Welcome to the halls of my little crumbling archive.
I’m Moriens — any pronouns, wandering writer, and occasional cryptid haunting the stacks of books.
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i swallowed my own piercing during my meal today, turns out i have no extra plastic clear ones, so i have to go to work with a spike through my lower lip instead of a small clear ball.
A/N: Inspired by this headcanon post. Bodyguard!Toji AU! This is the female version, there'll be a nonbinary and a male version. each version has it's own plot!
warnings: i went overboard, this is VERY long. warnings are the same as in the headcanon. 7294 words.
It started with a bullet through your fucking living room window.
And it wasn’t the first one.
The press didn’t cover it — your PR team made sure of that — but you knew someone out there wanted you dead.
Maybe it was one of the political snakes you destroyed in court. Maybe it was the overseas conglomerate you turned down. Maybe it was that little prick CEO whose merger you killed with a single word: “No.”
You’d built your entire empire on a reputation: sharp, cold, beautiful, and utterly brutal. Everyone in your orbit knew it — when you walked into a room, the floor shifted beneath your stilettos. You weren’t a woman, not to them. You were a force. A gavel in lipstick. A hurricane wrapped in Chanel.
So when your fucking address got leaked, when some low-life tried to take your head off with a sniper round through your penthouse window, your board panicked.
You didn’t.
You stood there, staring at the shattered glass with a whiskey in hand and your cat, Chairman Meow, hissing under the table.
“Pathetic aim,” you muttered, and downed the drink.
New penthouse. New location. New problem.
The board was insistent. You weren’t going to keep walking around unprotected — not when there were contracts, assets, shares, and politics tangled around your name like electric wire. They lined up options like a fucking dating service. Ex-military, ex-police, some former Yakuza types. All of them certified from different private agencies.
You looked at the photos like they were resumes.
“Ugly. Too clean. Creepy. Boring. Weak.”
And then: Toji Fushiguro.
Ex-hitman. Ex-assassin. Ex-everything. Big as hell, pretty scar across his lip, and an expression like he wanted to kill the camera. No background outside what was scrubbed, probably killed people with his bare hands — but Jesus fucking Christ, hot. His file came from Shiu Kong’s registry. Notoriously expensive. Notoriously effective.
You read his record.
Then signed the contract.
One bodyguard. No detail team. Yours.
Within the hour, Shiu Kong sent a tight little email confirming the hire.
Five minutes later, he texted Toji:
“You’re in. Do not fuck this up.”
And called just to repeat it.
Toji was not happy about it.
Babysitting? Some rich bitch with an ego the size of Tokyo Tower and heels tall enough to impale a man? Nah. Not really his thing.
But his bank account had been grumbling for weeks. That last job barely paid enough to cover rent.
And hey — maybe she’d be ugly. Maybe she’d be the kind of uptight corporate ghoul with a voice like nails on glass. Maybe she wouldn’t even talk to him.
He could deal with that.
Money was money. Babysit the boss bitch, keep her alive, cash the check.
Easy, right?
*-*
WRONG.
Toji stood in front of the penthouse mirror, grimacing as he adjusted the tie.
The suit clung to him like a second skin—black, sleek, custom-fitted because the client had standards. Shiu had even sent him a cologne rec. “She likes subtle, woodsy, nothing cheap.” Fucking rich bitches.
He wanted to roll his eyes out of his skull. Babysitting some spoiled heiress wasn’t what he had in mind when he signed up for this gig. He was a goddamn killer, not a valet.
But rent was due. His bank account looked like a fucking war crime.
“Money’s money,” he muttered to himself. “Babysit the princess. Don’t fuck her. Don’t fuck it up.”
She opened the door in four-inch heels, a black dress tighter than God’s judgment, hair wrapped up like a fucking goddess, and a look that said she’d watched men stronger than him beg for her approval.
Toji went stiff. Not just in the shoulders. Lower.
“Fushiguro?” you said, voice slow, eyes dragging up his frame like you were choosing how to eat him alive.
He nodded once.
“Yeah.” His voice cracked slightly. Shit. He cleared his throat. “Toji’s fine.”
“Right. Fushiguro,” you smiled, all teeth and power. “Let’s get one thing clear : I don’t like being followed. Don’t talk to me unless it’s relevant. Don’t touch me unless I say. And don’t get in my way.”
Toji blinked.
Then grinned. “Yes, boss.”
You stepped aside. “Don’t let the cat out.”
The apartment is huge. Cold. Expensive- clearly you'd only been living here for like two days.
Everything smells like cedar and money — except where your cat has decided to piss in the corner out of stress, which yeah you've cleaned but still. Chairman Meow immediately launches an attack on his boots when he enters. Claws and everything.
“Fucking hell,” Toji snarls, dragging the thing off his leg. “That your cat?”
“She’s sensitive,” you say flatly, not looking up from your laptop. Cue said cat to piss on him.
Toji muttered a long, inventive string of curses as he peeled off the damp leather. Great. Pissed on by a cat. First ten minutes on the job. Fucking nailed it.
“Yeah? She pees like a war crime.”
*-*
He does a full sweep — every room, every vent, every line of sight — and keeps stealing glances at you.
Fuck.
You’re like a damn hallucination. Heels on hardwood, skin like satin, power oozing from every goddamn syllable you drop into your phone. You don’t even look at him, and it makes his cock twitch.
He hides in your hallway, behind a column, and sends Shiu a text:
Toji: she’s a fucking goddess. like actual fucking Aphrodite in a pantsuit. i’m gonna die. i’m gonna fuckin nut in this suit. she made eye contact ONCE. she told me not to touch her. i might pass out. what the fuck kind of job is this. help.
Shiu does not answer.
Probably deletes the message.
*-*
He’s your shadow.
In the car. In the lobby. In the back of boardrooms where old men visibly sweat under your words.
He wears a black suit. Has to. You said so.
“You look like you mugged a bartender,” you said when he showed up in jeans and a black tee, sent him fucking home, told him if he wasn't back and dressed within twenty minutes, you'd call Shiu and make his life hell.
Now he’s got the sleeves rolled up, cuffs tight on his forearms, chest stretching the buttons. Sunglasses. Earpiece. Everything. You told him to “look clean.” Now every time he looks in the mirror he wants to jerk off thinking about whether you’re looking.
He never stood too far. Never left your blind spots exposed. He learned your patterns. Your tells. The flick of your eyes when you're bored. The slow drag of your nails along your wine glass when you were hunting.
You were intoxicating. Dangerous. And so, so fucking hot it made his brain feel like static.
At first, you ignored him. Treated him like expensive furniture. Sometimes barked orders. Sometimes forgot he was there.
You're a goddamn siren.
And Toji? He is drowning.
*-*
You’re unbearable. And hot. So unbearably hot.
You say things like:
“You’re standing too close. Do I look like I need training wheels?”
“Speak when spoken to, Fushiguro.”
“You exist to serve me. Don’t forget that.”
“You’re paid to protect me. Not ogle me like a mutt.”
He’s chewing through his own tongue trying not to moan.
Every time you scold him, he gets harder. You once flicked him on the forehead for stepping in front of a door too slowly, and he got a full-on erection. Had to turn around and fake a phone call just to calm down.
“She’s so fucking mean. So fucking pretty. Bet she rides dick like it’s beneath her. Bet she spits on men. She’s gonna kill me. I want her to. I want her to choke me with that fucking necklace she wore today.”
So like a rational man he texted Shiu again.
At one in the morning:
Toji: i think i’d let her piss in my mouth. this is a cry for help.
Still no reply.
*-*
He dreams about you.
About kneeling.
About crawling into your bed and laying under it like a dog, just in case someone tried to touch you in the night.
About begging you to let him taste you.
He watches you from the car mirror while you argue on the phone. Sees the way you toss your hair, the way you lift your sunglasses to look down at the world.
You own this city. Not the government. Not the courts. Not the investors. You.
And now he works for you.
You’re his boss. His paycheck. His goddamn owner.
He calls you “boss” so much it starts to sound like daddy in his head.
*-*
By Day Five, he doesn’t even hide it.
He follows you like a shadow. Closer than necessary. Protective. Possessive. When a man tries to flirt with you in a restaurant lobby, Toji puts a hand on your lower back and glares until the guy walks away.
You slap his hand off.
“Touch me without permission again and I’ll break your fingers.”
Toji swallows.
“Please,” he mutters.
You arch a brow. “What was that?”
He shakes his head, red in the face. “Nothin’, boss.”
*-*
You still haven’t given him a single order he didn’t follow.
But God, he wants more.
He wants you to look him in the eye and command. Wants you to leash him with a fucking silk tie and tell him to sit. Wants to drop to his knees and let you use him however you see fit.
Wants to guard your door, your bed, your pussy. Wants to belong to you.
You’re powerful. You’re dangerous. You’re sexy as fucking sin.
And he’s just the dog barking at your heels.
*-*
Toji’s only been on the job for three weeks and he's already losing his goddamn mind.
Like full-on, dick-hard-in-the-shower, bark-at-the-wall insane.
So when you give him a day off, the first one since the contract started, he should rest.
Should sleep.
Should catch up on whatever passes for a normal life.
But no.
This motherfucker goes straight to Shiu Kong’s half-lit office, kicks the door open, and trauma-horny dumps like a goddamn fever dream, slams down into the leather chair across from his desk like a man possessed, rubs his temples, and goes:
“I’m gonna fuckin’ die.”
Shiu doesn’t look up from his laptop. “You say that every time you’re horny, and I don’t care.”
“I’m serious this time.” Toji’s palms are over his face. “She’s gonna kill me. I can’t keep doin’ this. I’m gonna bust in my pants watching her file paperwork.”
Shiu sighs. Sips his drink. “So don’t fuckin’ look.”
“I can’t not look. She wears those heels that sound like sex on marble. You know what she did yesterday?”
“No, and I don’t wanna—”
“She yanked my tie down so I’d bend to her fuckin’ mouth like I was some leashed mutt and whispered, someone’s tailing us, stay close, and I got a fuckin’ half-chub in the middle of the crosswalk like some deranged little freak.”
Shiu stares at him for a long moment. Then, very calmly, pulls a handgun from the drawer and cocks it.
“Get out of my office.”
Toji doesn’t move.
“You ever see a woman who’s like—mean hot? Like, ruin-your-life hot? Like she’d make you crawl naked across broken glass just to get kicked in the ribs and you’d say thank you?”
CLICK. The gun's click pulls Toji out of his weird horny-rant.
“Okay, okay,” Toji grunts, getting up. “Jesus. You’ve lost your sense of fuckin’ romance. God, fucking prude.”
*-*
A ‘normal’ week with you could kill a lesser man.
Tense. Measured. Like the string of a bow pulled tight — always threatening to snap, to shoot, to pierce something vital.
Toji follows.
Toji guards.
Toji watches.
He doesn’t speak unless spoken to.
He doesn’t walk in front of you, doesn’t trail too far behind either — just that exact, tense distance.
There’s nothing “normal” about a man who looks like that standing silently behind you at all times, muscles coiled like a loaded gun, eyes scanning the room like he’s five seconds from breaking necks.
He’s not just your bodyguard. He’s your shadow. Your protection. Your property — unofficially.
Toji Fushiguro, your own personal goddamn hound.
The way he watches you is almost feral. Sharp, heavy gaze that drips down your back like warm oil. Never disrespectful, not out loud, but Jesus Christ, he looks at you like he wants to get punished.
You don’t call him a dog. You don’t say “good boy.” You don’t yank a leash or click your tongue.
You don’t need to.
You look at him — just once, with that cut-glass stare — and he stands straighter, tighter, readier.
You treat him like a guard dog, sure. But you don’t pet him. You don’t feed him.
You keep him starving.
*-*
MONDAY (this is when the famous 'she pulled my ties incident occured)
Toji starts the day trailing you through a financial district that stinks of cologne and fragile masculinity. You’re all teeth and silence, gliding across marble floors in stilettos and a custom suit that costs more than his entire life. Everyone stares. Not at him. At you. And he’s just the black-suited brute behind you, a shadow with arms.
You’re talking into your phone. You don’t need him right now.
But you always use him.
You pause on the street corner. You don’t look at him — just snap your fingers once, softly.
He steps closer immediately.
Not a word. No order.
Just instinct.
“Someone’s tailing,” you murmur, low. And then — then, holy fucking God — you grab his tie. Fistful of silk. Drag him down like you’re whispering sweet nothings but your voice is pure command, sharp as a scalpel.
“Third car back. Navy Lexus. Plate ending in 9-2-7. Make them disappear.”
Toji’s pupils blow wide.
He makes a fucking sound. Not a word. A grunt. Guttural. Gutted. The way you pull him in, like a dog on a chain — he swears his cock twitches.
He’s hard before he even answers.
“Yes, boss.”
And when that car shows up again?
Toji’s gone before you even blink.
It disappears. Permanently.
*-*
TUESDAY
You work sixteen-hour days. Meetings. Mergers. Boardroom warfare. Toji sits outside your glass office like a fucking statue — unreadable, broad-shouldered, terrifying. People whisper about him. They don’t know what he is.
Carries your bags. Opens your doors. Walks you through lobbies with a hand hovering just above your lower back. Never touches.
He watches you through the glass.
The way you sit — legs crossed, back straight, head tilted like you're waiting to eat the next person who speaks out of turn.
You’re so calm when you destroy people. You lean back in that thousand-dollar chair and sip espresso while CEOs stammer and tremble in front of you.
When you speak, people fall in line.
When you lift your hand, Toji follows.
When you glance at him, he knows if he’s supposed to act or wait.
He doesn’t need a leash. You’ve got him fucking trained.
*-*
WEDNESDAY
You don’t speak unless it’s business. You text him once:
"Keep the car ready. And get Chairman Meow’s prescription wet food."
Toji does it, of course. Then cleans up another puddle of cat piss. You walk past him as he’s crouched over the mess, hair tied up, phone pressed to your ear.
You don’t stop. Just say:
“Good.”
That’s it.
He’s on his knees scrubbing the floor like a goddamn servant and you just said good, and he almost moans.
*-*
THURSDAY
You’re eating lunch with some tight-faced ambassador. Toji’s a few feet behind your chair. Silent. Watching. Waiting.
And then?
You cross your legs. Slowly. Smooth as sin.
You don’t look at Toji.
But you know.
You know he’s staring at the slit of your skirt, the edge of your thigh, the way your heel swings in lazy rhythm.
He wants to bite your ankle. Actually. Like an animal.
You cut your steak. Deliberate. Elegant.
And smirk — just a twitch of your lips.
He wants to bark.
And for the rest of the afternoon? You make him carry your bags.
Not literally. Not like shopping bags.
Like briefcases. Confidential ones. Labeled. Sealed. He’s not allowed to ask what’s in them — not that he would. He’s a dog. Dogs don’t ask. Dogs carry.
You don’t thank him.
You just glance at him from the elevator mirror and say, “You’re useful.”
It goes straight to his dick.
*-*
FRIDAY
He’s bracing for rejection.
There’s a gala.
Some private-sector exclusive hellhole filled with billionaires and media snakes and old politicians with hands that like to linger.
You don’t want to go, but you have to — donors, networking, social contracts to uphold. You hate these things. The men leer. The women compete. The champagne’s cheap even when it’s expensive.
Toji knows the drill. Girls like you — powerful girls, rich girls — they don’t bring muscle to things like this. Not visibly. They bring arm candy. Suits with good hair. Hangers-on.
He expects you to say it. To wave your hand and tell him to wait outside. Wait in the car. Wait in the rain like a sad dog, or a shitty love interest in a music video.
He’s ready for it. He’s already pissed off about it.
But then—
You look him up and down that morning and go:
“You’re not wearing that shit to the gala.”
Toji blinks.
“What?”
