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[chosoniisan]

he's so hot i need to feed him the world's most perfect strawberry

[chosoniisan]

I <3 WOUNDS & INJURY

[chosoniisan]

[chosoniisan]

caught in the middle ▶︎▶︎ choso + suguru (r18)

➤ pairing: kamo choso | reader | getou suguru

➤ setting: modern, non-curse au (uni au, specifically)

➤ genre: smut!! (a little dark, just a lil')

➤ caution: threesome (ish); a splash of d*bious c*nsent (coercion); oral s*x (p & v); rough treatment

➤ summary: according to suguru (no thanks to choso), you're too inexperienced for your own good; he intends to change that

➤ authoress' notes: I was struck with the idea of choso and suguru tag teaming you, and so this was born plus I haven't written smut in so long and wanted to dust myself off. my hope is that I can make this into a lil mini series, because I'm keen to continue exploring the concept of suguru showing you & choso the ropes when it comes to the downright nasty. I'm also keen to playing into a degenerate characterization of suguru, but that's neither here nor there :')

“Remember what I said—don’t let her cum before I do.”

Would you have preferred him talking to you rather than over you?

Who knows, but what you do know is that either way you’re the last one who’s primed to contribute any sort of coherent response. And how could you when you’re currently suffering from acute choking-on-Suguru’s-girth disease of which your symptoms include aching in your jaw, saltiness clinging to your palate, and, of course, an affinity for only breathing through the mostly muffled, the utterly debauched.

But he’s only one accessory to the crime of ruining you from both ends with the other half of the blame resting on Choso’s shoulders, coupled with you resting entirely on his face. How much “persuasion” went into this arrangement is a story for later if ever, particularly when Choso’s not flattening his tongue for another pass across the seam of your lower lips, as though a consolation for drawing back at the last second. 

“. . .That doesn’t seem fair to her,” he pitches in your defense, and for that he has your appreciation, even if speaking up for you brings with it the fanning of his breath, teasing of his pinked tiers where you’re most sensitive. It isn’t a perfect solution. . .or much of one at all, considering he makes a point to return to the source of intoxication, courtesy of a rogue flicker over you in that empty space—not so much with the ripple effect that sends you sputtering around Suguru and wishing he isn’t crammed so deeply in your mouth. “She always likes it when I eat her out, and I really want her to cum on me. . .”

Just like Choso’s blatant admission, so too is the embarrassment scorching through your insides, bubbling up over the expanse of your face; though you can only contemplate craning back since Suguru is enough steps ahead of you to crown his fingers through your hair. Suffice it to say, you aren’t going anywhere besides the engorged length of him, filling you up to the absolute brim. (Clearly addressing Choso’s knack for oversharing to your detriment will also have to wait for another time. And honestly, you’re not entirely sure you would have gotten through to him when he’s this overtaken by the peachy pit between your legs.)

Off the heels of abashment, you falter a bit as those pesky digits relinquish their hold on your tresses once Suguru’s commanded your compliance again. He’s silkly devious that way, tracing the pads of his fingertips across your cheek at first before his thumb presses at the corner of your lips and strains the tender flesh even further around his member. Unlike earlier, his sunglow gaze is trained wholly on you and no one else, nursing a glossy sheen atop your skin (then there’s Choso who isn’t helping your case either, wetting saliva over your folds). “Don’t you think that’s selfish of you?”

Is what Suguru says in the same moment that he’s devolved into using his hand on your face to guide you even further onto him, until he’s bobbing dangerously near the back of your throat, preluding what’s to come. Though as for the right now, he’s thoroughly effected by your oral sleeve, those last vestiges of self-constraint gradually falling to the wayside in a wash of heartthrob red laying claim to more and more of his face. “You have me to thank for this—yet you’re only concerned about getting off yourself.” His chiding has an edge of something else, which persists in obscurity as you’re beholden to a punctuated ram throwing you off kilter. “I didn’t think you were a selfish girl. . .” he trails off there, leading you along his very short leash. “Tell me I’m not wrong about you.”

You don’t tell Suguru anything—instead, you offer a semblance of a nod, accompanied by an even greater offering of slickened reverence to his cock as you work him feverishly into your mouth, skimming over the vein webbed on his underside. That sets off the chain reaction of him folding over you with a malted groan spilt from his lips, and in the meantime you rear your hips back, hoping Choso takes the hint to sympathize with your plight of not wanting to fall over the edge too soon. Because if he keeps at his previous pace, you have no doubt in your mind that you’ll be reacquainted with the sort of rapture only he knows how to indulge you in.

