Cherry City

All-in-one mess | 20s | Naruto, JJK, poetic writings, you know them all

[cherry-city]

Cherry City's Masterlist

Welcome to my list! Building this up day by day, and hoping for more and more to come. Let me know your thoughts <3

Jujutsu Kaisen

Geto Suguru

If I Am With You

Nanami Kento

You Don't Know What You Mean To Me

The Tea Brews Silently As Your Love

Fushiguro Toji

What If I Took Your Call

[sukunaglazerrr]

HusbandKuna x Reader who lost her memory

After a tragic accident erased your memories, you no longer remember the man you married. Unfortunately for you, Ryomen Sukuna remembers everything. And he'll do whatever it takes to make you remember him too.

Everything was so much weird.

When you first opened your eyes, the world was a blur of harsh lights and a rhythmic, annoying beep that made your head throb. A crowd of people were hovering over your bed, their faces twisted into expressions of pure horror and desperation. It felt like they were looking at a ghost or maybe a god that had suddenly fallen from the sky. The moment you blinked and stared back at them with blank, unrecognizing eyes, the room dissolved into quiet, breathless weeping.

You were completely utterly lost. Who was the woman with the dark circles under her eyes calling herself Shoko? Why was she gripping your hand like her entire world was ending? You knew your own name y/n echoed clearly in the empty caverns of your mind, but beyond that single fact, there was only a vast, terrifying void. You understood the modern world. you knew what a smartphone was, you recognized the concept of Wi-Fi, and when you mumbled those details, the doctors in the room let out collective, gasping sighs of relief.

But the real shock came twenty minutes later.

The heavy door to the hospital room burst open with a violent slam. A man lunged inside like a madman, his chest heaving as he fought for breath. You had never seen anyone look like him. His hair was a soft, striking shade of pastel pink so pretty and unexpected that you wondered for a fleeting second if he had dyed it just to stand out. Dark, intricate tattoos mapped across his skin, curling around his sharp cheekbones and framing his eyes. And those eyes... they were a piercing, burning red, swirling with a volatile mixture of terrifying rage and profound, shattering sadness.

You just sat there in your oversized, faded blue hospital gown, looking small and fragile as your confused gaze met his. The man froze, roughly brushing a strand of pink hair out of his face. His clothes were covered in a layer of grey dust and dried grit, looking as though he had sprinted straight off a construction site the second he got the news.

"Fucking... God. Hey, princess... fuck, don't you ever scare me like that again" he breathed, his deep, gravelly voice cracking as he took two massive strides toward your bedside, staring down at you with a desperation that made the air feel heavy.

You shrank back into the pillows, your brow furrowing. Princess? Were you in some bizarre historical simulation? Did kings and horses still exist? No, the blinking medical monitors around you disproved that immediately.

"Mr. Sukuna, please. I need to speak with you in private for a moment," a woman in her mid-forties interrupted, her expression incredibly grave as she stepped between you and the giant. She glanced at the other people lingering by the door. There was a teenage boy, maybe sixteen, who possessed the exact same pink hair as the tattooed man, his face streaked with tears. Beside him stood another boy with unruly, spiky black hair and a dull, stoic expression that couldn't quite hide the anxiety in his eyes. At the doctor's quiet command, they all slowly filed out into the hallway.

Left alone for a moment, you stared at the stark white walls, the untouched glass of water on the bedside table, and the crushing, dull monotony of the room.

When the door clicked open again, the female physician returned, holding a thick medical chart. The tattooed man followed closely behind her. He tried to offer you a small, reassuring smile, but it looked incredibly strained on his rugged face. His crimson eyes locked onto you, tracking every breath you took as if you might literally vanish into thin air if he dared to look away for a single second.

"Hello, Y/N. I am Dr. Jennifer," the woman said kindly, stepping up to the mattress. "Do you know why you were brought here today?"

You frowned, looking between her and the towering man. "No."

The syllable was short and hollow. Beside the doctor, Sukuna’s entire frame stiffened. His jaw clenched so hard a muscle feathered violently beneath his tattoos, his knuckles turning white as he balled his hands into fists.

"Right. But you do remember your name?" she pressed gently.

"Yes... Y/N. I am Y/N," you answered firmly. You knew the name belonged to you, even if the history attached to it was completely gone.

"And do you know where you are right now?"

"A hospital?"

"Correct" Dr. Jennifer nodded, opening the document in her hands. "Look, I am going to explain exactly what happened, and I need you to listen very carefully, alright?" You gave a small, hesitant nod. "You were in a severe accident yesterday evening. You were walking home from the local market when a car veered off the road and hit you. It is a miracle you walked away with minor physical injuries, but the trauma to your head has caused a severe case of retrograde amnesia. Honestly, it's a surprise you even remember your name right now."

You let out a quiet hum, your eyes drifting down to your own hands resting on the thin blanket. That was when you noticed it a slender, platinum band set with a brilliant, flawlessly cut diamond resting securely on your left ring finger. It looked incredibly expensive, classy, and entirely foreign

.

"Y/N" Dr. Jennifer’s voice pulled you from your thoughts. You snapped your head up to look at her. "This man standing beside me... he is your husband."

The doctor tilted her head toward the giant. He was massive easily over six feet of raw, intimidating muscle, his tattooed face giving him a terrifying, dangerous aura. Your very first instinctual thought was that this man looked incredibly scary.

Sukuna didn't say a word. He just stood there, letting you analyze him, before he offered you a tiny, incredibly vulnerable nod. You tilted your head, staring into his intense red eyes, desperately searching for a single spark of familiarity. Did I really marry this giant?

"His name is Ryomen Sukuna, and he is going to take care of you," the doctor continued, closing her chart. "For the next few weeks, you need to let your brain rest, but you also need to gently stimulate it to try and regain those lost memories. Spending time in a familiar environment, in your own home with your husband, is going to be the best medicine for you."

You nodded mutely. You didn't exactly have a choice. You were being handed over to a complete stranger who happened to hold a legal claim to your entire life.

"Alright then. I wish you a safe and speedy recovery" Dr. Jennifer said with a final, empathetic smile before slipping out of the room.

The heavy silence that followed was suffocating. Sukuna cleared his throat roughly, taking a few agonizingly slow, tentative steps toward the edge of your bed. He moved with an immense amount of caution, as if he genuinely believed a sudden movement might break you into pieces. He pulled up the small plastic chair, sinking into it.

"Hey" he said softly. Even in a whisper, his voice was incredibly manly, deep, and rough.

"Hello," you replied shortly, your eyes tracking his hands.

To your surprise, his large, scarred fingers were trembling slightly as he fidgeted with them, refusing to meet your eyes. When he finally looked up, you realized the piercing red of his irises was completely glossy, swimming with unshed tears.

"Yo... you're getting discharged today" he choked out, taking a deep, ragged breath as if the mere act of speaking was causing him physical pain. "I'm going to go sign the paperwork, and then I'm taking you to... our house. I'm going to do whatever the fuck it takes to help you remember, princess."

You stared at his rugged, tattooed face for a long moment before letting out a soft, distant hum.

An hour later, you were sitting in the passenger seat of a sleek, black Jeep, The man Sukuna kept his left hand firmly on the steering wheel while his eyes flicked toward you every sixty seconds, his intense gaze making a nervous flutter erupt in your stomach.

You stared out the window, watching the city buildings, sprawling neighborhoods, and vibrant green trees blur past. Intrigued by the warm breeze, you raised your hand, pressing your palm gently against the glass as if you wanted to touch the passing leaves. Instantly, the window smoothly rolled down. Startled, you turned your head to find Sukuna adjusting the master controls, his eyes locked onto you with an unreadable warmth.

"Can I ask you something?" you murmured softly.

"Yes." The answer came incredibly fast, almost desperate. He was hanging on your every word, practically begging for you to speak to him.

"How... how did we meet?" you asked, leaning your elbow on the door frame as the wind whipped through your hair.

"We met in high school," he answered quickly, navigating a sharp turn onto a quiet, "We've been married for seven years."

"High school?" You tilted your head, a faint smile touching your lips as you extended your hand just slightly out into the rushing air. "Were we friends back then?"

"Careful" he commanded firmly, though there was no real heat in his voice. You obediently pulled your hand back inside. A faint, nostalgic softness crept into his red eyes as he looked ahead. "Friends? no. You could say we didn't liked eachother each other when we first met. You thought I was a loud, arrogant delinquent, and I thought you were a stubborn, bossy brat."

He smoothly pulled the Jeep into a long brick driveway, coming to a stop in front of a breathtaking, modern two-story house. It was painted a crisp, elegant white with sleek charcoal-grey accents, boasting massive, floor-to-ceiling windows that caught the afternoon sun.

"This is... our house," Sukuna murmured, his voice dropping an octave. "We've been living here for about four years."

He killed the engine, threw his door open, and practically sprinted around the hood of the car to open your door before you could even reach for the handle. He extended a massive, tattooed hand toward you, his palm open and waiting. You stared at his hand, your eyes traveling up the thick muscles of his forearm, before you deliberately stepped down onto the driveway without taking it.

Sukuna’s hand froze in mid-air. You watched his fingers slowly curl back into a fist before he pulled his arm away, a flash of pure, agonizing heartbreak crossing his features before he quickly masked it with a stoic expression.

As your feet hit the pavement, you looked up at the towering structure, desperately begging your brain to spark even a single ounce of familiarity. Nothing came. But as you turned around, you caught a glimpse of the man standing beside you. He was on the absolute verge of tears. His chest was tight, his jaw locked as he stared at you. You were his entire world, his beautiful wife, and yet you were looking at him like he was a total stranger. He suddenly felt a wave of profound hatred for every single time he had ever been mean or stubborn with you in the past, even in jest. He just wanted his girl back.

"The house is beautiful" you murmured gently, walking toward the porch.

*The house.* Not *our* house. The detached wording made Sukuna’s jaw clench painfully.

"Of course it is. I built the damn thing

" he muttered, following closely behind you.

It was your exact dream house. Years ago, back when you were just broke college students dating in a cramped apartment, you had traced a clumsy design on a napkin, telling him you wanted a modern white house with endless windows, three bedrooms, and a kitchen large enough for the two of you to bake and slow-dance together while listening to old jazz records. Sukuna had kept that napkin. The moment he made his fortune, he hired a crew but did the vast majority of the heavy structural work with his own two hands. He had gifted you the keys on your third wedding anniversary, and he could still vividly remember the way you had wept tears of joy, throwing your arms around his neck and kissing him until you were both breathless. He wanted that smile back. He would give anything just to have you look at him the way you used to.

You stepped inside, ignoring the heavy emotion rolling off him. Sukuna quickly gathered your small hospital bags and followed you into the foyer, shutting the door behind him.

Your eyes immediately gravitated toward the kitchen. It was vast, open, and undeniably stunning, featuring a massive quartz island and a huge sliding glass door that opened directly into a manicured backyard garden. The entire layout felt strangely perfect.

"Let me show you... around" Sukuna offered quietly.

He spent the next half hour guiding you through the corridors of what was supposed to be your life. But as he showed you the grand master bedroompointing out the side of the bed where you used to curl into his chest every single night your face remained entirely blank. You felt a twinge of heavy guilt pooling in your stomach. He showed you the living room, drawing your attention to a collection of large, breathtaking canvas paintings hanging on the walls.

"You painted those," Sukuna noted, a faint trace of pride in his rough voice. "You're a brilliant artist, princess."

You blinked in genuine surprise, looking down at your hands. "I drew these?"

"Yeah." Sukuna stopped at the edge of the hallway, looking down at you with completely bloodshot eyes. He hadn't slept a single second since the hospital called him about your accident. All he wanted to do was wrap his massive arms around your waist, pull you flush against his chest, and bury his face in your hair until the nightmare ended. But he couldn't. "Look... you can sleep in the guest bedroom down the hall, or you can take our bedroom and I'll stay in the guest room. Whatever makes you feel comfortable. I don't want to make you feel uncomfortable you."

"Okay" you hummed softly.

His heart broke a little more at the compliant, distant tone. "I'll go start on some dinner, and then I'll get your medication ready. If you need a single damn thing, you just call out for me, alright? Your clothes are all in the dresser undergarments in the top drawer, pajamas in the second..."

You nodded, offering him a polite murmur of thanks before retreating into the guest room. You changed into a simple, comfortable t-shirt and sweats. A little while later, his deep voice echoed up the stairs, announcing that dinner was ready. You walked down to the dining room, sitting at the large table like a polite houseguest waiting to be served.

"Do you need help?" Sukuna asked, carefully sliding a steaming bowl of homemade chicken soup and a large spoon toward you. You shook your head, grasping the utensil and taking a quiet sip. He sat across from you, his own bowl entirely untouched as he just stared at your face. "Y/N... you really don't remember a single damn thing about me?"

His voice cracked completely on the last word, the raw vulnerability of a ruthless man exposed right in front of you. You looked up, meeting his glossy red eyes.

"No... I don't. I'm really sorry," you whispered genuinely.

He let out a slow nod, swallowing the lump in his throat as he forced himself to look away. "Don't apologize. It's not your fault."

"Do I... do I have parents? Or friends?" you asked, a sudden curiosity about your own forgotten life bubbling up.

"Yeah. You have parents. Your father—"

"Where are they?" you interrupted quickly, leaning forward. "Do they know I was in an accident? Why aren't they here?"

"They haven't spoken to you in over seven years. Not since the day you married me," Sukuna said, his tone dropping into something cold and bitter.

"Why?"

"Your family is old money. Extremely strict, arrogant aristocrats" Sukuna explained, his red eyes locking back onto yours. "They completely forbade you from seeing me because I was just a rough, tattooed bastard from the wrong side of the tracks with a criminal record and a unstable future. They told you that if you walked out that door with me, you’d be cut off permanently."

You stared at him, a sudden spark of heat flaring in your chest. "Well, that's incredibly stupid of them. It sounds like a good thing we don't talk to them then."

The sheer, unyielding loyalty in your voice made Sukuna’s lips twitch, a genuine, heartbreaking smile threatening to break through his stoic mask. Even with a wiped memory, his sweet wife still possessed that exact same fiery, protective spirit.

"Yeah" he chuckled hoarsely, letting out a long sigh. "You have an incredible best friend named Shoko. You two are both doctors; you work in the exact same surgical unit at the city hospital. We have a ton of mutual friends we met back in our high school days. And those kids at the hospital? The pink-haired teenager is my nephew, Yuji, and the dark-haired one is Megumi, our friend's kid. They practically worship the ground you walk on, princess. You love those brats to death."

"Can I see them?" you asked, a genuine smile finally breaking across your face.

"Of course. Whenever you want," he promised, his eyes tracking the way your lips curved.

"How old are you, anyway?"

"I'm thirty-two. You're thirty," Sukuna answered smoothly.

"Wow. So we're getting old," you teased gently.

Sukuna let out a sudden, rough snort, a wicked glint flashing in his eyes. "Old or not, woman... you're still completely breathtaking."

A deep, violent blush instantly stained your cheeks. You hadn't been around an attractive man or any man, for that matter in your conscious memory, and having this giant, dangerously handsome individual throw such a raw compliment at you made your heart do a chaotic somersault. You quickly looked down at your soup, missing the way his eyes softened at your reaction.

Over the next three weeks, the fragments of a life began to surround you, even if the puzzle pieces wouldn't quite lock into place.

Yuji and Megumi came over to the house constantly. Yuji spent hours enthusiastically teaching you how to make his signature protein shakes and weird jello molds, his loud laughter filling the quiet house, while Megumi sat nearby with his usual serious expression. But the moment you offered Megumi a soft, encouraging smile, his sharp features would instantly melt into something deeply tender. Yet, beneath their smiles, you could see the underlying sadness in their eyes every time you failed to remember a shared inside joke.

When Shoko finally visited, she broke down completely, throwing her arms around your neck and sobbing into your shoulder. It was a bizarre, overwhelming feeling being fiercely loved by people you couldn't even remember—and a heavy weight of guilt began to settle deep in your chest. You even met Toji, Megumi's father, a tall, stoic man who didn't say much but looked at you with a quiet, profound pity that made you realize just how broken your situation truly was.

And then, there was Sukuna.

Your husband spent every single day patiently guiding you through your routines, driving you past your old university, cooking your favorite meals, and trying every gentle trigger possible. But your mind remained a stubborn, locked vault. Sukuna was growing desperate furious and completely fucked up by the stagnation.

To make matters worse, just one week before the accident, you had playfully taken down every single one of your framed marriage photographs to rearrange the living room gallery wall, hiding them away in a "genius spot" that Sukuna had completely forgotten. He had spent hours frantically tearing the house apart while you were out, searching for a single modern photo of the two of you together.

He was completely unraveling. He couldn't sleep. The woman he loved was sleeping in the room next to him, yet she looked at him with the polite, distant eyes of a stranger. He felt like a ghost haunting his own home. One evening, he sat alone in the dark kitchen and wept the third time he had ever cried in his entire life. The first had been tears of pure joy on your wedding day. the second had been out of terror when the ER doctor told him a car had struck you. and now, he was crying simply because he missed his wife so damn much

His phone offered no help either. his gallery was filled entirely with candid photos he had taken of you you stepping out of the shower with a towel wrapped around your head, you laughing in a department store dressing room, or a hilarious picture of you biting into a raw lemon and making a completely hideous face. He had no photos of the two of you together on his device; you had always been the one insisted on keeping the physical, printed albums. The only joint photos he could find were a few faded, wrinkled prints from your high school days, showing a younger, wilder version of himself wrapping his arms around you from behind while you laughed into the camera. When he showed them to you, you just stared at them blankly. It was killing him.

At the end of the third week, Sukuna was sitting heavily on the living room sofa, completely exhausted after another failed search through the house. He was mindlessly scrolling through the candid photos of you on his phone, a faint, melancholy smile touching his lips.

The heavy front door clicked open. Shoko had taken you out for an afternoon of shopping to get you out of the house, and she had just dropped you off at the curb. You stepped into the foyer, balancing several shopping bags in your arms.

Sukuna instantly locked his phone, shoving it into his pocket as he stood up, his red eyes drinking in the sight of you. "Had fun, princess?"

"Yes, I did. And thank you... for letting me use your credit card" you said softly, walking over to the coffee table and gently sliding the black card back toward him.

"You bought dresses?" he asked, pointing toward the bags. Honestly, he didn't give a single fuck about the money. you could have emptied his entire bank account and he would have gladly signed it away just to see you happy.

"I bought a few things..." You cleared your throat nervously, your fingers twisting together. "But... I actually bought something for you, too."

The words hit his chest like a physical blow. Even with her mind completely wiped, your beautiful, kind soul was still looking out for him. "Really?" he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "Can I see it?"

You gave a small nod, walking over to the couch and tentatively sitting down right next to him. The close proximity made his heart start to hammer against his ribs like a trapped bird.

"I don't know if it's really your style, or if you'll even like it..." you mumbled bashfully, reaching into a small velvet pouch and pulling out a heavy, intricately braided silver bracelet studded with raw, brilliant red stones. "The color... it just immediately reminded me of you. Of your eyes."

You gently reached out, grasping his massive, calloused wrist to drape the metal over his skin. Oh God, if you only knew how fast his heart was racing beneath his chest. Your soft, warm fingers lingering against his pulse point was pure, exquisite torture.

"It looks incredible, Y/N. Thank you," he whispered, a genuine, breathtakingly soft smile spreading across his tattooed face as he looked down at the crimson stones.

"Thank you... for being so incredibly patient with me" you said quietly, looking up at him through your eyelashes.

Sukuna let out a long, ragged sigh, his hand hovering over yours for a fraction of a second before he pulled back. "I will always be patient with you, princess. Always."

You looked directly into his burning red eyes, and for the first time in three weeks, a warm, genuine smile broke across your face. Sukuna felt his breath hitch. he was entirely certain he was about to pass out from the sheer weight of his love for you.

"Can you stay right here for a bit? I need to go jump in the shower real quick. I'll be fast," he muttered hoarsely, his hand instinctively reaching out to gently ruffle your hair a comforting, domestic habit he had carefully maintained. You let out a soft chuckle at the gesture.

The moment his heavy footsteps disappeared up the stairs and the sound of running water echoed through the pipes, you stood up, wandering aimlessly around the quiet main floor. Your feet pulled you toward the small, cozy library nestled just off the living room. The walls were lined with hundreds of books some ancient leather volumes, others modern art textbooks. You pulled one off the shelf, flipping through the pages before sliding it back into place.

As you stepped back, your eyes caught a glimpse of something hidden on the absolute highest shelf, shoved far back into the shadows near the ceiling. It looked like a massive, heavy frame leaning flat against the back wall, obscured by a decorative ceramic vase. Intrigued, you stood on your tiptoes, stretching your arms up as high as they could go, blindly reaching for the top edge of the wooden frame.

Your fingers caught the molding, but as you pulled, the heavy ceramic vase shifted, losing its balance.

Crash!

The vase shattered against the hardwood floor with a deafening, echoing smash. Startled, you let out a sharp cry, stumbling backward as the massive hidden frame came tumbling down from the top shelf, striking the edge of the desk before landing flat on the rug. The backing of the frame split completely open upon impact, and a massive cascade of loose, glossy photographs erupted across the floor hundreds of them, scattering like playing cards across the room.

You gasped, placing a hand over your racing heart as you looked away from the broken pottery, your eyes drifting down to the sea of images covering the floor.

You froze.

Right at your feet lay a massive, professionally printed portrait. In the photograph, you were sitting securely on Sukuna's lap. You were wearing a breathtaking, flowing white lace wedding dress, holding a vibrant bouquet of sunflowers, and laughing so brightly your eyes were crinkled shut. Sukuna was clad in a sharp, tailored black tuxedo, his massive arms wrapped fiercely around your waist from behind, an absolutely massive, unbothered, triumphant grin plastered across his face.

Your breath hitched violently. You stumbled forward, falling to your knees as your hands frantically snatched up another photo from the pile. In this one, you were hoisted high up on Sukuna's broad shoulders at a crowded, flashing outdoor music festival; your mouth was wide open in a breathless scream of laughter, while his large hands were clamped firmly around your thighs to keep you safe, both of your faces painted with pure, unadulterated euphoria.

You grabbed a third photo, and the entire world stopped spinning. It was a quiet, intimate shot taken right in the backyard garden outside. You were sitting cross-legged on the green grass, wearing a simple summer dress with a soft, shy smile, while Sukuna’s heavy head was resting completely in your lap. He was looking up at you with an expression of such pure, unconditional adoration it made your soul ache, while your fingers were woven gently through his soft pink hair.

Pink hair.

The backyard.

The jazz music.

The napkin.

A sudden, violent explosion of memories ripped through the barriers of your mind. It wasn't a trickle; it was a catastrophic, roaring tidal wave. Seven years of laughter, fierce arguments, passionate late-night apologies, the smell of his skin, the exact weight of his body pressing you into the master mattress, the sound of his deep voice whispering "I've got you, princess" into the dark. It all hit your brain at once with the force of a freight train.

The sheer, overwhelming velocity of the memories made the room spin violently. Your vision blurred into a vortex of white light and crimson eyes. You let out a choked gasp, your strength entirely giving out as your body collapsed sideways onto the hardwood floor with a loud, heavy thud, the scattered photographs of your life pooling around your unconscious form.

When you finally opened your eyes again, the harsh glare of the ceiling lights was gone, replaced by the warm, dim ambiance of the living room. You were laying flat on the soft fabric of the sofa.

"She's waking up! Sukuna, look, her eyes are moving!" Yuji’s panicked, loud voice cut through the quiet room.

You blinked heavily, your vision slowly focusing. Megumi was standing right beside his cousin, his dark eyes wide and completely swimming with anxiety. Shoko was hovering over you, a small medical flashlight in her hand, her face pale as she checked your vitals.

But your heart didn't care about any of them. Your eyes frantically scanned the tight circle of people, instantly landing on the massive, tattooed man standing frozen at the foot of the couch. His pastel pink hair was damp from the shower, his chest heaving under a plain black t-shirt, and his face was a mask of pure, absolute terror.

As your eyes met his, a single, heavy tear spilled over your eyelid, tracing a hot path down your cheek. The vast, terrifying void in your mind was completely gone, replaced by the roaring, beautiful fire of your reality.

"Ryo..." you choked out, your voice a broken, breathless sob.

Sukuna froze, his entire frame visibly violently shuddering at the sound of the nickname the private, intimate name only you were ever allowed to call him.

Before anyone else could even blink, you threw yourself forward off the sofa cushions, completely ignoring the dull ache in your muscles. You lunged straight into his space, your arms wrapping fiercely around his massive neck. You buried your face in the crook of his collarbone, gripping the fabric of his shirt with a desperate, white-knuckled intensity as you pressed a hard, crying kiss directly against his tattooed jaw.

"I remember... us," you sobbed violently into his skin, your entire body trembling as the tears flowed freely. "I remember everything, Ryo... I remember you."

Sukuna’s mind completely blanked. For a single, breathless second, he couldn't even process the words. And then, a raw, ragged sound escaped his throat a mixture of a sob and a laugh. His massive, powerful arms came crashing down around your frame, pulling you so close against his chest you could barely breathe, lifting your knees entirely off the floor as he buried his face into the crook of your neck.

And there, in the middle of his living room, surrounded by his family and the scattered photographs of your love, Ryomen Sukuna closed his eyes and wept for the fourth time in his life.

"I fucking love you" he whispers

(not me me writing all night just for 36 like and one reblog😣🙏🏾)

[akaamarin]

House clean, clothes washed, dog fed, dinner ready💃💃

[malaccah]

— 𝙧𝙚𝙢𝙣𝙖𝙣𝙩𝙨 𝙤𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙞𝙣𝙛𝙞𝙣𝙞𝙩𝙚.

Widowhood | Grief & Loss | Single Mother Reader | Hidden Child | Post-Shinjuku Canon Divergence | Protective Hiromi Higuruma | Found Family | Legal Battle | Slow Burn | Angst | Second Chances in Love | Happy Ending

Synopsis: Satoru Gojo was the world's strongest weapon but to you, he was simply home. Now that he's gone, the Gojo clan doesn't see a grieving child—they see a replacement to be claimed. On the run to protect her son’s freedom, Y/N finds an unexpected sanctuary with Hiromi Higuruma, a man who uses the law to shield those the world has forgotten. As they fight to shield a child’s future, Y/N discovers that healing doesn’t mean letting go of a memory—it means finding the courage to love again in the silence that follows the storm.

Word Count: ~1.7k

The mourning black of your veil felt heavier than the weight of the world Satoru had supposedly saved. Shinjuku was a scar on the map of Japan, but to you, it was the graveyard of a decade-long love. You didn't remember Satoru Gojo as the "Strongest Sorcerer" or the "Honored One." You remembered him as the boy who had tripped over his own feet trying to impress you in high school, the man who had whispered clumsy vows into your ear during a rain-slicked ceremony when you were both far too young to understand the permanence of "forever."

Now, "forever" had ended in a morgue.

“He looks just like him,”Shoko whispered.

You didn't need to follow her gaze to know who she was looking at. Your five-year-old son, Haru, was sitting on a cold metal bench in the corner of the morgue’s waiting room. He had his father’s snow-white hair—a beacon of light in this dark place—but when he looked up, he had your eyes. A softer, more human gaze that hadn't yet been burdened by the Six Eyes.

“The clan elders are already drafting the documents,”

“They don't see a grieving child, Y/N. They see a replacement. They’ll take him. They’ll lock him in that traditional hellhole and turn him into a weapon before he can even ride a bike without training wheels.”

Your grip tightened on your son's small jacket.

“Not while I'm breathing.”

“Then you have to go. Now. Before the official mourning period ends and the Zenin and Gojo legal teams lock the doors.”

Shoko slid a small, nondescript business card across the table.

“I have a friend. He’s not a sorcerer in the traditional sense—well, he is now, but he was a lawyer first. He’s a man who believes in the spirit of the law, not the greed of clans.”

The safehouse was a cramped, dimly lit apartment on the outskirts of Tokyo, smelling of old paper and bitter coffee. It was a far cry from the sprawling Gojo estate. When the door opened, you saw a man who looked like he hadn't slept since the Shinjuku incident began. Hiromi Higuruma stood there in a suit that had seen better days, his eyes dark with a weariness that mirrored your own.

