Truth In Doing

Title: Truth In Doing
Time Period: May 7, 135 A.E.
Characters Appearing:

Summary: Where does truth lie? In dreams, or in doing?

Pitch black hallways necessitate a feel of pale hands against the walls. They touch delicately against chiseled stone and seams of mortar, barely a whisper as each door is ghosted by rather than pushed open. She knows the way already, having memorized each step, each stick of furniture that lays in wait to trip up her path. It's not long before she pauses in front of one door.

Luna appears as an apparition, silent and ghostly as she approaches the bed fit for a king. The dim glow of dying embers still keep the room somewhat heated, and lit enough that she can make out his form under blankets and sheet. Rounding to the other side, she leans down, her long, loose hair grazing the bedding before her fingers find the seam. Then her knee dents into the mattress followed by the other as she crawls in behind him.

From behind, her form molds against the slumbering one. An arm slips around to lightly caress his abdomen and chest, her lips press against his shoulder, and there's a final shift before she settles against him.

Just or unjust, Duncan sleeps soundly and still when he sleeps at all, the steady pulse of his waking energy, that kinetics of the soul, receding into his chest which rises in regular swells, its rhythm slow and steady, like the beating of his heart. If he dreams, he dreams deeply, paralytically, his form near-motionless for all that his eyes might flicker behind his lids, following unseen targets, rendering unknown objects for uncertain ends. We are all of us alone in our dreaming, even when our beds are shared, and Duncan has long been used to a lonely bed.

But no longer. The dreaming Duncan may not know it, but his physical form has company. Sensation, soft and sweet and by now familiar, filters through his nerves and even if the truth of it does not reach his mind, it is enough to stir his heart and quicken his breathing, especially once the distinct feeling of lips impresses itself - sensate and significant - upon the bare skin of his shoulder.

In a featherlight touch, Luna's fingers glide up Duncan's arm in a caress. She doesn't necessarily intend to disturb his sound slumber, but his prone form seems too tempting not to explore. He's not awake to react in the positive or negative, to pull her closer or push her away, like a statue left for her to admire. The darkness turns her fingers into her eyes and with each caress, she revisits old scars and new scratches in memory. Underneath the cover, her hand glides down his side and over the curved bone of his hip. His stature forces her to lean into his back in order to let her hand slide further down his leg.

Her breath reaches his neck and she shifts again, this time to trace her lips over his neck and earlobe. It caresses lightly, perhaps tickles even before she gives him a soft kiss. "Tell me what you dream about," her whisper is no louder than a soft spring breeze. The mint leaves she chewed on the way to his bedroom give her words a crisp smell. The rest of her body compliments it through bouquets of perfumes and powders. It's not overpowering, it never is, just enough to capture a man's attention with its layers and depth.

Is it unfair, to seduce a sleeping man? If dreaming is, as one of Vienna's most famous minds contends, the state in which desires have free reign, there may be no chance of resistance, only misrecognition. Is it even seduction, when there is no obstacle to overcome?

Maybe sleep itself is the obstacle, that stillness of the body that permits the mind to conjure what it will. And it is his body which is the object of her advances, forced to stir if it is to do more than receive her attentions. Delegations sent to the high court of his mind, Duncan's body begs freedom, and is granted some, provisionally.

His arm reaches back, hand finding the upper curve of her hip, body entire shifting as he feels her, and her feeling of him.

"Can't- not yet-" are words muttered from somewhere past the veil that Luna is tugging free, addressed to no one certain, a refusal that - even mumbled, even in dreams - seems to belie an underlying wish: but I want to, now.

Hand climbing back up to his shoulder, Luna eases Duncan onto his back and then crawls on top of him. Her gown is shifted to her thighs as her knees pin to his sides. She bends over his chest and then touches down lightly first with her curtain of soft blonde hair, then rose tinted lips that leave a light stain everywhere they land. Finding his neck, the prostitute drags her mouth over lightly stubbled skin, traveling the course of his lower jaw until she can claim his lips with her own.

"Of course you can…" she urges in whisper, curiosity about his inner thoughts a secondary concern to the pleasure that might bring them out. Her hips roll forward and then slide back in a slow motion as she presses closer against his chest, feeling his heartbeat. It's almost a game to see how she can make it skip or speed up in her play.

Maybe the kiss would have - as in tales - been enough, but Luna's form atop his, the insistent press of body against body, proves more than sufficient to rouse this prince from his slumber. There is the ghost of an answer to that contact, then a catching of breath, and then the whole of Duncan's body tenses, as if bracing itself to meet the world.

It's not the world that awaits him, though, but a vision in darkened gold and pale made ashen by shadows. And now his heartbeat is coming faster still, and both his hands move up to tracing the outline of his visitor, acquainting itself with those intimate details which are beyond impersonation.

His voice is rough when he speaks, but clear - he answer: "With you- yes, of course."

The body on top of Duncan's sways with the tensing of his muscles, riding through his surprise like a seal in the waves. In the scant light he can see the slim line of a smile from her profile. When her neck rolls forward, facing him fully, she caresses up his chest, fingers splayed to cover as much area as she can.

