With her mother out of the way, you'd think Fiona would be less nervous; she doesn't look nervous, serenely setting the table for an intimate dinner for four. Candles, flowers, plates, linens, silverware - and she's dressed comfortably but with a touch of style. Denim and velvet and pearls and a scrunched-up hair tie to pull her (blonde again) hair back from her face, a big ruby on one hand, a fat emerald on the other. Both her husbands represented - even if only the three of them know it's them that's being represented.
     Dinner tonight is sole a la meunier, with roasted spring potatoes and a creamy leek soup with flecks of grilled bacon, to be followed by free-form spring fruit tartlets. Everything's going swimmingly, right? Right...
     Peter Arundel, Fiona's father, has dressed for dinner. He is, after all, a gentleman and a politician. His hair is thinning just a trifle, but he's still not gone grey, and has all the patrician charm of the sort of Englishman who was regarded as a fop before World War II and charged the barbed wire during. "I just strolled by the kitchen," he remarks as he enters the dining room, "and everything smells delicious. Where's your husband-to-be, dear?"
     Fiona straightens to receive a paternal kiss from her father. How to answer this one...

     Well, one of them's pouring scotch (three glasses -- we'll all be needing it). He's an older man, damn near 40 (and some odd eight centuries), but like the Lord Arundel is dressed in a suit -- black and white, to keep it simple, classy, impossible to clash. There's no tie (it's his house, damn it!), but it's a nice black wool with a white button-down shirt. His fiery hair is wavy, longer layers allowed to go their way, and he's shaved tonight, trimmed sideburns and the whole coifed package.
     The other husband is just coming in now. He's definitely the younger of the two, though how much younger is hard to determine (and who would guess a few centuries?). He is dressed somewhat more casually, or shall we say stylishly? He is braver than the Other, going for a bold statement in a cream-honey suit and black shirt.
     Only Fiona would get the inside joke...
     Davydd glances up at the arrival of the elder Arundel and, behind him, the arrival of the younger Welshman. He smiles quickly, that trademark grin (though the points of it are tucked back) and he pours another glass of scotch. "Though it's not St. David's Day, there's always time for leek soup. A scotch, Lord Arundel?"

     "Thank you, and much obliged to you for it." Lord Arundel offers Davydd a quick smile that would go as well on the evening news as here. "I'm finding marrying off my only daughter to be a bit more stressful than I'd imagine - though I'd wager not nearly as stressful as for you, eh, Fiona?"
     "Daddy!" Fiona gives her father a protesting look, silverware set down in favour of moving to give Rhodri a quick hug and kiss to the cheek. "No getting daddy drunk, Davydd. Anesthetic purposes only."
     Poor man... he'll need it, won't he? Not that he's any clue of it. He moves to Davydd - in the direction of scotch. "How're the wedding preparations coming along? Your mother doesn't tell me anything."

     Rhodri offers a brilliant smile to his future father-in-law and then returns his future wife's hug and kiss. "Noswaith dda," he murmurs to her. Warm and reassuring is the smile. The wink is pure wickedness. "So, Lord Arundel, I hope not too stressful. But that's what the gardens are for, so I'm told."
     Davydd cocks up an eyebrow at the mention of mother and stressful. "That which does not kill us," he waxes poetically on a comet's tail of a smile. He hands a glass of the special reserve scotch. The bottle was labeled once, but the wording's worn off. Good scotch. With that, he hands the glass to Lord Arundel.
     A glass is poured and handed to Rhodri as well, and then Davydd's taking up his own. "The preparations are coming along," Rhodri notes, sipping at the scotch as he pulls out one of the chairs to take a seat. "The gardens are being decorated tomorrow. And the canopies." No summer in Wales is necessarily dry.
     He'll need it? So will they by the looks of them. Davydd's ears are going pink and Rhodri is fidgeting with his glass.

