Large fingers tickle the small keys of the baby grand piano. There's a melancholy tune that comes from that, wandering, more meandering from haphazard notes to a coherent verse. Both a cigarette and a snifter of brandy (the good stuff, from William) sits on the glossy black piano -- both halfway finished.
     The living room of the South Waterfront flat is dominated by two grand window-walls. The drapes are pulled, giving the piano man a view of the River Thames and the vibrant lights of the Gabriel Wharf and Waterloo Bridge.
     Davydd ap Owain is in white button-down shirt and black wool trousers, very posh. The only thing belying that is the scruffiness of a beard growing back from lack of shaving. His hair he's kept slightly longer, waves in a layered professorial manner. He cuts a nice image for those who look up from the street, wondering who the wealthy piano-player might be.
     The song halts momentarily as Davydd reaches up and takes the brandy snifter and swallows, then picks up the cigarette and puffs. He leaves the cigarette shoved between his lips, puffing smoke as he resumes the song in progress.

     That sound would be the clicking of a key in the lock, of the door being opened from the other side. Familiar footsteps; footsteps that ring with confidence, a sort of happy expectation in their click against the floor. The door is nudged open, and a woman slides in with shopping bags over her arms.
     Well... a girl, really...
     She leans back against the door with a sigh, letting it shut tightly closed behind her. She's a London posh urchin tonight; white silk blouse with the cuffs left unbuttoned, collar rumpled and a pair of dark gold jeans painted in vaguely Hindu designs of ochre and silver. White sandals show no sign of the street - new, or magically protected. Her hair's worn long again, in a whimsical return to clear crystal baubles and bangles and beads, streaked as well with colour - fuchsia and pink and blue and green, touched here and there rather than all over.
     Fiona smiles, setting down her shopping and then reaching down to pull off her shoes. They're tossed underhand to slide towards the piano - as if you didn't already know she's here. "Davydd..."

     Oh, it's been a moody bit of time in jolly olde England while you've been off in God's Country tending to the affairs of the soon to be mortal wedding. Not that he's been constantly gloomy, but...
     You know how he can be...
     So when he heard the door unlock, his eyebrows quirked and his head tilted like a dog's toward the noise. Puffing like a chimney, he still smokes without his hand but as you come in, it becomes surrounded by a smoky grin.
     "Hey there," he rumbles, the burning end of the cigarette bouncing with his consonants. Davydd plucks it from his lips, the song quitting altogether, and he exhales a cloud of smoke and taps out the ash. "What are you doing back in the low country?"
     It's not long before he's standing, stepping around your heels and coming straight for you. "And shopping too... did you buy anything... inspiring?" Fiery eyebrows waggle. He looks every bit the diamond in the rough.

     "I'm a low kind of girl."
     She gives you one of those smiles - you know the kind. It's filled to the brim with her own brand of mischief, to the point where if she weren't so innocent you'd swear her cousin to the devil himself. The crinkle to her nose, the eyes right now very grey, mercurial and with the hint of a silver storm backed by sunlight. The quirk of her lips as she straightens up and blows you a kiss.
     Fiona holds her ground as you approach, leaning back up against the door, one hand clicking the lock and shooting the bolt straight home again. She doesn't need anyone coming in on her heels. "Do you need me to spend money to inspire you, Davy-bach? If so, then you should be feeling very inspired right now, oes. I think what I've got on should be half of all the inspiration you need. But there's chocolates infused with cinnamon and cloves in one of the bags, along with a fig brandy I found that looked too tempting to pass up." She crooks a finger at you - yes, you, come here, no, faster, you git.
     "I almost hate to ask the obvious question," Fiona drawls, a clash of beads as she shifts and they hit the door, "but ...."
     "Did you miss me?"

     Treats -- pour moi? He gives the bags the once over, like a wolf looking at a meadowful of lambs. Forest green eyes lift to you, full of glens and glimmers. "Well... maybe a bit. I mean... the dogs are here," as you know, Rhyddid and Bwci had to go to London to preserve some of the more delicate garden preparations. "But... yeah... I suppose I did," he grumbles, then laughs.
     "I'm such a fucking liar. Of course I missed you, yeah? Look at me. I'm a wreck." He kisses you. It's a tender thing. The kiss of a half-whiskered husband who missed his wife. "You probably want to, I don't know, put down your bags," Davydd cocks a grin, "... sit down on the sofa...what? How about a drink? I'm having brandy and cigarettes.. care for something?"

     "Liar." Fiona accuses you as you accuse yourself, her hands going to your shoulders and a glimmering, widening smile offered for your kiss. "Poor old dogs. They've had a rough time of it, haven't they - all this moving around. All these changes. All these children. All these ... differences. Rather like my poor old husband, mm?"
     And then she's busy kissing you in earnest, lips moving softly against your own, her soft cheek against your half-whiskered one, and pulling back to give you a half-critical, half-amused look. At least it's without that visual punch to the kidneys, yeah?
     "I'll have brandy, too. And your lap," Fiona tells you (doesn't ask), nudging packages away with one bare foot and a nonchalant glance at you. Going to argue, old man? "I suppose you want me to pour?"