“Shoko said you were coming,”

he said, his voice a low, soothing baritone. He stepped aside to let you in, his eyes lingering for a fraction of a second on Haru, who was hiding behind your legs, clutching his father’s old pair of sunglasses like a talisman. You hesitated on the threshold, the weight of your suitcase suddenly unbearable. Higuruma seemed to read the unspoken question in your eyes—the sheer absurdity of seeking refuge in a stranger's home.

“My apartment is registered under a dead-end corporate name,”

“The Gojo clan is claiming guardianship based on a centuries-old 'Succession Clause',” Higuruma began, sitting at a desk overflowing with law books.

“Because Satoru-kun didn't leave a formalized civil will—likely because he thought he was untouchable—the clan has a 70% chance of winning a custody battle in the jujutsu courts.”

“I don't care about their courts,” you hissed, your voice trembling with rage.

“I will burn their shrines to the ground before I let them touch my son.”

Higuruma looked up. There was no judgment in his eyes, only a profound, quiet empathy.

“Violence will only prove them right,”

“They want a monster to lead them. If you fight them with fire, they’ll use that fire to justify taking him.”

He walked over and handed you a glass of water. His fingers brushed yours—a brief, grounding contact. Unlike Satoru’s skin, which had always felt like a crackling live wire, Higuruma felt steady. Solid. Like earth.

“I will help you,”

“I’ll build a wall of red tape and legal shadows so thick that even the Six Eyes couldn't peer through it. But you have to trust me.”

The first month passed in silence. Higuruma left every morning before sunrise. You learned his habits: he drank his coffee black, loosened his tie only when exhausted, and read legal documents with the same intensity Satoru once reserved for battle plans. Sometimes, late at night, you caught him staring blankly at the wall as if listening to ghosts only he could hear. You understood that look. You wore it too.

Haru adapted faster. Children were cruelly resilient. Within two weeks, your son had claimed the apartment as his own. Crayons littered Higuruma’s paperwork, and the refrigerator filled with childish drawings. Most of them were of Satoru—white-haired stick figures with enormous smiles. Your chest ached every time you saw them.

One evening, you found Higuruma kneeling beside Haru as your son aggressively explained the rules of a card game.

“No, no, you’re doing it wrong!”

“I see,” Higuruma replied with complete seriousness.

“Then your explanation was insufficient.”

You stood frozen in the doorway. It hit you suddenly: Satoru was gone. Reduced to memorials and whispers. Haru laughed loudly as Higuruma intentionally lost another round, and for the first time since Shinjuku, guilt twisted inside you for allowing yourself to smile.

The Gojo clan found you six weeks later. You sensed the three controlled, refined signatures outside. Clan-trained.

“Haru,” you said sharply. Your son abandoned his toys immediately. Higuruma emerged from his office.

“They traced the bank transfer,” he said grimly.

A polite, measured knock sounded. Higuruma adjusted his tie.

“Stay behind me.”

“You’re not a shield,”

“No, but I’m the only one here they can’t politically afford to kill.”

He opened the door halfway. Elder Genji stood there, his gaze shifting past Higuruma toward Haru. Greed. Cold and unmistakable.

“There he is,” Genji murmured.

“The future of the clan.”

“He’s five,”

“He is Gojo Satoru’s son,” the elder corrected, as if that was all Haru could ever be.

“The child is under temporary legal protection,” Higuruma stated.

“Jujutsu law supersedes civil procedure,” a clan member scoffed.

“Not anymore,” Higuruma replied. Tension crackled. Genji sighed,

“Surely you understand what this child represents.”

You remembered the day Satoru awakened his eyes. Grown men looking at a child like a weapon blessed by heaven. Satoru spent his life trapped in expectations. You would die before allowing Haru the same fate.

“He’s not property,”

The hallway exploded. One sorcerer lunged. Higuruma’s Domain expanded faster than thought.

“Deadly Sentencing.”

The apartment vanished beneath courtroom imagery. Higuruma stood tall beneath the manifestation of judgment.

“You threatened a protected minor,” he said calmly. “Confiscation.”

The Judge loomed, its gavel descending with a sound like a thunderclap. Higuruma didn't just strip their techniques; he held up a series of documents, his voice cutting through the silent Domain like a blade.

“I have filed a 'Binding Vow of Emancipation' with the higher-ups,”

Higuruma declared, his eyes burning with cold authority.

“If any member of the Gojo clan steps within a mile of this child again, the Gojo estate’s frozen assets will be seized by the state for breach of spiritual conduct. I’ve tied your money to his safety. If he disappears, your clan goes bankrupt by morning.”

The elders froze. They didn't fear blood, but they feared the loss of their status and influence. Genji looked at Higuruma, realizing he wasn't just a lawyer—he was a strategist who had booby-trapped the law itself.

“You’ve ruined the legacy,” Genji spat, his voice trembling with defeated rage.

“No,” Higuruma replied as the Domain faded. “I’ve saved a boy. Leave. You’ve already done enough damage to that child.”

The clan retreated shortly afterward. Not defeated, just postponed. That night, Haru crawled into your futon.

“When is Papa coming home?”

The question shattered you. You pulled him close as he cried, and for the first time, you cried too. Ugly, shaking sobs. And through it all, Higuruma sat outside the bedroom door. Not intruding. Just there. Like a witness to grief too sacred to interrupt.

Winter arrived. Nightmares became routine. You dreamed of Satoru split in half beneath a crimson sky. You woke gasping. Higuruma found you collapsed one night, shaking.

“I couldn’t save him,” you whispered.

“You were not supposed to save the strongest sorcerer alive,” Higuruma knelt in front of you.

“But I should’ve been there.”

“You would have died too.”

“At least he wouldn’t have died alone.”

“He didn’t,” Higuruma said quietly.

“He died believing he protected the people he loved.”

Spring came with rain. Higuruma had become woven into your life. He walked Haru to school; he cooked terribly but tried anyway. Loving Higuruma felt like betrayal. Satoru still existed everywhere—in Haru’s face, in your wedding ring. Yet, one rainy evening, watching Higuruma dry dishes, you whispered,

“I forgot what peace looked like.”

“You deserve peace,” he said.

Satoru had loved loudly, like fireworks. Higuruma loved quietly, in filled water glasses and repaired uniforms.

Summer arrived cautiously. You moved again, to a coastal town. To neighbors, you were a widow and Higuruma was the quiet man who lived with you. One evening, the power went out. Higuruma stood beside you with a lighter, his face illuminated in gold. The intimacy startled you.

“Higuruma-san! We have to build a fort!”

Haru crashed into the room.

The fort occupied the entire living room. You watched them from the doorway, and your eyes met Higuruma's across the dim room. Something shifted. Certain. He was no longer just helping you survive; he was your life.

Haru fell asleep between you, clutching Satoru’s old sunglasses. You reached for them, but your hand brushed Higuruma’s instead. You didn't move away.

“You don’t have to choose,”he said softly.

“You don’t have to stop loving him to love something else too.”

The words hit the source of your guilt. Surviving didn't mean abandoning Satoru.

“A man like that wouldn't want the people he loved to spend their lives miserable,”

Higuruma continued.

Your composure shattered. You leaned forward, pressing your forehead against his shoulder. Higuruma’s arms wrapped around you—careful at first, then tighter. The warmth of him was solid. Safe. Alive.

Inside the blanket fort, your son slept peacefully between the remnants of grief and the beginning of something new. And for the first time since Shinjuku—the future no longer felt frightening.

This was written for a request by @alebrasil0101—thank you so much for the prompt I really hope you like how it turned out! I was a bit nervous about capturing these specific emotions, but I’m so excited to share this side of Higuruma with you guys (´｡• ᵕ •｡`)

[cherry-city]

Never thought Satoru and Hiruguma in a concept but wow the angst I’m so mindblown

[fallentology]

In Case of Emergency

𝐍𝐀𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐈 𝐊𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐎

SYNOPSIS: Listing Kento Nanami as your emergency contact was supposed to be temporary. He answers every call with the same calm, focused voice—no matter the hour. The problem is, lately your emergencies sound less like danger and more like wanting him close. WORD COUNT: 11.2k

The administrative office at the university annex smelled like burnt coffee, cheap printer ink, and the faint metallic tang of overdue paperwork. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead like dying mosquitoes, and the ancient air-conditioning unit rattled in the corner as if it were personally offended by the humidity rolling in from Tokyo’s afternoon downpour. You were perched on a plastic chair that had seen better decades, one leg tucked under you, the other bouncing impatiently while you scribbled through the stack of forms the HR lady had dumped on the desk with a tired “Good luck, it’s the new insurance packet.”

You were only halfway through page four when your phone buzzed on the desk. The screen lit up with a single unread message preview:

Kento Nanami: If you’re still planning to skip lunch, at least eat the onigiri I left in your bag. I’m not carrying you out of another meeting.

A small, traitorous smile tugged at your lips. Nanami. Of course. The man had the emotional range of a perfectly pressed suit and the reliability of gravity. You’d met him six months ago through a mutual acquaintance at one of those painfully awkward networking things. It was actually somebody’s cousin’s cousin who needed a civilian liaison for paperwork nobody else wanted to touch. He’d been standing in the corner like a disapproving statue, blonde hair slicked back, glasses catching the light, tailored suit somehow still crisp despite the boredom clinging to the air. You’d made a joke about how even his tie looked judgmental. He’d sighed, adjusted said tie, and somehow ended up driving you home when your ride bailed.

Since then, the man had inserted himself into your life like a polite but unstoppable force. Late-night texts checking if you’d locked your door. Dry commentary on your terrible eating habits. The occasional shared silence on the phone when you both pretended you weren’t exhausted from completely different kinds of battles. He was older, thirty-something going on forty in spirit, and carried himself like the world owed him exactly one thing: efficiency. You liked that about him. You liked it a lot more than you’d ever admit out loud.

Your thumb hovered over the emergency contact section on the form.

Name: Relationship: Phone: Address:

The cursor blinked at you like it was judging your life choices. Your actual family lived three cities away and still thought you worked a normal office job. Friends? Most of them would disappear for weeks or those who wouldn’t know what to do if you showed up concussed from an accident. But Nanami… Nanami always answered.

You glanced at your phone again. The chat thread with him was still open. Rows of his perfectly punctuated messages next to your chaotic replies full of typos and emojis. He’d probably just sigh and hang up anyway, you thought. But at least he’d sigh reliably.

So you typed.

Name: Kento Nanami Relationship: Emergency Contact Phone: [his number, memorized like a prayer] Address: [his apartment building, the one you’d only been to once when he insisted on bandaging a paper cut you swore wasn’t even bleeding]

You hit submit before you could overthink it, slid the entire packet across the desk, and promptly forgot the whole thing existed the second you stepped out into the rain.

Across the city, in a quiet corner office that smelled of polished wood and the faint ozone of paperworks and dried out coffee, Kento Nanami’s phone rang.

He was midway through reviewing mission reports, fountain pen poised above a line that read excessive property damage—again. The unknown number flashed on his screen. He almost ignored it. Almost.

But Nanami didn’t ignore calls. Not ever.

He answered on the second ring, voice low and clipped. “Nanami.”

A nervous receptionist cleared her throat on the other end. “Hello, Mr. Nanami? I’m calling from the university annex medical office. You’re listed as the emergency contact for Reader. There’s been an incident—”

His pen stopped moving.

The world narrowed to the exact pitch of her voice. Incident. Medical office. Your name.

He was already standing before she finished the sentence.

“Is she conscious?” His tone was calm. Terrifyingly calm. The kind of calm that made people instinctively check their exits.

“Yes, sir, but—”

“I’m on my way.” He hung up without waiting for the rest, coat already slung over one arm, tie loosened by exactly two centimeters because anything more would be undignified. His briefcase snapped shut with military precision. The intern who’d been waiting outside the door for feedback on his weekly report nearly jumped out of his skin when Nanami strode past without a word.

Twenty three minutes later after damning all traffic laws, he reached the annex. You were sitting on the edge of a cot in the small infirmary, ankle propped on a pillow, an ice pack balanced on it like a lazy cat. The “incident” had been spectacularly mundane: you’d missed the last step while rushing to beat the rain, twisted your ankle, and the overzealous campus medic had insisted on calling your emergency contact because “protocol is protocol.”

You were scrolling through your phone, muttering curses at the weather app, when the door opened.

Nanami filled the frame like he’d been summoned by the gods of overreaction. Hair slightly damp from the rain, glasses fogged at the edges, expression carved from granite. His eyes swept the room once. By assessing exits, threats, your position on the cot before locking onto you.

You blinked. “Nanami?”

He crossed the room in three strides. The medic tried to offer a clipboard; Nanami took it without looking, scanned the page, and handed it back.

“Why,” he said, voice dangerously even, “was I contacted before you were able to call me yourself?”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “I… twisted my ankle?”

His gaze dropped to the ice pack, then back to your face. Something flickered behind the glasses. Relief, maybe, or the ghost of a lecture forming. “You listed me.”

It wasn’t a question.

Heat crawled up your neck. “It was just paperwork. I was in a hurry and your name was already on my screen and—”

“You listed me as your emergency contact.” He repeated it like he was tasting the words, testing their weight. Then he exhaled through his nose, the sound almost a sigh but not quite. More like the universe had personally disappointed him and he was too polite to say it out loud.

The medic wisely vanished into the hallway.

Nanami crouched in front of the cot, eye level with you now. Up close he smelled like rain and that stupidly expensive cologne he wore. The one that made your brain short-circuit on bad days. His fingers brushed your ankle with clinical detachment, checking the wrap the medic had applied. You tried not to notice how warm his hand was.

“It’s nothing,” you said quickly. “I’m fine. I can walk.”

“You will not.” He stood, already reaching for his phone. “I’m taking you home. Then I’m making sure you eat something that isn’t some convenience store onigiri you forgot about.”

You stared at him. “You’re… serious.”

Nanami adjusted his glasses, the tiniest crease forming between his brows. It was the Nanami equivalent of a full-blown panic attack. “I take my responsibilities seriously.”

Your heart did something stupid and traitorous in your chest.

He offered his arm. You took it because refusing felt like arguing with gravity. As he guided you out into the hallway, coat now draped over your shoulders because “you’re still damp,” you risked a glance up at him.

“Nanami?”

“Hm.”

“You’re not mad?”

He was quiet for a long moment, the only sound was the click of his dress shoes on the linoleum.

“I’m not mad,” he said finally. “But if you’re going to burden someone with your safety, at least have the decency to let them know they’ve been volunteered.”

You bit your lip to keep from grinning. “Noted.”

He sighed again but longer this time, almost fond. “Good.”

Outside, the rain had eased to a drizzle. Nanami’s car waited at the curb like it had been summoned by sheer force of will. He opened the passenger door first, waited until you were settled, then shut it with that careful precision he applied to everything.

As he slid into the driver’s seat, you caught the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. Not quite a smile. Never quite a smile. But close enough that your stomach flipped.

You were in so much trouble.

And you hadn’t even realized the paperwork had just rewritten the rules of your entire relationship.

The drive from the university annex back to your apartment in Shinjuku took forty-three minutes instead of the usual twenty-five, thanks to the rain-slicked streets and Nanami’s insistence on driving like the speed limit was a personal recommendation rather than a law. The inside of his car smelled like leather, faint cologne, and the faint metallic trace of the rain that had soaked into his coat. You sat in the passenger seat with your ankle propped on the dashboard (he had adjusted the seat himself), the ice pack slowly turning lukewarm against your skin.

Nanami didn’t speak much during the ride. He never did when he was processing something. His left hand rested on the steering wheel at exactly ten and two, right hand occasionally tapping the gear shift. Every so often his eyes would flick to your ankle, then back to the road, jaw tight in that way that meant he was calculating risk versus outcome.

When he finally pulled up in front of your building. It was a modest mid-rise in a quiet side street off Kabukicho, he killed the engine and turned to you.

“Stay.”

You raised an eyebrow. “I can hobble ten meters.”

“You will not hobble.” He got out, circled the car, and opened your door before you could protest. One arm slid under your knees, the other behind your back, and suddenly you were being carried bridal-style like you weighed nothing. Raindrops clung to his lashes as he looked down at you, expression unreadable behind those wire-rimmed glasses.

“Nanami—”

“Keys.”

You fished them out of your bag and handed them over. He managed to unlock the door without putting you down, a feat of coordination that should have been illegal. Inside your apartment, there were small, cluttered with half-read books, empty coffee mugs, and the faint scent of yesterday’s takeout. He set you gently on the couch, then disappeared into the kitchen without another word.

You heard cabinets opening. The fridge. The soft clink of dishes.

Ten minutes later he returned with a tray: steaming miso soup, perfectly sliced tamagoyaki, rice, and a small dish of pickled vegetables. He placed it on the coffee table, pulled up a chair, and sat across from you like this was a business meeting. For a moment, you were shocked at the amount of food he managed to scavenge in your kitchen knowing for a fact that it had been two weeks since you last step foot in the supermarket. 

“Eat.”

You stared at the food, then at him. “You… stocked my fridge?”

“I stopped by the konbini near your station last week when you mentioned running out of decent ingredients.” He adjusted his glasses. “You skip meals when you’re busy. It was inefficient.”

A laugh bubbled out of you before you could stop it. “Nanami, this is not normal emergency contact behavior.”

He didn’t smile, but the corner of his mouth twitched—just barely. “It is now.”

That was how it started.

Over the next two weeks, Kento Nanami treated his new role with the same meticulous seriousness he applied to quarterly reports and perfectly tied Windsor knots.

It began with texts.

Nanami: Have you arrived home? You: Just walked in. Traffic was hell. Nanami: Reply with a photo of your door locked.

You sent one. He replied with a single thumbs-up emoji. The equivalent of a standing ovation from anyone else.

Then came the rules.

He showed up at your door one evening after work, still in his suit, carrying a small notebook. You’d been expecting maybe a polite check-in. Instead he sat at your tiny dining table, opened the notebook, and slid it across to you.

“These are the conditions under which you will contact me immediately.”

You read the list, eyes widening with every line.

Any injury, no matter how minor

Illness accompanied by fever above 37.5°C

Feeling unsafe while walking alone after 9 PM

Missed meals exceeding 8 hours

Transportation delays that leave you stranded

Emotional distress that interferes with basic functions

You looked up at him, biting back a grin. “Emotional distress? Seriously?”

Nanami leaned back, arms crossed. His sleeves were rolled to the elbows, exposing forearms corded with quiet strength from years of… whatever it was he actually did at his mysterious corporate-adjacent job. “If you burn dinner and it genuinely upsets you, call. I will bring alternatives.”

You snorted. “You’re going to regret this.”

“I do not make promises I regret.”

The grocery deliveries started next.

You came home from a long day to find a paper bag outside your door. Inside: fresh vegetables, premium rice, two perfectly ripe avocados, and a note in his neat handwriting.

Do not let these wilt. I will check on Thursday.

You sent him a photo of you dramatically hugging the bag. He replied:

Nanami: Acceptable. Eat the avocado tonight.

Then there were the phone calls.

One night you were walking home from the station after missing the last express train. The streets of Tokyo were still busy but the side alleys felt darker than usual. You called him without thinking.

He answered on the first ring.

“Is something wrong?”

“Just walking home. It’s late. Talk to me?”

A soft exhale on the other end. You could picture him at his desk, tie loosened, lamp casting warm light across his face. “You should have called earlier.”

“I’m calling now.”

“Stay on the line until you’re inside.”

He did. For twenty-three minutes he stayed on the phone. Describing the report he was finishing, asking about the book you’d been reading, occasionally reminding you to look both ways at crossings. When you finally locked your apartment door behind you, he said quietly, “Good. Lock the deadbolt as well.”

You smiled into the darkness of your entryway. “You’re really committing to this, huh?”

“I take my responsibilities seriously,” he repeated, but this time his voice had dropped into something softer. Almost warm.

You were starting to believe him.

The line between emergency and “I just want to hear your voice” blurred faster than you expected.

One evening you called him because you’d burned the bottom of a perfectly good pan trying to make stir-fry.

He answered with the now-familiar sigh. “… This is not an emergency.”

“Emotionally it is,” you replied, grinning as you scraped at the charred bits. “I ruined dinner and now I’m sad and hungry. Come save me, emergency contact.”

A long pause. You heard the sound of his chair creaking as he stood. “I’m twenty minutes away. Order something if you can’t wait. I’ll bring proper ingredients.”

He showed up with fresh salmon, ginger, and that same quiet intensity. You ended up eating together at your tiny table while he patiently showed you how to sear the fish without destroying the pan. His knee brushed yours under the table and neither of you moved it away.

Another night you lost your keys after a particularly chaotic day at work. You called him from the lobby of your building, voice sheepish.

He arrived in under fifteen minutes, still in his work clothes, carrying a spare set he’d apparently had made “just in case.” When you asked how he even got a copy, he simply said, “Efficiency.”

You laughed until your sides hurt. He watched you with that steady gaze, something unreadable flickering behind his glasses.

The domesticity was creeping in like morning fog over Tokyo Tower. Slow, quiet, impossible to ignore once it settled.

One Saturday afternoon he appeared at your door unannounced, holding a grocery bag and wearing a rare casual button-down instead of his usual suit. The top button was undone. You tried very hard not to stare.

“I noticed your fridge was low again,” he said, stepping inside like he belonged there. Which, apparently, he now did.

You leaned against the counter, watching him unpack with surgical precision. “You know, most emergency contacts just send a ‘hope you’re okay’ text.”

Nanami placed a carton of eggs in the fridge, then turned to face you. The late afternoon light filtering through your curtains caught the gold in his hair and made his eyes look softer than usual.

“I am not most emergency contacts.”

The air between you felt heavier suddenly. You swallowed.

“No,” you said quietly. “You’re not.”

He held your gaze for a long moment, then cleared his throat and went back to organizing your pantry.

But you both felt it, the shift. The way his presence in your space no longer felt like an overreaction, but something you were starting to crave. The way your heart stuttered every time his phone call started with that concerned “Is something wrong?” even when you both knew it wasn’t.

Nanami was taking his role seriously.

And somewhere along the way, you were starting to take him seriously too.

The next three weeks turned your quiet Shinjuku apartment into what could only be described as “Nanami’s Unofficial Annex.” The man moved with the quiet efficiency of someone who had never once been late to a meeting in his life, and somehow that efficiency had colonized your fridge, your schedule, and dangerously… your thoughts.

It started innocently enough. Or as innocently as anything could start when your emergency contact treated “checking on you” like a full-time side hustle.

Monday evening, you were sprawled on the couch after a brutal day of back-to-back meetings, nursing a budding headache and contemplating whether cereal counted as dinner. Your phone buzzed.

Nanami: Have you eaten?

You typed back quickly:

You: Working on it. Cereal is a food group, right?

The reply came in under thirty seconds.

Nanami: No. I’m ten minutes away. Do not touch the cereal.

You laughed out loud, the sound echoing in your empty living room. When he arrived, still in his charcoal suit, tie perfectly knotted despite the late hour. He was carrying two bentos from that tiny izakaya near his office. One for you, one for him. He set them on the table like a man presenting quarterly earnings.

“You didn’t have to come all the way here,” you said, already reaching for the chopsticks.

“I was in the neighborhood,” he lied smoothly. He had not been in the neighborhood. His office was in Minato. You knew this because you’d once accidentally called him during his commute and heard the distinct chime of the Tozai Line.

You ate together in comfortable silence, the only sounds were the clack of chopsticks and the low hum of the city outside your window. Halfway through, you caught him watching you with that focused stare he usually reserved for important documents.

“What?” you asked, cheeks warm.

“You’re eating slower than usual. Is the headache still bothering you?”

You nearly choked on a piece of tamago. “How did you—?”

“You rub your temple when it’s bad. You’ve done it three times since I sat down.”

You stared at him. “Nanami, that is terrifyingly observant.”

He adjusted his glasses, the faintest hint of smugness in the set of his shoulders. “It’s called paying attention.”

You pointed your chopsticks at him. “It’s called being a creep. A very helpful, suit-wearing creep.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. The Nanami version of a full belly laugh. “I’ll add that to the list of approved non-emergencies.”

Tuesday brought the grocery incident.

You came home to find your kitchen counter transformed. Fresh produce arranged with military precision: spinach, mushrooms, two perfect avocados (again), and a small note in his elegant handwriting.

These will go bad if unused by Thursday. I will verify.

You took a photo of yourself saluting the vegetables like a soldier and sent it to him with the caption:

You: Sir, yes sir! The produce has been secured.

Nanami: Acceptable. Also, the milk in your fridge expired three days ago. I replaced it.

You cackled so hard your neighbor probably thought you were losing it. The man was treating your kitchen like a hostile takeover.

By Thursday you’d decided to retaliate with chaos.

You called him at 7:42 PM exactly. His prime “just got home from work” hours.

He answered on the first ring, as always. “Is something wrong?”

“Yes,” you said, voice dripping with mock seriousness. “It’s a code red. I lost the TV remote and the batteries in the spare one died. I can’t watch my drama. This is an emotional crisis.”

A long, suffering sigh traveled through the line. You could practically see him pinching the bridge of his nose. “This is not an emergency.”

“It is if I miss the new episode. My heart will literally break. You’re my emergency contact. Fix it.”

Silence. Then the sound of a chair scraping back. “I’m bringing new batteries. Do not move from the couch. And for the love of… stop laughing.”

You were still giggling when he arrived twenty minutes later, batteries in hand and a takeout bag from your favorite ramen place tucked under his arm. He handed you the batteries with the air of a man surrendering to a hostage situation.

“You’re enjoying this far too much,” he muttered, loosening his tie as he sat beside you on the couch.

“Immensely,” you admitted, scooting closer under the pretense of making room. Your thigh pressed against his. Neither of you moved. “Admit it. You like being needed.”

Nanami glanced at you sideways, golden-brown eyes catching the glow of the TV. “I like knowing you’re taken care of. There’s a difference.”

Your stomach did a slow flip. The drama played on in the background, completely forgotten.

Friday night brought the late-night walk call.

You’d stayed late at a friend’s place in Shibuya and missed the last reasonable train. The streets were alive with neon and salarymen stumbling out of izakayas, but the shortcut through the quieter residential streets still made your skin prickle. You dialed him without thinking.

He picked up instantly. “Where are you?”

“Walking home from Shibuya. It’s fine, but… talk to me? Please?”

There was the soft rustle of fabric. It was him probably standing up from wherever he’d been. “Stay on the line. Describe what you see.”

So you did. The glowing signs for 24-hour konbinis, the couple arguing playfully outside a karaoke bar, the way the rain from earlier had left puddles that reflected the city lights like broken mirrors. Nanami listened without interrupting, occasionally murmuring small questions or warnings about crosswalks. His voice was a low, steady anchor in your ear.

When you finally reached your building and locked the door behind you, you leaned against it and exhaled. “Thank you. I feel silly for calling.”

“You’re not silly.” His tone had softened, the professional edge gone. “Call me every time. Even if it feels trivial.”

You bit your lip, heart thudding. “Even at 2 a.m. when I just want to hear your voice?”

A pause. Then, quieter: “Even then.”

Saturday afternoon was when the line blurred dangerously.

You’d twisted your ankle again. This time mildly, just from stepping wrong on the station stairs, and ended up at a small clinic near your apartment for a quick check. The nurse, a cheerful woman in her fifties with perfectly permed hair, took one look at Nanami (who had, of course, shown up the moment you texted him) and beamed.

“Oh! Your husband is here already? How sweet. Most men wait in the car.”

You opened your mouth to correct her. Nanami beat you to it.

He simply placed a steady hand on your shoulder and said, calmly, “How long until the x-ray results?”

The nurse nodded approvingly and bustled off.

You stared at him, mouth agape. “You didn’t correct her.”

Nanami adjusted his glasses, expression perfectly neutral. “It would have complicated the paperwork. Efficiency matters in medical settings.”

“You let her think we’re married.”

“I let her think whatever expedites your care.” He paused, then added almost under his breath, “The assumption is not… entirely unpleasant.”

Heat flooded your face. You poked his arm. “Nanami Kento, are you blushing?”

“I do not blush.” But the tips of his ears had gone faintly pink, and he refused to meet your eyes for the next five minutes.

The humor peaked that evening when you decided to test the boundaries of his “emotional distress” clause.

You called him at 9:17 PM while dramatically flopping on your bed.

“Emergency,” you announced the second he answered.

His voice was instantly alert. “What happened?”

“I burned the toast. Again. And now I’m questioning all my life choices. This is a full existential crisis. Come fix me.”

