kali!!

tried to reblog the original post but it was gone so here we are i guess. thanks for tagging me leigh!!!!! @poemeater <3 i love you to pluto and back come kiss me now

currently reading: nothing actually. walk of shame

last song: man in the mirror — michael jackson

last film: captain america brave new world

last series: new girl season 3, mha season 2 (rewatch), wbk s2

sweet/savory/salty?: savory + salty!!! but i would give up both kidneys for some cinnamon sugar pretzels rn

tea or coffee: tea always

working on: packing to move states in july, weeding through some rough friendships that no longer serve me, picking up guitar again, and. well. kinktober ‘25

currently reading: fellowship of the ring (listen;;;;;; lol)

last song: uH? been a while since i've listened to music actually....

last film: return of the king (we marathoned all the lotr movies this past weekend okay)

last series: peaky blinders (just started!!)

sweet/savory: savory! :)

tea or coffee: i drink coffee more but tea makes me happier, i think lol

working on: ???? life ??? i should be working on the brat series bUT ALAS lmfao

last song: Hesitate by Hazlett, OSKA

last film: probably Minecraft in cinemas, can't remember anything else

last series: Leverage, I love it, though I'm currently stuck

sweet/savory: both please

tea or coffee: all kinds of teas that don't include caffeeine and those weird herbal coffee alternatives if I'm feeling fancy

working on: my health. I fought an AC and lost. Badly.

no pressure tags!! @arisaturn @haikyu-mp4 @sippn-the-tae

@shoulmate @solvisun @dearru @true-deru @alienaiver

currently reading. multiple books tbh they’re overwhelming

last song. syndulla by she’s green

last film. dirty donna (prroductt on yt)

last series. juvenile justice

sweet or savory. both!

tea or coffee. tea ♡ i as much as possible refrain from drinking coffee but sometimes it can’t be helped

working on. my very wrecked sleep schedule (im always failing)

currently reading. psychology 101

last song. crush by 2NE1

last film. cells at work! live action

last series. love next door (my mom asked me to join her ><)

sweet or savory. both! you can't stop me

tea or coffee. tea because i'm not at risk for a bathroom run heh

working on. making original characters, my wips, arts and crafts, sleeping sched, make-ups for my internship absences... A LOT AHAHAHA

currently reading. the silent patient - alex michaelides

last song. ilomilo - billie eilish

last film. the fellowship of the ring <3

last series. house md

sweet or savoury. unfortunately i have a massive sweet tooth but i also love savoury food. depends on my mood tbh

tea or coffee. tea or i can't sleep

working on. wips (and making it through the semester)

currently reading: lolita (1955 ver) :(

last song: lying has to stop clario cover

last film: juno!!!

last series: im starting ginny and georgia

sweet/savory/salty: ALL AT THE SAME TIME

tea or coffee: neither unless it’s boba tea

working on: getting a better part time job smh, trying to convince my parents to let me move schools

currently reading: ao3 🙏

last song: do you by miguel

last film: bottoms ! my fav film ever pls watch it

last series: law & order svu

sweet/savory/salty: salty all the way

tea or coffee: tea unless its ice coffee with more sugar than caffeine

working on: improving my roblox skills (everything but studying for my exams bruh)

currently reading: you'd be home by now by kathleen glasgow

last song: have some love by childish gambino

last film: 28 years later

last series: the bear

sweet/savory: savoury all the wayyy + bonus points if it's spicy

tea or coffee: (excluding frappes) tea for sure. i've got a whole cupboard full of 10s of different types of teas alone, it's an addiction fr😪

working on: unfucking up my sleep schedule (not really if im being honest), picking up baking again

chapter three: too deaf, dumb, and blind

m.list | next

pairing: toji zen'in x f!reader

synopsis: you were a nurse with a steady hand and a soft heart. he was a killer who kept coming back with blood on his shirt and your name in his mouth.

you don’t notice anything wrong at first.

you’re half-asleep by the time you reach your floor, fingers stiff, keys clumsy in your grip, shoulders slumped forward under the weight of exhaustion. another night shift, another sunrise. your scrubs are wrinkled. your eyes burn. your badge swings loosely from your hip as you fumble with the lock and nudge the door open.

you’re already toeing off your shoes when you look up and freeze.