“Come on.” You grab your coat, keys. “I made an appointment.”
Which, to his fucking amazement, brought him to one of those fancy ass stores, the type that he was pretty sure was a front for money laundering. Tailoring. Tokyo’s finest. Private. Luxurious.
You walk in like you own the building. (You probably do.) The tailor bows so deep he nearly eats carpet.
Toji’s standing there like a massive wall of black denim and scowl, totally out of place. You wave at the tailor. Then at him.
“He needs a suit,” you say. “One that doesn’t look like he mugged someone in a dark alley.”
Toji mutters, “I like mugging people.”
You snap, “Shut up.”
And he does.
Toji looks wildly out of place — scars peeking out, shoulders too broad, energy too feral. He’s stiff while they measure him, glancing at you every three seconds like you’ll disappear if he blinks.
“Arms up,” the tailor says.
He obeys. Glances at you again.
You step closer. Drag your hand along a row of fine fabrics. Pause.
“Hm,” you say, inspecting a charcoal-black Italian wool. “No. Too polite.”
Toji blinks.
“Boss—”
“Shut up. Let me work.”
He shuts up.
You pick a dark obsidian suit. Sleek. Structured. Imposing.
“You’re my shadow,” you say, circling him like a wolf. “You wear what I tell you.”
The tailor barely breathes.
Toji watches you, jaw clenched, chest heaving.
"Yeah,” he mutters, rough. “Anything you say.”
The fitting?
It feels like foreplay. A weird, way too expensive form of foreplay.
Measuring tape around his thighs- bare thighs- cause yeah, he's only in his boxers.
Your fingers at his collar.
You choose everything — lapel shape, fabric, cut, buttons. You push the tailor aside at one point and straighten his shoulders yourself.
Toji’s got a full-body blush under his skin that he’s trying to smother behind a deadpan frown.
When you touch his jaw to tilt his chin up, he swears he sees God.
You mutter, “You’re not ugly, but you dress like a strip club bouncer.”
He smirks. “Was one for three years.”
You snicker.
He almost moans.
It’s not that he’s shy. It’s not that he minds the touching.
It’s you. Choosing the buttons. Adjusting the jacket lapels. Tilting his chin to see how the collar sits.
It’s the way you look at him — cold, calculated, hungry. Like he’s a weapon you own. Like you’re customizing him.
He’s half-hard by the time they finish hemming the pants.
The suit?
It’s devastating. Sharp black, tailored within an inch of his sinful thighs, tapered sleeves, collar that hugs his throat like a leash. You stand back, arms crossed, gaze raking over him like he’s a car you’re about to buy and crash for fun.
“Hmm,” you say.
“Hmm?” he echoes, tense.
“You’ll do.”
Later that night, he sees the tag.
1,780,000 yen.
Almost twelve thousand fucking dollars.
His hands shake. Toji stares:
“You just spent—”
“I know what I spent.”
He opens his mouth.
You cut him off.
“You’re mine tonight,” you say. “I don’t dress sloppy.”
*-*
The gala.
He’s your date, technically- a date that's basically your shadow dressed in silk.
He stands beside you, silent and dangerous, eyes scanning the room while you talk in clipped tones to governors and oil barons. Every single man there stares at your ass — and every time, Toji itches to break their fucking noses.
The suit fits like sin. You picked every detail. You dressed him like he was yours — like a prize pet, or a weapon you keep in your clutch.
The gala is a storm of wealth. Diamonds. Cameras. Handshakes worth millions.
Toji doesn't leave your side.
When you pause to greet people, he steps half behind you, angled to block any threat. When some greasy bastard gets handsy, Toji slides in so close the guy nearly chokes on his own spit.
You touch Toji's sleeve, briefly.
He doesn't move.
Just watches.
Waits.
Obeys.
He knows you don’t need him.
You’re power in stilettos. You’ve broken men for less than what he is. You chew glass and sip diamonds. You’re not looking for protection — you’re looking for a blade. A leash. A collar around something dangerous that only listens to you.
And Toji? Toji’s about to bite- or lose his mind, OR die of a heart condition because his blood has permanently relocated to his dick.
At some point, you lean in to whisper:
“Keep an eye on the minister’s wife. She’s got a knife in her clutch.”
Toji grins.
“You’re scary.”
You smile. “You’re slow.”
Fuck.
At the end of the night, as you step into the car, Toji opens the door for you. Hand on the handle, back stiff.
You pause. Look at him. A genuine??? Smile??? Graces your lips???
“You looked good tonight.”
His heart stops.
You slide into the back seat.
“Keep the suit. Consider it a gift.”
He sits in the front. Quiet.
Staring out the windshield. Wondering if his champagne that he sipped once had been ruffied.
Boner pressed awkwardly to the zipper of a suit that cost more than his rent.
“She dressed me. She dressed me like I’m hers. She said I looked good. Holy shit. Holy fuck. I think I’m gonna explode. I’d follow her into hell. I’d crawl on all fours through broken glass just to hear her say ‘good boy.’ What the fuck is happening to me.”
He doesn’t say a word the whole ride home.
But he texts Shiu when he gets back.
Toji: she bought me a suit. she’s gonna be the death of me. and i’ll die hard. suit on. dick hard. smile on. put that on my grave.
Shiu does not respond.
But that night, Toji falls asleep on the couch of his apartment- which is one minute and thirty-two seconds away from yours, probably forty seconds if he sprints.
Gun on his chest.
Hard in his pants.
Dreaming of the next time you pull his tie.
He wonders if he should thank whoever tried to assassinate you.
Because guarding you?
Hurts.
But being owned by you?
That might just kill him.
*-*
It goes to shit one month in.
The call comes in a 2:37 am.
The phone rings once.
Twice.
Three times.
Toji’s already up.
Sleep doesn’t cling to him the way it does normal people. The mattress in his high-rise loft has barely softened under his weight. He’s sitting up, hand already reaching for his phone on instinct.
You only ever call in emergencies.
You text, you command, you glance and expect him to move. But call?
Call? Never.
And then he sees it.
Your name.
Private line. Secure.
The screen flashes: Boss
(subtitled in his brain: Mistress, Obsession, Reason I’m Breathing)
He answers in one breathless grunt of your title.
And then—
You say it.
“Toji?”
His spine locks up so hard it’s a fucking miracle his bones don’t snap.
You don’t say his name. You never, ever say his name.
You call him “Fushiguro.”
You spit it like a bad taste, like the dog he is. Cold. Formal. Controlled.
But now?
“Toji, can you please get my briefcase from my office? The one with my work laptop in it?”
Every neuron in his body lights up red.
Danger. Threat. Code.
He inhales, lips parting just enough to keep the tension from bursting out of his jaw.
He knows your code. You built it with him.
He remembers it word for word.
Asking for the black laptop? That’s code for something’s wrong.
White laptop? Everything’s fine. Bring it, shut the fuck up, don’t look into it.
Black laptop? You’re in danger.
And then you add:
“With the case.”
With the case.
Toji’s vision fucking tunnels.
“With the case” = not just a threat. They’re close. In the room. Within earshot.
He swallows the growl climbing his throat.
“Got it,” he says smoothly. “I’ll be there in fifteen. Black laptop. With the case.”
He hangs up.
Then he moves.
He’s already grabbing the matte security binder under his bed — flipping through schematics of your penthouse layout. Pulls the encrypted tablet from the drawer. Triggers the silent alert on the security system, sends red flag pings to Shiu’s agency, then re-routes them back. No outside help. He’s handling this.
He’s out the door with a burner piece, two knives, a fire-safe lockpicking tool, and the case.
Your case.
*-*
You’re calm. Of course you are.
When Toji gets to your place, you answer the door like nothing’s wrong. Like you're not being held hostage in your own penthouse.
Your expression is pristine, but your eyes flash when you see him.
His heart is beating like a wild thing.
Two knocks. Your signal. Open up.
Toji enters, briefcase in hand, and eyes scanning everything like a hawk on crack.
You’re standing in silk. Barefoot. Calm. Perfect.
You glance at him once, then flick two fingers in a gesture that would mean nothing to anyone but him.
Two.
Two people.
Still here. Still watching.
Still fucking breathing.
Toji places the case on the granite island like it’s a gift at the altar. Then steps back, nods once, and glances — just so — to the left.
He sees it.
In the reflection of the wine chiller: two men.
Wearing maintenance uniforms.
Unarmed, but with enough muscle to think they’re a threat. Probably been working the building for months. Waiting. Timing it. Thought they could get in without alerting external security.
They were right.
Except Toji’s not external.
He’s hers.
Internal. Installed. Plugged into you like a power line.
And he’s already fucking moving.
The first guy doesn’t see it coming.
Toji steps around the counter like he’s going to pour himself a drink — then smashes the guy’s nose in with a blunt elbow, drags him down by the collar, chokes him out before he even makes a sound.
You don’t blink.
You sip your wine.
Toji wants to bark.
The second guy tries to run.
He gets three steps.
Toji sweeps his legs, cracks his skull on the marble, presses his boot to the guy’s throat with exact enough pressure to keep him from passing out.
“You get ten seconds to explain,” he growls, voice like boiling tar.
The guy sobs something about debt and cash and “she’s rich, no one would miss it.”
Toji grins.
“You just tried to rob a fucking dragon,” he hisses. “She doesn’t breathe oxygen, she breathes lawsuits. You know how many teeth she’s pulled from men ten times your size?”
He looks up.
You’re still standing there.
Still gorgeous. Still untouched.
Still above it all.
You tilt your head, then tap two fingers to your neck — silent command. Choke him out.
Toji obeys.
Willingly. Eagerly. With joy.
Because nothing will ever compare to following her orders.
*-*
The cops come. Quietly. Discreetly. Arranged via silent protocols that Toji had already activated before stepping inside. The building manager is fired. The two would-be thieves are taken out on stretchers. Not dead- Toji isn't that sloppy.
Toji cleans his hands in your kitchen sink, rolls his sleeves back up, and watches you over his shoulder.
You’re back at your dining table. Working.
Already.
Like nothing happened.
And then, for the first time, you look at him and say:
“You were late.”
Toji nearly bites his lip in half.
*-*
He’s sitting on the edge of your white leather couch, wiping blood from the crystal glass.
You walk by.
Pause.
And drop a square velvet box beside him.
“Your cufflinks for the next gala,” you murmur. “They arrived early.”
He picks it up. Stares. Opens it.
Gold. Engraved. With a symbol that means “dog” in Old Japanese script.
Toji laughs. Just once.
You walk away before he can say anything.
But his voice follows you:
“You ever call me ‘Toji’ again,” he murmurs, low and full of grit, “I’m gonna lose my fucking mind.”
You pause.
Look over your shoulder.
And smile.
“Then behave.”
*-*
Five months.
Twenty weeks.
A hundred and forty days.
And he hasn't killed anyone on your property yet. That’s a win.
You think you’ve got him pegged.
Tightly wound muscle in a Tom Ford shell.
Ex-gangster turned bodyguard with a penchant for swearing at your coffee machine and staring at your thighs during board meetings.
But you don’t know the half of it.
You don’t know how his lungs feel tight when you say his name.
You don’t know that he sleeps in the hallway outside your suite sometimes, under the bullshit pretense of “safety rounds,” even though your entire penthouse is triple-fortified and guarded like nuclear codes.
You don’t know that when he closes his eyes, your voice is still ringing in his skull, branded there like fire:
“Fushiguro, I’m heading out. Don’t lag.”
You don’t know that your heels clicking across marble is better than porn to him.
You don’t know that he would kill for you again without even blinking.
You don’t know that five weeks ago, when you walked past him in that backless silk dress at the launch party, he nearly came in his goddamn suit.
And you definitely don’t know that he kept the lipstick-stained napkin you left behind at that same party, folded it, and stuck it in his jacket pocket like a fucking teenage girl with a crush. (He hasn't even told Shiu about that, mostly because if he did, Shiu would actually shoot him).
So no.
You don’t know what you’ve done to him.
But you're about to find out.
*-*
It starts with a phone call.
Not yours.
Toji’s.
He’s in the corner of the terrace, jaw tight, voice low. Doesn’t know you’re there. Doesn’t see you pause, doesn’t see the look flicker in your eyes when you hear:
“You rejected him because of my record? He’s ten, you fuckin’ suit-wearing parasite. He didn’t kill anyone. I did.”
Silence.
More tension.
Toji rubs a hand over his face like he’s going to punch the sky.
You’re already walking away before he notices. Already calling your head of legal. Already sending three of your most vicious attorneys to war.
And by that evening, when Toji gets the call that Megumi is in, when the director suddenly sounds terrified of losing him, when no one will tell him why the tune changed—
He has no idea you’re the reason.
But that’s you, isn’t it?
Always above. Always untouchable. The predator perched at the top of the ladder.
Even when you’re drunk.
He doesn’t expect it.
The drinking, first of all.
You never drink. Not when you’re out. Not when you’re working. Not even when your quarterly report shows your company up 11% and your board’s throwing champagne like confetti.
But tonight?
You’re plastered.
He sees it in the way your pupils dilate in the back seat of the car, the way your legs kick up over the divider and you throw your head back with a laugh like it’s been caged in your chest for years.
You smell like gin and orange blossom and old money.
Toji’s sweating in his seat.
“Toji,” you slur, slouched like you own the universe — which, to be fair, you almost do. “Y’ever notice how you look like… a really angry caveman in a suit?”
He snorts. Keeps his eyes on the road.
“Every fuckin’ day, sweetheart.”
You grin. Your lips are wet. Normally, you would've insulted him for calling you 'sweetheart'.
“S’good. I like it. You stand out. Look good on my arm. Like an emotional support threat.”
He nearly veers into traffic.
*-*
He helps you home. You’re barefoot by the time the elevator dings.
He’s holding your heels in one hand, his other under your elbow like you’re made of spun glass and spite.
Chairman Meow doesn’t even hiss at him. Just flicks her tail and accepts her gourmet salmon like it’s expected.
Toji’s lowkey proud. That’s a two-month no-pee streak. A new record.
You trip over the threshold into your room. Toji’s hands snap to your waist before you fall. You’re laughing. Eyes glazed.
“Zip,” you demand, spinning like a drunk ballerina, trying to reach the zipper down your spine and failing miserably.
He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t breathe.
Just steps in.
Undoes it with two fingers and clenched teeth. Doesn’t touch your skin. Not once. Not even when you grunt about your tights being too tight and practically fall into him trying to peel them off.
He helps. Professional. Silent.
Like he’s not dying inside.
Like his cock isn’t throbbing with every goddamn please from your glossy mouth- because normally?? Please isn't exactly in your vocabulary.
He sets you on the edge of your bed. Gently. Pulls your hair free of its pins. Wipes your lipstick with warm cloths. Dabs your mascara. Smooths the little lines between your brows.
Then you hiss.
“Rolled my ankle.”
He’s down instantly.
On his knees.
Of course.
Where else would he be?
He cradles your ankle. Presses. Checks for swelling. His thumb brushes your skin and he flinches like it burned him.
You’re barely looking at him. Barely awake.
But then—
You lean forward.
And kiss his forehead.
Just a brush of lips.
Soft. Thoughtless. Like you’ve done it a hundred times in dreams and forgot this was real.
Toji stops breathing.
“Guard dogs deserve treats,” you murmur. “Maybe I’ll take you on a date. Show you off.”
You’re asleep before you can finish the sentence.
Toji stays kneeling.
For a long time.
Longer than necessary.
His breath catches in his chest. His hands tremble on your skin.
He should leave.
He should leave.
Instead—
He whispers:
“Say it again, boss.”
But you’re already gone.
And he’s still kneeling.
*-*
You don't mention it.
The kiss.
The drunk date comment.
The fact that Toji stayed kneeling beside your bed like a temple guard until he heard your breathing even out into something soft and human and vulnerable.
