tbh although it’s obvious that aizawa is not the kind of man who likes any kind of pda (except for maybe some subtle touches that only you two notice) i am a firm believer of this man being the touchiest mfer ever when you two are alone.
sure, it does take him a little to warm up. a bit more than a little.
BUT! once you crack that tough-guy exterior of his?
oh, he’s all over you. constantly.
if you two are sitting together that big, strong hand of his is always on your thigh.
yes, even when he’s driving. (especially then)
hands under your shirt if he’s hugging you from behind. he loves to feel how warm you are under his calloused fingertips, how soft you feel.
plops you onto his lap when he’s grading. and also, definitely the kind of man who pats his lap once. and you know what it means. get on there immediately.
temple kisses! always! his favorite place to kiss dare i add!
hands threading through your hair when you’re speaking, or maybe caressing your head, or softly grazing your face with the back of his hand. that’s his way of telling you to keep going and that yes, he’s listening.
he’s not a big hugger, but! when you do hug him after a long day? oh, he absolutely melts into your arms. there he is, your big, strong boyfriend is suddenly putty in your hands. he’s also a secret fan of head scratches (who said that)
“izu just.. please.” you crack your sleepy eyes open. “one more minute.” you reach up, cupping his cheek and bringing his lips back to yours.
“you just go back to bed and i’ll be home before you know it.” he chuckles against your lips.
“i miss you.” a soft whine.
“baby.” he cups your face. “i’m right here.” a kiss to your nose.
“stay.” you wrap your arms around his neck. “just skip class so you can keep kissing me.” you tangle your fingers into his hair, pulling his soft lips down to yours.
“i gotta go.” he mumbles. “gotta make money to keep up with your shopping addiction.” he detaches your arms, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “go back to sleep.” he tucks his pillow in tight next to you, checking your water and making sure your fan is on.
“zu.” you pout sleepily.
“if you wake up in time for my lunch you can come visit.” one last kiss to your lips before he leaves you buried in the sheets.
the fake yuta fans are the ones letting everybody know they liked yuta before ”the great switch up” mind u they said this like 2 seconds before the new ep like i genuinely don’t care xx
tags/warnings: 18+ MDNI. aged-up modulo yuji 83, post-canon, established relationship, possessive desperate dom yuji, intimacy as coping, oral obsession, overstimulation/squirting/multiple orgasms, aftercare.
modulo yuji: who shows up at your door unannounced in the dead of night. hood up, eyes shadowed, that faint cursed energy hum clinging to him like smoke. he doesn’t say much- just steps inside, pulls you close, and buries his face in your neck like you’re the only anchor left in his endless life. “needed this,” he mutters, voice rough from decades of silence.
modulo yuji: who’s forgotten how to ask for what he wants. 83 years of carrying the burden alone made him greedy in the quietest ways. he pins your wrists above your head with one massive hand, the other sliding slow between your thighs, fingers knowing every spot like muscle memory. “tell me if it’s too much,” he whispers, even as he grinds deeper, chasing the heat that makes him feel alive again.
modulo yuji: who eats you out like it’s penance. kneels between your legs for what feels like hours, tongue flat and deliberate, lapping slow circles around your clit until your thighs tremble. his scarred hands grip your hips firm- gentle enough not to bruise, strong enough you can’t squirm away. those sharp eyes flick up, watching every twitch, every gasp, drinking in how you fall apart like it’s the only thing that still matters.
modulo yuji: who curls his long fingers just right inside you, pumping steady while his mouth stays latched on. he knows the exact angle, the exact pressure- decades of battle-honed precision turned sinful. when you start to cry from the overstimulation, he doesn’t stop; he hums against you, vibrations ripping another orgasm out like he’s collecting them to fill the void. “let it out, pretty thing…i’ve got you.”
modulo yuji: he smirks the first time you squirt all over his face and chest. that rare, crooked smile breaks through the stoic mask-soft, almost boyish despite the his age and tired eyes. “didn’t think you had that in you,” he teases low, licking his lips clean like it’s nectar. then he dives back in, hungrier, determined to make it happen again just to see that adorable, embarrassed flush.
modulo yuji: he is obsessed with your cum like it’s the closest thing to salvation he’s found. fingers, tongue, cock- he draws every last shudder from you, groaning when you clench around him. “more,” he demands quietly, voice wrecked. “give me everything.” he is greedy because he knows time will steal this too, so he takes it all now-lapping, thrusting, filling you until you’re dripping and boneless.
