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TW: TOXIC!!!!!!!, nsfw, possessive behavior, sacrilegious/sacrilege, god kink, fingering, penetration, cheating, slapping, choking, biting, hair pulling, a little bit of blood is mentioned?, rough sex, bruises, degradation, dirty talk, brat behavior?, slight dacryphilia, Aizen might be obsessed with you, corruption, mating press, petnames used condescendingly
WC: 2.8k
notes: I haven’t written a full length fic in like several years, please be kind and excuse any mistakes in pacing 😭
He fucks his subordinates a lot.
It’s not like he tries very hard to safeguard that little secret - that he’s screwing most of the girls who follow him behind your back. In a way, you feel pity for them, because they don’t know that he still slinks back into the bed you share after each encounter with one of the little girls that he doesn’t even deem worthy of learning their names - but you’ve been the only “woman” in his life, as he puts it, since you first met him forever ago, back when you both were subordinates to Captain Hirako in squad five.
At first, you resented him for the fact that he was a serial cheater. But, to be fair, you had known fully well what you were getting into when you agreed to marry the man, back in the Soul Society. You knew him - the real him - even back then. Because once you had made the mistake of gaining his trust, there was no going back. He told you everything, never hiding a single detail of his master plan from you. By then, it was already too late for you to even consider leaving him - he’d kill you, you knew it - and nobody would believe you about your claims of his evil deeds anyways, because once he was promoted to Captain, nothing could touch him. He knew it, and so did you, so you let him corrupt you instead. It was an easier task than you’d like to admit.
So now, after growing too tired of his adultery, you decided that you’d even the playing field, but you took it further than he had. He’d sleep around with Arrancars that he considered nothing more than canon fodder, ones who weren’t impressive in the slightest, who could never really join his ranks - but who had a pretty face. But you? Well, you fucked Grimmjow. You fucked him a lot, actually. Any time Aizen pissed you off, or you caught him reeking of another girl’s perfume, you’d seek out the Espada and drag him off somewhere to take out your frustrations.
Needless to say, it infuriated your husband when you came to bed with bite marks on your shoulder and blooming bruises on your thighs and on your hips. He gripped your chin hard enough to hurt, the look in his eyes something you had seen countless times, though never directed at you before, cold and sinister. “Who?” He demanded through clenched teeth.
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” You had the nerve to snark back with a smirk. The hand on your chin had wrapped around your neck before you had a chance to register it, and he had you pinned to the bed, glaring at you with a fire in his beautiful golden eyes that would’ve surely put the fear of God in anybody else, but only stoked a very different kind of fire within you.
“Yes, my dear, I would in fact very much like to know who is sleeping with my wife.” He growled, low and menacing.
“Well, considering every other woman in Los Noches is sleeping with my husband, I’d consider us even. Wouldn’t you say that’s fair, my love?”
He smirks, a cruel and evil look that only serves to further excite you. “I’ve told you, darling, those aren’t women. They’re merely insects to me, little playthings. Nothing more. You, on the other hand, are quite the woman indeed..”
“If that’s the case then, sweetheart, I believe I’ll keep my little plaything as well.” Your coy smile enrages him, his grip on your neck tightens.
“Only one?”
“For now.”
“Tell me who it is.”
“One of your Espada.” The way you say it so proudly, the sweetness in your tone like a deceptively delicious venom. “I’ll let you guess which.” He doesn’t have to. He knows.
Setting his jaw, you catch the barely perceptible twitch of his right eye as he sneers. “Grimmjow..” His voice is a low growl, you know that you’re in danger, but you like it that way.
“Ohhh, look at that - we have a winner! You know, Sosuke my dear, it’s no fun if you guess right on the first—“ His hand collides with your cheek, leaving a stinging pain in its wake from the force of the slap. Turning to face him once more, you blink at him, your expression down right incredulous, as his is simmering with rage.
“You little whore..” His voice is a warning in itself, yet so very addictive. “Fucking someone like him? I had no idea my own wife was so pathetic.”
“How very rich of you to call me a whore. Do you forget your own sins so easily?” The venom in your voice is the sweetest of poisons, Aizen wishes he could drown in it. He’d give a reply about how he has every right to anything that he wants, as his God-like status demands of him, but at this point in his life, he cannot bring himself to place you below him in such a way. If he’s God, then you are the Goddess he defaults to; you rule beside him, but he would carry out your will with all of the power he possesses - he would destroy the entire world with himself in it if you wished him to. You don’t know that Aizen is truly capable of feeling love, but you once thought Sosuke was. You aren’t entirely sure if you are either at this point - but you do believe that you are as close as he could ever get. He hates it. So do you sometimes.
