"Hmmm~?" {closed}

Poppy · May 31, 2015

RE: "Hmmm~?" {{Open}}

[ Marco Lopez ]

Marco expected nothing from Wrath.

He was nothing less than a wild animal Marco was in the unpleasant position of taming. When he committed a crime or sinned under the eyes of the Lord, Marco would feel nothing but exhaustion and perhaps the occasional frustration.

Dulce was another problem.

He had raised the boy since he was young. He couldn't claim he didn't discipline him enough or he didn't love him enough. He thought he had ingrained his values deep in his brain but his entire teenage life was just a bitter testament of how poorly he had raised him after all.

He knew he was at fault when he allowed Dulce to watch his beloved brother get possessed. He probably should not have backhanded him when he tried to intervene, but if he allowed him to alter the ritual, Micah's body would've died and all of them would have to face the temporal demon's wrath without any means of defending themselves.

One mistake and he pushed his son away.

The only son he had.

When Marco came home, he wished, a bit stupidly in retrospect, to not come home to a dozen phone calls about his children's behavior. He came home to a dozen phone calls about his children's behavior and a notice that they skipped class that day. He ordered Micah a couple of times to come home, even going so far as to text him, to no avail.

That was odd.

He heard the doorknob open.

Marco sat at the leather couch with a brandy in one hand and a cigarette on the other. "Dulce. Micah. Living room now."

Juraquille · May 31, 2015

RE: "Hmmm~?" {{Open}}

Dulce sniffled pathetically, a useless endeavor because he just couldn't stop crying. All this time, he had held himself together on the small, impossible chance that he could find a way to separate Wrath and Micah and hide his brother away so no one else could hurt him.

But now...

Now he was convinced that he'd lose Micah forever.

He wouldn't have to deal with instances like this, where Wrath managed to lose control over to Micah. Or as it seemed to be, allowed Micah to surface for a while. Similarly, in the twisted, and now drunk, mind of Dulce, their father had already done everything else there was to try and change him; getting rid of Micah completely until all that was left was Wrath and the mockery the temporal demon had made out of his dearest brother's body was the only punishment that might truly get Dulce to change his heretical ways.

Crush his will, so to speak, and obedience will follow.

Or at least, something to that effect. It was the only thing Marco cared about, no? Wrath would truly be the perfect son, then, without Micah's consciousness marring the purity of the Sin. On the other hand, Dulce had turned out to be a mistake, a disappointment, something that needed to be fixed. What better way to fix something than to destroy it absolutely and rebuild it in the image that you wanted?

"Micah." He whispered, weighing his words carefully. He didn't want this to sound like a drunken, maudlin rant, but he was in no state to keep his composure in line. "I love you... y'know?" He spoke haltingly, not wanting to be interrupted by hiccups or slurred words. As such, he sounded a bit better than before, but still not speaking normally. "I've always... loved you. You're so, so important to... to me."

He turned his watery gaze to the darkening sky, staring somewhat blankly at the stars even while he clung onto his sweet Micah so he wouldn't collapse. "I... I-I'll never forget you. You'll always... You'll always be in my h-heart."

It sounded like a goodbye.

An ugly part of him, the selfish part that wanted to squirrel Micah away all so he could keep the boy all to himself, hoped that their father would off Micah first, so that the innocent boy wouldn't have to watch their father punish Dulce.

His eyes fell on the looming manor before them, and before Dulce could even entertain the notion of running away, Micah unlocked the door and announced their return.

Marco's voice made his chest feel heavy, as if he couldn't breathe. He didn't dare to try and look up from where his gaze had fell to the floor, unwilling to see the displeased anger his father's features would undoubtedly hold. Disappointment, disgusting, sodomite, failure, mistake, disaster, hindrance, burden, bother--

The list went on and on, but Dulce simply let them sink into his mind. They were all true, yes? They were what he atoned for.

He flaunted his sexual relations in Marco's face, knowing it would enrage the man and he'd seek to punish Dulce to right such hellish wrongs. It was part Dulce's need for revenge, to avenge Micah's fate by refusing to be the angelic, perfect son his father always wanted, and part Dulce's need for his father to punish him, to help him atone for being such a deviant, for not being able to live up to the standards Marco set.

