faye @corpseblouse - Tumblr Blog

PURRR-ROLLING ME, DADDY

pairings; plug! toji fushiguro x reader

summary. you are supposed to get the weed, pay, get back to your stoner circle of friends. keyword: supposed to. but you’re stupid hoe, you forget the money, you left your dignity with shoko, and toji said shoko suck dick to get discount. you? you got fold.

words count.

triggers/warnings. rough consensual sex with dub-con/coercion undertones (power imbalance between college student buyer and older weed dealer), semi-public sex in a private gym backroom, degradation mixed with heavy praise kink, overstimulation and forced multiple orgasms, prolonged edging and repeated orgasm denial, squirting, massive creampie with cum play (licking clean from pussy, sharing/tasting cum via deep kiss), hair-pulling, spanking/slapping (ass), oral sex (male receiving blowjob, male giving cunnilingus post-creampie), no condom/PiV bareback sex, internal ejaculation and visible leaking cum, humiliation and verbal degradation, dirty talk (including objectification, ownership language, slut-shaming, and praise), hair-pulling used as leverage/control, spanking as punishment/reward, age/power dynamic (young broke student vs older dominant dealer), transactional sex, references to drug use (weed), intoxication-adjacent themes, intense physical aftereffects (sore/swollen genitals, trembling legs, leaking cum while walking/driving). No non-con, no violence beyond consensual kink elements, all acts portrayed as ultimately desired by the protagonist despite initial reluctance/coercion play.

you’re already pissed and you haven’t even made it to the fucking block yet. it’s sweltering—july heat pressed to your spine like a wet palm, fucking horrible. sweat making your cotton tee cling to your lower back while your thighs stick stupidly to the cracked faux leather of your roommate’s old-ass hand-me-down civic, the one you swore you wouldn’t drive anymore after that thing with the steering fluid.

traffic’s crawling like it’s on benzos and the phone on the passenger seat keeps slipping down every time you brake, which is every other second because god forbid anyone in this city drive like they passed a test. and on speakerphone—of course it’s on speakerphone—shoko’s laughing at you while gojo’s doing that thing where he fake-moans in the background and geto’s muttering “damn, she really sent you alone?” like it’s not his weed too. like you’re not the sacrificial lamb in this whole degenerate little stoner friend circle you never even asked to be in.

“look, i’m not even the one who smokes the most!” you hiss, gripping the wheel like it personally insulted you. “you all could’ve just fucking gone yourselves—”

“but you’re soooo innocent,” shoko croons, voice smug and sleepy like she’s lounging on her balcony with a joint already lit, probably sipping wine at 3pm like her life’s not on the brink of academic collapse too. “he might give us a discount if you show a little titty.”

“she’s gonna get robbed,” gojo says, laughing like a full-volume jackass, and you hear the clink of a lighter flick, followed by his telltale wheeze as he coughs on the inhale.

“she’s not gonna get robbed,” geto says, way too calm about it. “toji likes her type.”

you nearly swerve into the wrong lane.

“EXCUSE me?”

“you know. the dumb ones.”

“i have a 3.8 GPA!”

“yeah, in marketing.”

your scream echoes through the cabin. the phone slides off the seat again, thunking against a crusty water bottle and your half-empty iced coffee, which sloshes violently but mercifully doesn’t spill. you snatch it up and jam it back in the cup holder, ignoring the way shoko’s cackling now like it’s her fucking birthday.

this was supposed to be a simple errand. pick up the stash. come back. get high and eat pizza. but nooo, shoko had to go and run out the day before the final group presentation, and now all of you are teetering on the edge of burnout, one red bull away from dying in a google doc. except unlike everyone else, you got elected tribute, because “he’s nicer to new girls” and “you’ve got tits he hasn’t seen yet” and apparently that’s enough to send you into the slums of shinjuku looking for some underground weed plug who sells out of the back of a gym.

“this is exploitation,” you mutter, rolling down the window just enough to spit your gum onto the pavement. the air is thick with piss and heat and fried oil from some sketch-ass stall down the block that smells like heaven and hepatitis.

“it’s a social exchange,” shoko corrects smugly. “you get weed, he gets a little eye candy. maybe a blowjob if you’re feeling generous.”

“if you don’t come back with an eighth at least,” gojo adds, “i’m not letting you hit this indica. and it’s the one that makes you see god.”

“i hope you fucking choke on it.”

“love you too, sweetheart.”

you hang up.

the gym is squat and grimy, wedged between an abandoned massage parlor and a curry shop that always smells like someone’s wet sock. its signage is cracked and sun-bleached, the windows blacked out with film so thick you can’t even see silhouettes inside. a cardboard sign hangs crookedly in the door: “ring bell or fuck off.” very classy. your stomach does a little drop. not fear exactly. just... nerves. or maybe guilt. or maybe you’re thinking too hard about what shoko said.

you’ve never met the guy in person before. always heard stories, though. apparently he’s some ex-something—mercenary? killer? the guy who lifted a vending machine once with his bare hands? shoko said he used to fight people for fun. and now he just sells weed and works out all day. like a retired apex predator gone slightly domestic. dangerous but chill, if you didn’t get on his bad side. which, hopefully, you won’t.

you shift your skirt down a bit—black pleated, technically a size too small but who’s counting—and reapply your lip gloss in the cracked rearview. a deep breath. okay. hot girl dealer time. slut it up just a little for capitalism. shoko did say he liked praise. maybe he just wants someone to call him strong and pretty.

you ring the bell.

no answer.

you ring it again, longer this time. the door clicks. opens with a low, mechanical creak, revealing nothing but the dark smell of rubber mats and sweat.

then—

“you’re not shoko.”

the voice is gravel and heat, low and slow like it’s dragging itself out of a pit. toji fushiguro appears from behind a weight rack like a fucking boss fight, shirtless, skin sheened with sweat like he’s just finished tearing someone in half. his hair’s a little damp, falling over his brow, eyes half-lidded but sharp as hell, like you just interrupted something sacred. like you’re prey and he’s thinking about licking the plate clean.

he stares at you, towel draped around his neck, sweatpants slung loose on those fucking thighs like they’re allergic to modesty. and you—god, you freeze. like a dumbass. because he’s hot. dangerously, stupidly hot. like he looks like he’d laugh if you fell on your knees and call you cute for trying. like you suddenly get why shoko always comes back smelling like smoke and latex and regret.

“uh,” you say, brilliantly. “hi.”

“you shoko’s friend?”

“yeah, i’m—she sent me to pick up. for the project.”

he cocks his head. a slow grin spreads across his face like molasses on heat. “she send you alone?”

you nod.

he steps forward. the floor creaks under him. you’re hit with the smell of him—salt, musk, a little weed, a lot of testosterone. the kind of scent that makes you dizzy even though your legs are still working.

“first time buyin’?”

“face to face, yeah. usually we just... i mean she... she handles it.”

he tilts his head again, wiping his neck with the towel. “you nervous, princess?”

your stomach lurches at the nickname. somewhere deep in your brain, something very stupid turns on.

“n-no.”

he laughs. low. deep. thick like molasses and twice as sticky. his eyes skim you slowly, like he’s taking stock, like he’s reading the little tag on the back of your neck and deciding how much you’re worth.

“you look nervous.”

you don’t answer.

“don’t worry. i don’t bite. unless you want me to.”

and holy shit. you haven’t even asked about the price yet.

he holds the door open for you with one veiny forearm braced against the top of the frame like he’s doing it on purpose, showing off the full stretch of thick muscle and that little dent in his bicep that makes you feel like your brain’s gone soft from heatstroke or maybe sheer sexual humiliation, because now you’re wondering how much that arm could wrap around your neck before you’d stop pretending to care about prices and just let him split your legs open like a sandwich bag. but you walk in anyway, pride first, head high, face blank even though your thighs are doing that little clenchy thing traitorously underneath your stupid micro-skirt. inside it smells like sweat and blunt wraps and a hint of citrus cleaner like someone tried to pretend this was a real establishment but gave up halfway through the mop bucket.

the gym is dim and muggy and cluttered with benches and racks and a single punching bag that looks like it’s been hit so hard it developed trauma, and toji doesn’t bother turning on more lights, just lets the dusky heat settle in your collarbones while he strolls ahead, sweatpants slung low and towel tossed now over one shoulder like he’s modeling for a very horny prisoner’s dream journal. you follow because what else are you gonna do, go back out there with no weed and your friends waiting to laugh at you? he leads you past a protein shake bar that’s got more liquor bottles than supplements, down a short hallway, then into a back room with a metal table and a low couch that looks like it’s been fucked on a dozen times without ever being cleaned properly.

he drops onto it like a lazy king, legs spread wide, one arm slung across the backrest while the other reaches under the couch and pulls out a small black box with worn corners and a heavy metal latch. he flips it open, reveals a collection of baggies like he’s about to hand you something sacred, and you almost gasp because holy shit, it’s the good shit, purples and crystals and sticky glisten that says you’re about to forget what deadlines and dignity are.

“alright, baby,” he says, slow, dragging the word out like it’s honey dripping from his mouth. “what you lookin’ for? party stuff? sleepy stuff? somethin’ that makes you forget your name and say thank you every time you breathe?”

you blink at him, then shake your head like that’s going to reset your IQ to normal.

“uh, whatever’s strongest. like, the one that makes gojo shut up.”

toji snorts. “ain’t nothin’ that strong.” he rifles through the box, pulls out a dense little nug in a vacuum seal, holds it up between thick fingers. “this one’s called coma slut. knock your ass flat and leave your pussy hummin’ for two hours minimum. shoko loves this shit.”

you reach for it. “cool. how much?”

he grins. doesn’t hand it over.

“five thou.”

you pause. blink again. “what?”

“five thousand. yen.” he says it slowly, like you’re dumb. like he knows you’re dumb. like he likes that you’re dumb. “you want the premium, princess, you pay premium.”

“shoko pays like thirty-five hundred!”

he grins wider, white teeth flashing like a predator. “yeah, but she sucks dick.”

your jaw drops. he shrugs, easy, casual, resting his big hand between his thighs like it belongs there, like your gaze naturally belongs there too.

“returning customers get a loyalty discount. you’re new. no loyalty. just big eyes and a cute voice.”

you fume. literally fume. arms crossed, foot tapping, chest puffed out like it’s gonna make a difference but it just makes his gaze slide over your tits with a slow burn.

“fuck this. i’m calling her.”

you yank out your phone and jab her contact, slap it on speaker while it rings because if you have to suffer, she’s gonna hear it in real time.

she picks up after two, voice already smug. “well? did he give you the discount?”

“he’s trying to charge me five fucking thousand for the coma slut.”

a snort. then a long, wheezy exhale.

gojo’s voice joins, cracked and high: “did you show him your tits yet?”

“gojo i will murder you in your sleep.”

“you have to negotiate,” shoko says, sounding like she’s laying down in a hammock sipping gin. “flirt a little. he gets off on praise. tell him he’s strong. tell him his arms look like sex toys. whatever. it’s not that hard.”

you glare at the phone. “i’m not sucking his dick.”

“you say that now,” gojo mutters, just loud enough.

“listen,” geto adds, voice warm and too fucking reasonable, “it’s really good weed. just—try the flirty dumb girl thing. you’re good at that.”

you hang up before you punch the speaker into the wall.

toji’s still lounging, baggie dangling from two fingers, eyes half-lidded, watching your temper rise like it’s cute. like you’re just some little kitten clawing at the edge of his bed.

“you done throwin’ your tantrum?” he asks, that grin stretching lazily. “’cause you’re not gettin’ shoko prices, princess. you ain’t earned ‘em. but…”

he leans forward now, elbows to knees, his voice dropping low like the room just dipped in temperature. his eyes drag across you again, slower this time, hungrier. he licks his bottom lip, tongue flashing, and your breath stutters like a car running on fumes.

“…i am feelin’ generous today. you say somethin’ nice, i might shave off a thousand.”

you cross your arms harder. glare.

“…like what?”

he leans back, smirking.

“tell me i’m the hottest guy you’ve ever seen.”

“fuck no.”

“tell me i look like i could ruin a bitch without even tryin’.”

“you probably could but i’m not saying that out loud.”

“you’re so cute when you pout.”

“you’re a menace.”

“you’re wet.”

“i’m—i am not—!”

“your legs say otherwise, baby.”

you screech and grab your phone again, but he just tosses the baggie into your lap and chuckles low like he’s been waiting all day to watch someone squirm like this.

“four thousand, then. just ‘cause you’re funny. next time you better come with somethin’ sweet for me.”

you don’t know if he means words or your mouth.

and you’re not sure which one you’d give first.

you dig through your purse like it owes you something, fingers scrabbling past lip gloss tubes and stray hair ties and old receipts and shoko’s dumb-ass pink lighter that always smells like coconut vape juice, all the while trying not to look like you're panicking even though you definitely are, because you know you don’t have four thousand in there and you know he knows it too—he’s watching you with that smug fucking smirk like he’s already counted every bill you’re about to hand over, lounging like a lion who just saw the antelope trip on her own shoelaces.

“okay, wait,” you mutter, slapping your wallet open on the edge of the couch, pulling out three crisp thousands, one crumpled five hundred, and a pathetic collection of coins that rattle into your palm like your pride hitting the pavement. “three-five-fifty... uh... fuck. that’s all i got. can you... i mean, can you do like, a discount? like a one-time thing? like a hot girl coupon?”

you look up at him, eyes big, lip slightly bitten, trying to make your face do that dumb coquette pout you saw on tiktok, the one where girls blink slow and look like they don’t know what two plus two is. you know, the kind of stupid that makes men with muscle brains go soft in the middle.

but toji just stares at you like he’s sizing up a sale on meat.

