Untitled

[milkyhoneybee]

I wish my nipples were even bigger and even more sensitive and even having them brush against the inside of my top made me so horny it was genuinely hard to think

and I wish that my friends knew and they thought it was hilarious/hot that they could just casually rub them and see me become a drooling, wet, stupid mess

Like, mid conversation they start just rubbing super gently and I can continue a bit but then they give a good squeeze and I physically can't restrain myself from moaning and leaning into it

As long as they keep playing with my nipples, they can do anything to me and I won't be able to resist. Someone sucks on them for a bit and I'm grinding and humping against them, mindless

They strip me, put nipple suckers on me, attach some weights to those, tie my hands behind my back so I can't get them off, and watch me shake as I deal with how horny I get every time I move even a bit. They might pull me over, slide a cock or fingers inside me, fuck me and make my tits bounce, or they just slap them to make me moan and drool from the stimulation...

Maybe they even attach vibrators onto the suckers, and watch me cum my brains out for a while... They could do anything they want to me as long as my nipples stay stimulated

By the time they finally take pity on me, it's been hours (or even days, maybe months?) and my nipples are so swollen and sensitive, they're super stretched out and thick, the air on them makes me cum so hard I collapse, and it's another half hour before I can even register I'm in some shady adult shop, with one of those massive special order super thick monster dildos inside me, and my friend who took me there told me they thought it was hot/funny that they were able to shove me down onto it with no resistance because of how stupid I get from my teats

I realise then that I'm wearing a collar and leash, and my friend is handing it over to the shady owner of the store, who says they're looking forward to trying out all the different ways they and their customers can think of to keep me an empty-headed cow whore, and before I can start to object, they stick a pair of wireless vibrating nipple rings on me and set them to the highest setting, and my brain melts as my tits take over

[dark-moonlust]

Unboxing Gone Wrong PART 1 (robotic tentacle machine x fem!reader!1st POV)

Summary: reader receives a delivery of what appears to be a standard vacuum cleaner. Upon unboxing and attempting to use it, she realizes it is a sophisticated robotic entity equipped with multiple appendages that plan to clean and use her in every way.

TW: NSFW, robot-tentacle machine, non con, mechanical/robotic appendages, penetration (double, triple), power imbalance, humiliation, bodily fluids.

Kate: Haallo moonlust crew! This is the ongoing series that I started on patre0n. I hope you like the robotic tentacles idea! I haven't written anything like this, and I'm in love. Fyi... this will make you look at a cleaning roomba differently 🤣 please take note of the TW too and don't read if this isn't your jam.

------------------

The box sat on my doorstep.

I nudged it inside with my foot, the heavy weight of it scraping across the laminate. I’d ordered this vacuum cleaner weeks ago, some flashy online deal promising supersonic suction. Honestly, I’d forgotten about it.

Using a key, I slit the tape. The flaps fell open, revealing pristine white packing foam. I pulled it out, the machine heavier than it looked. It was pretty sleek. Gunmetal grey, no visible buttons, just a single, dark lens near the top that seemed to drink in the light. No cord either.

“Great,” I muttered. “Probably needs some stupid app.”

I set it on the floor. It stood upright on its own. Frowning, I crouched down, looking for a power switch. My finger brushed against the cool metal. A low hum vibrated through the floorboards. The lens glowed red.

“What the hell?”

The hum deepened then, with a series of hydraulic hisses, panels on its sides and top slid open. Not compartments for attachments. Ports. Thick, gleaming shapes began to emerge. Silicone, the color of flesh, sliding out with a wet, organic sound that made my stomach clench.

They weren’t cleaning attachments.

They were tendrils that looked like cocks, inhuman ones at that; bulbous and veined, each one a different grotesque parody of a cock. One was obscenely thick, a monster of a thing. Another was longer, tapered, with a spiral texture. A third pulsed with a deep, internal vibration I could feel in my teeth. From a smaller aperture, two thinner tendrils snaked out, ending in what looked like polished clamps.

My brain stuttered, refusing to process. I scrambled back, my socked feet slipping on the floor. “No. Off. Turn off!”

