"So. This is London." Tiernan sets down the black dufflebag he's been carrying over one shoulder, lifting his hand as he straightens in order to brush unruly black hair out of his eyes. "Seems nice, what little I've seen of it so far. Which is to say," his gaze flickers around the front room, "not very much. But I'm prepared to be impressed."
     He turns to look at you, leaning back against an expanse of wall. He's gained a couple of inches over the past couple of years, and he's filled out a bit - his chest is broader than it was, though it'll never be as broad as your own. Muscles which once were wiry are now hard (the effect of helping out on a ship in addition to working at his bench) and there have been no additions to the nine crescent moons that dot his pale skin.
     Mother wasn't amused at this defection... but what could she say? Not very much, and for this time, there have been few distractions. Once every few months, he had to slip away to 'report' to her. You knew of it. He never made it any secret to you. And now, he is beyond her reach.
     You get a brief smile, and he bends, picking up the dufflebag again with a ripple of denim over the lower half of his body, grey cotton t-shirt covering his upper half. "Everything's neat and tidy," Tiernan drawls half-humorously. "Do you suppose they left us mints on our pillow as well?" He's been studying up on this material realm, trying to learn what he can, trying not to be so startled he'll give the game away. But that doesn't change the fact that he's only partially prepared. The dufflebag's swung up to the table, set down with a heavy thunk, and he unzips it, rummaging for a soft cloth. "So - you hungry yet?"

     The loft is ultra modern, his brother spared no expense -- his older brother that is, a king in his own right -- during his mortal sojourn to live comfortably, and well. Quite well in fact. Downstairs, the sounds of traffic and the noise of a very busy bar -- a bar quickly becoming a cash cow for the Family.
     "If they did, I'd avoid eating them," Iowerth drawls, a lazy smile tracing over his lips, lingering on his expression as he sets his own bags down. A moment on the couch and then he lifts them, carrying them down the hall to the bedroom.
     How generous of Gwilym to leave the larger of the three bedrooms to the couple that will be dwelling here. Quite magnanimous of him -- of course, he'll rarely be seen in the loft. "My brother... Rhodri," he adds on, for he does indeed have two brothers. "...is a bit of a neat freak. We'll have to try to ...control ourselves." He laughs at the thought, and its implications.
     "I am a bit. fortunately we don't have to go far. The tavern's downstairs with a full kitchen and room service. On the house. Since we are the house." Iowerth appears again, in his dark tee-shirt and jeans. The seadragons swim on his arms, spiraling, everything twisting upon itself with this one, the midnight marks visible beneath the hems of the short sleeves.
     He comes up behind you, those strong arms sliding around you. "What are you in the mood for?" comes the whisper at your ear. Did you ever think that you and he would last so long? Would live in such a fantastical place as this? And all free from your mother's grasp?
     "We should order for delivery," Iowerth suggests. "And stay in tonight. We have adventures plenty when the sun comes up." he hugs you to him. You've been together for two years as the Otherworld reckons it. On the material realm, it's been a month, maybe two since he last visited the material realm. Summer is in full swing. He rests his head against your own, his arms tightening around you. That grasp says all you need to know about his feelings for you.
     "Gwilym will be gone most nights," he murmurs at your ear again. "And we will be gone most days. I figure we'll pass in the interim moments. That is, until we get our own place. I have a few ideas..."

     The cloth is set aside; he's rummaging in the bag when you come up behind him. He bumps back against you with a grin for your whisper, one strong hand reaching down to your hip for a squeeze as he leans against you. "Well, after two years on a boat with a place for everything and everything in its place, I imagine we can keep things - or put things - in order relatively well," Tiernan murmurs, voice confidingly low. His hand lifts to trace along your sea serpents. "They're not going to be dropping in unexpectedly, are they?"
     Room inspection - oh, that could go badly. He suppresses a wince for the thought, turning instead within your grasp, hands bracing at your waist. "You ask me a question like that - you ask it like that - and you don't already know the answer? I like that idea." Tiernan leans in to graze his lips against your own, a brief taste only. He holds himself in reserve, to tease and pleasure himself and you both at once. "Let's stay in."
     There is that solidity to you, and he likes it; likes it a little too much, he sometimes thinks. Your strength. Your masculinity. The realness of you, no matter how fantastic the worlds in which you and he find yourselves. "Ideas, mm," your lover murmurs, voice held low and laughing in the back of his throat. "I know about your ideas. But go on, spill the beans, hm?" Tiernan is rapidly getting distracted from the business of unpacking. Unpacking can wait. "What are these other ideas?" He leans forward, lips pressed to your collarbone through the thin shirt, inhaling your scent deeply. Yes... you can well imagine where his mind is going, his emotions never far behind where you are concerned.