because there’s a man on your couch.

legs spread, arm slung over the backrest, your remote in his hand like he’s lived here for years. the tv’s on some old tokusatsu rerun, volume low. the second his eyes meet yours, you drop everything. bag, lunchbox, phone. they hit the floor with a thud.

you don’t even have time to scream before he’s behind you.

his palm clamps over your mouth, his chest against your back, too close, and in the half-second that your lungs seize and your body locks up, one thought slams into your skull:

this is how you die.

helping people is going to get you killed.

oh god. oh god oh god oh—

he exhales, a low noise near your ear. “don’t scream.”

you struggle, barely, just enough to make your panic known. but he doesn’t squeeze. doesn’t hurt you. his hand lifts a beat later, slow and careful.

and you spin around, chest heaving.

“please don’t kill me,” you gasp, half-sobbing. “i didn’t tell anyone anything, i swear, i didn’t even know your name until two weeks ago, and i actually really wanted to adopt a wiener dog someday so—”

“i’m not gonna kill you,” he says flatly.

you blink, heart still hammering in your ears. “…you’re not?”

he raises an eyebrow, like really?

“i already told you: if i wanted to kill you, you’d already be dead.”

that was not comforting. not even a little.

but his voice is calm, and there’s no weapon in his hand, and when you look down, you see it: a faint, seeping wound along his ribs, raw and faintly glowing. your throat tightens.

“just a scratch,” he mutters, tone light, like he didn’t just break into your apartment bleeding again. “bit tricky, though. not the kind a regular nurse could patch up.”

you stare at him. at the slow seep of cursed energy from the gash along his ribs. at the half-dried blood darkening the hem of his shirt. your stomach twists.

“why do you need me?” your voice wavers. fists tight at your sides. “can’t you just use reverse cursed technique?”

his eyes flick to yours, unreadable. “not my thing,” he says simply. “can’t heal what i don’t feel.”

then he adds, a little dry, “and i’m not in the mood to owe any sorcerers a favor.”

you don’t say anything for a beat. you just look at him, really look. this man who slips through shadows, who kills people and shrugs like it’s weather. and still came here.

still came to you.

“toji,” you say, and the name feels strange on your tongue, heavier than it should be, sharp in the back of your throat. you’ve never said it aloud before. never even let yourself think it like something real.

“i don’t think you’re understanding.” your voice trembles. quiet. not angry, just tired. raw. “you kill people.”

he doesn’t move. doesn’t blink.

“you killed my neighbor.” your fingers twitch at your sides. “you killed one of my patients.”

still nothing. his face doesn’t change, but something behind his eyes flickers. you wish it didn’t make your stomach twist.

“i’m not like you.” you shake your head, slow, like it might help hold the panic down. “i don’t support this. i don’t want to be part of this.”

your breath catches, not because you’re choking, but because it feels like there’s no room in your chest anymore. like fear has filled your lungs and pressed everything else out.

“i can’t be complicit,” you whisper. “i can’t.”

your eyes don’t leave the floor. you can’t look at him. not now. not like this.

because it’s not just fear anymore. it’s guilt. it’s grief. it’s knowing you put your hands on a monster and healed him. made it easier for him to leave. to walk away. to do it again.

and worst of all, it’s the fact that he’s standing in your living room like it means nothing at all. like the blood isn’t still under your nails. like the body of that boy isn’t still burned into the back of your mind.

he watches you. lets the silence settle between you for a second, then two. then he says, quieter than before: “i get it.”

your lip wobbles.

his voice stays low, rough around the edges but not unkind. “you don’t like what i do. you don’t have to. but that night, you saw what was on me. you felt it. and you didn’t turn away.”

you hesitate, something caught in your throat, and his eyes don’t leave you.

“you’ve seen what most people can’t,” he goes on, watching your face. “so don’t act like you’re just some nurse who got dragged into shit by accident. you helped because you knew it mattered.”

your breath stutters, and you hate that it helps, hearing him say that. you hate that your shoulders ease, just slightly. that the worst of the tremble in your hands goes quiet.

he nudges you gently, just enough to jostle your arm. his skin is warm, tan and veined, the muscle beneath it firm from years of violence, and the contact sends a strange shiver up your spine.

