#... need himmm | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

sugarphoric · 1 month ago

Text

GUYYSSSS

SYNOPSIS ᯓ Choso had every intention of taking it slow, letting you guide him. That was, until he saw you wrecked, breathless, begging. Your knees are then pressed beside your ears, letting him fuck into you panting filth he didn't know he was capable of. You realize this isn't the shy, quiet Choso you knew, instead a man claiming what's his.

PAIRING ᯓ Virgin! Choso x Reckless! Reader

WARNINGS ᯓ SMUT MDNI, rough sex, size kink, overstimulation, dumbification, pussy drunk, FLUFF, he's possessive, unholy amounts of dirty talk. PORN WITH PLOT, praise and degradation, oral (f receiving), fingering (f receiving), PROTECTED piv sex, SOBER sex, alcohol use, mentions of addiction (if you squint), tender aftercare, filthy & desperate first-time sex.

WORD COUNT ᯓ 5.1k

SERIES ᯓ GOJO ⋮ GETO ⋮ CHOSO ⋮ SUKUNA

The night is loud, music pulsing and laughter spilling over the rim of cheap cocktails, cigarette smoke curling toward the ceiling in ghostly ribbons. The air smells of spilled liquor, a heady mix clinging to your skin as you make your way through the crowd. You don’t remember coming to places like this, only that it was easier to drown in the noise than to sit in the quiet and listen to the thoughts clawing at the edges of your mind.

You were always running, reaching for the next drink, the next thrill, the next temporary high that might make your pulse spike high enough to remind you that you were alive. People liked you for it, being a fun good time, the kind of girl that others called when they wanted a night to remember (or forget). Fun didn’t ask questions, it didn’t care about the nights you woke up in places you don’t recognize, accompanied with bruises you didn’t remember getting. Fun didn’t notice the way your hands shook when you were alone for too long.

“Babe,” Yuki’s voice breaks through the blue, her warm fingers curling around your wrist. “I gotta go. But I’m leaving you in safe hands.”

You blink at her, a little disoriented, only now realizing how unsteady your legs feel. The drinks have settled in your veins, making sharp edges turn soft. “Safe hands?” you echo, laughing briefly. “Yukiii, that’s so boring.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she grins, half-amused and half-irked. “Try not to die without me.”

She’s already steering your shoulders toward the bar before you can protest, and suddenly, you’re in front of him.

Choso is sitting in the corner, nursing a drink with slow and deliberate sips. His presence is steady, a stark contrast to the chaos around him. He’s always been like that, watching and waiting, eyes following the ebb and flow of the crowd like he’s looking for something.

Yuki leans in close, murmuring something in his ear before clapping a hand on his shoulder and shooting you a wink. With a lazy wave she disappears into the sea of bodies, leaving you alone with him.

Choso doesn’t speak right away, just looks at you with those deep, dark eyes of his. He’s always been a little distance, standoffish, but never unkind. You’ve talked in passing before, but never like this, not one-on-one.

And that’s when you realize, you don’t actually know what he thinks of you at all.

The thought of that lingers as you slide into the seat beside him, your movements too slow and heavy. The world tilts, not unpleasantly, but noticeable. Choso notices too, eyes flicking over you with something close to concern.

“You okay?”

You hum, propping your chin on your hand and watching him through half-lidded eyes. He looks… good. Sharp jaw, dark hair, broad shoulders, just so unfairly handsome that you wonder why you never really looked at him before. It could be alcohol, or it could just be the way he holds himself, like he’s always exactly where he’s supposed to be. Suddenly you’re hyper-aware of how close he is.

“You’re cute,” you murmur, a little too dreamy and reckless.

He stiffens. “You’re drunk.”

“Maybe,” you say, tilting your head to get a good look at him. “Still true.”

His eyes flicker, and you don’t miss the way his throat bobs when he swallows and the way his fingers twitch.

Of course you prod, because you always push too far, you ask, “Choso. Have you ever been with anyone?”

He goes still, and you watch the shift in him, how his shoulders tense, hesitating just a fraction of a second too long.

Your lips part as you realize it all in real time. “Oh my god. You’re a virgin?”

His jaw clenches, and for the first time he looks genuinely uncomfortable. “Does it matter?”

You should stop, just let it go. But, something about the way he looks at you so wary and defensive makes you lean in close to him, voice dropping to a whisper. “I think it’s kinda hot.”

He doesn’t respond, just staring at you like he’s trying to figure out if you’re serious. You are. The idea of being his first, of being the one to unravel him, has an aggressive kind of appeal.

