chocochipsushi

[chocochipsushi]

DARK CONTENT | warning tape 03.

( requested by → @sonosomnus )

thank god for the find and replace function, LOL. here’s the neon warning tape banners, but this time it says ‘dark content warning’ !

type : warning / neon / dark content / trigger warning

feel free to use; please like, reblog, and credit〜

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[chocochipsushi]

uncle toji epilogue? 🥹🥹

On the way! 🫡

#ask

[chocochipsushi]

is it possible to ask for a jealous bodyguard! toji🥹🥹

Oooh this is fun! I might! Once my other drafts see light of day 😂

#ask

[chocochipsushi]

Pls read if u haven’t already - so good!

❝ 𝐈 𝐍𝐄𝐄𝐃 𝐒𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐎𝐋𝐃𝐄𝐑 ❞

❝ PROF. GETO'S CLASS IS SO HARD, BUT HE'S SO HOT!! ❞

✧ pairing: professor!geto x f!reader (part one of the prof geto series)

✧ summary: you were a 4.0, straight A student, until professor geto's class, the same far too hot ethics professor fawned over by faculty and students alike. you didn't understand what was so special about him...until you start having dreams about him.

✧ warnings: 18+, nsfw, a lot of smut (mostly fantasy), depictions of student/teacher relationship (only ok in fiction not irl!!!), reader is a grad student in my mind, but age is vague, masturbation (f + m), fingering (f! receiving), sex (p in v), getting off to his voice in recorded lectures, arousal from reading his writing, amateur's take on moral philsophy and ethics, art by @/jatinsohanvi, google scholar graphic by platonic loml @laneysmusings

✧ wc: 10,149 (i have a problem) | part two

“You’re late,” 

Your first impression of Professor Suguru Geto’s class was that you could never be late again, unless you would like to be chided in front of all your peers for your tardiness. 

Your first impression of Professor Suguru Geto himself was that he was truly the most breathtaking man you’d ever laid your eyes on. His inky black locks tied into a neat bun, his deep royal purple vest buttoned over a crisp white button up with pressed gray slacks, his pretty lips pressed in a small frown, as his dark gaze pierced through you. And you don’t know what stirs in your chest — a fleeting moment that is tucked away under a bite of your bottom lip and burning cheeks. 

And now you knew why when you had walked into class, the amount of unfamiliar faces in this course had far outnumbered the ones in your usual course load — the same reason why this man undoubtedly had three chili peppers next to his professor rating on some website out there. 

And now you were faced with him staring you down as you stumbled down the stairs of the all too full lecture hall. 

As you muttered apologies, and took your seat far too close to the front of the class, smack dab in the very front of the very same professor whose eyes still were concentrated on you, before sliding back to the class at large. 

“Now, where were we?” he says, continuing the lecture. 

Ethics was not your major — you were a philosophy grad student, and although the two went hand in hand — no, they were not the same thing. Ethics are the moral principles — like rules to follow to live a moral life — people can follow, while philosophy is the study of knowledge, reality, and existence. And this class encompassed both — an ethics and moral philosophy class. Your eyes slid around the room — and compared to all the random majors stuffed into this classroom, you had no doubt you’d do well. Your eyes met Professor Geto’s — maybe one slight doubt. 

And when you get your first essay back, you eagerly flip to the last page of the paper, wondering what accolades and compliments you’d receive this time. Your eyes find the grade, and your stomach drops, a gaping maw that consumes you from the inside out. 

You got a B. 

A B+ — an 88 on your paper in this course, and you stared at the grade on the very last page of the paper you had collected from his desk — Professor Geto had insisted everyone submit their papers both physically and electronically — his scrawl in red pen littered each page of what you thought was a thoughtful and even clever paper on the existence free will and the ethical and moral dilemmas that surround it. And he had given it an 88. 

You had a 4.0 point average — you had gotten the highest scores in some of the most difficult courses required by your major, and now you were going to be derailed by a class you took on a whim? That’s not happening. No, you were going to get him to change your grade. You were seeing as red as the ink that tore your paper to shreds. 

“Come in,” your knuckles had rapped against Professor Geto’s door, your heart in your throat, as you heard his reply, entering his office. His office was as pretentious as he was. A much larger office than you had seen before (poor Professor Ijichi had a shoebox of an office), while Professor Geto’s was three times the size, outfitted with large, beautiful windows, distinct bookshelves, and even a lovely deep mahogany colored couch with decorative cushions. And you knew why that was the case — Professor Geto was an expert in his field, revered, even at his relatively young age. And the university had coveted him, and managed to lure him to work behind these ivy covered walls. While other professors who have been here longer are stuck with offices that don’t begin to compare. 

Academia was truly hell. 

And yet, Professor Geto seemed to rule over it with an iron fist. Even now, you found your professor looking as annoyingly perfect as ever — his elbow resting against his desk, pen in his other hand, as he flipped through more papers on his desk, his hair in a messy bun, a few black strands falling across his furrowed brow, his pretty lips pursed in concentration, and his dark gaze flicks up from his work to you, and his lips curl, your name leaving his lips, “good to see you, please sit,” 

You had planned to attend these office hours in victory, to apologize for your misstep in the first class, and let your professor praise your paper to no end — but instead you were going to see why your paper was graded so harshly. 

Your speech was ready, you were going to lay it out, you had the perfect explanation and the excellent reasoning “Professor Geto—” 

“I know why you’re here,” he cuts you off, lips forming in an utterly condescending smile, “you want to discuss your paper, correct?” 

“I am, I wanted to—” 

He sits forward in his chair, setting down his pen, “I’m going to save us some time by explaining my comments on your paper, do you have it?” and you close your mouth, pulling the paper out of your folder and handing it to him, “Your paper was one of the best in the class — it was thought provoking, grounded in research, persuasive, even made me consider some points I hadn’t before—” 

You blink, his praise catching you off guard, your thoughts twisting in on themselves, “Then why did you give me B?” 

“You didn’t allow me to finish,” he sighs, as he flips through your paper, looking up to meet your gaze,  “your paper was excellent when it came to philosophical concepts, but your ethical conclusions on the other hand, could use some work,” 

You gaped at him, “What did I possibly—” 

“To put it simply, you were trying to use your knowledge of philosophy to cover up your lack of knowledge in the field of ethics,” 

“I wasn’t—” 

“And that’s okay, because that means I have something to teach you don’t I? That’s why you’re in this course, to learn,” he gives a tight lipped smile, tilting his head. Oh you’d like to learn a lot more from him — like the ethical dilemma of wanting to murder your professor, “and I’m here to teach — and this paper is a teaching moment — and from your expression, I assume you didn’t read the comments I left in detail,” 

And your cheeks burn, as your eyes fall away from him, “Not fully in detail,” you still swallow your shame, and meet his gaze, “I don’t mean to be a bother, Professor, but how can my paper still receive a B — I’ve never received that low of a score on any single paper—” 

“There’s a first time for everything,” and you have to bite back your retort, “yeah first time having an annoying prick for a professor,” and he rises from his desk to hand you back your paper, “the bottom line is, I know you’re capable of better, this class isn’t going to be easy — I’m not going to hand you accolades for no reason. You have to earn them — if you aren’t up for the challenge, you can drop the class.” 

The option was there — you could simply drop the course, rid yourself of Professor Geto and his ridiculous criticism forever. You could take a class with one of the many professors who delighted in your papers (even the ones you’d written at 3 AM and submitted not proofread), and go on with your life and preserve your 4.0 GPA with ease. 

But then you looked at him again. He was unfairly hot, even when he was fucking putting you down, he stood in front of you, offering your paper, his fingers long and thick brushing yours by mistake as you took back your paper, a watch on his wrist gleamed in the low light of his office. You glanced around his office, saw the awards on his walls, pictures of him giving lectures or receiving honors, and the books that lined his shelves weren’t dissimilar to your own academic shelf at home. And your eyes fell back to his, as he stared at you curiously, lips pursed, as your paper slightly crumples in your fist. 

“Next paper is due in two weeks?” and he pauses, before his lips curl in that same grin. 

“Yes it is,” and a smile graces your lips, lightning quick.

Like hell you were going to let him win. You were going to get him to praise your papers (and maybe that wouldn’t be the only thing he praised) — if it was the last thing you do. You’d get an A in his class, hell, you’d get him to beg you to be his teaching assistant (he’d look very nice on his knees for you, wouldn’t he?). 

You rise from your seat, and grab your bag, “I’ll see you at your next office hours then, to discuss my paper topic,” and he watches you leave, his eyes piercing into your back as you do. 

“See you soon.” 

Oh, he would. 

“Right on time,” Professor Geto barely looks up now when you knock on his door, his door now always ajar for office hours. 

Now you had made a habit of showing up for his office hours, you’d bring your paper topic all picked out, along with your handpicked sources you had chosen for your paper, all typed up in a neat bibliography. And he’d kindly rip it apart with that same damn smile on his lips. It had been a few weeks, a few papers later — and you finally had worked your grade up to an A-, not quite an A+, but you’d get there. You had to. 

Because it wasn’t just about your GPA now — you were going to get Professor Geto to praise you — through any means necessary. The man was stubborn, even when you’d come back with an improved draft, he’d only hand it back to you with a smile barely tugging at the corner of his lips, with no compliment to be had — only small check marks scribbled in the margins in your papers, with the occasional “good” written next to it. 

“Well, we all know what happens when I’m late,” he laughs, a noise that makes the ice dagger clutched behind your back ever so slightly melt, “I made you laugh, extra credit?” 

And he rolls his eyes, and you notice that his dark eyes are hidden behind glasses today — and god, why does it only make him even more gorgeous? He’s already brilliant, it’s unfair for him to look as if he was sculpted by the gods as well, “It takes a lot more than a chuckle to earn extra credit,” and you can’t help but bite your lip. 

No, no, he’s the worst. It didn’t matter he was the epitome of every academic’s wet dream, you were above that. You had a goal. 

“So, can we discuss my next paper?” you hand him your bibliography, and he takes it, delicate fingers flipping through, your mind notes the absence of a ring on either hand, before brushing the thought aside. 

“You’re writing on the morality of good or bad actions,” he hums, as he looks over the sources you had chosen, “Scanlon, good — have you read—” 

“‘What We Owe to Each Other?’ Only about a million times — well more like six,” and he nods appreciatively, “of course you’ve read it,” 

“I didn’t just read it, I wrote a paper on it, similar to yours, actually,” and your eyes flick up to meet his, he’s leaning forward in his chair, red pen in hand, as he scribbles notes in the margins, as well as on the back of your bibliography, “of course I don’t have your penchant for rambling,” 

You pout, “I don’t ramble — I like to make my point—” 

“Many times, and the same one,” and your mouth opens, only to find a wry smirk on his lips, “I’m teasing, another one of my very tedious qualities, and how you stand it during class astonishes me,” 

You cross your arms, unable to meet his eyes, as you choose to stare at your bibliography instead, “You’re not completely tedious, more like irritating,” and he huffs a chuckle. 

You had to admit, begrudgingly, Professor Geto was a…good teacher. And you had your fair share of awful teachers — many of them were brilliant, accomplished people in their fields, but didn’t know how to translate and convey that in their lectures to students who simply knew less than them. But Geto…he knew how to break down complex concepts and theories of moral philosophy and ethics to a science, he knows how to make students understand these complicated topics that you had seen other professors fail to, and he does it while being an intellectual dreamboat to most of his students — the ones that swarm his desk after class, still there even as you slowly make your way out of the lecture hall. 

“A rare compliment from you,” he raises an eyebrow, “I’m touched,” 

“You’re one to talk,” you furrow your brow, and a smile pulls at his lips. 

“Didn’t know you wanted my approval,” he tilts his head, leaning forward to lean on his elbow on the desk, “well, you have improved remarkably in the class so far, and if you keep going like this, I may have no choice but to praise you,” 

“You will,”

“Someone is very sure of themselves,” a pause and then he adds with a quirk of his lips, “as you should be,” and he’s sliding your bibliography across the table again, and passes it back, “read the sources I recommended, and see about adding them to your paper — you may have some overlap in the other papers you chose so use your discretion on which ones you use,” 

“So don’t repeat myself?” You raise an eyebrow, and he leans back in his chair, crossing his legs. 

“You learn fast.” 

And you do — returning to your apartment to work on your paper, as you flip through his notes — as much as you hate to admit it, his notes and criticism did help — annoyingly so. He was far more detailed and perceptive than any other professor you had. Most had let you skate by without a second thought, and you wrote papers like you deleted your internet history after a scandalous romp through elicit websites — tools, clear history — and then onto the next paper or exam. But Professor Geto forced you to face your shortcomings, face the things that you didn’t like to give a second glance to, lest your rejection sensitive self feel the agony of having to deal with criticism. 

Each time you did it, you got a little better, and he had a little less to say — time and time again. 

You leaned back on your bed, scrolling through the papers he recommended, but so what? So what if he was a good teacher? Doesn’t mean he has to be as infuriating as he is — he knew exactly what to do to get under your skin, and he didn’t prod at it, he scratched it. 

And you found yourself typing his name (“suguru geto”) and T.M. Scanlon’s name into the search bar of your university’s library collection, and his paper pops up right on top. 

You stare at the paper for a good minute, before you click on it — and you start reading. And reading. And reading — and fuck— 

It was good. It was more than that — it gave you so much insight on this topic, it made you rediscover T.M. Scanlon’s work in a new light — and you bite your lip. And it wasn’t just the research — the way it organized, the way it was presented, the way it was written — it was eloquent, but it wasn’t unreadable or incomprehensible. It was…really good. 

You imagined him, pouring over Scanlon’s work as he wrote notes in the margins of his copy, pages dogeared and passages highlighted, as he sat in his office typing away at this paper. His sleeves rolled up, his hair let out of his usual bun, his glasses perched on his nose as he read, only his desk lamp and computer illuminating his office. The keys of his computer clacking under his touch, lengthy fingers pitter pattering as he wrote his thoughts and analysis of Scanlon’s work — his brow furrowed in thought. 

