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l0akkzz · 3 months ago

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Too pretty to die- unfortunatly

A/N: Inspired by this headcanon post. Bodyguard!Toji AU! This is the female version, there'll be a nonbinary and a male version. each version has it's own plot!

warnings: i went overboard, this is VERY long. warnings are the same as in the headcanon. 7294 words.

It started with a bullet through your fucking living room window.

And it wasn’t the first one.

The press didn’t cover it — your PR team made sure of that — but you knew someone out there wanted you dead.

Maybe it was one of the political snakes you destroyed in court. Maybe it was the overseas conglomerate you turned down. Maybe it was that little prick CEO whose merger you killed with a single word: “No.”

You’d built your entire empire on a reputation: sharp, cold, beautiful, and utterly brutal. Everyone in your orbit knew it — when you walked into a room, the floor shifted beneath your stilettos. You weren’t a woman, not to them. You were a force. A gavel in lipstick. A hurricane wrapped in Chanel.

So when your fucking address got leaked, when some low-life tried to take your head off with a sniper round through your penthouse window, your board panicked.

You didn’t.

You stood there, staring at the shattered glass with a whiskey in hand and your cat, Chairman Meow, hissing under the table.

“Pathetic aim,” you muttered, and downed the drink.

New penthouse. New location. New problem.

The board was insistent. You weren’t going to keep walking around unprotected — not when there were contracts, assets, shares, and politics tangled around your name like electric wire. They lined up options like a fucking dating service. Ex-military, ex-police, some former Yakuza types. All of them certified from different private agencies.

You looked at the photos like they were resumes.

“Ugly. Too clean. Creepy. Boring. Weak.”

And then: Toji Fushiguro.

Ex-hitman. Ex-assassin. Ex-everything. Big as hell, pretty scar across his lip, and an expression like he wanted to kill the camera. No background outside what was scrubbed, probably killed people with his bare hands — but Jesus fucking Christ, hot. His file came from Shiu Kong’s registry. Notoriously expensive. Notoriously effective.

You read his record.

Then signed the contract.

One bodyguard. No detail team. Yours.

Within the hour, Shiu Kong sent a tight little email confirming the hire.

Five minutes later, he texted Toji:

“You’re in. Do not fuck this up.”

And called just to repeat it.

Toji was not happy about it.

Babysitting? Some rich bitch with an ego the size of Tokyo Tower and heels tall enough to impale a man? Nah. Not really his thing.

But his bank account had been grumbling for weeks. That last job barely paid enough to cover rent.

And hey — maybe she’d be ugly. Maybe she’d be the kind of uptight corporate ghoul with a voice like nails on glass. Maybe she wouldn’t even talk to him.

He could deal with that.

Money was money. Babysit the boss bitch, keep her alive, cash the check.

Easy, right?

*-*

WRONG.

Toji stood in front of the penthouse mirror, grimacing as he adjusted the tie.

The suit clung to him like a second skin—black, sleek, custom-fitted because the client had standards. Shiu had even sent him a cologne rec. “She likes subtle, woodsy, nothing cheap.” Fucking rich bitches.

He wanted to roll his eyes out of his skull. Babysitting some spoiled heiress wasn’t what he had in mind when he signed up for this gig. He was a goddamn killer, not a valet.

But rent was due. His bank account looked like a fucking war crime.

“Money’s money,” he muttered to himself. “Babysit the princess. Don’t fuck her. Don’t fuck it up.”

She opened the door in four-inch heels, a black dress tighter than God’s judgment, hair wrapped up like a fucking goddess, and a look that said she’d watched men stronger than him beg for her approval.

Toji went stiff. Not just in the shoulders. Lower.

“Fushiguro?” you said, voice slow, eyes dragging up his frame like you were choosing how to eat him alive.

He nodded once.

“Yeah.” His voice cracked slightly. Shit. He cleared his throat. “Toji’s fine.”

“Right. Fushiguro,” you smiled, all teeth and power. “Let’s get one thing clear : I don’t like being followed. Don’t talk to me unless it’s relevant. Don’t touch me unless I say. And don’t get in my way.”

Toji blinked.

Then grinned. “Yes, boss.”

You stepped aside. “Don’t let the cat out.”

The apartment is huge. Cold. Expensive- clearly you'd only been living here for like two days.

Everything smells like cedar and money — except where your cat has decided to piss in the corner out of stress, which yeah you've cleaned but still. Chairman Meow immediately launches an attack on his boots when he enters. Claws and everything.

“Fucking hell,” Toji snarls, dragging the thing off his leg. “That your cat?”

“She’s sensitive,” you say flatly, not looking up from your laptop. Cue said cat to piss on him.

Toji muttered a long, inventive string of curses as he peeled off the damp leather. Great. Pissed on by a cat. First ten minutes on the job. Fucking nailed it.

“Yeah? She pees like a war crime.”

*-*

He does a full sweep — every room, every vent, every line of sight — and keeps stealing glances at you.

