The South Waterfront is full of humanity coming and going. It is lined with galleries, cafes, shops all along the waterfront, stretching from Gabriel's Wharf through Waterloo. He can imagine it is overwhelming to you, so he walks slowly to give you a chance to get the necessary case of whiplash...
When he was younger, more wiry, he could get away with wearing his father's oversized blazers with his own military insignia emblazoned on it, t-shirts and jeans. But the broader he's become, the less that look has suited him. He wears a button-down white shirt, the cuffs left undone and a pair of well-worn (and in some places, fraying) jeans and a pair of substantial shoes (rounded toe Doc Martens). It puts him midway between royalist rocker and nouveau punk, with his fiery hair cropped short and mussed every which way. Thick, it stands up on its own. In fact, he didn't even do anything to it. He woke up looking like this. All he did was shower and throw on some clothes.
Walking down the promenade, hands in his pockets, Iowerth Rhudd Draig is both people and ship watching. There are several houseboats moored along the wharfs. "The realtor told me the previous occupant was ...quite artistic. He said the whole ship's painted rather fantastical, with blinking Christmas lights strung up year round." His mouth cuts a wry slant. "I'm not sure about that."
Iowerth Rhudd Draig isn't exactly a twinkly light sort of fellow...
He's still narrower than you (and always will be), but he is not the willowy slim youth that he was. Tiernan has had to select a last name for paperwork - an official sort of identity for an unofficial young man. Right now he is clad in a snug rugby jersey in dark blue and white, the white colour jutting up and looking a bit unkempt. His jeans are clean and still new enough to not yet show creases, shoes similar to your own on his feet. If he looks a trifle prep to your punk, can you blame him?
He likes how you look when you first wake up. You know this because of his efforts to coax you back to bed after your shower, mouth roaming over your skin before pleasure is reluctantly put aside in favour of business. He's found a pair of unkempt-looking sunglasses, currently resting atop his head.
"We can get rid of the lights," Tiernan answers simply, "and if the paint job's too ... outre, it's nothing we can't strip and repaint." A lot of work, perhaps. But he never minds hard work. He grins at you for a moment, then returns his blue-eyed attention to his surroundings. Looking out for pickpockets, for bicyclists - for a wealth of new things and potential dangers. "If they're so artistic as all that, we'll just have to be on the look-out for novelty items which don't work the way they should."
And for hidden video cameras - but that hasn't occurred to him. Prince Tiernan, temporarily Tiernan 'Terry' Coxswain (a joke between the two of you) is not known for twinkling, either. Nor is he yet camera-conscious.
The ship is close to the center of action in Gabriel's Wharf (he will definitely have to change that) and it can't be missed. While the lights haven't been on in a while, the ship is nevertheless brilliantly adorned. Painted a midnight blue with waves and all -- it's like the ship knew that the captain of oceans was going to purchase it himself.
"That has to be it," Iowerth drawls. He withdraws a hand from his jeans' pockets and looks at the piece of paper to look at the moorage numbers. "The Dreamcatcher," he says outloud. He looks to you, then looks to the ship a moment before boarding.
It doesn't have the grandeur of a tall ship, but none of the modern ships do. As Iowerth moves upon the metal deck, he is reminded of that. Still it sits well. He listens to the ship speak to him as he moves upon it. "I think we will have to paint it. It's showing some weathering. It should be treated anyway."
Iowerth walks from bow to stern, slowly assessing. "It was used in World War Two," he notes. Then he pauses. "Do you know much about mortal history? There was a great war, well...two actually, between the nations of Europe, the United States and Japan. This ship saw some action, it was a submarine hunter."
Iowerth heads slowly toward the cabin. "We should look below deck. We will likely need to change much of the decor. If the exterior is any indication..."
An eyebrow lifts, and he moves to follow you without making a comment. He is already deciding what the best way would be to attack those lights. "I'd vote for a name change as well," Tiernan murmurs. He is not in the business of catching dreams. Nor of advertising to the world his - or your - agenda.
You explain about history, and he listens with a bit of a blank look. "I ... think I read about something like that. A big land war, wasn't it? Germany getting greedy. And murderous." That much he remembers. Fairy history books are extremely varied. And there was little reason for him to study the history of the mortal realm; he does not even know himself, in truth, to be human.
You walk from bow to stern, and he stands his ground, assessing what he sees. Appraising. He moves to follow you into the below deck areas. "How is it hooked up for cold storage?" Tiernan wonders. "How spacious is it below deck? It seems in general, fairly small." He sniffs cautiously. "I don't smell any rot, though."
