Ri

Love is the most twisted curse https://x.com/Louthesun_28

[blueberri-chee]

Masterlist

One Shots {random wlw}

You're so Art Deco

Bad Girl

One Shots {jjk}

Golden (nanami kento)

Rockstar gf series

✩°｡⋆⸜ ✮ Rush ✮°｡⋆⸜ ✩

「 ✦Siren✦ 」 (pt.1)

「 ✦Siren✦ 」 (pt.2)

Little Love series {Satoru's elder sister oc}

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

[blueberri-chee]

「 ✦Siren✦ 」 (pt.2)

"You enjoy making me squirm, don’t you?" The thought seared through my mind as I peeled off the wet shirt clinging to my body like a second skin. Her gaze was scorching, drilling into my back even though I refused to meet it. Every move felt deliberate under the weight of her eyes, as if she were savoring the moment, letting it stretch unbearably thin.

“You are staring a lot,” I muttered. The suite's glass bathroom—so chic, so luxurious—suddenly felt like the cruelest design choice, offering no real privacy. Every outline of me was visible, every motion exaggerated by the soft light spilling in from the room. My skin prickled, equal parts exposed and defiant.

“I’m not the type to waste a good show.” Her voice was a low purr, curling through the air with the same sly confidence as her smirk. I didn’t need to turn around to know she was leaning back lazily, a predator with no intention of hiding the satisfaction etched into her features. Her tone teased and provoked, but there was a precision to her words that made my pulse quicken.

“Why do you even have a honeymoon suite?” I asked, turning over my shoulder, clutching the wet shirt to my chest. I walked to the tap to fill the tub, hoping the steam would fog the glass.

“Curious, and it has a jacuzzi,” she said, leaning back on the bed with a grin that screamed she wasn’t telling the whole truth.

“Got curious?” I chuckled, shaking my head. “Should’ve guessed.” I turned to the sink, undoing my hair and removing my makeup. “What other ‘perks’ does it come with?” I tried to keep my voice casual.

“Free wine, chocolate-covered strawberries—usual honeymoon stuff.”

I rolled my eyes, catching her smirk in the reflection as I leaned closer to the mirror. The cool water against my skin contrasted sharply with the heat of her presence, a mix of physical warmth and something intangible—an emotional pull that I couldn’t quite name. It was the kind of heat that seemed to radiate from her every movement, her gaze heavy with intent, setting my nerves alight. I tried to focus on the water, its soothing chill a lifeline, but the magnetic tension in the air made it impossible to ignore her presence entirely. I could hear the bed creak as she shifted, her movements deliberate, amplifying the tension in the room.

“And do you bring people here often to enjoy these perks?” I asked, feigning nonchalance.

“No,” she said, her voice deliberate. “Only when the company is worth it.”

Her words made me pause, my hands stilling mid-motion as a sudden warmth spread across my cheeks. I bit the inside of my lip, willing the heat to subside, but the flutter in my chest betrayed me. My fingers hovered over the sink, desperate to keep moving, to distract myself from the way her words clung to the air like an unspoken challenge. I fought the urge to glance at her, afraid of what her gaze might reveal—and worse, what mine might betray. My chest tightened, a strange mix of irritation and something warmer bubbling to the surface. Her tone felt too precise, as if she could see through the careful façade I had been holding onto all night. Part of me bristled at her audacity, but another part—a quieter, more dangerous part—wanted to hear more.

Clearing my throat, I busied myself with undoing my hair, letting the damp strands fall over my shoulders. “Enjoying the perks?” she teased, her tone playful but laced with something deeper.

I glanced at her reflection. She lounged on the bed, her frame stretched out, eyes fixed on me with an intensity that sent a shiver down my spine. I hated how much I liked it.

I ignored her, turning back to the tub. The steam curled up in languid, sinuous tendrils, clinging to the glass like whispers of tension, blurring the world beyond into soft, unrecognizable shapes. It mirrored the dynamic between us—veiled, charged, and impossible to fully grasp—offering me a fragile, fleeting sense of privacy while also amplifying the unspoken electricity that hummed just outside its reach. It felt like a fragile barrier between us, a fleeting sense of privacy. I folded my stockings neatly, trying to focus on the simple task instead of the way my heart raced.

“You know,” she said, her voice cutting through the quiet, “you don’t have to work so hard to avoid me. I’m not going to bite.”

“Unless I ask nicely, right?” I shot back, surprising myself with my boldness. Her soft, rich laugh filled the room, and I bit my cheek to keep from smiling.

The tub was nearly full, so I stepped into the fancy looking bathtub. The warmth of the water melted the night’s tension, the jets gently massaging my back as soft ripples caressed my skin. The subtle scent of lavender from the bath oils mingled with the steam, creating an intoxicating cocoon that dulled the chaos of the evening. The sound of the water cascading from the ornate faucet echoed softly against the marble walls, a symphony of luxury that felt almost surreal. The gold accents on the tub’s edges glinted in the dim light, reminding me of just how out of place I should have felt—but somehow didn’t. Every detail of the bathroom, from the heated tiles underfoot to the faint glow of candles lining the shelves, worked to draw me further into a state of reluctant comfort, even as I knew she was outside, her gaze capable of piercing even this mist-filled sanctuary. The steam cocooned me, shielding me momentarily from the charged air waiting outside.

"I hope you’re enjoying yourself in there," her voice floated into the bathroom, smooth and teasing, breaking through the tranquility of the steam-filled air. My eyes blinked open, the serenity of the bath momentarily shattered.

"What are you doing?! Get out!" I sank deeper into the foamy water, the bubbles rising around me like a shield. Snatching up the nearest loofah, I hurled it in her direction, though it barely grazed the edge of the doorway. "At least knock, you idiot!"

She laughed, the sound rich and unapologetic, and casually placed a folded T-shirt and something else on the dry sink. "No need to get violent, bubbles," she drawled, her grin maddeningly smug. "I’m just being thoughtful and bringing you some clothes... though I won’t mind if you decide you don’t need them."

I glared at her, my cheeks burning, but she only winked at me before tossing the loofah back into the water with practiced nonchalance. "Relax, bubbles," she added with a smirk, backing out of the room and leaving me alone once more—baffled, flustered, and very much aware of the mischievous energy she’d left behind, lingering like the steam in the air. 

Bubbles?!

