Scourge's Note: Now is the is-it-or-is-it-not BDSM. YOU DECIDE. Also, my MSWord told me that incestual is a real word. Which it isn't. Anyway, if you're offended by insinuated incest and more than insinuated bad smut scenes, look away. Also, thanks readers and reviewers. You guys rock our socks 'n stuff. We do appreciate your patronage and enjoy hearing more from you.

Naomi's Autobiography—narrative extrapolation on 12/05/09's Tree of Knowledge interviews

The Elusive Step-Father of Light Kushiel: First and Only Voluntary Public Appearance

"Good evening. Welcome to the Tree of Knowledge. Will you partake of our fruit? I am here with Soichiro and Sayu Yagami to interview them about the notorious Pumpkin King."

The cameraman, it was noted, had a strange fascination with chest zoom-ins, especially when concerning the hostess herself. The small Yagami girl, sadly, was too young to be any fun—that, and she was wearing a turtleneck, no doubt at the prodding of her fauther. Conservative git. Takada leaned toward the middle-aged man, who looked like he had been through hell and back again, and said in her most seductive voice… (well, really, it was the one she used in normal conversation—but no one actually cared about that)… "So, Mr. Yagami, how do you feel about your wife's bastard child?"

She neglected to use the words lickable and sexalicious, but everyone knew what was going through both her head, and the heads of the entire female audience. Even Sayu, with her turtleneck sweater, imagined up the word sexy and an image of handcuffs. She lived with a policeman—she had to know about handcuffs.

"You know I'm a police chief, and yet you had the impudence to kidnap me, drug me, beat me—and I'm pretty damn sure you molested me in the car—in order to drag me to your studio for a national interview. You are by far the most idiotic woman I have ever met, and I will have a warrant for your arrest as soon as you release my daughter and me." The poor police man was covered in a myriad bruises and small cuts. His middle-aged face looked as if it had been stuck into a blender in order to make a cannibal's smoothie. Luckily, the camera did not linger on him, preferring instead to rest upon the hemline of Takada's shirt.

"Well then, we'll just have to make sure you never leave." Her voice was one made for candlelit rooms and steaming Jacuzzis where Light Kushiel's delicious body waited, clad only in a leopard-print Speedo, holding a glass or two of champagne with the stereo system crooning romantic jazz in the background. It was not, however, meant for the middle-aged stepfather of such a glorious being—in fact, when directed at said stepfather, it was rather disturbing.

"Are you admitting to holding the Japanese police chief and his daughter hostage on national television?"

There was an awkward pause, in which the vision of Light Kushiel was ruined. The female audience was banging their heads in frustration.

"…Only if he wants to be held hostage." She neglected to mention the fact that a pair of silver handcuffs waited in her storage closet, ready for action.

"No. I don't."

"Ew." The small girl in her turtleneck sweater looked about ready to cough up several dozen hairballs and half of her vital organs. Needless to say, she was not thinking of Light Kushiel.

Takada blinked. "Yes, well, you never answered how you feel about your bastard child." Attempting to get the conversation back to the more desirable topic—the topic that filled the station with a female audience, rather than the young male population it had previously been supported by—Takada lowered the seduction in her voice by fifteen percent.

"I now understand why you didn't interview my wife. It's nice to know she won't be having an affair twice." Low blow, Chief Yagami, far below the belt—but perhaps Takada wanted to be hit below the belt. Above the belt, Yagami, above the belt.

"Your son, Yagami. Everyone is waiting for details on your… son…." In the space between the words "your" and "son," many adjectives could have been added. Adjectives such as: Sweat-producing; graceful as a ballet-dancing cat; sexy as the vampire Lestat was before Tom Cruise decided it would be a good idea to ruin him; and child that makes me want to drop to my knees and beg like a dog in a choke collar to take me on his bed (or against a wall—whatever he preferred). The female thought they were quite creative.

"He's not my son. He is the product of my wife's affair with a seraphim." And far better looking than Soichiro; Soichiro would not look good in a Jacuzzi and a leopard-print Speedo. The thought disgusted everyone.

"Well, what do you think of him?" Him being the glorious nephilim that caused half the population to want to invest in S and M supplies, stock up their closets with handcuffs, and install rings (to which chains and manacles could be attached) on miscellaneous items of furniture—such as a grand piano. You never know when you're going to need to break a grand piano. With chains. And sweet monkey love on a table… except on a piano.