"I'd hope not, it's made of steel," Iowerth grins. "Though... you might want to start sniffing out rust. I think it's worthy... what I'm feeling isn't structural so much as it is... aesthetic. But that is easy to alter. It definitely has been used in the past... beyond its military history."
He waves you to follow him into the cabin, opening the door for you to reveal the stairs that lead below deck. "It has some storage, probably more than it has been using. It was used in the service, it had to provide for men at sea."
Below deck, he can see the modernization. "Someone had a thing for the Mediterranean Sea, I see," he murmurs quietly. "I would want to change the decor... it's not... as I would have it. But the bar's huge," he grins suddenly. "At least they had their priorities in line. I like the bar, actually. I wouldn't change that. But... I'd darken the rest. It's a bit too..."
His hands motion as he struggles to find the right word...
"Light and airy..." Iowerth continues through the large open area, heading toward the galley. He disappears into it. The galley is large.. more than adequate. We can update it. Newer electronics. He reemerges. "It feels solid. The ship..." He communes with ships, he gestures with his hands as if it were a living thing joining in the conversation, "... is sound. I think ... you and I can use a little magic to ... rework the interior aesthetic, something more modern. Less... hmmm... beach resort than this. And I can refit the guns..." Winking, he puts his finger to his mouth. Shhh... don't tell anyone.
"Shall we take a look at the bedroom? It is a houseboat now," Iowerth grins. "It's the most important room in the ship..."
He follows you with a prodigious sniff. "No rust," Tiernan allows, "though there's probably a few spots on the outside, under the paint. Sea water corrodes." He grins suddenly, giving you such a look - I am telling you this? And he moves to catch up to you, grabbing hold of the back of your belt.
He can't help himself, you see. You're there - and it's a permissible sort of contact between young men, potentially rowdy. "That's a nice bar," he allows, reluctant in his approval. It's his job to look out for your interests, to be cautious in your name. "Is it still stocked? It looks almost as if the owner might pop in at any moment. - How much are they asking for this, anyway?"
Chary with your money, your princely consort is. Tiernan lets go again, turning away in a slow circle. He's completed but half its radius, moving over to one of the sofas and pushing a hand against it skeptically. One eyebrow crooks again. "Hm."
"We'll have to try them out before we get rid of them," he says aloud; then you get a look of such incredulous innocent. Did he actually speak those words? And he grins at you, straightening. "We'll make it something a little more ... workmanlike, for two such as we. But sleek."
A hand is waved, then clapped to the back of his head. "Lead on," Tiernan agrees, moving to open the door for you. "Let's see what the bedroom's like. We'll want a control room," he continues, thinking to himself, really. "Something for navigation. Protected from the elements. I've been reading up on some of the things used here, in this day and age. Fascinating stuff."
"The owner was unexpectedly called away," Iowerth notes. "The realtor said he is not likely to be able to return to London and so must part with it. A fanciful fellow, I'd say. I like the sitar, we'll definitely keep that. Hmm... we could turn it into something ... Eastern. Decorate of the things captures from the Eastern Kingdoms and... some collectibles from the earthly India and Arabia."
A fiery eyebrow lifts as he approaches the large circular bed. He presses at the surface and it ripples. "I think you might get seasick on this, lover." Iowerth chuckles, glancing back at you. "Hmm... the pricetag... one-hundred-and-fifty thousand pounds. It's considered a domicile at this point. As well as a historical collectible. Considering the price of flats in London, still reasonable. Relatively."
He wanders toward the bathroom. "I think whomever it was spent most of his time in the tub. Take a look at this, Tiernan." Coxswain. Tierry Coxswain. He still chuckles to think of it. He waves you over to him. "You know how I like to sit and soak," he murmurs. "We will change the colors, hmm... do you think you could be comfortable here?"
And suddenly he is asking you for your opinion, oh advisor, his arms surrounding you, locking behind your back. "Do you think you could make it your home with me? Our first home together." It is a big decision. He bends slightly to kiss you.
He whistles soundlessly. It's a lot of money. Absently, he reaches into his back pocket, as if to check his wallet. "Well, I think I'm a little short that kind of money, but I'll try to contribute where I can. Physical labour, mostly." He grins at you, heading over to the bed, trailing behind you as you wander. He is in no hurry.
The bed ripples, and he notes it. "Mm. I don't get sea-sick. If I did, I would have been in trouble before now. But .... yes ... I favour something with a little more firmness. I could always just sleep on top of you, though." Problem solved. See? No wonder you love him!
