castle crashers 😁😁😁😆😆!! i still draw! if your curious😇 frost king, barbarian boss, blacksmith😍.. any1 else wanna be crushed by the barbarian boss k bye
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── synopsis .✦ snippets of your life with your loving and potentially obsessed hybrid lover, nanami kento. these are setting up for a potential future fic!
── contains .✦ leopard!nanami, soft!nanami, fem!reader, fluff, nsfw below the cut, soft sex, lazy sex, possessive and protective nanami, mdni!
── word count .✦ 835!
Leopard!Nanami will never voice his frustration, but his hybrid characteristics will give him away. You notice it before anyone else does.
Kento is listening to a report, expression neutral, glasses catching the light. But his ears flick once, then again, just barely. His tail, usually held in disciplined stillness behind him, curls inward and twitches sharply.
You lean closer, his coffee eyes sliding over to you as you near him. “Hey, Ken. Long day?”
Something eases in his shoulders at the sound of your voice, and his ears shift in your direction as if to pick up your voice impossibly clearer and let it grace him for a moment longer. “…Yeah.” He admits.
Later, when the room clears, you reach up without asking and smooth your fingers over the soft, spotted ears which hide in his thick blonde hair. The ears are pinned now. Fatigue, irritation, maybe both.
Kento exhales, slow and controlled. He finally allows himself full relaxation once he knows you’ve got him, and his frame releases all of the tension from the day.
“You always notice,” He points out, not accusing. Almost grateful.
“I like knowing.” You reply.
He doesn’t pull away.
Leopard!Nanami, who’s possessiveness just shines through that extra bit whenever the pair of you are in public.
The platform hums with noise. Footsteps, announcements, too many conversations overlapping into static.
Kento positions himself near you without asking. Not in front, not behind, but beside; close enough that your sleeves brush when the crowd shifts.
When the train pulls in, he moves first, one hand resting at your back, never pressing unless the crowd surges. His presence is solid, anchoring. You feel it even when you’re not touching.
Inside the carriage, the air is warm and close. Kento lifts his arm to grip the rail above you, shoulder brushing yours as the train lurches forward. His tail curves around to curl around your waist, resisting the urge to hiss at the closest person for even breathing near you.
“You’re hovering, Ken.” You murmur, teasing.
“I’m aware.” He replies, unbothered. His gaze flicks down to you, steady and unashamed. “I find it preferable to remain close to you, sweetheart.”
The words are simple. The meaning isn’t.
Leopard!Nanami, who returns home weary from the day but lights up at the sight of you waiting in bed, his spotted ears perking as he sheds his jacket and joins you under the covers.
He pulls you close, his tail curling loosely around your waist like a warm embrace, the soft fur tickling your skin as he nuzzles your neck.
His lips find yours in a slow, lingering kiss, tongue tracing your mouth with gentle insistence, while his hand slides under your shirt to caress your breast, thumb brushing your nipple until it hardens.
“Missed this” He murmurs against your lips, his purr starting low in his chest as he shifts to hover over you, cock hardening against your thigh.
“Missed you too.” You whisper softly, giggling when his ears twitch and adjust to pick up what you said.
He enters you with careful ease, hips rocking in unhurried rhythm, filling your pussy inch by inch as his mouth claims your collarbone with feather-light bites.
The pace stays tender, his growls softening to sighs as you clench around him, both of you reaching release in quiet waves, his cum warming you inside as he holds you tight, tail stroking your back in soothing patterns.
Leopard!Nanami, who wakes you with lazy kisses trailing from your shoulder to your jaw, his golden eyes half-lidded with sleep and affection as sunlight filters through the curtains.
“G’morning.” You beam once you’ve woken up, rubbing the sleep out of your eyes.
His tail drapes over your hip, the tip idly brushing your inner thigh, sending gentle shivers through you as he spoons behind, his arousal pressing firm against your ass.
“Hey, sweetheart.” He rumbles, nuzzling impossibly further into your neck and rubbing, as if to leave his scent.
He turns you to face him, capturing your lips in a deep, exploratory kiss, his hand wandering down to cup your pussy, fingers dipping into your wetness with slow circles on your clit.
“Stay with me a little longer.” He whispers, voice husky yet soft, guiding his cock to your entrance and sliding in smoothly, the stretch delicious and unhurried.
“Mmh, okay…” You trail off, mewling prettily when pushes another inch into your syrupy cunt.
He thrusts gently, bodies moving in sync like a shared dance, his purr vibrating against your chest as he nips your earlobe playfully.
Pleasure builds gradually, your moans muffled by his mouth, until orgasm washes over you both – his release spilling deep with a contented rumble, leaving you tangled together, his tail wrapping around your leg to keep you near.
And in Leopard!Nanami’s arms, you know you can rest easy, because you don’t think there’s a universe where he isn’t as devoted to your being and essence as he is in this life.
a/n: this was actually really fun to write i genuinely might have to write a fic for this in the near future. feel free to leave asks/comments on what you might like to see!!!
ohh ahh oohh ah ah!! ah!! so ☺️cute😊😊😊😊I LOVE THIS OUHHh ough ough ahrugb.. i even looks around entered THE STING ZONE WUH OH just so you know ow mt chest ow what the hell ow what th hell was that
── synopsis .✦ You and Toji Fushiguro start as nothing more than a reckless agreement - friends with benefits: no feelings, no attachment, no complications. At least, that’s the rule he insists on. But every late-night visit, every half-asleep morning touch, and every quiet moment he doesn’t pull away only drags you deeper into something he refuses to name. Toji hides behind arrogance and silence, convinced he’s too damaged for anything real, while you try to accept the scraps of tenderness he gives you, even as they hurt.
When your feelings finally spill over, Toji panics, convinced love is a luxury a man like him doesn’t deserve. He leaves you shattered - but the distance tears him apart, too. Forced to face what life without you looks like, Toji crashes back into your world determined to fix what he broke, even if he barely knows how. Now, the two of you must navigate the fragile, unfamiliar territory between addiction and affection, trying to build something real from the wreckage of what you used to be.
── contains .✦ toxic relationship, LOTS of angst, hurt/comfort, dubcon, VERY unhealthy, toji is bad at feelings (he secretly loves reader he's just very scared), desperate!reader, toji uses reader a bit, mutual pining, p in v, praise kink, soft sex, morning sex, rough sex, oral (f!recieving), breath play, multiple orgasms, creampie, aftercare, happy ending
── word count .✦ 12.2k!
From the twelfth-floor balcony, the sunset feels less like a view and more like an event slowly unfolding just for you. The city below is still humming - cars threading between buildings, people moving like small, determined silhouettes - but up here, everything softens.
The sun lowers itself toward the horizon with unhurried grace, slipping behind a row of high-rises that cut a jagged pattern into the sky. A few clouds drift lazily across the expanse, thin enough for the light to bleed through them, staining their edges in a warm blush.
You heard the knock before you fully expected it: two sharp taps, no hesitation. Toji never lingered in hallways like normal people. When he came to your place, he came like a man who had already decided the outcome.
You opened the door, and he stepped in immediately.
Toji didn’t wait for invitations, and he didn’t say hello. He simply brushed past you, the scent of cold air and steel clinging to him. His shoulders were tense, his hair slightly damp like he’d run a hand through it on the walk here.
He didn’t ask why you called. He just stood there in your living room, arms crossed, eyes lowered - not because he was shy, but because he was already calculating the exit.
Your throat tightened.
“Thanks for coming.” You offered softly.
Toji grunted, nothing more. He tossed his jacket on the couch and leaned against the wall, the muscles in his jaw moving as if he were chewing on thoughts he had no intention of sharing.
You twisted your fingers together - a stupid habit you couldn’t break.
Toji’s eyes flicked to your hands. A small, barely audible scoff came from his throat. “Spit it out.”
He said it like you were wasting his time, and it made you doubt yourself just a little bit more.
You swallowed, hard. “I just… wanted to talk.”
His head tipped back against the wall. Another grunt: this one lower, almost annoyed. “Figures.”
That stung oddly, and it was a lot more than it should have.
You forced yourself to take a few steps toward him, even though your legs felt unsteady. “Toji. What… what are we doing?”
His eyes slid open at that. A sharp exhale through his nose. “Don’t start.”
“I’m not starting anything.” You whispered. “I’m just asking.”
“You’re asking the kind of shit I don’t deal with.” He muttered, uncrossing his arms only to shove his hands into his pockets. He didn’t dare look at you. He looked at the floor, the window, the ceiling - anywhere but your face. “So quit it.”
Your heart sank. You tried to find something in his expression - a crack, a softness, anything - but he kept that same indifferent glare, like you were being unreasonable.
“Why don’t you want to talk about it?” You asked.
“Because there’s nothing to talk about.” His voice sharpened. “We hang out. That’s it.”
“That’s not what it feels like,” you said before you could stop yourself.
His eyes snapped to you then: sharp in warning. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Make this into something it’s not.”
Your chest tightened strangely. “I’m not.”
“You are.” He pushed off the wall, stepping closer, looming over you with the kind of presence that made the room shrink. “You think because I show up when you call, it means something.”
You flinched at how blunt he was. Toji noticed, and his eyes flickered, barely, but he didn’t soften.
“It doesn’t.” He stated.
A small crack formed in your chest - slow and aching. “Then why do you come?”
He shrugged, jaw clenching. “Convenience.”
The word hit you like a slap.
Toji’s gaze didn’t waver. He didn’t apologise, nor did he take it back. He just waited for your reaction, face unreadable except for the slight downturn of his mouth, like he hated the conversation more than he hated himself.
You forced your voice to stay steady. “Is that really all I am to you?”
His tongue pressed against his cheek. A muscle in his jaw twitched. “Don’t make me say it.”
The hurt spread instantly. “Toji—”
He cut you off with a low, irritated sound. “I don’t do ‘feelings’. I don’t do… whatever you’re trying to pull here.”
“I wasn’t trying to—”
“You leaned in.” He snapped.
Your breath caught. “I—”
He stepped even closer, close enough that you could feel the heat rolling off him, close enough that you could see the tension humming under his skin.
“Don’t pretend you didn’t.” He growled. “You tried to kiss me.”
Your cheeks heated with embarrassment, humiliation prickling along your skin. “I just… I thought…”
“Yeah. That’s your problem.”
The words were a knife: cold, precise, too deep.
You looked down, blinking hard against the sting behind your eyes. You hated how easily he could hurt you, and how much this had mattered to you. After all, everything had been going so well: frequent visits, lazy evenings with Toji, watching some stupid movie on the couch that you don’t even remember. For a bit, he almost seemed domesticated.
“Toji…” You whispered, “I wasn’t trying to trap you into anything.”
He scoffed, looking away again. “Could’ve fooled me.”
Something inside you wilted - soft and small and stupidly hopeful before now, but crushed easily beneath his heel.
He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, annoyed. “Look. You want honesty? Fine.”
You lifted your head, heart pounding painfully.
“I come here because you’re easy.” The words were clipped, cruel in their simplicity. “You don’t nag. You don’t expect shit. You’re quiet. You’re… simple.”
You felt your heart split cleanly down the middle.
He saw it - your breath trembling, your shoulders tensing - and for a second his expression faltered. But Toji shoved his hands deeper into his pockets, as if burying the guilt with them.
“I’m not good for… anything else,” he muttered, voice lower but no kinder. “You kiss me, it turns into something messy. And I’m not doing that.”
You stared at him, vision blurring for a second. “So what do you want from me?”
“A simple arrangement.”
He shrugged again, but it looked forced now, too stiff. “Friends with benefits. No dates, no kissing, ‘nd no expectations.”
Your throat felt tight. “And if I can’t do that?”
Finally, his deep, verdant eyes met yours, and the look he gave you wasn’t cruel. It was worse; final.
“Then I walk.” He insisted quietly.
Your chest caved a little. “Just like that?”
“Yeah.” A pause. “Just like that.” Because he’d already convinced himself you deserved better than him, that leaving was easier than being wanted, and he didn’t believe he was allowed anything real.
You let out a shaky breath, the silence stretching between you until you felt like you might drown in it. And then - against every sensible part of you - you nodded.
“Fine,” you whispered. “Friends with benefits.”
Toji didn’t exhale, but something in his shoulders loosened. He nodded once, curt, like a transaction concluded.
“Good.”
But he didn’t move away.
He stood there for another heartbeat — two, three — staring at you with an expression you couldn’t name. Something restrained. Something aching. Something he’d never let reach his mouth.
Then he stepped back, distancing himself.
“Keep it simple,” he repeated. “Or I’m gone.”
Your voice cracked. “Okay.”
Toji grunted, acknowledgment, nothing more, and turned his head so he wouldn’t have to look at the heartbreak he caused.
But you saw the flicker in his eyes before he hid it. He wanted you, he just didn’t think he was allowed to.
From there, the arrangement began quietly.
At first, you were the one who reached out: hesitantly and awkwardly, unsure if you were “allowed” to after how brutally he’d shut you down that first night. But Toji always came. Always. It didn’t matter if it was late, if you sounded unsure, if your voice cracked when you asked.
He’d show up like a storm at your door, eyes hooded, shoulders tense, gaze flicking over you in a way that made your breath catch. And you’d let him in. You always did.
Those early nights felt like sharing a secret.
He touched you like he was afraid of hurting you, even if his words never matched the gentleness in his hands. He never kissed you - he’d turn his face away if your lips got too close - but sometimes his forehead would brush yours during the comedown, breath shaky, body heavy against you. Those tiny moments felt like warmth sneaking past his defenses.
You tried not to read into it, but you failed.
A week passed, then two. You started asking more boldly - not with your voice, but with your actions. You’d text him late, you’d linger close, you’d open the door before he even knocked.
And he’d come, always. He’d push past you, his presence filling the room. Sometimes he’d grunt a “hey.”, sometimes he didn’t bother with even that. But he came.
It made you feel wanted. Not cherished, not chosen. Just… wanted enough, and it was pathetic how deeply that mattered.
Then things began to shift. Slowly and quietly - so quietly you almost didn’t notice at first.
You stopped asking.
Not because you didn’t want him. God, you wanted him more than ever. But every time you reached for your phone, your fingers froze over the screen. That night he’d called you “convenient” kept replaying in your mind.
You didn’t want to be a burden and you didn’t want him to think you were catching feelings, even though feelings were the only thing you had left.
So you waited, and you waited, and he stopped coming as often.
Days stretched longer now, while nights felt emptier. You’d stare at your ceiling, the room too quiet without him in it. You hated how your body remembered him: how easily he pinned you to your bed, his weight, and how he took.
Then, one night, long after you’d convinced yourself you’d never hear from him again -
“You home?”
Just two words; no punctuation, no explanation.
Your hands shook, and you answered too quickly.
“Yeah.”
He arrived fifteen minutes later with no greeting and no hesitation. Stepping inside, he let the door shut behind him, letting you smell the sweat that came off of him, as if he’d just come off of a job. When you looked closer, you noticed his knuckles were scraped, and his jaw was tight.
He didn’t wait for you to ask.
He didn’t need to.
He moved toward you, eyes dark, expression unreadable, and you let him. You let him take what he wanted because part of you was terrified he’d disappear again if you didn’t.
The clock on your nightstand glowed 2:17 AM as Toji rolled off you, his sweat-slicked body heaving with a satisfied grunt. He'd just fucked you hard against the mattress, his thick cock pounding into your pussy until you came twice, clenching around him like a vice.
But now, as you reached for him, hoping for a moment of closeness, he sat up abruptly, grabbing his pants from the floor.
“Don't get all clingy now.” He muttered, voice rough and edged with irritation. "This is just stress relief, nothing more. I'm not your boyfriend, so quit acting like it."
His words stung sharper than the fading ache between your legs, leaving you curled under the sheets while he dressed and headed for the door without a backward glance, the slam echoing like a finality.
You pretended you didn’t notice he wasn’t being gentle anymore, or that he avoided looking at you afterward, and that he left faster than he used to.
Over the next month, the pattern settled into something colder.
You never initiated again, yet he always did.
Sometimes he’d show up at midnight, sometimes at three in the morning, sometimes not for five days, and sometimes for two nights in a row. The inconsistency dug into your ribs like a splinter you couldn’t pull out, and you couldn’t help but point it out, followed by a small suggestion.
The argument had started over nothing - your casual mention of meeting his friends - but Toji's temper flared, his green eyes narrowing as he backed you into the bedroom wall.
“You think you can push for more? I'm not committing to shit.” He snarled, yanking your top over your head and palming your breasts roughly, pinching your nipples until you gasped. He dropped to his knees then, burying his face between your legs, tongue lashing your pussy with aggressive strokes that made your knees buckle.
“This is all you're good for.” He growled against your folds, sucking your clit hard enough to border on pain.
When he stood and bent you over the bed, fucking you deep and fast, his hand fisted in your hair, it felt like punishment, his cum flooding you as he pulled out with a scoff, leaving you spent and sore on the sheets.
Toji seemed to prefer it this way: you silent, him in control, the arrangement strictly physical. He barely spoke when he arrived now: a grunt, a nod, or maybe your name, said rough and low when he needed you.
Afterward, he’d sit at the edge of your bed or couch, elbows on his knees, breathing hard. He wouldn’t look at you- not even accidentally. He’d run a hand through his hair, sigh like everything weighed too much, then stand.
And leave. Always.
Your door would close behind him with a soft click that felt louder than any slam.
Once, after he left at dawn, you sat on the floor for a long time, staring at your hands. You couldn’t tell when you stopped being a person in this arrangement. You weren’t the girl he teased anymore, weren’t the one he smirked at. You weren’t the one he accidentally brushed his forehead against in soft, unguarded moments.
Now you were a place he visited; a convenience.
You hated that it still wasn’t enough to make you stop, because every time your phone buzzed with his name, your pulse jumped like you’d been waiting your whole life for it.
Every time you opened the door, Toji would glance at you - quick, unreadable - and for half a second you thought maybe something in him cracked. Maybe he missed the closeness, too. Maybe he felt guilty.
But then he’d look away, and the moment would vanish.
The shift became undeniable the night he showed up already irritated.
Toji barged into your place after a grueling job, reeking of sweat and frustration, not even bothering with a hello before he grabbed you by the wrist and dragged you to the bedroom.
You asked, quietly, “Rough day?”
“Shut up and spread your legs.” He commanded, ignoring your protest about being tired, shoving you onto the bed and yanking your leggings down.
His fingers plunged into your pussy without warning, rough and demanding, curling until you were wet against your will, then he replaced them with his thick cock, slamming in deep with a groan.
He fucked you like you were just a hole to vent into, hips pistoning relentlessly, one hand muffling your cries while he muttered: “This is what you signed up for, baby. Takin’ it so good, too.”
You came clenching around him despite the ache, but he pulled out to spill on your stomach, wiping himself on your thigh before collapsing beside you, snoring as if your discomfort didn't exist.
And when he left only ten minutes later, not even glancing back, something inside you finally cracked.
This wasn’t mutual anymore. It wasn’t even fair. It wasn’t soft or careful or warm. It was lopsided, uneven, and toxic.
But God help you - you still wanted him.
A few weeks of building up the courage passed, and you ask him to come over.
You don’t text anything elaborate - just “are you free tonight?” - and you expect the usual three-hour delay, the blunt “busy”, or radio silence, but he shows up.
Thirty-seven minutes later, he’s leaning against your doorframe like he always does, shoulders filling the space, hoodie half unzipped, a bored flick of his eyes telling you he doesn’t plan to stay long.
You step aside, let him in, and the familiar weight drops straight into your chest. Because he walks in the same way he always has: like your place is a pit stop, like you’re a convenience he’ll take advantage of while it lasts.
He doesn’t say anything beyond a low grunt: acknowledgment, impatience, whatever. You can’t tell anymore. The silence stretches, thick enough to make your throat tight. You try for a smile, weak, hopeful.
“Toji.”
