btw toji was never a deadbeat. i don’t know where that idea came from. kinda further proves the whole “jjk fans don’t read their own manga” but hey to each their own ig.
toji took care of megumi and tsumiki that entire time. tsumikis mother abandoned her after marrying toji and took that mfs little bit of money. toji only left for work. those 2 years of megumi forgetting who his father was and tsumiki taking care of megumi were because toji was dead. with toji dead nothing official ever happened with him being sold to the zenin clan. it was gonna but when they were getting ready to take megumi gojo FINALLY visited and told megumi “hey your sister won’t have a good life if you stay with the zenins”
megumi and tsumiki were never made aware toji died. he died on mission and shiu never involved himself with tojis family matters. dude literally disappeared after toji died. gojo on the other hand knew abt the 2 and didn’t do anything until megumi was like 7-8 years old. toji died when he was like 4-5. the neglect was bc they were kids with a mother that abandoned them and the only other person that knew of their whereabouts did nothing for 2 years✌️
i’m not hating on gojo dude was instructed to keep megumi from going to the zenins after his curse technique manifested which should’ve been 3 years from then. but he COULDVE done something more with free will and all. he was lucky they didn’t die from malnutrition before then. obviously gojo does wtv tf he wants so it makes no sense to why he’d intentionally let 2 kids starve and suffer for 2 years. the argument of “he wanted them to live normal lives while he built his name in the jujutsu world” also doesn’t really hold bc holy hell they were on the verge of literally having nothing. that’s not in any way normal lives for 2 under 15… it’s hard to believe the little bit of money toji did get and would leave for them ESPECIALLY when he planned on making it back from that mission, it’s insane to believe that the small amount could last 2 years. and knowing tsumikis mom took the money from the payout from tojis last ‘job’ she literally left them with scraps. sure gojo was 16 but holy shit he’s gojo satoru. you expect me to believe he couldn’t find a way around the whole “minors adopting minors”… i dunno man
sure toji gambled but i don’t think he was going to willing let the one part of the only person he ever cared about die because he wanted to gamble. he found a way to keep megumi and tsumiki perfectly healthy and okay even when he did gamble away every dollar. was it convenient not necessarily but i mean dude was highkey depressed and taking care of 2 kids on his own and extremely traumatized. you can’t exactly expect a whole lot from anyone that went through half the shit toji went through. he definitely was NOT the best but he was no where close to being the worst
toji’s gotten sloppier at lying to you about his job
content: mentions of a gun, little bit of smut, tiny bit of fluff, toji means well, lowk crack idk what this is bear with me
you aren’t half the fool your boyfriend takes you for. but you'll pretend you are for your own peace of mind.
toji’s job is far from the humble 9-5 he tells you about every night. you know why your shared apartment has 4 doorbell cameras. why that padlocked safe you’re not allowed to touch sits under your bedframe. a small price for the high-budget lifestyle you get to live.
steel-toed boots and a toolbox are his alibi every morning. it’s easy to pretend you’re piloting a jackhammer and fitting pipes all day when you’ve got the uniform down. but you’ve seen the silver handgun in the bottom compartment of that box. you know where his wealth comes from, what he does when he leaves the house.
it's almost endearing in some sick, twisted way. how far he goes to shelter you from reality. you've tried dropping hints that you know what's going on. that the charade he puts on isn't something you require, but what can you but turn a blind eye every time he presses his black card into your hand?
acting like you were none the wiser was simply the routine before this week. you didn’t ask questions, didn’t pry when his stories had holes. but toji’d gotten lazy this month, and your patience was running thin.
it starts with a nap. him crashing face first onto the couch cushions after coming home instead of cleaning the blood spattered across his knuckles and face. flecks of dried iron dusting off and onto the pillows like snow.
he’d done his best to clean his mess up while you laid awake in the bedroom. swearing under his breath while he scrubbed at his face over the kitchen sink. a hefty wire transfer had been waiting for you later that morning, his version of damage control in case you saw something you shouldn't have. you didn't mind too much after the fact.
but toji gets messier after that. sloppier. leaving traces scattered across the house. evidence sitting clear as day at the top of the trash instead of wrapped in a napkin at the bottom where he'd usually hide it. blood soaked towels, burner phones, papers scrawled with messy coordinates.
your final straw comes a month later when he pulls you onto the same couch he'd dirtied up weeks ago, mouth pressed flush against the pulse point in your neck.
you nearly forget about it all in the moment. letting him take his time worship your neck as that festering annoyance morphs into something much sweeter.
"mmhm, my smart girl." he grumbles. talking to himself more than anything. the compliment almost seems out of place, like he knows something you don't.
still, you let him take his time, feeling up on his shoulders while his hands grope the swell of your asscheeks. purple marks blossom under his lips and send throbbing heat right to your puffy center.
you tilt him up by his chin and meet him halfway, letting him lick into your mouth. two strong hands pull you down fully onto his lap, right against the rock solid bulge in his jeans.
except, something feels off.
toji breaks away from the kiss slowly, fingers encircling your wrist to guide your hand where he needs it.
"i know you feel that." he muses, hips grinding up to meet your own. there's a playful tilt to the way he says it, almost like whatever he's alluding to is some sort of joke you haven't caught onto yet
"what, your cock?" you giggle.
toji doesn't reply, letting you lift up the hem of his shirt to reveal the polished silver piece tucked into his waistband.
right. cat's out of the bag then. maybe your boyfriend was smarter than you gave him credit for.
"i know you know." he says, head tilted to the side with that smug little grin that tells you he was probably one step ahead of you this whole time. "wanted to see how long I could rile you up before you said something, but you're tough."
“oh my god, asshole.” you huff, standing to go do something else. anything else but straddle that stupid man and the gun he always forgets to put away.
toji throws his head back with a laugh, reaching for you like he hadn't started the conversation in the first place.
“it's no big deal, the safety’s on!” he calls after you. like that somehow makes it better. what a moron.
do not translate my fics, republish them on other social media, or feed them to ai
𝜗ৎ Moments of Casual Intimacy with JJK Men (cont.)
part one here ୨୧ read veil! ୨୧ and thank you @bronzewasp for the dividers <3
contents: fluff
SATORU GOJO - LIFTING YOU
You've become accustomed to your feet being off the ground. Like regular hugs just don't cut it anymore, Gojo always lifts you when you embrace. And truthfully, you don't even need be hugging because most days he'll just do it for no reason—even when you tell him not to.
You look up at him from the edge of the bed when he enters your room. Legs stretched out so that your toes can dry, you point down before he even speaks. He acknowledges the gesture but continues his stride towards you.
“Gojo,” you warn, eyebrow lifting. Afraid he's going to do what you think he is.
“Hm?” He stands in front of you and gives your feet a once over. “Cute.”
You know what he's going to do. Trying to shift your legs to the side and tuck your arms beneath yourself before he could reach out fails—because he's faster.
His hands grab hold of your arms, sliding under to lift you onto him. Ignoring all your protests about your still wet nails, he wraps you around him—arms around his neck, legs around his waist.
“I haven't seen you all day.” His arms skim your back. “Didn't you miss me?”
“I did…” you mumble into his neck, then smack his back. “But that's not an invitation to come mess up my polish.”
Yet even while you protest, you melt into him as he sways you—his embrace familiar and effortless. When he finally places you back on the bed, the first thing you do is stick your legs out to examine the damage.
But there is none.
You scoff, surprised, and Gojo's laughter fills the room—his smugness just as loud.
TOJI FUSHIGURO - SHARING SPACE
Toji doesn't know what personal space is—at least, not with you.
You’re either wrapped up in his arms as you sleep, sprawled beneath him while relaxing on the couch, or squeezed between him and whatever task you’re trying to tackle around the house. It's no exaggeration to think he'd merge with you if he could.
Because to him, his space is his space, and you are his space.
He’s never far, and if he is, it’s only because you’re out of reach. The moment you aren’t, he’s right back on you.
“We're both going to hit the floor.” You jokingly struggled under the hundreds of pounds sprawled across your back—clinging to you the moment you stepped through the door, fresh from a short getaway with friends.
“We're not,” Toji murmured into your hair, one of his arms wrapped tightly around your shoulders. His weight leaned heavily against you, and even with all your bags in his hands, it didn’t make supporting him any easier.
You trudged all the way to the bedroom with him stuck to you, not even bothering to tell him to get off.
He doesn't miss a beat even after you stop, setting your bags down on the floor, and crouching beside you as you begin to unpack.
“Do you need help?” he asks grinning, already reaching into your suitcase and lifting up some of the obviously new things you brought.
You snatch it back. “Nope. I got it.”
He nods, like that settles it. And when you stand to hang things in the closet, you can already feel him behind you—close enough that his presence may as well be another layer of clothing.
You sigh, amused. “Put it over here.”
KENTO NANAMI - ADJUSTING YOU
From your hair to your clothes, accessories, and even your shoes, he's always there to take care of it whenever need be.
So, when hands slip around your hips to adjust your waistband or graze your neck to turn your necklace right-side up, you barely notice anymore. For Nanami, it’s become second nature.
You hum softly as you slip into your dress, sliding your arms through the sleeves and admiring your reflection in the mirror. You’re not surprised when Nanami approaches from behind, knowing the back needs to be zipped.
As his hands glide up your sides toward the zipper, you smile. “Thank you.” You sing-song, pulling on the hem of your dress down as he zips it up.
“Of course.” He replies as he helps smooth out your dress.
Because you’re the only one heading out, Nanami’s attention has been fixed on you—watching as you made plans and casually chatting about your destination now and then. But since you've started getting ready, he’s been on standby. He always is.
That's why, after doing your hair and adding accessories, it’s no surprise he’s by your side again as you pull out your shoes.
“I got it.” Larger hands take the shoes from you and guide you to scoot back. “How tight?”
“Tight. I don't want to be sliding out of these,” you chuckled.
And his hands got to work, lacing your shoes up your leg and tightening them, pausing to glance up at you for confirmation each time he pulled a little harder.
As you stood to thank him, his hands were already on you again, brushing a stray lock of hair back into place.
You looked up at him appreciatively, and he simply shook his head—the unspoken “don’t worry about it” shining in his gentle eyes.
Toji suspects he has hit ovulation. Or something awfully close to it.
He wakes up with a semi, grumpy and incredibly annoyed at the sun for existing. And fine, sure, the sun’s not exactly a new development – but this feels worse. Different. Like his blood’s grown teeth and it’s humming and oh, he smells something good wafting from the kitchen.
He blames the gym on his way downstairs. Grumbling something about the pre-workout, the lack of cooldown. Whatever. Then blames the weather and his cheap laundry detergent and the neighbor’s stupid windchimes (which sound like shit, mind you. noises with the bearability level of a lactose intolerant in denial shitting all over a toilet bowl).
But then he sees you plating a pancake, and every excuse he’s been building since sunrise crumbles.
He stops at the foot of the staircase. Stares.
Not in the “wow, she’s pretty” kind of way – you are, of course. That’s a given. That’s just gravity, at this point.
No. This feels biological. Like something in him decided to clock in, and his emotions are finally functioning right again, and god save him, he needs to fuck you so bad it hurts.
He scratches the back of his neck, trying to pass off the static beneath his skin as underlying irritation.
Except irritation doesn’t make him feel like this.
Doesn’t make his palms itch, or his throat go dry, or his brain go blessedly, horrifyingly, blank when you turn to him with a smile. Your pretty lips move, and you’re saying something – maybe a good morning, maybe a question about syrup. He blinks, sluggish. Too slow to catch the words.
“Yeah,” he nods, playing off whatever this feeling is with a lazy grin.
“Yeah what?”
“Yeah.. baby?”
He has no idea what he’s saying.
Toji can handle this. Whatever it is – hormones, low blood sugar, divine punishment – he’s gone through worse. He’s fine. He’ll be fine.
So he sits down across from you like a functioning human being, fork in one hand, knife in the other. Pretending that the sight of you leaning over to take the syrup and pour it for him doesn’t make his pulse thunder in his ears.
You’re the problem.
No.
No, he’s the problem, and everything you’re doing is only making his problem worse. The clink of cutlery against your plate and the lazy curl of steam from the pancakes you made for him and the way you tilt your head when you smile up, at him.
It’s domestic.
Harmless.
Lethal.
He cuts into his pancake, if only to have something to do with his hands. Salivating.
For what, he’s not sure.
Toji wonders, briefly, if he’s always been this much of a fucking idiot.
This is breakfast. Not a mating ritual. But his body doesn’t seem to agree – blood still humming, heat crawling up his spine, energy sifting and curling with weight in his stomach.
And so, in a moment of poor motor coordination, his knife slips.
Clatters to the floor.
“Nice one,” you tease, about to rise to help.
He cuts you off with a halfhearted glare and crouches before you can move. “I’ve got it.”
Except he really, really doesn’t.
Because when his fingers close over the handle of the butter knife and he raises his head, he’s eye level with your pretty pussy. Clothed in cotton, covered by nothing else but your panties, his shirt rising up on your body. Exposing your thighs.
“Toji? Did you– oh–”
And without really processing it, his hands come up around your hips. Pulling you to the edge of your seat.
Is he delusional, or does your cunt smell like syrup?