And you felt yourself flush, swallowing the lump in your throat, as you kicked off your blanket — it was so warm all of a sudden, pressing your thighs together. You shook the thoughts from your mind — what the hell were you doing? You glanced at the time, 2:39 AM it read back at you mockingly. You sigh, shutting your laptop down, and putting it aside — you need to do your skincare and brush your teeth. You glance back at your laptop—the familiar of your flush clung to your skin like a forbidden kiss— 

And you clearly needed sleep. 

“Can you read this passage to me?” Professor Geto’s voice said, as he stood in front of you in the lecture hall — as you stood behind the podium that faced the entire class — hands in his pockets, in an olive henley, his hair tied in the usual neat bun, his black bangs falling in his eyes as always, glasses on, instead of the usual contacts. The class sat all around you — his exercise in getting the class to participate and get comfortable speaking in front of others, just as philosophers had done in the past (his very own “literary salon” he called it). 

You swallow, keeping your eyes fixed on the book in front of you, “‘When I ask myself what reason the fact that an action would be wrong provides me with not to do it, my answer is that such an action would be one that I could not justify to others on ground I could expect them to accept—’” 

“What do you think Scanlon meant by this?” he asks you, but his gaze was different this time, it held the amusement it always did when it came to you, but it was warm — no — it was burning. His lips were pursed, as he crossed his arms, the henley’s fabric seemingly straining under the action. 

“He meant that an action that is wrong in his eyes when he couldn’t expect others to accept the ground on which he could justify it,” and his lips curve into that damned smile, as he takes a few steps closer, rounding the podium, as he brushes past you, the brief touch of temptation incarnate — the dangling apple of Tantalus personified before you. 

“And can you give me some examples of what kinds of actions would be wrong?” and he’s standing behind you now, and you can’t bring yourself to look at him — but you can feel his gaze on you. 

“Senseless murder,” and he hums in approval, his breath felt like it was warming your skin, “wanton violence, reckless assault—” 

“What other everyday wrongdoings could fall under this category?” and suddenly the class before you is gone, and it’s just the two of you in an empty lecture hall, “theft, lying, student-teacher relationships?” 

And your breath catches in your throat, his cologne strangling any sense left in your mind, as his body heat nearly radiates off him, “Professor Geto—” 

“Suguru,” he corrects you, and he’s reaching for you, but he pauses, “can I—” and you only can nod, and his fingers brush your hair aside, ever so gently, “would this be considered a moral wrongness, sweetheart?” his lips press a chaste kiss to your shoulder, and you shiver at the softness of his touch. 

“Well, I am a student in your class, and even though I’m of age, it presents a power dynamic and a favoritism that might be—” and your sentence cuts off as his arms wind their way around your waist, pressing himself to your back, “I—” 

“Go on,” he’s murmuring his words against the nape of your neck now, as he pulls his glasses off to place them on the podium, “might be what?” 

“Might be viewed as morally wrong—” and he’s chuckling, the vibration sending a delicious shiver down your spine, as he presses more butterfly kisses to your neck. 

“How can something be wrong when it feels so right?” he asks, and his hand is sliding down your side, “feels so good, does it even matter what society views as right or wrong? Do their rules pertain to what we’re doing here?” and his fingers toy with the hem of your pants, teasing and pulling, as he pauses, waiting for your answer, “what do you think—” 

“Please,” you swallow, as you turn to look at him, seeing his lips in that same smile that haunted you, “touch me,” 

And his smile only grows wider, “Good girl.” 

BUZZ. BUZZ. BUZZ. 

Your eyes flutter open, your breath caught in your throat, as you stare at your ceiling, your hand reaching for your phone to silence the alarm. And you squeeze your thighs together, a distinct ache between your legs, your skin all too warm. 

What the fuck was that? 

You skip office hours the next week. You couldn’t bear it — you could barely tolerate going to class now, as the dream invades your nights, with filthy variations that leave you perturbed and horny (mostly horny). The common theme only being that each time you get close to anything remotely that’s anything (a kiss, a touch that’s more than a caress, anything at all), you wake up. 

It’s as if your dreams are edging you — you groan into your pillow — and it was working. 

You’re so wound up, you’ve even resorted to using your vibrator before bed, wondering if that would make a difference — it did, but only with you having a dream of Professor Geto using a vibrator on you during class — the vibrations growing even faster when you were speaking as he watched you— 

You needed to stop thinking about this. But how can you? 

God, it’s even worse when you’re in class. You sit in your usual seat, front and center — and why does it feel like his eyes are on you far too often? Even as he lectures Professor Geto attempts to catch your eye during his lecture, trying to make a point, you all but glue your gaze down to the textbook and your laptop, typing away his words, trying to drown out the whispered words and groans from your dream that ring in your ears. You can’t stop seeing him — unless you want to skip class, which you really couldn’t when attendance and participation counted for a good chunk of your grade. 

Class ended and you were packing up your things. You had to weather the storm — avoid being alone with him until the dreams were just a distant memory— 

And then you heard him say your name— 

Your eyes flick up to meet Professor Geto — who had his usual swarm of students waiting by his desk, but he parted the crowd, he approached your own seat, hands in your pockets, “Do you have a class after this?” 

“No, I don’t—” the words slip out before your sleep deprived mind can put the pieces together. 

“Then can you please stay after class? I’d like to talk to you,” he says, and before you can say anything, he turns to speak to the students waiting for him. 

And now you wait — your anxious energy singing at the frayed ends of your nerves, as you tried to hold yourself together — wondering what he could possibly want to speak to you about. His students dissipated one by one, until it was just you and him left in the lecture hall. 

Just. Like. Your. Fucking. Dream. 

You round the row you sat in, before walking down to speak to him, “Is there something wrong? The next paper isn’t due until the end of next week—” 

“It isn’t about the paper,” and your heart squeezes, as you try to keep your breathing even, as he steps closer — and why, why did he have to opt to only wear a button up today —  and a deep royal purple one no less,  “I wanted to check in with you,” and he begins to undo the cuffs of his shirt, rolling them up — exposing his forearms and the pretty veins that ran along them — the same arms that he had used in one of your dreams to bend you over that desk, the whispers of heated kisses along your neck—

You needed to get out of here. 

You blink, “I’m fine,” and he tilts his head. 

“I only ask because you’ve looked tired the last two classes, and you didn’t show up for office hours this week,” he crosses his arms, unhelpfully, as he purses his lips, the lines of his brow furrowed. 

“I’m fine, Professor, I appreciate your concern — I just haven’t been sleeping well,” you admit — it was the truth, “and that’s why I didn’t come to office hours. I was trying to catch up on sleep,” 

He nods, sighing, fingers raking through his hair — those same fingers that would feel so pretty around your neck— “I know I’m hard on you,” oh he would be, “but it’s because I know you’re capable of more — most of these students are taking the class for an elective, but I know it’s more than that for you,” yes, it’s so you can finally earn his praise, “but I’m also here for your benefit, so if you need an extension or anything else, please let me know,” 

God, all you wanted was for him to maybe wrap you in his arms and kiss you, or bend you over, pull your clothes off and fuck you, or just to leave you alone all together. 

You weren’t sure which one you wanted the most at this moment. 

“I will, Professor Geto, I appreciate it,” you murmur, biting your lip, as you try to focus on the task at hand — getting out of here, “I don’t think I need an extension, I’ve made good progress so far. I just need to finish it, so I can revise,”

“Well, let me know if anything changes,” his lips curl, “ok?” And you nod, and if you weren’t so hyperaware, you swore you would have imagined it — but you didn’t, “good girl,” 

And you pause a moment — his lips did move, you pinch yourself discreetly — and you know it isn’t a fucking dream. You only smile in return, giving a curt nod and goodbye, before beelining out of the classroom. 

But you didn’t stick around long enough to see the slight flush on Professor Geto’s cheeks — nor did you know that you two were thinking the same thing about yourselves— 

What the fuck were you doing? 

But to your relief, the dreams do subside, and you’re finally able to rest — but the thing that doesn’t subside is your awareness of your professor. 

You sit in class, watching him teach — and you knew he was attractive, hell, it was one of the things that made you all the more embarrassed to have him ream you out — having your super hot professor rail at you for your mistakes wasn’t on your list of shining achievements (lest it was him actually railing you—). 

You needed to stop doing that. 

But it felt as if you weren’t the only one who was hyper aware. You felt as if his eyes skimmed over you during class this week, his replies to your weekly discussion board were less biting than usual, and his office hours were surprisingly canceled this week. First time all semester, but you weren’t so full of yourself that you thought it had anything to do with you — right? 

Either way, you had submitted your paper and now you were done with this week—and as class finishes, you slowly pack up, looking forward to the week being over with and for a personal rendezvous with your bed. But as the usual gaggle of students make their way to chat with Professor Geto, your eyes flicker up to meet his, as he stares back a moment. 

And you can’t make yourself look away, and for a moment, neither can he. 

But then a student calls for his attention, so his eyes flicker away, a smile on his lips as he spoke — and you turn to leave, grabbing your bag, as you look back— 

But why did his smile look so strained? 

There must be something wrong with him. 

Professor Suguru Geto drummed his fingers against his desk, but he felt more like shoving his things off his desk — if only to distract him for a moment. He pulls his glasses off, and runs a hand down his face—god, he hadn’t been sleeping well. No, his nights were plagued, plagued by you — you had slipped into his dreams ever since that day he stopped you. 

Why had he stopped you? 

It wasn’t the first time he had personally stopped a student who seemed to be struggling, he could count the times he had on both his hands. 

But this, this felt different. 

You were different. 

But why were you different to him? He rubs his temples, from the moment you had stepped into his office he thought he had read you — an overachieving student used to getting their way, As handed out to them, and an inability to take criticism. 

He knew, because he used to be one of them. But he knew you needed to be challenged to grow — but it was a matter if you would accept it. And from the moment you asked him when the next paper was due, he couldn’t help but smile. 

And his time spent in office hours with you grew more enjoyable each time you came. And when you hadn’t last week, he couldn’t sit still, checking the time, checking his email, and even checking if his office hours had been accidentally listed wrong in his weekly email to the class (they weren’t). And the hour and half passed with many students hungry for his time and his charm  — but not the  one he was looking for. 

Then those words had slipped from his tongue when he had stopped you, left his mouth like he was possessed, and now he had found himself here. Found himself thinking about how your lips parted when he said it, thinking about how you were feeling, thinking about you, you, you— 

There’s a knock at the door, “Professor Geto?” 

And it was you. 

“I apologize, I know you canceled office hours, but I just had a few questions I didn’t get to ask you in class,” your fingers toy with the ring you wore, a folder in hand, a soft smile on your lips. 

“Of course, come in,” and you did, your dress was painfully short, the fabric riding up as you sat, the folder in your lap, “is this about your paper?” 

“It is, I was reading a few papers, and after our conversation, I couldn’t help but find your paper,” and he tilts his head, “and I want to include it as a source in my paper, but I had a few points you made that I wanted clarified,” 

He raises an eyebrow, and he can’t help but tease,  “Clarified or criticized? Are you planning on turning the tables on me?” 

“Well I do have a red pen,” you click your pen, lips curved in a smile, and there’s a hint of heat that he wishes to unearth, pluck from the earth and possess himself, “but I promise I’ll be civil,”

 “I have no doubt,” he had a million when it came to you — but that wasn’t one of them. He runs his fingers through his hair, a few strands coming loose, “of course, let’s discuss it,” 

“You discuss Scanlon’s idea of a social contract, everyone within this moral society agrees on what’s right and what’s wrong — the basic principle is that if there is a rule no one can reasonably reject as a basis, but is there such a rule that can exist?” 

He tilts his head, “Scanlon’s theory relies on this premise — are you questioning me or the premise?” 

“Both, actually,” you shrug, crossing your legs, “is there a magic switch that changes every person to be rational? Because I think only rational people can agree on what rules cannot be reasonably rejected — what about people who are cruel, inconsiderate, self-absorbed? Do those traits go away when operating under Scanlon’s social contract? You propose in your paper that moral reasons are not subjective — nothing is uncolored by human opinion,” 

“No, but—” 

“How can we agree on what is truly right or wrong? How can one hundred people agree on that when everyone views these actions in different ways? Right and wrong? Black, white, or gray?” you rise from your chair to hand him his paper printed out, the paper more red than white with the amount of writing you’ve done, “like for example,” you lean forward, your hand braced against the edge of his desk, “can one hundred people agree that student-teacher relationships are wrong? Because one veto,” your hand trails ever closer to his, toeing that dangerous line either of you had even yet to approach to cross. But here you were, seemingly barreling toward it. 

And he didn’t want to pull away. 

He swallows, whispering your name, “This can’t—” and you were so close — too close, your perfume hypnotized him, your fingers brush against his and he can’t help but hold them, his thumb rubbing across your knuckles, “they can agree that it’s wrong — the power imbalance from the authority of the professor and the age difference—” 

“I disagree, so the rule isn’t legitimate, right? Even if one disagrees, the rule cannot be make valid,” and his breath catches as your fingers slide up his arm now, resting on his shoulder, as you lean over his chair now, as your other hand toys with the loose strands of his hair, “if the two of us can’t even agree, then how could a hundred, or a thousand, or a million?” 

“But—” 

“But what?” you pout, your fingers dragging down his chest, toying with the top button of his button down, “I don’t see you pulling away, do you want me to stop, Professor? Because I will,” 

And he swallows thickly, but he can’t stop you — he doesn’t want to, “But, we shouldn’t — it isn’t a reasonable objection—” he tries his hardest to stand firm, but he only crumbles when your fingers brush his cheek, tracing the cut of his jaw. And it feels like flames tickling at his skin, begging him to thrust his hand into the fire. 

