She's draped herself in the thinnest of gauze, pale rose pink and gold and streaks of green that flutter as she walks. Harem pants which shiver, transparent over her thighs on downwards; an open vest without button or zipper or anything else, tailored to cover her by the way it hangs and nothing else. Bells dangle and chime softly for weighted surety, her long blonde hair worn pulled back into a single long braid that's tied at the end with a trailing cord.
     No makeup tonight. Just the outfit - she's in a playful mood, perhaps, in expectation of your arrival - and an order from Pashmina's which was delivered earlier and held waiting until you're there and hungry. Plenty of beer in the refrigerator (for you); plenty of tea above the stove (for her).
     Right now she's got both hands pressed, palms flat, against the small of her back, her eyes closed as she leans back. "Mm," Fiona sighs. "I'd forgotten how early in some of the sensitivities start to hit me. Pregnancy makes me grouchy, I have to say. I won't be able to give myself pedicures much longer!"

     Pink gauze. You may as well be a matador with a red cape, and he the stuck bull for all the reaction that got. You've presented him with quite the dilemma. Keep his hands on you or go for the food. Sitting like a veritable fat sultan, only without the gut, a shirtless Cymri sits cross-legged on the sofa in lounging pants.
     "Grouchy?" he clips in a muffled tone, his mouth full of curry. Davydd sets the plate aside, his hands returning to you. Those large paws go to your back as he chews, his fangs decimating the food. His fingers are strong (well you know it, and dexterous too), they press at the overworked cyotic nerve area. Grinning, swallowing, he then chuckles. "I hadn't noticed." Cue the halo -- it seems to appear after the falling of his last word, flickering on like the second rate hand-me-down that it surely must be.
     The pale pink stuff all but dissolves in his grasp. Davydd growls at your ear. "I love this... it's like having my own little harem." Yes, he loves that very much. The very idea of having his girl dressed as a harem girl. He remembers harem girls. "I have a friend, he was a sultan in Moor Spain. He had a harem. Course, he went nuts one night and ate them all. Hazard of being a bloodsucking sultan. But ...coo... before that?" He tilts his head and grins at you.
     One hand still working at your muscles, your flexible husband bends and shovels in another mouthful. When it comes to women and food, never underestimate the power and flexibility of the Cymri...

     She leans back a little further, a little purr escaping her as you knead her flesh. "Mmmm," Fiona half-laughs it, "and you have the magic fingers for getting rid of some of my grumpiness, Davy. I'd make a very bad harem girl, I think. I've a mind of my own. Here, make room."
     She turns around, nudging at you to lean back so she can drop heavily into your lap, curling up there so that you can still reach the food but she's pressed right up against the breadth of your chest. There's that almost-purr again, and she closes her eyes in contentment. "Darling. Wicked bad man. I do adore you. I hate how much I love you, don't you know?"
     She doesn't sound like she's hating you very much. Fiona gurgles a laugh, nuzzling your chest. "So I had the boys over for dinner the other night. One at a time, mind you. Rhodri told Gwilym, I told Iowerth. They've gotten so big! They're going to break my heart, you know."

     He makes a noise in his chest. You hear it rumble like thunder with your face pressed against it. It is a thoughtful sound. Though, whether he's considering how you feel, how much you love him, how he's going to reach his curry or the boys breaking your heart... hard to say...
     "I have some idea how much you hate how much you love me," he chuckles a little. Eyebrows lift in an arch. Your sword was singing it as you were swinging it. "So the boys came to see you, did they. How are they?" He wonders it quietly, thoughtfully.
     He asks it like he hasn't seen them in years. To be honest, on their timeline, it could have been. It's been months over there in the days here he's spent, getting back into his routines.

