_Star_

choso hated the university gym with a passion that bordered on holy. if he wanted to be perceived by thirty different guys named brad whose entire personalities revolved around creatine, shattered glass pre-workout, and casual misogyny, he would have joined a fraternity.

instead, he willingly paid forty dollars a month out of his miserable student earnings just to lift in a damp, dimly lit basement three miles off campus. there, nobody looked at him, nobody spoke to him, and nobody cared that his black nail polish was chipped or that his hair was tied back into two messy, ridiculous space buns.

it was his sanctuary. it kept the anxious, hyper-fixated noise in his brain at a manageable volume.

but on a miserable tuesday afternoon, the universe decided to test him. a laminated sign taped to the front door of his beloved off-campus haven delivered the devastating blow: closed for the next seven days for emergency plumbing maintenance and floor remodeling.

choso had stood in the rain, staring at the paper, feeling a slow, icy panic creep up his spine. a whole week without lifting? absolutely not. his mind would eat itself alive. desperate times called for desperate, humiliating measures. he was going to have to use his student id card and step foot into the university's recreation center.

he didn't just walk in blindly, though. choso treated the dilemma like a tactical covert operation. he spent the next few days calculating the exact peak hours of the campus social scene, charting the behavior of the obnoxious herds he so desperately wished to avoid.

friday night, he realized. 11:30 pm.

by that hour on a friday, the entire campus greek life was guaranteed to be blacked out at off-campus house parties, suffocating in a haze of cheap beer, or lining up outside bars downtown. the gym closed at 1:00 am. it was a golden, ninety-minute window of safety.

when friday night finally rolled around, the campus was damp and quiet. choso walked toward the massive, glowing glass building of the university gym, his heart beating a little too fast against his ribs. he felt exposed, even wrapped in his usual armor—a thick, completely shapeless black oversized hoodie with the strings pulled tight, and a baggy cargo sweatpants that dragged slightly against the pavement.

he approached the front desk, his jaw set, and swiped his student id at the turnstile. he braced himself for the worst, fully expecting the smell of axe body spray and the echoing shouts of gym bros to hit him the moment he rounded the corner.

instead, when he stepped onto the main gym floor, he was met with a ghost town.

the harsh fluorescent lights hummed quietly in the silence. the long rows of treadmills sat dark and stationary. the heavy iron weights were all neatly stacked in their racks, undisturbed. aside from a lone student employee half-asleep behind the towel counter on the far side of the building, choso was entirely alone.

a wave of pure, intoxicating relief washed over him. he had been right. the frat guys were gone, busy poisoning their livers elsewhere.

allowing his shoulders to finally drop, choso walked over to a secluded corner in the free-weight section, far away from the main mirrors. he pulled his heavy, noise-canceling headphones over his ears, drowning out the ambient hum of the facility with the familiar, aggressive comfort of his favorite post-hardcore playlist. he yanked his hoodie hood up over his hair, completely shutting out the rest of the world.

for the first time all week, choso relaxed. he grabbed a set of dumbbells to start his warm-up—completely, blissfully unaware that this was the very last night his gym sessions would ever be peaceful.

by midnight, choso was completely in his element. the heavy, screaming vocals blasting through his headphones blocked out everything else, creating a private wall of sound that matched the slow, deliberate burn in his muscles. he had moved over to the flat bench, adjusting his posture and gripping a pair of heavy dumbbells. his gaze was locked entirely on the speckled rubber flooring between his shoes, his mind blank, focused only on the rhythm of his breathing.

he leaned back, kicking the weights up to his chest, and began his set. one, two, three. he was halfway through his fifth repetition when a sudden, unexpected shadow fell over him. choso barely had time to process the shift in lighting before a light, tentative touch tapped him right on the shoulder.

the physical contact startled him so badly that his core completely unlocked. his grip faltered, his left wrist buckling inward as the heavy iron dumbbell threatened to slip from his hand. a sharp spike of adrenaline shot through his veins, and he practically fumbled the weights, dropping them onto the floor with a loud, echoing thud that rattled through the empty room.

"oh my god, i'm so sorry! are you okay?"

choso scrambled into a sitting position, his heart hammering violently against his ribs. his pale face flushed with an instant, burning embarrassment as he hastily yanked his headphones down around his neck—the muffled, angry music now tiny and weak in the open air. he wiped a hand across his forehead, preparing his best, most intimidating scowl to ward off whoever had just ruined his peace.

but the words died in his throat the moment he looked up. standing right in front of him was you.

you were holding a small gym towel, your skin warm and glowing with a thin sheen of sweat from your own workout. you looked genuinely worried, your eyes wide as you looked at him, adjusting the strap of your tank top.

"i really didn't mean to scare you," you said, your voice soft and breathless, a contrast to the aggressive screaming that had just been filling his ears. "i just wanted to ask if you were using the forty-pound weights next to your bench?"

choso stared at you, his throat suddenly feeling as dry as sandpaper. his dark eyes took in the messy way your hair was tied up, the slight rise and fall of your chest, and the polite, apologetic curve of your lips. his brain, usually so loud and overanalytical, completely went blank. he forgot how to speak, he forgot how to breathe.

"n-no," he stammered out, his voice a low, raspy gravel that he quickly tried to clear. he cleared his throat, pulling his hood down a fraction lower to hide the crimson creeping up his neck. "i'm not using them. all yours."

you offered him a small, relieved smile that made his chest feel dangerously tight. "awesome, thank you so much. sorry again for the jump scare."

you leaned down, effortlessly grabbing the weights, and walked back over to an adjustable bench just a few yards away. choso sat frozen on his bench, watching your back as you walked away. his heart was still racing, but it wasn't from the adrenaline anymore.

he pulled his headphones back over his ears, but he didn't restart his music. instead, he just sat there in the silence of his own head, his eyes locked onto the floor as a single, terrifying thought bloomed in his mind: he was never going back to his old gym.

choso was a creature of habit, but habits could be easily rewritten when the incentive was high enough.

the following tuesday, his off-campus sanctuary sent out another automated email announcing that the renovations were finished ahead of schedule and the doors were officially reopened. choso didn't even look twice at the notification. he deleted it, swiped his screen shut, and stared at his ceiling, counting down the agonizing number of hours left until friday night.

he was completely, utterly gone for you.

during the week, choso reverted to his normal ghost-like state on campus. he moved through the fine arts building like a shadow, buried in the depths of his oversized, frayed black hoodie and wide-leg cargos, his fingers permanently stained with charcoal and oil paint. his long bangs fell into his eyes, a perfect shield from the rest of the student body. he didn't want to be seen by anyone.

except you.

when friday finally arrived, choso was a ball of nervous, vibrating energy. by 11:30 pm, he was swiping his student id at the turnstile, his heart doing a ridiculous, heavy flip the moment he stepped into the free-weight section.

and thank god, there you were.

for the next three weeks, this became your unspoken, late-night ritual. the gym was always a dead silent ghost town, save for the rhythmic hum of the ventilation and the occasional clink of iron. you had your routine on your side of the floor, and choso had his on his side. you would exchange a small, polite nod of acknowledgement whenever he walked in—a tiny gesture that secretly made choso's entire week—but otherwise, you left each other alone.

at least, physically.

internally, choso's mind was a dangerous, hyper-fixated place.

he pretended to be entirely absorbed in his own workouts. he would sit on the bench with his headphones on, staring blankly ahead like a stoic, brooding statue. but behind the dark fringe of his hair, his eyes were locked onto you.

as an art student, choso was trained to study form, anatomy, and lighting—but with you, it felt like an agonizing form of torture. he analyzed the way your muscles shifted and flexed under your skin when you lifted, the tight strain of your thighs and glutes when you did squats, and the delicate, sharp line of your collarbones. his brain automatically translated the view into a series of raw, unedited figure drawings, tracking the trail of sweat as it rolled down the side of your neck, soaking into the collar of your sports bra.

a heavy, dark ache would pull tight in his lower stomach every single time you let out a low, breathy pant after a heavy set. his body tried to betray him, threatening to grow hard right there on the gym floor.

but choso forced it down.

every time his thoughts started to cross the line into something genuinely filthy, he would fiercely bite the inside of his cheek until he tasted copper, forcing his gaze back down to the rubber flooring. he felt an intense, protective wave of guilt whenever his mind wandered too far. don't do that, he would tell himself, his chest tight. she's just trying to work out. don't be disgusting. don't disrespect her.

when he returned to his dark dorm room at 1:00 am, throbbing and completely overwhelmed by the scent of your perfume and sweat that seemed to linger in his nose, he didn't touch himself. he would lock the bathroom door, strip out of his clothes, and force himself into a freezing cold shower. he would lean his forehead against the damp tiles, his fists clenched as the ice-cold water sprayed over his burning skin, ruthlessly killing the desperate ache between his thighs that threatened to drive him mad.

he told himself he could control it. he told himself he could keep you on a pedestal, purely as a beautiful, distant muse.

he had no idea that his fragile self-control was about to completely shatter.

by week four, choso's luck finally pushed him over the edge.

it was a quarter past midnight. choso was finishing up a set of lat pulldowns, his hood down for once because the gym felt unusually warm. he was breathing a bit heavily, wiping his neck with a towel, when he felt that familiar, intoxicating shift in the air.

a shadow fell over him, followed by a light tap on his shoulder

choso turned around, his chest fluttering immediately. "hey," he said, his voice dropping into that low, quiet rumble he only used when speaking to you.

"hey," you smiled, looking a little out of breath yourself. you bit your lip slightly, pointing a thumb over your shoulder toward the bench press station. "sorry to bother you, but i'm trying to hit a new personal record on my final set, and i really don't want to crush my windpipe. do you mind giving me a quick spot?"

choso's brain stuttered. a spot. after three weeks of forcing himself to stay away, to keep his hands to himself, you were asking him to stand directly over you.

"yeah—yeah, of course," he managed to say, standing up quickly before his brain could talk him out of it.

he followed you over to the bench. you lay down, settling your shoulders against the black leather, while choso stepped up to the head of the bench, planting his feet firmly apart on either side of the metal frame. from this angle, looking down, his view of you was devastating. your chest was rising and falling, your eyes locked up at him, trusting him completely.

"just help me lift it off the rack on three, okay?" you murmured, reaching up to grip the barbell.

"i've got you," choso promised, his voice tight. "one, two, three."

together, you guided the heavy bar off the pegs. you took the weight, pausing for a second before lowering it slowly to your chest. choso hovered his hands right beneath the bar, his fingers curled, completely focused.

but as you pushed the weight back up, your muscles straining—a low, guttural groan escaped your throat.

the sound hit choso like a physical blow, fracturing the wall of restraint he had spent three weeks building. combined with the view of your arched back, the heat radiating from your skin, and your absolute vulnerability beneath him, his body bypassed his brain entirely. all that suppressed, backed-up desire rushed straight to his crotch in a hot, violent wave.

within seconds, choso developed a massive, raging boner that pushed hard against the fabric of his baggy grey sweatpants.

oh, fuck, choso panicked internally, his eyes widening—because he was standing right above your face. the prominent, thick ridge in his pants was dangerously close to your line of sight. three weeks of cold showers vanished in an instant. he immediately hitched his hips backward, awkwardly arching his spine away from the bench to create distance, his heart hammering against his ribs in sheer terror that you would see how pathetic he was for you.

you pushed through the final rep with a sharp exhale, and choso quickly gripped the bar, helping you slam it safely back onto the rack.

"oh my god, thank you," you panted, sitting up immediately and rubbing your arms. you laughed a little, looking up at him with a bright, grateful smile. "i definitely would have died on that last one without you."

choso kept his hands casually draped over his crotch area, shuffling half a step back into the shadows, his entire body trembling from the effort of holding his composure. "you did fine. great form."

you didn't stand up right away. instead, you tilted your head, studying his face. "you know… i've been meaning to ask. you look really familiar. do you have classes in the fine arts building? on the studio floor?"

choso's heart did a violent stutter. "uh, yeah—i do, i'm a printmaking and painting major."

"i knew it!" you said, your eyes lighting up. "i'm a year below you in the sculpture program, but i see you in the halls all the time. you're always tucked away in the back corner of the studios, wearing those huge hoodies with the strings pulled tight. it's funny seeing you here without charcoal all over your face."

choso felt a burning blush crawl up his cheeks, all the way to the tips of his ears. you noticed him. you knew who he was outside of this empty gym. you shared the same late-night, messy, creative world.

"yeah," he mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck, his knuckles still strategically shielding his front. "i, uh… i like it quiet. both in the studio and here."

you smiled, stepping just a fraction closer as you casually offered your name, introducing yourself properly for the first time since you'd started sharing the floor. choso's entire body went completely rigid at the sound of it. your name felt heavy in the air between you—a beautiful, sharp reality replacing the nameless fantasy he'd been harboring for weeks. "choso," he managed to choke out in return, his voice thick as he gave you his own name. "nice to meet you."

"nice to meet you too, choso." you murmured, your voice dropping into something a little softer, a little more intimate as you looked up at him through your lashes. you took a slow step backwards, your eyes lingering on him for one final, devastating second before you turned to gather your things. "you know, i usually hate late-night workouts… but knowing you're always there? that's why fridays are my favorite."

choso felt the air leave his lungs. he couldn't tell if he was genuinely imagining things now—if his own pathetic, desperate fantasies were finally bleeding into reality and making him hear things that weren't there. but the soft, knowing look in your eyes felt entirely too real.

choso barely remembered how he walked back to his side of the gym after that. his self-control wasn't just broken; it was completely demolished, his mind spinning in a chaotic loop over your parting words. had you meant it? or was he finally losing his fucking mind?

the moment he stepped inside his dark room, there was no cold shower. he didn't even make it past the entryway. choso slammed the door shut, locked it with a frantic click, and shoved his grey sweatpants and boxers down to his knees right there against the wood.

his cock snapped free, completely upright, throbbing violently and weeping thick, heavy drops of pre-cum from the sheer agony of the twenty-minute walk back. he let out a low, ragged sob into the empty room, his hand wrapping around his length in a brutal, iron-tight grip. he squeezed hard, a sharp whine tearing from his throat as his hips jerked forward, instantly smearing his own slick up and down his shaft.

he closed his eyes, and the darkness behind his eyelids immediately filled with you.

because he was an artist, his memory was devastatingly vivid. he didn't just fantasize; he reconstructed you. he pictured the exact way your lower lip looked trapped between your teeth when you were straining under the barbell. he pictured the heavy, glistening sheen of sweat coating the delicate dip of your collarbones, the way your sports bra squeezed your chest, and the tight, mouth-watering curve of your thighs arched on that leather bench.

but what truly made his blood boil, what made his thick cock throb with a vicious, demanding ache against his palm, was the sudden intoxicating realization of your size difference. standing right over your face on that bench, he had felt so devastatingly big.

his artist's eye automatically compared the two of you—his broad, heavy-boned frame, his wide shoulders, and his massive, blunt hands against the softer, giving curves of your body. he imagined how effortlessly he could engulf you. he pictured your body pinned completely beneath his dense, imposing weight, swallowed whole by his shadow. the sheer contrast of it—how he could completely overwhelmed you with his height and mass, forcing you to look up at him while he held you down—made a low, feral sound rip from the back of his throat.

"fuck," he whined, his pace turning fast and punishing. his knuckles, still stained with a faint trace of charcoal from his afternoon studio class, rubbed friction against his burning skin.

he squeezed his eyes shut tighter, desperately chasing the auditory memory of your workout. he wanted your sounds. he was completely, helplessly addicted to them. that low, guttural, breathy groan you had let out right beneath him—he replayed it over and over in his head, matching the rhythm of his fist to the memory of your breath. he imagined what it would feel like to force those exact noises out of you himself. he wanted to push himself so deep inside you that you'd make those heavy, strained sounds against his ear, over and over until you were entirely spent.

his mind took a darker, filthier turn as the friction started to blur his thoughts. he looked down at his own hand, but in the fever-dream of his arousal, he imagined it was your hand. he imagined you gripping him, your small, soft palm slick with his pre-cum, looking up at him from the floor with those wide, trusting eyes while you made him stroke himself.

and then, the smell hit him.

the faint, intoxicating ghost of your scent had transferred onto his hands when he adjusted the barbell, or maybe when your shoulders had lightly brushed. it was a heady mix of clean vanilla perfume and raw, warm skin-musk. choso's breath hitched. completely unhinged, he brought his free hand up to his face, pressing his knuckles hard against his mouth and nose. he took a deep, shuddering inhale, practically drinking the scent off his skin.

god, he was an absolute freak. a disgusting pathetic pervert. if he could have stolen your damp, sweat-soaked gym clothes right out of your locker just to bury his face in them and inhale you until he suffocated, he would have done it in a heartbeat. he wanted to track the scent of your sweat with his tongue, licking it off the curve of your neck, tasting how salty and warm you were.

but more than anything, his mind was utterly enslaved to the memory of your introduction. having your actual name in his possession was a dangerous, lethal upgrade to his madness. it wasn't just a fantasy anymore; you had a name. and it tasted like absolute sin on his tongue.

he started chanting it into the quiet darkness of his room. he whispered your name against his trembling knuckles, his voice a low, ruined prayer that matched the frantic, bruising rhythm of his hand. every time your name left his lips, a fresh surge of hot pre-cum leaked from his tip, his body physically reacting to mere syllables of your identity as if you were casting a spell over him. he repeated it over and over, faster and louder, turning your name into a dirty, desperate plea.