     "Well," he rumbles, "...the boyos," meaning the dogs, "...and I are rather set in our ways. I'm about a billion in dog years, and they're not exactly spring chickens themselves." Though old age hasn't dented their mischief in the slightest.
     The fat ole moon is having her way with him tonight. You know it's full when kisses are simply and tenderly returned rather than you tossed over a Welsh shoulder and then bent over a chair or sofa. But that doesn't mean he hasn't missed you, doesn't want you, or that you won't be in danger on his lap. Eventually. After a lot of coaxing on your part.
     "Alright," Davydd rumbles, "... brandy it is. Mind you, it's dangerous stuff, I'll just warn you ahead of time. It's from Gwilym senior," as he's taken to calling William now that there's a little Gwilym (though not so little anymore!) running around. "We'll... just stay away from the apple," he chuckles in his gut, "...but the plum's good."
     Davydd lets you go with a last, long, then grinning look and he heads back to the living room. There's a dark bottle on the coffee table. The liquid in his glass on the piano is deep purple. A hand sweeps up his glass and he stamps out the cigarette -- that's enough of that for now.
     "How's the wedding coming along? Is your mother still alive?" He snickers at that as he takes a seat on the sofa. His thighs spread out and he slumps back against the stuffed leather. Davydd spreads out his arms along the back of the sofa. He grins and pats the leather. Come to papa.

     "Senior's brandy it is, then. I'll try not to get so drunk that I can't perform, mm?" There's a glitter to her eyes as she looks at you, that suggests that coaxing will be happening. Eventually. She parts from you with a brush of a hand to your chest, a bump of her hip to yours, making her way to get herself a glass.
     "What's wrong with the apple brandy that I can't have it?" Fiona makes a horrible face at you, then sticks out her tongue. She'll stick to the plum for now, reaching for the bottle as she leans against the table with one calf. "And here I thought you liked my apples," she coos, even as she pours; "Tsk. I go away for just a little bit, and a man's tastes change so dramatically. So completely. Old dogs..."
     She sips the brandy, standing there and giving you one of those low-lashed glimmering looks; then the brandy is set aside, as is pretense. And she hurls herself at you, and your lap.
     Mother's still alive. I've been being actually rather docile - for me. Letting her think it's the strain that makes me so agreeable. But it's not that at all, you know. It's you...

     His eyes go wide and his free hand goes to protect the king's jewels as you hurl yourself at him. His other arm lifts to hold the brandy out of the fracas. "Nothing's wrong with the apple. It's brilliant actually. You know, Normandy apples. But I thought you might want to actually have a conversation tonight." He laughs and his ears go pink. "That stuff tears me up. And as far as your apples are concerned...I am rather partial to them."
     An arm rests around you, his other along the back of the leather sofa again, balancing his glass of brandy. "It's me?" Davydd's head cocks as he looks at you strangely. "What did I do now?" A lopsided grin gallops across his mouth and he takes a moment for a swallow of plum brandy. Potent. Sweet. Fiery.

     "You've done nothing wrong, silly man." A hand comes up to attempt to grasp at your whiskers, scratching you under the chin lightly, and Fiona laughs. And then her arms are going around you as she curls up against your chest - how did a dog man such as yourself end up with such a feline woman? "But thinking about being with you, even at the wedding ... makes me able to put up with any amount of her shite, Davy. Because it's you, and it's Rhodri, and it's - it's, well, it's you!"
     You balance your brandy, and hers sits forgotten; she is content without its taste upon her tongue. "You're getting thin," Fiona pokes a fingertip at your ribs. "You're not eating enough. - Expect to hear a lot of that from my grandmother, by the way. I'm thinking of flying over there and giving them a bit of forewarning; mother, I don't care so much about, but heart attacks are such a downer at a wedding, don't you agree?"

     "Without a woman around to cook for me," he exhales theatrically, "... I'm sure to waste away or sommat. I think this is the longest we've been apart since we got together in the first place." He looks down his nose at you. "I'm looking forward to it being over, no offense. I know it's your big day and all..."
     His mouth twists and he takes another swallow of brandy. The next to last. "You should take a look at my tuxedos. Let me know which one you prefer. I have some nice vintage ones. Well, they're vintage now, but then," he barks a laugh, "...so am I!"
     The laughter calms as he finishes off the brandy so he can give both arms to you. He cradles you. It's oddly paternal. Not so oddly. "I'm looking forward to meeting your family. Even your mother. I'll even dance with her. I'm looking forward to that. You know, one dragon to another."

     "But to you, it's a lot of noise and fuss and no fun at all - especially as you're not officially the one being fussed over?" Fiona leans in to touch her nose to yours, then slides down against you. "Well, darling man, I'm here now... and soon enough, it'll be over, and then I'll go back to just being your boring old wife again."
     Cradling - that's just perfect, if her expression is any indication. Her eyes close halfway, a pink little smile on her lips. "I've missed you, too," Fiona admits quietly. "Moments like these - where everything's just perfectly peaceful. I even miss arguing with you, you git. I like our passion. I like our energy - what we've got together. But ... I really just like you, my old dragon. My high king, the wielder of sword and flame, the hazel fruit's promise always in the green glint of your eyes. The promise of life and death in your touch, in your thorned smile, in your throned lap. I adore you, do you know that? Do you have any idea how much my heart just - expands, when I'm with you? Funny, considering how small and hard and mean it used to be."
     One small hand lifts, rubbing her palm against your cheek. "I'll pick out a tuxedo, though I halfway anticipate you'll just - ignore me and wear something else. We'll have to find tuxedos for the boys, too. They'll be older than I am by the time the wedding rolls around!" Fiona looks almost mournful, then brightens up with a sudden glowing smile. "They'll charm all my cousins. And you'll meet them all. I promise. Try not to crack my mother too badly, darling. Daddy seems used to her, by now."