[blueberri-chee]

「 ✦Siren✦ 」 (pt.1)

summery: the girl and how she met her (not-so) gf

The party was a cacophony of lights, music, and bodies moving in chaotic harmony. It was held in one of those sprawling venues that catered to both the glamorous and the reckless, a place where you could just as easily spot a movie star sipping champagne as a college student doing shots in the corner. I had already resigned myself to spending the evening on the fringes, far from the pulsating center of the room where the more daring revelers danced. This was not my scene—had never been my scene—but my best friend, ever the hurricane of energy and persuasion, had dragged me into it.

“You’re going to look so good,” she’d insisted earlier that evening, her voice practically vibrating with excitement as she rummaged through a pile of clothes she’d brought over. “Trust me, you’ll thank me later.”

My protests had fallen on deaf ears as she transformed me into her vision of an “office siren.” Now, as I caught sight of myself in one of the many gilded mirrors lining the walls, I barely recognized the woman staring back. My dark brown skin glowed under the dim lights of the venue, the professional sheen of my usual attire swapped for something decidedly outside my comfort zone. My hair, usually left to its own devices in soft curls, had been tamed into a sleek ponytail, with a few loose strands framing my face in what I had to admit was an artful arrangement. A borrowed white button-down shirt clung to me in all the right places, its top two buttons undone to reveal just enough skin to make me uncomfortable. The shirt was tucked into a black pencil skirt so tight I felt like I was auditioning for a role in a 1950s noir film. Stockings encased my legs, leading down to a pair of high heels that I had already silently cursed multiple times for their unforgiving height.

Then there were my glasses, my one piece of normalcy, perched securely on my nose. For first time ever my best friend had gladly let me wear them. Those square frame glasses adding into the whole look made me let out a sigh. After a intense back and forth, she had whined and begged enough for me to give in and let her do my make-up. Now, one would be over the moon to get their face full done by a star as herself but given her history of trying 'various' trends on me.. i'd rather not let her touch my face, but i guess this is what they call being emotionally manipulated. After everything was done with a proud grin she called it sexy librarian chic. I called it an accident waiting to happen.

The venue itself was a spectacle, dripping in Halloween-themed decadence. Orange and purple lights bathed the room in an otherworldly glow, while fake cobwebs and dangling bats adorned every conceivable surface. The air was heavy with the mingling scents of alcohol, smoke, and the faint sweetness of candy apples. Somewhere in the distance, a DJ was spinning tracks that alternated between upbeat and hauntingly atmospheric, the bass reverberating through the floorboards.

I adjusted the jacket I had slung over my arm, scanning the sea of costumes and masks. My best friend had disappeared into the throng moments after we arrived, her laughter echoing above the din as she was swept away by her boyfriend and his bandmates. Typical. I sighed, taking a small sip from the drink I’d picked up earlier, more to have something to do with my hands than out of any real desire to drink.

Across the room, leaning casually against a bar draped in fake cobwebs, she stood out like a shadow against neon lights. The drummer. I recognized her from the few times I’d seen her with the band—a tall, lean figure with an air of quiet authority that didn’t need words to make itself known. Her shoulder-length hair framed a face dotted with freckles, and her narrow eyes tracked my movements with unnerving focus. She wore a simple costume, devil horns perched askew on her head, and a bright red umbrella by her side, but even in that playful touch, she exuded an edge that set her apart.

She didn’t approach me. She didn’t need to. Her presence was enough, a silent challenge that sent an unspoken message: I see you.

I pretended not to notice, though my cheeks burned under her gaze. She’s probably staring because I look ridiculous, I told myself, clutching my glass tighter as I moved further into the room, trying to find a quiet corner to hide in.

Before I could find refuge, the music shifted. The DJ’s voice crackled over the speakers, announcing something that sent a ripple of excitement through the crowd. “Surprise rain dance in the courtyard! Let’s make this Halloween unforgettable!”

A hidden wall rolled back to reveal an open-air courtyard, where a sudden downpour drenched the space in moments. The rain wasn’t natural; it was part of the party’s gimmick, a carefully orchestrated spectacle complete with strobe lights and fog machines. A cheer erupted from the crowd as people began spilling outside, eager to dance beneath the rain.

I tried to back away, but the press of bodies around me made it impossible. Before I knew it, I was being swept forward, carried by the momentum of the crowd until I was standing at the edge of the courtyard. The first drops of water hit me like tiny shocks, cool against my skin. And then, without warning, the heavens opened up, and I was caught in the full force of the rain.

The white shirt that had seemed so daring in the mirror now clung to me like a second skin, leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination. My sleek ponytail was reduced to a damp tangle, and rivulets of water streamed down my glasses, obscuring my vision. I could feel the cold seeping into my bones, but there was something strangely freeing about it, too—as if the rain had washed away the last vestiges of my carefully constructed facade.

A burst of laughter brought me back to reality. Turning, I found myself face to face with her. The drummer was standing just a few feet away, still dry beneath the large red umbrella. Her smirk was infuriatingly smug, her narrow eyes flicking over me with something that felt far too deliberate.

“Well, well,” she drawled, her voice carrying effortlessly over the sound of the rain. “Guess the office siren look wasn’t enough for you. Had to add the ‘soaked to perfection’ vibe, huh?”

I glared at her, crossing my arms over my chest in a futile attempt to preserve what little dignity I had left. “Not a word,” I snapped, though the effect was ruined by the way I was shivering.

Her grin widened, and she stepped forward, the rain finally hitting her as she extended the umbrella over both of us. “You’re freezing,” she observed, her tone softening slightly. “Come on. Let’s get you out of this mess.”

Before I could protest, she shrugged off her leather jacket and draped it over my shoulders. The scent of leather and faint citrus enveloped me, mingling with the warmth of the jacket itself.

“Hotel’s just around the corner,” she said, her voice low and steady. “You can dry off there. Unless you’d rather freeze in front of a crowd.”

Her smirk returned, and this time, it felt less like teasing and more like a challenge. My heart thudded in my chest, and for a moment, I considered refusing out of sheer stubbornness. But as another shiver wracked my body, I sighed in defeat.

“Fine,” I muttered, pulling the jacket tighter around me. “Lead the way, wannabe Crowley.”

Her laughter was soft but genuine as she turned, gesturing for me to follow. As we stepped out of the courtyard and into the quiet of the night, I couldn’t help but feel the weight of her gaze on me, steady and unyielding. Whatever this was, I knew it wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

A/N: the next parts will be up soon!!

[blueberri-chee]

[▮▮▮] 2

The rumors among the workers intensified with each passing day. Disembodied voices, flickering shadows, and the sensation of being watched were no longer confined to whispered conversations but were now openly discussed with fear and frustration. A foreman resigned abruptly after claiming to have seen a figure standing impossibly still at the edge of the floodlights, only to vanish when he approached.

