Offbeat - drummer!choso x fem reader
slow burn • roommates to lovers • mutual pining • jealousy • angst with happy ending • smut
Sorry it took me forever to get this part finished! This fic is just so important to me and I wanted to put everything into it. I hope you enjoy it! ~ also I don't have time do add the taglist atm, sorry o-o
The band venue is a converted warehouse with dark brick walls and a stage barely raised off the floor. You get there a few minutes after 8pm and it’s basically empty right now. Other than the four-person band on stage, the only people here are the sound guy and the bartender.
The stage is bathed in blue and purple lights that make everything look dreamlike. But the real dream is sitting behind the drum kit with his head down as he adjusts the height of a cymbal. His hair is back up in the two spiky buns and he’s wearing a loose black tank top that says the name of his band ‘Death Painting.’
Eso is tuning his base by the amps while Kechizu is taping down cables, green hair falling over his eyes. Then Choso looks up. He bites the nail of his pinky finger, molten chocolate eyes locked on you. He loves you to death, hell, he’d bend a knee right now and ask you to marry him if he thought you’d say yes, but he can’t help the filthy things he’s doing to you in his mind right now. He blinks hard and shakes his head to clear his vision.
Choso’s eyes narrow and snap to the source of the word, who idiotically said it loud and right into the mic. Every head in the room turns to look at Satoru. And unlike Choso’s silent awe, he takes action immediately and hops off the stage with a huge smile.
His white hair and silver snake bites glint in the colorful lights as he walks up to wrap his lanky arms around you. “Hey, Y/N! You’re really early this time. And damn, you look amazing.”
“Hey, Toru,” you say with a laugh, patting his back. “Choso invited me to come early.”
Choso can literally feel his chest twist at the sight of Satoru hugging you. He wants to run across the room right now and pull you apart. But he doesn’t, he stays put.
“Oh, did he now?” Satoru asks, looking back over his shoulder and wiggling his pierced brow at Choso. “Interesting.”
But Choso’s back is already turned away as his boots nearly stomp down the short stairs at stage left. Then he makes his way toward you. “Glad you could make it,” he says low.
His strong tattooed arms wrap tightly around your waist and pull you against his chest. You’re so close that your nose is buried against his skin just above the neckline of his tank top. Despite the boldness of it, his palms are jittery where they press into your skin.
He doesn’t let go. Five seconds. Ten.
“Hey, Cho…” you breathe against his flushed chest, laughing a little. “You’ve never hugged me this long.”
“Mm.” His chin drops lightly to the top of your head. “Then I’ve been slacking.”
When he finally lets go of you and steps back, his eyes do one more slow glance over your outfit, and a flush creeps up his neck. “You look…” He rubs the back of his neck. “That sweater’s a good color on you.”
That sweater’s a good color on you. He wants to bury himself alive. What he meant was: you look like every daydream I’ve ever had. You look like my girl. My future wife. The reason I’m probably going to miss every cue tonight.
“Thanks,” you say with a lip-biting smile. “I dressed up a little.”
“A little,” his voice cracks faintly.
“Sorry to steal your man!” Satoru hollers from the stage, back at his mic. “But we’ve got a sound check to do.”
Choso sighs and walks back to his drums.
You sit on the edge of the stage during the sound check, legs crossed at the knee. You go between watching Choso and scrolling through your phone. The band runs through some half-songs.
At some point between the songs, you feel someone crouch down behind you. You don’t even have to look to know who it is, because you hear Eso say “Satoru,” dryly, then the sound of Choso’s boots.
You turn around quickly and see Satoru rubbing the back of his shoulder and Choso standing over him with his drumstick still raised.
“What?” Satoru whines. “I dropped a pick.”
“You play no instruments,” Choso snaps at him. “Go back to your mic.”
“You’re so violent, drummer boy.”
“Did you really have to hit him?” you ask, looking up at Choso.
“Yes,” he mutters, sitting back down behind his drums.
“He just likes abusing me,” Satoru mumbles from the mic, trying to be cute. “Don’t mind him.”
“Huh??” You raise your brows.