Silently, he followed Micah's lead into the living room and settled on one of the plush sofas. His weary teal eyes kept to his hands, which lay folded in his lap. There was a small but noticeable tremor in them-- he was normally very adept at hiding his wariness, his fear, when facing Marco, but Micah's presence and the alcohol had shot that self control to hell.

Somewhere along the line, Marco had become an unattainable goal, an unreachable person. PapÃ¡ had been loved, and while the part of Dulce that had been bred to the point of obsession to put family and father first urged him to beg for forgiveness, he could never see Marco now as his dear PapÃ¡. No, the man was Father now, and even then, he was slowly but surely becoming Dulce's superior. Someone to be followed and obeyed-- to a point, as there were a handful of things Dulce wouldn't budge on at all--, but never approached or spoken to casually.

He never bothered to count on MamÃ¡— Mother, now-- to go against Marco, and all the other Sins were held in better graces than he. Envy was the golden child-- and didn't that sting; she wasn't even born to Marco and yet she was the light of his life--, but she wouldn't care either. He knew she was envious of her sex life, even though he'd become celibate just so Marco would give him a sign, anything, to show that he was proud of Dulce. Gluttony was too busy being gluttonous, and Sloth, while doing his best to calm the family down, was only a baby sloth. And Wrath... the less he thought about that thing, the better.

And so, he sat there, trembling quietly as he waited for the guillotine to fall. Their father was most likely going to give them the 'I expected better' speech before dealing out the punishments. Dulce was a mass of conflicting contradictions, but he would accept everything as it came.

This was what it meant to be the firstborn, no?

Zell · Jun 1, 2015

RE: "Hmmm~?" {{Open}}

"I love you too, Dulce." He said. And before he thought better of it, he gave his brother a kiss on his cheek. For he too, could feel the cold brick of goodbye pressing against his throat and his chest. What would Papi do to him?

"Dulce. Micah. Living room now."

Just the sound of that voice sent a shiver down his spine. It was simultaneously the happiest moment of his life and the most terrifying. even now that childish pedestal remained intact despite it's numerous terrible and disfiguring chips, and on it sat his father who stared down at him from his favorite armchair and a glass of something he could try when he was older.

As the two of them walked to the living room, he wished that Wrath would wake up from his drunken snooze and take over the body again. He didn't want to face his Papi. Every time he even thought about him his body seemed to cringe, telling him that he shouldn't be so childish, so foolish, that he should follow Dulce's lead. They weren't Mami or Papi, they were Mother and Father... Or even better, they were Pride and Greed.

But he couldn't.

The same childishness that kept that pedestal intact held his tongue to Papi and Mami as if the very act of calling them anything else would shatter his whole existence.

As they walked into the living room and Micah very pointedly avoided looking at his father, he realized that there would be no point in pretending to be Wrath. Papi... he'd always been able to smell a lie like rotted fruit from a mile away, even in Micah's rose-tinted memory. Probably the moment he refused to look at him and sat down, Marco had known.

No, even more, as soon as he walked into the room, his whole presence meeker and smaller than Wrath's, he knew.

So much he wanted to crawl against Dulce, assure him and hide the both of them. But all he could do was sit on the couch, his brown eyes slowly regarding his hands that alternated between being clenched and relaxed.

He wondered if oblivion would be cold.

Poppy · Jun 1, 2015

RE: "Hmmm~?" {{Open}}

Marco was preparing himself to dish out another round of yelling, violence and punishments upon his disobedient children. It was their weekly routine. He and his sons were trapped in an endless purgatory of raging against each other, acting more like enemies instead of family. Whatever loving household they used to have in Dulce's childhood, it was nothing but ashes now, present only in old photographs and the fractured way they interacted with each other.

At the back of his mind, he wondered if they thought he liked this arrangement. He hated it as much as they did. He hated having to hurt his children. He hated watching them cry and suffer under his ruthless reign, spitting venom every time he imposed his rules upon them. What kind of father relished in this violence? What kind of father would prefer this over the idyllic picture ten years ago, where Micah would smile under his rare head pats and Dulce proudly called him Papa?

He would throw every insult and speech he could throw at them, but Marco knew for a fact that he was the real monster. Under his Catholic faith was a demon through and through. He destroyed their perfect picture with his own hands to fulfill a duty he had promised his mother and now he was left picking up the shards, bleeding every time he tried to fix it. No amount of money could ever fix it, this, them.