Hiromi, determined to get to the bottom of this, interviewed the workers one by one. With each story, his irritation grew. The details were maddeningly vague—a wrench that supposedly flew across the site on its own, a shadow darting past only to vanish in the blink of an eye. These accounts grated against his logical mind. His frustration wasn’t just with the stories themselves, but with the workers’ palpable fear. It was real, tangible, and that made it harder to dismiss.

He leaned back in his chair in the site office, rubbing his temples as the latest witness left. “Ghost stories,” he muttered under his breath. “What next? A séance?”

Yet, despite his irritation, he couldn’t deny the undercurrent of curiosity. Something unusual was happening here, and it wasn’t just the workers’ overactive imaginations. The engineer's reports confirmed the equipment malfunctions, but they failed to explain the eerie timing of these breakdowns. It gnawed at him, the sense that he was missing a crucial piece of the puzzle.

That evening, while sitting at a café near the site, Hiromi sipped his coffee and reviewed his notes. The café’s warm interior was a welcome reprieve from the cold, damp chaos outside. He was lost in thought when a voice broke through his concentration.

“You’re looking rather troubled for someone with such a meticulous reputation.”

Hiromi glanced up, startled to see Her standing before him, her coat draped elegantly over her shoulders. Her tone was light, almost teasing, but there was an edge of seriousness in her eyes.

“And you’re remarkably well-informed for someone I’ve only just met,” he replied, gesturing for her to take the seat across from him.

She accepted the offer, her movements deliberate and graceful. “Reika Gojo,” she introduced herself, though her name felt like an understatement, a mere formality to the weight she carried in her demeanor. “It’s been a while since we last met, Mr. Higuruma. I hope you’ve made some groundbreaking developments in the case.”

Hiromi arched an eyebrow. “And why would you be interested in that?”

“Let’s just say I’m interested in what’s happening there,” she said smoothly, her voice betraying no hint of her own frustrations. “I’ve seen too many people dismiss the workers’ fears out of hand.”

“Fear can be persuasive,” Hiromi countered. “But it doesn’t always mean there’s something to fear.”

Reika’s gaze held his, unwavering. “And what if it does?”

Hiromi leaned back, studying her. There was something about her—an air of authority that demanded respect, yet she seemed entirely out of place in this setting. “What’s your stake in this? You’re not a worker. You’re not an engineer.”

“Let’s just say I have a vested interest in understanding what’s going on,” she replied. “And I think you do too, even if you won’t admit it.”

Hiromi hesitated. Her words were sharp, but there was no malice in them, only a quiet conviction. “If you’ve got something to add, I’m listening.”

Reika leaned forward slightly, her tone softening but losing none of its weight. “This isn’t just about faulty equipment or frightened workers. There’s something older, something buried, that doesn’t want to be disturbed.”

Hiromi’s eyes narrowed, skepticism flashing across his face. “You’re talking about... what? Spirits? Curses?”

Reika smiled faintly, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I’m talking about history, Mr. Higuruma. And history has a way of leaving scars when it’s ignored.”

For a moment, the café buzzed around them, an inconsequential backdrop to the charged silence between their words. Finally, Hiromi broke the silence. “If you’re asking me to believe in fairy tales, you’ll have to do better than that.”

“I’m asking you to keep an open mind,” Reika said, rising from her seat. “And to consider that the answers you’re looking for might not fit neatly into a legal brief.”

As she walked away, Hiromi watched her go, annoyance mingling with a reluctant curiosity. Whatever her motives, she wasn’t like anyone he’d encountered before. And for reasons he couldn’t quite articulate, he felt a growing need to know more.

i wonder if i should keep her nameless....

[thememedaddy]

[blueberri-chee]

[▮▮▮] 1

Hiromi Higuruma tightened the knot of his precisely aligned tie as he surveyed the chaotic construction site from his parked car. His reputation as a defense attorney who thrived on precision and logic preceded him. To Hiromi, myths and superstitions were distractions, born of fear and ignorance. Yet, something about this case had unsettled him from the start. Perhaps it was the lack of concrete answers in the reports or the strange expressions on the faces of the workers he’d briefly observed.

“Every delay has a reason,” he muttered, stepping onto the site. His polished shoes sank slightly into the damp ground, and the faint tang of disturbed earth reached his nose. He scanned the half-finished tower rising into the fog and suppressed a twinge of unease. “And none of them involve ghosts.”

Across the site, the head of the Gojo clan stood with her arms crossed, her expression unreadable. Her tailored coat shielded her from the chill, but it did little to quell the simmering frustration beneath her composed exterior. She had watched the land change over the months with an almost visceral ache, each new beam and slab of concrete a scar across a place that once pulsed with spiritual harmony. To her, this wasn’t just an ambitious skyscraper—it was a monument to human arrogance.

Hiromi’s first steps onto the site caught her attention. He carried himself with a confidence, his sharp suit and measured movements clashing with the chaotic, grimy backdrop of the construction zone. As he emerged from the site office, engrossed in a stack of legal documents, their eyes met for the first time.

She tilted her head slightly, studying him with the detached curiosity of someone piecing together a puzzle. There was an intensity in her gaze that made Hiromi pause mid-step, as though she could see straight through his polished exterior.

“They seemed to have hired a attorney.. how interesting” She remarked, breaking the silence. Her voice was calm, yet it carried an undertone of quiet authority, "do you believe the complains hold some truth? the ghosts?"

Hiromi raised an eyebrow, startled by her sudden approach. “they don't exist…" he replied, recovering quickly. “why? do you?”

“Merely curious.” Her faint smile gave away nothing, but her words carried weight, as if she knew far more than she let on.

He hesitated for a moment, then folded his arms. “Curiosity doesn’t usually bring people to construction sites.”

“Neither does skepticism,” she countered smoothly.

Hiromi found himself smirking despite the odd tension in the air. “Touché.” He studied her briefly, taking in the sharpness of her features and the quiet resolve in her stance. Whoever she was, she wasn’t here on a whim.

“If you’re here to unravel a mystery, you won’t find much. Just rumors and faulty equipment.”

“Rumors often hold a grain of truth,” She replied, her gaze unwavering. “Wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Higuruma?”

Hiromi’s expression shifted subtly at her use of his name, for a moment, the air between them was charged, a silent exchange of unspoken intentions. He masked his surprise quickly. “You’ve done your homework.”

