dinna

college!bf!choso who needs your guidance on when to slow down and stop to catch his breath; he tends to get entirely consumed by your taste, the second his lips are sealed to your pussy. your moans make his mind hazy, your arousal coating his tongue - high on adrenaline. he gets so eager, pushy, until you yank him off by the hair, trembling from overstimulation; the rough movement always makes him groan with zero shame… his calloused, accessorised fingers digging into your thighs, emphasising his growing needs as his gaze, full of desire, looks up at you in awe of the effortless way you have him wrapped around your finger…

college!bf!choso who presses a slow, gentle kiss on your forehead before you let yourself lay back onto the mattress, right over the open textbooks and scattered pens. a quiet, playful “fuck me,” slipping from your lips…

he enters you in a single push; thick, hard length settling within your warm walls, stretching them with measured strokes; the effect of the impressive stretch shoots through you, dizzying in the best way possible. choso’s vision instantly drops down, his stare soft, entirely consumed by the beautiful view of your cunt wrapped around him to perfection; it brings stars in his eyes…

… but then, he remembers to focus on the pace, on the special angle that makes your voice shake, that causes your nails to sink even deeper into his back. he wants to magnify the pleasure swirling inside you so much that you tear up; that you can’t think about anything else, but him.

soon, his movements are fast. sharp. his heated muscled body consistently crashes against you, again and again, landing with an almost desperate rhythm. and the louder you moan his name… the harder he pounds into you.

because you’re special. and if you - his sweet, polite, loving girlfriend who sometimes forgets her glasses on during sex - crave to be fucked like a pornstar, then he’s making it happen.

Navigating daily life in a new town is hard, but it’s worse when you don’t even recognise yourself.

It’s been almost three weeks since the bite, since your heart stopped beating. But you still have yet to learn how to keep your fangs tucked and how to ignore the rhythmic pulse in the neck of the person in front of you. Even when you’re at the ticket check - you’re baffled that a simple, mindless task as tearing a movie stub is now maddeningly frustrating. The scent of popcorn that used to be one of your biggest comforts is almost nonexistent when every neck in the lobby is a ticking clock of temptation, full of the warm blood you now crave to survive.

This overwhelming hunger is why you’ve been living like a hermit, retreating into the shadows of your apartment, terrified of the monster that might slip out if you lose control. The only exception is work; you still have rent and bills to pay, so you force yourself into the world just long enough to survive.

But tonight is non-negotiable. Nobara is throwing her birthday party and she’s the first - and only - real friend you have made ever since you moved here. You can’t let her down even if a gothic-themed party is the absolute last place you want to be at right now - surrounding yourself with fake blood and plastic teeth while fighting a real, very desperate thirst feels like a cruel joke from the universe, but for her, you’ll do your best.

The apartment is crowded when you arrive; you knew Nobara was extroverted, but you didn’t expect a crowd so… suffocating.

They are singing and laughing, some with plastic fangs falling out of their mouths, others exhaling gray circles of cigarette smoke that hangs heavy in the air. You can also smell the cloying scent of perfume and sweat, but beneath it all lies the most agonising trigger - the hot, sweet iron of blood pulsing through dozens of veins.

You navigate the room, eyes darting, your nails digging deep into your palms. Even your outfit feels like a trap - which, in comparison to some guests that have gone all out, looking like they stepped straight out of a Tim Burton movie, is awkwardly simple. You chose a cheap black dress with a corset that cinches too tight, and a revealing cleavage that makes you feel exposed, the hem brushing your knees with every small step.

“You made it!”

Nobara’s voice cuts through the noise. She looks radiant, so elegant in her purple gown, her face lit up with joy. She grabs your arm, her fingers radiating a heat that makes your throat ache.

“Look at you! You look absolutely gorgeous,” she gushes.

Trying to ignore the thumping of her excited heart, you force a polite curve on your lips. “Not as much as the birthday girl,” you manage to say, tone slightly tilted just enough to sound excited.