"ah—shit… please…"

the vocalization of your name snapped the last thread of his sanity. choso's movements became completely frantic, his hips slamming blindly against the door as he stroked himself with an unforgiving, desperate speed. his toes curled into the carpet, his entire body trembling as the pressure behind his hips reached a breaking point.

he imagined you standing right there in the dark, your hands guiding his hips, whispering that fridays were your favorite, too.

with a choked, breathless gasp, choso's knees completely buckled. he threw his head back against the door with a dull thud as his body spasmed, blowing a thick, hot, messy white flood all over his charcoal-stained fingers and the floor. he whimpered, his chest heaving violently in the quiet room, his leaking cock still twitching weakly in his hand as the heavy waves of pleasure wrecked him.

he slid down until his thighs hit the floor, completely covered in his own mess, very aware that he was entirely, hopelessly enslaved to you.

the next two weeks were a slow, agonizing descent into madness for choso.

ever since the night he had broken his restraint in his dorm, his mind was entirely corrupted. his sketchbooks were no longer filled with abstract layouts or still-lifes; instead, the pages were cluttered with charcoal studies of the human form—the curve of a waist, the flex of a thigh, the precise angle of a neck arched back in a phantom groan. he was losing his grip, completely consumed by the ghost of your vanilla scent and the memory of your voice.

he still played the part of the quiet, stoic classmate during your friday sessions, but the air between you had shifted. it was thicker now. every time your eyes met across the empty gym floor, choso's stomach would coil with a dark, expectant heat.

which brought him to this particular friday.

choso had run out of clean laundry—or perhaps, deep down in the desperate, pathetic corners of his soul, he was simply tired of hiding behind his armor. he dug through the very bottom of his dresser drawer and pulled out a pair of light grey sweatpants and a tight, black, long-sleeved compression shirt.

when he walked into the university gym at 11:30 pm, he didn't have his oversized hoodie to protect him. he was completely bare.

you were already there, finishing up a warm-up stretch near the free weights, when the turnstile clicked. you turned your head casually to nod hello, but the moment your eyes landed on him, you froze completely.

without the baggy fabric of his hoodies, choso's true physical form was devastating. his shoulders were incredibly broad, tapering down into a surprisingly narrow waist, and the thin, elastic material of the black compression shirt clung to the heavy, carved planes of his chest like a second skin. the fabric stretched tight over his thick biceps and long arms, mapping out every cord of muscle.

and those grey sweatpants were doing him absolutely no favors. the soft, light cotton left nothing to the imagination, casting a prominent, heavy shadow right down the front of his thighs that made it very obvious how much weight he carried between them.

choso felt your gaze like a physical brand on his skin. he watched your eyes dilate, your jaw going slightly slack as you traced his silhouette before quickly looking down at the floor—a violent, sudden rush of heat flooding your cheeks. the shy, swallowed-up emo boy you thought you knew was actually fucking jacked.

for the first time, choso felt a sudden, dark thrill pierce through his veins. you weren't just casually looking anymore. you were staring. you were flustered. the power dynamic had just completely shattered.

"hey," you said as he walked over, your voice sounding a little tighter, a little more breathless than usual.

"hey," he mumbled, adjusting his grip on a set of heavy dumbbells.

for the next forty minutes, the gym was a total disaster zone for your focus. you kept fumbling your sets, your eyes helplessly glued to the way his broad back flexed under that black fabric. choso noticed every single glance, his heart hammering against his ribs, his body humming with a dangerous, quiet confidence he didn't know he possessed.

finally, as the clock crept toward 12:45 am, choso moved over to the deadlift platform to finish his workout. he was loading heavy iron plates onto the barbell, his chest heaving slightly, when you slowly walked over. your gym towel was clutched tightly in your hands, your knuckles white.

"um, choso?" you murmured, looking up at him through your lashes.

he paused, wiping a bead of sweat from his temple, his dark eyes locked onto yours. "yeah?"

"i… i was thinking," you began, your eyes momentarily darting down to his chest before snapping back to his face. "you've been helping me out for weeks. you always spot me, and you're always so nice about it… i kind of feel bad that it's only been you helping me. do you… do you need a spot on these? or do you want me to help you stretch out afterward? you look really tense."

choso's breath hitched, the heavy weight in his sweatpants twitching violently at the offer. help him stretch. the mental image of your hands pressing against his thick thighs, guiding his legs, or leaning over his back made his head spin. he looked down at you, acutely aware of how his looming height entirely shadowed you under the gym lights.

he looked around the gym. it was empty. the digital clock was ticking down to closing time, and the air between you was practically vibrating with unsaid desires.

"yeah," choso whispered, his voice dropping into that low, gravelly register that made your core throb. he leaned down slightly, his dark eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made it feel like he was branding you right then and there. "i'm almost done. i could use your help."

your chest heaved as you nodded, unable to find your voice under the heavy weight of his gaze. you turned together, falling into step right beside his massive frame. the transition from the open weight floor to the stretching mats in the far corner felt like stepping directly into an active furnace.

you had laid out a heavy foam mat in the dim, amber shadow of the room, offering to guide choso through a cool-down stretch since his shoulders looked so tightly coiled. but the moment you stepped close, the physical reality of his frame hit you like a wall of heat. when you pressed your palms against the dense, burning expanse of his back, your breath caught. under the smooth, slick fabric of his black compression shirt, his muscles felt like carved, unyielding stone. he shattered your rhythm the second your skin met his, letting out a low, ragged exhale as his broad chest heaved under your hands.

when you stepped around to his front to help guide an overhead arm stretch, your bodies brushed. the sheer, towering height of his looming frame completely eclipsed you under the dim emergency lights. you looked up, your pupils wide and completely dilated, only to find choso staring down at you. his dark eyes were pitch-black, his irises swallowed up by a gaze so raw, intense, and heavily possessive that it made your core violently throb with a sudden, weeping ache.

he didn't wait for a verbal answer. his large hand slid down to wrap firmly around your wrist, guiding you away from the clanking iron of the lifting racks.

the restraint he had spent a month building was officially gone.

with a single, unyielding tug, choso hoisted you up and herded you backward through the heavy, double doors of the communal locker room. the thick door clicked shut behind you with a definitive, echoing thud, sealing the two of you into absolute isolation. the air inside was already thick and humid, heavy with the rising, damp steam from the automatic ventilation hooked to the shower stalls in the back.

he didn't waste a single second. choso pressed his massive body forward, driving you back into the narrow aisle until your spine met the cold, hard metal of the lockers. before you could even utter a word, his restraint completely snapped.

choso buried his face directly into the crook of your neck, letting out a deep, shuddering, almost violent inhale. his nose dragged roughly against your hot skin as he practically drank your scent in, entirely feral for it. his mind flashed back to the quiet agony of his lonely dorm room, to the pathetic weeks he had spent sticky and shaking in his sheets, imagining this exact smell. but this was real. he sniffed you deeply, trailing his nose up the sensitive line of your throat, completely intoxicating himself with the heady, sweet mix of your vanilla perfume and the raw, warm musk of your workout sweat.

"god, you smell so good," he groaned against your skin, his voice breaking with a desperate, ragged edge.

his large hands came up to frame your face, his calloused palms tilting your head back as he slammed his mouth down onto yours. it was a messy, ravenous, completely drunk make-out. choso was entirely intoxicated by your lips, his tongue sliding deep into your mouth, tasting you with a desperate hunger that made your knees go weak. he kissed you over and over, his lips bruising yours, sucking on your lower lip until you were both gasping for air, the wet, sloppy sounds of his mouth completely filling the quiet locker room.

he dropped heavily to his knees on the tiled floor, his hands instantly reaching up to grab the hem of his black compression shirt. with one swift, fluid motion, he pulled the tight fabric over his head and discarded it carelessly.

your breath left you entirely, your eyes widening in absolute awe. without the shirt, choso was a towering, breathtaking canvas of raw, imposing anatomy. his smooth skin was covered in dark, heavy ink—intricate, black surrealist tattoos wrapped completely around the thick meat of his forearms, climbing up his bulging biceps, and tracing the hard, carved cuts of his chest and obliques. he was built like a god, a terrifyingly large giant, yet as he looked up at you, his eyes were wide and full of a shaking, reverent vulnerability.

with steady, trembling fingers, he hooked his thumbs into the waistband of your gym shorts and undergarments, stripping them down to your sneakers. his brain completely shut off the moment your naked body was exposed to him. he stared, his jaw slack, his chest heaving as his eyes mapped out every single inch of you.

"you're… you're really here," he rasped, a look of pure, euphoric disbelief washing over his features. "i'm not dreaming. you're actually letting me touch you."

he effortlessly parted your thighs, his large hands gripping the back of your knees to pull your legs up, pinning them wide over his broad, tatted shoulders. choso didn't care about being neat; he was hungry and completely desperate.

before even touching his tongue to your center, he buried his face in the soft meat of your inner thighs, trailing heavy, wet, open-mouthed kisses along your skin. he dragged his nose roughly against your folds, inhaling deeply with a sharp, ragged gasp that shook his entire frame, completely unhinged by your scent and warmth.

when he finally slid his tongue straight up your soaked folds, the heavy, silver barbell piercing split right through the middle of his tongue hit you completely unaware. you’d been so entirely consumed by the bruising, desperate heat of his mouth against yours earlier—so utterly drowned in the taste of him and the dizzying rush of his hands on your skin—that you hadn't even registered the faint, metallic slide of it against your own tongue.

you hadn't expected it at all—the sudden, piercing contrast of that cold, hard metal bar sliding right over your swollen, sensitive clit sent a violent, shattering jolt of electricity straight down your spine. your back arched completely off the lockers, a loud, broken gasp tearing from your throat.

it was a lethal sensory overload. choso drank in your reaction, using the metal to rub and vibrate against you in wild, heavy strokes that smeared your wetness all over his chin and lips. your hands flew blindly to his head, your fingers tangling desperately into the messy, damp strands of his hair to pull him even closer, pinning his face against your cunt.

you were already so worked up from a month of tension that it didn't take long at all; under the ruthless, heavy friction of his pierced tongue, your body tightened instantly. a devastating, screaming orgasm crashed over you within seconds, your thighs trembling violently against his neck. choso groaned into your pussy, sucking you softly through your release and swallowing every single drop of you, completely euphoric that his darkest, loneliest fantasies were finally coming true.

he slowly stood up, panting heavily, his chin glistening with your slick. without a word, he stripped out of his grey sweatpants. when his length snapped free, your breath gasped out. he was terrifyingly huge—thick, heavy, and weeping dark drops of pre-cum. your eyes widened, a sudden spike of nerves hitting your chest at the sheer structural size difference.

sensing your fear, choso's expression softened instantly. he lifted you effortlessly, your legs automatically wrapping around his waist as he herded your trembling body into the communal shower stalls. he snapped the metal handle, and a steady stream of warm water beat down on his tatted back.

choso braced your back gently against the wet tiles, lifting one of your legs and pinning it securely against the thick meat of his hip to open you up completely. before pushing in, he paused, his breath hitching as he dragged the head of his cock directly over your weeping entrance. he rolled his hips in a slow, agonizing circle, running his slick tip up and down the length of your soaking center, teasing the sensitive skin until your hips automatically buckled against him, begging for the friction.

"i'll be gentle, promise," he murmured softly against your lips, his voice a soothing, quiet contrast to his heavy size. "just tell me if it's too much—i've thought about this every night... i don't want to hurt you."

he pushed forward slowly, an inch at a time, and the tight, agonizingly perfect stretch made you sob out loud, your forehead burying into his neck. he was too big, filling you so deeply that it felt like he was bottoming out against your very soul. you could feel every ridge of him stretching your walls to their absolute limit. choso let out a low, gravelly groan, his entire body shaking as he stopped, completely motionless, letting you adjust.

"you're okay," he whispered softly into your ear, his large hands coming down to heavily grope and worship your body. he squeezed your hips, his tatted fingers digging into your skin, before sliding up to cup your breasts, his thumbs rubbing your nipples through the running water. "shit, look at you... you're taking me so well. so perfect for me."

he began to pull back, almost all the way out, before plunging back in with a slow, devastatingly heavy weight. he hammered into you with a desperate but careful pace, his hips pressing firmly against yours. he didn't just push; he worshipped you with every stroke, tracing his lips along your jawline, biting softly at the pulse point on your neck whenever a particularly deep plunge made you cry out his name.

"fuuuckk, that's it," he murmured, his voice cracking with pure emotion as your walls clamped desperately around his length. "say my name again, baby—let me hear you."

"mnghh—choso... choso," you sobbed, completely unraveled by the rhythm, awestruck by how someone so massive could hold you with such tender, protective care.

"i've got you," he whispered, his large hands lifting you slightly higher to change the angle, sinking even deeper into your softness.

with the new angle, choso plunged all the way in, the massive, thick head of his cock bottoming out completely and hitting directly against your cervix. the sudden, deep ache was a lethal spark; the friction inside you shifted instantly, and a wave of pure, unadulterated pleasure began building up with terrifying speed. you could feel every single thick ridge of him stretching you open, driving you completely over the edge. your mind fractured as you came undone for the second time, your vision blurring as a loud, echoing cry tore from your throat.

the devastating orgasm caused your walls to spasm and clamp down ruthlessly around his dick, tightening around it like a vice. the intense, crushing suction completely shattered choso's control. he threw his head back, his tatted shoulders bunching tightly as a deep, guttural groan tore from his chest. his hips slammed forward one last time, pinning you against the wet tiles as he came violently inside you, pulsing thick and hot, filling you to the absolute brim with his release.

he didn't pull out. even as the water washed over his inked skin, his length stayed thick, hard, and demanding inside you, his cock still twitching and pulsing deeply against your raw, swollen walls. you could feel every single throb of his aftermath inside you, making you let out a weak whine as you buried your face into the hot crook of his neck. he pressed his forehead against yours, both of you panting heavily, the steam rising around your bodies.

"don't move," he breathed softly, his lips brushing yours. "don't move yet. i want to stay inside you."

choso shifted his weight, gathering your trembling body entirely into his arms and pulling you up off the tile wall. he guided your other leg around his waist, holding you close against his massive, wet chest, trapping you entirely in his shadow. since you had already come twice, your entire body was completely spent, and a jolt of pure shock ran through you when choso’s hips gave a sudden, slow, experimental roll.

"hmph—choso, wait..." you gasped, looking up at him with wide, glassy eyes.

he looked down at you, his dark eyes heavy-lidded and completely glazed over with a dark, terrifyingly needy lust. he looked so soft, yet so entirely unhinged by the taste of you. "one more... just one more, please, sweetheart?" he begged, his voice a gravelly, trembling whisper against your lips. "you're so tight—i can't get out."

you were already so incredibly overstimulated that you couldn't even form words, able to make only broken, needy little sounds against his chest. your fingers curled blindly into the damp skin of his shoulders, your nails scratching desperately down the dark ink of his back—but the stinging friction only made him growl, his grip tightening ruthlessly around your ass as your resistance turned him on even more.

with your bodies pinned chest-to-chest, he dragged his tatted hands through your wet hair, tilting your head forward to bring your mouth to his for another deep, heavy, sloppy kiss. your tongues tangled, the hard metal of his piercing sliding heavily against yours, making you taste the intoxicating mix of your own sweat and release on his lips.

he didn't rush. choso backed up just enough to prop one of his heavy feet on the shower bench, tilting his hips back. his gaze dropped down, his pitch-black eyes tracking lower to look directly at the point of connection between your bodies. you watched through blurred vision as he stared, completely fascinated, watching his massive, dark shaft plunge all the way into your dripping cunt, churning up the filthy, frothy ring of your combined releases and his own thick cum. the wet, sloshing sounds of him fucking you were amplified by the echoing shower stall, white cream bubbling out and smearing over his tatted thighs with every agonizingly deep stroke.

"fuck, look at you," he whispered between heavy, wet kisses, his voice thick with a profound, quiet awe as his eyes stayed glued to the messy, ruined sight of your pussy. "look how much of me you're holding. all ruined for me—can't look away from you."

"nghh—choso, you're... you're still so big," you gasped out as he began to roll his hips again. the second expansion felt even deeper, more thorough than the first, the thick head of his cock ruthlessly punishing your cervix over and over.

"'m sorry," he murmured softly, though his actions contradicted his apology as he sank all the way in, bottoming out completely and burying his balls against your wetness. "you just feel too good—i can't help it. let me love you like this, just a little longer."

he rolled his hips forward again and again, sinking into you with an agonizingly slow, deep rhythm that made your vision blur. every push was accompanied by a soft, reverent kiss—on your eyelids, your cheeks, your mouth, and the sensitive skin under your ear. he turned your entire body into a canvas, worshipping you with a gentle but unyielding stamina, his heart completely overflowing with the euphoric reality that you were finally, beautifully his.

the automatic shower ventilation hummed a low, droning bassline as the steam slowly began to clear from the room, the heavy mist settling into a damp, quiet warmth.

choso stood mid-dressed in the narrow space between the shower stalls and the benches. he had managed to pull his grey sweatpants back on, the thick waistband sitting low on his hips, but his massive upper body was still completely bare. his smooth skin was flushed dark pink, the heavy black tattoos on his chest and arms glistening under the dull overhead facility lights.

you sat on the wooden bench right in front of him, a large, fluffy white towel draped loosely over your head to catch the dampness of your hair. your body was still completely spent, your inner thighs aching with a heavy, lingering numbness.

despite the water being off, choso hadn't moved away. he stepped in close between your knees, leaning down so his massive frame completely shadowed you. his hands came up to gently frame the sides of your face through the fabric of the towel, and he leaned in, resting his forehead against yours. both of you just breathed together for a moment, the quiet, synchronized sound of your exhales filling the empty locker room.

choso slowly opened his eyes, looking at you from beneath his messy, damp bangs. the terrifying, pitch-black intensity from the showers had completely faded, replaced by that familiar, quiet softness that usually hid behind his oversized hoodies. his cheeks pulled a sudden blush—not from the heat of the room, but from a sudden wave of sheer, boyish bashfulness.

he cleared his throat, the sound low and gravelly in the empty space. carefully, almost timidly, he reached into your gym bag and pulled out a fresh, dry set of clothes you had brought along.