     Maybe that's a part of it too, the melancholy. His babes aren't babes anymore. Next week they'll be men. Practically. That's a goodly part of it -- you, them, the moon. He is quiet for a bit, his face going red. "Aye, well," he finally gets out. "I'll try to be on my best behavior. But you know," he tries a smile to ease a father's mourning for the passing of childhood. "...the sheer amount of Trouble in that castle will be at an all time high with the twins tossed in for good measure. I'm not sure Powis can withstand it."
     Davydd leans against where you are cradled, a hug of his arms and his mouth seeks your mouth in a kiss. It's a wide tug of his mouth, a sudden, hungry, tearing, chewing thing. And then he stops with a sigh, and a gentle kiss on your forehead. "I miss my boys being small," he whispers. "But... they're becoming good men. Thick as thieves," Davydd grins at that, his sadness starting to recede.
     "And your heart was always a tender thing," he continues. "Beneath all that hardness seeming. Good thing I know bullshit when I hear it." He can't help the chuckle. "Takes one to know one, aye?"

     "Powis can withstand anything. And there will be other babies." As if to prove her point, her hand slides down beneath where she sits, palm sliding against you. "Rhodri's. Yours. Mine. Ours. I'm not done yet - you're a medieval Welsh prince, I'm sure you expect me to stay knocked up a goodly portion of the time!" And, despite her modernness - despite the era into which she's been born - you can hear the giddiness in her voice. Part of her is thrilled by the idea. Even if it's inconvenient (to say the least)...
     And then you kiss her, and there's a small sigh, a pleased sound in the back of her throat as she leans into that kiss, and she spreads herself out to cover your lap, leaning up against the breadth of your chest. "They'll be good men, just like their da and brother and grandda," Fiona murmurs, putting her hands on your shoulders and leaning up against you. "Wicked, awful, thieving, terribly good men. I only hope that they end up as lucky in love as I did."
     She wrinkles up her nose, brushing her lips against yours. "Dragon," Fiona accuses. "King. Old man. Grumpy pants. What an awful thing to do, accusing me of bullshit." And then she grins again as well, closing her eyes and letting her head tip back with a clatter and rattle of baubles and beads.
     "My heart wouldn't ever have come to light, if it weren't for you, Davy. Give yourself a little credit, hm?"

     "I am a bit grumpy," he rattles out, the sound lingering in his chest as you lean on it. "I'm going to apologize now," Davydd rolls out with a smirk, "... for whatever foul things I might say or do before the night's end. Too bad they don't sell indulgences anymore. Those came in real handy."
     Arms come around and squeeze you in a hug, holding you close against the archer-king's chest. "The night's picking up a bit, though. I think another glass of brandy wouldn't hurt either." Wise-ass. Grinning, he leans to the side, taking you with him as he pours a glass for himself. "You've barely touched yours. How d'y' expect me to get you drunk and take advantage of you," as if! "... if you don't drink anything?"
     You know I'm not likely to let you get back to Wales anytime soon. His sudden thought squirms within you, nesting in your gut. I'm not into the whole... tying up thing, but I might have to get into it with a quickness and tie you to the bed... hire a maid to come in a feed you...
     Davydd smiles grandly, a comet streak smile that is his trademark and his eyes sparkle in it, crinkling at the corners.

     "You can be grumpy if you like. You're over eight hundred; you're allowed to behave like a child now and again. Don't they say one of the signs of senility is a second childhood? You might be well into your third or fourth." Fiona smiles at you far too sweetly, then brushes a kiss against the corner of your mouth. "I indulge you plenty, old man."
     "You need to get me drunk to take advantage of me?" One golden eyebrow arches upwards in semaphore of her amusement. She makes no pretense of fighting your shifting of her in your arms, simply readjusting her weight, curving herself to your lap with a barmaid's skill. "You are under the weather. Tsk! My dragon."
     And suddenly she's looking up at you, focusing the full weight of that sea grey, sea green, sea blue gaze on you, both hands lifted to frame your face. My poor Davy. You really have felt neglected, haven't you? I'll stay tonight. And you won't have to tie me up. Because, frankly, my darling, horrible, wonderful man ... you don't need to tie me to anything to have my undivided attention. You're so thoroughly wretched and wicked, and I adore it.
     There's a heat in her eyes, tempered by compassion; it blossoms in her smile as she strokes a hand up to fist in your hair. You still aren't used to love, are you? To being loved wholly and unreservedly and doing the same. You're not happy if things're easy, I know. But I'll tell you this...
     She leans back further in your arms, closing her eyes and shaking her head so her hair sways, a rattle and pop of magic sending beads cascading along the floor with a diamond glitter where they catch the available light; holding the light, sending it back. "I'm your girl," Fiona murmurs, opening her eyes. "Still the girl on your knee, on your lap, in your bed. Still your queen, still your mad, annoying little brat with the punkish ways. Still the flirt who wants to see you smash someone for looking at me funny. Still the girl who dreams of the Holly King spreading over her with his darkness and madness and melancholy and grim humour, of his manhood invading her, the fertility in his touch, the leap and quiver of the darkest forest as he gets me thoroughly, as the Yanks say, knocked up. So ..." Her hand lifts, a fingertip touching to your nose. "If you want to tie me to your bed..."
     "Make sure to do it with your dark truth in mind, hm, love? And not just to play at games you think I might like, or to get peace to watch the footy match. I love you, but then I'd have to bite you."