She hands you a drink and you accept it. As you chat and you keep sipping on it, the thirst for something entirely else continues flaring up.

It has been three days since your last meal - the 5ml hospital vial Choso had given you the morning after he found you behind the club and saved your life. The supply is long gone and you’re at the point where the hunger stops being just a dull ache.

He had told you it was just a medical surplus he’d managed to find, but the moment the warm liquid hit your tongue, you knew. It was his blood.

You don’t know why he lied, though. Maybe it was pride, or maybe it was some sort of protection. Truthfully, you aren’t sure which would hurt more - him keeping the secret forever, or eventually telling you the truth and making you feel even more like a parasite.

You watched him every day at work - sweeping popcorn, helping Nobara keep up with the rowdy students when they crowd the bar while bickering over nachos, swapping out movie posters in the lobby. You searched for a bandage under the cuff of his uniform or a slight tremor in his hands, - anything to prove you aren’t just deceiving yourself.

But you found nothing.

Still, the certainty sits cold and heavy in your gut. A vampire’s senses shouldn’t be making mistakes, right? The scent of what he gave you was an exact match for the pulse thrumming under his skin.

You’re ninety nine percent sure. The final one percent is just a desperate hope that you’re not harming the only person who actually cared if you made it to sunrise.

For that… you are going to find a way to survive alone. Without draining him.

Speaking of him - Choso is leaning against the far wall, and he looks breathtaking.

He’s wearing a dark suit - all deep velvet textures, subtle romantic ruffles at the collar and a Victorian-style vest that emphasizes his broad, tall frame. For the first time you see his raven black hair loose, falling around his sharp face, effortlessly softly. He has a glass of amber whiskey in his hand, the ice clinking as he watches you with those gloomy, intense eyes.

Until he pushes off the wall to walk toward you, his stride fluid and unrushed - even as he’s perfectly aware of how badly you are struggling. You know he is.

He stops just inches away, looming over you as the scent of his musky cologne momentarily overpowers the smell of the whole room.

“You look like you’re about to faint,” he says, his voice a low, deep vibration. His eyes fall to your glossy lips and stay for a second longer than he probably deems appropriate. “Or like you’re about to bite someone.”

You notice a subtle shift in him; in his gaze as it lingers with an unreadable intensity. It’s so rare to see his professional side crack, even a little bit, and let something through.

You swallow hard, your heart stuttering at the word bite.

“Neither,” you lie, shaking your head; but your voice comes out breathless, unconvincing. “I’m fine. It’s just… it’s too hot in here. And this dress is ridiculous… so uncomfortable.” You tug at the stiff fabric, the friction only fueling your irritation.

Your hands start to shake so violently you have to clench them into fists.

Choso just stands there, watching the way your composure crumbles piece by piece. “You don’t have to lie to me.”

He moves into your space, his body blocking out the lights of the party and creating a small bubble of shadows. Carefully, he catches your fisted hands, his thumbs brushing over your knuckles till your fingers finally unfurl.

His skin is warm, terrifyingly warm.

“I’m fine.” You insist, breath temporarily hitching as one of his hands slides at the small of your back to pull you flush against his chest. “I can handle this,” you add, voice thin as you try to find your footing. He guides you in a small, agonisingly slow circle. “I’m not some… mindless animal.”

The sway of the dance perhaps looks romantic to some. But in actuality - it’s torture. His body heat is radiating through your ridiculous corset that feels like a cage. And with every step, your thigh brushes his, pulling back your focus on the carotid artery inside his neck.

Swallowing thickly, you try to ignore the heavy thrumming, but Choso tightens his grip around you, forcing you to match the pace.

“You can barely stand,” he mutters, leading you with an impressively effortless grace. “Your pupils are blown and you haven’t taken a breath in two minutes. You aren’t handling anything.”

“I said I’m fine!” you snap.

You squeeze your eyes shut, getting dizzier by his scent; salt, wood, metal.

Then, in a flash, the control you’ve fought so desperately to hold onto snaps; like a thread that suddenly slipped through your fingers. All the frustration of the last few weeks spills out in a jagged whisper and you simply aren’t strong enough to hold it back anymore.