“you really come here short?” he says, slow, drawling it out like he’s chewing your embarrassment between his teeth. “you come to my spot, take my time, drool all over the place—don’t think i didn’t see you clench your thighs when i opened that box—and then have the fuckin’ nerve to not even bring enough?”

you stammer. “i didn’t know the price was—shoko said—”

“shoko sucks dick,” he cuts in flatly, pointing at you with a lazy flick of his fingers, like that’s the end of the discussion. “and she tips. what the fuck you bring me? attitude and half a wallet?”

you flush. “i didn’t mean to—”

he leans forward, forearms on his knees, big hands dangling between spread thighs, voice low and quiet now, like he’s letting you in on a secret even though it’s obvious he’s just having fun watching you squirm. “i could be an asshole, y’know. i could tell you to come back with the rest and shut the door in your face. but i’m nice. i’m generous. i like girls who ask real sweet. maybe... if you really want that discount... you could say thank you properly.”

you blink at him.

“like...?”

his grin spreads slow and wide and absolutely fucking evil.

“like on your knees.”

your stomach drops, heat flashing through you like someone cracked a match at your thighs. your fingers curl around the cash instinctively, knuckles white, heart thudding loud in your ears because you definitely just felt your pussy twitch at the suggestion and you hate yourself for it, hate that you’re even considering it, hate that shoko warned you and you laughed and now here you are with a little skirt and a hot dealer and the kind of decision that makes you either a slut or a broke bitch with no weed.

“you’re joking,” you breathe, weakly.

he tilts his head. “does it look like i’m fuckin’ joking?”

you look at him—at the casual way he’s spread out, the line of his abs, the sweat still clinging to his throat, the twitch of his jaw like he’s holding back a laugh—and no. no he is not joking. not even a little.

you fumble your words, your dignity, your self-worth, and mutter, “what if i just—like—venmo you the rest later?”

he snorts. “nah, sweetheart. this ain’t fucking paypal. you wanna take my premium stash? you gotta earn that shit. ‘less you wanna walk outta here empty-handed and tell your little friends you couldn’t seal the deal.”

your mouth opens, then closes. your legs feel hot and twitchy, your palms sweaty, your breath stuttering in your chest like your brain already left the building and left your pussy in charge of negotiations.

he leans back, stretches like he’s already been serviced, one hand brushing absently across his own thigh. “c’mon. you do that pretty pout again and say some nice things, i might even toss in a joint for free. call it a customer appreciation special.”

you want to scream. you want to leave. you want to burn this place down and tell shoko to go to hell and—

you want the weed.

bad. like, enough to consider what you’ve already half-decided.

and his smirk deepens when you stay standing there, shifting, eyes flicking to the couch, to his lap, to the way he spreads his knees just a little wider like he’s inviting you in.

like he knows.

and toji fushiguro fucking knows. especially now he has you on your knees, hands braced pathetically on his thick thighs while his cock fills your throat like it was always meant to be there, like your mouth is just a wet little sleeve designed for his pleasure and not for arguing about prices or complaining about group projects. the smirk on his face is goddamn carved, eyes half-lidded and dark with amusement, chin tilted down just enough to watch you gag around him, drool dripping from the corner of your lips to splatter messily on his abs and his sweatpants, which are bunched uselessly around his hips like he’d barely taken the time to shove them down before fisting your hair and feeding you his cock like it was a peace offering—or punishment, depending on how you wanted to spin it.

“fuck,” he growls, voice thick and mean and low, one big palm tangled in the back of your head like he’s holding a leash, tugging you down just a little further, just to hear the wet choke that tears from your throat when the head hits the back again. “knew you had a good fuckin’ mouth on you the second you started bitchin’ about the price. this what that attitude’s for, huh? suckin’ cock like a good little dropout?”

your nails dig into the muscle of his thighs without thinking, and he laughs, the sound wicked and lazy, dragging you off his cock just far enough for a sticky gasp of air to escape your lips before he’s thrusting right back in with zero patience, all thick base and heavy weight that makes your jaw ache and your brain buzz, your eyes already glassy from how deep he’s hitting and how casual he is about it, like this is what girls do in his gym, just get on their knees and prove they’re worth a discount by being useful holes.

“you droolin’, baby?” he coos, mock-sweet and hot breath fanning over your forehead as he leans in, free hand cradling your jaw so he can tilt your head and see the spit bubbles collecting on your chin, the streaks of mascara starting to blur under your eyes. “fuckin’ dumb little mouth can’t even keep it in, huh? look at this mess. you ever sucked dick this big before or is this your first real meal?”

you try to glare up at him but the second you move he pushes deeper, deeper, until your nose is smashed against his pelvis and you can smell the sweat slicking his skin and the musk of sex that clings to his body like it never leaves, and your throat spasms around him because holy shit, he’s so thick it’s like he’s plugging you at both ends, stuffing you full from the top like your whole face is nothing but a cock-sleeve now, your gag reflex long gone under the pressure of his filthy praise and the slow grind of his hips.

“yeah, that’s it,” he grunts, knuckles brushing your cheekbone as he strokes the spit-slick mess of your hair, "fuckin' knew you had it in you. you ain't mad about the price anymore, are you? bet you’re thinkin’ four thousand was too cheap now. nah, you're just happy to be useful. bet your college professors never taught you how to breathe through your nose while suckin' cock this good, huh? maybe you'd pass your finals if you practiced like this."

you try to pull back for air, just a second, but his grip tightens in your hair, holding you flush against him, nose buried in the coarse hair at his base while he rolls his hips slow and deliberate, letting you feel every inch lodged deep, cutting off your breath until black spots dance at the edges of your vision.

“uh-uh,” he murmurs, voice gravel-rough, thumb smearing the tears across your cheek like he’s painting you with your own ruin. “you wanted that discount, princess. you take what i give you. nreathe through your nose like a good girl, c’mon. there you go… fuck, feel that? that little flutter when you stop fightin’ it? that’s you lovin’ this shit.”

he finally lets you slide back an inch, just enough for a ragged gasp that tastes like salt and him, strings of spit connecting your swollen lips to the fat, flushed head of his cock. it glistens under the dim back-room light—angry red, slick with your throat, veins pulsing like they’re pissed you dared pull off even a little. you cough, chest heaving, mascara running in thick black rivers down your cheeks, and he just watches, lazy and pleased, stroking himself once, twice, slow and filthy right in front of your face.

“look at you,” he says, almost fond, almost cruel. “pretty little thing all fucked up over some dick. shoko’s gonna smell me on you the second you walk through the door. gonna know exactly how you paid for that eighth.

you whimper—actually whimper—and hate how needy it sounds, how your tongue darts out on instinct to lick at the precum beading at his slit. he groans low, head tipping back for a second before those sharp green eyes snap right back to you, pinning you in place.

“greedy already? thought you were the innocent one.” he taps the heavy weight of his cock against your cheek, once, twice, leaving wet streaks across your skin. “open up again, baby. we ain’t done till i paint that smart mouth white and you swallow every fuckin’ drop. then maybe—maybe—i’ll throw in an extra gram for bein’ such a perfect little slut.”

“that’s it,” he praises, guiding himself back between your lips with a slow, possessive thrust. “knew you’d figure out what that mouth’s really for. now take it deep and say thank you with that throat, princess. make me believe you earned every yen off.”

your knees ache against the grimy floor, skirt bunched uselessly around your hips, panties soaked through and clinging like a second skin, and you know you’re ruined. you know the second you walk out of here you’re gonna replay this on loop—his taste, his voice, the way he looked at you like you were something to break and keep.

but right now you don’t care. right now you’re leaning forward on your own, mouth opening wide, tongue flat and eager, eyes locked on his like you’re begging.

and toji’s grin is all teeth.

your throat burns, eyes watering, but the humiliation is a live wire straight to your clit, sparking every time he talks to you like you’re nothing but a warm, wet convenience. you moan around him—actually moan, like your mouth knows better than you do—and his fingers flex in your hair, his hips roll just enough to make your tongue flatten helplessly along the underside of his cock, veins pulsing against your taste buds while your brain flares with static and your thighs twitch, slick starting to pool between your legs from how hard he's holding you, how good he sounds, how thoroughly you've stopped thinking about literally anything except the weight of him on your tongue.

"that's it, baby, fuckin' look at me," he rasps, pulling you back just an inch, enough for your eyes to lift, mascara-stained and hazy, mouth stretched wide and glistening as you suck in a shaky breath, your lips still wrapped around his shaft like you're terrified to let go. "shit, you're cute like this. dumb little weed-thief all choked up on cock, tryin' so hard to be good. you want that discount, don't you? want me to say you earned it?"

you nod—barely, because he's still holding you there—and the motion makes your nose brush his skin again, makes your throat tighten around him until he groans deep in his chest and mutters, "fuck, you're tight everywhere, huh? bet that pussy's just as greedy as your mouth."

you whimper, thighs squeezing together, tears slipping down your cheeks now but you're still sucking, still letting him use your mouth like it's a fleshlight with feelings, tongue flattening obediently when he fucks forward again and again, his pace slow and relentless, every movement pushing your limits, every growl of praise making your stomach twist with need and your pride evaporate like it was never there to begin with.

he leans back just enough to watch his cock disappear between your lips again, his smirk downright mean now. "keep goin', baby. i'll tell you when you're done."

"that's right, baby, just like that—fuckin' christ, look at you," toji groans, voice dragging through clenched teeth like it's carved from iron, one heavy palm flattening against the back of your head again just to feel the resistance melt out of you as you let your throat open wider, drool slipping in thick, shiny ropes down your chin and catching at the collar of your shirt, which is damp now, stained with spit and humiliation and the heat of his cock gliding again and again down your throat like it's been there before and knew the way, like you're already trained and just pretending to be new, and he fucking loves it. "shit, you were made for this, huh? whole face built for takin' cock. they teach you that in class, sweetheart? or you just born to be a little brainless throat toy?"

your hands are gripping his thighs now, useless little fingers clutching for purchase as he rocks his hips forward and uses your mouth with easy, slow-grinding thrusts, not fast—no, deliberate—like he's savoring the stretch of your lips, the way your spit strings when he pulls back just far enough for the head to pop free with a sticky schhluck, watching the way your mouth hangs open like you forgot what to do with it once it wasn't full. he lets the head slap against your tongue, lazy and wet, then taps it against your cheek with a chuckle.

"open wider," he mutters, low and rough, brushing his thumb across your lower lip, smearing the sheen of spit so it shines under the dim lights. “c’mon, princess, don't be shy now. you already got my dick halfway down your throat, what's a little more mess?”

you blink up at him, dazed, lips raw and puffy, eyes glassy and red-rimmed with tears you don't even remember crying, and you whisper some weak little "mmph" sound that's supposed to be a yes, and that's all the fucking permission he needs—he shoves back into your mouth with a grunt, slow at first, then harder, deeper, until your throat spasms again and your eyes roll up just a little from how full you are.

"goddamn," he mutters, hips grinding forward so you can feel every inch of him sink back into place, his cock pulsing hot and heavy inside you, "shoko never said your mouth was this good. probably jealous, huh? that's why she sent you instead—wanted you to find out just how much better you are when you're down on your fuckin' knees."

you make a broken little noise around his cock, a breathy sob or a moan or something in between, and it sends a shudder up his spine, his thigh twitching beneath your palm as he curses again and cups the back of your skull like he wants to mold your head to the shape of his cock permanently.

"fuckin' look at you," he murmurs, almost fond now, and it makes your stomach twist in the dumbest, sluttiest way, like praise is a drug you didn't know you were addicted to, "doin' such a good job for me. didn't even have to beg that much. just needed a little push, yeah? bet all that attitude melts away the second you got a cock between those lips."

you whimper again, thighs squeezing together instinctively, and he feels it—grins wider, meaner, because he knows now, knows exactly what kind of girl you are, what kind of desperate little whore shows up short and ends up with her face stuffed, all because she wanted a discount.

"that why you wore that little skirt, baby?" he croons, voice going syrup-slick and filthy, "came here hopin' i'd put you on your knees? thinkin' if you gave me those pretty eyes and a little pout, i'd let you off easy? nawww, you wanted this. don't lie. you need this. need to know you're good at something, even if it's just gettin' face-fucked 'til your brains leak out your ears."

your whole body flushes at that, heat crawling from your chest to your scalp, and your lips tighten around him on instinct, desperate to prove him right, because he is right, because you don't even care about the weed anymore, not really—you just want him to keep talking like that, keep telling you what a dumb little cocksleeve you are, keep dragging that rough praise out like it's gospel and you're the disciple swallowing every word.

"yeah, there youuu go," he murmurs, voice rough with hunger now, fingers threading deeper into your hair as he starts to fuck your mouth harder, shallower now, shorter strokes that make your whole head bob in time with the motion, each thrust punctuated by filthy, wet sounds that echo off the walls. "that's a good girl. shiiit, listen to you. all messy and noisy for me. can't even pretend you don't love it, huh? pussy probably fuckin' drippin', ain't it?"

you nod—barely—but he sees it, and he laughs, breathless and mean, like he's proud of you in the nastiest possible way.

"knew it," he growls, hips snapping just a little harder now, faster, not quite fucking your throat but enough to make your jaw strain and your breath stutter in broken gasps around him. "knew you were a nasty little bitch soon as you walked in here. whole time you were talkin' about prices, all i could think was how good your mouth would look wrapped around me. now look. takin' it so deep. makin' me proud, princess."

your brain short-circuits at that—proud—and your eyes flutter as your thighs twitch again, mouth going slack just enough for him to bottom out, your chin damp, your tongue numb, but your body humming like he's fucking something deeper than your throat.

he pulls back slow, lets you breathe, lets you gasp a little against his length while he strokes your cheek with his thumb, voice dropping low, dark, full of that same evil satisfaction he's had since the moment you knelt.

