The night is interminable. Like all things forever, it has no beginning and no end in sight. Overhead, the stars and the dreams of stars fan out, their patterns discernible to the studied eyes, but a mass of beautiful confusion to all else.
     How many days have you been at sea? Sleeping and waking have come with a rhythm as natural as the tide, and yet... no sun to wake you, to move through your hair, to signal: this is time for work, that is time for sleep. Like the stars in the sky, it has become, perhaps, one big confusion.
     Bodies have blending, coming and going as much as any tide, like the waves seeming endless. When husbands have not been in your hands, your children by them have been. You, a woman surrounded by men who love you: maybe you were not keeping up with the days, or worrying about Time at all.
     On the deck of The Draigamor, standing as a captain at the bow, Davydd gives his attention to the horizon. Ahead, there are lights -- not firelights, but lanterns bobbing on pools and dangling from fishing line. Like stars he lassoed and pulled in to light his kingdom.
     Outlined in stars is a great dome. It may not be seen perfectly just yet, but it is indicated there in the bending of moonlight and starlight. The island has steep cliffs, the geography itself more volcanic and primal than England -- perhaps England or Wales in its infancy looked like this.
     A hand on the bow's railing, Davydd leans over, his gaze going to the ocean below. On their own, or rather seemingly so, the sails shift to catch the wind, shift to alter speed, shift to make their approach to the starlit destination ahead.
     And below, an ocean of water transforms to an ocean of sky as starpocked below as it is above. It parts, shimmering as the ship cuts through it. This is where the ocean has yet to dream itself into being. Here, on the frontier of Forever. It is where the End and the Beginning meet.

     She has always been malleable, changeable - working by day or by night as she saw fit, as she needed. When she was solely with Davydd, daylight became almost unknown to her, save for the occasions when she had to run into town. Why waste time she could spend with him, after all, when there were blocks of time to be used where he wouldn't even notice her absence? And when that was ... in hiatus ... then it was natural to turn the clock back to a more daylight-slanted period. One man or another. It didn't matter what colour the sky held.
     Now...
     Now the world is altogether different. This is not London. This is dream-like, barely recognizable, and she makes her way through this world by intuition and by not thinking too hard about the disparities between here and London. Someone else might go crazy. But maybe she wasn't ever all that sane to begin with.
     It is enough; she has love in her hands, in her heart. Two husbands who both call her name, two sons as yet wordless but who she can hold to her breasts, wave plump and pudgy little hands at seagulls and waves, sailors and nursemaids, cats and dogs, fathers and brother and grandfather...
     Arms around me that keep me warm inside, where it counts. How hard has it been, to let myself not be alone? How much harder has it been for him - Holly King, High King. Who am I, really? I don't even know anymore. I always swore I wouldn't identify myself by being the extension of some man, but these days, they are what give stability to my life. Being a queen or a lady or a rock star in training - none of that has as much meaning right now as being with them, loved by them. The woman of the Oak King, the High King's woman - mother to their sons - this is something I can understand. Something I can accept. Maybe it's just because I can't give myself any credit at all, but maybe this is why women do, in the end, recognise those stereotypes...
     Even when we try to reject them...
     She is standing on the deck, holding Iowerth in her arms, pressing gentle lips to the peach fuzz on his crown. "Shh," Fiona murmurs. "Almost bedtime for you, my wee little man. Let's get you to Nutmeg, and she and Clover will play with you and your brother." Her lips pucker, and she makes a face at him, then smiles. "Soon," she promises him in an undertone, "you'll get to know dry land again. Though knowing you, that's about the only thing that'll be dry, hm? Here, then, baby." She turns to the nursemaid, lifting her son and depositing him gently into the girl's arms. "Make sure," she instructs, "to bathe him in warm water and dry him thoroughly once you get below deck. I don't want him catching cold from all this wind and weather."
     There, that's done. Vaguely soothed by giving in to maternal instincts, Fiona moves towards the bow of the ship, up next to the High King. She's silent at first, watching the shift and change of the horizon with dreamy, distant eyes. "My Davy," she murmurs. "Cutting away at the ribbon between worlds some more?"