He thinks maybe you forgot. Or sobered up and realized you were talking nonsense. Which, fine. Whatever. He can deal.
You don’t mention it. But you remember.
Of course you do.
You remember the faint tremble in his fingers. The hard set of his jaw. The way he looked at you like he was praying and you were the god.
You don’t speak of it, but you also don’t ignore it.
Because two weeks later, you hand him a folded navy envelope with an address on it and say, simply:
*“Pick me up at 7. You’re not wearing a gun tonight.”
Toji stares at the envelope like it’s cursed. His brain static. His hands too big and clumsy to handle delicate things.
“...This a job?”
You smirk. That slow, feral smile that makes him feel like prey wrapped in Gucci.
“No. This is a reward.”
*-*
The restaurant was uh...... yeah. Something. Probably cost more than anything Toji had ever owned.
The chandelier alone could pay off his debt to Shiu twice over. Everything smells like truffle oil and wealth and clean tile. Every waiter speaks in apologetic whispers. There are real diamonds in the salt grinder. Toji’s 80% sure.
He wears the suit you bought him.
He hates how well it fits. He hates how easy it is to forget he’s just the dog when you’re looking at him like you’re starving and he's the meal.
The restaurant is in the clouds.
Literally — it’s 68 floors up, tucked into a tower only foreign diplomats and ultra-wealthy ghosts can afford to haunt. Every table has a view of the city. Every dish looks like it costs more than Toji’s rent back in the day. And when he shows up — black-on-black suit, expensive shoes, not a weapon in sight — he finds you already waiting.
Your legs crossed. Your lipstick red.
He’s never even walked by a place like this, let alone been sat at a private rooftop table by a man with white gloves and a name tag in gold.
The first bottle of wine costs more than what he made during his first three hits.
The dessert is a sculpture. Like something out of an art gallery.
And you—fuck, you—
You look like you were carved out of every single one of his delusions.
Elegant. Confident. Gleaming like glass and gunpowder.
And for the first time, you look a little nervous.
Only a little.
But it’s enough to make Toji’s brain stutter.
“You really brought me here?” he mutters when he sits, already scowling like the menu insulted his mother. “The fuck am I supposed to eat — this salad looks like it was shaved off a bonsai tree.”
You just smile.
“You’re adorable when you don't know.”
Toji almost flips the damn table.
You feed him filet off your fork at one point, and he thinks he might die right there with foie gras in his lungs and a boner under the goddamn white tablecloth.
“You’ve been good,” you say halfway through your steak, not looking up. “You earned this.”
He snorts.
“Like a fuckin’ treat?”
You smile.
“Exactly like that.”
The date’s good. Better than it should be. Better than either of you probably expected.
He actually makes you laugh — real, genuine, shoulders-shaking laughter — when he tells you about the time he got arrested for punching a guy over a microwave burrito.
You tell him about the hostile acquisition you orchestrated in Milan with a smile and a fucking wine swirl like you’re narrating a children’s book.
It's insane. It’s unbalanced. It shouldn’t work.
But it does.
And then—
Date two.
You tell him to meet you at 11AM. Somewhere warm.
It’s a beach.
A real-ass beach. Sand, sun, little umbrellas in coconuts- of course you privated the entire thing for the day. Normal people things.
And Megumi is already there, in a hat that’s too big and a shirt that says “I am not my father’s crimes,” which you 100% had custom-made.
Toji doesn’t know what the fuck is happening.
Not until he sees you sitting in the shade, sunglasses on, smiling at Megumi as he builds a crooked sandcastle and tells you some weird, depressing fact about sea cucumbers.
He watches you kick off your heels and walk barefoot like you own the entire ocean.
He doesn't understand it.
He doesn’t understand you.
Because sure, he’s had fantasies. Filthy ones. Sick ones. The kind that could get him fired and jailed and dragged through concrete.
And something in Toji just… breaks.
In a way that isn’t feral or horny or unhinged.
It’s tender. It’s horrifying.
He’s so fucked.
He’s been so fucked.
*-*
And then comes the gala — some pompous, gold-plated thing where you wore a high-slit dress that could’ve ended wars and he had to listen to ten different senators try and flirt with you while pretending not to want to kill them all.
It’s always a gala. Your world spins on designer heels and Champagne flutes, and Toji, well…
He’s just the dog keeping the wolves away.
But this one is different. There’s tension in the air. Something simmering beneath the surface, because you’re giving him orders in that low voice again, your fingers brushing his tie like it’s a leash. You’ve got that look again.
That dangerous one.
That “I own you” look.
Toji’s holding it together — barely — right up until the moment you criticize his stance.
“Fushiguro, for fuck’s sake. Can you at least pretend you weren’t raised in a back alley? Stand up straight. You look like a bruiser from a Yakuza soap opera.”
It’s not even that mean.
But he’s on edge. Too sharp. Too tired of pretending he isn’t about to lose his mind every time you breathe near him.
So he snaps. Just a little. Just one stupid line, said with teeth:
“Bet you wouldn’t be complaining if I was fucking you like one.”
Silence.
Fucking silence.
The kind of silence that splits atoms.
Your head turns.
Eyebrow lifts.
Mouth parts.
“What did you just say?”
Toji goes white.
Like. Fuck.
“Shit—no. Boss. Sorry. I didn’t mean—”
You ignore him, slip into the car and:
“Driver, penthouse.”
Your voice is crisp. Cool. You don’t look at him again for the rest of the ride.
Toji stares out the window.
Brain spiraling. Vision blurred. Every security instinct screaming that he just ruined everything.
No more job.
No more Megumi’s school.
No more you.
He almost gets out at the light. Almost jumps from the car like a lunatic just to avoid hearing the words you're fired come from your mouth.
But when the car pulls into the underground garage, you don’t send him away. You just step out in silence. Cool. Collected.
But when you both step inside the penthouse, and the door shuts behind you, you don’t fire him.
You don’t scream.
You don’t even raise your voice.
You toss your purse down. Kick off your shoes. Turn to him slowly, like a goddess descending from her throne.
Eyes sharp.
Voice low.
“So?”
Toji swallows.
You step forward.
“You barked.”
Another step. His back hits the glass wall.
“Now I want to see if you bite.”
Toji’s cock is fully hard.
He wants to scream.
He wants to beg.
Instead, he growls.
“I bite.”
And he does.
It’s a goddamn battle.
Teeth and heat and biting, snarled words. You tell him he’s replaceable — he says he wants to choke out every bastard that ever called you ‘ma’am’ with a wink.
You call him a dog — he says he only answers to you. You say he’s disgusting — he says you like it.
“Pathetic,” you hiss, dragging him in by the tie.
“Yours,” he growls, teeth bared.
You shove him down.
He drags you closer.
And in that blistering, explosive mess of dominance and submission and some damn class power dynamics turned feral, something shifts.
Something permanent.
Because by the time the sun’s rising, and you’re still lying on the floor half-dressed, breath ragged, laughter raw from your throat as you swat him off your thigh—
You know.
You both know.
This wasn’t just a fuck.
It never was.
Not from the moment he knelt on your floor that night and let you kiss his forehead like a reward. Not from the moment you called him Toji and made the air freeze in his lungs.
He was always yours.
And you?
You were always his downfall.
A/N: pls i wrote this, haven't re-read it, idk if it makes even any ssense, it's too long, someone get me OUT OF HERE PLEASE- anyways i hope you enjoy it, this'll be one of the rare times where i'll do a tag list, normally i wouldn't but this felt special: @facelessmenforthewin @realalpacorn
How You Accidentally Cornered the Market on Emotionally Repressed Men in Expensive Suits
A/N: Two is better than one, especially two hot men in your bed. Wee woo i have managed to write something. wee woo the smut is terrible.
warnings: poly relationship, dumb shit happening, she/her used, for some reason i go from past to present back to past tense idk it makes sense to me, short shitty smut at the end. this is so long for some reason.
Here is what the third floor knows:
You are fucking dangerous.
You walk into the break room and the energy shifts. You exist in the bio department like a natural disaster that files its reports on time. You have two men — DEUX! — wrapped so completely around your finger that people have started keeping notes. An actual document exists in Mika from HR's Google Drive titled "The Situation™" and it has fifteen bullet points and three embedded pie charts.
Here is what the third floor thinks they know:
You're running some kind of operation. A long con. A femme fatale situation. You, an absolute whore in a cardigan, have somehow ensnared:
A. Hiromi Higuruma, the company's head litigation attorney, who looks like he was carved from marble specifically to make people feel bad about themselves. Tall. Broad. The kind of man who makes a three-piece suit look like a very polite threat. He has, as far as anyone can remember, smiled twice in the three years he's worked here. Both times were in your general direction.
B. Kento Nanami, executive numbers guy, another floor's problem technically, but very much everyone's problem aesthetically. Also tall. Also broad. Also the kind of handsome that makes the elevator ride awkward. He's softer than Higuruma — in the sense that he uses full sentences and doesn't look at the interns like they're evidence at a crime scene — but he's still, objectively, a lot of man. Like a lot a lot.
And you?
Well.
You speak to both of them like they're mildly inconveniencing you.
This is, somehow, making it all fucking worse.
"Did you see her today?" Mika hisses over her lunch, fork stabbing the air. "She told Nanami his spreadsheet had 'the charisma of a beige wall' and he just — he smiled —"
"He doesn't smile—"
"HE FUCKING SMILED." Mika slams her hand on the table. "And THEN — ohmyfuckinggod, and then — Higuruma came by, right, just casually appearing on the bio floor like he doesn't have an entire office six floors up, and she looked up from her microscope and said, 'you look like a funeral that got lost,' and he—"
Dead silence.
"He what."
"He giggled."
The cafeteria explodes.
(Not literally).
*-*
And what is actually happening in your office, right now, privately:
"Your brief is on my desk," Hiromi says, standing in the doorway of your office with his hands in his pockets and absolutely zero reason to be on your floor.
Like zero.
Like genuinely, why in the world is this man here actually.
You don't look up from your pipette. "I know it's on your desk. I put it there."
"It had a sticky note on it that said 'try not to look so depressing while you read this.' in glittery blue pen."
"Feedback is important. Glittery feedback even more-so."
A pause.
If someone were watching very closely — and Yui from the desk across the hall absolutely fucking was, with the intensity of a woman who has seen things — they would notice the very faint twitch at the corner of Hiromi Higuruma's mouth.
"Dinner," he says.
"Bold of you to think that's a question."
"It wasn't."
You finally look up.
The two of you conduct some kind of entire silent conversation that ends with you pointing your pipette at him like a tiny scepter.
"Tell Tinkerbelle it's his turn to pick the place. Last time you picked, we sat in a restaurant so quiet I could hear my own shitty thoughts and I don't like my shitty thoughts."
Hiromi's eyes do something soft and terrible. "I'll tell him."
He leaves.
Yui has typed four messages into the group chat before the elevator doors close.
*-*
Maybe for the record, we should actually learn how this whole disaster-shit-show started, which is more of a brief history of two fucking bumbling idiots:
Three years ago, Hiromi and Nanami did not know each other.
Not really, they knew each other from like.. vibes, and forced proximity.
They were just two very large, very fucking repressed men who happened to work in the same building, on different floors, orbiting different departments, leading their separate lives of Handsome Professional Suffering.
And then you joined the bio department.
Hiromi noticed you first (yes, he is eternally internally proud of himself).
You dropped an entire box of sample vials in the elevator, cursed in three languages, and then looked up at him and said, "if you laugh I'll fucking bite you," with the energy of someone who very much meant it. He didn't laugh.
He helped you pick them up.
He thought about you for the rest of the week.
Nanami noticed you a week later.
You were in the cafeteria, absolutely fucking demolishing a slice of cake with the focused energy of a soldier returning from war, and when he sat across from you by accident — the place was packed — you looked at him and said, for some unglodly reason: "I'm not sharing," and he said, "I wouldn't dream of it," and somehow that turned into a forty-five minute lunch where you talked about the failures of modern workplace culture and he walked back to his office feeling like he'd been briefly lit on fire.
Here is what neither of them knew: you also thought about them.
Both of them.
Which was annoying and inconvenient and fine, you were fine, it was completely fine. You were a goddamn PROFESSIONAL. You were planning on PROFESSIONALLY ignoring them.
Which was actually quite difficult, seeing how they were both large, both horizontally and vertically (and you supposed they were dickly well-endowed, so clearly, they were winning at life).
*-*
Here is what made it not fine:
The company retreat.
Six hours in the mountains.
Mandatory team building.
One (1) bonfire.
You, six glasses of wine deep, sitting between both of them because the seating chart was horny and also you sat down first. Hiromi on your left, very quiet, radiating heat like a very attractive furnace. Nanami on your right, saying something low and dry about the team building exercises that was genuinely the funniest thing you'd heard all month.
You laughed.
Both of them looked at you.
And you, traitor body, laughed harder, and leaned back, and your head tipped briefly onto Hiromi's shoulder before you corrected — you were tipsy, it wasn't a move — and then you patted Nanami's knee because you were gesturing and there was just.
His very handsome knee.
Right. There.
A very nice knee, if you may say.
Two men, six feet of tension each, suddenly extremely aware of each other.
"You're looking at her," Nanami said, very quietly, not accusatory, just. Observational.
Hiromi said nothing for a full ten seconds. "So are you."
More silence.
The bonfire crackled.
"This is going to be a problem," Nanami said.
"Agreed," said Hiromi.
And then — and this is the part that neither of them fully anticipated — both of them looked at each other, and something happened.
Something quiet and complicated and inconvenient. Some kind of oh. Some kind of hm. Some kind of: well fuck. Some kind of: You are also extremely irritating and also it has not escaped my notice that you are built with architecture. Architecturally significant, even.
*-*
Neither of them was coping particularly well with the deeply upsetting realization that the other one had forearms.
Like.
Forearms.
Sexy, sexy forearms.
Nanami rolled his sleeves up once during a budgeting meeting and Hiromi forgot the word “precedent” mid-sentence.
Hiromi loosened his tie after court one evening and Nanami stared at his throat long enough to enter a medically concerning state of silence.
It was becoming a workplace hazard.
The competition, from that point forward, became less competition and more — a reason to keep talking to each other.
Which became having lunch together. Which became Nanami saying "you like her differently than I do" and Hiromi saying "and you find that interesting" and Nanami saying "I find you interesting, which is new and unwelcome information" —
It was a whole thing.
*-*
For a couple of weeks, it’s not even subtle—it’s some sort of fucking corporate espionage levels of ridiculous, except the classified information is you and neither of them has the decency to pretend otherwise.
Nanami goes first in the mornings—always earlier, always composed, setting a precedent like he’s drafting policy, which this is way too fucking early for this shit Nanami, go back to bed. Coffee on your desk, perfectly timed, temperature still criminally ideal.
Ten minutes later, Hiromi shows up with a document you mentioned once, three days ago, annotated, tabbed, and somehow… better than what you asked for. They don’t acknowledge each other directly—oh no, that would be too easy—but the air between them is glacial, polite in that razor-edged way where every “thank you” sounds like a threat.
“You’ve been busy,” Nanami says mildly, eyes flicking to the paperwork in your hands. Higuruma hums, adjusting his tie.
“Efficiency is important.”
You, are of course in the middle of this cursed sandwhich, chewing on a pen: “You’re both insufferable.”
They take that as encouragement. Of course they do.
*-*
It escalates.
Quietly and fucking horribly (hornily).
Nanami starts walking you to meetings you absolutely do not need an escort for, he like a large knight but... in a suit, blond, with glasses, hand hovering at your back like he’s resisting the urge to commit to the gesture.
