#filthy shit

*-*

9:06 AM – The Stretch Heard Round the World

You're just…minding your business.

Working from the couch. Being productive. Being professional. A woman in STEM. You’re sipping coffee out of a cute little mug that says “Not Before Coffee (or Cuddles ☕🐻)” and pretending not to be aware of the 6’4 problem-man-thing-creature feature stomping around the kitchen like he owns the place.

“Hey,” he says, like a warning shot.

You glance up. “Hm?”

“Where’s that dumb little mug you like?”

“…The one I’m holding?” you deadpan.

“Oh.” He scratches the back of his neck, flexing entire goddamn biceps as he walks behind you. “Guess I'll have to take another.”

And good lord.

That is him stretching up on his tiptoes to open the cabinet directly above his head — unnecessarily, you might add, because you have a stool and he could’ve just used the one next to the sink. But no. No, no, no.

Because Toji reaches up like he’s doing a pull-up. Tight black tee rucking up, sweatpants slouching down just low enough to tease the start of something V-shaped and unspeakable, and his fucking abs carving down like God got bored one day and made him with a woodchisel and a grudge.

You nearly short circuit.

And he knows. You know he knows.

“You good?” he rumbles, glancing down at you — your eyes still fixed on the 3 inches of stomach showing like a Victorian gentleman glimpsing bare ankle.

You cough, violently. “Y-Yeah. Super good. Thanks.”

Toji grins like the devil himself and pats your head. It’s not even 9:10.

*-*

11:22 AM – Prisoner No. 001: Chairman Meow

Toji’s next move is psychological warfare.

“Say goodbye to your cat,” he says out of nowhere.

You glance up from your screen just in time to see him hoisting poor Chairman Meow into the air with one hand — like he’s presenting Simba on Pride Rock — while the Chairman dangles there, confused, chubby, and mildly pissed.

“Toji—?!”

“He’s in jail,” Toji says solemnly, using his other hand to push a kitchen chair under the cat’s furry little paws so he’s kind of hovering over it. “Fuzzy little bastard committed tax fraud.”

“You’re deranged,” you say flatly.

But it’s hard to sound sincere when your whole face is burning and your thighs are involuntarily clenching like you’re starring in a goddamn tampon commercial.

Because again. Again. That shirt is barely hanging on. That arm is bulging. And this whole insane display is for your benefit — because Toji’s watching you, watching him, watching you…

And your screen is open to an Excel doc but the only thing running through your head is:

“I wanna get railed in the air.”

*-*

1:57 PM – Thirst Lunch (Not Real)

He’s making lunch. You think. It’s hard to tell, because most of what you can see is Toji shirtless, doing dips on the edge of the countertop for… no reason. No reason at all.

You stare, slack-jawed, as his triceps tighten with each slow lift. You’re holding a fork. You haven’t eaten in an hour. You're probably malnourished.

Your thoughts are not safe for work. They’re not even safe for humanity.

“You good?” he calls, not looking at you.

You jolt upright, like you’ve just been caught masturbating in church." Wh– What?”

“Keep making that face and your glasses are gonna fog up,” he smirks.

You contemplate sticking the fork in your own thigh.

Maybe that'll snap you out of it.

*-*

4:43 PM – This Is a Crime Scene Now

You go to the bedroom to grab a sweater because the AC’s blasting and you’re freezing, and what do you find?

Toji. Laying on his back. Sweats pulled way down, happy trail out like a beacon to whores (read:you). Shirtless. One arm behind his head like he’s posing for a medieval tapestry and the other scrolling his phone like he’s not actively destroying your will to live.

He yawns — arches his back. Cracks his neck. Groans loudly, like he’s just too tight from the gym this morning. (Gym. He didn’t go to the gym. He was the gym.)

You blink at him. “You’re naked.”

“I’m wearing pants.”

“Barely.”

“That’s all you lookin’ at?”

You make a choked noise and flee the room. Toji follows you five minutes later and hums while passing behind you, just to make sure his sweatpants brush your ass. He’s evil. You hate him. You want to see him ruined. You want to kiss his stomach. You want to sob into his pecs and then peg him into the drywall. You’re fine.

*-*

6:35 PM – Your Final Braincell Clocks Out

You’re attempting to read a recipe for dinner, but it’s hard when Toji’s directly behind you again, grabbing a mixing bowl from the top shelf — because of course it’s on the top shelf — and he’s doing the stretch again.

“Oh my god,” you whisper.

“You say something?”

“No.”

“You been weird all day.”

“I’m working.”

“Pretty sure your work laptop’s dead.”

“I’m working mentally.”

“Sure, sweetheart.”

He leans down and sinks his teeth into your shoulder. Softly. Playfully. Like he’s testing the water.

And then?

Then he just. Leaves.

Goes to the sink. Starts washing vegetables. Like a whore.

*-*

9:01 PM – You’re Going to Jail for Horny Crimes

You are officially unwell.

Your brain is pudding. Your thighs have been clenched since sunrise. You’re convinced the human body isn’t built to withstand this much sublimated lust and survive.

“Toji,” you say.

He looks up from where he’s flossing. “Hm?”

You pause. You stare. You bite your tongue. You break.

“I swear to god, if you do one more stretch or one more dip or pick up that fucking cat like a dumbbell again I’m gonna climb you like a tree and grind on your thigh until you cry.”

There’s a pause.

Then a slow, sharp grin.

“There she is,” he murmurs.

There’s a long, terrible pause in the kitchen. Like the moment in a horror movie when the string section goes dead silent and the dumb blonde chick says, “Guys? I think we lost it.”

Except you’re the dumb blonde (or brunette or whatever) and he’s the monster, except instead of murdering you he’s going to fuck you within an inch of your life and that’s actually somehow worse.

Because Toji’s staring at you now.

Big arms crossed. Shirt too tight across his chest. Sweats low on his hips and hanging there with the confidence of someone who knows the weight of the war crime between his legs. There’s a little vein in his neck that pops every time he smirks and he’s smirking right now like he just caught a really stupid little animal in a trap and now he’s going to put it in his mouth and chew.

"You're so full of shit," you say weakly.

"You’re full of something, baby," he mutters, voice deep enough to vibrate through bone, and then — tragedy strikes — he stretches again.

“THERE’S NOTHING TO STRETCH—!”

“Ohhh, I dunno,” he says, curling one arm behind his neck, tilting his head. “Pretty sore from carrying this relationship on my back all day.”

You scream.

Internally of course, wouldn't want to bother our majesty Chairman Meow.

*-*

He doesn’t even touch you at first.

He walks forward — slow, deliberate, like he’s trying not to spook a feral, oiled up squirrel — and eyes you like you’re something fragile and dumb and precious that he’s about to put in his mouth.

“You been stewin’ in it all day, huh?” he murmurs, voice thick with sugar and sin. “Poor thing. You looked like you were gonna break around lunch.”

You blink up at him. "You're a criminal."

"I know."

"You terrorized me—"

"You liked it."

He cups your chin, tilts your head up, smiles. The kind of smile that should come with a parental advisory warning.

"Bet you're wet right now, huh?"

(You are. Disgustingly so. It's embarrassing. You're going to have to burn your panties.)

“I shouldn’t let you touch me, you..you.. you whore,” you whisper, breath catching.

He laughs — low, filthy, reverent.

“Yeah,” he says, “but you will.”

You blink and suddenly you’re in the bedroom.

He lifts you like you’re made of dandelion seeds. Just—up. No grunts. No flexing. No effort. His forearm doesn’t even twitch. It’s humiliating. You don’t know whether to cry or get a tattoo of him holding you like that on your lower back.

And an important event occurs:

Chairman Meow has been removed from the premises.

This is not a drill.

You hear the door click.

He locks it.

“Toji,” you whisper, watching him turn back toward you with that familiar I’m-about-to-make-you-see-God look in his eyes.

“Can’t have your fuckin’ cat in here,” he mutters, voice dark and wicked. “Not while I’m doin’ this.”

You hear a tiny scratch on the outside of the door. A mournful meow. A small paw under the crack. It’s tragic.

Chairman Meow is now a child of divorce.

But you?

You’re about to get raw-dogged by a monster.

And then he lays you out. On the bed. Slow. Gentle. Like you’re something worth worshipping, not just ruining. And you feel ruinable.

“Been thinkin’ about this all day,” he says, hands everywhere, voice rough. “You squirming on that couch. Legs pressed together like that was gonna help. Thought I was gonna have to put you outta your misery.”

He presses his mouth to the inside of your thigh, and you moan. Not a soft moan. Not a classy moan.

A horrid little sound. Like a goblin getting exorcised.

"Yeah," Toji chuckles, "thought so."

*-*

Now listen.

Toji Fushiguro eats pussy like he’s trying to win a Michelin star. Like he’s being judged by God and this is the final test.

You barely get your panties off before he’s diving in. No teasing. No drawn-out bullshit. Just nose-in, face pressed so deep between your thighs it should count as reconstructive surgery.

He eats you like he’s starving. Like he’s never going to taste you again. He’s loud about it, sloppy, spit and slick everywhere, the sound alone enough to make your toes curl inward like a shrimp on a frying pan.

"Fuck— Toji—"

He growls low, tongue dragging up your slit, then flicking your clit like he’s testing the elasticity of your last braincell.

“You moan like that again, I’m not stoppin’ until you cry.”

And you do. You moan.

Like a fucking siren.

Like a harlot.

Like a woman with no pride left to lose.

(Lets be honest, the pride is gone, has left the country even.)

He grabs your thighs with both hands — massive, unfair hands — and just locks in, jaw working, nose nudging your clit in slow, nasty circles while he fucks you with his tongue like it’s a competition. Like he wants to brand you from the inside out.

Your fingers claw through his hair. You’re sobbing. You’re begging. You’re saying weird little things — things you’ll deny later. You think you might be seeing God. Or maybe it’s Toji. He’s kinda the same thing right now.

“I—I can’t—!”

“Yes you can,” he mutters against your cunt, hot breath spilling down your thighs. “C’mon, pretty girl. Gimme one. Been starin’ at me all day like you deserve it, huh?”

And then he sucks.

Violently.

And you fall apart like a house with bad foundation.

*-*

“You good, sweetheart?” he says, already shirtless, already hard, already standing over you like a final boss.

“No,” you breathe. “I’m—I’m gonna die.”

“That’s the plan.”

And then he’s on you.

Literally.

Because he picks you up like you’re a pillow and folds you in half with zero hesitation. Like your spine isn’t real. Like he read the Kama Sutra and laughed and said “ok but what if I made it feral?”

You are suspended. Legs hooked over his shoulders. Back bent at some evil angle. You can see yourself in the mirror across the room and what you see is: ruin. A woman hanging onto sanity by a single fraying thread, about to be rearranged like the living room furniture.

“Toji—wait, wait—”

“Shhh.” He runs a hand down your stomach, possessive. “Lemme in. I’ll be gentle.”

He will not be gentle.

But oh, he thinks he is.

“O-oh—”

The moment he pushes in, you lose all motor function.

Like, genuinely. A windows shutdown noise plays in your head. Your arms go limp. Your mouth opens but no sound comes out.

He’s so fucking big. It’s insane. You don’t know how it’s real. You don’t know how physics allows this.

“Yeah,” he grits out, watching your face contort. “That’s it. I know, baby. I’m in your fuckin’ guts, huh?”

You whimper.

You claw at his back. You say a prayer.

He just smiles. That smug, sex-god, “I know what I’m doing” smile.

“Can feel you tryin’ to take it,” he murmurs, fucking in slow. In deep. “Your greedy little pussy doesn’t even know what to do with all this cock.”

You make a strangled noise. Possibly a Latin chant.

“You’re so full. God. Look—”

He presses a hand to your belly. Pushes. The bulge is there — so clear, so filthy — and your vision blacks out for a second.

“Oh my god—”

“That’s me,” he growls. “Stretchin’ you open like you’re made for it.”

*-*

He’s fucking you so hard you hear the bed frame creak. That’s a Toji problem, not a you problem, but still.

You’re in full nelson now. Don’t know how. Don’t know when it happened. Your ankles are hooked behind his ears like he’s gonna wear you as a scarf. Your arms are pinned back. His hands are around your wrists, big enough to wrap all the way around.

He’s deep. Unholy. Splitting you open like he’s on a quest.

“You take it so fuckin’ good,” he pants. “You were made for this.”

“I— I think I see stars—”

“That’s just the blood leavin’ your brain.”

“You’re a freak.”

“You’re so fuckin’ cute like this.”

And then he slows down.

Because apparently he thinks you haven’t suffered enough.

He starts grinding — grinding. Deep, slow strokes. Rocking into you with that sick, evil control, dragging the head of his cock along every swollen nerves like he’s mapping your soul.

“Feel that?” he murmurs, leaning in, breath hot in your ear. “That’s your cervix, baby. That’s me kissin’ it.”

You sob. You actually sob.

“Gonna fuck it open,” he growls. “Gonna fuck you so deep they’ll feel it on the next census.”

You’ve fully dissociated. Your ghost has left the building. Your physical body is being used like a stress toy and your soul is curled in a corner whispering the Rosary.

*-*

You are dumb now.

No more thoughts. No more language. Just cock.

Your eyes are crossing. Your tongue is lolling. There’s drool. Toji is going to bully you about this later and you’ll let him because you deserve it.

“There she goes,” he says, voice like molten sin, “fuckin’ melted.”

He licks a stripe up your neck like he’s owning it.

“You love this, huh?” he mutters, burying himself in again. “Love bein’ stretched out. Love me usin’ you like a fuckin’ toy.”

You can’t answer. You don’t remember how words work. You nod and moan and let out a little gasp that sounds like a dying flute note.

“Yeah, that’s my girl,” he groans. “My sweet little pretty girl.”

You shudder.

*-*

He pulls you into mating press next. You don’t know how. You don’t know what laws of gravity were defied to make this happen but it’s happening and you are NOT safe.

Your knees are to your chest. His chest is to yours. His mouth is on your neck, your collar, your mouth, fucking filthy praise spilling like poisoned honey.

“You’re so good for me. So fuckin’ sweet. Can’t stop thinkin’ about you—”

He slams in. The head of his cock drags across something in you that makes your eyes roll.

“Gonna make you cum again,” he growls. “C’mon, baby. Squirt on me.”

You short-circuit.

Your vision goes white.

You clench around him like your pussy’s trying to imprison him.

You squirt. Like a crime scene. Like a soda can shaken too hard.

“Fuck,” he snarls, grabbing your hips, slamming in once—twice—thrice—

He groans. Loud. Animalistic.

And then you feel it:

Warm. Deep. Spilling. Painting you inside-out.

He cums so much it feels illegal. You are filled. You are stuffed. You are now one of those slutty cream-filled donuts he moans about at 3am.

*-*

He collapses on top of you. Breathing hard. Kissing your face.

“You okay?” he murmurs, softly now.

You make a sound that might mean “yes” or “kill me” or anything else that's non-commital.

He brushes a hand through your hair. Cuddles you like you didn’t just let him make you cum so hard you lost your brain.

“I love you,” he whispers.

You blink. “You love me?”

“‘Course I do, dumbass.” He grins. “Why else would I lock your cat out and ruin your pussy for the next four days?”

You stare up at the ceiling.

There’s a meow at the door.

You are boneless. Brain-dead. Useless.

But you are happy.

And ruined.

And safe.

And fucked stupid by Toji Fushiguro.

A/N: yeah ik i lowkey copied the ending of my last fic on this one I KNOOOWWW, but i couldn't come up with anything ahha, so i must admit those five last lines are legit the same, also i've written cutesy fluff for the last couple weeks... well... then next fic that'll be posted will be ... something else

Masterlist

You hear the door slam open like it owes someone money.

That’s your first warning. Second is the distinct sound of keys being thrown into the tiny wooden bowl by the front door — the one you keep telling him not to slam stuff into because it's from your grandma. And third — the loud, guttural, caveman-worthy sigh of pure and undistilled frustration.

Toji Fushiguro is home. And he’s PISSED.

You're in the kitchen. Well. Technically leaning on the kitchen counter, sipping a glass of cucumber-lime water and letting your wet hair drip down your back because the only towel you could find was Chairman Meow’s, and you have standards.

You don’t hear him coming.

But you feel it. Like a shift in the atmosphere. The pressure changes. Your nipples perk like they got spidey-senses. You look up — too late — and there he is. In the hallway. Just… standing there. Big. Broad. Black shirt hugging his biceps like they’re beefy prisoners. His jaw tight. Hair a mess. One eyebrow twitching like it’s about to start a mutiny.

He stares at you. You stare back.

And then. His eyes drop.

Boobies.

Boobies.

BOOBIES.

Boobalicious. Glorious. Damp-from-the-shower titty meat, outlined perfectly under the thin white cotton of your dumb shirt. No bra. Nipples clearly saluting the flag. You see his pupils dilate like he’s about to start barking.