     "I'll get dinner on the table, and then we can talk," Fiona temporizes. Rhodri gets a brief, sidelong smile - as does Davydd. Almost sheepish, that smile. Funny - she isn't afraid of much. So why is this part so difficult? But she ducks out, hurrying to the kitchen for the platters of food. Serving with her own two dainty hands, she is.
     "Not too stressful, no," Peter agrees, giving the two men he's left with a shrewdly speculative glance. Something's up. His politician's instincts are telling him so, no doubt. But he forebears to ask - or, so far. "Many thanks, sir," he nods to Davydd, taking the scotch and knocking back a mouthful. "Lovely stuff. You have a connoisseur's grasp, I take it?"
     Fiona isn't gone long; the soup is laid out, a bowl at every plate, along with a couple of bottles of wine. She pours herself a glass with hands that want to shake but aren't permitted the luxury, then calls to the men. "Food's on, so may as well eat while it's hot, hadn't we?"
     "You sound nothing like your mother," Peter says gravely. "Though you sound remarkably like your grandmother, darling." And then he smiles - a sudden, swift, fox-like smile of his own, genuine and appreciative. "It smells wonderful. I think I've eaten more since we arrived here than in the entire month before."

     Davydd waggles his eyebrows, the dancing of fire streaks, to the subject of the scotch. "Something of one, oes. This is eighty-five," as in years. "I have a 1799 in the basement. I could probably use it to take the rust of the Devil's soul at this point." He chuckles an earthy sound at that. He raises the glass to Lord Arundel in a salute and then sips.
     Yes, we should all look more natural. Like nothing's happening. Like we're both not fucking your daughter. In the same bed. At the same time.
     Ahem.
     Rhodri sips at the scotch, "We have connections along the Whisky Road," he notes with a slant of a smile. Ian and William, who else? "This is a bit on the smoky side, but in another fifteen years it'll be perfection."
     Saved by the bell! The dinner bell, that is. Rhodri and Davydd gesture for Lord Arundel to go ahead, they taking a seat after. Davydd looks to Lord Arundel, the pinkness about his ears fading. Maybe it was just the first flush of scotch. "Before we know it, the whole thing will be over, we'll have headaches from the sugar and romance and that'll be that. But I think it's going to be the loveliest affair Powis's seen since the arrival of the Earl of Clive with stolen India in his carriages."
     Rhodri smiles warmly, and he looks to Fiona. The look is openly affectionate. "I'm glad we'll rank right up there with Bonnie Old Clive," he drawls out. He chuckles then and turns his attention to the food.

     "I imagine it's going to be lovely. The whole family's coming for it - well, very nearly. Some of your cousins can't make it," Peter aims it at Fiona, "but quite a few are coming all the same. And I imagine even the ones who aren't are going to be sending their regrets; it promises to be the biggest party since your grandparents' anniversary and the bris the other year. Pity your husband-to-be couldn't make it for that one. It would've been nice not to be the only token Christian in the party." He asides to the two men, "Mind you, for the bris itself, I concentrated on capital gains tax throughout. It's about as painful, but a bit less personal."
     Fiona goes a bit pink. "Yes, of course," she says quickly. "He wasn't able to come with me because of business. How's the soup, daddy?" She hasn't done more than dip her spoon into her own, but she'll ask him about his. "And I think everything's shaping up to be perfect. I just hope the weather holds. It's so chancy, isn't it?" How does one work something like this into the conversation? She's resorting to talking about the weather.
     "It rained like fury when your mother and I were married," Peter says nostalgically. "I wouldn't worry too much about it. From what your mother tells me of the dress, noone'll notice if it's raining. - Ah, sorry." He smiles. "I shouldn't mention the dress in front of the groom. Bad form. The soup's lovely; I envy you your cook. And I'd be muchly thankful if you could point me at your contacts, this scotch could help me deal with Labour, I'm thinking!"
     He knows something's up, but he doesn't betray it by so much as a whisker. Biding his time. Why not? It is excellent whiskey.

     Rhodri chuckles, his eyebrows lifting. "Out of respect to the... dearly departed for the boy," meaning in the foreskin, naturally, "... I should rather be the token Christian at another event. Say his bar mitzvah. I'll go to that."
     Whatever the matter may be, it's not preventing them from eating. The Welshmen have very potent appetites. The soup doesn't last long really. Never had a chance. Not even a fair fight. Settling back with his scotch, Davydd smiles over to Lord Arundel. "I'm not sure I can in good conscience give whisky to the Opposition." He laughs. "I will see what I can do," he murmurs in an aside.
     Two pairs of green eyes land a look on Fiona. Two sets of smiles land on you after. Just like two sets of hands... two...
     Two...
     ...two...

