COMPLETE.
Who: Kegamine Nagi; cicumae & Genkaku; thanatolatry
What: After Genkaku and Nagi decide to elope, Genkaku gives Nagi a good time including a romantic dinner and maybe some close dancing.
Where: Namae & Genkaku's house...thing, that is somewhere.
When: Now?
Threats among threats that were curiosity-induced and fear-included were asked numerous times on repeat; but these guys, these prisoners in a makeshift prison didn’t know Owl, not like Genkaku did. And Genkaku knew that deep within Nagi’s chest, the monster was clawing it’s way out. Because it was days since Nagi could actually fucking breath.
Tied with prayer bead bondage that wrapped around him like ribbons on a lone chair -- a pretty little package that was half-way there to being released onto the world with it’s beautiful suppressed carnage and chaos. The limp broken disjointed appendage that dangled lifelessly from Nagi’s upperarm was caked with infection: muscle torn and the oozing of disease that traversed down the rest of what remained of that arm; tendons visible and unhealed rotting flesh mending around the fragments of bone that punctured through flesh. The room itself is thick and heavy with the scent of puke, diseased skin and torn muscle, blood and fluids.
And Genkaku gave out a low dark self-satisfied laugh.
Because even then, as he draped along his familiar -- a tiger served to be a temporary couch -- Genkaku idly fingered the instrument in his hand, idle growls mismatch the tunes and Genkaku can only think that this is such a fucking pity. Because with the lack of needles, the lack of drugs, it seems bringing out that monster hidden deeply in Nagi’s brain was going to take a while. But Genkaku was pretty fucking patient, and all that bruised flesh that formed an organic meat-filled statue was worth it; Nagi just looked like a canvas that was decorated with brutal fingerpaint and violent graffiti.
Splotches of yellow-white and purple-blue embedded in pale abused thin flesh worn over too many bones, hair drenched in blood and sweat, slick over skin with torn lips.
Rough fingers emitted a high-pitched noise from the guitar, and lips curled around the cigar in his mouth. Toxic juices of the nicotine plagued through his veins and head lolled back in intoxication; but the mangled display before him was the true potent addiction that was a parasite that dug deeply into his brain; thinking thoughts of indulging this dead shithole with glorified salvation born from restricted lunacy.
And he stood, placed the guitar against the animal that gave out a low growl before he lazy made his way to Nagi, lips pulled back with sicking anticipation; carelessly he knocked over a bowl filled with vomit ( -- and even though Genkaku was a sadistic bastard, he wasn’t going to let his own diety starve -- ) before he towered over the other in his natural mental-delirium. He exhaled the long trail of smoke, and then he cooed with mock dry affection, "Damn Owl, how long you gonna keep this gig up -- almost sounds like an invitation for salvation, right?" A snort, "-- Must be pretty fuckin’ hard to rip that thick skull of yours apart." A lazy shrug, teeth clamped down on the cigar, and the monk just looked all too amused with low words emerging from leering carnivorous teeth, "But it’s gotta be done."
What: After Genkaku and Nagi decide to elope, Genkaku gives Nagi a good time including a romantic dinner and maybe some close dancing.
Where: Namae & Genkaku's house...thing, that is somewhere.
When: Now?
Threats among threats that were curiosity-induced and fear-included were asked numerous times on repeat; but these guys, these prisoners in a makeshift prison didn’t know Owl, not like Genkaku did. And Genkaku knew that deep within Nagi’s chest, the monster was clawing it’s way out. Because it was days since Nagi could actually fucking breath.
Tied with prayer bead bondage that wrapped around him like ribbons on a lone chair -- a pretty little package that was half-way there to being released onto the world with it’s beautiful suppressed carnage and chaos. The limp broken disjointed appendage that dangled lifelessly from Nagi’s upperarm was caked with infection: muscle torn and the oozing of disease that traversed down the rest of what remained of that arm; tendons visible and unhealed rotting flesh mending around the fragments of bone that punctured through flesh. The room itself is thick and heavy with the scent of puke, diseased skin and torn muscle, blood and fluids.
And Genkaku gave out a low dark self-satisfied laugh.
Because even then, as he draped along his familiar -- a tiger served to be a temporary couch -- Genkaku idly fingered the instrument in his hand, idle growls mismatch the tunes and Genkaku can only think that this is such a fucking pity. Because with the lack of needles, the lack of drugs, it seems bringing out that monster hidden deeply in Nagi’s brain was going to take a while. But Genkaku was pretty fucking patient, and all that bruised flesh that formed an organic meat-filled statue was worth it; Nagi just looked like a canvas that was decorated with brutal fingerpaint and violent graffiti.
Splotches of yellow-white and purple-blue embedded in pale abused thin flesh worn over too many bones, hair drenched in blood and sweat, slick over skin with torn lips.
Rough fingers emitted a high-pitched noise from the guitar, and lips curled around the cigar in his mouth. Toxic juices of the nicotine plagued through his veins and head lolled back in intoxication; but the mangled display before him was the true potent addiction that was a parasite that dug deeply into his brain; thinking thoughts of indulging this dead shithole with glorified salvation born from restricted lunacy.
And he stood, placed the guitar against the animal that gave out a low growl before he lazy made his way to Nagi, lips pulled back with sicking anticipation; carelessly he knocked over a bowl filled with vomit ( -- and even though Genkaku was a sadistic bastard, he wasn’t going to let his own diety starve -- ) before he towered over the other in his natural mental-delirium. He exhaled the long trail of smoke, and then he cooed with mock dry affection, "Damn Owl, how long you gonna keep this gig up -- almost sounds like an invitation for salvation, right?" A snort, "-- Must be pretty fuckin’ hard to rip that thick skull of yours apart." A lazy shrug, teeth clamped down on the cigar, and the monk just looked all too amused with low words emerging from leering carnivorous teeth, "But it’s gotta be done."