The drapes of a flat are drawn away, letting the evening sights of the South Waterfront decorate his walls. A bottle of whiskey sits on the black baby grand piano, a cigarette -- the last of many -- sits smoking in a vintage ashtray of heavy, golden glass. A slow, jazz tune is born from the pressing of his fingers onto the black and white keys.
It is a night for the blues, for jazz, for melancholy songs to match his melancholy mood. Whiskey and cigarettes make great companions for his temperament. Moody. Foul.
Davydd's unshaven tonight, the fine coppery whiskers, with the occasional errant grey hair, giving him a fine, rough look to go with his fine rough interior. And despite the slow pace of his music, his mind is whipping around in a frenzy.
Images...
Those'll stick with him for a while. Every imagined contortion, every fantastical arrangement of bodies he could have imagined were on display, made just by two. Hanging from a special silk sling, a cocoon from the ceiling on hooks. All that was missing in that... fucking circus was a trained dog, a clown and a couple of musically inclined monkeys!
And it's broken by the ringing of the phone. It would, wouldn't it? Damned phones, never knowing when it's smarter to just leave things lying. What ring-tone is it tonight? 'Witchy Woman'? 'The Two-Man Tramp'?
She's been released (and had her release) by now, and cleaned herself up. Bathed herself in special ointments, a liqueur of another world coursing green against her skin. And had a bit of a rest, f course. And now? Well ...
It's not as if she'd forget her other husband...
"Davydd? If you're there, pick up..."
Oblivious. Purely oblivious. Fiona hasn't a clue. But she's going to find out...
It takes a few rings for him to answer. By the time he does, the last vestiges of his song are gone, his scotch has been tasted and his cigarette is in his mouth. "Evenin'," he rolls into the phone. It's quiet. He must be in his own apartment. There's a curious lack of environmental noise.
Usually when you call at night, he's on his way somewhere else...
Davydd sits on his leather sofa, exhaling smoke and leaning over to knock off some ash before he gets coals on his floor. "Nos dda," he echoes in the more familiar Welsh. "What's what..."
He sounds tired. Or drunk. Or both.
"Good evening, love. What's the happenings?" She's in a good mood; why shouldn't she be? She's just had unfathomably wild sex not all that long ago. Fiona leans one hip against the bathroom counter, holding her phone to her ear. She's dressed again, even if it's just jeans and a t-shirt, bare feet against frigid tiles.
"I thought I'd call and see what you wanted to do for dinner, if anything. You available? Where are you, anyway?"
"I'm at the flat," it's an audible shrug. "I decided not to go out tonight. I've been out every night this week. So..." Another shrug. "I deserved a night off, I figured. Sure... I'm available."
There is a pendulous wonder on the air, unspoken: Available... for what? It's not like you haven't been shagged into next week.
"I'm not feeling much up for a big dindin... you might want to pick up something on the way for yourself." I'm sure you've worked up quite the appetite. Bloody Christ.
He's quiet as he takes a good pull on the cigarette and follows it with a swallow of scotch. "I'll leave the door open, just come on in whenever..."
"Alright, then," Fiona says slowly, "I'll be over shortly." She can sense your - ennui, for lack of a better word. And she wonders about it. Doesn't understand it. Doesn't know.
The phone's hung up - well, clicked shut; how often is there a phone these days which actually gets hung anywhere? And she goes to change her clothes, pull on shoes. Easily done, even without magic, and a broad stroke of her palm is all she uses, changing denim and cotton for silk; a sloped-cut shantung dress in a pale blue, pink colour - heather-colored. It's paired with white sandals and a hat, god help us all, a large white pinwheel hat that could easily support a whole stuffed pheasant. It rests atop her plaited and pinned hair, pinned relentlessly into place on the back of her head.
She does stop along the way. Takeaway; North African chicken and rice and vegetables, beer and cider. It's her only stop, and perhaps from habit - or ignoring what she's told - she gets enough for more than just herself. And up to the flat she goes, and in she walks, pushing the door shut behind herself. Fiona calls out, "Davydd?"
By the time you arrive, he's returned to the piano, not that you knew he started there, but there he is, a cigarette in his mouth burning (it's neither the first nor the last by the look of that vintage ashtray). He's scruffy faced, not a full on beard, just a natural seeming growth of a couple of nights ignoring the razor. Dark green eyes lift to you as you come in.
