Engine Trouble
Synopsis. One dead car at 1 a.m. One very reluctant phone call to the mechanic next door — who happens to be your friend Megumi's dad. You should've called an Uber.
Pairing. Toji Fushiguro x Reader
Content. MDNI. fem!reader, drunk reader, Neighbour!Toji, Mechanic!Toji, tension, explicit sexual content: dirty talk, p in v, unprotected sex, breeding kink, rough missionary, rough doggy, oral (fem. + male rec.), tit fucking/tit job, ass eating, ass smacking, ass play, toe sucking, choking, creampies, daddy kink, mating press, spit kink, pussy drunk toji, he is a perv hehe, he literally licks your pit pls lol; is it obvious i'm ovulating <3333
Word Count. 7.6k
You changed your outfit three times.
It was stupid. It was a college party — sticky floors, bad lighting, a stolen aux cord playing the same twenty songs on loop. Nobody was going to remember what you wore through the haze of cheap vodka. But you stood in front of the mirror anyway, rotating through options, waging a private war between cute and reckless.
Reckless won.
Short black dress. Thin straps, low back, mid-thigh hem. Heels that added three inches. The kind of outfit that made you feel like someone who did dangerous things, which was a lie, but a convincing one.
Your phone buzzed.
Nobara: if you're not here in 20 minutes i'm telling everyone about the karaoke incident
You: you SWORE on your life
Nobara: clock is ticking babe 🕐
You grabbed your keys and headed out.
The night air was cool. Your heels clicked on the driveway. And next door — because the universe had a sense of humor — the garage light was on.
He was there.
Toji Fushiguro. Your neighbor for two years. Under a car, legs extended from beneath the chassis, and then — rolling out as he heard your heels — sitting up, looking at you. Black compression shirt streaked with grease. Dark hair pushed back from his forehead. The scar at his lip catching the garage light.
His eyes made the trip — your heels, your legs, the dress, your face. Unhurried. Unapologetic.
"Going somewhere?"
"Party."
"Hm." He wiped his hands on a rag. Didn't look away. "Have fun."
"I plan to."
You walked to your car. You did not look back. You absolutely looked back. He was still watching, leaning against the frame of the garage, arms crossed, that lazy half-smile playing at the corner of his mouth.
You pulled out of the driveway too fast and spent the entire drive to the party trying to get your pulse to settle.
The bass hit your chest before you made it through the door.
"FINALLY." Nobara seized your wrist the second you crossed the threshold, dragging you through a wall of bodies and cheap strobe lights. The house was packed — an off-campus wreck with a sagging porch and a lawn that had surrendered three semesters ago. It smelled like spilled beer and bad decisions.
"You're late. You missed Maki absolutely demolishing Momo at beer pong."
"I did not demolish her," Maki called from the dining table, sinking another shot with annoying precision.
Momo was dabbing her eyes. Mai stood beside her, patting her shoulder with the enthusiasm of court-mandated community service. "She definitely demolished her."
"I'm fine," Momo sniffled. "I'm having fun. This is fun."
Maki sank the ball into Momo's last cup without looking. Momo burst into fresh tears.
"Oh, for—" Mai sighed, producing a tissue.
You pressed your lips together to keep from laughing and let Nobara tow you into the kitchen, where Yuji was shirtless for reasons nobody had requested and nobody was complaining about, attempting to build a Solo cup pyramid while Yuta watched with scholarly fascination.
"Hey!" Yuji spotted you and his face lit up. He abandoned the pyramid — it collapsed instantly — and pulled you into a hug that lifted you off the floor. "You made it!"
"Can't — breathe — Yuji—"
"Sorry, sorry." He set you down, grinning. "You look incredible."
"She knows," Nobara said, pouring you a drink.
Yuta appeared at your elbow with that warm, slightly overwhelmed smile. "Hi. You really do look great."
"Thanks, Yuta."
He went endearingly pink and retreated behind his cup.
Across the room, Megumi was in his usual party configuration — leaned against a wall, nursing a drink, looking like he'd been dragged here at gunpoint. He caught your eye and nodded. You nodded back. That was the extent of Megumi's social engagement on any given night, and it was fine.
Kirara floated past in something sparkly, paused just long enough to squeeze your arm and say "you look hot," and vanished back into the crowd like a beautiful apparition.
"How does she DO that," Nobara muttered, watching her go.
"You've got it bad."
"Shut up. Drink."
An hour in and you were solidly three drinks deep, warm and loose, laughing too hard at Nobara's story about her art history professor.
"—and he just stands there with the paint on his face, completely deadpan, and goes: 'This is exactly what Pollock intended.'"
You wheezed. Momo choked on her drink. Even Maki snorted.
"He had acrylic in his EYEBROWS—"
Todo materialized from the crowd, radiating the intensity of a man on a spiritual quest. "BROTHER." He pointed at Yuji. "Flip cup. NOW. This is not a game. This is a TEST of SOUL."
"It's flip cup," Mai said.
"EVERY CUP YOU FLIP IS A REFLECTION OF YOUR INNER SELF."
