eliza

Harper has been the strong hold protecting you every step of the way. No privates or sergeants trying any funny shit with you, like you give them the chance but still, no one doubting your capabilities, everyone being nice. Now that Harper’s gone, who was going to do that for you? The 141 were strangers. A perfectly put together unit that didn’t even need to talk to each other to get a point across and you— you were an outsider.

You dropped Price’s coffee off with a smile, one half cream, 3 sugars, setting the stack of files down on the coffee table.

“You don’t have to be so stiff you know? Me, along with the rest of the guys, are more than thankful to have you.” And his voice made you pause. It was deep yet so soft, sincere. He gave you a warm smile, one that had you buzzing.

Absolutely not.

“Just getting accustomed is all.” You try to laugh it off, give him the best smile you can, giving him a nod before exiting his office. You’re heart in your ass.

You told yourself as long as you could make it to Friday, and Friday was karaoke day for Office!Barbie. You loved singing all the pain and frustration away be it in those singular small rooms or in front of a crowd, after a few drinks were in you, you could finally unwind.

But you didn’t know if you could make it this week.

Office!Barbie who managed to make it to lunch, where everyone was off god knows where, and you were in the storage closet for the janitors, hair pinned back, half eaten sandwich on a stack of boxes of towels, your pink makeup pouch propped up on a shelf, on a call with your older sister. Your hands shaking as you held your phone, tears streaming down your face.

You let out soft hiccups and whimpers, “Shit,” you rasped out, “I can’t do this anymore Stephanie. I really can’t do it! I need to quit. Nothing feels the same without Captain Harper.”

“[+], I think you just need to breath. It’s only been two months.” You sister tries.

“I am breathing!” you whisper yell, you chest rapidly rising and falling. “I’ve been walking on egg shells every fuckin day, I’m all alone here now. It doesn’t even feel like I’m really needed anymore, Price takes on everything and the other guys are hard to get through. I’m wasting my time here. I wanna go home.”

“Well, you know what dad’ll say if you come back.”

Yes, yes you do.

Your family was more than well off. You didn’t need to go across the world for a job, living in a flat that wasn’t even the size or your closet back home— hell— you didn’t need to work. Your parents just wanted you to get married and be happy. Your sister had done just that and was currently on her third vacation of the year.

But you always wanted to prove that you could. That you could be successful in your own right.

A big girl with her own big girl job.

But now your big girl job was useless and you should’ve taken the job that your father had told you you could have. And as soon as you got on that private jet, he’d call, his voice condescending, ‘I’m soooo sorry honey, you worked hard at your cute job, didn’t you? Not to worry, there’ll always be a place for you here.”

The least empathetic, “I told you so.”

You groaned in frustration, stomping your foot to the floor, your knee accidentally hitting the door. You hear a couple foot steps and freeze, breath ceasing to gain as if you’re not in the fucking storage closet, turning the volume on your phone down. The foot steps get further away and you sigh in relief, turning around and pulling out your compact mirror from the makeup bag. You rummage through the bag.

“I- Stephy, I can’t stay here. I’m not even sure if they like me. And with the amount of mistakes I’ve made, they probably do. There are plenty of secretaries that can do the job, ‘nd of course it’ll take some time because of the work load, i just need to tell Laswell that I’m breaking contract. Then poof, I’m back home.” You sniffle, during your eyes and fixing your make up.

“You sound sure of yourself girl… if this is what you want.”

“It is.”

No it’s not.

Well, not with the rest of the 141 standing right outside the door listening to your conversation.

Gaz heard your cries first, he went to get you to have lunch, the five of you, to that place you’d recommended, but you made a bee line for the closet. The door locking before he got the chance to open it.

And then it was talks of leaving, by the time the rest of the 141 found where Gaz was. Simon had to shush Soap so they could properly hear you.

You didn’t know it, but the 141 had been eyeing you since before you beautifully got passed over to them. You’d been taking notes for the retired man all their eyes glued to you. You couldn’t deny how attractive they were so you gave them a small smile even with the butterflies in your stomach, your curls bouncing with every movement, nothing serious. Office relationships, at least for you, was a big no-no. You’d denied anyone coming at you romantically, perfect chance for the 4 men to slide in when the time was right. Gorgeous thing, Price had been smootching to Harper to get you in the 141’s hands. Taking on missions, paper work, treating him and his wife to dinner— the fucking works.

