satoriberry

[satoriberry]

post work debrief ⚖️

[satoriberry]

what sort of scenarios do u think the bllk boys would die from final destination style 🫣!!!!

ALICE HOLY SHIT I NEEDED THIS

WARNING : CONTAINS SPOILERS FOR FINAL DESTINATION SERIES/DEPICTIONS OF DEATH

FINAL CALL : obviously this might not be the most accurate list but this was fun. i fkn love final destination and finally saw bloodlines this past week. if you havent seen the final destination movies, you should (only if youre okay with violence and gore ofc)

♕ isagi ─ isagi survives until the end as he should. in a way, i can see him either being alex (fd1) or kim (fd2). kim was the ONLY one able to survive and beat death and i feel like isagi can cheat death too somehow

† rin ─ has a great chance of surviving til the end too with isagi but somehow ends up dying anyway like carter from fd1. makes it to the end but is hinted that he dies from a falling sign post the secknd the credits roll lol

† bachira ─ bachira. probably dies like hunt in tfd. getting his ass stuck in the pool's drain pipe and getting disemboweled. shit traumatized me pt.1

† nagi ─ this is so vivid in my head but the boy in fd2 that gets squished by the glass panel falling on him. that boy made no attempts to move and neither would nagi

† chigiri ─ this one might also make sense if done right but in fd5 when candice dies from falling off the bar during gymanstics practice. shit traumatized me pt.2

† reo ─ this one was tricky until i thought of fd3 when ian spirals after watching erin die. bcuz obviously reo does spiral when nagi chooses isagi over him so i can see him going rampant like ian and dying by being sliced in half

† kunigami ─ pre wildcard kunigami dies from saving someone obvi, like darlene in fd:bl and then gets bisected from a lamp post. post wildcard kunigami would die the same way just without saving someone

† sae ─ idk why this one was funny to think abt since sae is so nonchalant but he dies like julia in bloodlines. going for a jog just to get hit in the face with a soccer ball and fall into a garbage bin. and then proceeds to be crushed by the garbage truck compactor

† shidou ─ i have two specific deaths in mind that fit so well but i think i'll go with ashley and ashlyn's death in fd3. he says it's a natural tan. but then he probably decides to do a tanning bed session only for him to burn to death

† otoya ─ okay, i have to give otoya and karasu bobby and erik's death in bloodlines. otoya trying to save karasu from his fate only for the mri machine's magnetism to go up and extract any and all piercings from otoya's body. which then leads him to get folded into the mri machine when a wheelchair impales him

† karasu ─ he has bobby's death. getting his head busted in with a loose coil from a vending machine that is being extracted by the same mri machine. at least they die together

† oliver ─ also very vivid in my head but it's what he deserves. being an asshole at a massage parlor and as he's left alone, he gets his head crushed by a budai statue

† yukimiya ─ alice, i'm sorry. but yk this one works too well. olivia's death in fd5. getting laser surgery on his eye only for the laser to mutilate his right eye and then he proceeds to fall out of the building and land on a car. and then his eye pops out of his head (which then gets run over)

† barou ─ it's hard for me to imagine barou dying or getting killed but i'd have to say maybe lewis's death in fd3. gets his head crushed by a weight machine in the gym.

† hiori ─ i don't think hiori has an impactful death but it's still scary nonetheless. billy's death in fd1. shrapnel flies from train tracks as a train passes by and decapitates him (this is funny tho if you think of isagi as alex)

† kaiser ─ i have to include his bitchass in here somehow. lowkey thinking abt peter from fd5, who tried to kill molly and sam to take their lifespan but ends up getting killed with a meat spit. yeah, sounds abt right (and i bet you he'd try to take isagi's lifespan too)

† ness ─ if kaiser's here, ness will be here too. but this plays out so well in my head. erin's death. getting shot in the face with a nail gun, multiple times. shit looks like it hurts

[satoriberry]

[satoriberry]

this bunny motherfucker JUST got here. he just got off the plane. he hasn't even retrieved his shit from the baggage claim HOW ARE PEOPLE THIS QUICK

[satoriberry]

terf liked my breaking bad post. day (03:27 AM) ruined.