Maybe he is ovulating.
Maybe you are.
He’d like it if you were.
His fingers hook in your panties and drag them to the side. He presses a gentle kiss to your inner thigh. Smiles all wide-eyed when he sees your cunt clench involuntarily.
You frown, trying to look below the table – to no avail, as he’s directly beneath it.
“Toji, what’re you doing?”
“Eating breakfast.”
His tone comes out matter-of-fact. Like it’s his god given right to get his syrup straight from the source. And when you open your mouth to retort, you’re cut off by a whine – because without warning, his mouth is on you. Tongue dragging flat and slow along your folds, parting them with a deliberate kind of pressure. Flicking up to circle your clit before dipping back down. You gasp, fingers gripping the edge of the table, thighs trembling on either side of his head – and he just smiles cruelly against your cunt.
“Sweet,” he murmurs. Vibration humming straight through you, nose nuzzling against your clit. Inhaling deeply. “Fuck, so sweet.”
His tongue swirls messy, spreading out your slick. And you try to shift, or to push him away with a foot to his chest – only for him to prop your legs up over his shoulders for better leverage. Thumbs digging into the plush of your upper thighs to keep you spread wide. Another long lick, this one direct to your clit before dipping lower, and you feel the tip of his tongue probing. Pushing inside just enough to tease before shying away.
“At least eat your pancakes first,” you scold. Half-hearted. Body betraying you as your pussy clenches around nothing.
He chuckles against you, the sound muffled. Wet.
“Nah. I’m good here.”
Then he’s back at it, tongue thrusting back in. Deeper. Fucking into you with shallow, insistent strokes, while his thumb finds your clit. The table above creaks faintly as you lean forward, biting your lip to stifle a moan.
He’s relentless. Obsessed with every inch, everything about you – the way your walls flutter, the slick sounds filling the space. His hands slide further up, big palms resting warm against your inner thighs as he spreads you wider. Exposing your cunt fully to his mouth. He flattens his tongue again, lapping from below and then up to your clit in a single broad stroke, collecting every drop like it’s the sweetest nectar.
And then, hoarse and ragged, his voice breaks through the haze.
“Why the hell’re you so sweet?”
He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t pull away. Murmurs it right against your folds, mumbling things without thought.
“Like honey. Driiiipping. My pretty pussy.. gotta clean you up, huh?”
His words send a fresh wave of arousal flooding out, and he groans in approval. Lips closing around your clit.
Two of his fingers join in. Digging into your cunt with an obscene squelch – sliding into your soaked entrance with ease.
He doesn’t just push them in.
He does it achingly slow, pads of his fingers rough against your walls. Exploring and bullying in and stretching you out until he’s knuckle deep inside and you’re pulsing around him.
He crooks them without a second thought.
Not for your pleasure, but to hit that spot that has your clit pressing further into his mouth – a spot that makes your eyes roll back with a cry.
Toji knows where you’re sensitive. All the spots inside you that have you melting into his hold. And he uses the curl of his fingers to scrape and press right against them, relentless. At the same time, his tongue swirls around your clit, sucking with a greedy, rhythmic pace.
Your breath breaks into a whimper. Lost in the fervid, focused attention of his mouth, and the brutal thrusts of his fingers.
He pistons them in deep. Almost to the hilt. Before dragging them out all slow and agonizing, letting your gushing cunt milk every inch of the retreat.
You shiver, back arching into the touch. “You– oh, fuck.. cumming, cumming–”
“Attagirl.”
The vibrations zip right from his tongue to your clit. He scissors his fingers out, laughing when you tremble – back arching as the world dissolves into ringing white noise.
Your cunt spasms around him, clenching and contracting and desperately clinging to the sensation as your high washes over you. Pulling the digits in deeper, even as he holds them steady.
A long, shaky sigh escapes you,
and for some reason, Toji can’t stop.
It’s not like he doesn’t hear your cries, or notice the way your pussy flutters helplessly and milks him in – he just doesn’t want to let go. You’re sweet, so sweet, and he’s still hungry. Still searching for more.
So he goes back for seconds.
His tongue flattens, working against your clit to draw out every last shudder and whimper. Fingers flexing deep inside to stretch you out. He pumps them slow, curling them right against that sensitive spot once more – then faster when your walls clench tight, gripping his knuckles. Twists his wrist. Finds an easier angle and starts pumping, faster, until you’re gripping onto the arms of the chair for dear life, head thrown back with an incoherent whine. Downright filthy sounds fill the dining room – slick coating his hand, dripping down his chin.
God. He’s greedy.
And you’re so good for him.
He doesn’t ease up, even as your thighs clamp around his head, bucking involuntarily into his mouth. Just groans low, dragging his tongue down your cunt to meet the base of his fingers, nestled inside you.
Your own fingers tangle in his dark hair, pulling – and he groans again, more guttural than before. The sound reverberating through your syrupy cunt.
“Please,” you gasp, voice cracking, “Toji, m’gonna–”
“–you’re sweet.”
Toji’s not listening.
He can’t even hear you. Mumbling into your cunt, drunk on the taste.
“My pretty, pretty girl.” His tongue slurs the words out, gaze half-lidded and focused nowhere in particular. “Taste so good. Gimme more. More. More.”
His tongue pushes in alongside his fingers. Digits crooking downward so he can taste up, swirling around to gather your slick. Your legs tremble, toes curling – and the overstimulation borders on pain. The good kind. The ache that twists into pleasure, sharp and unrelenting and inescapable in Toji’s hold. He laps at you, swallowing – nose bumping your clit with every eager movement.
And just as your body gives out and you slip into another orgasm, his lips close in a cruel suction around your clit once more. Tongue swirling as the waves crash over you, your pussy spasming wildly around his lengthy fingers – soaking, rivulets dripping obscene down his wrist.
He drinks you in without complaint, letting you ride it out on his face. Lips curved in a wide, wild grin. Keeping his fingers buried deep, thrusting through your high and prolonging the feeling until you’re sobbing his name.
When your climax fades, Toji withdraws his fingers slowly. Pupils blasted as he watches the way your hole clenches around nothing, as if begging to be filled again.
He brings those slick digits to his mouth and sucks them clean with deliberate slowness, watching the way your puffy pussy begs for more.
“Fuck, you taste like heaven,” he whispers. Hoarse.
He leans back in and laps through your sticky folds one last time – one last taste.
Then he reaches down, fingers closing around the handle of the knife lying beneath your seat. Holds it up. A mockery of a domestic moment.
“Told you I got it,” Toji rasps. Rising and throwing the knife onto the table with a clatter.
Before you can process anything at all, he’s standing. Licking his glistening bottom lip, then a long stripe from his wrist – where your slick has dripped down – before hauling you forward by your hips. Right out of the chair.
You let out a surprised yelp as he sits down and lands you hard atop his lap. His big hands bracketing your hips to grind your bare cunt down against his length, pressing against you through his boxers.
The fabric’s rough and hot against your already sensitive clit, friction sending a jolt through your entire body. Your slick soaks right through to his cock, and he rocks his hips. A slow, deliberate grind, smearing your warmth along his pulsing length.
You let out a stunned little noise, and Toji laughs. Head dipping down to kiss up your neck almost obsessively.
His hands leave your hips. Slip beneath your shirt, up, until they’re palming your breasts with rough enthusiasm. Thumbs grazing your hard nipples, circling before flicking. Playing.
“Look at the mess you made, baby.”
His voice is a demeaning coo in your ear. But he’s satisfied, with you in his arms. Soaked and somehow just as gorgeous as always. If not more so,
“S’sticky now,” Toji grins. “Gotta take you upstairs and clean you up the right way.”
His hands slip back down around your waist, muscles flexing as his hips roll against you one more time. Before he lifts you up.
The pancakes sit on the table as you’re lugged upstairs. A sad little afterthought.
The office lights hummed above him, sterile and unrelenting, as if conspiring to remind him that another day had been wasted. Nanami Kento sat at his desk, tie knotted too tightly, pen scratching across meaningless reports that would be forgotten by morning. The numbers blurred together, columns of profit and loss that carried no weight beyond the illusion of productivity.
He had once believed that leaving behind the world of curses would grant him peace. Instead, he found himself shackled to a different kind of curse, monotony. The hours stretched, indistinguishable, each one bleeding into the next until time itself felt like a punishment. His colleagues laughed at jokes that weren’t funny, celebrated victories that weren’t victories, and he played along because that was what was expected.
There was no satisfaction in this life, only the dull ache of repetition. He rose, he worked, he ate, he slept. Tomorrow would be the same. The day after, too. The thought pressed against his chest like a weight he could not shift.
When the clock struck six, he loosened his tie and left without a word. The city outside was no kinder, gray streets, gray faces, gray sky.
He walked without purpose, only habit, until the faint glow of a coffee shop window caught his eye. Warm light spilled onto the pavement, carrying with it the faint scent of roasted beans.
Nanami paused at the threshold, the warmth inside almost offensive against the chill that clung to him. Through the glass, he could see the soft rhythm of ordinary life, a student hunched over a textbook, an elderly couple sharing a pastry, the barista moving with quiet efficiency behind the counter. It was nothing remarkable, and yet it was more than what waited for him in his apartment, four walls, silence, and the echo of his own thoughts.
The bell above the door gave a muted chime as he stepped inside. The air was heavy with coffee and sugar, a sweetness that clung to the back of his throat. He loosened his grip on his briefcase, shoulders sagging as though the act of entering had cost him something.
The barista glanced up, offering the kind of smile that came from habit rather than sincerity. Still, it was more acknowledgment than he had received all day. Nanami’s gaze lingered on the menu board though he already knew he would order the simplest thing. He had no appetite for choices.
“Evening,” the voice from behind the counter said, steady and unassuming.
Nanami inclined his head, his own voice low, almost reluctant. “Black coffee. To stay.”
The words felt strange in his mouth, as though he were asking for more than just a drink. He moved to a corner table, the one furthest from the window, and sat with his back straight, hands folded, waiting. The hum of conversation filled the space around him, a reminder that life, for others, still carried texture.
The cup arrived with a muted clink against the table, steam curling upward in thin, fragile ribbons. Nanami lifted his gaze briefly, enough to acknowledge the barista’s presence, but not enough to invite conversation. A quiet “thank you” left his lips, more reflex than gratitude, and then he was alone again.
He wrapped his hands around the ceramic, letting the heat seep into his skin. It was the first real sensation of the day that didn’t feel manufactured. The bitterness of the coffee cut through the dullness on his tongue, grounding him in a way the endless reports and hollow laughter of the office never could. Around him, the café carried on with its small symphony of life, pages turning, spoons clinking, low voices weaving in and out of one another. He watched without truly watching, his eyes tracing the movements of strangers who seemed to belong to a world he could only observe from a distance.
The barista moved behind the counter again, efficient, unhurried. Nanami found his gaze returning there more than once, though he told himself it was nothing. Just another person performing their role, as he performed his. Yet there was something in the steadiness of her motions, the quiet rhythm of her work, that unsettled him. It was too genuine, too uncalculated, and it reminded him of everything he had forfeited.
His coffee had cooled by the time he realized how long he’d been staring into it. The surface was dark and still, a mirror that offered nothing back but the hollow outline of his own face. He set the cup down with care, as though the sound might fracture the fragile calm of the room.
Behind the counter, she wiped down the same stretch of wood with absent precision, her movements unhurried, unbothered by the hour. There was no performance in it, no false urgency to appear busy. It was simply work, done because it needed to be done. Nanami envied that simplicity. A group of students left, their laughter spilling out into the night as the door swung shut behind them. The café grew quieter, the air settling into something softer. He felt the shift, the way silence pressed closer, and for a moment he wondered if he should leave too, return to the apartment that waited like a tomb.
But then her voice broke the stillness.
“Long day?”
It wasn’t prying, not even curious, just a casual offering, the kind of question one asked without expectation of an answer. Still, it caught him off guard. He looked up, meeting her eyes for the first time, and found no judgment there. Only the same steady patience he had noticed in her hands.
“Yes,” he said at last, the word flat, unembellished. It was all he could manage.
She nodded, as if that was enough, and returned to her work. The exchange was brief, inconsequential, but it lingered with him longer than it should have.
Nanami lifted the cup again, the bitterness now lukewarm, and thought, perhaps tomorrow, he might come back. The thought unsettled him more than it should have. Tomorrow. As if there were something here worth returning to. As if the act of sitting in this dim corner with a cooling cup of coffee could offer him more than the hollow rituals he already endured. And yet, the idea rooted itself quietly, stubbornly, refusing to be dismissed.
He finished the last of the drink, the taste sharp and lingering, and set the cup down with deliberate care. The café had thinned further, only the student remained, head bowed over notes, and the barista, who moved with the same unhurried rhythm as before. Nanami stood, adjusting his tie though it no longer sat neatly, and carried the empty cup back to the counter.
She glanced up as he approached, her expression unchanged, steady in its simplicity. “Thank you,” she said, as though he had done her a favor by drinking what she had served.
Nanami inclined his head. “Good night.”
The words felt foreign, heavier than they should have been. He left them behind on the counter along with the cup, and stepped back into the gray night.
