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venusmotel · 15 hours ago

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personal trainer!toji x fem!reader « mirror, mirror.🎀 »

୨୧ you were in a relationship with a man who made you feel like nothing. who liked pictures of perfect girls online, and looked at you like a disappointment. you thought maybe if you went to the gym, he’d see you differently. you weren’t ready for toji, your new trainer to see you the way he did.

cw: NSFW+18 toxic relationship dynamics, emotional abuse from a boyfriend, body image issues, insecurity, instagram comparison culture, soft body praise, gym setting, mirror sex, dirty talk, degradation of ex-boyfriend, possessive praise, cum inside, rough sex, face grabbing, overstimulation, crying during sex, toji worships every inch of reader body, verbal praise & filth, slight manipulation, very explicit smut, brief mention of aftercare

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“you know, maybe if you worked out like her, you wouldn’t look like this.”

your boyfriend voice wasn’t even angry. it was worse—flat. dismissive. the kind of tone people used when talking about a dish they didn’t like at a restaurant. impersonal. cruel in how casual it was.

you stood in the doorway holding the plate of food you’d just made him, steam still rising from the rice, the smell of garlic and butter clinging to your shirt. you hadn’t eaten yet—you were waiting to eat with him. like you always did. stupid.

but he hadn’t even looked up from his phone.

you watched his thumb flick mindlessly across the screen, scrolling through reels, muted videos of women dancing, posing, stretching. your eyes landed on one of them—a girl in a gym bathroom mirror, flexing her abs in a bright green matching set, fake lashes fluttering as she did a full spin to show off her backside. thousands of likes.

your heart twisted.

“i made you dinner,” you said after a long silence, voice soft and tight.

he blinked. didn’t even glance at the plate.

“wasn’t hungry.”

your hands tightened around the dish.

he sighed like you were the problem.

you stepped forward, carefully placing the plate on the table between you. his beer bottle sat next to it, nearly empty. you picked it up and carried it to the sink, just to keep yourself from snapping.

“you haven’t eaten all day,” you said quietly, back turned to him. “you’ll get a headache.”

you heard the smirk in his voice. “don’t worry, you eat enough for both of us.”

your spine stiffened.

he laughed. like it was funny. like he hadn’t just hit every nerve you’d tried to bury all week.

your chest tightened, shame blooming hot across your skin. you looked down at yourself��old t-shirt, your favorite one. soft. comforting. you could feel how it clung to your body. the swell of your stomach where it curved out just slightly. the way your thighs brushed together when you shifted.

too soft. too much. always too much.

you turned around, eyes burning. “you don’t have to say things like that.”

he finally looked up.

“like what? i’m just being honest.” he nodded at the phone screen, showing it to you. another girl. this one bent over in leggings so tight they looked airbrushed on. “look at her. she probably eats clean, lifts heavy. maybe you could take notes.”

your lips parted. the sting of humiliation mixed with a thick, hot ache in your chest.

“that’s what you want, right?” you asked. “someone who looks like that?”

he rolled his eyes, tossing the phone onto the couch. “what i want is for you to stop being so sensitive. jesus. maybe if you actually tried—signed up for a gym or something—you wouldn’t be so fucking insecure all the time.”

you didn’t respond.

but that night, after he fell asleep, you curled up in the bathroom with your phone and signed up for a free trial at the closest gym.

the gym was too bright. too open. mirrors everywhere, glass walls, windows that let in too much light. you could see your reflection in at least five different angles and you hated all of them.

girls passed you in groups or alone, sleek and tight in matching sets. flawless ponytails, winged eyeliner, flat stomachs. bodies that belonged here. they moved like they knew how to use every machine, like they didn’t flinch when someone looked at them. they didn’t tug at their tops or pull their shirts down. they didn’t care who was watching.

your beige leggings clung too tightly around your thighs. you’d bought them months ago but barely worn them. you could feel the soft bulge of your stomach pressing over the waistband, your bra digging into your ribs. everything about you felt wrong.

you pulled your oversized hoodie down to cover as much as you could. your palms were already sweaty.

you just wanted to do a few machines. nothing serious. just… move. be away from him. pretend you weren’t made of all the things he hated.

you were halfway toward the back treadmills when a deep voice stopped you.

“first time?”

you startled.

turned.

and nearly forgot how to speak.

he was… tall. too tall. towering. broad-shouldered and solid. dressed in black gym gear that stretched over thick muscle, his biceps wrapped in veiny cords and a towel draped casually around his neck. his hair was a little messy, like he’d just finished a set and didn’t care to fix it. a scar cut across his lip. dark eyes, sharp and steady, locked on you.

your heart jumped.

you nodded slowly. “uh—yeah. that obvious, huh?”

he gave a one-sided smile. more amused than mocking.

