So many texts... in the library of Chinon it is easy to recall the words of the old Welsh bard...
I have been a written word... and I have been a book...
I've been a bridge that passed above ten rivers and a brook...
And books from Paris now join those of Chinon. Books delivered lately from Scotland now join French bretheren. And the lights in the library remain on all night.
Perhaps he thought of you when he stocked the library with ancient texts. Gifts yet to be given to you, stored in keeping for centuries. Perhaps he knew you would get lost here and that is the reason there are so many comfortable chairs. An eclectic blend of the Old and the New. He must have known. He must have known that one night, one year, one century you would be sitting here. The tables are wide and accomodating. The scotch is old and smooth. He must have come here when the two of you were parted, for it is in this room that so much of you may be known and felt and seen. Knowledge. It has always been the word that defined you best...
And in your... focus... he has left you. He has only occasionally interrupted you. To say hello. To see you smile. To deliver the copies, made of his own hand, to the library or the den or even the bedroom and its vast sitting room -- wherever you were loitering.
Of late, he has carried the smells of the outdoors with him. The rain of Poitiers. The wine of Tours. The leather and silk for one. The fine slacks and a linen shirt for the other. You have sensed the wind in his hair. The energy in his gait. The longing in his gaze. And the growing hunger. And every night... he returns a little later... and a little later...
Occasionally with the scent of blood at his heels...
And so he comes tonight. This night just after midnight. To the sitting room of his chamber where you now work. The loose black trousers, tailored finely. The white linen shirt untucked, and over this a black jacket -- the black he wears holds a sheen. Tonight, he was in Tours again...
The door closes softly, and William's hand draws away, coming at last back to his trouser's pockets. It is a look of casual Beauty and Virility. No less blatant than in the leather... for it is something he carries with him. Independent of vestments. "Ah good... you are up here tonight," he murmurs. And William wears a smile. The truth of it hovers more in dark and star-filled eyes.
"I am," Ian smiles, looking up immediately from his latest find. "You have such a treasure trove," he grins, sitting up from a chair at a table. The comfortable seats are fine, and sometimes, he falls into one, but tonight, a pen is in his hand. He is writing something.
"Here..." he pats, pushing out a chair next to him. "You...were out?" he asks softly, feeling what star-filled eyes show. "How is town, hmm? Raining still?"
The room speaks of him now. If you knew, you anticipated him well. It is his home now, a replacement for the hidden study of Strathfayr. But you know how to reach him. Several books lie open on the table, another pile growing to the left of his chair. Discarded items. To the right, things to examine in detail later.
And all the while, a copy of the lineage you gifted him with, set aside and open, with small marks by names. His working copy.
"Did you get your call from Jezebel?" Ian asks softly, watching you move his direction. Toreador. Always looking for you.
Though no blood has passed his lips... it did strike him in a passing thought. Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. Maybe tomorrow. The thought lives in him, reverberates through him. He is the tightened cord. The sight of you is the strumming hand. It moves through him. It hums through this chamber...
The smile lives in the gaze and spreads to the smile like dawn. But the warmth of dawn will soon heat to noon. It cannot be helped. It cannot be hidden. Though he is dark, he is brilliant. And though he is languid, he comes with fire at his heels. A moment and a moment and a moment. And then he is at your hand. Take me. Pick me up. As if he were the singing sword hoping for the viking touch. But William sits with an exhale, the slanting of a smile. "Hmm... oui... She wanted to show me her latest prize for appraisal... and confirmation." Forgery or no. That is what is asked when things of such age are purchased. "She is proud of her Caravaggio... it is a nice one. It needs some work. I volunteered..." The former forger, now reconstructor. The hand that stole now heals.
He takes up the entire space of the chair. Not just the chair, he takes up the room. Or at least his side of the table. The settling soon becomes a sprawl. Jacket yet on, hands in his pockets. Such a casual stance. It is open. It is for you to study. To see. The partly undone shirt. He is the definition tonight of the best of French style. He looks as if he walked out of a magazine. He even shaved. "How has your reading gone..." comes the languid baritone, the lilting of Provencal. William leans in, smile curving steadily. "Ah... you have found something...?" You are writing. This is slightly new. "And...oui...I went across the river to Tours tonight..."
Though he calls Poitiers His... it is truly Tours that benefits most by his being so nearby. "A few cafes... I found a new bar that I liked. Very nice brandies...interesting people." People-watching. It's a hobby.
