Heaviness has come to bear, and muscles forged long ago by such steel are each yet poised... though all motion has ceased. Sweat covers him, in beads lit by the nearby fire. As if he were flecked by jewels and flame turned liquid. The smell of salt, and something of a primal ocean, lingering. Thick. Even as he lingers within you. You and he are a tangle of forms, velvet, silk and steel. With a parting of a kiss -- which has commanded the past moments and more -- William twists, bending with a Norman grunt. Twisting, to let gravity do what it may do to free him of his torso's metal casing. Chimes. A thousand soft and muted bells, as metal pools and slides against slick skin. William bends his head and for a moment his world is darkened by the passing over of the chain.
     It all happens quickly -- but you immortal lover... you can feel and hear and see each motion of it. Nothing escapes you so long as you are conscious of it. With a heavy thud and chime, the steel shirt lands upon the makeshift bedding. But the steel yet holds him there below, parted only between his thighs where that one panel was removed. As his thighs resettle, and a half-thrust follows, the armor sounds again. It rang, punctuating every lunge. You were his field of contest. Do you feel rightly trampled, page? Softness follows as William's strong arms surround you, and with his grasp the covering of blue and gold velvet and silk. The Angevin wrap. I love you. His tongue is not yet capable of coherent speech. But a chuckled groan does hang at his throat.

     Roughed upon the field of battle is not so unusual. The trample of hooves, of bodies, struggling to survive, fraught with twists and turns, extreme in self-preservation...Ian's familiar with it all. And in some ways, lovemaking with you is not dissimilar. The extreme emotion put forth, the opening of mind, soul, and self...in ways vulnerable and torturous. But in battle, one seeks to cover exposure. In making love with you, now, Ian yearns to show more and more of himself. For in doing so, he is more and more fulfilled. More knowing of you. More knowing of himself. It brings peace now, a sense of having truly given up all things to you. His weaknesses as well as his strengths are known, and with nothing left to hide, Ian finds comfort and quiet. No fear or shame.
     You know him now, yes? The young man who tried so hard to show himself, but could not. Would not. Stopped by another. It is he that loves your armor, that adores the Knight of old. The page was how he saw his potential devotion, in part, but things kept him at bay. No longer. It is a part and role you accept of him, without revulsion or pity shown. He could not have handled it. But nowadays, he twists and turns under you, not in competition, but in yielding. It is the Commander's field...and when the Commander wishes, ceding is enjoyable. Not something to run from or buck against. Ian's eyes are still closed, his body willowy beneath you and what remains of the armor. Legs and knees can now fold around flesh, embracing your lower back. There is much warmer than the metal below. His arms which ringed your shoulders like a vise, slacken a little with the slowering motions. Supple skin dabbles with rivulets that trickle away and to the cloak beneath, his arms drying only when you wrap the covering around you both. All the while, his mind is but images in place of words, loving ones, needing sensations that only recently clear to vivid.

     So many years. Born upon a battlefield to this life, his struggle was constant. He, like you, afraid to show the vulnerability you already knew was there. To keep the pain he felt from you. And when your resilience met up with his own -- is it any wonder that it took nearly a thousand years for all of the armor to be cast aside? But now, weakness and strength. Fear and Love. Joy and Sorrow. Peace and tumult -- all this passes between you, shared. Known. Unafraid that you shall think less of the Norman when weakness rather than a king's strength was found. Unafraid. Unashamed. There is only Love.
     Warm breath glances against your skin. In the crook of your neck where his lips now part. No blood follows -- merely the warm pull of his mouth. Gentle. Loving. Adoring now, where he had burned and conquered before. Knightly arms pull you against him, the cloak wrapping around you both as he slowly rolls to lie upon his back. The languor of magic settling in. The languor of exertion heightened by additional weight settling upon him. Sweetly. William becomes your bed, his armored legs splaying, relaxing suddenly. Lips part again, and over your skin they wander... wherever he may reach. Moisture lifted to his tongue. You are tasted in this. The words he speaks, finally, are hushed, deep -- and Occitan. "How much I love you," he murmurs. Mouth pulling in a smile, against your skin. Indigo eyes open -- splendor. But they must close again. William exhales deeply and hugs you to him. "So much... " And then he chuckles. Delight. Love. Adoration. Overwhelming.