Instead of speaking, he crashes his lips against yours, hungry and possessive, like he’s trying to claim you all over again. He will remind you of your place - of who you belong to - the only way that he knows how, by absolutely ruining you. He’s more civilized than to rip your clothing off of you, instead he very slowly frees you from your confines, each touch as possessive as it is teasing, like he’s branding you with nothing but his bare hands. Unlike Grimmjow, Aizen knows your body like the back of his hand - knows exactly where to touch, and how to touch, to make you fall apart over, and over, and over again. First, on his fingers, the rough pads of such deft fingers curling into your core, he knows exactly where to hit to make you cry out, and he knows that he’s hit his mark when that telltale gasp leaves your lips - breathless and eager for more, like always, and he’ll give you exactly what you want. His thumb presses lightly to your clit, teasing the bundle of nerves with pinpointed circles, varying the pressure he applies so that you can’t quite get used to how he touches you, but the way that your body responds to each touch tells him that he’s doing a good job.
“Did he touch you like this? Tell me, darling, did his fingers feel better than mine?” The man above you asks, his voice low and daring. All you can do is shake your head, a soft “No, sir,” leaving your lips, and he rewards your answer with a sinister smirk and an increase in the ministrations that you’re sure will make you lose your mind before too much longer. But he won’t keep you waiting long, not tonight - no, in fact, he wants to set a new record for how many times he can make you come undone for him tonight, he will unravel you thread by thread until you’ve completely lost yourself in his silken sheets. Then, like an expert seamster, he will put you back together again, only to thoroughly destroy you once more. Once, twice, three times he sends you over the edge with his skilled hands, until the majority of his forearm is covered in the sweet nectar that he considers sacred. All the more reason he’s enraged that you would dare to give it to another, much less someone he considers to be so far below himself.
His stamina is parallel to none, and you can’t tell if that’s a blessing or a curse right now, as each girthy inch of his cock enters you so slowly that it nearly drives you mad, the smirk on his lips is sinister and smug, his eyes just a touch feral. “Tell me, my love, did he feel as good as me?”
You’d sass him if you didn’t fear for your safety if you pissed him off any further tonight. “No, sir - nobody could ever feel as good as y-you..” Your voice hitches as he bottoms out with a low growl at the way that your warm walls engulf him so nicely. He leans over you, with your legs wrapped snugly around his toned waist, his voice a low rumble in your ear. “You flatter me, dear.. Though, none of my playthings could ever hold a candle to you, either..” It makes you question why he has such an affinity for them, then. You don’t ask - can’t ask - as his hips begin to grind against yours, slowly at first, because he knows the way his trimmed hairs grinding against your already overly-sensitive clit, coupled with his cock buried deep inside of you, drives you absolutely insane. He relishes in the way you writhe beneath him, trapped under him so you cannot get away, not like you would try anyways. He doesn’t care, he won’t take the chance. He’ll keep that pace for only a little. His discipline is usually something that he takes great pride in, but right now he only cares about proving a point, and that becomes obvious as he pulls back until only the tip is left inside, and slams back in with a force that reminds you all too well that this man is, in fact, the most powerful being in this entire realm - perhaps even in all three realms. He sets a steady pace, fast and rough but easily sustainable for him, and his hand once again wraps around your throat, squeezing at the sides until your vision starts to blur, and all you can see is that evil, reverent look in his golden eyes as he sends you over the edge of bliss for a fourth time tonight. A dangerous growl reverberates in his chest from the way you try so very hard to cry out in ecstasy, but are only able to just barely squeak out his name instead.
“Such a good girl you are.. It’s easy to forget what a cheap whore you are as well,” He sneers, his pace becoming more ruthless, expression colder. “Running off and fucking one of my men? You dared to let that overgrown house cat leave such filthy marks on your perfect skin?” You’ve never heard him so angry before. It should not be this hot. His fingers find the bruises Grimmjow left behind, pressing into them harshly, glaring daggers at the bite mark left on your shoulder.
“I’m s-sorry..!” All you can do is gasp, his pace is too punishing to even consider taking a much needed deep breath of air, not with how he has your thighs pressed to your chest - he’s always had a preference for having you in a mating press.
