The place is a ruddy mess and it's all he can do to keep himself from getting up and cleaning it...
     The noise from the club below has finally quieted to a low hum. The live music drowned out the thunderous noises coming from the flat above, and in the anonymity created by a Friday night at Davy's (music to cover a multitude of sins) you and the bar's namesake enjoyed the wall by the door, the living room floor, and the guest bedroom's divan...
     Do you reckon it would have been like that, had you and he just followed your impulses the night you met and shagged yourselves silly in this very flat?
     The live music's given way to television, as the last of the Die Hards heads toward the last of the last calls. It'll be an hour or so yet before the bar closes for the night to leave you and Davydd in complete silence. As complete as the silence ever is in this part of London. The white noise of the greater City begins to filter in -- traffic and sirens and drunk pedestrians -- and Davydd lights a cigarette, sending plumes of smoke midair as he sighs, giving his body to the pillows that crowd the headboard.
     He's returned with a bottle of bourbon for him and a glass of water for you, your glass deposited with a lean and press over and on you to put it on your nightstand. The great tattooed form is above the covers, glorious and tacky, wonderful and lewd, shameless (utterly) and without concern -- for his humility or your own. Glancing over to you, Davydd puffs on the cigarette, his eyebrows vaulting skyward.
     So why haven't we done this before tonight?
     Smirking, self-satisfied (the bastard), he leans over toward his nightstand, pouring a glass of bourbon and gloating.

     She is spread out on the bedding, eyes closed, that small, pink, self-satisfied (and satisfied) smile on her face. Her hair is an alien colour against the reds and blacks of the room; she in every way stands out even if she isn't standing up. "Mmm..."
     Yawning, Fiona stretches and then sits up, reaching for the glass to take a swallow. "Thanks, Davy," she yawns. "I was getting a little dehydrated. Wonder why, hm?" She grins at you sidelong, eyes crinkling as her lips pucker with the effort to hold the grin back gone unsuccessful. "Just what I needed."
     Half the water's gone in long, thirsty swallows, and then she turns with her lower half under the covers, upper half visible and now landing on your midriff. Her hands play absentminded arpeggios against your ribs before settling on your chest, chin descending to her daintily crossed wrists. "Mmm. So... good enough to keep you around for a little while longer?"

     That gets a peculiar look. He glances around as if expecting someone to usher him out then gives you a sidelong grin as he surrounds you with an arm. The one he won't need for smoking and drinking, that is. "Yeah... unless you're expecting someone else," he rumbles. Smoke billows his a quiet chuckle and he gives you another look, this one not peculiar at all but simply confident.
     "Was all this some elaborate ploy?" The fingers that belong to the hand whose arm cradles you tickles at your waist a moment as his other handles moving the cigarette out to the side and tapping away the ash. "Where'my going anyway," Davydd murmurs. "But... nah," he exhales, "I suspect you'll have me a while longer. It's been a while since we've been able to be alone. I like it, I admit. No other dick waving around and getting in the way." He laughs suddenly, cigarette shoved back between his lips.
     Sucking on it, the smoke curling from his nostrils, Davydd gives you a wink. Playful though that is, his hand seeks to assure you with a kneading grasp. "You worried about something? Ah, and you're welcome on the drink. Least I could do, wot?"

     "Not expecting anyone else, no." Fiona squirms as you tickle, leaning to gnaw lightly at your chest. "And not a ploy. I am what I am, right?" She nuzzles where she's nibbled, settling again; too relaxed to get too active just yet. "If I want something ... I'm not good at games. I'd tell you. But - what can I say?"
     Her mouth skews downwards at the corners for a moment, although only for a moment; expression wobbling before firming, and she settles her cheek against your skin, eyes closed. "I worry all the time, Davy. I know it's silly, but I can't help it. I worry about all sorts of different things, but one of them - well, I worry I'm going to lose you." She shrugs, trying to smile, then sighing, leaving her eyes closed. "I'm just a girl, you know?"