All to have a pretty doll in their grasp— you leaving just wouldn’t work.

You exited the storage room, blowing the hair out of your face with freshly lined lips but your back hit the door as it shut. Surprised at the sudden surrounding of the large men around you in the hallway.

Your gulp, praying they didn’t hear your past conversation. “H- can I help you with something?” You straighten yourself, back to your chirpy voice.

Cute, stunning— to die for. They’d die for you.

Soap is first, “Ye need t’eat, right Bonnie? Couldn’t’ve been in there all lunch?”

Your long lashes flutter, nervously rubbing your own arm, “I’m fine, I had a sandwich—“

“—Don’t think a sandwich is enough sweetheart, know you’ve been dying to go to that one spot yeah?” Gaz is smooth as ever, coming and taking your hand.

“No, no. I’m fine. Plus it’d be a bit of a hassle, breaks almost over—“

Simon shakes his head, nodding towards the hallway that’s closest to the parking lot, “Breaks can be extended. You work for us, don’t you doll?”

Oh.

You almost go weak at that.

Pull it together Barbie.

You clear your throat, looking to Price for a little help. But he’s no better than the rest, his hand finding the small of your back, guiding you down the hall.

“Come on, you’ll get to know us better this way love. Just a little lunch and if you hate it, we’ll come right back.”

You want to say no, but Gaz’s hand in your yours, Prices hand on your back, and Ghost and Soap close by, how could you say no? It’s sickeningly sweet.

“Okay.”

you laugh softly, tilting your head to look up at him. "hop like a bunny?"

"that's right, sweetheart," jack replied, his eyes crinkling with affection, showing off those lines you loved to kiss. "we're gonna have some special daddy time when we get home. you've been runnin' around the mall all day, daddy wants to make sure you get all those bounces out before bedtime."

you wriggle in his arms and whine at him to just pick up the bags and stop being such a pervy old man. he cages you in further, sighing, "i spend all day savin' lives and this is how my little girl treats me... not even a 'thank you for spoilin' me, daddy'." you ignore his obvious attempt at sympathy-baiting as you point in the direction of the next store you want to visit, promising not to spend too much of his money.

jack just swats your ass, muttering: "yeah, right. you're far too spoiled to budget, bunny," before releasing you and picking up your shopping bags, his muscles flexing as he shoulders their weight like it's nothing.

but you've come to realise that jack always gets what he wants. sure enough, that evening, you're clad in a brand new white lingerie set, picked out by him. he sits you in his lap, kissing at your neck and groping at your skin.

"my precious little cottontail, you're gonna be so cute bouncin' on daddy's cock," he hums, as he peels the soaked thong off of you. "jesus, baby, you just got these... what am i gonna do with you? but i guess i can't blame you, bunny wants to mate, so your cunt gets leaky..."

and you're still his bunny when you're rocking your hips over his cock, grinding him into you. whining into his neck: "s-so deep..."

"i know, sweetheart," he replies, pressing a kiss to your cheek as his hands knead your ass. he slides one hand over to rub at your swollen clit, drawing whimpers from you as your movements become more desperate. "that's it... let daddy rub your sweet spot while you're bouncin' on me so good. daddy wants you to make yourself messy. fuck yourself on my cock, bunny."

But every time that syllable left your lips, it felt like a silken leash around his throat, his cock shamefully kicking. He reached out, his large, calloused hand ruffling your hair with a roughness that bordered on a caress.

"Stupid kid," he muttered, before turning on his heel and leaving.

In the weeks that followed, the dynamic shifted. You stopped being just the polite neighbor and started becoming a deliberate provocateur. You’d "accidentally" be checking the mail when he went for his morning runs, watching the way his muscle tee clung to the sweat-slicked expanse of his back.

You began hitting on him with a boldness that surprised even you, and to your delight, he didn't shut it down. He grumbled, he called you "kid" to remind you of your age gap, but he never looked away or scolded you to stop.

When he finally mentioned he was setting up a home office and needed a second pair of hands to steady the furniture, you saw your opening.

You showed up at his door in a white crop top so thin it left nothing to the imagination, your nipples prodding at the fabric in the cool air of the hallway. Your denim miniskirt was a scandal, barely covering the curve of your hips.

