✿ marie ✿ choso’s red rose. an archive for cho-cho. i write sometimes too. florist!choso is my husband. i take only sfw requests! i repost sfw and nfsw stuff, so mdni. m.list
sfw ✿ a/n: the beautiful art of baker choso shown below was created by the lovely @megumiessmile who not only came up with the idea for baker choso, but also was kind enough to create + share this art piece to accompany my headcanons! thank you so much for this idea and everyone, please go support their page!
baker!choso who finally fulfilled his dream of opening his own cozy little bakery, which specialises in comfort pastries and treats. choso himself never particularly had a sweet tooth, but started to like sweets after picking up the habit from yuuji. choso discovered that he loved cakes and pastries in particular, and began to bake at home out of curiosity.
baker!choso who struggled with baking in the beginning; he was a chaotic baker, with flour getting everywhere and the kitchen overheating constantly. but after he mastered making a cherry cake, the sight of yuuji and his friends enjoying his food cheered him up, knowing that he’s made them happy through his time and effort.
baker!choso who names his pastries after his loved ones (“yuuji roll” “little brother swirl”)
baker!choso who is quiet and gentle with customers; he shows care through actions rather than words, like giving extra pastries to people who seem sad and letting children watch him glaze and decorate pastries.
baker!choso who always has soft music playing in the background; he insists he can’t bake unless music is playing as it gets him into “the baking flow state”
baker!choso who keeps a notebook full of baking ideas, sketches and experiments. the notebook is pocket sized and he takes it everywhere; the sights, smells and sounds of the city inspire fires up his creativity and he is always doodling decorative ideas for his cakes and weird but wonderful filling ideas for his pastries.
baker!choso who insists that he is the one who creates celebratory cakes for his friends and family, and always refuses to make them pay for it. it’s his way of showing his love.
a/n 2: so sorry that this came out so late! life has been very difficult recently and i’ve been in and out of hospital, so thank you for bearing with me
Hello hello! I was wondering if you could make some lovecore dividers? (if you haven’t already, of course. I looked through most of your page but I might’ve missed a post or two.) I really adore the way you make them. You’re kinda my go-to, honestly. X3c
Oh, what a fantastic choice, just in time for Valentine's Day!
Please credit @pixopix, likes and reblogs are appreciated!
i love florist choso sm ughh, and all the things you write about him are so precious!
i have an idea of drawing baker!choso but i suck at writing to make little drabbles of him, would you like the idea of writing abt him if i ever make him?
ahh thank you for the comment! i’m so happy you enjoy my drabbles 💞💞💞
and OMG YES i’ve been thinking about writing baker!choso for a while now after i saw a prompt for this on twitter, i would love to write for you!!! 🫶
you began to notice the roses appearing on the florists’ counter a few days ago. whenever you went to collect your order, a single red rose would be sitting in a pristine vase, a wine-red ribbon adorning the neck of the glass. the florists’ cheeks were a similar colour, blushing a furious deep red as he nervously packaged up your order. your best friend has been recovering from an illness at the local hospital, and you made it a habit to gift her a bouquet of beautiful flowers every week to brighten up the dull hospital space she was occupying. you had found the florist shop a few weeks ago, lured in by the beautifully arranged bouquets on display and the faint scent of chamomile and cinnamon tea in the air.
the florist was a young man who spoke and moved like someone older and wiser than he looked. you saw his hands first, large yet surprisingly delicate as he reached out to recommend the right flowers to gift for someone who was recovering from an illness. you never knew flowers had their own language; you watched as the awkward young man suddenly brightened up as he spoke at length about the history of floriography. you couldn’t help but smile warmly; you loved it when people’s passion shone through on their faces. the young man — choso — began to blush furiously as he saw you watching him, apologising for speaking for too long. you simply shook your head and reassured him that you learnt a lot from him. your friend’s illness has been weighing you down a lot lately, and choso’s passionate monologue on the language of flowers was a welcome respite from the stress of being a carer.
