a/n; for that one anon who wanted small tits worship + toji!!!
you’d always been a little self conscious about your chest. not insecure, not exactly—just aware. your shirts didn’t cling in the right places, bras were mostly unnecessary, and no one had ever really made a big deal of it. not until him.
not until toji, advocates for any size tits, fushiguro.
"cute little things," he muttered the first time he got your shirt off, palms heavy and warm against your ribcage, thumbs grazing the soft swell of your tits. and when he leaned in, mouth dragging over your sternum, teeth barely grazing the curve under your left nipple, you almost gasped.
"you're jok—ah," you started, but his tongue cut off the rest.
he looked up at you from between them, lips slick, eyes half lidded with that hungry, lazy stare of his. "you think i’m kidding?"
you didn’t answer. couldn't, really. not with the way he was mouthing at you, hands gripping your waist like you might try to squirm away. not that you would. not when he looked that serious about it.
toji had a way of making you feel like the only body in the room, even if it was just the two of you. big hands, bigger shoulders, that wide scarred chest pressing you down into the mattress - just like he could brand you with it. every inch of you, he gave attention to—but your tits? he worshipped the fuck out of them.
he kissed them like they were something holy. slow, messy licks around your nipples, teasing and wet. then he’d suckle, lazy at first, then rougher when he felt your thighs twitch. he’d nudge them together, even when it barely made a valley between them, and shove his face in like they were bigger than they were.
he wanted to disappear in them forever.
“don’t need ‘em big,” he grunted once, biting just below your nipple, pulling back when you whined. “just need ‘em soft. look at this. fuck—” he squeezed them together with both hands, thumbs rubbing your nipples until they were sore. “—could spend hours here.”
you believed him. you really did. especially when he did.
his mouth didn’t stop. he was drunk on you—kissing down the slope of your chest, dragging his teeth over every inch, he really did appreciate your prettiness. always muttering shit like fuckin’ perfect and so good for me right into your sternum, as if your tits were listening.
and you? god. your whole body buzzed. not even from the sex—he hadn’t even gotten that far half the time. it was the way he looked up at you, how focused he got when he had you spread out beneath him, your chest flushed, marked up, and shiny from his mouth.
"lay back," he whispers, voice low and gravelly, eyes trained on your bare skin, he was probably already thinking about he was going to do with your stunning body.
you listened. always did.
you’d do that too. he liked the way it stretched you out, made you arch a little. gave him more room to touch. his tongue would find your nipple again, and you’d let out a little noise, hips shifting under him—but he’d ignore it and push you down.
he didn’t rush. didn’t even touch you lower until your nipples were red and puffy, your chest wet with saliva. until you were whining, fingers twitching in the sheets, desperate to pull him closer or push him down.
"you in a hurry, baby?" toji murmurs, thumb teasing the underside of your boob. “i’m not.”
he'd pin your wrists above your head and go back to sucking bruises over your ribs, working slow, like he had all fucking night. and sometimes? he did. he’d spend forever just playing with your chest, palms warm and firm, lips working your skin. he really was trying to memorize the taste of you.
