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𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐘 𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐓𝐋𝐄 𝐅𝐎𝐎𝐋: 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐓𝐖𝐎

ও rating. explicit

ও summary. his smile—almost too sharp to be nice—makes your chest do this silly thing when he says, “let’s play a game.” | wc. 2.7k+

cw/ tw. dark content. psychological manipulation, paranoia, extremely dubious consent, unprotected sex, rough sex, semi-public sex, violence (not towards the reader), praise kink, possessive behavior 

ও featuring. Stalker!Toji x Fem!Reader

ও an. when I tell you it took everything to pull  2k+ words out of thin air to finish this fic because I wanted the build-up to be right. this is part 2 of my entry for @bl4des ’don’t blink collab’ <33 please mind the tags and enjoy:) also thank you @kingdumkum for looking this over for me 🖤 | part 1 | part 2

When you wake up the next morning, it’s almost noon, and he’s already gone.

You’re unsure what you expected from a guy you’d just met, but then you sit up and notice a scrap of paper propped on the pillow beside yours. There’s a phone number above where ‘call me when you wake up’ is hastily scrawled. A small T beneath that.

You wrinkle your nose at how presumptuous it is for him to think you’ll give him what he wants, regardless if he asks nicely or not. Maybe he’s seen the cracks in your armor, got a glimpse at the terrible little anomaly inside that yearns. One couldn’t be blamed for being curious.

A few minutes later, while you wait for him to answer, you stare at the note and can’t help thinking of the letters tucked neatly away in your sock drawer. How the looping of the handwriting, messy and unique, almost looks familiar. 

They’re different, sure; Toji and the man in the letters. Where one is tangible, warm, and breathing, the other is just ink on paper. It’s the subtle similarities—the tattoos, that they speak plainly, only ever saying what they mean or nothing at all—that have the proverbial gears in your head turning the more you think about it. 

And then the thought crumbles when his voice (deep, graveled) comes through on the other end: “Didn’t think you’d call.” 