one day, you returned to the shop, stumbling through the door with puffy red eyes. you came for your order — it felt impolite to cancel it at short notice, especially as you knew by now of the care and time choso put into arranging your orders. he had rushed to you, his eyes furrowed in worry as he led you to his coffee table, asking what happened. you explained that your friend’s illness had taken a surprise turn for the worse, and she was currently in intensive care. you rambled on and on to him, oblivious to how delirious you looked and sounded. choso simply remained silent, holding your hand in his warm one, circling his thumb on your wrist absentmindedly as he comforted you. he poured you some chamomile tea — “helps to soothe nerves”, he had said — and you drank from it, feeling the effects almost immediately. perhaps it was the placebo effect, or perhaps it was the warmth seeping into your bones from choso’s gentle touch that soothed you almost instantly. you were calmer now, and you managed a small smile as choso held your hand, his hazel eyes as warm and comforting as a summer’s day. you felt your heart flutter as your nerves washed away, surrounded by the scent of flowers.
a few weeks later, you had noticed the pattern of red roses appearing on the florist’s counter. you knew roses were a symbol of romance, of devotion and passion — you looked up meekly at choso as he bound your order in string, his eyebrows furrowed in the ridiculously adorable way they always did when he was concentrating. you felt the warmth in his hand when he passed you the bouquet, and you felt your heart beat faster as he smiled at you, his voice like honey soothing your worn out mind and body. you wondered what it would be like to be wrapped up in those strong arms of his, safe and well — to have an evening of respite, away from the worries of the world, the scent of chamomile filling your nostrils. you wondered what it would be like to wake up to see those hazel eyes adoring you, like liquid nectar. you wondered what those large yet warm hands would feel like on your skin, those kind lips at your throat, tantalising and hazy, murmuring poetry and praises.
“same time next week?” — choso’s voice cut through your daydreams, oblivious to your thoughts. you blushed furiously and nodded, smiling a bit too eagerly at the idea. you looked one last time at the rose on the counter, so delicate and breathtakingly beautiful.
“may i have it?” you ask, your voice small but hopeful. choso smiles at that.
“of course. my gift to you. i hope it reminds you of me.”
choso had never understood why humans insisted on personal space.
from the very beginning, he had watched couples in parks and on trains, their shoulders brushing, their hands laced together, their heads resting against one another as if proximity itself were oxygen. at first he assumed it was some ritual, another strange social habit like shaking hands or bowing. but once he fell in love, he realized it was much simpler.
he just didn’t like being far away.
it started subtly. a hand hovering at the small of your back when you walked through crowded streets. standing just a little too close while you talked. sitting beside you instead of across from you, even when there was plenty of space.
soon, subtle stopped being enough.
if you were reading, choso would quietly lower himself behind you on the couch, long arms circling your waist as if he were anchoring you in place. he wouldn’t say anything at first, just rest his chin on your shoulder, dark hair brushing against your cheek. his presence was heavy and warm, solid in a way that made it impossible to forget he was there.
“choso,” you’d murmur, pretending to focus on the page.
a pause. “yes?”
“you’re squeezing.” “i am not.” he absolutely was.
he claimed it was instinct. a protective reflex. a lingering habit from guarding his brothers. but there was something softer beneath it, something he never quite knew how to name. the world had taken too much from him already. when he found something precious, he held on.
literally.
he followed you around the apartment without shame. if you stood up to grab water, he trailed behind. if you leaned against the counter, he leaned too, shoulder pressed firmly against yours. if you tried to slip away to another room, you’d find him appearing moments later, silent and inevitable.
“you know I’m not going anywhere,” you told him once, amused.
he looked genuinely puzzled. “but you could.”
there was no accusation in his voice. just fact. possibility. that was the heart of it.
choso loved with a quiet intensity that bordered on desperate. He didn’t flirt easily. he didn’t tease much. but when he touched you, when his fingers laced carefully through yours or his forehead rested against yours, it felt like a vow. like he was grounding himself in your existence.
sometimes his clinginess became almost shy.
he’d sit close, thigh pressed against yours, pretending to focus on something else entirely while subtly inching nearer. if you shifted away even slightly, he would notice immediately. a faint crease would form between his brows, and within seconds he’d close the gap again, as if drawn by gravity.
at night, it was worse.
choso insisted on holding you while you slept. not loosely. not casually. one arm beneath your head, the other wrapped firmly around your waist, fingers curled into fabric like he expected you to disappear before morning.
if you tried to turn over, he followed. if you slipped from his grasp, even half-asleep, he reached for you.