"I want whatever he's on," Maki murmured.
Teams were assembled through a process that involved extensive yelling from Todo and Yuta revealing a quiet competitive streak nobody had anticipated. You lost three rounds in a row. Maki was mechanical. Momo, fueled by her beer pong revenge arc, became a flip cup savant and let out a tiny feral shriek with every successful flip. You were laughing hard enough that your ribs ached.
You danced after that — with Nobara and Momo, with Kirara, who moved like liquid and drew a small crowd. The music was bad but your standards had slipped. The lights were low and the drinks were strong and the night had that golden-hour party quality where everything was funny and nobody was keeping track of their hands.
And then Nobara cornered you in the kitchen.
"Okay." She refilled your cup with the precision of a bartender and the expression of a detective. "Spill."
"Spill what."
"You had the look when you got here."
"There's no look."
"There's absolutely a look. It's this—" She did an impression that involved slightly parted lips and an unfocused gaze. "That one. I know that look. That's the Toji look."
"Nobara."
"It's been two years, babe."
"I know how long it's been."
"Two years of hey sweetheart and loaded eye contact and whatever the hell happened at that barbecue—"
"Nothing happened at the barbecue."
"You touched his arm and he looked at you like he wanted to eat you off a plate. I was RIGHT THERE."
Your face was hot. The alcohol wasn't helping. "It's complicated."
"It's really not." She squeezed your arm. "He's hot, you're hot, you're both single adults—"
"He's twenty years older than me."
"And?"
You didn't have an answer for that.
"I'm just saying." She sipped her drink. "At some point one of you is going to snap. And my money's on tonight, because you're wearing that dress, and you're three drinks in, and I know what you look like when you're about to make a bad decision."
"I'm not going to make a bad decision."
"Mmhmm."
"I'm not."
"Sure." She smiled serenely. "Text me when you get home. Or when you get somewhere."
By one a.m. you were done. Pleasantly, thoroughly drunk — not sloppy, just loose. Warm. Soft at the edges in a way that made the walls you usually kept up feel like suggestions.
You said your goodbyes. Nobara hugged you and whispered text me with a look that carried subtext. Momo hugged you too long. Yuji crushed you in one final embrace. Yuta waved from across the room. Megumi raised his cup at you in silent acknowledgment.
The night air was cold against your bare legs. The street was quiet. You walked to your car alone, heels too loud on the pavement.
You got in. Put the key in the ignition.
Click. Click. Nothing.
You tried twice more. The engine gave a grinding, sputtering death rattle and went silent.
You sat in the dark, staring at the steering wheel, and scrolled to a contact you'd saved two years ago and never once called.
Toji.
Your thumb hovered. Your brain manufactured three reasonable alternatives in under five seconds.
You called him anyway.
Two rings.
"Yeah."
"My car's dead."
A beat. "Where?"
"Kabukichō-dori, near the station."
"Stay put. Fifteen minutes."
He hung up. You sat in your dead car and pressed your phone against your chest and tried not to think about what you were about to do.
Eleven minutes. You counted.
The headlights of his truck swept across the street, and the low rumble of the engine cut out, and then he was getting out, and the streetlight caught him, and your mouth went dry.
Gray sweatpants. Black compression shirt. Hair slightly damp, like he'd washed his face before leaving. The scar on his lip in sharp relief under the sodium light. He walked toward your car with that slow, unhurried stride, and every step was a countdown.
You got out of your car. He stopped a few feet away and looked at you, and his eyes made the trip — your face, your mouth, your dress, your legs, your heels, back up. His gaze was not polite. His gaze was an undressing.
"Hi," you said. It came out too soft.
"Hey sweetheart." His voice was rough, low. "Pop the hood."
You popped it. He leaned in. You stood behind him and watched the line of his back and the flex of his arms and the way the shirt pulled tight across his shoulders, and you pressed your thighs together and stared at a streetlight.
Three minutes. He straightened up, wiped his hands on a rag.
"Starter's gone. Can't fix it out here." He tossed the rag over his shoulder. "I'll tow it in the morning. You'll come back to my place."
Not a question. A statement.
"Okay."
He walked you to the truck. Opened the passenger door for you. Held it.
You stepped up. Sat down. Reached for the seatbelt — and his hand was already there, reaching across you, pulling the belt across your body with slow, unhurried care.
The back of his hand brushed the side of your breast.
It wasn't quite an accident.
His knuckles dragged — just barely, just a whisper of contact — along the curve of fabric, and the point of contact sent a shock down your spine that locked every muscle in your body. Your breath caught. He looked at you. Your faces were close — inches apart — and his eyes were dark and unreadable, and his hand was still moving, clicking the belt home with a soft, deliberate snap.
He didn't pull back immediately. His hand rested there for half a second longer than it needed to. His thumb pressed very lightly against the strap, right where it crossed your chest.
"All buckled in," he said. Quietly. His voice was lower than it had been a minute ago.
"Thanks."
He closed the door.
