You’d swear he wouldn’t even know where the clit is after your first time together, all flustered and shy, and still the sweetest boy you’ve ever met.
But God, were you wrong.
Nerd!Yuji who has you face first in the sheets, ass up in the air, and a desperate Yuji spreading your checks and eating like a starved man.
Nerd!Yuji who gags you with your own panties to shut you up which are the same ones he called cute the day you brought them because they were a pretty pink with a cute bow on them
Nerd!Yuji who keeps mumbling how sorry he is and you just need to corporate with him until he's done. And when he's finally finished after going hours on end in your heat, he's back to the boy you know. Glasses sitting perfectly on his nose with a bright smile and pink hair tousled everywhere
Nerd!Yuji giving you the most softest, attentive aftercare while all you can imagine is what he'll do the moment he finally gets to split you open on his dick.
You’re his, whether you want to be or not. The first time he stole your panties, you laughed. It was after sex, when you were dizzy and limp, your legs too sore to close. You watched Toji pluck the ruined lace from the floor like a souvenir, sniff them with zero shame, and stuff them into his hoodie pocket.
“You’re disgusting,” you whispered through a grin. “You love it,” he muttered, brushing your cheek with the backs of his fingers. “You love how I ruin you.” You didn’t say no.
And that’s all he needed.
⸻
The second time, he didn’t wait for you to take them off.
He had you flat on your back on the kitchen counter, skirt around your waist, one of your thighs hooked over his shoulder. His breath was already damp against your underwear, his tongue pressing a wet circle into the cotton. He didn’t even look up. Just said:
“Keep still.”
He spit on the fabric, watched it soak through. Watched the pink fade into something darker as the material clung to your folds. He traced the shape of you with two fingers, then licked where you were thickest. Still covered. Still untouched. Still completely his.
You came like that, panting, overstimulated, your soaked panties clinging to your cunt like a second skin while he sucked at the mess he made. When it was over, he didn’t slide them down your legs. He tore them off. Clean at the hips.
“You don’t need these anymore,” he said. “Only thing they do is hide what’s mine.”
⸻
You try to set boundaries. You try to ask what this is.
“Are we together or not?”
“Where do you go when you disappear?”
“Do you even care about me, Toji?”
He never answers. Not with words.
But he always shows up. In the dark. Late at night. After you’ve nearly talked yourself into blocking his number and deleting the photos. He shows up with that half smile and that low voice and that way of looking at you like you’re a meal and he’s starving.
You never ask again. Not after what he does to you the next time.
Tonight is different.
You’ve been good lately. Safe. Alone. Toji hasn’t shown up in three weeks. And for once, you felt something close to free.
You’re halfway into a new date with a normal guy. Polite. Smart. He brings you flowers and texts back fast. He’s cute in a gentle way. Predictable. Sweet. He asks how your day was and actually listens to the answer. You almost think you could love someone like that.
Until you come home and find your front door unlocked.
The lights are out. The air is cold. He’s sitting in your chair. And thats when you see him. Hoodie off, Arms bare, And a lazy smile stretched across his face like sin.
“You miss me?” he asks, like he belongs here.
Like he never left. You froze before speaking. “Get out.”
“You say that,” he shrugs, “but you’re probably dripping through your pants right as we speak.”
You don’t realize how close he is until he’s right in front of you. Hands on your hips. Breath on your mouth.
“What were you thinking?” he whispers. “Letting someone else take you out. You know you’re not anyone else’s. You’re not even yours.
You try to back away but he grabs your wrist. “Tell me no,” he says, voice low and quiet.
You should.
You should tell him to fuck off. To leave. To burn with every ruined piece of you he’s stolen.
But you don’t.
Because your thighs are already clenching. Your heart is thudding in that pathetic, traitorous way it always does around him. Because you remember the last time he got on his knees for you and didn’t come up until you were crying. And he knows that. He sees it too.
So he takes you.
⸻
He lays you down on the table, no undressing, no pretense.
And he kisses your thighs through your pants until you’re squirming, tongue pressing against the dampest part, until the fabric’s so soaked your panties are glued to your folds.
“Still such a mess,” he murmurs. “No one else gets you like this, do they?”
You try to push his head away. His fingers wrap around your wrists and pin them above your stomach. He doesn’t stop. He licks you through your tights until you cry out. Until your legs try to close and he yanks them apart. He makes a wet circle with his mouth and sucks, tongue dragging up and down over the nylon, worshipping the shape of you with his mouth while you squirm and gasp and grind back against his face.
You come like that again. Completely covered, not even skin to skin, and it feels worse. Better. Dirty.
You’re dazed, blinking at the ceiling, when you hear the sound of tearing fabric. You look down.
He’s ripped the crotch out of your tights.
“Gonna make a collection,” he says. “Every time you pretend you’re done with me, I’m gonna steal another piece.”
He doesn’t fuck you that night. He doesn’t have to.
He leaves your legs open, your breath ragged, and your body wrecked on your own table. And when he goes, he tucks your ruined tights into his jacket like they’re priceless.