The streets were no different than before, cold, indifferent, lined with faces that blurred into one another. But the faint warmth of roasted beans clung to him, carried in the fabric of his coat, and for the first time in months, the silence of his apartment did not feel inevitable.
"Hey. You, there, in the wolf jammies," you call in your most authoritative voice to the spiky haired boy finally retreating from his room. A small hand wipes the lingering sleep away from his puffy, crusted eyes, a soft hum offered as a response to you.
"Quit growing so fast. You were this small last night." Your fingers go into a pinched position, just a small gap left between the pads of your thumb and index finger.
The boy waddles over to where you and Toji stand in the kitchen, working on breakfast while sipping on coffee from mugs you haven't used in forever, because for the longest time, you only needed one.
"'m still small," he mumbles, tugging at the hem of Toji's shirt, as if asking for backup. To his surprise, his own father contradicts him. Toji bends down to scoop him up and exaggerates the strength needed to lift him.
"Hold on, I got it this time," he says, after "failing" to lift him up. He grunts, getting Megumi's little feet off the ground. "Holy, kid. You weigh as much as five hundred flour sacks."
"No, I don't," Megumi responds, a sweet giggle elicited from him when Toji nods. "I'm still six years old."
You hum, like the fact and his logic has changed the entirety of your argument. "I think he's still small, Toji," you whisper, purposely loud enough for Megumi to hear.
"I think so, too," Toji whispers back, matching your volume, earning another entertained giggle from the boy. "Alright, little man, breakfast is in the works. Wanna start taking some stuff to the table?"
Megumi nods, wiggling his legs to signal that he wants to be put down so he can start his job.
Toji plants a quick kiss on the top of his head and sets him down. He picks up the bottle of maple syrup, ready to hand it off to Megumi, only to immediately set it down again when he sees that the boy is occupied with something more important.
Unable to reach your arms, he's settled for hugging your leg, but you, being the angel Toji has known you as since day one, crouch down to give him a proper embrace. You squeeze him a little tighter towards the end, to send him off with a laugh. Toji knows his son feels loved just by the way he turns to face him, a smile lingering from his burst of amusement, as he waits for things to be given to him to take to the table. The bottle of syrup is handed off, as well as an almost finished roll of paper towels, and Megumi scampers off to complete his task.
"And you," your playful, stern voice returns, this time directed towards Toji, who is just standing there, watching you. "Keep that smirk to yourself before you hurt someone."
"Or what?" Toji pokes, said smirk gradually growing. He leans back against the counter, watching as you set another couplet of perfectly crispy bacon onto a plate with a napkin. The spatula is set down and you turn around to face him with that adorable expression you consider to be stoic. It quickly falters when Toji stares back at you, amusedly.
"Or the-" you stutter, doing your best to restrain the laugh bubbling in your throat. "The only thing you'll be getting for breakfast is a knuckle sandwich."
"Oh, yeah?" Toji taunts, standing up straight as if trying to intimidate you.
"Yeah," you respond, standing on your tippy toes to make yourself look more intimidating as well.
"Try it," he dares, eyeing you up and down.
"I will," you say, dropping flat on your feet to step closer. "Get ready," you announce, bringing your hand up and slowly curling it into a fist.
"I'm ready," he assures.
"Whooosh..." You mimic the sound of speed and power, but your fist is going at a snail's pace, and once it finally reaches his face, you're merely pressing your fist into his cheek, gently digging into the softness with the backs of your fingers.
"Ow," he utters, sarcastically, his voice as monotone and steady as can be.
You pull your hand back and make a show out of pretending to be hurt, wincing and crying out dramatically, like a dog who got its paw grazed and is seeking attention.
With an incredulous scoff, Toji swipes your hand. His thumb massages each of your knuckles until the back of your hand reaches his lips.
"You 'hit' me, and yet you're still gonna go and play the victim?" He murmurs against your skin, pressing a chaste kiss where his lips rest.
All Toji can do is snicker when your borderline theatrical display of injury comes to an abrupt end, replaced by your focus on him and his affectionate gesture.
"You're such a big baby." One more kiss is planted on your knuckle, before he releases your hand.
"It didn't even hurt me," you answer, matter-of-factly. "You said 'ow', and I didn't," you add, sassily, quickly and efficiently ending the dispute.
"Right, and you didn't become an actress for a minute, huh?"
The combination of your shrug and that cocky little smirk on your face earns you a huff of laughter from Toji, a sound that manages to break you out of that playful smugness and forces out a laugh of your own.
Megumi makes his way to the kitchen again after what seemed like a while. He only had two things to set on the table, so it's likely that he got distracted by something else, but he's back on track, now, ready to carry more stuff.
The boy walks in on you and his dad laughing, a sight he's gotten used to seeing since you mercifully allowed them to stay with you. Wide smiles, that rosy tint on his father's ears, the shine in your eyes—he understands that you're very happy whenever you're together, himself included. You give him silly nicknames and you talk in funny voices. You help him get ready for school when Toji comes home extra tired from work and can't wake up early, and when he has nightmares, he's never nervous about going to you in the middle of the night.
"Megalodon shaaark," you call, enthusiastically, at the sound of his little pitter pattering footsteps approaching.
"Those are scary," he answers, scrunching his nose and shaking his head disapprovingly.
"Oh yeah... they are pretty gnarly. I totally meant Gumi bear." You hear Toji snicker behind you as he mixes chocolate syrup into a glass of milk for Megumi, luring an involuntary twitch of your lips.
"Look, I tried to make some dog shaped pancakes." You display your effort to the boy, smiling when he gasps as soon as his eyes meet what is on the dish. "Some of them don't look so good, but I promise they're made with love."
Megumi smiles, his wide green eyes glowing as they roam the details of your effort. "They have pointy ears like a wolf and the eyes look just like my plushy."
"You like them?" You ask, despite seeing the way he's almost jumping with excitement.
"I really like them," he assures, hands twitching like he wants to grab the plate for himself.
"Okay, this one's yours, then. Do you need help or you got it?"
"I can carry it," he says, bouncing with anticipation.
"Alright, just be careful. It's a little warm," you warn, handing off the plate to him.
"Thank you," he blurts, before turning around and quickly making his way back to the table.
You sigh, loudly, as you finish serving your plate of food and Toji's. When he doesn't spare you attention, you sigh again, the soft sound progressing into a loud groan.
"What?" Toji finally asks, knowing you won't stop until he plays along.
"Oh, nothing... I'm just recalling the way you hurt my feelings earlier," you explain, scooping the last portion of scrambled eggs onto your plate.
"Yeah? How so?"
"You laughed every time I flipped one of the dog-shaped pancakes. Is my effort and need to experiment a joke to you?" You ask, raising your voice to make your point seem more powerful.
"You look at one of your creations for more than ten seconds with a straight face," he argues, matching your volume once again.
You gasp, eyes wide in awe of his audacity. Both of you are trying so hard not to crack up through this showdown, but you see the way that scar on his lips twitches, and your eyes hold no sharpness towards him, whatsoever. Still, you manage to give him a final message without sputtering.
"Don't talk to me anymore, unless you want the knuckle sandwich supreme."
And then you walk off, both your plate of food and his in your hands.
-
Weekend mornings are like that all the time—bringing Megumi out of his sleepy grogginess by making him laugh, playful banter between you and Toji about everything and anything, eating together at the table where plans are made for the day—its developed into a routine, one Toji sometimes still can't believe he and Megumi get to partake in.
There's a routine for days where everyone has a job, too. One of you helps Megumi get ready for school. Most of the time it's you, because you're getting ready for work at the same time. Sometimes it's both of you if Toji works the morning shift that day. It's funny watching him button up his chef's jacket with his eyes closed.
Then, you split. You and Toji make sure Megumi makes it to the school bus, sending him off with hugs and promises of seeing him later, and then you drive Toji to work.
There's always that silly moment when it's just you and Toji sitting in your car once you get to the bakery. He's looking at you with that lazy smirk of his, while you blatantly pretend not to notice and act like the wind is speaking to you.
"Come on. You know what i'm waiting for," he nudges. "You don't want me to have a good day at work?"
"Have a good day at work, Toji," you say, smiling knowingly. You know what he wants.
"You really wanna make us both late for work, huh?" He says, his tone riddled with disbelief.
One sigh and a roll of your eyes later, and you're leaning towards him to press a kiss on his cheek. A laugh rumbles through his chest—it's another victory for him.
"Thanks, sweetheart. I'll see you and Megs in a bit, 'kay?" He says, unbuckling his seatbelt and opening the door.
You nod. "Bye, Toji."
-
Toji never goes to bed without saying goodnight to you. Regardless of how tired he is and how tense his muscles feel, he drags his feet closer towards the door to your room. Your bedroom light is visible beneath your door, so you must still be awake. Toji knocks and waits a couple seconds to ensure it.
"Come in," you say, loud enough for him to hear, but not loud enough to possibly wake Megumi up.
The doorknob turns, and there stands Toji, looking like he had lots of fun at work. His chef jacket is speckled with flour and what looks like pastel purple frosting on his sleeve. His pants got similar treatment and his clogs look like they walked him through the first tier of hell. Luckily they're slip-resistant.
"Hey," you greet, with a smile that slowly turns into a more concerned expression when he sighs. "Rough day?" You ask, sitting up on your bed.
He hums, contemplating the entirety of his shift. "Not too bad, just tedious," he says, his gaze dropping to the floor.
"Come sit with me," you tell him, patting the spot in front of you.
"Nah, sweetheart. You gotta go to sleep so you can wake up for work tomorrow," he responds.
"I'm gonna wake up regardless," you argue. "Come oooon, I wanna hear about your day. Please?"
Why you're begging to hear him yap about work, Toji isn't sure, but how is he supposed to turn you down, when just the thought of having this kind of conversation with you is easing his mind?
"For me?" You add, pleading eyes meeting Toji's tired ones. He hesitates for a few more seconds, then steps out of his shoes and makes the distance to your bed.
"Would've took them off at the front door, but you see their condition," he comments, with a half smile.
"Looks like you glazed your shoes and drizzled them with chocolate instead of decorating actual bread."
A breath of a laugh escapes him, something that makes him drop his shoulders a little more. "Ass. And I was gonna give this to you and not make you share it with the kid like I always do."
Your eyes dart to the brown takeout container he's holding in his lap, then back to the smug look on his face.
"What's that you got there?" You say, low, like it's top secret.
"Cake," he responds, smoothly. "Made it myself. Last piece, too, so I had to snag it."
You gasp, smiling with glimmering eyes at the thought of him going through all the steps needed to make a nice and fluffy cake.
A few months ago, when you were helping Toji apply for jobs, he told you that working at a bakery didn't sound so rewarding, and that a guy like him wouldn't fit in at a place like that.
When he said that, you interpreted it as him not finding interest in the job, but you were wrong, and it sadly turned out to be a bad case of him not believing in himself. Toji was so used to things being difficult and not being given a chance, that he couldn't possibly envision himself doing something so simple without screwing it up.
You were his voice of reason. You had to be. He was spiraling, questioning why you would allow someone like him to stay. His words made your heart wrench and your stomach turn. 'useless...' 'worthless...' 'waste of time and effort...' Self deprecation in every other sentence, you had to dig your nails into your palms to keep yourself from crying.
'You get to make cakes, a-and different kinds of bread. I know you work out—those forearms are gonna be even more toned and muscular, you'll be able to pick Megumi up with them like he's made of air.'
Thank goodness he smirked. Thank goodness it stopped and he remembered the ones who are there for him.
'I can do that already. Bet I could pick you up like that, too.'
"Tell me there's a spoon in there," you say, staring at Toji intently, waiting for him to say what you want to hear.
"No, I wanted to watch you eat with your hands," he responds, sarcastically.
"Toji, you dog," you say, giggling when he clicks his tongue before smirking.
"'Course there's a spoon in there, doll. It's probably covered in frosting, but I doubt you care," he says, handing you the box.
"Your doubt is correct," you mumble, entranced by what is practically glowing before your very eyes.
You pull at the tabs at the top of the box, opening it to reveal the most precious slice of cake. The dried lavender purple frosting on Toji's sleeve matches the frosting layered on top of it. You see little pieces of cut up strawberries in the center, cushioned by thin sheets of what looks like whipped cream above and below them.
Toji was right—the spoon has specks of frosting on it, and yet it still doesn't matter one bit to you. You pick up the spoon, pastel purple now smeared on your fingers, and sink it into the softness residing in the paper box. It's a perfect bite, enough of the spongy bread and the strawberries, sweet frosting layered right on top.
The second it meets your tastebuds, you're at a loss for words. All you can think to say is, "are you kidding me?" but it's not enough. With your continued wordlessness, you move the box over and let yourself fall back on the bed, your eyes shutting as you savor what has undisputedly topped your list of favorite desserts.
Toji leans closer, his palm planted on your bed as he watches you swallow the bite with your eyes still closed. His eyes follow the flowing movement of your stomach and chest when you sigh, the sound heavy and telling of satisfaction.
"How is it?" He finally asks, grinning at the way your lips curl, like you've reached some sort of enlightenment.
"Fuck." You laugh, loving the way Toji shifts again, almost as if he's antsy over your pending critique. "That hit the spot."