"here," he murmured, his voice dropping into that quiet, hesitant register.

he didn't just hand them to you. instead, his massive, heavily inked hands gathered the soft fabric of your clean t-shirt. his touch was incredibly gentle, a stark contrast to how ruthlessly he had been holding you against the tiles just minutes ago. he carefully guided the shirt over your head, his blunt fingers catching on the collar to make sure it didn't snag on your damp skin, before pulling your arms through the sleeves with a quiet, domestic focus that made your heart melt.

he paused, his eyes darting down to the floor, then back up to your face through the towel still framing your head. he rubbed the back of his neck with his tatted forearm, looking suddenly, hilariously out of his depth now that the primal fog had cleared.

"um," choso began, his voice cracking slightly. he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, the heavy, dominant monster from the shower stall completely transforming back into the shy art student who didn't know what to do with his hands. "i know... i know the timing is really bad. and it’s probably not very gentleman-like of me to ask this... especially right after we just—after what we just did."

he took a deep breath, his dark eyes looking down at you with a completely endearing vulnerability.

"but there’s a 24-hour diner and cafe just two blocks from campus. they have really good iced coffee, and... and sweet pastries. i was wondering if... if you wanted to go grab something to drink with me? like... a date. a real one."

you stared up at him from beneath the towel, your heart swelling so violently it cut off your breath. hearing this massive, fully tattooed, pierced giant softly ask you out on a proper, polite date while his bare chest was still burning from your touch was the most charming thing you had ever experienced.

"i would love to, choso," you whispered.

a small, breathtakingly genuine smile broke across choso's face, lighting up his features. "okay," he rumbled softly, bending down to press one final, sweet, lingering kiss to your lips before reaching for his own hoodie. "let's finish up. i'll buy you whatever you want."

“Zoning out, hm?” A hot gust of breath sends shivers sprinting down your spine, and in an instant you’re snapping your eyes to latch onto deep, hazel ones. Choso’s. The edge of his plump lips curl slightly upwards, “My apologies, this wedding reception is quite droning, isn’t it?”

Hastily breathing, “N-no! Of course not, I…” You’re wincing when yet another wizened elder saunters up to the raised platform of your table. Probably the hundredth of the night. “-yeah, maybe a bit.”

Choso stifles out a rumbling bout of chuckles as he catches your gaze, so close now that his pearly white teeth almost nick your sensitive earlobe. “Let me take care of this, my wife.”

And when Choso shifts over to nod curtly at your oncoming guest, you couldn’t help but appreciate how beautiful he is. All tall, towering lines of lean muscle, his silken black yukata wafting of heady cologne, and delicate features that made him have almost as many admirers as he did foes. 

Or, at least, delicate features that were currently twisted into something hardened. Something exactly like clan leader Kamo of all the stories. 

He’s tilting his head up, long lashes narrowed, “Elder Tanaka, a pleasure.”

“No no! The pleasure’s all mine.” The older man slurs drunkenly, and despite the way his words were just dripping with saccharine sweet politeness, years of suffering through these exact interactions had made it easy for you to spot faux niceties. Like right now. “Or should I say- the new madam’s. You must be glad to marry into a clan as esteemed as the Kamo’s.”

The plastic smile that smears all over your face is painful, and you’re biting your tongue before it betrays you. “Yes, of c-”

“My apologies for cutting in, madam.” You’re startling - but you don’t know whether it’s because of the softened fingerpads that intertwine around yours, or the utter fire curdling in Choso’s eyes. “But I must say, I am the lucky one here.”

Oh.

Elder Tanaka is more impressive than you thought - his mask of respect barely even cracks, other than the jerky twitch of one eye. Honestly, you don’t think he’s ever heard Choso speak this much ever before. Quickly gathering his bearings, “Ah- ah, of course, master Kamo! Correct as always!”

Fuck- you can’t hold back the way you roll your eyes, only remembering yourself when Choso’s engulfing hands loosen from your own to give your thigh a warm squeeze. 

“You have wedded quite the catch, of course of course.” Your unwelcome company finally, finally looks at you properly. A sneer coating his slow blinking, “I-I simply meant that considering the master’s incredible power, wealth, and options, what she brings to the table-”

“-is herself.” Choso finishes off monotonically. “And that’s all I need.”

Choso’s words were husky, his grip on you tight. And you wonder if he even realized just how hard he was clutching onto your heated skin - mountains of his palm dragging a smooth up n’ down your clothed leg.

You knew he was well-hidden underneath the lacy tablecloth, you knew that not a single elder, family member, or friend bustling about your wedding reception could see that particular touch over the dim yolky lighting. 

But something about it just made you feel hot. 

It takes you a few fuzzy seconds to realize that Elder Tanaka was still speaking - in fact, he’d even summoned over a few more members of the council to encircle your decadent table. All the more voices speaking at you rather than to you.

“-that’s what I was saying-” You’re catching croaked-out snatches of conversation, warily eyeing the way the men clap each other supportively on their backs.“-it’s about the right time don’t you think?”

Another one nods, “Jin has been waiting for so long, after all-”

“-yes yes, to have an heir-”

Oh.

That’s what had Choso’s high cheekbones currently dusted with a faintly blossoming rose pink. That’s what had his thickened digits dipping past your luxurious evening yukata to rover between your thighs higher, and higher- like he didn’t even realize what he was doing. 

Like he was yearning for it.

“The Kamo clan shall have an heir.” You’re interrupting their ramblings, the mere sound of your voice enough to make Choso’s fingertips twitch. Smooth skin prickling with heaps of goosebumps already when you lock eyes right with his. “As soon as my husband is ready, right?”

And Choso Kamo was brought up with the most rigorous of training, raised to never show even the barest flicker of emotion - especially one where he’s caught off guard.

But right now he knows that he looks as stunned as he feels.

Coral pink maw falling into a soft oh! dark whirlpools of his eyes glinting with something so utterly raw. The trembling tips of his fingers lurch up just the barest inch to drag a lazy line down your pussymound. 

He’s instantaneously shifting his free hand up in one, fluid motion to cover the feverishly flushed half of his face. Jaw clenching with a sharp click! of his teeth when he swipes the fat pad of his thumb down a fresh bead of your leaking slick, making such a flimsy mess of your drenched panties. Was this all for him?

Because now Choso’s getting…greedy.

And you’re almost letting off a slight whimper when he hastily drags his scouring hand away - that is, before every and any sound dies in your throat once your husband dips his wetted thumb past his lips and sucks. 

Subtly. 

And his voice cracks oh-so-pathetically, “R-right.”

Eyes staring deeply into yours when he parts his doughy fingertips mere millimeters to lather it with a fat wad of saliva. Your breath hitches in your chest, frantically glancing at the babbling group of men who were, thankfully, way too absorbed in themselves to notice your little…tryst.

And it’s only with all his years as a seasoned fighter that Choso’s nuzzling his soaked digits back between your jittery thighs. In a flash.

Planting exactly three soppy smack! smack! smacks! plapped onto the perfect arch of your drooling pussy. Choso’s raising his neat brows at just how those tremors make you squirm in your seat.

“Ch-Cho—so-” You’re gasping under your breath, hips repeatedly shuffling on your cushiony chair when he licks up repeated, sultry circles- no, wait, hearts along the slippery slit of your covered cunt. Up and down. “Th-they might see…”

“Shhh, don’t want them to hear, baby.” He’s leaning in to pant out a murked cloud against your ear, throat bobbing with a ravenous swallow of saliva as he then probes a few stuffy fingers under your panties. “You seem stressed– Let me take care of it.”

Oh, it was a promise - and the rasping growl that bled into Choso’s tone told you that he was well and fully intent on accomplishing his little task. “Spread those pretty legs now.”

With a steady, muscular calf hooked with your own, he’s cracking your thighs evermore parted. The scorching hot press of his big, beefy forearm over your shoulders making you feel as if you’re on the verge of melting. Practically on his lap now-

“Is everything alright, master–?” You’re hearing from what sounds like somewhere over in the distance, even though you already know that it’s from right in front of you.

“Everything is quite alright.” Choso’s plush pecs vibrate with his rapid answer, and you’re finding yourself leaning your weight onto his. Huffing and puffing near the crook of his neck, “It seems the madam is just feeling a little ah…tired, right now. Continue your talk, elders.”

Tired - you couldn’t feel more riled up if you even tried.

“Ngh- Choso-” You’re sinking your teeth into your wobbly lower lip, hard enough to draw blood. High, carved chair singing off a slight creak! when you’re bucking your hips up to jostle his gluttonous fingers closer to where you wanted him the most. “-need you.”

Well, whatever his wife wanted - you got. 

In simple nanoseconds, Choso’s snugly prying away your gauzy lace. Letting the too-thin fabric snap back against your sappy cunt with a teasing little swat!

Before you can blink, he’s gracing your panties with microscopic tears at just how eager he was to give your plump, buttony clit a good, hard push. Cold golden wedding ring perking up against your most tender spots. Flexible wrists bending towards an even vulgarly deep angle to keep you from escaping-

And you think you could scream, you think you could open your mouth to make a scene - before Choso beats you to it. Purring out an oblivious, “Is everything alright, my wife? You seem a little feverish.”

All the while slipping n’ sliding his fingerpads to smear your gluey pussylips open. Mazing down, down, down in a lecherous little pace to plug up your geysering entrance snugly full with two of his fattened digits. 

You’re clutching helplessly onto Choso’s thick yukata sleeve when the elders stare over at you curiously, “I-I’m fine, Ch- my husband. Just a few post-wedding jitters.”

“Awww, that’s alright.” He’s cooing from above you, words sugarcoated with such gentleness - but his hands were anything but. “M’here, m’here.” Setting out a vicious, ceaseless pace that has his manly fingers outlining numerous circles round n’ round your tight, flooding entrance. Motioning in slight, sleazy swirls all around your elastic hole just to fit inside properly. “Your dear Choso’s here, y’know? And I’ll take such good care of you.”

“Ah! Of course-” Ring out the replies, evidently your hurried-out shudders were not enough for your guests to lose interest. Or for Choso, either - because he’s just feeding your slobbering orifice with more fat inches upon grinding inches. “-producing an heir is a very integral part of the marriage contract. It’s understandable to be nervous.”

Shivering, “S-sure.”

“Mhm—” Choso’s trawling his pouted mouth down your perspiration-simmered temple, “-a very integral part. But, of course, we’ve got to make sure that my beloved wife is-” Quirking the very edge of his digits to clash right into the target of your g-spot. “-ready, after all.”

The clingy embrace of your warm cunt so cozy that it’s bumping Choso’s metallic ring further and further from his hilled knuckles to dredge out a chilling, languid massage along your channel. 

It takes everything in you to manage up a half-heartedly narrowed glare up at your chatting husband, easily conversing his way through every battering ram being placed on your pretty pussy. 

He doesn’t make a sign - he doesn’t even make a noise. Nothing except for a sharp, sudden inhale once another innocent peck at your lips makes your filthy hole fountain out a fresh lather of sickly sweet juices. 

Dripping all the way down to his wrist with thickly viscous adhesive, he’s making such a fucking mess. And a loud one, too. 

Slurp after slurp being wrenched out with every pound of his neatly cut nails patterning out little indents onto your most favorite spots - ones that have your legs shaking underneath the humid table. Choso’s bouncing his knee to drum out a staccato against the floor, just to cover up your cute little melody.

He has you going insane.

You’re pushing apart your legs to dig into either side of your chair with just how desperate you were for him. For more more more.

Bumping your thigh against one of his, and the mere touch is enough to send shockwaves down Choso’s sloped body. 

“Trying to tease me, baby?” He’s hovering over you even closer, darting out a hefty thud! of two fingertips- no, three - when did he even bully in another one - onto the goopy roof of your cunt. 

“M’not-” You’re biting out, head lolling ever-so-slightly backwards when Choso furrows his brows and pumps out copious thrusts that hit your forbidden g-spot dead on. Engulfed so deeply inside your hot core that the gentle curves of his palm smudge against your clit now. “J-just keep- talking.”

And, truly, it wasn’t just because your company was peering over the two of you expectantly - it was because Choso sounded so very hot. 

Vibrato husky with an animalistic sort of need, tremoring ever-so-slightly-

“Agreed, I would like a few sons and daughters.” Choso’s nodding along smoothly, although his full attention is focused on you. His wife. And the way your sweltering hot gummy walls clench around his bludgeoning fingers even tighter at the words. Faster. “Maybe three. Maybe five. Although, it’s up to the madam.”

In the corner of your eye, you’re catching them all staring at you, and you urgently force out a nod.

“C’mon now, answer them using your words like a big girl, why don’t you–?” He’s humming, tilting your burning face up. Faster. So that you can’t hide.

Lilting shrill just as unbalanced as your head was, “Y-yes-”

But of course, that wasn’t enough - that would never be enough. “Louder. They can’t hear you over the music, baby.”

Can’t do anything but claw down drawings of red, red lines all across Choso’s milky arms when he bustles into the targets of your honeyed spots even harder. Unsteady syllables spilling out from your lip before you can even register them, “Yes- yes. As…many as possible.”

“That’s it- good girl.”

Fuck. 

And those raked scratches make perfect artwork for him to admire - just as he was admiring you right now. 

It was just such a shame that the others here were, too, even if they didn’t know the complete and utter sin happening just underneath the table cloth. Sloppier. 

Choso’s kissing his teeth, broad deltoids of his shoulder positioning to hide you away from any sleazy gazes. Because they could be near, but they couldn’t see. You were his.

“Then, it’s settled-” He’s drawling, hooded eyes locked onto you. Memorizing your every minute twitch and reaction when he urges his free hand to hold onto yours on your lap. Or, at least, that’s what it looked like to the outside. In fact, Choso’s snugly prying apart your silken robes to roll over your throbbing clit and pinch. “-we can look forward to an heir, soon. Right, madam?”

And that’s all it takes for you to cum.

Your head tucking into his sculptured shoulder, thighs closing with a dull clap! as your high crashes into you headfirst. You don’t need to mutter a single sentence for Choso to know.

For his eyes to widen just a fraction at the way your treacly slit only got infinitely dewier, rounded gumdrops of your slick sprinkling down in a weepy sheen all over his messy hands. Mouth going parched at the realization that you’re orgasming right here, right now. 

“O-oh? Seems my wife agrees.” Choso’s waving those elders away now, not taking his eyes off of you for a single second. It was just too adorable how you were shaking like a leaf at his side, “Well, m’glad. So- so…glad.”

Motioning your hips in such salacious semi-circles to bump up his upright fingers against your every extra sweet orifice.

Your sticky walls were so staggeringly tightly wrapped around him that it’s making his forehead bead with sweat, low puffs of air escaping with every peak he fucks you through. Every peak of white-hot pleasure that he draaags out until your guests are finally - finally - walking back to their own tables. 

“Sh-shit-” you’re mewling when Choso barely hesitates - barely even takes a quick sweep around the room to check who might be looking - before parting from your sappy cunt with a resounding squelch!

Immediately popping those viscously-glazed fingerpads into his starved mouth, he’s letting his glassy eyes sprint to the back of his head. Musing out a moan, “Fuck- fuck!”

You can only watch with an awed gape whilst Choso stares right into your heart-shaped pupils as he cleans himself off. One by one. Before trekking his lustrous fingers back over to your cunt, and measuring out a wide few inches - perhaps nine - from the base of your teary entrance up to your tummy.

“Choso…” you’re whispering, hazy eyes blinking up at him as if through molasses. “Wha’s that for?”

And Choso only grins, stray range of knuckles thoroughly bitten underneath his gleaming canines while he measures you up. 

As if he was holding back. Keeping himself sane. And the half-lided greed in Choso’s eyes told you that he’d fuck you all proper right here and right now if he could. “N-nothing- just making sure of somethin’, my wife. Making sure that you can take me.”

Oh. 

This was far from over. You were fucked. 

And you were completely and utterly sure of it even if the topic of an…heir didn’t come up for the next few days after that. 

Not that you didn’t think about it, though - it was hard not to, when your fatally notorious husband showed such a tender side of himself with his younger brothers. 

With you.

And soon enough even through all the bustling meetings and duties of a madam, you’re still figuring out a way to tell Choso that you really weren’t kidding about what you said during that wedding reception.

Sure, you were drunk on his fingers but - that wasn’t just all, was it?

But you’d sorely underestimated just how busy a clan leader could get. And before you knew it, putting off the conversation for the morning after your wedding night had turned into putting it off for the weekend. 

Then putting it off for next week. Two weeks. 

All the way until you’re trudging along the winding corridors of the Kamo Estate during the most unholy hours of the night. Grumbling groggily to yourself about how you’d finally told him and it had ended supremely well - in a dream, that is.

Choso had been absent for almost the entire day today, attending an important land negotiation with a far-off clan, according to Jin. 

Now, you knew just how powerful your husband was - it was impossible to escape the legends and rumors, in fact - and you trusted him. Still, you couldn’t help but toss and turn the entire night away in your coldly empty bed as you wondered just how safe he would get home.

You’d been to such veiled conferences before, after all. 

And it’s simply pure worry that has you dragging yourself out of your king-sized bed to shuffle into the barely-lit kitchen. Stifling half-blindly in the moonlight through cabinets and coolers to find ah! Exactly what you’ve been looking for. 

Thank goodness this place was empty right now, you didn’t know if you could handle it if the chef was here to lecture you about balanced diets when you’re bites deep into your sugary, shaved icing.

