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cr4yolaas · 23 hours ago

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₍^. .^₎⟆ synopsis: after surviving the shibuya incident, nanami shuts off the world and becomes a recluse. the only thing keeping him going? a new coffee shop around his apartment. and maybe, its owner with her soft words, warm hands, and cinnamon-dusted kisses. (cw: hints of depression, description of gory injuries for nanami, slight offcanon) word count: 4.9k

nanami wakes in pitch darkness.

that's been routine for him, for the past month.

the odd shapes in his apartment are recognizable as turned over sofas, half-drunken mugs, untouched books in the dark, and other objects of that sort. his eyes have adjusted to the lack of light in the building, his feet able to carefully traverse between the gaps of furniture and hastily discarded clothes on the floor to reach his ultimate destination: the kitchen.

it's probably noon outside. not that he knows for sure, given that he's gotten rid of all the clocks in his apartment two weeks ago. the anxiety of seeing those clock hands move incrementally, counting down the minutes of his stillness, the quiet rhythm of ticking driving him insane within the confines of his home-

he had to get rid of it.

and the alarm clock next to his bed, and set his phone to do not disturb mode before chucking it under several piles of books he would not touch.

the sunlight filtering in through the tiniest gap in his window, combined with the sounds of birds chirping outside and children laughing from a nearby playground makes his jaw clench. his heart feels like it's being painfully squeezed, the barrier between him and the real world so faint and yet ever so present. it feels as if the world is mocking him, mocking him of what he can't have, mocking him of what he's become: sheltered from the entire world, hiding in the dark as if he's some kind of monster.

opening the refrigerator lets out the only source of light in the entire room, the harsh fluorescent lighting causes nanami to blink furiously and curse under the sudden pain. when his irises adjust, he sees that there's a half eaten apple. a cereal box misplaced inside the fridge. milk that's due to expire in a day and a pack of sealed natto sitting untouched on the top shelf.

'cereal it is.' he thinks. it's the fourth day in a row he's had cereal for the day, which is certainly not good for his health.

not that he cares much.

when his hunger is satiated, he travels back to the couch and stares up at the ceiling. sometimes, he falls asleep - his mind preferring to stay dreaming, floating, blanketed in the unconscious world so he doesn't have to face reality. but on days like today, sleep evades him.

his bones ache, his mind races, and his fingers itch at his sides.

dragging his right hand across the side of his face, it takes every nerve in his body to not flinch. the right side of his face is completely scarred, blisters of darkened skin bumpy against the callouses of his hands, the skin still tender and raw to the touch. there's a long gash running from his shoulder to his lower waist, the cut healed but having left a permanent red line across his body. the fingers on his right hand won't extend all the way, and his vision often fades in and out of his right eye.

the first day back from the hospital had been brutal. as not only had the physical toll of the injuries had made daily life impossible, but the mental weight of carrying these injuries in public made him self-conscious.

children turned around in fear. grandmothers frowned. young boys shouted names.

and worst of all, nanami couldn't bear to look at himself. he covered all the mirrors in his room. closed all the curtains in his apartment. and stopped looking at his reflection when passing by tall, glassy buildings.

quitting the life of a sorcerer had been easy - no one had argued with him, not after what he'd survived - but he hadn't moved on.

he was stuck.

unmoving, hopeless, and tired.

=====================

if there was one tradition nanami still forced himself to do (albeit in a ball cap and mask), it was to gather his morning coffee outside. it'd be too early and too busy for most people to stop and stare at him, and nanami had expertly figured out the quietest route that led to the corner coffee store he was a regular at.

today is no different. he rises before the sun does, feels around in the dark for his pre-selected clothes (not that he wears anything different each day), and forces himself out the door. it's chilly, a slight breeze running down his back between the gaps of his leather jacket, as he walks down the quiet tokyo streets.

a dog barks in the distance. a single taxi driver drives down the empty street. the wind rustles through the fall foliage.

it's quiet. and it's the only time he isn't thinking about the hopelessness of the world.

but when he turns the corner and sees that his usual coffee place is closed, he nearly throws a fit. his left eye twitching in anger, he manages to read the small print next to the door handle: 'closed early for public holiday weekend!'

sighing, he shoves his hands back into his jeans and is about to give up and go back home when-

a woman steps out from a store two blocks down, the clicking of her boots alerting him as to her presence. he watches as you smooth your apron down, carefully positioning the sign to be visible from all angles, before disappearing back into the cafe. walking closer to the new sign set out on the street, nanami can see a cute drawing of a croissant with legs and in your handwriting the words: 'new cafe open! complimentary croissant for every coffee ordered.'

through the glass door he can see your nervous expression as you fiddle with a flower vase on the counter, constantly turning the pot in a million different directions. there's something so... simple and innocent to your worry, nanami ponders. with the way your brows scrunch up in concentration and the sunlight reflects a halo on your hair, his feet carry him forward without him thinking.

the ringing of the bell as he opens the door wakes him up to what he's just done.

you look up from the vase, not having expected the front door to ring, only to be met with a tall blonde figure staring down at you. despite his mask covering half of his face, you can tell that he has a sculpted jaw and proportionate, sharp features. his brown eyes twinkle in worry, but they're soft, crinkling at the edges and there's something devastatingly endearing in the way he awkwardly shuffles in front of your gaze as if he's not good looking enough to be a model.

"my apologies. i assume you're not open yet?" he says, sheepishly, already regretting having stepped inside.

you blink at him, because technically you're not open yet, but you're not about to turn away your first customer.

"oh no! uh, we're open! i mean, technically everything's been set out and i did already put the sign outside so that means we're open!" you ramble, nervously referring to your surroundings. the espresso machine is hissing hot behind you, the pink marble counter tops sparkling with a display of an assortment of pastries, and the collection of mismatched postcards and pop posters lining the walls. you'd only finished gluing down the removable letters for the wall menu a few minutes ago, and you're so glad you did as the handsome stranger stares at the wall.

"in that case, if it wouldn't be a bother... could i please get a flat white?" he nervously asks, stepping closer to the counter so you could hear him. your eyes are soft, glistening like pebble stones on the shoreline of a lake, and it makes his skin feel prickly and hot.

"yes, of course! iced or hot?"

"hot please."

"what kind of milk would you like?" you hum, typing in his order on the ipad. you notice out of the corner of your eyes that his shoulders have begun to relax, his body finally easing into the conversation.

"well, what kinds of milk do you have?"

"oh. duh." you slap yourself on the face, shaking your head sideways. "i should've mentioned that! we have oat, soy, coconut, almond, whole and semi-skimmed."

you smile at him so bright it's blinding, the kind that feels like the force of a million suns shining at once, and it's hard to not feel the edges of his own lips lifting at the way you're grinning from ear to ear.

"could i get it with oat milk, please?" he asks, whilst you nod and input his order.

"that'll be 400 yen please."

whilst nanami taps his card on the machine to pay, you hum to yourself as you prepare his coffee. your white skirt flows behind you as you pace from one end of the store to another, opening fridges, grinding the last of the coffee beans, pressing it into the portafilter, and locking it into the machine to brew. your head disappears from view for a few moments as you pull out the trays of freshly baked croissants from the back, your hands carefully handling the tongs to transfer the pastry into a neat paper bag with a smiling croissant on the front.

hastily, you put in another croissant inside before fetching the coffee for the man, a nervous smile on your face as you pass over the items.

"there you go, a flat white and complimentary croissant."

"thank you. though, you didn't have to give me two." he shyly adds, his fingers brushing against yours when he accepts it, his heart suddenly being flushed with warmth.

you shrug at his comment, hair falling into your eyes which you brush away with a sugar-dusted hand.

"you're my first customer ever..." you pause, eyes lifting in a way to subtly ask for his name.

he nearly stutters over his words with how eager he is.

"nanami. nanami kento."

".... nanami san. it was only fair that i give you more than one."

"well..." it's his turn to pause and raise his eyebrows, quietly asking for your name. your glossy lips part, as if you're surprised, and you dart your eyes away from his gaze that makes his heart burst with affection.

