Disclaimer: (Herbal) Osaka-neechan does not own Kiddy Grade.
Author: (Herbal) Osaka-neechan
Focus pairing: Sinistra/Dextera
Characters: Sinistra, Dextera
Time period: The main part involves the episode 17, "Phantasm/Reborn," where Dextera gets his face whipped by Alv, and they go down the elevator afterwards
Content warning: Shounen-ai, slight YAOI (Do people not read summaries..?)
Storyline warning: Blooming relationships—as such, mental doubts, psychological barriers, awkward moments, and confusion for the reader abound
Summary: Sinistra wipes the blood from Dextera's lips. His mind ponders, his heart frets, and his stomach screams, "nearer, nearer!"
Point of view: Sinistra
Person point of view: Third person, present progressive (I think…)
The conceptual corner: Ooo, the bolds and italics. Extremely pretty—extremely fun—and rather efficient, though some may think otherwise. See these "—"? Yes, Osaka-neechan does overdo those. Forgive her. /nod/ Letting the one-shot flow was difficult, because she gets carried away! In the end, Osaka-nee was unsure about the luscious boys' character. In fact, the fear was basically if she could portray them right, not how. Meh. ›.›;;
Ah, a lovely comeback after four months—which is a long, bantam-sad story. -.-;;
The reception corner: Ah, what is this? Creative writing?! Oo;; Gods. Well, typing this out was rather enjoyable for Osaka-neechan. Osaka-nee actually got stuck in a few parts, especially when she added in the flashback later so there would be a bit more zest (which she never planned on— -.-;; oh, the smutty self). It is all a-alright!
Huh—how did this happen, though, Osaka-nee wonders? She thought on Episode 17, "What? There is no blood dripping from Dextera's lips anymore!" Then she was all, "Oh, the most natural thing in the world happened! Sinistra obviously took out a frilly pink handkerchief and wiped the blood off clean! Oh, Sinistra, you lovely manwhore!" So she had the inspiration, and was gonna type out a cutsie Sinistra/Dextera dribble where Sinistra frets in a Sinistra-way—but this happened! Gods, gods. /shakes head/
Osaka-nee's worst problems were Dextera and Sinistra's personalities! Egh! ›.- These luscious bastard boys! TT;; What a pain. She made them, in her opinion, a little too distant but obviously a little too on-the-edge-on-jumping-one-another. Sinistra especially. That was hard, going on from his point of view. /sigh/ Osaka-nee does not have Kiddy Grade in her full grasp, and probably missed a few facts, and while typing this, lost a few facts in her head too, so there were revisions aplenty. So, as much as she tried keeping them in their original characterization, she most likely tripped over herself somewhere.
Still, this was too great an urge to resist. Way too great! Dextera and Sinistra need to molest each other! Kiddy Grade needs much more incest, pedophilia, sadomasochism, shoujo and shounen-ai, but I adore this YAOI couple the most in there. There must be more. Oh, necessities. XDD
Vhat?! You question the title?! Vell, if the story is not gorgeous, then something must be. /eye glint/ You man-voman! Phwah.
The crackpot corner: The Armbrust baby has a built-in suitcase! Extremely cool, very extremely cool. /nod/
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AUTUMN'S CHILDREN
Short
(hands on a clock go tick-tock)
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(It isn't as if Dextera expects it. But—)
His swallow is raw, festering, and the air around his skin is nippier than usual. He still stands close, perhaps closer than they normally are—physically—but his movement is awkward, his hand trembling as he lifts his handkerchief, softly patting off the blood streaming from Dextera's lips.
(he wishes…he wishes, at times that perhaps, that he could be more—passionate. Exuberant.)
"There," he says, firmly—however, he sways his head backwards in hesitation, his feet working too clumsily for a GOTT S-class ES member.
(It is so silly—and the fact that he is using that word is, too, but after the uproar in his body from seeing the carnation-toned whip lash against the tanned skin—)
In a millisecond, his breath brushes against ruddy locks—a blush warms his cheeks in waking alarm—before a stretched palm, holding a familiar, clothed fragrance, is pushed lightly against his face.
