#Green flags everywhere | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

cumironi · 10 days ago

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MAY MY SOUL REST IN PEACE, AMENNN f. toji

☆ sum. ever since his wife divorce him for another man, toji never was with anyone, even in having intimacy, he never had any desire to kiss, touch, even fuck anyone, until he have you on his lap, riding him in one of the stall in the club.

warning. non-sorcerer reader, toji is a mess, p sooo good he almost cries, pu$$y-drunk toji, reader having a tats piercing. rough sex, public sex (bathroom stall), unprotected vaginal sex, size kink, praise kink, dirty talk, power imbalance (older man / younger woman), age gap relationship, orgasm denial / delayed climax, handjob, cumplay (internal ejaculation, cum leaking), pu$$y worship, overstimulation, leg folding position, possessive behavior, pussy drunk characterization, public exposure risk, aftercare / caretaking, mild consensual degradation oral fixation (nipple sucking, biting), references to breeding kink (implied), swearing / explicit language.

the club was called gristle, which already told you everything you needed to know: concrete walls painted matte black and lacquered in the sweat of too many strangers, music that sounded like a blender chewing up chrome, a bar lit up like a failed attempt at divine intervention. sticky floors. bodies everywhere. it was the kind of place that made your soul itch in your ribs and your bones hum. it was hell with a cover charge and you were thriving.

you were two tequila sodas deep, blinking rhinestones stuck to your collarbones like sweat-kissed stars, and dancing like your future career depended on it. maybe it did. shoko was three drinks ahead and exactly zero inhibitions behind. she was the kind of girl who never danced to the beat of the song—just the beat of spite. the kind of sway that said fuck you, yes you, i’m smarter than you, and i’ll outdrink you too. her cigarette was tucked behind one ear. a forgotten white flag.

“gojo’s in the dj booth trying to suck off the strobe light again,” she slurred into your shoulder.

you turned just in time to see gojo doing a very illegal-looking worm across the raised platform, flanked by a gaggle of girls who looked like they were filming a live breakdown for instagram. geto was sitting on the edge of the booth, draped in his coat like a tired mob wife, nodding along to whatever existential crisis the beat was currently having.

you laughed until your mascara creased. and then.

then.

a split-second crack in the atmosphere. a slither in your peripheral. someone watching you—not in the usual way, not the club way, the predatory frat-boy way—but something heavier. older. slower. the weight of it hit you somewhere between your stomach and your spine.

you turned.

and there he was.

he looked out of place in the same way a butcher knife looks out of place in a school lunchroom. not wrong, not technically, just... deeply inappropriate. green jacket, black tank, that wide-built way of holding himself like he didn’t trust the world not to jump him at a red light. a thick scar ran down the corner of his mouth like a cruel afterthought. he had a drink in one hand, pinky ring glinting under the lazy spin of a broken disco ball, and he was sucking a tooth with a mouth made for war crimes.

next to him sat another guy—sleek, fox-faced, gold chain and a tattoo that slithered up his neck like a wine stain—but he wasn’t looking at you.

toji fushiguro was.

not like he was checking you out. not like he was undressing you with his eyes. not like a man drunk on his own age gap perversions. he was looking at you like he recognized you. like you’d been a thorn in his side in another life. like you were the sound of the trigger just before it broke.

he didn’t smile.

he didn’t look away.

and you—because you were drunk and stupid and it was the last week of finals and your body was humming from the low voltage burn of too much bass and not enough shame—you didn’t look away either.

you reached up, swiped a smear of glitter from the hollow of your throat, and licked it off your finger.

toji’s jaw flexed.

“you seeing that?” shoko asked beside you, voice dry and amused like she was watching a nature documentary and you were the gazelle about to get railed.

you didn’t answer.

because his eyes—god, his fucking eyes—they were the kind that said i haven’t had sex in years, and i will wreck you like it's penance. he looked like he hadn’t touched anyone since the divorce. like he hated that he still wanted to. like the wanting itself was its own dirty little sin.

he leaned back in the booth, legs spread obscenely wide, the kind of man who made space by taking it. his hand moved, slow, up to his mouth, dragging a thumb along his lower lip.

you felt it like a bruise blooming.

shoko snorted. “bitch, he’s gonna eat you alive.”

“maybe i wanna be eaten.”

she shoved her drink into your hand. “then go get digested.”

you turned back to him.

he was still watching. still calm. like he had all the time in the world to decide whether or not to ruin yours.

and you?

you smiled.

because sometimes, finals week ends with a degree. and sometimes it ends with a man who hasn’t touched a single soul since his wife left him looking at you like you were the last bad decision he’d ever make. but, you don’t know that yet.

the bass dropped again.

so did your common sense.

toji didn’t blink.

not when the lights strobed red-blue-red like a police raid inside your chest. not when someone spilled a drink too close to his boots. not when the fox-faced man beside him leaned in and said something—low and fast and close to his ear.

toji just nodded. lazy. like the nod was a formality. like whatever was said didn’t need his actual attention. his eyes never left you. not even for a second. he exhaled through his nose. slow. and then, with a flick of his wrist, the friend stood and left, disappearing into the crush of the crowd like he’d never been real. no goodbye, no handshake, no dap, no nothing. the seat was empty. the booth swallowed the vacancy like it was always meant for someone else.

the song changed. again. it had probably changed five times. you didn’t know. didn’t care. toji leaned back just a little further. the way a lion does when it’s already decided to pounce but wants to stretch first. his ring tapped the glass once. then he licked his bottom lip.

and that—

that was your fucking cue.

“he’s alone now,” you said to shoko, eyes still locked on his like they were glued to the roof of your own dumb horny brain. “and i just made a terrible decision in my mind that i would like to make worse in person.”

shoko didn’t even look. she just grabbed your cup and said flatly, “you go, sluts.”

“thanks, sluts.”

“godspeed, sluts.”

toji watched your approach like you were a slow car crash. like he didn’t want to stop it.

and then you were gone, cutting through the crowd like a little dumb thirsty dagger, the kind that didn’t kill, just ruined. your path to him wasn’t straight. it wobbled.

hips out of time with your legs, heartbeat too loud in your ears, glitter smudged down one cheek like a finger had already been there. every single person in the club was suddenly nothing but smoke and background static. the music, a dull throb behind the real percussion of your blood.

and when you stopped at the edge of his booth, one hand on the lip of the velvet seat, mouth parted just enough to be accused of thinking nasty things—

he tilted his head.

he looked down, slow, dragging his gaze over your body like a confession, then back up again.

he still hadn’t smiled.

he didn’t need to.

you were already fucked.

the booth was one of those deep, curved ones, made for mafia deals or the kind of drunk makeouts that ended in pregnancy scares and spiritual awakenings. the leather was the kind of cracked that whispered rumors about what had gone down here over the years—piss, blood, cum, cheap perfume, shame, maybe in that order. red vinyl, sticky in a way that suggested the cleaning crew gave up back in 2019. it curved around the edge of the room like the mouth of something hungry, all teeth and shadow and bad ideas.

toji sat dead center. like a throne. like he knew you’d come.

you hovered at the edge a second too long—long enough to register the way his thighs spread under the table, long enough to see the glass in his hand was more ice than liquor, long enough to feel the bass tremble up your calves and settle right behind your teeth. he didn’t say anything. didn’t lean forward. didn’t offer you a seat. didn’t look away.

so you climbed in.

slow. dramatic. like you’d rehearsed it. thigh first, then the swing of your leg over the lip of the booth, one hand braced on the table, the other catching the hem of your skirt as it threatened to ride too high. you slid in beside him, but not next to him. no. you gave him space. gave yourself room to breathe. gave the night a chance to hesitate. you slid in just far enough that your knee could maybe touch his if you angled wrong, just far enough that your perfume would reach him, but your intentions would still look innocent if someone were watching.

he looked at you then.

not a turn of the head. not a shift of his shoulders. just the eyes—those fucking eyes—cutting sideways like a blade, like a car mirror catching you just before it hits. they dropped again. took in your legs. your stomach. your mouth.

slowly.

like he had time. like he wasn’t planning anything. like he absolutely was. he took a sip from his glass. ice clicked against his teeth. “you here with your little boyfriend?” he asked, voice rough, deep, the kind of voice that sounded like it had gravel for breakfast and a grudge for dessert.

you blinked.

“what?”

toji tilted his chin toward the dance floor. “glitter rat in the booth. blonde. yelling at the DJ.” you glanced back. gojo was on his fourth attempt at beatboxing into a mic that wasn’t even plugged in. “jesus christ,” you muttered, then looked back at toji. “no. he’s just allergic to dignity.”

toji hummed. then his thumb brushed the condensation off the side of his glass, slow, deliberate. you watched the motion, unblinking. he tapped the glass against the table. “what about the girl? the one with the dead fish stare and a vendetta against buttons.” you grinned. “shoko? also not fucking her. though she’d be the one doing the fucking.”

“mm,” he said, not quite smiling, not quite breathing.

your knee brushed his. just barely. enough to count.

“you’re really checking out my whole friend group before you even ask my name?”

toji’s gaze flicked to you, then back to his glass. “don’t need your name,” he said. “i just wanted to make sure no one was gonna cry when i take you into the bathroom.” the air went out of you like someone had lit a match in your lungs. not subtle. not flirty. not pretending.

you swallowed. slowly.

“bold of you to assume i cry after.”

toji smirked then. not wide. not pretty. crooked. mean. like it hurt to do it. like he hadn’t done it in a while and wasn’t sure it was still worth the trouble. but it was a smile. for you. and something about it made your stomach twist like your bones were folding inward.

he reached across the table and stole your drink—no asking, no gesture, just took it from your hand like it already belonged to him—and sipped it. eyes never leaving yours.

“tequila,” he muttered. “figures.”

“and what the fuck does that mean?”

he shrugged. “means you want to do something stupid. something you can’t admit you want. something you’re gonna lie about to your friends in the morning.”

you stared at him.

and hated how right he was.

you leaned in, breath catching just slightly. “okay. and what do you want?” toji leaned back again, arm stretched across the back of the booth. his fingers—long, veined, scarred, absolutely filthy—rested behind your shoulder, not touching, just close enough to feel the heat.

he gave a lazy, brutal smile.

“i want to remember what it feels like to ruin someone.”

instead, you leaned in closer.

your throat went dry. your pulse tried to climb out of your neck.

you swallowed hard. you should’ve left. should’ve said something clever. should’ve laughed and slipped away and found someone safer to flirt with. someone your age. someone with a nice apartment and a philosophy minor.

and whispered, “bathroom’s to the left.”

he didn’t move. not yet. just gave you another look. slow. bottom to top. the kind of look that peeled layers. stripped the glitter off your skin. that set a small, sharp flame behind your belly button and said, “we’re not gonna be gentle. we’re not gonna be kind.”

toji downed the rest of his drink in one go.

and stood.