“Like I said, people are not reasonable,” your lips draw closer, and he can feel your breath warm his own, and god, why are you so tempting? And your lips stop short, barely an inch between your faces, “and besides, would you rather be reasonable or satisfied?” 

And there’s only one answer — you. 

He leans forward, lips nearly brushing yours— 

RING. RING. RING.

He jerks awake from his desk, papers sliding as he does, his breath caught in his throat, and his eyes wander — and finds no one else there. 

A dream. He runs his fingers through his hair again, crumpling the paper he had oh so lovingly drooled during his nap. He needed to get his shit together. 

But his current predicament wasn’t making that easy — his cock strained against the fabric of his pants — was he a grown adult or a horny teenager? 

Fuck. It wasn’t going away — no matter what he thought, his mind kept circling back to you. 

And his eyes slide to the time: 1:40 AM. 

Far past the time any soul would be here, even cleaning staff would have been long gone. It was just him—

And you. 

“So good for me, baby,” he’s panting, palming his erection, an embarrassing amount of precum drips from his cock for a barely wet dream. He ignores the gnawing guilt in the back of his mind — but he can’t help but imagine the image of you, spread out on his desk, hiking that oh so teasing sundress up, only to find your underwear drenched — just for him. 

His fingers would slide up your plush thighs, squeezing to draw a gasp from your pretty lips, “Professor—“ you’d say, unable to form a sentence, all those brilliant falling away under his touch, until it was just him occupying every crevice of your mind. 

“Where’s that mouth now? So needy f’me,” he’d murmur, “but such a good girl,” and you were, his thumb tracing his slit, smearing his pre-cum, as he imagined you spread on his desk, your puffy folds nearly showing through your far too translucent panties, “my best student’s so pliant for me now,”

And his hand moves faster, and he can imagine your fingers reaching for him too, your smaller fingers wouldn’t be able to even touch as much as he can — but god it would feel so much better. 

But he’d want you to feel even better than he did.  

He’d tug your underwear down, stuffing it in his pocket (his fee for all of additional office hours), and he would prep you right — fuck you open with his fingers, two or three, before he tasted you. Your fingers would dig into his scalp as you moaned his name again and again, before you came all over his face. 

He’d lick his lips clean of your release, before dragging his cock down your sweet cunt, watching his precum mix with your cum, as your walls flutter around nothing, craving to have him sink into you. 

“Professor, please,” you’d beg with pretty, kiss bitten lips between pants, “please,” 

“Where’s all those quips now, sweetheart?” he’d tease, as he would let his tip tease your clit, pulling a moan from your lips, “all those words fall away when you want this cock, don’t they? Been thinking about you like this, wondering what you’d look like spread out under me,” and he would lean down to kiss you, “it’s even better than I expected,”

He’s jerking himself off in earnest now, the lewd noises of his hand around his cock filling most of the silence, his low groans filling the rest. And he’d finally sink into you, inch by inch, until he’d kiss your cervix with his weeping tip. 

And, god, he wishes his fingers fisted around his cock would be as good as your cunt would feel around him. He would fuck you slow at first, “I know those boys can’t fuck you as good as I can, as well as I can,” he’d tell you, as he would pick up the pace when you’d tell him to, making you cum again and again with his cock, thumb rubbing at your clit, until he was finally close. He’d either cum all over your stomach, marking you with his release, or if you’d let him, he’d cum inside you, filling you with his seed—and then he’d watch it drip out when he would pull out. He groans your name lowly, shuddering as he comes all over his hand, hard. 

Fuck. 

That’s the hardest he’d cum in a long time. He’s a mess — panting and flushed, as he leans back, head against the back of his  chair, too spent to even clean up. And then he finally does, cleaning himself up well, and collecting his things to leave the office. 

But he only treated the symptoms, not the problem itself. His hard-on is gone, but his mind is still filled with thoughts of you. How he’d kiss you sweetly after, how he’d clean you up, care for you gently, make you rest because you never seem to do enough of that, and he’d let you relax — finally relax, as you slept the night in his arms. 

As he heads to his car, he knows that he’s utterly fucked (without even being fucked) because he has feelings for you. And he didn’t know if they were going to go away as easily as he hoped. 

But he hoped they would. He owed it to you, your education, and your future career not to act on these feelings. 

And he sighs as he sits in his car, starting it, but why did it hurt not to? 

It was that time again. 

Your next paper had come around again, and you needed to prepare a topic before you went to speak to Professor Geto. You had put it off, something you had never done with his class, but you wanted to limit the amount of time you spent with him, if only for the sake of your heart. 

Watching him in lectures was bad enough, your thighs pressing together as you watched him speak, his impeccable looks and intelligence a deadly combination for your heart (and your body). You could barely focus, your eyes too fixed on the way he wrote on the board —  his fingers too lithe and too thick, his voice all too alluring when discussing Kant and Aristotle and you can’t help but think what he’d sound moaning your name. 

God. Fuck.  

Either way, you needed to listen to the lectures again since you weren’t able to pay attention. Maybe without watching the video would be better, you settle on your bed, notebook and pen in hand, as you place your headphones on. His voice filled your ears, and you’re scrawling notes. 

But your mind begins to wander. He’s lecturing on the deontological ethics, and all you can think about is how he could make you cum with just that voice of his.  

Shit, you shifted your thighs again, feeling that familiar ache again. What would he sound like when he moaned? How would it sound to have him touch you, run those long fingers down your thighs, and whisper filthy things in your ear? 

As you listened to the lecture, his voice became white noise as your fingers slipped past the waistband of your shorts, and you shut your eyes. 

“That’s it, sweetheart, spread your legs for me,” he’d murmur in your ear, his chest pressed to your back and he’s urge your thighs wider, and his fingers would press against the wet patch on your panties, and he’d hum, “so wet f’me and I haven’t touched you yet, Princess,” his lips would kiss your pulse, “you like my voice that much?” 

“Professor,” you gasp, as his fingers would tease you through your underwear, the fabric growing more soaked by the second, “please—“ and his thumb would ghost around your clit, teasing you, as his long fingers would piston in and out — they would reach so much fucking deeper “I need to—“ 

“Already begging? I knew you learned fast, but not this fast,” and his fingers would tug the crotch of your panties aside, his fingertips tracing around your outer lips, before a finger pushes past your sweet cunt, “fuck, my favorite student’s pussy is so fucking tight. These boys are not fucking you right,” and you whimper, his finger would be so much thicker than yours, as you glide another finger inside you, the two dragging against your walls, “listen to your pretty cunt,” he’d grin against your skin, “and the wet squelch of your pussy, “so pliant for me, takes my fingers so well,” he’d murmur with a chuckle, “practically swallowing me up,” 

And you’re bucking your hips against him, wanting, needing him deeper, because your fingers don’t reach as far as his does, moans leaving your lips. 

“I’m so—” you’re moving faster and faster, his lecture still filling your ears, your pre-cum soaking your shorts and onto the bed sheets, “I can’t—” 

“Come on, Princess, use those big words of yours, you have no problem usually,” his hot words would whisper in your ear, and you’d hear him rub his erection against your ass, trying to get himself off, and you’d grind against him, wanting any friction, “tell me,” 

“Let me cum, please,” and he would smile, running his fingers through your hair, before he bore his thumb down on your clit and sunk a third finger into your needy cunt, just as you did now. And it’s too much for you, your toes curl, your messy walls fluttering around your fingers, as you cum all over your shorts and sheets with a groan of his name. Your fingers were soaked, as you pant, trying to gather yourself, as you came down from your high. 

“Fuck,” you murmur, tugging off your headphones, so your cunt doesn’t have to twitch listening to his dulcet words again. And you’re pulling your fingers out, your cum dripped down your fingers, as you shifted, far too wet underneath you, as you tried to slip off your bed to take a shower and clean yourself up. 

And then you realized, you didn’t even hear any of the lecture. 

Double fuck. 

Why was this so difficult? 

You stood near his office, trying to work up the urge to approach his door for office hours? Since it’s almost the end of the semester, there had been an influx of students attending office hours, and with everything, you had found excuses in your head to avoid office hours. But you couldn’t avoid him anymore. 

For your final paper in the class, you had to have a meeting with him during office hours to discuss your topic, complete with bibliography and outline. And it was almost time for your meeting. 

But you didn’t know how to go in. 

The last few weeks in class have made things worse. You couldn’t help but watch the other students fawn over Professor Geto, his lips curled as he spoke to them. And you’d leave class without a word. You had to stick through the semester and your feelings would disappear with time. You wouldn’t have to see him, you wouldn’t have class anymore, and you couldn’t talk to him. 

Or wouldn’t. 

But now you had to. And you didn’t know how— otherwise than just to do it. 

You knock at his door, “Come in,” and you open the door to see an empty desk, blinking, “I’m over here,”

And your head snaps to your right, and Professor Geto is sitting on his couch, his legs crossed with a stack of papers in hand. His jacket is slung over the side of the couch, his deep maroon button up sleeves rolled up, glasses perched on the tip of his nose. 

“I thought you lived at your desk,” you raise an eyebrow, “decided to change it up for the end of the semester?” 

“Everyone needs a change of scenery,” he leans forward, placing the stack of papers on the table in front of him, “do you want to sit here or move to the desk?” 

You shift in place, before moving to the couch beside him, “This is fine,” he stares, “what?” 

“Just surprised, you always have something to say,” he leans on his elbow, “no smart remarks today?” 

“Fresh out, can I offer you my proposal for the final paper instead?” You say dryly, and he cracks a smile, holding out your proposal. He clicks his red pen, readying his sword. 

He takes it, his dark eyes darting back and forth as he reads, his brow furrowed in concentration — and you can’t help but want to reach out and smooth his brow for him, tease him that he’ll get wrinkles. But you can’t. Can’t because that would cross a line that neither of you should cross. 

“You’ve come a long way,” he says, as he flips it back the front, writing only a few notes here and there. 

“But?” You wait for it. 

His gaze flickers up, a tilt of his head, “That was the end of my sentence,” 

You pause a moment, “Really?” 

“Really,” he scribbles a few more notes, “I look forward to reading the paper, it will be excellent I’m sure, maybe you’ll even get higher than a B+,” 

“Oh, ha, ha,” sarcasm dripping from your tongue, but you can’t help but smile, “you’ll miss me and my endless need for academic validation,” but was it really academic validation you were after now — your eyes gazed at him sitting with the tip of his pen pressed to his lips — or was it his? 

And it’s his turn to pause, and his lips curl into a soft smile, “I will,” 

Your breath catches, “Really?” 

He chuckles, “Really,” he licks his lips, his eyes glancing downward at your proposal than at your face, “I’ve enjoyed our chats this semester,” 

“Have you? Even when I argued with you,” a half nervous half serious laugh dies on your lips when his gaze meets yours, far too serious for your heart to take. 

“Especially then,” his fingers run through his hair a moment, before he speaks again, “I can’t say you could say the same,” 

“And why couldn’t you?” his eyes flicker with an emotion you can’t grasp fast enough, before it slips away into the depths of his dark irises. 

“Because you stopped coming,” his voice is soft, his tone barely even, and this gives you a real pause, heat flushing your body, as if his words had set every nerve ending alight, your mouth growing dry along with it, and it gives him a reprieve he needs to brush it aside, “you don’t have to, of course, these office hours are not relevant to your—” 

“I didn’t stop coming because I didn’t enjoy it,” you cut him off, swallowing the lump in your throat, “I stopped coming because I did,” 

He stares, “What do you—” 

“I don’t want academic validation anymore, I don’t care about my GPA,” you consider it a moment, “ok I do,” and he snorts, “but I care more about validation from you,” 

“From me?” he says, and his gaze tries to meet yours and it can’t — but his fingers brush against your skin, making your breath catch, your eyes finding his, “and what kind of validation do you want?” 

And you can’t find the words, and you hesitation makes him shake his head, “I apologize, I shouldn’t have—” 

“Will you have a drink with me?” and he’s speechless for once, “after the semester is over, of course — I know it wouldn’t be ethical before,” 

And his eyes find yours again, “Some would say it would be unethical after too,” 

“I would say it depends,” 

“On what basis?” and you can’t help but smirk. 

“Am I being graded, Professor?” and you delight in a small crack in his smiling veneer as a light flush dusts the tops of his ears, “and if I’m good, will you call me a good girl again?” 

He swallows, “I don’t want to cost you your education or your—” 

“I understand the risks, but we aren’t contemplating shifting a trolley to hit one person or five, or murdering one healthy person to save five sick ones,” and he raises an eyebrow, “it’s a drink to celebrate the end of the semester,” 

“And if it's something more?” he nearly whispers, the softness of his voice reflected in his features, as his fingers that rested on the couch twitched beside yours. 

“Then we’ll cross that bridge then,” and then you add with a small smile, “Or hit the metaphorical person with the trolley,” and it pulls at the corners of his lips. 

“You make a fair point,” and you gasp in mock surprise.

“The first time all semester you agree with me,” and he chuckles, a noise you wished you could hear him make innumerable times more. 

“Not the first,” he replies, before leaning forward, pressing your outline back into your hands, his fingers brushing yours, “we both agree you’re a good girl, don’t we?” 

And your breath catches, his words warm your skin, turning your blood to lava, “Professor,” and he smiles again. 

