hello! this is a little blurb of what i am working on for my fic (which i am currently titling spontaneous reaction but is subject to change) forgive me because i have no idea what i am doing and posting on here is hard lol. anyway, comment your thoughts, they are greatly appreciated! ^.^
spontaneous reaction; does not necessarily mean instantaneous, can proceed on its own without external cause.
Dr. Ackerman, Chemistry professor at Paradise University, forms an unlikely and rather spontaneous connection with his newly hired teaching assistant (Y/N), a graduate student at the university pursuing a master’s degree in Biochemistry. Levi Ackerman did not want your help, but he needed it. Your new employment as his TA in his general chemistry course would be easy to tackle alongside your new course load, right? The beginnings of your relationship with Dr. A were nothing more than that of coworkers, well, two coworkers that hated even having to be in a room with one another. Each class you spent with him, you felt like he only despised you more. But could there be some other feeling behind his stormy demeanor? Levi knew he needed you to fix his reputation with the department and seemingly the rest of the student body, but maybe he needed you in more ways than one.
Dr. A is a genius, hired at the prestigious Paradise University due to his experienced background in the field of chemistry. A double major in Chemistry and Biophysics, PhD in Biochemistry, and former researcher at one of the most high-tech and affluent labs in the country, responsible for extracting and isolating DNA from the spinal serum in a nearly extinct creature Aglais titanus, allowing the species to be repopulated and studied further for its unique properties. He retired his white lab coat for a position at his alma mater, which he finds to be massively boring compared to his previous endeavors saving species and creating new lab techniques. At least the pay is good. Teaching was never his strong suit, but if Levi knew anything about anything, it was science.
His methods were a little unorthodox and more often than not, students would leave his office crying. According to the Dean of students, “You cannot just yell at the students when they do not understand the basic thermodynamics and kinetics of life!” Levi called bullshit. His issue was now the lack of students enrolling in his classes and the large, bolded and underlined 1.4 score on his rate my professor page. No one even read those, right? The head of the chemistry department suggested Levi hire a teaching assistant that could provide students with a friendly face that was closer in age and had just recently sat where they were in his class, providing them with a resource that was “not as intimidating” as Dr. A could be. He did not need help, he was perfectly capable of teaching basic chemistry just fine on his own and did not need some bubbly, overly energetic brat to get in his way. However, the Dean of students decided for him that if he did not raise both his class GPA over the next six months and reduce the number of complaints filed against the department of chemistry, he would be under investigation for noncompliance to his tenure contract pending the end of semester results. Begrudgingly, he wrote up the job description and posted it to the university’s student job finder database, not expecting anyone to apply anyway. After a week of waiting for a notification to appear on the job site, he was starting to get a little nervous. Was his reputation really that tarnished these days? Another week goes by of Levi refreshing the page at least five times a day, and with just a few days left before the beginning of the semester, he was starting to wonder if he was about to kiss his job goodbye. Truth be told, he really did not hate it that much, he almost felt proud of the students when they could correctly answer his questions in class. He was only about a year into his contract and was surprised at how quickly it went by. Finally, he wakes up to the glorious notification on his phone that someone had applied for his TA position.
You had been out of college for about a year now, getting your undergraduate degree in biology with the intent to attend medical school after. Plans had certainly changed since then, you thought to yourself crassly, scrolling through Indeed for the millionth time that week. As a child, your answer to the “what do you want to be when you grow up?” question had always been doctor. A gifted kid through primary school, and through high school, collecting an honor roll award every year since first grade. Your parent’s pride and joy, member of almost every club and sport, and teacher’s pet. There was nothing you had come across in your early years that you didn’t excel at. This was all until high school graduation, of course. You were denied from your first choice of university which was really the first time you had been denied anything. You ended up packing your bags and leaving home to some state school that provided you with a bountiful scholarship. “You’re sure you don’t just want to stay at home and go to a school around here sweetheart?” you remember your mother asking you as you shoved the last of your belongings into your tiny car. Staying at home was the absolute last thing you wanted to do. You loved your mom, but you needed to get out while you still could. You were terrified of starting somewhere new by yourself, but found it was much easier to adjust to than you thought it would be, enjoying the peacefulness of living with a single roommate even in the tiny dorm.
Undergrad went by quickly, although somewhere along the way you lost your passion for healthcare and struggled to pick a path towards your future. It wasn’t that the classes were too hard (although organic chemistry took a couple tries) or that your interests no longer resided in the world of life sciences, you just had no idea what the hell you wanted to do with your life. Your grades were nothing to write home about, you faced failure for the first time in your life, and as each semester flew by, your impending doom of graduation was creeping closer and closer. The semester before you were due to cross the stage, you were debating leaving school altogether, lacking drive, energy, and honestly the will to get out of bed most days. You were surely glad you had not dropped out, because there was nothing more satisfying than submitting that final research paper and officially completing what felt like the hardest four years of your life. Your mother flew in for your graduation and celebrated your accomplishments for a few days before heading home and leaving you once again alone with your thoughts and the terrifying realization that you had no idea what was next. Countless hours were now being dedicated to job searching, job applying, and then rejection. It had become your new routine. That was until you received an email that would turn things around completely.
You had totally forgotten about that grad school application you put in somewhere in the middle of the hectic last semester of college, thinking of it as a last-ditch effort and not really holding your breath for the results. You figured it was just another rejection letter and decided against opening it, why did you need another reminder that you were simply not good enough? Another day goes by, another email from the university. Jeez, they were definitely rubbing salt in the wound, you thought. Another day, another email. These notifications were starting to annoy you, and it had already been three weeks and you were still unemployed, your lease on your apartment was almost up, and things were not looking great. Finally on the fourth day of continuous emails from Paradise University, you said fuck it and opened it. “Congratulations (Y/N)! The Titan family would like to extend the distinguished offer to enroll in our most reputable Masters of Biochemistry program for the 2024 fall semester. Enclosed in this email…” Holy shit. You were accepted? You started tearing up as you continued reading the rest of the email. One of the most prestigious schools in the country, a program that only accepted 100 applicants nationwide, and they chose you. Everything was a blur after that. You packed up once more, signed a new lease in a new city, and started a new journey. Orientation was a breeze, all of the staff was welcoming, except that moody looking guy with a stick up his ass at that student-professor mixer the other night. However, your giddiness and excitement of this new beginning was short lived, because you were quickly reminded that you were still a poor, unemployed 22-year-old that just pulled out the biggest loan in existence.
Daydreaming of the past now over, you are staring back at the indeed page open on your laptop. Food service isn’t that bad, you thought as you continued scrolling away. McDonald’s, that Starbucks inside the school (1 of 5 on the huge campus), God, were you really going back to being a barista? With a bachelor’s in biology? Sidetracked, you opened a tab on your computer to the university’s student services portal. Typing away your credentials, you saw a banner on the side that said “Employed Titans” that piqued your interest. What’s this? You remembered vaguely back to orientation at the information fair, there was a booth set up that had tons of different fliers and signs displaying many of the school’s student resources, one of which being a job database for campus employment that included anything from janitorial staff to lab supervision. Clicking on the banner, a plethora of different job openings popped up on your screen. Time for more scrolling, you thought. You were eyeing the different titles, nothing really jumping out at you until you saw his name. Dr. Levi Ackerman. He works here? This was the same person that you had cited scientific journals from in past research papers and lab reports, the guy that single handedly saved an entire species from extinction. You quickly moved over to the job title: Teacher’s Assistant for CHEM 3201, fall semester. You applied faster than you could type, you could easily handle this job. You could not contain your excitement when literally the next day, not even twenty-four hours later, you had a message in your inbox regarding your newly hired status as a student worker with an attachment of a syllabus. The only other message in the email was a date, time, and room number, signed Dr. L. Ackerman.
wc: ~1.1k | cw: figure skater gojo x figure skater reader! reader’s family is controlling.
summary: being born into a pedigree family of olympic gold medalists meant you were prophesied to be one as well. however, being the best has its downsides.
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷
BEFORE YOU EVER chose skating, skating had already chosen you.
That’s the curse of legacy.
Most children are given years to experiment with new activities and establish an indentity—like trying soccer, art, piano, or even nothing at all.
Most children are also allowed to be children; have friends, go to school, play video games until their eyes burn, eat shitty processed foods until their teeth ache, watch TV all night.
But you?
You weren’t raised to be most children.
Oh, no. Of course not.
You were raised to be an heir.
The (L/N) family is a dynasty carved out of discipline and obsession. Three generations of Olympic champions, a lineage spoken about with not only pride, but reverence, as if your bloodline itself carries something divine.
Which it probably does.
Because in your family, gold isn’t an achievement.
It’s an inheritance.
Your great-grandfather won Olympic gold in speed skating in 1956, a man whose presence was mythic. Your great-grandmother earned gold in artistic gymnastics, the first woman in Japan to do so, a being of balance and grace who believed perfection was a moral obligation.
Your grandfather claimed judo gold in 1976, a fierce fighter carved from stone. Your grandmother followed with marathon gold in 1984, endurance made flesh, a woman who never understood the definition of quit.
Your father took alpine skiing gold at Nagano in ‘98–charismatic, fearless, a storm embodied on the slopes.
And your mother?
Ice dancing gold, 2002. The original Ice Princess.
Elegant, invincible, severe in her beauty and even more severe in her expectations.
Together, they passed down more than just athletically inclined genes.
They passed down prophecy.
From the moment you could stand, the world didn’t ask what you’d become—only when you’d earn your first gold medal.
When you were born, doctors cheered, “Congratulations, it’s a healthy baby girl!”
Your parents only thought, future gold medalist.
And so, then, it was decided that you’d follow similarly in the footsteps of your mother.
Figure skating.
Women’s singles.
Yes. That it’s it.
They placed you onto the rink, tiny skates strapped to even tinier feet, frigid air stinging your cheeks before you even knew how to pronounce the word cold.
You can remember the first time you fell, a sharp smack against the ice, palms burning, breath stolen from your lungs.
Your mother didn’t scoop you up or console you like most mothers would. Instead, she knelt beside you, her voice soft but unyielding.
“Up. Champions rise on their own.”
So you rose.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Until falling stopped being failure and became part of the choreography of becoming extraordinary.
You grew up in rinks rather than playgrounds. There were no lullabies sung to you, only the scrape of blades and toe picks. Childhood friendships were nonexistent—future champions didn’t have time for those as they were far too distracting.
Birthdays were celebrated between practice sessions, candles blown out only when your schedule allowed.
Yet despite the stringency and strictness, you never rebelled. Because even from a young age, you understood your purpose.
The world expects greatness from you, and you were perfectly built to deliver it.
At nine, you landed your first triple jump, stunning an entire coaching staff into silence. At eleven, you became the national novice champion, reporters calling you, “Japan’s new hope.”
At thirteen, you swept the junior international circuit with a precision that bordered on inhuman.
Your name became its own frequency. At fourteen, the world began whispering it and a year later, they began screaming it.
Because at fifteen, you stepped onto Olympic ice representing Team Japan in Beijing.
And not once did you tremble, or waver, or let the enormity of the moment crack your composure.
Neither did you skate like a child, you skated like a girl who from birth was destined to be legendary.
Four quads executed cleanly, footwork so sharp it could draw blood, a final pose held worth the poise of someone who’d lived a hundred lifetimes on the ice already.
When your routine ended, the arena went silent for a heartbeat. Then it erupted.
And for the first time in your life, you felt something warm beneath your ribs—victory.
Oh how sweet it is.
Addicting.
Enthralling.
You had finally fulfilled the prophecy.
A gold medal was placed around your neck. People deeming you the “The Quad Queen”, “Japan’s Ice Princess”, “The Champion Born of Champions”.
The youngest Japanese woman to win gold in Figure Skating. The youngest woman since Tara Lipinski.
Your throne was sculpted in frost and you sat on it alone, perfection the loneliest kingdom.
Now you’re nineteen years old, still undefeated in Japan, the federation’s pride and joy, the face of their Olympic campaign for 2026.
Your life has remained a straight, pristine line.
Until today.
The boardroom of the Japan Skating Federation is unusually tense, executives shuffling papers they don’t need to read; your coach sits beside you with a stiffness usually reserved for judicial hearings.
You fold your hands neatly in your lap, another inherited habit, “Please. Explain this meeting.”
The oldest director clears his throat, “(L/N)-san…as we prepare for the next Olympic cycle, Team Japan must optimize its medal chances. Particularly in the Team Event.”
A flicker of annoyance sparks under your sternum.
The hell does this have to do with you?
“And?”
“We’re assigning you to pairs skating for the coming season.”
Silence swallows the room. Your heartbeat doesn't stutter, no you’re too trained for that, but your voice lowers into ice.
“Why?”
“Because you are our strongest female athlete,” The woman beside him says gently, “And only you have the adaptability and power to transition in time for the Games.”
The words slide off you like snow down a slope. A cold, controlled fury begins to spread within your chest.
“I am the strongest women’s singles skater in Japan,” You explain quietly, “And you want to…move me? Replace me? Undermine my category? Why sabotage your best chance at gold?”
“You are,” The director agrees, “That is precisely why we need you to lift the entire team.”
You inhale once through your nose, knowing that they are right.
Milan Cortina, the 2026 Olympic Games are only a year away, and it would take the best skaters alive to survive a transition like this.
Good thing you are one of them.
And if this is the cost of legacy, you will pay it.
“Very well,” You sigh, “If this is your decision, then tell me my partner.”
There is only one acceptable answer you’re willing to hear.
Geto Suguru.
A respectable, graceful skater—the gentleman prince.
Someone whose lines match yours, with discipline that mirrors your own, and quiet strength you’ve admired for years.
You lift your chin, “Tell me it’s Geto.”
The room goes entirely still, causing your stomach to drop. A director finally speaks, voice brittle.
𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬/𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: racer gojo/f1 gojo x racer reader/f1 reader. nsfw content. rivals to lovers. toxicity. misogynistic/sexist themes. jealousy. suggestive themes. explicit language. alcohol usage. possessiveness. mentions of restrictive eating. mentions of death. themes of child abuse/child exploitation.
𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: a twenty-one year old american rookie in ferrari red was never supposed to exist. especially not beside satoru gojo, the team’s beloved golden boy. one brutal race and one mistake later, their rivalry turns intoxicating and impossible to ignore.
summary: listen, you're not saying you're obsessed with your dentist. you're just saying you know his schedule, favorite coffee, shoe size, birth chart, and the exact pattern his eyebrows make when he tells you to "open wide" for him. so what if you booked three appointments this month? it's not your fault they let a man like that put his fingers in your mouth and activate your fuck-or-flight response. 『wc: 11k 』
content/warning: mdni/18+ only, obsession, power imablance, stalking, you knock your own tooth out to get an appointment, explicit language, eventual smut, fem body reader, fingering, oral m receiving, gojo's dick is too big, choking, spit/saliva play, use of dental instruments, unprotected piv, restraint, mild pain kink, biting, overstimulation, manipulation, plot twist
a/n: psa remember to get your regular check up and cleaning done! i got a lil too carried away heh. hope you enjoy ♡
You want to fuck your dentist.
There’s no poetic way to phrase that.
But for now, you sit in the waiting room like everyone else. You’re patient. You have to be. He’s worth every second of waiting. You can practically feel the desperation sweating off them.
They’re craning their necks.
They’re checking the hallway.
They’re fixing their hair in the reflection of the aquarium glass.
Pathetic.
They’re all waiting for a glimpse of him.
Dr. Satoru Gojo.
Your sweet, oblivious, perfect Dr. Satoru Gojo.
You want to tell them to stop breathing so loudly — it feels disrespectful. Their existence is unnecessary noise. Their bodies clog the space that should be reserved for him and you alone.
None of them know him like you do.
You know the rhythm of his foot tapping against the tile when he’s impatient. You know the little crease between his brows when he concentrates. You know the exact cadence of his voice when he says, “open wider for me.”
So what if this is the third cleaning you booked within the same month?
You told the receptionist your gums were “a little tender”. Your gums are perfectly fine. It’s your sanity that isn’t.
You keep his business card in your pocket, warm with your body heat. The ink is wearing off where your thumb rubs over his name again and again.
He gave it to everyone, sure. But no one keeps it like you do. They don’t whisper to it, don’t fall asleep holding it, don’t kiss it goodnight.
The receptionist calls your name.
“Dr. Gojo will see you now.”
Finally.
God, his face — it’s the kind of beautiful that leaves you shaking. There’s no flaw, no wrong angle. Every part of him is exactly where it should be. You hate the idea that anyone else gets to see this. Gets to see him.
He smiles, says your name in that buttery register. He adjusts your chair and guides you back with soft and tender hands. He leans over you and being beneath him like this felt like destiny.
He has no idea what he does to you. No idea how devastating it is to have him this close. It takes everything in you to not reach up and touch his jaw and pull him closer and press your forehead to his and tell him that he belongs to you and no one else and—
“You’ve been taking good care of yourself,” he says.
The snap of latex against his gloved hands is foreplay, and his praise is seduction. Your thighs tense. It’s embarrassing how fast your thoughts collapse.
You love it when he asks you to open up, when he touches you, angles your head exactly how he wants and explore every inch of your obedience. You’ve memorized the exact spot his thumb rests, the amount of pressure on his fingers.
You’re so close to him that you can hear his breathing.
You want to ask him what he’s thinking about.
You want the answer to be you.
He finishes too soon.
You’re not ready.
You’re never ready.
He pulls away and gives you a satisfied nod he gives to good patients.
“See you next time,” he says.
Next time.
Next time.
Next time.
And you will.
Soon.
You’ll make sure of it.
Three months ago
You weren’t supposed to meet him that day.
It was a throwaway appointment — a last-minute cancellation the receptionist squeezed you into because you happened to be nearby. You barely had time to sit before the assistant pushed open the door and called your name.
You didn’t expect anything out of the ordinary from all your previous routine checkups. But when he turned toward you, it was nothing short of extraordinary.
His bright hair caught the light like it was intentionally showing off.
His eyes were so vivid it felt illegal to look into them for more than a second.
Your organ systems forgot they had a job — your lungs, your brain, your heart.
You’d never been disarmed by a person before.
You didn’t even think people had the power to do that.
“Let’s get you seated,” he said.
That voice.
God.
He adjusted the chair and lowered you gently, explaining the procedure with an intimacy that caught you off guard. The way he leaned close to show you where to rest your head, how his hand ghosted near your jaw without touching yet.
Frankly, it felt inappropriate.
Your body reacted like he’d whispered something filthy. And when you felt him place two fingers under your chin, tipping it up to the perfect angle, your pulse shot upward so fast your vision went blurry.
And while he was rambling on about brushing technique or gum health or something, you couldn't process any of it. Your brain was stuck on one thing, and one thing only: he touched you.
You didn’t leave that room the same person who entered it.
You stood up, nodded politely and thanked him like a functioning adult. You walked out trying to act normal while on the inside, a dangerous thought began to form, one that would only continue to spiral:
He was perfect.
Not just “attractive”, not just “easy on the eyes”.
Perfect.
Perfect in a way that felt targeted.
Perfect in a way that felt designed.
Perfect in a way that made your body mourn the seconds you weren’t with him.
You replayed his voice all the way home.
You replayed his touch.
You replayed the way he smiled.
You needed more.
You needed him.
Sleep didn’t reach you that night.
The memory of his fingertips brushing your lips resurfaced with humiliating clarity everytime your eyes fluttered shut.
You employed every method possible to forget — you’d roll over, shove your face into your pillow, and try to force yourself to forget the feeling, but your skin remembered.
You had to see him again.
Soon. Now. Immediately.
But you couldn’t just show up. You weren’t unhinged — not outwardly. You needed a plan, a reason; a way back into that chair.
You sat down on your desk with renewed purpose, opened your laptop, and before you could question what you were doing, the clinic’s name was already being typed into your browser.
Your motive wasn’t to make an appointment. You were looking for their scheduling structure, their staff rotation, their hours. Any scrap of information you could twist into something useful. But their website was useless. Too clean and too vague.
So you did what any sane, functioning person would do. You called the clinic.
“Hi! Just checking if Dr. Gojo is in today?”
You wrote down the answer. You hung up. Waited a respectable amount of time—you weren’t an animal—then called again. You used a different tone. Different phrasing. Different fake reason.
Another time slot. Written down. Compared. Cross-referenced. It wasn’t enough. You needed data. A pattern. A system.
The spreadsheet grew fast into a color-coded grid;
Green: confirmed work days
Orange: probable presence
Violet: ambiguous
Red: unacceptable absence
Blocks of time were highlighted, circled and analyzed:
He arrived earlier on Mondays.
