Miyabr0 - Mar !

the man you are…

ac: bobinapples

My boyfriend’s pretty cool, but he’s not as cool as me 💋

nanami’s texts when you’re in a relationship with him!

character: nanami kento

mrs. nanami?

damsel in distress

fighting and making up

temptation

pretty woman

song that inspired the title: brooklyn baby by lana del rey

masterlist

note: gojo’s next in line for the relationship texts! Inbox me who you want to see after that!

nanami's daughter went through an identity crisis at the age of four.

you were teaching her how to write her own name. she happily exclaimed that she can do it herself, after all papa taught her all the alphabets. she clumsily jot down her supposed name and showed it to you, looking very much proud

suethart nanami

you were confused but told her this was not her name. she looked up at you with confused big doe eyes, the color the same as your husband's

"but thats what papa calls me?"

you chuckled behind your hand and explained to her what her actual name was and how it wasnt sweetheart. she looked so devastated that you almost wanted to rename her.

"no, its sweetheart!"

later that evening, before nanami could even announce he was home and put out his shoes, his daughter went to him running

"papa! whats my name??" she asked very firmly, with arms crossed and brows furrowed

he raised his eyebrow at you to see if it was another tiktok prank where he was supposed to call her 'my princess' (hed gladly do that). you just shrugged your shoulders at him, looking very much done. he fondly huffed, things are always so chaotic with you two, but he wouldnt have it any other way. he smiled softly and patted his baby's fluffy haired head

"sweetheart, at least let me put out my shoes first-"

she cheered happily and threw herself in nanamis arms. out of instinct, he held her, with all the gentleness in the world.

"see mama?? i told you my name was sweetheart!!" she then proceeded to give you a 'i told you so' look

nanami, still very much confused and not out of his shoes looked at you, asking for help. you just sighed heavily

later during dinner time, you and nanami both taught your baby about real names and pet names. she got so pouty after she learnt that her name was neither sweetheart nor baby nor honey, it was taking nanami a lot of will to not just her rename her sweetheart and bring back her sunny smile. but you reassured her that to you guys she will forever be 'sweetheart'. she lit up at your words and proceeded to happily munch her food

nanami blinked. well that was easy.

tho she had another breakdown when she found out that your name wasnt actually 'my love'.

HOW DO THEY GRIEVE? — featuring sukuna, choso, gojo, geto, nanami, toji content warnings: no reader gender/anatomy implied. implied reader death, heavy angst no comfort. established relationship. reader is a mortal in sukuna's part. mentions of murder in toji's part. they/them pronouns used for reader in gojo's part.

the quiet haunted him most.

it wasn’t a noise, nor a cry, but the absence of it — a void left behind where your voice once existed, tugging at his mind like an insidious echo. sukuna sat still, his broad frame rigid against the edge of his throne, clawed fingers wrapped tightly around the curve of his jaw. he wasn’t one to cling, yet here he was, torn by shadows of something he couldn’t clutch tightly enough.

“pathetic,” he muttered to himself, the words bitter against his tongue. his voice cut through the silence, but it wasn’t yours. it would never be yours again.

there were moments, fleeting and infuriating, when he could almost remember you. a flash of a laugh — was it sharp? or soft? — your expression — smiling? or frowning? — your warmth, tangible yet distant, slipping through his memory like grains of sand. sukuna slammed his fist into the wooden armrest of his throne, splinters flying.

"damn you," he growled lowly, though he wasn’t sure if it was directed at himself or at you.

he knew this would happen. of course, it would. you were mortal. fleeting. time was never kind to mortals, and neither was he. what place did someone like you have in his world? he had convinced himself you’d be nothing more than a passing indulgence. but then you had dared to linger in ways no one else had, and sukuna, fool that he was, had allowed it.

he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, face buried in his hands. "what was it you used to call me?" his voice cracked — just slightly, a whisper against the still air. not king. not lord. no, you’d stripped him of those titles in private.

ryo.

the way you used to say his name — it hadn’t been reverent. not like others. you said it like it was yours, like he was yours.

but the sound was fading now, no matter how tightly he clung to it. sukuna’s fingers twitched against his temples, nails digging into his scalp. his crimson eyes burned, not with fury, but with a hollow ache.