"don't tap out now, baby. we're just gettin' started."

your hands are shaky when you finally wrap one around the thick base of his cock, spit-slick and swollen, veins bulging under your fingers like he's just aching to blow but holding it back with the kind of practiced control that makes your pussy pulse with something stupid and submissive, something soft and hot that makes you feel like your IQ's dropping with every slow stroke you give him.

your chin's glistening, cheeks streaked with saliva and snot and whatever pathetic mess your body's producing just from sucking him so deep for so long, and you wipe your face with the back of your hand without letting go of him, still jerking him slow and lazy while you look up at him with eyes all glassy and fucked-out, lips bruised and shiny, voice wrecked.

"you're so full of yourself," you mutter, barely a whisper, still catching your breath, "you think every girl wants to suck your dick for a discount?"

he grins, eyes gleaming like you just proved him right all over again. "nah. just the smart ones. aren’t you the smart one, yeah?"

you roll your eyes, but your hand doesn't stop moving, thumb dragging over the leaking tip where precum's already dribbling out, your tongue flicking out to catch it without thinking, like you need the taste now, like you're past the point of pretending you don't want it.

"so what?" you say, voice low and shaky but trying to sound in control. "that all you got for me? a little weed and some praise? don't tell me that's your whole game."

he leans forward, forearms resting on his thighs, voice rough and rumbling like a fucking earthquake rolling through the floor. "i give you more than that, you might start followin' me home."

"try me."

that grin deepens, eyes narrowing as he watches you stroke him, sees the way your thighs are squeezed tight, like you're trying to keep your brain from leaking out through your panties. he grabs your wrist, firm but not cruel, and you look up as he leans down and says it in that voice that makes your stomach flip: "i got a special stash. not even shoko gets that shit. real heavy. makes you feel like your whole body's floatin'. makes your pussy clench just from breathin'. only break it out for girls who earn it."

you blink at him, hand frozen on his cock, mouth opening and closing like your brain's buffering.

"...and?"

he smirks. "you want it?"

"obviously."

his hand slides down your arm, slow, warm, fingers dragging across your shoulder, your collarbone, until his palm is cupping your jaw, tilting your head back until you're looking all the way up at him, throat stretched, lips parted, heart thudding stupid in your chest.

"then let me fuck you, y/n."

you freeze.

your name sounds dangerous coming out of his mouth, heavy and hot like he's branding you with it, like he knew it the whole time and was just waiting to drop it until you were soaked and dizzy and still kneeling on his gym floor with your hand around his cock and your pride in the garbage.

"what the fuck," you whisper, half to yourself.

"whaaat?" he shrugs, still smirking like he's got the cheat codes to your whole body. "ain't like you weren't already thinkin' about it. got that fuckin' look on your face the second i opened the door. tryin' to act all mad but your thighs rubbin' together every time i said your name. you were wet before you hit your knees."

you glare. "you're such a perv."

"yeah, but i'm right."

"fuck you."

"you want to."

you don't say anything. your fingers twitch around his cock and he sees it, watches the way your eyes flick to the stash box on the table behind him like you're weighing the pros and cons of being a whore for premium bud. he leans in closer, so close his breath hits your lips and you can smell the sweat on his neck, the musk of your own spit all over him.

"c'mon, princess. you already sucked me off. might as well let me bend you over and really earn that discount."

you scoff, but it's weak, almost a laugh. "you think i'm that easy?"

"nah," he says, low and hot, dragging his thumb across your bottom lip, tugging it down a little, "i think you're smart. you know a good deal when you see one. and you like how i talk to you. you like bein' called pretty when your mouth's full. like hearin' what a good little slut you are."

you shiver.

he grins. "see?"

you try to pull away, to roll your eyes again, to say something biting—but your voice fails and your body betrays you and all you do is sit back on your heels with his cock still wet in your hand, blinking up at him like you're trying to convince yourself this isn't the hottest thing that's ever happened to you.

he leans back, spreads his thighs, one hand stroking lazily at the base of his cock like he's waiting for you to decide.

"last chance," he says, voice a little breathless now, cock twitching under his fingers. "you say yes, you walk outta here with the best fuckin' weed in tokyo and a whole new attitude. say no... and you still owe me four thousand yen, baby."

you hesitate.

you look at the stash. you look at his cock. you look at his fucking face—all smug and sweaty and wicked, like he's already picturing you bent over that beat-up couch.

and you say—

"...you better not be lying about that stash."

he laughs, full and low and fucking delighted.

"oh, i'm not lyin', sweetheart. i just hope you can handle it."

he doesn't grab you like you expect, doesn't yank you up by the arm or push your face into the couch like some impatient street-level animal, no—he reaches, slow and easy, fingers sliding under your chin and tilting your face up like he's about to inspect it for bruises, or maybe kiss you like you're some shy thing trembling in the dark. and then he does, which is the last thing your dumb-ass brain expects, his mouth hot and deliberate and full against yours, tongue pushing past your lips like he's claiming the same territory you just worshipped him with, and the kiss is filthy, wet, intense, full of teeth and heat and the taste of weed and salt and spit but it's slow, achingly slow, his hand cradling the back of your head like you're something precious instead of the girl who just sucked him in a dingy gym backroom.

you make a stupid sound against his mouth, a breathy little squeak that betrays how unprepared you are, how suddenly soft this feels—except it's not soft, not really, it's still him, still toji, still all muscle and sweat and testosterone and perversion, but he's got you straddling his lap now like you belong there, your knees planted against the faux leather of the couch on either side of his thighs, his hands dragging slow over your hips and up your back like he's mapping you out with his fingertips, and his cock is still hard, hot, pressed between you, twitching against the soaked heat of your panties where your skirt's already bunched up.

he breaks the kiss to look at you, thumb brushing over your swollen bottom lip, that smirk gone lazy now, like he's already got dessert and he's just savoring every bite.

"fuckin' knew you'd be soft," he murmurs, eyes raking down your chest, "mouth all nasty but heart beatin' like you're gettin' kissed by your first crush."

"shut up," you breathe, flushed and dizzy and already grinding against him without realizing it, your hips rocking just a little with every breath.

"nah, baby," he says, grinning now, voice dipped in something that's half-mocking and half-worshipful, "you like this. you like gettin' all worked up over a kiss. fuckin' cute. all that attitude and now you're meltin' on my lap like a bitch in heat."

he lifts your shirt like he's unwrapping candy, slow and greedy, his eyes locked on every inch of skin as it's revealed, and you let him, arms raised as he peels it off and tosses it somewhere behind the couch without looking, and the moment he sees your bare tits he groans, full-bodied and filthy, one hand coming up to cup one, squeeze it, feel it like he needs to confirm it's real.

"god damn," he mutters, voice rough with something hungry, thumb brushing over your nipple until it stiffens, and then again, and again, until you arch into it like a reflex, like he's got strings tied to your spine and your thighs. "you came here with no bra, huh? fuckin' slut. wanted me to see 'em."

"no, i just—didn't feel like wearing one—"

"bullshit," he cuts you off, pinching your nipple sharp between his fingers, making your breath hitch, your body jerk in his lap, "you knew i'd get you shirtless. probably thought about it while you were walkin' in. 'oh no, mister fushiguro, don't look at my titties,' meanwhile your dumb little cunt's already makin' a puddle in your panties."

you whimper, actually whimper, and he grins wider, pinching the other nipple now, rougher this time, tugging it just to see how much bounce he can pull out of your hips, and you grind down without even meaning to, the hot thick press of his cock nudging right against the seam of your panties now, your clit throbbing from nothing but pressure and words and those calloused fingers tweaking your tits like they're stress toys.

"yeah, you like that," he says, like it's obvious— it is. . . like it's written all over your face in red marker— it fucking is . . . "you like bein' played with, huh? like when i go slow. thought i was gonna bend you over and ruin you, but nah, i'mma take my time. make you feel every fuckin' second."

his hand slides down, fingers dragging over your ribs, your stomach, the edge of your waistband, then slipping under to find the wet mess of your panties clinging to your cunt like a second skin, and he groans again when he feels it, when his fingers slide over that soaked cotton and come away shiny.

"fuck. told you. knew you were drippin'. you're so wet it's like your pussy's beggin' for me through the fabric. can't even pretend, baby. you're soaked. ruined your own underwear just grindin' on my lap like a bitch in heat."

"shut up," you hiss again, weak and pathetic, trying to glare but your eyes are fluttering, lips parted, mouth still swollen from sucking him and now your tits are getting pinched and your pussy's being touched like it's a treat he hasn't decided to eat yet.

"you gonna make me shut up?" he murmurs, dragging his tongue up the side of your throat, licking a stripe that makes your whole body seize up, his fingers still playing with your nipples like they're buttons he's programmed to keep your brain on standby. "nah, you like when i talk like this. gets you fuckin' dumb. gets that pussy all twitchy. can feel it right now, baby, through your panties, your little hole clenching for me like it's sayin' hi."

you don't say anything, can't, because he rolls one nipple between thumb and finger while the other hand's sliding between your thighs, pressing against your clothed slit and staying there, just pressure, just heat, not even rubbing, and it's enough to make you moan into his neck, breath hot and trembling.

"yeah," he whispers, mouth on your ear now, teeth grazing the lobe, voice dripping with filth and amusement, "go ahead and moan for me, baby. show me how bad you want that special stash."

his fingers hook the crotch of your panties and tug them aside like they're nothing, like soaked cotton's never been an obstacle in his life, and the sudden rush of cool air against your bare pussy makes you gasp sharp into his shoulder, your hips jerking forward on instinct, chasing the heat of his palm before he even touches you properly.

“shit,” he breathes, low and reverent, two thick fingers sliding slow through your folds, parting them just enough to feel how slick you are, how you're dripping down his knuckles already. “listen to that. fuckin' soaked. you hear how wet you are, princess? that's all you. all from suckin' my dick and lettin' me play with these pretty tits.”

you whimper, burying your face in his neck because looking at him right now feels too dangerous, too much like admitting everything he's saying is true. his skin's hot, salty with sweat, and you can't help licking a stripe up to his jaw just to taste him again, just to do something with the static buzzing under your tongue.

he chuckles, dark and filthy, and finally—finally—sinks one finger inside you, slow and thick and deliberate, curling it just right so your whole body clenches around the intrusion like it's been waiting years for this exact stretch.

“fuck, tight,” he mutters, pumping once, twice, thumb finding your clit with embarrassing ease, circling it lazy like he already knows exactly how you like it. “knew your pussy would be greedy. suckin' me in like you never wanna let go. you always this easy, or am i special?”

you bite his shoulder to keep from moaning too loud, teeth digging into muscle, and he hisses, hips bucking up so his cock nudges hard against your thigh, smearing precum on your skin.

“answer me, baby,” he growls, adding a second finger and scissoring them slow, stretching you open while his thumb keeps that maddening pressure on your clit. “or you too dumb already? just needed a couple fingers in your cunt to shut that smart mouth up?”

“fuck you,” you manage, voice muffled against his skin, but your hips are rolling now, riding his hand shamelessly, chasing the way he curls his fingers every time he bottoms out.

“yeah?” he laughs, breath hot against your ear. “that's what you're doin', sweetheart. fuckin' yourself on my fingers like a needy little slut. go ahead. use me. . .”

your hands scrabble at his shoulders, nails digging in as you grind down harder, thighs trembling, breath coming in short little pants against his neck. he's not even rushing you—just letting you fuck yourself stupid on his hand while he watches your face in the dim light, that smug bastard grin never leaving his mouth.

“look at you,” he murmurs, voice rough with want now, fingers thrusting deeper, thumb rubbing tighter circles until your legs start shaking for real. “pretty tits bouncin', pussy makin' a mess all over my lap. you gonna come just from this? just from my fingers and some dirty talk? c'mon, baby. do it. come all over my hand so i know you're ready for my cock.”

“toji—please—” you gasp, the word slipping out broken and desperate, your clit throbbing under his thumb, every slow drag of his fingers inside you sending sparks up your spine.

“that's it,” he coos, voice dropping lower, hotter, like velvet dragged over gravel. “say my name again, princess. beg me nice and pretty.”

“please, toji,” you whine, hips stuttering as he curls both fingers hard against that spot that makes your vision blur. “need it—need to come—”

“good girl,” he praises, thumb pressing firmer, circling faster now, the wet sounds of your pussy loud and obscene in the quiet room. “such a good fuckin' girl for me. lettin' me finger this tight little cunt while you ride my lap like you were made for it. feel how wet you are? drippin' down my wrist, baby. all 'cause you love bein' told what a slut you are.”

your breath hitches, thighs clamping around his hand as the heat coils tighter, hotter, your whole body trembling on the edge.

“come on,” he murmurs against your temple, lips brushing sweat-damp skin. “come for me, sweetheart. soak my fingers. show me you're my good girl—my pretty little mess. i got you. just let go.”

“toji—fuck—i'm—”

“yeah, you are,” he growls, fingers pumping faster, thumb relentless. “come right now, baby. be a good girl and come all over my hand.”

the orgasm crashes through you like a wave, sharp and blinding, your pussy clenching hard around his fingers in pulsing waves as you cry out into his neck, nails scraping down his back, hips jerking helplessly while slick floods his palm. he keeps moving, slow and steady, drawing it out until you're shaking and gasping, oversensitive and boneless against his chest.

“fuck, that's beautiful,” he breathes, voice thick with satisfaction, fingers still buried deep as your walls flutter around them. “good girl. so fuckin' good for me. look at you—comin' so hard you can't even breathe right.”

you whimper weakly, forehead pressed to his shoulder, body trembling with aftershocks as he eases his fingers out slow, bringing them up glistening and dripping.

