CLOSED ⤧ and i know you're thinking of me 'cuz it's just about to rain
Who: prayforprey & nicotine_patch.
What: For once, Badou beckoned him in ... and Genkaku violently slammed the door. It's where the line between Addiction and Need start to blur.
When: After this thread. (Sorry, Tails.)
Where: Piiiipes.
Warnings: Man, I ... I don't even know. Violence, language, uh ... I ... I just don't know. It's totally wild.
His Flying V is back in his hand, her straight, sleek body caressed over muscles, fingers dexterously plucking at strings. (He was surprised in himself for not bragging already, but there were more important things at hand.)
The moon is back in full swing, not the literal one, but the one that both guides his own biological clock and makes him wax and wane within emotion and torrential downpours (a real fucking LUNAtic). He hadn't even caught the pleasant edge of Badou's voice, not the way he usually senses all quirks of a smoker's mouth because he's just that fucking intuitive. He'd been blind to the open doors, the (scarred) palm-up limb that bared lifelines and left him ... vulnerable?
Was that the right word?
If it was, he had found the jugular, and he was bleeding it dry. And so like a true predator,
he didn't even fucking know.
Some things just came naturally. This came naturally (too fucking naturally, not like snakes and bird's eggs, more like Snake Eye(s) and Fox Tails), and ... maybe that was what was really frightening.
It wasn't the same.
The hyper-humidity of the pipes would be horribleawful for the usual slick lacquer of guitars, but his baby is a nice neat finish of mattemetalblack, perfect and solidified and even as his fingers are twitchingitching to play it, it ... doesn't feel right. Not right now. So he tucks her away, zips her up, reclines back, hikes a leg (plants a foot firmly on a pipe, body language all mineminemine), and waits.
Because he knows he's coming.
What: For once, Badou beckoned him in ... and Genkaku violently slammed the door. It's where the line between Addiction and Need start to blur.
When: After this thread. (Sorry, Tails.)
Where: Piiiipes.
Warnings: Man, I ... I don't even know. Violence, language, uh ... I ... I just don't know. It's totally wild.
His Flying V is back in his hand, her straight, sleek body caressed over muscles, fingers dexterously plucking at strings. (He was surprised in himself for not bragging already, but there were more important things at hand.)
The moon is back in full swing, not the literal one, but the one that both guides his own biological clock and makes him wax and wane within emotion and torrential downpours (a real fucking LUNAtic). He hadn't even caught the pleasant edge of Badou's voice, not the way he usually senses all quirks of a smoker's mouth because he's just that fucking intuitive. He'd been blind to the open doors, the (scarred) palm-up limb that bared lifelines and left him ... vulnerable?
Was that the right word?
If it was, he had found the jugular, and he was bleeding it dry. And so like a true predator,
he didn't even fucking know.
Some things just came naturally. This came naturally (too fucking naturally, not like snakes and bird's eggs, more like Snake Eye(s) and Fox Tails), and ... maybe that was what was really frightening.
It wasn't the same.
The hyper-humidity of the pipes would be horribleawful for the usual slick lacquer of guitars, but his baby is a nice neat finish of mattemetalblack, perfect and solidified and even as his fingers are twitchingitching to play it, it ... doesn't feel right. Not right now. So he tucks her away, zips her up, reclines back, hikes a leg (plants a foot firmly on a pipe, body language all mineminemine), and waits.
Because he knows he's coming.