Jujustu Kaisen Smut - Tumblr Posts

the intruder (m)

pairing fushiguro toji + fem!reader

synopsis

a home invasion befalls your lonely penthouse just days after your husband goes on work retreat, and it turns out he’s indebted to a lot of dangerous people.

but for a certain intruder, money isn’t the only thing on his mind.  

content warnings explicit content, infidelity, threats of blood and violence, dubious consent, unprotected sex, size kink, use of handcuffs, brat-taming, pet-names, oral (m receiving), fingering, orgasm denial, nonconsensual recording, riding, cervix-bumping, praise + degradation, squirting, hair-pulling, breeding kink (sort of), choking, toji is masked the entire time but loves to put on a show,

word count 7,500+

read on ao3

MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS DO NOT INTERACT

Several built-in security cams, a motion-detected entrance, and a generously paid night-team.

In all honesty, this must’ve been a set-up.

Perhaps, a tasteless prank. How six masked intruders managed to break into your penthouse just a few days after your now-estranged husband left for a retreat is beyond you. All of these security inspections to ensure that your penthouse was impenetrable, and yet, above twenty-seven floors, befell a home invasion.

The penthouse was dim-lit, muted by the cityscape and exposed on slender, double-paned windows. In a private residential building, designed for the vieux-riche and white-collared, there was no room for the ordinary. 

One of the masked intruders noisily whistles, swivelling his large frame as he gawks at the interior. “Impressive.”

“You can stare later,” another says, dropping his duffle bag onto your modular sofa, “hurry up and take what you can.”

Reeling from your sudden wake, forcibly handcuffed to a radiator pipe. It had only been a few hours before you were abruptly forced from your bed, held at gunpoint to keep quiet, and lured into the living room to watch your home be ransacked to skint. Carelessly—along with their heavy bags, filled to the brim—they pace around with a gun you’re convinced couldn’t be loaded.

If it weren’t for your composure, you’d be dead already.

“All this space,” a disillusioned voice scorns from another room, unseen. “For what? Three people?”

“Two, asshole.” You mutter under your breath.

“You got a smart mouth, lady,” the brawny man—jade eyes discerned from the dark-grey ski mask covering the rest of his face, kneels down in front of you. (You definitely whispered it, and he definitely wasn’t close enough to hear that). “Do I need to shut you up as well?”

It's demeaning. With a tight lip, wavered to the tremor of having your life under threat, you turn away to avoid his stern gaze. Turned to your chef, teary-eyed and pale-stricken, muffled by a roughly knotted tie found in your husband’s drawers. Made an example of, gagged like her so that you were forced to keep quiet on your accord. It didn’t stop her, worsening the situation with every stifled wail, earning an empty threat from every passing intruder.

For the sake of not having another gun pressed against your temple, you simply watch. Observe.

Sheathed in puffer jackets and black ski-masks, they had been hard to distinguish from one another.

Except one.

One of them had the audacity of disregarding a jacket, wearing a simple black, tight-fitted t-shirt that defined every ridge and curve of his upper frame. He didn’t even bother wearing gloves. The way he simply tampered with the emergency line and security cams made you think he’d been here before, familiar. And if that were the case, then you were in trouble.

Guilty, very guilty of noticing how his bulky arms would tense with every movement. Flexed under every packed bag or veined by alabaster protrusions; a pitiful thing to notice while he carried your belongings. His voice sunk twenty-feet down your spine as if you were made of bottomless chasms—another reason why you’d be able to differentiate him from the rest.

It didn’t matter. He carried a poise that told you this wasn’t his first time; overly confident and tactful.

And this reckoning was coming.

Your husband was a conglomerate who attempted to juggle risky affairs with his company matters, leaving at odd hours and returning with rum-iced breath and a sunken gaze. A driving force behind the rift in your marriage, consumed with an undying urge to flood his bank accounts with more money, gluttonous. This was something you should’ve seen coming, but he had abandoned you at a shadily specific time; a work retreat he’d call it, important matters to be handled in Hokkaido with an urgency that left you no choice but to let him leave.

You nearly doze off, worn-out from the constant manhandling before one of the intruders’ pace towards you. He kneels down, pats your cheek with the muzzle of his gun. “Hey,” he exhales, vexed. “Where’s the rest of the money?”

​​You jadedly sigh, overrun with the same questions that all boil down to one inadequate answer: “I don’t know.” He exhales even louder, clasping the gun tighter. “How many times do I have to tell you? I don’t know.”

You do, kind of. It’s a teeny lie because while trust did go both ways in a four-year marriage, there had been little disclosure around his work between the two of you. As newly-weds, he swore to confide in you but since moving into this penthouse, he had completely left you in the dark; distance grew, and the double-glazed windows grew longer and there was a void to this place that had an odd semblance to your love life.

You knew that he had a hidden room, a vault, somewhere in his library, but that’s how far it went. Company files (and filthy secrets), heaps of cash, prized possessions, family heirlooms and a few weapons to spare—all for him to touch, and for you to bear the consequences of.

But when you think you’ve convinced the brutish man, he suddenly presses a gun to your chef’s head, who wails through the gag shoved into her mouth like a leaking pipe. “I’ll give you another chance to tell me something I want to hear, and if you don’t, I’ll blow her brains out.”

Untold confessions burn into bile. “I don’t know.”

He heaves through the mask. “I’ll count to three then,” he grits his teeth, presses it forcefully to her temple as she continues to shriek. “One,” he begins while your resolve slowly breaks down, “two,” the trigger squeaks under his thumb, “t—”

“—it’s in the library, I think. But I don’t know where—”

“Behind the bookshelf, huh?”

A familiar voice says from the distance, earning a burst of mirth from the group of masked men as a loud creak resounds the penthouse; your eyes flutter closed in a strange feeling of relief and discontent, slumping against the radiator when they leave to join him in the library. As a ruffle ensues over there, you’re forsaken to observe your chef’s unkempt state, whom you nearly killed because of your misplaced loyalty.

The guilt chews at your own resolve, unable to find the words to console her or aid your own discomfort. Before you can even think to do so, he walks in—saunters with a smugness that forces you to bite back a curse, and a brimmed duffle bag. He drops it before walking towards you, crouching down once again to meet your surly gaze, teary and loathing. He spends a fleeting moment observing your twisted expression, clearly reeling from the very real threat of gunpoint. And he’s relishing it.

He's eerily quiet, calm. Somehow, it’s worse than the other man’s fiery temperament.

“You got what you wanted, you can take it and leave.” You utter with a weak lilt.

“I don’t think I have,” he retorts casually, his head cocked to the side. The glimmer in his eye changes like a heavy tide on a full moon, eventually settling on an impish gaze that bursts with inspiration. “Now, why is the lovely wife here when she should be with her husband?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“How do ya expect to live with an attitude like that?” he asks, clearly unaffected by your hostility. If it were anyone else, they’d put a bullet in your head already.

“Next time? With a gun.” 

He chortles through the mask, and you can even hear a wicked smirk brush against the fabric. “What makes you think there’s a next time?” he chides, picks up a piece of fluff from your cheek, and you nearly flinch. “Maybe I’d be doing your husband a favour then. What do you think, lady?”

He turns to your chef, still cowering in her spot, momentarily pauses her snivelling to register his question. The masked man tuts, roughly yanking the gag from her mouth, doused in spit and snot. She takes the release as a false invitation to blubber pleas, it goes on and on and on, which he lets happen until he’s had his fill—he’s a psycho. 

“Hey,” he respires, “shut up.”

She promptly closes her mouth.

“She a good wife?” he asks, nudging his head towards you like he’s indulging in weekly gossip, pinning the poor lady’s frame down with his gaze. Your chef can only deduct from what she sees, and she has seen… a lot; enough to gauge that there was nothing respectable about the truth.

“Good wife—no, not really. They—uh, they fight a lot.” She mutters.

“Ouch,” he scratches the skin behind his ear, turning to you. “No wonder he left such a pretty thing behind.”

You’re rendered wordless, a heat cloyed in your gut.

“How about this,” he says, fiddling with your handcuffs. When his fingers brush against your skin, it sends a evanescing shudder through your body—it’s cold. “How about you help me send your husband a little message?”

“But—” you sputter, beat. “—but don’t you have what you need?”

“Nah,” he says, unshackling you from the pipes and firmly grabbing your upper arm to haul you up. He’s far stronger, manhandles you through the hallways as though you’re lightweight—you must be—for arms that bulky, he’d be able to lift a car. “Not quite satisfied yet, princess.”

“Where are you taking me?” you exclaim as obscurity swallows you whole, separated from the commotion in the living room.

But you’re stumbling into your bedroom; torso lurched onto the chair he rolls from your desk, the windows draped in velvet curtains, but there’s subdued moonglow seeping through and it pales his exposed skin. He handcuffs you once more, behind the backrest of your chair this time, demanding a camera from one of the other intruders.

The brawny man pulls you to centre stage, in front of him, and mutters with a caustic swing. “Don’t be scared.”

It’s not reassuring at the slightest—it’s not meant to be. You thrash against the handcuffs, watching in confusion as one of his hot-headed subordinates return with a thick-lensed camera and tripod. He makes note of the ring-light at your desk and pulls it over to him as well. Your efforts are to no avail, slumped in a satin blue nightgown that creases just above your knees.

“If you’re going to kill me,” you sigh, admitting defeat. “At least make it quick.”

It is difficult to read him when he’s hiding behind a mask, but his calmness resides in his mannerisms. He gives no allusion that he wants to kill you, but that’s worse—his temperament is completely unreadable, and there’s nothing you can do but try to draw an actual answer from him. “Kill you? What kind of message would that send?”

Maybe you’re digging your own grave instead. “That—that you leave no witnesses?”

He chortles at your response, stretching his limbs once he’s done adjusting the camera. His burly arms extend above his head and his shirt fleetingly lifts to reveal his terribly toned abdomen, freckled with swirling hairs around his belly button and a thick mound of it just peeking above the hem of his boxers. You no longer try to make sense of what that sated pull in your gut means, (whatever it is, it’s bad-mannered).

“Careful now, you’ll make it sound like a good idea.”

“Then what? What do you want with me?” you push, frustrated.

He evades your question once again, clearly not up for any transparency and instead, he turns on the camera; a red flicker that beeps just below the large lenses, then he abruptly switches on the ring-light, adjusted to the brightest level and you quickly turn away, flinching.

“State your name.” He simply orders.

“What?” you ask, barely able to see him past the glaring light.

“State your name, and don’t make me repeat myself.”

Hesitantly, you drone each syllable of your name. Your eyes drift idly to the carpet, to whatever can hold your attention, anything is better than the beam of light sharply meeting your retina.

“Look at me,” he focuses your attention onto him, where he stands a little closer, slightly shadowing the shaft of light behind him and when you meet his gaze, intimidated by his large stature, you’re taken aback. “Say it again.”

You state it clearly this time, with a sourness—a harsh bite to each word that doesn’t go unnoticed by him, but he’s somewhat satisfied, nodding in approval. “Good girl.”

The sudden term sends another awkward twinge to your gut (or, to the part of you that throbs mindlessly, without will, just want). You ignore it, watching fretfully as he picks up a few papers the other guy dropped onto your bed earlier.

“You can read a script, right?” he neatly folds the papers together. “I want you, princess, to tell your husband what’ll happen if he doesn’t bring the rest of my money by the end of this month.”

“Hm?”

He stands by the camera once again and hangs the first page beside his face. It’s written in a very large font, as though it was intended for a reader unable to see from this distance, or they were merely in a rush. Impatient, he sighs. “Speak up.”

“They—they’ll tell everyone about the operations behind his company,” you murmur, trying to digest the information written on the piece of paper. Reality thickens, and everything you suspected your husband to be involved in now holds substance to it. “What operations?”

“Recite this.” He says, displaying the second page.

“Oh my g—”

“Hey, recite it.”

You recite it—word for word—every single shady job that transpires beneath the company’s general operations and it leads to an obvious conclusion; he moves drugs. Whoever these guys are, they’re shady and fucked-up, but they’re borne by your husband’s misdemeanours. He had clearly crossed them, and now he had left you to suffer the consequences.

“Suppose it’s better that it comes from his own wife, right?” he says, putting the papers away. “You see,” he directly says to you, instead of the camera, “if he fails, I’ll come back to finish the job, and this video—all those documents, they go live, understood?” 

Indignation rattles your chest, and you’re not sure who you’re mad at, the perpetrators or the intended target who abandoned you. “So, what? You’re all drug dealers, then? Fuck you. You couldn’t threaten him yours—mph!”

He grabs your chin, stifling the rest of your tirade—it boils at the tip of your tongue, and he touches it, sliding a thumb across your bottom lip. “That mouth of yours,” he murmurs, squinting down at your resentful gaze, jaw clenched, and chest heaved, “—don’t think a gag is going to fix that attitude.”

“Then why don’t you just kill me?”

“I could,” he mulls with a shrug, pressing down on the tongue that craves a good finish, between the teeth that itches to bite it. There’s an eyelash just above your cheek, and he slowly picks it off. It’s a thick tension you could slice with a butcher’s knife, one apparent beneath the ongoing silence while he ponders on his next motives. “Or I could put that mouth to better use.”

Your face twists in puzzlement, unable to take in the turn of events when he’s suddenly uncuffing you, just to cuff you again once you’ve stood up.

He turns to the masked man at the door, who has been idly standing there for a while, awaiting his next instructions. “Load up the van.”

Eventually (and soundlessly) he walks away, nearly intrigued if not for the brawny man’s firm instructions, leaving the both of you alone to the stillness. When you’re dragged to the end of the bed, he sits and pulls you towards him—flailing and protests falling short when he swiftly bends you over his lap—one hand pushing your lower back down, the other lifting your nightgown up.

Your torso stretches against his thighs. “What—what are you—oh!”

A shrill smack suddenly booms, then follows a stinging sensation that settles on your ass cheeks.

You heavily exhale, mind reeling from the echoes of a slap.

And it dawns on you, a cloak of realisation: he just slapped your ass.

Sheer shock and indignation, it churns, disoriented by the brute force of his hand meeting your skin. Your squirming intensifies. “What the fuck?” you exclaim.

“Watch your mouth,” he simply warns, slapping your ass once more; this one is a more cruel, and the burn sticks around for a few more seconds before he lands another one for sport. Every slap is paired with a strained wince, but when he kneads that sore spot, that throbbing pull returns—tenfold—it’s turning you on. “From now on, you’re gonna be on your best behaviour.”

He's mocking you, resorting to childish chastises to make the humiliation of it all sink a little deeper.

He doesn’t care about your attitude.

“Huh? No—”

Another one, it’s now less of a prickle and more of a dull pain, uncomfortable. “What was that?”

“But—”

And another.

All of your protests are countered by an unkind blow, intensified with every swoop, and you try, with the utmost effort, to hold in your whimpers but it gets jolted out of you. You’re being scolded, and all you can do is take it. If that isn’t enough to make you reel in mortification—the pool of slick building up between your legs—might stop your heart completely. Ruination overwhelms your imagination, and before it gets too far, you obey, hoping he’ll stop before he notices. “Okay, fine. Fine—I’ll behave, okay? Can you let me go now?”

“See how easy that was?” he leers, coyly playing with the lace of your panties, cerulean lace to match the deep blue of your nightgown, and he admires the dedication to craft. It’s a satisfying match. The end of his strikes leave a daunting hush to fill, but as you try to dismiss the ache that cries for his attention, he pries your thighs apart, tightly locked, and slides his palm down your clothed slit. It’s damp.

You try to jump forward. “Don’t you fucking dare—!”

He vigorously smacks your ass to cut your words down, letting it get trapped in a hoarse gasp that thrums against the back of your throat. His palm sinks between your thighs, wrist trapped in between, presses the fabric into your sodden cunt. “It’s wet. What’s goin’ on here?”

“Don’t,” he presses the flat pane of his fingers to your clit, “—wait.” 

“Now why would I do that?” he sneers, lifting the fabric, pulling upwards until it sinks between your soaked slit like a thong and tugs purposefully to make sure it presses firmly against your swollen nub. A low chuckle rumbles inside of his chest when your head flops against the side of his thigh, earning throaty gasps that almost resemble frenzied hiccups when he manoeuvres the fabric to just barely scratch the surface.

He’s tugging, and tugging, until your cunt squeezes for more, and he can see the soft lustre of slick—it’s as clear as day.

He continues to display his amusement in soft chortles; torment was his pastime, and he’s enjoying this, whittling you down into nothing but a toy to be played with. Just as you think it’s enough, he smacks your ass once again, hard and fast, an abnormal speed that almost diverts your attention from the prompt pull of your underwear, until he’s dragging it down to your ankles. Your cries of shock—chagrined—ends with another callous strike to your ass.

Two, thick fingers sink down to trap your clit between its slenderness, motioned up and down to stimulate it. “Fuckin’ soaked. Who got you like this?”

Oh, he knows.

This asshole knows (or, he really is oblivious to his own allure—the latter seems impossible).

“I’ll remember your voice,” you shakily threaten—hard not to, his cadence carried a slow twang to it, a level of poise that couldn’t be found in any of the intruders. Perhaps, just aged a little more than the rest, fine wine. It’s difficult to focus on that now when his fingers are squeezing your nub, scissoring, then the flat pane of his digits rub circles around it, causing your legs to flail about in the air, crook upwards, toes curling until it tenses, “—I’ll send you straight to pri—ah!”

He's established a pattern now, cutting your curses and threats short with a harsh blow to your ass, yet overwhelming your senses with the unrelenting motions against your clit. “Don’t get mad at me, princess. With a poor attitude like that, this is just a slap on the wrist.”

“Yeah? How do you think I should—fu—should talk to someone who’s threatening me with a gun? Stealing all my—my—”

“Steal what?” he follows, languidly drawing circles to worsen that ache.

You can’t answer, slacked against his body, cursing under your breath.

“Talk like ya want to live,” he chuckles, answering your question, indulging in how your weak cries erupt whenever he reverts your attention back to him with a cruel smack. “You’re enjoyin’ this a little too much, don’t ya think?”

It’s too much.

A mend of guilt and lust cloyed in your gut builds up, until a mirage is formed before your ears, crafted by budding tears. It’s as though he knows your body; what strings to pull, when to stop, when to start again, prolong your suffering and intensify your desperation. Even as you try to bite down on your whining, soft squelches resound the room when he picks up the pace, applying pressure and rubbing your swollen nub feverishly.

Then he slows down, presses down even harder, and watches you squirm in his lap.

And repeat.

“Let me go,” you shudder, jutting your hips into his thigh. Nothing about your actions can make sense of your tearful pleas. “Let me go! Just take the money and oh g—”

He takes your objection as a sign of wanting more, slowly nudging two of his thick, sticky fingers into your cunt, welcomed with heat, slicked walls that clenches fitfully around him. He stretches his fingers to shape your walls, twists and curls them. “I don’t think you want that.”

You soak his fingers knuckle-deep, feeding his huge ego with noises you fail to keep trapped beneath your tongue. He lets you slack against his lap, works at your pussy with the utmost intensity, motioning them back and forth, returning with a flood of slick. You’re numbed, chest tightened, and your focus is only brought back when he slaps your ass, demanding your attention once more.

Murmurs under his breath, uncaring to whether you can hear, and watches his fingers sink further inside. “Fuck, that’s tight.”

You say whatever comes to mind, incoherent and senseless. “F—f—shit—asshole!”

“What a mouth you got,” he tuts, momentarily tending to your aching nub before crooking his fingers further inside; exploring, caving to the senseless contractions and bumps into every corner he can brush. “What did I say?”

“I’m s—sorry,” you whimper when he intentionally misses the mark. He hums in approval, running the one hand that isn’t defiling you along your back, slinking around your nape to hold your head up, so you can catch him in your peripheral vision—he wants to watch. You can feel his eyes burn into the side of your head, gaze drifting to every contortion on your face, then he curls his fingers just right. Right where you want it; that spot that encourages black splotches to corner your blurry eyesight, moans unfiltered and far too sickly sweet for his own palate.

“Did I move too fast, doll?” he mocks, immediately pulling away.

“No. No, don’t do that.”

“Yeah? Want me to keep rubbin’ right here?” he pretends to be unaware, or so blatant that he wants you to know that it’s just a façade to get you to be more vocal, to beg, returning to that sensitive spot. “This it? That feel good?”

You can only muster an incoherent sound, something of a hum and a cry, nodding fretfully as your cheeks begin to soak your tears.

He watches in awe as you convulse in his lap, sliding his hand further down your neck to keeps you upright. “You want it, don’t ya? Say the word, and I might consider it.”

“I can’t—”

“Ya can’t what? Come?” he taunts, as though he didn’t spend his time torturing you, now relentlessly pushing you to a violent climax. “It’s obvious y'r piece of shit husband doesn’t know how to touch you properly, so it’s up to you, princess.”

“F—fuck. Yes, okay—okay. Please.” You say the word, through gritted teeth, shuddering when he refuses to rest.

Your clenched jaw slacks when he abruptly curls his fingers again, brushing your sweet spot with precision; back arches uncomfortably with your restrictive handcuffs and his hand wrapped around your neck, it moves away to knead at your ass again, to watch the slick run down your thighs—to his lap, and your head flops. Splatters of tears fall to the fuzzy carpet, disappearing in fields of wool. “This tight cunt is drippin’ all over my fingers. You get fucked by intruders often?”

“Shut—shut up,” you whimper, eyes squinting shut as he tugs at that sated pull, the heat in your abdomen spreads. “Just like that—oh my g—”

“Naughty, naughty wife,” he emphasises the word to make you remember where you are, your reality that’ll eventually sink in when he’s done with you. But something hard prods your lower abdomen, and it grows. “Should save us some time and fuck this pussy right now.”

You clamp down on his fingers, refrain from vocally letting him know that you’ll completely break if he doesn’t.

“Oh? Ya want that?”

His fingers fasten, clapping against the plush of your ass, earning louder squelches and wanton moans. Contact connected by strings of slick, and it’s vulgar. You almost forget that there’s still a bunch of intruders in your home, and your chef—

“Oh f—I’m close—oh sir, I’m so cl—”

“Sir? Yeah?” he relishes in the way you formally address him—a sign of respect for a man who doesn’t deserve it. “This pretty pussy really wants someone like me to fuck it?”

“Hm, please. Please.” You shamefully whimper, succumbing to your urges.

But he’s unkind, doesn’t intend on serving your needs right now, and pulls away, ends with a strike louder and harder than all the ones before, distracting you from the hollowness that resides within you. “Too bad. You don’t fuckin’ deserve it.”

He pulls you up using your handcuffs, suddenly hurling you onto the bed to confront the burly man holding a voracious gaze, pins you down with it, both of his arms entrapping you in his shadow.

“Like I said, put that mouth to work,” he echoes as you sink under his weight, the bed unfamiliar but so forgiving to this foreign presence, “…and maybe, just maybe, I’ll consider it.”

Intensely, you reciprocate his ravenous stare.

Your disdain for the intruder returns, it’s coupled with lust this time. “Yes, sir.”

It’s laced in ridicule, and he can tell, scoffing before he yanks you forward, causing you to fall to your knees with a quick thud. His bulge meets you at eye-level, earning a budding eagerness that settles in your gut. He’s slow, unzipping his pants in a pace that has your fingertips clawing at the handcuffs, drawing blood.

When he pulls his briefs down, your jaw slackens, back straightens—it rises, thickens, and his size is monstrous.

You must be losing your mind. “What? Ya like what you see?”

Absolute girth that leads to a rose-burn tip, and it oozes, unpigmented veins that protrude on either side, earns a soft lustre when he thumbs his cockhead, rubs it all over. It’s not enough, so he spits on his hand, swivels around his fat cock to your own dismay; his bulbous tip to the mound of hair that settles above his fisted grip, it sucks you into a hypnotic trance that you can’t get out of.

He holds it, heavy in his hand, and presses the other to your head. “Don’t have all night,” he slurs, directs it to your parted mouth, and it puckers around his leaking tip, following his stare once you’ve wrapped wholly around it. It’s a slight burn to the inner corner of your mouth, but your tongue glides over the thick shaft, carefully whelming his cock. “Just like that, good girl.”

A guttural moan barely draws from his mouth when you hollow your cheeks, half-way there, sucking and bobbing to submerge his cock in the warmth of yours. His neck strains beneath the hem of his mask, jaw clenched, and his hold tightens until your roots begin to tear.

“That mouth can’t take anymore, huh?” he scoffs, forcing you further down his cock. He’s unforgiving, barging past your gritting throat to sink as deep as he can, and he does, clogging your senses with his musk and sheer girth, he begins his merciless thrusts. “Such a slut, letting the big bad guy fuck your throat? How do ya think your husband’s gonna feel when he finds out?”

You scowl at him, wondering if this trespasser had any grit in making your life any more difficult (but you couldn’t test that). You can’t focus beyond his unrelenting thrusts, relaxing your jaw to give him a better opening, slobber slipping down your chin. It’s messy—meeting a mound of hair with every thrust—gargling under the concoction of fluids puddled in your throat. You slicked his cock just right.