“you dare slip away from me now?” his voice cracked in the empty room.

he stood abruptly, the motion nearly knocking the throne back. pacing, prowling, his footsteps thudded against the cold stone. his hands clenched and unclenched as though grasping for an answer.

“what was it —” he hissed, his tone a dangerous edge of desperation, “ — that made me let you in?” he paused mid-step, shoulders sagging under the weight of what he knew.

everything. everything about you.

he clenched his jaw, exhaling a breath that rattled with suppressed rage and sorrow. sukuna’s hand reached to his chest, curling around the fabric of his robe where his heart still stubbornly beat.

“if i ever hear your voice again…” he muttered, the words half-prayer, half-promise, “you won’t escape me a second time.”

choso sat in the quiet of his apartment, the hum of the fridge filling the silence. his fingers ghosted over the countertop, tracing invisible patterns that led nowhere. on the table sat a piece of toast, untouched and cold, its edges curling from neglect.

he stared at it, a lump forming in his throat. the memory hit him like a wave, vivid and all-consuming.

"it's just toast, cho!" you had laughed, your voice bright and teasing. he could still see the crinkle of your eyes, the way you covered your mouth to stifle your giggles when he flinched at the toaster's pop.

his chest tightened. "just toast," he echoed to the empty room, his voice hollow.

but it wasn’t just toast. nothing was ever just anything with you. every moment, every mundane thing, had been infused with the light of your presence, leaving pieces of you scattered throughout his life like breadcrumbs.

the laundry machine buzzed faintly in the background, and he shut his eyes. another memory clawed its way forward, unbidden.

“choso! what are you doing?!” you’d yelled, pulling his arm away just as he reached into the spinning drum. “you’ll lose a hand doing that!”

“but it wasn’t —” he had started, confused, only to be cut off by your exasperated sigh.

“don’t. just… don’t.”

and yet, after scolding him, you’d taught him how to sort clothes, how to fold shirts, how to care for the things that mattered.

“you’ve got to take care of things, cho. take care of people, too,” you’d said, softer that time, as you’d brushed lint off his shoulder. “it’s what makes us human.”

human.

his hands balled into fists on the countertop. you had taught him what it meant to be human — how to live, how to feel, how to care. you taught him to look beyond himself, to see others as more than just moving parts in the chaos of life.

“be kind,” you’d told him once, standing at a crosswalk as you watched him glare at a group of kids. “help the ones who need it. give up your seat. hold the door. even when it’s hard, choose kindness.”

he had rolled his eyes back then, muttering something about how the world didn’t deserve it. but you had smiled, patient and unyielding.

“do it anyway.”

the toast sat there, forgotten, as choso stared into the distance. how could he forget you? when you were everywhere? in the hiss of the washing machine, the smell of burnt toast, the sharp pang of guilt when he didn’t offer his seat to someone in need.

you were a part of him now, woven into his bones, etched into his heart.

“how could i forget you?” he whispered, voice trembling as he sat down, head in his hands.

he couldn’t. even if he wanted to. you had made him human. and now, with you gone, he didn’t know how to be anything else.

gojo satoru was a man of stories. he carried your memory in his words, carefully polished and tenderly spun, until they became legends that danced on the tongues of everyone he met.

