Well after seven on a fine, if rainy, London evening. The city is thick with autumn. It clings onto every coat and bag, every shirt and shoe. Moist, dank, slightly musty, but with chimneys going on the old houses to fill the air with the scent of burning wood it's glorious.
     Course, there's none of that lot around here. Instead of burning wood, you've only the aroma of vindaloo...
     There's a jaunty whistle with a heavy-traipsing step, a bit of an old song (from the 1850s) carousing its way up the staircase from the door it shares with Pashmina's. It grows louder, and the steps announce his presence, and suddenly its backed with all sorts of wild flavors, heady spices, and promises of take-out heaven.
     And if you missed all that, there's a loud knock at your door to join the carnival of Davydd ap Owain's arrival.
     If you look out your peep hole (and you bloody will should with a man arriving like that, all noise and no warning), you'll see him there, your bloody red-headed husband, soaked from the rain (he flew and then ran) and wearing the fine wool overcoat, sweater and wool trousers -- all brown and grey. His hair's wet, making it a darker copper than usual, and he's shaking out his umbrella with one hand and holding bags of what must be food in his other.

     She wasn't expecting company, of all things. On a night like tonight? The door to the bedroom's banged open, swinging shut again behind her as she marches on satin-ribboned heels over to the front door, peering with a frown through to peep at you. What's this all about!
     The front door's banged open in its stead, and there you see her, as you've had her; hair chopped short, worn in two little pigtails high on either side of her head and dyed a coppery red, she's like a shorter-haired Pippi Longstocking (only without freckles). She's got on a short white skirt with black silk stockings, a bright sapphire blue tank top tucked in and clinging and a white bolero jacket with black braid at the cuffs. And she purses her pink lipsticked lips at you and blows you a kiss.
     "Whatever you're selling, we don't want any," Fiona tells you vigorously, putting a hand on her hip and reaching up to flip at your collar, or maybe your tie. "What're you doing here, anyway? Get in before you melt. All that water around a wicked old man like you can't be good for things."

     You and your outfits. This'd be Rhodri's idea, I imagine. He doesn't say it, but his mouth cuts a slant to you as he comes in, giving the door a shove with his foot to close behind him. Davydd half shakes his head and the slant of a smile becomes a full grin. "Off fighting bulls? You look like a matador's sister," he lilts out. He kisses you all the same, wet face, wet hair and wet clothes and all.
     "I've brought the dins. I figured," he exhales, still smiling shite, "...if I show up unannounced, roll in and prop my feet up on your furniture expectin' to be fed, you might tell me to fuck off. So...dinner is served. Curry, naan, the usual suspects. And I am wet," Davydd rumbles suddenly. "Right down to my skivvies. It's wicked wet out there, darlin'. Not fit for man nor beast." Pause. Dark green eyes glint as he looks you up and down. "Nor bulls."
     The bags full of food (how many people will be eating anyway?) are handed over to you and he's coming out of his coat. Beneath the charcoal grey coat is a grey-brown sweater flecked with little tiny threads of copper here and there, just enough to shimmer with his hair. The sweater was knitted for him in Welshpool no doubt, that's good Welsh sheep wool there that's being peeled off after the coat.
     Is he going to get down to skin right here in the middle of your living room?
     Dragons appear, writhing and coiling over his arms, shoulders and chest in their various hues of blues. Davydd waggles his eyebrows at you as his hands go to his belt. He shifts side to side, his feet wrestling free of his Doc Martens.

     "In these heels? The bull'd catch up with me and then where'd I be?" Fiona angles her face up to kiss you emphatically, a hand going up to your cheek. She steps back then, cheeks going almost as pink as her lipstick as she takes bags from you, cradling them in both arms. "We'll just have to get you out of your wet things, won't we."
     Damnable man. She's looking at you a moment longer, and then away again, the current of energy already rising in the room, for her at least. She trip-trots across to the table, putting things down and sorting them out a bit, peeking over at you from under her fringe of redheaded locks.
     And oh, the view...
     "So." Her voice is a little breathless for a moment, and she reins herself in. "So," Fiona repeats. "What brings you by tonight? Not off wining and dining some other blonde, redhead, blue-head, something?" An eyebrow arches upwards as she purses her lips at you, struggling not to give herself away with a smile. "And what do you want to drink? I've got wine, beer, milk, water, tea... I suck at this happy housewife stuff, don't I? Let's neck."
     But she turns away, not towards you, hastily shuffling into the kitchen to get down some plates. No - not looking. Especially not to see what comes off after the Docs.