“I prefer to be prepared,” she said simply.

"And who might you be to come prepared?"

"We'll be seeing a lot of each other, Mr. Higuruma. so let's keep the introductions for the second time." With a nod, she turned and began walking away, leaving Hiromi with more questions than answers.

As he watched her retreating figure, a flicker of doubt crossed his mind. Perhaps this case wasn’t as straightforward as he’d assumed.

Start of something new or.....

[blueberri-chee]

Dissonance

She is not what she looks like

summery: the usual calm and collected elder sister succumbs to her true nature.

warnings: mentions of blood

a/n: Set after 'Part 3' but can be read as a stand alone. Would recommend read any one part before to understand who she is as a person though.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

Her hands trembled, and the air around her seemed to ripple with barely restrained cursed energy. Every breath she took felt shallow, dragged through clenched teeth as if oxygen itself resisted her. The corridors stretched and twisted in her mind, no longer simple pathways but distorted mirrors reflecting her fractured psyche. She stalked through them, her movements predatory, her shadow stretching unnaturally long on the walls like a looming specter.

The door to Shoko’s office, a once-welcoming barrier, now seemed fragile. It stood no chance against the raw force she unleashed, slamming it open with a crash that reverberated through the room.  

“Shoko,” her voice came, gravelly and distorted. “It’s getting bad.”  

Shoko looked up, the scalpel frozen mid-motion in her gloved hand. Her sharp eyes widened as they took in the state of the woman before her. The alabaster hair, usually pristine, was wild, and her pupils gleamed like darkened mirrors, capturing all light and reflecting none.  

The head of the Gojo clan, unraveling so disgracefully, a sight that would stir whispers of scandal—yet those whispers would falter if they knew. If they glimpsed the truth: a sanguinary hunger coursing through her veins, a malignant force entwined with her very soul like a cancerous bloom. It was not mere disgrace, but a slow, insidious decay, eroding her from within. Born not for diplomacy, nor for grace, but as an executioner wielding death, she was never meant to lead. Not with hands so stained, a spirit so feral. Hers was a nature too savage, too monstrous, for the gilded weight of a clan’s legacy.

Her bloody inheritance had long been veiled beneath the brilliance of her younger brother’s power, his triumphs casting her shadows into obscurity. For that, she had been grateful—a reprieve from prying eyes and judgmental whispers. But now, with Satoru’s light withdrawn and the mantle of the clan resting on her shoulders, the weight bore down relentlessly. She had foreseen the strain, had braced for it, but never had she imagined the ferocity—the searing, insatiable hunger gnawing at her core, a ticking bomb with no promise of silence.  

“Sit down,” Shoko said cautiously, placing the scalpel down with deliberate slowness.  

But the clan leader did not move to sit. Instead, she loomed by the door, her fists clenched, the veins bulging under her pale skin. “It’s worse than before. I think… I'll spiral down this time.”  

Shoko’s lips parted as if to argue, but no words came. The weight of her friend’s presence was suffocating, the air charged with something primal and dangerous. The dissection table between them suddenly felt like a flimsy shield against a rising storm.  

“You should’ve come to me earlier,” Shoko finally said, her voice low but firm. “You know better than to let it fester. How long has it been like this?”  

The answer came as a growl, low and guttural. “Yesterday.”  

Shoko froze. The implications slammed into her like a physical blow. “Yesterday?” The scalpel clattered to the floor as her composure cracked. “Nee-san, what the hell were you thinking? You—”  

“I was thinking I could handle it!” The snarl cut through Shoko’s tirade, and the woman’s body surged with restless energy. She began pacing the room, her steps predatory, each movement betraying the mounting tension that threatened to explode.  

Shoko knew this was more than a lapse in judgment. This was something deeper, darker—a culmination of years of repression and denial.  

“Let me help you,” Shoko pleaded, grabbing a syringe from the tray. Her voice softened, though her movements remained cautious. “I can’t fix this, but I can take the edge off. You’re walking a tightrope right now, and one wrong step—”  

“It’s not enough!” The clan leader’s voice cracked, half-roar, half-sob. Her nails dug into her palms, drawing blood that dripped to the floor in stark crimson droplets. the metallic scent pushing her further off the edge, “It’s never enough. The sedatives, the meditation, the distractions—they’re like bandages on an open wound. I need—”  

“I know what you’re thinking,” the white-haired woman whispered, her voice softer now but no less dangerous. She leaned against the surgical table, her bloodied hands trailing over its cold surface. “You’re thinking this isn’t sustainable. That I’ll end up tearing apart the wrong person. Maybe you’re right. But Shoko…”

Her eyes snapped up, locking onto Shoko’s with a gaze so intense it felt like a physical force. “What happens when it’s not me tearing someone apart, but this curse tearing me apart from the inside?”

Shoko swallowed hard, her throat dry. “There are… alternatives,” she said carefully, though the words tasted like ash.

A bitter laugh escaped the clan leader. “Alternatives,” she repeated, her tone dripping with disdain. “You mean seals? Exile? Death?”

She stopped herself, biting down on the words that had nearly spilled out. But Shoko already knew.  

“You need to let it out,” Shoko said quietly, lowering the syringe.  

The air grew heavier, and for a moment, Shoko thought the room itself might collapse under the weight of the other woman’s aura. The unspoken truth hung between them, undeniable. The Gojo clan’s head was not just a leader or a protector—she was a predator, a weapon designed for death. Years of suppression, of pretending to be something she was not, had created a pressure that was now on the verge of eruption.  

“Then we find another way,” Shoko said, her voice steady despite the fear clawing at her chest. “But for now…” She raised the syringe again, this time with more determination. “Let’s make sure you survive tonight.”  

The clan leader tilted her head, watching Shoko like a hawk eyeing its prey. “Tonight…” she echoed softly. A dark smile tugged at her lips as if she had made a decision.  

Faster than Shoko could react, the syringe was swatted from her hand, shattering against the floor. The doctor barely had time to step back before her friend surged forward, eyes wild, movements too fluid and fast for her to counter.  

The glass of the syringe had managed to lodge itself in the bare foot of the sorceress. The almost non-existent smell of her own blood made her take a deep breath. “Shoko,” the sorceress said, her tone low and borderline murderous, “I'll survive alright.. Let’s make sure you get out unscathed, ya?”

“Damn it, nee-san! Don’t—” Shoko’s words were cut off as she was pushed back and her office door swung shut with a deafening bang. By the time Shoko reached the door, it was too late. The clan leader was gone, her aura fading into the chaos of the night outside.

