after a moment's respite~
Things slowed down at the Philippine STAR today, so I managed to put out some drabbles. My Muse went off and died on me for a while... I think she's reacting to me slave-driving her into posting up over 80 drabbles in under three weeks. @_@
For those of you who didn't already know, the dates beside each title under the LJ-cuts correspond to the 31_days themes that I wrote the pieces to. Also, I'm back to text blocks now, since I've just rediscovered the code for proper indentations~ <3
August 2, 2005: Bloodsport. A school of morality.
Meant to be read after 'Try again later'.
The Monday after, Kid decides to have a word with the gunner between her two fathers as he shaves in the bathroom and she catches the late, late, late night brainless cartoons.
“…I’ll never understand these old American shows.”
“I don’t think understanding them is the point, honey.”
“Don’t call me that.” Nyx bares her claws long enough to open her pack of candy. “You and Raiker weren’t out for very long yesterday. Did you even talk at all?”
“Of course we did.”
For a long moment nothing but the racket on the television set can be heard.
“You’re a hopeless case, Dustin. I’m going to sleep.”
On Tuesday it is Raiker’s turn. Kid finds him hobbling around, overseeing the renovations on Netsach’s training hall and proceeds to tag along with him for the rest of the day.
“How have you been?”
“Like always. Dustin doesn’t feed me properly.”
“Are you looking forward to coming back as a Hunter?”
“I suppose. You know, Dustin asked me the same thing.”
“Hmm… it’s almost time for lunch. Would you like to join me?”
“Sure, if you can tell me why you change the subject every time I mention Dustin.”
Raiker smiles. It is a soft and indulgent gesture.
“I’m more comfortable not talking to him, or about him for that matter.”
“Why?”
“I just am.”
“You’ve never failed to give me a straight answer before.”
Raiker turns away and calls the engineers forward, to talk about building the Cupola.
Kid disappears on Wednesday, and on Thursday she delivers her hypothesis to both her fathers separately, on two separate occasions.
“I think the two of you should go kiss, make up and then maybe fuck each other already.”
Dustin turns several shades of red and pale on her while Raiker proceeds to scold her for her language.
December 5, 2005: Bloodsport. The boy born with no father.
It had not been Maes Mordechai’s intention to save anyone thirteen years ago, on the night he and Abel met. His Church of Violence had received a tip regarding a nearby town and since the possible reward greatly outweighed the definite cost Maes had rounded up his best and gone over to see what they could take for their own. Business was business - they number of artificial kids that died that night was none of his concern.
Abel had been the youngest and smallest of the runts they found. Abel had fought the hardest when Maes’ gang moved in to liquefy them. Abel’s lucky shot was the reason why Maes now sported a scar across his face. None of those could have been the reasons - others had died before with more of that and less of what normally mattered. Whatever it was, Maes went against his better judgment, subdued the kid and brought him home, to save him with bandages and mercy. To this day, Maes fended off the whys that many sent in his direction whenever they saw him and his adopted son together.
By the time Alistair had come around for a visit Abel was up and about; he barely spoke and almost never met gazes with whoever was talking to him. Alistair kept his peace on the matter. The boy Abel would silently shuffle over to Maes’ side during the day and crawl into the man’s bed at night to sleep and that was all the Seer needed to see to know Maes’ reasons, even though his older brother would never, ever say them.
July 31, 2006: Bloodsport. The past is a well-closed book.
Meant to be read after the piece ‘The image of one fatal word’.
“So,” said Abel after a long pause. “Care to tell me exactly why you’re here?”
“I’m your FATHER! Show a little more respect!”
Maes Mordechai elbowed his way past Abel and into the youth’s room, pausing long enough to muss Abel’s hair up on the way. The renegade Jesuit plopped the plastic bags he had been holding on the table and settled down on Abel’s bed as he rummaged through the convenience store goods he had smuggled into Utsusemi. Abel shut the door and tried not to sigh as he leaned against it, watching his guardian pull out Lagers and sandwich packs.
“Gotta make sure my boy’s eating right! Can’t rely on Alistair for this sort of thing.”
“They feed me well enough here.”
“Oh, really? How many meals a day?”
“…Three?”
“You need SIX! You’re a growing boy, you know! You need your protein!”
Abel refrained from commenting - arguing wouldn’t get him far with Maes. In the meantime, the man snagged a beer for himself and popped it open with a flip of his finger.