“Toji,” you try to say, real soft, but it comes out more like a question. Because he's moving now. And not like, walking. Like stalking. A jungle cat. Some kind of unhinged MILF-hunting panther.

“Toji—”

“Nope,” he grunts, voice like gravel, as his hands are already on your hips, manhandling you with the grace of a drunk forklift operator.

You squeak.

He lifts.

You yelp.

“TOJI, I HAVE CUCUMBER IN MY MOUTH—”

“Spit it out,” he growls.

“What the fuck, I’m not in a toothpaste ad—”

You’re suddenly in the air. He’s carrying you bridal style like some fucked up Disney prince with anger issues. Chairman Meow, previously licking water off your leg, lets out a single judgmental mrrowww? and trots after you two, tail up like a little pervert. But Toji’s already slamming the bedroom door shut. And locking it.

(Which is very important. Because one time Chairman Meow opened it during sex and Toji swore the cat made eye contact with him as he was finishing. You had to sleep with the lights on for a week.)

He tosses you on the bed.

“OW. My ass—”

Toji climbs on top of you with all the grace of a sleep-deprived rhino, kneeling between your spread thighs like he’s worshipping at the altar of Chub™. He bends down, presses his face into your cleavage, sighs like the weight of the entire fucking Tokyo metro system just left his back.

Boobies: activated.

“Tits,” he mutters. “Perfect. Soft. Fuckin’ heaven.”

You blink. You wheeze.

“Toji—are you okay? Like, emotionally?”

He shakes his head. "No talking. Just tit."

You try. You really do. But his face is literally buried in your chest like he’s a man dying of thirst and your boobs are spring water from the gods.

“Baby,” you whisper, pushing back some hair from his forehead. “Rough day?”

He groans, muffled. “Every customer was stupid. Every fight was stupid. Shiu's fukin' breath smells like old sardines and man regrets. And the fucking printer—don’t even get me started on the fucking printer.”

You rub circles on his broad back. It’s like touching a sleeping bear. A very horny, grumbly bear who’s now nuzzling your boob like it’s a weighted titty-pillow.

He still hasn’t said anything else. You wait a beat. Then—

“I spent the morning watching a shrimp cannibalize another shrimp,” you say.

Toji makes a noise. You interpret it as mild curiosity.

“One molted too slow and the other one just went for it. Snap. Crunch. I love crustaceans. They're so primal. Like tiny sea sociopaths.”

“Mmmh.”

“Also my coworker Jessica said I look like a sexy butternut squash in because of my shirt.”

Toji lifts his head just enough to look down at your chest, and then back up at you with the most deadpan, pained, horny look you’ve ever seen on his face.

“I’m gonna kill Jessica.”

You giggle, cupping his face. His scar twitches like it’s trying to smile but can’t. His eyes are half-lidded and soft now. Like he's melting into you.

"You don't have to talk about your day, okay?" you murmur. "Just… rest. Recharge. I got you, alright?"

He nods. Doesn't say thank you, but leans in again. Places one slow, open-mouthed kiss to the swell of your breast. Then another. Then a bite.

"Toji!"

His voice is low. Like a purr.

“Wanna hear more.” Drag. His palm inches upward. “Tell me more.” Fingertip trace. Beneath your shorts now. “But also wanna fuckin’ ruin you a little. At the same time.” Pause. “Is that allowed.”

You sigh, exasperated, but your thighs are clenched and your core is not playing fair.

You keep talking. (He likes the sound of your voice. It’s something about the softness. The way you explain weird science things like they’re poetry. He says it grounds him.)

“So anyway, I’m thinking of moving the shrimp into their own tanks,” you murmur, running your fingers through his hair. “Maybe give them more space. Reduce the murder per square inch.”

Toji nods.

Another kiss. Lower. A little wetter.

Your hand fidgets on his shoulder. “Also, did you know starfish can eject their stomachs to digest prey externally?”

“...what? Ma,” he rasps. “I’m trying to fuck you. Why are you talking about stomachs ejecting?”

“You said no talking about your day. I’m respecting boundaries.”

He laughs. Like a real laugh. Deep. Rumbly. Then moans a little as he squeezes a handful of your thick thigh and presses a slow, filthy kiss to the inside of your knee.

"God, you're so soft. I feel like I'm fucking hallucinating. Boobs and thighs? And a shirt with cat puns?”

You smirk. “I’m the full package, baby.”

“Mmph.” He's now dragging his lips up the curve of your inner thigh, thumb brushing right under the hem of your shorts. “You’re the whole goddamn feast. And I’m starving.”

You feel it then. His hands — big, calloused, greedy — start to drift.

First, resting harmlessly on your hips. Then— A thumb slides just under the waistband of your shorts. His mouth still pressed to your thigh, his eyes flick up like he’s daring you to tell him to stop.

You arch a brow.

He smirks.

“Well,” you say, voice going a little breathless, “I was gonna tell you about the snail orgy in the lab today—”

Fuck no-”

“—but maybe later.”

There’s a strange moment in the timeline of your life where you go from talking about shrimp to getting eaten out like your pussy is on death row.

This is that moment.

You’re on your back, now fully shirtless — oops, there it goes — and your soft thighs are spread like they’re offering a throne. Toji’s head is between your legs, one arm lazily thrown over your waist like he’s lounging poolside, the audacity of this man. He’s got that dangerous sparkle in his eye. The mischief. The chaos. The face of a man who knows he can do whatever the fuck he wants down there and you’ll let him.

And he’s not even doing it to fuck.

Oh, no.

He’s doing it because it relaxes him. Like a guy who plays Animal Crossing after a hard day. Only his “villager” is your clit and his “nook miles” are your moans.

You’re trying to talk about shrimp.

No. You are talking about shrimp. Out loud. Aloud. In a full sentence.

“Toji—ngh—Toji, d-did you know—ahhhfuck—that caridean shrimp have over seventeen documented forms of social—ohmygod—social hierarchy??”

He looks up. Lips slick. Grinning.

“Yeah?” he says, like he’s reading a menu. “What else, ma?”

“Th-they fight! For territory. Like—ugh—really brutal, full-on claw duels. It’s—it’s about mating rights and shelter—Toji, please—”

He licks a stripe up your inner thigh, slow. Nasty. Torturous. “No orgasm till I get my shrimp facts. You got three tries.”

You stare at him, panting. “You’re literally deranged.”

His hand squeezes your thigh. “I’m literally under your pussy. Keep talking.”

So you do.

You try. You try so hard. You launch into your thesis, because surely, surely if your brain is forced to focus on data, the rest of your body will behave. Right?

Wrong.

“Okay,” you gasp, clutching at the pillow behind you as his tongue does that thing again, “so there's this freshwater shrimp species, Caridina multidentata, and they—oh my fucking god, Toji—focus. No, wait, I have to focus. Right.”

You feel him smirk. You can feel it. With his mouth. On your pussy.

“You were sayin’ somethin’ about shrimp, sweetheart?” he mumbles, breath hot, evil, from below. “Use your words.”

“I am! I’m using shrimp words!”

He hums. It vibrates against you.

“Okay. Okay, so… Caridina multidentata,” you breathe, fists clenched in the sheets. “They’re also called Amano shrimp. They’re—oh fuuuck—they’re algae eaters. Used in aquariums. And they’re non-aggressive!”

Toji sucks your clit into his mouth like he’s giving it CPR.

You scream.

"Fuck, fuck, why are you like this?!"

“Shrimp,” he grunts, not looking up. “Give me more shrimp.”

“I hate you.”

“No you don’t,” he purrs, and licks the entire length of your pussy, slow and taunting. “You love me. You love me so much you're lecturing me about fuckin' shrimp with your thighs trembling.”

You shriek.

He's obnoxious. He’s perfect. He’s the kind of feral domestic menace who likes to fold you in half like laundry and eat you until you forget your own name.

And right now? He’s laser focused.

“Also,” you gasp, “they have sexual dimorphism—”

“What’s that mean?”

You barely manage to answer, “Males are smaller—OH my god Toji—males are smaller and females have this stripe—fuck—horizontal stripe down their sides—"

“Mm.” He’s eating now. Sucking your clit, tonguing into you, teasing with the pad of his thumb over your entrance like he’s deciding whether to ruin your whole shit right now or later. “Smart girl. Love hearin’ you talk nerdy.”

You whimper, actual tears in your eyes.

But you keep going. Somehow.

“Molting,” you moan. “They molt to grow. Shed their exoskeletons. Females—fuck me—they only mate after molting—!”

“You molted recently?” he teases, slipping a thick finger inside you, slow and cruel. “’Cause I swear this pussy feels brand fuckin’ new.”

“I’m gonna kill you after I cum—”

“Wrong. You’re gonna beg. Keep talkin’, baby. Gimme another."

“Caridean shrimp have uniquely sexualized dimorphism in—aaaHHh fuck—nnghhh their appendages—ohh—specifically the first chelipeds which—fuck—Toji—”

“That’s one,” he mutters against your cunt, finger tracing your slit like he’s drawing a map. “Strike one.”

You growl.

He chuckles. Fucking chuckles. Mouth shiny with your arousal like some smug little beast.

“This is harassment,” you huff.

“No, sweetheart,” he says, dragging a finger through your folds, “this is motivation.”

And then he goes right back to it. Licking, slurping, sucking in a way that should be illegal. He eats you like he’s starving. Like your pussy is the last meal before battle. Like he’d sell his soul for a second helping. Big hands spread your thighs wider. His tongue flicks your clit just right. Your hips jump.

“Keep going, scientist,” he says, low. “Gimme the thesis.”

You clutch the sheets like they owe you rent. “I-I had to isolate two populations of the genus—Toji, holy shit—genus Palaemon—nngh—because one was displaying cannibalistic traits—AHH—”

“That’s two.”

“You’re evil.”

He grins. “Three strikes and I edge you.”

That gets you talking.

“OKAY OKAY. So I separated the aggressive ones—aggression is often tied to resource scarcity—and uhhh their salinity tolerance was lower than the others, which is so weird, like biologically they should’ve been identical, but the phenotype—ohhh—was radically diff—diff—fuck, Toji I’m gonna—”

He pauses. Just—stops. Tongue gone. Pressure gone. Just warm breath hovering.

You sob. Actually, literally, whimper like a kicked puppy.

“I didn’t say you could cum,” he murmurs, eyes glittering.

“You’re a menace. You’re not even fucking me—”

“I’m busy eating shrimp facts,” he shrugs. “You wanna cum? Earn it, lab girl.”

You wanna slap him.

You wanna ride him senseless.

But for now—you go back to talking. Voice high. Body twitching. Science and sin in equal measure.

You sob. “I’m trying so hard.”

“I know,” he purrs. “You’re doin’ so good. Look at you. Smart little shrimp slut.”

“That is NOT sexy—”

“Say you’re a shrimp slut and I’ll let you cum.”

“I hate you.”

“Say it.”

“FINE—” you gasp, voice going high and wrecked, “I’m your shrimp slut—God that sounds stupid."

"T's hilarious." He grumbles.

Then his whole mouth is on you again and everything turns into static. You’re vaguely aware you’re babbling about shrimp enzymes and dietary needs, something about sea lettuce and shell rot, but none of it makes sense even to you, and yet Toji is nodding like you’re delivering a TED Talk.

He groans into your cunt like it’s the answer to his rage, hands splayed over your soft belly and thighs like he needs to hold you down.

You fuck up again. You stutter. Ramble about a species that doesn’t exist. You stop mid-sentence when he does that thing with his tongue, and your moan is so loud it echoes.

By the time you’re allowed to cum, you’re crying. Actually crying. Like your pussy saw god and your PhD at the same time. Toji licks you through it, moaning low in his throat like he’s the one being wrecked.

And when he finally slides up your body, kissing your stomach, your chest, your mouth, you taste yourself on his tongue and see STARS.

He doesn’t even pull his pants off. Just wraps around you like a warm, horny human blanket. Sweaty and smug.

“Feel better now?” you mutter, lips swollen, hair a mess.

“Mhmm,” he says, resting his head on your tits. “Shrimp saved my life.”

You snort.

You’re half-asleep when you hear it.

scritch. scritch. scritch.

A paw. Under the door. Followed by a soft, tragic mrrrrow?

You both freeze.

“No,” you whisper. “He knows.”

Toji looks up from your chest.

“He’s outside the door.”

A beat of silence.

THUMP.

Chairman Meow launches himself at the door like a furry battering ram.

You groan. “He’s mad we locked him out. He’s gonna fuck up my plants.”

Toji sighs, sits up. Walks over, unlocks the door.

Chairman Meow struts in.

He pauses.

He looks at Toji.

Then at you.

“Mrow.”

Judgment. Disgust. Pure feline rage.

Toji picks him up like a football. “You’re five seconds from being adopted by someone else.”

Chairman Meow nibbles his nose.

You laugh so hard you see stars again.

A/N: hope this was good, at least a bit funny

Masterlist

And Toji? Well, Toji was watching your ass.

Not in theory. Not fondly remembering it from last night—though that had definitely been top-tier, life-changing, earthquake-meets-crescendo-of-Mariah-Carey-bridge good.

No.

This man, this ex-assassin, this menace to society, this demon of your thighs, was watching your ass right now as you tried to fasten your garter belt while hopping on one foot.

You were bustling around the room like a sexy, chubby little hurricane, muttering to yourself about conference prep and presentation slides and “WHERE THE FUCK DID I PUT MY HAIR PIN—Toji did you touch it?” (he had not, to be clear. Chairman Meow was currently playing with it.)

Toji did not respond.

He was too busy ogling.

You were standing in front of your vanity, completely unaware of the ogling, dressed in nothing but your red satin underwear, hair half-curled, eyeliner sharp enough to kill, and one (1) glorious titty swinging as you adjusted the strap of your bra with a frustrated grunt.

He whistled. Low and very awake.

You jumped. “TOJI??”

“Damn,” he croaked, voice still molasses-thick and scratchy from sleep, “mornin’, sweetheart. You walkin’ out the house like that or do I gotta kill a man today?”

Your face went instantly pink. “OH MY GOD—no! I—Shut the hell up!”

“No bra. Just tits. Makin’ science sexy.” He gave a lazy, sinful smirk, still sprawled shirtless across your bed like he paid rent there.

You frantically threw a blouse over yourself. “I have a keynote presentation in like, three hours! I am not being slutty on purpose!”

He yawned. “Unfortunate.”

Chairman Meow let out a judgmental mrrrp and scratched at his leg like even he was tired of the horny.

Toji flicked the cat’s ear. “Sheesh, Meow-san, let a man simp in peace.”

You grumbled something about “goddamn feral men” and started lining up three potential outfits across the bed while Toji finally sat up, abs still obnoxiously visible and hair all mussed like he just got laid, which he very much did.

“I’m just admirin’ the view! It’s like wakin’ up in an art museum. A real bouncy one.”

You laughed despite yourself. “You’re disgusting.”

“And you love it,” he said, throwing one arm behind his head and letting the blanket slip just a little more. “Now c’mon, lemme help pick what’s gonna cover those babies up. I owe it to society.”

“Alright,” you huffed, hands on your soft hips. “Pick one.”

Toji blinked. “Wait you're actually letting me choose? I’m just gonna pick the sluttiest one.”

“That’s the idea,” you grinned, “but I have to be respectable-slightly-hot-doctor slutty, not will-fuck-in-the-breakroom slutty.”

He scratched his jaw. “That a challenge?”

“Focus, you menace.”

Toji got up (naked. Of course. Bastard, dick swinging and all) and started examining the choices.

Option A: tight pencil skirt, red blouse, glasses-on-chain-core. Option B: high-waisted swing pants and a cherry halter. Option C: black circle skirt, matching corset-style top, big ol’ belt.

All options had That Ass™ involved, obviously.

“B’s got sideboob,” he said. “But C’s got cleavage. I vote cleavage.”

“Shocking.”

He turned to the cat, who sat judging all of humanity from the pillow throne. “Yo, Chairman. Tie-breaker?”

Chairman Meow trotted up to Option C and sat on it with his entire butt.

“THE CAT HAS SPOKEN,” you declared, dramatic finger to the sky.

Toji was too busy watching your tits bounce as you danced around the room pulling on stockings. “Mmhmm,” he grunted, “You gonna walk onstage in that and get a standing ovation for both your research and your rack.”

You threw a hairbrush at him. “Innapropriate.”

He caught it, looked deeply unrepentant, and crawled back onto the bed to watch you like a wolf watching his mate gather twigs for the den or whatever.

“God,” he muttered, “gonna be thinkin’ ‘bout this ass all day. Shit ain’t fair. How’re you smart and thick and hot and nice to my murder cat?”

You smoothed your hair, ignoring the compliment stack, but your ears were turning red.

“Ma,” he said, suddenly more serious, scratching the back of his neck. “What time you get home?”

