🍒

he didn’t even look at you. not really. just grunted out a soft “hey” when you passed, voice low and rough like he hadn’t spoken to anyone in days, and disappeared into the dark crack of his doorway with a hand scrubbing at the back of his neck, muscles flexing under golden skin and black ink.

you’ve been down so fucking bad ever since.

toji fushiguro.

your across-the-hall neighbor. father of one. age: probably late thirties. height: unfair. attitude: uninterested.

the kind of man who walks around the building shirtless at night with a beer in hand, who leaves his door cracked open when he’s working out in the living room, who definitely has a “don’t talk to me” aura and the look of someone who’s been burned by love and never really recovered from it.

and of course, of course, that’s exactly your type.

(but in your defense, it’s not like this came out of nowhere. you’ve always had a thing for older men. it’s the deep voice, the scars, the rough hands and emotional unavailability. it’s the way they look at you like they’ve lived five lives and none of them ended well. also? your dad never called you back after your high school graduation. so. connect the dots.)

it wasn’t supposed to be like this. you were just supposed to move in.

fresh start. new city. small apartment, low rent, okay view. the listing said “quiet neighborhood” and you said “sure, whatever” because all you needed was a clean kitchen and decent lighting. you didn’t ask for a brooding, musclebound dilf living directly across the hall like some kind of cruel test of character.

but now?

you’ve memorized the exact time he leaves in the morning. you know which beer he drinks. you know the sound of his shower turning on. you’ve adjusted your hallway appearances to “casually hot girl next door” levels and tried every combination of crop top and pajama shorts known to man.

and the worst part?

he hasn’t made a single move. not one. no smirk. no side-eye. not even the classic “didn’t know girls like you lived around here” line. he’s just… normal. silent. borderline rude. polite only when necessary, otherwise acts like you barely exist.

you wave when you see him— he nods.

you held the elevator door once and he told you, “don’t worry about it,” like he was doing you a favor by taking the stairs.

you’ve walked past him in tight leggings, skimpy pajama shorts, cute little tank tops with no bra underneath, but still, nothing.

not even a flicker of interest. not even a glance.

at first, you thought maybe he wasn’t into it. maybe he had a secret wife. maybe he was— god forbid— celibate.

but then you caught him on the balcony one night. shirtless. sweaty. cigarette between his fingers, hair pushed back, staring off into the distance like he was thinking about his tragic backstory. and when you stepped out to water your plants, leaned just slightly over the railing in your tiniest shorts—

his eyes dropped.

slow. deliberate.

right to your thighs.

then back up to the skyline like nothing happened.

and that’s when you knew.

he’s not blind. he’s just resisting.

which brings you to now.

standing in front of his door like a fucking maniac, heart pounding like you’re about to ring the bell at the gates of horny hell, holding a suspiciously clean, never-before-touched envelope you pulled from the depths of your junk drawer ten minutes ago.

it’s addressed to his unit, obviously.

but it’s been in your apartment the entire time.

because you’re a liar.

and you’re going to get your neighbor’s attention if it kills you.

the door opens faster than you expect. no warning creak, no slow reveal— just a single click and then bam, it’s open, and there he is.

up close. full resolution. shirtless again. grey sweats again. taller than he looked in the hallway. and staring down at you like he’s trying to figure out whether you’re here to sell something or commit a crime.

his hair is messy— fresh out the shower messy, strands curling a little at the ends, pushed back and damp like he towel-dried and gave up halfway. a faint scratch trails down his collarbone. there’s a tattoo peeking from under his left pec. you are not okay.

“…yeah?” he asks, voice still that same low, unbothered gravel. like he was just in the middle of something. like you interrupted him.

you blink once. then twice. and hand him the envelope as if it’s some kind of peace offering.

“this was in my mailbox,” you say, a little too fast. “but it’s for your unit.”

he glances down. doesn’t take it yet. his brow furrows.

“…you live in 402, right?”

your heart drops. you manage a nod. “yeah.”

he looks back at the envelope, then back at you, and cocks his head a little. “this says 404.”

“right,” you nod again, smiling like a liar. “which is your unit.”

there’s a pause. a long one.

toji squints slightly, eyes narrowing like he’s trying to decide whether you’re stupid or suspicious. then— finally— he sighs, takes the envelope from your hand with two fingers, and mutters, “thanks.”

and then. then. a small voice behind him:

“who’s at the door?”

you peek past him instinctively—

and there he is. a kid. dark-haired, serious-looking, big eyes and bigger pout. tiny arms crossed over a cartoon t-shirt like he pays rent. he clocks you immediately, gaze traveling from your face to your outfit and back again, like he’s judging you in 4K.

toji looks over his shoulder. “just the neighbor. ‘gumi, go back inside.”

“you said we could watch something,” the kid says, very clearly not moving. very clearly invested.

“yeah, and i will,” toji sighs, the kind of sigh that sounds like he’s already used to negotiating with a tiny lawyer. “in a minute.”

you’re standing here braless, in a crop top and fluffy socks, trying to flirt with a dilf, and his child— his ten-year-old child— is right there in the background watching this all go down like it’s an episode of Love Is Blind: Divorce Court Edition.

you panic. you smile. you crouch slightly like a Girl Who Is Good With Kids™ and wave.

“hi! i’m your new neighbor.”

megumi blinks once. totally unimpressed. “i know.”

you die a little. “right.”

“you were singing in the stairwell yesterday,” he adds, like he’s filing a noise complaint.

toji exhales through his nose, clearly already tired. “alright,” he mutters, shifting his weight as if he’s trying to end this conversation with his entire body. “thanks for dropping this off.”

you panic again. you’re spiraling. this is not going to plan. you were supposed to be effortlessly hot, a little mysterious, maybe get invited in for a drink. instead you’re sweating through your tank top, getting stared down by a ten-year-old and dismissed like some door-to-door scam.

abort mission. regroup.

you nod, stepping back quickly. “no problem! anytime.”

he doesn’t respond. just closes the door halfway and disappears, voice fading as he calls back to megumi— “pick a movie that isn’t garbage this time” —before the door clicks shut behind him.

silence.

the hallway feels colder now.

you stand there for a second. maybe two. then turn on your heel and march straight back to your apartment, locking the door behind you with a little more force than necessary and collapsing onto your couch with a dramatic, miserable groan.

okay. so maybe the fake-mail delivery thing was a bust. maybe you didn’t make the strongest first impression. maybe megumi’s gonna go to school on monday and tell his friends he saw a thirsty neighbor try to seduce his dad and fail in real time.

but you’re not giving up!

because toji fushiguro isn’t oblivious. he looked. you know he looked.

he’s just being difficult. reserved. nonchalant. you love that shit. it’s practically a challenge.

which brings you to:

❥ STEP 2 — establish neighborly rapport (aka: force more interactions)

you’ve already had contact. now it’s time for consistency. eye contact. hallway banter. the illusion of familiarity. you’re gonna bump into him enough that he has no choice but to acknowledge your existence— and then? then you’ll break him down. slowly. methodically. emotionally.

you have a plan.

a little awkward start isn’t gonna stop you. not when he looks like that with wet hair and lazy sweatpants. not when his voice sounds like it could ruin your entire sense of self-worth with a single sentence.

step two starts tomorrow.

or tonight, depending on how bold you feel. your package is supposed to arrive soon— you could just happen to be outside when it gets delivered. or drop something near his door again. or, worst case scenario, start a small fire and see if he comes running.

you’re in too deep to turn back now.

besides— if megumi’s already seen you at your worst, there’s nowhere to go but up.

you start running into him a lot more.

not in a weird way. you’re not, like, stalking. you’re just… situationally strategic.

like this morning— how coincidentally, you happened to take your trash out the exact moment he left for a run. and when he walked past you in those same criminally low-hanging sweatpants, headphones in, shirt clinging to his chest like it wanted you dead? yeah. totally natural timing.

you smiled. waved. gave a little “morning!”

he gave you a nod and kept jogging.

progress.

and yesterday? you timed your laundry schedule to line up with his, based purely on auditory research (aka: eavesdropping through the vents), and when he came down to switch out his load, you were already bent over the dryer in your tiny shorts like a good little trap.

he walked in. saw you. paused.

you straightened up way too fast and bumped your elbow, trying to look breezy while hiding the way your heart rate doubled on sight. “oh- hey! laundry day?”

toji looked at you. then at the dryer. then back at you. “…yeah.”

another pause.

god, he’s so fucking impossible.

you gave him your brightest smile and added, “mine too! small world.”

“…we live in the same building,” he said, completely deadpan, before opening the washer and pulling out a fistful of dark clothes like you weren’t trying to orchestrate a meet-cute over tide pods. he moved with the exhausted efficiency of a man who hated small talk and suspected you might be trying to sell him essential oils.

you wanted to scream. you smiled instead.

“right,” you laughed. “duh. neighbors.”

he didn’t answer. just shoved his clothes into the dryer, grabbed his detergent, and left the room like it was a hostage negotiation and you were the threat. didn’t even look back. but you saw it.

the twitch in his jaw when you bent over again. the extra second of eye contact before he left. the little crack in his silence when you giggled at your own joke and his mouth twitched— barely, but it did. you’re starting to learn his tells.

like tonight— when you caught him coming back from the grocery store, arms full of bags, and offered to hold the elevator door open for him again.

“you don’t have to,” he said, almost automatically.

but this time you didn’t let him off so easily.

you flashed a cheeky smile, cocked your head to the side, and replied, “well i want to. unless you wanna take the stairs and pretend you’re not tired.”

that got you a look. brief. amused. his lips pressed into something that wasn’t quite a smirk, but not nothing either.

he stepped in and stood beside you, towering and silent and pretending he wasn’t eyeing your legs in the reflective elevator wall. you leaned against the side and grinned to yourself like a lunatic.

“what floor?” you asked, already knowing the answer. playing dumb. living your sitcom fantasy.

“…same as yours,” he muttered, setting the bags down for a second. “you know that.”

you beamed. “just making conversation.”

he sighed. quiet. tired. maybe even a little fond, but you couldn’t tell.

and then, just as the doors opened, a sleepy voice echoed from down the hall— “dad?”

toji blinked. glanced up.

megumi stood outside their apartment in socks and Spider-Man pajamas, squinting at the two of you like he was already judging this moment for future therapy sessions.

“you took forever,” he said. “i thought you died.”

“well i didn’t,” toji grunted, picking up the bags again. “get inside.”

you waved. again. because apparently, this is your life now. it’s not enough to get embarrassed in front of your crush— his preteen son also has to witness your descent into neighborhood whore madness.

megumi stared. then looked at his dad. then back at you.

“…hi.”

victory.

you’re three days into operation ‘establish rapport’ and you swear it’s working. slowly. he’s still playing it cool— gruff, quiet, annoyingly unaffected— but you’re catching those little cracks. the way he looks at you when he thinks you’re not paying attention. the tiny pauses before he responds. the way his eyes always drop to your mouth when you smile too wide. the way he takes just a little too long to look away.

he’s slipping.

and you’re gonna be right there to catch him.

❥ STEP 3 — engineered domestic proximity (create a situation where he owes you and then emotionally blackmail him with kindness!)

it starts with a fake injury.

not like, hospital fake. just a little casual suffering. something light and flirty and “damn she might be unwell” coded.

you pick a thursday. the hallway’s quiet. you hear his door open— the soft clink of keys, the slow creak of the hinge— and then you strike.

toji turns the corner just in time to see you slumped against your apartment door, barefoot, hair a mess, hoodie slipping off your shoulder, clutching your ankle like a romcom extra who’s about to fall in love with the first man who offers her an ice pack. you even let out a pitiful little “ugh,” as though gravity personally attacked you.

he stops. eyes narrow.

“…what the hell happened to you?”

you wince, voice trembling perfectly as you look up at him with wide eyes and say, “i tripped on the stairs.”

technically true. you did, in fact, trip. you just made sure it was today. and loud enough for him to hear.

“you didn’t even leave your apartment,” he deadpans, looking absolutely done.

“…gravity’s everywhere.”

he sighs like you’re the world’s most annoying problem. runs a hand over his face. and then crouches down.

you try not to short-circuit.

his hand wraps around your ankle— casually, confidently, like he’s done this a hundred times before, and his thumb brushes over your skin, rough and warm and way too distracting. he presses, checks the joint, and you flinch very dramatically.

he doesn’t react. “it’s not broken.”

you pout. “still hurts.”

toji gives you a long, tired look. then rolls his eyes, muttering something under his breath, probably something that sounds suspiciously like “fucking drama queen,” but reaches out anyway. big hands slide under your legs and back, and suddenly you’re being lifted. literally carried.

you make a noise that is not normal.