“When we go for drinks, call me Suguru.” 

~~~~ 

The semester wears on and finally draws to an end, but finals induced hibernation begins for you. A mix of papers and exams, you finish everything — including your paper for Professor Geto’s class. As always, he has you submit a paper and electronic copy, the paper copy to be dropped off at his office mailbox. And you do just that, the mailboxes being only around the corner from his office, and your heart squeezes at the thought of him. After this, the class was over, it was done. You weren’t his student anymore. 

And you place the paper into the mailbox and sigh, chewing your lip as you pass by his office, but find the door closed (and locked, as you quickly turned the doorknob to test it). Where was he? This was the time he was usually in his office, but maybe he had left campus for the semester — had he forgotten about your drinks? 

Fuck. You hadn’t even discussed a time or place, you had left it vague — “after finals.” Your cheeks burned at the memory, you were far too flustered to elaborate. And you had spent far too many nights imagining him calling you a ‘good girl’ in many other situations. 

And then you heard a call of your name, your gaze snapping up, your heart leaping, but only to see the department head. 

“Hi Professor, how are you?” and the two of you make polite chit-chat, until he asks you. 

“Have you applied to be a T.A. for the department?” and you blink, “applications just opened and I think from what I’ve heard about you around the department, I think you would be an excellent candidate.” 

“I’d love to be — how does the application process work?” and he explains that it’s a double blind process where applications are viewed without personal information of the candidates, and then matched with a professor based only on resume and writing samples. 

You can barely listen to the department head, still far too distracted with thoughts of Professor Geto — so you agree to apply, if only to placate the department head, and make an excuse to leave. 

It had been a week or so, as you lay in bed in your apartment, staring at your ceiling — you hadn’t even bothered to get Professor Geto’s personal number. You couldn’t even reach out to him if you tried, as the only way you could was through his university email, which was out of the question — the university had rules against a professor and student dating, and if anyone found that email — you sighed — it wouldn’t be good. 

Maybe it was for the best. 

The only communication you had gotten from him was an email from Professor Geto’s mailing list to the class from a few days ago, stating that he was out of state in a conference, and he would return soon, but your grades would be emailed to you. But the paper copies would be available to pick up in his office from 3:00 PM to 6:00 PM on Tuesday. It was almost time to pick up your paper, and your nerves bit at you as you thought about the possibility of seeing him. Who knows if he would even be there to begin with. 

Would it be anything? Would it be nothing? Was there not any point to this at all? 

Oh, great, you were becoming existential. 

You sat up, the only thing you could do was go. So you do, taking your time to get dressed. If you were going to see him, you might as well look your best. 

Fuck. You couldn’t go in. It had taken you longer to get back to campus than you thought, and now there were only a few minutes of his office hours left.

And you’re about to knock when the door opens, and you find yourself face to face with the man who has consumed every thought of yours for the last few months — good and bad alike. 

“Late again?” and you can’t help but smile. 

“I prefer fashionably late,” and his eyes rake over your outfit, making your cheeks burn. 

“You certainly are,” and he steps aside to allow you into his office, and you glance between the couch and the desk, but he makes the choice and sits at his desk, “I have your paper right here,” and he’s rifling through his file of papers, “how did your finals go?” 

“If I have an A on this paper, perfectly,” and a smile tugs at his lips, and you raise an eyebrow, “what? Something funny?” 

“Not at all,” and he pulls your paper out, ha “I just recall you saying you wanted something more than, what was it? ‘My academic validation?’” 

And your cheeks flush, “I did, but I also didn’t hear from you,” and your fingers reach for the paper, and he holds onto it, “Professor,” 

“I couldn’t reach out to you because I was still your professor, but once you get this grade, I’m not anymore,” and his gaze is sharper without his glasses today, his dark blue Henley doing nothing to help the flush on your cheeks — memories of your dreams flooding your mind, “and once you get this grade back, I’m not anymore,” 

“And what does that mean?” you can’t pull your eyes away from his, but his fingers let go of your graded paper, “how about you look at the last page of your paper and see?” 

You pull the paper into your hands, flipping to the last page: 

99 — I was impressed by this paper not only by the content but by its comprehension and use of both ethics and philosophy. But I was also impressed by the person who wrote the paper. You’ve shown determination and growth throughout the semester — and you have reminded me what we owe to each other. And I think we owe each other a drink, and a chance for this. 

You feel his eyes watch you as you read, your eyes finally meeting his — his brow knit together, his lips pursed, concentrated gaze trying to decipher your reaction. 

“Why a 99?” And his eyebrows raise, as if to ask, “that’s your question?” 

“You had some spelling and grammar errors,” 

“Really? You couldn’t let it slide?” And he tilts his head, before he sees your lips curling into a grin. 

“So you think it’s funny to mess with your professor?” And his voice drops, a playful tone that makes you nearly shiver, as he leans forward, resting his chin against his elbow. 

“You’re not my professor anymore, are you, Suguru?” he likes that by the way his teeth bite his bottom lip briefly, his eyes flitting to your lips for a moment and back to your eyes, “so I guess we’re using that trolley after all,” 

“If you want to,” he says softly, “I wouldn’t blame you if you change your mind, it’s a risk,” 

It was. It was a risk to your reputations, your careers, your futures — especially to yours. But, your eyes met his again. 

“Contractualism is about avoiding risk,” and he nods, as his gaze falls away, “but some risk is necessary in life, and I think this is one that’s worth taking,” 

“We will have to be careful,” he murmurs, but already his fingers are twitching, far too eager to touch you, “we can’t make any mistakes. I don’t want to hurt you,” he adds softly. 

“I know, I don’t want to hurt you either,” and you rise before slowly rounding his desk, “but I want to know what it’s like,” 

And he can’t stop himself — he gets to his feet, his fingers finding your cheeks and he kisses you. You can taste the black coffee on his lips, his kiss is gentle at first, so chaste and fleeting that you’d swear he didn’t kiss you at all — and so it’s not a second before your lips find his again, in a deeper kiss that steals every ounce of breath from your lungs, and leaves only heat behind. This was dangerous. The very risk you were both trying to avoid, but as he’s pressing you into the edge of his desk, you can’t find the logic you misplaced when those goddamn fingers you’ve been dreaming about squeeze your hips. 

“Fuck,” he’s panting — god that word sounded more sinful on his lips than it should — as he presses sweet kisses to your neck, “we shouldn’t be doing this here,” 

“Not very ethical,” you chuckle breathlessly, as your fingers rake through his now disheveled bun, “but I can’t find the sense to care,” your noses brush, as you can’t help but smile, “what would Scanlon or Kant say about this?” 

And his arms lift you onto his desk, several papers crumpling underneath, “Who the fuck cares?” he’s hissing, his lips find yours in a searing kiss, as his thighs press yours apart, as he settles himself between your legs, his knee grazing your core, drawing a delightful gasp from your lips, “I know what I want,” and his eyes soften, his fingers tracing the length of your cheek, “do you?” 

Before you can answer, two pings catch your attention — your phone and his computer lighting up with a notification, and you both pause a moment, as your eyes glance at the banner notification on your phone, skimming over the words. The T.A. positions have been assigned. 

“Fuck,” you hear him mutter, and you gaze snaps up to his on his computer, the email now opened on his screen, “this can’t be right—” 

“What is it—” and the question dies on your lips as your eyes find where his rested — 

You — you were his T.A. for next semester — for the very class that you met in. 

Fuck, indeed. 

✧ read part 2 now

✧ a/n: lets all remember that student and teacher relationships are bad in real life. it's ok to live vicariously through reader but unfortunately no professor will be as hot as professor geto or gojo T_T. s/o to @/laneymusings and @bucky-of-the-opera for beta reading this for me and being just absolutely wonderful!!

✧ tag list: @sokkasmoon, @unoriginalideas, @waytootiredforthisss, @sinnerstardoll, @secret-pages-of-my-heart, @drthymby, @hanlay, @catsgomurp, @hatsunemitskislobotomy, @esuz, @difficultdomains, @poopyface222, @iwassentfromhell, @diogodxlot, @totallynotcc, @llovekami, @deadmarygolds, @teatreeoilll, @carcarcraziiv2, @forest-hashira, @aliyalala, @esuz, @that-goth-bisexual, @hehehehesthings, @imjustmememe, @j1jay, @iwassentfromhell,

#I am in love???? #what the fuck #the tension. the plot. the banter??? #I LOVE EVERYTHING ABOUT THIS #something about me is that I love LOVE tension #and this had it described and written so well that I almost wanted to stop reading after the part they met for the last time before finals #the author Sabina is a great writer #atp i’m not here for smut anymore I just want to follow them on their love story🥺🥺

[chocochipsushi]

𝐌𝐲 𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐥 𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐬 𝐦𝐲 𝐇𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐨 𝐊𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐲 𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐫𝐭?

SFW

🌸Word count: 6.4k words

🌸AU: your soulmate wore your Hello Kitty shirt by accident and now he doesn't want to return it

🌸Pairing: Toji x reader, SatoSugu

🌸A/N: I got the idea from this fan art that I saw and I just HAD to write this scenario!!! While writing it I thought it would act so well as an epilogue for the soulmate au!Toji piece so I decided to make it a series-ish.

<< Part 1

“Who’s that?” Toji grumbles into your hair. 

The doorbell rings once more. You nudge his arm that is around you and mumble sleepily, “Toji, you go.”

The doorbell rings again. Groaning, Toji reluctantly gets up, extracting his arms from around you. You hear him pick up a shirt as he leaves the room. 

You’re about to fall back to sleep when you hear a screeching laughter and a bang. You’re jolted awake, so suddenly that you force yourself to get up out of bed. You stumble upon the closest clothing apparel and wear it, letting it engulf you. You leave your room haphazardly, wearing a shirt that is definitely not yours. 

You rub the sleep out of your eyes and notice belatedly that you have guests streaming into your apartment, namely Satoru and Suguru. They’re doubling over in laughter, almost falling to their knees as they take their shoes off. 

You’re listless as you watch them guffawing and crying, wondering what on earth they’re on about, until Toji shuts the door and turns around scratching the back of his head. The tight shirt he is wearing rides up and shows off his abs, catching you off guard. You blink again and scan your eyes slowly over his body, noticing how the sleeves of his top cling to his biceps. Not to forget the stretched out Hello Kitty face on the fabric. 

Once again, it takes you a while to realise that he is wearing your pajama top. It doesn’t help that the two of you had worn a matching set of pink Hello Kitty PJ bottoms you’d bought so Toji literally has on a full complete outfit. 

You clap your hand over your mouth to try to hide your smile. Toji narrows his eyes on you. He stares down at his pecs and starts pulling on the shirt. When he realises what the cause of Satoru’s and Suguru’s laughing fit was, he lets out the loudest, most defeated groan. You giggle behind your palm. 

“I’d thought I was getting bigger,” he grumbles. 

This only throws Satoru and Suguru into another bout of laughter. They’re even rolling on the ground. Toji, surprisingly, doesn't even take the shirt off as he steps over his friends and walks to the kitchen to make some coffee. You can see his midriff from how small the top is. 

Going over to him, you look up at him focusing on making coffee. “Wanna switch, Toji?”

“Hmm?” he hums lazily. 

He places a cup under the drip of the machine and pops the capsule in. Finally, while his coffee is being prepared, he leans his hip against the counter and turns to you. He eyes you up and down, taking in the image of his usually body-hugging t-shirt loose on you, making you look so small and soft and safe. 

He turns the corners of his scarred lips down and shakes his head. “Nah. I like this shirt.”

You give him a look as you try to fight off your laughter. “My Hello Kitty shirt?”

Toji gives you another once over. Messy bed hair, sleepy eyes, pink Hello Kitty pajama pants, and his oversized black t-shirt. “Yep,” he confirms. “You can have my shirt.”

You chuckle and place your hands on his exposed stomach, sliding your palms up his abs slightly as you move slightly closer. You tip your toes and murmur cheekily, “You look so sexy, Toji. You should wear crop tops more often.”

Toji suddenly grabs a fistful of your shirt and pulls you against him, causing you to gasp in shock. Your eyes are wide in surprise as you gape at him. Then you receive a smack to your ass. He leans down so his lips are by your ear and says, “Now you know why I can’t keep my hands off you for more than a minute.” 

You feel your face flushing with embarrassment and you know he can feel the heat radiating off you because he turns and gives you a kiss to your cheek, then your lips. He moans when he gives you a squeeze to your ass, always enjoying the feel of your tender flesh in his hands. As he moves away with his hand still fondling to your bum, his other one picks up his ready cup of coffee. He stares at you over the rim of his cup as he takes a sip. 

“Want me to make you some tea, baby?” he asks gruffly. 

You shake your head shyly. He hums and leans in to leave a chaste, coffee-scented kiss on your forehead before he stops touching you to go over to the kitchen island. He rests his cup and palms on the marble top as he peers over the other side to watch his friends lying on the ground, no longer laughing, now catching their breaths. 

“Coffee?” 

At Toji’s voice, the two men look up at him, only to drop their gazes to his ridiculous shirt, and they are sent into another endless loop of laughing and chortling. 

“Get out,” Toji finally snaps, having had enough of their mockery. 

<< Part 1

-

© chocochipsushi 2024 all works are mine, please do not rewrite/plagiarise

#toji #toji fushiguro #toji x reader #toji x you #toji x oc #gojo #gojo satoru #gojo x reader #gojo x oc #gojo x you #geto #geto suguru #geto x you #geto x oc #geto x reader #jjk #jujutsu kaisen #brainrot #satosugu

[chocochipsushi]

𝐌𝐲 𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐥 𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐞'𝐬 𝐚 𝐬𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐲 𝐠𝐮𝐚𝐫𝐝 𝐝𝐨𝐠

SFW

🌸Word count: 6.4k words

🌸AU: your soulmate is a huge, grumpy fart who shows you and only you affection, and though he hates his best friends, you think you've found soulmates in them too