You sat in the truck alone for the ten seconds it took him to walk around the front, and used every one of them trying to remember how to breathe.
The cab of the truck smelled like him — cedar, leather, a warm masculine undertone that you were now going to associate with this moment for the rest of your life. The engine rumbled to life. He put the truck in drive.
"Warm enough?" he asked.
"Yeah."
"You sure? You've got goosebumps."
You looked down. You did have goosebumps. They were not from the cold.
"I'm fine."
He reached over and turned the heat up anyway. His hand passed over your bare thigh — didn't touch it, passed an inch above it — and the near-contact was worse than touch would've been. You felt every millimeter of the hover.
He drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the console between you. Close enough that if you shifted your arm, your skin would brush his. You didn't shift. He didn't move his hand.
The streetlights striped the cab in slow, rhythmic flashes. Light, dark, light. His face in pieces — the jaw, the scar, the dark cut of his brow. He glanced at you at a red light.
You were looking at him. He caught you.
His eyes dropped — to your mouth, then your neck, then lower. Your dress had ridden up when you sat down, riding mid-thigh now, and his gaze traced the line of your legs with the focused attention of a man who had been patient for two years and was losing his grip on the patience.
The light turned green. He looked back at the road.
"So you drove yourself to the party," he said.
"Yeah."
"In that dress."
"Yeah."
"How much did you drink?"
"Enough to call you."
His jaw tightened. He didn't respond immediately. The truck turned onto his street.
"You always this direct when you're drinking?"
"Only when I want something."
He exhaled through his nose — not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. "You need to stop."
"Stop what?"
"Talking."
You smiled. Small. Victorious. Looked out the window.
He pulled into his driveway. Cut the engine. The silence dropped over the cab like a blanket.
Neither of you moved for a moment. He sat with both hands on the steering wheel, looking straight ahead, jaw working.
"Come on," he said finally. "Inside."
He lived in a house — you'd always known that, you'd lived next door for two years — but inside, it felt like an apartment. Compact. Warm. Masculine and lived-in, with dark wood furniture and low lighting and the smell of cedar in everything.
He flipped on a single lamp in the living room. The rest of the house stayed dim.
"You want water?" he asked.
"Sure."
He went to the kitchen. You stayed in the living room, slipped off your heels — the relief was immediate, your feet sinking into the soft rug — and took stock of the space. You'd never been inside before. You'd been curious. Now you were cataloguing.
A worn leather couch. A low coffee table with a motorcycle magazine and a coffee mug. Bookshelves — not what you'd expected. Novels, thick ones, well-read. A few car manuals. A framed photo on the shelf of a much younger Megumi holding a fish, Toji kneeling beside him with a rare, real smile.
You were looking at the photo when he came back with a glass of water.
"He was eight," Toji said. "Hated fishing. Loved getting out of the house."
"That's sweet."
"Mm."
You took the water. Sipped. He stood in the middle of his own living room with his arms crossed, watching you, and the tension in his shoulders was visible even across the room.
"Sit," he said. "You're not going anywhere tonight."
You crossed to the couch. Sat. Tucked your legs up under you — then, on impulse, swung them around and laid down sideways, stretching your legs along the length of the couch, your head propped on the armrest. Your dress rode up. You didn't fix it.
He stared at you for a long second. Then he sat down on the other end of the couch — carefully, leaving space, your bare feet maybe six inches from his thigh.
"Comfortable?" His voice was dry.
"Very."
He leaned back. Arms still crossed. Jaw still tight. "So."
"So."
"This is the part where we make small talk until you pass out on my couch."
"Is that what this is?"
"That's what it better be."
You smiled at the ceiling. "What do you want to talk about?"
He was quiet for a moment. His eyes had dropped. To your legs. You felt it — the weight of his gaze moving up your calf, your knee, your thigh, the hem of your dress. He dragged his gaze away with visible effort.
"Anything," he said. "Tell me about your classes."
"My classes."
"Yeah."
"Toji."
"Classes."
You laughed. "Fine. I'm writing a paper on symbolism in medieval poetry."
"Sounds fascinating."
"It's not."
"Tell me anyway."
So you did. You rambled about your professor and the topic and the amount of Latin you were supposed to read, and he listened — or pretended to listen — and you watched his eyes drift back to your legs again. And again. And again. Each time, he caught himself. Each time, his jaw got tighter.
You stretched. A small, deliberate movement, arching your back on the couch, pointing your toes. His gaze snapped to the motion.
"So anyway," you said, casually, "that's the paper."
"Mm."
You shifted your legs. Slowly. So slowly he couldn't call it out. And your feet — bare, small — slid across the couch cushions until they came to rest against his thigh.
He went very still.
You kept talking. About nothing. About the party, about Nobara, about a class you'd almost failed last semester. Your feet pressed gently against his thigh. You kept them there. You watched his profile.
Then you pushed your feet higher — up his thigh, over the front of the sweatpants — and the soles of your feet came to rest directly against his crotch.
His breath caught.
Sharp. Audible. A hitch in the quiet living room.
