toji likes hearing about your day, but he likes hearing it from between your thighs even more. you don’t know how it became a routine—you coming home, dropping your bag, barely getting a “hi” out before he’s already dragging you onto the couch, tugging your shorts down.

“go on,” he mumbles against your inner thigh, breath hot, mouth already wet. “tell me everything.”

you try. you really try.

you start with the stupid coworker who messed up the schedule, and he hums like it’s the most fascinating thing he’s ever heard, even though his tongue is already sliding up your slit —slow at first, like he wants to savor you, then sharper, hungrier, when he feels your hips jerk. he holds you down with one big hand, thumb rubbing circles low on your stomach, like he’s soothing you through the overstimulation he’s causing.

“mm? what happened next?” he asks, tongue flicking your clit like punctuation.

you breathe out a shaky laugh, fingers threading in his hair because you have to touch him or you’ll lose your mind. “toji, i can’t—”

“yeah you can,” he says, voice muffled, lips wrapping around your clit as he sucks just to hear the way your voice breaks. “keep talkin’. i like your voice when you’re tryin’ to stay polite.”

you try to explain how your boss dumped extra work on you, how you didn’t even get a break—but toji’s tongue is pushing into you, slow and deep fucking you open as his nose nudges your clit. your sentence collapses halfway, turning into a moan you try to swallow.

he chuckles. “that good, huh?”

you nod, breathing fast. he pulls your hips closer, shoulders locked under your thighs so you can’t get away even if you wanted to. his mouth is everywhere, licking, sucking, teasing, devouring — like he’s been starving all damn day and you’re the only thing that can fix it.

“keep tellin’ me,” he murmurs, like he isn’t drenched in you already. “tell me what pissed you off.”

you manage a few words, maybe half a complaint, and he groans like the sound of your voice is what gets him off, like hearing you try to narrate your own day while he ruins you is his favorite fucking hobby.

when your voice finally cracks into something breathless and needy, he just smirks against your skin and says, “there it is. that’s the part i wait for.”

and then he sucks your clit just right—the way that steals your breath, your thoughts, your story, everything—until your hand tightens in his hair and your whole body trembles.

“don’t worry, baby,” he murmurs, licking you slow like he’s winding you up all over again. “you can finish the story after you cum.”

© creamkissed.

toji doesn’t even look up when you walk into the kitchen. he’s sitting at your table in his hoodie (your hoodie), hair a mess, legs spread like he owns the place. he’s halfway through the last of your cereal too.

“rent’s due,” you say, leaning against the counter.

he licks milk from his thumb, slow. like he’s been waiting for you to bring it up.

“yeah?” he drawls. “you want cash, or you want… the usual?”

you scoff. “you and me both know you don’t have cash, toji.”

“then get over here.”

you don’t even make it two steps before he hooks a finger into the waistband of your shorts and pulls you between his legs. toji sits back, hands sliding up your thighs—big, warm palms that make your knees go soft.

“mm. these comin’ off?”

he doesn’t wait for an answer. he drags them down himself. he keeps eye contact the whole time as he sinks to his knees on your tile floor like this is the most normal shit in the world—like this is how every grown man pays rent.

“spread,” he murmurs.

you do and toji grips your hips, pulls you forward, presses his mouth to you like he’s starving. no build-up. no warning. just tongue—hot and obscene—running between your folds, sucking your clit into his mouth like you’re dessert. you nearly fall forward. he growls, fingers digging into your thighs as he holds you steady.

“fuck, baby,” he breathes against you, voice rough. “ain't this better than money anyway?”

you whimper, gripping his hair. he moans when you tug, eating you out harder, tongue flicking in messy, greedy strokes that have your stomach clenching. you don’t even realize you’re grinding on his face until he laughs against you—mouth completely full, tone smug as hell.

“look at you,” he huffs. “ridin’ me already. didn’t even need to ask.”

his hands slide under your ass, lifting you slightly, guiding your movements like he’s using you to get himself drunk. every lick wetter, every suck deeper, like he’s trying to pull the orgasm out of you with his mouth alone.