“not really. just recognized the look. lotta people walk in here like the floor’s gonna eat them.”

you gave a breathy laugh. awkward. unsure. his eyes lit up just a little at the sound.

“i’m toji,” he said, offering a hand. “trainer here.”

you took it. his hand was warm, dry, firm. yours felt small and clammy inside it.

“you got a schedule? anyone show you around yet?”

“no, i—I was just gonna… figure it out on my own.”

he cocked his head. “gonna start with squats?”

you blinked. “i—I guess?”

he nodded, already walking toward the racks. you followed like you didn’t have a choice.

“if you don’t start right, you’ll mess up your form for months,” he said, not unkindly. “i’ll show you.”

you nodded, biting your lip.

at the rack, he adjusted the bar for your height, then stepped behind you.

really behind you.

you could feel his presence at your back. taller than you. broader. heat radiating off him in waves.

“feet shoulder-width apart,” he murmured. “good. now, hips back, chest forward. relax your core.”

your stomach tensed automatically.

“nope. don’t suck it in. breathe normal. let your body do the work.”

you exhaled shakily and let go. your hoodie had ridden up an inch, exposing the plush curve of your stomach.

you felt disgusting. exposed. why did i wear these leggings?

and then—his hand.

big. steady. resting just above your waist.

you froze.

“don’t worry,” he said softly, adjusting your posture. “just guiding you.”

he felt it.

the softness. the gentle give of your skin beneath his palm. the way your hips curved into his grip. how your stomach moved when you breathed.

she’s so fucking soft, he thought. not squishy in a bad way. in a real way. warm. perfect. fuck, i haven’t felt this in—

he caught himself.

you were still holding your breath.

“you alright?” he asked, voice lower.

you nodded too fast. “yeah. just… nervous.”

he leaned down a little. his breath brushed your ear.

“you’ve got nothing to be nervous about.”

you didn’t know why, but the way he said it made you want to cry.

you sat alone on the small bench near the dumbbell racks, hoodie bunched up around your waist, cheeks flushed, thighs still trembling slightly from the sets. your water bottle was empty. your back was damp with sweat.

and still, you felt ugly.

your eyes drifted to the girls across the gym. a trio of them by the squat machines—matching outfits, perfect nails, waist trainers cinched so tight they looked like hourglasses sculpted by hand. one was taking a selfie. the others posed behind her, laughing like they hadn’t even worked out. not a single line on their foreheads. their makeup hadn’t moved.

you pulled your hoodie down again.

your phone buzzed beside you. a message from your boyfriend.

don’t overdo it lol. i don’t like when you get all red and sweaty. not cute.

your throat tightened.

what the fuck am i even doing here.

“you’re still thinkin’ too much.”

you jumped.

toji was leaning against the wall beside you, arms crossed over his chest, towel draped around his neck. he must’ve been watching you—maybe this whole time. he didn’t look away when you turned to him. just raised a brow.

“you’re staring at them like you’re not supposed to exist in the same room.”

you looked down. “i wasn’t—”

“you were.”

heat bloomed up your chest.

you let out a breath, small and bitter. “they just look like they belong here.”

“how many of ‘em you think paid to look like that?”

you blinked. looked back at him.

his gaze was hard. unbothered. like he didn’t care if you got offended.

“waist snatched. ass perfectly round. hips tight. you think that shit comes from a dumbbell? nah. that’s surgery.” he uncrossed his arms. “genetics if you’re lucky. but most of it’s fake. i’ve trained a lot of girls. i’ve seen the receipts.”

you swallowed.

“that doesn’t mean they’re not—”

“pretty?” he cut in. “yeah, sure. but they’re not you.”

your breath caught. you didn’t know what to say.

his eyes flicked down your frame. quick, but thorough. you could feel it.

“i’ve seen what fake looks like,” he muttered, almost like to himself. “you got something better.”

your throat went dry.

he straightened, rolling his shoulders. “don’t let that clown you’re dating make you forget that.”

your head whipped up. “how—”

he smirked. “your phone’s not exactly private when your face changes every time it buzzes.”

you froze. cheeks burning. “he’s just—he didn’t mean it like that.”

toji stared at you like you just told him water wasn’t wet.

then, quietly—“yeah. he did.”

he didn’t say it cruelly. he didn’t say anything else.

he just turned and walked away, towel slung back over his neck, veins shifting under his arms as he made his way toward the machines again. like he hadn’t just peeled you open and told you the truth no one else dared to say.

you sat there, heart pounding, hands clutching your bottle.

you could feel his eyes on you before you even reached the squat rack.

your legging clung to your thighs with every step, the soft cotton riding up no matter how many times you tugged them down. your hoodie was too warm, clinging to your damp skin. you were already flushed. already doubting your decision to try and look cute.

and toji had barely said a word since you walked in.

he just looked.

like he was trying to decide something.

his gaze had lingered too long at your waist. then your thighs. then your chest—how the white sports bra hugged and lifted just enough to show the curve of your cleavage when you leaned forward to stretch.

you caught him staring in the mirror.

he didn’t look away.