     Though he keeps his hair short, it's let go long enough for there to be waves and curls for the wind to play with a bit. He turns his head and looks at you, a smile tracing his mouth. An arm reaches out and he gathers you to him. There's an exhale of breath for you being near.
     "More like tying them together," he says. "I think I've pruned enough. Sometimes, you can cut a tree bare till it refuses to grow." Holding you, Davydd gives your forehead a kiss, and then he turns to look at the approaching horizon. "We're almost there. Do you want to know where There is?" Fiery eyebrows arch upward, the arcs of comets.
     The ship begins to slow and the sails begin to lower. White-capped waves move against the black stone shore. The island looms and beneath the light of the floating lanterns a domed palace gleams. "The island... I have called it Dragon's Island," Davydd whispers to you. "The kingdom... I have named it the Kingdom of the Harvest Moon. The palace...well... it has a name of its own. I .. thought of the Orient when I got here. Of places I wanted to visit in Japan, but have never been... I've read about them, these places. So... when I dreamed, the Orient was there..."
     The docks are bathed in a hue of moonlight, the hanging orbs seeming like tiny moons on their own. The Draigamor slowly rolls to the docks and the anchor deploys.

     "I want to know anything you want to tell me." Fiona looks up at you as you pull her close, and she smiles - really smiles, with her eyes and her mouth and everything behind it. "I just figured I'd wait until you felt like talking about this, instead of something else. We had time for once, so I didn't want to rush things."
     She curls into you, curving her body to the shape of you in your arms, her cheek tilted in towards your chest and shoulder as you speak. "You're starting your work without running, this time," Fiona murmurs. "I want to see everything that you've done. I'm sure I'll like it; after all, it's responsible for you coming back to me, in a way, isn't it? But."
     One dainty fingertip lands on your nose, then slides down again. "Will you come to Japan with us, if we go?" Fiona halfway smiles, as if expecting the answer to be no. "Just figuring, if you've always wanted to but never have - then would be the time, wouldn't it." But the docks are drawing nearer, and the time for such thoughts is passing; they will have to be put aside for another moment. She remains in your arms, one hand on the wooden railing as she leans against you.
     "I've dreamed this, somewhere..."

     "Sure, as long as you can get me there before I explode into dust," he grins. "My condition makes travel a bit... interesting, but we'll see. Maybe I'll just turn myself into a rock, you can wear me around your neck until we get to Tokyo." Where there's a will, there's a way.
     Davydd looks up as the ship docks itself. Ropes of moonlight and starlight drift outward, sailing through the air to tie themselves at the dock. The sails shimmer as the dragonflies that form them fold their wings.
     "We are here," he announces with a grin, as if you didn't know. "We should get the boys on shore and get us all settled. Then, a tour... and... we can talk more. I'd... like that. I don't think Rhodri would mind..."
     If we wandered on our own...

     "That could work. I figure magic will be involved one way or another." Fiona grins, leaning into you with a hug as both arms twine around your waist for a moment. "Mmm... you're so solid. I like that."
     Even if it pissed me right off, when I first met you. You were too solid, too real - I couldn't chase you away, out of the dark corners of my mind ...
     She turns her head, cheek resting against you, eyes half-lidded as she looks over at the docks. "Alright," Fiona agrees readily. "I'd like a tour. And I know Rhodri wants to see things more - he's had more questions than I have. He is ... very impressed, you know. And he is not easy to impress. But you should know that." A half-smile. "You've known him longer than I have."
     One hand taps at your chest, and then she carefully frees you. "It isn't a competition anymore. I don't think he'll mind. He just wanted to be equal, that's all." Fiona runs her fingers through her hair, braiding it with a magical trill that leaves glowing dust motes dancing along the strands. "Let's get on shore, darling. We have adventures waiting for us."