"That's good," Ian smiles on all accounts. With you beside him, he turns to pull the copy you made towards you, so you might see his notes. "Yes, yes, I just found this name..." and he tilts a book to you, one discussing a manuscript, "...and I think it is the same person here..." he placing a finger on a name. Argruff. "That is just tonight," he smiles, setting the pen down and twisting in his seat to face you.
"So, you are going to visit to see the Caravaggio?" he wonders, interest there. Have I shown so little in the last weeks? "Will you do the work before we go to meet the Rigel?" Goddess. When is that? Soon! He sighs a little, looking down between your feet and his.
He shakes his head and dark hair drapes forward in the motion. "Non, amours... after we return... I am to call her. She is content to wait for me to attend her Caravaggio." He chuckles suddenly, laughter borne by both voice and gaze. Such brilliance to the eyes. "Which is more than I can say for her patience in any other venue. But..." an exhale is laughter's end and his hand rakes his hair back, last bit of rain drying. "... it is a project for next year. She knows this. He's not going anywhere." Caravaggio that is. "To which she could not but concur. I told her to keep him safe and dry and in a year, I shall give her my estimate." Not only on its value, but the cost to repair the damage of Time...
But Jezebel is discarded quickly, and indigo spills downward to the copy of the lineage you place before him. The smile winds its way slowly across his mouth, and as William leans in, he lifts his gaze again to you. "Do you know how sexy you are when you are in the midst of some great discovery," he murmurs.
Of course...comes the thought... were you in a burlap sack singing Waltzing Matilda you'd be sexy...
The thud of it hits the air. Need. I need you. But he does not demean your offering by more begging on his part. William leans back in his chair, his hands out of his pocket now and preparing a cigarette. The right leg has begun to bounce a bit. "Hmm...it is nearing the appointed day, non? I need to spend some time packing ... I should take some charcoal and a book... it will keep my hands busy..."
"That sounds good and I am sure Jezebel will be glad to know you will make a personal appearance," Ian grins, shaking his head at the notion of being attractive when studious. And upon the blood, interest piqued. "I will bring my watercolors...hmm...maybe not my maps and books, I am thinking..."
What?
"There are so many, and I do not know how I will feel about trying to read or study on the Rigel. Besides, it should be a leisurely, fun trip, yes? So...no hard work for me. Or you," he grins, leaning to place a hand upon your knee. "We will...draw. Look at the stars. Enjoy the sights, yes?" And each other.
The hand on his knee. The universe stops abruptly with your touch. And, too, the bouncing of that leg. Beneath the trousers, the soft cloth of them, there is flesh that turns to stone. Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. It has been a month of such. The cigarette stilled at his mouth, his hands a moment away from creating fire and William holds there...
Breathe, Plantagenet...
And then he smiles. "You should bring them if you wish to bring them. There will be nights, I am sure, when you will wish the boat is larger... more spacious...non?" Quiet laughter resonates in the broad chest, captured in his throat like a purr. Leonine. "But ... I think delving into some art would be... a lovely way to pass the time, oui. I still have something in mind for you..."
You have seen the image twice now...
Of the black painted tendrils and vines that intertwine from your groin to your stomach. The opening blossoms of morning glories, a symbol of Angevin sexuality, parting upon your skin in indigoes and violet. As if made to do so with each exhale against your skin. Even around your ...
There is a physical jerk. A waking of himself from that and William lights this cigarette, closing his eyes as he breathes fire. Dieu. I cannot take such a thing tonight. "Hmm... I am thinking," too much, "... of taking one of the telescopes with us... from the Observation Chamber... such stars there will be..."
And then there was something about telescopes.
Ian smiles, leaning back in his chair, arm extended upon the table, elbow of other propped upon the hard back of his seat. "Telescopes are good," Ian smiles, "...our scientific studies may lend aid to the Rigel's navigation." Despite the electronic GPS and various electronic charts. "We may draw the changing modes of the sky as we go," he muses, grey eyes gently watching you. "How is that? I will learn how to make my own skycharts and color the heavens." A pause and his head cocks to the side, "You will teach me this, yes? How to draw the night sky?" He has lived under her, seen her, spoken to her. But to commit his eye to paper? This is new.
