𝗔𝗡𝗚𝗘𝗟 𝗔𝗡𝗗 𝗗𝗘𝗩𝗜𝗟
ғᴛ. ᴋᴀᴡᴀᴛᴀ sᴏᴜʏᴀ
⌈Tokyo Revengers⌋
ᯓ꒰ •̫͡-•̫͡꒱ᯓ
❘❘❘❘❘❘ ❛ Living with your cousin, your attention was caught by a cute cinnamon roll who has anger written on his face, and you just couldn't resist but ask him out the f...
You weren't supposed to be here. You don't even want to be here, trapped at your brother's party, dolled up like some unwilling participant in a twisted beauty pageant. The dress is an assault on your senses, tight, unforgiving, and determined to suffocate you inch by inch. The material clings uncomfortably to your skin, like it was designed by someone with a personal vendetta. Every step reminds you of your discomfort, every movement a painful reminder of your poor life choices.
But the dress? Oh, that was just the appetizer. The main course of irritation stands right in front of you, an infuriating grin plastered across his face. And to make things worse, he has the voice, that low, smug drawl that could've been hot in another lifetime, if it wasn't attached to him.
"Come on, just a dance. We won't do anything else other than that... unless you wanted to."
You bite the inside of your cheek, setting aside, for the briefest moment, that you're a sucker for a good voice. Fate has a sick sense of humor, because the person you despise most in this universe has it. And just your luck, he's the one talking. You stare at his face, the same face that's haunted your list of grievances for years. Your irritation brews into a simmering rage.
"Get out of my sight before my fist flies towards your face," you say sweetly, offering him a smile so saccharine it could rot teeth. If someone were watching from afar, you'd look like an angel, until they saw the murderous glint in your eyes.
He, of course, doesn't see the storm brewing behind your smile. Maybe it's because you're smaller than him, or maybe it's because he's an idiot. Either way, the fool has the audacity to smirk like he's just heard the world's funniest joke.
"Oh how scary~ Babe you—
Your fist shoots forward before his sentence can finish. You swear it moved on its own, though you and your conscience both know that's a blatant lie. With a satisfying thwack, he goes flying, crashing into the floor like a sack of potatoes dropped from a third-story window.
