— Still invested in my hiatus.


               "There was a being whom my spirit oft
                Met on its visioned wanderings, far aloft,
                In the clear golden prime of my youth’s dawn,
                Upon the fairy isles of sunny lawn,
                Amid the enchanted mountains, and the caves
                Of divine sleep, and on the air-like waves
                Of wonder-level dream, whose tremulous floor
                Paved his light steps;—on an imagined shore,
                Under the grey beak of some promontory
                He met me, robed in such exceeding glory,
                That I beheld him not. In solitudes
                His voice came to me through the whispering woods,
                And from the fountains, and the odours deep
                Of flowers, which, like lips murmuring in their sleep
                Of the sweet kisses which had lulled them there,
                Breathed but of him to the enamoured air;
                And from the breezes whether low or loud,
                And from the rain of every passing cloud,
                And from the singing of the summer birds,
                And from all sounds, all silence. In the words
                Of antique verse and high romance,—in form,
                Sound, colour—in whatever checks that storm
                Which with the shattered present chokes the past;
                And in that best philosophy, whose taste
                Makes this cold common hell, our life, a doom
                As glorious as a fiery martyrdom;
                His spirit was the harmony of truth—"

"Surely, for the love which I may send onto crevices of your heart untouched is the most brilliant. How in love with you I am, as always will I be." It was but a whisper now, velvety even then as it caressed the ear of the beholder. Kamijo smiled, wrapping his other arm around his beloved's waist to keep him near. His dearest one... Oh how he cared for this man so. How stunning he was, too. So alike, they were, and how soft this cheek where his fingers lingered.

“Mine heart — ‘tis of thine hanging-garden wherein thee ever prospers; how ‘tis Eden often revered, when ‘tis mine sanguine source a’throb ‘mid of mine pendent breast? I grow blossoms ‘mid this cage, yet ‘tis alone thee whom has discovered me..,” incarnadine, rubiginous lips brushed of that perfumed hand its palm; his egoiste, ‘twas he who was scent-laden, aromal and sweet-smelling — evermore his fragrant bouquet, unceasingly compelling and growing florid flowers ’mid his paradise.

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Smiles upon the face and warmth aglow in the endless depths of shimmering blue, an angel of light appeared. All outdone in the fabrics of exquisite quality; trousers and a poet's blouse which indulged the eye with a peek at pale flesh. "Tadashi, recall I what day our love began, and to you here I now parade - All my love written within the lines of my structure; internal and external." A hand would rise, trailing ever gently across the cheekbones of his loved one, transmitting his warmth.

“’Twas mine love for thee at thine commencement; ‘pon thine dawning genesis, O morning’s dear — ‘twas then I loved thee fore of coeval’s day or year”, ‘pon of this poet’s blouse’s low selvages his tink’ring fingers would here grasp, their cusps a’press ‘mid of his precious’ riff — how that his exotic, oriental silhouette would sway; he, a singular ornament accoutered of nonpareil a string-less sleeping gown in lace, alone he would balance ‘pon this heart’s bequest his fallen angel gave.


Though the gaze of honeyed orbs melted upon the very sight that he was, stunning and precise in antiquity, there were words that still befell those plush tiers that spoke of a current which carried him off beneath these eyes of blue. Yes, he was a sight. One so unfathomable had not this deity dared to envision all the perfection in one man and bring it to life. “Shh, beloved,” whispered this fine example of sunlit bliss as his finger came to anchor atop those plump red lips, “Speak not until you have come to drink in the capacity of my waters, drown in the fathomless depths of my eyes, behold all this beauty which, for you, has a swelling heart.” The finger lingered, as did the hand above the heart, but soon the former was replaced by an affectionate peck with noses rubbing in a lamb-like display of those affections.

Sweet, apotheosized lamb — how ‘tis thee harmonizes ‘mid of lion and of sheep; furtive and dissembling is thine prowl, thine prevaricate meand’ring ‘pon thine glissading paws a graceful premier pas to where thee ambuscades him ‘mid of his all-congenial dream, how clam’rous thine valiant roar does clatter when ‘tis thee trumpets so to him, to thine suave amore. Howbeit so, wherein thine pastel and chalybeous vaults here so he gazes — his spirit does obey; for the bellwether does chime, his love a ring in resonance. How arcane lips did exhaust of gauze so their senile sanction ‘pon this finger; passing breaths nettled ‘mid his lasting look ‘pon his lover’s guise, and dubious hands on evermore their cruise ‘pon flound’ring, florid flesh, their flow’ring kiss for ceaseless times to take.

                Take the apple. It shall be all — all I ask of thee.