“Ah… now this is the best a man could ask for on a summer day. How’s life?” Maes then asked, swiveling his gaze back towards Abel. “Zangyaku work must be leagues away from what you’re used to.”
“I suppose. I’m learning a lot,” Abel added in a low voice as he stepped forward to get himself a beer.
“And your partner? You know, the boy you nearly put a bullet through a month back.” Maes laughed at Abel’s expression. “Do you even know his name?”
“…Of course I do.”
“Heh. That’s good enough, I suppose… I mean, knowing him and knowing you, you two probably never say more than three words to each other! S’all right though. You never were the friendly type. I do hope the two of you get along though,” the priest added after a moment. “That kid’s been through some shit lately. Your other father. Go figure.”
Maes didn’t pursue the topic any further, and Abel didn’t bother asking.
August 9, 2005: Anno Mirabilis. (Year of Wonders)
What Reine remembered of his past was fire and pain and darkness, and in that darkness, the searing flash of a sword descending upon his neck. He had awakened to find his body torn into three separate pieces: his head, his upper body, his torso. He did not know how long it took him to drag himself back together, only that he managed it somehow, along with regaining the ability to walk without falling apart again. He wasn’t really alive anymore yet he was back in his body. He consoled himself with the possibility that stranger things must have happened to other death-worshipping Inokuma like himself before.
It had been frightening at first, stumbling through the wilderness and slowly losing his mind and his senses with each moon rise. He staved off the worst of it by eating human flesh - the taste quelled a bit of the pain and made him feel warm again, if only for a moment. He was almost certain that the first people he had killed were his family. Their scent had been familiar, and their eyes had been the same color as his.
Hoshi came for him alone in his third decade of wandering, and Reine’s first thought was how good the man smelled - ten souls in one was a feast for any shade, and more than thirty years had made Reine an excellent hunter, a fearsome monster. He only felt a small sting of disappointment when the man had not fought back - he was too hungry to really care.
“…Eat well. This is the least of what a sinner like me deserves.”
Reine’s humanity had returned to him in a blinding flash with those few words and it hurt him to open his eyes and know his name again and find himself there, hands clamped around Hoshi’s neck. Teeth buried deep into the man’s shoulder. It took all of a week for Hoshi to beat him down and drain every last ounce of insanity from his tortured spirit.
Whenever Hoshi pushed people away from him or cut them up with petty words just to keep them from getting too close, Reine remember their first meeting and told himself, time and again, that it was the reason why he stayed in the end.
May 28, 2006: Final Fantasy 7. One does not say must to princes.
This piece is meant to take place some time after Rufus gets blown to bits near the end of the game.
“I will NOT take that medicine! It tastes icky!”
“Young master-”
CRASH.
Tseng opened the door in time to see a medicine bottle whisk just past his ear and shatter against the wall behind him. The Wutaian turned back to survey the damage for a moment and then stepped inside, a pillar of calm in a midnight blue suit amidst near-hysterical maidservants and an exasperated old butler.
“Young master, really, you must take it to get better!”
“Stay away from me!”
The butler backed off as a small hand lashed out briefly from the bundle of blankets and pillows cocooned on the bed, fingers poised to verily scratch eyes out. The aged man sent Tseng a pleading look as the latter approached. The Turk nodded, and with a wave of his hand all the servants left the room. Tseng quietly drew up a chair by the bed and waited a moment before speaking, tuned to the sounds of small lungs struggling to breath over a lump of sickness and heat trapped within them.
“…Young master? It’s me, Tseng. They’re gone now.” When he did not receive an answer, Tseng pulled the blankets away to reveal a nine-year-old Rufus Shinra curled on his side, hair damp with sweat, cheeks flushed from fever. When he placed his hand on his charge’s forehead, the boy shut his eyes.
“You can’t keep doing this, young master.”
“I don’t trust any of them. I only want you here.”
“I can’t always be here.”
“Why not?”
“Your father-”
“Don’t.”
Tseng fell silent. When he made as if to stand and fetch the basin and towels, Rufus’ tightened grip and frantic shake of his head stopped him.
“Your hand’s enough. Just… just keep it here, on my forehead.”
Tseng did as he was told.
“What are you thinking about, sir?”
“…Nothing. How’s the President?”
“Stable again. He’s sleeping now. …Sir. He… he was asking about you.”