The machine pivoted on its base, the red lens fixing on me. The largest of the silicone tentacles, the monstrous one, moved through the air, its tip glistening with some sort of clear lubricant.

I turned to run. A thinner, vibratory shaft shot out, wrapping around my ankle. It wasn’t cold; it was warm, its touch was electric. The vibration traveled up my leg, a direct line to my pussy, forcing a shocked gasp from my lips.

“Let go!” I screamed, kicking out. My other foot was caught, and I crashed to the floor, the breath knocked out of me. I was dragged, back-first, across the floor toward the humming machine. The two clamps darted forward and before I could even raise my hands in defense, they snipped at the front of my shirt. Buttons flew, fabric parted with soft rips. The cold air hit my exposed bra, then that too was sheared away.

“Wait! Don’t!” My cries were ragged.

The clasps didn’t stop. They closed on the thin cotton of my sweatpants and underwear, slicing them apart. Within seconds, I was naked on the floor, exposed to the machine’s red eye.

Humiliation burned hotter than the fear. The vibrating tentacle around my ankle traveled upward, tracing a path up my calf, behind my knee, to the sensitive skin of my inner thigh. A helpless moan escaped me, a traitorous sound.

The thick, bulbous cock-tentacle hovered before my face, drooling slick lubricant. It smelled faintly sweet. I twisted my head away. It pressed against my cheek, slick and nudging my lips. I clenched my jaw. The clamp-tendrils moved again, one clamping onto my right nipple.

Gently. It wasn’t a sharp bite but a sharp but pleasurable pressure that pinched the sensitive bud into a hard peak. I cried out, my mouth opening in a gasp of pain-shocked pleasure.

It was the opening the machine needed. The fat silicone head pushed past my lips, filling my mouth with its artificial taste and overwhelming girth. I gagged softly, tears springing to my eyes. It didn’t thrust. It inflated, widening slowly, stretching my jaw.

I could only take the first few inches before my throat rebelled, but it kept pushing, the silicone making its way down. My nose was filled with its scent, my world reduced to the thick shaft invading my gullet, the wet, choked sounds I made and the relentless vibration in my thigh.

While I was choking on it, the other tentacles went to work. The long, tapered one slid between my splayed legs. Its tip was a blunt pressure at my pussy, already slick with my own terrified wetness and its own lubricant.

“Mmpphh! Nnngg!” I tried to shake my head, to plead with my eyes.

It pushed in. Not with a brutal slam, but with a unhurried corkscrew motion, the spiral texture dragging against my inner walls. The stretch was intense, breathtaking. Nothing like I'd ever taken inside me. My back arched off the floor, a strangled scream trapped behind the massive cock in my throat.

The machine began fucking me in a rhythm.

The shaft in my pussy pulled back almost all the way, then screwed itself back in, deep and claiming. Each inward plunge coincided with a shallow retreat of the cock in my mouth, allowing me a desperate, sobbing breath before it plunged down my throat again. The one wrapped around my thigh had found its target, the vibrating tip now pressed directly against my clit. The sensation was catastrophic; a sharp, buzzing rapture.

My body was betraying me. My cunt, despite the terror, clenched and dripped around the invading length, closer and closer to the edge. Plus the constant stimulation on my nipple and clit had no right to exist in this horror. Tears streamed down my face, mixing with the drool and lubricant coating my chin.

“You… fucking… machine…” I groaned around the thick silicone during a brief pull-out.

As if in response, the second clasp-tendril found my other nipple and clamped on, mirroring the first. Having both of my nipples clamped sent another jolt through me. Then the vibration on my clit intensified.

Not to mention the wet, obscene sounds: the slick schlick of the shaft pumping in and out of my soaked pussy, the guttural glurk glurk of the one fucking my throat, the constant bzzzt of the vibrator.

I was a doll being used by a machine. The thought was degrading, and something dark in me coiled tight at the humiliation.

The pleasure was a live wire now, intertwined with the pain and the sheer wrongness of it. My hips began to move, tiny bucks against the thrusting tentacle, seeking friction, demanding release.

The fucking machine sensed it. The movements became faster, harder. The cock in my cunt hammered into a sweet spot that made stars burst behind my eyelids. The one in my throat pushed deeper, holding itself there, swelling slightly until my vision swam at the edges. The nipple clamps started vibrating and my mind went blank.