“c’mon, princess,” he murmurs, breath hot and damp on your skin. “go ahead. pay the bills.”

the way he says it has you breaking in his hands, thighs shaking, cunt throbbing against his tongue as he devours every drop like it’s his favorite part of living here. when you finally stop trembling, he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, looks up at you with that lazy, ruined smile.

“rent covered for the month,” he says. “but… if ya might need a little extra tomorrow, let me know.”

THE GREAT PINK PANTY SHORTAGE OF DORM 3B

pairing. frat!toji x fem!reader

warnings. porn with some plot yayyy!! panty theft, voyeurism, breeding, public sex (dorm showers), power imbalance, degradation kink, dubcon, scent kink, size kink. wc. ⁀⊹ 4.1k

author's note. ready? set.. goon! i’ll be taking a teeny tiny break from this acc !!

You notice it the third time.

Not the first—because maybe you were just distracted. You’d folded your laundry half-asleep on a Sunday morning, dragging yourself out of bed before your roommate woke up. You were thinking about class, about finals, about whether you had enough quarters to make the damn dryer run twice.

The second time, it’s a little harder to explain. You start to doubt yourself. Maybe you dropped them. Maybe someone grabbed the wrong pile. It’s a shared dorm laundry room after all—shit happens. Still, when you count your underwear and come up short—again—it makes your stomach twist.

you should’ve known better the second he said it. "just the tip."

like that meant anything. like the tip wasn’t already massive, swollen, flushed darker than the rest of him—so fat it made your thighs twitch just watching him fist it slowly in his hand, coaxing a bead of precum to glisten right at the slit.

he’s not even inside you yet and your cunt is already fluttering. already soaking. already clenching down on nothing because it knows exactly what’s coming. he lines himself up with a low grunt, guiding the thick head to your entrance.

"just this," he murmurs, "promise."

but the second he starts to push in, the lie stretches you open. your whole body reacts—hips jolt, hands scramble for anything to brace against, your breath catches in your throat like you’ve been punched.

because it’s not just a stretch. it’s a split. like your pussy was never meant to take something this thick. like the tip alone is trying to wedge itself where it doesn't belong—forcing the tender muscle to yield, coaxing a slick, high-pitched whine from your throat.

he pauses just half an inch in, thumb stroking your hip, watching your stomach twitch. “relax,” he murmurs. “you’re doin’ so good already.”

but you feel full. not even a quarter in and your walls are fluttering around him like they’re trying to process the invasion, the drag, the obscene pressure of something so wide.

and then—he slides another inch. your breath shatters. you feel it press deep n low, thick veins pulsing against your walls, teasing you with the knowledge that there’s still more to come. he hasn’t even bottomed out.

"see?" he grins against your cheek, voice dipped in praise and mockery. "just the tip."

bullshit. you’re already ruined and he knows it.

he doesn’t even look at you when you climb into his lap. just spreads his legs a little wider on the couch, one arm slung over the backrest, the other lazily holding a beer. the glow of the tv flickers across his face—sharp jaw, bored eyes, the tiniest twitch of a smirk curling at his mouth.

you’re already bare. skin warm, flushed. you straddle him with your knees pressing into the cushions, desperate and needy and shameless, because he hasn’t touched you all night and you’re losing your mind over it.

he doesn’t even shift when you start grinding. slow at first. just little rocks of your hips, clit dragging over the thick bulge in his sweats. you can feel how big he is, even like this—hot and hard and completely off limits. he hasn’t said you could have it. hasn’t even acknowledged you.

but he feels the way your slick starts to smear through the fabric.

“mm,” he hums, eyes still on the tv, “you leaking already, baby?”

you whimper, arching your back, rutting harder now. it’s messy, frantic—your skin sticking to his, your tits bouncing, your thighs trembling with every push of your cunt against the heat of him. his sweats are getting wet. soaked. you see the dark spot blooming and it only makes you grind harder.

toji finally glances down. finally. and he laughs—mean. like he’s watching a dog humping someone’s leg.

