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View profileNão tem muita coisa pra falar sobre a minha pessoa u_ub Quem me conhece sabe! Quem não me conhece não sabe 8D (Não diga..¬¬) Amo fic de...
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Macho Uruha is a samurai, and like every afternoon, he calls his friend Reita samurai for tea afternoons.
A life lesson, what would sincere and true love be? "Especially with certain difficulties... Not everything is perfect, or is it what everyone thinks? Everything is perfect, you just have to accept it the way you have to live, don't you... Kouyou?"
Small daily stories about love in small gestures. Because love doesn't need anything grand to be beautiful. —Microstories for the Flufftober 2023 challenge (Fanfics)-
Even demons have this and that they don't want to talk about. It was not convenient for Takanori to say his name left and right, especially if it was just to provoke him. A name is also a purpose. And he didn't want to see his between those beautiful, corrupted lips.
Kai is a fallen angel who was bored of, having been forced to take only bad souls or recruit angels to Lucifer's cause. On the other hand, Uruha could be of the same species, but his nature was of protection whose purpose was to help a human who depreciates his life. At one point, without even noticing, the blond angel had caught the attention of the one guided by the King of the Underworld. Maybe you could call that situation a forbidden romance?
In that reality in which he lived, he was a scientist, a physicist in search of something greater, but that in the end his cycle of friendships ended up closing in on two co-workers, a plant and two artificial intelligences. And of course, Sunday lunches at her parents' house, where she'd listen to her mother talk about how happy her brother was with her successful job and her cousin had sent pictures of her twin daughters—two little angels, when are you going to give me grandchildren? Takashi? His eyes were fixed on the coffee mug with a silly print of two mice that read 'The answer is 42'. He sighed as he realized he had lost himself in daydreams. He took the coffee between his hands, breathing in the aroma, the sweet aroma of a few more hours awake without feeling an amoeba. Of course, that scent was better with a dash of cinnamon and cayenne pepper. “Perfect…” he whispered as he tasted the coffee the way he liked it. Better than that only when he was home and could pour a shot of whiskey in his coffee.