And it’s exactly with this thought in mind that you hear a loud thud! emanating from the far end of the hallway. Your eyes widen, ears searching for more-

Footsteps. 

At this time? Your fingers itch towards the sparkling display of knives tucked in one corner of the granite counter. Ready to aim for that tall approaching shadow, ready to fling just as Choso had taught you when-

“Baby?”

“Oh–” Your breath comes out in a heavy gust of relief, eyes unable to tear away from the shaded outline of your husband, taking up every inch of the doorway. “It’s just you, Cho.”

It was. But there was something about Choso that seemed…different. Off. 

But not in a bad way - your eyes rover appreciatively over the tautly flexed muscles of his upper half, peeking out almost-blasphemously where he’d shrugged the upper half of his deep purple yukata off. 

Glinting bow and arrow stained with crimson, held in one tightly-gripped hand. Your nose wrinkles at the slight, dangerous scent of something metallic. Something not his. 

Yet, you can’t help but ogle the slow path of dewdropped sweat trailing down between the curvaceous bulge of his heaving pecs, bumping up and down over his washboard abs, before disappearing below-

It’s like you’re being bolted with an instant flash of lightning as soon as this happens, snapping your eyes over to find Choso’s weighty ones. And oh- the moment you do it’s like something in him melts. 

THUD!

You’re jumping when his weapons hit the floor - uncaring of whether this might alert anyone else in the household, uncaring of anything other than crossing the sizzling distance between the two of you in three urgent strides. 

You don’t even have the time to process it before Choso halts right before you and falls to his knees. Dark lashes fluttering up at you, he echoes, “Baby.”

Like a broken little mantra. 

“Ch-Choso- baby-” It’s just about the only thing you can manage out through hollowed gasps when he’s immediately digging two hands on either side of your hips to easily and pliably seat you on the icy counter. Just where he wanted. “-what’s gotten into you?”

“Dunno.” He’s garbling out, and you’re letting your boneless legs tumble further and further open to let him bury his face right at his favorite place - into your fluttering cunt. “Was jus’ thinking about you alllll day.”

And you could tell.

Because Choso’s every movement was depraved. Jerky. His sensory fingertips trembling when they card underneath your cottony sleep garments, bringing it up to his canines to rip–!

All with his mouth.

“Fuh-fuck-” You’re squealing at the sudden hit of cold air - followed very closely by a scorching hot breeze overtaking every inch of your cunt when Choso leans in and sniffs. Long, hard. Curdling out a feral keen at the back of his throat, “-that’s so filthy, baby.”

“Nothing’s filthy for me if s’you, madam.” At the glint of something slobbering and sharp, you can tell that he’s grinning. “If s’you or…her.”

He was enamored with your ready core, curving a gentle thumb down the glossy edges to give your driveling hole a good trickle of spittle. 

And Choso Kamo knew he had perfect aim - he knew he didn’t have to make a mess. 

But oh, he couldn’t keep himself from tilting his head just degrees to the side to let the splatters leave dripping wet splotches down your saturated folds, your inner thighs. 

Tongue so long, lolling out drunkenly to smear away that filthy excess. He’s poking heated ounces again and again back into your soppy entrance. You were practically flooding torrents of sweet, sweet juices around him, already making a mess that lacquers his dimpled chin. 

You were always so sweet - so good for him. And he can feel his ears pop already with the greedy anticipation of what he was craving to do. 

“Think you missed me, too.” He’s snickering, teeth sinking down onto the fleshy nub of your clit. It’s enough to make you want to sob. “Didn’t ya?”

Gyrating your hips in such hypnotizing little swivels off of the smooth counter, you’re feeling his candied breaths hit your gummy walls even deeper. Sloppier. Whimpering out, “Yes- yes. Missed you so badly, Cho–”

“Oh yeah?” He’s tensing up the dexterous edge of his tongue to swipe up unhurried skids of his roughened tastebuds around and around your quivering entrance. In and out. Syrupy slick leaking in heaps right as he does, Choso tilts his head back to let those gooey masses slide down his throat. “Mmm— you’re wetter than usual, baby. How badly do you want the ngh- clan leader on his knees for you, hm?”

It was true - and Choso can feel something coiling and coiling heatedly at the base of his stomach at the idea of giving you perhaps…a kid…or two to make sure you’re not so lonely anymore. 

Ah, he was pussydrunk. 

“So- too badly.” You don’t think you’d ever be babbling away like this if Choso wasn’t making out with your needy cunt like that. 

You’re tangling your fingers hastily into his dark, silken locks - gripping desperately onto his sweat-dampened scalp as you use up all your strength and push. All the way until the very tip of Choso’s button nose was meeting your pulsing clit in a harsh smooch, his chin smacking the teary ends of your cunt.

Words tremoring against the very outer ring of your puffy pussy, silvery strings of saliva n’ sap break off when Choso mutters, “Was talkin’ to her, y’know?”

Fuck. 

And you think you would be huffing and puffing about how he was talking with your dousingly wet cunt instead of you. 

That is, if you weren’t talking back to him from between your legs. 

Because the only thing louder than the slack-jawed ah! ah! ah! leaving your lips with every repeated thrust of Choso’s tongue, was the sound of your soppy squelches. “Ohhh- so that’s how your day was? Tell me more…”

So loud - so embarrassing that you can feel your heart race.

And Choso’s was, too, but for a much more lecherous reason as his tongue clashes even harder to draw out those very same pretty noises from you. He was craning his ears closer - he was addicted. 

“Yeah-  yeah, tha’s right.” Choso’s groaning, eyes faltering droopily until they were almost shut at the way his husking growls only make you wetter. Well, he could help with that. Hitting your hot core with wad after weighty wad of even more sugary spit. “Thaaaat’s fuckin’ right, missed how mouthy you hah- are. My talkative girl.”

“Cho- ngh!” You’re biting down on your tongue to hold back your words when Choso raises up a hand to leave a solid spank right on your bloated pussymound. 

He’s nodding along, head lurching intoxicatedly ever closer and closer. Wiping away a glistening streak of slick painted over his blushing cheeks - his blushing cheeks. “That’s right- would’ve made a- haaaah- a whole lotta b-better points than that stupid council does.”

Before pecking a lingering French kiss on your throbbing clit like a lover would. 

And you count one, two, three- partway through four before Choso seems to remember that he’s still in the middle of his conversation with your cute cunt. It’s rude to leave her hanging, he’s pondering.

“Well-” Stringing himself away with such a pained grunt, cerise lower lip plumping out in a pout at the mere thought of being away from you. “-better points than that stupid council d-did. They won’t be making aaaaany comments ‘bout you anymore, madam.”

Your leaden eyelids struggle to flitter open, “Wh-what do you ngh- mean, baby?”

But the only response you get is a quick staccato of swats at your leaky slit, before Choso’s curling in a thick thumb past your watering lips and in to your slicked entrance. Followed by the delicious drag of his lengthy tongue doubly slipping back inside.

Thrust after thrust. 

So extensive that he was skimming across all your ridges, mapping out every sweet spot of yours on his mouth. Your adhesive walls were clinging onto him like a vice, sappy mushes making him pry apart your thighs even more through furrowed brows. 

“Jus’- just means-” He can’t even bear to speak. To break off from stretching you staggeringly open. Your legs wrap mindlessly around Choso’s ravenous head, “-means I don’t let anyone- hah- say anythin’ about my wife.” 

Without a second thought, your eyes find his splayed-out arrows on the floor. The way they were sullied with red…

Oh. 

But you couldn’t bring yourself to do anything other than let your head jerk backwards, muffing out slight whimpers when he alternates in such sloppy measures between swirling the fattened expanse of his tongue all over every possible spot of your gummy walls and sucking on your clit like his favorite candy.

“They won’t say- do- anythin’—” In so deep now that all you could make out were numerous wet gurgles. And the pure, unadulterated love in Choso’s tone when he twists his thumb to graze right against your bruised and battered g-spot. Hard. “Not when I love her so much.”

He’s gonna raise your kids to love you just as damn much.

And when you cum, you think you might be sobbing - you’re shaking. 

Flurries of stars bursting behind your eyes as you dig your fingers through your husband’s perspired strands. Keening out, “Fuck- m’cumming- m’cumming–”

“I know I know.” He smirks hotly against your puffy pussy lips, so close that you could feel the cratered dimple of his grin. “Yer cute cunt told me, baby– heh- wouldn’t mind being welcomed ah- home by my wife like this every day.”

He lets himself be manhandled, pulled and pushed to your every whim. One of the strongest clan leaders whimpering - whimpering - when you pull just a bit too hard to mash his cushiony mouth in a deeper kiss. 

Hot. Sappy. 

You’re still shaking with sparking bouts of heat that rush down and up your spine, legs twitching when Choso pulls away with a loudly kissed mwah! Overly exaggerated just to see that shy, fucked-out expression on your face. 

He was so unfairly pretty like this - a delicate red blush burning all over his face, eyes half-lidded like he was feverish. A shimmery spray of your juiced slick drips down his chin, his bruised lips, all the way up to his regal cheekbones. 

He made a mess. And he was wearing it like a badge of honor.

Rising up, up, up to shutter your ajar jaw and plant a drenching kiss. Choso always left your mind so melty and stupid no matter what he did. 

“Do you…do you want some hngh- sh-shaved ice?” You’re babbling with your cottony tongue, unsure of what exactly to say after something as intense as…that. 

“Nah-” One kiss. Another Two. Five. “-I jus’ had something a whooole lot sweeter, madam.”

Right now it was so quiet in your kitchen. Just you, Choso, and the gleaming moonlight illuminating his pussydrunken enchantment. Even more so than usual. 

You’re glissading your arms around his sweat-matted neck, reeling him in even closer. He smells so good, piney cologne searing your senses even despite that tint of iron. Nervously musing, “Hmmm, wonder if s’always gonna be like hah- this whenever I get…cravings.”

Well- it wasn’t exactly what you wanted to say, but, better than nothing.

“Cravings, huh?” Choso’s eyes twinkle - and you’re not sure if that’s a result of the muted lighting or because of what you just said. Hopefully the latter. 

“Well- well just saying I wouldn’t mind if-”

Cutting yourself off, you’re sure it’s the latter when he rests a massive palm, warm against your tummy. Just for a split-second before tucking his big, strong arms underneath your body and propping you in an easy princess carry. “If you have cravings then I’d be the one cooking for ya, my wife. 24/7, at your feet.”

Yeah, you were fucked. 

But you never really realized just how much - just how badly - until just a few days later; seated on the polished hardwood floor of the famed Kamo archery dojo. 

It was routine for your husband to practice his pinpoint precise shooting, and by now it was your routine to watch him. 

How could you not? Because it was such a heavenly sight.

Choso’s pristine, white yukata unravelled at one muscular shoulder; showing off the rippling curves and dips of his sculptured back. Strong. His honed eyes filmed with a focus he only ever gets in bed. Adonis-like biceps bulging in a lecherous little flex when he draws the string back, back, back and lets go-

“YES!” Yuji’s resounding cheer thunders across the vast chamber with way too much volume than a six-year-old should possibly have. “Let’s goooo- big bwother hit the target again.”

A simpering smile stretches across your lips as soon as he turns to you for reassurance, gesturing out a slow nod at the way Choso keeps piercing bullseye after bullseye. “He did, your brother is very talented, Yuji.”

Humming, “When I grow up m’gonna be just like him.” 

“Of course.” You’re chuckling at his enthusiasm - the youngest of your husband’s brother’s always did have a special spot in your heart. And you can’t help but wonder when - if - you had an heir with Choso, whether they would be much the same. “You are his brother, after all.”

You’re frantically hovering your hands behind him once he bustles to a haphazard stand. Stumbling only a few times as he races over to the neat line of inventory, “Then- I’ll be just like him now.”

“Be careful!”

Ah, he really was a handful - which meant, you really didn’t expect it to go over perfectly smoothly. You’d known that simply wouldn’t have been possible as soon as you met Itadori Yuji. 

Yet, you didn’t expect everything to go so wrong in just a mere matter of seconds. 

Before you can even blink, Yuji’d tottered his way over to one particularly large, wooden bow - one used only by Ryomen Sukuna whenever he visited. Puffing out his chest as he reeled out the massively heavy weapon - overly heavy, way too much for even the most determined child-

CRASH!

“Yuji!” You don’t know who yelps louder - you, or Choso. But with your proximity, you’re the one that reaches him first, cradling the sniffling boy in your arms. 

You jostle away the weighty bow - honestly, how he even managed to lift this in the first place you have no idea. 

“Awww, don’t cry don’t cry–” You’re cooing, distantly registering the worried pants of his older brother skidding to a stop beside you. He always did have him curled around his little finger. Pushing away the pinkish curls from his forehead, “-you’re alright. See? You’re alright.”

“Are you hurt? Are you dizzy? Are you feeling nauseous-”

“Choso.” You warn, catching the way Yuji’s eyes widen in panic. 

Taking a few deeply necessary breaths to calm down. “You- don’t do that-” Choso’s hissing, but you could practically feel the worry seeping into his tone. Thumbing slow circles on his aching shoulders, “-ask me for a bow instead.”

You have to bite back a grin - with the watery glaze taking over his eyes, you wondered who was really hurt - Yuji or Choso himself. 

“M’sorry big bwother.” Blubbering through big, pearly tears that dry salty streaks down his chubby cheeks. He’s batting those lashes in a way you’re sure gets him out of any sort of trouble. Ever. The full, merciless force of it hits your poor heart as Yuji turns to you. “Sorry, mama.”

Mama. 

Mama. 

You freeze. Choso freezes.

Hell, even the twittering birds outside freeze mid-song. 

It seems like everyone in the entire world freezes except for an oblivious Yuji who only continues inching his tiny hands closer towards that guilty bow. Clearly not having learned his lesson - but you didn’t even register that right now. 

You’re staring at Choso, only to find that he’s staring right back. Droopy eyes uncharacteristically wide, blinking rapidly - it didn’t even look like he was breathing right now. 

Maw parting and closing stupidly agape, and you’re almost tempted to reach out and check whether he’s doing okay - before he finally finds his voice again. Finally. Husking out a choked-out, “W-well- maybe we should- ah- should-” He’s turning towards his contrastingly okay younger brother, “Yuji?” 

“Big bwother!” Comes the, unfortunately, helpless answer. 

And something in his beaming expression seems to jolt Choso out of his reverie, something that makes him let out a tight nod. Scooping up the giggling boy over his shoulder, he calls out at you, “Wait here.”

As Choso walks out of the doorway, you could only watch.

Only sit there for what could be four seconds - or maybe even four hundred years - until he’d presumably dropped off Yuji at the safety of Jin. Taking steady, focused strides back to you that thud! thud! thud! right along to the beat of your racing heart.

Choso’s expression is blank - pale as if he’s seen a fucking ghost. And he doesn’t even look at you, can’t even bear to once he walks back to the thickened air of the dojo. Now pointedly alone. 

Very, very alone. 

Wordlessly, he picks up his famed bow. And you swear that you can see his practiced hands tremble. Something was happening. 

It’s like an artwork that you can’t look away from. The fluid motion of aligning a singular arrow to aim for his final, rounded target. Doughy pads of his fingers pinching the string back, back, back until it snaps!

And misses. For the first time in years.

“Fuck.”

You barely have the time to compute - to even suck in a gasp of surprise before your husband comes and crashes into you. It’s as if he was magnetized and couldn’t get away even if he wanted to. 

It’s a frenzy of white billowing sleeves and powerful arms, throwing you over Choso’s shoulder in only two seconds flat - much the same way that he’d done with Yuji moments prior.

Except more…urgent. 

“Choso- Cho!” You’re squealing, as he lurches into hurried treads away. Legs kicking weakly in the air, only for your stubborn self to be granted with an unapologetic spank! right on the mound of your ass. Your nose crinkles as his long, inky locks tickle your face, “What is-”

“Be quiet.” Choso’s rasping, so small that it could not have been more than a whisper. So close that you’re drinking in heady wafts of his masculine cologne. 

Something in his snarling tone makes your stomach tighten. Digits grappling precariously onto the toned curves of his shoulders, your fingertips slide down the sweltering expanse of his exposed skin. 

And only too late do you recognize the familiar pathway towards your shared bed chamber- oh. 

So that was what it was. 

And judging by the dark, primal look swimming in the clan leader’s eyes you could only hope that you made it out alive-

SLAM!

You don’t know what’s forcing you more out of your excited little reverie - the shuddered slam! of your mahogany double doors, so hard that it makes the golden hinges shake, or the way you’re thrown haphazardly on the bed. 

Like some glorified toy. One of Choso’s favorites. 

You’re throwing your arms over his broad shoulders as you fall, lugging him in even closer with each springy bounce on the bedcoils. 

But closer wasn’t close enough for your husband - he’s bullying into every ounce of your personal space, caging you in between two splayed-out palms on either side of your thoroughly spinning head.

“Mama, is it?” Choso starts out. Slow. Thick. Like he was approaching a cornered prey. “Baby, I want…I want it.”

You’re blinking up at him through eager eyes, “Want what, Cho?” 

“I want an heir. I want to make you…” He gulps. The circles of his fingertips were so warm on your skin, trailing down lovingly all across your cheek. Your collarbones, your heaving tits - down to where you predictably flinched as he palmed your tummy. “-a pretty momma.”

Fawny strands of chestnut brown curtain his gaze, but you could tell just how serious he was. Just how greedy. You don’t think you’ve ever seen Choso like this in his entire life. 

All you can breathe out is a crackling, “Yes.”

You said it. You finally said it after all these weeks. 