"Yeah?" He asks, biting back a chuckle at the way you slowly nod and hum out your affirmation.
"Perfectly sweet, the strawberries add some acidity. I could eat a whole damn cake like this in one sitting."
"Really?" He questions, again, almost as if he doesn't fully believe that he made something that you like so much.
"Yes, Toji. Please make me a birthday cake just like this." You sit up, reaching for the spoon to carve out another piece of cake. There's a spot in your heart that already aches at the thought of it being gone.
"It's nothing crazy. Eggs, flour, sugar—you know, the usual ingredients in a basic cake." He shrugs, shoving his effort further down into the depths of nothingness.
"Uh-uh," you tut, disapprovingly, sharp eyes catching cool ones. "Do not downplay your work. Did you even try your own masterpiece?"
"No, it was cut up and put into some boxes by someone else. I don't even know if they tried it before or if they just trusted that I followed the recipe."
"And this was the last one?" You ask, recalling his words from before. When he hums affirmatively, you beam, just barely suppressing the true excitement and pride you feel over his success. "It sold out!"
"Shh," Toji hushes, chuckling behind his instruction.
"Sorry," you whisper, a more bashful smile taking over. "It sold out," you repeat, volume lowered, but the enthusiasm living on through your tone.
"And?" He's nothing short of unimpressed with the fact. "Means nothing."
"You had to snatch the last piece, Toji. You knew that if you didn't grab it quickly, someone else would have. You know what that means?"
He nods in question, his expression unchanging.
"It means you made something that looked so good, so appetizing, that people took and took until it was gone. All except for this piece—and that's only because you wanted me to try it. I guarantee it would have sold as well."
Toji's gaze falls to his lap, a boyish, almost shy smile tugging at the corners of his lips. It's the spitting image of a puppy relentlessly wagging its tail while being cooed at.
The visual flickers for a few seconds. You spoke and it felt like his chest flooded with feelings. Five words. Does he even deserve to hear them? Maybe you misspoke and dropped something heavier without meaning to.
"Are you seriously tuning me out right now?" You lightheartedly tease, grinning when his gentle smile flows over his face, again.
"No." He melts back into the comfort of your presence, the delicacy of your eyes on him.
"Well, you listen and you listen real good. It won't be the last time I tell you this, but I want you to hear it now." His attention spotlights you, unwavering as he hangs off of every word you say. "I mean it, Toji. I'm proud of you. Everything you've done, every victory—small or big—it's been great seeing and hearing about them all."
You smile, watching him pull at a loose thread on his pants. "You're doing amazing. You're an awesome dad to Megumi-- You know he draws you in almost all of his artworks?"
Toji nods, prominent Adam's apple bobbing with held back emotions. You see the glimmer in his eyes, like shimmering dewdrops on grass blades.
"A chef cap on your tiny head and raging, steroid-like muscles on a body that makes you look like Hulk."
Toji chokes out a laugh, quickly pawing at his face to stop the tears from rolling down his cheeks. His lips quiver through the faint smile he keeps for you, but those beautiful eyes are silently pleading for you to be closer—for you to hold him the way you did that first night when he was still a stranger to you.
"Ah, come here, big guy," you say, outstretching your arms towards him. He doesn't hesitate for a second and quickly scoots across the edge of your bed to fall into the safety of your embrace. "It's okay," you murmur, laughing softly into his shoulder.
The room goes quiet, save for the sound of Toji's sharp breaths and the soft rasp of your palm rubbing his back. Slowly, you feel him relax in your arms. His breathing steadies, and his hold on your shirt loosens.
It's always been hard for Toji to let go of you in moments like these—for him to pull away from the space where he knows nothing can hurt him, the space that makes him feel the most at peace. The thought of going to sleep like this, holding each other through the night, comfort and safety surrounding both of you like a force field—it sounds like the sweetest dream.
Toji finds there to be something so comforting about the fact that you never make the effort to let go of him first. You let him take as much time as he needs, and only when he slowly starts to detach himself from you, do you follow suit. This time is a little more difficult, but after an almost four minute hug, he finally peels himself off of you.
"I will always acknowledge you, Toji," you promise, smiling as you gently cradle his face, wiping away the wetness beneath his eyes with your thumbs. "You will never have to worry about being unheard or unwanted, as long as I'm around. That extends to Megumi, as well."
Toji nods, wrapping his hands around your wrists and bringing your palms to his lips. They're warm against your skin as he presses little kisses to the lines that crease it. Your smile grows, beautiful and infectious in a way that brings a glint to his eyes as he watches you, intently. The most lovable giggles escape you, they're sweeter than all the sugar at the bakery—it's addictive and he doesn't want it to stop.
"Now, tell me about your day," you request again, the soft curl of your lips lingering as Toji lowers your hands. They still aren't free from his grip, but you wouldn't dare ask him to release you.
He sits there for a few seconds, humming low in thought. You think about asking him questions, to refresh his mind of some of the events that happened during his workday, but the humming stops and his eyes return to you.
"I made a cake by myself today." There's a subtle twitch of his lips, like he's trying to hold back a smile. "No hovering from anyone or anything. Just me and the ingredients, in the kitchen, while everyone was around doing their thing."
You hum, nodding in comprehension and patiently wait for him to remember more. The mindless humming returns as he tries to recall other parts of the day.
"I guess nothing else was as interesting, 'cause I can't think of anything else."
"Yeah? No pointless arguments today?" You ask, a knowing smirk growing on your lips.
"Nah," Toji responds, a low chuckle following. "That guy just mad dogs me all the time, now."
"How do you even blame someone for losing something you had in your hand a minute ago? That's just ridiculous," you say, shaking your head in disbelief.
"I don't know, but he found a way, and me being the only one around, meant that I did the crime," he says, rolling his eyes at just the memory of that whole situation.
"Lucky you," you tease, earning a click of Toji's tongue.
A notification lights up the screen of your phone, allowing Toji to catch a glimpse of the time. It's too late for him to still be chit chatting with you, and though it pains him to put an end to it, he understands the importance of you getting your rest.
"Well... I should probably get out of here." He squeezes your hands one more time before releasing them. "You need to sleep, I need to go check on the kid, then go sleep, too."
"Can you do me a huuuge favor before you go?" You ask, standing up after him.
"What is it, doll?" He responds, watching as you reach down to pick up the takeout container from the bed.
Your fingers curl around the handle of the spoon and you carve out the perfect bite of cake for him. "Try it, please? Just this tiny piece and then i'll shamelessly scarf down the rest of it."
"Seriously?" He asks, grinning at the way you nod encouragingly, like trying the dessert will be life changing.
"Please? And then you'll have my permission to punt me into the sun," you offer, smiling as kindly as you can to convince him.
"You are so dramatic. Give me that," Toji mutters, taking the spoon from you with the cake nestled in it.
You watch excitedly, from the moment he shovels the dessert into his mouth, to the emotionless chewing, and then finally, the little nods of satisfaction.
"Yeah?" You squeal as quietly as you can, peering at him with the proudest smile ever.
"Yeah," he answers, nodding a couple more times, a smile cracking at how much you're actually struggling to contain your enthusiasm. "Crazy," he mumbles, affectionately.
"I'm gonna dream good, tonight," you tell him, like you know it. Like it's confirmed because of this one little thing he did for you.
"Yeah? Well then, I won't keep you any longer," Toji says, setting the spoon back into the container you're holding.
He takes one step closer to you, eliminating some of the space between you and him by setting a hand on your shoulder. Then, he leans in so close that you can feel the warmth radiating off his body, and he kisses the top of your head. It's not hasty, it's not a small ghost-like kiss. It's something more intimate—the kind of kiss you give someone when you want them to know you're glad they exist.
"Goodnight." His voice is as soft as the smile he offers you.
"Goodnight, Toji," you respond, reciprocating that kind smile.
With that, he starts his way towards your door. He bends down with a quiet groan to pick up his messy shoes.
"Hey," you call, not able to wait until tomorrow to tell him this last piece of information. Toji turns with a hum, hand still on the doorknob. "Sometimes when Megumi has a nightmare, he'll come over here and tell me about it, and then, I think he's either too scared to go back through the dark alone or he's made himself comfortable, but he ends up falling asleep in here with me."
"Yeah," Toji whispers, almost like he's thinking about asking you to pardon his son. "I wondered about that for a while, too, until I saw him in here, doing his starfish pose with no regard for your space."
"He swats my face with his arm every time," you explain, with a soft laugh. "But it's fine, I'm used to it, already."
"Same," Toji agrees.
"Anyway, I just wanted you to know that you can do the same—come here in the middle of the night, I mean. Or even on nights when you don't want to wake Megumi up by scooting him over—just... whenever you want. It extends to you, is what i'm trying to say," you rephrase.
"You want me to sleep over?" He asks, genuinely, no dirty intent to his words.
"Whenever you want," you repeat.
Toji nods, memorizing your invitation. If you ever slam the door on his face, he'll use your words against you to get you to open the door again.
The thought makes a soft laugh escape him. "Noted," he affirms, throwing one more gentle smile at you before turning around and exiting your room.
truly. every nasty, perverted thing you could think of, checked off the list in just the few months you’d been together. every kink explored, every fantasy acted out.
that’s exactly why you pay no mind to the seemingly suspicious way he moves your hand to the crown of his head during sex one night, seeing the way he shivers when your fingers bury themselves into his hair.
that’s weird. you think, noticing the way his thrusts falter when you massage his scalp. you pull on the strands experimentally and—
“fuck!”
toji’s whole body stiffens, belting a moan so loud it scares the both of you.
the brute squeezes his eyes shut in embarrassment, huffing into the crook of your neck as he tries to calm down. it’s cute, you realize, the way his whole body shakes. how he hisses through his teeth and reaches down to squeeze the base of his dick, not ready to cum just yet.
“shut the fuck up,” he seethes, already anticipating the laugh that bubbles from your chest. his strokes never stop, trying to distract you with every roll of his hips.
“you liked that?” you whisper, fingers already snaking towards his choppy black locks.
toji’s quicker, bundling both your wrists with one enormous hand and pressing them above your head into the mattress. you can feel every inch of him now, taking him right up to the base with each and every flick of his hips toward yours.
he still won’t look at you, cheeks dusted just the slightest shade pinker while he gathers himself.
you can feel your own composure slipping alongside his. that telltale drop in your stomach that lets you know your high is near. toji isn’t looking much better, black fringe sticking to the moisture on his forehead. eyes glossed over like marbles, half lidded and droopy with pleasure.
you don’t know where the sudden burst of confidence comes from, all you know is that you’re legs are wrapping around his torso and bringing him closer, wrists wiggling free before your hands go straight for his back.
you work quickly, tangling one hand into the dark locks that lick over the back of his neck while the other scratches hard down the length of his spine.
“fuck— baby.”
you’ve never heard him make a noise like that. rough, primal, so jagged you wonder if he can even breathe. the muscles in his back are strung so tight you think he might snap, his arms struggling to hold himself up.
you want to lick over the scratches you left behind. to lathe your tongue over the raised, pink skin. to feel just how hard his dick jumps when your fingers find themselves at the crown of his head.
“who knew you were such a painslut?” you tease.
you don’t let him respond, biting down on the junction between his neck and shoulder as you cum and sending him right over the edge with you.
toji’s halfway gone, eyes rolling to the back of his head like his soul is fighting to leave his body. he loves every second of it. the way the pain flutters under his skin. that warm feeling his skin gets when lick over the crescent indents your mouth left behind. how the scratch marks you made on his back still sting.
you can’t believe how hard he— the both of you really— got off to that. you kiss him softly, tracing little shakes into the pliant skin of his back while your senses start to come back to you. toji kisses you harshly, open mouthed and needy before parting with a grin.
“do that… more next time.” he mumbles, pulling out of you with a happy groan and flopping onto his stomach.
Monopoly money scattered across the floor, Chance cards shoved under the couch, and Megumi sitting smug with his arms crossed like a print-sized yakuza boss. Meanwhile, you were clutching a pathetic wad of singles like they could save you from the wolves circling.
“Rent’s due,” Megumi said, sliding his piece onto your hotel with zero remorse.
You gawked. “Megumi, you can’t just bankrupt your own mother. I literally carried you for nine months.”
“Cool,” he said flatly, holding his hand out. “Now you can carry my debt.”
Across the board, Toji barked out a laugh, leaning back on his palms like this was better than pay-per-view. “Shit, kid’s got teeth. You might actually be mine.”
You whipped toward him. “Don’t encourage him! You’ve been cheating since the first roll. I saw you pocket money from the bank.”
Toji tilted his head, grin slow and sharp. “Yeah. And I’m winning. Crazy how that works.”
“Winning?” You jabbed a finger at him. “You’re supposed to be teaching your son not to be a criminal.”
“Relax,” he drawled, flexing his hand obnoxiously. “World don’t run on rules, ma. It runs on who’s got the bigger hands. And I got some big ones.”
Megumi nodded solemnly like he was in class. “Makes sense.”
Your jaw dropped. “Are you kidding me? I’m in a den of thieves. This is organized crime.”
“Cry about it,” Toji muttered, voice low with amusement. He jerked his chin toward Megumi. “Oi, brat. Give your mom a kiss before she calls the cops.”
