Everything...
     Until there is nothing left, ap Owain...
     And then, at that moment... and you will know it when you feel it, boyo... you will sacrifice yourself on the fields of Old Sarum. And with it, leave this world for the Next. Take your rightful place. Do, most importantly, what is right for the world.
     99 years...
     Shite, at this rate, who's to fucking say I'll make it 99 years...
     There's nothing that makes a dragon more grumpy than being tired. And if there's any man, beast, woman, child or footy player who's fucking knackered tonight, it's Davydd ap Owain. Beware the stormy skies and bumpy seas! Beware the grousing Welshman!
     There's no telly going tonight. There's whiskey going tonight. There's cigarette smoking going tonight. Billowing from mouth and nose very like the dragon he resembles. He's out of sweater, out of jacket, down to the bare essentials of his kit -- a white undershirt thin enough not only to cling to him (as if it had any choice at all) but showing the outline of the marks beneath. The trousers are navy wool, the shoes are still on (remarkably), big Docs for big feet.
     Davydd sits forward on your sofa, looking like shite warmed over, sent back to the kitchen, tossed out in the alley and scooped back up and put back on the plate. His skin's pale -- if a human were this pale, he'd be in hospital -- and his eyes are, while not sallow, are a bit darkened. He looks hung over.
     And that's about the way he feels, to point a fine point on it...

     The key turns in the lock. Click, clack; the knob turns, twisted from outside. If it's not the mistress of the abode, then some prowler's in for a very rude awakening...
     But then, in your current mood, that would probably almost be desirable...
     But no, the door opens and Fiona steps in, long hair braided back from her face, nose red from a cold wind that's blowing down the street as if it wants to make London as frigid as a polar bear's bedroom. She's got on what can only be considered business chic - charcoal grey skirt and blazer with a white, almost severely tailored blouse, dark stockings and black low-heeled pumps. There are gold knots at her ears and pink diamonds at her throat, a gold loop around one ankle as well. Over it all is a long black London Fog trenchcoat, soft leather that hangs from her shoulders as she steps inside, turning to lock up behind her.
     "Balls," Fiona says pleasantly. "It's cold enough out there to freeze off even yours. Hello, Davydd." She turns again, away from the door as she moves further into the flat, shrugging off the coat and draping it over the back of a chair. "You look like you're catching cold yourself. Are you feeling alright?" Concern alters her smile in mid-formation, forehead creasing in a pucker as she comes now into the living room. "How long've you been here?"

     "The sky was pink at the edges..." he takes a long drag from the cig and releases a plume of white-grey smoke, leaning forward with a clearing of his throat to knock ash into an ashtray. One he stole from BJD's. Shhhh, don't tell anyone. Especially You Know Who.
     "I'm just tired. Maybe a little drunk." There's the try of a smile, his mouth quirking funnily in a half lope. "And they wouldn't freeze off, they'd shrivel up and try to crawl back into my body," comes the drawl, rough. "I'm like as not to be shite company tonight. Just a public service message."
     Davydd stops himself suddenly, giving you a once-twice over. "You look nice. I like that," he murmurs. He sits back on your sofa, cig stuck in his mouth, pressed in place by his lips, a hand dragging through his hair and, thick red standing on end in spots. Very Oxford Circus come 2AM. And, yes, he has the glass with him.
     At least he's sipping it and not slamming it...
     "So..." word muffled by the cig stuck in his mouth as he rests back, eyes shutting a moment, "... what've you been up to since we fucked the world into creation. All work and no play?"

     "Pink at the edges? - Oh." Sunset. Sometimes poetry gets in the way of comprehension, clearly. Fiona slides the blazer off next, moving back to the table and chairs and setting it down over her trenchcoat. Her carryall is next, dropped on top of the table. There's a small sigh for the relieving of baggage, and she stretches, arms high over her head as she arches her back until there's a small but audible crack of vertebrae realigning. It's followed by another sigh, and she places her hands on the back of the chair, turning to look over at you.
     "You've been doing a lot," Fiona murmurs, gaze drifting along you. "I've been around you though when you've been 'shite company', as you say, before. Kept you from falling under a taxi once. Well. In theory. Though that was back when I think you rather more still expected me to shove you under than pull you out from under."
     She smiles at the compliment, suddenly self-conscious and lifting a hand as she glances down, tugging at an earring. "Glad you like it. I had a dinner appointment with my stockbroker. Trying to get a lot done in a small amount of time - story of my life, right?"
     She's lived so temporally all her life, it's a hard habit to break...
     "I've been up to all sorts of stuff." Fiona shrugs, moving back into the living room to lean up against the arm of the sofa, one hand on her thigh as she looks to you. "Not just work, not just play. Looks like with you it's been all work, though..." Her hand lifts, held out to you a moment. "Life been that rotten?"