Left later on Thursdays.
Took a longer break on Fridays.
Why rely on chance when you could rely on predictions?
Today, your alarm goes off an hour earlier than usual.
The spreadsheet predicted an early arrival.
Thursday — Projected Arrival: 7:42 AM.
Last week it was 7:50.
The week before, 7:46.
And if your deduction about his caffeine habits (large mocha, double shot espresso, two pumps of sugar, extra foam, less ice) is correct, then today should fall neatly in the middle.
You stand across the street from the clinic with a coffee cup you don’t even plan to drink, pretending to scroll your phone.
The time is 7:45 AM.
Any second now.
7:46
People pass.
Irrelevant. Noise. Filler. Not him.
7:47:50
You lift the coffee cup to your lips to fake a sip.
Your eyes are locked onto the reflection in the glass window across the street — your perfect surveillance method.
7:48:12
There.
He’s punctual.
Of course he is.
He cares about you so much.
He’d never leave you hanging.
Dr. Satoru Gojo strolls up to the clinic with his hands in his coat pockets. His hair is obnoxiously bright in the morning light. It taunts every other shade of white in existence.
He’s wearing his spare blue scrub set, the one with the bleach stain on the hem from three weeks and two days ago when he knocked over a bottle on accident. He really should be more careful. Your clumsy boy.
He unlocks the door and disappears down the hall.
7:48:36 — Confirmed.
You mark down the time your notes app.
A near-perfect match with your prediction.
You understand him better every day.
You should go home and relax now, but then you see her walking straight into his clinic — female, short bob, beige coat, smug little bag.
That’s not right.
He doesn’t have any scheduled appointments now.
You know there’s nothing booked in this slot.
You checked.
Who is she? What does she want? Why is she here?
This doesn’t make sense.
Unscheduled walk-ins are rare.
Unscheduled female walk-ins are suspicious.
Does she know him?
Is she new?
Is she early?
Did she call yesterday?
Did she call after you checked?
Did she lie?
Did she flirt?
The receptionist nods and leads the woman toward the hallway. Toward him.
This is fine.
It’s totally fine.
He’s a dentist, after all.
He sees patients.
He helps people.
It’s his job.
You stare at the clinic door long enough to memorize the exact angle it swings shut after she disappears inside.
You don’t leave.
You tell yourself you’re just passing by, just stretching your legs. You walk as if you’re checking window displays — never mind that the only window worth checking is the one that gives you a perfect side-angle view of his room.
And then you see them.
The woman with the bob is on the chair, chatting with Satoru. You expect her to be annoying, maybe loud—Satoru hated the loud ones—but she’s pleasant.
She’s laughing softly, one hand tucked behind her ear. She looks foolish. Like she’s audtioning for a toothpaste commercial. You think she must’ve had veneers done. No one was born with teeth like that. No one, save for Satoru.
A friend? No — too cheerful.
A former coworker? No — not in those shoes.
A vendor? No — she didn’t bring any products.
A stalk— No. That’s your role.
You watch the bob girl shift her posture, trying to look cuter. Your teeth grind. Then the woman leans in, says something to him, something you can’t make out.
And he laughs.
Your Satoru — your perfectly punctual, perfectly bright, perfectly oblivious reason for existing, is laughing.
It’s not a polite chuckle. Not the forced, professional smile. It was a real, shoulders loosening, eyes crinkling smile. The kind that should only ever be directed at you.
Your mind goes very, very still.
You can’t hear what she said, but you know it wasn’t funny. She shouldn’t be making him laugh. Shouldn’t be making him anything. That expression is yours and yours alone. Your reward. Your discovery.
You’re not jealous.
You’re vigilant. You’re careful.
She’s one disruption. An anomaly. You’ll handle it.
This is your time slot.
This is your schedule.
Your doctor.
Fine. Good. You needed this.
People like her will always flutter around him.
Let her — temporary little distraction.
She won’t matter long.
Not when you’re the one coming back soon.
Very soon.
You can’t get the image out of your head.
Her laugh.
His laugh.
No.
Absolutely not.
Everything about that scene was wrong.
You pace down the sidewalk, the morning sun too blinding, the traffic too loud, the world too irritating.
All the while, your brain keeps looping one thought: you need to get inside that clinic. Right now. Before she steals more seconds that aren’t hers.
But you can’t just walk in, or say you forgot something. What would you even pretend to forget? Your dignity? It’s long gone anyway.
And even if you did fabricate some imaginary object, the receptionist would retrieve it in seconds and that bob-headed parasite would go right back to stealing his minutes.
You needed something better. A believable reason. A legitimate one. Something that’d make the receptionist pale and scramble, and say the magic words: “We’ll get Dr. Gojo right away.”
Emergency.
That’s it.
You need an emergency.
This is logical. It’s reasonable.
This is exactly what any rational person would do if they saw a strange woman hovering around their dentist.
Okay. Think.
How does one create a dental emergency?
You could claim a crown fell out;
You don’t have one, but they don’t know that.
You could say you felt a crack;
Nobody can disprove a sensation over the phone.
You could say you woke up with swelling;
“I swear it’s huge,” is such a flexible phrase.
You could even lose a tooth.
Yes.
Yes, yes, yes.
You’ll lose a tooth.
It was perfectly convincing. Perfectly harmless — at least, if you plan it right. You read once that if you put it immediately in a glass of milk, the chances of replanting the tooth is high. And whose hands would you trust more than Satoru’s?
Safe hands. Careful hands. Big, warm, gorgeous hands that would cradle your face and say, “Don’t worry, I’m here.”
Your voice will tremble; you can do that on command.
Your eyes will water; you’re already halfway there.
They won’t make you wait, they won’t question it.
He would never turn away a patient in pain.
And that bob-haired waste of space?
She’ll watch him run to you first.
You’ll be exactly where you’re supposed to be.
Back in his chair.
Back under his hands.
Back inside his attention.
You buzz with anticipation and sprint to the nearest grocery store. You check out a bottle of milk and head straight to the restroom, adrenaline singing in your veins, determination settling into your bones. You lock yourself in the door and grip the edge of the sink.
You ball a wad of paper towels and bite down on them. You’ll need something to stifle the scream. You’re not dumb — you’re not about to sabotage your own plan by having someone rush in and interrupt you.
Okay.
Okay, okay.
You breathe once, twice, three times.
This is it.
This is devotion.
This is fate.
You whisper, “For Satoru.”
Then you slam into the sink.
Crack.
A sunburst of pain sucks all the oxygen out of you. Your knees knock the side of the stall. You choke on your own muffled cry — a broken, animalistic whimper. Your vision blurs so hard you think you’ve passed out, but you’re still there. The taste of rust crosses your tongue. Then you spit into your palm.
It worked.
It fucking worked.
Jagged, red at the root, shining with triumph — your tooth.
You stagger back, dabbing at your mouth. The tissues are still clenched between your teeth now.
It hurts.
Oh, it hurts so bad.
But it’s sacred.
People only deserve his attention if they’re willing to bleed for it.
You give yourself one minute to practice your act — sixty seconds of dizzy euphoria, staring into the mirror with a mouthful of tissues and blood smeared across your chin.
You look pathetic.
It was perfect.
You stumble into the clinic, towards the counter, hands cupping your jaw to really sell it. Your eyes are glossy with unshed pain, voice shaking so sweetly when you whisper:
“I—I think something broke. Please… I need to see a dentist right now.”
And just like you dream, she scrambles to pick up the phone, and says the magic words:
“I’ll get Dr. Gojo right away.”
You’re being ushered down the hallway, trembling, clutching your jaw like it’s the most fragile thing in the world. You don’t have to fake the adrenaline; your body is already shaking so hard your teeth (your remaining ones) chatter.
You see the bob-haired bitch scurry out of his room.
Good riddance.
The door clicks open.
And he’s there.
Your reason, your ruin, your everything:
Dr. Satoru Gojo.
His eyes widen with concern the second he sees you curled in on yourself, breath hitching.
“Hey… hey, easy,” he says, unbearably soft, stepping closer, gentler than you’ve ever seen him. “You must be scared. Let me take a look, okay?”
You lift your gaze slowly, letting your lashes tremble, letting your breath wobble. You look small on purpose; crafted yourself into the perfect picture of vulnerability.
You whisper, “It… it hurts.”
His brows knit together instantly. “Aw, sweetheart—”
(Your heart combusts.)
“—I’ve got you. We’ll fix it. I’ll numb the area first, get rid of that pain.”
He dons his surgical gloves with slow, careful movements, retrieving the syringe like he’s trying not to startle a frightened animal.
It does unspeakable things to you.
And when he steps closer and reaches for your chin, you flinch back — deliberately, strategically.
He goes soft all over. “Hey. I promise I won’t hurt you.”
You let your voice shake even more.
It isn’t hard. You’re already breathless.
“B-but this is my first time doing something like this,” you say, tiny, terrified. “Please… promise me you’ll be gentle?”
His eyes snap to yours — startled, confused, embarrassed?
He swallows, the tiniest bob of his throat, before he speaks.
“I promise.”
Oh, Satoru.
Your darling Satoru.
Your beautiful, clueless, perfect idiot.
He leans closer, fingertips tilting your chin, ever so tender and loving.
“Just open wide and relax for me,” he says.
You nearly dissolve into a puddle on the chair. This is your best idea yet. You’ve never seen him care so much about you before, and you want to push the boundaries even more.
He begins to angle the numbing syringe, but you tense up again — intentionally, the picture of sweet, irresistible innocence.
“Hey… look at me.” His voice drops, low and coaxing, “I’ll take good care of you. Trust me.”
You know what he means.
You know exactly what he means.
The clinical intention.
The rational intention.
But your brain, faithful and deranged, hears something else entirely.
The needle slips into your gum, and the anesthetic floods in, numbing all sensation until the only thing you can truly feel is him, towering above you, looking only at you.
Let her make him laugh.
That’s all she’ll ever be — a clown.
Let her think that’s enough.
He only speaks like this to you.
He said he’ll take care of you.
He promised he’d be gentle with you.
He’ll make you all better.
Only you.
You go home with blood-soaked gauze between your teeth and victory under your skin.
Your tooth hurts, your gums throb, your jaw is stiff; none of that matters.
The compassion he showed and the way he looked at you isn’t something you can un-feel.
You lock the door behind you and head straight to your bedroom. You don’t even bother turning on the lights — the glowing screen of your laptop is all you need.
You sit on the floor, cross-legged, pulse fast as you open your browser.
Dr. Satoru Gojo, you type.
The first results are boring.
Clinic listings, dental certifications, a generic staff bio.
No flavor.
No soul.
You already know all this surface-level nonsense. These pages aren’t for people like you — they’re for strangers.
You’re not a stranger.
His personal social media accounts are locked.
All of them.
Of course they are.
He's private.
Someone that beautiful had to be.
But privacy doesn’t erase information.
You have to find a way in.
So you discover the cracks:
coworkers with public profiles
relatives who overshare
a cousin who tags him in old photos
family friends who post albums from reunions
a retired teacher who still uploads grainy class pictures from ten years ago
You sit back for a moment, staring at his aunt’s page. Her feed is full of blurry lunches and knitted scarves.
Perfect.
You’d be a distant aunt.
You open a new tab. A new account. A new identity. You give yourself a delicate old-lady name, a grandmotherly profile picture, a blurry banner, captions filled with emojis and misspellings, posts about your silly grandkids.
You follow his entire family tree.
Then, finally, you follow him.
Your eye twitches with anticipation.
If he declines, you’ll simply try again from a different angle. If he blocks you, you’ll build a new family member.
But if he accepts… if he accepts…
The notification comes instantly.
Satoru Gojo accepted your follow request.
You’re in his world now.
Now that your fake-old-lady-profile has infiltrated his circle, doorways start opening: tagged photos from when he was a teen, comments under his university posts, friends teasing him, coworkers tagging him at events, relatives posting birthday pictures, people mentioning his preferences, old likes he forgot about.
You absorb it all.
You pause at a photo he liked.
A woman’s face — the actress, Waka Inoue.
So that’s what he likes.
That’s what draws his eye.
That’s the shape of his fantasy.
You turn your gaze toward your own reflection in the dark screen. Your clothing is wrong. Your hair is wrong. Your makeup is wrong.
Wrong things can be changed.
You create a single folder — a dossier.
He’ll recognize you the next time you meet him.
You’ll become his dream.
One perfect piece at a time.
It’s 9:42 on a Sunday morning.
You’re sitting by the window, waiting.
You chose this seat intentionally.
It had the perfect lighting, perfect angle, perfect radius of visibility from the doorway.
A book is open in front of you, pages untouched. You don’t need to read; you only need to look like someone he would want to read beside.
Your reflection in the glass pane matches the blueprint you carved from ten years of digital breadcrumbs: soft waves grazing your shoulders, a delicate blouse draping just right, a muted skirt stopping shyly above your ankles and small earrings that dangled gracefully.
You look like someone meant to be photographed holding his arm.
Two drinks sit on your table — the props in your carefully constructed tableau. An iced mocha (your decoy) and a sparkling water (your actual drink).
And after weeks of monitoring his off-day patterns, you know that on Sundays, around mid-morning, he gets coffee. Always the same shop, always the same route. He doesn’t think twice about routine, so you place yourself in it like a missing puzzle piece.
He walks in wearing casual clothes, glasses slipping down his nose. He looks so disarmingly human like this. Less “doctor” and more “man you’d want to wake up beside.” He’s too adorable, all too unaware of how attractive he is.
He sees you instantly.
You knew he would.
There’s nothing accidental about this.
“Oh—hey!” he called out. “This is unexpected.”
You lift your head with your sweetest, softest, perfectly engineered surprise.
“Oh! Dr. Gojo! I… didn’t think I’d see you here!”
He walks over, adjusting his glasses, a little flustered.
“Just Satoru is fine,” he says. “You can drop the formalities. We’re not in the clinic.”
A shy blush escapes you, just as you practiced in the mirror. “Okay… Satoru.”
The name sits beautifully on your tongue.
He hears it.
His shoulders slacken.
“So, uh… what brings you here?” he asks, gesturing around awkwardly. “It’s just that, I’m a regular, but I don’t think I’ve seen you here before.”
“I just came by for a little weekend treat. This here—” you lift your drink and laugh gently, “—is my guilty pleasure. An iced mocha, double shot espresso, two pumps of sugar, extra foam, less ice.”
His jaw drops. He’s bewildered. Absolutely stunned.
“No way. That’s my exact order.”
Hook.
It’s almost too easy. You nearly grin. Nearly. Instead, you pause, blink, tilt your head.
“Really? A dentist with a sweet tooth?”
“Guilty as charged.” He laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. “That’s so funny, we’re already matching coffee orders.”
Matching.
You could almost hear church bells ringing.
You lower your eyes, feigning hesitation. A pause that suggests you’re a litty shy and a little nervous.
“Actually… I’ve been meaning to thank you. For helping me last time. I’m really grateful, so, if you’re free… would you maybe like to join me?”
Line.
He shouldn’t say yes.
You know that, he knows that.
But his eyes do a once-over at you: your pure persona, your demure posture, all sculpted just for him. He sits across from you without another thought.
“Sure. I’ve got time.”
Sink.
Satoru settles into the chair across from you, fingers curling around his iced mocha.
He looks relaxed, surprisingly. As if sitting with you is the most natural thing in the world, even though this is the only time he’s spoken to you off a dental chair.
“So,” he begins, leaning forward a little, “how’s your tooth? Any pain since then?”
You shake your head, and tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, offering him a shy smile.
“It’s fine, thanks to you.”
A barely-there pink rises on his cheeks. You note the way he tries to hide it by taking a too-quick sip of his drink, only to wince when the cold hits his teeth.
Cute.
“So, uh… what are you reading?” he asks, hoping to recover, nodding toward the book you haven’t touched once.
You allow your eyes to widen like you didn’t expect him to ask.
“Oh, just some light reading.” You run your finger along the spine. “The Tale of Genji by Murasaki Shikibu — Heian period court intricacies, relationships… It’s dense. I won’t bore you.” (it doesn’t matter that you couldn’t name a single character if he asked.)
He perks up, intrigued. “No, no — that’s really cool. I’ll admit, I’m a simple man.” He laughs. “I read whatever I can squeeze between work. Only seem to have time for manga these days though.”
“That makes sense,” you say. “I imagine it gets overwhelming. Everyone in the city seems desperate to get in with you.”
He groans dramatically. “Don’t remind me. Yesterday someone even tried flirting with the receptionist to steal a canceled slot.”
What a weak attempt.
“Did it work?”
He snorts. “Not a chance. The waiting list is already a month long.”
You laugh politely at your own downplay, hiding a smile behind your cup. You lowered your gaze the way all his favorite actresses do in candids. “Well, you’re really good at what you do — I would know.”
He clears his throat, rubbing the back of his neck. “Nah, you’re a good patient.”
“How so?”
He shrugs. “You’re easy to talk to, I guess. Most people are either afraid of me or asking me out.”
Don’t let the rage get to you. Just keep smiling.
“Oh? Do they really ask you out?”
He admits with a grimace. “More often than I’d like.”
“I can see why,” you tease.
How daring of you.
He looks down at his drink, embarrassed. He looks stunned, shy even, but he shouldn’t be — not with a face like that.
“I mean,” you add softly, swirling your straw, “you’re kind, smart, good at what you do.” You offer a tiny, modest shrug. “It’s not hard to imagine people falling for that.”
“That’s—wow, uh—thanks.” He laughs nervously and darts his eyes away for a second. “You’re… not too bad yourself,” he adds. “Though I’m sure you’re used to compliments by now.”
Oh...
Pull yourself together.
Your fingers toy with the edge of your sleeve.
“You think so?”
He nods without hesitation. “Yeah. I’m glad I ran into you today.”
You can practically feel the universe tightening the noose around his destiny. Poor Satoru is a puppet who hasn’t realized he’s on strings. He’s open, comfortable—and dare you say—starting to like you.
Which means it’s time.
You need to leave. Now.
Before he gets too comfortable.
Before he stops thinking about you.
Because the secret isn’t making a man like you.
It’s making him want more.
You wait—
Time it, feel it.
Sense the exact moment he leans in, a question perched on his tongue—
Then you stand.
The scrape of your chair might as well be a gunshot the way he flinches.
He stammers, blinking up at you, “Ah—do you, uh, need to go already?”
Your heart flutters at the crack in his voice.
That small, wounded surprise.
You are that good.
“I should, I don’t want to take up your whole morning.”
He sights up straighter, like the chair suddenly isn’t comfortable without you in front of him. His next words come out in pieces, scrambled, “Oh—no, it’s not—I mean, you’re not, um, I honestly don’t have anything to do, so if you wanted to stay, I wouldn’t—”
He’s unraveling. You did that.
It takes everything in you not to let out a victory cry. Instead, you force out a small and meek, “It was really nice talking to you, Satoru.”
You said his name again.
You can see what it does to him.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “It was.”
You gather your things slowly, giving enough time for him to watch you and to process the loss of your presence. You shoulder your bag, one last polite nod before turning to leave.
One step.
Two.
Three—
“Wait.”
You could kiss yourself.
You turn, looking over your shoulder, eyes wide with perfect surprise. He’s standing now, hand in his pocket, awkward, nervous.
“Um…” His fingers fumble with a folded bit of reciept paper, edges crushed from how tightly he’s been holding it. He steps closer and clears his throat. “This is probably a bad idea.”
You give him your most virtuous look. “What is that?”
He glances aside in embarrassment, “I’m not supposed to do this with my patients.” He hands you the slip of his paper. “My personal number,” he says.
Oh.
my.
fucking.
god.
You wanted to scream, laugh, grab his shirt, kiss him, shake him, sink your nails into the flesh of his heart and carve your initials in it.
“I-I… don’t want to get you in trouble,” you whisper.
He shakes his head immediately. “No, it’s fine. I trust you. Text me if anything happens. Or even if anything doesn’t.”
You close your fingers around the paper, cradling it.
You have him wrapped around your finger.
“Okay,” you say. “I will.”
Everything worked.
Every detail and carefully chosen word.
Executed to perfection, a masterpiece in manipulation.
Everything is falling into place exactly as you planned.
You can’t text him immediately — that’s what clingy, overeager, sloppy little creatures do.
You aren’t an amateur.
So you set the paper on your nightstand, smooth it flat, and let it sit.
You wake up.
You make tea.
You replay his laugh while brushing your teeth.
It was nothing short of torture, but you had to be patient. For you are his favorite patient.
Three days is the magic number — an acceptable timeframe.
Three days is when he starts to think of you unprompted.
