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ST☆RFUCKER (miniseries).

stargirl interlude | 18+, mild dacryphilia.

m.list | toji fushiguro x f!reader

starfucker.

clout chaser. gold digger. social climber. yacht girl. industry mattress.

you’ve heard nearly every variation by now, the words slipping through backstage curtains and across glossy dressing room mirrors, muttered by other models whenever they spot toji lingering near the runway exit, broad shoulders unmistakable beneath a tailored coat, his presence swallowing the space whole.

the tabloids recycle the same insinuations with professional enthusiasm, each headline sharpened into accusation whenever a new set of photographs surface: you straddling his lap on the deck of his yacht, sun bleaching the ocean into silver; you kissing him in the shallow end of some five star resort pool; the two of you stepping out of his matte black car outside another impossible reservation; his hand splayed low on your hip on a hotel balcony five stories above the city.

the public consensus was a monolithic judgment: you were a high-end courtesan, a girl twenty-two years of age who was transparently monetizing her youth against a man thirteen years her senior.

the narrative painted you as a predatory influencer who had climbed the social hierarchy by latching onto the legends of hollywood, and toji—a man who had been the industry’s darling since the age of sixteen—was merely the latest, most lucrative conquest.

they paired you with him in every article, a 22 year old draped over a man of 35 who had been adored by hollywood since he was sixteen, a fixture on red carpets, a face audiences trusted without question.

your dating history had become its own exhibit in the prosecution.

the media frequently recirculated the blurry, scandalous footage of you emerging from a london hotel room on your eighteenth birthday alongside sukuna ryomen, frontman of a notoriously volatile rock band, infamous for smashing guitars onstage and giving interviews that ended in public relations disasters.

he was a documented hedonist and a verified asshole who had been technically involved with a high-profile actress at the time, yet you had been the one branded as the catalyst for the fallout.

then there was satoru gojo, the golden boy actor whose smile sold out premieres and whose name trended with every trailer drop.

you’d dated him for eight months, months that coincided precisely with the largest promotional cycle of his career.

premieres, after parties, press junkets where your hand rested in the crook of his elbow.

they said you were strategic. they said he was calculating. they suggested your presence was another line item in a marketing budget.

suguru geto as well, an indie singer who also happened to be satoru’s former best friend, with a face that launched a thousand edits and a voice critics described as velvet soaked in smoke.

your relationship with him unfolded quieter, photographed in record stores and late night diners, his fingers tracing absent patterns along your wrist while he waited for coffee, yet still, the whispers persisted, reshaped into something softer yet equally dismissive, a muse narrative constructed without your consent.

naoya zen’in arrived next, what you consider to be your largest mistake after losing the saint which was suguru geto, a nepo baby actor whose surname opened doors before he even knocked.

his reputation preceded him, marred by old interviews and resurfaced controversies on his thoughts about women that bloomed online whenever he trended.

you were seen beside him at a film festival after party, laughing too close, and suddenly you were complicit in every headline that attached to his name. think pieces multiplied. your judgment became a public referendum.

each man slotted neatly into the larger accusation, as if your life were a curated portfolio of relevance, and yeah, some of your reasons for choosing those men were purely pragmatic.

you possessed an insatiable hunger to escape your shitty studio apartment in van nuys, desperate to stop living paycheck to paycheck from minor runway shows.

but a few of them you did really love, or at least liked enough to linger. yet, none of them possessed the raw, ruinous capability to fuck you like toji fushiguro could.

you rest your elbows on the cool expanse of the marble countertop, its veining pale and expensive beneath the soft undercabinet lighting, your weight sinking into it as you scroll lazily through your phone.

the kitchen smells faintly of citrus soap and something savory lingering from dinner, the hum of recessed lighting and the quiet rush of running water filling the space.

toji stands to your right at the sink, sleeves shoved carelessly up to his forearms, revealing thick veins and corded muscle that shift beneath tan skin each time he moves.