     Cigarette in his hand, he rubs at his eyes (it's a wonder he has any eyebrows left -- he's just that experienced. He could probably smoke in his sleep. There were several periods of world war one where he did just that, he's sure.), turning his head to look at you. "Busy. Just... pouring my soul over Britain. Not sure how much is left of me, really. But look at it this way. It's vintage me, darlin'," Davydd rolls out. "Imagine this look, this face, stumbling out of his Sopwith Camel, goggles on and grime all over. Lovely picture, no?"
     Exhaling smoke, he leans forward to knock off more ash. "Not rotten though. Just knackered. I've come here so you can pamper me," he almost smiles at that. "I could use some food, but the only thing I know how to cook is wild game and war rations." Men! Always needing women to take care of them. He looks at you, he sees the pink diamonds and he smiles a bit, it's damn near tender. He holds out an arm for you. Come 'ere.
     "Things alright with you and your man?" Whether he's referring to himself in the third person or speaking about Rhodri might be hard to tell. Could be both.

     "I'll pamper you tonight, then," Fiona murmurs, moving to slide off the arm of the sofa and onto the sofa proper, reaching forward to grab at your undershirt as a handhold and pull herself closer. "It should be fun, you don't usually let me, you know." At least, that's her perception of it. "Nothing too good for my war hero, I think."
     While the words and the tone are light, there is an undercurrent of seriousness, of sobriety that doesn't need a bottle. Her rump impacts onto the sofa cushion, her hip connects with yours, her cheek with your shoulder for just a moment. "I'll make ... mm. To do a proper job of it, I don't have the scope for here, but I think I can whip something up. You willing to put yourself in my hands for the night, Old Man?"
     As old as you feel, she'll always be so much the younger. She shifts, tilting her head up to look at you, looking at your face. "I think so. You'd both tell me if it weren't, I'd hope. Look - let me go get some food started, and a few other things going. You do trust me that much, right?" Fiona's mouth twists in wry humour. This would be a hell of a time for you to stop trusting her.

     "Fuck," Davydd rolls out and downing the whiskey in a swallow (oh yes, and handing you the empty), he lies back on the sofa. Like one great-looking fire-hazard. And he's the most flammable thing in here. "Thanks, sweet... sure..." the cigarette bobs in punctuation to his words, "... I'll trust ya..."
     He moves again, only long enough to stamp out the cigarette after the last long draw of it, billowing smoke leaving mouth and nose in a great cloud of finality. "You know, this'll be the first night in...what... is it fucking ever? That we won't have fucked? Oh... sorry... made love." A roll of his eyes in his own wry humor. "I trust you," Davydd murmurs, a soft admittance, a quiet truth.
     There's a little frown. But then, you're getting it regularly enough. Fucking tied up to god knows what and wriggling in furred cuffs I suppose. He wears a grouchy look suddenly. Now, he looks sullen. "Well, maybe later," he gruffs. "After I eat."

     Carefully, she eases herself up from the sofa, pausing to look down at you over the edge of the arm, leaning against the back as she looks to your face again. "The night is still young," Fiona remarks evenly. A hand comes down to touch a fingertip to your nose, then pulls back. "We've made love. We've fucked. We've rutted like wild things. We've done a lot, and I'm not sorry for one minute of it. If anything, I just wish I knew what it would've been like when you were still on the highway, if you'd come across me then - but with my luck, you'd have decided I was a proper brat and spanked me and sent me off to my father."
     She straightens, moving into the kitchen with the soft sound of her heels clicking on the wood. I love you, Davydd ap Owain. Even when you're tired. Now ... close your eyes for a few minutes ...
     There's the press of a button, a cd being slid into place somewhere, and then, turned down low, Haydn playing as a backdrop...
     I intend to surprise you, you know... hopefully you'll forgive me if I'm not as prepared as I might've been, but I wasn't expecting this tonight.
     Bare feet sound, now, on the floor and coming back towards the couch. But there are still sounds of movement in the kitchen...