“I’ll be back,” he says at the door. “Soon as you lie to yourself again.”
⸻
A week passes. You don’t hear from him.
Your new date texts. You ghost him. You don’t know why you check your vanity drawer that night. But when you do, there’s a small velvet pouch inside.
It wasn’t there before.
You open it with trembling hands.
Inside, folded perfectly:
One ripped pair of panties
And a little note:
“Still mine.”
You don’t scream. You don’t cry. You just sit on the edge of your bed and wait.
Because you know he’s right. And worse?
You want him to come back.
——-
After a while he started coming around and now the place you used to call it home. Now it’s his territory.
you get home from work late.
Not because you want to be. Not because you’re avoiding him.
But because traffic was hell and your boss dropped a last minute meeting on your head. Still, when you unlock the door and step inside your apartment ( the one you pay for) you already know how it’s going to go.
He’s on the couch.
Shirtless. Remote in one hand, beer in the other. Legs spread wide like a king. Like he owns this place. He doesn’t look up.
“Took your fuckin’ time,” Toji mutters, eyes fixed on the TV.
“Where’s dinner?”
You bite your tongue. You don’t argue. Not anymore. Arguing leads to punishment. Sometimes loud. Sometimes quiet. The quiet ones are worse especially when he disappears for a week and leaves you aching.
You move to the kitchen, unbuttoning your blouse as you go. Your heels click against the tile and you hear him behind you already.
“What’s with the outfit?” he sneers. “You always dress like that at work, or just when you’re tryna get some loser to stare at your tits?”
You ignore him.
Bad idea.
The moment your fingers wrap around the fridge handle, he grabs the back of your neck and pushes you face-first into the door. Not hard enough to leave a bruise. Just enough to remind you: you’re not in charge.
“Don’t ignore me when I’m talking to you.”
His breath is hot against your ear.
“Or should I remind you who you belong to?”
“Toji,” you say, voice weak. “I wasn’t ignoring you. I just—”
“Shut up.” He spins you around and lifts you onto the counter like you weigh nothing. “Spread.”
You hesitate. His eyes narrow.
“Now.”
You obey. Skirt bunched up, panties pushed to the side, and he stares for a long moment, then grabs a slice of cake from the counter. One you made last night. One he never even touched.
He digs two fingers into the frosting.
And smears it on your clit.
“There. That’s better.”
“Toji—”
“What? You love this shit. You love when I use you like this. All dressed up for work like a little slutty office wife, just beggin’ for me to come ruin it.”
His fingers are already inside you. Two, then three.
Pushing the frosting into your cunt like you’re nothing but something to be filled.
You squirm.
He doesn’t stop.
He fucks you with the frosting, spreading it along your walls, watching you melt. Watching you degrade right in front of him.
“Look at that,” he murmurs, leaning close to your ear. “Cream and cunt. My two favorite flavors.”
You hate that it makes your body tremble. You hate that you’re soaking.
And he knows.
He pulls his fingers out and holds them up to your mouth.
“Open.”
You don’t move. He pinches your thigh.
“Open.”
You do. He pushes the frosting-covered digits past your lips and groans as you suck.
“Yeah, that’s it. Use that mouth. Maybe that’s what got you your fancy job in the first place.”
You whimper.
He laughs.
Then he flips you onto your stomach across the counter, your bare ass arched in the air, sticky thighs trembling.
“Don’t move,” he says. “Not ‘til I’m done.”
He starts with his tongue, slow licks between your folds, sucking the sugar and slick off your skin like he’s starving. You feel his spit dribble down your thighs. Feel his teeth graze the seam of you. Then comes his cock.
Thick. Heavy. Already twitching.
He slaps it against your ass, against your ruined cunt, making you jolt.
“You like actin’ innocent,” he says, lining himself up. “Like this ain’t what you fuckin’ want. But your pussy doesn’t lie.”
He pushes in slow one inch at a time, making you feel every stretch, every burn. You cry out into the counter, nails scraping against the wood, breath shallow. He’s huge.
He always is.
And he’s cruel with it.
He fucks you like he owns the air in your lungs, hard, deep, and ruthless thrust. One hand gripping your hip, the other sliding up to wrap around your throat.
“God, I should leave you like this,” he grunts, hips slamming into you. “Ruined. Stuffed. You’d still beg for more.”
You don’t respond. You can’t. You’re drooling. Moaning. Fucked half-senseless.
And when he pulls out — right before you cum you nearly scream.
“No,” you choke. “Toji, please—”
“Nah,” he says, panting. “Don’t deserve it.”
He grabs your panties off the floor there soaked, twisted, and thin.
“You think I don’t see you lookin’ at other guys?” he mutters. “Walkin’ around with this body like it’s not mine.”
He rips them in half.
Then wipes your thighs with the scraps like a napkin.
“Clean yourself up,” he growls. “Dinner better be ready in ten.”
He throws your panties in the trash. And walks off like nothing happened.