You turned to him with an eyebrow up. “Why?”

“...Might try to cook. Or I’ll get that weird vegan place you like. The one with the tofu that doesn’t taste like feet.”

Your face split into the brightest, cheesiest smile. “ARE YOU TRYING TO ROMANCE ME, FUSHIGURO?”

He shrugged, suddenly shy. “Maybe. Don’t make a fuckin’ thing outta it.”

You pounced forward, lipstick already on, and smacked the reddest kiss onto his cheek, leaving a perfect red pout mark. He blinked.

“That shit permanent?”

“Hope so.”

He tugged you by the waistband and murmured right against your lips, “Come home early. I wanna rail the Good Doctor again.”

You cackled. “Sir. I study autism in children, please don’t call me The Good Doctor—" straightening your skirt and grabbing your briefcase like the very professional adult you are, “you are the horniest bastard alive.”

He nodded. “That’s me, ma.”

“And you’re lucky I like you.”

He grinned. “Lucky you let me hit it three times last night.”

“FOUR. It was four, actually, and you almost broke my headboard—”

“You’re welcome.”

You kissed him again, this time soft and slow, and he held your waist like you were the whole world.

“See you tonight, loverboy.”

Toji watched you walk out the door—hips swaying, curls bouncing, glasses perched on your nose—and sighed, leaning back.

"Total milf."

Chairman Meow let out an unimpressed chirp.

*-*

The first thing you noticed when you walked into your apartment—after kicking off your heels and nearly chucking your presentation binder across the room—was the smell.

Food. Real food. Delicious food. FOOD THAT WASN’T MICROWAVED TOFU NUGGETS.

You sniffed the air like a rabid raccoon.

“…TOJI?!?”

From the kitchen: “Don’t panic!”

You immediately panicked.

You stumbled in to find Toji shirtless (classic), wearing an apron that said “DILF AT WORK” (concerning), hair pulled back (slight man bun Toji real), and standing over a suspiciously functional-looking stir fry.

“OH MY GOD YOU COOKED?”

“I did,” he said proudly, “and nothing is on fire.”

You blinked. “Why does it smell like real food? Did you follow a recipe??”

Toji turned to you with a dramatic chef’s bow. “I called your weird vegan place and bullied the dude into walking me through your favorite order. I made you that tofu broccoli abomination you like.”

You gasped. “YOU MEAN THE MAPO-STYLE ONE WITH THE GARLIC OIL?!?”

“I don't fuckin' know what any of that means,” he grunted, plating it, “but yeah. That one.”

You tackled him with a hug and almost knocked the pan over.

“You’re a GENIUS,” you cried. “A big, scary, sexy, GIANT-SHOULDERED genius.”

He smirked. “Kiss the chef?”

You kissed him. With tongue. You also licked his scar a little. Because gratitude.

“Go sit your hot ass down,” he said, swatting your butt as he passed. “Dinner’s served, Doctor Panty-Destroyer.”

You were halfway through your second bite of perfectly spicy tofu when you slammed your chopsticks down and exclaimed, “—and then this ASSHAT tells ME I can't quote VYGOTSKY in a CROSS-PANEL discussion?!”

Toji blinked. “Uhh. What’s a Vygotsky?”

You gestured wildly. “Oh y'know, just THE FATHER OF SOCIOCULTURAL theory!”

He nodded like that explained anything. “Sounds like a punk.”

“RIGHT?! He’s DEAD but STILL more useful than my co-chair on that board!”

“So,” he grunted back, “you win the Nobel Prize yet or what?”

You snorted. “No, but I did almost choke Dr. Kim in the elevator for calling me ‘little lady’ again.”

“Did you?”

“No, because apparently choking people is frowned upon in professional academia.”

“Bullshit.”

Toji spooned more food into your bowl. “Eat more. Yell more. Go on.”

And you were eating.

Like, actively. Deliciously because this was actually good.

“Godddd, I think this is better than orgasms right now.”

Toji raised an eyebrow. “Ma, don’t tempt me. I will make a very thorough comparison.”

“Shut up,” you said through a mouthful of noodles, “I had to explain to a whole-ass PhD panel today that my control group wasn’t trying to intentionally manipulate the data, they were just, y’know, five-year-olds.”

Toji sucked a bit of peanut sauce off his finger. “Hot.”

“No it was chaos, babe. One kid licked a USB drive. One drew a dick on my printout. One BIT my shoe.”

Toji nodded solemnly. “He’s my new favorite.”

You glared, but he gave you the smirk — the devastating one. The one that said he was gonna do something soon, and you were gonna pretend to be annoyed, but your legs would definitely be shaking after.

He kissed your forehead as he cleaned up the dishes. “You’re literally the hottest bitch I know. Fuck 'em. Not literally. Just metaphorically.”

You giggled, because he was being cute and he had tofu oil on his mouth.

“…Hey,” you whispered, tone shifting. “Thanks for cooking. Seriously.”

He shrugged. “You bust your ass helping kids, bein’ all smart and shit. You deserve a meal. And a nut.”

You choked on your rice. “TOJI—”

“I’m just sayin’,” he said casually, standing up and gathering the plates, “I made you dinner. Now I get dessert.”

You blinked. “That’s not how that works—”

“Oh no?” he smirked, cracking his neck like a horny menace. “You gonna stop me, Doctor Sits-On-My-Face?”

You shrieked.

You didn’t finish because you were suddenly being lifted. By the hips. And deposited — gently, reverently — on top of the kitchen table.

“I thought I was being punished,” you teased, half-flustered. “I left the dishwasher full, remember?”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Toji murmured, voice low and dark as sin, “this is your punishment.”

And then. Then he got on his knees.

Yes. Yes, this man, your man, the one with biceps the size of your thigh and a career in high-level security detail and the vocabulary of a drunk sailor—was on the floor. Face-first. In your thighs. In the kitchen.

“Wait wait wait, babe—wait—”

He kissed the inside of your thigh. “Don’t care.”

“TOJI THE CAT’S WATCHING.”

“Then he’s learnin’ somethin’ today.”

You shrieked, smacked him, and then forgot how to speak English for a good three minutes as he went to town. Because Toji Fushiguro ate pussy like it owed him money. Or secrets. Or a promotion.

“I said I wanted dessert,” he muttered, voice low and so fucking gravely, “and you come home lookin’ like that? Wearin’ hot lipstick on your mouth like a goddamn warning sign?”

You moaned. “That’s not what lipstick is f—OH FUCK—”

His mouth was on you. On you.

Toji ate pussy like he was making up for lost time, like he was getting paid by the whimper. Tongue deep, nose bumping your clit, hands wrapped around your thighs like he was afraid you’d run (which—fair).

He groans against you, tongue working slow and filthy, fingers gripping your thick thighs like he’s trying to merge with you spiritually.

“Oh my—OH FUCK—Toji I—”

“Shhh,” he muttered, mouth full of pussy. “You said you had a long day. Let me do my job.”

His JOB. This man was treating your pussy like a full-time gig. Like it had a benefits package. He licked and sucked and groaned like he was starving, arms wrapped tight around your thighs like he was trying to anchor himself to this plane of existence.

It’s soft. It’s nasty. It’s pure devotion.

You were babbling. Full-on nonsense. Dr. Who? You didn’t know her.

“God, you taste fuckin’ amazing,” he grunted, voice muffled by your actual pussy. “This dinner’s five stars.”

“You’re—a fuckin’ menace,” you gasped, clinging to his hair.

“Bet that Vygotsky guy didn’t eat pussy like this,” he mumbled.

Slow licks. Dirty groans. Two fingers, eventually, fucking into you slow while he sucked on your clit like it was his goddamn job.

He sucked your clit like it was the last strawberry on earth, groaning against you like he meant it, fingers working you open with such filthy, soft expertise it made your brain short-circuit.

“Fuckin’ love this pussy,” he grunted, “gets wet so fuckin’ fast for me. You miss me today, sweetheart?”

You whimpered.

He looked up at you with his messy, cocky, I’m-about-to-ruin-you expression, chin shiny, eyes dark.

“Say it.”

“Missed you, holy SHIT, Toji—”

He went back in like a man possessed.

“Oh my god—oh my god—Toji—fuck—don’t stop—”

“I wasn’t fuckin’ planning to,” he growled against you, voice all muffled and drunk on it. “You gonna cum like this, baby? Gonna soak my fuckin’ face after a long-ass day at work? Hmm?”

And you did. Loud. Clutching at his hair, legs around his shoulders, brain soup.

But of course he didn’t stop. He just looked up at you, face shiny and smug, and muttered:

“Y’know, you never whine this much unless you’re stressed. I should eat you out more. Like…prescribed medicine.”

“Toji,” you panted, trying to recover, “I will scream.”

He grinned. “That’s the goal.”

And then. Round Two.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t romantic. It was everything else.

You were face-down, drooling into your pillow now (yes he'd carried you to the bed), skirt bunched around your waist, and Toji’s very nice dick splitting you open from behind. Hard. Deep. Cocky.

“Hot fuckin' little scientist,” he muttered, panting, “goin’ around all day makin’ presentations, givin’ lectures, and this is what you really need, huh? Just some good dick.”

You whimpered something incoherent and tried to buck back, but he slapped your ass hard.

“Ah ah, baby. I’m doin’ the work. You’re just gonna lie there and be good and take it, yeah?”

You whined. “Fucking mean—”

He leaned over you, one heavy hand on the back of your neck, the other teasing slow circles around your clit while he pounded into you, voice low and hungry.

“You don’t need nice. You need this dick.”

And woop, in half a second you were on your back, facing him.

“I hate you,” you gasped, full-body shivering, “I hate you, you’re the worst, you—fuck—like a bitch..”

“That right?” He pressed his lips right on your pulse point “Say it again. C’mon.”

He was hitting that spot like he mapped it, like it was a science. Reaching so deep and then grinding just right against your clit like he was tuning a goddamn instrument.

“Every time I fuck you,” he growled, “you squeeze me like this—like you don’t wanna let go—shit, baby, that’s it—”

You came with a shout, legs trembling, tears springing to your eyes because it felt that good.

Toji kept going. “Fuck, you’re so good for me. So fuckin' smart. So fuckin’ pretty. Takin’ it like a fuckin’ champ—”

You groaned.

“That’s what I thought.”

He slammed back into you and you damn near levitated.

“Gonna fill you up, baby,” he groaned. “Make it hard to think. Fuck all that smart shit right outta your cute little head.”

“Please do,” you whimpered.

You pulled him down, kissed him like your life depended on it, and he melted, grinding through his own orgasm with a groan so low it rattled through your spine.

*-*

You were curled up in his chest, your cheeks still flushed and warm and your body like butter, reading a lecture proposal in your emails on your phone, while Toji lounged against the headboard — reading glasses on, hair damp from a quick shower, and a very official looking contract spread across his lap.

“I love when you read things,” you mumbled against his ribs, nipping very lightly. “Makes you look like you could actually file your taxes.”

“I do file my taxes.”

You looked up from your phone. “You threaten the H&R Block guy every year until he does them for you.”

“Efficient.”

You giggled, tracing little shapes on his chest with your free hand. “What’s the job?”

“Security detail for a political consultant. Not sketchy. Pays good. Might be a couple out-of-town nights.”

You nodded. “I’ll miss you. But I’ll also hog the bed and sleep diagonally, so it balances.”

His phone buzzed. He picked it up.

A text from Megumi: “Hi dad. We’re making slime. I got glue on my eyebrow.”

Toji smiled, that soft kind of smile, and you swore your ovaries screamed.

“Tell him I said hi!” you said.

Toji typed: “Don’t eat the glue. The smart one says hi. Sleep by 10 or I’m kicking your ass.”

Another buzz: “Ok. Also i saw your gun. Cool. Goodnight.”

Toji locked the screen and looked down at you, one arm wrapping tighter around your waist, you dropped the phone, groaned dramatically.

“You’re gonna make a really hot stepmom milf someday,” he said, nose brushing your temple.

You blinked. “WAS THAT A PROPOSAL—”

He snorted. “Nah, just a threat.”

You grinned. “Still turned on.”

He kissed your forehead. “Yeah, I know.”

A/N: wee woo hope this was nice!

Masterlist.

Maybe it was one of the political snakes you destroyed in court. Maybe it was the overseas conglomerate you turned down. Maybe it was that little prick CEO whose merger you killed with a single word: “No.”

You’d built your entire empire on a reputation: sharp, cold, beautiful, and utterly brutal. Everyone in your orbit knew it — when you walked into a room, the floor shifted beneath your stilettos. You weren’t a woman, not to them. You were a force. A gavel in lipstick. A hurricane wrapped in Chanel.

So when your fucking address got leaked, when some low-life tried to take your head off with a sniper round through your penthouse window, your board panicked.

You didn’t.

You stood there, staring at the shattered glass with a whiskey in hand and your cat, Chairman Meow, hissing under the table.

“Pathetic aim,” you muttered, and downed the drink.

New penthouse. New location. New problem.

The board was insistent. You weren’t going to keep walking around unprotected — not when there were contracts, assets, shares, and politics tangled around your name like electric wire. They lined up options like a fucking dating service. Ex-military, ex-police, some former Yakuza types. All of them certified from different private agencies.

You looked at the photos like they were resumes.

“Ugly. Too clean. Creepy. Boring. Weak.”

And then: Toji Fushiguro.

Ex-hitman. Ex-assassin. Ex-everything. Big as hell, pretty scar across his lip, and an expression like he wanted to kill the camera. No background outside what was scrubbed, probably killed people with his bare hands — but Jesus fucking Christ, hot. His file came from Shiu Kong’s registry. Notoriously expensive. Notoriously effective.

You read his record.

Then signed the contract.

One bodyguard. No detail team. Yours.

Within the hour, Shiu Kong sent a tight little email confirming the hire.

Five minutes later, he texted Toji:

“You’re in. Do not fuck this up.”

And called just to repeat it.

Toji was not happy about it.

Babysitting? Some rich bitch with an ego the size of Tokyo Tower and heels tall enough to impale a man? Nah. Not really his thing.

But his bank account had been grumbling for weeks. That last job barely paid enough to cover rent.

And hey — maybe she’d be ugly. Maybe she’d be the kind of uptight corporate ghoul with a voice like nails on glass. Maybe she wouldn’t even talk to him.

He could deal with that.

Money was money. Babysit the boss bitch, keep her alive, cash the check.

Easy, right?

*-*

WRONG.

Toji stood in front of the penthouse mirror, grimacing as he adjusted the tie.

The suit clung to him like a second skin—black, sleek, custom-fitted because the client had standards. Shiu had even sent him a cologne rec. “She likes subtle, woodsy, nothing cheap.” Fucking rich bitches.

He wanted to roll his eyes out of his skull. Babysitting some spoiled heiress wasn’t what he had in mind when he signed up for this gig. He was a goddamn killer, not a valet.

But rent was due. His bank account looked like a fucking war crime.

“Money’s money,” he muttered to himself. “Babysit the princess. Don’t fuck her. Don’t fuck it up.”

She opened the door in four-inch heels, a black dress tighter than God’s judgment, hair wrapped up like a fucking goddess, and a look that said she’d watched men stronger than him beg for her approval.

Toji went stiff. Not just in the shoulders. Lower.

“Fushiguro?” you said, voice slow, eyes dragging up his frame like you were choosing how to eat him alive.

He nodded once.

“Yeah.” His voice cracked slightly. Shit. He cleared his throat. “Toji’s fine.”

“Right. Fushiguro,” you smiled, all teeth and power. “Let’s get one thing clear : I don’t like being followed. Don’t talk to me unless it’s relevant. Don’t touch me unless I say. And don’t get in my way.”

Toji blinked.

Then grinned. “Yes, boss.”

You stepped aside. “Don’t let the cat out.”

The apartment is huge. Cold. Expensive- clearly you'd only been living here for like two days.

Everything smells like cedar and money — except where your cat has decided to piss in the corner out of stress, which yeah you've cleaned but still. Chairman Meow immediately launches an attack on his boots when he enters. Claws and everything.

“Fucking hell,” Toji snarls, dragging the thing off his leg. “That your cat?”

“She’s sensitive,” you say flatly, not looking up from your laptop. Cue said cat to piss on him.

Toji muttered a long, inventive string of curses as he peeled off the damp leather. Great. Pissed on by a cat. First ten minutes on the job. Fucking nailed it.

“Yeah? She pees like a war crime.”

*-*

He does a full sweep — every room, every vent, every line of sight — and keeps stealing glances at you.

Fuck. You’re like a damn hallucination. Heels on hardwood, skin like satin, power oozing from every goddamn syllable you drop into your phone. You don’t even look at him, and it makes his cock twitch.

He hides in your hallway, behind a column, and sends Shiu a text:

Toji: she’s a fucking goddess. like actual fucking Aphrodite in a pantsuit. i’m gonna die. i’m gonna fuckin nut in this suit. she made eye contact ONCE. she told me not to touch her. i might pass out. what the fuck kind of job is this. help.