“open,” he says softly, tapping your lips.

you do, dazed, tongue sliding out to taste yourself on his skin—salty, tangy, filthy—and he groans low, pushing them deeper so you suck them clean. “perfect,” he murmurs, eyes dark and hungry as he watches your mouth work. “now you're really ready for that cock, princess.”

he pulls his fingers from your mouth with a wet pop, eyes locked on the way your tongue chases them for a second before you realize what you're doing. a low, dark chuckle rumbles out of him as he wipes his slick hand across your thigh, leaving a shiny trail that cools fast in the muggy air.

“greedy little thing,” he mutters, voice rough like gravel dragged slow over skin. “already suckin’ on my fingers like you’re scared i’ll take ‘em away. don’t worry, baby. you’re about to get somethin’ a lot thicker.”

you’re still trembling from the orgasm, thighs twitching every time the aftershocks ripple through you, but he doesn’t give you time to settle. both big hands slide under your ass, lifting you like you weigh nothing, shifting you forward until the blunt head of his cock nudges right against your soaked entrance—hot, heavy, leaking, pressing just enough to part your folds but not sinking in.

you gasp at the contact, hips trying to roll down on instinct, needy little circles that chase the stretch you’re suddenly desperate for.

he stops you immediately—one iron grip on your hip, holding you suspended an inch above him, the tip barely kissing your hole.

“uh-uh,” he says, low and mean, eyes glinting in the dim light. “you don’t get to take it yet. you move when i say. understand?”

you whine, high and pathetic, fingers digging into his shoulders. “toji—”

“say it,” he cuts in, voice sharp now, thumb brushing over your bottom lip like he’s thinking about shoving it back in your mouth just to shut you up. “tell me who decides when this pussy gets fucked.”

your face burns, but the words tumble out anyway, soft and shaky. “you do.”

“louder.”

“you do,” you repeat, clearer this time, voice cracking as the head of his cock drags slow up your slit, collecting slick, spreading it, teasing your clit for a second before sliding back down to rest at your entrance again—never pushing in, just threatening.

“good girl,” he murmurs, smirking like the devil himself. “now sit still and let me play.”

he lowers you fractionally—just the tip breaching you, stretching the rim of your hole with that fat, flushed head until you’re clenching around nothing but the promise of more. your breath stutters, thighs trembling on either side of his hips, and he just watches your face like he’s memorizing every twitch, every desperate little flutter of your lashes.

“fuck, look at that,” he breathes, almost to himself, hips tilting up in a tiny roll that seats him maybe half an inch deeper—barely anything, but enough to make you moan. “pussy’s tryin’ so hard to suck me in already. hear how wet you are? just the tip and you’re makin’ those greedy little sounds.”

you try to sink down further, just a little, just to feel more of that burn, but his hands clamp down hard, bruising grip keeping you exactly where he wants you—impaled on barely the head, throbbing and helpless.

“told you,” he says, voice dropping into something dark and mocking. “you don’t move ‘til i say. you think one little orgasm means you earned this cock? nah, baby. you’re gonna feel every fuckin’ inch nice and slow, and you’re gonna thank me for it.”

he pulls back out—slow, deliberate—until just the slit of his tip is kissing your hole again, and you whimper at the loss, pussy clenching around empty air like it’s begging.

“listen to that,” he taunts, dragging the head up through your folds again, slow and filthy, coating himself in your slick. “hear your cunt cryin’ for it? poor thing. so empty. bet it’s throbbin’, huh? bet you’d do anything for me to fill it up right now.”

“please,” you whisper, nails scraping down his chest, leaving faint red lines. “please, toji—”

“please what?” he mocks, circling your entrance again, pressing just enough to stretch but never enough to satisfy. “use your big girl words, princess. tell me exactly what you want.”

“want you inside me,” you choke out, hips shaking with the effort of staying still. “want your cock—please—”

“want it bad, don’t you?” he murmurs, finally—finally—sinking in slow, one thick inch at a time, eyes locked on where you’re stretching around him, on the way your pussy flutters and grips every ridge and vein. “fuck, that’s pretty. look how tight you are. takin’ me so slow like a good little slut.”

he stops again halfway, throbbing inside you, letting you feel the pulse of him, the weight, the stretch that’s somehow not enough and too much all at once.

you sob, head dropping forward, forehead pressed to his collarbone. “more—please, need more—”

“shh,” he soothes, cruel and soft all at once, one hand sliding up your spine to fist your hair and tug your head back so you’re forced to look at him. “you’ll take what i give you. and right now i wanna feel this greedy pussy flutter around half my cock for a while. wanna watch you try not to come just from bein’ stuffed a little.”

he rolls his hips in a shallow, lazy thrust—barely moving, just enough to drag the head along your walls and make your thighs spasm.

“feel that?” he whispers, lips brushing yours but not kissing, just teasing. “that’s all you get for now. just this. just enough to keep you desperate.”

your whole body is shaking, slick dripping down his shaft, coating his balls, making every tiny movement obscenely wet and loud in the quiet room.

“toji,” you whimper, voice breaking. “please—i’ll be good—”

“yeah?” he grins, mean and slow, pulling out almost all the way before sliding back in to the same maddening depth. “you’ll be good? then stay still. let me fuck you at my pace. let me tease this pretty pussy ‘til you’re cryin’ for real.”

he does exactly that—long, slow, shallow thrusts that never give you more than half of him, dragging over every sensitive spot just enough to wind you tighter and tighter but never enough to push you over.

every time your hips twitch, trying to chase more, he stops completely, buried shallow, throbbing, waiting until you still again.

“bad girls who can’t listen don’t get to come,” he murmurs against your throat, teeth grazing the skin. “and you’re tryin’ so hard to be good for me, aren’t you? tryin’ not to fuck yourself on my cock like a desperate little whore.”

you’re nodding before you even realize it, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes from the ache, the need, the way he’s stretching you open so slowly it feels like forever.

“that’s it,” he praises, voice rough with restraint now, hips rolling in another torturously slow thrust. “just take it. feel every inch i give you. feel how full you are even when i’m barely fuckin’ you.”

you’re burning, shaking, dripping, every nerve screaming for more, but he just keeps that cruel, lazy pace—halfway in, halfway out, teasing, teasing, teasing. “gonna keep you like this for a long time, baby,” he whispers, lips brushing your ear. “gonna make you earn the rest.”

he keeps you there forever—or it feels like forever—suspended on those shallow, teasing thrusts, every slow drag pulling a whimper from your throat that you can’t swallow back. the room is thick with the smell of sweat and sex and the faint weed lingering on his skin, the couch creaking softly under the lazy rock of his hips. your skirt is bunched uselessly around your waist, panties shoved to the side, thighs slick and trembling from how long he’s been edging you with just half his cock.

“still so fuckin’ tight,” he mutters, voice low and rough, one hand splayed across your lower back to keep you arched just right. “pussy keeps flutterin’ every time i pull out—like it’s scared i won’t come back. don’t worry, baby. i’m not goin’ anywhere till you learn some patience.”

you try to rock down again, desperate for more, for all of him, but his grip turns iron.

“what’d i tell you?” he growls, stilling completely, buried only halfway, throbbing hot inside you. “you move when i say. or did suckin’ my dick make you forget the rules already?”

“toji—” your voice cracks, raw and pleading. “pleaseee, i need—”

“need what?” he interrupts, leaning in until his lips brush yours, not a kiss, just a cruel tease of one. “need me to fuck you proper? need me to split this little pussy open and make you forget about everything?” he pulls out slow, agonizingly slow, until just the tip is stretching your entrance again, then sinks back in to the exact same depth—halfway, always halfway. “nah. you don’t need it yet. you want it. big difference.”

your nails dig into his shoulders, leaving half-moon marks on his skin. “i’ll pay you back,” you whisper, desperate, the words spilling out before you can stop them. “i swear—next week—i’ll bring the four thousand, just please—”

he laughs, dark and mean, hips rolling in another lazy thrust that makes your breath hitch.

“oh, now you’re offerin’ to pay?” he taunts, thumb brushing over your clit once—just once—light enough to make you jerk but not enough to give you anything real. “cute. but we’re way past yen, princess. you’re payin’ with this pussy now. and right now it’s buyin’ you slow. reallll slow.”

he drags it out—ten more minutes, maybe twenty—every thrust deliberate, shallow, controlled. he watches your face the whole time, drinking in every whimper, every tear that slips free when he bottoms out at halfway and stops again, letting you feel how thick he is, how much more there still is that he’s not giving you.

“feel that?” he murmurs, grinding slow circles once he’s halfway in, just enough to nudge your walls but never deep enough to hit that spot you’re aching for. “that’s all you get for bein’ short on cash and short on patience. half a cock for half payment. fair, right?”

“not fair,” you sob, head dropping forward, forehead pressed to his chest. your whole body is shaking now, pussy clenching around what little he’s giving you, slick dripping steadily down his shaft, pooling on his thighs. “please, toji—i’ll do anything—”

“anything?” he echoes, voice dripping with mock interest, one hand sliding up to fist your hair and tug your head back so you’re forced to meet his eyes. “then beg prettier. tell me exactly why a broke little whore deserves this cock balls-deep.”

you swallow hard, tears clinging to your lashes. “because—because i came here short and let you use my mouth,” you whisper, voice trembling. “because i got on my knees for weed i can’t afford. because i’m letting you fuck me for a stash i don’t even have money for—please, i need it—”

he groans low, hips twitching like your words hit him harder than he wants to admit, but he still doesn’t give in. instead he pulls out slow again, drags the head through your folds, coating himself fresh in your slick before sliding back in—just halfway.

“good start,” he says, smirking, sweat beading on his brow now from how tightly he’s holding himself back. “but you’re still too coherent. still thinkin’ about money and pride and all that shit. i want you dumb, baby. want you so empty-headed the only thing in that pretty skull is how bad you need me to fuck you deeper.”

another slow thrust. another stop at halfway. your thighs are trembling so hard the couch is shaking with you. “keep beggin’,” he murmurs, lips brushing your ear, teeth nipping the lobe. “we got all night. and this pussy’s not gettin’ the rest of me till it earns it.”

he keeps that brutal, lazy rhythm for what feels like hours—slow, shallow thrusts that never give you more than half, every drag pulling slick sounds from where you're stretched around him, your pussy fluttering helplessly each time he stops just short of where you need him. sweat beads on your skin, mixing with his, the air heavy and humid, thick enough to taste the salt on your tongue every time you gasp.

“still beggin’?” he murmurs, voice rough from holding back, one hand sliding down to grip your ass hard enough to leave fingerprints. “thought college girls were supposed to be smart. figured you’d learn by now that whinin’ doesn’t get you what you want.”

you shake your head against his chest, tears slipping free now, hot and frustrated. “toji—i can’t—please, it’s too much—”

“too much?” he echoes, mocking, pulling out slow until just the tip is spreading you open again, letting the cool air hit your throbbing clit for a second before sliding back in—halfway, always halfway. “this is too much? baby, i’m barely fuckin’ you. got half my cock in this greedy little hole and you’re cryin’ already. what happens when i actually give you the whole thing? you gonna break?”

your thighs are trembling nonstop now, slick dripping steadily down his shaft, coating his balls, making every tiny movement wetter, louder. you can feel how swollen you are, how empty past that halfway point, how your walls keep clenching around nothing but the promise of more.

“i won’t break,” you whisper, voice wrecked, trying to sound defiant even as your hips twitch for more. “just—please—give me more, i’ll be good—”

he chuckles, dark and low, the sound vibrating through his chest into yours. “you’ll be good? you’re already good, princess. good at takin’ half like a desperate little slut. good at cryin’ for cock you can’t afford.” he rolls his hips again, slow and deep—still only halfway—grinding there until you sob. “but good girls wait. good girls earn it.”

“how?” you choke out, nails scraping down his back, leaving red lines. “tell me how—i’ll do anything—”

“anything?” he repeats, smirking against your temple, sweat dripping from his hair onto your skin. “then stop movin’. stop beggin’. just sit here on my cock like a pretty little toy and feel what it’s like to want somethin’ you gotta work for.”

he stills completely—buried halfway, throbbing hot inside you, letting you feel every pulse, every vein, the sheer weight of what you’re not getting yet. your pussy clenches around him involuntarily, trying to pull him deeper, and he groans soft, grip tightening on your hips.

“fuck—there it is again,” he mutters, voice strained now. “that greedy squeeze. you keep doin’ that and i might just give you another inch. maybe. if you stay real still and let me feel how bad this broke little pussy needs to be filled.”

you freeze, breath hitching, body shaking with the effort of not moving, not grinding down, not chasing the rest of him. tears slip down your cheeks, dripping onto his chest, and he watches them fall like they’re trophies.

“good,” he praises, low and mean, one thumb brushing a tear away only to smear it across your lips. “that’s it. just take it. feel how empty you are past this point? that ache? that’s what happens when you show up short on cash and big on attitude. you get teased. you get half. you get to sit here drippin’ and desperate till i decide you’ve learned your lesson.”

minutes drag by—slow, torturous, every second stretching longer than the last. he doesn’t move, just holds you there, cock pulsing inside you, letting the need build until your whole body is trembling, until soft little sobs are slipping out with every breath.

“toji,” you finally whisper, broken, barely audible. “please… i get it. i’m short. i’m broke. i’m—i’m yours. just please fuck me.”

he exhales slow, eyes dark and hungry, like your words finally cracked something in him.

“mine, huh?” he murmurs, hips shifting just enough to sink in one more inch—still not all, but deeper, stretching you wider, making you cry out sharp. “that’s cute. say it again.”

“i’m yours,” you repeat, voice shaking, clinging to him. “please—”

he groans, low and rough, fingers digging into your ass.

