27// I write fanfiction and reblog things I like// I am burdened with glorious purpose// She/her // Buy me a coffee? :P -- https://ko-fi.com/captainthisshipinmyhead
Started: 03/20/25
Last Updated: 02/03/26
Total Works: 6
Just began my fic writing journey late last year (though have been a fic reader for over 10) and hoping to post many fics soon! I am currently writing for only a few animes but most likely will expand to other fandoms once I am writing more consistently. I generally write from POV of a fem reader!
NOT taking requests at the moment- check back later!
What I WILL NOT write: anything having to do with minors, incest, zoophilia (I feel like hybrid characters r fine but I still can't write them lol), sad endings probably lol (I have to have my HEA sorrynotsorry), homophobic/xenophobic/transphobic/antisemitic/racist ideals or plotlines--- my goal is always to be a safe space and inclusive to all. Hate has no place on my blog. Please message me if you ever have concerns about any of my posts- everyone has learning to do and I am open to kindly being educated!
🔥- Smut 💘- Fluff 💔- Angst
^^Please note I use the "fluff" symbol fairly liberally-- If it's even a little bit cutesy between the characters it's going down as fluff in my book
and to the children in the notes saying we need this fucking baby talk to get around censorship online; there's been no credible evidence that any site other that YouTube (which will only demonetize your video, ftr) will actually censor or hide content that include words like rape, pedophile, gun, terrorist, etc. etc. and even if we take as a given they were (which, again, they are not), do not fucking comply in advance, you absolute fucking coward. and ESPECIALLY do not comply by altering your real life fucking vocabulary. don't let the technocrats dictate what words you say holy fucking shit dude!!!!!!!!!!!!
I have to be so honest I’ve been in online fandom spaces for over 15 years probably and I just found out what yumeshipping is this year and I’m relieved bc I always felt like a weirdo for essentially doing this in my head lol. But it’s why I mostly preferred x reader fics also!!
I’m sure that there are nuances and problematic aspects that I’m not educated on but I’m glad I don’t have to feel weird anymore knowing that there’s a term for it and that so many others do it too. Like I knew they did bc of x reader format but yknow what I mean?
Sorry I haven’t been writing lately I’ve been deconstructing religion and grappling with the fact that I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to come out and live authentically in this lifetime
Even lefties I know will eventually concede to some situation where they think it’s right to force someone to carry a child against their will as if that’s not one of the most inhumane and cruel situations to put someone in regardless of any other factors
still living with my parents as an adult is just like. i'm grateful to not have to pay for groceries. i have to get out of here. i'm grateful to have a roof over my head and not have to pay rent. i have to get out of here. i'm grateful to not have to worry about sending out endless job applications that all lead to nowhere. i have to get out of here. i'm grateful i'm grateful i'm so fucking grateful. i have to get out of here
I’m actually so sad 😭😭 I came up with a really hot fanfiction idea the other week and haven’t had time to sit down and write it but I was so excited to.
Got online yesterday to see tonycries just wrote the exact same thing I was thinking 😞
❥ 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.
❥ 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.
“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.
“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 >.<
｡°✩ pairings ; nanami kento x fem!reader x hiromi higuruma
⋆｡°✩ summary ; kento and hiromi loose their minds over their coworker, aka you.
⋆｡°✩ cw ; NSFW/MDNI ; sexualization (not malicious but take it as you will) ; male masturbation ; fantasizing ; the closet is glass guys ; implied bisexual nanami and higuruma ; erm.. idk what else to tell u ; corruption kink ; these men r freaks
⋆｡°✩ author's note; i saw @/owwllly's art and could NOT stop thinking abt this duo so yeah... enjoy freaks. banner is also owwllly's art on tumblr .