modulo yuji: who sends you filthy voice notes when the loneliness claws too deep and missions keep him away for weeks. late at night, his voice comes through rough and low, thick with need- breathing ragged as he strokes himself slow, the slick sounds wet and obscene in the quiet. “can’t stop thinking about your tight little cunt… how it grips me when i bottom out,” he groans, voice cracking on a whine he’s too far gone to hide. he edges himself mercilessly, drawing it out just to torture himself with thoughts of you, refusing to cum until he imagines your reply-your moans, your pleas-then spills with a broken “fuck, come back soon… need to fill you up again.” the messages pile up, each one more desperate, more wrecked, proof he’s unraveling without you.
modulo yuji: who gets possessive in the quietest, most devastating way. when you’re out in public (rare as it is with his hooded, shadowed existence), he stays close—hand on the small of your back, thumb tracing circles that send heat straight between your legs. later, he strips you slow, eyes dark with that ancient hunger. “no one else touches what’s mine,” he murmurs, biting marks into your neck while he grinds against you, cock leaking pre-cum like he’s marking territory with every rut. he fucks you possessive and claiming-deep, rolling thrusts that make you feel owned, his hands everywhere, growling low “say it… say you’re mine” until you’re sobbing it back, clenching around him like you’ll never let go.
modulo yuji: who holds you after, chest heaving, arms locked tight like he’ll never let go. whispers apologies into your hair for how rough he got, for how long he stayed away. but his hips still twitch, cock half-hard against your thigh, already thinking about round… whatever this is. “stay,” he breathes, the loneliest word from a man who’s outlived the world
hi, yall i’m sorry being late w my post but here u go also thankyou so much for being so supportive 𖾕𖾝꙼ᩚ𛲕𖾟
boyfriend!choso helps you with your everything shower (curly haired!reader) ⟢ fluff
it’s the day before your new semester, which only means one thing—time for an everything shower!
except unlike your usual circumstances, this time choso is at your side like a curious child, constantly prodding around with all the products and asking about literally everything.
you start the routine off with a shower, of course. in which choso eagerly joins you, he has no idea what he’s doing—sure—but he just follows your lead, lathering certain shampoos into your hair and massaging random lotions into your back. he knows he’s doing good when he hears your sighs of contentment, spurring his motivation to help in every step of the way.
after you two get out of the shower, he helps you wrap a towel around your hair and picks out your favourite pyjama set, kuromi pj pants and a black t-shirt. he matches pyjamas with you, rocking the same kuromi jammies. you decide to set aside your hair for later, and focus on the next most important task—your skincare.
while playing some rnb tunes off your phone, he quietly studies you performing your routine with a practiced ease, maneuvering from creams to oils to foamy substances. he tracks it all like it’s sacred information.
and at some point, his curiosity gets the better of him.
he drifts closer and hesitantly picks up one of your face oils, rolling the cool glass bottle around and examining its contents. he pops the lid open, squeezes out way too much onto his fingers, and lifts his hand to his face—rubbing it into his cheek with all the grace of a clumsy toddler.
you take notice of him and snort at his antics, “cho, what have you done? you look like one of those shiny-ass bodybuilders.”
“is my inexperience that obvious?” he asks, smiling sheepishly.
“oh, absolutely,” you grin “but don’t worry, you wanna try some of this? c’mere, i got you.”
before he can protest, you grab his hand and guide him over, plopping him down on the edge of your vanity. he lets you drag him around, falling into the chair with a flat oomph as you surround him with jars and bottles and little glass droppers. he glances at the setup, then at you—eyes bright and curious.
“okay!” you announce, “let’s start with this.”
you pick up a cream from your table—one he instantly assumes is expensive just by the packaging alone. he mentally notes the brand, the color, and the shape of the jar. he’ll replace it for you later. maybe buy you two.
you lather the cream between your fingers before smoothing it over his face. he exhales the second your hands touch him, a soft whine slipping out before he can stop it.
“that feels… really really nice,” he murmurs.
you glance down to see him smiling into your palm, eyes half-lidded. one of his hands comes up instinctively, cupping your wrist. his thumb brushing absentmindedly over the back of your hand as he leans into your touch.
“maybe,” he hums laxly, “you should do my skincare every day.”
you laugh quietly. “like you need it. your face is already, like, stupidly smooth. i’m super jealous, actually.”
“maybe i should put you on to my skincare then?” he beams.
“what skincare, cho? you don’t even shower most days.”
“that’s a lie!” he laughs, elated at the way your smile brightens up your entire face, even if it’s at his expense.
after performing your entire skincare routine twice—once on him and once on yourself, you move on to finally deal with your hair.
