warning 18+ loan shark!toji x f!reader🎀
cw: cnc • gun kink • spit • piss, belt play • facefucking creampie • humiliation • no aftercare • heavy dubcon
“money talks, dirty cash, i want you..💸”
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you don’t sleep anymore. not really. you just lie there in that rotting little apartment that smells like warm dust and dried sweat and the leftover scent of men who don’t come back. the kind of place that holds onto everything. cheap walls, peeling paint, floorboards that creak even when you’re not moving. you lie on that stained mattress in nothing but a tank top and cotton panties that keep riding up your ass, thighs damp from the heat, sticking together every time you shift. the fan broke two weeks ago. the window doesn’t open all the way. you sweat through your sheets every night, and you don’t even know if it’s the weather or the dread anymore. it’s been three days since you stepped outside. four since you checked your bank account. five since you made that second payment you couldn’t afford. your phone buzzes on silent, tucked somewhere under the blanket, screen cracked, notifications piling up from numbers that never leave voicemails. not even a single word. just the occasional call. blocked. no caller ID. breathing. always breathing. low, like a man watching you from the dark, one hand already wrapped around his cock and the other curled in a fist.
you owe him. and you don’t know how much anymore.
it started small. your cousin told you about him at a bar, half-drunk and laughing, said he helped her once when she needed quick money for her kid’s hospital bills. no questions, no paperwork, just fast cash. she told you his name like it meant something. toji fushiguro.
you met him the next night. you wore makeup to hide the stress, a little skirt you thought might help, heart pounding the whole way there like you were already in trouble. he took one look at you and smirked like he could smell the desperation. and you hated how hot he was. how tall. how calm. the way he spoke slow and deep, never raising his voice, like he didn’t need to. like everyone always ended up on their knees anyway. he gave you the cash. tucked it into your purse himself. brushed his hand against your hip just enough to make your breath catch. he didn’t even tell you when it was due. just lit a cigarette, blew the smoke toward your mouth, and told you not to fuck him over.
you fucked up. again and again. begged for a little more. said you’d pay soon. said you were waiting on a deposit. said you’d figure it out. and each time, his voice got a little quieter. a little slower. and you could hear it that little pause before he hung up. like he was smiling. like he already knew how this was gonna end.
and now, tonight, you lie there in the dark, eyes wide open, legs spread slightly from the heat, stomach turning with the weight of it all. you haven’t eaten. haven’t showered. your pussy’s sticky with old sweat and stress, panties damp between your folds, and your nipples keep brushing the fabric of your tank top every time you roll over. everything feels raw. too sensitive. like your body’s betraying you, getting ready for something your mind keeps pretending won’t happen. you locked the door. you double-bolted it. you shoved the dresser in front of it just in case. but it doesn’t matter. because toji doesn’t knock. he doesn’t text. he doesn’t wait.
you hear it before you believe it.
the sound of the lock turning. not forcing. not breaking. just turning, soft and casual like it was his place all along. you sit up too fast and your vision tilts. your thighs are damp. your mouth is dry. the dresser you shoved in front of the door doesn’t move, but the door still opens. slow. sure. steady.
you scramble off the mattress, bare feet slapping against the floor, heart hammering too loud in your ears to think. you don’t have a weapon. not a real one. there’s a fork on the counter, a bottle in the sink, but nothing that would stop a man like him. you remember the rock outside your building from the night before, the one you nearly used on a stray dog when it came too close. too late now.
his shadow moves first. then the silhouette of his body filling the doorframe. big. wide. calm. not a word, not even a breath. he steps over the threshold like he’s walking into a fucking store. like this is just a transaction.
your mouth moves before your brain does. you try to say his name, but it comes out small and wrong and scared.
then he kicks the dresser. not out of anger. just to move it. wood scrapes across the floor, shrieking like it’s screaming for you.
you back up, fast, toward the corner, hands trembling. he’s wearing a black tee that sticks to his chest like it’s painted on, jeans slung low, belt unbuckled already like he planned this before even getting in the car.
he hasn’t spoken yet. that’s what makes it worse.
then, slowly, one hand goes to the back of his waistband.
not flashy. not shiny. just matte black and heavy in his hand. he doesn’t point it. not yet. he just holds it like a warning, like punctuation.