Surprisingly, Choso is receptive to your wordless plea even while he steers you back onto him with hands curled over your sides; the hum of a sigh inked in relief strums through him as he stitches himself back to you in earnest. Like each ticking second spent away from your heat was a second shaved from his existence. He’s measured for once with his devotion, smearing beads of your wetness to pave the way for his tongue breaching past your pleated slit and settling between your inner walls with a sinful ease. From you, there’s a whine that splinters into pieces the moment it hits the air as you’re realizing (belatedly) that you severely underestimated Choso’s proclivity for cultivating you into pure bliss.

It's too late now with his one-track mind and equally fervent ministrations, so you try to make what you can out of the situation in spite of electricity sparking over your nerves, the incessant bubbling up in your stomach already signaling the beginning of the end. And you need look no further than the weight of Suguru seeded on your tongue. Choso might be stealing a good chunk of your attention, but that doesn’t stop you from fixating on the sting at the outer edges of your lips from a tight fit or the soon-to-be mottling over your knees trying to keep yourself steady in the midst of a deterioration into downright battering. How quickly demanding bruises through Suguru like a contagion, the strain that’s cured only from your undoing by his hand, and so you’re left with no choice but to let yourself be caught up by him, in him, for the sake of him.

“You know. . .you’re not very good at this,” Suguru remarks as if he isn’t fiercely warming himself between your lips, because only he could pull himself together enough to tear into you with a breezy tinge in his wake, the proverbial salt in your wound. Sooner rather than later, his hand finds itself tangled at the back of your head, dragging you right down to the base of him, and your scramble to smother your gag reflex (and Choso in the process) through a hail of full-bodied quaking merely proves his point. “You’re lucky I’m willing to teach you how to properly suck dick, since Choso clearly isn’t giving you enough practice.”

Speaking of—it’s right then and there that Choso takes the opportunity to really spear you on his tongue.

He isn’t taking that dig too well.

Problem is. . .his displeasure is misplaced, or at least it feels that way when his fingers move to split open your folds so he can bully and prod at the spot that has you blinking back stars in collapse. A whine sets the stage for your frantic writhing atop Choso, trying your best to dislodge him for your own good, but he’s resistant to coaxing of any kind when you’re falling apart at his beck. It’s one thing to bear through an unrelenting Choso, molding you to the shape of his sticky sweet pleasure, but it’s another thing entirely to keep your head above the waters of gratification whilst swallowing down every inch of Suguru’s cock.

And he doesn’t make it any easier for you, you who’s allegedly rough around the edges in the craft of obliging a man. Breathing might as well be a luxury what with Suguru beating your throat raw with his swollen tip, and there’s no finesse in the way you fumble your tongue over him; either your efforts aren’t clumsy enough to warrant a snide affront or he’s far too consumed with chasing after his own end through you. (You’re inclined to think it’s the latter more so than the former.) Beneath the chorus of depravity suffusing the room, your heart is heavy against your ribcage, and you can only hope that Suguru acquiesces first, even if that means holding your nose to his c—

Lips seal around your clit with particular fervor.

Oh, no.

No no no no no.

A sweeping arch invites itself over your back in the same beat that you instinctively squeeze your thighs around Choso’s head, surrendering even more of yourself to his gluttony. It’s a vicious, depraved cycle because with every convulsion racking down to your bones, you’re anchored back to him gorging on you with little abandon, utterly remorseless that he’s driving you out of your mind. Ecstasy is oh so malted, tastes like a milk & honey delicacy while Choso can’t seem to decide whether to savor your pulsing clit or root through your tightly knotted, dripping wet clutch. Though it’s the bitter part of that sweetness sobering you up before you have a chance to feed into the velveted hunger that’s ravaging as it is rosied:

“You really don’t listen, do you.” His infliction isn’t the slow, too slow drag of his shaft along your tongue nor is it him relinquishing your mouth to slide along the side of your face. And neither is it the obscene tap, tapping of his ruddy cockhead against your cheek, streaking a mess of juices over the once untouched canvas of you.

Blinking bleariness from your vision and yet his moonless gaze, crackling at the edges, is clear as day—says there’s no need to wait long for true retribution.

 “I guess, I’ll have to give you a lesson in obedience, too—my treat.”