🌸Pairing: Toji x reader, SatoSugu

Part 2 >>

You always catch guys staring until Toji walks up to you with a hand on the small of your back. Then, the guys start to panic internally, looking away to avoid trouble with such a huge man. But their gazes will always return to watch the both of you. Everyone is always intrigued by your relationship. 

You’re the tiniest little thing next to Toji, just standing nestled at his side, your hand resting on his beefy arm, his rugged body pressed up against yours. You’re not even that small to begin with. But his body is so big, chiseled and intimidating, that you‘re like a doll next to him. He looks so much like a guard dog whenever you’re together, because of how he towers and hovers over you. 

“Can you help me get that, Toji?” 

He looks up to what you’re pointing at and immediately lets go of you to step closer to the shelf. “This one?” 

He easily reaches for the pair of scissors that is barely even touchable for you. He turns his head to see you grinning up at him as you bob your head. Toji grasps the package and brings it down to pass it to you. 

“Gojo needs a new one because he misplaced his,” you explain, taking it from him before wrapping your arm around his. 

“Shitty bar owner,” Toji mutters under his breath. 

You laugh as you go up to the counter to have it paid for. As you pass the scissors to the cashier, you look up at Toji and scold, “He is your best friend, Toji!”

Immediately your boyfriend pulls out his card from his back pocket to pay for the item. The cashier is watching the both of you quietly. Toji shrugs at your reminder. “So? What kind of bar owner can’t even keep a pair of fucking scissors?”

Once the payment goes through, he snatches the new pair of scissors out of the cashier’s hand. The poor boy is so terrified and surprised by Toji’s roughness that he is surprised when you thank him with a sweet smile, and start walking out of the line. The amazed cashier is watching you lead the way, and he cannot help making parallels to you walking your scary guard dog that only listens to you and no one else. 

The power you hold over such a huge and fearsome man could possibly make you easily twice as scary as Toji is. Because even the blind could tell that this crude and stoic man would do anything just to see you happy and safe. There is no other reason for the soft spark that ignites in his eyes every time your name is mentioned. 

“Where’s The Grump?” 

You hop up the bar stool and place the new pair of scissors on the counter. Grinning at Gojo, you answer, “Parking his bike. He’ll come.”

“Oh, damn, thought it was just you.” Gojo blows a raspberry as he snatches up the stationery. “I could really do without his stale attitude today.”

“Or ever,” his partner next to him chimes in. 

Gojo points at Geto with a nod and an eyebrow raise in your direction. “I feel so bad you got him as your soulmate.”

Geto stops mixing whatever drink he is making to give you a look. “How do you even live with such a cranky old fart like that? Seriously.”

You laugh. “He's not that bad.” When you see the both of them giving you the same exact look, you laugh even harder. “Really! He’s actually very nice.”

“Yeah, maybe to pretty girls,” Gojo scoffs. 

Geto makes a face and disagrees with his partner, “Actually… no. Have you seen the way he looks at girls that try to hit on him?”

Gojo thinks about it for a moment before he nods. “You got a point.” He looks at you. “So it’s just you that he's nice to. How does it feel to be God’s favourite?” 

You giggle. “Toji is not a god!”

Gojo stares at you for a moment, then turns to his soulmate. He wonders, “Oh, is he nice to her because she’s an airhead?”

“Hey!” You stand on the leg rest on your stool to reach over and snatch the new pair of scissors off his hand. You frown at him. “That’s mean! I’m not dumb!”

Geto leaves from behind the bar counter with the freshly made order and before he makes his way to the customer’s table, he pats your head and bumps your cheek with the back of his fingers. “Yes, you are, but in a cute way.”

“Yes, so cute,” Gojo coos, reaching over to ruffle your hair. “Can I have my scissors back, my pretty baby?”

“I’m not a baby,” you huff, though you thrust the stationery in his direction anyway. 

He grins as he takes it from you, using the back of the scissors to tap the top of your head lightly before he retracts his hand. You’re huffing and complaining about the two bar owners bullying you while Satoru simply laughs endearingly at your grumbles. You are still frowning at him when you suddenly hear a commotion behind you, so you turn around, only to see your boyfriend standing next to Geto with their broad backs to you, looking at a spot in the corner, perplexed and frustrated. 

As if sensing your gaze, your soulmate turns around and spots you at the bar counter. Even from afar, you can see the way his eyes light up. He holds his arm out in your direction and makes a come-hither motion. So you jump off the stool and walk over to the two men. Suguru has now turned to watch you make your way over. 

“Geto slapped me on the back with the stupid tray and my keys flew in there. Pick it up for me, will you, baby?”

You immediately nod your head. Suguru and Toji are too broad and muscular to fit into a small space like this, and it is always your job whether at home or at the bar to squeeze into nooks and crannies to retrieve a lost item, just like how it is Toji’s responsibility to reach for anything that is out of your reach (which is usually things in the overhead cupboard). You’d once been so afraid of his size but now you’re comforted by it, and your dynamic that used to be a mystery and a worry to you now works so well that either of you wouldn’t know what to do without the other. 

Without another word, you get down on your knees and hands. You hear some rustling behind you and when you check, you see Geto pulling the apron from around his waist and Toji doffing his black leather jacket, the both of them holding their respective materials to conceal your behind since you are in a skirt. You look away and return to crawling closer to the tight space. You go lower and stretch your hand out into the darkness, at the same time sliding almost half your body into the cranny.  

You reach around for the bunch of keys and easily find it. You fish it out and sit on your heels, grinning up at Toji as you hold his keys out to him. He is only looking at you as he takes them from your hand, his free hand already reaching down to yank you up. Once you’re standing in front of him, Toji reaches behind you to pull down on your skirt and brush it down. 

“Thanks, sweetheart,” he murmurs before bending to brush the dirt off your knees, the side of his neck bared and close to your face. 

“Okay, move outta the way, I have more customers coming in,” Geto grumbles, staring up the stairs where some people are walking down to the underground bar. 

You grab Toji’s arm and pull him to the bar counter where you had been sitting. He helps you up on the stool and goes around the counter where Gojo is making some cocktails, to wet a piece of tissue. He returns and stands in front of you, wiping your hands and knees with the wet tissue. 

“Thank you, Toji,” you mumble, watching him take care of you. 

He simply shakes his head. He goes behind the bar counter again to bin the tissue and wash his hands. At that time, a couple of guys come over to stand next to you at the bar counter. Gojo has gone to the kitchen, so Toji decides to help out for a bit. He dries his hand and stands before them, placing his hands on the counter, his broad shoulders looking more intimidating than ever. 

“Yes?” he gruffs out. 

“Two whiskey sours,” one of the men orders. He turns to you and gives you a flirty smile. He orders again, “And a mojito for this beautiful lady, please.”

You are surprised. You take a quick glance at Toji, only to be even more surprised that he is already making the order. He is always so protective over you and hates when guys so much as turn their heads in your direction. 

Quickly, you turn back to the guys and decline the drink, “Oh, no, thank you but that’s okay!”

“No, please. A pretty girl like you shouldn’t be sitting here alone with no man and no drink,” the other one of them chuckles. 

You look at Toji again, and though he is concentrating on mixing the drinks, you can clearly see the tick in his jaw. You swallow and shake your head. Smiling politely at the two men, you say, “Oh, no, I came with my boyfriend.”

“Well, he's gone, isn’t he? We can still be friends.”

Just then, Geto returns to man the counter and you see him glancing between you and the two men, then you hear him asking Toji to stop what he's doing. But Toji is quiet and somber as he simply shakes his head. Suguru looks at you and quirks an eyebrow, looking quite perplexed. He knows just how protective Toji can get when it comes to you. This reaction of his is totally new. 

“So what's your name?” the guys prod. 

You give an awkward chuckle. “I have a boyfriend,” you reiterate, hoping they get the hint. 

“We’ll leave when he gets here.”

“Yeah, and you can tell him that you got yourself the drink.”

You’re simply staring at the two men, speechless at how disrespectful and pushy they are, when two glasses are slammed on the counter in front of them. They jump a little and turn back to the bartender in annoyance, only to drop the arrogance when they see that it is Toji. 

“Two whiskey sours,” he grunts. He then gently places a cocktail, that is definitely not mojito, in front of you. 

“Hey, we asked for a mojito for her.”

Toji looks them dead in the eyes and spits out, “I know my girl more than you do, and she doesn’t drink mojitos. That’s $50 for the three drinks, card or cash?”

The two men’s eyes widen into the sizes of saucer plates. Their eyes flicker between Toji and you, and when Toji quirks his eyebrows at them, they pull out their card in a nanosecond and scurry off the moment the drinks are paid for. 

When they’re gone, Geto turns to Toji with his hip leaning against the counter and his arms crossed over his chest. He looks amused. “Wow. Toji Fushiguro is a changed man. No more punching men in the face whenever they speak to your little girlfriend?”

Toji washes his hands and dries them as he mutters, “I would have. Just figured since they wanted to pay for her drink, I’d just hold back.”

You giggle while Geto makes a face jokingly. “Stingy ass.”

Toji comes round to the front again where he sits next to you, bringing his chair close to you. He spreads his legs so that you’re between them, and rests his foot on the footrest of your stool, almost like he is protecting you. 

“Whiskey on the rocks,” he tells Geto, who is already pulling out the bottle of his favourite whiskey. Toji always gets the same thing. 

You take a sip of the cocktail in front of you and turn to your soulmate, who is already watching you. “Mm. Apple pie!” He nods his head, quiet with his eyes still on you. You beam at him. “Yummy!”

He still doesn’t say anything. He simply watches you for a few seconds before reaching a beefy hand out to cup your face. Before he even gets to stroke his thumb on your cheek, Geto slaps a coaster down on the counter in front of his best friend and places a full cup of whiskey on it. 

“Stop being gross,” is all he says. 

Gojo pushes through the door of the kitchen with two plates balanced on his palms. “Suguru, table 17 and 4, please.”

Geto is already taking the plates off him as he mumbles, “Got it.”

He goes off to bring the food to the tables so that it is just Gojo in front of you and Toji. He grins at you. “Wanna go to a party when we close tonight?”

You glance at Toji, who has dropped his hand from your face to pick up his drink. You turn back to his friend. “Sure. Whose place?”

“Shoko’s.”

Toji is out of his element. He hates socialising, especially at a party. People just drain his energy, even Satoru and Suguru are no exception. The only person he doesn't mind— or rather, wants to be together with all the time is you. But you are the opposite of him. Everything about the both of you are opposites. 

You enjoy being with people. You’re loud all the time, and you attract people like moths to a flame. You could be standing there minding your own business and yet still have someone approaching you. You’re just a people person and Toji is not. Which is why, Toji grabs onto your wrist when you start to drift a little too far from him. 

“Where are you going?” he questions quietly. Only you can sense the mild panic in his voice. 

You smile. “I was gonna go get us a drink.” You pat his hand that is still holding onto you. “Wait here, okay?”

His eyes dart around the place and as if a saviour has appeared, he quickly lets go of you and stands up to grab a hold of Gojo who had been walking away. Satoru stumbles back, surprised and confused. 

“Get us a drink on your way back, will ya,” Toji mutters. 

Satoru frowns at him. “I’m going to the bathroom, dickhead.”

“Stop by the drinks station on your way back and get us something, then.” 

“Why can’t you do it yourself?”

Deciding to end this bickering, you place a hand on each of their chest. The two men huff at each other before turning to you. You tell Toji first, “Let’s go get the drinks together, okay?” Then you turn to Gojo. “And you can come find us when you’re done.”

“What for—”

“She said come find us when you’re done,” Toji repeats in a grunt. 

Gojo turns to you wide-eyed like he is saying, “Did you see what he just did to me?” But you simply grin up at him and pat his chest before turning around and flouncing off in the direction of the drinks station. Toji follows behind you, but not without a flick to his ear by Gojo. 

“What do you want to drink?” you question when you’re standing in front of a whole bunch of different alcohol types. 

You’re reaching out for a cup when Toji interjects and pushes you away gently as he takes over your spot. You look up at him and he says, “I’ll mix you something. Just go to the fridge and get me a beer, will you, sweetheart?”

You do as he asked you to and when you’re back, he is pouring cranberry juice into your cup. You exchange your drinks once he is done with the concoction and you mix the liquid in your cup with your finger. You’re about to put it in your mouth to lick your finger clean, but your wrist is caught in Toji’s grasp. You look up at him, surprised and confused. But he simply brings your finger up to his mouth, where he sucks on your soaked digit. 

“Yep, you’re gonna like that,” he compliments his own drink mixing skill with a cocky eyebrow raise and a smirk. 

You immediately erupt in flames but you take a sip of your drink quietly. He is right, of course. Toji knows just how you like your drinks. He knows you too well. 

Toji takes a sip of his beer as he leans against the kitchen counter. Just then, Gojo and a bunch of his noisy friends come streaming through the kitchen door and head over to your group. The two bar owners have really good alcohol tolerance but you know that they’ve definitely drank a bit too much by how loud they’re being. You move closer to your boyfriend, somehow managing to stand between his legs and be engulfed in his body. 

“We’re going to the club. Wanna join?” 

You frown at Gojo as Toji takes a swig of his beer. “Now? We just got our drink,” you whine. 

“Chug it, then.” Suguru raises his brows at the man behind you. “You have a bodyguard to take care of you.”

You turn and look up at Toji, who simply stares back at you. He is not the most sociable person but if you wanted to socialise, he’d step out of his comfort zone for you. 

“I don’t know…” you mumble, turning back to your friends. “I’m not feeling it—”

“Oh, you’re a lightweight!” Satoru snarks. “Down that cup and you’ll be feeling it in a minute!”

“Drink, drink, drink!” 

