please yourself at the same time? Why should you suffer as well as I?"
     Oh, he is good...
     Rhodri closes his eyes, his tongue moving where your teeth nipped him. He does like that. He and his father have that in common. He gives you the sound of his voice, the proof of his delight, as you palm his groin, kiss his skin. But still, he does not touch you.

     "True," Fiona coos, "but where's the fun in that? If you're presented with a hunt, what kind of hunter are you, to turn aside?" Her hand slides up again, following the stag's pursuit. She leans back, peering at you almost coyly.
     Who says that I'm suffering? But I don't know how much patience I'll have for games today ...
     She nuzzles in against your thighs from her position on her knees, pressing her lips to your groin. Blue eyes are closed, now, working blindly, feeling her way in mole-black darkness of self-inflicted sightlessness. Do you remember when I said yes to you, Rhodri? It's engraved on my brain, I think. I was terrified...
     Fiona's hands lift to the waistband of the leather pants, seeking out thongs or gussets or clasps. Her hands have gotten clever with such things, where she never expected cleverness to find a home. I still am, you know...

     "I presented you with a hunt, I thought," the sound of tables turning in his voice, a sly fox's answer to be sure, coupled with an equally sly (and amused) grin. The Oak King gleams from where he sits, your face between his thighs. You move, and he moves where he can -- his thighs readjusting for your comfort, his arms lying wide along the back of the sofa, his head bending to watch you.
     "I had the kind of fear one has," Rhodri whispers, "...right before pinching the steal of a lifetime. The kind of fear that emboldens you, simply because you have put so much of yourself on the line for it. I took a leap without knowing you would say 'yes'. Now, it is more the ... anticipation before heading into a stretch of forest for the first time, not knowing what's in there. But having confidence all the same that you are on the path that will take you where you are wishing to go."
     The silver leather is bound by buttons. Upon touching the silver leather, you feel it quite soft to the touch, quite malleable to your fingers' wishes. It unfastens easily. Let loose the hounds of war? In their excitement, see them crouched, preparing to spring even as his flesh is making similar preparations. Your nuzzling kisses through the fabric have stirred them from their rest, the tattoos spiraling even as his blood begins to surge, thickening him and lengthening him. The hounds seek the warm cave of your mouth. A good hunt. A worthy hunt, indeed.
     Do not be terrified of me. There is none who loves you more or shall protect you more in all your life. His voice is warmth personified. Join me... we'll embark on a wild ride together... always together... no matter what the future may toss at us, Fiona-bach...

     Her hand gently slides the leather out of the way, reaching to touch you - to encourage and entice the hounds at their play. Fiona smiles sidelong and upwards at you, then leans forward, running the tip of her tongue along you.
     You say it as if a bit of terror isn't sometimes a good thing. Alright - sometimes it isn't. I don't know if I can explain it. I - there's too many angles to it, but mostly, I'm afraid of how I'll screw up this one.
     Her eyes closed, she nuzzles again, taking the head of your cock into her mouth, rolling her head back against her neck for a moment and then drawing away again. "It was so ironic," Fiona whispers, "that you approached me at all. Because ... I had actually noticed you, you know. Before ... you said anything. And more than once."

     Despite what you are doing, despite how it feels, he does not break his word and reach for your head, to tangle fingers in your hair or to guide you to his own liking. With a pull of his voice, some lingering half-song-sigh, Rhodri tips his head back, resting red-gold hair against the cushions.
     The dogs look as if they might leap off his skin at any moment and tackle you, bay at the moon for all you are doing. Their energy instead swirls around your tongue as you tease the head of his cock. There is a narcotic nature to his skin, an intoxication that insinuates along your cells and nerves. Orgiastic, it is enough to inspire the first faint tremors of orgasm between your thighs.
     Rhodri opens his eyes, a flash of emerald from above, and he swallows, composing himself a moment. "I should have approached you sooner," he murmurs, "... I ... wasn't sure how much you ... knew... and didn't think you'd be interested in Kelly... so much older than yourself. By the... time I realized it, of course, you were in Powis ... with my father. I... didn't catch you lookin', darlin'. I told you... you were a thief in the making. Just as sneaky as I..."