Dead silence. Then the longest, most theatrical sigh you had ever heard from the man.

“… You are going to be the death of me.”

“But you’ll still come, right?”

Another sigh, softer this time. “I’m already putting my shoes on. Try not to burn the apartment down before I arrive.”

When he showed up twenty-five minutes later with fresh bread and a small tub of butter, you greeted him at the door in your pajamas, grinning like an idiot.

He looked you up and down. The appearance of your hair messy, one sock missing made him shake his head. “You’re impossible.”

“You like it,” you teased, stepping aside to let him in.

Nanami paused in the genkan, toeing off his shoes with practiced ease. For a moment he just looked at you, the overhead light catching the sharp line of his jaw and the quiet warmth in his eyes.

“Yes,” he said simply. “I suppose I do.”

The air thickened. Your teasing smile faltered as something warmer, heavier, settled between you. He was standing close enough that you could smell his cologne mixed with the faint scent of Tokyo rain on his coat. Close enough to notice the way his gaze dropped briefly to your mouth before flicking back up.

Then he cleared his throat and headed for the kitchen like nothing had happened.

“Toast,” he declared. “Properly this time. No more existential crises on my watch.”

You followed him, heart racing, already wondering how much longer you could keep pretending this was just an emergency contact arrangement.

Because the way Nanami looked at you when he thought you weren’t watching? The way he showed up every single time, no matter how ridiculous the reason?

That wasn’t responsibility anymore.

That was something else entirely.

And you were starting to suspect he knew it too.

The clock on your nightstand glowed a soft 11:47 PM in cool blue digits, casting a faint light across the rumpled sheets of your bed in your modest Shinjuku apartment. Outside, Tokyo refused to sleep. The distant rumble of the last few trains on the Yamanote Line mixed with the occasional honk of a taxi and the low, persistent hum of neon signs flickering in the humid night air. A light drizzle had fallen earlier, leaving the streets glossy and reflective, the scent of wet asphalt and distant yakitori smoke drifting through the slightly cracked window. Your fan spun lazily on its lowest setting, stirring the warm air without doing much to cool the flush already creeping across your skin.

You lay on your back in nothing but an oversized soft cotton t-shirt that barely reached mid-thigh and a pair of simple black shorts, one leg bent, the other stretched out. The phone felt heavy in your hand as your thumb hovered over Nanami’s contact. The memory of the last few weeks. The grocery deliveries, the late-night walks where his voice anchored you through dark streets, the way he’d carried you without hesitation after your twisted ankle had been simmering beneath your skin like a slow-burning fuse. And that almost-kiss tension from the other evening when he’d shown up with fresh bread? It had left you restless, replaying the way his gaze had lingered just a second too long on your mouth.

Your heart thudded heavily as you pressed call. It rang only twice before he answered.

“Nanami speaking.” His voice was low, a little rough around the edges from what must have been a long day at the office. You could picture him perfectly: still at his desk in the quiet Minato high-rise, the overhead lights dimmed, his wire-rimmed glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, tie loosened by precisely two centimeters, sleeves rolled once to expose those strong forearms. The faint scent of his cologne would still cling to his collar even now.

You swallowed, suddenly nervous despite the liquid courage of your own thoughts. “Hey… It’s me.”

A brief pause. Then the familiar, concerned shift in his tone. “Is something wrong?”

The question made your stomach flutter. Even at nearly midnight, even when he was clearly still working, he answered like the world might be ending. You smiled into the darkness, biting your lower lip. “No. Not… technically an emergency. I just… wanted to hear your voice.”

Nanami exhaled softly. The sound you’d come to recognize as his version of fond exasperation. You heard the faint creak of his leather chair as he leaned back. “You know the rules. Non-emergencies can wait until reasonable hours.”

“But it feels like an emergency,” you murmured, your voice dropping naturally into something softer, more intimate. The fan whirred overhead, but the room suddenly felt warmer. “After the other night… when you were here fixing my toast and standing so close in the kitchen… I keep thinking about it. About you.”

Silence stretched for a heartbeat. When he spoke again, his voice had taken on that careful, measured quality he used when assessing a situation. “You’re calling because of that?”

You rolled onto your side, pressing the phone closer to your ear as if you could feel his presence through the line. “Partly. And partly because of the call we had before that. The teasing one.” Your fingers traced idle circles on the sheet, imagining they were tracing the line of his jaw instead. “You didn’t hang up. You stayed. And the way you sounded when you said you’d be… thorough. It’s been stuck in my head.”

Another pause, heavier this time. You could hear him breathing. Slow, controlled inhales that told you he was choosing his words with precision. “This conversation is venturing into territory that is… inappropriate for a phone call at this hour.”

The word “inappropriate” sent a thrill straight through you. Instead of backing down, you let your voice go quieter, a little breathier. “Is it? Or is it exactly the kind of emergency you signed up for when I listed you?”

Nanami made a low sound in his throat. Something between a sigh and a restrained growl that made the heat pool low in your belly. “You are pushing boundaries tonight.”

“I know.” You shifted on the bed, the sheets rustling softly. Your free hand rested on your stomach, fingers lightly pressing against the fabric of your t-shirt. “But you always answer. You always show up. And after all those times you’ve taken care of me… the groceries, the rides, the way you check my ankle like it’s the most important thing in the world… I’ve started wanting more than just your concern, Kento.”

Using his first name felt bold. Intimate. You heard the sharp intake of breath on his end.

“Say that again,” he murmured, voice dropping an octave.

“Kento.” The name rolled off your tongue like a secret. “I keep imagining what it would be like if you were here right now instead of at your desk. If instead of organizing my fridge or lecturing me about expired milk, you were… touching me. The way your hands are always so careful and steady. I wonder how they’d feel on my skin. Slow and thorough. Like everything else you do.”

The line went quiet except for the faint sound of fabric shifting. Perhaps him adjusting in his chair or running a hand through his neatly combed blonde hair. When he spoke, there was a new tension in his voice, controlled but unmistakably strained. “You have no idea what you’re asking for.”

“I think I do.” Your heart raced as you grew bolder, the late hour and the privacy of your dark bedroom making the words spill easier. “Tell me what you’d do if you were here. If this was a real emergency and I called you because I couldn’t stop thinking about you. Because I was… aching.”

Nanami cursed softly under his breath. A rare, quiet “Fuck” that sent electricity down your spine. He rarely swore, and hearing it now, rough and private, made your thighs press together instinctively.

“If I were there,” he began slowly, each word deliberate and measured, as if he were still trying to maintain some semblance of control, “I would start by making sure the door was locked. Then I would come to your bed and take off my glasses so I could see you clearly. No barriers.”

You let out a soft, involuntary sound, your hand sliding lower on your stomach. “And then?”

“Then I would kiss you properly. Not the almost-kiss we almost had in the kitchen. A real one. Slow at first, until you stop teasing and start needing. My hand on the back of your neck, holding you exactly where I want you.” His voice had gone lower, richer, the professional edge completely stripped away. It wrapped around you like warm velvet. “I would take my time undressing you. Peeling that t-shirt off until I could see every inch of skin I’ve been trying not to think about when I’m supposed to be working.”

Your breath hitched. The fan continued its lazy spin, but sweat was already beading at the small of your back. You slipped your hand beneath the hem of your shorts, fingers brushing lightly over sensitive skin as you pictured his large, capable hands doing the same. “Kento… keep going.”

He exhaled shakily, the sound raw. “I would touch you everywhere you’re aching. Starting with my fingers. Slow circles, learning exactly what makes you tremble. I’d watch your face the entire time, making sure you’re comfortable, making sure you say my name exactly the way you did just now. Then my mouth. Down your neck, across your chest, lower… until the only thing you can focus on is how thoroughly I’m taking care of you.”

A soft moan escaped your lips before you could stop it. Your fingers moved with more intent now, matching the rhythm he described, the phone pressed tight to your ear so you wouldn’t miss a single word. “God… your voice sounds so good like this. So controlled, but I can hear how much you want it too.”

“You have no idea how much restraint this is taking,” he admitted, voice rougher now, the words coming a little faster. “If I were in that apartment right now, I wouldn’t stop at fingers. I’d bury myself inside you. Deep, until you forget every ridiculous rule I made about emergencies. Until the only emergency is how badly you need me to keep moving.”

Your hips rolled instinctively against your hand, breath coming in short, quiet gasps. The details he painted were vivid: the weight of his body, the scrape of his stubble against your inner thigh, the steady, unrelenting focus in his golden-brown eyes as he watched you fall apart. “Kento… I’m so wet just from your voice. If you were here, I’d want you to feel it. Want you to—”

A low groan interrupted you, it was quiet but unmistakable. On his end, you heard the faint sound of a zipper or belt shifting, the chair creaking as he adjusted. The image of composed, always-perfect Nanami touching himself while on the phone with you sent another wave of heat crashing through you.

“Tell me how you feel right now,” he commanded softly, the words laced with that same serious intensity he used for everything else. “Describe it. I want to know exactly what I’m doing to you.”

Your voice trembled as you obeyed, words spilling out between soft sounds you couldn’t hold back. “My hand is between my legs… circling… imagining it’s your fingers instead. Or your tongue. I’m clenching around nothing, wishing it was you filling me up. Slow and deep like you said. I keep thinking about your tie… how I’d pull you closer by it while you—”

“Careful,” he warned, but there was dark amusement and raw want threaded through it. “If you keep talking like that, this call will end with both of us ruined for sleep.”

“That’s the point,” you whispered, your pace quickening as tension coiled tighter in your core. “I want you ruined for anyone else. Just like you’ve ruined me for normal emergency contacts.”

Nanami’s breathing had grown heavier, matching yours now. The professional mask had shattered completely, replaced by something hungry and devoted. “Then come for me. Right now. Let me hear it. Say my name when you do.”

The command, delivered in that calm, authoritative tone, pushed you over the edge. Your back arched off the bed, a broken “Kento—” spilling from your lips as pleasure crashed through you in waves. Sharp, trembling, and overwhelmingly intimate across the phone line. You rode it out with quiet gasps and whimpers, the phone nearly slipping from your grip.

On the other end, you heard his own low, restrained groan as he followed moments later, the sound muffled but no less powerful. For several long seconds, the only noise was both of you catching your breath, the fan still spinning lazily above you and Tokyo continuing its endless rhythm outside.

Finally, Nanami spoke first, voice hoarse but softening back toward that familiar steadiness. “... You are going to be the death of me.”

You laughed breathlessly, boneless and glowing with satisfaction. “But what a way to go.”

He sighed. Long, fond, and utterly exhausted in the best way. “Lock your door. Drink some water. And… we will discuss this properly tomorrow. In person. When I can look you in the eyes and decide whether to scold you or kiss you senseless.”

The promise in his words sent a final shiver through you. “I’m looking forward to both.”

“Goodnight,” he murmured, the word carrying layers of unspoken emotion.

“Goodnight, Kento.”

The call ended, but the warmth lingered in your chest and between your legs long after the screen went dark. You stared at the ceiling, heart still racing, a giddy smile spreading across your face.

Your emergency contact had just become something far more dangerous.

And you couldn’t wait to see what happened next.

The izakaya in the heart of Shinjuku was alive with the chaotic energy that only a Friday night after a successful project deadline could produce. Smoke from the grill mingled with the sharp scent of grilled yakitori, sizzling beef tongue, and endless rounds of beer and sake. Neon signs from the surrounding Kabukicho district bled through the windows, casting erratic red and pink glows across the wooden tables cluttered with empty plates, half-full glasses, and discarded wet wipes. Your team that consisted of about eight coworkers from the administrative department had been here since 7 PM, celebrating the closure of a massive client contract that had consumed the last three months of everyone’s life.

Laughter echoed off the walls as someone (probably Tanaka-san from accounting) launched into yet another off-key karaoke rendition of an old enka song on the small machine in the corner. You’d started with one beer to be polite. Then another because the boss insisted on “nomikai spirit.” Then sake shots because “it’s Friday and we survived!” By 12:30 AM, the world had taken on that pleasant, fuzzy warmth where everything felt hilarious and your limbs moved just a second slower than your brain.

You were drunk. Properly, giggly, warm-cheeked drunk.

Your coworkers finally started dispersing around 1:15 AM, waving sloppy goodbyes and promising to “do this again next quarter.” You declined the offer of a shared taxi. Since your apartment was only a fifteen-minute walk away after a quick train ride, and the fresh air sounded nice after hours in the smoky izakaya. The main streets of Shinjuku were still buzzing: salarymen stumbling out of host clubs, groups of young people queuing outside late-night karaoke bars, the iconic red neon of Kabukicho’s entrance glowing like a beacon. Billboard trucks blasted club beats as they rolled past, and the air carried the mingled smells of street food vendors shutting down, rain-damp pavement, and distant cigarette smoke.

You hummed to yourself as you turned onto a quieter side street, the click of your low heels echoing unevenly on the wet asphalt. The buzz in your head made the neon reflections in the puddles dance like colorful fireworks. Your work skirt felt a little too tight after all the food, and your blouse was slightly untucked, but none of it mattered. Because your mind kept drifting back to three nights ago.

That phone call.

Kento’s voice. How his voiced sounded so low, strained, and commanding in your ear. The way he’d described exactly what he’d do if he were in your bed. The sounds he’d made when he finally lost that ironclad control. The way he’d said your name like it was something precious and dangerous at the same time. Heat flushed through you again, mixing with the alcohol and making your steps even more unsteady.

You pulled out your phone, the screen too bright in the dim alley. Your thumb slipped twice before you managed to tap his contact. It rang three times, longer than usual. He must have been asleep.

When he answered, his voice was rough with sleep but snapped to full alertness instantly. “... Is something wrong?”

You giggled, the sound bright and tipsy, leaning against a streetlamp for balance as the world tilted pleasantly. “Nanamin~ Not a real emergency. Or… maybe it is now.” You hiccuped softly. “I’m drunk. Very, very drunk. We had nomikai for the project closing and they kept pouring sake and now I’m walking to the station because the last train is… soon? I think?”

A rustle on the other end. Sheets shifting, him sitting up quickly. You could picture him in his neat apartment somewhere in a quieter part of Tokyo, blonde hair slightly mussed for once, glasses probably already on. “You’re walking alone? At this hour? Tell me exactly where you are right now.”

You ignored the concern, too buoyed by liquid courage and the three-day-old memory burning in your chest. The side street was narrower here, lined with closed shuttered shops and the occasional vending machine humming softly. Fewer people, more shadows. But the alcohol made you bold.

“I wanted to tell you something important,” you continued, pushing off the lamppost and continuing your wobbly walk toward the brighter lights of the station a few blocks away. “After that phone call the other night… when you told me how you’d touch me… how thorough you’d be… I haven’t stopped thinking about it. Not once.”

“... You’re intoxicated,” he said carefully, but there was a new tension under the words. “We should talk about this when you’re sober.”

“But I mean it!” you protested, voice rising with drunken sincerity. Your free hand gestured wildly even though he couldn’t see. “I really like you, Kento. Seriously like you. Not just as the guy who stocks my fridge and sighs at my burned toast. Like… want-to-kiss-you-while-you’re-being-all-responsible like you. The kind that makes my stomach flip when you say my name all serious. After that call, everything feels different. I want more than check-in texts. I want you here. With me. Doing all the things you described and more.”

Silence stretched. You could hear his breathing. It was still measured but quicker now. When he spoke, his voice had dropped into that low, velvety register that had undone you before. “You’re making this very difficult to remain professional.”

“Good,” you laughed softly, the sound echoing down the quiet street. “Because I don’t want professional anymore. I want—”

Footsteps.

Heavy, deliberate footsteps behind you. Too close. You glanced over your shoulder, the pleasant buzz in your veins turning sharp with unease. Two men, their silhouettes in the dim light from a distant streetlamp had turned into the alley from the main road. One muttered something slurred about “pretty office lady walking alone” and “spare some cash?” The other laughed, low and unpleasant. They weren’t rushing, but they were closing the distance, weaving slightly like they’d had their own share of drinks.

Your pulse spiked. The station lights suddenly felt much farther away.

“Nanami—” Your voice cracked, the playful lilt gone. The alcohol made your reactions sluggish, your balance worse. “There’s someone… two guys behind me. They’re following—”

“Stay calm. Keep walking toward the station. Describe exactly what you see. Street signs, anything.” His tone shifted instantly to that sharp, commanding focus you’d heard only in true “emergency” moments. You heard him moving. Probably already pulling on clothes, keys jingling. “Do not hang up. I’m coming.”

One of the men called out louder now, voice thick with drink: “Oi, wait up! Just talk a minute!”

Your heart hammered. You tried to walk faster, but your heels caught on an uneven crack in the pavement. The phone nearly slipped from your sweaty palm. “Kento, they’re getting closer. I don’t—”

The line crackled as your grip faltered. A shout from behind. Your foot twisted, the same ankle you’d injured weeks ago, and pain shot up your leg. The phone tumbled from your fingers, clattering onto the wet pavement with a sharp crack.

The last thing you heard before the call cut off was Nanami’s urgent voice slicing through the night: “Stay on the line! Tell me your location right now!”

Then silence. Just your ragged breathing, the approaching footsteps, and the distant hum of Shinjuku’s never-sleeping streets.

You scrambled to pick up the phone, screen now spiderwebbed with cracks, but it wouldn’t light up properly. Panic cut through the alcohol haze like ice water. The men were only a few meters away now, one reaching out with a sloppy grin.

Your back hit the cold wall of a shuttered shop as you pressed yourself against it, heart pounding so hard it drowned out everything else.

In the distance, you thought you heard the faint wail of a siren or maybe it was just wishful thinking.

But one thing was certain: Kento Nanami was already on his way.

And when he arrived, the “emergency contact” role was about to become something far more permanent.

The cracked screen of your phone lay face-up on the damp pavement, spiderwebbed lines glowing faintly with the last remnants of battery before it finally went dark. The alley smelled of old rain, cigarette butts, and the faint greasy residue from a nearby closed ramen stall. Neon from the main Kabukicho streets bled weakly around the corner. The pink and red reflections dancing in puddles. But back here, in the narrow gap between shuttered buildings on one of those quieter side streets, the shadows felt heavier. The kind of back alley locals warned about after midnight, where the bright chaos of Shinjuku’s entertainment district gave way to pockets of trouble.

Your back pressed hard against the cold metal shutter of a closed shop, the ridges digging into your spine through your thin blouse. The alcohol still buzzed in your veins, making your head swim and your injured ankle throb sharply where you’d twisted it again trying to hurry. The two men were only a few meters away now, their silhouettes swaying slightly from their own drinking. One was taller, wearing a rumpled jacket that looked like it had seen too many late nights; the other shorter, with a sloppy grin and a hand already reaching into his pocket. Maybe for a cigarette, maybe for something worse.

“Oi, come on, don’t be like that,” the taller one slurred in thick Japanese, stepping closer. “Just a little chat. You look like you could use some company walking home.”

Your heart slammed against your ribs, the pleasant sake warmth turning to cold nausea. “I’m fine. My… my boyfriend is coming to pick me up,” you lied, voice higher than you wanted, trying to sound steadier than you felt. Your phone was useless now. Screen dead, no way to redial. The station lights seemed impossibly far, the distant roar of Shinjuku’s main streets mocking how isolated this narrow lane felt.

The shorter man laughed, low and unpleasant. “Boyfriend? Sure. Hand over your wallet and we’ll make sure you get there safe.”

Panic clawed up your throat. You edged sideways along the shutter, heel catching painfully on uneven pavement. The world tilted from the alcohol and fear combined. One of them lunged forward.

A new sound cut through the night: rapid, purposeful footsteps echoing from the alley entrance, moving fast. Then a voice that was calm, low, and edged with ice that sent a shiver down your spine for an entirely different reason.

“Step away from her. Now.”

Kento Nanami appeared at the mouth of the alley like a force of nature.

He must have run most of the way. His usually impeccable appearance was disheveled in a way you’d never seen: blonde hair slightly messy from the wind and haste, wire-rimmed glasses slightly askew, dress shirt untucked on one side beneath his hastily thrown-on coat, tie completely missing. His dress shoes that was still the polished ones from work had struck the pavement with sharp, deliberate clicks. Even breathing harder than normal, his expression was carved from granite, golden-brown eyes locked on the two men with terrifying focus. In his right hand, he held his phone like a lifeline; in the left, keys clenched so tightly the metal bit into his palm.

The men turned, surprised. The taller one sneered. “Mind your own business, suit. This doesn’t concern—”

“It concerns me.” Nanami’s voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to. The quiet authority in it. The same tone he used when establishing “emergency protocols” or describing exactly how he’d touch you over the phone made the air feel heavier. He closed the distance in long strides, positioning himself between you and the two strangers without hesitation. His broad frame blocked most of the dim light, casting you partially in his shadow. “She is under my protection. Leave.”

The shorter man laughed nervously, but there was uncertainty now. “Protection? Who the hell are you?”

“Her emergency contact.” Nanami adjusted his glasses with one finger, the gesture so familiar it was almost absurd at this moment. But his eyes never left them. “And if you take one more step toward her, this becomes a matter for the police. I already have your descriptions and the exact location recorded.”

He lifted his phone slightly. Screen still lit, showing an active call to emergency services on speaker, the operator’s faint voice asking for updates in the background. He must have dialed them the second your call dropped, multitasking while racing across Tokyo from Minato. The drive was only supposed to take around ten minutes in light traffic, but at 1:30 AM with him pushing every limit, he’d clearly abandoned the car at the nearest possible point and ran the rest on foot through the bustling streets.

The men exchanged glances. The taller one muttered a curse, sizing Nanami up. Tall, composed, radiating the kind of restrained strength that came from years of quiet discipline. Whatever they saw made them back down. “Tch. Whatever. Not worth it.”

They shuffled off, disappearing around the corner with grumbled complaints fading into the night noise of Shinjuku.

The moment they were gone, Nanami turned to you.

His expression cracked just slightly. The granite facade gave way to something raw: relief mixed with lingering fear, concern so deep it made his brow furrow. He crossed the remaining steps in an instant, one hand gently cupping your elbow to steady you while the other brushed a strand of hair from your face with surprising tenderness.

“Are you hurt?” His voice was quieter now, but still edged with that urgent focus. His eyes scanned you head to toe. Checking for injuries, noting the way you favored your ankle, the flush of alcohol and adrenaline on your cheeks. “Your phone cut off. I heard the fear in your voice. I came as fast as I could.”

You nodded shakily, the adrenaline crash hitting hard now that the immediate danger was gone. Tears pricked at your eyes partly from fear and partly from the overwhelming realization that he had dropped everything and sprinted through Tokyo’s night streets for you. “I’m… I’m okay. Just twisted my ankle again. And drunk. Really drunk. I’m sorry, Kento. I shouldn’t have walked alone. I was stupid and—”

“Shh.” He didn’t scold. Not yet. Instead, he shrugged off his coat and draped it over your shoulders, the fabric still warm from his body and carrying that familiar woody cologne. It enveloped you like a shield. “You’re safe now. That’s what matters.”

He crouched slightly to inspect your ankle, fingers careful and clinical even as his touch sent warmth spreading through you. Then he straightened, sliding one arm behind your back and the other under your knees without asking. You were lifted bridal-style again, just like after the first twisted ankle weeks ago, but this time it felt different. More intimate. More necessary.

“I’m taking you home,” he said simply, already walking out of the alley toward brighter streets where he’d left his car illegally parked near a konbini. “No arguments. The police can handle the report if needed, but right now you need water, rest, and that ankle elevated.”

You rested your head against his chest, listening to the steady thud of his heart. Still faster than normal from the run. The city lights blurred past as he carried you effortlessly, his steps sure despite the late hour and the lingering chaos of Shinjuku around you. Salarymen and night owls gave you curious glances, but Nanami ignored them all, focused entirely on you.

In the car, he buckled you in carefully, then drove with one hand on the wheel and the other occasionally reaching over to squeeze yours. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable. It was heavy with everything unsaid: your drunken confession still hanging in the air, the spicy phone call from nights ago, the way he’d come without hesitation.

When you finally reached your apartment, he carried you inside again, set you gently on the couch, and disappeared briefly into the kitchen. He returned with water, painkillers, a fresh ice pack, and a small towel to wrap it. Then he sat beside you, close enough that your thighs touched.

“You said some things on the phone,” he began quietly, adjusting his glasses as he looked at you. His voice had softened, the emergency mode easing into something warmer, more vulnerable. “About liking me. Seriously.”

You swallowed, the alcohol making you honest even as embarrassment crept in. “I did. And I meant it. After that call… after all the times you’ve shown up for me, even when it was just burned toast or a late walk… I realized it’s not just responsibility for you anymore. At least, I hope it’s not.”

Nanami was quiet for a long moment, then reached out and took your hand properly, thumb brushing over your knuckles. “It stopped being just a responsibility a long time ago.” He met your eyes steadily, the gold in them catching the soft lamp light. “I intend to continue showing up. Not because of a form you filled out. Because I want to. Because the thought of anything happening to you…”

He trailed off, then leaned in slowly to give you every chance to pull away. When you didn’t, he kissed you. Soft at first, almost testing, then deeper as weeks of tension finally broke. His hand cupped the back of your neck with that same careful thoroughness he’d described over the phone, lips warm and sure against yours.

When he pulled back, forehead resting against yours, he murmured, “We’ll talk more when you’re sober. But for now… rest. I’m staying right here.”

You smiled, exhausted but glowing, curling into his side as he pulled a blanket over both of you. The real emergency hadn’t been the alley, or the twisted ankle, or even the drunken walk.

It had been falling for your emergency contact.

And tonight, he had proven he would always come running.

The morning after the alley incident dawned soft and gray over Tokyo, the kind of quiet Saturday where the city seemed to breathe a little slower. Pale light filtered through the curtains of your Shinjuku apartment, catching dust motes in lazy spirals. Your head throbbed faintly from the lingering sake, but the ice pack Nanami had carefully reapplied twice during the night had done wonders for your ankle. You woke to the smell of fresh coffee and something savory. It was miso soup, rice, and the faint sizzle of eggs.

Kento was already in your kitchen, moving with that familiar, quiet efficiency. He wore the same dress shirt from last night, sleeves rolled to the elbows, the top two buttons undone. His hair was slightly tousled from sleep on your couch, glasses perched on his nose as he plated breakfast with surgical precision. When he noticed you stirring, he glanced over, expression softening in that subtle way only you seemed to recognize now.

“Good morning,” he said, voice low and warm. “How’s the ankle? And the head?”

“Better,” you murmured, sitting up slowly. The blanket he’d tucked around you smelled like him. “Thanks to you. Again.”

He brought the tray over without comment, settling beside you on the couch. You ate together in comfortable silence, the events of last night hanging between you like a shared secret. The drunken confession, the fear in the alley, the kiss that had finally bridged weeks of slow-burn tension.

After breakfast, he helped you to the small dining table where a fresh stack of paperwork waited. The university annex had sent over updated insurance forms via email, asking you to confirm or change your emergency contact.

You picked up the pen, glanced at him, then wrote without hesitation:

Name: Kento Nanami Relationship: Partner

He watched you slide the form across the table. When he saw what you’d written, the corner of his mouth twitched.The closest thing to a full smile you’d ever coaxed out of him.

“Good,” he said simply, adjusting his glasses. Then, quieter: “Very good.”

The rest of the day passed in gentle domesticity. He ran errands for more groceries while you rested your ankle. He changed the ice pack, massaged the swelling with careful hands, and didn’t complain once when you teased him about his overprotective rules. But beneath the easy rhythm, the air crackled with unfinished business. The memory of the phone call three nights ago lingered. His rough voice describing exactly what he’d do if he were here. The way he’d lost control just enough to groan your name. The kiss last night had only been a promise.

By evening, the tension had grown thick enough to taste.

You were both on the couch again, a movie playing softly on the TV as background noise. Your legs were draped over his lap, his hand resting possessively on your thigh just above the knee. The city lights outside painted shifting patterns across the walls.

“Kento,” you said softly, turning to face him. “About that phone call…”

He stilled, thumb pausing its slow circle on your skin. His eyes met yours. Steady, but with heat banked behind the calm. “Yes?”

“I meant every word I said when I was drunk. And I want… what you described. Not over the phone this time.” Your voice dropped, bold but vulnerable. “I want you here. Thorough. Like you promised.”