     There's a chuckle for the Opposition comment; he's too wise in the ways of the world to take it to heart. "I've been to my share of bar mitzvahs - it was a bit of a blow to Fiona's grandparents that Mara refused a bat mitzvah, but we're fairly Gentile by now." Peter seems impressed - and amused, further - by the disappearing soup. "I think she's making up for it now, though."
     Fiona squirms slightly in her seat - silently, inwardly, a discomfort within her skin and a pinkness to her cheeks. "I'll go get the next course, shall I? It's sole, daddy. You always did like sole." She rises from her seat, dropping her napkin in her haste. "Oh, by the way, daddy? I'm marrying both Davydd and Rhodri, just so you know. Not just one. I'll be right back. Discuss amongst yourselves."
     And, just like that, she's gone through the doorway...
     Leaving a bombshell in her wake...
     Just like old times?

     Davydd's eyebrows jet upward. You saucy little bitch! Coward! That's right, that's right. The English always run, leaving us in the lurch. Those eyebrows lower humorously and his mouth puckers a little. Part of him wants to throw a dish at her. Mostly, he just wants to laugh.
     Rhodri all but face-palms. He turns his attention to Lord Arundel. "Your daughter is a real pip, sir," he mutters. "But," an exhale, "... we are in a bit of a situation. Not an unpleasant one. We," his eyes include Davydd, "... are both in love with your daughter. And while I'm to be the only legal husband," his mouth slants at that. Imagine Rhodri and legal to be mentioned in the same sentence. "She has decided she wants both of us in her life."
     "If I were her father," Davydd rumbles, "I'd want to punch something. So... I'll understand if the whisky's not a good enough peace offering. No offense to be taken. It is true, we both love her very much, and she loves us. I need a cigarette," he interjects suddenly, reaching into his jacket pocket. He removes a pack and a lighter. "How about you, Lord Arundel?"
     Rhodri lifts a hand -- nothing for me, thanks.

     "I'd wondered when she was going to get around to explaining that." Peter's reaction is one of bland nonchalance, undercut by sudden wicked humour. Both eyebrows have raised quite high, but - he's not as surprised as he could be. "Thank you, my doctor's made me give it up, though," a hand comes up to wave away the offer of a cigarette, "I wouldn't say no to a refill on the scotch."
     He casts an amused glance at the doorway through which Fiona's vanished, then back at her two (two!) swains. "When her older fiance named Davydd was suddenly replaced by an only somewhat older fiance named Rhodri, with the explanation being it's his middle name - I'm not quite so thick-witted as to think there hasn't got to be something more of an explanation than that." Peter grins a bit, sliding his glass forward with a gesture that's almost casual, almost horseman-like. The glint to his eyes is amused as hell - appreciating the situation at its bottom line. "Fiona hasn't done anything truly the conventional way since she popped out of the womb; it was a bit too much to expect she'd start now. Now," he holds up a hand, "I'm not going to go so far as to say that I'm thrilled. But it's been my policy for years to let Fiona do what makes her happy. My seat's hereditary; there's not much she can do to really hurt me politically, short of riding a motorcycle up into Parliament in session - and don't give her the idea, please, I've a sensitive bill coming up!"
     He leans back a bit, cocking up his eyebrows. "I'm more curious, really ... to know how the two of you feel about this. And, I admit, I'm a little surprised; not to sound too much like my wife, but I would've said the odds were against her finding /two/ men she could put up with, who could put up with her, for anything approaching the rest of her life."

     Davydd rises as he puffs life into the firestick. He fetches the bottle of scotch, the over eighty-year-old label from the highlands, of course. Where else. There's a signature on it that was not printed, once. It has faded too. A personally signed bottle, at that.
     "I won't lie to you, Lord Arundel, it took some getting used to." There's a wry grin for that. "But," an exhale of smoke as he pours you another glass, and himself and Rhodri one as well, "... I've known Rhodri for a while. And... quite frankly... we made an agreement, and an arrangement. So... we are all of one mind on the subject, the three of us."
     Rhodri reaches for his refreshed glass, lifting it for a swallow of the scotch. He smiles at the rim of it. "I try not to vocalize suggestions, Lord Arundel." He chuckles then, "... for fear she might take me seriously. So...no fear on your bill." Another swallow. "We are one with it, the three of us," he echoes that sentiment. "And as I am the family holder of the position and title, we felt it better that I be the legal holder of the wedding license as well. That way, these things may be passed to our joint heirs without bureaucratic hassle. And of course, out of sympathy for your position."
     Davydd flicks ash in an empty ashtray, "We want the best for her, and that means the both of us, god help her." He grins at that. "And ...yes... we thought it best that the Paper Lion there," a nod to Rhodri, "... give his name to legitimacy. I'll remain an Interested Party."