     "You girls. You worry about the silliest things," he murmurs, his hand coming up to brush against your blue hair. His other hand pulling the cigarette away, and leaving it this time on the ashtray, Davydd bends and deposits a kiss on your forehead. "You're not going to lose me. And lose me to what or whom, anyway? Another woman?"
     He tips your chin up and taps your nose: Look at me. "You have my heart as none have before you and none shall after you, Fiona," he assures. "You're my girl, right? And the mother of my child. You're on a pedestal so high I'd think you'd get nosebleeds from up there." Davydd grins, peering at you. "So don't worry, alright? I know it bothers you... thinking I'm out doing god knows what to god knows who. But it's just business. Not monkey business. Alright?"
     There are women, god knows. He eats when you're not with him, you know that. And there are women of his circle (his kind) whose company he keeps. He never tells you all the ins and outs. What good would it do either of you? But he keeps his faith with you.
     "If you're worried I'm going to fall in with some rich, immortal woman, well don't. I prefer my girls warm and mortal." He laughs at that. "And if I'm sticking to mortal girls, well then baby I'm sticking to you." Davydd pats you with a large, and at this moment gentle, hand. "You're making yourself sick over nothing, I assure you."
     He kisses you with a biting, suckling clasp. "Why do you think I was so beside myself tonight, hmm? If I'd been out dipping the wick in any candle that moves, I'd not have shagged you in the car in the back alley, against the door when we came in, on the floor when we tripped over our clothing, or on the divan." Eyes widen same as his grin. "You're warm and vulnerable," the vampire whispers, "... and you make kittenish squeals when I bite your neck. I'm just a man, you know," he finishes in a whisper, his mouth finding your own again.
     "Just because I get the odd bit of take-out," Davydd murmurs, his mouth playing at and around yours, "...doesn't mean I don't love you. Or that you're not first in my heart..."

     "I don't mind the takeout. I mean - well, I'd mind it if I thought it meant more to you than a bit of food, but." She starts to answer, interrupts herself to contradict and then to explain; her hands lift to your shoulders and she drags herself closer until she's straddling your chest, her arms around your neck as she looks down at you, so terribly serious. "I just... do."
     Her fingers brush through your hair, her smile going wistful around the edges as she bumps her nose to yours, presses into your kiss. "I know the times we can be together are limited. Because I'm mortal, warm or otherwise - because you do have your own life. Don't think I want you to give that up; I don't. It's the way it is, and all we can do is work around it to the best of our ability. But ... I don't want you getting lonely and deciding you'd be better off with someone who's a sunset sort of girl, instead of being like me. Instead of it being me."
     Her chin tips down, her forehead against your lips, and then she looks up again. "I know you love me. And I hope you know how I feel about you, Davy. Ever since I met you, it's been like a rocket with your name on it, and it makes me feel so - so squishy. I just ... get afraid I might lose you, and that's my weakness, you know. Fear of losing you. I try," Fiona admits, "not to let it get too big. But to do that, I have to drag it out of the closet from time to time. So it won't grow in the dark, mushrooming bigger and bigger until it goes pop."

     "I've no interest in sunset girls," he notes for the record. "I've given it a go on several occasions, and it's just not for me. Too much baggage, too many issues. So I've no desire to tip-toe or stomp through those tulips again. Trust me." Both arms come around you to hold you to him. He makes a king-sized bed all on his own.
     "It's okay to voice your worries, I didn't mean that. I'd rather you say somethin' than nothin'. You know, we all have them. God knows I do, right? But you and I... we're square," his hands give you a squeeze. "You're m' girl," he whispers at your ear, "... and there's only one for me."
     His arms squeeze you slightly, his hands clasping here and there. "I have missed the little spark of a mortal girl. She's been trapped under a lot of responsibilities and ethereal trappings and goings on. I'm glad to see you indulging your girlish self. God knows... I've indulged," he rumbles, his rolling voice turning to a chuckle.
     Davydd closes his eyes, never minding his cigarette dwindling down to ash like the fall of some great empire into oblivion, and his hands massage your shoulders and spine. "I have things I have to do, and ways I have to seem, Fiona. So long as you know the difference, oes? Between this fact," his hands pat you, "...and that fiction. For it's all just fiction, you know. Any meetings I might have, any dinners I might attend. The fact is I love you, and you make me crazy in a way I like and need."

     "This is who I am," she retorts, leaning in to kiss you, a sudden smacking kiss, "and it's the only thing I know how to be, Davy. It doesn't seem to matter how old I get, I'm still this... this thing. I can be all motherly with Gwilym and Iowerth and Peter, and god help me, I don't know where it fucking comes from; they ask for advice, or need me to be their mother, and I just do. I just do it. And," she rolls her eyes, "I keep looking for the hidden wires, or the hand up my arse, you know? Is it like that for you too?"
     You squeeze her, and she sighs, nuzzling in against you. "I know you have things to do. Better do it, get it out of the way - do what you need to do. I don't want to make you stop, or anything that sort of thing; I just want you. And it's a compromise game we're all playing, trying to find the best way to make the pieces fit, working on smoothing edges where they need to be smoothed, and you've been brill for a long while, now, Davy, don't think I don't know. I just ... need to make sure, sometimes. That this is still the reality and not the fiction."