"I think he's not related to me." Yes, well, a good thing too—who wanted to have two lickable men on television at once? The female population was already suffering from mass hysteria and fainting spells from just one Light Kushiel. A sexy father might have been too much.

"What about you, Sayu. What do you think of Light Kushiel?" If Sayu had been older, she might have used the phrases like… mmmpanda, he must smell like erotic chocolate-covered strawberries, or down on your knees, clothes on the floor sheets ripped apart in demon-powered super sex. Or perhaps she might even have said, "Let's break the bed and-or desk in our haste to rip off each other's clothes and have sex nonstop, as you are immortal and can party all night long!"

"I think he's hot," is what she did say—a bit of an understatement, but the audience agreed with her none the less… if somewhat less enthusiastically than they might have if granted more details. Mainly ones involving actual sexual organs.

Soichiro, of course, had a mad fit, as he didn't see the forbidden joys of incestuous relationships with a nephilim. Takada, however, was fully aware of these joys.

"Are you aware that you are openly pursuing a relationship with your half brother?" she asked innocently. In actuality, there was no question. Every woman in the world was ready to pursue him. My God, even I was somewhat ready to pursue him…. Actually, I did, but that's another story—moving on.

"Erm, well, maybe, I don't know, really. I mean, I'm sure he has a girlfriend or something, and I'm only thirteen, so…" On the issue of Light Kushiel and girlfriends, he actually doesn't have one. He has what is called a harem. In this harem, he has various women who consider themselves lucky enough to be even looked at by him, let alone be taken to his shining bedroom where he keeps his chains and handcuffs. Despite the fact that he doesn't own chains or handcuffs…. I don't even know if he owns a bed, but it's a nice image all the same.

"Can't start too early." Takada winked, a brief image before the camera returned to her top yet again. One could almost make out the sounds of Soichiro frothing at the mouth and cursing profusely under his breath.

"Do you have any other questions?" Soichiro Yagami asked betweens splutters, his mind locked on the idea of his daughter having sweaty love with his wife's bastard child in a dark room filled with iron and steel. Because really, that's what romantic relationships are all about—the cold iron chains.

"No, not really, but would you mind giving a good description of your wife's son to our audience?" Good, meaning erotic and sensual—one that made every woman in the world shudder in ecstasy. Of course, even Takada was not blatant enough to say it out loud, but it was obvious all the same.

"Fine. He's thin, his eyes are red, he wears too much black, and he looks like he wants to kill someone."

Needless to say, Soichiro didn't understand the point.

"That's nice…" Nice, as in, not helpful at all; our imaginations did better than you could have done, you old coot.

The interview ended abruptly, interrupted by several beer commercials, as it wasn't actually going anywhere. This is the reason I stopped paying Comcast. Cable television just wasn't worth it anymore.

I've been an angel all year

The Underground Messenger—12/09/09

SANTA CLAUS IS A SEX ICON

[…even moreso than Mormon vampire families, Severus Snape, and Marilyn Manson… quite possibly even moreso than the resulting love child of said threesome]

Yes, that's right. Remember the fat man who was kind to children? Gone, long gone, my friends. My editor has gone nuts. He isn't even sure what to do with himself, he's so excited about this new proposition. What am I talking about, you ask? This, I am talking about Light Kushiel.

Light Kushiel, the erotic fallen angel who sends every girl into seizures of want; Light Kushiel, who is depicted with chains and whips; Light Kushiel, who supposedly wears leather underwear and always has an extra pair of handcuffs on hand. Scarlet-eyed, lithe Light Kushiel who makes everyone want to fall on their knees in servitude.

Posters are being mass-produced of this sex creature—pictures of him half-naked, I might add, drawn with the artist's vivid imagination in full work. Why, even in my own newspaper, the pictures have become frighteningly detailed… almost, I might say, good.

I look out upon the world and I ask myself, have we gone mad? We are worshipping a half-breed fallen angel simply because he looks good in a pin-striped suit. Have we lost our minds? We are more than lust, we are more than our desire, we are more than the fanmail that buries the North Pole every day!

Humanity, I ask you to remember yourselves. Good day and good night, and let's pray we remember where we are on the morning after.