     "I appreciate the consideration." Lord Arundel's blue gaze glints with sardonic humour. "Knowing Fiona, I'm half surprised she didn't present it to us as a fait accompli - grandchildren already on the way and all. But she seems to have mellowed somewhat in the past year or so, and if you two are responsible for that, then the arrangement clearly has some side benefits. I haven't been called to post bail in a while, after all."
     It's on this note that Fiona walks back in, balancing a heavily laden tray. "There was a slight problem with the sole," she says evenly, "so I'm afraid that the sole's off the menu. However, there's plenty of potatoes and asparagus and smoked salmon." The look on her face suggests it's better not to ask about the sole. So too does the piece of fish dangling unnoticed from the cuff of one sleeve.
     "Ah, darling, you're just in time," Peter tells his daughter with amiable mildness. "So these two gentlemen tell me you're planning to become a Buddhist nun. When will you be shaving your head?"

     Davydd chuckles smoke at the nun comment, smoke curling from his mouth and his nose in draconic fashion. He stamps the cigarette out (that's enough of that) and takes up the scotch again. Amazing stuff. Takes the edge right off. Dark green eyes take note of the dangling fish bits and eyebrows cock skyward. "Looks like there were no survivors," he rolls out.
     Rhodri grins, sharing a glance with Lord Arundel. "That'll be a good look. Especially when you toss in the orange robes." He likewise spots the fish bits, and gestures to your sleeve with a wiggling finger. You've got something on your shirt, darling. "The salmon'll be fine, sweetheart. These things happen."
     Davydd finishes his second glass of scotch and he sets the glass aside for now. His fingers lace against his stomach. "Salmon's good. We haven't had that for a while." He leans in toward Fiona, and offers her a hand to join him. "I think your father suspects something," Davydd teases in a stage whisper.

     The food's dealt round, and she swipes at her sleeve surreptitiously - the effort wasted when she yelps a little as a chunk of fish falls from her sleeve. Fiona grumbles, snagging her wine glass and then moving over to Davydd and dropping a kiss on top of his head. "Bastard," she murmurs into his thick hair. "Sorry, daddy."
     "Well, I'm not going to pretend that it's conventional, but as I was telling your two ... young men," Peter's amusement seems to increase significantly, "you've never been conventional; expecting you to start now would be a bit much. I'm just glad I wasn't here for the shouting and the negotiations; I'm a politician by trade, but rather like doctors, I try not to practice on my own family more than I absolutely must. But there's one thing - well, two things, really."
     He leans back, slanting a droll look to Rhodri. "You're paying for the honeymoon, and I'd appreciate it if you don't let her send any pictures from it to her mother and me. And," the look is brought back onto Fiona, "you're telling your grandparents - I certainly am not. Is that clear?"

     "Oh certainly," Rhodri mentions on the honeymoon. "That was my intention all along. Of course, Davydd's not going..."
     "...I have an aversion to India. I break out in a rash at the smell of curry," Davydd quips.
     "But I will forbid cameras," Rhodri chuckles, glancing to Davydd. If he only knew, hmm? "That should take care of it. I am looking forward to Chennai. It will be quite warm... but we'll have the water. Have you been to India?" he asks his future father-in-law.
     "Yeah," Davydd pipes up, "...and no runnin' out of the room, young lady, leaving it on us to break it to your dear old granny." The Welsh brogue (for that's what it is) lilts lyrically, even when gruff and growled.