“ready?” he finally said, voice lower than usual.

you nodded, throat dry. “yeah.”

he followed you to the rack, watching your hips move, your ass sway slightly with each step. he wanted to grip it. press into it. bite it. fuck.

but he kept his hands to himself—for now.

“same stance,” he muttered behind you, already stepping in close. “feet apart. point your toes out a little. yep.”

you adjusted. heart racing.

his hand landed on your hip.

you flinched.

he didn’t move it.

“relax,” he said, voice softer now. more… coaxing.

you swallowed hard.

his palm was wide. warm. calloused. fingers spread over the round curve of your waist like it was his. thumb brushing against the softness above your shorts, resting right where your hoodie had lifted just enough to expose skin.

“tuck your hips under. breathe in. good—now down slow. real slow.”

you bent at the knees. thighs trembling.

the stretch pulled your stomach in, then let it fall again as you sank. your ass curved outward. soft. full. your thighs spread. the motion made your body press back into him. not all the way—but enough.

and he didn’t move.

you whimpered softly. barely audible. but toji heard it.

his breath hitched.

his hand squeezed your hip.

“don’t hold your breath,” he said roughly. “breathe through it.”

you nodded, too dizzy to answer.

you pushed back up.

and this time—you pressed against him fully.

his hips met yours.

hard.

the front of his sweatpants ground into the swell of your ass for just a second. enough to feel the heat. the shape. how solid he was. how hard he was getting.

you let out a tiny, involuntary sound—barely a breath.

“again,” he muttered, voice like gravel now.

you dropped down again. slower.

this time, his hand moved. slid from your waist to your lower stomach. fingers grazing the curve of it. he didn’t grab—not yet—but he traced along it like he needed to feel the way it softened under his touch. his other hand found your inner thigh. adjusted it slightly. skin on skin.

you whimpered again, this time louder.

he leaned down, lips near your ear.

“that’s it,” he murmured. “just like that. you feel that stretch, sweetheart?”

you nodded shakily. couldn’t speak.

his hand lingered on your stomach, thumb rubbing slow circles against the curve you always tried to hide. your breath came out in shudders. your thighs trembled.

“you’re stronger than you think,” he muttered.

god, you were soaked with sweat. not just from the squats. but from the heat of him. the way he was touching you—like no one had ever touched you before. like he saw you. like he wanted you.

“tired?” he asked, a little too close to your neck.

“mm—nnh…” you tried to answer but your voice came out broken. weak.

he smirked.

you pushed back up—one last time.

your ass pressed flush against him again, the soft curve jiggling slightly as your muscles gave out. your legs wobbled, body collapsing forward with a gasp. and that’s when both his hands caught you—one on your belly, one gripping your thigh.

you whimpered again, lower now, more desperate.

“easy,” he muttered, lips near your jaw. “don’t push past your limit.”

you nodded, dizzy.

you could feel his breath against your cheek.

feel the way his thumb still rubbed circles into your stomach like he couldn’t stop.

feel how his hand dipped too low on your thigh. how your shorts rode up higher.

he stayed there. pressed behind you. breathing deep.

you smelled like shampoo, sweat, and something sweeter underneath. even your sweat made his eyes roll back for a second. he didn’t know why. didn’t care.

she’s so soft. so fuckin’ soft.

he had to pull away.

he had to.

but he didn’t. not yet.

he whispered into your ear—

“you did good today.”

and this time, you believed it.

not because you felt strong. but because the way he touched you made you feel like maybe you were worth holding. maybe even craved.

the gym was nearly empty by the time you finished.

you liked it that way—quiet. no more eyes. no more perfect bodies in matching sets. just the hum of machines winding down and the sound of your own breath echoing through the space.

you stood in the locker room, towel wrapped tightly around your body, damp hair clinging to your neck. water still beading down your skin from the quick shower you’d taken—just enough to rinse off the sweat, not long enough to enjoy it.

not freezing. not unbearable. but cold in the way gym tile always was—clinical. empty. distant. every sound echoed. your wet feet made faint slaps on the floor as you walked toward the row of benches, towel wrapped tight around your body. hair still damp. the scent of soap clinging to your skin. your body felt too bare, too exposed, even though you were technically covered.