Tseng didn’t answer. He nodded his farewell to Elena and left the waiting area, heading for the only room on that particular floor of the hospital.
The smell of blood, antiseptic and medicine lay thick in the air as Tseng entered, moving out of the glaring fluorescent lights of the hall and into the cool darkness of the President’s suit. He could see his charged bathed in the weak gold of the lamp by the bed, pale and thin and bleeding himself thinner in Tseng’s midst. He was on a respirator, and several bandages were wound about his forehead and one of his eyes. The beep of the hospital machines and his faint breathing were the only sounds Tseng heard.
When Tseng sat himself by the bed and placed his hand on Rufus’ forehead, his charge smiled and whispered his name in his sleep. His skin was cold. Tseng resolved not to think about it and stayed there, unmoving, the whole night.
May 8, 2006: Bloodsport. She has a brother who believes in hope.
Set pre-Bloodsport.
Their superiors liked to bring Raseleane to their bi-weekly meetings - she was not with them every time, but when she was the meeting would last the entire evening. Shimeya was always called to pick her up when they were done.
He found her in various stats, but two factors were always present: she would always smile the moment she saw him, and she would always cheerfully inform him that she did not remember how she got there or why she hurt in the ways she did. Their superiors were thorough: hypnotism and psychological conditioning helped them be. He knew it could only go so far, but as he wiped away the cum or treated the rope burns or wiped salve on the whip marks while she chattered on about nothing he prayed, for a second, that somehow a god somewhere would grant him a miracle and his sister wouldn’t ever, ever remember.
They kept their silence, and as a result, his sister quite slowly but surely began to lose her mind.
November 18, 2006: Endtimes. Bergamot and vetiver.
Although Calintz’s eyes were closed his mind was awake and tracing the sound of Rilea rising with the morning, pressing her lips briefly to his cheek before leaving the room. She became his tangible dream, and between waking and sleeping he drifted on her image moving through the warmth and brilliance of a new day to her kitchen. White hands rinsing vegetables. Red lips humming with the birdsong beyond the window. And then, the depth of the stories in her eyes. He shook himself away and left the dream because he wished to touch and hold her rather than watch her.
“Oh, you’re awake.”
No surprise, all warmth, and he held her the moment he slipped into the kitchen, pulling her close to breathe her in. She chuckled.
“Hold your horses, cowboy. Breakfast before loving, remember?”
“…Must we?”
“Don’t complain.” She turned about, to kiss him on the nose. “I’m making your favorite.”
She stepped out of the loose circle of his embrace to tend to the pots and he stayed to watch her in the sunlight.
January 12, 2006: Bloodsport. What the snowman learned about love.
By breaking his heart, Hikaru Shinta taught Tsuki the value of patience, showed him the ways in which a boy might not wear his heart on his sleeve and look past the enclosure of his world to really see others not as he thought they were like, but as they really were.
By hanging around Akiyo Tsuki began to curb his barbed tongue, to absorb silence rather than destroy it and to take things in when it was necessary not to react and expel, but to simply listen. Akiyo moved independently from the rest, and Tsuki, who had been sheltered the most for his insecurities, learned to do the same.
By finding a way to his heart Takeshi taught Tsuki the value of the little things, the small details to consider in order to brighten one’s day or the day of others (like not standing too close to hot food because he couldn’t help but chill it, and not sleeping like a log through situations where he was otherwise needed). He’d never stop flailing but Takeshi didn’t mind so much. Besides, Tsuki was cute when he flailed.
September 9, 2005: The new exotic.
Most days Hoshi Inokuma wondered what it was, exactly, that made him fall for Akiyo. The Spiderweave, albeit charming and very sexy, was critical to a fault and cunning, dirty-minded and eerily professional in the arena of love-making and giving (or receiving) pleasure. He was the only one who could utterly exhaust Hoshi with little more than a word, and then there was that very small problem of a ridiculously large age gap, which Akiyo took as a license to insult Hoshi constantly for his (lack of) prowess. Nothing killed the mood more than being rather wryly informed that one was a prude for not wanting to try out any other position beyond missionary.
Most days Hoshi told Akiyo all of this, since most days he was close to kicking the infuriating boy out of his room or office. And then a look in Akiyo’s eyes and a particular way of moving and breathing would have them kissing then groping then fucking and Hoshi would then be left to wonder all over again.
EDITS PLZ.