Shiu does not answer.

Probably deletes the message.

*-*

He’s your shadow.

In the car. In the lobby. In the back of boardrooms where old men visibly sweat under your words.

He wears a black suit. Has to. You said so.

“You look like you mugged a bartender,” you said when he showed up in jeans and a black tee, sent him fucking home, told him if he wasn't back and dressed within twenty minutes, you'd call Shiu and make his life hell.

Now he’s got the sleeves rolled up, cuffs tight on his forearms, chest stretching the buttons. Sunglasses. Earpiece. Everything. You told him to “look clean.” Now every time he looks in the mirror he wants to jerk off thinking about whether you’re looking.

He never stood too far. Never left your blind spots exposed. He learned your patterns. Your tells. The flick of your eyes when you're bored. The slow drag of your nails along your wine glass when you were hunting.

You were intoxicating. Dangerous. And so, so fucking hot it made his brain feel like static.

At first, you ignored him. Treated him like expensive furniture. Sometimes barked orders. Sometimes forgot he was there.

You're a goddamn siren.

And Toji? He is drowning.

*-*

You’re unbearable. And hot. So unbearably hot.

You say things like:

“You’re standing too close. Do I look like I need training wheels?”

“Speak when spoken to, Fushiguro.”

“You exist to serve me. Don’t forget that.”

“You’re paid to protect me. Not ogle me like a mutt.”

He’s chewing through his own tongue trying not to moan.

Every time you scold him, he gets harder. You once flicked him on the forehead for stepping in front of a door too slowly, and he got a full-on erection. Had to turn around and fake a phone call just to calm down.

“She’s so fucking mean. So fucking pretty. Bet she rides dick like it’s beneath her. Bet she spits on men. She’s gonna kill me. I want her to. I want her to choke me with that fucking necklace she wore today.”

So like a rational man he texted Shiu again.

At one in the morning:

Toji: i think i’d let her piss in my mouth. this is a cry for help.

Still no reply.

*-*

He dreams about you.

About kneeling.

About crawling into your bed and laying under it like a dog, just in case someone tried to touch you in the night.

About begging you to let him taste you.

He watches you from the car mirror while you argue on the phone. Sees the way you toss your hair, the way you lift your sunglasses to look down at the world.

You own this city. Not the government. Not the courts. Not the investors. You.

And now he works for you.

You’re his boss. His paycheck. His goddamn owner.

He calls you “boss” so much it starts to sound like daddy in his head.

*-*

By Day Five, he doesn’t even hide it.

He follows you like a shadow. Closer than necessary. Protective. Possessive. When a man tries to flirt with you in a restaurant lobby, Toji puts a hand on your lower back and glares until the guy walks away.

You slap his hand off.

“Touch me without permission again and I’ll break your fingers.”

Toji swallows.

“Please,” he mutters.

You arch a brow. “What was that?”

He shakes his head, red in the face. “Nothin’, boss.”

*-*

You still haven’t given him a single order he didn’t follow.

But God, he wants more.

He wants you to look him in the eye and command. Wants you to leash him with a fucking silk tie and tell him to sit. Wants to drop to his knees and let you use him however you see fit.

Wants to guard your door, your bed, your pussy. Wants to belong to you.

You’re powerful. You’re dangerous. You’re sexy as fucking sin.

And he’s just the dog barking at your heels.

*-*

Toji’s only been on the job for three weeks and he's already losing his goddamn mind.

Like full-on, dick-hard-in-the-shower, bark-at-the-wall insane.

So when you give him a day off, the first one since the contract started, he should rest.

Should sleep.

Should catch up on whatever passes for a normal life.

But no.

This motherfucker goes straight to Shiu Kong’s half-lit office, kicks the door open, and trauma-horny dumps like a goddamn fever dream, slams down into the leather chair across from his desk like a man possessed, rubs his temples, and goes:

“I’m gonna fuckin’ die.”

Shiu doesn’t look up from his laptop. “You say that every time you’re horny, and I don’t care.”

“I’m serious this time.” Toji’s palms are over his face. “She’s gonna kill me. I can’t keep doin’ this. I’m gonna bust in my pants watching her file paperwork.”

Shiu sighs. Sips his drink. “So don’t fuckin’ look.”

“I can’t not look. She wears those heels that sound like sex on marble. You know what she did yesterday?”

“No, and I don’t wanna—”

“She yanked my tie down so I’d bend to her fuckin’ mouth like I was some leashed mutt and whispered, someone’s tailing us, stay close, and I got a fuckin’ half-chub in the middle of the crosswalk like some deranged little freak.”

Shiu stares at him for a long moment. Then, very calmly, pulls a handgun from the drawer and cocks it.

“Get out of my office.”

Toji doesn’t move.

“You ever see a woman who’s like—mean hot? Like, ruin-your-life hot? Like she’d make you crawl naked across broken glass just to get kicked in the ribs and you’d say thank you?”

CLICK. The gun's click pulls Toji out of his weird horny-rant.

“Okay, okay,” Toji grunts, getting up. “Jesus. You’ve lost your sense of fuckin’ romance. God, fucking prude.”

*-*

A ‘normal’ week with you could kill a lesser man.

Tense. Measured. Like the string of a bow pulled tight — always threatening to snap, to shoot, to pierce something vital.

Toji follows.

Toji guards.

Toji watches.

He doesn’t speak unless spoken to.

He doesn’t walk in front of you, doesn’t trail too far behind either — just that exact, tense distance.

There’s nothing “normal” about a man who looks like that standing silently behind you at all times, muscles coiled like a loaded gun, eyes scanning the room like he’s five seconds from breaking necks.

He’s not just your bodyguard. He’s your shadow. Your protection. Your property — unofficially.

Toji Fushiguro, your own personal goddamn hound.

The way he watches you is almost feral. Sharp, heavy gaze that drips down your back like warm oil. Never disrespectful, not out loud, but Jesus Christ, he looks at you like he wants to get punished.

You don’t call him a dog. You don’t say “good boy.” You don’t yank a leash or click your tongue. You don’t need to.

You look at him — just once, with that cut-glass stare — and he stands straighter, tighter, readier.

You treat him like a guard dog, sure. But you don’t pet him. You don’t feed him.

You keep him starving.

*-*

MONDAY (this is when the famous 'she pulled my ties incident occured)

Toji starts the day trailing you through a financial district that stinks of cologne and fragile masculinity. You’re all teeth and silence, gliding across marble floors in stilettos and a custom suit that costs more than his entire life. Everyone stares. Not at him. At you. And he’s just the black-suited brute behind you, a shadow with arms.

You’re talking into your phone. You don’t need him right now.

But you always use him.

You pause on the street corner. You don’t look at him — just snap your fingers once, softly.

He steps closer immediately.

Not a word. No order.

Just instinct.

“Someone’s tailing,” you murmur, low. And then — then, holy fucking God — you grab his tie. Fistful of silk. Drag him down like you’re whispering sweet nothings but your voice is pure command, sharp as a scalpel.

“Third car back. Navy Lexus. Plate ending in 9-2-7. Make them disappear.”

Toji’s pupils blow wide.

He makes a fucking sound. Not a word. A grunt. Guttural. Gutted. The way you pull him in, like a dog on a chain — he swears his cock twitches.

He’s hard before he even answers.

“Yes, boss.”

And when that car shows up again? Toji’s gone before you even blink.

It disappears. Permanently.

*-*

TUESDAY

You work sixteen-hour days. Meetings. Mergers. Boardroom warfare. Toji sits outside your glass office like a fucking statue — unreadable, broad-shouldered, terrifying. People whisper about him. They don’t know what he is.

Carries your bags. Opens your doors. Walks you through lobbies with a hand hovering just above your lower back. Never touches.

He watches you through the glass.

The way you sit — legs crossed, back straight, head tilted like you're waiting to eat the next person who speaks out of turn.

You’re so calm when you destroy people. You lean back in that thousand-dollar chair and sip espresso while CEOs stammer and tremble in front of you.

When you speak, people fall in line.

When you lift your hand, Toji follows.

When you glance at him, he knows if he’s supposed to act or wait.

He doesn’t need a leash. You’ve got him fucking trained.

*-*

WEDNESDAY

You don’t speak unless it’s business. You text him once:

"Keep the car ready. And get Chairman Meow’s prescription wet food."

Toji does it, of course. Then cleans up another puddle of cat piss. You walk past him as he’s crouched over the mess, hair tied up, phone pressed to your ear.

You don’t stop. Just say:

“Good.”

That’s it.

He’s on his knees scrubbing the floor like a goddamn servant and you just said good, and he almost moans.

*-*

THURSDAY

You’re eating lunch with some tight-faced ambassador. Toji’s a few feet behind your chair. Silent. Watching. Waiting.

And then?

You cross your legs. Slowly. Smooth as sin.

You don’t look at Toji.

But you know.

You know he’s staring at the slit of your skirt, the edge of your thigh, the way your heel swings in lazy rhythm.

He wants to bite your ankle. Actually. Like an animal.

You cut your steak. Deliberate. Elegant.

And smirk — just a twitch of your lips.

He wants to bark.

And for the rest of the afternoon? You make him carry your bags.

Not literally. Not like shopping bags.

Like briefcases. Confidential ones. Labeled. Sealed. He’s not allowed to ask what’s in them — not that he would. He’s a dog. Dogs don’t ask. Dogs carry.

You don’t thank him.

You just glance at him from the elevator mirror and say, “You’re useful.”

It goes straight to his dick.

*-*

FRIDAY

He’s bracing for rejection.

There’s a gala.

Some private-sector exclusive hellhole filled with billionaires and media snakes and old politicians with hands that like to linger.

You don’t want to go, but you have to — donors, networking, social contracts to uphold. You hate these things. The men leer. The women compete. The champagne’s cheap even when it’s expensive.

Toji knows the drill. Girls like you — powerful girls, rich girls — they don’t bring muscle to things like this. Not visibly. They bring arm candy. Suits with good hair. Hangers-on.

He expects you to say it. To wave your hand and tell him to wait outside. Wait in the car. Wait in the rain like a sad dog, or a shitty love interest in a music video.

He’s ready for it. He’s already pissed off about it.

But then—

You look him up and down that morning and go:

“You’re not wearing that shit to the gala.”

Toji blinks.

“What?”

“Come on.” You grab your coat, keys. “I made an appointment.”

Which, to his fucking amazement, brought him to one of those fancy ass stores, the type that he was pretty sure was a front for money laundering. Tailoring. Tokyo’s finest. Private. Luxurious.

You walk in like you own the building. (You probably do.) The tailor bows so deep he nearly eats carpet.

Toji’s standing there like a massive wall of black denim and scowl, totally out of place. You wave at the tailor. Then at him.

“He needs a suit,” you say. “One that doesn’t look like he mugged someone in a dark alley.”

Toji mutters, “I like mugging people.”

You snap, “Shut up.”

And he does.

Toji looks wildly out of place — scars peeking out, shoulders too broad, energy too feral. He’s stiff while they measure him, glancing at you every three seconds like you’ll disappear if he blinks.

“Arms up,” the tailor says.

He obeys. Glances at you again.

You step closer. Drag your hand along a row of fine fabrics. Pause.

“Hm,” you say, inspecting a charcoal-black Italian wool. “No. Too polite.”

Toji blinks.

“Boss—”

“Shut up. Let me work.”

He shuts up.

You pick a dark obsidian suit. Sleek. Structured. Imposing.

“You’re my shadow,” you say, circling him like a wolf. “You wear what I tell you.”

The tailor barely breathes.

Toji watches you, jaw clenched, chest heaving.

"Yeah,” he mutters, rough. “Anything you say.”

The fitting?

It feels like foreplay. A weird, way too expensive form of foreplay.

Measuring tape around his thighs- bare thighs- cause yeah, he's only in his boxers.

Your fingers at his collar.

You choose everything — lapel shape, fabric, cut, buttons. You push the tailor aside at one point and straighten his shoulders yourself.

Toji’s got a full-body blush under his skin that he’s trying to smother behind a deadpan frown.

When you touch his jaw to tilt his chin up, he swears he sees God.

You mutter, “You’re not ugly, but you dress like a strip club bouncer.”

He smirks. “Was one for three years.”

You snicker.

He almost moans.

It’s not that he’s shy. It’s not that he minds the touching. It’s you. Choosing the buttons. Adjusting the jacket lapels. Tilting his chin to see how the collar sits.

It’s the way you look at him — cold, calculated, hungry. Like he’s a weapon you own. Like you’re customizing him.

He’s half-hard by the time they finish hemming the pants.

The suit?

It’s devastating. Sharp black, tailored within an inch of his sinful thighs, tapered sleeves, collar that hugs his throat like a leash. You stand back, arms crossed, gaze raking over him like he’s a car you’re about to buy and crash for fun.

“Hmm,” you say.

“Hmm?” he echoes, tense.

“You’ll do.”

Later that night, he sees the tag.

1,780,000 yen.

Almost twelve thousand fucking dollars.

His hands shake. Toji stares:

“You just spent—”

“I know what I spent.”

He opens his mouth.

You cut him off.

“You’re mine tonight,” you say. “I don’t dress sloppy.”

*-*

The gala.

He’s your date, technically- a date that's basically your shadow dressed in silk.

He stands beside you, silent and dangerous, eyes scanning the room while you talk in clipped tones to governors and oil barons. Every single man there stares at your ass — and every time, Toji itches to break their fucking noses.

The suit fits like sin. You picked every detail. You dressed him like he was yours — like a prize pet, or a weapon you keep in your clutch.

The gala is a storm of wealth. Diamonds. Cameras. Handshakes worth millions.

Toji doesn't leave your side.

When you pause to greet people, he steps half behind you, angled to block any threat. When some greasy bastard gets handsy, Toji slides in so close the guy nearly chokes on his own spit.

You touch Toji's sleeve, briefly.

He doesn't move.

Just watches.

Waits.

Obeys.

He knows you don’t need him.

You’re power in stilettos. You’ve broken men for less than what he is. You chew glass and sip diamonds. You’re not looking for protection — you’re looking for a blade. A leash. A collar around something dangerous that only listens to you.

And Toji? Toji’s about to bite- or lose his mind, OR die of a heart condition because his blood has permanently relocated to his dick.

At some point, you lean in to whisper:

“Keep an eye on the minister’s wife. She’s got a knife in her clutch.”

Toji grins.

“You’re scary.”

You smile. “You’re slow.”

Fuck.

At the end of the night, as you step into the car, Toji opens the door for you. Hand on the handle, back stiff.

You pause. Look at him. A genuine??? Smile??? Graces your lips???

“You looked good tonight.”

His heart stops.

You slide into the back seat.

“Keep the suit. Consider it a gift.”

He sits in the front. Quiet.

Staring out the windshield. Wondering if his champagne that he sipped once had been ruffied.

Boner pressed awkwardly to the zipper of a suit that cost more than his rent.

“She dressed me. She dressed me like I’m hers. She said I looked good. Holy shit. Holy fuck. I think I’m gonna explode. I’d follow her into hell. I’d crawl on all fours through broken glass just to hear her say ‘good boy.’ What the fuck is happening to me.”

He doesn’t say a word the whole ride home.

But he texts Shiu when he gets back.

Toji: she bought me a suit. she’s gonna be the death of me. and i’ll die hard. suit on. dick hard. smile on. put that on my grave.

Shiu does not respond.

But that night, Toji falls asleep on the couch of his apartment- which is one minute and thirty-two seconds away from yours, probably forty seconds if he sprints.

Gun on his chest.

Hard in his pants.

Dreaming of the next time you pull his tie.

He wonders if he should thank whoever tried to assassinate you.

Because guarding you?

Hurts.

But being owned by you?

That might just kill him.

*-*

It goes to shit one month in.

The call comes in a 2:37 am.

The phone rings once.

Twice.

Three times.

Toji’s already up.

Sleep doesn’t cling to him the way it does normal people. The mattress in his high-rise loft has barely softened under his weight. He’s sitting up, hand already reaching for his phone on instinct.

You only ever call in emergencies.

You text, you command, you glance and expect him to move. But call?

Call? Never.

And then he sees it.

Your name. Private line. Secure.

The screen flashes: Boss (subtitled in his brain: Mistress, Obsession, Reason I’m Breathing)

He answers in one breathless grunt of your title.

And then—

You say it.

“Toji?”

His spine locks up so hard it’s a fucking miracle his bones don’t snap.

You don’t say his name. You never, ever say his name.

You call him “Fushiguro.”

You spit it like a bad taste, like the dog he is. Cold. Formal. Controlled.

But now?

“Toji, can you please get my briefcase from my office? The one with my work laptop in it?”

Every neuron in his body lights up red.

Danger. Threat. Code.

He inhales, lips parting just enough to keep the tension from bursting out of his jaw.