you dropped your phone on the bench beside you and sat down with a quiet exhale.

you didn’t check your reflection. you didn’t want to see what your body looked like in fluorescent light.

you just wanted a second to breathe.

but your phone buzzed. twice. three times.

you glanced down. saw the notification.

it was your boyfriend.

another comment under another girl’s reel—some fitness influencer with a surgically perfect waist, performing a deadlift in seamless leggings and a sculpted sports bra. she looked like she belonged in a commercial. face made-up, lip gloss catching the gym lights. captioned with some quote about hard work.

he’d commented fire emojis. a drooling face. “jesus.”

you stared at the screen.

something in your chest folded in on itself.

you weren’t surprised. not really. he’d done it before—liked, commented, saved. but this felt different. more obvious. more… mocking.

your towel clung to your thighs, the fabric damp where it touched your skin. your body felt heavier now. all the softness you carried felt like weight someone else had thrown onto you and walked away from. like dead mass. like something he’d never wanted.

you looked down. you could see the edge of your stomach pressing into the towel. you could feel your thighs spreading slightly against the bench.

you felt disgusting.

the first sob came sharp. out of nowhere.

you buried your face in your hands.

and then you heard it.

weights clanking faintly. a low voice muttering under breath. the sound of someone still working out, somewhere just outside the locker room. someone who hadn’t left yet.

you tried to stay quiet. breathed through your nose, rubbed your eyes fast, tried to wipe the shame off your face.

but a second sob broke through. softer. cracked in the middle.

and then—footsteps.

a pause.

a knock.

you didn’t answer.

you weren’t decent. you weren’t presentable. you weren’t okay.

“you alright?”

his voice was quiet. rough.

you swallowed. cleared your throat.

“yeah,” you managed. “fine.”

a pause.

“can i come in?”

you froze.

your heart jumped. your hand gripped the towel tighter.

but before you could say yes—or no—the door creaked open. slow. careful.

you didn’t look up. you stared at your knees, water dripping from your hair onto your collarbone.

he stepped in. the door shut behind him. and then silence again.

until he moved closer.

toji.

his shoes squeaked slightly on the tile. he stopped a few feet away, then sat down beside you on the bench. not too close. not touching. but near enough that you could smell the remnants of sweat on his skin, the faint trace of cologne, the clean cotton of his shirt.

he didn’t speak at first. didn’t ask again.

he just sat. breathing like he’d run a set before coming in. steady. solid.

you stared ahead.

“i know it’s not my business,” he said finally, “but… you sounded like you were breaking.”

your throat tightened.

you wiped your face again.

then you whispered, “i just saw something.”

he didn’t push.

you didn’t stop.

“my boyfriend,” you said quietly. “he commented on this girl’s post. the kind he always watches. flat stomach. tight ass. fake tan. you know the type. she was showing off her body. and he…”

you paused.

“he never comments on mine. never looks at me like that. and i’ve been trying. i come here. i sweat. i push myself. and still—”

your voice cracked. your hand shook where it clutched the towel.

“he still looks at them. like they’re worth something.”

toji didn’t move. didn’t interrupt. just listened. watched your profile out the corner of his eye.

you felt his gaze before he spoke.

“they’re curated,” he said finally. “airbrushed. made for people like him. people who don’t know how to touch something real without breaking it.”

your lips parted slightly.

you felt the weight of his words, but couldn’t look at him yet.

he shifted. closer now.

his hand rested on the bench. between you. his fingers brushed the side of your thigh. not intentional—but not avoided either.

your breath caught.

he noticed.

“can i show you something?” he asked, voice low.

you hesitated.

then nodded.

his hand moved. up—slow. cautious. to the curve of your waist, where the towel had slipped just slightly. he stopped there. didn’t grope. didn’t pull. just pressed his palm against the softness. his thumb dragged along the flesh like he was mapping it.

you flinched slightly.

he paused.

“i’m not gonna touch you if you don’t want it.”

you closed your eyes.

“it’s not that,” you whispered. “i just… i hate how it feels.”

he exhaled. through his nose. controlled.

“i don’t.”

you opened your eyes.

his face was close now. closer than before. his eyes fixed on you—not just your body. your mouth. your expression. your pulse fluttering under your throat.

his hand moved again. higher. over your ribs, the soft swell above your belly button. his palm covered the area like it belonged there.

and then he leaned in.

not to kiss you.

not yet.

just to press his forehead to yours, so lightly you barely felt it.

“you think this is something to be ashamed of?” he whispered.

you didn’t answer.

his hand slid back down—over your belly, your hip, your thigh. slow. reverent.