“don’t fall in love,” he said over his shoulder as he moved toward the hallway.

you followed. because it was already too fucking late.

the hallway to the bathroom was narrow, humid, and alive in the way all bad decisions are—pulsing with leftover bass, lit by flickering red neon that made everything look like it was soaked in blood and bad taste. a warped “EXIT” sign hung above the far end like a lie, like hope, like something god had given up on. the walls were sticky, painted black, smeared with the fingerprints of too many hands that didn’t belong anywhere else. you could hear the music still, like it was coming from inside your chest. or his.

toji walked ahead of you with the kind of gait that didn’t need to check behind him to know you’d follow. wide shoulders, unhurried steps, a slight roll to his hips like he was dragging the entire fucking world behind him and had made peace with it. he didn’t look back. he didn’t say anything.

and you—fucking idiot, slut in progress, full of bad glitter and worse ideas—you followed him like the devil never lied, heels sticking to the floor, chest rising and falling too fast, heat crawling up the backs of your knees like it had teeth.

you passed a couple making out against the wall, faces crushed together like starved dogs. a guy throwing up in a bucket with a girl patting his back like she loved him for it. someone crying into a mirror, mascara smeared down their cheekbones like war paint. all of it faded. all of it backdrop.

your whole body was zeroed in on him.

toji pushed open the bathroom door without ceremony. it creaked. like it had a vendetta.

the club bathroom was exactly what you expected from a place called gristle: a flickering fluorescent above the mirror, one stall door missing entirely, cracked tiles that looked like someone had lost a fight with their reflection. the floor was wet. you didn’t ask with what. the whole place smelled like bleach, piss, and someone’s regretful aftershave.

but the last stall—the farthest one, the only one with a working lock—was open.

he walked straight in.

paused.

turned halfway in the doorway, one hand braced on the chipped frame, and finally looked at you again. like a challenge. like a dare. like he wasn’t gonna pull you in. not unless you stepped forward yourself. “last chance,” he said, voice low, rough, carrying that kind of warmth that only exists inside furnaces and buried trauma. “you got about three seconds to decide whether you’re gonna regret this.”

you laughed.

it came out a little wild. a little cracked.

“bitch, i already regret it.”

and then you stepped in.

he closed the door behind you. it clicked shut like the start of a ritual.

now it was just the two of you, breathing the same stifling, chemical-washed air, shadows cast sharp and ugly across your faces by the single busted light overhead. you could see the sweat beading at his temples, the shine of it along the thick cut of his throat. you could see the scar on his lip, and the deeper one under his jaw, like someone had tried to silence him with a blade and failed. his eyes were even worse up close—mean, ancient, alive in the way fire is alive when it’s out of control. they flicked over you with slow, deliberate weight.

he didn’t touch you.

he didn’t need to.

he just looked.

and it felt like a strip search. like a dissection. like you were standing naked already, ribs cracked open, heart fluttering like it knew what was coming and wanted to hide behind your lungs. “what’s your name?” he asked suddenly, voice pitched like he didn’t care but also like he needed it for something he didn’t want to name.

you hesitated.

then said it.

he rolled it around in his mouth. didn’t repeat it, just tasted it, the way a man might taste a curse or a memory or a prayer he wasn’t allowed to say. “huh,” he said. “too pretty for the kind of shit you’re about to let me do.” you were about to shoot back something equally stupid, something unhinged, something desperate and mean and wet with anticipation—

but he took a step closer.

just one.

and it was enough to send your breath hitching and your back pressing gently against the wall of the stall like you needed to hold the whole building up. you could smell him now—cigarettes, aftershave, sweat, and something else, something feral and tired and male, the kind of scent that made you feel like a house left unlocked.

he raised a hand.

not to grab you. not yet. he just rested it on the wall beside your head, knuckles ghosting the tile, his eyes boring down into yours like he was looking through you. like he was checking for rot.

“you don’t even know how good you look right now,” he murmured, and his voice sounded wrecked—torn at the edges, too old for this, too fucked up to know better, too close to the edge.

you whispered, “then tell me.”

he laughed.

short. breathy. not nice.

“nah,” he said. “gonna show you.”

still—still—he didn’t touch you.

he let the silence wrap around the both of you like plastic, like a vacuum seal, like the breath between the lightning and the thunder. he let you feel the heat crawling up your neck, let your hands twitch at your sides like they wanted something to hold onto before the world caved in.

his eyes didn’t leave yours. not once.

and when he finally, finally leaned in, mouth brushing close enough to yours that you could feel the shape of the words more than you heard them, he said—

“say please.”

you exhaled so sharply it stuttered.

and then—

“no.”

his grin was all teeth. no mirth. no kindness. just hunger dressed up like satisfaction.

“good,” he said. “don’t beg yet.”

and he leaned back.

waited.

waited for you to break first.

and fuck—

you wanted to.

you moved without thinking. or maybe you were thinking too much—just not with the part of your brain responsible for restraint. maybe it was the tequila, or the way his voice slithered under your skin like something hot and reckless, or the way he still hadn’t touched you first, like he was trying to prove a point. you pushed him.

both hands flat against his chest, sudden, hard, more force than you meant but less than he deserved, and he let you, let you shove him back until he stumbled into the closed janitor’s closet behind him. his legs hit the lip of the metal threshold, knees bending with a grunt, and he sank down onto the makeshift seat like he wanted to be there—like he’d planned it all along.

and then his hands—fuck, those hands—were on your thighs.

rough palms, calloused fingers, thick enough to bruise without meaning to. he didn’t trail them up. didn’t tease. he gripped, greedy, dragging you forward like you were already claimed. his touch lit a fuse somewhere behind your sternum. your breath stuttered, caught, and your hips moved before your mind caught up, knees hitting the outside of his legs as you let yourself be pulled between them like gravity was a kink.

your hands landed on his shoulders to steady yourself, fingertips pressing into solid muscle wrapped in cotton and heat. you could feel it—him—beneath the thin fabric of his shirt: the thick slope of his traps, the unforgiving hardness of a man who spent too much time in fights and not enough in therapy.

“jesus,” you breathed, unthinking.

“what?”

your palms slid over the lines of him, feeling the definition like it had something to tell you, like each inch of him was a secret your hands could decode.

“you’re so fucking hot,” you muttered, half to yourself.

toji chuckled. it was low and mean and full of dirt. like he’d heard it before, but it still pleased him in that deeply male, deeply awful way.

“you climbin’ on or just gonna compliment me to death?”

you didn’t answer.

you straddled him.

slow, deliberate, dragging your knees over his thighs until your hips settled down onto his lap, the heat of him pressed tight against the inside of your thighs like a confession he didn’t have to say out loud. you wrapped your arms around his neck, trying not to moan at how fucking big he was—everything about him. wide shoulders. thick neck. those awful, perfect hands still gripping your thighs like he owned them.

your nose brushed against his jaw, and for a second, you didn’t move. didn’t kiss. didn’t speak.

you just inhaled.

his scent hit you in the teeth—spice and sweat and something darker, older, something like woodsmoke and nights without sleep. it wasn’t cologne. it was him. it made your eyes flutter shut for a second longer than you meant to.

then your lips ghosted against the side of his neck, soft, barely there, just enough to taste the salt and heat of him. “what’s your name?” you asked into his skin, voice breathless. he didn’t answer right away. you kissed his neck again, slower this time, tongue just barely tasting him. he exhaled, rough. “toji.”

you hummed like it was a meal, a warm word you could chew on. “toji,” you repeated, testing it, letting it sit on your tongue like liquor.

you kissed just under his jaw. “are you married, toji?”

he huffed. not quite a laugh.

“nah. divorced. long time ago.”

you let your lips linger at his throat, barely touching, feeling his pulse jump just under the skin. “why’d she leave?” his voice was quiet this time. bitter. real. “ran off with some other guy. wanted something better, i guess.” you pulled back a little, just enough to look at him, brushing a stray piece of hair off his forehead with one finger. he was staring at you, eyes darker now, more guarded, but not pulling away.

you tilted your head and said, low and smug and filthy-sweet, “someone’s trash is someone’s treasure, y’know.”

toji snorted. actually snorted, head tilting back slightly, a rough sound in the back of his throat like amusement had caught him off guard. his hands flexed on your thighs, thumbs digging into the meat like he needed an anchor.

“you callin’ me trash, baby?”

you grinned, lips brushing against his cheekbone.

“only if you want me to recycle you.”

his laugh this time was full—short, sharp, almost surprised. you felt it through your whole body, the vibration rolling up his chest into yours. he looked at you like you were an accident he wasn’t sure he regretted yet.

“you’re mouthy,” he muttered.

“you’re old,” you shot back.

“and yet,” his hand slid up, resting heavy against your ass, “you’re in my lap.”

you leaned in again, lips brushing against the shell of his ear.

“so what’re you gonna do about it?”

toji leaned back, just enough to look you in the eyes, a slow, deliberate smirk pulling at the scar on his lip.

“whatever the fuck i want.”

you smiled.

“good.”

your hands started moving before your mouth did—fingers trailing down the slope of his shoulder, slow and shameless, brushing over the tight fabric of his shirt, down across the sharp cut of his chest. you could feel the muscles shift beneath your palms, all dense and unforgiving, like stone that had decided to grow teeth. he wasn’t just strong. he was engineered. like god got horny once and never did it again.

you were still waiting for him to touch you properly.

but you were starting to think the waiting was the whole goddamn point.

you dragged your fingers lower, feeling every groove of him, every inch mapped like sin beneath your hands. his abs were taut, hard, ridiculous—less six-pack, more topographical map of a mountain range you wanted to get lost in. they flexed when you touched them, a subtle twitch under your fingertips like his body was reacting on its own, and it made your thighs clench around his lap.

“jesus christ,” you muttered, reverent and obscene at once. “what the fuck do you do? bench-press small cars? choke people for a living?”

toji smirked without answering. that same little twist of his mouth, one corner pulling up like it wanted to make fun of you, like it knew how dumb you sounded—like he made people talk like that just by existing. you didn’t let him speak. you pushed your palm flat against the cut of his abs, slow circles, down toward his navel, and grinned, breath hot against his jaw.

“i could literally squirt just from humping your stomach,” you said, blunt as a knife. “just grind on these things like a fucking degenerate and ruin your whole shirt.”

toji barked out a short, rough laugh—sharp enough to show teeth, mean enough to make your pulse stutter. “you’re disgusting.”

“and you’re enabling me.”

“you say that like it’s a problem.”

you let your hand drift lower still—not far enough to be a real threat yet, just enough to tease, then slid it back up again, slowly, nails dragging over the ridges of his stomach like you were mapping the way you’d ride him. your other hand stayed locked behind his neck, nails lightly scraping along the curve of his nape, anchoring you there in his lap, where you didn’t belong, where you wanted to live forever.

and then your hand found his chest again.

specifically; his nipple.

you didn’t hesitate. just caught it between your thumb and finger and gave it a little tug.

he flinched.

not big. not obvious. just a twitch—shoulders shifting under your palm, his hips tightening under yours, a low sound catching in his throat like something he hadn’t meant to make. and it lit you up. a flare of heat, sharp and fast, blooming behind your sternum like something you’d swallowed was fighting to get out.

“huh,” you said, grinning like a cat with something twitching between its teeth. “you’re sensitive.”

toji’s eyes flicked up to meet yours, slower than before. darker.

“keep talkin’ like that, baby,” he said, low and warning, “you’re gonna find out how long it’s been since someone made me come.”

your stomach flipped.

not from fear. from anticipation.

you pinched again, slower this time, more curious than cruel, watching the way his chest moved with the pressure, how his breath hitched before he swallowed it down. “i like you like this,” you murmured, leaning in again, lips brushing the underside of his jaw. “all rough and ready to break shit, but twitchy when i touch you just right.”

“nobody touches me like that.”

you kissed just below his ear.

“shame,” you said.

your voice dropped to a whisper, low and mean and sweet at once.

“i’ll fix that.”

he exhaled hard through his nose, chest rising beneath your hand. his fingers dug harder into your thighs, like he wanted to grip bone, like he wanted to see if your skin would remember him tomorrow.

“you’re not scared of me,” he muttered, almost like it was a question.