“alright, baby,” he says, voice gravel and heat. “you want the special stash? want me to fill this pussy proper? then hold on tight. you’re gonna earn every gram.”

he exhales through his nose, slow and controlled, like he’s deciding whether to reward you or punish you more. his cock twitches once, deep inside where he’s still only giving you about two-thirds now—deeper than before, but nowhere near enough. the stretch burns sweet, your walls fluttering uselessly around the thick length he’s allowing, every tiny clench pulling another low groan from his throat.

“mine, huh?” he repeats, voice darker, rougher, the word tasting like ownership on his tongue. one hand slides up your spine, fingers threading into your hair again, tugging your head back so your throat is exposed, so he can watch the way your pulse jumps under the skin. “say it right. tell me whose pussy this is while you’re sittin’ on less than i could give you.”

your lips tremble. tears are drying sticky on your cheeks, mascara smudged into dark streaks, but the humiliation only makes the ache between your legs sharper.

“yours,” you whisper, voice wrecked and small. “this pussy’s yours, toji.”

he hums, pleased but not satisfied, hips rolling in one long, torturously slow circle—grinding the fat head against your front wall, dragging over that spot that makes your breath hitch, but never deep enough to really hit it. your thighs shake harder, nails biting into the meat of his shoulders.

“louder,” he orders, free hand sliding between you to thumb your clit—just one lazy swipe, enough to make your whole body jerk, enough to make slick gush around where he’s buried. “tell me again. make me believe a broke little slut would let some gym-rat dealer own her cunt just for a couple grams of top-shelf.”

“it’s yours,” you say again, louder this time, voice cracking on the edges. “my pussy’s yours—please, toji, i’m yours, just—fuck me properly, i can’t—”

“can’t what?” he cuts in, mean smile curling slow. “can’t think? can’t breathe? can’t stand how empty you feel even with most of my cock stretchin’ you?” he pulls out another inch—deliberate, cruel—until only half is left inside again, letting you feel the sudden loss like a punch. “look at that. pussy’s cryin’ for it already. see how it clenches? tryin’ to keep me. pathetic.”

you sob once, soft and broken, hips twitching despite his grip. “i know it’s pathetic,” you admit, the words spilling out like confession. “i know i showed up short, i know i sucked you off for a discount, i know i’m lettin’ you edge me stupid in a back room just so i don’t have to tell shoko i came back empty-handed—please, i’ll do whatever, just don’t stop—”

he stills again, fully seated at that maddening halfway-plus-a-little, throbbing so hard you can count his heartbeat inside you. his thumb returns to your clit—slow, feather-light circles now, barely pressure, just enough to keep you hovering on that razor edge without letting you fall.

“whatever?” he echoes, voice gone velvet-dangerous. “careful with promises like that, princess. i could make you come back every week. could make you text me when your rent’s due and your wallet’s empty. could have you crawlin’ in here on your knees every time you need to study high and stress-free.”

your breath shudders out. the thought shouldn’t make your cunt clench harder around him—it does anyway.

“would you?” you whisper, barely audible, like you’re afraid of the answer.

he leans in, lips brushing the shell of your ear, breath hot and damp. “if you keep squeezin’ me like that? yeah. i’d make you my regular little payment plan. no cash. just this wet pussy whenever i want it.”

another slow roll of his hips—deeper this time, three-quarters in, stretching you wider, making your eyes roll back for a second before he pulls back to that same torturous depth.

“but not tonight,” he murmurs. “tonight you’re still learnin’. tonight you take what i give you and you thank me for it.”

he starts moving again—long, excruciatingly controlled strokes, never bottoming out, always stopping just short of where you need him most. every withdrawal drags a wet, obscene sound from your cunt; every re-entry makes your thighs tremble and your voice break on little ah-ah-ah sounds you can’t swallow.

“thank you,” you gasp after the next thrust, the words automatic now, desperate. “thank you—for—for teasin’ me, for—for not lettin’ me come yet, for—”

he cuts you off with a rough thrust—still not all the way, but hard enough to punch the air from your lungs.

“good girl,” he growls, voice fraying at the edges like he’s finally starting to feel the strain too. “keep thankin’ me. keep tellin’ me whose you are. maybe—maybe—if you’re sweet enough, i’ll let you have the rest.”

your head drops to his shoulder, body shaking, cunt dripping, mind blank except for the slow, relentless stretch and the promise of more.

“thank you, toji,” you whisper again, over and over, like a prayer. “thank you—thank you—i’m yours—”

he groans deep, hips stuttering for the first time.

“fuck,” he breathes, almost reverent. “keep sayin’ that and i might actually believe you deserve the whole thing.”

he finally moves—sudden, decisive, like he’s done playing patient.

“enough teasin’,” he growls low against your ear, voice frayed with the strain he’s been hiding. “you’ve been good enough. time to really earn that stash.”

before you can process the words his hands clamp under your thighs—big palms gripping hard, fingers digging into soft flesh—and he lifts you off his lap in one smooth motion. your body leaves the couch, legs dangling for a split second before he’s on his feet, carrying you like you weigh nothing. the sudden shift makes his cock slip out completely, leaving you clenching around nothing, a pitiful whine tearing from your throat at the emptiness.

“shh,” he mutters, already turning, striding the few steps to the nearest clear wall—the rough brick one near the weight racks, still warm from the gym’s lingering heat. “you wanted more. now you’re gettin’ it.”

he pins you against the wall with his body first, chest to chest, letting you feel every hard line of muscle and the slick heat of his cock pressing up between your thighs. then he hooks his arms under your knees, spreading your legs wide—wide enough that your thighs burn from the stretch, knees hooked over the crooks of his elbows, calves dangling helplessly. your skirt rides up uselessly, panties still shoved to the side, cunt exposed and dripping in the dim light.

“look at you,” he says, voice dark and satisfied, eyes raking down where you’re spread open for him. “legs apart. no hidin’ now, princess. gonna fuck you standin’ so you feel every inch.”

he adjusts his grip—hands locked under your thighs, holding you splayed and suspended—and lines himself up with one slow drag of the head through your folds. you’re so wet it’s obscene, slick coating him instantly, dripping down to his balls. he doesn’t tease this time. he sinks in slow but steady—all the way this time, one long, unrelenting thrust that stretches you open completely, bottoming out until his hips are flush against yours and you’re stuffed full.

your head thumps back against the brick, a choked moan ripping out of you at the sudden fullness, the burn of him splitting you wide while your legs are forced apart like this. gravity pulls you down harder onto his cock, every inch buried deeper than before, the head nudging places that make your vision spark.

“fuck—tight,” he grunts, voice rough, holding you steady with that iron grip on your thighs. “feel that? whole cock now. no more half-measures. this what you were beggin’ for?”

you can’t answer—only nod frantically, hands scrabbling at his shoulders, nails digging in as he starts to move.

he doesn’t thrust up into you like you expect. instead he lifts you—slow, controlled—until just the head is stretching your entrance again, then drops you back down onto his length in one smooth, devastating motion. your body slides up and down his cock like you’re nothing but a sleeve for him to fuck, legs splayed wide, thighs trembling in his hold, cunt clenching hard every time he bottoms out.

the wet slap of skin on skin echoes off the brick, loud and filthy, your slick making obscene sounds with every drop. gravity does half the work—each downward motion seats him deeper, harder, the head kissing your cervix on every full drop while your clit grinds against his pelvis.

“that’s it,” he rasps, breath hot against your neck, teeth grazing your collarbone. “up—down—up—down. ridin’ me like the little slut you are. look how wide your legs are—pussy takin’ every fuckin’ inch while i hold you open.”

your arms loop around his neck for leverage, face buried in his shoulder as he keeps that punishing rhythm—lifting you high, then letting gravity slam you back down, over and over. each drop punches a gasp or a sob out of you, thighs shaking violently in his grip, cunt fluttering and spasming around the thick drag of him.

“toji, fuck—too deep,” you whimper, voice breaking on every bounce.

“too deep?” he mocks, lifting you higher this time, holding you there for a second so you feel the stretch at your entrance before dropping you again—hard. “you were cryin’ for more five minutes ago. now take it. take the whole cock while your legs are spread like a whore earnin’ her weed.”

he picks up the pace just enough—still controlled, still using your body weight to fuck you onto him, but faster now, each drop making your tits bounce, your breath hitch, your walls clamp down harder. slick drips down his thighs, down yours, pooling on the floor beneath you in little wet spots.

“gonna keep you like this,” he mutters, voice strained, sweat rolling down his temple. “gonna fuck you standin’ till you can’t walk straight. till every step tomorrow reminds you who owns this pussy.”

your legs are jelly in his hold, spread so wide the muscles burn, but the angle has him hitting that spot inside you on every drop now—relentless, perfect, building pressure you can’t escape.

“toji, please—” you gasp, nails raking down his back. “gonna—gonna—”

“not yet,” he growls, slowing the drops just enough to keep you teetering, holding you suspended for a heartbeat longer each time before letting you fall. “you come when i say. you earned the cock—now earn the orgasm.”

he keeps fucking you like that—up and down his length, legs forced wide, body pinned between brick and muscle—slow enough to torture, deep enough to ruin, until you’re nothing but shaking, dripping, begging mess in his arms.

he keeps that brutal rhythm—lifting you high with those iron grips under your thighs, legs forced wide apart, then dropping you down his full length every few seconds, letting gravity do the dirty work. each plunge bottoms him out hard, the thick head kissing your cervix, grinding against that swollen spot inside that makes stars burst behind your eyelids. your clit drags against his pelvis on every drop, slick and swollen, the friction building faster than you can handle.

your whole body is shaking now, thighs burning from being held so wide, cunt clenching harder and harder around him with every descent. the pressure coils tighter, hotter, a white-hot knot low in your belly that keeps winding and winding until you’re gasping broken little pleas into his neck.

“toji, fuck, i’m close, pleaseeee.”

“yeah?” he rasps, voice strained, sweat dripping down his temples as he lifts you again, holds you suspended for a heartbeat longer this time so the head of his cock stretches your entrance wide, teasing, before slamming you back down. the impact punches a sob out of you, walls fluttering wildly, so close—so fucking close—you can feel the orgasm cresting, thighs locking, breath stuttering.

“gonna come. . . gonna come on your cock—please—”

he groans deep, hips snapping up to meet the next drop, grinding there for a second while you’re fully seated, clit mashed against him, cock throbbing so thick inside you it feels like he’s splitting you in half. your nails rake down his back, body arching, the edge right there, right fucking there—

and then he stops.

completely.

still buried to the hilt, but frozen, holding you impaled and trembling, not moving an inch.

your eyes snap open, a desperate whine tearing from your throat. “no, no. . . don’t stop, i was—”

“shh,” he cuts you off, low and mean, lips brushing your ear while your pussy spasms uselessly around him, chasing the orgasm he just stole. “not yet, princess. you don’t get to come that easy.”

you sob once, frustrated and wrecked, hips twitching in his hold but he doesn’t let you grind, doesn’t let you chase it. your legs are still spread wide, thighs quivering in his grip, cunt dripping down his balls in frustrated little pulses.

“pleaseee, toji, i need—”

“i know what you need,” he murmurs, voice dark with amusement, starting to walk—still holding you like this, cock buried deep, every step making him nudge against your walls in tiny torturous shifts. “but i might not fuck you again after tonight. broke little student shows up once, pays with her mouth and her pussy, gets her stash and disappears. so if this is the only time…”

he turns, carrying you effortlessly toward the low metal table in the corner—the one with the black box of weed still sitting on it like a taunt.

“…might as well try as many positions as i can while i’ve got you spread and drippin’ like this.”

he sets you down on the edge of the table—cold metal biting into your ass—legs still hooked over his arms, held wide apart. he doesn’t pull out, just adjusts his stance so he’s standing between your thighs, cock still throbbing inside you, the new angle letting him sink even deeper somehow, pressing right up against that spot that makes your toes curl.

“look at you,” he says, eyes raking over where you’re impaled, legs splayed obscenely on the table, skirt rucked up, tits heaving with every ragged breath. “spread wide on my table like a fuckin’ buffet. gonna fuck you here next. gonna make sure you feel me in every position before i decide if you’re worth round two.”

he rolls his hips once—slow, deep, deliberate—grinding the head against your g-spot while his pelvis drags over your clit. the denied orgasm flares back to life instantly, hotter, meaner, building twice as fast now that you’re teetering so close already.

“toji, please—” you beg, voice cracking, hands scrabbling at the edge of the table for leverage. “let me come—i’ll do anything—”

“you’ll do anything anyway,” he mutters, starting a slow, punishing rhythm again—pulling out halfway, then slamming back in, making the table creak under you. “but you come when i say. not before. not when you’re this close to beggin’ me to keep you as my personal little weed slut.”

each thrust jolts you, legs shaking in his hold, cunt clenching desperately, the buildup roaring back twice as intense—pressure so thick it hurts, so close again you can taste it, thighs locking, breath hitching—

and he stops again.

buried deep, still, watching your face crumple with frustration and need.

he holds you there again—impaled to the hilt on the cold metal table, legs still hooked wide over his thick forearms, thighs burning from the stretch, cunt stuffed so full you can feel every vein pulsing against your fluttering walls. the denied orgasm throbs like a second heartbeat low in your belly, sharp and angry, every tiny clench around him sending fresh sparks of frustrated pleasure-pain up your spine. your clit is swollen and untouched now, aching where it presses uselessly against his pelvis, every shallow breath you take making it throb harder.

toji’s chest rises and falls slow against yours, sweat-slick skin sticking where your tits are crushed to him. he doesn’t move. just lets you feel him—thick, hot, unmoving—while your pussy spasms helplessly, trying to drag friction from nothing. slick drips steadily from where you’re stretched around him, pooling on the table beneath your ass in warm little puddles that cool fast against the metal.

