-- ☆ You'll be a lover in my bed. [closed/on-going]
WHO: Rook [meandhavemercy] and Rude [expert_stoic]
WHAT: Is there life after death?
WHERE: Rook's apartment; Monacello Territory
WHEN: Day 152, in the evening.
The music playing from the man's stereo was low-key, but the pulse of it was a soothing, pushing drive behind Rook's actions as he urged himself through the repetitions he was almost done with.
He had never been one of those men who could really work out when there were other people around. He didn't like being watched like he was a fucking piece of meat. Not like those pillow-biters at the gym downtown, running in their sparkly fancy pants next to someone else even with sparklier fancy pants, admiring and envying the sparkly-ness of it all.
Fucking disgusting display, if there ever was one.
No, Rook's physique-- broad shoulders, narrow hips, strong hands-- had been made and perfected on the street: over chain link fences, under cars, through the narrowest alleys and up fire escapes. He was what you'd call old school when it came to exercise, though he might not be the first to admit it.
Regardless, that, and the fact that he just didn't feel like moving from his apartment at any point that day, was what had pushed the man to the short but intense workout he was half way through.
The pull up bar against the threshold of the kitchen was a shoddy alternative to what the man could have afforded, but it didn't matter: it worked fine for its purpose.
WHAT: Is there life after death?
WHERE: Rook's apartment; Monacello Territory
WHEN: Day 152, in the evening.
The music playing from the man's stereo was low-key, but the pulse of it was a soothing, pushing drive behind Rook's actions as he urged himself through the repetitions he was almost done with.
He had never been one of those men who could really work out when there were other people around. He didn't like being watched like he was a fucking piece of meat. Not like those pillow-biters at the gym downtown, running in their sparkly fancy pants next to someone else even with sparklier fancy pants, admiring and envying the sparkly-ness of it all.
Fucking disgusting display, if there ever was one.
No, Rook's physique-- broad shoulders, narrow hips, strong hands-- had been made and perfected on the street: over chain link fences, under cars, through the narrowest alleys and up fire escapes. He was what you'd call old school when it came to exercise, though he might not be the first to admit it.
Regardless, that, and the fact that he just didn't feel like moving from his apartment at any point that day, was what had pushed the man to the short but intense workout he was half way through.
The pull up bar against the threshold of the kitchen was a shoddy alternative to what the man could have afforded, but it didn't matter: it worked fine for its purpose.