“should i be?”

his lip twitched. “probably.”

you smiled, letting your lips ghost over the sharp angle of his jaw, thumb brushing lazily across his nipple again, slower now, testing him. “then maybe i want to be a little scared.”

his hands slid higher on your thighs, thumbs pressing in slow circles, rough, patient, menacing, the kind of touch that wasn’t asking for permission—it was letting you pretend you still had a choice.

“you keep teasing like that,” he said, voice lower now, quieter, dead calm, “and i’m gonna stop being polite.” you rolled your hips forward just enough to feel him through his jeans—hot, hard, there. “you’ve been polite?” you said, eyes wide and false, mocking. “this is you being polite?”

he laughed again. slower this time. darker.

“baby,” he said, fingers curling into your skin, “you have no fucking idea.” and still—he hadn’t kissed you. not once. and it was driving you insane.

you were perched in his lap like temptation incarnate, like a sin wrapped in skin and glitter, thighs bracketing his like you were made to ride things that broke people, hands still playing soft and obscene over his chest like you didn’t know what restraint meant, like you were touching something sacred just to see if it bled.

toji hadn’t moved much. not in the obvious way. not in the way most men do when they’ve got someone straddling them, whispering filth into their jaw like a sacrament. no, he was too still, too composed, like a bomb wired too carefully to detonate early. like he wanted to wait. to build it. let it stretch. to hold onto the tension until it snapped in your mouth.

your fingers were still teasing across his chest—idling over the muscle, flicking once more over that sensitive spot just beneath his nipple, watching for the way his stomach flinched or the corners of his mouth twitched. you liked it. you loved it. how it made him twitch, how it made his hands twitch harder against your thighs like they wanted to move but were waiting for your next line, like he wanted to see just how much worse you could get.

you leaned in again, lips hovering by his throat, breath hot and unkind.

“you ever had a girl ride your abs?” you asked, voice like melted sugar poured down someone’s back—sweet, but meant to burn. “like, actually just sit on your stomach and get off like it was nothing? bet they haven’t. bet none of them could handle it.”

his breath stuttered.

“jesus,” he muttered.

“nah,” you grinned, dragging your teeth just lightly along his neck, not biting—yet—just there, a whisper of promise. “but you can call me that if it helps.” he growled. actually growled. a sound low in his chest like something cornered and annoyed it liked it.

and finally—finally—his hands left your thighs. not far, just sliding up, rough palms dragging over your skin, slow and heated and full of intent. he cupped your hips like he was trying to feel the bones underneath, thumbs pressing into the meat of you with a bruiser’s patience.

you moved against him—barely, just a roll of your hips, a shift that let your weight settle over the thick press of him under his jeans, and god, fuck, it felt obscene. it made your breath hitch and his jaw clench, and the stall felt too small for what was building, the air too thick, like you were breathing in each other’s heat, each other’s worse instincts.

you whispered, lips against the shell of his ear, “you like this?”

toji didn’t answer right away. just let his hands slide down again, gripping tighter, thumbs dipping under the hem of your skirt like they were testing your limits.

“you know how long it’s been since anyone touched me?” he said, voice low, almost flat, like he wasn’t sure why he was telling you. “since anyone looked at me without seeing a mess, a fuckin’ has-been?”

you pulled back, just a little, enough to look at him, eyes meeting his with something like interest wrapped in something darker. not pity. not sympathy. just hunger. focused and real.

“how long?” you asked softly, fingers still on his chest, dragging down again, slow and hungry. he looked past you for a second. somewhere to the side. not even seeing the busted stall wall anymore. something older, in his voice now. broken-glass honesty.

“eight years. almost nine.”

you stared.

and then, with a wicked little smile curling your lips, you whispered, “someone’s trash…”

toji’s mouth twitched.

“…is someone’s treasure,” you finished, breathless, grin wide and smug and so, so stupid.

he barked a laugh, surprised and feral.

“you really just called me trash again.”

you shrugged. “i mean. recycled goods. eco-conscious dick. saving the planet.”

“you’re fucking insane,” he said, voice pitched like he might start laughing again or snap your waistband with his teeth.

you leaned forward, pressed your forehead against his, your lips barely a breath from his. “and you’re letting me sit on your lap in a bathroom stall. so what does that make you?”

he grinned.

all teeth. all bad decisions.

“about to make the worst choice of my goddamn life.”

“good,” you breathed. “i was worried we were on different pages.”

your arms wrapped tighter around his neck, fingers curling into the hair at his nape. his hands slid back up, under your skirt now, warm palms against your ass, fingers flexing like he needed to touch you everywhere before his brain caught up.

and still.

he hadn’t kissed you.

and you were starting to go crazy with it.

your eyes met again. his were darker now. heavy. hungry.

but he waited.

he wanted you to crack first.

“fucking kiss me,” you hissed, voice wrecked.

he smirked.

“say please,” toji said again, like a fucking ritual, and this time—

this time you almost said it.

you held his stare like a dare, like you were trying to outlast a god, both of you locked in this awful, exquisite standoff of breath and blood and the terrible pressure of almost—his hands hot on your hips, your thighs burning around him, the tension between your bodies so taut it felt like it would hum if someone plucked it. and still, no kiss. not yet. like he needed one more act of worship before he let your mouths meet. like he wanted you naked before he let himself feel anything sweet.

fine. fuck it. you’d do it yourself.

you shifted in his lap, slow and deliberate, dragging your hands back from his shoulders to the hem of your top, fingers curling under the fabric like you were peeling off something sacred. you kept your eyes on his—watching the way his pupils swallowed up the green when he realized what you were doing—lifting your shirt up over your ribs, higher, higher, until the fabric slipped past your chin and you tossed it off to the side without ceremony.

no bra. piercings.

because of course not.

just bare skin and pierced nipples, glinting silver in the dirty fluorescent light like jewelry for the kind of girl who knew she wasn’t soft, who never pretended she was.

you didn’t speak.

you just sat there, half-naked in his lap in a goddamn club bathroom, chest heaving, nipples hard in the cold air, the metal rings catching the light like something dangerous, something mean, something that needed to be touched wrong to be touched right. and you watched him, watched how he breathed—just once, just sharp—and how his hands flexed like they didn’t know whether to grab your waist or punch through the stall wall.

“well, fuck me,” toji muttered, voice thick now, ruined with it. “no wonder you’ve been talking like you wanna go to hell. you’re built like you already run the place.”

you smiled, smug and filthy and lit from within.

“told you,” you whispered. “eco-conscious. sustainable. slutty.”

his mouth twitched. not a full smile—he was too gone for that now, too inside-out with the need to play it cool—but it was there. something dangerous and animal moved across his face, and then he leaned in. you thought he was finally going to kiss you. you felt it. the moment before detonation. but instead— his head dropped.

and he latched onto your nipple.

“fuck—”

your back arched like a whip, hands flying to his shoulders again, nails digging in without thinking, mouth falling open with something more breath than sound. toji sucked, slow and heavy, his tongue sliding over the barbell and pressing into the sensitive flesh around it like he wanted to make you cry. his mouth was hot, his stubble scraped, and when his teeth grazed just a little too sharp you gasped, hips rolling down into his lap like it was reflex.

his hands gripped your ass again, anchoring you, holding you down while he switched sides, mouth closing over your other nipple like he was starving and you were something he’d earned by bleeding for it. his groan vibrated through you, low and primal and filthy, and when he pulled back there was spit on your skin, cooling fast, and his face was flushed in a way that made something deep in your belly twist and spark.

“jesus christ,” he said hoarsely. “you’re unreal.”

“you’re the one with your mouth on my tits,” you shot back, voice too high, too tight, shaking a little, “don’t go blaming me now.”

“not blaming,” he muttered, still staring at your chest like he might bite again. “just... christ. you’re like a fuckin’ problem someone dared me to solve with my mouth.”

and then—finally—he moved.

his hand came up, one big palm on the side of your face, warm and rough and steady, and his thumb brushed over your cheek like he was trying to decide if you were real. your breath caught. your whole body tightened.

and then he kissed you.

hard.

not sweet, not gentle, not even patient. just full, just everything, like he was trying to make up for every minute he hadn’t touched you, every year he hadn’t been touched himself. his mouth crashed into yours with the force of someone who’d been starving for too long and had finally been thrown a pulse, all teeth and tongue and hunger, one hand cradling your head and the other gripping your ass like he wanted to fuse you to him.

you moaned into his mouth, loud and broken, grinding down against his lap because your body didn’t know what else to do, because he tasted like heat and fury and something lost, and you never wanted to stop.

“toji,” you gasped against his lips, not even knowing what you were going to say next.

he pulled back just enough to growl, “yeah?”

and you didn’t say anything.

you just kissed him again, harder, because there was no language for this anymore. just mouths. and need. and heat. and the feeling that if you weren’t careful, this man was going to leave fingerprints on your soul.

the kiss was a full-body event, not just mouths but movement, grip, heat, the wild pressure of skin-on-skin with nowhere to go and too much to say. it didn’t matter that you were half-naked in a club bathroom stall where the floor smelled like a crime scene and the walls were so thin you could hear someone vomiting two doors down—none of that mattered, because toji’s mouth was on yours like he was carving something out of you, like he was writing his name behind your teeth, and you were letting him, eagerly, shamelessly, drunk on it, high on it, completely undone.

his tongue pushed past your lips like he belonged there, slow and deep, not searching—claiming, like he’d waited a decade for a mouth that tasted this wrong and this right all at once. you moaned into it, hands tangling in his hair now, that thick, unruly mess of black you wanted to pull until he begged, your body moving without your consent, grinding against his lap like a goddamn heat-seeking missile. every movement made you more desperate, more soaked, more stupid, and the worst part was he knew it—you could feel it in the way he kissed you, like he was humoring your urgency but didn’t need to rush, because he could have you whenever he wanted.

“fuck,” he muttered against your lips, pulling back just enough to look at you—flushed, breathless, pupils blown wide like a blackout curtain had dropped behind his eyes. “look at you. look at you, fuckin’ shaking just from kissing.”

“you kiss like it’s a crime,” you gasped, but it came out half a whimper, too much pleasure in your voice to be convincing. “like—fuck—like you’re trying to make me come with your mouth alone.”

toji grinned, cocky and dangerous and filthy.

“maybe i am. you wet for me already, sweetheart?”

you didn’t answer, because your hips were doing it for you—rocking down against his jeans with so much friction you wanted to cry, the seam catching you just enough, the pressure building, and his cock so hard beneath you it felt like punishment. you were dripping, underwear soaked through, thighs shaking, and his hands weren’t helping—palms wide on your ass, rocking you down, grinding you into him like he wanted to wear you out before he even got your panties off.

“fuckin’ soaked, aren’t you?” he said, voice a rasp now, low and hot in your ear. “you’re gonna leave a mark on my fuckin’ jeans, baby. ruin me before i even get my dick out.”

“then do it,” you snapped, voice wrecked. “let me. let me ruin you.”

toji groaned, head dropping to your shoulder as he laughed, low and obscene.

“shit. listen to you. needy little brat.”

you tightened your grip on his shoulders, biting down on a gasp as he rocked you harder against him, the rhythm slow but filthy, your clit catching against the fabric with every pass, the wetness between your legs making your thighs slick where they touched his jeans.

“look at you,” he said again, voice softer now but still thick with want. “grinding like a fuckin’ bitch in heat. that what you need, baby? someone to tell you how good you are while you ride his lap in a public bathroom like a fuckin’ slut?”