“this,” he murmured, “is what real feels like. not carved. not starved. not filtered.”

his other hand reached up. thumb wiped another tear from your cheek.

then he kissed you.

not your lips. not yet.

your cheek. once. then lower. under your jaw. near your ear. his breath hit your neck, warm and trembling slightly now. his body was tense. like he was holding back something stronger.

you felt the heat of him between your legs, not even touching yet. just near. his knees spread slightly as he sat beside you, his body leaning in until your shoulder brushed his chest.

and his hand—still on your stomach—was rubbing slow, subtle circles now. not for you. for himself. like he couldn’t stop.

“you’re not too soft,” he whispered, almost angrily. “you’re not too much.”

you trembled.

your towel slipped another inch.

his eyes dropped.

and he groaned softly under his breath.

it wasn’t loud. it wasn’t dirty. not yet. but it was raw—just a sharp pull of air through his teeth, like he’d been punched in the gut with want.

his gaze was locked on the space where your towel had loosened across your thighs. where it dipped low, barely clinging to the swell of your hip. your legs were parted slightly now from the way you’d been sitting. instinct, maybe. exhaustion. defeat. but it made the gap between your thighs more visible. made the soft skin of your upper legs crease and curve naturally, plush and warm-looking under the fluorescent lights.

his hand moved again.

slow.

down your side, from the soft fullness just beneath your chest, tracing that warm belly you hated—so gently you almost didn’t feel it until he grazed the edge of the towel, his knuckles brushing your skin.

you inhaled sharply.

not fear.

but not readiness either.

your breath shuddered.

his hand stilled.

you could feel the heat of his palm against your bare side. warm and rough. not groping, not clutching—just holding. anchoring. like he wanted you to feel that someone was there. someone who wasn’t disgusted by the softness. someone who didn’t recoil from it. someone who craved it.

you glanced up at him.

his expression had changed.

it wasn’t flirty. it wasn’t even lustful in the way you’d feared—it was reverent. like he was looking at something sacred. something he hadn’t touched in a long time.

his thumb traced a path across your hipbone, slow enough to draw goosebumps.

“can i take this off?” he asked, voice low—like it cost him something to say it out loud.

you hesitated. your fingers twitched where they held the towel against your chest.

you were still damp from the shower. still swollen from crying. your face was blotchy. your thighs sticky. your stomach full and soft. your body was in every state you’d been taught was unattractive.

but he hadn’t stopped looking at you like he wanted to worship the parts you always hid.

you nodded.

just once.

his hand moved slowly to the top of the towel. his fingers brushed yours, easing the grip loose. not ripping. not yanking. just… waiting.

and when you let go—he took over.

he peeled it down carefully.

inch by inch.

the cotton slipped over your breasts, baring them to the cold air, then slid lower, over your ribs, your stomach, your hips. he didn’t rush. he didn’t let the fabric fall. he held it—cradled it—as it passed over your body, like he was unwrapping something fragile.

your arms twitched to cover yourself on instinct.

he stopped you—lightly—hands catching your wrists, guiding them down.

“don’t hide,” he said, quiet, almost hoarse. “not from me.”

and when the towel dropped to the bench beside you, he didn’t say anything else.

he just stared.

his eyes moved slowly down your figure, like he couldn’t decide where to look first. your thighs—sprawled slightly, heavy and trembling from the strain of the day. your stomach—soft, warm, rising and falling fast beneath his breath. your chest—bare and vulnerable, nipples hard from the chill, your skin flushed from embarrassment.

he reached out again.

his fingers touched the center of your stomach. not with pressure. just presence.

then they spread. his whole hand flattened across your belly—fingertips stretching over the curve you hated, palm fitting against your skin like it belonged there.

you flinched.

but his other hand found your jaw. guided your face toward his.

“look at me.”

you did.

his fingers traced your ribs, circled your navel, moved downward—slowly—until his hand settled low on your stomach, right where the flesh dipped into the crease above your pelvis.

he exhaled through his nose, thick and shaky.

“you’re fucking perfect like this.”

you blinked hard. “you’re just saying that to make me feel better..”

“no.”

his voice sharpened just enough to silence you.

“you don’t get to argue with me about this. not when you’re sitting here crying, not when your skin’s still damp and warm from the shower, not when you smell like fuckin’ heaven.”

he moved closer. his thigh brushed yours now. his arm curled around your back.

