milliways_bar | (no subject)

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There is in Milliways an immortal who is busy looking over papers and setting the affairs contained on them in order for an absence of his; at his elbow there's a large mug of coffee, brewed strong and black, but he's not drinking it.

No, on the contrary it has cinnamon sticks, black peppercorns, cloves and cumin powder in it, and while the smell is very aromatic, the taste isn't very good at all. But it serves its purpose as he's mixing henna dye paste, testing the mix every few minutes to see how easily and darkly it dyes. Depending on when you come by, he may be in progress of a tattoo on one hand up to the wrist.

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"Barefoot," he says. "Tousled. Tanned. Looking around with a sense of wonder--it's a beautiful morning, surely just one of many such mornings. A wonder that the entire sky could fit over your courtyard, but somehow it did."

"You have quite the imagination," Ganymede murmurs, tilting his face up just so he can look at the Brucolac. "I can imagine you... As a young man, playing at the water's edge with other boys, smiling, snatching a kiss here or there."

"Chasing each other along the beach, wrestling there just where the water met the shore--so whoever was losing would end up getting dunked as the waves came in."

And they were beautiful.

"Oh, I can see that like it was right in front of me," he murmurs, kissing his lover's cheek.

"You'd look absolutely breathtaking."

"I haven't gotten to do that in years," he says.

The last time he'd gone running along a beach with anyone, it had been Uther Doul--but they were in battle, and they certainly hadn't been wrestling each other.

"Is the beach where you live suited for that?"

He smiles. "It is. It's incredible for that, actually." He's never played that game before--never had anyone to play it with--but suddenly he misses it like it was a favorite activity.

"Let me paint you, and when you're dry we can play," Ganymede smiles, amazingly and surprisingly seductive when he says it.

"We'll have to wrestle then, on your beach."

He'll probably lose. He often played to lose, in those days; it's one of the few games he knows where a man can lose and still come out a winner. Have some strong, beautiful young man on top of him, pinning him to the beach? He'll count that a victory.

He slips his coat off, and starts unbuttoning his shirt. "How much do you need me to take off?" he asks.

"For the actual painting, or for the process of getting you to lie still?" he questions with a crooked smile. "Come sit on the couch first."

His mouth--he's been told--was practically built for sex. He intends to put it to good use.

He does have a lovely mouth. And a lovely everything else.

"For any of it," he says, folding his coat and draping it over the side of the couch, then taking a seat as instructed. "But I'm yours to command."

"You give me such power," he murmurs, first unbuttoning the Brucolac's shirt, kissing the hollow of his throat once the silver clasps are undone. "Sit back, and spread your legs a bit."

Ganymede slides to his knees gracefully, pushing the shirt off fully and beginning to undo his belt.

He unbuckles his baldric and slides it off, setting it--and the cutlass and flintlock it holds--aside.

It's weaponry not very well suited for sitting on couches, and certainly not like this.

With that done, he settles back contentedly.

He kisses the vampir's stomach gently, the point of his tongue flicking against his navel before he moves lower. Ganymede's hands work at undoing the buttons on his trousers, moving to pull them off.

"You've done this for me, I want to return the favor," he murmurs.

Getting undressed is kind of a production for him; he's got his knee-high boots over his trousers, and button-fly drawers underneath. But it's easy enough to unbutton to access things.

"That's very thoughtful of you," he whispers.

If it was easy, it wouldn't be nearly as rewarding to do it.

But Ganymede does chuckle and pulls his boots off, obviously practiced at undressing another man. He likes it, though, and leaves the trousers on, just unbuttoning them. "Do you like having it done?" he asks, looking up through his lashes.

"I do," he admits. "It's not something I have done very often--it's probably been ten, fifteen years. You can tell people exactly how the infection is spread, and how it isn't, but they'll still be afraid."

"You have nothing to worry about from me biting you," he says with the ghost of a smile. "Not that I plan on biting you."

Not now, anyway. Ganymede opens his mouth to lick a slow stripe along his length once the impeding fabrics are pushed aside; he's very, very good at this particular act. He takes the man into his mouth slowly, still maintaining eye contact, wanting to feel him harden in his mouth. It was one of the best parts.

"That's not exactly what they were worried about," he whispers, but really, it doesn't matter.

He knows how it works, and he knows they're safe, and here he's got someone willing, even eager, and above all unafraid--well, it doesn't take long for things to heat up.

Idly he wonders what would've happened if he'd had his pierced the way some sailors he'd been with had. No doubt Ganymede could have done quite a lot with that.

"What was it, then?" he asks, barely whispering as he pulls back, using his hands for a moment. He's good at what he does, and in a whole lot of ways.

Though a piercing would have been interesting, he hums contentedly without it, tongue pressed to the heavy length in his mouth. It's good, and he likes this, being able to take control and still be submissive.

He's very good at what he does--even at his age, these are some techniques that are new to him, and to call them enjoyable is to understate things. A lot.

"Fluids," he manages to whisper after a moment. "But I don't have any."

Now that's new--Ganymede can honestly say he's never been with anyone who simply didn't have fluids, but he supposes it makes sense. Idly, he kisses the insides of the Brucolac's thighs and strokes his hips.

"Really?"

"Not for three hundred years," he says. "I do have other fluids, just not that. I hope you don't mind."

Sure, there are things that he can't do. But he's never been with anybody who missed it to the point of it being a dealbreaker. It's just another peculiarity.

He makes a little noise, contemplative and curious. "I don't. It's different," he murmurs. "But not bad." He isn't sure if he misses it, really--the times when he wants to feel that so definitely are few and very far between.

The more he learns of those peculiarities, the more he wants to know them all.

"I'm afraid I'll never be a father again," he says.

But then, once was enough.

And he waits just long enough before adding, "But I doubt you'd want to be a mother anyway."

"Mothers never did this when I was mortal," he says, managing the words after he sits back on his heels, knees spread provocatively wide. Ganymede smiles and rests his arms across the vampir's lap, and his chin on his crossed arms. No, this kind of act was only ever gotten from whores or mistresses, or slaves.

Ganymede certainly fits at least two of those criteria. "And I don't think you'd want me to stop," he smiles slowly, shifting forward again and taking his lover back into his mouth as far as he can. He's welcome to being proved wrong, but he's willing to bet he won't be.

"It's not the most effective way of becoming a mother," he whispers, before it suddenly gets a lot more difficult for him to form coherent thoughts.

In his defense, it's not like he ever had that much experience with non-sailor-affiliated women when he was alive, and morals and customs in Armada aren't very restrictive. And it's certainly not something his fellow sailors were opposed to doing...

And by the look in his eyes, it's pretty clear he likes where this is going and wants it to continue.