“jesus,” he grunts, shifting you in his arms. “what the hell do you eat?”

“excuse me??”

“relax,” he says, toeing open your apartment door. “you’re light.”

you are going to die here.

he carries you across the threshold like a goddamn bride and sets you down gently on the couch, muttering something about “needy neighbors” as he tosses your throw blanket over your lap. then pauses. stares at you for a second too long. his brows draw together like he’s thinking something he shouldn’t be.

“…don’t move,” he says finally. “i’ll get an ice pack.”

he disappears into your kitchen— uninvited, completely aware of where your freezer is— and you clutch the blanket to your chest like it’s holy protection from your own bad decisions and whisper:

“oh my god.”

step three is officially a success.

after that, things shift.

slow. subtle. like the hallway air is warmer now. like he doesn’t avoid you anymore.

the next time you make too much pasta (on purpose), you knock on his door and offer leftovers. “just in case,” you say with a smile. he raises an eyebrow, gives you a long look, but takes the container anyway.

“it’s good,” he mutters a few days later, passing you in the hall.

you blink. “what?”

“the pasta. wasn’t bad.”

you nearly trip over your own shoes.

when you run into him carrying groceries, you casually ask if he needs anything next time you go. he grunts something about paper towels. the next day, you drop off a pack at his door with a sticky note that says ‘paper-towel princess strikes again >:)’ and you swear you hear him laugh. just once. low. barely there.

and megumi? megumi is your new little buddy.

you “accidentally” bump into them on the stairs one weekend and ask him about school— next thing you know, you’re helping him with a science project at your dining table, glitter on your shirt and glue in your hair, and he actually smiles at you when it lights up. his eyes go wide. he looks proud. you melt.

toji shows up to get him an hour later.

he stops in the doorway, arms crossed. eyes flick between you and megumi on the couch, surrounded by worksheets and snacks and a movie playing softly in the background.

“…you don’t have to babysit, y’know.”

you glance up, then nudge megumi with your shoulder. “he’s cool. we’re having fun.”

toji stares. unreadable. his jaw works like he’s chewing on something he won’t say. and then he nods. once. slow.

“…yeah. he’s good.”

he leaves with megumi five minutes later, and you spend the rest of the night curled into your couch like a girl who just got emotionally married in the hallway.

a few days pass.

and then— he knocks on your door.

you open it and nearly fall over, because he’s standing there in a black t-shirt, holding a plastic container full of something that smells like soy sauce and heaven. his hair’s messy. his jaw’s tight. he doesn’t look like he wants to be here. but he is.

“we made too much,” he says. pauses. adds, almost begrudgingly, “me and ‘gumi.”

your brain goes static.

you accept it like it’s a holy relic. your hand brushes his. it’s fine. you’re normal.

“thank you,” you breathe, like it’s something sacred.

you eat together on the steps between your units that night. plastic forks. beer for him, water bottle for you. megumi’s inside watching something with way too much volume. the hallway buzzes with soft domestic noise.

he chuckles— an actual, real chuckle— when you tell him about your failed ankle stunt getting you out of gym class in high school. it sounds like it surprises him. like it doesn’t happen often. you want to bottle the sound and save it for winter.

and then, as you’re wiping sauce from the corner of your mouth, he gives you this long, unreadable look. his eyes flick to your mouth. linger.

“you’re trouble, aren’t you?”

you almost pass out.

“yeah,” you say, smiling slow. “but i’m cute about it.”

he laughs again. soft. huffed. the kind that makes your stomach flutter in the worst/best way.

note to self: a chuckle = an emotional orgasm in dilf language.

❥ STEP 4 — desperate times, horny measures (blur the line between “friendly neighbor” and “would let you hit raw if you asked nicely”)

you’ve played the long game. you’ve laid the groundwork. you’ve smiled, cooked, lingered in doorways and memorized his hallway habits. you helped his child with a diorama. you have earned your place in this man’s orbit. and now, you’re upping the ante.

tight tank tops with no bra? daily.

asking if he needs help lifting shit? always.

bending down in front of him for no reason whatsoever? the moment requires it.

you’ve “accidentally” dropped your keys outside his door. twice.

you’ve complimented his cologne when he wasn’t wearing any.

you’ve said the phrase “you must’ve been crazy hot in your twenties” with a completely straight face and full eye contact— just to watch his eyebrow twitch like he was deciding whether to argue or kiss you.

and toji?

toji has looked.

slow. restrained. but it’s there.

the way his gaze drops and lingers. the way his hand flexes when you laugh too hard. the way he sometimes says your name like it annoys him to have it on his tongue, like he’s chewing on it instead of swallowing. you’re getting to him. you know you are.

especially tonight.

it’s late. you’re bored. your hair looks good and your shorts are criminal. and you know he’s home because you heard the clink of a beer bottle hit his counter through your shared wall. so naturally, you text him:

you up?

no response…

you try again:

i’m making cookies and need a taste tester. u down?

there’s a pause. long enough to make you regret it. then finally:

don’t burn your kitchen down.

which— okay. rude. but also? not a no.

you show up at his door with a plate of warm cookies and the dumbest smile imaginable, leaning against the doorframe like a horny little housewife in denial, praying your lip gloss doesn’t smudge when you inevitably start smiling too hard.

the door swings open. and there he is.

shirtless, because of course. low sweatpants, towel around his neck, hair still damp. a vein in his bicep flexing like it’s personally here to ruin you. he raises an eyebrow when he sees you.

“you actually baked something?”

you pout. “don’t sound so shocked.”

he huffs. not quite a laugh. steps aside and lets you in. silent permission. another small victory.

you sit on the couch, drop the plate between you. he takes a cookie. you take a risk.

“so…” you say, crossing your legs slowly, letting your voice dip soft and sweet. “what do i get if they’re good?”

toji chews. swallows. side-eyes you. “…you want a prize for not poisoning me?”

you tilt your head, smile like trouble. lean a little closer, so your thigh brushes his.

“i want something,” you murmur.

he watches you. unreadable.

your heart’s racing. your leg’s touching his. the tension is so thick it could suffocate a small village. he’s quiet. too quiet. and for a second— a single, traitorous second— you believe. believe he’s going to touch you. say something filthy. kiss you.

and then— he stands up.

you freeze.

no.

he walks to the door.

absolutely not.

he opens it.

“go home, sweetheart.”

you blink. “…what?”

he doesn’t look at you. doesn’t even flinch.

“you’ve had your fun,” he mutters, voice low. final. “time to go.”

the plate of cookies is still on the table. your lip gloss is still perfect. and this man— this walking thirst trap of a dilf— just opened the door and told you to leave as if you were an inconvenience.

you stand there for five full seconds. staring at the wood grain like it personally wronged you. your mouth opens. closes. no words come out.

no explanation. no thank you. not even a cookie to-go.

you take the hint.

you walk home— five steps that feel like a funeral march— let yourself back into your apartment with hands that won’t stop shaking, and close the door behind you like it might collapse if you don’t hold it up. then you crawl into bed, pull the blanket over your head, and try very, very hard not to cry over a man who never asked you to try this hard in the first place.

❥ STEP 5 — let him come to you (the part of the spiral where you stop trying, and he starts breaking)

you’ve stopped trying.

no more cookies. no fake run-ins or conveniently timed errands. you’re done bending over near his door like some desperate domestic goddess waiting to be claimed. no more lingering glances, no flirty texts, no smiles he could possibly mistake for an invitation

you go cold. polite. distant.

“hey,” he mutters in the hallway one morning, voice a little rough from sleep.

“morning,” you reply. clipped. unreadable. no smile.

you don’t linger. don’t wait for anything in return. you catch him glancing over when you pass, but you don’t look back. just keep walking like you’ve got better things to do than pine for a man who slams doors in your face.

when megumi finds you on the stairs the following weekend and asks if you want to help with another project, you smile softly, press a hand to the top of his head, and say, “not this week, bud. busy.” he frowns a little. you ruffle his hair, and walk away without looking up.

you start going out more.

wearing new outfits. dresses you hadn’t felt bold enough to wear before. lip gloss that makes your mouth look mean. you let strangers hold the door for you. let them compliment you. you let them linger.

you laugh too loud outside your apartment one night, on purpose, after coming back from a date with someone who isn’t him. your heels click against the floor. your voice drips with honey. you lean against your door while someone says something into your ear and you throw your head back like it’s the funniest thing you’ve ever heard.

you know he’s listening.

you feel his eyes on you like a bruise forming slow.

and then the shift begins.

it’s subtle, at first.

he starts speaking more.

“mornin’,” he grunts one day, voice thicker now. rougher.

you nod, toss him a quiet “hey.”

“new dress?” he says one night when you pass in the hallway.

you glance down at it, fingers brushing your hip. nod again. “yeah.”

he stares a second too long.

you keep walking.

the next week, he holds the elevator for you. for the first time.

you step inside without looking at him, lean against the mirrored wall, arms crossed. he stands beside you, silent for a second too long.

“…got plans tonight?” he asks.

you glance at him. his hand’s on the railing. his eyes are on your legs. the heat between you is palpable.

“maybe,” you shrug. “why? you wanna know if i’m free?”

he doesn’t answer. just scoffs. looks away.

but his jaw tightens. you see it.

and you smile to yourself when the elevator dings.

you don’t stop. you don’t wait.

and then— one night. late.

a knock at your door.

you weren’t expecting it. you’re in your tank top and sleep shorts, hair still a little messy, face clean of makeup. for a second you debate not opening it at all.

but then you do.

he’s there.

black t-shirt. low voice. tension rolling off him like heat. his eyes sweep over you once— bare legs, bare face, bare everything— and settle on your mouth.

you open your lips to say something but nothing comes out. for a second, he doesn’t speak. just stares. like he’s trying to remember why this was a bad idea.

“you done with your little game?” he asks finally, voice rough, jaw set.

you blink. tilt your head. heart stuttering.

“why?” you say. “you jealous?”

he exhales slow. like he’s holding something in. then steps forward, just once. close enough that his chest nearly brushes yours. the hallway hums with silence. you can feel it thickening between you—every breath, every second, every inch of space closing.

he looks down at you, jaw clenched. his eyes are darker than you’ve ever seen them. his gaze drops to your mouth. lingers.

“you think i haven’t thought about fucking you since the first day you moved in?”

jackpot.

you smile. slow. wicked.

“well,” you murmur, stepping back just enough to tug him inside, “what are you waiting for?”

❥ STEP 5.1 — fuck the dilf. repeatedly!! (aka: daddy finally breaks, and so does your spine)

the door isn’t even fully closed before he’s got you pinned against it, one hand slamming it shut behind you while the other grips your jaw hard enough to tilt your head back. his mouth crashes into yours— hot, hungry, furious— like he’s trying to erase every other man who’s ever looked at you, every laugh you gave someone else, every second you weren’t his.

his hands are everywhere. gripping your waist, your throat, your jaw. rough. greedy. like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you through sheer force, like he doesn’t trust himself to stop once he starts. his fingers dig into your skin hard enough to leave marks, dragging you closer, forcing your body flush against his so you can feel him— hard, heavy, pressing insistently between you.

“this what you wanted, sweetheart?” he growls, dragging his mouth down your neck, teeth scraping just enough to make you shiver. “walkin’ around like that every damn day- no bra, tiny little shorts, always smilin’ at me like a fuckin’ tease—”

you gasp when he shoves his thigh between yours, grinding hard, forcing your hips to rock against him. your pussy’s already soaked— soaked enough that the friction makes your head spin, a broken little whimper slipping out before you can stop it. he feels it. of course he does.

“fuck,” he mutters, voice dropping lower, eyes darkening as he watches your face fall apart. “already wet. knew it. knew you were walkin’ around like that for me.”

“you shouldn’t be here,” you breathe, even as your hands clutch at his shirt, dragging him closer, nails digging into his back like you’re scared he’ll disappear and you’d rather die than have him pull away now.

“don’t fuckin’ care,” he snarls, cupping your pussy through your panties, pressing just enough to make your knees buckle. his thumb drags over you, feeling how drenched you are through the thin fabric. “been thinkin’ about this cunt for weeks.”

you moan— full body, spine-arching, dignity-leaving moan— as he yanks your panties to the side and sinks two fingers into you without hesitation. nothing stops him. your body takes him easily, molded for him, as though his hands belong there and they’ve always known exactly where to go.

you’re so wet it’s obscene. it squelches. it gives around him immediately, your walls fluttering, clenching like they recognize him, like they’ve been waiting.

