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Its a slow, sunny afternoon where nothing is really happening.
tojis sprawled back in a worn lawn chair, one arm hooked behind his head, the other wrapped around his daughter where shes passed out against him. shes all soft weight and warm skin, chubby little legs draped over his stomach, her tiny hand curled into his shirt.
his cap sits low over her face, shading her from the sun, he keeps nudging the brim down every so often like even the light shouldnt touch her.
"…look at you," he mutters under his breath, eyes dragging over her round cheeks, the way her lips part slightly in her sleep. his hand rests heavy on her belly, thumb brushing slow without thinking.
the back door creaks open.
you step out, spotting them instantly, and your whole face softens at the sight. shes completely knocked out on him, tucked right into his chest like she belongs there.
"...aww." you coo softly, walking over.
he glances up at you but doesnt move, just shifts his arm a little so she stays settled. you lean down, fingers lifting the brim of his cap just enough to see her face.
"hi baby.." you whisper, smiling.
you press a gentle kiss to her little nose. she stirs, scrunching her face for a second before settling again, lips wobbling back into sleep. toji huffs softly through his nose, watching the whole thing like its the best thing hes seen all day.
"knocked out." he mutters, voice low.
his hand slides back over her tummy, thumb brushing once more.
"been like that a while."
he tilts his head back against the chair, eyes flicking between you and her, something softer settling into his expression. his arm tightens just a little around her, protective without thinking.
A sudden, curious question slips from Toji’s mouth, cutting into the peaceful afternoon. Your hands pause mid-fold, still gripping the shirt.
Brow furrowed, you glance at him. “What do you mean I’m growing? I’m pregnant, Toji. Three months. You really think I’m gonna get any thinner by eight or nine?”
You snort, shake your head, and go back to folding. You ignore the way his brows are still scrunched. Clearly not done.
“Yeah, yeah, I know that,” he says, scratching his neck. “Stomach’s growing and all that. But like... why your boobs too? And don’t even get me started on your ass. It’s full now. Like, heavy in my hands full.”
He held his big hands up, cupping the air in front of your chest like he was mimicking your boobs now—except way bigger than they used to be.
That shirt did nothing to hide the way your tits sat. No bra, no shame. Just soft curves bouncing slightly with every move, practically begging for his hands.
“You see that?” he smirked. “They’ve grown. So has it,” he added, eyes dropping meaningfully below his belt.
You look at him, unimpressed. “So what, you're saying I had a flat ass and no tits before I got pregnant?”
He sighs, already knowing where this is going. “No, woman. That’s not what I meant. It was—decent. I wasn’t complaining.”
You raise your brow.
“I mean, now? It’s fucking divine,” he adds quickly, voice dropping. “I look at you and I gotta change every position possible to hide my damn bulge.”
You roll your eyes. “Typical. All this attention now, huh, that I’m built like your wet dreams fantasy. At least you’re getting the VIP treatment before the great flattening.”
“You kidding? I’m thriving,” he says, smirking. “You sneeze and my dick twitches.”
You bark a laugh. “You’re disgusting.”
“You married this.” he shrugs, grinning like the smug bastard he is.
“Yeah, whatever.” you mutter, rolling your eyes playfully.
A frown crosses your face after receiving the message from your husband, Toji. A sudden I love you after he absolutely made your blood boil this morning? This man had the audacity to leave his dirty clothes on the floor again instead of the laundry basket. Weird.
Unless he’s staring death in the face or something— then maybe, maybe it makes sense.
You scoff silently and type back, “Yeah, I know. Don’t forget to buy everything on the list I gave you. Love you too.”
You head to the living room after getting the last load of laundry done, sitting cross-legged on the floor with piles of clean clothes waiting to be folded. You stretch. Time to get this over with.
Two hours later— a backache, a cup of cold coffee that turned lukewarm, and White Chicks playing on TV— you’re finally done. Groaning, you stand up after sitting for too long and stack the folded clothes into the basket for the first trip upstairs.
You’re on your second trip when the front door creaks open, followed by soft grunts and heavy footsteps.
Toji.
Your eyes light up, and you hurry downstairs to greet him—only to stop dead in your tracks.
He's standing in the doorway, groceries scattered around his feet, and a patch of gauze taped over his cheek. A medical one. You know it too well. Toji only gets that patch when he’s been properly hurt.
“What the fuck, baby?” Your panicked voice snaps his attention to you.
He frowns. “What the fuck what?”
“That!” you shout, pointing at his cheek.
He touches the patch absentmindedly and scoffs. “Oh, this? Just a damn scratch. Got it at work.”
You palm your face, speechless. Striding over to him, you cradle his face in your hands, inspecting the wound.
“It’s not a fucking scratch. It’s a goddamn open wound, Toji!”
He swats your hands away gently, rolling his eyes as he scoops you up in one arm and the groceries in the other. “Open wound, scratch— same thing. Don’t make a fuss, I’m still alive.”
He carries you into the kitchen and sets you down on the counter next to the bags, caging you between his arms. Then, he leans down and inhales the scent at your neck— his home.
You sigh, wrapping your arms around his neck, your fingers working at the tight muscles on his shoulders.
“Is that why you texted me I love you?” you whisper.
He hums against your skin, his tongue already tasting the curve of your neck. One hand parts your thighs while the other grips your hip, pulling you closer until you can feel the outline of his bulge pressing between your legs.
You whimper, your grip on his neck tightening,“Toji. Not the fucking time to fuck. You just had a near-death experience.”
He shuts you up with a kiss— rough, desperate, hungry.
“I know, ma,” he murmurs against your lips, voice hoarse. “But I’m alive, right? Still intact. Big ol’ muscles. Still handsome and hot in your arms right now, ready to pound my sexy wife.”
You hit his chest lightly, pouting, “Stop scaring me. You always do this! Doing something out of your routine and coming back with new injuries.”
He exhales, hands still, “At least I’m in your arms, baby. Don’t make me feel like this… it’s killing me.”
“It’s killing me too when you do this,” you choke out, voice cracking as you sob into his chest.
His eyes widen in panic. He hugs you tightly. “Hey, hey, come on now.” He tries to laugh, but it comes out shaky. “I’m sorry. I won’t do that again.”
This time, he knows he fucked up. Usually, you’d scold him and let it go. But this time? It’s different. A deep wound slashes across his face, and it ended with a hospital visit— one you honestly wish you didn’t have to know about. He didn’t stay hydrated on-site, started getting a headache, and didn’t even realise the grinder blade had shattered— until it broke through his safety shield. It knocked him out cold, and his cheeks took the worst of it.
No.
He can’t ever let you go through this again. Can’t let the woman who is his home, his reason for breathing, cry like this in his arms. Not for something he could’ve prevented.
He runs his hand down your back, comforting you. His voice softens, “I’m really sorry. I promise. Please trust me, ma. It was an accident.”
“I can’t stop accidents from happening to you. I just want you to take care of yourself.” You sniff. “Have you even eaten?”
He chuckles, kissing your damp eyelashes. “Yeah. I had something earlier. Just a sandwich though. Mind to make me dinner, wife?” With a clumsy flick, he pushed your hair aside, and when your glossy eyes met, his softened almost—instantly.
You finally laugh through the tears, “You never ask me to, but fine. What do you want for dinner, husband?”
You run your hands along his chest.
He grins, dark heat flashing in his eyes as his hands move to your ass. “How about Mrs. Fushiguro instead? I can make your whole damn night full of my cum. No need for food.”
Your eyes go wide. “That’s disgusting, Toji…” but your stomach fluttered.
Right. As if he doesn’t do that every night without fail — to the point you’re changing the sheets daily.
He snorts. “Whatever that means. Legs up.”
You roll your eyes but lift your legs onto his shoulders anyway. Toji kisses down your thigh, slow and deliberate, then pulls your panties off with his teeth. His eyes burn with a primal hunger as he catches a whiff of your arousal, nose twitching involuntarily.
“No foreplay,” he states flatly — more like a demand.
He unbuckles his belt, and his length springs free, already leaking.
You swallow hard as he nudges your entrance with the tip.
“Already wet for me, ma.”
“A…ah, Toji…”
“Shush. Almost halfway in. God, you’re so tight for me.” He throws his head back as he bottoms out, groaning.
You reach for something solid to hold onto as the thrusts grow rough. He hooks your arms around his neck, thrusting without warning.
“Toji… slow down. It’s too much,” you gasp, moaning, dragging your nails across his back.
He doesn’t flinch.
“You’re gonna take it. Just moan and spread wider.”
You shut your eyes, surrendering, tilting your head to the side so he can lick your neck. You can only moan and obey, spreading just how he wants, while he slams into you like a feral animal.
cont: nsfw, 70’s porn director nanami x wannabe pornstar (kinda) reader, unprotected piv, f!receiving oral, 18+ mdni!!!
Somebody's been staring at you all night.
You are a flash of lightning on your skates, not lingering long enough for anyone to get a real good look at you, here and there in the same second. And yet, his gaze hold firm, boring into you from behind, a weight settled on your shoulders that you can feel without looking back.
He sits with your boss at the table, the both of them surrounded by young stars the man in blue made—your boss being one of them. Shiu had blessed you with that unfortunate information long ago. Said he'd get the big director up to the club one day, and then that one day turned into now.
You feel guilty for knowing who that man is—and he was not any normal director. That's for sure.
Mr. Nanami is the biggest name in the porn industry.
A breakthrough director, his films earning unimaginable riches, shooting random nobodies to the top of the mountain along with him. He doesn't act himself, only allowing images of him in behind the scenes interviews in the back of Hustler. He proved to the critics that sex sells, and it sells well.
A familiar whistle catches your attention, causing you to whip around, Shiu already telling you to come here before you can register what he's saying. You look between your boss and the man to his left, and a churning begins in your stomach at the sight. Your skates seem to move on their own, leading you right to the men, long strides that seem to slow time.