“just think of me as your patient,” he says, mouth twitching. there’s a teasing lilt to it, but his voice stays quiet, almost careful.

and so you do what you always do. the thing that keeps you walking through these hospital halls, the thing that’s made you kneel beside bleeding strangers in back alleys and fix wounds you don’t want to understand.

you breathe deep. bite down the fear. nod once.

because you help people. it’s stupid. it’s reckless. it’s going to get you killed one day.

but you don’t know how to not try.

“fine,” you say. “but you owe me.”

he hums, something soft and amused in his chest. “money’s tight,” he says. “but i can cook.”

you stare at him, genuinely trying to imagine it: this six-foot-something fucking mass of a man, all muscle and menace and bad decisions, standing over a stove in an apron or something equally domestic. flipping eggs with a knife. stirring soup with maybe a glock tucked in his waistband.

“…cook?” you echo, dubious.

he shrugs, casual. “what, you don’t like liver and onions?”

you scrunch your nose. “gross.”

he chuckles, low and raspy, like he’s actually entertained by the disgust on your face. you sigh, stepping past him toward the kitchen, your shoulder brushing his chest as you pass.

“sit on the couch,” you mutter. “but no blood on the cushions.”

“yes, nurse,” he says, and you can hear the grin in it.

you dig around in the cabinet above your sink, fingers closing around the half-empty emergency kit you keep for car crashes, and drunk guests. it’s already looking thin, gauze running low, half the antiseptic gone, and you sigh, knowing exactly who to blame for that.

when you walk back over, he’s lounging too casually on your couch, one arm draped along the backrest like he’s been here a hundred times before. just as you’re about to kneel down beside him, you catch the tail end of something, a mumble, low and nearly swallowed.

“hm?” you glance at him, crouching.

he shifts, eyes on the carpet, almost sheepish. “just—like, you’re making me feel bad,” he mutters. “you should at least get comfortable first. i did kinda barge in right after your shift.”

his voice is rough like always, but quieter now. his shoulders sink back against the cushion like some of the weight’s been let go. and hearing it—the awareness, the way he even noticed, makes something tilt in your chest. makes your stomach twist in a way that isn’t quite fear, but isn’t safety either.

you blink. straighten a little. “oh,” you say, half-choked. “yeah, uh. i guess.”

you get up, legs stiff, mind fuzzed, and make your way to the bedroom to grab the sweats and t-shirt you wore before your shift. as you’re walking away, barefoot on the creaky floorboards, the thought hits you.

“wait—” you pause in the doorway, turning back. “how did you get in here?”

he doesn’t look up from where he’s watching horses racing on the muted TV screen. “your lock’s shit.”

you stare. “great,” you mutter. “that’s comforting.”

he snorts. you grab a banana from the counter, and shuffle into your room.

the sweats are old. the shirt’s huge. you feel slightly homeless. slightly like a college dropout. slightly like you shouldn’t care what you look like in front of a murderer.

but when you come back out, hair down, scrubs traded for soft cotton, and you feel his eyes skim up, linger just a second too long, your throat goes dry.

you don’t say anything.

just kneel beside him again, open the kit with a snap of the latch, and pull on a pair of gloves, pretending your hands aren’t trembling just a little.

“i don’t… really do reverse cursed technique often,” you admit, fingers twitching near the wound. “so if you came to me thinking i was some kind of miracle worker—”

“nah,” he mutters. “you’re just.. the only person i can go to.”

you pause. “…lucky me.”

you start with the normal wounds. the human ones. the shallow cut near his ribs, the scrape across his knuckles. they’re barely more than bruises, really. he doesn’t flinch when you clean them. doesn’t move at all, just watches you with that same unreadable look, like he’s trying to figure out what kind of person would willingly sit this close to someone like him.

you take your time. stalling. but eventually your fingers hover over the deeper gash, the one running jagged along his side, still pulsing with residual curse energy. it glows faintly, sickly, like something trying to burrow deeper.

you press your palm over it, slow, gentle, and immediately, you feel it:

the wrongness. that buzz. that static tension. like the air before a storm, like something hissing between your fingers. it prickles at your skin, fights you, presses back.

you draw in a breath.

steady.

then you let it the reversed flow start, slow and dragging.