Nanami exhaled slowly, the sound shaky with restraint. He set the remote aside and turned fully toward you, one large hand cupping your cheek. “Are you sure? You were injured last night. The alcohol—”

“I’m sober now. Ankle’s manageable. And I’ve wanted this since you first carried me like I was something precious.” You leaned into his touch, pressing a kiss to his palm. “Please.”

That was all it took.

He kissed you then. Deep, deliberate, nothing like the tentative brush from the night before. His mouth moved against yours with focused intent, tongue tracing your lower lip until you opened for him. The taste of him flooded your senses. His free hand slid up your thigh, under the hem of the oversized t-shirt you’d changed into, fingers splaying warm and steady against bare skin.

When he pulled back, his voice was rougher, that controlled baritone edged with hunger. “Bedroom. Now.”

He didn’t wait for you to stand. In one smooth motion, he lifted you bridal-style again, carrying you the short distance to your bed as if you weighed nothing. The room was dim, lit only by the city glow through the curtains and the soft lamp on the nightstand. He laid you down gently on the sheets, then straightened to remove his glasses, setting them on the bedside table with careful precision.

You watched, breath catching, as he unbuttoned his shirt slowly, revealing the lean, toned torso you’d only imagined during those late-night calls. Broad shoulders, defined chest, the faint trail of hair leading downward. He was beautiful in that quiet, powerful way. Every movement efficient yet charged with restrained desire.

Nanami climbed over you, caging you with his arms. His mouth found your neck, kissing a slow path down to your collarbone while his hands worked the hem of your t-shirt upward. “Tell me if anything hurts,” he murmured against your skin. “I need to know exactly how you feel.”

The shirt came off. Cool air met heated skin as he took his time looking at you. Eyes dark with want, but still so focused, so devoted. “Beautiful,” he whispered, almost to himself. Then his mouth was on you again, lips closing around one nipple while his hand palmed the other, thumb circling until you arched with a soft moan.

Your fingers threaded through his hair, tugging lightly. “Kento… more.”

He obliged with that same thoroughness he applied to everything. His hands mapped every inch of you. Sliding your shorts and underwear down your legs, careful of your ankle. Fingers traced the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, teasing higher until they brushed where you were already slick and aching.

“So wet already,” he murmured, voice low and approving. One finger slid through your folds, circling your clit with deliberate, slow pressure. “Is this what you imagined during the call?”

“Yes—” The word broke into a gasp as he pressed one finger inside you, then two, curling them just right while his thumb continued its steady rhythm. He watched your face the entire time, cataloging every hitch of breath, every tremble. “Just like that… God, your hands—”

“My hands are only the beginning.” He kissed down your stomach, settling between your legs. The first touch of his tongue made your hips jerk. He held you steady with one arm across your waist, licking and sucking with focused precision. Alternating between broad strokes and tight circles until your moans filled the room. He groaned against you, the vibration sending sparks up your spine. “You taste even better than I imagined.”

Pleasure coiled tight and fast. Your thighs trembled around his shoulders as he worked you higher, fingers pumping steadily while his mouth devoured you. “Kento— I’m close—”

“Come for me,” he commanded softly, the same authoritative tone from the phone call now delivered in person. “Let me feel it.”

You shattered with a cry of his name, back arching off the bed as waves of pleasure crashed through you. He didn’t stop until you were trembling and oversensitive, only then kissing his way back up your body.

When he reached your mouth again, you could taste yourself on his lips. His erection pressed hot and heavy against your thigh through his slacks. You reached down, palming him through the fabric. “Your turn. I want you inside me.”

Nanami made a low sound in his throat and shed the rest of his clothes with efficient movements. He was thick, hard, the sight of him making fresh heat pool between your legs. He rolled on a condom from his wallet (always prepared), then positioned himself between your thighs, the blunt head of his cock nudging your entrance.

“Slow at first,” he promised, echoing his words from the call. “I want to feel every inch of you.”

He pushed in gradually, stretching you deliciously. Both of you groaned at the sensation. When he bottomed out, he stilled, forehead pressed to yours, breathing ragged. “You feel incredible.”

Then he began to move with deep, measured thrusts that built steadily. One hand braced beside your head; the other gripped your hip, angling you just right so every stroke hit that perfect spot inside. His pace was controlled but relentless, the way only Nanami could be by being utterly focused on your pleasure.

You wrapped your legs around him (careful of the ankle), nails digging into his back as the coil wound tight again. “Harder… Kento, please—”

He obliged, hips snapping with more force while still keeping that devastating rhythm. Sweat slicked your skin where you pressed together. His mouth claimed yours in a messy kiss, swallowing your moans. “That’s it. Say my name again.”

“Kento!” You came a second time, clenching around him hard enough to pull a broken groan from his throat. He followed moments later, burying himself deep with one final thrust, hips stuttering as he spilled inside the condom with a low, satisfied sound that vibrated against your neck.

For long minutes afterward, you stayed tangled together, his weight a comforting press as he caught his breath. He pulled out carefully, disposed of the condom, then returned with a warm cloth to clean you both. Only then did he lie beside you, pulling you into his chest.

“You are going to be the death of me,” he murmured, echoing the words from the phone call, but this time with a fond, sated smile tugging at his lips.

You laughed softly at the familiar statement, tracing patterns on his chest. “But what a way to go. So… does this mean the emergency contact role is permanent?”

Nanami kissed the top of your head, arm tightening around you. “It was never just a role. From the moment you listed me, I was yours. And I intend to keep showing up for every emergency, every burned dinner, every late-night walk, and every night like this.”

He paused, then added with that dry humor you loved, “Though I may need to update the rules. ‘Anything that requires me’ now includes this. Frequently.”

You grinned against his skin. “Dangerous policy, Nanami Kento.”

“Worth it,” he said simply.

Outside, Tokyo continued its endless rhythm. Trains running, lights glowing, life moving forward. But inside your apartment, the world had narrowed to the steady beat of his heart under your cheek and the quiet promise of mornings, nights, and everything in between.

Your accidental emergency contact had become your everything.

And neither of you would have it any other way.

© 𝐟𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐲 ; 𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐤𝐢 - 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝

[cherry-city]

This is it. This is THE Nanami piece y’all should be enjoying today!

[satoruined]

geto used to kiss you after missions. deeply.

greedy, almost juvenile in his fervour—palms cupping your face, lips on yours before you even had time to say hello. your lips, your breath, your touch: his reward. like a child choking down bitter medicine, then chasing it with something sweet.

but something changed. he’d press a hand to the nape of your neck, lean in like he meant to kiss you… and then, at the last second, his lips would skim past yours. a chaste peck to your temple or cheek. the corner of your mouth, if anything. anywhere but where you wanted him most.

ingesting curses had always been part of his technique. but lately, it had become unbearable. the aftertaste coated his tongue like bile-soaked gauze. but what he feared most was the association: like some sort of fucked-up classical aversion. what once brought him comfort—you—could be irrevocably rewired into revulsion. (no, he wouldn’t allow something so foul to embed itself in the memory of you. that would be desecration.)

kisses became rare. only when he was sure the aftertaste was gone, when he’d cleansed his mouth with tea or menthol rinse, waited hours. only then did he allow himself the indulgence.

you were so sweet and understanding about it, too. never once complained, though he could see the hurt in your eyes each time he shied away.

years later, standing alone in his temple, he presses two fingers to his lips and realises with a pang of regret:

he should’ve kissed you more.

[tojisbabydollie]

Holy fucking shit!!!!

[belimah]

art by Rox

[cherubstatic]

♡ sukuna overhears you defending him !

────────୨ৎ────────

the kitchen is warm with late evening light.

you’re sitting at the counter scrolling on your phone while waiting for the kettle to boil, occasionally humming to yourself between sips of tea.

from the living room, you can hear sukuna and uraume arguing about something completely ridiculous.

again.

“your strategy is inefficient,” uraume says flatly.

“your face is inefficient,” sukuna replies immediately.

you snort into your cup.

a few moments later, uraume walks into the kitchen looking deeply exhausted in a way only sukuna can cause.

“how have you tolerated him this long?”

you glance up innocently. “hm?”

uraume gestures vaguely toward the other room. “he’s rude, violent, egotistical, impossible to reason with, and refuses to admit when he’s wrong.”

from the living room:

“i can still hear you.”

“good,” uraume answers coldly.

you hide your smile behind your cup.

────────୨ৎ────────

♡ unfortunately, you think he’s cute ♡

“i think he’s sweet,” you say casually.

silence.

actual, genuine silence.

even the kettle seems stunned.

uraume stares at you like you just confessed to enjoying drywall as a snack.

“…sweet.”

“mhm.”

“ryomen sukuna.”

“that’s the one.”

from the other room comes the sound of movement.

Heavy movement.

Like somebody who definitely wasn’t listening suddenly deciding to relocate closer.

uraume narrows their eyes. “he threatened a waiter last week because they forgot your extra sauce.”

you shrug. “yeah, but he remembered i wanted extra sauce.”

“he called the waiter spiritually useless.”

“in his defense,” you mumble, “the service was kinda bad.”

uraume looks horrified now.

“You’re enabling him.”

────────୨ৎ────────

♡ the king of curses enjoys praise a little too much ♡

before you can answer, a large hand settles on top of your head.

warm. heavy.

you look up.

sukuna stands behind your chair, expression unreadable except for the tiny curl at the corner of his mouth.

“Keep talking,” he says lazily. “This is the nicest thing anyone’s said about me in centuries.”

your face heats instantly.

“You were eavesdropping?!”

“You’re loud.”

“You have enhanced hearing!”

“And you have good taste.”

uraume looks between the two of you with the exhausted expression of someone realizing this dynamic is beyond saving.

“unbelievable,” they mutter.

sukuna ignores them completely.

instead, he leans down slightly, resting his chin atop your head for exactly one second before straightening again.

small.

brief.

but enough to make your brain short-circuit.

────────୨ৎ────────

♡ bonus : he’s never letting this go ♡

“Oi,” he says suddenly.

you blink up at him. “what?”

“Say the sweet part again.”

Your jaw drops. “Absolutely not.”

His grin widens immediately.

Uraume leaves the kitchen without another word.

Coward. ────────୨ৎ────────

♡ a/n : hope you guys enjoyed !! thank u for reading <3 mwahh

All rights reserved ©cherubstatic 2026  Do not copy, repost, translate, modify, or claim my work as your own on any platform.

[lullabylovers]

Toji’s heart…

after the death of his wife Toji falls in love one more time, and his fear of losing him shows in controlling behavior. Will you both find a solution for it?

The realization that Toji was in love with you made him furious at himself.

How stupid and foolish of him, of his fucking heart for wanting you this way. Love meant vulnerability and vulnerability meant loss.

He had learned that lesson years ago when he stood beside a grave with dirt under his fingernails and realized the only person who had ever truly loved him was gone.

This man had fucking tried keeping you at arms length. But there you were, slipping through every crack in the walls he had built around himself.

You left hair ties around his apartment. A blue, green and two black ones. Who needed that fucking many?

Then his shirts randomly disappeared, only to show up after you showered. “Because they smell like you,” you had said like a sweet angel. Fuck.

In the same breath you complained about his cleaning habits. Laughed at terrible movies and cried during romantic movies.

You touched him with love, softly. You peeked behind the facade of muscles and liked what you saw.

Unbelievable. Toji got used to it.

Fuck, he liked coming home to you and your food and warm kisses. Got used to the excited gasp in your voice when you said his name.

He learned to need your body curled against his warmly at night.

It terrified him. And it fucking terrified him more what it did to him.

“Text me when you get home.”

“Call me if you’re out late.”

“You goin’ alone?”

At first you thought that was so sweet of him. Your big, protective man always worried about you and interested in what you did and when you did it. Until it wasn’t so sweet anymore.

Suddenly Toji needed to know everything. Who you were with. Where you were going. Why you took thirty minutes to answer his messages.

If someone looked at you too long on the street, his jaw locked. If a man got too friendly with you, Toji appeared at your side like a threat carved from muscle and shadows.

Every time you pushed back, he pushed fucking harder.

“You don’t need to go,” he said one evening when you grabbed your jacket.

“It’s Mina’s birthday.” Mina was a coworker who became a dear friend.

“You saw her last week.”

You stared at him from across the apartment. “Toji.”

“What?”

“You’ve been weird for months.”

He scoffed and leaned against the kitchen counter. “Weird.”

“Yes, weird.” You crossed your arms. “You act like I need permission to leave the apartment.”

His expression darkened immediately as he gritted out, “didn’t say that.”

“Wasn’t necessary,” you muttered.

You grabbed your bag anyway, but before you could pass him, his hand caught your wrist. This… You didn’t like this at all.

Of course it didn’t hurt, but your breath caught and your heart stuttered.

Toji had the manner to freeze too, like he realized what he’d done a second too late.

“Don’t go tonight.”

Your brows pulled together. “Why?”

“Just don’t.”

“That’s not an answer.”

His grip tightened slightly. Now you weren’t a meek little mouse and neither you were afraid of your man. He never gave you a reason to fear him.

So, the irritation was a logical consequence.

“Stop acting like you own me, Toji.”

The words hit him hard. Something cracked behind his green eyes. His fingers slipped from your wrist like he’d burned himself.

For a long moment he said nothing. He stood there frighteningly still, and you didn’t know - didn’t know how hard his heart pounded, screamed.

He dragged a hand down his face and laughed once, bitterly, under his breath. “My wife died.”

“Wh-What?”

Toji looked away toward the dark apartment window. “She left for a few hours and never came back.”

The room suddenly felt too small. Tears filled your eyes as his words settled so fucking heavy in your chest.

You had known almost nothing about his past. Toji avoided personal conversations like they physically pained him. Every question about his life before you ended with a shrug or a dismissive grunt. But now the words were spilling out of him like blood from a wound he couldn’t close.

“I kept thinkin’,” he muttered roughly, “if I’d gone with her that day… maybe things would’ve been different.”

Your anger dissolved instantly. And no, no, no. You had suspected that someone hurt him in the past, but that hurt.

“Toji…”

“She was the only good thing I ever had.” His jaw tightened violently. “Then she died.”

There was the real reason. Fear. Raw, ugly fear.

He finally looked at you, and it startled you more than shouting ever could because Toji Fushiguro looked terrified. On the brink of loosing his mind, because he could loose you.

“I know I’m screwin’ this up,” he admitted quietly. “I know that.”

His hand flexed at his side, because he wanted to reach for you but didn’t think he deserved to.

“But every time you walk out that door…” He swallowed harshly. “My head keeps tellin’ me you won’t come back either.”

Your chest ached, because suddenly all the controlling behavior made horribly sense. Oh, this hurts. This hurts so much.

Toji wasn’t trying to cage you. He was trying to outrun grief, trying to hold fate by the throat before it could steal from him again.

Maybe that didn’t excuse the way he acted, but oh fuck, you understood it now.

Slowly you stepped towards him and Toji stiffened warily. This is it, huh, his expression seemed to scream.

“Toji,” you cupped his cheeks softly and kissed the scar on his lips. “You can’t love me like I’m already dead.”

“I don’t know how not to.”

Oh, this man - your man - was in emotional pain and it nearly broke you. You hugged him, clung to his chest where you always felt the safest.

One second passed. Then two, three.

And then his strong arms wrapped around your middle as he pulled you close. The world might fucking rip you away if he loosened his grip. That’s what his brain and scared heart told him.

For a long time he stayed still in your arms. So still that you could hear the uneven rhythm of his breathing against your shoulder. Feel the tension trembling through him beneath the weight of your hands.

He was holding himself together by force alone.

You brushed your fingers through his black hair patiently until some of the tightness left his body.

“We’ll figure it out,” you whispered against his temple. “We’ll fight when we need to fight. We’ll talk when things get bad. And when you’re scared, you tell me instead of trying to control everything by yourself.”

Your hand slid down to his cheek, guiding him back to look at you.

“I’m not asking you to stop loving me, Toji. I’m asking you to trust that loving me doesn’t mean losing me.”

Toji shattered. A tiny, broken sound trapped somewhere deep in his chest and he buried his face into the crook of your neck.

Nothing could’ve prepared you for the warm wetness spilling from his eyes right onto your skin. Your heart cracked open at the feeling because this man - this wonderful man - would rather bleed out than cry in front of someone.

Yet here he was, holding you like you were the only thing keeping him alive. You tightened your arms around him immediately.

“It’s okay,” you murmured softly. “I’m here.”

Toji only nodded against your neck. For the first time since you had known him, he allowed himself to be held together instead of pretending he wasn’t falling apart with each day passing.

[eviepuffs]

your husband hiromi never misses an anniversary—until now.

tags: higuruma x reader, husband!hiromi, gn!reader, hurt/comfort (kinda?), married life shenanigans, based on this ask

hiromi stares at the date and time on his phone.

fuck.

it's your wedding anniversary. he only realized that two minutes ago, and it's already a few minutes past eleven at night. to make things worse, he's still at the firm, still buried in cases and documents that suddenly feel meaningless in his hands.

hiromi's gaze flicks back to the screen—to your message, still unread until earlier.

are you coming home early tonight?

and his reply—too quick, too thoughtless:

still busy.

that's what he sent you. that's what you'll be reading alone.

you already bore with too much of his missed dinners, missed dates, missed breakfasts, but never a missed anniversary—not until now, at least.

shit.

hiromi exhales sharply through his nose, already standing, already gathering his things—movements efficient, practiced, automatic. but there's a tension in him now, something tighter than exhaustion, because this isn't just another late night.

it's this night.

his mind scrambles as he locks his office drawer.

flowers? everything's closed.

dinner? everything's closed.

a reservation? what a joke.

even the convenience store options feel insulting in his head.

still, he's moving. still trying, still late.

the elevator ride down feels too slow. every second stretches in a way that makes him more aware of how badly he's already failed the night.

by the time he steps into his car, his fingers are already dialing a florists he knows is open late for emergencies.

it rings—once, twice, then—

the tone flats. closed, of course.

he grips the steering wheel a little tighter.

“of course,” he grits out.

the drive home is quiet, but absolutely not peaceful. his thoughts don't let him settle into it. they keep circling back to one thing:

you were waiting, and probably still are.

you probably expected to see him beside you first thing in the morning. you probably expected flowers at your door by noon. maybe a call to a nice dinner out in the evening.

instead, you got a cold reply from him telling you he's still busy.

when he finally gets home, the house is dim. hiromi steps inside slowly, loosening his tie halfway out of habit before stopping entirely when he notices something: no warm greeting, no sound of footsteps, just... stillness.

then he sees you sitting on the couch. not asleep, but waiting, and that's somehow worse.

hiromi closes the door behind him more gently than usual.

“sweetheart,” he breathes out. “look, i'm s—”

“have you eaten?”

hiromi pauses at your interruption. he swallows down any excuses in his throat. “...i haven't,” he admits. “if you want, i can look for a res—”

“i already set aside dinner for you,” you cut in again. “i'll go to bed.”

he hastily rushes to your side. “sweetheart, thank you for dinner. have you eaten? maybe we can eat to—”

“i'm full.”

hiromi sucks in a breath. “...okay,” he whispers. “alright. come here.” he leans in to press a kiss against your cheek, but the way you tilt your head away even the slightest bit makes hims freeze.

“wow,” you chuckle humorlessly, “bold.”

“i'm sorry,” hiromi immediately says. “i remembered late. i know that's not—” he sighs, “—enough. i... got busy.”

that's when you look at him properly, and it makes him straighten up.

“i wasn't asking for the perfect night,” you say softly. “i just wanted you know you remembered it was ours.”

hiromi's jaw tightens slightly. “i did,” he says, quieter now. “just not when it mattered.”

“that's the thing, hiromi.”

he goes still at his name like that.

you continue despite it. “i keep being understanding. i keep moving things around so your life works.” you look away before adding, “and i think i stopped being something you have to make time for.”

hiromi's feet move on their own. by the next second, he's already crouched in front of you.

“tell me what you need,” he says quietly. “...please, sweetheart. i'll do anything, just... don't shut me out.”

the next morning, you wake up alone. you blink up at the ceiling, thoughts drifting off to last night. with a heavy chest, you drag yourself off to bed before heading out to the kitchen to make yourself breakfast.

just when you step out of the room, you freeze at the sound of dishes clinking. your eyes flicker to the wall clock nearby—it's already nine in the morning, hiromi should be out by now. when you reach the kitchen, you find him in there, setting the table.

hiromi glances up when he hears you.

“...good morning,” he greets.

he doesn't approach, doesn't reach out, doesn't initiate anything. instead, he gestures at the table and says, “i made breakfast.”

you don't argue, but you don't thank him either.

later that day, you're baffled to see him still at home. you're so used to him leaving early to the firm that the sight of him at his home office is unusual.

“...you're not going in?” you ask.

hiromi doesn't look up from the document in his hands.

“i called in,” he simply responds.

you blink. “you never do that.”

“i know.” hiromi sets the file down. “i wanted to be here.”

not for work, not because he had nothing to do, just... here. with you. still, you don't respond, but you don't tell him to leave, either.

the next day, hiromi's still trying. not loudly, just consistently. he offers you snacks he knows you like while you review your own paperwork. he keeps the house quieter than usual, doesn't bring cases home this time. he, without a fail, checks on you without hovering too much.

still, the distance is obvious. you talk, but it's surface-level. you respond, but you don't soften.

and it's starting to get to him.

it happens in the evening. you're folding laundry without a word, the tv showing some soap opera from years ago. hiromi's been watching you for a while now—quiet, hesitant, like he's been building up to something.

“are you still upset with me?” he asks.

you don't look up. “you know i am.”

“i do.” a pause. “...i just don't know if it's getting any better.”

that makes your hand still. you finally look at him, and you finally see how tired your husband looks. not from work, from this. from not knowing where he stands with you.

“i don't know how to do this part,” he admits quietly.

that's new. hiromi higuruma always knows what to do. but somehow, not this.

“i can argue cases,” he continues, voice low. “i can fix problems when i understand them.” he steps closer. “but i don't know how to fix hurting you like this.”

hiromi crouches in front of you again. slowly, he lowers his head until his forehead rests on your thighs.

“i'm trying,” he weakly says. “sweetheart, i've been trying since that night.”

he presses himself closer to the warmth of your skin.

“i just don't know if you can see it.”

your chest tightens slightly. your hands fist the shirt you're holding just to stop yourself from forgiving him too quickly and pulling him up for an embrace. you were hurt, too.

“sweetheart,” hiromi murmurs, almost in a whimper, “you're staying too far away from me.”

your breath hitches. you hate that tone—not because it annoys you, but because it gets to you. every. time. still, you don't move.

hiromi almost whines from your lack of reaction. the famous atty. higuruma, feared and revered all the same, reduced to this mess. he can't complain—he brought it upon himself.

“...sweetheart,” he murmurs hoarsely. “please talk to me.”

“what do you want me to say, hiromi?” you ask quietly. that makes him freeze. there's no anger in your voice, just pure exhaustion, and that scares him.

hiromi swallows. “anything,” he admits. “just... anything that isn't silence.” his hand shifts slightly against your leg, like he's grounding himself there.

your hand tightens around the fabric in your hands. “i'm trying not to give in too easily,” you admit weakly. “to you, to this. because if i do, then it feels like what happened didn't matter as much as it did.”

“it mattered,” he says immediately. “it still does. sweetheart, please. i'm sorry.”

for a moment, there is silence again. his shoulders droop a little. then, slowly, you shift. your hand moves, hesitant at first, before resting lightly against the back of his head. your fingers thread through his hair as he keeps his face buried on your thighs.

“you're making this hard,” you murmur.

he lets out a quiet, almost breathless sound, a poor attempt at a chuckle.

“i know,” he whispers. “i'm sorry.”

your thumb brushes faintly against the crown of his head.

“i waited for you,” you say, voice soft. “i kept checking the time, telling myself you'd walk in any second.” your voice dips. “i even reheated dinner twice.”

that breaks him. you see it in the was his shoulders drop completely this time, in the way his hand presses more firmly against your leg like he needed something to hold on to.

“i'm sorry,” hiromi says again, but it's different now. quieter, heavier. “i'm so sorry.” his hands lift from your legs before gently resting at your waist.

“can i try again?” he asks softly. “not the day. i know i can't redo that.” he moves his face from your thighs to your stomach, still kneeling on the floor. “can i try again with you?”

your heart stutters. if there's one thing you know hiromi doesn't like, it's quick fixes. you just know he's being genuine. still, you two have a long way to go.

you study him for a second second longer before humming, “you already are.”

a/n: ermm didn't know what to do with the ending, so i made it (kinda) open... i love writing begging hiromi it just fits him so well

taglist : @sunkssedhayamee @plasticsheepponycollector @alebrasil0101 @r1ova @mischivana @icyshadewhisper thank you for the support! ꒰ ᐢ . . ᐢ ꒱

[mononijikayu]

the comforts of home — nanami kento.

it was such a thought, one can suppose. but that's all he has in him at the moment. itadori yuji had been gnawing at the corner of his wooden chopsticks for a good minute, fuschia brows furrowed like he was solving some great cosmic riddle that could never be solved.

finally, he said, “okay, but seriously, i've been curious about. what does nanamin do after work? like, he just leaves. always so…quiet. where does he even go?”

nobara rolled her eyes. “home, obviously. probably sits in a sterile apartment, eats salad without dressing, and reads economic forecasts.”

yuji gasped. “that’s worse than what i was imagining!”

they both turned to dark haired young man, who had been doing his best impression of a brick wall. yuji leaned over the table until his face was nearly into fushiguro megumi's own features.

“c’mon, you know, right? spill it.”

“no.” megumi said flatly.

“that’s not a no, i suppose.” nobara accused, pointing her chopsticks.

“it is a no.” megumi insisted, irritation flickering in his blue-green eyes. “and even if i did know, i wouldn’t tell you. it’s none of your business.”

yuji deflated, flopping dramatically onto the table. “why is he so mysterious?!”

later, they cornered gojo satoru in the hall. he was humming to himself, sunglasses perched lazily on his nose. he was enjoying the sun, drinking his favorite cola (too sweet for consumption) drink.

"yo sensei!" yuji waves at him.

gojo smiles, waving back. "it's my kids! look at you doing so well~"

"we aren't your kids." megumi huffed, crossing his arms.

"ack! not my own son saying that to me. i'm disappointed, megumi!"

megumi rolls his eyes. "so am i."

nobara sighs. "can we just ask him what we came to ask him?"

“oh yeah! sensei, where does nanamin go after work?” yuji demanded.

gojo smiled, tilting his head. “curious little kittens, aren’t you?”

“just answer it already, sensei.” nobara said, arms crossed. "we've been thinking about it instead of training."

for once, gojo didn’t tease. he only adjusted his glasses, the smile softening but not losing its distance. “hm....but that’s not my story to tell.” he said simply, and walked away. "sorry curious cats, that's just how it is!"

yuji and nobara were left staring after him, more frustrated than before but also unsettled. megumi sighed and excused himself. gojo satoru continued to look at the sky, taking a sigh.

the truth, at that hour, was unfolding elsewhere. nanami kento slipped off his tie the moment he stepped through the door, hanging it neatly on the rack beside the light switch.

his fine leather shoes followed, lined up with quiet, accurate precision. he exhaled a long, tired breath for a moment, then let his shoulders soften.

the apartment smelled faintly of lavender and something sweet, the diffuser in the corner doing its work. he carried two bags of groceries into the kitchen, setting them down carefully. a clock ticked softly on the wall.

“darling?” he called, voice gentle.

a shuffle of movement answered him. in the living room, you sat curled comfortably in an armchair, your hair pinned back loosely, a blanket pooled over your knees.

you looked up as he entered, your eyes bright but unfocused, your expression uncertain. “oh, i....i see.” you said softly, tilting your head. “hello.”

kento’s chest tightened in the way it always did. he smiled anyway, steady and patient. “hello.” he murmured. “it’s me. kento.”

you blinked back at him. a flicker of recognition almost passed through your features. then it slipped away, leaving polite bewilderment.

he walked over and knelt at your side, lowering himself until his tender, vulnerable face was level with yours. he gave you a soft smile, a smile that had long belonged only to you.

“may i sit with you?” he asked, even though he always did.

you nodded slowly. he took your hand, warm and fragile, and pressed a kiss to your knuckles. the tremor in his chest steadied with the rhythm of your pulse under his lips.

your evenings followed a careful rhythm. he cooked for you like he usually does. it was nothing fancy. you didn't like that. you preferred simple hearty meals, familiar dishes you used to love.

sometimes you remembered and those were such good days, that kento doesn't stop smiling for days on end. sometimes you didn’t and that's okay too, because he could hold your hand.

but tonight you wrinkled your brow at the taste of the miso soup. it seemed to be something you were trying so hard to remember something about. you furrowed your brows before looking at kento.