“yes,” you breathed, and there was no dignity in it, no irony, just raw honesty. “yes, yes, fuck, say it again.”

he sat up straighter, one hand sliding up your back, warm and steady, the other gripping your hip tight enough to leave bruises. his lips were back on your throat now, trailing kisses—no, bites, little sharp things that made you twitch and gasp and roll your hips harder.

“you’re so good,” he growled. “so fuckin’ pretty like this. filthy little thing. bet no one’s ever let you get this messy before.”

“they haven’t,” you whispered, high and wild and broken.

“of course they haven’t,” he muttered, hand sliding between your bodies now, cupping your pussy through your soaked panties. “’cause they’re not me.”

you cried out when his fingers pressed down, through the fabric, right against your clit, and he just held them there, didn’t move yet, just the pressure of it, the presence of it, as if to say i can give you everything, but only if i want to.

“you’re shaking,” he said again, almost in awe. “look at you. fuck. look how bad you want it.”

you nodded, frantic, rolling your hips, chasing the friction.

“please,” you whispered. “please, please—”

toji leaned in, mouth on your jaw, lips dragging across your ear.

“there it is,” he said, dark and triumphant. “that’s what i wanted. beg for it, baby. you want me to make you come like this? just from grinding?”

“yes, yes—i can—i will—”

“fuckin’ right you will,” he growled. “’cause you’re perfect. you’re fuckin’ perfect, and this pussy—fuck, this pussy’s gonna soak me right through, isn’t it?”

you moaned—high and desperate and completely gone—because he was right, he was so right, and your body was already pulling taut, everything tingling, building, the whole world narrowing to the heat between your legs and the sound of his voice and the rock of your hips on his lap, friction blurring into pleasure so loud it drowned out thought.

and still—he hadn’t taken your panties off. still—he hadn’t even kissed your neck where you needed it. still—he wasn’t fucking you. not yet. because this was just the beginning. and he wanted to see how far you’d fall before he even let you come.

your cunt was throbbing. soaked through the sheer cotton of your underwear, the whole front of it stuck tight to your slit like second skin, every slow, cruel grind against the thick bulge in toji’s jeans shooting sparks up your spine, dragging friction across your clit so hot it felt like electricity, like punishment, like prayer—but no salvation was coming. not here. not yet.

toji wasn’t letting you have it easy.

no, he was watching you come apart, eyes hooded, lips parted, one hand on your ass, the other flat against the small of your back like he was holding you in place just to observe the mess you were making of yourself. and you were making a fucking mess—your hips rolling in slow, stuttering circles, breath hitching every time your clit caught just right, every time the angle hit that spot that made your vision spark at the edges. his jeans were dark with your slick now. it had soaked clean through, turned the rough denim into something humid and hot and obscene, and he hadn’t even moved.

he grinned, teeth bared, voice dragging out of his chest like it was dipped in smoke and sin.

“look at you,” he murmured, so low it didn’t sound real. “fuckin’ drooling on my lap. like you don’t even know how to behave.”

you whimpered, not even trying to deny it, not even trying to stop your hips anymore, just grinding down harder, faster, more desperate, using him like he was a thing, like a toy, and he loved it—you could tell, could feel how hard he was under you, thick and unyielding, the heat of him seeping through denim and cotton and skin like he was burning from the inside out.

“you hear that?” he whispered, mouth brushing your ear now, lips hot and damp and cruel. “you’re so wet, baby, i can hear you. hear this pretty pussy workin’ for it. tryin’ so hard to come on me like you need it.”

“i do,” you gasped, voice shaking. “i need it, toji, please—”

“i know you do,” he said, thumb dragging up your spine, slow and firm, like he was petting something wild and ready to snap. “you need it so bad you’d hump my fuckin’ abs if i let you. you’d sit on my chest like a good little toy and make yourself come.”

you whined, high-pitched and helpless, hips stuttering now, every pass over his cock sending your body into convulsions, little aftershocks building toward something brutal. your hands were shaking against his chest, nails digging in, trying to anchor yourself before your own body betrayed you.

“that’s it,” toji growled, voice thick, breath warm on your neck. “grind on me, baby. come for me. come just like this, messy little thing, fuckin’ beautiful.”

and that word—beautiful—punched through you like a nail through soft wood, splitting you open. it was too much. it broke something.

you gasped again, mouth falling open, eyes rolling back just a little, because your orgasm hit you like a freight train, fast and catastrophic and undeniable, hips jerking, thighs shaking around him as your whole body locked up, tight and twitching and slick. your clit pulsed against the rough drag of his jeans, and for a second all you could hear was static, breath and heartbeat and the hot wet sound of your soaked underwear sticking to your cunt like your body wanted to keep the memory.

“fuck,” toji groaned, voice dark and ragged, eyes glued to your face as you came. “that’s it. just like that. god damn, look at you—so good, baby. so fuckin’ good for me.”

you were barely breathing, shaking like a leaf in a storm, your whole body undone on top of him, and still, his hands held you steady, let you ride it out, let you grind through the aftershocks like he wanted to feel every single second of your ruin. his hand came up to your cheek, fingers curling around your jaw, thumb brushing your bottom lip as you gasped, stunned and half-feral.

“you ever come like that before?” he asked, low and smug and so, so filthy.

you shook your head, dazed.

“thought so,” he said. “’cause no one else knows what to do with a pussy like yours, baby. they don’t know how to look at you, let alone fuck you right.”

you whimpered, half-laughing, tears stinging your eyes now, overstimulated and shaking and so full of want it was making you stupid.

“you’re a fuckin’ dream,” he said, quieter now, voice warmer, almost reverent. “you know that? filthy little mouth, perfect tits, pussy that sings for me—you were made for this. for me.”

you nodded, breath catching. “say it again.”

toji smirked, eyes glinting, one hand sliding back down to your waist as he pulled you forward again.

“you were made for me.”

and god help you, you believed him.

your hands were trembling, still shaky from the wreck of that first orgasm, your thighs twitching around his lap, soaked panties clinging to your slit like a brand, like shame, like proof—and toji hadn’t even fucked you yet. he was still fully dressed, his shirt damp with sweat from where your chest had pressed against him, his jeans dark from your slick, and his cock—fuck, you could feel it, all of it—was still locked away like a weapon waiting for deployment.

and it was time. it was fucking time.

you leaned back just enough to give yourself space, your palms still braced on his chest, steadying you as your breath came hot and uneven through your nose, mouth parted, your lips still wet from kissing, from moaning, and you looked down between your bodies like it was something sacred. his belt was half-undone already, buckle hanging open from where your desperate grinding had loosened it—like even the metal couldn’t handle what was coming.

“fuck, baby,” you breathed, fingers fumbling at the leather, dragging it the rest of the way through the loops. “your cock’s been pressing into me like it’s got its own fuckin’ mind.”

toji let out a low chuckle, something dark and frayed around the edges.

“it does,” he said. “it’s been waitin’. patient. even though you’ve been bouncin’ on it like a fuckin’ toy.”

you popped the button, pulled down the zipper with a long, slow zzzzrrk that felt like it echoed in the stall, louder than the bass outside, louder than the sound of your own heart trying to punch through your ribs. your fingers dipped into the waistband of his boxers, dragging them low enough to see the top of it—veins, thick and pulsing, and just so much of him already visible before you’d even freed it. your eyes widened.

“holy shit,” you muttered.

he grinned, teeth flashing under the sick overhead light. “what?”

you didn’t answer right away. your hands moved again, both of them, pushing the waistband down further, and then—

you let him out.

his cock slapped against his lower stomach, heavy, dark and flushed, slick already at the tip, a thick drop of precum glistening like it belonged in your mouth. it was obscene—long, fat, veiny as hell, the kind of dick that looked like it needed its own leash, its own warning label, its own space. the veins ran thick up the shaft, winding under skin pulled tight like leather, like the blood barely fit inside him. his head was broad, a little darker than the rest, flushed near purple, and leaking like it was angry he hadn’t buried it yet.

you stared.

for a long second, you just stared.

then—quiet, reverent, slightly terrified—you said, “i fuckin’ knew it.”

toji raised an eyebrow, cocky, smug, delicious.

“knew what, sweetheart?”

you swallowed, one hand wrapping around the base—your fingers not meeting—and your other sliding up from the middle to the head, both hands now working together to hold him. “you’re built like a fuckin’ war crime,” you said, voice shaking somewhere between awe and horny delirium. “of course your cock’s this big. stupid big. like—jesus—i should call a priest. or a contractor. fuckin’ get structural support.”

toji moaned.

not soft. not gentle. not theatrical.

a real moan—gut-deep, choked out of him, like your words had done something, like the way your hands moved up and down his shaft, slow and reverent, was too much.

“fuck, you’re perfect,” he rasped, hips twitching once into your grip. “both hands and you still can’t hold all of me? fuckin’ look at that. look at how pretty you are, baby. jerkin’ me off like you wanna worship it.”

you grinned, dazed, breath catching as your thumbs swept over the head, spreading the precum, watching the way his abs flexed every time you touched him right. “i do wanna worship it,” you said. “fuckin’ temple-level. build a church around this dick and let me live in it.”

toji laughed again—short, loud, fucked.

“gonna make me come just from talkin’, baby,” he muttered, voice frayed and sharp. “keep goin’. keep fuckin’ sayin’ that shit.”

you stroked him harder now, slow and tight, twisting a little near the head just to hear the way he groaned, to feel the twitch in your hands.

“you know what this looks like?” you whispered, leaning close again, mouth brushing his jaw as your hand kept working. “like something that ruins girls. like something that splits ‘em open, wrecks ‘em, makes ‘em talk in tongues. you ever see a girl cry while sittin’ on your dick, toji?”

“more than once,” he said, hoarse, hips jerking again. “none of ‘em sounded as fuckin’ good as you, though. jesus—your voice, baby—gonna ruin me.”

“i wanna ruin you.”

your thumb brushed the tip again, slow and teasing.

“wanna fuckin’ sit on it till i can’t talk. ride you till my legs give out. wanna let you fuck the brat outta me.” he hissed through his teeth, hips bucking, precum now sliding slick over your hands, warm and messy.

“sayin’ all that while jerkin’ me off in a stall,” he panted, head falling back against the wall. “fuck, you’re filthy. filthy and so fuckin’ good, baby. look at you. makin’ me feel like this without even sittin’ on it yet.”

you leaned in, voice low, breath hot against his ear.

“you’re gonna fuck me with this, toji?”

“yeah,” he growled, breath hot and shaking. “gonna fuck you stupid. gonna split you open nice and slow, make you feel every inch. make you remember it for the rest of your life.”

your cunt clenched so hard your knees almost gave out.

and you were still holding his cock like it was the goddamn holy grail.

and you hadn’t even put it in yet.

your hands kept moving, steady now, smooth and slick and reverent like you’d done this a thousand times in a dream and were only now getting the holy chance to do it for real. both palms wrapped around the base of him, moving slow, tight, twisting slightly as you reached the top, thumbs spreading the precum over the flushed head, watching it glisten like something sacrilegious, like something stolen from a shrine. your fingers couldn’t meet even at the base—he was that thick, obscene, heavy in your hands like a weapon built for ruin, and fuck, you wanted to ruin yourself with it.

toji was watching you with a look that should’ve been illegal. half-lidded eyes dark as molasses, lips parted, panting through his teeth like your touch was pulling him apart vein by vein. his chest was heaving under his shirt, soaked with sweat at the collar, and his hips kept twitching just barely into your grip, like he wanted to fuck your fists but was too caught up in the sight of you doing it so willingly, so hungrily, like you loved it. like you were meant for it.

and you did. you fucking did.

you leaned down, let your mouth hover over his cock, eyes never leaving his, and spat.

a long string of it, wet and glistening, landing right on the swollen tip with a lewd little splat, mixing with the precum already smeared across the head, and your hands caught it, smeared it all over, rubbing it in with a filthy grin like you were lotioning up something that lived in hell.

toji hissed—low and feral and wrecked.

