#messyhasthots

I feel like he wasn't nasty AT FIRST. He was way too nervous and shy to do anything too mean; you for sure took his Vcard, so like at first, he was a little baffled, not sure what to do with himself. However, after the drunk!Toge incident....he had ideas. Absolutely nasty, vile thoughts on the regular, but despite his vulgar mouth and asshole humor, he's a sweet boy, so he kept them to himself. That quickly changes, however, when he's knuckle-deep in your pussy, curling his fingers in a way that has you slack-jawed and moaning his name. He can't help the way he stares at your mouth, or more specifically, your tongue. It's so soft and inviting, just begging to be spit on. He momentarily fantasizes about spitting in your mouth and forcing you to hold it there until you cum on his hand, effectively shutting up the cute noises you were making for him, forcing you to taste him the whole time he was rearranging your guts with his much larger hand. He groans at the thought and bucks his hips into the mattress slightly, but he's pulled from his thoughts when you lean up to whisper in his ear, "Tell me what you want....mmm, wan' you to force me...please." All sense of respectability goes out the window in an instant as he's gripping your jaw with one hand while the other one stuffed in your cunt takes on a brutal pace. "Open your mouth," his voice is misleadingly stern, as he feels himself get impossibly harder at the way your jaw hangs slack immediately, tongue sticking out slightly to taunt him. He leans down and spits directly on the surface of the pink muscle before telling you to "Close your mouth and don't swallow." His throat is getting mildly hoarse, but he can't bring himself to care. Not when you look like this, melting under his touch, jaw clenched shut as spit dribbles down the side of your mouth, trying desperately to obey his command.

He was a full blown menace after that, I'm praying for your cewchie

Sylus halts mid-step, his breath catching as his gaze locks onto a young woman cradling a small child in her arms. In the overgrown yard of an abandoned school in the N109 zone stands the most beautiful woman he has ever seen—the one he never thought he would see again.

His expression softens as your laughter rings out, bright and clear, your fingers playfully dancing over the child's stomach. Even in the eternal gloom of his world, you emanate life, warmth, and something achingly familiar. In his mind, hazy memories—no, visions—unfold: you, holding a baby with tiny, nubby horns. The child nestled close to your chest, his little puffs of breath warm against your skin, while your hands caressed those delicate horns with pure adoration. Sylus aches. He longs for the moment he never had, the one stolen from him by death. He wonders what became of the child after you passed. His memories—no, your memories—stop at the child’s fifth year. He likes to believe you kept the later ones for yourself, but he is not a foolish man.

A sudden wave of children floods the field, their joyous laughter foreign to the desolate N109 zone. The sheer sound of it leaves his ears ringing, disoriented, until—

"Laoshi, who's that man?"

A small boy clutches at your side, pointing an accusing finger at Sylus, his frame half-hidden behind you.

Your body stiffens as you turn to face him, expression darkening instantly.

"Can I help you?" Your voice is sharp, guarded, and he doesn’t miss the way your hand drifts toward your hip. Your fierce gaze pins him in place.

"Forgive me," Sylus murmurs, dipping his head slightly. "Laughter is scarce here. I was simply… enjoying its warmth."

He doesn’t linger. He doesn’t need to. The moment he sees no flicker of recognition in your eyes, his heart fractures. You had cursed him to find you in every life, to love you in every life—yet here you stood, unable to remember him at all.

That, he decides, must change.

The next day, Sylus strolls into the same abandoned building, stepping into what appears to be a makeshift front office. A woman at the desk looks up, her eyes widening. She knows who he is. He’s sure of it. Knows what he does. Knows what he is. Yet, she doesn’t mention it.

Instead, her voice is cautious. "Can I help you, sir?"

His lips twitch into a smirk. "I apologize for intruding, but… what is this place?"

Her hesitation is brief before she answers, "An orphanage."

An orphanage. Of course. You, growing flowers in the desert, making miracles where none should exist. The confirmation settles something in him.

"Then I'd like to offer a donation," he says smoothly. "Something this remarkable shouldn’t be left to chance."

The woman gasps at the number scrawled on the check he hands her. He doesn’t wait for her awe to wear off before slipping a second item from the inner pocket of his coat—an ornate envelope, its wax seal unbroken.

"And," he adds, "a young woman by the name of (Y/N) works here, does she not? Please ensure she receives this."

The woman hesitates but nods. "O-of course, sir."

That evening, you return to your room, peeling open the wax-sealed envelope with careful fingers. Inside is an invitation—an auction, of all things. A formal request for your company.

There is no explanation, no context, just a single line scrawled at the bottom of the letter in elegant script:

"I can’t wait to meet the sorceress who blooms flowers in an abyss."

As a sorcerer, death is a constant companion—always lurking, always watching, waiting patiently to swoop in and remind you that no matter how powerful you are, she’s the one holding all the cards. Toge was no exception. He could vividly recall clinging to his father's pant leg, peeking around at the men in suits whose large frames cast menacing shadows over them. They were hunting down the alleged cursed speech user, warning his father that this child was dangerous, a threat to society—this child needed to be eliminated. If his father were a good man, they said, he would cooperate.

“A child who has inherited cursed speech can manipulate the world around them. If a child with this technique were to yell ‘no’ at you, you would have no choice but to comply; your body would freeze up, and you wouldn’t be able to move. They likely aren’t strong enough yet to cause real harm, but you see why we need to eliminate this threat early.” The man in front of them adjusts his glasses, peering straight through a trembling Toge.

“Of course, sir, I’d love to help you with this, but as you may have guessed, I don’t see many children other than my own, and unfortunately, this little guy is mute. He hasn’t spoken a word since the day he was born.” Toge’s father ruffles his hair lightly as Toge buries his face deeper into his sweater.