you freeze. arms half-raised. legs shaking. throat thick with a scream you’re too smart to let out.
he licks his teeth and finally speaks. low. slow. smooth enough to make your stomach drop.
told you not to fuck me over.
you’ve never seen a gun this close before. not outside of a movie. not outside of the screen glow and staged screaming and fake blood. this one’s real. heavy and matte and worn around the handle like it’s been held too many times by someone who never hesitated. he doesn’t even raise it. he just lets it sit loose in his grip like it doesn’t weigh a thing, like it’s an extension of his hand. your knees buckle before your brain catches up, your body folding in on itself, sliding down the wall with a choked gasp as your palms hit the cold floor.
your voice breaks halfway through, thin and shaking like a child’s. your chest is heaving and your stomach twists so fast it feels like you’re gonna throw up. your arms go up, limp and trembling like that’ll somehow protect you. like you even matter.
i was gonna pay. i swear. tomorrow. i was gonna borrow from my dad. i just needed one more day. please i wasn’t trying to run i just—
your mouth won’t stop. your voice turns to sobs, not dramatic ones, not staged ugly, wet, real. the kind of crying that cracks open your ribs and squeezes your lungs tight until nothing comes out but high, desperate gasps. you don’t even know if he’s listening. you can’t look at him. all you see is the floor, the gun, your shaking legs spread just enough to feel air where it shouldn’t be. you don’t think he came to talk. you think this is it. this is how you go. some dumb broke girl in a sweat-soaked tank top with her pussy damp and thighs sticky and nothing to show for it but bounced checks and lies.
you try to keep talking, anything that might delay it.
i was gonna call. i had the money almost ready. i swear i was gonna get it tonight. please i didn’t know it was serious i thought i had more time.
you say it like time was ever yours to begin with.
and the worst part is, he still hasn’t spoken.
his boots step forward once and you flinch hard enough your shoulder hits the wall. you whimper. it’s not a scream. it’s not strong. it’s a sound you didn’t know your throat could make, raw and small and pathetic.
the gun is still in his hand.
his eyes trail over your body slowly, like he’s looking through you, not at you. like he’s studying something already dead, just figuring out what to do with the leftovers.
like he’s done this before.
like he’s trying to decide whether to waste the bullet or not.
and it hits you, all at once, like a punch in the ribs. you’re not special. you’re not his exception. you’re not a girl with a soft voice and a good reason. you’re just another one who didn’t pay. and you’ve heard the stories. about girls who vanish. about the bodies that show up later if they show up at all.
you’re shaking so bad your teeth knock against each other. your legs won’t move. your mouth is dry and your lips taste like salt. you want to scream. you want to beg. but your voice is wrecked, hoarse and cracked and small, and all you can do is look up at him with your cheeks wet and your thighs trembling.
you don’t even realize your panties are soaked until you feel the cold press of fabric between your folds, the heavy heat of your body giving itself away.
his eyes dip for a second. a twitch in his jaw. a shift in his grip. not on the gun on himself. something changes.
and that’s when you know.
he didn’t come here to kill you.
he doesn’t say anything at first, just kneels in front of you with the kind of ease that makes your heart seize up, one hand dragging the gun down lazily between your brows until the cold barrel kisses your skin. he doesn’t need to push. just rests it there while your knees dig into the floor and your body hunches low like an animal, breathing shallow, chest twitching, mouth already parting in helpless, trained panic. your lips brush the metal and he watches your doe eyes go wide, lashes wet and trembling, tears starting to smear down the sides of your nose while your throat clicks on a sob. he finally speaks then, voice so low it scrapes against your bones, calling you a stupid little bitch with a wet mouth and no fucking sense. tells you if you’d paid him back, he wouldn’t be here like this, wouldn’t have to waste his time, wouldn’t be hard right now looking at you on your knees like a fucktoy someone dropped in a gutter.