Kechizu from across the stage: “Satoru was trying to look up your skirt!”
“HEY, WHY YOU GOTTA OUT ME LIKE THAT?!”
You uncross and recross your legs the other way, giving Satoru an intimidating look that has a hint of amusement in it, mostly because you’ve always known this is how he is. He gives you an unrepentant dimpled grin, then looks forward.
By 9pm the place is hot and packed with people. The band’s been backstage since twenty minutes ago, waiting for the showtime to come. You’ve claimed your spot at stage left and are leaning against the barrier, right where you said you’d be. Right where Choso can see you.
All the lights drop to darkness and the crowd’s chatter dies out. Then the stage lights come up and the band walks out to claps and cheers. Choso sits behind his drums and does a little showoff. Trr-trr-dm-dm-duh-dm-CRASH! The cheers get louder. He looks out at the crowd and finds you instantly, keeping his eyes on yours as Satoru steps up to the mic.
“Hey everyone,” Satoru says with that effortless charm and a flip of his white hair. “We’re Death Painting, and this one’s called Chokehold.”
This set is the best you’ve ever heard them play. You’d say that even if you weren’t madly in love with the drummer, but you are, so it only heightens the lovestruck experience of watching him come apart and come alive in front of your eyes.
His hair coming loose from its ties, sticking to his temples. His tank top clinging to his chest, tattooed arms swinging the drumsticks like a pro. Though his eyes are dark, they burn feverishly bright with energy, half-lidded but focused like he’s in some kind of trance.
But they fall out of the trance every once in a while, just to find you. Just to see the way you look up at him.
Satoru is feasting on the attention of the crowd. He tilts his head down and his hair flops over one eye. He’s got one hand wrapped loose around the mic like he’s whispering a secret to it, and his other hand is reaching out toward the screaming girls in the front row.
“There’s a fire in my chest, rising up my throat, love. And it’s burning, burning, burning at the fingers of your glove.”
He sinks to his knees on the last word and tips his head back, and the crowd absolutely loses it. You’d probably cheer louder too if you could tear your eyes off the drummer. Choso gives you a little half smile when he notices you’re not looking at Satoru at all.
Choso mouths along to the lyrics, eyes locked on yours. Him and Eso wrote this song years ago. He never thought he’d have a face in his head when he played it. But he’s got one now.
You’re the face to every one of these songs now.
When the set ends, he stands from behind the kit, chest heaving, drenched, and points one drumstick directly at you before the lights drop.
The girl next to you grabs your arm and screams, “OH MY GOD, IS THAT YOUR BOYFRIEND??” You blush and smile from ear to ear, and you don’t correct her.
After the show, the band waits backstage for the crowd to slowly clear out. Choso sits at a desk in a room that smells like sweat and energy drinks. He’s got his notebook open and a towel around his neck, jotting down some lyrics. His hands are still buzzing. His whole body is buzzing, and honestly only about 60% of it is because of the show.
The door swings open and Satoru walks in. He hops up to sit on the counter, heels of his sneakers bouncing off the cabinet. “Hey. Question. Are you and Y/N dating?”
Choso’s pen stops hard on the page.
“No.” He hates how easily the word comes out of his mouth. It tastes disgusting. But unfortunately it’s true.
“Huh.” Satoru tips his head back against the mirror, deep in thought. “I gotta be honest, man. She is so hot. Especially tonight.” He whistles low. “You’d tell me if there was something between you two, right? So… you care if I shoot my shot?”
And here it is. The moment. All Choso has to do is say it. Yes. Back off. I’m in love with her.
It’s the confession he’s never let past his teeth in front of you, even. And now he’s supposed to spill it to Satoru fucking Gojo? Not a chance in hell.
He’s not putting his poor, tattered heart on the counter next to the energy drinks for him of all people to poke at. And if you found out from Satoru before he ever worked up the nerve—
“Do what you want,” Choso says harshly.
“Siiick,” Satoru says, not picking up his tone at all somehow. He hops off the counter and ruffles Choso’s damp hair on his way out the door. “Great show, by the way, you animal.”