     "I have the kings' word." Both of them. "No surprise inspections." But that doesn't mean we should become complacent. He smells of ocean, always, of seafoam, salt and moonlight. Moonlight has a smell. subtle but real. His arms tighten, his hands moving up your back and holding you to him.
     Between you, ideas become ideas so quickly...
     "There is an old torpedo boat for sale. It's been turned into a house boat. I've put in an offer on it. We can moor it near the wharfs, Waterloo or Gabriel. Though, Gabriel's Wharf is a bit too close to my father's suite. Are you bored of ships, Tiernan?"
     Iowerth smiles, bending to brush his lips against yours. "I'll call for dinner. I know just the place." Biting at your lips, suckling the sting away, the captain pulls from your hold and heads to the living room and the phone (strange contraption that is). "How does that sound? Proximity to the cafes and taverns, on a ship with a private bar." Iowerth grins, glancing back to you as he picks up the unit. He pauses, speaking English suddenly: "Yeah.. an order for delivery please. Regent at the Strand, Black Jack Davy's. 0-1-1-256-0709. Great. Yes, kabla naan... yellow and red curry. Jasmine rice. Thanks..."
     "Thirty minutes," he notes to you. Thirty minutes is a long time -- so says the slant of his smile and the dancing of his eyebrows. "London agrees with you," Iowerth murmurs, his gaze traveling up and traveling down your form.
     Soon, his hands join his eyes, surrounding you, seeking you. He draws you to him, closing the space between you until there is none.

     "The kings' word," Tiernan retorts quickly, "but what about the queen's?" He knows all about surprise visits by mothers. He has one of his own. Your hands are on his back, and they evoke thoughts and images as surely as if you used magic. He commits his weight to you, feet spreading apart, one thigh insinuating itself between your own.
     "Torpedo boat, mm?" he murmurs to you, a hand hooking in the collar of your shirt. "I think I can adjust to life on the water again. I'm not bored. I can't wait to see what you do with it."
     Blue eyes glint with a hint of challenge, his lips parting for your kiss. Words give way to a muted gasp, and he licks his lips as you pull away. He reaches down, discreetly readjusting himself now, out of need. He listens as you place the order, face a perfect and amiable blank save for those half-lidded eyes. Food? Who cares about food, no matter how exotic? His appetite's moved on.
     "Thirty minutes," Tiernan echoes once the phone's back in its cradle, arms folded now over his chest. He steps towards you as you step towards him, and his arms unfold as you pull him closer. His hands go to the small of your back, rubbing, fingers sliding, stealing their way in at the hem of your jeans. "Does it agree with me? And here I thought to give all the credit to you."

     "I will finalize the arrangements then. Hopefully, we will be in our own place in a few weeks. I think it needs some work. It's been vacant for a while, according to the real estate broker." Iowerth grins as your hands crook and wander, tugging at his clothes and then moving over him. No one paws like the maker of lions.
     "Thirty minutes," Iowerth repeats quietly. "As for mother? She's been.. strangely absent lately, absorbed in her own matters. Hopefully, she'll call first. But...on our house boat... it will hardly matter." He is solid to your touch, your captain. Releasing you, he parts from the kiss and heads into the kitchen to pour two drinks.
     The bar here is as well-stocked as the commercial bar below...
     "We will need to find a new moorage," he glances over his shoulder to you. "It is currently moored less than a mile from where my father lives," the high king...here? "I don't wish to be in a direct line of fire."
     A golden liquid is cupped in the glass that is offered to you. It smells of apples and pears...but with a kick.

     "Hopefully all's well," Tiernan mutters against your ear. Mothers who are too quiet are something to be wary of. His mouth slides free of yours with a low sigh, and he tucks his hands into his pockets as you wander away. There is time. There has been time. It is hard, though, to regain patience. Especially when other things are hard as well. With a soundless laugh, he glances down at himself, then up again to watch you.
     "How about the other side of the city?", he suggests wryly. "Out of direct line of fire. Not out of range, I don't think anywhere's out of your father's range, but ... a little more out of sight and out of mind. Or we could change moorings every so often. A month here, three months there. Wander around the city until we find the landscape we like best."
     He follows you, finally, taking the glass you offer; its contents swirled loosely, inhaled, then tasted. There's a glint, a gleam of appreciation to Tiernan's eyes as he exhales, a sigh of fruit-flavored fumes expressed outwards along his tongue. "Nice," he murmurs approvingly. "As for work to be done ... well, at least there'll be some way for me to earn my keep." Other than in bed.

     Iowerth grins over the cup of pear--apple cider. "You more than earn your keep," he chuckles quietly. A swallow and he sets his glass aside, returning to you, an arm slipping around you as you drink. He has to maintain some contact. "You present an interesting idea, Prince Tiernan," comes the wry drawl. "I think we will do that... moor here, moor there."
     Suddenly, his mouth is at your skin, drawing its way against your neck and ear. "Either way," Iowerth whispers, "... I am moored to you." He grins, arms surrounding you from behind again, squeezing. You and he have both become more solid. You are an armful now -- and he likes it.
     Though he has learned to tame some seas, or at least ride the whirlpool without completely drowning, this sea of emotion and lust that exists between you is one that still catches him off guard. The sneaker waves slap against him and his weight leans against you. "Prince Tiernan," Iowerth whispers, "...you more than earn your keep with me."
     A hand moves to clasp your own. Backing slowly out of the kitchen, he draws you with him, to the living room. A lazy smile quirks up at the corners of his mouth, sparkling in periwinkle eyes. "I think we have fifteen minutes of solitude before the food gets here..."
     Time enough, as you well know...
     "Yes, Rhodri has the best drinks this side of Avalon," he murmurs. Iowerth guides you to the couch. He backs into it, piling onto it and pulling you gently with him -- he'd hate to waste a drop of that alcohol.