“shit,” he hisses, pumping his fingers slow just to feel it, watching the way your face twists. “tight little thing. messy already. all that attitude just ‘cause you needed a cock in you, huh?”

you nod, crying out, grinding against his palm like a bitch in heat, chasing the friction, chasing him, hips moving on instinct, your body no longer yours to command.

he slaps your cunt. hard. you jerk, a broken sob ripping out of you.

“use your words.”

“yes, fuck, yes, i wanted this, wanted you, please- needed you so bad- been thinking about you too—”

“yeah?” he mocks, curling his fingers just right, hitting that spot that makes your vision blur, your knees give out. “needed daddy’s cock that bad? all that work just to get it, huh?”

he pulls his fingers out and licks them clean, making eye contact while his tongue drags over his knuckles— savoring you, devouring every trace with the hunger of a man who’s finally getting what he’s craved.

you feel your face burn. your thighs tremble. your body aches.

“needy lil thing,” he mutters. “so desperate for daddy’s cock you made friends with my kid to get it.”

your mouth drops open.

“fuck,” you whisper, humiliated, horny, heart beating out of your chest. “i-i didn’t—”

“yeah, you did,” he cuts you off, voice low and certain, already tugging his sweats down. “i saw right through you. every little look. everytime you bent over in front of me like you were askin’ for it.”

his cock springs free— massive, thick, veiny, heavy against your stomach, already leaking. it twitches when he drags it through your folds, smearing your wetness all over himself, groaning under his breath at the feeling.

“watchin’ me, droppin shit in the hallway, showin’ up all cute with cookies—” he continues, voice roughening. “all so i’d fuck you like this.”

he grabs your hips. lifts you like it’s easy.

you wrap your legs around him on instinct, clinging, desperate, your ankles locking behind his back.

he slams you against the wall and shoves in deep.

you scream.

it burns for half a second— then it’s just full. overwhelming. he stretches you open, every inch fitting so perfectly it feels intentional, inevitable— your body made to take him, built around the shape of him alone.

“this what you wanted?” he growls, already moving, already setting a brutal pace, hips snapping hard into yours. “wanted daddy to stuff this sloppy little cunt so full you can’t think?”

you’re crying already. sobbing into his shoulder, nails clawing at him, dragging down his back hard enough to leave lines. “yesyes- oh my god- yes please- don’t stop, don’t stop—”

he doesn’t. he can’t.

he fucks you hard. no mercy. no build-up. just punishing, deep, filthy strokes that slam into you over and over, your tits bouncing with every thrust, your body jostling against the wall, the wet sound of it echoing in the room— proof of how wrecked you are for him.

“listen to that,” he grunts, one hand coming down to grab your ass, spreading you open, forcing himself even deeper. “fuckin’ soaked. takin’ me so easy.”

“toji—”

“nah,” he snaps, grabbing your jaw again, forcing you to look at him, eyes blown wide, mouth open, completely ruined. “say it right.”

“daddy—” you choke.

his hips stutter for half a second. then he loses it.

“yeah,” he groans, fucking into you harder, deeper, pace turning reckless. “that’s it. say it again.”

“daddy, fuck, daddy please- please don’t stop—”

“good girl,” he breathes, voice wrecked now, forehead pressing against yours. “knew you’d sound pretty sayin’ it.”

he keeps going until your legs shake so hard you can’t hold yourself up, until your body goes limp in his arms, until you’re nothing but weight and noise and need. then he drags you away from the wall, carries you like you weigh nothing, and drops you onto the couch.

your shirt’s gone in seconds. your tits spill free, bouncing when he grabs them, squeezing hard, biting one, then the other, tongue dragging over the marks he leaves, teeth sinking in just enough to make you cry out.

you whine, arching into him, completely gone, hips lifting even though you can barely move.

“look at you,” he mutters, almost to himself. “fuckin’ ruined already.”

he spits on your chest. spreads it with his thumb. then shoves you back, spreading your legs open, staring at your dripping cunt like it’s dinner, like he could spend hours there.

“not done with you yet,” he mutters.

then he dives in.

he eats you out starving— insatiable, greedy, nothing held back. hasn’t touched anyone in years, and now he’s buried in you, treating your pussy like a lifeline. his tongue moves everywhere— flicking, sucking, pushing deep, groaning into the mess he’s making, matching your desperation, needing this with the same feverish hunger you do.

“taste so fuckin’ good,” he mumbles against you, nose brushing your clit, making you jerk violently. “all for me, huh? all this just for me?”

you’re shaking. crying. your hands in his hair, grinding down onto his face, desperate, greedy, nasty.

“yes- fuck- yes—”

he hums, pleased, and the vibration sends you over immediately.

you cum once. then twice. he doesn’t stop. he eats you through it, moaning into your pussy while you scream and sob and claw at the cushions like a feral bitch, your thighs clamping around his head, back arching off the couch.

“too much, too much—”

“nah,” he mutters, holding you down, hands gripping your thighs so hard they’ll bruise. “you can take it.”

and you do. you take it until your body gives out and you’re nothing but a twitching, whimpering mess under him, tears streaking your face, chest heaving.

when he finally pulls back, his face is soaked. his chin’s messy. his pupils are blown so wide he looks dangerous.

he strokes his cock over your twitching cunt, dragging it through your folds, tapping your clit just to make you jolt, smearing your wetness back over you.

“you want daddy to put a baby in you next?” he growls.

your brain breaks. completely.

you whimper, nodding frantically, tears still clinging to your lashes. “yes please”

he grins. dark. cocky. dangerous.

“fuckin’ knew it.”

and then he slams back in and fucks you like he means it— like he’s trying to knock you up, ruin you, break you down and rebuild you around his dick. your body takes it, greedily, desperately, your walls clenching around him like you don’t want to let him go, like you want to keep him there.

“gonna fill you up,” he groans, thrusts getting sloppy now, deeper somehow, grinding into you. “gonna keep you full of me.”

you’re sobbing. babbling. “pleasepleaseplease—”

he finishes deep. thick. hot. doesn’t pull out. just buries himself as far as he can go and groans into your neck, hips stuttering while you feel it— feel him— filling you, spilling inside you, too much, too warm, your body fluttering around him.

he stays there. holds you. keeps you plugged with his cock while your body trembles and leaks around him.

you’re drooling. whimpering. completely, utterly spent.

“good girl,” he murmurs, kissing your cheek, softer now but still possessive. “took me so well.”

his hand slides down your stomach. presses there. like he’s already imagining it.

“you’re mine now.”

you barely come back to yourself before he’s moving again.

you’re still shaking. still sensitive. your cunt is pulsing, aching and full and leaking around him, your thighs sticky, your body limp and boneless against the couch. every nerve feels raw, like your skin’s been turned inside out.

and he’s still inside you.

still hard.

you let out a weak, broken sound when he shifts his hips, cock dragging inside you— slow, deliberate— he’s reminding you exactly where he is.

“toji—” you whimper, voice wrecked, barely there.

his hand tightens on your hip immediately.

“what’d i tell you?” he mutters, low and sharp.

you choke on a breath. “d-daddy—”

“yeah,” he exhales, satisfied, rolling his hips again, slower this time, savoring it. “that’s better.”

you feel everything now. every inch. every drag. the way he stretches you again even though you’re already so fucked out it hurts. your walls flutter around him uncontrollably, oversensitive, and he groans at it— deep, filthy.

“fuck,” he hisses. “still squeezin’ me like that? after all that?”

“too much,” you whimper, pushing weakly at his chest, even as your hips betray you, rocking up into him. “i can’t—”

“you can,” he cuts you off, already pulling out halfway just to slam back in. you sob.

“you will.”

your body jerks with it, your tits bouncing weakly with each thrust, your hands scrambling for something to hold onto. everything feels too intense— too deep, too full, too good.

“s-sensitive—” you gasp, nails digging into his arms.

“i know,” he mutters, almost mean about it, dragging his cock against that spot again on purpose. “that’s the point.”

you cry out, back arching hard, your whole body trembling as he starts fucking you again— slower than before, but somehow worse. deeper. more intentional. every thrust aimed to make you feel it, to drag it out of you.

“so fucked out already,” he murmurs, grabbing your chin and forcing your head up so you have to meet his eyes. “can’t even think anymore, huh?”

you shake your head, tears slipping down your temples. “no—”

“all that attitude gone,” he continues, voice low, almost mocking, thumb brushing your lip. “all that mouth, and now you’re just- what?”

you swallow, breath hitching. “yours—”

his grip tightens.

“say it again.”

“yours,” you sob, louder this time. “i’m yours—”

“yeah you are,” he groans, pace picking up just a little, just enough to make your head spin again. “fuckin’ made for me, aren’t you? takin’ me like this, still beggin’ for more—”

“i’m not—” you try, voice breaking, but your hips roll into him again, chasing it, proving him right.

he laughs. low. mean.

“yeah,” he breathes. “that’s what i thought.”

his hand slides down between your bodies, fingers finding your clit— already swollen, oversensitive, aching.

you jolt hard.

“nono, please- s’too much—”

he circles it anyway.

slow.

you squeal.

your body spasms instantly, thighs clamping around him, back arching so hard it almost hurts. it hits you out of nowhere— another orgasm ripping through you before you can even process it, your cunt clenching down on him so tight he curses.

“fuuuckk,” he groans, thrust stuttering. “that’s it, there it is—”

you’re sobbing now. full-on crying. your body shaking uncontrollably as he keeps moving, keeps rubbing, using you through it.

“can’t take it- can’t—” you gasp, voice dissolving into broken sounds.

“you are takin’ it,” he says, not slowing down, not stopping, cock dragging in and out of your fluttering, oversensitive cunt while your body keeps spasming around him. “look at you. still squeezin’ me. still want it.”

you don’t even know if that’s true anymore. you just know you can’t stop reacting, can’t stop feeling.

he shifts suddenly— grabs your hips, flips you over like it’s nothing.

you yelp, barely catching yourself before your face hits the couch.

“stay,” he mutters, pressing you down, one hand between your shoulder blades, the other guiding himself back in.

you whine the second he pushes back inside— somehow deeper like this, your body folding around him differently, more exposed, more helpless.

“shit,” he breathes, gripping your hips tight. “yeah. this is better.”

and then he starts again.

hard.

faster this time.

your body jolts forward with every thrust, your cheek pressed into the cushions, your fingers clawing at the fabric as the sounds get louder, wet and messy.

“daddy—!” you cry, voice muffled, broken.

“that’s it,” he groans behind you, hand sliding up your back, gripping your neck— not choking, just holding. controlling. “say it louder.”

he fucks you deeper with every word.

“who’s pussy is this?”

“yours—!” you sob.

“who you doin’ all that shit for, huh?” he snaps, pace turning relentless again. “all that dressin’ up, all that flirtin’—”

“you—! just you—!”

“damn right.”

his hand slides down your back, grabs your ass, spreading you open again so he can watch himself disappear inside you, over and over, your cunt clinging to him like it doesn’t want to let go.

“fuckin’ made a mess of you,” he mutters, almost impressed. “can’t even keep it in.”

you can’t. it’s leaking. every thrust pushes more of him out, slick and messy, your body too full, too used.

you’re gone. completely.

he leans over you, chest pressed to your back, mouth at your ear.

“one more,” he murmurs, voice low, dangerous. “gimme one more.”

you shake your head weakly. “can’t—”

“yes you can.”

his hand finds your clit again.

you break.

your whole body locks up, a scream tearing out of you as another orgasm crashes through, sharper this time, almost painful in how intense it is, your cunt clenching so tight around him it drags him over the edge with you.