“you don’t get to tell me your body isn’t good enough when it’s the only thing i’ve thought about since the first time you walked in this place.”

you made a small, broken sound in your throat.

his hand moved again—sliding down to your inner thigh, fingers grazing the crease between your legs, right where the skin was softest.

you spread your legs just slightly. barely enough for him to notice. but he noticed.

he leaned in.

his lips brushed your jaw first. then lower. down your neck. not kissing yet—just breathing you in. letting his mouth hover close enough to warm your skin.

his other hand moved again, fingers finding the underside of your breast. lifting it slightly. brushing his knuckles beneath it like he wanted to memorize how it fit in his palm.

you whimpered.

he kissed your shoulder. slow. reverent. then kissed it again, lower this time, near your collarbone.

“tell me to stop,” he whispered.

you didn’t.

his lips grazed your nipple next, tongue flicking against it softly—testing, tasting, not rushing.

you gasped. your back arched slightly.

his arms caught you.

“just let me touch you.”

his voice was deeper now. breathless.

“let me show you what it feels like to be wanted.”

his thigh slid between yours, spreading your legs wider.

you rolled your hips forward without thinking—just chasing pressure, contact, anything.

his hand caught your ass, squeezed. his lips found your throat again.

your body, the body you’d hated in silence, was pressed against his—raw and bare and trembling.

and he was holding it like it was something holy.

the air shifted.

your skin was burning.

he was looking at you like no one ever had, like he wanted to eat you alive and worship every inch at the same time, and for a second you let yourself believe it.

until your own mind caught up.

you flinched—again.

and this time, you reached for the towel.

toji froze.

your hand grasped the damp cotton and dragged it back over your chest, across your stomach, down your thighs, fumbling, not even securing it properly—just needing something between your body and his eyes.

“i can’t,” you said, voice breaking. “please, i—I can’t.”

his brows knit, breath still heavy. his arms pulled back just enough to give you space, but not enough to leave.

“what happened?”

you looked away, face flushing. you couldn’t look at his body—not like this. not with yours exposed, messy, ruined. his chest rose and fell in steady rhythm, damp with sweat, veins prominent beneath tanned skin. broad pecs. thick biceps, still swollen from his last set. narrow waist. thighs thick and solid, resting open, bulge still outlined under his gym pants.

he looked like a man carved out of instinct. out of use. out of need.

and you—were everything he wasn’t.

your voice cracked again. “you’re so—fuck, you’re so attractive. i mean, look at you.”

your eyes moved to his arms, his shoulders. “you’re perfect. your so handsome and every girl in this place would kill to get fucked by you. and me? i’m sitting here crying with stretch marks and thick thighs and a stomach that rolls when i bend over—”

your chest clenched. “you’re probably just fucking with me. or pitying me.”

he didn’t move.

didn’t even blink.

his jaw clenched, that scar above his lip pulling slightly.

“you think i’d waste my time pitying someone i can’t stop staring at?” he said, low. steady. “you think i’d touch you like that if it didn’t mean anything?”

you didn’t answer.

his voice dropped.

“you think i don’t see you? every time you walk into the gym, wearing that hoodie like it’s armor, hiding under layers, tugging your shirt down when you think no one’s watching—”

he leaned in again.

“i see all of it. and it drives me fucking insane.”

your breath stuttered.

“you want to talk about stretch marks?” he said, hand sliding under the towel again, finding your waist, your hip. he dragged his fingers over the lines there. “these? these aren’t flaws. they’re just… fucking real. proof you exist. proof you live in that body, not some rented one off a screen.”

he moved closer. his breath hit your face.

“i’d rather fuck a real woman than jerk off to a filter.”

your heart kicked.

his hand found the edge of the towel again. this time he didn’t rip it off—he just let it open slightly under his palm, fingers pressing against your belly. the contrast was too much—his hand hard and dry, your skin soft and warm.

his voice cracked just slightly.

“you think this doesn’t affect me?” he said, glancing down at the bulge straining in his pants. “i’ve been hard since i felt that softness into the squat rack this morning.”

you blinked.

he leaned in. close enough for your lips to brush.

“you don’t know what it’s doing to me… how soft you are… how you feel against me. fuck—”

you whimpered.

and then you kissed him.

hard.

not gentle. not pretty.

you were still crying. your cheeks were wet. your hands shook.

but your lips crashed into his with a desperation that made him growl low in his throat. his mouth opened against yours, tongue meeting yours, deep and messy, not searching—taking.

he kissed like he was starving.

his hands gripped your sides now, rougher, dragging you closer. your chest pressed into his, soft curves smashing against solid muscle. you felt the sweat still clinging to his shirt, to his neck. you smelled it—salt and musk and something earthy beneath. he hadn’t cleaned up yet. he hadn’t wiped himself down. and it made you dizzy.

you moaned into his mouth. helpless. shocked by how good it tasted.

he groaned back. grabbed your thighs.

his bulge ground against your hip now, slow and firm, impossible to ignore.

you gasped.

his voice broke against your lips. “feel that?”

you nodded.

