Toji scolding you with your head locked between his thick thighs, warm skin rippling over flexed, rippling muscles. Your nose is pressed up against his balls and it's a little icky but you can smell him and it makes your head swim.
You've been pushing at his buttons all day. Running your hands down that slutty little compression shirt with a pout and asking just how much he benches. If he can pick you up. Hugging him close when he wraps a single arm around you, hand splayed across your ass and gripping to lift you up.
It's not your fault he's fine. Gruff rough-and-tumble voice, the low set of his brows. You like that he's a little blunt. He's buff and on a bulk right now and it makes you want to tie him up and take a picture of the scowl you know he'll give. Better yet if he tied you up. And played with you. Fingered you rough with two of those calloused digits inside, knuckle-deep, stretching you open and scissoring until your slick ran down his wrist.
You're snapped out of your reverie when he pulls at your hair, lifting your gaze from his dick to his sneer. "Hey. You listening, brat?"
He sees your hips shift at the moniker. Then his lips curl back, and he shoots you the biggest, fattest, most shit-eating grin known to man. The bastard.
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