     "I am," he sits back, you in one hand and brandy in his other. The dark purple liquid rolls over clear glass and into his mouth. "Bah, not neglected. I mean... it is what it is. I've been busy. You've been out of the country... you've a huge wedding happening. And I've been with the boys, you've been with the boys." He rolls a large shoulder. "There's nothing to be done about it. But... you know... I've never been a man who could bear an empty bed."
     He takes another swallow of the liquid, and he wants a cigarette but he resists the urge. Maybe you'll give him a different urge to replace it. "You've been much missed," he slants a grin and gives you a look. Much missed. Indeed. "You going to make it up to me?" That look -- the gaze holds you sideways and his mouth twitches.
     Davydd takes another long swallow until the brandy is gone. He exhales with slightly widened eyes, the burn of it and the intoxication it inspires moving through him. "Maybe I should start with a glass of.... something else..."

     Ah. That heat. It isn't a summer's heat. It's the heat that rolls off a fire on a winter's night, and it makes her smile, at it, at you, at herself. No matter how much I climb your mountains, old man, it doesn't mean that I feel sure the ground won't collapse under my weight.
     Small hands pluck at your shirtfront, reaching in to touch to blue paint, reacquainting herself with your dragons, feeling the power that crosses from one to the other with every little touch. "I always miss you," Fiona murmurs, "except for right now, when I am so with you that I can't possibly miss you - because I know we're together, and I no longer need to be so terrified that I'll lose you. I'm not as young," she adds, cocking her head up at you with that puckish, twisting smile, "as I once was. But I'm still young, Davy. So young - Isabel was never this young!"
     She leans in, brushing her lips against your cheek, traveling up to kiss your ear. "Davy," Fiona whispers, breathes out against your ear, "I'm not quite myself tonight. Tonight, I'm a little more ... Drancy than I've been. Still love you, you magnificent old bastard. Still want you so much it makes my insides hurt and my knees turn to gelatin. But I need to fight you, a little. Are you willing to push back, if I push you? Do you really need apples, or will the scent of my blood do you?"

     "As long as you don't kick me in the jimmy," he chuckles, "I think I'll be alright with it." When he grins, it shows the first evidence of his arousal, the switching of his mood apparent in the edges of his fangs. Canines slip from the sheaths of his gums well before that lower length of his pushes out of its own.
     Bronze lashes (longer than they've a right to be) downsweep, his gaze lowering in echo to the wandering of your finger upon a dragon. The dragons stir beneath your touch -- is it the dragons that shift, or the muscles beneath them? And then his eyes close, the breath of your words at his ear.
     "Fight me... " Davydd opens his eyes, his eyes drifting to the side of their sockets to see you. "What are we going to argue about?" A grin erupts. "I mean, it's unnatural to just pick a fight for foreplay. Or is there something specific you want to talk to me about? Or...we can talk about how you and your other man have been going at it like mad in the castle, leaving me to sweat it out here on my own...that's always an easy topic for argument..."
     Davydd cackles at that, reaching over to set his glass aside. "I'm here celibate and you're knocking things off the wall, I imagine..."

     "We have been going at it," Fiona retorts sweetly, a glint in her eyes. "All over the castle. But that doesn't mean a thing, seeing as when I'm with him, my other husband, I know there's a man waiting for me in London. A desperate, fighting man. One who'll tell the world to go fuck itself for the fun of it."
     She nips at your ear, then moves to brush another sidling kiss across your mouth, pressing in to feel your fangs behind your lips. "Who says we have to argue in order to be fighting? I'm fighting you right now. For your attention. Competing for your passion," Fiona drawls, her hand moving against your skin, slipping inside your shirt. "But if it's a real fight you want..." She slowly, slowly pulls her hand back out of your clothing, sitting back on the couch on her haunches, giving you a dirty look followed by a mischievous grin. And then she's straightening, straightening up to her feet.
     "Maybe tonight's the night that I should make you hunt me through London's darkened streets, Davy. In whatever form I take, with you to do the chasing. I'd thought to give you a little more warning, but I could do with a jaunt outside my own skin. If you're feeling the need for exercise - for a challenge."

     "I'll give you a head start," Davydd murmurs, his softened voice deep and lyrical as you rise. He seems not in any hurry at all. Rising after you, Davydd wanders to the piano. He takes up the pack of cigarettes and his lighter, puffing out a breath of smoke an instant later.
     When he pivots to you, the green of his eyes is already sharp. He looks at you, a slight smile twitching at the corners of his mouth. He tucks his shirt in, straightening it after your hands rifled through it and against his skin.
     "Be sure to stay out of the south side. It's crawling with...things that go bump in the night tonight," he warns, his hands picking up his jacket from where it lay on the piano bench. "So... a kiss before the contest...?"
     Who knew he'd be in the mood? But maybe a brooding, edgy, hungry Davydd is precisely the sort of Davydd to ask to hunt you.

