May

toji is many things, but he's not a romantic -- and he's never claimed to be such a thing. he told you as much the night you met, a mere thirty minutes before you both fumbled your way inside your apartment and he went down on you on your tiny ikea loveseat.

you were fine with it, truthfully. you work eighty hour weeks and don't have time for a consistent sleep schedule, much less a boyfriend, and so this arrangement is honestly the best thing you could've asked for.

when you have an evening free and you're not in the mood to spend it alone, you just send him a text about ten words long. then, toji replies with an even shorter answer, and within the hour, you're grinding on his thick muscular thighs like your life depends on it.

so it confuses you when toji starts to assume the doggy position during hookups -- only doggy, and nothing else -- fucking you from behind as if to avoid meeting your eye. he never initiates a kiss, letting you take the lead in that regard. he even cuts the pre-sex smalltalk short, offering monosyllabic answers, if any at all, to your polite and friendly questions.

is he ... mad at you? you've never even shared a full conversation, so you're not sure you've even done anything to anger him.

but tonight, with toji's hips pressed flat against your ass as his thrusts start to become messy and uneven, he lets his inner thoughts slip.

"so fuckin' pretty, you know that?" he mumbles, each syllable laden with a lust you've never heard before. "so pretty it pisses me off, fucks with my head a bit ... in a good way, i guess. makes me fuckin' finish too quick, though, y'know that?"

a particularly deep thrust has you gasping into your pillow. when your breathing evens back out, you decide to call his bluff; peering over your shoulder, you see him looking at you with a gaze so reverent it tells you he's being truthful.

"even just talkin' to you, seein' you when i walk in ... it gets me so hard that it fuckin' hurts. i get hard just thinkin' about this ..." he trails off, shaking his head as if disbelieving. he keeps fucking you, keeps his firm grip on your hips as he pulls you back up onto him, but it's as if his facade his cracking, his internal monologue spilling out. "you call and i come runnin', at your beck and call, but i wouldn't change a goddamn thing," another pause for him to groan against gritted teeth, "...think i might be fucked ... think i want this more than --"

snapping back into his senses, he trails off and picks up his pace; it's not long before his name is spilling from your lips as you tip over the edge, and his front cracks again as he finishes deep inside.

"so, so, so good for me. just fuckin' perfect for me. want to make you m -- want to do this forever, fuckin' you like you deserved to be fucked."

his movements slow and, just as your heartrate returns to normal, you hear him once again, far clearer, more lucid and intelligible this time:

"so fuckin' perfect for me."