milliways_bar | (no subject)

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It's another quiet night for the Brucolac--but aren't they all, here? No political crises or outbreaks of crime to demand his attention, no 'welcome to Armada' speeches to give, no one trying to summon monsters through portals to other worlds.

Well, the door here lets in what it lets in, and his definition of 'monster' is subjective anyway.

So here he is, doing a bit more scrimshaw. This time it's going to be a knife-handle, and the scene he's carving into it is from the Pirate Wars; it shows a Crobuzoner ship vainly, with magic and cannons, trying to fend off a ship that looks remarkably like his own. Whether this scene actually happened, and in the way he's depicting it, there's no one left alive to say. The benefits of being very old...

Totally botherable.

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It was a quiet night.

"I have to say," Loki begins as he sits down right next to him on the couch, "I've been admiring your tongue from across the room, so I had to come over and experience it up close for myself. You know, it's been twenty-three years since I said that to a man, and now here we are."

Mind you, that previous experience did not involve a snaketongue, so this is already better. It's not often he gets to see something new.

Somebody's certainly friendly, isn't he.

But his scent is familiar, and so is something about the way he looks. Also, a few more chances to admire the snaketongue as the vampir tries to figure out just why he's familiar, so everybody wins.

"It's been about that long since someone's said that to me," he says with a small smile. "Interesting choice of flattery. Have we met?"

"Indirectly, I think. A mutual friend... but he never mentioned your tongue."

He wants one just like it. Is that so wrong? He's got baggage where snakes are concerned, but just look at that. The proportions are perfect.

"Or much else, really, besides that you're not much of a morning person. But daylight's overrated anyway; I do my best work at night."

"What work do you do, experiencing people's tongues?"

It's drawn him a lot of attention, over the centuries. It may as well draw fascination from attractive people, to balance out all the revulsion he's gotten. He may be staring a little too intently at it, though.

"I'm afraid you've got the advantage here. He never mentioned you at all, which is a pity. I bet it's quite a story."

"I don't experience tongues professionally anymore, sailor," he grins. "These days it's more of a hobby--a very enthusiastic hobby, though. It's important to keep up with all the latest developments."

His words are basically on autopilot, while he focuses his attention on the vampir's mouth. No visible fangs, that's good. Easier to replicate in casual, nonthreatening ways. If you've got fangs, people expect to be bitten and, in his experience, get disappointed if you don't do it.

"Can you stick it out? I want to see all of it."

This man is just so fascinated, like a child studying some unfamiliar but beautiful insect, and his fascination is hard to resist.

After all, he's on shore leave. If some strange and attractive stranger comes up to him and asks to see his tongue, why would he ever refuse, unless the Lovers were also there?

So he does as asked, holding his long forked snaketongue out for him to see.

"This is the second-filthiest conversation I've ever had in here," he says, dropping his voice to a whisper that matches the vampir's as he leans even closer for a better look.

Only the second-filthiest. He should fix that.

"That's the biggest one I've ever seen--how do you fit it all in your mouth?"

Oh, he can play this game too.

"Well, it can take some getting used to at first," he says, returning his tongue to its normal position. "Depending on the size of your mouth of course, and what you're used to having in it. Some people adjust quickly. I certainly did."

"I've got no gag reflex, if that's what you mean," he says, with an even bigger grin.

When your shape's as malleable as his is, normal human physical reactions like that don't affect you anymore. He's not ticklish either, and never was.

"I could fit one in my mouth, no problem. In fact, I could fit two."

"Two? Now that's just being greedy."

He's not staring at his tongue anymore; that's better. There's nothing wrong with being drawn to a certain body part, but there's generally a person attached to that part, and most people don't like being reduced to just one thing.

"Well, I was thinking yours and mine. That's two."

There are other ways to study someone's tongue, of course. But this one's faster, less awkward, and much more enjoyable--why settle for just looking when you can feel? He'll need to know how it moves, if he's going to have one of his own.

It's just like the old days, when he was young and alive and cruising the dockside pubs for a little fun. He can see why Ganymede would like this one--he's got a spark about him, something playful, something unpredictable.

"Moon's Tits, are you that flexible?" he whispers with a chuckle.

He attempts to look shocked. It doesn't quite work. "I don't know what you're thinking--I'm still talking about tongues."

So round one goes to Loki, which pleases him almost as much as the fact that he's about to get a new body modification. He loves new things.