his broad back flexes beneath a worn black t-shirt that clings in all the right places, fabric stretched across shoulders built from years of stunt work and gym discipline rather than vanity. there’s a density to him, something grounded and immovable, as if the marble beneath his boots answers to him.

his hands are large, knuckles faintly scarred, one wrist carrying a thin pale line from some old on-set mishap he once dismissed with a shrug.

water runs over his fingers as he rinses a plate with slow, methodical movements, the domesticity of it at odds with the reputation that trails him. even in stillness, he carries that kinetic awareness, like he is perpetually prepared for impact.

when he turns slightly, the overhead light catches the faint scar splitting his lower lip, a thin crescent from a stunt gone wrong back in his twenties, a fall misjudged by inches and remembered in cartilage and blood.

it interrupts the symmetry of his mouth in a way that makes his smirk sharper, more dangerous. his jaw is shadowed with stubble that softens nothing, dark hair falling just slightly into his eyes until he nudges it back with the back of his wrist.

there is nothing delicate about him. everything about toji feels deliberate, heavy with experience, with history, with the quiet arrogance of a man who has survived his own recklessness and kept the souvenirs.

“you're daydreaming again, kid,” toji grunts, his voice a low vibration that seems to travel through the marble and into your ribs.

you roll your eyes without lifting your head, thumb still dragging across the screen. “no, i’m not,” you mutter, tone clipped, defensive in a way that arrives too quickly to be convincing.

the water shuts off with a decisive twist of his wrist. you barely register the sound before his shadow falls over you. your phone leaves your hand in one smooth motion, plucked from your limp fingers with infuriating ease.

you straighten immediately, annoyance flashing across your face as he angles the screen toward himself.

he scans the article in silence, jaw ticking once as his eyes move over the headline, over the photographs embedded beneath it. his mouth curves into something wry, almost entertained.

“‘model with a pattern,’” he reads aloud, voice rough with amusement. he huffs under his breath, thumb scrolling further. “they’re thorough, i’ll give them that. sukuna, gojo, the zen’in brat—” his gaze flicks sideways to you, dark and assessing. “hell of a résumé.”

you push off the counter and turn toward him, arms crossing over your chest, irritation tightening your posture. “give it back.”

he does not. instead, he lowers the phone slightly, looking at you over the top of it, eyes sharp with a humor that borders on indecent.

“they’re not wrong about a thing, either.” he adds, tone blunt. “you’ve got a habit.”

your brows knit together. “a habit?”

“yeah,” he says, stepping closer, the air between you compressing. “you like men with a spotlight and a reputation. keeps things interesting.”

you scoff, heat creeping up your neck despite yourself. “you’re one to talk.”

his mouth tilts again, slower this time. he sets the phone face down on the counter beside you, caging it beneath his palm as he moves in. his chest brushes your back, solid and warm, the contact deliberate. his hands settle at your hips, fingers spreading as if testing their claim.

with your hands flat against the marble surface, you feel the solid weight of him grounding you as he looms over you, his gaze dropping to the reflection of your lips in the polished stone with a predatory intent.

a violent chill runs through your entire frame, originating at the nape of your neck where his teeth graze the skin. the temperature of the stone against your palms feels arctic compared to the furnace of his body.

"you’ve been through the ringer with the best of them, haven't you?" he murmurs, his breath hot and steady against your ear. "they all think you're some genius at this hollywood shit."

his hands shift, his grip tightening on your hips as he pins you firmly against the edge of the island, his massive frame dwarfing yours.

the pressure of his body forces you to lean further over the marble, your chest brushing the surface as he crowds into your space.

you feel the undeniable, rigid length of him growing through the heavy denim of his jeans. he makes no effort to hide his arousal, pressing it firmly into the small of your back with a rhythmic, bruising insistence.