Before he can wrack his brain to say anything, you stretch out. “I’d love to be your first.”

His grips the glass tighter, knuckles white. He can’t tell if you mean it, or if it’s just the alcohol talking. His mind spins trying to process it. Her, you. Sitting in front of him, looking so disheveled, so inviting, lips parted like you might say something far worse.

But you’re too drunk. He knows that. Even if his stomach twists at the thought of your words being genuine, he can’t ignore the way you sway slightly, how your eyelids keep fluttering like it’s a battle to keep them open.

He exhales slowly. “Where do you live? I’ll take you home.”

You blink at him. “Hm?”

“Your address,” he repeats. “Where do you live?”

You just giggle, face feeling too warm. “I wanna go home with you.”

He sighs, but doesn’t argue. Helping you out of the bar, keeping a steady hand modestly at your back. You’re sluggish, pressing into his side more than necessary, and he pretends not to notice the way your fingers toy with the hem of his sleeve.

When you get to his apartment, you’re already kicking off your shows and humming to yourself like you belong there. Choso hesitates, “you can take my bed. I’ll take the couch.”

You frown, jutting out your bottom lip and pinching your brows. “No fun.”

“No drunk decisions,” he counters, guiding you to sit. He kneels in front of you, reaching for a damp cloth to help you wipe off your makeup. His touch is careful, so gentle. When he offers you one of his shirts to sleep in, he has to force himself to look away as you pull it over your head, swallowing thickly when he catches a glimpse of bare skin.

He doesn’t sleep much that night, just staring at the ceiling while listening to the sound of your soft breathing just a few feet away.

You wake up wrapped in the scent of crisp vanilla. Your eyes flutter open, then squeeze shut again as the bright afternoon light seeps through the blinds to your left, casting streaks across the unfamiliar room. It’s foreign, neatly kept and minimalistic. The sheets under you are a dark blue, matching the comforter cocooning your body. A computer sits in the corner, its monitor dark, with no posters or personal touches in the room. It feels like a placeholder of a room, functional but impersonal.

You sigh, pressing the heel of your palm to your forehead as the realization and guilt start flooding in. Waking up in a stranger’s room, again.

Swinging your legs over the edge of the bed, you brace your hands against the mattress to push yourself up, bare feet sinking into the plush carpet. Your movements are slow, careful as you pad toward the door and peek into the hallway. The scent of something warm wafts. Following it, you step out only to find Choso standing in the small kitchen, spatula in hand and flipping eggs onto a plate.

He turns at the sound of your footsteps. “Morning.”

And just like that, your heart is racing. Last night’s events flash through your mind, unforgiving and strangely vivid. The bar, the teasing, how you leaned in and murmured against his ear, I’d love to be your first, your own words making your stomach twist.

God, you really said that?

He was plating the food, clearing his throat. “I, uh, made eggs. If you’re hungry.”

You swallow down your mortification, thanking him while sliding into one of the stools at the counter. The plate he sets in front of you is simple, scrambled eggs with toast, nothing fancy, but the sight of it makes you smile. It’s been a while since anyone cared enough to make you breakfast.

As you lift the fork, scooping a bite of eggs in your mouth, you can feel his eyes on you.

Choso watches you in silence, studying the way you eat. Your hair is a mess, all tangled from sleep, mascara faintly smeared under your eyes. The shirt he gave you drapes over your frame, hanging low enough to cover your shorts. The way you sit, spine curved and bare legs crossed at the ankles, feet dangling just above the floor, stirs butterflies in his stomach. He likes how comfortable you look, how naturally beautiful you are, even if you think you’re at your lowest.

The thought of last night sours his mood.

He wished it happened differently. He wished you two had that conversation under better circumstances, not while you’re drunk, teasing without realizing the weight of your words. Truthfully, he’s always wanted to approach you personally, but he never knew how. Your world was unbounded, fast-paced, a whirlwind of impulsive choices. His was more stable, controlled, and safe.

Too safe for you.

He grips the edge of the counter a little tighter. “There’s a spare toothbrush in the bathroom if you need it. And you can take a shower if you want.”

You blink up at him, caught off guard by his consideration. “Oh. Thanks.”

Getting off the stool, you stretch your arms above your head before heading down the hall. The bathroom mirror confirms all of your suspicions. You look rough. Lips swollen from sleep, imprints of a pillow crease along your cheek. You find the toothbrush and run it under water before brushing, the repetitive motion of it grounding you.