"What are you doing?"
His voice had gone low. Strained. His whole body had gone rigid.
"Nothing."
You pressed. Softly. Just the pressure of your feet, a slow circular movement.
"Hey." He looked at you. His eyes were black. "Stop."
You didn't stop. You pressed harder, rolled your feet in slow circles, and felt him hardening underneath. Thick. Growing. The gray fabric doing nothing to hide it.
A giggle escaped you — drunk, delighted. "You're hard."
"Yeah," he said through his teeth. "That happens when someone's foot is on my dick."
"Whoops."
"You're drunk." He wrapped his hand around your ankle — firm, not gentle — and lifted your feet off his lap. "You need to sleep."
He stood up. Ran a hand down his face. "I'll get you a blanket."
"Toji—"
"Sleep. I'm serious."
He turned to walk toward the hallway.
You got up. Fast. The blood rushed to your head and the world tilted for a half-second, but you crossed the living room in three steps and grabbed his wrist.
"No."
"Don't—"
You pulled. Hard. He let you pull — because you could not have moved him if he didn't — and you tugged him back toward the couch and pushed at his chest, and he sat down, and you stood in front of him, between his knees.
He looked up at you. His expression was complicated — dark, conflicted, something in him warring with something else, and losing.
You reached behind you. Found the zipper. Pulled it down.
The dress slid off your shoulders. Down your arms. Pooled at your feet.
You stood in front of him in nothing but a black thong. No bra. The soft light from the lamp warming your skin. His eyes moved over you — slowly, hungrily, his mouth parting slightly — and you could hear his breathing change.
"Fuck," he said. Quiet. Almost reverent. "Fuck, you're—"
"Two years," you said. Your voice was steady even though your heart was slamming. "Two years of waiting. It's enough, Toji."
"You're drunk—"
"I know what I want."
You dropped to your knees between his legs.
"No — hey — wait—" His hands came up, reaching for your shoulders like he was going to stop you, but the movement was slow, half-hearted, a man going through the motions of resistance while already losing. "You shouldn't—"
"I beg to differ."
Your hands went to the waistband of his sweatpants. He didn't stop you. You pulled them down — he lifted his hips, helping despite himself — and his cock sprang free, thick and hard and flushed. You made a small, involuntary sound at the sight of it.
"Holy fuck," he breathed. His hand came up, tangled in your hair. "Fuck, you're really—"
You wrapped your hand around him. He hissed. You lowered your mouth and licked from base to tip, swirling your tongue around the head, and his head dropped back against the couch with a groan.
"Shit—"
You took him into your mouth. Deep. Slow. Drew back and sucked, hollowing your cheeks, tongue working against the underside. His hand tightened in your hair — not pulling, just holding, his fingers shaking.
"Goddamn," he muttered. "Goddamn, look at you—"
You pulled off with a wet sound and looked up at him. His face was flushed, eyes black, lips parted. You stroked him with your hand while you caught your breath, thumb swiping the slickness at the tip.
"Been thinking about this," you whispered.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
"Fuck—"
You took him back into your mouth. Deeper this time. He cursed again, louder — a string of filthy words that ran together: fuck fuck fuck baby take it god so pretty on your knees. His hand cradled the back of your head, not forcing, just following.
"That's it — that's so fucking good — look at you sucking me like you were made for it—"
You moaned around him. The vibration made him jerk.
"Don't do that—" he gritted. "Gonna make me come in your mouth and I'm not ready—"
You pulled off. Stroked him with your hand. Your spit made him slick. His chest was rising and falling hard, and his eyes were fixed on you like he couldn't look away.
He leaned forward. His hands found your breasts — both of them — cupping, squeezing, thumbs rolling over your nipples. A sound broke out of you.
"Been thinking about these too," he muttered. "God, they're perfect—"
You took his hand off, shifted — and pushed your breasts together around his cock.
He swore. Loudly. "Oh, fuck—"
You stroked him with your tits, sliding up and down his length, your hands pressing them together. The head of his cock disappeared and reappeared in the valley of your cleavage with every stroke. You licked the tip each time it emerged, and his hips started to move, thrusting up to meet you.
"Look at you," he groaned. His voice was wrecked. "Look at you, squeezing your tits around my cock — jerking me off with these perfect fucking tits—"
You moaned at that. His hands came down, replacing yours, squeezing your breasts together as he fucked the space between them, his eyes locked on the sight of his cock disappearing between them.
"I'm gonna come," he warned. "Fuck, I'm—"
"Do it," you breathed. "On me."
"Fuck—"
Two more strokes and he came — hot thick spurts across your chest, your collarbone, your neck. A long, low groan tore out of him. His fingers dug into your breasts. His head dropped back against the couch, his chest heaving.
"Holy shit," he panted. "Holy shit."
You looked up at him. Flushed, covered in his cum, tits still in his hands.
He looked down at you. His eyes traveled over you slowly — the mess he'd made across your chest, your lips, the way you were still on your knees between his thighs. Something in his expression shifted. Cracked open.
"Don't fucking move."