He looks up from the counter where he set his keys. “Hm?”
And that’s all he gives you: a sound; a little rumble that could mean anything and nothing.
You swallow, fingers fidgeting with the hem of your shirt. You thought you could do this, told yourself all day you wouldn’t fold. But the second he’s here - big, warm, familiar - you feel everything inside you start to shake loose.
He steps closer because he thinks he knows what you want. It’s routine by now. He reaches for your waist, casual, claiming, ready to pull you in for the usual night you’ve trained him to expect.
The second his hand touches you, you crack.
Your breath stutters, and before you can stop yourself, you rise on your toes and press your mouth to his. Not the usual hungry kiss he’s used to, this one trembles; breaks; falls apart the moment it begins.
He stills,and you feel the confusion ripple through him, a small tension in his shoulders, but he doesn’t pull away. Not yet. His hands hover at your hips, not gripping like they usually do, just resting, uncertain.
And then you make the mistake of letting the tear slip.
He jerks back, eyes narrowing - not angry, but startled, almost alarmed. “What—hey. What’s wrong?” His tone is rough, but his brows draw together, the closest thing he has to worry.
You can’t answer. Another tear tracks down, and another.
“Toji,” you choke out. “Please.”
He stiffens. “Did someone hurt you?” His jaw tightens. “You call me here for that?”
“No.” You shake your head, wiping your face with the back of your hand, but the tears don’t stop. Humiliation burns through you. “No, it’s not—no one hurt me, I just… I can’t—”
Your voice breaks completely. When you look up at him, his expression shutters instantly. He recognizes that look. He knows exactly where this is going. And fear - real fear - flickers behind his eyes.
Not for you, but rather for himself.
“Toji?” You whisper, voice trembling, “I want more.”
His nostrils flare. “More?”
“I—” You try to steady your breath. It comes out in gasps. “I want more than this. I want more than… than waiting around for you to remember I exist. More than you only showing up when it’s easy for you, than pretending I’m not—”
You bite down hard, like it’ll stop the words, but they spill anyway.
“Look, I’m in love with you.”
The silence that follows is suffocating. His jaw ticks, a vein jumps in his temple, and he steps back like your confession physically pushed him.
You swear you see something flicker in his eyes - panic, guilt, longing - before he slams the door on it.
“…No,” he mutters, running a hand over his face. “Don’t—don’t say shit like that.”
Your heart collapses.
“Toji—”
“You know what this is.” His voice sharpens, turns cold, sharp-edged. “You knew from the start.”
“I know,” you whisper, “and I tried, I really did, but I can’t help it—”
“You’re not in love with me.” It’s cruel and unnecessary, and he knows it, but Toji Fushiguro has never been good at gentle.
“You’re just attached.” He continues, voice flat. “Happens. You’ll get over it.”
Your breath shatters in your chest. “You don’t mean that.” You whisper.
He scoffs: a low, bitter sound. “Yeah, I do.”
You’re crying harder now, shoulders shaking, hands trembling. You try to reach for him, desperate, pathetic - anything to make him stay long enough to understand. “I’m not asking you to love me back. I just—I needed you to know. I can’t keep pretending.”
His gaze drops to your hand reaching toward him. He looks at it like it’s something dangerous - something that could ruin him.
He steps away, and mutters lowly: “No.”
With another deep breath, he manages to look into your red eyes. The pain speaks volumes, and he quickly tears his gaze away from yours. “You shouldn’t’ve told me.”
“Toji—please—”
“Stop.” The word cracks out of him, sharp enough to make you flinch. His expression twists like he’s irritated, but you know irritation isn’t what’s really there. He’s scared; cornered, and he chooses the only thing he’s ever known how to do.
Grabbing his keys, he doesn’t look at you again.
“This isn’t what I signed up for.” He says tightly. “I’m not—” He cuts himself off like the admission tastes wrong. “I’m not doing this.”
Then he’s at the door, and you choke on a sob. “Don’t go.”
For a moment, his hand stills on the handle. Then he exhales, low and bitter, and walks out without a single glance back. The door closes, and you crumble.
The first day, Toji tells himself he’s right.
He wakes up the morning after he walked out of your place and feels… fine. Maybe a little tired, a little wired, but it’s nothing he can’t shake off.
He goes about his day the way he always does: training, jobs, eating whatever he finds in the fridge. He doesn’t think about you.
Not really.
Only once, when he tosses something into the sink and catches himself imagining what you’d say about the mess. And again when he checks his phone out of habit, expecting a message you don’t send.
He grunts to himself and tosses the phone on the counter.
It’s good; better this way. Eventually, you’d learn to get over it.
Atleast, that’s what he tells himself.
By day two, he’s annoyed.
He keeps telling himself he didn’t do anything wrong. You were the one who crossed the line, the one who ruined something simple and clean.
He didn’t ask for this emotional bullshit.
He’s scowling at his own ceiling at two in the morning, arms behind his head, replaying the moment you said I love you with your face all soft and ruined. Like you expected him to—
He stops the thought, jaw clenching.
You cornered him. What was he supposed to do? Lie? Pretend like he could give you something he didn’t have?
He turns over, grumbling to himself. To him, this is your fault, and he tells himself that again and again, but it doesn’t stick.
Day three is quieter. Too quiet.
He doesn’t want to admit it, but he notices your absence. The stillness where your messages used to be. The way his evenings stretch empty without the possibility of you calling, asking if he’s busy, laughing when he lies and when he tells you he isn’t.
He goes to the gym and puts in twice the work he usually does, pushing until his muscles burn. It doesn’t help, and his chest still feels too tight.
When he finally stops, breath heaving, he realizes something that annoys him more than anything else:
He misses you, but he still tells himself you overreacted, and that this is on you.
Day four hits him like a brick.
He doesn’t mean to think of you. He doesn’t want to. But he sees someone walking down the street with your hairstyle, and something ugly twists in his stomach. Sharply and immediately.
He slows and stares, but it’s not you. Of course it’s not. However, it leaves him restless for the rest of the night, pacing his kitchen, opening the fridge and closing it again, unable to sit still.
He pulls out his phone, almost texting you. His thumb hovers over your name for a long, long minute, then he locks the screen and throws himself on the couch with a grunt.
He won’t be the one to cave. After all, he didn’t do anything wrong. Although, that doesn’t feel true anymore.
On day five, the guilt starts.
Toji doesn’t recognize it at first. He just feels irritated; off. Something stuck under his skin that he can’t get rid of.
But eventually he stops, stands still in the middle of his living room, and realizes his chest aches.
Because every time he blinks, he sees you crying. Every time he tries to focus on something else, his mind drags him back to the moment he told you you’re not in love with me.
He can hear how cruel he sounded. How dismissive and scared he had been. He scrubs a hand down his face, muttering curses under his breath. He didn’t have to say it like that, nor did he have to look at you like you were a problem he needed to get rid of.
He didn’t have to leave, but he did. It’s become something he always does.
His stomach drops unpleasantly, and he tries not to think about why that bothers him so much.
By day six, he can’t pretend anymore.
It hits late - around midnight - when he’s lying alone in his bed, staring at the dark. The thought slides in quietly, like it’s been waiting for him to stop running long enough to catch up.
You weren’t wrong.
His heartbeat stutters, and he swallows hard.
Because now that he’s not angry, he remembers everything clearly: the way you always looked at him, soft even when he didn’t deserve it. The way you’d tried to kiss him like he mattered, and how you whispered his name.
The way you cried - not because he hurt you physically, not because he scared you, but because he mattered enough to break your heart.
Something cold twists in his gut.
And for the second time all week, he feels fear: not the kind that makes him lash out, but the kind that hollows out his ribs and leaves him breathless.
Because if he admits he likes you, and that he wants you, and he feels more than what he’d let on, then everything changes, and Toji doesn’t know how to handle that. He sits up, dragging both hands through his hair, breathing hard like he’s been punched.
“Shit.” He mutters into the dark. “Shit, fuck.”
He wants you, misses you, and he cares.
Day seven is when it finally hits him: real and sharp.
He’s washing his hands, staring at his reflection without thinking, and suddenly the truth slams into him with no warning, no mercy:
He should’ve stayed and comforted you. He’d liked you deeply, but pushed you away all because he was a little scared of commitment; of not deserving.
His breath catches, gripping the sink edge hard enough it creaks.
He’d wanted you. Matter of fact, he still does. Closing his eyes, his shoulders tense, chest tight with something that feels like regret; like longing; like panic. He left you crying, having told you your feelings weren’t real, and he can still remember telling you that you’d get over him, and that nothing between you mattered.
And now - now he feels like his ribcage is too small to hold everything he refused to feel before.
He mutters a curse that shakes out of him like something breaking. “…fuck.” Although he knows he needs to fix this, he doesn’t know how. He’s never apologized for anything real in his life.
But he knows one thing clearer than anything else: he wants you back.
The realisation doesn’t come gently.
It hits him like a truck - fast and brutal - and the second it lands fully in his chest, Toji is moving. He’s out of bed before he even knows he’s on his feet, heart pounding hard enough to shake through his ribs.
The apartment is dark, the air cold, but he doesn’t feel any of it. He grabs the first black shirt he sees: inside-out, wrinkled, smelling vaguely like laundry he should’ve done two weeks ago. Doesn’t matter. He drags it over the grey sweatpants he fell asleep in, feet already carrying him across the room.
He shoves them into whatever shoes are closest to the door: one is tied, the other’s laces are dragging; he doesn’t care. His pulse is loud in his ears, drowning out everything but the memory of your voice cracking when you said you loved him, followed by the way you shook when he stepped back, and the sound you made when the door closed between you.
He curses under his breath, slams the door behind him, and heads straight for the truck.
The streets are mostly empty - past midnight, quiet, still - but Toji drives like he’s chasing something he can’t afford to lose. He doesn’t think, he just acts. And for once, acting doesn’t mean running away.
He grits his teeth when he pulls into the parking lot of the 24-hour convenience store, tires screeching louder than necessary. The fluorescent lights inside sting his eyes the second he walks in, but he keeps moving, shoulders tense, jaw locked.
Flowers. You like flowers. You mentioned that once, offhand, like you didn’t expect anyone to remember. And chocolate, but the specific kind you buy when you’re sad. The one he made fun of the first time he saw it, only for you to laugh and shove a piece into his mouth.
He remembers.
He hates that he remembers. What he hates even more is that he didn’t act on it sooner.
The flower section is pathetic: only three sad bouquets wrapped in plastic, but he grabs the one with the colors you once said were pretty. He holds it awkwardly, like it might disintegrate if he grips too hard. The chocolate aisle is worse. There’s too many choices, none of them labeled clearly, and Toji’s patience is thin enough to snap. He crouches low, scanning the lower shelf where you usually grab yours.
There, in a purple wrapper. The exact brand you once shoved into his hand and said, “Just try it, you grump.” He grabs three, just in case.
The cashier raises an eyebrow at the giant man standing there at 2 in the morning, holding flowers like they’re a weapon he doesn’t know how to use, but Toji just grunts, tossing money on the counter without waiting for change.
Back in the truck, he throws everything into the passenger seat and slams the door shut. His hands tighten on the steering wheel, knuckles going white. He hesitates for half a breath, just one, fighting the deep instinct to turn back, to pretend this doesn’t matter, to pretend you don’t matter.
But then he sees it again: your face from that night, red-eyed and broken, and his chest twists painfully.
He exhales, low and rough. “Shit… okay. Okay.” And he floors it.
The drive to your apartment is a blur, with streetlights smearing across his windshield, the engine growling under his grip, his heart beating too fast, too loud. Even though he knows he's speeding, he doesn’t care. If a cop pulls him over, he’ll deal with it. He has to get to you first.
He parks crookedly, halfway over the line, grabs the flowers and chocolate, and takes the stairs two at a time. His breath is uneven, not from the climb, but from everything twisting inside him.
In front of him, your door looks the same as always.
Toji stands there for a moment, chest rising and falling hard, his fingers tightening around the flowers until the plastic crackles. He runs his tongue over his teeth, trying to steady himself, but nothing helps. This is the first time he’s ever shown up for someone like this, the first time he’s ever tried to fix something instead of letting it rot.
His throat works. His breathing shakes. He mutters something under his breath - too soft to hear, too pained to repeat.
Then he knocks; hard. Once, twice, then softer, as if he’s afraid of the answer.
Before he can doubt himself, the lock clicks. Toji freezes.
The door opens just a few inches at first, cautious, like you’re not sure if you should even look at him. Then you see him, standing there at two-something in the morning, hair messy, shirt inside-out, flowers bent from how tightly he’s holding them.
Your breath catches, and you open the door wider.
“Toji?” Your voice is soft, tired, raw around the edges.
He swallows loudly. Something flickers behind his eyes: panic, regret, something warmer he’s not ready to name. He tries to say something immediately, but the words jam up in his throat.
So he thrusts the flowers out first, awkwardly, like he’s offering you a weapon. The bouquet is a little crushed at the top, and the chocolate bars slip against the plastic wrapping. You stare at them, then at him.
He huffs out something like a frustrated exhale. “They’re—just take ’em. Before I drop the damn things.”
You blink, startled, and your hands come up slowly. When you touch the flowers, his fingers brush yours for a split second. He jerks back like it burned, and once more, the silence hangs heavy.
Toji hates it, and breaks first.
“I…” He looks away, jaw tightening. “I shouldn’t’ve… said what I said.”
Your chest tightens painfully.
“Toji—”
“No.” He cuts you off sharply, then curses under his breath like he didn’t mean to snap. “Just—lemme talk.”
You nod, clutching the flowers to your chest.
He looks everywhere but at you: the hallway; the floor; the wall next to your head. His fingers twitch at his sides, curling and uncurling like he’s preparing for a fight he doesn’t know how to win.
“I fuckin’—” He stops, drags a hand down his face, and tries again. “I left when I shouldn’t have. You were- you were crying, and I just…” His throat moves with a swallow. “I didn’t handle it right.”
Your eyes prick with tears again, and you fight to blink them away.
He finally meets your gaze, just for a second; just long enough for you to see the crack in his armor.
“I didn’t wanna hear it,” he begins quietly and too honestly. “Not ’cause I didn’t… care.” The word is stiff in his mouth, like he’s not used to saying it. “But ’cause I—shit, I don’t know how to deal with that. With you. With…” He gestures vaguely toward your chest, like your feelings are a tangible thing he can point at but not name. “All that.”
The breath you’ve been holding spills out shaky, and it rattles him. He shifts, weight moving from one foot to the other, shoulders dropping just an inch. “You weren’t wrong. I was.”
Your grip on the flowers tightens, the plastic crinkling.
“And I…” He stops again, jaw flexing. “I don’t wanna lose you over me bein’ a coward.”
Your lips part.
He looks like he’s fighting himself every step of the way, but he pushes on.
“I like you,” he says, voice low, rough, uneven. “More than I should. More than I let myself think about.” His eyes flick away, then back to you, sharper, almost vulnerable. “And I should’ve said that instead of—what I said.”
A tear slips down your cheek before you can stop it.
Toji’s eyes widen, barely, but enough, and his expression twists, something like guilt tightening his features. He steps forward half a step, stopping himself just before he gets too close.
“Hey- hey, don’t cry. I’m not—” He exhales shakily. “I’m not makin’ you cry again. That’s not—shit.” He rubs the back of his neck, frustrated with himself. “I came here to fix it. Or try to.”
You swipe your cheek, laughing weakly, breath trembling. “I’m just- relieved.”
His shoulders drop. A breath leaves him, rough around the edges. However, he knows it wasn’t enough. He knows he barely scratched the surface of what you deserved, and that he should’ve said more - could’ve said more - if he weren’t so damn scared of saying it wrong.
But when he sees the way your eyes soften, the way your chest loosens, the way you look at him like the ground under you finally stopped shaking, he lets himself hope it’s a start.
“…Can I come in?” He asks quietly.
Your lips tremble into a tiny, heartbroken, hopeful smile. “Yeah.” You beam, stepping aside. “Come in.”
Toji exhales, steps over the threshold, and thinks: Don’t screw this up again.
When he steps inside, it’s like he’s afraid he’ll break the place just by being in it. He stands near the doorway at first, shoulders tense, hands awkwardly empty now that you’ve taken the flowers and chocolate. He looks out of place in a way he never has before: big, uncertain, stripped of that careless confidence he usually wears like armor.
You set the flowers on the counter with trembling hands. You don’t move far, as you don’t trust your legs to carry you.
He notices.
His eyes flick to your hands, then your face. You see the way he swallows, throat working unevenly. He’s scared. Not of you - never of you - but of messing up again; of saying the wrong thing.
“Hey.” He murmurs, almost too quiet for someone his size. “C’mere.”
It’s not a command. Instead, it’s gentle - gentle in a way you didn’t know he had in him. Your breath stutters, but you walk toward him, featherlight, as if sudden movements might make him bolt. When you stop in front of him, he looks down at you like he’s memorizing something, checking to make sure you’re real.
His hand lifts halfway, hesitates, then settles lightly on your arm. His touch is warm, and it makes you inhale sharply.
“I’m not… good at this,” he says, voice low, rough at the edges. “But I meant what I said. ’Bout not wantin’ to lose you.”
Your chest squeezes so tight it almost hurts.
“Toji…” Your voice breaks. Not with sadness—something else. Something fragile and hopeful.
His fingers curl a little at your arm, like he’s anchoring himself. His breath brushes your forehead. You hadn’t realized he leaned in that close.
“Look at me,” he murmurs.
You do.
And the moment your eyes meet his, everything slows. The tension in his jaw fades, and his shoulders drop just a fraction. His gaze flicks down - once, quick - to your lips.
Your heart stops.
He realizes you caught it, and he mumbles a curse under his breath, soft and frustrated, but he doesn’t move away. If anything, he edges closer, like he’s fighting something stronger than pride, stronger than fear.
“Hn.” He hums, half to himself. “I’ve been wantin’ to do this for way too long.”
Your breath leaves your body in a shaky rush.
“Toji—”
He doesn’t let you finish.
His hand slides up from your arm to your jaw: soft, calloused thumb brushing your cheek like he’s afraid you’ll break if he touches too hard. The contact steals the air from your lungs, your fingers curling into his shirt without you meaning to. He notices that, too, and his breath hitches. Something hungry flickers across his face, but he keeps it held back, controlled, careful.
“You okay?” He asks, voice so quiet it almost doesn’t sound like him.
You nod, barely. “Y-yeah. I just… I didn’t think you’d ever—”
“I know.” He sighs, almost apologetic. “I know.”
He leans in agonisingly slowly, and gives you time to pull back, even though he clearly doesn’t want you to. His nose brushes yours, then his forehead touches yours, and his breath ghosts over your lips, warm and unsteady.
You’re practically shaking from how much you truly love him, and because of how long you’ve wanted this to happen. “Toji,” you whisper, voice trembling, “please…”
That breaks what little restraint he has left.
He cups the back of your head with his other hand, pulls you in the last inch, and kisses you. It’s not desperate, and nor is it greedy. This one is soft. Painfully soft. Slow, unsure, almost reverent, like he’s learning you all over again, and he’s afraid to lose you, even now.
Your breath catches and you melt into him, fingers fisting the fabric of his shirt as if you’re terrified he’ll disappear. The relief is overwhelming, so sharp it almost topples you, because this is real. This is him choosing you. This is something he doesn’t give lightly to anyone.
He feels you shake and pulls back just enough to breathe against your lips. He wasn't the cocky, detached man you'd grown used to in your friends-with-benefits arrangement. No, this Toji looked vulnerable, his usual smirk replaced by a furrowed brow and a tightness in his jaw.
You move deeper into the apartment together, but instead of heading toward the bedroom - the place where everything between you always gets muddled - you veer toward the living room.