“choso,” you mumble into the pillow.
a low hum in response. Not awake enough to form words, but aware enough to tighten his hold.
he wasn’t possessive in a cruel way. he didn’t try to isolate you. he didn’t grow angry at your friendships or independence. but when you returned home, he made up for every second apart.
there were quiet moments, too. gentle ones.
he’d sit behind you on the floor, carefully combing his fingers through your hair with unexpected delicacy. or rest his forehead against the back of your hand, eyes closed, breathing slow and steady as if memorizing the rhythm of you.
“you’re so clingy cho,” you teased once, turning to face him.
choso studied your expression, searching for annoyance. finding none, he answered honestly.
“i know.” no excuses, no embarrassment, just truth.
then, after a beat, he added, softer, “i don’t want to lose you. the words settled between you, heavier than his arms ever could.
you reached up and cupped his face, thumbs brushing softly beneath his eyes. “you won’t,” you whispered.
he hesitated, as if the reassurance was something fragile, then slowly leaned into your touch. you guided him down with you, wrapping your arms around his neck as he folded against you, careful but unyielding. his face tucked into the crook of your shoulder, breath warm against your skin.
“i love you’’ you murmured, fingers threading through his hair.
his grip tightened, not desperate now, just seeking. and when you held him back just as firmly, his breathing finally steadied.
florist!choso who owns a cozy shop downtown, not far from the sea, where he sells all manner of flowers. the shop is small, tucked into a quiet side street, with no flashy sign - just a modest wooden placard with hand-painted lettering, made by yuuji and his friends.
florist!choso who is picky about the interior design of his shop and the sensory experience it brings to him and his customers. the interior smells like fresh greenery and rain-soaked soil; he prefers dim, warm lighting, and loves it when the late afternoon sun spills through the high windows, warming the shop. a kettle is always boiling in the corner, with the scent of aromatic herbal tea gently wafting across the shop, giving off a cozy and tranquil vibe that relaxes customers as soon as they walk in.
florist!choso has extremely gentle hands despite how strong he is. he delicately wraps bouquets in brown paper tied with thin red twine, his brow furrowed in concentration as he arranges the flowers in each place. if someone tells him the bouquet is for a sibling, he gets quietly serious and tucks a few small sweets into the paper bouquet.
florist!choso who’s favourite flowers are red roses and seasonal wildflowers. he loves the romantic undertones of the red flowers, and enjoys picking out the very best roses for the lovers that come by to his shop, taking it very seriously. the wildflowers are stubborn, and they’re one of his favourites because they remind him of his brothers - stubborn, resilient, enduring.
florist!choso who likes to give small single flowers to the children who walk into his shop for free. he’s deeply tuned to the emotions of the people who come by his shop and knows exactly what flower they need to match their needs. he is gentle and soft-spoken, and makes effort to not pry; he listens deeply if someone wants to talk. he takes the time to remember repeat customers’ names and their favorite flowers.
florist!choso who has a notebook where he sketches bouquet ideas whenever he gets free time, humming softly to himself as he imagines up beautiful arrangements. when alone, he talks quietly to the flowers while watering them, telling them stories about his brothers or whispering a gentle “grow well” as he prunes them. choso treats the flowers like something fragile and alive, because to him, they are.
florist!choso who’s love language is flowers - he makes you bouquets with meanings layered in floriography, leaves small arrangements at your door instead of texting, and fixes wilted flowers immediately if he sees them in your home. he’s delicate, precise and deeply meaningful in everything he does.
your best friend, yuuji, is not home... but bestfriendsbrother!choso is.. (* >ω<)
cw: fem!reader, she/her, very feminine!reader, very suggestive, choso has a crush on reader but reader has no idea, she likes him too, self indulgent cuz im chubby and regularly wear stuff short enough to show half my ass when i bend over, written with chubby reader in mind but im pretty sure only the word 'plush' and/ 'soft' is used
you and your best friend yuuji go over to eachothers houses all the time, often unannounced. this time is no different as you strut up to his doorstep on a saturday afternoon, knocking on his door.
however, instead of yuuji, it's his older brother choso who opens the door. dressed in only black sweatpants, his hair wet. clearly, he just came out of the shower.
your eyes automatically dart to his toned torso before you catch yourself and look back up to his face with a sheepish smile.