"oh, y/n?" he'd grin, eyes glimmering like sunlight on fresh snow. "you should’ve seen the way they handled me. not many can keep up with this." he'd tap his temple, his grin softening.

he told them about how you made the best coffee in the mornings, even though you always claimed to hate the way he drowned it in sugar. how you made him laugh so hard that his infinity couldn’t protect him from doubling over. how your voice could cut through the chaos in his mind, grounding him in ways nothing else could.

you became a part of his stories, not just as someone he loved, but as someone who made him better. greater.

people listened with rapt attention, smiling at the way he spoke of you, as if you were still right there beside him. but when the crowds thinned, when the world grew quiet, and satoru was left with nothing but the weight of his own company, the facade cracked.

the apartment felt unbearably still, as if your absence was a tangible thing that pressed against him. he sat on the couch, elbows resting on his knees, head bowed. the usual sparkle in his eyes dulled to a glassy sheen.

his shoulders trembled first, a barely-there quiver that grew into a shudder as the first sob escaped his throat.

“damn it,” he choked out, his voice cracking as he pressed the heel of his palms into his eyes. “damn it, why’d you leave me with this?”

you were the strongest in ways he could never be. while he could manipulate the very fabric of space, you had wielded something far greater: love, compassion, humanity. things that made the unbearable weight of existence lighter, if only for a while.

"who’s gonna remember you when i’m gone?" he whispered into the empty room, voice breaking.

the thought gutted him. satoru lived for you now — not for his students, not for his title, not for his power. it was your memory that anchored him, the fear of losing even the smallest piece of you driving him to hold on tighter than ever.

“i can’t let that happen,” he muttered, fists clenching as fresh tears spilled down his cheeks. his breath came in sharp, uneven gasps. “i can’t let you disappear. not ever.”

so he stayed. fought. lived. not because he feared death — death had always been a fleeting thought to someone like him — but because without him, there would be no one left to carry your memory.

and if there was one thing gojo satoru would never let the universe take from him, it was you.

suguru cursed the gods, cursed fate, and cursed you.

it was easier that way. easier to let the anger scorch him from the inside out than to face the gnawing emptiness that came with your absence. he sat in the ruins of what had once been a temple, the scent of charred wood and blood still lingering in the air. his knuckles ached from where he’d slammed his fists into the wall, and his throat burned from the string of expletives he’d spat at no one in particular.

“why couldn’t you just listen?” his voice was a harsh rasp, cracking as he spoke to the void. “why did you have to be so damn… stubborn?”

you were supposed to understand. supposed to see the world the way he did, to join him in tearing it apart so it could be rebuilt into something better. but you hadn’t.

you stood your ground, unwavering in your righteousness, and it had infuriated him. because for all his power, all his conviction, he couldn’t convince you.

“it’s your fault,” he muttered bitterly, running a hand through his tangled hair. “you and your… your goddamn ideals.”

but the words rang hollow, even to him.

because you were the only one who’d ever made him question himself. you were the only one who’d ever dared to stand in his way, not with malice, but with love.

“you think you’re better than this,” you had told him once, your voice calm but firm. “but you’re not. and i can’t follow you down this path, suguru.”

he hated you for that — for being right. for loving him enough to try and stop him. and for leaving him when he wouldn’t stop.

his fingers tightened into fists, nails biting into his palms. “damn you,” he whispered, though the words lacked the venom they once had.

he wondered, sometimes, if you thought about him as much as he thought about you. if you still believed in the version of him you’d once loved, or if that image had crumbled under the weight of his choices.

maybe, in another life, things were different. a life where there were no sides to choose, no lines to cross, no ideals to clash over. just the two of you.

he closed his eyes, leaning back against the cold stone wall. the anger was gone now, leaving behind only exhaustion and a hollow ache in his chest.

