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Kenos Inbox
voice / text / communion
D's mind is a cacophony of things.
The landscape is shadow and darkness, and it is chilly and reserved where D sits in it; he feels like a simple young man. Quiet, soft, human. But behind the stoicism is a warm, sensual, and elegant sliver of something primordial and powerful. Embracing it is hypnotic, arousing, yet also a little horrifying.
Amidst all of this is something else, too: a craggled and old presence which can be heard on occasion cackling or chattering separately, the crusty voice belonging neither to D or the peculiar entity in the space.
The landscape is shadow and darkness, and it is chilly and reserved where D sits in it; he feels like a simple young man. Quiet, soft, human. But behind the stoicism is a warm, sensual, and elegant sliver of something primordial and powerful. Embracing it is hypnotic, arousing, yet also a little horrifying.
Amidst all of this is something else, too: a craggled and old presence which can be heard on occasion cackling or chattering separately, the crusty voice belonging neither to D or the peculiar entity in the space.
no subject
When Gen leans up again, D remains where he is without moving. The show can go both ways. He watches the shirt come off and makes no move to avoid his eyes. There is no starvation or thirst to his gaze, but the way he surveys Gen's exposed torso definitely means he is looking on purpose.
He lifts a hand and drags a single long, pale middle finger down the center of Gen's chest, from collar to navel, light. With an unnatural fluid gracefulness, he raises his upper half directly off the bed, and he places a pair of surprisingly warm lips against Gen's sternum to taste the dip in the skin there. But his fingers hook into the top of Gen's pants, and he yanks, flipping them around. Gen is dumped onto the bed where he had been, and he glides away to his feet.
His back turns to Gen as he removes the robe; he folds it politely and lets it land at his feet. He reaches around behind him and up, then pulls the zipper very slowly down the curve of his back, allowing the dark leather fold open and away from his skin. Teasingly beneath the long hair, glimpses of a surface like the moon. Unmarred and white flesh, the muscles carving out the shadows. The tunic is peeled forward and off, and he lowers it to the floor on top of the robe.
Then he faces Gen again, an infuriating and disgustingly perfect upper-half of lean muscle, unblemished aside from the missing left arm, a body hidden almost shyly by the curtain of hair. He begins to undo the belt as painfully slow as the tunic with one hand.]
Take the rest of yours off.
[It's not a request.]