[satoriberry]

A selection of images from the recent telegram challenge :3

[satoriberry]

i miss last summer when i lost 10kg through ana lol

[satoriberry]

unfortunately for everybody ive started breaking bad and i think "jesse lets cook" is gonna permanently enter my vocabulary in a few days's time :333

[satoriberry]

if i dont speak to an oomf or a moot for more than a month, i automatically start to assume that they want me dead

[satoriberry]

i have this thing where i can't read x readers if my hair is in a bun or if its fucked up and needs washing. idk why but my body physically refuses reading them or i imagine the reader as a girl who looks ENTIRELY different from me if i reeeeeaaaally want to read.

[satoriberry]

i was reading this super cute nanami x reader where nanami's kind of asexual and only likes reader romantically and it was going so well until he started talking about reader to a woman and the author provided a physical description and its like ughhhhhhhhhhhh

[satoriberry]

maladaptive daydreaming so bad im making official amvs for the anime series i created in my head with real songs wowwww

[satoriberry]

"close enough. welcome back velma dinkley!" - yukimiya k. x fem!reader

❆ résumé: you weren't expecting to run into one of the most iconic hanna-barbara characters in the park. especially not her as a tall, handsome guy.

❆ heads up: no actual warnings just yukimiya losing his glasses velma style. hmmm meet-cute!au i'd say, reader being a fucking simp cause like its yukki DUHHHHH :3 kinda gn!reader because no mentioned gender and also reader is kinda out of it and a bit stupid but we still love them

❆ berry's note: yukimiya is an anime girl. he's dressed in the velma fit which is orange sweater and red bottoms and red shoes with orange socks. this is a crackfic idea turned x reader because daddy needs to feed his little angles. (i have six exams at the end of this year did i tell you guys? end of year as in....starting in four weeks,,,,,ANYWAY!!!!) <- older note because this draft is a year old LOL. i was a senior and was about to graduate highschool lolol. anyway, finals are over bitches and lets cross our fingers and toes and hope that i dont have to redo any subjects!!! :3

You knew it was that time of the year again when the weather broadcast stopped talking about cloudy mornings and more about sunny afternoons.

Walk-in-the-park season.

You found that mid-May weather made great competiton for the cliché July-August atmosphere, and you would go as far as to say that summer stood no chance against warm spring season in terms of enjoyability. It held the same rejuvinative sensation you felt when life's troubles no longer seemed important, or when you found yourself feeling bizarrely optimistic for a future you weren't even certain existed. It felt young. It was a nice feeling.

Your countenance alternated between being shaded by the prolific trees' branches, full of vibrant green, to being exposed to the mildly vexing sunrays whenever you passed a treeless area, and you advanced through the park with no particular end goal or destination. Chewing on a lemon-flavoured gumball, you lightly nodded your head to your song's beat, your cadence soon enough matching it as well.

Your eyes, though calm, flitted incessantly from one object to another, one person to another, one plant to another. You weren't sure why; maybe your brain wanted to retain the fine details of this lovely promenade so you could think about it the next time you needed a reason to ditch the indoors. It wasn't everyday that you were met with natural scenery as stereotypical as the one before you: robust trees, flowers blooming upside down and upright, bushes full of lavender, grass so crisp it felt almost criminal to step on it - that and the plethora of signs with the words "DON'T WALK ON GRASS" written in red.

In the distance, at the top of a grassy hill whose base split the walkway into two directions - left to continue walking peacefully and right to head to the play area where a myriad of children were currently occupying - sat a couple. Two women sharing a picnic in a sappy, lovey-dovey manner. You watched as the one on the left fed her companion a grape, and followed the gesture with a sickeningly joyful giggle.

See, you weren't one for petty jealousy. But you sometimes felt the need to hate and be bitter; you were only human after all. Glaring at the happy couple as you took the left turn, you muttered something about hating twosomes and wished bad luck on any joyous person who crosses paths with you today. Very dramatic and very childish - you knew that much - but very deserved. In your mind at least.

You turned your head to look straight ahead, pondering the morality of your wish. Shutting your eyes for a moment, you found yourself seriously thinking about whether or not you should briefly pause your walk to run up to the couple and apologize for insulting them. You were in fact so lost in your inner philosophical debate that you almost missed the low "Great job, dumbass" muttered by a voice behind you. Scandalized and shocked, you whipped around to face the individual who dared to read your mind and reproach you for your actions. However, you quickly realized that those harsh words were not destined to you, but happened to be self-inflicted.