Three days is enough time for him to be haunted by thoughts of “why hasn’t she texted?”
So you start drafting.
Thank you again for today.
Too plain. Too empty.
Delete.
I really enjoyed seeing you today. Hope you got home safe!
You gag. Actually gag.
Delete.
Thanks again for helping me last time. You really made me feel better.
Ugh. Terrible. You sound like a Yelp review.
Delete.
Hope I wasn’t too much of a bother again.
What the fuck? You want pity? Absolutely not.
Delete.
You sit cross-legged on your bed, the light from your phone glowing against your palm like a holy artifact. His number waits in your contacts, untouched: Toru <3
Come on.
You didn’t reengineer your entire personality and reconstruct your wardrobe just to send some lukewarm, baseline-human nonsense.
You want to sound warm yet bold. Funny and a little flirty. You want him to blink at his screen, smile without meaning to, then reread it ten times over.
Is it normal to want to see your dentist again this soon?
Yes.
Yes, yes. This is the one.
Harmless on the surface. Playful underneath. Disarming in its simplicity. Suggestive if he wants it to be. Teasing if he reads it twice. A confession if he looks closely.
You cross-reference your spreadsheet and confirm his schedule today: No appointments. Lunch break window. Phone likely in pocket. Brain likely idle.
It's the ideal time for emotional interference — you position yourself like a sniper, and hit send. The message floats away, a little digital bullet aimed straight for his heart.
Then you wait, the way a lion sinks into tall grass.
And sure enough—
Your phone buzzes, not a minute later. Not even forty seconds. Thirty-one. He read it immediately.
A laughable little thrill curls through you as you stare at the notification lighting up your lock screen:
Only if your dentist has good bedside manners 😉
Your entire bloodstream vaporizes and reconstitutes itself in the span of a heartbeat. Your stomach swoops so violently you nearly drop the phone. You read it thirty-one times and then another four, just to make sure you weren’t hallucinating or misinterpreting the innuendo.
The wink.
The fucking wink.
He could have just said “lol” or “haha”. But he didn’t.
Satoru Gojo winked at you.
Digitally, yes. But it counts.
And not a friendly wink either. Not a “grandma made a pie” wink.
A bedside. Manners. Wink.
You’re dizzy with implications. There are so many. What does “good” mean to him? Gentle? Dominant? Hands-on? Does he think you’re picturing him hovering over a bed with gloves off and voice low? Because you are, now. You are so vividly doing that.
You could still dial this down — send a safe, soft-pedaled emoji or a polite “haha, you’re so silly”. All it takes is your next reply to tip the scales toward cordial or carnality.
But your brain isn’t interested in balance aymore. No, your brain has already slithered off the rails and is now joyriding straight into his lap. It’s licking the thought of his voice bending low, whispering for you to “open wide” with something other than dental instruments in hand. It’s already imagining his so-called bedside manners without latex gloves — no latex at all, for that matter.
You have all the power now. The invitaton is sitting wide open, legs parted, saying: come inside.
Is that so, doctor? Next time, I’ll be better prepared to assess your technique
And when he responds, he bites back, hard:
Bring a notepad. I’ll give you plenty to write about
You nearly let out a sound.
You clamp your thighs together without thinking just to contain the full-body voltage that line delivers straight to your pelvis.
You lie back against the pillows, grinning like a lunatic, fingers hovering over the keyboard, thumbs twitching with indecision.
He wants this. He started this.
But still — you want to measure the next stroke just right.
Fair warning: I have strict standards
You can picture him mentally debating, wondering how inappropriate this is while simultaneously wanting to dive in anyway.
Delivered.
Read.
Typing…
Fair warning: I never disappoint
God.
You sit up. Sit forward. He’s still typing.
Another text pings in right after:
You free Friday night?
You swear you stop breathing.
You let your head fall back, body sizzling, mouth dry.
Then you answer, calm and confident like you’ve practiced before.
It’s a date.
You lock your phone and stare at the ceiling with a slow, consuming smile. The room feels too small to hold the satisfaction inside of you.
He has no idea what he’s just set in motion, but you know exactly what comes next.
Satoru Gojo pulls up in his car and steps out like a wet dream.
White dress shirt, perfectly fitted, rolled just once at the sleeves like he doesn’t even know how pornographic his forearms are. A slim black tie, undone (you’d undo it further).
He leans against his car, wearing a devil-may-care elegance, holding the sexiest bouquet you’ve ever seen.
Red roses were far too generic. He held an assortment of deep wine-colored calla lilies, indigo hyacinth, black dahlia, a single spray of bleeding heart, tied in dark silk. You want to crawl into his lap and purr for it.
You’ve been getting ready since 11:00 for a 7:30 dinner.
It started with a three-step exfoliation.
Then a cooling mask.
Then a hydrating mask.
Then another to seal the glow.
You tweezed precisely — eyebrows, bikini line, the back of your neck. You moisturzied every inch of your body. Twice. Then oiled it.
You sprayed perfume in strategic places: back of the knees, between the breasts, behind each ear and under your hairline so it would bloom when you played with your hair.
You matched the color of your lipstick to the color of his favorite whiskey. You lined your underwear drawer in the off chance he opened it. You painted your nails a color he once liked on a girl’s post from six months ago.
You wore the dress that made your waist look strangled. You wore the shoes that gave you the posture of a prayer.
And by the time you were done curling your hair, steam emerged from the bathroom like smoke after arson.
But it’s all worth it.
He’s worth it.
You had rehearsed the steps you’d take down the stairs earlier so that you’d look like a starlet.
You know how you look. You’ve seen it in the mirror a hundred times already, practiced every expression — wide eyes, coy smile, neck bared just a little more than necessary.
You walk toward him slowly, pretending not to notice how his eyes track every inch of you, from the straps over your shoulders, to the dip of your waist, to the swell of your legs straining beautifully against heels he’ll definitely make you regret later.
“Hey,” he says, offering you the bouquet.
The words taste too good in his mouth. And the way his fingers curve around the stems? You almost moan on instinct.
You take them with trembling control. “They’re stunning.”
“So are you,” he says, eyes dragging down your body and back up. “Do I get to keep looking at you all night?”
It should be illegal the way he says it. So lethal you want to die.
“You better,” you say, curling your grasp tighter around the bouquet. “I got all dolled up just for you.”
You don’t tell him about the playlist you listened to while shaving. Or the way you rewaxed your legs even though they were fine.
You don’t tell him you read six articles on body language to keep your posture effortlessly receptive and just barely challenging.
You don’t tell him you spent twenty minutes making sure your purse contents were both practical and inviting.
You don’t tell him about the notes you made on his favorite wines, his casual turns of phrase, the photo from his stories where you could just barely see the title of the book on his nightstand.
He smiles and opens the door for you. “Shall we?”
His fingers brush your lower back as he guides you into your seat. You’re already soaking, and the night’s only just begun.
The interior of the car smells like him, and the radio hums with ambient jazz, the kind of music people undress to in good movies.
He one hand grips the steering wheel, forearm flexing with each turn. You can’t stop picturing it above your head, fingers gripping the headboard, pinning you down as he sinks inside. You imagine leaving crescent-moon marks in that same arm, clutching him through every thrust.
He glances over. “How was your week?”
“Better now.”
He laughs under his breath, the sound curling around your neck. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
The drive feels like the prelude just before climax — surreal, floaty, skin too sensitive, body tuned too high.
Every passing streetlight reflects against his cheekbones, his lashes, carving his features in gold and shadow. And when his thumb grazes the gearshift, all you can think about is whether he fucks like he talks.
When he parks, you barely register it.
The restaurant is tucked between two blank storefronts: wooden façade, softly glowing paper lanterns flanking the entrance, barely visible signage in elegant brushstroke kanji.
He kills the engine and turns to you.
“Ready for the best meal of your life?”
You let your smile drag out slowly, lip catching on your teeth. “Don’t keep me waiting.”
The maître d’ greets him by name and leads the way to the sushi bar. You glide onto the dark leather stool by his side, close and together, no barriers. You sit, crossed legged, spine perfectly postured, dressing kissing your thighs with every shift.
The chef bows low and welcomes you in soft Japanese. He works in silence before you, each slice of fish a performance. The entire meal is a private show, course by course, a slow unveiling.
“This one’s from Niigita,” Satoru says, pouring sake into your cup. “It’s supposed to open up as it breathes.”
“We have that in common.”
He smiles, and that little twist in his lips has your toes curling in your heels.
The first dish arrives. The tuna gleams beet red, accompanied by fresh wasabi and smoked soy.
You watch him out of the corner of your eye as you lift the first piece to your lips, fatty tuna so soft it collapses like butter. You moan (not by accident).
“Holy shit,” you say, hand over your mouth. “I think I just saw god.”
Satoru raises an eyebrow, pleased. “And here I was hoping you’d say that after dinner.”
You chew slowly. Swallow. “You know what they say — save the best for last.”
He watches your lips, then lifts his cup. “Amen to that.”
And so it goes. Bite after bite, poured drinks and conversation. You match him beat for beat — his tastes, humor, quirks.
When he references his favorite manga, you recall the exact line that comes after that. When he talks about enjoying late-night walks, you describe the exact route that just happens to mirror the one in his tagged photos.
He rests one elbow on the bar. “If I asked you what you really thought about me after our first appointment…”
“Which version do you want to hear? The censored or unfiltered version?”
He grins. “Both.”
“Mmm. I think I’d rather show you than tell you.” You pause, lowering your lashes. “But I will say this — I hated the girl who came in after me.”
It was a bold move, but you want him to know.
And every time you speak, he looks at you longer.
Another dish arrives. Amberjack, kissed with yuzu zest. He lets you steal his when you eye it too long.
Between courses, you joke about food crimes, admit your secret obsession with absurdly niche documentaries and “coincidentally” drop the title he tweeted about last year as if you didn’t spend nights combing through his feed.
Then his hand brushes your knee, barely a graze, but to you, it’s a spark in a dry field. Your entire body stills under the table, tightly coiled. You want him all over.
“You’re kind of perfect, you know that?”
You feel heat.
The final thread of restraint snaps.
You place your chopsticks down carefully.
You turn toward him, half-shifted on your stool, your leg brushing his.
“I don’t want dessert,” you say.
He raises a brow, smirks. “No?”
“No.”
He blinks once, registering, then leans in. “My place?”
It was so tempting — the feel the silk of his bed, his scent on the sheets and the way his furniture looks when he’s distracted and naked.
But not there, not yet.
You want him in the room where it started, where you first imagined what his hands would feel like if it weren’t covered with latex. You want to feel it raw.
You shake your head. “The clinic.”
Then a laugh, sharp and hot. “Seriously?”
Your eyes are unblinking, unapologetic.
And that’s it. No hesitation. He’s already reaching for his wallet, throwing down enough cash to cover every dish twice over. The chef bows and the staff whispers in polite reverence.
He doesn’t question it again, just takes your hand, leads you to the car, and starts the engine. Your mind is already in the chair, already naked under fluorescent lights.
You glance at him as he pulls out of the lot, hand on the wheel, other hand casually resting between you like it isn’t dying to move. You want to grab it. Put it where it belongs. On you. In you.
His shirt is tight enough across the shoulders that you imagine splitting it open. You want to ruin it, ruin him. You want to press your tongue to his wrist and claim his pulse.
You want his tie around your neck. His name in your mouth. The taste of his skin. You want to be so deep in his thoughts that even his dreams wake up blushing. You want to unzip his spine and live inside him.
You imagine what he’ll look like when he loses control. What his voice will sound like when it breaks. You’ll memorize it, bottle it up, stitch it into your brain, ingrain it in you forever.
He turns the corner, the sign for the clinic glows blue and white in the distance.
Tonight, you go back to where it all began.
Satoru unlocks the front door without a word.
You follow him in after him, traced in his shadow — a devout thing.
He flicks on the examination light and the dental lamp explodes in surgical clarity. It blooms overhead in a cold, perfect cone. A goddamn interrogation spotlight on you, the suspect.
You expect him to smile like before, warm, casual, amused. But he doesn’t.
He shuts the door with his foot. A sharp thunk.
The lock clicks behind you like a cell door.
His eyes roam the room, then you.
His jaw is set. The muscle in it ticks once.
He’s… different.
You noticed it in the car too — the way his fingers drummed the steering wheel like he was holding back. Now, you’re not sure he is.
He tosses his tie onto the counter, sending metal instruments clattering as the silk brushes them. The tray rattles, a staccato little foreshadowing.
“You want the chair,” he says.
Not a question. Not an offer.
You nod.
He gestures. “Go on.”
The vinyl is cool against the back of your thighs as you sink into the seat. Your dress hikes up slightly — a detail he absolutely notices. He reaches for the control panel, but doesn’t immediately press anything. His hand hovers, then he turns to you.
“You’re not who you say you are, are you?”
Your mouth goes dry.
Your heart lurches.
How…
He presses a button.
Beep.
The chair reclines a few inches.
“You called the receptionist asking for my schedule, didn’t you?”
… does he know?
Beep.
Lower.
“You pretended to be someone else everytime.”
You should speak. You should deny it.
Laugh. Cry. Run.
Beep.
Back further, your hair spilling over the headrest, your body opening under the cone of clinical light. The angle is suggestive without even trying. Vulnerable in a way that makes heat curl deep inside you.
He pulls on a pair of gloves—one, then the other—snap, snap in punctuation marks.
“When you showed up at the coffee shop on my day off, I knew I didn’t just run into you.” He tugs the gloves down snug. “You don’t even drink coffee.”
He looks directly at you.
“You even knocked your own tooth out.”
The accusations echo all around you.
He knows — all of it.
The obsessive anlaysis of his calendar. The half-dozen “wrong number” calls. The morning stakeouts and the lies you spun, stacking one on top of the other until the only truth left was you wanted him.
In any way, at any cost.
Your hand finds the metal tray beside you by accident. Instruments tremble with a jarring, metallic trrrring. Satoru watches you react, watches every tremor.
He brushes along your jaw, trailing it. “Do you have any idea how fucked up that is?”
You nod.
There’s nothing left to say.
“You should be arrested for the shit you pulled.”
His gaze drops to your hands, trembling on the edge of the armrests. Without breaking eye contact, he reaches to the tray beside you and plucks up a pair of sterile elastic tourniquets, the kind used to stabilize an arm for blood draws.
“I used to imagine you on your knees,” he says, “in my waiting room after hours, tongue out.”
He loops the first thick band around your right wrist and the armrest, cinching it tight with a practiced flick. You can’t breathe. You don’t try.
“Wondered if you thought about me, if you touched yourself after appointments.”
Your left wrist is next — another pull, another sharp snag, binding you helpless. The bands stretch enough to give the illusion of freedom, but no more; every movement meets resistance.
“Sorry darling, can’t have you flailing.”
Your chest heaves, your pulse thunders. He watches the panic spread beautifully across your features.
He adjusts the headrest—click—cradling your skull in his palms. His thumbs rest behind your ears. His face is close now, framed by the halo of the dental lamp, eyes bright and impossibly blue.
His glove grazes your lower lip; not a kiss but not even remotely professional. It was enough to set your entire body on fire, every nerve alight under the cold, white brilliance of the exam lamp.
“Tell me,” he says, “is this how you pictured it?”
“Not even close,” you manage.
He leans in, and your back arches under the light. You’re open. Caught. Laid bare on sterile vinyl beneath the weight of guilt. His mouth is so close now you feel his breath.
“You’re insane,” he murmurs, brushing his gloved thumb over your trembling bottom lip. “But so am I.”
You don’t dare to close your eyes.
You want to see everything.
Because he saw everything.
Because he wanted it too.
“Open wide,” he commands.
You do.
But not your mouth.
Because he’s not your doctor tonight.
Your legs part and his gloves squeak as he drags a hand over your inner thigh. “You didn’t think I would find out? That you wouldn’t be caught?”
He doesn’t give you room to respond, reaching behind you—another click—the chair groans and tilts further back, until your legs slide open wider under gravity, posture collapsed and defenseless beneath him.
“Look at you,” he breathes, taking in the sight. “My lovely stalker in the flesh.”
The metal tray at your side clinks again as he pulls it closer. He reaches for the suction wand.
“Are you sure you can handle me?”
You’d crack your jaw for him.
You’d dislocate your ribs to make more room for him.
He’s your addiction and this chair is your confession booth.
You whimper—yes, yes, yes—but he’s already dragging the tube down your throat, past your lips. He doesn’t push far, just enough to press down your tongue. Satoru watches you as you gag around the suction, your throat fluttering under the pressure, eyes glossy.
“So eager,” he teases, and the sound of it, the sound of him, is too much. He slides it back out, obscenely slow, and it glistens with spit. “Messy little thing.”
He grabs the tray again, rips gauze from the sterile stack, and stuffs one square into your mouth, watching your lips stretch around it. He pushes two more in, then another wad, just to see how far you’ll let him go.
“Let’s keep the noise down, yeah?”
Your muffled whimper vibrates through the gauze, helpless and needy.
He traces his gloved knuckle, trailing higher and higher up your thigh with maddening slowness, hovering near where you need him most.
His other hand wraps around your jaw, tilting your head up until your eyes lock with his, blue and burning.
“Don’t you dare look away.”
You couldn’t if you tried.
The dental lamp floods straight into your pupils, washing everything else to shadow. You blink against the brightness, tears gathering from the intensity, from the humiliation of being exposed in the most unholy posture. And he loves it.
He spreads you open with two fingers, exposing your wet, swollen folds to the light. The lamp overhead catches every glisten, every twitch. You try to lift yourself up into his hand, but the elastics bite into your wrists, forcing you to take every torturous second at his pace.
The first touch is barely a touch — the rubber pad of his index finger nudging directly over your clit. A soft push, a slow circle.
The gauze stuffed into your mouth squelches with spit as you sob around it, teeth sinking into the cotton until your jaw aches. He drags a gloved thumb over the corner of your lip, smearing the saliva that leaks out.
“Mmm, such pretty sounds,” he hums, slipping deeper. “You’re dripping all over my chair. I could ruin you. Right here, right now.”
He waits there, buried to the knuckle, doing absolutely nothing. Your body clenches helplessly around the intrusion, trying to pull him deeper. You whimper into the gag, wrists twisting uselessly against the rubber restraints.
He laughs and lowers his face again until his lips brush your ear.
“You want more?”
A pause.
“Beg.”
You choke on your own breath, air, tears, spit, need, trying to form any sound that resembles a plea. His finger crooks suddenly, finding the spot instantly. Your ragged, gagged cry spills out of you in a confession.
“There’s your little problem area,” he murmurs, delighted.
He strokes it again. Harder, controlled, devastating. Your vision whites out at the edges and your hips thurst upward in broken, jerky movements, driven entirely by instinct.
The his thumb joins in.
The rubber presses directly on your clit, pushing the wet folds apart around his hand. You damn near convulse — your legs spread wide for him and he thursts in deeper, spreading his fingers apart.
He fucks his fingers in harder, faster, pushing you right to the edge, and then — he withdraws; abruptly, completely, leaving you gasping and choking against the gag, body trembling, thighs slick and open in the cold air.
He steps back and pulls off his gloves with two sharp snaps, tossing them to the tray.
“You look pathetic,” he says.
You wanted to show him just how much.
Your wrists strain against the armrests; you want to touch him, claw him, hold him, anything. Your teeth clamp down around the gag, a muffled snarl erupts low in your throat. Your legs kick out, shaky and half-controlled, but enough to make him grab the armrest and pin you down. His expression flashes from amusement to delight.
“Well, well, look who’s come out to play,” he sings, climbing onto the chair, caging you beneath him.
You buck beneath him again in defiance, and the vinyl screeches under the violent movement. He grabs your throat, holding it with steady pressure, asserting that he can collapse your air at any second.
“You want to challenge me?” He rests his forehead against yours, so close to you that your tears spot his cheek. He pins your wrist with one hand while the other slams your hips down against the chair. “Then fucking challenge me.”
You can’t talk.
So instead — you spit the gaze at his face.
It hits his cheek, wet and dripping.
“Well now,” he murmurs, brushing your spit down the curve of his own jaw with two fingers. “If you’re going to act like a little monster… I suppose I’ll have to handle you like one.”
He fists his hand in your hair and drags your head back, baring your throat, forcing your mouth open. The restraints creak as your body curls up instinctively toward him, needy and feral.
He kneels on the chair, looming above your pinned body, and drags his cock out — flushed in deep red, heavy and thick enough that your lips part instinctively in disbelief.
“Oh,” he laughs, breath hitching. “You want a taste?”
He taps the head against your lower lip, smearing pre-cum all over, and presses forward to stretch your mouth around a shape substantially bigger than you were ready for.