"please call me (y/n)."

you're not sure why you're even giving him your first name upon first meeting, but you're so glad you did when you see how his entire face lights up at your response.

his cheekbones rise and his eyes fade into a lighter shade of caramel.

"(y/n) san. thank you for the coffee and the extra croissant." he bows his head slightly towards you, which you automatically reciprocate, your heart dropping in disappointment when he begins to walk out.

"wait!" you call after him.

"yes?" he asks, turning around to face you. you look troubled, a little embarrassed to have stopped him in his tracks, but he doesn't mind.

he quite likes looking at you, he thinks.

"would you mind... trying the coffee now to tell me what you think? you know, considering you're my first ever customer?"

he chuckles at the innocent request, before carefully lifting the edge of his mask (just enough to bring the cup to his lips without revealing his face) and taking a sip. the flat white is smooth and delicate on his tongue, the caffeine not too overpowering but not weak.

hell, it's even better than his usual coffee place that was closed.

"it's perfect." he mutters.

"really?!" you can't contain your excitement.

"best coffee i've had in tokyo." nanami adds, enjoying the way you get flustered and fidget nervously behind the counter at the compliment. a curious customer squeezes their way past nanami, drawn by the pastel pink and green design, signalling that he should probably leave you to your day of business. "thank you again, (y/n) san. this coffee has truly made my day."

nanami means it, and he replays the bright smile you give him in response for the rest of the walk home.

when he arrives home, he sets down his coffee cup on the table and carefully unwraps one of the croissants as if it's the most important artifact in the world. biting into the middle, he tastes flaky pastry and smooth butter, the mixing of the sweet croissant and the bitter coffee causing him to nearly moan in delight.

it's perfect, he thinks. blinking his eyes open, he tries to remember the last time he's actually enjoyed something he's eaten, and comes up blank.

he'd gotten so used to cheap bento boxes from late night convenience stores and quick meals in the form of cereal and onigiris, that the simple pleasure of eating something delicious and warm had become so lost to him.

he finishes the croissant quickly and saves the second one for later, savoring each bite over his afternoon tea.

that's when he knows - he has to go back to your cafe.

==================

nanami should hesitate when leaving the front door of his apartment the next day.

after all, wouldn't it be too soon to return to your cafe so eagerly, repeating his visit for the second day in a row to a newly opened spot?

but none of that seemed to matter.

cause all he could think about was how his body buzzed with warmth when he'd drank that flat white in front of you, the creaminess of the milk, and the flush of affection he'd felt when you'd smiled with relief at his compliments.

so he ends up being the first customer of the day, again, when you open at 7am on a Tuesday morning. you blink at him, surprised, before exclaiming "nanami san! it's so good to see you again." and rattling off your specials for the day.

"i am trying out a new recipe for banana bread if you'd like to give it a try." you suggest, winking at him as you grab the tongs from behind you.

his eyes twinkle at your suggestion.

"i'd love to."

and like the day before, you prepare his coffee, carefully package his pastry, and bid him goodbye for the day. you hope he'll be a regular, though you know it's too soon to tell.

but then he comes back the next day. different outfit, same hat and mask, a shy smile on his face and his gravely voice asking you for a new pastry to try.

and then the next day.

and the day after that.

by the third week, you know he's a regular customer.

your cafe's been open for nearly a month now and you've come to expect the regular rush of crowds during the peak times and developed a keen eye for your regulars. an old gentleman who enjoys his cup of black coffee and chocolate muffin on the armchair by the window every morning, a half-folded newspaper on his lap. a young mom with twins smiling apologetically at you as she balances her iced latte with three bags of various treats, her children pulling at her arms for a quick bite. a couple in their 50's whom you've learned are retired lawyers, popping in during the afternoons for the sourdough bread you bake fresh on wednesday morning.

and nanami.

consistently, at 7am each day, walking through the front door asking for a flat white and a sweet treat. sometimes, he leaves with copious bags of almond croissants. another time, every flavor of cookie you'd baked for that week. and when he ends up ordering a single item for a day, like a blueberry muffin or a slice of carrot cake, you joke that he's starting to get sick of you.

but then he smiles lowly, shakes his head sideways, and looks you straight in the eyes when he says: "i could never get sick of you."

he means it, too.

his apartment has transformed from a dark, desolate place smelling of stale paper and unwashed clothes, to a brighter, livelier home filled with the scent of warm pastries and freshly brewed coffee. he finds himself spending longer each morning getting ready, fussing about what outfit to wear when he comes to visit you at the cafe each morning. the nights feel less unbearable with the awareness that tomorrow, like always, he'll wake up and get to see you first thing in the morning.

the world is still brutal. his injuries still hurt.

but the unspoken routine between you and him each morning - it keeps him going.

nanami also starts to stick around for a bit longer during his visits. he starts off by asking how your week has been so far, if there's been any new updates to the cafe and its menu. he asks you what recipes you're working on in the moment, nodding intensely as you ramble in between pressing coffees and rolling out dough, and charms you with his attention to detail when he remembers a comment you made weeks ago.

'i remember you saying the new tiling was supposed to come in this thursday. has everything worked out with that?'

on one friday afternoon, nanami finds himself a little hungry after a park run. he sees your bright, colorful sign from down the road and decides to give you a visit (no less than 8 hours after having seen you earlier in the day).

"welco- oh! you're back!" you exclaim, pleasantly surprised at his appearance. he looks a little different from what you're used to, now in tight shorts and a running jacket that expands over his muscular physique (which you try not to stare at, and fail miserably). nanami pretends not to notice your gaze either, suppressing his smirk for the sake of your sanity.

"i am. i hope that's okay." he says quietly, leaning over the counter.

"it's more than okay." you respond. "anything for my favorite customer. though-" you look up at the clock behind you. "we are closing in thirty minutes."

"totally fine. just a brownie for now please."

"one brownie, coming up."

the crowd in the cafe slowly begin to fade out over the course of the long conversation you have with nanami behind the counter. as you wipe down counters and serve the final orders, nanami leans out of the way as other cusomters return their coffee cups and exit the establishment. fifteen people become twelve, then ten, then five, and now two.

you and him.

"and i always think that-" you jump in fear at the sudden burst of thunder that rumbles through the city, the sky suddenly gray and spitting out rain at an alarming speed.

"oh shit. i gotta get my sign from outsid-"

you haven't even finished your sentence before nanami's rushing out the door for you, his left hand gently cupping yours for a moment.

"i got it."

he's positively drenched when he returns, the mere seconds in which he was outside in the storm enough to wet his entire attire, but he doesn't mind.

not when he's successfully rescued your pop-up sign, and you stare up at him in awe, bowing in thanks.

"wow, uh... thank you so much! you really didn't have to do that."

"i wanted to."

you crane your neck past him to look at the sky, biting your lower lip in worry.

"it looks like the rain won't clear up so quickly. you don't have an umbrella on you, right?" you ask him, wiping your hands on your apron. he shakes his head no, confirming your worries.

"could i at least walk you back home with an umbrella? it's the least i could, for saving my sign." you joke, lightly poking his shoulder.

"that'd be lovely."

so nanami finds himself waiting, patiently, as you finish closing off the shop, turning off the lights, and locking the doors before grabbing your umbrella.

"are those... kitten prints on the umbrella?"

you look away, flustered, as he steps closer to you to stay under your umbrella.

"hey, i like the design, okay? even if it's a bit... childish."

"don't worry. i was going to say it was cute. and that it suited you, a lot."

"thank you."

the walk to his apartment is easy, quiet. eventually your arm tires of holding the umbrella and he nervously asks if he can hold it for you instead, and asks you to hold onto his arm so that you can avoid getting wet. your soft hands curl around his bicep perfectly, your scent overwhelming from this proximity (a blend of vanilla and lavender), and nanami's mind is unable to focus on a single thing other than how warm you feel against him.

so when you two finally arrive in front of his apartment building, shoes soaked but heads dry, the words tumble out of his lips before he can think.

"could i take you out on a date some time? o-outside of the cafe, i mean."

and his heart skips a beat when you look down at your feet, unmoving, before grinning widely.

"i'd love that, nanami."

