pairing: toji fushiguro x f!reader
content: 18+, ode to the bouncer, bouncer!toji, reader is a bit of a whore.
this week was the absolute fucking worst.
it felt more catastrophic than that high school implosion where you angered the wrong clique of girls and resurfaced a week later to find the explicit videos you had filmed with satoru gojo, already infamous and grinning through it all, stitched across every corner of your social media like a public service announcement about bad judgment.
it also felt worse than that first week of college when blue raspberry svedka hollowed you out completely and you woke with a splitting headache, unfamiliar sheets, and the slow dawning realization that the man beside you was your academic advisor, blinking at the ceiling as if this were an administrative error he might still fix.
it even outweighed the night your roommate opened her door and found you tangled up with her hookup, sukuna ryomen, red-haired then, tattooed like a warning label, the air still warm from the best fifteen minutes of your life before everything shattered.
she had stood there, eyes sharp, mouth curling, and by morning she’d subsequently branded you the dormitory's resident pariah.
the night presses in around you now, thick with humidity, sweat clinging to your collarbone, the city humming like it has no regard for personal crisis.
“is it really too much to ask for one night of peace?” you mutter under your breath, the words barely surviving the air between your lips as you stare at nothing in particular, shoulders tense, jaw set, hands curled tight as if bracing for another impact.
your mind drifts, unhelpfully thorough, cataloguing all the ways those moments might have been sidestepped by fewer grudges, less alcohol, a different appetite, and perhaps a quieter devotion to good faith and better decisions.
the thoughts arrive without judgment, just observation, the way a coroner might note time of death.
that version of you had surfaced once already, for six months, during the time you were with suguru geto.
you met him at a bland corporate office party where the drinks were weak and the conversations weaker, and he stood out immediately as the only other person who looked slightly misplaced, the youngest on the floor, posture relaxed, expression attentive in a way that felt intentional.
suguru carried himself with an easy composure, voice low and steady, kindness folded naturally into his gestures, and when he asked you out it was with an earnestness that disarmed you before you could deflect it.
he planned dates with care, reservations made in advance, questions asked and remembered, his attention precise enough to feel luxurious.
“you look beautiful tonight,” he would say, thumb brushing your cheek, touch warm and unhurried, and your heart would kick hard against your ribs, that strange, familiar flutter low in your stomach tightening whenever his mouth found yours, and your other set of lips, as well.
you responded by trying, really trying, to become the girlfriend no one had ever managed to keep you as before.
you shook your head politely at other men, quiet and firm, archived the half-naked videos on your social media and replaced them with carefully framed photos of the two of you, learned how to sit still beside him.
you followed him into sunday services, hands folded, expression serene, performing devotion with a focus that bordered on reverence, determined to hold the line you had drawn for yourself even as it demanded more than you were used to giving.
unfortunately, suguru geto possessed a hidden aptitude for the very games you once considered your own specialty. your perception of his gentle nature disintegrated entirely during a celebratory corporate mixer where the facade of the sweet, attentive boyfriend finally crumbled.
you had been standing near the open bar, nursing your second drink slowly, heels already aching, when you spotted him across the room with a woman from another department, her laugh pitched too low, her hand resting too comfortably against his arm.
suguru leaned in as she spoke, head tilted, mouth curved into that familiar soft smile he reserved for moments that were meant to feel intimate, his body angled toward hers with an ease that made your stomach drop sharply, heat blooming behind your eyes as recognition set in.
you moved before you fully registered the decision, weaving through coworkers and discarded cocktail napkins, stopping just short of them, your voice pitched low and controlled despite the way your pulse hammered in your throat.
“is that really what we’re doing tonight, suguru?” you asked, the question precise and quiet, the words nearly swallowed by the surrounding noise, though his shoulders stiffened immediately at the sound of your voice.
whatever he said in response never settled properly in your memory. what followed instead came apart in jagged fragments, tequila burning down your throat again and again, salt on your tongue, lime juice sticky on your fingers, the bar top blurring as your balance loosened and your restraint dissolved.
you remember raised voices, your own included, remember glass sloshing and someone knocking into you hard enough to snap one of your acrylic nails cleanly at the base. after that, everything smeared together into noise and motion.
morning arrived without ceremony, sunlight pressing against your eyelids, your head pounding in uneven waves. you woke fully dressed in wrinkled business casual, blouse twisted, blazer discarded somewhere on the floor, your broken nail catching painfully on silk as you pushed yourself upright.
the taste of alcohol lingered sourly at the back of your throat as you reached for your laptop, vision swimming just long enough to make the screen feel hostile.
the email from human resources sat unread at the top of your inbox, subject line bland and impersonal. you opened it with a dull sense of inevitability.
“effective immediately, your presence is no longer permitted on company premises,” it read, the language clean and absolute, no room for clarification, no appeal offered.
just like that, the polished office job you had landed during your senior year of college evaporated, months of careful effort erased in a single paragraph.
you sat there in the quiet of your apartment, the air stale, the walls suddenly too close, running the numbers in your head with a sinking clarity as you realized how quickly rent would become unmanageable, how easily everything you had built could slip out of reach.
one less recommendation, one more explanation you would have to invent later, yet another door quietly closing.
“i actually hate it here,” you groan, the words muffled as you press your face into a pillow that still carries a faint trace of suguru’s cologne, the scent sharp enough to make your chest tighten.
a profound sense of despair settles low and heavy in your chest, dense enough to slow your breathing, pressing inward until disappearing entirely feels like a logistical consideration rather than a dramatic one.
your nerves feel exposed, every small sensation registering too sharply, and the idea of stillness becomes unbearable. what you want is movement, noise, heat, something liquid and expensive sliding down your throat to sand the edges off your thoughts.
that is how you end up standing outside one of the most expensive clubs in the city, the kind of place built to intimidate and invite in equal measure, all steel angles and glass reflections, bass thudding faintly through the walls like a distant heartbeat.
this is where money pools, where men with familiar faces and deeper pockets linger just long enough to be useful, where rent for the next two months could become someone else’s problem if the night tilts correctly.
the thought of shopping bags, of silk and leather and weightless receipts, feels medicinal, something that might quiet the strange, tightening sensation in your chest whenever the last six months replay themselves without permission.
“just one night,” you whisper to yourself, the words thin and unsteady as they fog in front of your mouth, breath visible in the cold.
you stand alone in line, a familiar position, the end result of a talent for eroding friendships with the same efficiency you once applied to relationships. there is no one to lean toward, no shared cigarette, no drunken commentary muttered under your breath.
instead, you watch the girls ahead of you wobble slightly in their heels, laughter brittle, shoulders bare to the cold, while men are turned away at the door with clipped gestures and unimpressed expressions. a few women follow them, faces tightening as they pivot back toward the street.
anxiety crawls up your spine. you chew at the inside of your cheek, grounding yourself in an old, reliable plan, trusting muscle memory and presentation, trusting the way you have always gained access to places your name was never written down.
the strategy is simple and transactional, hinging on lashes lowered just enough, a tilt of the head, the hope that the man at the door is willing to risk his job for a girl who looks like you.
the air is sharp, cold enough that every exhale blooms white in front of your face. your heels are already starting to ache, unfamiliar with standing still for this long after weeks of restraint and routine.
the two shooters you knocked back in the uber did nothing except leave a faint warmth in your stomach, useless against the cold slicing straight through your dress, a scrap of fabric that leaves nothing hidden.
the chill bites at your thighs, your shoulders, your collarbone, and you feel a flicker of gratitude for never purging this part of your closet in the name of stability or someone else’s comfort.
when you finally reach the front, the line compressing behind you, a voice cuts through the ambient noise, low and rough, carrying authority without effort. “next.”
you step forward and look up.
the man blocking the entrance is built like an intentional warning, tall and broad, his body the result of discipline and repetition, muscle stacked on muscle beneath a black compression shirt that looks stretched to its limit.
his arms are thick, heavy, veins faintly visible beneath the skin, each arm easily the size of your head. a pale scar cuts through the corner of his lip, jagged and unmistakable, drawing your attention even as his expression remains flat, unreadable.
his face is hard-set, sharp jaw, eyes dark and deeply unamused, the kind of gaze that has seen every variation of pleading, flirting, and entitlement pass in front of him without leaving a mark.
he looms over your shivering form with a gaze characterized by profound boredom, his dark eyes scanning your body with the detached precision of a hunter.
his eyes linger with a deliberate, heavy stillness on the expanse of your cleavage, a brief flicker of recognition that confirms he is very much aware of exactly what you’re offering.
the towering man shifts his stance, the movement economical and deliberate, his broad frame blocking out a slice of neon as he steadies the digital clipboard in one hand, grip firm enough to suggest the screen could shatter if he decided it should.
his gaze drifts over your face with practiced detachment before dropping to the list, lashes low, expression unreadable.
“are you on the list?” he asks, voice rough and even, the sound vibrating faintly through the ground beneath your aching heels.
your pulse jumps. you lean forward anyway, closing the distance inch by calculated inch until the scent of him hits you, rain-soaked pavement, cedar, something faintly metallic.
you murmur your name, soft and lilting, watching his thumb scroll with maddening patience through rows of text. he pauses, just long enough to make your stomach tighten, then lifts his eyes back to yours.
“i don’t see you here,” he says, tone flat, gaze lingering a beat longer than procedure requires.
you let a thick, dazed confusion settle over your features, your movements becoming slow and deliberate as you play into the persona of a girl who simply cannot comprehend the word "no."
you step closer, closing the gap until your chest hovers dangerously near the solid, vein-mapped expanse of his forearm, the heat from his skin radiating through the thin, scandalous fabric of your dress. your fingers lift, trembling slightly from the cold, and you let them hover near the edge of the digital clipboard as you peer at the screen with an exaggerated, wide-eyed focus.