     "You break my heart every time you walk into a room," Fiona tells you comfortably, eyes closed as she snuggles in. She presses one fist to her mouth, then exhales slowly. "Brute. You should take me out places more often."
     Her hand opens, trailing slowly against your skin. "I love your body," she says dreamily. "How hard you are. How you're such a man. Even if it makes me want to punch you in the gut. Break your nose. Kick your feet out from under you and land on top of you with my hands around your throat. My heart does this little lurch whenever I see you, and it's so unfair! My warrior king. My big, glorious brute of a man."
     She changes the topic as easily as if she hadn't just been both threatening you and singing your praises. "They're doing well - getting settled in, I think. Iowerth's buying a boat; hardly a shock, that. He and his lieutenant will be fixing it up. Gwilym's ... a bit less focused, right now. More scattered. He was lighthearted enough when he came to dinner, but I can never tell for sure how much of it is an act. I was considering getting them involved with the band, you know. We should be able to sell records based on album covers alone."
     Her hands both open, going up to your shoulders and grabbing on so that she can pull herself up. You receive a kiss on the cheek, and then she's squirming around, trying to climb up off your lap.

     "Now now, I didn't say you could go anywhere," he rumbles, his arms folding around you and holding you in place. His hold swallows you up. "Unless, of course," Davydd grins, "...you have to go piddle. Then...by all means..."
     His arms slacken slightly, letting you push through if you really need to get up. Otherwise, his holds is warm and sure. "Hmm...well... Gwilym's a bit high-strung. Not sure where he gets it," Davydd gruffs with a bit of a smirk. "He'll settle in soon enough. I'll put him to work a bit. But mostly, he needs to try, fail a little, succeed a little, make the usual mistakes, pick himself up."
     Those fiery eyebrows knit together as you mention a 'lieutenant'. I am out of the loop these days. "What lieutenant is this?" he wonders in an earthy Why doesn't anyone tell me anything tone. "He brought someone over with him?"
     That was not part of the bargain...

     You hold her in place, and she flushes with pleasure and belligerence alike. "Brute," Fiona mutters, squirming again and gnawing at one muscled, blue-tinted arm. But she settles back down. "You men are all alike," she tells you huffily. "Thinking you can hold me down. I should piddle on you, it'd serve you right!"
     The gnawing is replaced by nuzzling; she is such a cat tonight. A hand plucks up at your hair, fingers stroking against your scalp as she makes soft noises of enjoyment. "Gwi will do well in the long run, I'm sure. He just expects to set the world on fire and compares himself unfairly to his brother. Not that you'd know anything about unfair comparisons, would you, darling."
     She caresses you with her voice on those words, intimate little daggers as she smiles up at you with eyes half-closed. "Foolish man. Silly dear. My Davy. Who is like no other, mmm..."
     You query, though, and her eyes open a bit further. "You are out of touch," Fiona remarks, matter of fact. "It's not been long by this time, I suppose, but over there it's been a good solid couple of years since it happened. Gwi's been keeping an eye on it, and I've looked into it now as well. Prince Tiernan - he's the son of that rather vulgar little witch queen - Winter Diamond, that kingdom." She curls up again, her cheek to your chest, eyes closed. "Seems to be adjusting fairly well, all things told. He signed a contract with Iowerth."

     "Don't you try to sweet-talk me off the subject," he rumbles. Okay, so it's working a little. He gets distracted momentarily, even forgetting about the curry, and then he shakes his head. "My offer was to Iowerth and Gwilym only. I said nothing about a retinue." He sighs. "It causes unwarranted attention, and you know how I feel about that..."
     He rests his chin on your head, your arms around you still. But not even you in pink gauze can distract him now. "The Winter Diamond. A corrupted court... nice choice. What the fuck is he thinking?" He leans back, tipping his chin and looking at you. As if you know. Maybe you do. "I can't let someone from a corrupted court come here under my auspices. Is he mental?"

