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Toji Fushiguro was not a morning person.
He was, however, a watch-your-girlfriend-wiggle-into-her-stockings person.
There were boobs out.
Just TITS. OUT. There. On full display. In the glow of morning sunlight and Toji’s increasingly horny stare.
Boob.
That was the first coherent thought in Toji Fushiguro’s poor caveman brain as he lay half-dead in your bed, one arm flopped over his eyes, the other hand s-l-o-w-l-y petting Chairman Meow, the roundest, rudest, bowtie-wearing tabby to ever grace the earth.
And Toji? Well, Toji was watching your ass.
Not in theory. Not fondly remembering it from last night—though that had definitely been top-tier, life-changing, earthquake-meets-crescendo-of-Mariah-Carey-bridge good.
No.
This man, this ex-assassin, this menace to society, this demon of your thighs, was watching your ass right now as you tried to fasten your garter belt while hopping on one foot.
You were bustling around the room like a sexy, chubby little hurricane, muttering to yourself about conference prep and presentation slides and “WHERE THE FUCK DID I PUT MY HAIR PIN—Toji did you touch it?” (he had not, to be clear. Chairman Meow was currently playing with it.)
Toji did not respond.
He was too busy ogling.
You were standing in front of your vanity, completely unaware of the ogling, dressed in nothing but your red satin underwear, hair half-curled, eyeliner sharp enough to kill, and one (1) glorious titty swinging as you adjusted the strap of your bra with a frustrated grunt.
He whistled. Low and very awake.
You jumped. “TOJI??”
“Damn,” he croaked, voice still molasses-thick and scratchy from sleep, “mornin’, sweetheart. You walkin’ out the house like that or do I gotta kill a man today?”
Your face went instantly pink. “OH MY GOD—no! I—Shut the hell up!”
“No bra. Just tits. Makin’ science sexy.” He gave a lazy, sinful smirk, still sprawled shirtless across your bed like he paid rent there.
You frantically threw a blouse over yourself. “I have a keynote presentation in like, three hours! I am not being slutty on purpose!”
He yawned. “Unfortunate.”
Chairman Meow let out a judgmental mrrrp and scratched at his leg like even he was tired of the horny.
Toji flicked the cat’s ear. “Sheesh, Meow-san, let a man simp in peace.”
You grumbled something about “goddamn feral men” and started lining up three potential outfits across the bed while Toji finally sat up, abs still obnoxiously visible and hair all mussed like he just got laid, which he very much did.
“I’m just admirin’ the view! It’s like wakin’ up in an art museum. A real bouncy one.”
You laughed despite yourself. “You’re disgusting.”
“And you love it,” he said, throwing one arm behind his head and letting the blanket slip just a little more. “Now c’mon, lemme help pick what’s gonna cover those babies up. I owe it to society.”
“Alright,” you huffed, hands on your soft hips. “Pick one.”
Toji blinked. “Wait you're actually letting me choose? I’m just gonna pick the sluttiest one.”
“That’s the idea,” you grinned, “but I have to be respectable-slightly-hot-doctor slutty, not will-fuck-in-the-breakroom slutty.”
He scratched his jaw. “That a challenge?”
“Focus, you menace.”
Toji got up (naked. Of course. Bastard, dick swinging and all) and started examining the choices.
Option A: tight pencil skirt, red blouse, glasses-on-chain-core. Option B: high-waisted swing pants and a cherry halter. Option C: black circle skirt, matching corset-style top, big ol’ belt.
All options had That Ass™ involved, obviously.
“B’s got sideboob,” he said. “But C’s got cleavage. I vote cleavage.”
“Shocking.”
He turned to the cat, who sat judging all of humanity from the pillow throne. “Yo, Chairman. Tie-breaker?”
Chairman Meow trotted up to Option C and sat on it with his entire butt.
“THE CAT HAS SPOKEN,” you declared, dramatic finger to the sky.
Toji was too busy watching your tits bounce as you danced around the room pulling on stockings. “Mmhmm,” he grunted, “You gonna walk onstage in that and get a standing ovation for both your research and your rack.”
You threw a hairbrush at him. “Innapropriate.”
He caught it, looked deeply unrepentant, and crawled back onto the bed to watch you like a wolf watching his mate gather twigs for the den or whatever.