======================

it's not just your baking that's sweet, nanami learns.

the first date - a late night stroll after work around downtown tokyo - turns into a string of dates filled with syrupy smiles and feathery touches.

a trip to the aquarium. a jazz night at a bar. a bike ride around a park.

throughout it all, nanami is careful. it's unbelievable to him, how different his life suddenly looks.

his room's been cleaned to a professional standard. his fridge is filled with actual food, fresh produce and home cooked meals, instead of empty plastic containers. his apartment is now a bastion of light, owing to his windowsill of flowers, as he draws back the curtains and waters them each morning.

he's even found the strength to pick up his phone again, gingerly beginning to reach back out to old friends and colleagues of the like.

and when gojo flashes his signature smirk, visiting nanami's home three months now after the incident, asking coyly: "you've met someone, haven't you?"

nanami doesn't deny it.

only smiling a cool, low grin, before resuming the conversation.

the sun feels warmer on his skin. the music on the radio feels lighter, the flowers more plentiful, even the morning air more peaceful.

some weeks, nanami comes into the cafe early to help you set up. he checks the ingredients in stock, carries over the heavy bags of flour and coffee beans to the back kitchen, and kisses the top of your head through his mask when you lean into his touch out of exhaustion.

other weeks, he surprises you after work with a bouquet of flowers, alongside the newest tickets in hand to an art exhibition or a performance you've been dying to see.

it's easily the most comfortable love he's ever felt.

and yet, he's yet to kiss you.

it's not been for the lack of wanting. god, has he wanted to kiss you badly at times. when he finds you falling asleep against his chest whilst watching a movie at his place. when you complain to yourself in the kitchen, squinting your eyes at the measuring cup to perfect the ratio of flour to sugar. or when he sees you interacting with young kids who visit the cafe, crouching down to smooth over the children's hair whilst feeding them free samples of muffins and cookies.

but nanami just can't stomach the idea of you seeing his whole face.

the colder weather has allowed him to cover the burns on his body, the scars littering the right side of his torso with ease. long sleeves, oversized pants, zip up jackets.

but his face?

if he's not wearing his hat and mask, as he normally is 99% of the time, it becomes too obvious. he hasn't even been brave enough to look at himself in the mirror after the accident.

and he doesn't want to imagine what your reaction would be like upon seeing the extent of his injuries.

you, on the other hand, begin to worry. nanami's the best boyfriend you've ever had. he's sweet. he's a gentleman. he never pushes, always listens, and is always putting yourself before him.

so why doesn't he want to kiss you?

he has no issues holding your hand in public. he insists on walking on the side of the road closest to the cars when you two walk together on the streets. he likes having you sit on his lap on movie nights, and gently kisses your forehead when you're stressed out or overwhelmed from a bad work day.

does he not find you attractive like that?

it's confusing, maddening even, which doesn't go unnoticed by nanami.

"you're frowning, darling." he points out, slowing down his walking pace when he notices your face glazing over in contemplation.

you bite your lower lip, wondering if it's fair to ask, before caving.

"... do you find me attractive, nanami?"

his eyes widen like saucers at your question, voice stuttering in disbelief.

"of course i do, honey. wh-where is this coming from?"

you sigh, feeling bad for your question, clinging closer to him.

"sorry, i know, it's just-" you pause. "we've never kissed."

realization, and guilt, washes over him in an instant.

"oh."

seeing his disappointed reaction, you start speaking quickly in an effort to cover for yourself.

"which is totally fine if you don't find me physically attractive in that way, or if you think i'm asking too soon, i just really like you and was wondering if maybe i was being delusional you know." you're rambling, still holding his hand but unable to meet his gaze, so that nanami has to be the one to carefully cradle your face and turn your cheek to face him.

"darling, that isn't the case at all. it's just-" he takes in a deep breath. "it's just... i'm not sure you'd like what you'd see if i...."

he drops his hand from yours at the moment, eyes heavy and sad.

"if i removed the mask to kiss you."

you blink at him, shocked at his confession. you've gathered bits and pieces about his past. he had a dangerous job. it left a mark. but he hadn't gone into detail, and you hadn't pressed.

and now, he was bearing his heart to you out on the street, mid-way through a random evening walk to the supermarket just because you said you were craving some mochi.

"ken...." it's your turn to cup his face with your hands, your thumbs brushing against his cheeks. "you're perfect to me no matter what. i'd never think of you differently, scars or not."

he doesn't seem to fully believe you, or at least, feel confident, but he wordlessly drags you to a nearby alley away from the main street.

"if... if i show you my face, i don't want it to be somewhere public where people can... see."

your heart breaks at that confession, imagining how many people must have stared and made enough cruel comments to make him insecure.

"please promise you won't turn away." his voice is shaking, feeble even, his fingers looping around the mask but not pulling the fabric away quite yet.

"i promise."

nanami squeezes his eyes shut as he pulls away the fabric from his face, finally freeing the bottom half of his face. heart pounding so loud, he can hear his blood rushing through his ears, and his face feels cold from the sudden assault of winds brushing up against his skin.

and for a few moments, it's completely silent. save for his nervous breathing and the shuffling of feet as you step closer.

he doesn't see the expression on your face, his eyes still closed shut, but feels your warm hands cupping his face again. your soft, delicate fingers, tracing circles onto his rough, burnt skin, and it gives him the courage to open his eyes to meet your tear-filled ones.

"you're beautiful, nanami."

that's all it takes for him to pull you into his embrace immediately, your sugary lips meeting his, the taste of cinnamon sugar on the edge. he spins you around with so much force that he nearly slams you up against the wall, left hand cupping your face to angle your lips exactly, worries and sorrow melting into the starry night.

"i love you. so damn much." he whispers, his voice coming out gruff from his swollen lips.

"i love you too." you admit, still out of breath from the kiss, your face hot and buzzing from the contact.

pushing off of the wall, nanami extends a hand towards you to pull you back onto the sidewalk. the mask falls from his left hand, and nanami pauses for a moment, bending down to pick it up.

"do you... want to wear it again?" you question quietly, not knowing the answer.

but all he does is kiss you again, his left hand clenching around the fabric before tossing it into the trash.

"not a chance."

and when he walks through the streets of shibuya again, your warm hand in his and your voice filling the busy air, he doesn't even flinch.

it's in the past.

and when he looks at you from the corner of his eye, he sees the future.

a/n: omg omg omg okay so i'm so sorry for being so inconsistent with writing (╥﹏╥) work has been crazy but i got the most insane writer's rush on a sunday evening so i ended up writing this hurt/comfort fic in a few hours?! not sure if this turned out good but i really liked the idea and really needed a break from my other WIPs. next up (hopefully): the mega long slow-burn exes to lovers fic with ex fiancee!nanami and reader. it's already past 8k and that one will be a bitch to edit because i've been writing over several weeks lol. anyways, hope you guys liked this one uwu

ᯓ★ likes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated! ᯓ★

#oh im so ill #this is adorable #nanami kento u are so loved #nanami x reader

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cr4yolaas · 1 day ago

Text

in every lifetime, always you ᢉ𐭩 toji fushiguro

synopsis ˖⋆࿐໋ comfort and reassurance are foreign languages for toji fushiguro. but for you, he’d learn.

content surgeon! reader. hurt/comfort. implied depression. mentions of blood. ooc toji, but that’s the entire point of the fic

notes this was originally supposed to be an iwaizumi fic butttt my toji obsession has been at an all time high recently. enjoy ♡

find my other jjk works here!

for toji fushiguro, comfort is a foreign language. it burns bitter on his tongue with unfamiliarity, and he can't quite find the energy in him to understand it.

but patterns — those are engraved into his very being, even despite his demeanor that very much opposes the idea of consistency. it comes naturally with his job. routines, behaviors, and every day decisions all fall under his careful watch, a consequence of the stakes and responsibilities placed upon him.

and so, it's no surprise that he starts picking up on your patterns.

the way you add less and less sugar to your coffee in the morning, insisting it'd help you get through the day for even just a few minutes longer. the hourly texts that dissolve into once-in-a-while updates, and eventually, silence (he had feigned annoyance at your persistence before, but a part of him finds himself missing it, now). the slow, slow drag of your feet through the door past midnight. the extra minutes you spend in the shower, steam building up so heavily that he gets scared to even open the door. the slow, almost terrified way you slip into bed once he's already half-asleep.

baked into each of your actions lies a whisper of fear and exhaustion that he tries to trace. it shows when you come home during your lunch break following his hasty phone call, your hands hovering over each wound and gash for a moment before stitching him up in silence; even more so when you drive back to the hospital with only a quick kiss to the cheek and a glance in your wake.

in truth, toji knows what it all is.

but he waits. he waits and waits and waits for you to admit it yourself.

because, for toji fushiguro, comfort is foreign — and he wasn't ready to learn of it any time soon.