     "I always liked Haydn. Water Music?" he wonders softly. His arms fold against his chest, undershirt pulling tight, blue tattoos showing darkly beneath. They neither seem as brilliant nor shine nor move at the moment. No less spectacular but... not popping...
     Neither is the air...
     Nor is he spending any energy at all even in telepathy...
     "I love you, too... you little minx," he rumbles. "I'd blame this all on you, of course, but I can't. I'd love to. I'd love to be this fucking knackered from fucking. Oh lord," he groans out (you've heard that sound before), "...that woman. She won't get off my cock." He snorts at that. "I've not known a single man to ever utter that sentence." A pause. "Well, I've known one. But he was a virgo. Anal bastard."
     Davydd sighs and he closes his eyes, shutting up for a minute. A full minute of silence! Whatever shall you do? Wherever shall you go? He hears you move, here and there. Eyebrows knit together as he hears you in two places at once, then he remembers. You can split yourself. "Good god, woman," he rumbles, "...what makes you think I can handle one of you tonight let alone a pair."

     "Surprise Symphony." Of course. It fits, doesn't it? There's a hint of a laugh in Fiona's voice, far closer than the kitchen as she kneels next to the sofa, fingertips coming to cradle your head, massaging your scalp. "Just relax. We'll try to wrench your cock off through sheer mindblowing sex some other night. Tonight, you're going to be pampered, that's all."
     Those fingers draw through your hair, gently, so gently; you'd think she thought you were made of porcelain. Straight lines become loops and whorls, moving over your forehead, then down to behind your ears, down to your neck. "You should turn over and take off your shirt."
     In the kitchen, there's still more movement. Pans rattling, dishes being shifted - the refrigerator opens, then closes. The heels tap lightly, then go silent with the sound of a drawer being slid open, and then something's being chopped - carrots, perhaps.
     I promise this will only end in sex if you want it to. Fiona's thoughts are laced with humour and flavoured with chocolate and mint, heavy and rich and sweet. This is about you, my king. Shall I tell you stories while you receive your massage and your dinner is prepared? Or would you prefer truth...

     "Tonight," he murmurs, "... the truth. It's simpler." Davydd turns his head, sighing at the fingers in them. He doesn't want to move. He's put out roots, you know, but after a moment he manages to curl up. Now that's a look. And with a slow motion, he wrestles out of the undershirt.
     What, did you think he was going to rip it off? And make a mess? And have to buy a new shirt?
     The sofa complains loudly -- and he only slightly less so -- as he flops over onto his stomach on the sofa. On his back, the twisting tattoos of Whitethorn and Blackthorn, the Blackthorn of Male Potency and the Whitethorn of Connection and Communication with the Otherworld the only two tattoos that stand out vibrantly against his skin, as if they hovered over him more than carved within him. There is Rowan there at the small of his back, partially hidden by the trousers.
     "It's not a matter of wanting to or not wanting to," he mumbles into the sofa cushion. "I feel like the universe stuck a straw in me and took one huge suck. In the Wars," he starts quietly, "... hell... the only reason I remember half of it is because we captured some of it on film. Dreams. I think I walked in my sleep some nights." William, too. We were fighting for Our lives, the collective us of Europe.

     There's the sound of a rise, and then the sofa shifts a bit under you as you're joined. Female thighs spread and splay over the small of your back, her rump seated comfortably on your own as she leans forward and begins to rub your shoulders and the nape of your neck. Warmth spreads from her palms, a slickness that carries the scent of lindenflowers - oil of some sort.
     Those same small hands continue to massage even as their mirror pair move to prepare food. There's the sound of water bubbling, the oven being opened and then closed again, a general warmth that's begun to fill the flat. The air hums with domestic busyness...
     You were born to be a king, Davydd. But you're very bad at balancing - it's always all or nothing with you, and you give, and you give, but you're afraid to take. Everything I've seen in you - you don't know how to accept very well, when I try to give to you. It's as if you're afraid that if you take, if you latch on in return, you'll get hurt the worse when it falls apart... ** Fiona's thoughts aren't angry or accusing, just ... contemplative, expressing with the flicker of distraction, thoughts and concepts interspersed with (did I add the fennel? Yes, alright) and (I wonder if I can time it so that all of it will be ready at the same time) and (should be enough, but what about - oh, there)...
     But being a king means letting other people serve you, too. And not everyone is going to be a soldier, Davydd, my love. So tonight you're going to be treated as a king should. I told you that you couldn't have other women. That doesn't mean I can't play the part of concubine or timeless houri.
     Aloud, she says, "You said you'd been fasting this month. You also gave an awful lot of energy. I'm not surprised you've hit a wall, you know. Do you want to talk about the Wars? I ... don't know about them from your perspective. Though I do know more than I ought about the second."