Higuruma starts appearing in those same meetings uninvited, leaning in just close enough to murmur commentary meant only for you—dry, incisive, a little too pleased when you huff out a laugh. They track each other without looking, counter each other without speaking, like two rival locked in a silent war where the only trophy is your attention.
And to be honest...
Welllllll it's nice.
To have two hot as fuck men competing for you?? Holy shit, what a dream.
Someone in HR swears they saw them leave the elevator at the same time and stand on opposite sides like gunfighters. Someone else says they both started staying late—separately, of course, God forbid they share a space—but always on the same nights.
And you? You lean back in your chair, watching it unfold, tapping your nails against your desk like you’re keeping score (you kinda are, you know for a fact Chairman is, don't ask how, he just is).
“This is pathetic,” you tell them once. Nanami exhales through his nose. Higuruma’s mouth twitches.
Neither of them disagrees.
That’s the worst part.
*-*
Meetings became unbearable.
Not for you, oh god no, you're having the time of your life.
For everyone else.
Because apparently Hiromi and Nanami had both decided the sexiest possible activity was professionally disagreeing with each other while you watched.
“That interpretation is weak,” Hiromi would say calmly.
“And yet still stronger than your last argument,” Nanami would reply.
Entire conference rooms stopped breathing.
You, meanwhile, sat there kicking your feet mentally like a Victorian woman watching gladiators fight to the death.
For her.
*-*
They came to you together. Like a pair of enormous very well dressed embarrassed dogs.
"We have," Nanami began.
"A situation," Hiromi finished.
You looked between them, you go straight to the point: "You both like me."
"Yes."
"And somehow also for each other."
A pause. "...Yes."
You took a long sip of your coffee. Looked out the window. Did the mental math.
"Okay," you said.
"...Okay?"
"Don't make it weird," you said, pointing at Hiromi.
"Don't make it too sentimental," you said, pointing at Nanami.
"And I'm not changing my Netflix password so you're sharing it." You stood up. "This is going to be fucking chaotic. I want the record to show I am the most normal one here."
Hiromi: "That's — "
"The most normal one," you repeated, gesturing to yourself and walked away.
They stood there.
"She's something," Nanami said.
"She's everything," Hiromi said, and then looked profoundly uncomfortable with himself for having said it.
Nanami patted his arm. "It's okay. I understand completely."
*-*
9:47 PM.
The office building, mostly empty. Jisoo from legal is working late because Jisoo from legal is always working late and also she saw Higuruma's office light on and became curious.
She is heading to her car.
In the parking lot, lit by one (1) flickering streetlamp and the ambient glow of career ambiguity, she sees:
Nanami, jacket off, leaning against a car.
And Hiromi, standing approximately two inches from him, saying something too low to hear.
Jisoo stops.
She should not be watching this.
She watches this.
And then Nanami, calm as you please, reaches up, touches Higuruma's jaw —TOUCHES HIGURUMA'S JAW?!!!!
The kiss is not quick. It is not accidental.
It is the kiss of two people who have done this many times before and will absolutely do it again. In multiple positions. Including horizontal.
Jisoo drops her keys.
Both men look up.
All three of them stare at each other.
Jisoo picks up her keys.
Turns around.
Walks back into the building.
Takes the stairs.
Sits at her desk.
Opens the Chat:
Jisoo [9:49 PM]: I'm going to need everyone online right now
Mika [9:50 PM]: JISOO IT'S 10 PM
Jisoo [9:50 PM]: I KNOW WHAT TIME IT IS MIKA I NEED YOU TO BE AWAKE
Jisoo [9:50 PM]: HIGURUMA AND NANAMI IN PARKING LOT
Jisoo [9:51 PM]: FUCKING MOUTH TO MOUTH
Mika [9:51 PM]: SHUT
Mika [9:51 PM]: YOUR
Mika [9:51 PM]: MOUTH
Jisoo [9:52 PM]: I am not capable of shutting my mouth right now Mika I am in a crisis
Mika [9:52 PM]: SO SHES WHAT
Mika [9:52 PM]: SHES JUGGLING BOTH OF THEM AND THEYRE ALSO FUCKING???
Jisoo [9:52 PM]: I DON'T KNOW WHAT GEOMETRY THIS IS BUT IT'S NOT NORMAL GEOMETRY
Yui [9:53 PM]: THIS IS POLYCULE SHAPED
Mika [9:53 PM]: DELETE THAT WORD
Daisuke [9:54 PM]: no wait let her cook
Jisoo [9:54 PM]: I saw Higuruma smile TWICE tonight I think the apocalypse has started
Mika [9:55 PM]: update the document
Yui [9:55 PM]: THE DOCUMENT CANNOT CONTAIN THIS
*-*
Working theories, in order of office consensus:
Theory 1: She is playing them against each other and they don't know about one another. (Abandoned after the parking lot incident. Back-burnered. Possibly resurrected as a sub-plot.)
Theory 2: She is playing them against each other and they DO know about one another. (Gaining traction. Gives her incredible power. The Maneater narrative is thriving.)
Theory 3: Nanami and Higuruma are actually together and she's a — like — a cover? (This one's from Daisuke in accounting and he's very committed to it.)
Theory 4: All three of them are in some kind of arrangement. (Proposed by Yui. Immediately dismissed as "too insane." The document notes: "but Yui has been right before. See: the printer conspiracy of 2022.")
*-*
What is ACTUALLY happening, 10:48 PM, your apartment:
You are sandwiched.
You are, specifically, sandwiched between Nanami and Hiromi, both of whom are built like buildings and radiate heat like very attractive radiators. You are tucked between their respective chests like a very content croissant between two very unreasonably attractive bricks.
A very horny content croissant, a HCC if you will.
"You're so warm," you inform Hiromi's chest, muffled.
"Mm." He has his hand in your hair.
He is doing the hair thing.
You are choosing not to comment on the hair thing because if you comment on it he'll stop and you don't want him to stop. You are supposed to be watching a TV show, on what?
You have absolutely zero fucking clue.
"Kento your arm is heavy."
"I know," Nanami says, not moving his arm.
"This is what I live with," you tell the ceiling. "Two enormous men with no regard for my personal space."
"You invited us here," Nanami points out.
"I invited Hiromi here. You followed."
"I was also invited."
"Debatable."
Hiromi, without moving, says: "You texted him before you texted me."
"Snitches," you say fondly.
There is a quiet moment. A comfortable one.
The kind you don't get to have often, because this situation is, objectively, chaotic, but when you're actually here — pressed between both of them, Nanami's thumb drawing absent circles on your hip, Hiromi's breath evening out toward sleep — it's the most settled you've felt since before the whole thing started.
"The office thinks I'm a maneater," you say to no one.
Nanami makes a sound that is almost a laugh. "I heard."
"Mika made a document."
Hiromi says, "I know about the document."
You sit up slightly to look at him. "How do you know about the document."
He looks supremely unbothered. "Legal knows everything."
"You're not even surprised—"
"Should I be?"
"—that there is a formal document about our relationship—"
"Our situation," Nanami corrects, and there's something warm in the word that he covers with dryness because he's Nanami and feelings cost him a certain amount of dignity.
You look at him. He looks back at you. His ears are faintly pink.
"Our situation," you agree, softer.
And then Hiromi, because he is Hiromi and he chooses his moments with maddening precision, says, very quietly against your hair: "Our everything."
Dead silence.
You absolutely do not feel your heart do something catastrophic (a leap into your fucking ovaries, who are currently singing, twerking and whatnot).
"Don't be sappy," you say, and your voice comes out approximately thirty percent less firm than intended.
"I'm not." He sounds unbothered. He is not unbothered.
Nanami, wisely, says nothing, because Nanami has learned to recognise the moments that are bigger than commentary.
You’re half-buried, honestly.
“Your moobies are suffocating me,” you mumble, not moving an inch, choosing this glorious death above anything else.
Nanami exhales a quiet laugh against your hair. “They’re called pectorals.”
“Incorrect,” you say. “Moobies. Scientific term.”
“I’ll need to amend several legal documents, then.”
“Do it,” you mutter. “Cite me as your source.”
There’s a pause.
You settle back between them. Hiromi's hand returns to your hair. Nanami's arm stays exactly where it is.
"I'm the most normal person in this apartment," you say.
"Obviously," says Nanami.
"Unquestionably," says Hiromi.
You close your eyes.
"You two kissed in a parking lot," you say. "In front of Jisoo from legal."
A pause.
"...We thought she'd left," Hiromi says.
"She hadn't."
Another pause.
"We know," says Nanami. "She very obviously hadn't."
You start laughing first. Then Nanami, low and warm. And then, last and best, the rare and precious sound of Hiromi laughing in the dark, unhidden, his chest shaking under your palm.
The Situation™ doesn't have a category for this.
You think that's probably for the best.
Chairman Meow was sprawled across Nanami’s legs like a wealthy widow at a funeral.
Somehow, despite weighing maybe ten kilograms, he is occuping approximately eighty percent of said legs.
“Your cat hates me,” Hiromi muttered as Chairman deliberately turned his back to him.
“No,” you said sleepily. “He just thinks you’re emotionally suspicious.”
“The cat is right,” Nanami said.
“I liked you better before you formed an alliance with my pet.”
*-*
Your bedroom is dimly lit.
Low golden lights.
Dark wood reflecting said gold, which makes every bad decision feel cinematic.
Their cocks are different.
That should be known.
Like scientifically. Like carved into marble somewhere. Because hypothetically, yes, one could assume two giant emotionally constipated businessmen would somehow be equipped similarly.
But no.
Life is cruel and abundant.
Hiromi’s curves slightly, mean and pretty in a way that feels legally questionable. Nanami’s is thicker at the base, heavy in his hand, the sight of it making your brain quietly shut down like an overheated office printer.
Both have neat trails of hair disappearing up hard stomachs. Both are unfairly broad. Both are looking at you like they’re about to split custody over your sanity.
On this very fine evening, in beautiful lighting, Nanami and Hiromi stood before you stripping with a sort of surgical grace that never fails to make you feel spiritually unwell.
And horny.
Violently.
Biblically horny even.
You stare at them like they’re a riddle sent by the gods. Like the Sphinx herself crawled into your apartment and said, “Solve this or perish.” And your immediate response was:
"No notes. Incredible craftsmanship. Lemme sit on it."
Hiromi snorts. Nanami actually sighs like he doesn't love this.
“Please,” Nanami mutters, folding his tie with infuriating neatness. “Try to behave with some dignity.”
You point dramatically at him from the bed. “YOU are naked in a three-piece suit vest right now. Don’t lecture me about dignity.”
“Fair point,” Hiromi says.
Nanami throws him a look: Traitor.
Nanami slides between your legs, broad shoulders immediately pressing warm against your skin, all expensive cologne and quiet composure. His hands settle on your thighs with slow confidence, thumbs rubbing absent little circles that make your stomach tighten.
Meanwhile Higuruma kneels to your level, long legs folded beneath him, tie off, sleeves rolled up enough to expose those forearms.
Those.
Fucking.
Forearms.
Forearms should not look like that. They should not exist in nature. Somewhere there’s probably a Greek sculptor clawing his way out of the underworld trying to recreate them.
You point accusingly at both men. “You two need to stop being built like refrigerators.”
Nanami calmly hooks his fingers into the waistband of your underwear—the pair proudly reading LICK ME CLEAN in glittery pink letters.
There’s a long silence.
Hiromi lowers his head. Nanami closes his eyes briefly.
“…You bought these specifically for us,” Nanami says quietly.
“I absolutely did,” you reply proudly.
Hiromi starts laughing. Actually laughing. Shoulders shaking and everything. The sight is so rare you almost miss the fact that Nanami’s currently pulling your underwear off with the concentration of a man diffusing a bomb.
A HORNY BOMB.
“You’re enormous,” you insist while they undress you. “Both of you. If this bed collapses under the weight of the moobies, I need you to know it’ll be your fault.”
Higuruma leans back slightly, hands working at his belt, eyes heavy-lidded with amusement. “You say that like you dislike it.”
“I like it TOO much,” you grumble.
That earns you a look. A horrible loaded look.
The kind of look that says they’ve both imagined you crying on their cocks during particularly boring meetings.
Which... yes.
They have.
Nanami’s fingers pause around your hips. Higuruma’s mouth twitches. And suddenly the air changes texture. Thicker. Warmer. Like the room itself just inhaled.
Unfortunately.
Chairman arrives.
Poor Chairman.
Poor, poor Chairman.
Your cat hops onto the dresser, takes one look at the situation—you spread on the bed, Blond Hotman between your thighs, Lawyer Hotman with his dick halfway out—and visibly regrets gaining consciousness today.
There’s a beat of silence.
Chairman blinks.
Nanami, ever polite, from between your thighs, says: “Good evening.”
Chairman immediately turns around and leaves.
“Even the cat is judging us,” you wheeze.
“Not us,” Higuruma corrects. “You.”
“YOU PEOPLE are inside me spiritually.”
Nanami kisses the inside of your thigh before murmuring: “We will be.”
Your soul immediately exits your body.
Nanami doesn’t just give head. No. That would be underselling it in a way that deserves criminal charges.
He approaches oral sex like it’s a performance review and your orgasm determines the quarterly budget. Methodical. Focused. Obscenely thorough.
His large hands pin your thighs apart while his mouth works between them with devastating patience, tongue slow and deliberate until your hips start twitching helplessly.
“Oh my god,” you gasp, grabbing at his blond hair. “Kento, I’m literally about to start seeing historical figures.”
“Stay with us,” he says calmly against your cunt.
Us.
US.
Hiromi groans softly at the sound of it.
And speaking of Hiromi—
You’ve started sucking his cock while Nanami absolutely dismantles your nervous system.
A multitasking queen. An icon. A victim.
Hiromi doesn’t force your head down. Never. He prefers watching you take him apart willingly. Watching your tongue drag against the head of his cock while your hand works the rest. Watching your eyes water. Watching you whine around him whenever Nanami curls his fingers just right.
“Fuck,” Hiromi breathes, one hand pushing your hair back from your face. “Look at you.”
You attempt to reply. Unfortunately there’s a pretty important part of a lawyer in your mouth.
Nanami glances up briefly. And GOD.
That look.
Like he’s starving. Like he could spend the rest of his life memorizing every sound you make.
It hits you suddenly, fiercely, embarrassingly:
They love you.
Not in a normal way. But with terrifying sincerity.
Nanami, who remembers how you take your coffee down to the exact amount of sugar. Hiromi, who silently switches sides of the sidewalk so you’re farther from traffic. Nanami, who irons your lab coat when you forget. Hiromi, who argues with customer service representatives on your behalf because ‘they were rude to you first.’
And now both of them are looking at you like devotion itself has teeth.
It almost makes you emotional.
ALMOST.
Then Nanami sucks harshly on your clit and your brain fully short-circuits.
“Oh you WHORE,” you cry.
Nanami blinks slowly. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
Hiromi laughs so hard he nearly loses composure entirely.
The sound goes straight through you. Warm. Rare. Beautiful.
Nanami pulls away just long enough to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand. “You’re very rude for someone being treated this well.”
“You made me stupid,” you accuse.
“You were already like this,” Hiromi says.
“Et tu, brute?”
Then—because apparently the universe enjoys seeing you suffer—Nanami and Higuruma look at each other.
Really look.
Years of rivalry. Years of wanting. Years of mutual irritation mutating into something softer and infinitely more dangerous.
Hiromi reaches first. Hooks his fingers at Nanami’s nape. Pulls.
The kiss that follows is messy in a way that feels almost unfair. Not polished. Not elegant. Just hungry.
You stare up at them in genuine disbelief.
“Actually insane behavior,” you whisper (you are absolutely stopping yourself from giggling in glee, your boyfriends are kissing afterall).
Neither listens.
