IT'S NOT LIKE IM FALLING IN LOVE,

The room shifted when he entered, quietly, without announcement, without anything that resembled the chaotic, overflowing energy most men brought inside.

He was tall, sharply dressed, expensive even in stillness. His coat looked tailored; his shirt collar open like an intentional design, not accidental messiness. He wore dark, understated luxury, edges softened by presence alone. He carried a watch worth more than your entire student debt, and you knew that without needing brand names. He sat down like he had never needed to ask permission for space.

He didn’t flirt. He didn’t stare at anyone else. He simply placed a folded bill on the service table and requested one name: “Pink Bunny.”

It became a ritual.

Your set always slowed in private rooms, because those rooms weren’t built for chaos, they were for intimacy. Dim lights, low velvet seating, music soft enough that the sound of your heels mattered.

You would dance, slow, rhythmic, purposeful, not seductive exactly, but graceful. He watched in silence that was never rude, never dismissive, just focused. You weren’t used to being seen without being consumed.

When it was over, you always prepared to leave politely.

But he never let you go empty-handed.

The first envelope he handed you was thick, too thick, enough thickness to make you stop breathing for three seconds straight. You opened it after he left, expecting maybe a generous tip.

It was three weeks of wages. In one night.

Your hands shook so violently you almost dropped it.

You told the manager that he overpaid. Your manager laughed. “He knew what he gave you. Men like that always know.”

After that, he only came on your shifts.

His entrance became an event, quiet, controlled, entirely different from every other presence in the building. He didn’t ask you invasive questions. He didn’t linger after closing. He didn’t try to follow you outside.

He simply paid, watched you dance, and ensured you earned enough that you could disappear from the club for days afterward.

Coworkers whispered that you were his. You weren’t. Not in any official sense.

But he treated you like someone with fragility worth safeguarding.

If you walked out late, he followed a few paces behind until you reached your car, not speaking, not stepping close, just existing as security made of money and quiet certainty.

If drunk men pulled you too close, Sylus never handled them directly, he said something to management, and those men simply never returned.

Once, after your heel broke backstage and you panicked because you didn’t have a replacement, he arrived the next night with a designer box, pink, satin strap heels, your size, without asking.

“Consider it an investment,” he said.

Not controlling. Not demanding. Just resolute.

You asked him why, why someone like him noticed someone like you, why he came only when you worked, why he gave enough money for you to breathe.

He looked at you the way someone looks at something delicate and expensive they don’t plan to break.

“You don’t belong here,” he said plainly. “And I don’t like seeing you pretend that you do.”

You laughed, because you were wearing glitter and a tiny bow in your hair. “I do belong here,” you whispered. He didn’t argue. He simply slid another envelope across the table.

Enough to vanish for half a semester. Enough to buy time, beautiful, quiet time, without sweating over loan statements. And you stood there realising, men bought fantasy.

But Sylus didn’t. He bought your peace. Your rest. Your absence. And no one in your life had ever given you something so soft.

You weren’t supposed to be working that night.

Your schedule had been blank, three full days off, courtesy of the last envelope Sylus pressed into your palm with silent finality. But the club called two hours before opening.

Someone got sick, someone else canceled, and your manager asked in that careful tone people used when they hoped you would say yes. You needed the extra money. And you told yourself Sylus wouldn’t be there tonight.

So you curled ribbon around your ponytail, reapplied your sugar–pink gloss, and slipped into the pale rose bodysuit that hugged your hips like a secret. The stage lights greeted you, warm, glittering, familiar, and you stepped into the dressing hallway with a deep breath.

That was when one of the girls handed you a card. “Boss said to give you this when you came in.”

Just your stage name, written in elegant black ink: Pink Bunny — Room 3.

Your pulse skipped. Then tripped.

Room 3 wasn’t for random customers. Room 3 was for people who paid more than most made in a month.

Your lip gloss suddenly didn’t feel like enough armour. You opened the door before you could second-guess yourself.

The lighting was lower than usual. Velvet shadows. Soft music playing something slow, something languid. And Sylus was already there, coat gone, sleeves rolled, a glass untouched beside him.

Waiting.

His gaze lifted when he heard the door click, and that single look made your breath dip into your stomach. “I asked for you,” he said simply. No theatrics. No question. Spoken like statement.

You stepped in, a little quieter than usual, heels brushing against the rug. “I—I wasn’t supposed to work tonight,” you admitted, the words soft enough to disappear.

“I know.” His voice didn’t change. “Your manager told me. I asked her to call you.”

Your heart stuttered.

“You… had me called in?”

Sylus leaned back slightly, not relaxed, but studying you like you were something handcrafted. “I thought you needed something,” he said.

Your breath snagged. “Like what?”

“Like a break,” he murmured. “Like someone seeing you when you’re tired. You’re not good at asking.”

That pierced too sharply, too accurately.

You swallowed. “It’s just work.”

“You’re not built for exhaustion,” he replied, eyes slow over you. “You wear sunlight like skin. When it dims, it’s noticeable.”

No one had ever spoken to you like that, not like you were fragile. You didn’t ask why he meant it. You didn’t ask how he saw it, because he wasn’t wrong.

“Come here,” he said gently, one palm lifting, wrist relaxed, gesture soft rather than commanding.

And somehow, that made it feel more dangerous.

You stepped closer, not dancing yet, rather existing in his reach. He set something on the table beside him. An envelope.

A blush-pink ribbon wrapped around it. Pale satin. Neater than any you’d ever seen him hand over.

“I figured I’d save time,” he said, tone almost careless. “For when you tried to argue that you didn’t deserve it.” Your cheeks warmed. You didn’t open it, you didn’t need to. You already knew it was too much.

“You keep trying to pay me away,” you whispered.

Sylus exhaled, slow, deliberate.

“I pay so you have choices,” he answered. “Not obligations.”

You stood there in soft pink, glitter still drying on your collarbones, ears warm from truth you didn’t ask for.

“You don’t ever have to be here when I come,” he added, voice lower. “But if you are, then I always want it to be me.” And that felt heavier than an envelope.

The ribbon slipped between your fingers as you leaned forward, too fast, too impulsive, your lips pressing against his before you could think.

It wasn’t practiced or poised, just warmth and the faint taste of champagne lingering on his mouth. He didn’t pull away, didn’t stiffen, but his exhale shuddered against you, slow, deliberate, like he was measuring the moment before reacting.

When you broke apart, your pulse hammered so violently you swore he could hear it. “Sorry,” you breathed, fingers twisting in the hem of your bodysuit. “I didn’t—”

“Don’t.” His thumb brushed your jawline, stopping you mid-sentence. His touch was firm, grounding, like he was piecing you back together before you could unravel. “You don’t owe me apologies.”

The air thickened with something unspoken, not tension, but anticipation. You could smell his cologne now, cedar and something darker, expensive, clinging to his skin.

The dim light caught the edge of his watch, glinting gold against his wrist. His fingers traced your cheekbone, featherlight, testing, as if memorising the shape of you.

“That wasn’t part of the deal,” you whispered, half-laughing, half-breathless.

Sylus tilted his head slightly, gaze flickering over your face. “There was never a deal.” His voice dropped, rougher than before. You swallowed hard.

His fingertips traced the strap of your garter, barely grazing skin, and your breath hitched. The envelope lay forgotten on the table beside you, its ribbon pooling like spilled ink.

"You know the rules," Sylus murmured, dark amusement curling his words. His thumb pressed into the hollow behind your knee, a silent claim. "No touching the customers."

You bit your lip, cheeks flushing beneath the stage lights still clinging to your lashes. The club's rules were ironclad, hands off unless the client initiated, no crossing that line unless the money justified the risk.

But Sylus had never been just a customer, had he? The realisation sent a shiver down your spine.

"Then fire me," you breathed, swaying closer until the heat of his body blurred the space between you. The scent of his cologne, spice and something smokey, wrapped around you like a second skin.

His exhale was almost a laugh, low and rough against your temple. His other hand slid up your bare thigh, slow, deliberate, pausing just shy of where the bodysuit ended.

"You don't get to quit," he said, and the edge in his voice wasn't a threat, it was a promise.

The music swelled, muffled through the door, bass thumping in time with your pulse. His fingers tightened imperceptibly, and you gasped.

"You wanted me to see you tired?" he asked, dragging his nose along your jaw. "Or did you want me to fix it?"

The question unraveled something in your chest. You didn't answer, couldn't, because his mouth was on yours again, hotter this time, hungrier, and the envelope fluttered to the floor, unopened, irrelevant.

His teeth grazed your bottom lip. "Still think you belong here?"

You whimpered.

Sylus caught the sound with another kiss, deeper now, his hands mapping the dip of your waist like he owned it. And maybe he did.

Maybe he had from the moment he walked in, silent and sure, and decided you were worth more than the glitter on your skin.

The couch swallowed you both as he pinned you down, velvet scratching the backs of your thighs. His fingers tangled in your hair ribbon, careful, always careful, but his breath was ragged against your neck.

"I could put a baby in you," he murmured, lips skimming your pulse. "Watch your belly swell with something mine. Would that keep you out of this place?"

His teeth grazed your earlobe, possessive, punishing. You arched beneath him, gasping when his palm slid up to cup your breast through the thin lace. The fabric strained under his grip.

"I'd buy you pink dresses," he continued, voice dark with something beyond want. "Not this—costume. Real silk. The kind that slides off when I tell it to."

A shudder ran through you. His thumb circled your nipple once, slow, savoring, before his hand slipped lower, beneath the waistband of your bodysuit. You whimpered, legs falling open instinctively.

"Tell me no," he challenged, fingers stroking higher, achingly deliberate. "Tell me you don't want me to ruin you for every other man in this fucking building."

You couldn't. Your hips rocked against his hand instead, shameless, aching. Sylus chuckled, low, victorious, and bit the curve of your shoulder.

"Didn't think so."

The words rumbled against your throat before Sylus’ teeth closed over your collarbone, a claiming bite that made your back arch off the velvet.

His fingers tugged the ribbon from your hair, unraveling the bow with a slow, deliberate pull while his other hand worked beneath the lace of your bodysuit, calloused fingertips dragging against damp silk.

You gasped when his thumb found your clit, circling just once, teasing, testing, before pressing down hard enough to make your vision blur.

"You'd look pretty," he murmured against your jaw, voice gone gravel-dark. "Swollen with my kid. Waddling around our penthouse in those little pink nightgowns you love." His fingers hooked into the waistband of your bodysuit, tearing the fragile fabric with a sharp snick that echoed in the hushed room.

Cool air kissed your bare skin. "No more stages. No more strangers' eyes." His palm smoothed over your stomach, possessive, almost reverent, as if imagining the curve already there. "Just mine."

You whimpered when his mouth found your nipple, tongue swirling slow before biting down.

The pain-pleasure shot straight to your core, and Sylus groaned against your skin, hips grinding into yours so you could feel the thick outline of him through his slacks.

"Fuck," he hissed, dragging his teeth lower, down the trembling plane of your abdomen. "Should've done this the first night I saw you." His fingers slid between your thighs, spreading you open. "Should've ruined you for anyone else sooner."

The couch groaned beneath his weight as he knelt between your legs, grip bruising on your hips. You barely had time to process the shift before his tongue licked a hot stripe up your cunt, slow, savoring, like he was memorising the taste.