"Hey, sugar," Shiu greets as you skate up, turning his attention to the man next to him, "this is who I was talking about. Stunner, isn't she?"
And Mr. Nanami agrees. He nods along, agrees that you're a stunner.
Shiu starts again, "This is my old boss, he goes by a diff—"
"I know," You cut him off, sticking your hand out and offering your name. Mr. Nanami takes your palm in his delicately, presenting you with a kiss to the back of your hand.
"Pleasure to meet you," Mr. Nanami purrs, eyes intensely locking with yours.
And, oh, is it a pleasure to meet him.
Nanami knows Shiu would murder him if he found out about this. He's been celibate for years, so long he'd lost count. Yet, here he is, throwing it all down the drain for a waitress at his friend's club. In the broom closet.
However, he doesn't feel bad at all. The real deal always feels better than the films.
"Fuck, yeah," You moan into Mr. Nanami's ear, nails scratching his chest. Your back arches as you throw your ass back against him, enthusiastically out-performing the man who knows how to perform.
Your right leg is propped on a stack of boxes, hands holding yourself upright against a shelf. The bottles of cleaning products and extra supplies move with the harsh thrusts of Nanami's hips, forcing sounds out of you that you didn't know were in there. One hand of his wraps around your jaw, the other snaking under your thigh and right to your clit.
"You wanna work for me?" He asks, punctuating his question with a particularly rough thrust, almost knocking your chin against the shelf. "My main girl? My star?"
"Uh-huh!" You encourage him, craning your neck back to get even a glimpse of the sultry man who's destroying you. He looks better than every scenario you'd made up in your mind.
Textured hands grab around your waist, his cock quickly leaving your cunt as he flips you around and presses your back against the shelf. The corners dig into your shoulder blades, but that pain is ignored the moment Mr. Nanami's lips wrap around your clit.
You thread your fingers through his hair, a thigh hooks over his shoulder, giving all the control to yourself, pulling him in closer.
"Don't stop, don't you dare—fucking—," You curse, filthy words flying from your throat at the feeling.
His tongue dips down, and he licks up, abusing the sensitive bud as if it's muscle memory. You can feel your thighs beginning to quiver, struggling to hold yourself up, even with the support of Nanami's strong arms.
And, for the first time in your short twenty-something years of life, you can feel an orgasm building—an orgasm being given by somebody else. A man. A bonafide, hairy-chested, gold-chain-wearing man. The fact of who the man is almost makes you cum on the spot.
With your relentless moaning and whining, Nanami knows how close you are. He can feel it, sense it. He already knows the ins and outs of your body and it's not even midnight. Your cunt clenches around nothing, slick practically dripping from his chin as he continues to punish your clit.
"Mis—ter—I'm so—gonna," You try and warn him, words coming out sloppy, fingers almost ripping the blonde hair from his scalp. Your orgasm crashes over you easily, heavy, sending chills from your curled toes all the way up your spine.
Mr. Nanami works you through it like a seasoned pro, soothing hands rubbing your hips as you come down. He looks up at you, pulling his face from your soaked cunt, a string of arousal still connecting the two of you. He's almost too good-looking down there for your liking, barely touched by the heated moment you just had, only suffering from a few hairs out of place and unbuttoned slacks.
"Roller girl," He mumbles, shrugging your thigh off his shoulder and standing up. He taps your ankles, holding your panties for you to step into, truly a gentleman.
"Huh?" You shakily sound out, quivering legs stepping into your undergarments. Shaky hands balance on his thick shoulders, crumpling the expensive fabric.
"Your screen name," Mr. Nanami states, pulling the lace up your legs, snugly securing it around your hips, "My roller girl."
you return to your grandmother's village expecting it to be the same as it always was. undisturbed. joyous. it isn't. little do you know that your once mundane life, spent living in the shadows of your superiors, will be turned upside down when you meet a lone fisherman. as a curse lingers and strange details refuse to settle, something intimate begins to take shape between you, and the fine line between intimacy and horror blurs.
content: MDNI :: angst :: eventual smut :: gojo never killed toji :: fem! reader is a sorcerer :: toji is a retired sorcerer :: age gap :: illness :: psychological tension :: unsettling atmosphere :: supernatural events :: mental health struggles :: mentions of blood :: nightmares :: themes of isolation :: implied violence :: additional warnings will be added as the story progresses.
a/n: hi everyone! this multi-chapter fic is inspired by this wonderful prompt by @keii. pls check it out! it's my first time ever posting any of my work! i'm really excited to see how this'll go.
word count: 3.1k⛩️
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Loose pebbles crunch underfoot as you slow down to a stop when you enter the market square. You frown. Your grandma had sent you on an errand to buy some lotus root for a stew she was making for Kenji.
Your mind flicks back to the day before, the day of your arrival. The market square was lively and crowded. You were greeted with warm introductions and big smiles. Familiar faces reminisced about their memories of you from when you were younger. Today, it's late afternoon, which is usually the market’s busiest time of day. But the square is nearly empty save for a few people hurriedly darting from stall to stall.
Something’s not right.
It’s a calm day. Too calm. No wind, which is odd for a seaside village. No gulls—only silence. No smoke coming from chimneys. No one on a quiet afternoon walk. It's…still.
You remember that there was once a woman who would feed the birds whatever she could spare from her stall. You look around to see that she’s nowhere to be found. This place used to feel like it was bursting with life. Vibrant. Energetic. Now it feels like it’s holding its breath.
Fog winds its way between the stalls and shops, curling around your frame, seemingly dulling your senses. Noises feel faint or delayed. Visibility is low. You feel a tingling down your spine. Like something’s watching you. Breathing down your neck.
You grip the basket in your hand as you make your way to a vegetable stall. The vendor, a wizened, weather-beaten old man, glances at you before quickly looking away. As though not wanting to be caught watching.
You recognise him as one of your Grandmother’s friends.
“Could I have some lotus root, please?” you ask after a warm greeting.
“Ah, yes”, he smiles kindly, but something clouds his eyes, “What’s your Grandma making today?”
He moves to pick the lotus root up from the table in front of him, as two elderly ladies in a hushed conversation join you at the stall. You smile at them, but they shoot nervous glances at you in return. Your brows pull together. You’d been getting looks like that all day.
“Pork and lotus root soup,” you reply, “for Kenji.”
You notice the man’s hands tremble. The ladies’ conversation stops. One of them gasps quietly.
All of their eyes are on you.
“How is he?” you ask, trying to ignore their odd reaction.
All three answer at the same time.
“He’s resting.”
“He won’t be out today.”
“He was ill.”
Was?
A weighty silence follows.
One of the old women was the last to speak. You watch her through slightly narrowed eyes. She watches you back. Her grey hair curls down into her face, which is mostly obscured by a tartan scarf. Her stare is unnerving. She knows you’re not buying their excuses.
“Right,” you answer, your brows furrowed. You turn your attention to the rest, but they all avoid eye contact. The other old lady wrings her hands in discomfort.
What is going on?
Pulling your cardigan against your body, you thank the vendor and bid everyone goodbye, eyeing each of them cautiously. As you turn to leave, one of the ladies, the one with the piercing stare, bursts out, as though she had been holding back for a long time.
“Just…be careful,” she pauses, fumbling over her words,” There’s something—”
The shrill shriek of a lone gull pierces through the eerie silence, drowning out the rest of her words. Something tells you that it isn't coincidental.
She quickly whips around, dragging her friend along with her and disappearing into the fog. Whatever she said to you stays a mystery.
Like the day before, you feel that uncomfortable tug of dread in your chest. It's stronger now.
A shiver runs down your spine as you make your way home.
One foot in front of the other. Step. Step. Step.
You count each one.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
You tuck your chin into your jumper. It's getting chilly now. The wind’s finally picking up.
Dusk settles. Cobblestone paths give way to dirt tracks. Long grass and reeds smack at your shins. The village feels off.
Doors are closed. Shutters are drawn.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
The path you’re taking leads past the Shrine.
The torii gate emerges from the fog, red dulled by salt and age. You slow despite yourself.
The air’s colder, heavier. Pressing on your ears.
You hadn’t planned to stop. Yet, your feet are still at the threshold of the shrine, and your gaze snags on the entry before you, as if something inside has called your name.
The muddy ground hums under your feet. Like something alive and breathing.
It's quiet. Sounds are muffled, delayed, like you’re drowning underwater. Fog slithers around the shrine, its fingers grasping, wrenching at its walls. Incense sticks burn in their holders. Prayer slips, damp and torn, stick together and flutter. But there’s no wind. The air is still.
You turn to leave because of the Shrine's suffocating atmosphere. But you can’t. Something makes you stay. Something you can’t quite put your finger on.
It tells you that you belong here. That you need to stay in this Shrine hidden away in the countryside. That it will never let you go.
Your fingers loosen around the basket, and it falls on the floor, your lotus roots rolling in all directions.
Your shoulders slacken.
Your pulse slows to an unnatural pace.
What is going on?
You feel a tightness in your ears—a sharp ringing, like there's been an increase in pressure around you.
A whisper. Low and rhythmic. Like chanting just out of range.
It calls to you. Beckons you forward. Towards it.
Slowly, with your body still, your eyes are pulled towards the offering area of the shrine, to something on the ground, partially obscured. Your eyes strain to make it out.
The source of the noise.
As though you have no control over your own body, your foot moves to take a step towards it.
What is it—?
“Hey,” a voice grunts out sharply.
Someone grabs your shoulder. Your body jerks at the sudden contact. Ambient sound rushes back in, and the pressure in your head releases.
You double over, cold sweat beading at your temples. With your hands braced on your knees, you pull in jagged, uneven breaths. Each one claws into your lungs like you’ve been hauled from deep water, chest burning as if it still remembers being held under.