Nanami’s hand slides into Hiromi’s hair. Hiromi’s thumb brushes across Nanami’s jaw. And for a second they look less like composed professionals and more like two men who spent years trying not to ruin themselves over each other.
Then Hiromi thrusts into you again and your thoughts immediately dissolve into static.
But.
No cumming.
Just as your back was arching, moaning around Hiromi's cock, Nanami suddenly pulled away with the surgical grace of a man who files his taxes three months early and refuses to let a single decimal point go unmanaged.
"No," he rumbled, his voice a low, wrecked cello note that caused your ovaries to blue-screen immediately. He wasn't done; he was simply... let's say, reformatting the itinerary of your total orgasmic destruction.
The Eiffel Tower of Pussy Ruin fell into place with all the dignity of a filing cabinet being kicked down a staircase.
Meaning:
None.
Absolutely none.
One second you were trying to recover from Nanami reorganizing your internal organs with his mouth, and the next you were being repositioned by two very large men who approached manhandling you with the terrifying efficiency of professionals who color-code spreadsheets.
“Wait, wait—” you wheeze as Hiromi grabs your thighs.
“No,” Nanami says calmly.
“YOU DON’T EVEN KNOW WHAT I WAS GONNA SAY.”
“You were going to complain.”
“…nuh uh.”
“Thought so.”
And then—because apparently your life is a sitcom written by Satan—you’re flipped onto your stomach with enough coordination to suggest these men have either practiced this before or could successfully execute a military coup together.
Your legs are spread wide.
Nanami looms above you.
Hiromi settles between your thighs, spreading them wide like the Red Sea, your pussy is wetter than a water slide.
Ah.
His thumb presses into the softness of your thigh, spreading you wider, eyes fixed on your face with dangerous concentration.
“You alright?” he asks quietly.
And that’s the thing.
THAT’S the thing.
They always ask.
No matter how messy things get, no matter how rough or heated or ridiculous the situation becomes—they always ask.
The tenderness of it hits you right in the chest.
Unfortunately, you immediately ruin the emotional moment.
“Hiromi,” you say solemnly, “if you split me in half, I need you to know I’ll haunt you sexually.”
There’s silence.
Hiromi physically stops moving.
“You’ll haunt me sexually?” he repeats.
“Yes.”
“What does that even mean?”
“No clue. Figure it out yourself. I thought you were supposed to be smart.”
As Hiromi slid into you—an unholy stretch that made you see colors no one else sees—Nanami lowered himself into your mouth, stifling your moans.
You were officially the centerpiece of this tower, moaning around Nanami's cock as Hiromi's cock slowly went in and out of you.
Over your writhing body, this unholy salaryman and the lawyer locked eyes. Hiromi’s hand tightens slightly on your thigh.
And they kiss. Again.
Right as Nanami's cock hits the back of your throat, your eyes water, your clit is singing under Hiromi's thumb, Hiromi's cock is kissing every inch of you.
And you feel it, the tighning coil in your lower belly, tighter, tighter and.. a literal explosion, warmth spreads all through you as you moan around Nanami's pulsing cock.
And there it is, Nanami's brow creases, his head looses itself in your hair and he cums, right down your throat, you swallow eagerly. Your walls flutter around Hiromi's cock, and very soon after he follows.
*-*
Much later, you are sandwiched again, you have been cleaned and massaged and life is sensational.
The Chairman Meow has returned to your lap as you lay between your hot boyfriends. Hiromi is currently doing his nightly read, while you stare at your cat.
“Both of you are stupidly handsome,” you mutter suddenly
Nanami blinks.
Hiromi pauses.
You point accusingly at them.
“It’s suspicious. Nobody should look like this naturally.”
“That sounds less like a compliment and more like an HR complaint,” Hiromi says.
“I AM filing a complaint.”
“With who?”
“The spirits.”
Nanami kisses your jaw softly.
“Let me know what they say.”
And then things get quieter.
Softer.
The kind of softness that makes your chest ache. Nanami’s hand slips into yours, fingers threading slowly between yours like it’s instinctive, Hiromi bends down enough to press a short kiss to your temple.
And for one awful vulnerable second, all three of you just… stay there.
Breathing..
Existing together in the warm gold light.
It’s disgustingly intimate.
You hate it.
You love it.
You want to bite them both affectionately.
“They’d kill us in the office for this,” you mumble.
Hiromi snorts softly.
Nanami brushes his thumb across your knuckles.
“They already think we’re having affairs.”
“They think I’m having affairs.”
“You are,” Hiromi points out.
“With BOTH OF YOU. Together. That’s different.”
“Is it?”
“Yes,” you insist. “This is ethical.”
Nanami’s mouth twitches.
Hiromi looks genuinely thoughtful.
“That might be the first time anyone’s described this situation as ethical.”
*-*
[ Mika's document would eventually reach version 14 before someone (Hiromi, via a sharply-worded legal notice) politely asked her to stop. She did not stop. She moved it to a personal drive. Version 19 exists. It has a cover page.]
A/N: i aM ALIVE HELLO, the smut is mid i am aware, its okay, we will live, i hope this was enjoyed!!! mangaka reader will be next (i might have to split it into two parts bc its lonnnggggg) also the et tu brute thing i totally put there bc of dana from the pit, idk man its a fun show
Just wondering, do you truly have a cat named chairman meow that you insert into fics, or is it just the universal cat for many of your amazingly written stories?🙂🙂🙂
Saw this message and TRUST I WILL DRAW MY KITTY!!! Its one of the (many) nicknames that my cat has, others include: lil shit, poopyman, gremlin, popo, chairman meow, meow meow, itty bitty baby, lil pear, fat pear, the sphynx, the dragon, and finally: goddamitleavethatbeyoudumbfuck
But i chose it also bc I used to rlly like Shadowhunters, the name rlly stuck with me, i thought it was quite funny. so.
I thought it was easier for me to always refer to the cat as chairman, and it kinda stuck? It's also nice bc it makes my fics relatively recognisable, AND people like it sooooo yeah, it was a mix!!
srsly wanna message someone tellin em i wanna draw smth for them for free, but i cannot do that without sounding like a creep weirdo so hashtag how tf do i message ppl like a somewhat normal individual
srsly wanna message someone tellin em i wanna draw smth for them for free, but i cannot do that without sounding like a creep weirdo so hashtag how tf do i message ppl like a somewhat normal individual
Panties, lipstick, & a goddamn neurology conference
Or: Eat your greens, Eat your girl
A/N: idk who it is that told tonycries to read my shit, whomever you are, i'll buy billions of flowers forever. this is for u pookie. i attempted to use the nickname 'ma' here, pls tell me if its good or not. its a meh from me. i never know if my toji is good or nah.
He was, however, a watch-your-girlfriend-wiggle-into-her-stockings person.
There were boobs out.
Just TITS. OUT. There. On full display. In the glow of morning sunlight and Toji’s increasingly horny stare.
Boob.
That was the first coherent thought in Toji Fushiguro’s poor caveman brain as he lay half-dead in your bed, one arm flopped over his eyes, the other hand s-l-o-w-l-y petting Chairman Meow, the roundest, rudest, bowtie-wearing tabby to ever grace the earth.
And Toji? Well, Toji was watching your ass.
Not in theory. Not fondly remembering it from last night—though that had definitely been top-tier, life-changing, earthquake-meets-crescendo-of-Mariah-Carey-bridge good.
No.
This man, this ex-assassin, this menace to society, this demon of your thighs, was watching your ass right now as you tried to fasten your garter belt while hopping on one foot.
You were bustling around the room like a sexy, chubby little hurricane, muttering to yourself about conference prep and presentation slides and “WHERE THE FUCK DID I PUT MY HAIR PIN—Toji did you touch it?” (he had not, to be clear. Chairman Meow was currently playing with it.)
Toji did not respond.
He was too busy ogling.
You were standing in front of your vanity, completely unaware of the ogling, dressed in nothing but your red satin underwear, hair half-curled, eyeliner sharp enough to kill, and one (1) glorious titty swinging as you adjusted the strap of your bra with a frustrated grunt.
He whistled. Low and very awake.
You jumped. “TOJI??”
“Damn,” he croaked, voice still molasses-thick and scratchy from sleep, “mornin’, sweetheart. You walkin’ out the house like that or do I gotta kill a man today?”
Your face went instantly pink. “OH MY GOD—no! I—Shut the hell up!”
“No bra. Just tits. Makin’ science sexy.” He gave a lazy, sinful smirk, still sprawled shirtless across your bed like he paid rent there.
You frantically threw a blouse over yourself. “I have a keynote presentation in like, three hours! I am not being slutty on purpose!”
He yawned. “Unfortunate.”
Chairman Meow let out a judgmental mrrrp and scratched at his leg like even he was tired of the horny.
Toji flicked the cat’s ear. “Sheesh, Meow-san, let a man simp in peace.”
You grumbled something about “goddamn feral men” and started lining up three potential outfits across the bed while Toji finally sat up, abs still obnoxiously visible and hair all mussed like he just got laid, which he very much did.
“I’m just admirin’ the view! It’s like wakin’ up in an art museum. A real bouncy one.”
You laughed despite yourself. “You’re disgusting.”
“And you love it,” he said, throwing one arm behind his head and letting the blanket slip just a little more. “Now c’mon, lemme help pick what’s gonna cover those babies up. I owe it to society.”
“Alright,” you huffed, hands on your soft hips. “Pick one.”
Toji blinked. “Wait you're actually letting me choose? I’m just gonna pick the sluttiest one.”
“That’s the idea,” you grinned, “but I have to be respectable-slightly-hot-doctor slutty, not will-fuck-in-the-breakroom slutty.”
He scratched his jaw. “That a challenge?”
“Focus, you menace.”
Toji got up (naked. Of course. Bastard, dick swinging and all) and started examining the choices.
Option A: tight pencil skirt, red blouse, glasses-on-chain-core.
Option B: high-waisted swing pants and a cherry halter.
Option C: black circle skirt, matching corset-style top, big ol’ belt.
All options had That Ass™ involved, obviously.
“B’s got sideboob,” he said. “But C’s got cleavage. I vote cleavage.”
“Shocking.”
He turned to the cat, who sat judging all of humanity from the pillow throne. “Yo, Chairman. Tie-breaker?”
Chairman Meow trotted up to Option C and sat on it with his entire butt.
“THE CAT HAS SPOKEN,” you declared, dramatic finger to the sky.
Toji was too busy watching your tits bounce as you danced around the room pulling on stockings. “Mmhmm,” he grunted, “You gonna walk onstage in that and get a standing ovation for both your research and your rack.”
You threw a hairbrush at him. “Innapropriate.”
He caught it, looked deeply unrepentant, and crawled back onto the bed to watch you like a wolf watching his mate gather twigs for the den or whatever.
“God,” he muttered, “gonna be thinkin’ ‘bout this ass all day. Shit ain’t fair. How’re you smart and thick and hot and nice to my murder cat?”
You smoothed your hair, ignoring the compliment stack, but your ears were turning red.
“Ma,” he said, suddenly more serious, scratching the back of his neck. “What time you get home?”
You turned to him with an eyebrow up. “Why?”
“...Might try to cook. Or I’ll get that weird vegan place you like. The one with the tofu that doesn’t taste like feet.”
Your face split into the brightest, cheesiest smile. “ARE YOU TRYING TO ROMANCE ME, FUSHIGURO?”
He shrugged, suddenly shy. “Maybe. Don’t make a fuckin’ thing outta it.”
You pounced forward, lipstick already on, and smacked the reddest kiss onto his cheek, leaving a perfect red pout mark. He blinked.
“That shit permanent?”
“Hope so.”
He tugged you by the waistband and murmured right against your lips, “Come home early. I wanna rail the Good Doctor again.”
You cackled. “Sir. I study autism in children, please don’t call me The Good Doctor—" straightening your skirt and grabbing your briefcase like the very professional adult you are, “you are the horniest bastard alive.”
He nodded. “That’s me, ma.”
“And you’re lucky I like you.”
He grinned. “Lucky you let me hit it three times last night.”
“FOUR. It was four, actually, and you almost broke my headboard—”
“You’re welcome.”
You kissed him again, this time soft and slow, and he held your waist like you were the whole world.
“See you tonight, loverboy.”
Toji watched you walk out the door—hips swaying, curls bouncing, glasses perched on your nose—and sighed, leaning back.
"Total milf."
Chairman Meow let out an unimpressed chirp.
*-*
The first thing you noticed when you walked into your apartment—after kicking off your heels and nearly chucking your presentation binder across the room—was the smell.
Food. Real food. Delicious food. FOOD THAT WASN’T MICROWAVED TOFU NUGGETS.
You sniffed the air like a rabid raccoon.
“…TOJI?!?”
From the kitchen: “Don’t panic!”
You immediately panicked.
You stumbled in to find Toji shirtless (classic), wearing an apron that said “DILF AT WORK” (concerning), hair pulled back (slight man bun Toji real), and standing over a suspiciously functional-looking stir fry.
“OH MY GOD YOU COOKED?”
“I did,” he said proudly, “and nothing is on fire.”
You blinked. “Why does it smell like real food? Did you follow a recipe??”
Toji turned to you with a dramatic chef’s bow. “I called your weird vegan place and bullied the dude into walking me through your favorite order. I made you that tofu broccoli abomination you like.”
You gasped. “YOU MEAN THE MAPO-STYLE ONE WITH THE GARLIC OIL?!?”
“I don't fuckin' know what any of that means,” he grunted, plating it, “but yeah. That one.”
You tackled him with a hug and almost knocked the pan over.
“You’re a GENIUS,” you cried. “A big, scary, sexy, GIANT-SHOULDERED genius.”
He smirked. “Kiss the chef?”
You kissed him. With tongue. You also licked his scar a little. Because gratitude.
“Go sit your hot ass down,” he said, swatting your butt as he passed. “Dinner’s served, Doctor Panty-Destroyer.”
You were halfway through your second bite of perfectly spicy tofu when you slammed your chopsticks down and exclaimed, “—and then this ASSHAT tells ME I can't quote VYGOTSKY in a CROSS-PANEL discussion?!”
Toji blinked. “Uhh. What’s a Vygotsky?”
You gestured wildly. “Oh y'know, just THE FATHER OF SOCIOCULTURAL theory!”
He nodded like that explained anything. “Sounds like a punk.”
“RIGHT?! He’s DEAD but STILL more useful than my co-chair on that board!”
“So,” he grunted back, “you win the Nobel Prize yet or what?”
You snorted. “No, but I did almost choke Dr. Kim in the elevator for calling me ‘little lady’ again.”
“Did you?”
“No, because apparently choking people is frowned upon in professional academia.”
“Bullshit.”
Toji spooned more food into your bowl. “Eat more. Yell more. Go on.”
And you were eating.
Like, actively. Deliciously because this was actually good.
“Godddd, I think this is better than orgasms right now.”
Toji raised an eyebrow. “Ma, don’t tempt me. I will make a very thorough comparison.”
“Shut up,” you said through a mouthful of noodles, “I had to explain to a whole-ass PhD panel today that my control group wasn’t trying to intentionally manipulate the data, they were just, y’know, five-year-olds.”
Toji sucked a bit of peanut sauce off his finger. “Hot.”
“No it was chaos, babe. One kid licked a USB drive. One drew a dick on my printout. One BIT my shoe.”
Toji nodded solemnly. “He’s my new favorite.”
You glared, but he gave you the smirk — the devastating one. The one that said he was gonna do something soon, and you were gonna pretend to be annoyed, but your legs would definitely be shaking after.
He kissed your forehead as he cleaned up the dishes. “You’re literally the hottest bitch I know. Fuck 'em. Not literally. Just metaphorically.”
You giggled, because he was being cute and he had tofu oil on his mouth.
“…Hey,” you whispered, tone shifting. “Thanks for cooking. Seriously.”
