#brazenlystrong

A FLURRY OF FRENETIC texts ensures that he keep his phone in hand for the duration of his commute. White knuckling the straphanger, Kento stares at each short text. Gojo already beat him home, apparently, and each subsequent text reiterated that point. An unfortunate typo made when bumped by a fellow commuter exacerbated the chain of texts. Now, instead of of kicking his ass as he wished to threaten, he sent kiss. SHIT. Explaining this error did not dismiss the jeering. The moment he opens his door, he sees him. Standing, waiting. There's something so inflammatory about him, especially when he seems so pleased with himself. Fervid footfalls stitch their bodies together. His hand lands a precise, firm grip on his senior's jaw. Lips slide into alignment. He cannot resist exacting a bit of aggression, however, and initiates with a quick nip of Gojo's lower lip. He remedies this with a tender knead from his own.

make me doodle

when all is said and done— when the domain battle finally concluded and the smoke had settled, what was left of their DESTRUCTIVE society had slowly gathered it's bearings into a potential, BETTER future. utahime covets a small shrine in her home. tended to and dusted weekly. wilted flowers replaced when petals shrivel. photos, curled at the edges from age and yellowed from sun exposure. candles here and there too, wax sealed on wooden tabletop from over melting. she hunches over it, soft melodic hums filling the area as she tidies around.

the knock startles her. iori does not get visitors. she visits. standing at full height, arm wipes across slightly sweaty brow and hands pat at pant legs. when the door swings open, a startled gasp rips from her throat. feet lift from the floor momentarily in a theatric display of a scare. it can't be. this isn't real. why her? why now?

utahime swallows, attempting to snap out of the shock and dumbfounded state. she stumbles forward, hands smoothing up the tuft of hair covering his forehead. palms scrape stitching and and eyes water in an unidentified emotion. relief? horror? devastation? touch moves down over ears to shoulders before an embrace is made. a first for them. utahime exhales, body trembling wildly. nerves burning up inside. voice is hushed, ❛ where did you go? ❜

I mean, I have two hands. Just don't tell Vera.

She barely fits upon the couch and the piece of furniture struggles to contain her weight. This means nothing to her as she purrs happily, putting every v8 engine in existence to shame. Four eyes closed, she happily leans into Satoru’s touch, paws flexing in the precursor to the making of death biscuits. 

She shifts to rub her head against his, marking him with her scent. “Me,” she rumbles in answer, his silly question making her purr stronger and deeper. She’s his good girl and would readily fight anyone that dared say otherwise.

"I've always known you're a twig, but I didn't know it was this bad." he dangles Satoru from the back of his collar with a single hand, "A strong wind might just be enough to defeat you. You probably would fall into a coma if someone punched you in the face, and given your personality, it's very likely to happen soon."