"But yes. Yes I am."

And with that, he kisses him.

It's not like any other kiss he's had--well, he clearly knows what he's doing, but the technique is strange, involving much more direct contact than he's used to, and is that--

--is he changing to copy his snaketongue? A strange shifting feeling and--

Well.

That's a weird feeling.

And here is Loki making a face like a cat trying to spit up a pill, as though that will make his new tongue fit better. It's not a body part he changes very often, and without changing the shape of the inside of his mouth too, it just feels wrong.

"How do you," he begins, then changes thoughts mid-sentence as he realizes how marble-mouthed he sounds, "how do you talk?"

Edited 2013-04-21 02:00 (UTC)

"I enunciate," he says with a shrug and a smile. "Quite well, in fact. You should hear the speeches I give before leading my citizens into battle--they're quiet, but they're stirring."

He's trying very hard not to laugh at the faces Loki is making. It serves him right, for being a tease.

"I have a lisp, too," he says. "Either I have a lisp or you can't understand a word I'm saying. You don't do that. What are you doing that I'm not doing?"

Staring at the vampir's mouth again, as though that will somehow enlighten him. Sure, he could practice and figure it out on his own, but this is more fun.

Also, it involves company.

"I can't see what you're doing in there, but you're probably tensing up and trying to overcompensate for that. Just relax, and let your tongue go where it goes."

It was a much more gradual adjustment for him, when he'd been turned. As the sickness had taken hold, he hadn't had anyone to talk to, so he'd gotten used to the feel of it before he was called on to use it.

Relaxing. He can do that. It even seems to help a little; he tries flicking it out, though his doesn't have any particular special sensory abilities. Maybe later, for that.

"Where does yours go? Let me see--here, talk to me."

He sticks a finger in the vampir's mouth, from the side, to try to feel where he positions his tongue.

That's not the first time somebody's done that to him, but it is the first time it's been done by somebody who's apparently just gone handfirst through an entire spice market.

He pushes his hand away, making a few faces of his own. "Where's your finger been, on fire?"

He takes a cautious lick of the finger in question.

"Oh, I had some hot salsa before. But that was hours ago, I can barely taste it now."

Then again, he's only got an average sense of taste. Maybe that wasn't such a good idea.

"I didn't touch any with my other hand, though..."

"That moment is passed."

He waves a waitrat over, to order himself a glass of the one thing he can drink, in the hopes that it'll get rid of the taste. Not that he minds spicy foods--he liked them, when he was able to eat--but he likes having some control over it.

"But you're sounding clearer now, so my suffering hasn't been in vain. Next time, wash your hands first."

"'Next time'? So you'll let me do it again?"

That's got potential. And now he's got ideas.

"I've got something upstairs that I think can make up for all your suffering, sailor... if you're feeling brave, anyway."

He raises an eyebrow. Nobody questions his bravery.

"I can match you all the way," he says. "I'll try anything once, more than that if I enjoy it, and nerve is never an issue."

"Then consider yourself pressganged," he says with a grin, rising to his feet again. "Let's go burn things."

Technically, that is what he has in mind.

He offers him a hand.

"Pressganged," he repeats, slipping his carving and tools into the pockets of his coat. "Never been pressganged before, though I've certainly done it to others."

He takes his hand and stands as well, before reaching to collect the glass the waitrat has brought him. He may need this energy.

"Well, now's your chance to be on the receiving end," he says, tugging him along toward the elevator. "Me, I go both ways. I always have--depending on the people I'm with and the situation I'm in."

He was actually pressganged once--at least once, and captured a few other times. Not exactly enjoyable, but that's not what he has in mind.

"You know that many sailors, do you?"

He sips from his glass as they walk. Better to drink it down in a hurry than to have to carry it along upstairs with him; anyway, it's helping with the taste of the spices.

"We've all got a bit of a rough streak in us; we have to, it's not an easy life. But that's not all we are."

"I've known a lot of sailors in my time," he says. "Big, burly, bearded, axe-wielding sailors. They'd carry off anyone who wasn't quick enough, and sometimes I was and sometimes I wasn't."

You don't get to choose the culture that worships you.

The elevator doors open, and he pulls him inside.

"Tell me, do you know Morse code?"

He's known his own share of sailors like that.

Well, minus the axes. They're more into flintlocks and cutlasses these days.

"Can't say that I do," he says as the doors close.

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