     "Actually," Davydd rolls out, "...you make a great house wife." He is grinning, a chuckle sounding as he steps out of the shoes. Of course, had he wanted the process to go faster he'd have just transformed his current wet clothes into the dry clothes they were before the rain started. But what's the fun in that? "You cook my food. Wear lingerie and heels to bed. Have sex without my begging for it. What more's a wife to do?" Fiery eyebrows lift in askance and then do a little wiggling dance.
     A moment passes and he's out of his kit. Pants, shoes, shirt, coat, scarf -- all of it is draped on the back of a chair to air dry (for now). But he's not completely clothed in tattoos only. The blue boxers are as good as a pair of shorts and are dry, thanks to the layers of wool. Tipping his head to the side, Davydd takes a good long look at those heels, and you. "Hmm.... you should walk on my back in those," he rumbles. "Work out the cricks and cracks of an old man." Straightening, his gaze lifting to your face, Davydd winks.
     "So," he echoes after you, his voice trailing your own as he follows you to the kitchen. "What have you been up to in the past few nights? Apart from pining away, you poor old soul, for me, that is." His arms come around you as your reach up for the plates, and he places a kiss on your neck.
     With you back in your element, this whole thing seems illicit. As if you were living moments of temptation from several years ago. "You do have a nice neck," Davydd murmurs after a moment. "What's that perfume...is it new? Did some other man pick it out for you," he gruffly teases.

     "In these heels?" Fiona echoes herself with the retort, and she sighs as your arms come around her, relenting to lean back against you for a moment. "Je t'adore," she murmurs. "You nasty old brute. You've no right to be so tempting."
     And it is a temptation; she can feel it, especially when she is so within your arms. She sets the dishes down on the counter, letting you kiss her neck and then turning in your arms to face you. "I think it'd just poke holes in you," Fiona murmurs, "and we can't have that, can we? You springing a leak isn't any good at all. Mmm..."
     You receive another kiss, a slow one this time, less emphatic and more exploratory. But she pulls away with a sudden jerk. "It isn't perfume, it must be my soap. Or maybe my shampoo. I hadn't put any on just yet - I don't usually, you know, unless I'm having company or going out, and I hadn't quite gotten ready to leave yet." She brings a hand up, raking it through your hair and grabbing a handful and giving it a light tug. "Let me set the table. Or don't you want to eat?"
     Her eyes gleam at you, though, as she asks it; blue and then grey, her lips puckering with the wild urge to laugh bitten back. "Come on, Davy," Fiona says a moment later, clearing her throat. "You're in my way."

     "Somewhere in London a man's being trod upon by heels higher and spikier than that," he cracks. "Fine... I'll wait until later," he returns the kiss and he lets you go -- he is hungry in all senses of the word -- so you can fill the plates. "I want a little bit of everythin'," he notes, arms folding against his chest, his back leaning against the kitchen counter. "And after dinner you can take off your shoes and walk on my back." He laughs at that with a 'Humor Me' twinkle in his eyes.
     Suddenly, he's cocking back his head and giving you a look. "Were you going out? Do you need my phone so you can call in your regrets?" He grins then, nodding toward his coat. "It's over there." His eyes wander here and there and nowhere polite as you prep the plates. Pushing off the counter, he strolls into the living room, past it and into the bedroom.
     But before you scold him for thinking he can have his dinner in bed, he's returning with pillows and two blankets -- the thick duvet from your bed (stuffed with feathers, that) and another comforter. As you put the dinner together, he's tending to the picnic environs, spreading out the blankets (the duvet to be the bottom layer) and tossing down the pillows.
     Davydd lowers himself down with a groan, lying back with his arms spread in a mock crucifixion. Oh the comfort. And the warmth. Covering himself up part way, he settles with his arms folded behind his head and resting on a pillow. It's quite the look. "I got some spiced lamb as well, and potatoes. I definitely want some of that." Once a meat-eater, always a meat-eater...

     "Why, darling, I didn't know you were into that," Fiona retorts coolly, blowing you a kiss as she picks up the plates again. "Should I go purchase a little black whip along with my next little black dress, Davy? And here I thought you didn't want me to turn into that particular kind of raddled old bitch."
     She sails back out to where all the bags have been placed, putting the plates down and then opening up container after container, sniffing interestedly to figure out what's what and which is for who. She twists round, though, as you suddenly head past her. "I hadn't made solid plans - I was just going to go out to dinner and then maybe a club. By myself. But - well, you're here, aren't you?"
     Her look says You certainly are, the twist and pucker of her lips showing how she's fighting another grin at you - especially as you sink into the blankets. "I know what you want some of. Old Man," Fiona says softly. She shakes her head, returning to picking apart the food and dishing it out. "You never did say what you wanted to drink. So why're you here? Just to see me, or are you up to something? What're you up to, dragon-king?"