Your hands fisted in his hair, but he didn't hurry, didn't relent, just worked you over with lips and teeth until your thighs shook. When you came, sobbing his name,

Sylus didn't pull away, he drank you down like a man starved, growling against your skin when your hips jerked helplessly against his mouth.

Only then did he rise, looming over you with darkened eyes, fingers unbuckling his belt with deliberate slowness. "Going to fill you up," he promised, voice rough.

"Right here. Right now. And when you walk out tonight—" His zipper hissed open. "you'll know exactly whose come is dripping down your thighs."

Your whimper was muffled against his palm as he thrust three fingers into your wetness, stretching you with brutal efficiency. "Answer me properly," he demanded, thumb circling your clit with enough pressure to make your toes curl. "Want me to breed you? Want to carry my child?"

You nodded frantically, hips canting against his hand. "Yes—" The word broke on a gasp when he twisted his fingers inside you.

Sylus growled, low and feral. "Good girl."

He didn't bother undressing fully, just shoved his slacks down far enough to free his cock, thick and flushed, veins standing proud along the length.

The first press of him stole your breath; he pushed in relentlessly, splitting you open inch by unforgiving inch until your thighs trembled around his hips.

"You take me so well," he muttered, dragging his teeth over your collarbone. "Made for this." His thrusts started slow, deep, each one bumping your cervix in a way that should've hurt but only made you clench tighter around him.

The room smelled of sex and spilled champagne, Sylus' cologne gone sharp with sweat. His grip on your hips would leave bruises, you hoped they would, and when his pace turned punishing, you sobbed, nails raking down his back.

"Look at you," he snarled, catching your chin, forcing your eyes open. The mirrors lining the walls reflected your wrecked face, mascara smudged, lips swollen. "My perfect little bunny. Ruined."

His hips snapped harder, driving into you with a force that knocked the breath from your lungs. You clawed at his shoulders, thighs shaking, pleasure coiling tight in your belly. Sylus groaned, fingers tightening in your hair, not pulling, just holding, like he was anchoring you both to this moment.

"You come first," he ordered, voice raw. "Then I'll paint that pretty stomach white."

The words tipped you over.

You shattered with a cry, clenching around him so hard his rhythm stuttered. Sylus cursed, dragging out your orgasm with slow, rolling thrusts before abruptly pulling out.

Hot stripes of cum splashed across your belly, marking you in thick, glistening streaks. He watched it drip down your ribs, chest heaving, before swiping a finger through the mess and bringing it to your lips.

"Taste," he murmured, pressing against your tongue. "That’s what you’ll swallow every night when you’re mine."

You shuddered, sucking his finger clean, savoring the bitter salt. Sylus exhaled sharply, dragging his thumb over your lower lip.

"Finish school," he said, tone shifting, calmer now, but no less dangerous. "Then I’ll put a baby in you. Not a minute sooner." He reached for his discarded jacket, pulling a sleek black card from the inner pocket.

"My address. Be there by 2 AM. Bring nothing but that ridiculous pink ribbon in your hair." Your fingers trembled as you took it. The cardstock was heavy, embossed, smelling faintly of his cologne.

"And the club?" you whispered.

Sylus buttoned his slacks with deliberate slowness. "You’re done here." He tilted your chin up, studying your face like he was memorising it. "Unless you’d rather keep grinding on strangers for pennies?"

You shook your head, pulse thrumming.

"Good." His thumb brushed your cheekbone, almost tender. "Because I’m done watching."

He left without another word, the door clicking shut behind him.

The envelope, still unopened, lay forgotten on the floor, its pink ribbon tangled in the wreckage of your bodysuit. You touched the cum drying on your stomach, sticky and warm, and knew, with terrifying certainty, that nothing would ever be the same.

Outside, the bass thumped on.

But you were already gone.

you press the side of the dial like it might grow legs and scamper back to his penthouse. it doesn’t. it’s heavy. like guilt. like betrayal. like a down payment for rent, maybe two if you're stingy on groceries and don’t mind living on cup ramen and instant coffee and sexual tension.

it’s a sick, hot day. tokyo’s pavements are steaming up like a fresh fuck. the buildings squint at you through their smeared windows. the air smells like boiled piss and fried octopus. your thighs are sticking together with the kind of summer sweat that only heartbreak and overdraft accounts can summon. you’re glowing like revenge and maybe yeast infection. beautiful. radiant. a little disgusting. utterly unbothered.

the pawn shop squats between a suspicious nail salon and a meat bun place that probably doubles as a gambling den. the sign is hanging half-off like it’s trying to run away, and the windows are yellowed with the kind of grime that’s older than you. there's a busted gash in the corner of the front door, like someone tried to kick it in with love and/or desperation. above the doorway, a dead neon sign reads: “FUSHIGURO PAWN & LOANS” in crusty red letters, and below it, taped with scotch tape, a paper that says “we don’t haggle. unless you’re hot.”

you push the door open with your hip, and it groans like an old man who’s just seen a titty.

inside, it smells like nicotine, leather, and electronics that haven't worked since the 90s. there's a wall of faded guitars, a glass case of watches that all say different times like they’ve been through war, and a shelf with several truly haunted-looking dolls. somewhere in the back, a tv is playing a soap opera too loud, the dialogue overlapping with the buzz of an electric fan on its last legs. you walk in like you own the place, like you’re not dying of thigh-chafe and righteous vengeance, like your ex-boyfriend didn’t put his tongue in some girl named miyu with a dolphin tattoo and one functioning brain cell. gojo satoru. hottest man in tokyo, most powerful man in bed, absolute idiot when it came to loyalty.

the pawn shop doesn’t have air-conditioning so much as it has ambience. which is to say: it’s hot. it smells like dried sweat, dying plastic, and a little bit like wet pennies. there’s a buzzing sound coming from a fly trap near the ceiling that’s caught something big and still twitching, and the light above the counter is flickering like it’s got beef with god.

and then him.

he’s sitting behind the counter, shirtless, of course—sweat glistening on his chest like he’s auditioning to be in a porno shot in a junkyard. his hair’s a mess, scarred lip split just enough to be interesting, and he’s got the kind of arms that say i have broken things with my bare hands and liked it. he’s too old for you. you’re too broke for him. but he’s got that kind of dangerous calm that makes your thighs clench.

he looks up at you with one eye squinted like you’re either too bright or too dumb to be real. “you lost, sweetheart?” he drawls, voice rough like he gargled gravel and whiskey. “or you here to sell your dignity for fifty bucks and a vibrating egg?”

you smack the watch down on the counter like a threat, dramatic as hell, like you're slapping down your dead hopes and dreams. clang. it gleams under the grimy shop lights like it’s still got something to prove and pop your gum. “depends,” you say, leaning in. “how much will you give me for a soul in rolex form?” you say, leaning on the glass with your tits pushed together like they’re part of the negotiation. “i want cash. fast. i don’t wanna talk about it.”

he whistles low, picks it up, holds it to the light. his fingers are thick. there’s dirt under his nails. he smells like motor oil and criminal charges and something slightly minty. he squints at the brand, snorts.

he squints at the watch, then at you. raises one dark eyebrow.

“what is this, your sugar daddy’s?”

you snort, almost trip on your own pride. “i wish i had a sugar daddy. i wouldn’t be here, sweating like a piglet with a grudge, selling men’s jewelry to perverts.”

he hums. pokes at the watch with one finger like it might bite. “damn. fancy.”

“it better be,” you mutter, “cost more than my tuition.”

his eyes flick up, lazy, amused. “and you just snatched it? ice-cold, sweetheart.” you pop your gum. “he cheated. i think that makes me entitled to at least one piece of collateral damage.”

“ah,” he says, nodding slowly. “the heartbreak tax. fair enough.”

he lifts the watch, inspects it under the light with this exaggerated little flourish, squinting one eye closed like he’s pretending to be some kind of degenerate watch sommelier. “rolex,” he mutters. “real, too. not bad.”

you perk up. “so what do i get for it?”

he leans on the counter now, all scarred forearms and those wide, sinful hands, looking you over like he’s trying to decide if you’re a customer or a walking mistake he wants to fuck. “depends,” he drawls. “who’s the lucky bastard? gotta know what kind of man i’m insulting when i lowball you.”

you click your tongue. “gojo satoru.”

he blinks.

“the fuck is a gojo satoru?”

you actually stop chewing.

“…seriously?”

he looks dead serious. like the kind of serious that comes from watching too much cable news and owning no social media. “is that a brand of mayo?”

you choke.

“he’s—he’s a guy. was my guy. used to be, anyway. tall. hot. white hair. sunglasses indoors. talks like a drama student and fucks like he’s god’s favorite mistake.” the man behind the counter tilts his head, shrugs. “don’t ring a bell. but if he wore this kinda shit on the daily, he was probably a dick.”

you smile, slow. wicked. “he was.”

“then i hope you kicked him in the balls before taking this.”

you grin. “i took it while he was in the shower. and i may have clogged his toilet with shrimp heads.” he lets out a full-on laugh—ugly, open, deep in his chest. “you’re fucking evil.”

“thank you.”

“i like it.”

you blink. suddenly it’s hotter in here, and not just because of the questionable climate control. he smirks, tapping the watch on the counter. “i’ll give you—eh, twenty thousand yen.”

you gape. “that’s like, a hundred and fifty bucks!”

“you want more?” he leans closer, voice dropping. “you’re gonna have to tell me what he sounded like when you caught him. every. disgusting. detail.”

you pause.

“…you’re a freak.”

“and you’re broke,” he shrugs. “but we can work something out. i do layaway. or favors. if you’re sweet.”

you look at him, this sweaty, half-naked menace with a wicked grin and dirt under his nails, and think maybe—just maybe—selling your ex’s watch for petty revenge isn’t the only kind of deal you could make today.

you chew your gum louder. “depends what kind of favors, old man.”

he winks. “the fun kind.”

the fan creaks overhead like it’s trying to whisper dirty secrets into the peeling ceiling. the fly trap buzzes again—long, lazy, almost erotic in a disgusting kind of way. and behind the counter, the man watches you like he’s bored, but the glint in his eye says curious. maybe even hungry.

you don’t speak right away. just stand there in the hot stink of secondhand electronics and pawned regrets, twisting the corner of your mouth like you’re chewing on a thought that tastes like sin. you shift your weight, arms folding under your chest in a way that’s absolutely not innocent—hoisting up your tits like they’re an offering on the altar of bad decisions.

you squint at him. tilt your head.

“what’s your name?”

he looks at you. deliberate. slow. then leans back in his chair again like this is nothing, like this kind of filth just happens to him before lunch. his eyes rake over you without apology—lingering on your thighs, your lip gloss, the little sweat-damp patch between your tits—and when he grins, it’s crooked and dangerous and made for trouble.

“toji.”

you repeat it, soft, like tasting it.

“toji.”

and then again, filthier this time, voice lower, leaning in till the cheap glass counter creaks under your weight, your mouth curled in something that isn’t quite a smile. “toji…” you purr, sticky-sweet, rolling the syllables like you wanna fuck the name itself. “i’ll suck your dick if you give me more.”

the room goes real still for a second. the fan stutters. the soap opera in the back hits a dramatic violin note. even the ghosts in the haunted dolls on the shelf seem to sit up a little straighter. toji doesn’t flinch. he looks at you like a man who’s heard worse—and liked it.

but his pupils? they get darker.