     His cup is cradled in one hand, and he leans up against you as your arm comes around him. He reacts visibly as your mouth finds its path to his neck, his ear, blood drawn to the surface in sudden flush. Another swallow is taken - excellent liqueur. But he gets drunker from you.
     "You pulled me in from the first we met," Tiernan tells you, voice lowered, hushed, the grin audible, etched at the very edges of his mouth. He and you have made a habit of discretion. He leans against you as you are behind him, closing his eyes and feeling that familiar and yet overwhelming downwards pull which you have on him. That vise which wraps around his heart (and his balls) and tugs, both painfully and painlessly. Exhilarating. Bottomless.
     "You know I go wherever you lead," Tiernan tells you, even as you take his hand, tug him from the kitchen. The glass is held carefully at his side, blue eyes seeking yours now. That faint grin remains, something intent and intense in his face as he follows. "I will follow you anywhere."
     He promised you that, the first day you met. Fifteen minutes - it's been enough many times. He still likes it, as you know all too well, the urgency, the haste. Hands gripping at skin, mouths pressed with ardor and heat. Bodies tangling together in a hurry before they must be pulled apart.
     But oh, he likes it slow, too. With you, taking your time, his time, it's so good it's almost too much; he can't stand it. And he enjoys not being able to stand it. There is something of that in his eyes, the thought of it as you pull him to you. Thighs spread, knees settling to either side of your waist (he must spread his legs wide indeed, now, to do so) and his glass is cradled against the back edge of the couch as his mouth bends to yours.
     "Prince Iowerth," Tiernan murmurs, lips traveling a path to your ear, "I intend to keep proving myself to you, hm? Your faithful servant, your highness."

     "We have fifteen minutes," Iowerth murmurs as your mouth returns to him. "Can faithfulness truly be proven in so little time?" He smiles against you, his mouth parting. His kiss. His kiss is a maelstrom. There, the Scylla and Charybdis live, pulling your own mouth down.
     His arms tighten around you, as if to offer you no escape. His brother may be worried about your corruption. But what of his? That kiss. That kiss that pulls you in. You will have to learn how to sail, if you expect to ride it out.
     Or do you even care?
     Periwinkle eyes open as his mouth releases its hold on you. The whirlpool of energy lets you breathe again. You have survived. His arms, however, they still hold you securely. You would have to fight to stand on your feet. They squeeze you in a hug. You are so solid. He needs something solid in his life. Perhaps that is what drives this emotional wave. You are solid. You are real. You are here.
     Amid the maelstrom of his kiss, the energy that pulls the two of you together, the waves that have crested and rolled over you both from the beginning -- he stands there in that storm, and he offers his hand to you. It lands gently against your face.
     He does not speak, he does not propel his thoughts to you, but it is in his eyes.
     I am the sea and the dreams that move them. I am the storm and the center of the storm. I need someone to stand with me, against the waves. To swim to me out in the middle of the ocean. When I stretch out my hand in my father's raging challenges, will yours be there to clasp it?
     I reached out my hand, and you were there. I looked to my compass, and it guided me to you. From the center of my tongue to the center of your body.
     Iowerth places his hands upon your face, his thumbs slowly sliding against your skin. Like water falling away, that soft, that gentle. He guides you to his mouth, the kiss rolling like a wave. The sea can also be gentle. The metal ball, that compass rolls against you, finding the latitude and longitude of your tongue, exploring your mouth, knowing it, even as his eyes remain open to you. Those eyes that contain the coral and the sea. He is the sea...
     And the dreams that move them...

     He doesn't try to answer you, with that kiss, that pull of your arms. He makes no effort to resist; no effort to fight. He knows, you see. The only way to come out of these things unscathed is to follow the flow...
     I face my fears...
     And now, my passions...
     His weight is firm against you, a press of muscle and bone wrapped in skin and cotton. It is, to him, a far more exotic cloth than the silks and eathers and velvets that he has habitually known. Blue eyes meet yours squarely, with a sort of patience of the sort learned by outwaiting predators, outwitting them, in mimicry of them.
     "Fifteen minutes isn't enough to prove much. But I can make a start on persuasion."
     Tiernan smiles as your hands cup his face, the smile slowly fading as his eyes close. Lips part for your kiss, and he suckles a moment at your lower lip, teeth scraping as he sings out a breath. He has to force his eyes to open - to meet your gaze, a hand grasping, gripping at your shirt, sliding into your jeans behind to press and drum his fingers against your skin. His other arm wraps around you with sudden urgency, poorly restrained, and you are pulled to him tightly.
     He cannot move the sea, cannot contain it. But to you, he shows his passions, his desire, his need. It is for you.