The couch looks safer. Neutral, with no weight of any old mistakes. Toji makes note of your choice, but follows nonetheless. You sit first, curling onto one end of the couch. Your knees come up instinctively, like you’re trying to take up less space, or bracing for something.
Toji stands there for a moment, hands in his pockets, staring at you like he’s not sure where he’s allowed to be anymore.
“Can I…?” He gestures at the empty space beside you.
You nod. “Yeah.”
He sits too carefully, like he’s scared the couch will reject him if he sinks down too fast. His shoulder brushes yours, and you flinch - not away, but in surprise.
“Tch.” He exhales, gaze sharp and apologetic at the same time. “I ain’t gonna mess this up. Sit still.”
You don’t respond, but you ease your grip on the throw pillow in your lap.
For a minute, you just sit in silence. The TV glows with whatever you forgot to turn off earlier, and his knee bounces once: nerves. His hand hovers near your thigh, but he pulls it back like touching you without permission would be too much.
You feel him trying, and it scares you how badly you also want to lean into him. When you finally risk leaning your shoulder against his, Toji stops breathing for a second, then his gaze drops to your hand resting beside him.
He stares at it like he’s debating something; fighting himself. Eventually, with a low grunt, he reaches over - slowly - and covers it with his own. You stiffen, and his grip loosens immediately. “If you don’t want—”
“No.” You cut in, squeezing his hand once. “It’s okay.”
His shoulders visibly drop, tension easing. One minute passes like this, then two. Toji - being notorious for the fact he can’t sit still when he’s nervous - shifts. Not far, just enough so his thigh presses against yours more fully. Enough that his arm slides behind you on the couch, fingers brushing your shoulder casually, but not at the same time.
You hold your breath, seeing if he’ll pull away. He doesn’t. Instead, he leans in slightly, voice rough. “Come closer.”
Your heart stutters. “I’m not in the mood for—”
“Not for that.” His tone is firm but quiet, almost frustrated in its gentleness. “Just- just come here.”
You hesitate.
You’re scared: not of him, but of how easily you could fall into him again. But he sits there, patient in a way you’re not used to, so you move closer, slowly, and Toji lets out a slow exhale like it physically hurts him how hesitant you are. Before your nerves can take over again, his hand comes to your waist, guiding you - tentative, asking for permission instead of taking - until you’re straddling one of his thighs, knees framing him.
You blink, startled.
He meets your gaze, jaw tight. “I told you. Not for that.” Pulling you closer, he settles you against his chest. “Just… stay here.”
Your palms rest awkwardly on his shoulders, causing his arms wrap around your waist too slowly, like he’s scared to spook you. His face presses into the side of your neck, breath warm against your skin.
But then, something changes.
His hold tightens, thighs relaxing under you. His forehead drops against your collarbone like he’s exhausted from the week of pretending he didn’t care.
His voice is muffled when it comes. “Missed you. More than I wanted to.”
You swallow hard, fingers threading carefully into his raven hair, and he leans into the touch like he’s starving for it.
“Don’t- don’t think I’m here just to get somethin’ outta you.” He mutters, arms caging your waist. “I just… needed you close. Needed this with you.”
Your breath trembles. You want to believe him, you really do.
“You’re still on thin ice.” You remind him in a whisper.
His arms pull you tighter into his lap, chest pressed to yours, as if he’s afraid you’ll slip away. “Yeah,” he breathes, voice rumbling low against you, “I know.”
Toji settles against the back cushions once you’re tucked into his lap, his arms firm around your waist, but not possessive. They’re steady, like he’s anchoring both of you. It’s awkward at first, the kind of closeness you aren’t used to sharing without heat rushing in to complicate things. You sit stiffly, unsure where to rest your hands, your cheek hovering near his shoulder but not quite touching..
His palm drifts up and down your spine in slow, unfamiliar strokes - not sensual, just grounding. You feel him shift beneath you, adjusting, making room for you to lean if you want to. For the first time since he walked in, he isn’t tense. His breathing evens out, low and heavy, the kind that makes his chest rise against your ribs.
A tiny part of you dares to relax.
You uncurl slightly, letting your back settle against his chest. His breath catches - a soft, almost startled sound - and then his chin drops onto your shoulder with a weight that feels more like trust than anything else. His hands slide lower to circle your waist fully, fingers splayed like he’s making sure you don’t drift too far.
“Better?” He rumbles against your ear, voice gravelly from exhaustion and something deeper.
“Mhm.” You hum, letting your eyelids droop.
After a few minutes of quiet, you shift, slipping sideways so your shoulder rests against his chest and your legs stretch out along the couch. Toji follows, guiding you gently, letting you find whatever position feels safest. When you sigh, sinking into him fully, he exhales too: a slow, relieved sound, almost like a confession in itself.
Your blanket lays crumpled over the arm of the couch. You reach for it, but your fingers barely graze the edge. Toji huffs, annoyed at your struggle, and catches it with one long reach. He drapes it over both of you without ceremony, tugging it up to your shoulders and tucking the corner behind your back.
You can’t help but feel absurdly taken care of.
Your eyes fully shut before you mean for them to. The warmth of him behind you, the steady thrum of his heartbeat under your cheek, the weight of his arm slung over your waist - it all lulls you under too quickly. You try to stay awake, try not to let yourself trust this too easily, but it’s late and you’re tired and he’s warm in a way you haven’t let yourself feel in so long.
You breathe out, long and slow, causing Toji’s hand to minutely tighten on your hip.
“…You fallin’ asleep?” He mumbles, voice rough with something like fondness he’d never admit to.
You don’t answer; not with words. Rather, your body curls closer, softening entirely against his chest.
Toji stays still for a long moment, as if testing whether you really did drift off. When your breathing evens out, he shifts carefully - sliding one arm beneath your knees and the other behind your back. The blanket stays wrapped around you as he gathers you up, lifting you with no effort at all.
You mumble something half-conscious, your face pressing into the fabric of his shirt.
He pauses, staring down at you with a look you’re too asleep to see. Something tender. Something worried. Something guilty and grateful all at once.
“Relax,” he whispers, more to himself than to you. “I got you.”
He carries you down the hallway, his steps slow and quiet. The bedroom door is nudged open with his foot, and he moves to lower you onto the mattress with surprising gentleness, adjusting the blanket so it still wraps around you.
For a second, he just stands there in the dim light, watching the way you burrow instinctively into the pillow, how your breathing stays calm even when you’re no longer in his arms.
He exhales - a soft, almost shaky sound. Then, after a moment’s hesitation, he reaches out and smooths a piece of hair away from your face. His fingers linger for half a second before he steps back.
He lifts the blanket, slides in beside you, and the mattress dips under his weight. Before you can even fully register it, his arm snakes around your waist and he pulls you flush against him with a low grunt like he’s been waiting all night to do exactly this.
You make a small, half-awake sound of confusion. “Mnh.. ‘Ji?”
“Hush.” He breathes it against your hair, warm and unbothered, like your question was adorable but unnecessary. His hand slides up your spine, firm and slow. “S’late. Go to sleep.”
You try again, softer this time. “But I—” Another tug, which causes your back to meet his chest. His leg hooks around yours, claiming without even trying.
“Didn’t I say hush?” There’s no bite to it, just tired affection and that quiet, confident gravity he never loses. His thumb strokes the side of your waist - grounding. “M’here. Gonna stay. Go to sleep.”
Your face heats, and you settle - maybe because he asked, maybe because you want to.
Toji exhales, long and relieved, like your body relaxing gives him permission to do the same. He shifts just enough to get comfortable, pressing his forehead to the back of your neck. His breath fans against your skin, warm and steady.
“Good girl.” He praises, voice low and almost sleepy already. “Knew you’d stop fussin’.”
You’re quiet for a moment, trying to ignore the way your heartbeat stutters. “You… really meant it? You’re staying?”
His arm tightens instantly, pulling you closer until your hips fit against his. He sighs into your hair again - a soft, unguarded sound.
“‘Course I meant it.” He rasps. “Could barely think straight all week without you. Like hell I’m leavin’ now.”
Your eyes flutter shut at the reassurance. Something in him loosens at that - you can feel it, the tension melting out of his chest and into the pillow.
He presses a slow kiss to your shoulder. Then another, lazy and absentminded, like he’s already halfway asleep and just wants you warm and close.
“You smell nice.” He admits, roughened by exhaustion. “Missed this.”
You swallow a smile. “We… haven’t really done this before.”
“Yeah?” His nose nudges your neck, his fingers spreading across your stomach, big and steady and sure. “Then we’re makin’ up for lost time.”
Your breath catches. “Toji…”
“Mm?” He’s drowsy, soft around the edges.
“…You’re being really clingy.”
He chuckles: low and rumbling; shameless. “Yeah. Deal with it.” Another kiss, this one near your jaw. “Got you right here. Not lettin’ go.”
You shift back against him, giving him more of your weight, and his whole body reacts — arms tightening, chest warming, breath slowing until it syncs with yours.
His voice drops to a whisper, almost tender. “Sleep. M’not going anywhere.”
You believe him, and with his arms wrapped around you, his heartbeat steady against your back, sleep comes easier than you expect..
Toji doesn’t wake up the next morning as a brand-new man who suddenly knows how to talk about his feelings. Instead, it’s small changes: quiet, clumsy, and unmistakably him. The first of which happens in your kitchen.
He’s leaning against the counter while you make coffee, arms crossed, eyes half-lidded. When you hand him his mug, he stares at it for a beat too long.
“…Thanks,” he mutters, almost confused by his own manners.
You blink. “You’re welcome?”
He grunts, looks away, and takes a sip like he needs the mug to hide his face. But the next morning, he takes his coffee and adds a soft, almost reluctant, “’S good.”
And that becomes routine - the way he acknowledges little things you do for him, awkward at first, then steadier. It’s not poetic, nor is it emotional. It’s the easy, simple honesty that makes your pulse flutter.
Then, there’s the talking. Not about feelings - not yet.
When you’re cooking dinner, he mentions his shoulder’s been bugging him. When you’re scrolling on your phone, he mumbles something about a job running later than planned. When you’re sitting together on the couch, he complains about some guy being annoying at the gym.
He never used to offer pieces of his day unless you dragged them out of him, but now he hands them over without being asked, like he’s slowly realizing that letting you in doesn’t mean losing anything.
You notice the physical changes next. He touches you more, and it’s not sexual - not only, at least.
There’s a hand on your lower back when you walk in front of him, a thumb brushing your cheek when you’re tired, and there’s a quiet tug of your hoodie strings when he’s waiting for you to get your shoes on. His knee presses against yours under the dinner table like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.
Once, when you’re sprawled on the couch together, he rests his hand on your thigh and keeps it there, warm and solid, even when you shift to get comfortable. He doesn’t move it away. If anything, his fingers tighten, like he’s anchoring himself.
Communication, however, comes slowly and painfully. One night, after you space out during a movie, he pauses the screen.
“You mad at me?” He says it like he’s bracing for a punch.
“What? No, I’m just tired.”
Toji grunts, frowning at the blanket instead of you. “Tell me next time.”
You beam at him. “You want me to tell you when I’m tired?”
He scowls. “You know what I mean.”
But he doesn’t look away this time. He’s trying, and you see it.
The bigger changes sneak up on both of you.
He starts leaving things at your place on purpose. Not just a shirt or two - whole stacks of clothing, a second toothbrush, his favorite knife in your kitchen drawer.
He cooks with you. Not well - he still burns something every other day - but he stands behind you, chin on your shoulder, arms caging you in as you stir something in a pan he probably shouldn’t be trusted with.
He kisses you more, too. Not heated and rushed like before, but soft ones. Forehead kisses when he leaves for work, a kiss to your jaw when he passes behind you, and a quiet kiss to your temple when you’re curled into him in bed.
You don’t have to initiate anymore. Sometimes, he just pulls you in like it’s second nature; like it’s where you belong.
Eventually, Toji learns to say real things: small truths that would’ve terrified him before.
One afternoon, you tell him you’ll be visiting a friend and might be home late. He tries to play it casual, but he fails miserably.
“…Text me, okay?” He mutters.
You smile. “Okay.”
“Like—” he scratches the back of his neck, eyes darting away, “—when you get there. And when you leave. And when you’re on your way back.”
You raise a brow. “That’s… a lot of updates.”
“Yeah, well.” He rolls his eyes, but his jaw twitches. “I worry. Just… do it.”
Your heart flips, but you nod. He relaxes, and you see it in the way his shoulders drop.
It becomes a relationship before either of you says the word. He sleeps over more often than not, and you wake up with his arm draped heavy across your waist, his breath warm behind your ear.
He brings you snacks without comment, you buy him a new set of towels for your bathroom. He fixes your broken shelf without being asked, and you wash his hoodie and fold it neatly on your bed. He kisses you when he comes through the door at night like it’s a greeting he’s always used, and neither of you has to say it to know:
You’re his, and he’s yours. You’ve become a real couple in all the ways that actually matter.
Morning light filtered through the half-drawn curtains, painting the room in soft golds and pinks. You stirred first, blinking awake to the warmth of Toji’s body spooned behind yours. His arm was still around you, hand splayed possessively over your stomach, his steady breaths tickling your neck.
The events of last night flooded back, and a smile tugged at your lips. He looked so peaceful in sleep, the hard lines of his face softened, dark lashes fanned against his cheeks.
You shifted slightly, and he woke with a low grunt, eyes fluttering open. For a moment, he just stared at you, as if confirming you were real, then pulled you closer, lips brushing your shoulder.
“Mornin’.” He rasped, voice thick with sleep. His hand slid up under your shirt, palm flat against your bare skin, tracing idle circles. “Sleep okay?”
“Better than okay.” You replied, turning in his arms to face him. His eyes searched yours, still holding a trace of last night’s vulnerability, but now mixed with something warmer, more certain. “You?”
He nodded, swallowing hard. “Yeah. Woke up a few times, thinkin’ you’d be gone.” A faint flush colored his neck, and he ducked his head, pressing a kiss to your collarbone.
“Glad you’re here.” His fingers dipped lower, hooking into your panties’ waistband, tugging gently. “Want you. If... that's alright.”
The request was tentative, so unlike his usual demanding nature, and it melted you.
“More than alright.” You whispered, leaning in to capture his lips. The kiss started slow, exploratory - lips parting, tongues touching lightly, tasting the remnants of sleep and sincerity. Toji's hand cupped your cheek, thumb stroking your jaw as he deepened it, a soft hum vibrating in his chest.
He rolled you onto your back gently, settling between your legs, his weight a comforting press. Breaking the kiss, he trailed his mouth down your neck, sucking lightly at the pulse point, teeth grazing without bite.
“Gonna make you feel good.” He murmured against your skin, voice husky.
His hands pushed your shirt up, exposing your breasts, and he paused to admire them, eyes darkening with hunger. “Fuck, these... perfect.” The praise sent a shiver through you, warming your core as his large hands cupped your breasts, thumbs circling your nipples until they hardened under his touch.
He was so much bigger than you - his palms nearly spanning your entire chest - and the size difference made every caress feel amplified, like he could envelop you completely.
Toji's mouth followed his hands, latching onto one nipple and sucking softly, his tongue flicking over the peak. You moaned, threading your fingers through his dark hair, holding him close. “Nnh, Toji…”
“That’s it, baby.” He praised, switching to the other side. “You sound so pretty f’me. My good girl, yeah?” His words were like velvet, wrapping around you, making you feel cherished and desired in a way your casual hookups never had.
You arched into him, fingers threading through his messy hair, holding him there. He lavished attention on the sensitive bud, alternating licks and gentle tugs with his teeth, while his hand kneaded the other breast, pinching the nipple between thumb and forefinger.
“So responsive…” He mumbled, lifting his head to blow a cool breath over the wet skin, making you shiver. “Love how you react to me.”
He kissed his way down your stomach, hooking his fingers into the waistband of your pants and sliding them off along with your underwear. You were bare before him now, and he paused, his gaze raking over you with open admiration.
Toji settled between your legs, his broad shoulders forcing them wider. He was huge everywhere, and the sight of him there, so close to your core, made your pulse race. He leaned in, pressing a kiss to your inner thigh, then another higher up, until his mouth hovered over your pussy.
“Gonna make you feel good.” He promised, his breath teasing your folds. "You deserve this. Deserve me taking care of you."
“S-Stop teasing, ‘Ji..” You mumbled, shying away the longer he stared at your cunt. However, he was too distracted by your glistening folds to pay attention.
“Fuck, look at you.” He breathed, his voice husky. “So small and perfect, spread out for me. I could just eat you up.” There was that teasing edge again, but it was soft, affectionate, as he parted your thighs with gentle hands.
Spreading your legs wider, he settled in, inhaling deeply. “Smell so sweet.” He said, voice reverent. His tongue flicked out, tracing your outer lips before parting them to lap at your entrance, tasting the fresh arousal gathering there. You gasped at the sensation.
He hummed in approval, the vibration sending sparks through you, before delving deeper. He licked at your clit with flat, broad strokes, his large hands gripping your hips to hold you steady.
“Taste so good.” He murmured between laps. "My pretty little pussy, all wet for me. You're amazing, you know that?"
The praise made you clench, pleasure building as he sucked your clit into his mouth, his tongue circling it relentlessly. One of his thick fingers pressed at your entrance, sliding in easily with how aroused you were. He was so big that even one finger stretched you, filling you in a way that made you whimper.
“Haah, Toji..!” You cried out weakly, thighs beginning to tremble from the anticipation.
“That's my girl…” He cooed, pumping it slowly. “Takin’ my finger so well. Imagine how good you'll feel around my cock.”
He added a second finger, curling them to hit that spot inside you, and you cried out, your hips lifting. Toji's free hand pressed down on your lower belly, pinning you in place with his size and strength.
“Easy, baby.” he teased softly, the endearment slipping out naturally. “Gonna take my time.”
He sealed his lips around your clit, sucking softly at first, then with more pressure, his tongue circling the nub in tight loops.
Two fingers eased into your pussy, thick and calloused, curling upward to stroke that spongy spot inside. He pumped them slowly, scissoring to open you up, his mouth never leaving your clit—licking, sucking, humming vibrations through you.
“Fuck—wait, ah!—gonna cum!” You warn shakily, The coil in your belly tightened, pleasure crashing over you as your first orgasm hit. You came with a shuddering moan, walls fluttering around his fingers, and Toji didn't stop, lapping at you through it, drawing out every wave.
“Good girl.” He cooed, kissing your thigh as you came down. “So pretty… Feel good?”
“Y-Yeah,” you nodded, breathless, pulling him up for a kiss. You could taste yourself on his lips, and it only made you want more. Your hands fumbled with his belt, eager to feel him. Toji helped, shoving his pants down to free his cock.
It sprang out, thick and long, veins prominent along the shaft, the head already leaking pre-cum. He was massive - easily over eight inches, girthy enough that your hand couldn't wrap fully around it - and a fresh wave of arousal flooded you.
“Look at that.” Toji said with a teasing grin, stroking himself once. “Think you can take all of me, sweetheart? You’re so tiny compared to me.” His tone was light, playful, but his eyes were full of love as he positioned himself between your legs again.
“I want it.” You admitted, reaching for him.
He guided the tip to your entrance, rubbing it through your slick folds, teasing you with the stretch before pushing in slowly. The burn was exquisite, his thickness parting you inch by inch, filling you so completely that you felt every ridge and vein.
“Oh god, Toji!” You gasped, nails digging into his shoulders.
“Shh, I’ve—fuck, sweetheart. Gotta loosen up—got you.” He soothed, pausing to let you adjust, his forehead resting against yours. “You're doing so fucking good, taking me like this.” He reassured you through gritted teeth, his control evident in the way he held still, letting you acclimate to his size.
When you nodded, he sank deeper, bottoming out with a groan. “Shit, you're tight. Feel that? All mine.”