“can i help?” he asks innocently, hovering at your side like a clingy puppy. he’s already poking through your products and twirling one of your wet curls between his fingers.
you huff out a laugh, shoulders sagging just a little as you look at your reflection. your arms are tired, and your patience was already thin from previous not-so-enjoyable experiences with you hair. and, well, why would you deny yourself a break, after all?
“…fine,” you sigh, shifting your back towards him. “you can start with that—”
“i know, sweetheart,” he cuts in, flashing you a confident smile. “i’ve got this. i’ve done my research on this kind of stuff, so let me see if it paid off.”
you raise a brow but don’t argue.
he starts with the spray bottle, misting your hair until it’s thoroughly sopping, you almost tease him because of how locked in he is on such a mundane task, but his focus is absolute. he works slowly and carefully, when he picks up the brush to begin detangling, he treats your hair like it might break if he’s even a little rough with a knot.
he does absolutely anything and everything to minimize the pain—beginning at the very ends, he detangles in tiny sections, pausing whenever he feels resistance, and spraying an unholy amount of leave in conditioner. he’s quietly murmuring apologies under his breath as he goes along.
“tell me if I’m hurting you, baby. i’ll go slower.” he says quietly, already easing his grip just in case it really does hurt and you’re just pretending it doesn’t.
by the time your hair is completely knot-free, it’s so silky that he can freely run his fingers through it, smiling as he sees the light reflecting off your bouncy curls. he reaches for the curl cream next, squeezing a generous dollop and warming it between his palms before working it through your hair slowly. his fingers sink into your curls, massaging in the product in while lightly scratching at your scalp. you sigh in contentment at his ministrations, you can’t remember the last time you’ve felt so relaxed.
your natural hair pattern starts to bloom almost immediately—much to his awe.
“you’re so beautiful..” he murmurs reverently, “my pretty baby”
he twirls a curl around his finger, watching the way it springs back, how it catches the light. in his eyes, your natural hair is a masterpiece, something precious. something he already knows the feel of against his cheek late at night, when he’s curled up behind you and using it as his soft pillow.
instead of reaching for the defining brush, he sets it aside. a passive boyish smile already forming on his face as he knows what he plans to do.
he holds up a piece and scrutinizes it, placing both his fingers on the bottom of the strand and slowly rolling it up.
it takes him a few tries, but when he finally gets it, he removes his fingers from it—leaving behind the juiciest finger curl you’ve ever had grace your head.
he presents the curl to you in the mirror, beaming like a proud papa.
“wow, choso. i didn’t know you had such a knack for this stuff.” you smile, holding the curl in your palm and carefully twirling it around, “you should consider cosmetology”
“i only wanna do your hair, though.”
you laugh again, “okay, baby, y’know you could always do my hair whenever you want, right? this doesn’t have to be a special occasion.”
at that, a grin so wide splits his face that you could count all 32.
"yeah?" he beams,
"yeah, of course."
he proceeds to finger-curl every single curl.
every. single. one.
each curl gets his full attention. it doesn’t bother him that it takes a good half hour longer—he’s in no rush, after all.
to him, every piece of your hair holds infinite potential, and he wants to honor it. perfect ringlets, even and glossy. he wants you to see yourself the way he sees you.
beautifully perfect, through and through.
when he finally finishes the last curl, he gently turns you around to face him. and then he just… stares.
he wasn’t prepared for this. not at all. not for the way your natural hair frames your face so beautifully, not the soft glow of your skin from your earlier skincare, not the way you look at him like you trust him completely with your appearance. for a split second, his chest tightens, sharp and sudden, and he has to bite down hard on his lip to clear the blurriness from his eyes.
god, his girl.
his beautiful, perfect girl.
he leans down and presses a tender kiss to your forehead, letting his lips linger there longer than necessary.
“you’re so.. so beautiful,” he murmurs, voice thick with feeling. “my sweet girl...”
he pulls back just enough to look at you again, smiling so hard it hurts.
“you’re shining so bright i have to squint.”
you laugh softly, flustered, but he cups your face, meaning every word. he peppers soft, messy kisses all over your nose and cheeks. after a few minutes, he finally forces himself to pull away and he mutters,
“now i’ll diffuse your hair, okay?”
a/n: this is a repost from THIS account bc i’m too busy n unmotivated to write rn:( but i hope you enjoy nonetheless^^
blushy Choso, mall dressing room tension, your tits out in a bikini—soft filth, he's your YEARNING emo boyfriend <3
WC. 4.3k
A/N. We love a man who loves you.│art by @/thatsallitchief on x
It starts like it always does:
You in something pink and skimpy, and Choso trying very hard not to pop a boner in public.