The second the door clicks shut, Choso spins around in his chair and grits his teeth so hard his jaw creaks. He is seething. But after a few seconds he sighs hard, rolls his tired eyes at the ceiling, and mutters “...Idiot.”
He turns back to his notebook and goes back to writing lyrics, his handwriting slightly more angry and jagged-looking than usual.
It’s fine, he tells himself. You know exactly what kind of guy Satoru is. You’ve watched him flirt with half the girls in the city. You’re not going to give someone that dense a chance.
It accidentally becomes a sort of after-party after that. Someone mentions food and someone else mentions how your place is the closest, and by midnight the five of you are at yours and Choso’s little two bedroom apartment. Three boxes of pizza are open on the counter and Satoru is sprawled across the couch like he pays the rent.
You’re wedged into the far corner of that same couch. The couch. The drum lesson couch. Satoru’s eyes turn a full wattage of bright blue when he turns to look at you.
“Y/N. Sweetheart. Light of my life,” he says with a flirty grin. You raise a brow in response. “I gave the greatest performance of my life tonight, and I didn’t see you look at me even once.” He clicks his tongue with disappointment. “I was looking at you a whole lot. Kinda hurt my feelings you weren’t looking back.”
You tsk and take a sip of your drink. “Poor baby popstar.”
Satoru sits all the way up. He tips his head back against the couch cushion right next to you and laughs, landing his hand on your knee. “See, this is what I’m talking about. Funny AND gorgeous. Y/N. Baby. Why are we not—”
Across the room, Choso (who’s been rinsing the same bowl in the sink for five minutes) sets it down with a loud clack. You lift Satoru’s hand off your knee by the wrist, like removing a bug, and deposit back on his own leg. But Choso doesn’t see that, because he won’t even let himself look anymore. “Because you flirt with everyone, Toru. We both know it doesn’t mean anything.”
“Wow. Wow.” He plays offended and clutches at his heart. “She sees right through me. That’s so hot too, actually—”
“Satoru, come eat your pizza,” Eso says from the kitchen. “No one else is touching the pineapple, hot honey, pickle one you insisted on ordering.”
“Y’all wouldn’t know good pizza if it slapped you—”
Kechizu flops onto the cushion and squeezes between you like a golden retriever, effectively ending the conversation. He starts showing you videos that fans took from the crowd tonight. You laugh at one where you can see Choso with his tongue stuck out between his teeth in concentration.
Then Kechizu, the angel that he is, holds his phone out toward the kitchen. “Choso! Come look, someone got your whole solo—”
It comes out harsher than he means it to. Kechizu blinks and wilts a little, and turns back to you. And now Choso feels like a jerk on top of everything else. He knows he should feel good about this. His band. His brothers. You. Almost everyone he cares about is in this one small room. But he feels like he’s watching everything through glass.
He’s already mentally rehearsing the text he’ll send Satoru later.
Hey. Great show, you animal. By the way, if you touch her again I’ll run you over with my car.
He deletes it obviously. In his head. Where it lives with the other five hundred things he’s never said.
Everyone clears out around 2am. Satoru tries for a hug but only gets a formal handshake from you, like a Victorian gentleman, and he shakes your hand with a slightly bruised ego. You and Choso clean up the littered paper plates and cups.
“I’m gonna shower,” you say as you toss the last few into the trash.
“Kay,” he says, just one syllable. He’s acting so different tonight…
You strip out of your clothes in the bathroom and step into the hot shower. Your winged eyeliner runs black down your face and you grab some face wash to clean all the makeup off. You tip your head back under the water and start wiping your face.
That’s when the drums start.
Not his usual late-night playing. Not the loose rhythms you’ve managed to fall asleep to a hundred times through the wall. This is violent. It rattles the shelf of shampoo bottles above your head. You go still and just listen.
You know his moods by now. You know them by ear. You’ve heard grief in his playing, and joy, and boredom, and the fizzy restlessness he gets before shows. But you’ve never heard this. This is fury. This is a man trying to beat something out of his chest before it kills him.