"wait, let me see," you murmur, your voice taking on a soft, airy quality as you lean in so far that a stray lock of your hair brushes against the crook of his elbow.
you make a show of squinting at the bright display, your lashes fluttering with a rhythmic, hypnotic grace that serves no purpose other than to draw his attention to the shimmer on your lids.
you let your mouth hang open just a fraction, the tip of your tongue darting out to dampen your lower lip as if the mental effort of reading a list is straining your very soul.
“that’s impossible, i’m absolutely certain i’m on there,” you say, your voice dipping into something playful and low, a sugary pout forming as your eyes tip up to catch the dark, stormy depths of his.
you tilt your head, exposing the long, vulnerable line of your neck, and give him a look of profound, helpless bewilderment that suggests you might just burst into tears if he doesn't solve this very difficult problem for you.
you let your hand drop from the clipboard to graze the hair on his arm, a feather-light touch meant to telegraph just how “small and soft” you are compared to the literal mountain of a man standing in your way.
"maybe you're just looking under the wrong letter?" you suggest with a faint, ditzy giggle, your gaze dropping to his scarred mouth with a hunger you don't even try to hide. "i promise i'm a very important person, mr. bouncer. you wouldn't want to leave someone like me out here in the dark, would you?"
amusement flickers across his face, subtle and brief, the scar at his lip tugging upward as if it remembers how to smile. he angles the list slightly toward you, granting access while holding his ground, clearly enjoying how easily you occupy his space.
“i’ve checked twice, sweetheart,” he drawls, the syllable of the endearment weighted and indulgent, vibrating through the small space between you like a physical touch. “you’re definitely not on it.”
heat curls through your abdomen, a sharp, molten contrast to the freezing night air. you bite your lower lip, the skin catching between your teeth as you look him over openly now, your gaze unashamed and appreciative as it travels over the thick column of his neck and the expansive stretch of his shoulders.
you shift your weight to one hip, a slow and deliberate movement that causes the hem of your dress to ride a fraction higher against your thigh, and you push further, your voice light and laced with a faux-innocent curiosity.
“well, then what’s your name?” you ask, the words coming out in a soft, airy puff of vapor.
“my name?” he repeats, and the sound is a dark, velvet rasp that makes the fine hairs on your arms stand on end. his eyes darken, the pupils expanding as they lock onto yours with predatory focus. “why? you planning on screaming it later?”
the bluntness of the question hits you like a physical weight, and you feel your thighs instinctively clench together, a sudden, heavy ache blooming between them. you don’t shy away; instead, you let a dazed, ditzy smile play on your lips, your fingers reaching out to toy with the edge of the velvet rope near his hand.
"maybe," you breathe, your voice dropping into that helpless, breathless register as you tilt your head back to look at him. "i think i'd be really good at that. and i'm sure if you just let me in, i could find a way to make it up to you. i’m a very grateful girl, you know?"
he doesn’t answer right away. his eyes flick sideways to the other bouncer, a silent, weighted exchange passing between them that makes your pulse hammer against your throat.
the second man nods once, stepping forward to take the clipboard from his hand, resuming the mechanical work of the line without a word. for half a second, your stomach drops, a sharp and electric spike of anticipation shooting through you as you wonder if you’ve finally pushed too far.
then, he turns back to you fully. his massive body angles with a fluid, terrifying grace to shield you entirely from the prying eyes of the crowd, his presence suddenly total and suffocating. he looms over you, a wall of heated muscle and dark intent that cuts off every exit.
“i can’t hear you over the music,” he says, the lie smooth and practiced, his voice dropping into a dark, conspiratorial murmur that brushes against the shell of your ear. he tips his head toward a shadowed corner tucked away beside the velvet rope, where the neon lights fail to penetrate the gloom. “come over here.”
you move without hesitation, slipping into the alcove where the neon fades into a heavy, violet gloom and the air thickens with the scent of rain and his overwhelming, masculine heat. he follows you, his massive frame boxing you in against the cold stone of the building until there is nowhere for you to go.
the music from inside the club is a muffled, rhythmic thumping that matches the frantic pace of your heart. you step closer still, your chin tipping up as your eyes search the dark, dangerous planes of his face.
"look, doll," he begins, his voice dropping into a low, dismissive register as he looks down at you. "as much as i'm enjoying this, i can't just let you through. i've got a job to do."
you don't let him finish, your hand reaching out to trail a single, perfectly manicured finger down the center of his chest, tracing the hard, unyielding line of his sternum. you let a whiny, petulant pout pull at your lips, your voice dropping into that sugary, breathless tone that has served you so well.
"but it’s my birthday tonight," you interrupt, your finger pausing over the heavy thud of his heart. "and all my friends are already inside waiting for me. you wouldn't want me to spend my birthday out here all by myself, would you?"
he lets out a dry, cynical sound that is more of a grunt than a laugh, his eyes tracking the movement of your hand with a dark, focused intensity. he doesn't look like he believes a single word coming out of your mouth, but he doesn't pull away from your touch either.
"is that so?" he asks, his voice laced with a thick, mocking skepticism. "and how old is a little thing like you supposed to be turning tonight? ten?"
you huff, a soft, exaggerated sound of indignation as you lean your weight into him, feeling the solid wall of his torso against your sensitive chest.
"i'm turning twenty-one," you lie, the words rolling off your tongue with a practiced, airy confidence. "which means i'm more than old enough to be in there. and besides, age is just a number, don't you think?"
you let your finger hook into the collar of his shirt, tugging slightly as you look up at him through the thick, dark fringe of your lashes. the man looks down at you, his gaze lingering on the curve of your throat before returning to your eyes, his expression shifting into something predatory and deeply unimpressed.
"twenty-one, huh?" he echoes, his hand coming up to catch your wrist, his grip firm and searingly hot. "then let me see your id, sweetheart. prove it."
your breath hitches as the reality of the situation settles in. you think back to that broken fake id and the hollow feeling of your empty wallet.
"i don't have it on me," you confess, your voice barely a whisper as you maintain your grip on the fabric of his shirt, your eyes wide and pleading.
he raises a single, dark eyebrow, his face twisting into a mask of pure, unadulterated skepticism. he lets out a slow, sharp exhale, the sarcasm practically dripping from his tongue as he looms over you.
“you don’t have it?” he repeats, slow and deliberate, the question stretched thin with a biting, rhythmic sarcasm that makes your skin prickle. his head tilts just enough to signal disbelief, eyes narrowing a fraction as if he is cataloging you, the story, the timing, every tell you are failing to hide.
he leans down, invading your space with an unhurried confidence until his shadow swallows you whole, close enough that you can see the faint, jagged texture of the scar cutting through his lip, pale against his skin.
you blink up at him, lashes fluttering on instinct, fingers tightening uselessly around your phone as if it might suddenly cooperate. your mouth opens, then closes again, a soft, confused sound slipping out as you fumble, shoulders rising in a small, helpless shrug that does nothing to convince him.
you glance down at the screen, thumb hovering, scrolling aimlessly through nothing in particular, buying time you do not have.
“seriously?” he continues, voice dropping lower, rougher, the word weighted with amusement. his gaze flicks briefly to your phone, then back to your face, lingering with pointed patience. “you don’t even have a photo of it on your phone?” he pauses there, letting the silence stretch, letting you squirm inside it.
your lips part, breath catching, and you tilt your head, feigning innocence, eyes wide and glossy as if sincerity alone might fill in the gaps.
“i mean, i had it earlier,” you murmur, airy and unsure, the sentence dissolving before it ever lands. your fingers curl around the edge of the velvet rope for balance, knuckles whitening slightly as the cold seeps back in.
he exhales through his nose, something like a laugh scraping out of his chest, and straightens just enough to look down at you properly, unimpressed and entertained in equal measure.
“i’ve definitely never heard that one before,” he says, dry and unapologetic, gaze sliding over you slowly, deliberately, as though the performance itself is the real point. “that’s a real original, doll.”
you shake your head slowly, the movement causing your hair to spill over your shoulders in a heavy, silken wave that brushes against his massive forearms. a genuine, hot flush of embarrassment creeps up your neck, staining your skin pink under the dim, flickering shadows of the alcove.
for a fleeting moment, you abandon the high-gloss, curated bimbo act in favor of a raw, desperate honesty, hoping the sudden shift in gravity might finally crack his iron resolve.
“i’m actually twenty,” you murmur, your voice sounding small and fragile as you look up at him, your fingers still curled into the dark fabric of his shirt. “but i turn twenty-one in a few months. i just... i really need to be inside tonight. please?”
the man doesn't move for a long second, his dark eyes searching yours with a heavy, unreadable intensity. then, he lets out a low, rough exhale and reaches out, his large hands sinking into your waist with a firm, possessive grip.
he doesn't push you away; instead, he pivots you with effortless strength, turning you around so your back is pressed flush against the broad, heated expanse of his chest. he leans down, his mouth hovering just inches from your ear, his breath hot against your cold skin.
“look, sweetheart,” he rumbles, the vibration of his voice traveling straight through your spine and making your knees feel dangerously weak. his arm reaches past you, a thick finger pointing toward the neon glow of a much seedier establishment down the block. “there’s a bar right that way that doesn’t id. plenty of people your age over there. go play with the kids.”
the dismissal stings, and in a frantic, clumsy attempt to reach into your clutch to show him anything—a student id, a credit card, a glimmer of your old life—your fingers slip. your phone tumbles from your hand, falling with a dull thud against the pavement.