“is that right?” he says, low and warm, like molasses and knives. “just like that?”

you lean in more, close enough now that he can smell the sugar on your breath and the sweat on your collarbones. “mmhm. just like that. you give me more—double, triple—i get on my knees and make you forget your name.”

he chuckles. god, it’s a filthy sound. not a laugh so much as a grind of amusement and arousal, his mouth twitching like he’s trying not to smirk too wide. “you always this fuckin’ shameless?” he murmurs, tapping the watch on the counter. his knuckles brush your arm like a tease. “or you just desperate today?”

you blink slow. your lip gloss shines like a promise. “both.”

toji licks his teeth behind his smile, leans forward, real slow. he’s so close now you can see the scar on his lip, the sweat caught in the hollow of his throat, the shadow of stubble on his jaw that looks like it’d burn your thighs raw. “you talk to all your shopkeepers like that, princess?”

“just the ones i wanna gag on,” you breathe, and his jaw twitches, just a little.

he leans even closer. your noses nearly touch.

“ain’t nobody ever taught you manners, huh?”

you smile, innocent as rot. “they tried. i spat in their coffee.”

toji groans like he’s annoyed, but his eyes flick to your tits, your mouth, your neck—and linger. linger long. “fuck,” he mutters, more to himself than to you. “you’re a damn problem.”

“you gonna solve me, or what?”

“depends.” his grin sharpens. “you any good with that mouth, brat?”

you purse your lips and blow a bubble with your gum, then suck it back in, slow.

“you wanna find out?”

he exhales, heavy, like he’s been punched in the gut by his own bad taste in women. the chair creaks as he stands, and god, he’s big up close, taller than you remembered, broad as a sin you don’t regret yet, with arms like he’s wrestled demons and won. the tattoos on his skin snake down to his wrists, and his belt buckle glints when he shifts his hips—taunting, like it knows you’re already thinking about your knees on the sticky floor.

but he doesn’t say yes. not yet. he looks at you for a long moment, eyes half-lidded, hungry, considering.

“fifty thousand,” he finally says, voice rough, low, deep enough to live in.

“and if your mouth’s as good as your attitude, maybe i’ll even let you come.”

your breath catches.

“…fifty-five and i swallow.”

toji’s grin goes crooked.

“deal.”

the deal wasn’t made with a handshake—it was made with a look.

that look.

the kind that coils low in your stomach and sizzles like static, the kind that makes your legs feel soft and your mouth feel full before anything’s even touched you. toji just tilts his head toward the back door, crooks one finger, and you’re already moving. not because you’re obedient—god, no—but because your body knows a good mistake when it sees one.

he calls over his shoulder, barely glancing back toward the front as he shoves the door open with one hand, “hey, shiu. watch the front.” a voice—smooth, bored, vaguely amused—drifts from somewhere behind a tower of broken stereos and suspicious electronics.

“don’t fuck her on the counter again.”

you freeze mid-step, blink.

again?

again?

toji grunts, doesn’t answer, just jerks his thumb for you to keep walking like this is his damn hallway and he’s letting you into it like some shady backroom VIP lounge. and you—stupid girl—follow. your boots squeak on the linoleum. your thighs are sweating. your heartbeat is doing that thing where it tries to climb into your throat and hide there.

he doesn’t look back at you as he walks—just shoulders through the second door and leaves it open behind him like he expects you to follow. and you do. because you're curious. because you're broke. because your ex is a lying, cheating, white-haired cocksucker and you deserve to win today, even if it's with your mouth full of something filthy and regret-shaped.

the office is… not what you expected.

it’s small, cluttered, hot as hell. there’s a couch against one wall that’s seen things and probably has stories and a very questionable stain on the armrest. there’s a metal desk, fan whirring on top of it like it’s fighting for its life, papers scattered everywhere like a bureaucratic crime scene. the only window is half-blocked with boxes. and toji—well.

he shuts the door behind you and suddenly you’re alone with him, and it’s like the heat changes. thicker. heavier. charged. like walking into a room made of tension and sweat and bad decisions waiting to be unwrapped.

“strip or kneel?” he says casually, leaning back against the desk, arms folded, voice so fucking bored it makes your chest feel tight.

you blink.

“…what?”

he grins—sharp, slow, dark. “i said, strip or kneel. c’mon, sweetheart. you offered. now i’m cashin’ in.” you don’t move right away, still standing in the middle of the room like maybe you’ve been transported into a porno that smells like cigarettes and pawned dreams.

he raises an eyebrow, slow, deliberate. “what, you get shy now that you’re not talkin’ big?”

you glare. “i’m not shy.”

“prove it, then.”

your lip curls, and you take a single step forward, then another, slow and dramatic, until you’re standing right in front of him—close enough to smell the sweat drying on his neck, the musk of motor oil and heat and something darker under his skin. you look up, chin high.

“name your price again.”

“fifty-five thousand yen,” he says, voice dropping a note, eyes heavy on your mouth. “and if you’re as good as you talk? maybe a little bonus. maybe a ride home in my lap.”

your knees almost buckle.

“you always fuck your customers?” you murmur, not backing down, folding your arms again to press your tits up, knowing exactly what you’re doing. “or just the broke slutty ones?” he exhales like you exhaust him and make him hard at the same time. “only the ones who beg pretty.”

you blink, then smile slow. sickly sweet.

“i’m not beggin’ yet.”

he leans down a little, one hand sliding up your thigh through the slit in your skirt like he’s just checking a receipt. his palm is hot. rough. wide. your skin jumps under it, betrays you.

“you will,” he says, voice husky and cruel, “you fuckin’ will.”

and that’s all it takes.

you drop to your knees like you’ve been dying to, palms on the tops of your thighs, spine straight, like a good girl, like a filthy little girl who wants to be told she's doing everything right even when she's drowning in cock and spit and pride. you look up at him through your lashes, slow and deliberate, tongue just barely peeking past your teeth.

“toji,” you whisper, real soft, just his name like it’s a prayer.

he groans. his hand finds your jaw.

“fuck. you’re gonna ruin me, ain’t you?”

you smile, pure wickedness, pressing your cheek into his palm like you’re sweet.

“hope so.”

the air in toji’s office is thick enough to chew—humid with heat and sweat and something feral, the sour-slick scent of desire stewing under the lazy hum of the fan that’s given up on saving either of you. your knees press into the scuffed linoleum, sticky with something you don’t care enough to name, and you look up at him from the floor like you were made for this—lips parted, mouth damp, eyes wide and wet and dangerous.

he watches you like he doesn’t know whether to fuck you or frame you, his jaw tight, arms braced against the desk like he needs something to hold him back. like he’s been holding back since you first walked in and plopped gojo satoru’s stupid expensive watch on the counter like a curse in drag.

but you don’t go straight for his zipper, no—too easy, too expected, and you’re not some quick cashmouth bimbo begging for attention. no. you’re here to haunt him.

so you start slow.

your hands come up to rest on his knees, fingers spread wide like you're claiming him, like you're letting him know the hunt’s over and he’s already fucked, even if you haven’t touched skin yet. his jeans are worn, warm from his body heat, stretched a little tight over thick thighs that flex the moment your palms settle. fuck. there’s so much of him. he’s solid, wide, hot under the denim, and when you lean in to press your mouth to the inside of his thigh—just above the knee—he grunts, low in his chest, like he wasn’t expecting it to hit that hard that fast.

you kiss his thigh again. and again. slow. open-mouthed. wet little promises dragged over stiff fabric. your tongue teases the seam, the roughness of the denim scraping just enough to make your lips feel raw, and you don’t look away for a single second.

your eyes stay locked on his, half-lidded and shameless, licking him through his jeans like you want him to know exactly how hungry you are, how messy you’re willing to get. you mouth at the swell of his thigh, kiss your way up with soft little whines, dragging your nose along the heat of him, breathing him in like he’s something primal and made just for you.

“fuck,” he mutters, voice gone dark and loose around the edges, one hand twitching at his side like he’s fighting the urge to shove you down harder. “look at you. on your knees like that.”

you smile against the bulge of his cock, kiss it once, just barely a press of your lips—chaste and filthy all at once. then another. then you start peppering kisses along the whole length, nosing at the thick line of him beneath the fabric.

“this for me, toji?” you murmur, voice sticky-sweet. “or you just get hard for girls who ruin your resale value?” he snorts, but the sound’s choked, like you’ve knocked the air out of him. “nah,” he breathes, “this? this’s all for you, princess. you fuckin’ earned it. look at you—kissin’ my cock like it’s holy.”

you grin and give the bulge a little bite—soft but just enough to feel it, just enough for his hips to twitch.

“‘s not holy,” you whisper, “yet.”

his breath catches, chest rising with a quiet hiss, and you press your lips just beneath the bulge now, where the zipper strains against the thick heat of him. your tongue flicks out, tasting metal and musk, and you don’t care that the fabric’s in the way—you just want more.

you lick the shape of him through the jeans, teasing your tongue along the imprint of his cock like you're trying to memorize it by feel alone. then you shift, slowly, and your mouth drops to his stomach, catching the edge of his shirt and pushing it up with the back of your hand.

and then you see it.

his happy trail.

you sigh, audibly, stupidly, like someone just dropped a slice of cake in your lap. your eyes go glassy. your hands slide up his thighs and pause just at his hips, thumbs stroking along the waistband like it’s the edge of something sacred.

“…fuck,” you breathe. “that’s my weakness, you know.”

he looks down at you, confused at first, then sees what you’re staring at, and the slow, sinful smirk that stretches across his mouth could destroy whole empires.

“yeah?” he rasps, one brow raised. “you like the trail, baby?”

“i’d fuckin’ die for the trail,” you mutter, half-laughing, but your mouth is already moving, already leaning in to press open-mouthed kisses down the soft line of it, dragging your tongue through the coarse hair with a moan that vibrates against his skin. “gonna put my whole fuckin’ soul on it.”

toji groans, and his hand finally drops, threading through your hair, not guiding—yet—but heavy, possessive, like he’s claiming you back.

you keep licking, keep kissing, keep mouthing hot little nothings along that line of hair that leads down like a promise—pausing only to bite, gentle and sharp, right where his waistband dips.

“good fuckin’ girl,” he murmurs, low, slow, thick with heat. “look at you. worshippin’ me before you even get your tongue in. you really do want that money, huh?”

you look up at him, all slick lips and lusted-out eyes. “i want the money,” you whisper. “but i want you more.”

he growls.

and then you bite his cock again through the jeans—harder this time.

he shudders.

he breathes like a man trying not to come from a bite.

just a bite.

you can feel it, all of it—his thigh muscles clenching under your palms, his cock twitching behind the denim, his hand tightening in your hair like he wants to pull and push at the same time but can’t decide which would make you prettier. you’re still on your knees, mouth swollen and lips wet from the heat, your breath steaming through the thick cotton of his jeans, and you press your teeth in one more time, slow and mean, right at the thickest part of the bulge, just enough to feel him flinch and curse above you.