⋆｡°✩ wc; 1.2k
the lab was quiet, too quiet after you left. the centrifuge was still humming in it's corner, a low and steady whir filling in the silence where light conversation should've filled it. the fume hood lightly buzzed overhead, its light emanated a faint, sterile glow over the half cleaned lab.
nothing was unusual, yet everything was.
nanami sat back in his chair, fingers loosely steepled against his lips, his hair askew like he hasn't bothered to fix them since you walked out.
across from him, was an equally tired higuruma. he leaned back into his own seat, head tipped back, eyes half-lidded like normal, but the pinch in his brow signified that he was thinking. well, trying to gather his thoughts, clearly failing of course.
neither of them spoke, after all, both of the were men of less words then their subordinates, like satoru gojo.
your presence lingered in small, and undeniable ways.
the sparkly pink glitter pen you had put in the pen holder rest near nanami's desk. your writing on the whiteboard plastered at the front of the lab, that to-do list filled with doodles of bows, flowers, butterflies and terrible attempts at recreating their faces. the scent of your perfume, something soft, distracting and tempting, clung stubbornly to the air after you had sprayed it again to "get ready to conquer the metro". in your own words of course.
higuruma exhaled slowly, running his hand through his hair. "this... is getting ridiculous."
nanami didn't respond immediately, a noncommittal grunt left first. he straightened up, his gaze flickering to the doorway where you disappeared though.
"....agreed." nanami paused, for almost too long before saying anything.
it wasn't just today, but today was the nail in the coffin. it had been building, for weeks at this point. cramming on the subway together, your body sandwiched between the two of them. every jolt had sent you pressing against them even harder than before, and fuck, they were gentlemen. but gentlemen are are no better then men. they just... exercise more restraint.
but even they had their limits too.
nanami loosened his tie, a sloppy motion for what many people considered a precise man. but it did nothing to ease the tension sitting heavy inside of him.
"you're distracted, kento." higuruma muttered, but there was no real malice or bite to it.
"who wouldn't be with... that around you." nanami's expression didn't change.
silence settled over them again, but it didn't feel right. the air was still too charged, filled with words that they won't dare to speak but already know they want to say.
higuruma broke the silence first.
"i'm going to say something,” he murmured, voice flat but tinged with that slight roughness from hours of work. “hopefully... you will not comment on it..”
"that is highly unlikely, given our circumstances."
a beat where neither dared to say anything.
higuruma exhaled again, his time more drawn out. his hand dragged down his face like he was already regretting this.
"when she spilled the water earlier, her blouse was white."
"i am aware of that, hiromi."
"then, i don't have to explain why i haven't be able to focus for the past hour." higuruma shifted in his seat, his cock betraying whatever ounce of dignity he had left. he felt that traitorous tightening in his pants.
"it was pink. with those lace flowers. i'd say she has impeccable taste if it wasn't for how... tempting she is." nanami groans, leaning back into his chair now, also feeling that same traitorous tightening.
"she wore that cherry lipgloss too. the one with glitter." higuruma's jaw tightened after the admission, like it physically pained him to do so.
nanami taps his finger against his thigh, an absent rhythm on his slacks as his gaze fixed somewhere near the door. after a moment, nanami's voice comes softer, almost hesitant, as if the idea just slipped out before he could stop it.
"do you think.. perhaps she gets herself off to us?"
higurumas eyes blow just the tiniest bit wider. "what?"
"i don't want to repeat myself."
higurumas exhales, debating his words carefully. "she seems.. too proper to do something like that."
nanami takes a sharp sinking further into his chair, the words coming out somewhat choked, "she's so beautiful, and i want to do things i know i shouldn't say."
"she'd look so beautiful falling apart for us." higuruma lets the words slip out before he can stop them.
and now they're at a standstill, neither of them speaking. because they're picturing it in full detail.
your cute thighs trembling around them, your voice breaking from moaning so much that you can't even say their names properly, gripping at their shirts and scratching them whenever you can because it's just too much for you and you don't know how else to take it out.
would your eyes be glossy with unshed tears from how good it felt? or would your lips be swollen from how hard they kissed you. even better yet, would your cute little clit poke out from the hood? so they could rub on until you were mewling and pushing their hands away?
they both don't realize their hands have drifted to their laps until nanami clears his throat.
"we're never speaking of this again." he grumbles, fumbling with the buckle of his belt, unzipping his slacks, pulling down his boxers and letting his cock free.