And so he fought back. He was making things worse. He knew it. They knew it. But they couldn't go back. There was no way for the wounds to mend. All he could do was deal with the consequences as they came and pray to God for the best.

The minute the boys entered, he immediately recognized his second born son. His anger froze into fear, not of ghosts, but of reality and having his sins acknowledged right in front of him.

It would've been easier (more painful, but easier) to acknowledge that Micah was dead.

But he was alive.

Marco felt sick. He was a bitter, old man wracked with sorrow and regrets, tired of this weekly dance, but this was making it worse. He had not prepared for this. This was...

Marco downed his brandy in one go. He was going to deal with Dulce first.

He threw a school notice on the coffee table.

"Skipping school, disgusting public displays, blatant homosexuality..." Marco rubbed his temple. "Must we play this game every week, Dulce? What have you to say for yourself this time, hmm? It's your nature? You can't help being a filthy sodomite, so you're going to drag the family's name down with you?"

He got up and strode over to Dulce's side. He grabbed him by the shirt and slammed him against the wall. The nearby painting shook. He knocked on Dulce's head several times, rattling his brain so he could have words with whatever witch was controlling his firstborn son's head and lead him to do all these stupid things. He smelled alcohol on him and he was disgusted. "What has gotten into you, boy? Is life nothing but good feelings to you, damn the consequences? I can't recall raising a whore for a son."

Juraquille · Jun 1, 2015

RE: "Hmmm~?" {{Open}}

Dulce never noticed their father's barely there reaction to Micah's presence, rather than that farce of a brother using his lovely Micah's body like a puppet. He did, however, catch the appearance of the piece of paper on the coffee table from the corner of his eye. He somehow managed to refrain from visibly wincing when he saw Dulce Lopez on the heading, beneath the official seal of the academy.

It seemed he was first, then. He only hoped Micah didn't try to get involved. He was sure that would enrage their father even more, and even if it didn't, Marco wouldn't let a lack of excuse stop him from using more violence to attempt to pound his lessons into his sons' heads. Or at least, Dulce's.

He remained silent even as Marco began his little spiel, the part of him he normally tried bury under ten feet of concrete wailing inside at the weary disappointment coloring their father's voice. That part of him hated himself just a little more each time, though he never allowed himself to indulge in the urge to desperately beg and vehemently offer to change his foul, sinful ways. Just give me those little barely-there smiles like you used to back then, Papa...

And there it was. He pushed away his self-loathing by focusing on the bitterness that welled up. All Marco-- Greed— cared about was the family reputation, their good Catholic name. All that mattered was whether or not he was an asset to the family, and if not, well...

Dulce was intimately familiar with what happened then.

He barely flinched when he sensed his father walking right up to him, though his trembling did increase considerably. Even so, the sudden and painful impact with the wall was frighteningly expected-- despite his age, Marco was strong. It still left him winded, which only made the weight on his chest feel like it was getting heavier, and he inhaled sharply at the shocking ache blossoming through his back.

And then the blows started coming, making his head ring and causing black dots to creep into the edge of his vision. He'd already been rather unbalanced due to the alcohol and emotional exhaustion, and the physical violence was doing nothing to help. The only sounds he made, however, were the harsh panting breaths he tried to gasp in as Marco tried to 'fix' things.

No, he wanted to croak out unevenly. Life meant carrying the weight of his mistakes-- he was the big brother, dammit, he should've done something, his then new-found fear of his own father be damned--, of being undeserving of his family, of being a good-for-nothing, selfish brat who needed his father's firm hand to feel like he was atoning for his sins. Life was a never-ending cycle of pain and loss and obsession and the fanatical need to please his family and his father always, always, warring with his need to avenge Micah, to let Marco know that he could never forgive the man for what he'd done to his most precious person.

He gave a soft whimper because, though it was true he'd been intimate with many, many partners, it hurt more to hear it coming from Marco. And still, Dulce did not say a word. He knew he'd only be repeating himself from previous times-- as his father said, 'it was in his nature'. On the other hand, he wasn't even sure he was capable of much more than stilted, single-worded sentences. Instead, he slowly but surely managed to bring his dazed, all but cross-eyed gaze to Micah and try to convey that he'd be alright, that everything would be alright. He wanted to reassure his beloved brother even when he himself knew he'd probably be recovering from this latest confrontation for days after this.