He has to double-take at the hat.
"Hey there," he rattles out, his eyes going to his hands. He's blushing. Pretty darkly too. "Hungry? You've enough to feed a Punjabi army." The crimson starts to fade a bit, but he's not much for making eye contact at the moment.
"So..." comes the long lead of his voice, crimson eyebrows lifting in an arch as his fingers glance across the keys. A little Irving Berlin: What'll I Do? "You... have had a good evening?"
"I'm not starving, but I could eat," Fiona murmurs in reply to you, slanting a look up and down at you. The food's set aside and she moves over to you. "You look good. But then, I always think you look good. Somehow, you manage to make scruffy look so sexy, though."
She isn't saying it to placate you; she doesn't know that you need placating. It's just - the way she reacts to you. Though the blush is noticed, and golden eyebrows arch in surprise, a glimmer of amusement and confusion in her presently grey eyes.
Fiona lifts her hands to draw the hat-pins out, lifting the cartwheel from her head and setting it neatly aside. The pins are tucked in again, and she moves over to the piano, leaning up against it. "I was with Rhodri," Fiona says easily. "Good enough. Long. A little much. Ran into an old friend this afternoon, invited her to the wedding - I'll have to let my mother know. Not that it'll be a problem; one more in a scrum like that. What about you?"
His lips twist at that and he looks at you with a 'What a load of crap' expression on his face. "You don't have to downplay it on my account," he cracks, one hand lifting from the keys to take the bobbing cigarette and stick it in the tray. "If you had a phenomenal time, you should say so," he shrugs, though his Welsh inflection trails upward.
One, an indication of his ambivalence. The other, an indication of his emotion.
Davydd smirks. "I don't know about sexy. Lazy's an apt description, sure enough. I just... didn't feel like giving a shite tonight." Apart from the scruffy cheek there is the scruffy hair, red bits sticking up where his hands have run through his hair throughout the night. He's wearing a thin turtleneck, but a turtleneck all the same. Summer though it may be becoming, the air by the river is still cool. Black with black trousers made of wool, with flecks of white here and there like a gabardine.
Talk about professorish. Though, if he had to say who was 'schooled' tonight...
"Nothing much for me. I woke up, ran a few errands..." He shrugs. Then he sighs, looking at you directly for the first time since your arrival. "I stopped by the apartment earlier..." His voice lowers, holding in his throat. "I didn't stay long. Look," his hands lifting and he rises from the piano bench, "I don't want to talk about it. It doesn't fucking matter, I just... I'm not going to pretend that I haven't already seen you once tonight and make with the small talk. So... there," his hand gestures with an exuberant wave.
Davydd heads to the sofa and plops down. "So, oes... you ran into an old friend? Who's that?"
"I like the way you look," Fiona retorts, looking across the piano's body at you. She straightens, moving to tug on your hair for a moment. "If I think you look sexy, I'm going to say so, and I defy you to stop me, ap Owain."
You rise, you look at her, and she pauses, both small hands descending to that polished surface. "You've ... already seen me ... oh." And colour floods into Fiona's face; she's now blushing as horribly as you were, just a few moments ago. But she doesn't look away. She doesn't speak, either, not at first.
What's to say? She isn't going to lie; she isn't going to pretend. But neither is it something she can dismiss from her mind. "So ... you're upset," Fiona guesses, watching you lift from the piano, "and you being you, you're - having doubts, now. Second thoughts. Or something. And you don't want to talk about it because it's uncomfortable and besides, you need to wallow."
Too honest, that's our Fiona. She pushes from the piano, clicking towards where you sit on the sofa, standing there opposite you and looking down at you. "Davy..."
"I'm not having any doubts," he half-shakes his head. "I mean, I felt like rinsing my eyes out with bleach," he smirks at you as he glances at your own blush. Yeah, yeah. I get it. "But other than that..." He shrugs.
Resting his arms against the back of his leather sofa after piling into it with a sigh, Davydd rubs his eyes, then his nose, then his hand buries itself in his hair. There's a face palm as he looks at you. "Shite, Fiona, if I'm going to have to compete with that, I'm going to have to hire a couple of monkeys with accordions and juggling midgets. Shite was everywhere, fucking trapeze act..."