˖˚⊹ ꣑ৎ‎

the heater hums low against your bodies. buried in the bed is a mass of entangled limbs and skin, almost akin to a survival mechanism designed specifically to combat the cold of winter. toji's head lies against your chest while you comb your fingers through his hair with no purpose or intent behind each run through, and somewhere beneath the mass of blankets, you'd find your legs wrapped in his, seeking natural warmth even despite everything else.

"it's too cold," you whisper against the crown of his head. he only grunts, briefly.

"heater's broken. i'll get it fixed by this weekend, don't worry."

"mm."

toji feels it in your heartbeat and the slow rise and fall of your chest beneath him. he feels the disconnect from your own self between every crevice and square inch of flesh.

it's a rest day, he tells himself. the guilt of his next question weighs heavy, but part of him knows that whatever burden rests on your shoulders is heavier.

he shifts once, twice, before settling back to the same spot. "how's work?"

the discomfort settles in slowly, gradually. it crawls in from your throat and seeps to every other bone and muscle, and for a moment, you forget toji ever even asked anything.

"it's okay," you murmur. he follows your gaze to the chipped paint next to the doorway, a spot you like to focus on as a momentary distraction (another pattern he picked up easily). "just a lot of responsibility. a lot of work. too many people every day."

you feel toji's throat grumble as he hums in response. under any other circumstances, this would be a normal, if not insignificant conversation. one you would've shared so regularly it became a habit. but you can both feel it, the slow cracking of the reservoir that hides beneath the surface of whatever facade you've worn for the past couple of weeks.

he doesn't say a word. but silently, he urges for more.

"lots of accidents recently. the other day, a patient almost flatlined on the table because of a poorly placed incision i made. then the patient files thing i told you about last week — 'ts okay if you don't remember. and just- i don't know. there's so much to do. so much to think about."

your hand pauses its ministrations on his scalp. "i try to keep up. i really, really do, but-" you exhale, and he feels the weight of it all ghost against his skin. "i can't remember the last time i felt accomplished doing this. or proud, or relieved, or anything like that. there's always something."

"quit your job," toji mumbles into your sleep shirt (which, really, is his) with a half-laugh. you can't quite find it in yourself to even shake your head at his quip.

he wants to tell you that he understands, that part of him relates to the burden of responsibility, what with the numerous challenges his own career throws at him. but he can see it in the haze in your eyes and the shallowness of your breath that there's something larger.

there's a pause before you start shimmying out from his hold to sit up against the headboard. toji's head falls onto the mattress, and now, he's looking up at you.

"not funny," you mutter, but it's more of a scoff, than anything. "'ji, i can't just quit. i can't just stop. they need me."

he matches your posture, his weight now carried by his arms as he sits up to face you. "they don't need you to slowly kill yourself from working. don't be stupid." it comes out harsher than he means it to, and he hopes, god he hopes you know that.

"what's stupid is the fact that you're telling me to leave rather than fix it."

"fix what?"

you motion all around yourself, too lost for words to quantify the blur settling in your head. "this."

there's a ghost of a laugh that falls from toji's lips. "you think you're gonna fix it by just doing the same shit every day? as if, magically, one of these days it's all gonna go away?"

you gulp at that, too scared to admit that he's right, to some extent. slowly, he lowers himself back against the mattress, his head now resting on the palm of his hand. the other pats the spot next to him, and hesitantly, you follow him back into the blankets with your back turned to him.

silence follows after. toji doesn't say anything else — just wraps an arm around your torso and tucks you into his chest like you belong there, sleep chasing after him with ease. he doesn't see the way your eyes stare down the same spot on the wall for the next couple of hours, or the way your hands tremble against each other quietly, and in the moment, you think it's better this way.

˖˚⊹ ꣑ৎ‎

toji hates arguing with you, too.

not because he doesn't want to — in fact, there were countless times he wanted nothing more than to huff and puff or yell in retaliation at your relentless nagging. but rather, because he thinks it's a hassle. the emotional baggage and the messy aftermath and the confrontation leaves a sour taste in his mouth, and truthfully, he tries — really, really tries — to avoid it.

so, when you leave for work the next morning, even despite his half-joke half-critique to leave your job the night before, he doesn't fight you on it.

instead, he leaves a warm lunch by your keys. it's one of your favorites, one that you didn't realize he'd recalled, and you can tell he used the recipe you keep in your notes app. your water bottle is already filled, and beside it, there's a can of coffee (that you presume he bought from the convenience store two blocks down) collecting condensation. it's unlike him, really. too far out of his way, too much of an inconvenience in the routine (or rather, the lack thereof) that he had grown so accustomed to.

you think little of it. part of you believes it's a tactic — something to get you to warm up to his proposal, to sway you into his territory — and yet, the other part knows there's little intention behind it.

but the patterns start piling up, slowly. just as toji had, you start noticing his shifts in demeanor, the new actions that take place of his previous structure.

when you get home the same night, plopping beside him on the couch, he starts to massage your shoulders almost absentmindedly, as if it's second nature. something hard-wired into his list of habits. he rolls out the knots and pulls apart the threads holding onto you oh so tightly, and soon, you find yourself melting into his arms, too tired to ponder the intention behind it.

you find the changes in the little things that carry on for the next couple of weeks. randomly, he'll pop into the shower with you, turning the temperature down while scolding you for using up all the gas and lathering shampoo through your scalp. some nights are spent drying your hair in quietude. others pass by with careful massages to your back while he lies beneath you, the motions sending you both to slumber. occasionally, he'll drive you to work, insisting that it's on the way to his job for the day, only for you to find him turning back the same way he came a few minutes later.

he does it all like it's already a part of him, despite the fact that it goes against the image of toji fushiguro that you're accustomed to.

you can't tell if it's done out of support or if it's a silent plea for you to listen. what you do know is that it all piles up, crafting a new version of him that he would deem unrecognizable just a few months prior.

but you also know that, despite the underlying desperation in every newfound action and habit that he picks up, nothing seems to change. the exhaustion continues to build, and the burden of responsibility only festers like rot in your lungs, working against whatever little pushes toji sends your way.

it's tiring. the back and forth between his growing support, so far out of his norm that it's disorienting, and the gnawing guilt drains every bit of energy out of you, and truthfully, neither of you know how to stop it.

˖˚⊹ ꣑ৎ‎

toji gets the call at 4 am, right as he's making some semblance of a breakfast for you to come home to.

just a few hours ago, you'd been called in the midst of some emergency — something about an accident and a handful of people to handle. he'd already dropped everything to pack your bags and drive you there. it was just a matter of waiting.

now, he's driving the exact same route back to the hospital, his sweater in the passenger seat and the meal he was making left to go cold in the kitchen. the call was quick, the voice on the other side of the line evidently panicked even despite their attempts to maintain composure.

"she needs to go home," they'd uttered. "it's- it's not looking good. we can't keep her here, there are too many people to care for, and, i'm sorry, but- she has to go."

toji's already outside the operation room by the time you're pulled out, shaky hands and blurry eyes and all. for a man who was surrounded by blood every second of his day, the sight of it all over your scrubs frightens him.

someone else pulls you aside to change, and like a lost dog, he follows suit, even when another holds him outside of the locker room. it's beyond frantic, especially with the plethora of nurses and doctors that look almost as shaken as you running all over the halls, passing by him like he's nothing more than an obstacle.

when you come back out in the same clothes you were wearing when you left, toji's arms are already around you. he doesn't know how to comfort you now. the words that he thinks work in this scenario fall flat on his tongue, and frankly, he's at a loss.

so, he does what he knows best.

silently, he takes you into the car, placing the sweater in your lap as a quiet offering. the drive back home is less haphazard than the one he took to get there. his palm, calloused and warm, rests on your thigh — not sensually, but rather, to let you know that he's there. you give him nothing in response, save for an empty look into the road in front of you and a tremble in your leg.