"is that what this is?" he asks, his voice dropping an octave, thick with a dark, simmering possessiveness. "are you just waiting for the check to clear, or am i just that much better than the rest of them?"

toji slides one hand from your hip, his palm flat and heavy as it travels up your spine, forcing your face closer to the cold marble.

his fingers tangle in your hair, tugging just enough to expose the curve of your throat to his hungry gaze. you feel the vibration of his low chuckle against your shoulder blades as he grinds his pelvis forward once more, anchoring you in place with a terrifying, carnal certainty.

you let out a shaky, jagged breath that fogs the polished surface of the counter, your eyes fluttering shut as the sensation of him overwhelms your senses.

your fingers curl, nails scratching uselessly against the marble as you try to find some semblance of stability while he looms over you.

"maybe it is the check," you whisper, your voice a decadent, taunting thread of sound that vibrates with the frantic beating of your heart.

you tilt your head back, the movement intentional and provocative as you seek out the dark intensity of his gaze.

your skin flushes a deep, hot crimson where his chest crushes against your shoulder blades, the friction of his rigid length through his jeans serving as a constant, thrumming reminder of exactly who is in control, no matter what the tabloids say about your arrangement.

"maybe i'm just waiting for the perfect moment to take every cent you've got and leave you with nothing," you continue, a small, reckless smirk playing on your lips despite the way your knees feel like they might buckle.

the silence that follows is heavy, thick with a tension so visceral it feels like a physical weight in the room.

you feel the low, rumbling growl start deep in his chest before you actually hear it, the sound traveling through your spine and settling in your gut.

his grip on your hair tightens just a fraction, a silent warning that you are playing with fire, and his other hand moves from your spine to hook under your chin, forcing you to look at his reflection in the dark stone.

"you’re a terrible liar, doll," he rasps, his voice sounding like gravel grinding together as he presses himself even harder against your backside.

he leans down until his lips are a mere hair’s breadth away from your ear, his teeth catching the lobe in a sharp, stinging nip that makes you gasp. his hand on your hip squeezes until it leaves a certain mark, his thumb digging into the soft dip of your waist with a bruising familiarity.

"you don't give a damn about the money," toji murmurs, his tone dropping into something far more dangerous and carnal. "you just like that i'm the only one who actually knows what to do with you."

toji’s response to your silence is a low, guttural sound, something between a laugh and a threat.

he releases your hair only to slide that hand downward, his palm broad and scorching as it disappears beneath the hem of your dress. the contrast of his rough, calloused skin against the sensitive silk of your inner thigh makes your breath stall in your lungs.

"let's see how much this pride is worth," he mutters, his voice thick with a dark, effortless authority.

his fingers trek upward with an agonizing slowness, hooking into the edge of your lace underwear and tugging them aside.

you feel the cool air of the kitchen hit your skin for a fleeting second before the heat of his hand replaces it, his fingers finding the slick, aching center of you with a precision that makes your toes curl against the floor.

without a hint of hesitation, he drives two thick, calloused fingers deep inside you.

the intrusion is sudden and stretching, his knuckles brushing against your folds as he begins a relentless, internal massage. his fingers work in perfect, punishing tandem; while the length of them curls upward to find the sensitive roof of your channel, his thumb establishes a heavy, rhythmic friction against your clit.

he grinds the pad of his thumb against the bud, circling and pressing with a callous expertise that ignores your desperate gasps.

he grinds his hips forward again, the rigid length of him through his denim a constant, blunt pressure against your tailbone, reminding you of the sheer size of the man pinning you to the stone.

the friction of his jeans against your backside serves as a grueling promise of what is to come, while his fingers continue to hook and pull within you, stretching you open with a clinical focus.

his free hand remains anchored on your hip, his thumb digging into your hipbone with bruising force to keep you from squirming away from the delicious friction of his fingers. he leans his weight into you, crushing your chest further against the marble until the cold stone is all you can feel in front of you and his overwhelming heat is all you feel behind.

his fingers move with a rhythmic pace, the slick sound of his work filling the quiet kitchen as he tests your limits. he watches your reflection crumble in the polished surface, tracking the way your eyes roll back and your mouth hangs open in a silent, wrecked plea.

his teeth graze the sensitive tendon of your neck, his tongue darting out to lick at the frantic pulse there before he speaks.