An incredulous scoff leaves his lips, the look in his eyes growing progressively more feral as he speaks.
“You’re sorry?” He echos, laughing bitterly. “I’ll show you sorry - my precious, little, slut..” Each word is punctuated by a thrust, he slows his pace just enough for you to catch your breath, just for a minute, because he can’t have you passing out, not this time. No, you won’t learn if you pass out. Once you’ve had what he deems sufficient oxygen, he bends your thighs further back, your lower back lifting up with them, but he effortlessly holds you in place as if the weight is nothing to him (it’s not), his hips falling back into that brutal pace that’s sending you into orbit. Blunt nails dig into the flesh of your thighs, threatening to break the skin that the man above you had only just called perfect moments before - but if Grimmjow left marks on you, then it's only fitting that your husband leaves more, right?
“Sosuke, I—“ For a second time tonight, your voice is cut off by a slap across your face, this time slightly harder. He doesn’t want to actually hurt you, he’d never dare use any more strength than this on you - you’re still his most precious treasure, after all.
“You will speak only when spoken to.” He demands, one arm wrapped around your leg to keep it over his shoulder, meanwhile the hand that had just slapped you moves to grab a fistful of your hair, pulling a bit harder than he means to, glowering down at you. You’re close again, and he knows it, he knows every sign your body gives, no matter how subtle it may be. A cruel smirk once again graces his full lips. “As a matter of fact.. Apologize to me. And I expect you to do it properly this time.”
The brutal pace of his thrusts slows to allow you to speak, though these slower ones are no less intense.
“I-I’m sorry, my love, I—“ He yanks your hair once more, the smirk dropping from his face almost immediately, eyes narrowing with a warning that you dare not ignore. “Please forgive me, my lord.. I’ve sinned, I- I’ve done something terrible, and I’m so- so very sorry..!” The words tumble out of your lips, and for just a moment, you feel like a child apologizing to a priest in a confessional booth. This might be just as cramped as one of those small booths, just as suffocating - in both instances, you’re still hoping that your words might reach the contemplative ear of a God, only yours is the beautiful man above you, and he is far more vengeful. “I’m sorry, Lord Aizen, I’m sorry!” Your words rise in pitch as you approach yet another little death. The God-like man above you smirks once more, you can tell that he’s pleased.
“Pray for your forgiveness, and I may just look past your insolence.”
“Please grant me mercy, my lord.. I’m so very sorry, please— please forgive me for my sins..!” A rich groan leaves his lips as a tear runs down your cheek, his own release nearing from hearing your desperate prayers, from feeling the way that your walls threaten to squeeze the life out of him, because you love it just as much as he does. His hand leaves your hair, his touch is surprisingly gentle, almost tender, as he wipes away the tear from your cheek.
“You’re forgiven, my delightful little whore,” He practically purrs, his pace speeding up once more - although not nearly as punishing as it had been. “Now, cum for me. I want you to scream my name, make sure everyone hears you..” And you do. Oh God, you do - your hands finding purchase on his strong shoulders, nails digging in hard enough to worry the skin, but it only provokes Aizen to go even harder, only pushes him that much closer to his own release. Sounds of your desperate cries of his name echos off of the walls, and you’re certain others can hear, not that you can be bothered to care at this given moment. Aizen follows you over the edge soon after, a deep groan and a heated husk of your name leaving his lips as teeth find your neck, biting hard enough that he can taste a hint of your blood, but you don’t dare stop him, not when it feels this good.
Slowly, he stills on top of you, lets himself lean over you as he balances on his forearms, letting your legs carefully fall to your sides as his eyes take in your beautifully ruined expression. Once again, his hand comes to your cheek to brush away a few more tears that had fallen in your throes of pleasure. His eyes are softer now, his smile almost gentle, and for just the most fleeting of seconds, he looks like the man that you fell in love with again - he looks like your Sosuke. But you know that he’s not. He never really was. It doesn’t stop you from reaching up, your own trembling hand touching his cheek, thumb gingerly stroking over the peak of his cheekbone.
“You look especially beautiful like this, you know?” His voice is softer now, too. “Such a pretty little thing.. I didn’t hurt you too badly, did I?”
“No.. Not too badly..” You answer, still a good bit out of it. But that’s okay. He leans down, pressing his lips to your forehead.