He chuckles suddenly, the chuckle turning into a loud guffaw. "Course, you didn't see me. You were having multiple orgasms at the time, clips on your tits and all." It's all a part of scaring himself, really. Davydd shudders, then frowns a bit. "I'll need to hire a mariachi band, a couple of wandering violinists. Maybe a contortionist. Oh wait... nevermind, you'll be there...how did he even get you in that position anyway? When I saw you, you were both hanging from the ceiling, fly-fucking..."
Davydd finishes off in a snort, his face going red again a moment before his coloring goes back to normal. He waves. Never fucking mind. "I'm never going to be able to get it up again without a fucking parade..."
"That isn't what we normally do."
She's very red by now, blushing clear to her eyebrows; not looking at you, now, she's too embarrassed. "Maybe you don't believe me, but it isn't. For one thing, I couldn't do that all the time, it'd kill me or I'd kill him." She folds her arms across her breasts as if to hide them, defensively, looking at you again. "I don't want a mariachi band or violinists. Or a circus. Have I ever needed anything but you in the nude and me in the nude? Do you think this is a competition - he who has the fanciest sex act wins?"
She turns her back on you for a moment, staring at the wall opposite. "Funny," Fiona says clearly, "I thought the point was to get off. And you've never needed any help or any props for that with me before. Why would you need them now?"
"The whole point isn't to get off, it's to turn you on. And clearly I'm a one trick pony. Dragon. Whatever the fuck. I've gotten off for hundreds of years. To be honest, I don't need to do it that frequently. But I like making you happy, and it feels good so why not? It's in my nature, and Nature being Nature..."
Now, he's rambling. There's a loud exhale of breath, a throaty sound from his ...well, throat. He sighs and looks at you. You make it nearly impossible to sulk. "I just can't imagine that it's all that exciting... so we occasionally do it in public places or whatever... it's not that. I mean... not that at all. Even if it's only occasionally, sweet Jesus in a dress."
I knew you were wild just... not ...that...wild...
It's a might intimidating...
"How interesting is it going to be. I'm older, I'm not flashy. I occasionally bite you but come on...there's none of ...that... or you know...marathons of that. I guess I should be thankful Rhodri's around to give it to you, because god knows I don't have the stamina for it."
He laughs at that. Hey, a silver lining...
She whirls round, scowling at you, and then she's on you, a fist bopping against your shoulder. "Dammit, Davydd!"
Fiona glowers at you, breathing rapid, heartbeat rapid. "You think I need it to be in public? You think I need it to be insane and kinky? Haven't you learned anything about women in eight hundred years?"
The words are hurled at you like her fist just was, even though she's not hitting you again; she's not sure what you'll do, anyway. You're faster, stronger - et cetera. "I don't need him because he's kinky and I don't need you because you're not! I need you because you're you. Because I love you. Because when I think about you or look at you or even hear your name, I get the warm golden glow inside that just - just runs from my scalp down into my toes and I want to turn into a puddle of caramel. I turned down men because I was in love with you. I threw myself at one man because he reminded me of you. I got pregnant because I wanted /your/ baby. Do you think this is all just about sex?"
"No, I know that it's not... and no, I haven't learned anything about women in eight-hundred years. I'm as mystified and confused as I was at eleven, and any man what tells you differently is a lying fucker. Look, I know it's not all about that...it's not everything. Of course, I know you love me... but you need to be honest, Fiona. If it weren't kinky, if it were normal," Davydd continues, using your usual disdain for the term, "...you'd hate it. And how do I know that? Because you've said as much. So... yeah... I think I need to compete...and yeah, now that I've seen my worst fucking nightmare, I need a drink and a smoke, a shower, and a contract with some monkeys and midgets..."
"And we're not talking about emotion here," Davydd rants on, "...we're talking about sex, so right now...it's about sex. That is what it's about." He didn't even flinch at the fist on his shoulder. To be honest, he barely even felt it.