"uhm.. hey, choso.. is yuuji home?" you ask, warmth creeping up your neck as you hands fiddle with the hem of your skirt. you have to do try your hardest to keep your gaze on his face.
"hey," he greets, a sweet smile gracing his devastatingly handsome features. "yuuji left earlier this morning with fushiguro and nobara, i don't know when they'll be back."
"you can come inside, though. don't want you coming all the way here to be for nothing." he then continues, stepping aside to let you in. his face his slightly red as he eyes your revealing outfit.
he's used to you dressing in the shortest skirts and dresses, but dealing with it hasn't gotten easier in the slightest. his face automatically reddening at even the briefest glance at your soft body clad in the most flattering, tiny scraps of fabric.
you take off your shoes at the entrance and choso has to physically force himself to turn away as you bend over to put said shoes away. he gulps harshly and walks into the livingroom, settling on the couch. he glances over as you sit down as well, keeping a respectful distance between you two.
"...can we watch-" you start, but are interrupted by choso finishing the question.
"scooby doo? sure thing." choso's already finding the definitely not legally obtained episodes on youtube. "the original, no? the new animation style sucks."
you smile at that. he's just echoing what he's heard you say to yuuji a bunch of times since the uncultured younger brother doesn't seem to appreciate the true art of first gen 'scooby doo, where are you?'
"yes, please." you answer, your tone sweet and grateful.
an episode goes by in silence, both of you engrossed in it as if it's not the nth time you're watching it. it's around the halfway point of 'a night of fright is no delight' when choso starts getting antsy. he keeps glancing at your adorable face, scrunched up in focus. his eyes then drift down to your neck. he imagines sucking heart-shaped bruises onto your delicate skin as you make the sweetest noises (which he has imagined an embarassing amount of times while locked away in his bedroom at night.)
his gaze then continues wandering down to your chest, your tits half sticking out of your pathetic excuse of a top. a rush of jealousy courses through him. were you dressing like this for yuuji? it was him you initially came for, right? choso frowns at the thought. you must be into yuuji, there's just no other option.
little does choso know, you've noticed him looking at you a while back. how his gaze turned from neutral to a judging frown. embarassment painfully and slowly fills your chest. does he think i'm some sort of slut? does he disapprove? good lord, all i wanted was his attention, and now i've got his judgement instead..
you dare a glance at choso, asking a quiet: "is everything alright? you look annoyed.."
it seems to be enough to snap him out of his jealous daze. his gaze immediately softens as he looks back up at your face. he smiles sheepishly and shakes his head. "yeah! i mean, yeah, i'm fine. you look good, by the way.." he trails off, his eyes focusing on some random spot on the carpet.
your eyes widen at that and you look away quickly. heat rushes to your face and you answer with the most awkward: "thanks, you too." that makes you slap a hand over your face.
choso's face warms at your cute display, before he clears his throat and speaks up again. "so.. did you make yourself all pretty for yuuji? shame he's not here to see you.."
your eyes widen at that. "what? no! i always dress like this.. and why would it be for yuuji? we're just friends." you clarify, though the implication makes your face contort in confusion. "i don't like him like that.. he's not really my type."
that makes choso sit up as he eyes you curiously. "what is your type then?" mind you, he's still shirtless, his hair a bit drier now.
your face flushes with heat and you try to muster up a way to either be vague enough for him to not realize, or change the topic entirely. you opt for a disaster instead.
"uhm.. tall is nice, and uhh.. muscular? but not lean... more bulked up or whatever." you weakly explain, your heart hammering in your chest. you could stop there and be fine, but when have you ever made a reasonable choice when around choso?