Lowering your gaze, you absorbed the paysage-like scene before you: blueberries scattered on the red bricks of the pathway, what looked like an empty fruit packaging sporadically getting swept by the wind to the nether regions of the world, a pair of glasses dangerously lying on the ground, and a book that appeared to be long forgotten by its owner, laying cover-side up on the wooden surface of the 3-foot high brickwall separation, beyond which was a great empty grassy land, as well as a great lake.

Oh, and also Velma Dinkley on all fours patting the ground around her, clearly looking for something.

Is what you would have said if she were real, which she isn't. The Velma Dinkley before you was a young man with hair of a similar colour - you couldn't see his face as he was intently staring at the ground - dressed in a rather sophisticated orange and red get-up. With celerity in his movements, he felt the brick path around him with the pads of his fingers, all the while mumbling what you could only guess were self-deprecating affirmations.

You snapped out of . . . whatever it is that had you mystified for a second there, and you quickly got on your knees to pick up the glasses that the man was not anywhere near close to reaching. You manoeuvered your way around the berries, and cleared your throat to rid yourself of any potential voice cracks. "Um, Sir?"

Whipping his head upwards, you realized that clearing your throat was completely useless as you once again lost your voice.

"Oh? Sorry for being a nuisance, I'm just looking for my glasses."

The man - or rather boy, because his facial features indicated an age no older than 18 or 19 at most - sweetly replied, his embarrassment visible in his slightly twisted mouth and rapid blinking. You weren't really thinking at that moment, mainly due to being taken aback by how good-looking this male Velma Dinkley was, plus how shoujo-esque this scenario was starting to be, so instead of properly handing him back his round spectacles, you gave yourself the liberty of unfolding them and gently sliding them back onto his face yourself.

What the fuck?

His eyes now appeared bigger through the lenses, and as he rapidly blinked again but this time to adjust to retrieving his vision, you felt another string in your heart get pulled. Curse these men with big doe eyes and long lashes. And as if it weren't already enough, he started to beam at you the second he could clearly see things again. Pearly whites, dimples and all that cute crap.

"Thank you so much, I would've spent ages crawling around like a critter to find them. Really, you're too kind," he started, swiftly getting up, dusting the spots of rubbles on his crimson covered knees. Then as if it was second nature, he cautiously grabbed the ends of your hands and tugged, pulling you off the ground as well.

"You must think I'm some sort of klutz, I wouldn't blame you really. One second I was trying to pick up some berries that I dropped, the next I slipped on my foot after my shoe got caught in a sunken brick. Pretty pathetic, huh?," he continued, trying to salvage his image despite you being nothing but strangers, "Guess I'm not the luckiest person today."

He finished his words with a sigh and crossed his arms while looking off to the side rather poetically, before sharply turning his head back to you.

Yukimiya resumed his tirade about how he was usually more normal and very balanced, and that today was a simple exception, surely because of the wind since it tried to batter him and end him. However, he should've considered the fruitlessness of such a monologue, especially since its main listener was totally disconnected from the conversation.

It was uncanny.

The hair, the glasses, the get-up - even the 'My glasses, I can't find my glasses' bit - all of it matched perfectly.

He was Velma. Velma was him.

"So, rest assured, I'm not that used to getting on all fours in order to retrieve my vision. Funny, isn't it?," snapping his head back to look at you, he awaited a follow-up. And got nothing.

His forced smile faltered a bit, but you didn't notice that, still too caught up in connecting the dots between him and Velma. He gulped, wondering if your first impression of him was forever tainted by a negative perception. He didn't know you, why should he care, but you were kind enough to help him when he was a jumbled mess. And you were kind of a sight for sore eyes. Very superficial, but hey, he was a model after all.

"Um, are you all right? You seem to be awfully quiet," he continued, hoping you'd quit staring at him like that because it was seriously staring to discomfit him. You weren't exactly back on planet Earth, but you recognized his current need for a reply from you.

"Velma."

"Huh?"

"You look like Velma from Scooby Doo."

"..."

A pregnant pause filled the air. The wind whirred through the small aperture between him and you, the stray locks forming his side-swept bangs gently rising and falling to the rhythm of its motion. You finally retrieved mental sobriety after abandoning it three minutes ago, the weight of your words hitting you like a Vespa hitting an old lady in a street crossing.