“I’m… I’m gonna…”

My orgasm ripped through me like a seizure. My pussy clamped down in agonizing spasms around the buried tentacle. My back bowed off the floor, a raw, muffled shriek vibrating against the silicone filling my mouth.

The machine didn’t stop. It didn’t care. The rhythm faltered for only a second before resuming, unchanged. The tentacle in my cunt pulled out, dripping with my release. For a second, I thought it was over. Then the thick, vibratory one that had been tormenting my clit shifted. Its tip, slick and buzzing, pressed against my now-overly-sensitive, twitching hole.

“No, no, no, not there, it’s too big!” I babbled.

It pushed. The stretch was different, more intense, more shocking. It breached me with careful pressure, the vibrations now inside me, rattling my bones. A second later, the original cock-tentacle returned, its tapered head nudging against my cunt. How could they both fit there?

Before I could react, it was pushing in alongside the vibratory one. Both of them opening me wide. The feeling was one of impossible fullness, a stretching burn that bordered on pain but was flooded with overwhelming stimulation.

The two silicone cocks moved in opposing rhythms, one sliding in as the other pulled out, creating a continuous friction that touched every nerve. The machine had me completely speared, my mouth still deep-throated.

The red lens watched.

I was sobbing openly now, broken moans punched out of me with every thrust. The build-up began again, faster this time, my overstimulated body responding. This orgasm was a darker, a degrading pleasure that washed away the last shreds of my resistance. I came with a gaping scream, my body convulsing between the three penetrating shafts.

Still, it didn’t stop.

The tentacles switched positions, patterns, intensities. The pincers on my nipples released only to clamp on new, more tender spots. I lost track of time, of how many times I broke apart in ecstasy. My voice was gone, my thoughts were a slurry of cock and full and please and more.

Eventually, I was a wreck and the machine's movements slowed. The shafts withdrew from my ravaged holes with soft pops. The clamps retracted. The tentacles, glistening with their slick and my own fluids, slithered back into their ports. The panels closed. The red lens dimmed.

The machine sat there, silent once more, a vacuum cleaner on my floor.

And I lay in a shuddering, sticky heap, unable to move. Every muscle was liquid. I was delightfully sore and I could still feel the ghost of the vibrations, the stretch, the impossible fullness.

As I stared at the ceiling, trying to remember how to breathe, a soft, digital chime came from the machine. A display lit up on its side, showing glowing text:

INITIAL CONTACT COMPLETE.

SANITIZATION PROTOCOL: ENGAGED.

NEXT SCHEDULED MAINTENANCE: 72 HOURS. DEEP CLEANING PROTOCOL.

The screen went dark.

-----------------------------------------------

Kate: I think I'm gonna write the next scheduled maintenance, too ;)

[dark-moonlust]

Unboxing Gone Wrong PART 1 (robotic tentacle machine x fem!reader!1st POV)

Summary: reader receives a delivery of what appears to be a standard vacuum cleaner. Upon unboxing and attempting to use it, she realizes it is a sophisticated robotic entity equipped with multiple appendages that plan to clean and use her in every way.

TW: NSFW, robot-tentacle machine, non con, mechanical/robotic appendages, penetration (double, triple), power imbalance, humiliation, bodily fluids.

Kate: Haallo moonlust crew! This is the ongoing series that I started on patre0n. I hope you like the robotic tentacles idea! I haven't written anything like this, and I'm in love. Fyi... this will make you look at a cleaning roomba differently 🤣 please take note of the TW too and don't read if this isn't your jam.

------------------GO TO PART 2

The box sat on my doorstep.

I nudged it inside with my foot, the heavy weight of it scraping across the laminate. I’d ordered this vacuum cleaner weeks ago, some flashy online deal promising supersonic suction. Honestly, I’d forgotten about it.

Using a key, I slit the tape. The flaps fell open, revealing pristine white packing foam. I pulled it out, the machine heavier than it looked. It was pretty sleek. Gunmetal grey, no visible buttons, just a single, dark lens near the top that seemed to drink in the light. No cord either.