"look at yourself," he commands, his voice a rough rasp against your neck. "tell me which one of your little boyfriends ever made you look like this."

the slick, rhythmic sound of his fingers working inside you becomes the only noise in the room, drowning out the distant hum of the refrigerator and the wind against the windows.

toji doesn't rush the process; he possesses the patient, clinical focus of a man who knows exactly how to dismantle a machine, most likely from the other hundreds of models he’d fucked before you (but the tabloids never wanted to mention that, did they?).

he maintains that heavy, grinding pressure with his thumb, never wavering from the peak of your clit, while his two fingers hook and curl with a slow, agonizing deliberation.

you feel the internal pressure shift, your walls twitching and clenching around his hand as your body begins to climb that long, steep hill.

your breath comes in short, jagged hitches, your forehead pressed so hard against the marble that the cold begins to feel like a burn, and just as you think you’ve found the rhythm, toji grunts, the sound vibrating through his chest and into your back, forcing a third finger into you.

the addition of the third finger is blunt and uncompromising, stretching you to a point of near-delirium. you let out a low, broken moan, your hips involuntarily jerking forward to escape the overwhelming fullness, but his hand on your hipbone is an immovable anchor.

he holds you steady, his three fingers now moving in a shallow, rapid fluttering that mimics the frantic beating of your heart.

"don't you dare close your eyes," he rasps, his teeth catching the skin of your shoulder. "watch what i'm doing to you."

he continues the assault for what feels like an eternity, dragging out the tension until your muscles are screaming.

every time you feel yourself tipping over the edge, he subtly shifts the angle or slows the pace, keeping you suspended in a state of high-tension agony. his thumb never stops its brutal friction, the pad of his skin feeling like sandpaper against your hypersensitive nerves.

the build-up is slow and agonizing, a simmering heat that gradually turns into a roiling boil. your vision starts to spark at the edges, your fingers scratching deep, invisible grooves into the marble as the climax finally, mercifully, begins to break over you.

it starts as a deep, internal shudder that toji catches with his palm, his fingers widening inside you to capture every contraction as you finally snap, a high, keening wail tearing from your throat as your body collapses into the orgasm.

toji doesn't pull back even then, his thumb continuing to grind against you through the peak of the release, forcing you to endure the stinging intensity of it until your sobs turn into breathless, pathetic whines.

he waits until the very last tremor dies down, his hand still buried deep inside you, feeling the way you're pulsing around him like a dying star.

"there," he murmurs, his voice a low, satisfied rumble. "now you're ready for the real thing."

his hand moves from your hip to the button of his jeans, the metallic click echoing in the quiet, sterile kitchen. you hear the heavy slide of a zipper, a sound that carries more weight than any of the insults you read online.

he doesn’t bother kicking the denim off; he simply shoves them down far enough to free himself, the heat of his bare skin finally meeting yours where your dress is bunched up around your waist.

"hands back on the marble," he orders, his voice dropping into a low, terrifying register.

you obey instantly, your palms sliding forward until your arms are nearly outstretched, your chest pressing flat against the cold stone. the position forces your back to arch, a sharp, elegant curve that invites his ruinous weight.

toji moves into the space you’ve made, his large hands anchoring themselves on the edge of the counter on either side of your torso, effectively locking you in place.

with a single, brutal thrust, he buries himself inside you, the sheer size of him stretching you to a point that draws a sharp, pained sob from your throat.

it’s a jagged, overwhelming sensation, the kind that makes your vision blur and your fingers claw fruitlessly at the polished marble. you find yourself scratching at the expensive stone, your nails leaving invisible trails as you try to ground yourself against the relentless pace he sets.

"there you go," he grunts, his chest heaving against your back with every heavy, rhythmic hit. "show me how much of a starfucker you really are."

his movements are blunt and punishing, his pelvis slamming against you with a carnal force that rattles your entire frame.

you feel the tears prick at the corners of your eyes—not from sadness, but from the sheer, staggering intensity of being filled by him.

it’s too much, a sensory overload that makes you feel small and cherished and destroyed all at once. you love the way he ruins your carefully curated image, reducing you to a shaking, sobbing mess on a kitchen counter.

toji leans down, his sweat-slicked chest sticking to your back as he bites into the muscle of your shoulder, marking you as his own while he continues to hit that perfect, devastating spot inside you. his breath is a ragged snarl in your ear, a stark contrast to the effortless way he handles your body.