---

The city’s streets were quiet, lit only by the dim glow of streetlights. She moved through the shadows with ease, her breath steady now, though her mind was anything but. The hunger still roared within her, demanding blood, chaos—anything to satisfy the itch clawing at her insides.  

Her feet carried her around mindlessly. She walked down the empty streets of the outskirts of the city. The sane part of her mind was glad for the emptiness but the monsters, they banged against her chest, clawing at her to hunt down something.. Or someone. 

She stood in front of the apartment of the one person she had sworn she’d stay away from during such episodes and yet here she was. Standing in front of that same person’s door like a kicked puppy with a murderous streak. 

She didn’t even have to ring the bell when he opened the door, half asleep and hair rumpled. The sight of him, so calm, so human, made her stomach churn. The usual scent of paper and coffee drifting off him did as good as nothing to calm her frayed nerves.

“Hey,” he said, his tired eyes looking at her with a soft look. “You’re out late. Everything okay?”

She paused, her hands trembling again. She clenched them into fists to stop the shaking. “Yeah,” she said, her voice softer, almost steady. “Work ran late.”  

He chuckled, brushing a strand of hair out of her face as she approached. “You look like hell. Want me to make you some tea?” One look at her and he knew something was wrong but he chose not to comment on it any further.

The kindness in his voice made her chest ache. He had no idea what she was, what she was capable of. No idea that the bloodlust surging through her veins had almost led her to tear Shoko apart not an hour ago.  

“Tea sounds nice,” she said, forcing a smile.  

As they stepped inside, she stole one last glance at the night sky. The hunger was still there, buried but not gone. And she knew it was only a matter of time before it surfaced again.  

But for now, she would play her role. For now, she would pretend to be human.  

Delving a little into her cursed technique

[blueberri-chee]

✩°｡⋆⸜ ✮ Rush ✮°｡⋆⸜ ✩

summery: a girl and her (not-so) gf

The venue was intimate, cloaked in a haze of dim, shifting lights and the faint scent of spilled beer mingling with the musky warmth of too many bodies pressed close. The hum of anticipation clung to the air, vibrating through the soles of my boots as the crowd swayed like a living tide. Then came the music—an eruption of sound that seemed to pour straight from the veins of the band into the thrumming pulse of the room.

I’ve been here before, countless times, yet it never fails to steal my breath. Watching from backstage is an entirely different beast—sterile, detached. But here, in the pit, with the crowd alive around me, the music feels like something sacred. The lead singer's voice was velvet and fire, threading soft confessions and sultry promises through the air. It painted the space in hues of rose and gold, though I couldn’t tell if it was the lights or something more ephemeral—something blooming between them onstage.

I glanced sideways at my best friend, her face alight with a joy so radiant it felt like it belonged to a dream. Her partner stood front and center, serenading her as if the rest of us didn’t exist. For a moment, I let myself dissolve into the warmth of it, the tenderness in their exchange tugging at something deep in me.

But my gaze couldn’t linger. It drifted, pulled by a force I despised yet couldn’t resist, to the drummer. The cause of my torment and the wellspring of my fleeting joys. She moved with feral grace, every beat a declaration, her gaze a smoldering tether I couldn’t shake. My heart clenched—tight and electric—and I felt it unravel in the same instant.

Enough.

I let my head loll against the shoulder of the frat boy I’d met in the parking lot, his cologne sharp and cloying, but tolerable in this moment of defiance. My body swayed with the music, pretending to yield to its hypnotic rhythm, though every fiber of me was braced for her reaction. I could feel it, her stare, hot as a brand against my skin. But I didn’t look back.

I refused to let her pull me under again.

When the song ended, the room exploded with cheers, giving way to a short break before the next set. I slipped out of the crowd, weaving through the press of bodies until the air cooled and the distant hum of applause dulled. I found the washroom—narrow, dimly lit, its mirror streaked with fingerprints and ghosts of condensation.

The sound of the door swinging shut was almost drowned by the rushing tap water, but when I looked up, I saw her.

She leaned against the doorframe, tall and magnetic, her silhouette cutting through the dim light like a shadow come to life. Her shoulder-length black hair hung in damp, unruly waves, framing a face that was all sharp angles and quiet heat. Narrow brown eyes locked onto mine in the mirror, dark with intent and something deeper, more dangerous. Freckles softened the bridge of her nose and cheeks, but the curve of her mouth was anything but gentle—a slight smirk playing there, knowing, predatory, and impossible to ignore.

She didn’t move immediately, just watched, her gaze sweeping over me with the kind of intimacy that felt like a touch. My breath hitched, my pulse a steady drumbeat against my ribs.

“What are you doing here?” I asked, my voice quieter than I intended, the question barely more than a breath.

She stepped inside, the door clicking shut behind her. “Taking a break,” she said, her voice low and smooth, like smoke curling into my lungs. “Though I didn’t expect to find you here. Alone.”

I turned back to the sink, staring down at the rushing water as if it could ground me. “You’re wasting time. You should be backstage.”

“And yet,” she murmured, her tone velvet and teasing, “you’re here, too. Funny how that works.”

The air between us felt charged, like static before a storm. I glanced at her reflection again, only to find her smirk widening, her dark eyes dipping just slightly—too slow, too deliberate—to let me deny what she was thinking.

“You’re imagining things,” I said, but the words came out weak, frayed at the edges.

Her laugh was soft, wicked, as she took another step closer. “Am I? Come on, don’t play coy with me. I know your tricks too well for that.”

I gripped the edge of the sink, heat flushing through me as she closed the space between us, her presence enveloping mine. She stopped just behind me, close enough that the warmth of her body seeped through the thin air between us.

“You’ve been dancing around this all night,” she murmured, her voice dropping lower, intimate. “The frat boy, the swaying hips, the way you didn’t look at me even when you knew I was watching. You don’t have to admit it—I already know.”

Her breath grazed my neck, sending a shiver down my spine. “You don’t know anything,” I shot back, though my voice betrayed the tremor in my resolve.

Her fingers brushed my hand, light and fleeting, but the touch was electric. “You keep running,” she said softly, leaning closer, her lips just a breath away from my ear. “But you always end up here. With me.”

“Maybe that’s the problem,” I whispered, my words unsteady, even as I leaned into her.

She chuckled, the sound low and rich, vibrating against my skin. “No,” she said, her voice smooth, firm. “The problem is that you keep pretending this doesn’t mean anything. But it does. You feel it—I know you do.”