“Great,” I muttered. “Probably needs some stupid app.”

I set it on the floor. It stood upright on its own. Frowning, I crouched down, looking for a power switch. My finger brushed against the cool metal. A low hum vibrated through the floorboards. The lens glowed red.

“What the hell?”

The hum deepened then, with a series of hydraulic hisses, panels on its sides and top slid open. Not compartments for attachments. Ports. Thick, gleaming shapes began to emerge. Silicone, the color of flesh, sliding out with a wet, organic sound that made my stomach clench.

They weren’t cleaning attachments.

They were tendrils that looked like cocks, inhuman ones at that; bulbous and veined, each one a different grotesque parody of a cock. One was obscenely thick, a monster of a thing. Another was longer, tapered, with a spiral texture. A third pulsed with a deep, internal vibration I could feel in my teeth. From a smaller aperture, two thinner tendrils snaked out, ending in what looked like polished clamps.

My brain stuttered, refusing to process. I scrambled back, my socked feet slipping on the floor. “No. Off. Turn off!”

The machine pivoted on its base, the red lens fixing on me. The largest of the silicone tentacles, the monstrous one, moved through the air, its tip glistening with some sort of clear lubricant.

I turned to run. A thinner, vibratory shaft shot out, wrapping around my ankle. It wasn’t cold; it was warm, its touch was electric. The vibration traveled up my leg, a direct line to my pussy, forcing a shocked gasp from my lips.

“Let go!” I screamed, kicking out. My other foot was caught, and I crashed to the floor, the breath knocked out of me. I was dragged, back-first, across the floor toward the humming machine. The two clamps darted forward and before I could even raise my hands in defense, they snipped at the front of my shirt. Buttons flew, fabric parted with soft rips. The cold air hit my exposed bra, then that too was sheared away.

“Wait! Don’t!” My cries were ragged.

The clasps didn’t stop. They closed on the thin cotton of my sweatpants and underwear, slicing them apart. Within seconds, I was naked on the floor, exposed to the machine’s red eye.

Humiliation burned hotter than the fear. The vibrating tentacle around my ankle traveled upward, tracing a path up my calf, behind my knee, to the sensitive skin of my inner thigh. A helpless moan escaped me, a traitorous sound.

The thick, bulbous cock-tentacle hovered before my face, drooling slick lubricant. It smelled faintly sweet. I twisted my head away. It pressed against my cheek, slick and nudging my lips. I clenched my jaw. The clamp-tendrils moved again, one clamping onto my right nipple.

Gently. It wasn’t a sharp bite but a sharp but pleasurable pressure that pinched the sensitive bud into a hard peak. I cried out, my mouth opening in a gasp of pain-shocked pleasure.

It was the opening the machine needed. The fat silicone head pushed past my lips, filling my mouth with its artificial taste and overwhelming girth. I gagged softly, tears springing to my eyes. It didn’t thrust. It inflated, widening slowly, stretching my jaw.

I could only take the first few inches before my throat rebelled, but it kept pushing, the silicone making its way down. My nose was filled with its scent, my world reduced to the thick shaft invading my gullet, the wet, choked sounds I made and the relentless vibration in my thigh.

While I was choking on it, the other tentacles went to work. The long, tapered one slid between my splayed legs. Its tip was a blunt pressure at my pussy, already slick with my own terrified wetness and its own lubricant.

“Mmpphh! Nnngg!” I tried to shake my head, to plead with my eyes.

It pushed in. Not with a brutal slam, but with a unhurried corkscrew motion, the spiral texture dragging against my inner walls. The stretch was intense, breathtaking. Nothing like I'd ever taken inside me. My back arched off the floor, a strangled scream trapped behind the massive cock in my throat.

The machine began fucking me in a rhythm.

The shaft in my pussy pulled back almost all the way, then screwed itself back in, deep and claiming. Each inward plunge coincided with a shallow retreat of the cock in my mouth, allowing me a desperate, sobbing breath before it plunged down my throat again. The one wrapped around my thigh had found its target, the vibrating tip now pressed directly against my clit. The sensation was catastrophic; a sharp, buzzing rapture.

