CLOSED ⤧ take the colors of my imagination, take the scent hanging in the air...
Who: prayforprey & nicotine_patch.
What: ... Happy Birthday, Badou.
When: Begins: 11:30 PM or so March 2nd.
Where: Various places.
Warnings: Gay, ~*~frequency~*~, guns, blood, gay, violence, cussing, emotional bullshit, gay, etc.
Of all times, Genkaku is a demon in the night. It used to be purely solar: sun made him bask. Lazy and lethargic. He was a black and red snake that sat on stones and absorbed vitamin d, soaked into scales until they were summer's-asphalt-hot, beady eyes never leaving desert storms approaching. If spring is for Lovers, surely summer is for Murderers, of animalistic prey stalking. Summer is his season, even with its painfully short darkness. (Things he Wants and Will Not Say; things he Needs and Will Not Take.)
Night is the Moon. Night is all the things unattainable that he adores and tries to cling to, and all the things attainable he needs, the fundamental difference in the two the brush of nonexistent fingerprints. Night turns him into a Monster. Heavy-breathing and sauntering, slithering over twigs that make no sound as they snap under his weight, of the way blood looks black as ink in the moonlight, and the way -- for once -- his skin looks as pale as he'd always wanted it to be.
But there is no Sun and there is no Moon and there is no baskinglethargyheat|unattainablemonstercold on Thor. There isn't the rise and fall that his moods cycled with, no seasonal change amidst all that metal, no reason to adjust his habits to ... anything.
(Most importantly, no reason to sleep.)
So the change has become completely numerical, red angry numbers of electric clocks and dirty hands that will never turn left on manuals. He gets twitchy at 6:17, edgy at 8:49, erratic at 10:36. And then finally, finally, it's 11:11 (make a fuckin' wish, motherfucker), and he's unstable. Scouring the ship, he combs through all the places he figures his lover might be (naturally, he misses a few -- foxes do like their hidden dens, after all [places like cold hangars and unknown acquaintances of static]), and it's always the last place you look, yeah?
("How low can you get?" crosses his mind a time or two, on principal.)
And he finds him in his normal den, all sprawled out on his letterbox bed and in stained sheets (funny, he'd always thought his fox would be the coiled-up type, but this isn't the first time he's seen slumber and thus he can no longer be surprised). There's only momentary admiration, a trace of fingers along a too-bony knee, upupup so light skeletons in a grave wouldn't feel the soil shift --
and he bypasses exactly what he wants (and oh how he wants it) to favor dipping into strained pocket. He pulls them out, long and winding, like too much white (but unpure) fabric sash trapped a creaking leather hat that makes it almost like a magic trick. A fox's gotta eat, and a hare sounds just fine.
-- Hunh. He sleeps with the eyepatch? Or just accidentally conked out. A nearby Guide (my, aren't you a stalker, Badou?) near inactive fingers confirms that suspicion.
In the darkness, there is a shuffle. His movements are quick and smooth, all demon-eyed slickness (glowing red glowing red why have you never been bothered by that?! [hasn't spoken to Heine enough to make the connection]) in the solidity of night. If Badou could be conscience and lighted enough to see, he'd recognize his sudden blindfold, the winding stained white going tight (but not too tight!). It's a perfect blindfold for that remaining eye and he knows the man is going to give an undignified squawk as soon as he rouses, which is right about--
now.
And he's greeted with a blown plume of smoke. Just enough to get him by until they're down (because he's seenseenseen that fucking murderous inside and who knew Badou had dropped so many hints on how to make it come out and fuck he can't think about it because it'll send the most pleasant, uncomfortable jolts through his body until he's--).
The undergrounder is thrown over his shoulder as if he were nothing, holding onto wrists with a single, large hand -- and maybe that's his first indication of his captor's identity, but more than likely it will not register in sleep and obtuse rage, and that suits him just fine. He descends, ignoring kicks and screams, ignoring swings (though he must confess he enjoys their bruises as he tries to get the image of just how brutal Badou's snarling face can be on his libido), weaving through the slumbering station with quickness and ease. Nobody asks. Nobody cares.
And its when he throws him down in a chair, folds him up on it the way he does naturally anyway. He's hovering, smoke on his breath, a hot exhale against his cheek (take it in takeitin), rough lips pursed over the curves of an ear, his voice acrid;
"Relax. S'only me."
And he tucks the cigarette onto his lips. What's next is not so much of a command as it is a promise of Things To Come:
"Don't take it off. I got ya first present ready."
And then his presence goes to move away ... before pausing and setting a hand in electric-orange tresses.