"shit," you hiss, and you move without thinking.
you begin to sink down into a slow, deliberate crouch to retrieve it, but because he’s standing so close, your movements are restricted. as you descend, the curve of your backside brushes firmly against him, the friction of your dress sliding against his trousers.
you feel it instantly—the unmistakable, rigid length of him, a heavy, pulsing evidence of his body's betrayal. a low, guttural growl rips from the back of his throat, a sound so primal and hungry that it makes your thighs clench in a desperate, reflexive rhythm.
you stay there for a second longer than necessary, your heart hammering against your ribs as you realize you’ve just felt the full extent of his arousal.
the cool night air bites at your exposed skin where your dress has hitched up past your hips, and you know he has the perfect, unobstructed view of exactly what you aren't wearing.
"you're still down there," he rasps, his voice sounding strained, like he's physically fighting the urge to reach down and grab you. "are you trying to make me lose my job, or are you just looking for trouble?"
you slowly begin to stand back up, phone clutched in your hand, and you turn your head just enough to catch his eye over your shoulder. your voice returns to that velvety, playful purr, emboldened by the heavy weight you felt against your hip.
"maybe a little bit of both," you breathe, watching the way his jaw locks so tight the muscle jumps. "is it working yet?"
a low huff leaves him, close to a laugh. he leans down until his face is inches from yours, breath warm against your cheek, presence overwhelming.
“not even close,” he says, the words landing slow and deliberate, his eyes sharpening with a predatory glint as his grip tightens on the metal stanchion. the steel gives a faint, stressed creak beneath his palm, knuckles bleaching into a stark, bone-white as muscle cords harden along his forearm. “but i’m enjoying the view, so feel free to keep going.”
the sentence lingers between you, thick and charged. your breath stutters despite yourself, irritation flaring hot and fast in your chest.
you let out a sharp, frustrated huff, the sound swallowed whole by the heavy bass pulsing through the club walls, vibrating through the concrete and straight up your legs. you twist your head toward the entrance, hair whipping against your cheek as you gesture with an agitated flick of your wrist.
the girl stumbling inside looks barely tethered to reality. her hair hangs limp and tangled around her face, mascara smudged into dark crescents beneath blown-out pupils that swallow nearly all the color from her eyes.
her mouth keeps falling open in a loose, vacant smile, jaw slack, tongue pressing briefly against her teeth as if she’s forgotten what to do with it. she swipes at her nose with the back of her hand, missing at first, then rubbing harder, leaving behind a faint chalky smear that she doesn’t notice or care to fix.
her steps are uneven, one heel skidding slightly as she laughs too loud at nothing, momentum carrying her through the doors and into the dark hallway where the music swallows her whole.
“oh, come on,” you snap, voice coated in sugary, petulant venom as you turn back to him, cheeks flushed, eyes bright with indignation. “you guys are actually letting her in? she can barely stand.”
the man lets out a low, gravelly laugh that vibrates deep in his massive chest, the sound resonant enough that you feel it echo faintly against your own ribs. it’s brief, controlled, gone almost as soon as it appears.
he doesn’t spare the girl even a fraction of a glance. his focus stays locked on you, on the way your chest rises and falls with each frustrated breath, on the tight set of your mouth.
“well, she’s on the list,” he says, voice flat, final, gaze dragging slowly down the length of your body with an unhurried appraisal that makes your skin prickle. “and you’re not.”
the words land like a challenge. you step closer without fully deciding to, the heat rolling off his body pulling you in like gravity.
the cold gnawing at your skin fades under it, replaced by the solid, immovable presence of him. your hand lifts, fingers brushing the heavy fabric of his trousers, grazing where he’s already half-hard, the contact brief yet loaded, soaked in implication.
“come on,” you breathe, voice slipping lower, softer, threaded with desperation as you let your palm linger just enough to be unmistakable. “there has to be something i can do.”
his jaw locks. you see it happen, the muscle ticking once, shoulders tightening as restraint pulls taut beneath his skin. his gaze drops to your hand, lingers, then snaps back to your face. his fingers close around your wrist, firm and searingly hot, the grip controlled yet powerful enough to make your pulse jump.
as he moves, the faint silver glint of a wedding band flashes against the harsh light.
“i’m not interested in losing my job tonight,” he rasps, voice rough, dragged low as if it’s being pulled over jagged stone. “no matter how enticing you might be.”
your eyes flick to the ring, then back up to him, something reckless sparking alive in your chest. defiance hums through you, sharp and electric.
you lean in, lips hovering inches from the shell of his ear, breath warm, heavy with intent. the scent of his skin floods your senses, rain-soaked air and expensive tobacco wrapping around you until it feels inescapable.
“i promise,” you whisper, the words slow and deliberate, drawn out until they hang heavy in the narrow space between you. your voice drops, softened into something coaxing, breath warm as it skims his skin. “that i could give you something far better than whatever your wife is waiting for at home.”
the moment the sentence lands, his body reacts before his restraint catches up. a low, guttural sound slips out of him, rough and involuntary, vibrating deep in his chest. his grip tightens reflexively around your wrist, fingers flexing once as if he means to pull away and instead does the opposite, yanking you closer until there’s no daylight left between your bodies.
your dress brushes his thighs. your chest presses flush against the hard plane of his torso, and the heat of him is immediate, overwhelming, bleeding straight through the thin fabric between you.
you feel it then, unmistakable, the solid evidence of his arousal pressed firmly against you, contained only by discipline and denim. it makes your breath hitch, your pulse spike, satisfaction curling sharp and bright in your stomach.
his hand slides from your wrist to the small of your back, palm heavy, anchoring you there as if gravity itself has shifted. his touch is controlled, firm, fingers spread wide through the fabric of your dress, holding you exactly where he wants you while every muscle in his body stays coiled tight.
his eyes darken visibly, pupils blown wider, hunger flashing there beneath a layer of iron restraint that looks dangerously close to splintering.
“you’re playing a real dangerous game, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice low and rough, the word sweetheart dragged out like a warning instead of an endearment.
his gaze drops slowly, deliberately, tracing the line of your body until it catches on where your dress has ridden up, bare skin flushed pink from the cold and from him. goosebumps ripple across your thighs as the air hits, his attention following every reaction.
he exhales through his nose, jaw clenched hard enough that you can see the tension working beneath his skin. “you’re out here in a scrap of fabric,” he continues, tone controlled to the point of strain, “with absolutely nothing on underneath.”
his thumb shifts at your back, pressing in just slightly, a touch that is almost a caress and almost a test of his own limits. “you’re practically asking for it.”
for a heartbeat, he stays there, thumb tracing a slow, agonizing line along your hip, the touch just shy of indulgence, just enough to make your breath hitch. then something shutters behind his eyes. he releases you abruptly and steps back, the cold air rushing in to fill the space he leaves behind. his expression smooths into something distant, professional, edged with a detached, mocking pity as he looks you over.
“but you’re too young,” he says, voice flattening into that bored, official tone that scrapes raw. “go home, baby. try again in a few months when you actually know what you’re doing.”
the rejection hits hard and ugly. you let out a loud, insulted huff, yanking the hem of your dress back down with trembling fingers, fabric clinging stubbornly to heated skin. your face burns, rejection and lingering arousal twisting together in a way that makes you furious.
“you’re a prick,” you spit, eyes flashing as you pivot sharply on your heel.
the man just laughs, a short, dark sound that follows you as you walk away. you can feel his gaze on your back, heavy and unapologetic, tracking every sway of your hips as you melt into the midnight crowd, fury buzzing under your skin.
irritation coils tighter with every step, the sting of having put on that whole show only to be shut out gnawing at you.
you round the side of the building, heels clicking unevenly, breath coming fast as you stalk away from the front—and that’s when you see it.
your heart pounds as you move closer, fingers brushing the rough brick as you steady yourself, eyes fixed a narrow, rectangular window sits high along the desolate side wall, cracked open just enough to permit a thin veil of cigarette smoke and the muffled, distorted roar of the bass to spill into the alleyway.
the light is dim here, obscured by shadows and grime, and you realize the bouncers’ collective attention is entirely preoccupied with the front queue. you pause, casting a furtive, over-the-shoulder glance toward the main entrance to ensure that towering figure isn't watching before you angle your body toward the opening.
gravel shifts and crunches beneath your feet as you traverse the side alley, your balance wavering in your precarious heels until you catch yourself against the rough brick with a sharp, ragged inhale.
i am not going home in a fucking uber just to cry over suguru and a frozen dinner, you think, the thought fueling a sudden, reckless surge of adrenaline.
your heart pounds against your ribs as you move closer, your fingers brushing the abrasive masonry to steady yourself as you fixate on the opening. the rhythmic thud of the speakers grows louder, vibrating through the wall and into your fingertips with every tentative step.
you discard your dignity alongside your sense of caution, hoisting yourself up with a strained, ungraceful heave that makes the fabric of your dress strain dangerously at the seams.
climbing through the narrow frame in four-inch heels is an agonizing struggle, your limbs tangling as you kick out blindly for leverage against the interior wall. you finally tumble through, landing with a heavy, unceremonious thud atop the closed lid of a porcelain toilet.
a pair of girls standing by the sinks freeze, their lip gloss applicators suspended in mid-air as they stare at your disheveled form with wide, judgmental eyes.
“bouncer is an absolute prick,” you huff, the words tumbling out breathless as you hop down from the window ledge and land on the sticky bathroom floor.
your hands move automatically, adjusting your dress, smoothing your hair with quick, frantic passes, fingers still trembling from adrenaline and cold and the residual heat buzzing under your skin. your reflection in the mirror looks wild eyed, cheeks flushed too deep, lips parted like you’ve just run somewhere you shouldn’t have.
the girls clustered by the sinks exchange a look the second you say it, a silent, synchronized beat of recognition passing between them before their expressions soften into shared, conspiratorial amusement.