you feel him shift, jeans unzipped, belt clinking heavy like chains sliding down a butcher hook, the thick sound of it dragging through the loops while he keeps the gun in place against your forehead, wrist loose, relaxed, like he’s done this before, like there’s no rush. your eyes flick down by instinct and your stomach lurches at the sight of his cock slapping out, thick and heavy, not fat but long and mean and veiny, a dark swollen head already leaking and smeared with sweat, shaft half-covered in hair that curls dense at the base and spreads up his stomach. he smells like skin and metal and heat, his thighs tense under your gaze, rough and strong, quads thick under his pants, stomach not shredded but solid, built like a man who doesn’t give a fuck what he eats because nobody would dare say a word. his voice cuts back in sharp, telling you to open wide before he cracks your teeth on the barrel, saying you’ve got one job now, and it ain’t talking, so you better fucking choke on it like it’s your last meal.
your lips part without thinking, throat bobbing, hands shaking as you grab the base to steady yourself and he hisses through his teeth, fist tightening on the grip of the gun. the first slap of his cock against your cheek is loud and wet, smearing precum and the sweat off his shaft right across your face, a second one cracking against your lips like punishment, a third dragging slow against your tear-streaked skin before he finally guides the tip into your mouth. he groans, deep and cruel, not because you feel good but because you look pathetic, mouth stretched, tongue flattened under the weight of him, your eyes rolled up just enough to catch the glint of metal shaking slightly above your face. the pressure at your forehead doesn’t ease. he keeps the gun there, keeps whispering things you don’t want to hear, calling you his little cum wallet, his late-fee whore, the dumb slut who thought she could hide behind daddy’s money and now gets to swallow instead of sign.
his cock fills your mouth fast, pushing in deep while your jaw aches and your throat gags and your spit starts dripping down your chin, but you don’t stop, not once, not even when your eyes blur from the pressure, because he hasn’t told you to. because the gun is still right there. because you don’t know if this is just a warning or a fucking execution and if this is the last thing you ever do, you want him to leave hard and leaking, not satisfied. you suck like it’s survival, mouth choking and lips raw, hands clinging to his thighs while he rocks his hips slow, fucking your face like it’s a payment plan, cock slapping against the back of your throat and pulling out only to slap your cheek again, cum trailing the skin like a filthy signature. he laughs once, rough and breathless, says you’re better use than he expected, and maybe he won’t kill you after all. maybe he’ll just ruin you instead.
he doesn’t stop once your mouth opens, doesn’t let you catch your breath or find a rhythm. he wants it messy. wants you ruined. the way he pulls back after a few deep strokes and lets his cock fall heavy across your cheek again, it’s not random it’s deliberate. the sound is obscene, a thick, wet thwap against your flushed skin that makes your whole face jolt sideways. you gasp, lips still open, spit and precum stringing from the corner of your mouth like drool, your cheeks red and raw and shining now. he does it again. thwap. again. thwap. the shaft smearing wet heat across your skin, hot and sticky, the veiny length dragging under your eye, over your nose, across your lips like a whip. you blink through tears and the weight of it, every slap a reminder that you don’t matter right now your mouth does.
you try to flinch but his hand grabs your hair, yanks your head back into place so the next slap lands with even more force, his cock bouncing off the curve of your cheek with a slick slap that echoes in the apartment like it’s mocking you. the texture of it is sickening. slick, soft skin stretched over something so solid and veined, ridged like a fuckin weapon, soaked in your spit now and smeared with his own precum. you can taste it even when your lips are closed. salty, bitter, thick. the smell of him is in your nose, deep and primal and hot like skin left too long in the sun. the base of him is hairy, untrimmed, the scent darker there, his balls heavy and tight, slapping softly against your chin each time he slides back into your throat.
he clicks his tongue and calls you names like he’s reading from a fucking receipt cock-dumb, broke bitch, debt-ridden mouthwhore, pathetic fucking slut. he says your face was made for this, that he should take a picture and send it to your dad along with your balance, let him know what his little girl’s been doing to scrape the money together. you sob again but it only makes him harder. he sees the tears and pushes deeper. your nose hits his pelvis. his balls tighten. he holds you there, mouth stuffed, throat stretched, drool pouring down your chin while your lungs scream for air. then he pulls out just to slap you again, this time across both cheeks, dragging the tip along your wet lips before spitting straight into your face.