"Is it so wrong that I want you to be fulfilled and happy? Or that I feel a shite because I actually see what you're getting, see how you react to it, and then wonder...what the fuck? I'd think that'd fucking give me a husband of the year medal that I give a shite so much. And I'm the one who should be upset, not you..."
Like all Welshmen, when emotionally rattled his face goes red, his inflection lifts high and his accent turns atrocious. Davydd rises from the sofa to go get his bottle of whiskey. Welsh, that. "Anyway," he begins to gloss it over, "this is why I didn't want to get into it, but I just couldn't fucking lie to you. Oh yah, lovely evenin' ain't it? Up to much? I mean... I'd have been a real arsehead." Unlike now?
"How do you know?" Fiona glares at you, her hands on her hips. "If it were normal - Davydd, we've had normal sex. I've had normal sex with Rhodri, too. I squeal just as much, I turn just as pink, I enjoy it just as much. I don't want midgets or monkeys," she shudders at the thought. "I want you. When I'm with you, I want the pure, unadulterated Davydd ap Owain. Not - not some two-bit jimmy who has something to prove."
"I'm not a man. I can't separate sex from emotion. I fell in love with you - if I hadn't, I'd never had had sex with you. I wouldn't, y'know?" She isn't crying; she's holding back tears, turning her head so that the glassiness won't betray her, that the liquid sheen won't show in crystal. "I don't know why you think you don't fulfill me. Why you think you don't make me happy."
You rise, and she sinks; Fiona curls up on the sofa where you'd left it, face still turned away. "I don't want you to lie to me," she mumbles. "Just ... I don't see when it turned into a fucking contest." And she isn't even being literal. "I love you, and to me, that's ... enough. The things you do - whether they're kinky or not, I don't really stop to think, my goodness, this isn't approved by the Moral Code! It's you, and I'm happy. If you did something I didn't like, I'd speak up fast enough. What do you want me to do? Call off the wedding?"
"Because I'm a fucking man, that's why," he grumbles. "With a male ego made more fragile by time, not less." Grabbing the bottle from the piano, Davydd returns to the sofa. He plops down, making your world shift dramatically when he does.
"I don't like fighting," he remarks quietly. "And I don't like that I get jealous. That I have to be the best at everything, when I am so clearly not. I'm not the best at anything," Davydd cackles suddenly.
And you can feel his weight, "Come on, girl. I'm not saying I want to leave you or whatever. I just... was bruised, that's all. And drinking. And smoking. Can we talk about something else? I'm a bit strung out on this topic already."
"Well, one more thing," Davydd murrs, "...how the hell did you both get up there? Did he have to install the hooks beforehand or were they already there? Maybe I need a toolbelt," he offers suddenly.
"You're the best at being my Davy," Fiona retorts simply, turning those too-bright eyes on you. She looks away again, dragging the back of her wrist against her eyelids. "That's all I need you to be, you know. Mine. My Davy, fangs and all."
She sniffles once, quietly, pushing back the flood before she turns to you again. "He probably used magic. I don't know - you think I was paying attention?" She wasn't. She was distracted. She glowers a little, then abruptly throws herself across your lap, sprawling there, one sandal dangling from her toes before falling to the floor. "Bloody men. I should've stayed a virgin..."
"Fucking spiderman of sex. I hate him sometimes. I don't even know where he learned that shite. He certainly didn't get it from me. I blame his mother," which is what Davydd always says about Rhodri. No, he's not responsible! Don't look at him!
"Don't cry," Davydd groans, "then I'll start, and I'm an ugly shite thing when I cry. I look like a constipated toad." He smirks at your last comment. As if. "Yeah, that's exactly what I was thinking earlier. Boy, she looks like she's having an awful time. She probably should have stayed a virgin. Because you know that solves everything."
Davydd rolls his green eyes at you both. "We're a pretty pair tonight. I'm unshaven and you're all splotchy and weepy. All that's missing is the pox and we'd be perfectly dreadful." His arms come around you and he holds you easily enough.
"Why are you crying anyway? You had a fabulous day. You have two men who love you, one of whom...albeit insanely jealous of the other... is a comedian. For all his faults, and there are many... yeah?"
"I just ... love you." Fiona sighs, curling up and pulling herself into your lap until her hands can hook onto your shoulders, and she looks up at you. "Let's face it, Davy. We're always going to fight like this. We hate it, but on some level we seem to need it. I just ... wish we could fast-forward to the making up, part, sometimes."