“oh, toji!” one of them exclaims, a high pitched giggle bubbling out as she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, bracelets chiming softly against porcelain. “yeah, he does that sometimes. he’s a total asshole, but he’s so hot though, isn’t he?”
the name lands heavier than it should. your mind flashes back involuntarily to the sheer density of him, the way his body felt immovable, how his presence swallowed space, how his gaze had burned through your bravado until all that was left was nerve and want and irritation tangled tight together.
you nod before you can stop yourself, slow and reluctant, throat tight.
“tell me about it,” you mutter, finally forcing yourself to really look at your reflection. there’s a chaotic energy clinging to you, something electric and undone, like the night has already marked you. mascara still intact, lips glossy, eyes bright with something dangerous.
“well,” the other girl says, leaning against the counter with a lazy smile, eyes flicking over you with clear interest, “you made it in, so you might as well enjoy it.” she gestures with her chin toward the door leading back out to the main floor, where bass thuds through the walls like a second heartbeat.
“we’ve got a section over there if you want to join us. you seem like a fun time.”
the invitation feels easy, effortless, and you take it without hesitation, letting the bathroom door swing shut behind you as the music swells, thick and vibrating.
the club floor hits you all at once, heat and bodies and strobing lights, the air heavy with sweat and perfume and spilled liquor. the bass settles into your chest, rattling your ribs, dissolving thought into motion.
the remainder of the night fractures into a neon soaked blur. tequila shots arrive faster than you can register, glasses slick with condensation pressed into your hand, salt burning your tongue, lime juice stinging your lips.
you flirt without commitment, laughter loose and unguarded, hips moving with the crowd as hands skim your waist and shoulders and back. the private booth feels plush and indulgent, bodies crowding close, voices shouting into ears, the world narrowing down to heat and rhythm and sensation.
alcohol finally dulls the hollow ache lodged in your chest, sanding it down into something manageable, something distant enough that it stops demanding constant attention. the sharp edges soften.
your thoughts blur into color and rhythm and heat, and for hours you exist only in motion and light, carried forward by bass that vibrates through your bones and strobes that fracture the room into bright, forgettable moments.
everything feels suspended, weightless, reckless, like the night has decided to hold you up instead of letting you fall.
the tequila does its work thoroughly. it turns your blood into liquid confidence, loosens your limbs, smooths your nerves into something glossy and fearless. laughter comes too easily, spilling out of you without context or consequence.
eventually, the heat drives you toward the shadowed corridor leading to the smoking patio, a narrow passage where the air thins just enough to breathe. you stumble that way half laughing at a joke you’ve already forgotten, heels clicking unevenly against the floor, balance more suggestion than reality.
you turn the corner and collide—hard—with something solid.
the impact sends a jolt straight up your spine, the shock snapping through your fog for half a second. your hands instinctively reach out, pressing into an unyielding wall of muscle, and that familiar, intoxicating scent hits you immediately.
cold rain. expensive tobacco. something sharp and unmistakably him.
“excuse me—” you start, the word already dissolving into a breathy laugh as your eyes travel upward, past the black compression shirt stretched taut over a chest wide enough to block the hallway, past the thick column of his scarred neck, until you lock onto the dark, predatory gaze of the man who dismissed you less than an hour ago.
toji doesn’t move an inch. his arms are crossed over his chest, broad shoulders filling the narrow space, presence pressing in from every direction.
the corridor suddenly feels too small, the air too warm. a slow, dangerous silence stretches between you, punctuated only by the muffled, rhythmic throb of bass bleeding through the heavy doors behind you.
“well, look at this,” he rasps, his voice a low frequency rumble that vibrates through you, making the alcohol warmed haze in your body spike into something sharper, hotter. “i could have sworn i left a certain brat shivering on the sidewalk.”
you let out a soft, airy giggle, swaying slightly on your heels as if the floor itself has decided to misbehave. you lean into the dazed persona easily, letting your shoulders slump and your expression soften into something sweet and clueless.
you tilt your head back, hair falling into a messy curtain around your face, looking up at him through heavy lashes, lips curving into an innocent, ditzy smile that you know is anything but.
“i’m sorry, do i know you?” you ask, voice slipping into that velvety, breathless register without effort. “you must have me confused with some other girl. i’ve been in here for hours.”
the corner of his scarred lip hitches upward, slow and deliberate, in a look of profound, dark amusement. he doesn’t buy it for a second.
his eyes flick down briefly, cataloguing you with merciless precision, catching on the faint scrape on your knee, still pink, still fresh, and the dust smudged along the hem of your dress. evidence. proof. the story written plainly across your skin.
“hours, huh,” he says, not a question, his gaze flicking briefly to your knee again before dragging back up to your face. “is that so?” he repeats, tone dripping with indulgent mockery as he takes a single step forward.
you shrug one shoulder, exaggerated and loose, playing into the role, letting your head tip back against the wall like holding it upright is simply too much effort.
“time flies,” you murmur, lips twitching as if you might laugh again. “especially when you’re having fun.”
something tightens visibly along his jaw. you see it this time, the restraint pulling taut, the way his body stays still even as his attention sharpens.
his eyes dip again, slower now, tracing the curve of your waist, the way your dress clings from sweat and movement, the faint sheen on your skin catching the hallway light.
he reaches out, his hand moving with a slow, agonizing deliberation until his thick fingers hook into the side of your waist, pulling you a fraction closer until you can feel the heat radiating off his massive frame.
he leans down, his mouth hovering just inches from your ear, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial, subterranean growl.
"you're a terrible liar, sweetheart," he murmurs, his thumb tracing a slow, heavy line along your hip. "did you really think i wouldn't notice the window in the ladies' room was cracked? or did you just want me to come find you?"
the bluntness of the accusation lands heavy in the narrow corridor, sharp enough that it cuts clean through the alcohol haze for half a second. your breath hitches audibly, a small, traitorous sound, and your thighs press together on instinct, muscles tightening as you look up at him.
the space between your bodies feels suddenly weaponized, every inch charged, your earlier bravado stuttering as you register the way his attention sharpens, the way he doesn’t step back. if anything, he settles in.
his gaze flicks over your face with slow precision, catching the pulse jumping at your throat, the way your lips part before you can stop them, the faint sway in your stance as you recalibrate in your heels.
his jaw flexes once, a hard line cutting beneath his cheekbone, and his hand tightens at your waist just enough to register, fingers digging in through thin fabric like he’s reminding both of you how solid he is.
“maybe i just wanted to see if you were as good at your job as you think you are,” you say, chin lifting despite the tremor in your voice. it wobbles at the edges, betraying you, threaded with heat and liquor and defiance, but you hold his gaze anyway, lashes heavy, mouth curved into something that dares him to call you on it.
something low leaves his chest, rough and involuntary, a sound that vibrates where his hand grips you. his thumb shifts, pressing in closer to your hip, possessive and terrifying in its certainty, like he’s testing how much pressure you’ll take before you fold.
“careful, doll,” he says, voice pitched low, the word dragging out as his eyes darken, light catching in them like a blade. they rake over your flushed face, linger on your mouth, your neck, the exposed skin he’s already memorized. “you’ve already broken the rules once tonight.”
his grip tightens a fraction more, not enough to bruise, enough to promise it. your back presses harder into the wall, cold seeping through your dress, your breath coming shallow now, fast enough that you feel it in your ears.
“if i catch you again,” he continues, leaning in just enough that his breath ghosts your cheek, warm and steady, “i might have to find a much more private way to discipline you.”
the challenge lights in your eyes immediately, bright and reckless. tequila has stripped you bare of caution, leaving only nerve and curiosity and the thrill of being cornered by someone who looks like he could end you and is choosing not to.
you don’t pull away. you don’t apologize. instead, a slow, lazy smirk spreads across your lips, crooked and unapologetic, telegraphing that you understand exactly what game you’re playing and have no intention of stopping.
your hand is still wrapped around a half-empty glass, condensation slicking your fingers, the clear liquor inside sharp enough to sting your nose. you hold his gaze, unblinking, lashes fluttering once, deliberately. then your fingers simply.. loosen.
the glass hits the tile with a violent, crystalline shatter, the sound cracking through the corridor, glass exploding outward as liquid splashes up against his dark trousers and your bare ankles.
the shock of it snaps heads in your direction, a few people pausing mid-step, eyes flicking over before they think better of it, but they quickly turn away when they catch the dark, murderous look on the bouncer’s face.
for a heartbeat, everything is still.
his body goes rigid beneath your hand, restraint pulling so tight it’s visible, the muscle in his jaw jumping as he looks down at the mess, then back at you.