"dark hair and tattoos too," you add. "someone who knows what i like without me really having to say anything, stuff like that." you lose steam as you go, finally sighing. "yeah, i guess that's it."
choso's eyes are fixated on your face and his gaze contains what looks like a bit of hope. he's snapped out of it though when he hears you ask: "what about you? what's your type?"
"you." he answers instantly, before his eyes widen as he realizes what he just said.
your expression mirrors his own shocked one as you stare at eachother wordlessly. the only sound in the room is the intro song of the next scooby doo episode.
"me?" you ask, desperate to hear it again. "really?"
"..." choso considers backing out, but seeing the hopeful expression on your face is enough to have him nodding. "yeah.. really."
neither of you know how to continue after that. you're just looking at eachother while registering the faintest 'zoinks, scoob!' on the tv.
choso is the first one to gather himself as he scoots closer to you on the couch. your thighs are touching now, and the warmth makes you look down.
you feel choso's fingers on your chin, his touch delicate and soft. he lifts your chin to make you look at him, your faces now mere centimeters apart. you see his eyes dart down to your lips, then back up. with the smallest nod from you, he leans in.
the kiss is a little clumsy, but no less gentle and sweet. it makes your eyes flutter shut and your hands reach up to cradle his cheeks as you lean in enough for you to be chest to chest. you feel choso's breath hitch at the feeling of your scantily-clad chest pressing against his bare torso.
heat builds up fast as his hands grab your hips, pulling you into his lap. his hands squeeze at the plush flesh. you reach down and press his hands lower and onto your butt under your skirt. he squeezes, massaging your ass firmly, making you yelp. your hips buck, pressing insessantly against his hardening crotch.
you wrap your arms around his neck, comfortably leaning against him as his hands on your ass make you grind down with just enough pressure to make you both sigh into the kiss.
you stay in eachothers embrace like this for a while, pressing your lips together in soft and lazy kisses as your hips take on a slow rhythm. for how long you've liked choso, you expected yourself to jump his bones immediately when given the chance.. but this is so much better. so secure, so comfortable, so tender.
you vaguely hear choso mumble praise into the kiss: "such a sweet girl.. been waiting so long to get my hands on you. now you're all mine.."
an: loved writing this one (#^.^#) as i said tho, extremely self indulgent
all my works are sfw ✿ this is a jjk and choso kamo centric blog. i take only sfw requests!
❝ the pink peony embodies a delicate balance of love, grace, and romance. its gentle hue whispers of affectionate gestures and tender moments. it is a reminder that love, in its softest forms, is the foundation of life's most beautiful connections. the pink peony invites us to cherish the quiet intimacies that colour our lives, to find joy in the subtlest expressions of affection. ❞
✿ choso is an excellent cook; he loves immersing himself in the sensory experience of preparing food and loves to share what he’s made with loved ones. he feels at peace knowing his loved ones are going to bed with a full belly, well fed and taken care of. cooking is his love language; he’ll learn your favourite meals and desserts and spend time perfecting them so he can make them for you.
✿ choso is a light sleeper, and struggles sometimes with insomnia as a result. he has frequent nightmares which trouble him. he’s the type to hate sleeping in the dark, only doing so if someone else is in the room with him. if not, he’ll sleep with low ambient lighting on in the background.
✿ he feels uncomfortable around animals, and is slightly scared of them. dogs and cats are hostile towards him, sensing his non-human presence, and tend to get pretty aggressive around him which freaks him out. he in particular hates cats, after a wild encounter saw a street cat try to attack yuuji which resulted in both brothers getting scratched.
✿ ironically, choso is afraid of the supernatural. he’d rather eat glass than go to a haunted house or watch a scary movie. he is very superstitious as a result, making sure his loved ones wear protective amulets or read certain mantras at all times. in a way, his superstitious beliefs are his way of reassuring himself that his family and friends will be safe when he’s not around, and his rituals help to calm him when his loved ones are away for long periods of time.
✿ his body temperature is always warm, which makes him extra fun to snuggle with <3
✿ he likes to hum to himself, and it becomes a soothing part of your routine when he’s around you a lot.
✿ he loves scalp massages and enjoys the sensation of having your fingers run through his hair. it’s one of the few things that help him doze off quickly, and guarantees him a good night’s sleep.