He got up. Disappeared into the bathroom. Came back with a warm washcloth and dropped to his knees in front of you, and cleaned you — carefully, thoroughly, wiping down your chest and your neck with surprising gentleness.
Then he grabbed your jaw and kissed you.
Hard. Deep. His tongue pushing past yours, one hand still cupping your jaw, the other sliding around to grip the back of your neck. He kissed you like he was apologizing and claiming you at the same time.
"You're killing me," he muttered against your mouth. "You know that?"
"Mm-hm."
"Two years." He bit your lower lip. "Two fucking years. And you show up at my door in that dress and drop to your knees and I'm a dead man."
"Bedroom, Toji."
He didn't answer. He stood up, lifted you with him — one arm under your thighs, one around your back, scooping you up like you weighed nothing — and carried you down the hall.
He kicked the door open. Walked you to the bed. Laid you down on your back.
The room was dark. Just streetlight coming through the blinds, striping the bed in silver. He stood over you and pulled the compression shirt over his head, and every line of his body was carved in shadow and pale light — the broad chest, the thick shoulders, the scars, the abs, the line of dark hair disappearing below.
"You don't know what you've done," he said, climbing onto the bed. "You don't fucking know."
He knelt between your thighs and looked down at you. Ran his hands up your legs — slow, possessive, cataloguing every inch. His fingers traced the string of your thong where it sat low on your hips.
"Look at this pretty little thing." He hooked a finger under the strap. Pulled it up, then let it snap back. You gasped. "Cute."
He didn't take it off.
Instead, he hooked two fingers into the side — and pulled the fabric aside, baring you to him. He stared down at you and made a sound in his throat — a low, guttural sound.
"Such a pretty little pussy," he muttered. "Fuck. Been imagining this for so long."
He dropped down.
You thought he was going to fuck you. Instead he buried his face between your thighs and ate you like he was starving.
"Oh — fuck—"
His tongue was everywhere at once — broad, flat strokes, then the point of it circling your clit, then pushing inside you. He made sounds against you — hungry, obscene, groaning like he was the one getting off. His hands gripped your thighs and yanked them wider, opening you up, shoving his face in deeper.
"So fucking good," he muttered against your pussy. "So fucking good, been dreaming about this taste—"
He licked from your entrance to your clit in one long, dragging stroke, and your back arched off the bed. He did it again. And again. He was loud about it — sloppy, wet, groaning, not stopping to breathe, eating you out like a man who'd been denied food for weeks. His nose pressed against your clit. His chin was slick.
"Toji — oh my god — Toji—"
He sucked your clit into his mouth and your hips bucked off the bed. His hands pinned them back down. He worked you with his tongue — relentless, focused, obsessed — until you were clawing the sheets and making sounds you didn't recognize.
Then he slid up your body. Slowly. Kissing his way up — your stomach, your ribs, the underside of your breast. He lifted your arm above your head, pinned your wrist to the pillow, and dragged his tongue along the tender skin of your armpit.
"Toji—" You jerked, shocked. "What are you—"
"Shh." His voice was ragged, low. "You don't know what you smell like to me. What you taste like. I've been going insane." He licked again, slower, pressing his mouth into the hollow. "Going fucking insane."
He kept going — kissing, licking — down your arm, across your collarbone, finally meeting your mouth. He kissed you filthy, tongue pushing in, letting you taste yourself on him. You moaned into it and he groaned back.
Then he lined up.
The head of his cock pressed against you — bare, hot, already slick with your own wetness from his mouth. You felt him, no condom, no barrier. Just him.
"You sure?" His jaw was clenched. His forehead pressed to yours.
"Yes."
"I hope you're on birth control, sweetheart." His voice was rough, almost dazed. "Because I'm gonna pump you so fucking full. Gonna breed you."
"I'm on it—"
"Good fucking girl."
He pushed in.
Your mouth fell open. No sound — the sensation was too much for sound. He sank into you inch by inch, bare, the raw feel of him thick and hot and overwhelming. He was big enough that the stretch bordered on too much, but your body opened for him like it had been waiting, and he bottomed out with a groan that shook through his whole chest.
"Fuck," he breathed against your neck. "Fuck, you feel — god. You feel so fucking good."
"Toji—"
"I've been jacking off to you for so long." His hips moved — slow at first, a deep grind. "Two years of thinking about what you'd feel like. And you're — fuck — better than anything I imagined."
He started fucking you.
Deep, hard strokes. His hand found the headboard, bracing. His other arm slid under your lower back, pulling your hips up into every thrust. The bed frame knocked against the wall in a steady, obscene rhythm.
"Look at you taking me," he groaned. "Taking all of me. Bare. Fuck—"
"Daddy—"
The word slipped out and his whole body jerked. His thrusts got harder.
"Yeah?" His hand came up to your throat. Pressed — not squeezing, just holding, his thumb at your pulse. "That what you want? You want daddy to fuck you stupid?"
"Yes — yes—"
"Such a good fucking girl."