you’re dripping now. spit, tears, precum. all of it smeared together across your cheeks, down your neck, sticky in the hollow of your collarbone. your mouth opens again without thinking. he doesn’t even have to ask. you want to live. that’s the only reason. you suck because the alternative is cold metal and silence and blood on your own floor. you suck because it’s the only thing that keeps him talking, and you’d rather hear his voice call you worthless than not hear it at all. every time he pulls out, it slaps against your cheek with a nasty squelch and bounce, fat and wet and loud, the sound sharp enough to make your pussy clench in shame. he feels it. he sees it. and he starts laughing.
you’re fuckin wet from this huh. you like bein slapped with my cock like a paycheck you can’t cash.
he presses the barrel harder to your head, not enough to bruise, just enough to remind you it’s there. he tells you to show some gratitude. to lick it clean. to use your tongue like you mean it. and you do, mouth stretching wide, licking along the shaft, tasting the sweat, dragging your tongue up the underside where the veins throb and twitch. you can feel every ridge. every pulse. every beat of his cock like a threat against your lips.
and then he slaps it again, just because.
he drags you by the hair. not fast, not brutal, just enough to make your scalp scream while your knees scramble across the floor, your mouth still open and smeared and leaking. you trip once, try to grab the edge of the coffee table, and he kicks it out of the way with one heel, gun still in his hand like a natural extension of him. he yanks you onto the couch face-first, shoves your head into the cushions, the fabric damp from old sweat and heat, your breath catching in it, lungs folding from the pressure. you feel his knee wedge between your thighs, forcing them apart until your panties pull tight against your cunt, the damp fabric digging into your puffy lips and splitting them through the cotton. the air touches everything your thighs sticky, your labia swollen and sore already, pressed against the cushion like he wants to make you feel every part of yourself. he lifts the gun and rests it across the back of your neck, not pushing, not threatening, just there. metal against hot skin. weight and warning.
then the first slap lands. not with the palm. with his fingers. four of them, stiff, snapping straight across the center of your cunt through your panties. the sound is sharp less a smack, more a dry, flat clap like knuckles against flesh and your body jerks hard as the sting radiates across your clit, lips, everything. you cry out and it’s muffled by the cushion. he does it again. harder this time. then again. each one lands right across your puffy folds, dragging your panties tighter against you like he’s using them as a fucking percussion instrument. by the fifth hit, you’re gasping, twitching, pushing your hips forward like you can crawl out of it, but his hand grabs the back of your neck and pushes you down again, voice low and quiet near your ear.
yeah, that’s what i thought. not even a dollar to your name but you got this wet little cunt bouncing on old men’s money.
he pulls your panties to the side like they’re nothing, bunching the fabric at your hip, and stares down at your exposed slit. puffy. flushed. glistening from shame and spit and sweat. your inner lips stick out slightly, too soft and too swollen from the heat and friction, trembling as the cool air hits them. his thumb spreads you lazily, not even to look just to make you feel how wide you are, how easy it would be to slip in and fill you with something you didn’t ask for. then another slap, this time right against your bare labia. it snaps so sharp you let out a sob. your hips kick, legs shaking, but he presses the gun barrel flat against the top of your head to hold you still.
you think loans are jokes? think guys like me give money to dumb little girls just because they’re cute? you thought you could run off with it, maybe suck some dick later and pay half back, maybe call daddy and bat your lashes?
another slap. this one lands right under your cunt, right at the spot where thigh meets mound, your whole pussy jiggling slightly from the impact, your hole twitching open and wet under the tension. he slaps again. and again. each hit cruel, targeted, not fast but hard. punishing. he doesn’t even have to grunt when he does it. just breathes steady, controlled, like he’s counting the rhythm of your education.
nah. this is what happens. this right here. you borrow from men like me, you end up face down with your pussy beat raw until you remember the value of a fucking dollar.
your tears are soaking into the cushion now. your thighs ache. your cunt is hot, stinging, burning, wet, everything at once. and still he doesn’t stop. doesn’t soften. he grabs your ass now, spreads it, stares at your folds again, slaps between them so hard it forces a choked moan out of your throat and he hums low not a laugh, not joy. just interest. patience. hunger. like he hasn’t even started.