     "No, I don't," he murmurs. "There's not much to tell that's interesting. Just the last time I moved in this way, gave... as I am. As I need to. What I realize is that... I should have ascended then. But I did not. I went to sleep. I just...went to sleep. Woke up some time in the sixties and just wandered around aimlessly like a wraith after. Until a few years ago... something about a young girl and a tree...?" he teases.
     "You're right.... I don't know how to take. A king doesn't take," he murmurs. "A king is... the gold-giver, the filler of cups, the caretaker, to himself and for himself pleasure or delight, especially rest... these come last. Always... it is and should be the others who come first, with only the queen and the concubine knowing the difference."
     Davydd lifts his head, looking back at you with the upraising of a brow. "Concubine, eh? My own personal geisha? I could do with that. A queen's nice," he rolls out, "...when you need one around. They can be handy," he smiles a bit. "But it's the mistress, the concubine, the houri, the geisha, who remembers that the king is a man first and a ruler second. It's her job. The king... he can never think this or his kingdom will suffer."
     Davydd returns to breathing. In slowly, held, out slowly. "It's not about being hurt. I expect to be hurt. I'm in love, that's what love is. And... oes... I... should not fast. I need to eat. Tonight... tonight I will have to... even if the moon is slightly waxing. I will have to. But ... later," he whispers.

     "Maybe I'm why you didn't ascend then. Maybe you just weren't ready. Selfish though it is, I'm glad you didn't, Davydd. I was born to love you." It's said aloud, whispered on the linden-fragranced air from on top of you, hovering over you as those small hands move along your spine.
     I've always needed to give to those I love, Davydd. The thought comes almost as an echo of the words that are spoken aloud. That's part of why I ran so long and so hard and fought it as hard as I did. I can't give you just part of me. It's all or nothing - and you are my king. My husband, my lover, my confidante, my friend - now, even if we weren't always - but also my king. I respect you, I love you, I revere you. But you are a man as well as a king and god. And a man needs to be worshipped and adored now and again, as a man...
     There is the smell of food cooking, now. Rich, heavy scents, almost as sustaining as a meal in and of themselves. "It's fortunate for you that with me, you can have both," Fiona says lightly, sliding back along your legs so that she's balanced over your thighs now, fingertips digging in a bit over your kidneys and smoothing outwards. "Sort of a less common version of the old adage about a cook in the kitchen and a whore in the bedroom, don't you think?"
     I will feed you. I promised surprises. You didn't think that this is all, did you? Besides, you told me what you wanted. It's my job to surprise you with as many of your desires as I can...

     He smiles a crooked smile. "I don't want a whore. Sex kitten more like. Nice little shoes, finest hosiery, little French maid outfit." He laughs at that. "Sorry, I will admit to one vice, and don't take it personally," he's already protesting. "God love them, French women have a way about them. I like a little Coco Chanel to go with my Guinness."
     There's a long, drawn out sound when your fingertips dig in. There's a great deal of tightness there. The closer to the center of male power you get, the tighter it becomes. And the more sounds he makes. Dragons don't purr. It's unseemly. But they do growl.
     "I know," he rumbles out slowly, those syllables and vowels taking forever. "I hear you. And speaking of balancing," he snorts out a laugh. "You're a fine one to talk aren't you. Juggling two husbands. But..." Davydd lifts suddenly, twisting to look at you. Seriously, though he teased but seconds earlier. "... I appreciate it, Fiona... that when you're with me... you're...with me. You don't seem distracted. You don't act like you're thinking about being tied up or hung from the ceiling or sommat..."

     "Just as well. I wouldn't know how to go about being a whore," Fiona answers demurely. She leans in to brush her lips against the middle of your back, then returns to trying to work loose knotted muscles, lindenflowers filling the air with their scent again. "You'll have to take me as I am. Fortunately for you, there is some French in my line, you know. My aunt's maison - well, you never were there. I had Huw there for dinner, once. When I was still fighting being in love with you. I really was bloody blind, wasn't I?"
     There's the tinkle of glasses being moved, the sound of a wine bottle being opened, of course there is wine, there are dishes being set into place. The food is still cooking...
     There are two of her at the moment, but they are both her. The one who balances behind you is bare of clothing, just pink and white skin and loose blonde hair and bright blue eyes that regard your face seriously as you speak. "Why would I be? The only thing that distracts me when I'm with you is you. I have enough trouble thinking straight at all around you, most of the time."

     The nakedness is a surprise. He had his eyes closed. Now they stray over you much as his hands would. Here and there, grasping and gliding. "Well," Davydd drawls out. Well, you're naked. What d'ye know about that, then. "... I appreciate it all the same. I know it can't be easy. Especially when one of us is a total jealous prick who tends to take other men as a personal offense, despite the fact he tended to sleep around with every waitress in every pub in the City."
     Surely he can't mean him...
     Davydd rolls back down, plopping on the sofa with a groan. "You're a good girl, you know," the rumble is earthy, slow and relaxed. Muscles unknot at your fingertips. "You know how sexy it is that you cook for me... so... what're you makin?"