it stings. not like pain from outside, but from somewhere deep, buried. like dragging heat backward through your own veins. like forcing your body to move against its instincts. it burns through your lungs, your ribs, crawls up your throat before it settles into something quieter. a hum. low and steady, deep in your palms.

you keep your hand there and his body stiffens under your touch. your breath shudders. “does it hurt?”

he shakes his head. but his eyes are locked on you.

you don’t meet his gaze. you just focus on the way the energy shifts under your touch, on the way the wound begins to close, slow, careful, imperfect. but healing.

you don’t know if it’s enough, but it’s all you’ve got.

for a second, it’s silent.

the kind of silence that wraps around your ribs and squeezes. the kind that feels like something’s watching, even if it’s just him.

your breath stutters in your throat, shallow and quick, and you try to hide it. the taste of reversed energy still lingers in your mouth, bitter, metallic. your fingers shake just a little when you pull them back, resting them against your own thigh like nothing happened.

he doesn’t say anything, so you fill the space, quiet, unsure, too tired to dance around it any longer. “so what do you actually do?”

he shifts, eyes still on you. then lets out a slow breath, like it’s not even a question to him.

“i’m an assassin.”

simple. clean. horrifyingly casual.

you flinch. your lips part, just slightly, but no sound comes out. your mind scrambles, tries to line that up with what you already knew, but hearing it out loud still sends a pulse of cold through your chest.

you open your mouth. close it again. then, finally— “why do you keep coming back here?”

his mouth twitches. not quite a smile, though. “first three times were mostly coincidence,” he says, voice low. “bad aim. rushed job. bad timing.” a pause. then his gaze softens, almost imperceptibly. “after that…”

he doesn’t finish, but his gaze lingers, dark and steady.

you look back at him this time. really look.

his features are sharp in that almost unfair way, the kind that aren’t softened by time or made handsome by effort, but carved into him like violence left its signature behind.

his brows are heavy. his cheekbones could cut glass. his nose is crooked, but not enough to ruin him, just like it’s been broken more than once. there’s a scar curved like a lazy grin at the corner of his mouth, dragged through the stubble shadowing his jaw, and it should make him look rough, should detract from the rest, but somehow it doesn’t.

he’s handsome the way knives are. unapologetically sharp.

his beauty isn’t gentle or clean. it’s not the kind that was ever complimented in school photos or coaxed out with cologne and good lighting. it’s effortless. masculine. dangerous. the kind of face that belongs to someone who’s never had to try.

and then there’s his eyes.

green. dark. unreadable. not cold, exactly, just distant. sharp in a way that feels deliberate, like everything he sees gets sorted and catalogued in his head for later. they’re on you. watching. like they see more than they should. they flick over you, not curious, but knowing. like he already understands more than you do. like he’s already decided what to do with you.

you swallow, and then, instinctively, you yawn.

it catches you off guard, mortifying in its timing. your cheeks warm as you try to smother it into your sleeve, glancing away like it didn’t just ruin whatever odd, strangely suspended moment had started hovering between the two of you.

he huffs a sound that almost resembles a laugh. “you should get some rest,” he says. “i’ll cook for you later.”

you blink, still foggy. “are you gonna be bleeding in my kitchen?”

he shakes his head, standing. “nah. i’ll show up when i get a day off.”

you push yourself up, legs stiff, body heavy. your knees pop when you walk him to the door, not because you trust him, but because it feels weird not to.

you open it. the hallway’s empty when he steps through and you hesitate.

“…bye, toji.”

he glances back, one brow raised, lips curved just slightly. “don’t get into too much trouble.”

you shut the door before you can smile.

and then just stand there, forehead pressed to the cool wood, breath stuck in your chest.

your heart’s hammering like a schoolgirl’s, and you can’t tell if it’s because it was the first time a man’s been in your apartment , let alone the first time you’ve touched one since college—or if it’s because fifty minutes ago, you really thought you were gonna die.