His hand slid down to your ankle, lifted one of your legs up — not over his shoulder yet, just up, angling it so your foot hovered near his face. He turned his head. Pressed his lips to the arch.
"Toji—"
"Shh."
He sucked your big toe into his mouth.
You made a sound you didn't recognize — a broken, startled whimper, because the heat of his mouth on your foot while his cock was buried in you was short-circuiting your brain. His tongue dragged across the pads of your toes. Then slower — from the ball of your foot, down the arch, to the heel — a long wet stroke that made your whole body jolt.
"Oh my god—"
"Yeah?" He watched you over the top of your foot. His hips were still thrusting, slow and deep. "You like that too?" His tongue flicked across your ankle. "Freaky fucking girl."
He dragged his tongue along the underside of your foot one more time, teeth grazing, and then kissed your ankle and hooked both your legs up over his shoulders. Folded you in half. The new angle drove him deeper, and a cry tore out of you. His hand was still on your throat. His eyes were on your face, drinking in every reaction, watching you come apart.
"What would Megumi think, huh?" His voice was a low growl. His hips slammed into you. "What would he think if he could see you right now? Folded up like this, taking his old man bare?"
You came.
The combination broke you — the words, the pressure on your throat, the depth of him, the filth of it. You shattered around him, clenching, crying out, your nails raking his arms.
He fucked you through it, his rhythm ragged. "That's it — that's my good girl — come on my cock—"
"Toji — inside — please—"
"Yeah — fuck — gonna fill you up—"
His thrusts got erratic. His arms were shaking. "I'm — baby, I'm cumming — I'm—" His breath hitched, his hips stuttering, and on the next thrust it hit him — "cumming—" He buried himself deep and came, his hips grinding, rutting through it, each pulse punctuated by a broken curse. "Fuck — fuck — take it — fuck—"
He rode out his orgasm against you, rocking into you, hips jerking in aftershocks long after he'd finished. You felt every pulse — hot, thick, pumping into you — and the sensation made you clench around him all over again.
He collapsed over you, forehead against yours, breathing like he'd run a mile.
For a long moment, nothing but breathing.
Then he pulled back. Looked down at where your bodies were joined. His jaw tightened.
"Turn over," he said.
"What?"
"Hands and knees. Now."
You rolled over. Got onto your hands and knees. He gripped your hips — hard — and pulled them up, positioning you exactly how he wanted.
He dragged his fingers through your folds, through the mess of his cum already leaking out of you. Made a sound in his throat.
"Fuck, look at you," he muttered. "Dripping for me. Full of me."
He leaned down.
You didn't realize what he was doing until you felt his tongue — dragging up through your folds from behind, licking up his own mess, groaning like it was the best thing he'd ever tasted.
"Toji—"
"I know. I know, sweetheart. I'm fucked up." He licked again, deeper. "Can't help it. You taste too good."
His tongue moved higher — to your asshole — and you jolted forward. His hands clamped on your hips and dragged you back onto his mouth.
"Hold still."
He ate your ass like he'd been thinking about it for two years, because he probably had. Long, wet strokes of his tongue, groaning against you, his stubble scraping sensitive skin. Your forehead pressed to the pillow and you were making sounds that weren't words.
"Filthy fucking girl," he muttered against you. "Letting me eat this ass. God, I knew you were gonna be perfect—"
He pulled back eventually. Spit on your pussy, one hot thick stream, watched it drip down. Then he lined up and pushed in.
From this angle he felt deeper. Impossibly deep. You dropped your forehead back to the pillow and moaned.
He set a brutal pace immediately. No warm-up. His hand was on your lower back, pinning you down, and his hips snapped into yours with a force that shoved you up the mattress every single time. The bed frame was shrieking against the wall — loud, rhythmic, undeniable. Every thrust made the whole bed creak and jolt.
"This ass," he groaned. His hands kneaded your cheeks, spreading them, grabbing. "Fuck, this ass — look at it bounce, look how it jiggles for me—"
Smack. His palm came down across your right cheek. You yelped. He did it again, harder, on the left. Then he just watched — fucking into you and watching the way your ass recoiled against his hips with every thrust, the way it moved, the way it shook.
"Goddamn," he muttered. Almost to himself. "Goddamn, I'm losing my mind—"
He leaned down over your back. Dragged his tongue up your spine — slow, wet, all the way from the small of your back to the nape of your neck. You shivered under him, every nerve lighting up.
"Such a nice tight ass," he breathed against your skin. He bit the meat of your cheek — teeth sinking in, sucking — then bit the other side. "I could fuck this ass for hours. I'm not gonna — not tonight — but fuck I want to—"
His thumb pressed against your asshole. Slick with spit. He pushed the tip in — just the pad of it — and the combination of his cock and his thumb and his words and the bed creaking and everything made your brain short-circuit.
"Taking everything I give you," he groaned. "Such a good fucking girl—"
Then his arms snaked around you from behind. He pulled you up — off your hands, flush against his chest, your back to his front. One hand grabbed your throat. The other came up to cup your breast, kneading, rolling your nipple between his fingers, squeezing.