“fuck,” toji hisses, voice strained, low, deliciously frayed around the edges. “fuckin’ tease.”

you pull back a little, drag your mouth along the length of him again, but this time it’s slower—filthy slow, nose brushing the shape of him, open-mouthed kisses trailing down the side like worship, like you’re trying to map the exact shape of the cock you’ve decided to ruin your whole life over. “not teasing,” you murmur, lazy and thick-tongued, “just savoring. you got no idea how hot you are down here, do you?”

“i know,” he says, too fast, too smug.

you laugh softly. “yeah, yeah. of course you do. bet you jerk off thinking about your own dick in the mirror.”

he grins down at you, not even remotely offended. “only when i’m high.” you smile and nuzzle the underside of his cock through the jeans like it’s soft velvet instead of overworked denim. “fuck, i love older men. your standards are so fucked.”

“you’re on your knees in a pawn shop office suckin’ my cock for less than a hundred bucks,” he replies, eyes sharp but voice thick. “don’t talk to me about standards.” you moan—not loud, not fake, but deep, genuine, dragged out from somewhere behind your ribs. “jesus christ. you really know how to talk to a girl.”

“you ain’t a girl,” he mutters, leaning in slightly, grip in your hair turning more possessive by the second. “you’re a fuckin’ problem.” you look up at him again, that devastating half-lidded gaze that makes your eyes glitter like you're about to do something unholy and enjoy every second of it. “you gonna solve me or let me worship you, daddy?”

he exhales like he’s been punched in the chest.

“…oh, you’re filthy.”

“uh-huh.”

“you want praise, baby?” he says, dragging the word out, hand tightening just a little more in your hair. “that what you like?”

you nod, lip caught between your teeth.

“then unzip me.”

you do. slowly. reverently. like it’s part of a ritual.

your fingers find the metal tab and draw it down inch by inch, listening to the teeth separate with this delicious hiss, parting like the sea for something sacred and horrible. the sound alone makes your thighs press together, and when your hand finally reaches inside, pushes past thick cotton and finds the heat of him, bare, already hard and leaking at the tip—you stop breathing for a second.

“fuck me,” you mutter, eyes wide, voice almost awed.

“yeah?” toji chuckles, cocky and low, the sound all grit and smug filth. “bigger than your ex?”

you pull him out slow, letting his cock slap against your palm, heavy and hot and thick as hell, the kind of size that makes your throat nervous and your pussy ache in sympathy. you blink up at him, wrap both hands around the shaft and still don’t reach the base. “…that’s not a cock,” you say, half-laughing, half-horrified. “that’s a lifestyle.”

he groans, that ragged sound you’re beginning to crave. “jesus, you’re fuckin’ perfect. keep talkin’ like that.” you lean in again, lick a fat stripe along the underside, just to feel it twitch against your tongue, just to hear him hiss through his teeth.

“mmm,” you purr, open-mouthed kisses working up toward the tip. “gonna make you forget your name. make you think beggin’ me was your idea. fuck, toji, you’re already so hard. for me, huh? not for your money. not for some easy girl. just for me.”

he swears again—rough, deep, hand clenching in your hair now, not to guide, but because he needs something to keep from falling apart too fast. “atta girl,” he mutters, barely audible. “look at you. good little slut on her knees for daddy. fuckin’ beautiful. best mouth i ever seen.”

you press a kiss to the flushed tip and whisper:

“just wait till you feel it.”

his cock rests heavy against your tongue before you even try to take it. you don’t rush, because rushing would be a crime. because this isn’t a blowjob, it’s a religious fucking ritual, and you’re the high priestess on your knees with lip gloss smeared half across your cheek, mascara already slipping from the corners of your eyes just from the anticipation of it.

you press your tongue flat beneath him, hands stroking slow at the base, fingers barely meeting on either side as you give the shaft long, languid squeezes, letting the weight of him settle across your bottom lip, letting him feel your breath there, hot and sweet.

“look at that mouth,” toji growls, eyes pinned to you like a man watching a sunset bleed into the horizon. “jesus fuck, sweetheart. like it was made to suck dick.”

you smile around the head of him, barely parted lips already glistening with spit and want. you hum, low in your throat, a little mmm-hmm that makes his cock jerk in your hand, precum beading against your tongue like a promise, salty and thick and already a little addictive.

“you talk like you’ve never had it sucked right,” you murmur, voice sticky and warm, your hand twisting gently up and down the shaft in slow, almost lazy strokes. “like nobody’s ever treated this cock the way it deserves.”

toji exhales like a man getting exorcised, his head tipping back just enough to let you see his throat flex with restraint. his knuckles are white where they grip the desk behind him.

“don’t think they ever had a mouth like yours, baby,” he mutters. “shit. just watchin’ you is fuckin’ me up.”

and you’re still not taking it in. not yet. you’re teasing him. savoring. you lean in to kiss the shaft, small wet kisses dragged along the underside, your tongue flicking out to trace a vein that pulses under your palm. you suckle at the skin just below the tip, slow and rhythmic, letting the sound of your lips around him fill the room—wet, filthy, obscene.

he groans. low. broken. “fuckin’ dangerous. i oughta charge you.”

you giggle around him, licking up the precum that leaks like it’s your reward for patience. “nah,” you purr. “this one’s on the house. your cock’s too pretty to ignore.” you give the head a firm kiss, then slowly—slowly—start to slide your mouth down.

he’s too thick. your jaw stretches. your lips sting.

but you take him anyway, eyes never breaking from his, your hands keeping a steady pace at the base as your mouth starts its work—inch by inch, dragging spit along him like you mean it, like you want him slick, perfect, ruined by the time you’re done.

“that’s it,” toji groans, his voice dark and molten now, “that’s it, baby, just like that. fuck. you were born for this, weren’t you?”

you nod, or try to, cock stuffed halfway down your throat, and the motion makes a sweet wet gag gurgle around him. your nails dig into his thighs for leverage as you pull back with a lewd pop, spit trailing from your bottom lip to the head of his cock.

“say it again,” you pant, eyes glassy, jaw slack.

“what?”

“say it,” you whimper, licking along the tip again like you’re starved for it. “say i was born for it.”

his hand comes down heavy on your cheek, not a slap—just a press, big palm holding your face as he stares down at you, his thumb catching your spit and dragging it down to your chin. “you were fuckin’ born for this,” he growls. “you were made to kneel like this. made to take it deep. made to make a grown man lose his goddamn mind.”

your moan is wrecked and high and breaks at the end. you go down again—deeper this time—mouth stretched open, spit bubbling at the corners as you work him with your throat, your hands, your tongue all at once. you want him ruined. sloppy. undone. ruined by your mouth like it’s a goddamn spell.

“fuck—fuck, baby—your throat,” toji’s voice is breaking now, breath ragged, “gonna fill it up. you want that, huh? want daddy to fuckin’ reward you for bein’ so good?”

you nod, mouth full, tears brimming in the corners of your eyes as you take him deeper still, hand twisting at the base, the rhythm building now—sick, obscene, perfect. your spit runs down his cock to your wrists. you’re a mess. a hot, perfect, cockdrunk mess on your knees in a pawn shop office and you wouldn’t stop even if someone opened the door.

because he’s moaning now. toji. this huge, brutal man with his muscles and his bite and that voice like graveled thunder—moaning because of you. “shit—keep goin’, sweetheart—fuckin’ perfect, such a good girl—gonna fill that throat, make it real messy for me—”

you hum, vibrating around him, and he twitches hard in your mouth, hips jerking like he’s losing control. his voice is strained, raw. “you want it? huh? want daddy’s cum, baby?” you pull back just far enough to pant, eyes wide, voice cracked but greedy.

“give it to me.”

and you dive back down.

you say “give it to me” like a girl about to take a sacrament, voice wrecked and dripping with want, but the second those words hang in the air—you pull away.

pull away like a brat, like a tease, like the smug little demon you are, and toji’s cock bobs helplessly in front of your face, soaked in spit, red and twitching with the kind of desperation that makes men feral. you kiss the tip like an apology. not a real one. not sincere. just lips pressed to the crown, soft and warm, your tongue flicking out to catch the glisten of precum from the slit like a cat cleaning cream off her paw.

then another kiss. and another.

kitten licks, sweet and slow, tongue flat and lazy, dragging across the sensitive ridge just under the head, all while his cock twitches like it’s begging—like he’s begging, under his breath, fists clenched at his sides. “oh, fuck me,” toji groans, looking down at you like you’ve just slapped him with an orgasm. “that mouth. that fuckin’ mouth’s gonna kill me.”

you hum against him like you’re not even listening, letting his cock rest against your cheek now, thick and hot and heavy, like a brand, like a claim. your eyes flutter shut for a second as you nuzzle it—nose pressed to the base, lips brushing the shaft, breath hot against the pulsing skin.

your hand comes up to cup his balls, warm and swollen and tight, and you roll them gently between your fingers before lowering your mouth to them, licking one broad, flat stripe along the seam before sucking one into your mouth—wet, deliberate, obscene.

“ohh, fuck, baby,” toji rasps, voice cracking as his head tips back again, the muscles in his stomach twitching under the mess of your licks. “you suck balls like you were trained for it.”

you moan around him, tongue dragging down the underside, slick and slow, and suck harder—hand cradling his cock now like you’re holding something sacred and stupid and made to ruin your throat. you lick across both, let them pop from your lips, then flick your tongue over the skin again, watching the way he shudders every time.

you giggle, smug as sin, and murmur, “who said i wasn’t trained?”

he looks down, dazed, and laughs like it hurts. “gonna fucking marry you if you keep that up.” you raise a brow and kiss the base of his cock like a threat. “you say that to all your broke girls with wet mouths?”

“only the ones who worship my dick.”

you smile, drag your tongue all the way up his shaft again, and moan like you’re tasting dessert—like he’s the best thing you’ve ever had in your mouth, and you’re not even halfway done. you reach the tip, kiss it again, then slide him back inside.

no preamble this time.

you take it deep.

your lips stretch, throat tight, gag reflex twitching, but you breathe through it—eyes fluttering closed for just a second as the heat of him fills your mouth, pushes into your throat, forces your jaw wide around the stretch. your hands brace on his thighs.

and then his hand comes down hard.

on the back of your head.

holding you there.

“good fuckin’ girl,” toji grits out, voice low and filthy and proud, like he’s watching a masterpiece ruin itself on his cock. “look at you. takin’ it so deep. that’s it. just like that.”

your throat spasms, muscles clenching around him, and your eyes go wide as he doesn’t let you pull away—just holds you there, cock buried in your throat, your nose smashed against the base, the scent of sweat and sex and man overwhelming you completely.

you slap his thigh.

once.

twice.

hard.

he laughs. not cruel—delighted. amazed. half-choked on his own breath. “breathe through your nose, baby,” he mutters, still holding your head down. “you wanted to be good, right? good girls know how to breathe on a cock.”

you try—god, you try—air dragging in rough and desperate through your nose, your throat tight and hot and aching, spit bubbling around the corners of your lips as your nails dig into his thighs. your lungs burn. your lashes flutter. you gag once, full-body, and still he holds you there for just one more moment, just long enough to feel you tremble—

and then he lets go.

you pull off with a gasp and a thick, messy cough, strings of spit snapping from your lips to the tip of his cock, your whole face wrecked and shining, mouth slack, tongue drooping from the side. “there she is,” he groans, thumbing the wet from your cheek, dragging it across your lips. “fuckin’ gorgeous. ruined. best mouth i ever fucked, i swear.”

you’re still panting, throat raw, but your smile is pure poison.

you lick your lips and purr, “again?”

his cock is still wet and twitching against your face, spit-slick and flushed a deep, angry red at the tip, and toji’s looking down at you like he wants to devour you—not sweetly, not gently, but like you’re the first thing he’s tasted in weeks and he’s starving in that slow, mean, lingering kind of way.

you’re still catching your breath, lips parted, tongue resting lazy against your bottom lip, throat aching in that perfect raw way that makes you feel it every time you swallow. your jaw trembles faintly, not from pain but from want—you’re not done. you’re not close to done. you want to feel him break in your mouth. you want to pull the cum out of him like a confession. you want him to shake.

so you bring your hand back to his cock, warm and firm and slick from your mouth, and give him a slow stroke, from base to tip—pressing your thumb over the leaking slit and smearing it across the crown, dragging a little moan from his throat like it’s already too much.