"oops," you breathe, the word coming out as a ditzily soft, unrepentant exhale. you don't even look down at the mess. instead, you lean into him, the heat of his body acting as your only anchor as you tilt your head. "you gonna punish me now, bouncer? or are you just gonna keep talking about it?"
the silence that follows is deafening.
toji’s jaw set so hard you can hear the faint click of his teeth. his pupils dilate until his eyes are nothing but black pits of intent, his nostrils flaring as he takes in your scent. he doesn't say a word. he doesn't have to.
his hand moves like a strike, his fingers locking around your wrist with a grip that is uncompromising and searingly hot as he hauls you, his massive frame cutting a path through the corridor as he drags you toward the heavy steel door of the service closet.
his movements are fluid and terrifyingly efficient, the sheer physical power behind his stride making you stumble slightly in your heels to keep up.
he kicks the door open, the sound of metal hitting the stopper like a gunshot. he yanks you inside the cramped, dark space—the smell of industrial floor cleaner and his own heavy, masculine musk hitting you all at once—and slams the door shut with his heel.
the latch clicks into place with a heavy, final thud, severing the connection to the outside world and plunging the small closet into a suffocating, amber-hued dimness. the sudden silence is deafening, filled only by the ragged sound of your own breathing and the low, rhythmic hum of the building's ventilation.
toji doesn’t move immediately. he just stands there, broad frame filling the narrow space, a dense, coiled stillness radiating off him that makes the air feel heavier with every second.
the hallway seems to shrink around his silhouette, the dull thud of bass bleeding through the walls and settling low in your chest, syncing uncomfortably well with your pulse.
you lean back against the cool metal of the door, the chill seeping through your dress and into your spine, a deliberate contrast to the heat rolling off him.
a slow, playful smirk pulls at your mouth as you look him up and down, unhurried, exaggerated, the kind of stare that makes no attempt to hide its intention. your balance wobbles just slightly, tequila still buzzing hot in your veins, lending you a loose-limbed confidence that feels indestructible.
you reach out, fingers trailing with a light, almost careless slowness over the corded muscle of his forearm, pads of your fingers registering the way his skin burns beneath your touch, how solid he feels, how real.
“so, is this the part where you throw me out?” you ask, your voice dropping into a velvety, airy register, innocence layered thick enough to be insulting. your fingers linger, tracing nothing in particular, savoring the tension in his arm. “or were you just looking for a private place to tell me how much you liked the view of me climbing through that window?”
his jaw tightens hard enough that the muscle jumps beneath his cheekbone, sharp and unmistakable. his eyes stay locked on your mouth, dark and focused, following every movement of your lips like he’s memorizing them against his will.
a low rumble vibrates in the back of his throat, not quite a sound, not quite a warning, and his hands curl into fists at his sides, knuckles whitening as restraint pulls taut.
“you think this is a joke,” he rasps, the words dragged out, rough, scraping like gravel under tire. his gaze finally lifts, pinning you in place. “you think you can just break into my club, smash a glass at my feet, and walk away because you’ve got a pretty face and a short dress?”
the accusation lands hot, blunt, and something in you thrills at it anyway. you let out a soft, ditzily sweet giggle, the sound bubbling up unbothered, and step forward, closing the space until your chest hovers inches from the hard plane of his torso.
the proximity makes your breath hitch despite yourself. you tilt your head back, exposing the line of your throat, the gesture instinctive and reckless, your gaze drifting deliberately downward to the heavy ridge in his trousers that his discipline is no longer fully concealing.
“i think you’re a lot more interested in the dress than the glass, toji,” you breathe, his name slipping off your tongue slow and familiar. his pupils blow wide instantly, the darkness swallowing nearly all the color there, focus sharpening into something dangerous.
you trail your hand upward, palm flattening over his chest, feeling the frantic, heavy thudding of his heart beneath the black fabric, faster than it was before.
“you’re so tense,” you murmur, fingers splaying, grounding yourself against him. “maybe if you stopped being such a prick for five minutes, i could find a way to help you relax.”
the air in the space feels charged enough to spark. toji exhales sharply, jagged, nostrils flaring as he leans down into you, close enough that his breath ghosts your cheek, warm and steady.
the scent of him floods your senses, metallic and musky and overwhelming, making your head swim harder than the alcohol ever did. his restraint shows in the way his body stays rigid, in the way he doesn’t touch you back even as every line of him angles toward you.
“you have no idea when to stop, do you?” he murmurs, his voice dropping lower, deeper, a subterranean growl that settles between your thighs and makes them press together reflexively.
his eyes flick over your face, cataloguing the flush in your cheeks, the unfocused brightness in your gaze, the way your lips part just a little too easily. “you just keep pushing and pushing until someone finally breaks you.”
your smile sharpens, something electric sparking behind it. the tequila strips away the last of your caution, leaving nerve and curiosity and defiance in its place. you meet his stare head-on, unblinking, refusing to give ground.
“maybe i’m just waiting for the right person to do it,” you challenge, your voice steady now, breathiness replaced with a clear, cutting edge as you hold yourself there, pressed close, daring him to decide how much longer he can stand it.
the air in the utility closet incinerates. toji snaps with a sudden, violent grace, his hand shooting out to anchor around the back of your neck with a grip that feels like iron wrapped in velvet. he lunges forward, his mouth crashing into yours with a bruising, all-consuming force that devours your breath and your protest all at once.
the impact of his massive body slams you back against the steel door, the cold metal vibrating against your shoulder blades as a shocking contrast to the searing, volcanic heat of his lips.
"you wanted this," he growls against your mouth, his voice a jagged rasp that vibrates through your very teeth.
it is a messy, desperate collision of teeth and heat, his tongue demanding entry with a territorial arrogance that leaves you dizzy. your hands scramble for purchase, fingers digging into the corded muscles of his shoulders as you try to ground yourself against the sheer physical magnitude of him.
his other hand slides down with a possessive, predatory speed, bunching up the flimsy fabric of your dress at your hip until the material is a useless pile around your waist.
toji lets out a low, guttural groan against your lips, his fingers digging into the soft yield of your waist as he realizes just how little stands between his touch and your bare, flushed skin.
he breaks the kiss with a sharp, hungry inhale, his face burying itself in the sensitive curve of your neck. he begins to mark you, his teeth nipping at the tender space just behind your ear with a sharp, controlled aggression that makes your vision swim.
"you're a walking disaster," he mutters, his lips dragging over your skin, leaving a trail of fire in their wake as he finds a particularly sensitive spot beneath your jaw and sucks a dark bruise into existence.
a broken, high-pitched gasp escapes your throat, your head falling back against the door with a dull thud as your knees finally buckle beneath the weight of your own arousal.
he catches you effortlessly, his forearm hooking beneath your thighs to hoist you upward, pinning you to the metal door with the sheer pressure of his frame. the friction of your bare center sliding against the rough, expensive weave of his trousers makes your breath hitch in a stuttered, rhythmic cadence.
he pulls back just enough to look at you, his dark eyes blown wide with a primal, unshielded hunger that makes you feel utterly consumed. his chest heaves against yours, the rhythmic thud of his heart a frantic, heavy percussion that matches your own.
"look at me," he commands, his voice dropping into a subterranean register that makes your thighs clench in a desperate, reflexive rhythm.
you open your eyes, your gaze meeting his through a hazy, alcohol-slicked fog of desire. his thumb comes up to smear the remnants of your lip gloss across your cheek, his expression a volatile mixture of irritation and absolute, ruinous possession.
"i should throw you out on your ass," he rasps, his hand sliding lower, his fingers ghosting over the damp, exposed heat of your labia with a touch that is agonizingly light.
his eyes lock onto yours, watching the way your pupils dilate until the color is gone, his thumb finally pressing into you with a heavy, uncompromising force that makes you cry out his name.
toji lets out a low, predatory hum as he feels the immediate, slick evidence of your arousal, his calloused palm cupping the entirety of your softness.
"but i think i'll find a better use for you first."
he doesn't move to penetrate you immediately; instead, he lets his hand linger, his thick fingers parting your folds to explore the sheer amount of moisture you’ve produced just for him.
he drags his thumb upward, tracing the slick line of your center until he finds the swollen, sensitive bundle of nerves at the top. he applies a sudden, sharp pressure, his thumb and forefinger catching your clit in a firm, punishing pinch that sends a violent jolt of electricity straight to your core.
your back arches off the steel door, a broken, high-pitched keen escaping your lips as your entire body shutters against the intensity of the sensation.
toji watches the reaction with a dark, triumphant satisfaction, his eyes never leaving your face as he maintains the stinging pressure for a heartbeat longer than necessary.
"look at that," he murmurs, his voice a subterranean rumble that vibrates through your chest. "not so mouthy anymore, are you?"
he pulls his hand away for a fleeting second, his fingers glistening with the evidence of your desire in the dim amber light. he lifts his hand to your face, pressing those same slick, salt-scented fingers against your lower lip until you’re forced to part them.
he slides two fingers into your mouth, the taste of yourself and the faint metallic tang of his skin overwhelming your senses as he forces you to suck the moisture off his digits.
"taste how much you wanted this," he commands, his voice dropping into a jagged, subterranean register.
toji’s eyes remain fixed on yours, dark and unreadable, as he pulls his fingers from your mouth with a slow, agonizing suction.
he doesn't let you catch your breath; instead, his large hand travels downward, his thumb and forefinger wrapping around the column of your throat with a possessive, heavy pressure that forces your chin upward.
while his left hand keeps you pinned and exposed, his right hand returns to the soaking, flushed heat between your thighs. he doesn't offer the courtesy of a slow entry this time. he hooks a single, thick finger into your entrance, the sheer, impossible girth of it stretching your tight, yielding walls until you feel like you might split.
the rough, calloused texture of his skin—a lifetime of violence and labor etched into his palms—is a visceral, abrasive contrast to the hypersensitive, velvet slickness of your interior.
with a single, expert curve of his knuckle, he immediately strikes the swollen bundle of nerves along the roof of your canal—the elusive spot so many boys your age had spent fruitless minutes trying to locate. toji finds it in seconds, his precision as clinical as it is cruel.
"look at that," he taunts, his voice dripping with a dark, satisfied amusement as he feels your entire body spasm in response to the contact. "you’re so wet for a man you don't even know."
he ruthlessly adds a second finger into the mix, the sudden expansion of his hand within you making your vision blur with a dizzying, white-hot intensity.
he spreads his fingers wide, a deliberate, heavy movement designed to stretch the delicate, pulsing tissue to its absolute limit. you feel every ridge of his knuckles, every microscopic line of his skin, as he begins a steady, rhythmic thrusting that is deep and uncompromising.
the physical magnitude of his hand filling you is overwhelming, the sheer volume of him making your head swim and your knees buckle completely. toji is the only thing keeping you upright, his heavy forearm acting as an immovable, heated brace against the steel door as he continues to dismantle your composure with an expert, unrelenting focus.
