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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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.

Ganymede smiles, in as much as he can in his current position, and doesn't stop. He wants to know the man whose legs he's sitting between has climaxed, however that presents itself. He doesn't think about how this would have looked to the people he knew when he was mortal--he's had a lot of practice at not thinking about it--but wonders if it's normal for the vampir. It might be, he doesn't have a clue, and it would certainly make trysts in secret places much harder to clue into. At least from one perspective.

He looks up, and for a moment completely forgets where he is, the look on that face above him is so captivating.

His vampir state does make some aspects of lovemaking a little harder to tell; that being one, and the quietness being another. But he gives signals in plenty of other ways.

"I love your... your look of concentration," he whispers.

"--or maybe that's not the right word."

He smiles gently, and hums. "You're beautiful. So very beautiful," he whispers, lips close to the Brucolac's skin. "And I like the way you taste." His hands stroke in light touches, dragging across the moon-pale skin he's strangely aroused by.

"It's not quite concentration. But it's close."

"I like the way you feel."

Which isn't the deepest thought anybody's ever had, but in his defense, his blood is doing other things besides powering his brain right now.

And Ganymede is very close to getting an answer as to how one can tell when he's finished.

He wants it, and even if it isn't messy, he genuinely likes this act, the nature of paying such close attention to someone else's body. His tongue may not be quite as dexterous as the Brucolac's, but it's warm and solid, rubbing against the length filling his mouth.

The answer: aside from the way he arches his back, and the look on his face, both of which make it pretty clear what's going on, his muscles still work even though there's nothing for them to propel.

And the look he has afterward, that breathless and dazed smile...

He doesn't pull back until the spasms stop, and Ganymede kisses his way back up to the vampir's face with that soft-edged smile, tilting his head and brushing his hands over the man's shoulders. "Now that," he murmurs, "Is perfection. The way you look right now...I wish I could keep that look."

The sex might turn him on; the act of sucking another man's cock surely does, but this is another kind of warmth that spreads an entirely different way.

"...well, there are heliotypes," he whispers, pulling him closer. "But I don't think you'd want that preserved forever--you can keep images, but you can't hold on to moments the same way. It loses something."

Though he wouldn't mind holding on to this moment either, if he could. It's peaceful, in ways he does not know at home.

"Not a photograph," he says softly, loving the way the vampir's voice is always such an intimate whisper, soft and low. "I mean all of this. The look you have, the...openness. Everything," Ganymede whispers back, settling into his lap for a moment to play with his hair. He finds it so strangely addictive to touch.

His hair is very nice to touch, and carries a faint scent of--well, not perfume, but whatever it is he washes it with.

"I don't need to put walls up with you," he says. "I can't remember the last time it's been like that, for me--you have no idea how freeing it is. Or maybe you do."

"I... I have some idea," he says, tilting his head to breathe in his scent for a moment. "You're so very different from anyone else I've ever known this way. I know how free feels."

He knows how surprising it is to not play the same part he always has, and part of him wishes it weren't so rare to be able to be only himself.

It's a bit like sandalwood.

"Different worlds," he says. "We don't have expectations of each other, we don't have someone else's image to live up to. We can be ourselves, the way we really are--or the way we once were. Or the way we might have been, if things had been different."

"I like the way you are," he murmurs, tilting his head back for a gentle, almost chaste kiss.

"Turn around. I need your back," Ganymede says. "Can I tie your hair back from your neck?"

"Of course," he says, gathering his hair up--and then just pulling it around over his shoulder and letting it go again, since he hasn't got anything with him to tie it up with. Well, he tried.

"Do you need me lying down, or leaning on something so I don't move, or... just sitting here?"

"Whichever way you feel comfortable," he says, running a hand down the Brucolac's spine as he rises to fetch a piece of knotted ribbon from the side table--he can tie the man's hair back with that.

It's probably best not to ask exactly what it's regularly used for.

"I just need access to your skin, and have you lie still."

He buttons his trousers again, folds his coat up and drapes himself across the arm of the couch, leaning on the bunched-up coat.

Well, lying down flat would take up a lot of room, and this way he can be as still as possible for him.

"I'm very comfortable here," he says.

The boy who'd been on his lap smiles, and picks up one of the narrow paper tubes holding the dye, contemplating his blank canvas for a moment before he begins an abstract design growing outwards from the back of the Brucolac's shoulder, wavelike spirals and crests and little sweeping lines and dots like aborted fingers of detail.

"I should hope so. This could take a while."

"It's lucky I'm not very ticklish," he says with a smile.

In most places, anyway.

And especially not on his flogging scars, which may be more likely to be painted before the much more sensitive back of his neck is.

"Would you let me paint you, when you're done?"

"Of course," he answers, hands steady as he paints and shades, crosshatching and thickening lines as the whims come to do so; he has no real plan for what it'll look like when he's done, but Ganymede's done this before. He'll know.

"Were you ever ticklish before?" he asks. "When you were young."

"I was," he admits, though you wouldn't know it by how completely relaxed he is right now no matter how much he is touched.

(Though some of that relaxation may just be the result of... recent activities.)

"When I was a child. Less so as I got older, and had more experience with touch; and now, hardly at all. A side effect of being more sensitive, I suppose, though you'd think it would be the other way around."

Ganymede is fully prepared to see when those effects wear off, too. "I used to be horribly ticklish in certain spots," he admits. "And I still am in some of them."

He won't necessarily be telling the Brucolac where. Half the fun is finding out on your own, after all. "You seem quite at ease with this, perhaps I simply haven't hit any of your sensitive spots yet," he teases.