“fuck—” he groans, biting into your shoulder as he finishes again, hips stuttering hard against you, spilling deep, grinding into you as he rides it out.

you collapse under him completely.

he stays there for a second. breathing heavy. still inside you. still holding you down.

then, softer this time— just a little—

“told you,” he mutters against your skin. “you could take it.”

you don’t respond. you physically can’t.

you’re just… gone.

and he sounds way too pleased about it.

you wake up sore. sore in ways you didn’t even know were possible. your thighs ache, your hips feel bruised, your legs do not work. your pussy’s twitching— puffy, overstimulated, and leaking. there’s cum literally dripping out of you, sticky between your thighs, cooling against the sheets.

and toji’s still there.

sprawled across your bed like he owns it, like you’re his bed now, arm heavy over your waist, breathing slow against the back of your neck. his chest rises and falls steady, the heat of his body sinking into yours. it’s warm. safe. a little filthy. you can feel his cock pressed to your ass— soft, but still there, like a threat.

you’re not sure if he’s awake. you’re not sure if you’re awake. your whole body feels broken in. chewed up. worshipped. wrecked. you blink blearily at the sunlight slanting through your blinds, brain swimming in the slow syrup of morning-after haze, and shift slightly beneath the weight of him.

he moves with you. groans low, deep in his chest, like the stretch of his limbs aches. then, voice gravel-thick and sleep-rough:

“fuck. you made me pull a muscle.”

you try to laugh, but it comes out cracked. “good.”

he snorts, lazy and fond, burying his face in your shoulder and muttering, “brat.”

you hum, cheek pressed into the pillow, toes curling under the sheets. you don’t move. don’t want to. his arm tightens around your waist just enough to remind you it’s still there.

you’re quiet for a second. breathing in the moment. then— soft, teasing, and only half joking:

“so… what are we now?”

he goes still. just for a beat. long enough for your stomach to drop a little. you tense, suddenly hyperaware of how real this feels, how easy it would be to ruin it. your heart thumps like you’re asking him to raise a child. (which. maybe you are. unknowingly. oops.)

he exhales.

then, low. rough. certain.

“mine.”

you short-circuit. go quiet.

he doesn’t say it again. doesn’t need to. just grabs your thigh, still sore, and drags you back against his chest like he thinks you might try to leave— even though you physically can’t. you melt into the mattress with a broken little sigh, breath catching when his cock shifts against your ass, not quite hard, but heavy and possessive all the same.

you stay there. warm. stupidly happy. still full of his cum.

his fingers trail over your waist lazily, absent-minded, like he’s petting you. like you’re his. like this is normal now. you close your eyes, let yourself float in it, wondering how the hell you went from faking ankle injuries to getting bred in your own hallway by the hottest dilf alive.

and when megumi knocks on the door half an hour later and yells, “dad, i’m hungry,”

toji groans like a man betrayed. buries his face in your neck, kisses your skin as if it’s your fault he has responsibilities.

“you’re makin’ breakfast,” he mutters.

you turn your head, blinking at him. “me?!”

“you want me to limp in there with my back blown out?”

“…you blew my back out.”

“exactly,” he grins against your throat. “teamwork.”

you roll your eyes. groan. try to wiggle away, but he doesn’t let you. just holds you tighter and mumbles something about five more minutes before letting you go— barely.

you’re smiling as you get up. your legs are still jelly. your thighs stick when you move. you’re sore and used and leaking, and you’ve never felt so fucking good.

i rlly spent the whole night editing/finishing this osmgdkkdks, i’m lowk experimenting and thought i’d try smth different so i hope u guys like thissss >.<

He chuckles at that, standing up and slipping his cum soaked fingers right between your lips, you wrap them and suck eagerly, reaching back to feel his cock underneath those scrub bottoms, the material leaving nothing to the imagination. “Mmm!

“You want your attending to ruin your cunt?” His words are a soft taunt against your ear, you jolt as his breath tickles your skin, feeling his bulge press on the curve of your ass, pressing your body against his desk. “Slutty little intern, think it’ll get you in the scrub room with me?”

“No you dick,” you say after you yank his fingers, turning around and glaring, shoving his chest, his white lab coat falling ever so slightly. His lips are all glossy with your slick, making you blush. “Forget it.”

You slip up your pants and go to leave when he tugs your back against him, turning your face to kiss his lips, letting you taste yourself. It’s messy, dripping saliva and cum, you’re so needy you whimper, head falling back for his messy kisses. “I’d let you scrub in because you’re the best fucking intern, the smartest, has nothin’ to do with your messy cunt.”

“Such a dick,” you eat up his praise now, biting down on your lower lip – Satoru’s eyes are almost black with need. “You really think I’m the smartest?”

“It’s why I chose you,” he whispers, exhaling as your palm finds his cock again. “Been picturing you taking my cock since I picked you out from your med school graduation.”

“You’re such a pervert,” Satoru is a slutty pervert, and he feels no shame about it whatsoever, just a big white grin on his face, leaking pre through that light lavender, you lap it off your thumb, making his cheeks flush.

“And you’re slutty, wanting your attending so damn bad,” he turns you and lifts your ass up, folders flying and landing on the floor with light thuds, his mouth slipping up your throat, moaning against your skin. “Need my cock so bad?”

“You’re the one that wanted me in here,” your tit is in his palm, gripping it and squishing, thumb brushing on the nipple, swirling your areola and making it press up, your core clenching. You’re slipping his scrubs down, his cock slapping his belly button when he tugs up the top, pre dripping across his abdomen.

Satoru is huge.

You swallow nervously, even if you’re aching and soaked you’re not sure you can even take a cock like that. “Oh… fuck you’re…”

Satoru’s grinning like a little shit.

“You scared now, baby?” He taunts you, spreading your thighs and running his pretty pink tip between your folds, squishing as your needy hole is dripping down his length.

“Not scared,” your hands slip up his hard chest, biting your lower lip, looking at how he’s thickening more.

“You on something, intern?” He murmurs, tip pressing in, his hand shoves you till you’re on your back and elbows, breath making your breasts rise and fall, his hands slipping down your thighs to shove them higher.

“I am,” you whisper, eyes on his cock sinking inside your needy hole, inch by inch slowly disappearing, you’re so full with half inside you barely muffle your moan. “I’ve got the arm thing.”

You hold your arm up and he hums, slamming the rest of his cock deep inside, kissing that puffy cervix, balls smacking you with a messy thwack, watching your face as it contorts in pleasure. God how long has he wanted to be inside you? Since the moment he fucking saw your picture in a group of candidates for the top med students graduating.

Satoru’s been jerking it every day since you started your internship, every time your shoulders brushed against each other in the elevator, when you passed him in the halls and he caught a hint of your shampoo in his nostrils. He’s pulling back and shoving your top up, looking at the bulge moving in your tummy and sucking in a breath, your eyes catch sight and you blush all pretty.

“Good,” you raise a brow, then your eyes roll back with another filthy thrust in your gummy walls, quivering right around him.

“Good? Ah!” 

“Not pulling out of this tiny little cunt, god how she grips me? Fuck,” you’re done when he slams in harder now, one hand under your head so it doesn’t slam back on the desk, his other on your throat, moving faster. “You like that idea, me cummin’ inside? Isn’t it just once?”

“Jus’ once,” you’re already fucked out with a few more strokes, the way his curved tip drags on your inner walls has you spasming, whining out into his lips when he greedily kisses you. “Twice.”

“Hah we’re not even done with once,” he smirks against your mouth, choking your throat lightly, loving those pretty tears slipping from your eyes in pleasure. “Already planning fucking me again?”

“N-no,” you’re not supposed to fuck your boss, you’re not supposed to fuck Satoru Gojo – top attending physician, top surgeon. You’re not supposed to clench around his thick cock as he chokes your throat, his baby blues fucking insane as he gets pussy drunk off you.

“Ah, then I’m afraid I’ll ruin ya for anyone,” he slams so deep you both moan out, fingers tightening around your neck, just in time for someone to knock.

“F-fuck…” You’re about to cum and Satoru isn’t stopping, he’s pressing his cock deep and rolling his hips, grinning down at you like the psycho he is.

“Doctor Gojo? Are you still here?” He yanks out of you before you can find your release, making you whine out loud.

“You dick!” You hiss, he turns you around and lifts your thigh up, bending you right over your desk, cock slamming right back inside. “Ah!”

“Doctor Gojo?”

“Yes I’m here, I’m just about to leave though… can this ah-” fuck you feel good, he’s wrapping his arm around your chest to press a hand on your shoulder, dragging you further down on his cock, forearm muffling your noises.

Doctor Gojo is putting you in a headlock and giving you back shots, his stethoscope clattering down the desk along with your badge, eyes going hazy and fuzzy with how deep his strokes hit. You’re drooling right on his lab coat, feeling his breath against your ear as he exhales, groaning your name in a whisper.

“Can this wait till tomorrow?” He manages to say finally, teeth nipping your earlobe, cock dragging against that spot in your walls again, making your cunt clamp down on it. “F-fuck, you’re milkin’ me, huh? Greedy lil intern.”

“Yes of course,” you finally hear footsteps, you’d have paused fucking Satoru but instead you’re arching your ass for more, letting his big ass arms take you over, drunk on him, so much you forget you’re in his office and dripping right down his desk.

“This is s-stupid,” you mumble, his balls slamming your needy clit, heavy and full of cum.

“You feel this good wrapping me? How’s it stupid,” he cries out softly now, your name spilling from his plump pink lips. “You’re about to cum, aren’t you? Go ahead, lemme feel it all over my cock – hah bet you’re messy, gonna soak my scrubs, my desk, yeah?”

“Y-you’re annoying,” he knows he is, you glare for just a moment at the pretentious man but then he arches his hips and hits that spot just right, you shatter, cumming so hard you can’t see, gasping out and moaning against the hand that clamps on your mouth. “Mnhph!”

“F-fuck,” he can’t move for a moment, not when you’re gushing down his cock, dripping all over, cunt squirting and pulsing right around him. He shoves your collar down, teeth sinking into your shoulders, thickening as he fucks you through it, achingly slow. “You are messy, look at you.”

“Shh,” your head falls back against his collarbone, he leans you up, fingers brushing on your clit, pressing in pretty patterns. “S-sensitive, mnh… Doctor Gojo I…”

“God yes, call me that,” he’s a sick, perverted fuck – he knew that when he jerked off on your first shift right in the locker room, but he couldn’t know just how wet you’d get. “Slutty cunt is spilling all over, look at that mess, can’t help it, can you baby?”

“Mnh, shut up and fuck me,” Satoru moans and finally kisses you rather than talking on and on – mouth moving over yours hungry, he sucks your little tongue right inside his mouth, making you gasp for a breath, just to have his spit right in your mouth, choking on him.

Satoru’s fingers work your clit faster, getting another orgasm from you, this one even messier, pulling it up and slipping his fingertips in your mouth, spreading it around like a gloss. He kisses it off you like he can’t get enough of the taste, drinking it down with greedy gulps, cupping your face almost gently for a moment, your noses brushing together.

Oh fuck, did his cock just make you dumb? Your ears are ringing, vision swimming with tears from overstim. You can’t just fuck him once and hope to ever be okay again with the worst dick – which is all you’ve had. You won’t say it though, instead you kiss him so you shut up, before you’re mumbling you’re in love because he fucked all your good sense away.

“Want me to fill your cunt up, till you’re drippin’ me all night? Fuck I’d fill you with so much cum you’d drip me in this hospital, I’d bend you over and fuck more inside every time you think we’re done,” you’re pressed down now on that desk, he’s lifting your ass and pounding his cock faster. “F-fuck, tell me you want it, all my cum baby, breed this slutty cunt.”

“Psycho, ngh,” you’re letting him fuck you so good you can’t remember what your damn specialty was, your career, his dumb life ruining dick and huge ass hands bruising your hips. “Cum inside, fuck do it…”

“I’d breed you, stuff you so full, hope your birth control can even take it, hah – have you ever been filled, slutty lil intern?” Satoru’s unhinged as fuck, the things spilling from his psycho mouth is just making you more sensitive, thighs trembling, drool spilling from your lips.

“Just cum, you talk s-so much,” he groans now, thickening in your walls, you feel every vein, every ridge, the lines of him deep in your hole as his pre dribbles against your cervix.

Satoru busts his white ropes deep inside you, flooding you with so much warmth you’re stuffed, just for him to pump even more, lips kissing up your neck, hand entangling in your hair as he leans you against the desk, weight pressing you tighter against it. “Takin’ all of it, cunt was made to take me, say it.”

“N-no… I… mnh!” Satoru’s fucking all that cum inside you that is dripping down, feeling you tremble, your little cries echoing in his ears.

“Made to take my shape, hah you’ll only know my shape, yeah?” You’re too dazed to argue, weak and dizzy, just for Doctor Gojo to finger that cum right back inside your sore little cunt. For him to suck his mess and yours off those fingers. “God, fuckin’ taste us together.”

Having him drive you home because your legs are shaking too badly to drive, sitting right in front of your apartment as you’re about to tell him good night. Only to take his cock down your throat, already hard and ready once more, sucking him deep and letting it hit the back of your throat, drooling all down his glistening length, his hands entangling in your hair.