“did i make this?” you asked.

“no, my darling.” kento answered softly, smiling as he ladled more into your bowl. “i did.”

you nodded, accepting the answer as if it were brand new information. after dinner, he guided you gently to the sofa. he read aloud from a novel you had chosen long ago.

his voice was low and steady. you listened, sometimes with interest, sometimes with your eyes drifting elsewhere, lost in the haze of your mind. still, he read.

when you grew restless, he played your favorite records. the old vinyl crackled as soft jazz filled the room. occasionally, you swayed a little to the music, and for those brief moments, it almost felt like before.

later, he helped you prepare for bed. you laughed once, calling him “such a gentleman” as though you were strangers courting. his heart ached at the words, but he smiled.

he brushed your long tender hair carefully, devotedly tucked you under the blankets, and stayed by your side until your breathing slowed into sleep.

kento thought you had drifted off completely when your kindly fingers tightened suddenly around his hand. he looked at you, startled at the act.

your eyes were clearer than they had been all evening. “kento?” you whispered.

the sound of his name on your lips nearly broke him, as it always does. his throat closed, and it took every ounce of control he had to keep his voice steady.

“yes, love. i’m here.”

you studied his face, tears gathering faintly in your eyes. “you came back.”

he bowed his head against your hand, a tear slipping free despite himself. “i never left.”

for a heartbeat, for a breath, you remembered it at that moment. even for a moment, your soul, your heart called out to him. you smiled at him the way you used to, all warmth and certainty.

then the clarity faded almost instantenously. everything crumbled fast. your gaze clouded again, and you murmured something soft, soemthing perhaps akin to confusion before drifting back into the fog of sleep.

nanami kento had longed understood what it is. he had long accepted it. for bitter for worse, that's what you both promised. for sickness and in health. for all your lives, longing to love.

that's why he stayed, as he always does. he purses his lips in a flat line. his hand still in yours, holding on as though he could anchor both of you.

the heartbreak was quiet, patient, endless. loving you meant carrying both your memories and his own, even when you could not. and so he stayed, choosing you everyday.

this was enough, even if you get worse, even if you never get better. he would do his best to love you well even if it gets worse. he was good enough. he was good at remembering enough of that love for the both of you.

the night passed slowly, as nights always did. nanami barely slept, his body slouched uncomfortably in the chair by your bed, his hand never leaving yours. exhaustion tugged at him, but he stayed, steady, unyielding, the way he always had.

when dawn crept in through the blinds, pale light softened the room. he stirred, eyes blinking open, and for a moment he simply sat there, watching you breathe.

your beautiful face was calmer in sleep, untouched by confusion or fear, almost the way he remembered from years ago when mornings were warm with coffee and quiet laughter.

nanami kento leaned forward slightly, just to look closer. every line of your face was etched into him, into his soul, his heart. every memory kept alive in the hollow of his chest.

he could remember the day he met you, a day at a horrible day after work and he sat there at the park, uncaring about the rain. and almost suddenly, the sun shone when you covered him with your umbrella, the darkness of life swept away by your sunshine.

you rescued him from his own misery. you still do. even when fate twists things over and over again. he would do it over and over again. that's just what he was sure about. as long as he gets to be with you, it will always be worth it.

then as the bright morning sun started to peek through the glass windows, slowly, your eyes fluttered open. unfocused at first, drifting until they found his own.

for a moment, you simply stared at each other, face to face, close enough that he could feel your breath. the quiet added to the ethereal essence of that morning. that special, beautiful morning.

“good morning.” he said softly, his voice rough but gentle, as though the words themselves were a prayer.

you blinked, a small smile blooming on your loving lips. it was almost shaped like a heart. one of the things kento loved about you most. it was almost instinctive the way you did it.

it was like some part of you knew, even if you couldn’t hold onto it. and that's why it was even more beautiful. your smile makes everything beautiful. your existence makes his life beautiful.

“good morning.” you whispered back.

his chest tightened, the ache sharp and sweet all at once. his heart broke and mended in the same breath, because even if you didn’t remember, even if it was only for a fleeting second, you were still here with him.

he let out a shaky exhale, caramel eyes glistening, and leaned closer until your foreheads almost touched. he lets his lips echo a smile that could only be reserved for moments as special as this.

“i love you.” he murmured, the vow as constant as the sun rising outside.

your eyes softened, and though the clarity in them was fragile, fleeting, you said it back. almost too simple, and even more, almost certain.

“i love you too.”

and nanami kento closed his bright caramel eyes at that, a quiet, trembling smile on his lips, holding on to the words like a man clings to air. for him, it was enough. he was satisfied.

if he ended up losing his life tonight.

if he ends up not coming home from shibuya.

this would have been enough.

the days after all the misery in shibuya were heavy. all that grief sat in itadori yuji’s chest like a stone, immovable, suffocating. nanami kento's death replayed in his mind over and over.

it was the calm way he faced it, the faint, tired smile, like he was already halfway gone. and he hated it. he hated how easily he had accepted death like a good friend.

because knowing now what he did, it shatters yuji with endless guilt. nanami kento had a life. he had a world that belonged entirely to him. and it was taken from him.

he sniffed, the tears threatening to break as the little slip of paper yuji had found tucked neatly among nanami’s belongings became heavy in his windbreaker.

in the paper, there was an an address, written in nanami’s careful hand. he had left it in his preparatory letter. and they were full of instructions, full of information. and the direction to the life he was leaving behind.

he went there one rainy afternoon. he didn’t know why. maybe to feel closer to him. maybe to deliver news. maybe just because he couldn’t stand the thought of nanami’s life being reduced to a memory on a battlefield.

when you opened the door, you looked at him kindly but blankly. “hello..” you said, polite, voice warm but unsure. “can i help you?”

yuji swallowed hard. “i…...i’m a friend. of nanami kento.”

you tilted your head. the name meant nothing. “i’m sorry......i.....i don't.....” you murmured gently, as though the failure were yours. “i don’t think i know anyone by that name.”

the words hit him harder than any curse could have, he was certain. his vision blurred. he forced himself to nod, to smile, to keep from breaking in front of you.

he should have left then. but when you invited him inside with the casual courtesy of someone welcoming a stranger, he stepped in. the apartment smelled faintly of lavender.

there were traces of nanami kento everywhere in this house. there were ties hanging neatly by the door, a record player waiting in the corner, books lined on shelves in perfect order.

you offered him warm tea, hands steady, your lips echoed in a smile so soft, he thinks it breaks his heart even more. itadori yuji could hardly breathe. and then, without planning to, he started coming back.

that day, it was just to check in to see how you were. to make sure you were eating, that the groceries weren’t running low. then it was to cook for you, because he remembered nanami kento always kept simple ingredients on hand.

but after that, he just kept coming back to the house, to take care of you like a son would. he read to you in the evenings, stumbling over words but steadying his voice the way nanami kento might have.

he fixed the little things in the apartment. first the broken knob on the dresser, then the loose hinge on the cabinet. little by little, he started doing that. because it felt wrong to let them stay unfixed when nanami kento never would have.

sometimes you asked his name, forgetting each time. sometimes you looked at him with polite curiosity, sometimes with fleeting affection, as though you saw something in him you almost recognized.

once, just once, you called him “kento.”

yuji broke down in the kitchen afterward, hands shaking as he held back sobs. but he kept coming. he kept coming back to make sure you were alright. and perhaps, even selfishly, get to heal his losses little by little too.

he told you stories, certainly not about curses, not about shibuya, but about nanami kento in small ways. at least of what yuji knew and what he had heard.

he talked about how he made the best sandwiches, how he hated overtime, how he was always so reliable it almost hurt. you listened, sometimes smiling at the stories, sometimes forgetting by the next day.

but yuji told them anyway. because someone had to remember.he never said aloud that he was doing it for nanami kento, that this was his way of carrying the man’s love forward.

he just showed up, again and again, cooking, reading, fixing, sitting quietly by your side when the silence grew heavy. in a short amount of time, it was as if he was living here with you.

and when you asked, one evening, “why do you keep coming here?” yuji only smiled through the ache in his chest. his hands were folded tightly in his lap, knuckles pale, like he needed something to hold onto.

“because he would have wanted me to.” he answered simply. his voice was gentle, but the weight behind it pressed heavy in the quiet room.

you studied him, tilting your head as if searching for something in his expression. then you smiled softly, almost shy. “is he your father?”

yuuji blinked, caught off guard by the innocence of your question. his throat tightened as he lowered his gaze, a sad smile tugging at his lips. “the second time i ever got close to a father figure, yeah.”

you seemed to think that over. your bright eyes softened, and then, almost as though a warmth passed through you, you smiled again, tender.

“then…...he would be so glad to have had a son like you.”

the warm, tender words hit him like sunlight breaking through a storm. yuji’s eyes stung, his chest swelling with emotion he tried hard to steady.

“yeah.....i....” he whispered, his voice rough. “i think i would…i would have been glad to have a father like him too.”

the silence that followed was gentle, fragile. you sat back, your fingers worrying lightly at the blanket across your knees. then, as if a door in your memory had quietly creaked open, you spoke again.

“did you know that me and my husband, kento, wanted kids?” your voice was light, fond. it was like you were telling an old secret. you giggled, the sound small but bright in the dim room.

“we would have wanted a child so good like you.”

yuji froze, his breath catching. he didn’t know what to say, didn’t know if he even could. so he swallowed hard and nodded, tears burning the corners of his eyes.

“i…..i think he would have loved that, [name]-san.” he managed, his voice breaking despite himself. “he would’ve loved you both having that.”

your gaze drifted somewhere far away, soft and hazy, but you were smiling still. “maybe, in another time.” you murmured, like a dream slipping from your lips. “maybe when he’s not busy anymore.”

yuji’s chest tightened painfully. he opened his mouth, then closed it again, the truth caught in his throat like glass. he couldn’t tell you that your husband wasn’t just busy.

he didn't have the heart to do it. he didn't have the heart to tell you that he was gone, that he had left everything behind in shibuya, including you.

instead, he reached for your hand, tentative. it was almost like he was a son afraid that his mothr might pull away and he would have nothing. but you didn’t. your fingers curled around his, fragile but warm.

“yeah, [name]-san.” he whispered, forcing a smile though his vision blurred with tears. “maybe when he’s not busy anymore.”

you hummed softly at his answer, comforted, as if the thought itself was enough to anchor you. you looked fondly at a picture of your husband, smiling back at you from the frame.

“he always worked too hard, my kento. you would notice it quickly when you see him.” you added after a moment, your voice laced with both pride and affection. “but he always came home to me. always.”

yuji pressed his lips together, a sob threatening to break free. he bowed his head, squeezing your hand tighter like he could promise that for nanami now, in his stead.

“he would have kept coming home to you, i....i know he would.” yuji said quietly, his voice trembling but steady in its conviction. “no matter what. i…...i’ll make sure of it.”

your eyes flicked toward him, curious, but you only smiled again, sweet and certain. “you’re a good boy, yuji-kun.” you whispered, as if bestowing a blessing. “kento would be so proud of you. he would love you a lot, if he got to know you.”

that was the moment itadori yuji couldn’t hold back anymore. he leaned forward, his forehead pressing into the back of your hand, shoulders shaking with silent grief.

and though you didn’t quite understand, you stroked his hair gently, as if he were your own child. as if it was your role to go on ahead and comfort him, like you were his mother.

“shh.” you murmured softly, the way you must have comforted kento once upon a time. “he’ll be home soon. he'd like you and he'd comfort you too."

and yuji let the tears fall, nodding against your hand, even if he was the only one left who knew the truth. even if he was the only that remembers.

it was okay. it was good. that was fine. he will remember for you both. and he would protect you too. just like nanami kento would have. because that's what his role is now.

[bunnieeteeth]

₊⟡ fleeting things; futile feelings

sukuna x curse user!reader | modern au; sukuna is a sorcerer at tokyo jujutsu high; angst & fluff | drabble | what happens when a mission goes wrong? | 1.6k words

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"They got ambushed–"

Satoru had barely gotten five syllables out before his fellow salmon-haired sorcerer barrelled past him, through the open shoji, and down the corridor. It was all he needed to hear; Satoru's words put colour into the nightmares he had been having all night about this stupid goddamn mission Yaga had sent you and Mei Mei on.

In the stillness of Sukuna's dorm, now empty and the door still half-slid into the wall, Satoru huffs and runs a hand through his white hair.

The instructions were clear: Exorcise three grade one curses. It was not meant to be some big thing; maybe four hours maximum. A stupid haunted high school. A sorcerer of your calibre, and indeed Mei's, may get this done in less than that time. He has seen with his very eyes: You, standing in the middle of Shibuya, cutting through a swarm of curses like it was nothing more than a minor inconvenience (your arm got burnt at one point, but nothing Shoko couldn't heal). Or that one time you and Utahime were stuck in a time loop as teenagers; you managed to solve that one on your own with ease.

Sukuna remembers peering over the edge of the crater the curse had left; you were dusting off your hands like a chore had just been completed while Utahime looked like she wanted to cry real tears. It was one of his first interactions with you and at that point, he might have even called it love at first sight.

Everything you do is based on impulse and confidence. If he didn't completely adore you in his own silent and gruff way, one might even say it is competition. Satoru once said that you are reflections of each other.

Last night, Sukuna could not find sleep.

Not properly anyway – he remembers drifting in and out, while his hand kept crawling over to your side of the bed to make sure you were still next to him. For most of the night, he was lying on his back, staring at the ceiling or at some points with his red eyes closed, just listening to the quiet rhythm of your breathing beside him.

In the morning, just as you were about to leave the dorm, his hand caught your wrist. Sukuna had been silent all morning, and tense since he found out Yaga wanted to send you and Mei Mei on the mission.

The silent treatment had become unbearable, but you knew what he wanted to say.

"At least let me come with you." He practically begged, which was a rare thing. "I have a bad feeling about this one."

"I'm not weak."

He sighed, hand still latched onto you. "I'm not saying that."

You raised an eyebrow at him, body still half-turned towards the door. Sukuna recalls the bite in your tone as you said, “We deal with grade ones all the time. You’ve seen me handle worse.”

“I have,” he had said with just as much force. “Which is exactly why you don’t need to prove anything by going on this one.”

Your expression hardened slightly at that, eyebrows drawing together.

“I’m not proving anything.”

“Then don’t go.”

“It’s my assignment, Ryo.”

“And?”

The word came out much harsher than he initially intended, but he did not take it back. Nothing was soft about his demeanour, from the hardened look on his face, to the way he was practically spitting his words, and then his hard grip on your wrist.

“And I’m going,” you replied decisively. "I'll be back by sunset and then we can go have dinner together, okay?"

A frustrated groan rips through his throat like a growl. Memories of last night and this morning's tense exchange blur the hallways into melted colours, wooden panels and curious students all meld as he zips past to the infirmary. Beneath the sturdy exterior of his inked chest, his heart pounds so hard that it is making him lightheaded with worry for you.

He told you not to go. Of course, you went anyway. Of course you did; even though Sukuna had spent the whole of last night and this morning beseeching you not to go.

Yaga can send Satoru. That man alone can wipe out a whole colony if needed. Better yet, the higher ups could have sent Suguru with him.

Stupid, stubborn girl.

The words sit heavy in his chest as Sukuna rips the infirmary door open, and he barely even registers the damn thing almost falling off its hinges as it rebounds on the wall like a gunshot.

Breathing in sharply, the run here has burnt through his lungs; the smell of antiseptic and bleach fills his nostrils. And there, under the fluorescence, you are sitting up in a hospital bed with your eyes wide.

The world melts away; Sukuna's mind blanks completely.

He blinks at the sight of your jaw and neck, marred by clean stitching, pulling torn skin together which is still bloody and raw. Something in his chest drops and his feet are moving toward you at inhuman speed before his mind even registers what he is doing.

His thick and strong arms brace your entire body, pulling you into the hardness of his chest. You feel him breathe you in, finally catching his breath. The hug is intensely tight, like he is scared someone will rip you from him; you can feel his fingers curling into the fabric at your back with so much force that it is starting to dig in a little.

"I told you not to go." He says it again, like it is going to take away all the hurt and danger you had put yourself through. "Stupid woman."

In his grip, he feels your shoulders slump a little and a quiet sniffle into his chest.

"I'm sorry, Ryo–"

"You can't do that to me," he manages to say through gritted teeth, burying his nose into the top of your hair. "You could have– died, I don't know–"

The thought is unbearable. And Sukuna hates that word.

Unbearable implies weakness. The word itself implies there is something he cannot endure which is a part of him he will never let anyone see; your loss is unfortunately something that has the power to unmake him. He has spent his entire life proving that usually nothing has that effect.

Sukuna's grip on you loosens as you pull away and he sees your eyes, red-rimmed and glassy with moisture. Your bottom lip juts out just enough for something in his chest to shatter and his hand slides up your shoulder to your jaw.

With a heavy sigh, he tilts your face in his hand, sharp red eyes examining the jagged cut running from the other side of your jaw to your chest. You see your pink-haired boyfriend force control back into his breathing and into his posture.

His eyes flicker to meet yours now.

"Shoko did a good job."

The corner of your lips twitch. "Maybe we should take her out on the field next mission."

"This isn't funny," he says firmly. "Do you know how worried I was?"

"I really am sorry– are you mad at me?"

This earns a scoff from him. The lines on his face soften a little.

"Mad?” he repeats under his breath. He huffs. "I'm mad you didn't listen– can you for one second just imagine if– if you didn't get out on time? You would have been crushed–"

"I know–"

"No, you don't–" Sukuna cuts you short. "You talk about plans– the country side, having a million mini-me's running around– days where I'm brushing your hair when it's all grey and shit–do you know what it feels like for me when you put yourself in danger like that?"

Your teeth clamp down hard on your bottom lip in the silence. The taste of iron fills your mouth.

"I'm not going to feel like this again with anyone else," Sukuna continues gruffly. "You don't get to do this to me– do you understand, woman?"

You can almost see it in his eyes if you peer a little closer, but you close your own as you lean into his palm. His hand is big and warm and cupping the untorn side of your face where dried blood remains in splattered dots over unbroken skin. Tomorrow, you can deal with his foul mood. Tomorrow, maybe he will tell you that he wants you to retire from these missions.

"I'll trust your intuition from now on," you reassure sweetly. A moment passes where all he can do is let his thumb circle tenderly on your cheek. But then he eyes the sly smile toying at your lips. "If it makes you feel better, you can curse me a little so I never leave your side even if I do die, okay?"

Your boyfriend almost rolls his eyes.

Sukuna exhales sharply, his tense shoulders visibly slumping when you turn your face a little and press a chaste kiss to the skin of his palm. You don't look at him again for a moment, fearing that he will berate you even more than he has for your impulsiveness. Your stubbornness. Your tendency to make light of every situation where he wants you to take him seriously. Every trait that may one day get you killed.

What you see etched on his sharp features is vehement disappointment, worry, and deep, deep adoration.

But what lingers beneath it, what he does not say, is far less controlled. He has never been great with his words, and right now, he manages in his gruff voice to say, "Don't do that again".

What he really wants to verbalise, is 'please don’t ever leave me behind'.

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[bunnieeteeth]

₊⟡ crimson thread

heian!sukuna x wife!reader | heian era ; trueform!sukuna ; husband!sukuna fluff | drabble | 1.6k words

♡ kind of (?) continuation of still spring

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When the last of the day's golden sun dips behind the mountains, and all of the servants on the estate begin to retire for the night, Sukuna finds himself flickering through endless books in the quiet library.

The room, lit dimly only by a few candles dotted around empty tables, has numerous books scattered around, open on random pages. When Sukuna has finished flickering through the one in his hand, his throat vibrates with a guttural noise in frustration and he tosses it behind him carelessly. Knowledge, once carefully preserved, now lies in quiet disarray.

He finds himself picking another one off the shelf before him, now half-empty.

Useless.

All of it.

Another book snaps shut in his hand.

Again, he tosses it aside without looking. It lands somewhere behind him with a dull thud, joining the rest of the failed attempts.

He knows how much you hate the library being a mess, but he can send someone to clean it up before you wake in the morning. This should be a task for one of his scholars – but the thought has been gnawing at him all week since you said what you said to him.

“You know, one day I’m not going to be around.” 

The words echo again; Sukuna exhales sharply through his nose, already reaching for another scroll from the pile that he had ordered a servant to find for him earlier in the evening.

Your face surfaces in his mind; he thinks about the quiet rise and fall of your chest beneath layers of silk, your lashes resting against your skin as you sleep undisturbed in his chambers. This evening, you had fallen asleep so easily, nestled into his side. One of his arms had been draped loosely around you, heavy and warm, and in the safety of him, it is difficult to not find sleep, rather.

"You have been tense all week, my lord,” you had murmured softly, your voice threaded with quiet concern.

“Tense?” he had repeated, gaze dipping to your face. "How so?"

You had hummed, eyes drooping as exhaustion pulled at you slowly. Sukuna remembers how you yawned before you responded to him. "You have been quieter.”

He was silent; you paused.

Then, softer, he had heard you murmur, “Thinking too much– loss is inevitable and it happens to the strongest of us.”

Sleep found you almost immediately. Sukuna had watched you for a long moment after that. Now, standing alone in the cold quiet of the library, that same thought about loss lingers.

All four of his sharp red eyes move rapidly, dissecting and discarding. Ink blurs beneath his focus; ancient scripts unravelling in seconds only to be deemed worthless just as quickly. Longevity rituals. Binding vows. Soul preservation.

Anything?

Sukuna's jaw tightens, the faintest pulse of cursed energy stirring beneath his skin and seeping into the cold around him like charged air before a thunderstorm.

Now late into the night, he almost gives up but halfway through his rummaging of the pile, beneath the disarray there is one that does not quite belong. The scroll, now in his grasp, is older than the rest and completely frayed at the edges that the paper is almost torn.

His eyes narrow slightly as he reads.

The concept is crude in its explanation but after a moment of pause, the corner of Sukuna's sharp mouth twitches into a satisfactory smile.

The candles flicker. Light stretches thin across the tatami. Cursed energy hums low through the library now; with a slight huff, he rolls the scroll in his hands and slips it inside the sleeve of his yukata.

Morning arrives gently. A pale wash of light spills through the shoji, warming the tatami in small increments until the warmth tickles your face.

You stir faintly.

The silk beneath you shifts as you move, shielding your eyes with your hand from the bright sun. Your other hand reaches over to find emptiness: Sukuna is no longer there. Only the faint imprint of your husband's presence remains, pressed into the bedding beside you. Your body still heavy with sleep. He must be attending to his court. The day is still so young.

The familiar bitter scent of mugwort fills the air around you; with a yawn, your gaze drifts until it lands on the low wooden table beside your bedding. A cup of tea sits there, its steam rising in delicate wisps, twisting into the morning light.

Uraume. Of course. A soft hum escapes you.

Absently, your fingers brush against your neck as your hair shifts over your skin. The tips of your fingers skim over something unfamiliar. You pause, eyebrows drawn in a frown; bringing your hand to your collarbone, you feel it against your skin. A thin red cord rests against you, with a small charm settled at its centre. It is warm and upon closer inspection, a gemstone?

Inevitably, curiosity takes over. The silk sheets tangle loosely around your legs as you scramble across the bedding to the mirror.

The stone is translucent and rich, unmistakably red. Your brows knit faintly as you tilt it, watching the way it catches the morning sun. Crimson flickers back at you. A soft exhale slips past your lips because you realise then, that it reminds you of his eyes.

Another gift from him. It almost makes you giggle; perhaps an apology for his tense gait recently?

To you, it is another one of your husband's many gifts. A token of his generosity and adoration that nobody else gets to experience. As Sukuna lounges back on his throne, mind going numb from the hours upon hours of curses reporting invasions from the western regions of Japan, or the fact that the sorcerers are beginning to multiply across Kyoto, he is distracted by the quiet pulse of your life that he can feel even from across the estate.

For the whole morning, you feel as though you can feel his presence encircling you.

When the afternoon sun sits high in the sky, flooding its hot light over the mountain, you are crouched among the koi and a scattering of stray cats that have wandered close to the estate.

The garden is quiet except for the gentle ripple of the pond and the soft mewling of felines.

Uraume appears a few steps away, posture rigid, eyes focused. They tell you that your husband requests your presence in the throne room. You straighten, brushing the cat hair from your hands and shifting the folds of your light blue kimono.

“Now?” you ask.

Uraume nods. With a quiet sigh, you scuttle along the winding stone path; you know better than to deny your husband of his requests.

When you reach the throne room, the usual bustle is gone. The day's matters must have been solved already. The hall is empty save for the four-armed figure seated at the centre, atop a throne crafted from the bones of everyone he has crushed on his conquests.

All four crimson eyes fix on you. You notice his gaze dipping to the necklace adorning your neck. The red gem glints in the low light of the cavernous room. With the gesture of a single hand, he dismisses Uraume and calls upon you softly, inviting you to approach. You obey without hesitation, a light smile on your lips.

With a curious tilt of his head, one of his hands move to guide you onto his lap. The motion is incredibly gentle, yet there is no mistaking the authority in it. His hand settles on your hip firmly. You settle yourself, melting against the warmth of his body.

One of his other hands slides up the front of your kimono, making your breath hitch in your throat; his fingers settle at the necklace, his digits toy with the red gem for a moment.

Satisfied, he hums, and braces your head into his chest and presses a chaste kiss to the crown of your head.

"Do not take it off," he says. Then his voice lowers, "you must never remove it.”

"What is it?"

For a moment he is quiet; you can hear his heartbeat pulsing steadily in the chambers of his chest. “As long as you need me,” he finally says, “I will always feel you through it, and nothing will harm you while it is there.”

He does not tell you the truth. It sits heavily in his chest but he fears that divulging the specifics of what he did last night may scare you off; while the world slept, he remained in the quiet of the library for most of the night.

A fragment of his very soul has been fractured, and bound into the gem to tether your life to his. The whole notion is so foolish and to someone like him, the King of Curses, fracturing his soul to protect a mortal who would otherwise be living on borrowed time, would have been unthinkable.

He does not admit the price he paid, or the pain he endured last night.

By the time morning approached and the first golden stream of sunlight filtered through the shoji, he was already moving to place it on your sleeping form, arranging it carefully around your neck so that he would not wake you.

To think that someone like him, whose presence curdles courage in even the bravest of men, holds enough adoration for a mere mortal like yourself.

"Is this about the other morning?"

Your voice is small, but he hears you anyway. Pulling away from him, you peer up at his red eyes, eyebrows knitting together slightly.

"If any harm came your way," he begins, “if you were gone, then what would there be for me?”

Your chest tightens at his words, and for a moment, you say nothing, but his heavy sigh fills the silence anyway. A long time ago, you grew to understand that Sukuna is not a man of softness. He is crude, rough, and not often gentle. His love often feels more like a binding force and something to be reckoned with.

Leaning closer, his forehead brushing yours, the faintest heat of his breath fans your skin.

“I do not ask for devotion, nor for words – but I will not allow a world without you in it.”

⋆｡⋆˚｡⋆｡˚｡⋆. .⋆｡⋆˚｡⋆

♡ looking for more sukuna? here you go!

[sukunasleftbanana]

yuji helping you forgive sukuna >.<

You’ve been ignoring him for exactly three hours and forty-two minutes.

Not that you’re counting.

Your phone is face-down on your bed, screen lighting up every couple minutes with his name before going dark again. You don’t touch it. You refuse to. Because he deserves it.

He really does.

You sit cross-legged on the floor, aggressively reorganizing something that absolutely did not need reorganizing, muttering under your breath.

“Stupid… arrogant… can’t even say sorry properly…”

A knock interrupts you.

You freeze.

Another knock. Smaller this time. Softer.

“…go away,” you mumble, not even looking up.

The door creaks open anyway.

“…hi.”

That voice is not Sukuna’s.

You blink, turning your head, and there he is. Little Yuji. Tiny, pink-cheeked, messy hair, clutching something behind his back like he’s on a secret mission.

Your anger falters instantly.

“Yuji?” you soften, sitting up straighter. “What are you doing here?”

He shuffles in, shutting the door carefully behind him like it’s very important he does it quietly.

“Um… I came to fix it,” he says, serious. Very serious. Like this is the most important task of his life.