˖˚⊹ ꣑ৎ‎

you don't leave the bed in the afternoon.

initially, toji tries to keep the same habits in place — a warm, hearty meal, gentle massages, an absentminded hand rubbing against your arm. it's only when you turn away — the only response you'd given him within the past handful of hours — that he gives up. the unrecognizable version of himself that he'd built up in an attempt to keep you standing falls apart, and left behind is the toji fushiguro that knows nothing of comfort and stability.

i didn't think it would get this bad, is what he wants to say to himself so, so badly. but more than anyone, he knows that it had already gotten "bad." he was just too late to realize it. too late to react.

later in the evening, after a very heated debate within his internal monologue, toji forces you out of bed and into the kitchen. he makes you sit at the dinner table, his own force making him grimace, and pulls the remnants of the breakfast from earlier from the fridge. "eat," he huffs. it's a far cry from the gentleness he tried so hard to maintain for the past couple of months.

you shake your head at first, and at that, toji groans. not out of frustration towards you, but out of frustration from himself. from his lack of knowledge on how to handle any of the emotional business. from his inability to return the comfort you so easily handed to him every so often. when you eventually come around, he doesn't feel achieved — just relieved.

the rest falls into place, slowly. you follow him into the shower, and like before, he turns the heat down when you try to turn it up, all while massaging shampoo into your hair and lathering your body wash onto your skin. he dries your hair shortly after, and once you've changed into your sleepwear (his old t-shirt, and your own pajama pants), he wraps a warm blanket around you both.

it's less clumsy than it would usually be, a consequence of the patterns he'd picked up. the little pushes of support that he'd deemed as nothing more than a necessity weaved themselves into a second layer of habitual routine, and although they hadn't helped much then, he knows they're helping now, at the very least.

the quiet continues for a few moments longer, until you break.

there are no tears, no wails, nothing loud. just a whispered, "i can't do it anymore, toji."

helpless.

that what toji thinks you look like, even in his arms as you utter those six words. small, fragile, and helpless.

he hears the strain in your voice and does his best to push aside the "i told you so" that tries to rise up to his throat. instead, he holds you tighter and rubs small circles against your back, tucking you into that familiar cranny within his chest that he knows you belong in.

even still, he doesn't really know what to say in response. any words of comfort run bitterly on his tongue, the aftermath of years of neglect and disdain.

but, regardless, he tries.

"no matter how much it feels like it," he begins, the words scratchy and foreign. "the weight of the world doesn't lie on your shoulders. i'm here. your coworkers are there. 'ts not your burden to bear alone."

there's a promise to be better — for both of you to be better — etched into the silence that follows afterward. toji doesn't need you to respond, doesn't need any confirmation that you heard him. he feels it in the way you curl up against him and allow sleep to follow after you that things are changing. and for him, that's more than enough.

˖˚⊹ ꣑ৎ‎

bonus:

the front door slams shut, followed by heavy footsteps that are undeniably his that trail into the kitchen, and then a rough, reverberating call of your name.

toji looks a bit more beat up than usual — there's a gash on his forearm, and a few blooming bruises here and there that you know he'll complain about later on. "'ji, you're getting blood all over the floor," you nag, even while grabbing the medkit you'd placed above the fridge for emergencies.

"i'll clean it later," he groans. an evident lie.

the evening sun spills onto every crevice and surface of his build, highlighting every remnant of today's job. it's almost cozy, if you ignore the red splattered on nearly every square inch of skin and the scowl on his face while you dab antiseptic onto the wound.

in the midst of a grimace, toji jokes, “it’ll only heal if you kiss it better.” it’s cheesy and corny and every other word to describe the cringe that it sends your way. he laughs at the frown that falls onto your lips at his quip — not genuine disdain — and traces the creases that form between your brows.

“d’you want it to get infected?”

you feign annoyance at the louder laugh that follows after, but he sees it in the twitch of your lips and the warmth of your cheeks as you press a small peck to the skin just to the side of the actual wound that you don’t mind the banter.

it’s quiet. toji watches intently as you stitch up the gash, the hesitation from months prior long forgotten. he tries to recall the last time you’d stitched him up like this — before everything, at least — and the memory slips from him before he can catch it. because, truthfully, he can’t remember the last time you hadn’t done anything with that tinge of fear riddled into every movement. he realizes, now, that it’d all come full circle. the habits, the patterns, the behaviors that he tried so hard to memorize and recognize.

but, in truth, toji knows that no matter how many of your routines he locks down in his memory, there will always be change. maybe, if it means getting to watch you more, to be a little closer, and to work on himself in the process, he’ll let it happen. he decides, then and there, that’s his life plan — to etch every change and shift and altercation to your life and its routines into his memory.

no matter the change or continuity, he knows he’d always choose you.

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cr4yolaas · 4 days ago

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hello, members of kpop/enhypen community! my name is tori and I am the owner of the jjk-centered blog @kenntoria. please read this if you care about content theft and plagiarism!!

after thinking long and hard about this(not that long, okay) i have decided that bringing attention to this situation was the right thing to do. now, let me start by saying that i mention in my pinned post that my works are not to be plagiarized, but I guess it wasn’t clear enough which brings us all here:

not even a week ago, on july 23, i received an ask from anon asking if i own a certain blog since there is a fic very similar to mine and anon also linked the post. same anon then sent another ask with another link to a different post of the same writer. the blog is named @okwonyo !

i’ll link the fics here(had to unblock the author to do that): “confession” and “dreamer”.

and the works that they were “inspired by” are: “flirting” and “shaving nanami”.

now, the posts were uploaded on july 21 and jul 10, notably later than my works, and if it weren’t for anon i wouldn’t even have known about anything, because i don’t lurk around the enhypen tag. if you want to, you can read works and connect the dots, but i am gonna present the similarities and explain why i, and many others, think it’s blatant plagiarism rather than inspiration(red is marking her work and blue is marking mine), you can read the whole thing too if you’d like ofc, i highlighted everything that would guide to see the problem, but please read everything.

this is from “dreamer” and “shaving nanami” fics. you can see that there is similar pacing, and some of the sentences are structured the same way, using the same words, minimal changes applied. and yeah, you can say that the writer added the “dreaming about marrying you” thing to her work but it doesn’t change the fact that this whole thing was basically ripped off. then, let’s get to the “confession” fic that has like a sequence of sentences taken from my fic, despite the plot being a little different in her fic, but the whole “not noticing the flirting thing” was taken from me. i wouldn’t really call that inspiration if you just take the sentences and literally put them in your fic. would you? :)

(mind you, this is my first time dealing with things like this, which is not an excuse, bur rather an explanation as to why i handled this situation poorly at first.)

now, with these out of the way, let’s discuss what i talked about with the owner of the @/okwonyo, or “jiah”. i sent an ask since i didn’t follow her and couldn’t message her, and we had a civil conversation about these works. i’m sorry i don’t have screenshots but it’s because the chat is no longer available to me(she blocked me from her sideblog which she used for chat with me @okwonyos).

she did apologise and offered to link the fics(or even take them down!) but i, admittedly, was a bit distracted with in real life issues and dismissed by saying that she could just tag me, which of course was my fault. when i said that i thought she would say “inspired by bla bla bla” but she just literally tagged me in the end of posts(mind you, there were 4 posts and she tagged me only in these 2 hah) and when i noticed and decided to ask her to take the posts down like she offered in the beginning because it would just be easier and would make me comfortable enough. she insisted that she likes those works a lot and me, being the pushover i am, relented and thought “well alright at least her readers will stay happy” and allowed her to link my stuff in her post, although she again mentioned me only at the end when i asked her to do it in the beginning of the post. i didn’t really care that her notes were in the end, not really.

come to find our, there were another 2 fics, that i didn’t know about until she mentioned me.

