chimera ♱

⛧ 𝖌𝖆𝖗𝖉𝖊𝖓 𝖔𝖋 𝖈𝖍𝖎𝖒𝖊𝖗𝖆𝖘 ⛧

hey, i’m hella

reader ✶ writer ✶ fanfic enthusiast

i like:

⛧ books

⛧ videogames

⛧ art

⛧ writing stories that stay on my mind

currently into:

☾ sukuna

☾ toji

this blog is mostly:

— fanfics

— headcanons

— late night ideas

requests are open

co-authored w/ @foreversprin9 🖤

Disclaimer & Content Warnings

ATTENTION: This story is a dark psychological thriller/horror AU (Alternative Universe) and contains themes that some readers may find deeply disturbing.

Content Warnings:

• Graphic Violence & Gore: Detailed descriptions of murder, dismemberment, and disposal of bodies.

• Toxic Relationships: Features a highly manipulative, obsessive, and abusive dynamic.

• Drug Use: References to substance abuse and addiction.

• Mental Instability: Depictions of psychosis, sociopathic behavior, and psychological trauma.

• Major Character Death: Proceed with caution if you are sensitive to the death of canon characters.

Character Note (OOC):

Please be advised that Satoru Gojo is portrayed here as a dark, villainous, and highly OOC version of himself. This is a "Dark Gojo" interpretation and does not reflect his personality in the original Jujutsu Kaisen manga or anime.

Reader Discretion is Strongly Advised.

This is a work of pure fiction. The author does not condone or romanticize the actions, violence, or toxic behaviors depicted in this story.

redwood lookout

w// toji fushiguro [pt. 1]

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. It incorporates references to real-life historical events and figures (The Night Stalker) alongside fictional settings and characters. This story contains dark themes, including mentions of past violence and mass casualty incidents. Reader discretion is advised.

You wrinkled your nose the second you entered the greasy diner. The air was saturated with the smell of old oil, cheap fries, and sweat. Fluorescent lights flickered above you, their hum mixing with the soft rock music buzzing from the speakers.

In a secluded booth, you saw him—Toji, your best friend. He was nursing a beer and devouring fries one by one. With a huff, you slid onto the cracked leather seat across from him, stealing a fry before even offering a greeting.

“Smile, pretty girl. Aren't ya happy to see me?” he grinned, shoving the basket of fries out of your reach.

“Not really, Fushiguro. You only call me when ya throat-deep in some shit.”

He chuckled. “Nah, today I’m gonna save ya from your problems. Shiu found a great summer gig for us. We’re gonna take care of a forest in a national park. Y’know, like… yell at teenagers who litter, hand out camping permits, and other stuff.”

It definitely piqued your interest. “And what about the salary?”

“Not much, pretty girl. But your biggest profit is getting quality time with your best friend.” You opened your mouth to retort, but he cut you off. “Don’t even start. First of all, you’re not in a position to be picky about job opportunities. Second, it’s summer. California is packed with bastards cutting the throats of pretty lil’ things like ya. Why don’t ya just wait out the season somewhere far away—somewhere safe, with me?”

You stared at him for a long minute, weighing the pros and cons. For once in your life, you silently agreed with him. California wasn't exactly peaceful at the moment.

“Ya definitely don’t wanna meet the Night Stalker, right? But I know for sure he won’t reach you in Redwood.”

The knot in your stomach tightened at his words. “Fine, Fushiguro. You win. When are we going to this forest?”

His grin widened. “Now. But first…” He looked up at the waiter, who was waiting for Toji to gather his change. “Can ya gimme a buck? I think I only have fifty cents...”

You rolled your eyes, unimpressed. “Aha, and let me guess—ya don’t have money for gas either.”

“Exactly, pretty girl.”

Pine peaks were tickling the sky as you drove toward Redwood National Park. Toji was smoking a cigarette, as quiet as usual. You were focused on the road, but one thought was looping in your mind. Redwood. The name sounded too familiar.

“Toji,” you finally broke the silence. “Doesn’t ‘Redwood’ sound familiar to you?”

He chuckled. “Yeah, it’s one of the greatest American national parks. Congratulations, you actually paid attention in geography.”

“Ha-ha, very funny. But I bet it’d be even funnier when I kick you out of the car and let you reach that wonder of nature by bus,” you said with a roll of your eyes.

“Whoa, princess. Not in the mood for jokes today, are ya?”