“look at you,” he murmurs, hand finally dragging up your waist—slow and patronizing, palm heavy on your ribs. “so fuckin’ needy you’ll fuck anything. even my pants?”

you nod, lips parted, pupils blown wide. you can’t help it. it feels so good, the rough fabric dragging over your clit, the pressure of his cock just beneath it. you chase your high like it’s the only thing left on earth.

“you’re disgusting,” he breathes, mouth twitching with another cruel grin. “little perv. so fuckin’ cockdrunk you don’t even care if you get it, huh?”

he reaches down suddenly—palm between your thighs—and gives your cunt one hard, open-handed slap.

you cry out. not in pain. but in desperation. because even that felt good.

“go on then,” he mutters, eyes back on the tv like he couldn’t care less. “make a mess. not giving you shit until halftime anyway.”

you hump harder, faster. his abs flex beneath you with every shift, and the slick sounds of your wet cunt on his clothed cock are obscene. he just watches the game, smirking, beer in hand, while you fall apart on his lap like a fucking toy.

★ — DESPERADO . . . 4k special

gamehost!sukuna x reader x gamehost!toji

⸝ what to expect ⫶ dark romance, erotic thriller, power imbalance, manipulation, obsession, luxury horror, voyeurism, jealousy, slow burn, enemies to lovers, moral corruption, threesome dynamics, degradation & praise, “would you rather” challenges, survival, desire, control, possession, violence, psychological torment, mentions of harm & death.

your body’s warm in his lap, face pressed to his bare chest, one leg tossed over his hip. the rise and fall of your breath is slow and even, lips parted, eyes twitching behind shut lids like you’re dreaming something sweet.

he watches for a moment—hand stroking absently up and down your spine—before his fingers drift lower.

toji doesn’t mean to wake you. not fully.

he just wants to know if the little moans you’ve been letting out in your sleep are for him. if the way your hips keep shifting against his thigh is on purpose, if your body knows him even in dreams. so he nudges your thighs apart with his knuckles and slides his fingers over your folds, slow. soft. you’re wet already—dripping onto his skin—and when he pushes one thick digit inside, you twitch.

he curls it. your breath stutters, and your brows scrunch like you’re trying to chase the feeling down in your sleep. he grins, cock hard against your thigh now. fuck, you’re tight. warm. greedy even while unconscious. he sinks in a second finger.

you whimper.

"that’s it," he murmurs against your hair, voice low. "dream about me, baby. gonna make sure you remember it when you wake up."

his fingers fuck into you lazily, wet sounds filling the quiet room, your slick coating his knuckles as you start to grind down against them, still asleep—just barely. and when your lips part around a gasped little “toji,” voice slurred with sleep, he knows he’s got you.

he’s gentle with everything else.

you’ve seen the way he speaks to strangers, always polite. the way he kneels to tie your shoe, grabs your favorite snack without you asking, rubs little circles into your back when you’re falling asleep. he listens when you talk—really listens, like every word out of your mouth deserves to be framed and hung on a wall. he laughs quietly, never raises his voice. his touch, out there in the world, is always featherlight.

but in here? he’s rough. brutal, even.

“look at me,” he snaps, voice low, fingers digging into the fat of your thighs as he pushes them back, forces them wider. “you’re gonna take all of it, yeah? you’re gonna be a good fucking girl for me.”

and you do—because he asked. because it’s him. your sweet boy with the soft hands and soft voice and the meanest cock you’ve ever taken in your life.

he’s big. thick enough to stretch you open slow, then cruel enough to bottom out in one sharp thrust that makes you cry out like you’ve been slapped. your back arches, breath knocked from your lungs, eyes wide and wet, but he just grins.