     He blushes a little but he laughs to cover it up. "I don't want you turning into a raddled old bitch. But what's a whip and some high heels have to do with that? Just because you're armed and...footed," a Davyddism, "...doesn't mean you have to be nasty about it," his words break up into chuckles, syllables scattering in its wake.
     "As for why I'm here... I should have been here over the past three nights," that's a grumble, that is, "...so I'm overdue. I missed you, if you can believe it. And since nighttime is the right time," for making whoopee? "...I decided to drop in. Just to see you," he says, as if that should be an extraordinary occurrence. "It's been a busy week. Next week... there are a few nights I'll have to be out, but I'm hoping to have more than a couple of nights home. There's a good match on next week... Wales vee the All Blacks. Don't want to miss that," comes the teasing rumble.
     He's grinning as he cranes his neck to get a look at you. "Clubbing by yourself. I don't fucking think so," he rattles out suddenly. "In that outfit? So all the men of London can get a peek at your undies and see my wife's what-nots? Ha! You must be mental..."

     "I've missed you, too." Fiona turns towards you again, a plate in either hand as she grins at you, such mischief in that face. "More than a little. More than a lot. I try not to think about it, when you aren't around, but ... well, you don't want to hear me going on about my philosophical girliness."
     She comes over to you, sinking slowly to her knees as she offers you one of the plates. Once it's securely in your grip, she rolls onto her hip, curling up so that her heels are at the edge of the blankets, with no risk of things tearing. "Busy week, mm? Sure you don't want to go to the game live? Where's it playing, here or New Zealand?"
     Fiona sets her plate aside, leaning in to nudge you in the ribs. "Well, you could come with, but I really doubt anyone'd be trying to look at my undies. Or my what-nots," Fiona retorts, smacking your hip. "Try to remember, I'm a mother of three!" But she doesn't look it, and she knows she doesn't look it. She smirks slightly, then picks up her plate again. "Anyway, I'd just tell them I'm married to Gavin Henson."

     He snorts at that. "Gavin Henson. And the game's in New Zealand. Other side of the fucking world. Though I hear it's a lovely island. We should go there sometime." Sometime. That word that contains all the possibility of the future and all the probability of fantasy. For a man as old as he is, Davydd is not exceptionally well-traveled. He's not even moderately well-traveled.
     Davydd gives you a look-over. A mother of three -- as if you could tell. "You barely look the drinking age, let alone a mother of three. Especially out in that kit." That kit as he calls it is hardly maternal. Though, after wearing it in public, one might be get 'maternal' before long. He smirks at the thought.
     He doesn't sit up to join you. He pats his hand on his stomach to indicate where you should sit and he opens his mouth for a forkful of whatever you're having. "Make sure you eat your protein," he rumbles with a slanting smile, his eyebrows wiggling again.
     "I'm sorry," he notes suddenly. "For your having to miss me. Some weeks it will be worse than others. That's the way of it. But there'll be some weeks, I imagine, where you'll be dyin' t' get rid of me." Dark green eyes flicker with warmth in the grin. It's an affectionate thing, suddenly, that smile. "What've I missed? Anything exciting?"

     "I always eat my protein. One way and another." Her smile is sly, if not downright dirty for a moment, and she pulls your plate over as she sits herself on your stomach. Her feet are curled inwards, and carefully she brings a bit of lamb to your mouth, the cubed meat held between two fingers.
     "We should go places. We probably won't, but we should. Oh, well. We'll always have fairy lands, right?" Her eyes and her smile sparkle as she looks at you, mischief living there in sparks. "I'll deal with you being around somehow, Old Man. Maybe if only by shoving you into a closet and locking you in while I throw a party."
     Absently, her other hand pats your thigh as she balances the plate on her knees. "Missed? Hm, let me think. Well, Iowerth seems to be settling in for the winter; he's decided to stay in my kingdom until spring thaw, I think. His boy's back there as well," Fiona tacks on carelessly. "Peter's visiting with his grandfather this weekend. I think Daddy wants Peter to take up his seat in the house, but I've told him not to rush it. I got a missive from Maida - that's my stockbroker - and I'm happy to tell you that I am now officially rich."

     "Fantastic," Davydd cracks. "I'm now officially unemployed as to better enjoy my wife's wealth." He laughs, your seat jostling slightly, and he swallows the lamb after a few quick and decimating chews. "Io and I speak from time to time. I had to get him to stop writing me letters. The boy just has to put pen to paper, but paper can be followed. I'd just as soon as not have someone reading my mail. But, good... he needs to relax. The spring changes everything. There'll be a new king. I'll again be a king of nothing," he chuckles, "... and living off the well wishes and hard work of my family. As it was meant to be," he waxes on, eyebrows opening outward and eyes widening a touch.
     "And I can understand your father's excitement. Course, being able to walk, control bodily functions or speak clearly's never been a requirement to holding peerage." He cackles at that, and your seat wiggles in his laughter. Riot! His eyes get teary even -- he's killing him.
     Sitting up, Davydd cradles your bum in his hands as he steals another bite of dinner. It's just an appetizer to the dinner he really wants. That, his hands make plain. As if you couldn't tell by the look on his face, the smokiness of dark green eyes like a forest in fog.
     He doesn't even wait for you to finish. He forgets his manners and nuzzles and mouths your neck without regard of your dining needs. If you didn't have a plate in your hand -- and if he didn't abhor the mess it'd make -- you'd already be on your back...