That is, if the crushing blackness didn't swallow him whole once Micah was taken away from him forever.

Zell · Jun 2, 2015

RE: "Hmmm~?" {{Open}}

Micah couldn't bring himself to look up from his lap.

Several times he tried to lift his eyes, to glance at the man whom he remembered so sweetly from his childhood. He remembered coming home from school after he's aced a particularly hard test and broke the curve for everyone else, he remembered coming home dirty and happy from soccer because he'd been a magnificent Goalie and he hadn't let the other team score at all, he remembered getting a part in the school play and being the best little prince he could. He did it all for his Papi, because being good meant soft smiles and soft hair rustles and an even softer "good job hijo". He'd learned Spanish to talk to Marco, he remembered with fond bitterness.

It felt like a secret code. When he wanted to tell Papi something but no one else he would say it in Spanish, the small unsure tone of a child who wasn't sure if he was pronouncing 'cumpleaÃ±os' correctly, who's little tongue was unused to rolling his Rs or responding to accent marks. But he'd learned it. For Marco.

His fists tensed hard.

For Papi.

He managed to lift his eyes a little, only to look at the paper that bore Dulce's name. He was scared for his big brother, who would be getting his punishment first. Micah didn't like remembering Papi's punishments. He couldn't remember ever being the target of anything more than a level gaze of disappointment, a stern talking-to, and maybe an hour or two sent to his room, but that was because Micah was a weak little goody-two-shoes. To him that was the harshest punishment imaginable. That he'd disappointed him.

But it was hard to be a Lopez and not hear about all the rumors of how your Papi did business, about how he totally killed that woman, how he beat someone with a length of bamboo until their legs were pulpy and purple and then stabbed them with it.

When Marco raised his voice and assaulted Dulce, Micah's head snapped up For the first time in four years, he'd seen his father.

He'd expected some change. Some increased haggardness, some bags under his eyes, maybe his hair streaked with more gray.

But no. There was Papi. Exactly as little Micah remembered. Powerful, perfect, infallible and terrifying.

He could see Dulce looking at him, trying to convey to him that he would be fine, but Micah was not a child. He knew better. He knew that Marco would do something terrible to him. And after all this time, all this time of being alone in the dark corners of his mind with nothing but dreams to keep him company, the last thing he wanted to see was his big brother being punished like this.

He was on his feet and next to Marco before he could think better of it. His Papi was a demon. Even though Micah a half demon, he didn't have he dad's amazing strength. For a moment of pure, selfish self-hatred, Micah mused on the fact that he didn't have anything at all.

But the moment passed, because Dulce was in pain.

"Â¡Papi por favor deja!" He cried, both of his hands grabbing at the arm that was mercilessly battering Dulce's head. Still speaking in Spanish he turned to the man, resisting futily the tears that pricked his eyes. What had happened to his family? "You're going to give him brain damage Papi! Don't you care? Not about the family reputation or the Catholic name--don't you care about Dulce at all?"

Poppy · Jun 3, 2015

RE: "Hmmm~?" {{Open}}

Micah didn't understand.

Their reputation was all they had left.

Marco could attempt to pacify him. He could assure them that he loved Micah and Dulce, Annabel, Esmeralda, Ryan, Sloth and madre with every beat of his old, tired heart, and it would be true. He could apologize for all he had done to his children and to Micah in particular, all the pain and the violence he had to subject them to, all the lies he told himself to justify his atrocious behavior.

But it wouldn't matter. Nothing ever did anymore. His children was broken. He was broken. They destroyed each other and shattered whatever was left of the happiness before, and he was so sure that Dulce and Micah hated him and saw him as nothing as a dictator. He couldn't fix this with sincerity.

Or could he? The thought terrified Marco. He didn't know what scared him most — the thought that he could've fixed this years ago had he been less prideful, or the thought of revealing weakness to his children... or perhaps it was the thought that if he attempted to fix it, he'd find it was broken beyond repair.

Marco Lopez did not respond well to fear.

No, his fear often turned into more violence and anger.

He dropped Dulce on the floor and grabbed Micah by the front of the shirt. "Don't act like you understand what's going here. You're the reason why my firstborn son is acting out. You destroyed our family," he snapped at Micah in Spanish.

Before Dulce could interfere, as he inevitably will, Marco stormed into the hallway and stuffed Micah in the coat closet near the stairs and locked the door.