     There was no adoring throng to greet the Newest Queen, her two husband-kings, and the two infant princes held in the arms of attentive maids. The kings themselves carried the baggage from the ship, hoisting it all so easily. They made no strain, nor was their conversation upon labored breath.
     The docks, lit by glowing orbs, led to a wide, cobbled path, the cobbles of the moonstone and hematite. This path ended at a massive gate. An elaborate gate. A gate that when closed, as it was upon your arrival, formed a dragon's great mouth in gold. The eyes of the dragon glowed with smoky moonlight.
     At his word, it opened silently. It closed behind the family with a resounding echo that shook moon-white blossoms at your feet.
     A blossoming forest of myrtles was your first introduction to this fantastic world. With these, clusters of red and orange berries hung heavy from holly and elder trees. The tree trunks ended into roots that appeared as dragon claws above the ground before sinking into the black, nutrient-rich soil.
     From the blossoming woods, you were led up steps of hematite that have been set upon the soil of this island to lead upward to, presumably, the palace doors. If not the moon itself. It was perhaps good that you are all young, you and Nutmeg and Clover, and that Davydd was leading the way, and therefore hiding the fact that there were more stairs to climb. But, they were not steep. Did you even notice them? Did you notice you were climbing a pyramid?
     All along the climb, to either side of the party, ran cascades of silver-clear water, the running streams full of fat salmon and large koi, their mouths opening to catch hazel nuts as they fell into the water from the motion of the wind (or were the trees feeding them?)...
     Eventually, with breathless maids and the peppered questions of a curious but complaining Oak King climbing the last step, the climb ended. The journey, the woods, the blossoms, the hematite stairs and stones, the gates, even the ship. It had all been a prelude to splendor.
     Before you was a wide colonade, with the cascades flowing upward into fountains and pools in between, pools filled with sparkling fish, more pools with dangling blossoms dripping flowers to ripple on the calm surface, even heated pools, the mist from which lifted to provide the humidity needed by exotic flowers usually only dreamed of in The East.
     Pillows and sitting areas dotted the colonade, violet flowers, black dahlias twist and grow and were hanging from the roof of the colonade. And past all this, there were another set of marble stairs, leading to another pair of gates... not gates, but tall as gates.
     These were gold and brass doors, embossed with flowers. The Chrysanthemum Palace. The dreams of East and West, of Orient and Occident. Above this, the rising basilica dome of white moonlight, stretching high into the sky. Like the Sacre Couer in Paris. Perhaps it dreams, too.
     Faced with the very real possibility of having to climb more interminable stairs, the maids with babes settled on the comfortable settees and cushions. The night air is perfectly calm, not cold, not hot...
     After a few words, Rhodri took the belongings with him up the stairs and into the palace. He had no words. His brain was full. There was no protest to your spending any time alone with the king of this ... place. And so... you were led again...
     Up the stairs toward the palace...
     But he stopped you before you went through the doors. Your fingers in his, and with a secretive smile, the Holly King, the king of secret passages, led you to a copse of berried and flowering trees. There, the earth parted for him and he led you into a tunnel...

     So many things to see. So many things to absorb, to make a part of her unconscious mind - it adds to the tumult of her inner landscape. Fiona climbs with easy footsteps, inner perturbation stopped at the glass of her eyes. Several times she seemed on the verge of speaking, and each time, nothing came out; her lips parted for a moment, then closed.
     She has said nothing on this entire climb, allowing her younger husband to ask his questions unendingly, occasionally taking one or the other fat baby from the maids and cradling her son to her breast for a few steps before returning him to his keeper (and, after all, how often has she said that you needed a keeper? now it is the next generation); and she climbs, grey eyes widening for a moment at the splendour revealed.
     It is nothing that she can immediately identify. She has no more been to the East than you, and these are born from your dreams, not hers. It is not that she is frightened by it; there is the same silent absorption, the blotting paper of perception applied to the fresh, wet, wild inks that you've laid down. She looks around, finding - here, a maid settled; there, a maid settled; here, one of her sons allowed to flail pudgy fists against pillows under a gentle maidenly hand, there, - there, the Oak King goes...
     She stops at the doors, turning a questioning but still silent expression upwards. Something of solemnity, there - but there is no hurry, is there? You will reveal what you shall reveal in your own time. And besides.
     This is not her kingdom. This is not her place; this is your place. And it is the first time in a long time that Fiona has been out from her own place of power. So, as some dream-lost sacrifice moving through a pas de deux, she follows your lead, into the tunnel.
     You are changing
     said death to the maiden, your wan face
     to memory, to beauty.
     Are you ready to change?