He knows your code. You built it with him.

He remembers it word for word.

Asking for the black laptop? That’s code for something’s wrong.

White laptop? Everything’s fine. Bring it, shut the fuck up, don’t look into it.

Black laptop? You’re in danger.

And then you add:

“With the case.”

With the case.

Toji’s vision fucking tunnels.

“With the case” = not just a threat. They’re close. In the room. Within earshot.

He swallows the growl climbing his throat.

“Got it,” he says smoothly. “I’ll be there in fifteen. Black laptop. With the case.”

He hangs up.

Then he moves.

He’s already grabbing the matte security binder under his bed — flipping through schematics of your penthouse layout. Pulls the encrypted tablet from the drawer. Triggers the silent alert on the security system, sends red flag pings to Shiu’s agency, then re-routes them back. No outside help. He’s handling this.

He’s out the door with a burner piece, two knives, a fire-safe lockpicking tool, and the case.

Your case.

*-*

You’re calm. Of course you are.

When Toji gets to your place, you answer the door like nothing’s wrong. Like you're not being held hostage in your own penthouse.

Your expression is pristine, but your eyes flash when you see him.

His heart is beating like a wild thing.

Two knocks. Your signal. Open up.

Toji enters, briefcase in hand, and eyes scanning everything like a hawk on crack.

You’re standing in silk. Barefoot. Calm. Perfect.

You glance at him once, then flick two fingers in a gesture that would mean nothing to anyone but him.

Two.

Two people.

Still here. Still watching.

Still fucking breathing.

Toji places the case on the granite island like it’s a gift at the altar. Then steps back, nods once, and glances — just so — to the left.

He sees it.

In the reflection of the wine chiller: two men.

Wearing maintenance uniforms.

Unarmed, but with enough muscle to think they’re a threat. Probably been working the building for months. Waiting. Timing it. Thought they could get in without alerting external security.

They were right.

Except Toji’s not external.

He’s hers.

Internal. Installed. Plugged into you like a power line.

And he’s already fucking moving.

The first guy doesn’t see it coming.

Toji steps around the counter like he’s going to pour himself a drink — then smashes the guy’s nose in with a blunt elbow, drags him down by the collar, chokes him out before he even makes a sound.

You don’t blink.

You sip your wine.

Toji wants to bark.

The second guy tries to run.

He gets three steps.

Toji sweeps his legs, cracks his skull on the marble, presses his boot to the guy’s throat with exact enough pressure to keep him from passing out.

“You get ten seconds to explain,” he growls, voice like boiling tar.

The guy sobs something about debt and cash and “she’s rich, no one would miss it.”

Toji grins.

“You just tried to rob a fucking dragon,” he hisses. “She doesn’t breathe oxygen, she breathes lawsuits. You know how many teeth she’s pulled from men ten times your size?”

He looks up.

You’re still standing there.

Still gorgeous. Still untouched.

Still above it all.

You tilt your head, then tap two fingers to your neck — silent command. Choke him out.

Toji obeys.

Willingly. Eagerly. With joy.

Because nothing will ever compare to following her orders.

*-*

The cops come. Quietly. Discreetly. Arranged via silent protocols that Toji had already activated before stepping inside. The building manager is fired. The two would-be thieves are taken out on stretchers. Not dead- Toji isn't that sloppy.

Toji cleans his hands in your kitchen sink, rolls his sleeves back up, and watches you over his shoulder.

You’re back at your dining table. Working.

Already.

Like nothing happened.

And then, for the first time, you look at him and say:

“You were late.”

Toji nearly bites his lip in half.

*-*

He’s sitting on the edge of your white leather couch, wiping blood from the crystal glass.

You walk by.

Pause.

And drop a square velvet box beside him.

“Your cufflinks for the next gala,” you murmur. “They arrived early.”

He picks it up. Stares. Opens it.

Gold. Engraved. With a symbol that means “dog” in Old Japanese script.

Toji laughs. Just once.

You walk away before he can say anything.

But his voice follows you:

“You ever call me ‘Toji’ again,” he murmurs, low and full of grit, “I’m gonna lose my fucking mind.”

You pause.

Look over your shoulder.

And smile.

“Then behave.”

*-*

Five months. Twenty weeks. A hundred and forty days. And he hasn't killed anyone on your property yet. That’s a win.

You think you’ve got him pegged. Tightly wound muscle in a Tom Ford shell. Ex-gangster turned bodyguard with a penchant for swearing at your coffee machine and staring at your thighs during board meetings.

But you don’t know the half of it.

You don’t know how his lungs feel tight when you say his name.

You don’t know that he sleeps in the hallway outside your suite sometimes, under the bullshit pretense of “safety rounds,” even though your entire penthouse is triple-fortified and guarded like nuclear codes.

You don’t know that when he closes his eyes, your voice is still ringing in his skull, branded there like fire:

“Fushiguro, I’m heading out. Don’t lag.”

You don’t know that your heels clicking across marble is better than porn to him.

You don’t know that he would kill for you again without even blinking.

You don’t know that five weeks ago, when you walked past him in that backless silk dress at the launch party, he nearly came in his goddamn suit.

And you definitely don’t know that he kept the lipstick-stained napkin you left behind at that same party, folded it, and stuck it in his jacket pocket like a fucking teenage girl with a crush. (He hasn't even told Shiu about that, mostly because if he did, Shiu would actually shoot him).

So no.

You don’t know what you’ve done to him.

But you're about to find out.

*-*

It starts with a phone call. Not yours.

Toji’s.

He’s in the corner of the terrace, jaw tight, voice low. Doesn’t know you’re there. Doesn’t see you pause, doesn’t see the look flicker in your eyes when you hear:

“You rejected him because of my record? He’s ten, you fuckin’ suit-wearing parasite. He didn’t kill anyone. I did.”

Silence. More tension. Toji rubs a hand over his face like he’s going to punch the sky.

You’re already walking away before he notices. Already calling your head of legal. Already sending three of your most vicious attorneys to war.

And by that evening, when Toji gets the call that Megumi is in, when the director suddenly sounds terrified of losing him, when no one will tell him why the tune changed—

He has no idea you’re the reason.

But that’s you, isn’t it?

Always above. Always untouchable. The predator perched at the top of the ladder.

Even when you’re drunk.

He doesn’t expect it.

The drinking, first of all.

You never drink. Not when you’re out. Not when you’re working. Not even when your quarterly report shows your company up 11% and your board’s throwing champagne like confetti.

But tonight?

You’re plastered.

He sees it in the way your pupils dilate in the back seat of the car, the way your legs kick up over the divider and you throw your head back with a laugh like it’s been caged in your chest for years.

You smell like gin and orange blossom and old money.

Toji’s sweating in his seat.

“Toji,” you slur, slouched like you own the universe — which, to be fair, you almost do. “Y’ever notice how you look like… a really angry caveman in a suit?”

He snorts. Keeps his eyes on the road.

“Every fuckin’ day, sweetheart.”

You grin. Your lips are wet. Normally, you would've insulted him for calling you 'sweetheart'.

“S’good. I like it. You stand out. Look good on my arm. Like an emotional support threat.”

He nearly veers into traffic.

*-*

He helps you home. You’re barefoot by the time the elevator dings.

He’s holding your heels in one hand, his other under your elbow like you’re made of spun glass and spite.

Chairman Meow doesn’t even hiss at him. Just flicks her tail and accepts her gourmet salmon like it’s expected.

Toji’s lowkey proud. That’s a two-month no-pee streak. A new record.

You trip over the threshold into your room. Toji’s hands snap to your waist before you fall. You’re laughing. Eyes glazed.

“Zip,” you demand, spinning like a drunk ballerina, trying to reach the zipper down your spine and failing miserably.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t breathe.

Just steps in.

Undoes it with two fingers and clenched teeth. Doesn’t touch your skin. Not once. Not even when you grunt about your tights being too tight and practically fall into him trying to peel them off.

He helps. Professional. Silent.

Like he’s not dying inside.

Like his cock isn’t throbbing with every goddamn please from your glossy mouth- because normally?? Please isn't exactly in your vocabulary.

He sets you on the edge of your bed. Gently. Pulls your hair free of its pins. Wipes your lipstick with warm cloths. Dabs your mascara. Smooths the little lines between your brows.

Then you hiss.

“Rolled my ankle.”

He’s down instantly.

On his knees. Of course. Where else would he be?

He cradles your ankle. Presses. Checks for swelling. His thumb brushes your skin and he flinches like it burned him.

You’re barely looking at him. Barely awake.

But then—

You lean forward.

And kiss his forehead.

Just a brush of lips.

Soft. Thoughtless. Like you’ve done it a hundred times in dreams and forgot this was real.

Toji stops breathing.

“Guard dogs deserve treats,” you murmur. “Maybe I’ll take you on a date. Show you off.”

You’re asleep before you can finish the sentence.

Toji stays kneeling. For a long time. Longer than necessary.

His breath catches in his chest. His hands tremble on your skin.

He should leave.

He should leave.

Instead—

He whispers:

“Say it again, boss.”

But you’re already gone.

And he’s still kneeling.

*-*

You don't mention it.

The kiss. The drunk date comment. The fact that Toji stayed kneeling beside your bed like a temple guard until he heard your breathing even out into something soft and human and vulnerable.

He thinks maybe you forgot. Or sobered up and realized you were talking nonsense. Which, fine. Whatever. He can deal.

You don’t mention it. But you remember.

Of course you do.

You remember the faint tremble in his fingers. The hard set of his jaw. The way he looked at you like he was praying and you were the god.

You don’t speak of it, but you also don’t ignore it.

Because two weeks later, you hand him a folded navy envelope with an address on it and say, simply:

*“Pick me up at 7. You’re not wearing a gun tonight.”

Toji stares at the envelope like it’s cursed. His brain static. His hands too big and clumsy to handle delicate things.

“...This a job?”

You smirk. That slow, feral smile that makes him feel like prey wrapped in Gucci.

“No. This is a reward.”

*-*

The restaurant was uh...... yeah. Something. Probably cost more than anything Toji had ever owned.

The chandelier alone could pay off his debt to Shiu twice over. Everything smells like truffle oil and wealth and clean tile. Every waiter speaks in apologetic whispers. There are real diamonds in the salt grinder. Toji’s 80% sure.

He wears the suit you bought him.

He hates how well it fits. He hates how easy it is to forget he’s just the dog when you’re looking at him like you’re starving and he's the meal.

The restaurant is in the clouds.

Literally — it’s 68 floors up, tucked into a tower only foreign diplomats and ultra-wealthy ghosts can afford to haunt. Every table has a view of the city. Every dish looks like it costs more than Toji’s rent back in the day. And when he shows up — black-on-black suit, expensive shoes, not a weapon in sight — he finds you already waiting.

Your legs crossed. Your lipstick red.

He’s never even walked by a place like this, let alone been sat at a private rooftop table by a man with white gloves and a name tag in gold.

The first bottle of wine costs more than what he made during his first three hits. The dessert is a sculpture. Like something out of an art gallery. And you—fuck, you—

You look like you were carved out of every single one of his delusions.

Elegant. Confident. Gleaming like glass and gunpowder.

And for the first time, you look a little nervous.

Only a little.

But it’s enough to make Toji’s brain stutter.

“You really brought me here?” he mutters when he sits, already scowling like the menu insulted his mother. “The fuck am I supposed to eat — this salad looks like it was shaved off a bonsai tree.”

You just smile.

“You’re adorable when you don't know.”

Toji almost flips the damn table.

You feed him filet off your fork at one point, and he thinks he might die right there with foie gras in his lungs and a boner under the goddamn white tablecloth.

“You’ve been good,” you say halfway through your steak, not looking up. “You earned this.”

He snorts.

“Like a fuckin’ treat?”

You smile.

“Exactly like that.”

The date’s good. Better than it should be. Better than either of you probably expected.

He actually makes you laugh — real, genuine, shoulders-shaking laughter — when he tells you about the time he got arrested for punching a guy over a microwave burrito.

You tell him about the hostile acquisition you orchestrated in Milan with a smile and a fucking wine swirl like you’re narrating a children’s book.

It's insane. It’s unbalanced. It shouldn’t work.

But it does.

And then— Date two.

You tell him to meet you at 11AM. Somewhere warm.

It’s a beach.

A real-ass beach. Sand, sun, little umbrellas in coconuts- of course you privated the entire thing for the day. Normal people things.

And Megumi is already there, in a hat that’s too big and a shirt that says “I am not my father’s crimes,” which you 100% had custom-made.

Toji doesn’t know what the fuck is happening.

Not until he sees you sitting in the shade, sunglasses on, smiling at Megumi as he builds a crooked sandcastle and tells you some weird, depressing fact about sea cucumbers.

He watches you kick off your heels and walk barefoot like you own the entire ocean.

He doesn't understand it.

He doesn’t understand you.

Because sure, he’s had fantasies. Filthy ones. Sick ones. The kind that could get him fired and jailed and dragged through concrete.

And something in Toji just… breaks.

In a way that isn’t feral or horny or unhinged.

It’s tender. It’s horrifying.

He’s so fucked.

He’s been so fucked.

*-*

And then comes the gala — some pompous, gold-plated thing where you wore a high-slit dress that could’ve ended wars and he had to listen to ten different senators try and flirt with you while pretending not to want to kill them all.

It’s always a gala. Your world spins on designer heels and Champagne flutes, and Toji, well…

He’s just the dog keeping the wolves away.

But this one is different. There’s tension in the air. Something simmering beneath the surface, because you’re giving him orders in that low voice again, your fingers brushing his tie like it’s a leash. You’ve got that look again.

That dangerous one.

That “I own you” look.

Toji’s holding it together — barely — right up until the moment you criticize his stance.

“Fushiguro, for fuck’s sake. Can you at least pretend you weren’t raised in a back alley? Stand up straight. You look like a bruiser from a Yakuza soap opera.”

It’s not even that mean.

But he’s on edge. Too sharp. Too tired of pretending he isn’t about to lose his mind every time you breathe near him.

So he snaps. Just a little. Just one stupid line, said with teeth:

“Bet you wouldn’t be complaining if I was fucking you like one.”

Silence.

Fucking silence.

The kind of silence that splits atoms.

Your head turns.

Eyebrow lifts.

Mouth parts.

“What did you just say?”

Toji goes white.

Like. Fuck.

“Shit—no. Boss. Sorry. I didn’t mean—”

You ignore him, slip into the car and:

“Driver, penthouse.”

Your voice is crisp. Cool. You don’t look at him again for the rest of the ride.

Toji stares out the window.

Brain spiraling. Vision blurred. Every security instinct screaming that he just ruined everything.

No more job. No more Megumi’s school. No more you.

He almost gets out at the light. Almost jumps from the car like a lunatic just to avoid hearing the words you're fired come from your mouth.

But when the car pulls into the underground garage, you don’t send him away. You just step out in silence. Cool. Collected.

But when you both step inside the penthouse, and the door shuts behind you, you don’t fire him.

You don’t scream.

You don’t even raise your voice.

You toss your purse down. Kick off your shoes. Turn to him slowly, like a goddess descending from her throne.

Eyes sharp. Voice low.

“So?”

Toji swallows.

You step forward.

“You barked.”

Another step. His back hits the glass wall.

“Now I want to see if you bite.”

Toji’s cock is fully hard. He wants to scream. He wants to beg.

Instead, he growls.

“I bite.”

And he does.

It’s a goddamn battle.

Teeth and heat and biting, snarled words. You tell him he’s replaceable — he says he wants to choke out every bastard that ever called you ‘ma’am’ with a wink.

You call him a dog — he says he only answers to you. You say he’s disgusting — he says you like it.

“Pathetic,” you hiss, dragging him in by the tie.

“Yours,” he growls, teeth bared.

You shove him down. He drags you closer.

And in that blistering, explosive mess of dominance and submission and some damn class power dynamics turned feral, something shifts.

Something permanent.

Because by the time the sun’s rising, and you’re still lying on the floor half-dressed, breath ragged, laughter raw from your throat as you swat him off your thigh—

You know.

You both know.

This wasn’t just a fuck.

It never was.

Not from the moment he knelt on your floor that night and let you kiss his forehead like a reward. Not from the moment you called him Toji and made the air freeze in his lungs.

He was always yours.

And you? You were always his downfall.

A/N: pls i wrote this, haven't re-read it, idk if it makes even any ssense, it's too long, someone get me OUT OF HERE PLEASE- anyways i hope you enjoy it, this'll be one of the rare times where i'll do a tag list, normally i wouldn't but this felt special: @facelessmenforthewin @realalpacorn

Masterlist.

Toji fucking Fushiguro. On your doorstep. Black shirt tugged halfway up his chest, one hand in his hair, other on the doorframe, looking like all seven sins rolled into a man with poor impulse control. His eyes were dark, jaw clenched, and his entire aura screamed “I’ve murdered three people today and I might add one more.”