     "I guess I've been a father so long I forget to wonder," he quirks an eyebrow then smirks at you. "If there's a hand up my arse, I'll be pissed. I've worked hard in my time on this planet keeping things from entering my arse." He can't help but chortle at that.
     Unlike some of his friends, he'd add. But let's not be crass..
     "I don't like compromising either, but there it is. It is a balance, a bit of a dance, just compromising between you, me and Rhodri. I want you, he wants you, your children want you. It's a wonder you don't feel tugged in a thousand different directions. But I guess it's the same for me, for him," meaning Rhodri. "We just do the best we can, right? Some days we're brilliant; other days we're shite."
     Davydd rolls you over until you're back to the bed and he's settling down on and around you. "You're still the reality," he softly confirms, kissing you in brief, warm moments from your mouth to your chin to your neck. "Are we still trading off nights?" he wonders, his mouth trailing upward, lifting from your neck to buss your lips again before trailing back downward. "I'm not sure I like the nightly trade-off, but then again," he exhales against your skin, and breathes you in, "... I'm not sure what would work best. I'm going to hate to not seeing you no matter what the iteration is."
     His weight lifted up on his arms, his arms on the bed, he looks at you beneath him, blue hair and bare skin and all. "You're such a lovely thing," Davydd says quietly. "Even with your technicolor hair." He grins then. "Ever think to do it pink? It'd match your nipples." As if one coordinated one's hair with one's nipples, like shoes and bags.

     "I don't know what we're doing. I stay out of it, you know," Fiona remarks lazily. "Mostly I let you two figure it out." She smiles as you roll her over, her arms extending upwards to gather you in to her breasts. "I want both of you so much it hurts. If I stop to think about it, I can't breathe, Davy - it scares me. I might be intense or something, but I never felt this way about anyone before, not ever. Love was this foreign country with landmines all at the borders. And then you came along and I was scared, Davy. You scared me worse than anything and anyone I'd ever found in my life."
     Her fingers slide into your hair, tugging a little as she looks across at you, smiling a little. "And I just couldn't stay away. I wanted to and I couldn't. And there were all these crazy, mad, lunatic things happening. My hair, my ears, my life was turning upside down and even my body was betraying me, and you were the only thing in all of it which seemed consistent, constant. If I wanted answers, the only way I was going to get it was through you, so I just - focused all my energy on that and blamed you like hell and tried not to notice how my heart contracted every time you got close enough to touch, every time I could smell your skin. God only knows what my dreams were like. I must've been hell on your nerves; I know I was certainly hell on my own."
     One thigh lifts languorously, wrapping loosely around one of yours. "I might do my hair pink sometime," Fiona says lazily. "I never did do that peppermint-stripe costume for you, did I? So many ideas. So little time. It seems as if for the three of us, time is the one currency we all use. And it's such an irony, don't you think? You'd think time is the one thing we wouldn't be in any danger of running short of."

     He widens his eyes, his mouth cutting a wide, wild smile. "I was the most consistent thing in your life?" Davydd laughs at that. "You poor darlin'. As mad as I was, and I was," he shakes his head. He doesn't like re-tracing the past. That's done with as far as he's concerned. But he listens all the same. "You danced on my last one," he grins, "...that's for certes. But it ended up mostly alright. Not like I planned for it, or you even, but we all know how the plans of mice and men go."
     It is a night for indulgence. As your thigh lifts and wraps around one of his own, he buries his face in the shadows of your neck. And although it's your neck, it's his erogenous zone. He bites without breaking skin, and his soothes the biting scratches with the swath of his tongue.
     "Next time I'm in Powis," he says against your ear, "you... me... Rhodri... we'll come up to some agreeable arrangement. Time is a funny thing. It is both elastic and brittle, long and short, in surplus and in drought. All at the same time. When you're not around, it seems long. When we're together, it seems all too brief for my liking."
     That biting grasp, that clamping of his mouth upon your skin that is tight, rough but undamaging, trails down your throat. "I like pink. Make me happy," he grins against your skin, his dark green eyes glancing upward as he begins to laugh. Bastard.