"agreed." higuruma follows suit, letting how own aching cock spring free.
they both wrap their hands around their own cocks. higuruma lets out a low hiss between his teeth as he slowly strokes from the tip to the base. nanami's breathing becomes more strained with with his head tilted back and his eyelids fluttering shut as he eases into it. he jerks slowly, lazily at first, easing himself into it.
higuruma thumbs down the line of his flared tip - that pinkish, slippery line now oozing with precum. his stroking spreads it all over his shaft,
they jerk off in unision, without meaning too at first, their pace slowly picking up, getting used to the heat, the rhythm the shared ache, all for you. the room is fill with the sound of precum smearing under their hands, the dull buzz of the outside world forgotten. all they can think about is you.
"she'd be so pretty choking on our cocks." higuruma grunts, his own hips beginning to meet his hands through the rhythmic fap! fap! fap! sounds.
"her pretty face would be all ruined, i can just imagine her makeup all smudged, gagging all over our lengths." nanami groans, his free hand coming up to toy with his tip.
"wanna eat her cute pussy, i bet she'd taste like heaven." higuruma bites down on his moan.
"imagine her between us? riding your face while i fuck her throat. nothing in that pretty little head of her's besides us."
"kento... don't." his voice breaks now, the thought too much for even him,
nanami falls apart first, surprisingly, spilling hot spurts of cum into his hand, he shudders at the sensation, breathless through the shock of it all.
higuruma wasn't far behind, spills all over his own wrist, his hand still moving up and down lazily through it all.
the lab is silent again, apart from their ragged breathing.
"we take this to the grave." nanami mumbled and he scooted in his chair to where there were tissues.
"she.. cannot know." higuruma nods along, also grabbing a few tissues from a box nearby and cleaning himself up.
(they both stroked themselves again later that night, whether it was to the thought of you, or the situation.. well? i guess we'll never know.)
OVERVIEW: higuruma swore up and down he’d never understand the appeal of strip clubs, but for the past two years, he finds himself going to the same one every other week—hoping to catch the eye of a certain dancer he’s become rather infatuated with.
CW: mdni, lawyer hiromi x exotic dancer reader, one-sided pining, yearning, he’s kinda pathetic sorry (?), pole dancing, lap dances, a couple cameos, gojo is a little shit, smut, semi-public sex, oral (f receiving), face sitting, masturbation (m), doggy, unprotected sex, 4K words.
gave in to this post lol thank you guys for encouraging me to write this! art by @/hunnismokah
It takes a special kind of idiot to think a stripper might actually like them.
Hiromi always shakes his head at the glossy-eyed stares patrons give dancers when they're shown a modicum of kindness.
Poor saps, he'd think.
And even though it was painful to watch the wounded expressions they sported when the dancers slid off their laps with fat wads of cash in their hands, he couldn't bring himself to look away. Because deep down, he knew that his situation was more pathetic.
Whereas other dancers fed honey-laden lies to their regulars, telling them they were their favourites or their best clients, you virtually ignored him.
Didn't even interact apart from fleeting glances during your performances—that he once deluded himself into believing were reserved for him and him alone. Unfortunately, all that did was make it sting a little more when he saw the beckoning smiles you'd flash to other people as well.
If you asked him, Hiromi would have a little trouble pinpointing when seeing your attention elsewhere began to spark jealousy in the pit of his stomach, but if he had to guess, he'd say it started on that fateful night two years ago.
He dreaded going to Satoru’s bachelor party and throwing himself into work in hopes of delaying the endeavour did fuck all to help.
Bit by bit, the date drew near until it crept up on him. Sweeping him right out of his office chair, warping time and space until he landed on a leather couch that squeaked gratingly every time he moved.
The dark-haired man sat motionless on it. The whiskey glass in his hand clasped so tight it was a miracle it hadn’t given way and broken into a million pieces yet.
He clearly wasn't having fun, but his friends didn't seem to share the sentiment.
The very man who was getting married in a couple of days took the liberty of buying a money gun before coming to the club.
Satoru’s round rimmed sunglasses were perched so low on his nose they seemed to be seconds away from falling off, and he stood over a woman who dropped onto her knees.
She arched her back, rear perking up, and the ivory-haired man erupted in a shout then pulled the trigger. As paper notes shot out of the barrel, feathering down in a thick downpour, Hiromi decides there and then that he’d be more than happy to represent the man’s future wife when she finally grew tired of his shit and filed for divorce.
It was only a matter of time.