     "I fail to see how one young man, provided he wears normal clothes and doesn't throw magic around, qualifies as a retinue. He may be a very talented young man, I grant you," Fiona sounds amused, "but unless he's the ability to multiply single-handed - then he's a retinue and an army of one. And two young men hanging around together aren't going to draw that much attention. Don't jump to conclusions. Find out if he's discreet, first."
     She lifts a hand lazily to tug at your hair again. "Scruff," she murmurs affectionately. "I know how you feel about unwarranted attention, but by the same token, what you just said for Gwi has to apply for Io, doesn't it? He has to fail and succeed and find his own way. This is part of it - for both of them. Don't play favorites; I'll have to bite you."
     You're nuzzled again; she licks your chest, tongue gliding slowly and sinuously against your dragons' scales. "Mm, I do like how you taste," Fiona murmurs. "As for the young man ... as I said, Gwi's been keeping an eye on it, and I've started looking into it as well. So far, if he's corrupt, he's covering it extraordinarily well. I grant you, he's from a corrupt court, but Davy, are you what you're from? My kingdom is about second chances as much as anything else. But if you're so worried, why don't you meet the young man and judge him for yourself? Try not to tear off in a tizzy and put Io and his friend in a tizzy; be nice. I know it's hard for you to do."

     "It's not about being nice," he grumbles, "...it's about honesty...and about discretion. And knowingly allowing a potential corruption. That'll look nice, right next to all of my other wise decisions in the last few hundred years."
     Your tugging of his hair stops a rant midway through theatrics. His eyes had started rolling and, look! His face is flushing. "What's next? Gwilym bringing over whomever? And then what? It's a floodgate I don't want opened by me or by my progeny. And I'm not playing favorites. I'm hard on Io because I have to be. He has to be tougher than his brother, smarter ... if that's even possible... or at least act smarter."
     But... your hand is in his hair, you lick his skin, and he tightens, trying to be stubborn despite the fact that the touches have already mollified him.
     "Alright... I'll meet him. I'll reserve judgement." And no, his look says to you, it will not be easy. "I'll try to reserve judgement," he murmurs. Smirking, Davydd looks at you. "What else is going on that I don't know about? Obviously, there's more going on..."

     "I don't know what you think about Io," Fiona says serenely, "but before you go charging into a conclusion, why don't you meet him and see if our son maybe already has some intelligence and discretion? I realize it's hard to expect," another tug, "since he's our child, but let's see. Maybe our parents had some influence, genetically."
     She slides her arms around your waist, breasts pressing against you through the thin gauzy material. "What else is going on," Fiona muses. "Mmm... you know, I don't know. I got a statement from my accountant if you wanted to look at it; it's on the table. I'm not going broke. I'm working on more material for the band, and being a little frustrated about life. I feel like I need to do something, but I don't know what, right now."
     She pulls herself up again, in order to kiss your lips. "Mm," Fiona murmurs, "my Davy. You big brute of a man. I hate you so much. I love you. Kiss me properly, won't you? What's going on, that you think something's going on?"

     Closing his eyes, he mouths your mouth, plucking at it gently, nuzzling before parting your mouth widely beneath his own. He kisses like a pagan king, a civilized barbarian (but barbaric all the same). It is wild heath (talk about heathen) and rough rocks.
     And then he parts it, looking at you with the upraising of a single eyebrow. "Catullus said it like that. Odi et amo. I hate and I love." He smiles at you, a cockeyed, cockwise smile. "Well... I don't know, you tell me. My son is taking on corrupted stray puppies, the other's off doing goddess knows what. Just makes me wonder what the hell else I've missed in between my business meetings. I feel out of touch."
     But maybe he's starting not to care so much. You catch his eyes drifting downward as he speaks -- as if your eyes are located in your cleavage. "So..." So what was I talking about? I've forgotten. You look like you're wrapped in cotton candy. A finger hooks at that gauzy material, tugging at the neckline playfully.
     "You'll have plenty of time in a few months to write all the songs in the world," Davydd murmurs. "You won't feel like doing much else if last time was any indication. Hopefully... there will only be one this time..." His finger hooks around the material, pulling it down to reveal the full curve and roundness of one breast.
     "Amo et amo," he grins. I love and I love. "Te mammae amo," he chuckles. He loves breasts. Nice. But at least it was in Latin.

Posted by rowan at June 20, 2006 01:33 PM