     There is a purring sound from the back of her throat as you tease at her skin. "Mmm... it was mutual," Fiona murmurs. "I was tense as a cat in an explosives factory with a gas leak. Didn't know what was going on. But I knew somehow - some way - you would be able to fix things. And you did, didn't you? All better now, isn't it?"
     She arches her hips up, bumping you lightly. "Time is the most frustrating and complicated thing. When you're not around, I miss you, Davy. I like it best when I know where both of you are because I can lay my eyes on the both of you at the same time. Keeps me from having to think about juggling, about keeping things fair. I know mother finds it shocking," she smiles, "mostly because of the way you kissed me, making it so noone could have a lick of doubt as to what we get up to ... but we're not just about sex, are we?"
     She lifts her hips again in that rolling bump up against you, the mischief making a gleam appear in her eyes. "Not that I have anything against having sex with you," Fiona coos. "I've just got to figure out what else I'm doing with my life. Any ideas?"

     Uh...
     You lift your hips and expect conversation? You women are all alike, expecting your men to do the impossible. "Hmm? Oh... no... we're not just about sex." Course not, baby. I love you for your mind. "I like watching telly with you as well as shagging." He says it so seriously, it must be true!
     Dark green eyes sparkle in the low light as he grins. "We've more to do than this, to be sure. And we get on with that, right? Reading, watching telly, cooking, having conversations, raising our family. That's who we are and what we do. Just like normal folks. Day in, day out; night in, night out."
     The bed jostles slightly with the faintest motion. Your hips bump and his answer. "Hmm... ideas? About what you should do? What do you want to do? Apart from get out of the house and away from the crying infants." He chuckles, realizing he is your escape. He waggles his eyebrows at that unspoken implication. As if the two of you were sneaking around.
     "I know you like us both about. I don't mind it. I love Rhodri, to be sure. I just get tired of seeing him every night," Davydd quips. "I need a break every once in a while. And I know he does. We get sick of one another if we're constantly underfoot. We just need to do a better job, oes? Of not jerking you around when we're not three to a bed."
     He doesn't comment on your mother, he just grins. She hasn't been able to look him in the eye since.

     "Of course you need a break. Sometimes I need a break from both of you, believe it or not. You may have gotten me into sex, you big brute, but sometimes my girl bits do need a day or three to themselves." Fiona grins at you lazily, reaching up to snag at your hair. "It's natural. I didn't mean it like that, promise."
     Both hands come to frame your face, and she sighs companionably. "I love you," Fiona murmurs, "and I just - like making sure nothing's slipping away when I'm not paying attention, is all. It's just very easy for you to be somewhere else, so when I'm with you ... I like to double-check. Promise me, if a problem comes up - tell me? I'd like at least to take a stab at fixing things before they all go to blazes. But other than that..."
     Your hips answer hers, and get another chorus - and you get an impudent smile. "We still have a couple of hours until dawn, haven't we?"

     "I promise," he says, his face captured. There's nothing else he can do but answer when you hold him like that. It's an attention-getter, to be sure. "I'll say sommat before I boil over, should the occasion arise. We'll worry about that if and when we come to it."
     The matter and the worries seem dealt with for now. When the conversation quiets, you can hear that the club has indeed gone to bed. You've only the traffic left to serenade you.
     "About that... three, I think," Davydd mumbles, his words slow and lilting, distracted already. It doesn't take much, admittedly. The bed creaks a little as his body moves, the pantomime of earlier rhythms, and he bends his head, his mouth feeling out its way across your skin and to your breasts. He has so little sympathy for a mother's tender flesh, about as much sympathy as the son who nuzzles there.
     Men. They're all alike. They make promises quickly, promises that are just as quickly forgotten as soon as breasts come into the picture...
     But can you blame them, really?

     She laughs a little, watching you with that seemingly endless adoration, even if it's in punk colours and punk visage now. "My Davy," Fiona murmurs contentedly, a hand running along your back. "Never happier than when you're on a teat, are you? Runs in the family, it seems."
     I'm your real immortality, though, in some ways. Mother of your children and grandchildren. We couldn't be more wedded together than if an archbishop'd done the job. I'm only English, but through me, you've got a real crack at taking back Wales, you know.
     She bends a little to kiss the top of your head, then settles under you, thigh rubbing against thigh. "I'll go pink for Christmas, maybe. I'll plan something. It'll be a surprise, that's all. For now... mmm, that's nice ... I can't think when you do that..."
     But then, that's the point, isn't it? Wandering words give way to wandering hands and mouths, and with a low chuckle, all issues of importance are put away; in favour of the oldest importance in the world.

Posted by rowan at October 02, 2006 11:37 PM