But your cunt throbs at the sight of his jade eyes, dazed, squinting as his abdomen flexes, hips stuttering.

You can sense a manic grin behind his mask. His tone is thicker. “What? Do ya think I’m bluffin'?”

His control mildly cracks, desperation seeping through gritted teeth, grinding into the heat of your mouth; it’s a gradual shift to such a cruel pace, holding your head still when his tip settles in your throat, hindering your breath for a few seconds, and returns to drag it along your tongue. He doesn’t even let you hack, cough or catch a meaningful breath, and chases a marble euphoria.

He chuckles through his mask. “Poor wife’s too desperate to get fucked to realise the camera's still on?”

There it is.

The bluff that simply doesn’t exist, because a man of this poise, could never bluff—he delivers.

His grip on your hand loosens, letting you messily bob your head, still dying to satisfy him despite your grasp on the situation. His other hand spins the camera around, directing your attention to the red glimmer in the corner, (it’s still on, if you couldn’t tell). “See your wife, asshole? Ya heard everythin’, right?”

Handcuffed, mouth stuffed full, and the ache between your thighs overwhelm your hindered senses—unsure whether you should be livid that he set up like this or letting him do so in spite of your estranged husband. He huffs in disbelief when you lick a long strip along his length, sucking on his cockhead and nudging the tip of your tongue into his slit, earning a strained hiss.

Strings of snot and saliva connect your cheeks to him, it’s all so wet, coupled with your tears and his persistence.

He thrusts his hips forward, taking back control. “A tight cunt, and a mouth like this, I’d start cherishin’ her,” he breathily mutters, your gurgles are savoured, chased after, and he’s insistent on making it hurt, until it’s permanent, that feeling of his cock shaping your throat. His head lolls back, and you notice the beads of sweat gleaming on his neck. “F—fuck.”

His hips stutter, and he directs all of his attention to you, placing both of his hands on your marbleized cheeks, angling his torso upright to get a clear, self-indulgent look at your face; upturned eyebrows, hollowed cheeks, and webbed eyelashes, like dewdrops. He’s slow with it, observing the way your glazed lips wrap perfectly around his cock—the way he melts into your mouth, sweltering.

It does feed your ego. Even though you’re unable to see his expressions through his mask, he makes no effort to hide it; carnal panting that bleeds through his disguise, eyes squeezing shut and head falling back with every suck. He lowers the camera. “Wanna watch me cum down your wife’s throat?”

You moan at the thought, and he could read you. It’s the rush of it all, (and now you think, surely, the rest of the penthouse couldn’t hear this). It’ll tear through him soon enough—a gale of white.

“Fuckin’ slut. She wants it.” He grunts through his mask, still talking to the camera, and it’s obvious, he clearly had something to prove. He releases you before he breaks. “Nah, I got somethin’ better.”

He gives you a moment to respite, hacking from the pulsation at the back of your throat. Pulls you up by your arms, heaves you towards the bed again, adjusting you on all fours so that your soaked cunt is in clear sight, for him and the camera. “Wait—wait, the camera—”

Interrupts your stammering with a slap to your tender ass, kneading it just to indulge in the slick that makes a mess of you, all the way down to your inner thighs. “I’ll fuck you dumb. Tell me how much you want it.”

“Please.” You beg, muffled by your duvet.

“Don’t think you want it enough,” he tuts, the bed dips beneath him and he positions himself behind you. “A mouth that loose never knows how to beg. Try again. Loud and clear.”

His thick tip rubs along your slit. You’re already humiliated by the situation, and the camera beeps to make you aware, the brunt of your dilemma lied with your stubbornness. You lift your head from the duvet, and grit through your teeth. “Can you please just fuck me. Hard—fuck me hard, please. I want it so bad.”

“Better.” He nods. “Ya hear that?” he speaks to the camera—reminding you that this is for your husband; your submission and this vulgar display of betrayal. Whoever this is, behind that mask, has you, wholly and completely. He lightly smacks your ass in approval, looms over you to conceal the lewd sight of your cunt leaking for him, slapping his cockhead against your swollen clit.

You want to run, in spite of your loose tongue, an intense burn rendering you feeble when he slowly sinks in, stifled grunts seeping through his mask. It bleeds through. Instead, you clamp down, and he pulls you back with a bruising force to nudge most of his girth inside, keeps muttering under his breath: “f—so tight, so fuckin’ tight.”

He's barely bottomless, yet you already feel so full. He hooks his grip onto you, and pounces.

“Ugh—!”

Skin-to-skin contact, connected by twines of your slick, and lecherous moans reverberate the bedroom, and you probably envision it sounding much worse recorded (or, maybe he intended on it looking like a homemade porno involving some heavy “roleplaying”), sinking into the duvet as if it were a cocoon. Fucks you just as you want it. It becomes much more difficult to let the undoubted sin settle in at this point. Every argument against getting fucked by this masked intruder glares red until it doesn’t, because he’s already fucked every coherent thought out of you.

Not when it feels this good. Not when that cloyed heat is ready to spread; coating his cock in so much slick that obscene squelches flatten against your bodies. Wanton moans that’ll plague your husband for weeks, months, maybe even years if this video gets out—a wretched memento in the form of a videotape, for the deserter; it isn’t him that’s fucking you this good.

These isn’t fake—it’s real.

To your discontent, your nightgown clings to your perspiring skin, all sticky and sweltering, as if you’re made of marble, and the both of you are still clothed in some way. The desire to see him nude grows by the minute; how sheen might cover his undulating chest, how his bare bulky arms would flex as he bounces you on his cock—

“You up?” he says, interrupting your indecent train of thoughts. “Don’t tell me you’re already givin’ out on me?”

“No, no—fuck, just feels so good,” you blubber, fighting through the heaviness of your eyelids. He hums in response, playing with the metal cuffs, before his movements start to hit a little harder; a small thud eliciting as he meets your ass, speeding up his thrusts. “Faster—just like that, ugh!”

“Yeah?” he chortles, slipping out to place you sideways, so this way, your eyes that teem with desperation meet the galling red, it flickers with your fluttering eyelids. He hooks one of your legs over his shoulder, and rams into your sopping cunt. “Let em’ know how good I’m fuckin’ you.”

“M’ so good,” drool trickles down the side of your mouth, barely comprehending his request as his cock drills into your cunt, unrelenting. It doesn’t help that he’s hitting the right spot, grinding into it, filling you to the brim and paying close attention to every pathetic whine that escapes you. “Harder—sir, please, fuck me harder.”

“Harder?” He repeats, shortly slips out once again and slaps his tip against your engorged clit. “Poor wife doesn’t get fucked the way she wants? Made her all desperate. C’mere.”

He sits up to haul you up onto his lap, into another position, but still in perfect view for the camera, with your legs pried apart by his burly thighs and your back pressed against his front. Bearing your sights to the red light that remains on; he’s aligning his cock with your cunt once more, heavy panting seeping through his mask, and it warms your neck.

You hastily sink down on his cock once more, trembling as his hands knead at your waist, wordlessly coaxing you through his girth. The restraints make it difficult for you to keep balanced, but his arms circle around your abdomen, trapping you in the heat of his embrace. You’re submerged in it, grinding hastily once he nearly bottoms out.

“Pretty fuckin’ nightgown, hm?” he observes the flimsy material, resting his chin on your shoulder as the straps slip off, “…bet it’s expensive,” he goes on, traces the hem with his finger, and it feels familiar, “...might have to take this with me too.”

Your head droops back onto his shoulder, hoping that he’ll just rip off that mask and blemish your skin with salivated marks, but alas, he focuses on your nightgown. Dazed, your soft grinding sparks another return of that heat, scorching, but you’re completely unprepared for when he pulls your nightgown down from the neckline, a strident rip following his forceful tug.

His hands instantly draw to your breasts, tugging and pinching at your aching nipples while you jump on his thick cock, feet flattered against the bed. Your bounces are sporadic, followed by eager grinding; it’s staggered, and sloppy, unable to balance yourself with your hands constrained like this. Your blurry gaze avoids the camera as you chase your orgasm, recoiling when you unintentionally slip further down, feeling a sudden intrusion, a burning kiss to the rim of your cervix. 

He groans loudly when you do so, firmly grips your hips to force you down his entire shaft, and it’s mind-numbing.

“Oh—fuck! Too deep.” You whine, sensing his carnal desire sink in, and it does. He lifts your legs up by your knees, slowly thrusting his hips upwards as your wetness sloshes around his cock.

“You can take it. You want it harder, right?” he breathlessly utters (just like you asked). He pays no mind to your apprehension—a mend of pain and pleasure spreading like wildfire, and he’s sadistic, completely bottoms out and picks up a merciless pace.

His balls slap against your sodden cheeks, being held in a near full-nelson, hands snaked beneath your knees to hook around your neck, and breasts bouncing with every thrust. It doesn’t go unnoticed. It’s ear-splitting; the only sounds that boom through your residence are your undisputed pornographic moans, his laboured panting and the noisy clapping of his skin meeting yours. But you’re too fucked out to care, feeling your climax rise and rise until it sits in your gut in one hysterical coil, just eager to burst.

An undoubted fact; it's terrible that a trespasser is fucking you this good, and it should anger you, but it only intensifies your desire—it’s unconventional, and downright bad, and you succumb to his thick cock. He removes his hands from your head, fingers suddenly reach out for your clit, as though he can read you, rubbing relentlessly as you tremble around him. “I'm cumming—!”

“Yeah?” He breathily whispers against your ear, “…cum all over my cock. Make sure you scream loud and clear for me, hm?”

“Ugh—! Sir!”

Gushing all over his cock, splashes of slick spurting off his rapid fingertips and his pounding, you convulse against his brute force. Your teary eyes peer down at the mess, sheer horror contorting your face, but he continues to fuck it out of you—picks up the pace, in awe of you squirting all over him. “F—, you’re makin’ such a mess. Don’t fuckin’ stop—keep cummin’ for me.”

It pours all over him, onto your thighs, his thighs, your stomach and your carpet. He doesn’t stop thrusting, pressing his fingers onto your oversensitive clit with even more force. Clear slick, light and thin, irregularly spurts out of you, and your thighs close around his remorseless motions, far too sensitive to go on. You only manage to trap his arm between your thighs, encouraging the hasty taps he places on your swollen nub.

He pulls his arm from you, momentarily digging through his pants that rest just above his knees.

“Bet ya dying for someone to fill you right up,” he hoarsely growls, following a sudden click. He uncuffs you, and your arms loosen, muscles still tense when the handcuffs get thrown across the bed. There’s a gnawing hope that he might use this chance to embrace you, but instead, his thrusts speed up again, the warmth of his chest waning as he lies down, hammering into your cunt with the utmost desire. It’s animalistic. “Take it.”

Your hands immediately reach for his thighs, gripping tightly as your cunt milks him dry. “Slow down.”

“You wanted this, doll,” he spits, pulling you down against his chest so that your head slumps over his shoulder once again. He bends his knees upwards, lifting his hips to glide his cock between your walls, meeting a delicious crush. His arms wrap around your waist and neck, and he carelessly squeezes. “Should’ve known you were a slut, fit into you perfectly. Fuck.”

“Let—let me see you,” you beg, succumbing to his merciless thrusts. “Please.”

“Uh, uh, not tonight, baby,” he coolly responds, hips stuttering. His balls slap against your ass, chasing the most insanely, lewd sounds of your cum coating his cock. He’s so close, frenzied, stuttering . “F—fuck, gonna fill this sweet cunt up. Make it all mine.”

You fondle your breasts. “Make it all yours.”

Holding your legs up, he pushes his cock further in, spurting his cum inside of you in one prolonged moment. His balls tighten and a rush of heat sprays your insides and it’s never been this filling. You clench around him, feeling your arousal swell into another rush of heat but he slows down, making sure it stays inside, eases your need to go again.

His cock slowly slips out, and clear white oozes out of your cunt shortly after, with staggered, lazy breathing circling this thick stillness. You fail to remove yourself from his embrace, all alarms in your mind (strangely resembling your security alarms that woke you up at this odd hour) blaring loudly as reality settles in.

Did an intruder seriously just give you the best fuck of your life?

On camera?

He carefully places you next to him, clearly not as exhausted as you are as he gets off the bed, adjusting his clothes and walks up to the camera. He briefly turns back to you; satisfied to find you drained and smeared with cum and sweat before he turns off the camera, following a chesty chuckle that’ll probably plague your filthy dreams. Riddled with guilt and fatigue, your lidded eyes submit to its heaviness.

“Your fingerprints…—they’re all over the place.” You tiredly mutter. You don’t why you’re even concerned, and before you try to find him, he’s already hovering over you.

For some reason, you crave more.

“He won’t do anything,” he chuckles, grabbing your chin, swiping a thumb across your glossy lips. “Because he knows exactly what’ll happen if he does, and you know what,” he leans further to whisper at your ear, and the next few words make your heart lurch to your throat once again. his fingers trail downwards, slowly rubbing your sensitive nub, coating itself in your slick once again. You flinch. “If he does end up seein’ this part of the video, he’ll know exactly who just fucked his wife.”

Silence overtakes you, trying to register the meaning of his words as he slowly saunters out of your room.

“Nice place by the way.”

author's note this is a reupload [and rewritten and made longer because my writing is always changing]. hope u enjoyed! i still love masked toji <3

heh :-)

Betraying Friendship for Earth Shattering Dick

Summary: You, Yuuji, and Nobara are finally visiting secretive Megumi’s house, but you weren’t expecting his father to look like that.

Tags: MDNI ageless blogs will be blocked, pwp, dilf toji, mean toji, but also soft toji, brat tamer toji, sleeping with a friend’s dad, soft moments with friends thrown in

Words: 8915

Warnings: daddy kink, name calling (slut, whore, bitch), age gap (Toji is 40 and y/n is in her twenties), spanking, overstimulation, dom/sub elements, safe words, drinking, use of daddy and sir, slapping, spanking, throat fucking, choking, creampie, cum play, pinnning down, breathplay

Megumi has always been a private person—though that might’ve been an understatement—so it wasn’t a surprise that you knew nothing of his parents. He only ever mentioned his father in passing, but nothing of his mother. You noticed whenever mothers were brought up, his eyes would gloss over and he would go somewhere else mentally, so you never pushed it, but you were always curious.

You never expected to be outside Megumi Fushiguro’s house and about to find an answer to said question.

Keep reading

H-he so mean but like the masochistic  whore in me still wants him🥺

the intruder (m)

pairing fushiguro toji + fem!reader

synopsis

a home invasion befalls your lonely penthouse just days after your husband goes on work retreat, and it turns out he’s indebted to a lot of dangerous people.

but for a certain intruder, money isn’t the only thing on his mind.  

content warnings explicit content, infidelity, threats of blood and violence, dubious consent, unprotected sex, size kink, use of handcuffs, brat-taming, pet-names, oral (m receiving), fingering, orgasm denial, nonconsensual recording, riding, cervix-bumping, praise + degradation, squirting, hair-pulling, breeding kink (sort of), choking, toji is masked the entire time but loves to put on a show,

word count 7,500+

read on ao3

MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS DO NOT INTERACT

Several built-in security cams, a motion-detected entrance, and a generously paid night-team.

In all honesty, this must’ve been a set-up.

Perhaps, a tasteless prank. How six masked intruders managed to break into your penthouse just a few days after your now-estranged husband left for a retreat is beyond you. All of these security inspections to ensure that your penthouse was impenetrable, and yet, above twenty-seven floors, befell a home invasion.

The penthouse was dim-lit, muted by the cityscape and exposed on slender, double-paned windows. In a private residential building, designed for the vieux-riche and white-collared, there was no room for the ordinary. 

One of the masked intruders noisily whistles, swivelling his large frame as he gawks at the interior. “Impressive.”

“You can stare later,” another says, dropping his duffle bag onto your modular sofa, “hurry up and take what you can.”

Reeling from your sudden wake, forcibly handcuffed to a radiator pipe. It had only been a few hours before you were abruptly forced from your bed, held at gunpoint to keep quiet, and lured into the living room to watch your home be ransacked to skint. Carelessly—along with their heavy bags, filled to the brim—they pace around with a gun you’re convinced couldn’t be loaded.

If it weren’t for your composure, you’d be dead already.

“All this space,” a disillusioned voice scorns from another room, unseen. “For what? Three people?”

“Two, asshole.” You mutter under your breath.

“You got a smart mouth, lady,” the brawny man—jade eyes discerned from the dark-grey ski mask covering the rest of his face, kneels down in front of you. (You definitely whispered it, and he definitely wasn’t close enough to hear that). “Do I need to shut you up as well?”

It's demeaning. With a tight lip, wavered to the tremor of having your life under threat, you turn away to avoid his stern gaze. Turned to your chef, teary-eyed and pale-stricken, muffled by a roughly knotted tie found in your husband’s drawers. Made an example of, gagged like her so that you were forced to keep quiet on your accord. It didn’t stop her, worsening the situation with every stifled wail, earning an empty threat from every passing intruder.

For the sake of not having another gun pressed against your temple, you simply watch. Observe.

Sheathed in puffer jackets and black ski-masks, they had been hard to distinguish from one another.

Except one.

One of them had the audacity of disregarding a jacket, wearing a simple black, tight-fitted t-shirt that defined every ridge and curve of his upper frame. He didn’t even bother wearing gloves. The way he simply tampered with the emergency line and security cams made you think he’d been here before, familiar. And if that were the case, then you were in trouble.

Guilty, very guilty of noticing how his bulky arms would tense with every movement. Flexed under every packed bag or veined by alabaster protrusions; a pitiful thing to notice while he carried your belongings. His voice sunk twenty-feet down your spine as if you were made of bottomless chasms—another reason why you’d be able to differentiate him from the rest.

It didn’t matter. He carried a poise that told you this wasn’t his first time; overly confident and tactful.

And this reckoning was coming.

Your husband was a conglomerate who attempted to juggle risky affairs with his company matters, leaving at odd hours and returning with rum-iced breath and a sunken gaze. A driving force behind the rift in your marriage, consumed with an undying urge to flood his bank accounts with more money, gluttonous. This was something you should’ve seen coming, but he had abandoned you at a shadily specific time; a work retreat he’d call it, important matters to be handled in Hokkaido with an urgency that left you no choice but to let him leave.

You nearly doze off, worn-out from the constant manhandling before one of the intruders’ pace towards you. He kneels down, pats your cheek with the muzzle of his gun. “Hey,” he exhales, vexed. “Where’s the rest of the money?”

​​You jadedly sigh, overrun with the same questions that all boil down to one inadequate answer: “I don’t know.” He exhales even louder, clasping the gun tighter. “How many times do I have to tell you? I don’t know.”

You do, kind of. It’s a teeny lie because while trust did go both ways in a four-year marriage, there had been little disclosure around his work between the two of you. As newly-weds, he swore to confide in you but since moving into this penthouse, he had completely left you in the dark; distance grew, and the double-glazed windows grew longer and there was a void to this place that had an odd semblance to your love life.

You knew that he had a hidden room, a vault, somewhere in his library, but that’s how far it went. Company files (and filthy secrets), heaps of cash, prized possessions, family heirlooms and a few weapons to spare—all for him to touch, and for you to bear the consequences of.

But when you think you’ve convinced the brutish man, he suddenly presses a gun to your chef’s head, who wails through the gag shoved into her mouth like a leaking pipe. “I’ll give you another chance to tell me something I want to hear, and if you don’t, I’ll blow her brains out.”

Untold confessions burn into bile. “I don’t know.”

He heaves through the mask. “I’ll count to three then,” he grits his teeth, presses it forcefully to her temple as she continues to shriek. “One,” he begins while your resolve slowly breaks down, “two,” the trigger squeaks under his thumb, “t—”

“—it’s in the library, I think. But I don’t know where—”

“Behind the bookshelf, huh?”

A familiar voice says from the distance, earning a burst of mirth from the group of masked men as a loud creak resounds the penthouse; your eyes flutter closed in a strange feeling of relief and discontent, slumping against the radiator when they leave to join him in the library. As a ruffle ensues over there, you’re forsaken to observe your chef’s unkempt state, whom you nearly killed because of your misplaced loyalty.

The guilt chews at your own resolve, unable to find the words to console her or aid your own discomfort. Before you can even think to do so, he walks in—saunters with a smugness that forces you to bite back a curse, and a brimmed duffle bag. He drops it before walking towards you, crouching down once again to meet your surly gaze, teary and loathing. He spends a fleeting moment observing your twisted expression, clearly reeling from the very real threat of gunpoint. And he’s relishing it.

He's eerily quiet, calm. Somehow, it’s worse than the other man’s fiery temperament.

“You got what you wanted, you can take it and leave.” You utter with a weak lilt.

“I don’t think I have,” he retorts casually, his head cocked to the side. The glimmer in his eye changes like a heavy tide on a full moon, eventually settling on an impish gaze that bursts with inspiration. “Now, why is the lovely wife here when she should be with her husband?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“How do ya expect to live with an attitude like that?” he asks, clearly unaffected by your hostility. If it were anyone else, they’d put a bullet in your head already.

“Next time? With a gun.” 

He chortles through the mask, and you can even hear a wicked smirk brush against the fabric. “What makes you think there’s a next time?” he chides, picks up a piece of fluff from your cheek, and you nearly flinch. “Maybe I’d be doing your husband a favour then. What do you think, lady?”

He turns to your chef, still cowering in her spot, momentarily pauses her snivelling to register his question. The masked man tuts, roughly yanking the gag from her mouth, doused in spit and snot. She takes the release as a false invitation to blubber pleas, it goes on and on and on, which he lets happen until he’s had his fill—he’s a psycho. 

“Hey,” he respires, “shut up.”

She promptly closes her mouth.

“She a good wife?” he asks, nudging his head towards you like he’s indulging in weekly gossip, pinning the poor lady’s frame down with his gaze. Your chef can only deduct from what she sees, and she has seen… a lot; enough to gauge that there was nothing respectable about the truth.

“Good wife—no, not really. They—uh, they fight a lot.” She mutters.

“Ouch,” he scratches the skin behind his ear, turning to you. “No wonder he left such a pretty thing behind.”

You’re rendered wordless, a heat cloyed in your gut.

“How about this,” he says, fiddling with your handcuffs. When his fingers brush against your skin, it sends a evanescing shudder through your body—it’s cold. “How about you help me send your husband a little message?”

“But—” you sputter, beat. “—but don’t you have what you need?”

“Nah,” he says, unshackling you from the pipes and firmly grabbing your upper arm to haul you up. He’s far stronger, manhandles you through the hallways as though you’re lightweight—you must be—for arms that bulky, he’d be able to lift a car. “Not quite satisfied yet, princess.”

“Where are you taking me?” you exclaim as obscurity swallows you whole, separated from the commotion in the living room.

But you’re stumbling into your bedroom; torso lurched onto the chair he rolls from your desk, the windows draped in velvet curtains, but there’s subdued moonglow seeping through and it pales his exposed skin. He handcuffs you once more, behind the backrest of your chair this time, demanding a camera from one of the other intruders.

The brawny man pulls you to centre stage, in front of him, and mutters with a caustic swing. “Don’t be scared.”

It’s not reassuring at the slightest—it’s not meant to be. You thrash against the handcuffs, watching in confusion as one of his hot-headed subordinates return with a thick-lensed camera and tripod. He makes note of the ring-light at your desk and pulls it over to him as well. Your efforts are to no avail, slumped in a satin blue nightgown that creases just above your knees.

“If you’re going to kill me,” you sigh, admitting defeat. “At least make it quick.”

It is difficult to read him when he’s hiding behind a mask, but his calmness resides in his mannerisms. He gives no allusion that he wants to kill you, but that’s worse—his temperament is completely unreadable, and there’s nothing you can do but try to draw an actual answer from him. “Kill you? What kind of message would that send?”

Maybe you’re digging your own grave instead. “That—that you leave no witnesses?”

He chortles at your response, stretching his limbs once he’s done adjusting the camera. His burly arms extend above his head and his shirt fleetingly lifts to reveal his terribly toned abdomen, freckled with swirling hairs around his belly button and a thick mound of it just peeking above the hem of his boxers. You no longer try to make sense of what that sated pull in your gut means, (whatever it is, it’s bad-mannered).

“Careful now, you’ll make it sound like a good idea.”

“Then what? What do you want with me?” you push, frustrated.

He evades your question once again, clearly not up for any transparency and instead, he turns on the camera; a red flicker that beeps just below the large lenses, then he abruptly switches on the ring-light, adjusted to the brightest level and you quickly turn away, flinching.

“State your name.” He simply orders.

“What?” you ask, barely able to see him past the glaring light.

“State your name, and don’t make me repeat myself.”

Hesitantly, you drone each syllable of your name. Your eyes drift idly to the carpet, to whatever can hold your attention, anything is better than the beam of light sharply meeting your retina.