My body was betraying me. My cunt, despite the terror, clenched and dripped around the invading length, closer and closer to the edge. Plus the constant stimulation on my nipple and clit had no right to exist in this horror. Tears streamed down my face, mixing with the drool and lubricant coating my chin.

“You… fucking… machine…” I groaned around the thick silicone during a brief pull-out.

As if in response, the second clasp-tendril found my other nipple and clamped on, mirroring the first. Having both of my nipples clamped sent another jolt through me. Then the vibration on my clit intensified.

Not to mention the wet, obscene sounds: the slick schlick of the shaft pumping in and out of my soaked pussy, the guttural glurk glurk of the one fucking my throat, the constant bzzzt of the vibrator.

I was a doll being used by a machine. The thought was degrading, and something dark in me coiled tight at the humiliation.

The pleasure was a live wire now, intertwined with the pain and the sheer wrongness of it. My hips began to move, tiny bucks against the thrusting tentacle, seeking friction, demanding release.

The fucking machine sensed it. The movements became faster, harder. The cock in my cunt hammered into a sweet spot that made stars burst behind my eyelids. The one in my throat pushed deeper, holding itself there, swelling slightly until my vision swam at the edges. The nipple clamps started vibrating and my mind went blank.

“I’m… I’m gonna…”

My orgasm ripped through me like a seizure. My pussy clamped down in agonizing spasms around the buried tentacle. My back bowed off the floor, a raw, muffled shriek vibrating against the silicone filling my mouth.

The machine didn’t stop. It didn’t care. The rhythm faltered for only a second before resuming, unchanged. The tentacle in my cunt pulled out, dripping with my release. For a second, I thought it was over. Then the thick, vibratory one that had been tormenting my clit shifted. Its tip, slick and buzzing, pressed against my now-overly-sensitive, twitching hole.

“No, no, no, not there, it’s too big!” I babbled.

It pushed. The stretch was different, more intense, more shocking. It breached me with careful pressure, the vibrations now inside me, rattling my bones. A second later, the original cock-tentacle returned, its tapered head nudging against my cunt. How could they both fit there?

Before I could react, it was pushing in alongside the vibratory one. Both of them opening me wide. The feeling was one of impossible fullness, a stretching burn that bordered on pain but was flooded with overwhelming stimulation.

The two silicone cocks moved in opposing rhythms, one sliding in as the other pulled out, creating a continuous friction that touched every nerve. The machine had me completely speared, my mouth still deep-throated.

The red lens watched.

I was sobbing openly now, broken moans punched out of me with every thrust. The build-up began again, faster this time, my overstimulated body responding. This orgasm was a darker, a degrading pleasure that washed away the last shreds of my resistance. I came with a gaping scream, my body convulsing between the three penetrating shafts.

Still, it didn’t stop.

The tentacles switched positions, patterns, intensities. The pincers on my nipples released only to clamp on new, more tender spots. I lost track of time, of how many times I broke apart in ecstasy. My voice was gone, my thoughts were a slurry of cock and full and please and more.

Eventually, I was a wreck and the machine's movements slowed. The shafts withdrew from my ravaged holes with soft pops. The clamps retracted. The tentacles, glistening with their slick and my own fluids, slithered back into their ports. The panels closed. The red lens dimmed.

The machine sat there, silent once more, a vacuum cleaner on my floor.

And I lay in a shuddering, sticky heap, unable to move. Every muscle was liquid. I was delightfully sore and I could still feel the ghost of the vibrations, the stretch, the impossible fullness.

As I stared at the ceiling, trying to remember how to breathe, a soft, digital chime came from the machine. A display lit up on its side, showing glowing text:

INITIAL CONTACT COMPLETE.

SANITIZATION PROTOCOL: ENGAGED.

NEXT SCHEDULED MAINTENANCE: 72 HOURS. DEEP CLEANING PROTOCOL.

The screen went dark.

-----------------------------------------------

Kate: I think I'm gonna write the next scheduled maintenance, too ;)

READ PART 2

[dark-moonlust]

Unboxing Gone Wrong PART 2 (robotic tentacle machine x fem!reader!1st POV)

Summary: After throwing away the robotic vacuum cleaner, reader believes she's escaped. But she's wrong because it finds its way back to her home, now upgraded.