You rush to clean yourself off and wash your hair, then you shut the shower off. The drums don’t stop. They get louder without the shower to muffle them, so loud you can feel them in the tile under your feet. You quickly dry off and your hands fumble to put your black bathrobe on. Your hair is still dripping like crazy but you don’t bother with it.
You pad down the hall barefoot, leaving wet footprints on the wood, and into the living room. He’s at his kit in the corner with his back half to you, still in his show clothes, hair fully loose now and whipping from the movements.
He’s hitting so hard the crash stand is walking across the floor. His teeth are bared, bright canines glistening under the low light of the lamp, with a sharp scowl carved into his features that are usually so gentle. It makes your stomach drop.
Nothing. He can’t hear you.
You step into his line of sight.
The sound cuts off so abruptly the silence rings your ears. He’s heaving for breath, drumsticks white-knuckled in his fists. Eyes on you.
On all of you. On the bathrobe. On the water beading at your collarbones. On your wet hair clinging to your neck in wet ribbons. On your flushed bare thighs peeking out beneath the hem of your bathrobe.
His mouth falls open slightly and his drumsticks go slack in his hands. Whatever fury was driving him a second ago slips away so completely you can see it happen.
That really is all it takes, isn’t it?
His eyes raise to your face and find you watching him watch you. His cheeks flood pink. His eyes are burning and glassy in a way that scares you a little. “Sorry,” he rasps. “Too loud. I’ll stop.”
“I don’t care that it’s loud.” You take a step closer and his eyes flick down your body again helplessly to where the sash cinches at your waist. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, it’s—” He drags his eyes away and up to the ceiling with what looks like serious effort. “Did you have fun tonight?”
His tone sounds uncharacteristically bitter. “...Yes? You were so good, Cho—”
“Not the show.” A muscle twitches in his cheek. “After. On the couch. With Satoru.”
You stare at him. Do you seriously need to answer that question? You thought he knew you better than that.
“Choso… are you jealous?”
“No.” His nose crinkles, making the dark line jagged. “...Yes. Fuck.” The drumsticks clatter into the snare and he drags his hands down his face, the way he does when he’s coming apart. “He asked me tonight if he could—shoot his shot—with you. And I said do what you want. And then he touched you on our couch. And I just—” His breath shudders out of him. “I can’t lose you to him. I can’t lose you to anyone. Not you too.”
Not you too. The words detonate in your aching heart like a bomb. You slowly step over a fallen drumstick and take his face into both hands, tilting it up to yours.
“Hey. Look at me.” His wrecked eyes drag up to meet yours. “You’re not losing me. I turned him down. I thought you knew that. And even if it was someone else, I would’ve done the same thing, because—” Your thumbs trace down his cheekbones and your voice goes soft. “Choso, I’ve always been yours.”
You feel his breath stop under your hands. “...What?”
“I don’t wear a skirt like that in October for Satoru,” you say with a smile. “Cho, sweetheart. C’mon. You had to know it was all for you.”
Choso surges up from the drum throne and then his mouth is on yours fast, like he was only waiting for the smallest sliver of a sign from you before letting himself steal a kiss.
It’s nothing like you imagined (and you’ve imagined it exhaustively) because in your head his first kiss with you was hesitant and careful. But just as he’s proved you wrong before, he proves you wrong again.
This is the realest kiss you ever had. A year of starving, finally fed. His hand fists passionately in your wet hair, the other splayed across your back, walking you backward until your legs hit the arm of the couch and you tumble over it together with him on top of you.
You grip the front of his tank top with both hands. When he pulls back from the kiss to let you pull it over his head, you suck on his tongue so pretty his heart stutters in his chest. He lets out a strangled groan.
“You have no idea,” he pants against your lips, “how bad I’ve needed you.” He kisses you hard again, tugging at your bottom lip with his teeth. “No idea what you do to me.” His words are muffled from his lips pressed against yours.
“I have some idea.” You glide your hands down the ridges of his washboard abs, and palm him through his jeans. He’s so hard and needy, he bucks into your hand with an uncontrollable whimper as his head drops to your shoulder.