Ah. Keep your eyes peeled for Citrus Avenue. I'll be working on the revamps and reposts soon.
For those of you who didn't already know, the dates beside each title under the LJ-cuts correspond to the 31_days themes that I wrote the pieces to. Also, I'm back to text blocks now, since I've just rediscovered the code for proper indentations~ <3
August 2, 2005: Bloodsport. A school of morality.
Meant to be read after 'Try again later'.
The Monday after, Kid decides to have a word with the gunner between her two fathers as he shaves in the bathroom and she catches the late, late, late night brainless cartoons.
“…I’ll never understand these old American shows.”
“I don’t think understanding them is the point, honey.”
“Don’t call me that.” Nyx bares her claws long enough to open her pack of candy. “You and Raiker weren’t out for very long yesterday. Did you even talk at all?”
“Of course we did.”
For a long moment nothing but the racket on the television set can be heard.
“You’re a hopeless case, Dustin. I’m going to sleep.”
On Tuesday it is Raiker’s turn. Kid finds him hobbling around, overseeing the renovations on Netsach’s training hall and proceeds to tag along with him for the rest of the day.
“How have you been?”
“Like always. Dustin doesn’t feed me properly.”
“Are you looking forward to coming back as a Hunter?”
“I suppose. You know, Dustin asked me the same thing.”
“Hmm… it’s almost time for lunch. Would you like to join me?”
“Sure, if you can tell me why you change the subject every time I mention Dustin.”
Raiker smiles. It is a soft and indulgent gesture.
“I’m more comfortable not talking to him, or about him for that matter.”
“Why?”
“I just am.”
“You’ve never failed to give me a straight answer before.”
Raiker turns away and calls the engineers forward, to talk about building the Cupola.
Kid disappears on Wednesday, and on Thursday she delivers her hypothesis to both her fathers separately, on two separate occasions.
“I think the two of you should go kiss, make up and then maybe fuck each other already.”
Dustin turns several shades of red and pale on her while Raiker proceeds to scold her for her language.
December 5, 2005: Bloodsport. The boy born with no father.
It had not been Maes Mordechai’s intention to save anyone thirteen years ago, on the night he and Abel met. His Church of Violence had received a tip regarding a nearby town and since the possible reward greatly outweighed the definite cost Maes had rounded up his best and gone over to see what they could take for their own. Business was business - they number of artificial kids that died that night was none of his concern.
Abel had been the youngest and smallest of the runts they found. Abel had fought the hardest when Maes’ gang moved in to liquefy them. Abel’s lucky shot was the reason why Maes now sported a scar across his face. None of those could have been the reasons - others had died before with more of that and less of what normally mattered. Whatever it was, Maes went against his better judgment, subdued the kid and brought him home, to save him with bandages and mercy. To this day, Maes fended off the whys that many sent in his direction whenever they saw him and his adopted son together.
By the time Alistair had come around for a visit Abel was up and about; he barely spoke and almost never met gazes with whoever was talking to him. Alistair kept his peace on the matter. The boy Abel would silently shuffle over to Maes’ side during the day and crawl into the man’s bed at night to sleep and that was all the Seer needed to see to know Maes’ reasons, even though his older brother would never, ever say them.
July 31, 2006: Bloodsport. The past is a well-closed book.
Meant to be read after the piece ‘The image of one fatal word’.
“So,” said Abel after a long pause. “Care to tell me exactly why you’re here?”
“I’m your FATHER! Show a little more respect!”
Maes Mordechai elbowed his way past Abel and into the youth’s room, pausing long enough to muss Abel’s hair up on the way. The renegade Jesuit plopped the plastic bags he had been holding on the table and settled down on Abel’s bed as he rummaged through the convenience store goods he had smuggled into Utsusemi. Abel shut the door and tried not to sigh as he leaned against it, watching his guardian pull out Lagers and sandwich packs.
“Gotta make sure my boy’s eating right! Can’t rely on Alistair for this sort of thing.”
“They feed me well enough here.”
“Oh, really? How many meals a day?”
“…Three?”
“You need SIX! You’re a growing boy, you know! You need your protein!”
Abel refrained from commenting - arguing wouldn’t get him far with Maes. In the meantime, the man snagged a beer for himself and popped it open with a flip of his finger.