Your comment made Toji fall even quieter than before. Apparently, some gears in his head had started to spin.

“Actually, you’re right. It is familiar,” he said, his tone shifting. “Does the name ‘Camp Redwood’ mean anything to you?”

That name sent chills down your spine. Camp Redwood. The notorious camp where dozens of children were brutally slaughtered in the middle of the night by some psycho who, according to rumor, was still wandering the deep woods. You swallowed hard, the knot in your stomach tightening until it felt like lead. Your sweaty palms slipped on the steering wheel, and the car drifted toward the oncoming lane.

Toji immediately lunged, grabbing the wheel and steadying the car. “Whoa, whoa, calm down! The bastard’s prolly dead already, rottin’ in some gutter. No need to fuss—I’m gonna be with ya. Just get a grip!”

You swallowed again, trying to push down the primal fear rising in your throat. “T-Toji, we’re going back to California.”

He scoffed with irritation. “Like hell we are! I already promised Shiu we’d be at Redwood tonight. Ya know what’ll happen if we chicken out?” You shook your head, slowly tightening your grip on the wheel as you tried to regain control. Toji continued his irritated hiss, “We’ll both have to pay a fucking penalty. Ya have the money for that shit? I doubt it!”

Inhale, exhale. He was right. You barely had a dollar to cover his fries at the diner; a penalty fee was out of the question. “Right, right… he’s dead in a gutter. Nothing to be afraid of, huh?” you mumbled, trying to convince yourself.

Toji finally released the wheel with a loud, relaxed exhale. “Right, princess. Nothing to be afraid of.”

However, the reassurance sounded thin. Deep in his chest, beneath that cocky outer shell, a small seed of fear was buried. Hell, the incident happened less than five years ago. Of course the psycho was still alive. Toji didn’t believe his own words for a second, but he knew it was smarter not to panic. One panicking mess in the car was enough; he’d keep a cool head and solve the problems as they came.

The headlights eventually illuminated the greeting sign for the national park. “Peace to all who enter Redwood,” the weathered wood read, flanked by drawings of smiling, laughing kids.

How ironic, you thought, slowing down as you approached the checkpoint.

You were “warmly” welcomed by an old security guard who looked more like the walking dead—loose, wrinkled skin, and eye bags deep enough to store potatoes in. His clothes were stained with God-knows-what, and he reeked of cheap booze, cigarettes, and that specific sour smell unique to unhygienic old men. He muttered something indistinct under his breath and extended a grimy hand.

“Passports and allowance.”

The car’s interior immediately filled with the miasma of his breath. Toji wrinkled his nose, reached into the inner pocket of his leather jacket, and handed you his documents to pass over. The old man’s greasy fingers brushed against yours, making you shiver and cringe with pure disgust. He lazily flicked through the passports, glancing from the photos to the two of you, grimacing when his eyes landed on Toji. He tossed the passports back at you and slapped the permit onto the windshield with a loud thud.

“Speed limit six miles per hour,” he grumbled before retreating into his cabin.

buckshot roulette | one-shot w/ toji fushiguro [+18]

co-written w/ @foreversprin9

DISCLAIMER: This work is for mature audiences only. It contains graphic descriptions of violence, psychological trauma, and heavy drug use. The authors does not condone or romanticize the actions of the characters. Reader discretion is strongly advised.

Content Warnings (CW): Substance abuse, toxic dynamics, explicit violence, non-consensual elements, and mental instability.

Another pill of ecstasy vanished down your throat as you pushed into the weathered guts of the club. Techno blazed from the speakers, a raw, mechanical pulse absorbing the sea of dancing bodies. They moved in one rhythm, a single, mindless organism. But you weren't here to drown your problems in acid.

Every footstep on the metal stairs echoed in your skull like a march to the guillotine. Technically, it was a death sentence. Your addiction had left you neck-deep in debt, and the collectors were done with your excuses. The last time they’d visited, the badly hidden steel under their jackets made it clear: their patience was gone. So, here you were, betting your life to wipe the slate. To survive, and maybe sniff a victorious line over the wreckage later. The rules were primal—two shotguns, two players. One walks out with a suitcase of cash. The second meets a pathetic end with buckshot through the brain.