     What ‘tis thou art to find in its existence? Gaze within… Bereaved of mine advice, thine unable figurement shall be left there; ‘gainst an empty expanse of impoverished exhaustion densed in an obscure reclusiveness of sublime white. Abrogated, declared null and void with alone this forbidden fruit at thine exposure. ‘Tis alluring, is it not? It strokes all of the senses; the crimson of its skin and shaft, its smooth texture beneath rigid pads of fingertips. The ambrosiac aroma that nourishes the nasals at pure delight of carnal, tenuous temptation. That seduction that lasts only mere a second, yet perseveres a second long enough, to relinquish on defeat.

     Ah. Is ‘t with true certainty by how thine digits now extend in sheer curiosity for what might result from giving in? Certain that ‘tis now thine wish to engorge ‘pon its sickly sweet and rosy flesh? For its juices to coast down the chin and gather upon the base of thine plump lips, as slowly it was so thine teeth had sunken in its core. I am not there to withhold thee from the glamour of thine sinful appetite, or that which evermore delights thee. ‘Tis alone the aspersing tarn within mine star-lit eyes that gaze ‘pon thee, here endlessly. To wait ‘pon that call of heart when too late has it been to reverse what vices thee committed. For alone thine prayers were begged ‘pon too late for solely was it thine urge to delay upon thine life’s work. Take it, I say again. When remained untouched, as the virgin flesh of spotless fruit, only then,

                                        only then, shall I take thee.

                 l i t e r a t e - f o l l o w - p r a y e r s ?

Jardin d’Éden — Mon amour.


The steam was thick, rising in endless clouds of non-distinctive wisps that bade the entirety of this enclosed piece of their own private abode with mellow wishes. It was, in a sense, other worldly. Though never would there be a world in which the fallen could be kept from casting his fair sight out to the beloved one of his heart’s attachment. Not even in this misty lair. No, for his heart could seek out even what the eyes could not, and his eyes were far too potent to be hazed over by the elementals. It was the aptitude of this fallen beauty, and his endless devotion to he who lured him into the moment of which they currently were entangled most beautifully. The waters could be heard to slosh to and fro in the wake of movement, energy of the redhead disturbing what might have been a peaceful surface with ripples that grew as the water receded. Water was a fascinating native of this land, and it could display the sense of anger or calm. Restlessness or peacefulness. Disturbance or contention. Even now, as the deity stirred the ripples, the soft melody of liquid splashing against bare skin resembled nothing short of welcomed calm.

A loving calm, one that lured in the princely Kamijo by steady steps forward still. Never had he halted, for his gaze lingered only on where his heart desired parade. Speak still, the redheaded lover did, narrating a point of view that the angel somewhere placed in the timeline of his memories. A time, that had been exactly one year prior on this day. A memory, he mused silently, that prompted the revival of his own recollections. “How you teased me then, on that day. Leaving me rife with the words inked onto paper collections, amassed in lineage through the volley of natural wonders till it was finally I reached the final wonder.”

The words spoken were soft, gentle as would he have been murmuring a sweet song when entwined limbs kept them both bound in the warmth of their sleeping-place. Together. Each word spoken left behind that thick quality of sleepy providence, and was replaced with melodious honey. “Even as I ran to you then, little restraint do I hold and again run to you now.” So the fallen beauty did quicken his steps, provided he not slip on the droplets of condensation which clung to the floor. Until his physical glory disturbed the waters and his arms enclosed around his beloved’s bare waist, he did not pause. The robe still clung to the heavenly prince’s shoulders, though now the ends flowed out from behind as the waters wished carry it away. “Have me, as I love only you.” It was spoken in a rush, before his lips pressed deeper incantations of his love onto those that knew his heart all too well.

Phantom ‘mid of parsimonious, lecherous mist; how ‘twas the prehensile and all-consuming nebula of condensation — but a concupiscent, liquescent smothering of gathered dew — that espoused ‘round of his seraph’s burlesque portraiture, as edaciously, acquisitively and so impetuously impatient were even his deliquescent, quintessential life-forms given to this serein precipitation vap’rous ‘mid these damp dimensions. “I but tantalized, beleaguered; I was youth embodied within age, mine free motives all possessed, and still, of thee — and how withal these proclivities of mine, ‘twas but of an abridged rousing within time thine faultless lips did press to mine…” His pastoral fingers clenched ‘pon of his arcadian, emblazoned portieres of euphuistic vermilion colours, how much tighter, how much more parsimoniously clamorous in esurient longing he became when of efflorescent, picturesque appearance here his love would manifest; exsanguinous, asomatous — even to him, the pale celestial body ‘mid of numinous, melancholic miasmas entrenched of his baptizing coercion came as a maudlin, oriental force of pure refinement and beseeched him within passion, one now evermore perseverative, one here archaic and abiding; what God was he who caved ‘neath primal lust, ‘neath primordial concupiscence. What God was he, whose ribs’ sepulchral cage exuded fine-grained, fastidious butterflies ‘pon sights and sterling brightness of his one ever-endless angel.

