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.
(yandere! choso x reader, psychological thriller/romance series)
f.a ; @//sakkurri on X
summary ; in which after a terrible accident you lost all of your memories. when you lose them you wake up in the hospital.. where a handsome man awaits for you claiming to be your husband.
previous chapter
✧˖° ⚠️ c/w ˖°✧ this series contains dark yandere themes — obsession, manipulation, gaslighting, captivity, stalking, blood play, and identity corruption. expect dubcon, breeding kink, rough intimacy, praise/degradation, and explicit sexual content. also includes violence, emotional coercion, and toxic romance. read at your own risk ♡
PAST TIME
The rain had started before practice ended.
It came down in thick sheets, soaking the pavement outside the gym until it gleamed under the parking lot lights. You had lingered under the bleachers longer than you meant to, hugging your knees to your chest, trying not to cry.
Senior year had just started. Everyone else seemed excited. College applications. Football games.
Prom dresses. You were thinking about hospital bills and hospice forms. Your grandmother"s breathing had grown shallow that week. The house felt like it was waiting for something terrible to happen. Every time you stepped inside, the silence pressed in on your ears.
You didn’t know how to be eighteen. You barely knew how to be alone. When the black car rolled up slowly along the curb, you didn’t look at it at first. You thought it was someone"s parent picking them up. Then the engine cut. A door opened.
Boots hit wet pavement. You looked up. He was standing there like he always did — calm, unreadable, rain sliding down his broad shoulders like it didn't"t dare cling too long. “Get in,” he said simply.
Not demanding. Not soft. Just certain. You hesitated. Your white school shirt clung to your skin. Your hair was plastered to your face. You must have looked pathetic.
“I can walk,” you muttered. He arched one brow. “In that?” he asked, glancing at the way you were shivering. “Don"t be stupid.”
The scolding should’ve irritated you. Instead, it steadied you. You climbed in. The inside of his car smelled faintly like leather and smoke. It was warm. Quiet. Safe in a way that didn’t make sense. He handed you a towel from the backseat without looking at you. “You"ll catch a cold,” he muttered.
You pressed the towel to your hair, avoiding his gaze. The windshield wipers moved rhythmically as he pulled back onto the road. For a few minutes, neither of you spoke. The silence wasn’t awkward.
It was… heavy. Comfortable. Like the space between you held something neither of you were ready to name. “You didn’t stay for the end of practice,” he said finally. Your fingers tightened around the towel. “Didn’t feel like it.”
He hummed quietly, as if he knew there was more but wouldn't"t force it. You stared out the window. “My grandma"s not doing good,” you blurted out suddenly, the words escaping before you could stop them.
His hands tightened slightly on the steering wheel. “She raised me,” you continued, voice small. “And when she goes, that"s it. There"s no one else.” The car slowed at a red light.
He didn't"t rush to fill the silence. He didn’t offer empty comfort. He just listened. That was what made it dangerous.
“You"ll figure it out,” he said after a moment. “You"re stronger than you think.” You laughed bitterly. “I don"t feel strong.” He finally looked at you then. Really looked at you.
His eyes weren’t soft. They were assessing. Protective. Almost frustrated. “Feeling weak doesn't make you weak,” he said. “Crying under bleachers does.” Your mouth fell open slightly.
“Hey,” he added, not unkindly. “You don"t get to fall apart like that. Not when the world"s already trying to chew you up.” It should have felt harsh. Instead, it felt grounding. Like someone expected you to survive. Your chest tightened.
You turned toward him more fully now, studying the sharp line of his jaw, the scar near his eyebrow, the way his forearm flexed as he shifted gears. He wasn't young. He wasn't supposed to matter to you like this. But in that car, in the quiet hum of rain and headlights cutting through darkness, he felt like the only stable thing in your life.
“You don"t have to act like you don"t care,” you said softly. His jaw ticked. “I don"t,” he replied. The admission hung between you. You swallowed. Your knee brushed his as the car hit a small bump in the road. Neither of you moved away.