The thick bathroom walls muffled the bass into a dull, vibrating roar. Graffiti crawled over the tiles, sinks were choked with grime, and occasional moans drifted from the stalls. You stared into the mirror, swallowing another pill. "Fuck, is it bunk again?" you hissed. The high wasn't hitting. Desperate and terrified, you popped another. You needed this shit to work. There was no way in hell you were playing Russian roulette sober. You leaned over the sink, fingers drumming nervously on the porcelain. "C'mon, don't be empty..." you whispered. "That’s my last one."

Your pocket buzzed. A single message from an unknown sender: "Enter." The pills still hadn't touched you, but there was no choice. It was the table or the collectors.

You kicked the steel door open. The dimly lit room smelled of stale smoke. In the center sat a round table, a shotgun, and a paper titled: ‘General Release of Liability’. "Sit down and sign," a low, gravelly voice commanded. As you finished, you looked up at your opponent—a man with dark hair and a jagged scar cutting through his lip.

"Name's Toji Fushiguro," he said, casually dropping a tab of LSD onto his tongue. "You want some? You look like you're about to snap."

You hesitated for a heartbeat. The dealer must have sold you duds. "Screw it. Give it here," you snapped, reaching out. Toji smirked. "I’m a lucky bastard. Figure I’ll treat you to the good shit before I put a bullet in that pretty little skull."

You swallowed the tab, a sharp, metallic aftertaste hitting the back of your throat. But as you looked back at him, the world tilted. The first pills weren't duds—they were just late. The cotton of your shirt suddenly felt like silk against your skin; your palms turned slick, and your breath came in ragged, shallow pants. The MDMA was surging just as the acid began to prickle at your vision.

"One live round, six blanks."

You racked the shotgun, the heavy ‘clack-clack’ vibrating through your teeth. You leveled it at Toji, but your hands were shaking, fingers slipping against the cold steel of the trigger as the room started to pulse.

"Dollface, just do it," Fushiguro teased. His voice echoed, bouncing off the walls in a rhythmic loop that made your head spin. You squeezed the trigger. Click. Blank. Your heart thundered against your ribs. Now, it was his turn.

"Lucky me," he muses lazily, already reaching for the shotgun. His calloused hands move with practiced ease, as if he’s done this a dozen times before. Toji adjusts his grip, leveling the weapon at you. There’s no hesitation, yet he waits a few seconds, watching your restless gaze and the slight trembling of your hands. Scared, or maybe just all the shit you've put into your mouth finally kicking in, he thinks, before pulling the trigger. A soft click follows, and the blank cartridge falls onto the table with the repetitive clang of metal on wood.

"Have your shot. Maybe this time fortune will smile on you."

You take the shotgun from him, trying to keep your eyes open, lips parting in an awkward attempt at a laugh. Shit, you better not overdose or something. A loud swallow fills the small, dim room. Your vision blurs for a second; shaky hands almost drop the gun, but you catch it just in time. Deep inhale, ragged exhale, as you focus your eyes on his face. And damn—is he smirking? Is he mocking you for how pathetic you look? Okay, pull yourself together. Collectors. You need the money. But the drop of sweat rolling down your forehead betrays your state. Your finger trembles on the trigger, eyes full of hesitation.

"Fuck, don't embarrass yourself. Just pull the damn trigger," the man groans, obvious annoyance creeping into his voice as a small frown cracks between his eyebrows.

"Yeah..." you slur. A second later—another blank. You already hate the trap you’ve put yourself in. Why is it so fucking hard to just catch the right bullet? Fortune be damned.

"Finally," Toji says, his voice sounding slightly more relaxed again. The LSD is probably starting to mess with his head, too.

He doesn't take long to pull the trigger. Blank. Your turn. Blank. His—blank again.

It’s as if you’re circling each other in a death dance. But the moment when only two rounds remain comes faster than you thought. One blank, one live. One will end a life tonight. And that 'someone' better not be you, right? Or does fate have other plans for your miserable existence? Who knows.

You already feel like you're in another world. Your head is spinning; your chest heaves as if you’re struggling to breathe—and honestly, you are. This shit hits too hard. Vision blurred, you can't even make out the features of his face—just a hazy mess in front of your heavy-lidded eyes. Shaky hands try to grip the gun but fail disgracefully, drawing a laugh of pure joy from Toji. The bastard.

Your ears can't process what he’s saying; the music from the club below suddenly pumps in your skull too loud, making you grimace. You pull the trigger.

Blank.