he lets go of your neck only to reach for the belt. you hear the buckle before you see it metal clinking slow, a dry rasp of leather sliding through loops. that heavy, real kind of belt, thick and cracked at the edges, worn from years of pulling tight across someone’s waist, now curled in his hand like a leash. he loops it around your throat without warning, slips it under your jaw, cinches it with a single practiced tug. not choking, not yet, just pressure just enough to let you feel the edge of it digging into your windpipe when you breathe wrong. he pulls it back, anchors it over your shoulder, and uses it to hold your head still while he shifts behind you again, spreading your legs wider until your knees are slipping on the couch cushions.
a thick drop lands between your folds, warm and slimy, trailing down your inner lips and sinking into your raw, slapped skin like oil into an open wound. you twitch, whimper, try to squirm, but the belt tugs harder and the gun shifts again laid back across the couch now, still within reach, still watching you like a second set of eyes.
he pushes two fingers into your cunt, slow and deep, no warning. you jolt forward, breath stuttering from the sudden stretch. your pussy is soaked now shame, fear, the spit he smeared on you all mixing into a slippery mess that lets him slide in too easy. his fingers curl. hook. spread. he starts pulling you open from the inside, no rhythm, just force. like he’s trying to see how wide you get. how far you stretch. how deep the debt goes.
yeah, look at that. soft little pussy all fat and leaking, spreading like it wants to get ruined. and you were crying about dying two minutes ago.
he leans forward, presses his chest against your back, breath against your ear while his fingers scissor you open and your thighs shake under the strain.
you owe me. not just money. time. body. this hole. you made it collateral the moment you took my fucking cash. now i’m collecting.
he yanks the belt tighter. your throat squeezes, not enough to black out, but enough to panic. enough to feel your pulse throb against leather. enough to make your cunt clench around his fingers, hot and dripping, fluttering under the grip of something you can’t escape.
he fucks you with his hand like he owns it. pushes deeper, pumps harder, drags your inner walls until you cry out again, voice cracking. every sob makes him groan low in his chest, like he’s getting off on how helpless you sound. how obedient. how open.
this pussy was probably born for debt. look at it. fucking swallowing me like it owes me rent. gonna fuck it like a receipt.
he spits again. right onto your asshole this time. lets it drip down into the spread mess below while his fingers slow down, drag out, and press against your rim just to make you twitch. not to enter. just to remind you he could.
you’ll pay it all off. with your mouth. your cunt. your fucking guts.
he pulls his fingers out slow, dragging slick strings from your cunt that stretch and snap across your thighs as he stands. the belt stays tight around your neck, leather biting into the skin, holding your head down against the cushion while he spits in his hand and strokes his cock once long, slow, watching it glisten from base to tip with the mix of your juices still coating him. you feel the heat of him between your legs before he even touches you. the slap of his cock against your puffy lips is sharp, fast, wet now not like before. each smack lands heavy between your folds, skin sticking to skin, the tip of him smashing against your clit and dragging down your opening until your hips jerk without permission. you’re whining already, face buried in the cushion, heat in your cheeks from the shame of how wet you sound when he slaps you again and again and again. your cunt is swollen now, lips parted and trembling, too open to hide anything. he slaps once more and growls.
act slutty for it baby. you wanted this, didn’t you. now take it like a fucking slut.
he pushes in slow at first, but it doesn’t stay slow. not when your pussy opens for him that easy. not when you start moaning like you’re losing your mind, every inch making your back arch and your nails claw into the cushion. he sinks into you deep, hips grinding against your ass as his cock fills every twitching inch of your cunt, the stretch so brutal and thick it feels like he’s forcing your body to change shape around him. the belt tugs your throat back just enough to keep your spine bent and your moans open-mouthed, desperate, animal. he thrusts once, hard, and the sound of your soaked flesh taking it echoes off the walls. your breath catches. he does it again. and again. wet skin slamming into wet skin, the slap of your cunt leaking with every thrust, your thighs trembling, stomach clenching. the cushion under you is soaked now, your slick and his spit and your tears all blending together into a dark wet patch that spreads under your hips.
moan louder. let the whole fucking building hear what a broke slut sounds like when she gets treated better than his wife.
