What happened on the dinner table can't be repeated. There was a certain amount of food displacement, a few broken dishes, most of dinner was in fact wasted. But hungry mouths found other sustenance...
     There are certain benefits to having two lovers -- one can play lookout while the other carries you upstairs. It was a conspiracy of Welshman, the Welsh versus the English. Just like old times. Only this time... the Welsh won.
     The bedroom fared little better than the formal dining room. Hands grasped, mouths clasped, and windows opened to the garden, ostensibly to let in the cool breezes from the garden, let some of the secrets past the glass.
     It was a glorious, inglorious and vainglorious tangle. Them and you; you and them. Two at once, one at each hand -- there was no shortage of attention for you, madam. And the pantomime continued. Rhodri voicing in his far more silver-tongued way the emotions of both, and the hunger, the particular hunger of one.
     That hunger did not abate with the tastings in the dining room. No, indeed. But by the end of the evening's romp, you could not bear any more of that. Yet, the hunger was still roiling. You could tell this by the way the elder moved in you.
     The younger stoking the fires of it all the while...
     It was a most potent combination. Surprisingly potent. Surprisingly surprising. For as three bodies moved together in completing clasps, finding release in triplicate, immortally strong arms grabbed and pinned the other Welshman and a male mouth fell upon a male neck.
     And blood spilled, and so too the final release for both. A moment usually reserved for you, which was suddenly, unexpectedly, surprisingly had without your involvement.
     The drink was long. There was no fighting it from Rhodri's side -- why would he? How could he? Such is the power of the vampire's pleasure. A thrall in death promised, even if Death itself never comes. In the end, as a king's magic slammed into another king's gut, digested, the men parted. Wounds healed, bodies wracked and bed most resolutely still.
     Intoxicated, Davydd fell into bloodied, sweaty sleep. To drink from a king is no small matter. No small matter indeed. Wasn't Mithras a victim of such himself. Oh yes. Oh yes he was, indeed. In dreaming he was plunged, dreams that will haunt him for nights...
     ... For the other king? Sleep came easily enough, but so did wakefulness. And surprise. And laughter. A sore neck is his souvenir. But a warm bath did much to soothe the ache. What fell between them... perhaps that will not be going away so soon.
     Twilight comes, and with it the first signs of waking for the Other King. Davydd's body is in motion first, still naked from the previous night, tangled in the sheets. Silk and damask smooth against his legs, his groin. The magic from the Oak King moves through him still, so easily seen in his hardened condition. His mouth is still bloodied, and he can taste there the residue of magic.
     Eyes closed, Davydd closes them tighter, his tongue slipping out, sliding along his lips. Blood. He suckles his lower lip, pulling from it the remains of the last draught of blood. As he does, his body reacts, twisting in its own torment.
     The mental anguish will follow, to be sure...

     Erotic and disturbing...
     It's an image she isn't going to forget in a hurry. As much because of its uniqueness as anything...
     Its shock value.
     But exhaustion claimed her, and she slept hard. Like the dead, one might say - but with a chance of waking. Not with the dawn; dawn didn't move her. Nor did noon. Around three-ish, let us say, she rose, and went to bathe, and eat; plenty of proteins, plenty of leafy green vegetables. Quiet words were exchanged with her parents (as much as any words with her mother are ever quiet), and in another part of the castle, with her sons as well. She puttered, drifted, went over the multitude of last minute planning, had an enclave with some of the other women of the accumulated clans (what else would a bride-to-be do? and such excellent practice, for a queen). And then? It's back up to bed with her for a nap until sundown.
     And then there is Davydd to be considered. Oh, not then; but the shifting of the great bed makes her stir to wakefulness, and a golden head lifts from its pillow. "Morning, darling," Fiona murmurs, propping herself on an elbow as she looks at you. Languid, with recollections most pleasurable. Sleepy, with exertions most hefty. Sexual and otherwise...

