sospita: ( starboard ) (melancholy.)
( your shittier half ) juno steel. ([personal profile] sospita) wrote in [community profile] calimport 2017-07-30 01:36 am (UTC)

[ The curve he's put in his wing trembles, not fear- or shame-stricken, but from the effort that had been put into keeping it in place. He flicks it back, flexing tendon and splaying his flight feathers in a slow stretch before folding it along his spine. The soft feathers at the nape of his neck, the heavy russet-and-cream of his tail - these things are still prickled, sticking up defensively, with his empty ire. He's always been the type to televise his aggression, his daring. Right now, he's daring Nureyev to open his beautiful, sly mouth and comment on it.

"It", being the dark, gleaming feather that the man has just plucked from between his fingers.

The pile of discarded feathers sits, haphazard and disturbed, on the table beside him. It's obvious that Juno has been fussing with them, because the weight has been redistributed; the whole pile has sloughed off to one side, threatening to tip more feathers onto the floor. Nureyev, before him, is tidy and freshly-preened and everything that Juno actually wants to sink his fingers into, right in this moment. Instead, he flicks a finger over one of the dead feathers on the table, and sends it scattering through the pile of remnants and discards. When he speaks, his voice cracks all but briefly, when Nureyev ghosts his face with the edge of the feather he's taken back as his own. ]


Y-- [ ahem ] First, you wanna' speed things up, then you wanna' slow things down.

[ rush. waiting. ]

You sure know how to jerk a lady around, don't you?

[ "Aria". It's another lie, another false thing that Nureyev wears so easily. Silken and honey, like some high-end, expensive piece. Juno feels his throat tighten at the thought - Nureyev, satin black and blue shimmer, a songbird on someone else's arm. The dappled red-and-cream feathers along the back of his neck, the line of his spine and shoulders - they all rise with agitation, and fall soon after with a resigned fluff. This is Nureyev's line of work, and he'd been the one to ask him to pull these strings. Right in the middle of all the work he'd been doing on Nureyev's plumage, idle fingers plucking dead feathers from him. Preening him. Slowly and intimately, before he'd had the idea for Nureyev to call on the schmuck with the ledger and work his magic.

He jabs a thumb to the couch. There's still the tail feathers he needs to go through - longer, stronger, twice as sensitive. This is a thing he hasn't done for anybody, not since -- not since a long time ago. ]


-- what's "Aria" like, then?

[ It's sudden. He itches, and twitches his wing( they need caring as well, he'll have to rake his fingers through them soon, later later he'll ) - far enough out to snag the magpie-bright feather from between his own and toss it back onto the table. ]


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