“You did well, my love. Now, let me get you cleaned up.”
your palm slams against his chest, and his back hits the stone wall of the barracks with a dull thud. the corridors are empty, save for the hum of distant spiritual pressure and the faint clang of blades being cleaned outside.
aizen’s smile doesn’t falter.
not even as your reiatsu flares hot and furious around you.
“tsk,” he murmurs, brushing imaginary dust from his uniform. “you really should manage your temper better, lieutenant.”
you should slap him. you want to. you did, last time. and it only made him harder.
“i don’t need lectures from a lying bastard like you.”
his eyes flick over your body, slow and deliberate. no shame. no hesitation. his voice, when he speaks again, is cool silk over broken glass.
“and yet you keep crawling back to me. curious.”
you hate him.
you hate the way he talks. the way he looks at you.
like he’s already fucked you before you've touched him.
like he’s already won.
you lunge.
he catches you.
fingers lock around your wrists like shackles, dragging you against him with zero effort, mouth catching yours in a brutal, heated clash of teeth and tongue. it’s not a kiss—it’s war. his tongue pushes into your mouth like it owns it, swallowing your moan as his hands shove your haori off your shoulders.
you claw at the buttons of his uniform. he lets you, smirking against your lips when you rip it open, exposing that perfectly smooth chest beneath. you bite his bottom lip out of spite, just to feel him growl into your mouth.
he spins you without warning, shoving your chest against the stone wall, pressing his body tight to your back. you can feel the hard line of his cock grinding against your ass through his robes, thick and unapologetic.
“tell me how much you hate me,” he whispers against your ear, fingers already tugging at your waistband. “tell me you don’t want this.”
“fuck you,” you hiss.
“you will.”
and you do.
he shoves your panties down with practiced ease, hikes your uniform up, and sinks in deep with a groan that sounds like it’s been building for days. you gasp, forehead thudding against the wall, his cock stretching you open fast and rough, no time for prep, no patience—just need.
he fucks you like he's furious you exist.
like you’re an enemy he needs to conquer from the inside out.
each thrust slams your hips against the stone, his hands bruising your waist as he drives into you with cold, precise force.
you moan. loud. uncontrolled.
“that doesn’t sound like hate,” he pants.
“no—ah—”
his hand snakes around your throat. not choking. just holding. like a reminder.
“you’re tighter when you lie,” he growls against your neck. “maybe i should leave you leaking all the way back to your barracks. let the other captains see who ruined you.”
you clench—hard. against your will.
“there it is,” he breathes.
you cum with a cry and your hand slaps the wall, thighs shaking, cunt squeezing around him like your body is begging for every last inch. he grunts, hips jerking erratic as he chases it—your weakness, your surrender, the slick mess dripping down your thighs.
he cums inside. of course he does.
spilling deep, cock pulsing as his teeth graze your shoulder, marking you like you belong to him.
when he pulls out, it’s slow. intentional. his cum drips from your pussy onto your inner thighs as he straightens his robes, adjusting his hair like nothing happened.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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He never meant to leave you behind. That much, he convinced himself of. When Sōsuke Aizen turned his back on the Soul Society, when he abandoned all the familiar corridors and ancient rules of Seireitei, it was strategy. Power. Ascension. You were the only variable he didn’t account for—an ember he expected to extinguish with time, only to find it glowing brighter in the deepest recesses of his mind.
He thought of you often. Every day, in fact. At first, in idle passing, your voice when you scolded him for staying up too late, your eyes narrowing whenever he made a comment too smooth to be innocent. But soon, the recollections became consuming. Your laughter haunted the silence of Hueco Mundo. Your scent lingered in phantom moments. And at night, when solitude pressed upon his mind like a curse, Aizen would sit alone in his throne, eyes half-lidded, hand wrapped tightly around the painfully hard member sitting between his legs— breathless and murmuring your name like a sacred mantra.
He sent Ulquiorra to watch you. Of all the Espada, he trusted him to be emotionless, clinical. He didn’t want your life disturbed, only documented. What you wore. Who you smiled at. Who you visited. How often you laughed. And when the Fourth returned one day with a quiet, “there’s another man present,” Aizen didn’t blink. He didn’t speak. But the temperature in Las Noches plummeted, and the throne room fell into silence. His knuckles went white around the armrest. That night, he didn’t touch himself. He couldn’t. The thought of someone else having your smile, your time, your body, it was blasphemy.
So he sent Ulquiorra one last time. Not to watch. To seize. “Do not harm her,” he said, voice low and calm, but filled with a promise of torment should that order be disobeyed. And when you awakened, dazed in the sterile white void of Hueco Mundo, he stood waiting—still pristine, still polished—but something in his gaze was… fractured.