Megumi groaned like he’d been asked to carry a fridge, but he shuffled over, gave you the driest little peck on the cheek, and muttered, “There. Happy?”
You slapped a hand over your chest. “That was the weakest kiss I’ve ever received in my life. From my own son.”
Before you could finish your tirade, Toji was suddenly behind you, arms heavy around your waist as he pinned you in place. His mouth brushed against your neck, voice lazy and warm. “Quit bitchin’. You got two kisses. That’s a good deal.”
You wriggled uselessly, glaring at him over your shoulder. “This is harassment.”
“Nah,” he smirked, kissing your jaw slow just to rub it in. “This is me comforting my broke-ass wife.”
Megumi sat back down, already stacking more bills like a Wall Street villain. Without glancing up, he muttered, “At least you still have us.”
You blinked at him. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
Toji chuckled, voice vibrating against your skin. “Means you lost the game, sweetheart. Don’t get dramatic.”
Megumi finally looked up, face blank but eyes smug. “Don’t take it personal. You’re just really bad at Monopoly.”
You stared between them, betrayed. “I am surrounded by absolute heathens.”
Toji pressed another kiss to your cheek, smug as ever. “Yeah, but you married one and made the other. So whose fault is that?”
And that was it. You banned Monopoly forever while your two boys high-fived over your fake bankruptcy, looking way too satisfied with themselves.
they should make a version of socializing that doesn’t make you feel like you’re still the weird 12 year old kid that doesn’t know why she’s not normal like the other kids
weight | fushiguro toji
╰►toji carries a lot of weight on him: the weight of his job, the weight of fatherhood, the weight of his fears, the weight of his past, and the weight of himself—his flaws, his failures, his mere pitiful existence…but that weight seems to fall off, pound by agonizing pound, when he’s with you. 9.5k words
a/n: honestly, this could be misconstrued as toji just weaponizing his incompetence, but I guess all I can say is that isn't how I meant it? he's just a guy, you know? and so if you see me doing laundry and cooking for a 6 foot tall assassin in his dingy apartment...leave me alone, I'm exactly where I wanna be <3 fr though this is very heavy and much longer than I anticipated it being, talks a lot about self-worth, hating yourself, regret, grief, etc. definitely would not recommend reading if you don't feel like you're in the right headspace for that. I would probably call this angst, but there's also a lot of comfort in here!! (take a shot every time I say 'maybe...' 26 fucking times)
he doesn’t keep much. a knife. a lighter. a photo half-burned at the edges—face blurred, but he knows who it was. a bracelet that never fit his wrist, tucked in the back of a drawer. a receipt for something he tells himself he should’ve stolen, but didn’t. junk, really. clutter he should’ve thrown out years ago.
he stares at it sometimes. doesn’t touch it. doesn’t move. just…sits. breathing slow. letting the weight settle. it’s not guilt, not exactly. he doesn’t deserve that word. guilt’s for people who tried, but that doesn't stop him from feeling it often. this is more of an ache. a longing for a life he might've lived if he wasn't such a miserable piece of shit. who is he kidding? he was never going to be anything else.
before you came around, these kinds of thoughts consumed him. chewed through the meat of him every night, before he drowned himself in the last couple sips of the bottle and passed out sideways on the floor. there was no one to catch him. he didn’t want to be caught. and then you showed up; unceremoniously, with little fuss. he doesn’t remember the moment clearly—just the aftermath. the echo of your laugh in a room too dark for joy. his number in your phone, typed with his own hands, even though he swore he didn’t give it out. him, calling you weeks later when he hadn’t answered a single text, hadn’t promised a damn thing, hadn’t even given you his last name, and you still came.
he was awful to you in the beginning. touchy when he wanted something, distant when he didn’t. gone for days, sometimes weeks. didn’t text back. didn’t explain. he expected you to leave, told himself that's what he wanted. expected you to look at him and see what everyone else had: a fun mistake. a lost cause. something to be ashamed of the morning after. and maybe you did see it—but you never treated him like it. most women would've dumped his ass without blinking. moved on to the next guy who remembered birthdays and didn’t smell like musky cologne and blood. but not you. time and time again, when he resurfaced like something rotten dragged in by the tide, there you were—dry towel in hand, quiet smile, no questions. just eyes that saw right through him and still softened anyway.
he let you in. not all at once. it was small things. letting you stay the night instead of slipping out before dawn. giving you his key without saying anything. cooking once, maybe twice, when he realized you skipped dinner waiting on him. it wasn’t conscious. it wasn’t strategic. it was survival. somewhere between fuck and forget, you’d stitched yourself into the parts of him he thought were too far gone.
he still remembers the first time you crawled into his bed like you belonged there. you didn’t ask. you didn’t need to. he was sprawled out like a corpse, half-dressed, barely sober, and you just curled around him like gravity itself had finally decided to be kind. he didn’t really sleep that night—too stunned. too afraid to move, like it might’ve all been a fever dream. but you stayed. and in the morning, when you stretched and kissed his shoulder like it was the most normal thing in the world, he knew something had shifted. fatally. beautifully.
he never asked you to move in. never said the words. you just stopped leaving. toothbrush in the cup. body wash in the shower. your coat hanging next to his like it had always been there. and now he doesn’t seem willing to let you leave. not ever.
not when the nights get too quiet. not when the weight in his chest flares up and threatens to tear him open from the inside out. not when he comes home limping, blood on his hands, and finds you waiting with warm food and gentler eyes than he’s ever deserved.
you’re not just something good in his life. you are his life. his whole goddamn center of gravity. and when he looks at you—really looks—he thinks: this is what the knife was protecting. this is what the bottle was numbing. this is what I almost missed. but he usually only lets himself think those things when he’s drunk, or pretending to be drunk, at least. because sober toji cannot bear that kind of responsibility...can he? he thinks, when you lean back against him in the miniature closet of his apartment, tapping your lip curiously, deciding what to wear, that maybe he can.
and maybe he’ll always be a little fucked up. maybe he’ll always feel like a man made more from loss than love. but for once—for once—he’s got something worth staying for.
......
it’s a job. that’s it. in. out. blood on his hands, sometimes on his boots. he doesn’t blink anymore. doesn’t pause. this armor is muscle memory now. cold, quiet, efficient.
you don’t ask what he does. maybe you understand the extent of it. maybe you don’t. maybe it’s better you never say it out loud (he knows you know, you're too perceptive not to). but he sees the way you look at him when he comes home late. smell of copper still clinging to him. red scar on his cheek that wasn’t there this morning. you don’t flinch. you just hold the door open.
you make him take his shoes off. wash his hands. sit down. you talk about your day like he just came home from his nonexistent 9 to 5 day job. like he isn’t built from violence. like he’s still a man. and for a moment—just one—he forgets the weight. the blood. the cold. the armor doesn’t come off. not fully. but you make it crack. you make it crumble. and that’s more dangerous than anything he’s ever done.
he doesn’t understand it, the way you love him.
it’s not a performance. not a plea. you don’t look at him like you’re trying to fix him. you just look. like he’s already something worth looking at. like the blood under his nails doesn’t scare you. like the things he’s done aren’t rotting inside him, leaking out through the cracks.
he’s never been gentle. doesn’t know how. not with his hands. not with his words. but you—you laugh like you don’t notice. you kiss him like you do. and it breaks him. every time.
because you see him. you see the weight, the filth, the violence stitched into his bones—and you stay. you press your fingers to the jagged parts and don't flinch. you cook him breakfast like he isn’t a murderer. you hum while you clean his wounds. you kiss his temple, not his mouth, and he thinks he might actually cry. god, how long's it been since he's done that?
he tells himself it’s weakness. that you’ll leave, eventually. you’ll see what he really is and run. but until then? he’s yours. and that’s the scariest job he’s ever had. what he doesn't fathom quite yet, is that you already know who he really is and you're staying anyways. or maybe he does know that, but he can't possibly understand it; so he won't admit it, to you or to himself.
……
some nights, it hits him out of nowhere.
he’ll be halfway through peeling an orange at the counter—shirtless, scarred, domestic in a way he doesn’t feel entitled to—and then he’s not. he’s back in some shitty living room, smoke curling up the wall, a tiny pair of shoes by the door, and no strength in his arms to pick them up.
he wasn’t there. not really. even when he was. too consumed with jobs, debts, the sound of screams in his ears. he knew he was messing it up in real time. watched it all slip, and chose not to stop it. it felt like the only thing he was good at—leaving. you come up behind him now, wrap your arms around his waist like you always do when you know he’s drifting. he doesn’t flinch. he lets you anchor him.
“he used to get scared of thunder,” he says, voice gravel, soft like he’s afraid it’ll shatter. “wouldn’t cry. just…sit real still. like I did.” you rest your cheek on his back, listening. "I didn’t—” he swallows, hard. "I didn’t know how to comfort him. I just told him to sleep through it. like it’d make him tough. like that’s what a good dad says.”
he turns, face unreadable, eyes hollowed by something that’s been gnawing at him for years. “he was a good kid,” he says. "I just…wasn’t a good man.”
you don’t say that’s not true. he wouldn’t believe you. you don’t try to offer him redemption, not outright. just the kind of steadiness he never had growing up, the kind of steadiness he could never offer. the kind of forgiveness that isn’t flashy. it’s just there. “what would you say to him now?” you ask quietly, thumb brushing over the scar on his side.
toji hesitates, stares at the floor like the answer might be buried in the tile. “...that I'm sorry,” he says eventually. like that'd fix anything, he thinks. “that I knew better. and I still left. and that he didn’t deserve that.” his voice cracks at the end. he clears his throat too harshly, like he’s trying to scrape the pain out of it.
you pull him down to sit, and he lets you. he sits between your legs on the floor, head bowed, shoulders too big for the shame he’s trying to fold them under. you just run your hands through his hair. “you did what you knew,” you whisper, and that's all you can say. not you did the right thing, or it's okay because that's not true and you both know it.
he closes his eyes. “doesn’t make it right.”
“no,” you agree. “but it means you'll do better.” he doesn’t respond. but his fingers curl around your ankle like a lifeline. like maybe, just maybe, there’s still time to learn what love looks like—without the leaving. and for tonight, at least, he stays. and who is he kidding? certainly not himself. for as long as you’ll have him, for as long as you allow his presence, he’ll stay. he’d never leave, not until you ask, because that’s what a good man does, right?
the fear is the heaviest weight of all, and on nights like this, it drags him down under, and he’s so damn tired of swimming. fear of what, he doesn't quite know. fear of his past, though he thinks that sounds stupid. fear of you leaving, and that...that doesn't sound quite as silly to him. that is very, very real.
the grief comes quiet. doesn’t announce itself, doesn’t wail or scream. just settles into his bones like it’s always belonged there—grief for megumi, yes, but also grief for who he could’ve been. for the man he never got to grow into. for the kind of father he might’ve become if the world had given him just one more inch of slack, if he'd allowed himself to share instead of steal, let him give what he had instead of hoard it all to his chest; not just what little money he had, but the love he might've given, the care he might've shown.
you feel it before he even shifts. the way his body stills beneath your touch, the tight coil of muscle in his jaw, like he's holding back a scream that has nowhere to go. he doesn’t cry. of course he doesn’t cry. it’s not in him—not anymore. but you can feel the weight pressing on him, pinning him in place like a second skin.
he’s not thinking about just megumi now. he’s thinking about everything. the years spent as a blade, not a man. the people he’s killed. the blood under his fingernails that never quite washes off. the nights he should’ve slept but stayed awake because closing his eyes meant seeing their faces.
grief, regret, shame—what’s the difference anymore? it all tastes the same going down. bitter. rotting. permanent. you don’t say anything. you just lean into him, your head on his shoulder, your hand pressed flat to his chest like maybe if you’re close enough, you can keep his heart from collapsing in on itself.
"I never thought I’d live long enough to miss anything,” he mutters after a while, voice like sandpaper. “didn’t think there’d be anything worth missing.” his hand is on your thigh, holding tight—not possessive, just scared. of the dark. of the silence. of himself.
“but then you happened,” he says. “and now every time I look at you, I think about what I almost didn’t get to have. what I still don’t deserve.” the fear in his chest flares hot. ugly. alive. the vulnerability makes him nauseous. but he doesn’t look away from you. doesn’t bury it this time. just lets it sit there between you, raw and real.
and you, unshaken, still breathing next to a man the world tried to turn to ash, just whisper, “you do now.” and something in him cracks, quietly. like a storm on the horizon deciding to pass over. just this once.