A shadow falls over you, blocking out what remains of the dying, dull, gloomy light.
Then you feel a hand—warm and grounding—wrap around your wrist, tugging just enough to pull you upright. You desperately grasp at the strong arm, hoping that it will anchor you to reality.
“Look at me,” Toji murmurs, low and even.
He counts under his breath until your breathing begins to match his without you realising. He bows his head to give a quick sweep of your face, taking note of the panic etched into every groove there. His green eyes are the same deep shade as the foliage around you, stabilising you.
“Easy.”
The ground still feels wrong—alert.
“I felt something. You did, too.”, you rasp.
Toji’s jaw tightens. That's enough to answer.
“You don’t go near places like this alone,” he says. “Ever.”
“Why?” The more sensible part of you knows it's a stupid question.
“You seriously have to ask? Look what just happened to you.”
His thumb presses into your pulse, hard enough to hurt.
He looks past you, his dark hair falling into his face, his green eyes blank and cold.
“It already knows what you are.”
The hair at the back of your neck rises as you cautiously turn to follow his line of sight.
Now, you can clearly see what it was that was calling out to you.
A body lies on a bamboo stretcher. It's wrapped entirely in cotton, with only one hand exposed, its fingers stiff and curled inward. Its skin waxy, grey.
The corpse must be fresh, as there are no signs of anyone mourning in the village. And for a fresh corpse, the condition of its skin is alarming. Putrefaction doesn’t set in until the third day. And the way it's wrapped hints at a hasty burial preparation. Like it's something to hide. A hand left visible? Unusual.
You don’t have to be told that it's Kenji.
Dead.
A handful of villagers surround the body, but their eyes are on you, filled with concern and regret. When they notice your gaze, they avoid eye contact, busying themselves by lighting incense in suffocating silence.
Once you register the body, really register it, you force your gaze away. Staring won’t help. It won’t give you answers.
You file the observation away instead. No visible trauma. No obvious cursed residue. Nothing loud enough to justify action.
That’s the problem.
Something’s not right.
Toji’s hand drops away from you.
Not gently. No, he recoils like you have the plague.
Your arms abruptly fall to your side. For a moment, neither of you moves. The shrine looms behind him, its torii dark against the fog, and without thinking, he shifts so that he no longer fully faces you.
Heat crawls up your neck as you realise how you basically threw yourself at him during your panicked haze. You feel…rejected? Toji seems less than overjoyed to have had you grasping at him as you did. It's not like you really know this man.
You look up at him, waiting for him to say something. To elaborate on his cryptic statement. He doesn’t. He just swallows, the muscles of his neck tightening as his Adam's apple bobs. You pick up your lotus roots from the floor and place them into your basket.
Blowing air into your cupped hands for some warmth, you turn away on your own, without a parting glance. The villager’s eyes follow you—not accusatory or hostile—but weighed down with…guilt? You can’t tell. When your gaze flicks to them, they look away hurriedly, suddenly preoccupied with their rituals. They move mechanically. Hands fold. Incense is adjusted. Prayer slips are straightened despite the lack of wind.
Your footsteps sound too loud on the path; the sound echoes in your ears.
Toji doesn't follow.
He stands there, navy jumper stretched over his wide chest, and sleeves rolled up to his elbows. It puzzles him how calm you look. It's unsettling. One minute you’re clutching on him for support like your life depends on it, and the next you're pinning him down with that cool, assured stare. With his large hands shoved in his poskcets, and his eyes narrowed, he watches you walk away until the fog swallows you whole.
The carved edges of your jade talisman cut into your fingers as you grip it so tightly that your knuckles turn white. Your steps are measured and controlled—maybe a touch too precise. Your gaze is fixed straight ahead of you as you return to to your grandmother's house with questions buzzing in your mind.
You draw in slow breaths through your nose, steadying yourself the way you were taught.
The air tastes wrong—metallic, stale—but you keep your expression neutral. Being consistently calm only comes through practice. It’s something that has been drilled into you since you were young.
Kenji was old. And sick. A recipe for a quiet, expected death. On paper, the story works.
But something has happened here in this quaint village.
And something is still happening.
Whatever it is, the village is complacent.
𓆝𓆟𓆞𓆝𓆟
The next morning, you spot him at the docks.
Toji’s hauling a net from his boat, sleeves shoved up, muscles coiled with effortless strength. His t-shirt clings to every curve and dip of his upper body muscles, stuck with his sweat due to exertion. His face gleams in the rare bit of sunlight that peeks through a sliver in the grey clouds, as though the heavens are selecting him as their chosen one. You take a minute to admire, arms crossed over your chest, leaning on a wooden post behind you. Your eyes narrow in suspicion. He’s good-looking. Really good-looking. That, more than anything else, sets your teeth on edge.
Men like that don’t wash up in places like this. What is he doing out here in such a remote village?
You brush your hair behind your shoulders, irritated by your attraction to him.
“You.” Your voice cuts through the harsh calls of the gulls. “Kenji wasn’t the first to die, was he? How long has it been since the first death?”
Toji turns his head slowly, like he has all the time in the world. Unstartled, like he knew you were there all along. He narrows his eyes against the sun, “Mornin’ to you, too.”
You step closer, and your shoes crunch on damp wood, “I’m asking you a damn question.”
He leans his weight against the boat he was attending to, that fucking scar twitching up in a smirk. As though he has all the time in the world, he lazily crosses his arms. Your eyes track this movement, staying glued to his biceps as they flex and contract. “I know. And I'm wonderin’ why some random girl is demandin’ answers from me.”
Your jaw tightens at his patronising remark. “He didn’t die naturally. It was a curse.”
“Curse, huh?” Toji drags the word out like it's a joke. A smile plays on his lips. He reaches for a cigarette that he doesn’t light, but just rolls between his fingers. “Old people die. That’s what they do. They're old.”
Your gaze sharpens. You don’t like how he dismisses you so easily, it’s insulting. “That thing feeds on fear and pain. If it's left alone, it will fester, and no one will be left alive. I know you saw what I saw yesterday.” And you wonder why. Why doesn’t he care? Or why is he pretending not to?
For a moment, the air feels heavy. Toji lets the silence stretch long enough for you to realise that he’s been studying you since you arrived— your posture, your breathing, the way your fingers cling to the talisman around your neck, the way your hand twitches at your hip like you’re ready to draw a weapon. Your body stills to make sure you don’t reveal too much. To make sure you don’t show how much this is affecting you.
Then he chuckles, low and humourless. “If what you’re sayin’ is true, I don't see you doin’ nothin’ about it.”
“I will.”
His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Right.”
Your brows furrow. “When it kills again, you’ll wish you listened.”
“Or maybe I'll just let you deal with it. Sorcerers love cleanin’ up messes, don’t they?”
Sorcerer? Your jaw sets. He knew. And you’d never told him.
“Who are you?” you grit out, ”What are you?”
But his back’s to you. He's ended the conversation.
You can’t help your sneer as you turn on your heels and make your way back to the market square. Why is he letting this continue if he knows?
While watching your form recede into the fog, Toji lights his cigarette and takes a long drag. The rigid set of your shoulders, your voice sharpened like a blade—it feels all too familiar. Cursed energy rolls off you in waves: you reek of it. It hums under your skin and weaves itself through your hair—ancient, but restrained.
He feels uneasy, like he’s returning to the world he had been so desperate to flee from. The world, which had already taken so much from him. And deep down, he already knows: his old life is catching up to him, about to disrupt his cold, murky paradise.
You were right.
It was a curse.
𓆝𓆟𓆞𓆝𓆟
Toji’s words repeat like a mantra in your head.
Old people die.
Sorcerers love cleanin’ up messes.
They scrape at something sore inside you.
Gosh, your mind feels numb. You know what you saw. You felt it. It was a curse.
But what if I’m wrong? What if I’m only seeing what I want to see?
Doubt digs its claws into you, scratching away at your insides.
“Never act unless you’re sure,” the Clan Elders would say, “A Gojo mistake is never just a mistake. It’s a disgrace.”
Hesitation is better than being wrong, right?
Right?
You let out a sigh and pull the sleeves of your knitted cardigan over your hands to keep them warm, as you pace along the shoreline.
Satoru would never doubt this.
He never had to. The world bent to your cousin’s perception—his will. If he said it was a curse, it was law.
You could never be like that.
That’s why you were never trusted. You’re not weak. Just unsure. Unsteady.
Foamy waves crash against the cliffs.
Your mind flicks back to Toji—how easily he dismissed you. Just like the elders used to.
He made you feel stupid. Like a child imagining a monster under their bed.
You pick at a loose thread from your jumper.
You were usually cool. Collected. Stoic. Yet somehow, within minutes, he had managed to weasel his way through your shell.
You hate how easy it was for him to figure out how to get to you.
And you hate that you let him.
The sound of a foghorn booms from the lighthouse perched on the cliffs and echoes over the waves.
Kenji was old. People say it was a natural death. There was no overt curse manifestation.
What you felt at the shrine could have been nothing. Fear makes patterns out of nothing.
Your shoulders relax.
It's getting dark now. You should head back home.
It's colder now. Your breath clouds up in front of you.
Dogs bark furiously in the distance, much louder than usual.
You pause your pacing.
The bitter coastal air whips your hair into your eyes, temporarily blinding you.
Energy thrums from the ground beneath you. It's persistent. Rhythmic.
This time, you can’t ignore it. You know it’s there. And you know why it’s there.
The curse has noticed you. You can feel it in your bones.
And it’s noticed him too.