     "Oh, aye," Ian sighs, letting his weight rest fully on you. Unabashed gravity. He'd melt now, if he could, arms above your head, his legs wide and outside of armor. He won't even repeat your words of love...it is in every thought, motion, and emotion pouring from him. Happy and pleased exhaustion...and wear, too. He squirms a little in the cloak's thickness, making sure he's wrapped thoroughly. And then strangely, "Thought...about a title for yourself..." out of nowhere. He chuckles and lifts his head, letting what hair that does not stick to skin fall between you both. Just enough to see you. "What are they going to call you here?" he whispers, touching bottom lip to yours.

     The earth moves... for you... as he chuckles. The sound more held in his chest than freed from his lips -- and you can feel its every vibration through him. The wave of muscles at his stomach shifting with it. "A title?" William's voice quips softly. And then there is a pause. "Lord Peacock?... ahhh...hmmmm... That Royal Ass?" His eyes have opened, dark blue-violet. Brilliant between the darker lashes. And a raven brow lifts. Such a look. Midway between Seduction and Cockiness. Yet, somehow still endearing. Someone has woken the Norman. God help you all. "What should you like them to call me," William murmurs, lifting to place a kiss upon you. It barely touches, before he must lie back. The royal cloak is close against you both. Warm. Soft. "I should like you to choose it..."

     "No, no," Ian smiles, teeth pulling your bottom lip, "...no...no..." as opposed to earlier's 'yes, yes.' He grins, "It is what they will call you, what the area will think. There must be some tale...it should be natural to you, so that you do not find yourself, or have them, confused..."

     The laughter transforms to a softer sound. A deeper sound. More groan than sigh. William closes his eyes as his lower lip is taken. Tugged upon. You know what that does to him. And it courses through him. How many ways may you know it? By the curling of his fingers against the small of your back. By the reverent look midway between Utmost Pleasure and Agony. By the sudden rise of fire on the blood. The resurrection of his length. By the moment he must take before responding. William smiles, just a slight motion, and as you speak, your own mouth freeing him, his tongue swipes against his bottom lip. "Hmm... I do not know, amours," he murmurs, voice thick and his accent thicker. "I do not know what should be natural to me, other than my own tale...yes? But we cannot use this..." He supposes. He looks to you, a brow lifting. "I do not know what tale to give... that will take time..."

     He grins wickedly, your page. Letting the lip go, he nods, "We have time." He smiles, "Maybe...a Fraser..." A Norman clan creation, "....Ross....." he ponders, "...there are a few natural ones that would make sense. "A Fraser kin from Normandy?" Ian smirks and runs his tongue where his teeth recently were, eyes half-lidding as he watches and listens for a reply.

     Fraser. Beneath the run of your tongue, a grin. Broad and warm -- it begins in the curve of his mouth and lives brilliant in his gaze. Dark but bright. Deep, as the universal sky -- but flecked with stars. William chuckles, the sound held in his chest and in his throat. "Strawberry... the red fruit, succulent... perhaps it is fitting." He pauses, eyes glinting. "Aye... I like it. Think you that this suits me well? Shall I pass for a Fraser lad then?" William exhales, "I shall have to work on the accent a bit. You can give me elocution lessons..." The grin is swiftly reborn from where thought had briefly tempered it.

     His smile turns ribald at the idea of you being known as one of the Fraser lads. Ian inhales and begins to rise, seated straddle. Arms press at your chest, the drawing upwards slow and heavy -- you will know he's upon you. "I like it," he nods, letting what dry strands of blonde that wisp around his face fall forward. "Aye," slips syrupy from his lips as Ian's eyes smolder in the direction of the fire. "Will Fraser of the Clan Fraser?" he muses a moment at the flames, "William Fraser, Marquis...of Aix-en-Mirellese?" He always did like that Angevin town. "Who would know?" Ian then posits, eyes back to you...and your remarkable chest.