“what am i waiting for?” he asked aloud, his voice barely above a whisper.

there was no answer, just the crackling of dying embers and the distant howl of the wind. but still, he waited.

for you to come back. for the pain to stop. for something — anything — that would make it all make sense again.

and until then, he would curse. and grieve. and wait.

toji didn’t know how to grieve.

his life had never made room for something as soft as sorrow. emotions, in his world, were a luxury — a liability he couldn’t afford. but now, in the absence of you, there was something gnawing at him, raw and unrelenting, that he couldn’t name.

he sat in the dim light of a dingy bar, nursing a half-empty glass of whiskey. the burn was familiar, but it didn’t distract him like it used to. his mind kept circling back to you, dragging him down into memories he couldn’t shake.

the way you used to fuss over his injuries, muttering curses at him for being reckless while your hands worked with tender precision. the way your laughter echoed, rich and warm, cutting through the cold veneer of his life. the way you’d touch his cheek, grounding him, reminding him he was more than the blade he carried.

and now? now there was nothing but silence.

“this one’s for you,” he muttered under his breath, finishing the glass in one harsh gulp before tossing a wad of bills on the counter.

it was always for you. every job, every gamble, every risk — your ghost lingered in every choice he made. toji didn’t bother questioning it; he couldn’t. the thought of you was the only thing keeping him moving, even if it came with a weight that threatened to crush him.

the alley was dark as he cornered his target, the blade in his hand gleaming faintly under the flickering streetlamp. the man whimpered, begging for mercy, but toji didn’t flinch. his movements were fluid, precise, and ruthless.

“don’t beg,” he growled, his voice low and cold. “this ain’t about you.”

and it wasn’t. not really. the man’s life had no meaning to him — just another pawn in the endless cycle of blood and violence. but the rage that fueled him? that was yours.

the blade struck, and with it came a flash of you — your smile, your voice, the warmth he could no longer reach. the man crumpled to the ground, lifeless, and toji stood over him, his chest heaving.

“still not enough,” he muttered, wiping the blade clean with a practiced motion.

it was never enough. no amount of blood could fill the void you left behind. but he kept going, each kill a hollow attempt to feel something other than this aching, unfamiliar emptiness.

toji leaned against the cold brick wall, the night air biting against his skin. he stared at his hands — steady, calloused, and stained.

“why’d you leave me with this, huh?” he muttered to the open air, his voice gruff but cracking at the edges. “you were the only thing that ever made sense.”

his hands clenched into fists, the blade trembling slightly in his grip. this is for you, he reminded himself, even if he didn’t know why. even if it didn’t bring you back.

he ached, and it hurt, but he didn’t know what to do with that pain. so he killed. and he killed. and every time, it was for you.

nanami was a man of routines.

quiet, deliberate, purposeful routines.

he didn’t waver in them, not even after you were gone. if anything, they became his lifeline, a fragile thread tethering him to the semblance of normalcy he desperately clung to.

he set out two plates every night, one for him, one for you. it wasn’t a conscious decision at first; his hands simply moved on autopilot, muscle memory guiding him. but when he sat down to eat, staring at the empty plate across from him, the quiet would settle in — a heavy, suffocating kind of quiet that only existed in the absence of you.

your pillow remained fluffed on the bed, as if you’d be home any moment to claim your spot. sometimes he’d catch himself reaching out to brush a stray hair off it, only to remember it wasn’t yours — it never could be again.

and then there were the chips. that oily, utterly ridiculous brand you adored.

nanami didn’t even like snacks, much less those chips, but he found himself restocking them on every grocery run. he would walk past the aisle, hesitate, and then grab a bag, telling himself it was just habit.

but one day, curiosity — or maybe desperation — got the better of him. he opened the bag, the crinkle of plastic unnervingly loud in the stillness of the house. the scent hit him first, greasy and artificial, and he almost put the bag down.