“feel that?” he murmurs, voice low and mean, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “how full you are? how deep? you’re grippin’ me like a vice, baby—pussy’s cryin’ for it, clenchin’ over and over like it thinks it can force me to move.”

you whimper, head falling back, the back of your skull thunking softly against the table. tears of pure frustration prick at your lashes again. your hips twitch—tiny, involuntary jerks—but his grip tightens instantly, iron bands under your thighs keeping you exactly where he wants you: spread, suspended, stuffed, and denied.

“don’t,” he warns, voice dropping darker. “you move again and i pull out completely. leave you empty and drippin’ on my table like the desperate little thing you are.”

a broken sob tears out of you. “toji—please—i can’t—i need—”

“need to come?” he finishes for you, mocking, one hand sliding up to cup your jaw, forcing your face toward his so you have to look at him. his eyes are dark, pupils blown, sweat beading on his brow from how hard he’s holding himself back. “yeah, i know. been feelin’ it build twice now. felt you flutterin’ right on the edge, walls squeezin’ me so tight i almost lost it. but not yet.”

he rolls his hips once—just once—slow, deliberate, grinding the fat head against your g-spot in a lazy circle that makes your whole body seize. stars burst behind your eyelids again, breath punching out in a high, shattered whine as the pressure surges back vicious and immediate.

“see?” he rasps, holding you there, grinding shallow but deep enough to torment. “that’s all you get right now. just enough to keep you stupid and wet and beggin’. you wanna come so bad you’re shakin’—thighs burnin’, pussy leakin’ down my balls—but you don’t get to. not till i say.”

your nails dig into his shoulders, leaving red crescents. tears slip free now, tracking hot down your cheeks. “i’ll do anything—please—toji—i’m sorry—i’ll come back—i’ll pay next time—just let me—”

he chuckles, low and cruel, the sound vibrating through his chest into yours. “you’ll come back anyway. broke little college girl with a taste for premium shit and a pussy that can’t say no. but tonight?” he pulls back just enough to let the head stretch your entrance wide—cold air hitting your soaked folds for a heartbeat—before sinking back in slow, torturously slow, until he’s buried again. “tonight you learn patience.”

he starts moving again—not thrusting, not really—just tiny, shallow rolls of his hips that drag the thick ridge of his cockhead over that swollen spot inside you over and over. it’s not enough to push you over. it’s exactly enough to keep you teetering—pressure building, coiling tighter, hotter, meaner with every denied peak.

your legs shake violently in his hold, thighs quivering from being forced so wide for so long. your cunt flutters uselessly around him, slick gushing in frustrated little pulses that drip down his shaft, coating his balls, making every tiny movement wetter, louder.

“toji—” your voice cracks, raw and pleading. “it hurts—need to come—please—”

“i know it hurts, princess,” he soothes, almost gentle, but the words are filthy. “that’s the point. hurts so good you’re cryin’. pussy’s so sensitive now every little grind feels like too much. but you’re gonna take it. gonna sit here stuffed and shakin’ till i decide you’ve earned the right to fall apart.”

he leans in, lips brushing yours—not kissing, just teasing. “tell me you’ll come back next week. tell me you’ll show up short again. tell me you’ll let me edge this greedy cunt till you’re sobbin’ for it.”

you’re nodding before the words even register—frantic, desperate, tears streaming.

“yes—yes—i’ll come back—i’ll be short—i’ll beg—just please—”

he groans low, hips stuttering for a second like your words hit him hard. but he doesn’t give in.

instead he stills again—buried deep, throbbing, unmoving—watching your face crumple with fresh frustration, listening to the broken little sounds you can’t hold back.

“good girl,” he murmurs, thumb brushing a tear from your cheek. “next position,” he says casually, like he’s discussing the weather, already lifting you off the table. “bend over the couch this time. wanna see that ass bounce while i decide if you’ve earned the right to come at all.”

he doesn’t pull out. he just holds you there—still pinned against the table, legs hooked wide over his elbows, thighs trembling from the stretch, cunt stuffed full and throbbing around every thick inch of him. the denied orgasm still simmers under your skin, a low, angry buzz that makes every tiny shift of his hips feel like torture. your walls keep fluttering, clenching down hard in frustrated little pulses, trying to drag him deeper, to force the friction you’re starving for, but he stays perfectly still, letting you feel the full, heavy stretch without giving you a single thrust.

“feel that?” he murmurs, voice low and rough against your ear, breath hot enough to make you shiver. “how full you are? how deep i’m sittin’? every fuckin’ vein, every ridge—you’re grippin’ me like you’re scared i’ll disappear if you let go.”

you whimper, head thumping weakly back against the brick, tears of frustration clinging to your lashes again. your clit is swollen and untouched now, pulsing in time with your heartbeat, so sensitive that even the faint brush of his pelvis when he breathes makes your hips twitch involuntarily.

“toji—please—” the word cracks, barely more than a breath. “just—move. anything. i can’t—”

“can’t take it?” he finishes for you, smirking slow and mean. one hand slides up the back of your thigh, fingers digging in harder to keep your leg spread wide while the other braces against the wall beside your head, caging you in completely. “poor baby. got the whole cock now and still cryin’ for more. thought you were gonna come so pretty for me a minute ago. now look at you—shakin’, drippin’, beggin’ like a broke little whore who knows she’s gotta earn it.”

he rolls his hips once—barely an inch, just enough to drag the head along your front wall in a slow, deliberate grind that makes your breath hitch and your cunt spasm hard around him. the pressure flares bright and vicious, pushing you right back to that razor edge you were hovering on before he stopped, but he freezes again the second your thighs start to lock.

“no—no—no—” you sob, voice breaking, nails scraping uselessly down his shoulders. “don’t—don’t stop again—”

“then stay still,” he growls, low and dangerous, forehead pressed to yours now so you can’t hide your face. “you twitch, you grind, you try to fuck yourself on me? i stop. simple. i wanna feel this pussy cry for it. wanna feel how bad it wants to come without me givin’ it permission.”

your whole body is trembling—legs aching from being held so wide, cunt throbbing with every heartbeat, slick dripping steadily down where you’re joined, pooling on the floor beneath you in tiny, obscene drops. the denial is excruciating; every denied peak makes the next one build faster, meaner, until you’re not even sure you could come even if he let you. it’s too much pressure, too much need, coiled so tight it hurts.

“toji—” you whisper, voice wrecked and small. “i’m sorry. i’m sorry i came short. i’m sorry i’m broke. just—please—”

he exhales slow through his nose, eyes dark and unreadable as he watches another tear slip down your cheek.

“sorry ain’t enough anymore,” he says quietly, almost gentle, but the edge is still there. “you wanna come? you gotta convince me this tight little cunt is worth keepin’ around. tell me why i should let you fall apart on my cock when you couldn’t even bring enough cash to buy a gram.”

you swallow hard, throat clicking, words tumbling out in a desperate rush.

“because—because i’ll come back,” you choke. “i’ll come back every time. every time shoko needs more, every time i need to study, every time rent’s due and i’m short again. i’ll let you fuck me however you want. on my knees, bent over the table, against the wall—whatever. just—please let me come. please let me keep this.”

he’s quiet for a long second, cock twitching once inside you like your words hit something deep.

then he leans in, lips brushing the corner of your mouth—not a kiss, just a tease.

“good start,” he murmurs. “keep talkin’. keep tellin’ me how bad you need this cock to be your new payment plan. maybe—if you’re convincin’ enough—i’ll give you one slow thrust. just one. see if you can handle even that without fallin’ apart.”

your breath shudders out, body shaking harder, cunt clenching desperately around him as you start whispering again—broken, filthy promises, every word dripping with need—while he holds you there, spread wide and stuffed full, letting the denial burn hotter and hotter without mercy.

he finally shifts—slow, deliberate, like every decision is still his to make.

“alright,” he mutters, voice thick with restraint that’s starting to crack. “you’ve begged pretty enough. let’s see how that pussy takes it when your face is buried and your ass is up.”

he pulls out in one long, torturous drag that makes your walls flutter and clench around nothing, a broken whine spilling from your lips at the sudden emptiness. slick strings between you, thick and glistening, dripping down your inner thighs as he lowers your legs. they shake so hard you almost collapse, but his hands are already on your hips—firm, bruising—spinning you around so your front is to the couch.

“hands on the backrest,” he orders, low and rough. “ass up. spread those knees.”

you obey on trembling limbs, palms slapping against the worn faux leather, knees sinking into the cushion as you arch your back, presenting yourself. skirt still bunched around your waist, panties shoved aside and soaked through, cunt swollen and dripping, pulsing visibly in the dim light. the cool air hits your exposed skin and makes you shiver, clit throbbing painfully from all the denied peaks.

toji steps up behind you, one big hand sliding up your spine to press between your shoulder blades, forcing your chest down until your cheek smushes against the couch—fabric rough and smelling faintly of old sweat and smoke. your ass lifts higher, legs spread wide, thighs quivering from the stretch and the anticipation.

“fuckin’ look at this,” he breathes, voice reverent and filthy all at once. rough palms spread your cheeks wider, thumbs pulling your folds apart so he can see everything—how puffy and wet you are, how your hole clenches around nothing like it’s begging. “drippin’ down your thighs. pussy’s cryin’ for it. been cryin’ since you walked in short on cash.”

you whimper into the cushion, hips rocking back instinctively.

“stay,” he growls, one hand clamping on your hip to still you. the blunt head of his cock nudges your entrance—hot, slick, impossibly thick—then sinks in slow, one devastating inch at a time, until his hips meet your ass and he’s buried to the hilt again.

the new angle is brutal. deeper. the head presses right against your cervix, stretching you so full your breath catches, walls spasming hard around every ridge and vein. gravity and the arch of your back let him bottom out completely, pelvis flush against your ass, balls pressed tight to your clit.

“oh—fuck—” you choke, voice muffled against the couch, fingers clawing at the leather.

he doesn’t move right away. just holds there, letting you feel him throb inside you, letting the stretch settle into your bones.

“feel that?” he rasps, voice gravel-rough. “whole cock. no more teasin’. this is what you earned, princess. now take it.”

he pulls out slow—agonizingly slow—until just the head stretches your rim, then slams back in hard enough to make the couch creak and your whole body jolt forward. the slap of skin on skin is loud, wet, obscene. every thrust punches a broken sound out of you—high, needy, wordless at first, then spilling into actual words.

“toji—oh god—toji—yes—fuck—deeper—”

he sets a punishing rhythm now—no more shallow games. long, hard strokes that drag every inch along your walls, bottoming out with a wet smack each time, his balls slapping against your clit on every plunge. the pressure builds fast—too fast—after all the edging, after every stolen orgasm. it coils low and vicious in your belly, tighter with every thrust, every grind of his hips when he bottoms out and circles there, stirring his cock inside you like he’s trying to rearrange your guts.

“gonna—gonna come—” you gasp, voice cracking, back arching harder, ass pushing back to meet him. “please—please let me—need to—”

“yeah,” he growls, one hand sliding around to find your clit—thumb pressing hard, rubbing fast, rough circles that match his thrusts. “come. fuckin’ come on my cock. soak it. show me you’re mine.”

the permission snaps something inside you.

your whole body locks up—thighs shaking, toes curling, cunt clamping down so hard around him it feels like you’re trying to trap him there forever. the orgasm rips through you like lightning—white-hot, blinding, shattering. you scream into the couch, voice raw and wrecked.

“toji—fuck—coming—coming so hard—oh god—yes—yes—”

he doesn’t stop. doesn’t slow. fucks you straight through it—harder, deeper—each thrust prolonging the waves, dragging them out until you’re shaking uncontrollably, slick gushing around his cock in messy pulses, dripping down your thighs, soaking the couch beneath you. your walls flutter and spasm wildly, milking him, and he groans low, hips stuttering for the first time as he feels you fall apart completely.

“that’s it—fuck—good girl—keep comin’—milk me—fuck—”

he keeps pounding through the aftershocks, through the way your body jerks and twitches, oversensitive and trembling, until your moans turn into soft, broken whimpers, until you’re boneless against the couch, ass still up, legs shaking, cunt still clenching weakly around him with every slow grind he gives you now.

he leans over you, chest to your back, lips brushing the shell of your ear.

“good fuckin’ girl,” he murmurs, voice hoarse. “came so pretty for me. now breathe. we’re not done yet.”

your body is still convulsing, walls clenching and releasing in erratic waves around his cock, every nerve ending firing off like exposed wires in a storm. the orgasm hasn't fully ebbed yet—it's still crashing through you, hot and relentless, making your thighs quiver uncontrollably against the couch cushion, your toes curling so hard they ache. slick gushes with every spasm, soaking the faux leather beneath you, the wet sounds obscene and echoing in the dim room as toji doesn't stop—doesn't even slow. he keeps thrusting through it all, long and deep and deliberate, each roll of his hips dragging his thick length along your oversensitive walls, grinding against that swollen spot inside that sends fresh sparks up your spine even as you whimper and twitch from the intensity.

“toji—too much—fuck—it's too sensitive—” you whine, voice muffled against the couch, raw and breaking on every syllable, your cheek scraping the rough fabric with every jolt of his hips. tears prickle at the corners of your eyes again, not from pain but from the overwhelming flood of sensation, your clit throbbing painfully where his balls slap against it on every plunge, your cunt fluttering wildly like it doesn't know whether to push him out or pull him deeper.

he chuckles low and rough behind you, the sound vibrating through his chest and into your back where he's leaning over you now, one big hand planted beside your head for leverage. “shh, baby, i know—i know it's too much,” he murmurs, voice gone soft and praising even as his cock keeps splitting you open, slow and unyielding. “but you're doin' so good for me. takin' it like a champ. just breathe through it—yeah, just like that. good girl. you can handle a little more, can't you? for that special stash? for me?”

his free hand slides up the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your sweat-damp hair—thick, calloused digits gathering a fistful of strands, wrapping them tight around his palm like a leash. he tugs—sharp but not cruel—yanking your head back off the couch so your back arches deeper, throat exposed, face tilting up toward the ceiling where the dim fluorescent lights blur through your tears. the pull stings at your scalp, a delicious burn that mixes with the overstimulation between your legs, making your whole body arch and tremble harder, your ass pressing back against his hips on instinct even as you sob out another plea.