You opened your mouth to ask if he was okay.

But then he was on you.

Lips, tongue, hands, grabby hands—oh he was in it. And by “in it” we mean gripping your ass through your robe like it personally insulted his bloodline. A titty is groped with intent. You let out something between a squeak and a moan and he growls—growls—against your mouth like this is a fucking werewolf fic.

The door slammed shut behind him (probably with his foot, because multitasking), and next thing you knew, your back hit the nearest surface—was it the wall? The door? The veil between reality and the afterlife? You couldn’t say. He tasted like cheap gum, bad decisions, and salt, and you were into it.

Life is beautiful.

“Fuckin’ needed this,” he growled into your mouth, like your lips were the only holy thing left in his life.

You barely had time to squeak as he manhandled you like a stress toy, stumbling toward your bedroom while shedding clothing like he was allergic to fabric.

Your brain was soup. You had one functioning neuron left and she was hanging on to the bannister, sobbing.

Somewhere in the whirlwind of tongues and teeth and his knee between your thighs, Toji lost his shirt. Then his pants. Then—

Oh.

Oh.

Oh.

You stopped.

Dead in your tracks.

Stared.

And stared.

He was naked. Naked like a Greek statue. Naked like forbidden fruit. Naked like a problem.

And you were the problem now, because you were looking directly at his dick like it owed you money and you were calculating interest.

"...You good?" he asked, confused. Not cocky. Not smug. Confused.

Because you weren’t saying anything.

You were just... staring. Unmoving. Reverent. You need a second. Maybe two.

Because.

That’s not a dick.

That’s an entity.

It was less of a cock and more of a declaration. A blunt instrument of sex and confusion. Veins? Present. Prominent. Pulsing. The man had a happy trail so criminally well-groomed you were half-convinced he trimmed it using sacred geometry. And his balls—dear God the balls—those were like testicular furniture. Full. Heavy. Sitting there like a pair of smug cats on a radiator.

Finally, you whispered, “Damn. That’s some heavy machinery.”

His brow creased. “Huh?”

You didn’t move. You couldn’t. Your brain had short-circuited and you were running on instincts now. You tilted your head like an art critic examining a new Monet.

You’re fully transfixed. You lean in a little. Not too close—you’re brave, not stupid.

“You really just walk around with that thing? Unrestrained? In pants?” Your gaze flicks to his balls. “And those. Like. Don’t they get in the way? When you run? Sit down? Turn around too fast?”

Toji is looking at you like he’s never seen you before. “You’re not okay,” he says. “You’ve never acted like this.”

“I’ve never been faced with the final boss of cocks, Toji.”

He squints. “It’s not that big.”

You gasp, offended on his dick’s behalf.

“Toji. Baby. Sweetheart. That’s a two-hander. That’s an elbow-bender. That’s a kneel-before-me and pray for forgiveness type of situation.”

You shift to the side to look at The Thing at an angle.

“That’s—Jesus Christ, Toji. I've never seen a dick that could double as a melee weapon!””

Toji blinked. “What are you even—”

“You’re not built like a man. You’re built like a war crime.”

He stood there. Still shirtless. Still dick out. Still large enough to terrify livestock. “You’ve seen me shirtless before.”

“I saw your shoulders, Fushiguro. Not your goddamn Mjölnir.”

You approached like one might approach a wild animal. Slowly. Curiously. Possibly about to risk it all.

“You got a happy trail, too?” you whispered. “Jesus. The commitment to aesthetic. That’s not a man, that’s a curated visual experience.”

Toji, now deeply confused, crosses his arms. “You gonna suck it or write it a fucking poem?”

You ignore that. Your eyes are still on the monster. You whisper to yourself, “We’re gonna need more lube.”

“You haven’t even touched me yet,” he says, dry.

“I was going to!” You reach a hand out, and he slaps it away like you’re a toddler and his dick is an open flame.

“What the fuck?” you whine. “You brought it out! Now I’m curious! It’s all veiny and proud. Like a sentient baguette!”

Toji deadpans. “Sentient. Baguette.”

You nod solemnly.

“Are those—veins? That’s a vascular highway. How’s the blood circulation? You gotta irrigate that thing? Is this why you’re always sleepy after sex dreams? Because your entire cardiovascular system is working overtime trying to power The Monolith?”

Toji stared. You reached out again, slowly this time, one fingertip ready to poke like you were testing the density of alien material.

He slapped your hand away. Again. Fucking rude.

“Stop that,” he said, clearly alarmed by your scientific curiosity.

“I’m not trying to jack you off!” you protested. “I’m just—I mean, can I measure it?”

“Absolutely the fuck not.”

Toji looked helpless.

You were not done.

“Do you walk around like this all the time? Just dragging it? Don’t the balls get in the way? Do they get stuck in your jeans zipper? What’s your life like? Do you have to adjust every time you sit down or do you just accept the pain like a masculine ritual?”

He opened his mouth. Closed it. He looked at you like you’d grown three heads. “You’re... you’re making it weird.”

You scoffed, dramatically fanning yourself with your hand. “I’m being honest. That is a structurally ambitious cock.”

Toji shifted on his feet. “It’s not that big.”

You turned to him, blinking. “Do you even own condoms that fit? Or do you use, like, kitchen trash bags with rubber bands?”

He looked both alarmed and flattered. “What the fuck?”

“Is this why you have Megumi?!” you demanded, pointing an accusatory finger at his crotch. “Was it an engineering issue? Did no condom fit so you just said, ‘fuck it, raw’ and now there’s a child?”

Toji made a noise. A noise between a cough and a snort. “You’re deranged.”

“You should be in a museum,” you muttered, “or a zoo. Or an archaeological site. The Smithsonian should know about this.”

“Are we having sex or are you writing me an obituary?”

“Oh, now you wanna talk logistics?” you gestured vaguely at the beast between you. “That’s not going in here—” you pointed at your poor, unaware vagina “—without a safety plan and consent form.”

Toji smirked. The bastard smirked.

“I’ll go slow.”

“Oh, you’ll go slow, he says,” you scoffed. “That’s not ‘going slow,’ Fushiguro, that’s forcible remodeling. My cervix’s union is going to file a complaint.”

You were still talking. You could not stop talking. You were now pacing. Naked. In your own bedroom. Processing.

You inhaled deeply. "Just—note: if I die mid-dick, know it was an honorable death. My cervix and I loved bravely.”

You stopped pacing.

“Can I name it?”

“No.”

“I feel like it deserves a title.”

Toji, by now, was sitting on the bed, legs spread like the damn king of Sparta, dick still at full mast, practically casting a shadow across your bedroom floor.

“You do know we were about to have sex, right?”

You paused.

“…Oh, right.”

Then immediately started up again.

“BUT WITH THAT?!”

You pointed at it again, accusatory. Like it had wronged you personally. But you still climbed into bed like a soldier going to war.

Toji rolled his eyes, leaned over, and kissed you like he was trying to erase your brain entirely. “You’re fucking insane,” he murmured.

“And you’re holding a medieval battering ram,” you whispered back.

He snorted. “Do you want it or not?”

You gripped the sheets.

“Don’t impale me, you monster cock bastard. But yes.”

He smirked. Monster cock bastard. New contact name.

You took one last look at the glorious, terrifying, veiny monument to fuckery before you.

“Also,” you added breathlessly, “we’re gonna need lube. And prayer. And a first aid kit.”

Toji grinned, leaning down to bite at your neck. “Better call off the rest of your week.”

He leaned in, kissed you again, hard and hot and grounding.

You blinked. Then tilted your head.

“…Is this why you keep stretching in weird ways when you stand up?”

“What—”

“Like, your balls are clearly in the way. Is that why you got beef with Shiu? He made a dick joke once and now you’re rivals for eternity?”

Toji looked at the ceiling like he was asking the universe why he ever pursued you.

Then he looked down at you—at your stupid grin and wide eyes and the fact that you were still, somehow, so damn into him it hurt—and he exhaled.

“You done?”

You grinned. “Not even a little.”

“Shut up and lie back.”

“Ohhh, daddy commanding me now. Must be the dick confidence. Dickfidence.”

“Jesus Christ—”

“I think I saw Jesus when I looked at it, actually.”

*-*

There he was. Naked. Leaning casually against your dresser like this wasn’t a pivotal moment in your vaginal history.

And there you were. Legs open, mouth open, brain open—to God, the universe, and whatever eldritch force sculpted this man like a sin. You were lying back against your plush pillows like a blessed little sacrifice. Just waiting. Heart racing. Core throbbing. The room smelled like sex and impending poor decisions.

Toji was at your nightstand.

He opened your drawer. Blinked.

“…Why do you have four different lubes?” he asked.

You smiled dreamily from the bed. “Options, babe. You think greatness happens with mediocrity? You think my pussy doesn’t deserve variety?”

He held up the first bottle, sniffed. “Strawberry.”

“Good for blowjobs,” you said helpfully. “Also tastes like lip gloss. Makes me feel like a mall slut in the best way.”

The second bottle. Peach vanilla. He stared at it in disbelief.

“That one smells like a candle I cried to in 2019.”

“…You cried to a candle?”

“I cry to a vibe, Toji.”

He found the third. Watermelon-scented. Sparkly. SPARKLY.

Toji visibly flinched. “Why does it have glitter in it?”

“Oh, that’s my ✨festive✨ lube.” (you throw jazz hands in there for good measure).

“Your what.”

“Birthday sex, obviously.”

He blinked. “You’re unwell.”

You grinned. “Wait ‘til you see what it does under blacklight.”

He muttered something about demons and hell and “this is what I get for dating Shiu’s secretary.” And then he picked the plain, scentless, water-based lube—like the joyless man he was.

“A coward’s choice,” you murmured.

“I’m going to split you in half,” he said flatly.

And God. You wanted that.

You watched him lube up, casually coating his fingers with clinical efficiency like this was just another day at the office. (But the office didn’t usually involve your legs splayed like the gates of heaven and your brain slowly turning to soup.)

Also, somewhere between lubing and rolling his neck like a bored MMA fighter, you got distracted.

“Hey.”

He looked up.

“You got a great ass.”

Toji blinked. “What.”

“I said—” You made a vague hand gesture. “Your ass. Peachy. Excellent. 10/10. Made for grabbing. Also, your tits are stupid good.”

He did a full-body sigh.

“You’re not helping me focus.”

“You’re hot. I’m horny. This is your fault.”

“Everything is my fault with you.”

“You could suffocate a Victorian woman with your thighs,” you continued, dreamy. “If I die tonight, I want it written in my will: ‘Death by dick. Buried with glitter lube and Toji’s nipple between her teeth.’”

Toji gave up trying to be serious around the same time he crawled back between your legs, mouth curved into a smirk. “You gonna keep talking,” he muttered, voice low and dark, “or do I need to shut you up?”

Spoiler alert: he shut you up. So good.

Because...Toji doesn’t kiss. He devours.

Tongue, teeth, lips, hands—he’s all of them at once, everywhere, all the time. Your neck? Marked. Your nipples? Worshipped. The spot just below your ear that makes you do the full-body shiver? Exploited.

And when he gets his fingers between your legs? Babe.

He’s not just good.

He’s evil.

Two fingers, curling just right, rubbing that one spot like he’s got a GPS for your pussy. The man knows where the clit is. Not just that it exists, but how it functions. Like he took a masterclass. Studied abroad. Has a thesis.

Three fingers now. Lube. Skill. The man plays your pussy like a Stradivarius. He finds your g-spot like it owes him money. Every curl of his fingers sends lightning through your spine. You come again, like your body is trying to tap out and your brain’s screaming MORE.

“Still wanna talk shit?” he rasps, voice low and cocky.

You pant, eyes glassy. “Yes. But I’ll do it respectfully.”

You’re moaning. You’re twitching. You’ve said “oh my god” four times in different accents.

He hums low, like he’s enjoying the view. “You always this sensitive?”

You, sobbing: “No?? Maybe?? Am I alive???”

He grins. Evil. Gorgeous. Dangerous. He drops his mouth between your thighs.

You’d like to take a moment to personally thank the universe for giving Toji a mouth. Because what that man does with his tongue should be illegal, or at the very least heavily taxed.

He's methodical, and intentional, and he eats you out like he’s starving and you’re the last meal on death row. Licks slow and deep. Sucks your clit like he’s teasing. Fingers still moving inside you, spreading you open with this maddening rhythm that has your hips bucking.

He doesn’t say much. Doesn’t need to. But the eye contact?

Oh, you’re dying.

Murdered. Slaughtered. Taken out like a broken Victorian heroine.

He hums against your clit like the cocky bastard he is, and the vibration makes your entire spine do the Macarena. You briefly consider writing your will. Then you remember you're illiterate now because he tongue-fucked your reading comprehension away.

“Stop smirking,” you pant, tugging at his hair, “you smug fuck—ahh—fuck, fuck—”

“Don’t tell me you’re close already.” He’s got the audacity to sound amused. AMUSED. “I haven’t even stretched you all the way yet.”

You whimper something that might’ve been, “You’ve emotionally stretched me,” but he dives back in before you can form a thesis.

Toji eats pussy like it’s his side hustle. Like he’s collecting Yelp reviews. His tongue is obscene, his lips focused, his nose doing work from an angle that should be criminally effective. He moans into it too, which is disgusting, because now you’re the one moaning back like some girl in a cursed hentai.

You try to speak. Fail. Moan instead. Clutch his hair like you’re holding on for dear life and grind—not gently, but like a woman trying to ride out a minor apocalypse.

He takes it. Encourages it.

Thumb on clit. Tongue inside. You’re losing braincells by the second.

“I—fuck, Toji, I—”

He doesn’t answer. He just groans into your cunt like it’s the last meal before execution and flattens his tongue like he’s trying to baptize your entire soul.

You come hard. Like full-body tremble, earthquake legs, soul-leaving-your-body hard. You might’ve screamed. You might’ve cursed. The Earth rotated a little faster.

But oh no. He’s not done.

He pulls back, mouth wet, chin shining with the evidence of your very real, very sacred near-death experience, and lines himself up.

You blink. You remember. The dick. The third leg. The Great Divider.

“Oh.”

He chuckles. “Still scared?”

“Not scared,” you say bravely, like a fool. “Just—mentally drafting a eulogy for my cervix. Also I’d like to note that my will leaves my skincare to Megumi. Kid deserves hydration.”

“You’re annoying,” he says, dragging the head of his cock through your soaked folds, catching on your clit and making your brain reset like a corrupted file.

“And you’re about to fuck me like I owe you rent, so I guess we’re both contributing to this relationship,” you shoot back.

Finally—finally—he reaches for the condom.

You sit up like Frankenstein’s monster, snatching it mid-air.

“Wait. What size is this??”

“…Really?”

“Excuse me, I’m a scientist. This is for data. Research purposes.”

You squint.

“XXL? Toji! You're batshit crazy— these are for horses! You got these from the secret aisle at CVS that only centaurs know about.”

He rolls his eyes. “You done?”

“Do you declare that on your taxes? ‘Professional Destroyer of Vaginas: Equipment expenses.’”

Toji doesn’t answer. He just rips the packet open and starts sliding it on, and oh—

Oh.

You blink. “That’s not a condom. That’s a tarp.”

He climbs between your legs. Grabs the lube. Pumps enough to moisturize a small country. Spreads it on both of you with painfully skilled fingers.

And then—without warning—

It happens.

Toji just smirks again—smirks like he knows something you don’t, like you’re the plot twist in a Greek tragedy—and pushes in.

Slow. Agonizing. Sinful.

You gasp. Not a dainty little gasp. A "I think I just saw through time" kind of gasp.

He’s big. He’s huge. He’s splitting you open like a peach. Like a poem about ruin. Like a fucking event horizon.

Once he’s fully seated inside you—how?? how did that fit?? physics who??—he pauses.

“You okay?” he murmurs, thumb stroking your hip.

You blink up at him, dazed, thoroughly filled like a donut at Krispy Kreme. “My cervix is singing Ave Maria but otherwise yeah, totally great.”

He leans down. Kisses your neck. Your jaw. That little space behind your ear that makes you shiver.

“I’ll go slow,” he whispers.

And he does. At first.

Deep, rolling thrusts that make your eyes flutter and your toes curl. His hips grind into yours like a rhythm he was born with. Like he knows every sweet spot inside you, and he’s playing you like a damn instrument.

Lubed up and patient, but even still, it was like trying to park a truck in a glove compartment. Your mouth dropped open in a silent moan as he inched deeper and deeper, his thick cock stretching you around every ridge, every veiny inch, every blessed second.

You moan. Loudly. Repeatedly. You call him names—“menace,” “dick devil,” “hellsent bastard”—and he just fucks you harder.

Every drag of his cock stretches you, owns you. His hands pin your hips in place like you might run—as if your legs aren’t currently jelly—and every time you clench around him, he groans like he’s the one suffering.