Your eyebrows were the first to unfreeze, rising so high up from the sheer gravity of your epiphany. Your hands were next, slapping one atop the other over your mouth, not caring for how much the impact hurt. You couldn't bear looking him in the eyes, not after what you said, so you slowly lowered your head at a 90° angle. Escaping his gaze, a silent shriek left your lips, your hands preventing him from seeing your mute cry of pain.

You hoped all of this would end quickly. You hoped he would collect his belongings and storm off, maybe mutter a word or two about you being a weirdo. You hoped he would... laugh?

He was laughing?

A chortle followed by a breathy guffaw cut through the air, the frozen expression he had on cracking and falling apart to reveal what was hidden; a painfully wide, gummy grin.

His grace and elegance were such that even when his knees gave out from laughter, his body still managed to fall into a crouching position in a poised fashion. He additionally let go of his stomach to bury his face deep into his palms. To any outsider, it looked like he had learned some terribly sour news and couldn't hold in his sorrow.

Incredulous, you looked left and right to make sure that nobody was observing this scene, and thanked the universe that that was indeed the case.

"I'm sorry for what I said, I didn't mean it. It's not true. Well, I mean, it's not a bad thing. Velma is a nice character," you tried to soften the blow, only to force more laughter out of him, the wheezing in his voice now more audible. He struggled to maintain his position and felt his legs wobble, the air that escaped his body through violent gusts punching his body backwards.

You shut your mouth to let him recuperate, feeling less bad about what you said since, clearly, he enjoyed the gag.

After what felt like a decade, he exhaled one last time, extended both arms over his head, then plunged to place them on either knee. The cartoonish gesture produced a slapping sound that was fairly robust, and you imagined how much a genuine strike from him would hurt.

Using his body weight to elevate himself - in one swift movement - he sprung up and immediately straightened his back. You could bask in the beauty of his face again, albeit tear-stained and pink.

"Um, are you okay?", you started, fiddling with your thumbs and avoiding eye contact as much as possible. You weren't scared because of what he might think of you, you were scared of yourself for even coming up with something like that to share with the world. The world obviously being Mr. Handsome, who was dabbing away at stray tears and touching up his hair.

"Better than okay. I'm overjoyed. I've gotta say that no one has ever called me something so niche and specific. Velma, huh?," he replied, and you could sense the humour in his tone. He was intentionally speaking in a more pompous way, and that helped dissipate some of the tension in your shoulders.

"Sorry for freaking you out like that. I got some serious whiplash though. You go around casually telling guys that they look like 1960s characters," he stopped abruptly to take a step closer, "Or am I the exception?"

The teasing tone and the newfound physical closeness caught you off guard, and as a result, your reply was an intelligent, "I don't talk to guys."

You wished Mother Earth would send the floods.

His face contorted and formed a downwards smile, lips trembling. You noted how red the apples of his cheeks were, almost as if he was absorbing the colour of his clothes.

"You don't?"

"I, uh, I didn't mean to say it like that. I do talk to boys. I wanted to say that I don't talk to guys about Scooby Doo that often, that's not a regular occurrence."

He blinked at your words and nodded understandingly, yet you doubted that he trusted your elaboration.

He bit the inside of his cheek and visibly pondered something, then placed his hand on his neck.

"Do you have anywhere to be?"

You didn't. You were walking to enjoy the weather, but then things took a comical turn.

"No, not really."

"Would you like to go eat some cake? I want to get to know you more, and I'm in the mood for something sweet," he spoke in a light tone, and despite the innocuousness of the wink he gave you after saying 'sweet', you felt your head spin just a tad at the move. Surely due to the heat. If it was hot. Which it wasn't.

"Uh, sure. Yeah. Sure, totally. Of course. Sure?"

You wanted to eat bullets. Your agitation was as clear as day, and you didn't know if he wasn't going to regret making that offer to you of all people. He didn't make fun of you, however, and smiled. A genuine sweet smile.

"I don't bite, really. Name's Yukimiya, and you?," he reassured you, the lightness in his voice intentional but still natural. "My offer; you made me laugh like never before, and I feel it appropriate to pay you the treat."

