Toge doesn't need to be able to speak to known how to listen and show his love for you.
The sun-drenched wooden corridors of Tokyo Jujutsu High were usually filled with the sounds of intense training, heavy footsteps, or Gojo’s booming, theatrical voice. But in the quiet alcove beneath the shadow of the old eaves, the atmosphere was entirely different. It was a space carved out just for the two of you, defined by the steady, rhythmic cadence of your voice and the profound, rapt attention of Inumaki Toge.
Toge sat with his knees pulled loosely to his chest, his high uniform collar zipped all the way up to his nose. Only his sharp, violet eyes were visible, tracking every movement of your lips, every animated gesture of your hands.
To anyone else, a conversation with Toge was an exercise in decoding. His cursed speech—a powerful, inherited technique that infused his words with compelling, unavoidable force—forced him to limit his vocabulary to the safe, benign ingredients of rice balls. But to you, those vocabulary constraints weren't a barrier. They were just a unique dialect, a quirk of the boy you loved spending time with. And more than anything, Toge loved to listen.
You were currently in the middle of a passionate, winding monologue about something completely mundane. Perhaps it was a rant about a video game character you couldn't defeat, a detailed breakdown of a book you had just finished, or a vivid description of a stray cat you’d seen near the campus gates.
"And then, I swear, it looked right at me and did that tiny, pathetic little meow," you said, leaning forward, your eyes wide. "I wanted to give it a piece of my sandwich so badly, but I remembered that onions are bad for cats, and the sandwich had aioli on it. So I just had to apologize to a cat for five minutes. I must have looked completely ridiculous."
Toge’s eyes crinkled at the corners—the distinct sign that he was smiling beneath his collar.
"Okaka," he murmured softly. Negative. Not ridiculous.
He shifted his weight, leaning his head back against the wooden pillar, never once breaking eye contact. While most people found silence uncomfortable and filled it with meaningless chatter, Toge treated your words like rare, precious artifacts. He didn't just hear you; he absorbed you.
Because his own voice was a weapon that could inadvertently harm the people he cared about, he had developed an extraordinary capacity for listening. But with you, it went deeper. Over the months of sitting together on this porch, Toge had constructed an elaborate, flawless mental archive dedicated entirely to you.
• He knew that when you were genuinely excited, the pitch of your voice raised exactly half an octave, and you tended to tap your index finger against your knee.
• He knew that you hated the texture of mushrooms but loved the flavor of truffle oil—a contradiction he found endlessly endearing.
• He knew your specific comfort movies, the exact temperature you preferred your tea, and the subtle, quiet sigh you let out when you were mentally exhausted but trying to hide it from the rest of the Jujutsu students.
You babbled because you felt safe. He listened because your voice was his favorite melody in a world full of curses and screams.
"Sometimes I feel like I talk way too much," you admitted, suddenly self-conscious. You laughed nervously, rubbing the back of your neck. "You're always so quiet, Toge. You can tell me to shut up, you know? I won't be offended."
Toge’s posture immediately straightened. His brow furrowed, and he shook his head vigorously, his silver-white hair swaying with the movement. He reached out, his gloved fingers gently catching the edge of your sleeve to pull your attention back to him.
"Takana!" he insisted, his tone sharp but fiercely earnest. Positive! Absolutely not!
To prove his point, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. His fingers flew across the screen with practiced ease before he turned the device around to show you.
I like your voice. It’s warm. Please don't stop talking.
A blush crept up your cheeks. "Really? You don't get tired of hearing about my random thoughts?"
"Shake," he nodded firmly, letting out a soft huff. Affirmative.
He lowered his collar just an inch, exposing the sharp, dark lines of the Snake and Fangs seals painted around his mouth. It was a rare gesture of complete vulnerability, showing you the very source of his danger as a sign of absolute trust. He offered you a small, genuine smile before pulling the zipper back up, his eyes shining with an affection he didn't need cursed speech to communicate.
You smiled back, the lingering doubt evaporating. "Alright, well, if you insist... did I tell you about what happened in class yesterday with Panda and Maki?"
Toge settled back down, resting his chin on his knees. Shake. He hadn't heard this story yet. He was all ears.
The next afternoon, the Tokyo campus was blanketed in a heavy, humid heatwave. The air was thick, and even the cicadas sounded exhausted. You had spent the morning running drills with Gojo, which essentially amounted to being chased around the training field while he threw sweets at you and laughed. You were drained, hot, and thoroughly cranky.
You dragged your feet to your usual meeting spot on the shaded porch, slumping against the wooden wall with a dramatic groan. You closed your eyes, letting the cool wood soothe your aching back.
A few minutes later, the soft, familiar scuff of sneakers echoed on the walkway. You opened one eye to see Toge approaching. But he wasn't alone; he was carrying a large, brightly colored convenience store bag, holding it carefully by the handles like it contained fragile glass.
"Hey, Toge," you mumbled, too tired to summon your usual energy. "I'm a puddle today. I don't think I have any fun stories in me."