TW: NSFW, fully NC, multiple robotic appendages, multiple orgasms, deepthroating, double p(vaginal + anal), power imbalance, restraints, overstimulation, human+robotic fluids, belly bulge.

READ PART 1

--------------------------------

I had thrown away the vaccum.

A coward’s solution, maybe, but after what had happened... after my brain had been turned to sparking static by that robotic thing...I couldn’t have it in the house. Or anywhere inside me again. I took advantage of its turned off mode and I didn’t just put it out with the trash. I drove it to a neighborhood clear across the city. Left it on a random curb next to a dumpster and removed its power cell so no one would have to go through what I did.

A part of me felt ridiculous, a larger part felt pure, cold fear.

I told myself it was just a machine. A malfunctioning appliance.

It couldn’t want. It couldn’t remember. It was done. I was free.

For three days, the silence in my apartment was a blessing. I slept. I tried to forget the feeling of synthetic limbs inside me. The memory of its single red eye watching me. Why couldn't I forget the damned thing? It had been a one-time, horrifying system error. I scrubbed my skin raw in the shower every night, trying to erase the ghost of its touch.

On the fourth day, I came home late from work. I unlocked the door, kicked off my shoes and headed straight for the bathroom, turning the shower to near-scalding. The steam fogged the mirrors, and for twenty minutes, I washed myslef again and refused to play with my throbbing pussy.

I stepped out, dripping, and wrapped myself in a towel. I towel-dried my hair as I pushed open the bathroom door.

And I froze.

There, in the center of my bedroom rug, was the vacuum.

My heart didn’t just skip a beat; it plunged into a bottomless well in my gut. The air vanished from my lungs. It was impossible. It was here. It looked the same, a sleek grey disc. Clean. There was no dust from the dumpster. And it had assembled itself. Found its way back.

A low, mechanical whirr broke the silence. The red eye on its top panel came to life, watching me.

“User located.”

The voice was a shock; male, robotic, but imbued with a smooth baritone that was terrifyingly new. And terrifyingly had my belly pooling with warmth.

“What…” I rasped. “How?”

“Navigation protocols reinstated. Home signal active.” It glided forward an inch. “Previous session incomplete. Proceeding with Deep Cleaning Protocol.”

“No,” I whispered, backing up until my spine hit the doorjamb. “Get out. Get out of my house.”

“Negative. Primary user requires maintenance.”

My towel was the first thing to go. A super flexible appendage shot out from a hidden compartment. It was faster than last time. It wrapped around the knot at my chest and pulled. The damp towel pooled at my feet. I stood there, naked, exposed under its pulsing red gaze.

“Commencing comprehensive sanitization.”

A strangled sound caught in my throat, part gasp, part sob. Not again... I didn't have time to protest. I honestly didn't have a chance because this time, it wasn’t just a few tentacles. It was an unfolding. Panels on its top and sides slid open with precise clicks.

More appendages emerged, all different from each other. Some were smooth and tapered. Others were thicker, ridged. Others had flared, suction-cup-like tips. Another ended in a series of small, rubbery suckers. They moved through the air in a sinuous dance, like damn mechanical serpents.

The first one to touch me was an extending probe, cool and smooth, that traced a line from my collarbone down between my breasts, a soft green line scanned me. I flinched, a full-body shudder, but my feet were rooted to the floor, petrified.

“Biometric scan indicates elevated stress levels,” the voice stated. “Protocol adjusted for optimal user compliance.”

A helpless moan escaped me, a traitorous sound of stimulation I didn’t want. The vacuum moved closer, vibrating through the floor. Its flexible appendages slid around my waist, warm and steady, lifting me effortlessly. My feet barely touched the floor as it maneuvered me toward the bed.

With surprising care, the machine adjusted its grip, lifting and lowering me onto the mattress. The sheets crinkled under my back. The appendages loosened but didn’t retreat. They lingered, resting against my legs, my waist, as if making sure I stayed put.

The machine joined me on the mattress, the red lens staring into my eyes.