[chosoniisan]

✂

[chosoniisan]

[chosoniisan]

A risk worth messy reward ↠ kamo choso

↠alternative title: swapping spit with choso, literally

↠pairing: kamo choso | sorceress!reader

↠setting: post canon, not at all compliant

↠genre: nasty, nasty fluff

↠caution: suggestive; height/size difference ("my" choso is over 6ft); unhealthy-ish/complicated relationship; kinda owner/pet dynamics; coercion (?); lots of tongue

↠summary: after yet another rural-steeped mission, your first priority is finding the nearest bed to fall into; conversely, choso has other things on his mind

↠authoress' notes: my initial plan had been to write a hc about the oddities of choso, how he has some bizarre and inexplicable habits, but writing hcs (without plot) isn't my strength, so I opted for what could be considered "snapshots" instead :')

also, the context, setting-wise, for this is that once the dusts settles post canon, the high-ups (the smattering of them still kicking), let choso live conditioned on you acting as his controller at all times, lest you risk ending up on the execution chopping block, too. . .

A ripely full moon, and the air’s refreshed with a slight chill:

by all means the sort of mid-autumn night you’d want to bottle up and take with you.

You might just have to overlook the chunks of entrails sticking to your soles, though. And maybe you can pretend that it’s the crickets droning in the grass and not the crisping of bone dissolving into nothingness. As if on cue, you resist the urge to sigh to keep the tang of death, thoroughly worn over, from invading your lungs any more than it already has.

It’s not quite how you’d envision your evening—but beggars can’t be choosers. And on the bright side, at least you’re fully intact, all your limbs present and accounted for despite enough close calls to last you a lifetime. Sure, you might have said the very same thing last time (i.e. a handful of days ago), and you’ll no doubt mirror that sentiment next time too (i.e. in another day or so), though you take your blessings when you can get them.

Granted, your good luck quickly runs its course since there’s hardly anything fortunate about the strain of curses the far-flung reaches of the countryside seem to breed to no end. Who would have thought that the higher you climbed the rankings the more acquainted you’d become with woodland critters the size of your hand (excluding cursed spirits, mind you). Then there’s the persistent feeling of otherness crawling over you like a second skin the longer those prying eyes rake and rove over you. (If only they knew that a city girl and her dutiful charge were the last bit out of place in these parts.)

“I mean it when I say that you’re a lifesaver, Choso.” Your poignant ring is all the encouragement he needs to scrap making sure that dead is actually dead this time around and squeeze himself back into your sphere again. Crunch, crunch, crunch goes the tall grass giving way to your missing piece because obviously solace by another name is your side. Leave it to him to be over 190 centimeters of delicately endearing. “I wasn’t expecting that other special-grade, but, of course, you’re always covering for me in a pinch—I honestly don’t know what I’d do without you.”

In that moment, you’re the stargazer of him; a face lighting up the pearly night beyond measure. “I’m always following your lead, though. You’re a lot more experienced than me, too, so the best I can do is try to keep up. Because I don’t know what I’d do if something happened to you.” A dash of sheepishness colors the downward wisp of lashes brushing against his cheeks, but that isn’t enough to distract him from the sway of you in his shadow (even if he has to really drop his head to horde that eyeful for himself). “I’m glad we make a good team,” his brief lull is beseeching, the tilted head even more so, “at least I think so.”

For the sake of his tenderly bleeding heart, your nodding doesn’t miss a beat. “Yep, we sure do. . .! And every good team needs some rest, so I should go ahead and text our supervisor and let him know we’re finished up here.” Another thwarted attempt at a sigh, so you settle for a mild quirk of your lips amidst reaching into your pocket for your phone spared from the fray. “We’ll have to stay the night in town, which isn’t ideal, but we can take the first train back home in the morning.”

The faster you can confirm the rendezvous spot, the faster you can sink into a warm bath and then beneath a cozy comforter, so you’re already a few rapid-fire texts deep when Choso pulls on your sleeve.

“Wait. Before that. . .” he begins, slow, measured as if he’s taking the time to taste every word before it leaves his lips. Like that’s not enough to prod at your attention, you’re especially perceptive to rose stain swashed across the expanse of his face, and if you didn’t know any better, you’d think him too innocent to sell his soul to the devil for a life of strife alongside you. Though perhaps innocence in its purest state is wetting his hands in blood, bearing your burden of nocturnal calamity with the occasional slip of diffidence. “Can I. . .” Gulping down that lump in his throat. “Can I have my reward now?”

It's your turn to sound things out for good measure.

“Your. . .reward?” (Emphasis on the furrowed brows there.)

He bobs his head once, meanwhile you’re rifling through the pages of your mental archives in search of this reward, whatever it is. A contemplative hum sifts through you at the recollection of saying something in the realm of treating him once this mission wrapped up; admittedly, it was the sort of remark made in passing, but if it’s Choso, you don’t mind staying true to your word. Besides, you have an inkling of what he might have in mind (or you hope you know him well enough to make that guess. . .there’s only one way to find out).