     "I didn't leave it to you to break it to daddy!" Fiona protests immediately (of course), her arms going round Davydd from behind, tightening. She sighs, murmuring something into his hair - more profane little endearments, blushingly muttered.
     "I've never been, no. I've been to the Ukraine, which isn't quite as romantic-sounding. Now, while you're out there, do try to prevent Fiona from getting involved in any insurrections - or worse, leading any insurrections," Peter tells Rhodri gravely. "I realize it sounds a bit unlikely, but after what happened with her Girl Guide career, and worse, her mother's garden club -"
     "Daddy!" Fiona comes up from Davydd's hair like a rocket, squawking. "You promised never to tell anyone about the garden club! Does mother know?"
     "No, your mother doesn't know," Peter retorts, "and I don't intend to tell her. As for telling them - I imagine they know what they've gotten into, but it's a father's duty to at least try and put some fear into his little girl's future husband, and you've complicated matters by picking not one but two Welshmen. What am I going to threaten them with?" His eyebrows arch pointedly. "A tape recording of last session's speech?"

     Davydd barks a laugh. Delightful sound that, earthy and rough, lyrical and warm. "You've come to the wrong country if you want to prevent insurrection, Lord Arundel. Afraid I can't help you there. But, we'll try to minimize any international incidents..."
     "I want to know what happened with this Garden Club," Rhodri grins suddenly, turning an interested eye to Fiona's father. Emerald eyes glance to Fiona, sparkling with a wink. "I'm afraid I simply must know if I'm to stop her in the future," he drawls out in a teasing tone.
     Davydd reaches around, giving her a slight hug. He pats her. You can go see Rhodri -- spread the love, lass. "She has complicated things. Two Welshmen... bit of a pickle for an English woman...course, we don't say that too loudly around here," he quips.

     "Yes, if people find out I'm English, they might poison my soup." Fiona rolls her eyes, giving Davydd's hair a little tug and then moving almost obediently to her Other Husband, leaning down to nip at his ear. "Bastard," she accuses softly. "No fair, the two of you ganging up on me like this!"
     She wasn't complaining the other night...
     "Allow me to preface by saying that a traditional, solid English gardening club is pretty much one of those things a seasoned politician such as myself calls in speeches the backbone of our country." Peter's smile tugs up at one side, then the other as he regards the two Welshmen. His eyes are keen, though, watching how Fiona is with them; how they are with his daughter. "Fine institutions and all that - and there's nothing quite as solid, and nothing quite as deadly as the feuds that erupt within them. There was just one such feud going on in her mother's gardening club - and for once, Mara wasn't actually on one or the other side, particularly, nor was she an instigating party. If I recall correctly, the feud was over poinsettias and whether or not the annual Christmas display at the church should use them."
     "Oh, god," Fiona mutters, sliding a kiss against Rhodri's cheek and then moving to sit down by her own plate. "You're really going to make me relive it, daddy? How perfectly beastly of you!"

     They are both tender with her. Rhodri returns the kiss easily with a smile as Fiona moves to sit before her own plate. I was going to offer you my lap. His smile pulls at her father's descriptions. "They have these in Wales as well. Serious business, the garden club," he notes gravely.
     Davydd casts a wink to Fiona and leans toward her, his hand reaching out for her. He, too, is openly demonstrative. Maybe it's a Welsh thing. The reserve of the English is just something they don't have. His body language and his expression belie the laughter that is already starting. His dark green eyes are bright with it. How many stories like this one are there, I wonder...
     Just think of what your mother's gardening club would say if they knew you were regularly in bed with two men. It would rock society as we know it. Rhodri's thoughts pop beneath your skin with the flavor of honey and wine.
     Naughty boys, your husbands to be... flirting with you beneath your skin...