You try to take him. You really, really try.
But your jaw strains. Your throat tightens. Your lips can’t stretch enough to get past the head before your throat spasms in a futile attempt to open wider.
“What’s wrong?” he taunts, grip tightening in your hair until your scalp burns. “You were so bold a moment ago.”
He nudges forward another inch, forcing your mouth wider, guiding it to the very edge of what it can handle until drool spills down your chin.
Tears spill from the effort, your neck is strained against the headrest. He watches you struggle, eyes darkening as he watches your jaw quiver around the stretch. Your tongue presses helplessly against the underside of his cock, trying to coax him deeper.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he groans, “if you can’t even take me in your mouth—”
His free hand curls around the base of his length, pressing harder against your lips, pushing a broken whimper from your chest.
“—how the hell,” he pants, “are you going to take me in that tight little cunt?”
You suck harder, jaw screaming, threatening to tear itself apart. You want to swallow him whole, bury him deep, prove that you’re built to take him everywhere.
Satoru smirks down at you, lust-drunk and wicked. “Want to try again?”
You nod frantically, mouth open in a trembling “O”. You think, clear and loud enough for your own mind to hear it:
Yes. Yes, please.
Break me on your cock.
I want everything you’re about to do.
His eyes gleam like he hears it.
Then he yanks your hair back and shoves himself against your tongue again, harder this time, enough to make your throat seize. You try again, desperate, shaking, gagging on air as you fight to fit around him. He watches you choke on the attempt and loses his goddamn mind.
“Fuck — you’re killing me.”
He leans back, cups your cheeks with both hands, and spits straight into your mouth. A vulgar, wet rope of saliva landing on your tongue and coating your throat.
“There,” he growls, grabbing his cock and smearing his spit across your lips, down your tongue. “Open wider.”
Your throat tries to open. But when he pushes in that inch too far, your gag reflex punches back and you choke hard enough to jolt your entire body, a broken, wet sound that shakes your chest.
“Agh—enough. Enough.”
His voice is ragged, crackling with need. He drags himself out of your mouth and grabs your waist, lifting your restrained body off the backrest with a snap of strength that steals your breath.
He shifts position so fast the chair squeals under him. One moment his cock is pressing at your tongue, the next it’s slapping wetly against your dress, dragged down the centerline of your body.
He drags the thick length between your breasts, down the soft slope of your stomach, leaving a slick trail of spit on the fabric.
“It’s going in somehow,” he hisses, “if not your mouth, then—”
But he doesn’t finish.
Your body reacts before he does.
You want to take over, to redeem yourself.
Your hips snap foward, dragging yourself along his cock as he slides it down. Your nails claw for leverage even with your wrists bound.
You tilt yourself, angling your soaked cunt toward him with intent so clear, your entire body trembles as the head nudges your swollen entrance. You strain for contact, cunt pulsing around nothing as you try to drag him into you without permission.
The sight of you trying to mount him while bound, gagged, ruined with tears and spit and slick — he falters, and he jerks forward like he can’t help it. He drops his weight onto you, cock pressed flush to your dripping entrance.
Your chest heaves against him, wrists twisting violently until the elastic bites deep into raw, flaming flesh. It hurts. It thrills. The pain is proof.
“You want it that bad?”
You nod, frantic and wild.
His hand flies to the tray, sending metal rattling. He picks up a scalpel and holds the blade between two fingers, angled toward the rubber binding you.
It slides under the tight band, then—snap—your raw wrist springs free, shaking violently with relief. Thin red marks carve around the skin, swollen and tender, baring evidence of how hard you fought for him.
Good.
Let them stay. Let them bruise and scar.
You earned them.
He drops the scalpel with a clatter, pressing his cock hard against your slit again, smearing slickness over both of you.
Your freed hands fly upward to grab him, nails sinking into his shoulder, dragging him down with a desperation so sharp it borders on violent. Your fingers make their way to thread into his hair and yank him down to your lips.
“Take it properly this time,” he rasps, voice shredded.
“Doctor’s orders,” you oblige, wrapping your legs around his waist to push him in, the head of his cock catching and sinking a fraction of an inch inside your dripping heat.
He slams forward and your body shatters open around him — a shock of pain, a flood of head, a gasp that turns into a moan that turns animalistic. You dig further into his back, dragging warpaths of red down his skin as he sinks further into you.
Finally.
This is what you fought for.
What you bled your wrists for.
Satoru groans, both of you shivering under the sheer violence. You meet his thrust with a force that makes the chair recline a full inch backward.
His eyes widen. “You’re—”
Another thrust.
“—trying to take control.”
You bare your teeth in a delicious grin.
Then you flip him.
It’s messy, graceless—a snarl, a shove, a twist of your hips and wrists and weight—and suddenly he’s on his back in the chair, stunned, breath gone, cock still buried inside you as you straddle him, thighs clamped around his hips.
You slam yourself down. Hard.
He chokes on his own moan.
“Oh—fuck—” His fingers stab into your waist, leaving craters.
You grind down, lifting and dropping your hips in brutal, punishing strokes, using his body like you’re built for it, like he was made to beneath you, inside you, ruined by you.
Your hands push his shoulders down, pinning him with a strength you didn’t know you had. You were taking your revenge.
The chair rattles violently. The light overhead swings in its arm. You collapse your weight onto him, breasts sliding against his chest as you slam down again, again, again, chasing the pleasure.
Satoru’s face contorts, eyes rolling back and mouth falling oepn, hands clutching you so hard you know you’ll bruise. “You’re going to—fuck—you’re going to break us both—”
You whisper against his ear, voice ruined: “Shut up.”
Then you bite him.
His body jerks so violently his cock slams deeper, hitting a place that makes your vision split into stars. He grabs your hair, yanking your head back, exposing your throat.
“Insane,” he moans. “You’re fucking insane—”
His hand between your shoulder blades pulls you tighter. Your nails rake his chest. Your hips pound down and his breath comes out in shuddering, broken gasps.
You slam down.
He cries out.
You do it again.
He arches up into you, bucking like he’s trying to escape and bury himself deeper at the same time. You grab his throat and angle him to look at you as you take everything he has.
Your mind is a cathedral of obsession. He’s yours now. You’ll ride him into the grave. You’ll drag both of you into ruin. You slam down so hard the tiles begin cracking under the chair.
“That’s it,” he chokes. “That’s—god—fuck—”
Then he snaps.
He sits up in a single violent moment, arms crushing you to him, mouth on your shoulder, your throat, biting, sucking, marking you with his brand.
You moan, throat raw, as he thrusts up into you from below. Your cries start to shake. Your legs go numb. Your mind falls apart. You claw at his hair, panting into his ear, “Don’t stop.”
He shakes, gripping you like a man drowning. He slams up into you at the same moment you slam down onto him, and the collision rips into a full-body convulsion that arches your spine off his chest and sends your nails carving across his back.
Your throat goes silent for a moment, too much pleasure to even make a sound, before the cry finally tears free, a raw, keening note of release. Your cunt clamps around him so hard he nearly folds with you.
He drags you down on his cock, burying himself so deep the air punches out of him. He stutters, then grind in ragged and broken thrusts as he groans a low, wrecked sound into your throat, biting into it as he pours into you. You feel blood rising under his teeth — and you almost come again from that alone.
Your legs give out. Your arms tremble intensely. Your body collapses against him, twitching, spasming, clenching with aftershocks so intense it would break the Richter scale.
“Fuck… fuck… stay right there… don’t move… don’t—”
You don’t listen — you shift instead. And you feel it: the soft, hypersensitive throb of him still inside you, your slick leaking down over him. You feel him groan into your neck.
“No—no, sweetheart, don’t—”
Again.
You want it again.
You want to make sure he can’t walk anymore.
To make him delirious.
So you roll your hips again and you kiss him. His lips part on instinct, and you swallow his breath, tongue pushing into his mouth, messy and wet, teeth clashing.
You grind down again and his moan breaks in half.
“Fuck—don’t—god, I’m still—”
“I don’t care.”
You kiss him slow, sealing him. His hand slides up your back with a gentleness so at odds with the brutality of what came before that it steals your soul. His mouth lingers under yours, open, wanting more, wanting you.
Every risk you took to get you here worked.
Your obsession made him yours.
His chest rises against yours in one long, shuddering breath. And when you pull back, his voice cracks open against your lips in a low, hoarse murmur:
YAKUZA!TOJI X MILF!READER —aka toji on some joe goldberg bullshit
🎞️ 𝐒𝟏 𝐄𝟑:
⟢ rating: mdni 18+ stalking, yuji is yakuza!sukuna x reader child, toji is still delulu af, breast milk kink, size-kink, milf kink, breeding kink, voyeurism, dilf!toji, minor smut, mentions of cheating, dissociative fantasies, sukuna is an asshole, it gets steamer in this chapter, cat and mouse dynamics, killing fantasies, obsessive tendencies, heavy manipulation, brooding, yandere fluff, cute kid megumi and yuji, family dynamics.
⟢ episode run time: 𝟏𝟓.𝟕𝐤
⟢ episode list: m.list
⟢ subscriber access: please comment on m.list to be tagged, rather than individual episodes as its easier for me to track.
⟢ director's note: e3 is finally here!! sorry it's literally been a whole ass year lol. i hope it's worth the wait as it's more words than p1+p2 combined lol. lots of things happening in this chapter and it gets pretty steamy ;)
"FUCK YOU AND FUCK THIS RING!"
The wide glass pane rattles in its frame as you slam the balcony door open.
Across the gap, Toji retreats into the shadows. Dropping his cigarette low by his hip to remain unnoticed.
Although, he probably didn’t need to move at all—seeing as how the fury fueled determination etched across your beautiful features has you looking like a woman on a mission.
With a small cry, you hurl a tiny gold object Toji can only assume is an engagement ring over the edge—the jeweled metal glinting in the moonlight a brief second before vanishing into the darkness.
Atta girl, mamas.
Toji knew you wouldn’t go through with it.
Marrying Sukuna—you couldn’t.
Proof that the seeds of doubt Toji planted in your heart were sprouting rather nicely.
And if Toji got his way, he’d soon plant his seeds in other places inside of you too.
Nevertheless, the end result is all the same to Toji.
Even a rash decision like you eloping with Sukuna couldn’t stop Toji now—though it would complicate things should he make good on his promise to put a bullet in Sukuna if necessary.
But until that time comes, Toji will continue playing his cards slow and steady.
Good things come to those who wait right?
The delicate balance of events, taking his time over the last 3 months, had proven necessary.
Your fate wasn’t just in his hands alone after all. It also—
“THE FUCK DID YOU JUST DO WOMAN!?”
Severing Toji’s thoughts, Sukuna's voice thundered from inside of the condo, his ire penetrating every word like a dagger.
Retreating back inside, the balcony door is left wide open in your wake as your voices echo into the night.
Toji is sure the whole fuckin’ neighborhood hears your fight at this point.
“RECIPROCIATING ENERGY, RYO! YOU WANNA DOG ME THE FUCK OUT!? THEN YOU SHOULDN’T MIND PLAYING FETCH!”
Toji chuckles, you may not be an assassin, but your slick ass mouth certainly could fire enough shots to be deemed a deadly weapon—something he has first hand knowledge of thanks to your last encounter.
In the past, Toji often wondered how Yuji—despite having a front-row seat to your and Sukuna’s constant bickering—remained such a cheerful, boisterous kid.
“GODDAMN IT! Crazy ass woman, that’s ¥3,500,000 you just fucked away!”
However, it wasn’t until recently that Toji discovered the noise-canceling headphones you bought for Yuji—the kind designed for babies at loud events—shielding him from his parents' arguments, keeping him blissfully unaware.
“OH LIKE YOU FUCKED AWAY OUR FUTURE BY GETTING ANOTHER WOMAN PREGNANT…THEN HAD THE FUCKING AUDACITY TO SUGGEST BOTH OF US LIVE WITH YOU IN ITALY LIKE WE’RE GODDAMN SISTERWIVES?!”
Toji muses. With him, those headphones will become unnecessary.
He’d never give you the need to have an argument like this with him.
Precisely because he’d never even look at another woman again if he had you.
Toji wants nothing outside of you as his wife.
He also knows it’s what you want too, deep down—even if you haven’t admitted it to yourself yet.
You were so close to doing so last time though, admitting it to both yourself and to Toji—tsk, but you ran.
Exactly two weeks had passed since then though, and in that time he’s barely seen you.
You’ve been dodging him.
Groceries delivered to your door and your mail brought up by the concierge.
The only interactions between you two as of late are those fake-polite, rushed smiles—the kind you give someone you’d rather not talk to when you just so happen to cross paths.
Not that any of his run-ins with you ever just so happen.
Of course, you have no clue the building’s security cameras are synced to his phone.
But the most unforgivable part?
You miss playdates.
Fuck—after all those weeks of letting Megumi and Yuji play together like the brothers they’d soon become too.
Toji’s patience has nearly reached its limits, but he knows you just need time to catch up to what he can plainly see coming.
To what is inevitable.
You damn near fell for him right then and there that night.
Toji takes you not informing Sukuna of what happened last time Toji saw you as a good sign.
Sukuna would have tried to kill Toji himself had you told.
Although it's a given that Sukuna will catch on eventually, Toji expects it will be far too late by then to do anything about what’s already been set in motion.
Chain-smoking, Toji flicks away a cigarette butt only to light another as his thoughts effortlessly drift back to that decisive encounter two weeks ago.
⟡
Toji returned home late that night to The Nursery. One hand kneaded the knots in the back of his neck while the other braced against the wall, steadying himself as he kicked off his oxfords in the entryway—half-laced and haphazard, just like his thoughts.
Exhaling hard, he cursed. His age was showing.
A younger version of him wouldn’t have even yawned at that hour—even after being up for nearly two days straight.
Yet, with the organization in disarray, Toji felt the weariness of pointless conflict. Especially since he’d been given the “honor” of playing a glorified elderly caretaker for the big boss in the form of a bodyguard.
Who would’ve thought the assassination of an executive—overseas, in Italy no less—could stir so much shit back in Japan?
But three months in and zero results to show, outside involvement had been officially ruled out.
The inner organization subsequently appeared weakened.
Power struggles had begun to boil, and the internal war Toji had long dreaded was no longer hypothetical.
It was imminent.
While others took this opportunity to curry favor or stage power plays, Toji only sees it for what it is—a pain in the ass.
All it amounted to was wasted hours that could’ve been spent making you his.
Toji missed your presence, your laugh.
You no longer flinched when he got too close, when his shoulder would brush against yours or when his hand would press against the small of your back in passing.
You saw him as dependable, even dare he say—gentle.
The kind of man who could be a good father and husband.
Toji snorted.
Well, better than Sukuna at any damn rate and that’s all that really mattered.
Yet those interactions were brief when you’d pick up or drop off Yuji from a playdate.
You never lingered too long though and Toji couldn’t risk keeping you and having Sukuna catch on and retaliate again—fucking you just to prove a point.
Even though Toji knew you were on birth control from tracking the pharmacy deliveries—the thought of you accidentally having Sukuna’s kid again before his own makes his blood boil.
Nevertheless, Toji made plans to see you that night.
Well—his own plans. You didn’t know about them yet.
Toji knew for a fact that Sukuna had been suddenly occupied that night—his contact had given him those assurances, and he expected you to be alone with the kids.
What Toji didn’t anticipate though was to see you in his condo when he walked through the hallway and into the living room.
Like some kinda divine intervention delivered you to him personally.
Sarcastically blowing a kiss to the sky, Toji would give the credit to whatever God that wanted it.
A sight for sore eyes, you instantly energized Toji, grounding something restless in him. He took his time loosening his tie as he made his way towards you, savoring the view: you fast asleep on the sofa with Megumi and Yuji nestled against you.
His chest warmed at the sight of Megumi’s tiny fist curled tightly around the fabric of your dress—even in sleep, he couldn’t bear to let you go. Toji exhaled slow, chest tight with something damn near primal—because the kid wasn’t the only one who felt that way.
The soft glow of the TV flickered, playing My Neighbor Totoro on a low volume and casting a comforting light around the dimly lit room.
How sweet—did you all stay up as long as you could waiting for ‘daddy’ to come home?
His vision so close to being reality, he could taste it.
Close enough to really get a good look at you, Toji’s eyes roamed over your relaxed features, taking in all the little details. Your slightly disheveled hair and smudged makeup only added to your allure somehow.
Although, too done up for just a playdate. It was clear to Toji you were meant to be somewhere else that night before Sukuna had been preoccupied.
The elegant black plunge-neck gown you wore elevated your soft curves in all the right ways. Especially in your sleep as the silky straps slipped off your shoulders, seductively baring most of your breasts and the diamond-drop necklace nestled between them.
Well, they would be barred—if not for the two boys snuggled against your chest covering them up, the tiny milk rings on their mouths evidence of their satisfaction.
Heh, so even Megumi had gotten a sip directly from your sweet tits before him?
Lucky little bastard.
Not that Toji hadn’t tried your milk before, well—indirectly.
After Megumi’s mother passed, he’d refused formula, surviving off of hospital donations. But when the nanny mentioned a hospital shortage, you offered your extra supply without a second thought. You already were already dumping a wasteful amount thanks to Yuji’s hearty appetite, your overactive mommy milkers had plenty to spare.
Toji’s freezer was overflowing with bags of your sweet overstock.
Too damn kind for your own good, ma.
Admittedly, the more Toji thought of your selfless donation, the harder the brick-like urge hit him to taste the creamy delicacy.
And like the fiend he is, Toji was hooked from the first drip of bottle-warmed breast milk onto his tongue. Toji had to suppress a deep groan from gurgling up his throat at the taste.
A good thing Megumi’s nanny walked in when she did or he’d have been tempted to down the whole damn bottle.
After that Toji made a habit out of “testing” Megumi’s bottles, always indulging in a few stolen sips. He reasoned it’s better to put on his tongue than waste a single precious drop on his forearm.
But soon, Toji would fix that.
He’d gorge on his fill—directly from the source.
Tearing his gaze away from your chest, Toji’s eyes trailed lower, lingering on your fleshy hips exposed by the high-cut slits of your dress. The airy fabric bunched between your legs, inguinal crease exposed and tempting him as it revealed damn near everything but your pussy lips.
Toji couldn’t confirm back at the grocery store, but you definitely did not have panties on that night.
Still… The idea of you dressing up like a doll in something expensive—looking as fuckin’ drop dead gorgeous as you did—just to sit across from that smug bastard Sukuna, left Toji’s jaw clenching.
Especially when you got yourself all dolled up and went through all that effort for a man who didn’t even bother to show.
Toji didn’t need to hear the soft sniffs woven between your shallow snores to know you’d been crying. The faint darkness under your eyes, the puffiness in your cheeks were fresh. He’d know as he’d memorized every detail of how you looked over these past few months.
But fuck Sukuna, because now you were on his sofa, waiting for him.
Feeling a wave of conflicting emotions overtake him, Toji was unsure if he wanted to palm the heavy chub forming in his slacks at your disheveled state or snap a photo of you to commemorate the moment of just how perfect you looked holding the kids, like you were Megumi’s mother too.
Heh, a video would probably be best… he could jerk off later…two birds, one stone…
Eh, on second thought, maybe he could even slightly nudge Megumi's head out of the way and get a full glimpse of those fat puffy areolas of yours.
“She’s so pretty, isn’t she?”
A heavy, yet feminine voice oozed with amusement from the shadows. With her comes a proverbial storm cloud raining over the erotic yet wholesome image of you Toji had formed in his mind.
Nevertheless, Toji’s no top assassin for nothing—his gun spun out and leveled, silencer in place, before the tall, raven-haired woman’s words even finished echoing down the hall.
Toji gritted—The Nursery whore you befriended.
Fuck, she’d been in here the entire time and he hadn’t noticed.
If she were anyone else, Toji would have thought he’d been getting rusty…
Tsk—why did you have to go and make fucking friends with a bitch like her?
“I hate to admit it, but I see the appeal—I mean, if you aren’t being too picky, I suppose.”
Your friend simpered.
Clad in a lacquer-tight red mini-dress, she clicked across the hardwood, matte-black nails raised in mock surrender—her heels and haughty strut a loud declaration of audacity, disrespect, and complete disregard for Toji’s home.
“Easy tiger…wouldn’t want to wake their precious sleep, no?”
Toji didn’t lower the gun. He didn’t even speak.
Not intimidated in the least, your friend sauntered closer, hips swaying deliberately.
Defiantly, she leaned, centering the barrel perfectly between her tits. There’s a sick glint in her eyes like she gets off on the sensation of death pressed against her sternum.