“You’re talking about the souvenirs near the station; I think you were looking at the sweet dumplings, yeah? I don’t know if that shop is open this late, but we can go over and check—”

“No, not that.” Vehemence strums in his tone, so much so that you start a bit, setting off the ripple effect of him offering you a repentant look in return, one that’s still very clearly brimming with fervor. “I did a good job, right? And you promised I could have a reward if I was really good.” As a matter of fact, he’s not wrong, but his moonstruck gaze, expanding, plants an unnamed sensation between the open spaces in your chest. (You’re not daunted by him, it’s just that unpredictability has never been your forte.) “. . .So I was thinking that I wanted you.”

Doesn’t have a chance to click together in your brain until the warmed heart of his palm envelops your entire cheek, and even then you’re still too many steps behind by the time he’s level with you: face-to-face, eye-to-eye, lips. . .dangerously close. Inhaling a mingling of dried copper and powdery musk doesn’t help you figure out what he means by wanting you, having you; rather, with each fanning of his breath over you in crests, you’re gradually unraveling into something entirely unlike you. Something a lot more nerve-ridden.

If you had intended to chime in after scrambling to make sense of the situation (or not), the reality is that you’re simply opening the door for him to carve a place inside you. Literally. Considering it’s not the sound of a mildly articulated concern that echoes in the air, but a muffled squeak when he catches his lips on yours, inviting himself into the niche of your mouth before you can try to recoil. Even when you do think to reel away, his arm is already circled around your waist, seizing you into the bulk of him to the point that you can’t tell where one of you begins and the other ends.

You’ve long given consideration to the fact that Choso’s spent more time sealed than unsealed, that to this very day he’s still working out the kinks of what it means to be mostly human—but this. This goes beyond his idiosyncrasies of not knowing the particulars of kissing. No, this is nothing of a kiss and everything of devouring you whole.

As susceptible as you are, he has no trouble crowding his tongue against yours, which is the difference between tasting him and choking on him. Testing the waters is the last thing on his mind (you suspect it had never been there in the first place) when he’s using the anchor of his hand to steer you right where he wants you, because how else could he map the ridges of your palate without you shrinking like the violet you’re steadily flowering into. Intrusive is him eating away at your lips like a man starved, but it’s also the blooming of heat curled through your insides with a particular penchant for the midst of your tummy.

The compulsion to stagger back is second nature to you, except he’s unnaturally folded into you, so there’s really nowhere for you to skitter off to, especially not with the fixation given to a mesh of sticky pink. And it feels foreign, sinfully so, as he overwhelms you with broad, saliva-rife sweeps of his tongue, undeterred by your stagnate self, too paralyzed by the knotting in your core, the blistering up of sweat at your temples, and the uncut wildness—or is that obsession?—of him before your very eyes. Either way, it’s just the push needed to send you over the edge of quiet bleating. . .that finds its premature end swallowed into him for safekeeping at the bottom of his stomach, just like every other morsel of you.

Heady appreciation is quick to follow on your heels by way of a long-winded moan from him, to you by virtue of his snare. The stammering in your chest is the clear mark of being caught off guard, and Choso in all his fevered glory capitalizes on your lapse of self to plunge his tongue as deeply as it’ll reach. Nevermind the fact that there’s no stifling the stuttered heave around him or the full-bodied quaking against him, either, he’s still singularly focused on partaking in the mess of you. Willingly or not, you can’t help but indulge him when you’re varying shades of fluster, and it’s the gilt reflection of your disarray that has you clamping your eyes shut. Too bad for you, darkness doesn’t temper the dizzying sensation clambering through your veins that’s becoming more, and more, and more intertwined with him.

(You don’t know how much longer you can weather the storm of him, or if you’ll even be able to mend what he’s already bitten through, and maybe it would have been preferrable if he had taken your skin & tissue with him. He took something far more softly perverse.)  

Though in the end, it’s of his accord, only, that he spares you of the kind of smothering that’ll have you icesheet cold against him in no time flat. And you use spare loosely because he simply moves to sucking and nibbling on your bottom lip as if parting from you means imminent death. If he’d give you a chance, you could assure him that his fears of relenting are unwarranted, but in the thick of hungry fascination, he’d rather stripe his tongue along the corner of your mouth to gather up a stray bead of slick. Whether yours or his, you don’t know—you do know that when he’s done, it’s every bit of his tacky memento etched on your skin.

His gift to you for letting him have one of your deepest intimacies.