And it’s the only thing you hear before your yukata is all but torn off of you, Choso doesn’t even realize when he’s doing so. It’s melting away like butter underneath his strength, mere obstacles to where the real prize is - your gorgeous, shivering body.

Pebbles of goosebumps rise onto the surface of your flesh when he throws away those useless pieces of fabrics onto the tatami floor - you can have more newly tailored anyway. Many, many more with just how round and full you’re about to be very soon. 

He’d take care of it for you.

“Oh, madam- madam.” He’s spitting into your unfastened mouth, low growls sounding out across each four corners of your room. Held hostage by the arousal in your eyes, he can’t stop staring. “M’gonna ruin you.”

And Choso is feral like never before. 

Usually one to take his time during sex, finetuning you into it like a sultry waltz. His favorite hobby was to drive you mindlessly wild before he even thought of stuffing you full. But now…

Still not breaking his dreamy eye contact with you, Choso hooks a rapidfire finger over the cute bow-tied hem of your panties. Slurring down an oozing little snail trail of slick that laminates your jittery thighs with evidence of just how badly you wanted him. 

You feel the blistering pant of his mindless oh! fanning your features, leaning backwards with a loosened maw to admire just how glistening you are in this lighting. 

How ready.

With a low, fucked-up whimper breaking at the back of his throat, he rubs over the bloated curvature of your needy pussy. Slipping ever-so-slightly at the saturated puddles leaking out, Choso has no hesitation or shame when he tugs his fingerpads into his mouth once. 

Twice. Thrice. 

Dipping back down for more and more and more-

“Can’t-” He’s guttering out, eyes crinkling and- fuck, were those tears? “I c-”

You reach your hand up to smear away his hot rivulets of salt, and Choso stops his prattling like a broken record forced to a halt. He jolts as if your touch has just sent a zillion shocks of voltage down his spine, all the trekking trailway down to his furious, aching cock. 

Unsteady hands flinging apart his snowy robes - barely even bothering to remove them and wrench down his undergarments before you see it. You finally understand why Choso was so…restless.

Because he’s never been harder. 

Fuck being furious, his bawling cock was seething. Equally as red as the ripest of strawberries, the split-ended crown of his cockhead was just as plumply swollen. All proud inches nestled underneath his painfully-clenching breeder balls, ballooned and lush. Only the barest of your gaze is enough to make Choso’s lustrous tip twitch, laminating himself with a freshly dripping glaze of translucent pre. 

Though, it’s not like you were doing any better. 

Your gluey lips pucker and pout up at him once he’s wrangling your legs into a boneless hold. The feeling of his palms underneath your thighs are so soft - even despite his battle-hardened calluses. Worshipping. 

But the way he’s resting your legs on his shoulders, and folding you in half like a whining lawnchair is the complete opposite. Mercilessly into a-

“M-mating press-” Choso’s getting out through strangled breaths, as if the sole words had his poor sanity fraying at the edges. “-mating press- a- a-” Something he’s never tried out before. His head dips down, pearls of sweat simmering across his trembly upper lip as soon as your sticky folds leave a wet snog on his fattened mushroomy tip. Topping it with a generous heap of honeyed sap, “Well, hello there, baby. I have you in a mating press n’ m’gonna…gonna…”

He couldn’t even finish his sentence. 

Couldn’t even finish his thought before Choso was doing - body moving miles and miles ahead of his stupidly saccharine-sweet mind. 

“F-fuuuuck–” You’re letting off the keenest of whines, the edges of your nails leaving neat crescents all over his toned back. It was the perfect little present for the way he had you so split open. 

And he was barely even pushing past the tip. 

“Oh. Oh.” Choso’s grunts are throaty, as if they weren’t coming from the man himself but somewhere murked and dark inside him. And the same went for his feverish thrusts - tight, rigid little pushes past your slicked-up hole just to fit inside. He’s spitting into your slacked mouth, “C’mon- c’mon c’mon–”

Usually, it takes so long to prepare you to take his nine- no, ten inches. But currently, fast just wasn’t fast enough.

There’s a thundering slam! abovehead - only hours and hours later do you have enough brainpower to realize that it was Choso striking his palm down on the headboard - and it makes your clingy walls grip onto the battering mountain of his dewy head. 

Squeezing in a repeatedly adhesive-like tempo, Choso’s nose crinkles at the rubbery resistance of your snug hole. Still molding to the slightest curves and ridges of his drowned slit with every desperate rut-

“Please- take it- fucking take it.” His voice was trembling on the edge of a crack, thickened exactly the way one does when he’s about to cry. “H-how can I fuck! How can I breed ya…if I don’t-”

And you’re swearing you see his ruddied cheeks glisten with a few slipped-off tears - though, that just might be from the way that your own vision mists over when his stray hand plugs up your spilling entrance to pry two thickened, scissoring digits inside and stretch. “Fucking- take that big fuckin’- cock-”

Bullying in a few more long n’ girthy inches- You’re so full that it feels like Choso’s pushing his bloated crownhead against the spongy edges of your lungs. 

The bed dips and moans with frequent soft creaks! when he plants his curved knees firmly further apart. Flexibly so. And you’re getting a good, greedy eyeful of his pale, bulky thighs - angling at the perfect bend to snap his slender hips and jackhammer-

“Sh-shit-” Your head sinks into the cushiony pillows underneath you, and it already feels like you’re in heaven. “-don’t- don’t know if it’ll fit, Cho–”

With a bitten lip, Choso rovers down his sturdy hand from the surface of the bedframe to measure out ten solid inches. Bringing it down much the same way he did during your wedding reception, “Y-you can, baby–”

“But-”

“You will.” He’s gasping, gracing you with a soft brush of his curvaceous mushroomed head along one of your utmost favorite hidden sweet spots. It’s enough to make you buck. “Gonna take my cock, n’ you’re gonna haaah- take my seed ‘ntil you’re bloated. So I’ll make it fit- fuck- watch, I’ll make it fit.” Before you know it, that very same hand finds itself crowning your head, threatening to push you down- “C-can you say hngh- ‘biiiig stretch’ f’me?”

You’re hiccuping out, “B-big stretch?”

“Nuh uh-” By the time that Choso shakes his head, you’re being sprinkled with loose flecks of his sweat. He was in so deep now. “Say it with me- b-biiig stretch, baby–”

“B-biiig- stretch!” It takes you everything in your body to hold your own against the vicious pounds being planted and struggled into your goopy depths. Choso was determined. Frenzied. 

And god, the way you’re dumbly parroting his words is so hot. He can’t help but dollop out muggy icings of pre that slosh and swab at every nook and cranny inside you. 

“Good girl.” Rewarding you with a slow heart being patterned right on the throbbing peak of your clit, the roughened edges of his fingertips rub you just right. Not too hard. Not too soft. Your husband nuzzles his flushed head into the havened crook of your clammy neck, “S-say it again, madam.”

“Biiig-”

Honestly, it’s a wonder you manage to get exactly two syllables out at all. Because soon enough, Choso’s taking your distracted few seconds to lace his fingers onto your scalp push. To bump his hips back until your geysering cunt was struggling around his fat, bulbous tip.

Before stuffing you full all the way in-

“Fuck- no.” Choso’s spitting out venomously against your thrumming pulse, sharp fringes of his teeth digging in animalistically. Bottomed out but still pushing and pushing- Slamming a lazy stripe of luscious precum down your spongy cervix, “No- no no–”

No sooner are you full of all his massive, rummaging length, he’s making you take even more. This time in the form of dribbling, ribbony volumes of cum that leak and leak and won’t stop from his heated divot. 

It’s ballooning up your tight channel even more. Swashing around and sticking to your gummy walls like a treacly lacquer. Filling you to your very brim-

“S-so much.” You’re gaping, through tear-strung lashes. The shivering edges of your fingers subconsciously dance downwards to splotch over the puddling globs of seed tricking from either side of your sloppy slit. Squeezing out even more to coat Choso’s bulky base with creamy rings upon rings. 

And, usually, your husband might be just a bit embarrassed. Usually, he would have pulled out to make out with your pretty pussy until your scores were more than tied.

But that wasn’t your husband right now. 

“Don’t.” Choso clicks his drunkenly heavy tongue, lips pulling back into what almost looks like an oh-so-feral snarl. And you have to admit that it looks so sexy on him. He’s rudely swatting away your curious hand, “Move that fucking hand n’ let me see.”

It takes only a split-second for both your hands to be pinned underneath one of Choso Kamo’s. 

“Tha’s not enough to take.”

And only one more split-second for him to flip you over onto your tummy and stuff your head into the cushy pillows. 

He’s fucking you like he’s using you. Like he’s pumping his mushy, swollen head to nudge in the weighty heft of his cum deeper and deeper and deeper-

“Y’know I hate hngh- disrespectin’ my wife, baby–” He leans over to sigh against your ear in craving hisses, pinning you with his body. His muscles. You could count each n’ every one of Choso’s bulging abs, glissading damply against your perfectly arched spine. Bubblegum pink nipples pressed roughly into your scorching skin, “Hate it- but…”

You gasp at Choso’s audacity next - at the way it makes you so traitorously soaked when he hikes up one of his feet to rest upon your head. 

Gurgling out a stupid. “Ch-Cho–”

But he didn’t seem to hear you - you didn’t know if he was even managing to breathe at this point. Only letting his devious lips twitch up, up, up into such a satisfied grin. “-but ‘ntil I get my hngh- heh…heir, you’re gonna hafta be my cumdump, madam.”

And if the saturated slurps singing out at a near-deafening tone from your dripping pussy said anything - it was that you loved the idea. 

Especially when the changed angle makes his scouring cockhead maze between the most treasured spots of your jelly-like walls to strike numerous, merciless hits dead-set on your g-spot. 

Ah, there it was, pipes up that small voice in Choso’s overtaken brain. Jostling your hips back onto his with a sudden spank on the target of your drivelling hole, the stinging pressure makes you bump your tenderest spots again and again into his ruthless batters. 

It’s bruising - the proud circumference of his plummy cock against your elastic cervix with every recoiling bounce, the rounded patterns of his balls against the hind of your pretty pussy with each thrust.

If you didn’t think you were being fucked stupid before then you were sure now. 

Your velveteen pillowcase dampens with the ever-flooding saliva spilling from your mouth every time Choso rears his aching shaft back to plant rapid, precise strikes where you wanted him the most. 

Whimpering at how every ramming dab of his split cockhead leaves leakages of pearly white cum all over the bottom of your pussy. That sultry swirl of his dumped heaps inside of you making your head spin just as dizzily. 

You almost don’t notice it when Choso’s drifting both hands to skirt over about halfway down your tummy. Feeling for that bloated, cylindrical outline of him vulgarly messing up your insides, “Gonna be e-even fuller here soon, y’know-” He’s giggling - giggling. Erratically letting his hands slide down to your clit to give the peaked ends just a tiny pinch. “-have you all round. Full. Full-”

He can’t say anything else.

He can’t do anything else - other than watch in purely entranced awe when that makes you cum all over his fucking cock. 

So big n’ thick that your claggy walls can barely even squeeze around his throbbing shaft. The thought makes you huff as he rams rigorously through your blinding high - teeth grit, your fingers fist at the pillows and make sure you can clench-

When you do- oh, when you manage to cling your gummy cunt onto his girth as if to suck out his fucking soul, it makes Choso cum, too.

Fatigued hips somehow matching his cadence, your knees shiver on top of the softened mattress stuttering through every dousing mass of cum gliding inside your cute cunt. It was so heavy having his massive torrentials inside of you, spraying the door to your womb with a slippery sheen.

It was maddening. 

And maybe it’s been hours - maybe it’s been mere minutes. But all you know is that you’re put through rounds and rounds and more rounds. But he’s still not stopping. Still dredging out the tiniest of hollowing grinds. 

Until much, much later Choso’s breath hitches in feverish stutters. It was so steamily hot inside you, only getting more humid by the minute as you ride out yet another crashing high.

“G’na milk e-every ngh- drop-” He titters, fleshy edges of his fingers closing in around where your pussylips were the most buxom. The most leaky. “-n’ you’re gonna ngh- keep it. Keep ‘ntil you give me an h-heir. Remember that, baby– keep it.”

You’re fighting against the weight of his muscular leg on top of you. Was he clamming your pussy shut? 

“Choso, baby.” Your straining out, throat drier than the Sahara at this point. Even despite how the hypnotized way your husband looks at you makes your tongue lather with watery saliva. “Want- want more.”

You think you might just have broken Choso Kamo.

Might just have made him reach another surprising high all over again with just your simple request. He’s lifting off the powerfully pressurized foot crowned on your head in favor of lurching downwards to grab your tender throat into a headlock.

Manhandling you as he pleased. Lifting you off of the tattered pillow, the completely splintered bed frame now. 

Your chin juts over his thick, bulging biceps, fighting for both air and the space-

“More- more, she says-” He’s chuckling out, words cracking a few octaves higher than normal. From the corner of your eye, you sneak glimpses at the way that Choso’s eyes were wide, crazed. Flashing all sorts of feral promises when he plants one, two, three long thuds against your soppy cervix. “Fucking- m-more.”

You’re letting off a tiny whimper - your orgasm nothing but tingles at this point. Yearning for that the piping hot streak of seed flushed into your already-overspilling cunt. Syruping in with the rest of his numerous goopy volumes, it’s thick and needy. 

Only one.

“Sh-shit.” He’s wheezing against your ear, free hand flying down to tug at his reddened base for more more more- one’s not enough. Every possibly wiry wisp and speckle that could fill you up. Could give him an heir. “Can’t cum dry- won’t- oh.”

Rutting into you like Choso won’t stop - didn’t know if he even can stop anymore. You flinch at the suddenly hot splatter! of something warm…and wet at your shoulder. 

“Cho- oh!” Not only was the clan leader drooling out glossy spatters of saliva, he was crying. Hugging you even closer, you’re showered in neverending streams of overstimulated tears.

And Choso can only babble away, “Hope- hope s’a daughter, madam.”

A/N. AYYY y’all have been wanting more dom Choso saurrrr- Anyways hope you have a lovely week <3

"You're fucking kidding me." You stare at the text message. Three sentences that might as well be a bomb dropped in the middle of your living room.

Hey, sorry for the short notice, but I’m moving in with my boyfriend at the end of the week.

I know rent’s due soon, but I kinda already spent my half on the security deposit for our new place.

Good luck finding someone else!

shit

Rent is due in nine days, and your bank account isn’t exactly overflowing.

You’ve never lived alone before. Couldn’t afford it even if you wanted to. And the thought of scrambling to find a new roommate in a week makes your stomach twist.

You're halfway through drafting a frantic "roommate needed ASAP" text to your groupchat when your phone buzzes.

it's one of your few friends who actually bothers to check in.

Heard about your roomie bailing. Absolute bullshit.

Anyway I know a guy. Chill as hell, works freelance, needs a place.

You'd vibe.

You hesitate, thumb hovering over the keyboard. The last thing you want is some rando bringing chaos into your already crumbling life.

But then your landlord's terse "rent due on the 1st, no exceptions" text flashes in your mind.

Fine. Give him my number.

Chan texts you thirty minutes later. His messages are polite. Full sentences, proper punctuation, none of that monosyllabic grunting.

He suggests meeting at the apartment tomorrow afternoon to check the place out, and you agree.

The next day, you're scrubbing the bathroom sink when the doorbell rings. Chan stands in the hallway holding a paper bag that smells like garlic and herbs. "Figured we could talk over lunch," he says, smiling like this isn't weird at all.

Up close, he's so much cuter than you expected, blond hair, unfairly big broad shoulders, dressed in a blank tanktop that showed them off perfectly.

You blink at the take out bag, then at Chan’s easy grin.

There’s no nervous energy radiating off him, no awkward shuffling — just this unsettling calm, like he’s already decided he belongs here. “Uh,” you say, wiping your damp hands on your pants, “you didn’t have to—”

“I know,” he interrupts, already toeing off his sneakers without waiting for an invite. The scent of roasted garlic and rosemary spills into the apartment as he breezes past you toward the kitchen. “But food makes everything less weird, right?”

You trail after him, you don't know whether to be annoyed or charmed.

Chan unpacks the food containers, grilled chicken, some kind of herby rice, roasted vegetables that don’t look like the sad microwave steam bags you usually survive on.

He slides a plate toward you. “Eat first, then interrogation.”

“Interrogation?” You stab a piece of chicken, watching him warily.

Chan shrugs, mouth already full. “Standard roommate shit. ‘Do you snore?’ ‘Are you a serial killer?’ ‘Will you steal my leftovers?’” He swallows, grinning.

“The answer’s no, no, and only if you leave them unlabelled.”

The food is homemade stupidly good, and Chan’s presence is… unsettlingly comfortable.

By the time you’re scraping the last of the rice off your plate, you’ve learned he does something vague with digital marketing (“Basically, I convince people to buy shit they don’t need”), he actually enjoys doing laundry, and he likes to cook.

“So,” Chan says, stacking the empty containers, “you wanna show me around, or should I just start claiming drawers?”

The tour is quick — your apartment isn’t exactly sprawling — but Chan makes appreciative noises at the closet space and tests how sturdy the bed frame is (#whatdatmean).

When you hesitantly mention rent, he waves a hand. “Half’s fine. I’ll pay first and last upfront if you want.”

You stare. “You don’t even know the amount.”

Chan shrugs, leaning against the kitchen counter “Doesn’t matter. I’ve got it.” He pulls out his phone, taps a few times, and, before you can protest, your own phone buzzes with a notification.

It’s a Venmo payment for double what you were about to say rent costs.

Your mouth opens, then closes. “You—what? That’s too much.”