“God,” he muttered, “gonna be thinkin’ ‘bout this ass all day. Shit ain’t fair. How’re you smart and thick and hot and nice to my murder cat?”
You smoothed your hair, ignoring the compliment stack, but your ears were turning red.
“Ma,” he said, suddenly more serious, scratching the back of his neck. “What time you get home?”
You turned to him with an eyebrow up. “Why?”
“...Might try to cook. Or I’ll get that weird vegan place you like. The one with the tofu that doesn’t taste like feet.”
Your face split into the brightest, cheesiest smile. “ARE YOU TRYING TO ROMANCE ME, FUSHIGURO?”
He shrugged, suddenly shy. “Maybe. Don’t make a fuckin’ thing outta it.”
You pounced forward, lipstick already on, and smacked the reddest kiss onto his cheek, leaving a perfect red pout mark. He blinked.
“That shit permanent?”
“Hope so.”
He tugged you by the waistband and murmured right against your lips, “Come home early. I wanna rail the Good Doctor again.”
You cackled. “Sir. I study autism in children, please don’t call me The Good Doctor—" straightening your skirt and grabbing your briefcase like the very professional adult you are, “you are the horniest bastard alive.”
He nodded. “That’s me, ma.”
“And you’re lucky I like you.”
He grinned. “Lucky you let me hit it three times last night.”
“FOUR. It was four, actually, and you almost broke my headboard—”
“You’re welcome.”
You kissed him again, this time soft and slow, and he held your waist like you were the whole world.
“See you tonight, loverboy.”
Toji watched you walk out the door—hips swaying, curls bouncing, glasses perched on your nose—and sighed, leaning back.
"Total milf."
Chairman Meow let out an unimpressed chirp.
*-*
The first thing you noticed when you walked into your apartment—after kicking off your heels and nearly chucking your presentation binder across the room—was the smell.
Food. Real food. Delicious food. FOOD THAT WASN’T MICROWAVED TOFU NUGGETS.
You sniffed the air like a rabid raccoon.
“…TOJI?!?”
From the kitchen: “Don’t panic!”
You immediately panicked.
You stumbled in to find Toji shirtless (classic), wearing an apron that said “DILF AT WORK” (concerning), hair pulled back (slight man bun Toji real), and standing over a suspiciously functional-looking stir fry.
“OH MY GOD YOU COOKED?”
“I did,” he said proudly, “and nothing is on fire.”
You blinked. “Why does it smell like real food? Did you follow a recipe??”
Toji turned to you with a dramatic chef’s bow. “I called your weird vegan place and bullied the dude into walking me through your favorite order. I made you that tofu broccoli abomination you like.”
You gasped. “YOU MEAN THE MAPO-STYLE ONE WITH THE GARLIC OIL?!?”
“I don't fuckin' know what any of that means,” he grunted, plating it, “but yeah. That one.”
You tackled him with a hug and almost knocked the pan over.
“You’re a GENIUS,” you cried. “A big, scary, sexy, GIANT-SHOULDERED genius.”
He smirked. “Kiss the chef?”
You kissed him. With tongue. You also licked his scar a little. Because gratitude.
“Go sit your hot ass down,” he said, swatting your butt as he passed. “Dinner’s served, Doctor Panty-Destroyer.”
You were halfway through your second bite of perfectly spicy tofu when you slammed your chopsticks down and exclaimed, “—and then this ASSHAT tells ME I can't quote VYGOTSKY in a CROSS-PANEL discussion?!”
Toji blinked. “Uhh. What’s a Vygotsky?”
You gestured wildly. “Oh y'know, just THE FATHER OF SOCIOCULTURAL theory!”
He nodded like that explained anything. “Sounds like a punk.”
“RIGHT?! He’s DEAD but STILL more useful than my co-chair on that board!”
“So,” he grunted back, “you win the Nobel Prize yet or what?”
You snorted. “No, but I did almost choke Dr. Kim in the elevator for calling me ‘little lady’ again.”
“Did you?”
“No, because apparently choking people is frowned upon in professional academia.”
“Bullshit.”
Toji spooned more food into your bowl. “Eat more. Yell more. Go on.”
And you were eating.
Like, actively. Deliciously because this was actually good.
“Godddd, I think this is better than orgasms right now.”
