entreri: (Default)
☆ pax, the tiny ☆ ([personal profile] entreri) wrote in [community profile] calimport2017-05-04 08:14 pm



( [personal profile] sospita )
sospita: ( entreri ) (Default)


[personal profile] sospita 2017-05-05 12:19 am (UTC)(link)
sospita: ( starboard ) (considering.)

[personal profile] sospita 2017-05-05 12:20 am (UTC)(link)
Edited 2017-05-05 00:21 (UTC)
thieving: (xxx)

im sorry

[personal profile] thieving 2017-05-05 01:39 am (UTC)(link)
[ peter is tired of being hungry.

so the phone sex operator gig is kind of a godsend. peter's life is all about staying afloat, moving from day job to day job, taking one night class at a time. with this side job, he can afford snag a bottle of wine here or there, a good one, get a nice new jacket for himself, afford take out more times during the week than most people on a budget. and all he has to do is talk dirty to some folks from home (lucky, really.)

now, it doesn't ever stop being about the money. certain things move on and grow, twist and bloom. peter attends enough university night classes to get himself an online degree in art and history, is planning on maybe attending college if he can save up enough to concentrate on something like futurism or expressionism. he finds his stride at his day job, making enough for the rent and most bills just by selling his soul to an IT firm until he can get his foot in the door at a local gallery.

certain things, however, remain consistent: two things.

peter's work on the sex hotline.

and juno.


the first time juno calls him, it scrapes forty-five minutes of his time. he doesn't anticipate the talk to be so... vanilla. hell. he can't even call it vanilla. it's just talk, idly chit chat. he's curled around his landline in a comfortable chair with his joggers slung low and a bottle of water and little container of lotion standing by for whenever this guy wants to get it on but... they don't.

during the first four minutes, peter thinks this is a very boring and unproductive phone call.

by minute forty-four, he doesn't want it to end. juno doesn't give too many details about himself, just the basics, just enough--that he's alone, that he's almost downed his entire bottle of whiskey, that he's tired and overworked and that it's dark and that he's laying in bed, but it isn't the sex he wants tonight.

it's just the sound of his voice.

("what's your name?")

peter hesitates.

("just ask for rex glass, darling.")

minute forty-five means the end of it because juno's drifting off too much for peter to have the heart to let him fall asleep, to let him waste the rest of his money.

("did you mean that?" the operator asks him, the sound of her typing is furious over the line. "you want me to patch him in next time he calls just for you?")

peter holds a moment, tries to remember the sound of juno's breathing, his laugh, dark as bittersweet chocolate. he wets his lips. he did mean it. he really did.


call number two has peter asking about juno's work, talking with him about what he does, perusing the little details and windows into his life that he's afforded and hoarding the information like a small child hoards pennies, thinking they'll be worth something someday.

call number five has juno inquiring little things about peter's life, nothing too intimate or deep. his favorite color (black "that's a shade." lavender) favorite movie (catch me if you can) favorite kind of takeout (a toss up between the indian place up one way and the thai place down the other "i think i know that place" shit shit shitshitshit he's said too much. nono, calm down, nureyev.) it goes like this for an hour before peter tells juno that perhaps they should save it for another time. ("next time you call me, we'll have nothing to talk about, juno.")

call number eight is when things get handsy and peter doesn't expect to end up actually rubbing one out over the phone just for juno. usually he's fucking someone by date three. this is basically date number eight and they've gotten to handjobs and juno's voice is ragged on the phone and peter's hand is pumping his own cock so fast and hard that by the end of it they're just a wreck of half-bitten off words and names. ("rex--") he wishes, when juno bids him good night, that he had the heart to give juno his real name, the privilege to hear it off his lips.

call number ten is take out from that aforementioned thai place. it's another handjob. it's "juno, you've had a rough day, let me take care of you, sweetheart." peter tells juno to close his eyes, describes to him exactly what his hand would feel like if it were sliding up his cock. he instructs him on pressure, on timing, how it should sound, how it should feel, thumb pressing in that little sweet space behind his sac and massaging him until he's there on the edge of it all.

he comes just from hearing juno find release over the phone.

they max out two hours before peter tells him he needs to go. that time is up.

("these calls are getting awfully pricey, beautiful. do take care to keep up.")


peter would do it for free. just for juno. only for juno.


this night repeats itself more times than peter has fingers. he's just started on toes at this point. call number twelve and he's waiting on the other line with bated breath, wetting his lips, wondering if tonight he's going to be talking out some weird little date fantasy or if he's going to make juno see stars again or if perhaps they're just going to talk and all peter has to do is curl up on the end of his couch with an overstuffed pillow and a glass of wine with the cord of his landline wrapped around his wrist like a half-giddy school girl.

he hates other customers now, loathes being patched in to someone who isn't juno, who doesn't say his little alias like someone would breathe their favorite word.

juno's calls are what make his nights worth working. ]
Edited 2017-05-05 02:40 (UTC)
sospita: ( starboard ) (muse.)

i'm appropriating your wingfic designs.

