#brazenlystrong

FASTIDIOUS FINGERS make swift work of the wrappings — nery a tear nor crinkle displaces the print. Even the paper was selected with the utmost care. Huh. Kento sits at the fulcrum, unsure which way his thoughts will tip: toward genuine surprise at the attention to detail, or the bittersweet acknowledgment of another year passing . . . with nothing to show for it. A lump forms in his throat. A bolus of emotion that renders his vocal cords threadbare.

A series of rasps and creaks crawl up from the depths of his throat. Where words fail, the softness in his stare speaks volumes. Irises of gilded ochre ignite. He’s utterly enraptured by the offerings. Imported fineries that match his color palette to a tee. Chocolates that bear a near mirror finish. That would suggest high-quality tempering and high amounts of cacao, no doubt. All of this was selected by Gojo Satoru? No, no. This was a labor of love; selected by his better half.

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.