He started moving then, slow thrusts that had you moaning with each slide. His hips rolled gently, the head of his cock dragging against your walls, hitting deep. You wrapped your legs around him, pulling him closer, and he kissed you softly, swallowing your whimpers. "You feel incredible," he murmured. "My sweet girl, clenching around me so nicely. Gonna make you come again."
You clung to his shoulders, nails digging into the muscled expanse, urging him on. Toji's arms caged you in, one hand sliding under your back to lift you slightly, changing the angle so he hit that spot inside with pinpoint accuracy.
“T-Tojiii… You’re so—Oh, oh!” You mewled, eyes rolling into the back of your head when his tip kissed your cervix deliciously.
“Right there, huh?” He asked, thrusting deeper, the head of his cock nudging that spot on every inward stroke. You whimpered, nodding frantically, and he grinned faintly, the expression tender. “Yeah, knew it. Gonna—hnn!—gonna make you come like this. On my cock, just from me fillin' you up.”
His movements grew a touch firmer, hips snapping with controlled power, the bed creaking rhythmically beneath you. Sweat beaded on his brow, dripping down to mingle with yours, and he kissed you again: messy, open-mouthed, swallowing your moans.
“So good for me, sweetheart.” He praised between thrusts, voice rough with need. The size of him amplified everything - the stretch bordering on too much, yet perfect, your pussy clenching around him involuntarily.
He shifted his weight, hooking one of your legs over his elbow, opening you wider. The new position allowed him to plunge even deeper, his cock reaching places that made stars burst behind your eyelids.
“Fuck, yes.” He groaned, pace quickening just enough to chase the building tension. “C-Clench like that. Milk my dick.” His free hand found your clit, thumb circling it in firm, steady strokes, syncing with his thrusts.
“Come for me, baby. Let go—mnh, so tight—I want to feel you milking my cock." His words tipped you over, your second orgasm ripping through you, stronger than the first.
You cried out, walls spasming around him, and Toji groaned, his rhythm faltering but not stopping. He fucked you through it, drawing it out until you were trembling.
“That's it.” He grinned lazily, kissing your temple. “So good for me, aren’t you?”
He pulled out slowly, and you whined at the loss, but he flipped you gently onto your stomach, lifting your hips. “One more position, yeah? Want to see this pretty ass while I fill you up.”
He entered you from behind, the new angle letting him go even deeper, his cock stretching you anew. His hands gripped your hips - not bruising, just firm - pulling you back onto him as he thrust steadily.
“A-Ah! Shooo full…” You whined. The size of him felt even more pronounced like this, his pelvis slapping against your ass with each push.
“Fuck, you take me so well.” He rasped. "Tiny little thing, ain’tcha, pretty?"
You pushed back against him, meeting his thrusts, the pleasure building again impossibly fast. Toji leaned over you, one hand sliding up to cup your breast, pinching your nipple lightly.
Slowly, his rhythm steadied, powerful but controlled, his cock pistoning in and out with increasing force, the slap of his hips against your ass echoing softly. He straightened up for better leverage, one hand pressing between your shoulder blades to keep your chest low, ass high, deepening the angle so his dick dragged along your walls relentlessly.
“Come on, baby.” He teased softly, barely audible over the wet sounds and slaps of skin against skin. “Give me one more. I know you can—shit, you’re so wet.”
You whimpered at the overstimulation, but the ache was delicious, blending with renewed arousal as he teased you back to the edge. Toji's hand slid from your hip to between your legs, fingers petting your slick folds around where he was joined to you, gathering the mix of your release before circling your clit lightly.
“Not stoppin' yet.” He promised, voice husky with need, pressing open-mouthed kisses along your spine.
Once his hand found your clit again, and began rubbing firm circles, it was too much. Your third orgasm crashed over you, vision blurring as you sobbed his name, body shaking.
Sweat slicked your bodies, the room filling with pants and moans. Toji's breaths grew ragged, his control fraying.
“Gonna come, pretty.” He warned, hips stuttering. “Inside you okay? Wanna fill this pretty pussy.”
“Uh-huh… Wan’ it, ‘Ji!” You cried, speech slurred from the combination of overstimulation, as well as being drunk on his cock.
With a guttural moan, he buried himself deep, cock pulsing as ropes of cum shot out, coating your insides. He held you there, grinding to push it deeper, a soft sob escaping him - not from pain, but overwhelming emotion.
“Fuck... love this. Love you.” The last words slipped out, quiet but profound, as he collapsed over you, careful not to crush.
He collapsed gently beside you on the bed, pulling you into his arms so you were draped over his chest. His cock slipped out with a wet sound, his release trickling down your thigh, but he didn't care. Instead, he tightened his hold on you, even if you were boiling hot.
“You okay?” He inquired softly, brushing sweat-damp hair from your face. His voice was tender, full of concern.
“More than okay.” You murmured, nuzzling into his neck. He smelled like sex and safety, and you felt utterly content.
Toji kissed your forehead, then your nose, then your lips - a chaste, loving peck. “Let me clean you up.” He insisted, standing with you in his arms like you weighed nothing.
In the bathroom, he ran a warm cloth under the faucet, gently wiping between your legs, careful around your sensitive skin.
“There we go.” He murmured. “All taken care of.”
Back in the bedroom, he settled you on the bed with more blankets, fetching water from the kitchen and a snack - some fruit he’d spotted earlier.
“You’re okay,” he murmurs against your skin. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” You whisper it into his chest, and his arm tightens reflexively.
He shifts again, lying fully on his side, wrapping himself around you from behind this time. His chest fits to your back, his palm spreads over your stomach, thumb stroking gently. Your legs tangle together naturally.
“Lemme hold you.” He mumbles into your neck. “Need it.”
You relax completely, and he does too - you feel it in the slow drop of his shoulders, the long breath he releases against your skin. Then, he presses a gentle kiss to your nape.
“You tell me if anything hurts later.” He adds, voice quiet. “Don’t try to be tough.”
You smile despite yourself. “You’re one to talk.”
He huffs a laugh: a warm, sleepy puff against your shoulder.
“Yeah, well,” he rolls his eyes, pulling the blanket higher around both of you, “I can be tough later. Right now I’m busy takin’ care of my girl.”
The words slip out before he can stop them, and you can feel the moment he realises what he said.
His body goes still, causing your heart to stutter. He’s silent; waiting. Eventually, he sighs low and defeated.
“Shit.” His forehead drops lightly against your shoulder. “You always gotta make things complicated, huh?”
“You said it.” You remind him softly.
He grumbles something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like yeah, because it’s true, but he doesn’t say it loud enough for you to claim.
After a moment, he moves again - not to pull away, but to pull you back against him more fully. His arm locks around your waist, solid and possessive, like if he holds you tight enough, he won’t have to explain himself.
“Just… let it be what it is,” he mutters finally, quieter than before. “We’re good right now. Don’t ruin it.”
It’s the closest thing to a plea he’s ever given you.
You rest your hand on his forearm, thumb brushing over a scar he never talks about. “I’m not trying to ruin anything,” you whisper.
He swallows, voice dropping even lower. “Then don’t ask me for… definitions. Labels. Whatever.”
You think he’s shutting down again, but then he adds, barely audible: “I’m here. Ain’t I? That’s gotta say enough about what I want.” And your breath catches.
You settle against him again, relaxing slowly, giving him room to breathe. Toji’s grip tightens once more, like he’s relieved you’re not pulling away.
His chin finds your shoulder, nose brushing your neck, and this time, when he exhales, it’s softer; easier.
a/n: with how much work i put into this i expect greatness. im sorry i got a little carried awat, but this was VERY fun to write
please dont expect this standard of work from me for all of my requests. this was meant to be 5k words but nearly tripled...
most importantly, thank you to my best friend, @bedsheeteater , who motivated and helped me put together this fic whenever i struggled. i love you bro 🩷
im an absolute PRUDE most of the time, but this was such a good read🥹OHH MANN i almost started crying dont mess with my heart like that woman..!!! (i scrolled passed the nsfw)
continuation of this smau, and suggested by my amazing moot @sebnchosongetosowlett
synopsis: after agreeing to give your ex boyfriend, toji fushiguro, another chance at a relationship with you, he decides taking you on a date is the best way to show his sincerity. what you don't expect, however, is how vulnerable and open he is with you.
contains: angst?, mentions of alcohol/sobriety, hurt/comfort, awkward!toji, ex!toji, getting back together, fluff, so cutesy waahh
wc: 2.2k!
The restaurant wasn’t anything fancy.
A half-dim corner place with squeaky vinyl seats and the smell of frying oil clinging to the air - the kind of spot that filled up late at night with tired workers and people avoiding home.
Toji sat across from you in a booth, hands too big for the cheap cutlery, pretending to read the menu even though he’d been staring at the same side for five minutes.
You could tell he’d cleaned up for you. Hair trimmed, shirt ironed - or at least less wrinkled than usual - and the faint scent of soap clinging to his skin.
There was a glass of water in front of him, beads of condensation dripping onto the table, untouched except for the mark his thumb kept smudging around the rim.
You’d noticed it the moment he sat down - no flask, no quiet order for something strong. Just water; just him.
And that small thing, that restraint, felt heavier than anything he could’ve said.
“You’re awfully quiet.” You said gently.
He looked up, mouth twitching like he wasn’t sure whether to smile or deflect. “You sayin’ I talk too much normally?”
“Just sayin’ it’s weird to see you this… tame.”
That got a huff of laughter out of him - low, rough around the edges. But it faded quick. His eyes dropped to the table again. “Guess I don’t wanna screw it up.”
You blinked. “What?”
He shrugged, trying to play it off, but his hand was clenched around his glass. “This. Us. Feels like I already did once.”
Your chest tightened. For all his size and swagger, Toji was terrible at vulnerability. Words caught in his throat like they were too sharp to swallow, so when he said something honest, it always came out raw and clumsy.
You reached across the table, nudging his fingers with yours. “You’re doing fine.”
He looked up again, and for a second - just one - the façade slipped. The grin faltered. His eyes softened, and the way he looked at you made your stomach ache with something tender and familiar.
“Yeah?” He muttered.
“Yeah.”
The waitress came by, breaking the quiet, and Toji ordered like he’d rehearsed it - quick, polite, still avoiding your eyes. But as soon as she walked away, he exhaled hard through his nose, shoulders slumping.
“Didn’t think you’d actually say yes.” He admitted finally.
“Why?”
He gave a crooked smirk, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “C’mon. I ain’t exactly the type you bring home to your folks, yeah? Figured you’d moved on. Smarter than me. Better than me.”
You swallowed. “You weren’t the worst thing that ever happened to me.”
He chuckled - low, self-deprecating. “Don’t gotta lie to make me feel better.”
“I’m not.”
For a long moment, you just sat there - the clatter of dishes and the hum of the fryer filling the space between you. Then Toji leaned back, rubbing the back of his neck, like the weight of the silence was heavier than anything he’d carried into battle.
He didn’t know how to do this - didn’t know how to try. But he was trying anyway. Two months sober. Two months of figuring out how to exist without the dull burn to blur the edges. Two months of choosing to show up.
The food came out quicker than either of you expected: two plates sliding onto the table with a soft clatter. Steam rose from the fries, oil glistening under the dull yellow light.
Toji picked up his fork and poked at his meal like he wasn’t sure if it was meant to be eaten or examined first. You hid a smile, breaking a fry in half.
“Looks better than I thought.” You murmured.
“Guess I’m losin’ my touch.” He joked. “Used to be good at pickin’ places where the food looked like roadkill.”
You gave a small laugh, and for the first time that night, some of the tension in his shoulders eased. He started to eat, more out of something to do than actual hunger.
Halfway through, though, he cleared his throat - and that sound alone made you glance up, because it was Toji’s universal sign for “I’m about to say something stupid”
“So…” He started, stabbing at a fry, “I was thinkin’—maybe next time we could go somewhere fancy. Y’know, like one of them posh places where they serve food on tiny plates.”
You smiled faintly. “Tiny plates?”
“Yeah, the ones that look like they’re feedin’ birds. You wear a dress, an’ I wear one of those stupid suits that make me look like I’m struggling to fit into it.”
He looked up, waiting expectantly; hopeful.
You tried - you really tried. But the laugh that escaped was smaller than you meant it to be, too careful, too polite. You didn’t mean for it to sound pitying, but it did.
His expression faltered - only for a second, but enough for you to see it. The small spark behind his eyes dimmed, replaced by that self-conscious twitch in his jaw.
“Wasn’t that funny anyway.” He muttered, going back to his food.
“Toji—”
“S’fine.” He waved it off, but his voice came out rougher than before. “Ain’t exactly a comedian.”
You felt something twist in your chest. He wasn’t angry, just… deflated. Like he’d tried to step into a version of himself that didn’t quite fit, and now he was standing there, embarrassed in the echo of it.
You leaned forward, reaching out instinctively. “Hey. I liked it. The bird-feeding part was funny.”
His brow cocked. “Funny how?”
“Just… it’s true! Those plates are ridiculously small.”
He huffed, a reluctant curve tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You’re just laughin’ ‘cause you feel bad.”
“Maybe.”
That earned you an eye roll, but it came with the faintest ghost of a smirk. He picked up another fry, flicked it at your plate.
“Good thing I like you, then.” He grumbled.
The tension cracked - just a little - like the first line of sunlight through a storm.
You could still see the flicker of embarrassment lingering behind his eyes, but under it was something else, too: a sort of fragile hope. Like maybe, if he kept trying, he’d eventually figure out how to make you laugh for real again.
The night air was cooler than expected when you both stepped out of the restaurant. The city had that sleepy hum: cars passing now and then, faint music from a pub somewhere down the street, the sharp smell of rain that hadn’t yet fallen.
Toji shoved his hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched against the chill. He didn’t say much - he rarely did when he didn’t know how to fill the space between you. His strides were slower than usual, though - careful, like he was deliberately trying not to walk too far ahead.
You matched his pace.
For a few minutes, the silence wasn’t bad. Just quiet; familiar. But then you caught the way his hand twitched near his side, like he almost reached for you, then thought better of it. The hesitation was so him it made your heart ache.
You slipped your hand into his before he could think twice.
He froze, just half a second too long. His palm was rough, calloused in all the places you remembered, and still warm despite the cold air. When his fingers finally curled around yours, it wasn’t smooth or confident. It was clumsy. Hesitant.
But he didn’t let go.
“Still bad at this.” He remembered, eyes fixed on the pavement ahead.
“Which part?” You teased lightly.
“All of it.” He gave a low snort, the sound almost self-mocking. “Never knew what to do with my hands. Still don’t.”
You smiled at that. “You’re okay.”
“Yeah, well…” He scratched at his jaw with his free hand, almost bashful. “You always made it easy to forget I was messin’ up.”
The admission came out quieter than he probably meant it to. For a man who’d faced sorcerers and death without blinking, he sounded almost… small.
You squeezed his hand gently, hoping it said all the things he couldn’t.
He glanced at you out of the corner of his eye, and you caught it: that tiny flicker of disbelief that someone like him could still have someone like you walking beside him.
By the time you reached your flat, neither of you had said much else. But he didn’t drop your hand, not even when you reached for your keys. Instead, he leaned against the doorframe, watching you unlock the door with that lazy, tired half-smile that barely hid the nerves underneath.
“You wanna come in?” You asked, voice soft.
Toji shrugged, but there was something almost shy about it. “If you’re sure.”
“I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t.”
He hesitated again, just long enough to make your chest tighten. Then he nodded once, stepped inside, and toed off his shoes like he’d done a hundred times before.
When you brushed past him to hang up your coat, he reached out, slow and uncertain, and caught your wrist. Not hard. Just enough to make you turn.
His thumb brushed your pulse, and his voice came low, almost rough: “Thanks. For… y’know. Tryin’ again.”
You smiled, even as your throat tightened. “You make it sound like it’s a chore.”
He huffed, looking down at where his hand still held yours. “Nah. Just… don’t really get why you’re botherin’.”
“Maybe I think you’re worth it.”
That shut him up - properly this time. No smirk, no teasing. Just a long look, the kind that stripped the fight right out of him.
When he finally pulled you in, it wasn’t smooth. He didn’t know how to hold someone gently without it feeling like he was afraid they’d vanish. But his arm settled around you anyway - a little too tight, and a little too awkward - and you let yourself lean in, pretending not to notice how his heart stuttered against your cheek.
It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t even close. But it was honest.
And for Toji, that was everything.
It didn’t happen overnight.
Toji wasn’t built for soft things - not by habit, not by the kind of life he’d lived. The first few weeks after that night were strange, even clumsy. He didn’t always know what to do with the quiet. Didn’t know what to do with himself when he wasn’t running, fighting, or drinking.
But he learned. Slowly.
He started with the little things - the ones that didn’t demand words. Washing the dishes after you cooked. Fixing the door that had been sticking since you moved in. Buying that brand of tea you always forgot to restock, slipping it into the cupboard without saying a word. It wasn’t grand, and it definitely wasn’t perfect, but it was him trying.
You noticed the shifts before he did: the way he listened now, really listened, even if his replies were gruff or half a grunt. The way he’d start reaching for your hand when you crossed the street, thumb brushing over your knuckles like he needed the reminder that you were real and still his.
He didn’t talk much about his sobriety; didn’t celebrate it, didn’t make a spectacle of it - but you saw it in the way he’d linger outside the corner shop that used to be his regular stop, jaw set, hands shoved deep in his pockets. How he’d always turn away after a minute and head home instead.
“Wasn’t even tempted.” He told you once, months later. You were curled up together on the couch, some late-night programme flickering on the TV, forgotten. His voice was low, like he didn’t want to scare the words off. “Used to think I couldn’t make it a week. Guess you were the thing I needed more than any of that.”
Your heart clenched at that, but you didn’t say anything - just reached up to brush your fingers through his hair. He leaned into your touch without thinking, a small, content sigh slipping out before he caught himself.
He still stumbled sometimes. He could be short-tempered, awkward, rough around the edges. But the difference was, he came back from it now. He apologised, even if it came out tangled: muttered words into your shoulder, a thumb tracing circles over your wrist, his version of “I didn’t mean it.”
And there were nights - rare, but more frequent than before - when he talked. Not much, not everything, but enough. About his past, about the years that blurred together, about the things he’d done and wished he hadn’t. His voice would go low, gravel softer somehow, like he didn’t quite trust it to hold steady.
You never interrupted; just listened.
He’d always end those nights the same way: hand tightening around yours, gaze fixed somewhere far away as he murmured, “Tryin’ to be better. For real this time.”
And he was. Piece by piece.
Not perfect; never soft by nature. But every now and then, you’d wake to find him already watching you, one hand cupping the back of your head, thumb brushing your hairline. No words, just that small, quiet proof that even a man like Toji Fushiguro could learn how to stay.
a/n: i love him he's just a big emotional wreck who thinks being tough will solve everything and make everyone leave him alone waaah hes just a little baby i love him
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synopsis: baking cookies with your husband, satoru gojo, goes wrong when he decides to have a food war instead. it's then he's reminded exactly why he married you.
contains: fluff, whipped!gojo, briefly implied fem reader (goddess, beautiful)
wc: 1.6k!
The apartment smells like sugar and butter: warm, sweet, and a little bit messy, the way evenings tend to get when you bake with too much enthusiasm and not enough discipline. The window over the sink is cracked open, letting in a low hum of city noise and the honeyed glow of sunset.
You’re elbow-deep in a mixing bowl, trying to fold chocolate chips into cookie dough without letting Satoru steal any, which, of course, means he’s stealing them relentlessly.
“Satoru.” You warn, voice muffled as you focus on scraping the sides of the bowl.
“Yes, my dear?” He answers innocently, already popping another handful of chips into his mouth.
You don’t even look up. “I can hear you eating them.”
“Impossible.” He says, through a mouthful of evidence. “I haven’t touched the bag in the past thirty seconds.”
You sigh - exaggerated, dramatic - but your mouth is fighting a smile. “You’re going to ruin the ratio.”