“Y/N,” he huffs hot against your neck. “When we had that drum lesson… did you… did you know what I was doing…”
“Of course I knew, Cho. I felt it.” You give his throbbing hard cock a gentle squeeze and watch a flush climb all the way up from his neck to his cheeks. “Been thinking about it a lot. Been wanting it.”
“Oh f-f-fuuuck.” He sounds equally blissed-out and frustrated. “B-but—but you said you were tired.”
“I panicked!” you laugh breathlessly. “You’ve never done anything like that with me, I didn’t know what to do with my hands—”
“I’ll show you what to do with them,” he says before his brain can stop his mouth, and his eyes go wide himself, and yours go wider. You both laugh into another kiss that becomes slower and hungrier, until the laughter runs out of it.
He sits back against the couch and pulls you onto his lap, this is the position from that night reversed and corrected, you straddling his lap, thighs spread over him, face to face this time. His calloused palms slide up your robe and grip your hips with his fingers spread wide.
There’s no thought left in his head outside of the realization that your slick, bare heat is soaking through his jeans as you grind your hips against his clothed cock. He raggedly gasps like it’s his first breath after coming up from water.
And since you’ve realized you love to drive him crazy, you untie the sash of your robe. Then keeping your eyes on his, you rise up on your knees and shrug it off your shoulders, and let the whole thing slide down your arms and drop to the floor behind you.
Choso’s chest heaves as his eyes slowly travel down your body and land on the slope of your breasts. His eyes are teary and awestruck like he’s staring right at heaven’s gates. “Please… please…” His forehead thuds against yours, still staring down at your bare body with hazy, unfocused eyes. “Need to… d-do you want to… rnngh…” He inhales hard against your neck, taking in your scent, then grips your waist with both hands. “W-want to fuck you… so bad…”
“Choso, baby.” You tilt his chin up and brush his hair back from his face to kiss him softly. Then you do another slow grind against the aching bulge in his jeans, making honeyed slick sounds against him. “Do I feel like a girl who wants to stop?”
His heart is thudding in his chest as he slides his hands down from your waist to your ass to grip hard, tugging you down onto him as he ruts himself against your needy pussy.
“No,” he rasps, using your dripping slit to gain the friction he desperately needs. “No, you feel—hnngh—so soaked—so pretty—f-fuck, I can’t—” His hands leave your body and fly to his belt buckle, clumsy and shaking, fumbling to get it loose. “Hnnh—sorry, my love, I just—I need—c-can’t wait ‘nymore, m’sorry, I can’t—”
He shoves them down his hips with his boxers and his heavy cock springs up against his abdomen with a wet slap. He lets out a high-pitched whine through gritted teeth. “F-fuck, sorry, th-that’s embarassing,” he heaves, ears burning red. A thick pearl of precum wells up at the flushed tip and slides down his veiny shaft. “It–it’s just been a while—and you’re so pretty.”
When you glance up at his face, his eyes are half-lidded and dazed. “P-please just touch it, bounce on it, anything—anything, baby.”
You wrap your hand around him and stroke down once from tip to base with a wet shlick, spreading the mess down to his balls and the dark patch of hair, and he actually wails. His head tips back, hips bucking into your fist, and he makes such a beautiful broken sound, one that you want tattooed on the inside of your skull.
“S’pretty Cho,” you breathe, looking up at him through your lashes as you stroke him slowly, watching him shudder and moan. “You have such a pretty cock. Can’t wait to—”
“Now,” he whines raggedly, dragging you forward by your waist and pulling flush against his heaving chest. His cock is trapped between your bare stomachs and smearing slick precum everywhere. “Now, now, now, please, baby, please—put it in, sit on it, I can’t—need to put it inside you, please—”
You lean back and grind your aching, needy slit along his throbbing shaft. The fat, dripping head nudges at your entrance with every slow grind. “You can wait just a little longer, Cho,” you tease, gripping his shoulders as you move.