You’re swallowing around him reflexively, his whimpers making you soaked again, his cum still trickling out from you. Satoru’s got you riding him in the front seat of his little black sports car – ass hitting the horn, head hitting the roof, you figure it’s just twice, right? It’s still only one night, even if it's three in the morning, and he’s pumping so much cum you’re bloated with it.

It’s just twice when he walks you in – what sort of gentleman would he be if he didn’t make sure you got inside all right? What sort of man would he be if he didn’t make sure to lift you right on your wall and fuck his two loads of cum out of your hole that’s so ready she just takes his cock, no fingers needed, easier and easier the looser you get from every stroke.

But then when you squirt, you’re tight all over again, and you’re squirting so much you’re dehydrated, weak and collapsing against him. 

What sort of Doctor would he be if he didn’t re-hydrate you – making sure you have plenty of water, electrolytes added of course, and if he just left you like that and didn’t clean you properly!? No, Satoru takes it upon himself to lift your ass up on your bed, and kneel on your floor, lapping his own milky cum right from your abused hole, you’re hissing and tugging his white locks so good he comes from that.

Just from eating his slightly bitter seed mixed with your sweet juices, fuck does anything feel better than that gooey mix down his throat? No, he licks all of your pussy, your thighs, up your tummy, spitting it in your mouth so you can taste it too – why would he hog all of that to himself!?

And what sort of man wouldn’t stay the night, wouldn’t snatch up a couple pairs of panties for later while you’re snoring, wouldn’t stare at your pretty naked body and commit every bit of it to memory? If this was one night, he at least needs to have a mental image of his teeth marks, hickeys, bruises on your pretty skin.

You wake up with this psycho Doctor staring at you the next morning, grinning when your eyes focus on him, he’d fucked you so much you feel hungover from it all, trying to make the room not spin.

“Oh fuck… what time is it?” You mumble, Satoru peers at the watch on his wrist, a pretty silver rolex.

“Noon, but relax – got ya a day off.”

“How!? I can’t get any time off,” you lean up and he shrugs, smiling so damn charming with the light streaming in through the windows, casting a glow on his sharp features. You melt, how can you handle waking up to that in your bed?

“Thought you’d need a personal day,” his hand trails down from your waist, pressing on your tummy, making it heat up. “You took so much cum, sweetheart, sure you’re okay?”

“I’ll take the day,” you sigh and turn towards him. “You’re batshit insane, Doctor Gojo, you know that right?”

“Mhm,” he splays his fingers wide, humming just a bit, lips right next to yours. “You said one night, right?”

“I did,” you whisper, knowing you’re lying to yourself, looking into those pretty bright eyes and feeling dizzy from it, your entire body aching from being thrown into every position. “It’d be complicated…”

“Very, it’d be messy, ya know?”

“Mhm,” he’s resting his forehead on yours, letting you taste that breath, sweet even in the morning like he’s been sucking on mints. “I have to be serious about my career.”

“Very, can’t go getting knocked up and live in my mansion, huh?” You laugh softly, shaking your head. “Can’t just look pretty for a living, no – gotta work.”

“Mhm, I do need to work,” your hand slips down his chest, feeling his cock pressing against your thigh, hot and heavy. “It’d be a bad idea to do this all the time, right?”

“God yeah,” you touch his waist band, fingers brushing his happy trail, biting your lower lip as he studies you – intense, hovering right over you and rutting his cock with needy whimpers on your inner thigh. “If I fucked you in the locker room, if I fucked you in my office, the elevator…”

“S-scandalous,” you answer, stroking his cock and watching his cheeks flush, so goddamn sore but you can’t stand how badly you want him inside again. “I can’t just take back shots before my rounds, right?”

“Right sweetheart,” your thumb smears pre on his tip and he smirks down at you. “So no more.”

“No more.”

Satoru’s grabs your thighs, spreading them and placing his tip against your fucked out cunt. “Tch, what a shame my cock can’t give her what she wants.”

“It’s such a shame… r-really…” Satoru’s cock is buried in one stroke of your messy hole. “Mnh! O-one more night.”

“Hah,” he watches that bulge move inside you and grins, as if he’d let you walk around the hospital without his cum inside you ever again. “Sure sweetheart, one more.”

****

There he is.. in the cereal aisle. Holding a box of the limited edition cereal you specifically came for.

“Put it down,” you say, already annoyed.

“I got here first.”

“You don’t even eat cereal.”

“How do you know what I eat.” he smirks, clearly enjoying this.

“You eat things that cost more than my rent, Gojo, put the cereal down.”

He doesn’t.

You reach for it and he raises it higher.

You end up basically climbing him trying to reach it and at some point his arm comes around your back to stop you from falling and the elderly woman in the aisle makes a sound like awww and you both go still.

“We’re not together,” you tell her.

“Of course not,” she says, with the look of someone who has seen seventy years of bullshit and recognizes yours specifically.

He gives you the cereal and doesn’t say anything smug about it. Which is deeply suspicious. You watch him the entire walk to the register like he’s going to pull something.

He doesn’t.

He just says “see you” and leaves and you stand there for a second being inexplicably annoyed about it.

Third attempt

Third time you should genuinely sue someone.

You’re supervising the training exercise while Gojo runs the students through something, which means you’re standing far away from him.

Then Megumi’s shikigami glitches… you don’t know how, you didn’t see it happen… and it comes at you fast enough that you don’t fully dodge, and Gojo wraps himself around you, and takes the impact against a tree instead.

You’re basically pressed against his chest, his arms around you, and the training ground has gone completely silent.

You look up.

He looks down.

Fifteen students watching. Nobara with her phone out. Yuji looking genuinely emotional about it.

“I could have dodged,” you say.

“Sweetheart, you were not going to dodge.” he tilts his head, smirking.

“Don’t call me… what did you just…”

“Eyes on the shikigami, everyone” He cuts you off and turns back to the students like nothing happened and you stand there facing his back having something close to an aneurysm.

Nobara sends you the photo later that night. He looks like he’s exactly where he wants to be. Absolutely shameless.

You save it in a private folder

Utahimé calls you to ask how the training went and you say “fine” and she says “mhm” and you say “stop that” and she mhms again and you hang up.

Nobara sent the pic to the group chat.

Fourth attempt

Fourth time the universe really said let me cook.

Group dinner… loud, crowded, perfectly normal until the table arrangement gets shuffled because Nanami and Haibara take one end and Shoko and Utahime take the other.

You get the middle table which should have two more people in it but those two more people got caught in traffic and now it’s just you and Gojo at a table for six with a candle in the middle.

A fucking candle.

You stare at it. He stares at it. You both look up at the same time.

“I will eat and leave,” you say.

“Same,”

You don’t leave. The food’s too good.

You end up there two hours, talking shit about everyone you know, rating cursed spirits on a scale of annoying to actually threatening, and he steals food off your plate and you stab his hand with your chopstick.

He acts wounded and you tell him you’ll aim better next time, and somewhere around the second round of drinks he’s laughing at something you said and you think oh this is so bad.

The candle is still there. Very romantic…. Very unnecessary.

Walking out he bumps your shoulder and says “you’re funny when you’re not being mean to me”

You scoff, though your mouth betrays you with the smallest smile.

Then his cab comes and he leaves

You stand there for a second and notice you’re still smiling and your chest is doing something it has absolutely no business doing over Gojo Satoru of all people.

oh no. Oh no no no. You’re so fucked.

Final attempt

Summer festival. Shoko mentioned it, six people said yeah, and now you’re all here.

Somewhere around the second hour the group seperate the way groups do and you end up walking next to Gojo because the crowd pushed you together and you’re both too stubborn to reroute.

“You look nice,” he says, and the way he says it is so annoyingly sincere that it’s somehow worse than if he’d been a dick about it.”Yukata suits you,”

You don’t say anything because there’s nothing to say to that that doesn’t make it weird. “You’re welcome,” he says, to your silence.

You’re mid sentence about something when the fireworks start without warning, just suddenly the whole sky goes boom and everyone around you looks up.

You look up too, for a second. Then you glance at him.

He’s not looking at the fireworks.

He’s looking at you. Soft eyes, that small smile, the fond look he gets sometimes that you’ve been successfully pretending you haven’t noticed for months.

He’s just…. looking at you… with the fireworks going off behind his head.

You laugh, trying to act normal while everything inside you is screaming.

“You have fireworks behind your head,” you tell him.

“I know,” he says, still looking at you. Doesn’t glance back even once.

“They’re pretty good ones.” You try to change the subject before your face gives you away.

“Uh huh.”

“You’re missing them.”

“Mhm.”

You shake your head, still smiling, and open your mouth to say something stupid but it doesn’t come out. Because he’s still looking at you like that and your brain stops working.

Your cheeks heat up, even though you refuse to meet his eyes.

He steps closer. Slow enough that that you could absolutely say something sarcastic and ruin it, slow enough that you have every opportunity to step back.

You don’t move.

He kisses you soft and gentle and the fireworks are still going and you think in your head that this is so embarrassing and also you don’t care even a little bit.

When you pull back he’s still got that look on his face.

“Stop it,” you roll your eyes and hope your flushed cheeks aren’t obvious.

“I’m happy,” he says, and it lands exactly where he meant it to, right in the middle of your chest, and you look at him for a second and then shove him by the shoulder, though your heart won’t stop racing.

He grabs your hand when you try to pull it back.

Your phone buzzes.

Utahime has sent a photo to the group chat.

It’s you two. Mid kiss.

Fireworks perfectly framed behind you both like she’s been standing in this crowd with her phone ready.

Utahimé : I’ve been waiting 4 months to send this. You’re welcome. Also Shoko owes me 3000 yen.

Shoko replies: worth every yen honestly

You look at him for a long second. The fireworks are winding down. He’s still holding your hand.

A/n : Your Reblogs and comments are appreciated

still nothing. then—

“is this about y/n’s skirt?”

gojo turns his head painfully slow, eyes wide, jaw dropped, like geto just cracked open his skull and read the filth inside.

“bro.”

“what?”

“bro.”

“you moaned when she bent over earlier.”

gojo makes a strangled noise and collapses back against the couch cushions, throwing an arm over his face like a man in mourning.

“she was wearing that fucking pleated thing,” he mutters, voice muffled. “and her thighs were right fucking there. i swear- i swear her underwear peeked out. i’m gonna pass out.”

“you’re ridiculous.”

“you saw it too!”

“…i’m choosing to pretend i didn’t.”

gojo drops his arm. stares at him.

“bro.”

“stop saying bro.”

“bro. her little socks were rolled down.” he’s almost whining now, eyes glazed, visibly suffering. “and that strawberry lipgloss. the shiny one. i could smell it when she hugged me. i could taste it, swear to god—”

“you’re sick.”

“i’m in love.”

geto pauses the game he wasn’t playing. he finally glances over— eyes heavy, tired, likes he’s giving in to the inevitable.

“you’re horny.”

“same thing.”

the silence that follows stretches between them, humming with the kind of tension neither of them wants to be the first to name.

gojo taps his fingers against his thigh, an absent rhythm forming as his gaze fixed somewhere near the floor. after a moment, his voice comes quieter, almost hesitant, as if the thought just slipped out before he could catch it.

“…you think she’s ever touched herself?”

geto’s brow twitches. “what?”

“you think she’s ever gotten off thinking about one of us?”

geto exhales through his nose, slowly, heavily, trying extremely hard to be normal. “i don’t even think she knows how.”

gojo lets out the most pathetic noise known to man.

“fuck,” he groans. “it’s not even fair how cute she is, makes me wanna ruin her life.”

“ruin her pussy,” geto mutters before he can stop himself.

gojo sits up. instantly. beaming.

“you’re thinking about it too.”

“i’m thinking about how you need to shut the fuck up.”

“you’re picturing it,” gojo singsongs. “her all messy and shy. whining for it. taking it like- fuck- like the sweetest little thing.” he licks his lips. “you think she’d cry?”

geto doesn’t answer.

because he is picturing it.

in painful detail.

the image hits him hard and fast— your soft thighs trembling, your voice breaking on their names, your tiny hands gripping at their shirts while you ride one of them slow and clumsy, overwhelmed by everything they’re giving you. he pictures your lips swollen and shiny, spit on your chin, eyes glassy, little whimpers spilling out because you don’t know what to do with all the sensation—

“fuck.”

he doesn’t realize his hand drifted into his lap until gojo says, very casually:

“not gay if we’re thinking about her.”

geto glares at him. “shut the fuck up.”