……
he wakes up some mornings already braced for impact—heart hammering, mouth dry, stomach tight like he’s expecting a bullet instead of breakfast.
but then there’s the smell of coffee. a plate on the table, still warm. the dishes in the sink—his dishes, his mess—already scrubbed clean. you don’t say anything about it. you never do. never ask him why he leaves nonperishable food out for himself everywhere, why he never eats more than a few bites, why he sometimes disappears for a day and comes back with blood on his soles and that hollow look in his eyes. you just wipe down the counter, hum softly under your breath, and hand him a fork.
he doesn’t know how to say thank you. not in words. not in the ways that count. his gratitude is jagged and half-formed, splintered beneath years of being treated like a monster, like a thing made for killing, not caring. and still, somehow, you never flinch.
he watches the way your hands move when you clean up after him. when you fold his laundry, not because he asked, but because he forgot to. when you take his hand and press it to your chest without speaking, like you know he’s about to spiral without needing an explanation.
it makes him physically ill, the way you love him. not out of pity. not out of naïveté. but wholly. steadily. willingly.
and there are nights he almost pushes you away for it. almost snaps. almost recoils. because he doesn't know what to do with love that doesn't come with strings, or shame, or screaming. but he doesn’t. he won’t. because a good man wouldn’t. and you—you—you’ve never asked him to be anything more than that. you ground him in ways he didn’t think possible. you ask nothing, demand nothing, expect nothing—and somehow that makes it worse. because now he wants to give you everything. the pieces of him still worth offering. the ones not soaked in blood.
so when his fingers twitch toward the doorknob in a moment of panic, when the air gets too tight and the guilt claws at his throat—he stops. breathes. thinks of your hands, your voice, your steadiness. and he stays. because a good man doesn’t run. and for you, he wants to be one. and with you, sometimes he thinks he can be because you’re so sure of him. so confident that he can deserve you, provide for you, earn you. some nights, you even whisper in his ear that he already has.
……
he’s holding the knife like it’s a weapon. which—technically, it is. but probably not the way you intended when you handed him the cutting board and told him, so sarcastically it peeves him, “you’re on onions tonight, chef.”
toji stares at the onion like it insulted him. then back at you. you’re already halfway through prepping something complicated-looking with spices he couldn’t name if you offered him a million yen and a one-week head start. he mumbles something that might be a curse. might be his last will and testament. and then he starts cutting.
you don’t correct him. not when he massacres the first one. not when he holds the knife like he’s defusing a cursed object. not even when he somehow ends up slicing the onion vertically, horizontally, and diagonally all at once. you just hum along to whatever music you’ve got playing, give him a quick kiss to the jaw when you pass behind him, and toss a handful of salt into the pan like you’re dancing with it. he doesn’t understand how you do that. how you make this place—a cramped kitchen with uneven tile and a broken light—feel like sanctuary. like something holy. and how you look at him—him, of all people—with that stupid, stupid smile every time he gets something right. or wrong.
when he burns the egg, you coo like he’s a toddler. wrap your arms around his waist, press your a kiss to his bare skin—he shivers, it always tickles him—tell him, “you’re learning, baby.” he grunts. scowls. tells you to knock it off. but the tips of his ears go red and he doesn’t push you away. he can kill a man with his bare hands before breakfast. he’s outrun the best of the best. he’s been on every watchlist in japan at least once. but he can’t cook a fucking omelet without your help. and he hates how much he loves that.
because it means he gets to stand next to you, shoulder to shoulder, hips brushing, listening to you ramble about sauces and slicing techniques, and seasoning ratios he’ll never remember. it means he gets to clean the dishes after—not because you ask, but because you cooked, and he’s not a total bastard. not to you. it means, when you curl into him after the kitchen’s dark and clean, your belly full and your hair damp from the steam, he gets to close his eyes and pretend he’s someone else. someone who’s not just good with a knife. someone who knows what it means to make a home. even if he burns half of it along the way.
……
toji knows it’s a joke. this whole thing—the dinners, the quiet nights, the way you kiss the scar on his lip like it’s holy instead of hideous—it’s a cosmic, cruel joke. one day, you’ll wake up. you’ll blink twice. the spell will break. and you’ll see him for what he really is: pitiful, rotten, born wrong.
and you’ll leave. they all do. he doesn’t say it out loud. never has. he doesn’t have to because it lives under his skin, worms its way in between the silences. it clings to his shoulders when he watches you stir cream into your coffee or fold laundry wearing his clothes and humming along to your music that always seems to be playing. it creeps up his spine when you laugh at one of his dry, half-hearted jokes, like he’s actually someone worth listening to. and it chokes him, some nights, when he lies next to you—your head on his chest, your fingers soft on his stomach—and wonders how the hell someone like you ended up here, in his goddamn bed, with him.
you should’ve run by now. and maybe that’s what scares him the most. you haven’t. you know. you know what he’s done, what he still does. you’ve seen him, bloody and broken, dragging himself through the door after a job. you’ve kissed the bruises on his ribs. you’ve scrubbed his blood out of your towels. you’ve seen him with shiu—heard the way he talks, the shit they laugh about. you’ve stood there, gentle and glowing, while toji snarled and bristled like a guard dog when shiu smirked at you a little too long. and still, you stay.
you even made dinner for shiu once. sent him home with leftovers and told toji, “you could be nicer. he’s your friend, isn’t he?” toji had rolled his eyes and grunted something obscene, but he shut up. because whatever you say—whatever you say, whatever you say—is gospel. what you don’t see, what you can’t see, is how much that fucks him up.
because he’s not some battered stray you picked up off the street. he’s not some tragic redemption arc waiting to happen. he’s a killer. he’s toji fushiguro. and the longer you look at him like he’s worth saving, the more it feels like the air around him is thinning—like you’re pumping oxygen into his lungs with every kind word, every kiss, every goddamn meal. and he’s terrified of needing you too much. of building a whole second life out of your kindness, only to watch it collapse when you realize he’s still made of rot and regret underneath.
and yet—there’s this one night. you’re curled up beside him on the couch, watching something light and stupid. you’re both tired. comfortable. and you mutter something under your breath, more to yourself than to him.
"I wish I didn’t have so many freckles. I look like a connect-the-dots puzzle.” he stiffens.
“what?”
you wave him off. “nothing. it’s just funny, how stupid they make me look. I mean, why’d I end up with freckles head to toe and you’re like this tall, muscle pig—”
“don’t say that shit." it’s low. serious. sharp enough to cut. you blink up at him, caught off guard. he doesn’t blink. doesn’t soften. just watches you like he’s daring you to keep talking.
“toji…”
"I mean it.” his eyes are dark, hard. "I don’t wanna hear that kind of shit from you. ever. you got me?”
you soften. smile, faintly. “okay. I got you.”
but it this weight doesn't seem to settle, like his usually does when he's with you. not really. not when he’s still thinking about it an hour later, staring at your profile, at the not-so-faint dusting of freckles across your nose, at the way you bite your lip when you focus. imperfect? you? no. you’re perfect. you’re perfect.
and if he could dig into his chest and rip out every ounce of self-loathing and burn it at your feet just to deserve you, he would. he would. but he doesn’t know how. not yet.
this simple act, though, shows him a side of this relationship he didn't think he'd get the chance to see. for all your beauty, for all your saving grace, he could be right for you, too. as right as you are for him. he'll never be enough for you, nothing could ever convince him of that...but maybe you need him in ways he didn't see before. it's always been about how much he needs you, how he doesn't think he could survive this life anymore without you, as much as he's trained himself not to need anyone. you haven't. you're not afraid of needing him, of desiring him.
so he's found his new purpose: being needed by you. for some reason, as this occurrs to him with you snuggled up to the hard plane of his chest that night, softly snoring, he feels dizzy, light-headed, disoriented even though he's laying down. he feels like he's floating. he feels weightless.
……
the wind howls outside like it’s trying to claw its way in, bending the trees, rattling the walls of your apartment until they groan in complaint. the kind of storm that seeps into your bones, into your dreams, and makes it just a little harder to fall asleep. toji knows that. he’s been home for only a few hours, fresh off a hit that took longer than usual—two, maybe three days of radio silence. longer than you're used to. not longer than he’s used to, but much longer than he’s okay with being away from you. you usually fill those first moments back together with chatter—telling him about every little thing that happened while he was gone, like your voice can patch the aching silence that clings to his skin like a film of sweat.
but not tonight. tonight, you don’t speak. you don’t need to. you’ve already said everything you needed to in the shower, the warm water washing away days of grime and distance. you'd missed him. you always missed him, and something primal inside him lights up at being missed.
he never says it out loud, but it thrills him, this domesticity, this relationship of being dependent on each other. that caveman instinct, the one he pretends he doesn’t have, gnaws at his ribs like a hunger: the need to protect you, to provide, to make sure you're okay. he watches you eat like he's witnessing art, watches your eyes get heavy like he’s earned a trophy.
and god help him, he loves cleaning you. lathering shampoo into your hair like it’s sacred. drying you off, dressing you in one of his sweatshirts—hanging off your frame like a blanket—and those tiny shorts you wear to bed that he thinks are criminally short, though he'd never complain. you brush your teeth next to him and nearly fall asleep against the sink, and all he can do is watch, dazed.
he doesn’t say much. he rarely does. but when he finally crawls into bed next to you, he's a man unraveling.
toji doesn’t cuddle. that’s what he says. but here he is, wrapping himself around you like a vine, tucking your smaller frame against his chest, burying his face in the crook of your neck as if you’re the one who’s been gone, and he’s trying to remind himself you’re real. he squeezes tighter than he should—just shy of bruising. you make a sleepy noise, more instinct than complaint, and he eases up immediately, but not much. he can’t. he needs this. needs you.
you could leave him.
that thought hits him harder than any punch he’s ever taken. you could just...decide you’re done. not with malice, not with drama. just simply, with love of course, as you do everything. you’d just slip away. like mist. like the dreams he can’t ever seem to hold on to. he presses his nose into your neck and breathes you in. you smell like his shampoo, like his soap, like a person-shaped sanctuary. he presses a kiss to the spot beneath your ear, feather-light, almost reverent. he wants to say something, but doesn’t trust his voice not to crack.
you shift against him, and it takes his breath away. just a twitch. a tiny sleepy sound. but your hand finds his where it's splayed against your waist and holds it like it's second nature. like he belongs there. you don’t even open your eyes.
sometimes, when he comes home late and you’ve already drifted off on his side of the bed, he slides in quietly, trying not to wake you. and without fail, without thought, you reach for him. groggy and half-asleep, you find him, pull him in, curl yourself around him like your body knows he’s home before your brain catches up. he doesn’t always sleep well. years of sleeping with one eye open will do that to a man. but when you pull him close like that, when you press your cheek to his chest and hum in your sleep, he thinks maybe he could unlearn that. maybe he wants to.
he’s not a romantic. never was, never will be. but this? this is romance, in its rawest, ugliest, most basest form. holding you close, letting you sleep while the wind screams outside and the whole world feels like it’s falling apart—that’s what love looks like for a man like him.
you shift again, half-waking, and mumble something into his shoulder. he doesn’t catch it all, but he hears the words “you’re home.” said with relief, like you were worried he wouldn’t be. and suddenly, he can breathe a little easier. he closes his eyes.
……
he almost dies. again.
that’s not hyperbole. you find him half-conscious in the doorway, shoulder wedged against the frame like it’s the only thing holding him upright. his jacket’s soaked with blood—his or someone else’s, you can’t tell yet—and when you lunge forward, hands shaking, toji barely reacts.
his head lolls. your hands catch it before it hits the tile. "jesus christ, toji—"
but he’s not hearing you. not really. his mouth is slack, his breathing shallow. you press your fingers to the side of his throat and feel it—there, barely—his pulse, weak and stuttering, like it’s trying to decide if it wants to keep going. you call his name again, louder this time. your hands are everywhere—his neck, his ribs, his jaw, trying to anchor him to this world—and when his eyes flutter open just enough to register your face, he flinches.
not from pain. not from the blood or the busted rib or the gash over his eyebrow. from you. like he didn’t expect you to be there. like he wishes you weren’t.
you drag him to the couch somehow, your body aching from the effort, your voice breaking as you bark orders he’s too out of it to obey. but he lets you tend to him. lets you strip off the ruined jacket. lets you clean the blood from his temple and cradle his face in your hands like it’s something fragile, something worth saving. he hates that. hates the way your touch makes him feel real. present. human. like a man with something to lose.
he lies there in the dim light, body trembling from pain or shock or the sheer effort of holding himself together, and he watches you. you, barefoot in your sleep shirt, crying softly as you press gauze to his shoulder. you, who should’ve left the first time he came home like this—broken and near-bled dry—but didn’t.
“you shouldn’t have to see me like this,” he mutters, voice like gravel. “not like this. not ever.”
you don’t answer right away. just lean in, forehead pressed to his. "I chose you, toji. I don’t just get to pick the easy parts.”
and that wrecks him. splinters him. because all he can think about—his blood still warm on your hands—is how easily he could disappear. he could do it. tonight. leave while you're sleeping, soft and unsuspecting. take some cash, take nothing, it doesn’t matter. he’s done it before. closed the door so quietly they never even knew he was gone. maybe you’d convince yourself he was a dream. just some violent little hallucination in your bed for a while. maybe that would be kinder. cleaner.
but the thought of you waking up alone makes something inside him howl. you’d cry. you’d blame yourself. you’d look in the mirror and ask what you did wrong. and that? that’s the thing that nails him to the floor.
so instead of running, he says nothing. he lets your fingers card through his sweat-damp hair. lets your lips brush the corner of his mouth, gentler than he deserves. lets you tuck the blanket around his battered frame like he’s something precious, something yours. because he is. god help him.
later that night, you fall asleep upright, curled at his side with your cheek resting lightly against his shoulder. and toji watches you, throat tight, eyes burning.
his head nearly fell off. in the literal sense. and the metaphorical one. and still—you held it steady.
he wants to weep from the absurdity of it, from the wonder. he doesn’t.
