...After a night of more journeying with Edward, William decides to take his flight to America a day early. And so, William flew toward the setting sun, and Night extended for him. Hours and hours of it until he landed in New Port before midnight...

     At the Yaquina Head Lighthouse, New Port, Oregon...

     The door of the lighthouse opens slowly. If that is Ian coming inside, it is a subdued him. One of the boys can be heard with him, but for the most part, what arrives within the house is a blustery wind and the sound of barefeet. A shuffle here, a shuffle there. Night's hold is only momentarily broken, but quickly the sound dies, and outside world picks up again with its buffeting against the shore and the lighthouse itself.
     The house may not be affected, but the bond certainly is. Sadness grows upon Ian quickly, as if something recently occurred. And loneliness. For you, some sort of call was imminent...

     Some smell. Some sensation. Subtle. But lifting. Leather. Rain. Cinnamon. Is it that The Feeling Of William lingers here? Have you felt it during your time here? But no... this is different. Stronger. Real. As the door opens, the London Times he brought with him is tossed upon the small coffee table, and he rises. And the air feels him. And the...how long has it been? Longer than you both had hoped. Has it been three weeks? It feels it. Winter was becoming Spring and you and he were parted. The smile is sudden. And it is explosive in indigo eyes. Fiery. Igniting. Immediately. "Hello, ami..." And William nearly chuckles. But just...seeing you. He is stopped. Standing. Still...
     He is clothed in black leather -- familiar. And for the weather, a turtleneck of Scotland's finest sheep, dyed black. This is the second such. The first ended up on a club's dancefloor. Long story. He feels your ... subdued ... mood. He has felt it most of the short time he's been here.

     The rest of the household is in a bit of shock and tumult. The other three boys are in motion. One tending to getting William a drink, another to stowing his bag, another to hanging up his long leather coat. He has not been here long...

     As you rise, it comes to him. That...is real. The feelings, the smell. Ian's expression widens, hands out to give a pile of rumpled items to Stephen. The paper, the table...the sweater...all of it is you. "Will!" Ian calls, ignoring the poor young man trying to take the tossed items and get out of the way at the same time, "Will! What are you doing here?" God, am I glad to see you!
     The door is let go and Ian springs around the sofa towards where you are. "Oh, it's a dream, really, I was thinking about you and wishing you were here." That brings him to your arms, where he longs to be, really. Hands come out and wrap around you as surely as he does, head at your shoulder. "Goddess, I'm so...so...glad...."

     Arms go around you. Tightly. And forms that have known one another for nearly a thousand years come together. The fit is perfection. Easy. William closes his eyes a moment and then the grin is broad. Tightened hold turns to a lifting squeeze. Feeling your weight. But even as you are set soon after back on your feet, the hold does not much loosen. William bends slightly. "I couldn't take it anymore. Enough is enough." The smile returns, coupled with a wink. Indigo flickers as he glances up. "Hello, lads...I missed you..." But he does not look from you long. As you are near him, you can feel identical emotions. The Bond shivers with the proximity of the exchange. "I missed you," he murmurs at your forehead. "I ...just got here ...straight from London...I thought you know...I'd sweep in...storm the gates, all that Plantagenet rot..." He falls quiet for a moment or more. Looking at you. Fingers reacquainting themselves with you. A sight for sore eyes, love, that is what you are.

     The boys are still a bit shocked, but Robert does come in with drinks to the ready. William's bags are now gone and Stephen with them -- downstairs for the night.

     Arms are tight as yours as Ian lifts and returns to earth. And at your feet, droplets of water. He's shoeless. "It feels so nice..." he purrs, kicking his feet as he allows himself to dangle from you. "You just got in? Why didn't you call me or something?" He glances to where the boys have disappeared and then comes to his feet. "You should have called," he says, grey eyes meeting indigo happily. And as he does, a slanted grin pulls at his lips. He can never look at you or be so close...and not have thoughts. "I would have had my things all ready to go..."

     "But I would have missed the look on your face..." He chuckles quietly. "Worth all nine hours of flight time...Besides," his arms settle across your shoulders now, "I thought... we would stay here...for the night. Or until you're done with the packing..." Packing ... the word ends against your mouth. A kiss pulled. Warm. As from the living. Warm, vibrant. A subtle flavor of cinnamon there. It started brief, but he has too much missed you for that. The thoughts...held in his mind as he drank from another...fuel the embrace. Tangible fire. And arms at your shoulders move. One surrounding your waist. The other remaining near your upper back, his hand disappearing in golden hair.