"look at me," he rasps, his hand reaching forward to grab your chin and tilt your face toward the dark reflection in the window. "show me that face the cameras never get to see."

the sensation is a chaotic symphony of friction and heat, a blinding white light that burns behind your eyelids every time his pelvis collisions with yours. you lose the ability to maintain any semblance of composure, your head lolling back against his shoulder as a high, keening sound escapes your throat.

the cold marble against your front is the only thing keeping you tethered to the room, a stark, frozen contrast to the molten fire toji is stoking within you.

he doesn’t slow down, his hands moving from the counter to your waist to jerk your hips back against his every stride. you feel your back arching even further, your spine a taut bowstring under the pressure of his heavy frame.

the friction is exquisite, a deep, resonant ache that reaches into the marrow of your bones. your nails dig deeper into the stone, the screeching sound of your manicure against the marble lost under the wet rhythm of his body.

"look at you," he breathes, his voice thick with a raw, uncharacteristic wonder that feels more intimate than a confession. "you're shining, kid."

the tears finally spill over, hot and silent, tracking down your cheeks to drip onto the counter.

it’s a religious experience, a terrifying, beautiful annihilation of self that only toji can provide. you are a stargirl, burning up in the atmosphere of his orbit, and the friction of the descent is the best thing you’ve ever felt.

"don't stop," you sob, your voice breaking as the first waves of a violent, shattering climax begin to ripple through your core. "toji, please, don't stop."

he responds by burying his face in your hair, his grip tightening until it’s almost painful, his movements becoming frantic and feral. he’s chasing the same edge you are, his breath coming in ragged, desperate hitches as he drives you both toward the inevitable, blinding end.

the sensation is a blinding euphoria, a crushing weight of pleasure that makes the air in the kitchen feel thin and electric. your body reaches its limit first, the tension in your thighs snapping as the first violent tremors of a climax seize your muscles.

toji feels the shift instantly, his low, appreciative grunt vibrating against your spine. he reaches one hand around, his palm flat against your stomach for a moment before his fingers dive lower, finding the swollen, hypersensitive center of you while he continues to drive into you from behind.

the dual friction is catastrophic. his thumb finds your clit with a ruthless, steady rhythm that bridges the gap between pleasure and a different kind of pain.

you let out a broken, high-pitched wail, your forehead dropping to the marble as your knees finally buckle, giving out beneath the sheer weight of the orgasm.

toji’s hand on your hip becomes a vise, his immense strength the only thing keeping you upright and pinned against the island while your legs turn to water as he keeps hitting that same deep, devastating spot even as your body tries to collapse into itself.

he fucks you through the entire peak, his chest heaving with a frantic, heavy desperation as he forces you to endure every lingering ripple of the release.

"not yet," he rasps, the command muffled by the hair at the back of your neck. "stay right there for me."

his movements become more erratic, more primal, his pelvis slamming into you with a blunt, bone-deep finality.

you can only sob into the stone, your fingers twitching against the marble as his breath comes in jagged, uneven bursts that burn against your skin.

he lets go of your hip to anchor both hands on the marble on either side of your head, his arms cording with tension as his resolve finally fractures, composure dissolving into an animalistic desperation.

he abandons the steady rhythm for something far more frantic and deep, crashing against you with a force that threatens to slide you right off the polished edge of the island. your muffled cries are the only sound in the kitchen, a desperate soundtrack to the way he is ruthlessly claiming every inch of you.

his fingers dig into the marble until his knuckles turn white, his arms locking with one last, staggering thrust that pins you so hard against the stone you feel the air leave your lungs.

toji lets out a low roar against the back of your neck, his entire massive frame going rigid as he finally spills deep inside of you, a sudden flooding that makes your own spent muscles twitch in a sympathetic, secondary release.

he doesn’t pull back; he stays buried within you, his chest heaving in heavy, ragged sobs of breath as he slowly collapses forward, crushing you between his sweat-slicked weight and the unyielding marble.

his heartbeat is a frantic rhythm against your shoulder blades, the only thing grounding you as the room slowly stops spinning.

for a long minute, the only sound is the cooling of the kitchen and the erratic hum of your shared breathing before toji finally exhales a long, shaky breath, his teeth grazing the shell of your ear one last time before he speaks, his voice a satisfied gravel.