     You know what titles do for him. You may as well be whispering decadence to him, of ways to touch you, for all his reaction. Dark eyes feed upon you as you rise, as you straddle him. The natural cadence of his breaths deepen, and the broad chest expands at it. Golden hair there, like flecked fire, shining beneath your fingers. As William tilts his head slightly, black hair moves forward, edges of the strands lying against his high cheekbones. He could pass for a Scot. Albeit dark Scot. Sensuous mouth curves in the smooth smile that is the end of his grin, and he lifts a brow. "Marquis of Aix-en-Mirellese..." he murmurs. The French, how it sounds from that mouth, from that tongue. And then it slants. "Oui... mais oui, I like that..." His hands lift, even as his gaze lowers. "William Fraser... Marquis of Aix-en-Mirellese... " Trying it on for size. And you. William shifts beneath you, more of a roll beneath you. Rising to your gaze. "The title is free then..." he wonders a moment after.

     Ah, that gets a shrug and an open expression of don't know. "That's...what we need to have looked at," Ian concedes, nodding at you. He swipes his tongue across his drying lips, sighing afterwards. "A bit of research by teams of ours...some cross-checking...and then we can see what paperwork exists or not....to do what we need?" Questions for your approval -- its your next existence. "I don't know...what's your normal process...and how formalized do we need it? If it is just telling the staff a name, that's easy enough. If you want something more complex, then we have to do a few more things." Of course. How many times have you both been through this hurdle.

     "It will take some time... and some planning. But... it shall be easier than Fitzroy..." William half-lifts, his hands surrounding you... holding you balanced, as he sits up. Still holding you upon his lap. His mouth pulls upon your own, suckling a moment with a sigh to follow it. "We will check into the title and move from there. But Fraser it shall be." And at your mouth, he grins again. "No corporations, no fame. Just another of those Fraser lads with some bit of a remaining family title..." Indigo flickers in the following wink, and William curls his hands around you, cupping you to him. "And this pleases you?" He chuckles, brows arching. "Can you see yourself sharing a bed with a Fraser?" A pause. "Or the floor..." And the grin that returns is broad, edged with fangs distended.

     The thought causes Ian to cringe and blush simultaneously....he always did like the Fraser brood. But he's known to be a traitor when it comes to his bed. "No comment," he murmurs diplomatically, taking a lesson, no doubt. Grin grows as his arms snake around you. "I wonder what they'll say about a Ross, aye, a real Ross takin' on a Fraser? In that way? Tsk. Men, even..." he chuckles, leaning in to touch your nose with his own.

     "Ah, can it be worse though... than what it is in truth? A Scot sharing the bed of an Angevin Norman?" Eyes erupt in colors, in inner laughter that moves against the Bond between you. The mouth sensuous slants in its smiling. Ribald, the expression twists. The Wretch. But, sir, he is your wretch. "Treachery, beloved, is horribly sexy... do you not think?" William leans in toward you, nose to your own. A stroke given there, and as his fingers clasp you to him, William turns his head slightly, lips brushing at your cheek. "So Fraser and Ross it is..." he murmurs. "And ... I shall enjoy it... fully..." He inclines his head, tipping it back to look to you. "Lord Strawberry..." William chuckles at this. Yes, he knows the Family Name's etymology, and the history of the family. Well, in brief. It is said the first Fraser came across the Small Sea with William of Normandy, his own great-great grandfather... and headed into Scotland in the 11th Century. "I will... start looking into it tomorrow eve. You and I shall write the song of it together..."

     There's humor, certainly, but Ian does tremble softly at the word. He jokes of it, but the significance of it is not lost upon him. Traitor would be what his clan would call him. He fought and fought for a century and a half...only to become the bedmate of a Norman. A prince, no less. It is the worry of a younger man. He grins, regardless of the twinge that touches him, and nods, "We shall, together. And you are right..." on the name that is, "...what shall you do for cream?"

     There is no shared twinge for this, for Treachery... this sort of treason. Well, while his own family did not invent it... they certainly lifted it to an art, non? When mother could and did sacrifice her own sons, one against the other, and drew French, Normans and Welsh alike in her tapestry of it all. So, non... there is not the same level of it for him. But... there is understanding, and so the humor falls. William chuckles and, like the fruit that shall become his name, he goes ruddy with the implication. How can he answer that? Even as the question crosses his features with a last glimpse of humility and modesty, it flows off his tongue in swift and coiling Gaelic. "That of Ross. I only shall have the best..."