     She waves a hand over herself, and she's changed, offering you that foxing smile. Shorter hair, a pixie cut, fuchsia coloured and deepening to plum at the tips. Black leather for the jacket and the boots - scarlet sin and mustard yellow for her shirt and paint-spattered denim for her trousers. She swaggers to you, this punk faerie child, and the glint of the ocean's back in her eyes. Roiling and turbulent, tempest-tossed her waves.
     "North side it is, Davy-bach," Fiona coos at you, almost with a hint of mockery. "So you won't have to fight to keep me alive tonight. Just ... fight, hm?" Her arms go up around your neck, and she pulls herself up against your front, chin tilted up in beguiling promise of a kiss. "We haven't determined, though, what I get if I win. We already know what you get..."
     Another riot of a grin, sharp, feral at the edges. "The best piece of tail you've ever had, and blood and apple brandy besides..."

     He chuckles, mouth puckering in thought. "Well... I hadn't really considered losing, but...should the unlikely occur... what would you like as your prize?" Davydd holds you with one arm (securely, at that) and holds his cigarette out to the side. He turns his head, blowing smoke away from you as well.
     His hand slides down, cupping you. "I mean, you already have me, what the hell else do you need?" He can't help himself -- not even he's believing that shite. "Alright, enough of that. So...what would you like if you successfully evade me?"
     He can't imagine. You've already slept with him. He's not about to do housework. Davydd inclines his head, cocking up an eyebrow and looking at you most curiously.

     "You've got old age and treachery on your side," Fiona retorts, squirming up against you, "but I've a few tricks up my sleeve as well. As for what I want... hmm." She tilts her head to the side, regarding you with that sudden slyness. Oh, yes. She's getting caught up in this game. "Hmm... part of me wants to demand a taste of your blood, to see if it is to me as mine is to you. But I don't have the fangs for it."
     One hand slides against the nape of your neck, her lips urging you on, much as her hips do. Oh, yes; she's inclined to get you worked up before she takes that head start. "Mmm... take me dancing, if I win. Somewhere that everyone can see us. I want our fire on display like the nine o'clock news at five alarms or higher. I'll dress to the nines and you can show me off. Your ickle trophy. Because you'll be my trophy, if I win..."

     He closes his eyes even though he doesn't want to. His eyebrows lift and then there's a crack of dark green. He smirks, his hands going to your hips. He moves you back, patting you indulgently as he does so. "All this for a dance. You know I'd dance you without hunting you..."
     "One... brief word of caution," Davydd remarks, cigarette stuck back between his lips. It bounces as he speaks. "There's a chance... however slim...that I might get a bit... into the hunting part of it. So... if I attack you, you have the full right and expectation to defend yourself." More seriously, Davydd looks at you, releasing smoke. "Promise me."
     It's wicked game, this game. Part sport... all dangerous. There is a chance that he won't care at the end, that he will eat you like a Christmas pudding until there's nothing left. That'll rather throw a wrench into the wedding works...

     "I promise."
     It doesn't make her lose her enthusiasm for this game; instead, it spurs on her appetite. Her grin is gamine, promising you wickedness, a hunt to end all hunts - more than just a game. "If you attack me ... you will regret it, Llewellyn." Her voice is filled with bite, with smokiness and something of defiance. Drancy, looking up into green eyes from her own battleship grey, gunmetal grey ones. "You'd dance with me, Davy. But you wouldn't put me on display near so much as if you had something to lose."
     Small hands grip at your shirt front, and then Fiona's pushing against you, pushing herself away, one booted foot behind the other as she smirks at you. Two fingers uplifted in a rude gesture, and then she's turning, bristling with anticipation. "See you on the flip side, Llewellyn. But not if I see you first."

     "The game ends at first pink of dawn," Davydd notes. "If we have not found one another by then, we meet here." But by his smile, he's not expecting that to happen.
     Grabbing the pack of cigarettes and lighter, he prepares to go. There's no further reaction to you. In fact, he goes quite ...into himself. A moment of introspection.
     Perhaps...
     Or maybe that's his "game face"...
     Davydd glances to your departure. Behind your back, a slim smile.

Epilogue

     But it's a dream, when you seem to be walking into the sun...
     The sky isn't quite going pink yet. Maybe an hour or a little more off. And she's feeling a little ... cornered. Not what she was expecting - but then, what was she expecting?
     What the fuck was I thinking, that I'd get the drop on eight centuries of hunting man? Right, Fee... brilliance in action...
     I just hope word of this one doesn't get back to Rhodri...
     Her other husband would probably not be entirely amused. For now, she's done a quick change act, dancing between worlds, in one skin and out another. Blue-black hair and too much eye makeup, too much plum lipstick, the hair longer now, like a raven's shining wing. The black jacket's gained a few battle scars, and she wears a red and silver and white shirt made to look like the Coke logo, only with the word 'Death' where 'Coke' ordinarily would appear. Black leather trousers and boots which give her the illusion of another inch or two of height, ears lined with iridium piercings. She's sidling up to a few other punks, trying her best disinterested London punk voice.
     "Oi. Catch the Spitting Zombies' show last night at Derby's..."