She nestles in against your shoulder, closing her eyes with another low sigh. "I love both of you, but it tastes different on my tongue. You're my king, Davy, you know that? With you, it's all just - I don't even know how to put it into words. It just is, okay?"
One hand lifts, ruffling through your hair and tugging lightly. "I adore you," Fiona says feelingly. "Beyond all reason. I love both of you, but - with you, I don't know. Maybe because you were my first, I just ... I need you so very, very much."
"Well," Davydd sighs as his hair is tugged, "I'm sorry you do. It certainly is a blow to your sanity. Maybe even to your wit," he smirks. "But I suppose you can't help it." He goes red again, at the ears and the height of his cheeks. Embarrassed perhaps, or perhaps touched by the words.
"You should eat," he notes. "Not that I'm trying to fatten the goose or anything for the pate for my toast," he's no Toreador that he'd intentionally feed his own food and stuff it fat for fois gras. "But I'm sure you're starvin'..."
His large hand gives you a pat. "I love you, too. Now, go'n and get up, eat and relax. I'm... sorry I'm a jealous arse...but you know... it's who I am, I guess." He shrugs. "I suppose I ought to soak this whiskey in something else. What did you get?"
"Cuisine of North Africa. Chicken and vegetables and rice and some sort of sauce." She answers the food question first, lightly poking you in the ribs. "Little takeaway place midway between here and the pub. It was there, I was there, it was food." She shrugs, then looks up at you solemnly. "Either you need to sober up or I need to hurry up and get drunk - we can't communicate on a level, like this."
Reluctantly, Fiona unwinds herself from you, moving to rise from your lap. "I'm not sorry you're a jealous arse. I don't mind a little bit of jealousy. I've got some of it myself. I mind that it hurts you, though. Doesn't matter if you're eight or eight hundred; if it cuts you, then it cuts you, doesn't it? I just ... don't know what to do about it. I don't know, Davydd. How do I get it through your head that I do love you, I do want you - that you're good enough?"
Fiery eyebrows cock upwards with a jaunty jig of motion. "They have cuisine in North Africa? I didn't know beef jerky qualified as cuisine," he rattles out. A swallow and he finishes his whiskey. "Well, there's whiskey in the bar," as opposed to Whiskey in the Jar. "You can join me. I should still have vodka, unless you and Rhodri have cleaned me out."
In fact, he's due for a refill. Rising, he heads for the bar and the bottle. "Here, I'll play the bartender for a change. Just make your plate and relax." Foresty eyes lift to you and sparkle: we both know you need the recovery.
"Bah, it doesn't hurt me. Very little actually hurts me," comes the gravelly rumble of the dragon's voice as he pours another whiskey for himself and a vodka for you. "I've just never been known as a ladies man, yeah? In and out, a bit of squishing around, everybody sleeps," Davydd waves: and so on. "I'm not romantic, and for all my living I'm not particularly experienced with women. I fuck women. I rarely listened to them."
He cackles at that. "I suppose that's pretty fucking obvious," follows a wry drawl. "Anyway, as I was sayin'... I haven't had much in the way of relationships and I sure as shite have never shared a woman. Much less with a known womanizer and great romantic figure... despite the fact he's my son..."
"Sure, I'll take vodka if you've got it." Fiona rises and moves to collect the food, clothing changing from that little bit of nostalgia to something a little more appropriate as she does. The cartwheel hat melts away, the gown replaced by olive drab cargo pants that sag to be held up by her hips, a black lady's tank top and a silver mesh shirt over it. Her hair falls into a pixie cut that's bright metallic blue, falling into her eyes - mercurial, rebellious grey, they are now as she cuts you a glance. Ah. She's in a mood, now.
The food's laid out quickly, a portion nudged over to you, and she takes up the vodka; that's much more interesting than food to her. And she looks at you - a sidelong glance, then a more direct stare. "You mean you've never studied romance," Fiona counters. "You've never made a point of being romantic. You're not good at it intuitively, and to some extent you scoff at it. But it doesn't mean you're not romantic. It just means you don't know what romantic is to anyone else, only what you think romantic or what you've been told romance is."