     "Aye," Ian smiles, arms tightening around you, "...and what makes it the best, eh?" the tease wicked. Answer that one, he challenges, grey eyes glinting. Whetstones for sharpening. He'll have you finish the double entendre, even if he has to pull it from you. In the smile, worries fade into the past, ghosts of his own whisping into the dimmed memory of the young man he once was...Of Ross, of clan, of glen, of home / of highland, of heart ere how far we roam... The song filters through his mind and he sighs into the sing-song bounce of nursery rhyme.
     Ian was distant a second, shimmering eyes focusing elsewhere. Then, they return to you, a smile for the anticipated reply.

     "For its sweetness and wildness," William murmurs, his placid expression unaltered. As if he were speaking of the Ross dairies. Indeed. With a balancing hold, he begins to shift you both. To return you to furs and coverlets, and he with you. The grin is spreading smooth, and the dark eyes are full of fire. Lifting, lapping at the blue-violet of irises. Color, electric. Indigo, your sky again. "For the way it lingers on my tongue," he continues softly. A raven brow cocks upward. "And how was that for a Fraser's reply?" He chuckles. "I think the Marquis shall be a cocky peacock... I think there's no way to avoid it, love..."

     He paused a moment for your distance. Wondering. Questions lingering in a whisper against the Bond. But then, as you return, they are gone.
     "Hmm?" Ian blinks, sensing a wondering. Ah. The present. He smirks and nods, "A good reply...though I have to say...I don't know of too many Frasers as peacocks..." All said in the rolling motion. "Hey, Will..." he glances down the two of you, foot tapping at the lower armor you still wear. It too can go away now, a chuckle held at his lips.

     It had become a second skin, its weight forgotten in all that followed, but as your foot gives him a nudge he lifts up and looks. A grin for the armor yet worn. And a momentary flush. He missed the sound of chain chiming. Your ears could not miss it. Nor could you miss the metal kiss against your skin, non? William lifts from you and rolls, his back to the pillows, coverlets and furs again. An exhale leaves him, and he begins working his way out of them. It'll take a moment, and it isn't likely the most graceful sort of image. But there is a beauty to the barbarism, non? "I wonder what my vocation should be. I do not wish to be... known as a ... playboy, you know? I am weary of such a mask... I want a ... new one. A new image." He turns his head, glancing to you. Indigo flickering. "Fresh from University?" A question there. "Ah... maybe a musician. I should like that for a change..."

     "Why the need?" Ian wonders, lighter for the moment...for many reasons. He sighs and puts both hands under his white-blonde mane, a bright shine against the darker furs. "I like that you are simply aristocracy," he smirks, "...you do as you will, when you will. Just...be you."

     Quiet laughter, and a lifted look to you as he turns his head upon its own cushion. William grins in a slant. That suits him and he seems content, even as he wrestles his way out of the remaining armor, woolen and leather. With a sigh, he lies back. "I have not been able to... stretch into my natural aristocracy for quite a while," he murmurs, indigo settling upon you. Then fastening there. The smile is held just at the corners of his mouth. "To be... utterly me. Well, I shall tone down the barbaric tendencies as best as I may... the Frasers were a mannerly lot in comparison to my family.." He winks. Teasing. Well, at least partially. William closes his eyes, the languor settling upon him. "Hmm...Merry Christmas, my love..." And he reaches out with his hand... to draw you to him. Shall he be your pillow then?

     So easily he rolls upon you, shifting from back to shoulder to stomach. "They're a rather well-mannered clan, true," Ian agrees. Pillow you are. "But, again, still...I think," chin at your chest, "...masks...are done for. Just be Prince William." Truer advice not-so-recently spoken. "I'll be...me. And we'll try that for a while. What do you think?" smile radiantly happy.
     "And Happy Yule," Ian adds softly, finger twirling a lock of your hair. "And Felix Annus too." Good and medieval of him.

     A knightly arm coils around you, holding you to him. Turning his head and lifting slightly, he presses his mouth to your forehead. Muscles formed from the wearing of such armor as has covered him this night tense in the lifting. Waves turned to solid stone at his torso. "Felix Annus," William whispers there. Latin coming with a Norman clip. He once was fluent in it, able to rattle it off as well as his Langue d'Oc. Smiling, he settles back again, his arm yet around you. "I think... I shall like this... life free of masks," he whispers. "And I shall enjoy being... As I Am. God help the rest of you..." That last bit held in his throat, a purring tease that transforms to a quiet laugh.

Posted by rowan at December 26, 1999 03:49 PM