You lick the scar at the corner of his mouth during a particularly deep stroke and he loses it.

“Brat,” he growls.

“Whore,” you grin.

He fucks like he’s training for something.

Not just deep. Precise. Hits the spot over and over like he’s playing your body like a favorite song.

You clawed his back. Nails dug in. Deep. You left road maps and warning signs. He hissed through his teeth, and you felt a twinge of pride.

“You’re… taking it so good,” he murmured, forehead against yours, voice dark silk.

You were not. But you appreciated the compliment.

He fucked like he knew what he was doing. Because he did. Angled just right. Grinding against your clit. Whispering absolute filth in your ear—dirty words in that low, smug voice that made your toes curl and your sanity fray.

You came. Loud. Full-body shaking. Again. Again. Again.

You lost count at five.

Toji came with a low, broken groan, hips stuttering as he pressed as deep as he could go. You felt him pulse, body hot and heavy against yours.

You lay there. Wrecked. Boneless. Pussy wrecked. Mouth slack. Hair ruined.

“…I can’t feel my face,” you mumbled.

“I wasn’t fucking your face,” Toji muttered, but he kissed your cheek anyway.

He pulled out slowly. You whimpered. Genuinely whimpered. The emptiness felt spiritually offensive.

“Why does your dick feel like a betrayal when it leaves?” you whispered in literal, genuine awe.

Toji just sighed.

“I need to clean you up,” he mutters, already helping you sit up.

“Carry me.”

“You can walk.”

“I came five times. I need a crane.”

He walks you to the bathroom. You pee (important). Toji slips into boxers while you’re still on the toilet.

You narrow your eyes.

“Coward.”

“What now?”

“You didn’t let me watch it deflate.”

“You’re a menace.”

“You brought this on yourself.”

You wash your hands, then slap his ass on the way out.

He rolls his eyes.

You grin.

*-*

The moment you realized you'd found love. And possibly a new religion. Its name? Toji’s dick.

Blessed be thy girth. Amen.

A/N: i find myself purely hilarious thank you. sorry for any mistakes, beta reader still gone.

Masterlist.

Who looked like he came from a Tarantino movie someone left out in the sun too long.

Dark suit, black shirt, visible veins on forearms like God took extra care shaping them out of anger, scars peeking out beneath his collar like they were whispering dirty little secrets. Greying at the temples, with a face carved out of bad decisions and sleepless nights. Big hands. Expensive gun tucked at his waist like a warning.

You looked him dead in the face the first time you met him and said:

“You look like a divorced mobster who’d snort coke off a hooker’s tits and cry after.”

He didn’t flinch.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t even smile.

Just adjusted his cufflinks—cheap knockoffs, you clocked that immediately—and said:

“Miss, I’m not here to impress you. I’m here to keep you alive.”

Ugh. Boring. Ugly attitude. Old fart mafia-looking motherfucker.

“He’s the new one?” You asked, staring literal daggers at your father that you saw like once a week.

“You go through bodyguards faster than I go through whiskey,” your father snaps.

“Because they’re weak,” you shrug, slinking off the bannister. “One of them cried.”

“You threw a potted ficus at his head.”

“He touched my bag.”

“You hit a man with a Prada purse.”

“It was vintage.”

“You also tried to get him arrested.”

“He looked at my tits.”

“It’s not your chest I’m worried about, it’s your reckless goddamn behavior.”

“I’m nineteen, Dad, not a nun.”

Toji is silent through all of this. Watching. Unimpressed. The way a wolf stares at a chihuahua having a temper tantrum.

You stalk past him on your way out:

“You look like a mafia divorcee with gambling debt and a knife in your boot.”

“Yeah? You look like a headache I should’ve swallowed a bullet to avoid.” He answers. Mothercuker.

And so it begins.

You’d gone through six bodyguards in the past eight months. Your record was Greg—poor sweet Greg—who lasted a solid seven days before you told your sugar-loaded piranha of a Pomeranian to bite his ankles until he cried. (He did. Sobbed. Left your daddy a resignation voicemail with sniffles.)

But this one—Toji—he was built different. You could smell it. That awful scent of stubborn bastard that clung to men who were too broke to give up good pay.

“Daddy’s paying you how much?” you asked on day two, flipping your hair as you sprawled across the backseat in your mini skirt that was more mini than skirt. You had your legs up on the leather like a throne. Diamond anklet catching the light.

“Enough,” he grunted, eyes on the road, arms tensing as he turned the wheel. “Now get your shoes off the seat before I make you eat ‘em.”

Oh. A challenge.

*-*

The first week is hell.

You try.

You really try to make him quit. You sneak out the house six times. You give a hotel room number to two guys named Bryce and Julio (Julio turns out to be gay, you end up doing coke off his iPad while he cries about his ex). You flirt with the front desk concierge and try to bribe her to mislead him.

Toji always finds you.

He’s relentless. Like a bloodhound with a military pension. No matter what you do, what you wear, who you run off with—he’s there.

Dragging you out of clubs by the wrist while you scream about human rights.

“Get your fucking hands off me, you gorilla.” “Shut up and get in the car.” “I’m calling the cops.” “You are the cops, sweetheart. Daddy bought them.” “You’re disgusting.” “You’re glitter. And puke.”

You wake up the next morning in your mansion bed. Hair tied up. Face wiped clean. A glass of water on your bedside and a garbage can next to you. No judgment. Just silence. He doesn’t even look at you as he reads the paper across the room, foot tapping.

You throw a pillow at his head.

“Stalkers are illegal, y’know.”

“I get paid too much to leave you alone.”

He does, by the way. Your dad offered him an absurd amount. Enough to pay off Toji’s gambling debt, fix his bike, put a down payment on something stable for once in his life. And so he stays. Like an annoying bastard with teeth sunk into meat.

*-*

Your record-breaking run: one month and two days. Your longest kept bodyguard.

By now, you’ve gotten creative, you were basically trying a montage of war crimes.

You swore you’d ruin him.

So you did.

At the mall, you bolted mid-shopping trip. He chased you. Full sprint. Through three levels of couture hell.

You threw a $2000 stiletto at his head. He sighs. You run. He jogs after you like it’s cardio and he’s bored.

He dodged. He gets pelted with a full barrage: – a lipstick (missed) – a mascara (hit) – a push-up bra (wtf) – your jacket – a spare thong

He grimaces at that one. “She’s feral,” he muttered, catching it on his face. “Rich and fucking feral.”

Then when he catches you:

“You are psychotic.” He hisses.

“You’re dusty.”

“You threw a panty at me.”

“You should be grateful, it’s Agent Provocateur.”

He doesn’t quit.

You try to sneak in guys. He drags them out shirtless and half-crying.

“Bad dick game,” Toji says, closing your bedroom door. “You listened?!” “Hard not to when he made you fake moan like a pornhub blooper reel.” “You’re a monster.” “You’re loud.”

*-*

The next day, you invited yet another boy over.

He was hot. Dumb as a brick, but hot. Probably named Chase or Jeremy or ChaAaAaAad something. He had a six-pack and an earring and the attention span of a toddler on Red Bull.

You were mid-makeout, lipstick smeared all over your cheek, when your door burst open like a scene from a cop show.

Toji. Again.

The door had been locked. Initially.

He looked at the guy. At you. At the half-bottle of champagne. Then back at the guy.

“Out.”

Chase blinked. “Huh?”

Toji cracked his neck. “I said: Out. Before I rearrange your face.”

You sighed dramatically, rolling onto your stomach. “God, you’re such a fucking cockblock.”

Toji slammed the door shut as soon as Chase scurried out like a roach under a flashlight. You watched him pace the room like he wanted to punch a wall.

“Seriously?” you said, yawning. “You think I haven’t had dick before?”

“You don’t know where that dick’s been,” he growled. “He looked like he jerks off with Vaseline and tears.”

You cackled.

“Oh my God, you’re jealous!”

“I’m disgusted. I want you to stop being a pain in my ass.”

You smiled. “Never gonna happen, old man.”

*-*

But then.

Then there are the other nights.

The ones where you come home, face pale, shaking after some party got too real too fast. Where you stumble into the house whispering something about some guy putting something in your drink. Where your voice cracks a little and your makeup’s smudged and you smell like danger.

Toji doesn’t say anything. Just wraps his coat around your shoulders and puts you in his car.

And when you were crying in the stairwell — full-on, makeup-smudged, hiccuping sobs over your mom screaming at you for existing — he sat down next to you and handed you a napkin. Said nothing. Just sat there.

“Why do you care?” you sniffled.

He shrugged. “Somebody’s gotta give a shit.”

He’s quiet. Always quiet, then.

He holds your hair when you puke. When you puked into gold-encrusted toilets at parties, he held your hair, muttering shit like “dumb little thing” while wiping your mouth.

When some sleazy frat fuck tried to get you to “just try this pill, babe,” Toji was there. Fist to face. Dragging you home by the arm with you swearing vengeance.

“You’re not my dad, asshole!” “You’d be dead if I were your dad. I’d have fucking drowned you.”

Carries you when you pass out.

Wipes your tears when you pretend not to cry.

He even gets a guy’s jaw broken after a night that almost went too far. You don’t ask. You don’t want to know. But he shows up the next morning with bloody knuckles and a fresh cup of coffee for you.

You start seeing him differently, after that.

You notice how his scowl softens when you’re curled up, faking being asleep. You notice how he always keeps you on his left, away from traffic. How he glances into every room before you enter it. How his thumb twitches near the hem of his coat like there’s always a blade tucked somewhere.

You start wondering what kind of man Toji was before he got paid to babysit you.

*-*

You were still a brat.

Still spoiled. Still temperamental.

But he started to see you.

Really see you.

You donated half your allowance every week to a women’s shelter downtown. You volunteered at a soup kitchen on Saturdays, hat pulled low so nobody would recognize you. You aced your exams. You wanted to study neuropsychology. You wrote essays about addiction and trauma and the way the brain copes with pain.

You were fire and glitter and chaos, but you were also kindness. And heart. And someone desperately trying to feel loved.

Toji didn’t say anything.

But he noticed.

*-*

Then came The Incident.

You were drunk.

Beyond drunk.

A little high. Glitter in your hair. Smelling like alcohol and coconut oil and expensive perfume.

He’d dragged you out of a club again, this time before you could do something spectacularly stupid.

You grin when you see him: “Toooojiiii,” you slur, “you’re late.”

“Y’know,” you slurred, “you’re kinda hot. For like, a fossil.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“Like… hot-hot. Like DILF-hot. You ever fuck a brat before?”

He didn’t look at you. “Go to sleep.”

“You got nice arms. Big. Strong.”

“Get up before I throw you over my shoulder.”

“Kinky.” You leaned over. Close. Your lips barely brushing his jaw.

Then you kissed him.

Sloppy. Hot. Right on the mouth. It’s messy. Wet. Drunken. A complete trainwreck of teeth and vodka-flavored tongue. You press your lips to his, gripping his shirt like you might fall through the ground if you let go.

And then you pull back and immediately hurl into the bushes.

Toji sighs. Lifts you like a sack of potatoes and walks to the car.

“…Right,” he muttered. “Fucking perfect.”

Held your hair again. Didn’t say anything.

Just kept his hand steady on your back. Watched over you. Stayed close.

Even when you were chaos incarnate, covered in vomit and bad decisions.

Because somebody had to.

And he was starting to think… maybe that somebody was him.

*-*

Then you stopped being annoying.

Which immediately pissed Toji off.

Because what the fuck was that supposed to mean?

One day you're throwing a $600 push-up bra at his head because he “doesn’t appreciate how hard it is to be hot AND emotionally neglected,” and the next… you're quiet. Still. Too still.

No “Toji, I hope your dick falls off and gets put in a museum for pathetic prehistoric meat.” No passive-aggressive playlist blasting through the speakers titled “DADDY ISSUES (and other reasons I’m better than you).”

Just… silence.

So he checks your room.

No tantrum. No glitter. No music. Just you—slouched over a desk that probably cost more than his last apartment—with a highlighter in one hand and a coffee the size of his ego in the other.

“Are you sick?”

You don't even look up. “Only of you.”

Okay. So you're not dead. That’s good.

And on his way out he sees the timetable and ah. Exam week.

And you're in go mode.

Like, full-blown, hyper-focused, demon-possessed, “if I don’t get a 90 I’m jumping into traffic with a Gucci belt as a noose” kind of mode.

Toji, shockingly, doesn’t know shit about child neurodevelopment or the effect of digital screens on prefrontal cortex stimulation.

But he knows your script by heart. Because you've practiced it so many times you could probably give the TED talk asleep and on fire.

“You don’t blink when you study,” he mutters one night, watching you from the corner.

You're cross-legged in a chair, headphones in, mouthing words to yourself like some deranged academic Barbie.

“Blinking’s for people who aren’t living on borrowed serotonin,” you say barely pausing.

He squints. “That a diagnosis?”

“It’s a flex.”

Toji’s not sure if he wants to laugh or shake you.

*-*

Presentation day.

It’s open to the public, so he’s there. Not because he wants to be. (Okay. Fine. Maybe a little.) Because he has to be.

You're in heels again. Not the throwing kind—though he always checks. Dress sharp enough to cut throats. Hair slicked. Lipstick just this side of professional.

And you kill it.

Like, actually murders the presentation. Clean slides. Clear voice. Jokes. Stats. The jury looks shook.

And when you finish—round of applause. Real. Earned. A 9.3 out of 10.

The best score of the day. Better than any of the overachieving, stressed-out, non-glitter-covered students.

Toji stands in the back, arms crossed, and watches you beam.

He might have a boner. Hard to say.

Then when he's following you backstage, he overhears a conversation, a really shitty one:

You're standing with your friend, laughing, sweaty from nerves but glowing.

“Your parents aren’t here?” the girl asks, a little awkwardly.

You just snicker. “If they had the option, they wouldn't have even been at my birth, babe. So of course, they didn't show up to this either.”

It hits him harder than he wants it to. Which is… not great.

*-*

Later that night.

He’s surprised you're not out.

Like, genuinely fucking shocked.

He checks your room. You're there. Just sitting on the bed. No shoes. No party outfit. No Instagram live yelling about how “life is a capitalist scam unless you’re hot.”

Just… quiet.

So he leaves to take a piss, gets held up by one of the housekeepers asking about security stuff—some dumb alarm system thing. Five minutes tops.

When he gets back: door open. Room empty.

And on the pillow?

A post-it note. Hot pink. Smells like your perfume. Written in sharpie.

✨ went to go destroy my liver!!! xoxo don’t wait up 🖕✨

“Fucking hell,” he mutters.

*-*

By 3 a.m., you're half-dead.

Toji finds her slumped outside the Uber, glitter in her eyebrows and something possibly cocaine dusting her cleavage.

“I should throw you into a recycling bin,” he grunts as he slings her arm over his shoulder.

You groan. “You’d miss me too much, Mr. Nice Ass.”

“…What?”

“Your ass,” you hiccup. “You’ve got, like… a sturdy fuckin’ ass. Like, bounce-a-quarter-off-it vibes. You thrust, huh?”

“Jesus Christ.”

“I bet you thrust mean. Like, ruin-a-bedframe mean.”

He says nothing. Just hauls you up the stairs like a sack of expensive regret.

And then getting you to bed is a war.

“Arms up.”

“No.”

“Arms the fuck up, princess, or I’m cutting this dress off with garden shears.”

“Is that a threat or a kink?”

Toji sighs like he’s aged ten years. “I hate you.”

“You love me.”

“Not even a little.”

“You’re touching my tits.”

“I’ve seen them before. They’re just boobs. Stop wiggling.”

“You’re wiggling, perv—”

He yanks the glitter-streaked dress off, not bothering to be gentle. You're drunk off your tits, giggling like a maniac.

“Jesus, you reek,” he mutters, grabbing a makeup wipe and kneeling at the bed.

“Thanks, Daddy.”

“Stop calling me that before I end you.”

The weird part comes next. He’s tucking you in. Bucket beside the bed. Water. Towel.

You're curled up like a little brat burrito, eyeliner halfway down your face, lips smudged.

Then:

“Hey, Toji?”

He turns. You're staring at him, eyes half-lidded, voice all slurred honey.

“…You think I’m just a spoiled little shit, right?”

He doesn’t answer right away.

You let out this weird little sound. Like a gurgle-meets-hiccup.

“You gonna puke again?”

“No,” you whisper. “I think I gotta burp.”

“…What?”

You make another noise.

So he shrugs, pats your back twice, and—

burp.

“Oh my fucking god,” he mutters.

You slump against him. “…You’re good at this.”

“What, babysitting your rich ass?”

“Yeah,” you murmur. “That too.”

You nestle into him. Your breath smells like tequila and sugar.

“You’re strong,”you mumble. “Got nice hands. And an ass. Like, a fuckin’ fine ass.”