“that’s what you do to me.”

his teeth grazed your bottom lip. his hands were everywhere now—cupping your ass through the towel, gripping your waist, fingers digging into the back of your thigh to pull you across his lap. and when you straddled him fully, thighs spreading across his thick legs, towel slipping from your body again—

his cock twitched underneath you. thick. hot. trapped beneath layers of fabric and pulsing like it hurt.

you rolled your hips once—just once—and the growl he let out made you clench around nothing.

your bodies didn’t match in shape, in tone, in anything. but pressed together like this, it didn’t matter. his was hard. yours was soft. and the combination felt like friction—like balance. like tension and collapse all at once.

your breath hitched.

his mouth found your throat again.

“you’re gonna fuckin’ ruin me,” he whispered, teeth grazing skin.

and this time, you believed it.

his hands were on your ass.

gripping. kneading. pulling you tighter against his lap like you belonged there. like he was trying to fuse your softness into the solid heat of his cock still straining under his sweats.

you were straddling him fully now—towel forgotten on the floor, your thighs slick with sweat and heat, your body trembling every time you rocked your hips down. the thick shape of his cock pressed perfectly between your folds, the pressure obscene even through the layers of fabric.

you could feel every ridge.

every pulse.

he was so hard it hurt to grind.

and still—you couldn’t stop.

“fuck,” he groaned into your shoulder, voice ragged, hands gripping tighter as you moved again. “you’re gonna make me lose my fucking mind.”

you whimpered against his neck, nails digging into his biceps.

your body—soft, flushed, soaked—rubbed against his with every movement. your stomach against his abs. your tits against his chest. your thighs spreading further as he adjusted his legs beneath you.

you felt his teeth drag against your skin. not biting—just marking. like he needed a reminder that you were real. that this was happening.

and then—he stood.

just stood up with you still wrapped around his waist, your legs locking instinctively around him, your arms around his neck.

you gasped.

he carried you two steps across the locker room—toward the full-length mirror mounted on the wall near the lockers. harsh gym lighting still flickering overhead, sweat still clinging to both of you.

“look.”

his voice snapped.

you opened your eyes.

he was holding you in front of the mirror. one arm under your thighs. the other gripping your lower back. your body on full display—hair messy, skin flushed, nipples hard, stretch marks glowing like ribbons across your hips and ass.

he looked massive behind you. towering. his shirt soaked through with sweat. chest heaving. jaw clenched. cock still caged behind his waistband—but twitching now. ready. angry.

he growled into your ear.

“look what he’s missing.”

your throat tightened. your breath broke in your chest.

“this is what he gave up? this?” he shoved his hips up into yours, grinding his bulge against your cunt with slow, punishing pressure. “this body? this heat?”

you moaned—choked and soft and real.

“he treated you like trash,” toji spat, voice trembling with heat. “like you weren’t worth touching. worth fucking.”

you whined, burying your face in his neck.

he gripped your hair. pulled your face back toward the mirror.

“don’t hide. look at yourself. look at what i’m about to fuck.”

you stared.

your reflection was unrecognizable. desperate. undone. lips swollen, eyes glassy, thighs trembling from being held like this. your body clung to him like gravity.

and his expression—god.

his mouth was parted. his teeth clenched. his eyes locked on the way your thighs spread around his hips.

“you see that?” he whispered. “how soft you are? how good you look against me?”

his cock twitched again.

and then he finally yanked his sweats down—one rough pull, fabric hitting the floor.

his cock slapped against his abdomen. thick. veiny. flushed. already dripping precum. you could feel the heat of it before he even touched you with it.

he spit in his hand. stroked his cock once, twice, then lined it up under you.

your breath stopped.

“toji—”

“nah. not running now.”

and then he thrust up.

hard.

you cried out—full-body, involuntary. his cock stretched you wide, deeper than you thought possible, the first push already too much.

your hands clawed at his shoulders. your forehead dropped against his.

“fuck, toji—i can’t—! it’s so big.”

“yes you can,” he growled, teeth gritted. “you’re fuckin’ taking it.”

he slid in again. deeper. harder. your cunt sucked him in, clenching from the pressure. your walls fluttered, your thighs shaking.

“look how tight you are,” he hissed, hips dragging back before slamming up again. “like you’ve never been fucked right before.”

you sobbed.

your body trembled from the force of every thrust. his hands gripped your waist like a man possessed, his abs flexing, sweat slick between your bodies.