Instead of stepping into the shower, you sink onto the edge of the tub, staring at the tiled floor as last night’s events replay.

You’d love to be his first.

You groan, dropping your head into your hands. You were way too blunt. But still, it wasn’t a lie. You would love to be his first, just didn’t wish you threw it at him in the middle of a bar while drunk off cheap vodka.

You push yourself up, making your way back to the kitchen. Choso looks up as you step in.

You take a deep breath. “I’m sorry.”

His brows furrow. “For what?”

Your eyes flicker around the room looking for the right words. “For being a drunken mess. I keep telling myself I’ll stop but-”

His expression shifts. “It’s okay,” his voice softer than before. “I just-” he brings a hand up, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just don’t want you getting hurt.”

Your lips twitch. Because you know what he means, but you tilt your head, feigning innocence because, well, you are you, after all. “Why? You’re not a danger to me, are you?”

He freezes, color rising in his cheeks.

Oh.

Yeah, you both remember everything from last night.

You frown a bit, steadying yourself as you brush past him moving to the door. You slide your shoes on, fingers tugging at the laces. You look up at him, and he looks reluctant. Maybe a little sad.

“I’ll bring your shirt back tomorrow,” you say, hand curling around the doorknob. “After I wash it.”

You hesitate, biting your lip in frustration. And before you can overthink it, you glance over your shoulder. “By the way,” you say quietly. “I really did mean what I said last night.”

And before you can step through the door he interrupts you.

“Wait.”

You pause, one foot outside before you turn around. His voice wasn’t commanding, it was quiet, uncertain, like he wasn’t even sure he said it himself. You look back, and he’s still standing there, hands twitching at his sides.

You step back inside, letting the door click shut behind you.

“Choso?” taking slow steps toward him, but he still doesn’t move. When you reach him, your hand lifts instinctively, fingers grazing his shoulder. He’s warm, solid.

“I do think you’re cute, Cho,” you admit softly. You weren’t used to this kind of thing, of being careful and deliberate, but you find yourself wanting to be.

His breath hitches, blinking down at you as his lips part, eyes searching your face like he still can’t believe you’re being serious. He looks so nervous, so unsure, but underneath it, there’s something you don’t think he even realizes is there.

And suddenly, you want to take care of him, cradle his face and tell him how important he is.

Choso just breathes shakily. The thought of telling you he wants you to stay beating against the inside of his skull, but his mouth refuses to work. He clenches his jaw in attempt to force something out, something that won’t make himself sound like an idiot.

“I want you to stay.”

It escapes before him before he can stop it, a little too direct and raw.

You hum, watching him closely. He’s nervous. But you can feel the heat beneath his eyes, how his fingers twitch like he wants to reach for you.

So you do it first.

You kick off your shoes again, taking his hand in yours and slipping your fingers between his. He stiffens before holding on tight as you lead him back to the bedroom.

Choso is barely breathing as you pull him toward his bed. His grip on your hand is tight, like he doesn’t realize where he is or how hard he’s holding on to you until you give a gentle squeeze.

“You’re still sure about this?” you sit at the edge of the mattress, peering up at him. “We don’t have to rush, we can wait.”

His heart is a pounding, restless muscle in his chest. He considered it useless, because his face was in front of yours, offering such a sensitive side of himself no one’s seen before. But he’s so soft, fingers laced with yours so patient.

“I want this,” he murmurs, eyes wide as he looks at you. “I want you.”

Lips curling into something tender, appreciating this gift he’s giving you, and the sight of it alone nearly takes him apart.

“Let me kiss you?” Your fingers brush over his jaw.

He nods quickly, but you only hum. “Use your words, Cho.”

The way you say his name, so warm and sweet like it’s meant just for him, makes something bloom in his chest. “Y-yeah. Please.”

You guide him down, lips brushing over his first, featherlight, hesitant, careful, so much softer than he expected. His body is tense, unsure of what to do or where to put his hands, how to react, even.

He barely gets a moment to ground himself before you kiss again, deeper. You’re slow, patient, waiting for him to catch up. Your tongue just barely teases the seam of his lips, and before he realizes it, his own lips part and let you in.

It’s intoxicating the way you taste, clean because you just brushed your teeth but a flavor that’s so uniquely you. It was like he could taste all of you, your past experiences, what made you into who you are, and honestly, he barely knew anything about you. It was exhilarating the way your tongue brushed against his, how your fingers slip into his loose hair like you want him closer. He sighs against your mouth, pressing forward without thinking. His hands hover, unsure before settling at your waist.