That’s when reality hits you in the face. That’s the exact moment you see the lopsided grin creeping onto his lips. Shit. You can’t die like this—not in a nightclub full of addicts, not in a room smelling of dampness and mold. Is this what you deserve? Maybe you valued your life a little higher than it was actually worth. Either way, your grip on the shotgun becomes painful as you take a step back from the table.

"Hey, that's not how it works, dear." His gruff voice feels like it's everywhere—in your ears, your head, inside your entire body. He doesn’t take a step toward you. Yet.

"No... no, I can't die like that. I—" You stutter, the floor floating under your feet. Another step back, pressing yourself against the wall. Chicken. Well, who wouldn’t be?

That’s when Toji moves. Anger fills his eyes as he stalks toward you. His own legs are failing him, but his steps are still firm compared to yours. He looms over you, blocking out the little light left in the room with his broad shoulders. His grip on your jaw is painful; your lips part in a pathetic whine, like a scared puppy. His breath is hot and uneven against your face, almost burning. A low, displeased growl forms in his throat.

Slap.

The next second, you’re on the floor, desperately reaching for the shotgun as it slips from your unreliable grip. Tears fill your eyes from the heat blooming on your cheek. You feel his boot pressing into your ribcage. Trapped.

He bends over to snatch the gun from the floor. Memories of your life flash before your eyes—you regret everything, wishing you could go back, stay in college, get a job, live a damn good life. You grip his ankle, but he doesn't budge an inch. The shotgun is pointed at your face, and there’s no escape.

"Just fucking die," he slurs, more to himself than to you. He staggers for a brief moment, shaking his head, trying to clear the LSD from his mind.

The last thing you hear clearly is the sound of the shot.

forever winter. part 1

teen!simon riley x fem!reader

angst

Swamp. That’s the one word that could describe your life. The more you resist, the deeper it drags you in. Thick, viscous dirt clings to your body, pulling you down, closer and closer to the bottom, suffocating you, stealing the air from your lungs. And with each passing day, that bottomless swamp devours you further. Deeper. And deeper.

Because of your father’s service in the army, you were forced to move every couple of months. Schools blurred together. Classrooms changed faster than you could adjust. At first, you tried to make friends. You really did. But it didn’t take long to realize how painfully it hurt to tear those connections apart every single time. So you stopped trying.

You became a shadow.

Towns, faces, voices, all twisted into an ugly, tangled knot in your head. Your classmates barely remembered you. Some thought you were mute. Others laughed quietly behind your back. You didn’t care. Or at least, you told yourself you didn’t. After all, there was always a high chance that the next day you’d already be somewhere else.

Manchester greeted you with snow.

The sun hid stubbornly behind thick layers of grey clouds. A sharp, piercing wind cut through your clothes, making you shiver. Frost clung to the bricks of shabby buildings that looked like they could collapse at any moment, like a house of cards. The neighborhood looked like something straight out of a horror game. It was almost impressive how your parents managed to end up in such a shitty financial situation, even with your father’s supposedly prestigious job.

Thoughts swirled in your head as you made your way to the new school. None of them had anything to do with school. You just wanted stability. To feel normal. To be like them.

And a cigarette. Maybe a couple.

The inability to become part of anything gnawed at you. You wanted to belong. But years of isolation had eaten away at your social skills. You were afraid to speak. Afraid to stand out. Silence and dissociation became your bulletproof armor.

At first, the mix of a shitty home life and constant loneliness created fear. But fear doesn’t stay pure forever.

It turned into hatred.

Irrational, ugly hatred toward people. Toward everyone.

“Why me and not them?”

That thought became a parasite, feeding on everything inside your head. No matter how hard you tried to get rid of it, it stayed. It dug its roots too deep. Ripping it out would mean tearing something vital with it, leaving behind nothing but a bleeding, open wound.

Every thought tasted bitter.

You walked to school on autopilot. Your fingers pulled a pack of cigarettes from your pocket. One slipped between your lips while you dug through your pockets for a lighter. Snowflakes soaked the paper.

“Shit…” you muttered under your breath.

“Inhale.”

You heard low male commanding voice.

You looked up and saw what felt like an immovable object. A big guy. Scars across his face. Muscles visible even under an oversized hoodie. He held out a lighter, his expression unreadable, and gestured slightly.

“Inhale.”

You did. A flicker of orange lit the tip of your cigarette.