The dark eyes soften. You say such things and it stills the warring blood. At least for a while. The smile is fond and warm as he nods, "It would be my pleasure," comes the voice, as soft as the look. "I am always anxious to show you more. As much as you would like. And I will have Girault send two of the large tomes... thick paper to hold the colors of the sky charts. Ah, and we should bring that book I gave you for Yule. The celestial charges by the Dutchman." Whose name I've forgotten. But you know the one...
For that matter, we should bring all the books I gave you for Yule. Those could come in handy... maybe even tonight...
He exhales the scented smoke. In it.. you can smell the burn of fire, the sweetness of clove, the spice of cinnamon, and the pungency of opium. No, it won't help. But then, nothing does when he is like this. But do you not marvel at my restraint? I am not leaping on you like a rutting stag and demanding you pay attention to me. We are free of that, amours. Even if it is torture.
"I am interrupting," he says suddenly with a grin, and William starts to rise. Half-turning at once, and seeking an ashtray. He never seems to do that first...
"You never interrupt," Ian says plainly. Stay. Or we may go together.
Are you certain...
He holds in his seat a moment more and then he nods. "Alright," he whispers in English. The first English to leave his lips in months. It is heavily inflected, barely sounding like English at all. "Let me get an ashtray... before I burn your book..." And he rises then, a slow uncoiling from his chair. A blink and he is across the room -- just in time to keep the dead ash from falling on the floor. The cigarette is left in the tray beside the sofa, and he shrugs out of his jacket and removes his shoes with a toe-heel manuever. "Where are you in your story, amours?" Still he calls you love -- no more the beautiful young man... nor Ian... nor Aithlen. Amours. Ami. That is what you hear from him. And have since that night in Switzerland, non?
I speak, but I want to moan. Were I to ask. Were I to demand...
Fingers pluck up the cigarette and for the duration of his journey back, the cigarette is held balanced by the grasp of that sensuous mouth, his hands busying themselves by collecting a bottle of brandy and a glass along the way. Sock feet... make no sound upon the stone or rugs or furs...
You aren't demanding. But I have not directly offered.
"Oh, I am just trying to discover a bit of information on each...person...I can..." Ian explains, not turning to see the item he's referenced. "It is a place to begin. In truth, I do not know what I will end up doing with it all." Or about any of it.
"Here..." Ian rises, leaving the more studious seats for the comfortable ones. Let us leave the table. He is already in socked feet, and is silent as he crosses to settle upon the sofa. Hmm. That is more relaxing. A stretch of arms above his head, and they plop onto his lap as he looks about the room from a different perspective.
Is it a matter of giving... a matter of taking... or merely meeting in the middle? Is it out of consideration that I do not demand? Is it out of focus that you do not offer? How did this become political...
Lips part to let the smoke escape, and William turns about, even as you pass him and settle on the sofa. And the bottle of brandy thuds upon the table, a whisper of sound echoed by the setting down of the glass. "Hmm... it is a good thing to do. I used to ask Brother Giraldus about members of the family I did not know. But..." the cigarette is placed in the tray to burn on its own for a moment, "... he mostly told me who was in hell and why..." Indigo eyes slant to you and he winks. "So... it wasn't academic, although it was entertaining. Particularly when I told him it should be against the laws of God that the King of Jerusalem sit in hell... he did not have much... love for my Uncle Raymond..." Well, few did.
William settles upon the sofa, and at once his large form commands it in a sprawl. Lordly and relaxing. An arm is stretched out against the back of it. Open to you. Should you want to lean against him. "It has been very nice being here for a while," William continues upon a breath. He leans in to take up the bottle. It thereafter rests upon one of his spread thighs. "The orchards are full of blooms already... "
"It's been marvelous," Ian whispers, not moving at all. He smiles as you become comfortable, his blonde hair longer of late. He has not seen to cutting it every evening. "The blossoms, the castle, the staff....the scents...the wine...our tower...our bath...and bed..." He winks there, letting his foot rise to nudge yours. Sock against sock. "It has been a fantastic Spring, Will," he assesses for the record, "...all because of You..."
Blonde hair covers his arm as Ian leans his head at his shoulder. A restive posture. He has held on to the images you gave earlier, of twined tendrils. His smile is warm, and he simply sits in the momentary quiet, feeling you as much as he watches.
When will you move, Plantagenet? No, you should not have to. It is I who should come to you and ask your forgiveness. There -- his foot moves again, this time at your calf. The beginnings of an apology.