“please—toji—can't—too sensitive—ah—”

“you can,” he praises, voice hot and gravelly against the shell of your ear, his breath damp and ragged from how hard he's holding himself back. “you're my good little slut, remember? comin' so pretty for me already, but we're not done. you're gonna get through this—gonna let me fuck you full 'til you're drippin' with me. then you'll get high soon, baby—real high. i'm gonna give you that new shit, the stuff that'll make your whole body float, make your pussy clench just from breathin' it in. i know you can't wait for that—can feel how you're still squeezin' me even when you're whinin' it's too much.”

he punctuates the words with a sharp slap to your ass—his big palm cracking down on the flesh where it jiggles from his thrusts, the sound echoing loud and wet in the room, the sting blooming hot and immediate across your skin. it makes you yelp, a high-pitched “fuck—toji—” slipping out as your cunt clamps down harder around him in response, fresh slick flooding out around his cock, dripping down your thighs and onto the couch below. the slap leaves a red handprint you can already feel heating up, throbbing in time with your heartbeat, and he rubs it immediately after—rough palm soothing the burn even as he tugs your hair tighter, keeping your head pulled back so he can watch your face twist in the dim light.

“see? that's it—good girl,” he groans, hips rolling slower now but deeper, gentler through the aftershocks, fucking you through the tail end of your orgasm with long, languid strokes that drag every inch along your fluttering walls. “whinin' so sweet but your pussy's lovin' it—still suckin' me in like you don't want me to stop. you're gonna get somethin' shoko never does, baby. somethin' special just for you. 'cause shoko never sucked my dick like you did—never got on her knees and choked on it for a discount. and she sure as hell never let me fuck her raw like this, never spread her legs and begged me to fill her up.”

his words sink in hot and filthy, mixing with the sensory overload—the way his cock feels impossibly thicker now, veins pulsing against your walls with every slow grind, the wet schlick of your arousal every time he bottoms out, the sting in your scalp from his fist in your hair, the lingering burn on your ass from that slap. your body is a live wire, oversensitive everywhere—clit pulsing with every brush of his balls, nipples hard and scraping against the couch fabric, thighs slick and trembling from the constant spread. the room smells thick with sex—sweat and musk and the sharp tang of your release—and the air is humid, sticking to your skin like a second layer.

“toji—oh god—gonna—again—” you gasp, voice shattering as the overstimulation flips into something sharper, hotter, the gentle thrusts building a new pressure fast, your cunt starting to flutter again in warning spasms.

“that's right—good girl—let it build,” he praises, tugging your hair just a little harder to arch you more, his other hand sliding around to grip your hip, fingers digging in to hold you steady as he keeps that slow, relentless pace. “you're doin' so fuckin' good—whinin' 'bout how sensitive you are but still pushin' back for more. i know it's too much, baby—i know—but you're gonna get through it. gonna come again for me, aren't you? gonna soak my cock and squirt all over this couch like the desperate little thing you are.”

his words push you closer, the praise wrapping around the sensitivity like fuel, making every thrust feel like it's scraping raw nerves in the best way. he picks up the pace just a fraction—still gentle, still fucking you through it—but enough to make your ass jiggle with every slap of his hips, enough to make fresh tears spill down your cheeks as the coil tightens impossibly fast. your cunt clenches hard, walls milking him in rhythmic pulses, slick building and building until—

“toji, fuck—coming—i'm squirting. . . oh god—”

it hits like a flood—sharp and sudden, your whole body seizing up as you squirt hard around his cock, clear fluid gushing out in messy spurts with every thrust, soaking his thighs, his balls, dripping down onto the couch in hot, wet puddles that spread dark stains across the faux leather. you scream into the air now—head pulled back by his fist in your hair, throat raw and exposed—the sound high and broken, “yes, yes—toji—fuuuck. too much—too good—” as he keeps moving, keeps grinding deep through the squirt, prolonging it until you're shaking violently, legs trying to close but held open by the position, ass up and trembling.

“fuck yes, good girl. . . squirtin' all over my couch like that,” he groans, voice thick with pride and hunger, his thrusts never faltering, cock throbbing harder inside you as your release coats everything. “that's what i wanted—look at this mess, my good little student payin' with her pussy and makin' it rain. you're doin' perfect, baby, keep goin', let it all out.”

he fucks you through the entire thing—gentle but insistent, dragging out every last spasm until your body's limp and spent, still twitching weakly around him, slick pooling beneath you on the couch, dripping down your legs in sticky trails. your whines turn soft and breathless, sensitivity peaking into something almost unbearable, but his praise keeps you grounded.

finally, he slows—still buried deep, cock pulsing hot inside you—but his thrusts ease into shallow rolls, letting you catch your breath as he releases your hair, hand sliding down to rub soothing circles on your back, the other still gripping your hip like he owns it. the room spins slow around you, body boneless and buzzing, the afterglow mixing with the promise of more as he leans down, lips brushing your shoulder.

“that's my girl,” he murmurs, voice soft now, almost tender. “you did so good. now breathe—'cause i'm not done fillin' you up yet.”

he’s still buried deep, hips flush against your ass, cock throbbing hot and heavy inside your oversensitive cunt as the last tremors of your squirt ripple through you. your body is limp and shaking, cheek smushed sideways against the couch cushion, drool pooling under your open mouth, hair tangled and sweat-soaked from where he’d fisted it earlier. every shallow breath you take makes your walls flutter weakly around him, milking him in soft, involuntary pulses even though you’re too wrecked to clench on purpose anymore.

toji’s breathing is ragged now—short, harsh exhales through his nose that fan hot against the nape of your neck. his big hands are braced on either side of your hips, knuckles white against the faux leather, veins bulging along his forearms as he holds himself perfectly still for a long moment, letting you feel every thick inch of him pulse inside you. the room is quiet except for the wet, sticky sounds of your combined breathing and the faint drip-drip of your release still leaking from where you’re joined, pooling in dark, glistening spots on the couch below.

“fuck,” he rasps, voice cracked and low, almost reverent. “look at you—still twitchin’ around me even after all that. pussy’s greedy as hell, baby. still tryin’ to keep me in even when you’re cryin’ it’s too much.”

you make a soft, broken sound—half whimper, half moan—too exhausted to form real words. your thighs tremble violently where they’re spread, muscles jumping every time his cock gives another lazy throb deep inside you. the overstimulation has turned everything raw: your clit is swollen and hypersensitive, brushing his balls with every tiny shift; your walls feel bruised and tender but still fluttering like they can’t decide whether to push him out or pull him deeper.

he leans down slowly, chest pressing to your back, the weight of him pinning you harder against the couch. one hand slides up your side—rough palm dragging over sweat-slick skin—until thick fingers wrap around the front of your throat, not squeezing, just holding, thumb stroking the frantic pulse there.

“gonna come,” he mutters against your ear, voice gravel and heat, hips starting to roll again—slow, deep grinds that make you gasp sharp every time he bottoms out. “been holdin’ back so long—fuuuck—your pussy’s too good. too wet. too tight. gonna fill you up, princess.”

your breath hitches. “toji—wait—”

but he doesn’t wait.

he doesn’t even ask properly.

“can i come inside?” he growls low, the words more demand than question, hips already picking up speed—short, hard thrusts now that punch the air from your lungs and make the couch creak under you both. “gonna come inside this pretty cunt—gonna pump you so full—”

you open your mouth to answer—yes, no, please, anything—but the word never makes it out.

he slams in one last time—deep, brutal, hips locking flush against your ass—and groans long and rough into your hair as he starts to come.

it’s thick.

it’s too much.

hot, heavy spurts flood you immediately, so copious you can actually feel the pressure build inside, feel every pulse of his cock as he empties himself deep in your core. rope after thick rope paints your walls, filling you until there’s nowhere left for it to go. the excess forces its way out around his shaft—creamy white leaking from where you’re stretched tight around him, dripping in slow, sticky trails down your inner thighs, splattering onto the couch cushion below in messy little puddles that mix with your own release.

“fuuuuck—take it, take every drop. . ” he grunts through clenched teeth, hips stuttering as he grinds through his orgasm, milking himself dry inside you. each shallow roll makes more leak out, the wet squelch loud and filthy in the quiet room, the sensation of being so full—so overflowing—making fresh tears slip down your cheeks even as your cunt clenches weakly around him, trying to keep it all in.

you whimper brokenly, body trembling under the weight of him, the stretch, the heat, the sheer volume of his release spilling out of you and ruining the couch even more. it’s dripping steadily now—thick strands connecting his balls to your swollen folds every time he shifts, pooling beneath you in a warm, sticky mess that soaks into the already-stained leather.

he stays buried deep for long seconds after the last pulse, breathing hard against your shoulder, cock still twitching inside you like it’s not ready to stop. one hand slides down between your thighs—fingers spreading your folds so he can watch his cum leak out in slow, obscene rivulets, thumb brushing over your oversensitive clit just once, making you jerk and sob.

“look at that,” he murmurs, voice wrecked and satisfied, almost awed. “filled you so full it’s pourin’ out. my good girl. . .takin’ all of it like you were made for it.”

he finally eases back—slow, careful—until his softening cock slips free with a wet pop. a thick gush of cum follows immediately, spilling from your gaping hole in a hot, creamy rush that drips down your thighs and onto the ruined couch, the sight so filthy it makes your face burn even through the haze.

he steps back just enough to admire it—hands spreading your cheeks again so he can see the mess he made: your pussy puffy and red, fluttering weakly, cum leaking in slow, viscous strands that stretch and break as gravity pulls them down.

“perfect,” he breathes, thumb swiping through the mess and pushing some of it back inside you like he’s marking his territory one last time. “now you’re really paid up, princess.”

he leans down, lips brushing the shell of your ear, voice dropping to a rough whisper.

“stay just like that a minute. let it drip. then i’m takin’ you to the back. gonna roll you the fattest joint you’ve ever seen. somethin’ special. somethin’ that’ll have you floatin’ so high you forget your own name.”

you can only nod weakly against the couch, body boneless, thighs shaking, pussy still twitching and leaking his cum in slow, lazy drops as the aftershocks hum through you.

he chuckles soft—almost fond—and gives your ass one last gentle pat.

“good girl. you earned it.”

toji exhales slow and ragged, still catching his breath as he finally pulls back enough to look down at the mess he’s made of you. your ass is still up, face half-buried in the couch cushion, thighs trembling and slick with sweat, your pussy swollen and gaping slightly from how thoroughly he’s fucked you open. thick ropes of his cum are leaking out in lazy, creamy dribbles—sliding down your inner thighs in slow, viscous trails, pooling on the already-ruined leather below in warm, sticky puddles that glisten under the dim back-room lights.

he lets out a low, appreciative hum, one big hand smoothing down the curve of your spine like he’s petting something precious.

“fuckin’ beautiful,” he mutters, voice hoarse and wrecked. “look at this—pussy’s still twitchin’, pushin’ more of me out like it doesn’t wanna let go.”

before you can even try to move—or whimper another plea—he drops to his knees behind you.

the couch creaks as his weight shifts. rough palms slide up the backs of your thighs, spreading you wider again, thumbs hooking into the soft flesh just under your ass to hold you open. you feel the heat of his breath first—hot and damp against your oversensitive folds—then the flat of his tongue.

he licks a long, slow stripe from your clit all the way up to your leaking entrance, collecting the thick mixture of his cum and your slick in one deliberate pass. the texture is obscene: warm, salty, bitter-sweet, coating his tongue as he groans deep in his throat at the taste. he doesn’t swallow. he just keeps going—lapping at you like he’s cleaning every drop, tongue dipping inside your fluttering hole to scoop out more, swirling around your swollen clit in lazy circles that make your hips jerk despite how spent you are.

“toji. . . fuck, sensitive—” you gasp, voice cracking, trying to squirm away but his hands clamp down harder, pinning your thighs in place.

“stay,” he growls against your cunt, the vibration making you whine. “let me clean you up, baby. you made such a pretty mess—gonna taste every bit of it.”

he works methodically—broad strokes of his tongue dragging through your folds, sucking gently at your entrance to pull more cum into his mouth, lips sealing around your clit for a second just to hear you sob. the sounds are filthy: wet slurps, soft groans from deep in his chest, the occasional drip of excess that he catches before it falls. your thighs shake harder, oversensitive nerves firing off sparks every time his tongue flicks over your clit or pushes inside to chase another thick glob of his release.

when he’s satisfied—when your pussy is glistening clean but still puffy and flushed—he finally pulls back. his lips and chin are shiny with the mess, cheeks flushed, eyes dark and heavy-lidded. he doesn’t swallow. instead he rises slow, knees cracking faintly, and reaches down to help you shift.