“Go ahead, Fushiguro. I dare you.”
With no fear she grabbed Toji’s wrist, slowly dragging the barrel beneath her chin.
The stare down is intense.
Fucking crazy ass bitch belongs in a padded cell.
Yet Toji was the one with everything to lose and after what seemed like ages he finally broke the silence, gritting the words out as not to wake you.
“Are you fucking stupid? I told you to stay the fuck away from me…. and her.”
His head tipped to you, and your friend’s eyes narrowed with venom.
“I know I don’t need to remind you, Fushiguro—but I can go anywhere in this building I damn well please.”
Anger flashes in Toji’s eyes. If looks could kill, Toji surely would have repainted the living room with her blood.
“Ha! Don’t tell me you're serious! Oh, puh-lease Fushigro!”
Snorting the woman eyed Toji like he’s a sulking child prone to theatrics.
“C’mon. I was just checking in on our little mama, hm? Poor thing got stood up after all. Then had to come n’ play nanny after yours had a lil ‘accident’—but you wouldn’t know anything about that right, hm?”
Ignoring her annoying ass prattling, Toji muttered a string of curses before reholstering his pistol with a reluctant clink.
Your friend simply giggled, unceremoniously dropping onto the sofa beside you—nestling into the spot that should have been his.
Fuckin’ bitch.
Toji couldn’t stand the way she looked at you.
Like she was deciding what kind of game she’d play with you as you stirred in your sleep.
This is why Toji warned you not to make friends here… and of all the whores in this building too.
Not that you know who she really is—she plays a role well, when she wants.
Anxious, Toji’s other hand twitched at his side.
Although his gun is lowered, his killer instincts are still gnawing at him to ‘neutralize the threat’.
It wouldn’t take but a moment to slide the blade from his pocket and chuck it straight between her eyes while the bitch dared to brush your baby hairs back with mock affection.
Toji wouldn’t miss, yet wouldn’t dare risk it while you were so close.
"Touch her again and I’ll take your fucking hand off—that’s a promise."
Toji’s protectful gaze shifted to you,then to the boys—both still asleep and cuddled into your warmth like tiny animals burrowed-in for safety.
Your friend didn’t respond, only leaned back and exhaled a dreamy little sigh, letting her hand drift dangerously close to Yuji now.
Toji sneered, a loophole since he clearly told her not to touch you, yet before Toji can say more, that’s when you finally began to stir.
Call it mother’s intuition at a sign of danger or whatever the fuck, but Toji was thankful for it nonetheless as the woman pulled back with a frown.
A haze of exhaustion clouded your features, but you still identified Toji through your disorientation, blinking your sleep away.
“F-F-Fushiguro… you’re—*yawns* back?”
Toji didn’t answer immediately, simultaneously realizing he still had the pistol in his hand and holstering it behind his back in a swift fluid motion.
“Yeah, ma. I’m home.”
Toji’s reply is clipped but he’s focused on suppressing the scowl on his face before you realize something is wrong.
“I—I’m sorry. I know it must be a bit of a shock to see us here, but I scheduled a playdate with the nanny last minute so, me and Su—um, well…uh, so I could go out. But then she cut her hand and had to rush to the hospital…”
Toji tensed watching you fumble over your explanation, catching yourself before you mentioned Sukuna—why?
“—and I came to help!”
Interjecting with a bright smile that Toji saw straight through, your friend plucked Yuji out of your arms, bouncing him on her knee.
“Couldn’t let her handle this all alone after the night she’s had, so I came to help with lil’ Yu-Yu!”
Toji watched as Yuji squirms, fussing as he’s clearly not a fan of the nickname given to him either. Smart kid.
You, on the other hand, were too frazzled to notice—cheeks burning as you finally registered just how exposed you were. Tugging your dress down and smoothing your hair in flustered strokes, you multitasked with as much grace as you could, all while gently rocking Megumi to keep him from waking.
“What a horrible accident, all that blood too! Although nothing Ji-Ji would ever bat an eye at.”
Nothing that bitch would fuckin’ bat an eye at either, but Toji couldn’t be concerned with that when he could practically see the phantom question marks pop over your head as a revelation sinks in.
“Oh, um…but you two know each other?”
Your attempts to ask casually might have fooled less astute individuals but your true question is obvious.
Motherfucker.
Given his less-than-stellar reputation around The Nursery, Toji could already picture the conclusions you were jumping to.
“I didn’t realize…”
Your friend's smarmy smile made Toji’s skin crawl.
“Who, Ji-Ji?”
She cooed obnoxiously at Toji in the same sickly sweet tone she used with Yuji.
“We go way back.”
Your friend flipped her long raven hair and laughed.
“We practically grew up together! Didn’t we, Ji-Ji?”
If Toji’s jaw got any tighter his teeth might’ve cracked.
“Yeah—sumthin’ like that.”
Toji wanted to leave it there and not elaborate—truthfully there was nothing to even elaborate on—but the way you looked between them, he knew you likely assumed the worst.
Fuck…there’s no getting around this now.
“Tch, she’s the big boss’s daughter.”
Toji revealed as his eyes meet yours.
Damn—he should have warned you when you told him about her at the grocery store.
Yet he thought it was too suspicious and couldn’t risk you misinterpreting it as him being controlling—what with your uber controlled relationship with Sukuna completely on his terms.
And given how you reacted to him paying for your groceries? Toji didn’t need to be a rocket scientist to know he would have crashed and burned that landing.
“Illegitimate daughter—yet still a legitimate pain in my ass after all these years.”
Toji’s voice stays flat, offering no affection for your friend—now revealed to be the boss’s daughter. Toji knew she had no designs on him other than to be a nuisance, so he didn’t bother sparing her feelings.
His focus stayed on you, watching as your brows knitted, struggling to process the flood of information hitting all at once.
“Oh, don’t be like that Ji-Ji, we used to be so close before I moved to Italy!”
She winked, but Toji ignored it, outwardly unmoved but inside he was raging.
She was simply toying with you for sport—no other reason for her to be here.
Ultimately he didn’t fuckin’ care whose daughter she was or how long he’d known her for—if she tried to stand in his way when it came to you, he’d deal with her.
“Psh, ya n’ haven’t seen or heard from ya in fuckin’ years…”
Toji scoffed, making his way to the bar cart on the other side of the room. He needed to occupy his hands with something, less he did something explosive like actually put a bullet in the yakuza slut’s skull.
“Aw, don’t act like a stranger now. It's only been two years and we recently reconnected, haven't we?”
Glass clinking against wood and the sound of dark liquor pouring were the only answers she received as Toji downed the fiery substance like medicine.
That much is true—Toji had known her for years, and it'd been two years since she’s been away—but their relationship was nothing like she was inferring it to be.
There weren’t many kids actually a part of the yakuza and not coddled in traditional homes or outside of The Nursery. Of course they knew each other. Honestly as both the bosses’ daughter and being completely batshit herself, Toji kept his distance from her unless absolutely necessary—even as a child.
An awkward silence ensued, the accusation lingering thickly as all eyes in the room were on Toji.
The tension was palpable, but Toji simply swirled a newly poured glass of whiskey, smelling it briefly before chugging it down and pouring another.
Toji’s only viable answer was a non-answer—he wouldn’t fall into her trap.
“Huh… a yakuza boss' daughter…”
After a few minutes, you found your voice and attempted to ease the strain saturating the room, your attention back on your friend.
“Well, I guess that also explains why the other women here now avoid me entirely since they’ve seen me with you.”
‘Yeah cause she’s the most fucking insane of the bunch.’ Toji wants to say, but he was well aware of the catch-22 he was in.
There wasn’t much he could get away with at the moment without looking even more guilty for knowing her and not mentioning it, especially since you’d probably try to play it off as none of your business.
Presently, this is the only moment in Toji’s long life of sin he has ever rued his slutty reputation.
“Power has its privileges, my love~!”
Your friend sing-songed, and she looked as if she was about to launch into a particularly annoying self-serving monologue before a loud ding interrupted her.
Yuji continued to squirm in her arms as she rummaged through her matching red clutch until she found her phone.
“Ah ha! That’s my fiancé texting me! He sent a car for me—he just can’t stay away”
Likewise Toji, in considering himself your future husband, couldn’t keep his eyes from you. Not paying the boss's daughter any mind as he took note of the way your face crumbled at the mention of fiancé.
Fiancé…ya gotta be fucking kidding.
“Oh, sweetheart…”
She noticed it too—your friend’s condensing comfort confirming Toji’s suspicions.
Consequently, Toji forced himself to ease up on the empty glass of whiskey he held, lest he crush it under his grip—because then he knew.
So is that what the hell tonight was supposed to be about—you being all dolled up?
Did that motherfucker Sukuna actually propose to you?
Or did the asshole simply promise you he’d marry you—stringing you along again and throwing just enough scraps—to state you…to keep you imprisoned in his orbit.
Fiancé or husband though—it didn’t fuckin’ matter.
Sukuna could slap any title he wanted on you—you’d still be Toji’s in the end.
“Now, now. Don’t be sad, angel. You’ll find the right one meant for you—we all do eventually. You know, I’d think you’d fare better with a nice salaryman than a yakuza.”
It was crystal fucking clear the bitch was patronizing you, yet you still tried to give your ‘friend’ a genuine smile.
Shit, you must be particularly hard-up for company if you’re willing to humor a bitch like her.
The boss’s daughter always loved her games and how blatantly tactless she could be once one of her cards had been revealed.
But she wasn’t sitting at a table where she could win here.
Toji wasn’t about to let anyone else dictate how this would play out when it came to you.
Right then, Yuji began to cry in full force and Toji moved before you could, lifting Megumi into his arms and clearing the way without a word—forcing your friend’s hand.
Your friend rolled her eyes at Yuji's tantrum, plopping him back into your lap and brushing off her palms as if he left something on her.
It’s clear the boss's daughter has zero maternal bones in her body the way Yuji quiets once he’s back in your arms where he belonged.
“Welp, off I go! He has a bit of a temper and hates when I keep him waiting, ya know~ciao bella!”
She blew a kiss to the room and sauntered out like a queen off to better things than toiling around with mere subjects.
The door slammed shut behind her.
In her absence the leftover tension clung to the air like humidity. Toji cursed the heavy revelations she stirred up and left for the two of you to choke on.
Your friend who you now know to be the illegitimate daughter of a yakuza boss—also Toji’s childhood acquaintance.
And Sukuna’s proposal… or just the promise of one?
Fuck.
How did the perfect situation Toji walk into turn into this mess?! He didn’t think Sukuna would be so desperate to keep you as to propose.
Your sigh caught Toji’s attention.
Tsk, Toji resents them both—your “friend” for toying with you and Sukuna for building up your hopes to something he could never be for you—something that Toji could fulfill so much better.
“You know…She’s..She’s been kind overall, even if she can be a lot.”
Your gaze stayed fixed on the door, shoulders slumping under the weight of not only being stood up but mocked.
It pissed Toji off—so he said the only thing he could. He’s not good with words, but he could at least give you honesty.
“She’s a cunt.”
You quickly shot Toji an admonishing look as if you were about to tell him to ‘watch his mouth in front of the kids’, yet you relaxed once you realized both kids were knocked out again.
“Yeah, but I can’t deny she’s looked after me, getting those other women off my back without expecting anything in return—”
Mama, you had no fuckin’ idea what she expects. But Toji kept that to himself for now.
“Fuck her, ma.”
You rolled your eyes, continuing.
“—and while it hurts to hear, she’s right about Sukuna.”
“Yeah? Well, fuck him too.”
You snorted sharply at that, no longer able to hide your amusement at Toji’s overt bluntness.
“Ha! Now, that’s no good either—how do you think I got stuck with him in the first damn place, Fushiguro?”
Toji couldn’t stop the devilish grin that formed at seeing a bit of your fire return.
“It’s Toji, ma...”
You threw him some side eye before conceding with a small laugh—bright and genuine, and for a brief moment it looked as if you had another slick comeback prepared, but then your face fell back somber.
Truly, Toji was hanging on by a fuckin’ thread not going on a suicide mission to take down the whole damn organization. None of them deserved to even know you.
“I don’t know, everything has been so different since becoming a mom—I’m different.”
Confiding in Toji, you softly smooth down Yuji’s hair.
“Perhaps if I looked that good in a mini dress again…I used to wear stuff like that all the time, but Sukuna thinks it's too revealing now…even this dress he’d probably think is too much.”
You trailed off, and there was a beat of silence before Toji spoke, he’d been successful at calming himself about your supposed engagement, but your admission of Sukuna and that whore making you insecure when you were so fucking perfect was making him murderous.
“Look at me.”
The authority in his voice startled you but Toji didn’t regret it, he needed to ensure you heard him on this.
“Ya look fuckin’ beautiful tonight, mama. Better than any woman in this building, all of fuckin’ Tokyo. Motherhood, when y’er meant to be one, when y’er good at it—is sexy on it’s own…”
Toji paused, and the weight of his smolder made you shift in your seat.
“...and y’er damned good at it ma.”
Your eyes widen and a deep flush sweeps over your body.
Toji almost thought he said the wrong thing again until your smile returned as you lightly chewed your lip—unable to mumble out anything but a small ‘thanks’ before quickly shifting your focus to check if Yuji needed a diaper change.
Toji’s chest puffed in pride. For all his scheming, in the moment he simply spoke his truth.
If anything you should be wearing less—well, if he had any say in it you’d be wearing nothing at all right now.
“Heh ya know mama, you doll up real nice. Be a real shame to take it all off without having dinner first…”
Toji casually stepped forward, looming over you until you were forced to look away from Yuji and up at him.
“So how bout it? I’ll cook.”
You looked at Toji like he sprouted two more heads.
“You? Cook?!”
You were looking at him like you didn’t think he could even boil water.
“Wouldn’t be the worst thing I’ve ever done.. ‘sides you deserve it, eh?”
Toji loves how your eyes sparkled, even if you tried to reign it in after a few moments.
Just say yes.
“Tsk, I know this isn’t the night ya wanted but… y’er the only other person I trust with Gumi. This is just my way of sayin’ thanks.”
Toji rubbed the back of his neck, trying to play it cool—but when your face lit up, unabashed this time, he couldn't help but grin too.
“Well, okay, yeah I am a bit hungry now that you mention it…but I’m at least supervising! I’m not sure if I trust you just yet in the kitchen, Fushiguro.”
“Ya got it and—it’s Toji, ma.”
The decision was quick—Toji would cook dinner, and you’dl finally make good on your promise of matcha brownies.
As much as he hated the boss’s daughter barging in, Toji couldn’t deny that her interruption left you more willing to stay—more open to letting him salvage the night.Rough beginnings to be sure, but Toji wasn’t about to let this opportunity for a ‘first date’ pass nonetheless.
“Ya can put Yuji in Megumi’s crib. Plenty room.”
You nodded, adjusted Yuji in your arms, and followed Toji into the hall. Toji slowed to your pace, matching your small strides so you could keep up. There was something wholly familiar about you both walking like this to Megumi’s room, and an intense flash of deja vu triggered in his mind.
He’s in a house. It’s homey, well lived in.
The air smells of simple comforts like miso and laundry softener.
Megumi and Yuji are clonked out on the floor. The cushy living room rug being an impromptu bed as the two caused utter mayhem until they tired themselves out.
You step past Toji as you bend down to pick up Megumi and in turn he holds Yuji, a large protective hand on his back. Somehow it’s too easy to have love for the boisterous little boy who has all the best parts of you.
Walking into the children’s bedroom there’s a lone crib there. Too big for any of the boys but it's not meant for them.
There’s another baby, already tucked away asleep.
Toji steps closer to get a better look...
The vision ended there, leaving him standing in front of Megumi’s crib—empty.
Toji closed his eyes, trying to hold on to the sight, yet the last remnants were gone and he’s ushered back into reality. You brushed past him, laying Yuji in Megumi’s crib. Swaddling Yuji’s sides with the blanket, you plant a kiss on the forehead. His tiny fists twitched once, then went slack—out like a light.
Following your lead, Toji places Megumi on the opposite end,Yet to no surprise to Toji, Megumi's small face scrunches in protest, a fuss well on its way to starting.
Shit kid usually has a pacifier or something when he sleeps, huh?
Toji turned to a nearby nightstand but to his surprise, you were already on it.
“Shhh, baby... I know.” Murmuring sweetly, you brushed the spikey hairs from Megumi’s face. “...rest easy now.”
The floor creaked as Toji leaned in to appraise the gentle way you rubbed soothing circles on Megumi’s back, pacified, but your touch quickly sank him into a peaceful slumber before it was no longer needed.Toji hummed, pleased, and he placed Megumi’s binky into the crib. A simple, routine motion—until your fingers gently curled around his wrist.
The contact was only meant to steady yourself as you leaned to kiss Megumi’s temple, but to Toji, it was anything but insignificant.
His arm tingled under your soft grip, the faintest brush of your thumb skating across the inside of his wrist. It was unconscious. Familiar. The kind of touch given by someone who expected you to be there—who didn’t doubt your presence.
And fuck, maybe that’s what undoes him most.
You didn’t even realize what you did. He stayed silent, struck dumb as your hand slipped away, returning to the crib to tuck Megumi’s blanket tighter under his chin like nothing happened. But Toji was still reeling, the heat of your touch lingering like a brand.
“There! All tucked in… g’nite, sweet babies,”
Your voice was full of warmth as you turned around, only to collide into Toji’s chest.
He hadn’t moved. Not an inch since your hand left his.
“Oh, I’m—”
The apology faltered on your tongue when you realized just how close the two of you were—so close you had to tilt your chin up to meet his eyes.
Your gaze, wide and shimmering with caution. Not quite matching the way your lips part instinctively like your body already made a decision your brain scrambled to rationalize.
The air hummed between you both, a current of electricity that had every nerve in Toji coiled tight. They screamed at him to pounce, because goddamn if he didn’t want to kiss you—slide his tongue into the depths of your mouth and finally taste you. To make you gag on every last bit of longing he’s been holding in all this time.
His instincts told him you’d let him too.
Did you both share the same dreamy domesticated deja vu?
Did you think of him and Megumi as yours already?
Close enough to smell you, the sweet intoxicating florals of your perfumed scent swirled around his senses, tempting him like a siren call.
If Toji took one step forward, he could pin you between the crib.
Be that as it may, Toji’s astute perception also alerted him to how desperately you grasped the railing of the crib. Terrified of your own desires, your knuckles bulging from how tight you gripped the wood.
Look at you so eager, and yet so nervous.
It practically oozed out of every pore.
Toji practically salivated at the circumstance—he had you where he wanted you for so long now.
You gasped, involuntarily moving forward to press against his hulking frame as his hand slid over your waist.
Toji moved down—
—right past you to turn on the baby monitor attached to the side of the crib.
Grabbing the receiver in the holster next to it, Toji stood up, putting enough space between you so your lungs could start functioning again.
Tsk, you weren’t quite there yet though.
Toji was completely, as evidenced by his cock—half hard in his pant and throbbing—all while warring with his mind that decided at the last minute you weren’t ready.
You had to want it more.
There would be no misunderstandings, no turning back when Toji finally kissed you.
“Well, let’s get t’cookin’ then. Ya like yakiniku, ma?”
The sheer amount of bashful bewilderment radiating off of you made Toji smirk. He lets you marinate in the aftermath as he quickly leaves the room. He didn’t look back, but knew you started to follow by the pap pap pap sounds of your feet trailing behind him.
“Uh-I, um gotta go—go and get the ingredients for the brownies!”
Your announcement came as soon as the two of you were back in the living room, and didn’t wait for his acknowledgement before you booked it out of the door.
Toji waved you off, chuckling as he entered his kitchen.
If you’d hadn’t just put Yuji down, Toji would almost bet your embarrassment wouldn’t let you return. He was sure his casual reaction threw you for a loop. It took every bit of restraint he had to behave, but Toji was playing the long game.
By the time you came back, composure settled and ingredients in hand, Toji was already deep into prepping dinner, the entire ensemble atop the island in the middle of the kitchen.
“You actually own an apron?”
Toji didn’t look up, but a cheeky grin pulled at the rough scar on his lip. It wasn’t really anything fancy, just a simple white canvas material, folded in half and wrapped around Toji’s muscled waist.
“Well it ain’t a skirt, mama.”
Toji threw you one too causing you to giggle softly.
“Multiple at that!?”
Toji knows your eyes on him, but remains focused on the task in front of him. Having you observe him with interest like the many times he observed you honestly thrilled him—to be the object of your study for once.
