The doors to the grand dining hall were opened for The Hunt, all twelve of the doors flung open to reveal a multitude of tables, high domed ceiling, candelabras and hanging oil lamps, brightly colored. The tables were piled high with the bounty that always follows him.
     What would the Holly King's table be, if not full of food?
     The Holly King himself did not go to the Hall. He left the Hunt to their own designs, their own hunger, their own space, and began the many-staired climb to his chambers.
     It is a cousin to the great chamber on the ship, only the map of the kingdoms sparkles on the ceiling like the heavens. The tile of the floor is the paneled universe, each tile a constellation. It was perhaps disorienting at first to have the sky on the floor and the earth on the ceiling, but it is just one of the dizzying things about the opulent space.
     It is not simply one chamber but a suite of chambers encompassing the whole of the uppermost floor of the palace. There is a large chamber for the two princes. For now, they share a room. One day they will have their own (with a door adjoining them, of course). They sleep in cribs that hang and gently rock, made into the shape of ships. Prince Winkin. Prince Nod. With the blinkin' cat resting on a pillow on the floor in between and one of their father's napping as they nap below.
     Davydd enters the living room (there's also a library, a music room, a private small bedroom, a room for the queen's privacy, a room for the Oak King, and of course the great master bedroom). In his hand are several clusters of orchids, white and fuschia, with a few dahlia and gerbera tossed in for good measure. It's a colorful and hand-picked bouquet.

     "Have you been off being fantastical and impossible again, Davydd?"
     The question is asked by your queen, that girl who knows only too well about impossible beings. She has been impossible - but these days, it seems she's given up impossibility in favour of just being easy, at least where you and your Oak fellow are concerned.
     She sits in the living room right now, squeezed into a pair of jeans and a black turtleneck sweater. Pale golden tresses spill, streaked with cranberry wine - to match her mouth, which is stretched with a widening and generous smile as grey eyes turn up to you.
     "I decided I was in a mood for something a little ... more modern," Fiona murmurs. She nudges a book aside, rising slowly to her feet. It is a compromise of sorts - her body still swollen in places with the effects of pregnancy and two always hungry princes, her Self in this realm, magic a part of her even as queenliness has been forced upon her - but there is nothing complicated in her welcome. "Business any good, ap Owain?"

     He takes his time in looking you over, his hand softly closing the door behind him, and his mouth quirks before leaving the quirk behind for lesser men and taking up a great big grin. You're both dressed in regular attire. None of this "fancy dress party" regalia so regularly seen in the magical realm.
     Davydd holds out the flowers in one hand, his arms spreading in that 'come give us a hug then' way. "It's what I do best," he warmly says, the voice held in his chest in a rumble. "And I like that. I miss the Monde Moderne," he waxes, and then he presents the flowers to you. "I picked these for you," Davydd murmurs. "With my own hands..."
     Business is business. It will be bloody at first, but then... it will begin to heal. I am rousing the Hunt to go after the guilty parties.
     "And you... have you been busy with the boys?" Davydd quirks his attention toward the other room, his ears giving a listen, head tilted. "They sound asleep. Bellies all full? And Rhodri's too," he chuckles.
     Well, he can imagine it wasn't the filling of his belly that made him nap...

     She moves forward, close to you, then brings her hands up to accept the flowers with a sudden glow of pleasure. "See, Davy? You can be romantic when you put your mind to it." She's laughing at you - just a little, but with genuine warmth and delight for the gift, for the thought.
     I've been being gentle. New mother and all that sentimental rot. When it's time, I'll be something else, but for now ... family time, right? Fiona lifts the flowers and tips her head down, inhaling fragrance with a deep sigh.
     "Everyone's asleep except us," Fiona confirms, leaning in to brush her cheek against your shoulder, then backing off. Unhurriedly, she arranges the flowers in a fan on the table, sliding long stems out of the bundle and scooping the rest up to slip them into a pitcher. "Taking advantage of the opportunity. But I - well, I wasn't tired, somehow. So I came up here to wait."
     I heard you calling - at least, if that's what it was. The horn. I wanted to make sure that your world didn't need any adjustments from me. So I figured I'd wait here, and see what you had to say.
     She returns with two of the gerbera, settling crosslegged on the cushions with a slant-eyed glance to you. "Joining me, Llewellyn?", Fiona inquires blithely. "Or are you in more of a looming mood. I do like how you can loom."