He is in a mood, today; something puckish, something fey touching him. You receive another grin. Perhaps he is just something unusual. Perhaps he is just - happy.
How often does royalty get to be happy, after all? He follows you to the bath, peering over your shoulder and past you. And then you are turning, and he is blinking; his direction averted, his thoughts diverted. "I ..."
A sigh for your kiss, and a hand lifts to cup your face; his thumb, dragged along the line of your jaw. He kisses you in return, taking his time. His answer can wait. He tastes your lips, teases at the seam of them, and only then does he speak.
"I think I could make do," Tiernan murmurs in answer to you. "It would be a lot of work. But I like to work. There are many things to be changed, some things to be kept as they are. But I think we should make note of what we want changed, and," his hands drift down along your back, settling firmly on your rear and pulling you in against him, "the best way to do that is to test everything thoroughly before we buy it. How else will we know it's ship-shape and sound, or how much to try to shave off their asking price?"
He is only looking out for your best interests, after all.
"Between the two of us, we will fix it in short order. Some magic," he whispers against your mouth, "... is permitted. Under certain, specific, circumstances. I will have to put my machinist and inventor to work." That's you, Tiernan 'Terry' Coxswain.
He chuckles after the checking of your wallet. "Hmm... don't worry about it. I want you saving your money for materials. I pay for the ship, you help with the refitting. How is that for a deal? Acceptable?"
He laughs (and rarely does he laugh out loud, even with you, but you have heard it where few others have), as you grab him and pull him against you. "I think you have already tested this part of the ship," the captain. "What do you wish to test, Terry," he teases you with your nickname, but in truth... he likes having one for you. His name is so much easier to shorten than yours is. "The bar?"
He grins even as he says it. He doubts you wish to test the bar. But it is one of the larger features of the ship. "Hmm... and tell me... how much you would offer as a first bargaining position. I was thinking of one-thirty-five, considering the work. And their interest in selling..."
"I will do my best." He is good with his hands. Right now, his hands rove where they will, doing what they can to set things asunder. Your clothing, specifically. A hand works its way up under your shirt, blunted nails rasping along your spine.
His mouth moves against yours, open-mouthed, words begun but not finished. He sucks your lower lip in between his teeth, teasing, toying with it, with you. A hint of bite to torment you, soothed a moment later by suckling. "We could test the bar," Tiernan grunts. "Make sure it's as solid as it looks."
Sooner or later, one of you will have had the other over its surface. That is inevitable. "Or we could see if the bedframe is solid enough to be reused," your lover continues relentlessly. His hands go to your hips, holding you against him so that you can feel what is already starting to stir. He meets your gaze steadily. "Or we could see if there are leaks in the tub. There are many things which will need to be tested, Captain Io. I would not wish to be stinting in my work under you."
No. He wouldn't want that. "As to the matter of offers.." Tiernan loosens his grasp on you, letting you pull away if you want. "I would say to offer no more than one hundred and twenty. Possibly as little as one oh five; citing the moorage space not being fit for repairs, the potential need to take the ship into drydock and the costs attendant to that, the costs of refitting and repainting - to say nothing of the cost of housing during the time which all this work is done. If they are interested in making a hasty sale, there is no harm in testing their greed - and if you have the funds up front rather than through a bank, then you might offer it to them in cash and see how much that will drive down the price." Business. Yes. You cloud his mind with such pleasurable diversions - but he is still your man of business as well as pleasure.
That actually leaves him speechless. He has to double-take, and it's not just because his blood is rushing from his brain to fuel him elsewhere. You have caught him by surprise. He tries to hide it, but he fails. From the moment your hands started to move over him, as if he were just one of your other projects, to that discourse in sales philosophy.
Iowerth blinks, then chuckles, a hand raising to rake through his hair. It only stands more mussed and on end, spiky-fashionable.
"Maybe I should have you make the phone call," his hands return to you, a thigh slipping between your own as you and he decorate one of the walls. "As my... personal representative. Hmm... my advisor is ... quite clever." His hands begin to move against you, callused with his work on the high seas and the abysmal oceans. "Quite handsome... insatiable... all things I admire in a man."
His mouth is at yours, suddenly, parting yours widely in a kiss that erupts out of nowhere, claims yours with lightning electricity. "I want a drink," he breathes at your ear, kiss broken, humming still. "I need a drink," he grins. His leg moves to allow you to press away from the wall. Hand in yours, he leads you with him.