“Ah… now this is the best a man could ask for on a summer day. How’s life?” Maes then asked, swiveling his gaze back towards Abel. “Zangyaku work must be leagues away from what you’re used to.”
“I suppose. I’m learning a lot,” Abel added in a low voice as he stepped forward to get himself a beer.
“And your partner? You know, the boy you nearly put a bullet through a month back.” Maes laughed at Abel’s expression. “Do you even know his name?”
“…Of course I do.”
“Heh. That’s good enough, I suppose… I mean, knowing him and knowing you, you two probably never say more than three words to each other! S’all right though. You never were the friendly type. I do hope the two of you get along though,” the priest added after a moment. “That kid’s been through some shit lately. Your other father. Go figure.”
Maes didn’t pursue the topic any further, and Abel didn’t bother asking.
August 9, 2005: Anno Mirabilis. (Year of Wonders)
What Reine remembered of his past was fire and pain and darkness, and in that darkness, the searing flash of a sword descending upon his neck. He had awakened to find his body torn into three separate pieces: his head, his upper body, his torso. He did not know how long it took him to drag himself back together, only that he managed it somehow, along with regaining the ability to walk without falling apart again. He wasn’t really alive anymore yet he was back in his body. He consoled himself with the possibility that stranger things must have happened to other death-worshipping Inokuma like himself before.
It had been frightening at first, stumbling through the wilderness and slowly losing his mind and his senses with each moon rise. He staved off the worst of it by eating human flesh - the taste quelled a bit of the pain and made him feel warm again, if only for a moment. He was almost certain that the first people he had killed were his family. Their scent had been familiar, and their eyes had been the same color as his.
Hoshi came for him alone in his third decade of wandering, and Reine’s first thought was how good the man smelled - ten souls in one was a feast for any shade, and more than thirty years had made Reine an excellent hunter, a fearsome monster. He only felt a small sting of disappointment when the man had not fought back - he was too hungry to really care.
“…Eat well. This is the least of what a sinner like me deserves.”
Reine’s humanity had returned to him in a blinding flash with those few words and it hurt him to open his eyes and know his name again and find himself there, hands clamped around Hoshi’s neck. Teeth buried deep into the man’s shoulder. It took all of a week for Hoshi to beat him down and drain every last ounce of insanity from his tortured spirit.
Whenever Hoshi pushed people away from him or cut them up with petty words just to keep them from getting too close, Reine remember their first meeting and told himself, time and again, that it was the reason why he stayed in the end.
May 28, 2006: Final Fantasy 7. One does not say must to princes.
This piece is meant to take place some time after Rufus gets blown to bits near the end of the game.
“I will NOT take that medicine! It tastes icky!”
“Young master-”
CRASH.
Tseng opened the door in time to see a medicine bottle whisk just past his ear and shatter against the wall behind him. The Wutaian turned back to survey the damage for a moment and then stepped inside, a pillar of calm in a midnight blue suit amidst near-hysterical maidservants and an exasperated old butler.
“Young master, really, you must take it to get better!”
“Stay away from me!”
The butler backed off as a small hand lashed out briefly from the bundle of blankets and pillows cocooned on the bed, fingers poised to verily scratch eyes out. The aged man sent Tseng a pleading look as the latter approached. The Turk nodded, and with a wave of his hand all the servants left the room. Tseng quietly drew up a chair by the bed and waited a moment before speaking, tuned to the sounds of small lungs struggling to breath over a lump of sickness and heat trapped within them.
“…Young master? It’s me, Tseng. They’re gone now.” When he did not receive an answer, Tseng pulled the blankets away to reveal a nine-year-old Rufus Shinra curled on his side, hair damp with sweat, cheeks flushed from fever. When he placed his hand on his charge’s forehead, the boy shut his eyes.
“You can’t keep doing this, young master.”
“I don’t trust any of them. I only want you here.”
“I can’t always be here.”
“Why not?”
“Your father-”
“Don’t.”
Tseng fell silent. When he made as if to stand and fetch the basin and towels, Rufus’ tightened grip and frantic shake of his head stopped him.
“Your hand’s enough. Just… just keep it here, on my forehead.”
Tseng did as he was told.
“What are you thinking about, sir?”
“…Nothing. How’s the President?”
“Stable again. He’s sleeping now. …Sir. He… he was asking about you.”
Tseng didn’t answer. He nodded his farewell to Elena and left the waiting area, heading for the only room on that particular floor of the hospital.