     Rhodri thought it best to... fade into the woodwork, so to speak. He's off with the boys, doing god knows what. Anywhere but be in Davydd's presence when he first wakes. God knows, his father's not the most... shall we say, progressive of men...
     ... It's a good thing, too. Davydd would likely go for the neck again, only this time with his hands...
     A large hand lands on his face, rubbing, sliding off and wiping away the rest of the evidence. Dark green eyes look at you and he goes ten degrees of scarlet. "I shouldn't have brought out the near hundred year old scotch. That stuff does wicked things to me." His mouth cuts a slant. "Makes me wonder if that's what turned William queer for men."
     He shudders suddenly. His hardened length is, however, undaunted. "Fuck," he rattles out, rolling over toward you. Toward you, then against you. Large, tattooed arms snake around you. "Look... it doesn't mean anything. Hunger is hunger," here comes the river of rationalization.
     He says it out loud so you'll echo it back at him. Exactly, darling, it's completely normal to suck on a man's neck and pitch you both into exquisite orgasm. Perfectly normal. Perfectly straight. There's not a queer bone in your handsome, all male, woman-loving body.
     Davydd buries a hand in your hair, pulling your mouth to him, a mouth he immediately covers with his own in a kiss quite nearly savage in its need to prove its virility.

     Any answer she might give is stopped by that kiss. And how should she answer it? She has no real doubts; not really. Not when she's been so thoroughly ravished - being so thoroughly ravished - by you. She moves up to against you, pressing close and then closing her eyes. "Mmm?"
     When she can free her mouth, she runs her tongue over pink lips, then yawns at you, blinking a few times. "You're being silly again," Fiona murmurs, running one small hand down over blue-painted ribs. "My silly Davydd. Scotch didn't turn William queer. Nor did other men. William turned William queer, if anything did. It was just - there already."
     She shrugs, blithe in her unconcern; though that's easy for her to say! And her hand comes to rest, wrapped around your rod of rulership, as they say. "You're not queer. You were turned on, you'd drunk my blood - and you know what that does to you - and you'd been shagging me senseless, both of you. With all that ... energy ... you then went and inflicted your bite on the both of you. I know how it feels for me. I can only imagine how it feels for you. More surprising if you didn't, if you ask me."
     You receive a cupidic smile, and then, another kiss; gentler, this one. Reassuring, despite her edge of amusement. And she rubs up against you, just a little bit. "I'm not going to echo back your own words," Fiona murmurs. "You're not that narcissistic. But if it worries you, then go have a cold shower and think about William in the middle of it. Then think about me. See which one makes you come out, still dripping wet, to find someone to fuck. Only," she adds lightly, again propping herself up and giving you a glimmer-eyed glance of amusement, "if it's William, let me know before the wedding."

     Now, he panics. What if it's already in there?! You can see it in his widening eyes. It's enough to make him roll back, but not enough to slacken him, and now your hand's there and he's caught. "I...I need to go take a shower," he mutters, his body starting to pull away.
     He can still feel it and taste it. It's either that or get sick. Those are the options. And we've all see what his getting sick looks like.
     A hand to his ever-dizzying head, Davydd rolls to the other far side of the bed, sitting up with his feet planting themselves on the cold castle stone. Anything cold would be good right about now.
     "It's not supposed to be that way," he murmurs before launching upwards, rigidity and all, to march to the master bath. The door slams shut.
     So, he's a little upset...

     "Tsk." Fiona sits up, shaking her head as she watches you go, with a little sigh. Oh well. So that probably wasn't the best way to go about it. She runs her fingers through her hair, leaning back against the pillows with a sigh.
     Well...
     She can't really call anyone on this one, can she?
     He'll have to work through this one mostly on his own. Mostly...
     But she'll stay nearby. Just in case. She rises from the bed, moving to pick out something suitably - frilly - to wear. Because there's nothing to make a man feel like a man like ripping off tissue-thin silk and lace from a woman's curves.

     The sound of the water running comes on, full blast. He's going to power wash it off, even if it kills him. There's nothing else, just the sound of the water. Course, it's running so loudly it could cover up self-doubt sobbing...

     Fiona waits - all of fifteen minutes, she waits. Then, with a sigh, she rises and goes to try the doorknob. Locked or unlocked? She'll magic it open if she has to, and she slips in, the door closing behind her as she hops up onto the marble sink top. "Davydd... you aren't gay, okay?"
     Well, that's convincing. Fiona tries again, staring at the shower curtain as if she can see through it. "This isn't going to suddenly change you from being who you are and who you want to be - unless you let it. You like girls. If you weren't married to me, you'd probably be down in the village, now, or back in London, hitting on every waitress and every woman in sight. But I cramp your style in that way - damn monogamy, right? But I know you're not gay. Do you need me to prove it?"