His cock twitches hard and he sobs, then fists the tears away from his dark eyes, cheeks flushed with embarrassment for even beginning to cry about this. “P-please. Please, baby. I’m not playing,” he chokes out. “I’m not—hnngh—I’ll do anything. Anything you want. Any—any way you want, any night, any—I’ll cook, I’ll do dishes for a year, I’ll—”
“Shhh…” You grab his wrists and press them back against the couch cushion on both sides of his head, and whisper against his open mouth, “I’ve got you, Cho. Watch me take it.”
You line yourself up over the dripping head and sink down, watching his eyes roll back and his mouth fall open around senseless little ah, ah, ah sounds. He forces his eyes back forward and pulls his wrists out of your grip to wrap his tattooed arms crushingly tight around your back, face buried in your throat. He holds you close against him, trembling all over.
The thick stretch of his cock has your insides squeezing and yielding around him inch by enormous inch. He’s never been so achingly hard in his life. His fingers dig hard into your flushed skin but never once push, letting you take him at your own pace.
When he bottoms out inside you, he huffs hard against the side of your neck, breath hot. “Nnngh… my love,” he groans. “I can feel your heartbeat. I can feel it all around me.”
You brace your hands flat against his heaving chest and start giving him rolling lifts of your hips, sinking back down onto him with soft breathy moans, letting each stroke pull a wet sound from where you’re joined.
He whines and groans, then leans back against the couch again to watch you ride him. His hands slide up your thighs, gripping, ungripping, gripping again. “Higher—up, baby, up—please—hnnh—faster, need it faster please—”
But you can feel him twitching hard inside you with every slow drop of your hips. The way his stomach muscles tense up. You smile down at him, drag one nail lightly down the center of his chest, and shake your head. “Mm-mm. Don’t want you to cum too soon, baby.”
“I won’t—” his voice cracks desperately. “I won’t, I swear, I’ll make sure I won’t. Please, baby, please just—bounce on it a little faster.”
You tut softly at him and keep riding him maddeningly slow, letting him feel every inch on the way up, every inch on the way down. “I can feel you twitching so hard, Cho,” you say with a honey-sweet tone.
His face crumples. “Y/N—my love—please—”
Too slow. It’s too slow. He can’t take the tension anymore. He lets out a desperate groan and grips your hips roughly. Then before you can process the wild shift in his eyes, he flips you.
You let out a small startled yelp as your back hits the couch cushions, and suddenly he’s on top of you, caging you in, hair falling loose around his flushed face in dark layers. His heavy cock is dripping against your thigh where he slipped out of you in the flip.
“Sorry—sorry, baby—” he rasps. He’s already grabbing himself, one hand braced beside your head, dragging the tip back through your soaked slit to line himself up again. “I can’t do it that way. I need—I need to be on top, I need to fuck you, I need to fuck you—”
He slides in with a shlick so wet it makes you moan together. He drops his forehead to yours, breath scalding hot, and pushes forward with a strangled “nnngh—fuck—fuuuuck—” until his hips meet yours and there’s nothing left between you at all. Then he really starts fucking you, taking you deep, his heavy balls smacking wetly against your skin.
He’s making you his so messily, his dark hair curtaining both of your faces. His mouth is open. His eyes are burning and half-lidded with pleasure, watching every reaction on your face as he plays you like a drum kit.
“Told you—told you, baby,” he pants against your face, sweat dripping down his temples. “Told you I can—hhhn—hold back from cumming too soon.” Shlick-shlick-shlick! “Gonna make this—make this so—hnngh—so good m’pretty girl can’t even—think—”
You’re crying out his name in cracked pieces. His beautiful name, over and over between loud moans punched out of your lungs on every thrust. Every slap of his hips against yours drags the mess of you both further onto the couch cushions.
He dips his head and drags his tongue hot up your ear, making you whimper. You clench around him hard and he whines, but still tries to play dom. “Good—nnn… fuuuck—good girl. Squeezing me s-so good. Want—want to make you cum, gonna make you cum s-so hard—”
But then his face changes and his brows knit together like he’s about to lose it, and he pulls out of you with a shlck-pop and a broken “unnh—fuck—hng—hng—”
His cock slaps up against his stomach, twitching hard, a thick string of your combined slick stretching from the tip to your pussy before it breaks. He clamps his hand around the base, teeth bared, chest heaving, forcing himself back down from the edge.