     "Oi," comes the sound of Davydd's voice. He chuckles quietly. "Speaking of splitting and zombies," he begins to roll out, "... I saw a dead guy in an alley..."
     Oh wait, he breathes within you. That was me.
     Davydd, too, has changed. No longer in the black and white suit of West London, he's in the black leather of Picadilly and South London. The long black coat is a WWI pilot's coat (his) showing the wear of age and war, much as its wearer. The black leather pants are relatively new. The shirt's fabric can't be determined. Likely a sweater, knowing him.
     He steps away from the alley's brick, walking alongside you. An arm comes up and around your shoulder as if he's about to whisper in your ear: That's right, just act natural, don't say anything and you won't get hurt. You're not the only one to get that feeling. A few folks look at you to see if you're alright.
     The red headed, black clothed king bends, his mouth at your ear. He might mouth the words, but you feel them rather than hear them. What was it I got if I won, again?

     Act natural, in this, this unnatural of circumstances. As good an actress as she is, this is a little beyond her ability; she stiffens, making an abortive move to jerk herself away. So in the skin of her predator-prey...
     She reacts to you. How can she not? You speak within her, where she can't chase you out no matter how much she tries (and back in the beginning, oh, she tried, even if you weren't speaking, exactly). It bubbles in her blood, along her veins, striking right to her heart.
     The bats have left the bell tower
     The victims have been bled
     Red velvet lines the black box
     "Yeh," Fiona mutters, "it's fine. Don't sneak UP on me like that." Your arm is batted at pettishly, and nervously she allows you to draw her off. And you bend, and she reacts as if it's the sexiest thing you've done all night, your lips to her ear, your words within her mind. Her head tips back, eyes closed, lips parted to take a shallow breath. Fiona folds her arms over her chest, hands clenched into fists so that her fingernails bite into her palms. She mumbles something under her breath, it could be a curse. "Blood and apple brandy..."
     How fitting for a punk or a goth...
     And the best piece of tail you've ever had. Me, remember? But hey, if you'd like to give it all up and forfeit to me, we can go dancing instead.

     Oh right... His laughter bubbles within you. A bit of tasty goodness was my treat. You bat his arm away but it remains more or less where it was, drawing you against him and leading you to the side of the street. Davydd whistles loudly, his hand coming up, and a taxi pulls up -- ah the traditional London cab, looks like its from the War. You'd think they'd move on by now.
     Davydd releases you only long enough to open the door for you. "South Waterfront," Davydd tells the man as he enters, the darkness of the cab concealing his return to black wool suit and white shirt. "St. Gabriel's Place Lofts."
     "Right away, sir..."
     It's no less disconcerting being in the back of the cab with him. He's all hands. And then some. How many does he have, anyway? "So," he murmurs, "...do you want something to eat before..." His mouth nuzzles in the crook of your neck, his mouth finding your ear despite the hair in his way. ... I have my dessert?
     He does not bleed you here, but ...Mithril energies are tempting. There, hidden from the cabbie -- the sliding of a fang along the curve of your ear. Have you seen him so in thrall? In your time away has he starved himself for you? A hand grips you in the darkness of the cab's back seat. A tight grip to hold you to him.
     The cabbie's seen a lot in his time on the streets. He keeps his eyes on the road. Well, mostly.

     At least you still think I'm tasty, comes the retort - she is being plucky. The energy coming off her is again Drancy; all nerves, strung so tightly that the faintest whisper jangles along them. You hand her into the cab and she slides over to make room for you, giving you a suspicious glare as if you had some false intention in your heart. Well - don't you?
     She is still a girl, that goth-punk attitude and clothes so at odds with your sudden posh appearance. And you are being both demanding and kind, and she doesn't know how to deal with it... with you. Breath is drawn from her with that little sigh that precursors more fight, not surrender, her hands prodding at you. Depends. Am I going to have to fight for my life? If so, hell, yes, I need to eat something. Spinach and steak and marrow. And string you along for all I can get, ap Owain. Fiona glares at you with a nervous, breathless jerk, turning her entire upper body to face you - as if to fend you off.
     As if she had any virtue left to lose...
     As if she could...
     You pull her up against you, and there's a jerky breath taken and lost, her hands flattening against your chest. I'm not immoral. I'm only amoral. You know I'll keep my word... but I'll fight you every step of the way, you redheaded milk-sucking blackhearted Welsh bastard.

     Blood sucking He corrects with a chuckled breath. His hand at your side, anchored there, Davydd turns his head to the front of the cab. "Change of plans... take us up the Strand... Black Jack Davy's." The cabbie nods. He doesn't mind the longer route -- more money.
     "We'll get a steak to go...have it delivered to the flat. If he's there, he can join in. If not..." Either way, he's going to get his supper. Amoral... come on... my lap's getting cold... It doesn't take much of a pull before you're pulled onto his lap and in his arms.
     There's no escape now. The more you fight, the tighter it will get. Just like those Chinese finger torture devices. Speaking of amoral -- the kiss is openly wanton. The prick of stubble is echoed by the pricking of thorny teeth.
     The cabbie clears his throat -- okay, so he makes his living by trying not to be a voyeur, doesn't mean he's always successful. Coo, what a man sees in the city when he lives the life of a cabbie.
     Scratch and claw, fight and push, slap and pull... it'll only encourage me. But you knew that...you know that...
     The cab rounds the big turn and heads up The Strand. Davy's isn't far now...