“you close?” you ask, voice ruined but smug, the kind of rasp that comes from a mouth overused and happy about it. “you gonna cum for me, daddy?”

he snarls like the name burns, eyes wild.

“don’t fuckin’ say that unless you mean it.”

you blink up at him, lashes wet, lips shiny with spit, and give his cock a soft kiss—then look him in the eye.

“i mean it.”

he breathes in sharp, something behind his expression cracking wide open. then, “get your fuckin’ mouth back on it. now.”

you do. immediately. greedily. no teasing this time, no biting or mouthing or coy looks—just your mouth wide, tongue flat, lips sliding down over the length of him with practiced hunger, taking as much as your raw throat will allow. your hand strokes the rest, twisting at the base, and he shudders, full-body, like you’ve grabbed something deep inside him and won’t let go.

“fuck—fuck, baby—jesus—” he chokes, one hand bracing on the desk, the other lost in your hair again, but this time he’s not forcing, not holding—he’s holding on, like he needs you to anchor him or he’s going to lose every single thread of his composure.

you start to suck. slow at first. deep, wet pulls that echo in the air around you, the obscene slurps and chokes and wet, ruined sounds of a girl working for it. your mouth slides up and down, tongue dragging along the underside, lips sealing tight every time you descend.

he moans—moans, not a grunt or a groan but a real, honest-to-god noise that sounds like it was pulled out of his spine. “that’s it—just like that—fuck, you feel so good—so fuckin’ good—look at you, baby, takin’ it like a champ—made for this, i swear to fuck—”

you hum in response, low and throaty, sending vibrations up the shaft that make his legs twitch. your eyes never leave his—wide, glistening, pure devotion with spit dripping down your chin and onto your chest, mess pooling at your collarbone.

he’s close. you can feel it in the way his thighs tighten, the way his cock pulses in your mouth, the way his voice breaks when he curses. “gonna cum,” he grits out, voice hoarse, almost panicked. “you want it? huh? want daddy’s fuckin’ cum down that filthy throat?”

you nod, moaning around him, stroking faster, sucking harder, your eyes fluttering at the overwhelming stretch and taste and heat of him. you want it. you need it.

“fuckfuckfuck—baby, baby, shit—gonna—”

and then he breaks.

his hips jerk, sharp and uncontrolled, cock twitching hard in your mouth as the first hot spurt hits the back of your throat. you gag, just a little, but don’t pull back—you take it, greedy, sucking through it, letting him pour into your mouth like you’ve been starving for it, swallowing each thick pulse with your hands still wrapped tight around the base.

he groans, full-body, staggered, the sound raw and wrecked as his head tips back and his hand tightens in your hair—not hard, not painful, just there, grounding him as you drain every last drop, lips sealed tight around him.

you stay there for a moment afterward, tongue flicking at the oversensitive tip, collecting the last few drops, until he hisses and pulls back with a shaky breath. you let him go with a slow, wet pop, mouth slick and shiny, lips swollen, chin drenched. you swallow one more time—loudly—just to prove it. he stares at you like you just ended him. like you just reassembled him in a different order. like he’s going to dream of this.

you lick your lips and smile, a little drunk on him.

“…do i get my fifty-five thousand now?”

he laughs—wheezes, really—and drops into the chair behind the desk like his knees gave out. “you get whatever the fuck you want, sweetheart.”

his cock is still twitching on your cheek, softening slowly, slick with spit and the taste of him still coating your tongue like a secret. it’s heavy even when it’s soft, resting across your face like the weight of a satisfied sin, warm and veiny and just a little too smug for something that’s just been sucked within an inch of its life.

you don’t move. you could, but you don’t.

your cheek presses against the meat of his thigh, flushed and sticky with sweat, your fingers lazily dragging little circles over the denim that’s halfway shoved down his legs, your breath still coming in soft little puffs from your nose. he smells like sex and musk and cheap cologne and that coldblooded male thing that clings to the air after a good, brutal orgasm—some mix of sweat and testosterone and the raw ozone scent of something claimed.

and you? you’re glowing.

you’re ruined. your lip gloss is long gone, your eyeliner’s smudged to shit, your hair’s a tangled halo from his hands, and your mouth is tingling in that delicious, post-deepthroat throb—but you look satisfied. you look like a girl who won, on her knees and proud of it.

he hasn’t said anything yet. he’s breathing hard, slouched like gravity's gotten personal, one hand limp on your shoulder, the other hanging between his legs like he forgot how arms work. he looks like he just saw God—and she had your lips.

so you break the silence.

your voice is slow, low, sweet and syrupy like warm liquor, and it makes his half-soft cock jump against your cheek when you speak. “you know,” you murmur, nuzzling your face into his thigh like a spoiled little brat curling up in a lap she doesn’t deserve, “if you think my mouth’s good…” he groans immediately. a quiet, helpless noise. no words—just suffering.

you grin, wicked and pleased, lips brushing the base of his shaft.

“…you should feel my pussy.”

toji makes a sound. not a word. not a laugh. not a moan.

just a deep, guttural, borderline inhuman noise in his chest like someone punched the wind out of him and replaced it with sheer carnal agony.

he looks down at you—like really looks—his eyes half-lidded, ruined, still catching up to what just happened. you’ve still got your cheek on his thigh, your hand lazily petting his cock like it’s a stray cat you’re trying to lull back into mischief.

“don’t fuckin’ say that,” he rasps.

“say what?” you blink up at him all wide-eyed, mock innocent, fluttering your lashes like you’re not still dripping spit down your neck. “that shit,” he grits, trying to sit up straighter, cock twitching again under your palm. “that filthy fuckin’ tease mouth. you tryna kill me?”

you sigh, dramatic, the back of your hand to your forehead like some tragic heroine who just happens to have cum on her tongue.

“i’m serious, old man. my pussy feels better than anything you’ve ever put your cock in. she’s wet right now. you made her jealous.”

“fuckin’—” he snaps, half a snarl, half a groan, dragging a hand down his face, “jealous? i just came so hard i saw static and you’re already makin’ her mad at me?”

you nod, smug. “she’s needy. high-maintenance. spoiled. you’d love her.” he stares. long. hard. eyes burning down your body like he’s trying to decide whether to take you right here or die thinking about it.

“you’re a fuckin’ menace,” he mutters.

you nuzzle his thigh again, letting your breath tickle the soft skin right above his knee, his cock still resting against your cheek like it belongs there. “uh-huh. but i’m your menace now, right?”

he doesn't answer.

he just leans forward, a hand curling around the back of your neck, thumb dragging through the mess on your jaw, his voice dropping into something dangerous and raw.

“get up.”

you blink, mouth twitching. “what if i wanna stay right here?”

he licks his lips slowly, eyes dragging over you, dark and sweet and full of intent. “then i’m gonna fuck you on the floor.” a beat. “right here. with your face pressed into the concrete and your ass up.”

you shiver. your pussy clenches. you smile.

“…that a promise?”

he doesn’t answer your question.

not with words, anyway.

what he does is lean in—slow and heavy, his whole body language shifting from post-orgasmic sprawl to intent, from wrecked to ready to ruin, and his hand stays on the back of your neck, big and hot and rough, thumb brushing under your jaw like he’s checking to see how many more sins you’ve got tucked behind your tongue. he tilts your head up toward him, guiding you to look at him, and his cock—still softening, still slick with spit and pleasure—rests warm against your jaw like a filthy punctuation mark to the silence hanging between you.

“you want a promise?” he mutters, voice rasped and dirty, already low with need again, already sharpening around the edges like it never left. “baby… i don’t promise. i deliver.”

you laugh—soft and breathless and just a little unhinged—and rub your cheek against his thigh again, feeling the flex of muscle under your face, that simmering tension crawling back into him like he’s rebooting under your mouth. “you’re talkin’ real big for someone who just came so hard he forgot how to spell his own name.”

“keep runnin’ your fuckin’ mouth,” he growls, and he shifts in the chair, sitting forward fully now, and there’s a glint in his eye like a knife being drawn across a whetstone—dangerous, and amused, and very interested in what happens if you keep pushing.

you, naturally, push harder.

“what?” you coo, batting your lashes at him while your hand wraps around his cock again, stroking lazy, light, more taunt than touch. “you gonna teach me a lesson? bend me over your desk and rail me like some mouthy little dropout? maybe fuck the smart right outta my head?”

he laughs—low and deep and utterly wrecked, a sound that shakes through his chest like gravel in an engine. “nah,” he says, eyes dark. “you don’t need it fucked out. you need it fucked deeper in. you’re already halfway gone, baby.”

you hum, pleased, sliding your fingers over his cock again as it twitches back to life under your touch—of course it does. he’s thick and heavy and sensitive still, the kind of cock that likes a challenge, that pulses greedily with just the barest hint of spit and praise and threat.

“then do it,” you whisper, all sugar and filth, eyes wide and sweet even as you curl your fingers under the base and stroke him slow. “show me. show me how a real man handles a brat with a mouth like mine.”

his eyes narrow.

you see the exact second he decides.

his hand tightens on your neck, not hard enough to hurt, but firm, possessive, commanding. and when he pulls you up, it’s not rough—it’s smooth and hot and full of tension, like lifting something breakable that you fully intend to wreck.

you rise from your knees, body warm and buzzing, legs aching from how long you’ve been down there, spit glistening on your chin and chest, your throat sore and your pussy soaked.

he stands, and the difference in height is obscene—of course it is—he towers over you, heat radiating off him like a threat, the air between you crackling with something that tastes like blood and come and consequences.

“turn around,” he mutters, voice low, curling around your spine. “bend over my desk.”

you blink, smile slow, and do as you're told.

you drag it out—stepping around him with deliberate slowness, walking like you know he’s watching the sway of your hips, the twitch of your skirt where it clings to the wet heat between your thighs. you lean over the desk, elbows braced against the piles of papers, your back arched just so, and when you look over your shoulder, you lick your bottom lip and say, “don’t be gentle. she’s been a bad girl.”

he makes a noise behind you—a guttural, savage little thing like something inside him snapped.

you hear the sound of his zipper.

feel the heat of him step up behind you.

and then his palm lands on your ass—hard.

you gasp, loud, biting your lip as the sting blooms hot across your skin. “that’s for callin’ me old,” he mutters, voice right at your ear, teeth grazing the shell of it. “you are old,” you laugh, breathless, taunting. “but your cock makes up for it.”

another slap. harder. both cheeks now stinging, burning.