That was the moment. Small. Insignificant to anyone else. But it changed everything. The tension shifted from mentor to something else. Something electric. Something forbidden. He felt it too. You saw it in the way his grip tightened on the wheel. In the way he exhaled slowly, like he was reining something in.
“You"re eighteen,” he said suddenly, voice low. Controlled. “You need to focus on finishing school. Not… this.”
“This what?” you whispered. He didn’t answer. But he didn’t pull away either. And that silence told you more than any confession ever could. By the time he pulled up outside your grandmother"s house, the rain had slowed. You didn’t reach for the door immediately. “Thank you,” you said quietly.
He nodded once. Then, without thinking too hard about consequences, you reached over and touched his wrist. Just lightly. Testing. His entire body went still. You felt the tension there — coiled and restrained. “Don"t,” he murmured. But he didn't move his hand away. And you knew, in that fragile, dangerous second—You had already fallen.
Six months passed in a blur of stolen hours and late-night drives.
By winter, you and him were no longer just something undefined. You were something that had grown roots. Quietly. Carefully. Illegally in the court of public opinion. You told yourself it wasn’t wrong. You were eighteen.
You weren’t a child. But you also knew people wouldn’t see it that way.
The gym became your sanctuary. After everyone left, you"d sit on the edge of the boxing ring while he wrapped his hands in silence. Sometimes he"d talk. Sometimes he wouldn't. But his presence alone steadied you in a way nothing else did.
He started driving you home more often. Started checking on your grandmother. Started bringing groceries without asking. It wasn’t flashy affection.
It was consistency. And consistency felt like oxygen. You found yourself waiting for his texts. Waiting for the sound of his car pulling up. Waiting for the low rumble of his voice saying your name like it meant something solid.
You were obsessed. And he was starting to be. Tonight wasn’t supposed to be different. You got the call at 8:17 p.m. Limited time. Weeks, maybe less.
Cars still passed outside. The refrigerator still hummed. Somewhere down the street, someone laughed. And your grandmother — the only constant you"d ever had — was running out of time.
You didn’t even grab a jacket. You grabbed your bike. The tires hit pavement hard as you pedaled faster than you ever had before. The cold air sliced your lungs, but you didn’t slow down. You didn’t think. You just rode.
Streetlights blurred. Your eyes stung from crying. The world looked warped, like you were underwater. You knew exactly where you were going. His house. You didn’t call first. You didn’t ask. You just showed up.
The porch light was on. You barely managed to steady the bike before you were knocking — no, pounding — on the door.
It opened faster than you expected. He stood there in a plain black shirt and sweats, hair slightly disheveled like he"d just run a hand through it. His expression shifted the second he saw your face.
“What happened?” he asked.
You didn’t answer. You stepped forward and grabbed onto him like he was the only solid thing left in the world.
“She"s dying,” you choked.
The words tore through you.
His body stiffened for half a second before his arms came around you. Not hesitantly. Not awkwardly. Firm. He pulled you inside without another word and shut the door behind you, sealing out the cold night air.
You buried your face in his chest and cried like you hadn’t allowed yourself to in months. He didn’t shush you. He didn't say everything would be okay. He just held you. And that was the difference. He never fed you lies.
His hand rested at the back of your head, fingers threading lightly through your hair. His other arm wrapped around your waist, anchoring you against him like you were something breakable he refused to drop. You felt small. Safe.
“I don’t know how to do this,” you whispered, voice cracking. “I don’t know how to lose her.”
His jaw tightened slightly. “You don’t have to do it alone,” he said quietly.
And that"s what broke you. Because no one had ever said that to you before. Not your parents. Not teachers. Not friends. You had always handled everything alone.
You pulled back just enough to look at him. His eyes weren’t pitying. They were steady. Grounded. Like he’d already decided he was staying.
“You came all this way in the dark?” he asked, voice low.
You nodded weakly. He shook his head, almost frustrated. “Reckless,” he muttered. But his thumb brushed away a tear from your cheek with a tenderness that contradicted the scolding. “You could"ve gotten hurt.”
“I didn’t care,” you admitted.