“The ratio?” He leans against the counter, grin hidden behind the back of his hand like a secret he refuses to keep. “Oh, you mean the sacred, perfectly balanced equation of dough to chip? The world rests on your shoulders, huh?”
“You’re horrible.”
“And yet you keep me around.”
You glance up, intending to roll your eyes at him, but the sight you catch instead gives you pause. The sun, low and golden, slants through the window and hits him right in the face. It glows off the white of his hair, paints his skin in honey, and makes his smile look a little too bright, a little too soft.
You look away quickly, because it’s unfair how he can turn a kitchen full of dirty bowls and half-used measuring cups into something that feels like home.
He catches you staring, of course. “What’s that look for?”
“Nothing.” You mutter, turning back to your dough.
“Uh-huh.” He hums, stepping closer. “You were totally admiring me. It’s okay, I get it. Hard not to when I’m this pretty.”
You scoff, pushing him away with your elbow when he reaches for another chocolate chip. “Pretty annoying, maybe.”
“Still pretty, though!” He fires back, quick as ever.
You toss a bit of flour at him. It floats through the air like glitter, landing on his shirt and his hair. When he finally looks down and sees the mess, his jaw drops in mock betrayal.
“Oh, so you wanna fight the strongest, huh?”
“Don’t!” You warn, laughing already. “Don’t you dare—”
He dips his hand right into the bag of flour, grinning like a man possessed, and dusts your shoulder with a cloud of white. You shriek, trying to dodge, but he’s already chasing you around the counter.
There’s laughter - real, breathless laughter - and the sound of feet on tile, a near miss with the mixing bowl, and finally, him catching you by the waist, both of you half-covered in flour, panting and laughing like kids.
His arms are around you. You can feel the rise and fall of his chest against your back. His breath ghosts warm over your ear when he murmurs: “Truce?”
You nod, still giggling. “Truce.”
“Good.” He says softly, and he doesn’t move away right away. His chin rests briefly on your shoulder, his fingers tracing idle patterns on your arm - a lazy, unconscious gesture that feels too intimate for such a ridiculous moment.
Then, somewhere behind the laughter, a new song starts. It’s soft and low - something slow and sentimental playing from the radio you’d forgotten to turn off earlier. The kind of song that drifts through a room like candle smoke.
Satoru hums along, off-key, just to make you laugh again. When you swat at his chest, he catches your hand instead.
“What are you doing?” You ask.
He lifts your hand higher, stepping in close. “Dancing.”
You blink. “In the kitchen?”
“Best dance floor in Tokyo.”
“Satoru—”
But he’s already swaying, one hand on your waist, the other gently holding yours. The world tilts: flour on the floor, dough forgotten, the sky outside bruising pink and gold. He hums the melody softly, his voice warm against the fading light.
You don’t know when you start following his lead, but you do. The rhythm is slow, almost lazy. You move together between the counters, the scent of vanilla in the air, and the soft scrape of socked feet against tile.
He spins you once - badly - and you both laugh. He mutters an apology and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers brushing your cheek.
When you look up, something in his expression has changed. The teasing is gone; what’s left is quiet, unguarded.
The song keeps playing, but neither of you speak. He just looks at you - really looks - like he’s seeing something he can’t quite put into words. The sunlight hits your face just right, and the air between you feels heavy with warmth.
“You know,” He says softly, his usual grin tempered into something gentler, “you’re kind of… ridiculous.”
You arch a brow. “Excuse me?”
He laughs under his breath. “You spend hours baking for me even though I eat half the ingredients before they hit the oven. You let me make a mess of your kitchen. You let me be…”
He trails off, eyes flicking away for a moment. “You let me be normal, I guess.”
Your chest tightens a little. He almost never drops his guard like this. Not really.
You smile. “You’re never normal.”
“Maybe,” he says, swaying a little slower, “but you make me want to be.”
The words hang there, suspended with the last note of the song. You could say something, tease him, make a joke, but you don’t. Instead, you rest your head against his shoulder.
For a while, there’s nothing but the sound of the city outside, the faint tick of the cooling oven, and his heartbeat beneath your ear.
He smells faintly of sugar and laundry detergent, and when he breathes out, it’s a quiet laugh.
“So uh.” He starts awkwardly. “I think we’re going to burn those cookies.”
You don’t lift your head. “Probably.”
“You’re not going to stop, are you?”
“Nope.”
“Good.” He murmurs, pressing his cheek against your hair. “Didn’t want to anyway.”
The song fades, but you keep swaying. The last of the sun slips below the buildings, turning everything a soft amber-grey. His hands stay at your waist, gentle and sure, as if letting go would break something sacred.
“Hey.” He whispers, barely loud enough for you to hear. “You look really beautiful right now.”
You laugh softly. “You’re just saying that.”
“Yeah, because it's easy with you.” He says, smiling. “But it’s also true.”
He pulls back just enough to look at you, to really see you, and there’s something so uncharacteristically quiet in his eyes that you forget to breathe for a moment.
The usual mischief is still there, but underneath it, there’s warmth, devotion, a kind of awe that doesn’t need words.
He tucks another bit of flour-dusted hair behind your ear. “See? Proof. Even covered in flour, you’re perfect.”
“You’re cheesy.” You murmur, cheeks warm.
“It’s not my fault I have a literal goddess infront of me to impress.” He counters. “You can’t stop me.”
You shake your head, smiling against his shoulder. “You’re so weird.”
“And you love it.” He says, the grin returning to his voice.
And maybe you do.
The oven timer finally beeps, shrill and impatient, but neither of you move. The cookies can wait.
Right now, the world is small and golden and full of laughter, and Gojo Satoru - strongest sorcerer in the world, eternal show-off, absolute menace - holds you like he’s afraid you might vanish with the light.
He pulls you closer again, and for a while, you just stay there - swaying gently, wrapped up in the last gold of the day. The sun has melted into a syrupy glow that spills through the windows, catching on the flour still dusting your skin and the small smile resting on his lips. His chin finds your shoulder, his breath fanning across your neck: slow, steady, and content.
You could stay like this forever. The rhythm of his heartbeat matches yours, and everything feels still: the city noise outside muffled, the air sweet and warm, the music fading into nothing.
But then, faintly, you smell something that doesn’t belong in a perfect moment.
At first, you ignore it. Maybe it’s just a bit of flour catching heat on the stovetop. But then it deepens, darker, sharper.
You sniff again. Pause. “…Satoru.” You murmur against his chest.
“Mhm?” He hums, still rocking you gently.
“The cookies are burning.”
He goes perfectly still. For once, not a single word leaves his mouth.
Then he pulls back, blinking at you as if you’ve spoken some unspeakable tragedy. “…No they’re not.”
“They are.” You insist, turning toward the oven. Sure enough, a thin wisp of smoke curls from the crack in the door, glowing gold in the sunset.
He squints. “...We can fix that.” He declares, voice full of unearned confidence.
You’re already laughing, dashing toward the counter for the oven mitts. “You were supposed to be watching them!”
“I was watching you!” He protests, dramatically clutching his chest. “That’s way more important!”
He rushes over to help - though “help” might be generous, considering he nearly makes you drop the mitts in his haste - and together you pull the tray out. The cookies are undeniably a little too dark at the edges, wisps of smoke trailing upward in lazy curls.
You stare down at them. “You burnt my cookies.”
“They’re just caramelised.” He states, peering over your shoulder with a grin that’s far too proud.
You try to glare, but the sound that escapes you is more of a laugh than a sigh. He looks so pleased with himself: flour still on his clothes and face, sunlight painting his profile, his hands still hovering protectively near your waist.
The smell of sugar and smoke fills the kitchen, and yet somehow, it still feels perfect. The burnt cookies, the soft light, the laughter spilling into the quiet - all of it.
a/n: pushed through my writer's block to write this. i have an idea for toji too so im gonna try and post that today too so i can feed you guys..
synopsis: after - luckily - narrowly avoiding a fatal crash into an insurance fraudster, you're wrongfully accused for the damage. enter hiromi higuruma.
tw: clueless!reader (only when it comes to law), higuruma takes advantage of you being clueless, corruption kink, suggestive towards the end, fluff
Evening draped itself over the city in muted golds and deepening blues, the kind of twilight that made everything feel like a threshold. You hovered in front of the mirror longer than you should have, fingers fussing over small details that didn't matter to anyone but you. The outfit was chosen - finally - and though it still screamed glamour, it also felt like you. That was all that mattered.
Still, your pulse was uneven. No matter how many times you smoothed your hands over your clothes, adjusted your hair, or checked your reflection, nerves kept thrumming in your chest.
It wasn't just any dinner; it was Hiromi.
Your phone buzzed.
"I'll be there in 15."
The message made your stomach dip in that strange, unsteady way he always seemed to.
By the time another buzz came - "I'm outside." - your pulse had already climbed high enough to rival the thrum of the city outside your window. You gathered your bag, slipped on your shoes, and forced your legs to carry you down the hallway, even as nerves crawled higher with every step.
The cool night air kissed your cheeks when you stepped outside. Hiromi was waiting, leaning against his car like the picture of ease. Not a suit this time - just a dark shirt with the sleeves rolled neatly, trousers that somehow managed to look polished without effort. His hair caught the glow of the streetlamps, the faintest breeze stirring it.
As soon as his eyes lifted to you, he stood straighter. And though his expression hardly gave away much, his gaze lingered long enough for you to feel it everywhere at once.
"You look beautiful." He uttered at last, no hesitation in the way his voice curved around the word. It wasn't practiced or casual - it was deliberate, as if he'd chosen honesty over restraint.
Heat surged up your neck, catching you off guard. "You- thank you. You look… good too."
The corner of his mouth softened, curling into a smile. He stepped forward, closing the distance with a pace that felt unhurried, intentional. Without a word, he reached for your hand. The warmth of his palm settled around yours, fingers curling gently, and instead of pulling you toward the car, he simply paused. As if he wanted you to feel steady before you moved.
"Ready?" He asked, voice lower now.
You nodded, though the answer was already obvious in the way you clung lightly to his hand.
Hiromi guided you to the car, not letting go until you reached the passenger side. He opened the door for you, his touch brushing lightly against your back as you sat down - a fleeting contact, almost too careful, but not lost on you. He waited until you were settled before closing the door, circling to the driver's side with unhurried calm.
The engine stirred, a quiet hum filling the silence. Streetlights streaked against the windshield as he pulled away, one hand steady on the wheel. Out of habit, you shifted to rest your bag on your lap, but before you could fidget any further, Hiromi reached to adjust the air controls, making sure the warmth was directed toward you.
"You'll catch a chill," he said simply, as though it wasn't even up for discussion.
It was ridiculous how much those small, wordless gestures - his hand lingering a second too long, the door opened without you asking, the warmth aimed your way - managed to shake you more than the kiss he'd stolen days ago.
This wasn't just professional care. This was Hiromi, deliberately peeling away layers of distance, one gentlemanly act at a time.
Streetlights spilled golden across the windshield, slicing the car's interior into shifting bands of light and shadow. You sat angled toward the window, trying to keep your breathing even, but Hiromi's nearness tugged at your attention like gravity.
One hand rested casually on the wheel. The other? It drifted, brushing your knee as he shifted gears, steadying briefly at your thigh when the road curved. It was so natural, so unthinking, you almost convinced yourself it was nothing. Almost.
"Still nervous?" His voice carried that low warmth again, the kind that made the air feel heavier than it was.
You forced a weak smile. "Maybe. A little."
He hummed, and this time the sound was accompanied by his palm smoothing lightly over your thigh, just once, before retreating as if it had never happened. Except the heat it left behind said otherwise.
At the next stoplight, he turned his head and really looked at you. His eyes softened in a way that made your chest tight. "You don't need to be. Not with me."
Your breath caught. He must have noticed, because his mouth curved, faint but sure. The car rolled forward again, and his hand returned, resting against your thigh more boldly now. It's as if he'd decided there was no point in pretending otherwise.
"You're tense." He remarked simply, thumb grazing the fabric of your outfit as though he were cataloguing the way you trembled.
"That's because you keep-" Words stumbled before you could catch them.
"Touching you?" He offered, entirely unbothered, his tone dipping with the faintest tease.
Heat climbed to your ears. "You're supposed to be a gentleman."
"I am." He replied, the corners of his mouth curving as he let his hand squeeze - gentle, controlled, but deliberate. "You should see how much I'm holding back."
The admission left you speechless, your pulse hammering. He only chuckled under his breath, shifting his hand back to the wheel as though nothing had happened, though the warmth of his palm still burned through you.
Streetlights flickered across the hood of Hiromi's car as he pulled into a quiet corner lot. The restaurant wasn't ostentatious - no glittering chandeliers or velvet drapes - but its clean lines and soft lighting spoke for themselves. Floor-to-ceiling windows glowed warmly, and inside, people in smart dress leaned over tables draped in neat linen, wine glasses catching the light. It was fancy enough to make your pulse quicken, but not so intimidating that you felt you didn't belong.
The car eased to a stop. Before you could even reach for the handle, Hiromi was already stepping out. He came around to your side with easy confidence, opening the door as though it were second nature. His hand appeared in front of you, palm up.
"Don't make me wait." He murmured, voice carrying that low warmth that felt closer than it should.
You slipped your hand into his, and he guided you out, steadying you with a touch at the small of your back. That touch didn't leave, either. It lingered, light but firm, until you fell into step beside him.
Inside, the restaurant's atmosphere wrapped around you: quiet, intimate, with the hum of conversation softened by jazz coming low from hidden speakers. A waiter approached, and Hiromi spoke easily, his tone neither stiff nor showy. "Reservation for Higuruma."
You flushed at the sound of his name spoken so casually here, away from courtrooms and office walls.
The two of you were led to a table by the window. Hiromi pulled your chair out without hesitation, a small smirk flickering across his face when your hand brushed his in the process. Once seated opposite you, he leaned back in his chair, loosening his shoulders in a way you weren't used to seeing.
"Better?" He asked.
You blinked. "Better than what?"
He tilted his head slightly, eyes catching the glow of the candle on your table. "Better than what you imagined when I said I'd take you out."
The question made heat creep up your neck. You tried to find your voice, finally settling on, "I wasn't sure what to imagine."
His lips curved. Not the tight, unreadable line he wore in court, but something easier, almost teasing. "That's fair. I guess I don't look like someone who knows how to date, do I?"
Your laugh startled both of you. "Not exactly. You're… serious."
"Serious." He echoed, pretending to consider the word. Then, without warning, his foot brushed lightly against your ankle under the table. "Guess I'll have to prove you wrong tonight."
Your breath hitched, and Hiromi's gaze sharpened with the faintest glimmer of satisfaction. He looked down at the menu as if nothing had happened, though his index idly traced the rim of his wine glass.
"Don't look so worried." He added after a moment, glancing up again. "We're not in court anymore. You don't have to get everything right."
And just like that, the knot of nerves in your chest loosened a little - not because the restaurant was less intimidating, but because he was. Hiromi, here, was easier. Still precise, still careful, but willing to slip in touches and words that made you feel like this wasn't foreign at all. Like it was just you and him.
Dinner had been good. Really good, in fact, rich cuts of meat nearly melted in your mouth, vegetables glossed with butter and herbs - the kind of meal you told yourself you'd savor slowly but wound up eating faster than you'd meant to because each bite demanded another.
Hiromi ate heartily too, though it was clear his focus hadn't been on the food. The steady lowering of the wine bottle gave him away. He wasn't sloppy - he never would be - but his collar hung open, tie forgotten in the booth, and his gaze had settled on you more times than on his plate.
By the time dessert arrived - dark chocolate cake on a sleek square plate, glossy under restaurant lights - his smirk had turned lazy, wolfish. He pushed his own dish toward you as if daring you to try it, then leaned back, swirling what had to be his third glass of wine.
"You liked dinner." He murmured, watching you drag your fork through a corner of cake.
"It was great." You admitted, hoping the simplicity of the answer would keep him satisfied.
But Hiromi didn't look satisfied. His hand draped against the table, fingers tapping idly. His eyes were darker now, the alcohol sharpening his boldness instead of dulling it. He tipped the glass, swallowed slow, and set it down with a decisive click.
"Know what I liked?"
You hummed cautiously, cutting into another bite. "What?"
"The way you kept shifting in your seat." He leaned forward suddenly, elbows braced on the table, voice pitched low and rough. "Like you couldn't sit still, and you were already thinking about me between your thighs."
Your fork clattered against the plate. "Hiromi—"
"Don't look at me like that." His smirk widened, unrepentant. "I've been holding my tongue all night, but now? Now I just want to tell you exactly what's on my mind."
You darted a look around the restaurant. Couples murmured to each other, waiters carried plates, the hum of conversation filling the air. No one was listening, but the possibility that someone could hear had your pulse spiking.
"Hiromi, we're in public." You hissed in warning.
"So?" He tilted his head, studying you like you were prey cornered at last. "What's stopping me from saying I want you bent over my desk? Or that I"ve been thinking about how good your mouth would feel while I pull your hair and make you look at me?"
Your breath hitched so sharply you almost choked. You slapped a hand over your mouth, mortified, while heat rushed all the way up to your ears.
His chuckle was a low rumble, eyes glittering with triumph. "That's the face. God, you're blushing so hard I could eat it off your skin."
"Stop!" You begged, every nerve buzzing, though your thighs squeezed under the table in direct betrayal.
"You don't really want me to." His voice dropped lower, closer, his words curling filthy in your ear though he hadn’t moved an inch. "You like it. The risk. The thought of everyone around us eating their dessert while I'm telling you how I'd ruin you the second we're alone."
"Hiromi." You were sure your voice cracked.
He grinned wider, completely unashamed. "I'd have you begging. Right here, if I could. Spread out, sticky fingers from the cake, my hand around your throat so you can't look away while I—"
"Enough!" You hissed, clamping your knees together and staring anywhere but him. "You can't say that here."
His laughter was husky, unrestrained, and rich with delight at your fluster. He dragged his fork through his untouched dessert, slow and deliberate, as though he hadn't just painted your imagination in broad, scandalous strokes.
"You're so easy to rile up." He spoke finally, softer but no less sinful. "But one day, sweetheart, I'm not going to stop at words. You'll know exactly what I mean."
Your jaw hung slack. You'd known Hiromi could be sharp, sly, even teasing - but this? This blunt, dirty honesty had your stomach in knots, your heart hammering. You wanted to crawl under the table. You wanted to run out the door. Worst of all, you wanted everything he promised, and that thought nearly knocked the breath from your lungs.
You tried, desperately, to cut into another bite of cake, if only to busy your hands. The chocolate was rich, almost bitter, but it was impossible to taste anything with him watching you like that.
Hiromi picked up his glass again, the corner of his mouth quirking as he took a slow sip. He didn't look away from you once.
"Eat up." He teased. "You'll need the energy."
The fork slipped from your fingers, clattering against porcelain. Your jaw snapped shut so fast your teeth clicked.
"You're—" Words failed you completely.
"Mm." Hiromi hummed, setting his glass down with a satisfied sigh. "That's what I thought."
The world around you buzzed on, waiters moving, diners laughing, glasses clinking. But in your booth, the air was thick, stifling, every nerve in your body taut with embarrassment and heat. He had no shame. None at all. And worse, you weren't sure you wanted him to.
a/n: IM BACK. and now i have to prepare for the smut in the next chapter rubs hands deviously
synopsis: after - luckily - narrowly avoiding a fatal crash into an insurance fraudster, you're wrongfully accused for the damage. enter hiromi higuruma.
tw: mentions of car crash, clueless!reader (only when it comes to law), higuruma takes advantage of you being clueless, corruption kink, inaccurate depictions of a courtroom?
Light slanted through the courthouse windows, pale and unyielding, catching dust motes that hung in the stale morning air. You sat stiffly at the defence table, palms flat against your knees to stop them from trembling. Every shuffle of papers, every cough from the gallery, rattled through your chest like it was aimed directly at you.