Fuck, did they make him in a factory?

You swallowed heavily and collected yourself spiritually, and with a firm voice, you answered, "(Name)."

"Nice to meet you. Do you want me to lead the way or do you have a place in mind?," he casually continued, and it was clear that he was feigning innocence while looking you up and down, and despite not being able to tell if he was criticizing or admiring your outfit, it still added on to the warmth that made you lightheaded. And now that you're thinking about it, he's definitely inched even closer since the beginning of the exchange, enough for the proximity to have you tilting your head a bit to make eye contact.

Moments like these reminded you of the importance of carrying a paper bag to shove hot guys' heads in if needed.

"No, not really."

"You sure are quiet. Does meeting new people make you nervous? I totally understand if you don't warm up to me right away."

No, it's just that you're really good-looking and it makes me want to throw up and die.

You couldn't say that. Or at least, not at this stage of your acquintanceship.

You kept it together, letting your body relax before smiling and tilting your head to to side, and replied, "No, I've just never seen someone make orange and red work without it making my eyes bleed." It was true though, the bizarre combination somehow did him justice, complimenting the hue of his eyes and bringing out the pop in them.

Jackpot. He seemed to be pleasantly surprised by your comment, and looked down at his feet, his dimples showing again after a smile formed on his face again. "That's a relief, I wanted to experiment a bit with colours but realized how ridiculous I looked only after setting foot in the park."

Without missing a beat, you added, "You look like you'd be very good at using a magnifying glass, if that makes you feel better," and basked in the fruit of your wittiness after getting him to giggle with that sentence.

He looked relieved to have gotten you speaking normally again after a few minutes of tension. "Heh, maybe you could me give few points on comedy, my friends always give me shit for having a plain sense of humour," Yukimiya said, and paused to change sides and stand next to you, right arm a few hairs apart, "Let's get going. I know this place that has killer red velvet."

You turned your head to give him an animated nod, and opened your mouth to share something interesting, before getting cut off, "Were you about to tell me that red velvet is just chocolate cake dyed red?"

"Damn it."

❆ berry's post-writing note: UGHHHHH AGAIN ONE OF THOSE INSTANCES WHERE THE BEGINNNING IS GOOD OR AT LEAST ACCEPTABLE THEN THE END GOES TO SHIT AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA anyway please feed on this thing that i made. i'm very happy with this thing that i came up with about him looking like velma cause he lowkey highkey DOES look like her lolol. hope it wasn't a bad read and criticism is always welcome :))))

[satoriberry]

After Hours

Far too cold and clinical for a place that stocks fresh fruit and warm bread.

There are only a handful of other shoppers left: one woman comparing labels on oat milk, a man in a wrinkled shirt wandering aimlessly near the cereal aisle. No one looks up when Nanami walks in. He prefers it that way.

He pulls a folded shopping list from his coat pocket. The handwriting is neat, concise. He keeps it on paper out of habit, not necessity.

-Eggs. -Yogurt. -Soba noodles. - Bread. -Baby spinach. -Lemons. -Coffee (whole bean). -Toothpaste. -Something sweet (optional).

The front shopping cart wheel squeaks on his first turn. He considers swapping it, but doesn’t. There’s no one around to be bothered by the sound, and he won’t be here long.

The aisles are orderly enough, though a few things are out of place. He eyes a lone box of instant curry nestled among the pasta sauces, a child’s mitten abandoned beside a stack of tangerines. Nanami notes them absently. He doesn’t fix them. It isn’t his job.

At the produce section, he inspects the spinach like he’s weighing an argument. Some of the small bunches were too far gone to try and salvage. Some just slightly wilted on the leaves edge. Still salvageable. It goes into a reusable bag, not the flimsy plastic ones provided. He’s not sentimental, but he is particular.

The bakery counter is closed, lights dimmed and display case empty. But on the clearance rack near the end of the aisle, a three pack of kouign-amann sits in a plastic container. He shifted his weight, looking at the tips of his shoes before looking at the price sticker on the container.

30% marked down due to “damage”. He hesitates. And not because of the state of the sweets.

He told himself no sweets this week. But rules, like hours, sometimes bend.

He places it in the cart without looking directly at it, as if doing so would make it harder to justify.