     The minutes tick by. Time moves here, though slowly, so slowly in comparison. Everything that is opulent there, is strange here. Everything that is simple here, is exotic and opulent there. Both are equally strange, equally opulent, equally violent and corrupt. But on both sides, there his hope, and there are dreams, however small or fevered.
     There are so few times, so few people with whom he can truly let go. You represent both. In your arms, he is simultaneously relaxed and rigid. You are able to get Iowerth to close his eyes, to breathe, to relax, even enjoy. Perhaps that is why his brother worries for him. The crown prince's eyes should never be shut...
     Iowerth's mouth pulls from the kiss, giving his shoulders back to the sofa. Slumping down, he gives you more of his lap. He smiles up at you in that lazy droll way of his. But it is neither lazy, nor is he in this moment laughing at either of you silently, as he is sometime wont to do. No, his gaze is inspecting you, moving over you, seeing you perched on his lap and thighs. His eyebrows lift. You are so beautiful. He thinks he says it. He could have sworn his lips moved. But they didn't. Still, you pull the meaning out of him.
     His hands lift your shirt. Iowerth has to lean up to pull it from you, which he does with a final tug. The cotton drifts to the floor. He does not paw you, he does not throw you over and pin you to the sofa. Iowerth Rhudd Draig simply sits back.
     The corners of his mouth lift up in the start of a smile. The smile does not spread, but it deepens. The eyebrows remain lifted and those eyes spark. You are beautiful, my prince. I just want to look at you. Strong... not simply through your science... but there is the signs of the sea on you. My marks.
     My marks will replace your crescent-scars one night...
     A knock on the door follows, interrupting the crown prince's reverie. "That will be our food, I think," he murmurs. "I like you where you sit, beautiful. So beautiful. It is a shame one of us will have to move." And that smile slants, humored once more. That one of us, you know by now, is you...

     He shifts against your lap, weight committed with a pleasurable friction that has him hard against you. There is not much to his philosophy; his is the philosophy of endurance. Wait for it...
     You look at him, and he smiles down at you from his perch, arms coming up to aid you in your undressing of him. One hand drags absently against his ribs, as if to obscure those marks from your view. He is stoic about them. But you know. You know how he dislikes them; the shame and perhaps even an edge of fear which accompanies the presence of those marks. The proof of his mother's taint.
     But he does not speak of it. Not then; not now. And his hands descend instead to caress your shoulders, pressing against your chest as if to pin you to the back of the couch as he leans forward for another kiss.
     The door knocks. With a sigh, Tiernan slowly begins to uncurl from your lap, rubbing a hand down across the flat of your belly to your groin. He gives you a quick squeeze, then alights to the floor.
     "I'll get it," he drawls, shaking black hair back from his face, pulling a horrible face at you in amusement. He slips a hand into his pocket for some of this mortal money - how curious, that there's no gold to it! And yet it's backed by gold. Strangeness indeed. "Coming," he calls mellifluously towards the door. Shirtless, with a bulge in his jeans, he strolls to the door looking for all the world like an extra in some blue movie. And he just - doesn't care. There's food to be had, and that food represents an interruption of his time with you, now. What does he care what some faceless delivery person thinks?

     The girl is wrapped in saris of silk - red and violet and gold. Her nose is pierced and her skin is the color of mocha. She smells of the food she carries, wearing her sandals and her scarves. She looks like Drusilla, but without Drusilla's danger. She is just the daughter of the family who owns Pashmina's.
     "Your food, sir," her accent for all her dress is purely British. "That will be twelve pound, fifty." She has likely seen all manners of things by now, delivering for the best take-out in town. She smiles but doesn't make too much of it. She just... waits for you to hand her the money.
     Behind you, your captain rises from the sofa and heads to the kitchen to retrieve plates and utensils. He pours another round of drinks, this time sparkling water. Drinking brandy with spicy food is... not wise.
     We will eat in the bedroom. I'll meet you there...
     It is a humored tone that precedes his appearance behind you, moving fully clothed down the hall to the master bedroom with plates tucked beneath his arm, a glass of water in each hand, and utensils in his mouth. Necessity is the mother of invention.

     For a moment, he just stares, caught off guard and unaware. It isn't fair, springing such things on him when he's already in a fevered state. But he shakes it off - externally, at least - and draws the money out while leaning against the doorway. "A brilliant poppy," Tiernan remarks, his own voice lilting with something that could be mistaken for Irish. If one's never heard an Irish accent before. He'll cover himself if it ever becomes necessary by becoming from a small Celtic village somewhere. Meanwhile, he works on Anglicizing his accent.
     "My dinner will be flavoured, m'lady, by the memory of your beauty." Twenty pounds is peeled off - twelve pounds fifty, and a more than merely handsome tip. The notes are held out with a quicksilver grin, the rest of the money slid back into his pocket as he allows his eyes to wander. "My compliments."
     We will have to order this food more often...
     He moves to take the packages of food with quick, careful hands, that faint shadowy gleam of a smile remaining even as he steals the packages away. "I wish you a good evening, hm?" I intend to have an excellent evening. I ... and my captain ...