"don't think for a second," he mutters, his hand sliding up to lazily tangle in your messy hair, "that any of those other pricks could ever give you that."

the suffocating silence of the kitchen is broken only by the sound of toji’s labored breathing and the steady drip of your combined fluids hitting the hardwood floor.

he finally pulls back, the friction of his exit a sharp, stinging reminder of the size of him. as his weight leaves your back, your legs immediately fail you, the muscles in your thighs twitching and shaking with a violent, uncontrollable tremor that makes standing an impossible task.

you slide down the edge of the marble, your knees hitting the floor with a dull thud, your hands still desperately clutching the counter to keep from collapsing entirely into the slick puddle on the floor beneath you, a slow, white trail already beginning to drip down your inner thigh to join the rest of the wreckage.

you look down at the floor, your vision still hazy, your chest heaving as you try to find your center.

toji stands over you, his jeans still bunched around his knees, looking down at the sight of you on the floor amidst the fluid and the cooling marble.

he lets out a low, huffed laugh, his fingers reaching down to hook under your chin, forcing your flushed, tear-stained face up to meet his satisfied gaze.

"look at that," he murmurs, his thumb tracing the swollen line of your bottom lip. "you made a hell of a mess for someone who's just here for a paycheck."

he gestures vaguely to the floor, to the evidence of how completely your body betrayed your pride, before he leans down and presses a blunt, proprietary kiss to your forehead.

"might have to call a cleaner for the floor," he grunts, the corner of his scarred mouth twitching into a smirk. "but i think i'll keep you right there for a minute longer."

he reaches down, his large hands hooking under your arms to hoist you from the floor with an effortless, jarring strength. you’re a dead weight in his grasp, your head falling back against his shoulder as the room tilts.

the slickness of his finish tracks down your legs, a warm, messy contrast to the cool air of the hallway as he begins to carry you toward the master suite.

the trek to the bathroom is silent, save for the rhythmic thud of his heavy footsteps and the ragged sound of your own recovering breath.

when he reaches the walk-in shower, he kicks the door open and turns the handle, the immediate hiss of steam filling the marble-tiled space. he doesn't set you down on the bench; he keeps you pinned against his chest for a moment longer, his eyes roaming over your wrecked, beautiful features with a dark, unreadable intensity.

"stand up," he mutters, though he keeps one hand firmly anchored on the small of your back as he lowers you into the spray.

the hot water hits your skin, washing away the sweat, the salt of your tears, and the evidence of him that had been cooling on your thighs. you lean your forehead against the wet tile, your fingers curling into the grout as your muscles finally begin to settle, the violent tremors fading into a dull ache.

toji stands at the edge of the spray, his jeans discarded now, his body a map of scars and hard muscle as he watches the water sluice over you.

he looks less like a film star and more like the predator the world suspects he is, yet he reaches out with a surprising focus, his fingers gently pushing the wet hair away from your face.

"you'll be late for your call time tomorrow if you don't sleep," he observes, his voice dropping back into that flat, clinical rasp.

you look at him through the steam, your eyes heavy and your spirit entirely spent. "the tabloids are going to have a fucking field day if i’ve got bags under my eyes and can’t walk straight."

toji lets out a low, dry chuckle, his thumb dragging across your cheekbone one last time before he turns to step into the water with you.

"let 'em talk," he grunts, pulling you back into his heat as the steam swallows you both. "they're only guessing. you’re the only one who actually has to live with me."

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