“no seriously.” gojo is already pushing his sweats down, his dick half‑hard in his palm like it’s the most normal shit ever. “just two bros jerkin’ it to our insanely hot best friend.”

“you need therapy.”

“you need lotion.”

“satoru.”

“what?” he grins. “we’ve shared girls. this is basically the same thing!”

geto rubs a hand over his face, groaning. “you’re gonna be the reason i go straight to hell.”

“then let’s at least make it worth it.”

gojo spits in his hand like a demon released from its cage. he wraps his fingers around himself and jerks slowly, lazily at first, head tipped back, eyes fluttering as he’s easing into the fantasy.

“bet she’s so fucking tight,” he murmurs. “bet she’d squeeze so hard we’d cum instantly.”

geto tries— tries— not to look.

he ultimately fails.

the sight of gojo’s hand sliding over his cock does something humiliating to him. something he can’t put a name to. something that makes his own arousal throb against the inside of his sweats.

“just imagine her on her knees,” gojo breathes, thumb swiping over his leaking tip. “looking up at us with those stupid pretty eyes. begging.”

geto’s resolve breaks.

he pushes his sweats lower, wraps a hand around his cock, and lets out a low hiss between his teeth.

gojo’s laugh is breathless. “knew you’d join in.”

“shut up.”

“not gay,” gojo whispers.

“shut. up.”

they jerk off in sync without meaning to— slow strokes at first, getting used to the rhythm, the ache, the shared heat. the room fills with the quiet slick sounds of precum smearing under their hands, the game forgotten, the world narrowed to panting breaths and the thought of you.

geto scrolls through your instagram with his free hand, thumb hovering over a photo of you smiling beside a drink.

it kills him.

“she’s so fuckable,” he mutters. “god. look at her mouth.”

gojo tilts his head to see. groans loudly. “she’d look so cute choking on my cock.”

geto squeezes himself harder. “she’d cry.”

“she’d drool.”

“she’d be perfect.”

gojo’s pace quickens. “wanna feel her ride me. all sloppy and needy.”

geto bites down on a moan. “i’d hold her hips. make her go slow. make her beg for it.”

gojo nearly whimpers. “fuck- keep talking—”

the air is thick with the sound of their hands working themselves, their breath turning ragged, their thighs tense. the couch creaks when geto leans back, legs spreading wider, stroking harder now, precum gluing his fingers together in tacky, glistening strings.

gojo is slumped low, head tipped back, throat exposed, mouth parted. he looks wrecked. obsessed. seconds from breaking completely.

“imagine her between us,” geto says, voice deep and ruined. “her bouncing on my dick, tits spilling out while you fuck her mouth- nothing in that brain of hers but us fucking her stupid.”

gojo chokes.

“bro- bro don’t, i’m gonna—”

geto’s hand speeds up. his breath stutters. the thought of you— small, soft, overwhelmed between them— pushes him right to the edge.

gojo makes a desperate sound, high and unrestrained, hips jerking up into his fist. “say her name. fuck, say it—”

geto grits out your name through clenched teeth.

gojo falls apart.

his cum paints his shirt in messy, hot spurts, dripping down his stomach as he shudders through it. he’s moaning, breathless, half‑laughing through the shock of it.

geto isn’t far behind— your name still on his tongue when he spills over his own fist, cum striping his abs, his hand moving lazily through the comedown.

the room is silent again.

silent except for their breathing, the faint sounds of the tv, and the lingering, humiliating truth of what just happened.

gojo is the first to speak.

“…bro, i came so hard when you said her name.”

geto sighs, dragging a hand down his face. “you’re a fucking idiot.”

“okay but it’s still not gay.”

geto stares at him.

“satoru.”

“what?”

“…i hate you.”

you shot him a lazy glance, raising an eyebrow as if you didn’t already know what he wanted. “go where?” you teased, feigning ignorance. his lips pressed into a thin line, his fingers twitching as they brushed your arm, but he didn’t meet your eyes. “you know where,” he mumbled, voice low, practically choking on his own need.

you smiled, but it wasn’t the soft kind. no, it was the kind that made him squirm. he was the one with the power, the money, the looks — but when it came to you? it was like he couldn’t even think straight. “what’s wrong?” you asked, voice soft but teasing. you took a step closer, and his breath hitched, his eyes darting to the ground as if that could hide the pink dusting his cheeks.

you heard the whispers behind you again — the mocking laughter, the mean-spirited comments. they thought you were a nobody. to them, you were the odd one out. but they didn’t see how his entire demeanor crumbled in your presence, how the proud, arrogant man they knew became this — a whining, desperate mess, practically begging for your attention.

“can’t we just go home?” his voice cracked, and you couldn’t help the smirk that tugged at your lips. “why?” you asked, feigning innocence again. your fingers trailed up his arm, watching as he sucked in a shaky breath, his lips parting just slightly. “don’t you like these gatherings?”

his gaze finally met yours, eyes wide, pupils blown, desperation written all over his face. “it’s… i… you know i can’t focus when you’re around like this,” he muttered, his voice dropping into a whine that made you want to laugh. how could someone like him get so worked up over someone like you?

but you knew why. it was because he was pussy drunk — so drunk off you, off the way you held his attention without even trying. the neediness in his voice, the way he fidgeted under your gaze, it was all because he couldn’t control himself around you. “is that my problem?” you asked, your voice dripping with amusement, as you leaned in closer, brushing your lips lightly against his ear. “or yours?”

he let out a shaky breath, his hand gripping your wrist like he couldn’t stand it anymore. “please… please, i need you.” his voice was barely a whisper now, just a shaky breath against your skin. the confidence he showed everyone else was gone, replaced by this vulnerable, desperate version of himself that only you ever saw. and god, you loved it.

you could hear the wet sound of his lips parting as he kissed your neck, his hands shaking as they gripped your waist, pulling you closer, as if he couldn’t bear even an inch of distance between you. “can’t we just leave? i need… i can’t think straight,” he begged, his breath hot against your skin.

and you knew why. it wasn’t because he was embarrassed of you, like people assumed — no, it was because he couldn’t stop thinking about you. he couldn’t stop picturing your sweet, slick pussy, couldn’t stop imagining how you tasted, how you felt. he needed you, and he needed you now. but you weren’t going to make it easy for him. not when he was like this — so damn whiney, so desperate, so willing to give in to whatever you wanted.

“you’re such a mess,” you said softly, running your fingers through his hair as he buried his face in your neck, groaning at the contact. he let out a soft whimper, one that made your stomach flip with satisfaction. “please,” he begged, his voice so small, so needy. “just let me—”

you could feel the way his fingers tightened around you, the way his breath became ragged as his mouth brushed your collarbone, leaving hot, wet kisses in its wake. “can’t — can’t control myself,” he mumbled between kisses, his voice strained. “you’re driving me insane.”

the sound of his desperation was music to your ears, the way his lips made those soft, wet noises as he pressed them against your skin, the little whimpers and groans escaping him as he lost himself in the moment. he was barely holding it together, practically trembling with need, and you loved watching him like this — knowing that you were the reason he was falling apart.

“what’s the matter, baby?” you cooed, running your hand through his hair again, watching as he looked up at you with those wide, pleading eyes. “can’t handle it?” he shook his head, his breath shaky as his fingers trailed lower, grazing the waistband of your pants. “n-no — can’t handle it,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “need you.”

and god, the sound of him begging was everything. they thought he was some untouchable, cocky man, but here he was, completely undone because of you. no one would believe it if they saw — the same man who commanded rooms and left people hanging on his every word was now on his knees, hands shaking, lips wet, and voice trembling, all because he couldn’t get enough of your touch.

“you’re such a good boy,” you whispered, letting him kiss your skin, loving the way his lips trailed down your stomach, leaving a hot, wet trail. his mouth hovered over your pussy, and he whimpered again, his lips parting as if he could taste you already.

It was easier to force a laugh now. To accept that you'd just have to get used to it.

You were marrying the city's most eligible bachelor after all.

"You're so cocky," You teased him, untangling your fingers from his to poke his arm. He grabbed one, and you tried not to wince. Your wrists were still a little pink from the handcuffs yesterday, but you'd tried to use concealer to cover up the worst of the spots.

"Why shouldn't I be?" He asked, tilting his head to the side like it was a genuine question.

"This is why people don't like you," You teased him, but he just grinned and leaned in closer, his nose brushing against the tip of yours.

"Do you like me?"

"I'm marrying you, aren't I?" You reminded him, rolling your eyes just for him to steal a kiss, pressing his lips against yours like they were his for the taking. He had already set a date - somehow managing to book a venue a month from now. You couldn't imagine how much he'd forked out for it. How much more he'd be paying the wedding planner he'd been on the phone with this afternoon. Or for the wedding dress he insisted on making an appointment for you to go find tomorrow.

That was a life lesson you learned a long time ago.

Everything had a price - and Gojo had paid yours.

"Let's go tell everyone you're mine, yeah?"

You had never been just an accessory. But Satoru made you look like one.

Suguru stared. Sulked.

Tried to ignore every sense that screamed at him this was wrong. That you shouldn't be there. Watching you in that dress, one that asshole had certainly chosen for you, given it was the same shade as his eyes, a million little sparkling crystals fixed to it, catching the light and everyone's attention too. You were faking a smile, makeup carefully applied, eyeshadow glittering and hair styled.

You wilted in the spotlight. You were used to living in the shadows.

Cameras flashed, guards keeping the crowd back as Satoru Gojo kept you close, showing you off like you were his trophy wife. Treating you more like a dress-up doll, always keeping you in his favorite color and attached to his arm.

He hated it.

It wasn't like Satoru was capable of being serious with you. What did you see in him? He was spoiled and selfish, someone that would throw you into the fire instead of carrying you out of it.

Work-place romance was one thing. But you, here? The girl who preferred to sprawl out on her bed, taking catnaps with stolen jewelry still scattered across every surface? Now publicly launching and flaunting a relationship in front of socialites you'd stolen from just so you could be splashed on the front page of magazines? Paraded around some stupid gala that would probably pocket the money it collected for whatever cause they were allegedly supporting? It was nothing like you - so it had to be all him.

He only happened to overhear Naobito discussing the benefit with Naoya when they were leaving a meeting yesterday - the older man grumbling about Gojo making some grand announcement during it - and came to the apparently correct conclusion that you'd be here with him too.

Satoru might like to think you two were the same. That maybe just because you were a thief, that you bent the laws, that you were like him. But you weren't. Had never been.

If it had been him, that first night, the one where he'd gotten shot and passed out bleeding in that alley, Satoru would've left him there and laughed if it meant making it out with his prize. But you brought him home. Stitched him up and gave it back.

You were stubborn, sure, but you weren't the kind of pushover that would just let a guy like him lead you around on a leash. So why were you?

Suguru had a few suspicions - but he didn't want to believe them.

Was Satoru the one who found out your other identity? Did he blackmail you into being with him? Sleeping with him? He was definitely fucking slimy enough to pull a stunt like that. You said you were taking care of it - but this was how, if it was him, he couldn't just watch you sell the rest of your life away for a man who probably got a sick kick in possessing you.

Was Suguru supposed to let you go? Spare himself the trouble and leave you to someone who would keep you on your knees and fuck your face in the office, knowing how humiliated you'd feel if someone walked in and just getting off on it?

But if it was just blackmail, he didn't get why you would actually defend him. Being skittish was one thing, but Suguru had seen you smile at Satoru, watched you lean your head against his shoulder or giggle at his stupid jokes like you genuinely found them funny.

The run-in with Naoya in the elevator had been bothering him too.

It wasn't a secret that the Zenin heir was a dickhead who didn't like you. But Suguru had never considered that it might be personal and not just his typical misogynistic chauvinist bullshit.

Mocking you with every word, never missing even a single opportunity to call you a whore or insinuate you were just having sex with Satoru for money, implying that you were more like his pet than a partner.

But it was obvious Naoya knew something Suguru didn't.

Which raised the question: How?

There was no way in hell you'd willingly tell that asshole anything.

Suguru wasn't sure what concerned him more - him mentioning our money or bringing up your dad. It was stupid. Childish and immature, actually, but the first thing he'd felt was jealousy. Insecure that even Naoya knew about a subject you never breathed a word about with him.

He wouldn't have used any of it against you.

All Suguru wanted was to help. To know how you were connected to the Zenins, to know what kind of relationship you really had with Satoru, piece together who was holding what over your head so he could get you out of whatever mess you were in.