Looking over to his right, Suguru was posed like he was about to pounce on the dancer that was on stage, and one look at her as she slithered down the pole and held his stare told Hiromi that she wouldn't be at all opposed to the idea.
Just further from him, Shoko let out soft giggles. Smiling wider than he had ever seen as she spoke to the scantily dressed man on her one side, and a curvy woman playing with her hair on the other.
Hell, even Nanami was smiling lazily at the woman giving him a lap dance, eyes low and breath heavy as he watched her.
Jesus Christ he needed a new friend group.
That had to be the only solution because how could they be having so much fun?
The bright fluorescent lights hurt his eyes, and when he tried to avert them, he was met with multicoloured LEDs that only did more damage. The smell of too many perfumes filtered through the air, mingling with the scent of sweat and, a little fainter, something muskier. Raunchier. He refused to imagine what it could be.
The AC was set too low, and while it had him shivering, all the dancers who were wearing far less than him didn't seem to mind. They walked by in slips of lingerie. Some satin— lined with feathers at the seams, others cotton peppered with bows or frills and–
Shit.
Lace.
The ear-splitting pop music that was laden with auto-tune is replaced with the heavy thump of some RnB song that had him sitting upright. The beat of it rumbled between his ears with odd familiarity. Something like the rhythmic pounding of a judge’s gavel against the wooden block.
It made his head swirl.
Then his eyes latched onto you, and he downed the rest of his drink in one go, gaze never straying away.
You wore a red lacy number that popped out against your skin. Scarlet swirling thinly to cover your nipples, bra pushing your bust up and the tops of your tits peeking from the edges.
Your tapered waist was on full display. Midriff so sleek, he reasoned, you must have applied a good helping of body oil to it. He wondered what brand it was. Wondered what it smelled like.
A flash of jewellery at your navel dared to blind him, but he squinted against the harsh glare. He couldn’t look away, not when his gaze drifted south and took in the dainty triangle that sat at the apex of your thighs. Red panties so small he wondered if you'd be willing to lay your life down for the trust you seemed to have in them.
The fabric is held up by harnesses and straps that span around your hips and circle down to your thighs.
And at your feet, heels so high he couldn't for the life of him understand how you walked on them with so much effortless grace it looked like you were floating.
A woman stepped off the platform, and you promptly took her place. Bouncy hair fluttering as your hand wrapped around the golden pole. Higuruma willed himself to look around, and it was hardly a shock that he wasn't the only one watching you.
A sickly feeling threatened to creep up at the realisation that he was part of a larger crowd of men who fixed their lecherous eyes on you, but then you started dancing, and all those thoughts took a backseat.
Your body moved, and curves followed its path. The type that could bring a man to his knees, begging to squeeze and sink his teeth into them. Higuruma knew he’d be at the front of the line.
He reclined on the couch, and even when Satoru elbowed him, cackling something about “oh, look who’s interested now!” His attention never waned. His legs spread apart a fraction, trying to ease the sudden tightness around his crotch. And of course, it does nothing to help.
Hiromi knows he’s delusional for thinking you were dancing solely for him, but when glittering eyes flicker to him, who can blame him?
Red-stained lips curl up into a knowing smirk as your legs wind around the pole. They’re shapely and insanely flexible. Pulling you further up the bar, muscles working as you spin, heels clacking sharply before your legs spread into a split mid air.
Holy shit.
From the way his friends laugh, he might have said that out loud. But he can’t bring himself to care.
The clear soles of your shoes glint under the lights. Body lifting, extending and curling as you did your set. And Higuruma watched with rapt attention, even when you got off the pole and tauntingly ran your hands up your curves, eyes momentarily swinging to his.
Blood roared in his ears, so loud he didn’t hear the music change or the thunder of applause as you gave a somewhat timid smile. You step off the platform, scooping up a couple of bills that are poured at you along the way.
Then you disappear behind the same door you came through—but not before glancing over your shoulder, eyes spearing through him for half a second.
Higuruma didn't know what the look meant, but he made it his mission to find out. And that’s how he ended up in the same club so often, sat at his regular spot right in front of the pole you always danced at.
He limited himself to two visits a month so he wouldn’t look like a creep, and he only tried to talk to you twice in all that time. Both times you shot him down. Chuckled in amusement when he asked for your name and smiled like you were flattered when he asked for your number—only to give him neither.