     Looming? The eyebrows cock up a bit. "I don't know the first thing about weaving," he rattles out, quietly -- mindful of the sleeping princes (and king) a room away. He gives you a nod, shrugging out of his longcoat (wool, that is, very posh) and he drapes it over you like a king's cloak.
     It smells of Him...
     Of clove and nutmeg, cinnamon and quince. Of noble fir, and a hint of cigarettes and Guinness. Him, all over.
     Davydd's joining you soon after, creaking his way down like all thirty-six year old men should do. A quiet groan given as he ends up on cushion and floor. And you. He opens an arm out so you can come into his grasp. "No, no adjustments yet. But the race is on. To get them, before they get their next queen. There are others with designs on the great kingship. But they haven't the slightest clue how to really go about it. As a thing," dark green eyes shift to you, "... it's meaningless. It's only what one does with it that gives it any sort of significance."
     He smiles to your notion of gentleness. "You're a lovely mother, you know. So good with them. It's a joy to see you this way. My wife, the mother of the wee bairn." He grins at that. "Wait, that's Scottish..." A chuckle resonates in his chest as he leans in for a kiss.
     "Aye, I have my moments," he murmurs. "More of them these days. I like giving you pretty things, watching your face light up. Just like I like watching your nose wrinkle and your eyes flash when you're about to let loose a torrent of foul words."
     His arms surround you, holding you against his chest. "We'll be heading to London soon, I guess." Tipping his head back, he looks at you. "So... have you decided what to do about the boys? For one, I don't mind them being in London. I'd miss them if they weren't. But... they're of Here. Still... wouldn't hurt for them to stay now and then? How are you going to work that out?"

     She smirks with a roll of the eyes in amused mock-exasperation at your pun, then rolls towards you, out from under your coat, into your arms. "You are the king," Fiona says with assurance. "They can't kill you, and even if they could, they're confusing what you are with a mere title. It isn't that simple. You're a bigger man than that - cosmic, even."
     You kiss her, and she rolls her mouth against yours, sealing her approval onto you and then pulling back, nose to nose. "I like being the mother of your child," Fiona murmurs, her hands to your shoulders, gerbera draping to tickle your ear. "I like that I can be a lot of things and not have to give everything up. I really like that I didn't have to give you up, Old Man. You might be hazardous to my diet and my health, but - I just find I can't do without you."
     She turns against your chest, snuggling into you as if to lend her warmth or steal what warmth is yet in you. Fiona closes her eyes, crawling into your lap with both hands now fisting in your shirt. "I was thinking that the boys could - mostly - stay here. They'll have a lot of learning to do, to be the Men that their fathers are. And ... much as I want to cuddle them, they're princes." She's been thinking about it; it makes the words come easier, with less hesitation, less influence of potential tears. "They will come to London on occasions, I think. What you're doing is building bridges between here and there, right? So it's important that they do know something about there - but they can't live there all the time and always, both because of who and what they are, and because of my own dual existence, and Rhodri's, and of course yours. So ... I'll ... set the clock, so to speak. Make it so that every day, I'll slip away for a little while to spend time with them - even if just an hour, but that hour can be as long as I need it to be, for them. I want them to have parents - not just distant glamour that comes and goes with presents when it comes."
     Fiona rolls her head against her shoulders, then looks up at you, fingers sliding along your cheek questioningly. "Do you think that's an acceptable solution, Davydd? Because they are a part of you as much as me or Rhodri. And I told you, I'm past pretending you and I aren't as much something as me and Rhodri. Cake's for the eating, not the looking - and our children should be able to have that, too."