…

you’re not expecting a knock two days later.

it’s your first day off in a week. you’re in your usual non-workday uniform, and oversized t-shirt, logo nearly faded off the chest, shorts barely visible underneath.

a blanket’s wrapped half around your legs. love island’s on the screen. you’re spooning cold rice straight from the container and contemplating if it’s worth getting up for water when there’s a knock at the door.

not loud. not rushed. just… there.

you pause.

the knock comes again, light, steady. not the frantic kind. not the kind that signals danger. just… patient. like it knows you’ll answer.

your fingers flex at your sides. heart already picking up. you push the blanket off your legs, pad barefoot across the apartment. every board underfoot seems louder than it should be. you reach the door, hesitating for just a second before leaning in to peer through the peephole.

and there he is.

toji.

black hoodie drawn up around his neck. grey sweatpants low on his hips, loose but clinging just enough to confirm what you already know: he’s big. solid. built like a threat. and he’s holding grocery bags in both hands, one looped wrist lifting slightly as if he’s just a neighbor stopping by. as if he didn’t kill a woman two doors down months prior. as if this is normal.

your breath catches.

you unlatch the lock slowly. open the door halfway, arm braced against it like it might shield you from whatever this is.

his gaze drops the second he sees you.

down your bare legs, stretched long under the hem of the t-shirt. your thighs. the shorts that might as well not be there. back up over the tired lines under your eyes. his stare isn’t lascivious, it’s quiet, observational, like he’s memorizing.

his expression doesn’t shift.

“hope i’m not interrupting,” he says, voice low. level. like it’s his doorstep, his apartment, his evening.

you blink, too many thoughts colliding. “uh. no? just—no. what the hell are you doing here?”

his mouth twitches. not a smile, just a flicker of amusement. his stance is casual, but not relaxed. one shoulder leaning just slightly into the doorframe, hands still curled around the bags like he’s waiting for permission to step in.

he lifts a bag. “well i did agree to cook for you on a day off, and i figured you might still be low on food after last time.”

your stomach tightens, remembering the spilled groceries from months ago, the smell of sour milk, the blood in your tub. you glance at the bags. onions. broth. some kind of meat wrapped in butcher paper.

“brought liver and onions,” he says, stepping inside like he’s done it before. “but the face you made when i mentioned it last time told me you wouldn’t be into it, so i got backup.”

you back up, barely noticing you’re doing it, watching him move across your space like it belongs to him. he toes off his sneakers. drops the bags on your counter. pulls open your fridge without asking.

“…how did you know i was off today?”

he glances at you over his shoulder. “i’m an assassin,” he says dryly. “what do you think i do all day?”

you frown. “that’s not an answer.”

he closes the fridge with a soft thud, the hum of it returning to fill the quiet. then he leans back against the counter, arms loose, one ankle hooked over the other like he owns the place.

“fine,” he says, voice unbothered. “you wanna quiz me?”

you squint at him. arms cross defensively over your chest. “…what’s my full name?”

he doesn’t hesitate, and your stomach drops a little, but that’s also not exactly hard to find information.

“okay,” you say, slow. “what college did i go to?”

he raises a brow, amused. “keio. nursing school. class of…” he tilts his head, pretending to search, even though you know he already knows. “twenty-twenty. graduated on time. graduated in the top ten percent of your class, actually.”

you shift your weight. the questions were supposed to throw him—make you feel in control, but he’s breezing through them like you’re on some kind of date-night trivia game.

“…where did i live before this?” you ask. you don’t even say it like a challenge this time. more like a test you already know you’re going to fail.

he snaps his fingers. “dorms your first two years. then that shitty four-floor walk-up near the metro line. barely any hot water. this is your first solo lease, and your landlord’s a dick. doesn’t fix the heat on time.”

you blink. that’s… too much.

your chest tightens, a little unsettled, a little impressed, and definitely unsure how to feel.

on one hand, maybe it’s a good sign: he’s done his research, knows you, sees you as someone worth keeping tabs on, which could mean he trusts you.

on the other hand… he knows you. too well. and you still don’t even know his last name.

he shrugs at your expression. “you asked.”

you stare. “you know way more about me than i do about you.”

“that’s kinda the point.”