He says it like he had zero doubts that you would.

~~~~~

It’s been six days, and you finally cracked.

You google his name and find next to nothing. No social media accounts or a business website for someone who’s apparently rich enough to fund social events with a free bar—not that a first name gives you much to work with.

There’s little you can do other than wait for him to lay down his deck of cards.

It sits at the back of your mind that you don’t really know who he is, until it’s brushed away, like a willow in the wind, whenever he rests his hand on your knee while you sink into the soft leather seats of his car; his mouth at your ear in crowded clubs to tell you how he’s going to take you out of your dress, his cock pressing so generously (insistently) against that spot that makes your head feel fuzzy and stuffed full of cotton. 

And, if you’re being honest, it’s—pleasant. Having someone fill the lull in your life, to stretch the void thin with soft-spoken words underneath the security of a warm blanket or dates in rooftop restaurants that your greasy takeout dinners in paper cartons hardly hold a candle to. It’s a strange thing to be doted on.

You’re still trying to put the puzzle pieces into place between nights of city life on velvet lounges and the dewy mornings when he wakes you with his mouth, winding a dizzying path across the inside of your thighs until two thick fingers are pushed up to the knuckle in your cunt. 

You find it hard to put two thoughts together in those moments, mind blissfully blank, too drunk on lust and rough affection to remember what you were so insistent on figuring out.

Then, it all shifts: but it comes out looking wrong, the pieces not fitting as snugly as they should, edges crooked and distinct, like a product that doesn’t match the picture on the box. That’s what you think the first time Toji says something mildly concerning. 

It’s after he picks you up from work. Something he insists on doing from now on—I don’t like you taking the bus, too many creeps—and you didn’t really want to turn down a ride free of cramped seats and expensive bus fare.

You’re digging through your purse—a trendy handbag that appeared in a pretty wrapped box on your doorstep one morning—to find your chapstick when he asks, “What did he have to say?” 

“Who?”

“That guy you were walking with.”

Something about the rough edge in his voice, sharp and pointed like a blade that can easily tilt either way, makes you look up.

“Oh, um, he...” 

You’re abruptly hesitant, feeling wary about telling him, and you’re not quite sure why. It’s not as if Ren from IT meant anything by it when he ducked his head to say—Rich men are dicks; be careful—once he saw the shiny, sleek car parked in the back of the parking garage.

You debate lying to abate his curiosity, but Toji’s hand is a heavy weight on your thigh, and you tiptoe around the errant thought of being prey caught in a trap. 

“He just gave me some advice.”

“What kind of advice?”

“That a rich man can easily break my heart.”

Toji smiles crookedly at that, teeth glinting in the street lights. “Break your heart?” he echoes. “Don’t worry, your pretty, little head. I only hurt people who deserve it.”

His fingers dig into your thigh, and he looks over at you when he stops at a red light. The corners of his eyes tighten ever so slightly, just enough for you to be unsure if it actually happened.

“So don’t fuck up,” he tells you, grip going gentle again as he brushes his knuckles against your knee. “And I’ll do everything to keep you happy.”

Your mouth goes dry, throat constricting under the sudden flicker of fear from his thinly veiled threat, and you shake your head.

“Good girl.”

There’s a moment of illumination after that, like a smudge that’s been cleaned from a looking glass, letting you properly see through the blurriness.

And the more you look, the more you start to notice things that might have been a muted afterthought before but are now strikingly clear: how he always somehow knows where you are without asking—it’s intuition, baby. Someone needs to keep you out of trouble—that hollowness behind his eyes whenever he sees other men staring at you for a beat too long, unblinking and somewhat predatory.

Sometimes he’s a little mean when he fucks you afterward. Hand on your throat that makes you see white. His teeth flash sharp, nipping at whatever vulnerable piece of flesh he can get his mouth on, humming like a satisfied cat afterward when he kisses the marks he left behind. 

Tonight, his fingers dig into your cheeks until your lips form a pout, his face unreadable as he stares at you, eyes dark enough to swallow you whole. It makes your heart rattle against your ribs at how trapped you feel with him pressing you into the mattress, broad shoulders blotting out the world around you, and his cock rooted deep, leaving zero room for escape.

And when you make a soft nervous noise at the back of your throat, he smiles, cruel.

“What’s the matter, baby?”

‘Be nice’ is what you want to say, but it comes out a mumbled, unintelligible slur of consonants when his thumb brushes your mouth and slides between your lips. 

Toji mistakes it for something else, or you think he chooses to ignore what you’re trying to say altogether and fists a hand in your hair to wrench your head back so you’re forced to look at him. Angry for reasons you don’t understand.

“Maybe if I put a load in your belly, then everyone else wouldn’t be tempted to take what’s mine,” he snarls, lips dragging down your throat, teeth scraping where your pulse thrums. “I’ll give you a little baby. Keep you in my fucking house where you belong.”

You cum almost accidentally, body betraying you—strangled little noises as your body convulses, thighs tight around his hips, fingers clenching into the pillow where he has them trapped in one large fist—the words land like pebbles dropping into a smooth pond, rippling across your consciousness until you’re consumed by them. Then left a shaky, quivering mess in the aftermath.

To belong, it’s all you’ve ever wanted. Afterward, when Toji pulls you into his chest, arm a steel band around your waist, you wonder if he knows that too. 

~~~~~

On one of the monthly breakfasts with your father—one that he actually made it to without the burden of work or the demands of a new marriage—you push around a grape with your fork before telling him you’ve met someone.

Father shakes out his newspaper and turns the page. “Is he nice?”

A part of you knows it’s merely an automatic response (to show that a father cares about who his child involves herself with), but it feels like a loaded question.

There’s a brief moment where you have to think about it. How you haven’t had a meal alone in two months, and your closet is full of more gifts than you know what to do with. That you have someone who looks at you with a contrived sense of cherishment and a worrying amount of possession that scares you as much as it overwhelms you with how it fills that place inside you that always felt cut off from the world.

It’s so very broken, but has anyone ever been so devoted to you? 

You stare at your father and try to remember the last time he asked how your day’s been. If you’re taking care of yourself, or if you’ve made any friends in your new job. In the eyes of your father, who values wealth and success above all else, then yeah, you suppose Toji’s nice.

Even if a small part of you is slowly realizing that he’s not.

“He has a nice car.” It’s a non-answer because you don’t even know why you brought the topic up in the first place.