You hum in approval. “That’s good,” you murmur against his lips. “Touch me more, Cho.”

His fingers wiggle to your hips, tightening before hesitating again. “L-like this?”

“Mhm,” you nod, shifting to guide his hands into moving along your body, squeezing your waist, caressing your back, holding your hips. “You’re learning fast.”

His grip grows more confident, lips pressing against yours with a little more intent, beginning to case your mouth, letting himself whimper when you lick into him. The kisses grow wetter, deeper, trails of spit connecting each time you part, and he lets himself move more on instinct rather than nervous indecision.

You shift, straddling his lap, and his breath really stops for a second. Your weight settles over his thighs, barely giving his erection any pressure, but he barely holds back a groan. He can feel you, warm and soft against him, your hands threading through his hair. He grips your hips by instinct, squeezing tightly.

“Fuck- sorry, I didn’t mean-”

“Shh,” you soothe him, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “It’s okay. I like it.”

His eyes are blown wide, hands still caressing you hesitantly. “Y-you do?”

You hum, smiling at him and rolling your hips juuust slightly, seeing the full body shiver wracking through him.

“You feel so good,” you whisper. “Kissing you feels good, touching you feels good,” another slow grind of your hips. “Do you like it, Cho?”

His head tilts back, a breathy sound slipping past his lips. “Yes,” he chokes out. “Fuck, yes.”

Your hands glide against his solid, clothed chest, smiling into his neck. “Good.”

He is so tense, muscles drawn tight beneath your touch. His heartbeat is frantic, hammering against your palm, his body already betraying how much he wants this, wants you.

So he stays still as you peel your shirt off, baring smooth skin and lace, his breath shallow, uneven, in awe. His gaze flickers from your face to your chest, unsure where he’s allowed to look.

You shift again in his lap, your barely-there shorts dragging against the taut fabric of his sweats as you rock forward.

“You can touch me,” you murmur, taking his large hand and placing it against your bare thigh. His fingers are warm, unpracticed.

You guide him higher, letting the pads of his fingers graze the edge of your panties. A sharp, choked noise leaves him, caught between a gasp and a groan.

“I…” His voice is wrecked, strained, low and raspy. “You’re so-”

He doesn’t finish, can’t because you’re moving again, already pressing his fingers past the waistband, guiding him exactly where you need him.

Wet.

Soaked.

Drenched.

He stills completely, realization slamming into him harder than anything else. And yeah, he’s seen porn before, heard what arousal sounds like, knows that girls get wet when they’re turned on. But this?

Nothing prepared him.

His fingers slip against you too easily, noticing the way you gasp when he grazes a certain spot, quickly finding your entrance and feeling you pulse around him. He’s throbbing, probably about to cum himself as he switches between fingering you with a single digit and circling your clit, your slickness coating his skin entirely, it’s like he can’t even think. Labored breathing, he was such a good learner, and you were such a good teacher, hastily learning how to make a woman cum, how to make you cum. Listening as your breaths become shallow, quickened as he inserts two fingers, massaging you from the inside as you reach closer to climax.

Then you whimper, a sound so sweet and desperate.

When he dares to look up, you’re watching him. Half-lidded eyes, lips parted, and hair slipping from your shoulders as you lean into his touch. Your face contorted into something so beautiful, so vulnerable that makes his stomach coil so tight it’s painful.

Then you beg.

“Please, Cho. Please faster.”

Oh he absolutely breaks. Fingers moving before his mind can catch up, before realizing what he’s doing, working you open and fucking his fingers into you with no hesitation.

“So wet,” he mumbles, voice hushed. Words falling without him registering how filthy they sound.

“You feel- fuck- you feel so good.”

He’s lost, completely focused on the way you react, obsessed with every shudder, every audible breath. And he’s still talking, voice low, breathless, almost pleading as his fingers thrust harder, faster, deeper.

“Like that?”

A sharp not. “Y-yeah, just like that, Choso-”

He groans deep and rough. His free hand finding your bare waist and gripping possessively. Restraint completely gone.

His mind is fuzzy, utterly overwhelmed by how hot and perfect you feel, by the fact that this is real, happening right now, and he’s the one making you fall apart.

Your hips roll into his touch, digging your nails into his shoulders as the drive of his fingers increase, letting your body jerk and walls clench around his digits when he uses his other hand to circle your clit.