“…Go to sleep.”

“You ever fucked someone against a mirror?”

“Jesus Christ.”

“Bet you could break a headboard.”

Then you fall asleep on him. Mouth open. Drooling a little.

Toji stares at the ceiling.

Great. Fucking great.

*-*

“You serious?”

Toji’s voice comes flat, sharp. Not angry—no, not yet. But coiled. Tense like a wire pulled too tight.

“I asked for one day. One. Afternoon and night. That’s it.”

Your dad’s voice is muffled behind the thick oak door, but Toji’s tone cuts right through. You weren’t trying to eavesdrop. But you’d been walking by, earbuds in, caramel macchiato in one hand, boredom in the other.

You stop. You listen.

“You’re being paid to work, not take family vacations.”

Silence. Tighter now.

“…It’s my son’s birthday.”

And fuck.

You’ve never heard him sound like that. Rough, low—but not the usual “I’m gonna break a kneecap if you test me” kind. No. Tired. Not the body-tired, either. Soul-tired. The I-just-want-to-see-my-kid kind.

Door opens. Toji steps out. Doesn’t see you at first—his shoulders are locked, fists clenched, scar under his eye twitching with the effort it’s taking to not turn around and fucking snap.

Then he sees you.

Perched on the leather couch like a housecat waiting for war. Pink nails, lip gloss, oversized sweater that says FUCK OFF IN FRENCH in rhinestones. But for once… you’re not taunting.

You blink. “You’ve got a son?”

“…Yeah.”

“Huh.”

He raises a brow. “What’s with the face?”

“Nothing,” you say. But it isn’t nothing. “Just. My birthday was four days ago. No one gave a fuck. I just got drunk alone and threw up cake on a guy’s shoes.”

He blinks. “Didn’t know it was your birthday.”

“Didn’t know you were a dad.”

“Tch. Fair.”

Another pause. You squint at him. “You actually give a shit about his birthday?”

He shrugs. “He’s my kid.”

And that’s all he says. Doesn’t bitch, doesn’t moan. Doesn’t go off about how he’s stuck babysitting a rich brat who buys thousand-dollar lingerie she never even wears, while his own kid gets store-brand Legos.

He just says it like it is.

You say nothing. But your mind’s already churning.

*-*

Three days later.

It’s Megumi’s birthday.

Toji’s shift starts like normal. Walks into the estate expecting the usual glitter grenades and hungover eye-rolls. Instead?

You’re waiting near the car. Jeans. Pink t-shirt. Baseball cap. Sunglasses.

No sequins. No boobs (not literally, those are still there- unfortunately, but they're not out like they usually are). No stilettos that could double as weapons.

And in your arms? The most obnoxiously huge, complicated LEGO set he’s ever seen—like five hundred bucks of Star Wars and trauma-bonding. In the trunk? A cake that smells like strawberries and vanilla and probably cost more than his car.

You look bored. “So where’s the kid?”

Toji stares. For a long moment. “What is this?”

You roll your eyes. “Jesus, don’t make it weird, Fushiguro. I’ve got a beach rented. Private. Paid for. Let’s go.”

“…You’re serious.”

“Duh. I don’t half-ass anything.” You smirk, popping gum. “Even when I’m being nice.”

Megumi is a weird, quiet little gremlin.

But he’s sweet. Smart. Dry as hell—makes one joke about Toji being “old” and you immediately adopt him as your gremlin son.

You spend the first hour talking with Megumi about the LEGO set. Then you pull out a trashy romance novel and lounge in the sun, give him time with his kid. Baseball cap tipped low. Glasses on. Sunblock smell in the air. Minimal phone usage, minimal chaos.

It’s… jarring.

Toji doesn’t know what the hell to do with it.

Megumi ends up loving the cake. Eats two slices. Even says “thank you,” which is—to Toji’s knowledge—the most emotional thing he’s said all month.

And you?

You just give him a thumbs up, then go back to reading. Occasionally tossing a compliment at the little dude.

“…Your kid’s not bad,” you mutter as the sun sets.

Toji grunts. “You’re not so bad yourself.”

You smirk. “Don’t ruin it.”

*-*

Five months in.

Toji gets a fat-ass bonus, a raise, and finally a Sunday off every week. They hire a second bodyguard—some ex-military stiff named Ben who looks like he’s allergic to glitter and fun.

Monday mornings now come with an official report.

Most of them start the same:

“Client uncooperative." "Client verbally combative." "Client threw iced coffee at my shoes.”

Which is just fucking hilarious, because you’re mostly normal with Toji now. Still spoiled. Still dramatic. Still dressing like Y2K Barbie on a coke bender half the time.

But… chiller. With him.

Toji knows when you’ll sneak out, where you’re going, who you’ll fuck, how many drinks before you start crying, what lipstick you wear when you don’t want anyone to talk to you.

Knows your bedtime routine, for fuck’s sake.

Green tea. Romcom. Moisturizer. Scroll through TikTok till you crash. He’s not even on shift half the time and he still fucking knows.

*-*

Then comes that night.

Rainy Tuesday. You get home from class, dump your bag on the floor. He’s trailing you like usual.

But something’s off.

Your eyes are glassy. Your steps are wobbly. You’re quiet—and not the “I’m plotting to fake my own death for attention” kind. The… tired kind.

You toss your jacket. Stumble into your room. And collapse onto your bed face-first with a thump.

Toji hovers at the door. “You good?”

Nothing.

Then you make a sound. Broken. Wet.

You’re crying.

Toji pauses. Walks over slowly. Sits on the edge of the bed, awkward.

“…Alright, brat. What happened?”

You sniff, face buried in the comforter.

“Everything. School’s a bitch. My professor’s a cunt. I failed a quiz. I have three papers due. I’ve got a fucking internship interview and I don’t even know if I wanna be alive long enough to go.”

“Jesus.”

You sit up suddenly, red-eyed and furious. “Fuck off, Toji. You wouldn’t understand. You just punch people for money.”

“Watch your mouth.”

“Or what?” You glare, voice hoarse. “You gonna find something to stuff it with?”

He snaps before he can think. “Yeah. Maybe I will.”

Silence. Then your eyes gleam. You smirk. “Promise?”

Oh, you’re such a little shit. You insult him again. Slur something about him being old and probably having a back brace. Which is how—toji ends up with your lips on him, your nails in his thigh, and you on your knees.

(He’s gonna pretend that didn’t happen. Or that he didn’t enjoy it. Or that it wasn’t the best head of his fucking life. But. You know.)

You rinse your mouth in the bathroom like it’s nothing. Toss him a damp towel with one hand, already yawning.

“Night, old man.”

And then?

You sleep. For twelve hours.

Monday morning.

Toji gets the report.

“Client unmanageable. Broke Ben’s sunglasses. Called me a dog. Poured champagne in the pool. Told the caterer to ‘suck her glittery dick.’”

He smirks. Takes a sip of coffee.

“…That’s my girl.”

*-*

The alarms blare like banshees.

Red lights flare in every corner of the sprawling estate, bouncing off mirrored walls and untouched designer furniture. You’re barefoot, holding a half-empty glass of wine, and pissed.

Not scared. Not yet.

“Toji,” you snap into the com on your phone. “If this is another drill, I swear to god I’m setting fire to this whole gaudy place.”

A low, staticky growl comes back through the line. “Not a drill. Get to the panic room. Now.”

“Excuse me?” you scoff. “You get to the panic room. I’m going upstairs. I left my Cartier bangles—"

There’s a crash. Wood splintering, glass shattering, a muffled shout. The sound of something that does not belong in this ten-thousand-square-foot museum of a mansion.

The line goes dead.

Then he’s there.

Toji, all 6’4 of sin in black tactical gear, one sleeve ripped, a thin line of blood running down his temple like it’s a fashion accessory. He doesn’t knock. He kicks the door in.

“You move like you’ve got a death wish,” he growls, and you open your mouth to argue — but he grabs you. No ceremony. Throws you over his shoulder like you weigh nothing.

“TOJI—!"

“Shut up.”

He carries you down the marble halls like a bag of rice, kicks open the floor panel in the wine cellar, punches in a code. The metal door swings open with a hiss.

“Get in,” he says.

You’re dumped onto the steel floor of a hidden safe room that smells like rust and expensive whiskey.

There’s barely a cot. A cabinet of water bottles. A monitor. No silk pillows. No cell service.

Absolutely no Wi-Fi.

“You absolute caveman,” you snarl, yanking your robe tighter around your hips. “You didn’t even grab my bag. My charger. My fucking hair mask?! You’re a glorified security camera with muscles and a bad attitude.”

Toji shuts the door behind him, metal locking with an ominous thud. “Try being grateful, princess. Someone just tried to kill you.”

“And you saved me. Congrats. Want a fucking sticker? This is what you're paid for!”

He walks up to you, close enough you can smell the blood and gunpowder on him. “Want a muzzle for that mouth instead?”

You sneer. “Try me.”

*-*

ONE HOUR LATER

The silence is claustrophobic. You’re pacing. Toji’s sitting on the cot, arms crossed, eyes closed like he’s trying to manifest being anywhere else. You toss a plastic bottle at his head. It bounces off harmlessly.

“You’re the worst bodyguard I’ve ever had.”

“I’m the only one you’ve ever had who kept you alive this long.”

“Because everyone else quit after one week,” you smile sweetly. “You’re either extremely stupid, or a masochist.”

Toji doesn’t open his eyes. “Probably both.”

Another pause. You’re watching him now. The way his jaw twitches when you talk. The tension in his arms. The blood still dried under his eye.

“…You’re bleeding.”

“No shit.”

“Want me to kiss it better?”

His eyes finally open. And they’re dangerous.

“You want to kiss my blood?”

You’re already walking over. “Maybe.”

*-*

TWO HOURS LATER

The tension doesn’t snap — it detonates.

You’re in his lap, teeth sunk into his bottom lip hard enough to draw blood, hands clawing at his shoulders. His hands are all over you, rough, hot, possessive — like he’s been dying to do this since the day he was assigned to you.

“Thought you hated me,” he grunts into your mouth.

“I do,” you pant, yanking his shirt over his head. “You’re unbearable. You talk like you’re choking on gravel.”

He laughs darkly. “You like it.”

You moan. “Fuck you.”

He shoves you against the wall, bites your neck. “Trying.”

Your kiss is all tongue and insult.

“Small dick,” you whisper against his mouth- which is a lie, you'd literally almost choked on it a couple weeks ago.

He slams you back again, palm on your throat, lips brushing yours. “Keep talking.”

“You won’t be able to handle me.”

“You sure?”

He hikes you up and slams your back to the wall. You gasp — but your legs are around him, heels digging into his lower back.

You lick the scar at the corner of his mouth. “You’re disgusting.”

“And you’re a spoiled brat,” he growls. “I should’ve let them take you.”

“You love me.”

“Worse. I want to fuck you until you forget your own name.”

“Prove it.”

Metal cot creaking under both your weight. Your back arches, fingers in his hair, nails dragging down his back hard enough to leave welts. You bite his shoulder so hard he grunts, grabs your jaw, kisses you bruising.

It’s primal. It’s ugly. It’s everything you’ve ever secretly wanted.

“Harder,” you whimper.

“You sure?”

“I said fucking harder, grandpa.”

His hand closes around your throat again — not tight, just enough to make your breath catch.

You come apart like you're losing your mind. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even slow down. Feral. Possessive.

You don’t even realize you’re sobbing his name.

*-*

THREE HOURS LATER

You’re a mess. There’s a trail of bruises down your hips. Bite marks on his neck. His back is clawed to shreds. You’re limping as you try to find your robe in the corner, muttering curses under your breath.

“Shut up,” Toji grunts, pulling his pants back on.

“I can’t walk, you animal. You dislocated my spine.”

“You loved it.”

You limp to the panic room door, hit the unlock. “Whatever. Not like that’s happening again.”

Toji doesn’t respond. Just watches you like a wolf.

You glance over your shoulder. “Stop staring.”

“Not staring.”

“You’re obsessed.”

“You’ll be begging me for it next time.”

“Oh yeah?”

You flash him a wicked grin, still limping. “Get in line, daddy.”

He doesn’t move. Just smirks, eyes traveling over the scratches on his chest.

“Don’t worry, princess,” he says. “I’m not going anywhere.”

And he means it.

Because the next time someone tries to kill you?

He’ll kill them first.

Then rail you against the nearest wall.

A/N: idk just bodyguard toji scratches a special itch in my brain, i swear i'll have those bogyguard toji x gender neutral, and x male reader out by the end of the week btw

Masterlist.

The second he lays eyes on you, it’s over. He’s done. You walk in : heels clicking, sharp expression, tailored suit, maybe a little smirk when your eyes scan him like a piece of meat — and his brain just short circuits. You’re powerful. You're cold. You're so clearly used to owning everything in the room. And he’s been hired to serve you??? Protect you??? Take orders from you??? Oh he’s fucked.

“Yes, ma’am.” Fuck, she’s gonna kill me with that voice. Say it again. Say it slower. Or faster. Just fucking say it.

There’s something so sickeningly hot about the fact that you’re technically his boss. Like, you could fire him and he’d probably thank you. Step on his throat a little while you do it. He’d take that severance package and jerk off in the parking lot.

His internal monologue is straight up NSFW filth. All the time. 24/7.

You could be arguing with a senator on a conference call and he’s just standing guard, arms crossed, listening to your voice go icy as you verbally eviscerate some man in a $20K suit. And his cock’s half-hard because you’re just so fucking mean and you know exactly what you want.

"Bossy bitch. Fuck, that’s hot. Bet she’d slap me if I tried anything. Bet she’d ride me and call me pathetic while I beg. She probably makes men cry in bed. God, I’d thank her.”

You drop something and bend down? He’s dying. You brush past him and smell like expensive perfume and power? He’s hard. You scold him for being “too rough” with a potential threat?

“Yes ma’am. I’ll be good. I promise. Unless you don’t want me to be. Want me to be your attack dog? Your guard dog? I’ll bark, baby.”

He’s got this whole weird complex about wanting to dominate you and desperately craving your control. Like, he dreams about bending you over your marble desk and fucking you so hard you forget the quarterly earnings — but also dreams about you slapping his face and making him crawl under it while you talk on the phone like nothing’s happening

"God she’s so fucking mean. I love her. I hate her. I want to put a baby in her. I want her to tell me I’m useless. I want to buy her flowers. I want her to choke me. I want to—” (He zones out mid-shift and almost walks into traffic thinking about your thighs.)

You wear these sharp suits. Blouses that are definitely technically modest but hide the filthiest curves. Pearls or sometimes gold jewelry. He watches you button your coat up and imagines unbuttoning it while you sit on his face.

You’ve got heels that make you taller and legs for days, and when you cross them during meetings??? He stares. Doesn’t even try to hide it. Just stands behind you like a silent predator with a boner.

“I’ll quit. I’ll quit right now. If she asks me to eat her out I’ll do it. In front of the board. I’ll make eye contact with HR.”

He saves you from an attempted hit and you slap him across the face for not telling you the threat level was high enough to warrant pulling you out of a meeting?? And he’s just. Standing there. Rock hard. Like:

“You’re mad at me? Yeah? You gonna punish me? Wanna make me get on my knees, boss?”

You carry a little pistol in your desk drawer and pull it on someone once in front of him and he gets so horny he has to take a cold shower and punch a wall.

*-*

You call him into your office for a “performance review.” He’s sweating. He’s thinking you finally caught him jerking off in the back of the SUV. You just want to commend him on how efficient he is. He nuts in his pants.

“Yes ma’am. Thank you, ma’am. Can I—fuck, can I sit down? No reason. Just—yeah. No, I’m fine.”

You go to a gala and he’s dressed in a tux. He can’t take his eyes off you all night. You’re in some slit-down-to-there gown and he literally has to position himself behind you just so no one sees he’s rock hard from watching you boss people around with a glass of champagne in your hand.

Someone flirts with you and he gets so mad he almost throws a guy down the stairs. You’re furious — he’s supposed to be discreet — and when you chew him out back in the car, he gets hard from the way you say his name like it’s venom.

"Toji. You are out of line.” “Yeah? And what’re you gonna do about it, boss?” (please punish me please punish me please—)

Toji’s down bad. He wants to fuck you, serve you, ruin you, and be owned by you — all at once. And the worst part? You know. You absolutely know. You call him “my dog” in passing once and he nearly busts in his pants. You tell him he’s “useful” and he can’t sleep that night. You slap his chest to shut him up and he moans, accidentally.

And you? You just smirk. Because that big, dangerous man with a body count and a gun on his hip? Yeah, he’ll kill for you. But he’d also beg for you. On his knees. Tongue out. Wagging.

A/N: OKAY THIS ISNT GREAT I KNOW I KNOW, but like i wanted to write for toji bc i never actually wrote for him, so i'm TRYING, but yeah this was fun to write.

Masterlist.