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Okay. I’m going to return to my game now.
Anyone want to play?
Death Note, 10 minutes
I believe this is number 2.
“Discipline is the egg-timer of achievement.”
-Otto von Bismarck
Ryuuzaki sleeps on sheets of purest white linen, whispering against Raito’s skin while he settles himself to rest. The linen is soft, and cool, and Raito does not know why his face is burning, though the black of Ryuuzaki’s hair is only an inch from his nose. There is a strong scent of apples in the air.
Raito will not be tempted.
He has never allowed himself to be tempted. Good sons do not. Even on the rare occasions that Raito has ever followed the whims of his body, he has restrained any criminal desire for the forbidden and satisfied himself with his father’s choice of sin. Women are an acceptable outlet, and men are not.
Ryuuzaki's hair is frightfully untidy, unlike his mind. There are scissors in the desk on the far side of the room. Raito moves, uneasy. Ryuuzaki's breath hitches, then his gentle snoring resumes.
*Snick*, thinks Raito. He imagines how soft and thick that hair would feel, how tidy he could make it. If it were short, would it be velvety? Would it smell like ripe fruit?
He closes his eyes, and breathes carefully. After a very long time, he dreams.
Raito is a good son.
Anyone want to play?
Death Note, 10 minutes
I believe this is number 2.
“Discipline is the egg-timer of achievement.”
-Otto von Bismarck
Ryuuzaki sleeps on sheets of purest white linen, whispering against Raito’s skin while he settles himself to rest. The linen is soft, and cool, and Raito does not know why his face is burning, though the black of Ryuuzaki’s hair is only an inch from his nose. There is a strong scent of apples in the air.
Raito will not be tempted.
He has never allowed himself to be tempted. Good sons do not. Even on the rare occasions that Raito has ever followed the whims of his body, he has restrained any criminal desire for the forbidden and satisfied himself with his father’s choice of sin. Women are an acceptable outlet, and men are not.
Ryuuzaki's hair is frightfully untidy, unlike his mind. There are scissors in the desk on the far side of the room. Raito moves, uneasy. Ryuuzaki's breath hitches, then his gentle snoring resumes.
*Snick*, thinks Raito. He imagines how soft and thick that hair would feel, how tidy he could make it. If it were short, would it be velvety? Would it smell like ripe fruit?
He closes his eyes, and breathes carefully. After a very long time, he dreams.
Raito is a good son.