He watched you for a moment. Then turned on his heel and started walking toward the school.

Wait. School?

He didn’t look like a student. Too tall. Too broad. His voice too deep, even for someone in year 13.

But the thought barely had time to settle.

The smoke hit your lungs, and suddenly nothing else mattered.

Just that familiar, bitter relief.

This time, you didn’t even bother to introduce yourself to the class. Your eyes moved lazily across unfamiliar faces, already knowing they would dissolve into the abyss of your memory soon enough. Why even try to remember those who would be gone in a matter of months? To you, the classroom was filled with disposable mannequins. You wouldn’t even notice if they were replaced overnight. Pathetic.

The day dragged itself forward in a blur. Teachers talked, their voices flattening into meaningless noise, syllables melting into each other until nothing remained but a dull, grating hum. The crowd only made it worse, every whisper, every scrape of a chair blending into a suffocating cacophony that clawed at your nerves. It reminded you of a fork dragged across a chalkboard, sharp and relentless, pressing into your skull and squeezing out whatever patience you had left.

You didn’t even register leaving the classroom.

One moment you were there, the next you stood in the bathroom, bubbles of soap clinging to your hands as you leaned against the sink. Your reflection stared back at you, distorted under the flickering fluorescent lights. They buzzed overhead, stuttering, filling the silence with that ugly electrical whine. Still, it was better. Better than the suffocating noise outside.

You inhaled slowly, exhaled just as carefully. Cold water ran from the tap, biting into your skin, soaking the cuffs of your sleeves. It grounded you, dulled the edge of everything else.

Then the door slammed open.

The fragile quiet shattered as a low, guttural growl cut through the air. Him. The guy who had lit your cigarette that morning.

He stumbled inside, unsteady, one hand pressed against his nose as blood seeped through his fingers. It didn’t stop, didn’t slow. It ran freely, dripping down his wrist, splattering against the already filthy tiles. Bruises stretched across his sharp jawline, dark and blooming. His knuckles were torn open, skin split and raw, crimson streaks trailing down his long fingers, slipping into every crack of the floor.

His throat released a string of rough, pained sounds, somewhere between a groan and a curse.

“It’s… uh… a girls—” you tried to warn him, but the words betrayed you, snagging in your throat the moment his eyes snapped toward you. Raw anger burned there.

“Fuck!” he spat, breath uneven, voice shaking with something feral. “Fuck! I—fuck!”

The words fell apart before they could form, swallowed by the mess in his head. His accent was thick, unmistakably Manchester, every syllable rough around the edges. He dragged a hand down his face, smearing blood further across his skin, muttering another string of curses under his breath.

Then, slowly, he sobered up from the trip of fury.

His gaze sharpened as he finally took in his surroundings, the cracked tiles, the dripping sink, and then you. Your frozen expression. The way your eyes flickered down to the growing red puddle at his feet.

He followed your gaze, jaw tightening.

When he looked back at you, something in his expression shifted, something colder, more deliberate.

“You’re gonna scream, aren’t ya?” he hissed with teeth clenched.

And just like that, everything changed. This was how you met him.

you forgot i was yours

hiromi!higuruma x fem!reader

+18

Raindrops tapped insistently against your umbrella as you waited outside, shoulders hunched slightly against the biting autumn wind. The cold slipped beneath your coat, sharp and unwelcome, while dampness clung to your clothes. You glanced at your watch, irritation simmering just beneath the surface. Higuruma was late. Again. Fifteen minutes late, to be exact—and lately, it had become a pattern rather than an exception.

Your relationship had grown distant in recent weeks, stretched thin by his endless hours at work. Hiromi seemed to prefer the company of courtrooms and case files over the warmth of your shared home. You barely saw him anymore—only fleeting moments in the mornings, half-awake and already distracted. Every attempt to confront him had ended the same way: a cold shoulder, clipped responses, and silence thick enough to choke on. The intimacy that once defined you both had withered away. Instead of you, Hiromi had been burying himself in legal battles. You missed him—his warmth, the way his hands used to linger on your skin, the lazy kisses he would press against your neck as if he had all the time in the world. Now, it felt less like a marriage and more like coexisting under the same roof.

At last, the familiar black Impala emerged through the rain. Relief mixed with irritation as you stepped forward, quickly opening the passenger door and slipping inside. The interior was warm, a stark contrast to the cold you carried with you. Hiromi leaned in, placing a brief, almost mechanical peck on your lips before returning his attention to the road. No smile. No apology. Just silence.