✿ choso is the type to not swear at all. he’ll dramatically gasp if someone around him swears, and he’ll lecture his brothers if he catches them doing the same. he’s intent on being a good role model for all, and even if he did try to loosen up a bit, he finds that he cannot let foul words roll off his tongue without feeling immensely shameful.
thinking about modernau!chōsō and giving him flowers. 
one giant bouquet a month of red, purple, or even black/white flowers. he secretly presses at least one flower each time. he has multiple scrapbooks in the few years you’ve been dating and has never told you that he does this. you don’t tell him what days you’ll do it; it’s just a surprise. eventually, he starts taking pictures of you on the days you give him the bouquets.
and on the day he proposes to you, chōsō also gives you the biggest bouquet that includes at least one of every type of flower you’ve given him. and, he also finally reveals the scrapbooks he’s been accumulating that has all the flowers inside—it has the dates written above every flower and there’s a little note under every flower that has something he loves about you.
as you flip through—engagement ring on your finger—you start to see polaroid-like photos attached too. he printed out the pictures he took of you, where you’re handing him the bouquet with a giant smile on your face. and, now you’re just crying and it makes him cry—everybody’s crying, full of love. did i forget to mention he proposed in a botanical garden during spring, flowers in full bloom.
and, once you’re married: you both start to buy bouquets together. two types. you pick one. he picks one. and, you guys put it in a vase in the dining room. a new scrapbook is started with two flowers pressed at a time. and, one picture taken with both of you in it now, holding the bouquet.
florist!choso who owns a cozy shop downtown, not far from the sea, where he sells all manner of flowers. the shop is small, tucked into a quiet side street, with no flashy sign - just a modest wooden placard with hand-painted lettering, made by yuuji and his friends.
florist!choso who is picky about the interior design of his shop and the sensory experience it brings to him and his customers. the interior smells like fresh greenery and rain-soaked soil; he prefers dim, warm lighting, and loves it when the late afternoon sun spills through the high windows, warming the shop. a kettle is always boiling in the corner, with the scent of aromatic herbal tea gently wafting across the shop, giving off a cozy and tranquil vibe that relaxes customers as soon as they walk in.
florist!choso has extremely gentle hands despite how strong he is. he delicately wraps bouquets in brown paper tied with thin red twine, his brow furrowed in concentration as he arranges the flowers in each place. if someone tells him the bouquet is for a sibling, he gets quietly serious and tucks a few small sweets into the paper bouquet.
florist!choso who’s favourite flowers are red roses and seasonal wildflowers. he loves the romantic undertones of the red flowers, and enjoys picking out the very best roses for the lovers that come by to his shop, taking it very seriously. the wildflowers are stubborn, and they’re one of his favourites because they remind him of his brothers - stubborn, resilient, enduring.
florist!choso who likes to give small single flowers to the children who walk into his shop for free. he’s deeply tuned to the emotions of the people who come by his shop and knows exactly what flower they need to match their needs. he is gentle and soft-spoken, and makes effort to not pry; he listens deeply if someone wants to talk. he takes the time to remember repeat customers’ names and their favorite flowers.
florist!choso who has a notebook where he sketches bouquet ideas whenever he gets free time, humming softly to himself as he imagines up beautiful arrangements. when alone, he talks quietly to the flowers while watering them, telling them stories about his brothers or whispering a gentle “grow well” as he prunes them. choso treats the flowers like something fragile and alive, because to him, they are.
florist!choso who’s love language is flowers - he makes you bouquets with meanings layered in floriography, leaves small arrangements at your door instead of texting, and fixes wilted flowers immediately if he sees them in your home. he’s delicate, precise and deeply meaningful in everything he does.
𝜗𝜚 gamer!choso gets the gawk gawk under his desk and thinks he can keep gaming through it (he can’t) . . .