     "If he's not there, I'll just give you a hard time some more," Fiona retorts. Cheeky. Your London sparrow, in your lap, whether she wills it or no. She's ignoring the cab driver. This is a private fight, even if before a public audience.
     And then there's that kiss, lips parted both to accept it and to push open-mouthed against yours. Leather-clad thighs spread, and she squirms up against you, hands working their way up along your shirt, grabbing hold of the fabric. Should I be chewing holes in your Todd Oldhams again? I can, you know. Or maybe I should chew holes in you instead. Bite and chew on you until you're the one savaged and bleeding for a change. Bastard...
     One hand makes its way up to thread her fingers through her hair, tugging almost unkindly as she seals her mouth again to yours. You need me to fight you, the same way you need my blood to fill your mouth... the way I need you to fill me in turn. Why deny it? It's the way it is. Haven't you been eating, Davy? Will I need to hold up a plasma station? She has no recollection of where she is. You could be alone with her for all Fiona's awareness of her surroundings. There is only you, and the fight.

     The car begins to slow for traffic. Across the way, were either of you paying any attention whatsoever, is the lit sign of Black Jack Davy's. It dominates the corner now, having spread into another building to provide both a bigger staging area and more seating. "Pull," Davydd mutters between mouths, "...around the back... there's an alley..."
     "Alright, sir," the cabbie chuckles a bit.
     It's not like Davydd cares. His mouth is quite taken (by you), his hair raked through. His hands pull at your clothing. What are you wearing? You did this on purpose...
     Meanwhile, the car pulls in front of Davy's and then around to the side street. "Ahem... ah... hmm... we're...here, sir." The cabbie's in his 50s. He's a daughter of his own. Believe you me, she better not be going out like this. Carrying on in the back of cabs. The cab comes to a halt.
     Davydd pushes you lightly back, breaking the kiss with an audible breath and sound. He grins, but keeps his mouth closed through it. You know the subtle differences. Beneath the veil of those lips, two long canines have distended, deadly.
     He opens the door, then opens his wallet. He doesn't even look at the ending fare, he just hands over fifty pounds and exits. Davydd chuckles, holding the door open for you. Behind him, the dark shelter of the pub's alley. I don't need a plasma station. But it's just ...not the same...

     It's only the cab stopping which draws her attention back to the so-called real world - for all of five seconds. You're kissing her. What world exists? Of course I did it on purpose. I exist solely to torment and torture you, don't I? Isn't that what you used to say, used to think? That girl, why is she calling me, why can't she leave me alone?
     Her hands drag at your clothes, at your hair, pulling and pushing. Such torment, such bliss. Fiona bumps up against you, one hand coming up to nudge at your chin. Lord Scruff.
     You push her back, and she gasps, as if outraged. Though, really, she's just trying to catch her breath, staring at you with wild, glittering eyes - as if she might slap you... or might hurl herself on you to kiss you again. Her tongue passes over her lips as if to feel for bruises or if you've worn away all her lipstick. So you ashamed to be seen with me in public like this, Davy? Am I your girl for real and honest? Or do we go inside and I remind you why you love to hate me?
     And then she's sliding out of the cab with a wiggle of her hips that's meant to be defiant, leather stretched tight over her bottom, jacket loose and hair tempest-tossed from your attentions. She runs her fingers through it once in the shadows, drawing plum and sapphire highlights through it, glistening wetly. It's me that might need the plasma station, ap Owain, if you can't curb your appetite. And aloud, saucily, nonchalant, "I'm going inside. Take your time, old man." A waggle of hips again, as Fiona turns to go in through the door you hold. Oh, she intends to make you fight tonight...

     "Thank you, sir," the cabbie notes. Quite a large tip. I'll have to swing this way again. But he's not going to hang about the rest of the night. Once the taxi door closes, he's back onto The Strand and off to the other fares.
     Beware of alleys, narrow and dark...
     By the time you reach the back door to the pub, he is already there. Wasn't he behind you? Davydd smiles, though maybe you can't see it. There's not much in the way of light. Only what little that sneaks in from the passing cars on the street. "Are you?" he whispers. "I don't think you are. Not without me..." His weight given to you, yours to the door, he chuckles. "And... I don't know," the low voice rumbles in throat and chest. "I feel like dining al fresco tonight."
     What... here in the alley?
     A thigh anchors itself between your own. "Haven't you ever just wanted to..." Davydd doesn't finish the thought. The thought does well enough making itself known as his mouth pulls at yours and in the darkness pierces it. The door knocks with his pressing motion.
     His hands pulls at your top, getting beneath it the tugging at your leather. At the burning mouth, the bites are soothed, and his mouth releases you to lodge at the crook of your neck. Fingers unbutton the pants, fingers sliding between skin and leather to press at knickers and flesh as his mouth claims the prize for the evening's game. Your blood in his mouth.