You drop his hands, your tight fists returning, only this time stronger.

“I hate this, Choso! I hate that I can hear everyone’s blood, I hate that I’m a parasite on you, and I hate that I’m standing here in this stupid dress, looking at my friend like… l-like I want to eat her! I hate it… I hate what I am! I’m a monster!”

A breath hitches in your throat, a dry sob. But no tears come as your frightened eyes, wide and searching, look up at him. You don’t know if it’s the fact his expression doesn’t shift into pity, or the quiet determination in his gaze as the hard line of his jaw softens - but something manages to steady you, just for a moment. It’s enough to notice him reaching into the breast pocket of his vest.

He pulls out a black handkerchief, made from a delicate lace that he lightly wraps around his wrist; turning it into a barrier to prevent any stray drops from ruining your dress.

The next moment, the lace-covered skin is directly pressed against your lips, the warmth of his pulse beneath impossible to ignore.

“Drink,” he murmurs; his voice a low, irresistible growl and a subtle plea all at once.

“Choso, I can’t—” the protest comes out barely a breath against his palm.

“Yes, you can,” he hisses. His thumb traces the line of your jaw gently, tilting you back, so he can peer through your eyes. “Just… bite me. It’s okay.”

Under the flickering lights, the music around you seems to fade, leaving only the sound of your shared breathing. Choso refuses to look away even for a second, his expression a stable mixture of trust and silent encouragement that makes the walls you’ve been trying to built crumble.

The struggle inside you finally snaps. Leaning forward, you allow your instincts to take the lead, pressing lips into the dark fabric. The resistance of the lace gives away as your fangs descend, sinking into the skin beneath.

The sensation is an intoxicating rush of warmth and vitality that floods your senses through a sharp wave; it silences the roar of the hunger instantly. The frantic noise in your head finally falls silent, replaced only by the rhythmic heat of him.

And it’s not just the physical relief that feels marvelous. It’s also the way he holds you close even as you take from him. It’s his honeyed taste… a complex blend of strength and something else - something close to lust, but deeper.

A soft sound escapes your throat, your hands gripping the collar of his coat, so you can steady yourself against the sensation; the heady, metallic warmth filling your system.

Choso doesn’t even flinch at the sharp sting of the bite. Instead, his arm tightens around you, anchoring you close. He leans down, resting his chin against the top of your head, his breath hitching slightly.

“That’s it,” he whispers in a reassurance. “Good girl. Take as much as you need. I’ve got you.”

The shame you feared melts away at the sound of his words, and as you feed, the edges of your panic gradually smooth out, overpowered by this shared vulnerability.

He’s truly giving this to you. His flesh. His own blood.

For the first time since your transformation, the hunger doesn’t feel like a curse. Tonight, it feels more like a connection.

As the initial rush of the feeding begins to steady enough, you pull back, full for the first time in days. The transition is seamless - the sharp, elongated points of your fangs slip back upward, retracting into your gums until your mouth looks human again.

Your eyes flicker to the handkerchief - it has done its job. Not a single drop has ruined your dress, or his coat. There is only a lone, stray smear of crimson at the corner of your mouth. You catch it with the pad of your thumb, gently wiping it away.

Choso watches you closely; not with fear or shock. There’s a profound, quiet stillness in his eyes. He looks almost relieved - that you stopped fighting yourself and took what you needed.

Around you the party continues in a blurred haze of laughter and clinking glasses. But now, as the two of you stand silently in front of each other, still just as near, the air shifts, charged with the heat you just shared.

Then, he reaches out, his calloused fingers grazing your jaw as he tilts your face up.

He doesn’t mind the blood you just wiped, the fangs he just saw, nor the way your eyes are still wide and stunned.

He kisses you. Slow, studiedly; you’ve never been touched like this before - there wasn’t an ounce of doubt in his actions. As the kiss deepens, the world around you blurs and your fingers scramble for purchase, catching the sleeve of his coat just to stay grounded as the floor seems to tilt beneath your feet.