As expected, he doesn’t keen over from unlacing himself from you—truthfully, his hand is still palming at your cheek, so it’s not a full untethering—though you’re certainly not boasting a modicum of stability yourself. If that unyielding hold around your middle is anything to go on, you suspect that he doesn’t seem to mind in the slightest; you might even say that he’s savoring in the ruby-rich reliance of his handler.

“Uhm,” Reticence returns with a vengeance despite having just rooted through you mere moments ago; the moonlight glancing off traces smeared across his lips a testament to that. “. . .Do you we could see about those dumplings now?”

And of course you’ll oblige him—even knowing you’re complicit in preserving his devotion.

[chosoniisan]

physically i’m here but mentally i’m floating face down in a river

[chosoniisan]

i love him so much. i want to grab him with my teeth and shake until he stops moving

[chosoniisan]

my, what a big heart you have ↠ kamo choso

↠pairing: (wolf) kamo choso | (fox) reader

↠setting: (modern) hybrid au, but make it subtle-ish

↠genre: dark romance-esque

↠caution: yandere behavior (obsession, manipulation, stalking); minor injuries/blood; masochism; (my size/height kink strikes again)

↠summary: you think nothing of it when choso from your office floor invites you over to work on a department report (but perhaps that was your mistake)

↠authoress' notes: I'm so weak to hybrid au stuff and wanted to try my hand at it, particularly with a predator/predator dynamic (although foxes are notoriously skittish), so here we are //// I know this needs to be fleshed out a bit more, but I wanted to write something in-universe as a baseline for future revisiting purposes :')

“Choso, I want to go home.”

Lacing peachy temperance with a touch of diplomacy at the end.

“You just got here, though. . .”

In exchange for stifling a curled lip, portending the razor edge of a sneer, you’re overtaken by the stark dip in your brow and your slightly lifted chin, not so subtly flirting with unfounded authority. “Choso, I’m going home, now.” Despite pure unwavering rolling like thunder, threatening to splinter through his marrow from your pitch alone, he doesn’t flinch. It’s as if he’s utterly immune to the implications blistering in the air, but you’re not opposed to translating a suggestion into plain letters if it means he’ll relinquish his post in front of the door. “So, I would appreciate it if you could just let me leave before it gets too late.”

“But I don’t want you to go yet.” Said simply, too innocently for the deteriorating situation at hand, yet it’s his tilted head and rosy look that has you bristling in full. “I really enjoy your company.”

“That’s the problem.” Cyanide burns on your palate, enough to make you wince and wish in hindsight to take it back because thanks to him you’ve become every bit of the thorn starving to make an open wound out of him. If only he had kept his distance; if only you hadn’t toed the line of dangerous, harrowing, dawning calamity. “I don’t want to be anything other than coworkers. I don’t want to be acquaintances, or friends, or whatever you think we are.”

He blinks at you, genuinely perplexed and not at all reeling back from the pang of a knife driven to the core of him, right where he’s fleshy and oh so sensitive. (There is something horrifically wrong with him, beyond the obvious.) “Did I do something to upset you. . .?” You don’t know which is more audacious—the inkling of a warble in his voice or the absolute refusal to swallow the bitter pill of your rejection. The latter seems to be winning out in your head. . .that is, until he’s a handful of steps closer, encroaching into your orbit in earnest and before you can contemplate recoiling back. (Calm down, you’re not caught yet, there’s still time to weasel your way out of this.) “Was it the tea? I was sure I’d gotten the brand you usually drink at lunch—”

“—Choso, no, that’s not what I’m talking about—”

“—Or maybe I messed up getting pastries for a snack instead of something savory—”

“—Stop, Choso, I’m serious—”

“—But you’re always going to that bakery after work since you’ve got a sweet tooth, so I thought—”

Selectively tuning him out now that you’ve reached the point of no return where you’re primed to throw caution to the wind and make a break for it while he’s corded with untold mania. Unfortunately, the throes of delirium don’t negate the fact that his kind is big, nightmarishly mountainous, and he’s no exception, outsizing you as easily as he breathes. Of course you know that, have always known that in the back of your head, but try telling your thump, thump, thumping heart that when you’re squarely at the epicenter of him. And that’s before you even factor in the festering of his true colors like a contagion, none too surreptitiously admitting to his sins at the foot of your confessional. Which begs the question. . .if he’s willing to divulge his rotten habit of prying into your periphery while you’re none the wiser, then what is he actually keeping close to the chest?