And that was the truth. Nothing felt scarier than losing her. Nothing except losing him.
That realization hit you like lightning. When did he become this important? When did his house start feeling like relief? When did his arms start feeling like home?
He guided you to the couch and sat you down, kneeling slightly in front of you so he could look at you properly. “You"re spiraling,” he said softly. “You need to breathe.”
You tried. You failed. Your hands shook.
He reached out, placing his hands over yours. “Look at me.”
You did.
“Inhale,” he instructed.
You followed.
“Good.”
His voice was steady. Controlled. Commanding without being cruel. And you listened to him. Every time. Your breathing evened slowly under his direction.
That was the intimacy. Not the physical. The emotional. The way he could pull you back from the edge with just his voice.
You leaned forward, resting your forehead against his shoulder. “I don"t want to go home,” you whispered.
He exhaled slowly. Silence stretched between you. Heavy. Charged. You felt his heartbeat under your cheek. It was slower than yours. Calmer. Like he absorbed your chaos and filtered it.
“I shouldn't,” he muttered.
You looked up. “Shouldn’t what?”
He held your gaze. “This is already too far.”
But neither of you moved away.
You were eighteen. You knew what lines existed. You just didn’t care anymore. Not tonight. Not when everything else felt like it was collapsing.
“I don"t want to be alone,” you said, voice barely audible.
His hand slid to your jaw, tilting your face slightly upward. That was the first time he touched you like that. Not protective. Not parental. Something else. Something deliberate.
“You think I don"t know that?” he asked quietly.
Your heart hammered. You searched his face for hesitation. There was some. But there was also something darker. Something that had been building for months.
The kiss didn’t happen because of lust. It happened because you were both exhausted from holding the line. Your lips brushed his first. Soft. Testing.
He stilled. For a fraction of a second you thought he would pull away. Instead, he deepened it — slowly, carefully — like he was crossing a line he"d memorized for months. His hand slid from your jaw to the back of your neck, firm but not forceful.
The world went quiet. No rain. No ticking clock. No hospital monitors in your future. Just him.
When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours. “This doesn’t get messy,” he murmured.
It already was. But you nodded anyway.
Because in that moment, he wasn’t just a man. He was stability. He was defiance against the world. He was the only person who made you feel chosen.
And that is why the memories won"t stop colliding. Because your brain remembers safety. It remembers the way his voice steadied your breathing. It remembers the way he didn't lie to make you feel better. It remembers the way he stayed.
And that kind of imprint?
It doesn’t fade easily.
The dim light of the bedside lamp cast soft shadows across the small room, the only sound the steady patter of rain against the window. You"d been here before—stolen nights in this hidden apartment Toji kept for jobs away from prying eyes—but tonight felt different. Heavier. The air between you hummed with the weight of unspoken promises, the kind that had built over six months of careful touches and lingering glances.
Toji stood by the bed, his broad frame filling the space, eyes locked on yours with that intense, unyielding gaze that always made your heart stutter. He reached out, his calloused fingers brushing your cheek, thumb tracing the line of your jaw. “You sure about this?” he murmured, voice rough but gentle, like gravel wrapped in velvet. “We don"t have to rush. Not with you.”
You nodded, stepping closer, your hands trembling as they found the hem of his shirt. The emotional pull toward him was a living thing inside you—raw, aching, born from the nights he"d held you through tears, the drives where silence spoke louder than words. He was your anchor in the storm of grief, the one person who saw you, really saw you, without pity or expectation. "I want this," you whispered, voice steady despite the flutter in your chest. "With you. Only you."
He exhaled slowly, pulling you into his arms, his lips finding yours in a kiss that started soft, exploratory, then deepened with the pent-up longing you’d both restrained for so long. His hands roamed your back, firm but unhurried, mapping the curve of your spine as if committing every inch to memory. When he broke the kiss, his forehead pressed to yours, breath mingling. "Tell me if it"s too much. Anytime. I need to know you"re good."
