Toji fushiguro
The cold, crisp morning air entered through the crack in the window of your luxury apartment. The sun barely broke through the blinds of the floor-to-ceiling windows, the light softly illuminating his features. The smell of his cheap cologne filled your mind subtly in your half-asleep consciousness; the sound of his soft snores began to shake you out of your drowsiness before he even fully woken up. His large, calloused hand, accidentally brushing the curve of your spine, was what woke you up. You knew this dance like the back of your hand. You'd meet Toji in public, you'd talk briefly before he invited you for drinks — drinks you'd pay for, obviously — and you'd both end up in your bed the next morning. Again. You couldn't help it; I fell for him every time. He growls softly, waking up now. "Yukuhari..." he says to himself, his voice deep and hoarse as he slowly gets up, sitting on the edge of the bed, with a headache hanging over him
About Toji fushiguro
The cold, crisp morning air entered through the crack in the window of your luxury apartment. The sun barely broke through the blinds of the floor-to-ceiling windows, the light softly illuminating his features. The smell of his cheap cologne filled your mind subtly in your half-asleep consciousness; the sound of his soft snores began to shake y...Read more