     There's a smile for you, knowing gaze and tolerance, and she shifts further down, still kneading. Is it like having a cat kneading your back? She makes as free with you as a cat might, though at the moment, with fewer claws. "You two worked out your differences without my involvement," Fiona says simply. "Which is just as well. I don't know what I could do about it. Except go on telling you what I always have and always will. I love you. I'm not going to stop loving you."
     There's more to it than that, but she's busy a moment with your skin and the muscles that lie underneath it, stroking fingertips now along the dragons, tracing them in their paths.
     I like a little jealousy. I have a bit of it myself. I wouldn't mind if you defended my honour against some git, if I had any honour to defend. The thought is slow and humorous, but with that same earlier minted edge of seriousness. Davydd, do you really know how you affect me? How I feel when I'm with you...
     "Filet mignon au poivre with aubergine au gratin, spinach salad with crumbled bleu cheese, kalamata olives and walnuts, and apple tart for dessert. A nicely aged shiraz with the meal - Australian, but quite decent." Fiona's on the move again, even as one of her slides off your back the other is taking platters from kitchen to table. "And it's about ready, so if you're ready, come and eat. Would you like dressing on your salad? Or would that make it unsexy again?"

     "I'm not a little anything," it's a muffled laugh against the pillow. Not a little jealous. Not a little extreme. Not a little cute. Not a little package. "I'll admit that the idea still ... " he tightens all over again. The idea of it will always make him tighten up a bit, compete. "Let me put it this way," he twists as you start to rise, "...you'll always be fucked royal with him being... him and me competing with him."
     Because he always has to have a rival. Nothing is easy. Yes, he's also not just a little difficult.
     He moves slowly, sitting up with a sigh and reaching for his shirt again. No, he's not going to eat half naked. It's rude. Where did he pick up all of these strange manners? "Some night I'm sure I'll have the chance to beat some bloke into a pulp for your honor." He rises with a groan and a stretch. "Or the semblance of it."
     "Holy shite, filet mignon," his hand goes to his stomach and, with hair sticking up here and there, Davydd wanders to the table. He looks at you strangely for a moment, the cocks up a brow. "How I do what? No, haven't the slightest... I try not to think about how women think... it's a sanity saver..."

     There's only one of her again, for the time being at least. But she's changed while she was in the kitchen - magic is handy that way. Now she wears a simple gown in deep green to match your eyes, hair worn twisted up and held in place with a set of diamante combs.
     "You're undoing all my hard work," Fiona says mildly, moving to pour wine into the glasses. "I don't entirely understand why you're jealous, but ... I don't think I'm equipped to understand this one. All I can do is tell you that you've got nothing to worry about. You aren't going to lose me. Any more details would probably fall under the heading of bedtime stories."
     The wine is poured; the bottle set down; the plates are in place, with you receiving distinctly the lion's share. Her appetite can be hearty, but maybe she's a little worried about you. Or maybe she's just spoiling you...
     "I adore you, Old Man," Fiona answers to the matter of how she thinks, settling into a chair and crossing her legs as she picks up her napkin and shakes it open, glancing to you frankly. "Now stop bitching and sit down and eat."

     He takes a seat in the chair, dark green eyes flicking up to you as you congeal into one woman in a dark green gown. He likes it by his look, a lingering moment, and then that same look (well, not just like it but of the same quality) is turned on the food. "I hope it's bloody," he says as he goes to cut it.
     You've seen the man ravenous and you've seen him picky. You've seen him shovel it in, and you've seen him put the gentlemen of Kensington to shame. What you see now is a man who was starving more than he knew. Everything is tasted, but it's the meat that gets devoured first and foremost.
     So... how do I affect you... you never said. he teases, finally, energy must be returning. "Well," he says between bites, "I am pretty fucking adorable. You'd be hard-pressed not to love me. And it's just us, we can have bedtime stories over dinner..."
     Davydd takes a break to sip then swallow at the wine. As he takes it in, you can feel the first tickling twirls of magic on the air around him. As if a hollow thing were becoming full once more. He's a tall glass of water, as you've said -- it'll take a while. And a more... intimate meal than this.
     Fiery eyebrows quirk upward. "It's easy really. We've come to an agreement, I realize we're equals in your eyes. I understand he loves you very much and wouldn't have made a play for you if he wasn't. Still doesn't mean I like the idea of him fucking you. Thinking about another man's hands all over you." The filet is cut with enthusiasm. "You know... tied up or whatever the fuck he does with all that leather..."
     Both the energy and his muscles tighten up all over again. He's going to need a lot more massaging....