Your brows knit. “Fix what?”

He walks over, small steps, then stops right in front of you. His little hands finally come forward, revealing a slightly crumpled drawing.

It’s… you.

And Sukuna.

And Yuji.

All holding hands.

There’s a big, messy red heart drawn over all three of you.

You stare at it.

“…Yuji…”

“I made it,” he says quickly. “So you won’t be mad anymore.”

Your chest tightens.

“I’m not mad at you,” you say gently.

“I know,” he nods. “You’re mad at him.”

A pause.

“…yeah.”

Yuji looks over his shoulder, like he’s checking for something, then leans in closer to you and whispers-

“He’s really sad.”

You almost scoff. Almost.

But Yuji keeps going.

“He was walking around and being all grumpy and didn’t even yell at me when I spilled juice,” he says, eyes wide like that’s the ultimate proof. “That means he’s super sad.”

Your lips twitch.

“…did he send you here?”

Yuji hesitates.

“…no,” he says. Then quieter, “I just… heard him talking.”

Your heart dips a little.

“What was he saying?”

Yuji scrunches his face, trying to remember.

“Um… he said… ‘she’s being stupid,’” he starts, and you immediately roll your eyes-

but then he continues-

“…and then he said ‘I messed up.’”

You still.

Yuji looks up at you, hopeful.

“And then he said he didn’t know how to fix it,” he adds softly. “So I’m fixing it.”

That hits harder than you expect.

You look back down at the drawing in your hands, tracing the uneven lines of the three of you.

“…he’s bad at apologizing,” you murmur.

“Yeah,” Yuji nods seriously. “He’s bad at a lot of things.”

You laugh a little at that.

Silence settles for a second.

Then Yuji gently pushes the drawing closer into your lap.

“So you forgive him now?”

You hesitate.

“…I don’t know.”

His face drops just a little.

“…okay,” he says, but he doesn’t move away.

Instead, he climbs right into your lap like he belongs there, arms wrapping around your middle in a tight little hug.

“He really likes you,” he mumbles into your shirt.

Your breath catches.

“I know he’s mean,” Yuji continues, completely unfiltered, “but he only does that when he’s scared or dumb.”

You choke out a laugh.

“Or both,” he adds helpfully.

“…that sounds about right.”

Yuji pulls back just enough to look at you.

“So… you don’t have to forgive him a lot,” he negotiates, very serious again. “Just a little bit. Like this much.”

He pinches his fingers together, showing the tiniest gap.

You stare at him.

God.

You sigh, your anger melting in slow, helpless pieces.

“…fine,” you mumble. “A little bit.”

Yuji gasps like you just granted a miracle.

“Really?!”

“Yeah, yeah,” you smile, brushing his hair back. “But don’t tell him I said that.”

Yuji grins.

“…too late.”

The door behind you creaks again.

You turn-

And there he is.

Sukuna.

Leaning against the frame like he hasn’t moved in ages, arms crossed, trying to look unaffected, but his eyes give him away immediately.

Relieved.

Careful.

Hopeful, even.

“…you sent a five-year-old to do your job?” you raise a brow.

“I didn’t send him,” Sukuna mutters. “He snuck out.”

Yuji beams proudly.

“I fixed it.”

Sukuna huffs, pushing off the wall, walking in slowly.

“…did you?” he mutters, eyes flicking to you.

You hold his gaze for a second longer than you should.

“…a little bit,” you say.

He exhales quietly. Shoulders dropping just slightly.

“…good enough.”

Yuji looks between you both, then claps his hands.

“Okay! Hug now.”

You and Sukuna both freeze.

“…no,” Sukuna says immediately.

“Do it,” Yuji insists.

“No.”

“Do it.”

You snort.

Sukuna glares at you like this is somehow your fault.

Yuji grabs your hand. Then Sukuna’s.

And before either of you can protest-

he shoves them together.

Your fingers brush Sukuna’s.

He doesn’t pull away.

“…there,” Yuji says, satisfied. “Fixed.”

You glance up at Sukuna.

He’s already looking at you.

“…you still mad?” he mutters.

“…a little.”

“…fair.”

A pause.

“…I messed up,” he adds, quieter this time. Real this time.

Your grip on his hand tightens just a little.

“…yeah. You did.”

Another pause.

“…I’ll do better,” he says.

You study him.

Then sigh.

“…okay.”

Yuji cheers like someone just won a championship, throwing his arms around both of you at once.

“GROUP HUG.”

Sukuna groans.

You laugh, cheeks turning a faint pink when you feel Sukuna pressing a kiss to your forehead.

[kashun]

━━━ SCARY DOG PRIVILEGE REVOKED.

𝓲𝗻 𝘄𝗵𝗶𝗰𝗵 ♰ a feared, sleep-deprived sukuna shows up to the library just to take care of you, only to end up being the one who melts into your arms instead.

✿ ◞◟) ryomen sukuna 𝓍 gn!reader

𝓬𝗼𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗻𝘁 fluff, established relationship, college!au, sukuna is a menace (publicly) but a loser (privately), back hugs, acts of service, soft kisses, big scary man reduced to putty.

the library was supposed to be neutral ground.

that's what everyone agreed on, at least. the massive, radiant-lit study hall on the third floor of the student union existed in a strange little bubble of collective silence, where people from every corner of campus could huddle over their laptops without having to acknowledge each other.

it was functional — boring, even — it was the kind of place where the most exciting thing that could happen was someone accidentally crinkling a chip bag too loudly.

which is why, when ryomen sukuna walked through the doors, twenty pairs of eyes snapped up at once.

he didn't look at any of them, he didn't need to; his presence alone was enough to suck the air out of the room — all six foot something of him, broad shoulders straining against the worn black fabric of his hoodie, tattoos crawling up his neck and disappearing into his jawline like dark vines. his face was all sharp angles and quiet menace, the kind of face that belonged on a wanted poster or a magazine cover, depending on how brave you were feeling. most people weren't feeling brave.

sukuna was holding a pink hydro flask.

no one dared to comment on it, not when he was scanning the room with those heavy-lidded crimson eyes, jaw set in its usual resting position that hovered somewhere between bored and actively hostile. a girl in the corner actually pulled her knees up to her chest, like she was trying to make herself smaller, and a guy two tables over dropped his pen and decided, very wisely, to just leave it there.

then sukuna's entire face changed.

it wasn't really dramatic; sukuna’s expression didn't soften so much as it unclenched — the tension bleeding out of his brow, the hard line of his mouth twitching into something that wasn't quite a smile but was definitely adjacent to one. his shoulders dropped half an inch, and his eyes, still sharp but suddenly warm in a way that felt almost illegal to witness, landed on a table near the window; you.

you didn't look up right away.

you were absently chewing on the end of your highlighter, eyebrows pinched together as you stared down at what looked like a truly offensive amount of organic chemistry notes. your hair was piled into a messy bun that was already escaping in several directions, and you'd stolen one of sukuna’s hoodies once again — the gray one with the ripped cuff, which he'd specifically told you not to steal because it was his favorite, which meant you'd worn it approximately four times in the past week.

sukuna crossed the room in seven long strides, ignoring the way people practically threw themselves out of his path. by the time he reached your table, the hydro flask was already extended toward you, bumping gently against your elbow.

you finally looked up, and your whole face lit up like someone had flipped a switch.

"hi, baby," you said with the cutest smile.

your voice was so casual, so utterly unbothered, like you weren't currently being stared at by half the library, like the six-foot-four tattooed menace looming over you was just a random guy, just your guy.

"you forgot this," sukuna said.

and his voice — god, his voice. it was still that same low, gravelly rumble that made freshman cross the street to avoid walking past him, but there was something else underneath it now; something softer, almost shy, if shy was a word that could ever apply to ryomen sukuna. the boy set the pink hydro flask down next to your elbow, and his long fingers lingered for a second longer than necessary.

"you always forget it. your head's gonna dry up and fall off one of these days."

you laughed, and it was the kind of laugh that came from your chest, easy and warm.

"that's not how dehydration works."

"you don't know that. you're not a doctor."

sukuna was already pulling out the chair next to you, the metal legs scraping against the floor in a way that made several people wince; he didn't seem to notice, or care, sukuna dropped into the seat like he belonged there, which he did, because he'd been sitting in that exact chair every tuesday and thursday for the past four months, ever since you'd declared this your official study spot.

"i'm pre-med," you reminded him, twisting the cap off the hydro flask and taking a long sip.

water dripped down your chin, and you wiped it away with the back of your hand, completely unselfconscious. sukuna watched you do it with an intensity that should have been unsettling but somehow just looked like devotion.

"pre-med isn't med," he said, but his heart wasn't in it.

sukuna’s heart was somewhere in the vicinity of your pinky finger, which was suddenly very close to his hand on the table. he stared at it for a long moment, like he was trying to decide if touching it would make him seem desperate.

( he was desperate. he was always desperate. but he had a reputation to maintain, or whatever. )

"did you eat?" you asked with a little smile, capping the bottle and setting it aside.

your knee knocked against his under the table — deliberately, sukuna knew, because you always did that when you wanted his attention. like you didn't already have all of it, constantly, every single second of every single day.

"yeah."

"liar."

sukuna looked away.

"i had a protein bar."

"that's not food."

you were already digging through your backpack, and sukuna watched your hands move with that same quiet intensity, cataloging every small movement; the way your nails were painted a chipped, faded lavender, the way the sleeve of his hoodie kept slipping down over your fingers, the way you bit your lower lip when you were concentrating, just slightly, just enough to make something twist low in his stomach.

you emerged victorious with a granola bar, thrusting it toward him like a peace offering.

"eat."

"i'm not hungry."

"ryomen."

and that was it, that was all it took; just his name, falling out of your mouth in that particular tone — not angry, not nagging, just warm and expectant — and sukuna was reaching for the granola bar like his hands had stopped belonging to him. he tore the wrapper open with his teeth because he was still him, still a little feral around the edges, but he ate it.

every last bite, even though he'd genuinely not been hungry, because you'd asked him to.

you smiled at him, small and pleased, and then you turned back to your notes like that was just a normal interaction, like you hadn't just made the most feared man on campus eat his vegetables, metaphorically speaking.

sukuna watched you for another very, very long moment, and then he did something that made the girl at the next table literally drop her phone.

he rested his chin on your shoulder.

it was such a small thing, such an unconscious thing — the way sukuna leaned into your space, his chest pressing against your back, his nose brushing against the curve of your neck. his eyes fluttered half-closed, and he made a sound that was almost a sigh, something low and content that vibrated through both of you. sukuna’s arms came up to wrap around your waist, loose enough that you could still move, still highlight your notes, but present and anchoring.

"you're heavy," you said.

but you were already leaning back into him, your head tilting to give sukuna better access to your neck, and your hand came up to rest over his, your fingers slotting between his like they'd been made to fit there.

"mmh. you're warm," he mumbled against your skin, and his voice was so soft now, so private, like he'd forgotten there were other people in the room entirely.

sukuna’s thumb slowly traced absent patterns on your hip, over and over, a mindless rhythm that he probably didn't even realize he was doing.

a guy at the table across from them — some lanky kid with a beanie and an aura of misplaced confidence — whispered something to his friend, and sukuna's eyes snapped open; just for a second, just long enough to pin the guy in place with a look that said i heard that, and i will remember your face, and you should probably leave now.

the guy left, and his friend followed, looking vaguely nauseous.

you poked sukuna's hand.

"stop terrorizing the other students."

"he was staring."

"everyone's always staring. you're kind of noticeable."

sukuna made a noise that might have been a grunt of acknowledgment. his grip on your waist tightened slightly, and he pressed his face more firmly into the junction of your neck and shoulder, breathing you in. you smelled like vanilla and coffee and that specific laundry detergent you used, the one that made all your clothes smell like clean linen and something floral he couldn't name.

sukuna had started buying it for his own clothes too, which was embarrassing, but no one had to know that.

"you should study," you said, even as your free hand came up to card through his hair.

pink strands slipped through your fingers, surprisingly soft, and sukuna practically melted against you; his whole body went loose and pliant, the tension draining out of him like water from a cracked vase.

"didn't you say you had a paper due?"

"finished it."

"when?"

"this morning. at four."

you stopped moving your hand.

"sukuna."

"don't start."

"four in the morning?"

"couldn't sleep." he said it like it was nothing, like it wasn't a confession, but you knew him too well to let it slide.

you turned in sukuna’s arms, just enough to look at his face, and what you saw there made your chest ache; dark circles under his eyes, barely visible in the phosphorescent light but definitely there. a certain tightness around his mouth that he only got when he was running on empty.

"baby," you said softly, and his expression flickered, cracked, just a little. "why couldn't you sleep?"

sukuna looked away a second time, jaw working, and his hand naturally found yours under the table, fingers interlacing, squeezing once, hard.

"just didn't. it's fine."

"it's not fine. you need to take care of yourself."

"i take care of myself."

"baby, you eat protein bars for dinner and stay up until four in the morning writing papers you could have written during normal human hours."

you cupped sukuna’s face with your free hand, thumb brushing over his cheekbone, and he leaned into the touch like something starved finally finding warmth.

"that's not taking care of yourself. that's surviving."

sukuna didn't say anything for a long moment, he just looked at you, with those eyes that everyone else found so terrifying.

you'd never understood that.

his eyes were just eyes — intense, sure, and the color was unusual, but all you saw when you looked at him was the person who remembered to bring you water when you studied, the person who carried your groceries even when you insisted you could do it yourself, the person who'd stayed up with you until three in the morning last week, not because you'd asked him to, but because you'd had a terrible nightmare and he'd felt it through the wall between your apartments and had shown up at your door in his boxers with a glass of water and a quiet "you okay?"

"i'm not good at this," sukuna finally said, and his voice was rough, scraped raw around the edges. "the whole... being a person thing. i'm not good at it."

"you're good at it with me."

"yeah?

and there it was — that flicker of vulnerability, there and gone so fast you almost missed it. the reminder that beneath all the tattoos and the resting bitch face and the reputation that preceded him like a shadow, ryomen sukuna was just a guy; a guy who didn't know how to take care of himself but would burn the world down to take care of you, a guy who'd learned how to be soft not because you'd asked him to, but because you'd looked at him like he was already soft and he'd wanted so desperately to live up to that.

"yeah," you said, and you kissed the corner of his mouth, soft and brief. "now put your head down. i'm gonna finish this chapter, and you're gonna nap for twenty minutes."

"i don't nap."

"you do now."

sukuna stared at you for a beat, two beats, and then, with a sigh that was mostly for show, he folded his arms on the table and laid his head down, cheek resting on his forearm, and his other hand stayed wrapped around yours, thumb still tracing those absent patterns on your skin.

"twenty minutes," he mumbled, already sounding drowsy. "not a second more."

"whatever you say, baby."

sukuna's eyes drifted closed, and the last thing he saw before sleep pulled him under was you, bent over your notes, highlighter in hand, wearing his hoodie and looking like the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

across the library, someone's jaw was still on the floor.

the pink hydro flask sat between them like a promise, condensation beading on its surface, and sukuna — scary, shitty, tattooed sukuna — smiled in his sleep, just a little, because your thumb was tracing patterns back.

masterlist.

[cherry-city]

THIS IS THE CUTEST OMG 10/10

[fallentology]

Rules and Ruin

𝐅𝐔𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐆𝐔𝐑𝐎 𝐓𝐎𝐉𝐈

SYNOPSIS: You’re high-profile, someone wants to hurt you, and Toji is hired as your bodyguard to keep you safe. Dangerous, infuriating, and far too close, he blurs the line between protection and desire. Every touch, every look, pushes boundaries. And soon, what starts as duty becomes something far hotter than it should be. WORD COUNT: 14.6k

The penthouse smelled like rain and expensive orchids–white ones flown in fresh from Kyoto every week because your father refused to accept anything less than perfection. You stood at the edge of the floor-to-ceiling windows on the 42nd floor, arms folded tight across your chest, watching the city lights smear through the downpour. Tokyo looked like it was bleeding neon tonight. Another credible threat had landed on your father’s desk this morning: a sniper round embedded in the windshield of the car you were supposed to have taken to the board meeting. The note attached had been simple, elegant, terrifying: Next time it won’t miss the heiress.

You weren’t supposed to know the details. But you always knew. That was the problem with being the only daughter of the Takahashi conglomerate–secrets had a way of crawling into your lap whether you wanted them or not.

The elevator dinged at the private entrance. Twenty-three minutes late.

Security cleared him through with the kind of hushed deference usually reserved for war criminals or billionaires. You didn’t turn around right away. You heard the heavy, unhurried footsteps first–combat boots on marble, not the polished dress shoes of the usual suits your father hired. Then the low scrape of fabric as he shrugged out of a soaked leather jacket and dropped it over the back of your white sectional like he already owned the place.

When you finally faced him, the first thing that hit you was size. Toji Fushiguro was built like a weapon that had decided to wear human skin. Tall–easily six-four–broad shoulders straining the black compression shirt that clung to every ridge of muscle and scar. His arms were corded, veins standing out against tanned skin. A thin white scar sliced through the corner of his mouth, another jagged one disappeared under the collar of his shirt. Black hair, damp from the rain, fell messily over sharp green eyes that looked bored and predatory at the same time. He carried himself like the penthouse was just another alley he’d fought through on the way here.

He didn’t bow. Didn’t introduce himself with the scripted politeness the agency usually drilled into their people. He just let those eyes drag over you which was slow, deliberate, cataloguing. It seemed to be taunting, however, you were no stranger with the kind of lifestyle he lives. Your tailored silk blouse, the way your arms pressed your chest higher, the nervous tap of your bare foot against the marble. He didn’t hide that he was looking. And he didn’t care that you noticed.

“Takahashi,” He said, voice low and rough like gravel dragged over concrete. No honorifics. No “Ms.” or “ma’am.” Just your family name like it was a label on a file he’d already skimmed and found mildly irritating. “Toji Fushiguro. Your old man hired me to keep you breathing.”

You lifted your chin, meeting his stare and holding it to the best of your ability. Taking the time to read into how he composed himself. You could infer that he was the kind of person who’d hold his end of the deal, and the kind of person that would haunt your dreams. “You’re late.”

He shrugged one massive shoulder. Water dripped from his hair onto the collar of his shirt. “Traffic. And I don’t rush for rich girls who think the world stops when they snap their fingers.” The drops of water glittered against your marble floors, your nerves shaking at the thought of his impoliteness.

Your pulse kicked with his every movement. Most bodyguards at least pretended to be professional. This one looked like he’d rather be anywhere else–preferably somewhere he could get paid in cash and blood. In most cases, you would find another person to be your bodyguard, however due to the impertinence of the situation, you needed the best. And he, Toji Fushiguro, was the best.

He started moving before you could answer. Long strides carried him straight into your space. You took one instinctive step back; he closed the distance like it was nothing. One big hand landed on your upper arm–not hard, but firm enough that you felt the heat of his palm through the thin silk. He pulled you away from the window with zero effort.

“Rule one,” He muttered, voice right beside your ear. “Don’t stand in front of glass when someone wants you dead. Lights on, blinds open. You’re a fucking neon sign saying shoot here.” Toji scanned you up and down, pressing a finger onto your chest. One bullet through your chest, and you’d be seeing flashes of your memories.

His breath brushed the shell of your ear. You smelled rain on him, something metallic underneath–gun oil maybe, or the faint copper of old fights. His fingers were calloused, rough against your skin, and he didn’t let go right away. Just held you there a beat longer than necessary, chest almost brushing your shoulder as he scanned the dark skyline outside.

You jerked your arm free. “I know how to stand in my own home, thanks.” He wasn’t the nicest company but that wasn’t the reason he was hired. It wasn’t his job to be your friend. His job was to keep you safe.

He didn’t step back. If anything, he leaned in a fraction more, crowding you against the edge of the grand piano. The low light caught the scar on his lip when he smirked. The faint shadow of his smirk as you looked up at him, you wondered what happened to him while staring at his scars.

“If you don’t listen to me, you’re gonna get hurt.” The words were flat, matter-of-fact, like he was stating tomorrow’s weather. But there was something else under them–something dark and certain. “And I don’t get paid extra when rich girls bleed.”

Your stomach flipped. Not fear exactly. Something hotter. Sharper. You hated how aware you were of him: the way his shirt stretched across his chest when he breathed, the faint bulge of a holster under his left arm, the sheer wall of muscle that made the air feel thinner. He was too close. Deliberately so. Testing already.

You met his eyes without flinching. “My father hired you. Not the other way around. I don’t take orders from mercenaries who show up looking like they just rolled out of a bar fight.”

Toji’s smirk deepened. He reached past you while deliberately brushing the side of your hip with his forearm and flicked off the nearest lamp. The room dropped into a softer shadow. “Better,” He said, voice dropping lower. “Now you’re not a target. And sweetheart?” He finally stepped back, but only enough that you could breathe again. “I don’t give a shit who signs the check. While I’m here, you do what I say. Or I will make sure you do.”

The threat should have pissed you off. It did. But it also sent a slow, unwelcome heat curling low in your belly. He said it like it was inevitable. Like your defiance was just something he’d enjoy correcting. You weren’t exactly the golden girl in the conglomerate world. You had your fair share of rebellion, you only had to keep up your act outside, but within closed doors? You were a completely different person.

He turned away, already moving through the penthouse like he was mapping it for a siege. You watched the flex of his back muscles under the wet shirt, the way his thighs strained the black tactical pants with every step. He checked the balcony doors, the kitchen blind spots, the hallway to your bedroom–touching nothing, but seeing everything. When he passed the grand piano again, he dragged one finger along the lacquered edge, leaving a faint wet streak.

“Nice place,” He commented without looking at you. “Lots of windows. Lots of doors. Lots of ways to die if you keep acting like a spoiled little princess who thinks danger is just something that happens to other people.” Staring at the man taking a short-lived tour around your place, you noticed how every sentence he would utter, it would be followed by something despicable. He actually didn’t have anything good to say.

You crossed the room after him, heels clicking. “I’m not spoiled. I’m careful. I’ve been dealing with threats since I was sixteen.” It was a fact–one that would always make you question the value of your life. Was it too good to be true that I’d have a hard time living? That I had to escape death and completely face death at the same time.

He stopped at the entrance to the hallway that led to the master suite. Turned slowly. Those green eyes pinned you again, darker now in the low light. “Careful?” He laughed once, short and humorless. “You were standing in front of a fucking spotlight ten minutes ago. That’s not careful, that’s reckless.”

Before you could snap back, he closed the distance again–two long strides that ate up the marble. This time he didn’t grab your arm. He just planted one hand on the wall beside your head, caging you without touching. The other hand hovered near your waist, close enough that you felt the heat radiating off his palm.

“Listen close,” Toji leaned, his voice darkened that it sent vibrations through your chest. “I’m not one of those pretty boys your daddy usually hires. I don’t smile and say ‘yes ma’am.’ I don’t write reports. I keep you alive. That means I touch you when I need to. I move you when I need to. I tell you no when I need to. And you’re gonna hate it.” His gaze dropped to your mouth for half a second, then back up. “But you’ll do it anyway. Because the alternative is someone else putting a bullet in that pretty head.”

A finger was pressed in the middle of your forehead. The action that made your throat tighten and the air in your lungs felt more heavy. In the first 15 minutes you spent with him, it had been a whirlwind of emotions. Most of it being in a constant state of panic and fear at how literal he was with his job and words. 

The air between you felt charged, thick with the scent of rain and something unmistakably male. His body heat was like a furnace. You could see the faint sheen of moisture still clinging to the hollow of his throat, the way a single droplet slid down and disappeared beneath his collar. You hated how your body registered every inch of him–how tall he was, how solid, how completely unapologetic about invading every boundary you had.

You lifted your chin higher, refusing to shrink. “You think you can just walk in here and–”

“I don’t think,” He cut in. “I do.” His hand finally dropped from the wall, but not before his thumb brushed the side of your ribs–accidental, maybe. Or not. The touch was gone before you could react, but the ghost of it lingered, warm and electric.

He stepped back, rolling his shoulders like the whole conversation had been mildly inconvenient. “Bedroom’s through there?” He jerked his chin down the hall. “I’ll take the couch tonight. Tomorrow we move you to the safehouse your father already paid for. No arguments.”

You stared at him, heart hammering against your ribs. “I have a gala tomorrow night. I’m not hiding.” It was typical, there’d always be a safehouse. Though it was your first time actually going to a safehouse when your past bodyguards allowed you to stay at your penthouse when you told them you’d prefer it here than the safehouse.

Toji’s laugh was quiet, dangerous. “You are if I say you are.” He turned and walked toward the living room, already peeling the wet shirt up and over his head in one fluid motion. The sight of his bare back–broad, scarred, every muscle carved like it had been made for violence–made your mouth go dry.

He tossed the shirt over the back of the couch and glanced at you over his shoulder, green eyes gleaming with something that wasn’t quite amusing. “Get some sleep, heiress. You’re gonna need it.”

He dropped onto the sectional, one arm slung behind his head, the other resting on the gun holstered at his hip. Completely at ease. Completely in control.

You stood there another long moment, pulse roaring in your ears, skin still tingling where he’d touched you. The penthouse felt smaller. The air felt heavier. And the man currently sprawled across your furniture like he belonged there looked nothing like any bodyguard you’d ever had.

He looked like trouble.

The kind you were already stupidly, dangerously curious about.

Morning light sliced through the penthouse like a blade, turning the marble floors into mirrors and making the white orchids on the grand piano glow almost accusingly. You hadn’t slept well. Every time you closed your eyes, you felt the ghost of Toji’s calloused palm on your arm, and heard that low, rough voice saying “If you don’t listen to me, you’re gonna get hurt.” 

The memory made your skin heat in ways you refused to examine too closely.

You emerged from the master suite dressed for war: a sleek black pencil skirt that hugged your hips, a crisp white blouse unbuttoned just enough to be professional but defiant, and heels that clicked with purpose. Your hair was pulled into a low, elegant chignon. You looked every inch the Takahashi heiress–composed, untouchable, in control.

Toji was already awake.

He stood in the open kitchen, shirtless again, the black compression shirt from last night now dry and draped over a barstool. Sunlight caught every ridge of muscle across his back and shoulders as he moved with surprising efficiency, cracking eggs into a pan with one hand while the other held a mug of black coffee. Scars littered his torso, it seemed that some were thin and surgical, others jagged and ugly, telling stories you weren’t sure you wanted to hear. A particularly nasty one curved under his left ribcage, disappearing into the waistband of his low-slung tactical pants. The V of muscle leading down from his hips was impossible to ignore.

You wondered if he was more comfortable being shirtless. Or if this was his way to distract you into giving into whatever he wanted you to do or to possibly frighten you with his battlescars. Nonetheless, none of it mattered to you. Your sense of duty couldn’t level with anything in this world. You had already given and devoted your life into being the heiress. At one point, you would be ruling the entire economy. A shirtless Toji Fushiguro was nothing compared to what you had been preparing for. 

He didn’t turn when you entered. Just spoke over his shoulder, voice still gravel-rough from sleep. “You’re not wearing that to the gala tonight.”

You stopped mid-step, furrowed eyebrows at him. “Excuse me?”

He finally glanced at you, green eyes dragging slowly from your heels up your legs, over the curve of your hips, lingering a fraction too long on the open collar of your blouse before meeting your gaze. No shame. No apology. “Too tight. Too much skin at the neckline. Easy to grab. Easy to hide a wire or a blade under. Change.”

The audacity made heat flare in your chest. You had expected anything but that. Then again, he was a bodyguard and an excellent hitman. He’s always analyzing it from his own sick perspective. You crossed the kitchen, heels clicking sharply that translated your stubbornness to comply with his words. “This is a custom piece from Paris. I’m not changing because some mercenary thinks–”

“I don’t think. I know.” He slid the eggs onto a plate with casual precision, then turned fully to face you. The counter was between you, but it felt like nothing. He was still too tall, too broad, too present. “Your father’s paying me a ridiculous amount to keep a bullet out of your skull. That means I decide what you wear when you’re out in public playing princess. That skirt? Someone could shove a knife up it before I could stop them. The blouse? Nice view for a sniper scope.”

Your jaw tightened, staring at the prepared breakfast. Slowly losing your appetite the more Toji spent stopping you from enjoying your morning. “I’ve attended dozens of these events. I know how to handle myself.” You blinked, pushing away the thoughts. Picking up the utensils to start eating the meal.