Toji raised an eyebrow. “Ma, don’t tempt me. I will make a very thorough comparison.”
“Shut up,” you said through a mouthful of noodles, “I had to explain to a whole-ass PhD panel today that my control group wasn’t trying to intentionally manipulate the data, they were just, y’know, five-year-olds.”
Toji sucked a bit of peanut sauce off his finger. “Hot.”
“No it was chaos, babe. One kid licked a USB drive. One drew a dick on my printout. One BIT my shoe.”
Toji nodded solemnly. “He’s my new favorite.”
You glared, but he gave you the smirk — the devastating one. The one that said he was gonna do something soon, and you were gonna pretend to be annoyed, but your legs would definitely be shaking after.
He kissed your forehead as he cleaned up the dishes. “You’re literally the hottest bitch I know. Fuck 'em. Not literally. Just metaphorically.”
You giggled, because he was being cute and he had tofu oil on his mouth.
“…Hey,” you whispered, tone shifting. “Thanks for cooking. Seriously.”
He shrugged. “You bust your ass helping kids, bein’ all smart and shit. You deserve a meal. And a nut.”
You choked on your rice. “TOJI—”
“I’m just sayin’,” he said casually, standing up and gathering the plates, “I made you dinner. Now I get dessert.”
You blinked. “That’s not how that works—”
“Oh no?” he smirked, cracking his neck like a horny menace. “You gonna stop me, Doctor Sits-On-My-Face?”
You shrieked.
You didn’t finish because you were suddenly being lifted. By the hips. And deposited — gently, reverently — on top of the kitchen table.
“I thought I was being punished,” you teased, half-flustered. “I left the dishwasher full, remember?”
“Oh, sweetheart,” Toji murmured, voice low and dark as sin, “this is your punishment.”
And then. Then he got on his knees.
Yes. Yes, this man, your man, the one with biceps the size of your thigh and a career in high-level security detail and the vocabulary of a drunk sailor—was on the floor. Face-first. In your thighs. In the kitchen.
“Wait wait wait, babe—wait—”
He kissed the inside of your thigh. “Don’t care.”
“TOJI THE CAT’S WATCHING.”
“Then he’s learnin’ somethin’ today.”
You shrieked, smacked him, and then forgot how to speak English for a good three minutes as he went to town. Because Toji Fushiguro ate pussy like it owed him money. Or secrets. Or a promotion.
“I said I wanted dessert,” he muttered, voice low and so fucking gravely, “and you come home lookin’ like that? Wearin’ hot lipstick on your mouth like a goddamn warning sign?”
You moaned. “That’s not what lipstick is f—OH FUCK—”
His mouth was on you. On you.
Toji ate pussy like he was making up for lost time, like he was getting paid by the whimper. Tongue deep, nose bumping your clit, hands wrapped around your thighs like he was afraid you’d run (which—fair).
He groans against you, tongue working slow and filthy, fingers gripping your thick thighs like he’s trying to merge with you spiritually.
“Oh my—OH FUCK—Toji I—”
“Shhh,” he muttered, mouth full of pussy. “You said you had a long day. Let me do my job.”
His JOB. This man was treating your pussy like a full-time gig. Like it had a benefits package. He licked and sucked and groaned like he was starving, arms wrapped tight around your thighs like he was trying to anchor himself to this plane of existence.
It’s soft. It’s nasty. It’s pure devotion.
You were babbling. Full-on nonsense. Dr. Who? You didn’t know her.
“God, you taste fuckin’ amazing,” he grunted, voice muffled by your actual pussy. “This dinner’s five stars.”
“You’re—a fuckin’ menace,” you gasped, clinging to his hair.
“Bet that Vygotsky guy didn’t eat pussy like this,” he mumbled.
Slow licks. Dirty groans. Two fingers, eventually, fucking into you slow while he sucked on your clit like it was his goddamn job.
He sucked your clit like it was the last strawberry on earth, groaning against you like he meant it, fingers working you open with such filthy, soft expertise it made your brain short-circuit.
“Fuckin’ love this pussy,” he grunted, “gets wet so fuckin’ fast for me. You miss me today, sweetheart?”
You whimpered.
He looked up at you with his messy, cocky, I’m-about-to-ruin-you expression, chin shiny, eyes dark.