“Look at me,” he focuses your attention onto him, where he stands a little closer, slightly shadowing the shaft of light behind him and when you meet his gaze, intimidated by his large stature, you’re taken aback. “Say it again.”

You state it clearly this time, with a sourness—a harsh bite to each word that doesn’t go unnoticed by him, but he’s somewhat satisfied, nodding in approval. “Good girl.”

The sudden term sends another awkward twinge to your gut (or, to the part of you that throbs mindlessly, without will, just want). You ignore it, watching fretfully as he picks up a few papers the other guy dropped onto your bed earlier.

“You can read a script, right?” he neatly folds the papers together. “I want you, princess, to tell your husband what’ll happen if he doesn’t bring the rest of my money by the end of this month.”

“Hm?”

He stands by the camera once again and hangs the first page beside his face. It’s written in a very large font, as though it was intended for a reader unable to see from this distance, or they were merely in a rush. Impatient, he sighs. “Speak up.”

“They—they’ll tell everyone about the operations behind his company,” you murmur, trying to digest the information written on the piece of paper. Reality thickens, and everything you suspected your husband to be involved in now holds substance to it. “What operations?”

“Recite this.” He says, displaying the second page.

“Oh my g—”

“Hey, recite it.”

You recite it—word for word—every single shady job that transpires beneath the company’s general operations and it leads to an obvious conclusion; he moves drugs. Whoever these guys are, they’re shady and fucked-up, but they’re borne by your husband’s misdemeanours. He had clearly crossed them, and now he had left you to suffer the consequences.

“Suppose it’s better that it comes from his own wife, right?” he says, putting the papers away. “You see,” he directly says to you, instead of the camera, “if he fails, I’ll come back to finish the job, and this video—all those documents, they go live, understood?” 

Indignation rattles your chest, and you’re not sure who you’re mad at, the perpetrators or the intended target who abandoned you. “So, what? You’re all drug dealers, then? Fuck you. You couldn’t threaten him yours—mph!”

He grabs your chin, stifling the rest of your tirade—it boils at the tip of your tongue, and he touches it, sliding a thumb across your bottom lip. “That mouth of yours,” he murmurs, squinting down at your resentful gaze, jaw clenched, and chest heaved, “—don’t think a gag is going to fix that attitude.”

“Then why don’t you just kill me?”

“I could,” he mulls with a shrug, pressing down on the tongue that craves a good finish, between the teeth that itches to bite it. There’s an eyelash just above your cheek, and he slowly picks it off. It’s a thick tension you could slice with a butcher’s knife, one apparent beneath the ongoing silence while he ponders on his next motives. “Or I could put that mouth to better use.”

Your face twists in puzzlement, unable to take in the turn of events when he’s suddenly uncuffing you, just to cuff you again once you’ve stood up.

He turns to the masked man at the door, who has been idly standing there for a while, awaiting his next instructions. “Load up the van.”

Eventually (and soundlessly) he walks away, nearly intrigued if not for the brawny man’s firm instructions, leaving the both of you alone to the stillness. When you’re dragged to the end of the bed, he sits and pulls you towards him—flailing and protests falling short when he swiftly bends you over his lap—one hand pushing your lower back down, the other lifting your nightgown up.

Your torso stretches against his thighs. “What—what are you—oh!”

A shrill smack suddenly booms, then follows a stinging sensation that settles on your ass cheeks.

You heavily exhale, mind reeling from the echoes of a slap.

And it dawns on you, a cloak of realisation: he just slapped your ass.

Sheer shock and indignation, it churns, disoriented by the brute force of his hand meeting your skin. Your squirming intensifies. “What the fuck?” you exclaim.

“Watch your mouth,” he simply warns, slapping your ass once more; this one is a more cruel, and the burn sticks around for a few more seconds before he lands another one for sport. Every slap is paired with a strained wince, but when he kneads that sore spot, that throbbing pull returns—tenfold—it’s turning you on. “From now on, you’re gonna be on your best behaviour.”

He's mocking you, resorting to childish chastises to make the humiliation of it all sink a little deeper.

He doesn’t care about your attitude.

“Huh? No—”

Another one, it’s now less of a prickle and more of a dull pain, uncomfortable. “What was that?”

“But—”

And another.

All of your protests are countered by an unkind blow, intensified with every swoop, and you try, with the utmost effort, to hold in your whimpers but it gets jolted out of you. You’re being scolded, and all you can do is take it. If that isn’t enough to make you reel in mortification—the pool of slick building up between your legs—might stop your heart completely. Ruination overwhelms your imagination, and before it gets too far, you obey, hoping he’ll stop before he notices. “Okay, fine. Fine—I’ll behave, okay? Can you let me go now?”

“See how easy that was?” he leers, coyly playing with the lace of your panties, cerulean lace to match the deep blue of your nightgown, and he admires the dedication to craft. It’s a satisfying match. The end of his strikes leave a daunting hush to fill, but as you try to dismiss the ache that cries for his attention, he pries your thighs apart, tightly locked, and slides his palm down your clothed slit. It’s damp.

You try to jump forward. “Don’t you fucking dare—!”

He vigorously smacks your ass to cut your words down, letting it get trapped in a hoarse gasp that thrums against the back of your throat. His palm sinks between your thighs, wrist trapped in between, presses the fabric into your sodden cunt. “It’s wet. What’s goin’ on here?”

“Don’t,” he presses the flat pane of his fingers to your clit, “—wait.” 

“Now why would I do that?” he sneers, lifting the fabric, pulling upwards until it sinks between your soaked slit like a thong and tugs purposefully to make sure it presses firmly against your swollen nub. A low chuckle rumbles inside of his chest when your head flops against the side of his thigh, earning throaty gasps that almost resemble frenzied hiccups when he manoeuvres the fabric to just barely scratch the surface.

He’s tugging, and tugging, until your cunt squeezes for more, and he can see the soft lustre of slick—it’s as clear as day.

He continues to display his amusement in soft chortles; torment was his pastime, and he’s enjoying this, whittling you down into nothing but a toy to be played with. Just as you think it’s enough, he smacks your ass once again, hard and fast, an abnormal speed that almost diverts your attention from the prompt pull of your underwear, until he’s dragging it down to your ankles. Your cries of shock—chagrined—ends with another callous strike to your ass.

Two, thick fingers sink down to trap your clit between its slenderness, motioned up and down to stimulate it. “Fuckin’ soaked. Who got you like this?”

Oh, he knows.

This asshole knows (or, he really is oblivious to his own allure—the latter seems impossible).

“I’ll remember your voice,” you shakily threaten—hard not to, his cadence carried a slow twang to it, a level of poise that couldn’t be found in any of the intruders. Perhaps, just aged a little more than the rest, fine wine. It’s difficult to focus on that now when his fingers are squeezing your nub, scissoring, then the flat pane of his digits rub circles around it, causing your legs to flail about in the air, crook upwards, toes curling until it tenses, “—I’ll send you straight to pri—ah!”

He's established a pattern now, cutting your curses and threats short with a harsh blow to your ass, yet overwhelming your senses with the unrelenting motions against your clit. “Don’t get mad at me, princess. With a poor attitude like that, this is just a slap on the wrist.”

“Yeah? How do you think I should—fu—should talk to someone who’s threatening me with a gun? Stealing all my—my—”

“Steal what?” he follows, languidly drawing circles to worsen that ache.

You can’t answer, slacked against his body, cursing under your breath.

“Talk like ya want to live,” he chuckles, answering your question, indulging in how your weak cries erupt whenever he reverts your attention back to him with a cruel smack. “You’re enjoyin’ this a little too much, don’t ya think?”

It’s too much.

A mend of guilt and lust cloyed in your gut builds up, until a mirage is formed before your ears, crafted by budding tears. It’s as though he knows your body; what strings to pull, when to stop, when to start again, prolong your suffering and intensify your desperation. Even as you try to bite down on your whining, soft squelches resound the room when he picks up the pace, applying pressure and rubbing your swollen nub feverishly.

Then he slows down, presses down even harder, and watches you squirm in his lap.

And repeat.

“Let me go,” you shudder, jutting your hips into his thigh. Nothing about your actions can make sense of your tearful pleas. “Let me go! Just take the money and oh g—”

He takes your objection as a sign of wanting more, slowly nudging two of his thick, sticky fingers into your cunt, welcomed with heat, slicked walls that clenches fitfully around him. He stretches his fingers to shape your walls, twists and curls them. “I don’t think you want that.”

You soak his fingers knuckle-deep, feeding his huge ego with noises you fail to keep trapped beneath your tongue. He lets you slack against his lap, works at your pussy with the utmost intensity, motioning them back and forth, returning with a flood of slick. You’re numbed, chest tightened, and your focus is only brought back when he slaps your ass, demanding your attention once more.

Murmurs under his breath, uncaring to whether you can hear, and watches his fingers sink further inside. “Fuck, that’s tight.”

You say whatever comes to mind, incoherent and senseless. “F—f—shit—asshole!”

“What a mouth you got,” he tuts, momentarily tending to your aching nub before crooking his fingers further inside; exploring, caving to the senseless contractions and bumps into every corner he can brush. “What did I say?”

“I’m s—sorry,” you whimper when he intentionally misses the mark. He hums in approval, running the one hand that isn’t defiling you along your back, slinking around your nape to hold your head up, so you can catch him in your peripheral vision—he wants to watch. You can feel his eyes burn into the side of your head, gaze drifting to every contortion on your face, then he curls his fingers just right. Right where you want it; that spot that encourages black splotches to corner your blurry eyesight, moans unfiltered and far too sickly sweet for his own palate.

“Did I move too fast, doll?” he mocks, immediately pulling away.

“No. No, don’t do that.”

“Yeah? Want me to keep rubbin’ right here?” he pretends to be unaware, or so blatant that he wants you to know that it’s just a façade to get you to be more vocal, to beg, returning to that sensitive spot. “This it? That feel good?”

You can only muster an incoherent sound, something of a hum and a cry, nodding fretfully as your cheeks begin to soak your tears.

He watches in awe as you convulse in his lap, sliding his hand further down your neck to keeps you upright. “You want it, don’t ya? Say the word, and I might consider it.”

“I can’t—”

“Ya can’t what? Come?” he taunts, as though he didn’t spend his time torturing you, now relentlessly pushing you to a violent climax. “It’s obvious y'r piece of shit husband doesn’t know how to touch you properly, so it’s up to you, princess.”

“F—fuck. Yes, okay—okay. Please.” You say the word, through gritted teeth, shuddering when he refuses to rest.

Your clenched jaw slacks when he abruptly curls his fingers again, brushing your sweet spot with precision; back arches uncomfortably with your restrictive handcuffs and his hand wrapped around your neck, it moves away to knead at your ass again, to watch the slick run down your thighs—to his lap, and your head flops. Splatters of tears fall to the fuzzy carpet, disappearing in fields of wool. “This tight cunt is drippin’ all over my fingers. You get fucked by intruders often?”

“Shut—shut up,” you whimper, eyes squinting shut as he tugs at that sated pull, the heat in your abdomen spreads. “Just like that—oh my g—”

“Naughty, naughty wife,” he emphasises the word to make you remember where you are, your reality that’ll eventually sink in when he’s done with you. But something hard prods your lower abdomen, and it grows. “Should save us some time and fuck this pussy right now.”

You clamp down on his fingers, refrain from vocally letting him know that you’ll completely break if he doesn’t.

“Oh? Ya want that?”

His fingers fasten, clapping against the plush of your ass, earning louder squelches and wanton moans. Contact connected by strings of slick, and it’s vulgar. You almost forget that there’s still a bunch of intruders in your home, and your chef—

“Oh f—I’m close—oh sir, I’m so cl—”

“Sir? Yeah?” he relishes in the way you formally address him—a sign of respect for a man who doesn’t deserve it. “This pretty pussy really wants someone like me to fuck it?”

“Hm, please. Please.” You shamefully whimper, succumbing to your urges.

But he’s unkind, doesn’t intend on serving your needs right now, and pulls away, ends with a strike louder and harder than all the ones before, distracting you from the hollowness that resides within you. “Too bad. You don’t fuckin’ deserve it.”

He pulls you up using your handcuffs, suddenly hurling you onto the bed to confront the burly man holding a voracious gaze, pins you down with it, both of his arms entrapping you in his shadow.

“Like I said, put that mouth to work,” he echoes as you sink under his weight, the bed unfamiliar but so forgiving to this foreign presence, “…and maybe, just maybe, I’ll consider it.”

Intensely, you reciprocate his ravenous stare.

Your disdain for the intruder returns, it’s coupled with lust this time. “Yes, sir.”

It’s laced in ridicule, and he can tell, scoffing before he yanks you forward, causing you to fall to your knees with a quick thud. His bulge meets you at eye-level, earning a budding eagerness that settles in your gut. He’s slow, unzipping his pants in a pace that has your fingertips clawing at the handcuffs, drawing blood.

When he pulls his briefs down, your jaw slackens, back straightens—it rises, thickens, and his size is monstrous.

You must be losing your mind. “What? Ya like what you see?”

Absolute girth that leads to a rose-burn tip, and it oozes, unpigmented veins that protrude on either side, earns a soft lustre when he thumbs his cockhead, rubs it all over. It’s not enough, so he spits on his hand, swivels around his fat cock to your own dismay; his bulbous tip to the mound of hair that settles above his fisted grip, it sucks you into a hypnotic trance that you can’t get out of.

He holds it, heavy in his hand, and presses the other to your head. “Don’t have all night,” he slurs, directs it to your parted mouth, and it puckers around his leaking tip, following his stare once you’ve wrapped wholly around it. It’s a slight burn to the inner corner of your mouth, but your tongue glides over the thick shaft, carefully whelming his cock. “Just like that, good girl.”

A guttural moan barely draws from his mouth when you hollow your cheeks, half-way there, sucking and bobbing to submerge his cock in the warmth of yours. His neck strains beneath the hem of his mask, jaw clenched, and his hold tightens until your roots begin to tear.

“That mouth can’t take anymore, huh?” he scoffs, forcing you further down his cock. He’s unforgiving, barging past your gritting throat to sink as deep as he can, and he does, clogging your senses with his musk and sheer girth, he begins his merciless thrusts. “Such a slut, letting the big bad guy fuck your throat? How do ya think your husband’s gonna feel when he finds out?”

You scowl at him, wondering if this trespasser had any grit in making your life any more difficult (but you couldn’t test that). You can’t focus beyond his unrelenting thrusts, relaxing your jaw to give him a better opening, slobber slipping down your chin. It’s messy—meeting a mound of hair with every thrust—gargling under the concoction of fluids puddled in your throat. You slicked his cock just right.

But your cunt throbs at the sight of his jade eyes, dazed, squinting as his abdomen flexes, hips stuttering.

You can sense a manic grin behind his mask. His tone is thicker. “What? Do ya think I’m bluffin'?”

His control mildly cracks, desperation seeping through gritted teeth, grinding into the heat of your mouth; it’s a gradual shift to such a cruel pace, holding your head still when his tip settles in your throat, hindering your breath for a few seconds, and returns to drag it along your tongue. He doesn’t even let you hack, cough or catch a meaningful breath, and chases a marble euphoria.

He chuckles through his mask. “Poor wife’s too desperate to get fucked to realise the camera's still on?”

There it is.

The bluff that simply doesn’t exist, because a man of this poise, could never bluff—he delivers.

His grip on your hand loosens, letting you messily bob your head, still dying to satisfy him despite your grasp on the situation. His other hand spins the camera around, directing your attention to the red glimmer in the corner, (it’s still on, if you couldn’t tell). “See your wife, asshole? Ya heard everythin’, right?”

Handcuffed, mouth stuffed full, and the ache between your thighs overwhelm your hindered senses—unsure whether you should be livid that he set up like this or letting him do so in spite of your estranged husband. He huffs in disbelief when you lick a long strip along his length, sucking on his cockhead and nudging the tip of your tongue into his slit, earning a strained hiss.

Strings of snot and saliva connect your cheeks to him, it’s all so wet, coupled with your tears and his persistence.

He thrusts his hips forward, taking back control. “A tight cunt, and a mouth like this, I’d start cherishin’ her,” he breathily mutters, your gurgles are savoured, chased after, and he’s insistent on making it hurt, until it’s permanent, that feeling of his cock shaping your throat. His head lolls back, and you notice the beads of sweat gleaming on his neck. “F—fuck.”

His hips stutter, and he directs all of his attention to you, placing both of his hands on your marbleized cheeks, angling his torso upright to get a clear, self-indulgent look at your face; upturned eyebrows, hollowed cheeks, and webbed eyelashes, like dewdrops. He’s slow with it, observing the way your glazed lips wrap perfectly around his cock—the way he melts into your mouth, sweltering.

It does feed your ego. Even though you’re unable to see his expressions through his mask, he makes no effort to hide it; carnal panting that bleeds through his disguise, eyes squeezing shut and head falling back with every suck. He lowers the camera. “Wanna watch me cum down your wife’s throat?”

You moan at the thought, and he could read you. It’s the rush of it all, (and now you think, surely, the rest of the penthouse couldn’t hear this). It’ll tear through him soon enough—a gale of white.

“Fuckin’ slut. She wants it.” He grunts through his mask, still talking to the camera, and it’s obvious, he clearly had something to prove. He releases you before he breaks. “Nah, I got somethin’ better.”

He gives you a moment to respite, hacking from the pulsation at the back of your throat. Pulls you up by your arms, heaves you towards the bed again, adjusting you on all fours so that your soaked cunt is in clear sight, for him and the camera. “Wait—wait, the camera—”

Interrupts your stammering with a slap to your tender ass, kneading it just to indulge in the slick that makes a mess of you, all the way down to your inner thighs. “I’ll fuck you dumb. Tell me how much you want it.”

“Please.” You beg, muffled by your duvet.

“Don’t think you want it enough,” he tuts, the bed dips beneath him and he positions himself behind you. “A mouth that loose never knows how to beg. Try again. Loud and clear.”

His thick tip rubs along your slit. You’re already humiliated by the situation, and the camera beeps to make you aware, the brunt of your dilemma lied with your stubbornness. You lift your head from the duvet, and grit through your teeth. “Can you please just fuck me. Hard—fuck me hard, please. I want it so bad.”

“Better.” He nods. “Ya hear that?” he speaks to the camera—reminding you that this is for your husband; your submission and this vulgar display of betrayal. Whoever this is, behind that mask, has you, wholly and completely. He lightly smacks your ass in approval, looms over you to conceal the lewd sight of your cunt leaking for him, slapping his cockhead against your swollen clit.

You want to run, in spite of your loose tongue, an intense burn rendering you feeble when he slowly sinks in, stifled grunts seeping through his mask. It bleeds through. Instead, you clamp down, and he pulls you back with a bruising force to nudge most of his girth inside, keeps muttering under his breath: “f—so tight, so fuckin’ tight.”

He's barely bottomless, yet you already feel so full. He hooks his grip onto you, and pounces.

“Ugh—!”

Skin-to-skin contact, connected by twines of your slick, and lecherous moans reverberate the bedroom, and you probably envision it sounding much worse recorded (or, maybe he intended on it looking like a homemade porno involving some heavy “roleplaying”), sinking into the duvet as if it were a cocoon. Fucks you just as you want it. It becomes much more difficult to let the undoubted sin settle in at this point. Every argument against getting fucked by this masked intruder glares red until it doesn’t, because he’s already fucked every coherent thought out of you.

Not when it feels this good. Not when that cloyed heat is ready to spread; coating his cock in so much slick that obscene squelches flatten against your bodies. Wanton moans that’ll plague your husband for weeks, months, maybe even years if this video gets out—a wretched memento in the form of a videotape, for the deserter; it isn’t him that’s fucking you this good.

These isn’t fake—it’s real.

To your discontent, your nightgown clings to your perspiring skin, all sticky and sweltering, as if you’re made of marble, and the both of you are still clothed in some way. The desire to see him nude grows by the minute; how sheen might cover his undulating chest, how his bare bulky arms would flex as he bounces you on his cock—

“You up?” he says, interrupting your indecent train of thoughts. “Don’t tell me you’re already givin’ out on me?”

“No, no—fuck, just feels so good,” you blubber, fighting through the heaviness of your eyelids. He hums in response, playing with the metal cuffs, before his movements start to hit a little harder; a small thud eliciting as he meets your ass, speeding up his thrusts. “Faster—just like that, ugh!”

“Yeah?” he chortles, slipping out to place you sideways, so this way, your eyes that teem with desperation meet the galling red, it flickers with your fluttering eyelids. He hooks one of your legs over his shoulder, and rams into your sopping cunt. “Let em’ know how good I’m fuckin’ you.”

“M’ so good,” drool trickles down the side of your mouth, barely comprehending his request as his cock drills into your cunt, unrelenting. It doesn’t help that he’s hitting the right spot, grinding into it, filling you to the brim and paying close attention to every pathetic whine that escapes you. “Harder—sir, please, fuck me harder.”

“Harder?” He repeats, shortly slips out once again and slaps his tip against your engorged clit. “Poor wife doesn’t get fucked the way she wants? Made her all desperate. C’mere.”

He sits up to haul you up onto his lap, into another position, but still in perfect view for the camera, with your legs pried apart by his burly thighs and your back pressed against his front. Bearing your sights to the red light that remains on; he’s aligning his cock with your cunt once more, heavy panting seeping through his mask, and it warms your neck.

You hastily sink down on his cock once more, trembling as his hands knead at your waist, wordlessly coaxing you through his girth. The restraints make it difficult for you to keep balanced, but his arms circle around your abdomen, trapping you in the heat of his embrace. You’re submerged in it, grinding hastily once he nearly bottoms out.

“Pretty fuckin’ nightgown, hm?” he observes the flimsy material, resting his chin on your shoulder as the straps slip off, “…bet it’s expensive,” he goes on, traces the hem with his finger, and it feels familiar, “...might have to take this with me too.”

Your head droops back onto his shoulder, hoping that he’ll just rip off that mask and blemish your skin with salivated marks, but alas, he focuses on your nightgown. Dazed, your soft grinding sparks another return of that heat, scorching, but you’re completely unprepared for when he pulls your nightgown down from the neckline, a strident rip following his forceful tug.

His hands instantly draw to your breasts, tugging and pinching at your aching nipples while you jump on his thick cock, feet flattered against the bed. Your bounces are sporadic, followed by eager grinding; it’s staggered, and sloppy, unable to balance yourself with your hands constrained like this. Your blurry gaze avoids the camera as you chase your orgasm, recoiling when you unintentionally slip further down, feeling a sudden intrusion, a burning kiss to the rim of your cervix. 

He groans loudly when you do so, firmly grips your hips to force you down his entire shaft, and it’s mind-numbing.

“Oh—fuck! Too deep.” You whine, sensing his carnal desire sink in, and it does. He lifts your legs up by your knees, slowly thrusting his hips upwards as your wetness sloshes around his cock.

“You can take it. You want it harder, right?” he breathlessly utters (just like you asked). He pays no mind to your apprehension—a mend of pain and pleasure spreading like wildfire, and he’s sadistic, completely bottoms out and picks up a merciless pace.

His balls slap against your sodden cheeks, being held in a near full-nelson, hands snaked beneath your knees to hook around your neck, and breasts bouncing with every thrust. It doesn’t go unnoticed. It’s ear-splitting; the only sounds that boom through your residence are your undisputed pornographic moans, his laboured panting and the noisy clapping of his skin meeting yours. But you’re too fucked out to care, feeling your climax rise and rise until it sits in your gut in one hysterical coil, just eager to burst.

An undoubted fact; it's terrible that a trespasser is fucking you this good, and it should anger you, but it only intensifies your desire—it’s unconventional, and downright bad, and you succumb to his thick cock. He removes his hands from your head, fingers suddenly reach out for your clit, as though he can read you, rubbing relentlessly as you tremble around him. “I'm cumming—!”

“Yeah?” He breathily whispers against your ear, “…cum all over my cock. Make sure you scream loud and clear for me, hm?”

“Ugh—! Sir!”

Gushing all over his cock, splashes of slick spurting off his rapid fingertips and his pounding, you convulse against his brute force. Your teary eyes peer down at the mess, sheer horror contorting your face, but he continues to fuck it out of you—picks up the pace, in awe of you squirting all over him. “F—, you’re makin’ such a mess. Don’t fuckin’ stop—keep cummin’ for me.”

It pours all over him, onto your thighs, his thighs, your stomach and your carpet. He doesn’t stop thrusting, pressing his fingers onto your oversensitive clit with even more force. Clear slick, light and thin, irregularly spurts out of you, and your thighs close around his remorseless motions, far too sensitive to go on. You only manage to trap his arm between your thighs, encouraging the hasty taps he places on your swollen nub.

He pulls his arm from you, momentarily digging through his pants that rest just above his knees.

“Bet ya dying for someone to fill you right up,” he hoarsely growls, following a sudden click. He uncuffs you, and your arms loosen, muscles still tense when the handcuffs get thrown across the bed. There’s a gnawing hope that he might use this chance to embrace you, but instead, his thrusts speed up again, the warmth of his chest waning as he lies down, hammering into your cunt with the utmost desire. It’s animalistic. “Take it.”