     Yes, but you've an appetite on you, and so've I, Fiona retorts, though her hand goes out to him for a moment before picking up her fork. I want to eat my dinner, thank you very much.
     "Deadly serious," Peter agrees, grinning just a bit. "And absolutely no sense of humour - take the garden gnome debate." He holds up one finger. "Stretching back for going on what - fifty years, now? As to whether a garden gnome has any place in any serious Oxford garden or whether it lowers the tone of the entire community by its commentary : quaint, kitschy, or simply tacky? The ladies and gentlemen of the society do not take kindly to newcomers with new ideas, and that may be why Mara didn't take sides on that one."
     "Mother's on no side but her own," Fiona mutters; then, with a sigh and a smile, she takes hold of Davydd's hand, giving either of them a glimmeringly piquant glance. Too many stories. Entirely too many. I'm afraid I have a checkered past.
     "Suffice to say," Peter continues on, keeping one eye on his daughter with tolerant amusement, "when the two centerpieces were unveiled - as the society actually had a schism and presented two rather than resolve their poinsettia dispute - noone expected to find a floral rendition of the cover for the Sex Pistols 'Anarchy In The UK' in two parts. I' still love to know how you managed to spell out the lyrics in oyster shell without anyone catching you, Fiona, though I suspect Dot helped you with that somehow. To this day," he returns his attention to the two Welshmen, "noone knows who was responsible. Her mother suspects, but has never admitted her suspicions - she's terrified of being booted from the society. Three ladies fainted, and Mister Maguire had palpitations."
     What makes you think, Fiona retorts sweetly to Rhodri as she spears a folded piece of smoked salmon and pops it into her mouth, that they won't? Mother's invited some old family friends to the wedding, you know...

     Rhodri grins as he eats the salmon, his gaze locking on Fiona. Emerald sparkles with a wink. That should make life interesting. You still love to shock...
     For his part, Davydd's not really eating much. Must be the conversation -- too interesting, perhaps. He's laughing and shaking his head. A roll of his eyes follows the mention of Dot. "She's a crafty one. I don't doubt it. Well, I'm sure that set the gardening societies back a good generation." Another pair of green eyes find you, Fiona, and likewise wink.
     And smolder...
     I love the rebel in you. I should kiss you now, my rebel queen. But before Lord Arundel can think that Davydd is forgoing his dinner to eat his daughter with his eyes (if nothing else), Davydd looks to Fiona's father and takes a bit of the salmon and asparagus. "That is one of the many reasons we love your daughter. It's never a dull day with Fiona Arundel. Another scotch?" he offers.
     Rhodri chuckles, then cuts a wicked smirk. "I will blame Dorothy," he drawls out her entire name. "She's a bad influence, that one. Definitely the devil on the shoulder. As if you need the encouragement," he teases Fiona. "It is why we love her. We can appreciate a good rebel..."
     I think this should be a short dinner... I'm more in the mood for dessert. comes Rhodri's voice, easing against your skin.

     Did you ever doubt it? Fiona blows Rhodri a kiss once her mouth isn't full, then turns to meet Davydd's green gaze; the colour goes high in her cheeks at that smoldering look. I haven't been rebelling all that much lately, have I? I've been being a good girl ...
     Lord Arundel is not blind. He arches his eyebrows, then lifts his napkin to his lips. "Well, I can't say that I'm looking forward to Mara finding out about this arrangement - but I'll make a deal with you - the three of you." Ah, and there's the devilish English politician's smile. "I won't ruin your ... surprise ... provided you find some way to warn your grandparents, Fiona, before the ceremony. They're not in terribly bad health, considering, but you know what the consideration there is."
     He's smiling, but serious. They're quite old - and survivors of the Holocaust. No, let's not push the other foot into the grave...
     "You're on your own on this one," Peter tells Fiona, "but for now," he pushes himself up from his seat, "I am going to take myself off to the room you've provided for us," this to Rhodri, "and I'm taking another glass of your excellent scotch with me," this to Davydd. "Tomorrow, I'll look you gentlemen up for some further discussion of details such as grandchildren and estates and wills and probates, but for the moment, I think I'll leave you ... three ... to it."
     A shrewd politician indeed....

     Davydd is the first to rise as the guest rises, with Rhodri following soon after. "Lord Arundel," he smiles and shakes his hand, "Have a pleasant evening. I'm sure the scotch will help. It's helping me already." He chuckles at that. And he seems relieved that it's been discussed at least a little.
     Rhodri also shakes his father-in-law's hand in farewell, "Of course, sir. Just let Melania know if you need anything. We will see you in the morning. Your grandparents are expected in the next couple of days, aren't they?" Now that he thinks of it, he's not quite sure.
     Goodbyes said, neither man make any overtures for the Lord to stay. The writing's on the wall. Rhodri glances behind as the lord leaves. "That went rather well. Or at least, he's showing a good face to us on it." He pushes his plate gently forward and surrenders his napkin. Yes, throwing in the towel.
     Davydd does likewise, and now both husbands are staring at you. A corner of ap Owain's mouth lifts and the smoldering look returns, the dark green eyes seeming to darken in such. "We'll be there with you for your grandparents if you wish. How do you think they'll take it?"
     He asks this even as he, having risen before, does not return to his seat but approaches your own.

