Pairing: Toji × Reader

The front door creaked open, the low groan of the hinges echoing into the stillness of the apartment as Toji stepped inside, the scent of sweat and smoke from the outside world trailing in behind him. He rolled his shoulders with a quiet grunt, the weight of the day sloughing off his tense frame as he expected the usual comfort—your presence, your voice, the warmth that came with you.

But the air was hollow. Too quiet.

No soft rustle of feet padding toward him, no hum of a song from the kitchen, no warmth of your arms wrapping around him like they always did—desperate, loving, foolishly loyal. The lights were dim. The air stale. The TV off. Couch untouched.

His thick brows drew together. The silence clawed at him like a warning. Something wasn’t right.

He kicked off his shoes with a thud and scanned the room. Not a single thing was out of place—exactly how he’d left it this morning. Too untouched. Too still. No half-empty glass by the sink, no scent of your perfume in the air. Just the suffocating emptiness.

Where the fuck are you?

His fingers twitched as he pulled out his phone, jaw tightening. He dialed your number, eyes flicking toward the hallway—as if you’d step out and laugh, teasing him for being so paranoid. One ring. Two. Then voicemail.

He stared at the screen.

Tried again.

Voicemail.

Again.

Still nothing.

A cold, tight coil of rage slithered around his gut. His thumb trembled—not with worry. With something far uglier. Possession. A bruising, frantic fury that pulsed beneath his skin like a second heartbeat.

His patience, already thin from a long, shitty day, was splintering.

He didn’t think. He just pressed a name. One of your friends. He’d never liked them much—especially the way they made you laugh too loudly or encouraged you to "stand up for yourself." He didn’t trust anyone who tried to pull you out of his grip.

The call connected. His voice came sharp, a low blade.

“Where is Y/N?”

There was a pause on the other end, a hitch of hesitation. That was all it took to make his blood boil hotter.

The reply came light, too casual. “Oh—she's with us! We’re just hanging out—”

That was it.

His grip crushed the phone in his palm. A sharp, ugly crack split through the room as the plastic shell fractured beneath his fingers. His chest rose and fell, muscles tense like a predator locked on its prey. His jaw clenched hard enough to pop.

Out. With friends. Laughing. While he worried. While he came home to nothing. While you ignored his calls.

Without telling him.

He didn’t even remember grabbing the keys or locking the door behind him. All he knew was the burn in his veins, the way the steering wheel creaked beneath the force of his grip as he sped through red lights, tires screeching like the storm in his head.

By the time he reached the street where he knew you were, his mind was a blur of white-hot rage.

And then—he saw you.

There. On a bench with your little group. Smiling. Laughing. So carefree. So happy. Without him.

It made his vision go dark.

He parked haphazardly, door slamming shut behind him, and stalked forward—heavy, slow steps like a shadow preparing to devour the light. Your friends didn’t notice him at first. You did.

Your face lit up the moment your eyes met his—pure, naïve joy. That sweet, tragic hope in your smile. As if this would be the moment. The time you could finally bridge the gap between your love and your friends. Maybe now they would like him. Maybe now he would soften, let them in, let you breathe.

“Hey, Toji—!” you began, already standing, brushing your skirt down with nervous fingers.

But he was already there.

And then—

Crack.

The sound tore through the air, unnatural and cruel. Your world tilted sideways as your head snapped with the force of the blow, the sky spinning above you for a breathless, horrible second.

Pain. Hot, shocking pain exploded across your cheekbone. Your knees buckled. The sharp tang of blood spread across your tongue, and you gasped, a soft, strangled noise caught between shock and betrayal.

Gasps rippled through the group. One of your friends stood up, hand halfway raised in protest, but no one dared move. Everyone stared at him.

At you.

Toji stood still, like a statue carved from rage. His knuckles reddened from the impact, the hand that struck you still hovering in the air. His eyes locked onto yours—not with guilt. Not even surprise.

Just cold, calculated control.

His voice was quiet when he finally spoke, but it was sharp enough to slice through your trembling heart.

“You left,” he said. “Without telling me.”

You opened your mouth, tried to form some kind of explanation, anything to soften the moment. But your lips trembled. Words wouldn’t come. Your mind screamed I’m sorry, I’m sorry even though somewhere deep inside, something else whispered this isn’t love.

But you couldn’t listen. Not yet.

Not when his hand lowered and he stepped closer, his body towering over you. Not when he tilted your chin up and wiped the blood from your lip with the same fingers that had just bruised you.

“Let’s go,” he murmured, tone suddenly soft. Gentle. Too gentle. As if he hadn’t just hit you in front of everyone you loved. “I missed you.”

And in that awful, hollow part of your chest that still believed in him, you nodded.

You always nodded.

—

The apartment door clicked shut behind you, sealing you back into the familiar silence. The kind of silence that used to feel like peace. Now it just pressed against your chest like heavy smoke.

Your face throbbed—each heartbeat pulsing against your swollen lip like a cruel reminder. The stinging ache followed you all the way to the couch, where Toji guided you down, hands oddly gentle now, like he hadn’t just struck you in front of everyone who cared about you.

He disappeared into the bathroom for a moment, and you sat still, hands clutched in your lap, legs trembling slightly as everything caught up to you in pieces. The laughter, the slap, the gasps. Your friends' stunned faces. The way you hadn’t said a word. The way you didn’t even cry.

You were still trying to make sense of it when he returned with the small first aid kit. He knelt in front of you, the soft zip of the pouch opening sounding far too calm for what it contained. His touch was warm—familiar, practiced—as he opened a small bottle of antiseptic and poured it gently onto a cotton pad.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured, voice low, coaxing. “C’mere, baby.”