Your fingers worked at his shirt, peeling it away to reveal the scarred, muscled expanse of his chest. He helped, shrugging it off, then turned his attention to you, lifting your top over your head with deliberate care. His eyes darkened as he took you in, not with hunger alone, but with something deeper—reverence, almost. "You"re beautiful," he said, low and sincere, pulling you back against him. Skin met skin, warm and electric, his heartbeat thundering under your palm.
He guided you to the bed, laying you down gently, his body hovering over yours without crowding. One hand cupped your breast, thumb circling the nipple until it hardened, drawing a soft gasp from your lips. "Like that?" he asked, watching your face closely, his other hand stroking your thigh, inching higher. You nodded, arching into his touch, the new sensations sparking heat low in your belly.
Toji’s mouth followed his hand, lips closing around your nipple, sucking lightly, tongue flicking in slow, teasing strokes. You moaned, fingers threading into his dark hair, holding him there. He switched sides, lavishing the same attention, while his fingers dipped between your legs, finding your panties damp with arousal. "Already wet for me," he murmured against your skin, voice laced with approval. "But we"re taking it slow. You tell me what feels right."
He slid your panties down your legs, tossing them aside, then parted your thighs with gentle pressure. His gaze met yours again, seeking permission. "Can I taste you?" At your shy nod, he lowered his head, breath hot against your folds before his tongue parted them, licking a slow stripe up your slit. The sensation was overwhelming—intimate, vulnerable—and you whimpered, hips bucking instinctively.
"Easy," he soothed, one hand on your hip to steady you, the other slipping a finger inside, curling gently. "Breathe with me. In... out." You followed his rhythm, the stretch unfamiliar but not painful, his mouth working your clit with precise, unhurried laps. He added a second finger, scissoring slowly, preparing you as waves of pleasure built. "Doing so good for me," he praised, lifting his head to kiss your inner thigh. "Feels okay? Not hurting?"
"Yes... more," you breathed, the emotional tether between you tightening with every word, every touch. He was patient, guiding you through the build-up, his free hand interlacing with yours, squeezing as your body tensed toward release. When you came, it shattered over you softly at first, then intensely, your walls clenching around his fingers as you cried out his name.
Toji kissed his way back up your body, shedding his pants in the process, his cock hard and thick against your thigh. He paused, grabbing a condom from the nightstand—always prepared, always thinking ahead. "You ready for me?" he asked, rolling it on, positioning himself at your entrance. His eyes searched yours, thumb brushing your cheek. "We"ll go slow. Stop if you need to."
You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer. "I trust you," you said, the words carrying the depth of your attachment, the way he"d become your everything in this forbidden world you"d carved out.
He pushed in inch by inch, the stretch burning at first, making you gasp. Toji froze, concern etching his features. "Talk to me. Okay?"
"It... it stings a little," you admitted, breathing through it, nails digging into his shoulders.
He nodded, holding still, lips brushing your forehead. "Just breathe. Focus on me. Squeeze my hand if it"s too much." You did, and he waited, whispering encouragements—"That"s my girl, so tight and perfect"—until the pain ebbed into fullness, pleasure sparking anew. "Move," you urged finally, and he did, rocking his hips in shallow thrusts, building a rhythm that had you both moaning.
The intimacy deepened with every slide of his cock inside you, his body covering yours protectively, eyes never leaving your face. "You feel incredible," he groaned, pace quickening as you adjusted, meeting his thrusts. His hand slipped between you, thumb circling your clit to heighten the sensation. "Come with me, yeah? Let go."
The coil tightened, emotions flooding you—love, vulnerability, the sheer rightness of this connection. You shattered again, pussy pulsing around him, pulling his own release as he buried deep, groaning your name like a prayer. He collapsed gently beside you, pulling you into his chest, arms wrapping tight.
"You"re okay?" he checked one last time, kissing your temple.
"More than okay," you murmured, tracing patterns on his skin, the afterglow wrapping you both in quiet, profound closeness.
————————————————————
Choso’s P.O.V PAST TIME
I saw it. I wasn’t supposed to. I wasn’t even looking for it. But I saw enough.
The way she looked at him.The way she leaned into him like the world outside didn’t exist. The way he touched her like she was something fragile and permanent at the same time.