Maybe you were hoping your father would perk up with a shred of interest. Instead, he makes a noncommittal noise at the back of his throat—that’s good, sweetheart—and continues reading the morning paper.

~~~~~

“I just find it strange that you don’t talk to anyone,” Mai says at lunch, picking around the food in her take-out container. It’s hardly an accusation—more like an observation that she’s just now pointing out.

You suppose it is…strange. If you are on the outside looking in, to see a girl who eats lunch by herself at her desk and doesn’t so much as talk to anyone outside of happy hour on Fridays. And that’s if you get off on time. 

It’s never bothered you until that moment while staring at your sad-looking sandwich and apple slices, and with Mai eating at her desk for the first time in months, you’re feeling this niggling sense of pressure to somehow stand out, prove her wrong—

“Why don’t you go out with us?”

You blink. “Wh-what?”

“We’re going bar hopping this weekend. You should come.”

“Are you sure?”

Mai rolls her eyes. “How many times have I told you not to make this weird? We’re friends.”

Were you? That’s news to you.

~~~~~

You wear a little black dress and heels and take an Uber downtown. Mai introduces you to her friends and grabs your hand to flirt with a few guys at the bar. One of them even gives you his number—Gabe, Gage, Gavin? You can’t remember his name, just that he is nice enough to buy you something from the top shelf even after you tell him you have a boyfriend. 

And the entire time, you feel a prickling sensation at the back of your neck, like when you subconsciously know someone’s staring at you, but whenever you look over your shoulder, there’s nobody there.

That same feeling follows you the next morning: while you get ready, as you stop for coffee and walk through security into your office building.

You’re only brought out of your head when your boss calls you into his office. When you enter the room, a woman in a starch-pressed suit with a governmental badge pinned on her jacket greets you with a tilt of her mouth that almost resembles a smile.

“Good morning,” she says, then gestures to the empty seat across from her. “Please sit.” 

You slowly sink into the chair and nervously look between her and your boss. “Am I in trouble?”

Instead of answering, she pulls a glossy photo from a manilla folder and slides it across the table. It’s the guy from the bar—Gavin.

“Do you know this man? His name is Gavin Miller. One of his neighbors found him in his apartment lobby last night.” 

“Um, no,” you shake your head. “I mean, not really. We only had a few drinks together.”

Then she slides another photo across the table.

“How about him? His name is Toji Fushiguro.”

Your hand shakes as you take in the mugshot, feeling faint suddenly. T. Fushiguro, the man from the letters, the very one who hasn’t responded to your messages last night.

All at once, that final puzzle piece rights itself, and it settles all at once like shifting sands.

You feel like she’s talking too fast when she tells you that he was released from prison several months ago, that he was caught on security camera hanging around Gavin’s apartment, that he’s from an old money family notorious for crime and shady dealings. 

It’s all wrong. 

Doesn’t everyone know him? Didn’t they tell you how nice he is? If they do, then why did they—

“No,” you swallow the bile rushing up your throat—at lying and the guilt, for being so blindsided by what you were too stupid to see. “I’ve never seen him before.”

On numb legs, you walk home after your boss lets you off a few hours early, tightly gripping your purse strap, a little shaken from your day. 

From the corner of your eye, you see a shadow slip out from one of the alleyways, and when your eyes pull up, you find him standing there. His eyes are dark under the soft yellow light of the street lamp, a grin spreading across his face that is almost more like a baring of teeth. It makes him look feral. Wild. Inhuman.

Your lip trembles, but you straighten your shoulders. “You lied to me.”

“I’ve never lied to you about who I am. All you had to do was ask, and I would’ve told you.”

“You killed someone,” you mumble. “Why’d you do it?”

He answers like it’s the simplest question in the world, with the slightest hint of amusement behind his words that you could be so dense as to not know. Like isn’t guilty of murder. “I did it because of you. For you. Don’t you like that? That I’d kill someone for you.”

You shake your head, fear coiling around your stomach like a poised snake. “It’s sick,” you say, backing away.

His stare penetrates, watching your every move, then he takes a slow step toward you. “Let’s play a game.”

Toji barely gets the words out before you take off down the sidewalk.

“One…Two…”

His voice trails off the further you run away. You wind between the buildings, taking alleyways and dodging tipped bins. It takes two shaky attempts to punch in the code for your apartment building, and your anxiety reduces to a low simmer when you realize there’s no way he can get inside.

Your hand wraps around your door handle— 

—And a larger one wraps around yours.

“Caught you, baby,” he says, calm compared to the way you can’t seem to catch a proper breath. “Like destiny—right? No matter how far you run, I was always meant to find you. I'm gonna stick around for a very long time. Just you and me."

~~~~~~

Dear Fushiguro,

I wonder what it’d be like if we ever found each other. How do you think it’d happen? 

It’d probably be somewhere unconventional, like destiny. 

Love,

Ima R.