     A soft moan escapes her where she kneels, and her cheek comes to rest against your thigh, eyelids grown heavy with it all. "I noticed you when I was trying to break his nose," Fiona murmurs shakily, "and a little bit, when we were playing together - but you were too safe for me, then. Too protective, too - at a distance. So I stopped noticing you so much - and then Davydd started ... noticing me back, I suppose you could say."
     She straightens, rising to straddle you on the couch, hovering over you and letting her knees bear her weight to either side of you with her palms on your shoulders. Eye contact is made. "I admit I wondered, just a little," Fiona murmurs, leaning in till her lips are almost to yours, breasts rubbing gently against your broader chest with each inhale and exhale, each quiver and vibration. "When you ... asked him what he was doing, kissing me on stage like that. But I figured it must just be because of him having a woman just then."
     One hand lifts, fingers drawing and then curling against your cheek as she kisses you. Lips open against yours, tongue darting and then teasing, lips and teeth nibbling against your mouth. Then you ... went away ... until Powis ... when I was trying to bring that painting upstairs by myself ...

     I thought about you... wondered what made you so tough, so young. Where you went. Who you fancied. When you sang... I could feel the magic. I just... didn't know how much you knew... but there was more than one reason you always got your drinks for free...
     As you straddle him, his arms surround you. As you kiss him, the kiss he returns. His tongue with its honeytongue power entreats you to loosen your garments, to let them fall from your skin. His mouth tastes sweet, like apples and honey and wine, and though his teeth are 'normal' his mouth is no less beguiling. So adept, so deft, so expert in how it claims you, your lips suckled, bitten, suckled again.
     I know... I moved... so punish me, my queen. The kiss does not break, even though air is needed. Open-mouthed, he inhales and dives in anew. Between you, dogs leap and chase to the beating of his heart, and the rhythm-jerking of his cock against his stomach. His hands cup the rounds of your rear, squeezing them, pulling you against him. The sneaking fingers of a thief then slip between your thighs. I always wanted to ask you to stay late... after playing... I fantasized about having you on top of the bar. Two fingers roll the gem of your clit as his thumb and forefinger slip between the folds of you. I swore off other women for your sake... and never have I regretted it...

     The breath escapes her in a rush, blue eyes widening as you wrap your arms around her, as you kiss her. Her hands return to your shoulders, doing half the work her knees do of holding her up - it isn't easy, no matter how it might look.
     I ... thought it was because ... of my singing - and Davydd, and ... I don't want to punish you... Fiona closes her eyes suddenly, leaning into your kisses, shaking her head even as you drag her closer with a soft cry.
     I - flirted with you in Powis. For the first time... even though you were Kelly. You were the only one I flirted with... other than him. I wanted to see how you would react to me - to my painting. And you were so calm and casual about it all...
     The thought fuzzes, fading in and out as her mouth comes open with a sob, head tipping back, pulling away from your kiss. "Please... I need you..." Fiona whimpers it, fingernails digging in at your shoulders. "Don't make me wait any more..."

     That's when I knew... I had to take my chance with you... But he did not attempt so in his father's house. No. He waited until you were in his own. Respectful, even then, in a moment of pure disrespect -- or so it may have seemed. "That's it," Rhodri breathes against your neck. "... my queen...my beauty..."
     His fingers pat against your mons and then retreat, taking his cock in hand and guiding it toward you. Longer than your Other's by several inches, though thankfully not quite as thick on top of that, you must be lifted slightly for the head to be rubbed against you. Now, it is his time to tease a little. He slides the head just within you, then his hips press back against the sofa and his hands guide the crown of his member to your clit, sliding against it. His hand at the root of himself, he slaps that thickness against you for a few seconds before his hips curl again and send him deeper.
     "Take me, lady, as you want me... tell me how I make you feel... tell me... you are glad that I told you of my secret love... show me... fuck me..." His hands move to your hips and he pulls you to his lap. You feel him deep within you, striking with a sudden thrust where your cervix begins. Rhodri rolls his hips, shifting them back and forth, your clitoris stimulated against his groin.
     No... my darling lady, it was because I wanted you to look at me... to see me...and so that I could see more of you...