For once, in all the centuries you have known me, it is not out of stubbornness. Did you not deserve time with the family you never knew? Did you not deserve the time to delve into yourself for a while? Something you have rarely done, my love. So who am I to complain to? There is no one on this earth who would feel sorry that William Plantagenet was not sweating in the sheets.
And so we sit across from one another, quietly speaking. More, quietly watching...
He sits across from you, lording over full one-half of the sofa. The inclination of his head, and he studies you, studying him. The mention of the bed, the nudge of your foot. It makes him smile. He cannot help this. Eyes lower, a downsweep of dark lashes. "Before we leave for the ship," comes the languid pull of his voice, deep and soft. "...we should shake the blossoms from the cherry tree... or perhaps the pear..." It is a tradition. A kind of fertility rite for the vineyards. And do not think he has not thought of it while watching his own workers in the fields.
You feel the surging. It is amazing he can sit still, let alone sit quietly. Such vibrating energy. He does not move.
Not until you kick his calf and he chuckles. "What?" he murmurs. What have you to ask forgiveness for, amours... for not making love to me? Since when has this been a crime? Is it not good for Plantagenet to stew in his own juices now and then?
His interior leg, as far as the sofa goes, shifts a little, giving you a nudge back. "It has been a wonderful spring... but I do not think I can take the credit for it. Not even I am that arrogant..."
"Oh, no?" Ian laughs, never doubting the depths of your...pleasure with yourself. Or him. But that is another tale. Arm along the sofa bends, allowing him to touch his blonde hair.
"So...how does this...shaking the blossoms work?" he asks, hand extending to see if you will share your brandy.
The smirk and the rise of color say you caught him, and William takes a quick survey of his sitting room. I suppose I have no room to talk there, hmm? Soon his eyes return to you. They could not do otherwise. And they fasten there, in a gaze that is as much a touch. Physical. Emotional. He watches your fingers play in the gold and the air around him constricts.
"Come closer, and I will explain," he murmurs. Like a true stealer of hearts and lives. "Or better yet... perhaps I can demonstrate..." At last the brandy is lifted. It leaves his thigh and is offered, tilted, to you. And the vision of him is likewise offered. See what you are doing to me. The linen cannot hope to lie. The narrowing of my eyes in it. How the room has become so very small. Until it feels like a hand constricting its grasp at the root of my...
I really need to think about something else... like... the ceiling...
Indigo flickers, lit with flames that come from thoughts, as he casts his gaze to the ceiling. And his leg, with foot resting upon the floor, begins to bounce again. You once wished to know if I needed you so much... so much that I would take you were you not offered...
I do...
... but love prevents such a taking without asking. I could never do that to you... That, I reserve for mortals...
Demonstrate? Ian's eyes lift up, even as he bends to accept the brandy from you. He sits upright, letting his eyes close as the sweet drink slides so easily down his throat. There.
His grey eyes open and Ian offers you your glass back, closing the distance in the process. Arm at the sofa bends, pushing him forward, and knee touches yours. "We don't have a tree to practice with," he notes, setting snifter on your thigh. "Substitution?"
"If you close your eyes and grab a post of the bed... it could easily become a tree..." Provencal is whispered, like a clandestine arrangement hushed between lovers in a crowded room. Indigo flickers with the lifting of the lashes, the opening of his eyes. A sparkle, like gems cast to a fire. "We could both grab the headboard and think it was a cherry tree, and I can show you how the orchards could be turned to sudden, blossomed white -- as if by sudden snow..."
I cannot wait more... I cannot wait and think such things...
The snifter is taken, a swallow taken. He doesn't even feel it as he sets it aside. And the next moment finds the distance shattered by a kiss. Flavored of fire. Entwining like flame. You feel the tremble there. When was the last time I even kissed you thus...
But it is broken by a breath, a breath that lands near your own mouth as his lips wander over your jaw, to find your neck.
I walked the streets of Tours and Poitiers, watching men move in and out of clubs. One night I pressed a blonde man to the bricks behind a cafe. But he reminded me too much of you. I let him go...
"Do you think your imagination... will be enough...? Or shall we go to the orchards tonight... even in the rain..."
It always comes as a surprise, how you move before your thoughts are manifest. How, without notice, I am suddenly in your embrace, reeling against the clutch of your arms. Even now, it is that way, and I blink.
Hands fold at your arms, Ian's head falling backwards. His throat is still unblemished and perfect, even after a thousand years. Yours, anew, for the taking. Glittering with flecks of gold and white.