Fuck. You’re like a damn hallucination. Heels on hardwood, skin like satin, power oozing from every goddamn syllable you drop into your phone. You don’t even look at him, and it makes his cock twitch.

He hides in your hallway, behind a column, and sends Shiu a text:

Toji: she’s a fucking goddess. like actual fucking Aphrodite in a pantsuit. i’m gonna die. i’m gonna fuckin nut in this suit. she made eye contact ONCE. she told me not to touch her. i might pass out. what the fuck kind of job is this. help.

Shiu does not answer.

Probably deletes the message.

*-*

He’s your shadow.

In the car. In the lobby. In the back of boardrooms where old men visibly sweat under your words.

He wears a black suit. Has to. You said so.

“You look like you mugged a bartender,” you said when he showed up in jeans and a black tee, sent him fucking home, told him if he wasn't back and dressed within twenty minutes, you'd call Shiu and make his life hell.

Now he’s got the sleeves rolled up, cuffs tight on his forearms, chest stretching the buttons. Sunglasses. Earpiece. Everything. You told him to “look clean.” Now every time he looks in the mirror he wants to jerk off thinking about whether you’re looking.

He never stood too far. Never left your blind spots exposed. He learned your patterns. Your tells. The flick of your eyes when you're bored. The slow drag of your nails along your wine glass when you were hunting.

You were intoxicating. Dangerous. And so, so fucking hot it made his brain feel like static.

At first, you ignored him. Treated him like expensive furniture. Sometimes barked orders. Sometimes forgot he was there.

You're a goddamn siren.

And Toji? He is drowning.

*-*

You’re unbearable. And hot. So unbearably hot.

You say things like:

“You’re standing too close. Do I look like I need training wheels?”

“Speak when spoken to, Fushiguro.”

“You exist to serve me. Don’t forget that.”

“You’re paid to protect me. Not ogle me like a mutt.”

He’s chewing through his own tongue trying not to moan.

Every time you scold him, he gets harder. You once flicked him on the forehead for stepping in front of a door too slowly, and he got a full-on erection. Had to turn around and fake a phone call just to calm down.

“She’s so fucking mean. So fucking pretty. Bet she rides dick like it’s beneath her. Bet she spits on men. She’s gonna kill me. I want her to. I want her to choke me with that fucking necklace she wore today.”

So like a rational man he texted Shiu again.

At one in the morning:

Toji: i think i’d let her piss in my mouth. this is a cry for help.

Still no reply.

*-*

He dreams about you.

About kneeling.

About crawling into your bed and laying under it like a dog, just in case someone tried to touch you in the night.

About begging you to let him taste you.

He watches you from the car mirror while you argue on the phone. Sees the way you toss your hair, the way you lift your sunglasses to look down at the world.

You own this city. Not the government. Not the courts. Not the investors. You.

And now he works for you.

You’re his boss. His paycheck. His goddamn owner.

He calls you “boss” so much it starts to sound like daddy in his head.

*-*

By Day Five, he doesn’t even hide it.

He follows you like a shadow. Closer than necessary. Protective. Possessive. When a man tries to flirt with you in a restaurant lobby, Toji puts a hand on your lower back and glares until the guy walks away.

You slap his hand off.

“Touch me without permission again and I’ll break your fingers.”

Toji swallows.

“Please,” he mutters.

You arch a brow. “What was that?”

He shakes his head, red in the face. “Nothin’, boss.”

*-*

You still haven’t given him a single order he didn’t follow.

But God, he wants more.

He wants you to look him in the eye and command. Wants you to leash him with a fucking silk tie and tell him to sit. Wants to drop to his knees and let you use him however you see fit.

Wants to guard your door, your bed, your pussy. Wants to belong to you.

You’re powerful. You’re dangerous. You’re sexy as fucking sin.

And he’s just the dog barking at your heels.

*-*

Toji’s only been on the job for three weeks and he's already losing his goddamn mind.

Like full-on, dick-hard-in-the-shower, bark-at-the-wall insane.

So when you give him a day off, the first one since the contract started, he should rest.

Should sleep.

Should catch up on whatever passes for a normal life.

But no.

This motherfucker goes straight to Shiu Kong’s half-lit office, kicks the door open, and trauma-horny dumps like a goddamn fever dream, slams down into the leather chair across from his desk like a man possessed, rubs his temples, and goes:

“I’m gonna fuckin’ die.”

Shiu doesn’t look up from his laptop. “You say that every time you’re horny, and I don’t care.”

“I’m serious this time.” Toji’s palms are over his face. “She’s gonna kill me. I can’t keep doin’ this. I’m gonna bust in my pants watching her file paperwork.”

Shiu sighs. Sips his drink. “So don’t fuckin’ look.”

“I can’t not look. She wears those heels that sound like sex on marble. You know what she did yesterday?”

“No, and I don’t wanna—”

“She yanked my tie down so I’d bend to her fuckin’ mouth like I was some leashed mutt and whispered, someone’s tailing us, stay close, and I got a fuckin’ half-chub in the middle of the crosswalk like some deranged little freak.”