     Her eyebrows lift. My lady? Brilliant poppy? Englishmen are so strange. But he tips well, and that's all that matters. Of course, this address is the store's largest, and most frequent, customer. They always get the prettiest delivery girls and the best service. "Have a good evening, sir," she says, a trace of Indi on her voice as she gives each package to you. She smiles, all women smile in disarming ways. She says nothing of what sort of evening it will be, but her eyes flick up, dark cinnamon eyes, at the passing of another man.
     So it's like that then...
     "Be careful of the curry tonight," she says as she turns to leave, "... it is particularly spicy." She looks at you -- she approves -- and she moves down the stairs in her sari and silks, a glittering peacock in the grey wilderness.
     The bedroom door is open, waiting for you to come in with your armfuls of food and to close it. He has removed his shoes and his shirt. All that remains are the midnight colored jeans. They seem a cousin to the midnight marks on his skin. Now, his shoulders and biceps are covered in them, seadragons and storms on one; seadragons and globes on his other. His chest is covered with them, those first marks you saw, but they have altered slightly, and two seadragons hang from his nipples downward, dangling, as if they shall start another string of impossible sea-tales on his torso.
     A tall glass of still sparkling water rests on each night table, along with a plate and utensils. Everything done... just so. He is fussy and scientific, your lover. The forks and spoons are crossed upon the plate. Linen napkins are folded, tucked underneath them to create a kind of St. George's Cross.
     "Her name is Lotus when you translate it to English. She is lovely. And very smart. She is the owner's daughter," he explains as you enter. "She goes to Oxford University by day, but helps her parents on the busy nights. My father and brother sing the praises of Pashmina's. And my mother as well. I think you will like it."
     Iowerth gestures you to put the packages down. He will do the serving. He comes up to assist you, in fact. "The curry will be spicy, I hear," he grins. It will be a good companion to the energy between you.

     "Too much caution isn't any fun," Tiernan calls after her, though with a low chuckle as he watches her go. He is cautious. To a point. Only to a point.
     But he turns away, the door closed and locked again. It is a pretty thought for another night. Tonight, he already has his mind set on a different goal : on his heart's desire. Which is why he is following you (as always). This time, to the bedroom.
     The food is set down just inside and to one side of the door, which is then closed - and locked as well. Caution, yes. "She is lovely, yes. I had to look twice." Tiernan grins at you, bringing the packages closer and then allowing you to assist. "And yes, she told me to be careful of it." One dark eyebrow crooks upwards at you, and a hand finds its way to your hip for a moment's caress. He moves off to the side, taking off his shoes and lining them up neatly out of the way.
     "The owner's daughter, hm? And he trusts his customers to keep their hands off his daughter? The food must be good..."

     "Her dress is traditional, but she is modern. And we are her family's best customers. So... her father sends his best. I suppose if she survives serving food to my father, she can likely handle both of us." He pauses. "We should invite her to coffee. Before Gwilym thinks of it," he grins.
     Yes, the first night she delivers food to my brother will be the last night I shall see her saris intact...
     "The food is that good, yes," Iowerth murmurs. And the flavors begin to fill the room as lids are lifted and boxes unpacked. Yellow curries and carrots and potatoes, chicken and beef. The warmth of bread. There is even bread stuffed with baked cherries and cinnamon -- that is saved for later, kept wrapped and warm for now. Two plates are loaded with jasmine rice and yellow curry. A heady aroma for hungry, lustful stomachs.
     "Here," Iowerth offers, holding a piece of curried beef to you with his own fingers, his fingers covered now in the yellow curry and coconut milk.

     "Alright," Tiernan agrees, looking at you. As interesting as he found her for that moment, thoughts of coffee with her are superseded by your presence. It lends spice - as the food does - but it does not overwhelm. "We can set it up. Just make sure to order food from them before your brother does, I suppose. Always assuming," there's that slanting groove of a quick smile, "that your brother has not done so already, hm?"
     The idea of her saris being disarranged is an enticing one. It makes him impatient for you. And here you are, lifting your hands for him; he leans in slowly, an angling of his head towards your hand. His tongue extends out; he laps at your fingers from below what you hold to him, eyes drawing half closed. Lips parted; mouth opened. He takes what you give, lips closing against your skin as he slowly draws his head back.
     You entice him, and he entices you in turn. Blue eyes stare at you as he tugs gently at your fingers, the faintest tease of his teeth. And he pulls back, and away, chewing and then swallowing what you feed him, licking his upper lip and scraping his teeth over his lower lip before he answers you.
     "Delicious," Tiernan murmurs, settling on the edge of the bed, leaning in towards you. His gaze is locked to yours. "Lie down on the bed, your highness. I want to eat."

     "Oes," the crown prince mulls, "before it gets cold. I know." He smiles, removing his fingers, now clean of the curry, from your mouth. They pad beneath your chin, lifting it to receive him as he bends, his body lowering to the bed but over your own. A knee to the surface, bracing, he becomes your ceiling.
     "Are you going to eat sitting on my lap?" Though it is voiced as a question, in truth he is stating what he wishes. Rolling over, his weight (considerable, it is becoming) moves off of you and is given to the bed. Iowerth both reclines and half sits, propped up against the headboard on pillows. He denimed thighs lie wide, relaxed, lording over his space in the bed.
     "I suppose it is possible that Gwilym has already tasted her tandoori," he smirks at the thought. "But I do not think so. I do not know that he tends toward women of substance. He does not like to work for it, he is not interested in dalliance... decadence. Seduction, yes, but... for him... there is another point to all of it. I should think he'd choose a different mark. A little further from home."
     Drusilla, now that is a woman that Gwilym would choose...
     Rolling his red head against the pillow, Iowerth looks at you. He wants to watch you take your station, your perch. He loves to watch you, to watch anything you do. Should you have... coffee with Lotus... he shall watch you do that too. He closes his eyes, maybe he is picturing that. He smiles as he opens them.
     Maybe it's just the curry...
     A hand reaches out, stealing a piece of naan. He eats, he waits like some Roman emperor for his entertainment. Even he has to chuckle at the image. I should not so wallow in my pleasure and enjoyment. But... there are so few times, so few when I may simply be beneath you, watch you, enjoy you, and my supper all at the same time.