Your mind is racing once you pull back slowly, struggling to keep up. Just a minute ago you were feeding from his wrist and now you’re… kissing?

It’s all too fast - these changes, and unfamiliar emotions.

“I need a moment,” you breathe against his mouth, the words trailing off in the small space between you as your hand drops from his sleeve.

Choso tilts his head slowly, his expression shifting into something startled. “I’m sorry,” he begins, his voice now slightly rough with uncertainty.

But you don’t hear the rest. You’re already pushing through the crowd in need to find the bathroom as quickly as possible.

You push through the door, the click of the lock cutting off the muffled noise of the party. You walk to the sink, leaning over as you stare at your reflection in the mirror, trying to process the rush of the last few minutes.

You just need a second… a second to feel human again.

Because in all honesty - you hate the way you feel about yourself right now; the memory of your fangs bared in front of him makes your stomach churn. It’s a side of you that feels monstrous, and the fact that he had to witness that form… that he saw the predator behind your eyes… it leaves you feeling exposed in a way you can’t stand.

You take a deep breath, then quickly turn on the faucet to wash your hands and your mouth. After rinsing, you grab the near paper towel and press it to your lips. Not even a minute later there’s a hesitant knock on the door, firm enough to instantly snap you out of your thoughts.

“It’s me,” Choso’s voice comes from the other side. “Can I come in?”

“Leave me alone,” you shout, your voice slightly cracking.

But then, a sudden wave of exhaustion washes over you, overriding the panic. Ignoring him for the rest of the night won’t undo what he saw.

You take one last look of your reflection before unlocking the door and pulling it open, fully expecting to see an empty hallway.

But he is still there. His gaze lifts from the ground on the instant, peering through yours with that quiet concern you grew so familliar with.

You step back to give him room. The small space of the bathroom now feels even tighter with him inside, the air shifting from the memory of what happened under the party lights. You look down at your hands, struggling to find the right words, not knowing where to even start… You still feel the lingering shame, and it’s distracting you from thinking.

“I… I want to say thank you,” you begin, your voice small but sincere. “For letting me…”

You can’t. You can’t find the strength; bite, drink, feed - you can’t say them out loud.

“For helping me.” You finish at once.

Choso nods silently, his eyes holding onto the eye contact steadily, as if letting go would mean letting the intimate moment you had on the dance floor slip away forever. The room is quiet for a long moment before he speaks.

“Do you regret it?” he asks, his tone softer than usual. “The kiss?”

You look away, your fingers finding the edge of the sink as you acknowledge the weight of his question. And then, as your lips part slowly - it hits you. How big the gap between his world and yours is.

“I’m scared,” you confess, finally looking back at him. “I’m scared of what I am when I’m with you.” You take a shallow breath, noticing the subtle frown of his brows. “But no. I don’t regret it.”

A wave of visible relief washes over Choso, as if he had been bracing himself for a completely different answer. He erases the distance between you in a single step, reaching down to take your hand in his - his skin is still just as warm.

He lifts it slowly and leans in, pressing his lips against the inside of your wrist. It’s a slow, tender touch that immediately sends electricity through your body.

One kiss turns into a warm path of multiple kisses up your arm, his lips soft and gentle against your skin, causing your breathing to pick up.

He pauses just below the crook of your elbow, his breath excitedly fanning across your skin as his voice slips huskily.

“I’ll never let anything happen to you,” he murmurs, half-lidded gaze looking at you with unfiltered fidelity. “I swear it.”

By the time his other hand slides up to cup your jaw, your eyes are already closing. His mouth finds yours once more - but this kiss is different; so, so different.

It’s heavier, hungrier, and tastes with quiet urgency that makes your knees go weak.

A tiny moan escapes you when his tongue parts yours lips, sensually making its way through. His fingers never leave, laced through strands of your hair they gently press against the back of your neck to keep you tilted.