Shiu stares at him for a long moment. Then, very calmly, pulls a handgun from the drawer and cocks it.

“Get out of my office.”

Toji doesn’t move.

“You ever see a woman who’s like—mean hot? Like, ruin-your-life hot? Like she’d make you crawl naked across broken glass just to get kicked in the ribs and you’d say thank you?”

CLICK. The gun's click pulls Toji out of his weird horny-rant.

“Okay, okay,” Toji grunts, getting up. “Jesus. You’ve lost your sense of fuckin’ romance. God, fucking prude.”

*-*

A ‘normal’ week with you could kill a lesser man.

Tense. Measured. Like the string of a bow pulled tight — always threatening to snap, to shoot, to pierce something vital.

Toji follows.

Toji guards.

Toji watches.

He doesn’t speak unless spoken to.

He doesn’t walk in front of you, doesn’t trail too far behind either — just that exact, tense distance.

There’s nothing “normal” about a man who looks like that standing silently behind you at all times, muscles coiled like a loaded gun, eyes scanning the room like he’s five seconds from breaking necks.

He’s not just your bodyguard. He’s your shadow. Your protection. Your property — unofficially.

Toji Fushiguro, your own personal goddamn hound.

The way he watches you is almost feral. Sharp, heavy gaze that drips down your back like warm oil. Never disrespectful, not out loud, but Jesus Christ, he looks at you like he wants to get punished.

You don’t call him a dog. You don’t say “good boy.” You don’t yank a leash or click your tongue. You don’t need to.

You look at him — just once, with that cut-glass stare — and he stands straighter, tighter, readier.

You treat him like a guard dog, sure. But you don’t pet him. You don’t feed him.

You keep him starving.

*-*

MONDAY (this is when the famous 'she pulled my ties incident occured)

Toji starts the day trailing you through a financial district that stinks of cologne and fragile masculinity. You’re all teeth and silence, gliding across marble floors in stilettos and a custom suit that costs more than his entire life. Everyone stares. Not at him. At you. And he’s just the black-suited brute behind you, a shadow with arms.

You’re talking into your phone. You don’t need him right now.

But you always use him.

You pause on the street corner. You don’t look at him — just snap your fingers once, softly.

He steps closer immediately.

Not a word. No order.

Just instinct.

“Someone’s tailing,” you murmur, low. And then — then, holy fucking God — you grab his tie. Fistful of silk. Drag him down like you’re whispering sweet nothings but your voice is pure command, sharp as a scalpel.

“Third car back. Navy Lexus. Plate ending in 9-2-7. Make them disappear.”

Toji’s pupils blow wide.

He makes a fucking sound. Not a word. A grunt. Guttural. Gutted. The way you pull him in, like a dog on a chain — he swears his cock twitches.

He’s hard before he even answers.

“Yes, boss.”

And when that car shows up again? Toji’s gone before you even blink.

It disappears. Permanently.

*-*

TUESDAY

You work sixteen-hour days. Meetings. Mergers. Boardroom warfare. Toji sits outside your glass office like a fucking statue — unreadable, broad-shouldered, terrifying. People whisper about him. They don’t know what he is.

Carries your bags. Opens your doors. Walks you through lobbies with a hand hovering just above your lower back. Never touches.

He watches you through the glass.

The way you sit — legs crossed, back straight, head tilted like you're waiting to eat the next person who speaks out of turn.

You’re so calm when you destroy people. You lean back in that thousand-dollar chair and sip espresso while CEOs stammer and tremble in front of you.

When you speak, people fall in line.

When you lift your hand, Toji follows.

When you glance at him, he knows if he’s supposed to act or wait.

He doesn’t need a leash. You’ve got him fucking trained.

*-*

WEDNESDAY

You don’t speak unless it’s business. You text him once:

"Keep the car ready. And get Chairman Meow’s prescription wet food."

Toji does it, of course. Then cleans up another puddle of cat piss. You walk past him as he’s crouched over the mess, hair tied up, phone pressed to your ear.

You don’t stop. Just say:

“Good.”

That’s it.

He’s on his knees scrubbing the floor like a goddamn servant and you just said good, and he almost moans.

*-*

THURSDAY

You’re eating lunch with some tight-faced ambassador. Toji’s a few feet behind your chair. Silent. Watching. Waiting.

And then?

You cross your legs. Slowly. Smooth as sin.

You don’t look at Toji.

But you know.

You know he’s staring at the slit of your skirt, the edge of your thigh, the way your heel swings in lazy rhythm.

He wants to bite your ankle. Actually. Like an animal.

You cut your steak. Deliberate. Elegant.

And smirk — just a twitch of your lips.

He wants to bark.

And for the rest of the afternoon? You make him carry your bags.

Not literally. Not like shopping bags.