Your hands immediately reach for his thighs, gripping tightly as your cunt milks him dry. “Slow down.”

“You wanted this, doll,” he spits, pulling you down against his chest so that your head slumps over his shoulder once again. He bends his knees upwards, lifting his hips to glide his cock between your walls, meeting a delicious crush. His arms wrap around your waist and neck, and he carelessly squeezes. “Should’ve known you were a slut, fit into you perfectly. Fuck.”

“Let—let me see you,” you beg, succumbing to his merciless thrusts. “Please.”

“Uh, uh, not tonight, baby,” he coolly responds, hips stuttering. His balls slap against your ass, chasing the most insanely, lewd sounds of your cum coating his cock. He’s so close, frenzied, stuttering . “F—fuck, gonna fill this sweet cunt up. Make it all mine.”

You fondle your breasts. “Make it all yours.”

Holding your legs up, he pushes his cock further in, spurting his cum inside of you in one prolonged moment. His balls tighten and a rush of heat sprays your insides and it’s never been this filling. You clench around him, feeling your arousal swell into another rush of heat but he slows down, making sure it stays inside, eases your need to go again.

His cock slowly slips out, and clear white oozes out of your cunt shortly after, with staggered, lazy breathing circling this thick stillness. You fail to remove yourself from his embrace, all alarms in your mind (strangely resembling your security alarms that woke you up at this odd hour) blaring loudly as reality settles in.

Did an intruder seriously just give you the best fuck of your life?

On camera?

He carefully places you next to him, clearly not as exhausted as you are as he gets off the bed, adjusting his clothes and walks up to the camera. He briefly turns back to you; satisfied to find you drained and smeared with cum and sweat before he turns off the camera, following a chesty chuckle that’ll probably plague your filthy dreams. Riddled with guilt and fatigue, your lidded eyes submit to its heaviness.

“Your fingerprints…—they’re all over the place.” You tiredly mutter. You don’t why you’re even concerned, and before you try to find him, he’s already hovering over you.

For some reason, you crave more.

“He won’t do anything,” he chuckles, grabbing your chin, swiping a thumb across your glossy lips. “Because he knows exactly what’ll happen if he does, and you know what,” he leans further to whisper at your ear, and the next few words make your heart lurch to your throat once again. his fingers trail downwards, slowly rubbing your sensitive nub, coating itself in your slick once again. You flinch. “If he does end up seein’ this part of the video, he’ll know exactly who just fucked his wife.”

Silence overtakes you, trying to register the meaning of his words as he slowly saunters out of your room.

“Nice place by the way.”

author's note this is a reupload [and rewritten and made longer because my writing is always changing]. hope u enjoyed! i still love masked toji <3

What type of shit do I need to do to get punished like this in real life because I WILL DO IT

grapevine (m)

pairing fushiguro toji / fem!reader

synopsis

after the return of his boss’ daughter, fushiguro toji gets caught up in a grapevine because of his mysterious past. (or so, it turns out, you just have a twisted way of trying to get his attention).

content warnings bodyguard!toji, rich girl!reader; age gap (reader is in early to mid 20's, toji in early 40's), unrequited pining, blackmail, dubious consent (reader is tipsy), unprotected sex, brat-taming, pussy-slapping [with belt], themes of bdsm: machoism, bondage, oral (f + m receiving), fingering, degradation + praise, orgasm denial, exhibitionism (phone call + car sex), dacryphilia, creampie, cervix-bumping, hair-pulling, squirting, multiple positions

word count 19,600+

author's note this is mostly just filth. i tried to proofread as much as i can but i think i shrunk my brain rereading this. enjoy, and let me know what u think!!!

read on ao3

MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS DO NOT INTERACT

Inside the Yamanote Line, where the rich indulge in their own perverse games; personal marionettes and leech-infested cesspits, Toji gets his first normal job.

He drives around his own car, travels in and out private residential areas where opulent expats and old-money families sit in twelve-bedroom mansions. Puts on his suit and returns from his own normality where hanging clothes outside of his home to dry isn’t considered a social death sentence and greets his—as painful as it is said—boss, CEO and patriarch, situated at the core of one of the richest neighbourhoods in Tokyo: Denenchofu.

Though, he can’t complain.

It’s a clean slate; a chance to recklessly spend his money without wondering if his next shady job will cover his losses. It bills through his bank account at the end of the month, uninterrupted, and with no regard for the intensity of his role. Toji could be operating through an unexpected assassination attempt or lounging around at a boat race for a week straight—it doesn’t matter.

And for the sake of not losing his sanity, he makes them fend for his attention, for protection, for mercy (or, anything that requires just a fraction of his time), and laughably, they still beg. Plead. On their knees with their clammy hands clasped together, nonsensically mewling for less and more. Dump racks of money on the table, promote him to higher ranks until bodyguards varying from two months to ten years are deemed his subordinates. Offered hundreds of millions of yen to protect one of the richest conglomerates in Japan.

After only six months of service.

He wouldn’t necessarily call his past deeds and unearthly skill a quote-on-quote ‘cheat code’ (though many would grumble such a thing while avoiding a one-to-one with him) but it wasn’t difficult obtaining this role.

All it took was one major threat and a man particularly well-versed in assassination attempts.

After five years now, all that’s left is whether his boss is worthy of it. He doesn’t usually consider it, but when he’s face-to-face with the devil in mind, it becomes difficult to ignore.

“She came back two hours ago?” his boss exclaims behind him, staring through the rear-view mirror, relying entirely on the earpiece wedged in Toji’s ear.

“That’s what they’re saying,” he replies, passive to the lights flashing around his car. “Made a scene in Ginza, refused to get into the car for nearly an hour.”

His nonchalance conceals the gravity of the situation, but it doesn’t lessen the effect it has on his boss. “Hell,” he exhales, pinching his nose. “What now?”

Toji never liked to solely rely on word of mouth, but when he’s overhearing late-night discussions, the last thing he expects is to hear is the whispers of dangerous liaisons becoming muddled up with the childish endeavours of a young woman.

When he first arrived, he heard enough about the notorious daughter who had just returned from studying overseas; heard you squeezed luxury stores dry, walked around with a flock of needy nepotist babies, paraded your lavish taste with a good-for-nothing attitude.

The older man doesn’t consider himself a ‘nice guy’, but he gets his respect, and doesn't outrightly demand it because he doesn’t need to.

Until you.

He supposed you weren’t entirely made of malice and diamonds when he first saw you, catching a flash of disbelief when you stormed out of your father’s office, slamming your heels with such conviction that it could’ve split the floor open.

Then you regained your composure, with a stone-cold glare he’d learn to adore cracking open like an empty skull and spat your next words with a saccharine sting that intended to hurt, and stick.

“I wonder what infamous gang he pulled you from?” you leered, picked him apart like skin, to uncover rotten flesh, just as you do to every new hire. Scowled at the poor bodyguards responsible for taking you home and raised your chin to appear taller than the burly man, but he’s far mightier than anyone you’ve ever seen. “Let’s see if you already know your way back to the estate. Take me home.”

Toji lets out a dazed scoff, only escapes through his nose and walks right past you to return to his previous position, next to your father.

He notices it; that look, one he’d become accustomed to as well, one he receives when he blatantly ignores your demand and it’s priceless.

And when he spits his next words—there’s no sickly-sweet lilt to cushion the fall of your ego, it’s layered with disgust, fucking poison. Barely puts any effort into his enunciation and still, it offends you all the same, just before he slams the door on your face: “Fuckin’ brat.”

No one had ever spoken to you like that before.

It was a rush of anger, tumbling and turning around in your bed to digest the callous words spat at you with no caution, and then confusion, and steadily, that insatiable anger turned into something else—still full of ill-intent, but not violent, lecherous. It became addictive, unfamiliar and you wore those feelings like an old coat, heavy on your shoulders, and priceless.

Now, there was need for attention and an undying desperation for him to give it all, undivided. The glitz and glamour could never satiate your thirst for thrill, and without him to give into your efforts, it’s all so boring.

Especially, as you find yourself stuck in your third dinner party this week. Growing pains, still cocooned by your father, and it keeps you here, trapped between proposals by unabashed mothers and their bachelor sons; offers varying from studying sessions to family heirlooms. There’s no telling if your father enjoys getting a rise out of you, knowing how much you hate these things but he’s pampered you just as much as he did frustrate you, and if there is one thing you can’t complain about—it’s the indulgence.

Currently surrounded by an overwhelming number of guests, chattering and drinking, while a quartet plays in the corner—a familiar voice is raised above it all.

“This party is a drag,” Yuki groans, tittering beneath her fur tippet for most of the night. It brings a slight ease to your discomfort. “But I did notice a certain eligible bachelor eying you earlier.”

“Hm,” you mumble, uninterested, already aware of his staring. “He’s cute.”

“His father owns a biotech company here in Tokyo. Has a PHD in Biomed, a pro snowboarder—” she adds on, fawning over the marble pillar with a melodramatic bravado.

Your eyes blandly dart across the sea of familiar faces, until it fleetingly lands on your father, who seems to be surrounded by similar aged men, and their sons, those blatantly bred from viuex riche. You turn to the bachelor—prying eyes and only standing just a few inches taller than your father—who smiles coyly at you.

Though, your attention is quickly drawn in by the man behind him.

In an ideal world, where you’re actually satisfied by the luxuries of life, you’d pursue at least one of the suitors your father has proposed to you. But sadly, that isn’t the case. Yuki notices the way your attention fades, eventually following your gaze.

The reason behind your abstinence to the rich dating world.

You know now, like tooth and nail, how to string people along, and have bodyguards and chaperones alike wrapped around your finger. Using them to get around authority with saccharine secrets. 

Not a ringleader per se, of the grapevine that has twined the upper side in a cesspool of drama, but an avid contributor. Never the subject, but it remains hungry, and someone has to feed it. As twisted as it is, it’s the only kind of fun that eases your boredom. Ears everywhere, and a mouth that doesn’t quite know when to stop. 

Yuki has warned you that it might get you in trouble one day. But what could a sweet girl like you do to pay for the sick lies you’ve spread?

Besides, secrets in your world are bound to be spread—you’d rather it come gift-wrapped.

It’s all been so easy.

Until him.

“That bodyguard could not care less about you.”

Her candid statement rips you from your trance. “Do you have to be so blunt?”

“If it makes you wake up from this dream,” she exhales, pouting. “I get it, being used to getting everything you want and then one day, you just don’t. But normal people move on,” the red wine drips onto the floor as she parades her hands around carelessly, “it’s been five years. He’s just not into you.”

Her honesty leaves a sour taste in your mouth but given your wicked behaviour in the name of getting his attention—it’s well-deserved. “Well, none of us here are normal.”

“True,” she agrees, “I don’t think he is here. He carries a holier-than-thou attitude and for what? He comes out of nowhere, refuses to tell anyone about himself and suddenly, he’s your father’s right hand?”

Both of your gazes fixate on the stoical man. He’s either blatantly ignoring you or pretending not to notice. “With no credentials, he’s strangely good at what he does. It doesn’t help that he’s an asshole too.”

“Some of the most unattainable men want you, and you’re fawning over an ex-conman who might just be plotting to steal your money.” She prattles, traipsing to the poseur tables just a few inches away from you. She loosely, and loudly, calls him a conman—a word painstakingly resurfacing lately as questions about his background become the topic of interest again.

It's affecting your father’s credibility.

Many still try to hire him, but your father refuses to let him go, practically strung to his hip like a child. It wouldn’t be favourable to you if he left early either.

Though, lately, your father has been putting up a political front. Collaborating with ministers in the running, and there’s no benefit to having someone with no resume by his side. Despite being the only one to effectively protect him, it doesn’t look good on paper. A man with minimal background checks done on him. So, with nothing to find, there is nothing to trust.

“You don’t know that.”

“Weren’t you the one who spread that?” She ripostes in disbelief.

“Yes,” you say, “but he doesn’t know that. I was just mad that he called me a brat.”

“You liked it, and now he has you wrapped around his finger.” Yuki teases. “I’d fuck him too—he’s just a little on the older side.”

“That’s never stopped you.”

“Because I like the filthy rich ones,” she rebuttals smartly, lifting her glass at you as a small gotcha moment. “They pamper you with gifts right after.”

“Gross.” You crinkle your nose. “Besides, I’ll be the one to break him.”

She snorts. “How about you find a way out of this party, and make your one hundredth attempt then?”

“No,” you interject, passing her a judgemental look. “At least be discreet about it. You’re two warnings away from being sent abroad.”

“I’m old enough to bypass their threats now. I think it’s rehab but they’re too proud for that.”

Yuki is an old friend, one with a unanimous desire for parties and problematic escapades. Not your only friend, but the only one that doesn’t feel like she’s clinging onto your money. Lingers on rumours the same way you do, manipulates the weekly gossip in her own favour just as you do. If there’s someone you can unmask around—it’s her.

Though, her party habits are a little—

“We need to get shitfaced.” She proposes.

“Maybe.” You grumble unenthusiastically, sharing no desire to get blathered by drunk idiots. But you’re bored. It’s no fun if you’re bored.

“It’ll be better than staring at him for the rest of the night.”

“Screw you,” you respite light-heartedly, snatching the glass from her hand, guzzling the glass half-empty. “I’ve been very subtle about it.”

That’s a lie. With the way he has completely deemed your entire existence as a nuisance, he feels way beyond your league. You’re the only one chasing this—it’s frustrating, belittling.

“Sure. Get out of here and meet me in Roppongi at eleven, okay?”

Your legs involuntarily move, as though they have a mind of its own, eager to reach its desired destination and conveniently, that lies right in front of him. He blankly stares ahead, herculean and mighty, with his hands behind his back. Deliberately, he doesn’t bother acknowledging you, stationed where his job entails him—as close to your father as he can be.

The only bodyguard deemed worthy of accompanying him at all times, seamlessly going from a random hire to … this.

Unreachable?

Mr Fushiguro.

It took you three months to even learn his name. “Mr Fushiguro. Could you take me home?”

“Got your own bodyguard for that.” He gruffly utters, refusing to share your gaze. It’s irritating, but exciting and makes all of your salacious thoughts unravel, open gates of desire to flood every part of your body, to move for him.

The best of the best. Rude. Aloof. Older. Much older.

You do a poor job of hiding your interest though; the deliberate flutter of your eyelashes or the sudden chest pop—you definitely forgot to clip all of your buttons. You look down. Oh. Definitely. But Mr Fushiguro has never spared you any attention. The back-and-forth between the two of you makes all of the games you play with others far less satisfying.

“I’m sure he wouldn’t like you refusing to get his daughter home safely,” you draw each word with a soppy lilt as though it would make any difference. “Hm?”

That smug look on your face—it’s nearly instinctive—gets wiped off the moment his verdant, murky eyes dart downwards, towards you, at you. He doesn’t dare to conceal his amusement, even if he’s not as expressive as you.

Stills for a moment, as if he’s deep in thought. “Shinji,” he mutters through his earpiece, still staring down with that stupid arrogant look. “Miss L/N would like to go home.”

“I said—”

“He’ll be coming to escort you home,” he interjects. “Safe journey.”

Defeatedly, you turn to Shinji, standing with the same posture but lacking the grace to pull it off. You quickly scowl at the man who’d rather lay waste than pay attention to you before saying your goodbyes, coming up with a poor excuse of how you might be catching a flu, and leaving—not without his name ringing in your head.

It isn’t only Toji’s skill or authority that makes him stand out to you—it was his zero-tolerance policy towards your antics.

You’re not used to chasing. It feels icky. Toji is a challenge—one that has you on the threshold of defeat but it’s never just that; he doesn’t even see you as someone he could possibly respect, looking down on you as though you’re undeserving, treating you as if you’re nothing but a fly on the wall.

It goes without saying; you’re undeniably infatuated. Pitifully so. No matter how many times you try to distract yourself, it never works.

Spontaneous one-night stands are futile, not even momentarily worth it. Yet, you still pursue them, hoping you’ll find something or someone that might cure you from this obsession.

Just before midnight, Shinji decides to take a smoke break after dropping you off to the estate, and the rest of the guards stationed throughout the house are too preoccupied with their own conversations, some involved in an enticing game of Shogi in the courtyard. Even though you’ve been caught a few times, your methods of sneaking out have been awfully innovative for them to keep up.

And this time, out of sheer spite, you walk out through the front door.

At around 12:30am, Toji is disturbed, called to the office after spending his entire evening at a poker table.

It’s 12:32am, and Shinji reports that you’re missing again.

“Six—six bodyguards!”

“Sir—”

“One. Just one person. My daughter. She’s not a fucking assassin,” he spits at the bodyguards sharing the blame for your absence, and they sit in a row, kneeled with their eyes facing the floor. Toji stands beside him, and his lip twitches. “Over and over again, I have the same problem. What are we going to do, huh? If you can’t keep her in one place, then how are you going to find her?”

“We’ll scout the area of Roppongi and Ginza—”

“Scout. For what? To lose her again? She could’ve been kidnapped, or on her way to leave the city,” he laments, slouched over his desk. Toji impassively watches, but he’s seething inside—not for him, but for how persistent you are. Don’t you rest? “Fushiguro. These are your best men?”

“I’ve been finding myself short lately.”

Four bodyguards have gone in the last three months, for unexplained reasons, and it’s affecting his progress. “I know. You’d think if everyone was like you, I wouldn’t be in this predicament, right?”

Toji doesn’t respond.

“You,” he points to the one on the left, “are you telling me you didn’t see her leave?”

“I—I did, but—”

“And?” he slams his hands, and his glass half-empty with hard liquor rattles. 

“She threatened to tell my wife about my gambling,” the bodyguard starts blathering, loud and sputtered, leaning further down in shame. Toji nearly scoffs in amusement, unsurprised that you resorted to such measures again. It’s not the first, nor the last. “It’s not an excuse. I’m sorry! I won’t let her slip again.”

“Get out. Find her now.” They scurry out. The thwarting silence settles in when the door shuts, but it doesn’t last for very long. “About the bodyguards.”

He interrupts. “I know.”

“Fushiguro,” he sighs, massaging his temple. “These things that I’m hearing again. I don’t understand.”

“People will always talk.” He reassures, not in a way that implies desperation, but indifference. “About me and you.” 

“What are they saying now?”

Toji respites, noticing the curiosity contorting his wizened features. Bingo. “Politics are calling you corrupt, the other side,” he pauses for a moment, gauging whether he’s saying too much but it’s never too much. Toji has gotten away with too much now. He’s too valuable. “Soft. You can’t trust ‘em.”

The old man hunches over the desk with his head in his hands, defeated by the rebuttal. “I’m aware I have rivals, but what business do they have with you?”

Oh, it’s none of them.

Toji has every idea of who it might be.

“Once again, you’re the topic of discussion,” he disdains, unfastening his cuffs. “It’s taking a bad hit on my reputation. Before I could handle it, but the campaigns—the media—”

“I know.”

“Do you have any idea of who might be talking?”

Toji nearly smiles to himself. “I have a few in mind.”

“Find them, shut them up however you want,” he utters tiredly—there it is—the green light. “Whoever they are, they clearly don’t know who they’re messing with.”

He smirks. “No, they don’t.”

Yuki was made of bad ideas and valour. One could not exist without the other.

As reckless as it was to drag you to another underground party where pretentious rich kids and resentful heirs run their noses along a line of alabaster white and drown themselves in alcohol—it seemed to scratch that itch of yours. Finding yourself stuck in a stuffy club beneath an art studio, under a kaleidoscope of colours; it’s poetically fit for someone acting out in spite of their parent’s suffocating idea of protection. 

Particular, but fitting.

Truth to be told, you’re not a huge fan of these parties. It’s too hot, too loud, far too fusty to handle the smell of odour and a concoction of cologne, and it only takes you an hour before you’re sick of the whole charade. It’s all a charade. The prim, the poise, the display—all fake. People who refuse to engage with the ‘ordinary’ and go even lower. It’s 1:23am, and there was no sign of any bodyguard. Hm.

“Can you at least pretend to have some fun?”

“It’s loud,” you yell over the music, plopping onto the semi-rounded couch. It’s overcrowded with what you call Yuki’s flock.

“S’rry,” she slurs, taking your arm between hers. “Did anyone follow you?”

“Not that I’m aware of,” you shrug. “I made sure to look back this time.”

“Good, because you’re going home with someone tonight, and it better not be your damn bodyguard.”

You snort. “I hope not.”

“Want another drink?” Yuki offers, barely noticing the girl clinging to her shoulder, gesturing with the click of her fingers for someone to bring drinks to her table. Rounds and rounds appear, shots on shots taken, burning down your throat with a kick. It doesn’t make you hazy—not in the way you want it too, though the side of your head thumps loudly, sluing towards a very agonising headache.

Your gaze travels across the club, watching a throng of bodies rub against each other, all sorts of lips moving inconspicuously while their eyes tell all. You came here for a distraction, not to wallow away in your own thoughts; so you put a face to those eyes that you’ve been ignoring this entire night, leaning against the corner of the club wall, smirking arrogantly once you return his attention. 

“Over there,” Yuki points out, nudging your shoulder with her own. “Go on.”

You find yourself meshing with the bodies on the dancefloor, sauntering towards the man who disconnects himself from the wall with eagerness. “Hey.”

“Hi.”

“Do you want to…”

Before he finishes his sentence, you notice something off, you can sense it—to the right, just before the staircase leading up to the entrance.

“Fuck,” you exhale, looking behind you, to Yuki, fretfully. She notices the sudden appearance of your bodyguard, Shinji, with wide eyes. “How the hell did you find me here?”

You did blackmail one of the guards to let you walk out through the front door, but you didn’t think he’d crack this early.

“We have to leave, ma’am.”

“No,” you disdain, crossing your arms. “Can’t I just have a bit of fun?”

“Your father wants you home now. We’re getting closer with the campaign, we need to—”

You interject. “I’m really starting to think this whole campaign is just an excuse to keep me at home. He can come get me himself, or even better, get Mr Fushiguro. Maybe I’ll reconsider then.”

Even as he regains his composure, the panic still manages to seep through. Partygoers have been dancing for hours, yet their perspiration doesn’t amount to the level of sweat seeping from his hairline.

“Ma’am.”

“C—can you stop calling me that?” you blubber, sensing the anchoring weight of several eyes on you. People, including Yuki and her artsy group of friends, begin to watch the commotion, awkwardly sipping their drinks as your temper rises. The music becomes clearer. “Listen, I can take care of myself—”

“It’s for your—”

“—my protection, I know.” You utter dejectedly. “Fine, fine. Ten more minutes?”

​​Within the next ten minutes, he loses sight of you.

It’s ridiculous.

How you can move from one place to another without being detected—it’s even more derisive to know that they’ve been trained to make sure it doesn’t happen.

Hidden in one of the cubicles of a rancid bathroom, the same man who had desperation etched across his face and hoped to garner your attention with a stare, has his face buried in your neck. Smells of hours of smoke inhalation infused with spilled beer, and sweat. It’s dense, and unflattering. His words are slurred beneath your ear, whispering incoherent adulation while his hands grab at you.

He’s a decent kisser, doesn’t shove his tongue too far down your throat and offers to keep his (and your—) clothes on for the sake of hygiene. It’s nearly enough. Nearly enough to distract you from him, nearly enough to put some worth into this night and your disobedience. You refused to let him speak, unwilling to learn of him because it’s easier to project onto a blank canvas.

Your eyes are closed, pretending that it’s him. The stranger is nicely built—not much compared to the burly frame you’d much rather hold onto, far from brute, but again, it’s enough. For someone with a ‘high-and-mighty’ attitude, one convinced that the upper class revolves around a singular person; this is … low. Letting someone like him consume your mind, one of a pestering locust swarm.

Pretending that it’s his large hands holding your waist, his lips plastered across your neck, his scent—

“Do you want to come back to mine?”

Your eyes slowly peel open, fluttering at the stranger. “Sure. Do you have a car?”

“I—I was hoping your bodyguard might—”

“I could convince him,” you idly sigh, softly nudging him off of you. When your bodyguard finds you again, you’re hauling the drunken man to the entrance. “Think you could drop me off at his house?”

His eyes widened. “I can’t do that.”

“Yes, you can,” you persist, cornering him with your gaze. You can see his self-control breaking. You pout. “Just for a few hours.”

“I—okay, the car is outside.”

You still for a moment, mildly surprised that he agreed so quickly. Hm. Turning to the stranger with a conceited smirk, you gesture for him to follow. “Let’s go.”

He appears unnerved, rid of the usual, stoic composure that every bodyguard is trained to have. But right now, he just looks stiff? Perhaps, you’re too tipsy to give him the usual earful for sticking to your hip all day, or maybe it’s because you’re used to some sort of resistance.

He agreed far too quickly, and while you are satisfied, you’re suspicious.