……
toji’s hand settled firmly at the small of your back, the warmth of his touch a steady anchor as he guided you through the dull hum of the apartment building’s hallways. the elevator dinged open, and you stepped inside, still blindfolded, your breath catching slightly with the mix of anticipation and nerves curling inside your chest. he was always touching you in some way or another—fingertips brushing your arm, the occasional rough palm at your shoulder—but this was different. this touch was leading, showing, promising something new.
he’d run through dozens of ways to make this moment perfect. carry you bridal style over the threshold, surprising you with a soft “welcome home.” or maybe telling you the night he signed the lease, forging your signature because he couldn't do it legally. no fuss. but in the end, he chose surprise. you’d been working all morning, tired and unaware, and he only had a limited window. shiu had helped him move everything from that shabby, hellhole of an apartment you’d shared—the one with peeling wallpaper, the creaky floors, the lingering smell of smoke and regret—into a small, weather-beaten trailer parked out back.
neither of you had much stuff, and most of the busted furniture he’d left behind. but he’d packed up the things that mattered: the pictures of you, the quiet memories wrapped in faded frames; every cooking utensil you owned, all the cleaning supplies—anything he thought you’d want to keep. it was a collection of fragments from the life you’d built together, crammed into a few boxes like a secret treasure.
now the elevator stopped. toji’s grip tightened slightly as he moved you forward. the jingle of keys sounded before the door clicked open. you still couldn’t see, but you caught the faint scent of something new, clean—unlike any place he’d ever lived before. he guided you inside, his steps steady but deliberate, careful not to rush the moment. when he finally removed your blindfold, you blinked against the flood of light, taking in the space. it wasn’t huge. small, really. you probably always wanted small. but it was clean—no stains on the floors, no moths buzzing in the corners, no stale smoke thickening the air. it smelled fresh, like new paint and hope.
your eyes darted around. the kitchen caught your breath: a real kitchen, with a working oven and microwave, a stovetop free from grime or burnt bits, counters you could actually cook on without worry. no mystery stains, no peeling tiles. it was home. yours and toji’s. and somewhere in that simple, honest space, toji was on his knees, eyes bright with something that looked like gratitude—maybe awe—that he was lucky enough to share this with you.
you walked around, taking it all in, and couldn’t help but scold him a little. “why didn’t you let me help move anything? you must be exhausted.”
his chest swelled, pride making his rough edges soften. “I did it for you,” he said, voice low. “didn’t want you busting your ass over a couple ‘a boxes.”
you unpacked slowly, quietly—unpacking wasn’t glamorous, but every box opened felt like laying down another brick in your new life. you arranged the few things you’d brought, marveling at how this place could feel so alive, so full of potential. you told toji how proud you were, not just of the apartment, but of him. how he’d made this happen, even when everything else seemed like a mess.
he stopped you before you could go on, voice firm, a little rougher than usual. “I ain’t doing nothing for you that you don’t already deserve.” you shook your head, feeling tears prick your eyes. he looked like he wanted to say more but didn’t. instead, you just stood there in that small, bright room, knowing that this—this was home. and he knew that it was because of you.
the next few days stretched long and sweet. you found it hard to leave the apartment you shared. you threw on some paint-stained overalls and a tank top, plastering the walls with broad, uneven strokes of color—rose floral wallpaper for the kitchen, bold and a little bit feminine, just like you.
toji tried to help, but there wasn’t an artistic bone in his body. his idea of decorating was hanging things where they fit and making sure the pipes didn’t leak. he grumbled a little about your wallpaper choice, but deep down, he loved it. loved how you’d made the place yours, the toaster you’d picked out, the way you’d organized everything like a promise for the future. he installed shelves, tightened screws, hooked up the stove and the fridge, always grumbling but never complaining when you asked for his help.
you bought painfully comfortable blankets for the bed, small luxury items—a tiny tv you both knew you wouldn’t use much, a new kettle because god only knows how long you’d gone without one that didn’t sputter or leak. you weren’t quite wealthy enough for this, but for the first time, that didn’t matter. this was your space. your home. no expense too small, no detail insignificant.
one evening, toji came home late from a job. something easy to make ends meet, the kind of work he’d been taking more often lately. you barely blinked at his worn boots or the grease under his nails. you liked these simpler jobs he seemed to be taking, though he was complaining about them. they pay like shit, he’d whine. but money was no longer the constant weight in the pit of his stomach. you’d unconditioned toji’s hoarding habits, slowly but surely. there was no more cash hidden under mattresses or tucked away in boots or secret cupboards. when he needed money, he knew it was there—your joint bank account, two cards that made life easier and more secure. and when the money ran low? you both made do, scrimped by a little, and nothing bad happened.
the only thing toji hoarded these days was you. you lay together in your new bedroom, soft warm lamps casting lazy light across the walls. you talked quietly, about everything and nothing—hopes, plans, memories. his hand found yours under the blankets. he traced slow circles on your skin, breathing in the way your voice filled the room, the way your laughter loosened the knots in his chest. he loved the sound of you. more than anything.
months later, the apartment still smelled like fresh paint and new beginnings. but it also smelled of you and him. the scent of love, hard-earned and fiercely protected. the weight of the past was still there—heavy, yes—but it no longer dragged him down. it anchored him. you had taught him that. anchor, anchor, anchor. and this small space, these simple walls, were your anchor too. together.
……
toji steps inside, and immediately the proof of your shared life is everywhere. two pairs of shoes sit neatly by the door—his heavy boots and your delicate ballet flats—silent witnesses to the everyday rhythm you’ve built together. on the small table by the entrance, two metal water bottles stand side by side, worn but cared for, like trophies of a quiet domesticity he never expected to want.
his eyes drift to the kitchen window above the sink, where a printed photo leans against the glass. it’s from that night at the club—him, sharp-edged and fierce as always, but gazing at you with something softer, something almost sacred. you’re breathtaking, the dress painfully beautiful, your hair done up in intricate curls that frame your face like a halo. he’s not smiling, but the reverence in his eyes speaks volumes, like you’re a goddess only he can see.
the scent hits him next—a perfect mix of your perfume and his natural musk, a heady blend that clings to the air. it wraps around him like a second skin, comforting and intoxicating. he remembers leaving this morning, not even noticing the faint smudge of your lip gloss still lingering on his cheek until shiu caught it mid-tease. that bastard grinned, poking fun, but toji just grumbled, wiped it off, and let a secret smile break through. yeah, suck it sideways, shiu, he thought, I’ve got a girl who loves me at home, and you don’t.
this—this was different. it used to scare him, this softness, this intimacy. the idea of someone caring for him, of him caring back, shook him to his core. but now? he craves it. he asks when you’ll be home, not because he needs to control your schedule, but because the answer settles him. he assumes you’ll be sleeping in his bed, and when you are, the room feels whole.
at night, he plugs in your laptop without a word. he eats the lunches you make, savoring every bite like it’s a love letter. in the kitchen, the two of you stand wrapped in each other’s arms, chores forgotten in the warmth of your closeness, sharing soft kisses like secrets no one else knows. it’s not just a place. it’s a life. it’s home.
……
you don’t ask much of him. not really. toji works—hard. not the kind of job with clocks or breaks or performance reviews, but the kind that leaves blood in your mouth and bruises blooming beneath your ribs. hunting. tracking. killing. it’s brutal, and it's not without its toll. there’s a version of him—older, colder—who might’ve used that as an excuse to do nothing else. a man who would've let you clean up after him, cook for him, nurse him back to health while he rotted on the couch like a king on a crumbling throne. but not this version. not anymore.
this version keeps the living space clean. your living space. he wipes down the counters, sweeps the floors, keeps things tidy with quiet, obsessive precision. he doesn’t just help cook because he enjoys watching you zone out while you dice vegetables, even though that’s a major draw. he does it because it feels good. it feels like providing, and for the first time in his life, that word doesn’t taste sour in his mouth, it’s not just financial means. he likes knowing you’re full and warm and safe. he likes the idea of taking care of you, he relishes in it.
it took him longer than it should’ve to realize: the more time he devotes to taking care of you, the less he has to spend inside his own head. the less space regret takes up in his chest. it’s not healing, not really, but it’s something. a survival tactic that smells like lavender laundry detergent and sizzles like garlic in butter. sometimes you let him cope this way. sometimes you don’t. you’ve said it before—you’re not here to fix him. if this is how he wants to keep the darkness at bay, you’ll allow it. but you won’t let him kill himself in the process.
you find him dozing off on the couch, sprawled sideways in the dim afternoon light. not a rare sight—but it’s rare that he doesn’t immediately snap upright the second he hears your key in the lock. that worry itches at the back of your mind. you set your bag down, shoes off, quiet as can be. then you pad over and settle beside him, curling a hand around the back of his head. your nails graze gently through his scalp, soothing, grounding. it’s a lullaby touch—but instead of sinking deeper into sleep, it stirs him.
he blinks awake fast, guilt chasing the sleep from his bones. “shit,” he mumbles, dragging a hand down his face. “fuck, I forgot. I was supposed to—groceries—I'm sorry. I’m so fuckin’ sorry, I meant to—” his voice is thick with sleep, apology pouring out like a busted faucet, but he’s distracted. you’re smiling. soft and sweet, like you’re indulging a child. your fingers are still in his hair, still combing through the overgrown strands, and you’re thinking it might be time for a trim—but you don’t say it, he doesn't want to hear it. you just let him talk, even though you’re not sure he even knows what he’s saying.
you know what he means, though. he’s terrified of disappointing you. it clings to him like a second skin. not because he thinks you’ll scream, or slam doors, or walk out—but because he knows you won’t. because you’re kind to him. and that is infinitely more devastating. you keep smiling. and it guts him. why aren’t you mad? why aren’t you yelling? why isn’t this devolving into an imperfect argument, filled with bitter silence and slammed cupboards? why aren’t you leaving him—not just over the groceries, but over everything?
you hold out your hand.
“c’mon,” you say, voice light as the breeze coming in through the cracked window. “let’s go to that taco cart for dinner.”
he blinks. “but…what about…we were gonna cook. the list—the stuff you needed—”
“we’ll grab it after,” you shrug. like it makes perfect sense. and to you, it does. you reach for your bag again, grab your keys, and press his wallet into his hand. “then we’ll come home and go to sleep.” you raise a brow, giving him a look that’s more affectionate than scolding. “someone needs it.”
it’s so simple. so casual. so…domestic, it makes parts of him shrivel up in disgust. it’s sickening, in the best way. your tenderness feels like someone peeling off his armor with bare hands. not a weapon in sight. no bullets, no blades. just you. and you’re deadlier than anything he’s ever fought. not with a gun to his head or a knife to his throat, not with a target spotting him from his spot, not during any sex he’s ever had, has he felt more vulnerable, more naked than he does when you’re smiling up at him like that.
he can’t speak. he just looks at you, bleary and stunned, like you’ve slayed him with a smile. he wants to ask—why aren’t you mad? why do you always forgive me? why are you so good to me? but you’ve told him before. when you’re brave, when you think he needs to hear it—when you just want to say it—you’ll look him in the eyes and say: because I love you, because you deserve it, because I want to. he’d begged you to stop, once. voice cracked and fists clenched, like it physically hurt to hear. but you didn’t. you never do. and though it makes him squirm, sometimes miserable, it also makes him feel—blissfully, painfully—happy. you’re already at the door now, holding it open with a look. you coming? he stands slowly. he doesn’t say a word. he would follow you anywhere.
……
the first time you ask to cut his hair, he scoffs. the second time, he ignores you. the third time, you plead—and something about the tilt of your head, the way your fingers curl around his wrist and your voice goes soft with sincerity—it breaks past whatever wall he's built around himself.
so now he’s here, in your bathroom, perched reluctantly on a low stool that still doesn't make him small. even sitting, he’s nearly your height. his knees brush against the vanity, arms crossed loosely over his chest, like he’s trying not to look too invested. he’s not. Probably. but he lets you touch him.
your fingers start slow, carding through his thick black hair, tugging gently as you tilt his head this way and that. he grunts under his breath, but doesn’t move. not away, at least. the pads of your fingers massage his scalp as if you’ve forgotten what you came here to do, nails skimming gently, almost apologetically.