“Nah.” He pockets his phone, grinning at your baffled expression. “Consider it a ‘sorry for being weirdly pushy’. ”

You don’t argue. You can’t argue — not when your bank account is currently breathing its first sigh of relief in months.

A girls got priorities, and he doesn't really seem to mind. it's a win win scenario.

~

The first month was… strange. Not bad, just strange. he was genuinely nice, easy to talk to. it wasn't long till the initial awkwardness — if there was any — wore off. you'd become something sort of friends, and both of you settled into a quiet rhythm.

he'd left cash for rent in a neat stack on the kitchen counter on first of the month, slightly more than his half again.

When you tried to give him the extra back, he just waved you off.

You caught glimpses of his routine. disappearing into his room at odd hours, the low murmur of his voice through the walls late at night.

And then there was the day you came home early.

You weren’t supposed to be back until ten, but your shift ended early, and the bus was miraculously on time for once.

The apartment was quiet when you unlocked the door, just the hum of the fridge and the faint creak of the floorboards under your feet.

You’d barely set your bag down when you heard it — a low noise from Chan’s room.

Your fingers froze on the zipper of your jacket. The sound came again, breathier this time, followed by the slick, rhythmic sound of skin on skin.

you thought it was a girlfriend he never told you about.

The idea punched a weird, hollow ache into your ribs — which was stupid, because it’s not like you had any claim on him.

Still, you stood there frozen in the hallway, his door slightly ajar, listening to the sounds of his pleasure like some kind of creep.

You backed out of the apartment, easing the door shut with just the softest whisper of the latch catching. Your pulse hammered in your throat as you ducked into the stairwell, pressing your back against the cool concrete wall.

The rational part of your brain screamed at you to stop being weird, to just walk back in like a normal person. But the irrational part — the part currently in charge — was too busy replaying the sounds spilling from Chan’s room to listen.

You get out of the building and circle the block twice, three times, counting cracks in the sidewalk. The air smells like rain that hasn’t fallen yet, and you bask in that atmosphere till roughly an hour has passed.

When you finally drag yourself back inside, the apartment is quiet. Chan’s door is shut tight, the shower running, and no girlfriend in sight.

she must've left early.

You freeze halfway to your room when the shower shuts off. your feet are planted still go to your room, go to your room

but you weren't quick enough, and a few seconds later, Chan emerges with only a towel slung low on his hips.

He's startled when he sees you, droplets flicking off his hair as he jerks his head up. “oh hey—” His voice is casual before you cut him off, "shit—sorry!" your face heats up at the sight, your eyes wander, trailing down his toned chest that still had water droplets running down, before snapping your head in the other direction.

was he always this muscular?

and you can't help but notice that there are no hickeys on his neck, no marks on his arms, and surprisingly put together for someone who just had his girlfriend over less than an hour ago.

"no no— you're good." he reassures with a smile, "you're back early."

You swallow hard. “Yeah. Shift got cut."

Chan leans against the doorframe, his damp hair curling at the ends. You try not to stare at the way his towel clings precariously to his hips, but your gaze keeps flicking downward anyway, betraying you.

"Everything okay?" he asks, tilting his head slightly.

"Y-yeah," you stammer, fingers twisting in the hem of your jacket. "Just—uh. Busy day."

Chan hums, nodding. His eyes flick over your face, lingering a second too long on your flushed cheeks before he grins. "Cool. I was just gonna make some food if you’re hungry."

The casual offer throws you off. You were expecting — what? Awkward silence? Averted eyes? Not this easy warmth.

but you just nod dumbly. "Yeah. Food sounds good."

he pushes off the doorframe, padding toward the kitchen. The towel rides up slightly with each step, revealing the sharp cut of his hip bones, and you have to physically bite the inside of your cheek to keep from making a noise.

“You good?” he calls over his shoulder, like he can feel your stare burning into his back.

“Fine,” you squeak, following at a safe distance, eyes fixed firmly on the floor. The kitchen tile is cool under your socked feet, a welcome distraction from the heat crawling up your neck.

Chan hums again, rummaging through the fridge with one hand while the other keeps his towel secured. The muscles in his back flex as he leans forward, and you’re suddenly very interested in the color of your sponge bob socks.

“Leftover pasta okay?” he asks, pulling out a container with a rattle of plastic. You nod mutely, watching as he moves around the kitchen, his bare feet slapping against the tiles.

The stove clicks to life, the hiss of gas filling the silence between you. Chan leans against the counter, arms crossed over his chest, “So,” he starts, “how was work?”

You blink. “Uh. Fine. Boring.” The words tumble out too fast, your pulse jumping when Chan chuckles. His eyes crinkle at the corners, and suddenly you’re hyperaware of every inch of space between you.

he scrapes the leftover pasta into the pan, the sizzle of garlic and butter filling the silence between you. His towel shifts dangerously low with each stir, but he doesn’t seem to notice — or maybe he does.

The corner of his mouth twitches when he catches you staring, and you snap your gaze to the ceiling like it’s suddenly fascinating.

"You know," he says, voice light, "most roommates don’t freak out when they see each other half dressed." The wooden spoon clinks against the pan as he scrapes the edges.

"I wasn’t freaking out."

Chan laughs, "You literally yelped like I pulled a knife on you." He glances over his shoulder, eyes dragging down your body in a way that makes your knees weak. "Unless you’re into that."

The pasta sizzles loudly in the pan, drowning out the choked sound that escapes your throat at Chan’s words. "I—that’s not—"

Chan turns fully now, abandoning the stove, and the towel dips dangerously low. His smirk is infuriating, "Relax," he murmurs, stepping closer, "Just teasing."

You laugh nervously, the sound too high pitched, too obvious. "I'm just gonna—" You jerk your thumb toward your room, already backing away. "Change into something more... home-y."

Chan raises an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching. "Home-y,"

"yea—!" your voice cracks "y'know comfortable....home clothes"

Then you gesture vaguely at his towel, your voice cracking slightly. "Are you— uh, gonna put on actual clothes before we eat? Because I'm pretty sure health code violations apply to apartments too."

Chan glances down at himself, then back up at you, "Why?" He grins, tilting his head. "Distracted?"

"Yes—no," you sputter, crossing your arms tightly over your chest like armor. "I just don’t want your—" You wave a hand wildly in the general direction of his hips. "That—near my dinner."

Chan laughs, a full blown laugh, and you take that chance to bolt for your room, shoulders hunched as if that’ll make you smaller, less noticeable.

The door clicks shut behind you with a click, and you press your forehead against the cool wood, exhaling sharply.

"And turn the heat down!" you call out, voice too high,"Unless you want to burn the house down!"

Another laugh, muffled through the door. "Yes, mom," Chan drawls, the playful lilt in his voice making your cheeks burn hotter.

The stove clicks as he adjusts the flame, the sound followed by the soft thud of his footsteps padding down the hall. You squeeze your eyes shut, listening to the creak of his bedroom door, the rustle of fabric as he presumably — finally — changes.

You peel yourself off the door, fingers fumbling at the jacket of your shirt. The fabric clings to your skin, damp with nervous sweat, and you wrestle it off.

Home-y. Right. who even says that?

Stupid stupid stupid.

Your dresser drawer sticks halfway open, You grab the first shirt your fingers brush against, soft from too many washes, and a pair of sweatpants with the elastic stretched out.

'He has a girlfriend,' you think, shimmying out of your jeans. The denim catches around your ankles, nearly causing you to trip.

'Probably. Maybe. Who the fuck knows.'

You yank the shirt over your head so hard the neckline stretches. The mirror across the room reflects your flushed face, your hair mussed from the fabric dragging through it.

You look and feel ridiculous.

You pull up your pants, then pause, fingers hovering at the waistband. Avoid him. Simple. Logical. You can do that.

but it wasn't that easy. after all there is only so much avoiding one could do to someone they live with.

The apartment isn’t big enough for elaborate evasion tactics, and Chan seems to have a sixth sense for popping up exactly where you don’t want him.

Leaning against the fridge when you’re raiding it at 2 am, or lounging on the couch just as you’re about to claim it for a late night tv binge.

So you just ended up being cooped in your room for most of the day.

But Chan isn’t stupid. eventually after days passed by, he’s leaning against your bedroom doorframe when you crack it open after what you thought was a safe half hour of silence.

“So,” he says, arms crossed, voice dripping with amusement, “you’re avoiding me.”

You freeze, one socked foot hovering mid step like a cartoon character caught mid sneak. “No,” you lie too quickly.

Chan raises an eyebrow. “You literally just ducked into the bathroom because you heard me coming down the hall.”

“I had to pee.”

“For the fourth time today?” His grin lopsided, “Either you’ve got a UTI, or you’re full of shit.”

You grit your teeth, fingers tightening around the doorknob. “Maybe both.”

he sighs out laugh, then steps closer, “Listen,” he murmurs, voice dropping to a serious tone, “if this is about the whole towel thing—”

“It’s not,” you answer quickly, too loud, too fast.

“So it is about the towel thing.”

“I’m not—” You exhale sharply through your nose, squeezing your eyes shut. “Can you just—” You gesture vaguely at the space between you. “Give me, like, a three foot radius?”

Chan tilts his head, considering. His gaze drags down your body, before settling back on your face. “Nah,” he says finally, “I like you flustered.”

You bite your lip, eyes darting around, then settle on his, before darting around again.

The silence stretches, until you finally crack under the weight of it. “you—don’t you have a girlfriend?” you blurt, the words stumbling out in a rushed, stuttering mess.

Chan blinks, his smirk faltering for half a second before dissolving into genuine confusion. “A what?” His laugh sounds startled, almost disbelieving.

You press your lips together, suddenly regretting every life choice that led you to this moment.

Chan's eyebrows climb toward his hairline, "A girlfriend?" He repeats, "What, like, some theoretical girl who sneaks in when you're not looking?"

You gesture vaguely at him — the tousled hair, the unfairly sculpted shoulders, the effortless charm that clings to him like a second skin.

"You just—seem like the type." The words tumble out half mumbled, your gaze darting anywhere but his face.

Chan’s laughter echoes through the hallway, loud enough that you flinch—not just from the sound, but from the way it makes your stomach flip.

"Oh my god," he wheezes, leaning against the doorframe like he needs the support. "You thought I had some secret girlfriend sneaking in here to—what, fuck me while you're at work?"

You cross your arms tightly, "It's not that ridiculous," you mutter, but even you hear how weak it sounds.

"First of all, if I had a girlfriend, you'd know. I'm not subtle." His smirk tilts into something teasing. "Second, I'm very single. And third—" He pauses, tilting his head. "Wait. Is that why you've been avoiding me? You thought I was getting laid in there and didn't invite you?"

Your face burns. "No—that's not—"

His grin softens slightly, but the teasing glint in his eyes doesn’t fade. "So," he murmurs, voice dropping lower, "what is it, then?"

You swallow hard, fingers gripping the edge of your shirt so tightly the fabric threatens to tear. "Nothing," you lie. "Just—roommate stuff. Boundaries."

Chan hums, "Boundaries," he echoes, Then, "You know you can just tell me if I’m doing something that makes you uncomfortable, right?"

You swallow hard, "Yeah," you mutter, gaze trailing to his eyes and holding his stare for the first time throughout this conversation "I know."

Chan pushes off the doorframe with a shrug, "Alright then," he says, clapping his hands together like he's wiping the whole conversation away. "Takeout time. You in?"

it's like all this man does is think about food...and make you weak in the knees.

You blink, "Uh. Yeah. Sure."

Chan pulls out his phone, already scrolling through delivery apps, "Thai? Or that new Italian place that opened down the street?" He glances up, eyebrows raised expectantly. "Unless you're feeling sushi again, but last time you complained about the wasbi being too strong."

The normalcy of it — the way he remembers your stupid, offhand complaints about condiments — makes something in your chest tighten.

You clear your throat. "Thai’s good."

~

The weirdness fades slowly, chan doesn’t mention the girlfriend comment again, and you stop bolting like a startled deer every time he walks into a room.

He starts leaving his door open when he’s working, the rhythmic tap of his keyboard drifting into the hallway. You catch yourself lingering in the doorway sometimes, watching the way his brow furrows when he’s concentrating, the way he bites his tongue when he’s stuck on something.

once, he catches you staring and pats the space beside him on the bed without looking up from his laptop. “Help me brainstorm this dumb tagline,”

You perch awkwardly at first, careful not to touch him, but Chan sprawls like he owns every inch of the mattress, his thigh pressing warm against yours. and before you know it, you’re leaning into him, pointing at the screen. “That one’s terrible,”

~

Movie nights become a thing.

The first movie night starts by accident — or at least, that’s what you tell yourself. You’re curled into the corner of the couch, knees tucked under your chin, scrolling through your phone while Chan sprawls across the other end, his laptop balanced precariously on his thighs.

Then the Wi-Fi cuts out.

Chan groans, tossing his head back against the cushions. “Fucking landlord,” he mutters, jabbing at his keyboard like it’ll magically fix the connection.

You snort, watching him glare at the screen like it’s personally offended him. “Guess we’re gonna have to talk to each other,”

“Horrifying,” he deadpans, then grabs the remote off the coffee table. “a movie it is.”

You end up with some terrible action movie Chan insists is a “classic,” but neither of you pay much attention. Halfway through, you catch him watching you instead of the screen, his head turning back to the movie when you caught him.

You brush it off, focusing on the screen, but your pulse jumps when Chan shifts closer, his thigh pressing against yours.

The credits roll, and he stretches. The couch creaks as he shifts, stretching his arms overhead with a groan that does things to your already frayed nerves.

"Well," he murmurs, voice rough around the edges, "that was a cinematic masterpiece."

You snort, grateful for the distraction. "Yeah, if you consider explosions and zero plot development masterful storytelling."

Chan’s chuckles “Plot is overrated,” he says, “Sometimes you just wanna watch things blow up.”

Chan then exhales heavily and stands. “Alright, I’m hitting the shower,” he says, stretching until his shirt rides up, revealing a sliver of toned stomach. You look away — too late — and Chan’s smirk is audible in his voice. “Try not to miss me too much.”

“In your dreams,” you mutter, but your pulse jumps when he pauses by the hallway, glancing back over his shoulder.

“Yeah,” he says softly, almost to himself. “Exactly.”

You sit there, frozen, until the bathroom door clicks shut and the shower starts running. The sound of water hitting tile fills the apartment, and you press your palms to your overheated cheeks, exhaling sharply.

Stupid. You’re being stupid. That probably didn't mean anything.

But then your phone buzzes on the couch beside you, and Chan’s name lights up the screen.

forgot my towel. mind grabbing it?

You stare at the message, then at the hallway, Trap, your brain supplies helpfully.

type back,

Seriously?

he answers immediately

dead serious. i’m vulnerable here.

You groan, dragging a hand down your face, but you’re already standing. His towel hangs on the back of his bedroom door, You grab it, then walk out to the bathroom.

You knock once, then freeze when Chan calls out, “Just come in.”

Your throat goes dry. “Absolutely not.”

Chan’s laugh echoes off the tiles. “Relax, I’m decent.” A pause. “Mostly.”

you squeeze your eyes shut, then shove the towel through the gap in the door, arm outstretched as far as possible. “Here.”

Chan’s fingers brush yours as he takes the towel. His skin is warm, damp, and you jerk your hand back like you’ve been burned.

“Thanks,” he murmurs, voice closer than you expected. You can *feel* his smile through the door. “You’re a lifesaver.”

You bolt back to the living room, collapsing onto the couch with a groan.

too much for your first movie night.

~

just when things were getting normal, It happens again on a monday.

You’re home early again, the apartment is silent. You toe off your shoes, and you were about to shout a "I'm back" when you heard it again.

Low, breathy moans slipping through the crack in Chan’s door.

Your feet root to the floor, ears straining as the noise curls around you.

His voice, thick with pleasure, murmurs something you can’t quite catch — then a wet, rhythmic sound that sends heat flooding your cheeks.

apparently, this man takes his....alone time very seriously.

that's what it had to be right? you can't blame him — you've been there once or twice.

Your breath sticks in your throat, fingers tightening around the strap of your bag. The sound— god, the sound — wraps around you, thick and heady, Chan's voice breaking on a moan that scrapes down your spine.

You should move. should bolt to your room, slam the door, drown it out with headphones. but your feet refuse to cooperate.

You tiptoe into the hallway, his door is cracked just enough, and your pulse hammers so loud its drowning out any other coherent thought in your brain.

A peak wouldn't hurt...

The door creaks faintly as it opens another inch, just enough for you to see.

Chan sits on the edge of his bed, but not like you thought. Not hidden, not private. No, this is something else entirely.

A ring light casts a glow over his bare skin, the camera propped on his desk angled perfectly to capture every inch of him. His laptop screen is open with a reflection of him and a rapid stream of comments too fast to read.

Oh.

Oh god.

Your stomach drops, then tightens all at once.

Chan’s head is tipped back, his throat working around a groan as his hand moves lazily between his thighs.

You press yourself against the hallway wall, pulse hammering, thoughts running a hundred miles per hour.

you did not expect this.

His breath hitches, a sharp, punched out sound, and your nails dig into your palms.

Chan’s fingers twist at the base of his cock, his thumb smearing precum in slow circles. The camera catches the way his abs flex as he arches into his own touch, his voice ragged when he murmurs, "Wish you were here." before he bites down on his lower lip. "Could use a mouth right now."

You watch, frozen in place, as his thighs tremble, his free hand fisting in the sheets beside him. The comments on his screen blur into a frenzy of emojis and a bunch of pinging donations. His breath stutters, his jaw clenching as his strokes turn erratic, desperate. “Yeah,” he gasps, voice breaking, “yeah, just like that—”

Then he comes with a choked moan, stripes of white painting his stomach as his back arches off the bed.