     "Oh..." It escapes her, drawn from her by your touch, her skin going immediately a renewed pink as you slide against and then into her. It is an all-over colour, just as her emotions are as consuming.
     Fiona trembles, leaning into you as you pull her down, whimpering in the curve of your shoulder. Each thrust is met by a twitch, a roll of her hips that is as automatic and instinctive as a wave against the shore, with her tightening, tensing on each roll.
     I'm glad ... yes ... I need you, I need you so much ... the way you make me feel, the way you conquer me ... you consume me, you make me feel so much, so many things, inside and out - only the two of you have ever made me feel like this, ever, I don't understand it, but I want to BELONG to you, take me, oh, please, I love it when you make me your conquest like this...
     It's a low, rising babble, as if it began with breath and will only end when there is no breath left in her body for all that it is soundless, 'heard' within rather than without. Her mouth is not silent, but it is given over to soft moans and sharp, punctuating cries with each touch to her clit, each thrust against her cervix. "Please, Rhodri... fill me... don't stop, please... I love you, I need you..."
     I need you to be my king, but more than that I need you to be my thief, the one who breaks in at night through the window I've forgotten to lock, to bind me to the bed and coax from me what it is I really want - I'm so bad at admitting, at giving to anyone, I know I'm such a miser and I must've made you miserable...
     Fiona slides her hands to your chest, pressing close to you as her thighs slide wide on the cushions, skin bare to you, to the air. There is the slight twitch of her hips even when you are holding still, as if anticipating the next thrust, waiting to meet it. I - oh, god, please... what do you mean... when, when did I look at you? I was blind...

     His arms are strong, his fingers are nimble (as you well know). They grasp you, balance you, cup you as he makes a sudden strange motion. He stands. Wide-legged, his feet root into the floor as his arms cradle you, lifting you and letting gravity pull you down as his hips thrust forward.
     Your legs may drape or float, it does not matter. You are securely held, resoundingly filled. I will pick your locks... you will find your clothing unraveling before you even realize I am there. I will find you on the King's Road. Black Jack Davy will be there to steal you away. And to ravish you completely...
     Much as he is doing now. Rhodri's breaths leave him in groans that punctuate his every thrust and the sound of his skin meeting your own. He pauses only briefly, turning back to the sofa, this time to lay you back upon it. The thrusts are incidental now, coming as he sets you on the sofa, your legs spread wide. He folds you nearly in half, his knees coming to rest on the cushions. Such leverage. It strengthens every motion, makes him feel even larger than he is, and allows you the pleasure of watching how his body moves, how his muscles move, how beautiful he is when his is loving you.
     I was patient. I waited for the right time. And then... you came to me... and I could not wait any longer. I had to have you. I had to tell you. How much I needed you. How much I loved you. You were my queen then... you are my queen now... Black Jack's Lady...

     The sound of Fiona's voice rises in pitch and volume to bounce like audible light off the walls, echoing and redoubling to fill the king's chambers with the tangible evidence of her passion - of her reaction. 'Oh, god', indeed...
     Rhodri... oh, please, I can't, I'm - it's too much, I ...
     It's not really a complaint - that would be much more quickly and sharply (and coherently) voiced. She is being taken. She is being ravished. And as all too often, she is giving into it, becoming a wanton jade by her own description, though perhaps not by anyone else's.
     You turn her, and she shudders, hands lifting towards you as if to draw you closer, eyes closing and mouth falling open with the feel of you filling her, so deeply, penetrating her, so completely. Fiona's eyes drift closed, then snap open with an echoed gasp every few thrusts, breath coming in short panting little moans and cries now.
     You told me ... and I was so conflicted ... I didn't know what to do ... oh, please, take me - hard, Rhodri ... don't be gentle with me right now, I need to feel you as my king... my thief... my wild rogue...

     His thighs are strong, as are his arms. He gives more of his weight to you, his arms surrounding you, his hands pressing into the cushions. Those thighs extend, his feet now on the floor. So this is what it feels like to be a mat beneath a man doing push-ups...
     Rhodri's own pleasure is etched on his face as surely as the tattoos are etched upon his skin. Each full press of him within you sounds within the chamber, the slap of skin to skin edged with his own musical groans. Each sound is an unintentional, yet nonetheless perfectly pitched note.
     The sofa shakes and creaks beneath you, seeming as if it will fly apart with his every drive. Emerald eyes fix on your own of ever-changing colors. And Rhodri smiles.
     Wicked, darling, wicked. The tilt of that smile could lift the coins from your purse before his quick fingers ever thought of pinching it...