     The waters run here as well. Where do they not run? Where is there not life? cascades and fountains spring from the walls landing in crystalline pools, geodes cracked open to reveal their quartz. Such beauty made from fire and water.
     The tunnel opens to reveal an amazing chamber. Hanging glass bulbs full of flickering flames provide the chambers multi-colored light. They hang at various lengths, making the orbs seem to float midair. There are heated pools from the hot springs that bubble up from the volcanic ocean to bring their nutrients and their bubbling heat to this chamber.
     There are cushions here too, places to linger and sit. It is as though he had expected to have the sun shine here, and he would need a place to hide. A private chamber, a hidden chamber. Something just for him, in a place all his own.
     Laughter filters in here, you can hear your babies above, the cooing maids. The sea. The bells on the buoys just outside the sheltered bay. Davydd lets your hand go. "A secret, just for you," he whispers.
     "So... what do you think?" he asks easily, as if he were showing you his apartment in London for the first time. He gestures for you to take a seat on one of the cushions, beneath the sparkling lights. "A bit much?" He smiles. He woke to find it this way after his many deaths and resurrections. "I like it though... showy, maybe." He snorts a chuckle. "I mean, all this just for you and me and Rhodri and the children." For now.

     "A bit much?" Fiona echoes it, glancing to you and then just as quickly, returning her gaze to her surroundings. "I don't think so. It's ... incredible, but you are the High King."
     Something she's known, perhaps even before you did - something she's looked forward to. And now that it has come to pass, she is frankly bewildered. Lost.
     She turns to you, one hand lifting towards you, then brought back in to her collarbone. She twists the necklace she wears on its chain, then smiles, looking down at her feet. "It's a little overwhelming," Fiona admits candidly. "I don't know whether I'm coming or going, anymore. Right now, at least. But it is very beautiful."

     "It... has been a pretty overwhelming thing. All of this," Davydd concurs. "I should have stopped to marvel at it and be bewildered earlier," that old grin flashes. "But there's nothing like Death to make you appreciate Life, they say."
     Davydd pats your hip lightly and he moves to a cushion, plopping down. "Diolch," he murmurs. He leaves his lap wide open, should you decide to plop down on him in kind. His elbow plopped on part of the cushion, he plucks at his mouth a moment, then looks at you with a secretive smile.
     "Is it selfish of me to make it a kingdom without a sun?" His fiery eyebrows quirk upward slightly. "Kingdom. It isn't a kingdom in the traditional way, and it never will be. It is just the king's island. Those needing respite, can find it here. Those who need shelter, can find it here. But it won't have a court. It'll be found by those who... need to find it."
     Davydd takes in a breath when he remembers to and he looks at you. "Do I seem weird?" he laughs suddenly. "Well, who could tell, really," comes the old familiar drawl. "I... feel a little odd, you know? I feel like... I went crazy there for a while... but... now I've got my own mind back... my Self back..."

     "I do fine, as long as I don't think about it too much." Fiona settles slowly next to you - close enough to lean, but not directly on you. She's feeling - of all things - shy; can you credit it? "If I once think about it, I can feel myself start to fall. So I do my best not to think about it."
     Almost absently, her hand finds its way to your arm, feeling along the muscles below, the ones that move your dragons so readily (when they don't decide to move of their own accord). "Selfish? No, I don't think so. This place is yours, after all - your design, your place first, no matter who comes later. It is a reflection of your own need, and the last thing you need is a blazing ball of fiery death up above." A literal answer. Fiona smiles, faintly, a glimmer of it in the solemn, wide-eyed face. "Besides," she adds, "the sun disappears in autumn and winter. If people want the sun, they can go to summer kingdoms - or ones which aren't about the things you're about. Moonlight is good enough for some things."
     It's her night to contradict your questions. "I don't find you weird. Eldritch, maybe, but not weird." Fiona sighs a little, pulling herself suddenly close to your side, burying her face in against you. "I love you," she whispers, letting the words hang in the air for a moment. Then : "I'm afraid that I might not understand you anymore. I want to - very badly. I don't want to fall away from you, Davydd."