"You're late," he grunted, though his eyes immediately dropped to your tits, then trailed down your bare legs. He was wearing a muscle shirt that showed off the heavy outline of ink on his pectorals.

The work was a slow torture of proximity. You helped him move a massive mahogany desk, watching the way the veins in his forearms jumped and his biceps bugled as he hoisted the weight. You stood nearby, intentionally leaning over so he could see the lack of a bra, while he focused—or tried to—on the assembly.

The sheer masculinity of it all made you disgustingly wet; you felt the sudden, hot gush of arousal between your legs, a familiar, heavy ache swirling in your stomach.

"Can you put these frames up for me?" he asked, pointing to a set of shelves. "I'll hold the ladder."

You climbed up, the hem of your skirt riding up until it was practically a belt. He stood at the base, his hands firmly on the rails, but his head was at the perfect height to see exactly what you wanted him to see: the thin lace of your pink panties, already darkening at the gusset.

Balanced on the ladder, you realized the view from several feet up is much better than the one on the floor—specifically the way Sukuna stood below, hands hovering near your hips as a "safety measure." He was being chivalrous, staring at the walls with intense focus just to avoid looking at your ass.

The fall was easy to stage. You tipped backward, hands slipping off the rungs with a squeak. You don't fall gracefully and he cusses, you hit him with enough force to slam his back into the wall with a heavy thud.

"Geez, you've got to be more careful," he wheezed, panting, his grip tightening instinctively on your waist as he tried to find his breath.

"Fuck, are you okay?" he questioned, frowning with that frantic, over-protective concern he usually reserves for his nephew, Yuji after he falls while playing with other kids at the park across from your apartment complex. He started checking your arms and legs for injuries, but you stopped him, cupping his face to force him to look at you.

“I'm okay,” you chuckled breathlessly, amused by his fussing. “Are you?” you asked, eyes tracing his features in faux worry as he blinks slowly, brows lowering when it dawns him.

As your hand slid from his jaw down to his neck, grazing his bobbing Adam’s apple, his eyes narrow. He goes rigid, sensing the shift in the air. The way you squeeze his bicep and offer a look of exaggerated, wide-eyed worry is a little too theatrical to be genuine. He feels the heat of your body inching closer and the sharp scratch of your nails at his nape, sending a traitorous chill down his spine.

“I'm fine,” he gritted out, jaw pulsing.

Sukuna knew exactly what you’re doing—this wasn't an accident, it’s a trap. He’s suspicious of the faux-fretting and the salacious weight of your touch, but despite the warning bells in his head, he doesn't move to push you away. He just stands there, trapped between the wall and your "concern," waiting to see how far you'll push it.

"Did you do that on purpose?" he growled, his voice vibrating through your bones.

"Did I do what on purpose, sir?" you asked, tilting your head back to meet his fierce gaze.

"Lying isn't cute." He set you back on the ladder, whirling you around and swatted your rear, making you yelp in delighted surprise. “Up, I want this fat ass at my eye level.”

Heart skipping and stomach flipping, you did as he said, fingers gripping the sides of the ladder, white-knuckled.

With a sudden, aggressive flick, he flipped your skirt up. The sight of the dark, shimmering patch on your panties made a low, hungry rumble tear from his throat.

"Look at you," he hissed, hooking his fingers into the waistband and dragging the silk aside. "Ruining your panties while I'm working? You’re a real brat."

“Sorry, sir—Oh!” His tongue—hot, broad, and terrifyingly skilled—lashed against your clit, cutting off your unapologetic response. The wet muscle melted against your pussy.

A broken whimper of his name stuttered out of you as you clutched the sides of the ladder for dear life when he buried his face in you. He was making out with the petals of your pussy, his nose buried in your trimmed pubes, sucking at your puffy clit with a devotion that borders worship, your knees turning to water.

"So sweet," he mumbled against your swollen folds, his voice muffled. "Is this what you wanted? Looking at me like a cat in heat, rubbing up on me like one too?"

“W-Wait,” you gasp out in panic, reaching back blindingly to grab at his tufts of coral hair and yank him back but he stays put, head as heavy as lead. “Ah-hah, I didn't shave—”

Flustered, you'd only wanted to tease him, you didn't think you'd be fucking around and finding out right now. He usually brushes you off.