I closed my eyes, my breathing uneven, the weight of her presence pressing into me, unrelenting. She reached out, turning me gently by the shoulders until I faced her. Her hands stayed there, steady, her thumbs brushing soft circles against my skin.

“Stop fighting it,” she said, her gaze locking onto mine. Her eyes softened, the intensity still there but laced with something warmer, deeper. “Stop fighting me.”

Her words pulled something loose inside me, a thread that had been wound too tight for too long. My defenses crumbled, my hands moving to her arms, holding onto her as though she were the only solid thing in the world.

“I hate you,” I said, though my voice broke, the heat behind the words dissipating into something fragile.

“No, you don’t,” she said, her lips curling into a soft, almost triumphant smile. “But you can tell me that again if it makes you feel better.”

Before I could respond, her lips met mine—firm but achingly slow, like she wanted me to feel every second of it. Her hands slid to the small of my back, pulling me closer, and my body melted into hers, the kiss deepening until there was no space left between us.

When we finally broke apart, her forehead rested against mine, her breath mingling with mine in the stillness.

“See?” she murmured, her voice low and teasing. “You don’t hate me. Not even close.”

I laughed softly, shaking my head as the tension that had coiled in my chest for so long unraveled completely. “You’re such an ass,” I said, though there was no bite to the words.

“And yet, here you are,” she shot back, grinning. Her fingers lingered on my waist, her touch grounding. “Come on. Let’s get back before they think we both disappeared.”

She stepped back, but her hand found mine, threading our fingers together as she pulled me toward the door. I let her lead, my heart still racing but lighter now, the weight of everything else left behind in that small, dimly lit room.

a/n: smexy times in the next one. i promise

[blueberri-chee]

The bonds we forge

Just kids being kids

summery: Satoru's overworked again but his two kids and his elder sister is ready to help

warnings: just a little gore? not even gore just poetic description in the beginning

A/N: Finally the fluff i wanted to write but i can do better than this.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

When the strongest sorcerer is left with the orphaned child of the man who had killed the girl he failed to protect, it feels like a punishment. The anomaly of a man with no cursed energy, whose last words were about his son, leaves behind a bond Satoru never asked for. Reluctantly, he takes the boy in, never expecting that this act of mercy would lead to something more—a family he didn’t know he needed.

And now, he hears the colors.

Satoru blinks, staring at the kaleidoscope of gore left behind by the curses he's been cutting through. The shapes swim and pulse in a grotesque symphony, a sick kind of beauty that only his eyes could see.

“This is child labor,” The 19 year old mutters under his breath, leaning heavily against a tree, blood smeared across his cheek. The sunrise stretches across the sky, soft and radiant, a sight he almost feels unworthy to witness. He lets his head fall back, eyes closing as the cool morning breeze brushes against his skin. He aches everywhere.

But there’s no rest for the strongest. His children are waiting. He has to go home.

Pushing his weight onto his trembling hands, Satoru stands. He’s bone-tired, but he forces himself to draw on the last scraps of his cursed energy. His newly mastered teleportation technique flares to life. Handy little trick, he thinks, especially for moments like these.

The house is quiet when he arrives. Too quiet. Too clean. An outsider might think no children lived here at all. There’s a sterility to the silence, a lack of warmth that claws at something buried deep in his chest. He swallows the unwelcome tightness in his throat.

Satoru sinks onto the couch as dawn spills through the blinds, painting soft streaks of light on the floor. He can feel their small, steady presences upstairs. Tsumiki and Megumi, huddled together on the older sister’s bed, sound asleep. His lips twitch, something like a smile threatening to form.

His head tilts back against the cushions, and for once, the energy of the house soothes him. It's a fragile peace, one that may shatter the moment he moves. But for now, he takes it. Gratefully.

Sleep pulls him under like a wave.

~~

“Do you think he’s dead?”

Megumi’s voice is quiet but matter-of-fact as he leans over the couch, peering at the man sprawled out on it. His sister, Tsumiki, shrugs, her fingers already tucking a blanket over Satoru’s broad shoulders.

“I hope not. I’ll call Gojo-neesan.” She hops off the couch and darts toward the phone, her voice tinged with a nervous edge.

Megumi stays where he is, his small fingers poking at Satoru’s cheek. “Oi. You alive?” he grumbles, his tone sharp, though the concern is unmistakable. He doesn’t want to lose this man—the only adult he’s dared to trust in his short, turbulent life. Another poke, more insistent this time. “Say something.”

Satoru shifts at last, a low groan escaping his lips as he stretches one leg out, then the other. His face scrunches, a grimace breaking through as he mutters, “Where am I?” His voice is rough, like gravel grinding together, a far cry from his usual confidence.

“He’s alive,” Megumi deadpans, as though reporting the weather.

Tsumiki reappears, breathless from her call. “That’s good! I think I scared Gojo-neesan, though,” she adds with a nervous laugh.

Satoru blinks blearily at the pair of them, his gaze softening despite the pounding in his head. “Water,” he croaks, pressing a hand to his temple. “Kiddo, can I get some water?”

Megumi stares for a moment before nodding and padding off toward the kitchen.

Tsumiki kneels beside the couch, watching Satoru with her warm, steady eyes. “You should rest more,” she says softly.

Satoru huffs a weak laugh, his lips quirking into a faint smile. “Yeah,” he murmurs, leaning back against the cushions. “Maybe I should.”

Damned Six Eyes. Damned heart, too, for getting tangled up with these kids. But as the house settles into its quiet rhythm, he finds he doesn’t mind.

The soft hum of the doorbell rings out, breaking the fragile stillness of the morning. Satoru stirs slightly on the couch, his white hair sticking up at odd angles. Tsumiki glances at him, then toward the door. She hurries to answer it, while Megumi, still holding a glass of water, lingers near the couch, his sharp eyes flickering between Satoru and the sound outside.

When Tsumiki opens the door, the woman standing there exudes a quiet presence that instantly fills the space. Her resemblance to Satoru is undeniable—the same stark white hair, the same striking blue eyes—but her aura is different. Where Satoru is all sharp edges and overwhelming energy, she is softer, like the warmth of a blanket after a storm. She smiles down at Tsumiki, a gentle curve of her lips that seems to ease the tension hanging in the air.

“Hi there,” she says warmly, her voice carrying a soothing lilt. She glances past the door and catches sight of her brother sprawled on the couch. “Ah. Never mind. Looks like he survived.”

Tsumiki steps aside, blinking up at her. “He’s, um, not doing great,” she offers hesitantly, her tone apologetic, as though it’s somehow her fault.