oblivious and promises, which are “inspired” again by my fics: oblivious reader and beauty marks.

was she gonna mention these if i hadn’t texted her again a while later about her poor credit giving style? i don’t think so, buddy. anyways, i read the fics briefly and was baffled by the similarities i saw. granted, i will mention that the “oblivious” fic by her resembles an “inspiration” a lot more than other fics since there are added elements like the characters being childhood friends and confession scene and all that — but still, there is whole beginning of the fic that she basically reworded from mine(was it necessary to even use the message with emoji thing…):

for the “promises” fic… bruh, the pacing, the whole dialogue, the similarities, literally whatever happens between the reader and that male character are taken from my fic and reworded and posted as original before i dm’ed the author. which pisses me off, because if she had mentioned me from the beginning and if i considered it plagiarism it just would have been a lot more telling about this author’s intentions — they wouldn’t have been able to act nonchalantly, you know what i mean?

now, eventually, i sent the author some texts about how just taking paragraphs and changing them a little doesn’t look much like an inspiration and asked to take the posts down(if i remember correctly) and she went defence mode and me? i was too tired with my irl issues to attempt anything more after a string of messages pointing out that she didn’t “copy and paste” and she added her own details and plots to the fic. so i went with something like okay whatever i hope you learn from your mistake and bye and she happily replied “feel free to block me” which irked me.

it irked me to the point that after blocking her i didn’t feel relief or like a “winner” but more like i played right into her hand, which should have been the signs that this was not the right way to end things.

now, jiah, did you think it was over? i did think i’d just be mulling over this for a while and hoping other people don’t steal my stuff, but see it’s not me who noticed it, i was unaware — it was other people, several people, who noticed you just taking writing as your own and ignoring being “inspired” by me until you were reminded that yes, you did it wrong. and you have to understand what you did was wrong and accept it.

and you had to be the one to address it to your readers because me, i did address it and i asked my readers and followers to not even say anything to you and not go into your inbox — but something tells me you would have just ignored them and turned off anon asks.

you may ask: tori, why are you posting this almost a week later? well, i’m not gonna lie i have been thinking about this whole situation a lot and how i didn’t do it right and didn’t feel satisfied. and thanks to my beautiful readers and anons who felt injustice and confirmed my thoughts i have been finally pushed to act on this.

look, i have nothing to gain from this… i don’t need like the undying love of enhypen fans or to turn anyone against her, but jiah, gotta respect me, no? do i really need your credits after you posted your post like 10 days ago and was going to act like nothing happened until confronted? i really don’t lol, i just want to have peace and i want every anon and every person who sent me an ask about it and showed me immense support to be relieved that kpop community knows what’s going on.

and i’m bringing awareness to this because i am sure that plagiarism here is really common and i have been lucky to be struck by it only for the first time.

now, do what you will with all of this info.

thank you for reading this and have a good rest of your day!!

(read this too)

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cr4yolaas · 5 days ago

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i do a little wii bowling jump when ppl comment / send asks abt my works

#i get so excited when i see the ask notif #except for when its a bot

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cr4yolaas · 5 days ago

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In ur Olympic Toji x Shiu smau, who's topping who because I need to know 👀

im crying this is such a funny ask. i won’t lie i didn’t think that far into the toji shiu sideplot but if i had to give an answer on the spot it’d be shiu

#toji tries to convince himself that it’s him but its not #hes too emotionally connected to the relationship without realizing it #whereas shiu couldn’t care less #im a little curious as to how lfis got rebranded into a toji x shiu smau but maybe its a sign from the stars

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cr4yolaas · 6 days ago

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LIKE FLOWERS IN SAND 𓇼 ˚｡⋆ D-182

007 | masterlist | 009

ଳ kento leaving the jacket by yn’s gear bag made his heart pang a bit bc it reminded him of the strawberry milk he would leave by her bag when they were younger … whoa who said that? must’ve been the wind!

ଳ the video had a portion of yn and gojo’s training + sparring session and gojo got his ass BEAT hence the reaction

ଳ but there was also a certain someone looking at them the whole time … man i wonder who!

ଳ a big part of him js felt so envious of gojo for getting to see the side of her he once had

ଳ my jealous king!

taglist ࿔࿐ @mayyhaps @chososcamgirl @poopooindamouf @acowboykisser @goonforgeto @hqnge @linny-bloggs @clamousera @reidsworld @chosoly @night-sky16 @s6rine @sovaenjoyer @linaaeatsfamilies

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cr4yolaas · 14 days ago

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"papa, are you crying?"

the question is sharp as a bell, slicing through the lazy warmth of the afternoon. nanami kento flinches ever so slightly, knowing he's been caught red-handed, his fingers poised above the glossy pages of a wedding album, eyes crinkled at the corners.

your daughter, all elbows and smiles and baby fat, is sprawled across his lap, pointing a tiny finger at the incriminating evidence: a photo of her father, the stoic and unflappable nanami kento, dabbing at his eyes with a rumpled handkerchief, tuxedo just a bit too formal and stiff and gold hair slicked back just so.

he tries to cover it up with a cough, but you hear the faint tremor of a laugh in his chest.

"it's called being moved, darling," he says, tapping the page gently. "sometimes, when something is so beautiful, it sneaks up on you. even grown-ups cry, you know."

your daughter is not having it. "but you never cry! not even when you cut onions." she sounds personally affronted, as if you, her mother, had cast some sort of bewitching spell on her father, her unshakable hero, by looking so lovely in that wedding dress that it had reduced him to tears.

kento flips to another page, the one with the photo of you laughing, bouquet pressed to your face, eyes creased in joy. "that's because i don't love onions," he tells her, deadpan. "i love your mother."

the words come out so matter-of-fact, so effortlessly, you feel your own heart trip over itself from across the room.

she considers this, squinting at his face as if to measure the truth in the lines beside his eyes. "you look like a cartoon," she declares, and presses her palms to his cheeks, smushing them until he's forced into a silly fishy face.

"thank you for the feedback, miss," he says, barely suppressing a smile. "would you like to see the next one? this is where your mama nearly tripped on the train of her dress."

"papa!" she shrieks, delighted, wriggling even closer as he flicks to the next glossy page. "did you catch her?"

"of course," he replies, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial stage whisper. "i'd catch her a million times, if she let me."

you watch them from the kitchen, soaking in the sight: your daughter's hand dwarfed by kento's, your family gathered in a pool of late sunlight, a lifetime's worth of laughter tucked neatly between the pages of an old album. your daughter leans her head on his shoulder, eyes wide and dreamy.

"can i wear your suit when i get married?" she asks suddenly.

kento blinks, surprised, then bows his head as if considering. "if you want to," he says eventually, ruffling her hair, "and i'll help you pick the tie myself."

she beams brightly, entirely satisfied, already imagining herself grown and brave and loved.

kento glances up at you, caught by your smile, and you see in his eyes a thousand wedding days, a thousand promises, every single page of your story leading to this: sunlit laughter, gentle hands, and the simple, devastating joy of being loved unconditionally.

#im ill im ill im ill #in a beautiful way #ohhh nanami kento the man u are #‘it’s called being moved’ op i’ve been moved by this fic i fear #nanami x reader

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cr4yolaas · 16 days ago

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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.

#this is so so severely underrated and so so beautiful #the more i scrolled the more i wished it didn’t end #i will admit i had to step away to doomscroll every couple of chunks bc i was so overwhelmed w emotion (in a good way)#but anyways #i have so much love in my heart for this fic #the way rdr slots so seamlessly into his life even despite the grief and weight and regret that we’re exposed to at the start #and the slow vulnerability that isn’t just outright stated but also hidden in the little details #like the way touch becomes more natural between them or the routines that slowly settle #routine-based fics are in hindsight simplistic but they r my biggest weakness i fear #i js love how they’re so ‘opposites attract’ but it isn’t exactly in ur face. it’s just there like it was meant to be #the detail of the shoes towards the end (boots vs ballet flats) really got me LOL it was so cute #and the double date w shiu. ohhh im ill #love isn’t just desire and belonging it’s also vulnerability and you showed that so so wonderfully here #toji x reader #jjk toji #jujutsu kaisen toji

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cr4yolaas · 16 days ago

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LIKE FLOWERS IN SAND 𓇼 ˚｡⋆ IN YOUR EYES

006 | masterlist | 008

ଳ team dinner!