Like briefcases. Confidential ones. Labeled. Sealed. He’s not allowed to ask what’s in them — not that he would. He’s a dog. Dogs don’t ask. Dogs carry.

You don’t thank him.

You just glance at him from the elevator mirror and say, “You’re useful.”

It goes straight to his dick.

*-*

FRIDAY

He’s bracing for rejection.

There’s a gala.

Some private-sector exclusive hellhole filled with billionaires and media snakes and old politicians with hands that like to linger.

You don’t want to go, but you have to — donors, networking, social contracts to uphold. You hate these things. The men leer. The women compete. The champagne’s cheap even when it’s expensive.

Toji knows the drill. Girls like you — powerful girls, rich girls — they don’t bring muscle to things like this. Not visibly. They bring arm candy. Suits with good hair. Hangers-on.

He expects you to say it. To wave your hand and tell him to wait outside. Wait in the car. Wait in the rain like a sad dog, or a shitty love interest in a music video.

He’s ready for it. He’s already pissed off about it.

But then—

You look him up and down that morning and go:

“You’re not wearing that shit to the gala.”

Toji blinks.

“What?”

“Come on.” You grab your coat, keys. “I made an appointment.”

Which, to his fucking amazement, brought him to one of those fancy ass stores, the type that he was pretty sure was a front for money laundering. Tailoring. Tokyo’s finest. Private. Luxurious.

You walk in like you own the building. (You probably do.) The tailor bows so deep he nearly eats carpet.

Toji’s standing there like a massive wall of black denim and scowl, totally out of place. You wave at the tailor. Then at him.

“He needs a suit,” you say. “One that doesn’t look like he mugged someone in a dark alley.”

Toji mutters, “I like mugging people.”

You snap, “Shut up.”

And he does.

Toji looks wildly out of place — scars peeking out, shoulders too broad, energy too feral. He’s stiff while they measure him, glancing at you every three seconds like you’ll disappear if he blinks.

“Arms up,” the tailor says.

He obeys. Glances at you again.

You step closer. Drag your hand along a row of fine fabrics. Pause.

“Hm,” you say, inspecting a charcoal-black Italian wool. “No. Too polite.”

Toji blinks.

“Boss—”

“Shut up. Let me work.”

He shuts up.

You pick a dark obsidian suit. Sleek. Structured. Imposing.

“You’re my shadow,” you say, circling him like a wolf. “You wear what I tell you.”

The tailor barely breathes.

Toji watches you, jaw clenched, chest heaving.

"Yeah,” he mutters, rough. “Anything you say.”

The fitting?

It feels like foreplay. A weird, way too expensive form of foreplay.

Measuring tape around his thighs- bare thighs- cause yeah, he's only in his boxers.

Your fingers at his collar.

You choose everything — lapel shape, fabric, cut, buttons. You push the tailor aside at one point and straighten his shoulders yourself.

Toji’s got a full-body blush under his skin that he’s trying to smother behind a deadpan frown.

When you touch his jaw to tilt his chin up, he swears he sees God.

You mutter, “You’re not ugly, but you dress like a strip club bouncer.”

He smirks. “Was one for three years.”

You snicker.

He almost moans.

It’s not that he’s shy. It’s not that he minds the touching. It’s you. Choosing the buttons. Adjusting the jacket lapels. Tilting his chin to see how the collar sits.

It’s the way you look at him — cold, calculated, hungry. Like he’s a weapon you own. Like you’re customizing him.

He’s half-hard by the time they finish hemming the pants.

The suit?

It’s devastating. Sharp black, tailored within an inch of his sinful thighs, tapered sleeves, collar that hugs his throat like a leash. You stand back, arms crossed, gaze raking over him like he’s a car you’re about to buy and crash for fun.

“Hmm,” you say.

“Hmm?” he echoes, tense.

“You’ll do.”

Later that night, he sees the tag.

1,780,000 yen.

Almost twelve thousand fucking dollars.

His hands shake. Toji stares:

“You just spent—”

“I know what I spent.”

He opens his mouth.

You cut him off.

“You’re mine tonight,” you say. “I don’t dress sloppy.”

*-*

The gala.

He’s your date, technically- a date that's basically your shadow dressed in silk.

He stands beside you, silent and dangerous, eyes scanning the room while you talk in clipped tones to governors and oil barons. Every single man there stares at your ass — and every time, Toji itches to break their fucking noses.

The suit fits like sin. You picked every detail. You dressed him like he was yours — like a prize pet, or a weapon you keep in your clutch.

The gala is a storm of wealth. Diamonds. Cameras. Handshakes worth millions.

Toji doesn't leave your side.

When you pause to greet people, he steps half behind you, angled to block any threat. When some greasy bastard gets handsy, Toji slides in so close the guy nearly chokes on his own spit.

You touch Toji's sleeve, briefly.

He doesn't move.

Just watches.

Waits.

Obeys.

He knows you don’t need him.

You’re power in stilettos. You’ve broken men for less than what he is. You chew glass and sip diamonds. You’re not looking for protection — you’re looking for a blade. A leash. A collar around something dangerous that only listens to you.