“that’s it, baby,” he pants, one hand clamped tight around your waist to hold you still while he grinds deeper, like he’s trying to live inside you. “so fuckin’ tight—god, you’re squeezing me like you don’t wanna let go.”

you don’t. but it’s too much. your body trembles under him, already overstimulated, raw at the edges, and he knows it. he uses it, tilts his hips just right, drives into that sore, swollen spot with vicious rhythm, punching broken moans out of your throat.

“cry all you want,” he growls, dragging your face toward his, lips brushing yours. “you’re still gonna take it. you begged for this, remember?”

your legs are shaking. one hand grips the sheets like they might anchor you to earth, the other claws helplessly at his back, searching for something solid while he fucks you like he hates you.

but his eyes—god, his eyes—they never stop looking at you. even when he’s splitting you open, when he’s got one hand wrapped around your throat and the other pushing your knees back until you can’t move at all, he’s looking at you with love. with reverence. like he’d still carry you to the bath after, even if you came on his cock until your voice gave out.

“you’re mine,” he whispers, voice suddenly softer even as his hips snap harder. “you’ll always be mine.”

and afterward, when your limbs won’t stop trembling and your body’s aching in the best kind of way, he pulls you close, presses kisses to your shoulder, brushes the hair from your face and smiles like he didn’t just fuck the living soul out of you.

“i’ll run you a bath,” he murmurs. “you did so good for me. such a good girl.”

you push his buttons on purpose. sitting across from him in just a cropped tee and those little sleep shorts he hates—the ones that barely count as fabric, riding up every time you so much as breathe—you stretch, arch, pout. mouth off, tease. keep your eyes on his, smile when his jaw ticks. he tells you to behave.

you don’t.

"keep running that mouth, girl," he warns, voice low, dark, biting.

you do.

and now you’re face-down on the bed, cheek pressed to the sheets, arms pinned behind your back with one of his hands while the other drags the soaked strip of your ruined panties down your thighs. they don’t make it past your knees before he’s stuffing them into your mouth, shoving them in until you whimper.

"don’t wanna hear a fuckin’ sound outta you now, yeah?" he grunts, knee pressing your legs open wider. "wanna act like a little brat? fine. i'll give you exactly what you’re askin’ for."

his cock drags through your folds once, slow nd punishing, before he pushes in hard, no warning, no mercy. the stretch has you crying around the cotton and lace in your mouth, drool leaking out the side. he’s so deep it feels like you can’t breathe.

"so fuckin’ tight," he growls, pace already brutal. "this what you wanted, huh? wanted to piss me off so i’d fuck the attitude outta you?"

you nod frantically, moaning, legs shaking with every slam of his hips. he slaps your ass hard, watches the flesh bounce.

"too late now. you’re takin’ every fuckin’ inch."

he doesn’t stop until you’re trembling, soaked, spent—until you’re crying, cockdrunk, brainless. until the brat is gone and all that’s left is his good little girl.

you didn’t think he’d notice right away.

you’d gotten them on a whim. alone, a little impulsive. something about the sting of it, the weight, the way the gold caught the light. and yeah—you might’ve imagined how he’d react. just a little. toji, rough and greedy and a little too obsessed with your tits already, you figured he'd like them.

you didn’t expect him to find out like this.

you’re on his lap, straddling him lazily after a night in, hoodie tugged halfway up your chest as you stretch, and he catches the glint of metal out the corner of his eye.

"...what’s that?"

you freeze. "what?"

he doesn’t ask again, just reaches up, fingers curling under the fabric until he pushes it up fully and sees them. your new piercings. both of them. gold barbells sitting pretty through your nipples, hardened from the chill—and now from his gaze.

“fuck,” he murmurs, voice low, almost reverent. “when’d you get these?”

you swallow. “couple days ago.”

his hands slide up your sides, rough palms warm against your skin.

“and you didn’t tell me?” he says, gaze flicking between both pierced buds, lips parted. “you just walked around with these sittin pretty under your shirt? like i wouldn’t notice?”

you whimper when he leans in, mouth brushing over one, warm breath making you shiver.