And how desirous that he was — gluttonous when Kamijo’s gossamery, pink lips pressed ‘pon him, gourmandizing here ‘pon this gay, kaleidoscopic aesthetic in complaisant, courteous emphasis; what persuasiveness of dexterous, lubricious tongue-muscle manoeuvred ‘mid these finespun, cushioned embouchements, and what suffused inches did he lay siege to his beloved’s tendon. He was raw, a flourishing, floundering piece of flamboyant extravagance, an unimpeachable paragon so paradigmatic to his guiltlessness that indistinguishably his mouth did move ‘pon unconversant, monogamous allectation, one which so breathes new life ‘mid of their tangled, woven hearts, and blossomed flowers ‘mid of their now labyrinthine kiss.

Memoirs of a foregoing year ran from him, absconded time, as in each movement’s pedestrious journeying, duration did progress; for what perambulant, capricious palm concourses with his lover’s hand, now a wanderlusting pair ingathering of vagarious murgeoning an all-plentiful portion of his rear —  ‘I was youth embodied within age’, how did his heart narrate per each apportioned, surely squeeze, where copious clovers to his smirk capsized ‘pon a jaunt of immigration. Repositioning, but he called it wanderlust; an insatiable appetite to his endearments placed ‘pon a column of this seraphic neck, for each a peck unique ‘stowed ‘mid his fluid oath spoke of confessions new, fresh flames for both, “Happy birthday, I love you…


          ╚ Oh you hurt me Father. ╗

How so He speak truth with no fault. There was no condoning what was unjust even if the fallen son were to think so. One could not argue perfection, one could not argue judgement, not Father’s word or his laws. Oh how He still loved and it was such a silly and feeble emotion. It broke man but had broken him long before his creation. Watching stars fall from his Heaven. All his sons being sent to Lucifer who dwell in a home caked in tar with pits full of fire. Taecyeon leans a cold shoulder away from his creator. His blood and his dna, born from those fragile fingers that decay continuously in their still maintained prime. God was good. 

╚ but proceed as you will. ╗ his jaw tightens and teeth grit, he could bear tolerance toward his Father, to give him what he wishes. But only for such a short period of time.

Hurt — unprosperous, impecunious; ‘twas but a memoir recherché, a recital avouching a but a warble croon of reminiscent yesteryears, of times immemorially with’ring within pasts. Aggrieve — Belial, ‘twas him gone ‘pon jugulars of his left-handed animadversions and deflow’ring of angels, his accursing of the absolutes en masse, and his exile of decorous and unwemmed guiltlessness; ‘nil conscire sibi nullapallescere culpa’, to be conscious of no guilt, and to turn pale at no charge — O, how ‘twas this quintessential being stood afore him withal his nether-fall illumes such sapient, and lambent coruscations of pale light to him, how ‘twas so this discriminated, contradistinguished and heterogeneous display of his brief affection burned him ‘pon the fingers. What it was Belial’s abstruse, esoteric sheen and grace still burned him with… most intensely and devotedly.

“Proceed as mine desires utter ‘pon mine ear: ‘Tadashi, love him… take him to this echoing breast, how his living breath’s a captivating charm that shall put all of this elapsed void to rest…'”


“If not your own, then it must be the voice of his heart which dwells within the depths of heated flesh.” It was a collection of whispered words, pronounced so softly that they fled on a single stroke of exhaling breath unto the second rosy marking that had been imbedded upon the neck’s flesh of his lover. The lion, so proud as he were, was also one brimming with a powerful love. Evident too, in the way he could lift his palm and press it directly over the flesh that protected his beloved deity’s vital organ. For now the kisses heralding in the colors of deep scarlet tint would cease, as he only wished for a moment to gaze upon the facial attributes of his life’s other half. “Tadashi, gaze you upon my radiant self, and I will drown you with currents of my everlasting love.”

O, lion valiant of heart — how ‘tis thine breaths (those of but unabridged and unconditional, austere utters) alone bestir him so of naïve awe, of frivolous and fleeceable inspirational flames; ‘tis alone his flesh incensed where ‘pon its wake was left the seraph’s kiss. How recalescent, how so ‘twas he convulsed of indwelling, heartland love a’pound here ‘neath of sweet Kamijo’s fist — how so ‘twas he gleamed conflagrant of this red-hot rapaciousness, of rapture lewd, indecent as fingers did unbind all cream-like crescent, rostrate curlings of their chamois den, “Sigh ‘pon me thine ceaseless charm as mine asperous eyes ‘come lost … for I’ve not a voice of lucent light; ‘tis I who sinks in boundless blue, mine lungs a’float…” 

Kisaki ξ Aleister — Furor arma ministrat.