When he reaches the coffee aisle, he takes longer. He runs his fingers along the bags of beans like one might trace the spines of books in a quiet library. Dark roast, low acidity, ethically sourced. He’s memorized the labels by now. Still, he reads each one again.

A soft announcement plays overhead, reminding shoppers that the store will close in fifteen minutes. He glances at his watch. He’ll be out in ten.

The self-checkout machines were mostly empty, save for one humming stubbornly at the far end, flashing a red light while a teenager in an apron tapped at its screen with visible boredom.

Nanami chose the furthest terminal, not out of preference, but habit.

He wheeled his basket to the terminal carefully. Each item was scanned with practiced precision, placed in the repurposed paper bag according to weight and fragility. Lemons on the bottom. Bread on top. coffee slid in sideways, tucked just so between two containers of plain yogurt. Not because he particularly enjoyed yogurt—but it helped him with hitting protein and calcium, was healthy, predictable in flavor, kept well, and helped regulate his bowel movements.

‘I’ll buy some peaches from the fresh market this weekend to pair with it.’

He went to grab the soba noodles. As he swept them across the scanner, it misread the barcode. He didn’t sigh. He simply tried again, adjusting the angle, then again—until it beeped with compliance. He moved on.

"Please place the item in the bagging area," the machine chirped.

He had.

A brief pause. Then: "Unexpected item in the bagging area."

Nanami stared at the screen for a beat longer than usual.

It wasn’t anger. He didn’t feel anger. Just… the cumulative weight of small inefficiencies.

A store attendant noticed and began to approach, but Nanami waved a hand along side a nod—a duo’d, understated motion that communicated I’ve handled it without so much as a glance. He adjusted the placement of the baked good. The error disappeared. He continued scanning.

When the machine asked if he had any coupons, he pressed No without hesitation. He typed in his cellphone number so the digital coupons could automatically deduct from his purchase instead.

His total came to less than expected even with the baked good. He paid in exact change, a relic of preference rather than necessity, and folded the receipt once before slipping it into his coat.

He did not take a bag. His own was already full, the shape of it well-balanced as he lifted it into the crook of his arm.

Behind him, the machine chirped a cheerful Thank you for shopping with us!

He didn’t respond.

Outside, the air is cooler. A breeze lifts the hem of his coat. The bag digs into the crook of his arm, heavier on one side from the loose lemons and toothpaste multipack.

---

The drive home is short. Eight minutes, if the lights favor him. Eleven, if they don't.

Tonight, they're indifferent. Two reds, one green. A flicker of yellow he chooses not to test. He waits. The engine idles with a low hum, headlights carving out a hollow path on empty streets.

His hands rest on the wheel at ten and two. Always. Not out of fear as he was a good driver, cautious without being hesitant—but because order has always helped him think.

He doesn’t listen to much music. Doesn’t need the noise. He once tried jazz, then ambient piano. They made him feel as though he should be feeling something, and that expectation was more exhausting than the silence. So he settled for NPR. Monotone voices and up to date topics. Acceptable car noise.

At a left turn, he signals even though there’s no one behind him. It’s not for anyone else. It’s just the rule.

He parks in his usual spot, parallel to the curb in front of his building. The streetlight above flickers once. He watches it, then grabs his grocery bag, evenly balancing it as he walks to the front door.

His apartment is clean. Not sterile. but intentionally minimal.

Shoes off at the door. Coat on the hook. Keys in the ceramic dish on the entry table.

He unpacks the groceries in silence:

Lemons in the hanging fruit hammock. Spinach into the fridge. The crisper drawer, right side. Eggs beside the butter. Yogurt on the top shelf to the left next to his milk alternatives. Soba in the dry goods pantry. Coffee beans next to his coffee grinder on the far corner of the counter. Toothpaste in the bathroom drawer, beneath the extras. Everything has a place.

The kouign-amann sat alone on the counter, its plastic container a soft crinkle in the quiet.

He stares at it for a moment.

‘You didn’t need them.’

The thought isn’t harsh. Just… matter-of-fact. Like reading a label.

But there’s another voice, quieter, less disciplined. One that sounds suspiciously like a colleague he never sees anymore. ‘You also don’t need a glass of whiskey yet you aren’t matter of fact on that. What’s the point of working yourself to death if you don’t enjoy the little things?’