“fuck, baby—”

you giggled, soft and wicked, your voice a little hoarse now from all the moaning, but still steady enough to say the worst thing you’d been thinking since the second you saw his cock, “no offense, toji,” you said sweetly, rubbing both hands up and down his shaft, slow and tight, watching him twitch with every pass, “but your ex-wife’s a stupid cunt.”

his eyes widened a little, surprised, maybe delighted.

you kept going, dragging your fist up to just below the head and twisting it there, circling with your thumb while you talked.

“like—look at this fucking dick. are you serious?” you laughed, breathless, bouncing slightly in his lap as your strokes sped up, hot slick sounds echoing in the tiny, awful stall. “you were sittin’ on this at home, and she cheated? left you for some guy with a fuckin’ linkedin account? is she brain-dead?”

toji let out a choked laugh, a single short bark of disbelief before it collapsed into a groan, head tipping back as his hands flexed hard on your waist.

“you’re gonna kill me,” he muttered, breathless, fucked-out already. “fuckin’ mouth on you—goddamn.”

you leaned in, kissed his throat, then licked a stripe up the side of it just to feel him shudder. “i’m serious,” you whispered, licking the shell of his ear now. “if i had a dick like this at home, i’d quit my job. stop seeing my friends. stop eating solid food. i’d be on it twenty-four seven. dick-drunk. knees sore. brain empty. happy.”

he was groaning now, full-bodied, desperate, the veins on his cock standing out like corded rope, the tip leaking freely, your spit and his precum slicking your hands, dripping down his shaft onto his jeans like a signature.

you pulled back just enough to look him in the eye, still stroking, still rubbing your thumb over the head, still letting him feel how good your hands were, how attentive, like you were worshipping something carved out of divine filth.

“i’m gonna put it in now.”

toji’s eyes snapped to yours, wild and almost scared—not of you, not of the act, but of what it was going to do to him.

“you sure?” he rasped. “you’re still fuckin’—you just came once, you’re already twitchin’, baby—i’m big, you know that. i’ll fuckin’ split you open.”

you smiled, slow and sweet and full of madness.

“i want you to.”

his breath caught. his hips twitched.

“fuck,” he groaned. “you’re gonna make me blow just from that. you’re gonna make me lose my fuckin’ mind.”

you rocked forward in his lap, pressing your soaked panties against the head of his cock, and gasped, because even that—even through cotton—felt like it shouldn’t fit. like your body wasn’t made for this kind of sin. but you were going to do it anyway. you were going to take it.

you reached down, dragged the tip against your slit, up and down through your panties, slow, teasing, not slipping him in yet, just letting him feel how soaked you were, how ready, how stupid you were for him.

“feel that?” you whispered, lips brushing his. “that’s all for you. no one else’s ever made me this wet. not even close.”

toji groaned—loud, desperate, unhinged—and his hands gripped your hips like he was holding back the apocalypse.

“jesus fuckin’ christ,” he muttered.

and you smiled.

because you hadn’t even started.

you were still straddling him, thighs shaking slightly from the aftershocks of your orgasm and from the slow, throbbing ache that had taken root deep between your legs—the kind of ache that didn’t want relief, just more. the kind of ache that whispered take it, take it all, it’s supposed to hurt a little. and now, with your hands trembling where they rested against his stomach, and his cock leaking against the soaked crotch of your panties, thick and flushed and too much, you knew it wasn’t going to be simple. this wasn’t gonna be easy. this wasn’t something you could laugh through.

and still—you pushed your panties aside.

fingers hooking under the soaked elastic, dragging the thin cotton to the side, just enough to expose the wet, swollen mess between your thighs, your lips slick and shining, your hole already fluttering like it knew, like your body was trying to brace for the sheer obscenity of what you were about to force inside it.

“fuck,” toji rasped, eyes dropping like a gravitational pull to your cunt, the way it glistened, twitching right there in front of him. “jesus fucking christ. you’re dripping down your thighs.”

you laughed, high and breathless, reaching down with one hand to angle his cock upright, the other gripping his shoulder so tight your nails left little white crescents in his skin.

“you’ve been talking like you’re a curse, toji,” you whispered, guiding the thick, throbbing head to your entrance. “but i didn’t know you were a goddamn plague.”

he grinned—hungry and crooked and wild—but then his breath caught when the head pressed right up against your pussy, just resting there, the blunt heat of it right there on your soaked little opening.

and even that was too much.

you tried to push down, slowly—just your weight alone, just letting gravity and desperation carry you—and your face immediately twisted, eyes fluttering shut, mouth falling open in a gasp so choked it was almost silent. the stretch was unbearable. hot. wrong. like you were trying to take something not built for human use. like your cunt was clenching out of protest instead of pleasure.

you managed maybe half an inch before your body stopped.

“oh—oh my god,” you whined, already breathless, head tipping forward onto his shoulder. “fuck, fuck, fuck, i didn’t—i didn’t know it would be this hard—”

toji’s hands were on your hips, steadying you, holding you like you were fragile, like you were made of wet glass and sin. he let out a low, strained chuckle, but it wasn’t cruel—it was soft, disbelieving, tender in the kind of filthy way only he could be.

“yeah,” he murmured against your temple, kissing the side of your head as you shuddered, “yeah, baby, i know. it’s a lot. ‘course it’s a lot. fuckin’ told you, didn’t i? said i’d split you open.”

“you are,” you moaned, and your voice cracked near the end, tight with frustration and arousal and the aching urge to take more. “you’re huge, toji, i can’t—fuck, i’m trying—”

his lips brushed your cheekbone, hot and steady.

“you’re doin’ perfect,” he murmured, voice barely a breath. “so good for me. such a good girl. fuckin’ takin’ it, even when it hurts. fuck, you feel how tight you are? grippin’ just the tip, baby—like you don’t wanna let go.”

you whimpered, nails dragging down his chest now, trying to breathe, trying to focus, trying to push through the burn, but your eyes stung and you blinked, and then—

tears spilled.

not sobbing, not dramatic—just the sting of it, the overwhelm, the deep wanting that had nowhere to go but out. “hey,” toji said softly, tilting your face toward him, his thumb brushing the corner of your eye. “what’s this? cryin’ on my cock already?”

he kissed the tear before it could slide down your cheek, then another, his mouth gentle, reverent, filthy in the way it held you. not mocking. not laughing.

just there. with you.

“fuckin’ beautiful,” he whispered, voice hot against your skin. “you’re so pretty when you cry. so perfect when you fall apart for me. you’re takin’ me so good, sweetheart, fuck—look at you. you’re stretchin’ so fuckin’ sweet around me.”

you nodded, teeth clenched, moaning as you lowered yourself another inch, the stretch burning now, unbearable and addictive, your body split wide around the sheer girth of him, your cunt fluttering, clenching, trying to make room where there wasn’t any.

your voice cracked again.

“hurts—fuck—it hurts so good, toji—”

“that’s it,” he breathed, hips shifting just slightly, just enough to make you feel it deeper, wider, more. “that’s what i like. feelin’ you break yourself open for it. god damn, you’re made for this.”

“you keep—keep saying that,” you whimpered, tears slipping down again, dripping onto his shoulder, “like i was built for your dick.”

his grin returned—soft and sharp and filthy.

“you were. this pussy was made to take me. look how tight you are, baby—like you never needed anyone else but me.”

and slowly—inch by agonizing, glorious inch—you sank down further.

and further.

and still—he wasn’t all the way in. not yet. but you were going to take every inch. even if it killed you. especially if it killed you.

your body gave in before your mind did—hips twitching, thighs trembling, breath shuddering out of your lungs as the last brutal stretch of him finally slid in, your cunt choking around the thick base of his cock with a helpless, involuntary clench, like it didn’t want to let him go, like it didn’t know how to survive him.

you gasped—mouth wide, head tipped back, neck exposed like something sacrificial, your whole body tensed and arching, and then relaxing, melting into it, as the blunt weight of him bottomed out inside you, seat to base, thick and pulsing, plugged so deep your belly felt full, your muscles trembling around the stretch like they didn’t believe it was over.

and toji—fucking toji—just exhaled through his teeth, mouth parted in some stunned version of a smile that looked like it might unhinge him, watching your face with something close to awe.

“shit,” he murmured, low and hoarse and broken. “you fuckin’ took it.”

you whined. actually whined, because that fullness, that delicious, unbearable pressure, that raw-cored feeling of being too full and still wanting more had you dizzy and aching and grinding down on him like your body was possessed by the shape of him.

“you’re all the way in,” you whispered, voice thin and stretched out over the edge of a sob, eyes half-lidded, lips swollen. “i feel you—i feel you so fucking deep, toji—”

his hands flexed hard around your waist, dragging your hips flush to his one last time, grinding your cunt against the root of his cock, the pressure unbearable, making you gasp and shudder in his lap.

“yeah, baby,” he said, voice pure filth now, that teasing rasp that lived somewhere between worship and cruelty. “you feel that? that’s my cock in your stomach. you’re so fuckin’ tight around me, it’s like your pussy was starving.”

you moaned again, incoherent, your fingers curling in his shirt like it was the only thing tethering you to gravity.

he rocked his hips.

once.

slow.

and your whole body convulsed.

“fuck—toji—”

“easy, sweetheart,” he muttered, mouth brushing your neck, tongue flicking the sweat from your skin. “gonna take care of you. just breathe. you’re doin’ so fuckin’ good for me.”

and then he did it again.

slower this time. dragging out of you just an inch, then pushing back in, letting you feel every fucking vein, the throb of him inside your walls like a second heartbeat, like a warning.

your moans were high and shaking now, rhythmic, falling apart on each pass of his hips as he built the rhythm slow—careful, almost tender, not out of mercy but because he wanted you to feel every inch, every second, every millimeter of him splitting you open like a promise.

“you like that?” he whispered, lips brushing your jaw, hands cradling your ass now, helping you roll with him, take it better. “like bein’ split slow? like knowin’ you can barely take it, but you’re takin’ it anyway, ‘cause you’re a good fuckin’ girl?”

you nodded so fast you almost lost your balance.

“i love it—fuck, i love it, i can’t—I didn’t know it could feel this good—”

and then his rhythm shifted.

the slow grind turned to a deeper snap, hips punching up into you with just a little more power, and you wailed, your voice bouncing off the cracked tile walls of the stall, your thighs trembling around him, your breath caught in your throat.

“that’s it,” toji growled. “that’s my girl.”

you barely had time to respond—barely had time to process—before he was grabbing you, shifting your weight suddenly, and your hands shot to his shoulders in a panic.

“toji—what—?”

he didn’t answer.

he moved you.

one hand sliding under your thigh, lifting it with the ease of someone used to manhandling, the other bracing your back as he pushed your knee up—higher, higher—until it was resting on his shoulder, bent awkwardly. and then the other leg followed, and before you could blink, both of your legs were slung over his shoulders, your hips tilted back, exposed, cunt stretched wide around him at a new angle, one that made your breath catch and your vision blur.