I don’t remember leaving the hallway. I don’t remember how I got home. I just remember the sound of my bedroom door slamming shut hard enough to rattle the frame.
I stand there for a second, staring at nothing. Then everything detonates. The lamp is the first thing to go. It shatters against the wall, glass scattering across my floor like something inside me finally cracked open.
“Stupid,” I mutter under my breath.
Stupid. I told myself she just didn’t see me yet. She needed time. She needed someone steady. She needed someone strong.
That’s me.
It’s always been me.
I shove my desk with both hands, papers sliding everywhere. A picture frame tips over. I snatch it before it hits the ground.
Her. Graduation practice. Cherry blossoms in her hair. She smiled at me that day. Not like she smiles at him. Different. Softer. Unaware.
I press the frame against my chest for half a second before hurling it across the room anyway. It hits the wall and cracks. My brothers knock once.
“Choso?” one of them calls. I don’t answer. Because if I do, they’ll hear it. The weakness. The panic. The way my chest feels like it’s splitting open.
I pace. Back and forth. Back and forth.
He thinks he can protect her. He thinks he’s the only one who sees her. He thinks he can walk into her life like that and take something that’s mine. Mine.
The word echoes. I’ve always been protective. Of my brothers. Of what’s mine. If someone so much as looked at them wrong, I handled it. Quietly. Decisively. So why am I standing here doing nothing? I slam my fist into the wall. The drywall caves slightly. Pain shoots up my arm but I welcome it.
It’s grounding. It’s better than this hollow feeling. She doesn’t understand him. She doesn’t understand what he is. Older. Dirty. Already damaged. He’ll ruin her.
And I won’t let that happen. Not because I’m jealous. Because I’m right. That’s what I tell myself. She’s fragile right now. Her grandmother’s sick. She’s emotional. She’s clinging to the nearest source of stability.
He’s taking advantage of that. My jaw tightens. He touched her like he had a right. Like he earned it. He didn’t earn anything. He wasn’t there when she cried after class. He wasn’t there when she sat alone during lunch pretending she didn’t care. I was. I watched. I learned.
I memorized. He doesn’t know the way her smile twitches when she’s lying. He doesn’t know how she fidgets with her sleeves when she’s anxious. I do. I know everything. I grab my phone.
Scroll. Her name. I don’t text. I don’t call. Not yet. Not like this. I need to be better. Stronger. Untouchable.
If he’s a boxer, I’ll become one too.
If he’s older, I’ll grow faster.
If he thinks he can scare me off, he doesn’t understand what obsession does to a person. I sit on the edge of my bed, breathing heavy. This isn’t over. It’s just starting. She might not see it yet. But I do.
She doesn’t belong in his house. She belongs somewhere safe. Somewhere controlled. Somewhere where no one can manipulate her when she’s weak. I run a hand down my face and laugh once — sharp, humorless.
If I can’t have her now, I’ll wait. I’m patient. I’ve always been patient. And one day, when he leaves her — because men like him always leave — I’ll be there. I’ll pick up the pieces. I’ll make sure she never looks at anyone else the way she looked at him tonight. Even if I have to burn everything down first.
————————————————————
PRESENT DAY
The room felt wrong when you opened your eyes. Too bright. Too still.
Sunlight spilled through the curtains in pale gold strips, cutting across the bed and warming your bare arm. For a moment, you didn’t move. Your body felt heavy — not sore, not injured — just… weighted. Like gravity had decided to double overnight.
You tried to sit up.
The room tilted. Your stomach rolled violently. You pressed a hand to your mouth, swallowing hard, but it was useless. The nausea surged up your throat, acidic and sudden. You barely made it out of bed before your knees buckled against the bathroom tile.
The cold floor bit into your skin as you gripped the toilet. You threw up hard — yesterday’s dinner, sour and bitter. Your body trembled with it. Your eyes watered. It burned.
Your head pounded. Not just a normal headache. A deep, rhythmic throb behind your temples — like something was pressing outward from the inside of your skull.