You’d just leave him sitting all alone on the couch, hands raking over his face in both, frustration and a sense of excitement at the game of cat and mouse the two of you played.
But today, he decided to be bold, to make his intentions clear so that if you rejected him again, he'd know to stop trying.
So he booked a private room.
Unlike the rest of the club, this room has soft lighting. City lights stretch beyond the windows like an endless ocean, and a…couch is lined against the wall.
Well, it looks like a couch, but it could also pass for a bed with how big it is. Hiromi readjusts for what feels like the millionth time as he sits on it, and just when he’s about to get up and start pacing, the door swings open.
And there you are.
You’re wearing a silken robe, hair loose around your shoulders, and you step into the room with a lot more calmness than he feels.
Your eyes meet, and there's no deniability this time. You were looking at him.
“Hi.”
His voice barely works. “Hello.”
You close the door. The lock clicks, and his breath leaves in a whoosh.
“I wasn't sure you'd come.”
An airy laugh graces his ears. “Of course, I would. I like to get to know my regulars.”
The tension in his shoulders eases a little, and he allows a laugh to slip past too.
“I come enough to be considered a regular?”
You don't answer. Only offer him a sexy smirk that disarms him and sets his hackles up all at once.
“And you are…” You get to the couch, one leg folding under you as you take a seat.
“Hiromi Higuruma.” Then, because he can't help himself, he holds his hand out for you to shake.
You barely miss a beat when you put your hand in his, soft and lithe as his thumb unconsciously traces over the back of it.
He inclines his head at you. “Is this the part where you finally tell me your name?”
“You know my name.” He’s already shaking his head before you finish talking.
“Your stage name.”
“Still mine.” Your eyes crinkle at the corners, and it could be a sign of you being playful, or it could be discomfort and since he doesn't know you well enough to discern which is which, he lets it go.
For now, anyway.
When the silence stretches long enough, you stand up and walk to the audio system. A loud click echoes, then soft music fills the room. Turning around, your hands find the knot of your robe, then look up at him.
“Do you want me on the pole or would you like a lap dance?”
He didn’t even notice it at first. Glancing to the other end of the room, the dark coloured pole blends with the rest of the skyline and as tempting as it would be to see you on it for the hundredth time, he thinks he wants something new.
Higuruma doesn't trust himself to talk, so he simply pats his thigh. The action is half timid, but with how your eyes blaze, he can tell you liked it.
You get closer, and he slinks back to give you more room. But you don’t immediately straddle his lap. No, you turn your back to him and put your hands on either side of him, lowering yourself until your ass is inches from his thighs.
Your body sways, scent clouding his space, and he has to keep himself from leaning into you. Most of all, he has to keep his hands to himself.
They clutch at the rough material of the couch under him when you finally sit in his lap, and you shuffle until your back presses against his chest.
A soft sigh sends goosebumps along your neck, and you glance back at him, hair framing your face and making shadowy figures fall over it.
Your eyes are all he can focus on now. He knows you took your robe off somewhere in between, but whatever you’re wearing right now is hardly as dizzying as meeting your gaze head-on.
“You’re allowed to touch me, you know.”
In private rooms, there’s a lot more leniency than on the main floor.
Hiromi nods. “I know the rules allow it.” He pauses when you shift on his lap. “Just don’t know if you’d want me to.”
You stand up, and he thinks he said something wrong. But then you’re climbing back into his lap, fully straddling him now.
“I want you to.”
He stills. Low-lidded eyes track up to yours, and as if he’s moving too slow, your hands reach for his.
You set them down on your thighs, and they instinctively squeeze around the soft flesh.
“There you go.”
The praise has his cock stirring, and when he tries to pull away so you don’t notice, you’re there again. The smell of burnt cherry perfume and clean shampoo fill his nose. You lean in closer, until the tip of your nose gently bumps against his, and he inhales deeply.
“Please tell me your name,” he whispers, a breath away from your lips. “I’ll do anything.”
He hears you hum softly then you bite your lip as you look him over.
“Anything?”
A small nod.
Soft hands reach for him, and he sighs as they roam over his body. Teasing, coaxing, searching.