“what on earth did you see in these?” he muttered under his breath before popping one in his mouth.

it was awful. salty, greasy, overwhelmingly artificial.

and he cried.

the chip barely registered as he sat down heavily, shoulders trembling as tears rolled down his face. it wasn’t the taste — it was everything else. the bag in his hands, the faint smell of your favorite flowers still lingering from the vase on the kitchen counter, the stupid chipped mug you refused to throw away because it was yours.

everything screamed you. your presence was embedded in every corner of the house, in every routine, every object, every space you had once occupied.

and nanami realized, in that moment, how deeply ingrained you were in his life. how even in your absence, you filled it in ways he couldn’t escape.

his fingers tightened around the bag as he let the tears come, quiet and unrelenting.

maybe it was okay to grieve.

maybe it was okay to hold onto the pieces of you that lingered, to let them anchor him in a world that felt so much colder now.

and as he wiped his face with the back of his hand, setting the bag aside, he thought — maybe, just maybe, it was okay to keep buying those ridiculous chips, even if they tasted like crap. because they were yours. and so, in some small, bittersweet way, they were his, too.

produced by creamflix on tumblr. all rights reserved. do not copy, steal, modify, repost. banners by cafekitsune — support your writers by liking and reblogging. ♡

College dbhwks!!

based on this fic (18+)

THE SPACE BETWEEN COMFORT AND CHAOS.

✧ SUMMARY : your life is quiet and uneventful until you hear noises in the alleyway by your apartment, and you can't help but poke your nose where it doesn't belong. but haven't you ever heard that curiosity killed the cat? except nobody mentions that the cat gets killed by the big bad wolf.

✧ INCLUDES : wolfhybrid!toji, hybrid au, violence, injuries, detailed descriptions of blood/injuries, societal inequalities, animalistic tendencies, past trauma in toji's case, eventual smut maybe, grumpy x sunshine trope, bickering, angst, fluff, slow burn, pining, jealousy, possessive behavior, overall toji being his brooding self !!

i. ONE :: WHAT DID THEY SAY ABOUT CURIOSITY AND THAT DAMN CAT?

when you stumble upon an angry wolf hybrid in your alleyway who has no intentions of getting close to you do you, a.) offer it food?, b.) try to talk to it?, or c.) all of the above?

ii. TWO :: SUFFOCATING WARMTH.

stranger danger has conveniently flown out the window now that you've decided to invite him inside. he seems angrier about it than you are.

iii. THREE :: THE SUBTLE ART OF PERSUASION.

toji has a lot to learn about you. he keeps making the mistake of underestimating your relentlessness.

iv. FOUR :: MELTING ICE.

it's scary, just how much difference a soft bed can make after a stone floor.

v. FIVE :: PUZZLE PIECES.

(coming soon...!)

extra thoughts and rambles :: wolf toji tag

Lying To Himself

Content: in which toji is left alone and how he deals with your temporary absence

You have to leave for two weeks, something about a mission in another city. Your boyfriend, Toji, swears it'll be okay, even insists that time will pass by in a blink of an eye. 

“‘m not a fucking child, ma. I’ll be fine. Just take care, yeah?”

And so, you peck him on his lips and wave goodbye before you get in the car. Then you’re disappearing in the distance. Toji shrugs, going back in feeling pretty excited to have the house to himself for two weeks — this has never happened before. As he sits on the couch, bottle of beer in one hand and tv remote on the other, he thinks about all the things he can do now.

The toilet seat can stay up, the bins will be full for longer, same goes for the dirty dishes in the sink, and he can watch whatever he wants; no more of those sappy romcoms with predictable plots and cheesy lines. 

“’s gonna be fun,” he mutters, a growing grin on his face. 

A couple days pass in relative silence, he stays out late, sleeps till noon and eats all the junk you’ve banned from the house. Toji cooks all the steak he wants and leaves the beer bottles to collect dust on the coffee table. And he accepts every invitation from his buddies to go out for drinks, watch basketball at the bar, and plays a couple games too.

He stays up all night, on the evenings he's not getting stupid drunk, playing videogames -- the violent ones you cringe at. During the day, he walks around the place in just his boxers, sometimes not even that, and it's liberating. All a man needs is to be free to balls naked in their own kitchen.