"Katsuobushi," he said gently, stepping onto the porch. Don't worry about it.
He knelt down beside you, the plastic bag crinkling loudly in the quiet afternoon. With meticulous care, he began to unpack the contents, arranging them on the wooden floor between you like a master chef presenting a tasting menu.
Your eyes widened as you looked at the items.
First came a chilled, condensation-covered bottle of a specific melon soda—the exact brand you had offhandedly mentioned loving three months ago because they used real juice instead of artificial syrup. Next was a bag of limited-edition spicy potato chips that were incredibly hard to find, which you had lamented missing out on during a conversation three weeks prior. Finally, he pulled out a small, delicate box of strawberry mochi from a traditional bakery downtown—the very place you had pointed out on a flyer, wishing you had time to visit.
Toge hadn't just gone to the local convenience store. He had gone on a cross-town scavenger hunt.
"Toge..." you breathed, sitting up straight. "Is this... all of this is for me?"
"Shake," he beamed, his eyes crinkling into happy crescents.
He slid the chilled melon soda into your hands, the cold glass instantly soothing your flushed skin. He then popped open the bag of spicy chips, holding them out to you with an expectant tilt of his head.
"You remembered all of this?" you asked, completely overwhelmed by the gesture. "I only mentioned the chips once. I don't even remember telling you about the melon soda!"
Toge let out a quiet, proud little chuckle. He tapped the side of his temple with his index finger, reminding you that his memory was a steel trap when it came to you. He took a small container of plain sea-salt chips out of the bag for himself—knowing he couldn't handle the spice of yours—and took a bite, watching you expectantly.
You cracked open the soda, taking a long, refreshing sip. The sweet, crisp flavor exploded across your tongue, instantly erasing the misery of the heatwave. "Oh my god, it's perfect. Thank you so much."
Toge’s shoulders dropped, a visible wave of relief washing over him. He felt a deep, swelling sense of satisfaction. For someone who lived in constant fear of what his voice could do to people, being able to bring you this exact, tailored happiness through silent observation was the ultimate reward.
You picked up a piece of the strawberry mochi, breaking it in half. "Here, you have to try some of this. I know you like sweet things, even if you pretend you don't in front of Megumi."
Toge blinked, a faint flush rising to his cheeks. He hadn't realized you were paying just as much attention to him as he was to you. He hesitated for a moment, then pulled his collar down past his chin.
He took the half of the mochi from your fingers, his lips brushing against your fingertips for a fraction of a second, sending a spark of electricity straight down your spine. He chewed thoughtfully, his expression melting into pure bliss.
"Mentaiko," he murmured, his voice soft, gravelly, and incredibly sweet without the barrier of his collar. Delicious.
"Right?" you cheered, happy to see him enjoy it. "The rice flour is so soft. Next time, we should go to the actual shop together. It's supposed to have a really nice garden in the back."
Toge’s eyes lit up at the word together. He nodded fiercely. "Shake! Shake!"
As the afternoon rolled into evening, the heat began to break, replaced by a cool twilight breeze. The snacks were long gone, replaced by an easy, comfortable fullness.
You were lying on your back, staring up at the wooden rafters, while Toge sat cross-legged beside you. He had taken out a small bottle of throat medicine—a necessity after a long day, even if he hadn't used his cursed speech—and was slowly sipping it.
"Hey, Toge?" you called out softly.
"Thank you for always listening to me," you said, turning your head to look up at him. "I know I can be a lot. I talk when I'm nervous, I talk when I'm happy, I talk just to fill the silence. But when I'm with you, I feel like my words actually matter. Like they aren't just disappearing into the air."
Toge set his medicine bottle down. He looked down at you, his violet eyes dark and full of an emotion so intense it made your breath catch.
He didn't reach for his phone this time. He didn't want a screen to mediate what he wanted to say. He carefully pulled his collar down, exposing his face entirely to the fading twilight. He leaned over you slightly, shadowing you from the remaining ambient light of the sky.
He opened his mouth, his vocal cords shifting as he carefully selected words that carried absolutely zero cursed energy—words that were entirely safe, yet entirely heavy with meaning.
"Sujiko," he whispered, his voice a low, soothing purr. Cherished.
He reached down, his bare hand gently brushing a stray lock of hair away from your forehead. His thumb lingered on your cheekbone, his skin warm and incredibly soft.
"Umeboshi," he added, his thumb tracing a slow, comforting circle on your skin. Comfort.
You reached up, wrapping your hand over his, pressing his palm closer against your cheek. "I think I understand," you whispered back, a bright smile breaking across your face. "I feel the same way."
Toge let out a soft, contented sigh, leaning down to rest his forehead against yours for just a brief, beautiful moment. There were no curses, no dangerous commands, and no misunderstandings. In the quiet space you had built together, your endless words and his perfect silence had blended into a language all their own—and neither of you would ever tire of speaking it.
There aren't enough Inumaki Toge fics out here.
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