“fuckin’ mouth on you,” he growls. “gonna fuck you dumb just to shut you up.”

you whimper. “promise?”

his hands are on your hips now, pulling your skirt up, shoving your panties aside, fingers dragging through your soaked slit with a low, appreciative groan.

“…fuck me,” he mutters. “you meant it.”

you turn your head, smirk over your shoulder.

“told you. she’s jealous.”

he growls again, lines up at your entrance, and presses the thick, hot head of his cock right against your dripping cunt—but doesn’t push in. not yet. just leans down close, breath on your neck, voice low and dark and hot enough to melt you from the inside out.

“then let me make it up to her.”

his cock sits heavy at your entrance like a threat and a promise wrapped into one, thick and flushed and leaking against the soaked, swollen seam of your cunt—but he doesn’t push in. not yet. toji stays there, tip barely nudging your folds, letting it kiss your slit and drag slowly up and down, parting your slick with each pass like he’s teasing your pussy into begging, like he’s making it ask for forgiveness for being jealous in the first place.

you arch your back a little more, present your ass like an offering, spread for him over the mess of receipts and pawn shop paperwork, sticky and dripping and already ruined, and the moment your hips rock back the slightest bit—just to catch him, just to pull him in—he smacks you again.

sharp. hard. his palm cracks across your ass with a thud that echoes against the grimy walls of the office, and your whole body jerks, the desk rattling under your elbows.

“did i say you could move?” he growls behind you, voice low and simmering with threat and heat and something far more dangerous—control.

you shiver, whimpering quietly, pressing your forehead to the desk, cheek flattened against papers smeared with grease and dust and old ink. “no,” you breathe, submissive but grinning into the wood grain, “but i thought—”

another slap. this one lands higher, right beneath the curve of your ass, and makes your hips jump.

“don’t fuckin’ think,” he snarls, his voice rough and shaking from restraint. “you wanna cum? you wanna earn it? then you listen.” you nod, fast, hands gripping the desk edge so hard your knuckles go white. “yes, daddy,” you whisper, voice so soft it breaks on the end like a string snapped too tight.

and fuck, that does it.

he groans—deep, low, ruined—and leans in just enough for you to feel the heat of him, the way he looms over you like a man who’s already decided how many times he’s going to break you tonight. “there’s my good girl,” he mutters, palm running up your spine, warm and slow, like a mockery of tenderness. “you keep callin’ me that, i’ll fuck you all the way through next week.”

“please,” you gasp, voice shaking. “please, please fuck me already—”

he hisses through his teeth and then—finally—you feel the head of his cock press in. not fast. not hard. slow, deliberate, dragging your slick open around him, splitting you wide as he feeds in just the first thick inch, then another, stretching you around the fat, aching shape of him.

“oh fuck,” you cry out, your whole body jolting, knees buckling slightly.

he chuckles, dark and pleased, both hands now gripping your hips like handles.

“tight little pussy, huh? goddamn. squeezin’ me already.”

you moan, loud and broken, and your hips jerk forward like you’re trying to run—but there’s nowhere to go. not with his cock thick inside you, not with his hands holding you in place, keeping you open, keeping you his.

he leans over you, body heavy against your back, and slaps your ass again, then rubs the sting with his palm. “you take it so good, baby,” he growls into your ear. “fuckin’ knew you would. knew that mouth wasn’t the only part of you that was trained.”

you whimper something—wordless, stupid, desperate—and he slides in deeper, slow grind of hips, letting you feel every inch, every vein, every thick pulse of heat until he bottoms out and your pussy clenches hard, trembling around the stretch.

“fuuuuck, daddy—too big—”

“no, no,” he pants, pulling back and slamming forward again—hard, this time, rough—a sharp, brutal thrust that knocks the wind out of you. “you’re perfect. perfect fit. made to take this cock, baby. made to take me.” you cry out again, body jerking under him, and he slaps your ass once more, then lets his hand drift up—under your top, dragging the fabric roughly up over your ribs—and grabs a fistful of tit, squeezing tight.

then slaps it.

you squeal.

the sting makes your legs shake, your arms buckle, tits swinging under you as his palm cracks across the sensitive swell again—mean and sharp, the skin already hot from his grip. “pretty little tits bouncin’ while i fuck you,” he mutters, voice almost dazed, drunk on it. “fuckin’ heaven. you like that, baby?”

“yes,” you moan, voice high and thin and barely stable. “yes, daddy—do it again—fuck—”

he does. slaps your tit again. the other one. then grabs it, squeezes it, tweaks the nipple till you’re howling into the desk, panting and drooling and nowhere close to cumming, but so full, so used, so right where you want to be.

his thrusts get harder—rougher—shallow pumps at first, then deep grinds, slow and punishing, making your pussy squeeze and flutter with every drag of him inside you. and he’s watching. watching the way you take it. the way you struggle to keep your hips up, the way your thighs shake, the way your moans break into gasps every time he bottom outs.

“good girl,” he grits, panting now, his rhythm cruel, unforgiving. “good little fucktoy, lettin’ daddy use that pussy. you’re gonna cum so hard for me, baby. just not yet.” you sob—loud, needy—and grind back against him, desperate for more, for faster, for anything that’ll push you over the edge.

but his hand lands again, hard on your ass, and he pulls out.

you cry out, wrecked.

“not yet,” he growls again, voice dark and firm, cock slick and throbbing against your thigh. “you want to cum? you better beg like a fuckin’ whore.”

you whimper. your thighs tremble.

you’re so fucking close.

but he’s not done playing yet.

his hands drag you up from the desk like you're weightless, like you’re nothing but a wet, breathless little plaything waiting to be rearranged. there’s no grace in it—no gentle lift, no sweet little spin. just strength. raw, brutal strength, his palms rough and hot against your waist, manhandling you up onto shaky legs like you’re not a girl with a pulse and opinions, but a thing he gets to position.

your breath catches as your feet find the ground, knees trembling, inner thighs tacky and slick with everything he’s given you so far—spit, pre, heat, promise. you can’t look at him. not really. your body’s still buzzing, twitching around the empty ache between your legs, the stretch of your pussy fluttering from being used but not finished, from being wrecked and then left hanging on the edge like a brat punished for coming without permission.

“stand still,” he mutters against the shell of your ear, voice like gravel soaked in bourbon and breathlessness, and it makes you whimper just from the sound of it. “i—I’m trying—” you gasp, but you’re already leaning into him, chest heaving, arms flailing for some kind of anchor.

he doesn't let you fall. of course he doesn’t.

he just grabs the back of your knee, thick fingers curling under it, and hooks your leg up—high, rude and sudden and so fucking deep into your space, until the side of your knee is bent over his shoulder and you’re open, spread, your whole dripping cunt just there, presented like meat, like a challenge, like a test he intends to fail you on purpose for.

“oh—fuck—” you breathe, your other leg already wobbling beneath you. instinct kicks in and you sling one arm around the back of his neck to stay upright, elbow hooked around his broad shoulders while your hand fists the collar of his sweat-stained shirt.

“that’s it,” toji groans, eyes dragging down between your legs like he’s starving. “that’s my girl. fuckin’ perfect. look at you—standin’ here all pretty, drippin’ down your thighs, pussy so wet she’s beggin’ for me to ruin her again.”

you moan, head tipping back, mouth open wide and slick with breathless desperation. your body burns. your leg shakes. your cunt flutters in the air, cold and wet and exposed, and you can feel his cock resting thick and ready between you, brushing the curve of your thigh, teasing your lips, sliding along your soaked slit without entering.

he’s not rushing. he's teasing. again.

he lets his cock drag up and down your folds, long slow slides that make your hips twitch and your whole body lean heavier against him, open-mouthed gasps punctuated by little helpless whines every time the head catches on your clit or nudges your hole just enough to make you think he’s going to give it to you.

but he never does. not yet.

“fuckin’ mess down here,” he mutters, watching the way your juices smear over his cock with every pass, painting him shiny. “you were gonna cum all over my desk, weren’t you?”

“yes,” you admit, voice trembling, “fuck—yes, i was—i was so close—”

“uh-uh,” he tuts, slapping the outside of your thigh with the hand that’s holding your leg up. “you don’t cum till i say. not with this pussy. not with my pussy.” your breath catches again, a ragged little sound from the back of your throat. your fingers dig into his shoulder. your cunt clenches on nothing. he grins—wide and dark and dangerous—and then slides his cock just an inch inside.

you cry out. loud. shameless.

“daddy, please—”

and then he gives you another two inches.

slow. deliberate. just enough to make your eyes roll back.

“look at that,” he rasps, watching your face with greedy eyes. “you are daddy’s little whore. you like it like this? one leg up, wide open for me, nowhere to run?”

you nod. fast. desperate. your cunt tries to suck him in deeper all on its own. “yeah? you wanna be fucked like this? wanna make a mess all over my cock while i keep you right here, balanced like a dumb little fuckdoll who can’t even stand without holdin’ onto daddy?”

“yes—yes, please—i’ll do anything—”

and he drives all the way in.

one thick, brutal thrust—balls deep, pushing your body back with the force of it, your leg trembling against his shoulder, your pussy stretched so wide around him it feels like your bones are splitting from the pressure.

you scream.

his hand moves up—finds your tits again, still half-trapped in your top—and he slaps one.

again.

then grabs it hard, squeezing the soft flesh so rough it hurts, pinching your nipple until you cry out again.

“that’s it,” he growls, fucking into you now with slow, brutal thrusts that grind the head of his cock against the top of your cunt, over and over again. “squeezin’ me so fuckin’ tight, baby. you’re gonna milk me, aren’t you? just like that mouth did.”

you’re incoherent. gone. nothing left but gasps and moans and desperate wet sounds of slick and skin and the wet slap of his balls against your ass with every thrust. “not gonna let you cum yet,” he whispers into your neck, biting just beneath your ear. “not till you’re cryin’ for it. not till this pussy begs proper.”

you sob.

he fucks you harder.

your nails rake across his shoulders.

your mouth is open but you can’t form words.

you need to cum. but he won’t let you. not yet.

his cock keeps grinding in deep, the weight of your leg hooked over his shoulder starting to burn, your pussy soaked and pulsing and clenching like it’s trying to keep him there forever, like it’s trying to suck the cum out of him by force.

he’s fucking you rough, rhythm brutal and steady, every thrust pushing you up onto the tips of your toes, every drag out a slick glide through the velvet mess inside you—then right back in, balls smacking against the wet curve of your ass, sharp slaps filling the thick, humid air of his office.

your grip on his neck is desperate now, one arm slung around him like a lifeline, fingers clutching the sweat-slick muscle of his shoulder for any kind of stability, but there’s none—just him, just the strength of his grip on your thigh, the bruising palm around your waist, the brutal press of his hips punishing your cunt like it owes him something.

and god, you’re so close. but not there. he won’t let you. and it’s driving you insane. your mouth is open—moaning, gasping, panting through broken little sobs—and it comes out of you before you even realize it, your voice breathy and high and wrecked, “kiss me.”

he pauses, just for a second, the tip of his cock grinding slow inside your pussy as he stills, breath catching in his chest like he didn’t expect to hear that—like the request came from somewhere too soft for how hard he's fucking you.

he leans back just enough to look you in the face, and his mouth curves—not in a smile, not really. it’s a smirk, smug and nasty and fucking beautiful, split-lipped and sweaty, and his eyes glint with something that almost borders on fond.