"These perfect fucking tits," he muttered in your ear. His hips were still snapping up into you, driving you down onto his cock. "I've been obsessed. Jacking off to these tits. To your ass. I've been a fucking mess—"
He turned your face toward his and kissed you.
Filthy. Open-mouthed. Tongue-deep. He kissed you while he fucked you from behind, his hand on your throat, his other hand on your tit, and you were making sounds into his mouth that were barely human. He pulled back just enough to drag his tongue across your lips.
"Open."
You opened your mouth.
He spit into it.
Your eyes rolled back. Something in your brain broke clean in half. He watched you swallow, and his pupils blew wide, and he groaned.
"Fuck. Filthy girl. Look at you—"
His hand came up and gave your cheek a light slap. Not hard. Just a tap — playful, possessive — and your clenched around him so hard he hissed.
"Yeah? You like that?" Another light slap, the other cheek. "Such a freaky little thing. Who would've guessed."
You were gone. Completely gone. You were somewhere else — another universe, another body — and everything was his cock and his hands and his voice and the creaking bed and the wet obscene sounds of him pounding into you.
"Tell me you're mine," he muttered against your ear.
"I'm yours—"
"Mine. Fuck. Say it again—"
"Yours — daddy, I'm yours—"
"Good girl."
He pushed you back down. Onto your hands and knees. Grabbed both your wrists and pulled them behind your back, crossing them at the small of your spine, pinning you, arching you. Your face pressed into the pillow. Your body was completely his.
The angle was devastating. He was hitting something deep — somewhere that made stars burst behind your eyes — and you were making noises that weren't words.
"Look at you," he muttered. Low. Dazed. "I can't — I can't fucking think straight. Two years of wanting this and now I'm balls-deep in you and I can't stop. Can't get enough. I'm losing it. Losing my fucking mind—"
His thrusts were getting sloppy. Desperate. Pussy-drunk.
"Gonna fuck you every night. Every morning. Gonna keep you in this bed—"
"Toji—"
"Bet Megumi's jerked off thinking about you," he muttered. His voice cracked. "Bet he's got no fucking clue his old man got there first."
Your whole body clenched around him. Hard. Involuntary.
He froze for half a second. Then groaned — a broken, desperate sound — and his hips snapped forward twice as hard.
"Oh, you liked that." His voice was wrecked. "You liked that, didn't you? Yeah? You like being fucked by Megumi's daddy?"
Your mouth fell open. Your eyes rolled. Your brain was gone — absolutely gone — and what came out of your mouth came out without permission, without thought, stupid and dick-drunk and honest:
"Yeah — Megumi's daddy is so fucking hot—"
Toji made a sound like he'd been punched.
His jaw clenched so hard you heard it. His hips stuttered. He squeezed his eyes shut, and you could see him fighting it — physically fighting not to come right then and there.
"Fuck," he gritted out. "Fuck, you can't — you can't say shit like that. I'm gonna — fuck — hold on—"
He took three breaths. Forced himself back from the edge. Then he gripped your hips and fucked you harder than before.
"Freaky fucking girl," he muttered. "Goddamn, you're perfect. You're fucking perfect. Made for this. Made for me—"
"I'm gonna come—"
"Come on my cock. Come for daddy. Come for Megumi's daddy—"
You broke.
You screamed into the pillow. Your body clenched around him in rhythmic pulses, your vision whiting out, the orgasm rolling through you in waves that felt like dying. Your arms would've collapsed if he hadn't been holding your wrists.
"Goddamn," he muttered. "Goddamn, that pussy—"
His rhythm turned sloppy. Desperate.
"Fuck — gonna fill you up again—"
"Yes—"
He buried himself deep and came — hot, thick, pulsing inside you all over again. No warning, no asking, just taking what he wanted. He let go of your wrists and his hands flew to your hips, holding you locked against him as he emptied himself, groaning your name and curses in equal measure.
He collapsed forward. Caught himself on his forearms. His chest against your back, his breath hot on your neck.
Neither of you moved for a long time.
Eventually he pulled out. Rolled onto his back beside you, one arm flung over his face.
You lay on your stomach. Your body was wrecked. Your thighs were sticky. Your ass stung. Your wrists ached. You'd never felt better in your life.
"I think I blacked out," he muttered.
You laughed into the pillow. "Metaphorically?"
"I don't know anymore."
He rolled onto his side, facing you. His hand came up, brushed hair off your face.
"You okay?" His voice had softened. The growl was gone. "I was — that was rough."
"I'm good."
"You sure?"
"I'm better than good."
He studied your face. Then his hand trailed down — over your shoulder, your back, coming to rest on the curve of your ass. Gentle now. Possessive.
"I'm gonna need a minute," he said.
"For what?"
"Round three."
You laughed again. "Are you serious?"
"Dead serious." His hand squeezed your ass. "I told you. I've been jerking off to you for two years. I have a lot of making up to do."
"You're insatiable."
"I'm obsessed." He said it flatly. "I've been fucking obsessed with you. I'm not even sorry about it."