You gazed at his arms, bulky, bare, as he discarded his suit jacket, pushing his sleeves up to his elbows. A sweep of dark inks snakes up his forearms—coiling waves and windbars rippled when he flexes. The color is rich, old-school and bold with no outlines—just intricate patterns branded on his skin like the stories they tell are in his very blood. Toji feels they are at least, so it only affirms your assumed appreciation of his appearance.
Toji lets you linger, savoring the moment. No need to ruin it by making you self-conscious about just how hard you’re staring at him now.
Nah, better to keep it casual for now.
“Might not look like it mama, but I know my way around a kitchen at least when it comes t’meat. If ya cut it right, hard to fuck up yakiniku—even for me.”
Toji produced an impressive slab of beef from the fridge, eliciting an amazed ‘woah’ from your side of the kitchen. The cooking knife he held shone sharply, almost as much as the marbling on the meat itself.
Truthfully, Toji couldn’t remember how long it’d been since he even cut meat for someone, let alone cooked. Still, the motions came back like second nature.
Drawing the knife. Diagonial strokes. Quick, uniform and methodical.
Under his knife, the wagyu seemed to melt off for Toji, who laid the tender cuts out in a circle formation on a platter already filled with cabbage, mushroom and pumpkin chunks.
Toji was already anticipating how good it would sizzle once it hit the pan, and your awes were palpitable.
“Wait..hello?! Do you moonlight as an Iron Chef or something?”
Toji barked with laughter and showing off extravagantly, he flipped the last slice of meat onto the plate, and you couldn’t help but clap in amusement.
Toji is an assassin afterall, of course he’d be good with knives—but that didn’t mean he still wasn’t going to showboat a little, and he gave you a wink for your applause..
“You’re full of surprises, Fushiguro.”
“—Toji, mama,” Toji corrects without thinking. It's second nature now.
You’d made your way to his side of the island, Toji’s tattoos and skills with a knife dazzling you like a lure. Your bodies were almost touching again as Toji turned, towering over you for the second time that night. A soft, humming charge of anticipation that seemed to radiate from you, growing stronger with each inch he leaned in.
You’re trapped in the flame of his aura again but this time there's more calm about you.
Your hand on the counter supports rather than braces.
Your chin tipped back, your eyes locking with his.
Look at you… coy, inviting. Irresistible.
Still not enough.
“Pass the shoyu, ma?”
The relaxed request snaps you out of your daze.
“O-Of course!”
Nearly knocking over the bottle in your haste, you practically toss it at him before scurrying back to your bag at the far end of the island.
The brownie ingredients rustle as you dig furiously through them, looking everywhere but at Toji.
“Thanks, mama,” Toji grinned, catching the bottle with ease.
For all the fire and sass you have in you, you’re pretty soft under the surface. He likes seeing that part, the innocence you try to keep hidden. The very opposite of the man he just can’t wrap his mind around believing you’re with.
Sukuna’s no saint—you had to know he killed men.
But Toji? He’s lost count.
And he wondered—how much of him could you actually accept if you really knew him?
What he’s done.
What he’s yet to do, just to have you.
Would you hate him for it?
“But don’t let the setup fool ya, ma. I ain’t no cook. Just…when ya grow up workin’ in a butcher shop, you pick up a thing or two about meat. I had to learn how to prep bodies for disposal before I learned how to take ‘em out.”
Toji poured the soy sauce into the marinade, sneaking a glance at you over his shoulder.
Your brow lifts, unconvinced.
“Uh-huh.”
Toji was baiting you with his yakuza affiliations—and you were taking it, just like he knew you would.
“Nah, ya know I’m fuckin’ with you, mama,”
His grin still plastered on his scarred lips.
“C’mon, what’s the look for, ma? We kept it all separate. No mixing people with the food…”
Toji paused but you didn't interject. You listened, and like a sponge you soaked up every dark little drip of his past he fed you under the guise of his jokes.
“…but when ya work in a butcher shop, no one questions bloody bags in the dumpster.”
Your eyes rolled as you shook your head, but Toji caught a twitch of a smile.
You weren’t squeamish. Good.
“I guess it was too much to hope you’d just taken a cooking class.”
Although you could take a joke well, your sighs betrayed you were clearly unimpressed.
“You yakuza men…”
That hits a nerve.
Yakuza men.
You just compared them. You had to have—what other yakuza did you know but Sukuna?
Toji knew what he was doing. Dangling the most unsavory parts of himself with a grin, just to see if you’d flinch.
So maybe he deserved that.
But hearing it out loud—having it confirmed that you might see him the same way you see Sukuna—hit like a bullet between the ribs.
Yeah, Toji is a yakuza through and through—never tried to be anything else.
But he’s not Sukuna.
And the idea of you thinking he was?
That’s the one thing he can’t stomach.
Not when he’s clawing so desperately for something different.
Something better with you.
“Gumi will get real cookin’ lessons when he’s older though.”
Toji tossed the words out like they’re nothing, but the implication is obvious.
“Wanna give the kid a shot at least. Hard, though…when this is the safest place for ‘em.”
That might’ve been the most honest thing he’d ever said to you, and it spilled out before he could even dress it up with his usual bullshit.
Toji knew you didn’t want this life Yuji either—but kids like them don’t just inherit yakuza legacies, they get swallowed by them.
Yet with you, for some reason Toji saw the blocks lifted and pathforward to end the cycle of chaos.
He’d always be tied to yakuza, but his kid?
Gumi could be normal—especially, with you as his mom.
“And what about Megumi’s mother? Is it not safe with her?”
Toji froze.
It was a reasonable question given the turn of conversation, but it unexpectedly sliced through Toji all the same.
For once, he was the one to look away. No clever quip, no smirk to hide behind.
Toji crouched low, reaching into the cupboard beneath the counter to retrieve the portable grill.
“She’s dead.”
Zero pleasantries cushioned his words, so your shock and the subsequent sounds of spilled ingredients weren’t surprising to Toji who rummaged deep in the cabinets.
You scrambled to grab a rag, mumbling something about being sorry and not meaning to pry.
But Toji barely listened, craving a cigarette he couldn’t have with you and the kids around, so he’d settle for another whiskey instead. When he stood, your eyes found him instantly—soft and full of concern.
He didn’t deserve your sympathy, but like hell if he didn’t crave it all the same.
Thank fuck you were still on the other side of the island, because this time?
Toji wouldn’t have resisted. He’d have kissed you.
The aching for what he’s lost and what he then hungered for slammed together like a 6 car pile up. He knew he had to keep it cool before every piece of fragmented emotion in his life scattered across the kitchen.
“Don’t worry about it. Just childbirth complications. No one’s fault—you know the risks.”
The words came out easily, but they tasted like rust on Toji’s tongue as he set the grill on the kitchen table.
The silence that followed the intense revelation wasn’t cold—but it was still a bit awkward nonetheless.
For once, Toji was off his game.
Floundering in the weight of shit he didn’t usually let in.
Unforgiven emotions seem to crawl out whenever you’re near.
But you stayed.
You cleaned up the milk.
You didn’t run—even though Toji knew you probably considered it over a dozen times by then.
And that fucking had to mean something, he knows it does.
Thankfully, the kitchen is a more forgiving environment and it wasn't long before a homey routine took over, softening the aftermath of your conversation.
Flicking on the grill, the iron hummed as flames licked across metal. Toji finished setting the table, but his eyes stayed on you. Cocoa and matcha thickened the air as you turned on the oven, moving gracefully as if this kitchen was your own.
You hypnotized Toji, your hips swaying to the beat of your hum, lost in some tune only you could hear.
You were oblivious to how much of your bare back you were showing him, the thin fabric clinging to your waist and pulling taut over your ass when you leaned over the counter.
His gaze followed the curve of your spine, more hungry for your tender flesh to be on his tongue than any rare cut of meat he could have prepared, and Toji carelessly fell back into the well-practiced pattern of watching you when you didn’t know he was looking.
“Here...”
Heh, or maybe you did that time?
You finally broke the silence, extending the mixing spoon behind you without turning around.
“...come and taste it. Tell me if it’s too sweet.”
Toji didn’t bother with any damn spoon though, closing the distance, his broad chest brushed against the bare skin of your back.
With a sharp inhale, you immediately straightened, yet Toji remained unfazed as he leaned over you.
Peering into the dark thick mixture, Toji didn’t hesitate to slide two fingers knuckle-deep into the mixing bowl.The languid yet intentional swirl of his digits scooped up the batter in one steady flick, like he was well familiar with stirring up something else that could be just as sticky and sweet.
Careful to collect every last drop, Toji brought the batter to his lips and devoured it completely.
“Mmmmm.”
Toji lets out a low, drawn-out groan that rumbles deep from his chest, the sound warm and heavy as it fans down the back of your neck—making you squirm. And if the way your thighs instinctively press together is any indication, that heat is pooling in your pussy too.
The taste is utter perfection.
But instead of saying so, he let the gluttonous slurps and wet, lewd smacks of him so crudely polishing his fingers clean fill the air between you—each obscene sound making it harder for you to stay still.
From his angle, Toji had a perfect view of your chest, watching the supple jiggle of your pretty mommy tits when a shiver rolled through you.
Toji couldn’t wait to eat you just as nasty, and he imagined that you must be thinking about it too the way you bullied the brownie batter with flustered, over-eager whisks.
“So I take all of that means you like it then, hm Fushiguro?”
Your sass was back, quicker than usual, yet you still didn’t dare look at him.
Still embarrassed, huh?
“...It’s Toji…”
Toji smirked, quickly dipping his pinky as you tried to bat his hand away, but he managed to grab some regardless, popping it into his mouth as he dodged the hand towel you threw at him.
He chuckled. Although he enjoyed the taste, Toji would’ve rather had you straddling his face right then, letting him lick your creamy pussy batter straight from the source.
But your delectable desert would do for now. Toji wants the tension to keep piling, to wind you tighter until you finally pop.
It’ll be worth the wait.
“Oi!”
Toji’s brow quivered as you spun around to face him.
“You never gave me an answer. No complaining once it’s done if you don’t like it—”
But your scolding fizzled as you closed the distance, noticing the mess all over his face.
“Tsk, oh look at you!”
Huffing, you march towards him.
“You’ve got more batter around your mouth than in it, ya know?”
Toji shrugged, the dark smear of batter still glistening over his scar in the light as the corner of his lips twitched in amusement.
There’s no second guessing in your demeanor as you stand toe-to-toe with him.
“Seriously—what are you, an infant? Jeez, even Yuji’s not this messy!”
Toji let you scold him. He wants this part too—having someone care about him enough to nag.
But then you did something neither of you expected.
You wet your thumb on your tongue and leaned in, swiftly swiping across his lips and still without thinking, you brought your thumb to your lips to quickly lick it clean.
“There! I—”
The words died in your throat.
Toji reveled in the way the realization flickered across your face, syncing perfectly with the sharp hitch of your breath the moment it dawned on you.
For once, you were the one who crossed the line.
Not only did you step into his territory, but you groomed him so intimately without even realizing.
Yeah, there it fucking is.
The initiative Toji was looking for. When you’d be the one to willingly wander a little too close to the edge, not knowing he was waiting in the shadows to pull you all the way in.
Toji is glad he’s waited until this moment to tear you apart.
Ding!
The motherfucking rice cooker timer.
“Ah! R-Rice is ready, and I should really get these in the oven, you whispered quickly, and while Toji didn’t stop you, he did track every step you took.
Oh you’ve unleashed him now, mama.
Toji’s jaw tightened, pulse hammering.
He’d been patient. He’d laid his traps.
But that night? That was where the chase ended.
It wasn’t a matter of if you’d be his.
It was a matter of when you’d stop pretending you weren’t already.
However, the least he could do was give you the courtesy of a meal.
You’d need your stamina for how hard he was about to fuck you.
Sleeves rolled to his elbows, tongs in hand, Toji’s forearms flexed as he worked the grill. The first round of marinated meat and vegetables gently sizzled on the tabletop flame.
“Ooh, that smells so good even from here!”
Your voice gets closer as you make your way back to the table, taking the seat across from him.
The kitchen table is made for four, but with the grill and accompaniments taking over, it was the perfect size for two. Toji was thankful he never bothered with trifling things like a table cloth, which meant he could see everything beneath the smooth crystal top.
The moment you sat down, the high-slit dress revealed your thighs. Despite how you innocuously tried to equalize the hem back into place your attempted modesty did nothing but ensure Toji’s appetite was no longer for the food.
Toji manspread into his seat further and your eyes deliberately avoided looking at the impressive bulge resting shamelessly between his manspread legs.
He wasn’t even hard.
With a nervous laugh, you started with small talk, trying to look anywhere but at Toji’s cock.
Toji knew you were trying to act like this was normal.
Like this was just a casual dinner between neighbors.
But the sparks, the chemistry brewing between the two of you when finally alone was more than just an elephant in the room—it might as well have been Godzilla.
“Ya want some whiskey, mama? Goes well with meat… all kinds, ya know.”
Your eyes flicker upward as you shift, placing the napkin in your lap—more for a last ditch attempt at attempted modesty than manners, but Toji didn’t hide the way his eyes lingered on your thighs nonetheless.
“I wish.”
Your sigh is weary.
“But strong stuff means dumping milk, and with how much these boys eat…I can have a little sake though,if you’ve got it.”
Good. Toji hoped it would loosen you up again. He wouldn’t let you slip away next time.
“Coming right up—anything or my #1 supplier.”
“Fushiguro—when you say it like that, you make it sound like a drug deal!”
Thankfully this time there's a playful mirth in your tone.
Oh your milk? Might as well be a drug—it’s like straight crack to Toji.
You didn’t need to know that though, so Toji only reminded you for the hundredth time to call him ‘Toji’ as he chuckled, sharing in your amusement for an entirely different reason.
Retrieving the sake, Toji poured you a generous cup and slid a piece of grilled wagyu onto your plate, standing close like a chef awaiting judgment.
“G’on try it, ma. Lemme how I did, eh? Shouldn’t kill ya.”
You nodded, a coy smile on your lips as you picked up the wagyu with the chopsticks, balking only when Toji told you the nama tamago, raw egg, on the side wasn’t meant for the grill but to dip the meat in.
Skepticism took over your face until you brought it to your lips for the first bite—the rich creaminess of the egg cooled and balanced the umami of the meat perfectly—and your eyes instantly closed as you savored it.
“Mmmmm.”
Your moan made Toji grip the tongs tighter.
Fuck.
That wasn’t the way he imagined first making you moan for the first time, but he’d take it. You’d soon be moaning even more deliciously for him once he had you the way he really wanted you.
“Good?”
You nodded obliviously, mouth full and humming in approval.
Feeling confident, Toji brandished a fanged smile. “Heh, wit ya moanin’ like that I bet it is—knew you’d like it raw.”
You nearly choked, coughing into your napkin as a bit of sauce dribbled from your chin.
You shot him a glare.
“Don’t ruin dinner.”
Ruin dinner? Toji?
What was with you?
As much as Toji enjoyed the chase—he’d follow you right into hell if you led him there—he was beginning to tire of your hot and cold act.
“What, like Sukuna did?”
Toji returned to his seat across from you.
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
You went quiet at that.
Toji had no intentions of hurting your feelings nor did he want to mention Sukuna again for comparisons, but he did want you to get a little perspective on what actually ruined the night.
“You’re right…We were supposed to be celebrating our engagement, but here I am having dinner with another man.”
The chopsticks cracked in Toji’s hand. He deduced as much, but it still felt like a slap in the face hearing you confirm it aloud.
“Not only did Sukuna stand me up, I think…”
Delaying, you locked eyes with Toji. He could tell you were coming to terms with the words you were about to say.
“I think he might be cheating on me.”
Toji asked plainly.
“And if he is?”
Of course, Toji didn't realize just how loaded the question was until he said it. He meant it as ‘would you stay’, yet it has so many deeper indications, he felt your walls start to go up again.
“Then he’d be like every other man I know.”
Toji frowned at you lumping him in with Sukuna again—are you not past this already? Perhaps he had to take a stronger hand with you.
“Do ya not know me then ma?”
You blink at Toji before your face crunched-up in sarcastic disbelief.
“Ha! C’mon now Fushiguro, I know you’ve slept with more than half the women in this building. You’re hardly one to value monogamous relationships.”
Toji clicked his tongue, scoffing.
“Well, sure as fuck not someone else’s.”
“That much is obvious.”
Your eyes alighted with challenge as you dared to meet his own, the implications clear.
Touche.
Toji stewed as you returned to the meal in silence. His fingers curled tight around the edges of the table. It wasn’t rage stirring in his chest—just a swell of emotion he couldn’t easily name.
Frustration, maybe. Restlessness.
He wasn’t used to being provoked like this.
Never has he been so desperate for someone to understand him—not even his late wife, back when things were simpler. She never challenged him, never pushed. She accepted what he gave her at face value, took his truths as they came.
But you? You couldn’t. Not when you’d be damaged so badly by Sukuna.
It frustrated Toji as much as it turned him on.
But the gloves were off now.
You needed to know who he was and what he could give you.
“But I haven’t slept with her—that’s what you really wanted to know tho, right ma?”
Toji’s scarred lip upturns triumphantly when your eyes snapped to him. Your face says it all.
Bingo.
“That’s…”
You started in a rush, but slowed your words, choosing them carefully.
“That’s…really none of my business.”
Bullshit.
Toji huffed.
“So ya just care so much ‘bout the rest of the women here then, the ones who hate you?”
You bristled as your eyes flashed with indignation.
“Look, Fushiguro… not everyone is lyin’. With your rap sheet, someone could claim you slept with half of Tokyo last week and I would be inclined to believe them.”
Your words had more bite to them this time, but Toji heard enough of your arguing with Sukuna to know when you were baiting an argument.
Toji was no pushover, but he’d show you he could handle ya without all the screamin’, well screaming from fighting at least.
“Sure, okay ma, n’while they might have been telling the truth in the past, they would be lyin’ now. I haven’t slept with anyone in… months.”
You looked more than skeptical at Toji’s admission.
“Months?”
“Exactly 3 months, if ya wanna be technical, mama.”
Toji chuckled. He could see you do the math in your head that ‘3 months’ was how long you’ve been neighbors.
You rolled your eyes, grabbing another piece of meat off the grill.
“Again, that has nothing to do with me…”
Toji didn’t miss a beat.
“And if it did?”
The new look on Toji’s face was absolutely predatory in its lust. He saw your breath stutter as his fingers reached yours on the table.
Toji stopped just short of touching you.
“If it did have something—everything to do with ya…then what, ma?”
You didn’t pull away, but as you looked up to him, the look in your eyes was painful. Like he was the one who’d been causing all your hurt—when all he wants to do is give you everything.
“I-...it’s just—what are we doing here?”
Your voice was low this time, like you spent so much time arguing with Sukuna, you forgot how to have conflict any other way.
“Having a nice dinner that ya deserved tonight.”
Toji responded easily, but you were clearly done with games, pulling your hand away and placing it into your lap.
“That’s not what—look Fushiguro. I’m not sleeping with you.”
Toji’s chopsticks were ruined but that didn’t stop him from reaching over bare handed to pick a piece of meat off the grill and pop it into his mouth, smug.
“Did I ask ya to?”
Your brow furrowed, but your anger was defused, more exasperated than anything.
“You always are…well, suggesting it, in so many words.”
Toji couldn’t argue that. He was and he made that obvious enough to you.
But you weren’t the perfect picture of innocence yourself. You wouldn’t be sitting across from him right now if you were.
Either way, Toji is fed up with the cat and mouse tonight.
You wanted him to be that guy? Alright then.
If you needed another reality check, he’d give it to you—one you couldn’t deny.
Leaning forward Toji looked you dead in the eye.
“Ya know how many times I coulda fucked you already tonight ma? If all I really wanted was to wet my dick?”
Toji had to dig deep not to laugh then. The look you gave him like was like he was out of his fucking mind and had grown another head.
Toji didn’t say it to make you feel like a conquest though, he said it because it was true.
Toji could tell you were seething, fixing to launch into an argument again so he grabbed you for real this time. Anchored in place, Toji wound his hold tight enough around your wrist he felt your pulse race under his fingers.
“All this time—ya honestly think that's all I want?”
You gasped. He could tell you weren’t expecting him to follow up with that.
Toji could see your brain trying to process it all before you follow up with—
“What do you want then?”
Toji answered immediately, his hand left your wrist to interlace his fingers with yours.
“A wife.”
An answer that clearly caught you off guard, your face unreadable—though after a few moments, you simply shook your head.
“I’m getting married to Sukuna.”
You said it with such an air of finality—or were you just testing him?
Toji tried not to be mad at you. And he wasn’t. Not exactly.