Briskly, you walk up the stairs, somewhat relieved that you can take a breath of fresh air. The crisp of cold air finally hits you, wafting over prickly goosebumps and your thinly veiled dress. His vehicle is parked adjacent to the pavement across from you—though, it’s longer, cleaner, and the windows are tinted?

“Did you get a new car?”

“Something like that.” He mumbles, clearing his throat, leading you to the car.  

You’re far too tipsy to be wary of him, dragging the man behind you, so you can tend to unfinished business inside. When you enter, a strong scent of cedarwood permeates the inside of the car, balsamic undertones and it’s rich in cologne; it overrides your intuition. It’s familiar. Memorised. It could just be the alcohol clouding your sense of clarity—

Your eyes droopily turn towards the front seat, expecting your bodyguard to prepare for departure.

But there he is, in the driver’s seat, one hand on the wheel and the other hovering over the tunnel console. Your whereabouts become clearer, but you’ve only ever been inside of this car when you’re accompanying your father. The dangling charm below the rear-view mirror, the scent, the smooth leather cushioning your lousy fall.

For a split second, his eyes meet yours, but his cruel gaze settles on the man next to you.

“Mr Fushiguro—”

“Get out of the car.” He orders, staring at the drunken man through the rear-view mirror. You’re overheating; embarrassed of being seen like this, dishevelled and far from poised. You’re not one to care about what anyone inside of your father’s circle thinks of you, or how they see you.

But this isn’t about the consequences, nor is he just anyone.

Mullered, he hesitates, barely understanding the gravity of Toji’s demand. He’s barely sitting up straight, slouched over the leather, tautly turning to you for confirmation. Toji heavily sighs at the long pause.

Clicks his tongue in pique, “I’ll give you three seconds to get out of this car,” he utters painfully slowly, as he pulls out a gun from the cabinet. “Three… two…”

He doesn’t hesitate, with wide eyes, scrambling out of the car before you can even register the situation, falling over the pavement. Your eyes meet Shinji, who still displays that look of unease before he slams the door shut.

The window from his side is slightly open. “Take the night off, Shinji. I’ll take care of it from here.”

A sudden click resounds the car. In a surge of panic, you turn towards the car door, frantically tugging at the handle—it’s locked.

You exhale through your nose. “Open the door.”

“Didn’t mean to interrupt your night,” he says, slipping the gun back into the cabinet. “Did you have fun?”

“I said open the door.”

“Put your seatbelt on,” he merely orders, starting the car. You don’t listen, zealously tugging at the door handle. The aversion to being alone with him somehow rekindles the same feeling you got when he called you a spoiled brat—indignity.

To think you spent years trying to get him to even look at you, let alone give you a ride alone, but this exchange just leaves a bad taste in your mouth, and he’s eerily calm. You could jerk the hinges off with how hard you’re pulling, but he’s not reacting. He’s never cared about your waywardness. Of all nights. Why now?

He had a priority, which isn’t you.

You eventually let your hands fall to your lap, huffing in defeat. Eventually, the nightlife blurs into luminous streaks of bright lights, blurred silhouettes, and a quieter ambience. All you can hear are cars driving by, and a heartbeat. Yours.

“Why are you here?” You ask, expecting no answer in return—it’s nearly rhetorical with the way he stares ahead, tapping his index on the wheel, the other hand still resting over the console tunnel.

A scoff escapes your mouth, arms crossed against your chest to return the inanity of his silent protest. You are a little too casual about this; if it were any other bodyguard, you’d have clawed their eyes out by now, yet your fire is being subdued by his entire being. Entirely. Purposely slow.

Did he expect such a reaction? Did he expect you to jump at him and fight to be let out of the car? Did he know? Your heart races rapidly, vying between asking more and letting your eyes do all of the talking.

But the silence is torturous. He’s never driven you home alone. You’ve done far worse than this to earn his attention.

The continuous tapping on the steering wheel resounds the car—eyes ahead. Your father must be aware of your whereabouts then. That’s the only possible explanation: “Did my father send you?”

No answer.

In a fleeting moment, unexpectedly, you catch his gaze in the rear-view mirror, but yours is defeated by the intensity of it.

The rest of the car ride ensues in silence.

For the next twenty minutes, you make no efforts to disrupt the silence, but then flickers of muted white brightly blink beside his hand as messages pile on top of each other.

“Is that my phone?” you ask, mortified, rummaging through your purse when you realise that it’s not in there. Did you drop it? Fuck. Shinji must’ve slipped it through the window. You lean forward to grab your phone, but Toji is faster, swiftly taking it and dropping into his glove compartment. “What are you doing?”

“Sit back,” he says, denying you a glance. It’s like you’re not even there. “We’re almost there.”

“Where?”

Once again, he doesn’t answer.

You move back, dejected. It eats at you. The possibility of what could happen tonight, though, if he intends on driving you home, then it’d just involve an earful from your father and his smug expression. But the landscape beyond these tinted windows becomes desolate; flat lands that stretch beyond the motorway, the mountains in the distance drawing closer. Thirty minutes pass again, and now, you’re concerned.

It’s only a thirty-minute drive from your home, but it’s been fifty.

The car eventually slows down, and he orders. “Get out.”

You cock your head to the side, eyebrows scrunched together. “Excuse me?”

There’s a whelm of hush in the vehicle, a deep sigh flowing through his nostrils, flared and pinched. Toji doesn’t like repeating himself, a peeve he’d made apparent on many occasions, exiting the car with a loud slam. It rattles the seat beneath you, inviting a gust of wind to brush against your naked skin. You rub your arms—it’s chilly, but there is nothing more uninviting than a lack of clarity, as to why you’re here, with him, and he refuses to give it.

His silhouette stalks around the car, until eventually, he stands before your car door, gliding it open with minimal effort. 

In any other circumstance (or, one that doesn’t involve a kidnapping, tipsiness, and high winds), your eyes would linger on the evocative sight of his crotch meeting you at eye-level, slowly gaze up with a gleam visibly up to no good and bat your eyelashes.

Instead, your chest undulates wildly, crisp air thrums against your throat, and no insolent remark, nothing to combat his intensity. You’d curse whoever brought him to you. The only one who can do it, so effortlessly, wilt you into rot—just like that.

Toji rests his arms against the roof of the car and leans down, relaxed. “Get,” he words out clearly, sardonic, as though you’re made of air and nothing else, “out of the car.”

“It’s cold,” you sulk, unable to muster up the deliberate coyness that tailed him along for all these years. There’s a bounce in your tone, but he can see right through you, unamused, refusing to play into your antics. So, you admit defeat. “Fine.”

He leaves a small space for you to clumsily walk out, stumbling over the cobblestone strewn with large rocks and litter. From here, indigo stretches across Tokyo’s skyline with a heavy draft, a winter’s solstice. When your spatial awareness finally sinks in, you notice an object in his hand, the location, the chary nature of all of this.

It’s difficult to not find it suspicious when he has driven you here, instead of home, with no word from your father, ignoring you for the full duration of the car ride, until you’re standing on a derelict hillside overlooking the metropolitan.

It's laughable. It must’ve been convenient to give him the power to do this. Your father was a careful person, making sure to investigate anyone who dares to enter his inner circle, albeit that’s a perk of being an extremely influential man.

Yet, Toji remains a mystery. Where did he come from? No one dares to answer that question. No one can. Even as you asked around; those he trained with, drank with, gambled with, and your father, nothing was of substance.

Perhaps that’s what bothered you about him.

He’s supposed to be invisible, nothing.

Should be, at least.

“Is there a reason why you drove me out to the middle of nowhere?”

“I’ve lost four bodyguards in three months,” he simply discloses, undoing his cuffs. The wuthering height of this cliff ruffles the neat strands of his hair, blowing softly across his forehead. “Want to explain why?”

You shrug. So caught up in your ego, unwilling to take blame for the resignation of several bodyguards. It’s not really your fault. If they couldn’t handle a slight attitude [overbearing, demanding, blackmailing…], then how on earth could they be entrusted with protecting someone’s life, especially yours? “I don’t know. You and I both know they usually come and go.”

“No,” he reputes, “that’s not it.”

“Why does it matter? It’s not like my father can’t hire more,” you dismiss, salvaging what’s left of your poise. “Is that really why we’re out here?”

He dodges the latter question. “Training them costs time and money.”

“His money,” you retort, noticing his lip twitch in frustration. Then while it dawns on you, that you’ve never seen him upset, or irate. He plays the cord, twirled between his thumb and index. “Sorry if that bothers you, but I have nothing to do with that.”

A phantom smile appears on his face; one that should be there, glides over the green in his eyes but never really shows on his lips. It’s unsettling, given the unusual circumstance—at the hillside kissing the borders of the city, where vehicles barely pass by at this time.

Anything can happen.

He could do anything.

You’re still reeling from the alcohol in your system, trying to digest that this is the first moment you’ve had Mr Fushiguro all to yourself, and you’re not even sure if you have him at all.

He has a slight stubble that he doesn’t bother shaving properly. It’s still there. You even remember when you first saw him without that blazer, the soft undershirt filmy and nicely ironed, noticing the near-perfect curve of his back and wide shoulders. And that scar, just etched across the left side of his mouth. It’s all that is, a scar, but it darkened over the years, and it’s usually a mark of a past no longer spoken about.

You want to know all about it.

Raised in a prim and proper fashion, you’ve always been concerned with perfection.

Yet he’s far from it, at least, from the arcane archetype of what the rich define as perfect. He’s undeniably flawed. He doesn’t kneel to an unspoken hierarchy, doesn’t pertain to the clean-shaven look that most rich idiots subject themselves to at the end of every week, keeps his business to himself, and never on display, keeps them guessing.

This time, he offers a little more clarity.

It’s eerily quiet, but he drops a few octaves you’re not sure even existed. “It has everything to do with you.”

​​“Wait—” Nothing is adding up. “So, we’re not here because I snuck out?”

He scoffs, “I couldn’t care less about where you are or who you’re fucking.” Ouch.

“So, I’m here with you, and he doesn’t know,” you say plainly, as though you needed to say it out loud for it to sink in. He brought you out here on his own accord. “Why am I here?”

 “You’re here because,” he treads carefully towards you, indifferent to the way your face contorts in bewilderment, “it’s time we finally settle a few things.”

“What are you accusing me of?” You ask, defensive. “Take me home, Mr Fushiguro.”

You sound shaky and unsure. He’s expressive, clearly grated by your presence alone, so you’d rather be alone where you have some level of control—your bedroom, a wide dressing room in a luxury store, or even a parking lot might ease your apprehension. Starkly different from all of those times you’ve asked him to take you home, demanding, but this was fragile.

His chin raised, eyes observing you with zeal. You could shrivel into a ball. “I will,” he nods, shuffling his blazer off, hanging it over his arm, and opens the door to the passenger sheet. He throws it inside, falsely alluding to the idea that you can go inside, and he slams it shut before you can take a single step. You jolt in surprise. “But not until I get what I want.”

Toji keeps skirting around what should be obvious, but nothing is clear to you right now. “What the hell do you want?”

He almost laughs, traps a breathless laugh between his teeth. The silence ensues. It’s a different silence—one that you’re quite familiar with when it’s done on purpose. And all you can do is admire him.

He really is attractive—beneath all of that coldness and dishevel, he’s so hot. (Has he ever fucked on the job? What’s his type?) Your eyes continue to trail downwards, analysing every vein and blemish on his skin. He does have a lot of tiny moles. His arms can barely fit into that button-up, on the verge of tearing against every little tensed move. It hugs his chest so tightly.

“Drop the act,” he says bluntly, and his gaze flickers from your face to your chest. He’s not even hiding it. “Think I don’t notice the way you look at me?”

Your face contorts in a peculiar show of surprise—mirth, indignation, then, disbelief. Sure, you were shameless enough to make your devious attempts cater to him alone, but anyone could be convinced that it was just a rotten attribute of yours to make him mad. So, what’s his point? He’s never pointed it out before. He’s never cared, until now apparently. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“No?” he prods, stretching the cord for its durability. He takes a few steps forward and earns a few steps back. “Then tell me what you tell them about me.”

The wind rustles loudly, speaking for you.

“You tell them I’m a fraud, don’t ya? A crook—no, a conman, is it?” he goes on, cornering you against the car. “They believe it too,” he says in disbelief, somewhat amused at the fact, “those guys who can’t even watch a brat for a few fucking hours. Those rich assholes begging for my protection, they despise me. But you,” he tuts, shaking his head, placing a hand just beside your head. “Not you. Nothin’ for the dirty conman.”

Hearing those rumours come from his mouth, so loosely tangled in a grapevine designed for your entertainment, and it sounds strange, distasteful. Had he known all along? Those rumours were first spilled in a fit of rage, but for him, they had manifested into a reputation, an image, something nearly irredeemable.

Soon enough, your anger also turned into an infatuation, calculated, solely in search for his attention.

But you’re not sure if this is what you wanted.

You first sought the attention of your father’s peers, seeding the doubt of Toji’s credibility in their heads. While it did affect your father’s ability to hire safely and professionally, it wasn’t enough to affect his reputation at first. Who knows what dodgy shit he and his friends are involved in? They were in no position to judge. Though, their wives—they had their own little circles, they were tattlers for sure, not on purpose, but if they were going to have dinner, and book-clubs, and discuss arranged marriages and the suburb’s latest gossip, then it was bound to slip in.

Five years later, and your father has now inserted himself in the political space—completely and fully. His face plastered all over the media to support a promising minister’s campaign invites a swarm of tabloids. Tabloids that pick people apart, from limb to limb, to their first Freudian slip to a major scandal buried beneath the earth. Picked apart because the media wants clean. Squeaky clean. Your father’s far from that, one foot out of the door, the other in. Serving whatever interests him. All stains uncovered. As demeaning as it might sound, Toji was one of them. One he refused to get rid of, one he wore like a badge.

So, it resurfaces, keeps doing so, like a chronic zit, and it won’t go away. CEO of a respected media conglomerate, emerging as a political typhoon, and a bodyguard, rumoured to be a conman, hired without a resume. It wasn’t supposed to spiral like this, or at least, you weren’t supposed to care that it did.

But you can’t see the anger behind his eyes, it’s unreadable, and all you want to do is to kiss him.

“Are you admitting that you’re a conman?”

“No,” he whispers, alluring. “I’m admittin’ that I know my boss’ daughter has a thing for a dirty men.”

You can read something now. He wants something, and it opens a door. “Not all dirty men. Just the ones who think they’re better than me.”

Lips upturned into a smirk; he invites you in: go on.

In an outpour of desire, swelled and pent-up for nearly five years, and the last twenty minutes of trying to figure out why Mr Fushiguro drove you out here, dissipates into the chilly air, pushing you to chase a goal that’s had you tiptoed on the cusp of satisfaction for far too long. Your hands slide across his nape to bring him down to you—heels off the ground, torso stretched, so you can put those tantalising memories to rest.

Then he grabs your hands and moves his head back.

“No, no,” he chides lightly, luring you in for the sake of getting that reaction, spins you around with so little of his nonstandard might. He uses the grip he has on your wrists to press you against the car—his mouth trails along the curve of your ear, providing a draft of warmth compared to the blustery weather. “Did you think it’d be that easy?”

The sullen brown of the trees around you become more apparent now, looming in its own intensity while the wind becomes harsher.

“You’ve always been curious, haven’t ya?” he murmurs, locking his hands around your wrists, bringing each hand to your lower back. “How the hell does a man like me end up with someone like you?”

You can hear his strong aversion to this work; drawing you back to this unusual reality, the sensation of nylon slithering around your wrists and he’s quick and firm, letting the cold zip tie overlap his iron-clad grip on your wrists. That tantalising shiver, from a simple touch so adorned that it caused you to border delusion, completely disappears and the knot tightens.

“What are you doing?” you exhale, puffs of frosty air following.

He chides. “What’s it look like? I’m finally giving you the attention you want.”

Talk to them.

Shut them up however you want.

Every obstacle Toji has had to hurdle over has either been met with a shiny two-point pistol, a cursed sword with arcane origins, or a turned cheek (and maybe a splash of blood money on the side, which he’s had no problem with spilling). Running your mouth could only irritate him for so long but seeing as it nearly cost him his precious job, he couldn’t ignore it for much longer.

These grapevines the upper class are unbelievably obsessed with, littered all over his reputation and it all pertains to you. Someone desperate enough to use rumours to garner his costly attention, convinced that he’d eventually give in and beg for those lies to put to rest—on his knees and hands tied.

Alas, Toji doesn’t beg. Nor does he try to be nice.

As though you’ve just awoken from a trance, you begin to struggle against the constraints, flustered when his broad frame keeps you from moving anywhere but into him.

“See,” he presses himself into you, indulging in those quiet whines of disbelief. “I’m curious about you too. How does a brat like you get rid of my men so easily?”

“Keep assuming, Fushiguro. It’ll get you nowhere.” You retort.

“You don’t think so?”

Abruptly, he pulls away, hauling you to the bonnet of his car. He pushes you against the surface with a quiet thud, effortlessly, using his thighs to keep your legs from kicking at him—a sight to behold, to see you whittled down into someone small.

He might be caught up in his own inner monologue, but your mouth is moving; curses and demands falling so bitterly from your tongue, yet it’s quiet. Not necessarily practised, but he’s always thought what he’d say if he ever had the chance to get you like this, below him, submitted to his mercy, a satisfying end to your senseless games.

It’s not a good idea; messing with his boss’ daughter like this, seeing you like this, wishing terrible things, lewd and impulsive. He’s envisioned this, in passing thought, whenever he’d watch your mouth move; insolent gossip flowing to the ears of other rich assholes, demanding another drink, talking down on his men, complaining, flirting, swearing, the smearing of cream on your finger, and you’d lick it, suck, and have the audacity to look him in the eye while doing so, then those thoughts would arise once more.

He wouldn’t let it linger for more than a minute, but it’s more than enough. Your attention needs feeding, and he was more than willing to do it. Just not in the way you hoped he would.

So desperate to find out who he is.

If you did, you’d run the other way. You can’t even handle the inhibited part of him, this clean state—

“I’ll show you who I really am, how about that?” he says, looming over you like a raincloud. It threatens to pour. “But I’m warning ya, you’re not going to like what you find.”

“Just wait until he hears about this. You’re fucking done.” You spit. His warnings can barely aid your ego.

Toji could laugh, but he really does like you like this. “Really? After all that waiting,” he leers, leaning closer, until his next words are mouthed against your ear. It tickles, sends a shiver down your back, and earns a strained croak. “You have me right where you want me, don’t ya?”

Your eyes close, a cynical response to the fact that he’s right.

He keeps pushing and pulling.

“Bask in it for now,” he continues, a breeze against your bare skin, and you don't notice how loud it is until you’ve been ridden speechless. His last gift of transparency for you, offered in a spine-chilling whisper against your ear, “because I don’t fuck spoiled brats.”

A small smile pricks the curve of your ear, fingers trail the side of your thighs, exposed from the way your dress skirts upwards.

You shudder when his large hand slides beneath the hem of your dress. “What—”

“But if you beg nicely,” he says, using his other hand to maintain a vice-grip around your neck, keeping you face down on his car. “If you want this,” he presses into you—

“Fushiguro.”

He reprises. “You’ll beg for it, and maybe, just maybe, I’ll reconsider.”

“We’re in public.” You remark worriedly, tuning into the sounds of incoming cars. It shouldn’t bother you—you’ve done worse—but there is something off about this entire exchange, nothing is in your favour. This isn’t a reward for your wily efforts.

“For a tough girl like you, I’m sure this is nothin’, right?” he mutters with a rich twang, letting the words coil in your stomach. “Aren’t you tired of this act? Not enough to distract you from me, is it?”

“That’s not—oh—” you squirm when he scoots your dress up, until it’s crumpled around your waist, exposing black lace that does an awful job of hiding anything, sunk between your cheeks. His first instinct drives him to snap the lace back, to test its sturdiness, wondering if he can just tear it off. And he pulls.

You writhe whenever he moves the material around, tugs at it, lands a soft slap to your ass cheek; your heels barely hovering over the cobblestone as your knees crook, then slump in response.

A weak gasp escapes you when his fingers suddenly brush against the fabric. A nasty craving urging him to push it to the side and sink his fingers in, but that’d be too generous. Far too giving.

Toji doesn’t give; the strings of a crude marionette are now in his hands, always been his to play with, but his pants already feel tighter, constrained.

You can barely utter a word, clearly anticipating the moment he decides to put an end to this agonising tease, fearing that your words will put him off. The mere touch of his fingers playing with your underwear almost feels serene because he’s slow, careful, scarily tactful as a predator should be before they strike. Observes the way you take your lower lip between your teeth, giddy when you hear him unbuckle his pants.

Then with a harsh tug, your panties drop to your ankles, earning a waft of a cold air against your slit. “Think that drunk idiot would’ve made you cum tonight?”

“I don’t know,” you retort shakily, “you pointed a gun at him before he had the chance—”

He cuts you off with a strike to your ass. It’s humorous because he knows, and you know that it’s not true. Projecting your vulgar fantasies onto faceless men who you can’t even remember, can barely put their dick in where it matters, pretending those dramatised moans belong to—

It’s a fruitless attempt, yet you try, again and again. Act out. Train your silver tongue. Try to garner his attention somehow. But this is not what you intended for you and him.

To be strung out in the open like this, to be put on trial no less.

Toji tugs your underwear past your heels, stuffs them in his pocket, and pries your cheeks apart, observing the slick that shines against subdued moonglow.

“What a mess.” He tuts, inaudible when it’s overcome by the sudden beeping in his ear.

“Is that on? Can they hear us?” you ask, alarmed. The idea of them perversely listening to you being disciplined like this, when they’d want nothing more than to have you punished for all of your antics—it’s humiliating. “Turn it off.”

Toji turned it off the moment he got out of the car.

“No,” he simply spurns, thumbing the skin just a few inches away from your sodden slit, gently bumping against your clit with soft infolds. He leans down again, following your grimace with joy, inhibited moans that threaten to spill out—he’s never been so animated. “How’s this, hm? This everythin’ you want?”

He places one of your legs onto the bonnet to give him clearer access, running his hand along your thigh to keep you in place.

“Not quite,” you smartly respond, still heaving from his ministrations. He’s not even doing anything, yet you already look like you’re breaking apart.

“Yeah? What else?”

“Your fingers—”

“My fingers? Where do you want it?”

“You know where, asshole,” you spit through gritted teeth, wriggling under your constraints. You don’t know what you want—fighting through the zip tie, asking him to touch you—it’s confusing.

“Say it.”

“My cunt.” You respite crudely.

“I don’t know,” he sighs wilfully, relishing in the way your face contorts in annoyance. “Temptin’ but,” he tilts his head, “think I missed the part where you begged for it.”

That’s a foreign concept. You shake your head, clenching under every circular motion he presses into your skin.

“No?”

“No.” You manage to sputter, stalwart.

“Alright then,” he exhales, earning a guttural moan when he suddenly trails a thick finger down your slit, spreads your lips apart to watch your slick leak out, and he’s finally dipping his toes into cold waters. But he’s already hearing the way it smacks softly against his ministrations, those wanton moans he never thought he’d be reckless enough to hear, notices the way your eyes are rolling white from a simple swipe across your clit, toes curling into your heels.

Toji doesn’t intend on giving at all; prefers the illusion of it, pushing you to the brink and taking it away from you just as quickly.

So, he draws a long string of spit to his fingers, two of them, lets the rest drip loosely over your ass, and presses them to your clit. Oh. It’s quiet, the only sounds reverberating the open space are your soft moans, those delicate squelches, the cranking of the car when you push yourself into him; it’s oddly warm. He’s never seen you this quiet, and if you are, you’re plotting—cynical and judgemental, but this time, your eyes are fluttering closed in fulfilment, lips parted.

So, he sinks his fingers in, crooks them, buries them deep inside with no warning, reeling when you squeeze around them. Toji observes you carefully, those reactions you attempt to disguise because he knows you don’t trust him. He’s never taken the time to read your features properly; learn your patterns, remember them, noticing every speck and freckle, the soft curve of your eyebrows, the ‘o’ shape your mouth is making, it’s without ridicule.

Maybe, he’s too preoccupied with the sheer wetness coating his fingers, navigating through his own urge to bury his cock inside of you, coat it in all of your slick until he’s spraying your spongy walls in generous amounts of his load. He imbues that urge into his thrusts, motioning his fingers back and forth with such vigour that it shakes his car, creaking noisily. The vulgar wet smacking of his fingers connecting with your cunt overpowering the soft winds, yet it’s not enough to conceal the loud moans he rips from your chest.

But you’re so tight, and he really might hurt you if he falls into his own impulses quickly. It’ll wrap nicely around his girth, surely fuck all of that terrible tendency to run your mouth, until you can only murmur his name with little coherence.

Maybe a third finger might do the trick.

Though, you’re enjoying this so much. The fact that he’s even touching you is bringing all of your wildest fantasies to the surface—he’s done a wonderful job of convincing you that he’d never touch you.

“Did you really think I’d just give it to you?”

