golden_lyre | The Drowning Fiddler

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eurydice

The Drowning Fiddler

The Drowning Fiddler is a little pub in Earl's Court that Orpheus has been visiting, on and off, for about two hundred years now. In more recent decades, the basement has been remodeled to double as a concert venue, and a number of bands who went on to be famous got their start on its cramped stage. Having spent a good deal of time and a good deal of coin at the bar, Orpheus has come to know the owner, Martin, well enough that he's occasionally asked to fill in for any musicians who back out at the last minute or on any nights when the stage isn't booked.

(Orpheus suspects that Martin keeps nights open when business isn't going well, so Orpheus can help him pick up the slack. Orpheus doesn't mind. He always puts a little encouragement to drink in his music when he plays. Martin deserves it.)

It's a Wednesday night, and though that's the Fiddler's least busy night in general, the room is packed. There wasn't a lot of time for advertising, but since the advent of social media (something Orpheus still can't quite get his head around), a few hours is all the notice needed to fill a room when he plays.

There's no amplification system because Orpheus never needs one, and there's no one to introduce him. He just sidles onto the stage, whiskey in one hand, cigarette in the other, and takes a seat on a wooden stool. As he settles himself (whiskey on an unused amplifier, guitar in his lap, still lit cigarette tucked between two strings), the room gradually quiets, but anyone still speaking comes to a hush when Orpheus starts to play.

He starts off with something quiet, something that feels like a Wednesday night, a needed breath of fresh air and freedom in the middle of the week. The room relaxes in the wake of it, as if communally exhaling in relief, and Orpheus smiles, loving the moment he knows he has the audience in the palm of his hand.

A quick sip of whiskey, a couple of drags on his cigarette as he retunes his guitar, and then he plays what they all came here to hear.

Something to dance to.

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His lips move up her throat, tongue teasing out over her skin. His movements are slow, lazy, and he hums against her skin, affectionate and pleased. "Of that I have no doubt." He kisses just behind her ear.

"You have a particular gift for it." Like no one else he's been with. Even Apollo.

A delicious shiver rolls through her as his mouth tastes her skin, followed by a pleasured shudder when he hums. His voice never fails to move her.

Her smile doesn’t leave her face, her fingers sliding through his hair and over his shoulders as she tightens her thighs a little around his waist.

“I do,” she agrees. Then, unable to resist the joke, she adds, “Though I like to think I’m a good dancer, too.”

"You," Orpheus whispers into her skin, "are not a good dancer." He drags his lips down her throat and along her shoulder. "You are a superlative dancer." He lifts his head to look at her, his gaze fond, adoring, worshipful. "Your body moves as if it were made of music itself, and I have never seen anything so beautiful."

His hands slid to her hips, then along her thighs. "Nor has anything ever made me so hard as seeing you dance for me."

"Oh..." Oh, that's really nice. Really nice.

"You woo me so easily, my love." Her smile could light the darkest night. "Shall I tell you that each time I dance, it is only ever for you?"

Her hips tilt in the wake of his hands, nestling closer to him.

Seph filches a last piece of fish and trots into another room.

That smile lit many of his darkest nights in the millennia they were apart. Seeing it in the flesh sends his heart soaring, losing its rhythm for a breath before coming back to itself. When her hips tilt, his arch up with her, and he tugs up her shirt, splaying his hand across her back, palm pressed to warm skin.

"Each time I play it is for you," he answers, breathless from her smile. "When we perform together, it creates such a marvelous feedback." His other hand slides up her stomach, under her shirt, to the swell of her breast.

It’s how he can know it’s true love. She’s heard his music in her mind for every minute she was without him, after all. Only time and style blurred her recollection that first night; that, and the sheer impossibility of what turned out to be glorious truth.

Her breath hitches as his hips cant after hers, the firm pressure of his cock against her with just the tiniest hint of friction sends warmth right through her.

“You honour me,” she sighs in delight. It’s followed by a slightly more vocal sigh as his hand cups her breast, and her nipple hardens before he even reaches it. “Though I’m consistently surprised we haven’t started an orgy...”

She’s willing to bet a lot of people go home and duck their brains out, though.

Since the first moment he saw her, Orpheus has never doubted this was true love, that for the rest of his life, he would never love another woman, never love another soul as he loved her.

She moves over him, and her sigh is echoed by his, satisfaction--that touch of relief he feels any time he's assured, yet again, that this is real, that she's with him in this life.

"It's consistently a struggle for me not to, when I'm watching you dance. I think, however, that we may be responsible for many children being born in the next year." He smiles up at her, his thumb finding her nipple, teasing over it. "It's consistently a struggle for me not to start an orgy every time I see you."

Destiny, she thinks that’s called. The gods (and her fellow nymphs) knew her heart was for no one else once she’d met him. A tragedy had befallen them, but they’ve paid their dues.

“Some venues are probably inappropriate for orgies,” she agrees, thinking of Covent Garden, among other places. Though the dressing rooms are often hotbeds of hookups. His thumb finds her nipple and she makes a quiet sound of need, pushing her breast into his hand, which also pushes their hips more firmly together. That induces a gasp at the increased pressure. “Your restraint is admirable. I’m ok with being responsible for all the babies, though.”

Not theirs just yet. One day.

She pulls her top off, leaving her in only pink boy shorts that say “I believe in unicorns” on the front.

"May they will all be raised in as much love as they were conceived in." He hasn't thought of having children of his own in so long the thought doesn't even occur to him.

