Mammon hated his ears just as much as she loved his flames. “Make them brighter,” she ordered. “Bigger, hotter; show me more!” He, with two ‘x’s to his name and a scar on his chest that proclaims he is:
Precious. Someone, not just who she says he is.
He was not trash like that bitch of a whore who claims him as hers. He would show her just who the hell he is.
The men laugh when they see him. Pussy-cat, they say, pretending to be the Ninth’s son. He is up to his knees in their bodies by the time his vision clears.
His ears and tail are the only parts of him not covered in blood.
The Varia are different. The Varia know him as King (even if that fucking faggot keeps trying to touch his ears). It does not matter how he looks, but how strong he is.
Xanxus has found his home.
He did not expect the girl.
“Xanxus-sama,” she says. “Master,” she calls him, ears perked and tail wagging, claiming a Name matching his.
(On the Wings of) The Best Way to Travelheavenly_homeJune 22 2010, 18:30:22 UTC
Kasumi/Pollution, travelIt was not that she was afraid of the motorcycle, or vehicles in general. In fact, Kasumi rather enjoyed racing those little carts on the local theme parks track. It was more the thought of going so fast on something so small that had her shying away. (There was also the fact of just how close she would be to a certain someone, but that is hardly relevant
( ... )
Never to Doubt the Knowledgeheavenly_homeJune 22 2010, 18:36:22 UTC
Kite, Ys, know.
In the beginning, there was a garden called the Heart of a Man that knew no boundary in the scope of its extension. The plants of this garden grew so quickly and so well that they reach the dome of the sky, high enough to brush the sun. Even as heat scorched the leaves the garden still grew, searching for what it did not know. Soon the garden had grown so wild and tangled the plants chocked themselves to withering. Blackened by death, the garden crumbled into dust; a desert took its place.
Ever do they say that the Heart of a Man is barren, though one amongst us knows differently. One flower survived, he will say. There is still life in the garden.
Hope is the name of this flower, love and friendship its soil. Nurture this Hope and soon the garden will bloom again.
It was the real him; he needs help. I know he doesn’t really mean it, though he thinks he does. I wish he’d let us help him.
In His Mind, A Wicked Wingheavenly_homeJuly 6 2010, 04:57:35 UTC
Ys, Fuu, angel
In his dream, when he daydreams - which he does rarely, almost never- Fuu sprouts one white wing from her back, a true angle wing half hidden by the long fall of her curling blond hair. He stands before her, unmoving, and her sword, glittering with crystals shaped like light, like hope, is poised just above his heart. One smooth thrust through his chest and he would be...
She is crying, frozen in time like a statue of the ages, sorrowful but willing. He reaches out, touches his end, and finds it warm and giving- her arm beneath his fingertips.
Fuu has killed, has been claimed Death’s Bringer, the Angel of Death by another, tricked into the role by a child he could have felt a kinship with (if he could feel at all).
Dreams can become reality, he knows; all his dreams are real, nightmares in the dark of his mind. This end he can long for, could thank her for.
(The Two of them) Togetherheavenly_homeJune 22 2010, 19:42:30 UTC
Tatsumi/Kasumi, together. The closest I will ever get to writing smut. I blame the psychically-enabling Lylith and the continuing presence of kink_bingo on plurk.
At first Tatsumi lays his hands on her shoulders, just looking. His expression tells her I cannot believe that this is real, and the touch of his hands, steady in their lightness, just how afraid he is to touch her. She meets his eyes and smiles, gently, letting him know she wants this, very much, more than she can say. Her hands flutter hesitantly across his chest, half counting his ribs (one, two, three, timed with the mantra that prompts her every shuttering breath), feeling with her skin the smoothness of his own. He exhales, sharply, when her hands meet his hips. They come to rest there, going no lower, her thumbs rubbing slow, soothing circles where his bone is nearest to the skin
( ... )
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Mammon hated his ears just as much as she loved his flames. “Make them brighter,” she ordered. “Bigger, hotter; show me more!” He, with two ‘x’s to his name and a scar on his chest that proclaims he is:
Precious. Someone, not just who she says he is.
He was not trash like that bitch of a whore who claims him as hers. He would show her just who the hell he is.
The men laugh when they see him. Pussy-cat, they say, pretending to be the Ninth’s son. He is up to his knees in their bodies by the time his vision clears.
His ears and tail are the only parts of him not covered in blood.
The Varia are different. The Varia know him as King (even if that fucking faggot keeps trying to touch his ears). It does not matter how he looks, but how strong he is.
Xanxus has found his home.
He did not expect the girl.
“Xanxus-sama,” she says. “Master,” she calls him, ears perked and tail wagging, claiming a Name matching his.
He is Precious; who the hell was she ( ... )
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......
I am so so so glad I requested this omg-
I love it.
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or Ys+Kite "know"
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In the beginning, there was a garden called the Heart of a Man that knew no boundary in the scope of its extension. The plants of this garden grew so quickly and so well that they reach the dome of the sky, high enough to brush the sun. Even as heat scorched the leaves the garden still grew, searching for what it did not know. Soon the garden had grown so wild and tangled the plants chocked themselves to withering. Blackened by death, the garden crumbled into dust; a desert took its place.
Ever do they say that the Heart of a Man is barren, though one amongst us knows differently. One flower survived, he will say. There is still life in the garden.
Hope is the name of this flower, love and friendship its soil. Nurture this Hope and soon the garden will bloom again.
It was the real him; he needs help. I know he doesn’t really mean it, though he thinks he does. I wish he’d let us help him.
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/just. saves forever.
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In his dream, when he daydreams - which he does rarely, almost never- Fuu sprouts one white wing from her back, a true angle wing half hidden by the long fall of her curling blond hair. He stands before her, unmoving, and her sword, glittering with crystals shaped like light, like hope, is poised just above his heart. One smooth thrust through his chest and he would be...
She is crying, frozen in time like a statue of the ages, sorrowful but willing. He reaches out, touches his end, and finds it warm and giving- her arm beneath his fingertips.
Fuu has killed, has been claimed Death’s Bringer, the Angel of Death by another, tricked into the role by a child he could have felt a kinship with (if he could feel at all).
Dreams can become reality, he knows; all his dreams are real, nightmares in the dark of his mind. This end he can long for, could thank her for.
Will you be my angel, Fuu?
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At first Tatsumi lays his hands on her shoulders, just looking. His expression tells her I cannot believe that this is real, and the touch of his hands, steady in their lightness, just how afraid he is to touch her. She meets his eyes and smiles, gently, letting him know she wants this, very much, more than she can say. Her hands flutter hesitantly across his chest, half counting his ribs (one, two, three, timed with the mantra that prompts her every shuttering breath), feeling with her skin the smoothness of his own. He exhales, sharply, when her hands meet his hips. They come to rest there, going no lower, her thumbs rubbing slow, soothing circles where his bone is nearest to the skin ( ... )
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