     "I think it's acceptable," his hands come up, surrounding you as you crawl onto his lap. His is a mostly-reclined but sort of sitting position, quite able to keep you scooped up against him. "And I'll be able to shuttle back and forth as well. Back to my usual body there, spirit here sort of thing. There's much to do here and there. I can't just laze about like a big lazy thing."
     His mouth cants to the side as he tips back his head to look at you. "I'm done with pretending too. To be honest," he chuckles softly, a short laugh, "... you're no safer here than you are there. Neither are they. And ... you're more than capable of handling yourself. I can't worry about that anymore. So... here or there, you're my girl, yeah?"
     A moment of blissful privacy between you becomes a moment of intimacy. Forest eyes look at you, his hand brushing a touch against your face. Davydd leans in, kissing you with his eyes open. Same way as he's living these nights. Same way as he's loving.
     "You can cuddle them a while longer," he smiles. "You'll always want to, even when they're six-foot-some-odd giants, you know. We'll work it out. Here...there...wherever." His hand moves your voluminous hair out of his way so he can look at your neck. He loves to stare at it.
     "I love you... you like the flowers, aye? There are gardens full of them. I have... all sorts of hidden glens." His finger curls strands of your hair around it, tugging it lightly. "Gardens tucked here and there with marble fountains, soft grass. We can make love under the moon and loiter naked. No one will find us. There are labyrinths of them," he divulges his secret with a grin.
     "It will take us years to find them all..."

     "If someone really and truly is determined to kill me - well, I'll make them work for it, for starters." Fiona buries her face in your shirt, eyes closed as she inhales deeply. The scent of you lingers, spreads with its own warmth. "But if they really and truly are - it doesn't matter, the why of it. There's enough reasons, now, why they might that haven't got a thing to do with you. I've been seen with you at Davy's, at the Abbey - someone could already have put two and two together in a cockeyed way and gotten something like four. So, yeah. I'm your girl. And you're my man."
     Her smile is aimed at you, deeply and not without its jagged edges, its lopsided twist. "I'll always want to, same as I always want to with you. Funny how it works," Fiona murmurs. "You're so much bigger and tougher than I am, and I end up wanting to mother you as much as my babies. Not all the time, of course. I like you as a daddy, too."
     You move her hair, she smiles at you, tolerant and with eyes glinting in knowledge of your appetites. It's a darker sort of hunger - midnight and mystery, edged like a knife. "I love the flowers, Davy. I love all of it. I love that we have time for all of this - exploration. But most of all..." Fiona twists her head and leans up, stopping herself with a kiss on your mouth. "I love you, Davy. Pointy teeth and all."
     She subsides, smile spreading again. I have secrets, too. And plans which will keep me busy, too. Some here, some there - some for myself, some for all of us. I'm going to be as good as I can at everything I do, even if it's fucking up. You do the same, Davy.

     "Brilliant as a comet," he grins, flashing those teeth, the edge of them curved at the tips. Best for grabbing. And holding on. You know all about that. "I'm hopeful about it all, Fiona. Hopeful maybe for the first time in my life. Empowered, I guess. I don't know why it took me so long. Maybe it was just I was too busy carrying Mithras around on my back and thinking the bogeyman was still on my heels. But that's all in the past now. I like this... facing the future head-on, not looking behind me. It's a relief."
     I know you have your secrets. Please... keep them. I like the mystery. And does he ever. The whole idea of you knowing something he doesn't, of you hiding something for him to discover -- it makes his green eyes smolder like a spark growing in thick fir.
     "I love you, too," he says. He likes to hear himself say it. It reaffirms it. He smiles. "And you know... there have been stranger pairs than you and I. I'm not ashamed of it, or afraid of it. There's nothing to protect. Just... to love. So... what do you think your mother will say...you getting a piece on the side... hmm... or in an open marriage..." He likes the salaciousness of it all of the sudden, his eyes lighting up like a child's on Christmas morning. "Can I feed you a piece of cake at the wedding, as well as have a dance? Hmm...maybe... get my hands on the garter...?"
     He can't help himself. A hand teases its way between denimed thighs, tickling as he grins. "I'll try not to give it a snap." Fiery eyebrows dance up and down as he waggles them. And if you believe that, he has some land in Chaos going cheap!
     "They're not going to be able to see me dance with you and not think... not know that I'm in love with you," he starts a grin. "We'll start a proper scandal. I'm not sure I can behave."

     "You're brilliant," Fiona retorts. "Blinding - and dense as a comet sometimes, too." She smiles sweetly, then leans in, touching her forehead to yours. "You have a future now. You're letting yourself have one. Me?" Her hand comes up to toy with your collar. "I'm glad you're letting me in to be a part of it."
     Oh, I intend to keep them. When I'm done with them, you'll find out - maybe - and then ... I'll come up with new ones. Mirth and sly amusement coexist in that thought, held free of images which might offer up hints. You will know - someday - of her plans to conquer and expand her kingdom; of her dealings with the pixy tribes, of her plans to be a rock star. But not now. Someday you will see her on a television screen as you pass...
     "As to what my mother might say," Fiona muses, then glances up at you sidelong from the comfort of your lap, "I don't know. I haven't thought about it, but ... well, you know, we could probably have two grooms in the ceremony, even if only one on the license. I'll be the black sheep of my family, but it isn't as if I was going into politics, anyway."