Juraquille · Jun 3, 2015

Disoriented and doing his best to ignore the ringing that just wouldn't leave him alone, Dulce completely missed Micah's movements. To him, it appeared as if his darling baby brother had teleported from his place on the couch to stand directly beside their father. It took a handful of moments for his mind to process the words, the sweet lilting accent of his Micah's Spanish acting as a guide to the whirlwind that was his mind at the moment. Even then, he barely managed to pick up every third word or something equally as unhelpful, but... considering the circumstances and the tears in Micah's beautiful, gentle brown eyes...

No, he wanted to scream, to rage against the strong hand that pinned him to the wall-- and, consequently, the man that hand belonged to--, because Micah was going to get himself in trouble, trying to stand up for Dulce. He couldn't bear it, knowing his lovely little brother would be punished for protecting him, the older brother. He had already failed so many times to protect Micah, and his failure had ended up in... Wrath, the absolute bastard the thing was.

"Mi... cah." He managed to croak out pitifully as he was let go like a sack of potatoes, sinking to the floor in a pathetic heap of limbs. He just knew he wouldn't be able to stand, let alone do anything against their father, as loathe as he was to admit it. As such, he was completely powerless, slightly unfocused teal eyes forcing themselves to follow the confrontation. His cherished Micah was being yelled at by their father, and again, his grasp of the Spanish language and his injuries did little to help him, but he managed to understand from the little he'd registered.

No. Micah was never at fault. Never. It was the only sentence he could string together in his mind, but the words, though unspoken, were vehement. He could never lay blame at his adored Micah's feet. And yet, their father thought Micah was the source of all their troubles.

Dulce wanted to question whether their father actually believed that, but... this was Mar-- Greed. This was Greed they were talking about.

Then, they were gone.

His darling Micah had been dragged off by... by that man. He could never use 'father' after this.

Greed was surely planning on getting Micah out of the way so he could deal with him later. So that he could murder Micah once and for all.

The feverish glint that always seemed to threaten the edges of Dulce's gaze whenever family or Marco or, Dios me libre, Micah was brought up deepened in intensity. Or rather... insanity. By the time Marco returned, the look had turned absolutely wild. Completely ignoring the searing pain in his head and the blossoming ache in his back, Dulce pulled back his normally attractive features in an animalistic snarl, crawling as fast as he could towards the man and attempting what would've been a tackle had he been in a normal physical state. All it did, however, was wrap his arms weakly around Marco's legs, the trembling increasing nearly twofold. From anger or from fear was debatable, but it was more than likely to be a mix of both intense emotions.

No, no, no, no, no, nononononono NO!

He howled, a soulful, intrinsically wounded yet furious sound that tore at him, his throat raw from the crying from earlier and the heavy panting from just before. "W-Would ya 'ave... done wha' ya did ta Micah... ta me ha' I be'n... b-born no'mal?!" His roared words were barely coherent, but they were there. It was also clear that Dulce was nowhere even remotely near a right mental state, his thoughts jumbled and flying everywhere and nowhere all at once, a single mantra of insanity and love, obsession and passion. On the inside, however, he was more like a wounded animal-- confused and scared and utterly frightened and yet needing to be released, to rampage and destroy and figure out what the fuck was going on. "Y... Y-Ya fuckin' m-monst'r!"

And even further, was the assertion that he cared deeply for Micah, while all the rest of the family got was a deviant homosexual.

Zell · Jun 3, 2015

For the longest time, the childish pedestal that held his Papi as an unattainable goal remained intact.

No matter what happened it weathered and stood, no matter the chips and cracks, no matter his Papi's failings, even after that time Micah looked up at his father, at Marco with reverence. He loved his Papi, truly and deeply he did.

With every fiber of his being.

In Micah's ears, a deafening 'crack' resounded. As if it was a signal the sound of those cracks only continued, and the sound of rocks and plaster hitting the ground filled his mind like a symphony.

It was shattering.

Not only his Papi's pedestal but the fragility of his mind, the small place where he'd relived ten years of fairly happy family memories, memories of going to the beach at their summer home in Greece, of playing with Dulce in the snow, with hot cider around the fire, eagerly wanting to read a story to Papi when his Spanish was good enough--

Crack.