Popping off your sensitive nub, he peers up at you with an unamused scowl, tattoos making his creased brows and crimson eyes scarier. “I'm a grown fucking man, kid.”

“I'm not a fucking kid, old man,” you spat back and he only responded with a gruff chuckle that made your belly shiver as he ducked back, licking a flat, wide stripe from your clit to your pooling whole, slurping loud and filthy.

He drank from you until you were shaking, your first orgasm crashing over you in shuddering, tingling waves, accompanied by the second one faster than you can process it.

Before you could recover, he shucked his sweatpants, and his cock springs free—heavy, dark-veined, and weeping. He doesn't use a condom; he just fists it, stroking the thick, heavy shaft as he stares at your bare ass and drooling cunt.

"Climb down. Four rungs," he commanded with the jut of his chin even though you're facing away.

You obeyed, your body buzzing. He stepped into your space, his massive, heat-radiating frame pinning you against the ladder.

"Stay right there," he told you, his hands kneading your waist. "Such a good, needy girl."

He guided his cockhead to your entrance, and with one smooth, agonizingly slow roll of his hips, he buried himself inside you one inch at a time, each one sucking a cute little mewl out of you.

"That’s it, baby. Let me in, yeah—fuuuuuck," he groaned, his forehead dropping onto your shoulder. "You're so tight. Are none of the guys your age big enough?”

“No, sir.”

Cooing, he pressed a kiss to your nape. “Sorry, baby. I'm here now.”

He began to fuck you with a lazy, torturous strokes. His calloused hands moved to your waist, kneading the soft flesh there, his thumbs digging into the small of your back. Every time he pushed forward, the ladder creaked in protest. The sound of his skin slapping yours—a sopping, erotic plap—echoed in the quiet office.

"You like this, don't you?" he whispered into your ear, his teeth grazing the lobe. "Getting filled up by the old man next door?"

A silent scream has your mouth agape when the curve of his cock drags back and forth, rubbing all your sweet spots deep and thorough, your gummy walls swelling as you nod mindlessly.

"Yeaaaah... You’ve been begging for this since the day you moved in, haven't you? Look at you, shaking for me. God, you're sucking me in so good... fuck, I’m going to ruin you."

"Mhmmm, ah, please, sir, m-more," you sobbed, your head lolling back as you drop your ass down on his cock, mouth falling open on a breathy moan at how he fills you and pokes your belly.

The "sir" broke his restraint, his nose wrinkling as his grip on your hips tightened until his knuckles went white.

Yanking you back by your hair, he wrapped the silky strands around his fist and began to pound into you with a feral, earth-shattering thrusts. He wasn't being gentle anymore; he was carving out a spot for him inside you, his hips snapping forward with enough force to rattle the frames on the shelves.

"Thaaaat's it," he hummed, gaze narrowed on the webbing, creamy strings of milky cum stretching between his thighs and yours. "Take it all. Fuck, you're making such a mess for me. Shaking like a leaf while I stretch you out. You want me to go harder? You want me to break you?"

"Yes! Harder! Please, sir!" Your vision blurred as orgasm after orgasm tore through you.

He reached around, hoisting you up with his big hands holding you by your thighs, backing up, your feet dangling as he bore your entire weight effortlessly. He rammed upward, hitting your cervix with every brutal thrust. "Cry, baby, it's okay," he commanded, his breath hitching.

And you did, shattering again, your vision white-hot, your gooey walls clamping down on him in a rhythmic frenzy that finally pushed him over the edge.

"Fuck, I'm coming—call me that again," he groaned, his voice breaking into a moan as his hips lose their rhythm. “Shit, baby. Can I please come inside?”

"Yes, yes! please, sir!"

A long, guttural groan poured from his chest, his body tensing as he pumped his heat deep into your womb, filling you until you felt stuffed and sated.

Sukuna felt guilty for being so rough when he saw you shivering, muscles trembling. He immediately softened. "I went too hard," he muttered into your damp hair, though he didn't sound entirely sorry.

He carried you to his bathroom, his tattooed arms a safe harbor. He washed your hair with a gentle touch, his large hands careful as he lathered your skin. He dressed you in one of his oversized black hoodies—which swallowed you whole, reaching your mid-thighs—and ordered a spread of high-end sushi for dinner.