     "Two days," Peter agrees, having those details, at least, in mind. "I've made arrangements to pick them up at the airport in Cardiff. Well, cheers. Have a pleasant evening." There's the sardonic twinkle to his eyes - he can guess how the evening's going to go, but it's his daughter, so he'd rather not. Yes, scotch. The bottle is cleverly taken along for the ride, and then he's gone to wait for his wife.
     Fiona sighs, watching her father's back until the door closes on it. "It went better than I'd any bloody right to expect," she mutters, then looks up at you - both of you, reddening. There you are, looking at her as if she's dinner. "What?", she demands. "...Of course I want you there."
     Where else would she have you be? She rises from her own seat, falling forward against Davydd with a low sigh, arms around his neck as she clings to him for a moment. "I don't know," Fiona admits. "I didn't know what to expect with daddy. I hope they'll take it as well as he did..."

     "They love you," Davydd murmurs against your temple, pressing his mouth to your skin. Closing his eyes, he kisses your temple again, then your forehead. Grinning, he moves that embrace to your own lips, his eyes opening. "You will need to be more gentle... talk about love," his arms surround you and he starts to sway you in a small dance. "... about how happy you are..."
     "Then tell them," Rhodri says as he also comes to hold you, "... that you have found love with two men, and that we have decided to make vows to one another." With a gentle hand, Rhodri guides your face toward him for a kiss. I love you, he murmurs at your mouth.
     You are dinner. As your mouth is turned to Rhodri, your lips busied by his own, Davydd goes for the soft tenderness of your throat, the side of your neck. "My little rebel," he grins there. Closing his eyes, bronze lashes annoyingly long, his mouth parts at your skin, and the teasing gnaw of his mouth becomes the first, savoring bite occurs. Those curved fangs slip against your skin, and then inside it, piercing.
     "But how can we really explain it," Rhodri whispers at your ear, his mouth enclosing it, suckling your lobe, flicking it with the tip of his tongue as Davydd's tongue heals your wounds. "It is complex, this love of loves, three-headed." His hands begin to undo your blouse, to open you up to the hungry vampire.
     Davydd moans against your skin, the broad swath of his tongue soothing the burn of his bite, and removing all traces of blood. His eyes roll as his mouth wanders. You are pressed in between. "He is hungry," Rhodri whispers. "I could feel it when he first poured the scotch. He wants you more than air," the words are physical as well as audible, the syllables are echoed by his fingers, unhooking your bra, opening you up to the demanding creature known as your other husband.
     Davydd's hands are rough, demanding. They grasp your hips, fabric gathered in his fists as his head dips. You feel the heat of his mouth around a nipple -- his mouth warmed by your blood.
     "Oes," Rhodri whispers with sympathetic intensity. He providing the soundtrack to Davydd's own desire.

     It is a rich love; savory. How could it be otherwise, with her skin so bared, her blood given up as a part of this joining? Fiona moans softly for the touches, the words, the kiss, the bite. She is kissed more than she kisses, her movements gone soft as her cry for the sensation of fangs piercing her skin, her hands going out for balance; touching skin here, cloth there, finding no real purchase, no strength behind the grasp.
     She isn't thinking of gentleness or of her grandparents right now...
     Velvet is easily parted before thieving fingertips. Another bit of sole falls from a fold - previously unseen, now forgotten forever (or until the corgis come through). "Please," fiona whispers, the word followed by a gasp. Her eyes close for a moment, then blink open again, dazed. She is tremulous.
     I need you both. Without you ... I don't know what I'd do. As difficult as it is, the two of you balance me nonetheless ... you help me be at my best. The best I can be ... is in your hands.
     Literally, as it happens. Fiona cries out quietly, back arching as her nipple is taken hold of - oh, that heat. Her face is suffused with crimson, now. And it occurs to her to fight. "Bloody b-bastards," she whispers. "Couldn't you wait until we got upstairs..."