     He could undress himself, but he doesn't. Tormenting both you and himself at once in that way that he likes best. Calloused fingertips brush against your skin; first here, then there, rubbing against your sides, your ribs, over your stomach. He enjoys touching you. He enjoys watching you. Even as you pull away.
     "I've come to appreciate dalliance," your lover drawls, even as he picks up the yellow rice. He cradles it to his chest, sliding onto your lap, nudging gently against your chest with one hand as he balances himself; nudging his hips against your own. "But I suppose much has to do with who we dally with, yes? In my case ... I have the benefit of fortune's smile."
     And your own. His dark hair is ruffled, but not his mood. You get a quick flash of those strong white teeth as he grins at you, and he pinches together some of the rice. It's spread slowly and carefully against your midnight blue markings, the bowl set down. Knees brace to either side of your hips, thighs spread wide, so wide, weight committed to you, now. You can take it; of that he's sure. And his mouth descends.
     Not to the food, first; no, to your shoulder, tasting your skin as the finest complement to sweetened rice. His tongue is careful, sliding under the stickiness, as if to slide under your skin, lifting up as he lightly scrapes his teeth against a coiling sea serpent.
     "Delicious," Tiernan murmurs again. One hand fists into the blankets; the other hand, as he straightens, tangles fingers into your hair as he leans in to kiss you. A brief kiss only, stinging with teeth before his tongue dives into your depths, mingling the lingering taste of rice with naan, seeking that compass as if to waylay it, to turn it around so you might no longer find true north.
     But it is a brief kiss for all that. His hand draws away slowly, and he slides down against you; his tongue chasing down straying grains of rice as he laves you with attention. Only when he is quite sure that the last of the rice and its sticky residue are gone does he straighten, lips brushing one of your nipples en route, fingers tweaking the other as he settles his hands on your shoulders, his chest against yours.
     "Hungry?", Tiernan murmurs. "I'm starving like a man who's been kept from food for a week, Prince Iowerth. You really should feed your courtiers better. What if I fainted?" He grins, lips curving as he teases you, a shifting of his hips against yours. "Imagine how that would look. How may I serve you, your highness? Shall I back away, and let you eat in peace?"

     He is a mixture of decadence and practicality. Seldom do those two ever coexist. But as you eat the rice from his skin, he can't help but think to do so with the curry will make a mess of the bed. He catches himself, even as you catch him at his chest, both drawing in a breath and reddening in a slight blush.
     "No, don't do that," he murmurs suddenly. "I should rather eat from your fingertips than from any plate in the world." He pauses, slanting a smile. "If you drop it on my skin, you'll simply have to suck it off. But get it on the sheets..." Tsk-tsk says the look. "And we'll both go hungry."
     Discipline. While his older (quite) might define that differently, this is discipline. To eat and to conduct foreplay all at once. It is a delicate balancing act -- keeping it interesting, stoking hunger, and not making a mess of the bed all at once.
     "But," Iowerth continues, "I don't want to see you starve. Come," crooking his finger, he motions you to bend as his fingers retrieve another selection of the curried beef for you. "You will need your strength later. I can't have my one and only courtier giving way so easily." Periwinkle scatters in the wink. "And... I should hope that my courtier would wish his prince to be strong. No, we should not starve."
     His free hand moves against your thigh, then between his own, not to stoke what is already starting but merely to unbutton the tough cloth and allow some breathing room. It will take hours to eat dinner at this rate. He chuckles at the thought, holding it in his throat like a soft growl.
     "We will go see our new ship tomorrow," Iowerth murmurs, another bit of beef taken for you, offered to your lips. "We will see if it is sea worthy, sail it on The Thames. I may fit it such that we could sail to another city, should we wish. Eventually. I have you with me," he says softly, suddenly changing topics. "I cannot tell you what it means to me that you are here. In London. With me. Perched on my lap like a treasure. I want to have you... look at you... hold you... all at once. Sometimes, I do not know what to do first, Tiernan."

     He grins at you again, kissing your shoulder before he turns his head to take the curry from your fingers. And your fingers are kissed; adored, before he plucks the meat away, tongue flickering over your fingers to cleanse them of sauce. "And yet where my prince commands, I can do nothing but give way, can I?" Tiernan murmurs it to you. He is having fun with this. Teasing you. Teasing himself.
     He denies himself of what he really wants - and when he finally gets it, it will be cataclysmic in scope.
     He reaches for a piece of carrot, holding it to your lips as he chews on the meat; swallows. "I want to see the new ship," Tiernan says simply. "If it needs work, we'll put it right between us. I'm good with my hands, still." He squeezes your hip as if to lend double meaning to that. "I'd like to see what you've picked out."
     You change topics, and he reddens a bit, a flush of colour spreading in his face; and for a moment, his gaze drifts down to your chest. To the blue serpents that wind and coil there. "...You have me," Tiernan says simply. "I ... do not know how to say it. I'm bad with words. Not like you." He smiles. No, not like you, with your erudition, your study of words. I am better with my hands, indeed. Slowly, he picks up a piece of naan, tearing off a bit between his fingers and putting the main of it back.
     "I ... needed to get away from my mother," he murmurs to you, confides in you. "And now that I am away ... now that this immediacy, this urgency is gone ... I'm comfortable for perhaps the first time in my life. Not having to worry that a misstep is going to end up with another mark on my skin any time too soon. I ... want to be here, though. With you. It hasn't changed."
     He rearranges his weight, pressing down on you more heavily for a moment, sitting up. No. It hasn't changed. The evidence of it is before your eyes; in his trousers. "I like to look at you," Tiernan says softly, holding up the bit of naan to your lips. "I like to feel you. Having you... like this. Being had by you. It - overwhelms me, still. Makes me dizzy; my head is spinning. All other appetites fall away before this pull you have on me, Io. I just ... I don't want to fight it. You know?"