She takes a mouthful of vodka, holding it on her tongue until the urge for her eyes to water passes, then gulps it down. "The thing is, it doesn't fucking matter what anyone else thinks is romantic in this case, Davydd. The only person whose opinion matters on this one is mine, because I'm the person who's supposed to be influenced by it. Does it matter what Sandrine would've found romantic? Or Rose? Or - or whoever else?" A hand comes up, raking back through her hair, and she's still staring at you. "I think the problem is that I've been being soft and girly too much, too long."
His eyes narrow at you and he looks at you as if you've sprouted a second head. "What are you on about? What does your softness or girliness have to do with anything? You are, and you are not. You change as you will." He shrugs. That's neither here nor there.
"Sandrine wasn't into romance. I'm not sure what she was into, to be honest. She likes Viking men. Said I was too soft, not manly." He snorts at that. "Rose... Rose thought I was too barbaric, too manly. She got her romance from others. I came in, fucked her blind, smoked in her bed, messed up her house and cheated on her."
He nods to the glass of vodka waiting on you and pours himself another whiskey, taking the bottle with him to the sofa. "If I had the switch, I'd flip it," Davydd notes with a shrug. "I've never been an apt wooer of women. That's just a point of fact, lass." He glances over to the piano, then twists looking toward his jacket lying sprawled on one end of the sofa. Leaning far, he digs in to a pocket, fishing out a pack of fags.
Shrugging, Davydd lights up. With all that alcohol, he's a fire hazard. "I'm not talking about Sandrine or Rose or whatever the fuck. I'm talking about you and me and Rhodri. And it's not even about us, it's about me. You know? Insecurities, the ravages of time and age..." He waves his hand, his cigarette trailing fire.
"I don't need you to be Rhodri." Fiona says it simply, reaching for the vodka bottle and taking it in her fist, glass in her other fist. "I don't need you to be anyone except who and what you are. Insecurities and all. Obviously, I'd like it if you could manage to not have your head up your arse on the subject of 'good enough' and 'romantic enough', but frankly, you won me first. You had me first. And as I told Rhodri, he's never going to be able to compete with that or overcome that. I'm telling you - it won't level the playing field, because in your own head, everything's just ... magnified too much for that, but there it is. It is what it is."
The glass is finished off, and another glass poured almost before she's finished the first. "I don't need you to woo me. Why would you need to woo me? You've got me. You married me, you got me all fat with your child," her voice softens a little at that, almost husky, "and you've got me now. Rhodri knows. He's felt it. Seen it. When you snap your fingers, I come running. And don't think it hasn't bothered him on occasion, even if mostly we've worked it out. It is what it is, Davydd," Fiona repeats herself, then sighs, sprawling onto the floor, on her stomach, blue hair in her eyes as she tucks her chin down on her hands.
"You're set in your ways in some ways. You're eight hundred and some; I'm ... forever nineteen, really. The age I was when we met. I can layer age on like icing, but it's still me. Soft or sharp, metallic or fruity." Fiona takes another swallow, then looks up at you. "Eight hundred and some years ago, you were fighting in mud and blood, and you've fought in mud and blood ever since. I'm a woman who's willing to be there in the mud and blood with you as needed. I glory in that you want me, that you cosset me, but when it comes right down to it, I'll be just as happy if you hand me a knife and tell me to start swinging as I am cuddled up in your lap."
"Set...poured in concrete... and frozen there, I fear," Davydd says. The whiskey is finally starting to have an effect. Who knows if this is his first bottle. Likely not. "I have a hard time, you know," his voice tugs in his throat, "...with the niceties, yeah? I don't know." There's an exhale of smoke for that and he sits forward.
The cigarette and glass of whiskey are both set aside for a moment and he tugs off the turtleneck, giving it a toss. A launching, more like. Dragons twist and knot over muscles that do the same. He puts his head in his hands for a moment, his fingers mussing the hair as he rubs his scalp. "I know, Fiona. It's why I love you," he whispers. "Because you're there, yeah, with the shield for me, and the knife for me. And I need that. I rant and rave, sometimes I even mean it," his mouth cuts a slant. Sometimes he just talks pure shite, as you well know.