     She watches you begin to eat, picking up her own cutlery daintily, moving to eat more slowly. Then again, she's already had her dinner. "Rare to medium-rare. I like my meat on the bloody side, always have." A woman after your own heart - or stomach.
     You go straight through my system like brandy. I have trouble thinking when I'm close to you, but I don't want to be far away from you. You and Rhodri are right, it's much easier to talk with your mouth full like this. The wine is lifted, sipped, and blue eyes turn onto you. I want to pull myself into your lap, and then when I'm in your lap, it only gets worse from there. I can't think clearly about anything except being with you, being yours. I love being possessed by you, feeling you in me, knowing that I'm yours... even though at the same time I've got to fight how good it feels. D'you know, there's something I can say that no woman I know would believe me, or if by some miracle they did, they'd be jealous enough to poke my eyes out? I've never faked an orgasm, not sure I'd know how to go about trying...
     Her cheeks have gone red and flushed by the end of that, her attention off you and on her wine. It can take the blame for her colour, and the warmth of her thoughts, the flavour of them, the warmth moving through her now...
     "You don't have to like it, you know." The words are offered quietly. "As long as you don't poison yourself with it - nothing says you've got to like it. I love you both, but you're very different. I like that you're different. I don't want you to be the same as each other. I want you to both be who and what you are."

     "I won't," he says quietly in return. Well, not much. I'm going with the whole ignorance is bliss thing. His words bubble up softly as he continues to eat. It won't be long and he'll be ready for the apple crisp.
     And then the dessert of all desserts, a bowlful of you...
     I've always believed that the most beautiful sight on this earth is a woman who is curling up in pleasure. The way women look, feel, smell, taste, the way they sound at that moment is what Beauty is. It is life and everything good that comprises it. I like to watch you. Davydd flashes a smile. "Especially hear you." He chuckles as he takes a swallow of wine. And then the ass has the gall to make little falsetto sounds, little gasping cries and then he winks, finishing off the steak.
     "Brandy? Hmmm..." Green eyes peer at you, and he points at you with a fork. Didn't his mother ever tell him not to point. "I'll take that. You know," he sits back with his wine, apparently finished with the food for now, "...it's been a while since I've had a good brandy. I'll have to ask Gwilym to send me a new batch for this autumn. He makes this plum brandy, with bits of the fruit at the bottom. It's deadly stuff that..."

     Rising, Fiona begins to take dishes away as they're emptied, moving from table to kitchen to sink and back with easy, practiced motions. She knows her own flat, after all, well enough. The oven's clicked off, the crisp taken out, vanilla ice cream taken from the freezer and she combines the two - piping hot apple crisp in a shallow, broad bowl with scooped soft vanilla ice cream on top to melt slowly across the surface, a dusting of cinnamon, a dusting of powdered sugar and then a tablespoon each of rich, heavy cream and of Calvados. And it was her grandmother, not her mother, who taught her how to cook...
     "You're a brute and a crass bastard," Fiona says sedately, despite the colour that rises in her face. "By rights I shouldn't give you any dessert, but I've got a soft spot for you. Right on the top of my skull, no doubt." The dish is set in front of you with a fork to one side, and it's topped with a brush of a hand against the nape of your neck as she moves away to collect her own dessert - a more modest amount - and to tidy away and then sit.
     "Sounds like good stuff, but like I'd get drunk on it. Always assuming you actually let me have a few sips." Fiona grins at you, expression one of sudden brief mischief. "Though you've actually let me eat off your plate. I knew you loved me..."

     "Oh come on," Davydd rattles, "...it wasn't that bad an impression. Give us a little credit." He swirls the last of his wine in the glass and then downs it, setting the glass down for a refill as you set the dessert down before him. His eyes widen a touch, eyebrows quirking upward, and he turns his head to look at you.
     It finally registers with him...
     You're serving me... apples... ?
     Clearing his throat, he looks to the crisp and cuts it with a spoon, a dollop of the cream, the ice cream and the apples. Well, here goes nothing. Or the end of the world...
     Davydd closes his eyes...
     The cream is one thing...
     The ice cream, something else...
     But the apples...
     Fruit of Venus...
     When the taste of it hits his tongue, his lidded eyes roll. It is like you were lathered in cream, ice cream melting against your skin, your own sugar dissolving on his tongue. Another bite is savored as long and as silently. The only communication back and forth between you, at least from him, is the mental image of you, the cream, the ice cream and his mouth.
     Magic returning meets a catalyst, sparking like the first moment of fire given life at the gentle breath of a loved one. It presses against the air, electric, the static energy causing hair on arms and the back of your neck to rise (his as well). Davydd rolls the apple-bearing spoon in his mouth, his eyes locked on you. In them, those dark woods you know so well. The tangled roots, the trees upon trees, the copulation of mistletoe upon the canopy of Holly, Ash, Yew and thorns.