Across the aisle, the fraudster straightened his tie and leaned back in his chair. His face was carefully arranged into weariness, his mouth set in the shape of a man wronged. You hated how convincing he looked, how easily his shoulders slumped and eyes grew damp the moment the judge glanced his way.
Beside you, Hiromi adjusted the cuff of his shirt, calm as though the room were built for him. "Relax." He muttered, pitched low enough only you could hear. His knee brushed yours beneath the desk, slow, deliberate. It wasn't enough to look suspicious, but the heat of it sparked through you, pulling your lungs into motion again.
The hearing dragged on in cautious increments, every question and answer pulling the knot in your stomach tighter. The prosecutor led the fraudster gently, voice softened to make him seem fragile, a victim caught in misfortune.
He played the part well. Shoulders slouched just enough, eyes watering when he glanced toward the judge. His words spilled rehearsed sympathy: he'd been careful, he'd been wronged, he'd braked only to avoid disaster. When his gaze flicked to you, it dripped with accusation dressed as pity, and you shrank under it.
The judge scribbled notes. The gallery murmured in quiet agreement. For a moment, it felt like the room itself tilted against you.
Beside you, Hiromi remained still, watching, taking in every word with an intensity you could almost feel radiating from him. He didn't interrupt, didn't fidget. He simply let the fraudster talk, as though he were giving him all the rope he needed.
Your fingers curled tight around your knees. It felt unfair - his act was working. The lies were taking root. The air grew heavier with every sympathetic nod from the prosecutor, every quiet sigh from the gallery.
Hiromi leaned closer, his breath ghosting your ear. "Patience." He murmured. His hand came to squeeze your knee, before disappearing once more to not draw attention. "He's overplaying it."
Something in his calm steadied your lungs. And then - finally - the prosecutor stepped back, satisfied.
The room shifted, and Hiromi rose. He stayed rooted where he was, sleeves creased faintly from how tightly he'd crossed his arms. His gaze pinned the fraudster, not icy, not unreadable - there was heat in it, simmering irritation barely masked beneath professional control.
"You braked suddenly for debris. Correct?" His voice carried evenly, but the faint tilt of his head made the question sharper, like he already knew the answer wasn't going to hold.
"Yes." The fraudster muttered, though his eyes darted away.
Hiromi's brows twitched. "And this debris was so immediate, so unavoidable, that you risked a collision behind you?" He tapped the edge of a page against his palm, the sound crisp in the hush of the courtroom.
The fraudster’s throat clicked as he swallowed. "Yes."
Without a word, Hiromi held up the first still frame from the CCTV, arm steady. "Here is the road thirty seconds before you braked. Clear." He laid it down, precise, his gestures controlled but edged with a hint of satisfaction. "Here it is at the moment you slammed the brakes." Another slap of paper. "Clear." A third, laid down with deliberate weight. "Thirty seconds after. Still clear."
He stacked the papers like a dealer who knew every card was loaded. "So again: what exactly did you stop for?"
The fraudster coughed, his knee bouncing once against the floor. "It- it was dark. I must've thought—"
"You must've thought," Hiromi cut in, voice hardening, "on a highway you've driven countless times. A highway with no trees, no overhanging branches, no chance of falling debris. And yet you decided to slam your brakes? That's convenient."
He let the words hang just long enough to sting before reaching for another sheet. His motions weren't just professional - they carried an edge, something almost cutting, as though each piece of paper weighed more than it should.
"Your statement to the police that night was specific. You said 'a large branch.' Not a shadow, not a trick of the light, but a large branch." He lifted the transcript, the corners already worn from use. "That's not vague, is it?"
The fraudster's jaw tensed. "I—yes, but—"
"No 'but.' You were clear, and yet no camera shows this branch. Not before, not after. Not once." Hiromi's voice sharpened with the words, but there was a flicker of something else beneath it - disbelief that the man across from him was still trying to wriggle free. "Branches don't vanish into thin air."
The fraudster shifted in his seat, fingers twitching against his knee. "Maybe another car dragged it away before—"
Hiromi’s laugh was soft, dry, and humourless. "Dragged it away?" He stepped closer, leaning his weight onto the lectern. "So quickly that not a single scratch, not a single mark, was left behind? The police bodycam shows the tarmac bare. The report notes nothing. No debris, no skid marks, nothing."
The silence thickened, restless. Even the judge's pen paused mid-note.
Hiromi didn't give the fraudster a chance to regroup. "Unless this court wants to entertain ghost branches conveniently appearing and disappearing at your command, I'd suggest you stop insulting our intelligence."
The fraudster opened his mouth, then clamped it shut, shoulders drawing tighter.
Hiromi wasn't done. He drew out the last sheet, voice deceptively mild, though his eyes gleamed with something sharper - satisfaction, maybe, or the thrill of pulling threads loose until everything unravelled. "This wouldn't be the first time, would it?"
A murmur rippled through the courtroom.
"Three prior hearings in three years. Three incidents where you were—" his lips curved, but there was no warmth in it, "—miraculously the victim of unforeseeable accidents. All settled, and all conveniently in your favour."
The fraudster flinched, colour rushing hot into his face. "T-That's irrelevant!"
"Is it?" Hiromi turned, catching the judge's eye, his words respectful but his expression hard. "Patterns of behaviour matter. Repetition matters. This isn't misfortune; It's design."
The judge rapped her gavel. "Mr. Higuruma. Keep to the facts of this case."
Hiromi inclined his head, tone smooth, though his eyes didn’t soften. "Of course, Your Honour." He pivoted back, voice lowering just enough to cut through the tension. "So let's try again. Why did you stop that night?"
The fraudster's lips parted, but no words came. His shoulders slumped faintly, his gaze slipping to the polished wood of the bench like it might save him.
Hiromi let the silence stretch, tapping the edge of the transcript once, deliberately, before finally stepping back, but not all the way. He remained standing, tall and unmoving, as if daring the fraudster to try again.
The fraudster licked his lips, Adam's apple bobbing. His hands twisted together on his lap, the skin of his knuckles bleaching white.
"I—I told you," he started, voice shaking now, "it was… it was a branch, or—or something—"
Hiromi's eyes narrowed, sharp as a blade. "Something. That's quite a shift from your original statement."
"I… I didn't mean…" The man's words tangled, spilling over themselves. His gaze darted desperately toward the prosecutor, then snapped back to the judge, sweat beading on his temple. "It was dark, I-I thought I saw—"
"Which is it?" Hiromi pressed, his tone slicing clean through the fumbling excuses. He took a deliberate step forward, every syllable measured, every pause purposeful. "A large branch, as you swore to the police? Or nothing at all, as the footage shows? Because you can't have both."
The fraudster froze. His mouth opened, but only a strangled sound slipped out.
Gasps whispered through the room. Even the prosecutor's jaw tightened, realising what had just happened.
Hiromi didn't need to raise his voice. He simply set the transcript back down on the lectern, straightened, and said evenly, "No further questions."
It was enough. The silence that followed was crushing, filled only by the scratch of the judge’s pen against paper. She didn't look at you, nor at Hiromi, but at the man crumbling across the aisle.
Your heart pounded so hard it almost drowned out the words when the judge finally spoke: "It seems, Mr. Higuruma, that your client's account aligns with the evidence. The defendant's explanation, however…" Her gaze lingered on the fraudster, her expression flat, unimpressed. "…is lacking in credibility."
The fraudster slumped back, as though the air had been pulled clean from his lungs.
Hiromi, on the other hand, only exhaled slowly, slipping his papers back into order. He didn't smile, didn't gloat, but there was a glint in his eyes as he glanced toward you - a flash of something triumphant, restrained, but burning bright all the same. His hand brushed yours beneath the table, the touch subtle, hidden from view, but firm enough that you knew: it was over.
You'd won.
The judge set her pen down, the faint scrape against wood punctuating the hush. "This court has heard enough." Her voice rang with authority, final and unshakable. "The evidence presented by the defence thoroughly undermines the plaintiff's account. The CCTV footage, the lack of physical proof, and the plaintiff's own contradictions leave no reasonable doubt."
She adjusted her glasses, gaze sweeping the room before settling on the fraudster, who sat rigid in his chair, colour drained from his face. "Furthermore, Mr. Satō," his name rolled heavy in the air, "this is not your first time before this court on matters of suspicious accidents. The pattern is clear, and today's proceedings confirm it. This was not misfortune; It was fraud."
A ripple of sound coursed through the gallery. The fraudster's lawyer stiffened, opening his mouth as though to object, but one sharp look from the judge silenced him.
She lifted her gavel, voice cutting through the tension like steel. "The case against the defendant is dismissed. Mr. Satō, you are hereby remanded into custody on charges of insurance fraud and perjury. You will await sentencing in remand prison until your next hearing."
The gavel cracked down, sharp and final.
Gasps broke out. The fraudster surged halfway to his feet, face blotched red, but the bailiff was already at his side, hand heavy on his shoulder to force him back down. "This is ridiculous!" He barked, his earlier polished composure shattering into rage. "She hit me! She—"
"Enough." The judge's command cut through his outburst, cold and absolute. "Take him away."
The bailiffs closed in. The fraudster's protests grew muffled as he was hauled toward the doors, his voice cracking under the weight of it all. By the time the courtroom doors slammed shut behind him, silence flooded back in, thick and stunned.
"All rise," the bailiff called, and the room shuffled awkwardly to its feet as the judge departed, robes whispering across the floor.
You swayed faintly, relief rushing too fast through your veins. For a terrifying second, you thought your legs might give out. Then Hiromi's hand brushed your elbow - warm, steadying - and the threat of collapse ebbed. He gathered his files with methodical ease, but his thumb lingered against your arm longer than it needed to, his quiet voice reaching you through the murmur of the room.
"It's over." Two words, delivered in that low baritone, and the truth of them finally cracked through.
You'd won. He'd won for you, and the man who had tried to ruin you was gone.
Late afternoon light spilled across the blinds in Hiromi's office, striping the dark wood of his desk and the neatly stacked files. The chaos of court felt distant now, muffled by the quiet hum of the city outside and the soft scrape of his chair as he leaned back. You sat opposite him, still wrung out from the emotional high of the trial, but steadier than before.
"I should ask about payment." You piped up, fumbling with the strap of your bag. "After everything you did—I don't even know where to begin, but I'll find a way. I have savings, I can—"
"Stop." His interruption was gentle but firm. He set down his pen, folding his hands in front of him. His eyes, sharp and amber in the fading light, pinned you in place - not cold, but unyielding. "I'm not taking your money."
You blinked, heat creeping up your neck. "But… that isn't fair. You worked so hard, Hiromi, I can't just—"
"I said no." He leaned forward slightly, the corner of his mouth curving - not a smirk, but something caught between amusement and intent. "You already promised me payment."
Your heart tripped. "I… what?"
He didn’t look away. "A date. That's all I'll take." His voice dropped, a shade lower, smooth and deliberate. "Dinner, coffee, I don't care where. That's your fee."
The words sat heavy between you, both teasing and serious. You knew he could have laughed it off, could have let you off the hook - but he didn't. He meant it.
Your fingers tightened around your bag strap, and you swore your pulse had jumped into your throat.
a/n: is this accurate? probably not. do i care? no, not really! as long as i feed my higuruma fans
synopsis: in which you have a nightmare, and jonathan is there to comfort you
tw: angst?, fluff
Jonathan's arms were warm and heavy around you, his chest pressed to your back, his breathing steady against the nape of your neck. You'd fallen asleep that way: cocooned in his embrace, his body curled protectively around yours. He always seemed to sleep best when he held you like this - like letting go was out of the question.
But sleep betrayed you tonight.
The dream gripped you in cruel hands -fire, Dio's grin, Jonathan's body falling lifeless before you could reach him. You screamed without sound, your chest tight, lungs refusing to fill. When you finally tore yourself awake, your body jerked in panic.
Except you didn't sit upright. Jonathan's hold kept you anchored against him, his arms snug and unyielding. You thrashed once, twice, a broken gasp scraping from your throat. It was enough.
Jonathan stirred instantly. His breath hitched, then his voice was there, low and close to your ear.
"Love? Hey—what's happening?" His arms shifted, not loosening but adjusting, one hand coming up to cradle your shaking side.
Tears blurred your vision before you even realized you were crying. You struggled for words, heart pounding painfully. "I-I dreamed you were gone." You stammered, your voice shaking. "I couldn't reach you, no matter how hard I tried. It felt so real."
Jonathan's chest rose and fell sharply against your back. He tightened his arms around you, pulling you flush against him. His lips brushed your temple as he whispered, "Shh, I've got you. You're safe. I'm right here."
You turned in his hold, needing to see him. He let you twist enough to face him, though he didn't let go. His eyes, even half-lidded from sleep, were clear and worried, scanning your tear-streaked face. His thumb brushed gently beneath your eye, catching the wetness.
"It was just a nightmare." He uttered softly, his voice rough with sleep yet steady. "I'm not going anywhere. Not while I've still got breath in me."
The nightmare still lingered, its edges sharp. You shook your head, pressing your forehead against his chest. "I know it wasn't real, but it hurt so much. The thought of losing you…"
Jonathan's arms squeezed tighter, his whole body curling protectively around you. "And the thought of losing you terrifies me too," he admitted, voice low against your hair. "But you're here. We're both here. That's what's real."
You clung to him, your hands curling into his shirt. He shifted again, settling the two of you back against the mattress. This time he guided you into his chest more firmly, spooning you again but with his leg hooked gently over yours, his embrace tighter, as though to physically shield you from the lingering shadows.
The steady thump of his heart pressed into your back, grounding you. You tried to match your breathing to his, each rise and fall of his chest reminding you that he was alive, warm, here.
"Do you want to tell me what you saw?" He asked after a moment, his breath stirring the hair near your ear. His tone was gentle, careful, giving you space.
You hesitated, then whispered, "You were fighting Dio. You fell. I couldn't get to you, and he looked at me like I'd lost."
Jonathan's arm across your middle tightened, his hand splaying protectively against your stomach. His voice, usually gentle, held a harder edge now. "That will never happen. Not while I'm standing. I swear it."
The fierceness in his tone startled you, but it didn’t scare you - it comforted you. You tilted your head back slightly, and Jonathan leaned forward enough to kiss your damp cheek, lingering there for a long moment.
"Listen to me." He murmured, softer now, his lips brushing your skin. "Dreams can't take me from you. Nothing can, as long as I can fight it. And I'll fight with everything I have."
The conviction in his words seeped into you, steady and sure. Slowly, the panic began to ebb, leaving only exhaustion in its wake. You relaxed back into his embrace, letting his warmth swallow you whole.
Minutes passed like that, the silence broken only by your uneven breaths and Jonathan's quiet murmurs. He didn't rush you, didn't let go, just kept holding you close, his body curved perfectly around yours. Eventually, your trembling slowed, your breathing syncing with his.
Jonathan pressed one last kiss to your hair before resting his chin against your head. "Better?" He questioned softly.
You nodded, too drained to speak, but you knew he felt the way your body settled, less tense now, more trusting.
"Good." He whispered, his lips brushing your ear. "Sleep, love. I'll keep you safe."
And this time, when sleep pulled you under, it wasn't with shadows or Dio's grin. It was with the steady rise and fall of Jonathan's chest at your back, his arms wrapped firmly around you, his heartbeat a lullaby against your spine. You didn't dream of losing him again - you dreamed only of his warmth, his strength, the promise of his embrace that would not falter, even in the darkest of nights.
synopsis: after - luckily - narrowly avoiding a fatal crash into an insurance fraudster, you're wrongfully accused for the damage. enter hiromi higuruma.
tw: mentions of car crash, clueless!reader (only when it comes to law), higuruma takes advantage of you being clueless, corruption kink, suggestive!!!
By the time you reached the firm, your nerves had knotted themselves into something tight and restless. Last night's phone call hadn't left you; Hiromi's voice - gravelly and intentional - still hummed at the back of your mind. You weren't sure if you were more anxious to see him again, or if you were simply afraid of what might happen once you did.
The receptionist barely lifted her eyes this time, only gesturing you down the hall. "He's waiting."
His office door was open, lamplight spilling into the corridor. Hiromi sat behind his desk, glasses perched low on his nose as he scanned a stack of papers. At the sound of your footsteps, he looked up - expression softening just slightly, the faintest shadow of a smile crossing his mouth.
"You're right on time." He beamed. "Come in."
You eased into the chair across from him, trying to ignore how your chest tightened at the sight of him. He gestured toward the monitor, already clicking through files.
"I've been piecing together the fraudster's history. The pattern's stronger than I expected." Hiromi began, his voice carrying that same calm you were beginning to recognise as his professional armour. "We'll need to introduce it carefully - demonstrate that it's relevant, not just character assassination."
You nodded, eyes following the screen but mind still tangled. The words should have been reassuring - solid ground beneath your case - but all you could hear was the echo of his voice on the phone: Would you let me take you to dinner?
You startled, heat rising to your cheeks. "No. Just… thinking."
His gaze lingered, sharper now, as though he could read the thought you hadn’t spoken. Then, in a tone almost too casual, he added, "About the case?"
Your throat tightened. "Not exactly."
That earned you the faintest smile - there and gone again in a heartbeat. He leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. "Then about what we said last night."
The way he said it - so even, so calculated - sent a rush of warmth through you. You glanced down at your hands, trying to gather words that didn't sound like a confession.
"You caught me off guard." You admitted softly.
Hiromi tilted his head, studying you with a certain intensity that made your stomach flip. "Is that a bad thing?"
You hesitated, then shook your head. "No. Just… new."
He hummed low in his throat, the sound almost amused. Then he leaned forward again, elbows resting on the desk, closing some of the distance between you. "For the record," he said quietly, "I wasn't joking about dinner."
Your breath caught.
"And," he continued, his eyes never leaving yours, "I think I'd like to see you outside of this office. Away from all this." He gestured at the papers, the screen, the tidy prison of professionalism he wore so well.
The words were simple, but the way he said them left no doubt: he wasn't speaking as your lawyer anymore.
You shifted in your chair, pulse quickening. "That sounds… nice."
The corner of his mouth curved, satisfied. "Good. Then once I win this case for you," his voice dropped slightly, teasing now. "you'll let me prove I can do more than draft arguments and file motions."
Your cheeks burned. You looked away, but not before you saw the glint in his eyes: sharp, knowing, as if he enjoyed watching you fluster more than he should.
The case, the fraudster, the monitor - all of it slipped into the background. For the first time, you realised Hiromi wasn't hiding the fact he wanted you to.
However, just as quickly as it came, it disappeared. Hiromi shifted the mouse, scrolling through another court record, the glow of the monitor washing his features in pale light.
"This one." he muttered, almost to himself. "Notice how he changes his story each time. Same crash, same excuses, just slightly altered details."
You leaned closer, squinting at the screen. "I don't know how you spotted that."
A quiet chuckle left him. "Patience. And too much coffee."
Your lips tugged into a smile. "So, not a superpower then?"
He finally glanced at you, eyes narrowing in mock seriousness. "Maybe it is. You never know what I'm capable of."
The words carried a weight they shouldn't have, a subtle drop in tone that left you staring back at him longer than you meant to. Your pulse quickened, not from the case but from the fact that his gaze didn't immediately shift back to the monitor.
It was you who broke first, looking away. "Still feels unfair. You've got experience on your side. I'd miss everything."
Hiromi hummed, sliding a file to the side, his knuckles brushing the desk. "That's why you have me."
Your head lifted at that, startled. "As my lawyer?"
His lips twitched. "For now."
A silence hung between you, filled only by the hum of the computer and the scratch of his pen against paper as he jotted something down. You tried to focus on the records he was showing you, but every shift of his hand, every glance, felt deliberate, like he was tugging at the thread of your attention on purpose.