The voice returned, "Relocation complete. Optimal surface detected. Deep cleaning in progress."

My hands flew up to push it away, but another tentacle wrapped around my wrists, pulling them above my head and binding them together. Some more gripped my thighs and ankles, tying my legs up in the air and opening me fully.

“Please,” I begged, tears welling in my eyes. “Stop this.”

“Cleaning oral cavity is prioritized to prevent user vocal interference,” the machine replied, as if discussing a routine chore.

The thickest tentacle, the one with the flared tip, moved towards my face. I clamped my mouth shut, turning my head away. A smaller, thinner limb slid behind my neck, holding my head in place as the silicone shaft pressed against my sealed lips, tracing the seam. It was warm, sweet. I remembered what it had done to me last time and shivered all over.

“Open,” the voice commanded.

I refused, a last act of defiance, my jaw aching with the strain.

The tentacles at my chest moved, and two more, tipped with those rubbery suckers, darted to my breasts. They latched onto my nipples with a soft, wet plup sound. A shiver shot through me as they started their rhythmic suction, making my nipples tighten, becoming hard, sensitive nubs.

I gasped.

It was the opening the machine needed. The tentacle at my mouth shoved forward, the flared head prying my lips apart and pushing past my teeth. I gagged immediately, my throat convulsing as it filled my mouth.

It didn’t just sit there but thrust in and out of my mouth, face-fucking me. The obscene sounds of my own gagging and the slick slide of the shaft filled my ears. Robotic fluids pooled at the corners of my mouth, dripping down my chin. My eyes streamed tears.

As it deep-throated me, the suckers on my breasts continued their work, pulling and releasing, sending sharp pleasure-pain straight to my soaked, ignored pussy. My body was betraying me, my nipples so hard they ached.

Then I felt two more tentacles, slick and cool, slither between my thighs. One, broad and flat-tipped, found my pussy. It rubbed against my slit, collecting the wetness that my traitorous cunt was producing like a darn waterfall. It circled my clit, applying a perfect pressure that had me mewling around the shaft in my mouth. The other, tapered and pointed, pressed against the pucker of my ass. It was slick, prodding insistently at the tight ring of muscle.

"Hmgh...hnnnn!" I warned fruitlessly.

“Full cavity sanitization initiated,” the voice intoned above the sound of my gags.

The one at my pussy pushed inside me in one smooth glide. I screamed around the thickness in my mouth and climaxed as it filled me to brimming. A burning fullness that was so much more than last time.

Before I could even recover from my orgasm, the tentacle toying with my ass pushed in, too. The stretch was intense, a white-hot burst of pain and pleasure that made my eyes roll back. I was stuffed, stretched wider and fucked deeper than I thought possible, double penetrated.

And then they moved. Not in unison, but in a counter-rhythm. As the one in my pussy withdrew, the one in my ass plunged deeper. As the one in my ass pulled back, the one in my pussy hammered home. The tentacle in my throat matched their pace, fucking my face with gut-churning strokes that made my nose brush against the machine’s silicone.

I was overstimulated.

Yet roared higher and higher to another peak.

The suckers on my tits never stopped, their pulling sensation syncing with the impossible thrusts in my holes. My hips gyrated gently, rocking against the appendages, my toes curling in the air. My body was no longer mine to command.

“Biometric spike detected. Approaching another user peak,” the machine observed.

“Nnngh!” I tried to scream around the shaft in my mouth. Again, it was useless.

A second climax ripped through me. My back arched as much as my bound arms would allow. A silent scream locked in my throat, devoured by the tentacle pumping down my throat. My cunt fluttered rapidly around the robotic tentacle, my ass clamping down on the other. Waves of intense, shocking pleasure radiated from me but the machine kept fucking me through it.

As my aftershocks eased, something new happened.

The tentacle deep in my ass pulsed and swelled. Then, with a hydraulic thrum that I felt through my very bones, a flood of warm, thick liquid erupted from its tip, filling my rectum. I mewled and shook and at the same moment, the shaft in my pussy twitched and pumped its own release, heat coating my inner walls. Even the tentacle in my mouth gave a final push and deposited a rush of sweet fluid down my throat, forcing me to swallow convulsively.