     She is wild beneath you, thighs spreading and lifting, one leg raised to wrap around your waist, moving with every lift and fall of your body into hers. Her arms lift as well, as if imploring, hands grabbing your shoulders, feeling the muscles working in your arms as you move.
     And her voice is filling the room with bell-like tones, rising in pitch, in intensity, no thought given towards concealment, suppressal...
     If there is any thought spared at all, it is for her greed, her desire for you writ large upon her face, her expression open to you, as open to you as her body.
     Oh, please, indeed...
     It isn't a question of reaching climax; it's a question rather of how long it can possibly last. Fiona stutters over the syllables of your name, teeth chattering as you thrust, you give and you take. "R-rh-Rhodri-ee-ee, oh, g-g-god, I, I..."
     It is like white noise...
     Or like stars becoming suns...

     He can feel you tremble, and from your trembles quake in your vibrations. Vibrations that become earthquakes as his thrusts end against your cervix. Do you miss his own trembling for your own? Do you mistake it? He hardens within you, his hips pressing against you as he circles and grinds before filling you again.
     But that isn't all...
     The lubricating mandrake, that intoxicant, that aphrodisiac that leeches from his skin, elongates your own climax, cycling it until it begins anew. It affects him as much as it does you. As you clasp and release around his cock, your body spasming and tugging at him, your king of thieves calls out your name, tips back his head and gives his magic, his body, his seed over to you. Strong thrusts quicken, becoming wild slaps that lose their rhythm as he fills you.
     Wild the motions, side to side, forward and back, circling, thrusting, climaxing. Rhodri closes his eyes, he looks drunk as drunk on fairywine as he rolls his body against you, into you. "Oes...ah... oes..." His voice is a loud growl as his body stiffens. Rhodri closes his eyes, his head tilting to the side as he holds still, letting you feel his weight.
     Your pelvis is tilted perfectly to him, captured by him as you are filled to him. You will have to bathe in purging tea after this...

     She clings, she clasps, her body tilted towards you as you fill her, possess her, as she sings her siren song (or imitates a siren - take your pick). Hair is tangled and spread, and she holds onto you, shuddering, helpless as she is consumed by your power, by mutual lust and adoration.
     Rhodri ... Fiona's fingernails dig in for a moment, then begin to withdraw, body going not quite limp, but limper, as if she is opening not only her sex to you but every pore, to drink in your power and add it to her own as if she were some sort of vampire (indeed). As you go still, she sighs...
     My master thief...
     Fiona allows her eyes to close, sighing in some sort of contentment as she drifts beneath you. But she can't resist adding, Though you didn't steal my cherry...
     She can be a wench at times...

     "Hmmm...no," he chuckles. "He may have stolen your cherry, but I showed you what the prize was for." Your king takes pity on you, lifting his heavy weight off of you. Unlike your Other, he does not slacken. When he pulls from you, slowly, it's like another round of lovemaking. Withdraw, slow thrust, withdraw...
     Rhodri pulls from you slowly, his knees sliding to the rugged floor, his thighs wide. He bends, his tongue flicking against your exposed clit. He sees your wench, and he raises you a rogue.
     When I taste you... admit it... it was unlike anything you've known before... Even his father. Certainly, it seemed so the first night he lay with you. Our first time together... had you ever been loved so wildly?
     Rhodri sighs against you. "I love you," he murmurs against your tender flesh. "My wild, and eager lady..." His tongue quickly spirals, his eyes looking at this wide-legged vision of his queen. You are an enchantment. You should see yourself when you are with me...

     "For?" The questioning echo ends in a gasp, and Fiona lifts a hand to her mouth, biting a whimper back by chewing on her knuckle. The sound is captured in her throat, audible but small.
     Rogue...
     Yes ... you two aren't anything alike ... She admits it readily enough, even if not entirely willingly - too distracted by recurring pleasures that have her squirming just a little already, hips twitching where she is sprawled, where she is spread. You ... are so wicked, Rhodri ... it makes me feel like a virgin again ... makes me want to be a virgin so you can corrupt me ...
     Fiona's hips jerk slightly at the spiral movement of your tongue, a low cry escaping as her fingernails rake against the cushions. "Rhodri," she begs, "please... I love you, I ... how long are you going to keep this up..."