Then you get to his pocket and pluck out his wallet. Your movements slow as you do this. Not because of uncertainty, but more so, leaving room for him to stop you if he truly wanted to. You fish out a couple bills, and you must think it’s too much because you raise your eyebrows at him.
“Take it.” His voice is rough. Gravel against hardwood.
The wallet is discarded somewhere on the couch, and he’s not sure where you put the money you just took. Only that you lean into him and your lips skim over the shell of his ear.
You say one word. A name. And he shudders like he was just touched by a live wire.
“Beautiful,” he breathes.
You don’t pull away fully once you’ve told him, and when his lips part to thank you, you slot your mouth over his.
You’re not sure what came over you.
On the rare occasion you accepted a call to a private room, you never did more than a cheeky lap dance. Yet here you were, struggling to keep yourself up as the man under you placed a sweet kiss over your clit.
“Sit on it,” he commands as you hover inches from his face. Shaking with the effort not to put all your weight on him.
To see the man who's been watching you with hungry appraisal in his eyes up close has your heart thrashing wildly in your chest.
It is difficult to not notice the suit-clad man whenever he comes by. Not only because he sat front and centre every time, but he kept his dark eyes on you like he wanted to toss you over his shoulder and take you away from here.
Short of doing just that, Higuruma asked you to sit on his face instead. Pleaded really. And you started to laugh because you thought he was joking—only to cut off into a less-than-refined snort when you realised he was being dead serious.
Hands that trembled moments ago became steadier the longer he touched you, as if it grounded him. So when you nodded at his question, deft fingers reached around you, unclasping your bra and slowly peeling the straps off your shoulders.
He moved to hook his fingers into your panties next. Lowering himself to his knees so he could roll them down the length of your legs.
Once you were bare, Higuruma just stared at you. It was a little unnerving how long he did it. Still kneeling at your feet and looking up at you as if you were some kind of altar he'd happily shackle himself to. Offering devotion, surrender, worship, whatever you wanted as long as you stayed like this before him.
Slowly, he rose to his feet, taking you in his strong arms as he did so.
Hiromi lay on the couch, and you crawled up the length of his body with the help of his hands guiding you. He was still fully clothed, a sight that felt you both aggravated and excited to find out what he was hiding underneath.
Which brings you to the present.
You must be moving too slow for him because he gently cups your thighs. Hooked nose bumping against your clit and sliding between your folds as he inhales your scent.
“Fuck, you're so wet,” he groans against you. Low and pitiful as his breath fans over your cunt. Your hips pitch, but you make no move to lower yourself. “Let me taste you.”
Your lips part when you see the slimy trail of your arousal coating his nose. Low-set eyes lift to your face, peering up at you.
“Please.”
That word was your kryptonite because when he pulls you closer again, you let him.
The first lick he delivers has your breath leaving you in a loud gasp, but clearly not loud enough because he hauls you further onto his mouth, smothering himself in your pussy. He hums unintelligibly under you, fat tongue lolling out to lap at every drop of slick that dribbles onto it.
“Higuruma,” you force out when he parts his lips and slurps the pearly nub of your clit into his mouth. A wet pop sounds as he releases it.
“Hiromi,” he corrects.
And that’s the last time he comes up for air.
Hiromi lets you bear all your weight onto him, and his hands latch around your waist as if he wants more. Muffled moans are hummed into your cunt, vibrations only adding to your pleasure and making your vision blur.
Until then you hear the soft clink of a belt unbuckling and a zipper opening which have you willing your eyes back into focus. One look over your shoulder has you closer to the edge in a matter of seconds.
Higuruma pulls his cock from his briefs and starts bopping his hand over it in long, hard strokes. His hips rut, veins on his hands bulging as he fists it until precum wells at the tip. It beads white, leaking thickly only to be smeared over the rest of his length.
“Oh, fuck,” You moan as his tongue thrusts into your cunt, and you jerk so hard you would've been thrown off balance if you didn't weave a hand into his hair.
The dark brown strands tickle your palm as you use it for leverage, and when you sharply tug as an orgasm crashes into you, he grunts—falling over the edge right behind you. The warm spray of his cum over your lower back has you needily rolling your hips, trying to drag out the last dregs of your release as long as you could.