“Fuck- Cho- fuck m’cumming,”

You’re above him still, eyes squeezed shut and mouth open as your thighs tremble, pure ecstasy as you realize yourself how long you’ve been waiting for this kind of relief, most men using you like some toy until they’re satisfied, no one truly listening to the signs of your body like Choso does. It was like he was worshiping you and every part of your body you offered to him.

“Does it feel good? Yeah? Fuck-” his fingers more desperate as he talked you through it, curling unintentionally into your g-spot, nearly cumming in his pants as you gasp for air, hand moving to grip his wrist on the brink of overstimulation.

He doesn’t even think before he does it, fingers still wet with you, glistening in the natural light when he absentmindedly brings them to his lips, a primal part of him needing to know how you taste.

“You taste-” he pauses, trying to think of the right words before giving up.

He opens his hand, licking up his palm, sucking his digits as he looks up at you, still coming down from your high.

“I wanna taste you again,” and it’s not a question. Not when he’s hastily picking you up from his lap, laying you before him and hastily dragging your shorts and panties down your legs, settling between your thighs and licking his lips.

You really don’t even know what happened, but it was like something in him physically snapped, you went from guiding his hands to touch you, to him gripping your thighs, widening you for him as his nails dig into your flesh, diving head first into your folds.

He was desperate, messy, uncoordinated, licking in a down-to-up fashion, feeling the way your knees attempt to close around his head, fingers threading his locks trying to push him away from your sensitive center, when instead, he ravishes you.

He learns quickly, using only his tongue and lips to plant messy kisses, slurping your arousal and letting the suction of his lips linger on your clit, earning sinful whines from you.

“Keep makin’ those sounds.”

To say he’s addicted is an understatement, completely devoted to pleasuring you, dependent on the honeyed cries leaving your lips as he works you with his mouth, freely grunting into your pussy and unable to help the slow rock of his hips against the mattress.

Oh this was his new favorite thing.

He even loved that you didn’t shower, able to savor your carnal aroma and flavor.

Inserting his tongue, then returning to plant open-mouth kisses, all while his fingers dug passionately into your thighs.

“Want you to cum like this-”

And you did, almost instantly as the muffled, strangled words left his mouth. It was intuitive as he worked you, continuing his ministrations as you arched your back, bringing fistfuls of his sheets in your hands, crying out ruthlessly because you didn’t care who heard.

He pulls back, lips glistening, eyes desperate, hands still gripping your thighs like he doesn’t want to let go.

But then, his brows furrow slightly, nose scrunching like something clicks in his dazed, lust-addled brain. You watch has his jaw clenches.

“Fuck,” he mutters, almost like he’s mad at himself for stopping, forcing himself to pull away. “Condom.”

Your head is spinning too much to process his words at first, body still burning from his mouth, but then you see him fumbling for his wallet, tearing his shirt off as he settles between your legs again with the foil packet between his clumsy fingers.

It’s a little awkward to say the least, a little endearing. He’s rushing, frantic, struggling to rip it open properly because his hands are still trembling from how much he wants you.

You reach forward, simultaneously unclasping your bra behind you. “Here, let me.”

And you take it in your hands, ripping it open and staring at the huge bulge at eye level.

Thick. Heavy. Your fingers barely wrap around the base, warmth radiating through your palm as you stroke him, feeling the weight of him in your grasp. His swollen head twitches against your touch, precum beading at the tip, so needy and impatient.

He’s so hard, flushing a deep red and standing proud. You trace a finger along a thick vein pulsing against the ridged underside. Your mouth goes dry, “You’re-” blinking at him, dizzy. “Choso, you’re fucking huge.”

Thighs pressing together, anticipation thrumming hot and tight in your abdomen.

“Is that… bad?”

His teeth grit when your hand tightens around him. “You’re staring,” he mutters, voice deep and shy.

He watches as you put the condom on, rolling it down his length and pinching the tip.

He can’t wait, not anymore. His hands grab your thighs, spreading you open. His body so warm and solid as he settles between your legs.

Pressing in slow, watching how your warmth envelopes him, sucking in a sharp breath at the feeling of you, so wet, so tight, gripping him like you were made for him.

He’s shaking, face warped as he moves slow. Sinking in you completely, throwing his head back and groaning, using the underside of your thighs to press your knees to your chest.

“Take it- take all of it, yeah- just like that, just like- fuck-” His voice hoarse, unhinged as he loses himself in you, lips parted as he watches the way you take him, bruising grip and hips moving in slow, deep thrusts like he’s starved for you.