He drags in a shaky breath, waiting for the throb to pass. Then he grips your hips and flips you onto your stomach. “C’mere,” he huffs, trying so hard to sound like he’s in control and didn’t almost just finish before you did. He gently tugs your knees up by your hips. “C’mere baby. W-wanna take you like this now. Want you in every position I can have you.”
He smooths one hand over the curve of your ass and leans over your body to kiss the back of your shoulder, buying himself another few seconds. Then he eases back into your sticky insides. Squish. Deeper. Squishh. Until his hips meet the backs of your thighs and he groans low and long in his throat.
He reaches around your body with his free hand and slides two fingers between your thighs to rub gentle circles on your clit. Just feeling you in every way he can. He moves his fingers faster and faster, in a maddening rhythm that only a drummer’s hands know by heart.
His breath is a hot, wet rasp against the back of your neck. His forehead drops between your shoulder blades and stays there.
“Nnnn… Chosooo… that feels so—sosogood!” you moan breathlessly.
He lets out an involuntary “hnnh” at that. Then another. Then, like a dam breaking, he can’t stop.
“Hnnh—mmh—nghh—oh—my love—my love, my love—”
His hips speed up on their own. His words tumble out unbroken, not sentences, just sounds and pieces of your name and soft, wrecked “so good, s’good, s’good, s’good” against the nape of your neck.
PLAP-PLAP-PLAP-PLAP-PLAP-
His fingers move in pace with his hips. He’s making these devastating whimpers every time he slams into you now, the kinds of sounds he’d never let anyone else hear. “C-cum for me—please cum for me—I need it—I can’t—I can’t hold it much longer—please, baby, please, my love—”
You let out a broken cry into the cushion and cum around him hard, and he starts sobbing from the absolute bliss, just a wrecked, adoring sound like he’s the one falling apart right now.
“Y/NNNN…” His hips slam home and he spills into you thick and hot, and there’s so much of it, you feel it flooding into you. “I love you, I love you, I love you.” The words fall out of him uncontrollably, over and over, into your damp hair, muffled against your skin. He’s shaking hard, arms caging you in from behind with his forehead glued to the space between your shoulder blades.
“Loved you since the day I met you—the whole time,” his voice cracks. “Wanna—nngh—wanna make you mine in every way I can—every way, baby, every way—”
He drags in a shuddering breath and finally lifts his head and glances down, dazed and blissed out. But when he sees his cum sliding thick down your inner thigh, his eyes go wider. “Nnn—nn-no—baby, don’t let it—don’t let it go—not a drop—hnnh—”
His softening cock is throbbing weakly inside you and he’s so oversensitive he whimpers when he moves, but he tries to fuck it all back in anyway with small shaky thrusts. Filthy little rolls of his hips.
“Nngh, Cho!” you laugh breathlessly.
“Hnnn—sen–sensitive but—but I need—I need to—can’t have you lose it—”
His thumb gathers a hot pearl of cum off your thigh and pushes it back up toward your used-up pussy, smearing it into you around his cock. “There,” he breathes shakily. “There, baby, that’s it—stay in her—hnnh—that’s mine, sweetheart, that’s—that’s mine.”
Later that night, he holds you against his chest, and you’re half asleep when you hear him sigh through his nose. “Y/N… I have to tell you something…” he mumbles nervously. “And you’re going to think I’m disgusting…” he says with a wince.
“There’s nothing that could make me think that,” you say, kissing his chest.
“Okay… well…” He swallows hard. “You know the purple lace panties you thought you lost…?”
You lift your head slowly. He’s staring at the ceiling, ears going scarlet red. “They’re in my dresser,” he whispers. “I’ve had them for weeks… I’m sorry. I wash them though.” He slaps his hand over his face. “Fuck, that made it sound so much worse.”
You stare at him. Then you drop your face to his neck and start laughing hard. He groans, “D-don’t—don’t laugh—I’m confessing something terrible…” but his arms wrap tighter around you anyway.
“Keep them,” you say against his skin. “You earned them.”