"You're not missing her at all?" Shiu asks, smoke blowing in his face as they stand in the back alley, leaning against the wall of the bar.

Toji snorts. "What am I? Five years old? I can last a couple weeks without being sappy."

His friend gives him a look, half of amused, half disbelieving and a hundred percent smug. None of them miss the death grip he has on his phone, the way his knee is bouncing, and how he isn't even looking at the hot chicks that sway their asses as they walk by.

It’s been great. Really fucking great. 

You haven’t been texting much. Sure, you check in here and there, letting him know you’re alright, you’re safe, and makings sure he’s watered your plants. However, there are rarely any opportunities for phone calls longer than five minutes, no FaceTime either, and sometimes he goes to sleep without a ‘goodnight’ from you. 

It’s fine. 

At least, he can sleep at whatever time he wants without you whining about needing cuddles.

More days pass just like that. 

And now he’s rarely leaving the house, finding his drunk friends boring, obnoxious loud, and suddenly he's realised they’re kinda fucking stupid. He starts to get sick of all the steak and fried chicken and takeaway, and instead he’ll text you for the recipe of your lasagne or that smoothie you make him in the morning that’s always greener than the last. 

His feet tap on the floor when you don’t reply straight away. And when his phone lights up, he practically dives for it and grips it tight in his palm, screen threatening to crack, when it’s not from you. 

“God fucking dammit, Shiu. Don’t fucking talk to me if it’s not important.”

The movies he’s been dying to watch are pretty shit. There’s no depth, no proper pacing, and the dialogue’s cheesy as fuck. Usually, you’d throw popcorn at the screen and complain about all those things, but he finds that he has to mutter them to himself for white noise. Even smirks when he thinks he got it exactly right, guessing what you’d say. 

“She’d totally find that shit stupid. And that blood looks fake. It’s like they didn’t even try.”

Most of the phone calls on his history log are from him, more reds than greens. What the fuck have they got you doing over there anyways? 

When you do reply to his ‘g’night’ and ‘hey, sleep well?’, he’ll have a go at you for taking so damn long. It’s just fucking ridiculous that you’re clearly sleeping well when he has to hit the gym and tire himself out to even get an hour of shut eye. Sometimes, he can’t even get any and he just paces the length of the living room waiting for a notification from you to pop up. 

“Fucking come on! Y'r phone better be dead or something.”

Toji hates having dinner on the table; the seat opposite him is empty, the placemat bare and he feels a freaky fucking soreness in his chest. When that happens, he never finishes his dinner. Must be a symptom of early heart disease. Gotta talk to the doctors about that. 

Eventually, you find time to speak to him for an hour, recounting all the crazy things you’ve seen and had to do. He doesn’t interrupt, he just grunts here and there, not even really listening but he urges you to keep talking when there’s a pause, like you’re unsure if you’re talking too much. And when you try to turn the conversation on him, asking about his day, he gives one word answers and then throws you another question. 

“Yeah?” He grunts. “What else? Speak up, ma. Wanna hear ya. D’ya go to that shop? Yeah? Y’ buy anything? Send me a picture.”

The guys at work know better than to open their fat mouths around him when he turns up with an extra wrinkle and a ticking in his jaw. Toji is somehow even more sadistic and violent and eager for blood. Even finally accepts their invitation to go out for drinks and drowns himself in the extra strong shit. Assuming he just woke up on the wrong side of the bed, they don’t question his sour mood. 

But what they don’t know is that you texted to let him know you’re staying another week. 

Fucking texted. 

Didn’t even get to hear it from your own voice. 

He buries himself in more work and stays at the gym for even longer, pushing his body so far, his mind quiets down and he don’t gotta think about the fact that he’s started sleeping on your side of the bed, that the house is losing your scent, and that divot on the couch where you always sat has flattened out. 

The day comes, though, when you’re finally returning home. 

“Y’ sure? Not gonna flake again? Be fucking sure, ma. Alright, get back safe.”