Amidst your raging doubt, you know two things for certain: someone else will die, and neither you nor Toji will be able to pretend otherwise.
a/n: thanks for reading! this chapter is a slow one—heavy on atmosphere. things will escalate from here :)
Comment to be added to the taglist (status :: open)
you return to your grandmother's village expecting it to be the same as it always was. undisturbed. joyous. it isn't. little do you know that your once mundane life, spent living in the shadows of your superiors, will be turned upside down when you meet a lone fisherman. as a curse lingers and strange details refuse to settle, something intimate begins to take shape between you, and the fine line between intimacy and horror blurs.
content: MDNI :: angst :: eventual smut :: gojo never killed toji :: fem! reader is a sorcerer :: toji is a retired sorcerer :: age gap :: illness :: psychological tension :: unsettling atmosphere :: supernatural events :: mental health struggles :: mentions of blood :: nightmares :: themes of isolation :: implied violence :: additional warnings will be added as the story progresses.
a/n: please check out this art by @keii which inspired this chapter. this is my first time ever posting any of my work, so please feel free to give some feedback. enjoy!
word count: 3k⛩️
· series masterlist · next chapter · main masterlist ·
You sit still, motionless, as the bus rolls to a stop—the ancient roaring of its engines sputtering away to give way to the low bustle of everyday life outside. You take in the sights. It’s just as you remember: the crowded market, tattered nets, and fish blood mixing with rainwater in the gutters.
As a child, your grandmother would always sprinkle a pinch of salt on your head, murmuring that it would ward off evil as you left her house. It had been some time since you had last visited this cosy, remote seaside village—almost ten years, as your grandma, Sachiko, opted to see you in Tokyo most of the time.
Breathing a tired sigh, you unlocked your phone and checked the time. You’d been sitting on the bus for five hours now, and you were dying to stretch your legs. You were sure a massive hump had formed on your back, which had become a gigantic hump due to how long you’d spent hunched over your research papers during the journey.
You were happy to finally have a change of scenery from your usual lonely city apartment and the grey, dreary walls of your job. As the folklore specialist at Jujutsu High’s affiliated university division, you had decided to do some fieldwork for a thesis on coastal superstitions. Luckily, as your grandmother lives in a coastal village, you could use it as an excuse to check in on her. Recently, her health had started to decline, and her letters to you had taken a strange turn.
It was her latest one, however, that let you know that something wasn’t quite right.
I saw your mother last night. At the docks. I waved her over, but she didn’t stop to say hello. She’s always been strange, that one. Silly girl.
I hope you are in good health. The nights have been strange recently. Several of us have fallen ill. I hope I’m not next. I lit extra incense for protection. I will elaborate when you next visit.
She said she’d seen your mother, which was odd, because she’d passed 15 years ago. And the letter had been wrinkled, stained with water, and dusted with sand. You were concerned when you first read it.
You knew you had to visit her immediately. Her words no longer sounded like her—too polite, too measured. She sounded brittle in a way that made you uneasy.
The bus rolled to a stop. You unbuckled yourself and stretched out your limbs, finally feeling relief. Rolling out the kinks in your neck, you made your way off the bus.
With your feet planted firmly on the cobblestone floor and your many bags in your arms, you sweep across the scene before you, in search of your grandma. Wind whistles through the bamboo blinds in the windows of the shops around you, and salty air scratches the back of your throat.
You hear a warm voice call out to you excitedly, and you whip your head around. You’re met with your grandma, quickly approaching you with her arms wide open, ready to envelop you in a welcoming embrace. You drop your luggage and let her sweep you into her arms. She's significantly shorter than you, due to old age, but still manages to almost topple you over.
“How are you, my love?” Sachiko croaks, “It's been too long. You’re looking well.”
You couldn’t say the same for her. Dark circles had formed around her eyes, and her wrinkled skin appeared paler and more leathery.
“I’ve been fine, Grandma. Your letters worried me. You sounded…scared. Are you alright?”
Something clouds your grandmother’s expression for the slightest moment before her face breaks out into a warm smile. “Scared? Oh, no!” she laughs softly, "I'm just old. Old people get dramatic, that’s all.”
Your brows furrow in confusion, “Grandma, you said you saw Mom.”
She swats your arm playfully, “I didn’t get much sleep the day I wrote that. Everything’s fine. Forget what I said in those letters.”
Though unsure, you allow yourself to feel relief. Your grandma seems okay. Right?
Your grandmother hooks her arm through yours, “Leave your luggage here. Toji will get it for us. He’s a strong lad.”
“Strong lad? Grandma, my suitcases have wheels.”
“And? Let the boy show off a little.”
You roll your eyes playfully. “Who is he?”
“Ah, you’ll know him when you see him. He’s buff. Handsome,” she wiggles her grey brows at you.
“Oh, quit your antics, Grandma.” You scoff.
𓆝𓆟𓆞𓆝𓆟
The gulls always awake before the village does. Their shrill cries pierce through the murky morning fog as Toji coaxes his rusted boat from the wooden dock. Water laps against the hull. Salt clings to his skin, his hair, his lips, and stings his eyes. He allows himself to bask in the illusion of peace. It’s quiet today. Too quiet.
His thoughts untangle from their usual snarled mess, and his breathing relaxes. He can finally feel—well, nothing. Out here, no one asks unnecessary questions, pries for answers they don't need. Out here, his thoughts quieten. Out here, it’s just him and the sea. The sea and him.
A tug at the net in his hand catches his attention. His body reacts before his thoughts can register: a flick of his wrist, a pull, a twist. Each move follows swiftly after the other in an efficient, practised manner: They had become a series of reflex reactions. He hauls his catch in and slaps it on the deck. Yet another successful catch. He smiles to himself and readjusts his fishing overalls. He’d be making a killing today.
As Toji manoeuvres his boat back towards the village, he gazes across the undulating blue-grey waves and inhales. Behind the smell of salt is something piercing, metallic, but Toji can’t quite figure out what it is. He brushes it off. It's probably nothing.
The steady ebb and flow of the waves lulls him into a trance. After having retired from being a sorcerer killer about 3 years ago, this is what many mornings look like for Toji. Dreary, gloomy, cold, but fulfilling. No targets to kill, no nagging girlfriend, no responsibilities. Other than Megumi and Tsumiki, of course. But they’re hardly his responsibility—they are much better off without him.
Toji is self-aware: he knows he’s lazy, negligent and emotionally unavailable, and he knows his gambling addiction makes him an unsuitable father, and it isn’t like they’re totally fending for themselves. Toji makes sure he sends enough money for their upkeep on the 3rd of each month. It’s the best he can do for them in his eyes.
He can feel the fishy water leak out of the crate under his arm and trickle down the left leg of his overalls. He suppresses a sigh. The late-morning mist clings to the docks ahead of him, softening the edges of crooked boats tied against their ports.
The chatter of old voices cut through the persistent gull cries, half-arguments, half-laughter, as the fishermen gather in their usual huddle. Toji strides down the walkway and readjusts the monstrous fish on his right shoulder. Water drips from its slack jaw, and light dances off its pearlescent scales.
“Whoa! What the fuck is that?” old man Washijo barked, pipe nearly falling from his lips.
Toji drops the crate and the beast onto the wooden planks of the table with a wet thud. “Dinner,” he says flatly, brushing his hands on his trousers.
The trio of old ladies gasp, clutching at their shawls.
“That’s not a fish, that’s a demon.”
“Dinner for who? The emperor?!”
“You trying to kill us, boy?”
Toji smirks. “So, how’re we cooking this, ladies?”
That sets them off. Arguments fly: salt grill, miso stew, fried cutlets. They shout over each other like sparrows squabbling for crumbs. As amusing as it is to him, Toji opens his mouth to break up the argument. One elderly woman, Hiyori, jabs a finger at him. “You hush, Toji, we’ll handle it!”
“Handle it? You can barely handle your dentures!” cackles Fumiko, setting the group into fits of laughter.
Toji shakes his head, biting back a laugh of his own.
Washijo stomps over, wagging his pipe like a weapon. “Listen here, brat, you keep showing off catches like this, you’ll put the rest of us out of business!”
“Sounds like a you problem”, Toji says, grin sharp.
“Cocky bastard,” the old man bellows with his voice cracking with laughter. He claps Toji on the back, “Drinks tonight with the boys. No excuses.”
“Nah. I don't want to. Booze’s wasted on me. Don’t do a damn thing. Just a waste of time,” Toji shrugs. Drinking had become second nature to him, so much so that it was nearly impossible for him to get drunk.
“Then all the more reason for you to join us! You can finish the alcohol that we can’t.”
The old ladies circle him again, poking and prodding.
“Try these ginseng tonics, they'll keep your bones from rotting.”
“Oh, don’t listen to her, she’s been rotting for years!”
“Have you eaten today, Toji? These muscles need constant upkeep.” Hiyori hands him a basket, ”Here. Take these rice balls.”
Fumiko rolls her eyes. “Give it a rest, Hiyori. He’s fine. Stop fussing.”
Hiyori gasps. “Fine? Fine? He’s more than fine! Look at those arms. Your grandson couldn’t lift a fish like that if his life depended on it,” she wraps both her hands over Toji’s bicep longingly.
Sana snorts from the corner at Hiyori’s remark, her cane tapping on the concrete floor. “Her grandson couldn’t lift anything heavier than a teacup.”
A little boy edges out from behind Hiyori’s skirts. “Toji, how’d you pull that in?”
Toji shrugged, “Same as I always do.”
He lifts the fish again, casually, as if it weighed no more than a loaf of bread. The boy gasps.
Hiyori gazes fondly up at him. “You’re just like one of my grandsons, only taller and less trouble.”
Fumiko snorts. “Less trouble? Don’t let him fool you. He’s trouble enough to start a war.”
Sana barks a laugh, waving her cane. “And I’d follow him into hell just to see that face during it. If I were 30 years younger…”
“If you were as pretty as you are now, 30 years ago, I’d have been in trouble.” Toji smirks. He raises his arms over his head in a stretch, knowing that the bottom of his t-shirt will ride up to reveal a sliver of skin.