And Toji? Toji’s about to bite- or lose his mind, OR die of a heart condition because his blood has permanently relocated to his dick.

At some point, you lean in to whisper:

“Keep an eye on the minister’s wife. She’s got a knife in her clutch.”

Toji grins.

“You’re scary.”

You smile. “You’re slow.”

Fuck.

At the end of the night, as you step into the car, Toji opens the door for you. Hand on the handle, back stiff.

You pause. Look at him. A genuine??? Smile??? Graces your lips???

“You looked good tonight.”

His heart stops.

You slide into the back seat.

“Keep the suit. Consider it a gift.”

He sits in the front. Quiet.

Staring out the windshield. Wondering if his champagne that he sipped once had been ruffied.

Boner pressed awkwardly to the zipper of a suit that cost more than his rent.

“She dressed me. She dressed me like I’m hers. She said I looked good. Holy shit. Holy fuck. I think I’m gonna explode. I’d follow her into hell. I’d crawl on all fours through broken glass just to hear her say ‘good boy.’ What the fuck is happening to me.”

He doesn’t say a word the whole ride home.

But he texts Shiu when he gets back.

Toji: she bought me a suit. she’s gonna be the death of me. and i’ll die hard. suit on. dick hard. smile on. put that on my grave.

Shiu does not respond.

But that night, Toji falls asleep on the couch of his apartment- which is one minute and thirty-two seconds away from yours, probably forty seconds if he sprints.

Gun on his chest.

Hard in his pants.

Dreaming of the next time you pull his tie.

He wonders if he should thank whoever tried to assassinate you.

Because guarding you?

Hurts.

But being owned by you?

That might just kill him.

*-*

It goes to shit one month in.

The call comes in a 2:37 am.

The phone rings once.

Twice.

Three times.

Toji’s already up.

Sleep doesn’t cling to him the way it does normal people. The mattress in his high-rise loft has barely softened under his weight. He’s sitting up, hand already reaching for his phone on instinct.

You only ever call in emergencies.

You text, you command, you glance and expect him to move. But call?

Call? Never.

And then he sees it.

Your name. Private line. Secure.

The screen flashes: Boss (subtitled in his brain: Mistress, Obsession, Reason I’m Breathing)

He answers in one breathless grunt of your title.

And then—

You say it.

“Toji?”

His spine locks up so hard it’s a fucking miracle his bones don’t snap.

You don’t say his name. You never, ever say his name.

You call him “Fushiguro.”

You spit it like a bad taste, like the dog he is. Cold. Formal. Controlled.

But now?

“Toji, can you please get my briefcase from my office? The one with my work laptop in it?”

Every neuron in his body lights up red.

Danger. Threat. Code.

He inhales, lips parting just enough to keep the tension from bursting out of his jaw.

He knows your code. You built it with him.

He remembers it word for word.

Asking for the black laptop? That’s code for something’s wrong.

White laptop? Everything’s fine. Bring it, shut the fuck up, don’t look into it.

Black laptop? You’re in danger.

And then you add:

“With the case.”

With the case.

Toji’s vision fucking tunnels.

“With the case” = not just a threat. They’re close. In the room. Within earshot.

He swallows the growl climbing his throat.

“Got it,” he says smoothly. “I’ll be there in fifteen. Black laptop. With the case.”

He hangs up.

Then he moves.

He’s already grabbing the matte security binder under his bed — flipping through schematics of your penthouse layout. Pulls the encrypted tablet from the drawer. Triggers the silent alert on the security system, sends red flag pings to Shiu’s agency, then re-routes them back. No outside help. He’s handling this.

He’s out the door with a burner piece, two knives, a fire-safe lockpicking tool, and the case.

Your case.

*-*

You’re calm. Of course you are.

When Toji gets to your place, you answer the door like nothing’s wrong. Like you're not being held hostage in your own penthouse.

Your expression is pristine, but your eyes flash when you see him.

His heart is beating like a wild thing.

Two knocks. Your signal. Open up.

Toji enters, briefcase in hand, and eyes scanning everything like a hawk on crack.

You’re standing in silk. Barefoot. Calm. Perfect.

You glance at him once, then flick two fingers in a gesture that would mean nothing to anyone but him.

Two.

Two people.

Still here. Still watching.

Still fucking breathing.

Toji places the case on the granite island like it’s a gift at the altar. Then steps back, nods once, and glances — just so — to the left.

He sees it.

In the reflection of the wine chiller: two men.

Wearing maintenance uniforms.

Unarmed, but with enough muscle to think they’re a threat. Probably been working the building for months. Waiting. Timing it. Thought they could get in without alerting external security.

They were right.

Except Toji’s not external.

He’s hers.

Internal. Installed. Plugged into you like a power line.

And he’s already fucking moving.

The first guy doesn’t see it coming.