“Say it.”
“Missed you, holy SHIT, Toji—”
He went back in like a man possessed.
“Oh my god—oh my god—Toji—fuck—don’t stop—”
“I wasn’t fuckin’ planning to,” he growled against you, voice all muffled and drunk on it. “You gonna cum like this, baby? Gonna soak my fuckin’ face after a long-ass day at work? Hmm?”
And you did. Loud. Clutching at his hair, legs around his shoulders, brain soup.
But of course he didn’t stop. He just looked up at you, face shiny and smug, and muttered:
“Y’know, you never whine this much unless you’re stressed. I should eat you out more. Like…prescribed medicine.”
“Toji,” you panted, trying to recover, “I will scream.”
He grinned. “That’s the goal.”
And then. Round Two.
It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t romantic. It was everything else.
You were face-down, drooling into your pillow now (yes he'd carried you to the bed), skirt bunched around your waist, and Toji’s very nice dick splitting you open from behind. Hard. Deep. Cocky.
“Hot fuckin' little scientist,” he muttered, panting, “goin’ around all day makin’ presentations, givin’ lectures, and this is what you really need, huh? Just some good dick.”
You whimpered something incoherent and tried to buck back, but he slapped your ass hard.
“Ah ah, baby. I’m doin’ the work. You’re just gonna lie there and be good and take it, yeah?”
You whined. “Fucking mean—”
He leaned over you, one heavy hand on the back of your neck, the other teasing slow circles around your clit while he pounded into you, voice low and hungry.
“You don’t need nice. You need this dick.”
And woop, in half a second you were on your back, facing him.
“I hate you,” you gasped, full-body shivering, “I hate you, you’re the worst, you—fuck—like a bitch..”
“That right?” He pressed his lips right on your pulse point “Say it again. C’mon.”
He was hitting that spot like he mapped it, like it was a science. Reaching so deep and then grinding just right against your clit like he was tuning a goddamn instrument.
“Every time I fuck you,” he growled, “you squeeze me like this—like you don’t wanna let go—shit, baby, that’s it—”
You came with a shout, legs trembling, tears springing to your eyes because it felt that good.
Toji kept going. “Fuck, you’re so good for me. So fuckin' smart. So fuckin’ pretty. Takin’ it like a fuckin’ champ—”
You groaned.
“That’s what I thought.”
He slammed back into you and you damn near levitated.
“Gonna fill you up, baby,” he groaned. “Make it hard to think. Fuck all that smart shit right outta your cute little head.”
“Please do,” you whimpered.
You pulled him down, kissed him like your life depended on it, and he melted, grinding through his own orgasm with a groan so low it rattled through your spine.
*-*
You were curled up in his chest, your cheeks still flushed and warm and your body like butter, reading a lecture proposal in your emails on your phone, while Toji lounged against the headboard — reading glasses on, hair damp from a quick shower, and a very official looking contract spread across his lap.
“I love when you read things,” you mumbled against his ribs, nipping very lightly. “Makes you look like you could actually file your taxes.”
“I do file my taxes.”
You looked up from your phone. “You threaten the H&R Block guy every year until he does them for you.”
“Efficient.”
You giggled, tracing little shapes on his chest with your free hand. “What’s the job?”
“Security detail for a political consultant. Not sketchy. Pays good. Might be a couple out-of-town nights.”
You nodded. “I’ll miss you. But I’ll also hog the bed and sleep diagonally, so it balances.”
His phone buzzed. He picked it up.
A text from Megumi: “Hi dad. We’re making slime. I got glue on my eyebrow.”
Toji smiled, that soft kind of smile, and you swore your ovaries screamed.
“Tell him I said hi!” you said.
Toji typed: “Don’t eat the glue. The smart one says hi. Sleep by 10 or I’m kicking your ass.”
Another buzz: “Ok. Also i saw your gun. Cool. Goodnight.”
Toji locked the screen and looked down at you, one arm wrapping tighter around your waist, you dropped the phone, groaned dramatically.
“You’re gonna make a really hot stepmom milf someday,” he said, nose brushing your temple.
You blinked. “WAS THAT A PROPOSAL—”
He snorted. “Nah, just a threat.”
You grinned. “Still turned on.”
He kissed your forehead. “Yeah, I know.”