[personal profile] sospita 2017-07-25 03:34 am (UTC)(link)

[ Nearly everything about Peter Nureyev is sharp.

The jut of his collarbones. The slender points of his heels. The edge of his perfectly-kept nails. His eyes. His teeth, his smile. His mind. Is it any wonder, then, that Juno fully expects the pile of black feathers - recently tugged from old sheath and broken root - to cut him when he lays his hands upon them? It's a small pile, the result of a monthly preening, and he shoves his hands into them. To his knuckles, to his wrists. Burying his fingers among tattered feather and cracked shaft, squeezing handfuls of them so tight to his palms that it's almost as though he wishes that they would cut his skin to shreds.

But, they don't. They're just feathers, after all. Sharp angles, slender - just like Nureyev.

Juno can hear him in the other room, discussing something on one of the many comms that he's found on his person. One for any active identity, at any given time. He's doing business as "Aria", or something of that nature. Something sleek, svelte, talking to a contact at Juno's request in tones that are doing something to him, even from a distance. He picks up a feather, and rubs his thumb over it, the wrong way 'round - causing it to bunch and bristle and for the barbs to break. The whole thing is lopsided, worthy of being discarded. Juno can't bring himself to let it go, and instead curls one of his own wings around his shoulder.

Compared to Nureyev, he's drab. Dark brown and dusty red, broad, coarse feathers and a blunt tail. Nothing like the iridescence of the single feather he holds in between his fingers, turning it against the light so that it catches, practically glows, even as battered as it is. He's never treated his wings that well, to be fair. Sure, there's public bathhaus's - filled with scented dust and holistic oils, but there's a certain level of self-awareness that Juno possesses that he just can't shake. He used to go, once. A long time ago, it feels. He'd felt the weight of soft metals and gold charms woven through his wings, and he'd thought --

He'd thought a lot of stupid things.

Even still, he's thinking stupid things. Holding Nureyev's sleek, long pinion up to his own feathers. Lifting a handful of them to tuck it under the layer, letting pressure hold it in place. He adds another, and then another, until they sit in a row and he turns his wing to the light. Nureyev's feathers, dead and broken as they are, gleam. Pretty, bold, like a shimmering gem. It's just like him. Juno is a dark thing, blunt and broad - and oh, he thinks, briefly - of what he'd look like if Nureyev's wings were his, instead.

( a fast, clever bird; glittering in the sun, as juno cards his fingers through peter's wings and plucks feathers from them. it's been years and years, since he's had anyone to do this for. a small, tender intimacy that he'd resolved never to give another, and here he was, pressing his fingers down to the root of peter's 'span, pressing his face between his shoulderblades and inhaling. soft, downy feathers at the nape of his neck tickling the insides of his nose. the elusive scent of exotic worlds and a distinct cleanliness that he'd come to associate with peter. he's kept feathers before, stuffed them under his pillow and breathed them in, in the man's absence.

peter's here now, though. )

He's in the other room, and Juno can hear the conversation come to an end. Abruptly, he combs his fingers through his own feathers, stripping the dark flight-pinions from where he'd slipped them, sending them to the floor. One is caught between his fingers, and he is caught, as the door slides open with a metallic whir, silent. Slightly ashamed, the feathers on the back of his neck and back raised in alarm. He's been Caught, and every inch of him is broadcasting that. ]

How, [ he begins, as he shakes feathers free ] How'd it go?

thieving: (lxxiv)

screams about it????

[personal profile] thieving 2017-07-26 03:13 am (UTC)(link)
[ the conversation is a lot like pulling teeth, and while peter is not above getting a little less than gentlemanly over the comms unit, it's not something he wants to do here in this moment, so he avoids it, dances around it, wings flicking irritatedly with each passing moment. he keeps the video feed decidedly off, but makes his voice all the more honeyed to make up for it, sickly sweet, chin in his hand and feathers twitching being the only slight giveaway as to his irritation ultimately. it is... long, but fruitful, this conversation. he supposes that it could have certainly gone worse.

juno is looking for a shipment ledger, one dated in particular for two weeks ago and to wrest it from his client's grasp is proving to be a herculean feat. he's old-timey, likes to keep them in big, thick, leather bound things under lock and key so it isn't even as though juno could have his assistant hack into the systems while he distracts his client. they'll have to be stolen. but to be stolen, he has to figure out precisely where they are, and it's not information the man gives freely. so he picks. needles. he tugs softly and sweetly. he croons, whines a little bit in a way that makes the man bend a little, soft gold between the teeth.