You shifted closer to him. He pulled you against his chest, tucked you under his chin. His hand stayed on your ass.
"This is going to be a problem," he murmured into your hair.
"Probably."
"I don't care."
"Neither do I."
"Megumi—"
"Not tonight."
"Not tonight."
His heart was slowing under your ear. His skin was warm. The whole room smelled like sex and cedar and him.
"Two years," he said. Quietly. "Holy fuck."
"Worth the wait?"
His arm tightened around you.
"Worth every fucking second."
You woke up tangled in his sheets, in his bed, with his arm heavy across your waist and sunlight coming through the blinds.
For a moment, you didn't move. You just lay there, listening to him breathe, feeling the steady weight of his body behind yours. Your muscles ached everywhere. You were definitely going to be wearing long sleeves and high collars for a week.
You shifted, and he stirred. Mumbled something. His arm tightened.
"Stay," he muttered into your hair.
"I should—"
"Stay."
You stayed.
Twenty minutes later you reached for your phone on the nightstand. It had been on silent all night, which — given what had happened — was probably a gift from god.
The notifications were a disaster.
Nobara (2:14am): so did you get home safe or did you GET HOME 👀
Nobara (2:31am): the silence is TELLING
Nobara (3:47am): ok I'll wait until morning but I am RUNNING out of patience
Nobara (8:02am): GOOD MORNING. DETAILS. IMMEDIATELY.
Nobara (8:04am): if you're at his house right now respond with a single emoji and I will lose my MIND
Nobara (8:19am): I am eating breakfast and staring at my phone like a freak PLEASE
You snorted. Behind you, Toji groaned and pulled you tighter against him.
"What's funny."
"Nobara."
"Kugisaki." He said it flatly. "She figure it out?"
"She figured it out two years ago."
"Mm." A pause. "Smart girl."
You tapped out a reply:
You: 🙃
Your phone exploded immediately.
Nobara: I KNEW IT
Nobara: I CALLED IT
Nobara: I TOLD YOU
Nobara: I want every detail. every. single. one.
Nobara: was it good
Nobara: it was good wasn't it
Nobara: babe
Nobara: BABE
You put the phone face-down on the nightstand.
Toji was watching you. He'd rolled onto his side at some point, propped on one elbow, and his eyes were soft in a way you were still getting used to.
"What?" you asked.
He didn't answer right away. He reached out and brushed a piece of hair off your face. His hand lingered — fingertips tracing your jaw, your cheekbone.
"We need to talk," he said.
Your stomach dropped a little. "That sounds ominous."
"It's not ominous." His thumb stroked your cheek. "It's just — I need to know what this is. Before I let myself get any further in than I already am."
You propped yourself up on your elbow, facing him. "What do you want it to be?"
He held your eyes. "Real."
"Real."
"I'm not interested in getting my fix and then pretending this didn't happen." His voice was even. Certain. "That's not — I'm too old for that, for one. And for two, I've been carrying this around for two years. I'm not wasting it on a one-night thing."
Something warm unfurled in your chest. "Okay."
"Okay?"
"I want it real too."
His jaw relaxed. You hadn't noticed how tight it had been until it wasn't.
"Okay," he said. Quieter. "Good."
He was quiet for a moment. His thumb kept tracing patterns on your cheek.
"There's a problem," he said.
"Megumi."
"Megumi." His mouth tightened. "He's gonna lose his shit."
"Yeah."
"I'm serious. He'd take it hard. Not just the age thing — the fact that it's me. He and I have a complicated enough history without this on top."
"I know."
"I'm not saying forever. I'm saying — we need time. I need to figure out how to tell him. When to tell him." He paused. "Can you live with that? Keeping this quiet for a while?"
You thought about it. Not for long. Megumi was your friend — had been for two years, across his father's driveway and countless neighborhood barbecues. You owed him the respect of not having him find out through party gossip or an accidental sighting.
"Yeah," you said. "I can live with that."
"It's not going to be permanent."
"I know."
"I'm not trying to hide you. I just need to handle it right."
"Toji." You put your hand over his. "I get it. It's okay."
His shoulders eased. He leaned in and kissed you — soft, slow, different from every kiss last night. Warm without heat. Certain without urgency.
"Come here," he murmured.
You climbed onto his chest. He wrapped his arms around you and kissed you again, lazier. His hand trailed down your back.
"Tow truck at noon," he muttered against your mouth. "That gives us four hours."
"Four hours to do what?"
"I've got ideas."
"I bet you do."
He flipped you under him, and you laughed, and his mouth was on your neck.
Your phone buzzed on the nightstand.
Nobara: hello???
Nobara: i am GOING INSANE
You ignored it. You'd deal with Nobara later. You'd deal with Megumi eventually. You'd deal with all of it.
But not now. Now was Toji's weight on top of you, and his mouth on your skin, and the slow certainty of knowing this was going to be something — complicated, secret, hard to manage, and entirely worth it.
You tangled your fingers in his hair and pulled him down.