What libertine craft — what licentious might and indignation, what desperation in this aqueous outrage so beneath; furor arma ministrat, ‘blown with restless violence ‘round the pendant world’, this deluge of inclement and blust’ring, and whirling billows of a cesious blue, ‘twas but his delightful cyaneous and ordained omen brought ‘pon earth as behindhand bereavements of its life. How this prefigurement was but an ill-boding soothsaying of the divine; he — harbinger of floods and cataclysms — O how he brought forth this calamitous chaos, the gath’ring of morose and befouled clouds ‘bove the unlawful and caliginous tides, the dwelling of deflow’ring waves gone rampant ‘pon the shores as ‘twas no longer so these kissed a brimming coast, but bellowed of a diseased bosom its exuding, poisoned overflow. What inauspicious consternations of the catastrophic, woeful disillusionments emerged from dread gathered ‘pon his Heaven’s throat above; ‘t lamented an awful howling christened now as a nocturne sung of all the winds, and ‘twas tempestuous mourning heard of all his angels’ swan-song o’erthrown that cast ‘pon this storm its vis mortua; death’s serenade ‘pon life, as had his hands bestowed ‘pon life its death.

How ‘twas his heart unfolded ‘pon the scene, how ‘twas the trial and grief of endlessness that here non-prevailed, his caved in cheeks and terror-stricken, widened eyes both a’seeth and trembling of an anger still, and as had his children oft sunk before him, sunk his bare knees within the quick’ning sand; ‘t hoped to clutch ‘pon its engineer, ‘t bemoaned a fruitless plea of chimes and echoes of these æons aforetime — how he could cleanse and so refine what compromised his fine design, how it was so that its end advanced, yet how it was not so his character had forged itself a brumal heart, so cold, and indiscreet.

‘Twas his deplored, haunting cry that shook a landscape, called ‘pon thunderstruck and silvery lightning, and invited darkness in descent ‘pon his wretched back, shed of its thin, saturated veil of velvet silk halfway — and how his gaze recited madness and called ‘pon each sordid heir, each fallen son and sacred one, to rid him of despair, of he for whom bells toll.

⌆ A nervous tic or habit they have.

The impulsion of prevalent assuetudes ceremonious to his hair-pulling is not necessarily an act of nervousity; habitual, it is — something deep-rooted within the memories of his fingers, an entrenched compulsion to gaze upon the earth through the crimson-coloured curtains of his hair as if it were ensanguined with the morbid passion he withholds to see an earth imbrued by blood. Unstrung fits, he alone finds himself in when in the company of his beloved; without instruction and guidance into adulthood, his behaviour often manifests in child-like performances in means of a constant search for Kamijo’s attention, whether that goes in forms of touch, speech, or unvoiced judicious and prophetic longing of the heart.

⏀ describe their usual smile⇅ do they look up or down while thinking?❧ describe their usual sleeping position

⏀ Describe their usual smile.

His lips, on inconceivable moments, find themselves in a squirm ‘mid of amusement and silent merriment which he exclusively shows unto his beloved in their most fondest of moments. Usual smiles, he wears in the creases and folds of his amber-burnished eyes, their colours varying often between picturesque gold and deep-burned cacao (whilst harbouring a slight condition of heterochromia iridum), contingent on diversifications of his temperament and emotions.

⇅ Do they look up or down while thinking?

He stares ahead — or, as is an inmost and intuitive establishment set within the mind, gazes upon himself in search of clairvoyant wisdom. He is an all-being, a segregated rendition of an eternity in itself who holds repressed knowledge of an everlastingness of all enlightments, and requires not a subconscious search for preeminent endowments above (or so below) as often individuals behold the Heavens in their sights when lost in thought.

❧ Describe their usual sleeping position.

Kisaki’s sleeping-patterns are irregular and even purposeless in their use, however being inessential, there could be the few fortuitous decades spent within slumber as time is but a piddling matter one deity would imperceptibly allow to pass without forethought; whilst requiring not the replenishing assistance of nighttime repose, he often luxuriates ‘mid of lavish and delicate silk spread upon traditional oriental settings — apathetic and passive, his preference goes out to a position on the stomach, anywhere within reach of his bed-partner. 

✜ !

✜ What’s their posture like in a normal situation?

Defying normalcy, Kisaki’s habitual bearing of his figure can be described as utterly flamboyant and ornate — over time, he grew more graceful in the manifestation of his flesh, and distinguishing not the contrariness of characteristics between male and female appearances and behaviour, he holds himself within a genderless medley of aesthetically long limbs, a curvaceous waist and overall otherworldly features that carry no definition of ordinariness to him. In his posture itself, one would see a constant fluctuation of the extravagant and elaborate; typically speaking, if he were to be of earthly heritage, one would describe him a queer and grandiloquent presentation of the extreme homosexual stereotype. He would define and understate his monologue with the manoeuvring of his hands, his stance would be somewhat on the sway, and his slender and tall build wavering upon air-streams, as it may be.

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