Regret had started to fester in his stomach. Rethinking and reliving the nights where you were still his - and even some where you hadn't been. He said it at the start - it didn't matter why you stole stuff. At first, it was just because he thought it wouldn't change anything. That theft was just wrong. Just a matter of laws and morals.

But he was wrong.

It did matter.

Because if he knew - if he understood you then, knew you now, would you be there on Satoru's arm? Shown off and smiling for cameras and a man that was incapable of caring for you without wrecking you too?

There was another bright series of flashing photos, the crowd underneath clamoring as they noticed something new, but before he could get a better look, something sharp came flying by, slicing a thin cut on his cheek seconds before Suguru jumped back.

"Man, maybe she should get a restraining order against you," A mocking voice called out from across the rooftop, and Suguru's head snapped back in that direction.

He'd known it was the same stranger from before though.

No one else had ever been able to sneak up on him.

Suguru moved fast - actually managing to land a punch this time, fist cracking against his face. But he didn't budge. Didn't move. His head barely even turned.

It was a blur of hands and hits, feeling fresh stings of cuts and bruises blooming as he tried to outmaneuver the brick wall of a man in front of him. He felt more like a mountain. Or maybe a monster.

Either way, no human should've been able to move like that. To knock him halfway across the roof with just one firm punch to the gut.

Suguru stumbled back, vaguely aware of the fact he was bleeding, that his suit had been torn and ripped, holding his side and sucking in a sharp breath.

Meanwhile, his opponent was stretching like it was just a warmup, his untouched suit clinging to his thick muscles as he pulled out a fucking gun from a holster around his thigh. What the fuck?

Suguru could outrun a lot. But a bullet? One, maybe, but a whole chamber was a different story.

He readjusted on the balls of his feet, already calculating the best way to make it from the roof to the ground, figuring out if there were open windows he could make it through in the neighboring buildings without risking any collateral damage in the crowd.

There was the sinking feeling in his chest that the man in front of him wouldn't care who else he hit or hurt in the process.

"Does she know you're following her?" Suguru carefully asked, squinting and studying for any details he missed before.

There was no way you did.

"Does it matter?" The man scoffed, rolling his shoulders back, completely relaxed even as the moonlight caught and reflected on the metal of his weapon.

"Why are you here?" He continued anyway, mentally measuring the distance from here to the edge of the roof. There was an open window two floors above the ballroom level in the building you were walking in. A plan that probably wouldn't work was already taking shape, one that involved slipping away and stealing you from Satoru, away from all these assholes. Taking you somewhere safe.

Even if he didn't know what that meant anymore.

His apartment wasn't safe. Yours was being watched. There was still the chance Satoru had something to do with it.

A motel then, maybe?

But there was only so long you could stay there - if you even went with him at all.

The man chuckled, and Suguru scowled, fighting the creep down his spine at the harsh sound.

"Wrong question."

"How'd you two meet?"

A pretty reporter had been the one who asked the question, but there were already three other journalists with their pens ready, cameras angled on your face as Satoru chuckled, squeezing your side and pulling you closer.

"Through work," He smiled easily, basking in the lights and the lingering stares. Casually glancing down at you, adoration glimmering in his eyes as one corner of his lips curled higher than the other. "But I guess you could say she stole my heart."

What a cheesy fucking sound bite.

But everyone cooed, knowing it'd make gold for whatever article they would spin about the Satoru Gojo swooning and sweeping you off your feet or how you managed to swipe a playboy like him and take him off the market.

He hadn't wasted any time tonight.

Dragging you over to the podium and tapping on the microphone, commandeering everyone's attention with a light chuckle before thanking everyone for coming and introducing you to the crowd.

Everything was a blur of bodies and conversations after that.

Two martinis later, you weren't sure how you ended up in this cluster of people, Satoru draped over you like an expensive shawl and stealing the last sip of your nearly-empty glass.

"Who made your dress?" Another one asked you, and you tried to smile as brightly as he did, nodding your head towards him.

"Satoru was the one who picked it out, so you'd have to ask him," You deferred it to your fiancé, who didn't hesitate to start talking about having it custom made for you, painting the image of a man devoted to catering to you.

Your heart stalled.

Not stopping exactly, just hesitating for a few beats.

Something felt weird. Like a tag on the back of your dress itching your skin or a bug bite you couldn't scratch. Irritating and equally intangible.

"Is it true the Zenins will be in attendance tonight?" Someone followed up, and a microphone was practically shoved in your face before you stepped back. Satoru held you there though, his grip on your hip unyielding.

"They'll be here," He affirmed, and you couldn't help but pick up on the smirk twitching up on his lips again. He was planning something. He always was. But this was one item he'd left of the itinerary.

There were a few more questions all at once, about his company, the rivalry between him and the Zenins, another question about when the wedding would be, but you were starting to feel suffocated.

How many times had you snuck into galas? Crept around corners or clung to the shadows to get what you wanted and go? Yet, you'd never been the main attraction of one, the real spectacle, before.

You hated it.

It was hard to imagine of a lifetime of it. But you guessed it was part of your sentence. Part of the package deal Satoru came with - a taste of the silver spoon.

You tugged on his sleeve, pulling him down to you could murmur in his ear, "Mind if I run to the bathroom?"

You didn't need to go. But you guessed it'd be the only place you could be alone for more than ten seconds without getting bombarded with questions and congratulations.

"Of course, baby," He purred, leaning down to leave another kiss on the top of your head. For you? Or for the cameras?

Sometimes, when it was just the two of you, when you were curled up against his chest or his fingers were tangled in your hair, you could almost forget that your relationship was more like a contract. He was affectionate and adoring and all of the things you wanted, but you weren't sure if that was who he was - or him just acting the bit.

But you guessed either way, you loved whichever part of himself he gave you.

Whatever he left out didn't matter. You couldn't let it.

All the lines had been blurred. Satoru was quick sand, and you'd been sucked in by his easy affection, his casual charm, already up to your neck and waiting to suffocate in him.

You thought a few stray reporters might follow you when you walked away, but none did. You weren't the star. Just a love interest.

The real story had always been Satoru Gojo.

People were grouped together, talking and chatting comfortably. Everyone knew everyone - except you. You glanced around just to spot Naoya walking in through the front, trailing behind Naobito. The latter was obviously pleased. Happy to have the good press this came with, probably ready to pull aside anyone he could to claim you were practically his daughter.

Naoya looked like he was one shot away from strangling someone.

Distracted, you accidentally bumped into someone.

"Careful," The guy snapped at you before you could even stammer out an apology, glancing up just to realize it was some hired security guard.

"Sorry," You mumbled, frowning as he kept walking. You scanned through the crowd again, the crease between your brows only getting bigger when you realized just how many there were here.

Stationed at most of the hallways and throughout the tables, eyes watching almost every square inch of the ballroom. Some were dressed up in suits, like they were trying to blend in, but their bulky frame was unmistakable, the stiff posture and positioning. Never talking to anyone or engaging in conversation. Just focused on their assigned section.

You tested your theory, walking up to one near one of the buffet tables.

He noticed you too soon. Eyes sharp as he not-so-discreetly zeroed in on you while you fixed a small smile on your face.

"Excuse me, do you know where the bathroom is?" You asked, tilting your head to the side as he visibly relaxed, tension easing as he pointed to a hallway that branched off.

"Down there," He brusquely answered, and as you thanked him, you spotted what you suspected.

The outline of a gun discreetly holstered. The kind they issued to cops, not just nightshift guards.

You wanted to believe it was because of tonight's attendees, just added security measures, but you knew better. Wished you knew less.

What the fuck kind of surprise was Satoru planning that required this?

You hurried towards the hall, keeping your head straight ahead as you tried to remind yourself not to think about it.

Satoru was the only security you had. The only one that could keep you - and everyone you cared about - safe.

So what if he had secrets? Or if he knew all of yours?

Wasn't that what marriage was? A real relationship?

Giving yourself to someone despite the risk they wouldn't do the same.

The light in the hall flickered off before you made it to the bathroom. A shadow moving across the wall fast. You reacted first, shielding yourself and shrinking back before the shadow suddenly said your name.

You blinked. Then blanched.

Eyes adjusting to the dark as you realized the one person who was absolutely not on the guest list was standing in front of you.

Had he even fucking realized yet he was crashing what had turned into your engagement party?

"Wha-" You started to hiss before he moved closer, and your voice died in your throat.

This was so much worse than just a sliver of his suit showing. His mask was torn, and he ripped the shreds of it that were still hanging on his face off, dark hair spilling out. His cheek was cut, bleeding, more dark stains on his suit that you were scared to ask about.

But there were more pressing problems.

You dragged him to the door without thinking, without checking, grabbing his wrist and yanking him into the thankfully empty women's restroom. Only sparing the time to flick the light on before pushing him through a stall and slamming the door shut behind you, fumbling to get the lock to click into place.

"What the hell-"

"You're not safe," Suguru breathed, still panting as he repeated his line from yesterday. You didn't want to hear it.

"You do realize the cops are fucking everywhere?" You hissed at him, covering your mouth as your eyes scanned back over him before you could stop yourself.

He was clearly exhausted, but most of his wounds looked pretty shallow. Nothing that needed stitches or wouldn't heal on its own.

"Someone's still following you," He frowned, serious and sharp, speaking low enough that his voice wouldn't carry through the thin walls.

"What?" You hadn't known what to make of it when he said someone was hanging around your place, but you couldn't really ignore it now.

Who the fuck could hurt Suguru?

"He was outside your place the other night, and was watching from across the street-"

"You know, it doesn't really help your case when you were there too," You frowned, swallowing hard as you tried to make sense of what he was saying.

What it might mean.

"I'm terrified you're going to get hurt," Suguru admitted, his voice all gravelly and raw.

His hand reached out, encircling your wrist and tugging you closer, and you couldn't convince yourself to move. Staring at him stunned, his dark eyes burning through you, searing into your eyes like he wanted you to know it was true.

"Suguru," You breathed his name. Forgetting about how you weren't supposed to say it like that anymore, forgetting that you were engaged and you shouldn't be this close, let alone letting him touch you.

Sucked into his gravitational pull as his fingers dug into your wrist, refusing to break the stare. Your wrist was still sore, still aching, but you refused to react, to open the can of worms it would come with if he knew about that too.

"I don't know if I can protect you," He shook his head a little, like he was apologizing to you.

"I never asked you to," You murmured, staring down at the floor with a shaky breath. Twisting your wrist free from him while you still had the strength to.

"I know," He exhaled. "Do you think that will stop me from trying?"

You almost laughed. Because no, you knew nothing would stop someone as stubborn as him once his mind was set.

The sad part was you were the same way. It was the foundation of your relationship, wasn't it? He refused to fail you. All because what? You stitched him up a couple times? Took care of his dick when he was lonely?

But you weren't his damsel. And he wasn't your hero.

"You should let me go." You had to force the words out. Tell yourself that you had to say them. That maybe if you sounded firm enough, he'd listen. "Go save some other girl, okay?"

You'd been a lost cause from the start.

"I don't care about saving someone else," He scoffed, and you could feel every organ seizing in your chest, squeezed and bleeding out at the blunt honesty in his words.

Suguru was a lot of things - but he didn't lie to you.

"You don't mean that," You said, even though you weren't sure anymore. What happened to the guy who'd bring up ethics in bed like it was aftercare? Stroking your hair and holding you to his chest while murmuring about moral obligations?

"I do," He reached out to touch your face, and you were still too surprised to stop him. Fingertips skimming over your cheek, some still covered in his suit, but not all of them. Skin against skin, electricity still lingering in the connection you couldn't quite sever.

"Satoru can-"

Suguru huffed before you can even finish.

"Have you considered he might've hired that guy to follow you?"

You hadn't.

A missing piece clicked together in your head. Toji laughing at you for not reading the letter. All the times Satoru left you to go see him. You thought it'd been about the Zenins. But what if it wasn't?

"He only wants to help me," You excused, not wanting to confess that you even suspected he could be right.

"That's bullshit," Suguru wryly said, picking up on the pieces you hadn't said. "You know who it is, don't you?"

"There's a guy who used to work for the Zenins," You reluctantly mumbled. "Satoru's been meeting with him lately."

"You didn't go with him?"

"He didn't ask me to," You shrugged, shuffling uncomfortably. You assumed there was a reason Satoru didn't want you there, that it was just one more thing it'd be easier not to know.

"Does it bother you that your boyfriend hired some creep without even telling you?" Suguru squinted, eyes narrowing as he held back a snarl.

"Fiancé," You mumbled under your breath, sheepishly holding up your left hand.