“Yeah?” Toji took a slow sip of coffee, eyes never leaving yours. “Like you handled standing in front of the window last night? Real professional.”

He set the mug down and rounded the counter before you could retort. In two strides he was in your space again, that same casual invasion of boundaries that made the air feel thinner. One big hand landed lightly on your waist, there was possessiveness in its lightness as he turned you toward the hallway with zero effort.

“Go change. Something looser. Darker. Jacket that covers your arms. No heels you can’t run in.”

You planted your feet, refusing to be herded like a child. He’d been dragging you over to your bedroom. You place your hands on top of his hands that’s glued to your waist. “I’m not your puppet, Fushiguro.”

His hand didn’t leave your waist. If anything, his thumb pressed a fraction harder against the fabric, right over the dip where the skirt met the blouse. The touch was warm, steady, and far too intimate for a first full day on the job. “Call me Toji,” He said, voice dropping. “And you’re not my puppet. You’re my responsibility. Big difference. You fight me on every little thing, you’re just making my job harder. And when my job gets harder, you get hurt.”

He was so close you could see the faint stubble along his jaw, the way his scar pulled slightly when he spoke. His breath carried the bitter edge of black coffee. You hated how your body reacted–pulse jumping, skin prickling where his hand rested. It wasn’t fear. It was something far more dangerous: curiosity laced with heat. You stepped back, forcing his hand to drop. “Fine. I’ll change. But only because I have actual work to do today, not because you barked an order.”

Toji’s lips twitched, and it was the closest thing to a smile you’d seen. “Whatever helps you sleep at night, heiress.”

You changed into a looser charcoal pantsuit with a high-necked blouse and flat boots. When you returned, Toji gave you one slow once-over and nodded once. Approval, apparently. He was now fully dressed: black shirt stretched tight across his chest, shoulder holster visible, leather jacket slung over one arm. He looked like trouble wrapped in expensive violence.

“Breakfast,” he said, sliding the plate of eggs and toast toward you across the counter, the same plate he stopped you from eating to force you to change into something more conservative and safe. “Eat. We leave in twenty.”

You stared at the plate before staring at the clock, you need to leave now or you’d be late to a meeting. “I usually have a smoothie delivered.”

“Not today. You need protein if shit hits the fan. Sit.” Toji looked bored, staring at you and waiting to finish with your breakfast. 

You sat. Mostly because arguing felt exhausting already, and partly because the eggs actually smelled good–simple, perfectly seasoned. Toji leaned against the opposite counter, arms crossed, watching you eat like he was assessing a new weapon. His gaze was heavy, unblinking. Every time you shifted in your seat, his eyes tracked the movement.

When you finished, he took the plate without a word and rinsed it. Domestic. Efficient. Completely at odds with the dangerous man who’d crowded you against a wall last night.

The car ride to your father’s corporate headquarters was another battlefield.

The armored SUV was spacious, but Toji made it feel claustrophobic. He sat in the back with you instead of the front passenger seat like normal bodyguards. His knee pressed against yours from the moment the door closed—solid muscle, no space to escape. Every turn of the car shifted the contact, sending small sparks up your leg. He didn’t move it. Didn’t acknowledge it. Just stared out the tinted window, one arm draped along the back of the seat behind you, fingers occasionally brushing the fabric near your shoulder.

“Stop staring.” You muttered after ten minutes into the drive. You’d catch his burning stare from the rearview mirror and the window..

“I’m not staring at you,” He said without looking over. “I’m watching reflections. Windows. Rooflines. Places a shooter could hide.” Then his head turned, green eyes locking onto yours. “Though if you keep crossing and uncrossing your legs like that, I might start.”

Heat flooded your face, choking on your own spit at his statement. You forced yourself still and rolled your eyes at him. “You’re insufferable.” 

“You’re distracting.” The words were blunt, almost accusatory. “Keep your head in the game. Eyes forward. If I say duck, you duck. If I say run, you run. No questions.”

At the headquarters, the pushback really began.

Your schedule was packed: back-to-back meetings with division heads, a strategy session for the upcoming merger, and a private lunch with a foreign investor. Toji shadowed you through every corridor, always positioning himself between you and any open doorway, any cluster of employees. His presence was impossible to ignore, and people parted for him like water around a shark. Whispers followed in your wake, some spoke of your power while some spoke about your new bodyguard.

In the executive conference room, when you tried to close the door for privacy during a sensitive discussion, Toji’s hand shot out and stopped it.

“Door stays open.” He said flatly. The division head blinked who was already sitting inside the room. You turned to Toji. “This is confidential financial data. He doesn’t need to–”

“He stays where I can see him. Or the meeting ends now.”

You glared. He stared back, unmoved. When you tried to step around him to close the door yourself, his arm snaked out, catching your wrist in a firm but careful grip. Not painful. Just unbreakable. He pulled you back gently but inexorably until you were standing beside him again.

“Rule two,” He murmured, voice low enough that only you could hear. “No closed doors with people I haven’t vetted. You push, I push harder. Understand?”

His fingers lingered on your wrist a second too long, thumb brushing over your pulse point. You felt it jump under his touch. He noticed. The corner of his scarred mouth twitched.

The day dragged on like that. Every time you tried to assert independence–stepping into an elevator alone, accepting a coffee from an assistant without him tasting it first, walking ahead of him down a hallway–Toji acted. No arguments. No raised voices. He simply moved.

You tried to slip away toward the private restroom during a break. His hand landed on your lower back, guiding you instead toward the larger executive lounge where he could watch all entrances.

You attempted to take a call in the stairwell for a better signal. He blocked the door with his body, one arm braced above your head, caging you in the corridor while he scanned for threats.

“You’re making this impossible.” You hissed at one point, after he’d physically turned you away from a group of chatting executives because one of them had a suspicious bulge in his jacket pocket, which turned out to be a phone.

Toji leaned down, mouth close to your ear again. “Good. Impossible keeps you alive.”

By late afternoon, frustration had coiled tight in your chest. When the final meeting ended and you headed for the underground parking garage, you deliberately quickened your pace, trying to put distance between you. Your heels clicked rapidly on the concrete.

Big mistake.

Toji caught up in three strides. His hand wrapped around your upper arm, yanking you back against his chest with controlled strength. Your back hit solid muscle. One arm banded around your waist to steady you, the other still gripping your arm. The sudden proximity stole your breath–the heat of his body, the faint scent of gun oil and clean sweat, the way his chest rose and fell steadily against your shoulder blades.

“Where do you think you’re going?” His voice was low, dangerous. “Trying to lose me?”

You struggled for half a second. Pointless. He didn’t budge. “Let go.”

“No.” His grip loosened slightly but didn’t release. Instead, his hand on your waist slid a fraction lower, settling just above the curve of your hip. “You walk when I say. You stop when I say. You breathe when I say it’s safe. Got it?”

His breath ghosted over the nape of your neck. You could feel the hard outline of his holster pressing against your side. More than that, you could feel him. The sheer power contained in the body holding you in place. It should have terrified you. Instead, it sent a dark thrill racing down your spine.

You turned your head just enough to meet his eyes over your shoulder. “You enjoy this, don’t you? Throwing your weight around.”

Toji’s gaze darkened. His thumb traced one slow, absent circle against your hip bone through the fabric of your pantsuit. “What I enjoy is not scraping your brains off the pavement because you’re too stubborn to listen.” His voice dropped even lower. “But keep pushing, heiress. See what happens.”

The threat hung between you, heavy and charged. His hand stayed on your waist as he guided you the rest of the way to the SUV, fingers firm, touch lingering every time he adjusted his grip. In the car, his knee pressed against yours again. This time, when you tried to shift away, he simply spread his legs a little wider, trapping yours in place without a word.

Back at the penthouse, the tension simmered into something thicker.

You tried to head straight to your room to prepare for the gala. Toji blocked the hallway entrance with his body, arms crossed over his broad chest.

“Safehouse tonight after the event,” He informed you, leaving no space for you to rebut. “No arguments. Your father already approved it.”

“I’m not hiding like some frightened child.”

“You’re not hiding. You’re surviving.” He stepped closer, forcing you to tilt your head back to maintain eye contact. “And until I say it’s clear, you do what I tell you. End of discussion.”

You stood your ground, chest brushing his when you breathed. The air crackled between your gazes. “Make me.”

Something flashed in his green eyes–irritation, heat, maybe both. For a heartbeat, you thought he might actually do it. Grab you. Pin you. Show you exactly how easily he could enforce his rules. The one sick thought that kept you up at night. It was a nightmare that you were dreaming of. Toji was the kind of nightmare you’d dream of. 

Instead, he reached out and tugged lightly at the collar of your blouse, straightening it with surprising gentleness. His knuckles grazed the skin of your throat. “Go get ready for the gala. I’ll be right outside your door. And heiress?” His voice softened into something almost dangerous. “If you try to sneak out that window, I’ll know. And I’ll make sure you regret it.”

He stepped aside at last, but the ghost of his touch remained on your collar, on your hip, on your wrist. Everywhere he’d casually claimed today. Your body was stamped by Toj’s touch, every bit of you was already claimed by Toji. It was his way of keeping you safe, he made sure you were familiar with his touch and how he’d handle you.

As you closed the bedroom door behind you, heart racing, you realized two things with startling clarity:

One: you were already testing boundaries you shouldn’t.

Two: Toji Fushiguro wasn’t just controlling the situation.

He was starting to control the way you reacted to him.

And the worst part?

Some treacherous part of you was beginning to like it.

The gala was a glittering cage of crystal chandeliers, champagne flutes, and whispered deals worth more than most countries’ GDPs. Held in the grand ballroom of Tokyo’s most exclusive hotel, the event celebrated the latest Takahashi merger. You moved through the crowd in a floor-length black gown that skimmed your curves without clinging too obviously–Toji had approved it after a long, silent stare that made your skin prickle. The high slit up one leg was a small act of rebellion he’d allowed with a muttered “Don’t make me regret this.”

Toji never left your side.

He wore a tailored black suit that somehow managed to look both expensive and lethal on his massive frame. The jacket strained across his shoulders, and you knew the shoulder holster was hidden beneath it, along with at least two knives. He looked like a man who could kill everyone in the room without breaking a sweat and still have time to finish his drink. His hair was slightly tamed, but the scar on his lip and the perpetual half-lidded sharpness in his green eyes ruined any illusion of civility.

He stood too close. Always.

In the receiving line, his chest brushed your back whenever you leaned forward to greet someone. When you turned to speak with the CEO of a European tech firm, Toji’s hand settled on your lower back, it was warm, heavy, fingers splayed possessively just above the curve of your ass. He didn’t rub or caress. He just rested it there like it belonged, guiding you subtly when you moved, steering you away from anyone who lingered too long in conversation.

You felt every point of contact like a brand.

“Smile less,” He murmured against your ear during a lull, breath hot on your skin. “You’re giving them ideas.”

“I’m being polite,” You whispered back, trying to ignore the way his thumb shifted slightly against the silk of your gown. Every move was discreet, it was quiet but it spoke a thousand words between the two of you. 

“You’re being bait.” His voice was low, rough, meant only for you. “And I don’t like sharing bait.”

The words sent an unwelcome shiver down your spine. You told yourself it was the air conditioning. His words held different interpretations. It was unprofessional for you to even assume it, but the way Toji had been treating you was new. For once, you felt a little more in control.

Dancing was worse.

A prominent investor–a slick man in his forties with too much cologne and wandering eyes–asked you for a dance. Before you could respond, Toji’s arm slid around your waist and pulled you against his side in one smooth motion.

“She’s not dancing tonight.” He said flatly, green eyes boring into the man like he was measuring how many seconds it would take to break his neck.

The investor backed off with a nervous laugh.

You turned on Toji the moment the man was out of earshot, voice hushed but sharp. “That was rude. He’s important for the merger.” You weren’t fond of dancing with the man, but it was still your responsibility to be hospitable towards the prominent figures that could aid you.

Toji didn’t loosen his hold. His palm stayed pressed to your waist, fingers flexing once as if testing the give of your body beneath the fabric. “He was looking at your tits like they were on the menu. Important or not, he doesn’t get to touch you.”

The possessiveness in his tone startled you. It wasn’t professional. It was personal. Raw. You opened your mouth to argue, but he was already moving you through the crowd again, his big body cutting a path like a ship through water. People instinctively gave him space. His hand never left your waist. Every step made the silk slide against your skin, and every shift of his fingers reminded you exactly who was in control of your movements tonight.

At the bar, when you reached for a glass of champagne, Toji’s hand covered yours before you could lift it.

“No alcohol.” He said quietly.

“It’s one glass.”

“One glass dulls your reflexes. You stay sharp.” He took the flute from your fingers and set it back down, then ordered you sparkling water instead. When the bartender slid the glass over, Toji tasted it first–quick, efficient sip–before handing it to you. His eyes stayed on yours the entire time, daring you to protest.

You drank it. The bubbles felt flat compared to the charged silence between you.

The worst of it came during the speeches.

You were seated at the head table. Toji stood directly behind your chair instead of taking the empty seat beside you. His presence loomed like a shadow. It was close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from his thighs against the back of your seat. When the lights dimmed slightly for the projector presentation, his hand dropped to your shoulder. Heavy. Steady. Fingers curling lightly around the bare skin exposed by the gown’s thin straps.

You tensed.

“Relax,” He breathed, leaning down so only you could hear. “Just making sure no one can get behind you.”

His thumb stroked once, slow and absent, along the line of your collarbone. The touch was supposed to be professional. It didn’t feel professional. It felt like a claim. Like he was reminding both you and anyone watching that you were under his protection–and his attention.

You lasted another twenty minutes before the proximity became unbearable.

“I need air.” You muttered, standing abruptly.

Toji was moving with you instantly. His hand found the small of your back again as he guided you toward the terrace doors. The night air was cool and damp, carrying the distant scent of the city below. The terrace was mostly empty, string lights casting soft golden pools across the stone floor.

You stepped toward the railing. Toji’s arm hooked around your waist and pulled you back a step.

“Not that close to the edge,” He said. “Too exposed.”

He didn’t release you. Instead, he kept you tucked against his side, your hip pressed to his thigh, his arm a solid band of muscle around you. The city lights sprawled beneath you like scattered jewels, but all you could focus on was the way his body heat seeped through the thin silk of your gown, the steady rise and fall of his chest against your shoulder, the faint scent of his cologne mixed with gun oil and something uniquely him.

Minutes passed in thick silence.

“You’re suffocating me,” You finally said, voice quieter than you intended. The idea of it kept pounding in your mind. You weren’t sure if it was because of tonight’s gala but you felt more restricted than before, everything was different with him. A breath of fresh air that settled heavy in your lungs.

Toji’s grip tightened fractionally. “Better suffocated than dead.” His head tilted down, mouth close to your temple. “You keep forgetting there are people out there who want to put a bullet in you. I don’t.”

His free hand came up, brushing a stray lock of hair behind your ear with surprising gentleness. The calloused pads of his fingers lingered against the shell of your ear, tracing down to the sensitive skin of your neck for a heartbeat longer than necessary. Your pulse hammered under his touch.

You turned your head to look at him. The golden light caught the sharp line of his jaw, the scar pulling at his lip, the dark intensity in his green eyes. He was watching you–not the surroundings, not potential threats. Just you.

“Why do you touch me like this?” The question slipped out before you could stop it. “It’s not just protection. Not anymore.”

Toji didn’t answer right away. His thumb continued its slow stroke along your neck, sending tiny sparks racing across your skin. Then he leaned in closer, voice a low rumble that vibrated through your chest.

“Because asking takes time. And time is something you might not have if I hesitate.” His eyes dropped to your mouth for a fraction of a second. “And because you don’t pull away.”

The truth of that statement hung heavy between you. You hadn’t pulled away. Not once. Not when his knee pressed against yours in the car for hours. Not when his hand branded your lower back all night. Not even now, with his arm locked around your waist and his fingers on your throat.

You swallowed. “Maybe I should.”

“Maybe.” His voice darkened. “But you won’t.”

The moment stretched, thick with unspoken want. The distant hum of the gala faded into background noise. There was only the cool night air, the warmth of his body, and the dangerous pull that made you want to lean in instead of stepping back.

A sharp crack from inside, someone dropping a tray, shattered the tension.

Toji’s entire body shifted in an instant. He spun you behind him, one arm shoving you gently but firmly against the wall of the terrace, his broad back becoming a living shield. His hand went to the holster under his jacket. Eyes scanning the doors, the shadows, every possible angle.

When nothing followed the noise, he relaxed by degrees, but he didn’t move away. His back stayed pressed to your front, keeping you pinned safely between cool stone and solid muscle.

“False alarm.” He muttered, voice tight. But he was still poised, he was unshaken by what transcended  “But we’re leaving. Now.”

He didn’t ask. He simply took your hand. His fingers threading through yours with surprising possessiveness and led you back inside, cutting through the crowd like a blade. His grip was firm, warm, unyielding. In the elevator down to the underground garage, he kept you tucked against his side, one arm around your shoulders, body angled to block any approach.

The ride to the safehouse was even more suffocating.

The armored SUV felt smaller than ever. Toji sat beside you in the back again, thigh pressed fully against yours, no space to escape. Every bump in the road jostled you closer. His arm rested along the back of the seat, fingers occasionally brushing the bare skin of your shoulder where the gown’s strap had slipped slightly. He didn’t fix it. He just let his fingertips rest there, tracing idle patterns that made concentration impossible.

You tried to focus on the passing city lights. Failed.

“Stop.” You whispered after twenty minutes of thick silence.

“Stop what?” His voice was deceptively calm.

“Touching me like you own me.”

Toji turned his head slowly. Green eyes met yours in the dim interior light. “I do own the job of keeping you alive.” His hand slid from the seat to your knee, palm heavy and warm through the silk. “And right now, that means keeping you close. Real close.”

His fingers flexed once against your knee, then stayed there. The heat of his palm soaked through the fabric, spreading upward. You didn’t push his hand away. Couldn’t. The forced proximity had worn down every defense you had, leaving only raw awareness: the solid weight of him beside you, the way his breathing stayed steady and controlled while yours quickened, the unspoken promise in every casual touch that this was only the beginning.

The safehouse was a sleek, fortified apartment on the outskirts of Tokyo–high security, bulletproof glass, multiple exit routes. Toji checked every room before letting you inside, moving like a ghost despite his size. When he finally deemed it clear, he locked the door and turned to you.

“Bedroom’s yours. I’ll take the couch again.” He shrugged out of his suit jacket, revealing the holster and the way his shirt clung to every muscle. “Don’t open windows. Don’t answer the door. If you need anything, you call for me. Loud.”

You nodded, suddenly exhausted from the night’s constant tension. But as you headed toward the bedroom, his voice stopped you.

“Hey.”

You turned.

Toji stood in the middle of the living room, arms crossed, watching you with that same unreadable intensity. “You did good tonight. Didn’t fight me as much.”

There was something almost like pride in his tone. Mixed with something darker. Hungrier.

You swallowed. “Don’t get used to it.”

His scarred lip twitched. “Wouldn’t dream of it, heiress.”

But as you closed the bedroom door, the memory of his hand on your knee, his chest against your back, his fingers on your throat lingered like a promise.

The proximity wasn’t just forced anymore.

It was becoming necessary.

And the line between protection and possession was blurring faster than you could stop it.

The safehouse was quiet in a way that felt artificial–too thick, too deliberate. Bulletproof glass muted the distant hum of Tokyo traffic to a low drone, and the reinforced walls swallowed every echo. You’d change out of the gala gown into soft black lounge pants and a loose silk camisole, the fabric cool against skin still buzzing from hours of Toji’s constant proximity. Sleep refused to come. Every time you closed your eyes, you felt his palm on your lower back, his thigh pressed to yours in the SUV, the rough pads of his fingers tracing idle circles on your knee.

At 2:17 a.m., you gave up.

The living room was dark except for the faint blue glow of the security monitors mounted on the far wall. Toji sat on the wide sectional couch, one arm slung along the back, legs spread wide in that unapologetic way of his. He hadn’t changed out of the black dress shirt and slacks from the gala, though the top two buttons were undone, revealing a slice of scarred chest and the edge of a tattoo you couldn’t quite make out. A handgun rested on the coffee table within easy reach. His green eyes were open, reflecting the monitor light as he watched the feeds, flickering through rooftops, stairwells, and the alley behind the building.

He didn’t look tired. He looked like a predator who had learned to rest with one eye open.

You padded barefoot across the hardwood, the cool floor grounding you. Toji’s gaze flicked to you the moment you entered the room, tracking your movements with that same sharp assessment he’d given you on the first night.

“Can’t sleep?” His voice was low, rough from disuse, carrying across the quiet space like gravel under boots.

“No.” You stopped a few feet from the couch, arms wrapping loosely around yourself. The camisole suddenly felt too thin. “Too much on my mind.”

He didn’t invite you over. Just watched as you moved anyway, lowering yourself onto the far end of the sectional. The cushions dipped under your weight. There was still space between you, technically, but the room felt smaller the second you sat down. Toji’s presence filled it like smoke.

For a long minute, neither of you spoke. The only sound was the faint hum of the air system and the occasional click of the security cameras cycling through views.

Then Toji shifted. The movement brought his knee closer to yours, the fabric of his slacks brushing your lounge pants. He didn’t pull away. “You handled the gala better than I expected,” He said eventually, ending the comfortable silence between the two of you. “Didn’t fight me every five seconds.”

You let out a soft huff. “Don’t sound so surprised. I’m not an idiot. I know the threats are real.”

“Yeah?” He turned his head fully toward you now, green eyes catching the blue glow. The scar on his lip caught the light when he spoke. “Could’ve fooled me with the way you kept trying to slip my hand off your back.”

Heat crept up your neck. “You were touching me like I belonged to you in front of half the corporate world.”

Toji’s mouth curved–just the barest tilt, more smirk than smile. “Maybe you do. For now.” His arm slid off the back of the couch, elbow resting on his knee as he leaned forward slightly. The movement made the open collar of his shirt gape wider, revealing more of the hard planes of his chest. “Job’s easier when you stop pretending you hate it.”

“I don’t–” You stopped, because the denial felt thin even to your own ears. You did hate parts of it. The loss of control. The way he bulldozed every boundary without asking. But the other parts… the warmth of his palm, the solid wall of his body shielding yours, the way his voice dropped when he spoke only to you… those parts were becoming harder to hate.

You changed tactics. “You act like I’m more than just a job.”

The words landed heavier than you intended. Silence stretched. Toji’s expression didn’t change, but something in his eyes sharpened.

“You’re not,” He said flatly. The denial was immediate, automatic. But he didn’t move away. If anything, he shifted closer on the couch, his thigh now fully pressing against yours. The contact was deliberate. Unapologetic. “You’re a paycheck. A complicated one with too many windows and too much attitude. That’s it.”

The lie sat between you like a live wire. You could feel the heat of his leg through the thin fabric of your pants, the steady rhythm of his breathing. Your own pulse had picked up, loud in the quiet room.

“Liar.” You whispered, a chuckle escaped your lips. His issue with the amount of windows in your place was something he would never let down.

Toji’s jaw flexed. He reached out without warning, a large hand cupping the back of your neck–firm, warm, calloused fingers threading into the hair at your nape. He didn’t pull you forward. He just held you there, thumb stroking once along the side of your throat, right over your racing pulse.

“Careful,” He murmured, voice lower now, rougher. “You keep pushing like that and you’re gonna find out exactly how personal this can get.”

Your breath caught. The touch was possessive in its gentleness. Necessary, he would probably claim–checking your vitals or some bullshit excuse. But it lingered. His fingers flexed against your scalp, massaging lightly, sending slow waves of heat down your spine. You didn’t pull away. Instead, you leaned into it by a fraction, testing.

His eyes darkened. Green turning almost black in the low light.

The moment shattered with the sharp ping of an alert from the security system.

Toji was on his feet before the sound fully registered, gun in hand, body moving with terrifying speed. He yanked you up and behind him in one fluid motion, shoving you toward the reinforced corner of the living room.

“Stay down.” He ordered, voice ice-cold now. All traces of the earlier heat gone.

The monitors flickered. One feed showed movement in the alley–three figures in dark clothing, moving with military precision toward the service entrance. Another camera caught a fourth man scaling the fire escape two floors below.

“Fuck,” Toji growled. He checked the magazine of his handgun with a quick, practiced flick, then pulled a second weapon from the ankle holster you hadn’t even noticed. “They’re here. Four, maybe more. Professional.”

Your heart slammed against your ribs. This wasn’t a vague threat anymore. This was real–boots on concrete, silenced weapons, people who had bypassed the outer perimeter. You pressed your back to the wall, trying to keep your breathing steady. You’d gone through this multiple times already but somehow, every time you’d see those men dressed in all black with guns in hand, you wanted to curl up in the corner and hope that you’d still be able to open your eyes.

Toji moved like liquid violence. He killed the main lights with a swipe of his hand, plunging the safehouse into near darkness except for the emergency strips. Then he was at the door, listening. When the first muffled thud came from the service entrance–someone trying to breach the lock–he didn’t hesitate.

He opened the door just enough to slip out, silent as a shadow despite his size.

You heard it all.

The wet crack of bone. A choked gurgle. The dull thud of a body hitting the floor. Then gunfire, silenced, but unmistakable. Two quick pops, then a third. A shout cut short. Heavy footsteps running. You stared at the darkness, flickering lights that followed with your breathing. You couldn’t help but hope that Toji was responsible for all the danger to protect you and himself.

Toji reappeared less than two minutes later, breathing hard but controlled. There was blood on his knuckles and a shallow slice across his left forearm where a knife had caught him. His shirt was torn at the shoulder. He didn’t look panicked. He looked pissed.

“Two down outside. Two more inside the stairwell.” He crossed the room in three strides and grabbed your arm, pulling you toward the bedroom. “We’re moving. Backup’s en route but I’m not waiting.”

You stumbled after him, your eyes wide at the amount of blood on him, you couldn’t help but think if it was his or someone else’s. “Toji–”

“Save it.” He shoved you into the bedroom, then followed, locking the door behind him and dragging the heavy dresser in front of it with one arm like it weighed nothing. His movements were economical, precise. But when he turned to you, his eyes scanned your body with clinical intensity, checking for injury.

“You hurt?” His voice was rough.

You shook your head. “No. You are.”

He ignored that, already pulling a black duffel from under the bed–pre-packed emergency kit. He tossed you a dark hoodie. “Put this on. We’re going out the back window in ninety seconds. Stay behind me. If I say drop, you hit the floor.”

The cut on his arm was bleeding steadily now, soaking into the torn fabric of his shirt. You stepped forward without thinking and grabbed his wrist, turning his arm to inspect the wound. It wasn’t deep, but it needed pressure.

“Sit.” You said quietly.

Toji’s eyes narrowed, the cut didn’t hurt nor did Toji even notice that they were able to nick him. “We don’t have time for–”

“Sit.” Your voice was firmer than you felt. “Thirty seconds won’t kill us. But bleeding all over the escape route might.”

He stared at you for a beat, something unreadable flickering across his face. Then, surprisingly, he sat on the edge of the bed, gun still in his right hand. You grabbed the first-aid kit from the duffel and knelt between his spread thighs, the position intimate in the dim emergency lighting.

Your hands weren’t completely steady as you cleaned the slice with antiseptic wipes. Toji didn’t flinch. He just watched you–green eyes heavy, jaw tight. When you pressed gauze to the wound and began wrapping it, his free hand came up to rest on your shoulder, thumb stroking the line of your collarbone again. The touch was gentler than it had any right to be after the violence you’d just heard.

“You’re shaking.” He muttered.

“I’m fine.” But your voice wavered. The reality of how close it had been–of the bodies he’d left in the hallway, the casual way he’d killed to protect you–was sinking in. His position in your life was finally taking effect, you realized that he wasn’t just someone to guard you but to protect you with his life. That bullets and cuts were nothing compared to his duty of saving you.

Toji’s hand slid from your shoulder to the back of your neck again, fingers threading into your hair. This time he tugged gently, tilting your face up so you had to meet his eyes.

“You’re not fine.” His voice had dropped, low and rough. “But you’re alive. That’s what matters.”

His thumb brushed your lower lip, slow and deliberate. The air between you thickened, the adrenaline still pumping, turning every sensation sharper. Your knees pressed against the inside of his thighs. The scent of blood and gunpowder mixed with his natural musk. His chest rose and fell steadily, but his eyes had gone dark again–focused entirely on you.