He opens the container. The pastry is imperfect. Slightly smushed on one side, the caramelized sugar clinging to the ridges unevenly. Still, he can tell it’ll be good. Flaky. Rich. Brief. A sweet treat.

He puts it on a plate. Doesn’t warm it up. He’ll have it with a glass of cold milk, the way he did as a child, before his father taught him that indulgence should be discreet, if not rare.

And after his mother taught him that indulgences are mini celebrations for making through a tough day.

‘It has been a tough day.’

He doesn’t sit. Just leans against the counter, arms crossed loosely as he takes the first bite.

The sugar sticks to his teeth. The butter melts on his tongue.

He chews slowly.

You didn’t need it, he thinks again.

But he swallows, takes another bite, sighing at the small hint of delight it brought him.

“You needed it. You’ll survive, Kento.” He breaks his own silence with his low voice.

He taps his toes on the granite floor as he takes the last bite of his kouign-amann, washing it down with the bit of milk he had left before dusting crumbs off the counter and into the waiting trash receptacle at the edge of his island.

-----

He washed the plate and glass immediately.

No dishes left in the sink. No excuses in the morning. The water runs warm over his hands. He dries them on the cloth towel hanging by the sink and folds it back neatly.

The bathroom light is soft, almost golden. A small luxury: warm bulbs. The mirror reflects him in half-shadow as he loosened his tie and rolled up his sleeves before he prepped for his shower.

Mildly scented soap, a balm for immediately after to avoid dry skin, blonde specific shampoo to help with the hair dullness he’s noticed the last few months.

‘At least its working. Makes the grays blend better.’

A plain, navy sleep shirt and gray sweatpants awaited him. No logos. No fuss.

He starts with flossing, then rinsing with mouthwash, and ended off with brushing his teeth with practiced, exact strokes.

Skincare is quick, unsentimental. Foam cleanser, glycolic acid, alcohol free tonger, hyaluronic acid, then a thin film of moisturizer rubbed in with his ring fingers after it has all absorbed into his skin. He wasn’t one for vanity. But he was one for maintenance. Like oiling a blade.

The bedroom smells faintly of clean linen and the faint citrus of whatever detergent he buys in bulk. The bed is already turned down. He does it in the morning, One less step between him and rest.

He sets his alarm to six am though he rarely needs it to wake up.

Then he reaches for his book: Red Rising by Pierce Brown. 30 minutes to read.

He’s too into the plot and that almost went out the window.

His phone is placed face-down on the nightstand. No doomscrolling. No headlines. No excuses. But tonight, he lets his thumb hover just a moment longer before locking the screen. Making sure to have his phone on do not disturb.

A notification glows softly. Its from you:

Goodnight Kento! can’t wait for our date tomorrow. Sent just now.

He reads it twice. Not because he didn’t understand the first time, but because it’s rare. The feeling of anticipation, without the dread. Company, without exhaustion.

His thumb taps out a reply, short but sincere.

Kento: Rest well. I’m looking forward to it, too. See you tomorrow.

He watches the screen dim and turns his phone down on the nightstand.

The room is quiet.

But his thoughts, just this once, are quieter than usual. Still present. Still layered.

Things he didn’t say. Things he saw today that he’ll pretend not to remember tomorrow. But softened by something else.

The idea that tomorrow around this same time, he’ll be out at a late night movie on a rooftop rather than being tucked in.

‘It’s a good change. A great one.’

Not hope, exactly. Something older. Quieter. Like the memory of warmth, long after the fire’s gone out.

He lies back, pulling the blanket over himself in a single motion. And when he closes his eyes, sleep finds him a little faster.

[satoriberry]

keeping myself on my toes by criticising femininity and gender roles on reddit before going to vinted and looking at frilly shoujo-esque outfits to buy for the summer. gender socialisation my biggest enemy.

[satoriberry]

maybe i'm the only one who's noticing this, but in the bllk tumblr fandom rn, the most popular fics are all smaus. idk am i the only one who's noticing this and i'm just getting paranoid or is this an actual thing in the bllk fandom rn? because i haven't been writing for bllk for a couple of weeks now and when i check the blue lock x reader tag and go to the latest section, all of the fics that were posted less than 24 hours ago and has over 100 notes are all smaus.

[satoriberry]

found out that i actually have E cups lets celebrate