That night, you slept tucked against his side, his arm a heavy, comforting weight across your waist.

It became your new reality. He took on the role of your benefactor with a grumpy, possessive pride. He’d grumble about your spending habits while handing over his black card for your snack runs and shopping sprees, provided you let him fondle with your tits and suck on them now and then or take him to the back of your throat until he came across your cheeks.

He's got plenty of money to spare even after putting a lot of it towards his nephew's current fixations and future. So he paid for your weekend trips with friends, but the price was always the same: a night of you being his personal plaything, letting him use whatever part of you he chose to come in or on.

And every time he took you on vacation—to the snowy peaks of Hokkaido or the tropical beaches of Okinawa—he made sure to leave his mark deep inside you, a constant reminder of exactly who's funding your lavish lifestyle with designer bags and expensive clothes.

"You want that trip with your friends, don't you?" he asks one night, his hand disappearing under your doughy thighs, kneading the soft flesh. "Then you better make sure this pussy is sore and dripping with my cum before you leave. But first get on your knees."

You obey, always with a smile, always with a "Yes, sir," knowing exactly whose bed you're coming home to.

His palm is warm against the back of your hair, petting your hair, heavy-lidded eyes glazed over as he gazes down at you through his messy coral strands, the soft, slick noises of you sucking his cock eagerly filling the living room, faint beneath the show playing on television.

Sukuna knew damn well that you never did this for his money, you couldn't fake how much you wanted him even before he became your “sugar daddy” though he hates the term. You're more of a companion than anything else, making his life much less lonely.

Stomach caving, his eyes flutter shut brief when you hollow your throat and swallow thickly around him, his shaft pulsing as your tongue slathers it in saliva, the tip of the muscle prodding at his weeping slit. Sharp tingles dance down his spine and strike him in the groin, made worse by your glassy eyes, smudged mascara and pretty, tear-dotted lashes.

“You better not, fuck, go on any fucking dates while you're there,” he warns in a slurred voice, not even realising what he's saying as a giggle bubbles from you, his cock throbbing at the thrum of it.

Drawing back with a wet pop, a string of saliva glittering on your lips, you beam at him. “Why would I do that when I have you, Ryo?”

God, that nickname has warmth spreading in his heaving chest, a stray fluttering in his belly that he hasn't felt since he was your age. With a growl, his hand at the back of your head slides down to your neck and cups it, dragging you up onto his lap.

“Hey, I wasn't done—”

“Shut up, greedy brat,” he grumbles, swallowing your protests that dissolve into dreamy sighs as his tongue swipes against yours, coating your mouth in the spicy, peppermint syrup flavour of the drink he'd been nursing. “Fuck, I love you.”

Freezing as the words slip out of his mouth, he tries to pull back but you grab the collar of his shirt, crushing his lips against yours once more in a clumsy clash of tongue and teeth as you grin against his mouth.

“Uh-uh, don't run away from me, old man.” Biting down on his bottom lip, you release it and dot a sweet peck on the tip of his nose, nipping at it. “I love you too.”

art by su2kuna <333

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

you’ve been down so fucking bad ever since.

toji fushiguro.

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

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

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

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

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

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

but now?

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

and the worst part?

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

you wave when you see him— he nods.

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

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

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

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

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

his eyes dropped.

slow. deliberate.

right to your thighs.

then back up to the skyline like nothing happened.

and that’s when you knew.

he’s not blind. he’s just resisting.

which brings you to now.

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

it’s addressed to his unit, obviously.

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

because you’re a liar.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“…you live in 402, right?”

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

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

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

there’s a pause. a long one.

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

and then. then. a small voice behind him:

“who’s at the door?”

you peek past him instinctively—

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

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

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

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

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

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

“hi! i’m your new neighbor.”

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

you die a little. “right.”

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

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

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

abort mission. regroup.

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

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

silence.

the hallway feels colder now.

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

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

but you’re not giving up!

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

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

which brings you to:

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

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

you have a plan.

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

step two starts tomorrow.

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

you’re in too deep to turn back now.

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

you start running into him a lot more.

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

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

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

he gave you a nod and kept jogging.

progress.

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

he walked in. saw you. paused.

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

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

another pause.

god, he’s so fucking impossible.

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

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

you wanted to scream. you smiled instead.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you beamed. “just making conversation.”