The kisses deepen, growing hotter and more demanding as his experient tongue leads yours into an arousing dance. Until he moves down, guiding his panting mouth along the column of your neck, inhaling deeply before kissing the sensitive flesh.

Every wet, warm press of his lips, every nibble, makes the weight in your chest go smaller, replacing it with pure delight. You grip his ruffled shirt tightly, bunching the fabric in your hands as you completely surrender to the sensation, letting him map the line of your throat.

You can feel his heartbeat quickening against your fist as he sucks on your skin with his puffy lips; his bulge growing bigger and harder with want as his body presses against you, surrounding you with heat and his musky scent as his two hands sneak beneath your dress; one of them carefully lifting your leg.

“Hey! Wrap it up in there!” A loud, slurred voice yells out of nowhere. “Need to use the bathroom ASAP!” An insistent banging against the wood follows.

His lips stay pressed against your neck for one last second before he exhales lowly.

Your fingers, trembling, uncurl from the fabric of his shirt; your foot carefully drops back to the floor. Reality rushes back into the room, sharp and overwhelming.

But even after everything, Choso still looks at you with that same gaze, full of hope and promise, before he steps back to turn around, giving you some privacy to fix your dress.

The moment the familiar light of your lamp slips through the crack of your door, Aki’s steady gaze lowers, watching the thin band of amber go still. Something twists in his chest upon realising that you’re trying to sleep, but you still can’t.

You don’t know he’s here; and he doesn’t intend for you to, because he’s not supposed to be. The rules are clear. But if he leaves, something will trouble him all night - something restless and gnawing, whispering that you’ll wake alone and afraid. Or worse…

Yet, staying means crossing the line he drew the day he accepted the job.

Well… he’s staying.

He remembers how you looked when he found you - trembling, streaked with dirt and blood, your voice hoarse from screaming. He also remembers the thing that came for you; and how you winced at the sound of the thunder on your way home. He can’t leave.

He tilts his head back against the wall, exhaustion tugging at every muscle. Stray strands of black hair have slipped loose from the topknot at the back of his head, brushing against his temple. His blue eyes, usually clear and cutting, now look dull and clouded by sleeplessness.

Then, he hears it - a small sound, not quite a cry, but not a word either. More like a whimper erupting from a nightmare.

He straightens in his seat, his instinct snapping before any thoughts could follow.

And then - another sound. Slightly higher, slightly more intense. It stirs something inside him once it slips through the wall, overwhelming and alarming, causing him to rise on his feet.

Before he can realise, he’s standing there in the dark hallway, hand hovering near the door. He could knock, but that would mean admitting his presence, admitting that he’s been here all night…

Sighing, he lets his hand quietly drop at his side. However, before he steps back, it clenches into a fist. His brows draw together as his expression sharpens.

This isn’t the voice he’s used to hearing, it’s not the bright, confident one that fills his car between destinations when you’re teasing him about his silence; a little spoiled, with careless grace. It’s different - thinner yet… effusive. It catches at him in a way that it shouldn’t, as he feels like it belongs to a version of you that should be foreign to him.

Finally, the realisation washes over him - you’re not having a bad dream, you’re not crying… you’re moaning. You’re touching yourself. Sounds like these don’t originate from pain, they’re the kind that come in times of passion and sexual desire.

The more he listens to the way they multiply, the better he can tell your pleasure is magnifying by the second.

Aki catches the faint rustling of sheets, your voice breaking the brief silence - a shaky, elevating sound that makes his throat dry. He can almost see you, legs spread apart, restless feet dragging across the mattress, toes curling as your chest heaves excitedly beneath thin silk. Bottom lip tucked between your teeth but not long enough to control the inevitable reactions.

The fear that had you frozen earlier dissipating from the rhythm of your hand.

He can clearly see it if he focuses a little more - gentle, manicured fingers that once clutched his sleeve in fear now caressing the most intimate part of you, sliding into your warmth.

Another moan, pleading and drawn out. The kind that crawls out of your throat when the rush heightens to the point your body starts quivering; when you can’t do anything except move faster and stronger.