"My...imagination...is enough..." he murmurs between barely-parted lips. Where has the time gone? The last weeks? How have I forgotten. Ian's head tripples to rest at your shoulder, his breathing labored. "Practice..." he smiles, "...makes perfect..." And then we may test the orchards themselves.
It will have to be the back of the sofa. I will not make it to the bed. Weeks... nearly a month of wanting uncoils itself. Oh... it is good that I did not get so far with the mortals I held in my grasp. That I refrained, thinking I would have you tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. Or one would not have sufficed. I would have unleashed myself and Anjou and Touraine would have bled for it. So easy would it have been to bring some young man home from Tours with me... called one or more of my valets... and been a glutton. But had I bathed in the blood of thousands, still... I would not have had the one thing I wanted.
You...
Your eyes are closed... or focused on the ceiling. You do not see the linen come off without the careful, seductive unbuttoning. Simply. Off. It was on and now it is on the floor, ruined. A benediction whispered at your throat. My love. My need. My hope. And my plea.
And the kiss comes again, in the surge that cannot help itself. His right hand, taking one of yours, leads to the back of the sofa and with yours twined in it grips it. We will shake it until the sofa falls... the sofa, the victim of the Angevin appetite.
And after... and again...
Low... a quiet rumbling...
Muffled... a sound of metal and cloth...
A fire burns in the hearth, low and fed with spring wood. There is a smell of the orchards here, some sprigs of a cherry tree tossed to the flames. A sacrifice to sun-gods. The light of this fire reflects off of a brass zipper being undone by a large, but fine hand, from the inside. Ruddy brown, the fox fur revealed defines luxury. Plush and thick and warm...
The bags that were a joined gift for the Lord's Birthday had been hooked together during one of the few lulls. From the sofa, which is still lying with its back to the floor, you and your Norman had moved to the fire, and the fox fur sleeping bags drawn up around you. And when the confines of those sleeping bags became both crowded and busy, it seemed very like the beast with two backs...
A cool breeze, even by the fire, moves against the skin -- giving a chilling touch to flesh heated by activity, fur, sweat. And laughter pours out from it, soft and deep. And French, far more luxurious in sound than the fox is in feel, follows.
Worth every penny...
He had paid many thousands of dollars for these little treasures... and it was so worth it...
William rolls, landing against the fur, cushioned from the stone. Allowing you to feel the same cooling breeze. Indigo eyes close and the smile is wide and warm. Dark hair, now inky black.
No one should look that smugly happy.
No one should look that happily bemused.
Ian stares at the ceiling above, fascinated by the still room and the stones above him. They looked different earlier. But no mind.
He inhales and lets the smile creep across his features. Eyes close and he appreciates the cooling breeze. Chilled enough to seem arctic. Ian licks his bottom lip and bends his knee slowly, feeling the ache crawl up his calf to his thigh and on to the small of his back. He twists a little, groaning to find comfort. He eventually does, and lifted knee encourages the swirl of cool air to nether regions.
A useful exercise.
Hand comes to rest on his chest, and Ian's smile becomes a shallow chuckle.
We are too much, amours. We really are... too much...
We deserve one another, you and I...
The smile that claimed the Norman's mouth not only remains but slants. Sinful. Beautiful sin, indeed. And unrepentent. Black hair mingles with red fur, as William turns his head to witness the smile he feels from the chuckle he hears. A downsweep of lashes, and indigo sparkles behind the veil. Your laughter only encourages me...
And he is in motion again. Slow, but soon. Half-rolling, his mouth brushes at your shoulder. Parting, tasting. I love you. I thoroughly enjoy you. Laughter pulls from his throat again and echoes against your skin. At the crook of your neck, William buries his face. A teasing touch of vipers there...
"Hmm," he murmurs against your skin, "... tomorrow... we should try it in the orchards... and see how many trees we left standing, mais oui?"
Ian bristles at the familiar pull at his throat, chuckling a little lounder for the reminiscence. But the fur and sweat traps him in his spot, and all he can do is squirm in amorous protest.
"I do not want grass in my hair," he declares, grey eyes blinking and lips thinning in distress. "Grass stains are the worst," he smirks, nudging you away. Enough of that!
"What is a little grass," mulls the Provencal, syllables flecked with fire. A swirl of such fire against your skin -- the lilt of his tongue against your skin. But he draws away after the nudge, rolling back. Returning to a recline upon and surrounded by the furs. "Hmmm... where is your sense of adventure, amours..." The grin slants again and William closes his eyes.