Toji steps around the counter like he’s going to pour himself a drink — then smashes the guy’s nose in with a blunt elbow, drags him down by the collar, chokes him out before he even makes a sound.

You don’t blink.

You sip your wine.

Toji wants to bark.

The second guy tries to run.

He gets three steps.

Toji sweeps his legs, cracks his skull on the marble, presses his boot to the guy’s throat with exact enough pressure to keep him from passing out.

“You get ten seconds to explain,” he growls, voice like boiling tar.

The guy sobs something about debt and cash and “she’s rich, no one would miss it.”

Toji grins.

“You just tried to rob a fucking dragon,” he hisses. “She doesn’t breathe oxygen, she breathes lawsuits. You know how many teeth she’s pulled from men ten times your size?”

He looks up.

You’re still standing there.

Still gorgeous. Still untouched.

Still above it all.

You tilt your head, then tap two fingers to your neck — silent command. Choke him out.

Toji obeys.

Willingly. Eagerly. With joy.

Because nothing will ever compare to following her orders.

*-*

The cops come. Quietly. Discreetly. Arranged via silent protocols that Toji had already activated before stepping inside. The building manager is fired. The two would-be thieves are taken out on stretchers. Not dead- Toji isn't that sloppy.

Toji cleans his hands in your kitchen sink, rolls his sleeves back up, and watches you over his shoulder.

You’re back at your dining table. Working.

Already.

Like nothing happened.

And then, for the first time, you look at him and say:

“You were late.”

Toji nearly bites his lip in half.

*-*

He’s sitting on the edge of your white leather couch, wiping blood from the crystal glass.

You walk by.

Pause.

And drop a square velvet box beside him.

“Your cufflinks for the next gala,” you murmur. “They arrived early.”

He picks it up. Stares. Opens it.

Gold. Engraved. With a symbol that means “dog” in Old Japanese script.

Toji laughs. Just once.

You walk away before he can say anything.

But his voice follows you:

“You ever call me ‘Toji’ again,” he murmurs, low and full of grit, “I’m gonna lose my fucking mind.”

You pause.

Look over your shoulder.

And smile.

“Then behave.”

*-*

Five months. Twenty weeks. A hundred and forty days. And he hasn't killed anyone on your property yet. That’s a win.

You think you’ve got him pegged. Tightly wound muscle in a Tom Ford shell. Ex-gangster turned bodyguard with a penchant for swearing at your coffee machine and staring at your thighs during board meetings.

But you don’t know the half of it.

You don’t know how his lungs feel tight when you say his name.

You don’t know that he sleeps in the hallway outside your suite sometimes, under the bullshit pretense of “safety rounds,” even though your entire penthouse is triple-fortified and guarded like nuclear codes.

You don’t know that when he closes his eyes, your voice is still ringing in his skull, branded there like fire:

“Fushiguro, I’m heading out. Don’t lag.”

You don’t know that your heels clicking across marble is better than porn to him.

You don’t know that he would kill for you again without even blinking.

You don’t know that five weeks ago, when you walked past him in that backless silk dress at the launch party, he nearly came in his goddamn suit.

And you definitely don’t know that he kept the lipstick-stained napkin you left behind at that same party, folded it, and stuck it in his jacket pocket like a fucking teenage girl with a crush. (He hasn't even told Shiu about that, mostly because if he did, Shiu would actually shoot him).

So no.

You don’t know what you’ve done to him.

But you're about to find out.

*-*

It starts with a phone call. Not yours.

Toji’s.

He’s in the corner of the terrace, jaw tight, voice low. Doesn’t know you’re there. Doesn’t see you pause, doesn’t see the look flicker in your eyes when you hear:

“You rejected him because of my record? He’s ten, you fuckin’ suit-wearing parasite. He didn’t kill anyone. I did.”

Silence. More tension. Toji rubs a hand over his face like he’s going to punch the sky.

You’re already walking away before he notices. Already calling your head of legal. Already sending three of your most vicious attorneys to war.

And by that evening, when Toji gets the call that Megumi is in, when the director suddenly sounds terrified of losing him, when no one will tell him why the tune changed—

He has no idea you’re the reason.

But that’s you, isn’t it?

Always above. Always untouchable. The predator perched at the top of the ladder.

Even when you’re drunk.

He doesn’t expect it.

The drinking, first of all.

You never drink. Not when you’re out. Not when you’re working. Not even when your quarterly report shows your company up 11% and your board’s throwing champagne like confetti.

But tonight?

You’re plastered.

He sees it in the way your pupils dilate in the back seat of the car, the way your legs kick up over the divider and you throw your head back with a laugh like it’s been caged in your chest for years.

You smell like gin and orange blossom and old money.

Toji’s sweating in his seat.

“Toji,” you slur, slouched like you own the universe — which, to be fair, you almost do. “Y’ever notice how you look like… a really angry caveman in a suit?”

He snorts. Keeps his eyes on the road.

“Every fuckin’ day, sweetheart.”

You grin. Your lips are wet. Normally, you would've insulted him for calling you 'sweetheart'.