"I know you don't expect me to be him, or would even want it. Shite, you'd never get any rest, you barely get enough as it is with all of these men pulling at you," Davydd gruffs. Eyes are dark and bright, glassy with intoxication. Stuffing his cigarette between his lips, Davydd sits back with the glass of whiskey and the fag. "It's what I expect," he gestures to himself. "It's unreasonable. But then," he smirks, your husband, "... so am I..."
"So who wants you to be nice?"
Fiona's eyebrows arch up, and she moves up to her knees, downing another shot of vodka, then standing. The bottle is dragged up again. "I'm a product of a modern age. Can't pretend to be anything else, not seriously. But I love you just the same. Rough edges and all. If you're a barbarian," she shrugs, "well, I'm a girl who'd hurl herself into the middle of shoving bodies for fun, so ..."
She drags herself over to you, and as you sit back, drops into your lap. "What do you expect? You haven't really spelled it out." One eyebrow cocks upwards, and the empty glass set aside with a sideways lean. Then she straightens, curling up against your chest, cuddling the vodka bottle. "You rant and rave and you get worked up, but when was the last time you were tempted to kill me?"
"I don't know what I expect," he chuckles suddenly. "I just expect to be the best, I guess. I don't know," he groans. Why are you asking me these hard questions? Davydd turns his head, billowing smoke to the side to keep it out of your face. "I don't know, cathfach," his mouth twisting. "You just looked so..." The edges of his ears go pink. "Ecstatic ... like...you've never known sex could be like that...so I got a bit out of sorts. I expect I want to know I get the same look...like I'm showing you something..."
He used to be the one who knew it all, you see. Now you know more than he does. And he almost says it, too!
Fiery eyebrows cock up. "I was tempted to kill you earlier," Davydd cracks with a grin, but his fingers give a tickle to show he's kidding. "Hmm... I don't know. Before you were pregnant, I imagine. I don't remember, to be honest. I'm fucking old, remember? I'm lucky I recall your name, let alone what we did..."
"With you, it's organic. It's ... magic, religion, ritual. Spiritual. Earthy." Fiona says it seriously, takes it seriously, answering you, contradicting herself by turns; but each word is sincere. "Rhodri's rock and roll. But you knew that. Why would you want to be him? It isn't as if nothing ever touches him; he has hurt and pain. He just ... he isn't good at sharing it. At showing it. You hurt, you have pain, but at least I'm a little bit able to reach yours."
That's her sincere belief. She rises up on her knees, straddling your lap, taking a long pull at the vodka bottle and then wedging it between the cushions to keep it more or less upright and out of the way. Both hands land heavily on your shoulders, and she sways in towards you. "Usually when we're having sex, you're a little too busy to be looking at my face, I expect," Fiona says philosophically. "If you did ... you'd know how I must look. I don't know, I'm too busy then to pay attention to what I must look like." She nuzzles in against the crook of your neck, lips trailing up to your ear.
"For the record, it's Fiona," she murmurs, lips puckering against your ear for a moment. "Need me to spell it? Eff as in fuck, eye as in in bed, oh as in orgasm, enn as in ... as in necking, ay as in alright, DO me already. I don't get why you're worried about me fucking needing subtlety. Come on! Our first time together we weren't even going to sleep in the same bed and we shagged our brains out."
"There's no eye in bed," Davydd smirks. "There's a head in bed." Ooh! Clever! He grins suddenly, a flash of white toothiness. He moves his head from the teasing of your lips, playing hard to get? "First time's not the same. Hell, then I fucking Casanova, yeah? I knew everything there was to know."
And now?
"I don't have anything else t' show you," Davydd whispers. There's a touch of wistfulness there. "The Virgin Queen's definitely not a virgin anymore. Nothing left to teach you. Now I'm the one who needs the training," his lips twist in a smirk, and he leans, carrying you with him, as he stamps out his cigarette.
"It's different now. I guess if I were a smart man, I'd let Rhodri be the teacher and just soak up all the fringe benefits of the lessons," he gruffs. "But man's man that I am, I have a hard time getting schooled. I guess that's really the point."
It took a while to get there, but you got there eventually. Congratulations, you great git.