“…do you always do that? with people you might need to kill later?”

he tilts his head. “just the ones i like.”

you open your mouth to argue. then shut it again. because somehow that is not the most unhinged thing he’s ever said.

instead, you shift awkwardly in place, arms loose at your sides, fingers twitching like they want something to do. the couch is still warm from where you were sitting. the tv hums with paused drama, a frozen frame of two people arguing on love island. your thighs stick slightly to the fabric of your shorts when you move.

he’s in your kitchen. like this is normal. like this—him standing in front of your stovetop, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, head tilted as he reads the label on a sauce packet, is something that happens. like he belongs here.

and it’s not like you’ve never seen him up close before. you’ve stitched his wounds. pressed your hand to his ribs while your own lungs burned from reverse cursed technique. you’ve seen him shirtless, bloodied, breathing through gritted teeth while perched on your couch.

but this feels weirder.

not because it’s domestic, though that’s part of it. it’s the fact that he looks comfortable. too comfortable. like he’s done this before, like he expected this to happen.

you clear your throat and shift again. “so… should i, like… go sit down? or help? or…?”

you trail off.

he doesn’t turn around, just lets out a soft exhale, amused. “you always talk this much when someone’s cookin’ for you?”

you stare at the back of his hoodie like it might offer a translation.

“i just—” you exhale. “i don’t know what to do with myself right now.”

he finally glances over his shoulder. raises a brow. “didn’t seem to have that problem when you were playin’ block puzzle.”

you blink. “you remember that?”

he shrugs one broad shoulder. “was cute. figured you needed the stimulation.”

and just like that, you’re left flustered. again.

you sit on the edge of the couch, awkward, suddenly hyperaware of how bare your legs feel under the lamplight. this is insane. absolutely fucking insane.

you’ve met him three times.

one of those times, you were pretty sure he was about to kill you. another, he definitely did kill someone else. and now he’s in your kitchen, cooking dinner.

you don’t know what to do. you don’t know what this is. you just know your hands miss the steadiness of medical tools. of bandages, of gloves, something to give them purpose. something to help you forget that the man currently humming under his breath and seasoning broth like a bored househusband is a murderer.

and he’s standing over your stove like he’s done it a thousand times.

his gaze catches on your thighs, bare above the hem of your shorts. lingers just a second too long. not crude, just noticing. like he’s logging it away for later.

he pulls ingredients from the bag, shallots, butter, some thick dark greens. the meat isn’t liver this time. looks like steak. thin, marbled. the kind that’ll melt once it hits the pan.

he moves with ease. rolls up his sleeves, washes his hands. he’s got broad forearms, and callouses at his knuckles. everything about him screams danger, but the way he handles a kitchen knife is… disturbingly competent.

your apartment starts to smell like garlic and soy sauce. something rich. earthy. he adds something to the broth on the stove and stirs it with long, careful strokes. you try not to stare at his back. the way the hoodie stretches over his shoulders. the way he moves like nothing can touch him.

he glances over once. “you eat eggs?”

you nod. “yeah.”

he cracks two. drops them into the broth without looking, and for a second, it feels so domestic it makes your skin prickle.

he ladles the broth like he’s done it a thousand times, movements smooth and practiced, the steam curling soft through the low light of your kitchen. the smell hits first, rich, savory, the kind of deep umami that clings to the back of your throat and reminds you you haven’t eaten since this morning.

he walks it over, bowl warm between his hands, and stops in front of you, brow tilted, lips twitching at the corners. “open.”

you blink. he’s holding the spoon up, angled toward your mouth. your spine goes stiff. arms tucking in. “…is this poisoned?”

he snorts, not moving the spoon, but shifting his weight to one leg, hip cocked. “you think i need broth to kill someone?” his eyes flick lazily down to your bare thighs, then back up to your face. “i’ve had better opportunities.”

you sigh, grab the spoon from his hand, quick and clumsy, and bring it to your lips yourself. because you’re not gonna be spoon-fed by a goddamn assassin.

the broth touches your tongue, and your whole body stills. you chew slow. swallow slower.