It wasn’t your fault. Not when you were just holding on to the only guarantee you had left.
Maybe Toji was wrong—perhaps it was too early to lay his cards out on the table like that.
But Toji didn’t have the luxury of time with how things were going down in the organization.
Your overthinking is apparent as you seemed to be fighting an internal battle with yourself.
Fighting him, fighting Sukuna too.
But Toji wasn’t the enemy here.
Your hand still in his grasp, Toji ghosted over the indent on your ring finger. You had been wearing it for a while now if the tan surrounding the deep impression in your skin told him anything.
“Then why did ya take off y’er ring before ya came over?”
The look Toji gave you was piercing and from the way your eyes widened in horror, you likely hadn’t even realized you weren’t even wearing it.
Abruptly, you snatched your hand back as you rose from the table, nails splayed across the glass top to steady yourself before collecting your plate.
“Are you finished? It’s getting late, you cooked, I’ll do the dishes and… I’ll head out.”
You’d both barely ate.
Definitely running.
Toji got up but you stopped him before he could make a move towards you.
“Go.. just go clean up, okay? Take a shower Fushiguro, there’s still blood on your collar after all.”
Toji's head turned to the distant mirror on the wall.
Two specks? Fuck, he forgot about that.
Not prepared to see you just yet upon walking into his apartment. You’d seen it there all this time though and didn’t say anything…?
An unfamiliar moisture slicked Toji’s palms. Not even the first time he killed a man did he feel this anxious.
He did need a shower—a cold one, to cool off.
Maybe jack off too since he had just talked his way out of pussy tonight.
Or did he?
Regardless, he needed to regroup. Plan B for a dinner date went to shit…but he wasn’t done with you yet.
Toji kept his shower quick—he’d rather skip it entirely if you weren’t gonna be in it with him. But if following your orders proves he could listen, like a good husband would, then so be it.
Still, he didn’t want you gone before he saw you again. You owed him dessert—and one way or another, Toji was determined to get his piece of you tonight.
Yet despite all his trained instincts, panic gripped Toji when his own thoughts grew too loud—so loud he couldn't hear the subtle sounds of you still moving through his condo. It wasn’t until he finally exited the bathroom did the small clink of dishes in the sink cut through the silence was he sure you were still here.
With your back to him, it took little effort for Toji to slip behind you—quiet as a shadow as he approached.
You crouched low on your knees, reaching for an open cabinet where you were debating where to put the pot in your hands.
Toji crouched close behind you, his heady voice tickling your ears.
“Ya can just toss it in there, ma.”
With a cry, you jumped up too quickly, dropping the dish and losing your own balance in the process, but Toji was already anticipating this reaction. Reflexes quick as ever, Toji caught you, brawny hands around your waist.
His fingers splayed wide across your ribs, holding firm as the backs of his thumbs brushed just beneath the swell of your chest. Your tits hung heavy over the ledge of his knuckles, and Toji had to force himself not to slide his hands up just a little bit more—he was dying to feel how deep his fingers would sink into your jiggly mommy milkers if he squeezed them.
“Wha– Fushiguro! You scared the shi– oop, daylights out of me!”
“To-ji, ma.”
Toji lingered over the syllables, simmering in dark seduction as he hunched over you with his muscular arms taut like bars to cage you in at the sink.
Not even bothering to towel off completely, his slick raven strands stuck to his temples, its wetness shining under the kitchen lights. Water droplets were still rolling off of him, and Toji was amused by the way your gaze helplessly followed one slowly trailing down his tatted collarbone.
His upper body was on full display, and it was clear you were in awe of his sleeved tatts connecting across his chest—culminating in elaborate breastplates. Twin dragons dance over the hard plane of his chest, scales gleaming dangerously. Toji tattoos wrap around him boldly like armor, or rather chains, collaring him to his yakuza affiliations.
There was a small swell in your throat as your eyes continued lower, far further than the drop of water skimming down his torso. Toji followed how your eyes lingered on the ridges of his abs and traced the sharp V cut lines until they disappeared into the waistband of his grey sweats —shamlessly worn far too low on his hips.
Toji was never one for modesty, and he knew what he was doing, what effect his body has on women, and he was pleased to confirm you weren't immune. Although never in any of those times had he been so turned on by someone eyefucking him as he was then.
Towering with a dark predatory glare, he knew he was close enough for you to feel the steam still rolling from his body.
“Time t’pay up, ma,”
The threats in his words weren’t ones of violence, his lecherous intentions clear.
“Three months is a long time t’owe a yakuza. But I’d wait longer for ya…even if y’er killin’ me here.”
You bit your lip, eyes narrowed in a way that said you want to be annoyed. But Toji’s seen that look too many times. You were trying to keep your footing—still pretending.
“T-Toji, stop playin’, move. I gotta finish these dishes.”
You tried to brush him aside but Toji didn’t budge—nothing but muscles, heat and cocky defiance filling every inch of space between you.
As far as he was concerned, Toji hadn’t even begun to play with you yet.
“Dessert first, mamas.”
You arched a brow at him with a small laugh.
“Y-You’re doing the most. T-They’re right there.”
Your hand gestured lazily toward the cooling tray of matcha brownies on the counter, just within arms reach.
Toji didn’t even glance over. He was too busy watching the way your mouth curved when you tease him.
You actually thought you were still in control, that there was still an escape option—it was fuckin’ adorable.
“C’mon chef, present y’er dish, ya?”
The brief staredown ended in a dramatic sigh as you conceded. It was pure entertainment for Toji how you forcibly stretched yourself to the side, unwilling to turn at all with him over you lest you push yourself right onto him.
You slid the pan between the two of you like a shield,brownies already cut into neat little squares. 12 in total, the dark brownies had a greenish hue to them dusted in powdered sugar. You presented them with a smug little look that says, here you go, clearly hoping it’d force some space between the two of you.
But Toji didn’t budge—not even a little.
Instead, he hums confidently, pressing the pan’s edges flush between your bodies with a grin that was all teeth and dark promises.
“Nah. Feed me.”
He opened his mouth wide, lolling out with an ‘ah’ sound.
“You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m starvin’, actually. Someone ended dinner early before I got t’eat.”
Rolling your eyes with a huff, one hand braced the pan between your bodies as you plucked out a brownie square with the other, bringing the sweet treat close to Toji’s mouth.
Toji leaned in slowly, savoring the stubborn little pout tugging at your lips from having to feed him as much as the bite itself. His leg slipped between yours, not pushing in yet, just enough so you’d feel the promise of tension winding tight between your thighs.
Toji’s eyes stay locked on yours, unblinking—drinking in every flicker of your lashes, every labored breath you took beneath the weight of his presence. He felt the tremor in your hand as he took the first taste, mouth enveloping the treat like he was tasting something decadent and forbidden.
His lips dragged against your fingertips, tongue curling to greedily lap at the lingering sweetness as he chewed.
Toji smirked to himself looking at your frozen state—like you’ve forgotten how to breathe, let alone resist.
About fuckin’ time too.
“Mmm…”
His groans rubbled deep in his chest when he took the last bite of brownie from your trembling hand.
“Fuckin’ delicious mama.”
Sniggers erupted from Toji as you attempted to snatch your hand back, but his fingers caught your wrist mid-flight and you yelped.
“Aht-aht,”
Murmuring, grip was tight and unyielding as he dragged your hand back toward his mouth.
“We ain’t done yet. Look at this dirty lil’ hand, ma.”
And before you can protest that it was Toji’s fault your hand was covered in fudge and crumbs—Toji’s thick tongue slid over your palm.
Wet and hot, the bumpy texture drug over the dips of your hand, curling into the creases like Toji was trying to memorize the shape of you with his mouth. His tongue snakes down to your wrist then licked his way back up and over your palm—tracing each knuckle and suckling at the space between your fingers with lewd, open-mouthed kisses.
You gasped, thighs clenching salaciously around his thigh that had now wedged itself right up against your cunt.
When Toji was deemed himself done cleaning your fingers his eyes didn’t miss a beat, zeroing in on your lips—still looking famished for more. An insatiable hunger in him that could only be filled by devouring every part of you.
Toji dipped in closer—so close that the water still clinging to his bangs began to drip.
“A-Ah, step back—you're getting me all wet!”
You jerked in surprise when a few cold droplets hit you, pan tilting like it would spill as a few brownies tumbled out of place.
“Heh, is that right, mamas?”
You squeaked upon realizing your phrasing. Toji just looks all the more devilishly smug and determined. He took the pan from your hands and tossed it on the counter.
“Well then mama—”
Toji’s eyes cascaded down the low halter of your dress, spying the crumbs that had tumbled down to collect between the swells of your breasts. The fudgy matcha stuck to your skin, along with more water droplets from Toji’s hair, making more of a mess Toji took delight in having to clean up for you.
“—let’s just see how wet she can get, hm?”
Not giving you a chance to object then, his arms left the counter to wrap around you. Groping your hips, his errant hands sunk into the sides of your high slits, eagerly landscaping across your flesh until he’s palming your bare ass cheeks apart.
Toji’s touch rendering you defenseless, your legs followed, opening wider to grind against his brawny thigh. Toji was pleased to find you pantiless like he thought—he could feel the soft squish of your fatma leaking, already soaking through his sweats.
Lowering to your chest, your scent hit him all over again, that warm vanilla mix he’s come to crave as he dragged his tongue through the valley of your breasts. Toji lost himself, chasing the taste of sugar and salt on your skin.
It was like music to Toji’s ears when you sighed, crying out as you arched to press yourself deeper into his mouth that worshipped the tender uncovered skin on the side of your breast like a sinner saved.
Eye level with your nipples, he pulled back only to savor the beads of milk pebbling through your thin silk dress, stimulated by your arousal.
Heh, you got wet for him in more ways than one. How good of your body to prepare him another meal.
He had to get you outta this dress first though. On a mission, Toji traced the stripe up the curve of your breast right up to your throat. Your fingers twisted into his damp hair, spurring him on with the green light he’d desperately been seeking for months.
“How could ya ever think y’er anything but fuckin’ perfect?”
Toji growls ragged against your neck. The comment was more for himself than you. He didn’t expect you to say anything right then anyway by how nicely you were quivering against him.
All Toji wanted to hear from you were your moans.
“You know, ma…”
Releasing one of your cheeks, his hand greedily palmed its way higher to cup the soft swell of your leaky tit. Toji’s thumb possessively swirled over your aroused nipple through the thin silk of your dress, now clinging like plastic to the wet lil nub, flicking it just enough to make your knees go weak and your thighs tighten around his own as you hump against him.
“I still don’t think you’re showin’ enough skin f’er my tastes...”
Leaving your breast, his thumb skated over to the seam of your dress, teasing the skin up to your shoulders before it hooked beneath the fabric strap to slide it down.
Your breath stuttered, hands leaving his hair to frame his face now millimeters away from yours.
“Wait, F-Fush-ii—”
Molded against him, your dress hung perilously off your body, silk catching on every curve as Toji dragged the second strap down slowly—exposing more of you with every inch.
“It’s Toji,”
He breathed huskily onto the shell of your ear.
“C’mon, be a good lil wifey f’er me, mamas…”
Nibbling from your earlobe down your neck, Toji’s feral lust boils to its peak at the thought of you finally uttering his name out of your lips.
“...and say it for me, yeah?”
His hot breath teased at your pulse, Toji gently planted a kiss before, slightly breaking skin and you cry out as he slurps at your skin until a bruise that, if you couldn’t see you sure as fuck would feel the next day, formed..
When Toji pulled back, he couldn’t tell if you were hesitating, or just too dazed to speak. Hips now eagerly reciprocating against his thigh, a trail of slick glued his soaked sweats to his skin.
Shit.
Looking at you lose yourself in pleasure just from his thigh, his cock throbbed angrily. Toji was quick to move, digging his fingers back into your hips as he hiked your leg over his hip, repositioning you so your sloppy lil pussy could then rut obscenely against the very stiff protrusion in his sweatpants.
The elicited pleasure-filled moans from you both, echoed off the tile as you very shamelessly dry humped in the middle of the kitchen against the sink.
Sweet fuck—everything feels good with you. Toji imagined fucking you for so long he’d thought he’d long have you bent over the counter, shoving all of his many inches into you as soon as he got the chance that night. Instead he was rubbing his cock on you like some fuckin’ horny loser ass teenager.
But Toji would bust right in his sweats soon if he didn't stop. Your eyes were already shut, lip bitten up in concentration and focusing all your efforts on getting off.
With a string of curses, Toji pulled away, propping you up on the sink and crouching on his knees between your spread legs, ruined silk fabric barely hiding your pussy from him.
His eyes rolled back at the scent of you. Your pheromones were potent and Toji licked his lips in anticipation.
Dry humping wouldn’t be enough if he had to prep you to take him.
But first…
“Say it, mama.”
You shivered, whining sweetly through shallow breaths, hands braced on either side of the sink to keep from collapsing. Still dazed, still aching, your hips kept rocking toward him, chasing release even as he denied you—until Toji wrapped his arms around your thighs and tilted you closer to his mouth.
“Say my name...then I swear I’ll make you feel so good you won’t stop fuckin’ screamin’ it.”
You nodded dumbly. So sweetly did your perfect lips part to say the two syllables he'd been dying to hear for the last 3 months.
“Pleaseee To—”
Click.
The door opened.
“Hello? You home? Fushiguro-san?!”
Toji froze as he heard the nanny in the entry way.
You gotta be fuckin’ kiddin’.
So much for being at the fuckin’ hospital, spry old cockblockin’ bat.
And just like that, like a cold bucket of water doused on your form, you instantly snapped out of Toji’s trance. Reluctantly, Toji lets you untangle yourself from him, sparing you modesty then in the meantime.
He’d send the nanny on her way and then you both could get back to it.
Toji hid the absolute look of displeasure that threatened his features at the annoyance of being interrupted, feigning as much concern as he could muster as the nanny walked into the kitchen, hand all bandaged up.
“There you are! Oh and Fushiguro-san too!”
The sweet old woman didn’t seem to question Toji’s state of undress or why half your dress was wet.
Toji knows she’s walked into him doing worse before.
“Heard ya had an accident, thought ya be at the hospital still.”
The nanny explained how she unexpectedly ran into the organization's head doctor. They had done a house call for one of the pregnant women here who then suggested the doctor take the nanny to their office in Shinjuku to get patched up rather than spend hours in the ER.
Toji repressed an eye roll. Great. Just his fuckin’ luck.
Yet his mood only fully turned sour once you announced how late it was and that you needed to be heading back. Before he could even stop you, the nanny thanked you, saying she would head over with you to grab more milk for Megumi.
He was so close too.
Not all for naught though, the main plans were still on track. Moving pieces that would soon settle all into place, as long as he could keep certain players in check, he had failed in doing so multiple times that night though.
⟡
A sharp trill cuts through the fog of Toji’s thoughts.
This time it’s Sukuna's phone that is blowing up. Calls Toji knew he wouldn’t be able to ignore as the ringing abruptly ends your dispute.
No other noise is heard from inside your apartment.
Riiiiing…
Riiiiing…
Sukuna growls.
“Don’t—”
Toji still can’t see you from outside, but the defeat cracking in your voice is unmistakable.
“Don’t answer it. Ryo, please. Stay just here with us, with me?”
There’s a long pause, long enough for the persistent ringing to seem like a metronome to the exact moments that everything you were trying to hold onto would either crumble or be secured.
“I-I don’t even care you got some woman pregnant—I…shit I mean, of course I-I fucking do, I’m fucking livid! It’s just… we can figure it out—but only if you stay in Japan. Don’t go to Italy, they don’t need you like we do… Yuji and I need you here.”
Motherfucker.
All that time in the shadows, watching, waiting.
All that delicate orchestration—
And you still gave Sukuna a choice.
Despite everything Toij’s done over the past few months, all that’s been set in motion.
Everything still comes down to Sukuna.
God, you’d stay tangled with a man who never deserved you, a man who you don’t really love, simply because you’re too good of a woman not to try for the sake of your son—because maybe if Sukuna used even half of his determination for power and control to care for his family, he might be deserving of you both.
Toji knows he doesn’t have a perfect vision of what love is supposed to look like.
But this surely isn’t fucking it.
Fuck if your loyalty isn’t something holy though.
All of his senses honed, Toji’s mind is ready to pivot to a number of contingency plans at the drop of a hat, many that end with Sukuna’s blood painting the walls like he’s imagined doing many times previously.
However, when heavy footsteps clack across the marble flooring followed by the sound of the front door slamming shut, a decisive finality echoes through the silence, and Toji finally exhales.
You offered Sukuna your entire world—and the bastard still didn’t choose you.
He left you.
Something Toji vows to never do.
Toji wants to race over to your door, hell he’d jump over the balcony to get to you. But all that becomes unnecessary as you step outside onto your balcony again.
Barefoot and clearly not dressed for the chilly night air, you cross your arms tight—like if you hold yourself together hard enough, you won’t crack open completely—too lost in your thoughts to register the cold or even notice Toji watching you. He’s not even hiding this time.
Your gaze is solely locked on the sleek Mercedes idling on the curb, and it's not long before Sukuna appears, barking orders over the phone as he strides to meet Uraume who exits the drivers side, bowing low at his approach before opening the rear passenger door.
Yet just as Toji is about to claim victory, Sukuna pauses.
Sukuna’s hand clutches aggressively on the roof of the vehicle while the phone temporarily falls away from his ear. Toji’s eyes narrow as yours fill with specks of foolish hope—like you think he’d actually reconsidered that quickly and turn around.
But Toji knows better, this is no change of heart.
Toji can’t see Sukuna’s face, but he knows the gears are turning, contemplating what's before him and behind him.
Fucking bastard, get in the damn car.
Mere moments seem like an eternity to an assassin's eye who analyzes every detail of the scene before him in painful slow motion. Toji’s lungs burn with the need for a breath he doesn’t dare take as his fingers twitch anxiously around the cigarette in his hand.
Time finally resumes when Sukuna relents, swiftly entering and resuming his conversation.
Not sparing you a backwards glance as Uraume closes the door.
Toji waits for you to react, scream, shout after the car that quickly zooms off into the night—but you don’t.
You just stand there.
Empty.
Utterly defeated.
Toji hates seeing you like this. That’s not who you are.
Not the sharp-tongued girl who once shoved Yuji into his arms without even asking, not the woman who walked into a building full of vipers like you owned the damn place, who didn’t let anything slide, couldn’t be bought—and who for damn sure was anything but an easy fucking lay.
Giving you space to process, Toji simply watches you.
And you?
Where’s your head after all of this?
Well, you can’t remember a time you felt more unsure about where the fuck your life is going.
Even more than when you first told Sukuna, technically your employer at the time, that you were pregnant.
He’d never given you any promises of love or devotion, from the beginning, but he did say he’d take care of you.
Sukuna promised you wouldn’t have to worry about anything.
Yet all you find yourself doing lately is worrying.
Fuck this.
No sooner do you resolve those thoughts than the cold hits you all at once, carving sharp trails down your cheeks and dragging you back to reality. The ache in your chest threatens to pull you into despair. You shiver, breath catching—only then realizing how hard you’ve been crying.
A flicker of light catches your eye—the soft glow of a cigarette, its ember burning steady in the dark, drawing your gaze to Toji’s silhouette waiting silently in the shadows.
He’s staring at you intently—no doubt had been witness to the spectacle you just made of yourself, but his eyes hold none of the pity nor the resentment you expect after how you’d just ghosted him over the past two weeks after nearly fucking him in his kitchen.
The only thing you see is curiosity on his features, like he’s looking to you to give him the next play.
“Ma… ya alright?”
The ball, as it had always been, is in your court.
You sigh.
No, you weren’t. You were tired.
Tired of fighting and tired of feeling isolated.
Tired of giving everything and it still not being enough.
All to raise a well-adjusted non-criminal child—something you are doing all by yourself even with his father around.
You just wanted something that felt good.
Something you didn’t have to fight for, that came easy.
You simply shrug in response to Toji, wiping your tears away.Although his presence now is oddly comforting, you still didn’t want to cry in front of him. This wasn’t his burden, and you’d unfairly flirted with the idea of giving into his many advances—even if you’d only really recently started believing in his sincerity.
It wouldn’t be fair to lean on him now, now that you’d didn’t know where to turn. Especially, when you knew what he wanted.
Honestly, you had no idea if you even had the capacity to give that much in a relationship to anyone anymore—much less than if he still wants it with you.
And yet all things considering, the very last thing you want right now is to be alone.
“Um, but I could be okay—if you still have some of that whiskey for me that is?”