“this a haircut,” he mutters, “or a spa day?” you smile, but say nothing. you keep touching him like that—light, aimless, reverent—and he thinks maybe this is some form of slow death. or slow mercy. he can't decide. he should tell you to knock it off. to hurry up. he opens his mouth to say as much. nothing comes out.
instead, he leans into your touch, almost involuntarily. his eyes slip half-lidded. his shoulders—always so tense—lower by degrees. you haven’t even made the first cut yet, and he already feels like you’re disentangling him.
eventually, you start snipping. the sound of shears, soft and rhythmic, punctuates the silence. hair falls to the tiled floor in quiet flurries, dark strands catching the light like feathers. you move with surprising skill—no hesitation, just quiet confidence as you circle around him. he tracks you in the mirror until he doesn’t. at some point, his eyes close again.
and the strangest thing happens. he relaxes. fully, wholly, in a way he didn’t know he was capable of. your touch is so practiced, so sure. he lets himself imagine—for just a second—that he’s something soft enough to deserve this. that the hands moving through his hair aren’t just being careful. they’re being kind.
the air smells like your shampoo and your skin. you’re breathing softly, and the rhythm of it is lulling, almost hypnotic. he feels lighter already, and not just from the hair. like something else is being cut away. something heavy. something he’s been dragging around for years. you finish before he wants you to. his eyes open slowly at the sound of your voice. “all done,” you say. there’s a flicker of pride behind your smile, a quiet triumph like you’ve just completed a work of art. you point to the mirror. “what do you think?”
he looks. it’s…the same, mostly. the same rough cut he’s always worn. nothing fancy. nothing new. but there’s something about it now, something that wasn’t there before. it’s yours. you did this. with your hands, your touch, your steady love. he doesn’t say much—he never does—but the look in his eyes is molten.
“yeah,” he says, voice a little too quiet for him, almost a whisper. “looks good.”
you beam. he looks away quickly like it burns to witness you that happy over something he can’t even explain. what he doesn’t think is this: he’s had a hundred haircuts in his life. barbershops, backroom shears, blade-over-sink jobs. none of them made him feel like this. like he could close his eyes and let someone else take care of him. like it wasn’t just about cutting hair, but about cutting away the pieces of him that no longer serve him.
he doesn’t say any of that. he just sits there, feeling weightless. and when you lean in to brush the stray hairs off his cheek, he closes his eyes again—just for a moment. because this is what mercy feels like.
......
toji didn’t know shiu was dating. like—dating dating. sure, they’d both had their fair share of late-night texts and bar meetups that ended in someone else's bed. it was practically a hobby back then. occasional hookups weren’t newsworthy. temporary girls came and went. but this? a double date? toji hadn't thought shiu had it in him. hell, he hadn’t thought he had it in him. but then you slept over that first night and... that was it. like something clicked into place. like his body had been hardwired to want you there, limbs tangled in his sheets, warmth soaking into the mattress. he never looked back.
and somewhere along the way, shiu must’ve seen that. maybe he saw how you curled into toji on public benches, or how toji texted you back with uncharacteristic quickness. maybe he saw how soft toji looked when he watched you talk, like you were made of glass and starlight and he was just a guy trying to be worthy of either.
now here they all were. a table for four, a place with real lighting and menus that didn’t come laminated. it wasn’t exactly michelin-star territory, but it was definitely not their usual corner food cart with grilled meat skewers and soda cans. the place even had cloth napkins.
toji had taken a long moment to size up the woman shiu arrived with. pretty. confident. comfortable in her own skin. her nails were the kind that made clacking sounds on phone screens and held wine glasses like weapons. she kissed shiu on the cheek and adjusted his collar like she’d been doing it forever. and shiu? that cocky bastard just grinned, let her. pride throbbed through toji’s chest unexpectedly. he hadn’t realized he’d been the blueprint. not that he’d ever say that out loud.
you slid into the booth beside him, and instinctively, toji threw his arm across the back of the seat behind you. he didn’t even realize he was doing it until the waiter showed up for the third time in ten minutes—refilling your glass like it was the holy grail and completely ignoring everyone else’s. toji glared. the kind of glare that held no subtlety. he didn’t like the way the guy looked at you. didn’t like the fake smile or the way he angled his hips toward you while pretending to check on the table. toji’s hand dropped from the booth to your waist, a silent little minefield of possessiveness. you leaned into it, like it was nothing new.
"think our waiter wants to fight you," you murmured, sipping from the now suspiciously full glass.
"let him try," toji muttered. his fingers tightened slightly at your hip, like he was physically anchoring you to him.
meanwhile, you and shiu’s girl hit it off like wildfire. she was funny. you were funnier. the two of you commiserated about how the boys drove like hellspawn and never rinsed the damn dishes. you swapped book titles, music playlists, compared manicure preferences. she gasped over your new apartment and sighed theatrically about how she was begging shiu to move.
“he still lives above that loud-ass karaoke bar, right?” you asked.
“yes, and it gets worse,” she said, flicking her eyes toward shiu. “he insists he likes the ‘ambiance.’”
toji barked a laugh, low and guttural. “she’s got you pegged.” shiu rolled his eyes but didn’t deny it.
you kept talking. they kept listening. at some point, toji noticed he and shiu were just…watching. you two were in your own world, giggling over who knows what. your eyes sparkled under the restaurant’s soft lighting. shiu’s girl tucked her hair behind her ear and smiled at something you said. and suddenly, toji felt it—that sharp twist of how the hell did we get here?
he caught shiu’s eye across the table. they didn’t say anything. didn’t need to. the silence between them was filled with mutual disbelief and unspoken realization. how the fuck did a couple of losers like us get so damn lucky? they’d been wreckage not long ago. men built from smoke and bad decisions. and now here they were—sitting in some semi-fancy restaurant with two women who loved them, who laughed and teased and didn’t look the least bit afraid of their shadows.
toji blinked slowly, like maybe this would vanish if he looked too fast. like it was all some trick of the light.
after dinner, shiu mentioned they lived nearby, and it felt natural to walk. the streets were quieter here, less chaotic than downtown. you all stopped at a late-night gelato place on the corner—just to “peek,” according to shiu’s girl. you got a small cup of chocolate hazelnut and fed toji a bite off your spoon. he pretended to scowl. you did it again just to annoy him. he let you.
shiu’s pda was subtle, but it was there. an arm draped low around her waist, thumb brushing idle circles into the curve of her hip. protective, sure. but also a little amazed. like he still couldn’t believe she existed. the four of you meandered toward their apartment, voices low and full of warmth. toji didn't talk much. he didn’t need to. the warmth of your hand in his said enough. when you got to shiu’s building, the goodbyes stretched long—talks of next time, maybe a game night, maybe cooking something weird and homemade. she hugged you tightly. you liked her. you could tell.
then it was just you and toji again, walking toward the metro. he noticed you were quieter now. the city around you was humming in a low buzz, but your steps slowed near the stairs that led underground.
“I’m happy for him,” you whispered, almost like you weren’t sure if you should say it. your voice barely carried above the city’s rhythm. toji looked down at you. your hair was blowing a little in the wind. you looked tired but beautiful. soft. still glowing from the night.
he gave a small grunt that barely masked the emotion behind it. “yeah?” he said. “me too.”
the train station lights flickered softly as you descended, the sound of your shoes echoing lightly against the stairs. he held your hand the entire time, firm and unyielding. you leaned into him, shoulder against chest, warmth on warmth. there was a time when the idea of domesticity would've made him scoff. the word itself sounded foreign—fragile, like something you could snap in half. but now? now it was everything he had. everything he wanted. and seeing it bloom in someone like shiu, someone just as wrecked and unfinished as he’d once been?
it made toji believe a little more in miracles. or at least in second chances.
that night, as the train rumbled forward and the city blurred by in streaks of yellow light, toji didn’t say much. but he held you tighter. because love like this—real love—it didn’t need words to be understood. it just needed staying power.
……
toji comes home late tonight, the kind of late that smells like dust and smoke and too many footsteps running from something worse than pain. he’s not bleeding—at least not enough to worry you—but every muscle in his body is screaming exhaustion. it’s a deep, bone-deep tired that nothing fixes except the kind of peace you wouldn’t think he deserves.
you’re there. you shouldn’t be. not with him like this, not with him angry at the world, angrier at himself, not after the day he's had. but here you are anyway, and he’s not letting the moment slip through his fingers. he grabs your wrist, hard enough to anchor his weight down, to keep from collapsing. his tall frame bows down, nearly breaking his own rules about keeping his distance, dipping his face into the curve of your neck. your scent—soft, warm, a strange kind of sanctuary—hits him like a punch he didn’t know he needed. he breathes it in, slow, like it’s the only medicine that’ll put the fire out.
you feel the weight of him as he presses you back against the doorframe, steady and relentless. it’s not just fatigue—it’s loneliness wrapped up in muscle and scars, something almost desperate. he’s letting the world fall off him here, pound by agonizing pound.
you don’t say anything. you don’t need to. he just holds you, steady and silent, like he’s trying to memorize the way your skin feels beneath his calloused hands. sometimes, when toji lets his guard slip, he lets you hold him—wrap your arms around his shoulders, cradle the mess of pain and pride. but not tonight. tonight, he’s possessive, almost feral in his need to claim this moment, this quiet, this fragile tether to something good.
you sink into the couch, and he lets you stay there, letting his head rest heavy against your collarbone, your heart, your existence. hours stretch out, wordless and raw. just two broken people breathing, one holding on because he’s too tired to fight, and the other holding him because somehow, that’s enough.
he’s never going to be a saint. hell, he’s never wanted to be. toji isn’t built for white picket fences or sunday morning brunches. but he’s yours and you’re his.
he can’t undo the past—not the nights he wasn’t there for megumi, not the hands that pulled triggers, not the ghosts that haunt him in the dark. he doesn’t believe in miracles, only in the small victories: better hits, higher pay, more room in his heart for this love you seem to freely give, a better ability to reciprocate it.
it’s not about the dreams he's never given the time of day. it’s about the ones you have—the quiet kind that don’t need fancy fences or spotless lawns. and yeah, maybe that’s why, no matter how hard he tries, he’s never quite left the job. it’s the life he knows, the path he walks. but he’s learning to walk it better, with less weight crushing his steps.
he cooks now. sometimes burns the vegetables. cleans without being asked. takes care of himself, because taking care of you means being a man who’s still standing at the end of the day. because taking care of you means taking care of himself, and that's all he's ever wanted to do, really.
by god, he’ll die trying to take care of you—in every way he knows how, in every way you’ll let him.
the weight he’s carried with him for so long—the guilt, the shame, the regret—it doesn’t vanish. but around you, it loosens. just a little. like a heavy coat in the summer heat, slipping off, forgotten on the floor.
and in that quiet space, between your hands and his scars, toji finds something he never thought he could hold onto: love. love is a weight of it’s own, a kind of weight he’s more than happy to bear.
| Early mornings with Toji Firefighter!Toji x Sensitive!Fem!Reader
Slightly suggestive + fluff + SFW
Toji is a man who’s rough around the edges. His life has been in no way easy. In fact, he’s been met with death in more ways than he can count. And he’s been fine with it that way. After all, that’s the life of a fire fighter.
Until he met you. You who he lives for. His sweet, sensitive little girlfriend—at the time—whom he first saw at his local coffee shop. You appeared to be studying. Scribbling something down in that neat girly handwriting he adored. Switching between pens of different colors while pushing up your glasses.
You don’t even know how it happened. Toji was your complete opposite. Where he was rough you were soft. Where he was harsh you were kind and sweet. And he absolutely adored you.
He wasn’t the best at conveying his feelings through words but his love for you was displayed through his actions. One being the way in which he spoke to you. “Hey pretty baby,” he said as you finally began opening your eyes. You smiled seeing that your fiancé had climbed into bed with you during the early hours of the morning.
“How was work?” You said, voice hoarse with sleep. “Good. No major calls.” You hummed. “What time is it?” “Around seven,” your brow furrowed with worry. “Have you—“ but before you could ask your next question, he pressed his lips to yours.
“You talk too much ma,” he murmured before going back in, humming with satisfaction as you melted to him. “I know what you’re doing,” you said as you pulled away.
“Yeah? Is it working?” He asked, smiling “…kinda.” His hands roamed your body, lighting your skin on fire. You’re always sensitive to Toji’s touch but you’re especially reactive in the morning. And he knows that.
“Tojii you need to s-sleep,” “I slept enough ma—don’t look at me like that,” your lips had turned into a pout. One that he would always be weak to. He knew that his wellbeing also affected yours. So he often lies about how he truly feels when it comes to his health.
But being who you are, you always knew. You rolled out of his arms and on your back. “Where are you—“ “c’mere Toj,” he knew there was no point in fighting you. He sighed before laying his head on your chest and wrapping himself around you.
You rolled your eyes at his dramatics. Knowing that despite all his huffing and puffing he’d be sleeping soundly in no time. Your fingers carded through his hair as his breathing started to slow.
He nuzzled into you as your nails drew patterns on his back and through his hair. “Love you ma,” was the last thing he said before light snores began to fill the room.
“I love you too Toji.”
Here’s a little Drabble to make up for my inconsistent posting. Lmk if you want this to be a series!!
I know some people have seen the news recently and may be doubtful of it. To the uninformed, Google Docs has started using AI to find "inappropriate" and "problematic" content, scraping your documents and deleting it. I know some people are unsure if this is real or think this is not going to affect them.
I regret to inform you that this is real.
As I was on a call with some writers and we were moving our documents as a precautionary measure, one person discovered entire pages missing that they did not delete themselves. This is happening to us, it's not a hoax or a rumor, it's happening right now. You need to move everything if you want to preserve it.
If you're a writer with writer mutuals, please reblog this so they know. I rarely write on Google Docs anymore, but I started my fanfics on there, and I would be devastated if I lost works more than ten years old because people decided marketing appeal is more important than creative freedom.