     And then you hear it...
     The dulcet tones of Davydd swearing in Welsh.
     Rwyt ti'n esgys fach pathetic am dyn...
     Hoyw...
     Ffwcin hoyw...
     He shuts up a moment later, rinsing his mouth out with holy water. Shuts up as you come in. "I don't want to talk about it," comes the resolute tone of his voice. Now, you know it's not going to end there. If nothing else, Davydd can't help scaring the shit out of himself and then punishing himself for being afraid. But at least he talks, right?
     He stands in the shower, behind the beveled glass, a hand to the wall and his head buried in the stream of steaming water. "Look, I did what I did and I know what I know. Can you possibly fathom the sheer armies of women that I saw William running around with, bleeding, eating, screwing? And all the while, he was really out for lads. And Edward, too," he growls out.
     It's a conspiracy. There really is a Gay Mafia. We're the Gay Mafia! "I think I'm going to be sick..."

     "Davydd..."
     Fiona sighs, rubbing her face with her palms. "I don't know all there is to know about William. I don't. But from what I know of him, I know that if it comes down to it, he can find a girl attractive, still. There's that," she hesitates on the word, then finally settles on, "potential in him... he just draws everyone into his net and then things either happen or they don't. The smart ones run. Most people aren't that smart."
     She shrugs, watching the movements of the shower curtain. "You're not gay. If it took eight hundred years to happen and the idea makes your skin crawl in revulsion to the point where you want to be sick? Especially if the idea doesn't turn you on - then I'm sorry, darling, but you'll need to find a new reason to whip yourself, because gay isn't in it. Or in you."
     She straightens up, leaning then back against the mirror. "Skin is skin. It's going to feel good no matter who's doing it - I read that once, and I'm pretty sure it's true. The act of arousal itself is not indicative of your preference - after all, a blowjob feels good whether it comes from a nineteen year old girl or a forty year old woman, doesn't it? One might have a face that can stop a clock while the other can be a Peruvian goddess, but it doesn't change how it feels. But you're not in the mood, I suspect, for logic."
     Fiona smiles wryly. "Darling, do you need me to come in there and prove my point...?"

     "Well," he drawls, "...you know what they say. The more you fear a thing, the more likely it's simply self-loathing. And a blowjob would feel the same, wouldn't it? If it were a man's mouth? What's your coming in here going to prove? Peruvian goddess, bullfighter, what's the difference, right? Is that what you're telling me?"
     Okay, so logic has taken a holiday...
     "Skin is skin, right? God, that's what Edward says. Everyone feels the same in the dark, Davydd. Fucking wanker. And it was arousing, that's the fucking problem. I mean, couldn't you tell? If it weren't arousing, do you think I'd be fucking disturbed?"
     He says shit in English as he buries his head in the water again. "So the potential's in me as well, yeah? So, it was there all along, yeah?" He has his own logic. What does he need with yours? "So, what's the difference then between me and Gwilym?" Holy shit, there is none.
     And he just scared himself into a panic all over again...

     "The difference between you and William is that you decided to marry a woman at this stage of life."
     Fiona stares at you through the glass, trying desperately not to laugh. Don't laugh, Fee. He's vulnerable. Exposed. He's being fucking silly, but he'll be upset if you laugh...
     "It's not about what felt good. It's about what you seek out, what you dream about - the good dreams, Davydd, not the bad. I had opportunities to make out with girls, you know, and, eh, the idea doesn't bother me, but neither does it really do anything for me." Fiona stands up, then moves to the edge of the shower, opening the door so you can see her in her pink and white lingerie - and more importantly, so she can see you. "Hell, technically, I have experimented with women - remember the times I've made myself twins? That felt good too, but it was you I was into. Not 'the other woman'. Do you want me to call someone?"

     "It's different for women. Women with women is just ...it doesn't mean the end of life as you know it. It just means four tits." He closes the glass door again. No, more exposure isn't what he wants right now. And he's too distracted for lingerie.
     At your mention of calling someone, the door flies open, steam pouring out and green eyes sparkle in the hot fog. "Fucking hell, no. I don't want to talk to anyone right now. I just want to finish my shower, fucking go shoot someone or start a war or sommat manly activity." Even fishing.
     "Just... you know, I appreciate what you're trying to do... really, but... I just need to be alone... I need to just... not think about it."
     Davydd closes the door again and in silence attempts to drown himself. Of course, since he can't die, it's a bit of an empty gesture...

Posted by rowan at April 30, 2006 08:14 PM