( mdni. cw: oral (m. rec), riding, praise kink, subby!choso, messy kisses, overstim, size kink if u squint )
the plan wasn’t to suck him off.
well— maybe it was. you had walked into his room in your softest little sleep shorts, the ones he always stares at like they offend him personally, dragging a finger across his back with a “what game are you playing?” even though you couldn’t care less about it. and you had dropped to your knees between his legs before he even processed you were crawling under the desk like a stray cat.
but now that you’re down here, arms curled around his thighs like you live there, the plan is very much in motion. and choso’s suffering.
he tries, okay? he tries so hard to keep his eyes locked on the screen, to keep his mic etiquette in check and not absolutely fold when you mouth at the tip of his cock over his sweats.
he clears his throat, tugs the mic closer. “nah, i’m good- i’m just, uh, i’m chillin’. just ate.”
you bite back a laugh against him. oh he’s eating alright.
you pop the band of his sweats just enough to free him, the head flushed and leaking, fat and heavy on your tongue when you wrap your lips around him. he twitches when you sink lower, when you suck slow and mean, letting spit pool under your tongue so it drips down your chin. he sounds like he might actually cry.
his hand comes down to pet your head, gentle at first. maybe he’s hoping to ground himself. maybe he just needs to touch something, you, to remind himself this is real.
and he still tries to play it cool. “yo, that was a crazy shot,” he says, voice tight like he’s holding something back, the words riding a breathless whimper. “s-sorry, lagged for a sec.”
you moan around him, slow and low, and he bucks into your mouth. idiot. rookie mistake.
“fuck,” he hisses, voice muffled. and then into the mic: “nah, not you- just stubbed my toe.”
he’s so bad at lying it’s almost cute.
you let your nails drag softly over his thighs as you hollow your cheeks and take him deep, until he’s halfway down your throat and gripping the edge of the desk like it’s a lifeline. he’s flushed to the tips of his ears. voice shaking. thighs twitching. his game’s already over and he’s still pretending like he’s playing, bless his heart ;(
you pull off with a slick ‘pop’, spit clinging to your lips. “you gonna cum already, baby?” you whisper, and his whole body shudders.
he nods— then remembers where he is and shakes his head frantically instead. “n-no, just- gimme one sec- i just—”
but it’s too late. you know the exact rhythm that ruins him. he melts under your tongue, cock twitching while you jerk him through it, messy and warm and trembling, one hand clapped over his mic while he whimpers into his headset as if the world is ending.
he barely remembers to log off. stammers something like “ggs” and slams his laptop shut the moment he’s softening, eyes wide, chest heaving like he ran a fucking marathon.
and then he looks at you, and there’s that familiar switch— you know the one.
because now that he’s not being watched, he can be yours again. not the composed one, not the focused one— just soft, flushed, pussydrunk choso, so sweet it makes your heart ache.
“c’mere,” he mumbles, pulling you into his lap. his arms go everywhere— your waist, your thighs, your face, like he can’t pick just one spot. he’s still so hard it’s insane.
“you were so mean to me,” he says, breathless. “you’re evil.”
“mm, i know.” you kiss his cheek. “gonna let me ride you to make up for it?”
he nods so fast it’s pathetic. “please.”
and god, he’s so big. thick and heavy and already sensitive, the head sliding against your folds as you sink down slowly, both of you moaning when you take him to the base. his hands find your hips instantly, pulling you down harder. his head falls back, mouth open, hair falling into his face.
“so fuckin’ pretty,” you whisper against his lips. “my pretty boy.”
he whines.
you set a slow rhythm, grinding more than bouncing, and he’s gripping your ass like he’ll die if you stop. his hips twitch up into you— once, twice— before you pin him down by the chest.
“no moving,” you warn. “just let me use you.”
his eyes flutter. “o-okay.”
you kiss him while you ride him, messy and deep, tongues tangled while he moans into your mouth like he needs it. and the whole time, his hands are still all over you— palming your tits, dragging down your spine, gripping your thighs, stroking your face, he doesn’t know what to do with himself.
he’s so close it’s painful. you can feel it.
“baby, baby i’m- fuck, i’m gonna cum again—”
“go ahead.” you lick into his mouth. “cum for me, cho.”
and he does. with a loud, broken moan and his arms wrapped tight around you, cumming so hard it almost hurts, hips bucking uncontrollably as you ride him through it.
after, you kiss his flushed cheeks, his red ears, the space between his brows. his lashes flutter. he looks dazed.
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