Barely coherent and aware of your surroundings, you can’t hear the belt slide off the car, a cold leather suddenly sliding across your slit when his fingers leave your cunt hollow. “The fuck—”

“Watch your mouth,” he utters, tired of the obscenities leaving your mouth so loosely, at him. (That’s that complex. They hate him, you don’t. They respect him, you, however, don’t). “C’mon, tell me how bad ya want it.”

“Fuck you,” you spit, still dazed from his ministrations.

Then he smiles. Mockingly. A sinister smile that can only adorn a monster staring down at their victim.

It all happens so quickly—the flat surface of his leather belt makes sharp contact with your swollen clit, ripping a shrill gasp from you, hurdling through stages of adrenaline and disbelief when the sting finally sinks in. “Ow!” you yell, flailing against his hold.

You jolt into the bonnet, reeling from the discomfort. You almost regret looking back, recoiling into the same shell he put you in when you first met him—greeted with such intensity that it might burn you alive. The verdancy in his eyes says it all, even if he refuses to crack a smirk. “Did that hurt?”

His thumb caresses your tender clit, his other hand holding your thigh with a tantalising stroke. It’s soft. Somewhat balanced against the callousness of the object in his hand. Then he strikes again and cements you to the car. Any attempt at wringing from his grip is fought to no avail, accompanied by little bursts of anger. His tender rubbing does nothing to aid the stinging sensation.

Yet, the coil in your gut grows. It’s frustrating. The swelling of tears becomes more apparent the more he strikes your cunt, profusely sending titillating sensations throughout your body as he focuses entirely on your clit. He doesn’t even ask again. He doesn’t need to. Toji can see your resolve break in your eyes, the desperate moans eliciting all croaked and weak.

It’s almost pitiful.

“Fuck, fuck. Stop,” you beg curtly, heaving so loudly. “Stop.”

“Why should I?”

“Because I’ll ruin you. My father owns you.” You sniffle, reduced to a blubbering mess.

“Yeah? By the sound of it,” he runs the glistening belt along your slit, now sticky and wet. “I owned you from the moment you saw me, right?”

You exhale loudly, mired by a scoff, unable to retort.

“Look at me.”

You cower, scowling in frustration, attempting to turn away from him proves futile when he’s forcing you onto the car face-down, but trying to ignore his words does even worse. Toji tuts gently, letting go of your aching thigh and for a moment, allows you to move it down. He turns you until your back lays on the car, giving a clearer vision on the distress on your face.

Legs spread apart, sodden cunt glistening. A sight to behold. Nipples perked beneath your flimsy dress that remains bundled around your waist, skin slowly succumbing to perspiration as he tests your endurance. You’re looking at him with those eyes, but they’re worn down—floundered, struggling to compete with the trial he’s putting you through.

Mirrored with a sadistic smile that’ll finally shed you of every presumption and expectation you have of him, if he hasn’t done so already.

“This,” he utters under his breath—it's so quiet than any whisper could be heard from miles away, and he trails the belt flatly across your slit, smearing your thighs in slick, “is mine, and I haven’t even fucked it.”

The promise of yet lies wistful in his throat, but he could never let you hear that.

Not when this is working in his favour.

“Hurry up and do it,” you demand. Still. Even if there are tears threatening to spill, your voice still holds the volition to demand. Please? He hears it pop softly in your mouth, but you don’t say it out loud.

Maybe he imagined it.

“What was that?”

“I said fucking do it.” Wrong answer.

He slaps the belt onto your clit once more, earning a strained gasp that falls short when he soothes the strike with a tender thumb twist. “So demanding,” he tuts, sees the defeat bleed through your moans—fumbling between the expected strike and tantalising rubs. You’re not exactly hiding it. This angle is definitely better. “Like I said, not until you give me what I want.”

“Then?” you heave, eyebrows faintly curved into a wistful sign of hope.

“I don’t know,” he sighs, tutting playfully while he softly pries your lips apart—a ooze of more slick running down. “I don’t think you can handle it.”

Pleas bloom in desperation, slowly accustomed to the precise strokes he lands on your clit—with his thumb, then the flat surface of his belt, then his thumb again, then the belt—relentlessly, feverish when he’s chasing a cacophony of sounds.

A splash of slick, obscene squelches buried beneath his circular motions—it’s ruthless. Nearly selfish. Ravenous while he stares down at you, enjoys the clear line he’s drawn between his actions; sinking his fingers into his cunt with no warning, twisting them between your sporadic clenching. Sticky warmth coating his fingers over and over again, until they cover his knuckles completely. Recklessly drawing you closer to an orgasm so far-fetched, tying that knot inside of your gut, letting your back arch against his car.

He sees the strain in your movement, struggling to level your breathing, burning blue while the moon bounces off of you entirely. Tears slipping down the corner of your eyes, squeezing shut with every whimper, fully and fluidly. But you’re so loud. It’s all he can hear in a city that refuses to be quiet. Sudden and frantic, as if it hurts to release.

Didn’t he intend for this to shut you up?

It nearly sounds as though you’re enjoying it.

Maybe he’s just feeling masochistic.

Pulling your bottom lip between your teeth, barely able to read his movements as he switches from finger-fucking your cunt to giving your clit a piercing slap. There’s no time to process any of it.

It’s pitiful. Heels digging so far into the surface of his car that it engraves white, messy marks—a poor testament to his own mission. “So tight. They really don’t fuck you right, do they?”

Jaw clenched, chest undulating, you stifle your own response.

“No wonder you’re such a fuckin’ brat,” he spits with vigour, slapping your cunt with his hand alone, rubbing your slick around until those vulgar sounds become far too familiar, too little rewarding. “You need someone to stretch you out just right.”

“You’re such an asshole—oh,” you heave, putty when a third digit joins his relentless ministrations, earning a searing burst of discomfort and pleasure. Your pathetic pleas for more—or less—he can’t tell, becomes louder whenever he rubs your sensitive spot, pushing deeper and deeper until your knees are completely crooked ninety degrees, the edge of your heels planted at the pane of his wide shoulders. “Just like that, ughh!”

The itch of wanting to hold him compels you—tugging at the cord around your wrists, hoping to loosen it. Searingly bursting through your heart while he pulls you closer to an orgasm. He’s relentless, holding one of your legs to keep them from flailing about, the other insistent on making sure you keep doing so.

Completely unravelled, blubbering all sorts of incoherent nonsense that you forget all of your efforts to hide your imminent orgasm. “Oh fuck, fuck, fuck, I’m cu—”

“Yeah?” he urges with a delirious grin, insistently rubbing against your clit. He’s doing a good job of convincing you that he’ll let you.

“Toji,” you gasp loudly. He almost lets a rogue groan leave him when your walls contract tightly around his thick fingers, soft and sodden, smacking so loudly against him. He’s excited. Wants to replace these nimble motions with something much more girthier, something that’ll really shut you up. “Oh my g—”

If only he could take a picture.

That look on your face when he retreats, slowly slipping his fingers out and barely escaping the iron-clad shutting of your thighs to keep him there.

“Fuck, fuck. Why’d you stop?” you spit vehemently, wriggling against the car—the cord doing a disservice to your tantrum.

“Beg for it.” He says, nonchalant.

“Fuck you. Let me go now—!”

“Shut up,” he exhales once again, suddenly muffling your screams and profanities with your own crumpled panties. It only angers you further, eyes nearly protruding from your sockets. “If you don’t want to back down, I’ll just have to try again.”

He pries your legs apart again, running his fingers along your slit, watching your chest heave in unrivalled anger. As you simmer from your tantrum, he earns a sharp gasp that restarts it when he slaps your cunt again.

Then he kneels down, doesn’t let the fine material of his suit touch the ground, and licks a long strip along your slit, ending with a delicious curl around your sore clit, twirling the wet muscle slowly as your stifled moans bleed through your panties.

If he insists on making you the bane of his existence, he surely enjoys punishing you for it. Though, this doesn’t feel like a punishment. At least, when he’s greedily lapping at your clit, circling his slick-coated lips around the nub until your heels are digging at the pane of his shoulders once again.

He loves it. That discomfort inflicted by the sharpness of your heels. It’s definitive. The further you curl into his non-embrace, the more he brings you closer to the illusion. And you fall for it every time.

Forces your thighs further apart, and you try to clench harder, but you’ve succumbed to his stronger grip, submitted to tortuous wet loops around your clit, wandering down your slit—sinking further and further in, wriggling the wet muscle until he’s fully submerged in your cunt. Nose-dived into you, a skilled swipe of his thumb landing on your clit to seal the deal. You can’t even utter a single word, wailing the city down until the cars can no longer offer its own automatic ambience.

Before you could count the number of vehicles that might’ve passed by before, but now—who knows how many have peered beyond the tinted windows; wondering what on earth could be happening? It’s difficult to look down when your weight doesn’t support it, anchored by the cord and the unreasonable position you’ve been put in. Yet, you’re trying. Trying to get good look at Toji devouring you from the waist down. Hoping you can get it framed somehow.

Your endless fantasies couldn’t leave up to this. If he wasn’t going to let you have it, then the least he could do was let you look. You bite down on your panties, hoping your words seep through. Don’t stop—ugh!

His eyebrows raise in response, clearly amused by the way you’ve been whittled down to only a few words and phrases. Don’t stop. Murmured and shouted through your panties, as though it’s only the language you know. Oh, the sound of desperation. Keep going. And he’s dogged. Flatly laying his tongue over your clit, spreading your lips apart to invite his thick fingers inside once more—dealt more than they can handle.

But he’s nudging through your contractions, humming lazily as he laps at your wetness; suctions of slobber that make this all the messier. You can see it leave his mouth. It’s filthy. Tantalising. Bearing that knot in your gut with a fruitful twist, and it doesn’t end there, persistently growing as he rubs against that sweet spot, again and again. He’s humming through his own enjoyment, some of it intentional, eliciting deep vibrations through your body; the rest subconsciously, as though he’s indulging in it before he has to stop.

The wicked glint in his eye, none of it contested by the lustful gaze shared between the two of you. It’s irritating. He’s timing it. Pushing all of those buttons that exist in your rattling frame, until you’re convulsing. Strident groans elicited by your heels still kneading the car, now there’s for sure a few deep dents, (he’ll definitely have to get it fixed before his next ride), and the poorly withheld moans coming from the both of you.

You, a little louder, in fact much louder than the older man submerged in your cunt, unable to hold it in.

You’re trying to hide it. Before he—

It crawls out of your throat like a bubbling saucer, spilling through your stuffed panties, restrained yet full of fervour. He looks delectable. Makes you feel as though you are from the way he mouths at your cunt, flicking his tongue over your clit to watch you squirm even harder, lets a rogue fang barely scrape the poor nub, sinking his fingers further and further inside, making you feel so full. If this is how his fingers feel, then—

“You really don’t learn, do ya?” he tuts, removing his mouth from you—revealing a slicked mess that takes over the lower half of his face, from his sharp nose to the dip between his collarbones.

You can only reply with muffled curses, merged into mangled pleas and demands. Blinking rapidly through uncontrollable tears. He can’t decipher any of it to an exact meaning, but it’s not difficult to understand. Not when his fingers are still deep inside of you, curling and twisting against that sweet spot, slipping a thumb to your clit, rubbing.

“Look at me,” he urges, following your head turns, slapping your cheek lightly. “C’mon, I won’t bite.”

He’s a liar. Your mind suddenly traces back to the day he blatantly rejected your not-so-subtle advances; a dinner party, one that entailed an informal get-together between conglomerates and their kids.

(Again, you had a little too much to drink, putty, observant while he shared stern orders to a few bodyguards at the mansion’s entrance.

Something about detecting uninvited guests? You were too busy eyeing him to gauge what he was saying, up and down, fixated with his back turned—the other bodyguards subtly noticing.

“Do ya understand?” he confirms, scouring between the three in front of him. They’re stoic, slightly scared nonetheless, nodding. “Get out of here.”

They scurry away to their stations.

Standing by the pillar, sipping your glass of champagne while he gives into your demanding presence, finally turning around to face you. “What?”

“You’re good at your job.” You utter, hoisting yourself off the pillar, swaying towards him. “A little too good, maybe. It’s okay to let loose once in a while.”

“I don’t drink.” He retorts, taking a jab at your current state. The dinner party started 25 minutes ago, and you were already tipsy.

That piques your interest. “At all?”

He doesn’t bother responding, or looking at you, walking to the double doors leading to the dinner hall. You follow him. “Sober up before you walk in again. Don’t embarrass yourself.”

“Why don’t you help me sober up then?” you utter, clinging to his side. “Since we’re here.”

“You wouldn’t want that,” he slowly mutters, as though he was laughing to himself, swinging the doors open. “Trust me.”)

Maybe you should’ve listened.

Maybe you should’ve turned the other way.

That way, you wouldn’t be subjected to this game. It was cunning, a warning he made sure you’d take with a pinch of salt, because he now has you at the brink of starvation, parched and completely brittle; pleading for some kind of quenching.

He has your hips raising and does nothing to stop it, follows your erratic movements, lets you move him to the flow of your own orgasm. Toji can see the slick run down your cheeks—a damn mess it is, nearly pained at the sight of his fingers buried inside of your cunt, squelching through his incessant thrusts. Don’t, is what he’d hear clearly if he didn’t stuff your mouth full, yet he replies, mocking. “Don’t what?”

It twists and turns—that fire within you, setting you alight until everything you feel is absolute. Don’t stop!

It’s travelling to the pits of you, eventually spilling all of his thick fingers, maybe his car, maybe he’s pushed you too far; maybe he’ll make a right mess before he can—

Hollowness follows.

A wide-eyed face meeting glistening fingers, subdued by moonlight. He fights the temptation to suck on it, wiping the slick across his shirt. Fuck you! Fuck! It’s nearly laughable—those noisy insults bleeding through the fabric, how frustrated you are and he’s simply unfazed. Asshole! He doesn’t want to, but he’s far from done, peeling the panties from your mouth, and accepting the subsequent clarity of your curses.

“Just let me cum,” you plead (barely, somehow, your begging still sounds like a demand) and it falls on deaf ears, deliberately. “I’m not playing this game.”

“Do you think you deserve it? Think you earned it?” he asks sternly, placing a hand just beside your head to lean closer. His eyes are cold—careless to the trepidation strewn across your face.

“I’ll behave, asshole. I’ll be nice. I won’t talk. How’s that sound, hm?” You somewhat lean in.

“Nice,” he repeats with indignation, stunned by your choice of words. “You’re gonna need to do better than that.”

He pulls you from your arms, hauling your entire weight to the ground with an unkind thud.

“So, I’ll ask you again,” he licks his lips. “How badly do you want it?”

You gnaw at your lip—desperately—is what you’d like to say, but your pride has chewed at your resolve, spitting you out into this unfathomable state of weakness. The cobblestone jaggedly scrapes against your knees while you adjust, constraints far too tight to let you wriggle around properly, and his shadow, looming and overbearing, offers no reconciliation for your discomfort.

Instead, his large hand nestles in your hair, yanking your head backwards, until it’s forcing your gaze to meet his.

The ache overbearingly grows between your thighs—throbbing, panging desperately for some relief. A knowing look, subtly hinting at what’s to come, and your mouth waters, waiting to be satiated. “How bad?”

When he asks, it’s surprisingly composed, not demanding, as though he doesn’t need words to understand that he’s won—that you’re not willing to fight him. How can you? Mascara smudged below your eyes, lips bruised from your constant gnawing, nose wet from your blubbering; there’s no use in putting up a front. You can see the delight etched across his face.

You’re too stubborn to voice it, returning his gaze with a stone-cold glare. Though, there’s an obvious curve beneath his pants—risen and hard.

His chest undulates beneath his white t-shirt, three buttons down from the collar, a soft lustre glistening across his skin. You could drool at the sight, amid all of this frustration—he’s delectable. It’s a little impulsive, but with your arms tied and your stubbornness tying your tongue, you’d rather show him. You lean into him, pressing an open-mouthed kiss against his bulge, the only barrier being his pants, and he watches intently. He doesn’t react too abruptly, as if he expected you to do something so reckless. Instead, you fixate on the way his jaw clenches.

You lay a flat tongue over the fabric, maintaining eye-contact, so you don’t miss a single, fickle reaction. It’s shameless, slow—as though he didn’t force you to commit to his twisted game, completely decadent. You almost nab the zip, threatening to pull it down, but he quickly pulls your hair back.

Then he says, hushed. “I said say it.”

You give in. “Really bad,” you murmur, overcome with desire.

“What was that?” he responds, unzipping his pants. Enchantment twists your features; that terrible glint that flashes across your eyes whenever you stumble across a new designer dress, or when you’re gifted an expensive pearl necklace, like that one on your neck. You can only imagine what he’ll finally reveal—his length, his thickness—it must mirror his size in some way, right? Maybe how scruffy or kept up it might be? If it’ll fit right in your mouth, if he’ll deem you good enough to finally fuck you properly. “I’ll keep us both here all night, princess.”

Toji doesn’t abide to the same level of anticipation on your face, though he’s not so enthusiastic about revealing the pre-cum oozing out of his tip. When he does finally unzip, revealing his navy boxers, the damp spot doesn’t go unnoticed. Satisfaction bites at you, but his size doesn’t give you enough time to comprehend that.

He's huge. “I’ll give you a show, how about that? Maybe you’ll speak up then.”

He hauls you from the ground, a brief solace to your grazed knees before he’s taking you to your car door. He’s unkind with his gestures but makes sure you don’t bump your head when you crawl inside, unable to leverage your hands. The vehicle has sizable leg space—it’s no ridiculously long limousine, but it’s enough for him to keep you not too far, not too close either, where you’re slumped over the seat, and him, comfortably settled in front of you.

Thick thighs spread across the seat, with the soft tweak of the watch on his wrist, he notices the time. He tenderly massages his problem, letting your eyes trail downwards again in sheer curiosity—lust—it’s unfathomable, how desperate you are to show him. You prepare to say something smart, rude, aggravated by the way he’d take his time to show you.

But then he makes a move.

Train of thought completely crashed, unable to recall if you’ve fucked anyone with a girth this thick, tufts of hair getting bushier as he slowly pushes his boxers down—clearly in no rush to fuck your throat. You’re impatient, chewing your bottom lip when the thought gnaws at you, and then it springs out of his boxers. A heavy girth raised at you, monstrously long too, two veins protruding on each side, sticky white glistening on his tip.

Fuck.

Fuck.

“Hey,” he interrupts, forcing you to look up at him rather than to ogle at his cock. There’s no way that can fit in your mouth, let alone— “Couldn’t hear you right the first time.”

Spitefully, you chide, hoping it bruises his ego. “I said I want it really bad, Mr Fushiguro. Now, why don’t we stop playing this stupid game and get to it?” See, you’ve bruised enough egos to know it works—they’re all the same, always wanting to prove something, to heal their friable vanity.

But he’s not convinced, he’s amused. “Is that right?”

He runs a hand through his hair, spitting on his other, rubbing concoctions of spit and pre-cum around his cock. You watch in anticipation, hungry, and he’s unwilling to pull you closer. You momentarily think about how humiliating it would be to force yourself to your knees, just for him to reject your offer, so you watch, let the tantalising sight worsen that ache between your thighs.

You can’t believe the sight, watching Toji fist his cock, intentionally, right in front of you, with no shame.

He fucks more pre-cum to emit from his tip, rubs it all over, earning soft fapping noise that reverberates the car. To think this is happening in this car—

“Is this what you think about when you’re fucking them?” there’s a hoarseness to his voice, it’s rough and low.

You swallow, wriggling into a more comfortable position. “I can help you.”

“Oh, I know,” he leers, unbuttoning his shirt, slowly revealing his bare chest. You must be dreaming. “Just don’t think you’re ready to take it.”

You push. “I can.”

He squeezes, twists, fisting up and down his wet cock. “C’mere then,” he orders. “Show me.”

You don’t hesitate to sprawl to your knees, earning a soft laugh that skulks out of his throat, strained. “Can you untie me?”

“No,” he quickly culls. “Now, suck.”

You glower, before your tongue extends out to give the underside of his cock an unhurried lick, barely earning the illusion of a groan, but his fingers are tightening against the tiny strands of your hair, jaw clenched.

Glossy lips puckered around his thick tip, sucking diligently before you attempt to swoop down. “That’s right, put that pretty mouth to work.”

Though, you’re only able to just take less than half of him, so you move up, sloshing your tongue around his cock until it’s doused in your saliva. The task of only using your mouth is strenuous, hands tightening into fists, and his are both clasped over your head now.

The need to prove yourself does momentarily wash over you, but he’s too big to soothe your ego. You lower further down, eliciting soft gagging noises when he suddenly nudges himself to the back of your throat. Faintness nearly overtakes you—the girth of his cock uncomfortably stretching your mouth.

Though, your eyes flutter at him, intently taking his expressions; the way his lips tighten, nostrils flare as he tries to level his breathing, eyebrows furrowed tightly in concentration. His tip continues to bump against your throat, hammering (ever so slightly) as his hips raise, and his hands push you further down. “C’mon, girl, why don’t you take all of it?”

He senses your struggle, but with little to no sympathy, tightening in his hold around your hair before he motions his hips up and down, letting the car creak under his movements. A stifled moan escapes you, thrums against the back of your throat and pulses around his cock, pushing him to chase your throat, unrelenting.

Hands unable to grip anything in support, hollowing your cheeks and focusing all of your vigour into breathing your nose while he practically chokes you.

“All that talk, and you can’t even prove it. You want everything,” he utters coarsely, wiping a hand across his forehead. “Gotta do much better than that.”

He ends his demand with a deep thrust, shoving more of his girth into your throat, relishing in your responses that somewhat vacillate between a whimper and choking. When he lets go, to let you catch a single breath, he wonders if you’re made of spite rather than matter because you’re unwavering. He doesn’t even know if this is purely out of his own self-indulgence, or if this is some sick, twisted way of actually teaching you a lesson; it seems like he needs to take it up a notch.

But in the time he gives you to take a breath, you utter something that really irks him.

“Is that all you got?” you mutter with a runny nose, despite the streaks of mascara, and the pool of saliva smeared across your chin. 

He merely smiles, cutting your breath short as he shoves his cock back into your mouth. “Maybe your mouth is good for somethin’.”

Your fingers tighten around the zip tie, fighting through attempts to ignore the throbbing sensation between your legs. Goes as deep as he can, letting it drum beneath your humming that keeps you from gagging over his cock. You’re breaking. He can tell. Your words meant nothing, catching every whimper you try to swallow back down.

One last shove causes you to meet the trail of hair above, taking in his musk before he manoeuvres your head upwards—back down, upwards, back down—until your throat is battered, bruised, completely filled by his thickness. “Fuck, that’s right.”

You sniffle loudly as he fucks your throat, it’s far too audible, putting so much strain on breathing through your nose that you don’t realise his intentions. His fingers slowly glide across your cheek, to the dampness around your eyelids, until he’s wiping a single tear away. Perspiration taking a hold of both of you.

“Poor you,” he leers. “Too much?”

The car fumes under the heat of your bodies, the smell of sex beginning to linger, creaking so loudly that anyone would be able to tell what’s going on. It’s gentle, that single swipe, then he gets desperate.

He keeps your head down, settles in your throat while he hinders your breathing. For a fleeting second your eyes widen, squeeze shut, entirely set alight by his action. Despite how strenuous this is, you’re engrossed. His gaze, ravenous, stays fixated on you—eyebrows knitted together in concentration, sharp jaw clenched as he tries to withhold his own reactions. His hair begins to stick to his forehead in tiny strands, following a gentle lustre that seeps through his skin.

He lets go, pulls you up as though you were drowning underwater.

“You look better like this,” he utters breathlessly, “mouth stuffed full. Not runnin’ around trying to get me fired.”

“Yeah,” you sniffle.

“Yeah? Can’t even talk properly,” he says in awe, pushing you back down to let you swallow him down. “Haven’t even fucked you stupid yet.”

You moan loudly around his cock, urged.

“Y’r just a desperate little whore, aren’t ya?” He chuckles.

To hear him go on a tangent about your behaviour only turns you on, pushes you to do better. The taste, smell, and sound of him keeps you in a trance, motored to keep going until he unravels in your mouth. Toji doesn’t let you register the change of pace, the neediness behind his motions—his abdomen flexing while a coil tightens within him. There’s more force in his movement; thrusts become volatile, his thick tip battering your throat, uses both hands to motion your head up and down. He knows you can do better.

If he just unties you—he knows you can do much better. But this is a pretty sight, watching you fall apart, so eager to take what you can’t, to please him. But he can’t handle it either, dragging his fat cock along your tongue, fingers tightening around your hair strands when you suck eagerly, gagging when he doesn’t give you much of a choice. It’s disappearing between your glossy lips, slobber spilling out.

“Ya wanted to be treated like a slut,” he gruffly mutters, “s’this what you wanted?”