He shrugged. “You bust your ass helping kids, bein’ all smart and shit. You deserve a meal. And a nut.”
You choked on your rice. “TOJI—”
“I’m just sayin’,” he said casually, standing up and gathering the plates, “I made you dinner. Now I get dessert.”
You blinked. “That’s not how that works—”
“Oh no?” he smirked, cracking his neck like a horny menace. “You gonna stop me, Doctor Sits-On-My-Face?”
You shrieked.
You didn’t finish because you were suddenly being lifted. By the hips. And deposited — gently, reverently — on top of the kitchen table.
“I thought I was being punished,” you teased, half-flustered. “I left the dishwasher full, remember?”
“Oh, sweetheart,” Toji murmured, voice low and dark as sin, “this is your punishment.”
And then. Then he got on his knees.
Yes. Yes, this man, your man, the one with biceps the size of your thigh and a career in high-level security detail and the vocabulary of a drunk sailor—was on the floor. Face-first. In your thighs. In the kitchen.
“Wait wait wait, babe—wait—”
He kissed the inside of your thigh. “Don’t care.”
“TOJI THE CAT’S WATCHING.”
“Then he’s learnin’ somethin’ today.”
You shrieked, smacked him, and then forgot how to speak English for a good three minutes as he went to town. Because Toji Fushiguro ate pussy like it owed him money. Or secrets. Or a promotion.
“I said I wanted dessert,” he muttered, voice low and so fucking gravely, “and you come home lookin’ like that? Wearin’ hot lipstick on your mouth like a goddamn warning sign?”
You moaned. “That’s not what lipstick is f—OH FUCK—”
His mouth was on you. On you.
Toji ate pussy like he was making up for lost time, like he was getting paid by the whimper. Tongue deep, nose bumping your clit, hands wrapped around your thighs like he was afraid you’d run (which—fair).
He groans against you, tongue working slow and filthy, fingers gripping your thick thighs like he’s trying to merge with you spiritually.
“Oh my—OH FUCK—Toji I—”
“Shhh,” he muttered, mouth full of pussy. “You said you had a long day. Let me do my job.”
His JOB. This man was treating your pussy like a full-time gig. Like it had a benefits package. He licked and sucked and groaned like he was starving, arms wrapped tight around your thighs like he was trying to anchor himself to this plane of existence.
It’s soft. It’s nasty. It’s pure devotion.
You were babbling. Full-on nonsense. Dr. Who? You didn’t know her.
“God, you taste fuckin’ amazing,” he grunted, voice muffled by your actual pussy. “This dinner’s five stars.”
“You’re—a fuckin’ menace,” you gasped, clinging to his hair.
“Bet that Vygotsky guy didn’t eat pussy like this,” he mumbled.
Slow licks. Dirty groans. Two fingers, eventually, fucking into you slow while he sucked on your clit like it was his goddamn job.
He sucked your clit like it was the last strawberry on earth, groaning against you like he meant it, fingers working you open with such filthy, soft expertise it made your brain short-circuit.
“Fuckin’ love this pussy,” he grunted, “gets wet so fuckin’ fast for me. You miss me today, sweetheart?”
You whimpered.
He looked up at you with his messy, cocky, I’m-about-to-ruin-you expression, chin shiny, eyes dark.
“Say it.”
“Missed you, holy SHIT, Toji—”
He went back in like a man possessed.
“Oh my god—oh my god—Toji—fuck—don’t stop—”
“I wasn’t fuckin’ planning to,” he growled against you, voice all muffled and drunk on it. “You gonna cum like this, baby? Gonna soak my fuckin’ face after a long-ass day at work? Hmm?”
And you did. Loud. Clutching at his hair, legs around his shoulders, brain soup.
But of course he didn’t stop. He just looked up at you, face shiny and smug, and muttered:
“Y’know, you never whine this much unless you’re stressed. I should eat you out more. Like…prescribed medicine.”
“Toji,” you panted, trying to recover, “I will scream.”
He grinned. “That’s the goal.”
And then. Round Two.
It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t romantic. It was everything else.
You were face-down, drooling into your pillow now (yes he'd carried you to the bed), skirt bunched around your waist, and Toji’s very nice dick splitting you open from behind. Hard. Deep. Cocky.
“Hot fuckin' little scientist,” he muttered, panting, “goin’ around all day makin’ presentations, givin’ lectures, and this is what you really need, huh? Just some good dick.”
You whimpered something incoherent and tried to buck back, but he slapped your ass hard.
“Ah ah, baby. I’m doin’ the work. You’re just gonna lie there and be good and take it, yeah?”
You whined. “Fucking mean—”
He leaned over you, one heavy hand on the back of your neck, the other teasing slow circles around your clit while he pounded into you, voice low and hungry.
“You don’t need nice. You need this dick.”
And woop, in half a second you were on your back, facing him.
“I hate you,” you gasped, full-body shivering, “I hate you, you’re the worst, you—fuck—like a bitch..”
“That right?” He pressed his lips right on your pulse point “Say it again. C’mon.”
He was hitting that spot like he mapped it, like it was a science. Reaching so deep and then grinding just right against your clit like he was tuning a goddamn instrument.
“Every time I fuck you,” he growled, “you squeeze me like this—like you don’t wanna let go—shit, baby, that’s it—”
You came with a shout, legs trembling, tears springing to your eyes because it felt that good.
Toji kept going. “Fuck, you’re so good for me. So fuckin' smart. So fuckin’ pretty. Takin’ it like a fuckin’ champ—”
You groaned.
“That’s what I thought.”
He slammed back into you and you damn near levitated.
“Gonna fill you up, baby,” he groaned. “Make it hard to think. Fuck all that smart shit right outta your cute little head.”
“Please do,” you whimpered.
You pulled him down, kissed him like your life depended on it, and he melted, grinding through his own orgasm with a groan so low it rattled through your spine.
*-*
You were curled up in his chest, your cheeks still flushed and warm and your body like butter, reading a lecture proposal in your emails on your phone, while Toji lounged against the headboard — reading glasses on, hair damp from a quick shower, and a very official looking contract spread across his lap.
“I love when you read things,” you mumbled against his ribs, nipping very lightly. “Makes you look like you could actually file your taxes.”
“I do file my taxes.”
You looked up from your phone. “You threaten the H&R Block guy every year until he does them for you.”
“Efficient.”
You giggled, tracing little shapes on his chest with your free hand. “What’s the job?”
“Security detail for a political consultant. Not sketchy. Pays good. Might be a couple out-of-town nights.”
You nodded. “I’ll miss you. But I’ll also hog the bed and sleep diagonally, so it balances.”
His phone buzzed. He picked it up.
A text from Megumi:
“Hi dad. We’re making slime. I got glue on my eyebrow.”
Toji smiled, that soft kind of smile, and you swore your ovaries screamed.
“Tell him I said hi!” you said.
Toji typed:
“Don’t eat the glue. The smart one says hi. Sleep by 10 or I’m kicking your ass.”
Another buzz:
“Ok. Also i saw your gun. Cool. Goodnight.”
Toji locked the screen and looked down at you, one arm wrapping tighter around your waist, you dropped the phone, groaned dramatically.
“You’re gonna make a really hot stepmom milf someday,” he said, nose brushing your temple.
i know this is a weird post, this is mostly because i've been getting some weird anon hate abt smth else and, seeing the recent developments, i don't wanna give people amunition, i prefer to nip this in the bud before some person can accuse me of smth i havent done. this can be absolutely ignored, it doesn't matter tbh.
i'm leaving this post up for like 30 mins and then privating it.
so i did see the document abt the claude ai detection thing, although i truly do not think it'll be perfect, and i fully expect people to be wrongfully accused, harrassed and basically bullied because if this thing, i am posting this as a prevention:
for footnotes to a love unwritten:
the part where we both refused to let go:
for a thousand suns:
for dangerous chase:
for wandering castle:
for blacksmith:
for artist nanami:
pastry a day:
teaching ways of the heart:
old dog:
misery:
mamas crying:
the entirity of the divine dicking (the hit from the control f is just from the jean claude de la tongue pun)
A/N: how to survive your situationship trying to decapitate you. Okay so kinda similar to my hiromi one, idk, i just think dick injuries are kinda funny. also for some reason theres an issue with some of my m dashes that won't em properly?? they won't -- and i'm too lazy to go back and fix them all, sorry pookie darlings
warnings: smut, f! receiving, lots of violence, posession, gojo being called go-hoe-jo and usage of the word "pookie" in text. 6500 words (ish) ooc, me trying to write his curse technique
Tonight’s curse was easy.
Slimy, grotesque, the usual—something with too many teeth and not enough spine. You and Nanami moved in tandem like always. Your barriers bloomed like glass flowers around him when it lunged; he cut through it with that clean, brutal 7:3 ratio and the thing split open like rotten fruit.
You might have tehee’d. Just a little. Just a treat.
“Focus,” he’d murmured, low and annoyed.
“Sorry,” you’d said, not sorry at all.
Because he looked good. Sweat darkening his shirt (hot). Tie loosened (hothot). Blunt sword resting against his shoulder (boiling). The quiet violence of him (schorching).
You exhaled, rolling your shoulders. “Okay. Easy money. Let’s just make sure there’s no baby curse slithering around because I am NOT doing a surprise sequel.”
But.
You should have known.
Not known--known, but felt it in your bones the way you feel a migraine coming on, or the way you feel when Chairman Meow is about to knock a glass off the counter just to figure out how gravity works.
Something was wrong.
You wipe ichor off your cheek with the back of your hand, chest heaving, boots crunching on broken tile. The warehouse is split open like a carcass. Fluorescent lights flicker in a dying rhythm above you.
Across the room, Nanami stands straight-backed and immaculate despite the carnage, loosening his tie with that calm, surgical grace .
Which.
God.
He’s so—
“Stop staring,” he says flatly.
“I’m not staring,” you shoot back. “I’m assessing.”
You hear him huff. The faintest exhale. If you squint, it’s a laugh, the Nanmi equivalent of slapping his knee, rolling on the ground and cackling like a witch. You'll take the win.
You and Nanami have been dancing around each other for months. Everyone sees it.
Especially The One and Only (thank fuck): Satoru Gojo, who has six eyes and zero shame. Like actual negative shame somehow:
“Oh my GOOOD just kiss already,” Gojo had whined last week, upside-down on a couch like a possessed house cat. “You two are so painfully repressed it’s giving me hives.”
“You had a catastrophic situationship with Suguru,” you had replied sweetly while Gojo looked like you'd just brought up his ex (which... kinda yeah). “I don’t think you’re qualified to comment.”
Nanami had adjusted his glasses and muttered, “Please don’t drag me into this.”
But he’d stood a little closer to you that day.
Closer. Which is basically Nanami for marriage.
And then there was the Chairman Meow situation.
You still feel the humiliation in your bones. Calling Nanami in a panic because your indoor-only itty-bitty darling cat had Houdini’d himself somewhere in your apartment. You’d been teary, frantic, convinced he’d slipped out a window, ran away into Tokyo, maybe even gotten eaten by a coyote (you live in Tokyo, coyotes don't live here but-- semantics).
Nanami showed up in fifteen minutes.
Which is odd... because you know for a fact his apartment is around twenty-five minutes away by car.
He found the cat in ten fucking minutes.
Behind your washing machine.
“You didn’t check here,” he’d said calmly, holding your very indignant menace like a football. “He’s a cat. He lacks the intellectual capacity for interdimensional travel.”
You’d stared at him like he’d descended from heaven.
He’d stared back.
Something unspoken. Something warm.... and also so fucking terrifying.
*-*
And now—
You sweep your senses outward. Defensive technique flaring at your fingertips. Thin, invisible barriers thread through the warehouse like silk.
Still wrong.
Still—
“Nanami,” you murmur.
He hums.
“Doesn’t this feel… off?”
Silence.
You turn to say something witty, or dumb, or just... slightly flirty but not really so you won't have to deal with the consequences.
—and BARELY dodge the blur of black and white as his blunt sword whistles past your face, close enough you feel the pressure of it kiss your skin.
Your heart stops.
The blade slams into concrete where your head had been a half-second earlier. The impact BOOMS.
Instinct saves your life.
You twist, curse tearing out of your mouth as Nanami’s blade passes so close you feel it skim the air where your face was a second ago. You stumble back, boots scraping concrete, adrenaline detonates in your veins.
You spin, wild-eyed, already scanning the alley.
A lingering curse? A thingy? A second entity you missed? A Gojo??
But there’s nothing.
Just you.
You turn back stare at him.
He stares at you.
His expression is calm.
So fucking calm.
“…Nanami?”
He doesn't answer (fucking RUDE), he is already stepping forward again, pulling the blade free.
And swings again.
“WHAT THE FUCK?!” You throw yourself backward, barrier snapping into place just in time —transparent, humming, infinity-adjacent but not nearly as broken as Gojo’s. The sword CRACKS against it, cursed energy shrieking on impact.
“Nanami, stop—!”
He doesn’t hesitate.
He swings again.
CLANG.
Your barrier fractures. A hairline crack.
You stare at him through it.
Your brain is scrambling for logic like it’s flipping through files at light speed.
Okay. Fun. Possession. Maybe.
Mind control curse.
Illusion.
Some weird 7:3 misfire where he’s calculating you as the weak point.
“Nanami, if this is a joke, it’s not funny,” you say, voice thinner than you mean it to be.
Silence.
He advances.
Your heart starts pounding so hard it feels like it’s bruising your ribs.
He has never looked at you like this.
Not once.
Not when you burned dinner and tried to play it off as “charcoal chic.” Not when you cried after that mission in Shibuya. Not when you dragged him into your apartment at 2 a.m. because you were afraid to be alone.
He has never looked at you like you are something to eliminate.
He moves again. Fast. Brutal.
You barely reinforce your barrier in time.
CRACK.
Okay.
Okay.
Think.
“Did I—” you laugh, breath shaky, “Did I piss you off or something? Because if this is about the overtime thing I SWEAR I won’t call you ‘corporate daddy’ again—”
Your voice wobbles, humor has gotten you out of many situations, but this time... well it seems that he does not care.
He circles you.
Measured steps. Calculating.
He’s planning.
You know that look.
You’ve seen it aimed at curses.... but you’ve never seen it aimed at you.
And something inside your chest starts to splinter.
Because the scariest part?
He doesn’t look angry, nor possessed.
He looks focused.
Like this is work. Like removing your head from your body is a task on his to-do list.
Your throat tightens.
Nanami would never do this.
He would never hurt you.
He—
Would he?
A sick, traitorous voice whispers: Maybe you misread everything.
Maybe the coffee meant nothing.
Maybe the way he lingered by your door meant nothing. Or maybe when his hand brushed yours and stayed there half a second too long, that was just you being delusional.
Maybe you were stupid.
Maybe you pushed too hard.
Maybe he realized you were too much. Too loud. Too soft. Too everything.
Maybe he got tired of orbiting.
Maybe he finally decided you were a liability.
The thought hits harder than his sword ever could.
He punches you-- well okay, not you, he punches the barrier.
A full-force, bone-shattering, seven-three ratio enhanced punch.
Your barrier fractures. Like actually fucking cracks (like your heart).
“HEY!” you bark, scrambling upright. “HELLO? EXCUSE ME? WE’RE ON THE SAME TEAM?!”
“I see,” he says mildly, stepping back to observe you. “You’re adapting.”
You blink.
“I’M ADAPTING TO YOU TRYING TO KILL ME, YOU PSYCHOPATH.”
He tilts his head slightly. Observing.
Like you’re a problem set.
You swallow hard.
Something’s wrong. Something is deeply, horrifically wrong.
You expand your defensive field, layering barriers over barriers. Semi-transparent planes shimmer into existence around you.
Nanami steps forward.