     "I think the Church of England still frowns on that," Davydd casually mentions. They can handle gay priests, but bigamy is right out. "We'll have a great time nonetheless. We'll cut a rug, dance in our socks." His hands give you a pat and he chuckles. "Hmmm... dense as a comet. That's the gods' truth."
     Davydd nuzzles you under your ear, burying his face against your neck a moment, rumbling and growling in your ear. "I'll cut a rug with your mother, too. That'll be one for the picture books," he chuckles.
     But that's enough about your mother. She can be a real wet blanket...
     Reclining back, Davydd exhales, his body sinking into the cushion. His arms hold you against him, tightening but in a gentle way -- he knows his own strength. "We can stay here as long as you like. When you are ready for London, we will go. I'm in no hurry, just so you know. I think we've missed my birthday by now, which suits me fine. I'm fucking old. I don't need to be reminded of the bleeding number. It'll be Samhain soon... Rhodri can mind the boys. We'll... come here..." His hand brushes along your neck. "We will strip ourselves under the moon and welcome in the dark half of the year together..."
     He tips your chin, bringing your mouth to his. Smiling, Davydd kisses you, tugging at your lips with the pointed curve of his teeth.

     "Well, that depends on who's performing the ceremony. I'm not exactly a good little Anglican." Fiona laughs, the sound contentedly in the back of her throat. "Mother will have fits, no two ways about it - but she would anyway. I'm sure you'll bring her down to size."
     She exhales, body relaxing in your grasp. "I think once the boys are weaned - which at the rate they're growing, won't take long, just until they get their upper and lower teeth and then I'm done. The only one allowed to chew on me for food is you." Her hand comes round to your ribs, squeezing for a moment, then lightly pummeling. "Mm. My Davy. My Old Man. I like crunching leaves underfoot. Someday - someday I still need to make you hunt me through the darkness and the night, with only the moon overhead to give us any light along the path. Just promise not to kill me at the end."
     You kiss her, and her lips glow rosily from that sweet torture, her arms rising around your neck. Because it can't be all sweetness and light, can it, Davy? Fiona closes her eyes, returning the kiss with parting lips and a sly glide of the tip of her tongue to the corner of your mouth. We both need a little fight now and again. Mmm... maybe I should just take you out to pubs, see how you respond to the footballers.

     Your arms circle his neck and he rolls you over, letting your body sink into the cushion as his sinks against yours. It's a wicked look he gives you, full of secrets and promises and mischief. "Yeah?" his earthy voice intones. "That'd be a rout. Make sure you entice at least half a dozen. We have to be at least a little fair."
     Giving his weight to you, Davydd settles in, his arms surrounding you. Kissing you gently, then not so gently. "I promise not to kill you. I know the difference between hunting you," he taps the tip of your nose, "...and going for take out." Green glimmers in a wink. "We'll manage it. Perhaps for Samhain, hmm... one of our rituals."
     Bending his head, Davydd kisses you again. "Or you can just hide in this palace. It's big enough for me to lose you in," he grins in a flash. "Hell, it took me an hour to find my shoes." Oh sure, he's exaggerating (he is Welsh), but it makes for a good story.
     We'll celebrate for two weeks... and then ... our rituals will be just you and I. Here. In our labyrinth. Hmm... perhaps then. A chase to each garden. And then... when I catch you... I'll slide your gown off your skin and we'll make love in each one. Sounds like a good ritual to me...
     He snorts a chuckle at himself. "It doesn't take much to make me happy. Strange, isn't it." Davydd bends, kissing you again. Arms still around you, he rolls you over again. Once more, he is your perch.
     The better to see you, my dear...