The smell of blood, antiseptic and medicine lay thick in the air as Tseng entered, moving out of the glaring fluorescent lights of the hall and into the cool darkness of the President’s suit. He could see his charged bathed in the weak gold of the lamp by the bed, pale and thin and bleeding himself thinner in Tseng’s midst. He was on a respirator, and several bandages were wound about his forehead and one of his eyes. The beep of the hospital machines and his faint breathing were the only sounds Tseng heard.
When Tseng sat himself by the bed and placed his hand on Rufus’ forehead, his charge smiled and whispered his name in his sleep. His skin was cold. Tseng resolved not to think about it and stayed there, unmoving, the whole night.
May 8, 2006: Bloodsport. She has a brother who believes in hope.
Set pre-Bloodsport.
Their superiors liked to bring Raseleane to their bi-weekly meetings - she was not with them every time, but when she was the meeting would last the entire evening. Shimeya was always called to pick her up when they were done.
He found her in various stats, but two factors were always present: she would always smile the moment she saw him, and she would always cheerfully inform him that she did not remember how she got there or why she hurt in the ways she did. Their superiors were thorough: hypnotism and psychological conditioning helped them be. He knew it could only go so far, but as he wiped away the cum or treated the rope burns or wiped salve on the whip marks while she chattered on about nothing he prayed, for a second, that somehow a god somewhere would grant him a miracle and his sister wouldn’t ever, ever remember.
They kept their silence, and as a result, his sister quite slowly but surely began to lose her mind.
November 18, 2006: Endtimes. Bergamot and vetiver.
Although Calintz’s eyes were closed his mind was awake and tracing the sound of Rilea rising with the morning, pressing her lips briefly to his cheek before leaving the room. She became his tangible dream, and between waking and sleeping he drifted on her image moving through the warmth and brilliance of a new day to her kitchen. White hands rinsing vegetables. Red lips humming with the birdsong beyond the window. And then, the depth of the stories in her eyes. He shook himself away and left the dream because he wished to touch and hold her rather than watch her.
“Oh, you’re awake.”
No surprise, all warmth, and he held her the moment he slipped into the kitchen, pulling her close to breathe her in. She chuckled.
“Hold your horses, cowboy. Breakfast before loving, remember?”
“…Must we?”
“Don’t complain.” She turned about, to kiss him on the nose. “I’m making your favorite.”
She stepped out of the loose circle of his embrace to tend to the pots and he stayed to watch her in the sunlight.
January 12, 2006: Bloodsport. What the snowman learned about love.
By breaking his heart, Hikaru Shinta taught Tsuki the value of patience, showed him the ways in which a boy might not wear his heart on his sleeve and look past the enclosure of his world to really see others not as he thought they were like, but as they really were.
By hanging around Akiyo Tsuki began to curb his barbed tongue, to absorb silence rather than destroy it and to take things in when it was necessary not to react and expel, but to simply listen. Akiyo moved independently from the rest, and Tsuki, who had been sheltered the most for his insecurities, learned to do the same.
By finding a way to his heart Takeshi taught Tsuki the value of the little things, the small details to consider in order to brighten one’s day or the day of others (like not standing too close to hot food because he couldn’t help but chill it, and not sleeping like a log through situations where he was otherwise needed). He’d never stop flailing but Takeshi didn’t mind so much. Besides, Tsuki was cute when he flailed.
September 9, 2005: The new exotic.
Most days Hoshi Inokuma wondered what it was, exactly, that made him fall for Akiyo. The Spiderweave, albeit charming and very sexy, was critical to a fault and cunning, dirty-minded and eerily professional in the arena of love-making and giving (or receiving) pleasure. He was the only one who could utterly exhaust Hoshi with little more than a word, and then there was that very small problem of a ridiculously large age gap, which Akiyo took as a license to insult Hoshi constantly for his (lack of) prowess. Nothing killed the mood more than being rather wryly informed that one was a prude for not wanting to try out any other position beyond missionary.
Most days Hoshi told Akiyo all of this, since most days he was close to kicking the infuriating boy out of his room or office. And then a look in Akiyo’s eyes and a particular way of moving and breathing would have them kissing then groping then fucking and Hoshi would then be left to wonder all over again.
EDITS PLZ.
Ah. Keep your eyes peeled for Citrus Avenue. I'll be working on the revamps and reposts soon.