     "Now... what's the fun in that, Rebel Rebel," Rhodri whispers at your ear. His fingers steal your clothes open, revealing you to the marauding mouth of the vampire. He watches as your breasts are suckled as if Life's sustenance depended on it. When one is freed by Davydd's mouth, Rhodri's hand covers it, fingers pinching.
     "The door is unlocked, who knows who could enter. Isn't that what makes it exciting?" Rhodri continues. We like you best...when you are in our hands. his voice presses within you. Suddenly his mouth is on the other side of your neck as Davydd's mouth descends.
     Rhodri grins, "Shhh," he whispers at your ear, his hands lifting away the remnants of your clothing. At least you won't be paraded around the castle naked -- at least... you don't think you will. "You don't want them to hear, do you?" His hands cup your breasts, his palms rolling over your nipples. Strong arms hold you back against him. You feel his own arousal. But this moment is not his, not yet.
     The blood-warmed heat of Davydd's mouth brushes against your sex. Your inner thigh is pierced by his canines, his mouth clamping down to taste you. The quickly made wounds are just as quickly closed and the heat of your blood is echoed in his mouth's sudden kiss against your lower lips.
     "He loves how you taste," Rhodri whispers, tongue flicking at your earlobe once more. "He could live between your thighs, living on nothing more than your sweetness there. It is a wonder he ever leaves..."

     It is more than merely distracting. It is more than merely insane.
     It is life; it is death; it is a little of both. It fragments at her mind, leaving her thoughts fractured, leaving her teetering on the very edge of insanity. Which is where you like her best, isn't it? Gasping little cries are echoed, over and over again, as she squirms just a little bit; trembling, trying to hold still and simply - failing in her endeavor.
     Where one mouth moves and the other lowers, she's just unable even to think. Unable to speak. Fiona moans, and the sound is not so soft, now; not so quiet. Not so - ladylike.
     Wanting people not to hear has so little bearing on things...
     She is made a living banquet, presented not upon a plate, but laid back against one husband whose words are as wicked as the other husband's tongue and fangs. She cries out at the slide of sharp thorns into her inner thigh, eyes rolling back for a moment in her head. There is nothing pliant about her; there is nothing tame about the picture the two of you with her make. She is so distracted - so overwhelmed. But not too overwhelmed to sass...
     "I - I always knew you two only had a brain between you!" With one husband speaking for the other... Fiona's hand swings back, gripping Rhodri's hip so tightly, sliding down to his thigh as her own hips buck just a little. She whimpers again, biting down on her lower lip to try - such forlorn attempt - not to cry out loud.

     Each husband to his own purpose? Each has his own style, and now they conspire against you, those styles. Rhodri's insinuation. Davydd's direct aim. As one mouth suckles strongly on lust-swollen flesh, the other whispers the delight its partner finds. "Silky sweet vanilla bean," Rhodri whisper-sings as Davydd's mouth assails, his tongue tapping that little vanilla bean even as his lips suckle against the flesh, drawing it within his mouth.
     "I taste its smoky tones upon my tongue. Then sweet. Then wild," Rhodri continues, his own tongue echoing Davydd's motions against your ear. "You are the drink of kings." The song ends in a moaned chuckle. He cannot wait forever for his own enjoyment. He sneaks in a thrust of fingers now and then.
     The fangs announce themselves again, Davydd's dinner taken slowly, savoring, his mouth leaving your mons, his tongue leaving your swollen bean to bury at your other thigh. His thicker fingers join Rhodri's within you.

     Her cry is hoarse; she can't stand it. She can't stand not to have it, either. How many times over the centuries has the castle been witness to scenes such as this one? Surely not so very many; and surely never quite with such intent. She squirms, hips rolling in helpless abandon, one arm moving up to slide around Rhodri's neck. "Please..."
     She can't bear to talk. It's as if words hurt her throat; as if she's burning up with fever, drenched in her own fluids. Fiona pouts, lips parting, and she swallows hard. I need you in me. She can't stand this waiting. How dreadful you both are, driving her so mad. Bed or table, what's the difference by this point? A week before her wedding, and she's being ravished by two wild red-headed Welshmen in her future home.
     Such a rough life, isn't it...

Posted by rowan at April 29, 2006 07:33 PM