"Happy Birthday, Badou."
What: ... Happy Birthday, Badou.
When: Begins: 11:30 PM or so March 2nd.
Where: Various places.
Warnings: Gay, ~*~frequency~*~, guns, blood, gay, violence, cussing, emotional bullshit, gay, etc.
Of all times, Genkaku is a demon in the night. It used to be purely solar: sun made him bask. Lazy and lethargic. He was a black and red snake that sat on stones and absorbed vitamin d, soaked into scales until they were summer's-asphalt-hot, beady eyes never leaving desert storms approaching. If spring is for Lovers, surely summer is for Murderers, of animalistic prey stalking. Summer is his season, even with its painfully short darkness. (Things he Wants and Will Not Say; things he Needs and Will Not Take.)
Night is the Moon. Night is all the things unattainable that he adores and tries to cling to, and all the things attainable he needs, the fundamental difference in the two the brush of nonexistent fingerprints. Night turns him into a Monster. Heavy-breathing and sauntering, slithering over twigs that make no sound as they snap under his weight, of the way blood looks black as ink in the moonlight, and the way -- for once -- his skin looks as pale as he'd always wanted it to be.
But there is no Sun and there is no Moon and there is no baskinglethargyheat|unattainablemonstercold on Thor. There isn't the rise and fall that his moods cycled with, no seasonal change amidst all that metal, no reason to adjust his habits to ... anything.
(Most importantly, no reason to sleep.)
So the change has become completely numerical, red angry numbers of electric clocks and dirty hands that will never turn left on manuals. He gets twitchy at 6:17, edgy at 8:49, erratic at 10:36. And then finally, finally, it's 11:11 (make a fuckin' wish, motherfucker), and he's unstable. Scouring the ship, he combs through all the places he figures his lover might be (naturally, he misses a few -- foxes do like their hidden dens, after all [places like cold hangars and unknown acquaintances of static]), and it's always the last place you look, yeah?
("How low can you get?" crosses his mind a time or two, on principal.)
And he finds him in his normal den, all sprawled out on his letterbox bed and in stained sheets (funny, he'd always thought his fox would be the coiled-up type, but this isn't the first time he's seen slumber and thus he can no longer be surprised). There's only momentary admiration, a trace of fingers along a too-bony knee, upupup so light skeletons in a grave wouldn't feel the soil shift --
and he bypasses exactly what he wants (and oh how he wants it) to favor dipping into strained pocket. He pulls them out, long and winding, like too much white (but unpure) fabric sash trapped a creaking leather hat that makes it almost like a magic trick. A fox's gotta eat, and a hare sounds just fine.
-- Hunh. He sleeps with the eyepatch? Or just accidentally conked out. A nearby Guide (my, aren't you a stalker, Badou?) near inactive fingers confirms that suspicion.
In the darkness, there is a shuffle. His movements are quick and smooth, all demon-eyed slickness (glowing red glowing red why have you never been bothered by that?! [hasn't spoken to Heine enough to make the connection]) in the solidity of night. If Badou could be conscience and lighted enough to see, he'd recognize his sudden blindfold, the winding stained white going tight (but not too tight!). It's a perfect blindfold for that remaining eye and he knows the man is going to give an undignified squawk as soon as he rouses, which is right about--
now.
And he's greeted with a blown plume of smoke. Just enough to get him by until they're down (because he's seenseenseen that fucking murderous inside and who knew Badou had dropped so many hints on how to make it come out and fuck he can't think about it because it'll send the most pleasant, uncomfortable jolts through his body until he's--).
The undergrounder is thrown over his shoulder as if he were nothing, holding onto wrists with a single, large hand -- and maybe that's his first indication of his captor's identity, but more than likely it will not register in sleep and obtuse rage, and that suits him just fine. He descends, ignoring kicks and screams, ignoring swings (though he must confess he enjoys their bruises as he tries to get the image of just how brutal Badou's snarling face can be on his libido), weaving through the slumbering station with quickness and ease. Nobody asks. Nobody cares.
And its when he throws him down in a chair, folds him up on it the way he does naturally anyway. He's hovering, smoke on his breath, a hot exhale against his cheek (take it in takeitin), rough lips pursed over the curves of an ear, his voice acrid;
"Relax. S'only me."
And he tucks the cigarette onto his lips. What's next is not so much of a command as it is a promise of Things To Come:
"Don't take it off. I got ya first present ready."
And then his presence goes to move away ... before pausing and setting a hand in electric-orange tresses.
"Happy Birthday, Badou."