at least now he has a much better idea of where he keeps these great stacks of books and numbers, shipments and inventories. he could have them by the week's end, sooner if he wanted to be more reckless about it, but a week is the sweet spot, just enough time.

but for now he's damn near sick from it. he's made himself ill, disliking the taste of "aria" on his tongue and pleased to shake the remnants of him in the other room as the panel separating him and juno opens. ]

Well enough, I can have-- [ peter begins softly, taking a few steps into the room and letting the door shut behind him. he's pulling his glasses up from the pocket of his shirt as he speaks, noticing immediately that juno is half-frozen in an awkward posture, wings half-lifted, fingers busy with some little, slender, black-blue object that peter knows all too well even at a distance. ] --his ledger by week's end, sooner if you really want to rush things.

[ he's drawing up close to him, touching the frames of his glasses and leaning closer. juno looks

incredibly ruffled. more so than usual.

he can't say it's never been a bad look on him, the russet feathers and textured look to him already enough to gain peter's attentions quite thoroughly. peter watches the last of one of his feathers flutter precariously, caught up between two of juno's thicker flight feathers, lighter, dulled significantly from time. he reaches over and pulls at the feather from between juno's fingers, their touches glancing off one another for one warm moment, and holding it up to the dim light with a wry, little smile curving over his lips. he presses further into his space, wings spreading just a little bit, curling over, brushing. ]

I didn't keep you waiting too long did I?

[ he takes the feather and taps it with finality against the rise of juno's cheek bone, head tipping curiously. ]
sospita: ( starboard ) (melancholy.)

[personal profile] sospita 2017-07-30 01:36 am (UTC)(link)

[ 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. ]

Edited (HTML NO) 2017-07-30 01:37 (UTC)
thieving: (lxv)

[personal profile] thieving 2017-07-31 12:22 am (UTC)(link)
[ juno's voice is quick to snap like his fingers and peter is caught off guard a moment as the feather is flung away and leaves the two of them standing toe to toe, so close that peter could sing. that he wants to sing.


peter hums thoughtfully and peels back. ]

Aria is...

[ peter sweeps past juno without preamble now, each step gliding and long. he strides towards the couch that juno had jerked his finger towards and trails a touch over the arm of it. his wings fan slowly as he moves, brilliant and blue black, shining in the low light. he looks over his shoulder with a less than subtle nod upwards as he starts to gather the material of his shirt up and up and around in all the little complex ways their clothing accommodates such large fixtures in their lives. it slithers to the floor and he plucks it up, tossing it to the side just a bit more. ]

Well he's a rather simple one, detective. He's classically trained, a little new to this whole underworld business but endearing enough to worm his way in. Clingy thing, but they like that, thinking they can manipulate someone so eager to learn. They're not afraid of something so shiny.

[ his tail feathers flick just slightly up as he takes a seat on the arm of the couch, clutching the material delicately with his claws and settling in, pulling long feathers from beneath him and fanning them out with a little shiver. the idea that they aren't completely through just yet makes peter's entire body quiver a bit, the only tell being the slight lift of some of the smaller feathers lining the crown of his hair, the sides of his scalp. he quells them just as quickly as they rise, exchanging the reaction for a far more tamed and relaxed look.

juno stands ever ruffled and peter's fingers already ache for him, twitch to bury his claws in his feathers, to comb and pull softly and nip each old pinion out with his teeth softly. he gestures with a motion of his hand, curling towards himself. in a smooth motion, peter's wings situate themselves out of the way and his tail lifts sweetly, curls up and stretches and for a moment before going lax completely. truth be told, it's been a while since peter has let anyone this close to his feathers. the dye stays put, usually, but he seldom likes to risk it. but with juno, juno who knows: his name, the most important belonging he is in possession of these days.

the least he can do is let him have this.

the least he can do is return the favor, and he offers his hand outstretched, but in those outstretched fingers: a set of russet-colored feathers, a bit dull and speckled, split, plucked, but in peter's eyes, still rather lovely. when or how he managed to do it is a well-kept secret, one worn on the tinted curve of his lips, still stained from the color from earlier in the day. ]

Finish what you've started, detective. There's nothing but good things in it for you once you're done, I assure you. You're looking like you could use a bit of TLC... [ he settles in, taking the old feathers from juno's wing, and tucking them behind his ear coyly. ] and we've got the rest of the evening.
Edited (omg ffs) 2017-07-31 00:23 (UTC)