You didn’t run to him. You didn’t even speak. You just looked at him distain—like all the warmth you once held for him had rotted into something bitter. “You betrayed us,” you said, your voice steady. “You betrayed me.” That was your answer. And it destroyed him.
But Aizen didn’t falter, at least not fully. Not in front of the Espada, not in front of Gin and Tosen. He remained composed, commanding, ever the god ascending. But when it was just you… when the doors closed and you stood across the room refusing to flinch under his gaze… he shattered. Not visibly, not yet. “I think of you,” he whispered, walking closer. “I thought of you every day. I touched myself to the thought of you—every inch of you, every sound you make.” And then, impossibly, he sank to his knees before you, his emotions no longer an abstract concept. They spilled from him, heavy and undeniable.
“Lie if you must— say it, even if you hate me. Say you belong to me, say it was always me.”
Your silence was the cruelest cut. So he rose again, and this time, his voice turned velvet— dangerous and irresistible. “You will,” he said. “You will remember how it felt to be mine.”
He didn’t need Kyōka Suigetsu to manipulate you. No illusions. No lies. He would give you the truth instead. Every fevered thought, every unspoken craving—he would pour them into you. His lips would find yours with the precision of a man who’d memorized exactly what you craved, drinking in your breath like it belonged to him. His hands, used for control and conquest, now trembled as they traced the curves he worships. He would take his time, relearning your body like scripture, whispering your name against your skin as though it could summon the past. And when you trembled beneath him, when your voice cracked in that familiar way, he would take you—over and over—until your body surrendered underneath him, until it betrayed you, until it remembered the man your mind swore it forgot. He wouldn’t stop until your walls broke, moaning for him to consume you, until desire eclipsed reason and all that remained was the truth: you were always his.
Because Sōsuke Aizen does not yearn often. But when he does, it is absolute. And he only ever yearns for you.
Just a little more guilty pleasure until i finish the kissing game for my bleach boys <3
Another drawn scene from my fanfiction that I still have to upload ahaha— it should display lieutenant Aizen shift of expression the twitch of darker amusement but with the touch of his glasses readjusting his "kind hearted" mask :)
probably tomorrow I will upload the first chapter ~
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.
“Yeah,” he muttered. “That’s what I call good sex.”
𝓼𝔂𝓷𝓸𝓹𝓼𝓲𝓼 : no one wants to patch up the most violent fighter in the ring. toji fushiguro is obnoxious, brash, and refuses to let any medic lay their hands on him. that is, of course, until you come along - brand new head doctor assigned his unit.
boxer!toji x doctor!reader !
𝓪/𝓷 ~ a little idea that’s been brewing in my mind for a bit :)) boxertoji…i need him
part 2!!
no one wants toji fushiguro as their client.
you figure that out in your first ten minutes in the med centre behind the arena.
“he’s an asshole,” one of the older doctors tells you without looking up from his clipboard. his tone is flat and practiced, like this is a speech he’s given a dozen times before. “refuses treatment, mouths off. i had him for two weeks. longest anyone’s stayed with him.”
another doctor snorts from across the room. “the last guy was here for half a match. toji didn’t like his face and told him to fuck off before he even had a chance to look at his cuts.”
you gulp audibly, the sound embarrassingly loud. “oh.”
“just hope he doesn’t lose,” one of the nurses tell you, patting your shoulder. “we normally stay out of the way.”
right. good. great.
⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅∙
you first see him in person mid-match.
it’s brutal. there’s no other word to describe it.
(there’s also the fact that he’s ridiculously handsome. you’re quick to push that thought to the back of your head.)
toji fights like he’s trying to prove something. every punch lands harder than the last. fast. violent. the crowd eats it up, roaring, chanting his name.
but you notice it immediately.
the slight twitch in his movement. his right shoulder.
it’s off.
his opponent notices the falter in his step, the way he guards his right side suddenly, and suddenly it’s one bad hit, one wrong twist, and —
he’s down.
knocked out, and that marks the end of the round, and the ref blows his whistle after counting to ten.
your heart sinks. you look over to your associates frantically, but they’ve already dispersed, muttering to each other under their breath.
the doctor who was with toji for two weeks looks back and gives you a sympathetic wave.
just hope he doesn’t lose.
⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅∙
and backstage is even worse.
he’s sitting on a bench in the med centre when you find him, head tilted back against the wall, blood drying along his cheek, chest rising and falling slow and controlled.
his shoulder looks bad. swelling already, awkward-looking and purple.
you step forward after a moment of hesitation.
“sit up.”
toji cracks an eye open. looks at you. doesn’t say anything for a long moment.
“who the fuck are you?” his voice is rough, low. it drags across your nerves like gravel.
“i’m your new assigned doctor.” you introduce yourself with a polite smile, pulling up a chair across from him at the bench.
you hope he can’t see that you’re shaking. you’re very aware of how big he is. i mean, his bicep’s the size of my head. it’s hard not to be fucking terrified out of my—
“get someone else.”
you don’t move. you reach into your kit, pulling out gauze, antiseptic, tape. eyeing his shoulder.
“sit up, please,” you repeat, more calmly this time.
you look up into his eyes more properly. swirling, sharp, angry pools of deep green. measuring, lingering.
his lip twitches. “don’t touch me,” he mutters.
“well, you’ve got a busted shoulder and a cut brow, so i’m going to have to touch you.” you will your voice to stay even, your tone matter-of-fact.
he stares hard again. unblinking, eyes boring into yours with an intensity that makes your knees tremble.
you swear his gaze drops to your lips.
then something shifts. he exhales through his nose, tension bleeding out of his posture. he visibly relaxes, arms settling at his sides. his eyes close.
“fine,” he mumbles.
your eyes widen.
that’s it? this is the man everyone warned you about? the toji fushiguro that has tantrums and throws people out mid-treatment?
that’s it?
you don’t want to take it for granted, and you pull your chair closer to him, hands settling on his shoulder.
“does it hurt here?” your fingers press softly into the swollen skin and he winces.
he flinches, barely. “no,” he bites.
“you’re lying.” you hum, unimpressed, adjusting your grip slightly. a faint crease appears between his brows. “alright, toji, on three—”
“wait, wh—”
you move your hands quickly, a sharp shift rolling his shoulder back into place.
toji sucks in a breath, teeth clenching. “what the fuck—”
his hand snaps to your wrist, holding it tightly. your heart skips at the contact.
“you’re welcome.”
he stares at you, still holding your wrist, and his grip flexes slightly before he lets go.
you move to his face next, cleaning the cut above his brow. your fingers press cotton and antiseptic into the bloodied skin.
the strangest part is how he just…lets you. no snapping, no cussing you out.
you can feel toji watching you the whole time. a lidded, heavy gaze.
he lets you tilt his chin up, and your fingers brush against his skin, gentle but firm. you patch his forehead wordlessly, his brow, give him a cold patch for the bruise under his eye.
you smile softly, gathering your items. “there.”
he stays silent, tracking your movements as you put your equipment back in your kit. as you fiddle with your hair absently.
then, a grumble of : “i guess i’ll see you next match.”
you pause and look up, but he’s already standing, rolling his shoulder experimentally.
he walks out without another word, the door clicking shut behind him.
you stand there, stunned. your wrist still tingles where he grabbed you. your mind replays the moment. the way he looked at you.
you let out a slow breath.
is this the right toji?
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
the loss doesn't sit right in his head.
it detonates.
by the time toji steps off the mat the anger is already rotting through his system, sharp, hot and corrosive. he hates that he knows exactly where he went wrong. the misstep, that moment where his shoulder twinged with too strong a swing. he can replay it in his mind with perfect frame by frame clarity. that makes it worse.
just a mistake.
his mistake.
someone tries to talk to him as he pushes his way out of the ring. he doesn't register who it is. maybe someone from his PR crew. it's just a voice that annoys him deeply, saying the wrong thing at the wrong place at the wrong time. toji's patience snaps thin.
he shoves the guy hard enough to make a point, mutters something sharp under his breath that shuts up the people surrounding him quickly. someone else tries to calm him down and he yells, his left fist ending up in the wall instead of their face, a sharp crack splitting through the air.
skin tears across his knuckles, pain blooming fast and bright.
he then ends up in the med room. there’s nowhere else to put himself, and despite his consistent heavy refusal, toji knows that he has to undergo the mandatory medical checkup after every game.
he sits, head tipped back. his shoulder throbs, deep and wrong, but he ignores it the way he ignores everything else.
until the door opens, and he’s already irritated enough and he doesn’t want to deal with his doctor right now - he’s completely incompetent, wired, and too jumpy.