The mall’s fluorescent lights are hellish, the changing room mirrors even worse—but you? You’re glowing. Shiny lip gloss, soft perfume, glinting jewelry, hair curled and falling sweet over your shoulders. You look expensive, pretty, put-together. And then there's Choso in his black hoodie and heavy boots, rings on all his fingers, piercings catching the light, standing outside the fitting room with a plastic shopping bag in one hand and a slowly-dying brain cell in the other.
Because you just stepped out wearing that bikini.
Bubblegum pink. Tiny triangles. Tie sides. Your tits spill just a little—on purpose—and your thighs kiss when you shift your weight. You do a little spin. The bottoms ride up. You smile over your shoulder like you don’t know exactly what you're doing.
“Be honest,” you say, voice sugar-sweet. “Is it too much?”
Choso looks like he's been shot in the chest. He swallows hard, ears red, eyes darting. “I—uh.” His voice cracks. God, he’s so cute like this. “I think… I think you look good.”
You pout. “Just good?”
“I mean—fuck—” He steps closer, voice low and shaky. You’re standing close enough now that you can feel the heat rolling off him, smell his cologne. “You look…” He swallows again. His pupils are blown, lips parted. “You look like you wanna ruin me.”
You blink, slow. “Do I?”
His hands twitch like he doesn’t know where to put them. His mouth moves, then stops. You see the way he shifts his weight, the way the front of his sweats tent ever so slightly forward. Poor boy’s hard already.
You lean in. “You like it when I try these on, huh?”
Choso nods. Embarrassed. Shaky.
You tug the bikini top down just a little. A playful flash of underboob. Just for him.
He groans—actually groans—and then suddenly leans forward, mouth brushing your ear.
“I—” he whispers, voice a ruined rasp, “I want you to sit on my face in that. Right now. In the dressing room. I wanna taste you while you’re still warm from trying shit on.”
You blink. Smile wide.
He’s panting. His voice is wrecked. His cheeks are a brilliant shade of pink. He pulls back like he regrets saying it—but he doesn’t. Not really.
You grab him by the hoodie, yank him closer, press your lips to his like he just said something sweet instead of absolutely filthy.
And he melts.
Groans into your mouth, lets you kiss him slow and sticky, a little messy with lip gloss. He grips your waist like he doesn’t know what else to do. You feel the full press of his dick through his sweats—solid and needy, like it’s been waiting for you all day.
You hum against his lips. “You’re so cute, baby.”
He pulls back, red-faced, brows drawn like he’s in pain. “I’m hard.”
“I know,” you say, teasing. “You get like this every time I put something cute on.”
He whines. “’Cause you’re hot. And it’s tight. And I’m thinking about your thighs on my face.”
You lean in and kiss him again, softer this time. “You’re such a good boy.”
“I’m not,” he breathes, nosing along your cheek. “I’m thinking about bending you over the rack.”
You giggle, tugging the bikini top back into place and turning to grab another hanger. “Help me pick another one.”
He groans behind you. “You’re evil.”
You glance back, wink. “And you love it.”
╾╾
The second you tug him inside the dressing room with you, Choso’s brain melts straight out of his skull.
You pull the curtain closed behind him—soft click of rings on the rail overhead—and suddenly it's just the two of you in this cramped little mirrored cube, the scent of your perfume hanging sweet in the air, your bare skin glowing in the soft light. Pink bikini still on. Nothing else.
You’re already sitting pretty on the bench, legs spread, hips tilted, looking at him like you’re about to wreck his entire life. Which, to be fair—you are.
“Come here,” you whisper, crooking your finger.
Choso doesn’t even speak. He just sinks—drops to his knees in front of you like it’s instinct, like prayer, like he doesn’t know how to say no to you and doesn’t want to.
The carpet is scratchy under his knees, his dick’s throbbing in his sweats, and his mouth is already parted in awe. You tilt your hips again, slow, and he watches the thin stretch of that bikini bottom shift over your folds. Wet. Already damp from teasing him. From kissing. From knowing what’s about to happen.
“Y-you sure?” he asks, voice thick. “In here?”
You smile, reaching to cup his jaw. “You said you wanted a taste. I’m just letting you have what you want, baby.”
That’s it. That’s all it takes.
He groans, grabs your thighs with shaking hands and leans in. Buries his face right against the thin fabric, breathing deep like he needs it to survive. And when his lips part and his tongue presses hot and broad against the fabric—
Fuck.
Your head tips back against the wall. “O-oh—”
Choso’s eating you through the bikini like a man starved. Moaning soft against you, licking like he’s trying to memorize the way you taste even through the fabric, desperate and messy, grabbing your thighs to keep you spread wide.