You take stock of Toji, who looks particularly cunning draped in shadows and cigarette smoke. Wholly unable to read him now when he’d been so transparent with you before. More anxiety builds as you don’t know what to do in the moment but ramble on.
“I-I have a lot of milk saved for Megumi so, um, I mean, I won’t fall short if I have to dump for a few days. I just need something stronger than sake this time ya know?”
Outwardly stoic, inside Toji is fucking buzzing as he tries to retain his cool but this moment is like the sun coming up after the longest fucking night in the world.
He doesn’t mean to make you spiral but he’s fighting the urge to let out a victorious warcry.
“It’s got y’er name on it mama, c’mon over. Bring the kiddo too, o’course.”
Relief is all over your face when he does speak and you spare Toji a timid smile.
“I’ll just be a few minutes, okay?”
Toji tips his head in acknowledgement.
“I’ll be here whenever y’er ready, ma.”
You nod, hanging back before going inside, bouncing once on your heels and lightly chewing your lip as you stare right at Toji.
“Thanks…ah, I…um, I really appreciate you being here for me... Toji.”
Toji billows out the last of the smoke as he exhales, flicking the dead filter over the balcony edge.
“Don’t mention it, ma. Anything ya need. I got ya. Always.”
Cheeks flushed as you nod, the door slides shut behind you a second later, leaving the balcony empty.
The grin Toji wears is wider than a Cheshire cat and his heart-pounds with a feral thrill of a hunter who’d been chasing at the heels of his prey that finally lay at his feet at long last.
Satisfaction uncoils through him more than the smoke coiling in his lungs. Your voice still lingers in the air, and he’s replaying it in his head.
‘...Toji.’
You said his name.
You finally said his fucking name and it sounded better anything he’s ever heard in his life coming off that sassy lil tongue of yours.
Just like that, everything locks into place as the weight of the longing in his chest dissolves.
Toji laughs. It’s lighthearted, almost carefree—but there’s a wild edge beneath it, a jagged undertone that’s just a bit too sharp to be sane.
It was bad enough you’d given Sukuna such a heartfelt ultimatum that if he were anything other than the cruel ice king he is he’d have broken. When Sukuna wavered to get in the car after walking out—that should have been the easy part, and yet that was the real test.
Toji thought she had fucked it all up for him again.
From the balcony’s tall height and the glare of the streetlights bouncing off the shiny black Mercedes, it was difficult to see anything other than Sukuna and Uraume in the dim street lighting.
Yet, Toji’s keen assassin eyes catch it without trouble—a pale, feminine hand reaching from the depths of the black sedan.
Your friend.
Her matte black nails flicked towards Sukuna in a flirty, beckoning gesture.
The big boss’s illegitimate daughter and Sukuna’s other woman—Yorzu.
He’d told her to leave this alone. That was taken care of.
Sukuna would be meeting her in the mountains before leaving for Italy.
Yet, her overwhelming jealousy and blindness for Sukuna’s affections makes her too reckless.
She couldn’t just stay in the shadows where she belonged.
She had to befriend you.
Had to mock you with her delusions of being pseudo engaged to Sukuna and make you think he was cheating on you.
Just like she had to show up tonight when she was supposed to be hiding away from any ‘assination’ attempts.
Toji knew Sukuna’s pause was out of surprise, and Sukuna wasn’t stupid.
Bitch just put their entire plan in jeopardy had Sukuna put two and two together right then.
Yet at the end of the day, Sukuna’s choices alone would only serve to prove the ultimate twist of the knife for you. It didn’t matter what the truth was, the reality still is he left you.
It’s the ultimate proof of why Sukuna doesn’t deserve you—and you didn’t need to see Yorozu in the car to know that.
Those two crazy fucks were better suited for each other anyway—who else but a sociopathic bitch would rip a 200 year old organization apart and cause a fucking internal war all for an equally bloodthirsty, psychopathic asshole.
Not that Toji feels bad for keeping all this from you necessarily, he considers it sparing you—just as he’d spared you the day he first met and fell for you.
Yorozu wasn’t happy about that, but ultimately as long as the path for Sukuna was clear, she didn’t care how Toji got you out of the way.
*ding-dong*
Right on time.
Cracking his neck, Toji makes his way to the door where you are waiting for him.
Fate had already destined your life to be in his hands—who gives a fuck about how it all exactly played out?
Yorozu thinks she’s using him to steal your story, but your ending was never with Sukuna.
Toji knows the endgame was always meant to be with him.
Opening the door, Toji spies you, a nappy bag in one arm andYuji in the other. A tired small smile on your face.
You never looked more ready for him to swoop in.
And if anyone tries to rewrite his ending?
Well, fuck em’.
Toji will gladly rip out the pages.
Fuck a pen, he’ll start the next chapter with a bullet.
⟢ end credits: please comment, like and reblog and lmk what you think! I'd really appreciate the feedback as this fic has been my baby working on it.
p4, the final chapter next! toji about to fuck you six ways from sunday jchsdfchjsd. i already has 9k worth of notes, dialogue, chucks of written smut, etc to incorporate to tie everything together. so just know i won't have to start from scratch there but because of me shifting gears to kinktober (with the goal of finishing it finally this year lmfao), im planning on releasing p4 on or before Toji's bday this year. however, if you want more yandere in the meantime there is hannibal!nanami and invisible man!gojo to look forward to next month!! xx, kali.
special mentions: shout out to @buttercupblu143 for taking a red pen to this shit because i have the grammar of a 2nd grader and my eyes glaze over after 8k words lolol. also shout out to @yung-notorious who listened to be talk about this plot since last nov.
warnings - Toji plays LADS and falls for you pulling for Sylus cards on twitch hehe,explicit sex, p in v sex, masturbation, cumshots, creampies, filming it, mating press, oral (m and f receiving) obsessed Toji - 3k wc
pornstar! toji who is of course known as 'daddy' by the porn industry, the girls all line up to fuck him, especially once they see just what his mouth can do. Toji was nothing if not competitive, so he makes sure when he's sharing a costar to lick her a little longer, to fuck her a little harder, shove his cock so deep there's no 'acting for the cameras' no, they're creaming, squirting or dripping for him on and off set.
pornstar! toji loves easy money, why wouldn't he? What's easier than making girls cum, he's always been good at it, there's no question about that. The industry welcomed him and his chiseled body and thick, veiny cock with open arms, just as all the women welcomed him with spread thighs, mouths open, tongues out. He loved to finish right on a pretty star's face, spurts of hot liquid just pulsing from his reddened tip, smirking just a bit in the cameras as it catches the 'money shot'.
pornstar! toji doesn't really watch porn, as he's always around it, and it's not actually his thing. Many would be surprised to know Toji would take a good audio JOI over visual, or sometimes he just enjoys to read some filthy smut - not that he ever lets people know that of course, he has a bit of a reputation to uphold! Another secret he can't let be known is his fascination with an otome game purely due to the story line at first, and then the pretty live streamer.
pornstar! toji was mortified at first, how can he romance 'men' when he loves pussy? Well the battle tactics were so good, he couldn't stop himself from getting into it a bit, and the story lines were good okay!? He gets shit on from Gojo, Geto and Sukuna when he plays on set, and they hear the telltale music, but really they can fuck off, considering he can outlast all of them despite being older. Yet, it's not just the game that's got him obsessed... it's you.
pornstar! toji found your livestream because he just sure wasn't spending that much money on a card, and you were getting donations the entire stream, giggling as you drew the cards, smile making him ache. That's when he starts typing, and you react in the stream, reading his name that he's too old to change - so it literally says 'pornstar toji'. You giggle and love his chats, soon he's donating to you, excessively, a hundred here, three hundred here, and ends up hanging out in your chats, in your discords, you start looking forward to him too.
pornstar! toji almost died when you say his name the first time, 'Toji! Ah, you're here, I'm excited!' you have these cute little pink cat earphones on, leaned back in your bright pink gamer chair, you're just fucking adorable, and he can't help but start to picture how good it would feel to fucking ruin you. But can he, ruin a sweet streamer, even as she's sipping on her little drink, lips wrapping that straw and making him ache? He starts to touch himself just watching you light up and get your memories, lose your battles so bad you just go on auto, he can't help but leak milky pre when you giggle and say his name again and again.
pornstar! toji thinks of you, the pretty LADS streamer even when he's got a girl bent over, his hands wrapping around her as he pounds his cock, turning her face to him and then faltering right on set. Somehow he imagined you, your pretty face, your sweet little gasps as his cock pounds you, he shuts his eyes for a moment and then leans back, grabbing her hips, cock moving in and out of her underneath that latex. He's never off his game, never a day in his life, but for some reason he's just a little thrown off, he can't cum or make that money shot.
pornstar! toji is frustratedly jerking one of his huge hands up and down his cock, trying to get close after having excused himself, but he can't even get close until he pulls up the stream from last night, and hears your voice - 'oh, Toji you're so sweet, you didn't have to superchat that much!' - and that's what gets Toji close, when you're freaking out over a Sylus card you got and gasping out and his mossy green eyes flutter shut he can just picture it, being inside you, stretching your pretty cunt out, filling you up, ruining you for anyone ever. The thoughts are too much, overtaking his every day ones, even making fucking breakfast he can't stop picturing your thighs spread wide on his marble counter.
pornstar! toji starts to become more obsessed, in fact you're all he can think about, he cancels his next set because you're doing a live stream and he can't miss it, losing out on money and spending it on you, what the fuck is going on? Yet Toji is the first one, and you're all alone, when you lean forward a bit, and you sit the mic firmly against your head, smiling at the camera. 'Did some research,' Toji flushes a bit at that, the way you look at him through the screen as he holds the phone in his hand almost delicately, lovingly having you in his palm. 'You're famous, and I was so clueless, that's so cool.' He chuckles a bit and types out - 'gotta keep a low profile, doll' - to you, making you heat up at the memories of what you watched a bit of last night.
pornstar! toji doesn't realize you'd touched yourself to him, you thought at first you'd just be curious, but how could you not be soaking wet watching him put a costar in a full Nelson and fuck her senseless? You didn't even think that was a real position, suddenly you felt so nervous and intimate talking to him, maybe you loved it already when he said your outfits were cute, maybe you already enjoyed him so much, giddy every time he threw in a quiet comment, but you truly thought he was kidding with the name, even now you're so sure that it can't be actually him. 'Your secret is safe with me,' you murmur softly, going to the stream and trying not to bite that lip to death with how needy you feel, imagining him picking you up and just fucking throwing you around like he does.
pornstar! toji was worried you'd not like him if he told you, it's nonsense as you're a streamer and he's a pornstar, it's not like you're dating, but also what a dream if you ever would want to. Toji's not like this, not at all actually, he's not a romantic or someone filled with nonsense, yet every day he thinks of you more and more. There's no event for a week so he doesn't see you, and he hesitates before privately writing you, sure you're going to think he's a weirdo, he is almost forty and a seasoned star after all, and he's sure you get hit on alot, but he just... wants to know you're good, and perhaps that scares him more. But you respond, with a fucking selfie, as if to just torture him.
pornstar! toji cancels his next set to talk to you via discord all day, him the top star with a book and list of exclusive shows, but how can he do that when he's grinning like a high school Toji in puppy love!? When he sends a pic back and it's fuzzy and out of focus, you can't help but giggle yourself, cancelling all your plans too, because you can't help but be enamored. When you call him, though? Toji panics, staring at it like it's an accident, palm sweaty - him, who has no problem being in a gang bang vid, who jerks it on livestream to thousands, he's shy to speak to you. At the last moment, his thumb hovers, and you say a shy little 'hey' which is enough to just destroy him completely.
pornstar! toji murmurs back a 'hey doll,' and you recognize the voice from the videos, a blushing mess now as you nibble on your thumb. 'Toji, you're... really great at it, at um... your career?' he chuckles then, leaned back and shutting his eyes, picturing you in his mind. 'Yeah, ya enjoy my work, huh? You seem so sweet and... innocent, a good girl, but you're not are you?' that's when it gets quiet, and you let out a little whimper. Toji pauses, narrowing his eyes, staring into the phone like he misheard, but then you do it again. 'You're touching yourself to m'voice, huh doll? you're that slutty?' No one has ever talked to you like that, the gruff voice degrading you fucks you up, he hits daddy issues you didn't even know you had and you can't help what comes tumbling out of your mouth. 'come visit me.'
pornstar! toji is on a plane that fucking night, you're a few hours worth of a flight away, and it's well worth it when he rides in the back of the car to your place, and you nervously open the door. Seeing you in person for the first time, you thought it would be awkward, thought you'd be nervous, opening it wide and inviting him inside, but it's anything but that. Toji steps in like he owns the place, towering six foot plus over everything, broad shoulders nearly taking over your little door way. You inhale his musky scent as he walks in, shutting that door behind you, leaning low. 'Why don't you be a good girl, and get on your knees f'me?'
pornstar! toji pulls his leaky cock out as you do just that, sinking to your knees, your cute little top and white pleated skirt slipping up the plush of your thighs, obediently listening as he tilts your chin up. 'What if I'm... not as good as...' he pauses you then, thumb pressing between your lips, shaking his head. 'Doll, just open that pretty mouth, huh?' you obey, earning another good girl, there you go that makes you tremble, wondering how insane you are for this, but when you taste his salty precum on your tongue, swirling it around the ridge of his tip, earning his moan? You're past thinking, especially when his head rests on the door, and his huge hands hold your face in place. 'Gonna make sure your throat knows my shape'
pornstar! toji fucks into your throat, feeling you gag and choke, tears leaking from your eyes as his pre drips down your tight little throat, you're rocking back and forth against his leg, soaking him and making him throb. 'suckin' me so well too,' your throat is tightening around him in response to his husky praise, he groans now, so sensitive like he's never been. Toji can go forever, but just looking down at your pretty eyes glittering with a sheen of tears and feeling you gulping him is enough to make him bust, he has to try to hold back, brushing your hair almost tenderly. 'that's it, doll, you're perfect f'me, aren't you?' You're trembling, overwhelmed, but you don't stop, your hands gripping his thighs for balance, your nails digging into his thighs over his jeans, and that's when he pulls out, letting you gasp for air, spit and tears smeared across your face.
pornstar! toji whispers then - 'God doll, look at ya, doing such a good job' his praise makes you tremble, as he drags a thumb over your swollen lips, ones he hasn't kissed yet that are smeared with his precum and your drool. He helps you up then, turning you and kneeling, slipping your panties down your thighs, smirking as he sees them. 'Ya got Sylus on your panties?' you giggle, coughing just a bit and looking down, nodding. 'You're devoted, huh?' he slips them down to your ankle, right over a pretty pink little Mary Jane, groaning at how fucking cute you are. 'You look this cute all for me?' you bite down on your lip, hands entangling in his hair when he spins you back around, kissing hungrily up your thigh. 'I love when you tell me my outfit is cute,' you admit, so adorable and blushing, he kisses up your thighs, teeth sinking into the plush of one, moaning then. 'All of you is perfect, f-fuck look at this cunt, drippin' and I haven't even touched it? Slutty little pussy.'
pornstar! toji soon devours that pretty cunt in his face with filthy flicks of a long tongue, his sounds are lewd as he worships you on his knees, huge hands grabbing your hips and lifting you up, until you're just off the floor, thighs on other side of his head. You gasp out - 'T-toji! You can't...' he just grins against your cunt, your hands entangling in those inky locks. 'Oh you're so cute, doll, I'm gonna have so much fun ruining you,' he sucks your twitchy little clit in his hot, filthy mouth, humming on it. 'Toji!' you're screaming out as his chin drips from your soppy little hole spasming, his mouth vibrating better than any toy you've ever had, and you just let go, letting him hold you like you're nothing, shaking and arching your back, eyes rolling back in your skull.
pornstar! toji can't get enough of you, your sweet cunt just pouring, fuck he's never tasted anything better, and he's damn sure his career is ruined once he's sipping you up, his life is over on his knees, worshipping your cunt like he's praying at a fucking altar, relishing in every flick and hum until you shatter. And fuck you're beautiful when you do, going so slack he has to completely hold you up, pressing messy kisses on your clit while holding your plump lips apart, groaning against you. Toji stands right with you, throwing you around like you are a doll, about to let you know that you're a career ender, when you murmur - 'what about doing a vid with me on cam' all fucked out and dizzy.
pornstar! toji smirks now, cupping your face, kissing you with your juices as your legs wrap his hips. 'Ya wanna be a star, huh doll? well I can, but you'll only be my star, can you be that f'me?' you nod eagerly, lost in him before you've even had his cock and soon Toji is helping you set it up, being careful to block out your face just in case you change your mind, you realize how sweet he is even as he's folding you in half in a mating press, running the drooling tip of his cock between your soppy folds. 'I'm gonna fill you up so full, till you're drippin' me out on stream'
pornstar! toji makes good on that promise, he doesn’t tease your pretty little cunt long, just enough to study your pretty face, thumb brushing over your cheek reverently. He doesn't say it yet - but he's down fucking bad, in love with you, the moment his cock enters your tight little cunt. He gives you just an inch until you cry out 'more!' and then Toji gives you just that, slamming into you with one brutal thrust, filling you completely. The stretch burns, and you cry out at first, he lets you adjust for just a moment before lifting you up higher, knees damn near against the mattress, bottoming out with his tip against your cervix, you whine out weakly and your eyes lock for just a moment. 'Am I gonna be your only star?' you ask softly, he groans then, kissing you and pulling back to smile, that little scar on his lip stretching, still glossy from your cunt. 'You already are.'
pornstar! toji makes sure to get your best angles, you've been thinking of doing videos with your fan base growing, but never did you truly think of it until Toji Fushiguro. He pumps you so full of his thick, veiny cock, as the little ring light stand with your camera captures every thrust, but it doesn't capture how he cups your face, how he murmurs your name softly. It doesn't get to see how your fingers entwine at that angle, no it gets his heavy balls smacking your ass while arousal all creamy just gushes down it in pulses, but it doesn't see your little giggle or his big grin. When he asks if he can cum inside you beg for it, so eager it sends him, filling you and groaning so loud no one's ever heard him make noise like that, easing out and eyeing it then the mess you've made.
pornstar! toji uses his tip to gather that milky cum, pushing it back into you again, but he cuts the cameras soon, kissing you and making you writhe underneath him, kissing across your pretty breasts, lost in you. The next morning you wake up littered in marks from his hungry mouth, with him snoring next to you in your bed. You're nervous, but he wakes up with a smile, murmuring - 'ain't the Raf event today? Lemme stream with you.'
pornstar! toji and you are a match made in heaven, as you're pulling for cards thanks to the insane money you all made last night, and Toji's down there between your thighs where the stream can't be, lapping up your pretty, abused hole. 'R-raf come home for me,' you murmur out on the stream, while Toji grins up between your thighs, thumb running circles on your clit. 'He's my main,' Toji murmurs softly, and you can't help but cut off stream for a little 'break' and kiss your new pornstar boyfriend.
this was based on baby you're a star toji!! hehe this was so funnn and went too long for but I hope ya'll enjoyeddd - he may need his own damn oneshot AT LEAST!!!
honestly? abandoned/on indefinite hiatus/very slow to update fics, even and especially AUs and longfics, are often some of my absolute favorites. and people who refuse to read them are missing out!
for one, stories don’t have to be finished to be enjoyable and worth reading. but also? an unfinished fic is a whole little universe that just keeps on existing in my head! their world stays alive for me in a way that doesn’t always happen with fics I binge read and finish, and i love it. i don’t know how their story ends, so it just keeps going! and even when those stories DO update and finish years later, they’ve been in my head for so long that they stick around like old friends.
so to any author with unfinished works: thank you SO much for sharing what you had without waiting to finish it first. you’re just giving me the gift of getting to spend more time with your story and your idea. if you do update again someday, i’ll be delighted to jump back in! but if you don’t, just know a little piece of your world still lives on in a beloved tiny terrarium in my brain. i promise i’m taking good care of it :)
i don’t normally ask this, but if this resonates with you please reblog it, so it can reach the authors who need to hear it <3
are you in danger or in need of a good fucking?
either way, let your operator know and your call be redirected to your desired service!
a/n: coral's kinktober masterlist! masterlist is subject to change, i have a lot going on so more likely than not these will be written headcannon style so bare with me. taglist is OPEN
jujutsu fire department
⍟ come and put me out
firefighter!toji x best friend's sister!reader
featuring: secret relationship, manhandling, squirting, face fucking
synopsis: your brother, the fire captain announces to toji that you're off limits on the first day that you meet. over the course of the next few months, you encounter him many times. after he saves you from a more... personal emergency, there's only one way for you to pay him back!