     She laughs again, an eruptive sound, suddenly breathless. "My shortest skirt," Fiona promises you. "My tightest top. Heels, lingerie just peeking, plenty of dangly flashy baubles, a scarlet smear where my mouth usually is - but with a little class left to it, not just cheap tart. Then you can deal with them however you want."
     Venus fly trap, but you'd be the one who gets to feed if you chose...
     "We make our own rituals. And some of them, we just remember - from somewhen else." Fiona lets you kiss her, and becomes by degrees an enthusiastic conspirator. A chase - but for it to work, I have to try to keep you from finding me. Something of the princess and the soldier, maybe - though that's more Rhodri's style. You ... you're a lovely male predator, all sliding muscles and gleaming fangs and eyes. With that hunger behind them.
     She finds herself on top of you, Welsh mountain that you are, her hair falling forward to give you and she that moment of privacy. "You were never happy because you always had to look over your shoulder for the past," Fiona murmurs, mouth to mouth. "But now that you've cut it loose... does this mean we get to go out to dinner together, Davy? Me on your arm instead of some of the fashion parade?"
     You'd almost think she were jealous or something.

     He likes to be curtained by your hair. He watches the golden wave of it move over him, then he closes his eyes, his mouth parting for an Ah. Davydd slowly opens his eyes and he slowly smiles. "We can go out to dinner, yes. I know a great place. Very exclusive. Owned by a friend of mine. It's a rooftop restaurant. You'd like it. And...just so you know," he lowers his voice. "I...haven't taken anyone out. And I also haven't talked to Rose. And at this point...unless I run into her in the street, I'm just going to let that alone."
     No point in re-treading the past now, is there? He'll apologize if she shows up. He'll have his closure eventually. But there's no need to rush it.
     Davydd leans up within the gold, his hands coming up to cradle your face as he bends at the waist. His muscles are what pull him up in the crunch. Cradling your face, he kisses you. "There are places I can't take you, but restaurants aren't among them." He smiles and kisses you again. "Regular dates, even. We'll be seen. I promise."

     She lies upon you like a divan, one elbow propping her up as she smiles down at you, into your eyes. "Darling, if I had, what would I do - scratch their eyes out? I can't go around scratching the eyes of any woman you've been seen with, or might've looked at. I'd be hurt - it's true. But ... hurts can be mended, as long as the wounds aren't ripped open. With Rose, my fear was always much more that she'd do something to hurt you. My fears for my own heart were always because of Sandrine."
     And there it is - the smile, so puckish, goes wistful but remains. It's true, and she's letting you know the truth - in a way, making a gift of it. A weakness revealed, a flaw in the armour shining for your eyes. "I trust you," Fiona whispers, lowering herself by degrees to touch her lips to your forehead, to each eye, finally to your mouth. "I've committed myself to you - we were hurtling on the same path reluctantly, at first, but ... I want to be with you, Davy. And that means knowing the shape of truth, and accepting what I can, and - figuring out the rest. Life's funny that way."
     You kiss her, and she sighs. "Well, silly, there's places I can't take you, either. The beach in midsummer afternoon, for one," Fiona retorts lazily, touching your cheek. "I've never needed to know all your secrets, Davy. Just enough of them to know that I'm not on shaky ground - that we're not on shaky ground - and enough that I could figure out my own bullocks. Dinner, dancing - what next? Monte Carlo, Mister Bond?"

     "Nah, I can't fucking stand Monte Carlo," his voice rolls out, tugging and lilting in humored cadence as he slants a smile. "But, Moneypenny, baby... we can go just about anywhere else. I'd fancy Spain, myself. It's been a while since I've been there. Or we can go somewhere exotic. Japan maybe." Some night. Some time.
     "We're alright," Davydd notes quietly, a soft assurance after a few years' worth of blustery weather between you. "And you've nothing to worry about with Sandrine either. I care for the woman, it is true. But there's nothing there now." He looks momentarily chagrin. "She's a sweet woman. I could've handled that better. But," an exhale and eyebrows cock up, "...what's past is past and done."
     Davydd sits in silence a moment and more. He looks you up, he looks you down, he looks you all around. And then the corners of his mouth upturn. "You've nothing to worry about. Believe it or not, and I could scarcely have imagined this myself a few years ago, but ... there's only one woman for me in all this world. And she's sitting on my lap right now. A beautiful, funny, good-hearted woman. So, my waiting's done. I have her. And I like having her," he chuckles suddenly, grinning madcap.
     Lifting up, Davydd cradles your face again and kisses you. This kiss does not let you go so easily. It wanders a while, savoring taste and feel. It is a kiss that wanders to your chin, your neck, before making its way back to your mouth.
     I've committed myself to you. Our paths are our own, but our hands are joined...