Your friends start chanting and suddenly you’re pressured by a group of four to skull an entire cup of alcohol. You feel Toji standing straighter behind you, probably ready to snap at them for being a bad influence. Quickly, you instinctively down the drink and all your friends start cheering you on. 

“Baby!” Toji hisses. He snatches the cup out of your hand but you’ve already finished three-quarters of it. “We could have just gone home,” he groans. You simply stare up at him as you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. “You’re so stupid.” Your lips fall into a pout and he immediately softens the frown on his face. “Baby,” he sighs, this time concerned. 

A hand lands on your shoulder and you’re suddenly pulled away from Toji. “Oh, stop worrying, lover boy,” comes Satoru’s taunt. “We always take good care of our little baby, don’t we?” he coos as he leans down to press his cheek to yours, grinning annoyingly at your soulmate. 

You are having so much fun and you’re so glad you came. The club is packed, the music is good, and the energy is electric. You’re dancing and singing along to all your favourite songs with all your friends, the whole bunch of you loud and having the best times of your lives. 

Except for Toji. 

He is standing by the bar, keeping his eagle eyes on you so he doesn't lose sight of you, as he sips on his fourth glass of whisky. If you’re a lightweight, you’d best bet that your soulmate is the opposite. Someone has to be sober enough to take care of you. 

It isn’t about his sobriety either, actually. Being the soulmate to a young girl who is over 10 years younger than he is, Toji just finds it refreshing to see how much energy you have in your little body. He is way past the age to be drinking just to party but he doesn’t want to rob his soulmate of this time in your life where you can party all night long and still not suffer any consequences the next day. 

It is your third time being approached by a boy, trying to dance with you. But like what you’ve done with the previous two, you point to Toji, who tips his glass in your direction with a quirk of his eyebrow. And just like the previous two times, this boy is frightened by how intimidating your boyfriend is and immediately takes his leave. 

It’s been an hour and a half in the club, and you’re starting to feel partied out. Leaving your friend group, you squeeze your way out to find Toji, who meets you halfway, not wanting to have you alone in the club even for just a few seconds. You immediately hug his arm and lean against his warm body. 

“Ready to go home?” Toji shouts. 

You nod your head. So he downs his drink and leaves it at the bar counter before finding his way out of the club with you latched on him. When you’re out, Toji takes his arm away from you to doff his leather jacket and hold it open for you. You wear it and you’re suddenly drowning in the jacket. You go back to hugging Toji’s arm. He has just fished his phone out to book a ride home when someone ruffles your hair. 

Toji’s body stiffens and he looks up to glare at his possible victim when he notices Satoru grinning at the both of you. You rest your temple against Toji’s bicep as you look up at Gojo. 

“Where is Sugu?” you mumble. 

He throws his thumb over his shoulder. “Drunk.”

You rest your hand on Toji’s chest so you can tiptoe and take a look behind Gojo. While you’re watching Geto sitting on the pavement curb, head hung and propped up on his hands, Toji slips his arm out between the both of you to wrap around your body, pressing you to him. You circle an arm around his waist and rest your head on his chest. 

“Are you guys going home now?” 

You bob your head. “Tired,” you murmur.

Gojo groans as he glares at Toji like your boyfriend has offended him. He complains, “You’re so lucky your soulmate is half your size and easy to carry.”

Being the people pleaser that you are, you look up at Toji. “Oh, Toji! Why don’t you help—”

“No.”

You frown at him. “But why? You’re so strong.”

“Yeah, Toji. You’re so strong,” Satoru joins in, grinning. 

“Shut the fuck up,” your boyfriend grinds out as he sets a deadly glare on his good friend. “Stop acting like you’re so weak.”

Gojo, now dropping his mockery tone, runs a hand through his hair in frustration. “You know Suguru is heavier than he looks. He's going to be hard to move around.”

“Baby,” you try again. You’re always so nice to your friends. “Help Toru get Suguru home. Or they could come over—”

“No,” Toji snaps. 

You shut up, surprised at his tone. Hurt, you drop your hands away from Toji and take a step back, crossing your arms. But you know that you probably don't look intimidating at all, especially in your boyfriend’s huge jacket. 

“Princess, you’re drunk and I’m tired—” he tries to say as he reaches out for you. 

But you dodge his hand. “You’re so mean to your friends, Toji. I don't like it when you’re mean to them. And then you get mad at me.”

Toji’s gaze softens. “I’m not mad at you, sweetheart. You’re my priority. I want to take care of you.”

“But I’m fine!”

“You’re drunk, sweetheart.”

“I’m fine!” You stomp your foot. 

Toji rubs his face tiredly. He locks his phone and shoves it back into his pocket in defeat. He stares at you. “Okay. What do you want me to do?”

“I want you to help Satoru!” you huff. 

Gojo, while you were squabbling before him, is just staring at you in admiration and awe. He has never seen Toji so docile and tame, and nice before. You have a chokehold on him and it is so apparent who holds the upper hand in the relationship. 

But Satoru suddenly feels cold and he just knows that Toji is glaring at him even before he turns to look at his best friend. Gojo smiles nervously. “Yes, Fushiguro?”

“You’re paying for the ride back home.”

You hold the door open for Toji and Satoru to lug in an unconscious Suguru, where they dump him on your couch. Satoru groans and Toji immediately leaves to go into your shared bedroom. You take off Toji’s jacket and hang it up, just in time for Toji to come back out to hand Gojo some extra blankets you don't use. Finally, the two men turn to you. 

“Are we good now?” Toji mutters. 

You bob your head meekly and he immediately goes into the bedroom. You look at Satoru, who gives you an encouraging look. 

“Thanks, doll. Think you should call it a night.”

You nod your head and rush into the room where you hear the water already running in the bathroom. You quickly undress and join Toji in the shower. You watch him clean himself up silently, entirely ignoring you when he would normally be all over you. 

“Toji?” you call weakly. He doesn’t answer you. You move forward to touch his torso as he rinses his hair. “Toji, can you wash my hair for me too?” you try. 

He opens his eyes and lands his steely gaze on you. The moment he sees the kicked puppy look on your face, he feels his heart softening. “C’mere,” he mutters. 

You’re excited at his invite, and you move to stand in front of him and turn your back to him. He takes the shower head and you tilt your head back so he can rinse your hair. Turning the water off, he starts lathering your hair with shampoo. In the silence, you feel even more nervous with this Toji. So you speak up. 

“Are you mad at me, Toji?” 

The question hangs in the air for a long while. Unable to take his silence anymore, you turn around so that you are facing him and his arms are stretched out to massage shampoo into your hair. Toji sees the small pout on your lips. He sighs. 

“I just don’t understand why you have to be so nice. You were drunk and tired, too. It just pisses me off that you don’t ever think for yourself first.”

“But Satoru needed help…”

“What do you think he did before he even knew you? He’s just fucking with us.”

“What do you mean?” You frown at him. He's just so mean sometimes. 

Toji stops massaging your scalp now and uses the remaining shampoo on his hands to wash his own hair. “I mean, he carried his fucking boyfriend home drunk plenty of times before. Might have taken him a while but he did it fine. He just makes use of you to get me to help him because he knows I would do anything you asked me to.”

You hear nothing but the last bit. You completely forget that you had thought he was mean. “Would you actually do anything I ask you to?” you murmur. 

Toji narrows suspicious eyes on you. “Within means.”

You throw your arms around him at once, smushing your cheek to his firm chest. He grunts in surprise, quickly resting his hand on your shoulder blade. “I’m sorry I got mad at you for being mean to Toru,” you mumble. 

Toji takes in a deep breath. “Yes, you should be.” You gasp and tilt your head up to pout at him. He has a cheeky glint in his eyes when he says, “You were going to get lucky in the morning but now you have two dumbasses in the living room.”

“What do you—” The innuendo behind his words finally hits you and your face glows red. “Princess fucked up?” you try to give him a cute pout. 

Toji only laughs, his scarred lips stretching wide. He cups your chin and leans in to peck you on your lips. “Princess fucked up,” he agrees. 

Despite Toji’s declaration last night, you still woke up lucky this morning. Not only because of Toji’s “Princess Treatment”, but also because Suguru and Satoru wanted to thank the both of you for letting them crash your place by cooking breakfast. Using the ingredients in your kitchen. 

“Steak? For breakfast?!” Toji shouts. 

Your soulmate buys at least 5kg worth of beef every week for his protein intake. It is expensive and he definitely would not be eating it as hangover food. 

You giggle as you go over to Suguru’s side, hugging him as he cooks up a ton of sunny side up eggs. Satoru and Toji are bickering in the background. Suguru places a hand on the top of your head and leans down to kiss your hair. 

“Thanks for getting Toji to help Satoru last night,” he murmurs. 

You look up at him with a beaming smile. “Thank you for staying friends with Toji.” 

He laughs and pats your head. “We stay only ‘cause of you, sweetheart. Now go prep the table. Breakfast’s almost ready.”

You do as he says, bringing out plates and cutlery for everyone. Before you even struggle with the weight of the ceramics, your boyfriend floats past you and picks them up instead. You follow after him like a duckling, standing there uselessly while he goes around the table to set up. When he’s done, Toji stands next to you as the both of you watch Gojo set glasses of water at the table. You stare up at Toji, who immediately looks down at you. 

“I’ve never had steak for breakfast before,” you admit innocently. 

Toji lets out a strangled groan and slumps over your body as he wraps his arms around you like you are his pillar of strength. “I fucking hate them, baby,” he confesses in a fake cry. 

It makes you laugh because if anyone could ever get Toji to be so dramatic, it would definitely be his best friends. It is a side of his you never get to see when it is just the two of you. 

You reach behind him and pat his back. “There, there, baby. We’ll buy more today.”

“No,” he says seriously now as he stands upright. You look up at him in surprise. “Satoru and Suguru are buying more today.”

Just then, the man with long, black hair walks towards the dining table with a plate piled with all the eggs you had in your fridge, all cooked perfectly. “We need to get groceries for our place anyway,” Suguru says. “We’ll buy yours too.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Satoru sings as he skips over and drags his chair out to plop down on it. “Double date!”

You move to sit next to him as you laugh, amused. “At the supermarket?” 

“Double date at the supermarket!” Satoru announces as he throws his arm around you the moment you get to the doors of the huge establishment. 

Toji rolls his eyes next to you. Suguru comes over now and holds a basket out to your boyfriend. But he rejects it and insists, “I’m going to need a cart.”

So you’re walking down the condiments aisle next to Toji while Suguru and Satoru are discussing about sauces they need for a recipe they are planning to try out for the bar. You slip your arms around one of Toji’s and walk close to him. He moves to rest his elbows on the cart handle so that he is almost at your same height even though he has to basically walk with a hunched back. 

As the both of you watch the two males in front of you squabbling about the qualities of brands, you briefly wonder, “Do you think we have soulmates for friends too?” 

Toji hums and shrugs a shoulder. “Why’d you ask that?”

You guys halt when Gojo and Geto stop for a condiment. You let go of Toji and turn to him. Returning to his full height, he gazes down at you. “If we do, I really hope Satoru and Suguru are our soulmates,” you sincerely say. 

Toji makes a face. “Those clowns?” You bob your head innocently. He turns to watch his two best friends throwing a sauce bottle back and forth as if it is a dynamite that might go off in the next minute. Toji finally turns back to you with an incredulously confused look. “Seriously? Those clowns?”

You reach out to thump his chest as you laugh. “I know you love them, Toji. You know, if we ever have kids, I want Toru and Suguru to be their godfathers.”

“Hell no, I’m not letting those idiots near my babies,” your soulmate immediately declares, shutting down all possible arguments as he turns to push the cart again. 

You follow after him and grab hold of his shirt. “You’re so mean to our childrens’ godfathers, Toji.”

He glares at you, which only makes you giggle. He pushes your hand away from clutching onto his shirt and you are offended for a second before he slips his palm against yours, his fingers sliding between yours. He pulls you closer until you are bumping against him. You stare up at him, wondering why he did that. 

“Should we ditch them?” he whispers as he eyes the two grumbling men. 

You giggle. “Who’s gonna pay for our groceries then?”

He groans and sets his eyes on you. “Ugh. You’re right. They’re—”

“Hey! Who wants some cake and ice cream?” Satoru shouts in your direction. Immediately, you grin and raise your hand eagerly. He smiles back happily. “Let’s buy ingredients and make a strawberry shortcake at the bar!”

“We’re making them?” you groan at the same time Toji almost yells, “We’re spending more time together?!”

You’re watching the three men across the kitchen island. You’re given the easiest job, which is to cut up the strawberries, so you have plenty of time to watch Toji whip a bowl of cream while Suguru helps to pour in sugar at intervals, as Satoru mixes the cake mixture. You think it’s so cute how they’re gossiping about a mutual friend one moment and then bickering the next because flour has flown everywhere. 

“Gojo!” Toji snaps as he stops mixing and looks down at his black shirt now dusted with flour. 

Satoru goes over to him and fakes gasp, “Oh my God, I’m sorry!” He then dips his finger into Toji’s bowl and scoops up a dollop of whipping cream. He puts it into his mouth and moans. “Mmm. Yummy!”

“Satoru!” Geto scolds with a disapproving look on his face. 

The white-haired man is making eye contact with an annoyed Toji who is glaring at him. He grins obnoxiously and lets his finger go for another dip. He then holds his finger out to his boyfriend. “It really is yummy.”

Despite the side glare that Suguru gives him, he still takes Satoru’s finger into his mouth and sucks on it. He flickers his eyes over to Toji, looking just a bit surprised. “Oh, it’s actually good.”

Your soulmate is just glaring at them and you just know that he is so close to blowing up. So you go over with a strawberry and dip it into the cream. You look up at Toji, who is squinting at you. You take a small bite from the side of the strawberry and let out a happy squeal. 

“Mm!” You hold out the rest of the strawberry to your boyfriend. “Try it, Toji.” 

He keeps glaring at you. So you bring the strawberry closer and bump his lip with the cream. He finally parts his lips and allows you to feed him.

You, Gojo, and Geto are standing there, staring up at the green-eyed man expectantly as he chews slowly, savouring the flavour. There is not a single hint from Toji if he enjoyed the whipped cream as much as we do. That is until he swallows and Satoru breaks the silence with a whisper, as if afraid to enrage a beast. 