Your fingers fidgeted restlessly with the sleeve of your coat. “You’re late. Again,” you said flatly.

“I know,” he replied, his voice calm, almost detached. “I was busy. I had a complicated case—”

“Don’t even start,” you cut him off sharply, turning toward him. “Don’t start ranting about your work. You seem to have forgotten that you’re not just a lawyer—you’re a husband too. How long have you been neglecting me, huh?”

His grip on the steering wheel tightened, knuckles whitening slightly. “I’m not neglecting you. It’s just… a complicated period.”

You scoffed, the sound laced with frustration. “Right. A ‘complicated period.’ That’s why you made me wait again today. That’s why I only see you in the mornings. Fuck, that’s why we haven’t slept together in four weeks.”

That last line seemed to hit him harder than the rest. His focus faltered for a moment, and then—unexpectedly—he turned the wheel, changing direction.

“Yeah… you’re right,” he muttered.

You blinked, caught off guard as the familiar route home disappeared behind you. “Where are we going?”

He didn’t answer.

The city faded into blurred streaks of light as rain smeared across the windshield. Buildings gave way to trees, the landscape growing quieter, more secluded. Your mind began to piece it together. He wasn’t taking you home.

Hiromi glanced at the rearview mirror, catching your confused expression. “I want to make up for my absence,” he said at last, his voice lower now, more deliberate. “I remember you once mentioned how soft the backseats are…”

Your eyebrow lifted in silent question, but he didn’t elaborate further, his attention fixed on the road.

Ten minutes later, he pulled into an old, abandoned camping site. The place was deserted this time of year, swallowed by autumn and rain. The engine died, and silence filled the car—broken only by the steady drumming of raindrops.

Finally, he turned to face you.

Up close, you could see the exhaustion etched into his features, the heaviness in his gaze. He loosened his tie slightly, fingers tapping absently against the steering wheel in rhythm with the rain.

“You’re wearing new lipstick,” he noted, his tone softer now. “It suits you.”

His hand rose to cup your face, thumb brushing over your lower lip, smudging the color. “It’ll be ruined anyway, my love.”

His touch lingered, slow and deliberate, as he took in every detail—the way your hair framed your face, your half-lidded eyes, your parted lips. His thumb slid against your mouth, pressing gently until you opened for him. When you wrapped your lips around his finger and sucked it, his expression shifted—something darker, sharper.

“I love how you do that,” he murmured. “How you wrap your lips around me.”

He pushed his thumb deeper, watching you with quiet intensity before finally pulling it free and closing the distance between you.

The kiss started soft, almost hesitant—but the moment you responded, something snapped. His lips moved faster, hungrier, as if he’d been starving for this. His tongue slid into your mouth, messy, desperate. Teeth clashed, breaths mingled, and neither of you cared. His hands roamed your body with urgency, gripping, exploring, reclaiming what he had been missing.

When he finally pulled back, your lips swollen and breath unsteady, his voice dropped low. “Honey… can you be a good girl for me?”

You didn’t answer with words.

Instead, you leaned in, pressing kisses along his neck while your hands moved to his belt, unbuckling it quickly. Fabric shifted, and soon his pants and boxers were pushed down, exposing his already hard cock—thick, veiny, glistening with pre-cum.

You paused just long enough to take in the sight before leaning down, your tongue teasing the tip. A low groan escaped him as his hand tangled in your hair, guiding you forward.

Your lips parted, taking him in, your mouth moving slowly at first, then deeper, drawing soft curses and strained breaths from him. His grip tightened when your tongue pressed against him just right.

“Fuck… my good girl…”

But just as you began to pick up the pace, he pulled you back abruptly, breath uneven. “Not so fast,” he muttered. “I want to feel you… want your body around me… your walls tightening around me. I’ve missed this.”

He pulled you onto his lap, arms wrapping around your waist. “I was stupid… I’m sorry, love.”

His lips trailed along your jaw, down your neck, as his hands moved—one gripping your thigh, the other sliding beneath your skirt, squeezing the curve of your ass. He tugged your lace thong aside, fingers brushing over heated skin.

“Lift your hips.”

You obeyed, and he guided himself against you, dragging the tip through your soaked folds. Your head fell back at the contact.