Toji knows you can’t reply but slaps your cheek to retain your depleted attention; lidded eyes, webbed by your tears, fluttering as he grinds into your mouth, with no clemency. Then he pulls you away, his deep breathing competes with your soft hacking.

“You can’t even take all of me,” he sighs, grabbing your chin, and leers with his mean gaze, at the mess he’s made of you—a concoction of slobber smeared all over your chin to your chest, your makeup ruined, parched onto your skin. “Waited all these years just to give up on me?”

Your throat hurts; an answer elicits croaked. “Untie me, and I’ll show you I can.”

He grins manically. “Nah. Y’r all talk and no bite.” The unkind man pulls you up, lets your legs settle beside his, and stretches to lower you further down. With apprehension, you stare down at his cock, tightly fisted in his grip. “I’m gonna have to make it fit, won’t I?”

“Make it fit,” you echo, “please.”

“If ya want it that bad,” he shakes his head, grabs a fistful of your ass to press you into him, and it’s sticky, rubs against your slit, a mere nudge of his cockhead inching closer to your entrance earns a curse, and a sharp gasp from you. “Sit on it.”

Any sort of wittiness passes by your thought process, broken down into what he’s deemed your real nature; downright needy for real attention.

“Toji,” you almost wail, shuddering when his fat tip finally slips in, only gets wider, and you’re barely adjusting to his girth before he moves you up and down. This is real. He’s really inside of you right now. Brought you to many near orgasms that you’d lost count and took them just the same.

You should be crying in relief, that it’s over, that you finally have him right where you wanted but he’s torn you apart before you can even relish that—it’s everything you’ve dreamed of, and everything you aren’t in the slightest prepared for. “Ah, fuck, you’re too b—”

“No, no,” he disapproves, strikes your ass, slowly letting the sensation settle as your cunt squeezes at his tip. Just waiting to give it to you. “What? What’s the problem?” he slaps again, a little header, causing your head to fall onto his shoulder. “Too much already? Come on, ya got your cake. Eat it.”

When you lean upwards, you throw him a mean look, withering under his stare, and slowly and carefully, you lower yourself on his cock. With your arms still tied, it’s difficult to find any kind of stability, relying on his firm hold to help you sink down on his thick cock. Halfway through, and your thighs begin trembling, unable to fathom the sheer girth stretching your cunt apart. Toji waits for the right moment, kneading your ass to (barely) aid you in this moment, watching intently as his cock disappears between your folds.

He’s quiet. It’s eerily quiet. Perhaps, you’re too invested in not getting injured that you don’t notice. It doesn’t sink in that you’re situated on the side of a cliff, that no one but Toji was aware of your whereabouts.

When you finally take most of him, humiliated by the sheer tremble of your thighs, you move back up.

You shake at the slight curve of his cock hitting the depths of you, but it just doesn’t quite hit the right spot yet. It’s frustrating, eliciting the quiver beneath your lip as you don’t fail to show how annoyed you’re getting—practically moving you to tears of frustration. It’s humiliating to let him watch you work so hard to no avail. His hands barely keep a hold on your hips, only there just in case you lose your balance.

“I can't do it.” You spit through your blubbers.

“Hey,” he pats your cheek, gesturing you to look back up at him. “No excuses.”

“Untie me, please. I’ll be good, I promise.”

“No,” he declines once again, deadpan. “You have to work for it, princess.”

You huff, rolling your hips, barely at the apex of how far he’ll go with this. It wraps nicely around him, and chest to chest, drawing yourself closer to let his entire being consume you. Toji notices, slacks against the seat, lets his arms rest over it, enjoys the spectacle of you struggling. Then his head lolls back, lips parted to exhume the loveliest sounds, shed of any ridicule. It encourages you to grind faster, harder, but your bounces are still stuttered, attempted with long pauses—a cramp in your thigh building up.

His neck glistens with sweat, and you bite the urge to lick it, but that impulse is exactly what it is, rash, reckless, birthed by the neediest parts of you, and you attempt it; a long strip along his sternum, to his chin, which earns a throaty groan from him. In turn, it forces you to arch into him, it bends his thick cock deeper into you. But when he looks down at you, you’re so close, trying to do the obvious, and it’s pathetic.

Your lips try to chase his, but he pulls you back. “Kiss me, Fushiguro.”

“Kiss that dirty mouth?” he sighs, running a thumb across your lips. “You still have filth in there. Best get it out first.”

“Hm?”

His dick twitches. “Did you,” he says slowly, belittling, “start that rumour?”

“Will you kiss me if I say yes?”

He doesn’t answer, slips his thumb inside, and you suck on it. “Tell me.”

You’re still bouncing on his cock, struggling. “Yes. I did.”

“Good girl,” his upper half leans forward, and now his nose brushes against yours. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Then he thrusts, pulls your hips down to meet him halfway—

“Mphm—” your surprise is muffled by his mouth, ripping a sharp gasp that he swallows with his tongue, kissing so hard that your faces nearly mesh into one another. He slaps your ass with every deep thrust, kneading the skin, grinding into every crevice of your sopping cunt. It’s deeper. Far deeper, and the car bounces, groans beneath the sounds of his cock getting wetter.

Every stuttered bounce on his cock ends with an obscene squelch, your trembling thighs getting shoved apart by his own, to give him more leeway into your cunt. He drives himself deeper and deeper as his thick thighs move further apart, breathless chuckles rumble beneath his chest, searching for that sweet spot he purposefully misses. When he finds it again, it’s another few inches he thrusts into, entirely reckless, and you’re nearly toppling backwards.

“Oh my—right there,” you chant, clamping down on his dick. “Right—fuck—don’t stop.”

“You’ll be good, and stop, won’t ya?”

“I won’t talk, I’ll stop—”

Everything is burning. Your skin. Your heart. The cloyed heat is just twisting inside of you, and he’s doing the most to intensify it. You can’t hold it in—those wanton moans, those pitiful pleas for mercy—it’s laughable. He fiddles with your pearl necklace, swipes a thumb over every single pearl, gives off the impression that he’ll rip it off, until he focuses his attention to your dress. “We should get this off.”

“Need to—” you plead, still desperately grinding into him, “—need to untie me first.”

“Hm,” he mulls it over, slides the thin hems down your arms. So, then he does, finally, undoes the cord, and lets it slide off your indented skin, and you sigh in relief, immediately gripping onto his shoulders to support your bounces. He lifts your dress up from the bottom, and you raise your arms to let him remove it. “Aren’t you pretty?”

“Think so?” you ask, churned by the sudden compliment.

There’s a sluggish smile on your face vying towards a grin, and if you weren’t so caught up in the pleasure, you’d notice how it ticks him off. “What are you smiling about?”

He flattens your bodies together, to the seat, on your back, and then leans back to unbutton his shirt. You anticipate it, gnawing at your lip when he finally removes his button-up, revealing his bare, burly frame. Scars etched across his skin. Your hand immediately reaches out to him, trailing over every ridge and curve.

“What if I said it wasn’t a rumour then?” he leers, locks a grip around your neck. You lock your gaze, try to read it, but there’s a puddle between your thighs and there’s no telling if he’s lying or not. Do you want it to be true? “Just how much,” he says, “do you want to know?”

“Everything.”

A brute. That’s what he is. Toji doesn’t play nice, and he’s fine with torturing you for longer, but his sticky tip bumps against your clit and you’re so dainty now, no longer full of bite. It almost feels excessive to let himself let go like this. “Do ya really wanna know how many I’ve killed? Hunted? Do you have any idea what kind of men exist outside of your bubble?”

“I know now,” you murmur, gnawing at your lip.

“Yeah? Found your type?” he leers, patting your cheek. “You like brutes, princess?”

You’re flustered, for the first time, visibly so, avoiding a gaze that makes a joke of you. No affliction made him second-guess his own choices and morals, a stubborn trait of a hitman, seasoned with age and experience.

But even as the truth wanes, every passing gaze seems to have one thing in common: his anatomy. Neck, shoulders, biceps, waist, thighs—even as his hands clench and unclench around yours.

You don’t have a type.

You just want him.

“Not brutes.”

He brushes it off, demanding your attention. Befitting for that inner dilemma he’s set alight, craving such a thing for someone who rotates the simple nihilist means of satisfaction around—the torn shell of a bullet, poker tables and a cold shot. “Why don’t you look at me when you’re talkin?”

You listen, finally peeling your attention off anything but his eyes, and reciprocate this gaze.

“What is it then? Rich? Pretty? Good, kind men?” he goes on, lists qualities that barely satiate your needs. Not when you’re this greedy. Given everything, primed to want everything more, clad to riches from head to toe—the unravelled man hangs just above that. There is no running from this. “You don’t like dirty, do ya? Killers like me… we’re scum.”

He hovers as close as he needs to be, until his musk exudes so clearly now.

He’s cracked you.

“Nah, that’s not it,” he continues, licking his lips, putting a callous hand over your head. “Tell me. Loud and clear. How badly do you want to fuck a dirty man like me?”

You can’t respond.

“Spit it out,” he hoarsely whispers, caging you in a tight space—if he pushes you any further, he might suffocate you. “God knows that mouth of yours has done worse.”

Then you respond. It comes out so weakly, openly, ripped from the fragments of your shame. There’s no use in lying anymore. No use in suppressing your honesty. He had opened a door, and you were more than willing to walk through it—all in.

“So bad. So so bad,” you utter, honest and desperate. “I’ve wanted this for years.”

“Yeah?” he prods, caressing your cheek.

Fingers nearly wringed from your slick—pruned and cold against your skin. It’s not endearing in the slightest. It’s not supposed to be. Toji was provoking you through your own quandary. Keeping your head from turning away in shame. He wanted to see you curl in disgrace.

He wanted an unabashed answer, naked and proud, and he got it so easily. You nod eagerly. “Good girl,” he nods, “now, turn around for me.”

You turn around, reeling in your own humiliation, but then he slips inside, so easily, no more teasing.

“Your pussy’s just swallowin’ me whole,” he groans, watches your slick coat his cock. “S’all mine.”

“All yours,” you echo, whimper, arched into him. “Fuck me hard, please.”

“Tryin’ to get me in trouble,” he shakes his head, withholding his urge to sink all of him into you. With a bruising force, he pulls your hips towards him, grinds his cock into your sweet spot, and lets you violently tremble into him. “Shouldn’t be messin’ with brats like ya.”

“It worked, didn’t it?” you say, dizzy. “Do you like brats?”

He sinks his hand into your hair, peeved, forces you up before he nudges the rest of his girthy cock inside; rips a croaky whine from you, resembles a loud cry, and he kisses the tip of your cervix. You can feel his chest rumble in laughter, connecting his hips to your ass with a loud slap, slick making a mess of you both.

It's so filling, enduring, and your hands are trying to find stable ground. It’s a dull pain, but the discomfort blooms into pleasure; your limbs are shaking, trembling from the get-go, and your chest tightens. “There ya go.”

You’ve never dealt with a cock this big, a true mark of his size. It shuts you up, and now your moans are louder, nearly unflattering with how surprised you are by his fullness, and it almost overshadows the vibrations emitting from the front seat.

It’s his phone, and it’s ringing.

He sighs and picks it up, and addresses your—

“Sir,” he says plainly, slowing down. Fear rattles you, smacking a hand over your mouth when he continues to nudge into your sweet spot. “I have her right here.”

He’s so nonchalant, as if he isn’t determined to defile his boss’ daughter for his own gain—finds pleasure in your distress.

“Found her at an underground club in Roppongi,” he says, amused by your attempts of silencing yourself; panicked. “She’s giving me the silent treatment. Don’t think you’ll get much out of her right now.”

He lies so easily, without hesitation, no shred of guilt, and it makes you think: he’s just like you.

“She’s unharmed,” he mutters, and knows, not entirely. “I’ll bring her home soon.”

There’s a long pause after he hangs up, and he suddenly pries your hand from your mouth. Your eyes widen at the brute man, and he raises his eyebrows with expectation. You’re sweaty, all teary-eyed and bruised, aching with a thick cock still wedged inside of you, fitted perfectly. 

You gasp loudly when Toji suddenly picks up the pace. “Are you crazy?”

“Insane,” he mutters, pressing your head to the seat, shoves a thumb into your mouth. “Brats like you drive me fucking insane.”

The car violently creaks under such volatile thrusts, so intensely that it might just topple over the side of this cliff, and it keeps racing, that sweetly rotten heart of yours, thumping hard while he fucks the coherence out of you. Every urge to tell him to go harder and faster is muffled by his thumb, to control whatever the hell is happening right now.

Alas, nothing is in your control anymore.

It never was.

“This—is—what ya—fuck—wanted right?”

Every deep thrust swooshes in a puddle of slick, fighting through an onslaught of wanton moans and skin-to-skin contact. It is. Oh, how badly you want to chant it, to admit that this is everything you’ve dreaming about, but Toji has calculated sapped all of the fight out of you—all of that overindulgence and mischief that you wanted to bestow on him once you got the chance; to punish him for making you wait this long.

But alas, he has you right where he wants you; every single thought you’ve piled up for years sitting in some abyss in your mind while you’re putty in his arms—surely, not to embrace you—but to keep you running from this, from him, that sated pull that’ll burst soon enough. Truly. An unruly thumb in your mouth to keep your moans from spilling out too loosely, not to stifle you completely (no, he needs that satisfaction), but to hear those whiny moans seep out despite his efforts, to hear how pathetic you are when the candy finally pops in your mouth.

For all the smart words that come out of your mouth, his desire to seal it shut grows large—this is much better—drool slowly puddling his leather seat, almost dripping off the smooth slope before he covers your mouth with his palm. He presses it to your nose shortly after, stiffening your breath and when he leans down, the curvaceous bend of his dick presses further into you, earning a pitchy squeal that barely escapes his smother.

“Ya know,” he grunts, letting his chest flatten against the sweat on your back. “For someone who wants a lot, ya sure don’t know how to handle it.”

“C—can! I can—mphm!”

He smothers your retorts, releasing a low chuckle that rumbles against you. Even as you try to show a hint of verve, it doesn’t save you from the discomfiture of needing his approval. “Why are you crying then?”

His thumb slips out, smearing a coat of saliva across your chin. The sudden sound of wheels turning on concrete alerts you, momentarily flashed by dazzling rear lights once the car stops nearby. Toji doesn’t appear remotely troubled by this. “Toji—”

“Hey,” he grabs your chin. “Hands on the window.”

He slaps your ass to prop you up, but you’re weak, barely able to carry your own weight after he’s exhausted you. Though, you don’t want this to end—not for a couple of irrelevant strangers. Slowly, you push yourself, spreading your palms wide against the window, evaporated and tinted, but the ongoings of a group of rowdy college students can still be seen. The noise slowly quietens down, and they’re getting curious. It’s slippery, it keeps slipping down, falling to the leather seat but when Toji harshly smacks his hips into you—there is no choice but to hold on.

Toji grunts. “Good—good girl, keep still for me.”

It keeps getting better, wetter, and the sudden chatter of college students now drowns in your awareness. You’re clawing at the window to keep yourself at bay, clear streaks smudged messily across the surface, but he doesn’t falter, dragging his cock along your wet walls with such precision that you can’t keep up. His hand slides across the sweat of your back, finally setting on your roots and pulls.

“That’s it,” he groans, “want ya to scream loud for me. Let em’ know who’s fucking you like this.”

“T—Toji! Ughh—”

“That’s my girl,” he approves, slaps your ass, and it forms a knot in your chest. If you weren’t so consumed by his cock, you’d fawn at his way of claiming you—it’d ring in your head like a recital, on and on, and it will, once the high settles. “Louder.”

You become louder, compelled to please him, but it’s difficult to process; that imminent orgasm that’s been continuously ripped from you for nearly an hour, twisting and turning in your abdomen, hot and sated. It’s so damn hot, and you’re all sticky, and he’s so deep. His cock buried so far into your cunt, fucking through all of the obscene squelches and erratic squeezes, and the louder you get, the faster he goes, gripping your hips so tightly that you’re convinced his fingernails have broken skin.

Toji isn’t playing a trick on you this time.

He isn’t quitting.

Fuck, fuck, fuck—

The car might actually just tip over, nearly humiliating with how loudly it’s creaking, bouncing off the ground. “F—fuck—slow down!”

“But you’ve been beggin’ all night for this?” he sneers, momentarily slipping out to turn you on your back. You might just implode from the sight of him alone; black hair strands stuck to his forehead, sleeked chest, a manic grin plastered on his face while he watches you swallow him whole. “This is it, baby. I’ll give it you.”

When he slams back in, letting the sounds of skin slapping reverberate his car—it sucks the breath out of you, a punch to the gut, cutting your moans in short curses and staggered breaths.

He doesn’t slow down, doesn’t give into the mercy you so obviously don’t deserve, continues to batter your sweet spot with careless, yet precise strides. “I’m going to c—cum—”

“Hold it.”

“I can’t—”

“You’re gonna hold it for me,” he says, spreads his hand across your abdomen and presses down; makes it hurt, harder for you to hold it in, feel the fullness of his cock nestled so deep inside of you. “Until I say you can let go.”

The heat spreads, but you’re unable to contain it when his other hand slips across your neck and squeezes. You clamp down on him just the same, milking him closer to his own climax, but he doesn’t waver. Your wanton moans only get louder, if it’s that even possible and it’s hushed by his large hand, skilfully applying, and taking away pressure from your neck.

You can barely breathe in his car, consumed by the heat of your bodies, the unrelenting pressure of his thrusts—the way he just doesn’t stop. Not the way he did for the past hour. It hurts; thighs trembling frantically against his waist while your orgasm comes a second away from washing over you.

“So close, so close—so—” it leaves your mouth like a chant, as though you’re begging for him to let you have this. Just this once. He presses down on your abdomen once more, shoving two fingers into your mouth to suppress your moans.

“Not yet,” he commands, only slowing down for a mere second, grinding so carefully into your cunt before he picks up the pace once more. You can’t. He keeps adding force, testing all of your senses, and your tears just keep spilling. You suck desperately at his fingers, the ones that remained pruned by your slick, cheeks hollowing around them as he presses them to the back of your throat. “So fuckin’ needy.”

You almost choke on them when his thumb swipes across your clit. It’s too much. White presides over your eyes, rolling when the coil continues to twist. You can barely see anything, only the odd few lights downcast by the tinted car window, a blurry figure belonging to Toji looming over you.

“Alright baby, it’s all yours now,” his words die in a trail of breathless groans, following deep, frantic thrusts that bring an incursion of stifled wails from your chest. Your thighs immediately lock around him, toes curling until those small bones cramp from how hard you fold them into your skin—until it fucking aches. “That’s right, give it to me.”

The way his fat cock disappears between your folds, returning with newfound strings of slick and spit, thrusting into your cunt shaped just for him. Your hands scramble for a firm surface, placing one on the car door above your head to avoid getting a concussion from how effortlessly he moves your entire body; the other slides across his hand, gripping tightly over the wrist that rests above your chest.

You can’t get enough, letting the sensation wash over you—far too lightheaded to even register the force that’s beckoning you completely numb. “Oh fuck—”

Your orgasm racks over you, headlong, succumbing your body to violent spasms, barely keep your legs up from under his grip, letting them kick and tense everywhere while he unrelentingly fucks the orgasm over you. “Your pussy was made for me. Look at the mess you’re makin’.”

Your fingernails claw at whatever surface you can find, blubbering all sorts of obscenities. He isn’t letting up.

“Such a good fuckin’ girl—keep goin’, I want all of it.”

You’re forcibly greeted by an emptiness amidst this climax wracking through your frame, but when his fingers slide across your clit, he manoeuvres them in an unruly fashion; side to side, messy circular motions, a few slaps to make it hurt just a little more, until your slick is spraying all over him, and the leather. Jets out on his command, unwilling. “Oh my g—”

He's leaking like crazy watching you like this, concealing your rattling frame while horror overtakes your features. A sadistic smile stretches that scar on his lip, steadfast to making sure you don’t stop, until those violent shudders completely paralyse you. It’s going everywhere. All over his abdomen, inner thighs, your body, and it even forms a thin puddle over the leather.

“Fuck—Toji—stop—that’s enough—please!”

“But you’re doin’ so well? Just give me a little more,” he chides, pinching your clit for the petty sake of ripping any and every whimper from your prickly throat. The sounds of squelches splashing carelessly around you—it’s mortifying—imploding from a long night of being denied, it’s never happened like this before; you’ve never lost control like this before. “There it is.”

It feels like an eternity before the high settles down, but just before it does, he slips right back in; presses against the sweet spot, as deep as he can go, relishing that warmth that clamps down on his aching cock. You beg. “Cum inside of me. Please.”

“Yeah? Fill the pussy up just right?” he tuts, leans down to watch you nod feverishly, even if you’re too overstimulated to take him again. It’s another bad idea, but Toji is too committed to watching his cum leak out of your cunt to demur over it, and he folds your knees until they’re brushing against your ears; a clear view of your glistening cunt squeezed between your thighs and slams his hips against yours with a bruising force. “This pretty cunt wants it all, hm?”

His panting falls heavy over your face, and he’s slowly unravelling, it’s almost primal; using you to chase his own gratification. For the first time tonight, you catch a glimmer of what he is without a shred of composure.

“Yes, yes, yes.” You beg, gnawing at your lip, swollen and lush while he gives you an uncouth view of your cunt sucking his cock in. You’re just saying anything—a broken record, a shell of whatever you were before this night began, and he’s so close to filling your pussy with a warmth unknown to you; his, and it’s impulsive, reckless. He’s also whispering sweet nothings, never overlooking the reminder that he’ll fill you up all nice, make sure you keep it in until he deems it right to let you go.

It's sloppy and wet, hands flattened beside your head as he slams his hips in, hard and stuttered. You can see his abdomen flex, tighten as he sputters his moans and he’s slowing down, still slamming hard before a rush of white heat suddenly spreads inside of you. He makes sure to drive his hips as far as he can, ensures that you can feel every spurt in your cunt, and you do. It’s so filling, ample in ways you’ve never imagined.

Curses spout from his mouth like a brand-new language, all of it lying flat in the silence when he gradually falls from the peak, grinding a ring of thick white around his cock into your cunt. “Fuck.”

There are no words. “Woah.”

Toji slowly slips out with a lewd pop, spreads your lips apart with his fingers to watch his cum leak out. He silently pulls out a cloth from his tunnel console, wipes your inner thighs and stomach, whatever mess he can find, and you observe.

“Thanks.”

He focuses his gaze onto you, deep in thought before slinging the cloth away. “Get dressed. I need to get this car cleaned.”

He’s evasive, avoids the small talk you try to start from the simple parting of your lips, and plops on the seat with a deep breath. You both use the silence to catch your breath. You stiffly sling the dress over your arms, still twitching when you sit up, and you focus on your attention on your underwear. “Where’s my—”

“This thing?” he peels your underwear from the pocket of his pants, all crumpled and damp.

Toji leans forward, alluding to another kiss you seem to already miss, depraved of such a simple thing that has made you crazy, and you prepare for it—eyes fluttering closed, a heavy breath. It never comes.

He hoists his arm over your shoulder to reach for his shirt, but he doesn’t regain the space, uttering his next words with a phantom kiss. “I’ll keep these. Just in case you need a reminder.”

And so it turns out, you’re quite forgetful. 

There’s a shift in the air.

It’s thorny and stuffy, and it fills the silence at your dinners, at your parties, and inside this car; the memories are surging in, and it’s overwhelming. It’s been a while since that night happened. Weeks. It feels like years. Albeit the campaign was a success. “Something has changed.”

You turn to your father, distracted. “Hm?”

He’s keen on knowing, sluing his entire body towards you. “I’m glad that conversation changed something, but you’re quieter than usual.”

It’s because he’s here.

In this car, in the front seat, staring ahead as if you hadn’t committed the most vulgar act, as if it didn’t transpire inside of this vehicle.

Something has changed.

Between the two of you, it’s unsure who has become the plaything, but random calls to your bedroom and his car have turned into a regular occurrence since that night.

It shouldn’t have; the callous bodyguard insisted that it would be the first and the last, but even after such an insincere promise, he quickly found himself threadbare and spread across the edge of your bed with your head between his thighs, or during his lunch break, with his hands beneath your underwear in his car, just outside of the estate.

It's all so bad, but the calculated man was truly insatiable, and you’ve learned to love it—not that it was difficult to, since you had been trying to reach out to that part of him for years. Now, that you have him in your grasp, you’re determined to never let him go.

You laze. “I’ve been thinking, that’s all.”

“You can talk to me about anything, sweetheart.”

“Of course,” you nod, eventually setting your sights to the estate; its packed, guests pouring in and gilded lights flashing brilliantly. “Should we go?”

Toji is ready to escort the both of you into the estate, but when his hand suddenly spreads across your lower back, you shudder. He mocks your feigned answer. “What are ya thinkin’ about?”

“About how good you look in this suit?”

“Watch it.” He mutters impishly, standing at the entrance while your father quickly leaves to engage in conversations with his friendly rivals.