“So…? How is it?”

Toji is silent for a moment. Then he mutters, “It’s not bad.”

Satoru and Suguru let out relieved breaths. Gojo rounds the island to bring over the remaining uncut strawberries. He dips a strawberry into the cream as he says, “I dunno why you’re always so grumpy. Fushiguro.”

Suguru follows suit in eating strawberries covered in whipped cream. He adds, “Yeah. Can’t you just let loose a little?”

Satoru is now eating his third strawberry. His mouth is still full when he mumbles, “You’re like an old man in a young man’s body.”

Suguru is on his second strawberry now, making sure the berry is completely covered in cream as he comments, “Though he’s not that young.”

You watch Toji’s face turning darker by the second. Especially when Satoru agrees, “True. The only thing young about him is his cute little girlfriend.” You blush when he winks at you. 

Toji decides that this is his final straw as he slams the mixing bowl down on the island and snaps, “I’m only four years older than the two of you, fuckwits!” As his two best friends gape at him in surprise at his outburst, he snatches Satoru’s fourth strawberry out of his hand and grunts, “And stop eating all the fucking cream if you’re gonna make a fucking cake. Dumbass.” 

Then, he holds the berry out to you. Shyly, you take it and thank him. He steps out from between Geto and Gojo to go over to stand by your side, brushing your hair back so it doesn't get in the way as you munch on the strawberry. Satoru and Suguru are observing the both of you, and you can see Satoru glaring at you. 

“You’re a bitch for stealing my best friend and pitting him against me,” he spits. But he is only eyeing at the strawberry in your hand. 

You laugh. “Toru, just give up on the cake and eat the strawberries with the cream. We can make the cake another time.”

The suggestion sparks a glint of hope in his bright blue eyes and he immediately grins at you. “You’re the smartest bimbo ever. I love you as much as Toji loves you.”

Toji blows a raspberry and rolls his eyes. But you smile back at him. “I love you as much as Toji loves you too, Toru!”

Your soulmate immediately mumbles, almost concerned because he knows how much you love his best friends, "That's not a lot, babe."

At the same, Suguru also dramatically laments, “Oh, if only hate was love and bimbos were smart.”

Part 2 >>

-

© chocochipsushi 2024 all works are mine, please do not rewrite/plagiarise

#toji #toji fushiguro #toji x reader #toji x you #toji x oc #gojo #gojo satoru #gojo x reader #gojo x oc #gojo x you #geto #geto suguru #geto x you #geto x oc #geto x reader #jjk #jujutsu kaisen #brainrot #idk i've always loved soulmate aus #and something about toji gojo n geto being together is just so cute

[chocochipsushi]

thinking about arguing with husband!gojo. it’s funny because he’s the strongest sorcerer alive with several other, more wicked enemies harboring one sided hate for him, yet he’s anxiously glancing at you every now and then as you hiss at him. you’re the only one who can make him doubt his strength.

he usually finds you cute when you’re mad, but right now he doesn’t really appreciate the way your face is scrunched up and how you’re yelling at him.

it’s not his fault. he thinks you’re being so dramatic.

“you’re laughing at me,” you deadpan. “why do you never take things i say seriously?”

“because i honestly don’t think it’s that serious,” he fires back, and your eyes narrow. oh, fuck.

arguing with your husband is never fun. it’s probably because the both of you are stubborn; you’re stubborn because you’re simply right all the time, and satoru’s stubborn because if you’re not right, then he is.

you pause for just a second, but it’s enough to sprout a moment of extreme tension between you and your husband.

“right,” you scoff after you inhale sharply. “you just don’t care, do you?”

“don’t fucking say that,” satoru snaps. “i do care. that’s why i’m here.”

it takes everything in you to not shoot him another death glare. “so i should be thankful for the bare minimum?”

satoru blinks. he would’ve flinched, but he refuses to let you have that sort of power over him. “i’m not giving the bare minimum.”

“yes you are,” you argue back, voice straining as you swallow a lump of anger down the back of your throat.

the both of you are still. it feels like an eternity passes before the anger in you wanes. you’re exhausted and this fight with satoru is surely going to make the both of you upset enough to not talk for the rest of the night.

“i’m sorry that i’m not good enough,” satoru says, breaking the silence. you’ve never heard his voice so small, so pathetic—he’s never, ever shown you this side of him, and you’re starting to feel that dreading pit of guilt tug at your gut.

“that’s not what i meant,” you force yourself to say, sighing.

“but that’s what you’re thinking,” satoru mumbles. he avoids looking at your face.

“no it’s not,” you deny. “it’s never been about that.”

satoru gives you a wary look. “then what is it about? because i’ve done everything i can.”

“everything? really?” you sneer. “do you even love me anymore?”

silence. satoru swears he can hear your heart break.

“baby, don’t say that,” he groans, “c’mon, we were ten points away from three stars. that’s a single plate—one you didn’t turn in because you somehow forgot how to dash!”

you whip around to glower at satoru, your face twisting into an offended expression. “you set the kitchen on fire! how could i do something like serving a dish if the kitchen is on fire?!”

“baby, it’s the same button that it always has been this entire game!” he whines. “and you set the kitchen on fire! you keep forgetting to take the rice off the stove!”

you sigh exasperatedly, crossing your arms to act like some sort of shield between you and satoru’s (truthful) words.

“but you don’t chop up your stupid fish!” you protest. “so i end up doing five things at once!”

satoru opens his mouth to speak, but he knows you’re in the right. he opts to click his tongue instead.

“and every time i asked for help,” you add, frowning, “you just kept bringing out more of the dumbass cucumbers! we don’t have counter space for that!!!”

“that’s for prep to maximize our sushi making! throw it on the floor!”

“are you kidding me? that’s so unsanitary!”

“it’s a game!”

you’re both panting by the end of the fight. you’re biting down on your inner cheek and satoru is scratching the nape of his neck awkwardly.

“… sorry,” he mumbles. “i won’t bring out cucumbers anymore. and i’m also sorry for being mean about you not knowing how to dash.”

“good,” you huff. “‘cause i was seriously not gonna play anymore.”

“and…?” he prods, nudging you in your ribs. you can tell what he wants just by the sound of his voice.

“and i’m sorry for getting mad at you even though you’re doing you’re best at carrying me in this game…” you murmur, rolling your eyes.

satoru’s face brightens and he places a wet kiss on your cheek. “you’re forgiven.”

“love you, dummy.”

“love you too, baby.”

“no more cucumbers unless the ticket calls for them,” you remind him pointedly.

“yes, chef!”

#was NOT expecting the fight to be about a game😂😂😂 #too cute #i love plot twists like that #and also relationships like these #what a dream #satoru gojo #gojo satoru x reader #gojou satoru x reader #gojou satoru x you #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen #jjk x you #jujutsu kaisen x reader #gojo x reader

[chocochipsushi]

Happy new year! + updates

I'm so sorry i've been so quiet for so long. I was still writing (and still am), just that I've been procrastinating to get online to publish them lmao

I've just posted a bunch of work that have been finished and were sitting in my drafts for the longest time. Hope you guys enjoyed it bc honestly idk when i'd get to post my other works - i have SOOO many ideas but not enough time n hands/fingers lol So i hope they will satisfy ur craving for Toji for a bit

I'm currently writing for Uncle Toji's Epilogue (I keep changing my storyline so it keeps dragging lol) and a few other smut pieces for Gojo and Geto. I hope they will see the light of day soon lmao

Keep sending me requests or what you like to read/see from me bc even if i don't respond, or i don't post anything, it doesn't mean i have stopped writing.

[chocochipsushi]

𝐎𝐡, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐧𝐬!

SFW

🌸Word count: 713 words

🌸AU: Toji x clumsy bimbo reader (part 2)

🌸A/N: I got inspiration for this scenario from tiktok (again lol) and thought it was so cute I needed to write it out.

<< Part 1

You are walking towards the workshop where you see Toji towering over a timid-looking man staring up at him. Your lips stretch into a wide grin as your hold on the strings of some helium balloons tighten in excitement. 

It is Toji’s birthday and you bought a present and a bunch of balloons to surprise him with. You wonder if he will like them. He decorated your room filled with pink and red balloons on your birthday this year so you wanted to do the same for him, but with black and white balloons since those are pretty much the only colours he wears. 

You see the man he is talking to flinch and cower when Toji reaches out to tap his cheek scarily, almost condescendingly. Deciding that this would be the best time to announce your presence, you prepare yourself as you adjust the black box under your arm and the balloons in your hand. 

Except, when you were rearranging the balloons in your hand, the gift box slips so you try to clamp your arm down on it. In the midst of doing so, your fingers loosen around the strings and the helium balloons are carried away by the wind. 

You stand there in shock for a second, just staring at the floating balloons before trying to jump and catch them fruitlessly. Your heart starts pounding with anxiety. 

“Toji!!!” you call out instinctively. Your boyfriend can solve everything. You glance at Toji, who has his hand stationary in the hair of his mechanic, his head turned to you. “Toji!” you cry out again, feeling increasingly more helpless and useless now. 

Immediately, he pushes the man’s head away roughly and strides over to you. He glances up in the sky when he sees you staring upwards. 

“I got you balloons because it was your birthday and they flew away!” you whine, feeling tears spring to your eyes just as you voice out what had happened. 

“Aw, baby, thank you,” Toji coos, quickly placing a hand on the back of your head to hug you to his chest even though your head is still turned to look at the escaping balloons. 

“Toji…” you sob as you watch your gift float away. 

He turns your chin gently so you are facing him, and he notices your tear stained cheeks. “Princess. Why are you crying?”

“Because! The balloons flew away!”

He looks up again to follow your finger pointing at the helium balloons. It is a good thing that it is not even evening yet so the black and white dots are still visible in the sky. 

“It’s okay. I can see them.” You only cry more at his pacifying tone. He cups your face in his huge, rough hands. “Oh, baby. I can see the balloons! Thank you.” Toji leans down to kiss you on your warm lips but it only makes you sob harder. Your boyfriend pulls you into him and engulfs in a tight hug. “Oh, Princess…” he coos into your hair. “We can buy more balloons.”

You wrap your arms weakly around his sturdy frame and cry into his chest. “I’m so stupid, Toji…” 

He kisses your crown and pulls back slightly. “You’re a sweet little thing, that’s what you are.” He wipes your cheeks with the back of his hands. He glances down at the bulky thing in your arm. “You got me another present?”

“Yeah…” You sniffle and hold it out to him. 

Toji takes it as he undoes the neatly tied ribbon and opens up the box. He sees a pair of black leather gloves. He takes them out and looks at you inquisitively. 

“The weather’s cold now so you need something to warm your hands while you’re riding,” you murmur thickly with a pout, still upset. 

His scarred lips tip into a smile. Putting the gloves back into the box, he holds your face again with his warm palms and leans down to drop a gentle kiss on your nose, then your lips. 

“You’re the sweetest. Thank you, Princess. For the gloves and the balloons.”

“Oh, the balloons!” you start crying, now reminded of it again. 

Toji lets out a defeated chuckle. To him, you’re a cute little mess he never wants to stop cleaning up after.

-

© chocochipsushi 2024 all works are mine, please do not rewrite/plagiarise

#toji #toji headcanon #toji x reader #toji x you #toji x oc #toji fushiguro #toji jjk #jjk #jjk headcanon #jujutsu kaisen #jjk x oc #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen fic #toji fic #toji fushiguro fic #toji fluff

[chocochipsushi]

Hi, can I request an Toji Fushiguro x female reader where reader is all innocent and sweet and reader has always been Megumi's best friend so Toji falls in love with her and is always spoiling her and trying to win her over and one day reader asks Toji to come with her to the Mall since she has to do some errands and then they both go at an clothes store where Toji approaches of reader innocence and makes her try and wear mini skirts and lingerie, ect and then Toji gets horny and just fingers her or play with her a little to stimulate her on the dresser's I'll leave the end up to you.

Hi! Sorry I took so long getting to your request. But here it is!

NSFW! minors do not interact! 18+ only!

🌸Word count: 1.8K

🌸AU: Toji as your best friend's father who makes you feel pretty

🌸CW: foreplay in public, some level of corruption on Toji's end, sweet pet names

“Eh, what do you mean you can’t come? You said you would come with me yesterday.”

Megumi groans through the line. “Yeah, I know. Sorry. I’ll go with you anoth—”

“I’ll pick you up in 20, Princess. Get ready for me.”

You blink rapidly at your wall and stutter, “U-Uncle Toji?”

You hear rustling and a bit of huffing and whining on Mehumi’s part before he speaks into the phone again. “Ugh. My dad. He said he needs to go to the mall too. He says he’ll bring you.”

“What— No— Megumi!”

“Chill, stupid head,” your best friend laughs. He knows how flustered you get every time you see his father around. “You finally get to spend time with him alone and I know you have a fatass crush— Ow! Dad!” 

Your whole body is burning with embarrassment but before you hang up, you manage to grumble, “Hope he smacked your head real hard, toilet head.” 

Quickly packing up your bag and making sure you look nice in the mirror, you wait nervously for Megumi’s dad to pick you up. 

Megumi is right. You do have a crush on his dad. A huge one at that, too. You’re sure even he knows about it. You’re not exactly inconspicuous with the way you ogle at his body in those tight back t-shirts he never seems to run out of, or the way you turn red and timid every time he comes close, not to mention when he brushes past you. Your body would go into shock and you’d completely freeze until Megumi pinches your arm (which he enjoys doing, honestly). It doesn’t help either that his father likes to buy you sweet treats on his way back from work. He doesn’t even get Megumi any because your best friend doesn’t like desserts. 

Your heart almost jumps out of your chest when you get a phone call. It is Toji, whose number you saved in case he had to reach you to reach Megumi. He tells you that he is outside and you only manage to breathe an ‘okay’ before the line is cut off. 

Taking a deep breath, you stand and get ready to face Toji. Alone. For the first time ever. 

It is weird being out with your best friend’s father. It is awkward and you are crazy shy. You suddenly wish Megumi was here. 

“What do you need to get?” 

“H-Huh?” you sputter as you look up at Toji. 

He stares down at you for a moment before looking straight again. Placing his big hand on the small of your back, he guides you out of the way of a young family. “Asked what ya need getting, Princess,” he repeats. 