That'll set ‘em off, he muses to himself, might as well give ‘em a show. The air erupts into giddy hoots of laughter as Sana’s paper-thin skin blooms into a deep red as she fans herself and mutters something about Toji being a shameless flirt.
He tells himself he stays for the fishing. The truth is, the old bats make the quiet less suffocating.
“Where’s old Kenji?” Toji asks.
“He probably drank too much last night.” Fumiko replies, “You know him. You'll never catch him without a bottle glued to his lips, that old drunkard.”
“Yeah, I heard from his wife this morning that he’s a bit under the weather,” Sana chimes in.
Toji’s brow quirks ever so slightly. It was true that Kenji would regularly indulge in a drink, but he’d never miss the early morning fish-cleaning get-togethers.
He shrugs it off. He’s probably fine.
𓆝𓆟𓆞𓆝𓆟
Your grandma stops outside her gates, blinking at the pair of overturned wooden bowls on her veranda. Bowls filled with…salt? You supposed that she put those there to scare the spirits away. You shake your head. Sachiko and her superstitions.
“How odd…” she murmurs to herself, "I put those out this morning.”
Before you can ask why, someone speaks from behind you. “I’ve got the stuff.”
You turn.
A tall man stands at the base of the steps, all gathered into one hand like it’s nothing more than a lunchbox. He's dressed simply in a dark shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows, loose fishing trousers and boots—nothing substantial enough to fend off the frigid air. There’s an intimidating ease in the way he fills the space, despite being outdoors. Broad shoulders, scar at his lip, messy, windswept hair.
He looks at you with bored, heavy-lidded green eyes.
Your grandmother brightens.
“Oh, Toji! I was wondering where you’d wandered off to. Thank you, dear.”
He grunts in acknowledgement and lifts your luggage one-handed. “This yours?”
“Yeah. Thanks.” You offer him a smile that he doesn’t return.
He starts to move up the stairs silently, despite his sheer size. “You’re the granddaughter.” He grunts gruffly. You nod because your brain decides words are no longer part of your skillset.
He steps past you, close enough that you catch the faint scent of cigarette smoke and pine from his shirt. He grips your bags like they weigh nothing. He doesn’t look back to see if you’re following him.
You follow him up the narrow hill path. The midday light catches in his spiky hair, momentarily blinding you. The sounds around you remind you of how calm and peaceful the environment is: cicadas chirp, laundry flaps in the wind, the distant shrine bell tolls.
You try to make small talk, but Toji doesn’t seem to be the type to talk much:
“So how long have you lived here?”
“Couple o’ years.”
And “ Is it odd? Not having anyone your age to talk to around here?”
“Nah.”
You think back to the weird conversation you had with your grandma about her cryptic letters. “This village feels… different.”
Toji pauses for a moment, but still doesn’t look back. “It’s ‘cause you’re not used to it.”
And after what felt like an eternity but was actually a minute, you reach the front door. Paper prayer strips decorating the porch flit in the wind.
“Isn’t he so reliable?” your grandma beams, “He’s been helping me for the past couple of years. He’s been helping us all, really.” She fumbles for the keys in her fanny pack and hands them over to him.
He takes the keys in his free hand and unlocks the paper sliding door, nudging it open with his foot. “Wasn’t doin’ much.”
“Don’t be so modest,” your grandma bumps him with her hip as she walks through the door he’s holding. He stares at you expectantly for a second, waiting for you to walk through the door before motioning to you with his head. Murmuring a thanks, you scurry through.
He drops your bags at the door, shoots you one last wary look and then walks away without waiting for thanks.
You watch his bulky figure recede into the greenery with a frown on your face. What a miserable man, you think to yourself. You notice a sudden change in atmosphere—cicadas cut out mid-song, and the air feels denser, heavier, like it's about to rain. You look up. The sky’s clear.
“Oh, my love,” your grandmother starts, as though she can read your thoughts,” Don’t mind him. He’s a bit…standoffish until you really get to know him.”
“I’m sure.” You reply sarcastically.
Your grandmother’s house hadn’t changed one bit since you had last visited. It was a traditional countryside cottage with slightly worn tatami mats on the floor and a low clay ceiling with exposed wooden beams. At the centre of the room is a low wooden table surrounded by floor cushions.
You take your shoes off, place them in the shoe cabinet next to the entrance, and head over to the table.
Directly in front of you is a large parchment scroll, covered in a landscape painting and calligraphy. Nostalgia hits you like a freight train: the scroll was painted by your mother two years before her death. You’d sat next to her for hours, mixing pigments with binder and ink for her, and watching in awe and wonder as the world she was creating came to life.
“Dearest. Let me brew some tea. Genmaicha’s still your favourite, yes?”
You nod with a smile growing on your face.
“Lucky for you, I roasted some yesterday.”
“Thanks, Grandma”, you move to pick up your luggage.
“No, leave it there for now. You must rest—I’m sure the journey was exhausting," your grandmother exclaims, fussing about, filling a porcelain teapot with water and turning on the stove.
When the tea’s finished brewing, your grandmother hobbles over with the pot in hand and takes a seat on the floor cushion across from you. You observe her as she pours. Her hands shake slightly, and she glances towards the windows once, twice, too many times to count. You can sense something’s wrong.
“Grandma,” you say softly, “Is everything okay?”
She lets out a sigh and places the pot down, “ It’s my friend Kenji. He’s been unwell all day. I should check on him. He said someone kept tapping on the window… but there was nothing.”
She laughs it off, but you notice her trembling hands.
Your chest gently seizes at the mention of that name. Kenji. It wasn't one you particularly recognised, but it filled you with a sense of dread. Taking a sip of your genmaicha tea and savouring its taste, you shake off the peculiar feeling. It’s probably just travel fatigue.
“We can visit him tomorrow, if that’d make you feel better?” you suggest.
“Yes, it would. Thank you.” Your grandma’s warm smile returns.
A faint breeze blows in through an open window beside you, and you bask in the quiet of the mid-afternoon. Grandma’s house smells of burning incense from her mini shrine in the corner of the room and soft rush grass from the mats beneath you. Looking out the window, you hear distant waves crash against distant rocks, and faint village chatter filters in through the thoughtful silence.
You feel a prickle at the back of your neck. Like something’s watching. You turn away from the window.
How strange.
a/n: thanks so much for reading! I can't wait for this fic to progress. I'm excited to hear your thoughts on this chapter :)
toji thinking of what carat ring would look good on your finger as soon as you get even a little violent
toji's girlfriend is a ray of sunshine
or so everyone thinks. why wouldn't they? you're so sweet- the tinkle of your laugh, the way your cheeks plump when you smile, your doe eyes that convey nothing but innocence-you wouldn't hurt a fly.
"bam!" a fist flies into the fucker's face who was just poking fun at toji.
it starts out as a normal date, celebrating toji and yours anniversary, until some degenerate buzzed off his ass starts insulting toji. you recognize him. naoya zenin was toji's ex-coworker. your hands curl in disgust as you remember how close naoya would stand next to you at work gatherings. how his words would always be subtle jabs at toji. after toji stopped working there, you'd thought naoya was in the past. Cleary not.
you hover behind toji as naoya continues spewing threats. you could feel the anger vibrating off of toji a he shifted forward. you placed a hand on his arm. "let it go, toji. we can leave.' his green eyes meet yours for a long second before he nods reluctantly. just as you turn to go, bthe drunk man drops the ball.
"he's fuckin worthless and broke, whatcha doing with him, dolly-"
toji has quick reflexes, honed through years of being both the assassin and the target. but now, he can only watch as you take two quick steps, haul your arm back, and hit naoya square in the jaw. he doubles over, clutching the side of his face, cursing unintelligibly.
toji’s watching everything in slow motion. how your sweet face is etched with rage. how your perfect right hook lands on noaya's face like you don't croon over pets at the animal shelter each week.
there's something warm in his chest that expands into his throat.
someone stood up for him.
since he was a child, he fended for himself. he prides himself for it. for being unshakable and not needing anybody. but having you defend him like that…god. that did something to him that wasn’t sure could be reversed.
you turn, flexing your hand, not sparing a glance at naoya's writhing form. you tuck yourself against toji's side, soft and warm. “can we leave, ji? I want ice-cream.”
he just stares at you in awe. when you look up at him, he could easily forget what you did moments ago. your eyes are sparkling again, a smile pulling at your lips. you’re the same, delicate, fragile girl, but now, with slightly bruised knuckles and toji completely wrapped around your pinky.
“toji? hello?” your words end with a soft yelp as he dips you down into a kiss. it doesn't have that rom-com cinematic appeal. it's raw and honest. his lips move against yours in the crowded, dingy bar like there’s no tomorrow. his teeth nip at your lips in, “thank yous” and “i love yous” and more emotions he can comprehend in words. when he pulls back, he brings you into his chest, breathing hard. after a long time, he says, “let’s get you a bandage for that hand, ‘kay, doll?”
“so no ice cream?” comes your reply, muffled by his shirt.
he laughs into your hair, something warm and Iridescent buzzing in his viens.“we’ll get some. i’ll get you anything you want.”
you had gone to bed earlier than him, leaving your grumpy and cranky husband to tend for your daughter. even when he's tired, too (or just lazy).
he had been grumbling, exhaling heavily as he changes the baby girl's diaper. his nose crinkled, a disgusted look on his face as he mumbles, "you smell like shit." - in which she actually did.
silence took over - save from the occasional rustling from moving things around.
he had expected the baby to cry, wail, flail her arms and accidentally hit him (for the millionth time). anything, really. not...