     His arm comes up and around you and as you fall flush against him, Davydd holds you there. Sinking down with you into the cushion, he shifts to kiss you on the head. "Don't worry. Just because I'm not flying into mad histrionics at the drop of the hat or have a nice ship and a posh job doesn't mean you won't or don't understand me. Sure, I've changed from the mad, eye-watering, whining and frantic bundle of anxieties and fears, but I'm still me. I'm still completely full of shite. I still have two friends not on speaking terms with me, and all the problems I had before I decided to wade into the open ocean and give my body to the metaphoric sunlight." He chuckles after all of that.
     "See? I haven't changed that much. Just... some of the more recent dross has been cut away. That's all. I mean, before my world went mad, I wasn't so different from how I am now. But better, too. More aware," he corrects himself. "More aware of myself. More aware of others. More aware of what I've done or not done. Knowing and understanding do a lot to allay fears."
     Grinning, Davydd enfolds you in his arms, giving you a squeeze. "I love you, too. You're sweet and good to me. And tender. You took care of me, when I felt I was alone. You stayed when it seemed like everyone else was leavin'... no matter how right or how wrong that was."
     Don't be afraid, Fiona. Just because I don't need you to hold my hand, doesn't mean I don't still want you to...

     Fiona sighs, eyes closing as she curls against you. "I know. Things on the other side haven't changed - they haven't caught up, yet, maybe that's a better way of saying it, to things on this side. There's a dichotomy, and I don't think I'll fully understand that until we're back to the other side."
     Things have changed, haven't they? She is suddenly a queen, wife and mother twice over. Even if she were older than she is, it would be overwhelming. And she is young. "I want to help you. And right now, I feel as though I don't know how to help myself - or if I even need help. I probably don't, but..."
     The words trail off, and she smiles, looking up at you. "I'm not the girl you married, am I? I just want to give in right now, be weak, be helpless. And I hate that I want it. Because if I'm weak, I don't deserve you. Or any of it. I'm not tired - not physically. I just feel like I'm in so far over my head, I don't even know which way to swim to break the surface anymore."
     You enfold her, and her hands go up to touch your face, taking it between her palms. "I want you. I don't just love you; I want you. And I think that's the problem right now; it isn't need, it isn't love that's motivating me. It's want, in the greediest, convenience shop candy bar sort of way. I don't like it. I'm not sure what's happened."
     She slides up, brushing her lips to yours and then sighing, frustration echoing as her cheek falls to your shoulder; she curls up half on top of you, vibrating with frustration. I feel as if things ought to mean things, and all of a sudden, I feel this meaningless desire, and it makes me want to punch things. Let's change the topic, Davy. Let's don't talk about my failings right now. What do you want me to do, while we are here? What's my role, here? Do you just ... want my company, or do you want to plan... or just have me shut up so you can just be with me?
     She breaks off and looks up at you, her smile self-effacing. "I'm not very good at this," Fiona stage-whispers. "Should I call in an understudy?"

     "Tonight?" Davydd quirks, a corner of his mouth lifting. "Tonight, I just want to ... be. There's plenty of time to talk about the future later. Too much all at once, we'll get a bellyache." He grins and bends, his hand at your face and he kisses you back.
     It is the kind of kiss that leads to more. Not breathtaking. Still simple and yet, one is not enough.
     "We should talk about these things you are feeling. But ... let's not rush into it. Everything doesn't have to be now-now-now. I think... when we do things in a rush, we end up hurting ourselves and others." He's talking more to himself than to you, but it goes for you, too.
     Rhodri is getting the babies settled. They have an amazing room. You will see it later. You're not the only one overwhelmed. Yes, the Oak King is a headful of questions, too. But it will be revealed in time. Not everything has to be immediate all the time.
     His hands cradling your face as he turns on the cushion, Davydd kisses you again, his lips lightly pulling at your own, feeling their fullness, the blood that makes them full. "Now... what's the matter with... wanting me like candy? Candy is good. I'm good." He laughs quietly, tapping your nose with his finger.
     "What sort of candy would I be?" Davydd wonders suddenly. "Ah... a peppermint stick. One of the really thick ones you see only at Christmas time." He grins at that.