(His stomach felt sick. Not the lurching, vomit-needy sick—no, a stale sick, knelt by his partner as the young man became icier than he generally was. He was hateful that moment, hateful, hateful, hateful, because—because he…ah. Dextera—Dextera made him feel this.)
"Sinistra," the masculine voice cuts in, but his own hand reacts—his fingers are caught off guard, for Dextera's are much warmer—and they slowly tighten their hold.
(Any stranger worth their intelligence can notice in less than a moment that Dextera is, for an auspicious word, brusque, but reserved, more so than his partner—Dextera makes him appear all the more chivalrous. However, concerning most of the world, the duo acts almost dutifully towards what they are often called—cool, collected.
He touches skin darker than his, breath teasing a broader neck. Shoulders are bared, saliva-slicked teeth impressing reddened bruises on viscous flesh. He smiles, his stomach washed over by covetous pleasure, as vibration from the complaisant body underneath him grazes his cheeks.
"Sinistra. Sinistra." The name is barely breathed.
This makes him glance back, then stare. Not often does Dextera speak, when they are doing this here. Their bodies are vibrant in incandescence, from the starkest light filtered about the room; the blinds are pulled closed and curtained funereally. Dextera is sprawled on the plain bed-covered mattress, and his countenance—sweat trickling from the roots of his hair, amaranth locks damp and mussy, inhales and exhales stifled, orchid irises murked—is at its most passive.
He shifts closer, pupils focusing on drier lips. Dextera blinks, hard, exhaling deeply. He can only listen in surprise when Dextera speaks, voice holding much more clarity and ardor than was expected.
"Without…without this—you—I'm not Dextera." There is fierce conviction in the words, and eyebrows are furrowed; he catches paler, thinner wrists in his palms, held on his chest. He inhales, exhales, coarse, nearly a scoff.
Sinistra stays still for a moment, cocking his head.
Then, his lips quirk the slightest. He kisses a spot near Dextera's nose, making the young man shut an eye, and chuckles in a warm mirth, whispering, "Without Dextera, I would be a pretty boy who had a social life, I'm sure."
He earns a huff, and notices the grimacing squint. Still in amusement, his chapped lips press insistently on drier ones—a wet tongue rolls out and slips under the bottom lip, before they are immersed in each other's mouths, his willowy fingers teasing their way down gaunt hips.
Not many ES members realize the full scope of their relationship. It could come across as surprising amongst some, yet being who they are, as S-class ES members, and as how their personalities are disclosed, especially towards each other—it is difficult, to maintain more than their partnership—
It is difficult, to have an actual—an actual relationship.)
His stomach screams, "nearer, nearer!" He does want you to, he does.
(It has been awhile—not since that night—since they—since they—)
His right hand grips uniform-clad shoulders, and he presses pale pinkish lips, unyielding, on the edge of Dextera's. He breathes, languorously, until wan, pasty eyelids slip open.
Cerise-red irises lock in on glassy blues, and they both stand still, stunned.
"I, I'm sorry." he hears himself say.
(since they were so near. He misses—)
Sinistra stumbles when trying to back off a few steps, lets his fingers fumble through alice-blue tresses, his gaze everywhere in the elevator except where Dextera stands.
"I'm sorry—" he begins again, feathery lashes framing half-lidded eyes, but abruptly stops.
(He misses Dextera, and their softer touches. Because he can never be sure if they can last, though he cannot be Sinistra without Dextera.)
Warm fingers grip his, tightening—makes him glance back too swiftly.
There is shine in those irises, too grounded, too honest. Dextera makes him lose his wisp breath, makes a tremor reach and lodge in his throat, his nerves tinge—fingers react in an instant. (Ff. People assume that when he thinks, he thinks more than twice, or thrice over. He wonders, does he think too little or too much on Dextera, then? When, day by day, the young man inhabits his thoughts the most?)
(Yes—when did that happen?)
They are gone, those fingers, their brief, overwhelming insulation. His thumb rubs his index; his lungs' passages start once more at a gradual pace, and too slowly he takes in air. (He has an ambition.) His lips curve in effort, then relax. (If he can make him smile—)
Light filters, still lacks; the elevator door is open.
(if he can make Dextera smile, those fingers would stay closer—become hands, become arms, become a body against his.)
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END
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