his voice is tight, panting, raw now. sweat drips from his temple. he lets go of the belt just long enough to yank his shirt off over his head, muscle flexing under the dim light, chest covered in faded scars and sweat that shines across his shoulders. he drops down over you, skin to skin, his chest pressing into your back as he grinds in deep, cock twitching inside you, hands gripping your waist so hard you know it’ll bruise. the weight of him crushes you into the couch, stomach squished, tits mashed against the cushion, every breath a struggle under the heat of him pounding into you.
you try to scream, to moan louder like he said, but it comes out broken, like your lungs forgot how. his hand slips between your legs from behind, fingers smacking your pussy from below, palm grinding your clit as he fucks into you hard and steady, the sound of it filthy now pure slop, every thrust forcing another wave of slick out of you, down your thighs, into the cushion.
your body clenches, cunt spasming, and you can’t hold it anymore. your pussy gushes wet heat, too much, too fast, a sudden stream of piss leaking out around his cock while your whole body convulses. it hits his thighs, his balls, drips down both of you in a shameful splash that soaks the couch and stains your thighs. your mouth opens in a sob and he groans loud, hips bucking as the sensation makes him twitch deep inside you, cock jerking, not pulling out.
fuck, you just pissed on my dick. dirty little slut.
his voice is wrecked. not disgusted turned on. beyond it. he pulls back just enough to watch the mess, both hands gripping your ass now, slapping your cheeks hard, one after the other, while his cock slides in and out of the soaked heat like a goddamn piston. you’re leaking everywhere, sobbing, moaning, choking on air, his name tangled in your throat and forgotten. he presses his palm flat against your lower back and fucks you faster, slapping your pussy again from below as it twitches and leaks around him.
yeah, cry for it. make me feel it. you’re not leaving this couch till i break this pussy in.
his mouth is at your ear now, breath hot, one hand tangled in your hair, the other spanking your pussy again and again, your whole body jerking from the impact. your clit is swollen and screaming, your walls clenching around him like a fist every time his hips slam into you. the wet slap of skin on skin sounds like violence now. like a warning. like ownership. he’s not even close to done.
he leans in heavier, full weight pressing down on you now, chest sticking to your back, his skin hot and slick with sweat, every thrust driving the air out of your lungs. the belt slips loose, tossed aside now, not needed anymore. he doesn’t need it to choke you not when his hand wraps around the front of your throat and pulls your head back against his shoulder, his fingers digging into the pulse point under your jaw, thumb pressing under your tongue from the outside like he’s testing how much breath you’re allowed to take. your mouth opens without choice, drooling down your chin, your voice gone to wet gasps and helpless whines.
the smell is everywhere. your piss soaked into the cushion, his sweat dripping off his chest, your cunt leaking around his cock with every slam of his hips. the squelch of it is loud, sharp, embarrassing your pussy clapping back around him every time he bottoms out, your labia raw from friction, stretched and battered and fluttering around the thick base of his cock. he never pulls out more than halfway now, just keeps grinding in deep and circling his hips, like he’s stirring you up from the inside.
he moves his hand again slides two fingers into your open mouth, presses down on your tongue and groans when you suck them without thinking. his other hand slips under your stomach, palm dragging over your clit, not to play with it. to press. to control. to trap you between pain and pleasure so tight it all blends together until you’re crying into the cushion. he doesn’t slow down. his thrusts are steady, brutal, hips slapping your soaked ass so hard the sound bounces off the walls like applause.
you feel it start to build again, your body twitching uncontrollably. your hole clenching. your stomach tightening. everything tingling from your scalp to your toes. he feels it too. pulls out for one second, just long enough to slap your cunt from behind with the thick, slippery head of his cock, watching it bounce off your puffy lips, watching your thighs shake, then rams back in with a growl that rips out of his chest like a fucking animal.
you want it again, don’t you. want me to pump you full. want this cock to stay so deep your pussy doesn’t close right after.
his voice is low, breath hot in your ear, and then he bites. not soft. hard. his teeth sink into the space between your shoulder and neck as his hips jerk and thrust faster, deeper, like something’s snapping inside him. he’s moaning now, real, low in his throat, not because it feels good but because of what it means. because your cunt is sucking him in like it wants it. because you’re still here. wet. broken. and leaking. he says it again, louder, slapping your ass and burying himself all the way in.