“you feel that?” he panted, breath hot against your neck. “this cock was made for you. made for this body.”

you were already shaking.

your nails dug into his shoulders, your hips struggling to keep up with the force of each thrust. you were perched on his lap, thighs spread wide, legs dangling just barely past the edge of the bench, and he was deep inside you—buried to the base, stretching you around a cock that felt too thick, too hot, too much.

your body had stopped trying to fight it. now, it just clung to him.

but your mind—

“i’m not—i’m not even pretty—”

the words slipped out before you could stop them.

and then he slammed into you.

so hard your body bounced. so deep you choked on a sob.

“say that shit again,” he snarled through gritted teeth, voice rough and ragged. “say it again and i’ll fuck you harder. say it while your pussy’s clenching for me like it can’t stand the thought of being empty.”

your breath caught. your head dropped against his shoulder.

“toji—i’m gonna—i can’t—fuck—”

he groaned, deep and guttural, when he felt it—your cunt choking him, fluttering around his cock as your orgasm overtook you. not a neat little finish. no. it ripped through you like your body was cracking open from the inside.

you sobbed.

loud. broken.

your nails raked down his back. your thighs locked up. your entire body jerked forward, curling into him, needing to hide—but he wouldn’t let you. his hand was in your hair, his other around your waist, keeping your body pinned to his cock as you spasmed.

“that’s it,” he hissed into your skin, still thrusting up into you like he was losing his mind. “cum on it. soak it. make it yours.”

you moaned through the aftershocks, breath catching every time he slammed up again. your thighs trembled around his waist, sweat dripping between your bodies. your whole body burned. overstimulated. stretched. used.

and he still wasn’t done.

he was fucking you through it—through the trembling, the sensitivity, the moans that turned to hiccupped gasps.

he adjusted his grip. angled his hips deeper. your eyes rolled back.

“you’re so deep, fuck,” you cried, barely able to speak. “i can’t—I can’t—”

“yes you fuckin’ can,” he growled, sweat dripping from his jaw onto your chest. “this pussy was made to take it.”

he thrust again. rougher. more desperate.

the sounds in the room were obscene—wet, slick, filthy, the bench creaking under the weight of your bodies. your slick dripped down his cock, pooling at the base, coating his thighs and his abs and everything between.

his voice dipped, darker now. “that piece of shit ever make you cum like this?”

you shook your head frantically, too overwhelmed to lie.

he grabbed your jaw.

hard.

forced your eyes to meet his in the mirror.

“say it.”

“no—he never—!”

“damn right he didn’t,” he spat. “he didn’t even deserve to look at you.”

he shifted again, angled upward—his cock dragging perfectly against that spot inside you that made your mouth fall open in a silent scream.

his thrusts got shorter. sharper. his chest pressing to yours, abs flexing every time he ground into you.

“you’re not too much,” he whispered, almost angrily.

his breath was loud in your ear. ragged. falling apart.

“you’re exactly how i like it.” he muttered, voice low, guttural.

his palm moved lower—across your belly, down to the dip of your waist, the curve of your thigh. he groaned when you clenched around him.

“feels so fuckin’ good around my muscles,” he breathed. “you’re like a soft pillow against all this hard tension. makes me wanna stay buried in you for hours.”

he squeezed your thigh, pressed it higher against his hip, and gave one slow, deliberate thrust so deep your breath caught.

“you fit me too good. it’s not just sex—it’s like your body’s made to give me relief.”

“you belong right here. on me,” he said, voice tight. “fuckin’ made for me.”

“toji—please—fuck—”

“you want it?”

“yes—god, yes—”

he groaned, loud now. feral.

and then he slammed into you one last time—bottoming out, cock buried to the hilt, the head punching so deep it knocked the air from your lungs.

you cried out. mouth open. arms clinging to him like you’d fall apart if he let go.

his cock twitched inside you.

and then—you felt it.

thick, hot pulses. his release. deep, raw, possessive.

you could feel his cum fill you. every pulse marked you. every throb claimed you. his body didn’t move. he just held you there, shoved onto his cock like he couldn’t stand to be anywhere else.

he stayed buried as you spasmed again, another wave rippling through you from the sheer heat and stretch of it.

he groaned into your neck. thrust again. shallow. slow. dragging his cock through the mess inside you like he wanted to paint your walls with it.

you collapsed forward, trembling in his arms. face pressed to his neck.

he was drenched. his body soaked. he smelled like sex and sweat and something animal.

his arms wrapped around you, tight.

one hand rubbed your back. the other cupped your ass, pulling your thighs wider, still seated on his cock.

you whimpered.

his palm found your stomach again. the soft part. the part you always covered.

he squeezed it. kissed your temple.

“this is mine now,” he whispered.

you nodded. dazed. silent.

he kissed your shoulder. then your jaw.