ଳ the documentary team was invited bc the coaches felt bad for leaving them out when they basically stayed for every practice

ଳ y/n was very very opposed but was very very silent about it. gojo was so hype

ଳ tbh it was a very tame dinner but gojo kept trying to flirt w their beautiful mysterious dark-haired manager (is it clear yet. is it obvious)

ଳ ik the phone number stuff w nanami seems a little confusing/vague now but it’ll make sense later i pinky promise (i say this every chapter LOL but there is more on them later)

taglist ࿔࿐ @mayyhaps @chososcamgirl @poopooindamouf @acowboykisser @goonforgeto @hqnge @linny-bloggs @clamousera @reidsworld @chosoly @night-sky16 @s6rine @sovaenjoyer @linaaeatsfamilies

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cr4yolaas · 17 days ago

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after some thinking, i offer: whiplash remake but with kageyama instead 😛😛

contemplating bringing back whiplash …

#cant even lie whiplash was one of my favorite concepts #but i think just like the way i started it made me kinda burn out of it FAST #but i do wanna ressurect it with one of the haikyuu guys #i think it’d be funny if i followed thru and got accused of ‘copying’ whiplash at some point LOL

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cr4yolaas · 17 days ago

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contemplating bringing back whiplash …

#i say this knowing that if i did it’d be like 2 chapters and id dip again #sigh #i just hate the effort it takes to format smaus #let me just airdrop u guys the story bro 💔💔

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cr4yolaas · 19 days ago

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doomsday is coming up (start of senior year)

#actually so nervy for college apps bc #for one i’m broke #and finding scholarships + actually WINNING them is hard #and two im dreading essays and also just like #having to list all my ecs (or rather the lack thereof)#my issue is that i have a small amount of ecs bc the main ones take up SO much of my time that i can’t make room for others #and so i have no room for actual stem related ecs ….#but we ball #ucla will take me #manifesting!!!!!!!!!!!

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cr4yolaas · 19 days ago

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₍^. .^₎⟆ synopsis: nanami wakes up in a hospital - confused, dazed, and suddenly kissed by his attractive doctor. who turns out to be his wife that he can't remember. word count: 2.7k

nanami wakes to the sound of persistent beeping.

at first, he thinks it must be his alarm clock. but it can't be, he reasons, because it's not an uninterrupted noise. rather, it's flicking on and off in a consistent rhythm.

the next thing he notices is the smell. harsh disenfectants, a mix of citrus and bleach. it lacks the smell of his laundry detergent - sandalwood and bergamot - and now that he thinks about it, his sheets were never this itchy and dry.

when he forces open his eyes, they're immediately blinded by the flourscent lighting up ahead. his eyes blinking furiously against the white burst of light to adjust to his surroundings.

he realizes his regular suit has been replaced with a hospital gown, white and frumpy with printed blue squares. his feet are bare against the stale white sheets, the same shade of white as the walls enveloping the room. the darkness outside the window tells him that he must've woken up late at night. a quiet ticking clock on the wall confirms his suspicions - 10.28pm.

the beeping, it turns out, was his heart monitor. situated carefully next to a small bedside table with water and an untouched sandwich. there's a small note next to it, in beautiful cursive writing someone has written - 'feed yourself, kento!' - in black sharpie. examining the sandwich up closer, he can see it's turkey and pesto (his favorite).

to his left, there's a single chair with a cardigan draped over it (a cardigan certainly not belonging to him, nanami notes). on the seat, there's a newspaper open to a crossword puzzle and a pen resting carefully on top.

trying to get a closer look at the crossword, he sits up, nearly swearing out loud from the sharp pain shooting up his left side. his heart mointor goes wild, the silence of the room broken, when he instinctively pulls down his blanket to see a nasty gash along his side.

within a few seconds, he hears hurried footsteps down the hallway and the door slams open.

"you're awake." you say, relieved. you almost sound like you're about to cry, which he finds strange, but chalks it up to you being a very attentive doctor.

the next thing he notices is that you're really pretty. the kind of pretty that would have made him blush profusely in his 20s and stoically stare at from a distance in hopes that you'd make a move first. you smell like daisies and fresh rain; you smile at him so dazzingly that his words turn to mush.

you then suddenly rush towards him, tossing your clipboard onto the chair, before grabbing his face and kissing him. his mind short circuits at the sudden contact, face flushing red at the unsolicited kiss. his whole body is buzzing with electricity, your sticky lipgloss staining his lips, and he almost has to surpress his whine when you pull away looking confused.

"...are you alright?" you question him, noticing your husband seems more quiet and stiff than usual.

nanami coughs awkwardly, attempting to calm his beating heart.

"i... i'm not sure how professional it is to kiss your patients, doctor." he says earnestly, but you (to his surprise) laughs him off.

"oh come on, nanami. you're acting like it's the first time." you quip, shaking your head sideways.

he's genuinely confused.

"is it not?"

you open your mouth again, ready to give him a sassy remark, but the words die in your mouth when you see that serious glint in his eyes.

lack of sleep before the mission. blunt force trauma to the head. submersion in freezing water for five minutes before geto could pull him out.

all things, logically speaking, which could result in temporary amnesia.

"you're... you're joking, right?" you trail off, hoping for even a flicker of amusment on his face. "please say you're joking."

his heart breaks at how desparate your tone becomes, but no matter how hard he tries to remember, he can't seem to find you amongst his memories.

"i-i'm sorry. do we... know each other?"

there's a beat of silence as his question hangs heavy in the air. you seem to swallow nervously, eyes shifting down to the floor as if you're lost in thought before you look back up at him with an unreadable look on your face.

"what'd you think?" you mumble quietly, raising your left hand. a diamond ring with rose details shines back at him, and suddenly nanami can feel the weight of a ring on his own left hand.

but before he can respond, a nurse is calling for you.

"I'll be back in a bit. just... eat something and rest, okay?"

nanami has so many questions he wants to ask you, his wife that he can't remember, but you're gone in an instant with an apologetic look.

what lingers is your smell, your perfume haunting the room for hours before he eventually falls back asleep.

his head plagued with questions.

==================

it's been three days since he's woken up.

so far, you've been in his room daily to monitor his vitals, ask him the usual questions (how have you been eating, any odd pain, do you need your sheets changed), and swap out the usual hospital food with his favorite foods. he suppresses the urge to ask how you know what he wants to eat so easily, and it becomes clear that you're putting in an effort to keep your distance from him.

you no longer smile wide and bright as you did the first time he saw you, your lips always pressed in a professional smile and your body never hovering closer than a few inches from him.

he misses you. there's an odd ache in his body when you're near, like he's trying to hold onto a ghost from his past that's too close and too far from him at the same time. he swears he still tastes your lipgloss when he anxiously licks his lips, which drives him even more insane.

he manages to get a few answers out of you during the routine checks. he asks anything, in hopes it'll spark his memories, but also because he can't stand the silence in the room.

the heavy tension as you avoid his gaze, whilst simultaneously staring at him from the corner of your eyes whenever you're in the room.

"where do we live?"

"fifteen minutes from ueno."

"how long till i get discharged?"

"depends on your vitals, but i'd say maybe another 36 hours."

"are you taking care of yourself?" nanami can't help but ask you that one day, when you look particularly tired and drained.

you give him a weary smile, nodding weakly.

"mostly. don't worry, our neighbours are keeping an eye on yuki."

his throat runs dry at that answer, his mind suddenly flashing with imaginations of a young girl the spitting image of you and nanami.

"yuki? is that... our daughter?" he asks carefully, his heart racing.

your eyes become so wide and you nearly choke on your spit.