"i bet you can take three too, huh?" he asks, his tone thick with a primal, predatory curiosity.
he doesn't wait for an answer, forcing a third finger past your tight, wet folds. the sensation of him spreading you open—the heavy, blunt force of his hand conquering your interior—makes a broken, high-pitched scream catch in your throat.
he doesn't slow down. his thrusting becomes faster, more aggressive, the wet, rhythmic sound of his fingers sliding against your slickness echoing loudly in the cramped, airless closet.
you are a shivering, incoherent mess in his arms, your head thudding rhythmically against the metal door with every deep, heavy stroke he delivers. toji leans in, his lips grazing the space behind your ear, his words becoming a blurred, sinful soundtrack to the way he is ruthlessly fingering the life out of you.
"you're so tight, baby," he rasps, the endearment coming out as more of a threat than a comfort as his fingers curl and claw against your most sensitive spots. "stretching so wide for me. tell me, is this what you wanted when you were playing with that rope outside?"
he increases the pace until your breath comes in jagged, frantic sobs, his fingers working you with a mechanical, tireless efficiency. the sensation is an all-consuming tide, a frantic, mounting pressure that centers entirely where his hand is ruthlessly working inside you.
you feel your internal muscles begin to ripple, a desperate, reflexive clenching of your thighs that tries to trap his massive fingers within you, as if you could physically force the release to happen.
your head is thrown back against the vibrating steel of the door, your mouth hanging open in soft, jagged gasps that can’t quite catch enough air to fill your lungs.
every deep, heavy stroke of his hand sends a fresh wave of white-hot lightning through your spine, the friction of his calloused skin against your slickness pushing you right to the precipice of a crashing, ruinous peak.
you are seconds away, your vision blurring into a haze of amber light and sheer, unadulterated need, your body tensing for the final, explosive snap of the tension.
then, with a sudden, agonizing abruptness, the heat is gone.
toji rips his hand away, the sudden absence of his girth leaving you feeling hollow and cold in the middle of the sweltering closet. you let out a broken, unfinished cry of protest, your hips instinctively jerking forward to follow the phantom sensation of his touch.
you're left suspended on the very edge of the cliff, your breath coming in frantic, sobbing hitches as the built-up pleasure begins to ache with a dull, throbbing intensity.
toji stands back just a fraction, his chest heaving as he looks down at your trembling, disheveled form. he lets out a low, clicking sound with his tongue—a sharp, taunting tsk-tsk-tsk—as he slowly shakes his head, a dark, mocking amusement dancing in his obsidian eyes.
"ah, ah, ah," he murmurs, his voice a subterranean rasp that cuts through your desperation like a knife. "where are you going? i didn't say you could finish."
you look up at him, your pupils so dilated they nearly swallow the iris, your hand reaching out to grab the front of his shirt with a weak, shaking grip. the physical need is so sharp it feels like a fever, making your skin flush and your voice crack as you look at him.
"please," you whine, the sound high-pitched and utterly devoid of the bravado you had earlier. "please, toji. i'm so close. i want to cum. please."
he doesn't move. he just watches you, his jaw set in a hard, uncompromising line as he enjoys the sight of the confident, ditzy girl from the sidewalk reduced to a begging, shivering mess at his feet.
he reaches out, his thick thumb catching a stray tear on your cheek and smearing it across your skin with a heavy, possessive pressure.
"you want to cum?" he repeats, his tone dripping with a cold, predatory curiosity. "is that it? after all that talk, you're really going to fall apart this easily?"
"please," you sob, your thighs clenching together in a futile attempt to soothe the ache between them. "i'll do anything. just... please."
toji leans down until his lips are brushing against yours, the scent of his skin and the lingering taste of yourself on his breath making your head spin. he wraps his hand around your throat again, not to squeeze, but to hold you steady as he forces you to meet his unyielding stare.
"then say it," he commands, his voice dropping into a dark, demanding whisper. "tell me exactly how much you need me to ruin you. beg for it, sweetheart. let me hear how much of a mess you really are."
you avert your gaze, unable to maintain eye contact as the cold air hits your damp skin, making the ache between your thighs feel twice as heavy.
the earlier confidence has vanished, replaced by a raw, stinging heat in your cheeks. you look down at his heavy tactical boots, your fingers twisting weakly into the fabric of his shirt.
"i... i need you to help me," you mumble, the words barely audible over the distant, muffled thud of the club's bass. "please just... finish it."
toji doesn't move. he doesn't even flinch. he just stands there like a wall of solid, unimpressed muscle, watching the way your chest heaves. the silence stretches out, thick and mocking, until he shifts his weight, the material of his shoes creaking in the small space.
"what was that?" he asks, his voice flat and devoid of any mercy. "i can't hear a word you're saying over the music, doll. you’re going to have to speak up."
you feel a fresh wave of mortification wash over you. you bite your lip so hard you can taste the copper of blood, your eyes stinging as you finally force yourself to look back up at him.
he looks terrifying—completely in control, his dark hair messy and his jaw set in that hard, jagged line. he’s waiting for the total surrender.
"i said please," you start, your voice cracking as you find a sudden, desperate volume. "please, toji. i can't—it hurts. i need you to fix it. i need you inside me. please."
the corner of his scarred lip hitches upward, a dark, predatory flicker of satisfaction crossing his features. he likes the way his name sounds when it's falling off your tongue in a sob. he likes that the girl who was batting her lashes at the velvet rope is now falling apart in a utility closet because he told her to.
"there she is," he murmurs, his voice dropping into a subterranean, jagged rasp.
he reaches down, his hand move with a slow, deliberate click as he finds the buckle of his belt. the metallic sound echoes sharply against the steel door, a cold, final punctuation to your begging. he doesn't take his eyes off yours as he begins to undo the leather, the sound of the heavy material sliding through the loops making your stomach flip with a dizzying mix of fear and relief.
toji doesn't give you the satisfaction of a front-row seat. instead, he reaches out with a sudden, overwhelming strength, his hands sinking into your waist and spinning you around until your chest is slammed back against the vibrating metal of the door.
the impact makes you gasp, the cool surface a shock against your flushed skin, but the sensation is immediately eclipsed by the heavy, solid weight of him pressing into your back.
he looms over you, his massive frame acting as a second door, pinning you into the narrow space between the steel and his own heat. you feel him shift, the rustle of his lowered trousers and the heavy slide of his belt punctuating the thick silence. then, you feel it.
the blunt, terrifyingly thick length of him presses firmly against the cleft of your backside, the sheer scale of his erection spanning from the base of your spine to the sensitive, aching heat of your inner thighs.
oh my god, you think, your eyes widening until they strain against the dark. he’s—he is actually going to break me in half.
you had been playing a game with a man who was built for war, and the realization of just how much larger he is than any boy you’ve ever encountered makes your breath hitch in a frantic, uneven rhythm. he feels like a pillar of heated iron, his presence so vast that you feel small, fragile, and utterly outmatched.
"now," he rasps, his voice a subterranean vibration that travels through his chest and directly into your shoulder blades.
he leans down, his mouth hovering just against the sensitive, damp skin where your neck meets your shoulder. he doesn't touch you with his hands yet; he just lets you feel the full, unyielding weight of his arousal pressing against your soaking folds, the friction of his skin against yours sending fresh, agonizing waves of need through your system.
"tell me one more time what you want me to do to you," he commands, his breath a humid, demanding heat that makes your skin crawl in the best possible way.
you can feel him twitch against you, a rhythmic, heavy pulsing that mirrors the frantic beat of your own heart. you’re trembling so hard the metal door is rattling softly in its frame, your fingers clawing at the smooth surface for any kind of leverage.
"i want you to..." you start, your voice breaking as you feel the blunt head of him nudge upward, seeking the entrance he’s already spent so much time preparing. "please, toji. i want you inside me."
a low, guttural sound—half-growl, half-laugh—vibrates against your skin. he reaches forward, his large, calloused hands flatting against the door on either side of your head, effectively caging you in.
"careful what you wish for, doll," he murmurs, his tone thick with a grim, predatory promise. "you've been begging for a lesson all night. i'd hate for you to tap out before we even get started."
toji doesn't rush. he is a man of calculated, heavy movements, and he seems to take a dark pleasure in the way your body tenses in anticipation.
he reaches one hand around, his large palm splaying over your stomach to pull your hips back firmly against him, while his other hand remains flat against the steel door, keeping you pinned.
the blunt, massive head of him nudges at your entrance, the sheer size of the contact making your breath catch. he pushes just a fraction, a slow and deliberate testing of your limits, and you feel the first, sharp stretch of your tight walls.
"fuck," you hiss, the curse falling from your lips as a pained, shaky exhale. your fingers scrape against the metal of the door, searching for purchase. "toji, wait—"
"shh," he rumbles, his voice a low, grounding vibration against the back of your neck. he doesn't pull back, but he doesn't shove forward either. he just holds the pressure there, let's you feel every millimeter of the girth that is demanding space inside you. "you wanted to be a big girl tonight, remember? stay still."
he leans down, his teeth grazing the sensitive tendon of your shoulder as he reaches his hand lower, his thick fingers finding the swollen, hypersensitive knot of your clit. he begins to rub in slow, heavy circles, the friction a necessary distraction from the burning sensation of him stretching you open.