“what’s that, baby?” he says, still fucking you in those slow, thick strokes, cock dragging along your walls with such mean precision it makes your head spin. “you wanna get sentimental while i’m rearrangin’ your guts?”

you glare at him through the haze of want in your eyes, lip trembling with frustration, your mouth hot and swollen from moaning his name, and your voice wobbles as you repeat it:

“i said kiss me, you fucking bastard.”

toji laughs, and fuck, it’s so mean. he keeps fucking you, keeps grinding his hips into you like your pussy’s his personal reward system, but he tilts his head like he’s considering it.

“aw, look at you,” he drawls, bending slightly closer, his free hand slipping up to squeeze your tits again, thumb flicking your nipple until your back arches. “get a little cock in your throat, a little cock in your cunt, and suddenly you wanna make out about it?”

you whimper, trying to nod, cunt clenching around him in hard, needy spasms that make him groan. “please,” you whisper, dizzy with how full you are, how fucked-out your brain’s becoming. “just… kiss me, daddy.”

that gets him.

that fucking breaks him. just a little.

he grabs your jaw, fingers pressing into your cheeks, and leans in until his forehead presses to yours, sweat slick against your temple, mouth hovering right above yours. “you’re so fuckin’ needy,” he growls, voice all wrecked and wet and sweet around the edges. “pussy beggin’ for it, mouth talkin’ shit, and now you want my tongue too?”

you nod, eyes fluttering shut.

“uh-huh.”

“spoiled little girl,” he mutters. “you don’t deserve it.”

but then he kisses you.

and it’s not sweet.

it’s filthy. it’s hot and wet and full of teeth. it tastes like spit and sweat and the moan you make into his mouth when he slams back into you, fucking you hard enough your body arches and your back threatens to give out.

his tongue licks into your mouth like he owns it, like your lips are his to bruise, like your throat is his to devour. he bites your lower lip—hard—and then licks the sting, all while his cock pistons into you with relentless force, the slap of your bodies hitting fast and loud.

you’re gone.

a gasping, twitching, sobbing thing in his arms, drool smearing your lips from how sloppy the kiss becomes, your leg trembling against his shoulder, your pussy spasming around him with no release, your clit throbbing and untouched and desperate.

but he doesn’t let you cum.

he kisses you through it—through the need, through the ache, through the frustration of being kept right there, right on the fucking edge while he uses your mouth, your cunt, your whole fucking body like his personal toy. he finally pulls back from the kiss with a wet gasp, eyes locked on yours, voice breathless and wicked, “not yet, baby. not yet. good girls don’t cum till daddy says.”

and then he fucks you harder.

you’re not sure when it happens— when the desperate little whines turn into something louder, when your voice starts cracking, when the begging gets real, when your whole body shifts from greedy brat to ruined, wrecked, please-just-let-me-cum whore.

you’ve been teetering there for what feels like forever, pussy clenching around his cock in desperate, fluttery spasms, your leg still hooked over his shoulder, trembling so hard your knee’s about to give, your arm locked around his neck with a grip so tight he could probably feel the shape of your pulse. your other hand claws at his back, nails dragging through sweat-slick muscle, trying to hold on to anything, because you’re losing it—losing yourself.

toji’s still fucking you like he’s making a point. deep, mean, punishing thrusts that grind right up into the spot that makes your mouth open in a perfect little o every time he hits it, every time he drags back and slams forward again, dragging a wet slap out of your bodies so loud it echoes through the back room.

your cunt is so wet now, it sounds filthy, obscene—squelching and sucking around him with every thrust, your slick dripping down the backs of your thighs and painting his pelvis in messy streaks. and he just watches. he watches your face, your tits, your tears, like he’s studying his own personal masterpiece fall apart.

“fuckin’ look at you,” he groans, panting now, his hips rolling harder, faster, his cock so deep you feel it everywhere, deep in your belly, spreading you open from the inside. “you tryin’ to milk it outta me without permission? this little pussy tryin’ to take what it wants, huh?”

“yes—fuck—yes, daddy, pleaseeeee—” your voice is nothing now, all whimper and wreckage, cracked open and shaking, tears welling in your eyes and your thighs burning from the stretch, cunt clutching his cock like it’s begging too.

“been fuckin’ you forever and you still haven’t learned,” he snarls, but his grip on your waist tightens, his other hand cupping your jaw like he’s afraid you’ll fall apart if he lets go, and the look in his eyes shifts—just barely—dangerous soft, vicious fond. “gotta beg for it, baby. tell me what you want.”

“i wanna cum—fuck, please, please—i’ve been so good, i’ve been your good girl—daddy, please—i need it—”

and you’re crying now, panting and desperate, mouth open wide and voice high and broken, your whole body twitching every time his cock slams into you. you’re so wet you can barely hear your own sobs over the slick sounds between your legs. “again,” he growls, teeth gritted, thrusts brutal. “say it again. say it like you mean it.”

“please,” you scream, throat raw, legs shaking, head tipping back with tears slipping down your cheeks, “daddy, please let me cum—please—I’ll do anything—fuck, I need it—need you—need your cock—”

his hips stutter. just once. and he curses, ragged and breathless, broken by how fucked you sound.

“jesus fucking christ,” he growls, his mouth pressing hot and wet against your throat, kissing the sweat-slick skin there as he rams into you hard enough to lift your foot from the ground. “go ahead. cum for me, baby. fuckin’ earn it.”

and you shatter.

your mouth falls open in a scream that doesn’t even sound like a word, just a high, shaking wail as your whole body snaps tight, muscles locking, pussy spasming so hard around his cock it feels like you’re trying to drag him down into your bones.

you claw at his back, sobbing through it, gasping “daddy—fuck—daddy—thank you” over and over like a prayer, like it’s the only thing you can say, your cunt milking him, squeezing, flooding around him with slick, wet pulses that soak both of you. “that’s it,” he groans, voice thick and proud, holding you tight while your body convulses in his arms, “good fuckin’ girl—daddy’s perfect little cumslut—so fuckin’ pretty when you break.”

you keep twitching. keep gasping. you don’t even know if you’re breathing right.

your orgasm rolls through you like something that wants to ruin your nerves—drawn out, messy, loud, your throat aching from how vocal you’ve become, your sobs mixing with moans as your body won’t stop clenching around his cock.

and he just keeps fucking you through it—slow now, but deep, letting you ride it out, letting you feel every inch of him while he watches your face with a reverent, nasty little smirk. “yeah,” he murmurs against your lips as you slump against him, trembling and wet and ruined, “that’s what i fuckin’ thought.”

your orgasm leaves you shaking, wrecked in his grip, voice nothing but broken little sobs spilling from your lips like leftover prayer, your cunt still fluttering in aftershocks—tender and trembling, clenching around his cock like it’s begging to keep him there. toji hasn’t stopped.

he hasn’t even slowed.

you’re not sure if you’re riding the tail end of your high or being dragged straight into another, your body twitching every time he thrusts back into you—deep and mean, all thick pressure and heat, the kind of rough fuck that feels like it’s claiming something. like he’s not done until he leaves you dripping with it.

your leg’s still hooked over his shoulder, trembling violently now, your whole body hanging in his grip—chest heaving, sweat beading, mouth open but too raw to beg again, just whimpering his name over and over, lips brushing his throat, hand clenched in the collar of his shirt like you’ll fall apart if you let go.

he’s panting, now. hard.

the sharp edge of control he had before is gone—worn down by the way you came on him, the way you cried and squeezed and broke around his cock, a fucking mess in his arms, sobbing thank you like you meant it with your soul.

“fuck, baby,” toji groans, voice wrecked, barely more than a snarl in your ear, teeth catching your jaw as his thrusts grow sloppy, erratic. “you feel so good—so fuckin’ tight, still grabbin’ onto me like you want it—fuck—you were made for this—for me.”

you can’t speak—you just nod, or try to, and moan against his throat, wet and soft, and that does something to him, you feel it, the way his whole body jerks, muscles pulling taut as he fucks you harder now, chasing it.

“goddamn it—goddamn—” he hisses through his teeth, and the sound is so filthy, so raw, you nearly sob again, because he sounds desperate, he sounds fucking ruined, and it’s all because of you.

you did this. you made him like this.

he’s so close. you can feel it in the way his cock throbs inside you—thick and hot and twitching—and the way his thrusts lose rhythm, hips jerking like his body’s fighting itself, trying not to come too fast but already past the point of return.

and then he grabs your ass with both hands, lifts you fully off the ground, both legs around his waist now, your back shoved against the wall, his cock buried deep—

“fuuuck—I’m gonna cum—gonna fucking fill you, baby—gonna stuff this pussy with so much fuckin’ cum you’ll be drippin’ for days—jesus fuck, you want that?”

“yes,” you whisper, voice hoarse, head back, mouth open, “yes, daddy, please—cum in me—need it—need to feel it—please—”

he growls.

like a man breaking. like something snapping in his chest.

and then he slams in, hard, all the way to the hilt—and stays there, buried as deep as he can go, cock pulsing, spasming inside you as he cums.

and god, does he feel it.

“fuck—FUCK—baby—oh my god—shit, I’m—fuckin’—cumming—cumming, baby, fuck—shittttt—” his voice is loud and unhinged, echoing off the walls, raw from his throat, and you feel every pulse of it, thick spurts of cum pouring into you, coating your walls, your cunt clenching around him like it wants to keep it.

his head drops to your shoulder, his body shuddering with each hot pump, groaning deep in his chest like it’s being ripped out of him, like he’s losing something with every spurt. “so fuckin’ tight—so good, baby—takin’ it so good—you’re perfect—mine—mine—fuckin’ mine—” you whimper, dazed, mouth open against his neck as he keeps whispering it, mine, over and over like it’s the only word he knows anymore.

he stays buried in you, panting like he’s run a marathon, his cock softening slowly inside your soaked, stretched cunt, your legs trembling around him as your body finally starts to go slack. his hand strokes down your spine, heavy and shaking, and he presses a kiss to your shoulder, your neck, your cheek—too hard to be gentle, too soft to be anything but real.

he’s still inside you. his cum is already leaking out.

you don’t even try to move.

you just breathe against each other. quiet. wrecked. owned.

“goddamn,” he breathes, finally, mouth brushing your temple.

“told you,” you whisper, smiling like a drunk girl in love with her mistake, “my pussy’s better than my mouth.” he laughs—deep, hoarse—and mutters into your hair, “fuckin’ confirmed.”

his cock finally slips out of you with a thick, obscene sound—wet and messy, the kind of parting that feels too intimate to witness, like something private just got peeled apart. and it leaves you empty. open. fluttering. ruined. your cunt gives a desperate twitch in the wake of it, still sore, still stretched, still flushed around the shape he carved into you, and as soon as he lowers your body from where he’s been holding you—legs limp around his waist, head lolling against his shoulder—you collapse.

not gracefully. not slowly.

your foot hits the ground, then the next, and then your knees just give out.