And it's only when he makes a choked sound that you immediately lift off him.
“Shit, sorry.”
Your skin was warm all over, but your cheeks feel a little hotter than everything else. The man merely smiles.
“Don’t be. That was amazing.”
Your smile is a little sheepish as he sits up.
Higuruma starts to undress. The white-collar shirt is undone one button at a time, opening to reveal his broad chest. Hard muscles stand rigidly under his tan skin, but you have a feeling it's soft to the touch.
So you reach out to confirm, and thick pectorals quiver under your palm. You were right.
He kicks his leather shoes off and steps out of his slacks. The couch sinks under his weight, and he reaches for you again. Warm hands find your waist as he comes up behind you, and you moan, instinctively lowering yourself on all fours.
His cock nudges up and down your slit, and your breath catches.
“You want this?”
You hum in response, ass inching back, and it seems that’s all he needed. Hiromi pushes into you, and you grunt against the achy stretch of your walls struggling to accommodate him. The girth of his cock has you trembling and he slowly surges forward, hips angling to bottom out.
Your body tenses, and he forces himself to pause.
“Too much?” he asks softly. You shake your head.
Not enough.
Higuruma does tease you. Doesn't edge you or try to make you beg for more.
No, he just holds you down and fucks you like he’s been possessed.
Both of his hands smack onto your ass, pawing at the flesh, then spreading so he can see his cock disappearing inside of you. He groans at the creamy white ring that forms around his base as he pumps into you, juices mixing to make an obscene mess that connects you to each other.
“Fucking beautiful,” he whispers, mostly to himself, but it still has you clenching around him. “I've been thinking about this for so long.”
The deep craving in his voice as he says that has your body tipping forward into the fluffy cushions, but he makes no move to pull you up. The man just plants a heavy hand on your back, making you arch deep as his thrusts become quicker and harder.
You’re already writhing, but when his free hand snakes around you, finding your clit with practised ease, your body goes stock-still. Sensation explodes, and with your cheek plastered to the pillows, the best orgasm you've ever had racks through you. So hard and fast it almost hurts.
Gummy walls spasm around him, and he chokes on one of the huskily deep groans pouring out of his mouth. His thrusts turn messy, uncontrolled, and the arm around your waist draws you up towards him.
Your back meets his chest, head tipping back to lull onto his wide shoulder. His fingers never leave your clit, and your ass rocks back against him, grinding down onto his pelvis as overstimulation makes you delirious.
“One more. Please,” he huffs against your dewy skin, and your head bops in frantic nods.
“Cum inside.” You demand.
Sex made you crazy. Clearly.
And apparently, the madness was spreading because a soft whine that sounds nothing like him escapes. His hand around your waist skates up to your jaw, turning your head and slanting his mouth over yours in a sloppy kiss.
Hiromi only manages two hard thrusts, teeth nipping at your lip in an effort to stay quiet. Then you’re cumming together. Cursed groans panted against each other’s lips, and shaking long after the last shocks of pleasure run through you.
Higuruma draws you into his arms, touch soothing as he pulls you into his lap.
Hands turn soft once more as they trace over your skin, and he keeps you there until you both catch your breath and the mind-numbing haze of sex subsides.
Your head rests in the crook of his neck, and it's only when you feel yourself becoming sleepy– and a little too comfortable– that you pull away from him.
“I should get back,” you inform him once your eyes meet, and he nods, warm embrace meeting away when he lets go.
“Right, sorry.”
You forgo putting the bra and panties back on and opt to shrug on the long discarded robe instead. You’d need a quick shower before getting back to work.
Cash in hand, you’re fumbling with the robe’s knot when Higuruma calls out to you.
God, did your name always sound that sexy?
Your eyes lift to his, and he moves to sit at the edge of the couch.
“Can I see you again?”
He always saw you. What he truly wanted was another chance to see you, like this. Some desperately pathetic hope inside even believed he might get lucky one day. That you may give him your number. And that maybe a fleeting hookup in the shadowy backrooms of a strip club could spark something real.
Fuck, he hoped it would.
A radiant smile graces your lips. “Of course.”
Then with a flick of your hair as you turn on your heel, you’re gone.
You didn't hate the idea of seeing him again, and Higuruma supposed that was as good a start as any.
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