"You still have other things to teach me." Fiona murmurs it against your ear again, then nips suddenly. "...You're eight hundred years old, you git! So I'm not a virgin anymore, does that mean there's not other things you know that I don't? Teach me how to fucking run a kingdom, how to swing a sword, how to pull a bow, how to play the piano, how to play a harp! Teach me how to gut a hare, throw a knife, field-dress a deer! Maybe I'll never need to know these things, but maybe I will. And you know how to do all these things and a hell of a lot more besides."
She sits up on your lap, swinging round to face you again, glowering pugnaciously. "Yes, I fucking want you. In the crudest, rudest, most vulgar way possible, I want you, dammit. You know how it makes me melt to think of you being my king, and filling me up with yourself. I go all girly for you. I want your fat red-headed babies. It disgusts me how weak-kneed I get. But I react to you that way, and I like it, god help me. D'you hear?"
Her hands come up to grab your cheeks, pressing her palms against either side of your face as she kisses your mouth emphatically. "There," Fiona declares, eyes bright. "That one'll last you. Look at the woman who's in your lap. Where am I? Your lap. Did I know when I came over? No. But I know now, and I would've ended up in your lap even if I didn't..."
Well, when you put it like that...
Davydd lets go of the last breath he took in to speak after you set his mouth free. Eyebrows arch upward, quirking with a: Well, that was nice.
His tongue comes out, a swath to taste the residue of your kiss. But the residue of your words will linger longer. "You're interested in those sorts of things?" he wonders. He hadn't thought about that. Clearly. You can see it plain as day. "Well, alright then... maybe... I will."
Davydd looks at the woman in his lap as you request he do. "Aye, so you are. And a lovely thing you are too, even with your odd colored hair, looking all tough." He's still not turned around. The kiss helped but he's drunk, he's emotional, he's not likely to throw you over the couch and starting humping you. The father is not like the son!
For answer, Fiona leans back, hauling off her shirt. The tank top comes with it, so that she's bare-breasted, but it isn't her breasts that she's intending to show off, for once; she flexes an arm. "Feel that." She means the bicep. "I've been working on it already, a bit," she tells you, half-matter of fact, half-belligerent. "I didn't tell you because I didn't think you'd approve. But I'm a queen, no matter what else I am. And I'm married to two kings. Chances are, noone'll try to attack the two of you through me, but I'll bet you that's what plenty of other people've said, too. Should I trust guards to keep me safe from any assassin, any threat? Nice idea, but better to be prepared myself."
She lowers her arm, lower lip thrust out now in a slight pout. "The world is fucked up," Fiona declares, "this world and any other. It's just the way things are. I don't like it, but I don't have to like it. It'll go on being what it is whether or not I like it. Doesn't mean I don't want to change it, but you know, sometimes I wonder if I can." Fiona folds her arms over her bared chest, looking at you grouchily. "There's things you know which I don't, Davydd. Figure out what I'm allowed to know and start teaching me already."
"I'll have to give it some thought. Don't get too big now, I'm not into Brunhildas," Davydd smirks, his hand feeling your bicep. "You don't need brawn. You need a sharp mind, your mind, your wit, your magic, those are your weapons, sweetheart. We'll work on it..."
He seems to agree with you that you should be able to protect yourself. Do you find that to be a relief or are you now suddenly concerned? Davydd nods, "I'll give it some thought."
Speaking of suddenly...
Suddenly, Davydd bounces his legs beneath you, with the added benefit of feeling you bounce against his lap. He grins -- ah! he's back! -- and winks at you. And bounces you again. There is a hint of playfulness returning. "Maybe I do have some things left to show you, yeah?"
"I'm not going to become a Brunhilda. I just want to be strong enough to swing a sword if I have to, that's all." Fiona gives you a bit of a look, then a coy glance instead, to follow it. A chaser after whiskey...
"I don't know if my mind is sharp enough, but I'm not totally dense brick." You then bounce her, and she squeaks, squirming, falling forward against you. "Git," Fiona grumbles, rubbing her cheek against your rougher one. "I adore you far too fucking much. You've got a few things left in you..."
"Now ... gonna carry me to bed, or not...?"
Posted by rowan at April 07, 2006 03:31 AM