“…it’s good,” you say finally, like it’s a confession.

he grins. doesn’t say told you so, but the smugness radiating off him says it anyway.

he disappears into the kitchen again, and comes back with another bowl, for you. then brings the whole pot to the coffee table and sinks into the couch like he owns it, slouching deep into the cushions, one leg sprawled wide, the other tucked under him. he grabs the remote and, just like last time, turns it to the channel with horse racing.

you shoot him a look.

he shrugs, spoon already halfway to his mouth. “a man has to make money somehow.”

you’d argue, but the truth is, you haven’t even glanced at love island since he knocked.

he eats straight from the pot like an animal, you think, except there’s something graceful about it, too. the way his forearm flexes when he lifts the spoon. the way his jaw ticks as he chews. the way the soft lamplight sharpens the edges of him, turning muscle and bone into something sculpted, brutal, almost beautiful.

you wonder if that’s how he maintains all that mass. the broad chest. the carved abs. the tall, dark, and terrifying thing he’s got going on.

the conversation flows easier than it should. you don’t talk about death. or blood. or jobs. just things. you find out he hates cats. not in the playful, allergic way, either, but something deeper. says they’re “shifty little bastards.” you tell him you tried joining archery club once and nearly broke your foot.

and then, quietly, almost offhand, he talks about the heavenly pact. his eyes stay on the bowl as he says it. like it’s no big deal. like saying it is the same as saying “i don’t like olives.”

he mentions his clan. the abandonment. the whole i can’t see curses but i can kill them twist of fate that makes him a weapon in the shape of a man.

he says it flat and detached, but you see it. the twitch of his brow. the flicker in his gaze when he talks about them like they meant nothing.

you’ve seen that look before, in the parents in the hospital who swear they don’t care. who laugh too loud and say fuck ‘em when talking about kids who won’t visit them on their deathbeds.

the same look when you offer to hold their hand and they’re shaking.

you don’t say anything. just eat another spoonful of broth. you don’t know what this is. but for now, you just let it happen.

and when he leaves that night, it’s quiet. easy. your house smells like miso and seared beef. the dishes are washed. the couch is still warm where he sat.

and your heart won’t stop hammering.

you’re not sure if it’s because he’s the first man who’s been inside your apartment in two years.

Which fruit are you? Find out here!

I actually hate dragon fruit but it's such a pretty fruit

I actually don’t like watermelon or any melon at all, unfortunately.

tysm for the tag !!!

falling in love isn't about changing for someone. it's about learning to weather them. or, nagi seishiro is a houseplant, and you are a walking natural disaster.

nagi x gn!reader, mini series. reader is quite emotional & clumsy. italics r used for dramatic purposes. lowercase is not intended but i cba to turn autocaps on 😛 1.4k wc.

prev. • masterlist. • next.

1. Secure your foundation. (Hold on to who you are.)

“I presume you know why you’re here, yes ?” the counselor asks as you squirm in your seat, relentless under her gaze. you nod, although quite shyly, and she repeats the motion with a lot more assurance than you, urging you to go on. 

“It’s about the gardening club, is it not ?” you ask, nibbling on the inside of your cheek. she lets out a small smile in return, and you look away. you do not need her pity. 

The room you sit in is dim, even though large windows occupy two out of the four white walls, and you can see the students having lunch on the quad a few stories down. Since the ceiling lamp is turned off and her back is facing one of the only sources of natural light in the cramped space, the counselor’s face is darker than it should be, and she seems tired, almost older. The floor is padded with worn down carpet, indents of high heels and coffee stains visible. There are wooden cupboards and storage cabinets behind her, similar to the desk she leans on, and you know they are empty, because Hakuho High doesn’t have much to offer. She takes off her rectangle glasses and looks at you again. “I really appreciate all the effort you’ve put into organizing it, and I can tell it means a lot to you. Unfortunately, according to school policy, a club needs to have at least three active members to stay officially recognized. Right now, your club doesn’t meet that requirement, having only two members, yourself included, so I’m afraid we won’t be able to continue it as an official club for now.”

falling in love isn’t about changing for someone. it’s about learning to weather them. or, nagi seishiro is a houseplant, and you are a walking natural disaster.

nagi x gn!reader. mini series. strangers to friends to lovers. they’re both in their first year of high school so nagi hasn’t discovered the joys of soccer yet!reader is clumsy. live laugh love the gardening club. wc to be updated.

how to survive a hurricane as a houseplant: a guide !

secure your foundation.

storm proof your boundaries.

use your energy wisely.

don’t chase it.

accept your fate.

bonus : learn to sway without snapping.

updates will be inconsistent. tbh i might post the whole thing at once when i’m done writing it.

taglist : open ! ask to be added.