igrab
in
grabi_hands
♒ In Other Words • Zeus/Ganymede
In Other Words
Zeus/Ganymede
640 words • written for chibinecco to the tune of Frank Sinatra's Fly Me to the Moon
Fly me to the moon
Let me play among the stars
Let me see what spring is like
On Jupiter and Mars
Late fifties. They've just moved to New York, and all of Olympus stirs with the new possibilities, but none so much as Ganymede. He loves this city; finds it easy to fit in, easy to shrug on some trousers and a cap and blend with the skinny little dock boys. They like his sharp Cockney accent; he likes their flat vowels and colloquialisms. He has a wonderful time, and no one looks twice at the face underneath the dirt.
But when it comes to high society, things are different. In Britain, there's still respect for pretty boys; in America, there's a different set of expectations. Zeus loves it. He, of course, fits the bill quite perfectly, and he loves making up more and more outlandish tales - he's a stock broker, a war correspondent, an ad man. Hera and Aphrodite spend hours curling their hair and cultivating plump red lips and smoking, going wherever they please and doing whatever they like. They're quite the powerhouse these days.
Ganymede stares in the mirror at his shoulder-length hair, his eyes, the face frozen at the perfect age of sixteen. He's a boy in this society; he can't be seen anywhere near his lover's side, not without raising far too many questions.
He lifts a lock of his hair and thinks. It wouldn't be that difficult. Not all young women were curvy, and he'd have to practice with the heels. But then he thought of the look on Zeus's face, and he figured it was worth it.
So he studies. Watches. Learns. Learning is what he's best at, and within a few weeks, he's mastered the walk and the talk and how to hold his hands gracefully, and he can paint his nails and his face in minutes without messing up either. He does a trial run in an uptown bar; he gets propositioned no less than four times. He's ready.
Zeus doesn't suspect a thing. He's at a club tonight, drowned in smoke and sultry slow piano and excellent brandy. Ganymede is let in without question; he gives his name as 'Gracia'. No one asks his age, no one cares. He sees other familiar faces drinking with the king of the gods - they're out in force tonight, but he thankfully doesn't see Hera. Aphrodite's on Ares's lap, his hand on the swell of her hip. There are Hermes and Apollo, talking in low voices, and it's Dionysus who's closest to his lover, matching him brandy for brandy.
Ganymede leans over the back of the couch and slides his fingers into Zeus's thick black curls. The man turns with a lazy smile, expecting a stranger - what he sees makes his eyes go wide.
He knows what he must see. Toffee-colored curls, parted to one side and perfectly sprayed in place. Red lips, thick black lashes, a red-nailed hand dragging lightly down his neck. And, of course, the dress. It's knee-length and midnight blue, built to give the illusion of curls, and there's a delicate sparkle to it, embedded in the black lace.
"...Ganymede?" he whispers, for his eyes only.
He curls that hand around the god's tie, then tightens his fist, pulling him in close. He goes without resistance, still just... staring.
"Dance with me?" Ganymede purrs, in the light voice he's been practicing.
He hears a rush of compressed breath, a sure sign that Zeus liked what he saw far too much. He knocked back the last of his brandy, set the glass down, and left his entourage without looking back.
Zeus/Ganymede
640 words • written for chibinecco to the tune of Frank Sinatra's Fly Me to the Moon
Fly me to the moon
Let me play among the stars
Let me see what spring is like
On Jupiter and Mars
Late fifties. They've just moved to New York, and all of Olympus stirs with the new possibilities, but none so much as Ganymede. He loves this city; finds it easy to fit in, easy to shrug on some trousers and a cap and blend with the skinny little dock boys. They like his sharp Cockney accent; he likes their flat vowels and colloquialisms. He has a wonderful time, and no one looks twice at the face underneath the dirt.
But when it comes to high society, things are different. In Britain, there's still respect for pretty boys; in America, there's a different set of expectations. Zeus loves it. He, of course, fits the bill quite perfectly, and he loves making up more and more outlandish tales - he's a stock broker, a war correspondent, an ad man. Hera and Aphrodite spend hours curling their hair and cultivating plump red lips and smoking, going wherever they please and doing whatever they like. They're quite the powerhouse these days.
Ganymede stares in the mirror at his shoulder-length hair, his eyes, the face frozen at the perfect age of sixteen. He's a boy in this society; he can't be seen anywhere near his lover's side, not without raising far too many questions.
He lifts a lock of his hair and thinks. It wouldn't be that difficult. Not all young women were curvy, and he'd have to practice with the heels. But then he thought of the look on Zeus's face, and he figured it was worth it.
So he studies. Watches. Learns. Learning is what he's best at, and within a few weeks, he's mastered the walk and the talk and how to hold his hands gracefully, and he can paint his nails and his face in minutes without messing up either. He does a trial run in an uptown bar; he gets propositioned no less than four times. He's ready.
Zeus doesn't suspect a thing. He's at a club tonight, drowned in smoke and sultry slow piano and excellent brandy. Ganymede is let in without question; he gives his name as 'Gracia'. No one asks his age, no one cares. He sees other familiar faces drinking with the king of the gods - they're out in force tonight, but he thankfully doesn't see Hera. Aphrodite's on Ares's lap, his hand on the swell of her hip. There are Hermes and Apollo, talking in low voices, and it's Dionysus who's closest to his lover, matching him brandy for brandy.
Ganymede leans over the back of the couch and slides his fingers into Zeus's thick black curls. The man turns with a lazy smile, expecting a stranger - what he sees makes his eyes go wide.
He knows what he must see. Toffee-colored curls, parted to one side and perfectly sprayed in place. Red lips, thick black lashes, a red-nailed hand dragging lightly down his neck. And, of course, the dress. It's knee-length and midnight blue, built to give the illusion of curls, and there's a delicate sparkle to it, embedded in the black lace.
"...Ganymede?" he whispers, for his eyes only.
He curls that hand around the god's tie, then tightens his fist, pulling him in close. He goes without resistance, still just... staring.
"Dance with me?" Ganymede purrs, in the light voice he's been practicing.
He hears a rush of compressed breath, a sure sign that Zeus liked what he saw far too much. He knocked back the last of his brandy, set the glass down, and left his entourage without looking back.