"We should test its overall sea worthiness," Iowerth leads in a drawling tone. A rocking test should do it. He glances at you, grinning in a slant. You feel the hum of magic along with that feel of him remaining at your mouth. The hatch door is locked. Not even the realtor with a key could enter.
His hand in your hand tightens, pulling you to him as he heads into the bar area, the semi-enclosed structure creating a sanctuary for the illicit. It has a temple-like feel. As he pulls you into it with him, his hands come up, your hand freed. He cradles your face, drawing it to him for a savoring taste.
The metal globe that pierces his tongue slides against your own. "We have it all day," he whispers between suckling clasps. "We will... start with the bar...I think..." So many surfaces, so little time...
You receive a look - what? What did I say? And then he grins. "I've had to get ... specialty equipment before," Tiernan notes, "without my mother finding out or putting a stop to it. And that meant doing so as cheaply as I could. Which meant learning a few things about how to drive prices down. One way or another."
He grins at you, his words growing distracted as you make your presence so thoroughly known. His mouth toys against yours; opens as it is opened, that kiss making him groan. And you are pulling away. Bastard. Tiernan narrows his eyes in momentary frustration, then grins as you lead him away.
"I ... began reading up on ships," he confesses to you quietly as you bring him with you to the bar. "When you left for your mother's wedding. I ... wanted to be prepared - for anything." And anything is exactly what he may have to deal with. His eyes close as your hands come up to his face. It is amazing how meek it makes him feel when you do that. How willing to surrender himself to you. How ready for you. For anything.
You kiss him again, his mouth tugging against yours between words. And his hands go to your belt, fingers teasing the tongue of it from the clasp. "The bar," Tiernan agrees huskily. "And ... see where that leads."
He hears it in his ears, in his soul. The rush of sound that comes with the swirling of his blood when you are near. The whirlpools created by his father are no match to this. His hands slide down your face, cradling your neck as his mouth pulls and suckles at your own. He feeds from your lips, your tongue. You are edible, and he devours you.
Swallowing you, like the sea swallows ships...
It has not lessened, this pull between you. It has not grown more gentle, this sea that churns between you, the waves slapping against you as surely you slap against one another. Iowerth bites at your lower lip, tugging his way out of the kiss, hauling himself out of that sea momentarily to remove your shirt with a tug and a yank. He tosses it aside and guides you to the white lounge benches.
Hands on your shoulders guide you to sit and then move to his shirt. Buttons are unbuttoned and seadragons make themselves known, swirling against his skin, visible just above the waistband of the trousers you are unfastening. Broad shoulders roll, and he twists out of his shirt. The white cloth joins the rugby shirt on the floor.
His hand lifts, brushing at your cheek. He cradles your face again, but not to bring your lips to his lips. He cradles it, stroking, as you unfasten the jeans to free him. Will we ever tire of pawing at one another, Iowerth wonders to himself. Will we someday be old men in young bodies, looking at one another as we read, or will we age, in fact, as we are now but more slowly. All you have to do is suggest this, and I am on you...
I am so easily led...
Iowerth smiles down at you. It is as affectionate as it is heated. His hips curl forward, his own arousal now quite evident. His prominent length presses at denim until denim is loosened, letting him spring free.
The belt is tugged free, dropped with a metallic clank to the floor. Your jeans are undone by degrees, fingers made to fumble with eagerness. This need. He's never felt it before you; never felt it without you. Attracted though he is to the exotic allure of Hindi women in their silks and saris, they do not have this pull. He could drown in you, so easily.
He sits on the bar, his hands stroking against your dragons, teasing. He has explored them so many times, and still he never gets tired of it; never runs out of new things to find, secrets to coax out of you with his hands, his lips, his tongue, his teeth. He will not rest until he has found everything. And that will never happen.
What is to be said? How many words are necessary at this point? You touch his face, and Tiernan has trouble keeping his eyes open. It is that affectionate, sensual touch which is his undoing, time and time again. You have touched him like this countless times, and each and every time, he reacts the same; losing himself in it. Giving himself up to you. One hand reaches down for you, sighing as he can caress velvet skin, fingertips and thumb together to lightly tweak the head of your length.
Finally he breaks his self-imposed silence. "I need you," Tiernan whispers, as if this is indeed a temple, and this an altar upon which you might sacrifice him. His hand curves around you, tugging you closer. "What spell you wreak on me, Io, just by being so close. You touch me, and ..."
He goes to pieces. To Hell with sensibilities and self-protection. He has no recourse but to throw them on the blaze and hope that your protection will be good enough...
Posted by rowan at June 11, 2006 03:08 PM