"da..da..."
his hand freezes, his eyes widening at the little girl's voice, slowly turning back to face her just as he was about to grab the baby powder. "say that... again?" he mutters, looking down at the little one blabbering on the changing table, little fist on her mouth, feet kicking up in the air, with the same red eyes staring back up at him.
for a second, it frustrated him a bit that the baby ‐ or, his baby - took a little bit longer to repeat the two syllable word. just giggling and sputtering whatever she can.
then -- "d.. da..da..."
there it is. his eyes lit up. not the way it used to; full of intensity and menace to those who dared to challenge him. no.. this time, it's more... softer, warmer, happy.
finishing up her diaper change, he carefully and gently picks her up with rough hands, bringing her up to his eye level. "dada? seriously?" he mutters, a small smirk quirked up on the corners of his lips.
"da..da!"
a chuckle left him, his chest rumbling as he brings the little one to his chest. "yeah, dada."
maybe babysitting his minikuna isn't so bad after all.
a/n: kinda lazy and rushed. wrote this in the rain sighs
the temple is quiet tonight. the kind of quiet that settles deep in your bones — save for the faint crackle of firelight and the steady pulse beneath your palm.
he’s sitting nearby, half-shadow, half-god, crimson eyes glowing faintly in the dark. you think he looks calmer like this. less like a curse. more like something… ancient and alive.
“you’re staring again,” you whisper.
sukuna doesn’t look up from the flames. “you move too much.” you huff, adjusting where you sit. “your child kicks too much.”
that gets his attention. his head turns, sharp eyes flicking to your stomach. for a moment, his energy flares—instinctive, possessive—but then it fades just as fast. he leans back, pretending not to care, though the corner of his mouth twitches.
“hm. strong already,” he mutters. “takes after me.”
you smile a little. “let’s hope they don’t take your attitude.”
“my attitude keeps you alive,” he fires back automatically, but his voice lacks bite. when he moves closer, it’s not with his usual command—it’s almost hesitant. his hand hovers above your belly before you take it and guide it down.
the baby kicks.
his expression stills. you swear you see something flicker there—something vulnerable and wordless. his thumb traces absent circles against your skin, the faintest tremor in his touch.
“they know you,” you murmur, watching him.
he scoffs, but it’s softer this time. “they should.” a pause. then quieter, rougher: “they’ll be stronger than anything this world’s ever seen.”
“and loved,” you add gently.
he meets your gaze—like he’s not sure what to do with that word. loved.
but he doesn’t argue. instead, he leans forward until his forehead rests briefly against yours, breath hot and steady.
“rest,” he mutters. “the world can wait.”
his cursed energy curls protectively around you both, humming low and ancient, as if even it knows you are his—both of you.
﹢ summary: when toji gets out of prison after seven years, he lies to his estranged mother about being married— and forces you to play the part. pairing: ex-criminal!toji fushiguro x f!reader
⟢ genre/tags: dark romance, age gap, kidnapping, coercion/manipulation, dysfunctional family dynamics, verbal and emotional abuse (from toji’s mother), mild violence/intimidation, mentions of pregnancy, light possessiveness
words: 1.6k
highly inspired by the film ‘buffalo 66’
toji’s been out for approximately twenty six hours. the air tastes different, thicker, like all the dust he swallowed in prison followed him home. every breath feels gritty, bitter, as if it’s still laced with concrete walls and piss-slick tiles and years of time that crawled slower than death. he hasn’t spoken to anyone in years. hasn’t wanted to. there’s nothing out here for him except cold stares and locked doors and silence. everything is loud and quiet at the same time. he feels like he’s floating, or maybe sinking, feet scraping the bottom of a world that moved on without him.
if you could even call it that.
he’s got nothing. no friends, no job, no woman. just a mother who never liked him much and a brother who probably wished he’d rot in there. he’s tried to keep his head down. tried to tell himself he’ll figure it out eventually. maybe find a place to work, find somewhere to sleep that doesn’t smell like mildew and regret. but then she answers the phone, and it’s like every fucking nerve in his system lights up in frustration, because of course she sounds the same. too chipper. too uninterested. too fucking cold.
“oh, look who finally remembered he has a family,” she says coldy, annoyed. she asks what he’s been up to for the past seven years and toji lies straight through his teeth.
“working. moved around a lot. met someone too. we got married.”
that shuts her up, at least for a second. her silence feels worse than her words. for a split second he thinks she’ll ask if he’s okay, but she never does.
“married,” she repeats. “well isn’t that something. your grandparents left something for you in the will, but they said you had to settle down first. guess you finally stopped being a disappointment.”
the words scrape down his spine. he grips the burner phone tighter. there’s a soft click in his jaw from how hard he’s clenching it. he wants to laugh, or scream, or hang up.
“you should bring your wife to dinner, tonight.”
he says yes before fully thinking it through. before he can stop himself. now he’s walking down a street he doesn’t even recognize, too fast, too angry, every step slamming into the sidewalk like he’s trying to outrun the rage crawling up his spine. stomach hollow, fists clenched. thinking about all the ways he could fake his way through this, all the ways it could blow up in his face, all the ways it’s already fucked.
and then he sees you.
you’re walking out of a dance studio. duffel slung over your shoulder, cheeks flushed, hair a little messy, and looking too pretty for your own good. too distracted to notice him until he’s already closing the distance. you look happy. soft. like someone who has people who love her. he hates that. hates how untouched you are. how normal and far you are from the world he just came from.
you don’t even get a chance to scream before his hand wraps around your wrist tight enough to bruise.
“get in the car.”
you freeze. he flashes a gun just under his coat. not aiming it. just showing it. his voice is low, matter-of-fact. like this is routine and he’s done this many times before.
“don’t do anything stupid,” he mutters. “just get in. drive me somewhere.”
you do.
+
it’s not until you’re on the freeway, heart pounding out of your chest, that he finally speaks again. his voice is low, too calm. the kind of calm that sets your nerves on fire. your hands tremble around the steering wheel, knuckles turning paler. you glance at him out of the corner of your eye and he’s just staring out the window like this is the most boring thing he’s done all day.
“you’re gonna pretend to be my wife.”
you blink, gripping the wheel tighter. blood rushing in your ears. the words don’t register right away.
“what?”
“i said,” he leans in, “you’re gonna put on a dress, come to dinner with me, and act like you’re in love with me. smile, touch my arm, maybe hold my hand under the table. you’re good at pretending, right?”
“i’m not—”
“you dance. that’s performance. just think of this like another show.”
you wanna argue but his eyes cut sharp. something cold and exhausted flickering behind them. he looks older than you. late thirties maybe. pretty if he wasn’t so angry. scar on his lip, thick hands, prison tattoos half covered with his sleeves rolled to the elbow. there’s something mean in his gaze, but also something hollow, like he’s too tired to be fully cruel.
you don’t ask questions. you just nod.
“fine.”
+
he finds a cheap boutique, throws a wad of cash on the counter, and tells you to change in the back. doesn’t look at you when you disappear behind the curtain. you take your time, heart still thrumming, trying to figure out if there’s a way out of this. the pale blue dress he picked is too tight. short enough that you feel exposed, but he doesn’t even look at you when you step out. just glances once, then heads toward the exit.
“looks good. let’s go.”
in the car, he gives you the rundown. fast. clipped.
“we met at a cafe. you spilled your drink on me. i got your number anyway. we dated for six months. eloped in vegas.”
he glances at you.
“you’re twenty-four. you like reading and music and dumb shit like that. you don’t talk back to my mom. you don’t say anything about where i’ve been.”
“what if they ask?”
“they won’t. just keep smiling.”
you breathe through your nose. “you always this charming?”
he smiles, but no humor behind it. “you’re still here, aren’t you?”
he doesn’t say it, but there’s something in his tone that sounds almost impressed. he didn’t think you’d make it this far. maybe he expected you to scream, or cry, or try to run. but you didn’t.
+
his mother lives in a clean house that smells like burnt toast and strong disinfectant. her smile doesn’t reach her eyes when she opens the door. her gaze flicks between the two of you, judgment already brewing.
“you must be the wife,” she says, not even looking at toji. “well. come in.”
you follow her into the dining room and the table’s already set. there’s a man sitting at the end— his brother, you presume. he barely spares you a glance. the air is stiff. uncomfortable. like no one here knows how to talk without biting.
toji keeps a hand on your thigh under the table. a warning. a threat. a comfort. you can’t tell. it burns through the thin fabric of your tights and makes you hyper-aware of every inch of your body. he doesn’t look at you, but his fingers twitch every now and then. tightening. relaxing. reminding you he’s still in control.
his mom asks too many questions. how did you meet? what do you see in him? what does he do for work? her tone is sweet but sharp, laced with disbelief as if she’s waiting for you to slip up. toji stays quiet and lets you talk. just nods every now and then, gaze fixed on his plate.
you lie. smile. squeeze his hand once just to make him stop bouncing his leg. his fingers still. he glances at you, barely, but you feel it.
but it’s not until dessert that everything shifts.
“you should think about children,” she says, sipping her wine. “you’re not getting any younger, toji.”
you glance at him. he’s tense, jaw clenched, eyes blank.
“actually,” you say, “i’m pregnant.”
the room goes scarily silent.
toji turns his head so slowly you almost laugh.
“you what?”
his voice is flat, low, but his hand tightens around your thigh.
“just a few weeks,” you add sweetly. “i was going to wait to tell you, but…it felt like the right moment.”
his mother claps. smiles like it’s the best thing she’s ever heard. “see? maybe you’re not a failure after all.”
but toji’s eyes don’t leave yours, not for a second, not even when she keeps talking, and when the conversation moves on.
+
you don’t speak until you’re back in the car.
he doesn’t start it. doesn’t even look at you. his hands grip the steering wheel tighter.
“what the fuck was that?”
you shrug. “i thought it helped.”
“you don’t get to make shit up.”
“you kidnapped me.”
he finally looks at you. for real this time. something shifts in his face. the anger fades. not gone, just dulled. replaced by something else. something tired, disappointed.
“you think this is a game?”
you shake your head.
he leans over suddenly to grip your chin. his hand is big and warm and rough, fingers pressing into your jaw. not hard enough to hurt, but enough to remind you that he could.