Aki runs a hand over his face, barely realising he’s doing it, and forces himself to look away from the door. With every next sound, needy and trembling, the shame coils tighter in his chest.

He shouldn’t be here and he shouldn’t be listening to this - he’s intruding something so intimate and private. This is your time to leave, a warning voice whispers in his head. Instead, he leans back against the wall, the wound in his shoulder throbbing dully with each breath - not enough to overpower the shame that settles inside him, though.

His brows furrow as your moans continue tumbling from your lips; he feels disgusted with himself as he concentrates, welcoming every little sound that reaches him. He notices you’re getting louder, more desperate than you were a moment ago.

If he presses an ear to your door he might catch the lewd noise of your palm smacking against your slick folds, breaking through the on-going moans emitting from your throat.

He gulps, then licks his lips, every muscle inside him tensing as his cock thickens from the warmth rising beneath his skin.

His mind starts screaming at him to move, to walk to the other end of the hallway and give you the privacy you deserve. Go to the kitchen and pour a glass of water. Anything. But his feet won’t obey.

The only thing he manages to do is set his sword carefully on the glass table, and sink back into the chair, exhaling as you appear in fragments playing out behind his closed eyes. Even with all the guilt he feels, he can’t stop the scenes from unfolding, more and more erotically with every pass.

You’re flushed, neck glistening with sweat as you shift against the pillow, voice crying out towards the ceiling; your small hand barely keeping up with the pressure bubbling inside you, fingers not skilled nor long enough to reach the spot you so desperately need.

More warmth settles under his leather belt as he imagines your pretty face scrunching in frustration, the euphoria forcing your mouth into an constant oh. And though he knows he should be better than this, more sensible and professional… he palms his erection, gaining a small yet intense thrill he’s never felt before.

He can almost feel the heat, the lust filling your room as your breathy voice rings throughout the walls that separate you from each other; it slips through, making the air feel hot and solid around him.

It’s absurd, Aki tells himself. He should be thinking about threats and contingency plans. But the image of you that doesn’t belong in his mind persists, perverted and disarming, stopping him from getting a hold of any reasonable thought.

Soon, your self control teeters at the edges and you come undone. You cry out, loud, voice slightly rougher which only makes it even more alluring. Aki exhales deeply through his nose, jaw tight as his bruised hand adjusts his manhood with a tighter grip.

When silence finally settles over your room, the thin line of light beneath the door fades away. For a moment his eyes stay fixed on the floor, waiting. When the glow doesn’t return, he draws in a slow breath and lets it out through his teeth, looking away.

His training kicks back in - the practiced act of pushing emotions down until all that’s left is the still feeling of alertness.

He straightens in the chair, gaze drifting to the window across the room. The rain still runs in easy silver lines down the glass.

Like that, the tight ribbon of pressure inside his chest slowly untangles, turning into something manageable. Meanwhile, you, on the other side of the wall, finally surrender to sleep.

“It’s not that cold.” He mumbles nonchalantly, though the playful way his eyes crease gives him away.

“I don’t know,” you say, doing an exaggerated shiver as you glance down at the phone that seems to have his full attention. “Maybe I just need something soft and cozy…”

You pause for effect, and it works; he finally shoots you a look. You quickly avert your eyes, a warm thrill lingering on your skin the longer he watches you. One thing you know about Gaku is that he always takes his time when he’s gazing at you.

“Are you asking for my hoodie?” He finally questions with a teasing chuckle.

“Yes, I’m asking for your hoodie,” you say, turning back to him with a slight pout. “Though I’d rather just have it without needing to ask every single time.”

Gaku laughs and sets his phone down, not making you wait any longer. He pulls the black hoodie over his head, the action making his grey hair a chaotic, effortlessly soft mess. This leaves him standing in a plain white tank top. The cotton clings to him, accentuating the hard lines of his perfect build; the low neckline revealing the edges of a few old scars.