When you leaned over the desk again, pointing at a highlighted line, he tilted the monitor toward you - closer than necessary. His sleeve brushed your arm.
"You're not paying attention." He murmured, so low you almost thought you imagined it.
You blinked. "I am."
His eyes narrowed with quiet amusement. "Not to the case."
Heat rushed to your cheeks. "That's not—"
"Mm." He leaned back, letting you scramble to find words, his expression unreadable but his smirk betraying him. "We'll revisit this when you're less distracted."
You glared, though weakly. "You're mean."
"And you," he replied smoothly, gathering another folder, "are very easy to read."
Your stomach fluttered, though you couldn't decide if it was irritation or something dangerously close to thrill.
Late afternoon light poured through the blinds, striping the office in soft gold. You'd been bent over notes for the last hour, dutifully writing what Hiromi dictated, though his voice kept dipping into a register that felt more teasing than professional.
"You're sighing again." He pointed out, pen scratching across paper without pause.
Your head lifted. "Is that a crime now?"
"Depends who you ask." His mouth curved faintly, an almost-smile that made heat stir low in your stomach.
It had been like this all evening: back and forth, a steady rhythm of work laced with interruptions that pulled you just far enough off balance. He wasn't even trying to hide it anymore, those slips in tone, those glances that lingered a second too long.
He leaned back in his chair, eyes flicking to the far wall. "There's a book I need. Top shelf, right-hand side. Can you get it for me?"
You hesitated, then rose. The book was easy enough to spot, but impossible to reach. Standing on your toes, you stretched until your arm ached, fingertips brushing the spine without gaining leverage. A small sound of frustration slipped out before you could stop it.
Behind you, his chair scraped back.
"Here." He mumbled, voice lower, closer.
Before you could turn, warmth closed in. A hand slid to your waist, steadying you, and then his body pressed against yours from behind, his chest firm against your back, the solid weight of him unmistakable. The contact startled a sharp breath from your lips.
He reached easily over your head, plucking the book free in one smooth motion, but he didn't move away. His front stayed pressed against yours, unhurried, like he had no reason to retreat.
The book touched your hands. His fingers grazed yours, deliberate.
"I… could've managed." You whispered, though the words came out thinner than you intended.
"Yeah?" Hiromi breathed near your ear, the sound almost careless - but his grip on your waist betrayed otherwise. His thumb shifted slowly against your side, not measured, not professional, but lingering.
You turned slightly, and in the narrow space left between you, your eyes caught his. What you saw there wasn't calm or detached anymore - it was raw, intent, as though he'd let something slip he couldn't quite reel back.
And still, he didn't step away.
His thumb still moved against your waist, slow and absent, like he didn't even realise what he was doing. You were the one who shifted first, turning slightly in the cage of his arm, your shoulder brushing his chest. The space between you narrowed to nothing.
Hiromi's eyes dropped, flicking once to your mouth before snapping back up to meet yours. That flicker alone sent heat rushing through you, stealing the air from your lungs.
You should have stepped back. He should have stepped back. Neither of you did.
The kiss landed like something inevitable - his mouth firm against yours, a low hum breaking in his chest as though he'd been holding it back too long. His hand tightened on your waist, pulling you flush against him, his other hand bracing against the shelf beside your head.
Your fingers bunched in the fabric of his shirt without thinking, chasing more even as your heart raced, even as the world tilted around you. He kissed like he worked: deliberate, focused, each motion unhurried but devastatingly precise, like he wanted you to feel how much control he had, and how much of it he was losing.
Hiromi tore his mouth from yours, breathing ragged as though the effort cost him. His forehead stayed pressed to yours, his hand still firm at your waist like he couldn't bear the thought of letting go entirely.
"Not here." He muttered, voice thick and rough, the sound alone making your pulse stutter. "You deserve better than me taking you against a wall of case law."
Your stomach dropped at the phrasing, heat shooting through you before you could stop it. "H-Hiromi—"
He let out a low chuckle, the kind that curled right into your chest and spread like fire. "Don't look at me like that. I mean it." His thumb brushed the edge of your shirt beneath your jacket, barely there, like he was testing how far he could push.
"When it happens - our first time - I want to treat you properly. Not rush you. Not…" His breath caught, and he pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, his own darkened, betraying far more than he usually allowed. "…Not lose control in the middle of my office."
Your face burned, every nerve alive. You wanted to say something clever, something to prove you weren't completely undone by the weight of his words, but your tongue tripped over itself.
Hiromi's lips twitched, almost a smile, though the heat in his eyes didn't fade. "Ah," he murmured softly, "I've flustered you." He tilted his head, deliberately studying you, savouring the sight. "Good. You should know exactly what you do to me."
Hiromi's words sank into you like a match to dry paper, sparking something you weren't ready to name. He must've known it, too, because his smirk softened just as quickly as it came, his hand finally sliding away from your waist. The sudden absence made your skin ache, though you forced yourself to breathe evenly.
He stepped back, straightening his shirt, his voice returning to something closer to professional. "We should… get back to the case." His tone was steady, but you didn't miss the way his jaw worked as if he were biting back more.
You nodded, hoping he couldn't see how flustered you still were. The desk between you both felt thinner than paper now, every glance and brush of silence weighted.
Hiromi sat down, pulling a file toward him with deliberate focus, as though he could will himself into forgetting what had just happened. Yet when you dared to look at him again, you caught the faintest flicker of amusement in his eyes - like he enjoyed watching you unravel.
a/n: teehee enjoy this.. i hope we appreciate him being a gentleman but not at the same time!!! ♪(´▽｀)
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synopsis: after - luckily - narrowly avoiding a fatal crash into an insurance fraudster, you're wrongfully accused for the damage. enter hiromi higuruma.
tw: mentions of car crash, clueless!reader (only when it comes to law), higuruma takes advantage of you being clueless, corruption kink
Your phone buzzed mid-morning, screen lighting up with an unknown number you’d only just saved the night before.
Hiromi Higuruma:
Could you come by the office today? I’ve found something worth showing you.
The message was as straightforward as the man himself. No pleasantries, no filler - just a request that pulled your stomach into knots.
By the time you arrived at the firm, the familiar receptionist waved you through without fuss. "He's been waiting for you." She teased knowingly, as if you were a regular now.
Hiromi's office door stood ajar. He looked up from his desk when you knocked, dark hair falling slightly into his eyes before he brushed it back. A small, warm smile curved across his face.
"You made good time," he said, voice clear but carrying the faintest note of approval. "Come in."
The desk was covered in neat stacks of paper, his monitor casting a glow against the otherwise dim room. He gestured for you to close the door, then tapped a key. A browser window expanded, revealing page after page of court records.
"Your fraudster," Hiromi began, beckoning you closer with a small crook of his finger. "Turns out this isn't his first time. He's been in and out of court for three years. Claims, counter-claims, settlements. Some dismissed, others dragged out long enough for him to collect insurance payouts."
You stepped forward, curiosity outpacing nerves. "So it's… a pattern?"
"Exactly." His tone sharpened with quiet satisfaction. "This isn't an accident. It's deliberate. He's built his livelihood on manufacturing crashes."
Leaning in, you squinted at the screen, reading names and dates that blurred into one another. The sheer number of cases made your chest tighten. "How did nobody see this before?"
"They weren't looking closely enough." His voice dropped, roughened with something that wasn't quite anger, more like grim resolve. "Or they didn't want to. But it's all here."
The closeness of his voice made you aware of just how near you were standing, angled awkwardly at the side of his desk. He noticed too - his eyes flicked from the monitor to you, then down to the way you were leaning, weight uncomfortably shifted onto one leg.
"You'll hurt your back like that." He claimed, almost chiding. Then, before you could argue, his hand slipped to your waist. Gentle but firm, the pressure pulled you sideways until you found yourself lowering onto the armrest of his chair.
Your breath caught, balance wobbling until his hand slid around to take a hold of your hip. The warmth of his palm lingered through the fabric of your top, casual in its placement but intentional in its hold.
"This way, you can see properly," Hiromi added smoothly, turning back to the screen as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened. His arm brushed yours with every movement of the mouse.
It took effort to focus on the scrolling documents when your heart was thudding this loudly. You tried to swallow down the rush of heat, telling yourself it was nothing - just practicality. Just him looking out for you again.
But Hiromi's calm expression didn’t fool you entirely. The faintest smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he clicked to enlarge another record, his eyes reflecting the monitor's light. He liked this - liked the closeness, liked how easily you let him arrange you where he wanted.
Words scrolled across the monitor, but they might as well have been in another language. Each time Hiromi shifted the mouse, his arm brushed against yours. The glow of the screen painted the side of his face in pale light, throwing sharp edges across his jaw and the faint crease between his brows.
"Here." He motioned with his head, clicking open another document. His tone remained smooth, like a professor explaining notes to a class. "This claim - two years ago - was nearly identical. Rear-end collision, night driving, no witnesses. Settled out of court in less than three months."
You nodded, though your eyes weren't really on the text. Every syllable of his voice vibrated through you, magnified by the closeness. The warmth of his hand at your waist lingered, casual on the surface but impossible to ignore. It anchored you there, half-seated on the armrest of his chair, and no matter how much you tried to focus, your brain kept circling back to it.
"Notice the dates." Hiromi continued, scrolling slowly. "He spaces them out. Never too many in one year - careful enough not to raise suspicion. But together…" His finger tapped the monitor. "…it paints a clear picture."
Your lips parted before you realised no words were coming out. You forced a hum of agreement, hoping it would sound like you'd absorbed the point.
Hiromi’s head turned slightly, dark eyes flicking to you for just a moment. Something softened there, almost as if he knew exactly what was happening inside your head. He didn't call you out on it - just let the corner of his mouth twitch, faint amusement ghosting across his face before he turned back to the monitor.
"Hard to keep track of all this, isn't it?" He teased, voice quieter now, almost conspiratorial.
You shifted in your seat, heat creeping up your neck. "I'm trying."
"I know." His hand gave the smallest squeeze at your waist, a subtle reminder that he hadn't let go. "You're doing fine."
The reassurance made your chest tighten. It should have been nothing more than a lawyer comforting his client, but delivered in that steady voice, with his hand still where it was, it felt like more. Too much more.
Hiromi clicked another tab, leaning forward slightly. The movement pulled you closer into him, your shoulder brushing against the firm line of his chest. He didn't move back. "Look here. See how the damages match? Same phrasing, same pattern. He's recycling his statements."
You blinked at the highlighted text, struggling to absorb the words. The letters swam, blurry at the edges. All you could think about was the heat bleeding through your clothes where his palm pressed lightly against your side, his breath just brushing your arm when he leaned closer.
"Does it make sense?" Hiromi asked.
"Y-Yes," you answered too quickly, then flushed when his eyes lingered on you again.
That small smile returned, but he let it pass unremarked. Turning back to the screen, he continued, voice measured and calm as if nothing about the situation was unusual. Yet the longer you sat there, the more you realised how carefully he was playing it - how he gave you every reason to believe it was practical, normal… while never once moving his hand away.
Hiromi clicked through a few more files, explaining how each tied into the larger pattern. You tried - honestly tried - to follow, but your eyelids grew heavier with every passing minute. The glow of the monitor, the quiet steadiness of his voice, the warmth pressed along your side… all of it blurred into something dangerously soothing.
You caught yourself stifling a yawn with the back of your hand.
Hiromi noticed immediately. His gaze lingered, sharp as ever, but not unkind. "You've had enough for today."
"I can stay longer." You protested weakly, shifting on the armrest. "I don’t want to waste your time so it's better to get it done now."
His expression softened just slightly. "You're not wasting anything. But I'd rather you remember what we go over than fall asleep halfway through it."
Your cheeks warmed, partly from embarrassment, partly from the way his tone carried more care than reprimand. He closed the tabs on his monitor, efficient in every motion, and finally withdrew his hand from your waist. The absence of it left a strange ache.
By the time you both stepped out of the firm, night had settled properly, the city quiet beneath its amber streetlamps. The air bit cool against your skin, and without hesitation Hiromi shrugged out of his jacket and draped it across your shoulders.
No words, no glance. Just a practiced motion, as though it had already become routine.
You pulled the fabric tighter, inhaling the faint, clean scent that clung to it. "You never ask."
"Because you'd say no," he replied, hands sinking into his trouser pockets as he fell into step beside you. "But you need it."
There was no edge of teasing in his tone, only certainty. You should have argued - told him you weren't fragile, that you could handle a walk without swaddling yourself in someone else's coat - but instead you found yourself smiling faintly, hidden in the collar of his jacket.
His stride matched yours easily, his shoulder brushing yours now and then when the pavement narrowed. Every time, he didn't shift away. Neither did you.
When your building finally came into view, you slowed reluctantly. "Thanks for walking me home. Again."
Hiromi's gaze flicked to you, unreadable in the dim light, though the faintest ghost of a smile tugged at his lips. "You don't need to thank me."
You did anyway, softer this time. "Still. Thank you."
For a moment, he studied you in silence, eyes lingering a fraction longer than was proper. Then, without warning, he bent slightly, brushing his lips against your cheek. The kiss was brief, feather-light, but it seared into your skin like heat from an open flame.
You froze, breath caught in your chest.
By the time you turned to him, he was already straightening, gaze unreadable. Then his voice came - lower than usual, rough around the edges, like gravel catching in his throat.
"Go inside." Hiromi murmured, close enough that you swore you could feel the words ghost against your skin. "You'll catch a cold if you stand out here."
The sound of it - low, with that tired rasp - sent a shiver down your spine that had nothing to do with the night air. Your pulse tripped over itself, cheeks burning hotter than they ever had in that courtroom. The jacket around you felt heavier, like it was holding you in place, tethering you to him.
Professional. That's what he was supposed to be; your lawyer. The one person who was meant to keep distance, boundaries, order.
But the kiss, his hand on your back, his tone - none of it had been professional. Not at all.
And the terrifying thing was realising you didn’t care. Not one bit.
"Goodnight," Hiromi added, his voice still low, still frayed at the edges, as though he knew exactly what he'd done to you.
You managed a nod, throat too tight for words, and slipped inside your building.
It wasn't until the door shut behind you that you pressed a hand to your cheek, pulse still hammering, the echo of his voice replaying in your head like a secret you weren't supposed to enjoy.
Later that night, when the apartment was still and the city outside had settled into silence, your phone lit up. His name blinked on the screen, and you hesitated only a moment before answering.
"Hello?" You started, soft with drowsiness.
There was a pause on the other end, long enough that you thought the call had dropped. Then Hiromi's voice came through, low and measured.
"I owe you an apology."
Your stomach tightened. "For what?"
"For earlier." His tone was collected, but quieter than usual, like every word was weighed before leaving him. "The coat, the walk, and—" a small exhale "—the kiss. It was unprofessional. I overstepped."
You sat up straighter, pulse thudding hard in your chest. For a moment, you almost let him finish the apology, let him tuck it neatly away as if it hadn't mattered. But the words slipped out before you could stop them.
"I didn't mind."
Silence. Not empty - thick. The kind of silence that pressed against your ribs, that made your breath sound too loud in your own ears.
You swallowed hard, forcing the words out before you lost your nerve. "I… actually liked it."
Another pause. The faintest shift, as though he'd leaned closer to the receiver. When he finally spoke, his voice was lower than you'd ever heard it.
"Say that again." He pleaded, sounding desperate.
Heat rushed to your face. "I liked it."
The line went quiet again. For a heartbeat, you thought he might hang up. Then his voice returned, rough-edged, quieter still:
"…Would you let me take you to dinner?"
Your breath caught. "As in…"
"As in not business." The words were careful, but there was no mistaking the intent in them. "A date."
Your lips curved before you could stop them, the tension in your chest loosening into something lighter, warmer. "Yes. Yeah, I would."
This time, the silence felt different. Softer. Like he was smiling on the other end.
"I'll hold you to that." Hiromi murmured, before the call ended.
You set your phone down with trembling hands, pressing the cool screen against your cheek where his kiss still lingered. Sleep was impossible after that.
a/n: yet another double post.. i hope yall appreciate this.. (●'◡'●)
synopsis: after - luckily - narrowly avoiding a fatal crash into an insurance fraudster, you're wrongfully accused for the damage. enter hiromi higuruma.
tw: clueless!reader (only when it comes to law), higuruma takes advantage of you being clueless, corruption kink
Courtroom echoes clung to you like smoke, long after you'd left. By the time the city had traded daylight for scattered lamps and neon, your body ached with tiredness that even the brisk air couldn’t shake off.
Most of the firm had gone dark for the night, corridors quiet except for the faint hum of radiators. One door at the end still spilled light into the hallway. You hesitated, hugging the folder tighter, before nudging it open.
Higuruma sat behind his desk, sleeves rolled, tie undone. Papers were arranged in careful stacks across the wood, a pen balanced between his fingers. He looked up, expression sharpening at first, then softening when he saw you.
"You came." He pointed out, voice scratchy from hours of quiet.
"The receptionist said you needed these." You held out the folder, which he took without opening.
"Didn’t think you’d bring them this late."
A shrug was all you gave. "Couldn't sleep anyway."
His gaze lingered, then flicked to the chair opposite. "Sit. Better here than wandering around this time of night.”
You lowered yourself gratefully, the warmth of the room drawing the fight out of your bones. Your head grew heavy almost at once, and a yawn escaped before you could catch it.
"Sorry," you mumbled, cheeks heating.
"You don't need to apologise," Hiromi reassured, his tone losing its courtroom sharpness. "You're exhausted. Anyone would be."
Embarrassment curled in your stomach, but the weight in your eyelids was stronger. You shifted in the chair, trying to stay upright, but your body betrayed you again.
He rose. The sound of his chair scraping made you blink, expecting him to retreat to his files. Instead, his footsteps circled behind you, and a moment later, warmth pressed lightly against your far shoulder. His hand.
Before you could process, he applied the faintest pressure - not harsh, not commanding, just enough to nudge. Your body yielded without thought, tilting until your temple brushed the side of his chest. You froze.
Mortification sparked hot across your face. "Oh- sorry, I didn't—"
His voice came low, steady. "Don't apologise."
The hand on your shoulder remained, steadying you as if to say it was fine, more than fine. You thought you'd leaned first, that your own tiredness had betrayed you. He didn't correct you that you'd leaned first, that your own tiredness had betrayed you. He didn’t correct you.
"It's late," he added, softer. "Let yourself rest."
Your lashes fluttered, the fight draining from your muscles. Against him, warmth spread easily, almost dizzying in its comfort. You told yourself it was just exhaustion. Just weakness.
But Hiromi knew better. He looked down at you, your head resting where he'd guided it, your trust handed over without resistance. You were entirely oblivous, and he liked that - liked it too much.
His thumb shifted slightly against your shoulder, the smallest movement, as if to anchor you there. You didn't notice. To you, it was gravity pulling you closer. To him, it was permission you'd never given, but never thought to take back.
"I'll walk you home soon." He murmured, just above your hair. "For now, stay."
Sleep dragged you under without warning. One moment your cheek was against something warm, your body heavy with exhaustion, and the next: darkness. No dreams, just the quiet safety of letting go.
When your eyes blinked open again, the room was dimmer. The lamp still glowed on the desk, but the edges of the light had softened, as though time had slipped past unnoticed. A crick in your neck made you shift, groggy, only to realise you hadn’t moved from where you'd slumped against Hiromi.
You startled, straightening too quickly. "I—oh god. How long?"
"About an hour." Hiromi answered calmly. His voice was featherlight, as though it hadn’t surprised him at all.
That was when you noticed. He was still standing, posture composed, the hand that had rested on your shoulder now loosely holding a pen. Papers were spread across the desk in neat piles, not untouched - reviewed, annotated, signed. He'd worked like that the entire time; upright; still; letting you lean.
"You… stayed?" The words slipped out, small and uncertain.
His gaze flicked down to you, unreadable for a moment before softening. "Of course. You needed it."