“You’re so good,” you whisper, threading your fingers through his hair. “So good, baby, just like that.”
He whines—actually whines—and tugs the bikini to the side so he can finally get at you properly, nose bumping your clit, tongue dipping low. The first slick glide of him tasting you without the barrier of fabric makes you gasp and twitch.
“Oh my god—Choso—”
His eyes flutter closed. He hums like he’s in heaven.
And you? You’re gone.
Your legs clamp tighter around his head, grinding soft and desperate against his tongue. The mirrors behind him reflect it all: you in pink, glittering and obscene, thighs trembling, bikini askew; him on his knees, flushed and ruined, dark hair messy where your hands yank at it.
You look down and say the softest, meanest thing:
“Pretty boys don’t need to breathe.”
Choso moans. Like he lives for this.
And then he grabs your ass, pulls you forward, and buries his face deeper—tongue-fucking you now, sloppy and wet, like he’s lost in it. Like he’s trying to make you cum with nothing but his mouth and need alone.
You ride it. Grind your slick little pussy on his face, hips stuttering, one hand gripping the curtain rail above your head while the other fists in his hair.
Your voice gets breathy, shaky. “Gonna—gonna cum, baby—fuck, don’t stop—”
Choso makes a broken, desperate noise like he’s begging you to do it. He’s rutting against the air, his cock an aching weight in his pants, neglected and twitching with every breathless moan you give him.
And when you finally fall apart—hips jerking, cunt soaked, thighs trembling around his face—he holds you there, licking through it, groaning against you like your pleasure is the only thing that matters.
You breathe his name. Again. Again. So sweet. So full of praise.
And when it’s over, when you’re panting and slick and twitchy and glowing, you pull him up by the hoodie, kiss his wet mouth, and whisper:
“You still hard for me?”
He nods, flushed to the ears, eyes hazy.
You reach down and palm him through his sweats. He nearly chokes.
“I think I’ll keep this one,” you murmur, eyes wicked, voice soft. “The bikini, I mean.”
He groans.
You smile.
“Let’s go pay before I suck you off in the food court.”
The bikini's stuffed into the shopping bag in your lap.
Choso’s hoodie is shoved up to his chest, his cock flushed and thick, twitching against the waistband of his sweats.
And you? You’re already leaned over the center console, hand warm on his thigh, tongue flicking out to lick your gloss-slicked lips like you're starving.
The car is quiet, save for his shaky breathing.
“B-baby,” he whispers, voice wrecked, “you don’t—fuck—don’t have to…”
But his hips lift when you tug his pants lower. His hands fist in the seat when your warm breath ghosts over his tip. His whole body shudders when you look up at him, mouth parted, lips sticky pink with the same gloss he kissed off your mouth in the dressing room.
“Don’t have to?” you echo, batting your lashes. “But I want to.”
And then you kiss the head of his cock.
Just a soft, sweet kiss. Like it’s hello. Like it’s his reward for being such a good boy in the store. Like you’re telling him he did so good, letting you cum like that.
He gasps—actually gasps—and watches, frozen and helpless, as you part your lips and take him into your mouth.
Slow.
Sloppy.
So fucking warm.
You hum when he hits your tongue, and his whole body twitches. One trembling hand comes up to tangle in your hair. Not pulling, not rough—just holding, grounding, like he needs to keep touching you or he’ll come apart.
“F-fuck—your mouth—” he whimpers, hips twitching.
You suck slow. Pretty. Slick.
Your lips look obscene wrapped around him, that shiny pink gloss smudging against his skin, your cheeks hollowing with every gentle pull. You bob your head just enough to make him whine, your tongue swirling under the head on every pass like you want to ruin him. Saliva glistens down his shaft, your fist moving in time at the base. So messy. So indulgent. You were made for this.
And Choso? He’s gone.
Eyes squeezed shut, mouth slack, hips jerking forward every time you moan soft around him like you’re enjoying it more than he is. His voice cracks when he speaks. “Y-your lips—fuck, you look so good—so good—”
You moan again, soft and full, and let him hit the back of your throat.
His hips buck. He gasps.
“Oh my god—I’m—I’m gonna—”
You grip his thighs tighter. Take him deep. Suck harder.
And Choso falls apart.
He lets out the prettiest, broken little sound, high and breathless, and spills hot into your mouth.
So much. So sweet.
You swallow around it, slow and worshipful, licking your lips clean when you finally pull back. His cock twitches again, oversensitive, as you kiss the tip like a treat, whispering against it:
“Thank you, baby.”
He’s shaking. Drenched in sweat. Eyes wide, mouth parted. He looks like you just ended him.