he’ll just piss toji off more than he already is.
when he looks up, his anger stutters for half a second.
you’re just standing there, calm in a way that settles in toji’s bones.
and, annoyingly pretty.
that thought hits first. sharp and immediate, cutting through all of toji’s simmering anger.
it irritates him.
he tells you to fuck off, to find someone else. he expects that to be the end of it.
but you don’t argue, or push. actually, you don’t really react..at all. you keep moving, setting up your equipment, and act like his refusal doesn’t matter.
it throws him off more than if you’d snapped back.
he watches you longer than he means to, waiting for something to give. for you to twitch, for the nerves to show, for your hands to shake.
nothing.
your hands are sure and precise, and when you pop his shoulder back into place with little warning, and everything snaps back into place, pain flaring high enough to drag a rough breath out of him, his hand catches your wrist on instinct.
you still don’t flinch, or pull away. you just look at him.
angel. she’s an angel.
you tilt his head softly, unbothered by the fact that he could snap at any second. you don’t rush, your steady hands carefully cleaning the blood off of his face.
for a few seconds, the noise in his head drops out. no replay of the loss, and no anger clawing at his ribs.
angel.
it sits in his gut, heavy, making his stomach twist.
and when you’re done, you step back quietly, your voice soft, your eyes soft, your hands soft, and toji doesn’t know what to do with the thought of that. that he’s been watching you like he hasn’t watched anyone in a long time, his eyes tracing over your form, the delicate features of your face.
he stands too fast, rolls his shoulders, jaw tight. he mutters something on the way out, barely registering the words himself, and he’s gone before you can respond.
pretty.
angel.
his mind lingers on it. on you.
and toji fushiguro hates that he can’t just punch it out of his system.
Cockwarming law professor! Higuruma while he's grading papers ☆
You straddled his lap, your skirt hiked up around your waist, panties long discarded on the floor. His thick cock was buried deep inside your pussy, stretching you full and unmoving, the heat of him pulsing against your walls as you fought to stay still.
Higuruma's dark eyes flicked between the essay in his hand and your flushed face, his large nose brushing your cheek as he adjusted his glasses with one hand.
"Quiet now," Higuruma murmured, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through his chest and into you. He shifted slightly, just enough to make your inner muscles clench around his length, drawing a soft gasp from your lips.
"These papers won't grade themselves, and you're not helping by squirming like that." His free hand rested on your hip, fingers digging in firmly to hold you in place, the calluses from endless hours of writing scraping your skin.
You bit your lip, nodding as you leaned forward, your breasts pressing against the crisp fabric of his button-up shirt. The fullness of him inside you was intoxicating—every subtle twitch sending sparks up your spine—but you knew better than to grind down. Not yet. "Sorry, Professor," you whispered, your breath hot against his neck. "It's just... you feel so good. So deep."
He hummed in acknowledgment, turning a page with deliberate slowness, the red pen in his grip scratching notes in the margins. But his cock throbbed inside you, betraying his focus, the tip nudging that sensitive spot that made your thighs tremble.
"Flattery won't get you extra credit," he replied dryly, though the corner of his mouth twitched upward. His hand slid up your back, tilting your head back gently, exposing your throat. He leaned in, lips grazing the pulse point there. "But if you can stay still for the next ten pages, maybe I'll reward you."
The promise hung in the air, thick as the arousal coating where your bodies joined. You clenched involuntarily around him again, your pussy fluttering as wetness trickled down his shaft, soaking his balls. Higuruma's breath hitched, his pen pausing mid-sentence. "Naughty," he chided, his voice dropping an octave. He set the paper aside momentarily, both hands now gripping your ass, spreading you wider on him without thrusting. The stretch burned sweetly, your clit brushing his pubic bone in a tease that had you whimpering.
"Please," you begged softly, rolling your hips just a fraction despite his warning. The friction was minimal, but it dragged his veined length along your walls, making your toes curl in your shoes. "I need to move. You're so hard—fuck, Professor, you're throbbing."
He captured your mouth in a bruising kiss, tongue sweeping in to silence your pleas, tasting the desperation on your lips. When he pulled back, his eyes were darker, pupils blown wide behind his glasses.
"Patience," he growled, picking up the next paper as if nothing had happened. But his hips bucked up once, sharp and controlled, burying himself to the hilt and making you cry out. Your nails dug into his shoulders, pussy spasming around him as the jolt of pleasure shot straight to your core.