It felt like someone sucked all the oxygen out of the room, all the air in your lungs evaporating with it, lungs straining as you waited for the fallout.

You didn't know what else to say. How to break the string that tied you together before it sliced too deep.

"You're engaged?" Suguru sounded like he'd been sucker punched. His face was strained, struggling to contain whatever emotion was simmering its way up to the surface.

You couldn't speak. Vocal cords refusing to move, to even twitch as you nodded instead.

"You're making a mistake," Suguru warned, his voice shaking at the end, threatening to crack. It wasn't anger. It was fear.

"I'm marrying him." Your voice trembled though, betraying the fears and anxieties you'd been shoving down for weeks.

"No," He shook his head, about to grab your waist before you stepped back, put distance back between you. "I'm not just going to watch you marry him."

"I love him." You did. Even if you were scared. Even if you knew something was wrong. You were still choosing Satoru. "I'm safe with him."

"Until it stops benefiting him," Suguru scoffed again, and you flinched. You wanted to reject the idea.

But wasn't that why he had been interested in the first place? Because you benefited him? Marrying you would mean his investors and the board of directors would get off his back. You stole the papers he needed for his plan to dismantle the Zenins for him. Helped schedule his appointments and sucked his dick whenever he wanted.

What came next?

Once the dust settled and you belonged to him, what was waiting for you? Divorce papers? A lifetime of denial? Dreaming of the days where you weren't his?

"He loves me too," You weakly argued. Freedom was so close you could taste it. Your father would be released soon. The Zenins crumbled and cut completely out of your life. A future where you wouldn't have to wait for the collar to turn into a noose around your neck.

"He's not capable of that," Suguru said it like he knew him.

And impulsively, you couldn't stop yourself from defending him.

"Just because you didn't love me, doesn't mean that he doesn't," You huffed at him, crossing your arms as the tiny crystals in your dress pressed into your skin.

"I do love you," Suguru snapped, and you just stared back at him. Your head was swimming, stuck on the way his brows were pulled together, bottom lip pushed out and begging you to believe him. The cut on his face was still bleeding, and you didn't know how to bandage him or this or yourself when he was around.

"Then trust me," You could only manage a hushed whisper. "If that guy is who I think it is, I can tell Satoru to make him back off."

Suguru didn't believe you.

"You can't expect me to let you go through with this," He dryly said.

"You have to," You insisted, steeling your resolve and squaring your shoulders. "Do you think I don't care about keeping you safe?"

He frowned, mouth twitching as he tried to solve a problem that wasn't in his power anymore.

"What do you mean?" He bluntly asked.

You hesitated now, realizing what pieces he might be putting together that you accidentally revealed.

"Look, he promised he'd make sure the people I care about were taken care of, alright?" You skirted around it. Even though, people only really meant him and your dad.

"Did you tell him about us?" Suguru cut to the point.

"Just that we used to sleep together. He doesn't know that you're, well," You paused, gesturing to his half-shredded costume. Suguru's face went slack, jaw clenching even tighter than it had been. "I had to, you defended me yesterday, and I didn't want Naoya to retaliate against you."

His entire expression shifted.

"Angel," He said so softly, you knew you'd done something wrong.

Fucked up in an astronomical way you couldn't quite understand.

Watching him turn for a split second to rub his forehead, running his fingers through his hair as he leaned his head back against the wall of the stall with a sigh.

Some dark flicker of understanding flashed across his face.

"Did you make a deal with him?"

Satoru wasn't the fucking devil.

You were still fumbling for a reply, lips parting and tongue numb as you searched your brain for something to say that would somehow make this better.

Just for someone to knock on the door.

"You in here, sweetheart?"

Panic surged through you, glancing up in Suguru's eyes as you covered your mouth. Shit shit shit.

"Don't say anything," You whispered, hurrying to undo the lock while Suguru just stood there.

The door to the bathroom started to creak right as you slipped out, thanking fucking God it was one of those weirdly long ones that meant Satoru wouldn't be able to see his feet inside it.

You closed the stall behind you.

Satoru was smiling, casual and relaxed, clueless to the fact your former friend-with-benefits who doubled as the city's vigilante was hiding behind you.

You opened your mouth to murmur an apology for taking so long, but he just reached over and flipped the lock to the bathroom door behind him.

Fuck.

"Been lookin' everywhere for you, sweetheart."

Suguru wanted to punch him already. There was too much adrenaline still pumping through his body, senses on fire and attuned at too high of a sensitivity to every tiny noise, every little shift in the air.

"Sorry, it's just kind of a lot out there," You excused, and Suguru could hear the shuffling of feet, clothes rustling. Was he holding you? Pressing a kiss to your forehead? Wrapping an arm around you?

The water turned on, and he guessed you were just washing your hands, playing your part and trying to quell any of Satoru's suspicions.

"Stressed?" Satoru chuckled, and you laughed a little, barely concealing your nervousness.

"Just tired of talking to people," You hummed, and Suguru readjusted to catch a glimpse through the crack of the door right as the water shut off. Satoru was grabbing you from behind, his hands on your hips while you dried yours off. Kissing your neck like you'd been separated for hours instead of just a few minutes.

And yeah, if you were strangers, he might've bought the whole thing. Assumed he was just the clingy boyfriend fiancé that couldn't stand to be more than five feet from you.

But Suguru knew better.

And the thought of you walking down the aisle for him, wearing his ring for the rest of your life and legally-bound to that sociopath was fucking insane.

You had told him once you couldn't imagine yourself getting married. Both of you half-asleep, still buried inside you, blankets tangled around you as his arm tightened around his waist. Eyes fluttering closed as you mumbled that maybe you just weren't the kind of girl someone would want to spend the rest of their life with.

He thought you were wrong back then.

Suguru wished he actually said it.

"My poor baby," Satoru purred into your skin, so saccharinely sweet it made him sick.

"It's fine," You dismissed it, turning around in his grip to get on the tip of your toes to leave a small kiss back on the corner of his lips. "I'll suck it up."

You were trying to distract him, to get him back towards the door. But Satoru didn't budge.

"On the counter," Satoru muttered.

Suguru waited for you to roll your eyes, to insist on going back out to the party. But you hesitated, wrapping your wrists around his neck, your fingers toying with the soft strands of his undercut. He couldn't tell if it was even part of your plan to get him out or if it was just second nature to you now.

"Toru," You softly murmured, and it made his chest fucking hurt even more than his face did.

The sincerity in your voice. The trust in your tone.

He picked you up by your ass, and you squeaked, surprised as he planted you on the counter instead.

"Just relax," He hummed. You bit your lip, and Suguru could see you trying to come up with an excuse, a distraction, but you didn't say anything. You were making eye contact with Satoru, like you could read what he wanted in just his stare.

"We shouldn't," You started to sigh, tilting your head to the side, but Satoru kissed you anyway. Interrupting before you could give him a reason.

"It's my party," He muttered against your lips between kisses.

"What if someone needs to use the bathroom?" You tugged him back by his hair, pouting at him, lip gloss already rubbed off.

"Then they can find a different one," Satoru chuckled, his mouth already moving south to leave more kisses across your jaw and down your throat.

Your eyes flickered over to the crack in the stall door while Satoru was distracted, apologetic as you mouthed a sorry.

Suguru wanted to look away.

But he couldn't.

Not when Satoru was pulling your tits free from your dress, squeezing and groping one while he wrapped his lips around your other nipple. Not when you were tilting your head back with a shaky gasp, sucking in rough breaths.

Stuck there struggling to breathe himself while Satoru got to be the one sucking on your breasts, slowly while you squirmed in his hold. Your thighs wrapped around his waist, his name on your tongue as he kneaded into your soft flesh.

Worshipping.

How long had it been since it was Suguru between your thighs, his hands on your body and his mouth tasting your skin?

Bitter and brutal jealousy was coloring his vision, curling his fist just to release it with trembling fingers as Satoru hitched your dress higher. Taking his time to roll all that fabric up carefully, guiding your hands to hold it above your hips to give him access to the pretty white panties you were wearing underneath it.

Suguru wanted to scream. To shout as Satoru shoved them aside, getting a full view of your pretty cunt, all soaked and slick. To stop him from shoving two fingers inside you and stretching you out around them.

Who were you wet for?

Him? Or Suguru?

"Tell me you want me," Satoru calmly said, stalling his fingers right as you were about to moan.

"I want you, Toru," You whined, a little too high-pitched, how you sounded when you couldn't really control yourself.

Restraint slipping as he pushed his fingers in deeper, your face scrunching up as you tried to hold back a whimper and couldn't.

Suguru really couldn't breathe now.

"You need me," Satoru murmured, and you just fucking nodded.

His other hand slipped further south, prying your thighs even further apart as he got down to trace a circle over your clit with his tongue instead. You shifted on the counter, spine going straight while he sucked and licked and lapped at you like you were a dessert for him to devour.

Suguru hated every second of it.

Watching another man get to have you, watch you give yourself to Satoru, of all people.

"Forget about everything else, okay?" Satoru whispered, and your shoulders almost slumped, eyes going a little glassy at his purr, his lips pressed against your skin. "It's just us here, alright?"

"Yeah," You breathlessly agreed. Suguru's stomach dropped. Sinking through every story and probably cracking the concrete watching you numbly nod along. You hadn't gone limp, but there was a weird look in your stare, not quite vacant but pretty fucking close. "Just us."

It didn't even sound like you.

You weren't looking at Suguru anymore.

Just relaxing your head back, gasping Satoru's name like it was the only thing you knew how to say, squirming against his grip and making soft sounds Suguru hadn't realized how much he missed hearing.

But they weren't for him.

What the fuck had Satoru done?

Suguru scanned, trying to find any clues, any hints, but Satoru's hands were firmly planted on your thighs, his tongue back to tasting you while his fingers thrusted in-and-out.

He felt like he should know. That he was missing what was right in front of him.

All the times it'd been him inside you, all the nights he'd spent fucking you, spreading your thighs and bending you over, you'd never gotten that look in your eyes before. And he wasn't stupid enough to think it was just love.

But he still hadn't figured it out even when you were close to climaxing, thighs trembling and pretty little cries of leaving your lips when you called out a name Suguru was getting really fucking sick of hearing.

"T-toru," You whined, wiggling against his hands, eyes fluttering closed as you came hard for him, face flushed and your makeup still holding despite the tears pricking at your lashes.

"That's my girl," He praised you between thrusts, pulling his fingers out right as you finished, popping them between your lips while they were still parted. "See how good you taste?"

Discomfort stirred in Suguru's stomach watching you suck Satoru's fingers clean through hazy, half-lidded eyes. Making a soft mm sound as he slid them back out with a filthy pop!

"Feeling better?" He asked, helping you off the counter next and onto shaky legs. You nodded, your face slowly shifting as you scrunched your nose up and glanced at your reflection in the mirror. Touching up your makeup like that was the most important matter as you leaned over the spot where Satoru had just been eating you out.

"Yeah," You mumbled, a little distantly as you came back down.

"I've got a present for you back there," He happily hummed, hands working fast to fix your dress and squeeze your tits back inside them.

"What is it?" You looked more like yourself now, blinking a few times, brow furrowed before you glanced back at Satoru.

"A surprise."

You did roll your eyes now, scoffing a little at him.

"Can't you just tell me?" You pouted, twisting your engagement ring around correctly as you took a couple steps towards the bathroom door.

You still hadn't looked back at Suguru.

And he was starting to wonder if you somehow forgot about him. If you believed you really were alone with Satoru.

"You'll find out soon," Satoru clicked his tongue, leaning down to squeeze you again and leave a few scattered kisses across your face. Your lip gloss was stuck to him now, a few faint splotches of glitter lingering to his skin.

You smiled, a genuine one that twitched up on your lips as you reached up to wipe one away. Your obscenely large diamond catching the bathroom lights and glittering, and then he noticed something that made his stomach churn even more.

Your nails were clipped short.

It felt like you'd been declawed.

He made a noise, something low and strangled, entirely involuntary. You didn't even notice, already turning back towards the door again to go.

But Satoru did.

Blue eyes met his. Intense and intelligent, the type of searing stare you felt before you saw. Drifting over what was left of his suit, the blood and the bruises before slowly sliding back up to his face, a small smirk curling up at the silent seething Suguru had barely been holding back.

And then he winked.

a/n: reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated <3 thank you for reading !!! :3

this chapter was going to be way longer but I had to split it up lol so those of you waiting to see Satoru's suit will have to wait till next chapter sorry :(