You flushed, resting your forehead against the porcelain for a second. Your reflection in the mirror looked pale. Washed out. Lips slightly dry. “What is wrong with me…” you whispered.
Your voice sounded distant to your own ears. You pushed yourself up slowly, bracing against the sink. The world wobbled again, but not as violently this time. You ran cold water over your wrists. The sensation helped — barely.
Your tongue still tasted strange. Metallic. Off. You frowned slightly. Was it the medication? You’d been taking them like Choso told you to.
Always with juice. Always when he handed them to you. Your stomach tightened again at the thought. You brushed your teeth slowly, staring at yourself in the mirror. Your eyes looked tired. Shadows underneath them. You tried to remember how you felt yesterday.
Garden.
School.
Rain.
The parking lot.
His face. The argument. After that, everything felt… foggy. You leaned closer to the mirror. There was a faint bruise along your collarbone. You blinked. Was that from falling? Did you fall? You pressed your fingers lightly to it. Tender. Your head throbbed again, harder this time, forcing you to shut your eyes.
Breathe. Just breathe. You rinsed your mouth, wiping your lips with the back of your hand. The nausea had settled into a dull ache now. Still there. Just quieter.
The house was quiet too. Too quiet. You stepped into the hallway slowly, one hand dragging lightly against the wall for balance. Every step felt deliberate. Measured. Your body didn’t feel like yours. And underneath the nausea… Underneath the headache… There was something else.
A creeping awareness. Like your body was reacting to something your mind hadn’t caught up to yet.
You paused at the top of the stairs. The air smelled faintly like coffee. And something else. Something sweet.
You swallowed. “Choso?” you called softly. Your voice echoed down the stairwell. No immediate answer. Your pulse quickened — not in fear exactly. But in confusion. Because something about this morning didn’t feel like recovery. It felt like aftermath.
And you couldn’t remember what happened.
You don’t know why you turn your head.
But you do.
Slowly.
Toward the hallway.
Toward the ceiling.
Toward the attic.
The air shifts.
It’s subtle — almost imagined — but your body reacts before your mind does. A chill creeps up your spine. Your pulse begins to climb, slow at first… then faster. There’s a pull in your chest, something tugging you upward like a string tied around your ribs.
You don’t remember deciding to move.
Your feet just do.
Step.
Step.
Step.
Each stair groans beneath your weight as you ascend. The house is too quiet. The coffee smell downstairs has faded. The sunlight doesn’t reach this high. It gets colder with each step, dimmer, like you’re walking into something that doesn’t want to be seen.
Your heart pounds harder the closer you get. There’s something here. There was something here. Your fingers brush the attic door. You hesitate.
Your stomach flips. You remember boxes. Medals. Journals. Pictures. You remember dizziness. You remember dropping something. You remember him.
Your hand trembles slightly as you push the door open.
It creaks.
Long.
Slow.
The sound feels like it lasts too long. You step inside. And the world stops. Empty. The entire room is empty. No boxes.
No bins. No medals stuffed in corners. No journals. No papers. Nothing. Just bare wooden floorboards and dust lining the edges like it’s been untouched for years.
Your breath catches in your throat. “No…” you whisper.
Your eyes scan frantically.
You walk deeper inside, turning in a slow circle. The indentation marks on the floor — faint outlines where heavy bins once sat — are still there. Ghosts of objects that existed yesterday.
But now? Gone. Your heart slams against your ribs so hard it hurts. You step backward. Your heel catches slightly. You almost lose your balance. The silence presses in.
This room was filled. You know it was. You were here. You held the journals. You saw the scribbled pages. You saw the pictures. You didn’t imagine that.
You didn’t. A pit opens in your stomach. Cold. Sinking. Your breath becomes shallow. Your head begins to throb again, but you barely register it because something worse is crawling up your spine.
If it was here… And now it’s not… Then someone— A floorboard creaks behind you.
Close. Too close. Your entire body freezes. You don’t turn immediately. You can feel him. The heat of him. The presence. The air changes when he’s in a room.
His voice comes from directly behind you. Low. Controlled. Soft enough to sound gentle.
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