"you're too tight," he observes, though there isn't a hint of apology in his tone. it’s the voice of an older man who knows exactly what your body can handle, even if you don't. "relax your legs for me. if you fight it, it's only going to hurt more."
you try to follow his command, your thighs trembling as you attempt to loosen the frantic clench of your muscles. he feels the shift and takes advantage immediately, sinking another inch into your heat.
a sharp, high-pitched yelp escapes your throat, your head thumping back against his shoulder. it feels like you're being split, the sensation of him filling you so absolute that it's bordering on overwhelming.
"holy shit," you gasp, your eyes blown wide as you stare at the dark corner of the closet. "you're too... you're too big. i don't think—"
"you're doing fine," he murmurs, his thumb applying a steady, rhythmic pressure to your clit that keeps the pleasure tangled up with the pain. he moves again, a slow, painstaking slide that forces you to accommodate more of his length. "take a breath. just like that. you're built for this, even if you're a little out of your depth."
the authority in his voice acts like a leash, keeping you from spiraling into panic. he continues the agonizingly slow crawl into you, the friction creating a searing, internal heat that makes your vision swim.
every time you tensed, he’d stop, his hand on your throat or your hip, waiting for you to melt before he claimed another inch of territory.
he pushes again, a slow and painstaking inching that feels like a physical reclamation of your space. the sensation is a volatile mix of white-hot friction and a deep, internal burn as your walls stretch to their absolute limit.
you feel the heavy, rhythmic pulsing of his veins against your own sensitive tissue, a visceral reminder of just how much power he’s currently exerting over you. your breath comes in short, jagged sobs, your forehead resting against the cool door as you try to find a rhythm that doesn't feel like you’re being split in two.
toji feels the way your muscles are seizing in a frantic, defensive clench, and he lets out a low, grounding grunt. "relax," he commands, the word a dark, humid heat against your skin. "you’re fighting me. breathe through it, sweetheart. let it happen."
the combination of the sharp, stinging pleasure at your peak and the relentless, heavy stretch of him inside you finally makes something snap. your hips instinctively tilt back, seeking the very thing that is hurting you, and toji takes the opening.
he sinks another inch into you, the fullness so absolute it leaves you feeling breathless and hollowed out. you can feel the exact moment his girth passes your initial resistance, the sensation of being completely filled by him a heavy, intoxicating weight that settles deep in your gut.
"that's it," he murmurs, his voice thick with a primal, satisfied hunger as he feels you finally start to yield. "just like that. take every bit of it."
he continues the painstaking crawl, his hand never leaving your clit as he works to settle himself fully within you. every centimeter is a struggle of teeth and heat, your body trembling with the effort of holding him.
you let out a soft, broken whimper as you feel the heavy thud of his pelvis finally meet the curve of your backside, the contact signaling that there is finally nowhere left for him to go.
"that's it," he rasps, his breath hot and humid against your ear as he finally feels your muscles start to give way, wrapping around him in a tight, pulsing glove. "look at how well you're taking me. such a good girl."
you let out a long, broken moan, your forehead resting against the cool door as you finally feel the staggering weight of him bottomed out inside you.
your knees are shaking so violently they barely support you, and toji seems to sense it, his large hands shifting from your waist to your hips, his fingers digging into the flesh with a territorial grip that keeps you anchored.
he doesn't immediately begin a frantic pace. instead, he starts with slow, painstaking thrusts, pulling back only a few inches before sinking back in with a heavy, deliberate pressure. even these small movements feel monumental.
you can feel every ridge of his anatomy, the sheer, staggering girth of him dragging against your hypersensitive walls with a friction that feels like it’s setting you on fire.
you whimper with every shallow retraction, the feeling of being occupied so completely making your vision flicker with dark spots.
“toji,” you breathe, the name a fractured, wet sound that dies against the steel door as you feel the blunt, heavy force of him stretching you further with every minute, agonizing adjustment of his hips.
it is a slow, invasive expansion, a sensation of being methodically dismantled from the inside out as your internal muscles spasm in a frantic, futile attempt to accommodate the intrusive, massive reality of him.
the depth is staggering. you can practically feel the rounded, pulsing pressure of his head pushing against the lining of your stomach, a terrifyingly intimate bulge that makes your breath hitch in a series of jagged, shallow hitches.
every millimeter he gains feels like a fresh conquest, the friction of his salt-slicked skin dragging against your walls with a heavy, sandpaper heat.
he is too large for the space you have, yet he continues to claim it with a mechanical, tireless focus. his breath hitches in a low, jagged rhythm against the back of your neck—a raw, guttural sound that tells you he is just as affected by the crushing, wet heat of your interior.
he pulls back further this time, the slow, suctioned slide of him nearly leaving you making you let out a desperate, instinctive cry of protest that echoes off the metal shelves.
the sudden absence of that weight is a hollow ache, but it only lasts a heartbeat. toji drives forward with a sudden, singular focus, his pelvis hitting your backside with a heavy, visceral thud that jars your entire frame.
it isn't a shallow test; it is a full, devastating thrust that sends him deeper than you thought possible, the sheer velocity of the movement forcing a sharp, high-pitched yelp from your throat. the head of him collisions directly with your g-spot—a heavy, blunt strike that hits the very center of your pleasure with the staggering force of a physical blow.
white-hot sparks ignite behind your eyelids. your back arches violently, your fingers scraping the door in a desperate search for purchase as your internal walls clamp down on his length in a frantic, rhythmic pulse.
"oh my god," you sob, your forehead thudding back against the door as a white-hot wave of pure, unadulterated sensation crashes over you. the pain is entirely eclipsed by a sudden, molten surge of honey-thick pleasure that makes your brain go quiet, leaving only the frantic, pulsing need for more.
the sound of the impact—the wet, slapping noise of skin meeting skin—is the only thing filling the air, a dark, percussive rhythm that marks the moment your brain finally goes quiet, leaving only the molten, throbbing need for him to do it again.
toji lets out a low, guttural sound that is almost a roar, his chest heaving against your back as he feels the way you’ve clamped around him. he stays there for a heartbeat, buried to the hilt, letting the vibrations of your climax-adjacent spasm wash over him.
"yeah," he murmurs, his voice a dark, predatory rumble that vibrates through your spine. "found it, didn't i?"
toji doesn't rush the destruction of your composure. he keeps the pace agonizingly slow, pulling back until he is nearly gone, letting the cool air tease your entrance before he drives back in with that same heavy, deliberate focus.
every time he hits that deep, sensitive mark, your internal muscles react with a violent, rhythmic clamping that hitches his breath and makes the corded veins in his neck stand out in stark relief.
"you’re so tight," he rasps, his voice a jagged, subterranean rumble against your ear. his hands slide from your hips to your stomach, his large palms pressing flat against your skin so he can feel the way his own length is distending your abdomen with every deep, sliding thrust. "clenching around me like you're never going to let go."
you let out a series of soft, broken whimpers, your forehead sliding against the cool metal of the door as you try to find a rhythm that doesn't make your vision go white.
the friction is becoming a molten, unbearable heat, the sheer girth of him dragging against your walls with a slow, painstaking friction that feels like he’s reshaping you from the inside out.
as you continue to clamp down on him, desperate for the friction to catch fire, you feel his control begin to fray. his thrusts lose their careful, calculated slowness, the pace beginning to pick up as the sound of his pelvis hitting your backside becomes a more frequent, heavy thud.
the shallow retractions are gone, replaced by a relentless, rhythmic pounding that sends you jarring forward against the door with every strike.
"toji, please—" you gasp, your voice a fractured, airy sound as the pressure builds into something sharp and undeniable.
the sensation of him bottoming out inside you becoming a constant, heavy percussion, the blunt force of his arrival hitting your g-spot with a clinical, punishing accuracy.
you’re shivering, your thighs twitching as you try to keep your balance, but he is the only thing keeping you upright. he hooks his fingers into the waistband of your dress, using the fabric to jerk your hips back against his with a raw aggression that leaves you breathless.
"don't you dare," he commands, his voice dropping into a dark, warning growl as he feels your body begin to coil for a finish. he isn't ready to let the tension snap yet. he slows his hips just a fraction, a cruel, measured adjustment that keeps you suspended right on the edge of the cliff. "i didn't tell you that you could stop."
he keeps the pace heavy and deep, a slow, thudding rhythm that makes your stomach flip and your toes curl. you’re a mess of uncoordinated gasps and frantic, internal pulses, your body begging for the final snap, but toji just continues to work you with a tireless, mechanical efficiency that suggests he’s only just getting started.
the agonizing delay ends as toji loses his taste for patience, his restraint snapping like a frayed cable under the weight of your constant, desperate clenching.
he anchors himself, one massive hand sliding upward to wrap firmly around the column of your throat, pinning your head against the steel door while his other palm splays across your lower stomach.
he presses down hard, his fingers digging into your skin so he can feel the internal havoc he’s wreaking, keeping your spine glued to the unyielding wall of his chest as the slow, methodical slides vanish, replaced by a rhythmic, punishing aggression that jars your entire frame.
the sound of the encounter changes—the wet, heavy sliding replaced by the sharp, repetitive slap of his pelvis hitting your backside with a violence that echoes off the utility shelves. it is a frantic, percussive sound, a visceral punctuation to the way he is ruthlessly claiming every inch of you.