A stretch, a pull of previously tightened muscles... relaxation begins to tide, following the surge of energy oceanic. Hands rest upon the broad chest, as again William turns his head to you. "We leave soon for Marsielles," comes the languid baritone, his voice a hush. "We will trade in our orchards for a rocking boat..."
A smirk pulls and Ian nods. "I hope you do not get seasick anymore," he teases, opening his eyes and looking over. As if. He laughs a little and allows his hands to rest beneath his head. "I do hope you enjoy your holiday," Ian murmurs, "...I don't know how long I can bear to be in a rocky yacht..."
"Well... the last time I was on a boat... I almost got seasick." A pause. "I almost burned up an turned to ash, what a mess..." I had forgotten that. "But hopefully this will go better, oui? Than that casino boat in New Port." The laughter is sudden. What a mess that was. And you in Scotland. You missed all the fun, amours. "Mon Dieu, but that was an awful night," William murmurs, laughter tugging at his words, elongating syllables already languid. "I was blinded for a little while... by some lightning..."
He shakes his head. "I didn't even win a hand of blackjack!"
For a time he is quiet. For that time, he rolls over upon his side again. But this time, he does not cover you. His eyes, however, do not leave you. Dark, they are as physical in their touch as the brush of a hand. "We will dock often, I am sure. We should stop in Genoa... I have not been there in centuries..." Lifting, William rests his head upon the heel of his hand... his elbow propped up on the furs. "Where would you like to stop along the way...?"
"I hadn't thought of it really," Ian ponders, looking to the ceiling again. "Genoa. Venice...I have not been there in a while. Trieste...lovely pit that it is," he smirks. Shifting, his hair rustles against his cascaded hands.
"Tunis. Cairo..." Ian nods, "...oh...Cairo. Istanbul...hmm...shall we pass the Dardanelles and into the Black Sea? I'm sure Russia would be lovely..."
"Cairo..." Held upon the tongue like the sweetest Mediterranean fig. Memories stirred upon the skin, in the blood. Felt... visceral... even before his mind could grasp and image. So much so, the eyes close. Cairo. His soul feels the call of the Holy Land. Remembering former journeys. Before you. Then with you...
"I like the idea of Venice... Venice is always entertaining, non? And Russia... I ...have we ever been there? It has been so long since I was in the Eastern Empire, amours... I cannot recall." But think of the architecture. The galleries. All of the art. "India... of course... we have to go to India..."
"Well," Ian smiles, "...we cannot yacht to India..." he winking at you. "But yes, the shores of Russia. Cadiz...Monaco..." his hand lifts and waves, "...Agfa, Lebanon...Alexandria..."
The rumble returns...
Leonine, the sound is captured in his throat, resonates in the expansive chest, and he is once again your canopy. His dark eyes, your sky... star-filled as they are. His dark complexion, bronzed-olive with blood and with immortal memories of the sun eclipsing against your fairer skin. "Monaco," comes the murmur at your mouth, and William grins, his smile a brushing kiss. "We will spend outrageous money, bathe in gold and sin...oui...Monaco..."
His mouth brushes again, and then pulls. The kiss, wandering. Straying. And smoldering. The fire in him has never been put out -- nor could it be...
Never...
And so you feel it rising again... both in energy... and in physicality.
"Don't even think that..." Ian smirks, letting his eyes close again, confident that you will keep your distance...
"I'm not thinking... anything..."
And you know this to be true. What Plantagenet could ever think and make love at the same time? It is a matter of physics, non? There's not enough blood in all the world to move the mind and groin simultaneously. And so is the case now...
Soft, whisper of skin to fur. He is over you again. Again. Again, throbs against the air. It was too long, amours. Too long in waiting. Too many nights wandering city streets in search for amusement. A distraction from the burning beneath my skin. What else should I think, but that I want you... need you.
You feel the smile. Against your blood. Against your skin. Your chest. And then suddenly, at your stomach. He cannot help it. Parting, his mouth brushes lightly over your stomach. "I am thinking... I want to claim this in the name of Normandy... that is what I am thinking..."
He squirms under you, the smile brilliant now. Alright, you win.
"I hate to tell you," Ian smiles, hands at your back, "...you already did that. Centuries ago..."
Posted by rowan at March 03, 2001 11:20 AM