The woman steps in and places a hand lightly on Tsumiki’s shoulder, reassuring her. “I figured,” she says kindly. “Thanks for letting me in.”

Her gaze softens further when it lands on Satoru. He cracks an eye open, recognizing the familiar presence before him.

“Ah, nee-san,” he mutters, his smirk lazy and faint. “Here to nag me back to life?”

She shakes her head with a small, amused sigh and crosses the room, crouching beside him. “You look awful,” she says, her tone far more gentle than her words. “How long have you been running yourself into the ground this time?”

“Just a couple of lifetimes,” he quips, though his voice is hoarse and tired.

Megumi, still watching from the side, mutters, “He’s an idiot,” with a small shake of his head, but there’s a flicker of relief in his eyes.

The woman glances at the boy and ruffles his hair with a knowing smile. “He’s stubborn, that’s for sure,” she says, brushing a strand of Satoru’s messy hair out of his face. Her touch is light, almost absent-minded, like she’s done it a thousand times before.

“Come on, let’s get you cleaned up,” she murmurs. “The kids have been holding this house together while you’ve been off playing hero. They shouldn’t have to look after you too.”

Satoru groans, flopping back against the couch dramatically. “You’re so bossy. Can’t a guy just collapse in peace?”

“You can collapse later,” she says with a quiet laugh, standing and offering him a hand. “Right now, you need a bath, food, and proper rest. I’ll take care of things here for a while. You focus on not falling apart.”

Her words are firm, but the look in her eyes is achingly tender. Satoru hesitates, his smirk faltering as he studies her face. “You really mean that?” he asks, his voice quieter now, almost vulnerable.

She squeezes his shoulder lightly, her voice softening further. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t. You don’t have to do this alone, Satoru. Let me help.”

Tsumiki and Megumi exchange a glance, their faces relaxing as the weight of the morning lifts slightly. Megumi heads off to fetch a towel, while Tsumiki hovers near her, her own small smile forming.

Satoru finally takes his sister’s hand and lets her pull him to his feet. “Fine,” he grumbles, though there’s a flicker of gratitude in his tired eyes. “But you’re cooking dinner if you’re staying.”

She laughs, a soft, musical sound that seems to fill the room with light. “Deal. But you’re doing the dishes,” she counters, patting his arm as she ushers him toward the bathroom.

And for the first time in a long while, the house feels warm. Not just a shelter, but a home—a place where healing might finally take root.

As the bathroom door closes with a soft click behind him, the tension in the house seems to ease. Tsumiki and Megumi stand together in the living room, their expressions a mix of curiosity and quiet relief. She turns to face them, her hands resting on her hips in a way that feels both authoritative and kind.

“Well,” she begins, her voice warm, “since he’s out of commission for a bit, why don’t we make this place feel a little more... alive?”

Tsumiki tilts her head, intrigued. “What do you mean?”

The woman smiles and gestures around. “This house is too neat, too quiet. A home should feel lived-in. Cozy. How about we start with breakfast? I’m starving, and I bet you two could use something warm to eat.”

Megumi eyes her warily. “Do you even know how to cook?”

She laughs, the sound soft and unoffended. “I’ll let you be the judge of that, Megumi. Come on, you can be my sous-chef.”

Megumi groans but doesn’t argue, following her toward the kitchen. Tsumiki trails after them, her steps lighter now, her smile growing as she listens to Satoru’s sister gently prod Megumi into helping.

By the time Satoru reappears, his hair damp and his face slightly less pale, the smell of something delicious fills the house. He pauses at the kitchen doorway, leaning against the frame as he takes in the scene.

Tsumiki is standing on a chair, stirring something in a large bowl with a look of intense concentration. Megumi is beside her, slicing fruit with a precision that belies his age, while she moves between them, orchestrating the whole process with a calm efficiency.

“Smells good in here,” Satoru remarks, his voice lighter now, though still raspy.

Three heads turn to look at him. Tsumiki beams. “We’re making pancakes!”

“With extra fruit,” Megumi adds, though his tone remains as deadpan as ever.

She glances over her shoulder, her lips curving into a soft smile. “Sit down. Breakfast will be ready soon. You need to eat.”

He quirks an eyebrow but obeys, settling at the table and watching as they work. The kitchen is alive with the sounds of clattering pans, lighthearted chatter, and the occasional burst of laughter. For a moment, Satoru allows himself to simply be—to bask in the warmth of it all.

When the pancakes are finally served, they sit together at the table, the four of them squeezed into the small dining space. Tsumiki chatters excitedly about school, her eyes sparkling as she talks about a book she’s been reading. Megumi occasionally chimes in with dry but amusing comments that make Tsumiki giggle.

Satoru listens, his usual quips quieter now, replaced by a contented smile. His sister watches him closely, a knowing look in her eyes.

“You’re lucky, you know,” she says softly, her voice low enough that only he hears.

He glances at her, his smirk faint but genuine. “Yeah,” he admits, his gaze shifting to the two kids across from him. “I am.”

The rest of the day unfolds in a way that feels almost magical. Satoru spends the afternoon with the kids, half-heartedly helping with their homework but mostly making them laugh with his ridiculous antics. His sister tidies up the house, adding little touches—a vase of fresh flowers, a stack of colorful books, a soft throw blanket on the couch.

By evening, the house feels transformed. It’s still the same space, but now it hums with life.

When the sun begins to set, they gather in the living room, the kids curled up on the couch while Satoru stretches out on the floor, his head resting against the armrest. His sister sits nearby, her legs tucked under her, a book in her lap.

The room is bathed in the golden light of the setting sun, and for the first time in what feels like forever, Satoru feels at peace. He glances at the kids, their soft murmurs blending into the quiet hum of the evening. Then he looks at his sister, who meets his gaze and gives him a small, reassuring smile.

“Thanks, nee-san,” he says quietly, the words heavy with gratitude.

She reaches out, lightly squeezing his shoulder. “Anytime, 'toru... and besides who'd help your snotty ass, if not me?”

Satoru give her a mock offended look. “Excuse me! i am not snotty!”

“Sure are not, bubs.”

And for the first time in a long, long while, Satoru believes her. This—this fragile, imperfect, beautiful thing—is family. And for now, that’s enough.