No, scratch that, you don’t want to find out, and you won’t find out if you can help it. The key is to catch him while his guard is down, to stance yourself on the balls of your feet, to measure the distance to the door in a few frantic bounds, to take a deep breath and worry less about the inevitable fallout from your escape. By the time the dust clears, you’ll be turning in your transfer request, and with any luck they’ll relocate you to the Sapporo office, sure, you’re not the arctic type, but you’ll take brutal winters over him brutalizing you—

Right then dizziness spells over you, and you don’t realize it’s too late until it is.

“. . .Are you okay?” Echoes with ripe sincerity, except when did Choso constellate himself this closely to you? Enough that you can feel the heat of him tiding over you to the point of drowning beneath the surface? Is your undoing thinking that you could foil him not with your stature but with a head start toward the door? Backed against the wall, desperate to turn tail and run for the hills (literally), you think so.

“Maybe it would be best if you sat down for a bit. I can get you some water, too, that should help you feel better, yeah?” Comes another attempt at cloying coercion, whisking straight through one ear and out the other, has no choice but to when your pitifully vulpine brain is fraying at the edges, cannibalizing itself up before he has a chance to dig his claws into your grey matter.

Claws and not fingers, because he is every bit vicious, unseamed, hungry for a taste with an open hand—

“Don’t touch me.”

Split blood and wolf’s flesh cake underneath your fingernails, nauseating an already faintly you.

See how quick you are to spurn him, ravage him right up until you’re faced with the spatter of your transgressions. You’re frozen like a sheet of ice, aren’t you, and you can’t even deign a look at the sticky dead weight abandoned at your side. Though out of sight, out of mind is wishful thinking on your part when he’s brandishing your self-infliction before his eyes, almost as if he’s committing those jagged fault lines to memory. Short-term memory, considering it’ll be the final remnants of you.

You think your demise begins with his full-mooned gazing and a flicker of pink across his lip. But. “I’m sorry, really sorry for making you mad—I didn’t mean to, I swear.” In the end, his tail is tucked between his legs, matched only by a desire to endear himself into your good graces in spite of reaping your consequences. While you’re very much out of your mind, losing your sense of self before the rest of you follows, you’ve cobbled enough scraps to appreciate the absurdity of the situation. Him, reveling in desecration like it’s a virtue. “You probably want to scratch and bite me some more, right? I don’t mind, no—” he presents the untouched sweep of his forearm: an offering for your consumption, “I want you to take your anger out on me, to punish me with pain, it’s what I deserve.”

Blanching not from his proximity (you need only part your lips for a mouthful of sinew), and neither from the madness of him in spades (tufts slanted forward amongst a ruby-rich flush), but because he thinks you to be untamed, a rabid thing in a delicate, softly shell.

And he’s right.

Laid bare before him, there’s a sharp prickling in the corners of your eyes, even more so when you’re keen to an itch that sparks from your synapses to the taper in your teeth. This is his fault, all of it: he’s the one eating away at you until you’re raw and deeply unstitched. So when you inevitably bare your fangs back, you, a girl of prey, he’s rightfully deserving of the blame.

At least that’s what reason dictates—and you are far removed from it. Enough that you fall into the embrace of collapse, or what ends up as the cradle of his arms, true to his word of taking your savagery as his own. But for now you know he’s beyond satiated with a misty-eyed you staining the front of his shirt: the cacophony of chest-deep drumming and incessant swish, swishing says so.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” he tries soothing you in a quieted mantra, petting along the back of your head and exploiting the receptive patch behind your folded flaps; that only draws an unwanted lilt along with a fresh wave of tears.

“You can hurt me as much as you want, as much as you need—I’ll still take care of you, I promise.”

(Perhaps residing in his stomach wouldn’t have been such a bad fate after all.)

[chosoniisan]

One concept I think we should explore more is um. Each other's bodies

[chosoniisan]

hes so fine i wanna live at the foot of his bed like a dog

[chosoniisan]

"what that mouth do" gnaw and chew and munch and nibble and chomp and bite u

[chosoniisan]

(please) lick it better ↠ kamo choso

↠pairing: kamo choso | sorceress!reader

↠setting: very beginning of culling game arc, post shibuya incident arc

↠genre: that space between platonic and darkly romantic

↠caution: spoilers; blood/injuries; flawed first aid; suggestive, but in an unsettling way; my brand of choso; (the title is more on the nose than you know ///)

↠summary: scavenging for food supplies in overrun downtown doesn't go quite as planned, even less so with choso at your side

↠authoress' notes: of course, my foray into writing choso would be something like this. I had something tamer, cuter, even, in mind, but my penchant for depravity won out in the end :')

This shouldn’t faze you.

Under normal circumstances, this wouldn’t faze you.