For several agonizing minutes, he graded in silence, the only sounds the scratch of his pen and your ragged breaths.
You could feel every inch of him—hot, rigid, the ridge of his head pressing insistently against your cervix. Your arousal dripped steadily now, creating a slick mess between you, the scent of sex mingling with his cologne. Desperate for more, you nuzzled his jaw, murmuring, "How many left? I can't... I need you to fuck me."
Higuruma's pen stilled again, and he dropped the stack entirely this time, papers scattering across the desk. "Enough," he rasped, finally giving in. His hands clamped down on your hips, lifting you just to slam you back down, his cock spearing deep.
You moaned loudly, head falling back as he set a punishing rhythm, the chair creaking under the force. "You wanted this, didn't you? Sitting on my cock like a good little student, teasing me while I work."
"Yes—God, yes," you gasped, bouncing on him now, your pussy swallowing him greedily with each descent. His thrusts were precise, hitting that spot over and over, building the coil in your belly tighter. One hand snaked between you, thumb circling your clit in firm strokes that made your vision blur.
"Cum for me," he ordered, voice strained as his own release neared, cock swelling inside you. "Milk my dick—show me how much you needed it." The words pushed you over, your orgasm crashing through you in waves, walls clamping down rhythmically as you shuddered in his lap. Higuruma followed with a guttural groan, hips stuttering as he flooded your pussy with hot spurts of cum, filling you until it leaked out around him.
He held you there afterward, both of you panting, his softening cock still sheathed inside your pulsing heat. "Papers can wait," he murmured against your lips, stealing a lazy kiss. "You've earned a break."
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── · ˚ ୨୧ don't mind me i'm just thinking of being manhandled by gintoki.
he's so buff and strong that he's able to pick you up with one arm and just throw you over his shoulder like you weigh nothing at all to him. and he probably does it often if you're out and about for hours and he desperately wants to go home, he just wraps an arm under your ass and hoists you over his shoulder and heads straight home, grumbling about how he's been on his feet for too long and how he needs his sleep. you're baffled every time, protests stuck in your throat as you have no choice but to hold onto him tightly as he walks the two of you back home. it's a little sweet?... and very hot.
you really really like it when he just grabs you and positions you every which way he likes. if you're sitting down on the couch and taking up half of it because you're strewn across it, he will simply reach down and pick you before discarding you on his lap so he can watch a rerun of his favourite anime. if you happen to be in his way in the kitchen where he's cooking dinner, he throws his arms around your waist and sits you on the counter so you don't make a mess for poor old gin who's trying to feed everyone and he makes sure you sit pretty on the side for him and supply him with kisses whenever he's waiting for something to finish cooking or simmering.
and you love it when he folds you in half when he's fucking into you. gintoki loves alternativing between rough and quick thrusts, to slow and gentle rocking. he enjoys the way your face screws up and your mouth drops open, eyes rolling into the back of your head as you have to get used to one pace he sets when all of a sudden he switches it up on you and you've got no choice but to mewl and beg him to keep going. he's such a bitch as well, he loves it when you're begging and pleading with him and you swear there's a gleam in his eyes when he's being sadistic and it makes you insane. he loves grabbing your knees and pushing them so hard against your torso that they're forced to knock into your tits every time he pushes into you, the sheer intensity of it all and how you're so pliable in his hands almost has you cumming when he switches it up completely and makes you ride him. he knows you're tired, he's had you spread for hours and your legs are basically screaming at you to give up but he doesn't care, he wants to see you work for your climax so he's lifting you up and sitting you on his dick and waiting for you to rock against him otherwise you're not getting that orgasm you so desperately desire because he can in fact do this all day. and the thing is, you do start riding him, you don't have it in you to play his games when he's like this so with your hands on his shoulders, nails digging into his skin, you try to get yourself off despite the glaring ache in your thighs. you whine and moan over him and he just watches with a satisfied and cruel expression that has you gushing around him, coating him with even more of your juices because you can't help but find your man to be so sexy when he's being a jerk. at some point when you're pathetically whimpering into his throat, leaving bite marks which you know he would never bother covering, he places his large hands over your ass and lifts you just a bit, assisting you a little as he goads you on with his filthy mouth. when he finally decides you've debased yourself enough for him, he rests you on your back and begins his incessant hammering that's coaxing both of your orgasms out of you at such a quick rate, all you can do is wrap your arms and legs around him and take it like the slut that you are for your gintoki...
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