     "Do you want me to stop?" His tongue presses against the sensitive little gem. He smiles, his halo gleaming against the gold of your hair. "Your body doesn't seem to agree with you, if so..." He chuckles, his mouth covering you suddenly. The vibration of his voice adding another layer of stimulation.
     You like it wicked. You need it wicked. You were a virgin when we first made love, my sweet. You had never been shown that it could be that way... hmm... His mouth lifts from you, but the tip of his tongue still swirls. You had never been bound like that, taken like that, stolen like that... it opened a world to you, much as your first virginity did...
     "I like it that you are pure of spirit," his mouth places sweet and gentle kisses on your mons. "It makes corrupting you pure joy."

     She cries out, at the press of your tongue, at the thoughts, the ideas you invoke. Her hips arch, then fall back against the cushions heavily. "N-no... I don't want you to stop," Fiona admits, voice soft as she shudders. She reaches down, fingers tangling in your hair, tugging a little before settling even as her thighs spread wider in awkward invitation.
     You could do anything to me and I wouldn't be able to stop you... wouldn't even begin to know how...
     Wicked...
     Stolen...
     It is all perfectly true. She enjoys far too much being your jewel, being in the possession of the master thief. As pink and white as you make her...
     "I - I mustn't have much purity left," Fiona whispers, fingers of one hand freeing from your hair and that hand flung over her head, "by now... I want you to corrupt me more, though. I feel like such a glutton..."

     His mouth covers you again, his head turning this way and that as your fingers tangle in his hair. Lilting, pressing, it has all the metric rhythm of a song. Little shivers of magic join in, like separate fingers, additional tongues, sliding against you wherever his mouth lands, radiating outward...
     Slipping inside you in a thrust invisible...
     Skimming your skin...pulling your blush with it like watercolor...
     Humming at your nipples...
     "Purity... has nothing to do with the hymen," his head moves quickly side to side, his tongue coiling around you. I am the glutton... I hunger for you... His tongue flicks again, lightly, tickling. And then he rises. Come with me... beautiful...

     I need you... It is a heartfelt yearning, far beyond just the sexual. You rise from her, and Fiona remains lying there for a long moment, blinking slow, dazed eyes with thighs still widespread where you'd opened them.
     Slowly, with an aching shudder that runs down into her bones, Fiona peels herself up from the cushions, sitting up with thighs still widened. She shudders; closing her legs right now would be torture, even if pleasurable torture in its way. "Where are we going?"
     Probably to bed, but the question deserves to be asked, and it is asked, almost in a little-girl voice without even meaning to be such, a lack of artifice despite the sweetness of it.
     Shakily, Fiona stands upright, wobbling and catching herself with a soft moan as she looks to you, takes a step towards you. What have you got in mind for us...

     As he rises, you see that he has not slackened in the slightest. If anything, he has merely become more rampant. Rhodri smiles slowly, his hand coming out to you to help you balance on shaky legs. A moment later, he is lifting you in his arms. "A nice, long, warm bath..."
     The warmth has already started. Radiating from where his hands cradle you, heat moves throughout your body, smoothing over your skin... but from beneath the surface of it. "I want to watch the water drip from your skin as I make love to you...again..."
     And tonight... after we have loved and loved and loved our fill... we will walk with trembling legs to the banquet, clasping hands... and announcing our union to those who have gathered here.
     Rhodri draws you to him in his cradling hold, his mouth pressing against your temple. You are a kitten in his grasp. He seems to know it by his smile as he moves down the steps and into the bath. The water is warmed by his presence.
     "I need you..." your King, your thief echoes your words with his own meaning.
     "I want you..." your lover speaks as the water begins to soothe your trembling muscles.
     "I love you," your husband whispers, his arms loosening around you slightly, letting the water hold you as he shifts your position to face him. Your buoyancy ... it is as if you were in a sling or hammock. He pulls you to him. On him. His eyes closing, his mouth opening to free a throaty sound as he fills you again.

Posted by rowan at May 02, 2005 07:04 PM