The Peninsula

The Fiction and Poetry Archive of Liana Mir and scribblemyname



“Sometimes you’re a real piece of work,” Kusanagi commented dryly, blowing smoke toward the ceiling, trying to ignore that the heat in his bed wasn’t accompanied by weight.

There was nothing quite like being unable to hold as another filled him. Hands and body moving in familiar ways, all wrong when hands could slide right through flesh and leave him aching and aroused, and he couldn’t touch back.

I hate you for doing this to me, Kusanagi wanted to say but wouldn’t, practical enough to know it was all he could have and he’d take it. Because he’d missed Mikoto.


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