     "Someone might see!" Note the objection. It is not What, here? not now, you git...
     But oh, tempted as she is to fight you, you are giving her entirely new kinds of temptation to contend with. There's a soft cry as you pierce her lip, the flutter of eyelashes the signal of the crack in her defenses. Signal? Hell. A whole flotilla...
     Davy...
     That's the problem, isn't it? Beneath the fight, beneath all the piss and vinegar, she wants it. She wants you. As she always has, no matter how much she's resisted it, no matter how much she's resented it (and you). And now is no different. Beneath the top are thin scraps of silk and lace - pink, if you were inclined to take note. Beneath the leather trousers, more of the same.
     You've always expressed a liking for her in pink, after all.
     Fiona squirms, but she isn't trying to fight you so much, now; the presence of your fangs makes her attempts a little more sluggish, a little weaker. Her lips part for your kiss, for the soothing of your mouth against hers, a little whimper escaping her. ap ... Arse ...

     "Someone might see...might hear... isn't that what you wanted? A public display of affection?" The voice sounds against your neck as he heals the marks he makes, the coppery taste of you on his mouth when his mouth returns to yours. His hands rend yet another pair of pricey undies -- he's costing you a fortune in undergarments! -- fingers slipping against you, pressing a roll beneath the tight confines of the leather you wear.
     There are people passing the alley all the time. They laugh, they go about their business. They come and go from Davy's, and the music fills the street and the alley when the front door opens. "You won't be the first girl who's had a hand down her knickers in this alley," Davydd murmurs, grinning.
     His grin disappears against your neck again, his mouth finding a new curve of it to assault. The prick and sting of his bite coincides with a sudden invasion of fingers. But it's just a sip. His fingers make just a thrust...alright...two, before he's healing marks again and removing his hand. "Hmm...how rude of me. I think I promised you a steak dinner..."
     His hands slowly slide away from the juncture of your thighs. What a gentleman, he even buttons your pants again. His thigh backs off a bit, allowing you space to stand on your own as he goes to open the door.

     You might cost her a fortune in undergarments, but that's why she charges them to your account, right? She's moaning softly already, doing her best to try to keep her reactions, her Voice under control. Forlorn, futile hope. You both know that. Her hands pluck at your shirtfront, tugging at buttons. And even as you back off, she's clinging to you, burying her face in your chest, against your shoulder. She's all blushing, now...
     Lips blushed by kisses, cheeks touched with arousal - eyes tinted with desire...
     "Bastard," Fiona murmurs shakily, hands still hooked onto you. It's all that's holding her up, really. "I should hurt you for that..."
     Maybe I will...

     "Promises, promises..." he teases you with a lopsided grin. The door swings open showing the back rooms of the bar. First the delivery and storage area. You've seen all this before. The break room for the Girls and the office area. Rows of lockers. Eventually the kitchens and the food prep area, but before you'd get to that -- the stairs that lead to the owner's apartment.
     Davydd closes the door and locks it with a whispered word. His hands are pulling at your clothing as soon as you and he are in the warmer confines of the storage room. "I'll call down from the flat," he whispers, his hands making short work of your top so he can see the pink beneath. He cups your breasts, fingers and thumbs pressing at the rising of flesh there.
     Forest eyes are glinting in sharpness but there is a fog moving in, a kind of haze across the color of them as he begins to lose focus in his own need. His hands pull the lace aside, and he bends. His mouth finding each pink nipple in its turn.
     In the background, you can hear some of the girls coming and going. Snippets of conversations, muffled by the music and Davydd's own breaths. His mouth lets you go, and his hands pull the lace back to where it belongs, to hide the breasts he revealed.
     He removes his jacket, and he brings it around you. Gallantry isn't completely lost. I think we better head upstairs before we give the girls a fright. Davydd grins, and the grin shows you the reason why privacy would be a good idea. Sharp edges show themselves, reddened with the remains of your blood.

     It is all a bit overwhelming. It's the heady excitement which she denied herself when she could have done this so legitimately; as a schoolgirl and just after, when love is a casual burden only assumed to be heavy. Her hands lift to your shoulders, not to push you away but welcoming you to her flesh, to the pink silk and pink skin alike. As if you need an invitation; is it not engraved upon her skin, in the challenging turbulence of the sea in her eyes?
     Go to where the forest meets the sea...
     That fog is enveloping her; thoughts of struggle are not a conscious thing, now, when all she wants is to lose herself in what she feels. In what you engender. "Davy," Fiona gasps. How often has that been heard, even here? Her flesh reacts, nipples annealed by the warmth of your mouth; her body acts in answer to you.
     Davy ...
     There's a gasp as you pull away, even as you are two steps ahead; her fingers clutch at your jacket around her, cheeks vividly blushed now, eyes dazed and a riot of conflicting emotions that make her tongue as sharp as her voice is soft, breathless. "Upstairs," Fiona mutters. "I'll kick your arse for this, ap Owain." She unconsciously runs her tongue over her own teeth, as if to say here, you've got a bit of spinach stuck - and then she pushes against you, a bump of her hip to yours as she endeavors to find the stairs.
     Find the stairs, hell, where did she leave her feet?

Posted by rowan at March 03, 2006 10:30 PM