The man stares through Toge one last time before his gaze flickers up, and he breaks into a tight, uncomfortable smile. “Right then, we’ll be on our way. If you hear anything, don’t hesitate to give us a call. We wouldn’t want anything unfortunate to happen.” He hands over his business card and walks away.

That night, Toge meets Gojo sensei for the first time. His father told him this man would take him somewhere safe, that he wouldn’t have to be afraid, and that he could help others with his gift. That reassurance did little to quell the tears welling up in his eyes. He wanted to stay, to keep pretending just a little longer, but it was time to grow up. The world lost some of its wonder that night as he clutched the hand of a stranger, fighting back tears as his father waved him off with a smile that never quite reached his eyes.

From that day on, his life became a constant reminder of the cruelty of his new world. Corpses littered the scenes of curse sightings, and teachers, supervisors, and even students sometimes wouldn’t make it home from missions. He watched from the sidelines as their loved ones mourned and then returned to school as if nothing had happened. It was hard not to become detached from your own life when it could be lost in an instant.

Then there was you. A second-grade at best, from a line of non-sorcerers. The horrors of this world never seemed to touch you. You always smiled and laughed, enjoying the life you were given. For a moment, Toge thought you were naive. He was sure you didn’t realize the horrors lurking around every corner, ready to pounce and tear everything from you.

When you received word that Yuji had died, you wept, embarrassingly so, for someone you had never met. You cried openly, tears streaming, snot running down your nose as you wailed like a child. He stood there, stunned by the raw display of grief, and you left him little time to process it before you wrapped your arms around his neck, crying into his shoulder. You spoke of how young Yuji was, how much he had ahead of him; you wept for his friends, his family, all the lives he was meant to touch. Toge doesn’t remember when he started crying, but his face burns as tears roll down onto the top of your head. He doesn’t know why, but he clutches you tightly and cries freely for possibly the first time in his life.

A breathy laugh escapes him as he recalls the memory of you sniffling into his shoulder, much like you are now. He winces in pain as the gentle laugh wreaks havoc on his injured body. He tries to wrap an arm around your head, to run his fingers through your hair, to comfort you and reassure you he’s okay, but nothing happens. Right, he lost that arm just hours ago. At this realization, another laugh roils through his stomach, and he can’t hold it back this time, choking on the pain as his body shakes in your arms.

It was never supposed to be like this. He was supposed to come home in one piece, ready to cook dinner with you and the others in the dorm. You would scold him for being reckless and dote on him as you haphazardly administered medicine. He was supposed to lie with you on the couch, eyes heavy, his hand tracing through your hair while a movie flickered around them, lighting the otherwise empty room.

This time, he allows himself to cry freely, clutching you impossibly closer as he wails like a child, mourning everything that should have been, all the things that could have been. You lean back slightly at his sudden outburst, cradling his face in your hands, brushing his bloodied hair out of his eyes. He doesn’t expect the soft smile gracing your features as you stare back into his eyes. How could you smile at a time like this? He had let you down, he could have died, and he was moments from abandoning you here, whether he wanted to or not.

You place a chaste kiss on his forehead, the warmth of your lips lingering against his cold, clammy skin. The gesture is so gentle, so filled with affection, that it catches him off guard. For a moment, the world around him fades—no pain, no fear, just the softness of your touch grounding him in the present. You pull his head into yours, your foreheads pressed together, and he can feel your breath mixing with his, shallow and uneven. It’s too much. He can’t breathe, his chest tightening as the weight of his emotions threatens to suffocate him.

He closes his eyes, squeezing them shut as if that could block out the reality of the situation, as if it could shield him from the intensity of your gaze. He knows if he looks at you, really looks at you, he’ll see the depth of your love and concern etched into your features, and he doesn’t know if he can bear it. How can you look at him like that, with such unwavering trust and devotion, after everything that’s happened? After all he’s lost, after all he’s failed to protect? The guilt gnaws at him, sharp and unrelenting.

“I-I…,” he starts, but the words catch in his throat, choked by the guilt knotting there, making it harder to breathe with each passing moment. He closes his mouth, trying to steady his nerves, but instead, he feels your lips on his, warm and gentle.

You kiss him with no urgency, as if your life is guaranteed, as if you aren’t in a hospital room. No, you kiss him, and he’s transported back to his dorm, the breeze carrying the gentle glow of the afternoon sun through the room, and he can smell the remnants of your shampoo as you tuck a strand of hair behind his ear. He’s home, he’s safe, and he’s loved unconditionally.

When you break away, you reach up to hold his face in your hands, running your thumb over his curse marks. Those marks, once symbols of his power and burden, now seem almost fragile under your tender caress.

You lean in, your voice barely above a whisper, the words carrying a weight that transcends the simplicity of their meaning: “I love you too.” The sincerity in your voice cuts through the layers of doubt and fear that have wrapped themselves around his heart. He feels a surge of emotions—relief, gratitude, love—all mingling together, overwhelming in their intensity.

He can’t help it—the boyish smile that breaks across his face is instinctive, almost involuntary. It’s the kind of smile that reaches his eyes, lighting them up with a glimmer of hope buried under the weight of his doubt. In that moment, everything else falls away. The wounds, the battles, the relentless weight of his responsibilities—they all seem distant, insignificant compared to the simple truth of your words.

His resolve solidifies, a quiet determination burning within him. He might not be able to express his feelings in words, but he vowed to spend the rest of his life showing you, in every way possible, just how deeply he loved you. He would make it his mission to always come home to you—to listen to you animatedly recount your day, your eyes sparkling with excitement over the smallest details. He would continue to bring your favorite snacks, the ones that always made you smile, and remember the little things, like moving the sheets into the dryer on Saturdays.