“fuckin’ hell,” he groaned, staring down at where your bodies met, his cock glistening, half-shiny with slick, with spit, your cunt so wet it sounded indecent.

“you’re flexible, baby,” he purred, eyes glittering with smug, filthy heat. “gonna keep you folded like this all night. good fuckin’ stretch, huh? how’s that feel?”

you cried out as he thrust—deep, sudden, rough, punching the air from your lungs and making your pussy clench so tight he growled.

“toji! oh my god—”

“nah,” he grunted, smirking now, sweat slick at his brow, “just toji, baby.”

and then he started to fuck you.

no more tenderness. no more slow burn.

just pace—hard and deep and ruthless, each stroke shoving you up the stall door, the slap of your slick against his thighs filthy and fast, the sound of his cock wrecking you echoing louder than your breathless little moans, louder than the club outside, louder than the entire goddamn city.

and through it all—through the rhythm, through the overstimulation, through the fucking stretch—

you held onto him like he was the end of the world.

and maybe he was.

you didn’t know where your body ended and his began anymore—your thighs thrown over his broad shoulders, calves hanging limp behind his back, cunt stretched impossibly wide around his cock, and your spine arched into the peeling tile wall like it was the only thing holding you together. everything below your waist was pulsing. drenched. trembling. you were stuffed so full your hips had gone numb and your nerves were lit up like flares, every thrust from toji dragging a sound from you that wasn’t even human anymore. choked sobs, half-screams, shattered moans—nothing made sense but the feeling of being split open and used like your pussy had a goddamn purpose.

and toji—toji was lost in it.

his grip was iron on your hips, pulling you down onto each thrust like he needed to be deeper, like it wasn’t enough to be inside you—he wanted to live there, drown there, die there. his head was dipped low now, dark hair slicked back from sweat, jaw clenched, lips parted like he was drunk off something heavy and pure. but it wasn’t the club. it wasn’t the drink. it was you. it was your pussy, clenching around him with every rough pump, spasming with every moan he dragged out of your throat, and it was making him lose it.

he thrust again—hard, brutal, the head of his cock punching your cervix—and you screamed, nails digging into his shoulders, tears slipping down your cheeks as your legs twitched around his neck.

“f-fuck, toji—”

“shhh, baby,” he muttered, slurring the word like his mouth was broken. “shhh, fuck—you hear that?”

you were crying, gasping, mouth open and useless.

“listen.”

he slammed into you again, and this time he slowed the drag back out, watching your cunt cling to him with a slick, obscene sound that made him moan, deep and raw. “jesus christ, listen to this fuckin’ pussy,” he breathed, almost in awe. “she doesn’t wanna let go. holdin’ on like she needs me.”

you couldn’t speak.

your mouth was open but all you could do was pant and sob and clench and take it.

“so fuckin’ wet,” he groaned, eyes locked to the place where you stretched around him, watching the mess he was making of you, the glossy ring of slick around the base of his cock, the sticky strings clinging to his thighs. “she’s so greedy, baby. you feel that? your cunt wants it. she’s suckin’ me in like she never got dick before.”

you whimpered, head falling back against the wall, voice high and thin and wrecked.

“i haven’t,” you said, and it wasn’t even a lie. not really. “not like this. not—fuck, not like you.”

toji’s face twitched.

something broke behind his eyes.

“yeah?” he rasped, voice dipping into something darker. “no one ever fucked you like this before? no one ever got you cryin’ and twitchin’ and beggin’ on their cock?”

you shook your head, tears streaking down your cheeks, spit slicking your chin. “no, toji, i swear—n-no one’s ever—fuck—”

he growled, hips snapping into you again, rough and greedy, the sound of your skin slapping echoing in the filthy stall, drowning out the throb of music beyond the door.

“fuckin’ right they haven’t,” he spat. “’cause they couldn’t handle you. you needed a real man to wreck this pussy. needed someone who could fill you up proper.”

you sobbed, legs shaking, whole body shuddering under the weight of his cock, the sheer intensity of being used like that, worshipped and ruined at once. “say it,” he snarled, burying himself to the hilt again, hips grinding against you like he was branding you from the inside out. “say whose pussy this is.”

“y-yours,” you gasped, voice cracking into a high, desperate wail. “yours, toji, it’s—fuck—yours, it’s always been—”

he moaned—head tipping back, eyes fluttering shut, cock twitching inside you—and then leaned forward until his face was buried in your neck, licking at your skin like a starving man, teeth scraping over your pulse.

“god damn, baby,” he breathed, hips stuttering, pace breaking down as his body gave in. “you’re squeezin’ me so tight, you’re gonna milk me—you want that? want me to come inside this tight little hole?”

“yes—yes, please—want it—”

“i know you do,” he hissed, voice pure lust, drunk and filthy. “know you want me to fill you up, breed you stupid, fuck this pussy till she knows who she belongs to.”

you were sobbing now, clawing at his shirt, drooling down your chin, mind unraveling with every thick thrust. he didn’t stop. couldn’t. hips pumping faster now, sharper, more erratic, and his mouth was on your chest, your throat, kissing tears off your face like they were his, like your pain made him harder.

“you’re perfect,” he panted, kissing your lips—sloppy, deep, desperate. “my perfect little fucktoy. so pretty, so tight, so good for me. pussy was made for this.” and in the haze of sweat and moans and overstimulation, you felt him twitch inside you, a growl rising from deep in his chest as his thrusts turned jerky, his whole body tensing—

and you knew he was about to come.

and you wanted to feel it. wanted to break with him.

you felt him get close—too close—his rhythm stuttering for just a moment, not quite breaking, not quite giving in, but it was there, coiled tight and twitching in the way his hips bucked just a little harder, how his grip on your hips turned brutal, fingers digging deep into your flesh like he was anchoring himself to something, like if he didn’t hold on, he’d fall apart.

but he didn’t let go.

he didn’t come.

you felt it in the way his whole body tensed, trembling like a held breath, jaw clenched tight against the curve of your throat, a low, ragged growl rumbling up from his chest as he stopped, buried deep, cock throbbing inside your overstretched pussy—but he held it back, kept it leashed like an animal snapping at the edge of a cage.

and it made you insane.

you whimpered—high, desperate, aching—trying to roll your hips, to chase it, to drag him over the edge with you because your walls were clenching around him like a vice, slick and messy and soaked, milking him like your body knew what it needed.

“toji—fuck—please, why’d you stop—?” you gasped, voice breaking, face twisted with the frustration of being right there on the edge with him and feeling him deny it.

he didn’t answer at first.

just breathed through his teeth, his nose pressed to your neck, his body stiff and trembling, cock twitching inside you like it was fighting him, like it was begging to give in. “’cause if i come right now,” he finally gritted, low and dark and wrecked, “i’m not gonna stop.”

your breath hitched.

he pulled back just enough to look at you—his eyes glassy, almost glazed, jaw tight, sweat beading down his temples. his mouth was open like he’d forgotten how to breathe right. he looked completely undone. ruined. like he’d been drinking your pussy down like liquor and now he couldn’t see straight.

“i’ll break you if i let go now, baby,” he whispered, voice hoarse, shaking. “i’ll fuckin’ ruin this little cunt. you feel how close i am? feel it? i’ve never had pussy like this—never—fuck, i can’t even think.”

you moaned, clenching around him again just to feel that twitch, to feel his restraint crack another inch.

“then do it,” you whispered, licking the sweat from his jaw. “ruin it. fuckin’ break me, toji, i want it—i can take it—”

his expression twisted, something feral rising behind his eyes like a wave.

“you sayin’ that now, sweetheart,” he growled, grinding slow and deep just once, making you cry out, “but you’re already twitchin’. already drippin’ down my fuckin’ balls. this tight little pussy can barely handle one load—what’re you gonna do when i keep goin’?”

“i’ll take it,” you gasped, legs tightening around his shoulders, back arching into him like an offering. “you can come when you want—just don’t stop. please. don’t fucking stop—”

he grinned then—barely, teeth bared like something dangerous—but the pride in his eyes was molten.

“fuckin’ perfect, baby,” he whispered. “you’re my perfect little toy, aren’t you? lettin’ me stretch you like this, fold you up like it’s normal—look at these legs, fuck, look at you—you were made for this.”

and then—

he moved again.

slow at first, just the roll of his hips pulling back a few inches and pushing in deep, grinding that thick cock against the spots inside you that made you cry out and grab his shoulders like a lifeline. his eyes stayed on your face, his jaw tight, his mouth parted, and the way he watched you—hungry, worshipful, starved—it made you feel more naked than his cock ever could.

“this pussy’s got me fuckin’ high,” he said, voice rough. “you hear me? fuckin’ drunk on you. i’ve never felt anything like this—like your body’s pullin’ me in, squeezin’ like she knows me.”

you moaned—pitiful and overwhelmed—as his rhythm picked up again, deeper now, harder, dragging slick, filthy sounds out of you both as your bodies collided.

“i could fuck you for hours,” he growled, one hand sliding down to your thigh, gripping tight as he adjusted your position, pulled your hips forward even more, tilting your pelvis just to angle his cock deeper. “i will. i’ll keep you like this all fuckin’ night, split open and twitchin’, until you’re beggin’ me to come just so i’ll stop.”

you tried to speak but nothing came—just another cry, another desperate whimper as your walls fluttered again, soaked and swollen and full of him.

“hold me tighter,” he said suddenly, grabbing behind your knees and pushing your legs up higher, folding you more, pressing your knees toward your chest as he braced his weight over you. “there we go. good girl. stretch just like that—fuckin’ hell, look how deep i am.”

you felt it.

felt the new angle bury him right against something devastating, something that made your entire vision white out for a second, a sob punched out of your lungs.

“toji—fuck—fuck—”

“that’s it,” he groaned, eyes blown wide, pupils shaking. “fuckin’ take it.”

and even then—

even then—

he still didn’t come.

your body was giving out—limbs numb, hands clumsy and damp where they gripped at his sweat-slick shoulders, your nails dragging useless lines down his skin every time his cock punched that devastating spot deep inside you. your thighs burned from the stretch, knees pressed nearly to your chest, ankles hooked around his broad, brutal shoulders as he fucked you like he had something to prove, something to claim, something to bury inside you so deep you'd taste it for days.

and you were taking it. every inch. every slam. every slick, loud, brutal thrust like it was your religion.

your whole body was slick—sweat and spit and tears and the sheer, filthy mess between your thighs, soaking down your ass and his jeans and the stall floor, an unholy tangle of skin and sound and sensation, and through it all, toji kept praising you, whispering filth in your ear, kissing the tears off your cheeks while he broke you in half on his cock.

but something was shifting in him now—his pace stuttered, his thrusts grew frantic, heavier, less rhythm, more desperation, his moans falling lower in his throat, broken and guttural, each one punched out of him like his body couldn’t keep it in anymore.

his head dropped, and your foreheads met—pressed together, sweat mixing, breath shared in the half-inch of air between your open mouths. his eyes were blown wide, glassy with it, lips twitching like he was trying to speak but couldn’t get past the wrecked sound of his own need.

“baby,” he rasped, voice almost too low to hear over the wet slap of his hips against yours. “baby, i’m gonna fuckin’ come.” you whined, mouth open, panting against his lips, your legs trembling where they strained around his shoulders, the muscles twitching every time he sank all the way in.

“toji—fuck—yes, please—”

his mouth was on yours for a second—messy, open, tongues tangling with no direction—before he pulled back just enough to speak, his forehead still pressed to yours. “you on anything?” he asked, breath ragged, voice wild. “you on the pill, baby—tell me now—”

you nodded, fast and desperate, choking on your own moan as his hips slammed forward again, grinding deep.