“whoa, there,” toji chuckles behind you, breath still ragged, still dragging out of his lungs like he hasn’t recovered either, his voice a fucked-out rasp—rough and low and deeply pleased. “you good, sweetheart?”

you don’t answer. you can’t.

your hands land against the desk, palms smacking the paperwork-strewn surface hard as you double over, ass high, face down, hair stuck to your sweat-damp neck, panting like someone just beat the orgasm out of you with a bat. your knees knock, barely holding you up. your back arches instinctively, like your body’s still bracing for another round it didn’t ask for but would beg for anyway.

and your pussy—your wrecked, swollen, used pussy—is dripping.

not politely. not a little.

dripping.

his cum spills out of you in thick, lazy strings, slipping down your inner thighs in glistening rivulets, sticky and white and warm as it dribbles past your folds and trails down to the backs of your knees, pooling beneath you in wet, shameless drops that splatter onto the dirty tile floor one by one.

drip. drip. drip

you can hear it.

he can, too.

you gasp out something that sounds like a whimper, your voice cracking at the edges, and your fingers claw uselessly at the desk—still bent over it, still breathing hard, your cunt clenching again, trying and failing to close around the emptiness where his cock had been.

“jesus fuck,” toji mutters behind you, voice suddenly tight, suddenly dark and hungry again. “look at this fuckin’ mess.” you whimper again, weaker this time, and turn your head just enough to glance over your shoulder, eyes glassy, cheeks pink, lips parted. “i can’t,” you whisper, throat hoarse, breath catching. “my legs—i can’t even—”

he’s behind you again in an instant. you feel his palm press to your ass, spreading one cheek wide to look at your leaking pussy. and he groans. full-on, low in his chest, like it hurts. “yeah, that’s right,” he mutters, kneeling down behind you like he’s admiring art. “that’s what a good girl looks like. can’t stand. bent over. drippin’ with daddy’s cum. fuckin’ perfect.”

his fingers press to your inner thigh and trail up—smearing the slick there, pushing back toward your pussy where it’s still throbbing and spilling and open for him, soft and swollen and red like a wound.

he rubs your lips apart again, two fingers spreading you wide so he can watch another thick glob of his cum ooze out from your fluttering hole and drip right onto the floor. “god damn, baby,” he mutters, almost reverent. “so full. i fucked you full, didn’t i?”

“uh-huh,” you breathe, nodding weakly, cheek flattened against the desk now, tears drying on your lashes. “you did—fuck, toji—i can still feel it inside—”

he hums low, sliding those fingers through your mess again and teasing your still-aching clit just barely. “don’t start cryin’ again,” he says, voice smug and dark, but gentle under the filth, “you already made me cum so hard i forgot what year it was.”

you let out a garbled, broken laugh into the crook of your elbow.

“thought you said you don’t get sentimental,” you mumble.

“i’m not.” he leans in close, mouth grazing the curve of your ass, his voice a hot, dangerous whisper.

“i just like seein’ you broken like this.”

you shiver, legs shaking again, another drip of cum sliding down your inner thigh. he presses a soft kiss right to the curve where your cheek meets the top of your thigh, then another—gentler, this time—right to your lower back. “now stay bent just like that, baby,” he growls, tongue dragging up the inside of your thigh, his breath hot on your pussy, “you don’t think i’m done tasting it, do you?”

you don’t answer. you can’t.

but your cunt pulses again anyway.

you’ve lost count.

of how many times you came, how many times your legs gave out, how many times he held you there—bent, gasping, shaking—while his mouth made a meal of your pussy like it owed him a debt, like he was worshipping what he’d ruined with his cock. he licked you through every aftershock, tongue deep, tongue soft, tongue cruel, sometimes just breathing on you until your hips twitched again, until your thighs closed around his head and he moaned into your cunt like it was oxygen, like he’d never need anything else again.

he didn’t stop. not until your voice was gone, burned out from begging and screaming and sobbing his name like a prayer.

not until your body was too raw to clench anymore. not until you slumped forward across the desk, sweaty and boneless, dripping from every hole and crying without sound, just because you had nothing left to give.

you don’t even feel it when he finally pulls away. not the wet kiss to your clit, not the final slow lick between your folds, not the soft scrape of his teeth at your thigh. but you feel this—his hand, warm and wide and rough, brushing through the mess of your hair, cupping the back of your head like he’s grounding you, like he’s saying i’ve got you, without needing to say a fucking thing.

you’re trembling, body twitching from the inside out, and you’re so sensitive that even the shift in the air against your skin makes you sob again, just a soft sound, muffled into your arm.

and toji— toji fucking melts.

he leans in, presses his forehead to your shoulder, lets out a long, heavy breath like a man coming down from something holy, and then he kisses your back, slow, lips parting against the damp curve of your spine, like he can taste your sweat and your orgasms and your devotion in one breath.

“you did so good, baby,” he murmurs, voice deep and sweet and wrecked, all the bite gone now, just praise, affection, the gentlest sound he’s made all night. “so fuckin’ good for me. never seen anyone take it like that.”

you whimper, throat too raw to speak, but you nod—barely—your cheek still pressed to the desk, your arm limp over the edge, fingers twitching. “alright, sweetheart,” he mutters after a pause, his voice a little steadier, like he’s coaxing you back from some far-off edge, “we’re gonna get you dressed now, yeah? i got you.”

you don’t move, but he doesn’t need you to.

he moves for you.

his hands are surprisingly gentle now—slow, careful, as if your body might shatter from a wrong touch. he starts with your panties, finds them inside-out on the floor, soaked beyond salvation, and he grunts as he lifts one of your legs, steadying you with a hand on your hip. your thigh quivers in his grip.

“these are ruined,” he mutters, half-laughing, more to himself. “gonna buy you new ones. lace. expensive. ones that match how fuckin’ good this pussy is.” you don’t respond, except a small twitch of your lips—a whisper of a smile, blurry and drunk on dopamine.

he pulls the panties up, gently, sliding them up your legs like he’s tucking you in. then your skirt, smoothing it down over your ass, which he slaps—lightly—as if by reflex. “still got my cum drippin’ outta you,” he adds, lower, more to your ear, his palm resting on your ass again, warm and secure. “can’t believe how much you took. greedy fuckin’ thing. you’ll be feelin’ that for days.”

you shudder. you like that.

then he shifts to your top, pulling it down from where it had bunched under your ribs, fixing it, fingers brushing the underside of your tits with an accidental tenderness that makes your breath stutter again. “you still with me?” he asks, now crouched in front of you, hand on your jaw, thumb brushing sweat from your cheek.

your eyes flutter open.

your voice is wrecked, but soft.

“uh-huh… still floatin’, though.”

he smiles—smiles—like something warm cracking through all that roughness, and then leans in to kiss your mouth, slow this time, soft and deep and sweet in a way that doesn’t match the filth on your thighs, the ache in your cunt, the bruises on your hips.

he kisses you like he means it.

when he pulls back, he mutters, voice gravel again, “next time, i fuck you in my bed.”

you blink. slowly.

“there’s gonna be a next time?” you rasp.

he grins.

“sweetheart… after that? i’m gonna ruin you regularly.”

your body is slow to remember how to exist. your limbs feel distant, syrup-heavy, as if everything that made you solid got wrung out through your pussy and your throat and your trembling thighs and is now smeared across toji fushiguro’s desk in sweat and spit and cum.

you try to stand, once. just a shift of weight, a twitch of your hips, a breath that dares your knees to cooperate. they don’t. you barely lift yourself off the edge of the desk before your thighs quiver dangerously and you let out this pathetic, breathless little oof as you collapse right back down onto the wooden surface—bent legs parting slightly, sore and raw beneath your ruined panties, the warm ooze of his cum still clinging to the crease of your thighs.

toji watches all this with a grin like sin. he doesn’t even try to hide it. he just drags the battered office chair from behind the desk with a lazy scrape of rubber on linoleum, spins it around, and sinks down into it like this is his aftercare, too. legs wide. chest bare. jeans still unzipped. cock soft, heavy, still glistening faintly with slick. and he reaches out—grabs your ankles like they belong to him and lifts your legs, guiding your feet up to rest across his thick thighs.

“don’t rush it,” he mutters, palming the arch of one foot with a rough sort of gentleness, massaging lazily. “you got fucked hard enough to throw out your fuckin’ hip. sit there, look pretty, let me take care of you for a second.”

you hum, half-delirious, head falling back as your arms rest behind you on the desk, propping yourself up like a ragdoll. it’s the first time you feel the cool air on your chest properly, your tits still sticky with sweat, nipples sensitive and stiff under your top, your entire body giving off that post-fuck glow that feels closer to obliteration than satisfaction.

toji’s rubbing your calves now, thumbs digging into sore muscle, knuckles pressing down just enough to make you sigh. and then, casually—like he’s asking you what you want for dinner—he reaches into his jeans, pulls out his phone, unlocks it with a lazy swipe, and holds it out to you across your thighs.

“put your number in,” he says. “and your ATM number.”

your brows twitch upward, dazed. “my what?”

“your bank number,” he clarifies, tapping the phone against your shin like you’re being a brat on purpose. “you did good. i pay for good.”

“you… you already said—”

he cuts you off with a grunt.

“said fifty-five,” he mutters, “but that was before you sucked me like a goddamn professional and let me rearrange your guts in the back of a fuckin’ pawn shop.”

you giggle—soft, exhausted, pleased.

“you got a weird way of flirting.”

“i’m not flirtin’,” he says, but his voice goes warm at the edges. “i’m paying you. and maybe bribin’ you a little to come over next time so i can fuck you in a place with an actual bed.”

you blink slowly, then grin as you take the phone, your fingers still trembling slightly as you type in your name, your number, and your bank details—half-amused, half-fucked-stupid, not even fully processing the absurdity of the situation until you hand the phone back and he immediately opens his app and starts tapping away.

“you’re not joking,” you breathe.

“never joke about pussy,” he says, not looking up. “especially not pussy like yours.” a beat later, your own phone buzzes somewhere in the mess of your bag, and you reach for it weakly, hands fumbling through your stuff until you pull it free—and then blink in disbelief.

you stare. your jaw actually drops.

“this is—” your voice cracks.

“that’s ten times what you said you’d pay me,” you whisper, dazed. “toji—what the fuck—”

he finally looks up, grinning wide, lazy and smug and dangerous.

“worth every yen,” he says simply, voice low and full of praise. “watchin’ you fall apart like that? hearin’ you beg? pussy still clenching like she doesn’t wanna let me go? fuck, baby. you earned it.”

you squirm where you sit, cunt giving a sore, fluttery pulse at the way he says it. the weight of his voice. like he’s blessing you with filth. he leans in a little closer, big hand wrapping around your ankle, stroking soft circles into your skin with his thumb.

“and i’ll give you more,” he murmurs, voice thick now, sweet and dangerous. “you want more? come over next time. let me see what that pussy looks like in my sheets. ride my cock till your knees give out and i have to fuck you into the mattress. i’ll pay for your taxi, your dinner, your next week’s rent. whatever you want.”

you stare at him. your heart’s pounding again.

“…and if i just wanted to come for free?” you ask, quietly.

he grins—broad, dark, possessive.

“then you still get the money,” he says. “but daddy gets to keep you a little longer.” your thighs press together involuntarily, the ache still there, the heat never left. you look down at him—bare chest, cum-stained jeans, his mouth on your skin, your legs still resting in his lap—and you think, yeah.