“S’good. I like it. You stand out. Look good on my arm. Like an emotional support threat.”

He nearly veers into traffic.

*-*

He helps you home. You’re barefoot by the time the elevator dings.

He’s holding your heels in one hand, his other under your elbow like you’re made of spun glass and spite.

Chairman Meow doesn’t even hiss at him. Just flicks her tail and accepts her gourmet salmon like it’s expected.

Toji’s lowkey proud. That’s a two-month no-pee streak. A new record.

You trip over the threshold into your room. Toji’s hands snap to your waist before you fall. You’re laughing. Eyes glazed.

“Zip,” you demand, spinning like a drunk ballerina, trying to reach the zipper down your spine and failing miserably.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t breathe.

Just steps in.

Undoes it with two fingers and clenched teeth. Doesn’t touch your skin. Not once. Not even when you grunt about your tights being too tight and practically fall into him trying to peel them off.

He helps. Professional. Silent.

Like he’s not dying inside.

Like his cock isn’t throbbing with every goddamn please from your glossy mouth- because normally?? Please isn't exactly in your vocabulary.

He sets you on the edge of your bed. Gently. Pulls your hair free of its pins. Wipes your lipstick with warm cloths. Dabs your mascara. Smooths the little lines between your brows.

Then you hiss.

“Rolled my ankle.”

He’s down instantly.

On his knees. Of course. Where else would he be?

He cradles your ankle. Presses. Checks for swelling. His thumb brushes your skin and he flinches like it burned him.

You’re barely looking at him. Barely awake.

But then—

You lean forward.

And kiss his forehead.

Just a brush of lips.

Soft. Thoughtless. Like you’ve done it a hundred times in dreams and forgot this was real.

Toji stops breathing.

“Guard dogs deserve treats,” you murmur. “Maybe I’ll take you on a date. Show you off.”

You’re asleep before you can finish the sentence.

Toji stays kneeling. For a long time. Longer than necessary.

His breath catches in his chest. His hands tremble on your skin.

He should leave.

Instead—

He whispers:

“Say it again, boss.”

But you’re already gone.

And he’s still kneeling.

*-*

You don't mention it.

The kiss. The drunk date comment. The fact that Toji stayed kneeling beside your bed like a temple guard until he heard your breathing even out into something soft and human and vulnerable.

He thinks maybe you forgot. Or sobered up and realized you were talking nonsense. Which, fine. Whatever. He can deal.

You don’t mention it. But you remember.

Of course you do.

You remember the faint tremble in his fingers. The hard set of his jaw. The way he looked at you like he was praying and you were the god.

You don’t speak of it, but you also don’t ignore it.

Because two weeks later, you hand him a folded navy envelope with an address on it and say, simply:

*“Pick me up at 7. You’re not wearing a gun tonight.”

Toji stares at the envelope like it’s cursed. His brain static. His hands too big and clumsy to handle delicate things.

“...This a job?”

You smirk. That slow, feral smile that makes him feel like prey wrapped in Gucci.

“No. This is a reward.”

*-*

The restaurant was uh...... yeah. Something. Probably cost more than anything Toji had ever owned.

The chandelier alone could pay off his debt to Shiu twice over. Everything smells like truffle oil and wealth and clean tile. Every waiter speaks in apologetic whispers. There are real diamonds in the salt grinder. Toji’s 80% sure.

He wears the suit you bought him.

He hates how well it fits. He hates how easy it is to forget he’s just the dog when you’re looking at him like you’re starving and he's the meal.

The restaurant is in the clouds.

Literally — it’s 68 floors up, tucked into a tower only foreign diplomats and ultra-wealthy ghosts can afford to haunt. Every table has a view of the city. Every dish looks like it costs more than Toji’s rent back in the day. And when he shows up — black-on-black suit, expensive shoes, not a weapon in sight — he finds you already waiting.

Your legs crossed. Your lipstick red.

He’s never even walked by a place like this, let alone been sat at a private rooftop table by a man with white gloves and a name tag in gold.

The first bottle of wine costs more than what he made during his first three hits. The dessert is a sculpture. Like something out of an art gallery. And you—fuck, you—

You look like you were carved out of every single one of his delusions.

Elegant. Confident. Gleaming like glass and gunpowder.

And for the first time, you look a little nervous.

Only a little.

But it’s enough to make Toji’s brain stutter.

“You really brought me here?” he mutters when he sits, already scowling like the menu insulted his mother. “The fuck am I supposed to eat — this salad looks like it was shaved off a bonsai tree.”

You just smile.

“You’re adorable when you don't know.”

Toji almost flips the damn table.

You feed him filet off your fork at one point, and he thinks he might die right there with foie gras in his lungs and a boner under the goddamn white tablecloth.

“You’ve been good,” you say halfway through your steak, not looking up. “You earned this.”

He snorts.

“Like a fuckin’ treat?”

You smile.

“Exactly like that.”

The date’s good. Better than it should be. Better than either of you probably expected.