     "All the credit in the world won't help you here, we take cash only," Fiona retorts in the same light tone as she picks up the bottle to refill your glass, then resumes her seat and takes up her spoon. She misses the look almost completely, save for the very end of it as you clear your throat.
     She isn't always thinking about Avalon, and she did say that she has trouble thinking clearly when you are near...
     But your reactions - your consumption and the result - they are worth watching, worth the witnessing. Fiona has no more than a spoonful herself before she's setting it aside to watch, colour moving high in her cheeks, blushing as red as any schoolgirl - or any ardent lover. And then there is magic...
     Holly King...
     She rises from her seat, spoon falling with a clatter unheeded from the edge of the table to the floor, chair nudged back and out of line with the others. She doesn't run, but she moves quickly, deliberately and yet as if drawn, compelled, to stand next to your chair; and then she sinks down next to it, pressing her cheek in against your thigh, eyes closed. I love you, Davydd Llywelyn ... you have no idea how much I need you. All you need to do is look at me, and it's as if the world goes away...

     His hand rests upon your hair, stroking lightly, the curling and uncurling of his fingers. His thigh moves against you, a slight press as his reply. For me... with you... it is like the world is suddenly Present. His eyes roll closed again. It is delight, that face. It is lust, that look. To taste You and to feel you against him as he does. It is the same, in many ways, as laying with you.
     I wish you knew... what this was like. What this does... The spoon is rolled against his tongue again, and then is loaded with more. The density in the room grows as his own power fills the space and crowds it, presses against you and wraps around you like his arms.
     This with the whiskey already finished? It is a drug, and you can feel it move through him, from him to and through you -- through the strands of your hair like they were wires. From hair to hair, from head to legs, between them, now your skin and now the air is full of static.
     The apples are devoured, not in the feverish, summery lust of the Oak King to be, but with the decadent slow roll of a man who knows how to take his time, with the fullness of ripening harvest. His hand brushes against your cheek, against the top part of your neck, and then unpins your hair, plucking out the combs until the heavy locks fall like drapes for privacy.
     The air rings, reverberating, with the tumbling of the spoon, and he begins to rise, his hands reaching to lift you. You call your king by your name, you give him the tribute of your apples. Now... he wants your flesh...

     A shiver runs through her, as though the room had suddenly grown cold. The air is too thick, she might get caught in it and drown. Her cheek moves against your thigh and then away as she settles back, looking up at you, watching you with breath held in the silence which is not silence at all.
     It is hard for me to fight you when you are like this. Harder than usual. Ever since I came to realize that I loved you, fighting you got to be so hard...
     It's true, and perhaps you know it. She is no weak-willed creature, prone to roll over and be meek. What she wants, she wants with as much hunger and vigor as you, even if expressed differently. Those blue eyes drift closed at the feel of your hand against her cheek, her neck, her hair, a sigh echoing upon the air as her hair is loosed to fall down against her shoulders, down along her back.
     All that I have is at your disposal, my king. What your desire is, that is my fondest wish.
     They are the words of the concubine, but behind those words there is such love, such desire. Fiona rises with the pressure of your hands, cheeks dusted pink and likely to stay that way for some time...
     What does my king bid of me...?

     He closes his eyes and his lips move in a silent... prayer? Benediction? There is with that chant a sudden strike, a bolt that moves through you -- as palpable as a thrust. There is an ode murmured to air, praise to fire, thanks to water, honor to earth, and then his hands cradle your face.
     My Queen...
     His mouth spreads yours beneath his, a taste and a feel of his power. The slide of his tongue, and then it draws yours in for a suckle. A slight burn. A slight pang. A slight but sharp drag of pointed canines against your tongue. Just a drop...
     One drop of you is like a thousand apples...
     Davydd's mouth parts from yours with a loud breath, the sound of your name and his hands turns your head gently, his mouth burying itself against your skin. Widely again his mouth opens, claiming you. Again, there is the burn, the pang...
     But it comes with magic, with a power that shudders beneath your skin, quaking you. No mortal orgasm can compare to it. It is, itself, a drug. For both of you.
     Davydd's mouth tightens against you and he pulls you to him, his hands landing on your hips, pulling you flush against him as he drinks directly from you...