"oh! uh... no. yuki's our cat. she's a really sweet, white cat we adopted from a shelter a few months back. she's two." you trail off, feeling guilty. "sorry, I forgot that you would've forgotten that yuki is our cat too."

nanami just quietly thanks you and doesn't press the subject further.

but the image of yours and his fictional daughter lingers.

true to your word, nanami gets his clean bill of health confirmed the next day and his belongings are returned to him in a meticulous manner. changing out of his hospital gown, his old clothes feel foreign against his skin.

staring at himself in the mirror, he traces every curve and dip on his face in an attempt to spark a memory. he knows his name. his friends. dreadfully, his work. but the past two years feels like a blank in his memory, ripped out pages of an incomplete sketchbook.

splashing water onto his face, he steps out the bathroom, feeling more on edge than ever. whilst waiting for you in the reception room, he can't help himself from nervously adjusting his cuff links and fiddling with his tie.

because he's going home. with you.

"ready?" you ask, slinging your bag over your shoulder. you've changed out of the uniform he's gotten so used to seeing - now in a loose tank top with a cherry print on it and form fitting jeans. your lipgloss has become more sheer through out the day, and you're wearing less mascara than usual.

"you look beautiful." he comments, without really thinking it through. you seem embarrassed by the compliment, ducking your head to avoid his gaze.

"thank you."

he purses his lips because you're still avoiding his gaze. it doesn't feel right, even if he doesn't know you as well as you know him.

"please don't look away."

it's the first time he's addressed the fact that you've been avoiding looking at him directly, making you freeze in place.

"please." he nearly whispers it, and you can't find it in your heart to refuse him.

you take in a small breath, mustering up the courage to look at him square in the eyes.

"okay."

he wordlessly takes your bag from your shoulder, trailing behind you as you walk towards your car in the parking lot. he also refuses to let you open the car door by yourself, placing his spare hand on the ceiling so you won't bump your head as you sit down.

it's so routine, you almost forget that he doesn't remember anything.

and he stills sits in the seat next to you, not the back seat. and he switches the radio to the station he'd always listen to, without being prompted to.

"are you alright?" nanami questions, noticing how your eyes are becoming watery.

you're barely able to croak out that you're fine before pulling out of the driveway, your thoughts a complete mess on the drive home.

==================

"this is the living room.... we had a bit of an argument over what color to paint the walls but we eventually settled on sage green because it's calming. though-" you chuckle, mostly to yourself. "you always insisted it wasn't an argument because you'd always let me win."

it's strange, for nanami, getting a tour of his own house. but he dutifully follows behind you, nodding along to each of your descriptions, analysing every nook and cranny of the apartment.

the kitchen is sleek but homey. DIY tiles, vintage kitchenware, vase of sunflowers in the middle of the table.

the bathroom is small but clean. his aftershave and razor sits untouched next to your bottles of perfume and makeup brushes. a crinkled book settled by the bath tub tells him that you're a fan of reading in the bath.

the office room is busy but organized, stacked high with books and files belonging to him. there's a few odd artifacts here and there - souvenirs from travels abroad, you say - and he spots a photo frame with you hugging him from behind. the scenery says malaysia, but he can't make out the exact date of the photo.

"and this... is the bedroom." you wait for him to look around the room by himself, standing at the doorway awkwardly as you wait for the right thing to say.

it's nearly 11pm now, and you're so tired that you want nothing more than to curl up next to him and sleep.

but that would be highly inappropriate, you reason, given that he's a stranger now.

"i've already laid out your clothes for the night on the corner of the bed." you explain slowly. "i've already taken out my stuff for the night, so don't worry."

he spins around and stares at you, confused.

"but then where would you be sleeping?"

you shrug, trying to come off nonchalant.

"i figured you'd want to sleep alone on your first night. what with the temporary amnesia and all." even the word amnesia leaves a sour taste on your mouth as you admit it out loud. "i can sleep on the couch in the living room, it's fin-"

nanami shakes his head sideways immediately.

"nonesense. no lady should be sleeping on a sofa. i'll take the couch, you should take the bed."

"are you-"

"yes, i'm completely sure. i will not have you sleep outside in your own home." he replies sternly, the glint in his eyes oh so familiar. a warning sign that it's not up for debate, he's made up his mind.

"it's your home too." you respond quietly. but nanami catches it, and his stern look falls for a short second.

"i... i know, but... please. i couldn't bear the thought of you sleeping on a sofa after a hospital shift."

"okay."

after moving over a few pillows and a blanket for him to the sofa, and an awkward exchange of 'good nights', you shut the bedroom door behind you and crawl into bed.

suddenly, the bed feels too cold and empty. the blankets are overwhelmingly heavy and hot against your skin, and the ceiling fan seems to be louder than usual. the heaviness of the situation begins to set in and before you know it, you're crying.

salty tears streaking down your face, body shivering under the sheets as you grieve what you've lost.

two years of marriage - gone.

he tries to hide it, but whenver he looks at you, you feel it in your guts.

you're a stranger to him.

and now, you fear he may never remember you again.

it might've been twenty minutes. or a full hour, you're not sure.

but in the complete darkness, you can't tell the passage of time before you hear a soft knock on the door.

"it's nanami." he announces himself, as if you wouldn't know that it was him (if you were in a better mood, it'd probably make you laugh). "can i come in?"

wiping the tears from your face as fast as you can, you sit up to face the door.

"y-yes. come in."

even in the pitch darkness, you can imagine nanami's beautiful face scrunching up in worry, his figure slowly moving towards you in the dark.

"i heard you crying." he whispers, and the tenderness in his voice nearly threatens to break you again.

"i'm sorry, i should've been more quiet." you reply, as he sits down on the bed across from you.

"it's fine, i.... fuck, it's not fine."

you blink in surprise, knowing that it was rare to hear nanami swear.

"of course it's not fine, i can't imagine how painful this whole ordeal must be for you. you've been incredibly strong and brave to tolerate me this long. i am just amazed that i would've managed to land someone like you as my wife."

you want to respond, but all you can feel is the wave of sadness rushing over you again, his sweet words piercing your heart like daggers.

"i... i can't sleep." you whisper into the night. it feels easier to admit it when it's dark, and you can't see how intensely he'd be looking into your eyes, as if he's staring into your soul.

"could i stay with you?" nanami asks, before clarifying. "until you fall asleep."

"you can stay for as long as you want."

his weight leaves the mattress for a moment before he settles down next to you, his familiar cologne washing over your senses.

"can i... hug you?" he asks, voice so gentle, as if he's afraid you're going to break at any moment.

"yes please." you manage to get out, before you're full on sobbing again, staining his shirt with your tears. his arms are now around your back as he scoops you onto his chest, his rough fingers drawing soothing circles on your back. his lips find his way to the crown of your head, and he wishes nothing more but to take some of the pain away from you.

but he can't.

"i'm so, so sorry love." he whispers against your head, lips trembling. "i wish i could remember."

you don't respond, rather, you can't. he's hugging you in bed like everything's normal. he's speaking to you as if he's your nanami, your husband, the same nanami who would bring home pastries on his way back from work and take baths with you on nights you couldn't sleep.

eventually, you feel emptied out of your tears, your limbs finally feeling heavy. his steady heartbeat against your ears lulls you to sleep, your fingers naturally grasping his thin shirt, crinkling the fabric.

"don't leave." you whisper, half-asleep.

"i won't." he whispers back, hugging you closer.

that's the last confirmation you need before your breathing evens out and he's sure you're asleep, your chest rising and falling in regular rhythms.

and despite nanami's eyes begging to close, his mind feels wide awake and sleep won't come to him easily. his nerves are on fire as he hugs you closer to his frame.

looking at your face in the dark, the small green glow of the alarm clock carving shadows onto your face, he presses a small kiss to your forehead and swears to himself he'll remember.

he'll die trying if he has to.

a/n: second ever fic on this blog! i was feeling angsty/slow burn today so wanted to give the loss memory trope a try. seriously am a sucker for pining gentleman!nanami. apologies for any medical inaccuracies in this fic btw i'm not a med student/professional so i googled a few things and called it a day lmao. lowkey tempted to write a part 2 to this if this does well :)

ᯓ★ likes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated! ᯓ★

#oh im ILL #this is so beautiful and bittersweet in the most wonderful way #nanami trying so hard to remember </3 ohh it hurts #i love this sm. from the emphasis on them being ‘strangers’ to nanami’s desperate attempts to comfort her and fill in the gaps #nanami x reader

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