“you think you’re funny? trying to play house with me?”
“no.”
he stares for a long time. your heart hammers.
“good.”
but then— he kisses you.
not rough but not soft either. just firm. heavy. like he needed to do it. like something in him cracked wide open. it’s not a kiss meant to convince anyone of anything. it’s a need. raw and quiet.
when he pulls back, he rests his forehead against yours. breath hot. still close.
“you shouldn’t have done that,” he mutters.
“which part?” you breathe.
he doesn’t answer.
but he kisses you again.
+
and later that night, when he doesn’t leave, when you fall asleep in the too-small motel bed he forced you to share, his arm wraps around your waist like it’s second nature. as if he doesn’t know how to sleep unless someone’s beside him, and something in him still believes he can hold onto something without breaking it.
he never stopped craving connection. the monster everyone thought he was is still trying to remember how to be human.
and you let him.
you’re not sure why.
but you let him.
should i do a pt 2 w smut ??? lmk gng bc idek if ts is good or not </333
a crush. that’s all it was. harmless, quiet, tucked neatly behind polite smiles and casual greetings. something small and mostly contained, like a paper cut—annoying, sometimes stinging, but ultimately insignificant in the grand scheme of things. that’s what you told yourself every morning when you stepped into the office and immediately found your eyes drifting, unprompted, searching for him.
nanami kento.
he was always there early, already settled at his desk with his tie perfectly straight and his expression unreadable. efficient, composed, untouchable. your coworkers talked about him sometimes—how reliable he was, how serious, how he never wasted time on anything unnecessary. you wondered if that included people like you.
you made it a habit to grab coffee on the way in. one for you, one for him. you memorized how he took it—one sugar, splash of milk, nothing extra. you never made a big show of it, just placed it beside his desk with a quiet, “morning,” like it didn’t mean anything. like you weren’t hoping, desperately, for something in his eyes to soften just a little.
he always accepted it with a nod. never asked why. never declined, either.
you found reasons to pass by his desk, small things like “did you see the new memo?” or “are you heading to the meeting now?” stupid conversation fillers he didn’t need. he answered every time, polite but distant. he would answer your question but never in a way to keep the conversation going.
in the break room, you timed your lunch to match his without ever admitting that to yourself. sometimes you wouldn’t even talk. just sit nearby and pretend to read something on your phone, hyper-aware of his presence, of the sound of him stirring his tea, of the way he always straightened his sleeves before eating like even that small motion had to be precise.
you thought you were subtle. maybe you were. maybe everyone else knew.
but he never reacted. never changed. never gave you anything to work with.
and the thing about slow, quiet hope is that it rots from the inside before you even realize it's dying.
are you just bothering him? it has been a few months since this one-sided pining. what if he is just putting up with this and actually hates it? what if he was muttering to his friends in his free time about you, describing you as a desperate, lovesick fool?
one morning, you stood in line at the café counter, two coffees in hand like always. but when the barista called your name, something in your chest shifted. all your bottled up thoughts came to the surface all at once. you stared down at the second cup. it felt heavier than usual. stupid, you thought. pathetic. he never asked for it. he never asked for any of this.
that was the day you threw his coffee away before stepping into the office.
you walked past his desk with only your drink in hand. no detours. no soft “good morning” like you practiced making sound casual. you sat down and forced yourself to stare at your screen, fingers still wrapped tight around the warmth of your cup like you needed the reminder that you were still holding something.
it was going to be hard to break habits, let alone get rid of your feelings for him, but one step at a time.
he noticed.
nanami looked up for a second when you passed. his desk was empty except for his own untouched mug. he glanced at the clock. you always arrived around this time. you always set a cup beside his hand, your fingers brushing the desk but never touching him.
you didn’t.
you didn’t even look at him.
he didn’t say anything.
the first day, he let it go. maybe you were busy. maybe you forgot.
the second day, he adjusted his tie twice before sitting down, eyes flickering unconsciously to the entrance every couple of minutes.
the third day, he arrived earlier than usual, and when you came in, he straightened in his seat instinctively. but again—nothing. no coffee. no greeting. you didn’t even pass near his desk. you walked in talking to someone else, a quiet laugh leaving your mouth at something they said.
that laugh stuck to him longer than it should have.
he told himself it was nothing. it shouldn’t matter. you were a coworker. polite. friendly. talkative when you had reason to be. your presence did not affect his work.
so why did the office feel louder and emptier at the same time?
lunch came. and you didn’t show up in the break room. you sat with a different group instead, listening to gojo satoru of all people as he leaned in too close, smiling like he always did—messy, loud, impossible to ignore. you were smiling back.
nanami’s jaw tightened for a moment. so brief anyone else would’ve missed it.
he stayed at his desk longer than usual before heading to lunch, and when he walked past your table, he didn’t mean to look. but he did. your eyes met his for a second. he expected you to wave, or offer a small nod like you always used to.
you didn’t.
you turned back to gojo, laughing at something he said.
nanami stood there just a second too long before walking away.
later, he found himself in the break room alone, staring at the empty spot on the counter where you once stood beside him, too nervous to speak sometimes but always there. always consistent.
he took a slow breath, steadying himself like he always did when something unfamiliar pressed against the edges of his routine.
he told himself it didn’t matter.
he told himself he preferred the quiet.
but as he stood there, hearing the distant echo of your laughter from down the hall—something unfamiliar and unwelcome settled beneath his ribs.
something that felt a little like loss.
nanami felt the shift like a hairline crack through glass—thin, almost invisible, but spreading silently in every direction.
he kept telling himself he imagined it. that your change in behavior had nothing to do with him. but then he caught himself paying attention. to your footsteps. to the change in your tone when you spoke to others. to the way your laughter came easier now when you were speaking with gojo in the hallway.
you weren’t avoiding people.
you were avoiding him.
and nanami, for the first time in a very long time, didn’t know what to do with something.
he tried to approach it logically. analyze it. observe. he told himself he was simply making sure workplace rapport remained professional and steady. that was all.
the first time he made the conscious effort to start a conversation, it was by the printer. you were there, scrolling something on your phone while the machine whirred. he stepped beside you deliberately, clearing his throat.
“...did you read the new case report from yesterday?”
you blinked, a fraction too slow, as if you didn’t expect him to speak to you. your reply came neutral. polite. distant.
“no. haven’t looked yet.”
that was it. no follow-up. no question thrown back his way like you used to do just to keep the moment going. he waited a second longer—too long, maybe—before nodding once and leaving.
the failed attempt sat with him for the rest of the day like a misplaced file he couldn’t fix.
the second attempt happened near the elevators. he matched his steps to yours on purpose. subtle. unnoticeable to anyone else. you pressed the button, and he stood beside you, hands in his pockets.
“you’re not having lunch with your group today?”
you paused just barely. “plans changed.”
he stared at you for a moment, something unreadable flickering beneath the surface of his calm expression. “i see.”
the elevator arrived. you stepped in. he hesitated—for another heartbeat too long—then followed.
you stood on opposite sides, a polite chasm between you. the doors slid shut.
and then everything jolted.
a sudden lurch. the lights flickered. the elevator shuddered to a stop.
for a moment, both of you were silent.
you exhaled slowly. “…you’ve got to be kidding.”
nanami pressed the emergency button with practiced calm. “it seems we’re stuck.”
you nodded, backing up to lean against the wall, arms crossing over your chest. “great.”
a beat of silence passed. too heavy for the small space. he looked at you. really looked at you. no practiced indifference. no sterile professionalism. his gaze was steady, intense in a way that made your fingers tighten against your sleeves.
“did i do something?” his voice was quiet, but there was an edge to it.
you blinked. “…what?”
“you’ve been avoiding me,” he said, like it was a simple fact. like he’d already gone through every rational explanation and found none of them acceptable.
you swallowed, your throat suddenly dry. “i haven’t—”
“please don’t lie.”
the words struck deeper than they should have. because nanami didn’t speak like that. didn’t corner people. didn’t show anything unless it was necessary.
your heart thudded, uneven. “why would it matter?”
he stared at you like you had said something incomprehensible. like you were the one acting irrationally.
“because,” he said slowly, as though each word was being pulled from somewhere he didn’t want to look, “you were always there.”
your breath caught.
he continued, voice low, almost strained—all control, but stretched thin. “and then you weren’t.”
you couldn’t look at him. your fingers dug into your arms. “i assumed you preferred it this way.”
nanami stepped forward. not close enough to touch, but close enough to trap. his tone sharpened, just barely. “why would you assume that?”
you let out a short, humorless breath. “you never seemed to care, nanami. i was just—background noise. easy to ignore.”
he stared at you. something cold and unraveling flickered behind his eyes.
“i noticed everything,” he said quietly.
your heart stopped.
“the coffee. the greetings. the way you’d linger near my desk pretending to look for something to say. i noticed.” his jaw tightened. “and now i notice that it’s gone.”
you forced a laugh to hide the way that admission made your pulse jump. “congratulations. observation skills intact.”
something in his expression finally cracked. just a line. but you felt it.
“don’t be cruel,” he said softly.
your breath hitched. cruel. you didn’t realize he could even say something like that. not to you.
he took another step. close now. too close.
“watching you laugh with gojo,” he continued, voice controlled but with that same strange undercurrent, “watching you look at him the way you used to look at me—it is driving me insane.”
you blinked, stunned. “i don’t—what?”
he looked at you like it was obvious. like he was exhausted of pretending not to feel something he hadn’t even let himself name.
“i thought you liked him.” it sounded like an accusation. like the words tasted bitter leaving his mouth.
you stared at him, expression caught somewhere between disbelief and something else entirely.
the elevator stayed still. the world with it.
nanami held your gaze like he was bracing for impact.