     "Tonight..." Fiona smiles halfway, leaning into the kiss and closing her eyes. Her lips close against yours, then reopen, her hand smoothing along your jaw. You are still so damn desirable - so damn sexy. I can't help myself, around you.
     She pulls back a little, arms sinking to surround your neck, keeping herself held close. "I've slowed down a bit, but - I'm moody tonight," Fiona admits, not lifting her head. "Blame it on post-partum if you want, but I think it's not just that. It's lots of little things. I won't worry at it or about it right now - you're right about that. It can wait."
     It isn't cancer. The room isn't on fire. She isn't in tears. It can wait...
     Kissing you always seems to lead to kissing you more, and now is no exception. Fiona nuzzles in against you, lips following a trail from your mouth to your ear, teeth nibbling cunningly there for a moment. "No. Not peppermint. There isn't anything minty about you, not to me. To me ... you're deadlier than that," she whispers. "Chocolate. Maybe some caramel. Definitely toffee or butterscotch - something crunchy, with the occasional sharp edges. You could cut your tongue on it, if you weren't careful. And, of course, big, thick, and so overwhelming. It's so strange, Davy. I feel like I'm thinking like a man tonight."

     Chocolate. "Hmm... I'm not really a chocolate kind of guy. That's more William and Edward." The older versions, that is. "Peanut brittle," he offers up, grinning against your mouth. "I'm definitely nutty. And I have nuts," he offers, eyebrows cocking up and his eyes widening a touch. The dark green eyes flash. They don't reflect worlds anymore. They just reflect him.
     There he is... look closely...
     A red-headed Welsh prince moving through a forest, in armor and leather, with bits of the forest woven into his gear, and mud upon his face. He looks like a modern soldier. He crouches on the balls of his feet and looks at the tracks left in the wet sod...
     There he is again...
     At night, under the burning fires of a city being seiged. He is covered in blood and sand. But none of the blood is his own...
     Davydd blinks and the visions recede. If you stare hard enough, you'll see everything he was. "...and what's wrong with thinking like a man?" he quips. "You know what you want, oes?" He grins broadly at that, and leading his hand to some part of him you favor, he helps you grip it. "There's nothing wrong with taking it, darlin'. You want what you want. What's wrong with that?"
     His hand closes over yours closing over his clothed groin. He grins as he kisses you again. And suddenly his mouth is pulling wildly, a passionate kiss coupled with the squeezing of his hand upon your own (and your own against him again). Davydd parts from the kiss with an exhalation. "See? I just did it. I wanted to take your breath away and I just went in there and got it. That's how a man does things. He wants, he gets, end of story."

     Her hands are against your face again, holding onto you, her lips almost to yours as she watches you without speaking. "I love you for so many reasons. Because you've killed; because you can kill. Because you are strong and good despite the blood and muck you've waded through, Davydd." It is almost Isobel's voice, isn't it? But it is not Isobel in your arms.
     Fiona allows her hand to be led, and the kiss leaves her gasping, her eyes closed halfway in a blinking stupor of effect. "You did," she agrees. "I don't know where my breath's gone to, but you took it. But I don't know how to be a man. Not really - I'm all complicated." She shakes her head, lifting one hand to brush away spiderweb-strands of silk hair. "And part of me wants to be like a man, and part of me just wants to be a girl - your girl, Davy. You're much more a boy than Rhodri is. Except now you're the High King." Sudden desolation enters her eyes. "Will you still want to be a boy, when you're such a man, now?"
     Complications. Fiona shakes her head as if maddened by it - buzzing flies, they are. She scowls and then hurls herself upon you, padding her fists against your chest. "I want you to kiss me again. What do you want?"