Normal, a concept loosely coined when days are marred in nightmares given form and nights are spent scrubbing ill-colored splotches from your uniform, say nothing of those smudges tattooed into your very fabric. But even that can’t compare to the here & now—the death parade of cursed spirits squeezing out from every dark, decrepit corner. Worst case scenario would be that the outbreak is contained to metro Tokyo; the reality is that this is an unnatural disaster of the national scale. Deeply familiar panic intertwines with that persistent strain of nausea just in time for you to narrowly avoid staggering over a raised patch of pavement, and there’s no clearer sign that a temporary retreat is the only viable path forward. By viable, you mean the choice that’s the least likely to get yourself kill—     

“—You’re still bleeding.”

Ah, you almost forgot about him. Almost, because while his cursed energy might be snuffed out like a light to avert another run-in with a skulking curse, you’re particularly keen to that warmed sloshing sensation over your skin. It’s all-consuming, but not enough to drag you in the undertow. It’s not too heavy; and it’s not too light, either.

It’s every bit of Choso.

(Your ribcage rattles as something of an ambivalent feeling throbs hand-in-hand with your heart.)

Pivoting to face him is a tentative endeavor, doing yourself no favors in his eyes as a supposed fully realized sorcerer, yet it’s the path of least resistance when you’re on the precipice of self-ruination. He can’t be any more than a few measly feet away, though his visage is just as inscrutable as it would have been if he was on the other side of street. Unfortunately to the closed book of him, you are all mismatched pieces and a brittle press of lips.

“Oh, uhm, yeah, you’re right,” you stumble through the hollow shape of a concurrence, pretending in the moment that your wrist hasn’t been bitten away with pain, that you’re lightheaded but lucky you still have a hand to speak of. For a split second there, you taste the tune of, I’ll be fine on your tongue, but force it back down to your stomach because it’s a given, because you are a sword as much as you are a shield. Instead, you glance down at your skirt run through the wringer and decide that you won’t miss a few more inches. “I probably won’t bleed out. . .but maybe I should wrap it up. Just in case. . .”

“You don’t look well.” Another observation set in starkly tones, which would have stung had that not been the absolute truth of you. His moderate expression is in full effect, unless the faint twitch in his brow extends beyond a stroke of your imagination. “You haven’t slept in a few days, and you haven’t eaten much, either,” cheap plastic rustles in his hand, beckoning your attention for the briefest moment before your focus is back on him, “I don’t sense any curses around, so we can rest here for a bit. . .if you want.”

Every part of you wants to, from your aching muscles to the slight throbbing at your temples—you’ve learned how to override that pesky side of you, though. You can’t want when your hands are so thoroughly stained in sanguined red.

“The same could be said of Itadori-kun, and I really don’t like being separated from him for too long.” Feels akin to an excuse the second it dissolves into the air, knowing to your core that Itadori is capable of fending for himself without you. And whether rightfully or not, you also know that even a passing mention of Itadori is bound to rivet Choso, enough to redirect him to the bigger picture of things. “We can rest when we get to the meeting spot, we’re not too far off, anyways.”

In an attempt to save face, you stifle the pained flicker threatening to strain your features in the same breath that you’re turning back on your heel with him to follow—

“Wait. Please.” It’s the tinge of desperation that initially stops you in your tracks; his honeymoon gaze wanes in your direction, further rooting you in place even as he closes the distance in just a few strides. Rather than towering over you, he’s lording over you in pure bulk, blotting out anything and everything that isn’t him, him, all him. Naivety is thinking that you’ve cleaned the slate of shock from your face—his unwavering fixation says otherwise. Then after a long moment: “Do you trust me?”

If you weren’t stunned before, you certainly are now.

Is it possible to trust someone you don’t know?

(Is it possible to trust someone at the interstice of human and cursed spirit?)

Answers elude you like the breeze between your fingertips, and you don’t think being in your right of mind would bring the kind of clarity you’re feverishly seeking. (Jujutsu Tech taught you how to exorcise curses, not deal with the web of complexities that comes with hybrid curses of Choso’s variety.) If anything is crystal clear, it’s that with every tick on the clock, he looks that much closer to crumbling from the weight of suspense borne from your tenuous hesitancy. Do you trust him with every inch of your heart? Not entirely. But can you at least betray yourself long enough to placate him this once?

A ghost of a nod precedes the light thud of the bag on the ground, the tendered curl of fingers, the balmy wisps over your inner wrist.

Needless to say, that garners a reaction from you.