"toji—toji, wait, it's too much," you sob, the words coming out as fractured, high-pitched gasps as your head thumps rhythmically against the metal.
your vision is a chaotic blur of amber light and shadow, the sheer force of his thrusts making your knees buckle until he hauls you back up by your throat, forcing you to take every bit of the friction. "please, it's too much—"
"i don't remember asking if you'd had enough," he growls, his voice a dark, jagged rasp that vibrates directly into your ear.
he doesn't slow down. if anything, your protest only makes him drive harder, his hips snapping forward with a clinical, terrifying power that bottomed him out against your cervix with every strike.
the sensation is a white-hot, blinding burn, the girth of him stretching you so wide that you feel like you're being hollowed out, reshaped by the blunt force of his desire.
your internal muscles are in a state of constant, frantic spasm, clamping down on him in a desperate, rhythmic pulse that only serves to fuel his aggression.
he feels the way you're falling apart, the way your voice has dissolved into incoherent, sobbing whimpers, and he responds by tightening his grip on your throat, his thumb applying a heavy, grounding pressure as he continues to pound the life out of you.
the slapping of skin on skin becomes a frantic, wet blur, the pace reaching a level of intensity that makes your brain go entirely dark.
the pressure reaches a terminal velocity, a white-hot frequency that your nervous system can no longer translate as anything other than a total, impending collapse.
"toji, i—i'm—" you can’t even finish the sentence, your voice breaking into a sharp, thin wail as the final thread of your restraint snaps.
the orgasm hits you like a physical blow, a molten, rhythmic explosion that starts deep in your core and radiates outward until your fingers lose their grip on the steel door.
your vision goes entirely white, your head falling back against his shoulder as your internal walls clamp down on him in a series of uncontrollable pulses. it’s an agonizingly long release, a drowning sensation of heat and light that leaves you sobbing into the quiet of the closet.
he doesn't slow down, and he doesn't offer a single word of comfort. instead, he uses the sudden, frantic tightening of your body as a new kind of friction, his hips snapping forward with a fresh, revitalized aggression.
the feeling of him continuing to pound into you while your nerves are still firing at a hundred percent is overwhelming—a jagged, electrical overstimulation that makes every deep, heavy thud feel like it’s vibrating through your very marrow.
"please," you gasp, your voice a ruined, breathless shadow of itself as you try to pull away from the sensation. "toji, stop, it's—it's too much, i can't—"
he doesn't listen. his hand remains a heavy, grounding weight on your throat, pinning you to the door while his other hand stays buried in the soft flesh of your stomach, keeping you trapped against the relentless snap of his pelvis.
he lets out a low sound—a dark, wordless grunt of exertion—as he increases the pace, his thrusts becoming shorter, harder, and more frequent.
the slapping sound of skin on skin is the only thing filling the room now, a wet, rhythmic percussion that marks the final, desperate moments of his own control.
he’s no longer looking for your pleasure; he’s hunting his own, his jaw locked so tight the muscle is a rigid cord against his cheek. he hits that deep, sensitive mark again and again, ignoring the way your body is shivering and twitching under the weight of the overstimulation.
toji is a wall of unyielding muscle, a force that doesn't care that you've already reached your limit. he simply hauls your hips back to meet him with a territorial, raw strength, his breath coming in sharp, jagged hitches as he prepares to finish the job you technically started.
his breathing has devolved into a series of jagged growls, his chest heaving against your back with a violent, rhythmic heat. the overstimulation has your nerves screaming, every deep, uncompromising strike of his pelvis sending fresh, unwanted jolts of electricity through your already spent core.
he leans down, his mouth opening against the damp, salt-slicked skin of your neck in a heavy, open-mouthed claim. it isn't a gentle gesture; he sucks a final, dark mark into your flesh, his teeth grazing your pulse point.
suddenly, his hand cracks against the meat of your ass, the sharp, stinging slap echoing like a gunshot in the cramped closet. the impact makes your vision flare white, your thighs jumping as the sting blossoms into a deep, throbbing heat.
"still so loud," he rasps, his voice a dark, jagged vibration against your ear. his hand stays there, squeezing the flushed skin of your ass with a territorial force that keeps you pinned. "you've been begging for this since the moment you looked at me. such a desperate little thing."
the rhythm turns into a frantic, wet mess of sound. every time he drives back into you, there is a heavy, rhythmic squelch—the sound of his weight hitting your soaked skin and the friction of him forcing his way into a space that’s already overflowing.
you’re trembling so hard your forehead is just thudding against the metal door, your breath coming in jagged, broken sobs because your nerves are completely fried.
toji pulls back almost all the way, the suctioned, sliding sound of his exit making you let out a high-pitched, desperate whimper. you feel the cold air for a split second before he snaps his hips forward with a sudden, raw velocity. his pelvis slams into your backside with a visceral crack, the force of it jarring your teeth and sending a jolt of pure electricity up your spine.
he doesn't stop there. he keeps up that same punishing, aggressive pace, his hands coming around to squeeze your stomach so hard he’s practically anchoring you to his groin.
the slapping sound of his skin hitting yours is constant now, a frantic, percussive noise that fills the tiny closet.
suddenly, toji’s entire body goes rigid. he lets out a raw, unshielded roar—a sound that starts deep in his gut and rattles through his chest like a physical vibration. he drives himself in one last time, deeper than he’s been the entire night, until his pelvis is locked tight against you.
you feel it instantly. a heavy, rhythmic pulsing begins deep inside you, a searingly hot flood that makes your internal walls spasm and claw around him in a frantic, secondary response.
it’s a thick, molten sensation that seems to fill every hollow inch of you. his fingers dig into your hips, bruising the skin as he holds himself there, buried to the hilt while his release ebbs into you in long, heavy waves.
his head falls forward, his open mouth pressing against the crook of your neck as he heaves for air. his breath is a humid, frantic heat against your skin, and you can feel the sweat dripping off his forehead and onto your shoulder.
he stays there for a long, heavy minute, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your back while the tension slowly drains out of his massive frame.
"not so mouthy now, are you?" he murmurs, his voice a jagged, low-frequency rasp that makes your knees wobble all over again.
toji begins the slow, wet retreat, the suctioned slide of him leaving you making you feel hollowed out and shivering.
as the final bit of his weight vanishes, your legs—already trembling and overstimulated—give way completely. you start to collapse toward the concrete, a soft, pathetic sound leaving your throat, but you don't hit the floor.
before you can drop, his large hand shoots out, catching you by the arm and hauling you back up against his chest with a sudden, grounding strength. he doesn't let you fall, instead tucking your back against his front and using his massive forearm as a shelf for you to lean on.
you're a mess, your head lolling back against his shoulder as you try to remember how to breathe, your thighs still twitching with the aftershocks of the mess he just made of you.
"easy," he murmurs, his voice a dry, gravelly rasp right against your ear. "don't go breaking your neck now. i already told you you’re a walking disaster."
he keeps you there for a second, letting your shaky legs find some semblance of a grip on the floor. his other hand reaches out, his thick fingers ghosting over the damp, red marks he left on your hips.
he looks down at you, his dark eyes scanning the way your chest heaves and the dizzy, glazed look in your eyes with a flicker of that same unrepentant amusement.
"you wanted the full experience, didn't you?" he asks, his tone dropping into a low, clever hum that makes your stomach flip all over again. "well. now you know why i told you to go home, sweetheart. you can barely even stand."
you try to find a biting retort, something to prove you haven't been completely dismantled, but all that comes out is a shaky, breathless exhale. you're leaning almost all your weight into him, the heat of his body the only thing keeping the world from spinning out of control.
"look at you," he adds, his thumb catching your chin and tilting your head back so you're forced to meet his gaze. "all that talk, and you're just a shivering, soaking mess in a service closet. guess the bouncer had to show you how things actually work around here."
he gives you a final, territorial squeeze of your waist before he slowly begins to disentangle himself, though he keeps one hand on your shoulder until he’s sure you won’t faceplant into the utility shelves, his thumb pressing into the bone as he watches you struggle to find your center.
he lets out a short, huffed breath—not quite a sigh, but close—and reaches down, calloused fingers hooking into the hem of your dress, pulling the fabric back down over your hips with a single, unceremonious yank.
the material is damp and wrinkled, sticking to your skin in a way that feels like a brand, but he doesn't seem to care about the aesthetics. he just wants you covered.
"stop shaking," he commands, his voice a low, flat rasp.
he turns you around to face him, his hands coming up to your shoulders to steady you. you’re a wreck—hair a static mess, lips swollen, and eyes completely glazed over.
he looks at you for a long beat, his dark eyes tracing the dark bruise he sucked into your neck with a look of silent satisfaction.
without saying a word, he reaches out and begins to untangle a stray piece of hair from your face, his touch surprisingly steady despite the violence from moments ago. he then grabs the lapels of your dress, adjusting the neckline with a rough, efficient jerk that nearly makes you stumble into him again.
"you look like hell," he observes, his tone dry and entirely devoid of apology.
he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a clean, dark handkerchief, shoving it into your hand with a blunt force.
"clean your face. you’ve got shit all over your cheeks."
he watches you wipe at the remnants of your lip gloss, his jaw set in that same jagged line. he isn't being sweet; he’s managing a liability. but there’s a heavy, lingering weight to the way he stays in your personal space, his shadow completely swallowing yours in the cramped, amber-lit closet.
"when we walk out of here, you head straight for the bar," he says, his voice dropping into a subterranean warning. "no more windows. no more breaking things. stay where i can see you, or i’m putting you in a cab and sending you back to whatever nursery you crawled out of. understood?"
you nod weakly, your fingers trembling as you clutch the handkerchief. toji gives your shoulder one last, territorial squeeze before he turns toward the door, his hand hovering over the latch.
"don't make me regret letting you stay," he murmurs, his head tilting back just enough to catch your eye with a cold, unyielding stare. he pauses, his fingers curling around the handle as he takes in your disheveled state one last time.
"keep your mouth shut," he adds, his voice dropping into a jagged, low-frequency rasp, "and try your best to look presentable, sweetheart."
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pixelskylines
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izzy806