“So responsive,” he murmured against your skin. “I can feel how much you’ve missed me.”

Then he pushed in.

The stretch, the fullness—it pulled a sharp arch from your body as you sank down onto him. You started to move slowly, riding him, your hips rising and falling as his hands anchored you in place. One hand remained firm on your ass, guiding your rhythm, while the other pushed your shirt and bra up, exposing your chest.

He leaned down, capturing your nipple between his lips, sucking gently before intensifying. The sensation, combined with the steady thrust of his cock inside you and his hand on your ass, made your thoughts blur. Your moans spilled freely, soft at first, then louder as your body responded to him. Man groaned against your chest, but didn’t stop sucking your nipple.

The car filled with heat, the windows fogging as the rhythm between you built. Your movements grew faster, more desperate, your bodies moving together in perfect sync. His thighs slamming against yours. His cock was already throbbing from overstimulation.

Hiromi groaned against your skin, his grip tightening as he felt you clench around him. “That’s it… I know you’re close…”

He picked up the pace, thrusting harder, deeper, each movement hitting exactly where it made your body tremble. Your nails dug into his shoulders, your voice breaking as you moaned his name.

That was enough to push him over.

With a sharp inhale, he drove into you harder, grinding against you as he came undone inside you, biting down lightly against your breast as his body tensed. A few final thrusts followed before both of you slowed, breaths ragged, bodies still pressed together.

Silence settled again, thick but no longer cold.

“Hope I made everything up,” he murmured, his voice rough.

roommate!toji x fem!reader

+18

The door behind you closed with a quiet thud. You looked excited—far too excited for someone whose neighbor had vanished for a week and then reappeared like nothing had happened. Normally, you would have chewed his ass out for a stunt like that. But today was different. Fushiguro had finally paid rent—not just his half, but yours as well.

That was exactly why you were holding a 7-Eleven bag that jingled softly with every step. With a wide grin, you made your way toward the couch where Toji was lounging.

“Woah, baby,” he drawled, eyeing you lazily. “I love seeing you grinning—and with tequila even more than your grumpy version.”

You chuckled, dropping onto the couch. “And what about my grumpy version with tequila?”

“Debatable,” he smirked. “Depends if I can turn that grimace into something a little more pleasant.”

Rolling your eyes dramatically, you pulled the tequila bottle from the bag and poured two shots. One turned into two. Two turned into… too many to count.

The conversation shifted quickly. What started as casual complaints about gas prices and shitty bosses melted into something spicier—complaints about lack of good sex, about how hard it was to find someone worth hooking up with. After two empty bottles, Toji started looking… less gross. The grease-stained sweatpants somehow added to his charm now. And there was no denying it—he was handsome.

You knew him too well, though. Well enough not to fall for whatever spell he carried.

But tequila had other plans.

While he was ranting about yet another failed fling, you caught yourself staring. First at his scarred lip. Then your gaze drifted lower—to his chest, the outline of muscle beneath his worn t-shirt, the way it stretched over his abs. He was… really fucking hot. Your eyes dropped further, catching on his hands—long fingers, rough, calloused. Your thoughts twisted instantly — I wonder how they’d feel inside me, you thought.

“I haven’t fucked well in a really, really long time.”

His voice snapped you out of it. You blinked, meeting his gaze with hazy eyes, a smirk creeping onto your lips.

“Yeah?” you asked. “And what’s your problem?”

“You know, babe,” he said, leaning closer, “I want someone with the same fire. The same passion under me. Not some pretty girl who just lies there.”

You nodded slowly, heat creeping up your neck. This wasn’t a topic you’d ever discussed before.

“Same problem with guys,” you admitted.

That was exactly what he needed to hear.

His smirk shifted—darker now, sharper. His fingers slid onto your inner thigh, slow and deliberate.

“You know…” he murmured, voice dropping, “we could help each other out.”

Your eyes widened, but he only chuckled.

“Don’t act so surprised. You think I haven’t noticed how you’ve been undressing me with your eyes all evening? You’re just as sex-deprived as I am.”

“Maybe,” you shot back, though your voice wavered slightly, “but that doesn’t mean I need to jump on your cock because of it.”

His grin widened, showing off sharp canines. His hand drifted higher, pressing against your pussy through your jeans—right where you were already throbbing.

“Oh? Is that so?” he teased. “You won’t be disappointed if I take my hand away?”