He actually makes you laugh — real, genuine, shoulders-shaking laughter — when he tells you about the time he got arrested for punching a guy over a microwave burrito.

You tell him about the hostile acquisition you orchestrated in Milan with a smile and a fucking wine swirl like you’re narrating a children’s book.

It's insane. It’s unbalanced. It shouldn’t work.

But it does.

And then— Date two.

You tell him to meet you at 11AM. Somewhere warm.

It’s a beach.

A real-ass beach. Sand, sun, little umbrellas in coconuts- of course you privated the entire thing for the day. Normal people things.

And Megumi is already there, in a hat that’s too big and a shirt that says “I am not my father’s crimes,” which you 100% had custom-made.

Toji doesn’t know what the fuck is happening.

Not until he sees you sitting in the shade, sunglasses on, smiling at Megumi as he builds a crooked sandcastle and tells you some weird, depressing fact about sea cucumbers.

He watches you kick off your heels and walk barefoot like you own the entire ocean.

He doesn't understand it.

He doesn’t understand you.

Because sure, he’s had fantasies. Filthy ones. Sick ones. The kind that could get him fired and jailed and dragged through concrete.

And something in Toji just… breaks.

In a way that isn’t feral or horny or unhinged.

It’s tender. It’s horrifying.

He’s so fucked.

He’s been so fucked.

*-*

And then comes the gala — some pompous, gold-plated thing where you wore a high-slit dress that could’ve ended wars and he had to listen to ten different senators try and flirt with you while pretending not to want to kill them all.

It’s always a gala. Your world spins on designer heels and Champagne flutes, and Toji, well…

He’s just the dog keeping the wolves away.

But this one is different. There’s tension in the air. Something simmering beneath the surface, because you’re giving him orders in that low voice again, your fingers brushing his tie like it’s a leash. You’ve got that look again.

That dangerous one.

That “I own you” look.

Toji’s holding it together — barely — right up until the moment you criticize his stance.

“Fushiguro, for fuck’s sake. Can you at least pretend you weren’t raised in a back alley? Stand up straight. You look like a bruiser from a Yakuza soap opera.”

It’s not even that mean.

But he’s on edge. Too sharp. Too tired of pretending he isn’t about to lose his mind every time you breathe near him.

So he snaps. Just a little. Just one stupid line, said with teeth:

“Bet you wouldn’t be complaining if I was fucking you like one.”

Silence.

Fucking silence.

The kind of silence that splits atoms.

Your head turns.

Eyebrow lifts.

Mouth parts.

“What did you just say?”

Toji goes white.

Like. Fuck.

“Shit—no. Boss. Sorry. I didn’t mean—”

You ignore him, slip into the car and:

“Driver, penthouse.”

Your voice is crisp. Cool. You don’t look at him again for the rest of the ride.

Toji stares out the window.

Brain spiraling. Vision blurred. Every security instinct screaming that he just ruined everything.

No more job. No more Megumi’s school. No more you.

He almost gets out at the light. Almost jumps from the car like a lunatic just to avoid hearing the words you're fired come from your mouth.

But when the car pulls into the underground garage, you don’t send him away. You just step out in silence. Cool. Collected.

But when you both step inside the penthouse, and the door shuts behind you, you don’t fire him.

You don’t scream.

You don’t even raise your voice.

You toss your purse down. Kick off your shoes. Turn to him slowly, like a goddess descending from her throne.

Eyes sharp. Voice low.

“So?”

Toji swallows.

You step forward.

“You barked.”

Another step. His back hits the glass wall.

“Now I want to see if you bite.”

Toji’s cock is fully hard. He wants to scream. He wants to beg.

Instead, he growls.

“I bite.”

And he does.

It’s a goddamn battle.

Teeth and heat and biting, snarled words. You tell him he’s replaceable — he says he wants to choke out every bastard that ever called you ‘ma’am’ with a wink.

You call him a dog — he says he only answers to you. You say he’s disgusting — he says you like it.

“Pathetic,” you hiss, dragging him in by the tie.

“Yours,” he growls, teeth bared.

You shove him down. He drags you closer.

And in that blistering, explosive mess of dominance and submission and some damn class power dynamics turned feral, something shifts.

Something permanent.

Because by the time the sun’s rising, and you’re still lying on the floor half-dressed, breath ragged, laughter raw from your throat as you swat him off your thigh—

You know.

You both know.

This wasn’t just a fuck.

It never was.

Not from the moment he knelt on your floor that night and let you kiss his forehead like a reward. Not from the moment you called him Toji and made the air freeze in his lungs.

He was always yours.

And you? You were always his downfall.

A/N: pls i wrote this, haven't re-read it, idk if it makes even any ssense, it's too long, someone get me OUT OF HERE PLEASE- anyways i hope you enjoy it, this'll be one of the rare times where i'll do a tag list, normally i wouldn't but this felt special: @facelessmenforthewin @realalpacorn

Masterlist.

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