Instead of helping you into it like a typical boyfriend, he simply tosses the hoodie at you with a cheeky, lopsided grin. That exact playful edge is exactly why you fell for him in the first place, though.

“I wear it better, anyway,” you remark, pleased with how the heavy fabric settles loosely around your frame. The sleeves swallow your hands completely, extending far past your fingertips - a sight that clearly amuses him as he looks you over.

“You wish,” he retorts, his eyes dancing with mischief.

“I do!” You give him a quick, playful spin to prove your point before stepping closer as he settles back into the couch. He doesn’t say it aloud, but he agrees; you can see it in his gleaming gaze as he looks up at you. “Especially if I take these off.”

You sneak fingers beneath the elastic of your cotton shorts and toss them aside.

Gaku’s eyes flicker temporarily to the side, his expression shifting to something intense due to the sudden change in your attitude. Luckily, he’s learned how to handle all of your moods.

He reaches out, his fingers catching the extra fabric of your sleeve to pull you closer. Before you know it, you’re between his thighs, staring down at his parted lips.

You feel his calloused fingertips travelling up your skin, then finding the hem of your panties. With a single, swift motion he drags them down.

“Perfect,” he mutters before leaning back, tucking the lace in the pocket of his baggy pants.

The sight of his mouth twitching provocatively is enough to double the warmth bubbling in your stomach.

“It’s comfy,” you murmur, soft and teasing, “but not enough to make me feel warm.” Slowly, you shift one knee until you straddle his lap.

As you move, the cool air brushes against the area between your thighs, sending shivers across your skin. The sensation has you grow wet over nothing. Well… not exactly.

Gaku’s lazy smirk, entertained by your neediness; his sharp collarbone; his throat moving up and down; the muscles of his arms, resting on the back of the couch instead of wrapping around you, because he likes watching your desperation grow… It’s all so exciting.

“And what’s gonna warm you up, doll?” He questions, arching a brow. The way your hand disappears underneath his hoodie doesn’t go unnoticed. “Needy, huh?”

“Gaku, come on…” you bite your lip impatiently, tugging at his top as another sign of pleading. “I know you want to touch me.”

“Yeah, baby,” he says, barely a whisper as he leans in, tongue attaching to your neck before his lips suck softly. “I do want to touch you. I want to eat you up.”

You let out a sigh of bliss, feeling the rush flow through your body in the pace of your fingers. It’s nice, but far from what it could be.

“Please,” you breathe, maintaining the soft circles on your clit, “please, Gaku…”

Before you have time to say anything more, one of his hands lifts to your face and two of his fingers go through your lips, pressing down on your tongue. In comparison to his firm touch, his gaze softens when it locks with yours again. “You’re so needy all the fucking time.” His comment comes out slightly condescending, yet… with the most charming smile.

You moan around his knuckles, your spit coating them as he glides further into your throat. “You horny little thing…” he whispers, watching the saliva escape the corner of your mouth.

Your lips close around his heavy fingers, then begin to suck thoroughly back and forth, your eyes watching him with adoration. In the same pace, your own fingers slide to your slick entrance, drawing light circles against it before dipping inside.

Then, he empties your mouth. You gasp for air, tummy flipping with excitment when he takes your jaw, gripping just enough to have you focus on him.

“Let me taste you,” he mutters, his voice now huskier. His eyes drop before drifting back up to your face; his lips already open and waiting.

The signal is clear.

You bring your hand up, offering your shiny fingertips. The warmth of his mouth instantly welcomes you, bringing butterflies into your belly. Instead of applying pressure, you caress his tongue, slow, unrushed patterns as his teeth graze your skin.

When he lets out a rumbling sound, relishing your sweet taste, the sound sends shockwaves through your entire body.

That’s when the idea strikes you - hot and consuming - of sitting on his face.

You can’t tell if it’s just your hazy brain playing tricks on you… or if the surrender in his dark gaze reveals that he’s thinking the exact same thing.

— ♡ thank you for reading! || copyright © chosobite 2026 all rights reserved. do not repost, copy or translate my works on any platforms.