“tell me you don’t,” he said. “so i can stop… this.”
you didn’t know what this meant.
but for the first time, he wasn’t unreadable.
he was on the edge.
the words hung between you, fragile and charged. tell me you don’t. so i can stop this. you could hear it beneath what he said—stop thinking about it. stop wondering. stop noticing you.
you swallowed hard, pulse hammering in your throat. “why do you care?”
your voice cracked halfway through the sentence, barely above a whisper.
nanami’s expression tensed—like he hated the question. like he hated that you forced him to acknowledge something he’d been trying to handle in silence.
a muscle in his jaw shifted. “because,” he said slowly, as though the word cost him something, “i thought it was me.”
you blinked. once. twice. “what?”
he exhaled, steady but not calm—collected, but not untouched. “i thought you were avoiding me because of something i did,” he admitted, eyes never leaving yours. “i went through every interaction. i tried to remember if i had said something dismissive. or… unkind.”
there was something almost devastating about hearing him say that—stoic, composed nanami kento, replaying conversations in his head the way you used to.
you’d spent so long believing you were the only one feeling everything too deeply.
you forced your heartbeat down, fingers digging into your palms. “why would it ever matter that much to you?”
his gaze sharpened, quiet intensity burning through the controlled exterior he wore like a uniform.
“you don’t get to ask me that,” he said steadily, voice just above a whisper. “not when you’re the one who changed first. not when i am the one standing here trying to understand why you won’t even look at me anymore.”
you had no words. none that made sense outside of your own humiliation.
so you defaulted to defense. “you’re being dramatic. we’re coworkers. it’s not that serious.”
his eyes went dark—not angry, but something disturbingly close to wounded pride.
“say that again,” he murmured, tone low enough to send a shiver up your spine. “look me in the eye and tell me it was never serious.”
your mouth opened, but nothing came out.
because you couldn’t.
his next breath came unsteady; you almost didn’t catch it. “you brought me coffee every morning for seven months.”
your chest squeezed. “that doesn’t mean anything.”
“i started drinking my terrible office coffee less because of it.” he stepped forward again. “i waited for you.”
the words landed like a physical blow.
you stared at him. “you—what?”
“the mornings you were running late, i would… wait,” he said, eyes flickering just slightly—like admitting that was harder than anything. “i didn’t like starting the day before you arrived.”
your heart was a mess, every beat colliding with the next. “nanami…”
“i got used to hearing your voice before nine,” he continued, more quietly. “to knowing you would pass by my desk for no real reason. it was never… meaningless.”
your back hit the elevator wall. you didn’t remember stepping back.
nanami didn’t touch you. he didn’t have to. he stood in front of you, blocking the exit like a quiet cornering rather than force. his hand lifted—hesitating—then hovered near yours against the metal wall. not touching. waiting.
“you stopped,” he said, softer now. “and you didn’t tell me why.”
you swallowed. “i thought it would be easier for you.”
“it isn’t.”
the response came too fast. no hesitation. like truth that slipped out before he could smother it.
your chest tightened painfully. “why?”
and then—for the first time since this all started—nanami looked at you like he was allowing himself to feel everything at once.
his voice dropped, barely audible.
“because i did not realize how much of my day was spent… looking for you… until you decided to disappear.”
the elevator hummed quietly around you. you couldn’t breathe.
nanami’s eyes searched yours, steady even in the confession.
“tell me,” he said again, softer but more desperate than before—like this was the only thing keeping him steady. “tell me you don’t feel anything—so i can stop thinking about you every time you laugh at someone else’s joke.”
you stared at him, heart trembling.
“tell me,” he breathed, “so i can learn how to ignore you the way you’ve learned to ignore me.”
your lips parted. a shiver ran through you.
your voice was so soft you almost weren't sure you said it aloud.
“…i can’t.”
nanami went still. like everything inside him braced at once. his brows drew together, not in frustration, but like something in him finally, finally loosened—and he didn’t know how to hold it.
“what do you mean,” he asked quietly, careful, “you can’t?”
your fingers curled against the wall, nails pressing into your palm. “i can’t say it was nothing,” you breathed, eyes fixed on the small space between your shoes and his polished ones. “i liked you. a lot. more than i should’ve. and you never… gave me anything to work with. i thought i was being pathetic. so i stopped.”
nanami’s breath came out slow and deep, like he needed the extra air to keep himself steady.
“you thought you were being pathetic.”
“wasn’t i?” your laugh came weak, shaky. “i brought you coffee like some lovesick idiot. i hovered near your desk. i annoyed you, didn’t i?”
“no,” he said immediately. sharp. it almost surprised you. “never.”
your eyes lifted—slowly this time.
nanami looked at you with something fragile and burning flickering right beneath his restraint. “you weren’t pathetic,” he said, voice low and even, but no longer detached. “you were… consistent. and kind. and i found myself… missing you more than was appropriate.”
your pulse jolted. “you… missed me?”
“terribly,” he admitted.
you didn't realize how close he was until then. his hand, still hovering near yours, inched closer now—not brushing, just there, his fingers trembling almost imperceptibly before he stilled them with controlled precision.
“say it,” he murmured. “say it again.”
your chest rose and fell too fast. “i liked you.”
“present tense,” he said quietly.
you swallowed. “...i like you.”
the smallest breath left him, like that was the one thing that finally cracked his composure down the middle. his hand finally touched yours. careful. delicate. asking.
your fingers reflexively curled against his. his thumb brushed the side of your knuckle, the warmth of his skin startling in its gentleness.
“again,” nanami whispered.
you almost smiled—soft, disbelieving. “i like you.”
this time, he exhaled something unsteady and stepped closer. your back met the cool elevator wall. he didn’t cage you in with force—just presence. hands braced near your waist but not touching, like he was holding himself back even now.
“may i?” he asked.
your answer was breathless. “yes.”
he leaned in—slow, controlled, like every second of restraint was still fighting him. his forehead rested against yours first, just barely. he waited there, eyes half-closed, breath touching your lips but not crossing the line.
it was a question.
you rose slightly on your toes, closing the last inch yourself.
the kiss was slow. unbearably gentle. his lips brushed yours like he was memorizing the feel of it before daring to press fully. your hand lifted on instinct, fingers brushing his jaw. he stilled—then leaned in, deeper this time, just enough pressure to feel it, to mean it, but still careful, still trying not to overwhelm.
his hand found your waist then, fingers curling in the fabric of your shirt like he’d been holding back for too long.
and just when his other hand lifted—like he wanted to cup your cheek, like he finally gave in to touching you—
DING.
the elevator jolted back to life. the lights flickered. and then—the doors slid open.
you both froze.
nanami immediately stepped back, straightening like he’d just remembered the world existed. you pulled your hands back quickly, heat flooding your face, heartbeat still racing.
the hallway outside was empty—but that didn’t matter. breathing the same air suddenly felt criminal.
you both stepped out slowly. the doors began to close behind you when nanami cleared his throat lightly.
he adjusted his tie—more nervous tic than composure this time—and said, voice lower but laced with something undeniably earnest—
“would you,” he paused, eyes flicking to yours and then deliberately staying there, steady, “allow me to take you to dinner?”
your breath caught. “as…?”
“as someone who would very much like to earn the right,” he said softly, “to keep being the person you wait for in the mornings.”
silence. your chest felt too full.
you tried to speak. failed once. tried again, voice trembling but sure—
“...yes. i’d like that. very much.”
a rare, quiet smile touched the corner of his lips.
“good,” he said quietly. “then… allow me to plan something proper.”
you nodded, feeling your pulse flutter at your throat.
nanami stepped beside you, close but not touching—yet his hand brushed yours once, very lightly. an invitation.
you almost don’t recognise him at first. the nanami kento you remember in high school was stiff, reserved, and sported an abomination of side-swept bangs paired with too much hair-gel. he was cute, sure, perhaps in that awkward, alternative kind of way that somehow managed to charm a girl like you in the first place. but hot? no, not like this.
now, standing across the room at your ten-year school reunion, he looks distinctly different. broader shoulders, a jawline that could cut glass, and a perfectly tailored suit that fits his impressive frame immaculately. the bangs are gone — his hair is slicked back now, a pair of glasses perched on his nose, and for the first time you find yourself wondering — when the hell did nanami kento get so hot?
“it’s been a while,” he says when he finally crosses the room over to you. his voice is deeper, richer now, and when your eyes meet you find yourself wondering if he looks at just anyone that way now, or if he’s also thinking about study dates, shy kisses to the cheek, and the budding romance that fizzled out when you both went off to different colleges.
you’re still struggling to wrap your head around his transformation when he fucks you hard against the wall of his hotel room later on. his hands are firm against your waist as he eases into you, stretching you in a way that steals the air from your lungs. every snap of his hips pins you tighter and tighter against the wall, and you don’t know why your heart still manages to flutter when his palm comes to cushion your forehead from hitting the plaster, shielding you from the impact even as he drives into you harder.
every thrust is precise, deliberate, merciless — but his hands stay tender and his mouth presses gentle kisses to your back. he whispers praise and filth into your ear that has your cunt clenching pathetically in response, and god, you’re begging for this man to ruin you before you even know what you’re saying. you’re cumming hard around his thick cock in no time, but he doesn’t let up until your legs are shaking and your voice has dissolved into incoherent babble.
you may hardly recognise the man he is now, but there’s one thing that still hasn’t changed about nanami: he’s a man who always knows what he wants. it’s been that way when he first asked you out all those years ago, and it seems like it’s still that way now, when he asks for your number and a chance to make up for lost time. you’re still flushed, struggling to catch your breath when he finally speaks.
“i’m sorry,” he rasps, and for the first time tonight he actually appears a little shy. “i didn’t exactly do this in the right order. can i take you out to dinner some time?”
dailybridgerton
dededos
romaincrisis
titsay
yousharknotpass
turnnoffyourmind