     Sometimes I worry that you, with your good heart, have stepped from one dark world to a whirlpool of darkness. But I will be there in that vortex. Do not let go of my hand.
     He offers you beef, you give him bread. The stuff of life. His mouth moves against your fingers, lingering there even as yours do him. Moments of silence pass as you tend to one another, the truth hovering in the air between you where it was last spoken.
     It is true...
     I do love you...
     Sitting up, the air tight with sudden intensity, Iowerth closes his mouth over yours. You and he make a curried tangle, his hands going beneath your rear, cupping you to him as his body begins to move under you, those undulations that mimic the rise and fall of the seas, the rise and fall of bodies in a bed. But the clothing reduces it to pantomime only.
     With a great twist, he rolls you onto the bed, his weight coming onto you. "I love you," he says. Fearful of it, fearless in the face of it all at once. Sitting up on his knees, back on his haunches, his hands go to your jeans, unfastening them quickly, roughly. So that you may see him, his need, and feel him, his need in each tug.
     "Tiernan, even in that Otherworld of ours, when I spoke of love, I do not know that I understood it when I first said it. But here... being here with you... in this world... having you with me, not having to worry about the politics. With that ...out of our bed... I just... I have to keep you," he smiles through his intensity.
     "In my arms..."
     "In my bed..."
     "In my court, for whatever that shall be..."
     As long as we exist, in whatever world holds us...
     That he does not say. He cannot say it yet, but it thunders through him. Tugging off your pants, sitting back to pull them free from your ankles, Iowerth returns to you. He straddles your midsection, his own pants' fastenings there for you to undo. You to claim and tug. It's a weird way to exchange first lover's vows, but for the two of you... fitting.
     "We will put it right between us," Iowerth whispers. And by that he means more than the ship...

     He does not know it, but he is of this world - not of that other. It is the first time since he was mere months old that he has been here, taken as he was from his true parents to his mother's court. The only world he has ever known has been of darkness and dangers, of forbidden, perhaps even blasphemous desires, lusts and pleasures. He did not come out unscathed - on the outside or the in.
     But you ...
     You opened his eyes to the possibility of other worlds, other ways. Something present for him other than those dark and corrupt paths. His kiss is artful, talented, with the skill of what has gone between you and he; those first kisses laid upon him by a fairy lover long since stripped from memory by your reality.
     There is such weight between you and he...
     Suddenly, positions are reversed. You are on him, you are speaking; words which still strike to his heart and make it lurch fearfully, as he has never felt any ship lurch. His hands fall to either side of his head, and he propels his hips up eagerly. He does not mind that tug. He allows - endures - enjoys the proof of your need, even as he listens with slightly dazed expression to you speak.
     "Your voice goes right through me," Tiernan whispers, hands coming forward to begin tugging your denim coverings open. "I love you. Meeting you shattered my world open... but you were there with proof of another way. That other way is why I follow you. Why I would do anything for you."
     He is faithful, yes. However dark and insinuating his ways sometimes may be; beneath it, there is that firm determination, unwavering of purpose. As he is now, fingers grasping denim and dragging it down slowly over your hips until he can grab your ass. He squeezes you, tugs you down as he arches up to kiss your chest, lips pressed over your heart. And he renews his vow.
     "I will follow you anywhere..."
     Your jeans are drawn the rest of the way down. He spreads his thighs under you again, one hand grasping you, wrapping his palm around the proof of your rulership, squeezing as the other drags down fabric. "The world will be yours," Tiernan murmurs. "As much of it as you want. What is your bidding, my prince?"

     He was conceived There, dwelled Here in a womb, born There. His life will always be Back and Forth between the two worlds -- and discovering just how many more there may be. The universe is a garment of many folds. Like the saris of Lotus...
     "What is my bidding?" He bows his head, looking down to you. He smiles to you, sliding against your palm and then settling over you, his hips above your hips, his thighs between your thighs. "To hear you sing for me," he moves over you, his hips curling. Grinning, his next motion brings him pressing between your legs.
     For what sort of captain would he be if he did not have the siren singing for him. You are his siren. You call for him and he cannot help but answer you. His hand moves against him, stoking, stroking until it is oiled. "Do not be quiet," Iowerth grins. "We do not have to hide in here."
     He doesn't even care, suddenly, should his own father from his apartment hear what comes between you. "As you are the world to me," the crown prince murrs, his body shifting in concert, filling you and making the bed shift beneath you. "Then you are the world I wish to be mine."