The wrap was finished, but neither of you moved.

Toji’s gaze dropped to your mouth. Lingered. His fingers tightened fractionally in your hair.

Then the building alarm finally tripped–loud, piercing.

He cursed under his breath and stood, pulling you up with him in one smooth motion. His bandaged arm flexed as he grabbed the duffel and shoved the dresser aside just enough for you to slip through. His body stayed between you and the door the entire time, a living shield.

“Stay close.” He ordered, voice back to steel. But when his hand found yours to pull you toward the emergency exit window, his grip was tighter than necessary. Warmer. His thumb stroked once over your knuckles before he released you to open the window.

As you climbed out onto the fire escape behind him, heart still racing, you realized the crack had formed.

He’d protected you with brutal efficiency.

Then he’d let you touch him. Let you patch him up while his hand lingered on your skin like he needed the contact more than air.

And in that moment between violence and escape, the lie he’d told earlier “You’re not” had started to splinter.

Toji Fushiguro was no longer just doing his job.

He was starting to care.

And that made him far more dangerous than any assassin waiting in the shadows.

The new safehouse was smaller, more isolated. A sleek, minimalist apartment buried on the 28th floor of an unmarked residential tower in a quiet district on the edge of the city. No grand views, no orchids, no marble. Just reinforced concrete, blackout blinds, and enough security measures to make a fortress look welcoming. Toji had driven through half the night, switching vehicles twice, his bandaged arm flexing on the wheel while you sat in silence beside him. His knee had still found yours. His hand had still brushed your thigh when he shifted gears. The touches were fewer now, but heavier. It weighed with everything that had happened in the previous safehouse.

By the time you arrived, dawn was bleeding gray through the blinds. Exhaustion sat heavy in your bones, but sleep still felt impossible. The image of Toji moving like death through the hallway, the sound of bodies dropping, the way his blood had stained your fingers while you wrapped his arm–it all looped in your head on repeat.

Toji checked the entire place twice before he let you out of the entryway. When he finally deemed it secure, he dropped the duffel bag on the floor with a dull thud and rolled his shoulders, wincing slightly as the fresh bandage pulled.

“Shower if you want.” He said, voice flat. “Bedroom’s yours. I’ll crash on the couch again.”

You didn’t move toward the bedroom. Instead, you stood in the middle of the open-plan living space, arms wrapped around yourself, watching him. The black dress shirt from the gala was ruined–torn at the shoulder, dark stains that might have been blood or just shadows. His hair was messier than usual, falling into his eyes. He looked every bit the dangerous mercenary your father had hired, yet the memory of his thumb brushing your lip while you knelt between his thighs made your stomach tighten.

“You should let me check that cut again.” You said quietly.

Toji paused mid-step toward the kitchen. He turned slowly, green eyes narrowing. “It’s fine. I’ve had worse from shaving.”

“Don’t be an ass.” You stepped closer, close enough that you could smell the faint metallic tang still clinging to him under the scent of gun oil and sweat. “It could get infected. Sit down.”

For a moment you thought he’d refuse. His jaw worked, scar pulling tight. Then he exhaled through his nose and dropped onto one of the sturdy dining chairs, legs spread wide, arms draped over the backrest. The position made his chest look even broader, the open collar of his shirt revealing the strong column of his throat and the top of that tattoo you still couldn’t fully see.

You fetched the first-aid kit from the duffel and approached him again. This time when you stepped between his thighs, the proximity felt different. Charged. Less about necessity and more about the way his eyes tracked every movement you made. You unwrapped the old bandage carefully. The cut was angry but clean–your earlier work had held. Still, you cleaned it again, applied fresh antiseptic, and re-wrapped it with steady hands that betrayed none of the storm inside you.

Toji watched you the entire time. Not the wound. You. His gaze was heavy, unblinking, lingering on the way your camisole shifted when you leaned in, on the bare skin of your arms, on the nervous swallow of your throat.

When you finished and started to step back, his good hand shot out and caught your wrist. Not hard. Just enough to stop you.

“You didn’t have to do that.” He muttered. His thumb pressed against your pulse again, feeling it jump. “I’m not some charity case.”

“I know.” Your voice came out softer than intended. “But you got hurt because of me.”

His grip tightened fractionally. “I got hurt because some assholes decided to test me. Not because of you.” He tugged you closer, until your knees bumped the edge of the chair between his spread legs. “Don’t start taking blame for shit that’s not yours.”

The air between you thickened. You could feel the heat radiating off his body, the steady thrum of his heartbeat visible in the vein along his neck. His fingers were still wrapped around your wrist, rough and warm, and he made no move to let go.

You swallowed again. “Toji… you act like I’m more than just a job.”

There it was. The same words you’d thrown at him the night before, but heavier now, sharpened by blood and proximity and the way he’d killed for you without hesitation.

Toji’s eyes darkened. He released your wrist only to slide his hand up, palm flattening against your lower back, pulling you in until you were standing flush between his thighs. The position forced you to look down at him, your hands instinctively resting on his broad shoulders for balance. His muscles tensed under your palms–solid, warm, alive.

“You’re not.” He said again. The denial was rough, almost angry this time. But his hand stayed on your back, fingers splaying wide, pressing you closer. “This is still a job. You’re still the rich girl I’m paid to keep breathing. Nothing more.”

The lie tasted bitter in the air. You could see it in the way his jaw clenched, in the way his gaze dropped to your mouth and lingered there too long before flicking back up.

“Then why do you touch me like this?” You whispered. Your fingers curled into the fabric of his torn shirt. “Why did you hold me on the terrace? Why did your hand stay on my knee the entire ride here? Why are you looking at me right now like you want to–”

His other hand came up fast, cupping the back of your neck, thumb pressing under your jaw to tilt your face down to his. The movement was controlled but not gentle. His green eyes burned.

“Because if I don’t keep you close, someone else gets close enough to end you,” He growled. “Because my job is to make sure nothing touches you. Not a bullet. Not a hand. Not a fucking breath that isn’t mine to allow.” His voice dropped lower, rougher. “And yeah, maybe I’m getting too comfortable doing it. But that doesn’t make you more than a job. It makes me good at what I do.”

You leaned down closer, heart hammering. Your lips were only inches from his now. You could see every detail of the scar cutting through the corner of his mouth, the faint stubble along his jaw, the way his pupils had blown wide.

“Liar.” You breathed again, the same conversation took place. But there was something different now, there was more vulnerability lingering in his words..

Toji’s grip on your neck tightened. For one electric second, you thought he might close the distance–might crush his mouth to yours and finally snap the tension that had been building since the first night he crowded you against the piano. His breath ghosted hot across your lips.

Then he released you.

Both hands dropped away like you’d burned him. He stood up abruptly, forcing you to step back. The chair scraped loudly against the floor. Toji towered over you now, chest heaving once before he locked it down, expression shuttering into something colder.

“Go shower. Get some sleep.” His voice was flat again, professional in the harshest way. “I’ll take first watch.”

He turned away, heading toward the living room windows to check the blinds, broad back rigid.

You stood there for a long moment, skin still tingling where he’d touched you, lips still buzzing with the almost-kiss that hadn’t happened. Frustration and something sharper–want–coiled tight in your chest.

“You can’t keep shutting it down forever.” You called after him, voice steady despite everything. “One day you’re going to have to admit that this stopped being just a job the moment you pulled me behind you in that safehouse.”

Toji stopped at the window but didn’t turn around. His hands flexed at his sides. “Go to bed, heiress.”

You didn’t argue further. You walked to the bedroom, feeling the weight of his gaze on your back even though he refused to look. When you closed the door, you leaned against it, breathing hard.

Hours later, when exhaustion finally dragged you under, you dreamed of calloused hands and green eyes and a voice that kept saying “You’re not” while his body pressed you against a wall and proved the opposite.

The next two days passed in a tense, claustrophobic rhythm.

Toji enforced the rules even more strictly now. No leaving the apartment. No calls that weren’t routed through secure lines. Meals were delivered and inspected by him personally. He cooked simple, high-protein food when he got restless–eggs, rice, grilled meat–sliding plates across the counter to you with the same unbothered efficiency as before. But everything felt different.

He stood closer when you moved around the small space. His hand would find the small of your back when you passed him in the narrow hallway. In the evenings, when you sat on the couch pretending to read on your tablet, he would drop into the opposite end, thigh brushing yours, arm stretched along the backrest so his fingers occasionally grazed your shoulder.

He never asked. He just did.

And when the secure line rang with updates from your father’s team–another lead on the attackers, another vague threat–he would listen, then hang up and watch you with sharper eyes. Like the idea of someone else even thinking about you made his temper simmer.

One afternoon, while you were on a monitored video call with your assistant to handle urgent business, Toji stood directly behind your chair. Close enough that you could feel the heat of his body against your back. When your assistant–a young, polished man who had always been friendly–smiled a little too warmly and said, “You look good even under all this stress, Miss Takahashi. We miss having you in the office,” Toji’s hand landed on your shoulder. Heavy. Possessive.

The smile on your assistant’s face faltered when Toji leaned down into frame just enough for his scarred face and cold green eyes to be visible.

“Keep the call professional,” Toji said flatly. “Or it ends now.”

The assistant stammered an apology and wrapped up quickly.

When the call disconnected, you spun in the chair to glare up at him. “That was completely unnecessary.”

Toji didn’t back down. He planted both hands on the arms of the chair, caging you in, leaning down until his face was inches from yours. “He was flirting. In the middle of a security situation. You don’t need that kind of distraction.”

“I can handle a little flirting.”

His eyes flashed. “Yeah? You like that kind of attention? Soft boys in suits who smile pretty and say whatever you want to hear?” His voice dropped, low and rough. “Because I can tell you right now, they wouldn’t last five seconds if someone came through that door with a gun. They wouldn’t kill for you. They wouldn’t bleed for you.”

The jealousy was naked now. Unfiltered. It should have annoyed you. Instead, it sent heat pooling low in your belly. You lifted your chin, refusing to shrink. “And you would?”

Toji’s gaze bored into yours. His breath brushed your lips. “I already did.”

The silence that followed was deafening. He stayed there, caging you, chest rising and falling heavily. Then he pushed off the chair and walked away, muttering something under his breath about “reckless fucking princess” before disappearing into the kitchen.

That night, the tension finally boiled over in the quiet hours after midnight.

You couldn’t sleep again. You found him on the couch, same position as always–legs spread, arm along the back, gun nearby. This time you didn’t hesitate. You walked straight over and sat down right beside him, close enough that your thigh pressed fully against his and your shoulder brushed his arm.

Toji tensed but didn’t move away.

“You’re watching me more.” You said softly. “Getting irritated when anyone else even looks at me too long. You say I’m not more than a job, but you’re acting like I’m yours to protect… and yours to keep.”

He turned his head slowly. Green eyes met yours in the dim light. For once, he didn’t deny it immediately. His hand lifted, fingers brushing a strand of hair away from your face with a gentleness that contradicted every rough edge of him.

“Maybe I am getting possessive,” He admitted, voice barely above a growl. “Doesn’t change the facts. I’m still here because your father pays me. But the thought of someone else touching you…” His jaw clenched. “It pisses me off more than it should.”

Your heart stuttered. You leaned in, resting your forehead lightly against his shoulder. The solid warmth of him grounded you. “Then stop fighting it, Toji. Stop pretending this is still just a transaction.”

His arm came around you slowly, pulling you against his chest. Not rough this time. Almost careful. His hand stroked down your back in one long, slow pass, lingering at the base of your spine.

“I don’t do soft shit.” He muttered into your hair. “I don’t do feelings. I break things. I kill things. I keep people alive long enough to collect a check.” His fingers flexed against your back. “But you… you make it hard to remember that.”

You tilted your head up. Your noses brushed. The almost-kiss from days ago hovered between you again, closer now, more inevitable.

Toji’s hand slid up to cup your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek. His eyes searched yours, dark and conflicted. “You trust me too much.” He whispered. It sounded like both a warning and a confession.

“Maybe,” You breathed. “But right now… I feel safest when you’re this close.”

His grip tightened. The tension coiled tighter, ready to snap.

But he didn’t kiss you.

Instead, he pulled you fully into his lap, arms banding around you like iron, holding you against his chest as if letting go might make you disappear. His chin rested on top of your head, breath steady but deep.

“Sleep,” He ordered quietly. “I’ve got you.”

You closed your eyes, surrounded by the heat and strength of him, the steady beat of his heart under your cheek.

The denial was cracking wider.

He still wouldn’t say the words.

But his body was already admitting what his mouth refused to: you had stopped being just a job a long time ago.

And the closer he held you, the harder it became for either of you to pretend otherwise.

The safehouse felt smaller with every passing hour.

Three days had dragged by in that fortified apartment, the walls pressing in like a slow trap. Your father’s team kept feeding updates through the secure line–leads drying up, new chatter about a larger network behind the attacks, promises that “it would be over soon.” Toji took every call with the same stony expression, jaw tight, green eyes flicking to you every few seconds as if making sure you were still breathing, still there, still his to guard.

The tension between you had become unbearable.

It wasn’t just the casual touches anymore. It was the way he watched you when he thought you weren’t looking. The way his hand would linger on your waist when he guided you to the kitchen. The way he pulled you into his lap on the couch at night without a word, arms locked around you like iron bands while you pretended to sleep against his chest. He never kissed you. Never crossed that final line. But every night his hands roamed a little lower on your back, his breath grew a little heavier against your hair, and the hard line of his body beneath yours made it impossible to ignore what he was fighting.

You were done waiting.

That evening, after another silent dinner of grilled meat and rice that he’d cooked while barely speaking, you pushed your plate away and stood up. Toji was leaning against the counter, arms crossed over his broad chest, black t-shirt stretched tight across his shoulders and the fresh bandage peeking from under the sleeve on his left arm. His hair was messy, falling into his eyes, and the scar on his lip caught the low kitchen light when he glanced at you.

“I’m going out for air.” You said calmly, heading toward the balcony door. It was a lie. The balcony was tiny, heavily monitored, and he’d never allow it anyway. But you needed to push. Needed to see if the crack you’d felt in him would finally widen enough to break.

Toji moved faster than you expected.

Before your hand even touched the handle, he was there. His massive frame blocking the door, one hand slamming flat against the wall beside your head with enough force to make the frame rattle. The sound echoed in the quiet apartment. His other hand shot out and grabbed your wrist, yanking it away from the door and pinning it above your head in one smooth, ruthless motion.

“You’re not going anywhere.” He growled, voice low and dangerous, chest already pressing you back against the wall. The heat of his body was immediate and overwhelming. Solid muscle caged you completely. His thigh shoved between your legs, forcing them apart just enough that you were trapped against him, no escape.

Your heart slammed against your ribs. “Let me go, Toji.”

“No.” His face was inches from yours, green eyes burning with barely-leashed fury and something far darker. Hunger. “You think I’m doing this for fun? Standing here every fucking night with you in my lap, smelling like expensive soap and temptation, while I try not to think about how easy it would be to bend you over that counter?”

His free hand came up, gripping your chin roughly, tilting your face up so you had no choice but to meet his eyes. His thumb pressed against your lower lip, dragging it down slightly. The rough pad of his finger sent sparks straight down your spine.

“You push and push,” He continued, voice dropping into that gravel-rough register that made your knees weak. “Defying every order. Testing every boundary. Wearing those little silk things to bed like you’re daring me to rip them off. And then you stand there and tell me you’re going out for air?” He laughed once, short and humorless, the sound vibrating through his chest into yours. “You’re not leaving this apartment. And you sure as hell aren’t leaving my sight.”

Your breath came faster. The wall was cool against your back, but Toji was a furnace in front. His thigh pressed firmly between your legs, the hard muscle flexing as he shifted his weight, pinning you more securely. You could feel the growing hardness against your hip where his body met yours. He wasn’t hiding it anymore. The thin fabric of your lounge pants and his sweatpants did nothing to disguise how affected he was.

“Then stop pretending,” You whispered, voice trembling with equal parts defiance and want. “Stop saying I’m just a job when you hold me like this. When you look at me like you want to devour me. When you killed those men without blinking because they dared to come near me.”

Toji’s eyes flashed. His grip on your wrist tightened, then loosened slightly as his hand slid down your arm, calloused fingers trailing fire along your skin until they reached your waist. He gripped you there, hard enough to bruise, and yanked your hips forward so you were fully flush against him. The thick length of his cock pressed hot and heavy against your stomach through the fabric.

“You want the truth?” He snarled, leaning in until his lips brushed the shell of your ear. His breath was hot, sending shivers racing down your neck. “Fine. You stopped being just a job the second I pulled that knife out of my arm and you knelt between my legs like you belonged there. The second you let me hold you on that couch and fell asleep against my chest like I was the safest place in the fucking world.”

His mouth moved lower, teeth grazing the sensitive skin just below your ear. Not quite a kiss. A claim. “I’m not polite. I’m not gentle. I take what I want. And right now, I want you. Every inch of this spoiled, stubborn, beautiful body that’s been driving me insane for weeks.”

You arched against him instinctively, a soft sound escaping your throat. The friction of his thigh between your legs sent heat pooling low in your belly. “Then take it,” You challenged, voice breathy. “Stop fighting it, Toji. I’m right here.”

Something in him snapped.

His mouth crashed down on yours. It was rough, demanding, years of pent-up control shattering in a single second. There was nothing soft about the kiss. It was teeth and tongue and raw need. He devoured you, tongue sweeping into your mouth like he owned it, like he’d been starving for the taste of you. His hand left your chin to tangle in your hair, gripping tight and angling your head exactly how he wanted it.

You moaned into the kiss, hands finally free to slide up his chest, feeling every hard ridge of muscle through his t-shirt. When your fingers dug into his shoulders, he groaned low in his throat–a deep, animal sound that vibrated against your lips.

Toji broke the kiss only to trail his mouth down your neck, sucking hard enough to leave marks. His teeth scraped over your pulse point, then soothed it with his tongue. “Fuck,” He muttered against your skin. “You taste even better than I imagined. Sweet. Expensive. Mine.”

His hands were everywhere now. One slid under your camisole, rough palm gliding up your bare stomach to cup your breast, thumb brushing over your nipple until it pebbled under his touch. The other hand gripped your ass, lifting you slightly so your core pressed more firmly against his thigh. He rocked you against him slowly, deliberately, the friction making you gasp and grind down harder.

“Toji–” His name came out as a broken plea.

“Yeah?” He nipped at your collarbone, then pulled back just enough to look at you. His eyes were wild, pupils blown wide, lips wet and swollen. “You want more? Tell me. Use your words, heiress. Tell me you want my hands on you. My mouth. My cock.”

Heat flooded your face, but you didn’t look away. “I want you. All of it. Now.”

A dark, satisfied smirk curved his scarred mouth. “Good girl.”

He didn’t waste time. In one fluid motion, he spun you around, pressing your front against the wall. Your cheek met cool plaster as he yanked your camisole up and over your head, tossing it aside. His hands immediately returned–both palms sliding up your sides, cupping your breasts from behind, pinching and rolling your nipples until you whimpered. His mouth found the back of your neck, kissing and biting a trail down your spine while his hips ground against your ass, letting you feel exactly how hard he was.

“Been thinking about this,” He growled, one hand slipping down into the waistband of your lounge pants. His fingers dipped between your legs, finding you already soaked. “Fuck. So wet for me already. All that defiance and you’re dripping the second I pin you.”

Two thick fingers slid through your folds, circling your clit with rough precision before pushing inside you. You cried out, hips jerking back against him. He curled his fingers, stroking that spot inside you that made stars burst behind your eyelids.

“That’s it,” He murmured, voice dark and filthy against your ear. “Ride my fingers. Show me how much you need this.”

You did–rocking back desperately as he pumped his fingers faster, thumb working your clit in tight circles. His other hand stayed on your breast, kneading and tugging until you were trembling. The sounds were obscene: the wet slide of his fingers, your broken moans, his low growls of approval.

When you were right on the edge, shaking and gasping his name, he pulled his hand away.

You whined at the loss.

Toji chuckled darkly, spinning you back around to face him. He dropped to his knees in one smooth motion–massive, dangerous man on his knees for you–and yanked your pants and underwear down in one tug. Before you could react, his mouth was on you.

His tongue licked a broad stripe up your center, groaning at the taste. Then he devoured you properly. His lips sealing around your clit, sucking hard while two fingers thrust back inside you. The scar on his lip added a new, delicious texture as he worked you relentlessly. You threaded your hands into his messy black hair, gripping tight as your hips bucked against his face.

“Toji– oh god–”

He didn’t let up. He ate you like a man possessed, tongue flicking and circling, fingers curling deep. When your thighs started to shake uncontrollably, he hooked one of your legs over his broad shoulder, opening you wider for him.

“Come for me,” He ordered against your pussy, voice vibrating through you. “Right now. On my tongue.”

The command pushed you over. Pleasure crashed through you in a blinding wave, your cry echoing off the walls as you came hard, hips grinding against his mouth while he licked you through every pulse and aftershock.

You were still trembling when he stood up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His eyes were feral. In seconds, he had his own shirt and pants off, revealing every inch of scarred, muscular perfection–broad chest, ridged abs, thick thighs, and his cock, heavy and leaking, curving up toward his stomach.

He lifted you effortlessly, hands gripping your ass as your legs wrapped around his waist. Your back hit the wall again as he lined himself up and thrust in with one powerful stroke.

The stretch was intense–burning pleasure that made you cry out and dig your nails into his shoulders. He was big, thick, filling you completely. Toji groaned deeply, forehead dropping to your shoulder for a moment as he bottomed out.

“Fuck… so tight,” He rasped. “Taking me so well. Like you were made for this.”

He didn’t give you time to adjust. He started moving–hard, deep thrusts that slammed you against the wall with every snap of his hips. The sound of skin slapping skin filled the room, mixed with your moans and his guttural curses.

One hand braced against the wall beside your head. The other gripped your thigh, holding you open as he fucked you relentlessly. Every thrust hit deep, the angle perfect, dragging against that sensitive spot inside you over and over.

“Look at me.” He demanded.

You forced your eyes open. His face was inches away. Sweat-slicked, jaw clenched, green eyes locked on yours with raw intensity.

“You’re mine now,” He growled between thrusts. “Not just to protect. Mine to fuck. Mine to keep. Say it.”

“I’m yours.” You gasped, clinging to him as another orgasm built fast and brutal. “Toji– yours–”

He kissed you again, messy and desperate, swallowing your cries as he pounded into you harder. His pace faltered as he got close, thrusts turning erratic and deep.

“Come with me,” He snarled against your mouth. “Now.”

You shattered again, walls clenching around him as pleasure ripped through you. Toji followed with a deep, broken groan, burying himself to the hilt as he came hard, pulsing inside you, hips grinding through every wave until you were both spent and trembling.

He held you there against the wall for a long time afterward, breathing ragged, forehead pressed to yours. His hands stroked your back gently now, almost reverently, while his cock stayed buried inside you, softening slowly.

“Fuck,” He muttered finally, voice hoarse. “I tried so hard not to do that.”

You smiled weakly, fingers tracing the scar on his lip. “I’m glad you failed.”

He huffed a quiet laugh and carried you to the bedroom without pulling out, laying you down on the bed with surprising care. He cleaned you both up with a warm cloth, then pulled you against his chest, one heavy arm draped possessively over your waist.

“Sleep.” He ordered softly, pressing a kiss to your temple–gentler than anything he’d done tonight. “I’ve still got you.”

For the first time in weeks, you fell asleep without nightmares. Safe. Claimed. His.

Morning light filtered through the blackout blinds in thin golden strips, painting soft lines across the rumpled sheets. You woke slowly, wrapped in heat and solid muscle. Toji’s arm was still heavy around your waist, his broad chest pressed to your back, one leg tangled with yours. His breathing was deep and even against the nape of your neck, the faint scratch of stubble and the occasional brush of his lips in sleep sending lazy warmth through your body.

Last night replayed in fragments–his rough hands, the way he’d pinned you, the filthy words growled against your skin, the overwhelming pleasure that had left you boneless and marked. Your thighs still ached pleasantly. There were faint bruises on your hips where his fingers had gripped too hard, and a few love bites scattered across your neck and breasts. Evidence that the line had finally, irrevocably been crossed.

You shifted slightly, and Toji stirred immediately. His arm tightened around you, pulling you closer as if even in sleep he refused to let any distance form. A low, sleepy rumble vibrated from his chest.

“Morning.” You whispered, turning in his arms to face him.

His green eyes cracked open, heavy-lidded and soft in a way you’d never seen before. The usual sharp predator edge was muted, replaced by something quieter. Warmer. He studied your face for a long moment, thumb coming up to trace the line of your jaw, then the marks he’d left on your neck.

“Didn’t dream it, then.” He muttered, voice gravel-rough from sleep and sex.

You smiled, pressing closer until your forehead rested against his. “No. Very real.”

Toji exhaled slowly, his hand sliding down your back to rest possessively on your hip. “Your old man’s gonna lose his shit when he finds out the bodyguard he hired is fucking his daughter.”

You laughed softly. “He hired you to keep me alive. You did that. Multiple times.”

He hummed, but the sound wasn’t entirely convincing. For a while, neither of you spoke. Just lay there tangled together, the quiet morning stretching comfortably. His fingers traced idle patterns on your skin–lazy circles, the occasional possessive squeeze. Every touch felt different now. Not just protection. Not just lust. Something deeper had settled in the space between you.

Eventually, Toji broke the silence. “I meant what I said last night.” His voice was low, serious. He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes. “You’re mine. Not just for the job. Not just when the threats are gone. Mine.”

The words weren’t flowery. They weren’t poetic. They were Toji. It was blunt, rough around the edges, completely honest. His hand cupped your cheek, thumb stroking gently. “I don’t do the boyfriend shit. Flowers and dates and all that. But I’ll keep you safe. I’ll kill anyone who tries to touch you. And I’ll come home to you every night if you’ll have me.”

Your chest tightened with something warm and overwhelming. You reached up, tracing the scar on his lip with your fingertip. “I don’t need flowers. I need you. Exactly like this, grumpy, overprotective, possessive. The man who pins me against walls and makes me feel safe even when the world wants me dead.”

Toji’s eyes softened further. He leaned in and kissed you–slow this time, deep and unhurried. No rush. No anger. Just a quiet claim. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours again.

“The threats aren’t gone yet,” He said quietly. “But they will be. And when they are… I’m not walking away. Your father can fire me, sue me, whatever. I don’t give a shit. I’m staying.”

You nodded, fingers threading through his messy black hair. “Good. Because I’m not letting you go either.”

He smirked–that familiar, scarred tilt of his mouth that made your stomach flip. “Bossy as ever.”

“You like it.”

“Yeah,” He admitted, rolling you gently onto your back and settling between your thighs. His body covered yours, heavy and warm and safe. “I really fucking do.”

The kiss that followed was slower, building heat again, but this time it carried the weight of something permanent. His hands explored you with new reverence. Mapping every curve like he was memorizing it for a lifetime, not just one night. When he slid into you again, it was deep and deliberate, eyes locked on yours the entire time.

No walls. No denials.

Just Toji Fushiguro claiming you fully, body and soul, while you held him just as tightly.

Later, as the secure line buzzed with another update from your father’s team–promising resolution within days–Toji listened with you curled against his chest, his fingers playing lazily with your hair.

When the call ended, he pressed a kiss to the top of your head.

“Whatever happens next,” he murmured, voice steady and sure, “I’m not letting anything happen to you. Not now. Not ever.”

You smiled against his skin, heart full in a way it had never been.

The heiress and her bodyguard. The job had become something far greater.

And in the quiet safety of his arms, with the city moving on far below, you both knew the real protection had only just begun.

In the end, he never stopped setting rules.

And you never stopped breaking them.

What began as duty slowly unraveled into something far more dangerous–his hands on your skin, his voice in your ear, his claim written into every bruise and every whispered curse. He was supposed to guard you. Instead, he ruined you for anyone else.

And you… you ruined him right back.

Because some lines were never meant to be held.

Some protections were always destined to become possession.

In the quiet aftermath, with his scarred arms wrapped tight around you and the city lights flickering far below, Toji pressed a rough kiss to your temple and murmured the only truth that still mattered:

“Fuck the rules.”

You smiled against his chest, heart steady for the first time in weeks.

After all, the best things were always built on ruin.

© 𝐟𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐲 ; 𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐤𝐢 - 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝

[cherry-city]

BodyguardToji in love? Say no more 😍😍😍