“You should watch it too, Fushiguro.” He squints down at you with a growing smirk. “Don’t you know I have a habit of talking?”

“Yeah,” he opens the door for you, and the chatter rises to a crescendo. “And I know how to shut it up.”

author's note i'm not even joking the smut part took up most of the word count so i will hold myslf accountable for being h0rny af even though i wanted to delete this from the get-go. okay anyway ples let me know what you think (and i'm sorry if the app crashed on you) <3

♱ ‧₊˚. THE PARTY & THE AFTER PARTY ꒰ toji x f!reader ꒱ nsfw — mdni [dubcon (reader is crossfaded), alcohol/cocaine use, mentions of overdosing, infidelity (reader is cheating on megumi), age-gap, degradation, praise, raw sex, daddy kink, breeding kink, dirty talk, groping, pet names, squirting] wc [4k] an [repost from last night ⸝⸝ʚ̴̶̷̆ ̯ʚ̴̶̷̆⸝⸝ if you liked this, you can also reblog it]

"m’kay— think that's enough for one night, doll," toji lets out an amused chuckle as he observes your actions through his peripheral.

you’re leaning over the tray placed on your lap to snort your fifth line of coke that night, your head shooting back up to face the roof of toji’s car as you scrunch your nose in an attempt to offset the sting of the powder lining your sinuses. once the feeling subdued, you lazily turn to face the man in the driver’s seat, blinking at him dumbfoundedly with a pouty frown on your lips.

huh.

how’d i end up in my boyfriend’s dad’s car?

why couldn’t megumi come pick me up? did i even call him? i don’t think i did. did yuuji do it? why didn’t megumi come to the party in the first place? oh, right, he has that exam tomorrow morning. wait, don’t i have to write that exam, too? god, it’s so hot, even with the windows down. the wind feels nice… shit, it’s really cold.

the harsh gust of the cool summer night’s wind flew in through toji’s open window and across your body, pushing your hair past your shoulders and raising goosebumps on your bare arms. you shiver against the leather seat, sinking further into it in an attempt to avoid the draft. this shift in your position seems to have only made it worse, however; the rigid breeze now skimming over your chest.

oh, wait, that feels good…

the copious amount of drugs in your blood had you hyper-cognizant of every tiny, minute change your body experienced, and that translated into the heightened responses it elicited.

you feel your nipples harden through the thin fabric of your tank top, and you can’t help the way your thighs start rubbing together to ease the inevitable throbbing of your clit. your breathing is quick to become ragged as you feel yourself burning up, and you undo your seatbelt to shuffle uncomfortably in your seat.

“f-fuck…” it escapes you as the quietest of erotic sighs, yet, it’s loud enough for toji’s ears to pick up on.

he’s snapping his head towards you at the sound of your high-pitched voice and the slow beeping coming from his car to signal him that you’d removed your seatbelt. his brow is raised and worry is hidden in his eyes behind the usual nonchalance they carry— he’s ready to ask you if you’re alright before the sight in front of him nearly knocks the air out of his lungs.

your head is leaning back against the headrest, face set blissfully with slightly parted lips and closed eyes. his gaze scans over your body; your nipples peeking out through your tank top, your far too-short skirt doing a poor job of covering your legs— the fabric bunching up at your hips and one of your hands slotted in between your thighs. you're dragging your clit along your fist, the faint gasps you let out travelling straight to toji’s cock.

fucking hell. were you too coked up to notice that your boyfriend’s dad was sitting right next to you?

from the first day his son brought you home, toji knew. he knew damn well you were going to cause him a lot of problems. he couldn’t deny that he had the hots for his son’s girlfriend; what with the way you waltz around his home wearing nothing but megumi’s shirts and your panties, with the way you talk to him with coquettish undertones lacing your soft voice, with the way you always smile at him so sweetly and so, so enticingly.

did you have any idea of what you do to him? or were you just that fucking naive?

did you have any idea of how he fucks his fist to the obscene sounds of your whimpers and whines as megumi fucks you into the bed in the next room over? or how he spills all over your panties that had accidentally gotten into his laundry? or how you’re in his dreams damn near every night, where he’s the one leaving his mark on you, and not megumi.

he’s brought back to the present when the tempo of the beeps coming from his car increases. before he realises it, he’s reaching out to place a sweaty palm on your thigh— a bit further up than he probably should’ve— to lightly shake you, “hey, doll, you gotta put your seatbelt back on.”

you whine in response, arching your back further off the seat upon the contact of his skin on yours, “don’t wanna…” your free hand finds its way on top of toji’s much larger one, and you slide your fingers under his palm to hold it, “can- can you… h-hah…”

toji would never admit it, but you have him short circuiting. behind his seemingly cool demeanour, he’s having a hard time driving straight in between the lines; his car swerving left and right. the incessant beeping from the dashboard that only seems to be getting louder and louder doesn’t do anything to help the chaos of the situation he’s in, “c’mon, use your words…”

he hides his flustered arousal behind that signature, devilish smirk of his, eyes fluttering between the road and your legs as he swallows an impending groan that’s brought on by you sliding his hand to hook onto the inside of your thigh.

toji's too focused on trying to not let your lewd whimpers get to his head— and his dick, to notice that the grip he had on the steering wheel was turning white-knuckled and that his foot had been applying more pressure on the accelerator.

120 mph.

“t-toji…”

he covers up a cough with a low chuckle, your soft call of his name sending his brain into overdrive. he rubs a comforting thumb along your thigh— fuck, your skin was so soft, “yeah, doll?”

you utter almost painfully, “ngh— n-need… need you…”

130 mph.

toji fushiguro was a greedy man. he craved money, sex, and all the thrills that the universe had to offer. but at this point in his life, nothing came close to how much he wanted you. was it because you were probably the only thing that he couldn’t have? maybe.

was it because you belonged to his son and not him? perhaps.

toji fushiguro was a greedy man, but the amount of self-discipline he has is almost surprising. he knows not to touch what’s not his— especially when it comes to megumi.

but with the way you’re begging him to take you, with the way you’re clinging onto his hand as if it were a lifeline— god, toji doesn’t think his patience has ever been tested to this extreme.

“fuck me… please— oh, god— need it s’bad, toji…”

140 mph.

the thin thread of resolve that toji had was very close to tearing. he inhales deeply, before looking over at you with a grin more sinister than before, “you’re playing a dangerous game here… don’t get your pretty little head into somethin’ y’know you won’t be able to get out of,” his fingers experimentally dig into the flesh of your thigh, coaxing a wanton moan of his name from your throat.

"want you so bad… wanna fuck you so bad," your thighs tighten around his hand, "want you inside me, wanna feel you fill me up—"

and that's when he snaps.

"fuck this," with a sudden jerk of the steering wheel, he's pulling over to the side of the freeway, putting his car in park before hastily undoing his seatbelt and leaning over to maneuver you onto his lap. without warning, he takes either side of your face in his hands, pulling you into him to clash his lips against yours.

the kiss is hungry and full of lust, full of the want and need that toji’s had bottled up in him for the many months you’ve been dating his son.

his fingers trace down your neck to slide the straps of your tank-top off your shoulders, pulling down the front to expose your breasts. the cool breeze of the night flows through the open window, goosebumps forming on your supple skin, and you can't help the shiver that runs up your spine as you press your chest into his to try and feel as much of him against you as possible.

his palms crawl under the fabric of your top and run up your sides, stopping at your chest to rub his calloused thumbs over your perky nipples. his actions elicit a ghost of a moan from you and an uncontrolled buck of your hips against his, "f-fuck..."

toji’s fully sober, but he feels himself getting drunk on your taste and touch, the alcohol on your tongue prominent against his, the tip of his nose lightly dusted with the white powder you messily snorted earlier. your one hand is under his black skin-tight shirt, warm palm placed on his taut abs to feel the way they contract and expand under your sensual touch; your other hand is lost in his straight black locks, gripping and gently tugging every time you feel yourself slipping deeper and deeper into your arousal.

he’s groaning into your mouth and ravishing you with sloppy kisses, sucking and tugging on your lower lip before releasing it with a pop, "do you have any idea of what you do to me? walkin’ around dressed like a fuckin' hooker?" his large hands travel down to your hips, impatient fingers tapping against the cotton fabric of your too-short skirt; he's snarling against your jaw, peppering wet kisses and leaving bite marks along his trail, "the way you walk, the way you talk, the way you smile— the way you cry out my son’s name when he’s fucking you into the bed? yeah, doll, i can hear it all, y’know."

the growl lacing his baritone voice sends blood rushing straight to your clit and prompts you to grind down onto his lap, revealing the boner he'd popped, "please, toji—"

"fuck; you sound even better when you’re sayin’ my name,” his lips are at your collarbone now, trailing south to leave love-bites on the curvature of your breasts— right atop the fading ones left on you by megumi from nights prior. as for toji’s hands— they're on your thighs, palming and squeezing at whatever flesh he can get a hold of.

his fingers dance upwards, and you feel a lick of warmth shoot up your abdomen as he nears the place you need him the most. toji lets out a low groan against your sternum when he feels the lack of the thin fabric he was expecting to separate your cunt from the thick denim of his jeans, "no panties? you're practically begging to be fucked stupid, aren't cha?"

"wan' it s'bad, toji, please, please,” pawing at his crotch with butterfingers, you attempt to remove the button of his jeans, letting out a needy whine when you can't get them undone.

tojii notices that your words are more slurred now— the copious amounts of drugs and alcohol in your system are probably just reaching their peak.

he’s a man of questionable morals; sure, he’s definitely dreamed about fucking you every which way when he sleeps at night, waking up with soiled boxers and sweat drenching the sheets. he’s definitely shamelessly fucked his fist while he hears the bed creak rhythmically from his son’s room next door, your broken mewls and cries spurring him on until he cums the most he thinks he ever has.

he’s a man of questionable morals; but even he can tell this is an all time low for him. there's a voice in the back of his mind that's screaming at him to stop, how messed up it is of him to be fucking his son's girlfriend— but how does he expect himself to hold back when you're the one who pushed yourself onto him, when you're the one asking him— and not his son, your boyfriend— to bury his cock deep within you and fill you up.

toji helps you with unbuttoning his jeans and freeing his cock from its confines, letting out a curse when the cold night breeze sweeps over it. your pussy throbs at the sight of his dick— it's leaking pre-cum, fat tip flushed red and angry; desperately in need of attention with the way it's twitching against his abdomen. you can't help the giggle that escapes you in that moment, your index finger lightly tracing over a prominent vein, "can tell where ‘gumi got his size from…”

his cock twitches again at your words, a breathy laugh leaving him as he leans forward, one hand finding the back of your neck to mold his lips against yours. with his other hand, he takes a hold of his cock and strokes it a few times, rubbing the pre-cum over his length before flicking your skirt up and gliding the head in between your folds, making sure to give extra attention to your puffy nub. he feels your hips buck against his and your arms wrap tighter around his shoulders when he prods your entrance open, dreamily sighing into his mouth, “feels s’good, toji…”

“h-hah, ‘m not even in you yet— o-oh, fuck,” you sink down on his full length without warning, languid moans falling from both of your lips, and your ass squishing down against his thighs as you take a moment to adjust to his size.

just from looking at his dick, you thought it was roughly the same size as your boyfriend’s but fuck, does it feel so much bigger inside you— the girth stretching you out almost painfully and the thick head hitting pleasure points against your wall that you didn’t even know existed. your chest flushes with warmth when he shifts his hips experimentally, your clit catching onto his pubic bone, earning a broken whimper from you as you bury your head in the crook of his neck.

maybe it’s all the foreign substances in your blood talking, but toji’s dick feels so, so amazing— feels like you’re in seventh heaven, and he hasn’t even started moving. a part of you is scared for him to, knowing that you’ll be sure to cum embarrassingly quick from the heavy drag of his veiny cock and the tip nudging up against that one sacred spot inside you that megumi’s dick couldn’t even dream of reaching.

unbeknownst to you, toji was experiencing the same inner turmoil. he swears he’s never been in pussy this tight— or at least not in many years; and god, he doesn’t remember the last time he’s felt this good. he’s pretty sure you’re unaware of the way your wall is clamping down on his length, but he’s hyper aware of how your ministrations keep pushing him closer and closer to his release. his arms engulf your frame and pull you flush against his chest, his breathing ragged against the crown of your head, “gotta stop clenching ‘round my cock like that, baby, f-fuck.”

your hold on his bicep loosens as you turn your head into his face, lips tracing his jaw. you look up at him through your lashes and you both share the same expression; parted lips slowly curving upwards into soft smiles. toji knew this was wrong; who in their right mind would fuck their son’s girlfriend? you also knew it was wrong, even through your clouded inebriation, but that just added to the thrill of it all; the giddiness in both of you growing by the second, “i— s-sorry…”

toji’s heart swells upon hearing your sweet voice, and he can’t help but coo at you, “good girl, so sweet f’me— umph!”

good girl.

all it took were those two words to have you clamping down on his cock again, this time much harder than previously. a lewd cry escapes your lips as your head falls forward onto his chest, your arms encircling his broad shoulders, “f-fuck, ‘m sorry!”

he’s panting into your neck, hot breath leaving drops of condensation that drip down your skin. toji has a lot of patience and willpower, both of which were running extremely low— all thanks to you. it’s not like he really minds, though; he wants nothing more than to fuck you senseless, wants nothing more than to hear you call out his name, wants nothing more than to taint you and watch his thick seed leak out of you, “y’like that, huh? like it when i praise ya, pretty?”

your needy whine overtakes his voice mid-sentence as your rub your hips against his. you want to fuck him; you want to bounce on his cock and make him feel good, but there’s no way you can. you’re practically jelly in his arms; complaisant and pliable, and half your mind is wishing you’d taken it easier on the alcohol, “mhm, can you— h-hah… fuck me, please, d-daddy?”

toji groans when hears your last word, “smart girl— catchin’ on s’quickly,” he’s quick to heed your request that you asked him oh, so sweetly for, thrusting his hips up into yours gently once, twice, and then a third time, his half-lidded eyes scanning your face.

your bottom lip is caught between your top teeth as you try to suppress the obscene sounds you knew would escape your throat; your eyes are shut and brows furrowed, head tilted back to expose your neck and chest to him. his lips find a home in the hollow of your collar bone, where he sucks and nips to mark you up even more— the thought of megumi finding your body littered with small bruises that he knows he didn’t leave has toji smirking into your skin.

his actions elicit a gasp from you and your fingers find the roots of his hair to grip them, “daddy; please, please, please— ngh, s’good,” you’re babbling at this point, without even the slightest of clues of what you’re begging him for.

calling him “daddy” again seem to awaken some type of carnal desire within him, with the way his thrusts start becoming more forceful and his fingertips dig further into the flesh of your waist. he’s hitting deep— so deep and so violently that your jaw falls slack and a loud moan of his name leaves your lips.

toji growls in response, one hand leaving your waist to pull you in by the back of your neck for a slobbery kiss. your tongues massage each other, drool dripping down the corners of your mouths. it’s messy— full of lust and passion and desire.

he loves it that way.

the sounds of his thighs slapping up against your ass and the wet squelches of his cock ploughing into your leaking cunt fill the empty silence of the car, but your lewd cries and mewls are quick to join the ensemble. you sound so cute— so innocent and so sweet with the way you’re begging for him that a part of toji wishes he hadn’t fallen prey to his craving for you. despite this, he can’t help the ever-growing amount of blood rushing down to his cock.

he knew he wasn’t going to last much longer, and neither were you.

every thrust up into your soft cunny has your clit catching onto his pelvis, and you can feel the cold flame in your abdomen burning brighter from the accompanied drag of his cock against all the pleasure points that line your walls. broken gasps and whimpers fall onto his ears as you swear he’s fucking up into your womb.

toji isn’t faring much well off either; your gummy walls have his length in a vice grip, and your voice only drives him closer and closer to his high. his eyes are stuck on your entrance, salivating at the way the ring of cream coating the base of his cock gets thicker with each thrust up into you, "gonna let daddy cum inside this pretty pussy?"

“oh, fuck, y-yes—” your grip on his hair tightens.

“yeah?” it’s a back-and-forth; toji asking you almost mockingly and you responding with high-pitched whines, “so good f'me.”

and suddenly, without warning, he’s groping your ass to fuck you at an angle that has you choking on your breath. you sob at the way the fat head of his dick is hitting your cervix rapidly, falling dizzy from how he’s splitting you in half. an unfamiliar tremor slowly makes its appearance within you, and you don’t think you’ve ever felt it when megumi’s made you cum before.

no, this is different; it feels like a flash, a hot streak ripping through your body and pulsating in your abdomen as you succumb to your arousal, your body breaking into trembles under toji’s secure hold, “daddy, cumming— 'm cumming!”

“shh, that’s it, princess, let go,” his thumb finds your clit to rub gentle circles on it, helping you ride out your high. you're crying while you're cumming, the pleasure hitting you like a high tide, and you’re gasping for air as you feel your essence leaking out of the gap between your cunny and toji’s cock to wet his lap and the leather seat below him. your walls spasm around him, and he twitches inside of you as his thrusts pick up speed, “f-fuck, ‘m gonna cum too.”

and that he does. he’s leaning into you, muffling a guttural groan into your neck as his hips lose their rhythmic pace and begin to stutter. he spills inside your womb, seed sloshing around your walls to paint them an opaque, milky white. his cock twitches inside you, the warmth of your spongy walls sending gentle waves of euphoria through him.

you’re resting your head on his chest with his chin on your scalp, both of you heaving to catch your breaths in the aftermath of a mind-blowing orgasm. toji’s the first to speak, pressing a lingering kiss to your hairline, “you’re fuckin’ filthy, doll.”

his voice rumbles through his chest, the reverberations ringing through your worn body and you all of a sudden feel embarrassed, letting out a timid hum as you bury your face into the crook of his neck.

“don’t go gettin’ all shy on me now,” one of toji’s hands tighten around your waist, the other coming up to gently cup your cheek and lift your face to meet his gaze.

he had always thought your looks were easy on the eyes, but seeing you like this— with your tired, lust-blown eyes, a thin sheen of saliva coating your pouty lips, and the moon casting her light down on one side of your face to illuminate the apples of your cheeks and the colour of your irises— god, he swears he’s never seen a sight more stunning, “megumi’s one lucky bastard,” his thumb caresses your cheekbone and you find yourself leaning into his touch, a lazy smile making its way onto your face.

he’s silent as he admires your face for a minute before you finally process his previous statement, your brain working at half it’s sober speed, “hah, or maybe he’s not—”

“let’s not… let’s not think about that for now,” he whispers before leaning forward to slot your lips between his in an attempt to push that thought aside in his mind.

the gravity of the situation you’d both gotten yourselves into hadn’t exactly hit yet— neither of you want it to— thinking that you could stay in this position, with his lips moulded against yours and his cock buried deep within the warm confinements of your walls for eternity.

you're both brought out of your post-sex bliss when buzzing comes from your phone that’s laying face up on the shotgun seat. your heads turn in time to take a look at who's calling, only to be met with a selfie of you and megumi on the screen. toji reaches an arm out to pick up the device, an expletive followed by a low laugh leaving his lips, and he taps your phone gently against the side of your head, "so... you gonna answer that, princess? or should i?"

REBLOGS + FEEDBACK APPRECIATED ⸝⸝ʚ̴̶̷̆ ̯ʚ̴̶̷̆⸝⸝

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🔍︎ | ceo!geto suguru & fem!reader

⟳ | rough sex, desk fucking, praise, (risk of getting caught?), pussy eating, overall smut.

π | was just thinking about this so i decided to put it into words. i hope you all enjoy!!!

ceo!geto who has you bent over his office desk absolutely ravaging your cunt to the point where it's beyond repair. he’s going at it at maximum speed, causing multiple items to fall off during the moment. 

ceo!geto who gives you little praises here and there during the moment and tells you why he’s so angry. he asks questions here and there also to make sure you’re listening. every time you don't answer, you get another orgasm denied. this went on for a very long time.

ceo!geto who tells you to be quiet so the other employees don’t hear how good you feel, but also tells you to be loud so they know who you belong to.

ceo!geto who has you in multiple positions around the room, scurrying to another side of the wall or just throwing you (softly?) on the ground to continue his assault on your poor pussy. 

ceo!geto who ties his tie around your wrists so you can’t attempt to push him off or do anything to stop his mininstatrations.

ceo!geto who eats you out on his desk, you getting a bit of cum on his desk and work papers. don’t worry, he’s a ceo after all, he can print new ones. overall, he still blames you for the mess of his ruined papers later.

ceo!geto who fucks you like crazy on his desk making your eyes roll to the back of your head. your fingernails digging deep down into his skin to hang on for dear life. 

ceo!geto who finally cums after multiple hours giving you both release and a moment of brief rest.

ceo!geto who plants little kisses on your forehead and cheeks and praises you for how good you were during the intense moment. whom you return the favor.

ceo!geto who looks around the room to see all the destruction you (both) have made. all the paintings he has to hang back up, all the ink in the printer he has to waste, all the dents in the desk he has to call a repairman to come and fix. 

ceo!geto who catches you trying to fall asleep on the desk and sets you down gently on the nice, cozy couch that’s on the left side of his room.

ceo!geto who tells you, “sweet dreams, sunshine.” before beginning to clean up the huge mess in his office.

🔍︎ — choso kamo ✰ fem!reader

♯ — cockwarming choso while he plays his video games.

∎ — 0.7k ✰ smut/fluff (sexual interaction, cockwarming, vaginal penetration, pet names, consensual).

ⅲ — its beginning to look a lot like christmas.

choso was a gamer. he played his video games on a regular basis, taking time off to spend with you and also to spend time with his friends virtually. 

choso was always really focused on his games before he met you. even though he’s still like that, he takes time off to spend time with his love—which would be you. 

it was nighttime during a nice saturday. you were sitting on the nice comforted sofa watching a thriller movie when you heard the sounds of frustrated groans coming from your boyfriend’s room. you continued to ignore it, because of how often he makes those sounds whilst losing a match, while you continue to watch your movie. 

approximately five minutes later, you get a text from choso. 

“come here” it read. you gulped, apparently he was not in a good mood. he would usually send you texts saying “love, would you please come here” or something of that sort. but right now, he was armed and dangerous. he was in a really sour mood. 

you turned off your phone and headed to the room where choso lurked. he glanced at you with his plum-colored eyes as he patted his thigh, signaling for you to come and sit. you obliged, sitting on choso’s lap while he fixated the controller in his hand and began to continue playing. 

his fingers continuously moved on the buttons, controlling the direction the character moves and what actions the character performed. you sat there, just looking at his fingers dance across the display of buttons. you unconsciously started to twiddle with your fingers: choso didn’t notice this since he was too focused on his game. 

once you finally caught onto what you were doing, the screen turned red. 

choso lost once again. 

he let out a thread of curse words left and right, bouncing off the walls and getting absorbed by the couch that sat directly behind him. “choso,” you whisper. “it’s okay, it’s just a game.” choso gazed as you—more like side-eyeing. you knew how serious he took his video games. 

“i know.” he managed to mumble out, wrapping his hands around your waist and burying his face into your neck. you giggled at his ministrations. 

“so, why did you tell me to come?” choso sighed, “missed you. plus this game is making me pretty pissed.” you giggled yet again at his statement, seeing your boyfriend make a slight frown. “what can i do to make you un-pissed?” you questioned while still in the midst of laughing. 

choso looked serious this time, but at that same time, his eyes were filled with lust. that sentence ignited a fire inside of his that needed to be put out immediately—but it stayed burning. “sit on it.” he commanded. it wasn’t a mere statement or question, it sounded like he wanted it to be done. “it?” you questioned. “sit on my cock. be a good girl f’me, yeah?” you gulped and began to shift over enough to pull choso’s pants and boxers down to his mid-thigh. he groaned at the action as his thumb slightly slid off of the base of the controller. his plum-like eyes were staring holes into you without even knowing. a grin started to plaster on his face as you watched his tip quickly meet his stomach. 

choso placed the controller down on the stand as he took two of his fingers and quickly swiped your folds. “mmm, wet for me already? i haven’t even started.” choso chuckled after the sentence as he slowly slid you down on his cock. “you aren’t wearing anything underneath either. you dirty, dirty girl.” choso cooed. you moaned as the sudden movement, but after awhile you were successfully planted on his dick. 

he kissed your temple to help distract you from the pain and began to run soothing circles around your thighs. “shh, it’s okay baby. you did amazing. now just sit here and stay quiet, m’kay?” he asked. you nodded your head, complying to his statement while he continued to play his game. 

you clenched here and there causing choso to make little grunts and groans here and there as well. you were uncomfortable so you shifted to a more decent position. choso unexpectedly let out a short loud groan. “y-you okay?” you stuttered saying, proof that you were being filled to the brim by choso’s cock. he shook his head and continued playing as you sat there in silence, slowly falling asleep on his dick. 

from there on, choso was winning matches left and right.

2022 © originally posted by @kentofication. please do not copy, translate, repost, or plagiarize. (reblogs are appreciated!)