You flinched at the sting when he dabbed at your split lip, but you didn’t pull away. You never did. His free hand came to rest on your thigh, thumb tracing small, soothing circles. As if to balance out the pain he had caused. As if that made it okay.

"You know why I did that, right?" he asked softly, his gaze locked on your lips, not your eyes. "Because I was so scared."

His words fell like stones into water, rippling through your already fragile heart.

“I came home and you weren’t there. No note, no call. Nothing,” he whispered, voice starting to tremble just enough to seem real. “And then you didn’t pick up. Not once. You know how that messes with my head, don’t you?”

You swallowed hard, throat tight.

“I thought something happened to you,” he went on, pressing the cloth more gently now. “I thought—fuck, I thought someone took you. Or worse."

His fingers stilled.

He leaned in closer, breath warm against your cheek. “Don’t make me do that again, okay? Please. I don’t want to hurt you.”

His fingers moved up, brushing your hair back gently, like you were fragile porcelain. “But I can’t control what happens when I get scared. You understand that… right?”

You nodded.

Of course you did.

Because deep down, you didn’t want to believe it was hatred that made him raise his hand. You wanted to believe it was love. Messy, possessive, overwhelming love—but love all the same.

He smiled faintly at your response, a flicker of something satisfied in his eyes. Then he leaned in and kissed your forehead, avoiding your lip.

“I love you,” he whispered. “You know that, right?”

You nodded again, slower this time.

“I... I love you too,” you murmured.

And he smiled.

And you smiled back—even as your lip ached beneath the bandage, even as your heart screamed for someone to save you from yourself.

Because this was love. At least, it had to be.

Right?

Pairing: Nanami × Reader

The streets were lifeless, stripped bare by the dead of night. The kind of stillness that felt wrong, like a breath held too long. Even the wind tiptoed over the cracked asphalt, its icy fingers clawing at exposed skin with cruel intent. Above, the flickering streetlights sputtered weakly against the thick darkness, throwing broken shadows across the city’s bones. The bridge ahead, old and forgotten, stretched like the back of some slumbering beast. Below it, the river whispered secrets only the dead could hear.

The city slept.

Silent. Unforgiving.

Your boots slapped against the pavement in frantic rhythm—fast, desperate. Each step was a prayer to escape, every breath a ragged gasp in the hollow between faint traffic and pounding heartbeats. The fear had sunk its claws in deep, dragging behind you like a phantom. No matter how far you ran, how many corners you turned, it was always there—that feeling. That he was already watching. Already waiting.

And then—

Headlights.

Too bright. Too sudden.

The beam tore through the darkness like a blade, freezing you mid-step. A sleek black car, all curves and menace, rolled up in front of you with unsettling grace. It stopped just before the bridge’s midpoint—your only escape, stolen. The engine hummed, deep and velvety, like something alive… something hungry.

You didn’t need to see the license plate.

You already knew.

The driver’s side door cracked open, achingly slow. Deliberate. Time itself seemed to stall, pulled into the gravity of his presence. And there he was—Kento Nanami.

Flawless. Untouchable.

Not a hair out of place, the sharp lines of his suit crisp against the shadows. He moved with purpose but no haste, stepping into the night like he owned it. Like it had been his all along. No fear. No fury. Just that infuriating calm… and a glint of amusement dancing behind his tired, golden eyes.

He leaned against the car, arms folding as he observed you—like you were nothing more than a misbehaving child. Or worse, a game. The smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth was slow, indulgent. Behind him, the bridge loomed, a cold wind sweeping across its steel frame. The water below churned in silence. But even that felt safer than the man in front of you.

He exhaled, mock-disappointed.

“Y/N… is this really a time for jogging? At eleven p.m.?” he asked, cocking his head. “Unless…” A pause. A grin sharper than glass. “You weren’t trying to leave me… right?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

“Geez,” he sighed again, shaking his head like a parent scolding a puppy. “What could’ve happened to a little thing like you?”

Then he paused. Studied you.

Eyes scanning every inch of your trembling form, drinking in your fear like it was a vintage wine he’d been saving for a special night. The smirk faded. Replaced by something quieter. Darker.

He took a step forward.

His voice slipped under your skin like silk dipped in poison:

“Tell me, sweetheart… where were you planning to go? Who were you planning to call?” He chuckled, low. “Oh—wait. You didn’t think that far ahead, did you?”

His hands disappeared into his coat pockets, shoulders relaxed, the casual air of someone in complete control. But you knew better. The threat was still there. Just beneath the surface—coiled. Ready to strike.

And then that laugh—soft and smooth, but without a shred of humor.

“Ah, whatever,” he murmured. “I know you weren’t trying to leave me… Because you love me too much. Right, sweetheart?”

You didn’t move. Couldn’t. The bridge was behind you, the road ahead blocked. All that was left was him.

“Tell you what,” he added, his tone suddenly bright, almost cheerful. “Let’s jog together tomorrow. You and me. That way I won’t have to chase you.”

The wind surged again, howling past, lifting strands of your hair like ghost fingers. But you stood frozen. His smile grew smaller, tighter. More certain.

He took one more step forward, voice dropping low, intimate, deadly.

“Come now. Let’s go home.”

No anger. No volume. Just… a command. Quiet. Absolute. One that left no room for argument. One that told you—clear as day—this was over.

There would be no escape.

Not tonight.

Not ever.