You smile, soft and smug. Wipe a bit of gloss from your lip.
“You okay?”
He breathes like he just ran a marathon. “You’re gonna kill me.”
You kiss his stomach and tuck him back into his pants like he’s precious cargo.
“You taste so good,” you whisper, hand stroking his thigh. “I want your cum all the time.”
Choso groans. “Y-you’re evil.”
You giggle. “And you love it.”
The front seat's abandoned. The bikini bag tossed aside.
You’re in the back now—knees planted on either side of Choso’s head, thighs bare and trembling, the car’s interior thick with heat and the soft scent of sweat and perfume. Choso lies back like he’s on an altar, hoodie half-off, hair messy, lips wet from the last time he had you.
And when you settle your weight over his face again?
He moans. Hands gripping your thighs instantly, needy, reverent.
“You said you wanted me warm,” you whisper, brushing his hair back. “Well, baby. I’m still warm.”
And then you sit.
Let your slick little pussy sink fully onto his mouth.
He groans into you like he’s been waiting for this exact moment all day. His tongue flicks up, greedy and sure, licking from slit to clit like he doesn’t care if he drowns. Your thighs shake. Your back arches.
You grip the headrest behind him for balance, gasping as his tongue circles your clit, wet and firm and so eager.
“F-fuck—Choso—” you whimper, already losing yourself to the rhythm. “You’re so good, baby. Just like that…”
And he keeps going.
Every motion is messy and unrelenting. His nose presses to your mound, his mouth drinking you in, the sounds obscene and soaked. You grind your hips down slowly, teasing him, riding his mouth like it’s a privilege—for both of you.
And it is. He lives for this.
Every time you shiver or moan, he moans back like it’s feeding him. His dick’s hard again, untouched in his pants, but he doesn’t even try to touch it. His hands are too busy keeping your thighs spread, pulling you onto his mouth like he’s starving.
“You love it, don’t you?” you pant, looking down at him. “Love eating me out while I wear this stupid little bikini?”
He groans like you’ve blessed him. Like he’d die if you stopped.
Your fingers tug at your bikini top, teasing your nipples through the fabric while you rock against his tongue. Heat builds, tight and fast in your gut, your breathing going shaky.
“Gonna cum on that pretty mouth again, baby,” you whisper. “Don’t stop. Please don’t stop—”
He can’t. He won’t.
You grip his hair. Your thighs close in. You cry out—loud, breathy, ruined—as the climax hits you like a wave. Your whole body trembles. Your slick gushes across his tongue, and he moans, licking through it like he’s the one being blessed.
You twitch above him. He’s still licking.
Still holding you like you’re the answer to every prayer he’s never spoken.
When you finally lift off his face, he looks wrecked. Hair matted. Cheeks flushed. Lips swollen and shining.
“You okay, baby?” you whisper, stroking his cheek.
He blinks, slow. “I love you.”
You giggle. “I know.”
He’s still dazed when you slide off his face, thighs sticky and trembling, bikini top askew, lip gloss long gone.
Choso blinks up at you like he’s waking from a dream—flushed, soaked, completely ruined.
You reach between his legs and palm his dick through his sweats again. He gasps, full-body twitch, like he forgot it was there. Like he forgot he exists and only remembers you.
“It’s okay, baby,” you murmur, sweet and soft, curling into his lap. “I know what you need.”
You straddle him slowly—knees sinking into the seat on either side of his thighs, the leather sticking warm against your skin. His breath hitches when you tug his sweats back down. His dick bobs free again, flushed and leaking, already aching for you.
You hum. "Still hard, huh?"
He whines, voice barely there. “Y-you’re perfect.”
You grip him in one hand. Rub his tip through your soaked folds, the slick noises filthy in the quiet car. Choso’s head drops back. One arm thrown over the backseat, the other trembling where it clutches your hip like a lifeline.
And then you sink down.
Slow. All the way.
You both gasp. Your mouth parts in a silent cry—he’s thick, hot, so full. And Choso?
“F-fuck—baby—fuck, you feel—” He can’t even finish it.
You roll your hips once. He twitches inside you. And then he wraps his arms around your waist and just holds you there, like he’s terrified he’ll wake up if he moves.
You kiss his cheek. His temple. His jaw.
“You can move, baby,” you whisper. “I want you to feel it.”
And so he does.
Not with thrusts—he’s too gone for that—but with the desperate way his hips rock up to meet your slow, grinding rhythm. He fucks into you like you’re the only thing he’s ever wanted. Like he wants to stay buried in your pussy for the rest of his life.
You moan soft, clench around him just to watch him fall apart.