“y-yeah—fuck—yes—i’m on it, i’m on it—”

his whole body shuddered.

“fuck,” he breathed. “fuck, baby—can i come inside you? gonna come so deep—fuckin’ fill you up—wanna feel it dripping outta you when i pull out, yeah? you gonna let me do that?”

you whimpered, incoherent, grinding against him now, desperate for it, for all of it, for everything.

“yes—yes, yes, toji—inside, please—i want it—wanna feel it—need it—”

he groaned, long and low and destroyed, his whole body tensing like he was fighting it, losing, fighting again—and then giving in completely. “fuck,” he hissed. “you’re so good, baby—so fuckin’ perfect—pussy’s fuckin’ milking me—gonna come—fuck—gonna come inside this pretty fuckin’ cunt—”

and with one final, brutal thrust—

he bottomed out, hips slammed flush to yours, cock buried to the hilt, twitching deep in your heat, and then he broke, coming with a moan so raw and wounded it sounded like worship.

you felt it.

hot and thick and endless, pulse after pulse flooding your cunt, your walls fluttering around him as your body accepted it, welcomed it, every drop, your mouth open in a silent scream, your eyes rolling back as the sheer intensity of it sent you into another trembling orgasm, clenching around him so tight he groaned, pressing his forehead harder to yours.

“fuck—fuck, take it—take it all, baby—look at you—so good—mine,” he growled, voice cracking, “this pussy’s mine now—”

and you believed him.

because you were still shaking. and he was still inside you. and you could feel his come dripping out already. and neither of you could breathe.

but you didn’t want to.

not if it meant letting him go.

he didn’t move—not at first.

toji stayed buried inside you, thick and twitching, still plugged so deep it felt like your cunt was wrapped around the center of him, not just his cock. his head rested against yours, sweat-slick and trembling, breath pouring from his mouth in heavy, broken bursts. the stall felt like it was spinning. the whole world had narrowed to the sound of your breath in sync with his, your pussy fluttering around his softening cock, the hot drip of his come already leaking from where your bodies were still connected.

but your body didn’t stop.

your body wouldn’t stop.

your cunt was clenching, aching, needing, so overstimulated it had gone full circle back into something dangerous—something desperate—your nerves sparking like shorted-out wires, slick leaking down your thighs, the insistent throb of a second orgasm so close it felt like drowning under the weight of not-quite-enough.

you whimpered—your voice soft and high and shaking—and your hips gave a helpless little grind, a roll forward, just enough to make his cock shift inside you.

that made you see stars.

“f-fuck, toji—” your voice cracked, head falling back, mouth open, thighs trembling. “i need—i didn’t—i didn’t come yet—”

that broke through his haze.

his head lifted, barely. just enough to look at you, eyes still dark and dazed but sharpening like a wolf catching the scent of blood. his jaw tightened. his mouth twisted into something that should have been a smirk but was too soft to be cocky. he brought one hand up—palm cupping your face like he needed to hold you there—and pressed his lips to your temple.

“oh, baby,” he rasped, voice torn raw from groaning your name. “you didn’t?” you shook your head, breath hitching, whining as your hips tried again, another roll, another desperate friction, his cock dragging slow inside you and making your whole body spasm.

“’s okay,” you whispered, blinking tears from your lashes. “i just—need a little more—i’m so close, toji, please—”

“shhhh, fuck,” he breathed, kissing your cheek now, your jaw, moving down to your neck, lips hot and open and reverent, “you’ve been so good for me—so perfect—’m gonna get you there, baby, don’t worry—gonna take care of you.”

his hand slid between your bodies, still slick with sweat and the mess between you, until his thumb found your clit—wet and swollen, throbbing with every faint shift of his cock inside you—and he rubbed it, slow and tight, small circles, just enough pressure to make your entire body lock up.

“oh—fuck—” you cried out, hands clawing at his shoulders, clinging to him like he was the only thing anchoring you to your body. “fuck, toji, right there—right there—”

“that’s it,” he murmured, eyes locked on your face, watching you unravel with a look of pure awe. “feel that? how sensitive you are? this pretty little cunt’s so needy, so greedy, just fuckin’ suckin’ me in, beggin’ for it. you’re gonna come for me, yeah? gonna let go?”

“yes, yes—please, don’t stop—don’t stop—”

he shifted his hips again, slow, so slow, pulling back just enough to let you feel the drag of him along your walls, then pushing back in deep, thumb never leaving your clit, just the perfect amount of pressure, the perfect rhythm, your whole body wound so tight you thought your spine might snap.

“fuckin’ look at you,” he whispered, completely mesmerized. “look how beautiful you are when you’re right at the edge. tears in your eyes, pussy wrapped around me so fuckin’ tight—you were made for this, baby. made for me. you wanna come on this cock, don’t you?”

“yes—yes, toji, please, i need—”

“you wanna soak me?” he growled, hips twitching forward, thumb circling harder, your clit so sensitive now you could barely think. “wanna milk my fuckin’ cock while i’m still inside you, stuffed full’a my come? wanna squeeze every last drop out?”

“please—”

and then it hit.

your orgasm ripped through you like your whole body cracked open from the inside, a molten flood of pleasure spilling out, your legs jerking where they hung over his shoulders, your back arching so violently your vision blacked out for a second, mouth open in a silent scream. your pussy clenched hard, gripping his cock in spasms, walls fluttering around him like they were trying to hold him in forever, to wring every drop from him until your bodies fused together.

toji moaned, loud and fucked and wrecked, like your orgasm broke him—his thumb slowing just enough to let you ride the aftershocks, hips grinding forward to keep himself deep while your body milked him through it.

“that’s it,” he groaned, forehead against yours again, voice thick with pride and filth and something heavier. “fuck, you’re perfect. felt you come, baby—fuckin’ felt it—squeezin’ me so tight like your body knows who it belongs to.”

you were crying again—happy tears this time, oversensitive and overstimulated and shaking, unable to speak, unable to do anything but hold onto him while your body spasmed around him, dripping, soaked, ruined.

“you did so good,” he whispered, kissing your lips now, slow and soft, sweet and filthy. “so fuckin’ good for me. made me feel like a goddamn god.”

you laughed, weak and trembling, smiling against his mouth.

and he was still hard. still inside. still not done.

and neither were you.

your legs were still draped over his shoulders, limp now, twitching occasionally, every muscle in your body melted and buzzing with aftershock, like you’d been electrocuted and reborn inside the same wet, filthy breath. your arms were around his neck, weak and slow and unsure whether they were clinging or collapsing, and your forehead was pressed to his again—both of you panting, sweat-slick, your noses brushing with every unsteady inhale.

your eyes were shut.

your mouth was open.

and everything felt too full—too much—and yet, not nearly enough.

his cock was still inside you, thick and insistent, twitching softly, lazily, nestled as deep as it could go like it had roots, like it had decided to live there, and the slow, endless drip of his cum was already leaking out around him, sliding in warm, lazy trails down the crack of your ass, onto the fucked-sticky seat beneath you, pooling into a ruin only the two of you would remember.

and toji—toji was gone.

his hands were on your hips, not moving, just holding, and his eyes were half-lidded, glassy, dazed, wrecked. mouth slack. chest heaving. his tongue wet his bottom lip once, slow and aimless, like he didn’t even realize he was doing it, and he just stared at you like he’d been hit by a truck and liked the way it felt. no smugness now. no smirk. no edge.

he looked like a man who had just gotten possessed by pussy.

and he was struggling to recover.

“…fuck,” he finally whispered, so hoarse it was almost soundless.

you didn’t move. couldn’t.

your lashes fluttered a little but didn’t open, your mouth hanging open like you were still moaning in your head, like your brain hadn’t caught up to the fact that the orgasm was over.

but his voice pulled something from you.

“you alive?” you whispered, barely, lips brushing his.

he laughed—barely—just a quiet, hot breath through his nose.

“barely.”

you smiled, slow and heavy, head tilting to lean into the side of his face, nuzzling your nose against the damp edge of his jaw. his stubble scraped lightly across your skin, grounding you in the afterglow haze, and it made you whimper—small, involuntary—because you were still too sensitive, and his cock was still so fucking deep, and it felt like it was just there now. permanent.

“toji,” you whispered, and you felt his fingers flex on your hips at the sound of his name.

“mm?”

you finally opened your eyes, half-lidded and glossy, barely able to focus, and looked at him—really looked—and your cunt clenched again because his face was wrecked.

his hair was soaked and sticking to his forehead. sweat dripping down his temples. mouth swollen. pupils blown. cheeks flushed. and the look in his eyes—dazed, unfocused, stunned—wasn’t cocky or in control or smug like before.

he looked fucked. like he’d just gotten his soul pulled out through his dick.

you grinned.

“you okay, old man?” you whispered.

toji let out a low groan and dropped his head to your shoulder, body shaking faintly with exhausted laughter. “fuck off,” he muttered, voice thick and raspy. “you don’t get to clown me right now. not when your pussy’s got me seein’ colors.”

“you look like you just saw god,” you said, teasing, brushing your fingers through the damp hair at his nape.

he grunted against your neck. “that was god.”

he pulled back just slightly, eyes fluttering open again, still dazed but soft now, heavy-lidded and so fucking gone on the feeling of you wrapped around him.

“you don’t even get it, do you?” he muttered, eyes locked on your face like he couldn’t stop looking. “pussy this good should be illegal. should come with a fuckin’ warning label. i’m not even sure i’ll pull out if you ask me to.”

you giggled, warm and slow, breath fogging up his skin.

“good thing i’m on the pill.”

“’cause i’d knock you up just to keep this forever,” he said, and it was so low, so dead serious that it made your breath catch.

you blinked, lips parting, not quite able to speak, and he smirked again—but it was soft. less predator, more man being humbled by what he just lived through.

“look at you,” he murmured. “legs still up. pussy still suckin’ me in like she misses me even though i never left. you were made for this cock, weren’t you?”

you nodded, slow and lazy, lips brushing his again.

“mmhmm,” you hummed, smiling. “knew it the second i saw you.”

toji groaned again, a fucked-out, helpless sound, and leaned into your forehead again.

“i’m not done,” he whispered, almost like a confession.

“good,” you whispered back, pulling him down by the shirt. “don’t stop.”

and neither of you moved yet.

just stayed there.

cock still buried.

hearts hammering.

pussy still clenching.

breath shared.

and toji—still absolutely, totally, unapologetically pussy drunk.

he was the one who moved first—finally—because your legs were still draped over his shoulders, bent and trembling and sore, your knees threatening mutiny with every second they stayed folded in that brutal, gorgeous stretch. you weren’t sure if the muscles were cramping or still orgasming. both, maybe. but toji moved slow, reverent almost, hands sliding down your thighs like he wasn’t ready to let them go, like he wanted to memorize them before he let them fall.

“’m puttin’ your legs down,” he murmured, voice thick and gravel-dragged from groaning, still drunk with it, still halfway buried in that distant fucked-out haze that lived behind his eyes now. “you did so good for me. fuckin’ took it like a champ.”

you whimpered when your legs were finally lowered, a dull ache blooming in your hips, your thighs still twitching, your calves sticky and limp against his sides. you were panting again. dizzy. your cunt throbbed around him when the angle changed, his cock shifting just slightly inside you and hitting something new, some bruised-up spot that sent a fresh wave of aftershock through your spine.

toji groaned softly, and his hand immediately came to your waist, like his body was instinctively trying to soothe you. “easy, baby,” he whispered, palm sliding up and down your side. “fuck—I’ll make it up to you. swear it.”

you blinked, dazed. “…make what up?”

he snorted, pulling back just enough to brush his forehead against yours again, still so close you could feel every word against your mouth.