     "Your bidding," your lover murmurs, coaxing you with a roll of his own hips. His hardness is full, now, erection pressing almost to his own belly. "Sing, your highness? I..."
     His words cut off in a hiss of in-drawn breath as you move. Oh. You mean sing. Colour rushes into his face, his hands wandering against your flesh. Can you see how much he wants it? How much he wants you? This notion is overwhelming in its newness. Not to have to be still, not to silence his cries. Give in to it...
     Don't worry about who might hear...
     His thighs are spread wider still as you shift, and there is a heartfelt groan. "Deus..." Tiernan closes his eyes, then forces them open again, panting. Why is this different from usual? Why is it suddenly so much more - so immediate? So overwhelming. It is more real than it has ever been, somehow.
     He squirms under you, caught on you like a fish on a spear. His hands clutch at you with a renewed sense of urgency. "Take what you want," Tiernan gasps out, head thudding back against the cushions and pillows. One hand lifts, grabs hold of one of the iron rings on that padded headboard. His other hand stays on your skin, groping, caressing as if to make a circuit. "My liege. My love. Take me."
     Anywhere...

     And he did...
     Even here, in this space, even without the magic rooms and food and various accouterment, the waves were here, the sea was between you, and you were caught in the Scylla and Charybdis of the prince's love.
     It is a difficult place to be, even if it is horrendously pleasurable...
     Ocean and shore again, you and he mimicked the rhythm of the world. And did so far from silently. The sound of the bed, of the headboard against the wall, of your form and his form meeting in cymbal-slaps to the other percussion.
     And despite the fervor, he did take his time. The food grew cold in the space of time that he held you, filled you, moved on you and in you. It was, without magic, amazing. There were no spells, no potions to keep your flesh hard and wanting. There was merely bodies, skin, sweat and motion. The very real, the very visceral.
     It grew darker as the time wore on, and now the pub is closed and quiet. There is only the sound of breathing. Even the traffic on The Strand has died down, though there is still the errant sound of a siren now and then, the white noise of cars not unlike that of the ocean. Sometime in the hours passing, the food was finished, the water needed by desperate mouths and hands.
     You lie still in his arms, your back to his chest, his arms around you. Seadragons swirl, swimming in placid pools of energy. Iowerth kisses your shoulder, hugging you to him as his fingers lightly trail. They cannot be still when you are in his arms.
     Iowerth listens to you breathing, your rhythm close to his own. As he rests his head against your neck, he listens also to your heart, the pulse of it. "Are you sleeping," he breathes. "You should be," he smiles. I should be too. But I can't yet.
     "I pledge myself to you," Iowerth whispers, closing his eyes. "I do not know what my future is... but this I know... you will be there..."

     He is curled comfortably here, in your bed. In your arms. It is the only surety, the only safety he has ever known.
     How dangerous, this security...
     You touch him, you kiss him, you whisper such words to him, and with eyes closed, Tiernan smiles. A faint tug, at the corners of his mouth. One hand reaches back with lazy clumsiness, seeking and patting your hip, your thigh.
     "As long as you wish me to remain, your highness," he murmurs, a low drawl, breathlessly released. "Mmm... my contract does not have a specified date of release. As such, I am yours to command for as long as we are true to its terms."
     He knows about fairy contracts. How they may be manipulated, misled, misread, twisted, contorted, and even broken. But never before did he hope so much that a contract might be upheld.
     He might become a lawyer yet, just in order to the better uphold this contract committing himself to you.
     He turns slowly, with a low groan. Ah, how pleasurably sore he is now; every movement is an ache of enjoyable torment. Facing you, his hand lands gently on your cheek, thumb drawing against the corner of your mouth. "I will be here," Tiernan promises. He leans in, touching his lips to yours and then lying there against you, eyes closing again. "By word, by deed, by blood, my prince. I am your man."

     "I will do my best to protect you should the seas go cold and dark," Iowerth whispers, turning his head to kiss your thumb. "To feel you here..." He just shakes his head. He has tried to tell you, tried to express it. He feels as though he has failed in conveying it, the depths of it properly.
     "Apart from my brother, my twin, you are the closest person I have had in my life, the closest confidant," Iowerth's mouth moves lightly against your own. No fire left to stoke, it has all burned away tonight (even stars must rest and regain energy). "You will be in my court, by my side... I will trust your advice. Your place... your place with me is primary. Only my brother is closer to me." And that bond can never be broken.
     "No wife, no queen, no courtesan shall come between us. I promise you now and always, my right hand is yours, Tiernan." That is as close to a proposal that shall ever be made. No simple courtier, you. But the right-hand adviser to the future high king. If you were seducing him, if you were hoping to gain from this, you would have gained far more than your mother could have ever dreamed.
     You have his heart, his faith, his pledge and his word and have vaulted, springing from the darkness to a position of influence and power. He knows it as he says it. But he trusts you. He trusts this heart that is beating with his now.
     Iowerth closes his eyes, his mouth trailing over your chin with the haphazard motion of a young man drifting half in and out of sleep. The difference in this world? Here, you and he have a life that can truly be yours. In years, decades to come, this world will become a sanctuary for the political battles of the other. You and he will always be able to escape from one to the next. Side by side.
     Maybe it is just a dream, Iowerth wonders, maybe I am sleeping. But ...why can it not be thus, if we wish it...

Posted by rowan at June 09, 2006 02:39 PM