His eyes flutter. His hands tighten. “Y-you’re so wet—so warm—I’m not gonna last—”
“You don’t have to,” you coo, brushing his sweaty hair back. “You’ve been such a good boy. You can cum, baby.”
He groans. “Inside?”
You nod, kiss his lips. “Please.”
And that’s it.
His hips jerk up once, twice—and then he breaks.
“Fuck—fuck—I’m cumming—oh my god—” he whimpers into your mouth as he pulses deep inside you, filling you so sweet, so warm, your walls fluttering around him in aftershocks.
You ride it out together. Still kissing. Still gasping.
And when he finally goes still beneath you—sweaty, red-faced, completely spent—you tuck your face into his neck and whisper, “That was the best one yet.”
He huffs a breathless laugh. “I think I saw god.”
You giggle, kiss his ear. “No, baby. That was me.”
The car is quiet now. Still warm.
Your hips are sore, thighs still trembling a little, but you don’t move from his lap. Not yet. Not when he’s holding you like this—arms wrapped tight around your waist, his head tucked against your chest, breath slow and shaky against your skin.
You reach for your purse blindly and pull out a small pack of tissues. Soft kisses to his temple. A murmur of, “Gonna clean you up, baby.”
Choso nods, dazed. You reach down between your bodies, wipe him up gently—his dick soft now, spent and sticky with the mess you both made. He twitches a little at the sensitivity, hissing through his teeth, but he doesn’t stop you. He lets you care for him. Lets you be soft.
Once he’s tucked back into his sweats, you grab his hoodie from the floor of the backseat and pull it over your head.
It swallows you whole—black and warm, heavy with his scent. The bikini top’s still underneath, tight against your chest, your pierced nipples still peeking through the thin fabric.
Choso sees.
And freezes.
You notice the shift in his breath, the sudden way his gaze locks on your tits. You glance down—hoodie halfway on, bikini straps still twisted from riding him.
“What is it?” you ask, soft.
He swallows thick. Licks his lips.
“Can I…?” he whispers. “Can I suck on them?”
You blink. And smile. That sweet, slow, indulgent smile you only give him.
“Of course you can, baby,” you whisper. “You can have them anytime.”
You push the hoodie and bikini top up in one motion, baring your chest completely. Your pierced nipples are tight from the air, a little shiny, a little sensitive. He stares like they’re sacred.
“Come here.”
Choso doesn’t need to be told twice.
He leans in slow, reverent, hands shaking a little as he cups your tits in both palms. His thumbs brush over the silver barbells, gentle, almost hesitant.
And then his mouth closes over one.
You gasp. Soft, breathy. Thread your fingers through his hair.
He moans—like it’s him getting touched, not you. His tongue flicks the barbell, then rolls warm around the whole nipple. He sucks slow and messy, latching on like he’s starving for it. One hand still cradling your other tit, thumb tracing lazy circles around the other piercing.
“You love them, huh?” you whisper.
He nods against your skin. Doesn’t even stop sucking.
You giggle, carding your fingers through his messy hair. “You’re like a little baby. Just needed your tits to calm down.”
He groans into your chest. “They’re so pretty. So warm. S’not fair.”
You let him have his fill.
Let him kiss and suck and nuzzle at your tits while you rock gently in his lap, still glowing, still leaking from where he came inside you just minutes ago. His mouth moves from one nipple to the other, tongue heavy and slow, the tiniest scrape of teeth making you arch.
“You’re gonna make me wet again,” you whisper.
“Already are,” he mumbles, voice muffled.
You giggle. “Maybe I just want you all day.”
He looks up at you—eyes soft, lips slick, cheeks pink.
“You have me,” he says. “Anytime you want.”
You cup his cheek. Kiss him deep.
Then settle into his chest, his arms tight around you, hoodie hanging open.
And for a long, quiet moment, the car rocks gently with the hum of the world outside—while you breathe in sync, tangled in heat, full of each other.
You bring him home.
He follows you inside like a lovesick puppy, still wearing the same sweats you got him off in, his fingers linked with yours like he’s scared to let go.
Your apartment smells like sugar and vanilla, soft music humming from your phone speaker on the counter. The second the door closes behind you, Choso’s arms come around your waist from behind—slow, lazy, still needy. You giggle when he buries his face in your neck.
“You’re clingy,” you murmur.
“You’re warm,” he mumbles.
He’s not wrong. You’re still sticky between your thighs, still damp in places, and definitely still glowing from everything that happened in that mall parking lot.
So you lead him into the shower.
The steam curls up fast, fogging the mirror. You pull his hoodie off, then the bikini top, and he watches every slow motion with soft, reverent eyes—like you’re the only thing he believes in. His fingers trace your hips, your stomach, your thighs, but never greedily. It’s like he just wants to remind himself that you’re real.