Gosh, he’s gorgeous — and you barely register the dampness between your own thighs until Chan slumps back against the pillows, chest heaving.

Chan exhales sharply, his fingers still lazily stroking his softening cock as he leans forward, just enough to tap something on his laptop.

he ends the stream with a wink and a low, raspy comment that you didn't quite catch. The screen goes black, and you barely have half a second to process the situation before your body kicks into motion.

You bolt down the hallway, socked feet silent against the hardwood.

Your bedroom door clicks shut behind you just as Chan gets up. You press your back against the door, lungs burning from holding your breath, and listen.

Water runs in the sink. A towel rustles. Then you hear footsteps.

They pause outside your door.

You purse your lips and hold your breath. Then Chan hums, before his footsteps retreat down the hall.

You slump against the door, exhaling shakily.

Holy shit.

Your phone buzzes in your pocket, and you fumble to pull it out.

you home early?

You stare at the text, thumbs hovering over the screen. Lie, your brain screams. Tell him no. but then how would you fake going into the apartment if you're already inside the apartment?

Just got back

You hit send before you can second guess it.

Cool. Dinner soon?

Your fingers hover over the screen, the weight of his question pressing against your ribs like a stone. The air in your room feels — too thick — and suddenly the idea of sitting across from Chan at the kitchen table, pretending you didn’t just watch him get off on camera, makes your stomach twist.

Gonna shower first.

Your phone buzzes again before you can even set it down,

Can I join?

You nearly drop it, blood roaring in your ears. Then—

jk. don’t use up all the hot water.

You toss your phone onto your bed and drag a hand down your face with a sigh.

You're deeply fucked.

~

That night, you stayed up aggressively googling him till his page came up.

Onlychans? really?

you'd laugh at the username if it wasn't for the videos that popped up when you clicked on his profile.

Chan, shirtless, sprawled across what is unmistakably your living room couch, one hand lazily palming himself through his sweatpants.

Chan, biting his lip as he slicks lube down his cock, the camera angled to capture every twitch of his abs.

Chan, moaning, his head thrown back against the pillows of his bed —your apartment, your shared space — while his other hand works something thick and glistening into his—

You slam the laptop shut.

Your face burns. Your pulse thrums in your ears. The apartment is silent — Chan’s out for a run, or so he’d claimed when he’d left an hour ago.

You open the laptop again.

It’s Curiosity. That’s all.

It starts innocently enough — just checking his schedule, really. A quick glance at his calendar pinned to the fridge.

"For productivity purposes," Chan had joked when you asked.

Then, sure enough, it spiraled.

You memorize the time of his streams, monday nights, Friday nights, he'd timed them perfectly in sync with times he knew you wouldn't be home. that's why you've been blissfully unaware of him filming in different locations around your shared apartment for the past two and a half months.

And the occasional late night surprise session that leaves you fumbling for your earbuds at 1 am. You'd literally be home, but he'd go live anyway. was he into that?

you were into it too, admittedly, because you turned out to be just as shameful as him.

The notification pops up at 1:47 am on a Wednesday 'Chan is live!' (yes, you turned his notifs on) and your fingers freeze mid doom scroll through Instagram.

your room is dark except for the glow of your phone screen, you're supposed to be asleep.

You tap the notification.

Chan’s face fills the screen, his grin already in place as he adjusts the camera. He’s shirtless, propped against the headboard of his bed, one arm draped lazily over his bent knee. The ring light casts shadows along his abs, highlighting every dip and curve.

"Late night surprise," he murmurs, "*Miss me?*" aaaand heat is already pooling low in your stomach.

His fingers work on hinseld, slow and teasing at first, thumb smearing precum in lazy circles while he talks— god, he sure does talk, filthy praises and half formed fantasies spilling from his lips like he’s whispering them directly into your ear. You bite your lip to stifle a gasp, your other hand slipping under the waistband of your pajama shorts.

Chan arches his back on screen, his free hand gripping the sheets beside him. "Fuck, you guys are greedy tonight," he rasps, stroking himself slowly. His thumb presses against the head on every upstroke, just how you’ve learned he likes it — learned from watching, from nights spent with your phone hidden under your pillow, screen dimmed to its lowest setting.

"Fuck, m'close," Chan groans, your fingers moving between your thighs in time with his rhythm, matching the pace, hips shifting under the sheets, your breath coming shallow.

It’s not the first time you’ve watched him like this, but it’s the first time you’ve done it live, with the shaky thrill of knowing he has no idea you’re here.

A whimper almost escapes you when he swipes his thumb over the head of his cock, his breath hitching. You press your palm over your mouth, stifling the sound.

The last thing you need is him hearing you through the thin walls.

The thought alone, him catching you, realizing, sends a sharp jolt between your legs. You squeeze your thighs together, chasing the feeling before it slips away.

His hand speeds up, the wet sound of his skin moving over his cock muffled only slightly by the mic's noise suppression. "God, fuck—gonna come so hard for you," he grits out, his voice cracking on the last word.

You press your free hand harder against your mouth, fingers digging into your own cheek as you watch his stomach tense, the muscles there flexing under the sheen of sweat. Your own movements stutter when he lets out a low, punched out moan, his hips jerking up into his fist.

You’re so close you can’t think straight. The coil in your stomach winds tighter with every stroke of his hand, every filthy sound he makes, matching his rhythm like you’re desperate to prove something— like if you can just finish at the same time, it’ll mean something. Stupid. It’s stupid. But your hips jerk anyway, your breath coming in short, shaky bursts against your palm.

"Fuck, fuck—" His hand stills suddenly, fingers tightening around the base of his cock as he tips his head back, you watch as his body locks up for one second — and then he’s coming, stripes of white painting his stomach, his chest.

Your own climax crashes over you at the same time, so violently you nearly choke on the gasp you swallow down, your back arching off the bed as pleasure burns through you in hot, dizzying waves.

He’s still catching his breath, his free hand dragging lazily through the mess on his stomach, fingers tracing the lines of cum with a slow, absentminded swipe.

His lips curl into that stupid, effortless smirk you’ve seen a hundred times,

"Mmm, fuck," he murmurs, voice rough around the edges, still a little breathless. "You all got me good tonight."

He reaches for a towel off screen, the muscles in his arm flexing as he wipes himself clean. You watch, transfixed, as he tosses the towel aside and leans closer to the camera, cheeks are still flushed, his lashes low.

"Hope that was worth the wait," he says, eyes flickering to the chat before he grins. "gosh you guys are generous with the tips tonight." and you catch a few of the comments.

slave4u: how bout you come and give me that tip

sweetheartonline: gone broke just for you </3

Chan just chuckles, shaking his head. "Alright, alright, I’m done. You’re all insatiable." He stretches his arms above his head, his torso arching beautifully, "Next stream’s friday. Be good for me til then, yeah?"

With one last wink, he reaches forward, and the screen goes black.

You yank your earbuds out, Your chest heaves, your skin still buzzing, your thighs still sticky, and you press the heels of your palms against your closed eyelids until colors bloom behind them.

you find it ridiculous that you're actually enjoying this, perverted thoughts. Stupid. So stupid.

~

Two weeks pass after that. You're hyperaware of Chan’s presence in a way that makes your skin itch. Every casual touch sends sparks skittering up your spine.

You try to act normal, you really do.

But you catch yourself staring at his hands when he cooks, remembering the way they moved over himself on screen, and have to physically shake your head to clear the image.

Chan, for his part, seems to thrive on your discomfort. He leaves his bedroom door cracked just a little wider than necessary, and infuriatingly, he's rarely not shirtless.

it's okay. you're okay. at least you tell yourself that.

till it's Friday morning, marking the beginning of your third month.

the apartment is quiet, still bathed in the soft gold of early morning light filtering through the kitchen window. you hum under your breath as you flip pancakes.

then Chan emerges, shirtless, his sweatpants slung low on his hips, hair still messy from sleep.

He leans against the doorway, watching you with that lazy, knowing smirk. “Morning,” he rasps, voice still thick with sleep.

this feels too domestic for your liking.

“Morning,” you mumble, not turning around.

Chan pads closer, bare feet silent against the hardwood, until he’s right behind you. His warmth radiates against your back, “Smells good,” he murmurs, and you swear his lips brush the shell of your ear.

The spatula clatters against the pan. too domestic.

Chan chuckles, as he reaches around you to steal a piece of pancake from the prepared stack. His chest presses against your shoulder, his skin searing where it touches yours. “Careful,” he teases, popping the bite into his mouth. “You’ll burn them.”

The pancake batter sizzles violently as you stand there, frozen, Chan’s body heat scorching against your back.

His fingers brush your hip as he reaches for the syrup, and you nearly drop the spatula again.

"You’re jumpy this morning," Chan muses, leaning against the counter beside you. "Bad dreams?"

sure, if 'bad' and 'wet' are the same thing. "something like that."

Chan hums, tilting his head as he studies you. "Got plans today?"

You flip another pancake onto the growing stack. "Just groceries later." The words come out steadier than you feel.

His grin grows. "Mind if I tag along?"

You shrug, "It’s just errands."

Chan snags another pancake, leaning into your space until his bare shoulder presses against yours. "Exactly. Sounds thrilling." His fingers brush yours as he steals the spatula, flipping the last pancake with a flick of his wrist. "Come on. I’ll even push the cart."

You huff a laugh despite yourself. "You’ll get bored in five minutes."

"Bet?" He bumps your hip with his, "Loser buys ice cream."

~

The grocery store is exactly as mundane as you predicted, but Chan makes it unbearable in ways you didn’t anticipate — his fingers lingering when he passes you items, his chest pressing against your back in crowded aisles like it’s accidental. By the time you hit the freezer section, your nerves are frayed.

"Pick a flavor," Chan murmurs, chin hooked over your shoulder as he reaches past you to open the glass door. His breath ghosts across your cheek. "I’m feeling generous."

The freezer air hits your face, but it does nothing to cool the heat creeping up your neck. Chan’s arm brushes yours as he leans in, his fingers tracing the edge of a tub of mint chocolate chip ice cream. "This one," he decides, plucking it from the shelf. "tastes like toothpaste sometimes, but eh" he said with a shrug.

You snort, grabbing a classic vanilla, but he plucks it from your hands and replaces it with something absurdly decadent, something with caramel swirls and chocolate chunks.

"Live a little," he grins, tossing it into the cart.

The checkout line is agony. Chan stands close enough that his knuckles keep brushing the small of your back, each touch sending sparks up your spine.

the cashier — an exhausted looking college student — scans everything, he pushed your hand aside when you tried to pay, and handed the cashier his card.

he caried all the groceries too, and swatted your hand away when you try to carry any.

it feels like he's your boyfriend.

The apartment door clicks shut behind you both, grocery bags rustling as Chan kicks off his shoes. You’re still fumbling with the laces of your sneakers when he brushes past you with the plastic bags.

You follow, already going to pull things out and putting them in their designated cupboards, Chan’s already rummaging through to find the ice cream, His grin is wide as he holds it up. "Scoops or straight from the tub?"

"freezer" you deadpan, "it's probably melted by now"

his shoulders slump a little, turning around to place the tubs in the freezer.

"and, scoops," you mutter, "We’re not animals."

he snickers, "Debatable."

Chan nudges the freezer door shut with his hip, the ice cream safely stowed away for later. "Movie night?" he suddenly asks, casual as anything, "Haven't done one in a while."

You nod, "Yeah. Okay."

You retreat to your room to change, fingers fumbling with the hem of your shirt before you even reach the door. The fabric sticks to your skin, too warm and you peel it off with a relieved sigh the second you’re alone.

The dresser drawer squeaks as you rummage for shorts and a tank top since its getting too hot, but your hands freeze mid reach when you hear Chan’s door creak open down the hall.

The unmistakable sound of fabric hitting the floor — jeans, probably — makes your throat go dry. You strain to listen, pulse hammering in your ears, as Chan hums under his breath. Something clatters, a belt buckle, and then the soft rustle of fresh clothes being pulled on.

You yank your own shorts up so fast you nearly trip, ears burning. Pathetic.

When you emerge, Chan’s already sprawled across the couch in loose joggers and that stupidly thin white tank top.

"You took forever," Chan drawls from the couch, already eating his way through a popcorn bucket.

"You're picking?" he scoffs, tossing a handful of popcorn into his mouth. "After the garbage you called 'cinema' last time?"

You snatch the remote before he can lunge for it. "You picked Twilight unironically last time."

Chan clutches his chest like you've wounded him. "Bella Swan is a cultural icon."

You scoff, scrolling through the options, ignoring Chan's dramatic sigh as he flops back against the cushions. His knee bumps yours, but you don't pull away.

"Fine," he huffs. "But if it's another pretentious indie film where people whisper for two hours, I'm revoking your movie privileges."

"Fine," you grumble back, scrolling past a dozen of said pretentious indie films with moody black and white thumbnails. "But only because I pity your attention span."

Chan's grin is immediate as he stretches an arm along the back of the couch, fingers brushing your shoulder.

"pick something with action," then wiggles his eyebrows, "Or nudity."

You elbow him hard in the ribs.

"Ow—," Chan wheezes, but he's laughing, catching your wrist before you can retreat. His fingers are warm and rough against your pulse point, thumb pressing into the flutter there. "Violent and kinky," he muses, tugging you closer until your shoulders press together. "I like it."

You yank your wrist free and snatch up the remote again, scrolling through titles.

Chan's laughter vibrates through the couch cushions as you land on something, anything, just to shut him up. The movie starts with a car chase, tires screeching, glass shattering. Perfect. Loud enough to distract whenever Chan shifts beside you.

"Action and nudity," Chan murmurs, nodding approvingly at the screen where some actor's shirt rips open during a fight scene. "You do know me."

You sink lower into the couch, arms crossed. "Shut up and watch."

The first ten minutes of the movie blur into a haze of gunfire and badly timed one-liners, the volume turned up just loud enough to drown out the way Chan’s fingers keep tracing idle patterns against your shoulder.

You focus resolutely on the screen, but Chan’s warmth beside you is impossible to ignore. His knee presses into yours, his bare arm brushing against yours every time he reaches for more popcorn, and each touch sends a jolt of electricity down your spine.

Then, during a lull in the action, Chan shifts beside you, his hand sliding from your shoulder to the back of your neck. His fingers curl gently into your hair, thumb brushing the sensitive skin behind your ear.

"You’re not even watching," he mmurmur.

You swallow hard, refusing to look at him. "Am too."

Chan hums, unconvinced, his thumb stroking slow circles against your skin. "Liar."

His accusation hangs between you, thick and charged, and suddenly the movie feels like background noise.

His fingers tighten slightly in your hair, tipping your head back just enough that you have no choice but to meet his gaze.

His eyes are dark, there’s no teasing smirk now, no playful glint — just hunger.

Your breath hitches audibly.

Chan’s thumb brushes the corner of your mouth, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Tell me to stop."

You don’t.

His lips crash into yours before you can form a coherent thought, the remote clattering to the floor as your hands fist in his shirt.

Chan groans into your mouth, fingers tightening in your hair as he deepens the kiss, his tongue sliding against yours with so much desperation.

The movie drones on, but all you can feel is the way his hips jerk forward against yours as you press closer. His hands slide down to grip your waist, hauling you halfway into his lap without breaking the kissl.

"You’ve been driving me insane," Chan pants against your lips, one hand slipping under your shirt to trace the dip of your spine. "Watching me, pretending you weren’t—fuck—" His words dissolve into a groan when you grind down against him, the hard line of his cock pressing insistently against your thigh.

He knows you know. he has all this time. The realization makes your eyes widen slightly—but it doesn’t surprise you. Not really.

Not when Chan’s fingers tighten possessively around your hips, his teeth scraping your lower lip like he’s been waiting for this moment just as long as you have.

His palm slides up your ribcage, thumb brushing the underside of your breast through your thin tank top, and your breath stutters against his mouth.

Of course he knew. The cracked doors, the late night streams he timed too perfectly with your schedule. Those weren't just coincidences.

You pull back just enough to see his face, your eyes wide with the realization that just dawned on you.

his lips are swollen from your kisses, panting, “Surprise,” he rasps, voice wrecked.

Chan’s grip shifts, hauling you fully into his lap, and you gasp when his hardness presses against you. His chuckle vibrates through your chest as he rolls his hips up, slow and filthy. “Thought you’d never crack,” he murmurs, lips grazing your jaw.

Your hands fist in his tank top, the fabric damp with sweat where it clings to his chest. “You—asshole” you pant, hips jerking against his involuntarily. “All that teasing—”

Chan's grin widens "All what teasing?" he murmurs, pressing an open mouthed kisses to your neck. "You mean leaving my door open just a little too wide?"

His teeth scrape your skin, "Or maybe streaming at exactly the times I knew you'd be home?" His palm cups your breast through your shirt, thumb brushing over your nipple.

You gasp when he pinches lightly, hips jerking against his. "You're insane," you manage, though the words come out more breathless than angry.

Chan laughs against your throat, before his teeth sink into the tender skin just below your ear. Your nails dig into his shoulders as his hands slide down to grip your hips, guiding your movements as you grind against him. The friction is dizzying, the thin fabric of your shorts doing nothing to dull the heat of him pressed against you.

"Insane?" His breath is hot against your damp skin. "Baby, aren't the one who watched my streams every other night?" His fingers slip under the hem of your tank top, tracing the waistband of your shorts with maddening slowness.

You whine, the sound high and desperate in your throat, and nod before you can think better of it. The admission burns your cheeks, but the way Chan groans against your skin makes it worth it.

"yeah?" he rasps, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes.