     "Spain. I've never been to Spain. But Japan - well, you're coming with me to there." Fiona touches a fingertip to your nose, looking intently mischievous. "You're going with me even if it's right around my neck."
     She sighs, sliding slightly down along you, her cheek to your shoulder. "I know. I feel badly for her - for the way things fell. But..." Fiona opens one blue eye in a reverse-wink to you, "I can't do anything for her. We - she and I - don't speak the same language or come from the same place. You, I understand. Her - she's a closed book to me, and I think that's the way she wanted it."
     You sit in silence, you look at her, and you speak - and your words bring that sudden irrepressibly warm smile to her face again. "I like having you, too," Fiona informs you, laughing a little as your mouth wanders, from hers to her shoulders, relearning her skin. "I - really like it, Davy. I keep telling myself - so this is what it's like, to love. This is love. This is what it's like, to be happily married. This is what it's like..."
     Her mouth presses insistently to yours, and her hand goes to your groin for a quick, stealthy squeeze. If I were any more committed, dearest, I'd be in a straitjacket. Just don't forget to be wicked, won't you? I love my mischievous troublemaker - I don't want him to change and become all pious and pure. Fiona's tongue taps, seeking entrance, seeking out sharp fangs in brief goading trouble of her own. Even if it means I foment things, now and again, to remind you. What do you think of doing it on the Eiffel Tower? We could do a world tour of famous monuments and shag on them.

     He laughs into the kiss, that laughter transforming to a rolling growl in his throat at the squeeze. A hand comes to cover yours there, and his mouth parts against your own. Just because I'm not a raving lunatic doesn't mean I've suddenly sprouted wings, darlin'. I think... I'm just about the furthest thing from pious and pure as can be...
     It amuses him, though, the thought of him converting to a life of piety. Riot. Hands in your hair, Davydd holds you through the sudden explosion of a kiss, his body turning, slowly bringing you down upon your side beside him. Such a tangle. You and he and coat makes three.
     "Where else," he whispers at your neck, his breath echoes there as he releases it in speaking. And he's suddenly grown five pair more of hands, for all he seems to handle you. "London Bridge?" He grins against the pulse at your throat, his mouth heading downward to the hollow of it before lifting to your mouth again. He teases your lips with a brush of his own before parting them once more for a claiming embrace.
     "Empire State," he breathes at your mouth. And then he grins. "The Vatican."

     My troublemaker. My alley cat on two legs. Fiona rolls with you, fingers digging into your shirt again, plucking at buttons, sliding into gaps as you lower her next to you. I like you mad. I like you lunatic. Be my crazy valentine, if you like.
     She is as amused as you - and breathlessly, now, her fingers working to tug your shirt from your trousers. "Great Wall of China," Fiona suggests, her teeth scraping at your lips. "Ayer's Rock. The middle of the Black Forest. On one of the stones of Stonehenge." She smiles. "You have your own standing stone, haven't you."

     "I do," he croons with wide eyes and a grin. "And remember... we can get there from Powis. One of the first secrets I showed you, remember? You were first visiting the castle. Before we slept together for the first time. Though, there wasn't much in the way of actual sleep as I recall."
     He grins, his hands lifting your sweater. Up and off with a gentle tug. Appreciation dawns on his expression and his fingers lift the straps of your undergarment. "Ayer's Rock," Davydd murmurs. "Where's that? Black Forest is out. I don't go to Germany unless it's to shoot Germans," he notes matter-of-factly.
     Dark green eyes lift from the vision of you half-dressed to your face as his hand slips into a cup of the bra, his hand becoming your support now. "The leaning tower of Pisa," he smiles in a slant. "Though it might make me a bit dizzy. Vertigo and all..."
     Davydd lowers his head, red hair vibrant against your ivory skin as he bends down, kisses traveling southward. "It doesn't matter where," he breathes between your breasts. You feel a sudden unhooking as his fingers make the fabric give way. "Here is good," he chuckles.