The way she moves to his touch is like a miracle in itself, that another person could know him so well, move with his body like they are one creature. Her shirt comes off, and he leans in to close his lips around her nipple, sucking gently, before moving away, dragging his lips along the curve of her breast.

He starts to hum, a low, sensual tune, and he rolls his hips up in rhythm with it.

She's sure they will be. Or at least, she hopes so. And perhaps one day it will come up. Not for a long while, though. She'd rather have him to herself as much as she can, for now - cats and neighbours notwithstanding.

She moves like that because this is the oldest dance of all. Eurydice dances for him alone, regardless of her audience.

Gasping softly as his lips tease and taste her breasts, Ree lets her fingers wander along his shoulders, feeling the play of muscles beneath his skin as he shifts gently beneath her. A deep shudder rolls through her when he starts to hum, and her head tilts back in sheer pleasure, her long curls skimming over his shins and swaying as their hips roll slowly together. At some point, she will tilt her chin to drop a kiss into his hair if the angle is right. At another, she'll note their muddled and faded reflection in the tuba he'd brought home and smile gently. At yet another, she'll moan softly in response to the desire his voice and touch are building in her body.

Every sound, every movement of her body stokes his desire. His lips trail over her neck and shoulders, following a path too familiar to have ever been forgotten, yet he traces his way like he's filling in the lines of a map, faded with too much use. His tongue teases around her breast, tasting her skin, marveling again at the changes brought simply through living in the twenty-first century.

His hands trace a mirroring path over her back, under her curls and up her neck, down to her hips to rock with her, his erection, trapped in his jeans, growing insistently with each touch, each kiss, each sound.

Her body has changed in this new world, but only because dancers are now athletes. She's lost none of her sunlit grace, nor the smoothness of her skin, but beneath it is muscle. Eurydice has an elegant strength, now, and has far more control of her body than she's ever had before, even with the talent she was born possessing.

The path of his tongue is tantalising, and her nipple peaks in aching need, the delicate skin puckered and hard as he tastes her breast. A tiny whimper falls from her lips when she thinks he's going to take it in his mouth, but then doesn't, and she rocks a little more urgently against the bulge of his cock trapped behind denim.

"I'm of two minds about denim," she sighs, curling her back so she can reach to kiss his jaw.

It suits her, the changes, bringing a physical strength to a delicate beauty to match the strength of her spirit, something he's coming to respect more and more. He'd thought he could not be more in love with his wife, but every day with her proves that wrong.

Tilting his head toward her lips, he laughs, a sound tinged with desire. "Only two?" He's been wearing denim practically since jeans were invented, though not for any practical reasons. Not for at least a century.

She's glad he thinks so. She quite likes seeing how he's grown into this modern age, too - though she misses the simplicity of their lives when first they met, the world is so much bigger than she ever knew, and she gets to see it all with him. Eurydice could not be any happier than she is now... until tomorrow, when she'll have lived another day with him to increase her happiness.

"Mmm, it's probably seven?" she muses, catching his bottom lip with her teeth for a moment. "Maybe more. But mostly it's that I like it, except that I can't get to you through it."

The grinding is lovely, but there are actual layers and a metal zip in the way of where she once used to simply reach down and gently grasp.

He makes a noise as her teeth catch his lip, a dark sound, leaning toward hungry. With a low hum, he kisses down the column of her throat, arm curled around her back so he can lay her down on the floor like an offering to Venus.

"Shall I start wearing kilts? Sarongs? Then your friends will tease you even more." He doesn't mind if she doesn't. He'll wear anything she asks him to. He misses the ease of access for both of them, the way he could untie a cord and have her bared for him.

That first sound is one she loves, prompting a breathy chuckle of delight in response, but his humming always sends shivers of delight through her and this time is no different. It’s shown off by the arch of her back as he lays her down before him.

“I think you’ll be cold in a sarong,” she points out, rolling her hips against his denim-guarded erection. The cotton of her panties catches slightly on the tougher fabric. “A kilt has merit.”

She grins wickedly at the thought, knowing he’s likely to wear it traditionally.

“Anyway, if they laugh it’s because neither of us changed our names.”

His eyes close briefly as she moves against him. She knows him, like no one else has, making even the simplest touch exactly what he craves. Slowly, one at a time, he flicks open the buttons on his jeans, eyes on her, twinkling in mischievous delight. "In London? I would be cold, yes. But I could pick up a kilt tomorrow."

To wear traditionally, of course.

Bending over her, he drops kisses along her collarbone. "I would take your name, my love. I would take anything you asked of me."

She wriggles in anticipatory pleasure when he opens his fly; so very little separates them now - her ridiculous underwear, and whatever patience they have left. Good things come to those who wait. Today, anyway. Tomorrow, she might just prefer to jump him. Especially if he has a kilt. Worn traditionally. She might like to crawl up under it.

The name thing is mostly why she only uses Eurydice professionally... and with him. Too many mangle it, and too many know what they think is myth, especially when they meet him. So Ree is easier. Dee would be better, but language is messy. Technically, they both have made up surnames.

"Mama would be happy if you took my name," she sighs, and nuzzles his hair. "But since you gave permission and said anything, I really think you should take me. Now. Here. On the floor, in honour of your tuba."

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The Drowning Fiddler

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Love how my phone is fine with cock, but not fuck

it censors foul language, not fowl language

i lol'd

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