Guilt pricked at your chest. "You could've just woken me up—"
"And interrupt you?" His brow lifted slightly, almost like a quiet rebuke. "You don't get much rest. I wasn't going to take that away."
Your throat tightened. Something in his tone, unshaken and matter-of-fact, left no room for argument. You rubbed your eyes, wishing it would hide the warmth blooming in your chest. "Still… it can't have been comfortable."
Hiromi glanced down at the pen in his hand, then back at the desk as if the answer were obvious. "I managed."
Managed. As if standing there, motionless, working upright while you used him as a pillow was nothing at all. As if it hadn't cost him an ounce of patience.
You looked at him properly then: the loosened tie, the tired set of his mouth, the faint shadow of stubble that had grown darker since morning. He'd been there the whole time. For you.
"…Thank you." You uttered quietly.
His eyes met yours, secure as ever. The corner of his mouth shifted, not quite a smile but close. "You don't need to thank me. Just… let me get you home safe."
He set the pen down, finally moving to gather his coat from the back of the chair. With an easy motion, he draped it over your shoulders before you could protest. The fabric was warm, carrying his scent of coffee and faint ink.
Your lips parted, a weak attempt at refusal, but he cut it off gently. "Keep it for tonight. I'll walk you home."
You gripped the lapels, pulling them closer around you. For once, you didn't argue.
The night air greeted you in a cool rush as you stepped outside together. The city had gone quiet, streets washed in the muted glow of streetlamps. Hiromi's coat hung heavy over your shoulders, its warmth carrying him with it.
He walked close enough that your strides fell naturally into rhythm with his. At first, his hand brushed your arm when you drifted, then it settled against the small of your back. Hidden beneath the drape of his coat, the touch was invisible to anyone else, yet you felt it everywhere.
It wasn't a shove, not even a guide. Just a presence. Moored and deliberate. The kind of contact that said he wasn't letting you walk home unguarded.
Your breath hitched, though you tried to cover it with a small laugh. "You don't have to keep steering me like I'm about to wander into the road."
Hiromi didn't flinch, nor did he move his hand. "It doesn't feel like steering."
That answer landed heavier than you wanted it to. You could feel your cheeks warming, the coat suddenly stifling in its closeness. "That's… not very professional."
"No," he admitted easily. His hand shifted slightly against your back, fingers brushing once, a quiet claim hidden from the world. "But with you, it comes easy."
Heat climbed up your throat. You ducked your head, staring hard at the pavement to distract yourself. "You make it sound like I'm difficult the rest of the time."
His mouth curved, just faintly, in a shadow of a smile. "No. You make it easy to care. That's all."
The words pressed into you as firmly as his hand. Neither overwhelming nor sharp, but undeniable. By the time you reached your street, your thoughts were tangled, caught between protest and the quiet, terrifying comfort of believing him.
At your gate, he finally lifted his hand, only to push the latch open for you. "Get some sleep." He urged, as though nothing had happened at all.
But the warmth under your coat lingered, echoing long after you'd stepped inside.
a/n: whos excited for chapter 5 and maybe chapter 6 all coming today!!!!
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synopsis: after - luckily - narrowly avoiding a fatal crash into an insurance fraudster, you're wrongfully accused for the damage. enter hiromi higuruma.
tw: mentions of car crash, clueless!reader (only when it comes to law), higuruma takes advantage of you being clueless, corruption kink?? you have to SQUINT, NOT PROOFREAD
The courthouse loomed like a monument to judgement. Its stone steps seemed too steep, its columns too tall, every detail designed to remind you that small mistakes became enormous once you crossed its threshold. Inside, the air was crisp, almost too clean, and your shoes clicked against the polished floor in a rhythm that sounded far too loud.
You kept your eyes fixed on the ground as you walked beside Higuruma, clutching the strap of your bag in both hands as though it might hold you upright. Every person you passed - the clerks with their arms full of folders, the barristers striding in robes, the strangers waiting on benches - seemed sharper, more purposeful than you. You felt like an intruder, like a child who had wandered into the wrong place.
At the double doors of the courtroom, your steps faltered.
Your stomach twisted, curling tighter with each breath. The idea of walking in, of being watched by so many eyes, of standing before the judge - it paralysed you. You stopped dead, nails biting into the strap of your bag.
Higuruma didn't pause at first. His stride was even, deliberate, his robe swaying faintly as he moved. It wasn't until he reached the doors that he turned back. His eyes found yours in an instant, calm and composed.
"You're not on trial." He reminded. His tone was flat, but not unkind. "You're being heard. There's a difference."
The words landed in your chest like a stone. Being heard. It should have helped, but all you could think was what if they listened and still didn't believe you? What if the truth didn't matter?
Still, you forced your legs to move, trailing him through the doors.
The courtroom was exactly as terrifying as you imagined: high ceilings, rows of benches filled with strangers, the judge's bench towering like a throne. The air smelled of polish and paper, a sterile scent that carried too much weight. You couldn't make yourself look around for long; your gaze dropped to the floor, to the hem of your skirt, to the small tremor in your hands.
You followed Higuruma to the defence table and sat. He placed a folder on the wood with calm precision, flipping it open. His expression didn't shift; he could have been anywhere, at any time, and you wouldn't have known the difference. He was composed in a way that only made your own panic feel more obvious.
Across the room, the fraudster perched with perfect posture, suit pressed sharp, hair combed into an almost theatrical neatness. His expression carried just the right trace of fragility, as though the mere act of sitting in court was an ordeal. Every time the judge's gaze flicked in his direction, his shoulders dipped, his mouth tightened into a pained line.
The performance made your stomach twist. Who would believe your word over his?
Case number called, the judge's commanding voice silenced the murmurs. You stiffened, nails biting half-moons into your palms.
"Defence, you may call your first witness."
Higuruma rose. His voice was clear, measured, carrying without strain. "The defence calls on the defendant."
The air seemed to catch in your throat. Of course you’d known this was coming - he had explained it days ago - but hearing it aloud, formal and final, made your knees weaken.
Somehow, you managed to make it to the witness stand. The oath fumbled on your lips, but the words came, and you sat, gripping the railing to keep your hands still.
Higuruma's questions were steady, unhurried. His dark eyes met yours briefly, only long enough to steady the rhythm of your speech before glancing back at his notes.
"Tell the court what happened that evening," he said.
You swallowed, heat prickling at your neck. "It was late. I was driving home. The streetlights weren't enough to see far ahead, but the road was clear. I was in my lane when his car swerved in front of me. He braked hard—suddenly. I hit the brakes too, as hard as I could. I tried to stop, but there wasn't enough time. It wasn't me. I didn't cause it.”
Your voice trembled, but you didn't falter. A faint murmur stirred among the benches.
Higuruma inclined his head, writing something before asking, "So you deny responsibility for the collision?"
"Yes," you blurted quickly. "I know what I saw. I wasn't reckless. I wasn't distracted. He made it impossible to avoid."
The corners of his mouth lifted slightly - not quite a smile, more a sign he was satisfied. "No further questions, Your Honour." He sat, his expression unreadable again, pen tapping once against his notepad.
The judge gestured; cross-examination.
The prosecutor strode forward, heels sharp against the floor. Her voice oozed patience that was more knife than balm. "You described the conditions as dark, yes?"
"Yes." You replied cautiously - confused.
"But otherwise clear? No fog, no rain, no obstruction?"
"Yes, but—"
"Thank you." She cut you off smoothly, already moving on. "You admit you maintained a speed of fifty-five miles per hour?"
"Yeah." You kept your responses short, as the prosecutor didn't allow you much time to talk.
"Then you chose not to reduce your speed, despite limited visibility?"
Your chest tightened. "I didn't slow further because I could see the road. I was going fifty-five in a seventy, until he swerved."
"Isn’t it possible," she said, tilting her head, "that you failed to notice something sooner? A mistake on your part?"
"No."
Her smile widened a fraction. "No? You're saying you're entirely certain? Even though you admit it was dark, and you were under pressure?"
"Yes, I'm sure," you forced out.
She circled like a shark. "Bodycam footage shows the damage your vehicle caused by striking the back of his. Would you like to explain that to the court?"
"It doesn't show everything." You repeated what Hiromi had told you, words rushing out. "It doesn't show how suddenly he braked, or that he moved into my lane without warning. I couldn't avoid it."
"Yet you still admit there was contact?"
"I never said that." You snapped before you could stop yourself. "I said he made it impossible not to—"
"Miss," the prosecutor interjected, voice suddenly sharper. "Please answer the question directly. Did your car strike his, yes or no?"
Your mouth opened, then closed. The railing dug into your fingers. "It wasn't my fault." You vowed, each word trembling but firm.
The prosecutor let silence hang, enjoying the discomfort it left behind. Then she smoothed her notes. "No further questions, Your Honour."
Dismissed, you walked back to the defence table on shaky legs. The fraudster's gaze followed you, heavy and smug. You sat down harder than intended, unable to lift your eyes from the polished wood of the table.
Higuruma didn't look at you. He was already writing, lines of neat script filling the page. To anyone watching, he might as well have been indifferent.
And then, beneath the table, warmth pressed against your thigh.
His hand rested there briefly: deliberate and unseen. Your breath stilled. He didn’t turn his head, didn't even glance at you, but the quiet pressure was impossible to misinterpret. You didn’t break. You told them, and that's enough.
Across the courtroom, the fraudster was called next. He walked with carefully measured steps, posture dipped in just the right amount of weariness. When he swore the oath, his voice trembled faintly, as if reliving some terrible ordeal.
He spoke of headlights blinding him, of the terror of feeling your car slam into his own. He dabbed his brow with a folded handkerchief at the perfect moment, voice cracking on the word 'impact.' The judge listened intently, pen moving without pause.
Your jaw locked. To anyone else, he looked sincere. To you, it was a mask so flawless it made your skin crawl.
Beside you, Higuruma was still. He didn't interrupt, didn't object. He only listened, pen unmoving, his gaze fixed on the fraudster with a weight that felt colder than anything you'd seen from him so far.
It made you uneasy, though not in the same way as before. This wasn't indifference. This was calculation. You could tell with the way Higuruma's hand slowly tightened on your leg.
The fraudster shifted in his seat, shoulders sloping just enough to make him look weary. He dabbed his eye with the neatly folded handkerchief, eyes flicking up to the judge as though even speaking aloud was a burden. His words, practiced and measured, painted a picture of a frightened man blindsided by your recklessness. Each phrase seemed rehearsed, honed, as if he’d told the story a hundred times in front of a mirror.
When his voice trailed off, silence filled the courtroom. The judge adjusted his glasses, pen scratching briefly against paper.
"Defence."
Chairs creaked as heads turned. Higuruma rose, unhurried, his movements precise. He gathered his papers but kept them tucked beneath one arm, not even glancing at them as he crossed the room. His steps echoed softly, measured in their calm, and when he stopped in front of the witness box he looked neither hurried nor hostile.
"Good afternoon," he said, voice low but carrying. The fraudster gave a stiff nod, clutching the handkerchief.
"You've described the incident as sudden," Higuruma continued, tilting his head slightly, as though simply clarifying. "Completely without warning, correct?"
The fraudster adjusted his tie. "Yes, that's right."
A pause, then Higuruma's gaze sharpened. "And yet you testified earlier that you noticed headlights in your rear-view mirror before the collision."
The fraudster blinked. "Yes. I—yes, I did."
"So which is it?" Higuruma asked evenly. "Were you caught unaware, or did you see her car approaching behind you?"
The man shifted in his seat, lips pulling into a strained smile. "I noticed the lights. But the speed at which she struck? There was no time to avoid it. It was sudden."
Higuruma let silence hang for a beat, eyes locked on him, before speaking again. "So you were aware she was there."
"Yes."
"And you chose to brake suddenly despite that awareness?"
The fraudster's shoulders twitched. "There was a shape on the road. I believed it to be debris. I had to slow down because the roads were busy."
A ripple of sound passed through the benches behind you. Someone coughed. You clenched your hands together in your lap, heart hammering as you waited for Higuruma's next move.
His tone remained calm. "Debris, at night, on a clear stretch of road, with no reports?"
"Yes," the fraudster said quickly, clutching the handkerchief harder.
"Can you specify what this debris was?"
"I—" his throat bobbed, "it was difficult to tell. I think it was part of a tree, like a branch."
Higuruma's brows lifted, just slightly. "Yet you didn’t mention this debris in your initial police statement."
Colour crept up the fraudster's neck. His fingers twisted the fabric of the handkerchief. "It was late. I was shaken. I may not have remembered everything clearly at the time."
The silence that followed was thicker, heavier. The fraudster shifted, clearing his throat. Somewhere behind you, a pen dropped to the floor, the sound sharp in the stillness.
Higuruma stepped forward by half a pace, voice quiet but deliberate. "So your memory has improved with time?"
The prosecutor shot to her feet, irritation flashing across her face. "Objection, Your Honour. Counsel is being argumentative."
The judge nodded once. "Sustained. Mr Higuruma, rephrase."
"Of course." Higuruma inclined his head, polite, unruffled. Then his eyes returned to the fraudster, steady and unblinking. "Let me put it differently. You gave one account on the night of the crash. Today, you have added new details. Would you agree?"
The fraudster shifted again, slower this time. "Yes. Perhaps."
"Thank you." His tone gave away nothing, but the words carried weight all the same.
He paused as he was about to return to his seat, then asked, "You've claimed the defendant struck you from behind, correct?"
"Yes."
"And yet, by your own testimony, you saw her headlights in your mirror and braked abruptly to avoid supposed debris." He let the words settle. "Would you agree that braking in that manner left little time for the car behind to react?"
The fraudster's jaw worked. He opened his mouth, closed it again, then finally said, "I don't believe so. A careful driver would have stopped in time."
For the first time, Hiromi allowed the faintest flicker of a smile to touch his lips, sharp and cold. He inclined his head. "No further questions."
He turned on his heel, walking back with the same measured calm he'd left with. Papers slipped neatly onto the table, his pen uncapped with mechanical precision.
You exhaled, realising only then that you’d been holding your breath. It hadn’t been enough to tear the fraudster apart - not yet. But his perfect mask had cracked, if only slightly. The judge had scribbled furiously during the exchange, and the prosecutor’s expression had soured into tight-lipped irritation.
Hiromi, for his part, looked as though nothing had changed. Calm. Collected. Already reaching for his notes again.
But you knew better now. Every question had been a blade, sharpened and placed with care.
And though the fraudster still stood strong, for the first time, you felt the scales shift - if only a fraction - in your favour.
synopsis: you go on a zoo date and catch yourself rambling. maki knows just the way to get your attention back on her.
tw: reader loves bugs, fluff, shy!reader??, maki might be ooc? wasnt sure how to characterise her.
Sunlight dappled the winding paths of the zoo, spilling over patches of grass and bright flowers lining the walkways. You walked beside Maki, fingers intertwined, heart beating a little faster, excitement buzzing in your chest. Her hand was warm and grounding, and your own energy felt contagious. Both of you were thrilled to be here, exploring, laughing softly, and sharing little whispers as you moved from one enclosure to the next.
First stop: the seal enclosure. Water glittered under the sunlight, and the seals twisted and flipped with effortless grace. You leaned forward slightly, tugging gently on Maki's hand to get a closer look at one balancing a ball on its nose.
"Look at that one!" You whispered, eyes wide, pointing excitedly.
Maki grinned, matching your energy. "Not bad! But I think you're enjoying it more than the seal." She gave your hand a playful squeeze, and you laughed nervously, cheeks warming from her teasing.
Next came the monkeys. They swung energetically across ropes and branches, chattering loudly. You leaned on the railing to get a better look, eyes lighting up as one somersaulted through the air.
The seals tumbled and splashed, and you leaned closer to the glass, whispering comments about their flips. Maki followed your gaze, nudging your shoulder lightly, her thumb brushing yours in a soft, playful rhythm.
"Oh, fun fact!" You piped up, remembering something you'd once learnt. "Seal ancestors probably were very similar, in looks, to weasels and bears. Puijila is the best example of what they used to look like!"
Maki nodded along, paying all of her attention to you; happily.
"They're so fast.." You breathed, excitement spilling into your voice.
The big cats were next. Tigers prowled gracefully, stripes bold against the grass, while leopards lounged lazily in trees. Maki leaned in slightly, eyes sparkling as she watched a tiger crouch low, muscles coiled.
Maki laughed softly, squeezing your hand. "Yeah, and they'd probably beat you in a race," she teased, leaning closer with a smirk. You blushed but couldn’t stop grinning, your enthusiasm overflowing.
"Ooh, another fun fact! Apes and monkeys are not the same. Apes are more closely related to old world monkeys - like mandrills - than new world monkeys."
Once more, Maki nodded, proud of the knowledge you were showcasing when it came to animals. She couldn't help but press an encouraging kiss to your forehead, before pulling you along.
"They're amazing." She murmured, then glanced at you. "But your reactions are even better."
Your face heated, but you couldn’t stop pointing out details - the curve of a tiger's paw, the way it stalked silently. Maki chuckled softly, brushing her thumb over your hand, teasing lightly. "You're like a little whirlwind of fascination."
Choosing to ignore her comments - which you know she was using on purpose to rile you up - you tugged her along in order to head to the section you were looking forward to the most: the bugs.
The insect enclosure made your heart race. Dim lights revealed tiny, intricate creatures beneath glass, each movement captivating. You leaned in, tugging Maki gently along to see a glowing beetle.
"Look at this one! It's glowing!" You whispered, voice full of awe.
Then, without warning, she leaned down and pressed her lips to yours in a brief, teasing kiss.
Maki's grinned widened impossibly further. "You're adorable when you get like this." She admitted with a small smile, tightening her grip just slightly.
With red cheeks, you decide to share the facts that were sitting on your tongue. Even if you were flustered, you wouldn't let it deter you.
"There's probably around ten quintillion insects on earth." You started, watching Maki's pupils dilate as she focused on you. "Wasps, hornets and mosquitoes are also very important to the ecosystem!"
For a moment, it looked like she wasn't willing to hear you out. After all, Maki was secretly scared of wasps.
"Hornets are far more relaxed than wasps but just like any animal, theyll attack if you provoke them!" You decided to add, hoping to ease her.
Your entire body froze, eyes wide, cheeks flaming. "I… uh…" you stammered, eyes blinking rapidly as if to process what just happened.
Maki pulled back slightly, smirk tugging at her lips. "Fun fact: I like it when you ramble." She teased softly, noticing your flustered reaction. "See? Kisses work wonders to silence you."
Your face burned hotter, and you murmured: "I just- wasn't expecting that."
"Totally didn’t mean to embarrass you." Her tone was mock serious, and it was clear she was doing this on purpose. "Just thought it would be fun." She gave your hand a reassuring squeeze.
The rest of the zoo passed in a comfortable rhythm. Birds flitted in the aviary, exotic fish swam lazily, and your quiet whispers continued - excited observations and little flustered laughs. Maki occasionally leaned in, giving your hand a playful squeeze or a small nudge, keeping the teasing light and affectionate rather than overwhelming.
Snack time arrived, and you shared a container of fries, hands brushing repeatedly.
"Think we should come back for the insects?" You asked softly, still flustered.
Maki's lips curved into a mischievous smile. "Only if you promise to stay energetic… but maybe I'll sneak in another little kiss if you get too excited."
You laughed nervously, eyes widening. "I… I don’t think I can handle that."
"Sure you can," she teased gently, thumb brushing over your hand in a comforting rhythm. "I'll take care of you."
By the time the sun dipped low, casting golden light across the paths, you and Maki were still walking hand in hand, steps in perfect sync. The zoo had been full of wonders, but the biggest joy had been this: shared excitement, gentle teasing, flustered laughs, and the comforting warmth of holding each other close.
a/n: i cant tell if i love or hate this. next is higuruma. (✿◡‿◡)
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