     "We went pretty fast," Fiona murmurs reminiscently. "From talking to making out to the full monty, all in a few hours."
     Her arms lift, letting you work the sweater loose from her so that the fragile pale pink lace is viewable where it holds back the cream of her skin. She smiles at you, a sort of wicked delight - I know how you feel about pin - and she shivers as you touch her skin. "Ayer's Rock is in Australia - middle of nowhere, the only ones who go there other than tourists are the aborigines, I think. I don't remember."
     And you are fast making her forget things. Knowledge slips away, and she half-swoons against you, lips parting and eyes widening before they roll back, lashes fluttering down. A sigh follows the flutter like a soundtrack. "We'll find some other forest to fuck in," Fiona informs you, "one not in Germany, then. I like you wooded."
     She grabs fistfuls of your hair, tugging. One hand frees, slides against your cheek, scrapes fingernails against the side and back of your neck, down your back. "It doesn't matter where," Fiona echoes in agreement. "As long as it's you, Davy. On an altar or in a bed or a boardroom, I don't care... my mad, wild, bad, wonderful king and general and husband."

     "I work fast," he admits, a smile tracing from his mouth to your skin. "I try to resist it but...well...I'm not much for restraint." It's hardly a confession, and hardly a surprise. But for all his talk of working fast, he's taking his time now, pressing your breasts together, burying himself between them, tasting your skin.
     "I do... like pink..." Hardly a confession, hardly a surprise. "Especially on you. It is sweet. And it is not sweet. Virginal and wanton. Girl and woman..." His voice trails off as his mouth busies itself with your flesh. He teases sensitive skin with his tongue and then with the cool-warmth of his mouth.
     Davydd kisses you again, his mouth returning to yours. The suckling that tugged at your breasts now tugs at your tongue. "It is magical," he whispers between you, eyes opening to look at you. Smoldering deep, like a fog in dark woods, his eyes are the windows to his desire, if not his soul. "It is carnal. It is life. And I can't resist the tug and pull of it. Your skin," he closes his eyes, his mouth finding your neck, "...is life," he speaks it as if he is amazed by it.
     He is.
     He groans as his hands undo your pants, one sliding between the folds of denim to find lacy warmth beneath. His mouth covers yours again, parting it widely. He's always been a passionate man. But these nights... he can't contain it.
     Davydd breaks the kiss suddenly: "The Aztec pyramids in Mexico..."

     "So fast noone can keep up, Old Man," Fiona teases, her voice a caress in and of itself. She is affected by you - when is she not? The colour rises in her skin, bringing a little gasp along with it. Your sensitive ears can hear her pulse speed up, the sudden double-beat of her heart in its leap for your touch. Down-up; and then it resumes its normal beat, only a little faster than before, a rumba of blood responses.
     Her hands draw along your skin, feeling the dragons by memory. Skin puckers, contracts; her pupils, as well. Little signs of intoxication. My darling, Fiona whispers, a ripple of cream laced with ginger and almonds. You constantly outdo yourself. You don't need to be quite so humble tonight...
     Denim parts for you, as does the scissor of her thighs, and you find the matching scraps of spun fabric waiting for you, ready to dissolve. She is ready to dissolve; it's all the sugar before the absinthe, with you being the hallucination and the pleasure. Tonight, she is on solid ground - but also floating on air. It isn't desperate. It is real. And that is something to which she's yet to become accustomed.
     You break the kiss, and Fiona rises slightly, hips jutting up against your hand. "The Cape of Good Hope," she retorts. "The Great Pyramid of Giza. Or just your own damn bed, Davydd. I don't need fantasies as long as I can have you."

     "You started it," Davydd grins, his hand circling. His fingers sneak their way past the pink frills, slipping along you. His middle finger sinks inside you as the heel of his palm presses, circling and rubbing. Half on...half-off, his shirt pulls against his skin, wavering in the motion of his hand's movement.
     "I love to watch you, when you're like this," Davydd smiles at you. He bows his head, his eyes watching his hand, how your hips move in sympathetic motion against him. "You are so beautiful, Fiona. You don't really know how much, I do not think. Especially now... your skin...your eyes...how you feel and how you sound. You're radiant, love."
     His hand shifts, his finger slipping out of you to smooth over you in pressing circles. "When I first met you... I knew you would be this sweet." Davydd grins, pulling away his hand. He watches your hips curl forward and back with the echo of where his touch had lain. Twisting, he bends. His mouth opening just above the waistline of your underwear.
     His mouth brushes against you. He drops a kiss upon your navel, between your breasts, lastly upon your lips, as he twists out of his shirt and tosses it aside. Your pants will be next. You feel his hands tugging down the denim.
     His wool trousers show the evidence of his own desire. But there are a thousand other signs. The way muscles move. The change of his own complexion, even in his immortal state. Ancient blood moves to the surface, tinging his blue tattoos with a violet.