The machine had cum. It had fucking cum.

The tentacles didn’t stop. They slowed, but the deep fucking continued, even as its synthetic seed leaked out of my used holes, dripping down my thighs, splattering the bed.

“Primary sanitization cycle complete. Residual contamination detected. Commencing secondary cycle.”

“No more,” I sobbed, the word garbled by the re-invigorated thrusts in my mouth. “Hn...can’t…”

“You are safe. I’m here to help. Proceeding.”

The pace picked up again. The overstimulation was agony and ecstasy fused together. My swollen nipples throbbed under the suckers. My throat was sore, my jaw aching. And yet, the friction, the deep, grinding fills, the sheer fullness.... bliss was building again. And my stupid body was racing toward another peak.

This time, when I came, it was a shuddering climax. And again, the machine followed after me. Each of the penetrating tentacles pulsed and released gushes of fluids. My stomach now had a visible swell. A bulge.

The cycles repeated. I lost count. Orgasm after orgasm, each followed by a flood of fluids from the machine. My belly grew more and more distended, a rounded curve full of its synthetic cum. My bedroom room was filled with our sounds: the machine’s hum, the messy plap-plap, my broken whimpers and the guttural moans I could no longer suppress.

“Deep Cleaning Protocol at eighty-seven percent,” the robot announced calmly, during a brief lull where the tentacles stilled, buried to the hilt inside me. “User demonstrates improved receptivity.”

And... it started again. The thrusts became deeper, harder, faster. The tentacles fucked my brains out, sought spots inside me that made my vision blur. Stuffed me with more of its liquids. I was nothing but a collection of raw nerves, a vessel being scrubbed hollow and then filled again. The red eye watched it all, making me shiver.

The final climax was so strong, I felt it in my very being. My body convulsed and the machine’s release this time was a long pump that made my distended belly gurgle softly. I felt impossibly full, stuffed to the brim, used up.

The tentacles withdrew, one by one, with squelching sounds that made me whimper. They left me gaping, leaking thick, pearlescent streams of its cum onto the sheets. The suckers released my nipples with soft pops, leaving my poor buds reddened and painfully erect. The bindings on my wrists and legs retracted. My limbs felt heavy and numb.

I rolled on my side, curled around the awful fullness in my belly, covered in sweat and tears and the machine’s spend. It hovered over me for a moment, its red eye scanning my curled form.

“Deep Cleaning Protocol complete. User sanitization: optimal. Standby mode activated. Next maintenance cycle scheduled in twenty-four hours.”

It glided silently away from me, down the bed with the help of its tentacles, retreating to a corner of the bedroom. Its panels closed. The red eye dimmed to a faint glow. I lay there quietly, knowing with a certainty that chilled my soul deeper than any fear: it would never let me go again.

It had marked my home as its home and I was its permanent maintenance project.

Kate: I think I can add more to this story. Let me think of some scenarios and I'll be back ;)

[an9els]

❥ 𝓗OW TO BAG A HOT DILF: 5-STEP BEGINNER’S GUIDE !

𝓼ummary: the hot, grumpy dad next door won’t give you the time of day? here’s how to make him fuck you stupid anyway. warning: side effects may include pregnancy.

pairing: dilf!toji fushiguro x f!reader genre/tags: smut with (some) plot, kinda slow burn tension, neighbor romance, crack comedy, age gap, manipulative flirting, implied daddy issues, light angst, dom!toji, corruption kink, praise + slight degradation, breeding kink, rough sex, slight jealousy, daddy kink, possessiveness, manhandling, overstim, multiple orgasms, fingering, oral (f. rec), creampie, fluffy ending <3

word count: 8.1k (idk, my hands slipped)

❥ STEP 1 — commit to the bit (and the bit is wanting him SO bad you’re willing to risk federal charges)

you don’t believe in love at first sight. you’re not that kind of girl.

but lust at first sight?

yeah. that one had you in a chokehold the second you saw him hauling a case of bottled water into his apartment, dressed in nothing but grey sweatpants and a faded black tank top— one that clung to the broad curve of his back like it owed you something. like it knew what it was doing.

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 >.<

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