Calm.
Measured.
Terrifying.
“You used your domain earlier,” he notes.
Your stomach drops.
He knows.
He’s tracking your reserves. Rude -- so FUCKING rude, you're going to complain to Yaga, to the higher ups, to fucking TENGEN if needed, this ENTIRE situation is RUDE.
“You’re running at approximately forty percent cursed energy,” he continues. “Your barriers will degrade under sustained pressure.”
“WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS?!” Your voice cracks. You hate that it cracks.
He doesn’t answer, but he does look at you... and God, does he look.
And there’s nothing there for you.
No warmth. No hesitation. Just assessment.
You feel something inside you cave in.
This is worse than a curse.
Because curses don’t make you question your worth. Curses don’t make you wonder if you imagined love.
You swallow hard.
“Okay,” you breathe, voice trembling. “Okay. So. Cool. Awesome. This is happening.”
He lunges.
Sword arcs downward—
You stack three barriers in a split second.
The first SHATTERS.
The second SPLINTERS.
The third HOLDS—barely.
The shockwave sends debris flying. Your ears ring, our mind races, you won't hold on forever.
Possession? Curse manipulation? Residual binding vow backlash? A hidden parasite?
You scan him.
There—
A thread.
Thin.
Coiled around his cursed energy like barbed wire.
“SHIT.”
He hacks at your defenses methodically. Precise. Relentless. He knows how your technique works. He knows the stress points.
He’s exploiting them.
And that— that feels like betrayal layered on betrayal.
Because he’s using the knowledge he gained fighting with you to fight against you.
“Stop,” you whisper, half to him, half to the universe.
He doesn’t.
Your barrier shatters.
You stagger back.
He closes the distance in an instant.
You throw up a smaller shield just as his fist connects. The impact sends you skidding across concrete.
Pain blooms.
Your vision swims.
You taste blood.
And the worst part is not the pain.
It’s the way your chest aches when you look up and see him walking toward you again.
Steady.
Unhurried.
Like he knows you, he knows exactly how long you’ll last.
Tears blur your vision, hot and humiliating.
“Nanami,” you choke out, almost laughing because if you don’t you’ll scream, “if this is your way of asking me out, I’m gonna need you to work on your communication skills—”
Your voice breaks.
He raises his sword.
And for one horrifying, crystalline second, you believe he’s going to kill you.
You think: I love you.
And immediately after: Is this my fault?
Did I push too hard? Did I look at you too openly or too gently? Did I make you uncomfortable? Did I ruin us before we even were an us?
Your barrier flares desperately as his blade comes down.
The force drives you to your knees.
Your arms tremble violently.
You can’t hold this much longer. He is, after all, a Grade One.
“Please,” you whisper, and you don’t even know what you’re asking for anymore.
For him to stop.
For him to explain.
For him to look at you the way he used to.
For this to be a nightmare.
He tilts his head slightly as he presses down.
Studying the crack spreading across your shield.
Of course the man you’re catastrophically in love with is also the worst possible opponent for your fighting style.
“You are remarkably durable,” he comments.
“STOP REVIEWING ME LIKE A PERFORMANCE REPORT!” You bark out. You manage, by some magical fucking miracle, to stack enough barriers like some pancake of anti-death, you now stand again, panting.
“You don’t want to hurt me,” you say, softer this time.
His jaw tightens.
“I am evaluating the optimal method to remove your head,” he replies evenly.
“... oh my fuck- that's so not romantically helpful, what the fuck.” you groan.
He steps in close.
Too close.
You smell clean soap and iron and something painfully familiar.
He grimaces.
And then he pushes harder.
Your barrier SCREAMS.
“Okay!” you gasp. “Plan B! Plan B!”
You can’t deploy another domain. It would gut you. You’d collapse before finishing the incantation.
You need—
He pivots, striking the lower quadrant of your defense. It explodes outward.
You stumble, barely avoid another sword hit. Your heart does something stupid and traitorous.
“You’re hesitating,” he says quietly.
“So are you,” you shoot back.
For one infinitesimal second—
He falters.
That thread around him pulses.
You see it clearly now.
A curse technique embedded in his shadow.
Sneaky.
Parasitic.
Probably latched on during the fight.
You shove a barrier between his hand and your throat, forcing space.
He slices through it instantly.
“DAMMIT.”
He’s breathing harder now.
“I will not miss again,” he says.
“God, you’re hot when you’re homicidal,” you blurt out.
Silence.
His eyebrow twitches.
“…What?”
You are seconds from either saving the man you love—or being bisected by him.
Nanami’s blade carves through your outer barrier like it personally insulted his quarterly earnings. The warehouse is a warzone of shattered concrete and fractured light. Your cursed energy is running thin. Sweat drips down your spine.
He moves like a metronome.
Precise. Relentless. Economical.
“ENOUGH! Stop being so, so.. so fucking competent!!” you shout as you throw up another shield.
“I do not have that option,” he replies coolly, and drives his sword down.
The barrier cracks.
You feel it in your teeth.
You cannot keep doing this. You cannot crush him. You cannot deploy another domain.
You cannot—
Your footing slips.
Your barrier flickers.
And then—
You drop it.
Intentionally.
Nanami lunges instantly.
Of course he does. He’s been waiting for the weakness.
He’s fast—so fucking fast—
But you’re desperate. And you’re angry.
And frankly? You’re done playing defense (yes this is funny).
You duck under the swing.
Pivot.
And with every ounce of Grade One spite in your body—
You punch him in the balls.
Hard.
Very, very hard.
The sound he makes is not dignified. It is not calm.
It is a strangled, guttural, deeply human—
“—hhhkggghhhh—!”
Nanami Kento folds.
Like a goddamn lawn chair. Or a very polite origami.
He drops to his knees.
His sword clatters across the floor.
For one glorious second, the parasite’s control falters because YEAH, EVEN POSSESSED MEN HAVE NERVES.
You stumble back, wheezing.
“Curse equality you bitch,” you gasp.
Nanami tips sideways.
Fully down.
Flat on his back.
You stare at him.
He stares at the ceiling.
You both breathe.
“…I am going to HR,” he croaks faintly.
“SHUT UP.”
You scramble, grabbing his weapon and skidding backward. With a sharp inhale, you slam your palms together and snap a reinforced barrier into existence:
A perfect cube.
Six planes of condensed cursed energy.
A fishbowl (sexy blond man fish).
Nanami is inside it.
On the floor.
Processing catastrophic genital trauma.
You sag against the outside of it.
“…I am SO sorry,” you whisper.
Inside the box, his fingers twitch.
Oh.
Oh no.
You yank out your phone.
Dial.
It rings once.
“Yeah?” Principal Yaga answers, like you’ve called to ask about homework.
“Hi,” you pant. “Nanami is possessed and I punched him in the dick.”
Silence.
“…You what.”
“He tried to kill me first.”
“That...why...who? Actually I don't want to know,” Yaga sighs. “Hold him. I’ll inform Gojo.”
“INFORM HIM FASTER—”
Click.
You stare at your phone.
“Wow. Love that support.”
Your device buzzes almost immediately.
Go-hoe-jo:
omw pookie 💕
You close your eyes.
“Why are you like this,” you whisper to the universe.
Behind you—
BOOM.
The cube shudders.
Nanami is on his feet.
Oh goodie.
He’s over it.
Fantastic.
Yippie as the young people would say.
He drives his fist into the barrier wall. Not sloppy. Not enraged.
Measured.
Testing.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Each hit sends a shockwave that you can feel through the floor.
“Please,” you mutter. “Please stay down. Just take five. ICE IT. TIME OUT."
He tilts his head.
His glasses are cracked.
Blood trails from your shoulder onto the concrete.
His expression is distant.
Wrong.
“You are expending unnecessary energy,” he says calmly.
“YOU ARE IN A BOX.”
He punches again.
Hairline fractures spider across the barrier.
You reinforce it, sweat dripping into your eyes.
“I cannot believe I’m babysitting my own crush,” you groan. “This is humiliating.”
He strikes lower.
The cube warps.
You hiss, shoving more cursed energy into the construct.
You could crush the box inward.
You could compress it until bones snap.
You won’t.
You can't.
“Hang in there,” you whisper. “I’ve got you. Even if you’re being a homicidal asshole.”
The air shifts.
And then—
Gojo just appears.
No footsteps. No warning.
One second you’re alone.
The next—
POOF. He’s there. He, lacking better words, spawns in. Hands in his pockets.
Taking in the scene.
He glances at the cube.
At Nanami hammering inside it.
At you, bleeding and furious.
“…Wow,” he says lightly. “Foreplay’s gotten real aggressive. Didn't know this was the type of shit you were into.”
You stare at him.
Deadly.
“Take. It. Off.”
He pauses. Lifts a brow, grin blooming like a child handed an entire jar of sweets.
“…Oh wow, so you want him to watch-"
“I SWEAR TO EVERYTHING HOLY, YOU KNOW WHAT I MEANT.” you bark out.
“Urgh fine, can't even joke anymore."
Slowly, he lifts the blindfold.
Six Eyes ignite.
The air changes. Pressure warps. Fucking Gojo being a magical girl.
Gojo’s expression loses its teasing edge.
He steps closer to the barrier, peering in.
Nanami lunges at him through the wall.
The cube rattles violently.
Gojo hums.
“…Huh.”
“Huh?” you repeat hysterically. “HUH?”
He leans in.
“Yeah, so. He’s basically being worn.”
“WORN.”
“Like a meat suit.”
Your stomach drops. You suddenly feel cold all over, terror seizes your heart.
“Is he—” Your voice cracks. “Is he dead?”
Gojo blinks at you.
“Whoa. Calm your tits, pookie. He’s alive.”
You nearly sob from relief.
“There’s a curse latched into his nervous system,” Gojo continues casually, like he’s explaining a mildly inconvenient rash. “Deep. Nasty. Very clingy. Zero stars. Fucking cringe.”
Nanami slams his shoulder into the barrier again.
Cracks spread.
You reinforce it on instinct.
“If you kill it,” you whisper, eyes locked on Nanami, “won’t it kill him?”
Gojo tilts his head.
Actually thinking (actually insane, you did NOT know Gojo was capable of doing without blowing up a small city).
“…Not if I’m careful.”
You look at him sharply.
“Define careful.”
He smiles.
“Vibes-based precision.”
“GOJO.”
“Okay, okay. Here’s the plan.” He gestures vaguely. “I’ll dilute Infinity. Instead of creating infinite distance, I’ll use the repulsion aspect to push just the foreign cursed mass outward. Very controlled. Very gentle.”
“Gentle,” you echo faintly.
“You,” he points at you, “support pookie Nanami’s body with your barrier technique. Internal reinforcement. Like a cursed energy cast. If the parasite tears anything on its way out, you compensate.”
You stare at him.
“Have you done this before?”
He beams.
“NOPE.”
You consider punching him next. Behind you, the cube fractures louder.
Time is up.
“…Okay,” you breathe. “Okay. Fine. Let’s do it.”
You drop the outer box.
Nanami launches forward instantly—
And freezes mid-stride.
Gojo’s hand is raised.
Infinity hums, but thinner. Sharper. Like a scalpel instead of a wall.
Nanami convulses.
You’re already moving, hands glowing as you slam a containment barrier around his torso. Not external—internal. You weave cursed energy along muscle and bone, bracing him from the inside.
“Hold him steady!” Gojo calls.
“I AM HOLDING HIM STEADY!”
Nanami screams.
It’s raw.
It’s wrong.
Black, viscous energy bubbles beneath his skin.
Your stomach flips.
“Gojo!” you shout. “Now!”
His fingers flex.
The space around Nanami distorts—
And something RIPS outward.
It’s not elegant nor is it clean. It’s a wet, horrific separation.
A tar-black, semi-solid mass tears free from Nanami’s back like it’s being born wrong.
It hits the floor with a SPLAT.
Screeching. Writhing.
You nearly gag.
Gojo’s expression shifts.
Cold.
He steps forward and—
Curbstomps it. Hard. Like literally.
The warehouse shakes.
The curse shrieks once—
And disintegrates under overwhelming force.
Silence crashes down, and Nanami does as well, literally collapsing on the floor like a puppet with no strings.
You’re already there.
Catching him before he hits the ground.
His weight is heavy. Solid. You press your fingers to his throat.
Pulse. Strong.
Breathing. Unconscious.
BUT.
Alive.
So this is a win. You let out a shaky laugh that turns into something dangerously close to a sob.
“Idiot,” you whisper, brushing hair off his forehead. “You absolute idiot.”
Gojo stands nearby, rolling his shoulders.
“See? Easy peasy.”
You glare up at him, eyes blazing.
“You said ‘meat suit.’”
He shrugs.
“It was accurate.”
You look back down at Nanami.
Your Nanami.
Bruised. Sweaty. Alive.
Your hands tremble as you maintain the internal barrier just a little longer.
Just in case.
“Hey,” Gojo says softer, for once not joking.
“He’s fine,” you murmur. “He has to be.”
Nanami shifts faintly in your arms.
You press your forehead to his.
“Next time,” you whisper, voice fierce and fragile all at once, “if you want to get me on my knees, you could just ask.”
Gojo snorts.
You don’t even care.
You’re too busy holding onto the man who almost killed you... and almost got taken from you.
The warehouse lights flicker one last time.
*-*
Hospitals in the jujutsu world smell like antiseptic and old curses.
It’s a weird combination.
You’ve been pacing for two hours.
Back and forth.
Back and forth.
You’re pretty sure you’ve worn a path into the polished floor of the healing ward.
Behind you, Shoko leans against the wall, cigarette in hand, watching you like you are a mildly interesting documentary.
“He’s fine,” she says for the fifteenth time.
“You don’t know that.”
“I literally reconstructed his nervous system.”
“And I love that for you, queen, but he got possessed like a haunted doll. Fucking Annabelle but blond version.”
Shoko exhales smoke slowly. “You’re loud when you’re stressed.”
“I’m ALWAYS loud.”
There’s a soft shift from the bed.
You freeze.
Nanami inhales sharply.
His eyes open.
Slowly.
Confused.
He blinks at the ceiling like he’s waking up from a nap in an airport lounge.
“…Why am I here?”
You are at his bedside in half a second.
“You woke up.”
“Yes,” he says evenly. “That tends to happen.”
His voice is rough, glasses are on the side table. His hands are wrapped heavily in white bandages.
You stare at them.
Your throat tightens.
“What happened?” he asks calmly.
And then you—
You absolutely explode.
“OKAY SO— we were in the warehouse, right? And the curse was gross but manageable, very mid-tier honestly, and then you tried to decapitate me, which, rude, by the way— and I thought maybe there was another curse but NO it was YOU, except not-you, because apparently some disgusting goo parasite latched onto your cursed energy like a freeloading roommate from hell— and you were breaking my barriers with your FISTS, Nanami, do you understand how horrifying that is?? I literally had to build a fishbowl around you—”
He blinks once.
Twice. Absorbing.
You continue.
“—AND THEN I HAD TO CALL YAGA- fucking YAGA--who was zero help by the way, and Gojo showed up being insufferable as usual, and then we had to toothpaste-squeeze the curse OUT of you which was DISGUSTING and if you ever want to thank me you absolutely can—”
“Why,” Nanami interrupts quietly, “does my penis hurt.”
You stop.
Shoko makes a choking noise in the background.
You turn slowly. Very slowly.
Heat floods your entire body.
You are neon. Radioactive even.
You clear your throat.
“Well.”
Nanami watches you patiently.
“During the… altercation…”
“Yes.”
“You lunged.”
“I see.”
“And I ducked.”
“Mm.”
“And then I may have applied… tactical force.”
He stares at you.
“…You injured me.”
“It was self-defense!”
“You struck me.”