First instinct compels you to reel back, though the execution is dead in the water given the gawky hold on you and especially the raw smoldering radiating up & down your forearm. Mimicking a deer in headlights isn’t quite the secondary response you had hoped for, definitely not the one you’d liked to commit to his memory. “C-Choso, what are you doing. . .!”

“I’ve heard that saliva has antibacterial properties.” He conveniently skitters right around your question as he surveys the extent of the wound, all while opting to answer something that has your chest shuddering and nerves aflame. Only Choso would think to render first-aid this haphazardly, and you might have laughed at the simplicity of the gesture if not for the fact that he actually, one hundred percent intends to salve your injury with saliva. His saliva. “You’ll still have to put compression on it, but I want to help ease your pain, in my own way.”

Amber pools and crystallizes in his stare; you feel the whisper of lips on your skin.

“It’s okay, I’m okay, Choso! You don’t have to—!”

Less of a whisper this time and more of a soft imprinting of him onto your flesh. (This remains unnamed, even while it’s scratching at your subconscious, begging for acknowledgement, for honesty.)

With Choso flowering onto you, heat beads not just from your wrist where it previously had been self-contained, but now it’s coursing through every inch of you in waves. Just this much and you’re already feeling pearls of sweat well up on your nape, and despite the chill in the air, you’re on the verge of scorching to a crisp where you stand. As much as you’re reserved to admit it, he is easing the pain—in the sense that you’re so overrun with every other sensation under the sun that the persistent sting is the least of your worries. No, you’re more concerned with the lingering press of his tiers where you’re pried open, wondering if somehow he’s blurred the line between tranquilizing your simmering distress and acquainting you to the breadth of him, like the prelude of more and more, of him.

Except the thought of this affair in repeat thrills a whine from your cords, rippling into an exchanged look wherein his gaze clambers inside you in spite of your efforts to keep him forever on the outside. Too little, too late because you never should have inched into his palm in the first place: it hardly matters if he’s a wolf in sheep’s clothing, at the end of the day, he’s still a wolf, bared teeth and all. Your only saving grace is you’re fortunate to find yourself on the benevolent side of him tonight. . .if benevolence is the sudden sweep of rosy, dewy pink over you.

“Choso, please. . .!” Now it’s your turn to beseech of him, though he isn’t nearly as acquiescent as you had been (and you suppose in hindsight that was the fatal flaw on your end).

Gone is temperate restraint and in its place is an ardency to covet your pain all to himself as the flat of his tongue laves over your tattered seam, veins scored and swelling to the breaking point. From panic tumbles abashment, the sort that burbles from the apples of your cheeks to the tips of your ears and nurses pitiful, mousy noises that are woefully unsuited to the likes of you. (A sorcerer unraveling at the hands of a cursed spirit is a poeticism you couldn’t have foreseen.) Converging onto each other in bruised intimacy, your disarray is his for the taking, though you soon realize that you’re on the receiving end of him, too. He offers you the suture of his tongue as well as the tremoring of hushed, very hushed groaning for your unbidden consumption, only.

Dancing on the edge as it is, his growing sway over you is urging you toward your own downfall, evinced with the heavy, frantic distension of your lungs spilling into him. Worse still is the chorus of his name suffusing the nocturne space of two, coaxing nothing other than berry-inked fervor from him as if he’s determined to gulp down your pulse. You’re not at all equipped to bear this onslaught of him from beneath the blue moon, particularly when he weaves feelings in you that are a far, far reach from thorned misery. So, if that’s the case, then does that mean it feels. . .

Again, deliberately unanswered as he gorges on you like a man starved of god’s ichor.

And knowing what’s innately carved into him, maybe it is a delicacy of drinking straight from your pomegranate flesh.

Though no matter what this is, this being softly ravaging, you’re quickly drawing closer to the line in the sand where your abruptly knocking knees is what keeps your lashes from falling any further. That’s only delaying the inevitable, that which shall soon come to pass as you teeter on the balls of your feet with the prayer that you at least have the wherewithal to break your own fall if it comes to it.

(But how can you even fall when you’re already in his maw.)

“Am I hurting you?” he asks in the stillness of the nightscape with your wrist still firmly in hand—cheeks aflush, lips bloodstained, but only until he swipes his tongue to devour your every vestige.

Blinking back slowly, starlessly.

“. . .No, it doesn’t hurt at all.”

(You wonder if you’re truly betraying yourself this time.)

[chosoniisan]

if she's your girl why is she breaking open my ribcage and devouring me like an animal?

[chosoniisan]

Choso | Jujutsu Kaisen Season 2 Ep. 13 "Red Scale"

[chosoniisan]

choso is so silly and cute i love him sm🥺