     Now this is more like it. A familiar scene. The boys know what to do with this. Smiling briefly in understanding looks they begin to prepare the house for bed...

     This is understood. Ian was going to attempt to speak with you a few minutes, but as you murmur at his lips, thoughts of speech fall away. Eyes glaze, lidding lower as he's held. Waist taken causes Ian's hips to instinctively move into you. Helpless. Hand in his hair encourages his head to fall back, sending waves of gold through your fingers. Please is written upon his breath and motions now as he relaxes into the hold. It's almost as if paralyzed, this feeling of surrender. Sudden and shattering. If he wished to resist you, he could not. And now...like this...it is impossible. Every part of him aches to be with you, and as he's embraced, so easily does he move with it.
     Will you?--he thinks. Is it awful of me to beg...but can't you see? Grey eyes close as Ian's head falls backwards onto your hand, skin different again in the sooner light of an American late winter. His hips push with the strain of it, the trousers not cut for such...expression. Where are the boys? mind snaps, thinking that you might not be alone...

     I will. I am. The thought's reply. But at the snap of thought, the change in direction, the kiss is paused. The embrace relaxes slightly and William chuckles a little. Clearing his throat. Hello. How are you? None of these were exchanged. There is a slight reddening to his already darkened olive complexion. A thumb brushes against your lower lip, and in the indigo eyes a sparkle of something violet. "They are locking down the house for us," he murmurs. But no melancholy. Let us not do that. William inclines his head, smile pulling smoothly, warmly. "You want to ...go downstairs. Upstairs?" He chuckles quietly. "I am so...thankful not to be sleeping with Macsen...I can't tell you..." The voice lowers, deepening, holding in his throat and chest.

     "Wherever," Ian whispers, already yours for the taking. Here is perhaps perfectly acceptable, but it took a lot just to get the first word out. Why move? His eyes close and lips close over the thumb. Sweet and salty, simultaneously. The taste of skin. Yours. His tongue touches it, even as Ian inhales deeply. Did you say something about Macsen?

     Warm and living. An illusion. No. Magic. Words fall, dropping from the tongue discarded with a last murmur of your name. Then parted mouth and its promises of passion hold -- no more is said. William trails his thumb over your lower lip, and then moves it to the side. Out of the way. For the kiss rejoining. Fierce and claiming. Missing you. Here...
     A motion -- started by whom? To the sofa at hand. Indigo, to match the color of the eyes of your lover. Only not half so brilliant. Wide and warm, the kiss. Wide and splaying, his fingers at your back. Curling against the small of it, pulling at your clothing. Motion -- started by him -- ends at the sofa. The kiss is only momentarily interrupted as he sits back on the couch. Plenty of lap for you to straddle. His thighs waiting. His hands balancing you...

     Straddle he will. Rarely does Ian make outward signs of possession, but now, you belong to him. Tonight, he'll savor and relish you...a man starved for attention. "I missed you," he murmurs, words lacking any force. Mouthed upon yours. His hips make no pretension of its desire, and hands eagerly grasp and claw, just glad to be around you again. His feet still have sand on the soles, and some of it falls haplessly to the floor.
     Ian's kiss is no less fervent, eyes closed to it all. It is much like a bicycle, and he recalls precisely what kissing you meant and felt like.

     Beard and all. Had you forgotten the roughness of it? The tickle. The scratch. It is forever in that stage between stubble and softness. Between the return of a beard and a true beard. Forever. Possessed and Possessing. You and he once lay upon this sofa, in this chamber, and exchanged skin. Souls resting in one another's forms. But this between you can be done with every kiss. His soul rests within your blood, yours within his. Possessed. He does not mind being your possession. Yours. He adores it. Your words meld into embraces, into a kiss. Heated. His tongue coils around your own, and in the occasional half-parting for unneeded breaths to be taken his teeth tug upon your lower lip. Possessing. Claiming.
     Mine...
     His arms surrounded you as you lowered yourself upon him, but slide now along your waist. Fingers pulling, seeking to find the warmth of your magic-inspired skin beneath. Guiding... suggesting with a slight touch... for your hands to do the same. Your name is grunted. Whispered. And it travels the circuit of the Bond...

Posted by rowan at February 07, 2000 07:55 PM