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

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

toji blinked. glanced up.

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

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

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

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

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

“…hi.”

victory.

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

he’s slipping.

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

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

it starts with a fake injury.

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

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

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

he stops. eyes narrow.

“…what the hell happened to you?”

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

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

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

“…gravity’s everywhere.”

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

you try not to short-circuit.

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

he doesn’t react. “it’s not broken.”

you pout. “still hurts.”

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

you make a noise that is not normal.

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

“excuse me??”

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

you are going to die here.

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

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

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

“oh my god.”

step three is officially a success.

after that, things shift.

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

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

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

you blink. “what?”

“the pasta. wasn’t bad.”

you nearly trip over your own shoes.

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

and megumi? megumi is your new little buddy.

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

toji shows up to get him an hour later.

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

“…you don’t have to babysit, y’know.”

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

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

“…yeah. he’s good.”

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

a few days pass.

and then— he knocks on your door.

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

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

your brain goes static.

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

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

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

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

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

“you’re trouble, aren’t you?”

you almost pass out.

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

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

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

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

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

tight tank tops with no bra? daily.

asking if he needs help lifting shit? always.

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

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

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

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

and toji?

toji has looked.

slow. restrained. but it’s there.

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

especially tonight.

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

you up?

no response…

you try again:

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

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

don’t burn your kitchen down.

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

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

the door swings open. and there he is.

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

“you actually baked something?”

you pout. “don’t sound so shocked.”

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

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

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

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

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

“i want something,” you murmur.

he watches you. unreadable.

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

and then— he stands up.

you freeze.

no.

he walks to the door.

absolutely not.

he opens it.

“go home, sweetheart.”

you blink. “…what?”

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

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

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

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

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

you take the hint.

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

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

you’ve stopped trying.

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

you go cold. polite. distant.

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

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

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

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

you start going out more.

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

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

you know he’s listening.

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

and then the shift begins.

it’s subtle, at first.

he starts speaking more.

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

you nod, toss him a quiet “hey.”

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

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

he stares a second too long.

you keep walking.

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

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

“…got plans tonight?” he asks.

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

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

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

but his jaw tightens. you see it.

and you smile to yourself when the elevator dings.

you don’t stop. you don’t wait.

and then— one night. late.

a knock at your door.

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

but then you do.

he’s there.

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

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

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

you blink. tilt your head. heart stuttering.

“why?” you say. “you jealous?”

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

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

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

jackpot.

you smile. slow. wicked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“use your words.”

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

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

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

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

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

your mouth drops open.

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

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

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

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

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

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

he slams you against the wall and shoves in deep.

you scream.

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

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

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

he doesn’t. he can’t.

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

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

“toji—”

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

“daddy—” you choke.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“not done with you yet,” he mutters.

then he dives in.

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

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

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

“yes- fuck- yes—”

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

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

“too much, too much—”

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

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

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

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

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

your brain breaks. completely.

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

he grins. dark. cocky. dangerous.

“fuckin’ knew it.”

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

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

you’re sobbing. babbling. “pleasepleaseplease—”

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

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

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

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

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

“you’re mine now.”

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

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

and he’s still inside you.

still hard.

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

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

his hand tightens on your hip immediately.

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

you choke on a breath. “d-daddy—”

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

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

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

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

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

“you will.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you swallow, breath hitching. “yours—”

his grip tightens.

“say it again.”

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

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

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

he laughs. low. mean.

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

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

you jolt hard.

“nono, please- s’too much—”

he circles it anyway.

slow.

you squeal.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

and then he starts again.

hard.

faster this time.

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

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

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

he fucks you deeper with every word.

“who’s pussy is this?”

“yours—!” you sob.

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

“you—! just you—!”

“damn right.”

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

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

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

you’re gone. completely.

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

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

you shake your head weakly. “can’t—”

“yes you can.”

his hand finds your clit again.

you break.

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

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

you collapse under him completely.

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

then, softer this time— just a little—

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

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

you’re just… gone.

and he sounds way too pleased about it.

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

and toji’s still there.

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

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

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

“fuck. you made me pull a muscle.”

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

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

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

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

“so… what are we now?”

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

he exhales.

then, low. rough. certain.

“mine.”

you short-circuit. go quiet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“…you blew my back out.”

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

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

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

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