     "I'd rather you were a girl than a boy. If I wanted boys, I'd be off with William somewhere," he chuckles. Then blushes wildly. "Well... not with him, god help me no. But..." he starts to stammer, "...bah, you know what I mean." It's a hard blush. It takes a bit for it to fade out.
     "Please," Davydd pleads with you, grinning. "Please be my girl. My randy, stubborn, sweet, sexy, vulnerable, strong girl." And then you hurl yourself on him and, surprised, his eyebrows shoot up, nearly off his face, and he laughs. "I want to do a fair bit more than kiss you," comes his rumble.
     Just be yourself, love... that's all. Davydd's hands cradle your face again. One hand lifts, brushing back your hair as he looks at you. In his eyes, the smoke of clouds, the flash of aircraft fire, the grit of his teeth as he concentrates through machine gun fire, his hands on the triggers.
     Blinking again, he clears the images away. His hands bring your face to his. Brushing your mouth with his own, he teases you with kisses yet to be. Then he suckles on your bottom lip, pulling it into his mouth. Then his mouth parts yours. The kiss deepens, his mouth and yours blending, entwining.
     Parting from the kiss with a sound and a breath, Davydd opens his eyes, his lips now and then plucking at yours. "Would you like to test out the pools? It might help you relax..."

     "Please. I don't want to think of William with either of my men," Fiona drawls, suddenly teasing, dimples appearing at the corners of her mouth, her chin. "Besides, he isn't a boy. He's not my type, and I," she kisses you delicately, "am obviously not his. No temptation, darling. His was a temptation that when it existed, I locked myself away from it. Not like you. I couldn't stay away from you."
     She traces that blush with a sudden mischief in her eyes, her smile, and she kisses you again, slowly, warmly. I told you, darling. You're my hero. Don't you remember? Even though I don't think you've ever saved me from anything dangerous so far - you saved me from loneliness and from myself. But maybe you did, and I just don't remember.
     It's possible, isn't it? Anything's possible...
     Your kiss deepens against her mouth, and she blinks - she has to blink, has to briefly gain some semblance of separation again, from the images in your eyes. "Do you want to know what I want?" Fiona retorts, her hands sliding up along your chest. "Do you want me to tell you what I want?" She doesn't wait for an answer. She instead twines up against you, her mouth hard against yours.
     I want you to eat me whole and raw. It's hot, suddenly, the thought blistering from her mind. Cayenne. Caliente. Chilis and capsaicin. I want your weight on me. I want you in me. I don't want you to be gentle or forgiving. Sometimes I need it hard - sometimes, things have to hurt a little, don't they? Isn't that a little bit of why you threw yourself into the cockpit, into the middle of the battles, the old wars and the new ones? Not just a job to be done. Why you drive fast cars. Why you like it when I bite you, when I claw up your back because I just can't stand it anymore. I need it, Davy. It's so good with you. I'm addicted to you.

     There is a definite appeal to eating you whole... and raw. You can see his mouth change with the distending of fangs. There are no visions in his eyes now, just the glint of hunger. You call to that part of him, your inner voice like a flute to a snake in a basket.
     His hands leave your face with a last gentle touch. His fingers skim the fabric of your dress, a light touch moving across your breasts as he stares at you. And then there is a rush of air -- coolness against your skin. Your skin? With a rip of fabric -- requiring very little effort on his part -- the front of your dress is ruined. The coolness of this subterranean chamber scatters quickly as his mouth claims a breast as his hands continue to ruin the dress, pulling it apart.
     I need to bleed... that is part of it... I need the burn of fingernails. Wild, pagan love. His hands are on your waist, pulling you to him. Davydd lifts his mouth from your breast, claiming your mouth again, parting it with his tongue, the tongue that then spirals around your own.
     Sliding to his knees from the cushion to the rug that softens the stone of the floor, his mouth trails over your stomach. His hands part your legs, and they keep them spread.
     This chamber will echo your cries and moans. It was perhaps designed for that very purpose, that when having you here he would hear you bouncing off the surrounding walls as surely as you were bounced upon his lap...

Posted by rowan at November 12, 2005 12:44 AM