“i'm sorry,” you mumble.

“no, you’re not,” he smirks, tongue flattening against the stud before he sucks you into his mouth.

you gasp, hips rocking forward instinctively. it’s too much—the way his tongue rolls over the piercing, how he nips just a little, enough to make you jolt. the warmth of his mouth against cool metal, the ache still fresh from healing, all of it driving you insane.

“s-sensitive,” you whisper, breath caught, nails digging into his shoulders.

“good,” he mutters against your skin. “gonna take my time then.”

he kisses down, then up again, switching to the other side. his tongue flicks, teasing, curling around the barbell and sucking slow and deep, like he’s savoring you. one hand slips down your spine, the other holding your tit steady as he licks right over the spot that makes you shiver.

“they look so fuckin good,” he groans. “all for me, huh?”

“yes,” you gasp. “got ‘em for you.”

he pulls back just enough to look up at you, lips shiny, pupils blown.

“you’re not gettin any sleep tonight.”

toji fushiguro didn't even pretend he was gonna participate.

“no nut november?” he scoffed, eyeing you sideways while gnawing on a toothpick. “i fuck every day. you think some internet virgin holiday’s gonna stop me?”

but then you smirked, crossed your legs just a little slower than necessary, glanced up at him from the couch with those wide, teasing eyes and murmured— “ah, figures you wouldn’t last.”

that got his attention. he didn’t say anything right away, just stared. toothpick shifting from one corner of his mouth to the other. like a wolf clocking the idiot rabbit that thought it could get away with a little tail flick.

“you saying i couldn’t do it?”

you stretched like a cat. “not even one day.”

“...bet.”

and so, day one began. you were merciless. started subtle. brushing past him shirtless when he got out the shower, letting a drop of water slide down your sternum and pool between your tits. leaving the bathroom door cracked when you touched yourself in the tub—quiet little moans, the squelch of fingers sliding wet into heat, just loud enough to carry.

he didn’t crack. so, you started pushing. bending over in just panties when you knew he was behind you. sitting on his lap with zero reason, grinding just enough to make his cock twitch under you while you "searched for the remote." whispering filth into his ear at breakfast.

“your cock looked so hard this morning, baby. bet it hurts. poor thing.”

he grunted. said nothing. but his grip on your thigh left a fingerprint bruise. by evening, he was pacing. agitated. bulge swelling obscenely against his sweats. jaw clenching every time he passed you and caught a glimpse of your thighs, your smirk, that bratty fucking glint in your eyes like you knew he was seconds from ruining you.

he finds you asleep on his couch, curled up in one of his shirts, legs bare and tangled in a throw blanket. his mission ran late, he’s exhausted, blood still drying under his nails—but the second he sees you, everything in him slows down. he kneels beside you, brushes his lips over your temple and you stir. his eyed half-lidded, soft smile, and he’s already hard.

you don’t even have to say anything—just slide the blanket off and arch your back. he groans, crawls over you like a man starved, muttering against your skin, “you waiting for me like this? shit, baby…”

he’s lazy at first, slow grind of his cock between your thighs while your legs wrap around him, breath syncing with his. but he gets rough fast—his pace stuttering as he tries not to lose it, fucking into you like he never wants to stop, forehead pressed to yours, panting, “tired, baby? let me do all the work, yeah? gonna make you cum just like this—fuck—so good for me, always.”

and when you do cum? he simply keeps going, whispering, growling, “one more, baby. just one more.”

the music thumped against the walls like a heartbeat you couldn’t keep pace with. way too many bodies, too many voices, too many eyes—not even on you, but still too many. you were trying to hold it together, nails tight in your palms, drink untouched, toes curling in your shoes as if you stayed small enough you’d vanish. but he saw you, of course he did.

toji leaned against the far wall, loose button-up hanging open at the collar, sleeves shoved past his elbows, gold ring glinting on his finger as he nursed a cup of something darker than wine. he didn’t say anything—just watched. watched you shrink into yourself, shifting your weight, fiddling with the straw in your cup like it could distract you from the pressure in your chest.

then he was there, behind you. big hand sliding around your waist, breath ghosting against your ear, voice a low hum just for you:

“you need a break, baby?”

you nodded quick.