Her hands, warm from the heat under the blanket and his skin, leave a cool imprint when they depart, like a void left when someone dear goes missing. It's something that Luna and Duncan have both felt to different degrees. The filmy fabric of her night dress is pulled up over her head and then flutters through the air when she tosses it from sight. From his feel of her outline, there are no seams or bits of lace to interrupt the smoothness of her skin.

She's never had him in the dark hours of night, never witnessed him sleeping. That in itself presented an opportunity that she couldn’t resist. Not that Luna’s been known to resist much when it comes to Duncan Rowntree. Unlike the other denizens of this place, her behavior is much too licentious and uncurbed for the mood of the castle, in the dark or under the rays of the sun. Its walls have a whitewash of repute and nobility, something her very presence chips away at.

"Who do you dream about?"

A shadow amongst shadows, the night dress flickers into total obscurity. Duncan might catch this glimpse, might infer what that brief flash of a deeper umbra hints at - but in such darkness, vision can't be trusted. Clearer senses must be brought to bear.

First he learns with his hands, like a blind man. Then he draws her down to him, and he knows her against his body. A hand, rising along her neck from the nape, slips fingers into the cascade of her hair.

Gruff. Pleased. "I have already forgotten."

"That answer can mean only one thing, Duncan Rowntree," there's a touch of disappointment on her lips but it melts away when she claims her tribute at his awakening. It ends with smaller pecks, ones more languid and teasing. "You weren't dreaming of me, but that I was able to make you forget who is in your heart."

Definitely not the stronger of the two, she can still guide him to roll with her, until she's on her back with her head rested against a pillow. Him on top. Her legs tangle with his and she lays beneath him, breath heavy with excitement and a half smile on her face. "Everyone else is asleep," she murmurs suggestively. In the dim light, her chest heaves underneath him, touching against his with every intake.

"Faithful, even in dreams? Call a madman a prophet. There's no truth in dreams. There's truth in what we do."

Sure enough, he goes along. His weight on his knees, then his elbows.

He is less suggestive, than matter of fact.

"I know what I'm doing."

"And what is that?"

The challenge comes in clear as Luna's thighs tighten a bit around Duncan's waist and her feet latch together at the backs of his thighs. Catching a hold of his hands, she laces her fingers with his and smiles widely up at him. It's interrupted every few seconds as she tilts her chin up to allow her lips meet his. As soon as she opens her eyes after every kiss, it's there again.

Waiting for him.

Duncan gives a low huff, something like laughter but both softer and rougher. He's smiling, too, though mostly in his eyes.

"Guess."

As if the answer were obvious.

"My guess is that you're driving me stark raving mad with teasing," Luna grins, now playing coy and cutting off the supply of pecks and nuzzles.

Her smile slowly fades as she stares up at him, the shadow of his profile in the dim light is all she can make out but she has the rest nestled somewhere in her mind.

She's silent for a long while, deep in thought and caught beneath him.

"My real guess is more of a wish and it's bad luck to tell wishes."

Duncan goes in search of those tokens of affection, and discovers his embargo. It is a sustained one, too; it lasts throughout her silence, which he - being a gentleman - does not interrupt.

"Your thoughts must be profound, lass," he replies, "to intrude in such a moment."

Women are no more interpretable outside of dreams.

"I'm trying to puzzle you out, Duncan Rowntree," Luna says softly, finally reaching up again to press her lips against his. It's short, sweet, and only just hints at the passion that she's hiding away. Letting go of one of his hands, she reaches up to trace the pads of her fingers against his brow. She follows the line of his cheek bone, her fingers slowly separating to spider over his cheek and jawline.

Her other hand squeezes his gently, then she curls it along with her own against her shoulder. The leather cord she wears rubs against his wrist, its stone cold even though it's constantly pressed against her skin. "You're very difficult to read. Most men, you can see their plans in their eyes… yours, they've got a depth and it could be anywhere in there that hides your truth."

"Perhaps you mistake stillness for depth."

Duncan says this, before turning his head to press a kiss upon the heel of her hand. The contrived grip on her shoulder balances enthusiasm with delicacy.

"Would you want to know my every plan? They are many, and many of them surpassing wild- and foolish- and vain. Like the dreams of all men, when they are wishes."

"I don't think I'm mistaken," she whispers, her eyes close as his lips press against her hand and a soft sigh is let loose. Luna's fingers find his hair and massage through it lightly before finally resting on the back of his neck. "You're a man who is never still. Even as I attempted to seduce you in your dreams, you were ready for something."

It's slow to happen but, sure enough, her eyes open again to look for his in the dark. "I can only hope that it was me you were ready for."

"Lord almighty," Duncan breathes, "but this manner of waking makes me pray that I'm never be truly ready for you."

Now, at last, he leans in to claim a kiss. Close now, he asks.

"Now are you ready for me?"

Capturing her lower lip between her teeth, Luna stares up at him through narrowed eyes. "I pray that you are, Duncan," she counters, her fingers slipping from around his neck and down his chest. A few invisible patterns are drawn on his skin before she clarifies in a somewhat sensual murmur. "Just think of the waking you'd get if you were ready for me."

Her eyes drift down between them until the darkness under the sheet robs her of her view.

"As for me…" Her hand disappears under the covers once again, only to be felt sliding against his side, over his hip, and onto the small of his back. "I'm yours and always ready."

What they say! Everything but the thing itself.

"Words-" Duncan says and in so doing, abandons them.