He kisses your shoulders while you wash your hair. Rubs soft circles into your back while you soap up. When you lift your leg to shave, he steadies you with both hands and doesn’t stop looking at you, mouth slightly open, flushed and overwhelmed.
And when you both step out, wrapped in warm towels and love-drunken silence, he still doesn’t let go.
He helps you into fresh panties. Slips his hoodie over your head again—his favorite one, the one that smells like him. It hangs low on you, barely covering your thighs. And Choso?
He just stares.
“You’re looking again,” you tease, drying your hair with a towel.
“Can’t help it,” he murmurs. “You’re walking around in my hoodie with no pants.”
You smirk. “You love it.”
He nods. “I really, really do.”
—
Later, in bed, you both sit cross-legged with takeout cartons in your laps—greasy, perfect food you barely remember ordering. Your wet hair’s towel-dried and messy. Your legs are bare. You’re watching a dumb movie you’ve seen a hundred times, but neither of you are paying much attention.
Choso scoots closer every time you take a bite. Until eventually he’s pressed against your side, shoulder to hip, looking down at your chest like he’s in a trance.
“Baby,” you say gently, smiling. “You already had them.”
“But they’re right there,” he says.
And then, like it’s nothing, he leans down, pushes the hoodie off your shoulder, and mouths at your tits again. Lazy. Soft. Like he missed them already.
You laugh quietly, tipping your carton away before he spills it. “You really like them, huh?”
“They’re so perfect,” he whispers, sucking one nipple into his mouth. “Your piercings are hot. They’re warm. They bounce when you’re on top of me.”
You choke on a laugh. “You’re so dumb.”
“Let me love them.”
“You already do.”
And you let him.
Let him pull the hoodie low, settle between your thighs again, mouthing and sucking at your tits like he belongs there. His breath warm, his lips soft. You stroke his hair and feed him bites of food between kisses, and he hums with every one—like your body’s his comfort place. His pillow. His obsession.
And it is.
He’ll fall asleep like that, you know. Wrapped around you. One hand on your thigh, his cheek pressed to your chest, still kissing your tits in his dreams.
Because he loves them.
And you?
You just love him.
It starts with the light.
Soft and pale, bleeding through your bedroom curtains in faint golden strips, dust catching like glitter in the quiet air. You’re still warm under the sheets, curled on your side, wearing only his hoodie—rumpled and hanging off one shoulder, no panties, skin flushed from sleep and leftover heat.
Choso is already awake.
He hasn’t moved much. Just lies there beside you, eyes open, face calm, watching the slow rise and fall of your chest as you breathe. His arm’s beneath your neck, heavy and warm, his other hand resting on the curve of your waist, thumb brushing faint circles into your bare skin.
You murmur something in your sleep, soft and incoherent, and nuzzle closer into his chest.
He smiles.
And then leans down.
Presses a kiss to your temple. Then another. Down your cheek. Then lower—to your collarbone, the dip of your sternum, the soft top swell of your tits. His lips brush reverent little paths across your chest, tongue flicking out to taste the faint hint of your skin, lips catching on one nipple through the fabric of his hoodie.
You hum softly, not awake but not asleep. Eyelids flutter. Arms shift, searching.
He gives you more. Kisses you again, lips warm and slow over your skin. One hand rises to cup your jaw, guiding your face gently toward him.
And then—then—he kisses your mouth.
So slow. So tender.
Your lips part on instinct. Still half-dreaming, you open for him and let him feed you the kiss, his tongue soft, patient, licking sweet into your mouth like he's giving you air.
You moan faintly, breath catching. Hands rise blindly—one sliding to cup the back of his neck, the other splaying flat over his chest, his broad, warm, muscular chest, like you’re grounding yourself in the feel of him.
He breathes into you. Pulls away just a fraction—only to kiss you again.
Deeper this time.
Slower.
“You awake yet?” he whispers against your lips.
You shake your head sleepily. “Don’t wanna be.”
His thumb strokes your cheek, other hand sliding up your thigh beneath the sheets. “Can I kiss you more?”
You nod, already chasing his mouth again. “Mhm. Just… stay here.”
“Always,” he whispers.
And he does.
Kisses you again and again, feeding you little moans and warm breath, making love to your mouth while your hands stay flat on his chest like he’s your anchor. His heart thuds beneath your palm. Yours stutters in your chest.
You could stay like this forever.
Wrapped in his hoodie, on his chest, lips parted under his kisses, whispering soft nonsense into his mouth between slow gasps of air.
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