“...or you just need my cock?”

you froze. eyes wide. thighs pressed together under your skirt. and that—that—was all he needed.

“c’mon.”

he didn’t ask again. just grabbed your hand, pulled you through the crowd like a man on a mission, shoulders parting people like a tide. down the hall, around a corner, door swinging open and shut behind you.

the bathroom smelled like cheap hand soap and lavender air freshener. clean enough. toji flipped the lock with one hand and then turned to you, gaze heavy and lips parted like he was already panting at the idea of what you looked like under your clothes.

“you really were about to cry out there,” he said, soft, stepping forward until your back hit the door. “all fuckin’ tense, breathin’ weird, eyes glossy…”

the gym is half‑empty, late enough that every sound echoes: metal clink, faint bass from a phone speaker, the thud of toji’s sneakers as he settles under the bar. he’s shirtless, sweat shining along the cut of his chest, hair damp and messy, jaw tight from whatever set he just finished.

“plates,” he says, and you hand them over, watching the way his biceps flex when he locks them into place.

he doesn’t look at you until the bar’s racked and he’s settled beneath it, breathing deep.

then: “spot me.”

you step behind the bench, eyes tracing the broad stretch of his shoulders, fingers hovering near the bar. his grip’s wide, practiced. the metal squeaks just slightly when he lifts—steady, smooth. the bar dips, brushes his chest, and rises again, arms tensing, pecs drawn tight. you watch the way the muscles work under his skin, sweat sliding slow down his ribcage.

he does five like it’s nothing, then racks it. lets out a low breath and doesn’t move.

his eyes flick to you. “you’re next.”

“what, you think i can press that?”

his smile’s slow. hungry. “nah,” he says, patting the curve of his chest. “sit here.”

you blink. “on the bar?”

“on me.”

and then his hands are already at your hips, dragging you down to straddle the barbell—just above his chest, knees braced on either side of him, thighs squeezing for balance.

he shifts beneath you, settles for a moment and his hands slide from your waist to the underside of your thighs, spreading his fingers like he’s lining up a lift. you’re already a little breathless and he hasn’t even moved yet.

his arms press upward. your body rises with the bar, gliding up like you weigh nothing at all—just a smooth lift, a long stretch of air between you and him.

and then down again.

you feel it the second time—how your thighs press tighter around him when gravity pulls you back.

third rep, and he exhales slow, looking right up at you now, like he's tracking every reaction.

“see?” he murmurs, voice low. “perfect weight.”

you bite your lip, fingers curling against the bar. he lifts again.

“kinda hard to focus,” you mutter, half-laughing.

he grins, sweat trickling along his temple. “same.”

the next rep takes longer. his grip shifts lower—palms spread across the underside of your thighs now. your hips rock forward just slightly with the motion. just enough. you don’t pull away.

he doesn’t stop. you’re both breathing harder than you should be, and when he holds you at the top for a beat too long, gaze fixed on the way your shirt clings to your chest, you feel something heavy build in the space between you.

“ten reps,” he says, cocky, flushed, holding you steady like he likes the weight of you.

“then I’ll really start working out.”

you don’t ask what he means, your body already knows.

his hand dwarfed your thigh where it rested, fingers splayed wide, calloused pads tracing lazy circles just below the curve of your ass. toji didn’t speak much—not when he had you like this, all pliant and bare under him, your chest rising and falling in quick little gasps while he just looked at you. his green eyes half-lidded, heavy, drinking it in. the contrast. his body all mass and muscle and sheer overwhelming weight, yours barely spanning the width of his chest.