Those sweet memories he'd thought was a shield against Wrath's belligerence shattered--they were nothing more than high stained glass windows of a church faced with a stone. It was inevitable, he knew. Idyllic dreams and memories could only last so long, could only save him for so long against reality's storm. But he never, never, never thought that he would have done this.

"You destroyed our family."

And then, with those four words, the storm snuffed out every light in the church. Micah's eyes, normally bright, warm and alive, reflected that now shattered place.

He moved, his mind was broken and terrified beyond comprehension. He was alone and it was dark, not only in the closet but inside too. Everything that in the closet became a monster. Monsters with the face he recognized, powerful, infallible...

... and perfect.

Micah threw himself at the closet door, screaming loud enough that his throat hurt, tears streaming from his face like an uncontrolled waterfall as he pounded he fists against the door.

"PAPI!" He screamed, his voice punctuated with broken sobs and the desperate inhales of someone suffocating. "PAPI PLEASE! I'M SORRY PAPI PLEASE!" English tangled with Spanish without rhyme or reason, his fists banged against the wood. He could hear it rattle, but knew deep inside that he wouldn't open it.

Of course you can't open it, you pathetic weakling, are you sure you're even a part of this family are you sure they didn't just find you in a dumpster somewhere--

"LET ME OUT! PLEASE! I WON'T DO IT ANYMORE! I PROMISE! PAPI!!!"

Poppy · Jun 21, 2015

Inside, Marco was crumbling.

He'd always felt that, deep inside him. Poverty stole his childhood and innocence. His demon blood prevented him from becoming a good person, one that understood morals. And the parts that were raw, untamed Greed kept him hungry for wealth and materialistic, never content with what he had and always starving for more.

His family was the only thing keeping him together. He remembered falling in love with Annabel in that dirty seashore and carrying her in his arms with her newly formed human legs. He remembered marriage, their honeymoon, and knowing he would never love another like this. He remembered holding Dulce in his arms for the first time, little Micah stumbling over his Spanish, and little Esmeralda holding his hand and smiling brightly as she faced her new life with them. All of these memories he kept dear to his heart. They kept him sane. He protected them like treasure.

"W-Would ya 'ave... done wha' ya did ta Micah... ta me ha' I be'n... b-born no'mal?!"

Of course not was his immediate gut reaction. Was this the impression he left on them? That he hated his family? That he'd throw them to the wolves the minute they'd stop being convenient?

The ritual with Micah was an act of limited time and desperation. They couldn't remember, but he left the month, searching the Earth for the temporal demon with nothing but vague hunches from his mother. She refused to cooperate. She told him: Why do you cling to your second born so tightly? What use is he? Do you think he'll grow up happy and well-adjusted in a family of Sins? He kept telling her he needed more time, but time was the one thing he couldn't buy, so it ran out, eventually, and he did what he had to do.

He had to.

He looked at his children now, the small screaming voice inside the closet and Dulce's active defiance of him, and he saw nothing but chaos and he knew this wasn't any of their fault. It was his. He didn't search hard enough, couldn't say no to his mother. This was his punishment for his monstrosity. He just wished God kept all of them out of this torment.

Outside...

Marco never crumbled.

His face held nothing but anger. He grabbed Dulce by the back of the shirt and raised him up to look at him at eye level. Dulce could never best him physically. The fact that he even tried knowing he couldn't broke his heart.

"You call me a monster, but you're the one that forgot everything I taught you. What happened to duty? What happened to obedience?" He kept him steady by clutching the back of his hair, thinking how shameless his haircut was, his attire. "You... are a Sin first. It's high time you understood that!"

This whole thing was getting him nowhere. He pulled on Dulce's hair, prepared to seal him back in his room — no, that was useless. He knew he had his ways. He knew how to sneak his 'friends' through the window.

Perhaps the darkness of the basement was more apt for him.

He dragged him to the basement door and pushed him down the stairs. Without warning, he slammed the door shut. He recited the incantation his mother gave him. The door and walls were now impenetrable by any type of magic or attack from Sins.

When the deed was done, Marco felt nothing.

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"Hmmm~?" {closed}

Poppy

Well-Known Member

Juraquille

Sleepy...

Zell

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Poppy

Well-Known Member

Juraquille

Sleepy...

Zell

Well-Known Member

Poppy

Well-Known Member

Juraquille

Sleepy...

Zell

Well-Known Member

Poppy

Well-Known Member