“comin’ first,” he said. “you deserved another round before I fucking lost it. that pussy’s too good—I got greedy. ‘m not usually like that.” you smiled, breathless, your fingers brushing the sweat-soaked collar of his shirt. “what are you gonna do, hmm? kiss it better?”

toji’s mouth curled at the edge, that cocky little smirk returning but softened now—sweetened, in the worst, most unfair way. “yeah,” he said. “kiss it. lick it. spread you open and make you come with my fuckin’ tongue till you forget what year it is.”

you made a choked little sound, halfway between a laugh and a sob, your brain too fogged up to handle that promise.

but he kept talking—of course he did. because he was still in it, still gone, still wrecked and clinging to the only thing in the world that made sense to him now: you. “nine years,” he murmured, voice lower now, less teasing. Real. “nine years with no pussy. not even a drunk one-night stand. not even fuckin’ myself half the time.”

you blinked, still catching your breath.

“jesus,” you whispered.

he nodded once, breathing hard. “but the first one I get… after all that time… is you.” he paused. looked at you. really looked. “and if I could do it all over again—go nine years with nothin’—just to feel this pussy for the first time again?”

he kissed you.

not deep. not greedy.

just a soft press of spit-slick, swollen lips to your mouth.

“i’d fucking do it.”

you stared at him, wide-eyed.

and then snorted.

because your brain couldn’t decide whether to be flattered or feral.

“you are so pussy drunk right now,” you said, laughing into his mouth. “like… you’ve got the symptoms. glazed-over stare, can’t finish a sentence without saying ‘this pussy’ like it’s a holy relic—”

“shut up,” he grinned, nose brushing yours.

“you’re gonna start writing poetry,” you said. “i can see it. ‘ode to my girl’s pussy, it cured my chronic pain and made me believe in god again—’”

he growled low in his throat, a filthy little sound that vibrated through your chest as he shifted inside you, cock still thick and hard and present, buried to the base and making you feel every twitch of his frustration.

“keep talkin’ like that and I’m gonna fuckin’ prove it,” he said. “gonna eat you out till you apologize to your pussy for disrespecting her in front of me.” you gasped, breath catching, clenching around him in instinctive anticipation.

he felt it. and smirked.

“there she is,” he murmured, rolling his hips slowly, pressing his forehead to yours again, eyes fluttering shut like he was worshipping the moment. “sweet, tight little thing. even after I filled her up, she’s still clingin’ to me like she wants more.”

you moaned, body arching weakly, still so oversensitive, and yet—

“maybe she does.”

toji’s eyes opened again, and they were darker now, brighter, something burning deep inside them that hadn’t gone out yet.

“you better not be teasing me,” he said softly.

you bit your lip. hard.

and whispered, “then make me sorry.”

and he smiled. slow. wide. unhinged.

“you’re about to be.”

the air inside the stall was dense, humid, too heavy with sex and sweat and that lazy, humming afterglow that only came when both your bodies had been used—worshipped and wrecked in equal measure. your pulse was still erratic, your breath catching on every inhale like your lungs hadn’t figured out how to restart. toji hadn’t moved much since the last thrust, still deep inside you, cock thick and heavy and leaking, his weight pressing you gently into the wall like he didn’t want to let you go just yet. the scent of him was everywhere—on your neck, in your mouth, between your legs—and you could still taste the sound of his voice in your ears, rasping mine like it was something he meant to tattoo into your bones.

eventually, though, he shifted—reluctantly—lifting his forehead from yours, eyes flicking down your body with a reverence that was almost comical given the mess between your legs. he sighed, deep and low, like a man about to walk away from his favorite crime scene.

“alright,” he muttered, finally easing his hands to your hips and taking a single step back, gently slipping out of you with a lewd, wet sound that made both of you twitch. “moment of truth. you still got legs?”

you blinked at him, dazed, and then wobbled as your feet touched the floor, knees buckling under you like a baby deer just born into a post-orgasm world.

you stumbled directly into his chest with a soft little squeak, your palms catching the damp heat of his skin through his shirt, breathless and already flushed again. toji laughed—really laughed this time, head tipping back, teeth showing, full and rich and dangerous in the way only a man freshly pussy-drunk could be.

“fuckin’ hell,” he chuckled, wrapping an arm around your waist to keep you upright, “you nearly took us both out, sweetheart.” you buried your face in his shirt for a second, too embarrassed and too exhausted to do anything but exist. “it’s your fault,” you muttered into the fabric. “you fucked the sense outta me.”

he kissed the side of your head, then leaned you back just slightly and pressed your back to the grimy stall door, holding you there with a hand on your waist while he reached for himself, guiding his cock back into his boxers with a practiced roll of his wrist and a satisfied grunt.

“can’t lie,” he said while zipping up, “she didn’t wanna let me go. took a fuckin’ minute just to get out.”

you gave him a look, somewhere between exhausted and scolding, but the twitch in your lip betrayed the way your thighs clenched again at his voice. he just smirked and hooked his belt back into place, slow and casual like he hadn’t just been balls-deep in you a minute ago.

then he crouched down to grab your shirt from the floor—rumpled, half-dried with sweat, glitter, and maybe a little bit of toji’s spit—and shook it out once before straightening up again, holding it like a gentleman with a gift.

“c’mon, arms up,” he murmured, voice suddenly softer again.

you obeyed without thinking, letting him help you dress like your brain had short-circuited, like you’d handed him the keys to your limbs and were trusting him not to drive you off a cliff. he slid the shirt over your head with practiced ease, tugged it gently down your arms, and just when you thought he was done—when his hands slid past your ribs and down your sides like he was adjusting it—

he bent down and sucked your nipple into his mouth.

you gasped, stumbling back against the door, breath catching in your throat as the sudden wet heat of his tongue flicked over the piercing again, lips wrapping around the cool metal and tugging just slightly.

“toji—”

he groaned low in his chest, then released it with a wet pop, lips brushing over the sensitive skin of your breast before finally tugging your shirt down into place with both hands.

“couldn’t help it,” he said, eyes wicked but half-lidded, dragging over you like a man who already wanted to go back in. “they’re too pretty not to taste again.” you didn’t respond—couldn’t. your brain had short-circuited again, reduced to white noise and heartbeat.

he fixed your hair next. carefully, absurdly gently, fingers brushing back stray strands from your face, pushing it behind your ears like he hadn’t just had you folded in half thirty seconds ago. then he loomed over you, big and warm and grinning like the devil who knew you’d come if he asked again.

“you wanna come back to my place?” he asked, voice low and smooth now. “give your legs a real break. i’ll apologize to your pussy proper for comin’ first. i got a mouth and a lot of guilt.” you let out a weak laugh—giddy and limp and already leaning forward like you might melt if he kissed you again.

“what, you’re feeling guilty now?”

“i’m tryin’ to be a gentleman,” he said, mock-serious. “not every day i meet someone who makes me forget my name and the year.” you raised an eyebrow. “that’s the bar?” he leaned in close again, mouth hovering just beside your ear, breath warm and so fucking good. “no, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice like a knife made of velvet. “you’re the bar now.”

you shivered.

he pulled back just enough to smile again, then glanced toward the door.

“you wanna text your friends? let ‘em know you’re leavin’ with a total stranger?”

“they’ve got my bag,” you said, still dazed, still trying to remember what reality felt like. “they’ll figure it out.”

he stared at you for a second.

then grinned.

“god damn,” he muttered. “you’re perfect.”

and then—toji fushiguro, pussy-drunk, sweat-drenched, still twitching in his jeans with the memory of your cunt—opened the stall door, it creaked open like it, too, had been through something shameful and held it for you, like a man escorting a queen out of her ruined cathedral. the hallway air hit you—cooler, thinner, laced with basslines and spilled drinks and someone screaming off-key to early 2000s pop—and you stepped into it like a newborn deer in heels, thighs slick, hair a little fucked, your shirt tugged low over your hips to hide the fact that your panties were somewhere between ruined and irrelevant.

toji stood beside you, towering and casual, like he hadn’t just rearranged your insides and kissed your nipple before helping you get dressed. his belt was buckled, his shirt clinging damply to his chest, collar pulled slightly off-center from your earlier tugging. his neck was flushed, jaw stubbled, and there were still fresh bite marks trailing along the line of his throat—yours. ownership drawn in tooth and heat.

your heart jumped sideways in your chest. your knees tried to wobble again.

and he felt it.

“there she goes,” he teased, his mouth brushing your temple now, his voice still dipped in that slow-dripping, pussy-drunk molasses tone that made your stomach twist in the most incredible way. “thought I fucked the wobble outta your legs already. guess I gotta go harder next time.”

“if you go harder, I’ll die,” you replied, still grinning, voice raw but teasing, biting down the ridiculous urge to giggle like a schoolgirl on prom night.

toji pulled you closer. you barely reached the height of his shoulder like this, his arm heavy and protective and possessive across your back, his hand idly tracing lazy circles on your side as you walked with him—slow, casual, like he wasn’t still inside you in spirit.

“what a way to go,” he murmured. “split open, stuffed full’a cum, legs over my shoulders while you cry on my cock. shit, if there’s a better death I don’t know it.”

you snorted. “you’re awful.”

“and you’re gorgeous,” he shot back, leaning down to kiss just behind your ear, sending another aftershock rolling through your already wrecked nerves. “tightest pussy I ever felt, baby. no contest. softest moans, sweetest little body—like you were built to break.”

your cheeks burned. your cunt clenched. again.

“you’re obsessed,” you whispered, playful and shaky, tipping your head back to look up at him. “pussy-drunk old man.”

he grinned at that—wide and unrepentant, all teeth and mischief and post-fuck swagger. “damn right. I’ve been starving for nine fuckin’ years and someone just fed me filet mignon soaked in honey. you think I’m gonna be normal after this?”

you laughed, biting your lip, feeling the slow drag of slick between your thighs every time you moved.

he was still talking.

still praising you.

like your pussy had rewired his brain.

“you don’t get it,” he murmured, pressing his mouth to your temple again. “you ruined me. no way I’m goin’ back to jerkin’ off like some lonely divorced fuck with ESPN in the background. I’m gonna be thinkin’ about you next time I close my eyes. about the way you opened up for me. about how you looked when you cried on my cock.”

you whimpered.

out loud.

right there in the hallway.

and toji just chuckled, kissed the corner of your mouth, then pulled you tighter under his arm like he wanted to wear you. “c’mon,” he whispered against your cheek, “let’s get the fuck outta here before I get hard again and we wind up in the janitor’s closet.”

you glanced sideways at him, lips curled up in that smug, fucked-out smirk you couldn’t seem to wipe off your face, and said softly, under your breath—

“may your soul rest in peace.”

he didn’t miss a beat.

“amen,” he muttered with a low snort, before slipping his thick, warm arm around your back, hand resting just above the curve of your ass like he belonged there, like he wanted everyone in this hallway to know that he’d just had you up against a stall door with your legs on his shoulders, crying out his name.

then, like the audacious bastard he was, he leaned in and kissed your cheek. not quick. not pecked. pressed—lingering, hot, lips slightly open, the kind of kiss that said this isn’t over, that said you’re mine now, that said you’re not getting out of my bed without a limp and at least two orgasms on your record.

you didn’t argue after.

you followed.

and you never looked back.

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