And he’s so desperate, so broken like he’s trying to talk but all that comes out is filthy, wrecked rambling. Every thrust gets rougher, deeper, wanting to see how far he can take you.

One whiny plea from your lips. “Harder- please, Cho-”

His grip tightens, thrusts brutal and messy, mouth dropping open as he watches you fall apart beneath his hold.

“Fuck- oh fuck, yeah- beg for me again-”

He looks so messy, loose hair clinging to his damp forehead and framing his face perfectly. You watch as his sharp cheekbones flex, clenching his jaw, teeth baring slightly. His fingers curling tighter, holding you in place for him as he watches the way you squirm, whimpering his name and the way your stomach tenses every time he grinds deeper.

Your body jolts with every brutal thrust, thighs trembling as he folds you in half, grip punishing around the backs of your knees. His pace is devastating, like he has no restraint left, something inside him snapping.

He’s deep, too deep, throwing a shaky hand to his stomach in desperate attempt to slow him down, only for a second, just to catch your breath, but he doesn’t stop. Growling at the touch, abs flexing beneath your palm.

“Nah,” his voice is rough, words slipping past clenched teeth. “Nah, you can take it- fuck- you’re already takin’ it. Look at you, look how messy you are for me.”

And you are, soaking his middle with your arousal, so slippery around him he glides in and out so easily. But you’re struggling, his thick length stretching you deep, circumference making you feel like you’re being ripped apart.

He’s snapping his hips forward, spearing into you so deep your back arches off the bed, a gasping sob ripping from your throat as he slams into you unforgiving.

His free hand presses against your lower belly, right where he’s stretching you past your limit, right where he can feel himself inside you. His fingers push down, the lightest pressure, but the sound you make in response is just pathetic.

“Feel that?” His pace reckless, using you like he’s deprived. “Fuckin’ feel me right here, baby. That’s how deep I am.”

He grabs your hand, pushing your palm against your lower stomach so you can feel too, eyes so glossed over in pleasure you’re left breathless, just the sounds of you getting wetter for him and his bed breaking filling the air.

And he can’t get enough, pushing your knees to your ears, lifting your hips as he pounds you through the mattress.

When he sees you, your face all fucked-out, eyes glazed, mouth open like you can’t even process words anymore, he barely pulls out, rutting into you deep and deep.

“Fuckin’ dumb on my cock, huh? Yeah? Can’t even talk, can you?”

Virgin Choso is far gone, because this is primal, filthy, obsessed Choso. He’s no longer your shy, quiet friend, rather the man who’s about to ruin you for anyone else.

“You’re mine, yeah? Mine. Fuck- I need you to say it. Say it, baby, c’mon.”

You don’t even know when the orgasm started and stopped, body numb, boneless, some state of euphoria as he only seems to get rougher.

“Say it.”

You barely even heard what he said thirty minutes ago, but he’s flipping you on your stomach like you weigh nothing, tanking your hips up and groaning when you feel even tighter.

“I said say it. Say who this pussy belongs to.”

One hand grips your hair, tugging your head back.

You gasp, struggling to breath as he forces you to feel every solid inch, barely able to choke out, “It’s yours.”

But it’s not good enough.

“Say it right, sweetheart.”

You’re panting, shaking, on the verge of breaking completely he can feel the weak pulses around his length.

“It’s yours, Cho, this- this pussy’s yours.”

And his drives turn sloppy, more erratic, dragging out the last of your broken moans pushing you through what could’ve been the tenth or twentieth orgasm of the night.

“F-fuck, baby, I’m-”

His hands locking on your hips, deep and rugged as he breathes against your sweaty skin.

“Ohh, fuck- fuck, take it- take all of it, I’m gonna-”

Groaning, tilting his head back and body shuddering as he spills hot and thick into the condom, tightening his grip grounding himself through the mind-numbing pleasure, nearly bursting it by the sheer amount, more than he’s ever gotten out of himself.

He pulls out slow, reluctantly, the absence of him leaving you twitching, a soft whimper escaping before you can stop it. He lets out a low, shaky breath, hands running over the bare, sweat-slicked expanse of your back.

Then, softly, he murmurs, “...Did I hurt you?”

He was so quiet, so careful, so unlike the filthy possessive man that just fucked you like he never wanted to stop.

Barely having the energy to shake your head, smiling, lazy and hazed. “No,” you whisper.

He exhales, relief tangible before his lips are on you again. Except not hungry nor desperate, just gentle. Pressing against your shoulder, spine, temple.

“Still want you to stay the night.”

#its me again #😞🙏#NEED HIMMM

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