Post script

I flipped to the picture section of our newspaper and noticed the winged portrait of the naked, stretching, Light Kushiel. Humanity, control yourselves, please.

Santa baby, and hurry down the chimney tonight

Naomi's Autobiography—commentary on the infamous short story, "All I Want For Christmas"

Softcore Erotica Penned by Sayu Yagami

"They had lots of sex against a wall. Her butt hurt and her wrists burned as if she had dipped them in really cold strawberry-scented water, then dipped them in really hot strawberry-scented water, then left them there and they got all prune-y.

'Oh Light,' she cried. His throbbing battering ram pushing against her. She gasped. Excited by his large hands that moved up and down her body. Her chains rattled as she tried to move closer to him. He laughed, velvet laughter that smelled like sex and strawberry-scented Glade candles.

'Samu, my darling, you're so very pulchritudinous. I want to eat you like a honey-dipped truffle that's been coated in my own strawberry scented sweat, now be subservient to me! FEEL THE WEIGHT OF THE CHAINS ON YOUR WRISTS AND MY LITHE HANDS AS THEY MOVE DOWN YOUR BELLY!'

She groaned, it was too much, the Pumpkin King's hands were so sensual and smooth, he must have used strawberry-flavored hand-creame. His velvet sheets tangled about them in sweet ecstacy, his sweat tasting like chocolate-covered strawberries on her lips, his scarlet eyes filled with freckles of light that held deep pools of wisdom and lust and resembled a panda.

'Light I love you!' Samu Imagay cried, her voice so lustful and sensous and husky and bedroom-filling and echoing and mind-shattering and clouded by pleasure. That the great Pumpkin King shuddered at the heat of their passion, groaning as she pressed against him.

'Sayamu, my bucket of beauteous free hot sex sunshine, your chains are far too loose for such pleasure as this. We need to tighten them up!'

And so his great hands moved from her to the iron chains about her wrists. She shuddered in the absence of him, wanting more of his sweet touch, but so unable to grasp for it, because her arms were stuck to the wall.

'Light I NEED YOU NOW! I NEED YOU INSIDE ME!!!'"

Well. That was titillating.

Needless to say, I did not write this. Sayu Yagami wrote this lovely piece of work. Or should I say, Samu Imagay. Yes, well, there are so many things wrong with this piece that I can only think of one to comment on.

Light does not have mastery over time and space—or rather, not complete mastery. While he does partake in teleportation and the mutation of the time space continuum, it is generally for a purpose. He has never lost control of this ability in the middle of love-making. Or at least, not to my knowledge. If he did, then it would be much worse than switching from a bed to a wall to a bed again, or whatever it was. Maybe it was a wall to a bed to a wall again. I don't care.

If Light had that little control over himself, then Samu might have found herself in a lion's den accidently—or perhaps the middle of the North Pole. Near would have loved that one. The fact that she believes he can change places in the middle of ejaculation is ridiculous. Besides, he has no desire to move from a wall to a bed—he infinitely prefers the wall. Actually, he prefers to do it on the Christmas Tree—that way, they're stuck with pine needles and covered in sap by the time he's done. Call it revenge.

This novel is why I stopped reading literature, and why I no longer lecture Light Kushiel on not keeping up to date in the literary world. Why scar his eyes?

This is also the reason why I decided to help Light Yagami. If he had this much crap selling about him, he must be worth a fortune—literally. Besides, Near was more than ready to throw me out after that wine incident.

Santa cutie, there's one thing I really do need, the deed

Scourge's Note: BDSM or not BDSM? Also on the topic of Microsoft Word... there were only three highlights for the grammar of the soft-core erotica section. And now we know why teachers want us to know grammar ourselves. At any rate, I actually read a fic involving the comment about pianos. It was Carlisle x Bella. Carlisle was a male dominatrix. He had rings installed on every conceivable piece of furniture. Houseguest: ...Why are there chains underneath your dining-room table? Carlisle: Oh, I have a dog. Her name is Bella. (Which should have happened, and would have happened if I were writing it, but I wasn't, and it didn't. And apparently, the only houseguests Carlisle has are fellow BDSM fiends. Ah well. More's the pity.) And the ballet-dancing cat must have been Snape about to rape Hermione. Maybe it was Ron dressed as Snape about to knock up Harry, whose body Snape was possessing. I dunno. Something like that. It's hard to keep straight.