“small fuckin’ thing,” he muttered, thumb dragging across your lower belly, pressing in where the imprint of his cock would be once he started. “gonna split you open.”

you whined, already dizzy from the stretch. just two fingers inside and it felt obscene, the way they curled, pumped, eased open a body that was not made to take what he was planning to give. he knew it, too—smug bastard. he watched your stomach twitch under his hand, watched your thighs tremble, your back arch, and still didn’t go easy.

“what?” he murmured when your breath hitched again. “can’t take two fingers? ‘m not even halfway in, baby.”

his voice was all gravel and heat, a low rumble from deep in his chest that vibrated against your ribs as he leaned down, mouth brushing your ear. “you’re the one beggin’ to get stuffed, right?”

you couldn’t answer. not really. your mouth opened, but all that came out was a breathy ahhhhn—right as he scissored you wider, stretching you around those thick, relentless digits.

“look at this little pussy,” he growled, pulling his fingers back just to smear your slick over your clit, thick knuckles brushing again at your entrance but not quite pushing back in. “so fuckin’ greedy, huh? tryin’ to swallow my fuckin’ hand.”

“t-toji—please—i need—”

“you need?” he chuckled, pulling his fingers out fully, watching a string of arousal cling between them and your dripping hole. “nah, baby. you want. let’s not get it twisted.”

nanami brings you to a bar on a thursday. he doesn’t usually do things like this, drinks after work, casual meet-ups. "just one beer with an old friend," he says. "you don’t have to say much. just be kind."

he never says the name.

so when toji turns around at the booth, already smirking, the back of your neck prickles with heat. he's older. taller. tattoos peeking out of his sleeves that were tightly rolled and cuffed at the biceps.

"this your girl?" he asks nanami, but looks right at you—his eyes dark and cocky.

nanami rests a warm hand at the small of your back. toji clocks it. gives a low whistle.

"lucky man."

he gets your number from nanami a week later. another group dinner. nothing serious. toji says he left his phone at home, asks nanami to send the photos you took. you’re the one who took them, so nanami hands your phone over.

"send ‘em to him for me?"

you text them without thinking. attach a few too many. a few with yourself in the frame. you see the read receipt pop up immediately. no reply. no emoji.

just: "cute."

followed two hours later by: "he know you look at me like that?"

you don’t answer. not that night. not the next.

but you think about it. and when he texts again—"home alone?"—you don’t lie.

"just for a bit."

you buzz him in without even saying hello.

toji doesn’t knock. he pushes the door open with one hand, the other holding a plastic bag like he’s showing up for something innocent. like this is completely normal. his eyes rake over you the second he steps inside. your legs bare, hair down, one of nanami’s button-downs hanging off your shoulders like it doesn’t fit right. like it wasn’t meant for you—and maybe that’s the point.

he closes the door behind him slow. leans against it. "you always answer the door looking like that?"

୨୧ toji — "fuck you think you’re doing?”

you picked the tiniest little thing out of your drawer—that dress with no back, no bra, and a hemline that gives up halfway down your thighs—and wore it out to dinner with him just to see what he’d do. he clocked your shit immediately. didn’t even say anything. just stared the entire meal, jaw set, thumb twitching against the silverware like he was mentally choosing between fucking you on the table or waiting until the check came.

he doesn’t even make it to the house. shoves you into the car backseat in the garage, slams the door shut behind him, fists your hair as you straddle him. “you wanna be a fuckin’ brat in public?” he growls, tugging the dress down, letting your tits spill out, “fine. act like a fuckin’ slut, get treated like one.”

he fucks up into you so hard the shocks squeal. his hand lands on your ass over and over, knuckles red. you claw at his shoulders, gasping each time his cock hits too deep. he never lets you get on top—but tonight he lets you ride, just to watch you work for it, hips stuttering as he fists your ass, yanking you down onto him with every slap of skin.

by the time he's finished, your makeup's running, the car’s fogged over, and he’s stuffing his cum-dripping fingers in your mouth with a dark chuckle: “bet you’ll listen next time, huh?”