“Specifically,” Shoko says lazily from the wall, “she decked you in the balls.”
Nanami closes his eyes.
Long inhale.
“…I see.”
You are sweating.
“I thought you were going to kill me,” you rush out. “You were very motivated.”
He presses his lips into a thin line.
“I see I did not succeed?”
“No.”
“…Good.”
There’s a beat.
“…Though I would prefer not to be castrated in future interactions.”
You bury your face in your hands.
“OH MY GOD.”
Shoko laughs outright.
“You’re both idiots,” she says, flicking her cigarette into a tray. “He’s fine. Mild bruising. Hands are worse. Dislocated two fingers trying to break your barriers.”
Nanami lifts his bandaged hands, flexes carefully.
“…Impressive,” he murmurs.
You look up sharply.
“Impressive? You were terrifying.…Are you in pain?”
“Yes.”
“…Scale of one to ten?”
“Seven.”
You grimace.
“That’s symbolic.”
He stares at you.
“I don't want to unpack that.”
He studies you now.
Really studies you.
“…Did I hurt you?”
The softness in his voice nearly undoes you.
“Just a scratch,” you lie.
He notices the stiffness in your shoulder immediately.
His jaw tightens.
"I apologize.”
“You were possessed.”
“That does not absolve me.”
You swallow.
Shoko pushes off the wall.
“He’s cleared. Don’t do anything strenuous.”
You choke.
She smirks.
“I mean fighting.”
You do not believe her.
*-*
An hour later, you hand Nanami his blunt sword.
He takes it carefully.
“…You kept it safe.”
“Of course I did,” you say. “You think I’d let Gojo touch it? He’d bedazzle it.”
Nanami exhales faintly.
Then you shift.
You hesitate.
“…Would you mind coming to my place?” you ask, forcing casual. “Just in case there’s any residual curse backlash. Monitoring purposes.”
He tilts his head slightly.
“…Monitoring.”
“Yes.”
A pause.
“Very well.”
You try not to look victorious.
*-*
Your apartment door swings open.
Chairman Meow is waiting. Like a demon. The cat menace locks eyes with Nanami.
And screams.
A long, offended yowl.
Nanami blinks.
“…We’ve met.”
Chairman Meow hisses like Nanami owes him rent.
“He remembers you found him behind the washing machine,” you say solemnly. “He’s never forgiven you.”
Nanami removes his shoes neatly at the door.
“Understandable.”
*-*
Dinner is simple.
Takeout.
You sit across from him at your small table.
He takes ibuprofen with a glass of water.
You bite the inside of your cheek when he mutters, “My groin is throbbing.”
Do NOT laugh.
Do NOT laugh.
You laugh.
He gives you a look.
You wheeze.
“I hate you.”
“I find that unlikely.”
You quiet.
Because that tone... It’s soft.
*-*
The clock ticks.
It’s almost midnight.
The apartment feels smaller.
Quieter.
Chairman Meow is snoring faintly on the couch. Nanami sits across from you, sleeves rolled up, bandages stark against his skin.
“…I remember fragments,” he says finally.
You look up.
“Like a dream,” he continues. “Distorted. Heightened. My strength felt… excessive.”
“You were breaking my barriers with your fists,” you say quietly. “Kento, I’ve seen you fight curses for years. That was different.”
He nods slowly.
“The curse amplified my output.”
You study him.
“You scared me.”
There it is. Honest.
His eyes soften.
"I'm sorry.”
You shake your head.
“That’s not— I know it wasn’t you. But I kept thinking— if Gojo had been wrong— if pushing it out had—”
Your voice wavers.
He stands.
Moves around the table.
Stops in front of you.
“I am glad you were not badly hurt,” he says quietly. “I could not imagine harming someone I care so much about.”
You freeze.
Silence somehow detonates.
The air thickens. You stare at him.
He stares at you.
Chairman Meow snores.
Your heart is in your throat.
“…Care,” you repeat.
Nanami doesn’t look away.
“…Yes.”
The courage in your bloodstream tonight is reckless.
Unhinged.
You stand abruptly.
Grab his collar.
And kiss him.
Not soft.
Not tentative.
It’s messy.
Hungry.
Teeth clacking slightly.
Too much tongue. Like WAY too much tongue.
Hands fisting into his shirt like you’re trying to anchor yourself to something solid and real.
He makes a low sound in his throat that is absolutely not corporate-approved.
His hands slide to your waist.
Pull you closer.
Your back hits the wall.
You kiss him like you survived something. Like you almost lost him, like you refuse to ever let that happen again.
His mouth is warm and demanding. Controlled even now.
He tilts his head, deepens it, and holy shit—
You drag your hands over his chest.
Broad.
Solid.
Bandages and muscle and heat.
He exhales sharply against your mouth.
“Careful,” he murmurs.
“Make me,” you breathe.
His grip tightens.
“I am,” he says evenly, though his ears are slightly pink, breath hot on your lips “deeply invested in your continued existence.”
You stare at him.
“…That is the most emotionally constipated confession I’ve ever heard.”
He exhales.
You shift your thigh between his legs—
And he flinches violently.
Actually recoils.
You freeze.
“Oh my GOD.”
He inhales through his teeth.
“…Apologies.”
“NO, I’M SORRY,” you gasp, horrified. “I forgot about the—”
“The bruising,” he says dryly.
You burst into hysterical laughter.
He leans his forehead against yours, also laughing softly.
“This is the least dignified I have ever felt,” he mutters.
“You tried to murder me today.”
“Yes.”
“And I punched you in the balls.”
“Yes.”
“And now we’re making out in my apartment.”
“Yes.”
A beat.
“…Life is so fucking strange.”
You grin up at him.
“Stay.”
He doesn’t hesitate.
“…Alright.”
Chairman Meow snores louder.
Midnight hums outside your window.
*-*
It’s 1:17 a.m.
And you have NO idea how you got here.
Nanami is sitting at in your tiny bedroom like a war veteran of Corporate Hell and Also Recently Bruised Genitals™.
Tie gone. Shirt sleeves rolled. Bandaged fingers flexing experimentally.
“Please allow me,” he murmurs, lips hot against the softness of your stomach.
You gasp dramatically. “Definitely won't stop you.”
He gives you that look.
The one that says behave.
You do not behave.
When he touches you—
You melt.
His palm is warm. Broad. Heavy in the best way. He presses into your thighs, inching towards your needy heat and you gasp like you’ve already seen god.
“Behold.” You gasp out when he manages to get your sweatpants off of you, allowing him to see your glorious panties. Panties, that say "Meow-astic", which are pink and sparkly with little cats.
He eyes it.
“…That is excessive.”
“Yeah well you're geriatric so womp womp.”
He takes them off carefully, mostly because one of his hands is heavily wrapped, so he has to be mindful of the bandages. And boom, you're naked. Wonderful. Tits out. And god the way he looks at you... you feel like you're the only thing that truly matters.
Then—
Well then, he gets to it.
You have to admit, in the beginning it's uh.. awkward—angles wrong, grip off.
Then—
He hums, as if he suddenly understood. Spreads your thighs far apart, and truly dives into it. And he hums again.
Low.
In his throat.
You freeze.
“Oh my god.”
He eats you out slowly. Deliberate. Hungry. As if this was a succulent meal. The corner of his mouth shines with your wetness. His jaw flexes as his bandaged hand straights against the soft meat of your thigh.
He continues. Lower. Slower. His non injured hand hand slides from your thigh to your pussy, thumb pressing circles into aching tension.
You arch slightly.
“Careful,” he murmurs, leaning down. His lips leave delicate kisses along your thigh. Soft. Sweet. Unfair.
“…This is very good,” he murmurs.
Your walls flutter around his fingers, and Nanami smirks against your skin.
He goes back in. Less careful.
A soft, involuntary sound slips out of him. A groan, almost.
You stare.
“Kento.”
He pauses, looks up through his lashes like the pretty man he is. “Yes.”
“You cannot make that noise over just eating me out.”
He licks his lips. Calm. Composed. SMUG.
“I am appreciating you, this is not 'just' eating you out.”
“APPRECIATE QUIETER. I have neighbours. I have a Chairman.”
He smirks—barely. Goes back in. Slower this time, watching you.
He builds your orgasm like it’s sacred architecture.
Your fingers twist nervously in the blankets under youç$$$. Heat crawling up your neck.
He kisses along your stomach. Gentle. Measured. Each press of his mouth warm against your skin while his fingers slowly press in and out of you, thick fingers splitting you open deliciously.
It’s not rushed nor frantic.
Just—
Intent.
His injured hand drifts back upward, fingers spreading wide over the fat of your hips, creating a sort of indent.
“…You're so tense,” he notes.
“You tried to kill me.”
“Fair.”
Your laugh is almost immediately interrupted by him suddenly lightly sucking your clit. You make the must undignified moan, like a whore in a church. He presses his fingers a little harder in you, curling them upwards and you swear you see stars.
“Oh MY—”
“You're being loud,” he murmurs against your pussy, kissing just below your clit and going right back at it.
You shiver, your fingers tangle themselves in his hair, because this feels good, so soft and warm and.. perfect.
His hand slows as your walls tighten, he knows you're about to cum. Softens. Keeps curling his finger so that the thick digits keep brushing your g-spot, tongue on your clit. And fuck. It's almost poetic, to come undone by the very same hands that almost killed you this very morning. You're panting, tears in your eyes, not even because it feels that good (it does), but because it's so... overwhelming.
He’s panting now, you saw him wince when he tried to grind his (probably aching) cock, still bruised even when hard. You are about two seconds away from combusting, or cuming, or crying. Or all three at the same time, hard to tell.
“Kento- FUCK- ah, I'm.. I'm gonna cum”you gasp out, your fingers scrapping his head even more.
“Then let go.” he murmurs gently, you barely even hear him, mostly because of the blood rushing in your ears.
And well.. you did.
Your back arches, you moan his name so loudly the entire building knows him.
The hot coils that had tightened in your lower belly seem to just.. listen to him, because they simply evaporate, warmth and bliss spreading all throughout your body like a detonation of love itself.
For a second your hearing actually blurs.
So much so that Nanami suddenly appeared in your line of sight, his hands slides up your side in a way that feels like a promise instead of a question.
"....?"
"Huh?" You blurt out, in an amazingly eloquent way.
“…Better?” he asks quietly.
You blink and a blissful smile spreads accross your face: "Mhm... you? Not too bruised?"
He huffs out a slight laugh, presses a kiss to your cheek. He looks calm and composed, but his eyes are warm.
“Yeah,” He mumbles, “Very much so.”
He leans down and kisses you properly this time.
Slow.
Deep.
Hands still steady on your body, you can taste yourself on his lips.
When he pulls back, you sigh.
“So...we should so do this again. But like... when your dick isn't purple.”
“I would not object,”
And his hand never really leaves you.
“…You’re messy,” you mutter.
“My fingers were impaired.”
“Tragic.”
Your skin is warm and oversensitive and humming like a live wire. Which is nice.
Nanami stands at the edge of the mattress, sleeves still rolled, expression soft in that dangerously subtle way he gets when he thinks you’re not looking.
“…Water,” he says.
You groan. “Don’t make me hydrate.”
He presses a glass into your hands anyway, how did the glass get there? No one knows. Sits beside you. One steady palm smoothing down your arm, grounding.
“Slow breaths,” he murmurs.
You melt further.
He brushes hair from your forehead. Checks your pulse discretely like he didn’t just ruin you (emotionally).
“…You overexerted yourself earlier,” he adds quietly.
“You overexerted your fists on my barriers,” you mumble (no, you're never letting that go).
He huffs.
There’s something achingly gentle in the way he tucks the blanket over you. Kisses your temple. Your cheek. Your shoulder.
It’s infuriatingly tender.
“…You’re nice,” you whisper.
“I'm aware.”
You squint at him.
“Okay but now strip.”
He pauses.
One brow lifts.
“Oh?”
You immediately point at your dresser. “I have spare clothes. Sweats. Shirts. You can’t sleep in slacks like a alpha sigma delta finance bro.”
He crosses his arms slowly.
“…Spare clothes.”
“Yes.”
“For men.”
“…Yes.”
His other brow joins the first.
“Do you maintain a roster?” he asks mildly. “Should I be concerned? Am I to assume there is a rotation schedule? Am I the Tuesday appointment? Or do I receive Sunday privileges?”
Your soul leaves your body.
“I— WHAT? NO. There is no roster. There is no Tuesday man. Or Sunday man. Or ANY man. I just— I like oversized clothes. They’re comfortable. It’s a feminist choice.”
He watches you unravel with infuriating calm.
You keep talking.
“And like, I thought— I mean— since we, um, lowkey slept together and did the whole… thing… I just assumed we were, you know—”
You make a vague hand gesture.
“…A thing?”
Your voice is suddenly very small.
He studies you for a long moment.
You are braced for impact.
For rejection.
For “this was temporary.”
For “we should focus on work.”
Nanami says nothing.
Just looks at you.
You are spiraling. And you are cursed with a mouth and an ability to communicate:
“And I really, really don’t have a roster! I don’t even have a— I mean— I thought— since we— and the kissing— and the near death— are we not— I mean I assumed— but if we’re not I can recalibrate—”
You physically clamp your mouth shut.
Mortified.
This is how you die. Not by curse, but by self-inflicted embarrassment.
Nanami steps closer.
Gently takes your chin between his fingers.
“You,” he says evenly, “are catastrophizing.”
“…Am I?”
“Yes.”
He sighs softly.
“I am not competing for a weekday slot.”
Your lungs restart.
“I would prefer,” he continues, voice lower now, “to be the only man whose clothing occupies your drawers.”
You blink.
“…Oh.”
He leans down slightly.
“We are,” he says quietly, “a thing. I will not be part of a roster. And you are not part of one either.”
You nearly combust.
“OH.”
He releases you, begins unbuttoning his shirt.
Right there.
In front of you.
No ceremony. No shame.
You freeze.
Broad shoulders. Defined chest. The slow reveal of very unfair muscle under soft lamplight. Narrow waist. Golden hair slightly messy.
You are staring.
Blatantly.
“…You’re drooling,” he remarks.
“I am APPRECIATING.”
You swallow.
He glances at you again mid-unbutton.
“…You told me to strip.”
“I did not mean— I mean I DID mean— I just—wow.”
His shirt hits the floor.
You make a noise that should not exist in nature. He steps out of his slacks next. Calm. Efficient.
You stare like a cat seeing a small plastic objects that will probably get stuck in its intestines.
“Heh,” you breathe faintly. “Hot buff blond man. That’s so sexy.”
He pauses while pulling on your oversized sleep shirt.
“…Is that a formal review?”
“Yes. Five stars. Would recommend.”
He slides into your spare sweats.
Looks infuriatingly good in them (they're way too short, you can see way too much ankles).
Then he climbs into bed beside you.
Warm.
Solid.
Real.
He pulls you against him like it’s instinct.
Like it’s obvious.
You press your face into his chest and sigh.
“…Sunday privileges,” you mumble.
He hums.
“I intend to occupy the entire week.”
And at 2:17 a.m., wrapped around him, you finally fall asleep.
A/N: yeah so i rlly wanted to make nanami have more like fancy speak. also don't ask me how tf the fight happens, i have NO clue, positions are evil and clearly are out to make me suffer, i hope there are no mistakes, i haven't written in foreeverrrrrr
okay so crazy shit happened, and apparently the bakugo fanart that i legit spent two seconds on, is currently my biggest post like ever.
so.
um. hello to the thirty new people, i'm very very overwhelmed, thank you all for the very kind words and overall very kind reception to my (very dumb) drawing.
for the newcommers: please do note that i am mainly a jjk centric blog, so like... sorry?
also yippie, we're over 3k now! i am incredibly grateful and amazed at how people actually enjoy what i do.