“c’mere,” he murmurs, voice rough but softer now.

strong hands slide under your arms, lifting you gently off the couch like you weigh nothing. your legs are jelly—barely able to hold you—but he doesn’t let you fall. he turns you around, sits on the edge of the couch himself, then pulls you down onto his lap so you’re straddling him properly this time, facing him, knees planted on either side of his hips. your skirt is still rucked up around your waist, cum-smeared thighs sticking to his sweatpants, but he doesn’t care. one arm bands around your lower back to keep you close, the other hand cups the back of your neck, thumb stroking along your jaw.

your faces are inches apart now. you can see every detail: the sweat beading at his temples, the faint scar at the corner of his mouth, the way his pupils are blown wide and dark with something that looks almost like reverence.

he leans in slow—giving you time to pull away if you wanted to—and kisses you.

it’s not gentle. it’s deep and possessive from the first second. his tongue pushes past your lips immediately, carrying the thick, salty-bitter taste of his own cum mixed with your slick. he feeds it to you deliberately—slow sweeps of his tongue against yours, letting you taste every drop he’d gathered from between your legs. the flavor coats your mouth: warm, musky, faintly metallic, the unmistakable evidence of how thoroughly he’d filled you. you make a small, helpless sound into the kiss—half moan, half whimper—as he tilts your head to deepen it, tongue curling around yours to make sure you swallow every bit he’s offering.

his hand tightens on the back of your neck, keeping you right there while the other slides down to grip your ass, pulling you flush against him so you can feel the softening weight of his cock pressed between you, still slick with the remnants of both of you.

he breaks the kiss just enough to speak against your lips, voice low and gravel-rough.

“taste that?” he murmurs, thumb brushing over your swollen bottom lip, smearing a last trace of cum across it. “that’s what you do to me, princess. that’s what you earned.”

you’re too wrecked to answer—only nod weakly, lips tingling, mouth full of the taste of him, body still humming with aftershocks and the slow drip of what’s left inside you. he kisses you again—slower this time, almost lazy, like he’s savoring the mess he’s made of you both.

when he finally pulls back, he rests his forehead against yours, breathing hard, one hand still cradling your face.

“stay right here,” he says quietly, almost soft. “gonna get that joint rolled. gonna make sure you float so high you forget how sensitive this little pussy is right now.”

he presses one last kiss to the corner of your mouth—gentle, almost sweet—then eases you off his lap onto the couch beside him, tucking your skirt down absently like it matters.

“don’t move,” he adds with a crooked grin, standing on legs that are still a little unsteady. “you’ve earned every fuckin’ puff.”

you’re slumped on the edge of the couch now, legs pressed together like that’ll somehow stop the dull, delicious ache between them. your skirt is smoothed back down—mostly—panties readjusted but still damp and clinging uncomfortably, cotton soaked through with the mix of both of you. every tiny shift makes your sore pussy throb, a reminder of how thoroughly toji stretched and filled you, how much cum he pumped inside until it leaked out in thick, creamy rivers despite your body trying to keep it all. your thighs are sticky, skin still flushed and sensitive, and when you cross your legs it sends a fresh, traitorous pulse straight to your clit. your legs tremble faintly when you try to stand, so you stay seated, phone pressed to your ear, trying to sound normal.

shoko’s voice crackles through the speaker on full blast because your hands are too shaky to hold it steady.

“what the fuck is taking you so long?” she drawls, lazy and annoyed, the unmistakable clink of ice in a glass in the background. “you’ve been gone for like two hours. did he rob you? did you get lost in the weight room? blink twice if you need rescue.”

in the background gojo’s voice cuts in, loud and obnoxious as always. “she’s probably negotiating with her tits out. classic y/n move. did you flash him yet? show the goods for the discount?”

geto’s quieter laugh follows, warm and amused. “she’s fine. probably just haggling. or getting high without us. rude.”

you pinch the bridge of your nose, trying to keep your voice even even though your cunt is still pulsing with aftershocks and you can feel another slow trickle of toji’s cum leaking out, soaking into the already-ruined fabric of your panties.

“i’m not flashing anyone,” you snap, voice a little too high, a little too breathless. “and i’m not getting high without you assholes. he’s just… slow. packaging shit. you know how dealers are.”

shoko snorts. “uh-huh. sure. you sound weird. out of breath. did he make you run laps or something?”

gojo cackles. “laps on his dick maybe—”

“shut the fuck up, satoru,” you hiss, cheeks burning so hot you’re grateful no one can see you right now. “i’m fine. i’ve got the stash. i’m coming back in a few minutes. and don’t be a bitch about it—this is your fault. you’re the one who ran out the day before our presentation and sent me into shinjuku like some sacrificial lamb because ‘he likes new girls’ and ‘you’ve got tits he hasn’t seen yet.’ so sit your ass down, sip your wine, and wait.”

shoko laughs—low, smug, unbothered. “okay, okay, princess. just hurry up. gojo’s already eaten half the pizza and geto’s about to start the second season without you.”

“we’re not starting without her,” geto says mildly in the background. “she’s the only one who remembers the plot anyway.”

“then tell gojo to stop being a gremlin and save me a slice,” you mutter. “i’ll be there in—”

the couch dips beside you.

toji drops down heavy and casual, like he didn’t just ruin you against a wall and on this very couch ten minutes ago. he’s shirtless again, sweatpants slung low, that same lazy, predatory grin curling his mouth as he sets the small black box on the cushion between you. he flips it open one-handed, pulls out several dense, glittering nugs—deep purples and greens flecked with crystals—and starts dropping them into a couple of small ziplocks with practiced flicks of his thick fingers.

your breath catches. he’s close enough that you can smell him again—sweat, musk, sex, the faint citrus of whatever cleaner he uses in this grimy gym—and feel the heat radiating off his bare skin. your sore pussy gives a weak, traitorous flutter at the proximity, a reminder of how full he’d been, how much he’d left inside you.

shoko’s still talking. “—and if you don’t bring at least an eighth i’m not letting you hit the indica. you know the rules.”

toji glances at you sideways, eyes glinting with amusement as he seals one bag, then another. he leans in just enough that his shoulder brushes yours, voice dropping to a murmur only you can hear while shoko rambles on.

“tell her you got more than an eighth,” he says quietly, lips barely moving. “tell her you earned the premium shit. the stuff that makes you see colors.”

you swallow hard, thighs pressing together again as another slow drip escapes you, warm and thick against your folds.

“i’ve got it,” you say into the phone, trying to sound annoyed instead of wrecked. “more than an eighth. premium. the good shit. i’ll be there in a few minutes with the fucking stash. stop bitching.”

shoko starts to say something else—probably another smartass comment—but you don’t wait.

you hang up.

the second the call ends you let out a shaky breath, shoulders slumping. your legs are still trembling faintly, pussy sore and swollen, every shift reminding you of the stretch, the fullness, the way he’d fucked you through your orgasm until you squirted all over his couch. and now you’re sitting here leaking his cum while he casually packs weed like nothing happened.

toji chuckles low, sealing the last bag and sliding the small pile toward you—three fat eighths, easily, plus a couple extra grams in a separate little packet that looks different, darker, stickier.

“special stash,” he says simply, tapping the extra one. “like i promised. the one that makes your whole body float. makes your pussy clench just from breathin’ it. shoko’s never touched this shit.”

he leans back, one arm slung across the couch behind you, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

“you gonna be able to walk outta here, princess?” he asks, voice teasing but not cruel. “or you need me to carry you to your shitty civic?”

you glare at him—weakly—cheeks still flushed, legs still shaky, but you manage to snatch the bags and shove them into your purse with trembling fingers.

“i can walk,” you mutter, even though you’re not entirely sure. “just… give me a second.”

he grins wider, eyes dragging down your body like he’s remembering every position he had you in.

“take your time,” he says, voice dropping low again. “you earned it.”

you stand—slow, careful—thighs sticking together, a fresh trickle of his cum sliding down your inner thigh as you do. you ignore it. ignore the way your cunt throbs in protest. ignore the way toji watches every shaky step like he’s already planning round two.

you’re halfway to the door when he calls after you, casual as anything.

“next time you need more,” he says, “don’t send shoko. come yourself. cash or no cash.”

you don’t answer.

you just push through the door into the humid night air, legs trembling, pussy still leaking him, purse heavy with the best weed you’ve ever held—and the knowledge that you’re absolutely, irrevocably fucked.

in every sense of the word.

you stumble out of the gym into the thick july night, the door clanging shut behind you like the final punctuation on whatever the fuck just happened. the air is still sweltering, sticky against your skin, but it feels cooler than the humid back room you just left. your legs are jelly—every step sends a dull, throbbing reminder through your sore pussy, the sticky warmth of toji’s cum still leaking slow and thick into your panties, soaking the cotton until it clings uncomfortably between your folds. you have to pause once, leaning against the brick wall outside, breathing shallow through your nose as another trickle escapes and slides down your inner thigh. you press your legs together harder, trying to trap it, but it only makes your clit twitch in protest.

your purse feels heavier than it should—three fat eighths plus that extra special packet of the dark, sticky shit toji called “the one that makes your whole body float.” you can already smell it faintly through the ziplocks: sweet, earthy, with that sharp citrus edge that promises oblivion.

the civic is parked crookedly half a block away. you make it there on shaky legs, slide into the driver’s seat, and immediately regret it—the cracked faux leather is cold against the backs of your thighs, and sitting down presses everything sore and swollen right where it hurts most. you hiss through your teeth, shift your hips, try to find a position that doesn’t make you whimper. it doesn’t exist.

you start the car. the ac blasts lukewarm air that does nothing for the heat still radiating off your skin. your phone buzzes in the cup holder—shoko again. you ignore it, put the car in drive, and crawl through traffic like you’re ninety years old.

by the time you pull up to the apartment complex, your thighs are sticking together worse than before, and every bump in the road makes you bite your lip to keep from moaning. you kill the engine, sit there for a second with your forehead on the steering wheel, breathing slow. you can still taste him—salty, bitter, musky—coating the back of your tongue from that filthy kiss. your lips feel swollen. your whole body feels branded.

you grab your purse, step out carefully, and hobble toward the building like you’ve just run a marathon in heels you don’t own.

the door to shoko’s place is cracked open—music leaking out, low bass and laughter. you push inside.

the living room smells like pizza grease, weed residue from last week, and shoko’s signature cheap rosé. gojo’s sprawled on the floor in front of the tv, controller in hand, yelling at the screen. geto’s cross-legged on the couch, scrolling his phone, looking amused. shoko’s in the kitchen doorway, wine glass dangling from her fingers, one eyebrow already arched like she’s been waiting to dissect you.

they all look up at once.

gojo’s the first to speak, grin splitting wide and evil.

“holy shit. you look like you got hit by a truck. or fucked by one.”

shoko snorts into her glass. “told you. two hours? that’s rookie numbers for toji. what’d he do, make you lift weights first?”

geto doesn’t say anything, just tilts his head, dark eyes scanning you slowly—your flushed cheeks, the way you’re standing a little too carefully, legs pressed together, the faint tremor in your hands as you clutch your purse like a lifeline.

you force a scowl, hobble over to the couch, and drop down beside geto as gracefully as you can manage. the impact makes you wince—your pussy clenches involuntarily around nothing, a fresh gush of cum-soaked slick seeping out. you cross your legs tight, pray it doesn’t show through your skirt.

“here,” you mutter, yanking the ziplocks out of your purse and tossing them onto the coffee table. three fat eighths land with soft thuds, plus the smaller special packet that glints darker under the lamp. “premium. coma slut and whatever the fuck that extra shit is. happy now?”

shoko’s eyes widen. she sets her wine down, leans forward, picks up the special bag like it’s holy.

“wait. this is—the heavy one? the one he only gives out if you—”

she cuts herself off, looks at you again. really looks. at the way your mascara is smudged (you’d tried to wipe it in the car mirror but gave up), the faint red mark on your neck you hadn’t noticed until now, the way you’re sitting like every movement hurts in the best-worst way.

gojo crawls over on his knees, snatches one of the regular bags, cracks it open, inhales deep.

“smells like money and bad decisions,” he says cheerfully. then his eyes flick to you. “you smell like sex and gym mats, though. spill.”

“i don’t smell like anything,” you snap, too fast. your voice cracks on the end.

geto finally speaks, quiet and amused, not looking up from his phone.

“you’re walking funny.”

shoko’s grin turns downright demonic.

“oh my god. you didn’t just get the discount. you got the full toji experience.”

“shut up,” you hiss, cheeks burning. “he was just… slow. packaging took forever. that’s all.”

gojo cackles so hard he falls backward onto the carpet. “packaging. sure. with what? his dick?”

shoko picks up the special packet again, holds it up to the light.

“this shit? he doesn’t give this to anyone. not even me. and i’ve been buying from him for two years.” she looks at you like you’ve grown a second head. “what the hell did you do to him?”

you snatch the bag from her fingers, shove it back into your purse like it’s evidence you need to hide.

“nothing. i just—talked to him. negotiated. like a normal person.”

geto finally sets his phone down, leans back, arms crossed, smiling that calm, knowing smile that makes you want to die.

“you’re glowing,” he says simply. “and you smell like latex and regret. congratulations.”

gojo sits up, eyes sparkling with chaos.

“did he call you princess? did he make you say thank you? did he—”

“i’m going to the bathroom,” you announce, standing too fast. your legs wobble, pussy throbbing in protest, another slow drip escaping down your thigh. you clamp your legs together, ignore the way shoko’s eyes flick down and her grin widens.

“sure,” she calls after you. “wash his cum off your thighs and come back so we can smoke your hard-earned pussy discount.”

you flip her off without turning around, hobble down the hall, lock yourself in the bathroom, and sink onto the closed toilet lid with your head in your hands.

your phone buzzes.

unknown number.

you open it.

one message.

toji: next time bring cash. or don’t. either way, door’s open.

you stare at the screen for a long second, heart thudding, sore cunt giving one last weak flutter at the memory.

you delete the message.

then you screenshot it anyway.

because you’re already thinking about next time.

and you hate that you’re already thinking about next time.

you splash water on your face, fix your mascara as best you can, and head back out to the living room where your friends are waiting to roast you alive.

you’re fucked.

in every sense of the word.

and the worst part?

you kind of love it.

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