     She turns, sliding against you as you sit up, laughing with you as you laugh about riches and family. "Io's such a sweet boy," Fiona murmurs. "I hope he'll let himself be happy. I'm glad he didn't hate me too terribly when I had to go snipping things out of Tiernan's mind. I still do feel terrible about that."
     She doesn't sound like she feels terrible. She holds onto the plate, squirming a little as you sit up, as your hand goes down there. A piece of meat is lifted slowly to her own lips, her eyes locking into yours, and she has to force herself - chew, then swallow. "Brute," Fiona murmurs, once her mouth isn't full, voice coming out a little bit breathless again. "You're making me remember all that philosophy I was thinking of on the train from Wales to London. Do you think maybe I should learn how to drive?"

     Did you say something? He might have wondered that outloud for all the subtlety of his expression. Are you done yet? He doesn't bother voicing it or even thinking it aloud to you. He simply takes the plate from your grasp and sets it aside as he rolls you to land on the stolen bedding...
     "Have Rhodri teach you," Davydd whispers, not completely ignoring you as he lays you on your back (how kind of him). "...He's much more patient. Less likely you'll want to kill him before he's through." You dressed this way. He hates to admit it does something for him. He likes the fantasy of coming home and finding an impeccably dressed woman in fashionable pumps with a plate of food -- it's a good fantasy. But so's slumming it in a small apartment over an Indian restaurant with a punk rock girl less than half his apparent age. It's what shouldn't be, but is. And it sparkles in his eyes as he hovers over you for a moment, his eyes taking in the already delightfully disheveled look of it all -- the impromptu bedding, your too-short skirt and stockings and heels.
     "You're making me forget about thinking altogether. Fuck philosophy...Christ, look at this sight instead." And his mouth descends -- not to your mouth, where you might have expected it, but going to your thighs immediately, his mouth warm from the Indian spices where it parts above the line of your stockings. He'll leave those be (and the shoes, god knows), but the skirt and the knickers are done for.
     Davydd well imagines that it seems, smells, tastes, is as it would have been had he just given into the temptation at the beginning. It's an intoxicating thing, living in one's own constructed fantasy..,

     You roll her over, and there is that soft little gasp - the kittenish sound you always tease her for making. "Brute," Fiona murmurs again. "You've got me repeating myself an awful lot tonight." Her fingers trickle through your hair, rubbing against your skin, fingernails scratching lightly. Playfully, still, riding on the energy as it builds. It's always there, isn't it? Between you and her. That anticipatory sense which can't really be entirely ignored.
     Silly her, having mistaken it for antagonism for such a long time...
     She gasps a little as you slide down, looking at her, her eyes watching where your eyes move. "We're not going to do much more talking, are we." It almost makes her laugh, despite her current position. Her hands go to your shoulders, fingernails digging in just a little.
     "I should give you more of a struggle," Fiona whispers. "Make you work for it, like I make Rhodri do. But I just can't, can I? I just melt. Because it's you, Davy. And it's always been you."

     "Rhodri likes to puzzle it out. Me... sod that," he chuckles. "I mean, why does it have to be complicated? Can't we just get naked and roll around, chuckle a bit and moan? Hmm... no, you can keep talking. It's not going to worry me." It won't even distract him, unless you talk about his sons. That'll put him right off. Like cold water. "I like it when you talk," Davydd says, grinning as he lifts his head above your body's horizon.
     Hands unclasp the skirt and drag it down, the stockings and the heels left in place, and you get a good and plentiful view of the Cymri mountain, your painted mate, as his hands make short work of the bolero and top. Just the under-things are left, and he leaves them be for now, liking the picture you make.
     You are learning how he tortures himself. How he builds the hunger from the smallest kernel to a raging landslide. You can even tell, now, when those long teeth of his distend from their sheaths, even before he parts his lips to show them to you. His fingers pad heavily, sliding and pressing their way along your stomach, to your breasts and back, before gathering with sudden strength and tugging your knickers to your thighs, then to your knees. He lifts your legs to remove the silky things up and out of the way altogether, holding your legs lifted with one arm as his mouth descends again.
     "You can talk about my favorite subject," he murmurs between your thighs. "All you want..." Which is either him and how wonderful he is. Or this, and how wonderful it is. Take your pick. He's not choosy.

Posted by rowan at November 07, 2006 09:32 PM