Chan’s fingers flex against your waist, his breath hot against your lips. “Every fucking time,” he admits, voice rough “I’d pretend it was your hand on me,” His thumb presses into the dip of your hipbone, “Your mouth.” His gaze drops to your parted lips, then back up, heavy lidded. “You have no idea how many times I came thinking about you watching me.”

Chan exhales sharply, his nose brushing yours. “cancelled tonight’s stream,” he murmurs, lips grazing yours with every word. “would rather beg you to fuck me instead.” His palm slides up your ribcage, fingers tracing the edge of your bra through your tank top.

“You don’t have to beg,” you murmur, lips brushing his as you swing your leg off his lap. Chan exhales sharply, hands gripping your waist tighter like he’s afraid you’ll pull away entirely, but then you’re sliding to your knees between his legs, fingers hooking into the waistband of his joggers.

His breath catches when you tug them down just enough to free his cock, already hard and leaking against his stomach.

gosh he's even bigger than he looks on camera.

Chan's breath stutters when your fingers wrap around him, his hips jerking into your grip before he can stop himself. "Fuck—" His voice cracks, a hand flying to fist in your hair as you stroke him slow, watching the way his eyelids flutter.

He's hot and heavy in your palm, already slick at the tip, and the way his thighs tense when you swipe your thumb over the head is obscene.

Chan’s fingers tighten in your hair when your lips brush the head of his cock, his breath stuttering out in a ragged groan. “Fuck—fuck—” His hips jerk up instinctively, but you pull back just enough to tease, swirling your tongue over the tip without taking him deeper, and you can’t resist glancing up through your lashes to watch his face twist with pleasure.

“So loud,” you giggle, blowing a slow breath over the wetness you’ve left behind. Chan’s thighs tense under your palms. “All those streams,” you continue, stroking him lazily with one hand while the other traces the vein running along his length, “and you never moaned like this.”

Chan’s laugh comes out strained, his chest heaving. “it wasn't you,” he grits out, hips rolling up into your touch. His fingers tug at your hair, guiding you back to him with a quiet desperation that sends heat pooling low in your stomach. “Now stop teasing—”

You swallow him down before he can finish, humming around him just to feel the way his whole body jerks. His moan is filthy, unfiltered, his hips canting up into the wet heat of your mouth like he can’t help it.

You take him deeper, throat working around him, and Chan’s fingers tighten in your hair, not guiding, just holding on for dear life.

“god—” His voice cracks when you hollow your cheeks, tongue pressing flat against the underside of his cock. His other hand fists the couch cushion beside his thigh, knuckles going white. “So good—shit—you take me so fucking good—”

You pull off with a slick pop, lips brushing the flushed tip as you peer up at him, teasing, thumb swiping over the bead of precome gathered there.

Chan’s chest heaves, his abs flexing as he stares down at you, His grip in your hair tightens just enough to sting — a silent warning — but you just grin and duck back down, sucking him deep until his thighs tremble.

Chan curses, his hips lifting off the couch as you bob your head, the wet sounds obscenely loud even with the movie still playing forgotten in the background.

“Gonna—” He's cut off by his own gasp, “Gonna come if you keep—”

You pull off with a wet sound, lips slick and swollen, and replace your mouth with both hands, jerking him so fast his hips stutter off the couch, his breath coming in ragged, punched out gasps.

“Wait—fuck—” Chan chokes out, fingers scrambling at your shoulders, but it’s too late — his back arches off the cushions, muscles locking tight as he spills hot over your fingers and his own stomach.

His thighs shake under your palms, his cock twitching in your grip as you stroke him through it, slower now, milking every last drop until he’s whimpering and oversensitive, his hands weakly pushing at your wrists.

“Turn around,” Chan rasps, chest rising and falling rapidly. His fingers slide from your hair to cradle your jaw, thumb brushing your spit slick bottom lip. “Want you riding me.”

Your stomach flips at the command, but before you can move, Chan’s hands are gripping your waist, hauling you up onto the couch with surprising strength. He settles you over his lap in one smooth motion, your thighs bracketing his hips, and the sudden press of his bare skin against yours makes you gasp.

Chan groans, fingers digging into the meat of your thighs as he leans back to look at you, really look at you, his gaze dragging down your body with a hunger that makes your skin prickle.

he hooks a thumb into the waistband of your shorts and tugs, sliding them off, his breath hitching when he finds you already soaked through your panties.

"Fuck," he exhales, dragging the damp fabric aside with one finger, his touch featherlight as he traces your slit. His other hand cups the back of your neck, pulling you down until your foreheads touch, his breath mingling with yours. "You're so wet," he murmurs, voice rough with disbelief. "Just from sucking me off?"

You nod, hips canting into his touch shamelessly, his finger circles your clit —once, twice, before dipping lower, sliding into you, crooking just right to make your back arch. His free hand fists in your tank top, dragging you closer until your chest presses against his, the thin fabric doing nothing to hide the way your nipples harden against him.

His thumb pressing firm circles against your clit, and your vision whites out for a second — just long enough to miss the way his free hand fists in your tank top, yanking it up until the fabric bunches just above your chest. His mouth replaces his fingers, teeth scraping over your nipple through the lace of your bra, and you gasp, hips stuttering against his hand.

“Thought about this,” he pants against your skin, his tongue lapping at the wet spot he’s left behind. “Every goddamn stream—imagined you like this, wet and desperate for me.” His finger curls again, dragging a broken moan from your throat, and his grin is all teeth when he leans back to watch you unravel. “Knew you’d be prettier than I imagined.”

You grab his wrist, stilling his movements, and his brows furrow — confused, frustrated — until you swing your leg over him, straddling his lap properly this time. His cock, half hard again, twitches against your thigh as you grind down, the friction drawing a ragged groan from both of you.

Chan’s hands fly to your hips, guiding your movements as you rock against him, his breath hot against your collarbone.

“Wanna feel you,” you murmur, fingers fumbling between you to grip him, slicking him up with your own arousal. Chan’s head falls back against the couch, his Adam’s apple bobbing as you line him up, the blunt head of his cock pressing against your entrance.

You sink down onto him with a choked gasp, thighs trembling as he stretches you open inch by agonizing inch. Chan’s hands clamp around your hips, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, but he doesn’t rush you —just watches as you take him deeper.

"Fuck," you whimper, nails scraping his shoulders when he bottoms out, your body shuddering at the unfamiliar stretch. "You’re—god—you’re so big—"

Chan groans, hips twitching beneath you, fighting not to thrust up. "Yeah?" His voice is wrecked, breath hitching as you clench around him. "Feel good, baby? Stuffed full of me?" His fingers trail up your sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts while you adjust. "taking me so good."

You roll your hips experimentally, and Chan’s head thuds back against the couch, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows hard. "That’s it," he rasps, hands sliding to grip your ass. "Use me—ride me just like you imagined."

The words send heat flaring up your neck, but you can’t deny them, can’t stop the way your body responds, hips rolling in slow circles. Chan hisses between his teeth when you clench around him, his fingers flexing against your skin.

"Christ—fuck—you’re so tight," he grits out, eyes locked on where you’re joined. "Bet you thought about this every night, hmm? Watching me stroke my cock on cam while you fucked yourself on your fingers?"

You whimper, thighs quivering as you lift yourself halfway up before sinking back down, his cock dragging against every sensitive spot inside you. his breath stutters, his hips jerking up to meet you halfway, and the sudden shift punches a ragged moan from your throat. "Oh fuck—Chan—"

"Say it," he demands, thumb brushing your clit as you bounce in his lap. His voice is rough, wrecked, his pupils blown wide, "Tell me how much you thought about this, how many times you came imagining me inside you."

You gasp when he pinches your clit lightly, your rhythm faltering, "Every—ah—every night," you admit, nails digging into his shoulders as you grind down harder. "Watched you—touched myself—god, wanted you—"

Chan groans, fingers tightening on your hips as he guides your movements, thrusting up to meet you. "Knew it," he pants, lips brushing yours with every ragged breath.

"Knew you were getting off to me—fuck—your little gasps when I’d look at the camera—" His hands slide up your sides, thumbs brushing your nipples through your bra. "Bet you came so pretty for me, huh? All quiet so I wouldn’t hear?"

You nod frantically, hips stuttering as his cock hits that spot inside you, the pleasure building dangerously fast. "Y-yes—*fuck*—Chan, please—"

"Please what?" he murmurs, lips curling into a smirk even as his own breathing falters. He slows your movements deliberately, dragging you through each excruciatingly slow roll of your hips. "Need me to fuck you harder, baby?"

You whine, fingers tangling in his hair as you try to chase your own rhythm, but his grip on your hips is unrelenting. "Yes—god, yes—"

he flips you onto your stomach before you can finish begging, his hands rough and sure as he shoves your knees apart against the couch cushions. The fabric burns against your bare thighs when he yanks your hips back, his cock sliding out of you with a slick sound that makes your face burn.

You barely have time to whimper before his fingers dig into your waist, lifting you on all fours with a sharp tug — his chest presses hot against your back, his breath ragged in your ear as he lines himself up again.

he doesn’t give you a second to adjust. He slams into you with one brutal thrust, punching the air from your lungs as your elbows buckle against the cushions. His cock stretches you open deeper than before, the angle hitting deeper, and you choke on a scream when his hips snap forward again, setting a punishing pace before you can catch your breath.

Hands clamp around your hips, fingers bruising as he drags you back onto him with every thrust. The couch creaks beneath you, the sound drowned out by chan’s ragged groans and the slick slap of skin on skin. His rhythm is merciless, no teasing now, just pure, desperate need as he fucks into you like he’s been starving for it.

Chan's grip on your hips shifts — one hand sliding up to fist in your hair, yanking your head back until your spine bows beautifully beneath him. "Fuck, look at you," he growls, his voice rough with something between awe and hunger as he takes in the sight of you spread out beneath him.

His fingers tighten, pulling just enough to make your scalp prickle, before his palm cracks down against your ass, the sound echoing through the room louder than the forgotten movie still playing in the background.

You gasp, thighs trembling as the heat blooms across your skin, but Chan doesn’t give you a second to recover. His hips snap forward, driving into you with a force that has your nails scrabbling against the couch cushions for purchase. "Take it," he orders, voice wrecked, his fingers digging into the flesh of your hips hard enough to leave bruises. "God, you feel so good—clenching around me like—" His words dissolve into a groan as he picks up the pace, each thrust punching a ragged sound from your throat.

His free hand slides around your waist, pressing firm circles against your clit, and the dual sensation has your vision blurring at the edges. "That’s it," he murmurs, lips brushing the shell of your ear as his rhythm falters for just a second, "Gonna make you come just like this—spread out, taking me so well—"

His thumb presses harder against your clit, and your back arches involuntarily, a broken moan tearing from your lips as the pleasure crests suddenly, violently.

Chan curses, his grip tightening as you clench around him, your body shuddering through the waves of it. "Yeah, there you go, gonna cum for me?"

You nod vigorously, your fingers twisting into the couch cushions as Chan’s thrusts turn erratic, his breath ragged against your ear. "Cum with me," he rasps, and it’s all you need.

Your body clenches around him like a vice, pleasure crashing over you in waves so intense your vision whites out for a second. Chan groans, his hips stuttering as he spills inside you with a broken gasp, his forehead dropping between your shoulder blades.

Chan pulls out slowly, hissing through his teeth when you clench around him reflexively, oversensitive.

The couch cushions are damp beneath your trembling thighs, the air thick with the scent of sex and sweat as you collapse onto your stomach, chest heaving. Chan exhales sharply, running a hand down your spine, before flipping you onto your back, more gently this time.

The shift makes you wince, your body still thrumming with aftershocks, he slides off the couch onto his knees between your legs. His palms skate up your inner thighs, spreading them apart with slowly despite your weak protest. "Shh," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the inside of your knee. "Just wanna taste you."

You squirm when his breath ghosts over your sensitive skin, but Chan’s grip tightens, holding you open. "Chan—" His name comes out hoarse, your voice wrecked. "I’m—ah—too sensitive—"

Chan’s fingers dig into the soft flesh of your thighs, holding you open despite your squirming. His tongue flicks over your clit, just enough to make your hips jerk, oversensitive and trembling.

“You can take it,” he murmurs against your skin, “You’re a big girl, yeah?” His teeth graze your inner thigh, before his mouth closes over you again, and your back arches off the couch with a choked gasp.

You can take it. You do.

Every swipe of his tongue sends sparks shooting up your spine, your fingers twisting into his hair — not to pull him away, but to keep him right there, his mouth working you through the dizzying aftershocks of your orgasm.

Chan hums against you, the vibration making your toes curl, and his grip on your thighs tightens when you try to press them together instinctively. “None of that,” he chides, nipping at your skin before dragging his tongue up your slit again, “Just let me have you.”

You whine, hips caving into his mouth despite the oversensitivity, the pleasure tipping into something almost painful, but you don’t tell him to stop. Couldn’t if you wanted to.

"so sweet," he groans against you, the words vibrating through your oversensitive nerves. His fingers dig into your hips, pinning you down when you try to squirm away from the intensity. "No— stay still."

You whimper, but obey, letting him spread you wider as his tongue delves deeper, circling your entrance before dragging back up in one long, torturous lick.

"Chan—please—" you gasp, but you’re not even sure what you’re begging for — him to stop or never, ever stop.

His response is to hook your leg over his shoulder, angling you deeper into his mouth, and then he’s sucking you in, his tongue working you with precision. You sob his name, your hips jerking uncontrollably as the pressure builds again, too soon, too much—

You choke out his name, fingers scrambbling at his shoulders, a desperate attempt to ground yourself, before your hips jerk violently against his mouth.

“Chan, gonna—oh god—” The warning spills out brokenly, your thighs clamp around his head as you come with a shuddering gasp, your back bowing off the couch as pleasure rips through you.

he groans against you, the vibration wringing another broken sound from your throat, he doesn’t pull away, just laps at you greedily, his tongue dragging through the mess you’ve made of him with slow strokes.

“Fuck,” he rasps against your skin before pressing a kiss to your inner thigh. “You’re perfect like this.” His thumb brushes your clit once, testing, and you jerk with a gasp, your body still thrumming with aftershocks.

Chan grins up at you, all dark eyes and swollen lips, before dragging his tongue up your slit one last time.

Chan rises from between your thighs with a groan, his lips slick and glistening with you, you realize with a jolt — before his mouth crashes into yours, the kiss filthy and possessive, his tongue licking into your mouth, your fingers tangling in his hair, sticky with sweat, and he moans into your mouth when you tug — sharp, just to feel him shudder.

You pull away eventually, both of you panting, sticky with sweat and other things, and collapse onto the couch in a tangle of limbs. Chan drags you half on top of him, your head resting against his chest where you can hear his heartbeat still racing beneath his skin.

His fingers trace idle patterns along your back, the movie’s credits roll, forgotten, casting flickering shadows across the ceiling.

You nuzzle into his chest, listening to the steady thump of his heartbeat slowing down, the rise and fall of his breath beneath your cheek. His skin is warm and slightly sticky, and you press a kiss to it without thinking, smiling when his fingers pause for a second before resuming their path along your spine.

"Quit staring," you murmur, tilting your head up just enough to catch him watching you with an expression that makes your stomach flip. soft, almost awed, Chan huffs a laugh, his thumb brushing your hipbone where he’d gripped hard enough to leave marks earlier.

"Can’t help it," he admits, voice rough with exhaustion "You’re kinda fucking gorgeous like this."

You snort, but your cheeks heat anyway, and Chan’s grin widens when he notices. He shifts beneath you, rolling just enough to tuck you more firmly against his side, his arm a solid weight across your waist.

The movement makes you wince, your thighs ache in a way that’s equal parts delicious and punishing, and Chan’s fingers tighten reflexively, his smirk turning smug.

"Sorry," he lies, and you bite on his shoulder just to hear him yelp.

his yelp dissolves into laughter, his fingers digging into your sides as he squirms away from your teeth. “Fuck, ow,” he complains, but his grin ruins the effect, “You bite hard—should’ve known you’d be a menace.”

You grin against his shoulder, pressing another kiss to the reddening mark you left behind. “Payback,” you murmur, tracing the outline with your tongue just to feel him shiver. Chan groans, his hips jerking reflexively beneath you, and you freeze when you feel him stirring against your thigh—already half hard again.

“Seriously?” you ask, incredulous, and Chan has the audacity to look proud, his smirk widening as he rolls his hips up against you.

“What?” he teases, voice dripping with false innocence. “Can’t help it—you’re right there, all warm and fucked out—” His hand slides down your back, fingers skimming the curve of your ass before squeezing lightly. “And you bit me. That’s basically foreplay.”

You press a hand to Chan’s chest when he tries to roll you beneath him again, your thighs still trembling from the last round. “Shower,” you mumble, and Chan makes a wounded noise against your collarbone in protest.

“Five more minutes,” he tries, lips trailing up your neck like he’s trying to convince you with his mouth.

You laugh, breathless, and squirm out of his grip before he can distract you properly. “No—shower,” you insist, swatting at his hands when they try to drag you back. “We’re disgusting.”

Chan pouts — actually pouts, like this big hunk of a man didn't just fuck the daylights out of you — and flops back against the couch with a dramatic sigh. “Fine,” he grumbles, but his eyes track your every movement as you stand, snickering when you wobble slightly on unsteady legs.

You stumble towards the bathroom, then you glance back at Chan, sprawled across the couch with his arms behind his head, watching you with that stupid, smug grin, and ask, "When’s your next stream again?"

his grin falters into confusion when your question registers. "Monday," he says automatically, his brows furrowing, "Why?"

You hum, "Just thinking," then you shrug, "maybe I’ll join you next time."

he's caught off guard when you leave him hanging and close the bathroom door behind you, "don't start something you can't finish!"