#doa6

— 🍒 Cute & fluffy

Ryu's voice softens around kids. Like a whisper on the wind. He kneels to their level, smiles gently, and listens like their words are ancient wisdom.

He secretly likes poetry. Traditional haikus, mostly. He has a little notebook tucked inside his gear, slightly smudged from blood and rain.

He braids hair gently. If you’re close to him, and you ask, he’ll braid your hair in silence, his calloused fingers surprisingly gentle. It’s a meditative ritual for him.

He’s a blanket hog. Like… ninja or not, if you share a futon, Ryu will roll up like a sushi burrito and leave you cold. He doesn't even notice. You have to wrestle it back.

He trains in the rain. He says the rain teaches you rhythm, patience, and humility.

He’s a tea nerd. Has a whole private stash of rare matcha and sencha. He grinds it by hand. No sugar. No milk. And maybe a quiet "mhm..." of satisfaction.

He takes care of stray cats around the Hayabusa village. He doesn’t name them, but they all follow him like an army. One sleeps on his shoulders while he sharpens his blade. It purrs. He pretends not to care.

He’s awkward with compliments. If you told him he looked good in black, he’d go “…mhm, Thank you.” with the flattest tone you’ve ever heard.

He has survivor’s guilt. Every soul he couldn’t save haunts him, especially when he's alone. That's why he avoids mirrors… too many ghosts in his reflection.

He fasts before major missions. It’s part of his spiritual discipline; an empty stomach, he says, sharpens instincts. But afterward? He devours everything like he just came back from hell (... literally.)

— 🍒 Slightly sad

His body is covered in hidden scars. Ancient curses, demon claws, even his own blade. But he treats each one with reverence. "Every mark is a story," he says.

Sometimes he disappears for days. No one knows where. When he comes back, his eyes are darker. Like he buried another piece of himself in the mountains.

He dreams of his father’s voice. And sometimes he wakes up murmuring apologies into the cold night.

He absolutely talks to animals. Very stoically. “You are a noble beast,” to a duck. “Guard this village with your life,” to a cat.

He doesn’t believe he deserves peace. Happiness is for others. He protects it but doesn't allow himself to have it. He fears what he'll become if he ever lets his guard down.

— 🍒 flirty and... it's getting hot in here

His hands are RIDICULOUSLY warm. Like soul-heating kind of warm. He’ll touch your lower back without thinking and poof, your brain stops working.

He doesn’t flirt. He challenges you. “If you beat me, I’ll grant you a wish.” You never win. But he still asks what your wish would've been.

He’s a “slow burn touches” guy. Gloved fingers brushing your jaw. The thumb over your lip to quiet you softly. Holding your wrist just a second too long. Subtle. Intense.

Lethal.

Has an insanely deep “you’re mine” stare. Especially if someone else gets too close to you. No words. Just that look. And whoever was hitting on you? Gone.

Evaporated.

He has dangerous eye contact. When he stares, it’s like he’s peeling layers off your soul. And he knows the effect it has. He just smirks under that mask very faintly.

Low-key protective kink. You don't even need to be in danger. If someone speaks to you too harshly? He silently positions himself behind you and crosses his arms. Suddenly, they’re apologizing. A personal body-guard.

Voice like velvet and gravel. You're in danger, he appears out of thin air, kills everyone and then he whispers something like “You’re safe now,” it goes straight to your knees. Good luck standing upright.

His idea of flirting? Training together until your heart races. But if you land a hit on him during sparring? Oh, he’s impressed...