“Um… I wanted to go shopping for clothes. There is a sale at my favourite store.”

“Mm,” Toji hums. “And you wanted Megumi to follow so he could watch you change?” 

Your entire face goes red. “Wha— No!!! Uncle Toji!!!”

The man laughs as he checks his watch. “I have time. Are you going to model for me? If not, I’ll just meet you at Starbucks in an hour’s time.”

You’re still blushing when you mumble, “Can you rate my outfits?”

You nervously brush down the dress and hold your breath before pushing the curtain aside. Megumi’s dad is standing there, leaning against a pillar as he waits for you. He looks up from his phone and gives you a once over. 

“Isn’t that a little too big, sugar?” 

You turn around and look into the mirror. The yellow summer dress is a little too big on you. You glance up at Toji in the reflection and see that he is already pushing himself off the pillar. 

“I’ll go grab one size down. What are you wearing?”

You tell him your size and where you got the dress from. You stay there for a minute before deciding that you’d change out first while you wait for him to come back. He does, just in time as you hang up the dress you’d just worn. Toji’s arm punches through the hole between the curtain and the divider, the right-sized dress hanging off his thick finger on a hanger. 

“Thanks, Uncle Toji!”

Wearing the dress, you realise that this is the reason why you’d picked a size up. The material is tight around your chest, your tits almost spilling out of the dress. You’re well endowed but you never liked showing it off because you get too much unwanted attention. 

“You alright in there, Princess?” Toji calls when you take too long. “Do you need me to get another size down?”

You swing the curtain open as you stutter, “N-No need!” 

Toji is surprised by your outburst, his eyes wide as he stares at you. But something else distracts him and he drops his gaze to your pushed up bosom in the cute little yellow dress he got you. His green eyes drop further down to the hem of your dress, so short that it doesn't even reach the middle of your thighs. 

“Uncle Toji, this dress—”

“Is too small for you, that’s what it is,” he grounds out as he pushes you back into the changing stall with him, his hands moving fast to pull the curtain close behind him. You’re gaping up at him, a little scared, and very nervous. He looks quite mad. He stares down at your chest for a long moment, then up at you. “Jesus, sweetheart,” he mutters. “Have you been hiding these tits behind those big shirts you wear?”

Unsure of how to answer, you can only nod your head nervously. “M-Maybe I shouldn’t get this—”

“No, no,” Toji shakes his head, immediately bring his hands to cup your cheeks. His palms are so warm and so big. “You look so cute in it.” He slides his hands down past your neck to hold onto your shoulders. He likes how mesmerised you look as you stare up at him in all your innocence. “You look so pretty, baby,” he coos, stroking your chin. 

“But my boobs…” you whisper the last word shyly. 

“They look so pretty, baby,” Toji says with so much fondness in his voice. He slides his hands down slowly to your chest and cups your tits gently, almost experimentally. His eyes are still holding yours, trying to gauge your reaction. “So pretty,” he whispers again. 

You feel your face heating up. You may not like unwanted attention from other men but the attention you are getting from Megumi’s dad is something you have been wanting for a long time. 

With one hand still cupping your breast, his other hand slides down your body until he reaches your hip. He squeezes your flesh gently, causing your heart rate to speed up. Then, he inches his way down to the hem of your dress, his fingertips grazing your skin. His touch is gentle and ticklish as he pulls up your dress. 

“Dress is a bit too short though, Angel,” he murmurs, his fingertips now walking up to the band of your panties. You gulp. “Wouldn’t want anyone touching you like this in this dress.” You shake your head stupidly. Toji coos. “No, of course not.” He crawls his fingers to your crotch, getting closer to the middle of your thighs. He can already feel your warmth. He clicks his tongue. “This is terrible, sugar.”

“What is?” Your question is breathy and nervous. 

Your breath hitches when you feel his thumb stroking your nub through your panties. “You like what I’m doing to you,” Toji mutters, almost sounding disappointed. “You like being touched like this.”

You squeeze your thigh together. “N-No…!” 

Toji slides his hand down to push your thighs apart just as he slithers his hand that is on your chest around your back, pulling you flushed against him. You gasp in surprise. Using the back of his thumb now, he rubs against your covered pussy. You can feel your pelvic walls clenching to stop a trickle from coming out, but you still feel it escaping. Toji immediately feels the wet spot on the material of your panties. He clicks his tongue. 

“Tsk, tsk, tsk. Naughty girl.” You purse your lips, your cheek turning pink in embarrassment. Toji smirks. Cupping your face and brushing his thumb over the apple of your cheek, he murmurs, “You’ll let me play with your pretty little pussy, won’t you? Make you feel good?”

You don’t even have to think twice to nod your head. He leans down and you close your eyes, expecting him to kiss you especially when you feel his breath on your lips. But he merely brushes his lips on yours, almost like a thank you, and the next thing you know, he has dipped his hand into your underwear to stroke your slit.

You can feel the warmth of Toji’s body as he leans into your ear and whispers, “Shh, Princess… Need to be quiet, okay? Do you think you can do that for me?” 

You bob your head when he leans back to take a look at your flushed face and your lust-filled eyes. You bite down on your bottom lip as he spreads your wetness to your clit and starts playing with the little nub. Toji’s gaze is heavy on you, just watching your expressions as he alternates between rubbing your clit and stroking your lips to spread your juices. You are getting so wet, and it doesn't help that Toji has dark, lustful eyes set on you. 

Clenching your fists on his tight black shirt, you try to hold yourself up when his palm cuts your inner thigh and his thumb wiggles between your soaking lips, penetrating your tight hole slowly. You can’t help the mewls that slip out of your mouth and Toji grins, just savouring the cute sounds coming out of you. But when you let out a whimper so loud that it almost rings in both your ears, Toji chuckles in amusement and takes his finger out of you just so he could cover your mouth with the very same hand. You can smell your arousal.  

“Okay, no more.” You subconsciously let out a whine, to which Toji laughs at. He takes his hand off your mouth to hold your chin in endearment. “We’ll continue at home. You make too much noise.”

You are pouting up at him as you rub your thighs together, hoping to get some relief. “But Megumi…” 

Toji licks his lips and shakes his head, his eyes firm on you. “This has to stay between us, sweetheart.”

You bob your head. There is no way Megumi is finding out about this. “Yes, of course, Uncle Toji.”

The male strokes your chin with his thumb and leans in to kiss your forehead. “Meg’s not home until late.” As he tucks your hair behind your ear, he tilts his head so his lips are by your ear, “You can be as loud as you want in Uncle Toji’s bedroom, baby.” 

-

© chocochipsushi 2024 all works are mine, please do not rewrite/plagiarise

#ask #request #toji x reader #toji fushiguro #toji #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen #toji x you #jjk x oc #jujutsu kaisen fic #toji smut #nsfw toji #nsfw jjk #fushiguro toji x you

[chocochipsushi]

𝐁𝐢𝐤𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐡𝐨𝐭, 𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐧'𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲?

Happy 2K followers to me! Here's a short scenario I came up with in reference to this tiktok video I saw.

🌸Warning: SFW Biker!Toji but there is a one-liner that is a tad bit suggestive

🌸AU: Your dad tries to embarrass you in front of a hot biker but you still stay winning anyway

🌸Word count: 824

“Dad, please don’t!” you beg, just knowing what your father is going to do the moment he notices you getting distracted by the biker waiting for the red light to turn green. 

Your dad smirks at you, not saying anything. As the both of you walk towards the pedestrian crossing, he clears his throat and spares no time to humiliate you. He puts his fingers in his mouth and whistles loudly, rudely. Then, he points in the biker’s direction. You can see the slight tilt of the black helmet as he watches you and your dad. 

“My daughter thinks you’re hot!!!” 

You slap a hand over your mouth in shock and disbelief that your dad would actually humiliate you like this. You are still gaping at the biker like an idiot when he leans back and flips his visor up. Your thumping heart races even more when you notice his dark eyes sliding up and down your body. Even from a distance, you can see his slit eyes crinkling. 

“Can I get her number, Old Man?” the biker shouts back, though his voice is muffled by the helmet he is wearing. 

And because your dad is an asshole, he shouts back, “No!!!”

“Oh my god, dad!” you cry, extremely embarrassed. You’re speed walking across the pedestrian crossing, wanting so much just to run off and hide, when you hear the engine or the motorbike start. 

You turn, expecting to watch the bike zoom off. Instead, you see him driving to the side of the road where he kicks the stand of his two-wheel drive. He swings his leg over the seat and he is off the motorbike in a second. Your heart races when you notice him walking in your direction. 

Surprised and anxious, you start jogging to the other end of the road. The moment you reach the pavement on the other side, you turn around, only to freeze when you see the biker just a few steps away from you. You could see his dark green eyes crinkling slightly. 

“Need your number, doll,” he declares behind his helmet. 

“Need?” you repeat mockingly, laughing a little. 

He chuckles and hands you his phone. “Need,” he confirms. 

Amused by his response, you reach for his phone. You glance back to see your dad rushing to your side of the road to catch up to the both of you. Quickly, you save your number and name, and pass the phone back to the man. He reads your name experimentally in a low voice, then looks up at you, as if to confirm that it is your name. 

You nod, just as your dad reaches this side of the road. Embarrassed, you quickly shoo him away, “Okay, nice to meet you. Your bike is being ticketed!” You point at his motorcycle across the road. 

The man chuckles in amusement. “Yeah, that’s not working on me.” He sees your father walking over from the corner of his eye and he hums. “But I’ll go. You be a good girl for your daddy,” he says huskily, knowing exactly what his words would do to you. 

Heat shoots up your body and blood rushes to your cheeks. Just then, your father stands next to you and faces the biker, giving him a good, intimidating look. Unfazed, the man with the helmet takes off the headpiece in respect, hugs it under his arm, and holds a hand out to your dad. 

“Toji Fushiguro, sir. Thanks for setting me up with your beautiful daughter,” he says. 

You’re not quite sure what your dad responds to that because you’re staring at the handsome man with his black hair stuck to his forehead with sweat, his green eyes contrasting so beautifully against his dark features. You only snap out of it when the pedestrian light turns green again and Toji throws his thumb behind him in the direction of his bike. 

“I’m gonna go fill up my tank to get ready to bring your daughter out to a nice place tonight, sir.” He glances at you with a cheeky glint in his eyes and a smirk. “If that’s okay with you,” he looks to your father now for permission, who shrugs. 

“It’s her time to waste, not mine.”

Toji laughs and nods. As he takes a step back, he waves his phone at you and calls your name. “I’ll text you. Wear jeans!”

“Who said I’ll say yes to dinner with you?” you retort. 

He is still backtracking even as he crosses the road. He shouts, “Of course you will! You think I’m hot!”

Feeling your ears get hot again, you can only stare at his vehicle and yell, “Your bike’s getting towed!” 

The male grins. With a wiggle of his fingers, he turns on his heels, slides his helmet back on, and runs back to his undisturbed, perfectly parked bike. 

You’re going to have to start thinking of what to wear tonight.

-

© chocochipsushi 2024 all works are mine, please do not rewrite/plagiarise

#toji fushiguro #toji #toji x reader #toji x you #jjk x oc #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen #jjk #fushiguro toji x you #toji x oc #toji x y/n #biker!toji #sfw toji #sfw jjk

[chocochipsushi]

the sluttiest waist in the jjk universe

[chocochipsushi]

Can we get a possible date like when can we expect to get the last part of uncle Toji???

Oh boo i have a fking writer's block😭😭😭 i'm not sure honestly.

#ask #dad's best friend!toji #toji #toji fushiguro #jujutsu kaisen #jjk

[chocochipsushi]

your kinktober day 6 has me speechless 😩 like omg i completely ignored my yt video while reading i was just- wow . obsessed .

🥵🥵 thank u my love 😭 honestly that is probably my favourite story out of all the kinktober fics i made hehe

#ask #kinktober #jjk #jujutsu kaisen #toji #toji fushiguro

[chocochipsushi]

Are you planning to write second part of single dad Toji??🥹🥹🥹🙏

Hi!! I'm not sure... i actually got some hate messages for writing and publishing that story😂 i'm not sure if my readers want to see more?

#ask #toji #toji fushiguro #jujutsu kaisen #jjk #single dad toji #nsfw

[chocochipsushi]

i give up. there’s something with the gojo fic that’s preventing it from showing up in the tags, so, instead of continuing to fight tumblr—i posted it on ao3. for anybody that would like to read it, it can be found over there <3

Satoru is confused. It doesn’t take you much time to notice that your softly spoken words have him quite rattled, as the results of them can so clearly be observed on his face. There’s his nose that scrunches up cutely, and a little tilt of his head to the left which comes accompanied by a few snowy strands of hair shifting across his forehead. A small furrow of his brows, the soft gnawing on his bottom lip. He’s thinking about it; mulling over your offer.

Three times, he tries to say something. His mouth opens once, twice, and it’s futile. Not a word escapes, and he takes a sharp intake of breath. You almost believe that, if you weren’t currently seated opposite him, he’d smack the side of his head a few times to make sure it’s still screwed on right.

“So, I just. . .” The third time really is the charm, it seems. Though, he never quite manages to finish what he was going to say.

“Just put it in, yeah.”

You finish it for him, you’re sweet like that. It does really seem as if he could use the help.

“Wh—whenever I. . .”

There’s a little voice in your head, chiming and chattering about how all of this is weird. It makes you nervous, and your fingers itch to play with your necklace to fight it.

“Whenever you want,” you confirm. It’s as if your heart has suddenly moved to your throat.

“Wha—what if you’re asleep?”

“I said whenever you want, didn’t I?”

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#amazing #it's like *I* was being used #so many scenes in a fic #also so cute #i love how they both pretend nothing happened after lmao #i want a relationship/marriage like this too #gojo satoru #gojo x you #jjk gojo #nsfw jjk #nsfw gojo

[chocochipsushi]

just your daily dose of Aki.. this boy, I can't even

credit to all the amazing artists ❤️

#so hot #something about dadk haired men #and long hair #ugh #aki #chainsaw man