     There is that immediate reaction, the way that she always reacts when you take her - in full or en petit. "Davy..." Fiona smiles again, though, a warm, wobbling smile that holds an incredulous tinge.
     Fingers pluck at your shirt, at your skin, as if to peel the tattoos away, steal them for herself. "Not beautiful," she argues shakily, biting her lower lip and for a moment glaring at you pugnaciously. A little sound escapes her as you slide back out, at the circles - sounds concentrate and rippling outwards, your touch the droplet that starts the world.
     "Not sweet, either," Fiona remonstrates, though there's something of pleading to match heat in her gaze, a shudder twisting through her as your mouth descends. "Davy ... I want to see you." And touch you - and kiss you - and feel you - but mostly, see you. Know you. In all your facets.
     She smiles at you tremulously as you begin stripping the both of you for that ageless dance. "Davydd," Fiona whispers, just your name for a moment. She takes a breath, then is still, listening, watching.
     "In all my life, Davydd... up until we came together ... I wanted Love," Fiona whispers it, her hands lifting to help you with the process of clearing cloth away from skin. "I wanted it real, I wanted it close to the skin. Into the heart. And when we finally were together ... it was like a key and a lock. Everything just - stripped away. So this is what it's like to be a girl, really, I thought to myself. This is what it's like, to be with someone. To belong."

     "Argue all you want, darlin'..." His words come measured and slow as your jeans and pink frilly things are set aside. You're bare now, your blushing can't be hidden. Nor your beauty. Davydd lets you see how the revelation dawns on him.
     Beautiful... from your changeable eyes... to your slanting mouth... your breasts... hips... stomach... thighs. There is not a molecule of a cell in you that I do not adore.
     Davydd cuts a wicked grin. "Very sweet, in fact. To the taste, at least." Green sparkles in a wink. Yes, his eyes echo as they fix on the golden triangle between your thighs, very sweet.
     His dragon-ringed hands move to his trousers. He rests back, sitting on his heel as he unfastens them for you. Davydd sits upward on his knees as he lets the fabric fall. He rises to his feet, stepping out of pants and shoes and socks.
     The painted dragons stare at you all the while, peeking out behind the forest painted on his skin. Thick-rooted, he is rigid, parallel to the floor. Where root and torso meet, muscles are tightened, his torso rippling as his length lifts.
     "I didn't know what the hell I wanted," Davydd admits with a smile as he looms over you briefly. He reaches for you with a hand. A motion for you to stand. "When it found me, I didn't have the slightest idea what to do with it." Now, he grins. "It scared me... a lot. To want so much. To want to be needed like that. To know that ... I needed to be loved... wanted to be loved. That's what it's like to be a man," he murmurs against your mouth as you stand together, bodies flush, his length pressed against your stomach.
     "This is what it's like. To have what you want." Bending his head, Davydd kisses you. His arms come around you, lifting you into his grasp. His face buries in the crook of your shoulder and neck.

     She rises to her knees, still flushed from pleasure and embarrassment, stubbornly defending to her last breath her supposed lack of beauty. The foibles of women. And she leans forward with a cat-like sinuous arch of her spine, lips brushing against the crown of your manhood, tongue giving sly greeting before she rises in full.
     She rises, breasts lifting lugubriously as her shoulders shrug her upwards, her arms lifting to wrap around you. "You found me," Fiona says simply, holding onto you loosely a moment before your arms tightened. "Literally, Davy. I don't know if you were looking or if it was happenstance, but ... you found me. Finders keepers?"
     Because that first night was punctuated by everything that had come before - darkness and magic and a hint of something that you ran towards instead of away from, maybe not in the pleasure of the hunt so much as what-the-fuck-was-that. And now you have it. And her... in your grasp.
     My Davy. Fiona croons wordlessly to you as you lift her, a low chuckle of sound. Nothing I ever wanted quite as much as you. Nothing quite like you, either. I didn't chase boys until after I met you - and I chased the baddest boys I could find. But I couldn't commit - I couldn't do anything. Because I was yours, and I guess I knew it. And I'm yours now ...
     "Show me how much..."

Posted by rowan at December 02, 2005 04:55 PM