gonna fuck this hole till it milks me dry.
your whole body shakes when it hits. when his cock jerks inside you, when the first thick shot of cum spills deep, hot and slow, flooding your insides like punishment. he doesn’t pull out. he doesn’t ask. he just presses his hand flat against your lower back, grinds into you hard enough you see stars behind your eyes, and groans with his face buried in your hair while he spills everything. the heat of it spreads up through your stomach, down your thighs, slick already dripping out around him before he’s even done. your body gives out beneath him, twitching, crying, your cunt still clenching on instinct like it’s trying to keep it all inside.
yeah. keep that shit in. let it fuckin soak.
his voice is slurred now, drunk on the high of it, his hips slowing only slightly as he stays deep, cock twitching in the mess he’s made, sweat running down your sides, one of his hands still on your throat like a collar, the other cupping your cunt from behind and slapping it one last time, firm, loud, a single crack that makes you cry out against the cushion.
this hole’s mine now. debt paid in full.
he pulls out slow, letting his cock drag through your soaked cunt one more time, fat head nudging your entrance on the way out, dragging thick strings of cum with it. it leaks instantly. no resistance left in your body. no control. your hole twitches and flexes, trying to close, but it can’t not around the mess he’s left in you, not with how raw and stretched and used you are. it oozes out in lazy trails, down your slit, over your thighs, sinking into the ruined couch cushion beneath you. you can feel it, hot and slippery and wrong, dripping off you like spit.
he steps back without a word, his breath still heavy, cock still out, half-hard and shiny with slick and piss and cum. he picks up the gun from the edge of the cushion and sets it down on the table like it’s just another tool. something he didn’t need in the end. he grabs a cigarette from his back pocket, lights it with one hand, flicks the lighter shut with a sharp metallic clack, and leans back in your shitty kitchen chair like he owns the whole place. the smoke curls around his face slow, his eyes never leaving you.
his voice is hoarse, deep, half-spent but still cold. you’re laying on your stomach, face pressed to the wet cushion, legs trembling, cunt leaking, brain empty but he says it again. slower. meaner.
part that shit and show me what i left you with.
your hands move without thinking. you reach back with shaking fingers and spread yourself, thighs twitching, fingertips sliding over your own skin still tacky with sweat and spit. you can feel the cum leaking between your cheeks, down over your entrance, warm and thick and humiliating. your pussy’s swollen, sore, ugly. he doesn’t care. he watches like he’s judging the quality of meat. like this is the final check before a return policy expires.
play with it. show me how much you fuckin liked it.
your fingers slide down slow, brushing through the mess, catching on his cum. it’s sticky, clinging to your knuckles, wet and warm against your thighs. you drag your fingers through it again, rubbing the mess over your folds, your rim, your raw clit, hips jerking when the touch hits too sharp. your legs shake. your hole clenches. your face burns.
he exhales smoke. taps the ash off the end of the cigarette onto your floor like he owns it.
say it or i start filming. and next time i collect, you’ll be working off a bigger bill.
you choke on your breath and lift your head. you turn, slowly, eyes wet, chin shiny with drool, face streaked with sweat and filth. your fingers are still between your thighs, dragging cum through the mess he made, leaking down your hand, thighs spread, ass up. he watches, eyes half-lidded, mouth set. the gun glints next to him, the belt hanging off the table.
i’m your dirty slut.. i’m toji’s slut.
and i like sucking your cock. and getting fucked.
his eyebrow lifts slightly. another pull from the cigarette.
he grins around the filter, watching you stroke the mess between your legs like it’s natural now. like you were always meant to end up like this. like you’re not even done. and maybe you aren’t. maybe this is the part where he puts the cigarette out and gets back on top. or maybe he just watches you fall apart for another hour. either way you’re not getting up.
☆〜（ゝ。∂）thank you for reading babes, this is one of the filthiest things i’ve written in a while. it was requested, it was nasty, it was exactly the kind of deranged energy i needed. hope it made you clench <3 feel free to reblog, scream, or sit in silence and question everything. all reactions welcome.
you’re all filthy. stay that way, tagging system’s open if you wanna be on my wildest shit list🎀
gummygunk
origamiaround