Toji throws all the rubbish out, washes the dishes and dries them, double checks that the toilet seat is down, and he’s followed your recipe for beef stew to the letter — it’s cooking in the oven, and it looks fucking great. Even exfoliated in the shower like you’ve been asking him to, almost took off an entire layer of skin. He doesn’t want to admit he feels pretty fucking fresh. 

The door handle rattles. 

He sits up. And then stands. Walks over to the front door, arms crossing and then uncrossing. 

You’re here. 

“Hey, Toji—“

Your greeting is smothered in his chest as he threatens to suffocate you with the hardest bear hug in the whole world. And though he’d never hurt you, if you weren’t a sorcerer, you’d have been in big trouble. 

“Y’ hungry? Or y’ wanna shower first?”

His hands are all over you, lifting your chin to search your face for any scratches, even squishes your cheeks to be sure, and he’s patting you down for bruises or just to make sure all your limbs are intact. There’s a frown on his lips and it’s pretty darn cute. 

“Aw, Toji, baby. Did you miss me?”

“No.”

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, yeah, I know. You’re not a child, blah blah blah.”

Walking past him to take your shoes off, hang your coat and roll your suitcase to the side, you’re inhaling the air and moaning about the delicious food in the oven. Oh, God. You’ve been craving homemade food for so long now. You might actually die if you don’t eat. 

“Come here.” Your eyes dart to him, still standing by the doorway, fists clenching and unclenching. Toji looks furious. You look closer. No, he looks…embarrassed? “Said come here, ma.”

“Why?” You ask, head titling in curiosity and slight suspicion. 

He grunts. “What? I gotta spell it out for ya?”

Laughing, you tap your foot on the ground and retort back, “Yeah, you might because you need to have a good reason from keeping me from both a good shower and a warm meal.”

Toji rolls his eyes and stalks over to you, yanking you back to his chest so he can wrap his arms around you and keep you still. It’s much softer than before, but you feel the same sense of passion, something that verges on desperation.

It’s almost like…

No. 

It can’t be. 

Oh, but when you feel his face bury itself in your neck and you hear that long inhale, followed by a deep groan vibrating through his chest, you’re absolutely sure. 

Toji missed you. 

An overwhelming feeling of love fills you, so does a sense of victory, and you just hug him back, inhaling deeply too. He smells like home, like reluctant cuddles, pats on the ass, and early morning sex. You thought you’d have the most trouble in the two weeks, which turned into three, but as it turns out, he didn’t fare much better. 

Though he’d never admit it with his own mouth, his body betrays him.

Toji doesn’t let you get very far without a hand on you somehow, whether that’s a hand on your thigh as you eat dinner side by side, instead of across from each other, or you sitting on his lap as you watch the movie you want to watch. He even waits on the toilet lid as you shower, though that only lasts a couple minutes before he’s stripping and joining you. 

“Y’r not washing y’r hair right,” he tuts. 

Getting into bed is even worse because he’s practically lying on top of you the whole night, still sniffing your neck, and with his hands exploring your body. Not really in a sexual way, which is odd for him, but as if he just wants to feel you. He wants to feel your warmth, your softness, and reassure himself you’re home. 

Soon, he’s out cold and you mumble a goodnight against his forehead.

He wakes up feeling completely refreshed, like a newborn, stretching and grinning about getting ready with the day, and frowns when you’re still fast asleep. Part of him wants to make sure you’re getting your rest, but that part doesn’t win for very long and the much bigger part is shaking you awake.

“Come on, ma. Fucking bored here. Wake up, yeah? Let’s get some breakfast. Wanna talk to ya.” 

And when you do wake up, grumbling at how loud he’s being, he ignores the glares you’re giving and the swatting of his hands. Toji gives you a rare, wide, toothy smile and he says, 

“There’s my gorgeous girl. Good morning, baby.”

Yeah, this man totally missed you. 

nanami