He started to pull back.

But before you could even think, your hand shot out, grabbing his wrist and pressing it firmly back between your legs.

His palm stilled. Then pressed harder.

“So you don’t want me to stop,” he murmured, voice thick. “You like it, huh? I can feel it.”

The pressure made your breath hitch.

“Good girl,” he whispered, moving closer, boxing you in against the couch. “Tell me, baby—do you want to feel me right here?” — his palm moves playfully against your pussy.

The combination of his voice, his hand, the heat pooling low in your stomach—it snapped something in you.

“Yeah…” you breathed. “I want you.”

That was all he needed.

His lips crashed into yours, messy and hungry. He bit down, then soothed the sting with his tongue, pushing deeper, tangling with yours until your head spun worse than the tequila. His hands slid under your shirt—one kneading your breast, the other fumbling for your bra clasp.

“I wanna take this off,” he muttered against your lips. “We don’t need it.”

You barely separated before he yanked your shirt off, fingers snapping your bra open. When the fabric was gone, he paused—just for a second—to look.

“Fuck…” he breathed. “You’re beautiful. And you’ve been hiding this under oversized clothes? Big mistake, doll.”

His mouth moved down your neck, leaving bites in its wake before trailing lower. When his lips wrapped around your nipple, you gasped, back arching instinctively. His hand worked the other, squeezing, teasing, driving you higher.

Meanwhile, your hands moved on their own. You reached down, palming his cock through sweatpants, squeezing just enough to draw a low groan from his throat.

“Fuck… do that again and I’ll lose it,” he warned.

Instead, you pushed further—untied his sweatpants, slipped your hand inside his boxers, and wrapped your fingers around his cock. Hard, hot, already throbbing.

You stroked him slowly, deliberately.

He groaned again, sharper this time, his body tensing under your touch.

“You’re worse than me,” you teased softly. “Look at you.”

“Shut up,” he snapped, breath uneven. “Or I’ll make you.”

He pulled away just long enough to shove his boxers and shirt off. You stared—really stared this time. His body was unreal. Every muscle defined, every line sharp. His cock stood heavy and veined, impossibly hard.

You reached for your purse, fingers fumbling for a condom— but he grabbed your wrists, pinning them above your head against the couch.

“I’m not using that shit,” he said bluntly. “I want to feel you.”

Before you could argue, he dragged the head of his cock through your soaked folds. The sensation made you gasp, your body reacting instantly.

“You like that?” he murmured, biting your neck. “You’re already dripping. You want me inside you that bad? Say it.”

He pushed in slightly, just enough to make you squirm.

“Yeah,” you breathed. “I want you.”

“Good girl.”

Then he slammed into you fully.

The stretch made your head fall back, a broken sound leaving your throat. He didn’t give you time to adjust—his pace built quickly, thrusts growing harder, deeper, faster. Each movement knocked the air from your lungs.

He grabbed your chin, forcing your gaze back to his.

“Look at me,” he growled. “Look at me while I fuck you. Be a good girl—show me how much you like it.”

Your eyes rolled—but not from attitude this time. From pleasure.

He hit that spot again. And again. And again.

Your nails dug into his back, dragging down his skin. He hissed, but it only seemed to push him further.

“Fuck… you take me so well,” he muttered against your ear. “My little slut.”

The word sent a shiver through you, your body tightening around him.

“Oh, you like that?” he smirked, voice rough. “You like being called that?”

His thrusts turned brutal, relentless. One hand dropped between your bodies, his thumb pressing hard against your clit, rubbing in tight, punishing circles.

Your moans broke apart, turning shaky, uncontrolled.

“I’m close,” he groaned, his rhythm faltering for just a second before picking up again, harder than before. “I wanna fill you up. Feel you from the inside. You gonna take it, huh? You gonna take everything, like a good slutty girl?”

Your walls clenched around him in response.

That was it.

He snapped.

With a low, guttural groan, he buried himself deep and came, teeth sinking into your shoulder as his hips kept moving, dragging out every last second. You felt the heat flood inside you, your body trembling beneath him.

He didn’t stop immediately—just a few more slow, dragging thrusts before collapsing beside you.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

His hair clung to his damp forehead, sweat glistening across his chest. Your lips were swollen, your skin marked with bites and bruises.

He looked over at you, then down at the mess he’d made of you, a satisfied smirk tugging at his lips.