[plutoarttv]

prometheus: hot take,

the greek gods: no give that back

[hanginglikeafruit]

He's not dead, he's a cockroach and- and he will return to Eddie in New York, and THEY WILL GET TO CLIMB THE STATUE OF LIBERTY TOGETHER, AND- *breaks down in sobs*

[symbiotic-slime]

you haven’t truly experienced the full spectrum of human emotions until you’re sobbing because your favourite character just died and then fucking memories by maroon 5 starts playing

[blueberri-chee]

Golden

parings- nanami kento x brown!reader/oc [no use of y/n or 'i']

summary- who knew a mission to a beach would turn out so pretty

Kento loved the beach. He loved feeling the sand underneath his toes. He loved the salty tang which permeated the air. He loved the breeze and most importantly. He loved the waves. The cool waves lapping at his feet never failed to make him feel like home. He always wanted to go to Malaysia but he never imagined that he’d have to exorcise a curse on a resort. Anyone else could’ve easily done it and there was no need for a Grade One but here he was. He suspects Gojo must have meddled around and assigned him here. Not that he’s complaining. 

Why would he when he has such beauty beside him? He doesn’t know how it happened but this kind lady who bumped into him and apologised profusely was now walking with him on the beach telling him about the folk tales from the town. He likes the way she tells the stories so animatedly. He likes the way she romanticises her quiet and simple life. He likes how she is unaware of the evils of the world and the work he does. He really likes her curls and her broken Japanese and her slight foreign accent and the way she always smells of coconuts and the ocean. He loves the way her wheatish skin reflects the golden sunlight. He could only define her as a goddess. From the way she walked with a slight skip in her steps to the way she has a flower tucked behind her ear, he is enamoured. 

In his whole life he has never met someone so blinding, someone so sweet and someone who’ll hold his hand and guide him out of his shell. His boring job and working as a jujutsu sorcerer never gave him time to pursue romantic relationships but seeing her is really tempting him to leave everything behind and stay with her on this beach. 

He sighed and shook his head. Too many thoughts. He turned to look at the goddess beside him. She was collecting seashells. She picks a pink coloured one and shows it to him with a bright grin. He feels like he has been hit by a beam full of sunshine. 

“Look, it’s a reward for your hard work!” She hands him the shell. He looks at the pink shell which looks so small in the palm of his hand. A small smile tugs on the corner of his lips. He told her that he’s here for inspection of the old rundown warehouse which was out of the town. He technically wasn’t lying because that’s where the curse was.

“I’ll keep it on my desk and look at it whenever I'm feeling down.” He tells her truthfully and keeps the shell in his pocket. He feels his heart almost stop because of the way her smile turns into a beam. Her eyes crinkle and her soft lips spread into a giddy smile. He can’t see her eyes but he knows that they are sparkling the same way her golden anklet is. He can’t help but smile wider himself. He is really loving the beach even more now.

“Your energy is rather infectious.” He says as he takes in her face under the setting sun. Somehow her face turns even brighter.

“Thank you.. I really love the beach. It makes me happy.” She says with a soft giggle.. This girl is going to be the death of me. Kento thinks.

“The beach makes me happy too but the company makes it even better.” He says with a confident smile.

A very soft but visible tint of red coats her soft round cheeks. She looks away with a small grin, “you are very cheeky.”

An amused chuckle makes its way past his lips, “cheeky? I’ve never been called that before.” He tilts his head and looks at her with a mischievous glint in his eyes. He knows this is so out of character for him but for some reason she makes him act this way. It’s like she holds some invisible power over him and draws him towards her like how the moon revolves around the Earth. She keeps pulling him in her orbit. 

“Maybe no one has seen this side of you.” She says with a teasing smile. 

“Now who’s cheeky?” He asks and walks along the shore. She doesn't waste time to follow him.

“Cheeky? Nuh huh. Just stating the facts.” She says with a really cheeky grin. This would’ve pissed Kento off if it were Gojo but something about her makes it very endearing. It’s like she is rewriting all of his rules and inhibitions and he is a weak man who’d let her do as she pleases. He sighs and shakes his head again. 

She suddenly holds his hand and tugs him along with her, “I know a place I think you’ll love.”  She says and points at a cliff in the distance. He tilts his head to one side and lets her pull him along. He can just stand there and hold his ground but he doesn’t. Her excited smile is too hard to resist. 

“Where are we going?” He asks calmly, looking around.

“You’ll know.” She says with a mischievous smile. And tugs him towards the littoral cave. Kento just followed her like a lost puppy. He should be cautious about what might happen but he is too blinded by her enthusiasm to care about anything else. Maybe this is what they call being in love? Kento shakes his head. Too early to be called love… but too intense to just label it as curiosity. Maybe it’s just adoration. Adoration for her laugh. Adoration for her stories. Adoration for her eyes. Just simple adoration. Kento draws a line there and turns his attention towards her. 

They have now reached the opening of a small cave and she lifts up her dress to avoid it from getting wet but to no avail. Kento follows her inside, not caring about his tourers soaking in the salty water. He was just excited to see what beauty the cave was holding within. Kento’s eyes widened at the view in front of him. White limestone creates an arch over the clear water of the sea. The sunlight reflecting on the top, making a mirage of patterns. The soft sound of the waves hitting the walls of the cave made the place even more peaceful than it looked. 

She turns around and looks at him with an expected grin, “so? How do you like it, Mr. Kento?” she says in a faux professional tone, “how do you like this humble abode of the sea?”

Kento chuckles and shakes his head, “this is anything but humble, precious.” He doesn’t notice the sweet adjective which slips because it felt so natural for him to say. But it didn’t go unnoticed by her. Another layer of red dusts her cheeks and she turns around. 

“I’ll take that as you like it then.” She says to keep her mind off the sweet word.

“I love it.” Kento said earnestly and he had never been so honest about anything in his whole life. An awestruck look is plastered on his face as he walks deeper in the cave. It isn’t like the cave was any deeper but he wanted to sit on the bank near the back. “How did you find this place?” He asks as he sits down. The sand was relatively cooler here and the sun was also setting. The cave’s mouth faces the west giving them the perfect view of the deep red setting sun. 

“Wandering gets you places.”

“I see. I’m glad you were wandering then.” 

“Me too.”

Another shitty ending i know. but can't help it.

[bisexual-bat-deactivated2024111]

what if dumbledore and grindelwald were gojo and geto in a different universe.

[ilovelosermen69]

My emotional attachment to fictional men that kill people is insane.

[melloncolliegalaxies]

[pidge-online]

when i say “the white haired man with ethereal eyes and his dark haired soulmate with whom he broke up with in front of a restaurant in the second season of their show”

do you think of Aziraphale and Crowley or Satoru Gojo and Suguru Geto?