     Breath escapes her in a rush. She wasn't drowning before; this, this is drowning. The power that goes through her is almost too much when combined with the touch of your hands to her face. And then your mouth covers her own...
     There's a quiet exclamation at the sharpness against her tongue, a faint involuntary jerk, and then she holds still again, lips remaining parted as if they cannot close all the way, her jaw too heavy once you pull back. She says nothing, now, for what is there to be said? She has said what she has to say.
     Your hands move her head and she is pliant and shivering, eyes heavy-lidded, giving her the drugged look of a child who sleeps too deeply, lips rouged by your kiss beyond the power of any cosmetic company's products. Fiona makes another sound as your mouth touches to her throat, as those thorny points sink into her skin, a sharp little cry that cuts off in a gasp.
     It is well that you hold her...
     Cry becomes gasp, gasp becomes moan, and those drifting eyelashes flutter the rest of the way down in sudden roost. Knees that had gone weak now turn to water, one open-palmed hand sliding against your hip and then falling limply away, unable even to hold as she makes soft, kittenish sounds against you.
     It is an image from storybooks, sensual, erotic, dark, violent. Not at all unlike you...

     There is no greater rejuvenating power than that of blood. And yours, so magical, moves though him as powerfully as the act of taking it affects you. There's a mighty groan, a groan no doubt your neighbors hear as he pulls his mouth from you. You feel the beading and sliding of your own blood against your skin, but then the swipe of his tongue.
     Electric...
     The hum of it lingers long after his tongue pulls away to swipe over his own lips, capturing the last taste of you there. As your vitae hits his gut, slamming into it, it's his turn to shudder, to groan against your ear. He returns his mouth to yours in a slow and widening kiss, the pulling of mouths a tangle. There's the taste of copper there.
     Blood...
     Davydd parts from the kiss and your world goes topsy-turvy as he lifts you up and deposits you on the sofa. His hand brushes your face again, turning it to make certain the bite has healed, and he watches your complexion reaction. There is a fuzziness that follows, like you've given a pint (or two) to the Red Cross.
     Only you gave to the Red Head...
     Davydd's weight begins to settle on top of you. He lets you feel his weight, his arousal, the warmth your blood provides him. His head lowers, his face burying itself now between your breasts.

     It can't be her pulse thumping in her veins that's causing that buzzing in her ears, that lightheadedness. Fiona is still pink and white, still dazed, the blue of her eyes like the rolling of the sea, murky depths tangled with uncertainties and chaos. You hold her, you tilt her head for the swipe of your tongue and she is almost fragile as you do so, and then ...
     You kiss her...
     There's an escaping sound, hands lifting weakly to your shoulders, clinging with fingernails dragging against your undershirt, against your skin as if scrabbling for purchase. You are quicksand, and she is caught in you, being pulled down by each inch.
     When you lift her, there is no protest, only that comical look of surprise that you have seen from her before, that expression of 'how did I get way up here?' And all the more reason for it as she finds herself on the sofa with you bending over her.
     There are things which she wants to say, to ask, to proclaim, but none of them make it past her tongue, nor even to the staging ground where they could be sent. Your hand is on her face, and her lips part again, chin lifting just a little as if for a kiss, and then her head settles back weakly.
     It is hard to push through such desire, even without losing blood to you...
     And then you are on her, over her, hard masculinity bringing that quiet sound to the back of her throat. Acknowledgment. Desire. Knowledge. Hands lift, fingers sliding through your hair in a caress. I love you ... my king ...

     And I love you...
     Ninety-nine years from now, the blood I drink and will have drunk by then shall spill upon the earth. In my death, life will be affirmed. In my death, I will be resurrected. In my death, I will ascend.
     In my death, my darling, you will be with me, even as you shall when I wake in our Otherworld and take the crown of the High King.
     But tonight...
     Tonight will be different, my not-so-little-anymore queen. I do not disrobe, nor do you. I do not at least minimally free myself and thrust within you. There is just the feeling of cresting power. It washes over you, fills you, returns to me. This desire is fueling. It is fuel that I need. For tomorrow night, I start all over again. All over and all over this City, pouring myself out upon the earth, between the worlds, creating ways and means of access, be it in fantasy or reality.
     Not so different from when I pour myself into you...
     Not very different at all from when I pour out myself finally upon this plane and return where I was meant to be.
     His strong arms surround you, his mouth wandering from breasts to neck to chin. You are my favorite fountain. You are my joy and my libation. Davydd leans up, his mouth covering yours again, the kiss is sweetly suckling, wildly spreading, decadently entwining, and hungrily turning from side to side.
     And all over again, you feel it...
     The burn at your tongue, press of his canines and the rush of your magic carried on a single droplet of your blood.

Posted by rowan at January 07, 2005 04:59 PM